Carina could sense the power around her like a thunderstorm overhead. This is the Flow.
The glow became brighter, its colors began to shift. Gone were the tranquil shades of yellow and green. Deep pink and fiery red came over the glow as if reflecting a vivid sunset. At the reined in his horse, and Jonmarc looked out over the hillside.
Scattered across the hillside were the remains of sheep, torn limb from limb. The snow was dark with blood. Among the carcasses were the bodies of half' a dozen herders. "By the Whore!" Rann exclaimed as they neared the bodies. Other soldiers cursed in fear.
The men's throats showed two clear punctures; their bodies were pale as the snow. The corpses had been gutted, and then stuffed with hay and pebbles. Their entrails lay in a frozen mass beside them. Jonmarc fought the urge to retch. The tracks in the snow showed the herders' panic, running in vain as their attackers chased them. No tracks led to of from the site into the nearby woods. There were no tracks at all leading away, except by the trail they had followed.
"The herders that came out to relieve them found the bodies," the elder said. "They said that there were no tracks except their own. Only one boy survived, and he won't speak of what he saw. Whatever did this wasn't mortal, m'lord. They flew here and flew away. It didn't snow last night, and the wind hasn't been strong enough to cover the tracks completely. Crone take my soul! There are tales of the Wild Host doing such things, but that was long ago. What does it mean?"
"Someone's trying to start a war." Jonmarc paused. "Can you take me to the survivor?"
"He's with the hedge witch. Half-frozen and terrified near out of his wits."
The group rode in silence back to the village. As they neared the small grouping of houses and shops, the sound of bells and mourners grew louder.
The elder led them to a small house at the edge of town. The smell of herbs and poultices permeated the thatched-roof cottage. The hedge witch was a plump, stooped woman with short-cropped gray hair. Jonmarc could feel the accusation in her glare as he passed, and the unspoken charge that the Lord of the manor had failed in his vows.
Near the fireplace sat a boy about fifteen seasons old, huddled in a threadbare blanket. He did not look up when they entered.
"I've warmed him up, but he won't eat," the hedge witch said. "Not a mark on him. Don't know whether the Host did him a kindness or not, leaving him alive to tell the tale." She looked at Jonmarc. "His name is Kendry. His father and older brother were also with the herds."