Inside their circle, the last of the defending force of Bearinger lay or sat huddled against each other for warmth.Another one of their own had died on the trek through the dense winter refuse.Thankfully they didn’t have to witness his body roasting on the spit on the other side of the fire, as they’d been forced to do in nights past.Or watch the creatures tearing chunks from the carcass as they ate.
The prisoners had been given water twice that day.It was one of the rare times cold weather did them in good stead.Had the weather been hot and muggy, more of them would have fallen from dehydration.
Paxton painfully lifted his head, only to have his gaze fall on the lone figure on the extreme edge of the circle.Tonight the Battle Lord was hanging by his wrists from one of the old apple tree
