The tall man shifted the corpse to reveal the raider’s belt and the swollen purse it held. Pulling it open, he spilled a clutch of coins into his hand. They were silver and newly minted, one side showing the head of a man he knew to be the current Primate of the Church of the Arisen, the other bearing the same teardrop motif the raider wore at his ear.
“Seems someone succoured him,” the tall man muttered, returning the coins to the purse and hanging it from his own belt. “You can have the plunder from these others,” he added, climbing back onto the horse.
“How generous,” the woman said, inclining her head. Her tone held a faint note of mockery that made him pause. Turning in the saddle to regard her once more he saw how her eyes lingered on the sword handle jutting above his shoulder.
“An unusual weapon for this region,” she observed. “Not often you see a straight edge of such length. From the northlands, is it not? Just like this one,” her boot nudged the raider’s dead face, “and the coin he carried.”
He said nothing, trying to close his mind against the voice’s amused advice. Kill her, it told him in a sing-song chuckle. She sees far too much. No one will know. Just another victim of these murderous villains.
The woman’s eyes narrowed as he continued to stare at her in silence, memories of far worse deeds crowding his mind. Yes, my liege, the voice hissed in hungry anticipation. A small but necessary thing. And you have done so many necessary things…
“Quiet!” he grunted, tearing his gaze from the woman.
“I merely asked a question,” she said, the mocking tone more pronounced now. Did she think him mad? This grizzled, bearded stranger with a northland sword? If so, it didn’t appear to provoke any fear in her which, in turn, stirred a small swell of appreciation in him. It was hard to remember a time he hadn’t been feared.
A long, plaintive cry drew his attention back to the ruin of the caravan. People were emerging from the disordered chaos to weep over murdered companions and tend to the wounded.
Oh, how tedious, the voice complained. This is always the worst part. Mewling mortals are so nauseating. Ride on. The chapel is only a few miles away.
He guided the horse towards the nearest injured soul, a veteran caravaner with a gashed thigh being inexpertly tended to by a boy no more than twelve years old. “Too tight,” the tall man told him, dismounting to pull away the bandage the lad had fixed on the older man’s leg. “The wound is not so deep. A tight binding will starve the limb of blood and cause corruption…”
