"Of course we do," Garsalt replied. "And, to be honest, I'm more worried about Wencit than I am about Bahzell."

"Which is precisely why we're out here cooperating with the Scorpion instead of trying to do it all by ourselves," Tremala said.

"With all due respect," Rethak chimed in, "Sharnā's worshipers haven't exactly covered themselves-or Him-with glory any of the other times they've gone up against the Bloody Hand."

"No, they haven't." Tremala's voice was cool, but she nodded. "On the other hand, things are a bit different this time, aren't they? And this time, we're not planning on attacking our enemies' strengths."

She held Garsalt and Rethak with her eyes for another moment, then smiled. The expression was cold and hungry, almost shockingly out of place on that lovely countenance.

"We all know how much the Others resent and fear Her power-our power. It was us, Carnadosa's Council, and our power that brought down the Ottovarans a thousand years ago. It was our shields, our wards, which allowed any of us to survive when Wencit strafed Kontovar. And it's our power-and our will-that truly dominates in Kontovar today. Are you surprised the Others resent Her, or that their worshipers resent us?"

The others shook their heads silently, and she shrugged.

"But just as the Others know they need Her, we need them if we're ever going to succeed. One of the reasons Wencit and Bahzell and Tomanâk's other 'champions' have done so well against us is that they cooperate with one another, and we don't. Which means that even when the Others agree to cooperate with Her, Their followers act as individual forces, not cooperating or combining their abilities."

"Yes, but-" Rethak began.

"Forget about 'but,'" she interrupted, her voice hard. "Of course all of Them are looking for ways to use Her-and us-for Their benefit. Let them. When it comes down to it, whose followers truly have the strength to rule in this world?"

Her chuckle was not a pleasant sound.

"So don't worry about what happens after," she said. "Worry about what happens now, tonight. And think about this. The Bloody Hand and his little pony have done well enough against single demons, but this time, we'll see how he does when they bring friends along. Somehow, I don't think he's going to enjoy the experience."

Walsharno topped out on the crest of the rolling hill and halted. He raised his head, nostrils flaring, and Bahzell's face tightened bleakly as the two of them gazed out across the still-smoldering ruins. They'd been catching hints of smoke and slaughter for the last twenty or thirty minutes despite the fact that the night breeze was blowing almost directly from behind them. Now they knew why.

"So, it is after being Demonspawn," the hradani rumbled in a voice like hammered iron.

*So it would appear,* Walsharno agreed. *Still, I wonder why they waited this long to let it feed.*

The roan stallion's mental voice would have sounded calm, almost dispassionate, if anyone else had been able to hear it. It didn't sound that way to Bahzell.

"Now that's a thing I couldn't be telling you," he said. "Unless, of course," he let his eyes sweep across the wreckage of the village, then looked up at the stars spangling the night sky's immensity, "they were thinking as how they'd just as soon have the two of us out here all alone before they were after letting us in on their little secret."

*I suppose that could be it. But somehow, I've the feeling there's more to it.*

This time, Bahzell only grunted. Walsharno was just as much a champion of Tomanâk as he was, and every champion's abilities differed from every other champion's, sometimes in subtle ways and sometimes more fundamentally. They perceived things in different ways, as well, and Bahzell had had plenty of proof that Walsharno's "hunches" tended to be dismayingly accurate.

"I'm thinking we'd best go take a closer look," the hradani said after several moments, and Walsharno moved slowly and cautiously down the slope towards the wreckage.

It couldn't be all that many hours old, Bahzell reflected. None of the houses had been particularly substantial. They wouldn't have taken very long to burn, yet embers still glowed in the darkness. They streaked the night with a faint glow, the color of blood, but Bahzell was hradani. Neither he nor Walsharno needed that fitful radiance to see what had happened here.

*Some of them at least tried to fight,* Walsharno said, and Bahzell nodded grimly.

"Aye, that they did," he agreed, gazing at the torn and mutilated bodies. It was clear none of the village's defenders had had time to don armor-assuming any of them had possessed it-but it obviously wouldn't have mattered very much if they had. The claw marks and half-devoured state of the bodies were all the proof Bahzell or Walsharno would ever need about what had happened here, even without the familiar stench of evil and horror which no champion of Tomanâk could possibly misinterpret.

Then Walsharno halted. They'd passed the bodies of several men and women, all of them brutally mutilated and torn, but they'd been scattered about the village's muddy streets. Clearly, they'd been pulled down by ones and twos, but that had changed abruptly.

The ruined foundations of a much more substantial building smoldered before them, and the bodies of at least thirty men and women lay obscenely heaped about it. It was hard to be certain of the number, for not a single body Bahzell could see was intact. Most were so hideously torn, their bits and pieces so scattered, that it was difficult even to tell which had been male and which female. A pathetic handful of swords lay strewn in the blood-soaked mud amidst the carnage, but most of these people had been armed, if that was the word, with nothing more sophisticated than woodsman's axes, pitchforks, or other crude agricultural tools.

*So this was where they made their stand,* Walsharno said heavily.

"Aye." A cold fire glowed in Bahzell Bahnakson's brown eyes. "Their town hall, I'm thinking."

*And are you thinking the same thing I am about why they did it?* "That I am." Bahzell's voice was harsh. "I've not seen a single child. Not one," he said, and felt Walsharno's cold, bleak agreement deep in his own mind.

The hradani looked down at where the village's adults had died to the last man or woman, facing their impossible foes in what they must have known was the hopeless defense of their children, and his face might have been hammered out of old iron.

*Why did they want children, do you think?* Walsharno asked.

"I can be thinking of two or three reasons," Bahzell replied. "Old Demon Breath's fond enough of children's souls, after all. But I've the feeling it's not so simple as that this time." He gazed at the mangled bodies once more, and shook his head. "Whoever it is we're chasing wasn't after letting their cursed pet feed, Walsharno. Not really. There'd not be so many bodies, or bits of bodies, lying about if they had."

*You think they know we're on their heels?*

"Either that, or else they've some other pressing need to be someplace else. Someplace they're after looking to meet up with friends of theirs, I'm thinking."

*And they're taking the children to those "friends."* Walsharno considered the thought for a moment, then tossed his head. *I suppose the real question is whether they're going to "meet up" with other worshipers of Sharnā or someone else entirely.*

"As to that, we've no way of knowing. Still and all, it's happier I'd be in my own mind to know as how we were dealing with Demon Breath and no one else."