It's one thing to imagine that one is walking toward doom; it's quite another to actually do it for several uninterrupted hours while the sun insists on reminding you that life continues to exist, the sky continues to burn, and that no matter how noble or terrible your fate might be, you're still going to sweat through your shirt.
The Northern Cathedral's attendants had not been joking when they said we would be "escorted."
The two mounted figures in black cassocks led the way, their horses clopping rhythmically through the shattered city, and the rest of us followed like an especially sorry parade of beggars who had been accidentally mistaken for gladiators.
The city itself seemed to shift as we marched. The cobblestones bore scars where spells had gouged them; the walls gaped with holes where bodies had been flung through them; fire still smoked in patches, wafting lazily from collapsed beams.
