3.

 

Flies burst from the closest pyre as a Mireean Guard examined the body that lay there. It had taken him, Bueralan thought, ten minutes to mount the wooden ramp and check beneath the white linen. He could understand their reluctance, but he cursed them for it since it left him standing next to the Keeper, Bau. So far he had been nothing but polite company, but since he had said to Illaan that he was, “nothing but an adviser, a helper if you need one,” a tension had crept into the air, growing further when the Healer said, “Do you know how long it has been since anyone saw a Quor’lo in our world?”

Zaifyr replied, “No more than twenty-one hours, I imagine.”

Ahead, the first line of pyres had been cleared and soldiers were working through the second. Bueralan wondered what the two men beside him would do if the Quor’lo was not found, if it had gone to ground elsewhere or the body had already been abandoned—to his mind, the most likely—when movement on the fifth pyre caught his eye. A moment later, a soldier cried out and the three men ran toward the sound.

On the pyre, a dead man held a young, blond-haired soldier in his grasp. “Another step,” it hissed at Bau. “That’s all it takes for this man to die.”

“You’ve nowhere to go,” Illaan said, stepping forward. “Release him. Release him and I’ll—”

The soldier’s throat burst.

It happened quickly: a thin, bloodless smile spread across the ruined face of the Quor’lo, its burned fingers tightened, a strangled cry caught in the soldier as his throat was torn out … and, as the soldiers around Bueralan moved forward, the body was flung off the ledge into them and the Quor’lo leaped from its perch.

Bueralan was a step behind Zaifyr. He burst through the soldiers who had run not at the creature, but to the body of their comrade. He heard Illaan call for Bau and glanced back to see the Keeper staring intently after them. For a moment it looked as if he would ignore the call for help, but then, with a snarl, the neat man turned. Doing likewise, Bueralan focused on weaving through the pyres, the dirt crunching beneath his boots as he chased the Quor’lo into the tree line.

The saboteur did not stop. At full speed, he left flat ground and began running downward, his feet slipping as he skirted thick roots and potholes, not slowing himself even as he was forced to navigate the sloping terrain of the mountain. In front of him, Zaifyr cleared a ditch and the saboteur zigged, crossing the shallow end of the same indent, before clearing a dead branch and gaining on the Quor’lo, who had stopped to stamp its foot heavily.

Bueralan pulled one of his axes from his waist and launched it, head over handle, through the air. It cut deeply into a tree directly beside the creature.

Raising its burned head, it snarled at him and reached for the buried axe just as Zaifyr crashed into it.

Bueralan followed, yanking the axe from the tree as he did. Drawing the second, he fell into a defensive position as the Quor’lo tossed its attacker to the side and rose to its full height. It looked awful: decay had set in around the wounds on its head, the body looked tired, bones showing through skin as if it were being eaten away. The Quor’lo’s eyes focused on Bueralan. Holding the other’s gaze, he watched Zaifyr rise slowly. With a sudden shift the saboteur darted forward, his axes coming in from the right side.

The Quor’lo spun, dodging Bueralan’s attack and using the momentum to evade Zaifyr as he lunged. Scoring a brief moment of respite, it stamped its foot again and again, furious as Zaifyr rose with a knife in his hands to thrust—

The Quor’lo disappeared.