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Available from Psychopomp

by Erin Brown

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In the time of the King’s War, the towns on fertile land and brimming coastlines were taken in blood and violence and the bleakest, wickedest magics. Forests were set to burn in fires so vile in composition that long after the trees had reduced to ash, the ghosts of trees kept smoldering, consuming anything that got near in barely visible mists of burning vapor. Rivers were enchanted to turn all living creatures who touched the water into ice. The excruciating pain of the process made for riverbanks lined with crouched, contorted, frozen corpses, the wind whistling through their fractures, as if one could hear their souls trapped inside, eternally screaming. Fields of dead fighters, rotting and bloating on blighted battlefields, were crushed underfoot by every day’s new battle. A rarer sight in these killing places: alone, in the center of a perfect circle of fine dry dust, would lie the blackened body of a dead HighSoldier.

And somewhere far away, dragging its soul back from beyond, would be a Bloodpotter.