It took them two and a half agonizing days in the saddle to reach the refugee camp of Sevariorari.
It was every bit as foul as Vilon recalled. Even from outside the timber gates, the stench hit them like a wet sack of manure, and the sheer, chaotic din rising from inside the walls was enough to make Vilon's skull throb with a vicious, rhythmic agony.
To add insult to injury, it was truly not their day. It wasn't just that Vilon's side hurt like a bitch in heat, nor was it the lingering pool of sour bile at the back of his throat that kept him on the verge of vomiting; it was the infuriating fact that they had just wasted nearly a full day riding hard to the wrong godsforsaken place.
"Sorry, friend," a guard in rusted mail and a dented kettle helm muttered, shrinking back as Mariol eyed him with the exact same warmth he would offer a fat cockroach at the bottom of his boot. "They moved out."
"Moved out?" Mariol repeated.
