By the time Rus and Nancy arrived, the packhorses had already been calmed, but the sight before them made Rus's brow twitch in irritation.
A packhorse lay sprawled across the snow, its eyes wide open yet rapidly dimming. Black-red blood leaked from its nose and mouth, crusting into frost as it froze—there was no saving it.
Its cargo had spilled across the ground.
The snow beneath its belly was soaked in blood. A steaming mass of organs lay scattered around its torso, still twitching slightly.
The wound wasn't clean like a blade cut, nor did it bear the telltale signs of a wild animal's bite or claw. Instead, it looked as though some invisible force had gripped the horse's abdomen and torn it apart with brute force.
Just as Rus was about to step closer, Mary leapt down from her horse and landed in the snow. She turned back and whispered, "Don't come closer."
She raised a finger to her lips in a silencing gesture.
