I doubt he’d say that if he knew our rules were going to get him killed.
Annev studied the man, reminding himself why he was here. It wasn’t to please the ancients or win Tosan’s favour; Annev had chosen to come here because he wanted to become an avatar – to be with Myjun, explore the outside world, and be allowed to leave the Academy. It was Crag’s life for Annev’s freedom.
‘Why so glum, lad?’ Crag asked, peering over at him. ‘Just thinkin’ on your village has got you lookin’ like a gargol.’
Annev shook his head. ‘It’s nothing. Nothing I can change, anyway.’ He looked ahead and saw a small clearing surrounded by hemlock. A stream ran beside it, its waters choppy with shards of broken ice. It was time to finish his task.
‘Let’s pause here,’ Annev said, slowing the cart. ‘We can get some water, and you can tell me about the different places you’ve seen. I’ve always wanted to see beyond the village.’
And if I kill you, Annev thought, maybe I can.
‘Gods, yes!’ Crag said, sighing. ‘I need a break …’ He saw Annev’s attention was elsewhere and followed his gaze, up and off the path into the clearing of hemlock.
The pedlar saw the mound of blood-spattered rocks then, and splayed out in the centre of the glade, the remains of a mutilated animal.
‘Cenif!’
Chapter Thirty-Five
‘Wolves?’ Annev wondered, pacing the scene for the second time.
‘No.’ Crag shook his head. ‘Men.’ He lifted the steel-capped staff he had taken from the wagon and pointed it at the edge of the clearing. In the soft mud beneath the frost-covered hemlock were footprints. Beside them, an unstrung bow. It looked familiar to Annev, though he couldn’t say why.
Most of the animal’s carcass lay atop a stone slab in the centre of the glade, with pieces of gore and bone strewn among scattered rocks surrounding the makeshift table. As Annev approached, he could see what remained of the mule’s face: the eyes had been plucked clean from their sockets, the ears and lips had been torn away, and the muzzle was a shattered mass of gnawed bone.
Annev shook his head. ‘Men might have passed through this clearing, but only an animal could have butchered her that way.’
‘No,’ Crag disagreed. ‘Cenif was cut open – with a knife.’
Annev stepped closer and saw the deep gouges on the mule’s side. The cuts were long and clean. Beneath lay the exposed ribs and a gaping, empty hole.
‘But a man wouldn’t gnaw on …’ His voice trailed off.
‘These cuts were made with a blade.’ Crag extended a boot and pushed the animal’s body onto its side, exposing its stomach cavity. ‘Her heart is gone. So are her major internal organs by the look of it. If an animal had done that, it would have eaten Cenif’s muscle as well.’
He circled the glade, stopping every so often to squint at a footprint in the mud, an overturned stone, a bent sprig of hemlock. He waddled back round to the mule and poked at the rocks stacked beneath the stone slab.
‘What do you make of these, boy?’
Annev stepped back from the carcass and surveyed the entire scene once again.
‘It looks like an altar – the way the stones are stacked, with the slab on top – but it’s nothing like the altars I’m familiar with.’
Crag tugged at the brown wisps on his chin. ‘How so?’
Annev circled the mound of stones for the third time, taking in the details he had missed earlier. ‘All Darite altars have a water trough surrounding their base – and an Ilumite altar would show signs of fire. I suppose it could be a Terran altar – there’s certainly enough blood – but there are no Terrans in the Brakewood. The closest ones live in Eastern Daroea, past Borderlund and the Kuar River.’
Annev studied the mud surrounding the clearing. His and Crag’s tracks could be traced back from the rock-strewn glade and up to the main trail. There were other footmarks circling the stone mound. Annev followed them round.
‘These look like hoof prints. Could they belong to your mule?’
The pedlar nodded, brooding. ‘Could do.’ He pointed at the dead mule’s hooves. ‘Whoever it was even prised her horseshoes off.’
‘Bandits?’
‘If so, they’re awfully poor bandits. Not to mention stupid. Stealing iron from a mule is considerably less profitable than stealing gold from a merchant.’ Crag tapped his pipe against his teeth, muttering.
‘Crag?’ Annev asked, stepping carefully around the blood-spattered stones. ‘We should go. What if … whatever did this is still nearby?’
Crag stared off into the Brake, his vision fixed on the path ahead. ‘You say you’re sort of a deacon – a half-deacon.’ The merchant slowly turned his head, his baleful eyes locking with Annev’s. ‘What’s the other half?’
‘Why—’ Annev started to ask, but then changed his question. ‘Why are we still here? We should go, Crag.’
‘And if I’d rather wait for whoever killed my mule?’
Annev studied the pedlar, trying to decide if he was serious. But Crag had already turned away. The man’s dark eyes searched the forest and, for the first time since they’d met, Annev sensed something truly dangerous about him. The way he carried himself, how he held his staff and cocked his head – it told a different story than that of a fat pedlar who’d got lost in the woods. Crag turned, his eyes sweeping over Annev, and the air practically crackled with violence.
He knows, Annev thought, or he’s guessed what I’m planning. I have to act before he does. His eyes drifted to one of the bloody stones. There would never be a better moment to kill the pedlar than amidst a scene of pre-existing carnage. Annev bent down and scooped up a heavy rock; it was a bloody thing, cleaved so that one half was smooth and the other jagged. He hefted it in his hand, confident in his weapon.
‘Tell me,’ Crag began again, his voice cracking like ice under the weight of winter. ‘What do you do in your village? Not being a deacon. Your other job.’
Annev turned to strike – then froze, suddenly seeing the rage that had been building beneath Crag’s fat, dozy exterior; the pedlar was aching for a fight, was looking to kill whatever had butchered his mule. What’s more, Annev had no doubt the man would succeed, for just as he could sense the merchant’s ill-concealed rage, Annev suddenly noticed the subtle movements that revealed Crag’s true strength and skill; the man had been a warrior once – a trained killer – and the death of his mule had reawakened those instincts.
Annev circled to the other side of the altar and placed the broken stone atop Cenif’s remains. ‘The masters at the Academy,’ he said, ‘call us Avatars of Judgement.’
‘Avatars,’ Crag repeated, his eyes following Annev. ‘Fancy name. I suppose it explains why your elders are so damned pretentious.’ Crag rubbed his ink-stained fingers against his cheeks. ‘And what do you do, exactly? Ride winged ponies and proclaim Odar’s holy tidings?’
Annev bent down, picked up another rock, and added it to the would-be cairn. ‘We train, mostly.’
‘Train to fight?’