Morning, after the rain.
Many people came to the meadow in the small basin.
Old men and women from the nearby villages carried iron forks and woodcutting blades, their faces dark, hatred clenched between their teeth. In these mountains, the villages were already bound by marriage, helping one another with farming, fishing, and hunting, all the more so when something this terrible happened.
Last night's downpour had washed away every trace, but the dark mass of crows circling endlessly beside the river pointed the villagers in the right direction.
The villagers came to the riverbank.
They stood silently on the mound above the great ditch, crows wheeling overhead, the mud beneath their feet still wet. Not one of the hundred or so people present spoke.
They watched Black Snake, nearly thirty feet long, tearing into his meal.
He bit into the horseflesh and pulled backward, occasionally whipping his head hard from side to side, ripping off chunks and swallowing them quickly.
He paid no attention to the people on the mound. They had stopped beyond a safe distance; if they dared come closer, there would still be time to warn them.
The bandits' corpses lay scattered everywhere, but Black Snake ate only the horses. Their bodies were substantial, providing far more strength than human flesh. So many horses would be more than enough to fill him; whatever he could not finish, he could eat after digesting for a while.
The autumn wind by the river carried the damp chill of the water, stirring the villagers' disheveled hair.
After a long while, a woman with withered yellow hair and red, swollen eyes went limp and sank to her knees.
Sobs rose, then turned into anguished wails, echoing hollowly between the river and the cliffs.
Others knelt one after another, hoarsely calling