GollanczFest 2024 eBook Sampler

by Various

Genres: Fantasy; Science Fiction

Synopsis

Dive into our bumper eBook featuring the opening extracts of books from our 2024 and 2025 roster as well as the latest or bestselling books by authors joining us at GollanczFest!

Jam-packed with the hottest fantasy, romantasy, horror and science fiction offerings, download now to explore the Gollancz universe...

Discover brave new worlds, dance with the devil, or even let your wildest dreams - nightmares?! - come true; perhaps you'll be left wishing upon a star.... From genre heavyweights, award-winning novels and steamy romantasy debuts, there is something for all in this sampler.

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TITLE LIST:

Release date: March 15, 2024

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 560

Sample

A fallen priest named his gods and prayed to each.

Syrek. Lasreen. Meira. Pryan. Immor. Tiber.

No sound came from his lips, but that didn’t matter much. The gods would hear him either way. But will they choose to listen?

During his days in the church, Charlie used to wonder if the gods were real. If the realms beyond Allward still existed, waiting on the other side of a closed door.

By now, he knew the answer. He was near sick with it.

The gods are real, and the distant realms are here.

Meer in the desert, its Spindle flooding the oasis. The Ashlands at the temple, a corpse army marching from its depths.

And now, Infyrna, burning up the city before his eyes.

Cursed flame leapt against a black sky, even as a blizzard roared against the smoke. The Burning Realm consumed the city of Gidastern, and threatened to consume their army too.

Charlie watched with the rest of their bedraggled host, every warrior horrified and staring. Elder and mortal, Jydi raider and Treckish soldier. And the Companions too. They all wore the same fear on their faces.

But it did not stop them from charging forward, their battle cry echoing through the smoke and falling snow.

All rode toward the city, the Spindle, and the flames of hell itself.

All but Charlie.

He shifted in the saddle, more comfortable on his horse than he once was. Still, his body ached, and his head pounded. He wished for the relief of tears. Would they freeze or boil, he wondered, watching as all the world seemed to break apart.

The blizzard, the burning. The battle cry of Elder and Jydi alike. Immortal arrows twanged and Treckish steel rattled. Two hundred horses pounded across the barren field, charging for the flaming gates of Gidastern.

Charlie wanted to shut his eyes but could not.

I owe them this much. If I cannot fight, I can watch them go.

His breath caught.

I can watch them die.

“Gods forgive me,” he murmured.

His saddlebag of quills and ink felt heavy at his side. They were his weapons more than anything else. And in this moment, they were utterly useless.

So he returned to the only weapon left to him.

This prayer came slowly, from the forgotten corners of another life.

Before that hole in Adira. Before I defied every kingdom of the Ward, and made a ruin of my future.

As he recited the words, memories flashed, sharp as knives. His workshop beneath the Priest’s Hand. The smell of parchment in the dank stone room. The feel of a gallows rope around his neck. The warmth of a hand laid against his face, Garion’s calluses as familiar as anything in the realm. Charlie’s mind lingered on Garion, and their last meeting. It still stung, a wound never fully healed.

“Fyriad the Redeemer,” he continued, naming the god of Infyrna. “May your fires cleanse us and burn evil from this world.”

The prayer tasted wrong in his mouth. But it was something, at the very least. Something he could do for his friends. For the realm.

The only thing, he thought bitterly, watching as the army charged.

“I am a dedicant priest of Tiber, a servant to all the pantheon, and may all the gods hear me as they hear their own—”

Then a barking howl split the air like a thunderbolt, and the horse flinched beneath him.

Across the field, the city gates buckled, rattled by something within. Something big and powerful, many somethings, all screaming like a pack of ghostly wolves.

With a swoop of terror, Charlie realized he was not far from the truth.

“By the gods,” he cursed.

The Companions and their army never faltered, the wall of bodies charging straight ahead. For the flames—and the monsters within them. The city gates crumbled, revealing hellish demons the likes of which he had only seen in godly manuscripts.

Flaming spines, ashen shadows.

“Hellhounds,” Charlie breathed.

The monsters leapt into the army without fear. Their bodies burned, the flames born of their fur, their too-long legs black as charcoal. Snow sizzled against their burning coats, sending up clouds of steam. Their eyes glowed like hot coals, their open jaws spitting waves of heat.

The manuscripts were nowhere near so fearsome as the real thing, Charlie thought dimly.

In the pages of the old church books, the hellhounds were sharp and small, burned and twisted. Not these lethal, loping wolves bigger than horses, with black fangs and ripping claws.

The manuscripts were wrong about something else too.

The hellhounds can die, Charlie realized, watching one crumble to ashes after a sweep of Domacridhan’s sword.

Something like hope, small and ugly as it was, reared up inside the fallen priest. Charlie held his breath, watching the Companions fight their way through the hounds into the burning city.

Leaving Charlie alone with the echoes.

It was torture to watch the empty gates, straining to see anything inside.

Have they found the Spindle? he wondered. Have the hounds gone to defend it? Is Taristan still here, or have we missed him again?

Is everyone going to die and leave the saving the realm business to me?

He shuddered at the last thought. Both for his own sake, and the world’s.

“Certainly not,” he said aloud.

His horse whickered in reply.

Charlie patted her neck. “Thank you for your confidence.”

Again, he eyed the city of Gidastern, a city of thousands reduced to a flaming graveyard. And perhaps a trap as well.

He bit his lip, worrying the skin between his teeth. If Taristan was there, as they suspected, what would become of the Companions? Of Corayne?

She is barely more than a child, with the world on her shoulders, Charlie cursed to himself. And here I am, a grown man, waiting to see if she makes it out alive.

His cheeks flared with heat, and not from the flames. With all his heart, he wished he could have pulled her back from the battle. He winced, a knife of regret in his chest.

You never could have saved her from this.

Another noise rose from the city, a single guttural call. But it came from many mouths, both human and otherwordly. It sounded like a death bell. Charlie knew it too well. He heard the same thing at the temple in the foothills, rising from countless undead corpses.

The rest of the Spindle army is here, he realized with a jolt. The Ashlanders, Taristan’s own.

Suddenly his nimble fingers wound around the reins, his grip like iron.

“Flames and hounds and corpses be damned,” Charlie muttered, throwing back his cloak to free his arms. One hand went for his short-sword. “And damn me too.”

With a snap of the reins, he urged the horse forward, and she broke into a run. His heart rammed in his chest, matching the beat of her hooves against the ashen ground. The blizzard swirled, the clouds red with flame, all the world turned to hell. And Charlie rode right into it.

The gate loomed, with burning streets beyond. A path unfurled, beckoning the fugitive priest.

At least it can’t get worse, he thought.

Then something pulsed in the sky, behind the clouds, a thump like a tremendous heart.

Charlie’s spine turned to ice.

“Shit.”

The dragon’s roar shook the air with all the fury of an earthquake.

His horse screamed and reared up on her hind legs, her front hooves pawing helplessly. It took all Charlie’s will to keep his saddle. His sword fell to the ground, lost to the ash and snow. He watched with wide eyes, unable to tear his gaze away.

The great monster burst through the dark clouds over the city, its jeweled body red and black, dancing with the light of flame. The dragon twisted, born of the god Tiber and the glittering realm of Irridas. The Dazzling Realm, Charlie knew, remembering it from scripture. A cruel place of gold and jewels, and terrible things corrupted by greed.

Fire curled from the dragon’s jaws and its claws gleamed like black steel. Hot wind blasted over the walls, carrying snow and ash and the bloody, rotten smell of dragon. Charlie could only watch as the Spindle monster crashed down into the city, toppling towers and steeples.

His quill had traced many dragons over the years, drawing patterns of flame and scale, claw and fang. Batwings, serpent tails. Like the Infyrna hounds, the reality was far more horrible.

There was no sword he could raise against a demon such as this. Nothing a mortal could do against a dragon of a distant realm.

Not even the heroes could survive such a thing.

The villains might not either.

And certainly not me.

Shame rose up in his throat, threatening to choke the life out of Charlon Armont.

But for all the Ward, for all the realms, he could not go any further.

The tears he wished for finally came, burning and freezing in equal measure. The reins twitched in his hand, tugging the horse away from the city, from the Spindle, from the Companions. From the beginning of the end of the world.

Only one question remained now.

How far can I go before the end comes for me too?

In all his twenty-three years, Charlie had never felt so alone. Not even the gallows had seemed so bleak.

It was past nightfall by the time he was finally out from under the blizzard and the ash clouds. But the smell of smoke clung to his skin like a brand.

“I deserve it,” Charlie muttered to himself. He swiped at his face again, wiping away long-dried tears. His eyes felt red and raw, just like his broken heart. “I deserve every awful thing that comes my way now.”

The horse blew hard, her flanks steaming against the winter air. Exhausted, she slowed and Charlie obliged, easing her to a halt. He slid gracelessly from the saddle, bowlegged and sore.

He did not know the map of the Ward so well as Sorasa or Corayne, but Charlie was a fugitive, not a fool. He could navigate better than most. Grimacing, he drew a parchment map from his saddlebags, and unfolded it with a squint. He was still some miles from entering the Castlewood. Ahead of him, the mighty forest ate up the distant horizon, a black wall beneath the silver moon.

He could keep heading east into the Wood, using the thick trees as cover against any pursuit. Adira lay in the opposite direction, far to the west through enemy territory. He thought of his little shop beneath the broken church. Among the quills and ink, the stamps and wax seals.

I will be safe there, Charlie knew. Until the end. Conquerors eat the rot last.

Unfortunately, the path back to Adira wound too close to Ascal. But he did not know where else to go. There were too many roads to walk.

“I don’t know,” he grumbled to his horse.

She did not reply, already asleep.

Charlie made a face at her and rolled up the parchment. He set to his saddlebags, still intact, with his gear and food. Enough, he noted, checking the stores. Enough to reach the next town and then some.

He did not risk a fire. Charlie doubted he could even get a fire going if he tried. He’d spent his fugitive days in cities mostly, not the wilderness. He was usually never far from a seedy tavern or cellar to sleep in, his own forged papers and false coin in hand.

“I am not Sorasa, or Andry, or Dom,” he muttered, wishing for any of the Companions.

Even Sigil, who would drag him to the gallows herself for a sack of gold.

Even Corayne, who would be just as useless as he was, alone in the winter woods.

Angry, he pulled his cloak tighter. Beneath the smoke, it still smelled of Volaska. Good wool, spilled gorzka, and the warmth of a crackling fire at the Treckish castle now far behind.

“I cannot do anything useful out here.”

It felt good to speak, even if he spoke to no one.

“Perhaps they can hear me,” he said, mournfully looking to the stars.

They seemed to taunt him. If he could somehow punch every single one from the heavens, he would. Instead, he kicked at the dirt, sending stones and fallen leaves skittering.

His eyes stung again. This time, he thought of the Companions, and not the stars. Corayne, Sorasa, Dom, Sigil, Andry. Even Valtik. All left behind. All burned to ashes.

“Ghosts, all of them,” he hissed, scrubbing at his watery eyes.

“Better a coward than a ghost.”

Lightning jumped up Charlie’s spine and he nearly toppled over in shock—and disbelief.

The voice was familiar as Charlie’s own quills, his own seals painstakingly cut by hand. It trilled, melodic, the lightest touch of a Madrentine accent curling around the Paramount language. Once Charlie likened that voice to the silk that hides a dagger. Soft and dangerous, beautiful until the moment it decides not to be.

Charlie blinked, grateful for the moonlight. It turned the world to silver, and Garion’s pale cheeks to porcelain. His dark mahogany hair curled over his forehead.

The assassin stood some yards away, a safe distance between them, a thin rapier at his side. Charlie knew the weapon too, a light thing made for speed and swift parrying. It was the bronze dagger tucked inside Garion’s tunic that was the true danger. The same one all the Amhara bore, to mark them as assassin, the finest and most deadly upon the Ward.

Charlie could barely breathe, let alone speak.

Garion took a step forward, his loping gait easy, and lethal.

“Not to say I think you are a coward,” Garion continued, one gloved hand raising in the air. “You have your brave moments, when you put your mind to it. And you’ve been to the gallows how many times now? Thrice?” He counted on his fingers. “And never once pissed yourself.”

Charlie dared not move.

“You are a dream,” he whispered, praying the vision would not disappear.

Even if he isn’t real, I hope he lingers.

Garion only smiled, showing white teeth. His dark eyes gleamed as he prowled closer.

“You certainly have a way with words, Priest.”

Exhaling slowly, Charlie felt some sense return to his frozen hands. “I didn’t run away. I went into the city, and burned with all the rest of them, didn’t I? I’m dead and you are—”

The assassin tipped his head. “Does that make me your heaven?”

Charlie’s face crumpled. His cheeks flamed against the cold air, and his eyes stung, his vision swimming.

“I am loath to say it, but you are truly ugly when you cry, my darling,” Garion said, his form blurring.

He isn’t real, he’s already fading, a dream within a dream.

It only made the tears come faster, until even the moon drowned.

But Garion remained. Charlie felt the warmth of him, and the rough swipe of a gloved hand upon his cheeks. Without thought, Charlie caught one of the hands in his own. It felt familiar even beneath layers of fine leather and fur.

Blinking slowly, Charlie looked on Garion again. Pale in the moonlight, his eyes dark but brilliantly alive. And real. For a moment, the realm was still. Even the wind in the trees stopped and the ghosts in their minds lay quiet.

It did not last long.

“Where have you been?” Charlie said roughly, dropping Garion’s hand. He stepped back and stifled a very undignified sniffle.

“Today?” Garion shrugged. “Well, first I waited to see if you were going to run into a burning city. I’m very grateful you did not.” He grinned. “At least becoming a hero hasn’t knocked the sense out of you.”

“Hero,” Charlie spat. He felt like crying again. “A hero would have gone into Gidastern.”

Garion’s smile disappeared like a slate wiped clean. “A hero would be dead.”

Dead like all the rest. Charlie winced, his shame like a knife in his gut.

“And where were you before today?” Charlie demanded. “Where were you for two years?”

Garion flushed but did not move. “Maybe I grew tired of saving you from the gallows?”

“As if it was ever difficult.”

Charlie remembered the last time all too well. The feel of coarse rope against his neck, his toes scraping the wood of the gallows platform. The trapdoor beneath him, ready to be sprung. And Garion in the crowd, waiting to rescue him.

“The last one was just a shitwater outpost with a garrison dumber than donkeys,” Charlie muttered. “You didn’t even break a sweat.”

The assassin shrugged, looking proud of himself.

It only incensed Charlie.

“Where were you?”

His plea hung in the freezing air.

Garion finally dropped his gaze, looking down at his polished boots.

“I watched Adira whenever I could,” he said in a low, sullen voice. “Between contracts, when the winds and weather allowed. Made it as far as the causeway so many times. And I always listened for news. I was not … I was not gone.”

Charlie sucked down a cold gasp of air. “You were gone to me.”

Garion met his eyes again, his face suddenly tight. “Mercury warned me. He only does that once.”

Mention of the lord of the Amhara, one of the deadliest men in the realm, sobered them both. It was Charlie’s turn to look at his shoes, and he toed the dirt awkwardly. Even he knew better than to cross Lord Mercury, or tempt his anger. Garion had told him enough stories about Amhara fallen. And Sorasa was proof of them. Her fate was merciful, by all accounts. Only cast out, shamed and exiled. Not tortured and killed.

“I’m here now,” Garion murmured, taking a halting step forward.

The distance between them suddenly felt too far, and also too close.

“So I won’t wake tomorrow to find you gone?” Charlie said, near to breathless. “To find this all—”

“A dream?” Garion offered, amused. “I’ll say it again. This is not a dream.”

The wretched hope flared again, dogged and stubborn.

“I suppose it’s closer to a nightmare,” Charlie mumbled. “What with the end of the world and all that.”

Garion’s smile only widened. “The end of the world can wait, my church mouse.”

The old nickname lit some fire within Charlie, until the air went hot on his skin.

“My fox,” the priest answered without thinking.

The assassin closed the distance with his easy grace, neither slow nor fast. Still, he caught Charlie off guard, even as his gloved hands took his face. And Garion’s lips met his own, far warmer than the air, firm and familiar.

He tasted like summer, like another life. Like the still moment between sleep and waking, when all went quiet. For a split second, Charlie forgot the Spindles. The broken realm. And the Companions dead behind him.

But it could not last. The moment ended, as all things do.

Charlie pulled back slowly, his hands on Garion’s own. They stared at each other, both searching for the proper thing to say.

“Will Mercury hunt you?” Charlie finally asked, his voice shaking.

“Do you want the truth, my love?”

Charlie did not hesitate, even as he wound his fingers with Garion’s. “I am willing to trade a broken heart for a living body.”

“You always were one for pretty words.” Garion smiled him off, though his eyes went cold.

“What do we do now?” Charlie murmured, shaking his head.

To his surprise, Garion laughed.

“You fool,” he chuckled. “We live.”

“For how long?” Charlie scoffed, dropping his hands. He glanced into the darkness, to the city on fire and the Spindle still torn.

Garion followed his gaze, looking over his shoulder. There was only the blackness of the night, and the bitter cold of the moon.

“You truly believe it, don’t you?” he said softly. “The end of the realm?”

“Of course I do. I’ve seen it. I know it,” Charlie snapped.

Despite his frustration, somehow it felt good to quarrel with Garion. It meant he was real, and imperfect, flawed as Charlie remembered. Not some shining hallucination.

“The city behind us burns, you saw it too.”

“Cities burn all the time,” Garion replied, swishing his rapier through the air.

Charlie put out a hand and the assassin stilled, the light sword hanging at his side.

“Not like this,” Charlie breathed, forceful as he could be. He willed his lover to listen, to hear his own terror. “Garion, the world is ending. And we will end with it.”

With a long sigh, Garion sheathed his blade.

“You really know how to destroy a moment, don’t you, darling?” He shook a finger at him. “Is this that religious guilt all you priests carry, or just your personality?”

Charlie shrugged. “Probably both. Can’t allow myself a single moment of happiness, can I?”

“Oh, perhaps a single moment.”

This time, Charlie did not flinch when Garion kissed him, and time did not stop. The wind blew cold, rattling the branches overhead. It stirred Charlie’s collar, kicking up the smell of smoke.

Wincing, Charlie stepped back. He furrowed his brow.

“I’ll need another sword,” he said, glaring at the empty sheath at his hip.

Garion shook his head and sighed, frustrated. “You’re not a hero, Charlie. Neither am I.”

The priest ignored the assassin. He drew out his map again, laying it flat on the ground.

“But there’s still something we can do.”

Garion crouched down next to him, a look of amusement on his face. “And that is what exactly?”

Charlie eyed the parchment, tracing a line through the forest. Past rivers and villages, deep into the woods.

“I’ll figure it out,” he muttered. His finger drew a line over the forest on the map. “Eventually.”

“You know how I feel about the Castlewood,” Garion said, sounding annoyed. His lips twisted with distaste, and a little fear too.

Charlie almost rolled his eyes. There were too many stories about witches in the forest, born among the echoes the Spindles left behind. But Spindlerotten witches were the least of his worries now. He smiled slowly, the air cold on his teeth.

“Trust me, I did not run from a dragon only to die in a cackling old woman’s cauldron,” he said. “Now help me figure out a path that won’t get me killed.”

Garion chuckled. “I’ll do my best.”

Blessed are the burned.

The old prayer echoed in Andry’s head. He remembered how his mother used to say it, over the hearth in their apartments, brown hands outstretched to the redeeming god.

I certainly do not feel blessed now, he thought, coughing up another gasp of smoke as he ran. Valtik’s hand was cold in his own, her bony fingers surprisingly strong as she led them through the city.

Taristan’s undead army lurched through the streets behind them. Most were Ashlanders, born of a broken realm, little more than skeletons, rotted to the bone. But some were fresh. The dead of Gidastern fought for Taristan now, the citizens of his own kingdom turned to corpse soldiers. Their fate was almost too horrific to comprehend.

And more will join them, Andry knew, thinking of the soldiers who rode into Gidastern. All the bodies left behind. The Jydi raiders. The Elders. The Treckish war band.

And the Companions too.

Sigil.

Dom.

The two giants stayed behind to defend the retreat, and buy whatever time they could for Corayne. Andry only prayed their sacrifice was enough.

And that Sorasa was enough to protect Corayne alone.

Andry winced at the thought.

They sprinted through what felt like hell itself, a maze filled with monstrous hounds, the corpse army, Taristan, his red wizard, and a damned dragon of all things. Not to mention the dangers of the city itself, the buildings burning and collapsing around him.

Somehow, Valtik kept them ahead of it all, leading Andry out to the city docks.

Only a few small boats remained in the harbor, with most already heading out to sea. Soldiers piled onto anything floating, wading out into the shallows or leaping from the docks. Ashes coated their armor and faces in heavy soot, obscuring any insignia or kingdom colors. Treckish, Elder, Jydi—Andry could hardly tell them apart.

Everyone looks the same against the ending of the world.

Only Valtik somehow escaped the ash falling all around them. Her shift dress was still white, her bare feet and hands clean. She stopped to stare at the burning city, every street echoing with death. Shadows moved through the smoke, lurching into the harbor.

“With me, Valtik,” Andry said gruffly, looping his arm through her own.

With me. The old battle cry of the Gallish knights returned some strength to his legs. Andry felt hope and fear in equal measure. We might yet survive this or we may be left behind.

“Without the stars, without the sun, the way is red, the path undone,” the witch chanted under her breath.

They ran together, toward a fishing vessel already moving, its sail unfurled. The old woman didn’t hesitate, stepping into seemingly open air. Only to land safely on the deck of the boat, not a hair out of place.

Andry boarded with less grace, leaping after her.

He landed hard on the deck, but his body felt oddly light. Relief surged through his veins as the little boat cut through the burning harbor, leaving behind the corpse army crawling on the shore.

The ship was barely larger than a river barge, big enough for perhaps twenty men. But the vessel was seaworthy, and that was more than enough. A mismatched band of soldiers, raiders, and immortals crewed the deck, urging the boat out to sea.

Smoke stretched far out over the waves, black fingers reaching for the horizon. But a single band of sunlight remained, gleaming low across the sea. A reminder that all the realm was not this hell.

Yet.

Grimly, Andry looked back to the city in ruins.

Gidastern burned and burned, columns of smoke reaching up into the hellish sky. Red light and black shadows warred for control, with ashes falling over everything like snow. And beneath it all were the screams, the howling, the sounds of splintering wood and cracking stone. The distant, shuddering beat of gigantic wings somewhere in the clouds. It sounded like death, or something worse.

“Corayne,” he murmured, her name a prayer. He hoped the gods could hear him. He hoped she was already far from this place, safe with Sorasa and the last Spindleblade.

“Is she safe?” He turned to Valtik. “Tell me, is she safe, is she alive?”

The witch only turned, hiding her face.

“VALTIK!” His own voice sounded distant.

Through his spotting vision, Andry saw her move to the prow of the little boat. Her hands gnarled at her sides, fingers curled into pale claws. Her lips moved, forming words he could not make out.

Overhead, the sail filled with a cold blast of wind, pushing them faster and faster out into the frozen embrace of the Watchful Sea.

Purple fish swam through the little pond in the courtyard, their fins creating ripples on the surface. Andry watched and breathed deeply. Everything smelled of jasmine and cool shade. Andry had never been here before, but he knew the courtyard anyway. This was the house of Kin Kiane, his mother’s family in Nkonabo. Across the Long Sea, as far away from danger as anyone could be.

On the other side of the pond, his mother smiled, her familiar brown face more vibrant than he remembered. She sat in a chair without wheels, wrapped in a simple green robe. Valeri Trelland’s homeland suited her better than the north ever did.

Andry’s heart leapt at the sight of her. He wanted to go to his mother, but his feet would not move, rooted to the stones. He opened his mouth to speak. No sound came.

I miss you, he tried to shout. I hope you are alive.

She only smiled back, wrinkles crinkling at the corners of her green eyes.

He smiled too, for her sake, even as his body went cold. The jasmine faded, replaced by the sharp tang of saltwater.

This is a dream.

Andry jolted awake like a man struck by lightning. For a moment, he hung suspended in his own mind, trying to make sense of his surroundings. The rocking of the waves, the hard deck of the boat. A threadbare blanket tossed over his body. The freezing air on his cheeks. The smell of saltwater, not smoke.

We are alive.

A short, broad figure stood over the squire, illuminated by moonlight and lanterns slung in the rigging. The Prince of Trec, Andry realized with another jolt.

“I did not know Galland allowed their squires to sleep on duty,” Prince Oscovko said, darkly amused.

“I’m no squire of Galland, Your Highness,” Andry replied, forcing himself to sit up.

The prince grinned and shifted, the lanterns illuminating more of his face. He sported a black eye and a good deal of gore all down his leathers. Not that Andry minded. They all looked worse for the wear.

Slowly, Oscovko held out a hand. Andry took it without question, hoisting himself to unsteady feet.

“They don’t allow you to make jokes either, do they?” Oscovko said, thumping Andry on the shoulder. “Good to see you made it out.”

Andry’s jaw tightened. Despite his easy manner, he saw anger in Oscovko’s eyes, and fear too.

“Many did not,” the prince added, glancing to shore.

But there was only blackness behind them. Not even a glimmer of the burning city remained.

It is no use looking back, Andry knew.

“How many men do you have?” he asked sharply.

His tone caught Oscovko off guard. The prince blanched and gestured along the small fishing boat. Quickly, Andry counted twelve on the deck, including Valtik and himself. The other survivors were just as battered as Oscovko. Mortal and immortal alike. Raider, Elder, and soldier. Some wounded, some sleeping. All terrified.

Off the bow and stern, in either direction, tiny lights bobbed along at their pace. Squinting, Andry made out black shapes in the moonlight, their own lanterns like low stars.

Other boats.

“How many, my lord?” Andry said again, sterner than before.

Down the deck, the other survivors turned to watch their exchange. Valtik remained at the prow, her face turned to the moon.

Oscovko scoffed and shook his head. “Does it matter to you?”

“It matters to all of us.” Andry flushed, his cheeks growing hot against the chill. “We need every soldier who can fight—”

?