Cults were anathema to the organized Temples. They were almost always predicated on bad doctrine or some half-baked heretical theory. They created distrust and fear. Sandreena, as a Knight-Adamant, wasn’t always recognized as a Temple functionary, and even when she was identified as a member of a religious martial order, it didn’t occur to people that she could use magic. Priests and priestesses in the Temples in big cities were one thing. Town priests, monks and priors were viewed as part of the fabric of the society. But in the smaller villages in the out-of-the way places, anyone practising any kind of magic was to be feared.
If the Father-Bishop didn’t forbid her, she would personally inform the Temple of Lims-Kragma in Krondor of what was taking place here. No one had less patience with evil death magic than the followers of the Goddess of Death; they were content to let people come to their Mistress in their own time. They didn’t see any need to hurry anyone along. Most death magic, or necromancy, perverted and twisted the soul energy leaving the dying body, a further insult to the Goddess, as that soul couldn’t then find the Goddess’s Hall, to be judged and reborn. Sandreena had no doubt that the Temple would dispatch a full company of the Drawers of the Web, their martial order, to come down here and clean up this mess.
Still, she had a duty to her own Temple first.
As she anticipated, the fighters began trudging up the hill, speaking softly amongst themselves, and they kept a discreet distance from the cultists. They were heading to the east of the temple where the carnage had occurred. She waited until she was looking at the backs of the last cultists, then slipped down to follow.
Gripping her poor sword and shield much tighter than necessary, she started trailing the large pack of murderous Black Caps.
*
Sandreena’s legs were cramping; abuse, fatigue, lack of food and water, all were taking their toll, as well as a considerable amount of tension. She had found what she sought: the Black Caps’ camp. There were more people there, ten who seemed prisoners, two guards. The prisoners did the menial work, by what she could see, tending the fires, cooking meals, cleaning clothing, weapons and tack. Everyone at the camp was subdued, and if news of the fate of the magician had reached the prisoners, they apparently had no joy in it.
Sandreena found her horse tied to a picket at the rear of the camp. The camp looked as if it had been established for a while: they had built several wooden shacks and even one good-sized cabin. The three fighters who entered it looked to be the leaders of the mercenaries, as Sandreena thought of them. That might be a good thing, as mercenaries often knew when to quit; fanatic cultists never did.
She considered the possibility of reaching her horse and riding out of here, but unless every person in the camp slept soundly, there was almost no chance of that at all. She wished she knew where her belt pouch had ended up. If any of the cutthroats found the soul gem, they might have kept it under the mistaken impression it was a precious stone. It looked similar to a dark ruby or sapphire depending on the light, but if any magic user examined it, they would quickly come to understand that it was holy magic, and would probably destroy it.
What to do? She was torn by the need to report the location of this camp, and the desire to learn as much as possible. Moreover, she was hardly equipped to travel, and needed to replace her missing arms and armour. She might be able to pick off a sentry and take what she needed.
She waited as the camp settled down. It was a restless quiet. The cultists sat sullenly in small groups as far away from the others as they could get. The prisoners who carried food and drink to them cringed when they were spoken to, and the fighters kept a respectful distance. Sandreena had no idea what lay at the heart of this difference, but it was clear neither side considered this a happy circumstance.
Sandreena weighed her options. She decided to wait for the camp to settle in for the night. Whatever else, the smell of cooking was causing her stomach to knot.
Getting information back was paramount, but she could hardly achieve that goal if she died from exhaustion and hunger. Letting out a long resigned sigh, she put her chin on her forearm and tried to get comfortable on top of the rocks.
*
Hours passed, but as the large moon started to set and the small moon began to rise, the last of the captives bedded down for the night. There was light streaming from the door of the leaders’ hut. She had identified one fighter - a black-bearded thug who sported lots of rings, and gold chains around his neck - as the likely leader of the mercenaries. He and two others had retired to that hut after eating.
Sandreena carefully made her way down the rocks and through the camp. The cultists had bedded down in rude leather and wooden shelters, the evening’s slaughter having exhausted them. The fighters were scattered among a dozen small huts. Reaching the side of the largest, Sandreena listened through the wall.
‘Remember that inn in Roldem?’ said a voice.
‘Which inn? There’s a lot of them in Roldem,’ came the answer.
‘You know that one. Where we were playing lin-lan and you got into that fight with that Royal Navy sailor over him trying to take back part of his bet when no one was looking?’ said the first voice.
‘Ya, that one. What about it?’ said the second voice. ‘They had this lamb pie, with peas and carrots and those little onions, you know these?’