Rides a Dread Legion Free with Bonus Material

  She patiently waited until the larger moon rose, quickly followed by the middle moon. The small moon wouldnt rise for another few hours, so while it wasnt what was known as Three Moons Bright, there would be enough illumination for her to find her way. She studied the foothills behind the inn, sweeping up into the mountains to the east, looking for obvious trails or paths. As the moons rose over the mountains, the landscape below them remained shrouded in shadows. Then, after nearly an hour standing there, she saw it. A cleft between two small hills and a gentle rise into what appeared to be a notch in the mountains. Had there been fog, or rain, or even heavy mist, she would not have seen it, even in the daylight.

  She began a steady trot toward that notch, hoping shed reach it before sunrise. At this moment, she could not gauge the distance, and her memory was suspect. Things she should easily remember were difficult for her to recall. Shed had the problem before, when she had taken a blow to the head, and she had no doubt that if one of those Black Caps hadnt kicked her in the head, she most certainly must have struck it on the rocks in her fall. Either way, she vowed, those murderous bastards had much to answer for. She hefted her poor sword and knew that shed still have gone after them, even if that tree-branch club had been her only weapon.

  The sun had been up for nearly two hours when she found the trail. Six or seven horses, one most certainly her own. She lacked any expertise in the wilds, though she had spent enough time traveling the countryside she could read basic trail signs, and she knew she was on the right path. She continued on, having to stop to rest far more often than she liked. Her injuries and lack of good food had weakened her more than she cared to admit to herself, and she knew any dreams of walking into a camp of five or six thugs and quickly dispatching them were just that, dreams. She still had her temple magic, though she had never tried to invoke any when her concentration was this poor. Still, those spells and mantras had been drilled into her countless times by the teaching priests, monks, and sisters of her Order. And they were spells not to be ignored if her wrath was behind them, and it was. She might fail, but if she died, shed take a lot of themThe soul crystal! She didnt have it. It was among the other items in her belt pouch. She cursed herself for a fool. She couldnt die fighting, at least not yet; her mission was incomplete and she had no means to get the information back to the Father-Bishop in Krondor.

  Not for the first time in her life, Sandreena chided herself for being rash. As many times as she had dealt with thugs and robbers, she should have scouted around for someone holding the horses or standing lookout before she hit the two at the window. But she was certain theyd discover her missing and raise alarmshe realized that she had had no right choice in the matter. Either one would have brought a very difficult struggle. Still, she continued in her self-condemning mood, had she found and taken out those who eventually ambushed her, at least she would have known there were two more coming from the house and been ready.

  With a sigh, she let go of this second-guessing. Regret was a trap and it crippled, she reminded herself.

  She was another hour up the trail when she heard the voices. Before she understood why, the hair on her arms and neck stood up and a chill puckered her skin in gooseflesh. Rather than the common camp noises she expected, the muffled speech, the sound of horses tied to a picket, perhaps laughing or the sound of weapons being cleaned, there was a rhythmic chanting. She didnt recognize the language, but there was something in the sound that set her teeth on edge. This was no natural language of Kesh or the Kingdom. She spoke a fair number of them and recognized a lot more, and this had nothing of those tongues. She wasnt sure it was even human speech.

  She saw the path she was following led into a cleft between two low rocks, and assumed a small valley or plateau was on the other side. She quickly picked the left side to climb and scampered up. She judged that if there were sentries just beyond the gap, she didnt want to run into another ambush. Still, she found it odd there were no lookouts atop the rocks, for it was the logical place to put them.

  She reached the top and looked down on a scene of horror. There were no sentries or lookouts, for no sane man or woman would knowingly approach this place.

  A man in a dark orange robe trimmed in black, a magician of some fashion, by the look of him, stood erect, holding a huge black wooden staff over his head. The staff was topped by some kind of crystal globe, which pulsed with an evil purple light. Just looking at it made Sandreenas eyes sting.

  She swallowed her own bile back down, fighting hard not to retch at what greeted her. Over toward another pathway leading up into the mountains stood what looked to be a band of fighters. They were dressed in a variety of clothing, but all had the look of hard-bitten, experienced warriors. Sandreena judged them likely to be well-paid mercenaries and ex-soldiers, from many different lands, not fanatics. Many of them looked away from the carnage before them, and some who looked were pale and obviously shaken by what was taking place.

  Around a large flat stone altar, a half-dozen priests and priestesses were kneeling, their robes thrown back so their chests and backs were bare. Behind them stood others likewise dressed, their backs stripped raw from flails. These were lying heavily on the backs of those kneeling before some ritual offering of blood and pain, but to whom?

  In the middle of the stone was a pile of bodies. At least a dozen men and women, and one small arm that Sandreena was certain belonged to one of Enoss two boys. Now she realized that had she searched the inn, she would have found them missing, not dead in their sleeping room, as she assumed. The raiders must have startled Ivet, whom they killed to keep from raising an alarm. They then must have seized the husband and sons, tying and gagging them. Another half-dozen villagers were obviously dragged away as well, from the body count.

  Atop the pile the last victim lay struggling, his arms and legs held in place by a set of ropes, each held fast by more monks or priests or whatever those murderous dogs were. Sandreena quietly spat to keep her stomach from turning. She had seen many things to make a soldier weep, but nothing like this.

  The magician finished his incantation and a thing appeared in the air above the victim. The man cried out in abject terror as a black form materialized out of nowhere, a thing of long, spider-like limbs, a hawks razor-sharp beak, and huge bat wings. It hovered above the shrieking man for a moment, then dove to land with a heavy thud on his stomach.

  Throwing back its head, the demon howled, a sound that set Sandreenas teeth on edge, and she saw several of the mercenaries draw a step farther away, while others winced at the cry. The demon cocked its head as it looked at the screaming man upon whom it sat, looking for an instant like some bird of prey from a nightmare, pulled back one of the very long, spindly arms, and, with stunning speed, drove it into the mans chest. The sound was one Sandreena was all too familiar with: the ripping of flesh and cracking of bones, and the mans screams were cut off as his body convulsed in pain and his lungs were ripped asunder. Before the mans life fled, he was forced to endure a moment when the creature ripped out his heart and began devouring it.

  Sandreena had seen many horrific things in her life, from the degradation and abuses she suffered as a child in a brothel to the blood of battle. She had witnessed men dying in their own excrement, put out of their misery by their friends and thanking them for it; children murdered and entire villages slaughtered for the meager goods they harbored; but nothing in her life hit her as being so basically evil as what she was watching now.

  Now the suppliants all bowed before the conjured creature and the chanting renewed its urgency. The creature flew to land upon the upraised staff of the magician who staggered slightly under its weight. It must be heavier than it looks, thought Sandreena. But it can fly?

  Magic, she thought, counting herself a fool. And this thing hailed from some nether region where the natural laws were different. Still, it looked as if the magician was struggling.

  Then he fell. And with a shriek of rage, the conjured creature vanished, leavin
g behind a foul, oily smoke, the stench of which reached Sandreena in her perch. The wail that went up from the assembled suppliants was that of a mother who lost her child.

  The magician began to rise, but the worshippers leaped at him with bare hands outstretched like claws, or wheeling their flails, and he went down beneath the onslaught. Before Sandreenas eyes they literally tore the man apart. Sandreena took a long, slow breath, and wished she understood what it was she saw.

  From their expressions, the fighting men who stood apart also were shocked. Many of them had weapons half-drawn, as if expecting to be attacked in turn. Sandreena then noticed a fact that had eluded her during the chaos of the last few minutes. These men wore an assortment of head coveringstied bandannas, scarves, flop hats, foragers caps, kepis, cocked hats, and beretsbut all of them were black. These were the Black Caps the villagers had spoken of, the men Father-Bishop Creegan had alerted her might be in the air. Whatever else they might be, they certainly were more than simple pirates and smugglers.

  She sat back, scooting down below the top of the rock, so as not to be seen. Why would a band of cutthroats come to this isolated mountain valley? Why would they be in league with a bunch of demonic cultists? And what was that bloody ritual she had just witnessed?

  She knew she had to find her way back to Krondor, but she also knew that there would be questions. The Father-Bishop would ask her questions for hours, and at this moment, she would answer most of them, I dont know. But someone in the Temple would be able to give some insight into what this was she had observed, which meant she needed to push aside her revulsion and continue watching. Taking a breath, she rose up again.

  A quick count put the total at thirty fighting men and two dozen cultists. The mangled corpses, including the dead magician, were left on the ground. From the way everyone was moving, this was not their camp. She slid along the top of the rock and tried to stay deep in shadows. The moons overhead were making it easy enough for anyone to see her, if they were vigilant. Then again, she considered, they thought her dead and anyone else a terrified villager. And they had been gathered around several fires, so their vision would be weaker.

  The cultists all hitched up their robes, ignoring the bloody shreds of flesh on their backs and shoulders. Sandreena wondered if they had some magic to prevent festering. Else many of them would be ill within two days. Maybe they just didnt care.

  Cults were anathema to the organized temples. On the level of faith, they almost always were predicated on bad doctrine or some half-baked heretical theory. On the level of getting along with the neighbors, they created distrust and fear. Sandreena, as a Knight-Adamant, wasnt always recognized as a temple functionary, and even when she was identified as a member of a religious martial order, it wasnt always the first thing on other peoples minds that she could use magic.

  Priests and priestesses in the temples in big cities were one thing. Town priests and monks and priors also were viewed as part of the fabric of the society. But in the smaller villages in out-of-the-way places, anyone practicing any kind of magic was to be feared.

  She vowed that if the Father-Bishop didnt forbid her, shed personally inform the Temple of Lims-Kragma in Krondor of what was taking place here. No one had less patience with evil death magic than the followers of the Goddess of Death; they were content that everyone eventually would come to their Mistress. They didnt see any need to hurry anyone along. And most death magic, or necromancy, perverted and twisted the soul energy, leaving the dying body a further insult to the Goddess, as that soul couldnt find the Goddesss Hall, to be judged and reborn. Sandreena had no doubt a full company of the Drawers of the Web, that Temples martial order, would be quickly dispatched to come down here and clean up this mess.

  Still, she considered, she had her own duty to her own temple first. As she anticipated, the fighters began trudging up the hill, speaking softly among themselves, and they kept a discreet distance between themselves and the cultists. They were heading up the draw to the east of the temple where the carnage had occurred. She waited until she was looking at the back of the last cultists, then slipped down to follow.

  Gripping her poor sword and shield much tighter than necessary, she started trailing more than fifty killers.

  Sandreena was getting cramps in her legs. Abuse, fatigue, lack of food and water, all were taking their toll, as was a considerable amount of tension. She found what she sought, the Black Caps camp. There were another dozen people there, ten who seemed prisoners, two guards. The prisoners did the menial work, from what she could seetending the fires; cooking meals; cleaning clothing, weapons, and tack. Everyone at the camp was subdued, and if news of the fate of the magician had reached the prisoners, they apparently had no joy in it.

  Sandreena found her horse tied to a picket at the rear of the camp. The camp had the look of one that had been established for a while: wooden lean-tos built up to shacks and even one good-size cabin. The four fighters who entered there looked to be the leaders of the mercenaries, as Sandreena thought of them. That might be a good thing, as mercenaries often knew when to quit; fanatic cultists never did.

  She considered the possibility of getting to her horse and riding out of here. Unless every single person in the camp was a sound sleeper, she had almost no chance at all. She wished she knew where her belt pouch had ended up. If any of the cutthroats who had ambushed and tried to kill her had found the Soul Gem, they might have kept it under the mistaken impression it was a precious stone. It had the look of a moonstone or milk opal, depending on the light, but if any magic-user examined it, they would quickly come to understand it was holy magic, and probably destroy it.

  What to do? She was torn between the need to report back the location of this camp and the desire to learn as much as possible. Moreover, she was hardly equipped to travel, and needed to replace her missing arms and armor. She might be able to pick off a sentry and take what she needed.

  She waited as the camp quieted down. It was, however, a restless quiet. Those she thought of as the cultists were outright sullen, sitting in small clumps as far away from the others as they could. Those prisoners who carried food and drink to them positively cringed when spoken to, and the fighters kept a respectful distance. Sandreena had no idea what lay at the heart of this difference, but it was clear neither side considered this a happy circumstance.

  Sandreena weighed her options. She decided to wait for the camp to settle in for the night. Whatever else, the smell of cooking food was causing her stomach to knot.

  If nothing else, shed try to steal something to eat before she turned and fled. Getting information back was paramount, but she could hardly achieve that goal if she died from exhaustion and hunger. Letting out a long sigh of resignation, she put her chin on her forearm and tried to get comfortable atop the rocks.

  Hours passed, but as the large moon was setting and the small moon was rising, the last of the captive servants bedded down for the night. There was light coming from the door of what she thought of as the leaders hut. She had identified one fighter, a black-bearded thug who sported lots of rings and gold chains around his neck, as the likely leader of the mercenaries. He and two others had retired to that hut after eating.

  Sandreena carefully made her way down the rocks and through the camp. The cultists all were bedded down in rude leather-and-wood shelters; the evenings slaughter seemed to have exhausted them. The fighters were scattered through a dozen small huts and lean-tos. Reaching the side of the big hut, Sandreena listened.

  Remember that inn in Roldem? said a voice.

  Which inn? Theres a lot of them in Roldem, came the answer.

  You know the one. Where we were playing lin-lan and you got into that fight with that Royal Navy sailor over him trying to take back part of his bet when no one was looking? said the first voice.

  Ya, that one. What about it? said the second voice.

  They had this lamb pie, with peas and carrots and those little onions, you know those?

 
Ya, I know those onions.

  Well, they had this pie, you see, and it had something else in it, some kind of spice or herb, Im thinking. But it was really special.

  What about the pie? asked the second voice, impatience rising in his voice.

  I love that pie, thats all.

  A third voice said, You can sit and talk all night about the greatest meal youve ever had, but it wont change anything. This voice was deep and raspy, and its tone left no doubt who was in charge. Sandreena would bet her life this was the leader. Ironically, she considered that she probably was betting her life being here. Still, a lack of boldness had never been her problem. And she knew she would never survive a journey back to the nearest outpost of her Order, in Ithra, without weapons and armor and a horse.

  Ya, said the first voice.

  The man she now thought of as the leader said, I dont see any other way. We need to just kill them all as fast as we can, before they can start using their magic, then grab what we can and get out of here.

  The first voice said, Ya.

  But the second voice said, Even with Purdon dead, the rest of them can still do some nasty things and, besides, theres Belasco. He doesnt seem the type to forget betrayal. And we did take his gold.

  We took his gold, said the leader, to keep things around here under control. But what we didnt do was drink the demons piss. Were not like them. We may be dogs, but were our own dogs, not his.

  The room fell quiet and then the leader said, Theres something else. One of the old boys in Pointers Head told me a story, bout a bunch like us got sent here ten years or so ago. The reason the subject came upthere was a pausesomebody was wearing a black headscarf in the tavern.