‘Go back to the city,’ He tells His army. ‘Destroy it. Every stone. Every life.’
‘Tyrenae surrendered.’ One of His lieutenants. A sensible, clever man. ‘Tyrenae is Your city, My Lord King. You are King of Ith.’
‘Destroy it,’ He says. ‘Every stone. Every life. Everything.’
‘As My Lord King wills,’ the man says.
In Tyrenae, Undyl Silver Eyes tamed the dragon Aesthel by feeding it on the flesh of his own children. In Tyrenae, Ysleta White Hands slew both man and dragon with the sword Goldlight. Sons betrayed their fathers. Fathers betrayed their sons. Children starved while their parents killed each other. Blind children and madmen go begging in the streets there. The wealthy look at them and turn away and do not care. The rich feed on the suffering of paupers. The poor fight each other for food scraps. Terrible things were done there. Torture and pain and hunger and neglect. Tyrenae is not a good place. Three people plotted to destroy King Marith here, and perhaps if they had acted sooner they might have managed to do it, and perhaps things would not be as they are.
Every stone, the Army of Amrath destroys. Every life, they take with their pitiless sharp bronze. They pile the bodies in the rubble. Pile them into towers of dying. The ground is churned to mud with the river of bloodshed. The ground is slippery with human fat. The city of Tyrenae is wiped from the face of the earth. Everything is dead.