Free The Winterstone Plague (The Carrion Cycle) by David Scroggins Page A

rubble that had once been a merchant’s covered wagon. His men had found the merchant and his wife only twenty feet away, gnawing on the remains of what might have been one of their children. Balin had been able to identify the merchant’s sigil, a small pin typically worn on a bright green vest. A good peddler was rarely seen without his vest and sigil, and this man still wore his even as soldiers tore him from his victim, placed his head on an oaken stump and severed it from his body. The same courtesy was provided to the wife; Balin of Dor was a man of compassion. It pained him to think that the souls of even those as low in position as these two might never transcend into the plane of the gods. Now that their bodies were granted the rest they deserved, Gehash the Beloved would welcome them into the kingdom that lies beyond the clouds.
    “Johak, did you hear my question or does it bear repeating?”
    “No, Sir. And yes, we have killed them all. The merchant’s family we saved for last, as you requested. We wanted to make sure there weren’t more of his kind wandering around, so we could take care of them all at once.”
    “Good. See to it that they are given a proper burial. They were different from the rest of these. In all likelihood, they were ambushed on the way to one of the surrounding villages. Their sacrifice should be recorded; their traditions honored. From the looks of their wares, they are originally from the eastern realms. See to it that their death rituals are carried out in accordance with the laws of their homeland. If I know this merchant’s kind, you will probably find a religious document somewhere among the wreckage. See to this task at once.”
    “And the rest of the ones we beheaded? What of their traditions?”
    Balin glared at the short, middle-aged, balding man standing before him. “Johak, most of the others have been out here for weeks. Some of them appear to have clawed their way from rather old graves, judging by the rate of decay of their flesh and burial garbs. If you can find among them more men who deserve burial rites, by all means carry them out.”
    “Yes, Balin. As you wish.”
    The old man turned to leave, but the captain stopped him. “One more thing.”
    “What is it?”
    Balin scratched his thick red beard. “What is the nearest village called? How far away is it?”
    “According to the maps, Solstice is an hour’s march from where we stand; maybe two hours’ march at most. It is a small farming village, not remarkable in the slightest.”
    “Yes,” Balin replied. “I know of the place. My father and I passed through Solstice when I was but a small child. It has been many years, but I can still recall the taste of the roasted lamb chowder I was fed in the inn where we lodged for the night. When you are finished with the merchant’s final affairs, send no more than two men to the village. Tell them to stay until they uncover enough information to aid us. Have them dress as peasants. Tell the men to arm themselves with weapons that can be concealed easily, for their own protection of course. We do not want to raise too many eyebrows. Not yet.”
    “Aye.” Johak bowed and waddled towards the wagon wreckage.
    Balin scanned the horizon; the clouds had parted, and the snow was quite deep. He quickly dismissed the urge to shiver against the bitter-cold breeze that blew back a generous length of his deep crimson hair. Wrapping himself tighter in his flowing alabaster cloak, he set his warhorse to a gallop. There was little time to waste.
    A message detailing his findings had to be sent to King Randil at once.

Chapter 8
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    H E FLOATED in a great void. It was everything, and he was a part of it. Valthian did not have a body at first; he was nothing more than a series of memories echoing through an unseen chasm, but then the void disappeared and he was himself. He opened his eyes and tried to blink the sleep from them, but quickly realized that