The Warslayer(14)

She dodged aside as one of the ponies came running at her. It had neither saddle nor rein and was running blindly, eyes wide and rolling, coat foamy with terror. When she reached the outside boundaries of the camp she saw that the herd's nightriders were all clustered together, working hard to control their frantic mounts. Some had given up trying, dismounting and freeing their animals. All were staring off into the darkness beyond the range of the torches, their bodies rigid with fear. The screaming continued now on a single maddened note; the sound a badly wounded animal might make.

Ivradan was one of those who were still mounted. A-horse, he was just above Glory's eye-level. She grabbed the front of his shirt, compelling him to look down at her.

"What's going on?" she demanded.

"She's returned. She's taken the king-stallion." She could feel him shuddering with fear, but his voice was steady and low.

"Well, aren't you going to do something?" Glory demanded. The screams were fainter now, farther apart, as if what made them was exhausted and dying.

Ivradan stared at her blankly.

Hissing with frustration and fury, Glory grabbed the torch out of his hand. If she couldn't save the beast, she could at least chase the predator away from its meal. She had no doubt that was what it was—catamount or dingo, either one capable of hamstringing a pony and then devouring it alive. She released Ivradan with a jerk that made his pony lunge and sidle, and ran toward the sound. She wished, now, that she'd asked him for a knife—she'd have to do something to put the poor beast out of its misery.

On the short-grazed grass it was easy to spot the body as soon as the light from her torch fell on it. And what she saw then stopped her in her tracks.

The gallant little pony stallion had fought—the churned earth around the body was testament to the battle it had lost. It was dead now beyond doubt.

And someone had flayed it alive. Nothing else could account for the sounds she had heard. She stood over the body. Its skin had been pulled away as a woman might remove a glove. The exposed flesh bore no mark at all, no other wound to account for its death. And the body was completely intact.

No animal killed like this. No person, no matter how twisted, could skin a healthy horse alive and leave no trace of how it was done—not in the time that had passed since she heard the first screams. There wasn't a drop of blood anywhere, just as there was no wound on the body. And around the body, nothing but hoof marks. No predator's tracks to let her know what had killed here.

Glory stood staring down at the body, her mind empty with shock, until the torch burned low and spit fat sparks onto the back of her hand. The pain made her startle and wince, and she looked back over her shoulder, to where the nightriders were clustered anxiously, staring out at her unmoving.

Her senses returned: she heard the call of an unfamiliar night-bird, the rustle of the wind through the grass. She smelled wood-smoke and dung and the ripe meaty scent of the stallion's flayed body. The world seemed vast and empty and very quiet. She glanced up at the sky, at the unfamiliar bright wash of stars, and saw, with a slow spasm of disbelief, the chain of toylike pastel moons that arced across the sky. How could she possibly know what kind of monsters stalked the night in a world where all the ground rules of Reality could be rewritten this way?

She looked back at the nightriders again. Belegir had joined them, his pink robe a bright splash of pale color. This was their world. They knew its rules. Why hadn't any of them come out to see what was wrong? They had knives—she'd seen them earlier—so they must have swords. Spears. Arrows. Some way to protect the herd animals.

But at the first sign of trouble, they'd . . . run. Bolted for the safety of the wagons and left the animals to fend for themselves.

It made no sense. Any stockman worth his salt would guard his herd—and from what Helevrin said, these animals were all they had. They were precious beyond price. And they had herd-dogs. She'd seen them earlier. Yet she'd heard nothing bark. Where was the rest of the herd? Where were the other animals?

Scattered from hell to breakfast, more than likely, and the devil's own job to round them up again with the few mounts they had left. But that wasn't her problem.

Was it?

She shrugged, and began walking slowly back to the ring of wagons, the guttering torch held well away from her body. All they needed to round out the evening would be a nice grass-fire, she didn't think. It was cold out here—she noticed it now—and the grass stubble was slick and sharp beneath her feet. She hadn't thought when she'd been so rudely awakened. She'd just gone barging in without a backward thought. It was just what Vixen would have done—but of course, Vixen slept fully clothed, in deference to the tender sensibilities of Broadcast Standards and Practices.