The mountain died with a sigh.
Iron-Hollow folded in on itself, burying the Titan, the mine, and the only home the Broken Branch had known for five years. A cloud of dust rolled over the gathered refugees on the valley floor.
They were alive. But they were exposed.
"We have supplies for a week," Horg reported, his armor covered in white dust. "And enough ammo for one more fight."
"One fight is all we need," Kael said.
He sat on a rock, cleaning the blood from his nose. The Obsidian arm was quiet now, dormant.
Valerius walked up. He looked at the smoking wreck of the Cruiser in the distance.
"You started a war, Kael," Valerius said. "Assuming Malakor survived... he will bring everything."
"He survived," Kael said. "Roaches are hard to kill."
"We can't hide," Valerius said. "The Deep Ash isn't deep enough anymore. They have our scent."
"We aren't hiding," Kael said.
He stood up. He looked at the ragged army. Seven hundred souls. Soldiers, miners, children.
"We walked away from the Spire once," Kael addressed them. "We hid in holes. We ate rats. We waited to die."
He pointed his iron sword at the south—toward the clear sky where the Spire pierced the clouds.
"No more hiding."
"Where are we going?" a soldier asked.
"To the Capital," Kael said. "To the King."
"That's a thousand miles," Elric said. "Through the Killing Fields. Through the Wall."
"Then we walk," Kael said. "And as we walk, we tell them. We tell every village, every outpost, every patrol. We tell them the First Sword is dead. We tell them the barrier is falling. We tell them the truth."
He raised the Black Banner.
"And by the time we get there," Kael promised, "we won't be seven hundred. We'll be a storm."
He started walking.
Valerius smiled. A grim, sharp smile.
"Form up!" Valerius roared. "Standard column! March!"
The Army of the Ash moved out. Behind them, the ruins of their prison. Ahead of them, the fire.