Masques (Sianim #1)(29)

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IF IT DID NOT SNOW, IT MIGHT AS WELL HAVE. THE STORM that hit that night was violent and cold. The wind carelessly shredded the makeshift tents that still comprised most of the camp. Everybody huddled in the tents that leaked the least and waited out the storm. It left as abruptly as it had struck. With the wind gone, the body heat from the huddled people warmed the remaining overpopulated tents. Tired as they were, everyone, with the exception of the second-shift night watch, was soon fast asleep.

Aralorn woke to the sound of a stallion's whistle. There was probably a mare in heat. She swore softly, but when Sheen whistled again she knew she had to go quiet him before he woke the camp. It probably would be a good idea to check on the horses after the storm anyway.

She reached under the furs she slept on - not an easy feat with so many others sleeping on the furs too - and strapped on her knife. Carefully, she stepped over the slumbering bodies and threaded her way to the door.

Once outside she jogged toward the corral. Sheen's light grey underbelly was easy to see against the darkness. Just as he was about to cry out again he saw her and came toward her, hopping because of the hobble. She checked him over, but saw nothing unusual.

He shifted abruptly as if the wind brought a scent to his nose. His attention was focused high on the ridge surrounding the valley. Every muscle tensed and only a quick word from Aralorn kept him quiet.

It could have been only the scent of one of the two guards Myr posted every night in shifts or, more probably, a wild animal of some sort. For her own peace of mind, Aralorn decided to trek up the side of the valley and see if she could locate whatever was disturbing the stallion. She commanded him to silence again and started the climb.

The terrain was more cliff than anything else. There was an easier climb over more open ground, but she chose to stay in the sparse cover of the tough brush that grew here and there. Once on the crest, crouched in the dense thicket of young willows that surrounded the valley, she glanced back down to see if Sheen was still upset.

His attention was still focused, but he could have been just watching her. Swearing softly to herself, she crept through the brush. If it had been a wild animal it was probably long gone, or waiting for a nice tasty human to join it for its evening meal - wasn't it dragons that were supposed to enjoy feasting on young women?

It was mere chance that she found the cause of Sheen's alarm.

She tripped over it before she saw it - or rather him. He was very dead. She called a dim light ball that would allow her to get a better look at the corpse without drawing attention to herself.

It was one of the guards - *willow, the one-armed veteran. He had been killed recently because the body was still warm, even in the chill of the wet foliage. What really bothered Aralorn was the way he'd been killed. He'd probably been knocked out, judging by the lump on his head. With him unconscious and unable to struggle, it had been an easy matter to cut his heart out of his chest and carve the runes on it.

Impulsively she traced a symbol over a rune. She didn't know a lot about human magic: she didn't even know a lot about her own type of magic. But she did know that certain symbols and runes held a power of their own independent of green or human designation. Once when she and Wolf had been traveling she had seen him trace the symbol with a stick held in his jaws. Curious, as always, she asked him the meaning of it. Wolf told her that it was a powerful symbol that simply promoted good rest and taught it to her at her request. She hoped it would help.

She started to run around the edge of the valley without worrying about cover. She almost hoped to draw the attention of the killer; she was better able to take care of herself than almost anyone else in the camp. From the signs around the body there had been only one person, but he was skillful.

Heart pounding, and not from effort, she searched the darkness for some clue as to his whereabouts. Less than halfway around the camp she found the other guard. Her heart lay, still faintly beating, on the grass that was too dark even in the night.

She had probably been killed after Aralorn found the first body. The killer, safe in his knowledge that there was no other guard to worry about, had taken his time and done the ritual more properly, though still without active magic use that might have alerted Wolf, or anyone else in the camp for that matter. The guard had been awake for the ceremony, gagged so that she could make no sound. A small pewter drinking glass lay near the body, stained dark with blood.

Gently, Aralorn closed the open eyes.

Taking stock of her position, Aralorn realized that she was no more than a hundred yards from Wolf's camp. It would be wiser to have two people looking for the killer. Finding the camp from her position on top of the rim was not as easy as finding it from the bottom; there were no faint trails to lead her to it.

Just as she decided that her time would be better spent trying to find the enemy, she saw the light from the meager campfire Wolf preferred. With a sigh of relief she; made her way down the steep slope, taking the path slowly to avoid twisting an ankle.

Without warning a violent surge of magical backlash drove her to her knees. She waited until the wash of magic dulled to a point that was no longer painful before struggling back to her feet. Forgetting caution, she grabbed a stick and used it for balance as she slid down the hill, announcing her presence with a modest avalanche of stones and dirt.

She slid to a stop just above the small, flat area that Wolf had appropriated as his camp. Wolf lay still on his back in human form, eyes glistening with rage. Narrow, luminous white ropes lay across his legs, chest, and neck. Edom stood over him, his attention momentarily diverted to Aralorn. Half raised in his right hand he held a sword that was not the sword he'd been using in the sparring match. It glowed gently, with a pulsating lavender light. The sight of it sent a cold chill up Aralorn's back as she recognized the weapon for what it was: a souleater. The blades were as rare as they were unnatural. Aralorn had only seen one before, but there were a lot of stories about them. Even minor wounds from a souleater could be mortal.