The rain had finally stopped by the time they reached the slaughter. That was the only good grace the day had left to offer.
Two empty baggage wagons stood upright in the middle of the track, their wheels sunk deep into the mire. A third cart lay flipped onto its side instead dragged down by a dead pack horse that lay twisted in its harness, a black-fletched arrow buried deep into its bloody flank. The beast's long tongue lolled out over its teeth, its milky, dead eyes wide with a final expression of terror and disbelief.
"Gods be good, gods be good, five gods preserve us," the coachmaster kept whimpering, his frantic chanting grinding on everyone's raw nerves. Looking around as if he could sniff out the attackers.
He didn't stop until one of Rosh's sellswords shut him up with a slap to the back of his head.
"If your gut turns over a few cold corpses, go back to your bench and get the horses ready for departure," the mercenary cursed, wiping the spray from his face.
