The Gray Wolf Throne. Cinda Williams Chima

nostrils flaring as if picking some dangersome scent out of the razor-sharp air.

      That was when Han noticed the bodies.

      There were eight or ten scattered in bunches, like they’d gone down fighting together. Snow shrouded them in a rumpled coverlet as if the Maker had tried to put them to rest.

      Easing his bow from his saddle boot, Han fumbled with the bowstring with half-frozen fingers, drew an arrow from his quiver, and nocked it, all the while scanning the camp for signs of life.

      Nothing—no disturbance in the pristine snow cover. The snow frosted the corpses, unmelted, so the bodies were cold. This killing had happened at least a day ago.

      It reminded Han of the time he’d passed through a dark cemetery in Ragmarket after the resurrection men had been at work. He’d realized to his horror that he was surrounded by linen-wrapped corpses, spilled everywhere on the ground, shallow graves yawning beside them. He’d fled the burying ground, screaming. He’d been seven years old at the time, the same age as his sister Mari when she burned to death.

      When Ragger finally settled, Han heeled him into a walk, circling the clearing, staying within the fringe of trees, alert for any movement in the surrounding forest. The cabin seemed deserted. The snow billowed up against the door undisturbed.

      Han dismounted and led Ragger forward. Keeping hold of the reins, he knelt next to the first body, brushing away the snow.

      It was a tall, sturdy girlie, a little older than Han. She had the look of a sword-dangler, though she wore no emblem of allegiance. Her coat was crusted with frozen blood, and a crossbow bolt centered her chest.

      Could she be a mercenary come up from the south? Had she run into a Demonai scouting party? No, the Demonai used longbows as a rule, and black-fletched arrows.

      Ragger’s head came up and he whinnied out a challenge. Han swiveled on his knees, aiming his arrow into the woods in the direction the horse was pointing.

      A riderless bay horse stood at the edge of the trees, ears pricked forward, watching them.

      Han lowered his bow. Once he’d assured himself the horse was on his own, he called out softly, “You there. Where’s your owner?”

      The horse staggered toward them, nearly going down, and that was when Han noticed the bolts feathering the gelding’s shoulder and neck. He was sturdy, standard Fellsian military issue, with a shaggy winter coat. He was fully tacked—obviously a casualty of the recent battle, or ambush, or whatever it was.

      When the horse came within reach, Han held out his hand and the gelding lipped at it. There was a carry bag slung over the saddle, and Han lifted it down, murmuring soothingly to the badly wounded animal.

      Han poked through the contents of the bag—a soldier’s kit. In a side pocket was a pay voucher from the Queen’s Guard of the Fells, made out to one Ginny Foster, Private.

      What were bluejackets doing out here in the middle of a storm, all out of uniform?

      Han made a quick circuit of the killing field, clearing snow away from two or three more bodies. All were dressed in nondescript traveling garb, most young.

      Whose side were they on? Who had killed them? Had any of them escaped? And where were the killers now?

      It didn’t seem wise to linger here, even though the battle was long over. If the killers were still in the area, they might return to this shelter when the new storm hit.

      Han came up alongside the injured horse. It stood, head down, breathing hard. It would probably go down for good after a day or two of suffering.

      “Hey, now,” he said, reaching around under the bay’s neck, probing with his fingers, finding the hot vein, gripping his amulet with his other hand.

      “It’s all right,” he whispered, following with one of the deadly charms Crow had taught him.

      The bay went down easily, but Han still shivered. It was the second time he’d killed with magic, the first he’d killed intentionally. Maybe it would get easier with time.

      Han took a quick look inside the cabin, finding nothing of value except a sack of frozen oats in the lean-to, which he took.

      Mounting up again, Han pulled his serpent amulet free, letting it rest on the outside of his coat. He slid his bow into his saddle boot, within easy reach, though he hoped the raiders or invaders or whoever they were had moved on.

      For the rest of the afternoon, Han climbed as the sun descended toward the West Wall. As he approached the pass, he saw that others had come this way since the storm. Though the trail was drifted over in spots, elsewhere the snow was beaten down, pockmarked with hoofprints.

      Han pressed on cautiously, acutely aware that anyone ahead of him could look back down the mountain and see him crawling up the slope behind them. In fair weather, he’d have given the strangers plenty of time to put distance between them, but a scrim of cloud had appeared on the horizon. He had no choice. The next storm was closing in, and there was no other path through this side of the West Wall.

      As he passed through the narrowest part of the pass, his nerves screamed and his skin prickled. He knew it was a prime place for an ambush. Magic or not, a bolt between his shoulder blades would take him down quick.

      Arrows were faster than jinxes—isn’t that what he’d told Micah Bayar a century ago?

      He navigated the pass unmolested, pausing a moment at the highest point to scan the long descent in front of him. The snow was scuffed up and tumbled about, and it had happened recently. Something lay across the trail just ahead, black against the snow.

      It was another body, bristling with arrows. A fresher kill, and clean of snow, so it must have happened since the storm.

      Han sat motionless for a long moment, his eyes searching the downslope ahead of him. He scanned the masses of stone to either side of the trail, in case archers waited to ambush him there. The wind pitched fine snow into his face, stinging like glittery ground glass.

      He was getting much too close to this action. He had no intention of dying here, within a day of his destination. But he couldn’t stay here either, not with bad weather coming.

      He nudged Ragger forward at a slow walk, murmuring reassurances he didn’t believe himself. He rode up alongside the body and sat looking down at him.

      The man lay on his face, arms stretched out ahead of him as if he hoped he could still go forward. Blood spattered the snow all around him. He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed like the dead soldiers back at Way House. Whoever had attacked him meant to make sure of him—Han counted eight arrows sticking out of him before he left off numbering them.

      The snow surrounding the body was trampled down, boot-prints and hoofprints of at least a dozen riders. Han examined the tracks descending toward Marisa Pines Camp. They’d left at a dead run. Afraid they’d be caught? Or still chasing someone?

      Was this one last straggler from the attack at Way Camp? Why had they been so eager to finish him off? It was almost as if this man was such a dangerous person that they wanted to kill him extra dead.

      Robbers or southern renegades wouldn’t worry about one survivor, would they? Soldiers never carried much money, not even right after payday. In Ragmarket, everybody knew they were not worth slide-hand, let alone a hard rush.

      Anyway, they’d left Ginny Foster’s pay voucher behind.

      It didn’t make sense—unless they’d served as guard to something valuable—trade goods, maybe. Maybe whoever had attacked them didn’t want anyone carrying tales back to the capital.

      Wary as he was of being ambushed, Han would have ridden on by, except that he saw something glittering in the snow next to the dead soldier.

      Taking a quick look around, Han dismounted and knelt next to the body. It was a sword, lying half under the dead man.

      Made itchy by the notion of stealing from the dead, Han gently turned