bled that it would be nearly impossible to do both, given that the light came from his hands, also required for drinking. She ignored him and, after some digging, found not merely weapons, but their weapons. They were in a small stash with others, and she quickly selected a short sword to go with her daggers, and then pushed from the compartment. She handed Gavril his dual blades. He grunted his thanks. Then, before she could close the compartment, he reached in and pulled out something else.
Her cloak.
"I don't need--"
"Take it, Keeper. That hair of yours is as much a beacon as my hands."
She put on the dark cloak and raised the hood. When he noticed she wore a sword, he opened his mouth to comment, but a sound cut him short.
It was the same noise they'd heard earlier. Clearer now. It sounded like the moan of the wind through eaves. Yet there was no wind here. Certainly no eaves. The sound came from somewhere ahead of the wagon.
She started forward. Gavril moved in front of her, but she tugged him back.
"At a doorway, yes," she whispered. "Out here, you block my vision." She motioned for him to walk behind her. He backed to her side instead. She sighed, and they continued on.
Her nerves had settled some since they'd come out of the wagon. Finding those cut harnesses had helped--it meant they were looking for something human. She could handle human.
As they neared the spot from which the noise had come, Moria saw a hand lying on the pathway. It appeared to be attached to a body, which was a relief. Again, these days, one could not guarantee such a thing.
The attached body lay in a heap, just beyond the grassy edge of the path. At another moan, they stopped short and Gavril extended his hands, lighting the scene. At first they could see only a collapsed figure, but then Moria could make out long braids with bright, colored beads, and knew it was the wagon driver.
"Extend your other hand," Gavril called to him. "And we will come to your aid."
The man only groaned.
"There is no one else here," Gavril continued. "No one to fight you nor to bind your wounds. Place your right hand where we can see it."
The man went still and silent. Gavril extinguished his light. Then he called, "I will not hesitate to kill you. I trust you understand that."
He proceeded toward the man with his sword at the ready.
"Do not move or I will slice off your hand," he said. "I have retrieved my sword from the compartment under the wagon and the Keeper is poised with her daggers."
The man gave no sign he'd heard. Gavril took another step. Then he stopped. He quickly cast the spell to relight his fingers, which meant removing one hand from his sword, and Moria scanned the grass for any sign of an ambush. When Gavril let out a curse, she hurried forward.
As Moria approached, Gavril drew his hand into a fist, all but extinguishing the magical glow, yet not before she saw the wagon driver. Or at least, saw the bloody mess that she knew was the driver only by those beaded braids. His clothing was shredded and caked in dirt and blood. His nose seemed pushed into his face, as if it had collapsed on itself. One eye was . . . unmoored.
"He's been trampled," she whispered. "He freed the horses, and they trampled him."
The man's good eye stared as if dead, but he exhaled, the sound wheezing through collapsed lungs. Moria dropped beside him and put her hands to his chest. It was caved in, ribs broken, one pushing through skin, blood soaking his tunic. Still she pressed her hands against his heart.
"I can't tell . . ." she said. "Blast it, I'm no healer."
"I believe he is beyond that," Gavril said, his voice low, as if hoping the man could not hear. Moria suspected that even if he could, he didn't understand them. His head had been bashed in on the same side, blood and gray matter oozing out. Yet he lived. Clearly, he breathed, so he must--
"Moria!"
The man's right hand rose, his fingers curved and twisted, like claws. Moria saw that and flashed back to her father--
The whistle of a blade. The thwack of steel cutting through flesh and bone, and the man's hand sailed free of his body. She leaped up, staggering back as the wagon driver's body bucked and flailed, the stump of his arm thrashing, bloodless. His other arm pulsed, as if trying to change itself into the claw-like thing but finding itself unable to complete the transformation, crushed and nearly severed by the horse's hooves.
Gavril's sword sailed up, ready to strike the killing blow, but Moria said, "Wait!"
"It's--" he began.
"A shadow stalker. Which means you cannot kill it with that. We're safe at a distance--it can't fully manifest when the body is ruined, and it seems trapped inside. I can banish it but . . ." Her gaze crossed the open land. "Where there's one . . ."
"Yes, of course. Conserve your powers."