As they moved across the square, Rikus peered around the windsinger. “I’m sorry, Sadira. That was uncalled for,” he said. “What were you going to say?”
Without acknowledging the apology, Sadira explained, “Jo’orsh said that Borys wanted him and Sa’ram because their magic was still hiding the Dark Lens,” she said. “But that was before Sa’ram was destroyed.”
The company neared the well, causing the inixes to look up and hiss. Magnus ignored their threats and began to examine the tackle on their backs, at the same time keeping his enormous ears turned toward the sorceress.
“So you’re worried that by destroying Sa’ram, you ruined the enchantment that had kept the Lens hidden all this time?” the windsinger asked. He pulled a heavy waterskin off an inix harness.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Sadira said. “It’s been ten days since the battle with Abalach-Re. If the Dragon suddenly found himself able to locate the Lens, that would be more than enough time for him to come here and take it-along with the villagers, Tithian, and anyone else who happened to be here.”
“That’s true,” Magnus said, opening the waterskin in his hands. The liquid inside smelled too much of leather and lime to have come from the well. “But that doesn’t explain the absence of our scouts. Wherever they went, they didn’t take their waterskins. In fact, they didn’t even change water.”
Sadira and the others scowled. Anyone who traveled the Athasian desert knew to keep a waterskin handy, and it was a rare man who did not fill that sack with the freshest water available. That the scouts had not done this suggested they had not lingered at the well for long.
“There’s only one way to find out what’s going on here,” said Sadira. “We’ll have to search the village.”
“Right, but first things first,” said Rikus. He pushed an inix aside then retrieved a rope and bucket tied to the toppled rail. “I’m thirsty.”
The mul tossed the bucket into the pit. After falling for a moment, it struck the bottom of the well with a muffled sound somewhere between a splash and a thud. Rikus allowed the weighted pail a moment to sink, then pulled it up. He stepped away from the inixes and tipped his head back, closing his eyes in anticipation of a cool drink.
The water that flowed from the bucket was cloudy and pink. Rikus gulped down a mouthful, then made a sour face and threw the bucket across the plaza. “It tastes like blood!”
“That’s what it looked like-”
Hundreds of frightened voices cried out from the north side of the village. The screams lasted for only an instant, then faded away in a single, strangled croak. By the time Magnus and his companions had spun around to look toward the disturbance, Samarah had fallen silent again. They saw nothing but a hillside of orange stones rising above the scaly roofs of the empty village.
“We’d better see what happened,” said Sadira, leading the way across the plaza.
Magnus followed the others. They crossed the plaza in silence, the thick dust cushioning their footsteps, and entered a crooked lane running northward through a small borough of huts. Here, they had to plow through waist-high silt drifts filling the alley with gray clouds of dust. Neeva and Rikus began to choke and cough, but Magnus simply closed his mouth and breathed only through his huge nostrils. Deep within his nose, several membranes kept his airway clear by filtering out fine particles of dust.
The group emerged beside a small pasture that lay between the huts and the village wall. A blanket of undisturbed silt covered the ground, the jagged shapes of upturned stones visible beneath the gray shroud.
“We should be able to see the legion by now,” Magnus said. He pointed across the pasture.
The village wall rose only chin high. If the Tyrian warriors had been standing on the other side, it would have been an easy matter to spot their heads protruding above the crest. Magnus saw nothing but a slope of rock and dust.
“Four hundred warriors don’t just vanish,” Rikus said.
“The scouts did,” Magnus reminded him.
The mul grunted an acknowledgment, then said, “Let’s go and have a look.” He drew the Scourge, which had grown back to its original length.
Magnus pulled the mace from his belt, and the small company started across the field. The stones beneath the dust were loose and often shifted as soon as any weight was put on them. The companions had to move slowly, picking their way carefully to avoid turning an ankle.
Sadira reached the wall first. She peered over the top and cried out in alarm. The sorceress gave the barrier a hard shove and stones flew in all directions. She slipped through the resulting gap and stared at the ground with a horrified expression on her face.
Magnus and the others followed her through the breach. Along the base of the wall lay the Tyrian legion, still in column formation. Most warriors had fallen with their heads uphill. All were curled into the fetal position and clutched at their stomachs in agony. Their faces were twisted masks of anguish, except that their gaping mouths seemed more astonished than pained, and their vacant eyes uniformly stared at the same spot on the slope above. Although none of the bodies were moving, they looked more paralyzed than dead.
Magnus kneeled beside a red-haired woman whose hand still gripped her half-drawn sword. He leaned over her head, cocking one of his ears to cover her mouth and nose.
“Well?” Rikus demanded.
“Her lips no longer sing the song of being,” the windsinger said. He placed a hand on her torso. The flesh remained soft and warm, though it was as still as stone. “Nor does her heart carry the beat of life.”
“There are no wounds,” Neeva said, rolling a black-haired man over. “What happened?”
“Their life force was drawn from their bodies,” said Sadira. She climbed up the hillside to where the warriors’ dead eyes were fixed. “And this is where Borys was standing when he did it.”
Magnus and the others joined the sorceress. She stood beside a pair of three-toed footprints such as a bird might make-save that these were a full two paces across. The windsinger had no doubts about who had made the tracks, for he had seen the Dragon attack Kled and recognized the prints from there.
“You were right, Sadira,” Magnus observed. “Borys has beaten us to the Dark Lens.”
“So let’s take it back,” said Rikus. He studied the ground, looking for an indication of where the Dragon had gone. There were no other tracks, only the ones Sadira had discovered. “If we can find Borys.”
“I have a feeling he’ll find us,” said Magnus.
“Or my son!” gasped Neeva. She pointed across the village. A short distance beyond the south wall, the sun’s rays glinted off the bobbing figures of armored dwarves. “If he knows of the banshees’ prophecy, he’ll try to kill Rkard.”
The warrior had hardly spoken before a gaunt figure as tall as a giant appeared behind the Bronze Company, emerging from thin air as though stepping from behind an unseen curtain. He was the color of iron, with a chitinous hide equal parts flesh and shell. His head sat atop a serpentine neck and resembled that of a sharp-beaked bird, with a spiked crest of leathery skin. He had long, double-kneed legs, and his gaunt arms ended in knobby fingers with sword-length claws. The beast crept up behind the dwarves so silently that they seemed unaware that it was following them.
“Caelum! Behind you!” Neeva yelled. She started down the hill at a sprint.
Rikus followed instantly. Magnus was only a step behind when he felt Sadira’s fingers digging into his shoulder. “You go to the well.”
“But you’ll need help-”
“Do it, Magnus!” The sorceress looked across the village. Outside the wall, the Dragon had almost reached the rear ranks of the Bronze Company. The dwarves, who were too far away to have heard Neeva yell, seemed as oblivious as ever to his presence. “I’m not going to leave Rkard in danger!”