The Skarnveils lived under the desert. That was the cue. They lived where the sand was plenty and the mountains gave way to the long stretches of nothingness, which meant that they could be found just about anywhere in the Dead Lands. Gathering fifty of them would be a pain had Celme not been busy preparing for her Trial long before Belgrave fell.“You will keep your distance,” she said as they trudged across the mountain path, the Ashen City barely a dot in the back. “I’ll deal with each and every one of them.”“What if we chance across a swarm bigger than we expected?” Valens asked, the tails of his blue robe flapping in the wind, the new shoes crunching over the dead rocks in a single rhythm. “Then we get to interfere, right? Have some for our plates, eh?”“No.” Celme shook her head. “The number doesn’t matter. It’ll have to be me.”“Told you. Being a Berserker is a fool’s business,” Nomad said, the edges of his false lips wrinkling, riddled with rotten dots from which oozed a filthy stench. “You’d get a hundred of ‘em, usually. Two hundred if you’re not one of the lucky lot.”“Nothing complicated,” Celme shrugged. There was a glint in her eyes, a stride to her step, a feeling of expectation about her face. She rubbed at her left hand as if some itch bothered her, but Valens knew it was the yearning of blood.It was during these times he felt a certain disconnect between the image of a woman in a fancy dress guiding him through a ball dance, feet soft and each step expertly taken, rolling her head to the notes of music as they coursed in between the pairs crowding the hall, and the cold-blooded Berserker out to crush a bunch of dwellers.But then, they were in the Broken Lands. Some change was due if they wanted to keep their heads on their shoulders.Down through another mountain path, a scenery of burning brown and hazy clouds welcomed them. The steep cliff had patches resembling steps carved by the strong (...)