She would have killed those men. The thought was disquieting, a mocking whisper in her ears. Not that it mattered. Marcellus had taken care of that. She recalled the savagery, the blood, and the screams. She realized how sheltered she had been at Halladen, away from the true world where men slew one another without regard for the value of life.
She wondered if it was worth the cost to recover the Tome of Apokrypy. Perhaps it was best that the knowledge vanished. With it, she would become powerful. And with the power, she would become dangerous.
She was so focused on her thoughts that she didn't notice Marcellus' agitation until she nearly walked into him. He alternated from staring up at the smoldering pyre and back to her with equal amounts of disbelief.
"Shama, what have you done?"
She gestured to the hilltop. "When we do not have time to bury our dead, we let flame send them to the heavens. Perhaps you are not accustomed to such in your grand kingdoms, but among the Steppes people it is not—"
Marcellus cut her off with a raised finger. "That's not what I'm talking about, Shama." He pointed at the plume of smoke that trailed upward. "Did you not stop to think of the eyes that will be able to see that?"
Nyori felt a stab of regret as she understood. She opened her mouth to apologize, but Marcellus has already stepped away, scanning their surroundings. His muscles tensed as he tilted his head, straining to listen. The sound became faintly audible to Nyori at that moment. It was still in the far distance, yet instantly ominous when she understood its significance.
It was the baying of hunting dogs.
"Narak's hells." The feral look returned to Marcellus' eyes as he cursed softly. "I tried to tell you, Shama. Your actions have put us in danger. We must move swiftly. They know exactly where we are."
Chapter 16: Valdemar
Valdemar tried to keep his impatience in check as the man screamed on the ground. After all, Berke was a trusted lieutenant and a fine soldier. It wasn't his fault that his blood-slicked innards refused to stay inside his belly. Running into a pair of ferocious ponginas hadn't been on the agenda when the band of soldiers and trackers began their breakneck pursuit of Marcellus Admorran. The encounter with the gargantuan beasts had been quick, but not without fatalities.
A massive pongina corpse lay a few yards away, riddled with arrows and gutted by blades. Even lifeless and with dark blood matting its wooly white fur, it still looked dangerous. Dangerous and entirely too large. The apelike face had stiffened with its jagged teeth clenched, enraged even in death. The hulking, wooly beasts had materialized out of nowhere, swiping with their long front limbs and bellowing their throaty cries as they struck with crippling blows. Ponginas were fiercely territorial, prone to violent attacks when encountering intruders. But they were rarely seen in the flesh, being solitary creatures that tended to favor the desolate peaks of the Dragonspine. It was Valdemar's cursed luck to run across the pair so close to the foothills.
Roua was in the process of slicing open the creature's chest. The man was a warrior monk from Aracville and formerly a cleric of Marset, the old Bruallian god of war and bloodshed. Though Aracville was forcibly converted to Divinity at Valdemar's insistence, they retained as many of their pagan ways as they could. A dark stripe was painted down the middle of Roua's face, matching his hairstyle: shaved save for a crest of raven hair in the middle. His eyes were lined with black as well, fixed in feverish concentration on his grisly task. It was tough work, but the black-robed warrior priest finally triumphed. Sinking his arms up to the elbows into the steaming cavity, he emerged with the beast's massive heart. Dark blood streamed down his arms, drenching his wide sleeves as he lifted the crimson organ to his mouth and sank his teeth into it. Chewing ferociously, he grinned around the mouthful as he offered it to Nergui, a Bruallian soldier who refused with a mortified expression.
The other pongina had grudgingly retreated after taking grievous wounds, leaving a trail of trampled underbrush dappled with spattered blood in its wake. Valdemar had not bothered to pursue. Like the beast, he had lost enough for one day.
His scale armor rasped as he dismounted from his horse. The armor was elaborately ceremonial yet fully functional, etched with winding dragons in gold. An intricately carved dragon was featured on the crest of his iron-plated helmet, and a scarlet-lined black cape hung from his shoulders. A lord had to look the part no matter what the task at hand. It was necessary that he never blend in with those who served him.
The men stepped away as he fluidly unsheathed his double-handed daito sword, striding purposefully toward the mortally wounded soldier. Berke stifled his cries, gazing up at his warlord with agony etched on his face. He clutched the bloody mess that was his midsection, his body shuddering from the trauma.
Valdemar's sword hummed, and the single-edged blade sliced through flesh and bone with barely a jolt. Berke's head toppled to the ground, followed by his body. Valdemar had already sheathed his sword and turned away, sweeping his cape aside to avoid the blood as he addressed his lead tracker.
"How many dogs survived?"
"Still have most of 'em, m'lord." Gile Noman still wore filthy leathers and battered armor, scorning the new garb offered to him. He had proved his worth against the ponginas, standing his ground while half the men scattered. Valdemar still did not fully trust the man, but that was nothing unusual. He trusted no one outside of the Dragonist Order. Gile was an outsider and a betrayer, a man who turned against Marcellus Admorran at the first opportunity to enrich himself. The man was as useful as the tokes used to pay him. When the money vanished, so would the man, unless Valdemar killed him first. A fate Gile no doubt deserved. A man with no master was much like a dog with no master. They only grew more feral and dangerous, eventually forcing someone to put them down.
Gile gestured over his shoulder. "Rimler is gathering 'em up now. They scattered when the two alphas went down."
"Collect them quickly. I mean to catch up to Marcellus by the day's end. He can't be too far ahead, weary and on foot."
"Pressing hard will be tough with the horses," Gile said. There was something insolent about his one-eyed stare, some thinly veiled contempt that he couldn't quite conceal. "They're not made for this terrain. We'll kill more than a few if we aren't careful."
Valdemar looked at Gile, wasting no words. He had learned long ago that silence was a greater intimidator than words could ever be. The malice manifested in his eyes, giving him a hawkish, imperial stare that demanded subservience.
Gile was no exception. "Aye, m'lord. I'll check on the hounds." He dipped his head respectfully and turned away, shouting at his comrade.
Within moments the survivors mounted their horses, leaving their dead as they fell. "Let the buzzards take care of them," Valdemar said. "And pray that your death will be better than theirs."
A few of the men paled at that, but no one raised their voice to protest. Valdemar knew they preferred to erect a cairn or burn their comrades properly, but that took time. Time was something they had lost too much of. The travel was painfully slow.
Gile is right, damn the man. The horses found little sure footing in the sloping, slippery crags of the Dragonspine. The men had to dismount and lead their mounts more often than not, forcing the terrified steeds across treacherous trails fraught with sudden pitfalls and crumbling slopes. The dogs were little better. They had yet to catch a proper scent and only grew more skittish the deeper they went into the passes. The jagged peaks of blackened stone loomed over everything, the ground so cruel that only the meanest brush could push through. Bitter winds cold enough to slice through furs and clothing like icy daggers swept in, howling as though enraged.