On top of the pile the last remaining victim lay struggling, his arms and legs held in place by a set of ropes, each held by more monks or priests or whatever those murderous dogs were. Sandreena spat quietly to keep her stomach from churning.
The magician finished his incantation and something appeared in the air above the struggling man. The victim cried out in abject terror as a black form, a thing of long spider-like limbs, a hawk’s razor-sharp beak, and huge bat wings, hovered above him for a moment, then dived to land with a heavy thud on his stomach.
Throwing back its head, the demon howled, a sound that set Sandreena’s teeth on edge. She saw several of the mercenaries step further away, while others winced at the noise. The demon cocked its head as it looked at the screaming man upon whom it sat, looking like some bird of prey from a terrible nightmare; then it pulled back one of its long spindly arms, and with stunning speed, it drove it into the man’s chest. Sandreena was only too familiar with the sound of ripping flesh and cracking bones, and the man’s screams were cut off as his body convulsed when his lungs were ripped out. Before his life fled, he was forced to witness the creature devouring his heart.
Sandreena had seen many horrific things in her life, from the degradation and abuses she endured as a brothel child, to the blood of battle. She had witnessed men dying in their own excrement, put of out their misery by their friends, murdered children and entire villages slaughtered for the meagre goods they harboured, but nothing had felt more evil to her than what she was witnessing now.
The suppliants bowed before the conjured creature and the chanting renewed its urgency. The demon flew to land upon the upraised staff of the magician who staggered slightly under its weight; it must have been heavier than it looked, thought Sandreena. And it can fly . . .
Magic, she thought, counting herself a fool. This thing hailed from some nether region where the natural laws were different. Still, it looked as if the magician was faltering.
Then he fell, and with a shriek of rage, the conjured creature vanished, leaving behind a foul, oily smoke, the stench of which reached Sandreena. The wail that rose from the assembled suppliants was that of a mother who had lost her child.
The magician began to stand, but the worshippers leapt on him, their bare hands outstretched like claws, or wheeling their flails, and he went down beneath the onslaught. They tore the man apart before Sandreena’s eyes. She took a long, slow breath, and wished she could understand what she saw.
From their expressions, the fighting men were also shocked. Many of them had weapons half-drawn, as if they expected to be attacked in turn. Then Sandreena noticed a fact that had eluded her during the chaos of the last few minutes. The men wore an assortment of head coverings, tied bandannas, scarves, flop hats, forager’s caps, kepis, cocked hats, and berets, but they were all black. These men were the Black Caps the villagers had spoken of, the men Father-Bishop Creegan had warned her might be in the air. They certainly were more than simple pirates and smugglers.
She sat back, crouching below the top of the rock, so as not to be seen. Why would a band of cutthroats come to this isolated mountain valley? Why would they be in league with a bunch of demonic cultists? And what was the purpose of that bloody ritual she had just witnessed?
She knew she had to find her way back to Krondor, but she also knew that there would be questions. The Father-Bishop would interrogate her for hours and at this moment she could answer few of them. But someone at the Temple would be able to give her some insight into what she had observed, which meant that she needed to push aside her revulsion and continue to watch. Taking a breath, she raised up again.
A quick count put the total number of fighting men at thirty and she could see two dozen cultists. The mangled corpses, including the dead magician, were left on the ground. She moved along the top of the rock, trying to stay in the shadows. The moons overhead made it easy enough for anyone to see her, if they were vigilant. Then again, she considered, they thought her dead and they gathered around several fires, so their vision would be weaker.
The cultists hitched up their robes, ignoring the bloody shreds of flesh on their backs and shoulders. Sandreena wondered if they had some magic to prevent festering, else many of them would be ill within two days. Maybe they just didn’t care.