She began a steady trot towards the trail, hoping she’d reach it before sunrise. At this time she could not gauge the distance, and her memory was still vague. Things she should remember easily were difficult for her to recall. She’d had the problem before, following a blow to the head, and had most certainly struck it on the rocks in her fall. Those murderous bastards had much to answer for.
She hefted her poor sword and knew that she’d have gone after them, even if that tree-branch club had been her only weapon.
*
The sun had been up for nearly two hours when she found the tracks of six or seven horses, one most certainly her own. She lacked expertise in the wilds, though she had spent enough time travelling the countryside to be able to read basic trail signs, and she knew she was on the right path. She continued on, having to stop to rest far more often than she wished. Her injuries and lack of good food had weakened her far more than she wanted to admit, and she knew her dreams of walking straight into their camp and quickly dispatching the thugs were just that, dreams. She had her Temple magic, but she had never tried to invoke it when her concentration was this poor. Still, the priests, monks, and sisters of her Order had drilled the spells and mantras into her, and they were not spells to be ignored if she could channel her wrath behind them. She might fail, but if she died, she’d take them . . . The soul crystal! Suddenly she remembered that it was gone, stored among the other items in her belt pouch. She cursed herself for a fool. She couldn’t die fighting, at least not yet. Her mission was incomplete and she had no means to send the information back to the Father-Bishop in Krondor.
Sandreena cursed herself for being rash. She had dealt with thugs and robbers many times and should have scouted around for someone holding the horses or standing lookout before she hit the two at the window. She continued her self-condemnation, knowing that had she found her ambusher first, at least she would have been prepared for the two near the house.
With a sigh, she let go of this second-guessing. Regret was a trap and it often crippled, she reminded herself.
She had travelled another hour along the trail when she heard the voices. Before she understood why, the hair on her arms and neck stood up and her skin puckered in gooseflesh. Rather than the usual camp noises she expected - the muffled speech, the sound of horses tied to a picket, perhaps the laughing or the sound of weapons being cleaned - she heard a rhythmic chanting. She didn’t recognize the language, but something about the sound set her teeth on edge. It was not native to Kesh or the Kingdom. She spoke a fair number of tongues and could recognize many more, but she wasn’t even sure that what she heard was human speech.
The path she followed led into a cleft between two low rocks, and she assumed a small valley or plateau was on the other side. She quickly picked the left side, scampered up it. If there were sentries beyond the gap, she didn’t want to run into another ambush. Still, she found it odd no lookouts had been posted on the rocks, for it was the most logical place to put them.
She reached the top and looked down on a horrific scene. There were no sentries or lookouts because no sane man or woman would knowingly approach this place.
A man in a dark orange robe trimmed in black - a magician of some fashion by the look of him - stood holding a huge black wooden staff over his head. The staff was topped by some kind of crystal globe, pulsing with an evil purple light. Just looking at it made Sandreena’s eyes sting.
She swallowed back her bile, fighting hard against the urge to retch over what greeted her. Near a pathway leading up into the mountains stood a band of fighters. They were dressed in a variety of clothing, but all had the look of hard-bitten, experienced warriors. Sandreena judged them likely to be well-paid mercenaries and ex-soldiers, not fanatics. Many of them looked away from the carnage before them and those who didn’t were pale and shaken by what was taking place.
Around a large, flat stone altar, knelt half a dozen priests and priestesses, their robes thrown back so their chests and backs were bare. Behind them stood others, their backs stripped raw from flails. They were leaning heavily on the backs of those kneeling before them; it was some ritual offering of blood and pain, but to whom?
In the middle of the stone, bodies were piled. At least a dozen men and women, and one small arm that Sandreena was certain belonged to one of Eno’s two boys. She realized that had she searched the inn she would have found them missing, not dead as she had assumed. The raiders must have startled Ivet, whom they killed to keep from raising an alarm. Then they must have seized the husband and sons. More villagers had obviously been dragged away, too, judging from the body count.