the Blackthornes

Sabela knew why Trestlebridge had never been as vibrant as Bree. It wasn’t just orcs. The town itself was poorly laid, crammed into the outcrop at the edge of the Brandy Hills. Most of the wind came from the north across the Fornost plains where a great, creaking wood had in ancient days stemmed the breeze. Now, the land barren, there was no shelter from the gusts that swept down from the higher hills of Evendim and Forochel’s frozen steppes.

They’d left the library untouched. As Sabela stepped over the rotten, splintered wood of a doorway hacked to pieces, she wondered how it had survived. The rest of the manor was gutted. Below, walking the grass between its scorched and crumbling walls, she could make out fireplaces in the stone, stories up—rooms where the timber ceilings and floors had burned away. The whole of the North Wing gaped towards the open sky.