Untempered by wind and warmed by the noonday sun, the leavings of the battlefield reeked from half a mile away. Ashurai insisted they inspect the site, so Marek and Mags accompanied him as he veered off the Quartz Road to study the aftermath.

  Haikini and Druskin bodies lay strewn across a rocky hillside. The outcome of the battle wasn't hard to discern: At least twice as many Haikini littered the battlefield.

  "An ambush," Ashurai said definitively. "Strange how it occurred almost out in the open like this. I'd guess the Haikini were moving north to the Quartz Road when the Druskin attacked. Either they were greatly outnumbered, or the wolf lords did something to conceal their presence."

  Mags sat atop Cinnabar, eyes squinting above her rag-covered mouth. "It's awful," she said. "I understand wanting to kill an enemy, I really do… but do they need to be so brutal? Do the Druskin always tear the defeated apart like this?"

  The Basari warrior stood and scanned the bodies around him, brows furrowed. "No, they do not. Could have been scavengers, but it is as you say. The Haikini were ripped limb from limb, and little has been eaten. This isn’t the work of carrion birds.”

  Marek kept quiet. Allon hadn't shut up since they'd come across the corpses. The daemon lurched and shoved against his defenses, and he wasn't sure exactly how long he could hold it back. At this rate, I'm sure you'll have your chance, he thought. But if you don't calm down, I won't ever trust you enough to summon you. Consider that, Allon.

  The presence ebbed a little. Without the constant pressure, Marek was finally able to contribute to the conversation. "Isn't it also strange that none of the weapons were claimed? I see spears and javelins, swords and bows—easily enough weapons to outfit each of the dead."

  Ashurai strode past Marek, apparently done with his examination. "The beast kin honor the dead by leaving their weapons behind. Most are crafted from bone, wood, or stone. They customize their weapons extensively and bond with them. To claim another's spear dishonors both the fallen and the one who takes it."

  Marek stored the information away, grateful to learn anything new about the beast kin. He'd studied some of the Druskin and Haikini, but the tomes he'd studied were written by humans. Bias colored every page.

  "Can we go, then?" Mags asked. "No point in sticking around if there's nothing to loot and we know what happened."

  "Yes, I agree," Ashurai said as he neared his charger. Before mounting, the warrior froze in his tracks and dropped to one knee before the mangled corpse of a Druskin. He frowned at the body, leaning close. Reaching out a hand, he touched something on the fallen’s chest.

  The Druskin’s maw opened wide, and it growled angrily. One clawed hand swung at Ashurai and cut deep into the man’s throat. The warrior staggered away and fell on his back. Mags drew and released an arrow, and the top of the Druskin’s skull burst apart as the Arrow of Rending did its work.

  Ashurai clutched his neck and cursed. "Instrument of Dumhvala! It burns!” For the first time, Marek saw the warrior's stoic fa?ade crumble. Ashurai stood and staggered backward, still clutching his wound.

  Mags spurred Cinnabar closer and asked, "Ashurai, are you okay? How badly did it cut you?”

  The man didn't answer. He swooned, his eyes glazing over. "Quick, we need to get back to the others. I... I need healing."

  No sooner had he spoken the words than he stumbled and fell. Something caught in his throat, and he choked. Even from a short distance, Marek could hear the hiss of the man’s lungs straining to draw breath.

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  Marek threw a leg over the saddle and jumped to the ground. Rushing to Ashurai's side, the mage recoiled at the sight of dark gray liquid crawling up the warrior's forearm. The man's eyes were open, and he seemed lucid, yet subtle tremors ran up and down his body.

  Mags reached down a hand and beckoned. "Help him up! Cinnabar will carry him back, but I need you to lift him!"

  When Marek tried to heft the warrior, he knew at once he couldn't manage it. Ashurai was short for a man but bulky, body covered in thick slabs of muscle. Marek was still recovering from his long illness, and even with the addition of Attribute Points, it would take an act of heroism to lift the Basari in full armor and weighed down with weapons. Without any other recourse, Marek activated Spirit Body and took Ashurai around the waist. Then he hoisted the man up and over Cinnabar's neck. “Go! I'll catch up shortly!"

  Mags spurred her mount and tore across the hillside with Ashurai in tow.

  Following behind, Marek dismissed his Ability and prayed to Order that the warrior hadn't noticed him using it. They reached the caravan quickly, and Mags was off her horse before Marek had caught up, shouting for Gorb.

  “He’s not breathing! He touched something, and it’s eating him! Where’s Niamh?”

  The golemite stomped to Cinnabar and lifted Ashurai with one hand, setting him gently on the ground. Gorb sniffed the warrior, then pulled back in disgust. “Our friend has been cursed! Niamh, hurry! You must dispel him at once! Ashurai has been gray-touched!”

  Something strange happened then. Though they’d yet to see the mysterious Niamh, Marek had assumed the being was merely cloaked somehow and traveling in their midst or else remained hidden within the carriage. The truth of the concealment became obvious when the driver’s form collapsed in a heap of clothing, cloak, mask, hood, and all. Then a tiny creature zipped free of the pile.

  Marek heard the buzzing of small wings, and when the creature hovered above Ashurai, its true form was clear to see. Humanoid and just half a foot tall, Niamh flapped her wings and channeled mana into a Spell. A few seconds of powering it was all it took, and then the warrior was bathed in blue light.

  Ashurai coughed, gasped, and vomited onto the gravel road. A thick gray sludge poured from his lungs.

  Mags leapt down from her mount’s back. “I think Cinnabar was cursed as well! Her coat is sticky with that gray slime! Please, can you cure her too?”

  The tiny Niamh, exposed but for a modest gown of pale green lichen, sighed in exasperation. “Oh, might as well. Nobody will believe my trick now anyway.”

  Marek couldn’t believe his eyes. All this time they’d been traveling with a living, breathing feyling. Few in Ardea could say as much, and here he was, but a few weeks from home with one of the enchanted folk working magic in front of him.

  Cinnabar had begun trembling, but almost as soon as the wash of fey magic touched the horse, she stilled.

  Everyone stood dazed for a time, and Ashurai got to his feet. Niamh flitted this way and that, an expression of anxiety on her face.

  Gorb spoke first, its voice far too upset for Marek’s liking. “Ashurai, how were you cursed? What caused you to be gray-touched? Tell me, were you attacked by a strange beast or beast kin?”

  Ashurai shook his head. “I do not know what you mean by gray-touched, ancient one. We were inspecting the battlefield when I saw something odd on a corpse. It was… a grayish liquid on the creature’s chest, at once dark and shining with light. When I inspected it, the Druskin attacked me.”

  Gorb rumbled long and deep. This was no expression of mirth or humor. The resonance that issued from the stone creature carried with it notes of dismay. “Only one abomination can deliver the gray-touched curse. To do so requires great sacrifice, so it is only a strategy the dying use as a final, desperate attempt to spurn the living... Niamh, how long has it been since the Graysouls walked among us?”

  The feyling trembled and clutched her arms as if fending off a chill breeze. “Hundreds of years. Three hundred and nine, I believe, since the Haikini Priestess sealed the blade away and put an end to the spread of corruption.”

  Too many questions rose in Marek’s mind. Allon perked up as well, showing far too keen an interest in the turn of events.

  Their golemite leader pointed down the opposite side of the mountain. “Let us continue. If we are lucky, perhaps the young ones won’t need to discover what we speak of.”

  Niamh froze midair, her body stiffening. Then she spun in a tight circle and shrieked. “I smell them! Gorb, the Graysouls! They’ve found us!”

  A haggard roar was the only warning given as an enormous bear charged into their midst. Its body torn, brown coat covered in a spattering of gray slime, the beast’s eyes shone with a dim light that sent a flood of icy fear through Marek’s veins.

  This, apparently, was a Graysoul.