Seeing none, she ventured deeper into the village, seeking any information that would prove useful. In the distance, she saw movement, and ducking behind a section of wall, she waited. Another company of horsemen rode by, less vigilant than they should have been, but not the drunken roisterers she had seen earlier. These were seasoned soldiers, Miranda calculated. These men were not mere mercenaries but those posted to the central companies of the invaders’ forces. By being at this location, she now had a fair estimate of the invaders’ rate of march. Cursing quietly, for it was faster than she had suspected, she moved away from the center of the village. She could will herself away at any time, but she was tired, and the effort to cloak her presence from her enemies was taking its toll. A little undisturbed rest in a quiet place would be needed for her to leave this area and not let her enemy know she had observed.
Miranda ducked through a burned doorframe, between two still-standing sections of wall, and even her iron-willed composure cracked at the sight that greeted her. Gasping, she had to put her hand out and grip the doorjamb, for her knees went weak as the sight of dead children greeted her. Tiny bodies charred to blackness were piled in the center of the fire-gutted building. Miranda felt a low animal growl of pain and wrath building in her throat and bit it back as rage threatened to overwhelm her composure. She knew well that should any of the monsters who had visited this horror on the children blunder within her sight, she would destroy him without thought, without regard for the consequences to her or her mission.
Forcing herself to calm, she took two deep breaths and fought back tears of anguish. Babies with smashed heads were placed upon older children with charred arrows still protruding from them. At least, thought Miranda, the children had been killed before the building had been set alight. Bitterly she wondered if death from a blade or arrow was, in truth, kinder than dying in flames. Bidding peace to the souls of those tormented tiny bodies, she left the building.
She picked her way amid the rubble to the outskirts of the village farthest from where she had last seen the raiders. She peered around the corner of what had once been an inn and saw nothing. Dashing from the village across a rivulet running down from the hills, she made it to a copse of trees. There she almost died.
The woman was terrified and so her knife slash went wide, but Miranda still took a cut along her left forearm. Biting back a cry of pain, Miranda reached out and gripped the woman’s wrist with her right hand. A quick twist and the woman was forced to release the blade.
Hissing in pain and anger, Miranda said softly, “Silence, fool! I’ll not hurt you.” Then she saw the two cowering children behind the woman. “Or your babies.” Her tone softened a bit. She released the woman’s wrist and inspected damage done to her arm. Miranda saw a shallow wound, and she closed her right hand over it.
“Who are you?” said the woman.
“I am called Miranda.”
The woman’s eyes welled with tears and she said, “They . . . they’re killing the children.”
Miranda closed her eyes a moment, then nodded. Women the raiders could use awhile along the line of march before they finally killed them, but children would be useless. Slavers following the main army might take them, but out here at the leading edge of battle, all little ones could do was inform enemies of what they had seen.
Gasping through the tears, the woman said, “They picked up the babies and swung them by the heels—”
Miranda said, “Enough,” but her tone, while firm, was also pained. “Enough,” she repeated softly, ignoring the wetness gathering in her own eyes. She had seen the tiny crushed skulls. “I know.”
Then she took account of who stood before her. The woman’s eyes were wide with terror, but would be judged large under normal conditions. Her ears were upswept beneath blond locks and possessed no lobes.
Miranda glanced down at the children: they were twins. Miranda’s own eyes widened in disbelief as she asked, “You are what they call ‘of the long-lived’?”
The woman nodded. “We are.”
Miranda closed her eyes and shook her head. No wonder the woman was nearly beside herself. Those beings known through most of the world of men as elves gave birth rarely, and children usually grew up to adulthood decades apart from their siblings. Some elves lived to see centuries pass, and the death of one child was more terrible than humans could imagine, but twins were almost unheard of among the eledhel, as they called themselves. For these two little boys to be lost would be a tragedy beyond human imagining for an elf.
Miranda said, “I know what’s at risk.”
“The entire village was slaughtered,” said the woman. “I took the boys into the woods to forage for food; we were to leave tonight. We were going to seek out the Jeshandi and ask for shelter there.” Miranda nodded. The Jeshandi numbered a high percentage of the long-lived among them and would likely have taken in this woman and her children. “We didn’t think the raiders would be here for another few days.” Her eyes filled again and she said, “My man . . .”
Miranda removed her hand from the cut on her arm and inspected it. The cut had ceased bleeding and now a pink scar was the only sign of damage. She said, “If he was in the village he is dead. I’m sorry.” She knew how hollow that sounded.