 
Black Shadows Gather

Book One of the Colors of Fate Series _  
_

Kenneth McDonald

Kmcdonald4101@gmail.com

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 by Kenneth McDonald

Cover Credit: The cover image is adapted from the painting _Pyramid of Skulls_ by Paul Cezanne (1901). The image is in the public domain.

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Works by Kenneth McDonald

Wizard's Shield

The Ogre at the Crossroads

The Mages of Sacreth

The Labyrinth

Of Spells and Demons

Grimm's War

Grimm's Loss

Grimm's Love

The Godswar Trilogy

Paths of the Chosen

Choice of the Fallen

Fall of Creation

Daran's Journey

Heart of a Hero

Soul of a Coward

Will of a Warrior

Courage of a Champion

* * * * *

This series is dedicated to my readers at EN World,

who made me believe I could do this

* * * * *

Prologue

The hauflin crouched low, so low that his face was scant inches from the dirt of the road. The winding track was in poor repair, thick with weeds and old ruts that had been turned by weather and time into miniature canyons.

"Well, Master Feldergrass?"

The hauflin continued his scrutiny for a moment longer, then sprang up and looked back at the four riders waiting behind him. Each of them, even the dwarf, would have stood tall above him afoot, and on their horses they looked like giants. Behind them the wagons were like a row of wheeled hills, packed full of supplies, tools, spare parts, and an afterthought of trade goods.

"Recent tracks, M'lord Zelos," the hauflin said. "Riders came this way, not more than a few days past."

Zelos stood apart from the others, draped in the mantle of leadership that was evident both in his attire and the way he carried himself. While his clothes were the same dark woolens and leather that the other travelers wore, his were of an obviously more expensive cut, augmented with silver and gold adjuncts that were muted enough to be tasteful but prominent enough to clearly mark his status. He wore one of the thin straight swords that men of the elite favored, its hilt protected by an elaborate ball of twisted silver. His mount matched his ensemble, a tall black-and-gray with a saddle chased in silver threads.

At the moment the nobleman did not look pleased. "So?" he said to the hauflin's declaration. "What concern is it of ours about these hypothetical travelers?"

"So, nobody uses this road," the hauflin said. "Why would they? We passed the last settlement on the High Road yesterday. There's nothing of note out this way."

The nobleman let out an exasperated sigh. "So a party of settlers came this way, or prospectors, or maybe a party of revelers out for a picnic. I don't see how that..."

"Ahlen... maybe our companion has a point," the rider beside Zelos gently interrupted. He wore the distinctive raiment of a White priest, though his robe was a bit discolored from the dust of the road. "We are paying him to be our scout, after all." He looked down at the hauflin with patient eyes. "What gives you alarm, Jayse?"

The hauflin shook his head. "I don't know, Kevan," he said. "Something about these woods is... not right."

The priest nodded in understanding, but the nobleman snorted. "There are threats real enough standing against us, Master Feldergrass. There is no need to manufacture spooks and wraiths to frighten us."

The hauflin glanced up at him; he had to crane his neck to meet the tall man's eyes. "You hired me for my knowledge of these lands, m'lord. I know these woods, and I'm telling you, there's something at odds here, something new."

Kevan nodded. "What would you suggest, Jayse?"

The hauflin drew off his cap and ran his fingers through his brown hair, which was starting to run to unkempt. "I don't know. Maybe it would be a good idea to fall back to Whiteridge, recoup our strength. After our encounter with those gavrals near the riverbank..."

"Those little monstrosities were but a nuisance," Zelos interrupted. "Hardly worth the dire repute given them by the village folk. They might have been threatening enough to a farmer worried about his herd, but not for seasoned travelers like ourselves. The attack was a trivial distraction. Marak barely needed to earn his pay, what with the potent invocations of our White priest and the fast sword of Sir Kethar."

Zelos nodded to the two final members of their vanguard, who sat on their horses on the side of the road opposite the priest and the nobleman. The one on the right was dressed like a knight out of the stories, armed with the customary straight sword and shield, and clad in heavy plate that looked as though it had seen better days. His companion was a dwarf, clad in the heavy shirt of glittering metal scales favored by his race, and armed with a maul that was almost as tall as he was. The would-be knight rode a black charger, the dwarf a more humble gelding. Both seemed bored with the conversation and offered no comment.

"What about bandits, m'lord?" Jayse offered. "There's been a lot of talk in Whiteridge of late..."

The nobleman laughed. "Fear not, Master Feldergrass. I have little concern for of the rough sort of men who would live in these wilds and prey upon common travelers. If there is one trait that connects that sort, it is cowardice."

The priest laid a hand on Zelos's arm. "Still, if there's been recent traffic out here..."

The nobleman drew back, obviously bristling at the dissent. "Ours is a legitimate and important commerce, and I will not have it distracted merely by rumors of trouble. You know what is at stake, priest. Or have you forgotten?"

Kevan colored slightly. "I have not forgotten, nor has my commitment wavered."

"Good. No, I am sorry to have questioned your motives. Opening a new trade route into the Cinder Valley is of common interest to us all. Too long have our routes of access into our homeland been controlled by the dwarves of the Pale Hills. The valley might have once been theirs, but my father was born here, and his father before him."

"And my family was here for ten generations before that," Jayse said, but Zelos, still in the midst of his soliloquy, did not note the comment. "We have bled for this land," the nobleman was saying. "This route we blaze, if successful, will open up settlement of the western valley and lead to prosperity for all, as well as opportunities to advance the cause of your sect, Kevan. The coins paid for tolls today can be tithed to the White temples tomorrow, earning better homes than greedy dwarven coffers."

The priest ventured a look at Marak, but if the dwarf cared about the contents of their conversation he gave no sign of it. "That is... logical," the White priest acknowledged.

The wizard looked back down at the hauflin. "And we will rely on your knowledge and skills, Master Feldergrass, to keep us alerted to any threats that may lurk in these woods."

"Of course, m'lord," Jayse said.

"Marak, Sir Kethar, take us forward," Zelos commanded. He turned his horse to face the trailing wagons. If the two warriors looked bored, the drivers looked nervous, and all three carried weapons openly. "Stand ready to depart!" Zelos said, waving his hand in the general direction of the road ahead before turning his horse back around.

The dwarf and knight started ahead, the iron-shod hooves of their horses making a steady clop on the packed dirt of the road. Jayse walked over to where he'd left his pony. The animal had spent the break cropping the tall grass that grew along the sides of the road. It was a smaller breed, tiny in contrast to those ridden by the others. The little horse lifted its head as Jayse approached and let out a whicker of greeting.

"Yes, we're moving out again, girl," he said. Patting the horse's neck, he wondered for the hundredth time what he was doing out here, out in the middle of nowhere, leading someone like Ahlen Zelos on a quest for profit and prominence. This was what passed for "honest work" in the western Cinder. Somehow the thought gave him grim amusement.

A shadow fell over him and he looked up to see the priest there. There was something going on with the lead wagon, and Zelos was haranguing the driver as the man fiddled with the harness connecting his team. "We take your warnings seriously, Jayse," Kevan said. "It's just that Lord Zelos is under a great deal of pressure. His family invested a lot of money in this venture."

"It's no problem," Jayse said. "You know, it's going to get a lot rougher once we get up into the range."

"Men have navigated the western passes before."

"Sure, and there's a reason that they stopped."

"Well, we're packed for every eventuality, but if it's not meant to be..."

"Not the words that I expected from one of the White," Jayse said.

The priest laughed. "Well, not every circumstance is covered by our catechism. How's the shoulder?"

At the priest's words the wound twinged as a reminder. "It's fine. Not the first time I've encountered gavrals."

"Well, it was my first time, and I hope it is my last. How did Marak refer to them? 'Ornery buggers'?"

Jayse smiled and worked his shoulder. "The cuts weren't deep, but still, without your magic they would have been a long time healing. I thank you again."

"We're all part of the same company. Ah, it looks as though the wagons are straightened out, best be moving. I know that Lord Zelos wanted to be well into the hills come nightfall."

Jayse nodded and turned back to his pony, but he paused with one hand on the leather handle that dangled from one side of the saddle.

He frowned, looking around at the surrounding woods. To the left the ground sloped upward off the road; the remains of a fallen tree, moist with rot, marked the boundary between path and forest. Up ahead the road continued more or less straight for a good hundred paces before turning again to the left. Marak and Sir Kethar had almost reached the bend, and had paused again to wait for the rest of the company to get moving. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Yet it was too quiet. Even the birds had stopped their chatter. The hauflin felt the hairs on his arms rise; all of his experience and woods lore whispered _something is wrong here._ He wasn't Jaron's equal in woodscraft, but he'd spent enough time in the forest to know its moods, the subtle rhythms that filled the woods like the beating of a heart. And here, it felt as though that heart had stopped beating and was quiescent, silent, waiting.

Kevan had sensed the change in his mood. "What is it, Jayse?" he asked, leaning forward in his saddle.

Jayse held up a hand. He turned back to Zelos, who was riding over to them, an angry look on his face. But whatever dire declaration the nobleman was about to make was overshadowed by a new sound, a faint whisper like a sudden breeze. The warning the hauflin had been about to issue caught in his throat as he saw the wooden shaft jutting from Lord Zelos's shoulder, the bright red fletching shaking from the force of the impact.

For just a moment, a fraction of a second, Jayse froze. Then another whispered hiss ended with a second bolt that struck Zelos in the throat. The missile went _through_ the man's neck, and for a moment Jayse thought that the shot had missed, until a fountain of blood, startlingly red, erupted from the vicious wound. He'd only hesitated for a split-second, but it felt as though he'd been standing there for an hour.

"AMBUSH!" he yelled, but as more bolts slammed down into them from above, he knew it was already too late. A horse screamed as a bolt struck it, the animal toppling over and crushing Kethar beneath its bulk. He glanced back to see the drivers already engaged with men who had emerged from the cover of the trees; even as he watched one was stabbed in the belly with a spear and he toppled down into the space between his team and the front of the wagon. The horses were shying in alarm, but the bandits were grabbing hold of the teams, holding them in place so they couldn't bolt.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl around Jayse as he looked around. He saw Kevan, dismounted, grab Zelos before he could fall from his horse and drag the dying man into the shelter of the rotted log on the side of the road. As both men all but fell into the shallow cover, Jayse could see that there was a bolt jutting from the priest's left leg, a few inches above the knee.

Another bolt thudded into the dirt between the hauflin's legs; that was enough to propel him into action. He started to pull himself into his saddle, but before he could get up the pony jerked and reared, letting out a shrill sound. Jayse couldn't tell if it had been hit or was just panicked, but he stumbled back and nearly fell as the pony shot off down the road, the reins ripped from his hand. He didn't linger there; by the time that the horse was three strides away he was already running across the road. He leaped forward and dove behind the cover of the rotten log. A bolt narrowly missed him, its steel head slicing through his trousers and leaving a slight stinging sensation in its passage. Jayse risked a quick look out from behind the log, darting back into cover before his movements could draw another shot. The sniping seemed to be coming from further up the hillside, where the archers were apparently quite well hidden, as he saw nothing other than bushes and trees.

He looked back up the road toward their warriors. Kethar's horse had gotten up but the former knight was still down, his arms flailing feebly against the packed earth of the road. At the first sign of the ambush Marak had ridden back up the trail toward them, but a man armed with some sort of pole-arm stepped out from a bush and swept the weapon low across his horse's front, taking its legs out from under it. The dwarf toppled over the falling animal and landed hard in the dirt.

Kevan was still bent over Zelos, protected at least for the moment by the cover of the fallen log. The priest had wrapped his hands around the dying man's neck, and a pale glow was shining between his bloody fingers. Jayse remembered how the priest had healed the wound he'd taken in the fight with the gavrals, but he hadn't been as critically hurt as the nobleman had been. Ahlen Zelos's eyes popped open, and he drew in a startled breath as the healing magic seeped into him, but blood continued to pulse out of the vicious wound. To Jayse, who had seen his share of battlefield wounds, things didn't look good for the man. Another bolt thudded into the log, its head bursting through the rotten wood a foot from the priest's head, but Kevan did not flinch.

As if sensing Jayse' attention, Kevan suddenly looked up. He met Jayse's eyes, and held them for a long moment. The priest's manner was uncannily calm. "You have to get back to Whiteridge, warn them about what happened here," he said. He had pulled the other bolt out of Zelos's shoulder during the healing, and he held it up, the red fletching catching Jayse's eye. The hauflin could hear the shouts of men from the wagons, voices that he didn't recognize. Thus far nobody had poked their head over the obstacle protecting them, but the fallen tree was hardly a defensible fortification. Kevan still held him with his eyes; the man even managed to smile slightly. "Go," he said. "We all have our duty." He dropped the bloody bolt and drew Zelos's slender sword out of its scabbard as the first bandits appeared on the road and ran toward their position. A glow of power shone from his hand, and a javelin flying toward his body was suddenly jolted aside as if it had struck a heavy shield. Several bolts shot past him from the still-unseen archers, quivering as they stuck in the rotten log or flew overhead to shatter on the rocks of the hillside beyond. But the bandits did not seem afraid to challenge the White priest, several of them rushing forward with drawn swords. Kevan rose to meet them, springing to his feet with an uncharacteristic roar.

Jayse did not hesitate any longer, although his heart pounded as he sent a final look at the limp and bloody form of Zelos. He leapt up and started running up the hill into the cover of the trees. He heard more shouts behind him, but his full attention was on dodging the low-hanging branches and gnarled roots that filled the forest around him.

He paused at the top of the rise, a vantage that gave him a chance to look back at the road. Leaning against the cover of a nearby tree, his view was partially obscured by the trunks between him and the road, but what he saw caused his gut to clench. Sir Kethar was no longer moving, lying in a pool of slowly spreading blood in the middle of the road. He couldn't see Marak or Zelos, as the fallen log was out of his line of sight, but as he watched a stray breeze pulled aside a branch, revealing a scene he might have preferred to miss. Jayse saw Kevan on his knees on the side of the road, securely held in the grasp of several beefy men. Blood covered the priest's face from a wound to his scalp, but he was able to look up as another man approached. This one wasn't quite as large as the pair holding Kevan, but there was something about him that sent a thrill of fear down Jayse's spine even across the distance that separated them. Jayse knew that his position was precarious, exposed as he was atop the crest, but he felt bound to the tree, as though it was the only thing keeping him from falling over. He could only watch helplessly as the two men exchanged words. He was too far away to hear what was being said, but he clearly saw the bandit leader make a slight motion with his hand, and just as clearly saw one of his men smash his axe into the back of Kevan's neck. The cleric's body went limp, and the man kicked the priest in the back, knocking him forward to lay sprawled out upon the road.

Stunned by the sight of the execution, the hauflin heard the warning hiss too late. A crossbow bolt slammed into the tree trunk beside him, its steel head pinching the flesh of his elbow against the wood. It had penetrated through the arm of his coat, pinning him to the tree. Jayse barely felt the pain as he struggled to free himself. His efforts gained urgency as he caught sight of several dark forms moving through the undergrowth toward his position, closing in from the left and the right. Finally he gave up and slid out of the coat, tearing his skin more as he pulled free, and ran. He clutched his wounded arm to his side, feeling sticky blood running down to his wrist and over his fingers, stray droplets falling onto the forest floor to mark his path as he rode.

Naught to be done for it now; he grimaced and kept on running. He wove between the trunks, taking a roundabout route that would eventually lead him back to the road a good way further south. The bandits might have strength and numbers, but he knew these woods, and he and his brother had hunted in the forests around Fairhollow almost since they'd been old enough to hold a bow.

He glanced back now and again but did not see further signs of pursuit. He did not stop again but pulled out his kerchief as he ran, tucking it up his sleeve to slow the bleeding of his injured arm. No sense in making it _too_ easy for them. He reached the top of a steep incline that was negotiable by a wide culvert filled with weathered stones, the course of one of the many seasonal and temporary streams fed by the spring rains. It offered the best route down and he made the descent quickly, jumping from rock to rock with ease despite his throbbing arm. He was getting his second wind, but it was a long way to go to Whiteridge, especially with bandits on his trail.

At the bottom of the culvert, he came up short as a slender figure appeared suddenly in front of him. His eyes widened at the sight of her. "What are _you_ doing here?" he blurted out.

"I thought you and your friends might have a bit of trouble," she said. Her eyes lifted above him, back up toward the top of the culvert, sharpening. "Look out!" she warned, lifting her bow and drawing the readied arrow back to her cheek in a smooth, practiced motion.

Jayse spun, looking for bandits. He saw nothing, and realized his mistake too late as a terrible pain blossomed in his back. He staggered forward, his dagger fumbling from his fingers, and fell to his knees. His last thought was that he'd never get to pay his brother back for the pony he'd borrowed from him, and then he was falling forward, and then... nothing.

* * * * *

Chapter 1

Jaron Feldergrass looked out over the battlefield and shook his head in dismay.

He'd thought that the campaign was going well, but it seemed that his adversary was not one to admit defeat.

The hauflin leapt down from the fence he'd used as his vantage point, landing lightly on the soft earth of his orchard. The saplings he'd planted last spring had taken well for the most part, but he saw one peach tree that jutted at an awkward angle, a clear sign that the enemy had made an incursion there. For some reason, the badger seemed to want to make probes at a half-dozen spots each time it visited, as if it was consciously trying to nettle Jaron by spreading its damage as broadly across the farm as possible.

Jaron did not begrudge the badger the right of establishing a den, but surely the creature had to recognize that it would not be in the best interests of either of them for it to do so on _his_ farm. Thus far it had avoided a direct confrontation, and it had not remained near its diggings in the morning when Jaron came out to check on his crops, his trees, and his animals. He'd taken to carrying a sling, just in case, but he had little interest in killing the creature. But filling in its holes, closing them up before they could become full-fledged dens, was clearly not working.

Clearly, he'd have to be more creative in dissuading it.

He was distracted from his musings by the noise of a horse coming up the track toward his farm. The sound of iron-shod hooves was distinct on the packed earth, narrowing the possible identity of the newcomer to just a handful of choices. Unless the visitor was a stranger to Fairhollow, in which case even more caution than he was applying to his four-legged rival might be warranted. Jaron wasn't really worried, although he did glance back to the low rise where his neat little farmhouse was perched, flanked by a pair of low outbuildings that seemed to jut out of the hill like natural mounds. Curiosity won out, but he stayed in the shadow of the fence as he made his way through the orchard to a spot where he could get a vantage on the track without being seen.

The traveler was not coming especially swiftly, and was still some distance away when Jaron got a good look at the horse and its rider. Grinning, he climbed up onto the fence, standing easily on the stout post where the fence made a corner.

"What a nice surprise," he began, but then he got a good look at the rider's face. "What is it, Yarine?"

Yarine reined in her mount, a brown pony with white forelocks. The rider was a hauflin as well, of like age as Jaron, still hale and energetic despite the slight crinkling of the skin that was just visible around the corners of her eyes. She wore simple clothes of good-quality wool and leather, her only adornments a narrow brass band in her hair and a small wooden disk on a throng around her neck that identified her as a priestess of the Green. She had the look of a woman who smiled often, but there was only sadness and pity in her eyes as they met Jaron's.

"I'm so sorry," she said.

Jaron swallowed. "It's Jayse, isn't it."

Yarine nodded. "Maybe we'd better go inside, Jaron."

She nudged her pony forward and offered him a hand. He swung up behind her. The animal accommodated the two of them easily enough and did not protest when the woman urged it forward again. Neither said anything, letting their conversation wait through unspoken agreement. Jaron looked troubled, but he helped Yarine fasten the horse's lead to the rail of the porch in front of his house, and held the door for her to go inside.

The front room of the farmhouse was warmly decorated but not cluttered, with several hand-made rugs on the wooden floor and heavy wooden shutters, currently drawn back, affixed to the half-dozen slit windows. A number of portraits depicting hauflin of varying ages in an assortment of simple poses decorated the walls. A doorway to the side of the entrance led onto a neat kitchen, while another, cloaked in long shadows, gave access to the back of the house.

The most significant feature in the room was a broad stone hearth, large enough so that either of them could have stepped fully inside it without ducking their head. Jaron lit the ready stack of kindling there with flint and steel and put a pot of tea on one of the adjustable metal hooks that swung out from the sides of the hearth. Yarine took the seat that he offered and waited there in silence until he was ready. Jaron's preparations only took a few minutes but he lingered over the fire, clearly reluctant to face his guest. Yarine did not press him, and finally he turned to look at her.

"What happened?"

"I received word from Melanne Alveros, a human priestess of the Green in Whiteridge. Your brother was working as a guide in the area, and she said he'd left town with a group of Eastern men, pioneering a caravan through one of the mountain passes."

"Fools, then," Jaron said. "There's a reason why most of the traffic to the valley goes south, through the Pale Hills." He rubbed his hand through his hair and then looked back up into Yarine's soft eyes. "Where did they find the body?"

"Not far from the High Road. They never found the wagons, or the rest of the group, just some bloodstains in the dirt of the road."

"How did he die?"

"He... his body, it was..." she trailed off.

"I've seen a lot, in my travels," Jaron said quietly. "Please, tell me."

Yarine's eyes glistened in the firelight. "His body was in poor shape when it was found. It looks like it was bandits, Jaron. Melanne's letter indicated that Whiteridge has had a recurring problem with that sort, especially on the back ways that don't have the traffic of the Low Road. The woman who found him—a local tracker named Jille Kerney—she said that there were several broken weapons in the area, and tracks near where Jayse's body was left."

"What about Jayse's employers? Do you know anything more about them?"

Yarine shook her head. "The townsfolk didn't know much about them, they brought their wagons and the drivers from the east."

"Knowlton, most likely," Jaron said absently.

"You're probably right. Melanne said that they kept mostly to themselves, but that one of them wore the robes of a White priest."

Jaron looked into the fire, and for a long moment a silence stretched out between them. "I will go to Whiteridge and bring back the body," he finally said, without turning.

"I believe that Callen was planning on taking a load of supplies up the Low Road in a day or two," Yarine said.

Jaron glanced back at her. "He knows about the bandits?"

"You know Callen."

"Yeah. Stubborn as that old horse of his."

There was another long silence. Finally, Yarine looked around the warmly-decorated room. "I always knew that you'd come back here someday."

"You never would have guessed it from what I said as a young man. I made no secret of my desire to get far away from Fairhollow as possible."

"Yes, I remember."

"Drove my ma and pa crazy. They could never understand. Jayse did, though."

"And Jaela?"

Jaron nodded, but he didn't respond. Yarine leaned forward in the deep chair, and ran a hand along the weathered stones of the hearth. The fireplace was old, and the mortar in the crevices had started to flake, but the whole had a look of permanence to it, as though it was keeping the entire house standing. "I remember when you, Jayse, and Marten went off to the War."

Jaron's lips tightened. "The War. You know, to the humans, it was barely a skirmish, a little raid of almost no consequence. Our "army" was barely a hundred men in all. There are cities in the more settled lands beyond the valley where merchants have private companies of guardsmen that are larger."

"Our world here is... smaller, Jaron."

He looked back up at her. "Do you blame me..." His eyes dropped into his lap, and he worried the fringe of a seat cushion with his fingers.

"For Marten going with you? No, never that, Jaron." She reached out and touched his knee. "Dal Durga's raiders threatened the entire region. If you hadn't brought the news about the raiders, and about the men of Knowlton rallying their army to stop them, someone else would have. Or maybe our first warning would have been the braying of Nassir warhorns. They destroyed several villages, I understand."

"Yes, I know," Jaron said. He stared off into the distance, as if seeing things that could never be forgotten.

"Marten would have gone even if you had never come back. He told me, before he went, that he was glad you were here. That if he had to fight to protect his people, he was glad to do it beside the Feldergrass boys."

Jaron smiled, but it was wry. "My mother nearly killed me when Jayse volunteered. After Jaela left, then me... she thought that she was losing everything important to her."

"Is that why you returned? After it was all over?"

"No, not really. I mean, they were already dead by the time that Jayse and I came back. Do you know that they died within three days of each other?"

"I was the one who found them, remember?" she said quietly.

Jaron fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair. "Oh, yes... I'm sorry, I guess I'd forgotten."

She touched him again, her eyes brimming with sympathy. "It's all right, Jaron."

He abruptly stood up and turned away from her. "I... I'd better get ready." He walked over to a chest that stood near the outside door and flipped it open. He let out a tired sigh as he looked inside, barely audible, but Yarine noticed. She came up beside him, stepping past him toward the door, but she paused there, her hand on the latch.

"Thank you for coming, Yarine," he said.

"I had to, Jaron."

For a moment the pair lingered there, close together by the door. Finally Yarine opened the door, but she paused again in the threshold. "There's something else, Jaron... I would not trouble you with it, not now, but I fear it cannot be avoided."

"What is it?"

"It's Belden."

Jaron let out an exasperated sigh. "What has he gotten into this time? Heaven's colors, he hasn't stolen from the Galderbrushes again, has he?"

"I'm afraid that it is a bit more... serious, this time. He... he killed Dale Wanderwarren's bull."

"What? Why?"

"I don't know, Jaron. But I'm afraid that the situation is quite grim. Dale's furious, and he's threatening to file a claim on Wanda's property for reimbursement of his loss."

Jaron hit the threshold of the door with his fist. "It's not Wanda's fault. Beetle's... hard to control. It was an act of kindness, taking him in. No one else would have..." Realizing he was starting to babble, Jaron clenched his jaw and stopped talking.

"Everyone knows that your cousin... has difficulties, Jaron. But this is more serious than anything he's done before. Some people are starting to get worried, afraid even."

"Beetle—Belden—would never hurt anyone. He must have had a reason for what he did to Wanderwarren's bull."

"I'm not saying you're wrong, Jaron. But I don't know if I can protect Belden, or Wanda, if he stays in Fairhollow. You have to take him with you."

"You mean to Whiteridge? Are you serious? I can't, Yarine. Look, I understand the problem, but I promised Belden's mother that I would look after him." He hesitated, and looked away for a moment, realizing that the current situation was a sign that he'd failed in that vow. "It's dangerous, outside," he said.

"I know. But it's dangerous here as well. Belden... he's special, Jaron. He... he needs to find his place."

"And you think he'll find it out there? In the Tall Folks' world?"

"All I know is that Fairhollow is no longer his place. Not right now, anyway. I'm sorry, Jaron."

He did not respond, and after a moment Yarine lowered her head slightly, as if nodding to herself. She went to her horse and untied it, using the step on the edge of the porch to boost herself up into the saddle. "Farewell, Jaron," she said, but he said nothing, only watched her as she turned her mount around and urged it back up the path.

When she glanced back at the bend in the trail, he was still there standing in the doorway, staring after her.

* * * * *

Chapter 2

The key rattled in the lock before the door creaked open, letting in a generous shaft of light. The storeroom was cluttered but clean, without so much as a stray cobweb visible in the far corners. The only other light was from a small window high along the far wall with closely spaced iron bars set into the casement. There wasn't much concern about thievery in Fairhollow proper, but the hauflin village was an island of order in a hostile land, and the buildings tended to be constructed with the needs of defense in mind.

Jaron stepped into the room, scanning the interior. He overlooked the shadowed spot between a pair of crates twice before a slight movement there brought his attention back.

"Beetle?"

The figure that emerged tentatively from the narrow crevice was a hauflin, but one look was enough to indicate that he was different from most of his kin. His arms and legs were lean and gangly and he moved with an unusual gait, almost as though his body wasn't quite on the same exact page as his mind. Jaron could see that he'd been washed recently, but even so a fresh patina of dirt covered the front of his face. His shirt had been torn, and Jaron could make out a red stain along the edge of the rip.

"Beetle, are you all right? Did they hurt you?"

The hauflin touched the rip and shook his head. "No hurt. Hungry."

Jaron drew out a small apple from his pocket and tossed it to his cousin. Beetle snatched it out of the air and devoured it, core and all, in a few bites. He grinned through a mouthful of fruit, the juice running down the corners of his mouth.

Jaron sighed. "I heard that you got into some trouble, Beetle."

The other hauflin shrugged. He glanced toward the door, but Jaron shut it decisively behind him before coming further into the room. "No trouble, Jayse."

"Jaron. I'm Jaron. Don't you remember, Beetle?" It was an old thing between them, the mistake in the name, but Jaron had to fight back a sudden thick feeling in his chest. Jaron wasn't sure if his cousin couldn't really tell the difference between him and his brother, or if it was just a game he played. It was hard to tell with Belden. The hauflin had been born... odd, as though he lived partly in another world that was not evident to the rest of the people of Fairhollow. His parents had done their best to shelter the boy. Jaron and Jayse had protected him from other children, who were harsh judges of anything that was out of the norm. But the plague had carried off Beetle's parents, and it had fallen on his grandmother Wanda, who'd been well upon venerable even back then, to care for the boy. Beetle loved the old woman, but as time passed he'd become more unruly, and even less predictable.

"Jaron," Beetle said, smiling as he sprang up onto a cask, kicking the heels of his feet against the wood.

"Don't break that," Jaron said absently, his brow furrowed. He walked back and forth, looking for a solution that wasn't there.

"Whacha matter, Jaron?"

"I have to go on a journey, Beetle. A long journey, to Whiteridge."

"Go riding?"

"Yes, I'm going on Callen's cart."

"Can I go with you?"

Jaron stopped pacing; they'd come to it. "Beetle... why did you kill Dale's bull?"

Beetle's grin vanished, and he fidgeted, causing the cask to wobble menacingly under him. "Bull bad, like Dale. In here," he said, thumping his chest.

Jaron sighed. "I know Dale's not the easiest person to get along with. But... Beetle, you know what you did, it was wrong. You know that?"

Beetle spun around, and the cask nearly toppled. The hauflin was more agile than he looked, and he rode the circling barrel easily, shifting his weight on his muscled forearms. "You not know. I know, I see. Not good."

"Not good," Jaron said, trying to keep his impatience in check. "Beetle... you have to come with me. To Whiteridge. You have to promise me... you have to promise, that you won't do anything like that again."

Beetle completed his circuit, and the cask settled back onto the floor. "I promise, Jayse." His grin was wide, and the troubled look that had been there a moment before was gone as if it had never existed.

Jaron's worried frown, however, lingered.

* * * * *

Chapter 3

Callen's whip cracked in the air over his draft horse, which plodded along the Low Road. The whip was theater both for the trader and for the horse alike; Jaron guessed that Callen would have accepted a whipping himself before letting a crop actually touch the skin of his animal. The old hauflin trader had spent twenty years riding his cart between the isolated communities of the western valley, and he was set in his ways. The only concession he made to the increased danger on the road these days was a battered crossbow which looked about as old as he was, strapped to the edge of the cart's seat along with a quiver of bolts.

Thus far, however, there had been no sign of bandits or other trouble. If there were brigands molesting travelers, they were staying close to Whiteridge. Jaron glanced back into the back of the cart. Nestled amidst the casks and bales crowded into the bed, Beetle was sleeping improbably against the constant jolts and jars of the road. Thus far his cousin had presented no troubles on the journey, and he'd even turned up a brace of rabbits for the stewpot one night. Beetle got along well with Callen, who said little and judged even less. But Jaron was more worried about what would happen when they reached Whiteridge, with its population of nearly a thousand people, mostly humans, living within and around its walls.

Callen kept his cart in good shape and they'd made decent time despite the poor condition of the road. Once the Low Road had been a smooth artery of travel. Back then it had been the Founder's Road, maintained by engineers who would sometimes stay at the inn in Fairhollow. Jaron could not remember now the last time he'd seen road workers passing through the village. Everyone seemed to have forgotten the west, and the populations in the scattered villages across the region had drifted inside themselves, tending their walls and keeping a sharp eye out for threats. The villages were too scattered to provide much in the way of mutual assistance, so it fell to men like Callen to maintain the links between them, risking the roads to make a living in trade and commerce.

"We'll make it by nightfall," Callen ventured, cracking his whip in the air again. The horse tossed its head as if appreciating the joke.

Jaron scratched his side. His simple farmer's garb had been replaced by a broad vest of thick leather worn over a tunic of double-stitched wool, with leather bracers at his wrists. He'd still had the armor he'd worn as a soldier, crafted of boiled leather reinforced with metal studs, gear fashioned specifically for war. But he'd ultimately chosen this suit instead. While it was durable enough to offer protection against the dangers they might find on the road, it was also decorated with neatly stitched designs in swirls of blue and gold thread, forming images of waves and fishes, trees and animals. It had been crafted by his mother, and while the garment showed signs of wear, the seams were as stout as they'd been when she first made them.

The hauflin had likewise armed himself with a long dirk in a leather scabbard stuck through his belt and a quiver full of broadpoints slung across his back. His bow was tucked against the wagon board behind him, within easy reach. Two full packs nestled among the supplies in the wagon.

After four days on the road Jaron was looking forward to a bath and a nice bed in an inn. But then he remembered the purpose for this trip, and even that expectation soured. And there was the problem in the back of the cart. He didn't really expect Beetle to do anything bad out of malice, but the fact remained that his cousin had an odd perception of traditional things like morals and social boundaries. He hoped that Yarine would be able to smooth things over with Dale before he returned. For all of her talk about finding a place for Belden outside of Fairhollow, Jaron could not really conceive of his cousin settling outside of the village where he'd spent his entire life. If the people of his home could not accept the damaged hauflin, how could anyone expect the denizens of the harsher world of the Tall Folk to do the same?

The noise of the cart and his private musings distracted Jaron so that he did not notice the disturbance until they were almost atop it. As the cart rounded a bend they could see that the road passed between several clusters of boulders ahead, which rose up out of the ground like a giant's knuckles.

Another wagon stood immobile near one of those knobs, the source of its distress immediately obvious. The two travelers had already gotten the broken wheel off its axle and were carefully moving the replacement into place when the sound of Callen's approaching cart drew their attention. Their wagon was larger, sized for humans, with two draft horses to pull it. The travelers themselves were a mismatched pair. They were a man and a woman, itself not so unusual, but it was the woman who was armed, with a pair of narrow-bladed swords belted to her waist with the hilts close to her hands. Jaron had spent enough time with humans to know something of them, so he guessed her age to be maybe twenty-four, twenty-five. She was clad in a long wool surcoat, unadorned with any sigil or other markings, that had been torn in several places to reveal the familiar glint of metal armor underneath.

Her companion was a more typical traveler, a human man who looked to be maybe twice the age of his companion. He wore a light-colored suit of flowing linens, covered by a long vest of bleached leather that came down almost to his knees. His only weapon was a slender staff that he recovered quickly from where he'd propped it against the wagon while they'd been fixing the wheel. His wary expression softened somewhat as he recognized them as hauflin, but the woman's face didn't change, Jaron noted, nor did she lower her hands from her belt and the hilts of her swords.

Callen was already yanking on his horse's reins. As the cart clattered to a stop about thirty paces away from the humans' wagon, he reflexively set the brake and adjusted the lay of his crossbow. Jaron hopped up onto the cart's seat, and glanced back to make sure his bow was in its proper place. "Beetle, stay..." he began, but he never got to finish the command, for his cousin was no longer lying in the bed of the cart. Jaron felt a thrill of fear— _gods, not now!_ —as he scanned the ground along the road behind them. The ground was irregular, with numerous twists and bends in the terrain; Beetle could have fallen out of the cart, or jumped, in any of a hundred places back along their path.

A greeting from the humans drew his attention back around. "Coming up from Graymoor?" the man asked.

"Fairhollow," Jaron said, still looking about for Beetle.

"Lose something?" the woman asked. She still looked suspicious, and if anything had gotten more alert since they'd pulled up.

The pair didn't look threatening, but there was something in the woman's manner that set Jaron on edge. "You look like you've had a bit of trouble," he said.

"What gave it away?" the woman asked.

The man stepped forward past her, ignoring what to Jaron was clearly a warning look. "Road's in terrible shape," he said, "but thankfully we've got a spare, and Whiteridge is just a few hours on. Headed there to trade?"

"Aye," Jaron said. "You need some help?"

"A generous offer..." the man began, but the woman cut him off. "No," she said. "You can go right along."

Callen looked a question up at him. Jaron would have liked to have done just as she'd said, but he wasn't going to leave with Beetle unaccounted for. "Actually..." he began.

He was interrupted by a familiar sound: the pounding of iron-shod hooves on the road ahead. Jaron guessed it to be a considerable group of riders from the din, approaching quickly from the north.

The humans had heard it too, and they turned to face the new threat. The riders came into view within just a few moments. There were six of them, all men clad in rough leather coats over wool tunics and trousers. Jaron didn't know any of them but he did recognize their type, the rough sort of man who was common in the wilds of the western valley. They all carried weapons, itself not common in these lands, but ominously one carried a small crossbow that held a loaded bolt at the ready.

The men rode close enough that Jaron thought they might just gallop past the two wagons before the leader signaled and they reined in with a plume of dust. Closer now Jaron could see that their horses were nags in poor condition, and none of the riders looked to be much better in terms of their dress or general cleanliness. He had to suppress a grimace and resisted the urge to look around again for Beetle. Next to him Callen had openly taken hold of his crossbow, and loaded it with a bolt from his quiver. He knew enough to keep it low, half-concealed behind the foreboard of the cart. Jaros's fingers twitched, but he left his bow where it lay for the moment.

He shot a glance at the owners of the other wagon. The man had recovered his staff and retreated so that the wagon offered him partial cover, but the woman had stepped into the center of the road, boldly confronting the riders as she had the hauflin earlier. Jaron gave her credit for bravery, but against six men, of the sort that these looked to be, he might have given greater credit to caution.

"Having a spot of trouble?" the leader of the riders asked.

"Nothing we can't handle," the woman replied.

The man leaned in his saddle and spat. "Whatcha haulin'?" he asked.

"None of your business."

There were a few mutters amongst the riders, and one made a comment that caused his neighbor to guffaw heavily. Jaron could guess at the thrust of the joke. He couldn't see the woman's face with her looking toward the riders, but he could tell from her stance that she was balanced on a hair's edge. "Get ready to jump into the back of the cart," Jaron said to Callen under his breath.

"Aye," the driver said.

The lead rider looked over at them. "What about you, weekin?" he asked. "What you got there? I see some wee barrels in the back of that wee cart, you maybe carryin' some of that stout ale your kind makes?" A few of his men laughed. "A damned pity, it is. The Green must've wanted to play you folks a trick, you bein' so good at makin' it, but not able to drink a drop."

Jaron didn't respond, but neither did he flinch from the big man's gaze. "What's matter, weekin?" the human asked. "You simple?"

"Mebbe you hurt 'is feelin's," another said. The men laughed, but the leader didn't so much as smile, his eyes traveling over both wagons and their owners in an evaluative gaze.

"Right," he finally said. "Kill the old man and the runts, but take the woman alive if you can."

The riders hooted and urged their horses forward into a gallop, drawing an assortment of weapons as they came. Callen jumped over the partition separating the seat from the bed of the cart. Jaron did the same, snatching up his bow in mid-leap.

His hands moved of their own volition, unwinding the string wrapped around the shaft of his bow and fitting it into the notches at the ends of the weapon with a speed that was obviously born of long practice. Even as he reached for an arrow he looked again at the woman, still standing in the middle of the road as several of the riders bore down on her. He wanted to shout a warning, to urge her to get behind cover, but she seemed paralyzed, not even drawing the swords that hung from her belt.

But there wasn't anything he could do to help her at that moment. Callen hissed a warning and pointed, and Jaron looked up to see that the enemy archer, with his line of sight to the damaged wagon blocked by his charging companions, had elected to take aim at them. His crossbow came up, pointed, to Jaron's eyes, directly at the center of his chest.

* * * * *

Chapter 4

Jaron did not hesitate. He drew an arrow from the quiver across his back and fitted it to the taut string. Even as the human archer took aim and pulled the trigger of his crossbow, the hauflin lifted his bow, drew, and fired in a single smooth motion.

The crossbow bolt thudded heavily into the back panel behind the cart's seat, punching through the wood so that the heavy steel head gleamed just inches from Jaron's chest. But there was no barrier to offer such fortuitous protection to the bandit archer. The hauflin's arrow caught the man solidly in the shoulder even as he reached for another bolt from the compact quiver on his hip. He let out a small screech and toppled over the back of his saddle, landing with a heavy thud in the dirt of the road.

The rest of the riders, trailed by their leader, were fast approaching the other wagon and the woman still standing in the middle of the road. Callen raised his bow and fired hastily, too hastily, as the shot slid between two of the riders and vanished harmlessly into the woods beyond. "Look out!" Jaron yelled, but there was no indication that the woman heard him, or was even aware of the death that was descending upon her.

* * *

Mara was afraid but she held her ground, resisting the urge to fall into a fighting stance. She had to look weak, she had to look helpless. That meant she had to keep her hands at her sides and not on the hilts of her swords.

She hadn't chosen her position by accident. To her right was the jut of granite, the boulder as tall as she was and surrounded by a fringe of smaller stones that dotted the space between the road and the trees. She could have sought shelter there, but that would have given the riders a free line toward Elevaren.

The lead rider was coming straight toward her. For a moment Mara thought he would merely ride her down, but still she held her ground. _Helpless,_ she thought. He held an axe but hadn't raised it. _You can't have you fun if I'm broken_ , she said to him in her mind.

As if he'd somehow heard her he tugged his reins slightly aside, slowing his rapid approach. Behind him two of the riders likewise guided their mounts around him, heading toward the wagon behind her. The first rider's face was an eager leer as he laid the axe in his lap and leaned over in the saddle to reach for her with his other hand.

Her body responded as she'd been trained. The sword, the reliable right, seemed to leap into her hand, and it was the simplest thing in the world to slide it up under his extended arm and into the gap there, punching in and out so quickly that there was only a little blood. The man's expression changed in an instant, the stricken look visible just for a moment before the momentum of his horse carried him past her.

Another rider followed in the wake of the first, and by the way he fumbled for his sword he'd gotten a good look at what had happened to his friend. Mara didn't wait for him, springing forward and lashing out with her blade. She struck and darted back before his own stroke cut through empty air. This time she left a more obvious mark; the man screamed as blood jetted from the savage gash in his leg. His horse jerked aside roughly as he yanked back on his reins in pain.

Mara was already running toward the cover of the rocks, but the thunder of hooves alerted her to another threat. She turned in time to see the bandit leader's sword coming down toward her head. Trained reflex brought her own blade up; she met the stroke with a clean parry, but the impact of it knocked her roughly back to fall into the dirt on the edge of the road.

Two of the bandits rode up to the crippled wagon, and the unarmored man standing behind it. Unaware of what had happened to their comrades behind them, they let out eager shouts as their trapped prey came into view. With his staff he didn't seem like much of a threat, but he started tapping it suddenly on the ground. There seemed to be no reason for the odd gesture, but a moment later the bandits' horses shied and reared, thrown into a panic. The riders cursed and tried to control their beasts without success, and the two finally dismounted, letting the animals bolt away from the wagon and its protector.

"I'm going to carve you up, old man," one of them said, spitting as he drew a long knife out from his belt. He took a step forward, but was distracted as his companion screamed and staggered to the side, a small arrow jutting from the flesh of his neck.

Mara spat dirt and rolled back up to a crouch. The bandit leader had ridden past her, but turned his horse quickly with just a touch of the reins. His face remained neutral as he rode back toward her. She retreated into the rocks and the tall grass, drawing her second sword and holding both blades low at her sides. The bandit merely slid from his saddle, dropped to the ground, and followed her.

Elevaren ran for cover, darting around the back of the wagon. The bandit followed him but his target kept on going, hopping over the harness connecting the wagon to its team with a spryness that belied his graying hair and wrinkled face. The bandit spat a curse and almost followed, but another arrow slammed into the riding board of the wagon a hand's span from his head just as he was about to try the jump.

"Shit!" he yelled, falling back into the cover of the wagon. "I'll cut your fucking guts out, you fucking weekin!" he shouted, but for the moment he held his position, the comforting solidity of the wagon between him and the hauflin.

Steel rang on steel as Mara gave ground. The bandit leader followed, his sword meeting hers in a blur. He only had one to her two, but his was longer, and unlike his unfortunate companions he'd clearly had formal training in how to use it.

"A nice trick, that," he said as he blocked a counter and offered a lunge that forced her to take a hasty step back. "Looking all harmless and such, baiting him in until it's too late." He swung his sword, adjusting easily as she parried the stroke, slicing back up with a backswing that she only barely caught with her second sword. "Willek was an asshole, but he was one of mine, so I'm going to make you bleed for that. After that... well, I think you'll prefer the bleeding part."

Her only response was a swing that he deflected, and another. He countered with a thrust that she likewise parried. They'd half-circled the large boulder, and as she stepped back into the meadow they parted and paused, facing each other across three paces of space. Both shot quick looks at the road. The rider she'd stabbed first was lying face-down in the dirt beside his horse, one foot stuck in a stirrup. Another was on the ground but still moving, writhing in pain with several arrows jutting from his body. Elevaren had run over to the hauflin cart, where the two diminutive fellows were keeping the last bandit pinned down behind their wagon. There was no sign of either the man whose leg she'd laid open or the archer.

"Looks like you're running out of guys," she said to the bandit.

"There are plenty more of that sort where they came from," he said.

The words were barely out of his mouth when he launched another attack, the tall grass swishing around his fast-moving feet. Seeing the state of his little army had clearly changed his humor; he was clearly going for a quick victory now. Mara held her ground and this time didn't retreat. Their blades met again and this time it was the bandit who had to draw back as her second sword darted in and nearly penetrated the leather protecting his chest. He snarled and started to lunge in again, but his face suddenly twisted in pain and he staggered as his left leg collapsed under him. Mara caught a hint of movement in the tall grass, but she was already thrusting forward. The bandit caught her first blade and deflected it, but the second drove through his heavy coat and slid deep into his belly. He coughed and slumped back, falling against the hard mass of the boulder. He looked at her in surprise as his sword fell from his hand.

"Finish it, you bitch," he spat at her.

She tightened her grip on the sword in her right hand and stepped forward.

The bandit who'd taken cover behind the broken wagon had fired off a few more curses and grim promises at the hauflin archers keeping him pinned, but as the battle continued he became aware that the situation was not turning to his advantage. His name was Palus, and while he was brave enough robbing travelers or committing the odd rape of a helpless victim, this sort of battle was rather beyond his experience. He could see enough peering over or under the wagon to see that he was running out of allies, and he looked over at Evret in time to see the woman stick one of her swords into the big soldier's guts. That sight unnerved him more than the danger posed by the weekin bows. He took a quick look over the wagon's bed to confirm that Willek's horse was still standing where he'd fallen from the saddle, his foot still stuck in the stirrup. He waited a beat to see if any more arrows were coming, but it seemed as if the little bastards were holding their fire, waiting for him.

"Damn it," he muttered. There was nothing to be done for it; waiting around wasn't likely to improve his prospects. Swallowing the bile that was rising in his throat as his guts clenched in fear, he clenched his knife and sprinted out into the open toward the horse.

He made it about halfway and was starting to think he had a chance when pain exploded in his leg. He missed his stride and nearly fell, gasping when he saw the arrow jutting from the meat of his thigh. Despite the pain he kept going, loping in an awkward gait that drew a little scream of pain each time he landed on his injured leg.

He was reaching for the stirrup to yank pool Willek's leg free when the horse abruptly shied back, dragging the dead man with it and twisting the leather of the stirrup tighter around his boot. "Hold still, you fucking..." Palus began.

He was interrupted as the horse reared up suddenly and lashed out at him; the last thing he saw was the sun flashing on a horseshoe before it clopped him solidly in the face.

Jaron hopped down from the bed of the wagon and ran forward, trying to see where the bandit archer had taken cover. The far side of the road offered numerous places for concealment, and he was all too aware that the protection on his own side was scant by comparison. He could have remained with the wagon, especially since it looked like the woman warrior had things well in hand, but he'd seen the man still carrying his bow as he'd gotten up and ran back toward the trees and fringing brush behind the meadow. He knew that even with an arrow in his shoulder the man could still be deadly with that weapon. And he knew that Beetle was still somewhere unaccounted for, maybe even wandering unaware through those same woods. He had another arrow fitted to his bowstring as he ran along the road, but he didn't need it. The struggles of the man he'd shot in the neck were weakening, blood continuing to seep into the dirt from that wound and from the bolt that Callen had put in his back. It was low, shooting a man when he was down, but Jaron had learned all too well the lessons of war as humans fought it. And it was clear that the bandits would have offered them no better mercy had the fight gone their way.

The woman came forward out of the grass, both of her swords bright with blood.

She saw Jaron and nodded as he pointed toward the bushes along the edge of the woods.

"Show yourself!" the woman shouted. "Surrender, and you may yet live!" She started walking in that direction, forcing Jaron to hurry to keep up.

"Mara, wait!" the old man shouted after her.

Jaron caught a hint of movement in the cluster of boulders behind the woman. He lifted his bow even as she spun around, her swords coming up into a ready position. He nearly loosed when a head popped into view, but with a cry he caught himself, sending the arrow flying harmlessly away to the right.

"Wait!" Jaron yelled. He ran forward, passing the human woman, who lowered her swords warily.

"All done, Jayse?" Beetle said as he stepped out of the tall weeds, a broad grin on his face.

"Are you all right, Beetle?" Jaron asked, quickly checking to see if his cousin bore any wounds. The other hauflin merely shrugged; he was looking curiously at the travelers, and seemed particularly interested in the old man as he hurried forward to join them.

"The sniper, he must have run off," Mara said.

"Shooty man, bad man," Beetle said.

"Yes, he was a bad man," Jaron said, wondering if the scene of carnage spread across the road would traumatize his cousin. At the moment his demeanor seemed casual, even jovial, but that wasn't always a reliable indicator, Jaron knew. "We have to make sure he actually ran off, that he isn't waiting to put a bolt into one of us."

Beetle laughed and drew a thumb across his neck, making a gurgling sound in his throat. The humans shared a wary look, then turned as the hauflin ran across the road and toward the bushes.

"Beetle!" Jaron yelled, to no avail. He started after Beetle, but his cousin was faster and reached the edge of the forest in just a few moments. Jaron followed, the humans trailing behind. Beetle stopped and with a flourish pointed to a bush that had clearly been trampled down recently.

"Beetle, don't run off like that," Jaron said, grabbing his cousin's arms. The hauflin squirmed but didn't make an effort to break free.

The woman walked past the hauflin and peered down into the brush. "Got the bastard," she said. Jaron let Beetle go and walked over to find the crossbowman lying on the ground, blood still oozing from a deep puncture wound in the side of its neck.

Jaron looked up, his eyes wide, and stared at Beetle, who was chattering at the old man as though they'd just met by accident on a casual stroll.

* * * * *

Chapter 5

The sun had vanished below the western horizon and night had nearly fallen by the time they reached Whiteridge. The town was situated on a rise that offered a vantage of the surrounding valley for miles, so they could see its walls clearly as the Low Road emerged from the forest and began its gradual ascent to its gates. Both groups of travelers were grateful for the shelter of the town's sturdy walls. They had not encountered any more dangers on the road, but the bandit ambush had made them keenly aware that this region was wild and dangerous.

Sitting beside Elevaren in the lead wagon, Mara regarded the walls of Whiteridge with the same suspicion that she'd given the forest, the plains before that, or for that matter the hauflin that rode behind them. Her face was still a bit dirty from her scuffle in the dirt during the battle, but she hadn't wanted to stop even to take a few moments to wash.

"Looks like we made it," Elevaren said from beside her.

"Only just," she said. "Would have gotten here sooner if you hadn't agreed with them hauflin on burying the bodies."

"It was the only decent thing to do," he said.

"Decent wasn't what they had in mind for us."

They rattled on for a bit longer in silence, the road growing steeper ahead as they began the first of several switchbacks that led up to the town. The gates were still open, but it looked as though they might be the last arrivals of the day.

"An interesting group, wouldn't you say?" he said after they'd navigated the first turn.

"Who?"

"Our hauflin friends."

"If you say so."

"I spoke briefly with Jaron, he's a veteran of the Nassir border raids. Fought with the army that took down Durga."

"I'm not surprised. I've known many of his kind that can shoot, but not so many that keep so cool in the thick. Pity about his cousin."

"There's something... special about him, I think."

"Touched, you mean." But she looked aside at him. "You don't mean..." she asked, waving her fingers meaningfully.

"No, nothing like that. But I think there's more to him than meets the eye."

"Whatever, fellow gave me the creeps. The way he slit that man's throat..."

"That's uncharitable, Mara. If he hadn't distracted the bandit leader when he did..."

"I could have taken him."

"Perhaps. But if your battle had gone on a while longer, that one fellow might not have taken fright when he did, and if the archer had been able to bring that crossbow of his into play..."

"All right, all right, leave off. What do you want me to do, give him a smooch on the cheek?"

"A little empathy, perhaps."

"I've used up my monthly allotment."

The old man grunted and they fell again into silence. Mara turned and looked out over the valley, more of which came into view as the wagon continued its gradual ascent. Shadows were creeping over the landscape as the sun faded, blurring the view, but Mara was seeing a different place, a different time.

* * *

A horse made its way up the winding mountain path. The air was cold, almost bracingly so, for all that the first snowfalls were still at least a month off. Pine trees stuck up out of the stony soil at irregular intervals, like sentinels warding the route up into the mountains.

The horse bore two riders, a gray-haired woman and a girl, the latter easy to miss as she clung to the woman's back. The girl's golden hair was swallowed inside a fur-lined cowl somewhat too big for her, and her cheeks were rosy from the cold. Every now and again she would lean over to try to get a look at the trail ahead, which caused the horse to shift and inevitably drew a rebuke from the woman.

"Are we almost there?"

"I don't know."

The finality in those words silenced the girl for several minutes. The horse's hooves clattered on the trail, and a wind blew up, tugging at the riders' cloaks.

"I don't want to go," the girl finally said.

"You have to," the woman replied. She clucked her tongue in annoyance. "There is naught to fear. He is your kin, and your mother wrote him, ere she war carried off."

"Can't I go home with you?" the girl persisted.

"No. What use would I have for a little child? Now that your parents are dead, there is no coin to keep food in your mouth; I've barely enough to support meself." After a moment's silence, the woman added, "Nay, you'll go to your uncle, that I promised your mother. And that is the end of that. Now be silent, Mara, lest some mountain cat hear your chatter and come seeking to make a meal out of both of us."

The girl desisted, although it was clear from the way she looked around that the woman's words had not eased her fears. After a time, however, she grew weary, and leaned her head against the back of the old woman's cloak. She fell into a sort of doze, and shook awake only when the horse came to a halt.

"What..." the girl asked, rubbing her face with a gloved hand.

"We're here," the woman announced. She reached back and pulled the girl out of the saddle, jouncing her arm as she lowered her to the ground. She did not herself dismount.

Mara looked around, blinking against the wind. There was a cabin here, a rough construction of heavy logs that was perched in the lee of a stony ridge that ran back as far as she could see. A curl of smoke rose from the chimney, and a faint hint of cooked meat floated on the air that caused her empty stomach to grumble.

"Well, here she is," the old woman said.

"Aye, so it be," a voice rumbled.

She hadn't noticed the man at first, and even after he spoke she couldn't clearly see him until he stepped out from the shadows under the cabin's covered porch. He was huge, covered in furs and leathers from head to toe. He had a dense beard, and bore both a long knife in his belt and a bigger weapon, maybe a sword or axe, slung across his back. His eyes were as blue and cold as mountain lakes, and they fixed her with an intensity that made her feel like she wanted to sit down.

"Well? Say hello to your uncle Torvan, girl," the old woman prodded.

Mara could not have spoken then if her life had depended on it. Fortunately, the giant didn't seem to take offense. The old woman recovered a bundle from the horse's saddlebags and handed it down to Mara; she had to shake it at her several times before the girl recovered enough to take it. Clucking her tongue again, she turned the horse and headed back down the path without so much as a goodbye.

Mara barely noticed her leaving; she was still held captive by her uncle's big eyes. He seemed to weigh her with a look that felt like the scales she'd seen at the mercantile exchange, back when her father used to take her to his place of business. But now all that was gone. She felt a tremble, and clung desperately to the control that she felt slipping away.

"So, you're Mara, eh?" the big man said, shaking her out of her reverie. She tried to speak, but her voice still betrayed her. Her uncle rubbed his head and muttered something to himself.

"Well, best come inside, then," he said.

She followed, reluctantly, but ultimately cold, hunger, and curiosity prevailed. The cabin was roomier than it looked on the outside, and most of the interior seemed to be taken up by a single large room. It was fairly dark, with only a single small window of thick glass set into an iron frame. A low fire burned on the hearth, adding a bit of cheery warmth to the room. The smells she'd detected earlier seemed to be coming from a black iron pot suspended over the flames. She could see a bed through the single door in the far wall that was slightly ajar.

"You'll sleep there," her uncle said, and Mara noticed the narrow pallet set up in the corner behind the hearth. It would be warm there, at least. "Leave your things there. See that bucket? Get that. There's a stream up the trail a bit, behind the cabin and up along the ridge. Go fetch water for supper."

"Outside?" Mara asked, stupidly, she thought once the word was out of her mouth.

Her uncle looked at her as if wondering if she was feeble-minded. "Aye. It's not far, within sight of the cabin, and the sooner you go, the sooner we can eat."

He seemed to forget about her at that point, so there was nothing she could do but pick up the bucket and head for the door. Before she could leave, however, he stopped her.

"Hold, girl. I suppose you're going to need this, sooner or later, might as well give it to you now."

He gave her a stick that he took off one of the shelves built into the cabin's walls. Or at least it looked like a stick at first glance; as she took it she realized that it was a sword, only made of wood rather than metal. It was about as long as her leg, and she took it a bit awkwardly, having difficulty with the bucket in her other hand.

"Try putting it through your belt," her uncle suggested. "But keep it in reach at all times. You must always be ready to defend yourself. I will teach you to use it later, for now you need to learn how to carry it."

Again he didn't give her a chance to respond or protest, turning and heading into the back room before she could muster enough courage to ask a question. So she had to do as he said, tucking the wooden sword through her belt, and then taking up the bucket in both hands. She found the trail that her uncle had indicated, and followed it up into a cleft in the ridge. She could hear the noise of the stream before she saw it, a faint trickle that emerged from the rocks. She hurried forward, all too aware of her own growing hunger.

That was when she saw the monster.

She was out of breath when she reached the cabin again. Her uncle was sitting in the big chair by the fire; he looked up from a book as she burst through the door.

"Where is the water, girl? For that matter, where is my bucket?"

"Monster... stream..." she managed. She almost fell, but the wooden sword caught on the floorboards, twisting her legs awkwardly.

"Some creature has taken up residence at my stream, is that what you're saying, girl? Take a breath, the news will keep."

She gulped down a breath of air. "Yes... big... monster."

"And this creature attacked you?"

Mara opened her mouth, but realized that technically, the monster had just _laid_ there, looking at her. But it had been big, that much she hadn't missed.

Her uncle nodded to himself at her hesitation. "Can you describe this monster? A scout is of little use if she cannot provide specific information to her superiors that is of help in drawing up a plan of action."

"It was big, and gray... furry... it had four legs, and big teeth, and big yellow eyes. It was..." she screwed up her face in concentration. "It was sitting on a big rock by the stream."

Torvan nodded. "Well, we can't have a big gray monster blocking our water supply. You'll have to go scare it off. And don't forget the bucket, and the water, when you come back."

Mara looked at him incredulously. "But I'm just a little girl!"

Her uncle raised an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"I can't frighten off a big monster!"

Torvan leaned forward in his chair, and looked intently at her. "Listen to me, girl. If you are going to live here, you are going to have to contribute to the operation of this household. I don't think that fetching water is too much to ask. As for this monster, you'll learn that most of our neighbors are just as scared of us as we are of them. Some aren't, but you'll learn how to deal with those as well. You have a weapon. If the creature is too much for you to handle, gather what information you can, report back, and we'll devise our plan of action from there."

He leaned back and picked up his book. Seeing her still standing there, he said, "Well? Was there something else?"

Mara wanted nothing more than to crawl into a corner and cry, but there was something in those blue eyes that would not let her. So she went back outside.

Standing there alone in front of the cabin, she felt more alone than she ever had in her life. She looked back at the door to the cabin, turned toward it, hesitated, and then headed—slowly—back down the path.

She drew out the wooden sword. It felt heavy and cumbersome, even held in both hands.

She tried to be as quiet as she could as she made her way back to the stream. At one point she paused to pick up some rocks; she couldn't easily carry them and the sword at the same time, but she felt better with a few of them in her pocket.

Thinking _invisible, I'm invisible_ , she pushed her way slowly through the bushes that flanked the stream.

The monster was still there. But as she watched it, she realized that it was really a big dog, a mastiff. It _was_ bigger than any dog she'd ever seen in her life, but as she stared at it, she realized that it was old, as well. There were patches along its flanks where its fur was almost gone, and two old scars were visible along its right shoulder, one running up its neck almost to its ear.

The dog lifted its head and barked at her, not loudly, but enough to let her know that it knew she was there.

Moving very slowly, she stepped forward into view.

The dog lifted its head and looked at her. One of its eyes was milky, and Mara guessed it was blind in that eye. But the other eye was sharp, and the mastiff's growl was no less menacing as it looked at her. She realized that it was looking at her sword.

She quickly lowered the weapon. "Nice doggy," she said. Slowly she moved to the side, toward the bucket she'd dropped before. The dog watched her. It barked again. "I'm not going to hurt you," she said. "I just want to get some water, okay?"

The dog didn't respond, but kept watching her. She realized that she was going to have to put down the sword to manage the bucket. Keeping her back to the cliff wall, she slid the sword back through her belt and then took up the bucket. She shoved it under the stream where it trickled down through the rocks, letting it fill to the point where she could still carry it.

The dog stirred itself and jumped down from the rock where it had been lying. Mara's heart thumped in her chest as it came over to her, but she held onto the bucket, trying to look stern. The dog sniffed at her for a moment, and then walked over to the trail. She waited until it was gone, then took a breath and followed it.

It took her longer getting back to the cabin, and she sloshed some of the water onto her leggings and boots. But she made it back, and pushed the door open with her back.

Her uncle was still sitting in his chair, and he looked up as she came in. The big gray dog was there as well, lying on the floor at Torvan's feet.

"I see you've met Growl," he said.

* * *

The two groups parted ways once inside the walls, with Mara and Elevaren heading off to unload their cargo with one of the factors within the town. They directed the hauflin toward The Silver Gables, an inn not far from the gate. Callen knew the place from his previous visits to Whiteridge, and while he allowed that his valuable goods should be safe there until he could make arrangements with his contacts in the morning, he kept up a running commentary as they navigated the streets of the town.

"I've spent plenty of time in human towns, and they're all alike," the old trader was saying. "Dirt, noise, crime... Tall Folk can't be trusted."

"We were lucky that Mara and Elevaren where there when those bandits came along," Jaron pointed out.

"Aye," Callen reluctantly admitted. "Roads aren't safe, these days. An honest man can hardly make a living."

Beetle, standing in the bed of the wagon, leaned forward on the back of the seat. "Those men would have killed us dead. Dead, dead, dead. They'd have taken your wagon and your horse and your stuff, Callen."

"Beetle," Jaron said. "Please be quiet."

"Reckon he's right for all that," Callen said, as they came to the inn.

The place was a rambling old structure, huge by hauflin standards. Noise and light came from the windows and the open front door. Callen drove past to the side yard, where a gate led onto the courtyard and stables. The two young humans who staffed the stables didn't seem unduly surprised to see hauflin, and they went about the work of settling Callen's horse and cart in their stable with bored expressions while the old fellow lectured them about keeping an eye on his possessions.

Jaron got his gear out of the wagon and hopped down, keeping a close eye on his cousin as he explored the stables. He was hungry and tired, his backside more than a little sore after spending a bumpy day in the wagon seat, but he had a stop to make before he could retire to the welcome comfort of the inn. "Beetle, come on," he said. "Callen, we're going out into the town for a bit."

The hauflin trader, after one more quick reminder to the stable lads, hurried over to him. "Jaron, I was wondering... would you come with me tomorrow when I deal with the factors? After what happened... I could use a friend with my back."

Jaron blinked in surprise. "Surely you don't think that any of the town businesses would..."

"No, no. Nothing like that. It's just... well, I've done a fair lot of business here over the years, but you _know_ humans. You went to war with them."

Jaron looked dubiously at Beetle, who was talking to one of the horses in the stable a few stalls over. "I need to find someone tomorrow," he said. "There's a tracker... she was the one who found Jayse's body."

Callen nodded. "My business shouldn't take more than a few hours. If you want, I can keep an eye on your cousin while you conduct yours."

Jaron nodded. "All right." Callen smiled and nodded, but Jaron's frown lingered as the older hauflin went into the inn. Finally he sighed. "Come on, Beetle."

"We going out?" his cousin said excitedly.

"Yes. We're going to the Green temple," he said. Taking Beetle's hand, Jaron led them out the stableyard gate back into the town.

Jaron kept a close eye on his cousin as the two hauflin walked across the square to the temple. There was a White temple in the town; it was second only to the citadel in size, its pale walls bright even in the deepening twilight. Their destination was a much more humble structure that was easy to miss, crowded into the shadow of a few larger buildings a good ways back from the square.

Jaron had only been to Whiteridge once before, but the place was much as he'd remembered it. He couldn't find much fault with Callen's uncharitable description; the place seemed full of people even after dark, humans hurrying about their business even after the end of the working day. He remembered that about the Tall Folk, always busy.

Beetle seemed to be entranced with the place, and he drew a few askance looks from the human townsfolk they passed in the street. Jaron noted a number of guards keeping an eye on things, outfitted similarly to those who'd kept watch at the town gate. The men had been alert and their weapons were kept in good condition, both signs of solid leadership. Whiteridge was even deeper in the wilds than Fairhollow, and Jaron recognized the signs of a community where the inhabitants had to deal with the constant threats of the frontier.

Beetle kept up a constant string of chatter during their walk. Jaron was quiet, and did not respond even when his cousin called him by his brother's name. He was concerned, and not just about the logistics of returning Jayse's body back to Fairhollow for burial. Even since he'd seen the dead archer, slain without apparent difficulty by his cousin, he wondered just how well he really knew Belden. He had always seemed to have a gift for getting into trouble, but this was something else entirely. Jaron knew that his cousin's mind was not like those of other hauflin; Beetle seemed to lack the sense of self-restraint that guided the actions of most folks. He'd long thought that his cousin was simply feeble-minded, but as they'd grown older he'd realized that the truth was more complicated than that. But they were of the same blood. And he'd made a promise to his aunt, a promise that he could not break. He'd broken too many promises already in his life.

Whiteridge wasn't an especially large town, and it didn't take long for them to reach their destination. The Green temple was just as Jaron had remembered it. The place had the look of an old keep in miniature, but made of wood and turf rather than stone and shingle. The building was squat and solid, permanent in a way that none of the buildings in Fairhollow could ever have managed.

Beetle stood next to Jaron as he looked up at the temple. It seemed that some of the gravity of the situation had gotten into the younger hauflin; at least he was quiet and still as he accompanied Jaron toward the human-sized front door of the building. Thus united, they went to pay their respects to the dead.

* * * * *

Chapter 6

Outside of the walls of Whiteridge, the deep of night clung like a heavy cloak over the rugged landscape of the Cinder Valley. Those folk who lived on the scattered homesteads that scattered the hills and dales around the town remained protected by thick walls of wood or stone, and they always barred their doors and shuttered their windows. Shadows crept through the night, and domesticated animals lowed within their pens, wary of the darkness and the things it hid.

Within the town, most of the buildings were likewise dark and quiet, but The Silver Gables Inn was an oasis of light and noise against the night. There were maybe thirty or forty people in the inn's common room all told, gathered in knots around the bar or at the dozen tables scattered around the room. A space had been cleared against one wall where several men were playing darts, and a dense fog of tobacco hung above another table, where a group of dicers and onlookers were engaged in a frenzied flurry of activity.

Jaron felt almost overwhelmed by all of the noises, sights, and smells. Fortunately for him and Beetle, the inn's single table sized for hauflin was in the corner near the stairs up to the second floor, slid in cleverly under the angled steps. It made for a distraction whenever someone used the stairs, but Jaron felt that a small price to pay for a break from the din. He tried to catch sight of a server through the crowd, but given his vantage it seemed a hopeless endeavor.

"Stay here," he said to Beetle. "I'll go and order us some food."

"And ale," Beetle interjected. He'd taken a hand-carved piece of wood shaped like a top out of his pocket, and was playing with it on the table surface. It was hard to tell which was more lopsided, the toy or the table, but the hauflin's fingers were nimble, and the top danced across and back at his command.

"You know you can't drink that," Jaron said. "It'll make you sick. I'll see if they have some juice, or cow's milk," he promised. Hesitating for one more look across the room, he finally decided to venture toward the bar.

He had to dodge a few humans who would have inadvertently trampled him underfoot, but finally came to a clear space close to the bar. He glanced back to try to check on Beetle, but there were too many people between them. But his eyes lingered on a tall figure standing in the shadows near the foot of the stairs.

He was a big man, clad all in black, with a raised cowl that obscured most of his face. A neatly-trimmed beard covered his jaw. Jaron couldn't see his eyes, shrouded by the cowl, but for a moment it felt like the other man's stare had locked onto his, and he felt a sudden chill.

Someone jostled him, and he looked up to see a waitress burdened with a tray of—fortunately empty—mugs, already moving on. She shot an apologetic glance back at him but vanished into the kitchen before Jaron could think to ask her for something.

The hauflin looked back at the stairs, but the man in black was gone.

He wavered, considering going back to their table, getting Beetle and going back to their room, empty belly be damned. Inwardly he berated himself; he'd been out here in the world of the Tall Folk before, but he'd spent too many years alone in Fairhollow since then, it seemed.

"You're going to get trampled if you stay there," a familiar voice said to him.

He looked up and saw Mara sitting on a high stool near the end of the bar. The space next to hers had just come vacant, and she gestured to it, holding the place until he could get to her. Climbing up onto the tall seat was a bit of a challenge, but Jaron was used to such adaptations.

"Something to drink?" she asked him. He realized that she was offering to get the innkeeper's attention for him; the idea that he couldn't manage it himself rankled a bit, and helped the indecision he'd felt earlier fade into the background of his mind.

"I was hoping to get a meal, actually," he said. "For Beetle and myself. I didn't expect the inn to be this busy."

"Not much else to do, in a place like this," Mara said. She was wearing her swords, Jaron noted, although she'd left her bulky shirt of metal scales back in her room. There was no sign of her companion.

"Where's your friend?" Jaron asked, as Mara sipped from her stein of ale.

"Doing a bit of business. The sooner he can make his trades, the sooner we can be on our way."

"You don't like towns either, I take it."

She allowed him a small smile. "No."

"I'm glad we ran into you on the road. You're a very good warrior."

She looked at him intently for a moment. "You aren't so bad with that bow of yours either."

There was a pause as she took another drink. She leaned forward, but the bartender was still at the far end of the bar, and seemed about as busy as the rest of the inn's staff. "What about you?" she finally said. "What brings you here? Other than selling corruption to the big people."

"My brother was killed," Jaron said. "He was a tracker... I'm here to pick up the body, take it home."

Mara's light expression vanished, and she looked uncomfortable as she put her drink down. "Shit. I'm sorry. That's... a rough break."

"Yeah."

"Bandits?"

"I don't know. After what happened today on the road... maybe."

"Maybe it was those same guys," she suggested. "If so, you've already avenged him."

"Maybe. I guess there's no way of knowing for sure."

"Yeah."

"Do you think that one got away, the one that rode off?"

She shrugged. "I cut the bastard to the bone. If I got the femoral artery, he probably bled to death. If not... I don't think he'll be banditing much any time soon."

He looked up at her. There was something there beyond the cold exterior she was projecting, but he wasn't sure if he wanted to try to get past it.

She turned away from his scrutiny and picked up her drink again. "What about your cousin?" she asked.

"Beetle? Oh, he's all right. I know he's a bit strange, but he can take care of himself."

"Are you sure?"

She turned and looked over at the far side of the bar, and he followed her gaze at the same time that he heard a woman's voice loudly exclaim, "Get your grubby paws off me, you filthy little weekin!"

Jaron groaned and jumped down from the bar, running toward what he hoped wouldn't be too bad of a mess.

* * *

The noise from below was thankfully muted as Jaron turned from the landing and made his way down the narrow upstairs corridor of the inn. His stomach still grumbled a bit, but at least he'd been able to secure half a loaf of bread, a wedge of white cheese, and an end of bacon, the whole wrapped in a towel he'd borrowed from their room. He was tempted to make a dent in the food right now, but he didn't want to leave Beetle unattended, even in their small private room close under the eaves of the inn. It was little more than a closet, really, but he was glad for it, especially since it was pretty far from the common room.

He shook his head wryly. He'd been able to extricate himself and Beetle from the awkwardness with the woman at the bar. He'd had no idea what Beetle had done, but he'd been able to make a few guesses. The woman—dressed as a forester in wool and leather colored in deep greens and browns—had shot daggers at both of them with her eyes as he'd hastily apologized and all but dragged Beetle away, but at least she hadn't pressed the issue with the innkeeper. Through it all Beetle's expression hadn't changed, a slightly bemused, innocent look that Jaron knew could be infuriating to those who felt affronted by his cousin's casual disregard for personal boundaries.

He got to their room and opened the door. Beetle was sitting on the floor, playing with several objects spread out on the bedspread. Jaron groaned as he recognized, in addition to his cousin's top and some other assorted junk, a pair of silver coins, some flints, a fork, and a glove sized for a human.

And something else, which he grabbed before his cousin could snatch it back up. It was a small carving made out of black rock, crudely fashioned into a human shape. Or something close to human, maybe. Humans didn't have horns like that. It felt a bit slimy to the touch, but Jaron's dismay was from recognizing the material from which the thing was made.

"This is obsidian, Beetle! This has to be worth gold, good gold! Gods, someone is going to miss this... you may have gotten us into big trouble here!"

He sat down on the end of the bed. Beetle took his bundle and started digging through it, pausing only to jam half of the end of bacon into his mouth. "No ale," he said through the meat, reproach in his voice.

"Where did you get this?" Jaron asked, holding up the obsidian carving. He felt like he wanted to wash his hands, but he persisted, thrusting it between his cousin and the food.

"Found it, Jayse."

"Found it." Jaron felt a headache coming on. Damn it, if he was going to investigate Jayse's death, he was going to need at least the tacit good-will, if not the active assistance, of the townsfolk. And while he'd never seen a case judged here in Whiteridge, he had a good idea of how thieves were dealt with in these frontier towns. "Who had it before you found it?" he asked. "Beetle, answer me. Who had it when you found it?"

"Nobody. Is Beetle's. Give it back." He reached for the carving, but Jaron drew it out of his reach.

"Did you get it from the dark stranger? The man in black, by the stairs."

Beetle shook his head, but Jaron thought he saw recognition there. "Stay away from that man," he said. "There was something... _wrong_ about him," he added, almost to himself.

"Okay, Jayse. Give now?" he asked, holding out his hand.

Jaron didn't want to give it back, but there was nothing to be done for it now; if someone came forward looking for the carving, he had to hope that they hadn't seen his cousin filch it. If in fact he had; Jaron assumed that Beetle had stolen it, but his cousin hadn't admitted any theft. With a sigh, he handed it back; it vanished along with the rest of Beetle's "treasures" into one of the pockets of his coat.

"'ungry?" Beetle said, holding out a small piece of cheese, all that was left of the wedge. The bacon, he saw, was gone.

"Yeah, I'm hungry," Jaron said. He took the cheese and tore off a slab of bread, but for all his hunger the food tasted like ashes in his mouth.

* * * * *

Chapter 7

It was a bright autumn morning, one of those days where the sky was so blue that it almost hurt to look at it. The town of Whiteridge was already well awake, and as he stepped out of the side door of The Silver Gables Jaron could hear the familiar noises of people at work. Noises not all that different from Fairhollow when it came down to it.

As he was leaving he saw Mara and Elevaren standing in the lee of the stable yard gate, engaged in an intent conversation. He would have gone about his business, but the woman saw him and gestured him over.

"Good morning," he said to them.

"Mara told me about what happened," Elevaren said. "I'm so sorry for your loss."

Jaron felt a twinge in his chest but just nodded. "Thank you. Are you heading out today?"

"It looks like we're stuck here for another day or two," Mara said. "The local boss wants to talk to us about what happened on the road."

"That's good, I suppose," Jaron said. "That they want to do something about the bandit problem."

"That remains to be seen," she said. "Anyway, I wanted to give you this." She tossed a small leather purse at him. "Your cut."

"From what?"

The loot from those dead bandits, of course. Their gear was crap, for the most part, but silver is silver. The merchants 'round here are damned stingy with their coin, as though they won't turn around and sell the blasted weapons I offered at five times what I got for them."

"Thanks," Jaron said. He quickly put the purse away.

"You going to talk to that tracker today?" she asked.

"Yeah. The priestess at the Green temple suggested I look at the Guildhall."

"If there's anything we can do to help..." Elevaren began.

"Thanks, it's okay," Jaron said.

"Well, good luck to you," Mara said.

* * *

Mara's comment came back to him as Jaron stepped into the room at the back of the Guildhall. The hall was part meeting place, part tavern, and part barracks; it served trackers, trappers, drivers, mercenaries, and others whose professions kept them from needing to take permanent lodgings within the town.

Asking after Jille Kerney had led him here, to the lounge where visitors without a pending job could relax and enjoy a mug of ale or a smoke. Old couches were scattered around the edges of the room, while a few tables and mismatched chairs were crowded together in the center. A compact bar, currently untended, stood next to a half-open door that led to a kitchen, from the sounds and smells Jaron could hear coming from that direction.

There were only a few people present, but Jaron couldn't miss Kerney, as she was the only woman in the room. Her face was familiar, all too familiar. And by the way her eyes widened as she looked up and saw him, she recognized him as well.

"What the hells are you doing here, weekin?" she asked.

Jaron swallowed back when he'd planned on saying, and instead tried to muster an apologetic look as he went over to her. "I'm sorry about what happened last night. My cousin didn't mean anything by it."

"When someone puts a hand in my pocket, I don't know what else it could mean," she said.

"He's... he's a bit off," Jaron said. "But I didn't come here about that. I came here to see you, Miss Kerney."

She shot up an eyebrow. "Just Kerney." She pointed to the seat opposite her. "Make it quick, I've got a job today."

He clambered up onto the seat. It was sized for a human, so his head barely cleared the top of the table once he was settled. He quickly shifted so that he was kneeling on the chair and could lean over the table. "It's about my brother, Jayse Feldergrass."

"Hmm. Wondered if the little... guy had any people."

"You knew him?"

Kerney shrugged. "He was part of the brotherhood. Out there beyond the walls... it's not so big a community as you might think. I saw him a few times, but we weren't exactly friends."

"I was told you found him near the High Road, north of Whiteridge."

"Yeah. He was guiding a caravan that was trying to reopen one of the old routes through the western mountains. From what I understand, the whole thing was put together by a scion of one of the big families over in Knowlton. Didn't find any trace of the rest of them, though."

"Have bandits been active on the High Road?"

"Bandits have always been a problem in the western valley. Not like the lords in Knowlton care about us. Maybe they'll care now, now that it's one of theirs that got taken."

"Do you think that this noble was taken for ransom?"

She leaned forward, pointed a finger at him across the table. "What I think, is that this noble got himself and his people dead."

"Why would they leave Jayse, and not the others?"

She shrugged. "Maybe he ran off. He'd been shot with an arrow in the back, could be he got clear before he died. Or maybe they did it to send a message, I don't know."

"A message?"

"Yeah. To make sure that the bosses behind their stone walls up on the hill don't get involved. Or maybe it was a different sort of message, given the rumors about your brother."

"Rumors?"

She held his eyes for a moment before she leaned back in her chair. "Maybe I shouldn't say anything," she said. Her eyes flicked back up again. "Don't want to disrespect the dead."

"Tell me. Please. What kind of rumors?"

"Well. I'm not saying it's true, but I'd _heard_ that your brother, he had more than a passing relationship with some folk who trade goods on the sly, out of view of the tax collector."

"Smugglers?" Jaron asked. "Jayse wouldn't..."

He trailed off, thinking back on the last few times he'd seen his brother, and how things had gone between them after the end of the war. He didn't think Jayse was stupid enough to have gotten involved with that sort of people, but he didn't _know_ , he couldn't _know._ And he couldn't bring himself to shout defiance back at this woman, this stranger.

By her slight smirk, she knew exactly what was going on in his thoughts, but she said nothing until he'd mastered his emotions. "Thank you for your help," he said.

"Like I said, he was a part of the brotherhood."

"If I need to get in touch with you..."

"I'm around," she said with a disinterested shrug.

Seeing that he wasn't going to get anything more out of her, he started to get up. He was about to jump down from the chair when she said, "Speaking of bandits, heard there was a bit of trouble on the road yesterday. Rumor says that there were a couple of hauflin involved."

He looked at her. "In this case, the rumors are true. There's half a dozen of them who won't be bothering any travelers again."

She raised a finger to her brow in what might have been a salute. He jumped down from the seat, feeling Kerney's gaze on his back as he left.

A welter of thoughts buzzed in his mind as he made his way back across the town toward the inn. The talk with Kerney had raised more questions than it had answered, but he wasn't sure he was going to like those answers, if he could even manage to find them.

A scout along the High Road could prove profitable, but he still had his brother's body to deal with, and Beetle. He doubted that Callen could be prevailed upon to extend his stay in Whiteridge, and in any case he didn't feel right fobbing his cousin off upon the man.

He was coming up on the inn when he caught sight of Callen, as if summoned by his musings. The old hauflin seemed to be coming his way, and relief warred with alarm on his face as he ran up to Jaron.

"Callen, what's... where's Beetle?"

"We was in the stable, I was just tending old Molly, he liked the horses, I only turned my back for a second..."

The disquiet in Jaron's thoughts became a cold ball that settled in his guts. "Tell me."

* * * * *

Chapter 8

Beetle was enjoying Whiteridge immensely. He had never left Fairhollow before and was finding the world outside to be a wondrous and diverse place. There were new sights, sounds, and smells around almost every corner. Sure, there had been that business with the bad men on the road, and the town was a little confusing and overwhelming at times, but overall the hauflin found that he liked traveling.

Escaping Callan's notice had been trivial. He'd merely marked time in the stable until the old trader's attention was focused on his horse. Rather than run for the gate he'd slipped over to the back wall of the courtyard, shimmied up the wooden boards, and in the blink of an eye he was gone. He'd had a vague idea of following his cousin, but within a few moments he'd been distracted by a dozen different things and he ended up wandering through the streets of the town.

The humans were so _different_. They were big, of course, but beyond that there were so many of them, and they seemed to come in all shapes, sizes, even in different colors, he thought, catching sight of a man whose skin was the tone of fresh-tilled earth. Beetle started following him reflexively, until he went into what looked—and smelled—like a leather worker's shop. Somehow that familiar odor reminded Beetle that he was hungry, and he started looking around for some place that might have something to eat.

It was then that he saw _her_.

She'd been very unpleasant the night before, and his cousin had told him to stay away from her if he saw her again, but those two things together made her almost irresistible. His stomach might have still won out if he hadn't seen her pause and lean against the railing of a shop to adjust one of her boots. She used the motion to conceal a quick, almost furtive glance behind her. Beetle could tell that she was trying to make sure that she wasn't being followed. He recognized the effort instinctively, as it was a habit that he too possessed.

Naturally, he started following her.

It was easy at first, even as they made their way to the northern edge of the town. There were just too many places to hide, too many ways to blend into the crowd. Once she left the confines of the wall via the north gate it became a bit more difficult, especially since she seemed to grow even more wary, pausing several more times to confirm that no one had taken notice of her. But there was still a good amount of traffic on the road, folks coming from or heading to the various farms and ranches that dotted the hills that surrounded the town. Unlike the Low Road, which approached Whiteridge from the south, the High Road was busy. Several paddocks stood alongside the road at the base of the hill, where men dickered over various animals that had been brought to the town for sale. The stink was considerable, explaining why this sort of business was kept outside the town's walls.

Ordinarily Beetle would have stopped to look at—and talk to—the animals, but the woman's slender form drew him on. From her apparent manner she might have just been out for a stroll, but either she was still very interested in making sure she wasn't being followed, or she had the most ill-fitting boots in history. To Beetle it became a wonderful game; once he only just managed to duck behind a watering trough set up alongside the road before she saw him. He fell further behind her, but as they left the outskirts of Whiteridge behind them it was also easier to see her in the distance.

She turned off the main road as it started to bend back toward the east, following a track that followed the course of a stream as it wound up into the hills. There were no other travelers heading in this direction, but there was plenty of growth that had sprung up along the path, which looked as though it didn't get much traffic.

Beetle's legs were starting to get sore, and he almost turned back before he came around a bend in the path and saw that there was something interesting up ahead.

The site had the look of a temporary camp that had grown into permanence, though it had obviously been abandoned for quite some time. The sagging buildings that flanked the stream looked about ready to collapse at any moment, but a more substantial structure stood further up the slope. Beetle recognized it as a sawmill like Old Damper's place back in Fairhollow, though you could have fit three of his place within the heavy log walls of the building ahead. Beyond it the hillside grew steadily steeper, the stream descending over a series of waterfalls before it leveled into the course that eventually ended up near where Beetle was standing.

The place whispered _secrets_ , but what had the hauflin hesitating was the fact that the woman he'd been following had disappeared. For a moment an uneasy feeling crept up through his belly, creeping along his spine to tickle at his neck. He looked around suspiciously.

A solution to the mystery finally suggested itself: she must have gone into one of the buildings.

Incrementally reassured, he continued forward.

Close up the camp buildings looked even more decrepit than they had from the bottom of the slope. It looked as though once someone had cultivated the ground between them, but now those spaces were just tangles of weeds. The first few buildings were little more than crude shelters, empty and open. Beetle shaded his eyes and looked up toward the looming mass of the old mill. A hundred women could have hidden inside its cavernous interior. The doorway stood open and empty, the interior dark. The entire roof was raised slightly on logs above the top of the walls, which would let plenty of air in but not much light. A wooden spar jutted from the side of the building facing the stream, where the waterwheel had once been attached.

"Well now, what do we have here?"

Beetle spun around to see the woman standing on the path behind him, about fifteen feet back. He had no idea how she'd gotten behind him, but there was no mistaking the feral shine in her eyes that belied the smile she wore on her face. "If it isn't my little light-fingered friend."

She didn't move but he retreated warily until sounds from behind him drew his attention back around. Three men had emerged from the sawmill. They were the same sort of men as the ones that had attacked them on the road, big and hairy and rough. All carried weapons.

He spun around as the three men spread out to block him, looking back at the woman. She still stood on the path, blocking his way back.

"Are you going to make this easy, or hard, little weekin? Please say hard," she said.

Beetle tensed then shot out like a sling stone away from both groups, toward the stream. There was one of the decrepit huts there, which he darted around in a full sprint.

As he rounded the back corner he almost ran into another man, who'd been standing there as if waiting for him. This one was not like the others. He was dressed in a robe of faded scarlet, the baggy sleeves trailing as he raised his hands. The man underneath was thin, even scrawny. His face was marked with tattoos that crawled around the sockets of his eyes and down his cheeks; to Beetle's eyes they made the man look kind of like a raccoon. But there was nothing amusing about the look that he fixed upon the hauflin, a look that grabbed at his guts until he felt like he wanted to throw up. Beetle decided he didn't want to wait around to see what this strange human would do. He started to run past, but before he could win clear the man shot out a hand and threw a gout of fine powder into the hauflin's face.

Beetle staggered and fell down, crying as the stuff seared his face and burned in his eyes. He never even saw the man that cracked the hilt of his knife into the back of his skull, and he was only semiconscious as they ruthlessly bound him with thick leather cords.

By the time they picked him up, he was no longer aware of anything.

* * * * *

Chapter 9

Mara rubbed a towel around the back of her neck, wiping away the sweat that clung to her skin under her heavy tunic. She felt hot now after the workout, but knew that the chill of the air would penetrate every tiny gap in her clothes, turning the beads of sweat into ice.

Her uncle Torvan drank deeply from a leather waterskin and handed it over to her. She unstoppered it and drank. Growl, watching from a comfortable-looking bed of fallen pine needles short distance away, lifted his head slightly, then dropped it back down between his paws. Mara rubbed her sore arms and envied him.

She was thirteen years old.

"Tomorrow we will start you on the longer blade," Torvan said.

Mara nodded and put the waterskin down on the fallen log next to her wooden practice sword. Her eyes fell to the sword that Torvan had laid against the log in its scabbard, a sleek and deadly weapon with a blade a full forty inches in length. He'd never used it in their sparring, of course, but she'd been tasked with cleaning and oiling the blade, and knew that it was without flaw and as sharp as a razor.

"Why do you like fighting so much?" she asked him.

Torvan fixed her with the steely gaze that she'd come to know so well. "I hate fighting," he said finally.

"But we practice so much..."

"The world that we live in is a violent one, Mara," he said. "There are many things that would kill you, if you let them."

"The monsters," she said. She'd learned a lot, in her two years living with her uncle. She'd heard of such things as trolls and giants and dragons, growing up, but it was another thing entirely to _know_ that they were real.

"Yes," Torvan said. "But the worst by far is men. Men will present you with a pleasant face, and then smile as they slip a dagger into your back. You must always be wary, Mara. As a woman, you have something that men want, and there are those who will not shy of hurting you to get it."

She nodded grimly.

Torvan seemed agitated at his own words, and Mara was not surprised when he stood, taking up his own practice sword. It wasn't much bigger than hers, but in his meaty fist it seemed tiny. "Another round, before supper."

She knew better than to protest; her uncle had no patience with complaints when it came to training. Instead she took up her sword and headed back into the training circle. Her uncle didn't wait, slashing his sword at her back, but she was ready for that as well, warned by his earlier words. She spun around, deflecting his stroke with her weapon, and fell back into a defensive stance.

"Good," he said. "You can never let your guard down, Mara. For someone will always be there to take advantage."

And then there was no more talking, no sound save for the clack as their weapons met quickly and repeatedly in the circle.

* * *

Wood chips flew in a flurry as steel moved in a blur around the slab of firewood that had been jammed into a crevice of the stone wall. Mara danced around the improvised target, her blades spinning in unison. Her feet moved effortlessly over the cracked tiles of the yard and every blow hit with precision, the swords rebounding off the wood and falling back into the pattern she wove.

A figure came into the yard. He waited until Mara broke off her exercises and lowered the blades.

"You know, there are some people staying at the inn who might like to sleep in late," Elevaren said.

"Tell that to the smith down the alley who started pounding metal at sunrise," she said. "Or the teamsters who drove past the inn half an hour before that."

Elevaren only shook his head. "Those aren't your swords," he observed.

"I didn't want to dull them. The smith was good enough to lend me the use of some old swords that wanted for edges to practice with." She hefted the two weapons. "A bit heavier than what I'm used to." She walked over to the gate in the wall, where she'd laid her scabbarded swords and a towel that she used to wipe the sweat from her neck. She was clad only in a sleeveless tunic belted over loose cotton trousers, and had to be cold. But then again, she'd lived in the mountains, Elevaren remembered.

"You must have been up early," he said.

"I don't sleep well in towns. You know that," she said.

"Yes, I know."

She belted her sword belt around her waist. "Was there something you wanted?"

"Did you... did you see a man in a black cloak at the inn last night?"

She looked thoughtful for a moment. "It was busy. There were a lot of people there."

"I think you would have remembered this one if you'd seen him."

She took up the old swords. "This guy some kind of trouble? One of your 'feelings'?"

"I don't know. But I sensed a certain power in him."

"Well, I'll keep an eye out for him. I promised I'd bring these back," she said, hefting the swords, "And I might see if the smith could put a bit more of an edge on mine."

"Your swords have always been sharp," he said.

"Yeah, and you have reason to be grateful that they are," she shot back. For a moment there was a hint of challenge in the air between them, then she let out a sigh. "What time is the meeting with Lord Piss-ass?"

"Pestis," Elevaren said. "His agent said he should be able to fit us in before the noon break. And I would strongly advise you to leave your sense of humor—such as it is—here when we go to see him."

She shot him a wry smile that said she'd been joking, and started toward the gate. She came up short, however, when Jaron burst into the courtyard. The hauflin looked a state, his hair and clothes a disordered mess, his eyes red and shadowed. Mara took a step back in alarm as he turned a wild look at them, blinking as though he didn't recognize them at first.

"Jaron!" Elevaren said. "What's wrong... were you attacked?"

"No... no," the hauflin said. "It's Beetle... have you seen him?"

"No," Elevaren replied. He looked at Mara, who shook her head.

"I've looked everywhere; he's not at the inn, I've gone over the entire town..."

"He probably just wandered off," Mara said. "Maybe saw something shiny. He'll get hungry around lunchtime..."

"He was last seen yesterday," Jaron interjected. "He didn't come back for dinner, or for breakfast this morning."

"Well, I'm sorry," Mara began, "but I don't see how..."

"What my companion means to say," Elevaren smoothly cut in, "Is that we'll do all that we can to help."

"Elevaren..."

The old man silenced her with a look that had a surprising intensity to it. "We are in their debt, and even if we were not, it would be our duty to help," he said.

"I appreciate it," Jaron said. "I don't even know where to start... none of the guards at the gate remembered seeing him, but if we divide the town into sections, maybe..."

Elevaren knelt beside him, put a hand on his shoulder. "When was the last time you took food? I assume you haven't slept."

"I'll sleep, I'll eat when I find him," Jaron said.

"As it happens, I have a small talent that might be of help in your search," the old man said. "If you have something that belonged to your cousin, something precious to him..."

Jaron blinked. "You're a wizard?"

Elevaren shook his head. "Nothing quite so impressive, I'm afraid. I just have a knack for a few small tricks. But finding things is something I used to be pretty good at."

Jaron nodded. "There's some things in our room." He would have run off, but Elevaren held onto him as he stood.

"We'll go with you. It will take me some time, during which Mara will see that you get some nourishment into you."

The woman warrior stood there with her arms folded in front of her, a dubious look on her face, but she didn't say anything.

* * * * *

Chapter 10

Mara paced back and forth between the trees, though she was careful not to move out of the cover of the little grove where they'd taken shelter. Sunlight wafted down in diffuse columns through the dense canopy above, causing the occasional bit of dust in the air to sparkle.

"It's been too long, he should have been back by now," she said.

"He's a veteran scout," Elevaren pointed out. The old man sat placidly on a small moss-covered hummock, his short staff lying across his lap.

"We may end up having to rescue two hauflin," she said. "Of course, I'm not sure why we're even here for the first one."

Elevaren fixed her with a hard look. "Mara."

She stopped her pacing and looked back at him. "Fine. You know, he still could have just wandered off. Those tracks Jaron found, they could have been nothing. Random travelers."

"You don't believe that."

"No." She walked over to the massive old oak tree that formed a corner of the grove. "Where is he?"

"He will return when he has something to report," Elevaren said.

Mara looked back at her companion in irritation, but said nothing.

Time passed, though it was difficult to tell in the shadowed quiet of the forest. Mara sat down, then stood, then walked back and forth before sitting again. Finally she rose. "I'm going to check on the road again."

"The chances of seeing anything..."

"I know. But I'm not good at just _waiting_."

"All right, but let's go together," Elevaren said. He rose to join her, but before either could set out a faint noise from the far side of the grove drew their attention around. Mara had her swords half out of their scabbards before Jaron stepped into view.

"Little jumpy, aren't we?" Elevaren said, putting a hand on her arm.

"Better safe than dead," Mara said, slamming the swords back into their sheaths. "What did you find?" she asked Jaron.

"There's an old sawmill up the road," he said.

"Any sign of Beetle?" Elevaren asked.

"No. But something else. There are men there, and they're trying not to be seen."

"Did they see you?" Mara asked.

Jaron met the question with a cold look. Mara had to admit, the hauflin knew how to move quietly when he wanted to.

"Tell us everything," Elevaren said.

Jaron laid it out, sketching the details in the dirt using a long stick. The sawmill was part of an old abandoned labor camp situated on a rise along the course of a stream that wound down out of the highlands to the north. Jaron hadn't been able to get too close, but he'd been able to clearly mark the hidden figure keeping watch from within the sawmill. He'd also come upon several alarms set up within the woods, simple snares designed to make a noise when tripped. He'd avoided all of them, but their presence explained the delay in his return.

"That's not the worst of it," Jaron explained. "The sawmill's pretty big, but it didn't have the look of a base, so I circled around toward the crest. The ground there is pretty rough, rises in steps with the stream dropping over a series of modest falls on its way down the hill. It's noisy enough to cover simple sounds, and there's a lot of growth that masks the paths."

"But there's something up there," Mara said.

Jaron nodded. "It's a cave, about three-quarters of the way up. The entrance is shrouded by bushes, but it's easy to find if you know the signs. But more importantly, there's a guard standing watch just inside. He looked like the sort of fellow we met on the road, before. Because of him I couldn't see how deep it went, but it looks like it might be a fair ways."

"It might have been created by the flow of water, given the proximity of the stream," Elevaren said.

"If you don't mind, perhaps you can hold your colloquy on geology another time?" Mara asked acidly. "We have to act."

"From what Jaron has told us," Elevaren said, "we may be dealing with a criminal organization..."

"Do you think?" Mara asked.

"What I am saying, is that whether they are smugglers, bandits, or something else, they may be more than the three of us can deal with."

"I can't just leave Beetle in there," Jaron said.

Even as the hauflin spoke, Mara shook her head. "You'll be lucky if you can convince Pestis to establish a subcommittee to investigate the matter, let alone send any of his precious guardsmen. And that's assuming he's not getting paid to look the other way; we're hardly two miles from the gates of the town."

"I asked the guards about Beetle, last night, but they wouldn't even listen to me," Jaron said.

"I'm not surprised," Mara said. "We can't count on anybody else to help us with this."

"Mara, I don't doubt your skills, but for all we know there could be a dozen or more fighting men in that cave," Elevaren said.

"I wouldn't call bandits 'fighting men,'" she said.

"Fine, even if there are only two or three as good as the man you fought on the road..."

"I could have handled him..."

"Please," Jaron said, interrupting them both. "Please. Even if we could convince Lord Pestis to send men, or if we could attack this hideaway, they would almost certainly kill Beetle at the first sign of trouble... If he's not dead already," he added after a noticeable effort.

"I think he's alive," Elevaren said. "The Finding spell, it doesn't work nearly as well if the subject is deceased. I'll bet he's being held captive in that cave."

"But Jaron's right," Mara acknowledged. "If we go in with a frontal assault, they might decide to kill him before we could get to him. Bandits don't like to leave witnesses."

"I need to go in alone," Jaron said. "It has to be me; I have the best chance of avoiding detection. But I'll need a distraction if I'm to have any hope of getting past the guards."

"A distraction?" Elevaren asked.

"We'll have to get creative," Mara said.

* * *

Beetle stirred. He felt bad. It wasn't pleasant, not at all. He blinked once. He was in a dark place, but there were torches not far away, and he recognized the smells of men. Somehow the Tall Folk always stank.

He was lying on the floor. It was cold and damp. He was tied up, with his hands bound tightly behind him so that he couldn't move. A gag that tasted nasty, like old fish left out in the sun, was thrust between his teeth.

Something poked him in the back once, then again. Something sharp, stabbing him. Not to hurt, although it did. He felt like the way he'd had that time that Farmer Jamberson's cattle had trampled him. Beat up all over. You'd have thought that the darned things had never heard firepoppers before.

He heard a rough laugh behind him. He didn't move and the poking eventually stopped. There was a sound in the background, a dull constant roar that he couldn't place at first. He lay there, quiet in the dark, and took a deep breath. His muscles tingled, but he ignored the urge to try to move again. He could feel them watching him. The voices again, too low to hear clearly over the ongoing rush of sound even though the speakers were just a few steps away. He didn't understand what they were saying. He was a mouse. A mouse caught in a trap, maybe. He felt a moment's remorse for the creatures he'd caught in like fashion. Maybe they'd felt as bad as he did now.

A few minutes passed. Beetle did not spend them idly. When he heard others approaching, he cracked an eyelid just enough to see the bottom of a robe that he recognized. His abused skin burned a little just at the memory of it. At least he could see, his eyes hadn't been burned out by that terrible dust. He wanted a drink of water, real bad.

"He's still out? What did you dose him with?" A woman's voice, the voice of the woman who he'd followed into this situation. The sound of it almost startled Beetle into giving away his deception. His hands prickled uncomfortably but he forced himself to stay perfectly still.

"The spell was designed to incapacitate a human," a man replied, his voice thin and scratchy. "I can hardly be faulted if the little weekin reacted... poorly."

"Can you revive him?"

"I could certainly try, but if a single puff of the eldritch powder so devastated the little bastard, then a draft of the antidote might kill him."

"We need him alive. Geoff wants to question him, see if anyone else knows he came out here."

"You think that the authorities might come looking for him?"

"For a half-addled weekin? Not likely, but he has a cousin who's been asking questions in the town."

"Tell Geoff that we cannot afford detection at this stage of the plan."

"You can tell him yourself, if you're so inclined."

"You should show more respect, Jille."

The woman let out a soft snort. "Save your threats, Virem. Your master may command dark magic, but your tricks are just that, tricks. I've known a fair number of priests over the years, of all the Colors. Black cloak, white drape, green tunic, red robe; whatever the attire, it's still mortal flesh underneath. Put an arrow in the neck, or stick a knife in the heart, and they die all the same. You don't frighten me, priest."

Beetle heard the faint whisk of soft soles on the bare stone, and the quiet footsteps as she left the room. He didn't realize that the priest had remained until he heard his voice.

"You should be frightened. If you knew what I knew, woman, you would be."

* * * * *

Chapter 11

"Your play," Klem said, pointing at the loose assortment of dog-eared playing cards and copper tokens spread out on the upturned crate.

"I'm thinkin', I'm thinkin'," Stennos replied. His face—a maze of old scars that gave him a truly frightening expression—scrunched up into a look of intense concentration as he studied the cards poking out from his meaty fingers. His difficulty was exacerbated by the poor light, as only a diffuse glow made it through the gap between the walls and the roof, and they were on the opposite end of the sawmill from the open doorway.

"We'll be here till the end of the world at this rate," Klem said. In contrast to his companion he was a thin, reedy man, with a wispy moustache that gave him something of the countenance of a weasel.

"Four towers," Stennos said, slapping the card down onto the pile with a grin. "Ha, didn't expect that, did you?"

Klem barely hesitated, tossing down a card. Stennos leaned over until his chin was almost touching the edge of the crate.

"Back at you," Klem replied.

"If I find you're cheating me..." Stennos rumbled.

"It's called skill, you thick-necked..."

"Shut up, both of you!" the third inhabitant of the sawmill hissed. He was perched on a crude ladder fashioned out of old beams, high against the southern wall. There was a small gap in the slats that made up the roof there, an opening that was almost invisible from outside but which allowed a watcher a clear vantage of the hillside approaches to the old mill. "Yer s'posed to be on watch, not playin' cards."

"Bah, Rokal, it don't take three sets of eyes to keep a lookout," Klem replied, shooting Stennos a grin as he swept the coins into his hand and dropped them into his pouch. "Besides, this is a dull business, waitin' around."

"You forget that bit of excitement we had yesterday?"

"What, the weekin that wandered up here? From what I heard, the Red priest made quick work of him."

"He'll make quick work of you if he finds you lot slacking off," Rokal said. "But what he'll do is nothing compared to what the Blackeye will do to you."

Klem made a comment under his breath, but both he and Stennos rose from their game and headed over to the door. "Fine, I'll take a stint in the aerie," he said. "You two can go patrol around the woods or something, if you want something to occupy yourselves."

Rokal dropped down lightly onto the packed earth floor of the warehouse. "Orders are to stay out of sight," he said, as Klem took his place. The rickety ladder shuddered under him as he clambered up into the precarious perch close against the roof.

"Stennos, I want you here by the door," Rokal said. "I'll go out to the stream and top off the water bottles."

"You know that Drakken pisses in the waterfall, up in the cave," Klem said from his perch.

"Just keep a lookout," Rokal said. He started toward the shadowed back of the building where they'd laid out their gear, but he'd barely managed two steps before he was interrupted by a hiss from Klem. "What is it now?" he asked.

"Someone's coming! Up the road!"

Rokal's manner changed at once, and he rushed over and sprang up the ladder. It creaked alarmingly as he put his weight upon it, but he got up to the rooftop vantage without incident. Klem squeezed over into the cramped space to make room for him at the crevice.

"Damn it," Rokal said, as he took a look.

The intruders looked anything but dangerous, but their presence here was an annoyance that the old veteran took seriously. There were two of them, a young woman and an older man, their relationship ambiguous in the way she leaned against him. They were dressed warmly despite the day, the man dressed in a long robe and the woman clad in a cloak that she clutched tightly around her, concealing the details of her form. She wore a bright scarf in her hair. Their attitude seemed casual as they made their way up the path; the only weapon they had between them was a short staff that the old man was using as a walking stick.

"Damn it," Rokal repeated.

"There's a woman, at least," Klem said with a leer.

"What?" Stennos asked from below.

"I got first dibs," Klem said. "I'd like to see what she's got under that cloak..."

"Quiet, both of you," Rokal said, looking thoughtful.

"You want we should send the signal?" Klem asked. "These two, they look like might wreck havoc on the lair," he added mockingly.

"Shut up," Rokal said. "Get down there, and stay quiet," he said to Klem. "Wait for my signal, and if you let yourselves get seen, Blackeye's wrath will be the least of your concerns."

Klem grinned as he made his way back down the ladder, joining Stennos in the shadow of the doorway. The two exchanged a series of whispers, occasionally glancing up at Rokal, who continued looking through the spy hole.

The two wanderers had continued their slow walk up the path. They might have been out for a picnic, save for the fact that they weren't carrying any supplies for a luncheon. The old man occasionally pointed out something of interest, indicating the ruined huts or the stream or the forest beyond, but the woman barely seemed to pay heed, her eyes focused on a point straight ahead. Rokal saw her hand clenched tight around the wings of her cloak, keeping the fabric close against her body. There was something odd there, something he couldn't quite place. She was attractive enough, he noted as they got closer. Her hair was cut pretty short, but he liked that look.

He waited until they were within fifty paces of the sawmill before he descended silently and joined his companions.

"We do nothing until they pass by," he said.

"And if they don't?" Klem whispered back. "What if they turn around and head back?"

"Or orders are to avoid contact," Rokal replied.

"Well, _I_ want some contact," Klem shot back. "Lots of contact," he added, elbowing Stennos in the ribs. The big man said nothing, but there was an intent look on his face as he handled the hilts of the knives that he carried everywhere. The weapons were nearly big enough to be called swords, but in his hands they looked almost like toys.

Rokal warned them back deeper into the shadows as they heard the faint crunch of footsteps approaching upon the path. Then they suddenly stopped.

"I'm getting a bit tired, grandfather," came the woman's voice. By the sound of it they couldn't have been more than twenty paces from their hiding place. "Let's go into that old sawmill and get out of the sun for a bit."

"There's a fine waterfall up the hill a ways," the old man replied. "I think we should go up there."

"That's fine, but let's stop in here for a moment first," she said. Klem slid his knife out of the sheath strapped to his leg, an eager look on his face. Rokal gestured him back.

"I really think we should stay out here in the open," the old man said.

"Well, I think it we should at least take a look before we put it behind us," the woman replied, an edge coming into her voice.

"It might be dangerous." Klem sniggered, earning another hard look from Rokal. Stennos merely stood silently beside the door, but Rokal knew well how quickly the big man could move when he had to.

The silence stretched out for a few long moments. Then the old man said, "I think maybe we've gone far enough. Let's go back to that grassy field we passed, and take our rest by the stream."

Klem shot a look at Rokal, who nodded—a bit reluctantly, for there was something here that had accentuated the uneasy feeling he'd felt since he'd spotted the two travelers. But the rat-faced bandit let out a hoot and burst out into the sunlight, Stennos a shadow behind him.

Rokal swallowed a curse and ran after them. But he'd barely emerged from the doorway, blinking against the sudden brightness, when he saw the reason for his earlier unease.

Klem and Stennos had come to a sudden surprised stop. Facing them were the two intruders, but the woman had parted her cloak to reveal a tunic that showed the familiar shine of scaled mail underneath. She'd drawn two swords, when she held in a ready stance that Rokal recognized as the product of training. Beside her the old man, suddenly spry, had stepped back and raised his staff warily, the narrow point at its bottom end directed at the bandits.

For a moment both sides regarded each other. Both were surprised, but Rokal could tell that the strangers weren't as shocked as they should have been. As if to confirm his suspicion, he saw the old man glance up the hill in the direction of the cave. If they knew what was up there...

But before he could say or do anything, Klem spoke. "Well, lookie here, Stennos, our little wren has some sharp teeth. Better take those stickers from her, before someone gets hurt."

The big man took a step forward. The woman shifted her stance to face him, but Rokal hurriedly moved up to join his companions. "Hold," he said, as much for his men as for the strangers. "This here's private land," he said. "You got no business here."

"Funny, we didn't see any signs walking up," the woman said.

"You must not have been looking too carefully, then," Rokal said. He had to resist the urge to glance up the hill himself. Drakken or Rivkas would be on watch; even now they'd be bringing the alert to the Blackeye.

"Whaddaya doin', Rokal?" Klem said. "Yer not goin' to let them go, just have Stennos give her a smack, and we can be about it."

Rokal muttered a curse, but he saw the truth in the woman's eyes, knew that his delaying tactics wouldn't have fooled these two. He was about to give the order when another sound drew his attention. He glanced down the slope back along the path, then took a double-take and looked again.

A man was coming up the path. He wore a black cloak that swirled around his body as he walked, with a cowl that left the details of his face hidden in shadow. All of his clothes were likewise black, even his gloves and boots. He carried a rod of ebony about the length of a man's arm, topped by some sort of carved bulb. The sound had been an odd off-key whistling, which the black-clad man continued as he walked up the trail toward them.

Rokal looked over at the swordswoman and the old man, but they seemed as surprised to see the new arrival as he was.

"What's this now?" Klem asked, his tone still blustering, but Stennos drew back a step and made a gesture to ward off evil. The big man likely had fifty pounds on the newcomer, but he looked unsettled. "A Black priest," he muttered.

The two opposing groups faced off in a tenuous détente as the man in black approached. Rokal couldn't help but look up in the direction of the cave. The dark opening in the side of the hill was invisible from their current position, but someone should have seen them by now, especially with the commotion they'd caused.

The man in black approached to within ten paces before he stopped, the long wings of his cloak swishing around his legs. Rokal couldn't see his eyes due to the cowl, but he could _feel_ the weight of the man's stare upon him. "Who are you?" he asked.

The man's head came up incrementally, enough for them to see that he had a strong jaw, covered in a neatly trimmed beard that was, perhaps unsurprisingly, black. "I have come for the Red," the man intoned. "Step clear and avoid destruction, or block me and share his fate."

"Ho ho, the Blackeye is going to have a few problems with that," Klem said with a nervous chuckle.

"These men are bandits," the woman said. The cowl shifted to regard her, but there was otherwise no reaction from the man in black. "They are holding a companion of ours prisoner in a cave up the hill," she added.

"She's a lying bitch," Klem said, but Rokal saw that it didn't matter. The priest's gaze had shifted slightly, and he was now looking up the hill. "I am here for the Red," he said again.

The tension tightened even further, but before anyone else could add to it there was another sound. This one came from up the slope, a faint yell that Rokal knew came from the hidden mouth of the cave. Even distorted by the long way it had to travel to reach them he could recognize its source, and both the fury and pain in it.

"Oh, shit," he said.

At the same moment the old man took a step forward; not toward Rokal or his men, but in the direction of the cave. The woman also took a step, clearly warding him, but Klem, drawn to the sudden motion, turned and lunged at her with his knife.

And all hell broke loose.

* * * * *

Chapter 12

Beetle didn't remember falling asleep, but he woke quickly to the sounds of voices accompanied by multiple approaching footsteps. He barely had time to remember where he was when a pair of hands roughly grabbed hold of him and yanked him up. Pain flashed through his abused body, and he couldn't keep back a groan that was muffled by the gag pulled tight in his mouth.

"Is he still out?" asked someone nearby, a voice he didn't recognize from before.

"Doesn't matter," replied a second unfamiliar voice. "Get that gag off and bring him; the Blackeye wants to find out what he knows."

"You get the gag," the person holding him said. His hands were like clamps holding Beetle's arms. "This guy's heavier than he looks."

"Maybe if you spent time lifting more than an ale flagon, you wouldn't be such a damned weakling, Morus," the one giving the orders said. The first speaker laughed, and Morus grumbled something that was perhaps better left unheard. Beetle felt himself shift as his captor adjusted his grip. He took hold of Beetle with one hand fisted in the ropes that held him, while the other grabbed hold of his gag and pulled it loose. He kept his head lolling forward, pretending to still be asleep. His tongue felt big and awkward in his mouth; he _really_ wanted a drink of water.

"All right, bring him," the man in command said. "The Blackeye doesn't like to be kept waiting."

Beetle decided that he didn't want to be there anymore, and he certainly didn't want to talk to the Blackeye. He shifted his arms and slid out of the ropes holding him, the knots he'd undone earlier coming apart at the sudden movement. The hauflin dropped lightly to the floor, leaving Morus blinking in surprise at a fistful of empty rope.

Beetle looked up. There were only the three men, all big and hairy and smelly. He was in a small room with only one exit, an opening shaped like an oval with a torch set into a bracket on one side of it.

The three men stared at him in surprise. The one directly in front of him recovered first and reached down to grab him. Behind him Morus grabbed at his belt for a knife, but found only an empty scabbard.

That knife appeared suddenly in Beetle's hand as he dodged the huge but clumsy hands of the bandit and stuck the blade into the meat of his right thigh just above the knee. The man let out a squeal of pain and toppled over. He landed in an ungainly heap on the floor, clutching at the bloody wound.

By the time that the other two got their wits together enough to react Beetle was already through the exit, springing lightly through the raised lip of the opening and landing in a full sprint. The next room was somewhat bigger, with more torches and several exits to choose from. Beetle started for the closest one but skidded to a sudden stop as a man appeared there, his red robes like a bright flag in the hauflin's mind. The priest's eyes gleamed as they fixed upon the fugitive, and one hand stole meaningfully to the pouch he wore at his belt.

Beetle didn't linger to see if the priest had another handful of dust in that pouch. Sliding on the damp floor, he reversed his course and darted back in the other direction. One of the bandits appeared in the doorway he'd just left, his sword in his hand, his expression clearly showing that he'd lost any interest in merely recapturing his lost prisoner. But Beetle was already past him as he stepped forward into the room, and it didn't look like he would be quick enough to stop the hauflin from reaching the other exit. But even as he neared it, the two humans in pursuit, another figure appeared to block his escape.

This latest arrival was big even for his kind. His arms were each thicker around that Beetle's torso, and his neck looked like the shaft of a tree trunk. He was dressed in a shirt of mail links and wore both a sword on his hip and a big axe slung across his broad back, the crescent blade jutting up above one shoulder. His face was a weathered landscape of old scars, including a nasty gash that formed a puckered path from his jawbone to his right eye. In that socket, instead of a normal eye, there was an orb of pure black. For a moment Beetle's stare was drawn to it in fascination, but his study was interrupted as the big man bent to meet his charge, his arms spreading wide to block any path through the exit.

Beetle didn't stop running; as the man snarled and lunged, his arms snapping together, he sprang up and landed on his shoulder. The Blackeye had good reflexes, rearing up as his arm shot up to knock the hauflin free. But Beetle didn't linger. Kicking off the bandit's shoulder, he still managed to flick his arm down and catch the tip of his knife on the man's ear, slicing a deep notch in it. Blood spurted out and the man staggered against the side of the doorway, clutching at the nasty wound. _That had to hurt_ , Beetle thought.

The hauflin landed in a tumble that brought him back to his feet in the next chamber. This one was a long, narrow hall that bent slightly to the right as it progressed. The roaring sound he'd heard before was much louder here, making it difficult to hear the sounds of the commotion that he'd unleashed. The room was rather crowded, with several tables along the walls that had benches flanking them sufficient to seat a full dozen men. There was only a handful there now, some just coming to their feet and reaching for weapons. Beetle recognized a familiar face amongst the men, and smiled at the woman's look of astonishment before she reached for the bow sitting on the table next to her. The weapon had been unstrung, but she quickly and calmly set the string in place and reached for an arrow from the quiver riding on her hip.

Beetle was already running for the far end of the chamber. Behind him came shouts from the men he passed, and a truly echoing cry that filled the chamber. "KILL THAT BLOODY WEEKIN!" the Blackeye yelled, his voice overwhelming all the others in its intensity. Beetle couldn't help but let out a laugh at that, though his humor faded somewhat as he came around the bend in the room and saw what was ahead of him. There was another exit, a natural crack in the stone that looked like it had been widened somewhat on purpose, but blocking it were a pair of armed men who looked anything but off-guard. To their left the source of the roaring noise that permeated the complex was revealed, a wall of descending water that glowed with the light of the sun. It was pretty, and Beetle's fingers itched with a desire to touch it, or at least to stop for a drink. But more men were coming up behind him, and as he jerked to the side to avoid those ahead an arrow sliced past his ear, almost doing to him what he'd done to the goblin. One of the pair blocking his way held a short spear that he raised to throw, and Beetle realized that in a second or two he'd be a pincushion, like the one his Aunt Wanda kept on the table near the fireplace. He didn't have to look back to know that the other men behind were closing in, and that if he slowed down even for an instant they would have him.

There was only one thing to do. Charging forward, he sprang into the wall of water. Something hard struck him in the side and then he hit the waterfall, and everything vanished in a chaos of water and noise and motion.

* * *

It had been a long time, Jaron thought as he made his approach, but it was amazing how quickly the skills came back when it really mattered. He'd spent time hunting in the forests around Fairhollow, but what he was doing now, that was something different.

A rabbit or deer didn't generally have a sword to draw when it caught you stalking it.

He caught glimpses of what was happening down the hillside amongst the buildings of the camp as he drew nearer to the cave, but he forced himself to remain focused on his objective. He knew too much of life in the Tall Folks' world to deny that Beetle might already be dead in that cave, or that they would almost certainly kill him if they found him trying to sneak in.

He slowly pushed through the tall weeds and crawled forward through the rocks to the vantage where he'd spied upon the cave entrance before. At least he didn't have to worry too much about twigs or loose rocks giving away his position; this close to the waterfall and the stream he would have to make a considerable stir to draw any attention to himself. The opening was dark and quiet, but Jaron thought he could _sense_ the presence of the watcher there. He continued forward, advancing with incremental slowness that would not draw the eye, until he was behind a rock that was within twenty steps of the cave. Any further and he couldn't escape being seen if there was someone in that darkness watching.

Once he'd reached cover he stopped to listen. It was hard to make out over the rush of water tumbling down the hillside, but he thought he heard voices drifting up from below. They were too faint to make out, though he believed he could distinguish the pitch of Mara's voice within the medley. He couldn't lift his head up to check without giving away his position, but he didn't have to.

The man who emerged from the cave might have been the brother of one of those who'd attacked them along the road. He crept forward quickly through the bushes that fringed the cave, along the faint path that seemed to materialize beneath his feet. He only came far enough to get a quick look down the hillside, then hurried back to the cave and disappeared.

Jaron hesitated only an instant. The plan was for him to wait until the bandits responded to Mara's distraction, but there was a chance that they wouldn't wait, that they would kill Beetle outright once they learned of the intrusion. There was also a good chance that he would stumble right into a group of armed humans inside the cave, but Jaron tried not to think about that as he slipped forward through the rocks and hurried forward to the dark opening.

The darkness enfolded Jaron as he slipped through the mouth of the cave into the dank mustiness beyond. The immediate space beyond the entry was empty, the sentry most likely gone to alert others further in. The darkness wasn't total; there were torches in cracks in the walls further in, and once his eyes adjusted to the change he could see fairly well. But the whole sense of being underground was more than a bit unnerving, especially with the stink of the Tall Folk thick in the air around him.

But Beetle, if he was still alive, was somewhere inside, and so he had to keep going.

He was careful, his booted feet making not even a whisper on the bare stone as he moved ahead. The passage let to an opening protected by a curtain of dark wool just ahead. Jaron approached carefully, pausing to listen for a moment before he slowly pushed aside one edge of the curtain with his bow.

The space beyond was a small room maybe ten paces across. A tiny table flanked by stools filled a niche to his left. An unlit lantern stood atop the table; the only light came from the sole other exit, a passageway that led deeper into the complex. There was another curtain set into the wall there as well, but it was drawn back, the fabric held in place by a hook driven into the stone. From the roaring sound that issued from the passage it seemed that the cave abutted the waterfall from behind in that direction. The rest of the room was given over to storage, with a number of wooden crates and barrels arranged along the walls.

Jaron started walking over to the passage, but he'd barely managed a few steps before a shout, loud even over the sounds of the waterfall, froze him in his steps.

"Get that bloody weekin!"

For a moment Jaron thought that the cry was meant for him, but as he realized its import he hurried forward. He almost ran into the passage before he heard voices and realized that there were humans in the next room, just a scant few paces ahead. He flung himself quickly to the side, pressing his face into the fabric of the wool curtain. He pulled the curtain around him and sucked in a breath before he dared a quick look. He let out a gasp of relief as he realized that the men had been facing the other way, into the room instead of back down the passage toward him. One of them was probably the sentry, though Jaron hadn't gotten a good enough look at his face to separate him from the others.

The men in the room had a hurried exchange, the words lost against the backdrop of the waterfall but their general intent clear. Peering around the edge of the doorway, Jaron tensed as the men moved, but instead of coming back his way they headed deeper into the room, out of his view.

He hesitated, uncertain. There was no one now that he could see from his vantage, but one of the bandits could easily be in the next room just beyond the doorway, alert to an intrusion. Finally he slid forward slowly, one hand on the wall of the passage, willing himself to join with the shadows.

He saw no sentry but it looked as though the room went back quite a ways, bending with the natural curve of the cave. To his right he saw the waterfall as it filled a natural breach in the rock, glowing with the diffuse sunlight that made it through from outside. The room was occupied with tables and benches, suggesting that this was a gathering place or mess hall. The ground around his side of the room was slick with the spray from the falling plane of water.

He leaned forward and took a cautious look around. Droplets of water struck his face, something mundane and reassuringly normal. He blinked them away and started to take a step forward, only to freeze again as shadows appeared on the curving wall ahead. Someone was coming.

He took a quick look around, but the furnishings here offered dubious cover. He retreated quickly back to the small guardroom and slid into the narrow space between the barrels and the rear wall. He had barely gained that shelter when men appeared, moving fast. He counted six of them and felt a cold feeling of dread for Mara and Elevaren. But there was nothing he could do; to expose himself now would not improve their chances and could only result in a lost hope for Beetle.

The men didn't linger or even look around; they went straight to the far curtain and stepped through it. The fabric was still swaying when a final figure appeared from within the complex. Even hidden in the near-darkness Jaron froze as he recognized Jille Kerney.

The woman tracker was dressed much as she had been when Jaron had seen her last in Whiteridge, with a dark leather vest over a wool tunic and trousers tucked into knee-high boots. But she was carrying a composite bow with the string set, and wore a quiver on one hip opposite a long knife on the other. The hauflin held his breath as the woman stopped at the curtain. She shot a quick but wary look around the room, then tugged it aside and disappeared after the others.

Jaron let out the breath he'd been holding. He took a moment to steady himself, then hurried back into the complex.

The long room with the benches remained empty this time as he softly padded down its length. Jaron drew out an arrow and fitted the notch against the string of his bow, applying just enough tension so that he could hold it in place with one hand against the shaft. He knew that if he ran into even one human bandit he would be hard-pressed to stop him with that readied arrow, but the knowledge that at least he'd be able to put up a fight gave him some confidence. He stayed close to the cover of the tables, then moved over to the wall as he approached the exit on the far side of the room.

Again he heard voices as he came up to the opening, but he was far enough away from the waterfall that he could make them out as he pressed up against the stone on the edge of the doorway.

"He stabbed me!" a voice said, the voice of a man obviously in pain. "That little bastard... he stabbed me, Geoff!"

The voice that spoke next wasn't a direct answer, but Jaron recognized it as the same one that had shouted earlier for Beetle's death. "Is he going to die? Or are you only good at spilling blood, and not at keeping it in the body?"

The third voice was unfamiliar, thin and scratchy, but somehow it sent chills down Jaron's spine. "He cut the major vessel that runs up the length of the leg," he said. "Even a White priest would most likely be unable to do anything for him at this point."

The wounded man spoke again, sounding both desperate and weakening. "Geoff... please, you've got to make him fix me up..."

"You earned your fate when you let a three-foot weekin get the better of you," Geoff replied coldly. "Where did he get the knife?"

"Morus, it was that fool Morus... please... don't let me die, I've served Nathen loyally..."

Jaron heard footsteps and drew quickly back, but they weren't coming toward him. The dying man's entreaties continued, though they were rapidly growing feeble. Jaron risked a quick look, sliding his head around the edge of the doorway just enough so that he could look into the room beyond with one eye. The light was poor, but he could clearly make out two distinct forms standing maybe ten paces ahead of him. He could easily match the voices to the bodies; "Geoff" was a burly giant of a man clad in metal armor and heavily armed, while the man with the scratchy voice wore a red robe that draped from his lean, almost gaunt frame. Dark markings were visible on his face, tattoos or paint of some sort.

"I want you to get out there," Geoff said. He was faced mostly away from Jaron, but as he turned his head toward the priest the torchlight glinted off of his right eye in a way that looked odd to the hauflin. It might have been a trick of the light, but the eye looked solid black, almost as if the socket were empty. Jaron quickly drew back into the cover of the doorway.

"You are bleeding, my lord," the priest said. "Let me quickly treat your wound, and then I should send a report to..."

"The wound and your report can wait," Geoff said, cutting him off. "With most of my archers stolen thanks to your master's meddling, your powders may be needed to deal with the intruders."

"But the crystal..."

" _I_ will get the crystal. It's more important that these intruders do not escape to alert Whiteridge to our presence."

"But surely we cannot remain here now..."

"That's _my_ decision," Geoff replied angrily. "Now go, priest!"

Jaron didn't hear the man's response, but he quickly retreated to the nearest of the tables. He dropped to the floor and rolled under the bench close against the wall. From that hiding place he saw the swish of the priest's red robes as he hurried past.

Jaron waited until he was completely gone from sight before he moved again. He knew what those robes meant. He had never met a Red priest, had never wanted to. Yarine and the other priests of the Green in the villages around Fairhollow had universally referred to the followers of the Red as corrupted and evil. In all his travels he'd never heard anything to contradict that assessment. Jaron did not know this man, but even with this brief encounter he was able to believe those reports true.

He should have left then, while he had the chance, but he could not. Mara and Elevaren might already be dead; even with their combined skills he could not imagine them facing seven armed foes on top of whoever had been on watch down at the sawmill, and walking away from it. He could at least have done something to help them, even if it was just shooting that priest in the back.

But he had to know. Geoff's earlier shout and the exchange he'd just overheard suggested that Beetle had gotten free, at least for a moment. Was he lying dead now in the next room, maybe beside the man he'd stabbed in the leg?

Jaron eased forward. Slowly he peered again around the edge of the doorway into the next room.

The big human was gone. Jaron could see the wounded man lying motionless near the wall to the right. A pool of blood was slowly spreading out from underneath him.

Jaron waited for ten heartbeats, but the man did not stir. He silently padded forward into the room, alert to the slightest sound that would indicate where the bandit leader had gone. There were three exits, dark openings in the rock that led to other chambers. He checked the one farthest from the dying bandit first, and found an empty barracks, the irregular interior space crowded with crude bunk beds and other simple furnishings. It was hard to see the entire space from the entrance, but Jaron didn't see anything that would have indicated that Beetle had been there.

Swallowing, he retraced his steps to the exit next to the human. He had to circle wide around him to avoid the pool of blood. The man stank foully, and Jaron revised his assessment of the man's condition. The cavalier way that the bandit leader had let this man die only accentuated the cold feeling of terror that formed a fist in his belly.

The room behind him was much smaller and empty. It stank too, but even as he started to turn away he caught a glimpse of something lying on the floor that drew his attention. He crept forward and found that it was a length of rope, coiled into half-formed knots.

Jaron's boot pressed into something sticky. He didn't need to look to know what it was.

"Belden," he whispered. It looked as though his cousin had been held here, but there was no clue to where he was now. And he had already pressed his luck too far.

As if summoned by the thought, a shadow fell over the light from the doorway. The fist in Jaron's gut tightened as he turned to see the big human warrior standing there, blocking his escape. Silhouetted against the light he seemed even more menacing, his features shrouded in darkness. He was holding an axe in his hand, the crescent blade almost as big as Jaron's torso from neck to groin. "Well, well," he said. "Looking for your little friend? He squealed like a pig when I gutted him."

He was trying to provoke Jaron, but the hauflin was experienced enough to know that rushing the man would only result in a messy and quick death. The big human could see that the realization and laughed.

"So. You're not stupid. Good for you, even if this can end only one way for you, weekin."

The man stepped forward, but only enough so that was fully in the room, still blocking the exit. Jaron could see that he was wounded, blood trailing from a deep notch in his ear, but the gory mess the wound had made him seem only more frightening.

Jaron's fist tensed on the arrow fitted to his bow. He knew that he would only get one shot.

As if reading his mind, the man laughed again. "Waiting for your friends to come save you, little one? There will be no salvation. Virem is but an acolyte, but his power is more than enough to deal with a few intruders, and my men have been spoiling for some action of late."

"You killed those others, the caravan out of Knowlton," Jaron said.

"Ah, them. So you knew them, eh? Or maybe one of them in particular. I remember that there was a weekin in that group. Your daddy, maybe?"

"Brother," Jaron said.

"Ah, more's the pity for you, then." He lifted his axe.

"So Nathen's behind all this, then?" Jaron found himself asking.

That brought the man up short. "You know that name, eh? Well, it won't do you no good, weekin. Whatever you know, it dies here, right now."

He stepped forward again, and this time Jaron knew that nothing would stop him until he had buried his axe in the hauflin's skull.

* * * * *

Chapter 13

The fight began in confusion and devolved quickly from there. But within that chaos Mara felt calm, insulated within the training that had been her uncle's one lasting gift to her.

She avoided the bandit's clumsy thrust and swept her sword under his outstretched arm and into his body. Even as he started to spin from the impact she drew her second sword and slashed the tip across his neck just under the line of his jaw. Blood flashed in a spray from the wound and the dying man dropped to the ground, trying in vain to stop the flow with both hands.

The second bandit was a big man, a brute; she knew the type well. He surged forward to meet her, a pair of knives in his meaty fists, and she was forced back before that initial rush. A tendril of panic flittered at the edge of her mind but she refused to let it in, letting her body take charge with the reactions that her uncle had drilled into her. Her swords had length over his knives, but he was quick, and in the first rapid exchange he lunged out and stabbed her in the shoulder. Her armor held up against the thrust, but the sheer force of it was enough to knock her back several steps. The man lowered his head and charged after her.

Rokal couldn't do anything to save Klem, couldn't stop Stennos from rushing forward to engage his killer. He only barely raised his sword in time to meet the black-cloaked priest, who moved forward to engage him. The priest caught the bandit's blind swing with the shaft of his rod, its substance raising sparks off the steel as they collided. Rokal was no novice, but he could tell immediately that the priest was a veteran warrior. The bandit retreated as their weapons met again and again, until one parry caught Rokal's sword at a bad angle and knocked it free from his hands. He turned to run, but the priest drove the bulging head of his rod into the bandit's body, driving him to the ground. He lay there in the dirt, stunned.

Mara stumbled back, trying to regain her defensive stance before Stennos barreled into her. But before he could reach her he was distracted by Elevaren, who came at him from the flank with his staff raised. The picture created by the old man threatening the big warrior seemed ridiculous, until a shower of sparks erupted from the tip of the staff and flew into Stennos's face. The bandit staggered back, but before either of his opponents could take advantage he raised his right hand and snapped one of his knives into the old man's body. The blade sank deep into the meaty flesh beneath his shoulder, and he cried out in pain as he fell back onto the ground.

"Elevaren!" Mara cried, charging forward to meet the bandit. Still blinking away the blinding effects of the old man's magic, Stennos still managed to turn to face her, sweeping his remaining knife up in an arc toward her face. Mara ducked under it and slashed her swords up, tearing into his arm at the wrist and elbow. The knife went flying as the blades bit deep, and Stennos jerked back, clutching the savaged limb against his body. Mara pressed him ruthlessly, poking at him with her blades, piercing the leather armor that protected his torso. The bandit took a swing at her with his good arm, managing a powerful swipe despite his wounds, but she sidestepped the punch and plunged both blades into his side. Stennos stumbled back a few steps and collapsed, struggling feebly as the vicious wounds poured his life out upon the ground.

Mara was at Elevaren's side in an instant, though she checked to make sure that all of the bandits were out of the fight before she dropped her swords and reached for him. Blood flecked his lips, a dangerous suggestion that the knife had pierced a lung. She evaluated the injury, trying to judge whether it would be better to remove the knife or leave it in the wound.

"Take... take it out," he said, gasping with effort.

She nodded and ripped off the scarf, wadding it in her hand before she grabbed hold of the knife. "Are you ready?"

"Do it."

She pulled it out, ignoring his groan of pain and pressing the scarf under his robe against the flow of blood that poured out of the wound. It didn't look like it had penetrated all the way through, but it was still a grievous injury.

"You'll be all right, this is just a scratch," she told him. She glanced again at the fallen bandits. The black priest was standing over one of them, the one with the sword who had questioned them earlier. He drew back his cowl, revealing a face marked with hard lines, his black hair and beard cut short. He might have been forty. There was something vaguely familiar about him, a hint of a memory that she could not quite reconcile with the man who stood in front of her. There was an intensity in his stare as he met her eyes.

"There will be more of them," he said.

"My friend is hurt," she replied.

The priest shifted his look to Elevaren, but if there was any compassion there, Mara couldn't see it.

With an obvious effort Elevaren reached up and grabbed hold of her arm. "It's all right," he said. "You need to find Jaron, and Beetle. Go."

But before she could respond, the priest spoke again. "He is here," he said. Mara followed his eyes up toward the tangle of weeds and bushes and boulders that formed a fringe around the crest of the hill, but she couldn't see anything at first. But then she caught sight of movement in the brush next to the large waterfall above the sawmill. She picked up her swords as men appeared, just a few at first, but reinforced until there were six of them, all the same sort as the men lying dead or dying on the hillside in front of the old mill. The new arrivals didn't hesitate, waiting only until all of them were clear of the bushes before they ran down the hill toward them.

She glanced over at the priest, but if he was concerned he concealed it well. He merely hefted his rod and started walking forward. Mara's own heart felt like it would pop in her chest, but she took up her own swords and followed.

The men spread out as they came up on the two intruders. Mara noticed that a final figure had appeared above, a short-haired woman holding a bow. There was something familiar about her, but Mara didn't have time to consider what it was; once she saw that the woman didn't have a clear shot at them over her allies she focused on the immediate threat.

As they closed to melee range the men broke into two groups. They didn't slow their charge, clearly intending to use momentum and numbers to overwhelm their enemies. One threw a small axe at the priest, but he calmly raised his black rod and deflected it with a loud ring of impact. The axe flew past Mara's head with an arm's length to spare, but there was no time to think about the near-miss as the bandits attacked.

Mara let the priest take the lead; her uncle had taught her to win fights, not to play games with some imaginary and useless code of honor, and in any case there were plenty of enemies to go around. But even as the first cohort reached him, one raising his sword to strike while his companions spread out to flank him, the priest raised his rod in both hands. Dropping to one knee, he slammed the narrow end into the ground.

Mara couldn't quite tell what it was that he did, but she heard something, a terrible howl that send a tendril of icy cold through her body to her very bones. The three bandits clearly were affected somewhat more directly as they stumbled back, looks of dismay replacing the expressions of eager anticipation their faces had held a moment before. Even as Mara watched the priest rose up again and delivered a two-handed strike that smashed the thick head of the rod across the face of the man in front of him, knocking him to the ground in a limp heap.

But that was all the attention she could spare for him, as the other bandits rushed in at her. Whatever spell the priest had unleashed had not given these men pause, but at least moving around him had broken up their ranks enough to keep them from flanking her the way they had him. She didn't wait for them to regroup, stepping forward to meet the first with her uncle's words whispering in her mind. _When facing more than one foe, take the fight to them on your terms, not theirs_. He was armed with a short spear that he thrust at her face, but it was almost trivial for her to deflect the thrust with one sword while following it back to its source with the other. The bright steel of the spearhead flashed scant inches past her head, but that was the only chance that the spearman had as her sword sliced through the forward hand holding onto the shaft. The spear fell from his grasp as fingers went flying, and she followed that with a thrust that clipped the man across the brow, ripping open his face to the skull beneath. While not a killing strike the blow effectively took him out of the battle, and she stepped clear as he fell, blood sheeting down his face in a blinding mess.

The other two were a bit more cautious. One had an axe, the other a small cavalry sword with a slight curve to its blade. The one with the axe had a beard that looked like a dozen birds' nests matted together; he certainly looked tough enough, but he flinched back as Mara thrust at his face with her blades. The attack was just a feint, and she pivoted back to meet the assault of the swordsman, parrying with her right sword before she planted her feet and drove the second into his belly. He cried out and staggered back, raising his weapon again to meet her follow-up. But there was no finishing attack; Mara had already spun again toward the axeman, and even as he started his swing she dropped into a low crouch and snapped her right sword around in a vicious arc that tore heavily into his left knee. The bearded man stumbled as the savaged joint collapsed underneath him, and as he fell Mara chopped her left sword into his throat, crushing his windpipe.

"Mara, look out!"

Elevaren's warning came just barely in time, and Mara's eyes flashed up to see the arrow launched from the bandit woman's bow. Reaction outpaced conscious thought, and she flung herself to the side, the arrow slicing through the air where she'd been standing a moment before. A feral smile creased her face as the archer cursed and reached for another arrow from the quiver at her hip.

Mara nearly started up the hill after her, but a clutter of loose stones behind her warned her that not all of her current enemies were out of the fight just yet. The spearman, his face a mask of blood, let out a gurgling sound as he leapt at her back, a knife clutched in the hand that still had enough fingers left to grasp the hilt. She intercepted him with a strike that clanked hard against the side of his head, completing the ruin of his face and sending him down once again, this time for good.

A heavy thud drew her attention around in time to see the priest knock the last of his foes to the ground. Dazed as they were by his magic, none of them had put up enough of a fight to slow him, and from what she could see he had taken no wounds. She herself was unmarked, but her shoulder still throbbed where the big bandit had hit her earlier. But she saw the priest's face change, the neutral mask he'd worn even as he'd struck down the bandits changing to a look of utter hatred that gave her pause despite the fact that it was not directed at her.

She followed that look back up the hill and saw that the woman archer had been joined by a man in a red robe. She had never seen a Red priest before, but even without the reaction of the Black she felt a cold feeling of dread from this man. His face was covered with markings, giving him an alien appearance like some monster from one of the stories.

The Black priest started up the hill. The archer fitted an arrow to her bow, took aim, and fired. The shot flew true, striking the priest in the chest, but he merely grunted and kept on going. After a few steps he reached up and pulled the arrow free, tossing it aside while he lifted his rod in his other hand.

Mara hesitated for a moment, then started after him. She was still a good fifteen paces behind him when the Red priest drew out a hand from his pouch and hurled a cloud of what looked like ashes toward the approaching Black priest. Mara stopped and drew back in alarm. The edge of the cloud was well clear of her, but it enfolded the Black priest, swallowing him up as though he'd never existed at all.

* * *

Jaron lifted his bow as Geoff Blackeye stepped forward, intent on selling his life dearly. But before he could take the shot, his eyes caught a shadow moving behind the big human.

The bandit leader grimaced in pain as Beetle sliced his dagger across his left hamstring. "Run, Jayse!" he yelled, even as Jaron shouted, "Beetle, no!"

Geoff swung around, his axe sweeping down in a bright blur as the torchlight glinted off the steel. Beetle saw the attack coming and sprang back, but the blade still caught him with a glancing blow into the side, ripping through his coat and spinning him around violently before he was flung to the floor.

"Beetle!" Jaron yelled. With a feral snarl he raised his bow, aimed, and fired in a single motion. With the bad light and the human still moving the shot missed its precise target, slicing across his brow rather than finding the narrow gap of his eye. The arrow flew away into the darkness, trailing a spray of blood that spattered onto the bare stone floor. Geoff's roar was an amplified echo of Jaron's cry, and he swept the axe at the hauflin scout, moving quickly despite the obvious hindrance of his injured leg. Jaron dove to the side and bent almost half over, using his right hand to keep from falling to the ground. The axe carved the air so close to him that his cap was yanked roughly off his head, but then he was past and running hard. Beetle was alive, amazingly, though his face was twisted with pain as he pulled himself to his feet.

"Run!" Jaron yelled. "Run!"

They ran, the warrior's violent curses behind them indicating that he was not far behind.

* * * * *

Chapter 14

Mara didn't know what was in the Red priest's dust, but she knew instinctively that she didn't want the gray powder to touch her. Thankfully the wind was coming from the side rather than blowing straight down the hill toward her. The faint breeze pulled at the plume and pulled it apart, the remnants of the dust cloud drifting away over the stream. To her surprise—and perhaps to the Red priest's as well—the Black priest strode out of the dissolving cloud apparently none the worse for wear. That was apparently enough for the archer, who turned and darted away into the tall brush, vanishing into the knot of boulders. The Red priest looked as though he was eager to depart as well, but as he started to turn the Black priest raised his rod and pointed it at him.

"Stop!" he commanded. Mara couldn't tell if there was magic in that command or whether the sheer force of the Black priest's personality held the Red in thrall, but the man paused. That hesitation was enough for the Black priest to close the final few steps between them. He raised his rod again, this time to strike, but before he could deliver a blow the Red priest snarled and raised his right hand, the fingers curled into a claw. Mara blinked in astonishment as the priest's hand burst into flames, a red nimbus of fire that formed blazing trails in the air as he reached for the Black priest's face.

But even as he lunged the Black priest met him, snapping his rod up to intercept the burning claw. The Red priest's hand seized on the carved black skull that tipped the ebon shaft, and as they linked flames blazed outward from the contact, surrounding both men with a bright halo. Mara could hear sounds of rage and pain coming from within that joining, though she couldn't decipher whether one of the men, or both, was the source.

Caught on the edge of that violent exchange of magic, Mara could only stand and watch. It seemed that it lasted much longer than a few heartbeats before the flames died and the two men parted. The Red priest let out a soft sound and slumped down to his knees. The Black priest wavered for an instant, but he seemed to swell again in strength as he lifted the black rod.

"Should you encounter your master's soul while you make your way to the Pit, tell him that I am coming for him," the Black priest said.

"No, wait!" Mara yelled, but too late; the dark rod came down once more, and she could clearly hear the loud crack as it struck that spoke of finality. But even so the Black priest made certain of the deed, bending over the fallen man as he gasped out the last of his life. He muttered something over the dying priest, words that Mara caught the end of as she ran up. They might have been in another language; in any case she couldn't make sense of the grim benediction.

"He might have had information," she said.

The Black priest looked up at her. "Men of his sort are too dangerous to let live," he said. "This man was but an acolyte; his master still awaits."

He rose and started up toward the bushes beside the falls where the bandits had emerged. "Wait, wait!" she shouted.

He paused, but did not look back. "Look, my friend..." Mara said. "Elevaren, he's hurt badly..."

"Remain if you wish," the priest said without turning. "I must see this finished." With that he started walking up the hill toward the path where the bandits had appeared.

Mara bit off a curse—she doubted it would have any effect on the man—but even as she started to turn back a rustling in the bushes drew her attention back up toward the summit. The priest noticed it as well, and moved into a stance that reminded Mara of her own extensive training. At first she couldn't see anyone, even as the disturbance grew closer. She lifted her swords and came up next to the priest, sparing him a quick look that wasn't returned. Shaking her head, she tensed in readiness.

That tension came out in a gasp of relief as the two hauflin burst out of the growth, first Beetle and then his cousin.

"Jaron!" she yelled up. Beetle was hurt, blood oozing into his filthy shirt from a wound in his side, and his cousin looked little better off. She was running to meet them even before she had a chance to think about the risks. The look on the older hauflin's face warned her of the danger, moments before a more violent shaking of the bushes announced another arrival.

This one she saw coming, the man too big for the brush to conceal as it had the two hauflin. He was a warrior, that much she could tell in one glance, even before she clearly marked the coat of heavy mail links draped over his torso and the broad-bladed axe he carried in one hand. There was something wrong with one of his eyes, the right socket filled with a black orb that gave him a fearsome appearance. He was injured, with blood covering one side of his head and a limp that told of a recent leg wound, but he didn't hesitate as he caught sight of Mara and the Black priest.

She didn't have time to consider courses of action; her swords came up in reflex as the axe swept around toward her head. She ducked and parried, a fortunate combination as the power of the swing drove through her swords and nearly knocked both of them out of her hands. The warrior recovered quickly, almost too quickly, chopping his weapon back so fast that she was grateful she hadn't tried a counterattack. She darted back, but still took a glancing hit that she felt pulse through her body even though it failed to penetrate the layered iron scales she wore under her tunic. Only the man's injury kept him from following her hasty retreat.

He started after her anyway, but had to turn to face the Black priest. Their exchange was just as swift, the priest swinging his rod and the warrior deflecting it with the haft of his axe. He jabbed the base of the shaft into the priest's body, knocking him back a step but doing little apparent harm.

Mara didn't wait, moving quickly around to the big warrior's flank. The bandit saw him coming but didn't bother with retreat or begging quarter; he simply pivoted and swung the axe in a broad one-handed sweep to keep her at a distance. The priest recovered and stepped forward to resume his attack, but the warrior continued his swing, smoothly transitioning the axe back to both hands and finishing the full circle that kept both of his opponents at bay. Mara could see in his eyes that the man recognized the difficulty of his situation, but there was no give in him.

The warrior abruptly staggered and nearly fell. As he turned Mara could see the arrow jutting from his thigh, the tiny shaft buried deep into the meat of the limb. She made a cautious lunge that drew a quick swing of the axe. She avoided the swing easily and caught a flicker of black out of the corner of her eye. Even with just one eye the bandit leader detected the threat as well. With both legs damaged he couldn't recover as quickly but he tried, twisting his torso to bring around the axe as the Black priest attacked. The rod slammed hard into his side, drawing a grunt of pain. He didn't cry out even when Mara slashed her sword into his left arm, cutting through the heavy leather of his coat and scoring the flesh to the bone. He turned to face her, raising the axe in his good hand, but too late to stop Mara's second sword from driving up under his chin into his skull.

Blood jetted from the vicious wound in a torrent, spraying over both Mara and the Black priest. The warrior let out a gurgle and collapsed slowly to the ground. Mara stood over him, breathing heavily.

"Maybe you can question him," the Black priest said. He met Mara's surprised look with a stony gaze. He started to turn away, but Mara quickly asked, "Who _are_ you?"

At that question the priest did stop, briefly. He turned his head back, and as he shifted she could clearly see the carving that topped the priest's rod. It was a skull, perfectly detailed down to the teeth set in the ebon jaw.

Her eyes flicked up to meet his. There was _something_ that flashed there, some kind of recognition that she did not understand.

"I am Devrem, of the Black," he said. Without giving her a chance to respond he turned and walked away, disappearing up into the bushes where the bandits had appeared. Mara watched him in stunned silence, then raised an arm to wipe away some of the blood covering her face.

"Where did he come from?" Jaron asked.

Mara blinked and turned to look at the hauflin. She shook her head, forcing herself back into the moment. "I don't know. He showed up while we were talking to the bandit sentries. He was looking for the Red priest."

"I guess he found him," Jaron said, indicating the body.

"He said that this one was just an acolyte, that there was a master."

"I don't think there were any more men up in the cave," Jaron said.

"The woman, the archer, she ran away," he said.

"She's trouble," Jaron said. "Beetle's hurt, I have to..."

"Yeah, Elevaren too," she said. Turning to look back down the hillside, she saw that the other hauflin had gone down to join Elevaren. "Come on," she said, sparing one last quick look toward the summit before hurrying down to her friend.

* * * * *

Chapter 15

Wooden blades danced in a violent storm in the clearing near the mountain cabin. Mara and Torvan dodged and weaved, their boots stamping up small puffs of snow as they sparred. Both carried a wooden sword in each hand, which moved in blurs of motion as they stabbed, slashed, and parried. Her uncle still had the advantage of size and weight on her, but the gray in his hair had spread and deepened, while Mara's sixteen-year-old body was toned with hard-won muscle. Other parts of her had developed as well, but some of those details were muted under the sleeveless leather tunic that she'd laced tight around her torso.

Finally Torvan overextended himself on a lunge, and the young woman darted under his reach, slapping the shorter of her two weapons up into his wrist. One of his weapons went flying. He spun around and swung his other sword in a blinding arc toward her neck, but she dropped into a crouch, and as the weapon sliced over her head, she laid the points of both of her weapons against Torvan's groin.

"Yield?" she asked, with a hint of a smile.

"I suppose I'd better, if I want to be able to walk home," he growled. He walked over to where his first sword had fallen, grimacing slightly as he bent to pick it up. He had turned his body to shield it from Mara, but she did not miss it.

"Are you all right, uncle?"

"Fine, fine. Just an old body letting me know that it's displeased."

"We keep returning to the two-swords style. Why do you give that so much emphasis? In your books, most of the references are to the large two-hander, or to the sword-and-shield style."

Torvan clacked his wooden swords together to clear the clinging snow off the one that had fallen. "Bah. Most fighters you meet will tell you that the two-sword style is for those self-styled 'rangers,' or court duelists who play for touches with weapons that would break if you parried them with a real blade. But it's all about speed, girl. You've gotten stronger, but you'd never be able to hold up against a man my size with a heavy blade. And as for the shield... well, I've taught you how to use one... what's the answer to your question?"

"Speed, and visibility," she said. "The off-hand blade gives you the option of parrying, but also of a counter from a direction that the foe doesn't expect."

He nodded. "Good. It's getting late, why don't you..."

But he trailed off and turned suddenly in the direction of the trail that led down off the mountain. Mara heard it too, a clip of hooves on the rough soil of the path; multiple horses, by the sound.

Torvan moved quickly to the log where his sword rested. "Get back to the cabin," he told Mara.

"But uncle..."

"Do it. Get the other swords and bring them here."

He kept his weapon in hand but did not draw as he walked over to the cabin, taking up a position facing the trail.

The riders came into view. There were four of them, the last leading a fifth horse equipped with a riding saddle instead of a pack saddle. All four were broad-shouldered men in their twenties and thirties. They were clad in armor that ranged from breastplates of boiled leather to heavier shirts of dense chain links, and each carried an assortment of weapons.

They reined in their horses as they spotted Torvan, spreading out to form a line facing him. Their horses snorted, sending out plumes of white mist into the cold air.

"Torvan Lendoran?" asked one of the men. He was a lean fellow clad in chainmail and a blue tabard bearing the mark of a rearing bear.

"Aye, that's me," Torvan said. He held his sword easy at his side, but his body seemed like a coiled spring, ready to move.

"My name is Gael Hallas," the man said. "Lord Bregan Zelos sends us with word that Dal Durga's raiders are on the march. They have already struck two frontier villages, and Lord Zelos is creating a force to stop them before they can swing south into richer lands."

"I am no longer in the Lord's service," Torvan said.

Gael's mouth tightened in obvious disapproval. "The entire region is at risk, man. Lord Zelos said to give this to you." He drew out a small, tightly wrapped parchment from a pouch at his belt and handed it to Torvan. Torvan took his time, breaking the seal with his thumb then unrolling the scroll to scan it, keeping his sword held easily in the crook of his arm.

Mara had emerged from the cabin, a pair of sheathed swords held together in her hands. She remained on the porch, watching the riders warily.

Torvan finished his reading. "All right," he said. "Give me five minutes to get my things together. Wait here."

He walked back toward the cabin. "Uncle?" Mara asked.

"I'm sorry, girl; I have obligations that predate your arrival into my life. I have to go."

"I'll go with you."

"No. You'll remain here. I don't want my cabin to end up as the winter den for some bear, or a pack of orcs. It's just a band of raiders; I'll be back soon enough."

"But..."

"Don't question me, girl," he said gruffly, pushing past her and disappearing into the cabin.

The riders watched her. The one on the end of the line smiled at her, but there was something in his eyes that send a cold chill down the back of her neck. He smirked, and whispered something to his companion; both men laughed. She wanted to go inside after Torvan, but she forced herself to remain standing there, a frozen look of cool calm set on her features.

Her uncle returned quickly, well in advance of the allotted five minutes. In addition to his sword, he carried a short-handled axe balanced for throwing, and an unstrung longbow thrust through the straps of a bulging travel pack. He wore under his furs a breastplate of dull iron, one strap still dangling unfastened. Mara stepped in front of him and attended to the strap.

"I don't want to stay here alone," she said, under her breath so that only she could hear.

"Life rarely gives us what we want," he said. "I will be back."

And with that, he left.

* * *

"Where were you, just now?" Elevaren asked.

Mara blinked and straightened on the rock where she'd been sitting. "You shouldn't be up," she said to him. "They're sending a wagon, and the White priest said you should wait for it to get here."

"I'm all right," the old man said, but he let out a tired sigh as he sat down next to her on the rocks. "I'm getting too old for this sort of thing."

"Hey, it was your idea to come here."

He turned to look at her, his eyes unforgiving. "Do you regret it?"

She looked away from him, back up the hillside toward the remnants of the old milling camp. Lord Pestis's armsmen were still crawling around everywhere, while several men wearing expensive clothes and the medallions of the Town Council were chatting with their officer in the shadow of the sawmill itself. They'd been there for the better part of two hours, and while they hadn't accomplished much in that time as far as Mara could tell, they had managed to get all of the bodies arranged in a line, the dead bandits covered with dark cloaks.

Then her eyes shifted to where the two hauflin were still being interviewed by one of the soldiers. Beetle's torso was wrapped in fresh white bandages, but they weren't stopping him from what was probably a wild account of his misadventures, punctuated with frequent yells and pointing. "No," she said with a sigh. "I don't regret it."

"You were thinking about something else when I came up," he prodded again.

"I was thinking of my uncle," she said.

"He did everything he could to prepare you," Elevaren said.

She looked at her hands. She'd washed the blood off them, but she knew that the taint that it left wouldn't be so quick to fade. "I am what I am," she said.

"Mara..."

"What about the Black priest?" she abruptly asked. "Is he still up there, talking to that White?"

"No, I think he left shortly after the second cohort of soldiers arrived from Whiteridge," Elevaren said.

"What?" she asked, straightening. "They just let him go?"

Elevaren shrugged. "What could they do? A man like him... he's not subject to Pestis's authority."

"I wish the same could be said for us," she groused. It might have been easier if they'd left before the arrival of the authorities. The first group to respond had been a patrol of riders who'd arrived shortly after the death of the bandit leader, drawn by the sounds of battle. They'd immediately sent back a man to spread the alarm, resulting in the arrival of the small army that occupied the camp now. But Elevaren and Beetle had both lost a lot of blood, and the Black priest, obsessed with his personal vendetta against the Red priests, had spent that time searching the bandit hideout and had been no help. And she had to admit that the probing questions asked by Pestis's men had been worth the aid of the White priest who'd arrived with the second cohort, and who had immediately moved to treat their wounded. By that point it had only been them who had needed that help; none of the bandits had lived that long.

She turned her face toward the setting sun. A little less than half of that burning sphere still poked up above the uneven line of the mountains to the west, but it was still enough for her to feel the warmth of it upon her skin. She closed her eyes and let herself _feel_ it.

Beside her, Elevaren remained silent. "Spit it out, old man," Mara finally said without turning.

"I saw that you were listening earlier, when Jaron told the watch officer about what happened in the cave."

"So?"

"You heard the name that he overheard, when he was spying on the bandits."

Mara opened her eyes and looked at him. "Maybe it's not the same Nathen," she said.

Elevaren's lips twisted in disapproval. "Mara."

She suddenly rose up to her feet. "What do you want from me?" she asked. "That part of my life is behind me, and good riddance to it."

"Mara..."

"I'm going to ask that bloody captain if he intends to keep us here all bloody night." She pointed a finger at him. "You stay here, and wait for the bloody black wagon." With that she spun and strode off, leaving the old man alone.

Elevaren folded his hands in his lap and let out a tired sigh.

* * * * *

Chapter 16

The mood in the common room of The Silver Gables was far more subdued than it had been earlier. Since their return from the old sawmill the day before, word had spread about what had happened and the people of Whiteridge were nervous. Jaron heard various theories about the bandits mentioned as he made his way through the scattered knots of people gathered for the morning meal at the inn. No one mentioned hauflin or paid him any heed, which was perfectly fine with him.

He didn't see Mara or Elevaren; either they were sleeping in or they'd already eaten and started their day. He also took a quick look around for the Black priest. He didn't really expect to see him here, but was nevertheless relieved when he didn't see his dark cloak among the varied outfits of the inn's patrons.

He still knew almost nothing about the man. Devrem remained a mystery, but his presence, and the presence of a servant of the Red in the bandit camp, raised some questions that increased Jaron's lingering sense of disquiet.

But those problems belonged to someone else, the hauflin reminded himself. It was past time that he and Beetle finished their business here and returned home.

He got a plate of foodstuffs from the innkeeper and headed back to the room that he and Beetle shared. Better to eat in their room than risk drawing more attention to themselves. Lord Pestis's men had had many questions for them, and while he had nothing to hide, he'd felt more than a little suspicion coming from the dour human leaders.

When he got to the room he found Beetle sitting on the narrow frame of their room's tiny window. His cousin turned and smiled at him. He looked much better than he had in the aftermath of the battle at the old sawmill; the magic of the White priests was potent. Jaron had worried that the events there would have left a mark of trauma upon the young hauflin, but Beetle seemed unchanged. And Jaron had to admit that without his cousin's intervention he might not be alive to worry.

It was still early, the clouded glass covered in a faint mist of condensation. Beetle had drawn a design in the fog, something that Jaron couldn't quite make out. The lines looked too thin to have been made with his finger, however, and he didn't miss the way that his cousin tucked something into his coat when Jaron came in.

"What do you have there, Beetle?"

Beetle jumped down from the windowsill. "Nothing."

"Beetle. Come on, no lying, you know that's wrong."

Beetle hesitated then took something out of his coat. It was a dagger, sized for the hauflin's tiny hand. Jaron could see that it was a proper weapon and not some kitchen tool, balanced for throwing with a hilt carefully wrapped in textured leather. He guessed its worth to be at least a decent handful of silver, if not gold.

"Beetle, where did you get that?"

"Mara gave it to me."

"Mara, the Tall Folk woman?"

"Yes."

He fidgeted and looked uncomfortable. Jaron suddenly realized that his cousin expected him to take the weapon away from him. The blade was double-edged, and Jaron could tell its quality without even holding it. A human warrior probably would consider it a toy, useless. A human would underestimate someone facing them with such a knife.

He imagined that Geoff Blackeye had underestimated his cousin.

"It's a good weapon," Jaron said. "Did she give you a scabbard to go with it?"

His grin exploding, Beetle produced the sheath. It was a simple fold of black leather, with a clasp on the back so it could be attached to a belt.

"I have to go to the Green temple."

"To see Jayse."

Jaron nodded. "Yes. It's almost time to go home."

"I don't want to go home. I want to stay with you."

"I am going home," Jaron said. He sat down on the end of the bed, tapped the coverlet until Beetle sat down next to him. "You know, I bet that everybody's forgotten about what happened with Dale's bull by now. And I'm sure that Wanda misses you."

"I want to stay out here. Go with you, fight bad guys."

Jaron shook his head. "We don't belong here, Beetle. This world... this world, out here, it's not for our kind. Do you understand?"

Beetle nodded. Jaron hoped his cousin understood what he was trying to tell him, but there was a part of him that didn't understand himself. "So do you want to go to the temple with me?"

"Sure."

"Keep that in a safe place," he said, pointing to the knife still in Beetle's hand. "Maybe later, after we can get back, we can practice, I'll show you how to throw it."

Beetle dropped onto his back atop the bed and flicked the dagger into the air. It stuck into the low supporting beam for the roof near the door. "Thunk!" he said.

Jaron sighed and grabbed the chair, hoping that he could reach high enough to recover the weapon. When he got close enough to see the spot where the knife had struck, however, he started in surprise.

A big spider, its bulbous torso maybe a finger's length across, twitched against the knotted wood of the beam, its body pierced right through the center by Beetle's knife. Jaron looked down at his cousin. Beetle grinned back up at him. "Thunk," he said again.

"Ah... maybe we can skip the practice session," Jaron said, reaching up and wrenching the knife free.

* * *

A cold breeze greeted Jaron as he stepped out of the nave of the Green temple. He paused to tug his coat tight, then stuffed his hands into the pockets.

The townsfolk of Whiteridge were going about their business, walking briskly along the street in that hurried manner than humans always seemed to have. For all the excited chatter at the inn, these passersby seemed oblivious to all that had happened, to the significance of a major criminal operation just a short stroll from the town's gates. Would they have cared if they'd known, the hauflin wondered. Would the citizens of Whiteridge have marched in numbers to Lord Pestis's citadel, demanding action, or even join together into a militia to deal with the problem? Or would they have just shaken their heads, complained a bit, then gone about their lives? Those thoughts opened up disturbing avenues that Jaron didn't want to visit just then.

He glanced back at the temple, at the thick wooden posts and beams draped with growing vines. The interior was different than the Green temple in Fairhollow, but some things about it had been the same, the fresh scent of growing things, the reassuring earthiness of the unadorned dirt floor. The priests had been decent enough folk, waiting patiently for him after all of his misadventures. They'd finished their preparations of Jayse's body, and now the only thing that awaited was to load the sealed coffin into Callen's wagon and go home.

As he turned into the street he saw Beetle waiting for him. His cousin was sitting on the low wall that fronted the temple's grounds, tapping his feet against the mortared stones. He'd gotten bored during his meeting with the priests, and Jaron had asked him to wait outside. Jaron was glad he hadn't wandered off.

"Ho, Jayse."

Jaron managed a smile. Changing Beetle was a task beyond his power. His cousin wasn't... _normal_ was the word he wanted to use, but he deliberately struck it out in his mind. Beetle wasn't ordinary, but he was an adult, and while Jaron would do his best to look out for him, he couldn't make all of his decisions for him. That conflict had led to the breach between him and Jayse, and now it was too late to tell him that while Jaron disagreed with his brother's choice, he respected his right to make it.

"Let's go back to the inn, Belden," Jaron said, taking his cousin's hand.

"Can we stop and get a meat pie?"

"They have food at the inn."

"They're not as good."

"But at the inn they have corn bread."

Beetle's eyes lit up. "And ale?"

"You know you can't... never mind, come on, it's getting cold. Where's your coat?"

Beetle shrugged. He saw something interesting and started to head away, only to be brought up short by Jaron's grip. "I saw a doggie," Beetle said. "Can I go play with it?"

"Not right now. Come on. Maybe they'll have darts at the inn tonight. That was fun before, wasn't it?"

"Ha, easy," Beetle said. "I hit the red spot."

Jaron thought back to the spider in their room. He'd have to make sure that his cousin didn't engage in any gambling; Jaron had observed that humans tended to be sour losers in games of chance or skill, particularly when hauflin were involved.

He navigated their way back through the town, keeping a close eye on the traffic as they crossed the busy central square. Beetle kept up a running commentary, pointing out interesting things, but he didn't try to get away again. Even so Jaron let out a little sound of relief when he saw the inn up ahead.

That relief evaporated when he saw Mara standing near the front entry. She looked up and found the two of them standing on the side of the street, and there was something in that look that sent a cold chill down Jaron's spine. For the first time since they'd met her, Mara seemed... _agitated_.

"What is it?" he asked, as she walked over to meet them.

"There's been news... from the south. I'm sorry, Jaron."

"What is it?"

"There's been a raid. A few of the southern villages were attacked. Groups of riders, hit and run sort of thing."

Jaron swallowed and looked up at her. "Fairhollow."

She nodded. "I'm sorry."

"Who... how many..."

"I don't know. It was a teamster who told me, he just got into town, I pressed him but he didn't know anything more. Jaron—"

"I need to find Callen," he said. "I need to... come on, Beetle."

Dragging his cousin after him, Jaron ran inside the inn.

Mara lingered there on the edge of the busy street, a dark look on her face.

* * *

"Almost home!" Beetle said, springing up into the air, holding on to the boards that separated the bed of the wagon from the front. He let out a whoop.

"Beetle! Be quiet," Jaron said. He and Callen shared a look, and after a moment the old trader snapped his reins. His horse was tired from the fast pace they'd kept since leaving Whiteridge just three days ago. They'd shaved almost a full day off the usual time but Jaron still felt antsy, the anticipation growing until he almost couldn't stand it. They hadn't met anyone on the road coming from this direction, so they had no better idea of what had happened in Fairhollow then they'd had when they'd left Whiteridge.

"Woo hoo!" Beetle yelled, jumping out of the wagon. Jaron turned in alarm. "Beetle! Wait!"

The other hauflin didn't listen. The road began to curve around a low hill ahead. A fence was just visible at the bend, which Jaron knew marked the boundary of the Willowbark farm, on the far outskirts of Fairhollow.

Instead of making for the farm Beetle ran up the hill, which was covered with a generous coat of winter grass. It was still a good month or so before the coming of the cold seasonal rains out of the mountains, and the Cinder Valley was still covered in the bright colors of autumn. In normal times Jaron would be thinking of all the work that waited at his farm. One look at the hauflin running up the hill was enough to dash those thoughts.

Callen drew back the reins and the wagon rattled to a stop. "Wait here a moment," Jaron told the trader. He stopped only to grab his bow, then jumped down and ran after his cousin.

The hill wasn't very steep, but Jaron's tired feet slipped on the clods that crumbled under his feet. Despite his exhaustion he pressed up the slope. He could smell woodsmoke on the air, but there was something else, something not quite tangible that sent a renewed tremor of unease through him. He saw Beetle standing exposed on the crest above, facing down toward the village below.

"Beetle, what is it?" he shouted up, but his cousin didn't respond.

Jaron ran up the hill. Even with the thick grass that formed a fringe around the summit it only took about two minutes before he caught up to where Beetle was standing. As he reached the crest, he felt a sick feeling clench in his gut.

Even Mara's warning hadn't prepared him for what he saw. Fairhollow was a scene of destruction, with at least three of the dozen or so farms that he could see transformed into burned-out wreckage. Willowbark, Jamberson, Wanderwarren... all three of the main buildings were blackened hulks, with the Jambersons' primary barn and shearing shacks also burned to the ground. He couldn't see his own property from this vantage, but several of the structures in the village core, a good half-mile from the hilltop, had sustained obvious damage, including what looked like severe burning of both the mill and the granary.

"Bad men come here?" Beetle asked, subdued.

"It looks like it," Jaron said.

"Are they coming back?" the other hauflin asked in a whisper.

"I don't know," Jaron could only say.

Ten minutes later Callen's wagon clattered into the outskirts of the village. The returning hauflin found a number of villagers poking through the remnants of the Wanderwarren farm. Dale Wanderwarren himself was sitting on a stump, his face marred with streaks of ash, his stare vacant even when it fell over Jaron and Beetle. Jaron saw Talbert Tallfellow, the innkeeper, working with several young hauflin as they carefully lifted heavy timbers from the stairs leading down to the cellar. There wouldn't be much to salvage from the upper level, Jaron could see at once; the destruction had been quite thorough. He also saw that all of the folk gathered carried weapons openly, or had them otherwise close at hand. Talbert saw him coming and ordered the workers to stop. He came out of the wreckage to greet them.

"We heard about the attack in Whiteridge," Jaron said. "We came back as quickly as we could."

"Wouldn't have made much difference, if'n you'd been here, Jaron," the older hauflin said. His face was smeared with ash and soot, and his hair hung in tangles around his face. It was face that Jaron was used to seeing with a smile on it, but it looked as though Talbert would not be smiling again anytime soon.

"What happened?" Jaron asked.

"They came in the middle of the night," Talbert said. "Men, Tall Folk, a big party of them, at least a dozen. Attacked several of the outlying farms and made a probe at the village proper, though we'd got organized by then and fought them off. We killed a few of them bastards, but most got away, and they took prisoners, too."

"Where's Yarine?" The priestess would be at the core of it, Jaron thought, likely helping the wounded, though he wouldn't have put it past her to join the party tracking the raiders, especially if captives had been taken.

Talbert's hesitation made the cold fear in Jaron's gut transform into an icy wedge. "I'm sorry, Jaron. She was at the Jamberson farm when the raiders attacked. They took her, too."

* * * * *

Chapter 17

She knew as soon as she heard the sounds of the wagon axle, protesting against a path never designed to accommodate wheeled vehicles.

Mara had been chopping wood. She reached back and grabbed the hilt of the sword that was never far from her reach, now. She kept the axe in her other hand and walked over to the spot facing the path. It was almost the exact same spot where Torvan had stood to face the four riders, six months before.

But there were no riders this time. Only a narrow-beam cart, pulled by a big draft horse. The riding board of the cart was barely big enough to accommodate the single man who handled the animal's reins. The look on his face turned sympathetic as he spotted Mara, but she didn't have to look in the back of the cart, or see the long wooden box there, to know why he was here.

"How did he die?" she asked him.

"In battle," the man said. He did not have the look of a warrior himself, but his bright eyes sparkled with intelligence. "Protecting others from harm. He was a good man."

Mara nodded, as if that response was a given. "There's tea and food in the cabin," she said.

The stranger nodded gratefully. "Let me just tend to my horse, first; he had a hard time getting up here."

Mara nodded again, watching him. She made no move to help, but she did put the axe away, wiping the blade free of wood sap before wrapping it in its leather sheath. She kept the sword, hooking the scabbard onto her belt. The stranger, looking up as he filled a feedbag full of oats from a sack in the cart, saw her but said nothing. After a few minutes, Mara brought out a bucket full of water and offered it to him; he accepted it gratefully and watered the horse.

"It's quiet up here," he finally said.

"Not always," she replied.

"I'm sorry, my name is Elevaren."

"Mara. Mara Lendoran."

They didn't speak again until later, after the newcomer had tended to his animal and Mara had served hot tea and the mealcakes leftover from her morning meal. She'd helped him get the wooden casket out of the bed of his cart. It was heavy. The body remained so even when the part that animated it had fled, Mara thought.

The wind rattled the shutters of the house as they sat at the small table beside the hearth. The stranger sipped his tea and watched her.

"Your uncle spoke often of you," he said.

Mara grunted something noncommittal but didn't otherwise respond.

"He was very concerned about what would happen to you."

_Then he shouldn't have left,_ she thought, but again she said nothing. She lifted her tea to her mouth and took a sip. It was cold, but she didn't notice.

"Have you thought about what you're going to do now, Mara?" Elevaren persisted. "I mean, this house is yours now, I suppose, but it's very isolated up here."

"I hadn't thought much about it," she said.

"Well. I was a friend to your uncle, and I'd like to be the same to you. Perhaps we can talk."

Mara felt the memories wash over her and let them go as she returned to the present. She tugged the reins of her new horse, bringing the animal to a stop. She turned to look back at the walls of Whiteridge, a dark line on the horizon behind her.

Elevaren had already left. He'd tried to talk her out of what she was going to do, but he'd ultimately known that his efforts were in vain. Would her life have been different if she'd accepted his offer back in the mountainside cabin, eight years ago? Might the whole course of her life have gone down a different road? Or would she have made the same mistakes, only in a different order?

She shut down those thoughts and turned back to the east. That way lay another long road, to... where? She knew the names of the towns, the rivers, the mountain ranges. But she didn't know what she would find at the end of that road, or whether she would find only unpleasant truths by taking this journey back into the mistakes of her past.

She shifted and adjusted her weapons. Her swords were sharp and her purse was full of silver coins, her share of the reward money that Lord Piss-ass had awarded them for dealing with their "bandit problem." It was about a third of what they would have gotten just from selling their arms and armor in Whiteridge, she guessed. It was a pity; that blackeyed bastard leading them had been trouble, but he'd had some real nice armor. Of course, it would have taken a good piece of coin and a week at the smith's to adjust it to fit her rather different frame.

She had money, a horse, decent gear and a set of skills that set her apart from most folk her age. The road ahead of her was full of options.

Yet somehow, she felt as though none of it mattered.

She glanced back once more. Her gaze shifted to the south, where the road forked. The hauflin had gone that way. They might even be home by now. She wondered at what they would find. No. She knew what they would find.

Old roads, old memories.

Finally she turned back to the road ahead, and nudged her horse forward.

The End of Book 1

The story will continue in _Green Hearts Weep._

Author's Note

A Note to Readers: If you enjoyed this book, I would appreciate it if you would take a moment to leave a review on the site where you purchased it. As an indie author/publisher the biggest challenge is getting the word out, and reviews are a critical part of that. I will happily provide a review copy of any of my books upon request.

