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“The wolves are hunting,” he murmured.
“They won’t find us,” she promised, rising and spreading her hands to cast a net over their encampment. It would mask their presence while giving warning if anything approached.
Despite its presence, Kormac refused to sleep. “I’ll watch while you rest.”
“And when will you sleep?” she retorted.
“When we ride. You can guard me while I snore.”
Fionna managed a few hours of slumber before the attack.
The wolves rushed their camp in the wee hours, only a half dozen this time, easily dispatched. Wide awake, though, they ended up setting off before dawn with her once more riding before him. Even when the sun rose, he insisted she remain with him instead of flying.
While she watched, Kormac slept, but he didn’t snore. He woke the moment he felt her tense.
“What is it?”
She pointed. “I see smoke.”
His lips pulled taut. “We should check it out.”
“I didn’t think anyone lived out here.” While they’d seen roving bands of horses, there’d been no sign of human life other than the barely visible bare dirt road they followed between the sprouting weeds and scrub.
“The plains are sparse in population, however, some like that solitude.”
They rode towards the fire, the source hidden by a copse of trees that clustered in defiance of the lack of greenery elsewhere on the plains. As they entered the tiny forest, they encountered a beaten path. Following it brought them to a smoldering ruin.
Fionna glanced around and noted the fencing forming paddocks and the lumps within of whatever used to live in them. A garden had been trampled and uprooted. The house that once stood, gone. As to whoever had lived there? No sign. Had they escaped?
Kormac dismounted and helped her down before he stomped among the embers and ashes. He kicked at it and grumbled, “This wasn’t an accident.”
“How can you tell?”
“Fires don’t decapitate bodies.” He pointed to something that took her a moment to recognize as a head. A head with no body. No wait, there it was, by one of the paddocks.
“This wasn’t the work of wolves,” she murmured.
“And I doubt it was ogres.” Kormac walked away from the burned home, head down, watching the ground before he knelt and pointed. “Horse tracks.”
“Why is that important?” she asked.
“Because they’re fresh.”
“Could be someone in the house escaped.”
“Aye, but I doubt their iron shoes would have my sigil.” He pointed to the symbol faintly visible in the earth. “Only steeds used by my army have those.”
“You think it was Lomar.” The logical conclusion since the man had stolen a horse when he escaped.
“Seems most likely. In good news, the freshness means we’re not far behind. In the bad…” He glanced behind at the destruction.
The bad being Lomar continued to kill.
Since the bodies were already burned, they quickly remounted and left, barely stopping since Kormac refused to camp.
When she’d protested, “What about your horse? Doesn’t it need to rest?” he’d replied, “He’ll tell me when he’s too tired to keep going. Our stallions fetch a high price for a reason. Their endurance being a large part of it.”
An endurance that used a bit of magic she noticed when she peered with her other sight. The stallion appeared to be pulling from the very air itself, using those threads to replenish tired muscles, allowing it to gallop with ease. She wondered if all the horses in Srayth had that ability. If yes, it would explain why they were so highly valued.
