SLEUTHS OF SORCERY
by Anne Hutchins and Bart A. Marchand

PROLOGUE
     
     "Another sleet-soaked muck through the countryside," Guardsmen Ifan
Beland muttered to his flanksman, Guardsman Uist Carlh. "Gods, it's falling
down thick as pudding, yet! So much for being part of Lord Vaukmond's Elite
Guard."

     "Keep your voice down," Uist muttered back, holding his helmed head
averted so that the Captain, riding just ahead of them, wouldn't think the
words had come from him. "Besides, it's our horses doing all the 'mucking.'"
Uist wanted to tell Ifan that he was as tired of hearing the guardsman's
bitter complaining as he was of "mucking through the countryside." But he
had to admit, he didn't much enjoy this mission either.

     He and Ifan had just been promoted to the Duke's Elite Guard only
a week before and had barely time to savor their advance in rank before
their attachment was ordered into the first of many long patrols. The
Captain hadn't elaborated much, only that Windemere had received reports of
a beast which had managed, by itself, to raze a whole village. No further
details were given, save to look for anything "unusual."

     After three mornings and afternoons of patrolling, or "mucking" as
Ifan termed it, they hadn't found a single "unusual" thing.

     Uist breathed in the sharply cold morning air, tinged with a thread
of woodsmoke: the scent of late autumn. Dark pillows of clouds moved above
them now, still heavy with moisture. Uist looked up to see where the sun was
hiding, a bright coin of haze behind the cover of gray clouds.

     The heavy mist continued to sift down from the clouds, turning
quickly into soft pellets of sleet, and settling on Uist's mailed helm and
upon his mount's dressage. The droplets dangled for a moment from his helm's
coif before dousing his eyelashes, so that he had to blink his eyes to clear
them of the water.
     Beside him Ifan sneezed loudly.

     "Now I'm taking a sickness from this foul morn," Ifan muttered again,
this time lowering his voice a little. He blew his nose noisily, rattling
his phlegm into a sodden rag he kept stuffed beneath the cantle of his
saddle. "I swear, man, that it's getting colder the longer we ride."