was no telling how long they’d be stranded there.
He decided that if the camp were provisioned, they’d stay and weather the storm under shelter. otherwise, they’d push on through the pass, hoping to beat the snow.
when they reached the clearing, Han recognized the small cabin and attached lean-to for horses, layered with snow. ragger went balky at the edge of the trees. He skidded to a stop, tossing his head, nostrils flaring as if picking some dangersome scent out of the razor-sharp air.
That was when Han noticed the bodies.
There were eight or ten scattered in bunches, like they’d gone down fighting together. Snow shrouded them in a rumpled cover let as if the Maker had tried to put them to rest.
easing his bow from his saddle boot, Han fumbled with the bowstring with half-frozen fingers, drew an arrow from his quiver, and nocked it, all the while scanning the camp for signs of life.
nothing—no disturbance in the pristine snow cover. The snow frosted the corpses, unmelted, so the bodies were cold. This killing had happened at least a day ago.
it reminded Han of the time he’d passed through a dark cemetery in ragmarket after the resurrection men had been at work. He’d realized to his horror that he was surrounded by linen-wrapped corpses, spilled everywhere on the ground, shallow graves yawning beside them. He’d fled the burying ground, screaming. He’d been seven years old at the time, the same age as his sister Mari when she burned to death.
when ragger finally settled, Han heeled him into a walk, 92
T H e L A Dy S wo r D
circling the clearing, staying within the fringe of trees, alert for any movement in the surrounding forest. The cabin seemed deserted. The snow billowed up against the door undisturbed.
Han dismounted and led ragger forward. keeping hold of the reins, he knelt next to the first body, brushing away the snow.
it was a tall, sturdy girlie, a little older than Han. She had the look of a sword-dangler, though she wore no emblem of allegiance. Her coat was crusted with frozen blood, and a crossbow bolt centered her chest.
Could she be a mercenary come up from the south? Had she run into a Demonai scouting party? no, the Demonai used longbows as a rule, and black-fletched arrows.
ragger’s head came up and he whinnied out a challenge. Han swiveled on his knees, aiming his arrow into the woods in the direction the horse was pointing.
A riderless bay horse stood in the edge of the trees, ears pricked forward, watching them.
Han lowered his bow. once he’d assured himself the horse was on his own, he called out softly, “you there. where’s your owner?”
The horse staggered toward them, nearly going down, and that was when Han noticed the bolts feathering the gelding’s shoulder and neck. He was sturdy, standard Fellsian military issue, with a shaggy winter coat. He was fully tacked—obviously a casualty of the recent battle, or ambush, or whatever it was.
when the horse came within reach, Han held out his hand and the gelding lipped at it. There was a carry bag slung over the saddle, and Han lifted it down, murmuring soothingly to the badly wounded animal.
93
T H e G r Ay wo L F T H ro n e
Han poked through the contents of the bag—a soldier’s kit.
in a side pocket was a pay voucher from the Queen’s Guard of the Fells, made out to one Ginny Foster, private.
what were bluejackets doing out here in the middle of a storm, all out of uniform?
Han made a quick circuit of the killing field, clearing snow away from two or three more bodies. All were dressed in nondescript traveling garb, most young.
whose side were they on? who had killed them? Had any of them escaped? And where were the killers now?
it didn’t seem wise to linger here, even though the battle was long over. if the killers were still in the area, they might return to this shelter when the new storm hit.
Han came up alongside the injured horse. it stood, head down, breathing
He decided that if the camp were provisioned, they’d stay and weather the storm under shelter. otherwise, they’d push on through the pass, hoping to beat the snow.
when they reached the clearing, Han recognized the small cabin and attached lean-to for horses, layered with snow. ragger went balky at the edge of the trees. He skidded to a stop, tossing his head, nostrils flaring as if picking some dangersome scent out of the razor-sharp air.
That was when Han noticed the bodies.
There were eight or ten scattered in bunches, like they’d gone down fighting together. Snow shrouded them in a rumpled cover let as if the Maker had tried to put them to rest.
easing his bow from his saddle boot, Han fumbled with the bowstring with half-frozen fingers, drew an arrow from his quiver, and nocked it, all the while scanning the camp for signs of life.
nothing—no disturbance in the pristine snow cover. The snow frosted the corpses, unmelted, so the bodies were cold. This killing had happened at least a day ago.
it reminded Han of the time he’d passed through a dark cemetery in ragmarket after the resurrection men had been at work. He’d realized to his horror that he was surrounded by linen-wrapped corpses, spilled everywhere on the ground, shallow graves yawning beside them. He’d fled the burying ground, screaming. He’d been seven years old at the time, the same age as his sister Mari when she burned to death.
when ragger finally settled, Han heeled him into a walk, 92
T H e L A Dy S wo r D
circling the clearing, staying within the fringe of trees, alert for any movement in the surrounding forest. The cabin seemed deserted. The snow billowed up against the door undisturbed.
Han dismounted and led ragger forward. keeping hold of the reins, he knelt next to the first body, brushing away the snow.
it was a tall, sturdy girlie, a little older than Han. She had the look of a sword-dangler, though she wore no emblem of allegiance. Her coat was crusted with frozen blood, and a crossbow bolt centered her chest.
Could she be a mercenary come up from the south? Had she run into a Demonai scouting party? no, the Demonai used longbows as a rule, and black-fletched arrows.
ragger’s head came up and he whinnied out a challenge. Han swiveled on his knees, aiming his arrow into the woods in the direction the horse was pointing.
A riderless bay horse stood in the edge of the trees, ears pricked forward, watching them.
Han lowered his bow. once he’d assured himself the horse was on his own, he called out softly, “you there. where’s your owner?”
The horse staggered toward them, nearly going down, and that was when Han noticed the bolts feathering the gelding’s shoulder and neck. He was sturdy, standard Fellsian military issue, with a shaggy winter coat. He was fully tacked—obviously a casualty of the recent battle, or ambush, or whatever it was.
when the horse came within reach, Han held out his hand and the gelding lipped at it. There was a carry bag slung over the saddle, and Han lifted it down, murmuring soothingly to the badly wounded animal.
93
T H e G r Ay wo L F T H ro n e
Han poked through the contents of the bag—a soldier’s kit.
in a side pocket was a pay voucher from the Queen’s Guard of the Fells, made out to one Ginny Foster, private.
what were bluejackets doing out here in the middle of a storm, all out of uniform?
Han made a quick circuit of the killing field, clearing snow away from two or three more bodies. All were dressed in nondescript traveling garb, most young.
whose side were they on? who had killed them? Had any of them escaped? And where were the killers now?
it didn’t seem wise to linger here, even though the battle was long over. if the killers were still in the area, they might return to this shelter when the new storm hit.
Han came up alongside the injured horse. it stood, head down, breathing
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