drops of heavy rain struck the corpses, which had been left in the open to rot. Only two of the bodies had not begun to show signs of death. The rain pelted their still faces. Suddenly, the eyes of the first man flashed open. “Are they gone?”
“I no longer care. My back is starting to ache.” Both men rose from the sand. The first was a tall man with dark skin. Crow’s feet bunched around his eyes and a heavy beard covered much of his face. His companion was short and lean, clean-shaven, and possessed a dour expression. They both had been run through with swords, the bearded man’s heart cleaved in two, the shorter man gutted, a second blow having fractured his skull. Each man opened his tunic and placed his open palm over his wounds, waiting patiently as the flesh stitched together. The internal injuries would heal with time. The men allowed the falling rain to wash away the blood.
Closing their tunics, the two members of the Night Parade surveyed the human corpses strewn about the pillar’s base. “Mortals are so fragile,” the short man said. “The smallest injury, and they surrender to death.”
“We can die, too, you know.”
“Yes, but not so easily. The Draw favored us.”
The bearded man looked away from the Hammer, toward the distant road. “Did you see which way they went?”
“The mage cloaked them. I couldn’t tell. Back to Calimport, I would wager. The woman still has to pay Pieraccinni.”
“Of course.” The bearded man was silent for a time as he threw his head back and allowed the rain to caress his face. Five hundred feet above, lightning struck the flat of the hammer and thunder shook loose a hail of small rocks from the pillar’s surface. The short man jumped out of the way of the falling stones. His companion stood, arms stretched wide, unmindful of the danger. The rocks seemed to avoid him.
“Is the girl really her daughter?” the short man asked.
“I don’t know. Does it matter? She will believe it, and because of that, she will leave and trouble us no more.”
“Just curious.”
The bearded man grinned. “I have curiosities, too.” With that, he leapt to the side of the pillar and began to climb, his hands digging into the solid rock as if it were soft clay.
“Come down here,” his companion shouted when the bearded man was already one hundred feet up the side of the pillar. His commands were ignored. “We’re supposed to follow them!”
“We will,” the bearded man called. “They’ll make camp. They won’t travel in this. We’ll catch up easily.” Within a minute, the bearded man had scaled the pillar and disappeared over the rim.
“You’re such a child, Zandler,” the short man said as he sat down hard on a rock and placed his head in his hands, waiting for his partner to finish indulging his infantile impulses. It was true that Zandler had the more spectacular ability, but he had powers of his own. Gesturing at the sand, the short man with smoldering gray eyes watched as several sand creatures burrowed out of their holes, a host of scorpions rushing to the lead. Within seconds a small army of arachnids had gathered at his feet. He remembered the last man he had tormented then killed, an older man with a paranoid fear of cockroaches. The gray-eyed man had played with his victim’s dreams for weeks before making his nightmares come true.
He heard a shuffling in the sand behind him. “Zandler?”
“No,” an unfamiliar voice said with a malice that could not be mistaken for anything but murderous intent. Before the gray-eyed man had a chance to order the sand creatures to attack his unseen enemy, he convulsed in searing agony. Looking down, he saw a hand erupt from his chest. The gloved hand burned with a bluish white energy laced with crackling strands of green fire. He had seen those cold flames once before.
“The apparatus!” he shouted as he fell forward and died. His corpse struck the sand, scattering the arachnids he had summoned.
The
“I no longer care. My back is starting to ache.” Both men rose from the sand. The first was a tall man with dark skin. Crow’s feet bunched around his eyes and a heavy beard covered much of his face. His companion was short and lean, clean-shaven, and possessed a dour expression. They both had been run through with swords, the bearded man’s heart cleaved in two, the shorter man gutted, a second blow having fractured his skull. Each man opened his tunic and placed his open palm over his wounds, waiting patiently as the flesh stitched together. The internal injuries would heal with time. The men allowed the falling rain to wash away the blood.
Closing their tunics, the two members of the Night Parade surveyed the human corpses strewn about the pillar’s base. “Mortals are so fragile,” the short man said. “The smallest injury, and they surrender to death.”
“We can die, too, you know.”
“Yes, but not so easily. The Draw favored us.”
The bearded man looked away from the Hammer, toward the distant road. “Did you see which way they went?”
“The mage cloaked them. I couldn’t tell. Back to Calimport, I would wager. The woman still has to pay Pieraccinni.”
“Of course.” The bearded man was silent for a time as he threw his head back and allowed the rain to caress his face. Five hundred feet above, lightning struck the flat of the hammer and thunder shook loose a hail of small rocks from the pillar’s surface. The short man jumped out of the way of the falling stones. His companion stood, arms stretched wide, unmindful of the danger. The rocks seemed to avoid him.
“Is the girl really her daughter?” the short man asked.
“I don’t know. Does it matter? She will believe it, and because of that, she will leave and trouble us no more.”
“Just curious.”
The bearded man grinned. “I have curiosities, too.” With that, he leapt to the side of the pillar and began to climb, his hands digging into the solid rock as if it were soft clay.
“Come down here,” his companion shouted when the bearded man was already one hundred feet up the side of the pillar. His commands were ignored. “We’re supposed to follow them!”
“We will,” the bearded man called. “They’ll make camp. They won’t travel in this. We’ll catch up easily.” Within a minute, the bearded man had scaled the pillar and disappeared over the rim.
“You’re such a child, Zandler,” the short man said as he sat down hard on a rock and placed his head in his hands, waiting for his partner to finish indulging his infantile impulses. It was true that Zandler had the more spectacular ability, but he had powers of his own. Gesturing at the sand, the short man with smoldering gray eyes watched as several sand creatures burrowed out of their holes, a host of scorpions rushing to the lead. Within seconds a small army of arachnids had gathered at his feet. He remembered the last man he had tormented then killed, an older man with a paranoid fear of cockroaches. The gray-eyed man had played with his victim’s dreams for weeks before making his nightmares come true.
He heard a shuffling in the sand behind him. “Zandler?”
“No,” an unfamiliar voice said with a malice that could not be mistaken for anything but murderous intent. Before the gray-eyed man had a chance to order the sand creatures to attack his unseen enemy, he convulsed in searing agony. Looking down, he saw a hand erupt from his chest. The gloved hand burned with a bluish white energy laced with crackling strands of green fire. He had seen those cold flames once before.
“The apparatus!” he shouted as he fell forward and died. His corpse struck the sand, scattering the arachnids he had summoned.
The
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