half day’s ride over firm ground, so at least a day in that muck. As for how many . . .” The tall man shrugged. “More than a few, less than an army.”
Vaelin inclined his head at the strongbow lashed to the saddle of Juhkar’s horse. “How well can you use that?”
“As well as any slave who faced a whipping if he were caught practising. But I’ve got better since Luralyn raised me up.”
“If you can hit a mark from fifty paces, it’ll suit our purposes well enough.”
He harried them onto their horses after barely a half hour’s rest, following Luralyn as she traced a path into the hills that became steeper as the day wore on. Vaelin worried over Sherin’s condition, seeing her diminished strength in the sag of her head and the slump of her shoulders. He hoped it was due to the fetid air of the marsh rather than any lingering effects of her gift or, more worrying, some consequence of touching the stone.
The journey to the village Luralyn called the Ghost Shacks took a full day and a half of difficult riding through craggy, rock-strewn hill country. By the time it came into view, Juhkar advised that their pursuers were now clear of the marsh and rapidly closing the distance to their prey. The village consisted of a dozen houses of varying dimensions, clustered in the lee of a south-facing ridge. The buildings were aged and mostly roofless with long-vanished doors and empty windows. True to Luralyn’s description each house featured a collection of human skeletons, rotted of flesh and the bones jarringly white and clean in the drab ruin of their former homes.
“Old and young,” Sherin observed with a wince as she and Vaelin surveyed the largest house. It was the only two-storey construction in the village, presumably the home of the village leader or official from whichever Merchant Kingdom had established this place. Sherin stood regarding two entwined skeletons in what Vaelin assumed had been the kitchen, judging by the rusted iron stove in the corner. Both skulls, one large and one small, were bowed towards one another, the bones of their arms overlaid in a parody of an embrace.
Sherin crouched to peer at the upper spine of the larger figure, grimacing in recognition. “The Red Hand,” she said. “Or at least a highly pernicious variant of it. The infection leaves a honeycomb mark on the neck bones, but I’ve never seen them so pronounced.”
“Does it still pose a danger?” Vaelin asked, keeping a good distance from the bones as memories of Linesh sprang to mind.
“Bones don’t hold plague.” Sherin’s mouth curled a little in amusement at his trepidation. “Both female,” she mused, turning back to the embracing skeletons and running a hand over their brows. “A mother and daughter, perhaps? It must have swept through this place in a day or two. Pity there’s no time for me to study these.”
“That there isn’t,” Vaelin assured her. He took some comfort in the sudden absence of dullness from her eyes, now bright with a familiar and particular interest. It had always struck him as strange that a soul so rich in compassion should also be fascinated with death and its innumerable causes.
“Luralyn tells me the mine these people worked lies a few hundred paces further on,” he said. “You and she would be better off sheltering there until this is done.”
“No.” She rose, shaking her head firmly. “There may be need of me here.”
“That’s what concerns me.”
She returned his steady gaze with one of her own, placid but also unyielding. He was considering the distinctly unwise but also guiltily tempting notion of binding her hand and foot before depositing her in the mine, when a shout from outside made further discussion irrelevant.
“They’re coming!” Juhkar called. “No more than an hour away. And there are far more than I thought.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Vaelin navigated a somewhat dilapidated stairwell to climb to the building’s upper floor, scanning the eastern approaches to the village and swallowing a curse at what he saw. The Stahlhast approached in single file, making it a relatively easy matter to gauge their numbers as his experienced eye tracked over the column from end to end. Over a hundred warriors in armour, the Gifted adherents of the Darkblade riding at their head along with a muscular figure in a tall plumed helm. Vaelin might have mistaken him for Kehlbrand himself but for the eagerness with which the warrior spurred his horse up the incline, all