Six men waited outside the Forest Edge Wayhouse: three priests and three locals. The blue trim of the priests’ circs looked black in the fading light. The other men wore the simple clothes of farmers and carried packs.

Adem flexed his shoulders to shift the weight of his gear into a more comfortable position, then stepped into the street. From behind him came the reassuring footsteps of his fellow vorn-hunters. One, then all of the priests and their companions turned to regard the newcomers. He smiled as they eyed his clothing with obvious dismay. Hunters travelled light, especially in the forest. They might carry one spare set of clothes to change into after a day’s butchering, but those, too, quickly became stained with blood and dirt.

In the trade, clean clothes were a sign of a failed hunter. Adem wryly noted the spotless white circs of his employers. He supposed dirty garments would not be an encouraging sign on a priest. It must be a chore keeping them clean.

“I’m Adem Tailer,” he said. “This is my team.” He didn’t bother introducing the men. The priests would not remember a list of names.

“I am Priest Hakan,” the taller of the priests replied. “This is Priest Barew and Priest Poer.” He gestured to a gray-haired priest, then a slightly portly one, and then waved at the three locals. “These are our porters.”

Adem made the quick one-handed gesture of the circle to the priests and nodded politely at the porters. The locals looked apprehensive. As well they might.

“Thank you for volunteering your services,” Hakan added.

Adem gave a short bark of laughter. “Volunteer? We’re no volunteers, priest. We want the skins. From what I hear these vorns are big bastards and all black. Pelts like that will fetch a high price.”

Priest Hakan’s mouth twitched up at one corner but his two companions grimaced in distaste. “I’m sure they will,” he replied. “Now, how do you recommend we proceed?”

“We look for tracks where the last attack happened.”

Hakan nodded. “We’ll take you there.”

Faces appeared in windows as they passed through the village. Voices called out, wishing them luck. A woman hurried out of a door with a tray of small cups, each brimming with tipli, the local liquor. The hunters downed theirs cheerfully, while the porters gulped their share with telling haste. The priests took one sip before returning their cups to the tray unfinished.

They moved on out of the village. The dark shapes of trees pressed in on either side. The portly priest lifted a hand and everyone was dazzled as a bright light appeared.

“No light,” Adem said. “You’ll frighten them off if they’re close. The moon will rise soon. It should give us enough light once our eyes are used to it.”