Another man, who must be Garsalt, sat on a saddle, glowering up at him. Garsalt was taller and broader, and he seemed older, with only a thin surviving fringe of fair hair around the edges of a bald, gleaming pate. He was dressed very much like Rethak, but he looked untidy, almost unkempt, beside the smaller man. He also looked much gloomier.
"No, She wouldn't have," Garsalt conceded now. "But, as you say, it wasn't his fault. And now She expects us to do what he couldn't?" He shook his head. "I don't like it. Not one bit."
"It's not quite that bad," Rethak said. "And you might want to reflect on the fact that so far everything's been going exactly to plan."
"Things have a tendency to go 'exactly to plan' against Wencit . . . right up to the last minute, don't they?" Garsalt countered. "And the Bloody Hand's almost worse!"
"That's about enough of that." The third voice was lighter, higher pitched, and far more musical than the other two. It also carried a crisp ring of authority.
Then the new speaker stepped into the range of Trayn's vision, and it was all he could do to keep his eyes from widening in surprise as he saw her.
She was taller than Rethak, although not so tall as Garsalt, and her hair was the color of a raven's wing. She was dressed in the richly embroidered riding habit of a Purple Lord noblewoman; jewels glittered in her immaculately coiffured hair, on her hands, and about her throat; and she moved with the lethal, sultry grace of some silk-furred hunting cat. From the way Garsalt came quickly, almost fearfully, to his feet and Rethak turned to face her, it was obvious who was in charge.
"I've let the two of you complain and fret and carry on long enough," she said sternly, her beautiful face hard. "Some of that is probably healthy, but it's time you got down to business and stopped whining about how little you want to be here. Is that clear?"
Rethak and Garsalt glanced at one another without-quite-shuffling their feet like schoolboys, then nodded in unison.
"Yes, Tremala," Rethak said for both of them.
"Good!" Tremala half-glared at them for a moment, then shrugged and allowed her expression to relax.
"I'm just as aware as you are of the risks we're running," she said. "Unlike the two of you, however, I also know why it's so imperative that we arrange for something . . . permanent to happen to the Bloody Hand. Fortunately, you don't need to concern yourselves about that. What
"Of course we do," Garsalt replied. "And, to be honest, I'm more worried about Wencit than I am about Bahzell."
"Which is precisely why we're out here cooperating with the Scorpion instead of trying to do it all by ourselves," Tremala said.
"With all due respect," Rethak chimed in, "Sharnā's worshipers haven't exactly covered themselves-or Him-with glory any of the other times they've gone up against the Bloody Hand."
"No, they haven't." Tremala's voice was cool, but she nodded. "On the other hand, things are a bit different this time, aren't they? And this time, we're not planning on attacking our enemies' strengths."
She held Garsalt and Rethak with her eyes for another moment, then smiled. The expression was cold and hungry, almost shockingly out of place on that lovely countenance.
"We all know how much the Others resent and fear Her power-our power. It was us, Carnadosa's Council, and our power that brought down the Ottovarans a thousand years ago. It was our shields, our wards, which allowed any of us to survive when Wencit strafed Kontovar. And it's our power-and our will-that truly dominates in Kontovar today. Are you surprised the Others resent Her, or that their worshipers resent us?"
The others shook their heads silently, and she shrugged.
"But just as the Others know they need Her, we need them if we're ever going to succeed. One of the reasons Wencit and Bahzell and Tomanâk's other 'champions' have done so well against us is that they cooperate with one another, and we don't. Which means that even when the Others agree to cooperate with Her, Their followers act as individual forces, not cooperating or combining their abilities."
"Yes, but-" Rethak began.
"Forget about 'but,'" she interrupted, her voice hard. "Of course all of Them are looking for ways to use Her-and us-for Their benefit. Let them. When it comes down to it, whose followers truly have the strength to rule in this world?"
Her chuckle was not a pleasant sound.
"So don't worry about what happens after," she said. "Worry about what happens now, tonight. And think about this. The Bloody Hand and his little pony have done well enough against single demons, but this time, we'll see how he does when they bring friends along. Somehow, I don't think he's going to enjoy the experience."
VI
Walsharno topped out on the crest of the rolling hill and halted. He raised his head, nostrils flaring, and Bahzell's face tightened bleakly as the two of them gazed out across the still-smoldering ruins. They'd been catching hints of smoke and slaughter for the last twenty or thirty minutes despite the fact that the night breeze was blowing almost directly from behind them. Now they knew why.
"So, it is after being Demonspawn," the hradani rumbled in a voice like hammered iron.
*So it would appear,* Walsharno agreed. *Still, I wonder why they waited this long to let it feed.*
The roan stallion's mental voice would have sounded calm, almost dispassionate, if anyone else had been able to hear it. It didn't sound that way to Bahzell.
"Now that's a thing I couldn't be telling you," he said. "Unless, of course," he let his eyes sweep across the wreckage of the village, then looked up at the stars spangling the night sky's immensity, "they were thinking as how they'd just as soon have the two of us out here all alone before they were after letting us in on their little secret."
*I suppose that could be it. But somehow, I've the feeling there's more to it.*
This time, Bahzell only grunted. Walsharno was just as much a champion of Tomanâk as he was, and every champion's abilities differed from every other champion's, sometimes in subtle ways and sometimes more fundamentally. They perceived things in different ways, as well, and Bahzell had had plenty of proof that Walsharno's "hunches" tended to be dismayingly accurate.
"I'm thinking we'd best go take a closer look," the hradani said after several moments, and Walsharno moved slowly and cautiously down the slope towards the wreckage.
It couldn't be all that many hours old, Bahzell reflected. None of the houses had been particularly substantial. They wouldn't have taken very long to burn, yet embers still glowed in the darkness. They streaked the night with a faint glow, the color of blood, but Bahzell was hradani. Neither he nor Walsharno needed that fitful radiance to see what had happened here.