The Pillars Of The World

turned in a slow circle, trying to find the reason for that whisper.
    The sun stallion and the dark horse watched the road. The mares bunched together.

    Moments later, a young man riding a floundering horse came into sight. When he saw them, he spurred his horse. It broke into a heavy-footed trot for a few paces, then dropped back to a walk, its head hanging down.
    There was nothing exceptional about the young man that Morag could see. He had average looks, and his hair was adequately described as brown. He wore black trousers and a black coat, both dusty.
    The sight of him repulsed her.
    He swung out of the saddle, quickly stripped the bridle off his horse, and walked toward her, greedily eyeing the stallions before focusing on the mares.
    “I require one of your horses,” he said, approaching the mares.
    That he thought he could take what he pleased with no more explanation than that, and that she would meekly yield to his command, infuriated her.
    “They aren’t for sale,” Morag said coldly.
    He gave her one quick, thorough glance, as if debating if she were another kind of mare he’d like to mount, then turned his attention back to the horses.
    The mares trotted way from him—except the mare who had been bitten by the nighthunters. She laid her ears back and stood her ground.
    As the man looked at the mare’s wounds, Morag saw recognition—and satisfaction—in his eyes. Her own eyes narrowed as she studied him again.
    ‘“You’re a Black Coat,” she said. When he gave her a puzzled look, she added, “An . . . Inquisitor.”
    “Yes,” he said impatiently. “I’m the personal courier for the Master Inquisitor. My horse is used up. I need one of these.”
    “So that you can deliver your Master’s orders to kill more witches?” she asked, her eyes on the flat leather bag that rested at his hip.
    “Of course.” He looked proud and arrogant. “He is the Witch’s Hammer.”
    “And I,” Morag said softly, “am the Gatherer.”
    His face paled as he finally, really looked at her. “You killed Konrad,” he whispered.
    “I didn’t ask his name.”
    As he turned to flee, the wounded mare lashed out with her hind feet, kicking him in the chest.
    Morag heard bone snap.
    The nighthunters flitted around the edge of the woods, darting out a few yards into the daylight before returning to the shadows. A fresh death would make them bold enough to come to the feast before anything else could feed, despite the sunlight.
    “Move out to the road,” Morag told the dark horse. He and the sun stallion obeyed. The mares followed.
    Morag approached the young man, but not close enough for him to touch her. Bloody foam bubbled over his lips. She could sense the blood spilling inside him, filling him up.
    “Help me,” he gasped, trying to reach for her.
    She smiled at him. “You want me to gather you?”
    His eyes widened in fear as he struggled to breathe. “No! You’ll send my spirit to the Fiery Pit, the Evil One’s lair.”
    Morag tipped her head to one side, studying him. “I have never heard of the Fiery Pit, but it sounds like a fitting place for your kind. Perhaps your Master Inquisitor can show you the way.” She looked at the woods. The nighthunters were becoming bolder, but weren’t quite bold enough—yet. “Then again, perhaps his other servants will take care of you.”
    With effort, the young man turned his head, saw the black shapes darting out from among the trees.
    “You can’t leave me here with them,” he gasped. Blood gushed from his mouth. “You can’t leave me.”
    “You and the other Inquisitors created them, didn’t you? They didn’t exist here until your kind came to soil this land.”
    His eyes glazed. He made one more feeble attempt to reach her. “Please. You can’t leave me.”
    The nighthunters left the shadows. Morag watched them fly across the field.
    “Yes, I can.”
    Hurrying toward the dark horse, she made a sharp gesture with her hand. “Go!”
    The mares cantered down the road, the sun stallion following to guard. The courier’s horse trotted after them.
    Morag mounted the dark horse, then looked at the courier’s horse. If it tried to keep up with them, it would die soon. It might die anyway.
    Let it try to stay with us , Morag thought, keeping the dark horse to a trot the courier’s horse could manage. There’s nothing I would want to see die near that field. Almost nothing , she amended as she heard the courier’s ghost scream.
    Exhausted,