Stalking Darkness

our mission. And now, Alec, you should get what sleep you can. The greatest trial of all still lies before us.”
    “That’s for certain,” Micum muttered. “Four against forty. I’m going back down the road to keep an eye out for Mardus.”
    But Alec felt no dread as he stretched out under Seregil’s cloak. No matter what happened, it couldn’t be worse than what he’d already been through.
    Micum found an outcropping that overlooked the coastal track and settled down to wait.
    The weather had held fair; the sun felt warm against his back as he lay in his hiding place, listening to the sound of the birds in the woods around him. Looking out through the trees on the west side of the road, he could see the green waves rolling across the Inner Sea and the flocks of sea ducks that rode them.
    What little he’d seen of Plenimar didn’t look all that different from Skala. In fact, it appeared to be a pretty fine place overall—except for the Plenimarans.
    It was midafternoon before he heard the first horses approaching. A vanguard of riders passed at a gallop. Soon after he saw more riders coming on at a walk at the head of a column of marines.
    Micum had seen enough of Mardus up in Wolde the previous autumn to recognize him now, riding at the head of it. He wore military dress and the way he sat his mount told Micum this man was accustomed to command.
    A woman in rich riding apparel rode at his side, her presence puzzling until Micum caught sight of her face and realized what she was. Flattening lower, he lay scarcely breathing, until the dyrmagnos had ridden past.
    Behind them came more riders and marines. Micum spotted a few familiar faces among them, Captain Tildus and several of the soldiers who’d been with him in Wolde. The dispassionate calm that had kept him alive through so many battles settled over Micum as he silently marked men for death.
    A line of wagons followed, including the bear cart Alec had described. As it came abreast of Micum’s hiding spot, he saw a thin, half-naked man sprawled face down in the bottom of it. He couldn’t make out the face, but from the build he guessed it was Thero. Another wagon was loaded with small wooden cages, and a black bull was tethered to this one.
    Next came a long procession of prisoners stumbling along in chains. Women, men, and children, some hardly older than Illia, marched in dispirited silence beneath the watchful eye of their mounted guards. Behind them came wagons, servants, and livestock.
    Micum’s heart sank as he watched the last of the column pass. Alec had missed his guess; there were closer to a hundred soldiers.
    By the Flame
, he thought.
We’ve got our work cut out for us this time
.
    While Micum was gone, Seregil spent some time spying on the Plenimaran camp, then went back to check on Alec.
    He was still asleep, curled on his side beneath the cloak. A pained frown furrowed his brow, and his fingers twitched restlesslyas he fought his way through whatever dreams still haunted him. Sitting down next to him, Seregil gently stroked Alec’s tangled hair until the shadow left his face.
    Nysander sat with several arrows across his lap. He’d produced a small dish of paint from somewhere and was painting symbols on one of the shafts with a fine brush.
    Watching Alec sleep, Seregil shook his head with concern. “Do you really think he’ll be up to fighting tomorrow?”
    “He is young, and not badly hurt,” the wizard assured him, not looking up from his work. “All he needs is rest.”
    Seregil rubbed absently at his chest. The last of the scab was peeling away and it itched. As his fingers brushed across the scar, he felt the tiny raised whorls of the disk’s imprint.
    It felt different.
    Reaching for Micum’s pack, he dug out the shaving mirror and held it out to see the scar. The round shape of the disk and the small square mark left by the hole at its center were still outlined in shiny new skin, but the imprint of the design had changed. What had originally been a cryptic pattern of lines and whorls had somehow transformed into a circular device of stylized knives, eyes, and necromantic runes.
    “Nysander, look at this!” He pulled the neck of his tunic wider.
    Nysander’s bushy white brows shot up in surprise. “Do you recall me telling you that the design on the wooden disk concealed another? This is one of the siglas of the Empty God.”
    Seregil inspected it again. “I can read them. The runes, I mean. They’re right way