have.
Dining room, kitchen, back to the living room, occasionally stopping to lick bits of dried carnage from her paws, and Seilloah grew ever more irritated. They were wasting their time; there was nothing here, nothing of use…
Nearing the front door, she froze, save for the slight twitch of her tail and the quickened flare of her nostrils. Most of the room was nothing but an empty abattoir, specific details obscured by the remnants of half a dozen lives running together in a single stain beneath the carpeting and between the floorboards. But off to one side, a single man-probably a bodyguard, perhaps a servant-had died just a few steps from the others, far enough that the scents and stains of his death weren't mixed with the general filth.
She sniffed where he'd stood, where he'd stumbled back as he died. She saw the faint remnants of a soap-scrubbed stain, scented the edges of the blood, the bone, and the brain that had splattered themselves across the wall.
And Seilloah's own blood ran cold, her tiny heart fluttering like a hummingbird's wings, as she recognized the evidence before her.
She'd seen it last in Mecepheum, when Audriss the Serpent had wielded the power of not one demon, but two, against the assembled aristocracy. She'd seen it far more often in Corvis's campaign, over two decades past, when he'd allowed Khanda to feast upon the souls the demon needed to maintain his power.
She'd watched the victims hemorrhage, from eyes and nose, ears and mouth, before the skull itself, unable to bear the pressures that consumed the soul from within, simply blew itself apart.
It was certainly a disturbing death to witness, and it wasn't precisely a secret. Many had seen it happen during the Terror's conquest, for Corvis had wielded Khanda as a bludgeon, hoping to cow the nation into surrender. But few knew the purpose of that peculiar method of killing, knew enough to associate it with the demon-spawned magics the warlord wielded.
That whoever was framing Corvis now had thought to include such a means of death-regardless of what magics they actually used to imitate it-suggested at the very least a deliberate attention to the details of all his past crimes.
And just possibly a greater knowledge of his methods than any random murderer, however potent, should possess.
Frowning as far as her snout would permit, uncomfortable with any of the myriad directions her thoughts were taking, Seilloah bounded back through the window and toward her waiting companions. '… WISH I COULD HELP YOU,' the guard was apologizing, though he didn't really sound like he cared much one way or the other. 'Kassek knows I'd like to see the bastard brought down. But I'm just not authorized to allow anyone into the duke's quarters. His family doesn't want people poking around in there.'
Corvis-or rather, so far as the soldier knew, Evislan Kade the bounty hunter-stood in the lee of the great keep, watching the flickering of torches dance across its dark stone wall, and could only nod his understanding. Perhaps he might sneak in under illusion, or slip Seilloah past the soldiers at the gate, but honestly, he didn't really think he needed to see the second murder scene.
He was already well and truly disturbed by what they'd found at the first.
But that didn't mean there was nothing else left to learn. 'I understand,' he said affably. 'And I certainly wouldn't want to cause the grieving family any more hassle.' He offered a disingenuous grin. 'People tend to forget to pay when they're upset.'
The guard grunted something.
'I also understand,' Corvis continued, dropping to a conspiratorial murmur, 'that some of your fellow guardsmen actually fought the bastard outside the Guildsman's house? I'd sure love to speak to one of them, see if he can tell me anything new. And of course, I'd be more than generous with whoever pointed me the right way.'
That brought an uncertain frown. 'I don't think,' the soldier said slowly, 'that that's the sort of stuff I ought to be blabbing, you know? I mean, giving guards' names to strangers…'
Corvis sighed and reached into a leather pouch at his belt, muttering under his breath. Then, with a sequence of individual clanks, he methodically dropped ten gold coins into the palms of the slack-jawed fellow before him.
'Ask around for Corporal Tiviam,' the guard whispered breathlessly. 'He lives in the barracks within the keep, so you wouldn't be permitted access, but he likes to drink at the Three Sheets.'
Of course he does. Corvis shook his head, wondering when the gods might finally have had enough entertainment at his expense.
'Not for a while yet, I'm sure. I'm certainly still laughing at you.'
'You should have no difficulty finding him there,' the young sentinel continued. 'He's been there a lot since that day, and his arm's still in a sling.'
Corvis nodded in quick thanks and strode away. He wanted to be long gone before the muttered illusion faded, and the 'gold' coins transformed once more to brass.
'… might have talked his way out of it,' Borinder was saying, struggling to keep a straight face. 'But then…' A chuckle forced its way through his lips, painting his face red as it passed.
'Yeah…?' Tiviam pressed, amused yet frustrated by his companion's jocularity. The man had some great stories, but he was utterly miserable at telling them.
'Then,' Borinder finally managed to sputter, 'he left for his shift that morning, and-and he left her a handful of coins on the nightstand!'
The rest of the squad burst into peals of laughter, Tiviam guffawing louder than any of them. Even as he struggled for breath, wiped tears from his cheeks, he worried briefly they might be revealing their presence, but no. Nothing suspicious about a group of workmen enjoying a bit of fun after a hard day's work, was there?
And besides, the captain of whom Borinder spoke was a splinter in the heel of everyone present, and indeed most of the guard as a whole. Not a man or woman at arms in Denathere would waste a single second in sympathy for him.
'Considerin' where Captain Lorkin spends most o' his nights,' Arral chimed in, 'not to mention most o' his pay, his wife's lucky that a few coins is all he gave her. I'm stunned that neither o' 'em's come down wit' a good, blisterin' case o'-'
All four glanced up, across the yard and the winding walk, as the door to the house drifted slowly open. Tiviam expected a few silk-clad folk within, perhaps guests leaving early, or one of the uniformed guards making a quick inspection of the property.
What he saw, instead, was a glimpse of hell.
Blood and flesh were strewn about the foyer, soaking into the carpet, coating the walls. He couldn't see the faces of the dead, but then he didn't need to, for he knew the names of everyone within.
For a span of several gasping breaths, four trained, experienced members of Denathere's guard couldn't move a muscle, their souls staked to the earth with coffin nails.
It isn't possible! Tiviam could have sworn he heard the words shouted, loud enough to echo from the rooftops; only later would he realize it was all in his mind. We'd have heard something! We must have heard something!
As abruptly as it had been revealed, the carnage was obscured, for the hell that lay beyond that door birthed a devil of its own. It didn't seem to step into the doorway so much as it was simply, suddenly there: a looming figure of naked bone and darkness filed to a jagged edge. Blood ran in rivulets from the grotesque axe in its hand, far more than should ever have clung to the blade.
Tiviam knew; knew how a houseful of people could be slaughtered without sound, knew how so many guards could fall before a single foe.
Knew who it was he faced.
And Tiviam, in the bravest act of his career-an act that would later win him a commendation and a medal that he left to rust on Borinder's grave-screamed at his men to charge.
The Terror of the East emerged to meet them, and shrieks of panic erupted along the street. Passersby, their attention drawn by Tiviam's cry, shoved and tripped over one another, desperate to flee the horror they all recognized. Some would tell later how a band of courageous civilians-Tiviam's men were, after all, dressed in workman's clothes-had hurled themselves at the walking nightmare, bought everyone else the time to flee. It was
