The shallow valley before us had been the scene of a slaughter. Bodies of men and horses lay scattered like jackstraws, and carrion birds fluttered among the remains. In the stillness of the afternoon I could hear flies buzzing over the corpses. Sunlight glinted off a shield emblazoned with the crest of House Lochlan -- a white fish against a blue field. We had found what was left of Moira's escort party.
"We'd best go down and have a look," I said finally. Douglass, Ruarc, and Baret wore grim expressions like masks to hide their grief. Siobhan, typically, seemed unmoved.
"These men were my friends," Ruarc said, and his voice shook a little in spite of himself. "Many of them were my teachers. . . Damn it! Whoever is responsible for this will pay!"
"Not today," I replied and nudged my horse forward toward the carnage.
We spent much of the next three hours combing through the mess, looking for slues as to who might be responsible and where they might have gone. The weapons and armor had been left behind, but the bodies of the men at arms had been looted for whatever gold or jewels they carried. Many fingers and hears were severed, presumably to get at whatever jewelry the unlucky soldier had been wearing. I'd plenty of experience with ugly death, and I didn't know these men, but still a part of me felt growing outrage at the massacre. To be fallen upon, unsuspecting, and cut down like animals. . . Whoever had done this was monstrous.
A few dozen yards to the north of the main battlefield, Siobhan stumbled across the body of a young woman; I guessed her to be a lady's maid sent to accompany Moira. Her throat had been cut, and the tattered state of her garments suggested that she'd been . . . used, before she was killed. I pulled the remains of her cloak over the pale face and staring eyes. "Don't tell the others."
"Tracks!" Baret's voice shattered the stillness. Siobhan and I hurried to join the others.
"They made no effort to hide their trail," I mused, crouching to observe the prints in the earth. I touched the outline of a small, slippered foot. "And they made their prisoner walk." I smiled grimly. "They don't expect to be followed."
Douglass stared at the faint footprint. "Moira was alive when she left here."
I stood, dusting the dirt from my hands. "Yes. And she may still be. They'll be in no hurry to get rid of her if they think no one is coming after them." I looked him in the eyes. "If you believe nothing else, trust this: we are going to catch them. And we are going to do it soon."
Siobhan smirked a little. "Not if we keep standing here." She paused. "Tell me there's to be no nonsense about burying these dead before we go?"
Ruarc shook his head. "No. We will honor our fallen after we return home with my sister."
I nodded approvingly. "Then get the horses. We're wasting time."
"We'd best go down and have a look," I said finally. Douglass, Ruarc, and Baret wore grim expressions like masks to hide their grief. Siobhan, typically, seemed unmoved.
"These men were my friends," Ruarc said, and his voice shook a little in spite of himself. "Many of them were my teachers. . . Damn it! Whoever is responsible for this will pay!"
"Not today," I replied and nudged my horse forward toward the carnage.
We spent much of the next three hours combing through the mess, looking for slues as to who might be responsible and where they might have gone. The weapons and armor had been left behind, but the bodies of the men at arms had been looted for whatever gold or jewels they carried. Many fingers and hears were severed, presumably to get at whatever jewelry the unlucky soldier had been wearing. I'd plenty of experience with ugly death, and I didn't know these men, but still a part of me felt growing outrage at the massacre. To be fallen upon, unsuspecting, and cut down like animals. . . Whoever had done this was monstrous.
A few dozen yards to the north of the main battlefield, Siobhan stumbled across the body of a young woman; I guessed her to be a lady's maid sent to accompany Moira. Her throat had been cut, and the tattered state of her garments suggested that she'd been . . . used, before she was killed. I pulled the remains of her cloak over the pale face and staring eyes. "Don't tell the others."
"Tracks!" Baret's voice shattered the stillness. Siobhan and I hurried to join the others.
"They made no effort to hide their trail," I mused, crouching to observe the prints in the earth. I touched the outline of a small, slippered foot. "And they made their prisoner walk." I smiled grimly. "They don't expect to be followed."
Douglass stared at the faint footprint. "Moira was alive when she left here."
I stood, dusting the dirt from my hands. "Yes. And she may still be. They'll be in no hurry to get rid of her if they think no one is coming after them." I looked him in the eyes. "If you believe nothing else, trust this: we are going to catch them. And we are going to do it soon."
Siobhan smirked a little. "Not if we keep standing here." She paused. "Tell me there's to be no nonsense about burying these dead before we go?"
Ruarc shook his head. "No. We will honor our fallen after we return home with my sister."
I nodded approvingly. "Then get the horses. We're wasting time."