No place to hide.
The words repeated themselves in her mind like a litany. Glancing up at Anest she saw that his gaze had sharpened; he scanned the horizons for she knew not what. But her apprehension increased.
By midafternoon the weather had warmed, the skies brightened by a hint of sun behind the lightening cloud cover. More than once they came across the bleached bones and disintegrated rags of gnomes, goblins, and other dead marauders. Some of these had what appeared to be horselike heads, but with long interlocking fangs and overly long legs that ended in small hooves that were accompanied by a razor-sharp spur. Despite the grizzly nature of these carcasses, Lily stared at
them in rapt revulsion, frank curiosity overcoming her fear. Dorain, glancing back and seeing Lily's look, dropped back to ride beside her.
"That," said Dorain, "is a bindle, the warped steed of the enemy. Horses will not bear such riders."
Lily shuddered at the sound of the name. But she was not unmoved by the latent suffering of such creatures. "Even in death," she ached. "Even in death they know no peace. Do you not feel it?"
Dorain nodded darkly. "Aye. Their plight makes our task all the more difficult. It would be easier if the slaying of such creatures was mere mercy. But the evil one who created these monsters is crafty in his madness, seeking to do us harm in death as well as in life. Would that I were made of steel, unable to be touched." Lily sensed that there was something more to this remark than appeared on the surface; something personal. But she did not pursue it.