But it was.
Villerauvais was nothing more than an ash pit. Guillot stopped his horse and stared at it, unable to make sense of open space where buildings had stood since before he was born. The others stopped beside him.
“Is this it?” Leverre said.
“Gods, Guillot, I’m so sorry,” dal Sason said.
“This was where your village was?” Leverre said.
Guillot nodded. “Yes.” The word caught in his throat.
“Going to the city was the right choice, Guillot,” dal Sason said. “There was nothing you could have done if you’d stayed here. If you’d been here, you’d be dead, and no help to anyone.”
Guillot heard dal Sason’s words from very far away. “I was no help to anyone as it was.”
He urged his horse forward and scanned the remains, not sure what he was looking for. Little of anything remained beyond ash. When he got to the market square—the oldest part of the village, where stone had been used for construction, back when the Villerauvais seigneurs had been wealthier—there was a little more. Remnants of the buildings around the square stuck up like charred, skeletal ribs. The fire had been so hot that many of the stones had split into pieces.
“How long ago do you think this happened?” dal Sason said.
Leverre dismounted and waded into one of the ash piles, oblivious of the effect this had on his cream robes. He knelt and took up a handful.
“It’s stone cold, but the ash looks fresh,” Leverre said. “A day or two. Probably not long after you left.”
“Any sign of survivors?” dal Sason said.
“What could have survived this?” Guillot said, his voice full of despair. “It was hot enough to break stone.”
“The beast will most likely have moved on. What’s the nearest settlement?”
“Montpareil,” Guillot said, his voice hollow. “It’s a little larger than Villerauvais.”
“We should check there,” Leverre said. “They might have suffered the same fate, but perhaps not. We might be able to stop it happening there.” He studied Gill for a moment. “Maybe some survivors made it there.”
“How?” Guillot said. “I’ve never seen destruction like it. Not even during the Szavarian War. How could anyone survive this?”
“We’ll need to warn them if they’re the next village in danger,” dal Sason said.
Guillot turned his horse, looking for the manor house. He could see the house was gone. The dragon had burned it to the ground as well. Everything was gone. It felt as though the years he had spent there were nothing more than a drunken hallucination, the buildings, the people, all imagined. Yves, Jeanne, Philipe, Jacques. All the others. They had relied on him, looked to him for protection, and now they were ash. “I’ll be ready to go in a few moments.”
He rode to where his small townhouse had stood. Like all the other buildings, it was little more than a smudge on the ground. Dismounting, he walked through the burned debris, kicking at the ash with his foot until he struck something solid. He cleared away the ash, surprised to see the blue-grey sheen of Telastrian steel. The old sword trunk that he had kept by the door looked to be the only thing to have survived. The gold and silver decorations on its surface had melted away, but the Telastrian steel of the trunk itself looked sound.
He tried to open it, but it seemed welded shut. Likely some of the decorative metal had seeped into the joint and hardened. Guillot used his dagger to gouge at the seam, then pried open the trunk. Where the cloth lining had touched the sides of the trunk, it bore some minor scorch marks, but otherwise, the rare and prized metal had kept the contents safe. His ancient family sword and the Academy Sword of Honour were perfectly intact. He took them both out and clutched them to his chest, staring at the open space where there had been a wall bearing the painting of his wife.
The land beyond remained the same, but everything he knew was gone. The dragon had wiped from the landscape the efforts of generations of men and women. The swords were all that remained of the life he had lived there.
“How many of those do you have?” dal Sason said.
“Three,” Guillot said. “You can have them if the dragon does for me.” He returned to his horse and strapped them to its saddle. “I’m ready to go.”
“Lead on,” dal Sason said.
Guillot spurred his horse on, feeling Jeanne the Taverner’s eyes burning into his back as he rode away.
CHAPTER 23
Montpareil was the perfect picture of a Mirabayan country village, bathed in moonlight, with the star-punctured sky and silhouetted mountains providing a breathtaking backdrop. The settlement was a cluster of buildings neatly tucked into the curve of a small river. A few of the buildings that surrounded the spire of the village’s small church had the glow of light coming from their windows. Smoke drifted slowly skyward from the chimneys, and the water wheel on the mill turned lazily with a soothing slosh and whoosh.
Even in the dark, Guillot could see that the village was orderly and well maintained—the telltale signs of a diligent lord. It made him want to vomit. This was what Villerauvais should have been. This was what he should have made it.
“All looks well here,” dal Sason said.
“It does,” Leverre said. “They’ve been lucky so far.”
Guillot felt a flash of anger. Why had the beast chosen his village? His home? What had anyone there done to deserve their fate? Montpareil was a bullying bastard. Why hadn’t fate chosen to destroy his village? Guillot felt guilty, but couldn’t dismiss the feeling of resentment.
“We should see if there’s an inn or tavern that can put us up for the night,” dal Sason said. “Might as well enjoy whatever comfort is available to us. We’re not going dragon hunting at this hour.”
“There’s a proper inn here,” Guillot said. “Montpareil is on the road, so people pass through. It might be a tight squeeze, but it’ll take us all. Come on.”
He led them into the town along the muddy lane that curved toward the cobbled, arcaded square that was the feature of all the towns in the region. Were it not for the good level of upkeep, he could be forgiven for mistaking it for Villerauvais. A faded sign swung from a metal bracket on the wall on one of the buildings, and Guillot pointed to it.
“That’s the inn,” Guillot said. “It’s not Bauchard’s, but the cook won’t poison you, and the beds won’t leave you with an itch. Probably.”
Dal Sason nodded. “Leverre, have one of your people go in and fetch the stable boy.”
Leverre didn’t react for a moment, and Guillot wondered if dal Sason had over-stepped the mark. He found himself disappointed when Leverre nodded to Ginger—Brother Hallot—who obeyed the instruction without comment.
“You’ll be taking a room to yourself again, Guillot?” dal Sason said.
“If Amaury is paying for it, I most certainly will. If they have one. Only after I’ve had a good dinner, though. I’ve got quite an appetite.” He felt guilty thinking of his hunger. He felt guilty thinking of anything. His village and its inhabitants had been burned to death. They didn’t get to be hungry anymore. Yet he still lived, and slaying their killer was his duty. One he feared he would almost certainly fail to execute. He had to try, though. Every moment the beast still lived insulted the memory of the people he had failed.
The stable boy arrived to take their horses with the sullen attitude of one who had believed his day’s work to be over. Dismounted, Guillot and the others went into the inn. They were greeted by the smell of stale wine and smoke; the latter from a large, crackling fire that filled the room with welcome warmth.