These barrows were smaller than the ones they left behind, and there were seven instead of three, set in a semicircle. Packed earth pathways led to a low doorway in each. A crumbling altar squatted in the middle of the semicircle, its stones black with the vanished remains of burnt offerings.
They left the mares ground-tied in a narrow lea between two of the barrows. The barrow entrances were too low for the horses to enter. Even their riders would have to crouch to keep from hitting their heads on the timber lintels.
Leaving the horses visible presented numerous problems, but it couldn’t be helped. At least if the Nunari found them, they’d have to enter the barrows on bent knees and one at a time, making the graves easily defendable—as long as no one broke through the roof or tried to smoke them out.
The barrow he chose for himself and Gilene followed the same construction style as its bigger counterpart. The witch hesitated at the entrance, taking a reluctant step to bend and peer inside. “Are you sure this is safe? What if there’s a wight hiding in this barrow? Just because the other one didn’t have one doesn’t mean they’re all unoccupied.”
She was right. He unsheathed both his knives and passed her in two swift strides. Her quick inhalation echoed behind him as he bent and entered the grave’s dim interior.
His shaman mother had taught him and his sister the value of protection circles against demons and the effectiveness of iron against wights. If one lingered in here, he’d know it soon enough and would make it think twice before trying to attack him.
Gilene’s pale features sharpened with annoyance when he emerged and blithely announced, “Empty. You can go in.”
“You didn’t have to scare me to death to prove your point,” she snapped.
Azarion tilted his head to one side, surprised by her irritation. Had she been frightened for him or just frightened in general? He mentally admonished himself for the frivolousness of the first notion. He shrugged. “You would have demanded no less from me to believe it. Come. We need to get inside.”
They set their meager belongings and tack just inside and to the left of the entrance, out of sight from any who might peer into the barrow’s interior. Enough wildlife, such as marmots and ground squirrels, populated these lands that he could easily trap enough to make a hearty meal, but he didn’t dare start a fire to even get warm, much less roast meat or boil water in one of the clay pots that still remained unbroken next to their deceased owners. They’d have to make do with the road rations he’d stolen. His stomach gurgled, the sound echoed by Gilene’s belly as she came to stand beside him at the barrow’s entrance.
Azarion fished an apple out of one of the packs, cutting it in half to share with her, along with the flask of cold water. “Eat and drink your fill,” he said. “There isn’t much, but cooking means smoke, and smoke is a signal, as you saw when we spotted the Nunari.”
She gnawed listlessly on her share of the apple for a moment. “Do you think they’ll find us?”
“Hard to say. We covered a good distance since last night, and it’s still early. Those whose campfires we saw are just now getting their camp in order and seeing to their mounts.”
“What about our horses? Surely, their hoofprints are easy to track.” Her eyes, heavy-lidded from lack of sleep, glittered with worry.
“Horse herds are plentiful here, as they are in Savatar territory. There isn’t a patch of ground on the steppe that doesn’t have a hoofprint on it, whether from one made by a riderless horse or one with a rider on its back. If the Nunari are looking for me, they’re searching for a man traveling alone. Two sets of tracks will puzzle them a little, though it won’t stop them.”
He made quick work of his share of their rations. His belly still growled, though the hunger pangs weren’t as sharp. Once they got closer to Savatar territory, he’d trap game and fill both their bellies. His companion finished her last bit of food, drank from the flask, and sat down just inside the entrance. She leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes.
“I didn’t think I’d miss the traders so much,” she said. “Halani and Asil had a fine wagon.”
Azarion chuckled. “Hamod, for all that I wouldn’t trust him not to rob me blind and sink a knife in my gut for extra measure, takes good care of his folk.” He turned his gaze from the necropolis grounds outside to the barrow’s interior. “I suspect they’d know the value of every grave good still in here.”
Gilene frowned. “Do you think them grave robbers as well as free traders?”
“I know they are. Wooden beads and clay pots don’t fetch much at the markets, at least not enough to make it worthwhile fending off an angry wight. Free traders have an eye for what grave goods bring in a lot of coin. Hamod or any of his folk could tell just by walking this barrow exactly how much they’d get at market if its dead still wore their jewelry.”
Her expression turned contemplative. “I thought they seemed unusually prosperous for trading outside of Guild support.”
“It’s common knowledge that free traders live on the edge of starvation. Without the Guild, they can’t ply their trade on the Serpent, and to trade, you need goods. The barrow of a wealthy man can yield enough to feed a trader band for a month if they’re good barterers.”
“It makes sense. Hamod and his company were well-fed, their wagons and livestock in good order and healthy. And a starving band of free traders couldn’t afford to help us and share what little they had, even if they wanted to.”
“You disapprove?” He knew her to be resentful. It seemed she might be judgmental as well.
She sighed. “No,” she said, surprising him with her answer. “You do what you must to survive, and the dead have no care for such things anymore. Whom does it hurt if some long-dead chieftain’s wife no longer possesses her favorite earrings?”
He suppressed a smile, not wanting her to think he mocked her. She was a puzzle—prickly-sharp and unforgiving, devoted to her village to the point of blind obsession even as she resented them for forcing a terrible burden on her. Yet she was polite and grateful to those who helped them. Her mercy for her fellow victims at the Rites of Spring had prevented them from suffering by delivering a quick death, and she wore the marks of that mercy all over her body as reminders.
She had another question for him. “The new grave mound we saw when we camped with Hamod and his caravan . . . do you think they looted it?”
The image of Hamod’s avaricious expression and Halani’s dour one rose in his memory. There had been whisperings and meetings in the shadows, and the dull glint of moonlight on the steel scoop of a shovel. “I’d bet a good horse on it,” he said.
“It seems odd.” Azarion arched one eyebrow, and she clarified. “I remember Halani’s face when we first came across the grave. She looked like I feel every time the slavers come to Beroe for the tithe.”
He didn’t ask her to expand on her statement. He didn’t have to. She had told him in his cell in a voice thick with acrimony, I help enough already. That told him all he needed to know about her feelings regarding the annual journey to Kraelag.
“Have you any pain in your back or leg?”
Gilene pressed her palm to her thigh, her expression one of relief mixed with admiration. “I always heal from the price I pay to wield magic, but I’ve never recovered this fast. Halani’s healing skills are better than most.” She glanced down to his side. “I see they weren’t wasted on you either. Those cracked ribs should still be troubling you.”