 
Grimm's War

Book One of the Grimm Trilogy, Part of the Mages of Sacreth Series _  
_

Kenneth McDonald

Kmcdonald4101@gmail.com

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 by Kenneth McDonald

Cover Credit: The cover illustration is taken from the painting _On the Berry Trail – Grand Canyon of Arizona_ (1903) by Thomas Moran. The image is in the public domain.

* * * * *

Works by Kenneth McDonald

Wizard's Shield

The Mages of Sacreth

The Labyrinth

Of Spells and Demons

Grimm's War

_Grimm's Loss_ (Spring 2013)

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

* * * * *

Prologue

In a clearing deep within the fastness of the Forever Wood, a man waited to die.

The space under the thick green canopy had been cleared by human hands, and a dozen gnarled stumps remained as evidence of their labors. The gap that showed the thick gray overcast sky above was narrow and uneven, as though the greenery had been cut open with a dagger. By the time that the light made it through that opening to the forest floor it was wan and tentative, leaving even the space in the middle of the clearing thick with shadows. A damp wind promised rain before nightfall, and rustled the carpet of fallen leaves already sodden by earlier deluges. The spring storms were nearly ended, but the season seemed intent on departing with vigor.

A rude hut lay against one edge of the clearing, sagging under its own weight. Opposite it was the unfortunate prisoner, bound to a framework fashioned out of young trees that had been bent and lashed together with heavy cords. He hung about a foot off the ground, his ankles and wrists tied to the boles of the trees. A small mound of branches lay on the ground beneath him, ominous in its intent. The captive was clad only in the remnants of a breechclout, which hung from his hips in ragged tatters. He was filthy, his skin slick with grime, his hair and beard matted and wild, but even in his current state it was evident that he was a warrior. Old scars crossed his torso and limbs, where sculpted muscles showed despite the prisoner's unfortunate condition. Dried blood caked in fresh injuries suggested that he had not been taken easily, and one side of his face was covered in bruises that had faded into a mottled landscape of deep colors. His chest rose and fell in gentle heaves.

The prisoner's head rose as the flap of leather that served as the door of the hut opened. A man stepped out into the clearing. As big as the captive, the newcomer was clad in layers of fur and leather. He was well armed, with both a throwing axe and long dirk stuck through his belt. His face was covered with a wooden mask, a vague oval with narrow slits for his eyes, nose, and mouth.

The prisoner kept his head up only with an obvious effort. The eye on the bruised side of his face was swollen shut, the lashes sealed by a crust of old blood. The other eye blinked as the masked figure approached. "Fieran, is that you?" he asked, his voice as cracked as his dry lips. "No mask can disguise you from me, Fieran. Why are you doing this?"

The masked man stopped. "That is no longer who I am. My name is Mortus now."

"Whatever you call yourself... you are still my brother."

"It was you who cast me out, Abell. You who severed the bonds that connected us."

Abell spit a glob of blood from the cuts his speaking had opened again. "You were... you were sick in the head, Fieran. I could have forgiven your crimes against me, brother, but you harmed others, threatened our people."

"They were of limited vision," Mortus said. "They were like you, walking through life with their eyes and hearts closed to what was around them."

The prisoner's head sagged, but he managed to keep it up enough to meet the masked man's gaze. "So now you will get your revenge by torturing me."

The eyes behind the mask flashed. "I take no pleasure in this."

Abell's lips twisted into a bloody smile. "Liar," he said.

Mortus came to him. Abell struggled to break free of his bonds, but the warrior was already spent, and managed only a few weak pulls against the tight leather straps. Mortus ignored his efforts and drew out from inside his coat an object attached to a throng. It was a crystal, slightly larger than a chicken's egg, pale white and covered with irregular facets. It seemed to glow faintly in the light of the fading day. He flicked the cord around the prisoner's neck and laid the crystal against the center of his chest.

Abell watched him but said nothing as Mortus continued his preparations. The shaman drew out a fold of leather from a pocket of his cloak. He pointed the packet at each of the four cardinal directions, ending with him directly facing the prisoner. He muttered something under his breath as he unfolded the packet and tapped a handful of finely ground powder into his hand. He continued the chant as he held his fist in front of Abell's face, the trailing motes sparkling as they fell from his grasp to the ground. Then with a final guttural syllable he threw the powder down into the heaped branches at his feet. The wood was damp, but the powder flashed with a bright flare that faded to eager flames. Abell flinched back reflexively, but could no more escape his prison than he could his fate.

The wet wood released a thick, cloying smoke as it burned, rising in a column to swirl around both Abell and Mortus. The shaman continued his chant, sliding in and out of the smoke. Something flashed in his hand, and as he drew back blood coursed down from a fresh gash in the prisoner's chest. Abell, all but insensate now, barely reacted.

The grim ritual continued for some time, until Abell bled from a dozen wounds. The blood trailed down his body in long slicks, finally dripping into the flames. The fire, never intense enough to seriously threaten the captive warrior, was already beginning to die. Mortus approached again through the rising smoke, his knife bloody in his hand.

Abell mustered a last bit of energy. "Finish me," he begged. "Send me to death with some vestige of honor."

The priest's eyes were cold. "I am not sending you anywhere," he said, his voice hollow behind the mask. He stepped forward and drove his knife into the warrior's heart.

Abell jerked, but instead of a gush of blood, a tendril of red mist emerged from the wound. A hiss like a punctured bladder came from the warrior, and he dangled from his bindings as the odd vapors continued to pour from his body. But instead of joining the fading plume of smoke from the fire that rose into the air, the red mist traveled only as far as the crystal, where it was absorbed by the pale rock. Striations of crimson flickered within the crystal, and as the last of the red smoke disappeared it continued to glow, now with a faint ruddy hue.

Mortus watched for a few moments longer, then reached up and yanked hard, ripping the crystal from its mooring. He held it in his hand, staring at the glow that was now unmistakable as coming from within.

"Now it begins," he said.

* * * * *

Chapter 1

Eldwen Grimm, standing unsteadily in a dark alley, looked down at the body of the man he had just killed.

The young man's head swam as he looked down at the sword in his hand. Even in the near-darkness he could see the blood trailing down its length and dripping from its tip. His head swam. He heard voices, and looked toward them down the length of the alley ahead, which seemed to grow until it extended almost to infinity. There were shadows in that vague distance, and the patter of booted feet running on the muddy ground.

His eyes were drawn back to the dead man. A face flashed in his mind, the face of the man who he'd been laughing and drinking with not ten minutes before. He stank, fresh odors over the stale fetor that filled all of Bel Wilder, concentrated here in the confines of the narrow space. Doorways recessed into the walls loomed menacingly all around; it was from one of those that the ambushers had appeared.

He sagged against the wall. A loud clang startled him; he'd dropped his sword. He looked down at his hand. He had to bring it almost up to his face to be able to see the outline of his fingers.

A groan drew his attention. Memory brought a flush of shame, and he staggered back, dropped to his knees beside his companion. "Kiros, are you all right? Kiros!"

The fallen man did not stir; he might have been as dead as the other. Grimm tried to feel for the lifebeat in his friend's neck, but his fingers felt thick and clumsy. He slumped back against the wall, trying to steady the swaying of the surrounding walls.

_Drugged_ , he thought. He hadn't drunk that much, not like Kiros, who had eagerly drained each of the mugs that the men had foisted upon them. "Honoring the Border Wardens," they'd said. But there hadn't been any honor in this alley, he thought.

He felt sick, his guts clenching from whatever had been put in his drink. Kiros could be dead or dying. And while the would-be thieves had fled, they could be back; he was in no shape to stop them a second time.

He shouted for help. His throat felt raw, his voice feeble. He yelled again, forcing himself up to his knees. He could get no farther than that.

That was how the Watch found him, on his knees, lying in a mess of dirt and blood.

* * *

Grimm's skull felt like gnomes were pounding on it from inside with tiny hammers. A cool wind blew hard from the north, from across the river, but in his current misery he barely noticed it. It was a busy morning in Bel Wilder, the din adding to his discomfort. The border town was expanding, taking its share of the prosperity that flowed from the north, crossing the Stoneflow River at the ford that the town guarded. The lands beyond the river remained sparsely populated, especially by contrast with Sacreth or the cities along the Tiroan coast to the west, but they were swelling now with the combined lure of the silver boom in the White Mountains and the outposts probing into the Forever Wood.

Bel Wilder's growing pains had brought more than prosperity. Grimm was greeted with stinks, shouts, and sights that had already become familiar in the month that he'd spent here. He saw several beggars, who shrank back into the shadows of the buildings along the street when they caught sight of his uniform. And even that early the taverns were open and doing a brisk business. He caught sight of The Alewife's Daughter, and the dark alley next to it, and felt a cold chill that penetrated through his hangover. He hastened his steps, focused on his destination at the end of the street.

The Warden camp overlooked the ford, and it too was busy, with men and horses coming and going in a steady stream. A patrol was just getting ready to embark on a sweep across the river; he waited until they were past before he walked through the main gate. His eyes drifted up to the hill overlooking the town, where the outlines of the fort under construction near the summit were clearly visible. Supposedly the Wardens would relocate up there once the building was complete, but from the looks of things it would be years before that would happen. With all the building going on in Bel Wilder, the Wardens had to get in line for the available pool of labor.

The gate was clear, but still he hesitated. The guard on duty glanced over at him with a knowing look. That brief contact gave him the nudge he needed to enter the camp.

The interior of the camp was crowded, with every bit of space inside the stockade wall put to use. Bel Wilder itself was not warded with a wall; the ford itself served as its protection. The north side of the camp was equipped with a palisade that let archers or mages command the crossing. The down side was that the buildings of the camp had to be packed in against the remaining sides of the stockade. Those structures included a stable, itself more spacious than the barracks opposite, two storehouses, and an infirmary. Grimm's destination was a tiny hut attached to the side of the barracks. The hut had a pair of slit windows that seemed to watch his approach like narrowed eyes.

The foyer of the hut was so cramped that he could not open the door fully without hitting the desk that sat in the center of the space. The sergeant there shot him an annoyed look before gesturing him to the narrow bench that lined the wall. Grimm obeyed and waited there, ignored by the sergeant who went back to a stack of reports that were overflowing the wooden box on the edge of the desk. He scanned the room, an exercise that took all of about ten seconds, his eyes lingering on the door behind the desk.

Time passed. It took all of Grimm's discipline to sit there quietly and ignore the pounding within his skull. He was glad he had spent the night at the Watch's station in the town; at least he was relatively coherent now. He could not help but revisit his scattered memories of the previous night in his mind, his thoughts drifting back to that bloody scene in the alley, the bloody mess of a man lying at his feet.

"Recruit," came a voice, cutting through his musings.

Grimm started and looked up to find the sergeant staring down at him. He realized that he'd missed the man's first summons. "Sorry, sergeant," he said, rising quickly. He started around the desk, but the sergeant stopped him with a raised hand.

"Your steel, son."

Grimm blinked; he didn't comprehend until the sergeant nodded toward his sword. Coloring slightly, he unbuckled his sword belt and handed it over. The sergeant gave him a look that might have been apologetic, then stepped aside to let him through the far door.

The office was only incrementally larger than the front room, with an almost identical desk again the dominant piece of furniture. The space behind the desk was flanked by shelving, file cabinets, and a compact armoire equipped with a lock. Almost every available space was full of parchment rolls, folios, and bound books, though Grimm's eyes drifted up to the Warden sword mounted on pins just above one of the cabinets.

The room's occupant cleared his throat thickly, drawing Grimm's attention back with a start. The eyes that fixed his were a pale blue, and possessed of a power that had Grimm snapping instantly to attention. The owner of that stare was clad in the uniform of a Warden officer that couldn't hide the iron lines of the man wearing it.

"At ease," the officer said, though there was nothing of ease in his tone. "Get the door, recruit."

The office was so small that Grimm only had to turn slightly to close the door behind him. He waited as the officer drew out a small leather folio from the cubby built into the side of his desk, extracting a parchment sheet from it that he spread out in front of him.

"Grimm," he said, though Grimm saw that he didn't so much as look down at the record in front of him. "Eldwen Grimm."

"That's right, Commander Gaerand."

"How long have you been posted here, Grimm?"

The information was marked on his file, but he knew better than to mention that. "Just under a month, sir."

"And your age, recruit?"

"Nineteen, sir."

"You just started your Service."

"Yes, sir. I spent six weeks at Palrith Nor, then I was assigned here."

"It takes more than a month and a half of training to make a Border Warden, recruit."

"Yes, sir."

"We hold ourselves to a higher standard, recruit, both on and off duty, both in and out of uniform. That is because our duty, our oath, sets us apart from the people that we are sworn to protect."

Grimm did not respond.

Gaerand tapped the paper in front of him. "I read the Watch report about last night's... incident. Is there anything that you would like to add?"

"Sir... I haven't heard anything more about Recruit Beldran. Is he..."

"Beldran is being treated for his injuries. Mage Norrin says that he will recover."

Grimm let out a sigh of relief. "And the men who attacked us..."

"They will be found," Gaerand said, in a tone that invited no further discussion.

Grimm was wise enough to know when to shut up. He waited.

"I am initiating a new policy on off-duty fraternization with the local population," Gaerand said. "That will be unpopular with both the garrison and the local business interests, but frankly, I do not care about their feelings. The carelessness of you and your fellow soldier, however, have embarrassed the Wardens."

Grimm realized that anything he said would only dig him in deeper, so he withstood the barrage in silence. Gaerand waited a moment, eyebrow slightly raised. When it became clear that Grimm had nothing to say, the officer slid another parchment out of his case. This one was a compact, creased fold of the sort used to transmit orders.

"You have done me one small favor, Grimm. I have received orders to dispatch a Warden to extended duty beyond the frontier." He took a quill pen and dashed something onto the bottom of the orders form. "Since you have 'volunteered' for this duty, you will await the arrival of a company en route to Outpost Edelvar. Until then, you are confined to camp." He folded the parchment and with practiced ease applied a dab of soft wax and pressed it closed with a Warden seal. He extended the document toward Grimm. "Do you understand your orders, recruit?"

Grimm felt as though someone had reached into his guts and clenched them into a fist, but he said nothing as he accepted the paper. "Yes, commander."

Gaerand's expression showed that he understood Grimm's dismay fully, and took satisfaction in it. "Dismissed," he said.

Unable to do anything else, Grimm saluted, then turned and left.

He found himself a few minutes later standing in the crowded courtyard of the legion camp. He didn't remember leaving the command hut or speaking with the duty sergeant, but the words of his commander—former commander, he amended—continued to ring in his ears. Edelvar. His eyes drifted north, though of course he couldn't see anything over the wall. Only one man stood atop the banquette that ran along the length of the palisade. Grimm wondered what the sentry saw. He had not been across the river himself; while some commanders believed in putting new men on the front lines immediately, Gaerand was of the school that preferred to assign veterans to difficult patrols. Intellectually he knew that he was being foolish in his fears; Sacreth was not at war, and certainly there were no great states or even powerful towns in the northern reaches, nothing that posed a real threat to the stability and prosperity of the Valley Kingdom. But there were plenty of stories told in the barracks about the Forever Wood and its dangers, and for all that it was the job of the Border Wardens to watch the frontier, a posting at Edelvar was hardly what he'd been expecting when he'd begun his year of mandatory service.

He rubbed the back of his head, hearing in his mind his father's words. _That which cannot be changed, son, must be endured._ Trying to leave aside useless worries, he walked over to the infirmary.

The place was the sole building in the camp built of stone, and it was crafted like a bunker, with narrow slit windows that seemed like they had been designed with defense in mind. He had to duck to clear the low doorway and was greeted with a smell that his mind associated with sickness, the odor of the harsh substances that the mages used to treat injury and disease. The front of the room contained six bunks arranged along the walls, before a dark curtain that partitioned off the back portion. Kiros lay in the only occupied bunk, covered with a blanket, but Grimm hesitated in the doorway, uncertain.

Magic was being wrought here.

A gemstone lay atop the injured Warden's forehead, just above the bridge of his nose. It was small and flat, barely as big as a Sacrethan silver piece, and it glowed with a soft silvery radiance that cast Kiros's pale features into relief. It was healing magic, Grimm knew, benign if not benevolent, but he still could not take his eyes off it.

"Close that door," a voice said, interrupting his reverie.

Grimm nearly jumped in surprise. He looked up at the speaker, who'd emerged from around the edge of the curtain that divided the room.

"Mage Norrin," Grimm said. "I was just... I just wanted to see how he was doing."

"You can see him just fine with the door closed," the mage said. "This cellar is damned hard to keep warm even without the draft."

Grimm hastily closed the door behind him. When he turned back the mage had come forward into the room, where the light from the windows revealed more details of his features. He was still a young man, likely shy of thirty, with a neatly-groomed beard and dark, piercing eyes. He wore a full robe rather than the short hybrids with trousers that most mages favored. Not that Grimm had met many mages, but in Sacreth, ruled by the Order and the Mage Council, it was impossible not to be aware of them. The light gleamed on the silver buckle that the mage wore, fashioned into the shape of a many-faceted gemstone.

"He will recover, though you soldier-types are entirely too casual with regard to head wounds. Blows to the skull can be incredibly serious, even if there are no immediate symptoms of damage to the brain."

"We didn't actually get a chance to put on helmets, Mage Norrin."

"Hmm, yes. Well, you may speak to him, though he may not be entirely lucid. Do not move him, however, and do not dislodge the gem, it will take time yet for the magic to fully permeate that thick head of his."

"Thank you, Mage."

"And how are you, Warden? I understand that you were both dosed with a sedative. You look a little... peaked."

"I'm fine," Grimm said, but even as he said it he thought again of the long road ahead of him. From his look the mage doubted him, but he only said, "Keep it brief. He needs to rest."

Grimm went over to the cot. Kiros seemed to be awake, but he was staring up at the ceiling, his eyes blank beneath the radiating shine coming from the gem. He didn't respond until Grimm knelt beside the cot, and touched him on the arm. Even then only his eyes shifted; it was as if the power of the gem kept him frozen in place. Grimm avoided looking at it, though the glow shone in the corner of his eyes even as he turned his focus on his friend's covered form.

"Guess I should have listened to you and skipped that last round," Kiros said, after a moment.

"What do you remember?"

"Not much. We left with those two guys, right? Neva's grace, I can't even remember their names."

"Cael and Jalba," Grimm said. "At least that's what they told us."

"Right." He let out a soft sigh of air. "Guess we should have known better."

Grimm nodded.

"I heard that you killed someone."

Grimm's mind flashed back to the alley. "I had no choice."

"Hey, I wish I'd been awake to help you. Wish we'd killed both of those bastards, and their friends. How many were there, all together?"

"I'm not sure. It was all pretty confused."

"They catch any of them?"

Grimm shook his head. "I'm sure they're a few thousand lengths away by now."

A pause extended between them. "So I guess Sergeant Landren is pretty pissed," Kiros finally said.

"I know that Commander Gaerand was," Grimm said.

Kiros stirred as though he wanted to get up, but he couldn't manage more than a slight shiver of his body. "Ouch," he said. "You were summoned by His Dourness himself? I guess I lucked out after all. What did you get, confinement? A formal reprimand? Not stripes, not for that..."

"They're sending me off."

"What, a transfer?"

"Edelvar."

"What?" Again Kiros struggled, only to be defeated by the gem. "Hey take it easy," Grimm said. He looked around for the mage, but he'd retreated again behind the curtain. "It's all right," he said, though it was anything but, of course.

"It's not fair. If anyone's responsible for what happened, it's me, I all but dragged you to that tavern."

"Nobody forced that ale down my throat," Grimm said. "Even drunk, I should have known better."

A slight rustling at the curtain announced the mage's return. His expression was a reminder of his patient's need for rest. "I have to go," Grimm said.

"See you soon," Kiros said, clearly already beginning to drift. When Grimm got to the door and looked back, the other Warden's eyes were already shut. He looked at the mage, who stood there watching him in a way that made the hair on Grimm's neck prickle. It seemed to take an effort to shift his eyes back to his sleeping friend. _No, I won't,_ Grimm thought. Ducking again to avoid the lintel, he turned and left.

* * * * *

Chapter 2

Miranda Hael tugged on her reins slightly, bringing her horse to a halt. The rolling hills that surrounded her, covered in their coat of spring green, looked virtually identical, but she focused on one as she shaded her brow with a hand and peered intently into the distance.

Had she not been expecting it, she might have missed it. The broken outline of the far hilltop might have easily been a cluster of boulders, or some other natural feature. But she knew what was there, remembered it from the last time she had come this way. It was almost four years ago, but the memory still seemed fresh.

Her horse shied, impatient at the stop. "Oh, hush you, Jangles," she said to him. "You just want your oats and your brush."

The horse snorted, as if to dismiss the charge.

"You're not fooling anyone," she said. The horse subsided, and started to crop the long grass that grew thick along the edges of the road.

But she _was_ hesitating. Somehow it had been easier when she'd been defending her choice to her parents, or to Mage Velos. None of them had understood.

Stefan, _he_ would have understood. He would have loved this, a true adventure, like the ones they had imagined as children while running wild along the hills and dales that surrounded Blue Lake. She could almost see his smile, his brows quirking in the way they had so often when he'd looked at her. Those memories had faded some with time, but they came back to her as she sat upon her horse alone on the road. She heard an echo of his voice within her mind.

My sister, the great mage Miranda Hael, backing down from a challenge?

She sighed, and the memories dissolved back into the past. But the brief episode had restored her resolve, and she kicked her horse into motion. Jangles was eager to run, charging down the road with abandon. Miranda had no difficulties; she was a good rider. She had been familiar with horses for as long as she could remember, the animals a part of her life growing up on her family's ranch on the eastern shores of the lake. Her body was lean and toned, and as the breeze of her passage ruffled her short brown hair she looked younger than her twenty-four years. Her wide grin looked natural on her features, roughened a bit by the sun and wind but still fair, her cheeks speckled with freckles. Her cloak trailed out behind her, and she laughed as she caught at it before it could get loose. The rest of her clothes were simple if not plain, save for the silver buckle of her belt, a disk fashioned into the shape of a shield.

She let Jangles have his head, letting him get to the next rise before she tugged on the reins to signal a break. The horse responded with reluctance, she thought, even though he was breathing heavily. She couldn't help but smile again; Jangles was always game.

The road continued its winding course through the hills, but now she could see buildings scattered in the lows between them. Wreathwater had spread out in the centuries since it had marked the frontier of Sacreth. She passed vineyards and orchards, and caught glimpses of the red-tiled roofs of houses set back from the road, nestled in amongst the trees. She saw people at work, but few spared her more than a casual glance as she rode past.

She looked up again at the ruined tower on its hilltop as the road passed by it. When it had been intact this had been the border, back in the days when Sacreth had still been a true kingdom, before the Order, before the Mage Council, before Sorulkus and Joranther and all the rest of the names that had been written large in history.

The road curved around one more hill, and then the town spread out below her.

The town of Wreathwater proper wasn't much to look at, maybe sixty or seventy buildings spread out in a line along the banks of the stream that gave it its name. No walls or other fortifications surrounded the place; Wreathwater's days as a frontier settlement were long past, and now it was part of the core of Sacreth, safe and secure.

The road ran down to one end of the town and extended along its length. The clop of Jangles's iron-shod hooves changed in timbre as they rode over the wooden bridge that crossed the stream. Familiar sounds of activity came from the town, from the hammering of metal on metal coming from an open workshop to the shouts of children playing in the streets. She nudged Jangles to the side as a wagoner passed her heading the way she'd come; he tipped his hat in passing. She noted the moment when his eyes drifted to her belt buckle, saw the recognition there. But then he was behind her, and she resisted the urge to turn in her saddle and see his reaction.

Other townsfolk looked up as she rode by. Sacreth was peaceful enough that a woman riding alone was not unheard of, but her status made her unusual, and there were plenty of people here who could recognize what she was. Most offered simple greetings as the wagoner had, but one old matron bowed to her, and a few children waved, their expressions eager as if they expected her to conjure something right there in the street.

At that thought her lips twisted slightly. She hadn't been so different, when she'd been a child. Before Velos had shown her that her road could lead a different way.

It took her just a few minutes to ride the length of the town. The buildings had begun to thin out again, and the road forked, one end crossing back over the stream via another bridge. She bore left, where the road continued once again into the hills. Eventually it would straighten and pass through the rich heartland of Sacreth before reaching the Roe River, and the capital. Her road would diverge well before then, bearing north to another frontier, and the outcome her decisions had fostered. She felt another moment of doubt then, but ruthlessly quashed it as she clicked her tongue and directed Jangles into a trot.

Her immediate destination lay right on the outskirts of the town in a small complex of wooden buildings just off the road, connected by a tall wooden fence. The largest building bisected the fence, with a covered porch that faced the road. Its windows were shuttered, though the front door was partly open. To the left of the building the gates to the courtyard were open, but the entry was partially blocked by a wagon. As she drew closer Miranda saw that not only was the wagon not connected to horses, its traces sitting empty on the ground beyond the gate, but there were four men inside it, sitting facing each other on the bed. That seemed unusual to her, but her curiosity was replaced by surprise as the men heard the sound of her approach and turned to look at her. Even from thirty strides away she could distinguish the faint blue marks that were etched upon their foreheads, and as the nearest of the men turned full around the sunlight glinted off the iron manacles surrounding his wrists, trailing a length of chain that disappeared into the wagon's bed.

Miranda felt a cold chill in her gut, but she disciplined her expression and fought to keep her hands steady as she rode toward the front of the house next to the gate. Four sets of eyes followed her, but the men remained silent. They were varied in size and age, but the marks they bore and the manacles holding them gave them a common identity. As she got closer she saw that the marks were not identical, but she would have to get closer to discern them. She could feel their power from the road, however.

Jangles slowed to a walk as he approached the house. One of the men, the one that had turned to watch her approach, finally said something.

"Well now, what do we have here?" His posture was lazy, but there was nothing lazy in the look he shot her, hard and challenging. He looked to be just shy of forty, hard used by his years, like the others sporting the beginnings of a beard. He started to run his fingers through that dark thatch, but was brought up short by the limits of his chain. His expression shifted to annoyance briefly, but quickly returned to cool calculation.

The other three were less subtle, but no less interested.

A man appeared in the doorway of the house. Young, maybe even younger than she had been when she'd first come east, he was clad as a soldier. Steel scales were sewn into the leather of his coat, and a sword hung at his side. He didn't see her at first, focused on the prisoners in the wagon.

"All right you lot, I don't want any more of your trouble..."

He trailed off as his eyes followed the prisoners' stares to Miranda, sitting atop her horse twenty paces in front of the house. His eyes widened slightly as he took her in. "Sergeant!" he yelled. "Sergeant, you'd better get out here!"

It seemed only a few moments passed before he appeared. If the young man was dressed as a soldier, this man, a decade or more older, was the archetype of a soldier. His uniform and the coat of steel mail he wore over it looked worn but functional, but there was something more, something in the way he carried himself, that struck Miranda as dangerous. He too carried a sword, but on him it looked like a part of him, not an accessory. There was something in the way that he looked at her that reminded her of Velos, and she had to resist the urge to stiffen her spine and straighten her coat.

Instead she urged Jangles forward the rest of the way to the house. The sergeant said something and the young soldier came forward to help her, but she didn't wait. Sliding down smoothly from the saddle, she handed her horse's reins to him and pivoted to face the sergeant. He was only a few hands taller than she was, but atop the porch he seemed to loom over her. But she had spent two years at the University, and was used to dealing with being in the weaker position.

"Sergeant," she said. "I am Miranda Hael, Shield Mage of the Order."

If her introduction surprised him at all, he didn't show it. "Welcome to Wreathwater, Mage Hael." His formal salute was precise. "I am Sergeant Malor."

"I hope you were not waiting long," she said, her gaze traveling over toward the wagon.

"We only just arrived less than a cycle ago ourselves," he said. "Shall we go inside? Fils here will see to your horse." He turned to the door, gesturing for her to precede him.

"Hey, sergeant! Thought you were going to let us out of here!" one of the prisoners yelled.

"Fils, once you've tended to the Mage's horse, please see to our guests. And be certain to have Rojek and Lowen there when you unshackle them."

The young soldier nodded and led Jangles away, taking him around the right side of the house rather than trying to squeeze into the gap between the wagon and the gate.

"Are you the custodian of those Marks, sergeant?" she asked.

"Let's talk inside," he suggested, still waiting for her to go in. With one final look at the men chained in place in the wagon, she walked up the steps onto the porch and went into the outpost building.

The front room was plainly furnished and shaped like an L, with a small desk and bookshelf fitted into the bend. Two doors led back to the rest of the house. Two cabinets fitted with heavy locks dominated the wall to her left, and a table extended back into the longer portion of the room. The table was piled with packs and saddlebags, along with an assortment of gear both familiar and alien to Miranda, accessories to the career that these men practiced. Another soldier, this one around her age, was packing another saddlebag as they came in. He blinked at Miranda, then reflexively offered a salute.

"Harsten, go out and help the others with the prisoners," Malor said, as he came inside. The soldier nodded and left via one of the back doors, leaving the two of them alone.

"Sergeant, this is... irregular," she said. "Why isn't there a mage here with those men?"

"My orders were to turn them over to you when you got here," Malor said. He dug something out of a pocket of his uniform and offered it to her. It was a piece of oblong gemstone, opal or chalcedony polished smooth, about as long as her little finger. She hesitated only a moment. She felt the tingle of power as her fingers brushed the stone. Malor seemed to be relieved to be done of it.

"I wasn't told anything about prisoners," she said.

"It's not uncommon for men sentenced to labor duty to be sent to one of the frontier outposts," Malor explained.

"If they were Marked, their crimes must have been serious," Miranda said.

"Thievery, mostly, though Ravis was also convicted of assault, and Wilkens burned down a barn. Their terms range from six months to three years."

"And they were given to you because we were heading that way anyway."

"I can only presume so, Mage Hael."

"And your feelings on those orders, sergeant?"

His eyebrow quirked, but that was all he betrayed. He only thought about it for a moment, however. "The road north is troublesome enough without men of their sort to watch, Mark or no Mark," he said.

She nodded. "How many men do you have, Sergeant Malor?"

"Four. Both of those you saw were mine, Rojek and Lowen are tending to the horses. We're to pick up one more in Bel Wilder, a concession to our additional... responsibility, perhaps."

"How long do you think it will take to get to our destination?"

He regarded her thoughtfully. "A day to the crossing at Bel Wilder, a long day, but doable. On the far side of the Stoneflow, however... a lot will depend on the condition of the road, and the weather. It can take three days, or thrice as long."

"I will offer a prayer for the former." She looked at the table. "Were you thinking of getting a start today?"

"Thought about it, but it's too late in the day, and the horses need rest, if not the men. We'll set out first thing in the morning. I'll have my men tend to your horse."

"I'd prefer to see to Ja—to him myself, sergeant. I'm born of ranch folk, you see."

For the first time, something twinkled in his eyes. "As you wish. There's a guest room in the old barracks where you can get settled, I'll show you where. I imagine the garrison officer would have more to offer in the way of hospitality, but apparently there was some trouble at one of the outlying settlements this morning, and he took a patrol out to investigate."

"Nothing serious, I hope."

"It should not affect our mission, though it means we're mostly on our own here for now. I can have supper brought to you in your room if you like, or if you prefer there's a few places in town that come well recommended."

She shrugged. "If you don't mind, I would rather eat with the men. We're going to be together for some time, after all."

He nodded. "If you will come with me then, Mage Hael."

It didn't take long for the sergeant to lead her to her room; the entire complex was barely larger than her family's ranch back on the lake. As they made her way across the courtyard to the adjacent barracks she looked back at the soldiers unloading the four captives from the back of the wagon. The man who had greeted her was standing in the bed, waiting for his shackles to be unfastened from the wagon's frame; he caught her eye and tipped an imaginary hat to her. The gesture was accompanied by a grim smile, one that reawakened the cold feeling in her belly.

"You shouldn't have to worry about him," Malor said. He nodded to the stone that Miranda realized she was still holding in her hand. She bit back the retort that sprang to mind. _He will judge you by what you do, not by what you say,_ she heard Velos's voice say in her mind.

It was going to be a long journey.

The room was small but clean, clearly the quarters of a Warden officer or senior sergeant. The narrow bed had fresh sheets on it, and a clean towel had been laid out next to the basin on the window table. Malor was polite enough, showing her where everything was, but her thoughts were distracted, and she only half-listened. When he left her alone she sagged with relief onto the bed.

_What have I gotten myself into?_ she thought.

Her hand crept into the pocket of her coat, closed over the hard object inside. The feel of it reminded her of who and what she was. Nobody had understood why she'd accepted this assignment; the only one who would have was gone. But whatever doubts had niggled at her before, it was too late now to back out. She had accepted a task on behalf of the Order, and she could not turn away from the road that stretched out ahead.

* * * * *

Chapter 3

They got an early start the next morning. Miranda felt as though her head had barely touched her pillow when she woke to a knock on her door. She looked around, confused for a moment before reality reasserted itself and she remembered where she was. The rapping continued, persistent.

"I am awake," she said.

"I'm sorry, Mage, but they're almost ready to go."

"Thank you. I will be there directly."

The unidentified knocker departed. The shutters on the room's two windows were partly open, but the light coming from them was faint, so faint that it was instantly clear that the sun had not yet risen. Miranda reached over to the nightstand, to the amulet she'd left there. The metal felt cold to her fingertips.

" _Lumus_ ," she said.

Light flared from the clear crystal, held in a prison of silver wire. The glow cast the contents of the room into relief, drawing sharply edged shadows along the walls and floor. She put the amulet down and used its light to quickly dress and gather her gear together.

She was used to rising early and quickly, but even so she was the last to step out into the crowded courtyard of the outpost. Everyone was there, even the four prisoners. A pale gray fog cloaked the surrounding hills, but torches had been set in the courtyard to give them enough light to make their preparations for departure.

She saw that the Wardens had brought out Jangles and had saddled him. She started in that direction, but Malor saw her and came over.

"There are fresh rolls and fruit in the front hall," he told her. "We can wait a bit..."

"It looks like you're ready now," she said. "The men have eaten?" At his nod, she said, "I can eat on the road, if one of your men can pack me something."

"Lowen, get the Mage some food," Malor said. "I'm sorry it's so early, but we have a long road ahead."

"I have seen the map, sergeant. I leave the details of our travel arrangements to you."

"I wonder if... our 'guests,' would you mind saying a few words?"

"What did you have in mind?"

"Just a reminder, of what it means. The mage-mark."

She nodded, though she felt anything but comfortable as she handed Jangles's reins back over to one of the Wardens and walked across the courtyard. The four men were checking the tack on their horses while trying to ignore the eyes of the two Wardens watching their every move.

The prisoners looked up as she approached. The sergeant had remained behind her. "The Mage has a few words for you, you'd best listen," he said.

Everyone in the courtyard, Warden and prisoner alike, stopped what they were doing.

"You have all been Marked, bonded with magic," Miranda said. She could feel the connection as she grasped hold of the stone in her pocket. "If you pass beyond a certain distance from me, the Mark will inflict a certain... discomfort," she said. "The discomfort increases as the distance does, until you are eventually incapacitated. I can track you immediately using this, in any case." She held up the pale stone. "Should it be necessary, I can immobilize you using this. And please do not think to try to take it from me; touching the control stone while Marked would be... uncomfortable."

"Mage justice," one of the men said, spitting in the dirt. He was the one who had first seen her on the road the day before.

"That's enough out of you, Perek," Malor said.

"When you complete your sentences, the Marks will be removed," Miranda had told them. "They will not harm you, otherwise."

"They'll just ensure we're tame as you march us off to our deaths," another of the prisoners said.

Miranda glanced at Malor, then back at them. "Edelvar is a Sacrethan outpost..."

"You don't even know what you're getting into," Perek said. "His lips twisted into a smirk. "You'll find out, soon enough, Magess. They don't call it the Forever Wood because of its size."

"I said that's enough," Malor said. He took a step forward, but Perek merely inclined his head in a mocking bow, turning back to his horse.

Lowen brought out a sack that looked to be filled with enough food to feed a dozen men. Miranda took it with a nod of thanks and returned to her horse.

The sun still hadn't risen above the eastern hills when they finally left the outpost behind them. A solitary Warden standing near the gate watched them go, leaning on his spear. By the time that the dawn arrived Wreathwater was already many lengths behind them. It was still a few cycles shy of noon when they reached the crossroads. The sergeant didn't hesitate, leading them north. Malor kept to his word and drove the company at a hard pace. Miranda understood his logic; their decision to stay overnight in Wreathwater had required a hard pace to the Stoneflow. Anything less would have meant night catching them on the desolate north road. Miranda knew that they would have to set camp in the wilds once they were north in the river, but she was happy to postpone that for as long as possible.

But the result was ten full cycles of grueling riding alternating with walking the horses. To spare the horses the spells of walking had been frequent, and the changeovers had left Miranda's muscles feeling universally sore. But she refused to complain, and forced herself to mask the aches that otherwise would have brought grimaces each time that the sergeant called for a change.

She kept a close eye on the four prisoners assigned to the labor crew. She didn't have to watch them; she could feel each of them separately through the Marking stone. She'd never forged a Mark, and had only briefly been exposed to the magic in her training. There was something uneasy in it, the involuntary nature of the bond smacking of sorcery. But she understood the need for it, understood that these men had been found guilty of egregious crimes, crimes that had warranted the punishments wrought by the Order's justice. They would be given the opportunity to serve their terms, pay their restitution to society through their labor, and then return to the greater community that they had harmed through their actions.

She wasn't sure if they had believed her, but none of them caused any difficulties during the long journey. She still felt some regret; if she'd gone to Sacreth, rather than meeting the Wardens in Wreathwater, she might have heard about this development sooner. At least she would have had the opportunity to see the files on the prisoners. The Order would have done as it wished, of course, but at least she could have been better informed. She admitted that the comments from Perek and the other prisoners had scored as well. She knew enough to dismiss most of the stories about the Forever Wood as fable based in superstitious fear, but she had to acknowledge that the territory on the far side of the Stoneflow was dangerous. The river marked the formal northern border of Sacreth, and she would be representing the authority of the Order as it extended into the lands beyond.

There was little conversation on the ride, and what there was took place in low voices, hushed exchanges between the young Wardens or between the prisoners. Miranda was apart from both groups, distinct both by her gender and by her special status. She was used to being treated differently, but she'd been able to forget some of it while back home. Though if she had to be honest with herself, things had been different since she'd returned, the invisible marks of the University and the Order upon her. Maybe it had been different all along, since she'd started studying with Velos. Or perhaps the genesis was even earlier, since Stefan had died.

Bel Wilder came and went in a blur. It was well past sunset when they finally arrived at their first, immediate destination. Miranda had nodded off in her saddle when Malor's voice caused her to jump and look around in confusion. He hadn't spoken to her but to one of his men, issuing an order. She didn't know what he'd said, but she did see the town just a few lengths ahead, nestled up against a steep hill, its windows and streets bright with the glow of torches and lamps.

All that she remembered of the town afterwards were impressions. Crowds in the streets. Apparently early evening was a busy time, with people finishing up their buying before the merchants closed up their shops, or hurrying off to one of the dozen or so taverns they passed along the main avenue. Not surprisingly the horde of residents was accompanied by a din of noise and potent variety of stinks.

They passed through the town quickly and ended up at the Warden fort overlooking the ford. Exhausted as she was, the formal welcome from the base commander seemed to fly past; she couldn't even remember his name a quarter-cycle later. The garrison base seemed particularly cramped, but a room had been prepared for her, a narrow sliver of space that only interested her for the cot crowded in against the back wall. She barely had the energy to remove her boots before she was down and asleep.

The second day of her mission began much as the first, with a knocking on her door. Again she dragged herself out of bed, pulled her clothes on, and made her way out into the courtyard to find the others all but ready to go. She wondered if these men even needed sleep, if somehow the Wardens had discovered a magic that defied that fundamental human need. One of the men came by holding a steaming cup that trailed a familiar odor; she had it out of his hand even before he offered it, or even before it was clear that he was _going_ to offer it. The first sip helped purge the cobwebs in her logy mind. The coffee was stronger even than the thick syrup that the students at the University drank before examinations, but she forced it all down. She felt almost human as she checked Jangles's tack and accepted another packed meal from one of the soldiers.

They had splashed across the ford and were several lengths clear of Bel Wilder before she remembered that they'd added someone to their company. She turned in her saddle to find him staring at her.

He was a young man, still boyish in his looks, his Warden leathers draped over broad shoulders. He quickly looked away, but not before Miranda felt the full weight of his stare. It wasn't the slightly awed, deferential look that came from the other Wardens, or the naked antipathy that came from the prisoners. There had been something else in that stare, something that brought hints of color to her cheeks.

She turned back, embarrassed at the brief loss of control. She straightened, summoned a haughty expression, and looked back again.

The Warden had fallen back a bit in the column, and was talking quietly with Rojek. He didn't respond to her stare, but she thought she saw his eyes flick briefly toward her.

"Everything all right?" Sergeant Malor asked, from just ahead.

"Yes. Well, I have to admit, I didn't catch our new recruit's name. I was trying to remember it, and felt guilty at the lapse."

"Grimm. His name is Grimm."

She couldn't help a tiny snort. "Seriously?"

Malor's lips twisted slightly, which for him was almost like a wide grin. "He's a Service man, like Fils and Rojek, but he's gone through the full Warden training, like all of them."

Miranda thought that he sounded slightly defensive, but said nothing. Her own understanding of the hierarchies and inner workings of the Border Wardens was somewhat nebulous, but she knew the distinction between those who passed the arduous course at Palrith Nor, and the larger corpus of men and women who did their year of Service in the Reserve Corps. In her first year at the University she had briefly dated a steel mage who had gone through the Warden training, and she remembered him commenting that it was among the hardest things he'd ever done.

The road continued more or less straight north all day. They passed through lightly wooded rolling hills that alternated with stretches of plain alive with tall grass and wildflowers. The well-kept road they'd traveled to Bel Wilder was replaced with a track of packed earth, covered in wagon ruts and the muddy prints of horses. Malor set a slower pace, almost casual in contrast to the previous day's journey. At first Miranda assumed that he was just trying to rest the horses after that march, but as the day went on she observed a change in all of the Wardens. It was a certain wariness in how they carried themselves, from the way they scanned the trees and bushes that grew close to the road, to the way that they continually touched their weapons as if to verify that they were there. Even the prisoners seemed to feel it, though to her attenuated perceptions their looks seemed more covert, conspiratorial. She found herself touching the Marking stone in her own pocket, or stealing fingers toward the amulets she carried.

She found the slower pace much more manageable, but other than a break for lunch, Malor kept them moving all day. The sun was just touching the treetops on the west side of the road when they came to a waystation. There wasn't much there, just a trampled-down meadow next to the road, but the site had clearly been frequently used by travelers. Several fire pits had been dug in the space, the largest lined with heavy stones and filled with ashes. The Wardens appropriated that spot, and began the process of setting up camp. A quick search of the area turned up a cache of firewood covered in a waterproof tarp.

"Someone was thoughtful enough to leave that," Grimm commented.

"Thank your former commander," Malor said. "That cache was placed by a Warden patrol."

The sergeant assigned duties, including the four convicts in the list of assigned tasks, and the camp came together quickly. Miranda was not given chores, but she tended to Jangles herself, and took out the compact tent she carried in her saddlebags. She considered the skies, which had remained thick with gray clouds since they'd crossed the river. But they were not dark enough to promise rain, at least not immediately, so she left her watershed token in the bag when she set up the tent.

It could not have taken more than a quarter-cycle to take care of Jangles and set up the tent, but by the time she was finished rich odors were already drifting over from the pot that the Wardens had set up over the campfire. Malor came over to join her as she was checking the stays and the stakes that held them in the ground. They were far enough away from the campfire that they had some degree of privacy.

"I can have one of the men bring you a plate, if you prefer," he said.

She weighed his expression. "Do you think that would be best, sergeant?"

In response he let his eyes drift briefly back to the men around the camp. He didn't have to say any more to explain his meaning. "That will be fine," she said. "I think I will retire early, in any case. I am not used to this kind of pace."

"You are doing better than most," he said. He wouldn't get more specific, Miranda knew, but she understood the subtext behind the remark.

"Thank you," she said.

"I'll be assigning a guard to your tent," he told her. "If you need to... go out in the night, let him know and he'll give you your privacy."

"I know we need sentries for the camp, sergeant, but do you think a guard assigned to me is necessary?"

"It's my job to protect you, ma'am."

"I am capable of protecting myself quite effectively," she shot back. She knew that the sergeant was not being unreasonable, but she still found herself becoming irate. Maybe it was that his words reminded her of things she'd heard all too often back home. "Or do you not think that women..."

She bit off the rest of it, but saw that the words had had an effect on the sergeant. She forced herself to take a deep breath, and was about to apologize when the sergeant stepped closer, and drew out a long, wickedly curved knife from a sheath in the small of his back.

She swallowed and felt a momentary thrill of panic—had she so antagonized the man that he was going to attack her? Her hands crept up to her throat by reflex before she caught herself, telling herself that she was being a fool.

Malor either didn't notice her brief distress or pretended not to. He held the knife up, so that its edge caught the fading light. "This is a Sokhali war knife," he said. "My father got it from his father, after the last war between Sacreth and the Empire."

The knife was strangely beautiful in its simple lines and deadly purpose, but she didn't know enough about weapons or military purpose to gauge its significance. Instead she nodded and waited for the sergeant to continue.

"I've been in the Border Wardens for twelve years," he said. "My daughter, she wanted to become a Warden almost since she was old enough to pick up a stick and pretend it was a blade. My wife and I thought it was just a phase she was going through; hero worship of her father, that sort of thing. We indulged her, let her have her fantasy, even paid for some rudimentary training. But there was nothing frivolous about the way she threw herself into that training. When she learned everything she could from the man we hired, she got herself another trainer on her own."

Miranda knew how the story had to end, that much about the Wardens she knew. "Glendra could not serve, of course," Malor said, confirming her assumption. "But my hope is that her daughter might be able to."

"There has been more debate in the Council recently about changing the policy," Miranda said. But she thought about how few female mages there were at the highest levels of the Order, how long it had taken for even that level of progress. Her own route into the Order had ironically come via an older path, through her apprenticeship to Mage Velos. Her own talent had carried her through her qualifying examinations and the review board after only two years, but she knew that she probably would not have even had that chance without Velos's sponsorship, and his connections in the capital.

"So no, I do not think that you are less competent because you are a woman, Mage Hael. But I will be assigning that guard to you, and you will have a Warden by your side until we get to Edelvar." He saluted her, and headed back to the fire.

* * *

Grimm finished brushing down the last of the horses, and checked their tethers one more time to make sure that none of them would work free in the night. The smells coming from the campfire were making his empty belly rumble, but he was careful to give each of the straps a good tug. He did not want to begin his new assignment by demonstrating incompetence.

As he reached the end of the line of horses his eyes drifted up toward the mage's tent. Sergeant Malor had gone over to talk to her, but they were speaking too quietly for him to hear what they were saying. Not that he would ever eavesdrop, but he had to admit that the mage had managed to awaken a considerable curiosity in him.

Like anyone who grew up in Sacreth, his youth had been filled with stories and legends about magic and its practitioners. Mages were larger-than-life figures, partly because of the mysterious powers they commanded, but partly because of what they represented. The Order was not only the ruling body of the Valley Kingdom; in many ways it was the keeper of its traditions and its history. Perhaps he would have felt differently had he grown up in the capital, where one could encounter mages walking down the streets or enjoying a glass of ale in a tavern, but in Calisford, a farmers' town on the edge of the Kale Hills, they were rare enough to be notable.

Thinking back on his encounter with the mage earlier that day on the road, he was glad for the deepening twilight that concealed his flush. She'd turned around as though she'd sensed him looking at her, and had caught him staring before he could turn away. He'd known that it was rude to gawk at her like some idiot child, but he couldn't help himself. He'd expected the mage to be an old man, with a long white beard that flowed down over his robe. The only thing about this young woman—this young, vital, disturbingly attractive woman—that had fit his expectations was the silver buckle she wore around her waist.

Thinking about her waist drew his mind back to the way her hips had swayed as she walked, and his blush deepened. He stamped his feet, more to jolt his body back to reality than to clear the mud from his boots, and headed back to the camp.

"Here you go, Grimm," Harsten said, handing up a plate covered with a mound of beans, salt beef, and sliced carrots. He accepted it and a wooden spoon, and searched out a spot on the flat-topped stones that had been arranged around the fire pit.

"Finally, we have someone with us whose name matches the proper gravity of this expedition," Perek said. The firelight cast an odd gleam upon the mark that spread across his forehead. Next to him, Ravis shoveled food into his mouth as though he was trying to put out a fire in his belly. The other two prisoners sat on the far side of the fire, the dancing flames reflected in their eyes. Grimm hadn't been able to make much of either. The other Wardens had told him that the freckled youth, Wilkens, had been convicted of arson, while the last, Jemar or Jelar or something like that, he hadn't said so much as a word in Grimm's hearing since they'd set out.

He blinked as he realized that Perek had asked him something else. "What?" he asked.

The prisoner wiped the corner of his mouth with a bit of cloth. "I asked what unfortunate act you did to earn a place on this doomed mission."

Grimm fidgeted uncomfortably; the comment was too close to the mark to suit him. Before he could think of a response, however, Fils interjected, "The Border Wardens go where they're needed. I wouldn't expect the likes of you to understand."

Ravis snorted something through a mouthful of food. Perek only smiled, and said, "You'd be surprised, young man."

Wilkens raised his eyes from the dancing flames of the fire and said, "I heard that them wyldes, the ones that live in the forest, they'll lure you into the forest with their songs and steal your soul." Even his hair, mussed and red, looked like a tuft of flame, Grimm thought. He could not have been much older than him or the other new Wardens, though the way his mouth tended to hang open when he wasn't speaking made him seem simple.

"The wyldes are just fables," Lowen declared. He was standing on the edge of the camp behind the prisoners, just close enough that his placement could not have been an accident. "There are real dangers in them woods, bandits and the like, there's no need to make up fairy monsters."

"Boldly spoken," Perek said without looking up. He ate slowly, taking small bites around the edges of his plate. "You have been in the Wood before then?"

The Warden shifted slightly. "No. But I've talked with people who have."

"Indeed, I am sure that the Forever Wood is a featured topic in the barracks of Palrith Nor."

"What do you know of it, thief?" Rojek asked. He stood on the far side of the fire, back far enough that the light left most of his face in shadow. He'd left his cloak on, and with it draped about him he took on something of an air of menace. But Grimm knew that he was just like him and Fils, fresh out of their training, still in the first months of their Service.

Perek chuckled softly. "You'd be surprised what a thief could learn, young Warden."

"I have no interest in learning such things," Fils shot back. At that moment he looked his age to Grimm. But Perek didn't let up, his stare hard as he scanned the men around the campfire.

"Ask yourselves this then," he said. "Why does Sacreth even have a presence within the forest? Surely there is no strategic value there. Distant Navara is no threat to the Valley Kingdom, and even if it were, the Forever Wood is as effective a barrier as the mass of the White Mountains. No, Sacreth's enemies are to the south, and always have been."

"There are valuable resources in the forest," Harsten said. He stabbed at the contents of the stewpot with his wooden spoon, as if it was a dagger.

"Valuable to whom? What do they extract from the forest, iron ore, some copper? Useful, but surely available elsewhere for less effort, less cost. No, we are there for the mages' profit, nothing else. There is ancient power within that forest, power that the mages want for themselves."

"You claim to know an awful lot about mages, for a convict," Lowen said.

"I know what anyone who is willing to ask questions should know."

"The magic wielded by the Order benefits all of Sacreth," Grimm said. He blinked as heads turned toward him.

Perek's expression sharpened. "There's a lot you lads don't know about how life works. You think that as Wardens you'll all be given magic swords and flaming arrows and be sent off to destroy Sacreth's enemies. Well don't believe it. Those devices of theirs, the ones they fill with magic, they fill them with a part of their _souls_ as well. It takes away part of them, the part that makes them human. Mark me, you're just tools to them, nothing more."

Ravis growled something through a last stuffed mouthful, something about Perek's comment about tools. Grimm couldn't make out the words, but the way the man pointed across the camp, in the direction of the mage's tent, made the meaning clear. He felt another unwelcome flush rise to his cheeks. Wilkens laughed, a high nervous titter, and Perek placed his plate down on the ground in front of him, a simple gesture that suddenly seemed to hold menace. Grimm looked around and saw the other Wardens tense. Rojek came forward fully into the firelight, his hand stealing under his cloak to his side.

"Enough of this chatter," Malor said. His abrupt return cut through the spell of tension gathering over the camp. "You men get those dishes cleaned up, and then get some sleep. We've a long enough day ahead of us tomorrow without you nodding off, any of you. Grimm, you're on first watch. Harsten, put a plate together for the mage."

"Too good to eat with the rabble, eh?" Perek said under his breath, just loud enough for Grimm to hear.

Malor shot him a hard look, but didn't respond. "Fils, come here." He took the young recruit off a short distance and spoke with him quietly.

"Alas, looks like no songs around the fire tonight, brothers," Perek said, as he grabbed his blanket from the rock behind him. Wilkens giggled, while Jamor quietly picked up the plates and headed off to the nearest clump of bushes to scour them off. A few of the others likewise headed off to attend to nature's business. Malor watched them all, but there was little worry about any of the prisoners stealing off; their Marks served as invisible leashes ensuring their return.

Grimm quickly finished the last of his hasty meal and added his plate to Jamor's pile. He took up his coat and walked away from the fire, looking for a good vantage from which to keep his watch. He saw Fils go over to the mage's tent, bearing her supper. She emerged from her tent briefly to accept the food. He couldn't hear the exchange between them, but his eyes lingered on her face, safe this time within the cloak of the night. She remained visible only for a few moments, but Fils stayed nearby, leaning against a boulder on the edge of the camp. It looked as though he wasn't going to be the only one on watch tonight, Grimm thought.

The camp fell silent as the men crept into their tents. Grimm's eyes lingered on the solitary one off on its own, wondering what mages thought about in the privacy of the night.

* * * * *

Chapter 4

The next day dawned bleary, with thick gray clouds lingering low over the northern horizon. By the time that they were saddling up the horses scattered raindrops had already started to fall, and within a cycle of setting out again it had grown into a steady shower. The road quickly became a sodden murk, but it was still easier going than the surrounding hills.

The weather didn't exactly make for idle conversation, so Grimm rode in his assigned place in silence. Today his position was rear guard, trailing behind the four prisoners, watching for any trouble that might be coming up the road behind them. He doubted than any such trouble would appear so close to Bel Wilder, but still he tasked himself to remain vigilant, until he got a crick in his neck from periodically looking back the way they had come.

The day passed in a gray fugue. He could only just see the mage's cloak; she was riding with the sergeant near the front of the column. After a brief and wet break for the midday meal Malor rotated him back to the front, to ride point. While heading back to his horse, Grimm glanced over at the mage and nearly tripped in the mud. He had noticed something odd about her, a slight distortion that he could not quite recognize, but now, close up, he realized that her clothes were dry. The rain was falling all around her, but none of the drops touched her cloak, or the cowl pulled up over her short hair. He had never seen magic wrought so close before, and it awakened a sudden inexplicable feeling of dread in him.

He caught himself before his feet slid out from under him and turned to his horse, making a show of checking the straps of his saddle and the bags attached behind it. He glanced around covertly, but none of the others appeared to have witnessed his clumsiness. "Move out," Malor commanded, and the column made its way back out onto the road.

The landscape grew more rugged as the day went on, though it remained muted behind the haze of the rain. The deluge continued throughout the day, though it alternated between a mist-like drizzle and the more substantial showers that had greeted them that morning. Fortunately the cloaks issued by the Wardens were waterproof, through annoying trickles still seemed to find their way through his layered clothes to soak Grimm's skin. They passed copses of trees that began to thicken as they continued north, though none came close enough to the road to offer shelter from the storm. Grimm occasionally caught sight of a flash of movement from the corner of his eye, a shift in the bushes that fronted the trees. Those subtle warnings had him reaching for the hilt of his sword, but none materialized into something more substantial.

The weather slowed their progress, and Grimm was starting to wonder if they would have to pick a random spot to camp when he caught sight of a light ahead through the rain. He pulled his horse to a stop and signaled back to Malor, who quickly appeared at his side. The two studied the faint gleam ahead for a few moments in silence.

"That's the next campground," the sergeant finally said. "Probably a wagon train down from Orland." But he lingered, as though his will alone could part the rain and give him a clearer view.

"Do you think there might be trouble, sergeant?" Miranda asked. Grimm jumped; he hadn't heard her approach. He looked back at her. With the rain avoiding her, she looked regal, mysterious. And tired, he realized, seeing the strain written on the features under her cowl. When her eyes shifted to meet his he felt a frisson of energy that jolted him like a shot of strong liquor.

"Grimm," Malor said. He spoke quietly, but the command drew him back to the present with a jarring force. "Take us in, slowly."

Grimm nudged his horse forward again. The horse, seeing the light and perhaps anticipating a dry stable, was all too eager. Malor's caution was contagious; his mind created scenarios of bandits waiting in ambush.

_Idiot_ , he thought. _If they were bandits, why would they put out lights_?

Maybe they're luring us in.

Why would they do that, when they could just wait until we arrived and set up camp, and then attack from ambush?

He shook his head, annoyed at the tone of the internal dialogue. As his horse plodded up the road the campsite took on definition, and he let out a sigh of relief as he recognized the wagons drawn up in a circle around the fire pit. He signaled an all-clear, then waited for the others to catch up.

"You lads are jumpy," Perek said.

"Hello the camp!" Malor shouted.

"Who comes?" came a voice from the wagons. Grimm felt a sudden cold tingle down his spine; likely there was a loaded bow waiting behind those words. Just as he'd feared bandits a moment before, the owners of those wagons were likely very cautious on this road, even patrolled as it was.

"Border Wardens!"

The name was a talisman, Grimm realized. He could hear the relief in the unseen speaker's voice. "Come on in, then!"

The wagon party consisted of a dozen men, drivers in faded leathers accompanied by steel-eyed guards with mail shirts and heavy caps banded in iron. The leader was a Tiroan trader named Jirkos Tavel. He seemed glad to have them there, but eyed the Marked men with wariness. His face however, transformed as he met Miranda, and he instantly offered her his wagon, an honor that the tired mage refused.

"My tent is quite comfortable, Master Tavel," she said. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen."

The Wardens and the prisoners set up their camp, a short distance clear of the ring of wagons. Grimm again drew the task of tending to their mounts. The horses' legs and bellies were covered with mud, and within a few minutes Grimm was as well. His stomach felt like an empty cavern, and his limbs like iron bars, but he was careful. All he needed now was for a horse to kick him and break a bone. He wondered if even that would get him off of Malor's list.

"Grimm."

The sergeant's voice, coming as if summoned by the stray thought, startled Grimm, and he had to grab onto the saddle strap of the horse he was tending to keep from sliding down in the muck. Straightening, he turned to face Malor, a dark shadow in silhouette by the light of their fire.

"Sergeant."

"Jumpy, Grimm? Best get over the jitters, the road ahead gets harder yet."

"No sergeant, I mean, no, I don't have the jitters, sergeant."

Malor shook his head. "Get something to eat and get some sleep. I want you on the Mage's tent tonight, third watch. Harsten will wake you. Nobody bothers her, you understand? Including those teamsters."

"You expect trouble, sergeant?"

"Grimm, if you're going to be a Warden, you need to always be ready for trouble. Especially beyond the borders. Sacreth remains what it is because of what we do out here, do you understand?"

"Yes, sergeant."

"Go on, I'll have Jamor finish this."

To Grimm, it felt like he'd just laid his head down when he was being roughly shaken awake. He bit off a curse and looked around. The rain had stopped, but the darkness was nearly absolute. He could only just make out the outline of Harsten looming over him in the open flap of the tent he shared with Rojek. A soft snore rose from the sleeping Warden.

"I'm awake, he whispered. Harsten waited until he'd pulled himself up out of his bedroll, then vanished back into the night.

It was cold and damp, the air thick with moisture as he drew it into his lungs. He buckled on his sword belt and pulled his cloak tight over his coat. His clothes were still damp enough that he shivered as he crawled out of the tent and the cold air hit him.

He nodded to the other man on watch, on the far side of the camp, though it was too dark for him to see who it was. He found the mage's tent without difficulty; it was again set slightly apart from the others. He imagined her inside, lying in her bedroll, but had to dispel the image; it was too distracting.

The night passed slowly on watch. He moved frequently to keep his blood flowing, but was careful not to make too much noise squelching his boots in the mud. He walked in a wide circle around the tent. He looked at the wagons, but if they had someone on watch, they were hidden by the night. Their fire, shrouded by a heavy tarp, was just a glow of embers.

Dawn approached as a vague brightness. Gradually the details of the camp took on definition, though the area beyond its borders remained lost in a gray haze of fog that clung to the ground like a dense carpet. It reminded Grimm of winter mornings on his family's farm on the edge of the Kale Hills, when it was so still that you could believe that you were the only being alive in the world.

The illusion was brief, for the camp started to come alive as the day began. Malor appeared as though if by sorcery, his armor and clothes clean and in order. Somehow he'd even managed to shave. He rousted the men still sleeping from their tents, and set them to the tasks needed to prepare for the day's march. Grimm would have thought it an impossibility that they would find wood dry enough to burn after the recent deluge, but Wilkens was able to manage the task. Perhaps the boy's obsession with fire had some use after all, Grimm thought.

A sneeze from within the tent drew his attention around. The flap opened and then she was there, close enough to touch. Her cloak was draped around her body, but as she shifted Grimm realized that underneath it she was clad only in her underclothes. He colored as his eyes rose up to her face, and saw in her eyes that she knew quite perfectly well what he'd been looking at.

"Grimm, right?"

He blinked before she realized that she was referring to his name. "Ah, yes, ma'am."

"Ugh, that makes me sound like an old woman. Though I suppose we cannot be too informal. Mage Hael, if you please."

"Of course. I mean, yes, Mage Hael."

"You're getting your Service done early then, Grimm?"

"Ah, I didn't qualify for a deferment, ma... Mage Hael. My people are just simple farm folk, from near Calisford."

"Pretty country, I hear."

"Aye, it is that."

"My folk are ranchers. In the Blue Lake country. Lot of mornings like this, when the fog comes in off the lake."

"I was thinking the same thing. About my family's farm, and the fog, that is."

"Grimm?"

"Yes, Mage Hael?"

"I would _kill_ for a cup of coffee right now."

"Ah, right. I'll get it for you. And some breakfast?"

"Yes, I suppose we'd better eat while I can, I suspect the sergeant will be moving us out soon enough."

Her prediction proved perfectly accurate. The men in the wagon camp were just stirring from their bedrolls when the Warden company set out upon the road again. The fog formed walls around them, and it was like they rode into a tunnel as the light from the camp faded, and they continued on the long road to their destination.

* * *

Rain fell in a patter upon the roof of the tent. Within, the chill was driven back by a trio of iron braziers that filled the space with a bright ruddy glow. The smoke from the glowing coals rose up to the opening at the tent's peak.

The tent was big, a heavy canvas drape with an interior large enough to accommodate a round wooden table and half a dozen chairs. A map, drawn on a large irregular sheet of parchment, was spread upon the table. Pewter tankards and carved wooden cups weighed down its edges. A lamp sitting on the table cast a fitful light, its flame dancing with each gust that made it through the smoke hole, or through the narrow gap in the flaps that warded the entrance of the tent.

The four men seated around the tent were all rough in their appearance, but they had the common look of men who were used to deference and respect. The looks on their faces varied from hard calculation to open anger as they watched the fifth occupant of the tent, who walked back and forth between the braziers.

"We must stand united against the intruder," Mortus was saying. "Against our combined strength, the valley men who seek to claim our forest will bleed."

"And who would lead this alliance, sorcerer?" one of the seated men said. "You? My ancestors would rise from their graves and cut my fucking head off if I turned over the leadership of my clan to some warlock."

Anger sparked in Mortus's eyes, but he kept his features neutral. "I claim no mantle of leadership, Karva Tovko." He swung his arm in an expansive gesture. "You men are the chiefs of the strongest tribes of the southern forest. Any of you could lead, and many would follow."

The four chiefs shared a long and weighing look. But suspicion was as thick in the air as the smoke that rose up from the braziers.

"Bah, the valley people are timid," another of the chiefs said. "They go no further than the forest's edge."

_As if we dare to delve into the core of the wood_ , Mortus thought, but he kept that carefully hidden. Instead he said, "They have established two new mines in the last year, Yahnnis, both of which intrude upon your hunting grounds."

"And the Sacrethans pay tribute to me for the privilege," Yahnnis said. His long, tangled beard and thick brows gave him a rude look, but his speech was sharp despite the quantities of ale he'd drunk at the start of the meeting. They had gone through the better part of a cask just getting through the ritualized greetings that accompanied such a conclave, but these were men who could hold their drink.

"Bah, blood money," Tovko said. Yahnnis turned his head and spat dismissively at the comment.

Mortus focused on the two men seated on the far side of the table, who had not spoken much thus far. They were close enough in appearance to be brothers, two bears of men who were clad in fur and iron. Tovko turned to them as well. "What say you, Kieldor, Gundar? You control between the two of you the largest tribes of the southern wood, though only because your fathers fucked half the wenches in the forest."

Gundar snorted, but Kieldor's expression remained cool. "The Sacrethans are not forest men, but neither are they soft," Kieldor finally said. "And they have potent magic."

"As do I," Mortus said.

Tovko wheeled on him. "Yes, I have heard much about your 'magic,' sorcerer. Feeding your own people to the forest spirits, including your own brother. Is that what we could expect, if we lent our strength to this foolish game of yours?"

Mortus did not back down before the outburst. "You are like a child who cries at the shadows, not understanding what they are."

Tovko shot up, kicking his chair back hard enough that it bounced off the canvas wall of the tent. His hand flew to the haft of the axe tucked through his belt. "You dare to call me coward?"

"I call you a coward and a fool," Mortus said. He stood calmly, though his eyes shifted briefly to the other chiefs, who remained seated at the table, watching the exchange.

Tovko smiled and drew out the axe. "I will enjoy this, I think," he said, coming around the table. He failed to see the dark shadow that materialized upon the canvas wall behind him. Gundar saw and rose half out of his chair, but his cousin held him back with a hand on his arm.

Something punched through the heavy cloth, which parted in a long swath. Through the gap a... _thing_ stepped into the room. It was massive; even the hulking Tovko only came to its shoulder. The light from the braziers showed thick arms and legs attached to a barrel-like torso. At first glance it might have been mistaken for a giant in armor, but as it came fully into the tent it became immediately obvious that the thing was in no way human. Its body was made of wood, its joints banded in iron, the whole crafted together into the form of a man. In the center of its chest a light gleamed, shining from a pale crystal set into the wood.

Tovko spun, but despite the panic that flashed in his eyes he was not slow to react. His axe came up, and with a roar he hacked at the construct's body. The axe bit deep but failed to do any appreciable damage; it was yanked from his hand as the monster pivoted. Its own arm came up; at its end was the foot-long iron blade that it had used to cut its way into the tent. Its length flared brightly as the light caught it.

Tovko saw his death in that gleam. He turned toward the entrance of the tent, but the wooden golem was deceptively fast for its shape and size. The sword-hand punched out, catching the barbarian chief just below the socket of his right shoulder, the full length of the steel vanishing into his body. He jerked and spat blood as he was lifted off his feet. The wooden construct was silent save for a slight creak as it lifted the dying man and flung him down onto the table. Cups went flying across the tent, and the three chiefs drew back together in reflex, staggering back against the canvas walls. Their eyes shifted between the golem and Tovko, who coughed once, twice, bloody flecks bubbling on his lips before he fell still.

The golem started to turn toward them, but ceased as Mortus lifted a hand and calmly stepped forward. "I spoke truly, as you can see," he said.

The three men stared at him, their hands on their weapons but their words temporarily stolen by the scene they had just witnessed.

Mortus chuckled. "I have no interest in glory or wealth, my lords of the forest. But in joining me against the Sacrethans, I can offer you both. Fine weapons of steel, suits of mail, coins of gold and silver. And honor, honor in driving out the invaders that humbled your fathers."

Gundar looked to Kieldor, whose face returned to a hard mask as the shock of Tovko's death faded. "What of Tovko's people?" Yahnnis asked.

"As I recall, he controlled three villages," Mortus said, with a meaningful look at the remaining chiefs.

"What do _you_ want, sorcerer?" Kieldor finally asked.

"I want to humble the magic-users of Sacreth, and teach them that the magic of the forest belongs to its people, not to them. I want them to see them tuck their tails between their legs and creep from the wood with their heads bowed in shame. With your help, my lords, we can make that happen."

Kieldor's expression was weighing. The other two watched him until he nodded fractionally. "We shall see."

* * * * *

Chapter 5

The rain didn't return as the party made their way north, but the skies remained gray with warning. The breeze shifted from one cycle to the next, tugging at their clothes as if reluctant to let them pass.

They broke from the main road late on the third day out of Bel Wilder. The road bent more to the east at that point, heading up into the hills toward the town of Orland. That place, well beyond the authority of any organized government, served as a gateway into the White Mountains, where dozens of camps had sprung up to work silver out of the rocks. The most recent boom had led to a surge in population in the mountains, along with the associated banditry, lawlessness, and violence.

But their road led a different way, bearing north by west, toward the vastness of the Forever Wood. Within a few cycles the road had devolved into a muddy track, and from that to a rough trail that was barely wide enough to accommodate their horses. They passed around hills both gentle and steep, and through patches of trees that presaged the forest they would eventually reach.

"How do they get wagons through on this road?" Lowen asked at one point.

Grimm, riding immediately behind him, had no answer, but Perek heard the question. "They bring all their loot out on mules, boy," he said. "There's no roads in the Forever Wood. The forest swiftly reclaims any that are attempted." His Mark looked somewhat faint in the wan daylight, though there was no mistaking its presence. Behind him the other prisoners rode in a column, with Harsten bringing up the rear.

"Keep quiet back there," Malor said. "And stay alert."

The sergeant's caution was contagious. The landscape now was more close and rugged than the open road had been. Each cycle they passed dozens of places that might have concealed an ambush, a clump of boulders here, a dense thicket there, a patch of trees yonder.

Miranda wasn't thinking about ambushes. This terrain reminded her more of the hilly country around Blue Lake, and the rugged back trails that she and her brother had explored as children. She knew that these lands were more dangerous, that the Wardens were not simply vigilant out of habit, but she was confident of their talents and of her own power. The familiar weight of her amulets, and more so the familiar presence of their magic, was to her like the reassurance of a sword with a well-worn hilt close at hand. She was well aware that she'd never used her powers in battle, or even for self-defense, but the training that Velos had imparted to her had been thorough, even more so than the formal courses that the Order had required before allowing her to take the rigorous examinations needed before she could carry the title of Mage.

But those musings were distracted by the protests of her body. She was used to outdoor life, or least she thought she had been. At least the cold she'd thought she was coming down with hadn't materialized; that would have magnified her misery. But her back and neck were sore from sleeping on the hard ground, and the muscles in her legs felt like they'd been twisted and squeezed until every little piece throbbed universally. But she refused to complain, refused to let the Wardens see even the slightest discomfort. It wasn't just a desire to present a stern outer front, or even to uphold the honor of the Order, if that could be done by pretending that her back didn't ache. Instead it was more a way of proving to herself that she hadn't made a terrible mistake, that she could accept the challenges of this journey. If she could do that, then perhaps she could face what would follow.

They spent the night in a lightly wooded hollow. The storm clouds darkened again, but while they heard rumbles to the north, thankfully the rain passed them by. Miranda did her best to help out, at least in terms of pitching and taking down her own tent and tending to Jangles's needs. The horse seemed more dubious than she at this course, clearing missing his stable and oats, but he reluctantly allowed himself to be led back onto the trail.

Around noon—it was impossible to sure with the sun hidden behind the dense overcast—they emerged from the hills to see an unbroken line of trees ahead of them. They trail had passed in and out of woods over the last day, but somehow her first sight of the Forever Wood still had an impact. The forest looked like a rampart, a wall that cut across the horizon as if built that way by human hands. From a distance the trees looked small, but she knew that they would dwarf the ones they had passed.

They rode forward, Rojek taking his turn in the lead, with the sergeant and Miranda not far behind. As they drew closer, the forest seemed to swell, until it loomed over them like a cresting wave. Miranda did not see the riders until Rojek raised a hand in signal. There were maybe five or six, it was difficult to tell, sitting their horses in the gloom under the trees. The Wardens reached for their weapon hilts, and Miranda's fingers stole to her amphal, a hard presence under her tunic.

"Looks like we have a welcoming committee," Perek said. Miranda didn't glance back at him, instead trying to make out more details about the riders. They remained deep in the shadows, and were clad in dark clothing that muted any details of their forms.

"Stay here," Malor commanded. He rode forward, but before he could cover half of the distance to the riders, they turned and rode off. The forest absorbed them within moments, even stealing the sounds of their passage.

The sergeant signaled, and the company rode forward to join him. "Who were they, sergeant?" Fils asked.

"Forest folk," Malor said. "Come on, there's a campsite I want to reach before nightfall. Harsten, you're up on point. Everyone else, keep your eyes open, and no chatter unless you see something dangerous."

As they rode into the forest the gloom seemed to swallow them up. Miranda felt as though it was a living presence, one that did not welcome the intrusion. The sound of their horses' hooves was muted on the carpet of damp leaves that covered the ground. The forest smelled sodden and green, with a hint of rot that was just shy of unpleasant. She was used to woodlands, but this was something else entirely. And they had only just penetrated its fringe.

She saw that her companions were bothered as well. The Wardens were nervous, and the prisoners looked about ready to bolt, Marks or no. Perek met her gaze and inclined his head; she was not certain if it was mockery in his eyes, or merely a reminder of the warnings he'd offered before. She turned quickly away and focused her attention back on the trail.

They rode in silence for what had to have been several cycles, though it was difficult to tell the time in the perpetual gloom under the forest canopy. Darkness came on them so swiftly that it seemed like a curtain had been drawn over the forest, and Miranda was starting to feel a real sense of worry that night would catch them unprepared when a squat, angular shape materialized out of the woods ahead. It was a stone ruin, she saw once they were close enough to make out details. It looked like it had once been a substantial structure, but all that was left now was partially-collapsed remains.

"Get everyone inside, even the horses," Malor said. "Rojek, Harsten, clear the site, fifty strides out, all the way around. Nobody wanders off."

All of them save for Rojek and Harsten dismounted and headed into the ruin. The structure's foundation was mostly intact, though plants had encroached through cracks in the stone. But one wall was partially caved in, and the interior was blackened with soot. The roof was gone, leaving just a few struts that had likewise been charred from the fire that had claimed the place.

"Looks like this happened a long time ago," Lowen commented, as they filed in through the entry. The door that had been there was long since gone, and even the hinge mountings were just slakes of rust. Wilkens ran a hand along a burnt support that had fallen at an angle near the entrance, and let out a sharp giggle.

A rumble sounded over the forest, giving them a start before they recognized it as thunder. Even as the echoes of the sound faded fat droplets of rain began to fall, a patter that grew steadily stronger.

"We'd be better off pitching our tents outside," Ravis muttered.

"I believe that the sergeant is more concerned with defense than with comfort," Perek noted. He looked up at the sky, blinking as droplets fell upon his face and streaked his cheeks.

The interior space was a square maybe twenty paces to a side, partitioned by the remnants of wooden walls. The side of the structure that had collapsed was cluttered with loose rubble, over which a layer of vegetation had been claimed by the approaching forest. Malor scanned the darkened interior, evaluating.

"Grimm, see if you can get a fire lit in that back room."

"I'll help!" Wilkens offered. "There was a dead tree just outside, might have some dry wood underneath..." He ran back outside before the sergeant could say anything, leaving his horse.

"The rest of you, get those horses settled. Maybe we can rig up some canvas over those beams..."

He was interrupted as Grimm stumbled over some loose debris, and nearly fell. The night was deepening, and even the outlines of the horses were becoming vague shadows.

Miranda drew out her light-amulet, and activated its power.

Wardens and prisoners alike started as the white glow filled the interior of the building, driving back the darkness. For a moment they stared blinking at the brilliant radiance shining from the mage's raised hand.

"All right, get moving," Malor growled, nudging them back to action. He took Miranda aside into the back room, where Grimm was clearing a space to make a fire. The wooden remains of the interior were so sodden that they would be useless to that end, and the pieces that the Warden pulled free fell apart in his hands. "We may not want to signal our presence so... blatantly," Malor said.

Nodding, she closed her palm over the amulet, shading the light. The glow that seeped between her fingers was still enough for the men to see what they were doing. But the rainfall continued, hindering their efforts.

"I don't suppose there's anything you could do about that," Malor asked. He too had noted the way that the raindrops avoided her clothing, but there was an uncharacteristic hesitance in the request that Miranda understood all too well. She nodded. "Perhaps," she said. She handed the light amulet to Malor, who took it gingerly, as if it was a burning torch. For a moment the radiance blazed brightly again, then faded as he closed his hands around the device. She drew out her amphal from around her neck, the dark metal disk drinking in the light from the other amulet. Malor watched her as she took a small metal pin from her cloak and stuck it to the disk; the two clicked together like iron and a lodestone. Grimm was watching as well, the fire forgotten. She focused on the paired amulets, ignoring the raindrops that were now slicking her hair.

She closed her eyes, her lips moving slightly. There was a slight... _something_ , a spark, or maybe a sound, or perhaps something entirely different, a perception beyond the normal range of sensation. Malor and Grimm both blinked and shared a quick look, as if to ask if the other had felt it too.

"Hey, the rain's stopped," Lowen said from the front chamber. Malor looked up and saw that the Warden was wrong; the rain was still falling, but the droplets were spattering against an invisible shield that had taken form over the building. He could see the patter of the impacts, the trickles that formed and ran down to the sides.

Miranda stumbled and slipped to the side. Malor jumped in surprise and started to reach for her, but Grimm was there first, wrapping an arm around her. "Are you all right?" the sergeant asked.

The mage wiped her now-damp hair back with a hand. "I'm fine," she said, straightening with a nod of thanks to Grimm. "I'm sorry about that, it's just... it can be a strain sometimes to alter a spell effect, or to combine magics. We call it 'layering,' it... well, there's no need to worry, it's just a bit of disorientation, it will pass."

"If you'd told me there was a risk, I never would have..."

"It's all right, sergeant," she said, placing her hand atop his. "Really, I'm fine."

"Grimm, help Mage Hael with her tent. And get that fire lit. I'm going to check on Rojek and Harsten."

The sergeant handed the light amulet back to her and departed, leaving Grimm still holding onto Miranda. Steady now, she looked back over her shoulder at him. "I think I can manage now, Warden."

He blushed and drew quickly back. "Sorry, I was just..."

She reached out and touched his arm. "I know, thank you."

Wilkens arrived in Malor's wake with his arms full of rotting wood. "Did I miss something?" he asked. He looked up and blinked at the barrier above.

Grimm cleared his throat. "Come on, let's get that fire going."

Neither he nor Miranda saw Perek watching intently from the next room, an unreadable look etched onto his features.

* * * * *

Chapter 6

The storm blew itself out during the night, and when the dawn arrived faint trailers of sunlight could actually be seen drifting down through the dense forest canopy. The new day brought a different feel to the forest, and there were even a few smiles and jokes shared over the breakfast fire.

Grimm felt a building sense of anticipation as they resumed their march north, deeper into the forest. Malor hadn't made an announcement, but he'd heard from the other Wardens that they should reach Edelvar by the end of the day. The prospect of sleeping in an actual bed, even if it was just a barracks bunk, was a welcome one to the young recruit.

Of course, their arrival at the outpost likely meant the end of close proximity to Mage Hael. He had no idea what sort of living arrangements would be available at the base, but he doubted that the mages were quartered anywhere close to the common soldiers. He was riding a few spots back of her that day, so his view was blocked by the squat figure of Lowen most of the time, but he found himself looking for glimpses of her cloak when the trail meandered to avoid obstacles.

He wasn't so distracted that he failed to notice when the forest began thinning out ahead. It was well past the middle of the day, so that shafts of sunlight fell at a steep angle as the gaps in the canopy widened and finally spread open to reveal blue skies above. They emerged on the edge of a vast open clearing. The ground to their left trailed away into a broad bowl-shaped depression, open to the sky. From the approach Grimm couldn't see the bottom of the valley, but he could see the outpost, perched on its lip on the forest's edge ahead and to their right. Edelvar consisted of a high palisade wall, equipped with a broad gate that faced their approach. The tops of several buildings were visible over the top of the wall, all sturdy blocks of hewn logs with narrow slits for windows. The late afternoon sun glinted on the metal carried by guards upon the palisade wall. There was a shout as they emerged along the forest trail; their approach had not gone unnoticed.

"Not much to it, is there?" Lowen asked.

Malor heard him and shot back an amused look. "Take another look," he said, leading them forward to where the trail overlooked the valley.

Grimm's jaw dropped open as he rode forward, and saw what the sergeant meant.

The slope leading down into the valley was steep but manageable, with a curving path cut into it to ease the descent. The far side was marked by steep cliffs, pocked by openings that had clearly been worked by human hands. Mounds of raw ore were heaped in front of those dark cave mouths, and nearby were several buildings that included a large smelting mill. Grimm recognized that structure even before the shifting wind brought the stink of it to his nostrils. The distinctive odor was accompanied by the sounds of metal pounding on metal echoing off the valley walls. Dozens of men were busy in and around those buildings, carrying ore or refined metal in push-carts.

A stream emerged from the forest on the far side of the valley, tumbling down over a series of falls until it reached the valley floor. The builders of this place had taken full advantage of it; in addition to the smelter, a long open sawmill had been erected at the top of one of the falls, and a squat building that Grimm thought to be a washhouse stood adjacent to it at the base, with an open pipe that siphoned off water from the stream into its interior.

And that wasn't the sum of it; near the base of the path leading down from the walled outpost a large pen had been erected, divided into segments that held mules and horses. Next to that another open-sided structure was in operation pouring more pleasant scents into the air. The smell of roasting meat awakened Grimm's hunger, even tinged with the more corrupt smells coming from the industrial works that spread across the valley floor. He would not have been surprised to find a tannery or a textile mill tucked in amidst the clutter; clearly Edelvar had been set up to provide for all of its own needs, and to process its exports as much as possible prior to shipment south.

"Welcome to our new home, lads," Perek said. His tone was sour, but Grimm felt somewhat buoyed; from all of the descriptions of Edelvar he'd expected something more... basic. The outpost spread before him was really a small town, and the presence of the familiar crafts was somehow reassuring. Despite the exoticness of the setting, and the somewhat irregular geography, he might have been looking down at the manufacturing district of Calisford.

The gates of the fort began to open as they approached. A group of riders emerged to greet them, led by a man in a neat uniform that Grimm immediately recognized as the outpost commander. He was of a different cut than Gaerand, rail-thin and lean, but he wore authority in the same easy manner. A scar ran up from under the high collar of his uniform tunic, creeping up under his jaw almost to his ear. He scanned the group in a single look as Malor reined them in and offered a crisp salute.

"You are late, sergeant," he said.

"Yes, sir," Malor replied. The officer did not ask for an excuse. Instead he turned his eyes to Miranda. Even though the stare wasn't directed at him, Grimm could feel the evaluation in it. The Warden commander made no effort to hide his displeasure; his lips pursed, and the muscles around his jaw tightened. Grimm had faced that kind of stare before, very recently, and to her credit Miranda did not flinch under the scrutiny.

The officer's eyes flicked back to Malor. "Commander Darrivan," the sergeant said, "allow me to present Mage of the Order Miranda Hael."

Miranda reached into her pouch and drew out a tightly-rolled scroll. "My credentials, Commander—"

"We hold formal briefings every third day, at first bell," Darrivan said. "The next is two days hence." He indicated the man beside him with a slight nod. "Sergeant Dosson will see that you receive the necessary briefing materials prior to that meeting."

Without pausing he turned his horse to face the Wardens strung out behind Malor. "Border Wardens," he said, his expression unchanging. "Welcome to Edelvar. You will receive a formal orientation from your new sergeants later, but I want you to understand that your role here is vital to the safety and security of Sacreth. The Wardens are the shield that protects the citizenry of the Valley Kingdom, and here you will find that this aphorism is quite literally true." He indicated the man on his other side, a tall soldier with slightly squished features, including a nose that had quite obviously been badly broken at some point. "Warden Ellard will show you to your quarters when we are done here."

Darrivan finally turned his attention to the prisoners. If his eyes sharpened somewhat, it was only a fractional change, Grimm thought. A horse neighed and shifted, but for a long moment the only other noise was the distant din rising up from the adjacent valley.

"You men are here because you were convicted of crimes against the people of Sacreth," the commander finally said. "What you did before you came here is of no concern to me. At Edelvar everyone contributes to the operation of this outpost, without exception. Your Marks will be removed. If you are considering flight, I caution you; the forest is not a friendly place for the foresworn, and it cares not for your loyalties... or lack thereof. Serve your terms honorably, and you may even have the opportunity to return to society better for the experience."

"Sergeant Dosson," Darrivan barked, drawing the man forward. He looked like old leather, weathered and tough. "Sir," he said.

"Bring in our new arrivals and see that they are assigned quarters. Welcome to Edelvar, gentlemen."

He turned his horse and started back to the gate, while Dosson and Ellard came forward to take custody of their respective charges. Miranda, however, kicked her horse forward, and rode toward Darrivan's back.

"Commander," she said.

A slight tug of his reins was enough to stop his Warden-trained horse. "Mage Hael, you are capable of removing the Marks as I directed?"

She blinked at the statement. "I... I mean, yes, I can, it would need some preparation, but..."

"By tomorrow, then," he said. He started to turn back to the gate, but Miranda quickly interjected, "I would have thought that Mage Orastes would take care of that."

"I have asked you to do it, Mage Hael," he said, his words clipped.

"Mage Orastes, he _is_ still here?"

"You will find him in the mage quarters, in the northeast corner. I suggest you direct any further questions to him. Excuse me."

He rode on, leaving Miranda to stare at his rigid back.

* * *

The small building in the corner of the fort looked somewhat squished between the long barracks assigned to the Wardens and the blocky form of the granary. The stacked rows of windows suggested that it consisted of two stories, but its slightly-sloping roof only just reached to the top of the stockade wall. The door was deeply recessed into the narrow space between the building and the barracks, and it stood slightly open as Miranda approached.

"Hello?"

Miranda peered inside to see a small room crowded with a truly heroic degree of clutter. Her first thought was that the place had been ransacked, so thorough was the disarray. She could only just make out the outlines of a desk and a couch, and a bureau with doors that had been unfolded to reveal parchments that looked poised to vomit out upon the floor with the slightest incentive.

"Hello?" she repeated, stepping forward cautiously through the narrow doorway.

An arched exit led back to the interior of the place, and she heard the thump of someone approaching moments before the mage appeared. Even stooped with age he was a tall man, the brow of his hat almost brushing the top of the arch as he entered the room. He wore the traditional full robe, arranged in a style that had been considered archaic when Miranda had been in diapers. His features matched the disarray of the room, with his white beard cropped unevenly so that the whiskers trailed noticeably longer on the right side of his face. A pair of lenses that were thick enough to seem opaque was perched upon the bridge of his nose, and he peered through them at her as he entered the room.

"Oh," he said. "The clothes are in a bag somewhere near the door, should be right there, not that I will be needing them..."

"Excuse me?"

"The laundry. Are you simple, girl? I hope you aren't waiting for a gratuity, as I pay my bill on a regular basis..."

"I am not the charwoman," Miranda managed sternly. She drew herself up, so that the icon upon her belt could be seen more clearly. "I am Miranda Hael, Mage of the Order."

The mage came forward, nearly stumbling on a pile of books stacked up against the edge of the couch. He was carrying a large shoulder-bag that looked to be about half-full; the spines of several books jutted out from its open flap. He was not wearing his belt buckle or any other identifying sigil, Miranda noted.

He lifted his spectacles and peered at her through them. "Hmm, yes. Well, hand me that book, will you? The blue one, yes, that one."

Miranda dug the indicated book out from under a pile heaped upon the desk, and handed it to him. He wedged it into the bag. "You are Mage Alvrin Orastes, are you not?"

"I am," he said, turning away from her, scanning the room as though looking for something. "Careful, don't knock that over," he said, as she came more fully into the room behind him.

"I have come here to..." she trailed off as Orastes started back toward the arch. Miranda shook her head and followed him, making her way through the maze.

The back room was only slightly more orderly than the front. A glowstone in an old brass lamp shone fitfully in a bracket mounted into the wall. It looked as this room was a combination of kitchen, dining room, and study. Bookshelves lined two walls, while the others were taken up with cabinets and a countertop that included both a sink and a built-in iron stove. Another arch led to stairs that ascended to the second level, but Miranda's eyes were drawn to the table in the center of the room. The mage put down his bag there, which joined a collection that included an old leather backpack and a set of bulging saddlebags.

"Are you planning on going somewhere?"

"Of course. I am leaving, tomorrow morning, in fact."

"What? You can't do that!"

He turned and sent her a sharp look. "Oh? Why can't I?"

"I..." she paused. "I came here to study under you!"

"Well, that was presumptuous of you. Should have written, first."

"I did write!" She dug into her pouch. "You said to come out here!"

He took the parchment she offered, scanned it before he shrugged and dropped it to the floor. "Well, I'm not taking on an apprentice now, and I'm certainly not staying another day. You can tell the Order I've done enough, quite enough, on their behalf!"

"But... you've been here for over a decade... why now?"

He shook his head, "It's been long enough, too long. The forest... it is _stirring_. The voices of the wyldes, long silent, whispering..."

He trailed off, and while he was looking at her, she could see that he was seeing past her, at something that existed only in his mind. His eyes abruptly clicked to her, so suddenly that she nearly jumped from the intensity in them. "You should leave too, if you are smart."

Anger edged over her growing despair. "I cannot do that. The Order assigned me here."

"Of course, must have a Mage here, to watch over the Order's precious prize. The cost... the cost is too high, they will learn, soon enough."

He turned to the table, and started checking the bags he'd already packed, muttering to himself. Miranda came around the edge to face him. "Why does Commander Darrivan want the Marks removed from the convict laborers?" she asked, her voice sharp to cut through the old mage's apparent haze.

He looked up at her. "The Marks... the magic fogs the brain, harms the mind." He tapped his forehead.

She shook her head. "The magic is safe, it's been used for centuries..."

"No, no! It's _this place_... The Marks form a conduit for the power of the forest to enter. The rules are different here. You will see, soon enough."

He started picking up the bags, looping the straps over his thin frame until Miranda thought they would drag him to the ground. "What are you doing, it's almost dark!"

He shifted, struggling against the weight of the bags. "I'll stay in the barracks tonight. This is the Mage's House, the Mage should be here, not me."

"Wait! What about... your spells, records..."

For a moment, Orastes looked at her in a manner that was almost painfully lucid. "I haven't spelled an amulet in almost five years. As for the rest of it..." He stood in the doorway and looked around, as if seeing the place for the first time. "It is yours, such as it is."

He started to turn away again, but she made one more effort, saying, "Dratek called you the greatest shield mage of your generation."

At first she thought he would ignore her, but he paused and looked back at her. "Don't listen to the whispers, when they start to come to you," he said. "They promise much, but the promises are false."

Then he left, leaving her standing there. She heard the outer door creak open and then slam shut, and she was left alone in silence.

* * *

The working day at Edelvar began early, but the residents of the fort were just starting to stir when Miranda emerged from her new home the next morning. The fort had originally been built to accommodate the entire population of the outpost, but its growth had led to most of its work force remaining in the valley most of the time, with only the Wardens, the skilled craftsmen, and those workers who directly supported those two groups living inside the stockade wall. The fort had its own water supply and extensive stores in case there was a need to bring the expanded population within its walls. In her brief exploration the night before Miranda had found a cellar under her own building that was stacked high with wooden crates and waist-high casks.

She hurried out past the gate to where the expedition was already preparing to depart. Orastes was impossible to miss, even among the busy collection of Wardens and two dozen heavily laden mules with their drivers. She'd hoped to make at least one more effort with the old mage, but as soon as he saw her he turned away, crossing to the far side of the column in an obvious effort to evade her.

She let out a frustrated sigh.

"Not what you expected?"

She turned to see Sergeant Malor approaching, leading his horse. "Something wrong?" he asked.

"I guess I just assumed that you were staying," she said.

"No, I just do the deliveries," he told her. "But you're in good hands. Sergeant Dosson knows his business."

She noted that he hadn't mentioned Commander Darrivan, and thought that the omission was deliberate. Dosson had sent over the promised briefing packet late last night; the parchments had barely fit inside the fat leather folder. It was like being back at the University, she thought, with all of the homework.

"I had hoped to study with him," she said, looking back over at Orastes, who was complaining to one of the mule drivers.

"I only met him briefly on a few occasions, but he struck me as the sort of man who wouldn't make a very patient teacher."

"Are you telling me that I should make the best out of a bad situation, sergeant?"

"I'm saying that this is a hard place—there's no denying that—but that people do leave here." He nodded at one of the Wardens, who'd waved his hand to indicate that the column was ready to move out. He offered a salute, then extended a hand. "Good luck, Mage Hael."

She shook his hand and nodded. "Thanks."

She watched as the column got organized and then moved out along the trail. She stayed there until the last of the riders was out of sight, then sighed and headed back to her new quarters. She had a lot of cleaning and sorting to do.

* * * * *

Chapter 7

Grimm hung his bundle on the hook just inside the door, and pulled off his sweat-sodden clothes. The damp tiles were cool on his feet as he stepped into the washroom. The interior chamber was empty, a rare happenstance in Edelvar, he'd come to learn. He stood under the first sluice and tugged on the release chain. For a moment the chill of the water took his breath away, but not in a bad way, soothing his aching muscles and carrying off the sweat and dirt from his body. After a quick rinse he released the chain and picked up the lye cake that served as soap. He was quick with it; the lye stung the half-healed cuts that covered his hands. After a second rinse he took up one of the towels stacked near the entry. He started to reach for the bundle of clean clothes he'd left, only to jump as he saw a young woman standing in the outer room, carrying a bundle of clothes in a wicker hamper. He turned crimson as he quickly folded the wet towel around his waist. "Suisa! I... ah... you shouldn't..."

"I saw you walking here, and thought you would have laundry for me." She spoke with a thick southern accent, probably from Chora or one of the city-states of the Selizar League. She was barely his age, her skin tinted a deep olive, her short, curly hair setting off her rounded features. Her smile caused Grimm's flush to spread from his cheeks to his neck.

"You shouldn't be here alone," he said. "It's foolish." He'd meant to sound stern, but he found it was hard to do that while dressed only in a towel.

"Oh, I know that you would protect me," she said.

He wanted to grab his clothes, but the girl was blocking the exit from the shower area. "Your aunt will be angry," he managed.

"Suisa!"

At the shout, coming from outside the washhouse, the girl jumped quickly back. Grimm used the opportunity to grab his clothes from the hanging hook, and darted back into cover to shrug into them. He'd managed to get his breeches and undershirt on before he heard the door squeak open.

"What are you doing here? How many times I tell you, not to go places in the camp alone!"

"I'm sorry, I just..."

The girl trailing off warned Grimm as he was pulling on his socks, and he looked up to see a compact, middle-aged woman looking into the washroom. Her eyes shot accusation at the young Warden like a ballista. "Yes, I see what you were up to," she said.

"Hello, Reyna," Grimm said.

The older woman dismissed him with a practiced ease that either Gaerand or Darrivan would have envied. "Go outside, wait for me," she commanded Suisa.

"Auntie..."

"Go!"

With a squeak, the girl complied. Reyna reached over and deliberately picked up Grimm's dirty clothes. "Reyna..."

She silenced him with a look, and poked a finger at his chest. "You... shame!" she said, making a slashing motion with her hand before she turned and left.

Grimm sighed and finished dressing. He went outside, blinking against the brilliant afternoon sunlight. The two women were heading back toward the trail that led to the fort; he could hear the exchange between them, though his knowledge of Chorothan was limited to a few words and phrases he'd picked up from the seasonal laborers that were hired to help with the harvests in Calisford. He didn't need to speak the language, though, to get the gist of the conversation.

He wiped his forehead, which had already begun to sweat as the heat of the day swept over his body. He was glad to see that his boots were where he had left them; even after a week at Edelvar, he was still making simple mistakes like that. Fils had had his entire kit stolen almost from under his nose on his second day at the camp, an error that had earned him a momentous chewing-out from Sergeant Dosson.

The sawmill above and behind him continued its near-constant din, accompanied by the sounds from the smelting works and the mining operation below. He'd almost gotten used to the cacophony that filled the valley from dawn to dusk, and sometimes well into the night. It was amazing how quickly, however, the sounds faded away once one moved into the forest that ringed the valley like a halo. Patrols swept those woods on a regular basis. Grimm had already been on three such expeditions. Darrivan was unlike Gaerand in that everyone, veteran and recruit alike, was assigned to front-line duty. Nor did he stint in any other kind of duty, Grimm thought, as he rotated his worn shoulders. The aches in his muscles that the cold shower had numbed were coming back. They weren't as intense now as they'd been for the first few days. In addition to their patrol and guard duties, the Wardens at Edelvar engaged in almost constant training. Sergeant Faris, the outpost's Master of Arms, ran them through drills and practice sessions that had been as hard as anything Grimm had faced at Palrith Nor. At first he'd thought that Darrivan was just trying to get their measure, but then he saw that the veterans of the garrison were not spared.

Grimm realized that he was woolgathering, and that standing idle in the sunshine was a good way to get assigned to a work detail. He turned and trotted up the path that led back up to the fort. He passed the open-sided cookhouse, trying to ignore the tempting smells of roasting meat that issued from within. He caught sight of Jamor, carrying a heavy sack of potatoes over his shoulder. The prisoner—laborer, now, Grimm amended, noting the man's blank forehead—saw him and nodded. He hadn't seen the other three men who'd been brought here with him, but he'd heard that they were working in the mines.

Grimm glanced back at the line of structures that followed the path of the stream along the valley floor, starting from the smelting works and extending down almost to the spot where the valley walls closed into a narrow, twisting canyon that marked the edge of the complex. The buildings there were collectively known as the "low town," where the laborers spent most of their time when they were not working. He'd been surprised to learn—within a cycle of his arrival at Edelvar, from one of the other Wardens—that the amenities to be found in the low town included both a tavern and a brothel. Grimm remembered his initial shock; the news ran so counter to Darrivan's image that he hadn't believed it at first. But much as his muscles had adjusted to the rough facts of life here, his thinking had begun to shift as well. As he'd overheard Ellard tell it to another of the new recruits, Edelvar's population had a ratio of five men to one woman, and even if only about half of the laborers were convicted criminals, even those who'd come here for silver were cut from a rough cloth.

But Edelvar was not all ugliness and hard living. The forest—the forest was a wonder, untamed despite all that the Sacrethans had done to cut out a piece of it. Beyond the noises and stinks of the camp, even just a few lengths beyond the ring of trees that surrounded the valley, it was a different world altogether. No one, Warden or civilian, was allowed outside the valley without orders, so he'd had no chance to go exploring during the limited amount of free time allowed to him, but Grimm had seen a good deal during his patrols. There were the fields that had been cleared in the woods, where trees had been hacked down to fuel the camp and replaced by grains and potatoes to keep its hungry bellies full. There were also several spur mines, set up to exploit lodes away from the rich veins that had originally drawn the Sacrethans to this site. Only two of those were currently in operation, but they sent a constant stream of mules back to the camp laden with ore.

And there were other sites, places where the touch of men hadn't changed the natural beauty of the landscape. Grimm's jaw had dropped when he'd first seen the pools that gathered atop the high falls on the northern edge of the valley. The water there had been so clear that he'd been able to clearly see the tiny multicolored fish that swam along their bottoms. Or the ring of trees that they'd found to the east, sixteen massive sentinels that grew in a circle, none of them with a trunk less than four strides thick. There were meadows hidden within the forest that suddenly exploded with wildflowers all around them, with colors so stark that they seemed painted upon the blooms. Grimm had not sensed anything like the wave of intense feelings that had come with his first entry into the forest, but could tell that the place was starting to have an effect upon him.

His pace barely slowed as he ran up the steep path. He welcomed the harsh schedule and the constant work for one reason, at least; it left him too tired to let his mind wander. His sleep had been troubled, and not just because of the adjustments to a new place. He had woken several times to dreams of blood, standing in the alley with a sword in his hand and a corpse at his feet. Sometimes the face of the dead man was obscured, other times the thief's features were replaced by someone else he knew, either from his old life or from Bel Wilder, or here at Edelvar. Once he'd woken shaking, his heart pounding, with the image of Miranda Hael lying bloody before him fresh in his mind.

He'd thought of the mage often, though he'd seen little of her since his arrival at Edelvar. She had her own quarters in the fort, a little house separate from the other buildings, and as far as he could tell she'd hardly left the place for the first few days after their arrival. But he'd seen her from a distance a few times since then, exploring the camp. Other than the formal briefings held by the commander she didn't seem to have any official duties or schedule. Lacking an excuse to go talk with her, and burdened by his own assignments he'd had to content himself to watching from afar, and seeing her in his dreams.

"Grimm!"

The voice shook him from his reverie, and he was surprised to find himself near the summit of the trail, in the very shadow of the fort. He hurried over to where Dosson was gathering a party of men and horses together in front of the gate. He hastened to join them. "Sergeant?"

"Get your gear, and be back here on the double-time."

"Patrol going out?" he asked. He glanced back at the western sky, where the sun was already approaching the tops of the trees on the far side of the valley.

Dosson saw the gesture and his expression soured. "Just get your gear, Grimm."

"Do I need to draw a horse from the..."

"We've got an extra one. Go, man, go!"

By the time that Grimm had made it to the barracks and back, the rest of the Wardens were already mounted. In addition to Dosson and Ellard, Fils and Rojek were there, along with three other Wardens he did not know very well. Still fumbling with the straps of his armor, he slung his pack over one shoulder and hurried to the horse that was waiting for him. He wondered who the horse had been originally intended for; obviously they hadn't planned on him appearing at that particular moment. But there was no time for questions; he'd barely settled in the saddle when Dosson kicked his horse forward and started off toward the forest trail at a brisk trot. It was several minutes before Grimm could get close enough to Rojek to ask a question.

"What's this about?"

The other Warden shrugged. "Supply train is late or something, they saw some signal smoke from the forest. Now you know as much as I do."

There was no chance to talk further, as the forest closed in around them, and Grimm had to keep his full attention upon the trail. Dosson led them at a pace that was just shy of reckless, the horses charging over the route that Malor had led them a week before. That route was full of dips and curves, the iron-shod hooves of their horses snapping fallen branches and launching sprays of damp leaves in their wake. As the forest thickened the undergrowth thinned and the low-hanging branches were replaced by the tall shafts of trees, but Grimm still found himself ducking the stray claw of spread leaves grasping for his face. He was wearing only light patrol armor instead of the heavy mail coat that the Wardens favored for battle, not that either would have protected him if he was flung from the saddle in the mad ride.

They hadn't gone for very long, maybe a quarter-cycle, when Dosson reined them in as quickly as they had set out. Grimm nearly rode into Rojek's backside, and his horse let out a neigh of protest as it reared up and stamped its feet on the ground. Trying to calm the animal, he peered around his companions and tried to see what was going on at the head of the column. He saw the sergeant, one hand raised into a fist, but beyond that, only the shadows of the forest.

No, he amended, there _was_ something there, movement ahead on the trail, coming closer. He felt a momentary thrill of panic but quashed it quickly, his hand stealing to the hilt of his sword. But then he heard shouts and hails from both sides, and the Wardens were moving forward as a trail of riders escorting a line of mules came into view ahead.

It was immediately evident that the supply train had run into trouble. Several of the men were riding double, and a number bore obvious wounds, including a man swaying in his saddle who had a bloody bandage twined around his shoulder from neck to armpit. Rojek and Ellard were already helping the injured soldier, so Grimm turned to another whose face bore ugly red lines under the edge of the bandage wrapped around his head. He was only a few strides away from Dosson as the sergeant reined in next to the column's leader, a Warden officer who held his sword arm cradled against his belly. Grimm could clearly see the blood that covered the limb and had soaked into his leggings.

"What happened, sir?" Dosson asked.

"Bear... we were attacked by a bear. It came out of nowhere... tore one of the mules' head off before we even knew it was there, ripped a second to pieces even as we were drawing our blades. We lost six of the beasts in all. Roped together, they couldn't get away from it. It fought... insane, it was insane..."

"Is anyone else still back there? Sir, did you lose anyone?"

The officer's gaze drew back to the sergeant. "No. We killed it, we left it there, back there. But Corzon there is hurt badly, and we had to put down two of the horses, they were too crippled to save."

"All right. We're not far from the fort, we can get treatment there for your men."

The officer seemed content to let Dosson take the lead, and the sergeant quickly got the column organized and moving again. He sent Fils and another of his Wardens to take the rear guard, while another was sent ahead to notify the outpost of what had happened. Grimm found himself riding beside the man with the injured face, supporting him in the saddle.

"It wasn't insane," he said, so quietly that Grimm almost missed it.

"Sorry?"

The man turned in the saddle. With his face partially covered by the bandage, he had to swivel almost full around for his uncovered eye to meet Grimm's. "It wasn't insane. It was possessed, possessed by a demon. Corzon stabbed it through the throat, and it reared up and almost crushed both him and his horse. If the patrol leader hadn't drawn it off him, it would have killed him, probably would have killed a lot of us. Almost lost his hand for his trouble. We damn near stabbed the thing twenty, maybe thirty times, you could barely recognize it for what it was, by the end."

Grimm felt a chill, and he couldn't help but look into the surrounding forest that pressed in close all around them. It did not look so peaceful or beautiful now, and he felt again some of the incipient malice that he'd sensed during their initial arrival.

But nothing further emerged from the woods to threaten them. By the time that the forest thinned again and Edelvar came into view a small party had gathered in front of the fort to await their coming. The group included both Wardens and workers from the fort, but Grimm's eyes flicked to the familiar form of Miranda, who ran through the gate with a satchel slung over one shoulder.

Dosson looked first to the injured patrol leader, then called a halt. Men ran forward to take charge of the mules and help the wounded from their saddles. The man with the head wound could at least stand on his own, but the one with the mangled shoulder, Corzon, had to be eased to the ground by Rojek and Ellard. Miranda was at their side a moment later, and as she pushed them back to make space Grimm could see the fresh red stain that had spread across the front of his bandaged chest. The other survivors of the supply caravan, including the officer, came together in a rough half-circle behind them. Grimm's charge started that way as well, but the injured man staggered after one step away from his horse. Grimm caught him and wrapped one of his arms over his shoulder, helping him stand. He tried to turn him away, toward the fort, but the wounded Warden resisted, drawn to the fate of his dying comrade.

Rojek and Ellard had risen and dropped back, letting Grimm see what the mage was doing. She'd taken a crescent-shaped amulet, as white as bone, and laid it on the dying man's chest. The injured Warden gasped as the device began to glow with a blue light, but then he subsided as the glow seemed to seep into him. Miranda knelt over him, her hand held outstretched just above the amulet. Her eyes were closed, but her lips moved slightly, as though she was whispering something to herself.

Everything seemed to pause for a moment, as the gathered men stopped what they were doing to watch the working of the magic. Grimm was caught up in it as well, until the glow abruptly faded, and Miranda sagged back, blinking wearily.

"Get a stretcher, get him inside," she told the Wardens. "Try not to jostle him, if you can help it." She took up her amulet, which Grimm noticed was now slightly darker than it had been before.

"Mage, the patrol leader is seriously wounded," Dosson said. "And that man there as well," he added, indicating with a nod the Warden that Grimm was supporting.

Miranda looked up—it seemed to take an effort, Grimm thought. Something flashed in her eyes as she looked at him, and he felt an echoing stab in his chest. She got to her feet, and came over to him.

"Do you want me to put him down?" he asked.

"No, just hold him still." She peered up into the injured man's eyes. "What's your name, soldier?" she asked.

He blinked rapidly, as though he was having difficulty focusing his eyes. "Shavkar," he said.

"Is that southern?"

"My family's from Pal Dara, Mage," he said. Miranda reached up and carefully unfastened the bandage around his head. Grimm could smell the iron stink of the wound, and the blood that covered half his face. The gashes were ugly red lines that ran down from his forehead to his cheek. Blood had seeped into his eye and gummed it shut, but it looked as though he'd gotten lucky; the cuts hadn't claimed the organ.

A fresh trickle started out of the wounds as the bandage came away. "I need you to hold still, Shavkar," she said, raising the amulet again.

He'd seen her use her magic on the road, and just now on the dying man, but somehow it was different to have it happen right here in front of him. He could feel the radiance coming from the amulet upon his skin, and had to resist the natural impulse to draw back. He couldn't look away from her face, the reflection of the magic in her eyes as she focused on her work. When she finally drew back, he looked over and saw that the deep gashes on Shavkar's face had been reduced to dark scars. Had he not witnessed the magic, he would have said that they'd been stitched shut and been healing a week. He looked back at her in amazement. She gave him a soft smile and turned to Dosson and the officer with the crippled hand.

The healing must have taken something out of the injured man, for he sagged against Grimm, forcing him to shift his feet to take more of his weight. Lowen appeared, taking Shavkar's other arm, and between them they were able to turn him toward the fort. Men were moving again, leading the surviving mules into the fort to unload their supplies, or taking charge of the horses of the caravan's escort. As the stockade came into view Grimm looked up to see that Commander Darrivan had arrived and was watching the scene with a dark look on his face. Seeing Grimm's attention, he shifted his eyes toward him.

"Never forget that we're the intruders here," Darrivan said.

Unable to think of a response, Grimm helped Lowen take the injured Warden inside the fort.

* * * * *

Chapter 8

Grimm cast a doubtful look back over his shoulder as he made his way down the trail into the valley. Spring was giving way to summer, but here in the Forever Wood the weather didn't seem to have gotten the message. There had been another drizzle the night before, enough to freshen the muddy puddles that made navigation through the courtyard of the fort treacherous for freshly-polished boots. Even now gray streaks lingered above the line of trees that served as a backdrop to the fort, but it looked as though they'd just caught an edge of the storm on its way deeper into the forest.

The trail grew notably steeper as he made his way forward, forcing him to keep his attention focused on what lay ahead rather than what lay behind. The path was slippery here as well, but Grimm had made the short journey often enough that he knew the dangerous spots to avoid.

He stifled a yawn. This was the first chance he'd had to take some personal time in several days. Darrivan had redoubled patrols after the attack on the supply caravan, though there had been no further encounters with mad bears or other natural hazards of the woods. He'd escorted parties of workers to the spur mines and to the cleared fields where the latest round of crops was doing well, grateful no doubt for the late rains. The workers had been nervous, understandably so given the recent attack.

He passed by the paddock where the mules were kept, and turned away from the fork that led over to the cookhouse, washhouse, and sawmill before ascending up the far side of the valley. One of the ostlers, engaged in putting out forage for the mules, looked up and leered at him knowingly as he started down the other fork of the trail, the one that led down toward the low town. Grimm ignored the man, but he felt his ears and cheeks go hot as he continued down the path, over the simple bridge of wooden boards that crossed the stream.

His destination wasn't in the low town, however. He was starting to get a sense of the layout of the base, and the logic of it. At first he'd been surprised to find the workshops down here instead of within the protection of the fort's stockade wall. Most of them did not even have four full walls, let alone fortification against attack. But while their position in the valley was more vulnerable, the shops were more effective here, close to the primary mines and the raw materials that they needed. Their presence here also allowed them to benefit from the motive power of the stream, as most of the workshops had a waterwheel attached. They needed to be open, especially the smelter and the smithy. He'd spent a few minutes inside the former structure a few days after his arrival at Edelvar, and even that brief visit had left him drenched in sweat and gasping the cool outside air as he'd left. He did not envy the men that had to work there, or the ones who dug the ore out of the ground, turning it over to the smelters to be reduced to ingots of iron or copper. They took other things out of the ground as well, precious stones that were buried in with the more mundane ores. Those stones were related to the magic practiced by the gem mages of Sacreth, and he'd heard from the other Wardens that one of the responsibilities of the fort's Mage was to examine the stones that were discovered and identify those worthy of being sent back to the capital. He'd heard that the workers could earn bounties for particularly rich finds of those stones, but he had not been here long enough to learn the details of how that system operated.

Distracted by those thoughts, he almost ran into a man coming up the trail. He started as he recognized Ravis. The big convict smiled, revealing a mouth full of crooked teeth. There was something in that smile that sent a chill down Grimm's spine as the man walked past him and headed up toward the smelting works. Grimm realized that his hand had fallen to the hilt of his sword, and that he was holding it hard enough to feel the strain in his knuckles.

He loosened his grip, shook his head, and kept going. The fate of the men he'd escorted to Edelvar was not his concern; he had enough problems to deal with without adding new ones to his tally.

Grimm could see the small house that was his goal just ahead. The leatherworks was tiny in contrast to the buildings dedicated to working metal, but he knew that it served just as vital a role in keeping the camp functioning. It was set apart from both its neighboring works and the low town further down the trail. He was reminded of the reason as the wind shifted and brought the familiar stink to his nostrils. Edelvar did not have a full-fledged tannery, but even the limited processing that was done required substances whose primary trait seemed to be a ferocious odor. If the men who worked with metal had to be partly deaf, the leatherworkers had to have an especially durable sense of smell.

Grimm pulled his damaged bracer from his belt as he approached the house. Unlike the metal works the leather shop was fully enclosed, perhaps as part of a vain effort to keep the smells trapped within. It had neighbors, a series of squat log bunkers dug into the ground in a neat row, but those buildings did not have residents to complain about the stink. Grimm knew that they were storehouses, simple structures where supplies for the workshops were kept, and where those products not valuable enough to be sent up to the fort were housed until the next caravan heading home was ready.

He was supposed to report any damaged equipment to his supervising sergeant, Faris in this case. He'd torn one of the straps on the bracer on his last patrol. But the bracers had been a gift from his parents on his eighteenth birthday, after he'd told them of his decision to go to Palrith Nor to begin his Service. While they fully met Warden specifications, they were decorated with elaborate scrollwork on the leather, and the metal reinforcements were good quality steel, far nicer than the standard issue. Ellard had advised him to see to the repair himself, and to use his name with Tomard, the old leatherworker who supervised the works.

He hesitated as he passed the last storehouse in the line. The door was slightly ajar, letting a slash of light into the dark interior, but he heard a soft sound from within, a faint whimper that drew him closer like a metal nail to a lodestone. It sounded like someone crying.

Careful, his mind flashing back to the alley in Bel Wilder, he prodded the door open further. "Hello?"

The crying stopped, replaced by a soft scuffle. He opened the door wider, his hand again on his sword. The light that made it past the low lintel illuminated a dusty, deep interior crowded with crates piled on square wooden pallets and barrels stacked against the walls. It also revealed a pale form that shrank back into the cover offered by the piled stores, but not before Grimm both recognized the tear-streaked face and the bare flesh that she tried to conceal with a torn tunic.

"Suisa!" he said, coming forward.

"No, stay back!" she cried, shrinking even further back into the narrow space between the crates and the wall. She fumbled with her clothes, but the rent fabric flailed around her fingers, refusing to cooperate.

"Here," he said, unpinning his cloak and handing it over to her. She seemed to vanish under the dark garment. "Who did this?" he asked. When she said nothing, he repeated, "Who?" His voice edged up into harshness, and she squeaked softly in terror.

He turned, and he would have quailed at his own face if he'd have been able to see himself in a mirror at that moment. He already knew the answer, flashed back to that smug smile he'd passed on the trail. His hand had fallen again to the hilt of his sword, but this time he did not feel the strain on his fingers.

He started to the door, but was halted by another familiar voice from outside. "Suisa! Suisa!"

The call stuck a knife through his anger, but did not defeat it. He hurried outside, and saw Reyna hurrying up the trail from the low town. He waved to her. "Help her, she's inside," he said. Her mouth opened to a question, but he was already walking up the trail toward the smelting works. He could see the cherry glow from the furnaces, and he felt his anger rekindle as he drew closer, burning like the iron slugs inside.

He heard laughter before he saw them, rounding the corner of one of the big smithies that flanked the smelting works. The interior of the building was quiet, and as he came around to the side of the building he saw its workers, apparently in the midst of their meal break. A number of empty barrels and crates had been arranged to provide seats, and it looked as though they'd found one that contained wine. His attention zoomed to Ravis, laughing at some jest made by one of the others, a fat glass bottle in one hand. There were half a dozen of them altogether, but Grimm saw only the big convict. Engaged in their banter, they didn't see him approach, or at least most of them didn't; one man sitting back from the others turned toward him as he came up from the trail. It was Perek, who read Grimm's mood instantly, and quickly rose as if to block him.

He did not get a chance. Ravis lifted his bottle to his mouth, taking a deep swig of the liquid within. One of the other men shouted encouragement as the draught deepened, as though the big man intended to drain the entire contents in one massive gulp.

Grimm didn't think, he just acted. Reaching back to the sheath tucked into the small of his back, he drew out his knife and threw in one blur of motion. Perek dodged back reflexively, just in time to avoid the knife that flew like an arrow toward his target. It struck the bottle right in the thickest part, just above Ravis's hand.

The bottle exploded in a spray of wine and glass. Ravis staggered back, blinking. The knife thudded heavily into the wall of the smithy, the tip burying into the wood.

All eyes turned to Grimm, who drew his sword as he stepped into the impromptu camp. Ravis, blinking at him, blood trickling down the side of his face from a cut, snarled in anger that was tempered as he saw the steel in the Warden's hand. He wiped a hand across his face and spat.

There was a long moment of silence.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" Perek asked quietly, though he made no further move to intervene.

Grimm flicked his sword down, hard enough to bury half the length of the blade into the dirt.

Ravis smiled.

Grimm charged forward with a roar. Ravis was ready for him, but the sheer intensity of the Warden's rush caught him off guard. The two men collided and fell back against the wall of the smithy. Ravis recovered quickly, slamming a fist up into Grimm's body hard enough to blast the air from his lungs and break the connection between them. He didn't let up, driving a kick into Grimm's side that knocked him sprawling. Grimm fell back and rolled over, almost hitting another worker who quickly jumped back out of the way. He came up ready for Ravis's counterattack, and drove a fist into the big man's face. The blow connected solidly but barely seemed to faze him; he seized hold of the Warden's shoulders and spun him around, flinging him across the camp. Grimm hit a crate and smashed through it, landing hard in a mess of wooden shards and bent nails.

He managed to get up to his knees before Ravis bore into him, driving a kick hard into his gut that flipped him up and over again onto his back. The convict stepped forward to hit him again before he could recover, but Grimm managed to deliver a kick that hit just below Ravis's right knee, knocking him off balance. Ravis staggered to the side but didn't fall. He again recovered with impressive quickness, pivoting and charging forward even as Grimm fought to get back up to his feet. The two collided again and fell backward down the slope that led to the stream. Grimm grimaced as something hard crushed his ribs, but he managed to roll over and stagger to his feet. He saw that the other men had formed a line to watch the fight. He also saw Ravis coming at him again, a dull roar issuing from his throat. A rock shifted under his hand as he got up, and he reflexively flung it up into the big man's path. The stone glanced off Ravis's shoulder, throwing him off just enough for Grimm to connect with a solid cross that hit the convict's jaw with a heavy crack. Ravis countered with two blows to Grimm's body, one of which lifted his feet briefly off the ground, and then smashed him across the face hard enough to drive him once more to the ground.

Grimm groaned and fought to rise. His limbs defied his commands. He tasted blood in his mouth. He sensed a presence behind him and tried to strike out, but managed only a feeble swing that did not connect with anything.

"I'd stay down, if I were you," Perek said. "You'll not accomplish anything this way."

Grimm managed to lift his head enough to look back. Perek was there, bent over him, and behind him was Ravis. The big man looked grim with blood smeared across his face from the shallow gash that the broken bottle had opened, and if he looked slightly unsteady, he also looked more than ready enough to inflict more damage on the battered Warden.

"Your little girl, she was good," he said, launching another gob of blood-flecked sputum into the dirt at Grimm's feet.

Grimm got up, thrusting Perek aside. He came forward slowly this time, trying not to let his injuries betray him.

Ravis waited for him to come, and greeted him with a blow that Grimm pivoted away from. Too late he realized that it was a feint, and he moved right into the follow-up from Ravis's other fist that plowed into his side. Grimm staggered back. Another blow came down toward his face, but he got underneath it and drove an upward punch into Ravis's gut. He managed to get a grunt from the man, but that was all, and then he felt a slam that felt like a thick board being broken across his back. He fell to one knee and almost went down again, spitting blood into the dirt. He looked up to see another kick coming, and dove into it, grabbing Ravis's leg and twisting him over into the dirt.

His enemy was already rolling back up, but Grimm took advantage of the brief opening the move had given him. He met Ravis coming up with a downward punch that had all of his remaining strength behind it. Blood sprayed from the big man's lips as they split on his teeth. He swung again, but a massive arm came up and caught the blow, leaving him wide open. He could do nothing but take the punch that swept up and drove exploding stars into his brain. When he came to again he was lying in the dirt, trying to blink away the cascading lights that clouded his vision. He could hear shouting, and looked around desperately for signs of his foe.

When he could finally see clearly, he saw Ravis being led off by Perek, who had a hand on his shoulder. The other workers had already fled. He was vaguely aware of others approaching, but his gaze focused on Perek as the man looked back at him. His expression was unreadable, but Grimm didn't really get a chance to consider it, as his body finally asserted itself over his fading will, and he slumped back into the dirt.

The Wardens found him lying there when they arrived a few moments later.

* * *

"What do you have to say for yourself, Warden Grimm?"

Grimm stood in front of Commander Darrivan's desk, little more than a wooden shelf that jutted out from the wall of his office. A narrow window, clearly built more to shelter an archer than to provide light, let in a sliver of afternoon sunlight. Grimm did not consider it a coincidence that the upper edge of the beam crossed his face and shone in his eyes.

He heard Sergeant Dosson clearing his throat behind him. A reminder, or a caution? The three men were the only ones in the room, and it would have been hard to fit another person into the cramped space in any case.

"Sir, that man committed a violent rape," Grimm said. He drew deeply upon a reserve of strength and held himself still at attention, even though his battered body made him want to grimace with every subtle motion. He had caught a brief look at his bruised and swollen face in the mirror in the infirmary before he was summoned to this meeting, enough to know that he looked a sight. Perhaps he would have been given more slack had he won the fight. But then again, looking at Darrivan's face, perhaps not.

"There are four witnesses who put the accused at a different location at the time of the... incident." Darrivan's voice had a cold edge that could have sliced through parchment. "And the victim has refused to testify."

"She's afraid, sir, he told her..."

Grimm trailed off as the officer's stare dialed the chill down a few more notches. "The only other witness puts _you_ at the scene, coming out of the storage hut with the girl inside."

Grimm blinked at that. "Sir, surely you don't believe that I..." He trailed off again, this time at the horror of where that thought led. He replayed that part of the scene in his mind, trying to remember what he'd said to Reyna when he'd pushed past her to seek out Ravis.

"If I did, soldier, then we would be having this conversation over at the scourging post."

Grimm felt an angry accusation brew up within him, but he wisely held his tongue. From the look on Darrivan's face, however, the Warden commander knew exactly what he'd been about to say.

"I command thirty-six men at this outpost, Grimm. Thirty-six Wardens. In addition, I am responsible for over one hundred and sixty civilians, about a third of whom are convicted criminals. I have read your file, Grimm. If anyone would understand the importance of convivial relations with a civilian population within a garrison, I should think it would be you."

"Sir."

Darrivan smacked his palm heavily against the parchment pad spread across the surface of his desk. "We may only be a few days from the borders of Sacreth, but we are far away from our homeland here, mark me. My job is to maintain the security and stability of this outpost. I will do that, even if it forces me into decisions I would not otherwise prefer to make. Do you understand, Warden?"

Grimm shifted slightly. "Yes, sir."

"You are formally on report. Sergeant Dosson will brief you on your new duties. If you need healing, visit Mage Hael."

"I'm all right, sir," Grimm said stiffly.

"Then you are dismissed."

Grimm saluted. The stab of pain that resulted was almost welcome. Darrivan's response was precise, and then he turned to the reports waiting on the edge of his desk. Grimm may have well ceased to exist at that point, so thoroughly did the officer's attention dismiss him.

He turned and left, the sergeant on his heels.

* * *

A little more than a cycle later, Grimm hesitated before a wooden door. The narrow alley between the buildings was deep in shadow, though he could see that the small refuse bin crowded into the space was overflowing. He looked at it for a long moment. A contraption of wood and leather straps was dangling from the edge of the bin. He had no idea what it was, but he paused to tuck it away before he turned reluctantly back to the door. He swallowed, then reached up and knocked.

He waited silently. He was aware of the sweat forming on his neck despite the relative coolness of the shaded alley. He was about to leave when he heard the sound of the latch being worked from inside.

Her appearance took him a bit off guard. Miranda was dressed in a sleeveless blouse over trousers, the whole covered with an apron that was generously covered in stains. Her short hair was covered by a scarf, and there was a small black smudge on the side of her chin. She smiled as she saw him, and it lit up her face. "Oh, Warden Grimm. Come on in, sorry for the mess, I was just cleaning up a bit. The former resident left things in a bit of disarray. Utter chaos, really, but don't tell anyone I told you, we mages are supposed to be circumspect when speaking about our faults."

She left the door open and retreated back into the room. Following her in, Grimm saw that there was a little clutter in the front room, but he hardly would have termed it "disarray." There was another bin in one corner of the room, next to an old couch that looked older than he was, and it too was mostly full of assorted junk.

She followed his gaze to the couch. "Yeah, that's how I felt when I first saw it, but it should hold together for at least another day. Why don't you sit down, I'll just go get my Healing focus."

"I... I don't need healing."

Her expression was doubtful. He found himself wanting to reach out and rub the smudge from her chin. "I saw your reaction to my magic, before. When the caravan came in. There's no reason to be alarmed, the spell is very minor, it just accelerates your body's natural healing abilities."

"I'm not alarmed. That is, I didn't come here to be healed."

She turned back from the doorway to face him. "Oh?"

He suddenly felt awkward with his hands. If his uniform had been equipped with pockets, he would have shoved them inside. He settled for tucking his thumbs into his sword belt. "I... I have orders," he finished lamely.

Her expression sharpened, reminding him briefly of Darrivan. "Oh?" she repeated. "What orders?"

"I'm supposed to go with you when you go out into the camp." He did not add that the assignment was punishment for his attack on Ravis. "Commander Darrivan thought... that is, he wants you to have a Warden escort at all times. When I'm not available, Warden Fils will take over."

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "So, Commander Darrivan thinks I need a chaperone." She turned and looked at the door, as though her gaze could penetrate the wood and travel across the compound to the Warden headquarters. "The man ignores me for the better part of a week, and then... this."

"After what's happened, first the attack on the caravan, and then... with Suisa, he just thinks it's better to be safe..."

She turned on him. "So you're going to protect me, then?" she said. "I can handle a thug like Ravis."

She saw the impact her words had made, the implication in them, and her expression quickly softened. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that you... Really, Grimm, that was... thoughtless of me."

"It's all right," he said dully.

"It's not about you, really. It's just... do you think that Darrivan would have given the same order, if I'd been a man?"

"He's issued orders that even Wardens need to travel in groups of at least three, when we go into the forest," he said. "It's not just about..." He trailed off.

Her lips twisted into a wry smile. "It's not just about me?"

"I wasn't... I mean, I..."

"You wouldn't be the first to tell me that." She let out a heavy sigh. "Nor is this the first time I've felt like I needed to prove something. Do you understand that, Grimm?"

He nodded. "I guess I can."

"You're sure that you won't let me heal you?"

His body protested, but he felt like it would have been a sign of weakness to change his mind now. "No, I'm fine, really."

"Well. If you'll excuse me, then, I think I need to break something."

"I... I'll just be over at the barracks then, if you need me."

"Fine."

He hadn't wanted to retreat, but somehow, when he stood in the alley, the door closing heavily behind him, he felt as though he'd just suffered a rout.

* * * * *

Chapter 9

Grimm paused from shaving, and looked at the face staring back at him from the looking glass. The mirror was small and cheap, with distortions visible around the edges, but he could clearly see the landscape of cuts and bruises still healing across his features. Those marks were augmented by the dark circles under his eyes, one legacy of last night's adventures. He'd missed some soot, too, he saw. With a sigh he finished drawing the razor over his cheeks, then reached for his towel.

He had barely gotten any sleep at all. He'd been restless even before the alarm had been sounded, throwing the barracks into chaotic action. There had been a fire down in the camp. One of the smithies had blazed up around midnight, filling the valley with the bright glow of flames. The entire base had been roused to fight the flames, Wardens and civilians alike, and while they'd kept the fire from spreading to the nearby structures, the smithy itself had been a total loss. A carelessly banked rack of coals had been blamed, but Grimm had spent time looking through the crowd for Wilkens. He didn't find him, and had debated whether to share his suspicions with Sergeant Dosson afterward. In the end he had done nothing, deciding that Darrivan almost certainly had files on all of the prisoners brought to Edelvar. It seemed arrogant to think that he had more information on Wilkens's history than the garrison's commander did, but it still felt like the more cowardly choice to Grimm.

As he put away his shaving kit his thoughts turned again to Miranda. She had been impressive last night. They'd been late to the fire, but he remembered quite vividly how she had run straight toward the burning building. For a moment he'd thought that she was going to run right into it, but at the last moment she'd stopped, holding up that heavy round amulet she wore around her neck, the one she'd used to cast the spell that had kept the rain at bay at the ruined waystation in the forest. Unable to approach closer than twenty strides due to the heat from the fire, he'd only been able to watch as the flames surrounding one entire wall of the building shrank into nothing. She'd staggered back, obviously affected by the effort of whatever magic she'd conjured. Grimm had rushed to help her, but she'd kept him at bay with a raised hand of warning. In his mind's eye he could still see clearly the amulet dangling from her other hand, now glowing cherry red, as though it had just been withdrawn from the forge. Whatever the cord was made of, it must have been able to somehow resist the heat that he could feel coming off the metal disk. Again he'd only been able to observe as she'd carried the amulet over to the stream and dunked it hissing into the water.

It had taken them another cycle to finally defeat the fire, but the mage's intervention had turned the tide in their favor. He'd joined the lines of men bringing buckets full of water from the stream, twisting back and forth until his back had felt like someone had stabbed needles into it. When he'd gone back to find Miranda, he'd felt a moment of panic when she was no longer by the stream where he'd left her. Fortunately one of the other Wardens had escorted her back to her house inside the fort. He felt a small bit of guilt at that, even though she'd clearly demonstrated once more that she had absolutely no need of his protection.

He tried to be quiet as he left the washroom and went back into the barracks hall. He needn't have bothered; the men still sleeping there were dead to the world and none of them so much as stirred as he put on his armor and buckled on his sword belt. He'd barely heard it when the morning shift had been roused by Sergeant Faris. But now he was late, and Fils was no doubt wondering where his relief was.

He came to a sudden stop as he stepped through the doorway that connected the barracks hall with the guardroom. The room was just a small adjunct on the end of the building, crowded with a table and chairs, a few benches around the walls, and a stove from which the welcome smell of coffee drifted. A few Wardens were drinking coffee at the table. They looked up at him as he entered. One smirked; the men had teased Grimm a bit about his new assignment, and for his punishment at the hands of Ravis, but it hadn't been malicious. There was little love lost between the Wardens and the convict population at Edelvar, and the fight between Grimm and Ravis hadn't been the first instance of trouble between the two groups. But Grimm barely noticed the other Wardens; his attention was on the man sleeping on the bench beside the door that led outside. He strode over to him and kicked one of the feet dangling from the bench.

"Fils."

"Gmarrph," the Warden replied.

Grimm kicked again, harder. "Fils!"

Fils blinked, and groaned. "Go away," he said. Grimm loomed, poised to grab at him, but he shrank back against the wall and pushed himself up. "What? I'm up, I'm up! Neva's grace, Grimm, I barely got two cycles last night!"

"Aren't you supposed to be doing something?"

The young Warden ran a hand through his disordered mop of hair. "What? Oh, she told me to go ahead and get some rest."

"You saw the mage this morning?"

"Yeah, when I reported in, right after breakfast. Reckon she needed some extra sleep too, after last night... Hey, where are you going?"

Grimm's motivation lasted until he was standing again before the door of the mage's house. At that point uncertainty crept back in; was he being foolish? The last few days, since that initial awkward encounter here, things had been cool between them. She'd only left the fort once, her intent to take a ride around the camp, but whatever opportunity that the outing might have given him to make amends was soured when they'd left the stable to see Commander Darrivan watching them from the upper balcony of the headquarters building. Miranda had mentioned an interest in visiting the quiet pools that gathered in relative privacy beyond the northern lip of the valley, but the effects of Darrivan's gaze had lingered even after they'd ridden out through the gate. To make things worse, one of the guards on gate duty had snickered at him as they'd ridden through, and Grimm wasn't sure that Miranda hadn't heard him. The result had been an awkward silence between them, and the ride had ended up being short and unpleasant for both of them. When they'd gotten back, she'd dismounted and gone back into her refuge, slamming the door decisively. The fact that she'd left the tending of her horse to him had told him how upset she had been.

All of that went through his mind again as he knocked at the door, gently at first, then more intently as he waited. There was no answer, and he certainly wasn't going to humiliate himself further by shouting. Instead he went over to the gate, where thankfully different men were on duty, including the veteran Harsten.

"How's the face, Grimm?" the other guard asked, as he approached. But his chuckle wasn't mean, and he didn't press the issue as Grimm came up to Harsten.

"Have you seen Mage Hael this morning?" he asked quietly, trying not to let his own worries show through in his voice or manner.

"Aye, she came through a while before last bell."

"Was she mounted?"

Both men ignored the snort from the other guard. _Gods_ , thought Grimm, _is everyone at this base a fucking child?_ Distracted as he was by his own concerns, he didn't think about how the recent incidents, especially the attack on the supply caravan, had created a mood of worry throughout the entire base. While there was a core of veteran Wardens at Edelvar, including men like Ellard and Harsten, most were like him, new adults completing their year of Service in a place that was proving more dangerous and less adventurous than they had expected.

If he was troubled, Harsten didn't show it. "She was afoot. Headed up toward the north trail, along the lip of the valley. Something wrong, Grimm?"

He shook his head, though his mind and his gut were sending different messages. "No, nothing."

"Let your charge get away from you, did you?" the other guard asked. "Tell her she can cast an enchantment on me any time. Neva's teats, it would almost be worth it to look like you do, to get _that_ kind of duty."

"Shut up, Ivels," Harsten said, but Grimm was already heading down the path. He managed to resist the urge to break into a jog until he was around the corner of the fort.

* * *

It still impressed him how quickly the sounds and smells of the encampment faded away when he entered the forest. The trail ran away from the steep northern edge of the valley, circling around until it rejoined the more direct route leading up from its floor. Further on to the west were the blazed clearings where the outpost's crops were grown, and then further, radiating out in a wide arc, were the spur mines where previous occupants of Edelvar had expanded their search for the metals and gems that had turned the eyes of Sacreth here in the first place. Most of those lodes had been mined out, but two were still active, with a daily promenade of workers, mules, and Wardens who went out to work the sites and returned with their hard-won treasures each night. Grimm had not yet been assigned to one of those details, but the other Wardens had told him that at times it felt like the forest was crowding in close around them, watching them. Those assignments were not eagerly sought after.

The terrain was somewhat rugged and uneven, the land wrought by the same geologic forces that had initially created the valley. Grimm knew the route fairly well from his patrols, and while the route from the fort was somewhat circuitous, his destination was actually fairly close to the valley's edge, less than a hundred strides from where the stream tumbled over the falls en route to service the needs of the outpost's varied industries.

He slowed as he approached the pools. The trail meandered around them to the right, but he turned left, making his way carefully through the fringe of bushes and the rocks made slippery by the splashing water. He didn't see anything or anyone at first, but checked the fit of his sword in its scabbard. He thought about calling out, but there was something that held his tongue, a vague presentiment of trouble that he could not shake. The sound of the falls was a constant backdrop, and it might have been soothing if he'd not been distracted by his current mission.

The first pool was empty, but as he passed through a ring of boulders to the second he caught sight of her and stopped suddenly.

The pool was set in a narrow bowl ringed with gray stones fringed with lichens. Its surface was rippled by the gentle falls that fed it, and the one that dropped its water down to the next tier behind him. The water was so clear that he could count the individual stones that lined the bottom.

Miranda was swimming gently through the water, the wake of her passage blurring the pale outlines of her form. That distortion was not enough for Grimm to miss the fact that the only thing she was wearing was the dark circle of her amulet on its throng around her neck. He stood there frozen, staring, until she abruptly shifted and her head dipped under the surface of the water. Even then he could only follow her progress as she glided smoothly underwater toward the near bank of the pool, where he could now see a small pile of garments had been carefully folded and left on a flat rock.

He knew he should speak, clear his throat, retreat back into the cover of the rocks, do _something_ , but he could only watch as she reached the bank and rose up out of the water.

He must have made some noise then, or maybe she'd felt the sheer weight of his stare, for she suddenly turned and looked at him. She jumped slightly in surprise, but recovered quickly. Rather than dive for her clothes or drop back into the relative shelter of the water she quirked an eyebrow and managed an acerbic pose that was somehow no less powerful for the fact that she was completely naked.

"I did not have you marked as a voyeur, Warden," she said.

Grimm turned bright red from his neck to his ears. He turned away quickly. "I... I'm sorry, I..." What? He knew he'd come here for some reason, but all wit had vanished from his mind.

He heard the rustle of fabric, and after a few long, awkward moments dared to peek over at her. She'd put her tunic on, but the effect was somehow even more distracting, the damp garment highlighting the curves of her body.

She picked up her trousers but paused with them in her hand. "Did Darrivan send you to look for me?" she asked, as he turned his eyes away again.

"What? No, I..." he began, but faltered again as his eyes shifted and he caught sight of her sliding her legs into her trousers. He started to turn away again, but stopped as he caught a hint of movement out of the corner of his eye.

Miranda couldn't help but feel amusement at the poor Warden's embarrassed fumbling, but the real anger she felt at Darrivan's new policy allowed her to keep her humor hidden. She'd imagined what she would say if Grimm came after her, no doubt angry at her for defying orders, but when she'd seen him standing there, devouring her with his eyes, she'd felt a sharp tingle of something that had wiped those careful digs from her mind. But she felt some pride that she'd recovered quickly and gotten the better of him.

She started to reach down for her boots, but her eyes widened in surprise as the young Warden charged toward her, drawing a knife out from behind his back as he ran. Even as her mind told her that it was impossible that he would actually attack her, the hand holding the knife came up into a clear throwing motion. She chirped and nearly fell back into the pool, but her own reflexes had already kicked in, and she grasped her amphal, raising it even as its power flowed through her fingers and through her. She knew she was too late even as she unleashed the spell, but the knife flew wide past her, missing her by almost a full stride. Grimm reached out to grab her, but the magic did not give him a second chance; there was a flash and a heavy whoosh of air, and then the Warden was flying backwards. He didn't go far, just a few strides, and crashed into one of the bushes that ringed the pool.

Miranda stared down at him in stunned amazement. She finally took a step forward, but a noise from behind drew her attention back around.

She didn't see it at first, it blended in so well with the rocks that formed a backdrop along the edge of the pool. But then it moved, shifting slightly so that she could fully distinguish the outline of its form. It was about the size of a large dog, but even a cursory look told her that it was nothing so mundane. It had long, flexible limbs topped with curved claws as long as her little finger, a raggedy gray pelt pulled taut over the bony ridges of its spine and ribs, and an elongated jaw that showed rows of sharp teeth as let out a series of pained hisses. She could see the hilt of the knife that jutted out from between its shoulder blades; it must have been poised on the rocks above, about to pounce when Grimm's knife had struck it.

"Oh, gods," she said. She reached down and grabbed her belt and the attached pouches, and ran over to where Grimm was just trying to extricate himself from the clinging branches of the bush where she'd knocked him. "Are you all right?" she asked, trying to see how she could help him without getting tangled up herself.

"Just great," he said, cursing under his breath as the branches' sharp ends clawed at his arms and face. "Is it dead?"

She looked back over her shoulder. "If not, it's well on its way." She leaned in to offer a hand as he pushed himself half up out of the bush's grasp.

"What was that thing?" he asked.

"It's a scrag," she said. "We have them in the lake country. They're hunters, but they don't normally attack humans."

"Well, this one did not get the notice," Grimm said. He got to his feet, little the worse for wear, though there were a few fresh scratches to augment the bruises that were still left from his fight with Ravis.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to..."

She trailed off as she saw the change in his expression. "Get behind me," he said, reaching for his sword.

She turned and followed his gaze back to the rocks. Her eyes widened as she saw more scrags perched atop the tall rocks, their sharp claws digging into the stone. She counted five of them, the largest almost half again the size of the first, as big as the mastiffs that her family raised back on their ranch. It hissed at her, its claws scraping on the boulder as if shifted forward.

* * * * *

Chapter 10

Grimm drew his sword and stepped forward to face the scrags, which regarded him with stares that seemed to drip malevolence. Miranda dug into her pouch and came up to him. "Stay back!" he whispered, but she ignored him, grasping at his free arm. "Hold still," she commanded, focusing her attention on an amulet that she clasped to his bracer. The oblong metal disk, covered in runic carvings, stuck to the iron reinforcements that were attached to the leather. Willing herself not to look aside at the deadly threat just a few strides away, the mage drew upon her magic and activated the power of the amulet.

Grimm's eyes widened in surprise as the amulet began to glow, and a shimmering translucent disk materialized above his arm. It moved with his arm as he shifted it, sparkling as the morning sunlight caught it.

_A shield_ , he thought.

He didn't get a chance to examine it further, however, as Miranda hissed a warning. "Look out!"

He turned just as the first scrag sprang at him, jumping down off the rocks and launching into a flying leap even as its hind legs landed on the ground. Grimm brought the shield up by reflex and braced himself, even though it seemed impossible that the softly glowing circle could stop it. He could even see its dark form _through_ the disk, as it extended its long limbs to snare him and drag him down.

But the magical shield withstood the attack, and the scrag was repulsed, falling awkwardly onto its side. Grimm was almost too surprised to counterattack—he'd barely felt the impact—but quickly thrust downward, lifting the shield only for as long as it took to drive the head of his sword through the creature's ribs. The creature screamed and rolled back, blood pouring from its side.

Grimm barely got his defense back up to meet the rest of the charge as the other scrags joined the attack. They came in a wave, spreading out to take him from several sides at once. The big alpha was the last, watching like a general atop its perch, and when it did drop down it landed heavily next to its rock rather than leaping, as though content to take its time.

Grimm could spare it no attention as he fought off a flurry of attacks. The mage's shield weighed nothing and responded instantly to his movements, yet it was as solid as pressed steel against the scrags' attacks, their claws sliding off its surface without purchase. He used it as a weapon against one scrag, driving the edge against its neck, but the creature merely flopped down and spun back to the attack. His sword proved more useful as it crunched into another's skull, sending it flying into the bushes that had claimed him earlier. But the attack had extended him too much, and a third scrag leapt at his exposed flank before he could bring the shield around to block it. Flashing claws and sharp teeth seemed to fill his vision before a familiar flash of power erupted behind him, and then it was gone, replaced by a violent thrashing in the pool a few strides away.

He didn't have time to thank Miranda for her help, as the scrag he'd deflected a moment ago surged in low, claws scrabbling for his legs. He felt a sharp point as it briefly gained purchase on his boot, but managed to tear free before it could get a firm hold. He slammed the shield down onto its neck. The magical disk distended at the bottom as he forced it down, but it held the screaming creature in place long enough for him to drive the point of his sword through its spine. The scrag's violent thrashings instantly stopped, and it sagged limply to the ground, its jaws still snapping uselessly at him.

He looked up to see the big scrag, the alpha, lumbering forward, headed straight toward the mage.

"Miranda!" he yelled, leaping at the monster's flank. But the scrag was already too close, and as it reared up, its eyes rising almost to her level, it stretched its clawed limbs wide, as if to seize her in its embrace. Its jaws opened wide as it twisted its head to focus upon her exposed throat.

Miranda held her ground, her amulet raised in one hand. The scrag was halted in mid-leap, poised as if it had suddenly gained the ability to walk on two legs. Its jaws snapped on open air, and it snarled viciously as its hind legs churned against the ground, trying to drive it forward. Grimm saw _something_ , a slight distortion in the air between the scrag and its would-be victim. That magical aura gave slightly, and the scrag drew incrementally closer, its claws slashing violently just an arm's length from the mage's body.

Grimm drove into its side, slamming his sword deep into the gap between two of its ribs, the lines of them clear through the creature's taut hide. The scrag screamed and turned on him in a fury. A claw swiped across his tunic, slashing through the cloth but failing to penetrate the mail underneath. Grimm thanked the gods he'd worn his armor that day as he was driven back by the sheer fury of the monster's assault. It landed heavily and leapt up again, its jaws opening impossibly wide, but he managed to get the shield-disk up, absorbing its rush. Neither jaws nor claws could find purchase on that barrier, and the scrag began to falter as it felt the effects of the terrible wound that Grimm had inflicted on it. It managed one more effort, a lunge that Grimm deflected easily with the shield and followed with a thrust that drove through its neck deep into its body. The scrag fell to the ground and shuddered, blood jetting from its wounds onto the stones.

Breathing heavily, he looked at Miranda, and began, "Are you all..."

He was interrupted by the noisy return of the scrag that Miranda had knocked into the pool. It emerged from the water, its gamey fur slicked back in a greasy mess, its jaws snapping at the air as it fought for purchase on the slick rocks. Grimm caught it even as it lunged up at him, drawing his sword deep across its exposed throat. The scrag fell back into the shallows, its blood forming a dark plume across the water.

Miranda spun as another scrag tore through the bushes, and narrowly avoided a snapping lunge that would have taken a considerable bite out of her calf. The vicious slash across its face identified it as the one that Grimm had knocked aside earlier. The mage swung her amulet reflexively at it as it sprang up again. The heavy metal disk connected on the side of its head with a solid thunk, knocking the beast to the ground, stunned. By the time it recovered Grimm was there to put a finish to it, driving his sword repeatedly into its lean body until it stopped moving.

Grimm staggered back, looking around for more threats. "Is that..." he asked, unable to finish as he sucked in air. The fight, while brief, had been more intense than anything he had experienced in his life.

"I certainly hope so," she said wearily, replacing her amulet on its throng around her neck. She came up to him, motioned to the arm that was still surrounded by the glowing shield of force. He lifted it, and was surprised as she reached _through_ it, as though it was just light and not substantial. As soon as she touched the amulet the shield vanished, and she plucked it clear and put it back into her pouch.

"You're hurt," she said, indicating his leg. He looked down and saw that his boot had indeed been damaged, the leather hanging in flaps where the scrag's claw had scored it. It didn't look like the wounds were deep, and he thought he could walk on it all right, but just looking at the injury awakened a sudden surge of pain.

"It'll keep until we get back. Come on, we shouldn't stay here." He reached for her, but she pulled away, bending to recover her boots. He realized that she'd been barefoot for the entire battle. He took up a warding position as she leaned against a nearby boulder and pulled them on. "Neva's breath," he said, looking down at one of the mangled corpses. The ground around them was already growing spongy with blood, and streaks of it covered the nearby rocks with gory slashes. "Those things... you said you have them in your country?"

"Not like those. Those fought with no sense of self-preservation, like they were afflicted with something."

"Like the bear," he muttered. He quickly wiped his blade clean, or at least clean enough to slide it back into its scabbard, and went over to recover his knife. When he returned, she was bent over one of the carcasses. "What are you doing?"

"There's something strange here," she said. "We should bring one of the bodies back to study."

He shook his head. "It's too dangerous. The commander can send a patrol back, but we have to get to the fort, warn the garrison. What if there's more of these things out there, by the fields, or the spur mines?"

He thought for a moment she would insist, but she finally nodded and rose.

He led them back to the trail, then along the route that led back to the fort. He wasn't sure if anyone in the valley had heard the sounds of fighting It was doubtful, he thought, over the noises of the sawmill and the smithies. Every bush, every shadow seemed malevolent, potentially hiding an enemy. Grimm did not draw his sword, but he kept his hand resting on the hilt. His injured leg began to throb after the first twenty steps, but he ignored it and tried not to show a limp.

They walked in silence at first. Despite the sense of danger that suffused the forest Grimm was acutely aware of the mage's presence beside him.

"Go ahead, say it," she finally said.

"What?"

"'I told you so.' Surely you must be dying to say it."

He shot her a quick glance before returning his eyes to the trail ahead. "I'm just glad you're all right."

"How did you know?" she asked, after another few paces.

He thought back to the presentiment of danger he'd felt before. "The bear that attacked the supply caravan... It just... It just isn't safe to go off alone in these woods."

"Hmm," she said.

He abruptly stopped, touched her arm. "Why did you do it?" he asked.

"Why'd I sneak off, you mean."

There was a hint of an edge to her voice, but he stood his ground. "Yes."

He expected more defiance, but she let out an exasperated sigh and shook her head. She'd known that she was inviting trouble by leaving the fort without an escort, but in the aftermath of the previous night's activities she'd felt an overpowering need to be _away_ , just for a little while, even if it was just an illusion. She could almost hear Stefan's voice in the back of her head. _You made a mistake, sis. Own up to it._

"It was stupid, and I'm sorry I put you in danger."

He blinked at her in surprise, but didn't say anything. It was silly, he was both younger than she was and technically under her authority, but somehow that scrutiny still made her feel like she was on uncertain ground.

"You'll make sure that Fils won't get into trouble, won't you?" she said, after the silence had stretched out for an uncomfortable moment.

He couldn't help a snort. "You greatly overestimate my influence, Mage Hael," he said.

She smiled, glad that he'd cut through the mood with the light comment. "Oh, I just assumed that you were the one in charge of my... how do you soldier-types call it? My 'detail'."

He looked over at her suspiciously. "I think you're teasing me."

"I think you deserved it."

"Come on, let's keep moving," he said.

The trail curved around to the right, and the forest began to thin ahead. He recognized that they were getting close to the edge of the forest and the fort. He was glad for it, as it was getting harder to disguise the pain of his injured foot.

"I will Heal that when we get back," she said.

He shook his head; he should have known better than to try to fool her. "Would you have been able to handle all of them?" he asked.

She paused for a moment. "I'm not sure," she finally said. "I'm glad that I didn't have to find out."

He turned to her to say something else, but saw the sudden change in her expression and turned toward the woods to their left.

There was a man standing there. At least Grimm thought it was a man; he was draped entirely in a cloak of dark cloth that shrouded him from head to foot. His face was lost within the shadows of a deep cowl, and the cloak concealed the details of his form so thoroughly that Grimm could not tell if he had weapons underneath it. But he could feel the stare coming from the depths of the cowl, and felt a cold shiver crawl up his spine, as though someone had tread upon his grave.

* * * * *

Chapter 11

Grimm stepped forward reflexively, to put himself between Miranda and the stranger. "Who are you?" he asked.

The cloaked figure did not stir. Grimm started to draw his sword, but Miranda stopped him with a hand on his arm. He looked back at her, but she only shook her head. Grimm looked back at the figure and swallowed. There was something very odd about him, something that he could sense even beyond the concealment of his garments. Maybe it was the way he stood perfectly still, as though there was nothing but a stone pillar underneath that covering drape.

"What is it?" he whispered at Miranda. "Do you know who he is?"

"I am not sure I even know _what_ he is," she whispered back. "What is it that you want from us?" she asked the stranger. She came around Grimm, and he could see that she was holding her amulet, her fingers cupping the heavy black disk.

He wanted to caution her, thought that it was too fine a coincidence that this strange figure should appear so quickly after the attack at the pools. He did not get a hostile feeling from the cloaked stranger, but the uneasiness that he felt did not go away.

He heard a voice, a sibilant whisper so smooth and faint that he could not be certain if it came from the stranger, or from within his head. _My kind are not responsible for the attacks upon your people, warrior,_ it said.

He looked at Miranda, who nodded; she'd heard it too. "Who are you?" he repeated. "What do you want?"

We are of the wood. We are the Ancient, born of an elder time, now fading. We have come to bring warning.

Grimm swallowed. "A warning of what?"

A dark power awakens in the heart of the forest. It is being stirred by the workings of magic that should not be.

Miranda hadn't spoken aloud, but Grimm sensed the cloaked figure's attention shift to her, and he heard its words in his mind. _Yes, mortal mage. The source is of your kind, one of the people who live on the fringes of the great wood. Your kind should not be here, for even in its fading days the magic of the wood is too much for you, a gift that is too much for your minds to absorb or to comprehend. We have seen this, and grieved for you._

"We do not seek to disturb the forest," Miranda said.

And yet you do, by your very presence here. But your scrapings upon the land, your hewing of the ancient wood, those wounds are minor compared to what is being wrought by the misguided workings of your kin who live among the trees. There is one, we have felt his presence grow, a cancer within the forest. He has uncovered just enough of the secrets of the ancient magic to be dangerous, a blind man with a dagger who is slashing wildly in the dark. He is guided by his rage, and he neither knows nor cares what evil he is stirring with his workings.

"What does this sorcerer want?" Miranda asked.

Power. Vengeance. He is coming for you, and should he defeat you, his strength will increase, risking all. Should he manage to awaken the heart of the wood and corrupt it, a dark stain will spread upon this land.

"Wait, why can't you stop him?" Grimm asked.

He felt a tingle of emotion through the mental link, a touch of sadness. _It is not upon us to interfere. Our days are fading. The present and the future belong to your kind, as you spread across the surface of the world, uprooting old powers and planting new ones. Soon we will be lost even to memory, ripples fading upon the endless stream of time._

"Thank you for your warning," Miranda said.

The cloaked figure shifted slightly, and a hand emerged from under the cloak, clasping the fabric. Grimm's eyes widened as he saw that it was gnarled and dark, and only had three fingers. He was barely aware of the figure moving, but suddenly it was gone, leaving just a blur of movement that he barely caught out of the corner of his eye before it faded into the distant woods.

He looked at Miranda. "Was that a wylde?" he asked.

"I don't know, only that it was not human."

"We have to get back," he said.

She nodded. "I do not think that Commander Darrivan will be pleased with the news that we will bring."

* * *

Miranda's words had been prophetic, Grimm thought, as he stood in the corner of the Warden commander's cramped office.

He tried to keep perfectly still. It wasn't just an effort to avoid drawing attention; the office was crowded with both sergeants and Miranda present in addition to Darrivan behind his desk, and he was wary of knocking over anything on the crowded shelves to his left or jostling the armor rack built into the wall to his right. Darrivan's breastplate, mail coat, helmet, and cloak were arranged carefully upon the rack, creating the illusion that a soldier was standing right next to him.

His foot was throbbing, and he tried to ignore the pain as Miranda recounted the details of their encounters for a second time. He'd had the wound hastily cleaned and bandaged, but there had been no time for the mage to Heal the injured limb. Miranda hadn't tried to deny her role in the misadventure, but Darrivan's face may as well have been etched in stone as he listened to the account. Grimm had to admit that hearing her tale here it sounded unreal, even though he'd experienced it himself.

"So you believe that this... creature, the one that you met on the trail, was a wylde?" Darrivan asked, once she'd finished her account.

"I do not know what it was, Commander. I am certain, however, that it was not human."

Darrivan's eyes flicked to Grimm, but only for an instant before returning to her. "And the warning. The creature suggested that the forest folk are behind these attacks?"

"More specifically, a sorcerer within their ranks, yes."

Darrivan looked at Dosson. "It is consistent with what we've been hearing, about the forest folk gathering, a realignment among the tribes."

Miranda glanced at the sergeant before turning back to Darrivan. "I didn't know you had contacts among the forest folk," she said.

Darrivan's expression was unapologetic. "I have been here for four years, Mage Hael, longer than any of my predecessors. I am not fond of surprises."

"But if you knew that they were preparing an attack..."

"I remind you, all we know at this point is unconfirmed reports and the warnings of a figure who is of dubious reliability at best."

"But surely we must notify the Order..."

"Of course. I intend to send dispatches to Sacreth in the morning. I anticipate that you will want to include a missive in the package."

"Yes, yes. But what are you going to do about..."

Again he interrupted smoothly. "We are not unprepared, Mage Hael. Sergeant Faris, is the garrison ready for a major patrol?"

"Yes, sir."

"We will leave at sunrise two days hence, then."

"Yes, sir."

"Patrol?" Miranda asked. "You mean, you're going to take the Wardens out of Edelvar?"

"We must retain the initiative," Darrivan said. "The forest folk are disorganized, and respond to strength. You disagree?"

"But... you would leave the outpost undefended?"

"Fear not, Mage Hael. I will leave enough men here to ensure that you are well protected."

"And if this sorcerer is waiting for you?"

"You may distribute any spells that you feel would be useful to Sergeant Dosson, he will see that they are put to proper use."

"I don't think this is a good idea, Commander. At least bring in the work parties from the remote sites, wait for reinforcements from Sacreth."

Darrivan's eyes steeled, and he folded his hands together in front of him on the desk. "Mage Hael, you can report me to your superiors in the Order. That is within your power. But until the Order removes me from my position, _I_ am in command here. Is that clear?"

She straightened. "Perfectly."

"Sergeant Dosson, please escort the Mage to her quarters. I will expect you to handle the manpower dispositions, while Sergeant Faris, you will be in charge of mounts, weapons, gear, and supplies. We will meet back here at sunset for a briefing."

Grimm stood there as Miranda and the Sergeants left, then sidled toward the door. "Recruit Grimm," Darrivan said without looking up, as he stepped into the doorway. Grimm froze and turned around. "Sir?"

Darrivan's eyes flicked up. "Do you have anything to add, recruit?"

"Ah... no sir."

Darrivan held him a moment longer with a stare that felt to Grimm like it could see through his skin. "Dismissed."

* * * * *

Chapter 12

The sun rose upon a bustle of activity within the walls of Edelvar's fort. Its rays crested the top of the stockade to shine on steel mail and banded helmets, worn by armed men who moved with purpose. The Wardens were checking buckles and straps and the fit of swords in scabbards, testing the twang of bowstrings that were then unfastened for travel. Others clad more plainly were tending a double line of horses, two dozen in all, that filled the crowded space of the courtyard. The horses appeared less caught up in the enthusiasm, and one raised a tail to drop a load of dung upon the muddy ground.

Men turned as Commander Darrivan emerged from the Warden headquarters, clad in a breastplate worn over a uniform surcoat that did not fully cover a hauberk of mail links underneath. His open-faced helmet bore the sword and shield of the Wardens upon its brow, the insignia plated in bright silver. Every bit of exposed steel was polished to a fine gleam, until he seemed to glow in the morning light. He was flanked by Sergeant Dosson and Warden Ellard, the former carrying a heavy satchel filled with maps, the latter armed with a tall staff that bore a pennant marked with the sigils of Sacreth and the Order.

"Gentlemen," Darrivan said, without preamble. "Mount up; we ride on patrol."

The diffuse clatter solidified as twenty-four men mounted their horses, with only one delay as a Warden stepped around the steaming pile of fresh dung. Darrivan controlled his horse, a fine Sirrathi charger of sixteen hands, with subtle motions, riding down the length of the column and back. Each of the horses was equipped with full saddlebags; this was going to be a long patrol.

Grimm watched them from above, on the balcony that surrounded the top tier of the Warden headquarters. He leaned forward with his forearms resting on the hip-high wooden parapet that extended all the way around the building, offering excellent firing positions for archers who could command the entire fort from five strides higher than the top of the stockade wall. The angular roof, supported by massive log pillars, extended out over the edge, providing additional protection against the elements or from missiles dropping from a high arc. Not that there was any such threat at the moment; the clouds of the day before had vanished, leaving a day that already promised to be clear and warm.

At a command from Dosson men ran to open the heavy outer gates. The patrol rode out in double column formation, with Ellard in the lead and Darrivan behind him, a distinctive target in his heavy armor and formal uniform. Grimm made a one-handed gesture that mimicked drawing and aiming a bow; he launched his "arrow" with a flick of his thumb.

"Careful, they'll have you whipped for treason," a voice from behind him said.

He jumped, nearly banging his head on one of the low roof struts. Miranda emerged from the deep shadows that lingered inside the covered interior. He hadn't heard her come up the stairs.

"It wouldn't matter anyway, I'm useless with a bow," he told her.

"But good with a thrown knife," she said.

He smiled and turned back to the courtyard below. She came over to join him at the railing. "I spoke to him again, last night after the briefing. I did my best to convince him that this was not a good idea," she said, watching as the last of the riders left the fort.

"The... our friend in the forest all but told us that the forest men were behind the animal attacks," Grimm said. "If that's true, then might not the commander be right, that it's better that we take the initiative rather than wait for them to attack us?"

She looked over at him. "Do you agree with him, then?"

"It's not the decision I would have made," he admitted. "Did you send your letter to your superiors in Sacreth?"

"It went with Darrivan's report, yesterday. I hope that they will respond quickly."

"Well, the Order has a lot at stake in what's going on here."

"Indeed." She looked at him again. "I heard that you've been assigned to the spur mine."

"Yeah."

"I urged him to reconsider that, as well."

"Well, at least he's consolidated work to that one site," he said. "It's the richest lode, and closer to the valley than the others."

"Still, it splits our forces, and there aren't many of you Wardens left, now."

"If there's an attack, some of the other men can fight."

"Would you entrust Perek or Wilkens with a sword? Or Ravis?"

He colored slightly. "They aren't the men I would pick, no."

She shook her head. "Sorry, I know it's not your fault, it's just... It's been a difficult couple of days."

"No argument there."

"I did not formally thank you, for yesterday."

"It is my duty to protect you," he said, straightening slightly before her scrutiny.

"Even so." She smiled. "I did not know that the Wardens trained their soldiers to throw knives with such accuracy."

"They don't. That is... It's my own weapon. A gift, from my uncle. He's the reason I joined the Wardens."

He drew out the knife from its sheath behind his back, the hesitated as he realized how it looked, remembering how she'd thought he was attacking her before. He started to put it back, but she stopped him. "May I see?"

He reversed the knife and handed the hilt to her. "It's in the Chorothan style," he explained. "Double-edged, balanced to put the main force at the point on impact. The real ones are bronze, of course, this one's a copy."

"And your uncle, he was a Border Warden?"

"Yes. He wasn't really my uncle, we're not related by blood, I mean. But he was a very old friend of my father, and he retired to a farm next to ours, just outside of Calisford."

"I've never been to the south," she said.

"It's pretty country. Streams coming down from the mountains, good soil, lots of trees. Rocks in the ground make for a lot of hard work clearing fields."

She was still looking closely at the knife, turning it over in her hands. "There is power in this," she said.

He blinked at her. "What, you mean like magic?"

She handed it back to him, hilt-first like he had offered it. "There is no need to panic, young Warden. No, I meant there is a part of you in it. An aura. It is difficult to explain."

He looked at the knife dubiously before replacing it in its sheath. "I suppose I can see how some of me would rub off, I practiced with it damn near every day growing up. My uncle said it took years and years of practice to get good at anything. I must have thrown it at that block of wood a hundred times a day."

"Your efforts paid off."

He smiled. He looked at her, and something flashed in his eyes, a heat that he quickly tampered before turning awkwardly away.

Miranda reached up and pulled her amphal out from under her tunic. The heavy disk didn't shine like the steel of his knife or the iron bands on the helmets of the Wardens; it seemed to drink in the light.

"This is my _amphal_ ," she told him. "It's a special amulet, the primary focus of a shield mage."

Grimm forced himself to take a close look at it. He'd seen it several times now, but this close he could see that it was actually two disks, each about a finger's thickness and a palm's width across. They were sandwiched around a much thinner layer of different metal that looked like silver at first glance, until he saw faint patterns of color in it. The centers of the disks were hollow, and that space contained a piece of clear crystal that seemed to penetrate fully through the device. The outer disks were covered in runes, a spider web that marched around them in circles that somehow never seemed to join, spiraling out into a new pattern.

Curious despite himself, he found himself reaching out to touch it, until he realized what he was doing and drew abruptly back.

"It's all right," she told him. She pulled off the braided metallic cord and offered it to him.

"It's heavy."

"It should be, the disks are made of platinum," she said.

"Valuable?"

"Very. But more for the magic than the metal, though that wasn't cheap."

"I guess your family must be pretty wealthy."

"We're not poor, but it wasn't my family's money that bought this."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you." He handed the amulet back to her.

"No, it's not..." She took a deep breath. "Magic is a commodity like anything else," she said. "Though the Order might like people to think differently."

He watched her quietly, not knowing what to say. She looked down at the amulet in her hands. "It took me two years to make this," she said, tracing a fingertip over one of the rune patterns. "Two years, and that was before it stored its first spell."

"It's different from the magic used by other mages, isn't it? The scrolls, or the gemstones." He thought back to the stone that Mage Norrin had used to heal Kiros, back at Bel Wilder, and the amulet that Miranda had used to do the same with the wounded men from the supply caravan. "They taught us some basics about magical items in our training at Palrith Nor, but most of it focused on the things that Wardens tended to use, seeker stones and fire arrows and the like." They had also been taught how dangerous magic could be, but he didn't think that Miranda would want to hear that just then.

"I suppose each of the schools think they're unique, special," she said. "The Scrolls associate their foci with the lore of the written word, while Gems emphasize their versatility." She lifted the amphal and put the cord back in place around her neck. "Shield mages do employ one-use foci, but tend toward durable, more persistent magic."

"Like spelled swords?"

"Sort of. Steel mages specialize in tools that can be used by anyone, a sword that never needs sharpening, a shield that won't break in battle. Our magic... we're the rarest school, by far, and there's a reason for it." She let out a wry laugh. "At the University it's quite passé, actually."

"Why did you choose it, then?"

"It's difficult to explain." She thought of Stefan, but she wasn't ready to talk about him, wasn't ready to bare that wound just yet. "Shield magic involves a particularly close connection between the spells we use and the caster. It's partly because of the amulets, they take much longer to craft than infusing a gem or writing a scroll, exactly because they are both more complex and designed to be used over a longer duration. A shield mage might use her amphal for her entire career, the magic evolving over time until it is almost an entirely new device from when it was first created. I've known some who were buried with theirs, as the power was ultimately too bound with the mage to be passed on to another."

"But you gave me an amulet, during the fight."

"Yes, and that ties in with the second aspect of what it is to be a shield mage. My mentor, a mage named Velos, explained it to me thusly. He said that shield magic is protective, because of its very nature, the close connection of magic and wielder. You cannot protect someone if you are not willing to experience that connection, not only with the magic, but with those you protect. He said that it is rare because it is difficult to find someone who is willing to place the wellbeing of others before his own."

"I... I think I understand. That's the very purpose of the Border Wardens, after all. We swear an oath to protect Sacreth and its people, even if that means we may have to sacrifice our own lives."

"An ideal that is rarely truly upheld it seems, these days," Miranda said. "Either in the Order or amongst the Wardens."

Grimm thought about the men of the supply caravan that had come out of the forest with bloody wounds, and said nothing.

They stood there a moment longer in silence. Grimm could no longer see the patrol, the column swallowed by the ring of forest that surrounded the cleared space around the fort.

"So, is there someone back home?" she asked. "Waiting for your year to be over?"

He looked at her in surprise. "Ah, no," he said. He could feel his cheeks betraying him again. "Hard to believe, given how smooth I am, no?"

She laughed, a warm, genuine sound. "I have to get to the camp. I have to help prioritize the bins to be moved up into secure storage in the fort."

"So Darrivan does think there's a risk of attack," Grimm said.

"Either that, or he thinks that some of his precious quota will walk off in the confusion."

"I guess it's hard to imagine someone stealing one of those big ingots. I mean, who can tuck a hunk of copper weighing fifteen stone under their cloak?"

"Ingots aren't the only things that come out of the mines," she said enigmatically. She hesitated a moment, which made Grimm feel suddenly self-conscious. But she only reached into one of her pouches, and drew something out in her hand. He guessed what it was even before she revealed it.

"I'd like you to take this," she said. It was a pin, the sharp point attached to a simple loop of silvery metal twisted to form a subtle spiral. "To carry it with you when you go to the spur mine."

"What does it do?"

"It will let me know... if something happens."

"That sounds ominous."

"You fought the scrags, at the pool. You were there afterwards with the wylde, or whatever it was. Did you believe its warning?"

He looked down at the tiny object sitting in the palm of her hand. "All right," he said.

She reached up and drew back the collar of his tunic. She stuck the pin through a fold in the fabric. "It doesn't have to be visible?" he asked.

"No. It actually works better closer to flesh," she said. She folded the shirt back, pressed her hand against it so he could feel the outline of the amulet against his chest. He tried not to shudder at that touch—or maybe it was the close proximity of the mage that made him unsteady.

She then reached up and touched his face. "Be careful," she said. Then, before he could react, she turned and was gone, stepping quickly down the stairs that led back inside the headquarters.

He stood there for a while longer, thinking. His eyes traveled back out to the fort and then to the forest beyond, as though his will alone could unlock the ominous secrets that it held.

* * * * *

Chapter 13

The spur mine, which had the unambitious title of Outpost Six, was little more than an exposed rock face created where the shifting of the land had revealed a rich lode of iron. The camp consisted of two log buildings, a few tents, and a small paddock where half a dozen mules waited for the end of the day and the trek back to Edelvar. A smoking mound stood off to the side, where wood was slowly being made into charcoal. That fuel would eventually make its way into the squat, onion-shaped bloomery, a crude smelter that would distill the ore recovered into ingots that would be loaded onto the mules at the end of the day.

The forest canopy above had been thinned out enough to let the bright light of the noon sun filter down upon the site. The working party gathered around the campfire, enjoying their midday meal. They were dirty and tired-looking, having been there since shortly after sunrise. The dozen men worked in teams of three or four, taking turns hacking with picks at the rock face, cutting wood to service the charcoal mound and the smaller fires where the ore was prepared, or working the bloomery. The foreman, a wrinkled husk of a man named Gulwick, remained huddled over the bloomery even while shoveling his lunch from his bowl into his mouth, careful of the time that the iron needed to remain in the smelter. Too short and it would have to be treated again before it could go to the forges at Edelvar; too long and it would become hard and unworkable.

There was conversation and even some joking over the meal, though there was an undercurrent of worry underneath that suffused the camp. Heads came up frequently, eyes scanning the forest anxiously, as if expecting wild animals or charging barbarians to emerge from the trees at any moment.

The Wardens took their own meal a short distance off, along a long bench set up in front of one of the log houses. Rojek was up in the watchman's perch now, keeping an eye out. It was little more than a wooden booth accessed by a ladder laid against the side of the building, but it offered a clear vantage of the entire site and the surrounding forest.

"Hey Grimm, how about you pick another fight after lunch," Ivels said. "Just watching this lot hack iron out of the ground is boring as all hells." Eel, crouched low over his bowl at the end of the bench, let out a snort. Eel was like Grimm, a Service recruit, who'd come to the Wood six months before him. Grimm knew little more than his nickname, for he hardly spoke, and when he did his voice was a scratchy whisper that suggested a damaged throat. The name probably came from his lean, wiry form; he looked as though a stiff breeze might carry him off, and his Warden leathers hung loose around his body.

Grimm ignored Ivels's prod. He was a career man with a tongue like a lash, a weapon he liked to use whenever he had the chance. Grimm guessed that trait was the reason why he hadn't been picked for Darrivan's patrol.

These were the men he had at his back. His attention was on the working men, and in particular the one standing on the far side of the campfire. As Grimm watched, he made a gesture with his spoon and offered a jest that drew the laughter of the men around him. He guffawed with the rest, but his eyes briefly met Grimm's across the camp. His expression didn't change, but there was a promise in that look, a promise he confirmed with a nod before turning back to his fellow workers.

He did not know if Darrivan had specifically assigned Ravis to this detail to punish him, or if it was just ill chance conspiring against him. Sergeant Faris hadn't been in the mood either to offer explanations or to listen to Grimm's concerns when the work assignments had been announced that morning in the fort. Perek and Wilkens were more abstract threats, almost an afterthought, but Grimm had resolved to keep a close eye on them as well. He still had his suspicions about Wilkens and the recent fire in the camp, and while Perek was more of a cipher, there was something about the man that made Grimm uneasy. At least the rest of the crew were hired men, free laborers rather than convicts. They had been drawn here by the high pay that the dangerous duty in the forest offered, but that seemed small assurance. Those men might not be as bad as Ravis, but they were cut from the same cloth.

Ivels got up and handed his empty bowl to Eel. "All right, you lazy bastards, this isn't a camping party," he said. "The sooner we hit our quota the sooner we can get out of this forsaken place and back to the camp."

"We only live to serve, Warden," Ravis said, drawing another laugh. There were some growls of complaint, but the men got up and headed back to their work teams. Ravis took up a heavy pick, and again let his eyes catch Grimm's briefly before he turned back toward the rock face, deeply gouged from the past efforts of the Sacrethans.

"Grimm, hurry up and finish that, you're up to relieve Rojek," Ivels said. "And try not to fall asleep up there, I don't want a barbarian arrow in my back. Come on, Eel, let's do a quick sweep of the perimeter."

As the two Wardens moved off, Grimm finished his stew and wiped out the inside of his bowl. He started to get up, but his tunic caught on one of the straps of his armor and he felt a brief poke before something flashed in front of him. He looked down to see Miranda's amulet lying amongst the dead leaves and mud at his feet.

He reached down and carefully recovered the device. It was little in his hand, the pin sticking out from the spiraled ring like a tiny dagger. He wasn't sure what metal it was made of; it gleamed slightly like silver, but felt unusually heavy for its size, as though it was solid metal instead of an empty circle. He was glad he hadn't lost it; any of the workers would have made it vanish in an instant had they found it.

He sensed someone approaching, and his hand went instantly to the hilt of his sword, the other closing around the amulet.

"You won't need that," Perek said, his hands up and open to show that they were empty.

Grimm let his hand drop from his hilt, but it remained close. He could tell that Perek noticed the gesture. "A bit jumpy, are we?" the convict asked. He glanced back over his shoulder briefly, in the direction of the lode. "Understandable, perhaps."

"What do you want?" Grimm asked.

Perek let his eyes drop noticeably to the Warden's other hand. Grimm tucked the amulet into his shirt, wondering if the other man had seen it and knew its significance.

He didn't have to wonder long. "You seem intent on seeking out danger," Perek said.

Grimm got the distinct impression that Perek was no longer talking about Rivas. "I do not believe I asked for your opinion."

He started to turn away, but the other man's voice froze him. "She will hurt you."

"What?" he asked, his voice dangerous.

"It's not her fault. She may be even be a decent person, at heart. But she is the product of a corrupt system, one that is dedicated first and foremost to preserving its own power."

"And you know so much about it?"

"I know more than you might think. I wasn't always a criminal, brother."

Grimm blinked at him in surprise. "You don't know her," he found himself saying, without thinking.

Perek let his eyes drop to the spot where Grimm could feel the amulet resting against his chest. "She may not mean to lie to you, but she won't be able to help it, in the end."

Grimm's eyes narrowed, and he took a step forward before he'd realized it. Perek held his ground, but he held up a hand. "Peace. I didn't come here to tell you this," he said, his lips twisting slightly in what might have been frustration. "You have an entirely different and more immediate problem."

Grimm stopped and drew back. "You aren't telling me anything that I don't already know."

"I figured as much. You're young, but you don't strike me as a fool, Grimm. But you may not know that he has Kembor and Narsen on his side. And Wilkens, but I imagine you already knew to watch him."

Grimm blinked. "But those others... they're free wagers, what would they have to gain..."

"I don't have time to get into the details, but suffice it to say there's a lot that goes on in the low town that you Wardens don't know anything about."

"Why are you telling me this, Perek? What's your angle? Aren't you afraid that Ravis will see you talking to me and think you traitor?"

Perek snorted. "Ravis knows better than to add me to his list of enemies," he said. "And as for treason... I've learned long ago not to choose sides."

He turned and walked away, before Grimm could think of a response.

* * *

The rest of the day seemed to creep by. Nerves drew taut, and the work slowed as the temperature rose and the men grew more tired. The laughter that had come during the lunch break was replaced by growls and outbreaks of temper, and twice during the day the Wardens had to intervene to interrupt arguments between men on the work teams that threatened to explode into violence. Gulwick, roasting in the heat coming off the smelter, directed men with shouts that seemed incongruous coming off his withered body, ordering the slags of iron removed and cleaned before they were laid onto a row of flat stones to await shipment back to Edelvar. Even the mules seemed unhappy.

Grimm could feel the tension in the camp rising. He'd briefed his fellow Wardens on Perek's warning shortly after the break. He'd sensed Ivels's suspicion at both the message and its source, but for all his stupid jests the Warden was too experienced to underestimate the danger that an outbreak of violence on the work detail could create. He too grew surly as the afternoon deepened, and Grimm thought that if he'd had a whip, he might have used it on Wardens and workers alike.

There was still some space left on the stones next to the bloomery when Ivels called a halt. Grimm judged that it was still a full cycle shy of sunset, and it would only take half that to make the trek back to Edelvar, but no one complained as they began to prepare the camp for their departure. The charcoal mound would be left to slowly roast during the night, but the bloomery and the ore fires had to be carefully banked down and cleared for the morning. The tools were secured in lockers within the barracks houses. During normal operations a part of the work crew and its escort would have remained in the camp overnight, but with most of Edelvar's Wardens out on their extended patrol they would leave the site unoccupied until the next morning's shift arrived to start the cycle anew.

It took a while to get the mules ready, and there was a pause as Gulwick pronounced that one of the ingots was still too hot for safe travel. "Leave it for tomorrow, then," Ivels ordered. The old iron-worker started to protest, but on getting a good look at Ivels's face he subsided, muttering to himself as he directed two of the men to bury the hot ingot in one of the cooling trenches beside the bloomery. Ivels watched the preparations with obvious impatience, prodding men whenever they paused for more than a few heartbeats. The senior Warden, himself barely five years older than Grimm, had been taken hold by a sudden skittishness that transferred to the men. Grimm, standing near the front of the column as it came together, kept a close eye on Ravis, who was helping the crew that was loading the ingots onto the wicker panniers carried by the mules. Even as he watched the big man hefted one of the rough slugs of purified iron, which had to weigh at least ten stone, and with a low growl heaved it into one of the baskets. The mules could each carry one of those ingots. Larger ones were split down into weights that the workers would carry in packs slung across their backs. Only the Wardens would not be burdened on the hike back to the base, but it would be their job to ensure that they all made it back safely.

Suddenly and without warning the mules began to panic. One moment they had been waiting patiently if unhappily while their burdens were being loaded, and the next they were stamping, braying, tugging against their tethers and the lines that connected them to the adjacent animals in the column. Grimm had to dodge back as the lead mule lurched forward, only to be drawn up heavily by that line. One of the workers grabbed hold of the beast's halter, but the mule continued to fight him.

"What's going on?" Ivels yelled, rushing back toward the front of the line. He was almost drowned out by the braying of the mules, but the men were keeping the column under control, if only just barely.

_How in the hells should I know!_ Grimm almost yelled back. He felt a sudden presentiment and starting looking again for Ravis in the sudden confusion. But at that moment two things happened; the amulet he was wearing turned cold against his skin, and he heard Rojek's shout from the rear of the column.

"Smoke! The north barracks!"

Grimm looked back to the farther of the two houses. He could see the smoke rising from the slit windows that flanked the door. His first thought was that the fire, confined to the interior, would quickly smother itself, but as if in response a sheet of flame flared up one side of the building, eagerly seizing onto the wooden planks that surrounded the watch post at its crest. To burn so eagerly someone must have poured pitch onto the logs, Grimm realized. He scanned the gathered men for the red hair of Wilkens, but already knew he wouldn't find him.

"Blast it!" Ivels hissed. He looked back at Grimm, and the younger Warden could see the indecision on his face. Grimm recognized Ivels's dilemma; they could leave the outpost now, and avoid a clash that could turn against them in the confusion, but doing so would surrender the spur mine to destruction.

Grimm was still searching the crowd for Ravis or his henchmen, but he quickly realized something else. "Eel, where's Eel?" he said to Ivels. He almost had to shout to be heard, and he knew that several of the laborers nearby heard him, but that could not be helped.

Ivels quickly looked around, seeing what Grimm had seen. "He was with the loading crew," he said. Grimm saw that Ivels understood the implication; Rivas had been with the loading crew.

"With me!" Ivels said, drawing his sword. Rojek started to come toward them, but Ivels froze him with a gesture with the blade. "Keep an eye on them!" he yelled, uncaring if the men heard and took offense. Perek had warned them that two of the workers were part of Ravis's cabal, but what if that warning was part of the plan? Grimm looked back and found himself almost face-to-face with Perek, over the back of one of the struggling mules. The man met his eyes and nodded, but Grimm could not tell if that nod was a confirmation or a promise.

"Come on!"

At Ivels's urging, Grimm followed the other Warden back toward the camp. The burning watch house was really going now, its entire south face flaring like a brand. The other building had not yet been affected, but as they moved past it Grimm saw that the door had been forced open. He took a step closer, but stopped when he saw a form lying in the weeds, partially obscured by the woodpile that was piled up against the side of the building.

"Ivels," he said. He realized that he hadn't drawn his own sword; the hilt felt slightly slippery as his hand closed around it. He did not draw; Grimm felt as though the blade might escape his grasp at that moment. They were close enough that the heat coming off of the burning building was raising a sheen of sweat underneath his armor; he could feel it start to trickle down his back.

Grimm started toward the body, but Ivels blocked him with his extended sword. The two Wardens faced the dark doorway of the second building. "All right, Ravis, come on out," Ivels said. "Your game is over."

Grimm wasn't sure what warned him, a subtle sound or just raw instinct, but his head turned in time to see the two burly men who charged around the intact side of the burning watch house, armed with mining picks. "Ivels!" he yelled. As both men spun to face them, Grimm reached back and drew out his knife from its sheath. He flipped it up and launched it at the nearer of the two charging men. It struck Kiiv Narsen in the shoulder, burying deep into his flesh. The man screamed out in pain and staggered, clutching at the bloody weapon.

Ivels took a step toward Kembor, but both Wardens recognized the trap at that moment, and turned back just as Ravis emerged from the doorway of the second building. He carried a Warden sword in one hand and a knife in the other, and as he stepped into the firelight Grimm could see the blood that covered the length of the shorter blade.

They had hardly an instant to react, but Grimm had been trained to face this sort of situation, and that training took over as the Wardens faced enemies from both directions. "Kembor!" Ivels yelled at Grimm, taking the greater threat for himself as he spun to face Ravis. Grimm didn't wait for the miner to come to him; he charged forward to meet him, his sword flashing out into his hand. It did not slip from his grasp after all, and he smoothly pivoted to avoid the sweep of the pick. Kembor was a strong man, his muscles developed from hard labor, but he'd clearly not had any military training. Grimm did not think, did not have to, as his body responded the way it had been taught, over cycle after cycle spent drilling on the fields of Palrith Nor. He lunged in and swiped the edge of his sword across the miner's right bicep, splitting the flesh down to the bone. The man screamed and dropped his weapon, and as he staggered forward Grimm punched the blade into his side. The sword drove through his ribs, delivering a fatal wound, but Grimm realized his mistake as he felt the weapon bite. He yanked back hard but the sword, wedged against bone, failed to come out, and the hilt was dragged from his grasp as Kembor fell heavily to the ground.

He looked up to see Narsen, wounded but still standing, facing him over the body of the dying man. Blood had soaked through the miner's filthy tunic, forming a garish red streak down his left side, but he still held his pick, and he snarled to reveal teeth stained with blood as he lifted the weapon and came forward at the now-unarmed Warden.

* * * * *

Chapter 14

Miranda shot up, blinking. It took her a moment to gain her bearings. She was lying on the couch in the front room of her house. She must have dozed off; by the angle of the weak light that filtered through the slit window high in the wall it must have been nearly nightfall.

She started to relax before she felt again the slight tingle that had woken her, a pulse that transmitted through her amphal. She did not need to delve the artifact to know its source, and she was running for the door as soon as she could grab her coat and satchel.

There were only a handful of people out and about in the courtyard of the fort, carrying out the various chores that were needed to prepare Edelvar for another forest night. The stables were even more deserted, the lines of stalls empty with their occupants out on the extended patrol with their Wardens. Jangles, alone in his booth at the near end of the line near the door, neighed as she entered.

There was only one ostler on duty, and the way he shot up from his seat suggested that he too had spent the late afternoon dozing. His fellows had been pressed into guard duty, standing watch on the walls of the fort or at the posts scattered throughout the valley, armed with spears and signal horns.

"Saddle my horse, at once," she commanded, and such was the urgency in the command that the man was rushing to comply almost before the words were fully out of her mouth. She tried to ignore the tingles of alarm that continued to come from her amphal as the man went about his work, and she almost tore the reins from his grasp as he pulled open the gate of the stall and led Jangles outside.

Fils ran through the open stable door as she sprang up into the saddle with a smoothness that came from practice. "What's going on?" he asked.

"Trouble at the spur mine," she told him. "Tell Faris to follow with the militia as soon as he is able!" she yelled, the last coming over her shoulder as she kicked Jangles into a full gallop.

Heads turned in the courtyard and upon the wall as she charged toward the open gate. Men pushing wheelbarrows loaded with the day's production from the smelting works and smithies hastily pushed their burdens aside, and she nearly ran over Sergeant Faris as he emerged from the Warden headquarters building that adjoined the gate. There was no time to apologize as she steered Jangles through the press at the gate, and then she was gone, charging up the trail. She debated only briefly as she approached the fork. The bypass that circled around the valley would be slightly faster than descending into it and then crossing to the ascent on the far side, even though it was a slightly longer distance as the crow flew. Of course, the scrags had attacked her and Grimm near that trail, and there were other things in the forest too, dangers that could be upon a speeding rider before she even knew that they were there.

She felt another strong tingle through her amphal, and pulled her reins hard right. Jangles turned onto the forest path, the horse's hooves clapping loudly on the packed earth as they galloped into the woods.

* * *

Grimm was hit by a barrage of sensations. Heat from the burning watch house had turned the clearing into an oven, and the stinks of soot and blood filled his nostrils. Sounds echoed through the camp, the screams from the panicked mules continuing, accompanied by the shouts of men and the more deadly clash of steel on steel directly behind him. But he could not turn, could not even glance back to see how Ivels was faring against Ravis, as Narsen lunged at him with his pick. The pick was more tool than weapon, its flat iron edge dulled from striking rock all day, but even with the miner's wound pouring out blood he still swung it with a strength that Grimm knew would be deadly if it connected fully.

Grimm dodged to the side, nearly losing his footing as he stumbled past Kembor's dying form. That meant abandoning his sword, still trapped in the traitorous miner's body, but there was no other option as the pick swept through the space he'd been occupying a moment ago. He didn't hesitate, launching himself at Narsen before the man could recover for another swing. Even hurt the miner was quick, jamming the long handle of the pick into Grimm's side. The blow hurt even through his armor, but he was able to grab hold of the shaft before Narsen was able to bring the hooked iron end around to strike. The two men struggled over it for a moment, each knowing that to falter could mean death. Narsen was both bigger and stronger than Grimm, but the knife wound in his shoulder continued to ooze blood.

With a sudden lurch the miner tore his weapon free, and a look of triumph crossed his face before Grimm drove a fist into his injured shoulder. Narsen screamed in pain, and Grimm seized hold of the pick again, twisting hard to the side and using his weight to drag the miner down after him. Planting one foot, he pivoted the falling miner over his extended leg, flipping him hard to the ground. The pick came away into Grimm's hands, and before Narsen could react he thrust the edge down onto his exposed neck. The crack of the miner's throat as it was crushed sounded clearly over the chaos of the scene, and Grimm staggered back as the now-dying man flailed helplessly on the ground.

A loud shout drew his attention around, wincing as the motion drove a fresh spike of pain through his bruised side. He saw Ravis and Ivels charge into each other, their blades flashing. Ravis was no longer holding the bloody knife, but the way that he wielded his stolen sword said that he was no novice. Both men showed wounds, and Ravis took another one as Ivels sliced his sword across the other man's chest, cutting a long gash across his tunic and deeply scoring the flesh beneath. But Ravis took the hit and kept on coming. He collided with Ivels before the Warden could react, picking him roughly up and driving him against the wall of the adjacent building. Ivels hit the logs hard and collapsed to the ground, while Ravis staggered clear. The big man recovered quickly, just as he had in the fight with Grimm earlier, and lifted his sword as he stepped in to finish off the battered Warden.

"Ravis!"

He turned at Grimm's shout, and as he saw who faced him, he smiled. Grimm hefted his pick as he came forward.

"Now we finish this, little man," Ravis said, grinning despite the trails of blood that seeped from the wounds across his chest and arms. Ivels had gotten his licks in, but if the hurts had slowed him, Ravis wasn't showing it.

As the two men closed Grimm swung his pick in a tight arc, trying to keep the bigger man at bay. Ravis didn't bother with subtlety, springing forward toward the Warden, his sword coming up under the sweeping pick, lunging forward almost exactly like Grimm had against Narsen earlier. Grimm was expecting that and countered by bringing up the shaft of the pick to deflect the sword thrust. He got a clean parry, but Ravis slammed his other hand into Grimm's face, catching him a glancing blow that still managed to twist him half around. He tried to get his defenses back up but felt an explosion of pain in his forearm that launched the pick flying across the clearing. It was followed a second later by another solid impact to his gut that smashed the breath from his lungs. Sheer instinct had him shift to the side, narrowly avoiding a sweep of steel that came so close to his head that he could feel the rush of air from its passage, but there was no avoiding the fist that followed, driving him down to the ground. He landed hard, gasping for air, lights flashing before his vision that blurred before focusing into the looming figure of Ravis. The light from the fire flashed on the bare steel of his sword.

"Fuck you, Warden," he spat, as he leaned forward to deliver the killing blow.

* * *

Miranda ducked low under a branch that jutted out over the trail. The twigs raked at her hair but she didn't slow Jangles, even as the shadows continued to lengthen and her view of the path ahead grew murkier. She knew she was taking a risk, that her horse could easily snag a hoof on the uneven ground and topple both of them in a bone-breaking tumble, but as the warning pulses continued to surge through her amphal she let the animal have its head.

She saw a light up ahead, a bright glow that showed between the shafts of the trees ahead. That was followed by sounds, a confusing cacophony of men shouting, the screams of animals, and other noises she could not identify. She did not need to be a warrior to recognize the combination as the sound of battle.

She reached down and pulled her shield amulet off her belt. It was a bit awkward to activate it from the back of a galloping horse, but her concentration did not falter as she slid its fastener onto the strap on the back of her glove and activated its power. She shaped the spell so that the protective field was nearly invisible, with just a faint shimmering in the air to betray its presence. She felt a slight tingle as the magic took hold.

The trail curved around a slight bend and she found herself face to face with a man. She only had time to register a bearded face, eyes widening with surprise. He had a weapon in his hand, an axe with a crescent blade, but he had no time to use it with horse and rider bearing down on him. He dove to the side, so close that Miranda could almost have reached out and touched the trailing edge of his cloak as she shot past. There was no time to look back and see what happened to him, as the trail passed through a last fringe of bushes and she burst into a clearing.

What she found waiting for her was utter chaos.

* * *

Grimm tried to avoid the death looming above him, but his battered body refused to obey his commands.

But before the killing thrust could descend, Ravis abruptly jerked, his arms snapping back as his body was thrust forward from behind. A spike of gory steel exploded out from his chest, spraying Grimm with droplets of blood. The injured Warden could only stare in stunned amazement as the big man was lifted into the air, struggling feebly as he slid further down onto the blade that had impaled him. His feet were almost a full stride above the ground when he was flung aside, his body landing in the dirt and rolling over before it came to a bloody stop half a dozen strides away.

Grimm's eyes shifted back to the convict's killer.

At first he could not make sense of what he was seeing. The _thing_ that had murdered Ravis was shaped like a man, but it was a grim parody of a living thing, a construct fashioned out of wood and metal. It lacked a face, but he could sense its attention turn back to him. A crystal set into its chest glowed softly, echoing the light of the flames from the burning building behind that wreathed its form in silhouette. It raised its right arm, a bloody shaft that ended in a long shaft of steel instead of a hand. But instead of repeating Ravis's killing motion it simply took a step forward, its body creaking as its huge slab-shaped foot came down toward Grimm's skull.

The sight of that descending death cut through Grimm's dazed brain, and his body finally responded. He rolled over, cutting off a scream of pain as the movement put weight on his broken arm. He felt something hard press into his side, and as he came up into a crouch he saw it was Ravis's sword, fallen where the dying man had dropped it.

The impact of the golem's foot shook the ground like an earth tremor. Time seemed to slow as Grimm reached out for the sword with his good hand. The golem was ponderous, but it twisted on its torso, its gory sword-arm coming around to separate his head from his shoulders.

A blur of motion caught his attention, followed by a solid thunk of metal on wood. The blow did no damage that Grimm could see, but it distracted the golem just enough for him to grab the sword and jump back a scant instant before its blade cut through the air where he'd been. Grimm tried to keep his unsteady feet moving under him as he staggered clear. Behind him, Ivels came at the golem again, his face smeared with blood, his own injuries evident in the crude way he hacked at its body with his sword.

"Go!" he yelled at Grimm, as the golem turned to face him. "Get out of here!"

Grimm wasn't going to run, but he wasn't sure what either of them could do against this monstrosity. Smoke swirled around him, burning his lungs and stinging his eyes, but the outline of the still-intact hut let him get his bearings. He tried to make out the mule column, but all he saw were vague forms in the confusion. The sounds of fighting told him that the golem was only part of a larger attack on the camp.

He turned back as Ivels shouted again, this time in distress as the golem lumbered after him. The Warden was hurt bad and could not run, and while he got his sword up in a parry the construct drove through his defense with its sheer strength, knocking his sword away and driving him to the ground.

Grimm was already running, shouting a vague but violent cry of challenge as he brought his own sword up. The golem left Ivels struggling feebly on the ground and turned back to meet his rush. The bloody steel swept around, but Grimm saw it coming and ducked underneath. He swung at the golem's elbow as it passed, but while he got in a solid hit, the only effect was to nearly jar his sword out of his grasp. The thing seemed to have no weaknesses.

His eyes shot over to the blazing watch house. The golem was made mostly of wood, perhaps it could be burned?

Even the brief moment of distraction nearly cost him, as the golem continued its sweep with its other arm, following up on its miss. It seemed able to twist almost fully around on its torso. Grimm tried to dodge, but it still caught him a glancing blow on the shoulder. That arm ended in a crudely shaped hand rather than a blade, but even so its strength was such that the hit knocked Grimm flying. He was only just able to avoid falling on his broken arm, and used his momentum to come up moving. He tried to head toward the burning watch house, despite the fearsome heat that radiated off it, but the golem was faster, and he had to turn aside to avoid another lumbering rush. If the construct was affected by the heat, it did not show it.

Grimm had no choice but to give ground, but his strength was fast waning. He dodged behind the squat tower of the bloomery, hoping that it would delay the thing, but the golem simply came _through_ it, exploding the clay bricks with a sweep of one arm. Grimm glanced back in time to catch a fragment on the side of his head, and fell again, stunned. His vision swam and blurred, but even dazed he could clearly discern the outline of the golem, which seemed to swell in size until it almost blocked out the bright glow of the fire behind it.

* * *

Miranda rode into the clearing to find herself in the midst of a battle.

Men were fighting all around her, though most looked to be trying only to get away. The attackers were men clad in fur and leather armed with a variety of weapons. They were men like the one she'd nearly overrun a moment ago, only these were putting their weapons to use. Even as she emerged from the fringe of brush that flanked the end of the trail she saw a man cut down a fleeing laborer from behind, burying his axe into the poor wretch's back. A mule shot by her, bleating in panic, and there was another lying on the ground, still kicking as blood poured out around the shaft of a spear buried in its side.

A few of the defenders were still putting up resistance; she saw Rojek, driven back by two forest men armed with axes, and another of the barbarians was wrestling on the ground with a laborer whose face was covered in blood. She caught a glimpse of Perek, fighting another raider, but then lost him in the swirling haze of smoke that filled the clearing. She couldn't see Grimm, but she had no opportunity to look for him, as a number of the forest raiders turned as she charged into the clearing. On seeing her they rushed forward. One lifted a spear, shouting something lost over the chaos of the scene.

Miranda did not hesitate. Her fingers closed on another amulet pinned to her belt, and as she lifted it she activated its power. She felt a momentary dizziness as the magic was affected by the layering effect of the shield she already had up, and had to focus further to make sure that Jangles was not caught in the spell. But then the power came in a deluge, and the amulet unleashed the energy that she had carefully stored within it.

A bright blue corona erupted around her hand. Flickering tongues of energy shot from the gaps between her fingers, flashes that became ragged jolts of magical lightning. They shot out in a burst, striking trees, the ground—and men. The latter were blasted off their feet as the lightning bolts hit them, tumbling to the ground as their limbs twitched out of control. One of the barbarians, the one with the raised spear, had a bolt strike the head of his weapon and then travel up the shaft to his arm. It continued through his body, discharging into the ground, but leaving a path of damage in its wake. The bolt lasted only an instant, but as it faded the man dropped to his knees then fell forward onto his face, wisps of smoke rising off his clothes and charred flesh.

The amulet's full power was released in just a fraction of a heartbeat, but the spell had transformed the battlefield. Jangles, alarmed by the sights and smells of the melee despite his training, shied awkwardly forward at her urging, trying to avoid stepping on the fallen men all around her. Finally she gave it up and jumped down from the saddle. One of the barbarians, still conscious, tried to reach for her as she passed, but his muscles were still too jolted to work properly and she easily avoided his grasp. Rojek was still on his feet; the Warden had been on the edge of her blast, but the two men fighting him had taken the worst of it. He took full advantage of the opportunity. Even as she ran forward the young Sacrethan drove his sword into the chest of his first opponent. The second had dropped his axe, and rather than try to recover it or draw the long knife buckled at his hip he elected simply to turn and run. He was not alone; the forest folk that had avoided Miranda's spell were breaking away and fleeing back into the forest. Rojek started to pursue his remaining foe, but managed only a few steps before he faltered.

"Make sure everyone is all right!" she ordered, as she ran past him without stopping.

She was drawn forward, deeper into the smoke and confusion, by the connection between her amphal and the amulet she had given to Grimm. The heat from the burning building greeted her full on as she ran into the center of the Sacrethan camp. A tall, dark form materialized out of the haze ahead of her. At first she thought it was Grimm, and started to call out before it shifted and took a step. That was when she realized that it was not Grimm, that it was not a man at all.

The golem strode forward through the shattered ruin of what had been the spur mine's bloomery, ignoring the blackened bricks that crunched beneath its massive feet. It was walking away from her, but Miranda quickly realized its objective as she noticed the limp figure lying a few strides further away. She did not need the amulet to know what she saw, or to gauge the intent of the construct. That it was a magical thing was instantly evident, but there was no time to consider where it had come from or the nature of the magic that animated it. She ran forward, the arm holding her magical shield raised defensively in front of her, her amphal clutched tightly in her other fist. She thought that she would not be in time, and screamed at it in frustration.

The golem turned so suddenly that she almost collided with it. She adjusted her shield just barely in time to meet the heavy wooden limb that swept around toward her body. Instead of a hand the golem was equipped with an iron blade, a crude but effective weapon that she could see was already stained red with blood.

There was a flash of power, and instead of being cut in twain or impaled by that nasty blade it was the golem that was driven back. A man would have been thrown off balance by such a rejection, but the construct's retreat lasted only an instant. It surged forward into another attack, planting its feet in the ground and using its full weight to drive its other arm, this one ending in a more mundanely-shaped hand, like a piston toward Miranda's face. Again her shield absorbed the force of the impact, but she could feel the invisible warding quiver under the impact. A dozen men could not have penetrated that shield, but it felt as though the construct was far stronger yet.

The golem did not relent, and Miranda was driven back, slowly at first, but then faster as she felt the magical power of her warding was eroded by the construct's furious attacks. She drew power from her amphal, trying to bolster the shield. She had spent days recharging the shield amulet after the battle with the scrags at the pool, but it could only channel so much energy. Her amphal was far more powerful, but she had already drawn upon it several times that day, and while the device was the most potent of her amulets by far, she had never tested it to this degree before.

She could sense the magic that suffused the golem, but had never felt anything like it. There was a crystal embedded in its chest, a faintly glowing ellipse that she suspected was key to the thing's power, but she had no idea how she could defeat it. Her mind raced through her limited supply of remaining amulets, trying to come up with something that she could use as a weapon against it.

A wash of heat enveloped her from behind, announcing that she'd been forced all the way back to the burning watch station. She glanced back at the flames roaring less than ten paces away. The entire structure was now being consumed, and the front entry had partially collapsed, leaving a passageway of living fire that led into the interior.

The momentary distraction almost cost her dearly as the golem struck again. Her will and concentration faltered, and she was driven back several steps, spinning around as the concussive effects of the massive blow bled through her weakening warding. The golem trudged forward after her, the firelight glinting on the iron fittings that surrounded the construct's joints.

Her instinct was to run, but Miranda hesitated. Touching her amphal again, she retreated back toward the watch station in its last burning throes. The heat struck her like a physical blow, but her concentration held, and she used the amulet to alter the warding effects of the shield, drawing it fully around her and leaving her intact within the shroud of her magic.

The ponderous trudge of the golem, however, reminded her of the greater danger. With the shield redirected to protect her against the heat of the fire, it would be far weaker against physical attacks. That was true whether the attack came from the golem or from the collapse of a burning building upon her, but there was no second-guessing her choice now; the construct was too close for her to get away without exposing herself to another swing of those long, deadly arms.

She retreated back into the building, careful of the uneven ruins of the doorway. Part of the roof had dropped into the interior of the structure, and the flames that rose off of it seemed to reach greedily toward the sky. She would not be able to remain here long, she knew; even with her shield protecting her from fire, the air inside of her bubble of magic would not last for long.

She could only get a few steps inside the entry before the fallen beams of the roof blocked her progress. She turned to see the golem standing almost right behind her, looming on the far side of the entry, just beyond the reach of the flames. It seemed to hesitate. Was it imbued with some instinct of self-preservation? Or was it being actively controlled by a mage who did not want to see his construct destroyed?

She quickly realized two things; first that she could not long maintain such an impasse, and second that the surviving Sacrethans were still present, and were starting to come to her aid. She knew that their weapons would almost certainly be useless against the golem, and that it could easily destroy them before returning to finish her off.

Almost as though it had read her thoughts, the construct drew back a step and started to turn. There was no more time for careful consideration; she relied instead on instinct and acted.

She raised her amphal again; it was the only amulet she possessed that could redirect as much energy as she'd planned to use. Her own life-force might have been enough to fuel a desperate attack, but she was no blood mage, and in any case such an attempt might have extinguished her instead of the enemy.

But there was an ample supply of power all around her. Focusing her concentration through the amphal, she tried to shape that power to her will. The effort cost her, and she could feel the scorching heat of the flames at her back as her shield wavered, but she redoubled her efforts, raising the amulet. The crystal at its core began to glow, until it shone brighter than the surrounding fire.

The golem paused, as if it sensed her working, but she lost sight of it as the roaring flames twisted sideways and flowed out in an arc that centered upon it. Her head swam from the effort of maintaining the spell, and the amphal felt like a twisting snake in her hand, although it was the magic, not the physical object, that was trying to slide from her grasp.

Finally, she lost it. It seemed as though full cycles had passed, but the heavy, slow pounding in her ears told her that it had only been a few heartbeats. The house around her still burned, but the flames had died down to faint wisps, at least for the moment. She released her amphal, the insulated cord around her neck the only thing that kept it from falling to the ground. There was still magic in it, but it may as well have been on another world for all that she could do with it at that moment. She felt as though she had been scoured empty from within.

It took her a moment for her eyes to focus on what lay ahead of her. The golem lay on the ground, its wooden form blackened and bent. One arm lay propped against the ground, the sword blade buried in the dirt.

She came forward out of the ruined building, careful of the wreckage of the threshold. The flames that she'd quenched through her spell were beginning to spread again; there was still plenty of fuel in the collapsed remains. Her heart froze in her chest as the golem moved, but it was only settling. She grasped her amphal, frowning as her fingers refused for a moment to close at her command. Her mind felt like it was trapped in fog, but she was finally able to focus enough to manage a minor Delving.

It confirmed what her other senses had told her, that the golem was inert, the magic that had animated it fled. As she came forward, giving it a wide berth despite her findings, she saw something glint in the dirt and ash at its feet. It was the crystal, or part of it at least, a fragment partially obscured by the debris of the golem's destruction.

She detected a hint of movement and looked up to see Rojek standing on the clearing's edge, his sword in his hand. The Warden looked battered, with a smear of blood running down one side of his jaw, and he was clearing favoring his side as he stood there staring at her. The sight of him, however, reminded her of something else.

"Grimm," she said, rushing over to where she'd seen the fallen Warden earlier. He was still there, lying just beyond the wreckage of the smashed bloomery. Her own legs felt wobbly as she ran to him, but she overwhelmed her body's protests through an effort of will.

"Is he alive?" she heard a voice ask. She looked up to see that Perek had joined them as well. He seemed intact, though the familiar suspicion that Miranda had always seen in his eyes when he looked at her was still present. She saw that he too had a weapon, a short-hafted axe that he had to have taken off one of the barbarian raiders. His eyes followed her gaze and he lowered the weapon, though the challenge in his expression did not ease.

Miranda's attention was already focused on Grimm. Her fingers sought out the beat that pulsed in his neck. "He's alive," she said with relief, reaching for her healing amulet with her other hand. She was exhausted, ragged from the magic she'd already channeled, but there was no question of letting that stop her.

"The bandits seem to have run off," Rojek said. He knelt by Ivels's side, but after a moment he looked up and shook his head.

"Their retreat may be temporary," Perek said. "And there may be more of them. We should get out of here."

Miranda did not look up from her working. "We will be leaving soon enough," she said. "See if anyone else survived, and if any of the mules are left. Don't go far," she added.

The two men shared a look, and then headed off to begin their search.

Miranda placed her amulet carefully upon Grimm's forehead. Her fingertips lingered there a moment, then she took a steadying breath, touched her amphal, and began to focus upon her magic.

* * * * *

Chapter 15

The camp was a scene in disorder. Campfires burned in front of tents and crude lean-tos arranged in no discernible pattern, propped against fallen trees or the clumps of boulders that dotted the edges of the clearing like broken teeth. Torches were being lit as the night deepened. Their glow showed men in mismatched leathers and heavy furs, some of whom bore bandages stained with dried blood and dirt. There was a certain sullen sense that hung over the camp, reflected in the hard looks that the men shot between the campfires, or in some cases over them.

There were no hard looks directed at Brav Kieldor as he strode through the camp. He too bore the marks of wounds, a bandage tied around his left bicep, a stitched gash across his right cheek that still oozed a faint trail of blood. A sword that quite clearly bore the mark of the Sacrethan Border Wardens on its pommel rode on his hip, and a new suit of mail links covered his torso, still bearing the bloody smears left by its former owner. If the mood around him was sullen the war chief carried an aura of fierce anger, a feeling that seemed to grow as he strode through the camp. Men who had killed a dozen of their peers hastened to get out of the way of that anger, and watched with curiosity in its wake.

The boundary that marked the different parts of the camp was subtle. There were no markings, no fences to separate the two. But while the tents on the southern edge of the clearing looked no different than the ones on the far side, there was a definite change there. It was something that went beyond the relative quiet, the absence of banter and talk over the fires, the missing laughter and fights and sounds of rutting that came from tents or the brush that surrounded the forest clearing. As far as Kieldor could see there were no women at all in this part of the camp, only men who seemed empty, as though all life had been drained from them.

He gauged his destination by the cluster of those men that stood in front of one of the tents. They did not engage in conversation, did not seem to be doing anything at all, but Kieldor recognized them as guards even before they turned and formed a line in front of the tent's entry at his approach.

Kieldor did not bother to mask his ire or his contempt at the five sentries. They stood facing him in silence, weapons in grasp if not drawn from their sheaths. Kieldor did not move for his own sword, but spat in the dirt at their feet.

"What is your purpose here, Chief Kieldor?" one of the men asked.

"My purpose is none of your fucking business," he shot back. "Is he in there?" He took a step forward. The five men shifted, the ones on the end of the line closing to his flanks, but he froze them with a look. The one on the right had gotten his sword—cheap iron, not the valley-forged blade Kieldor now carried—halfway out of its scabbard. "Pull that steel and I'll shove it up your fucking asshole," the chief growled.

"Let him through," came a voice from within the tent. The warders drew back as if yanked on cords. Kieldor strode through them without another look, and bent through the low entrance of the tent.

The interior was dark, with only a few candles on a table near the rear for illumination. It stank of fresh blood and corpses. The bodies laid out in rows along the sides of the tent were just vague outlines in the weak light, but they could be nothing else. Kieldor had seen too much death to be fooled.

The man he had come to see was bent over another of those shadowed forms. He shifted and rose as the warrior entered; Kieldor thought he saw him conceal something under his garments as he turned. He did not need better light to guess at what it had been.

"You defile our dead now with your rites, sorcerer?"

If Mortus was affected by the war chief's anger, he did not show it in his manner. "These are beyond caring what I do to them," he said. He stepped up to the table, the candlelight casting his features into relief. He wiped his hands on a towel, then turned to face Kieldor.

"These men died on your behalf, the very least they have earned is to be treated with respect."

Mortus came forward, his face falling again into shadow as he walked away from the table. "Something troubles you, warrior chief?"

"Do not fence words with me, sorcerer, I am not in the mood to be tested. You know the source of my anger."

"Yes, well, your cousin fought bravely against the Sacrethans. His sacrifice will not be in vain."

"Do not think that I care about your empty words. You promised easy victories, but already forty men lie dead, and that number is likely to grow before the next dawn."

"There are always casualties in war, my chief. I see that your concerns did not stop you from claiming your own share of the spoils."

"Word has reached me that the attack on the spur mine..."

"It is of no concern. A minor setback."

Kieldor was not surprised that the sorcerer had already learned of the failure of the attack. "Minor? Your wooden warrior is cinders, and another half-dozen men are dead!"

Mortus spun on him suddenly. "Do not think to blame that foolishness on me! I told you that your men were to remain back, not to engage! Their task was to block the trail, and to keep the Sacrethans from escaping!"

"Bah, the valley folk were in disarray, and even with their intervention, your mighty creation failed. It would seem that your vaunted creation was less... _formidable_ than you expected, certainly less powerful than the magic wielded by the valley mage."

Mortus said nothing, and Kieldor felt a sudden suspicion that whispered in the back of his mind. "In fact," he said, "why send us at all, if the goal was only to raid the enemy outpost? As you yourself said, the golem did not need my warriors there to support its efforts. Unless that was your true purpose all along. To draw out the enemy mage."

"A purpose that your men ruined through their lack of discipline."

Kieldor's hand twitched. "You should not be so cocky, sorcerer, with your creature gone."

Mortus surrendered a hand's width in height and two stone in weight to the muscled chieftain that loomed over him, and his only armament was the curved knife he carried, but he only chuckled at the implied threat. "You think that is the limit of my power? Come with me."

He turned his back on Kieldor, but he was gone before the warrior could decide whether to take advantage of that opportunity. Kieldor had to hurry to keep up; when he emerged from the tent the sorcerer was already twenty strides away, walking along a faint path that led out of the clearing into the surrounding forest. The sentries had apparently been given orders not to follow; they merely watched him as he headed after the man.

The darkness beyond the edge of the clearing was nearly absolute, but Kieldor had spent nearly his whole life in the forest, and he was able to make his way with just the weak starlight that filtered down through the canopy high above. Mortus was just a shadow ahead, and Kieldor nearly lost him before he saw another light ahead, a glow that resolved into several distinct points of flame that grew stronger as they approached. The source appeared to be another clearing just ahead, far smaller than the one that held the camp of the forest tribes.

Wary, he continued forward. Mortus stood at the clearing's edge, silhouetted against the glow of a bonfire and several torches on poles that rimmed the site. There were several men just visible on the edges of the clearing, Mortus's acolytes, clad in dark robes that transformed them into the semblance of sinister wraiths. One approached to bow to the sorcerer. "All is in readiness," he said.

"Very good," Mortus said.

Kieldor saw what they meant as he cleared the last fringe of undergrowth and got a clear look at what was in the clearing.

The bonfire in the center of the clearing showed the scene in bright detail. Half a dozen wooden racks had been arranged around the perimeter of the clearing, each a simple X formed by wooden piles driven into the ground. Each of those racks supported the weight of a man. Even without garments, covered in dirt and sweat and blood, Kieldor knew who they were. He'd known that a few of the Border Wardens from the patrol that they'd ambushed in the forest had survived, but he'd been so distracted in the aftermath by Gundar's death and the general confusion that had followed the "victory" that he had lost track of what had happened to them.

The way they were now, the Sacrethans looked nothing like the furious soldiers who had fought desperately against the ambushing forest folk. It had not availed them; while they had put down more than one attacker for each man they'd lost, the outcome had been certain almost from the first few moments. Kieldor was not sure if it was the enemy commander's overconfidence or Mortus's sorcery that had kept them from detecting the forest raiders until the very last instant. Mortus had been right in that the Sacrethan mage had not accompanied the patrol. That had been a foolish oversight, by Kieldor's reasoning. The half-dozen or so Wardens who had managed to ride out of the tightening noose had escaped one death only to find another blocking their escape. The sorcerer's wooden warrior had made quick work of those survivors. Kieldor would not soon forget the scene that had greeted him when he'd visited the site later. There hadn't been much left to loot there.

Each of the prisoners had a crystal suspended on a cord around his neck. Most sagged against their bonds, already beyond knowing what happened around them, but one managed to lift his head enough to watch them as they walked into the clearing. His body was marked by several old scars, the signs of experience, but that experience had not been enough to save this man from his fate.

Kieldor had to school his expression to hide his feelings as Mortus stopped beside the fire and turned to regard him. "As you can see, my dear chieftain, the Sacrethans have left us the tools that I will use to destroy them."

Despite the obvious danger that was present here, a contrary impulse led him to say, "The Sacrethan mage obviously has the power to defeat your creations."

Something flashed briefly in Mortus's eyes, but he quickly covered it with a grim chuckle. "What would you suggest, war chief?"

"We have captured a quantity of their fire arrows. Burn their fort to the ground, and everyone in it."

Mortus's smile was the stinging insult of an adult indulging a child. "Using the Sacrethans' own magic against them is a dangerous proposition."

"And your magic is stronger than theirs?"

"Say rather that it is of a different sort, drawn from a source against which all of their careful preparations will serve them naught."

"The ashes of your wooden monster would seem to be a strong rebuttal."

Again the sorcerer betrayed just a moment of annoyance, before his careful mask fell back into place. "Nurture your doubts, my chief, but soon you will see how my power has grown."

"What I can see is that you are stirring the entire forest against us. You cannot tell me that the strange attacks upon us by the creatures of the forest in recent days is unrelated to the magic you are working. Just yesterday, a party of my hunters was attacked by the buck they were hunting. The creature impaled one man on its antlers, and bit out the throat of another, _with its teeth._ "

"I hope that the mutton was delicious," Mortus said.

Kieldor's eyes narrows. "This is no jest, sorcerer. Your little coalition here will not survive another defeat."

"It will not have to. There will only be one more battle, and then everything Sacreth has—wealth, weapons, magic—it will be ours."

Kieldor had his own ideas of how those proceeds would be apportioned, but he held his tongue. He was spared from having to respond to that by the sound of someone approaching from back along the trail. His instincts had his hand reaching for his sword even as he pivoted, but he was careful not to turn his back on Mortus or his minions.

His alarm was unnecessary, he saw, as the sounds resolved into the figures of several men. They were more of Mortus's, from the sour looks on their faces. They held another captive between them. The man was in poor condition from the look of him; clearly the forest men had treated him roughly in the course of taking him. His hair was a bright shade of red, almost uncannily so. Kieldor could not see his face, as he was hanging limp between his escorts, being half walked, half dragged forward by Mortus's warriors.

"It seems you have more blood for your fires," Kieldor said, not bothering to hide his disgust.

His words seemed to stir the prisoner, who raised his head with an obvious effort. He could not have been much older than twenty, though it was difficult to mark his age given the bruises that covered his face. Kieldor could see the madness that had already taken hold behind the man's eyes. That was a mercy, perhaps.

"This one has special promise," Mortus said. Kieldor looked over to see that the sorcerer was studying the prisoner intently. It reminded him of the way that a cat studied a mouse it had caught beneath its claws. Mortus leaned in until only a hand's breadth separated their faces. The captive's stare was locked in his, the light of the fires dancing in his eyes. "It is the Sacrethans who will burn, all of them," Mortus said.

"Burn..." echoed the prisoner. His lips twisted into a smile.

* * * * *

Chapter 16

Grimm awoke to the intensity of a light that seemed to stab like a knife into his brain. He blinked and stirred. He felt weak, and his throat scratched with thirst, but he could move, and as his eyes adjusted to the light he found that he could move without pain.

He managed to prop himself up on his elbows, though that simple motion seemed to be about all he could manage at that moment. He was in a bed, a full bed rather than one of the narrow bunks in the Warden barracks, with a plush coverlet that had been pulled up to cover his body. A body that was uncovered beneath that drape, he noted. The light that had woken him was a bright but narrow shaft of sunlight that came in via a narrow slit window in the far wall. There was a single exit, a door recessed into the wall to his right. The furnishings were simple but unfamiliar, including a generously-sized armoire, a table equipped with a basin for washing, and a nightstand. There was no sign of his clothes or weapons.

His eyes focused on the ceramic pitcher and small cup on the nightstand, but they were just beyond his reach. The narrow space between the edge of the table and the bed seemed like a chasm to his weary body.

He decided to make the effort anyway, but as he started to roll over he heard footsteps. By the heavy tread it sounded like someone walking up stairs. He felt a moment of anxiety, but tried to calm himself as the footsteps approached, then stopped on the far side of the door.

There was no latch on the door; it opened slowly with just the faintest of creaks. He had already guessed who would be there, but he still felt a flush as Miranda leaned through the narrow opening. On seeing that he was awake, she stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind her.

"I'm glad you're awake," she said. "How do you feel?"

"Wrung out," he said, or tried to; the words choked in his throat, and what came out was more like a croak. She hurried over and poured him a glass of water from the pitcher. She sat on the bed, and held the cup to his lips. He reached for it at the same moment, and as their fingers touched he felt a jolt that made him feel suddenly conspicuous of his body under the covers.

The water felt like paradise as it trickled down his throat. "Thank you," he said.

"Do you think that you can handle some broth? Healing demands a lot from the body, and you'll need more nourishment to replenish what it took from you."

Her words seemed to awaken the feeling of hunger inside him, and he nodded. She started to get up, but he asked, "Wait, what happened? How... how did I get here?"

She turned back slowly, as if reluctant to answer. "You remember the battle at the spur mine?"

He nodded. "The wooden man..."

"A golem, a physical construct animated by magic. You were struck in the head, your skull was fractured."

He reached up to touch the side of his head; there was no pain. "You Healed me?"

She nodded. She didn't say anything, but he could see the rest of it in her expression. "The others?"

"Ivels and Korrin didn't make it, and most of the labor crew were killed as well."

"Korrin?"

"One of the Wardens."

"Oh. Everyone called him, 'Eel.' What about Rojek?"

He's all right. Perek too."

He wasn't sure why she mentioned him specifically, but the reminder made him shudder. "Ravis tried to kill me."

"I know. The others explained what happened, at least the parts they saw. There was a lot of confusion."

"The fire... Wilkens, did they find him?"

"No, but there were a few men who ran off. I don't know if any survived the barbarian attack."

"Barbarians?"

"The forest folk, they attacked the spur camp. You don't remember?"

He shook his head. "I guess I heard the fighting, but my attention was focused on the... golem." He looked at her in sudden realization. "You were there, at the mine."

She nodded. "The amulet I gave you alerted me to the threat."

His leaned back against the head of the bed, his strength still barely up to the task of keeping him even partially upright. "What happened after... How did I get here?"

"We brought you back."

"I mean... these are your rooms?" He quietly cursed his fair skin as it betrayed him with another flush.

"You suffered a very serious injury," she said. "Skull fractures are no light matter; even with Healing, damage to the brain can cause lingering effects. I wanted to keep an eye on you, that was more serious to me than any threats to your... reputation."

He thought that the fire in his cheeks brightened, if such a thing was possible. "I... I didn't mean..."

She smirked. "I'll get that broth. Just wait here a little bit."

She was gone before he could think to ask for his clothes, not that he could have managed putting them on even if they'd been in front of him. He hadn't felt this drained of energy even after one of the full-pack dawn-to-dusk marches in the hills around Palrith Nor. But the serious injuries he'd taken in the battle at the spur mine were gone. He lifted the arm that had been struck by Ravis's blade. He knew that if it hadn't been for his bracer, the limb would have been severed. He had no doubt that the bone had been broken, but all that was left now was a faded scar that circled halfway around the limb. He made a fist. A wound like that, and he should have been done for ever picking up a sword again. But magic had made him whole.

Unable to do anything else, he leaned back and thought about what Miranda had told him.

* * *

Miranda berated herself silently as she made her way down the narrow steps that curved around the corner of the building before depositing her into the kitchen. She crossed to the stove and checked the fire before putting the pot full of broth she'd prepared earlier back upon its surface.

She'd kept Grimm off-balance on purpose, not to amuse herself—though it had been amusing—but to avoid dealing with the consequences of her own choices. She knew why he'd been uncomfortable, and knew that it had been more for her sake than his. In his way, Grimm was a gentleman of the old style. She might have resented that in another context, but out here... out here she had to work within the reality of the world in which she found herself.

It wasn't that different elsewhere. Even in the relatively genteel society of the University, where women were at least nominally equals, rumor and innuendo had flown on wings that could be faster than a raptor diving for its prey. Here, she did not doubt that every resident of Edelvar had formed an opinion about the fact that a Border Warden had spent the night in her bed, broken head or no. She doubted any of them would say anything to her face, but the whispers would take place behind her back.

Whispers did not frighten her. She had put up with them at the University, and at times she could even convince herself that they had had nothing to do with her leaving.

She stirred the broth briskly with a wooden spoon. At least Orastes had left her with a fully equipped kitchen. She'd even uncovered a few bottles of wine in the cellar; how he'd managed to get those delivered out here she had no idea.

She poured the broth into a mug and got a smaller spoon from the drawer next to the sink. She retraced her steps back to her room, but hesitated briefly in front of the door. Taking a deep breath, she pulled it open.

He was still awake, and had managed to prop himself up again. The sunbeam had moved on so that it now covered only one corner of the bed, leaving longer shadows across the rest of the room. He watched her as she closed the door behind her.

"I noticed that it's the setting sun, not rising as I first assumed," he said. "How long was I unconscious?"

"A night and a day," she said. "Your body needed rest."

"Was it the wound, or your magic?"

She frowned sternly at him. "I once saw a man who fell off a scaffold on the third story of a building. He remained comatose for three days. When he finally woke, he could no longer recognize the faces of people he had known all his life. He lived for ten more years, but in that time he could never retain his memory of someone he had met for more than a few minutes."

He had the grace to look at least slightly chagrined, but she could tell that he wasn't going to surrender more than that. "I need to report in. Where are my clothes?"

She held her ground. "In the armoire, second shelf."

He looked at her, but she just stood there, the cup giving off a thin plume of steam in her hand. Finally his expression hardened, and he got up—or tried to; he managed to get the coverlet off his chest, and actually levered himself to the edge of the bed, but it was immediately obvious that anything further was going to require a miracle. He fell back, defeated, smacking the bed with an open palm.

"Your body has suffered a serious trauma," she told him, as she came over and helped back up to his original position, after putting the mug down on the nightstand. "You need to recover your strength." She had to resist the urge to pull the coverlet back up and tuck him in. She noticed that he did tug it back up to his waist.

She recovered the mug. She reached for the spoon, but saw that he needed at least some small concession, so she let him take it and feed himself. After a few servings he put the spoon down and drank directly from the mug.

"Careful," she warned. "It's hot, and your stomach might not appreciate the sudden labor all at once."

He nodded through the cup and moderated his pace, though it only took him a few moments to finish the broth. "That's... much better," he said. He gave the mug back to her, and again their fingers touched briefly. "I do need to report in," he told her.

"Tomorrow morning will be soon enough," she said. "Your strength should have recovered enough by then to be up and about."

"I feel much stronger already," he said. And he did, she realized; something subtle had changed in his look, a change that made her suddenly aware how close they were to each other, and that he wasn't wearing anything under the coverlet.

"Can you tell me, what's going on in the fort?" he asked. "I could hear some shouting through the window," he said, nodding toward the thick pane set into the wall, "but I couldn't make out any details."

"We're evacuating the valley, and moving everyone into the protection of the fort," Miranda said.

Grimm blinked at her, stared for a long moment, then raised a hand to run it across the stubble growing across his jaw. "Wow. Faris ordered that?"

"He... he deferred to my suggestion." It had not been nearly as easy as that, but the argument they'd had was not exactly something that she wanted to revisit at that moment.

Grimm's look suggested that he understood at least some of the subtext. "There hasn't been any word from Commander Darrivan or the patrol?"

"No. Faris would send riders, but there's no telling exactly where they are at this point." _And we can hardly spare the men,_ she thought.

Again Grimm nodded as if he'd heard the addendum. "Interesting times," he said.

"You could say that," she said, with a slight smile. "You need to rest, I'd better..."

She started to get up, but his hand caught hers. It was a light touch, hardly a grasp at all, but it held her as though he'd seized her arms in his hands. She stopped but did not turn back around to face him. "Grimm..."

"I'm not some stammering fool," he said. "Nor am I a child. It's just that around you..."

She turned at that, and the look in his eyes as they met hers awakened something inside her, something she hadn't felt in quite some time. It was dangerous, she knew, _he_ was dangerous, if not to her body, then to her heart. "I know. It's just... now is not the best time..."

She looked down, at her hand still held in his. Her heart was pounding in her chest. He stirred, rose up closer to her. She wanted to tell him to stop, wanted to pull away from him, but could not. And then he said her name. "Miranda." It undid her, and then his lips were on hers, and everything else faded away. Heat seared through her, flashing as his hands touched her. It burned through her own exhaustion, her own weariness, leaving behind a gaping chasm of need.

Then they were in the bed, reaching, touching, stroking. His lips were hot on her lips, her cheeks, her throat, each contact drawing a tight gasp from her lips. He tugged on her robe, but she was already sliding out of it. His skin was smooth, and she let her own hands travel over it, careful of his healing wounds, careful of him even as the roar in her head threatened to steal what was left of her reason.

He pulled her to him. There was need in that touch, but tenderness as well, a gentleness that unfolded her heart and laid it bare. She shifted onto him, taking pleasure in the sudden shudder that passed through him as she guided him into her. Slowly, tenderly, she moved with him. Their bodies entwined, she felt the slow building power within her, as powerful as any spell. When he reached up and took her head in his hands, saying her name again, she let the swelling wave catch her up. She continued through it, gasping with the sheer intensity of the pleasure, until his face too twisted in release. Spent, she eased down, their lips meeting once more.

* * * * *

Chapter 17

Grimm woke to find himself alone in Miranda's bed. By the light that filtered in through the slit window it was already late morning. He stirred and got up, a little surprised to find he could do so easily. His body still felt somewhat weary, but other than that, he felt... good. He called out, but there was no response; obviously Miranda had already begun the day's labors.

He washed in the basin, carefully folding the towel that had been left for his use after he was done. His clothes were where Miranda had said they were, in the armoire, and they had obviously been cleaned and mended in the interim. His sword wasn't there, although someone had recovered his throwing knife, the blade settled again into the scabbard and wrapped in his belt. He wondered if Miranda had recovered it for him in the aftermath of the battle; she knew what it meant to him. He also found the amulet she had given to him, still pinned to the inside of his tunic. He considered it for a moment, then left it where it was.

Once dressed he headed downstairs. A meal of black bread and cheese had been left on the table, along with a pear and a glass of fresh milk. He was in a hurry, but found himself eating every bite; it seemed that just a few heartbeats had passed before he was looking down at an empty plate.

Refreshed and refueled, he went outside. He'd been dreading that moment, of running into his peers. It wasn't so much the inevitable jibes he feared, at least not for his own sake, but he knew that he would not be able to tolerate insults to Miranda. She would probably scoff at such an attitude; certainly she did not need _him_ to protect her honor. Maybe he was old fashioned after all, but it did not change things in his mind.

But no one paid any attention to him as he emerged into a scene of busy chaos that filled the interior of the fort. People seemed to be running around everywhere, dozens of them. Most were moving supplies from carts into the storehouses, while others were engaged in moving all manner of things from one place to another, clearly trying to maximize every bit of available space. There was a group of men practicing with weapons in front of the stables, obviously a militia formed out of the labor crews. He was surprised to see Perek among their number, and in what appeared to be a leading role, assisting a Warden in supervising sparring pairs. The former convict met Grimm's eyes as he walked across the crowded courtyard toward the looming bulk of the Warden headquarters. Perek nodded briefly at Grimm before the press of people took him out of view. The sounds of their wooden billets clashing followed him into the building.

The headquarters was just as busy, and Grimm had to step aside quickly to avoid two men rolling a barrel down the hallway. In the main hall a long row of the barrels already stood against the outside wall, stacked two high. He saw Fils there, dressed in Warden armor with both a sword and a quiver of arrows riding on his hips. He saw Grimm as he came in, and waved in greeting.

"Hey there, Grimm! Heard you got knocked around a bit. I told Rojek you were too thick-skulled to die from a little rap on the head, though."

Grimm hesitated, considering how to ask after Miranda, but Fils continued, "Looking for the Mage? She's up top with the Sergeant, I think." He turned back to his work, directing the men who were arranging the barrels in careful rows.

Grimm had made the climb up the two flights of steps at least a dozen times, mostly to serve shifts on watch on the covered balcony that topped the Warden headquarters. But that was before he'd been knocked into next week by a magical construct. By the time he approached the summit he was breathing heavily, and his legs felt like they were going to collapse with each step. But as he stepped through the open door that led to the final flight he could hear familiar voices engaged in conversation above, and he summoned a reserve of strength to conceal the weakness that threatened to unman him.

The smell of smoke on the air greeted him even before he emerged from the staircase onto the broad balcony that circled around the roof of the outpost. He first saw Lowen, standing at the corner vantage where he could see both the entirety of the fort and the expanse of forest to the west and south. The Warden held a strung longbow and a quiver slung across his shoulder; Grimm recognized the distinctive red fletching of fire arrows amongst its contents.

_Magic_ , he thought. It was inescapable.

That thought stayed with him as he turned toward Miranda, who was talking to Sergeant Faris along the railing just a few strides away. He drew a steadying breath and stepped forward, willing his fair skin to not betray him just this one time.

The two of them turned at his approach. Miranda looked tired, and the neat bun of her hair had come partly unfastened on one side, but her beauty struck him like a physical blow. When she smiled at him, he felt a rush of both relief and feeling. A part of him, perhaps, had thought that the first thing he'd see in her eyes was regret.

Faris, however, greeted him with a frown. "Grimm," he said. "I am glad to see you recovered." The tone seemed to suggest that he'd been malingering, or maybe there was something in that of _where_ he had been recovering that had Grimm bristling. He choked back any comment he'd been about to make, however. "I'm just happy to still be here, sergeant," he said.

"Yes, well," Faris said, turning back to regard the forest. "I was just telling Mage Hael that we are not set up to withstand a siege."

As Grimm came forward to join them at the rail, he saw the plume of smoke rising over the valley. From its location, it had to be rising from the low town. "Has there been an attack?"

"Raiders, during the night," Faris said. The way he said it revealed more about the sergeant's mood; Darrivan was not going to be pleased about the damage wrought to Edelvar when he returned. _If_ he returned, Grimm amended. "We sent a party out with the dawn to inspect the damage. Thus far there haven't been any moves against the core facilities, but that could change."

"The valley is too exposed," Miranda said. "We must do what we can, until the Commander returns."

"If you'd let me send for help..."

"Sergeant, we've been over this already. Sending enough men to give them any hope of getting through would leave the outpost virtually undefended."

"The next supply train," Grimm suggested.

"Not due for another week," Faris replied glumly.

"How many of them do we think are out there?" Grimm asked.

"We're not sure," Faris replied. "If it was just raiders, we could deal with that, but sorcery..." he looked up at Miranda, just a hint of accusation in his eyes.

"If the enemy launches another golem at us, I will deal with it," Miranda said.

"Do you think they're still out there, watching us now?" Grimm asked.

"They're out there," Faris said. He looked over at Grimm again, surveying his attire and his empty scabbard. "Get down to the armory, and draw some new kit. Can you fire a bow?"

"Not very well, I'm afraid."

Faris nodded. "Well, we don't have many bows left in any case. The patrol cleaned out much of the armory, and what's left we've been parceling out to the men from the labor crews. Most hardly seem to know one end of a sword from the other. I told Rojek to keep a few blades in the locker just in case, so you should be able to find something."

"Surely many of the men on the crews have served in the Reserve Corps..." Grimm offered.

Faris cut him off with a chop of his hand. "Not hardly enough. You'd be surprised, Grimm, the sort of folks who volunteer for duty here. And not all were volunteers," he added.

Grimm knew that quite well, thinking back to Perek, and to Ravis and Wilkens. He was about to respond, when a shout from Lowen drew their attention back around. "The forest, sergeant, Mage, someone's coming!" the sentry warned.

They could see him as he emerged from the edge of the forest into the cleared expanse that extended around the fort. He approached not from the trail to the west, but from the south, trudging forward at an easy pace. He was clad in the distinctive furs and leathers of the forest folk, but beyond that they could not discern anything about him, as his face was concealed under a dark cowl that was pulled forward around his features.

Men were already running along the parapet below, and in the cleared space behind the gates. "Fighting positions, but no one does anything without my order!" Faris shouted down at them, before turning back to watch the stranger approach.

He was a big man, and strong, that much was clear in the way that he walked. He did not appear to be armed, but Grimm thought he could sense a certain menace in him. Perhaps it was the fact that he kept his face concealed, or maybe it was the context, his solitary approach in the wake of the attack on the spur mine. That attack had almost killed him, but it had also saved his life, Grimm realized with surprise. If the golem hadn't attacked when it had, Ravis would certainly have finished him.

The stranger came to an abrupt stop a good hundred strides from the stockade wall. His halt broke the spell that had been cast with his slow approach, and a titter rose up from those watching, and the others who were trying to get up to get a vantage. Faris turned to shout them to silence, but the stirring came to an abrupt halt as the solitary man reached up and pulled back his cowl.

_He's wearing a mask_ , Grimm realized after a moment, as he tried to make sense of what he saw. The man's face was a blank oval, cut only with narrow slits for his eyes, nose, and mouth. That realization was actually strangely reassuring; for a moment he'd thought he was witnessing some sort of demon.

"He's a magic-user," Miranda whispered. Grimm started to turn his head toward her, but his attention was drawn roughly back as the man began to speak. The shield mage's words were given proof as the stranger's voice boomed across the clearing, clearly audible from every point within the fort's walls.

"Citizens of Sacreth," he said. "I am Mortus."

Grimm glanced aside at Faris and Miranda, but saw no recognition there. As he turned back toward the masked man he saw that he'd raised his hands into the air, spread wide as though to enfold all of Edelvar within his grasp.

"Your kind are not welcome here. Everywhere you go, you sow chaos and rapacious destruction in your wake. Too long have you sat complacent in the power of your masters, safe in their towers and enjoying the profits of domination over all that lies under their gaze."

"No longer. There is a new power in the Forever Wood, one that will not accept your presence here. Many of you are just slaves of the Order, so I will give you a chance to escape with your lives. Leave the Wood, leave this very day, and never return. Or stay, and suffer the fate that you have earned."

He turned slightly to the side, and made a beckoning gesture toward the forest. Grimm tensed at that motion.

"Sergeant, you want me to put an arrow in that bastard?" Lowen asked. Grimm started; he hadn't heard the other Warden approach. It was a long shot, even with a fire arrow, but the fact that Lowen could make that statement made Grimm shake his head with shame at his own cowardice.

"Hold your fire," Faris growled.

_Something_ stirred in the forest. That was the best Grimm could say about the presence there, just beyond the fringe of trees and brush that marked the forest's edge. Whatever it was, it was big, the sound of its approach clearly audible even across the hundreds of strides that separated them.

"That sounds too big to be human," Faris said, putting Grimm's thoughts into words. Both men looked at Miranda, whose stare remained fixed on Mortus and the forest beyond. She held her amulet, the _amphal_ , the disk clutched tightly in her fist.

The tread of unnatural feet stopped, but a moment later there was another sound, a snap like the twang of a bowstring, only much louder. Its meaning was immediately obvious as an object rose up out of the trees, arcing high above the cleared space between the forest and the fort before it reached its apogee and began to descend toward them.

Shouts of alarm rose from within the fort as others saw it too. Miranda lifted her amulet, but abruptly stopped. Grimm looked at her, then back at the missile, which was starting to come apart as it descended, into a cluster of small round objects that spiraled unevenly in the air.

_What are those?_ he thought, even as a dark presentiment began to form in his mind.

Someone screamed from below, a woman by the sound of it, followed by confused shouts as people sought cover anywhere they could find it. Grimm had just enough time to realize that the descending objects would not come anywhere near his perch, and then they were falling, bouncing off the rooftops of the buildings or on the packed earth of the fort's central courtyard. They did not explode or burst into flames, and the ones that struck the structures failed to do any apparent damage.

His eyes were drawn to one of the objects, which rolled to a stop after skittering halfway across the courtyard. There were more screams as others below came to the same realization he had.

He was too far away to recognize the face, but he could make out the gray tinge to the hair, and he had a pretty good idea of who the head had belonged to.

"The patrol," Faris said.

Mortus's magically-amplified voice cut through the growing chaos brewing within the fort. "You have until the coming dawn to make your decision," he said. And then, without waiting for a response, he turned and walked back into the forest from which he had emerged.

* * *

The briefing room felt crowded, even though it held fewer than the dozen or so men it had been designed to accommodate. Maybe it was the extra tension that filled the room and made it seem smaller, Grimm thought. The presence of the barbarian sorcerer and his ultimatum hung in the air like a miasma, unforgettable.

"There can be no question of accepting Mortus's demands," Faris was saying. The sergeant stood at the edge of the table, which was spread with a map that showed Edelvar and its environs. Grimm could not help but notice that the defined area was surrounded by a vast rim of empty space, marked only with the whirls that indicated the unexplored depths of the Forever Wood.

"I do not think we should be so hasty," Paerven said. He was a big man, with the build of a warrior, but his thick arms were the result of his work in the forges, not swinging a sword. He was there as the representative of Edelvar's craftsmen, along with old Gulwick, who had escaped the disaster at Outpost Six with just a few scratches earned when he'd taken cover in some bushes.

Just about everyone else in the room was a Warden, save for Miranda. She stood next to Faris, as appropriate for the senior Mage and senior Warden. Harsten stood at the end of the table, there as one of the few veterans left at the outpost. Grimm stood at the opposite end with Rojek. They lacked both rank and experience, but they were the only other Wardens who had faced off against the forest raiders and survived.

Grimm's eyes shifted to the last man, standing near the door. Shavkar's face bore the marks of his own encounter with the dangers of the forest. He'd been too seriously injured to return with the battered supply caravan when it had left Edelvar, so he'd joined the garrison. He stood mute, his scars giving him a grim look that served as another unneeded reminder of what they all faced.

"If we leave the protection of the fort, the forest folk will be able to ambush us easily on the trail," Harsten pointed out. "Here at least we have an edge on defense."

"But if they can hurl severed heads at us, then can they not hurl casks of oil or heavy stones?" Paerven persisted. "My people will do their best, but they are not warriors."

The outer door opened, and several heads turned. Grimm was somehow not surprised to see that it was Perek. He was still clad in his working clothes, but he'd strapped a sword onto his hip. It seemed to belong there, Grimm thought.

"This is a private meeting," Faris said. "We will tell the people everything once..."

"With all due respect, Sergeant," Perek interrupted. "I notice that there is no representative of the camp's laborers present. I'd say we have as much of a stake in what happens as anyone here."

"There's no representative of the camp's whores either," Rojek shot back, but then flushed and glanced at Miranda before subsiding.

"Oh, I'll represent the whores as well," Perek said mildly. He came forward. Shavkar took a menacing step toward him, but subsided at a raised hand from Faris. Perek inclined his head in a gesture of deference that was undermined by his smirk. "So. Now that that's decided, what have I missed?"

"We've determined that fleeing back to Sacreth is not an option," Faris said, with a hard look at Paerven.

"Indeed," Perek said. "You cannot trust sorcerers." His own glance at Miranda was purposeful enough to be obvious in its implication.

To his own surprise, Grimm smacked his hand down on the edge of the table, drawing all eyes to him. He hesitated, suddenly self-conscious, but Miranda nodded at him in encouragement. "What we need to focus on is what we can do to stop them," he said.

"A wise suggestion," Paerven said. "Forgive my presumption, Mage Hael, but if they send more of those wooden men against us, can you defeat them as you did the first?"

"I will deal with their magic," she said. "But there is only so much I can do against their warriors."

"And we still don't know just how many of those we are facing," Faris said.

"Surely they could not have defeated the Commander and his patrol with just a few men," Harsten said. "Those were veteran Wardens, almost to a man."

"Equipped with spelled swords and fire arrows, no doubt," Perek added. "Weapons that we must assume are now in the hands of our enemy."

"I said that I will deal with the magic," Miranda returned. She took a deep breath and continued, "Sergeant, how long will our supplies last?"

"A month at best," he said. "With everyone cooped up inside the fort's walls."

"The barbarian sorcerer seemed to make it clear that he is not interested in a siege," Paerven pointed out.

"How many men _could_ the forest tribes muster?" Miranda asked.

Faris looked thoughtful. "We've never been able to get a clear idea of just how many people they have, as they're scattered in villages and camps along the forest's edge. Doubtful that it would be more than a few hundred, even if all the tribes came together. And our intelligence has always told us that they have more squabbles and feuds amongst themselves than with us."

"It would seem perhaps that they may finally have come together against the common threat," Perek said.

Faris reluctantly acknowledged the comment with a nod. Turning back to Miranda, he said, "Even leaving aside their magic," he said, deferring to her on that point, "We just don't have enough fighting men to mount an effective defense against a full assault. I only have ten Wardens left, and that includes both me and the men injured in the attack on the spur mine."

"I can fight, sergeant," Grimm said.

Perek formed his hands into fists and put them on the edge of the table. "There are twenty-six men in the camp who received Reserve Corps training," he said. "And even a few who have had Warden training," he quietly added.

Grimm blinked at that last; it was as if a piece had silently slid into place in his mind. The former convict briefly met his eyes, more than a hint of challenge there, before he turned back to Faris and Miranda.

"What about those who came here as prisoners?" Paerven asked. "You would give them weapons?"

The challenge Grimm had seen before became outright defiance now. "I think you are beyond the luxury of rejecting help, regardless of its source," Perek shot back at the burly smith.

"And if there is another Ravis in their number?" Grimm found himself asking.

The silence that followed the question suggested that he had not been alone in the thought. Even Perek seemed to accept the logic of it, and after a moment he nodded. "I can identify those who might be... unreliable," he said, as though the words were dragged from him. "Some might serve better without a weapon." He looked at Miranda again, as if daring her to point out that he, too, was one of those who might be considered unreliable. But the mage only nodded, then swept her gaze around the room, taking in each one of them. "Gentlemen," she said. "I think we all know what we have to do. Let's take advantage of the time that we have."

The meeting ended with Faris assigning specific tasks to those present. Grimm was told to take an inventory of the armory, and to coordinate with Perek to keep track of the weapons assigned thus far and see what could be scrounged for the rest. The small smithy within the walls of the fort had nowhere near the capacity of the complex down in the valley, but it could manage spearheads and arrowheads well enough. If nothing else was available they could put arm the men with clubs or staves; the one thing they had plenty of was wood. Paerven turned out a dozen quarterstaves before noon, crimping a ferrule of iron around the striking end, making for simple but effective weapons. The pounding of hammers on iron continued throughout the day, as every spare scrap of metal in the fort was put to use.

Everywhere he went, Grimm found people engaged in furious labor. Every available space in the fort seemed to be occupied by teams of men and women assigned to some specific task. One of the miners was an experienced hunter who knew how to make slings, and he'd been assigned a team made up of some of the women to help him cut and shape leather for that purpose. That raised the question of ammunition, but it turned out that the smithy had a spare mold suitable for casting lead bullets, and so another team was assigned that task, with old Gulwick swapping the melting pot out of the forge fire each time another batch was ready to pour. They still had only a handful of bows available, but the slingers would add some firepower in the case of an assault against the fort.

Other women were set to work fashioning simple coats out of old aprons and scrap material to serve as impromptu armor. Grimm caught a glimpse of Suisa and her aunt working together on that assignment, crowded into one corner of the Warden barracks, but he did not get a chance to speak to her. Even the brief look drew Reyna's attention, and while the older woman did not react outwardly to his presence, she fixed him with a stare that somehow seemed accusing. He didn't linger there, instead hurrying on to the next task on his list.

There was no time for second-guessing or contemplation; there seemed to be a thousand things to do. He'd started the day already weary, and by the time that the sun had begun its downward course his limbs felt like they were circled with bands of lead.

He knew that he was spent when he stopped in front of the headquarters building and realized that he had absolutely no idea why he was there. All around him the din that filled the interior of the fort continued apace, a medley of sounds that included shouts, the pounding of metal and metal, and the thud of wood being split or sawed or struck. Men who looked as tired as he felt were continuing to drill under the watchful eye of Harsten, who had taken over the training of their new militia. With the time crunch they were focusing on a few basic moves, block-and-thrust, block-and-thrust. Even with that simplicity the exhausted men were slipping up, and as Grimm watched one man fell to the ground after missing his block and earning a solid smack along the side of his head.

"Grimm," came a familiar voice behind him.

He almost jumped, and spun to see Miranda standing there, right next to the open entry of the headquarters. She looked almost as ragged as he felt, the dark circles under her eyes speaking to a day that must have been as busy as his had been. "You're still recovering. You'll only exacerbate your condition if you don't get some rest. Go to bed, Mage's orders."

He looked at the barracks, at the string of people going in and out in a constant procession, and shook his head. "I don't think there's a spare bed to be found here."

She didn't respond at first, and as he realized how his words could be taken more than one way he coughed and felt the familiar flush of heat to his cheeks and neck. "I, ah, didn't mean..."

"It's all right, Grimm. Go ahead, better that someone make use of it."

"Don't mages need to be rested, to use their spells?"

"Well, exhaustion doesn't help things, that's for certain. But there's so much that has to be done, and much of it can't be handed off to someone else."

"I guess I can't tell you how to do your job. But it seems like if anyone should get a full night's sleep here, it's you. Nobody else can do what you can do, that's for certain."

Her smile took a surprising amount of edge off his weariness. "Go on. There's some bread and half a wheel of cheese in the pantry, and I think a few of the spring plums left. Eat as much as you can hold, your body will need it to finish the work of healing."

Too tired to protest, he started to leave, only to stop suddenly. "I almost forgot," he said. He reached up to his collar, where the amulet Miranda had given him was still pinned.

Her hands closed over his before his tired fingers could work the clasp. "I want you to hold onto it," she said. For a moment they stood there together, so close that he could smell her scent, distinct from the unpleasant medley of odors that permeated the interior of the fort. In that moment he ached for her like he'd never ached for anything before in his life, but a lingering awareness of where they were—and _who_ they were—stopped him.

She blinked, seeming to come out of a similar moment. "Go, rest," she said, a final command before she turned and went inside, gone almost like a spirit out of one of the stories.

The walk over to her house and the brief stop in the pantry passed in a blur. The next thing he was aware of was the bed, and the memories it held, drawing him back into the present. But even those thoughts could not overcome his weariness, and his head had barely touched the pillow before he sank into a deep, dreamless sleep.

* * * * *

Chapter 18

The night passed slowly within the walls of the fort at Edelvar. Ragged and exhausted as they were, few of the surviving inhabitants of the Sacrethan outpost were able to sleep. Steel-eyed Wardens and burly militiamen kept watch on both the parapet that ran around the stockade wall and from the fortified balcony atop the headquarters building. They stared into the darkness that was nearly absolute beyond the radius of the lanterns that shone at generous intervals from atop the walls. The moon was at its nadir, and the light from the stars seemed muted, as if reluctant to reveal the scene developing within the forest.

Sergeant Faris had expressed his concern about a possible night attack by the forest folk, Mortus's pledge notwithstanding, but the woods that faced the fort remained dark and silent. As dawn approached a fog began to rise, thickening over the valley, until even the vague outlines of the various buildings of the outpost that were visible in the starlight faded from view. Faris ordered additional watchers to the north wall that overlooked the valley, but there was nothing they could do in any case, if the raiders elected to continue their campaign of destruction there.

But there were no blazes within the fog, no more plumes of smoke and ash. It seemed almost as though the world outside of the boundaries sketched by the outpost's tentative lights had ceased to exist.

_There are times when it's almost pretty here_ , Miranda thought, as she stepped out from the stairwell and walked out onto the balcony. It was cold in the predawn, the moist air clinging to her skin. The tread of her boots on the weathered planks was muted, but sounded unnaturally loud in the preternatural stillness of the night. Below her the lanterns set along the wall pushed back the darkness. There were no lights up there, both to keep from spoiling the night-vision of the men on watch, and to avoid silhouetting the watchers against anyone who might be watching. Though she imagined that the fog blinded the enemy as much as it did them.

When she'd first seen those thickening tendrils, looking out through the slit window in the briefing room where she'd been meeting with Faris, she'd felt a moment's fear that it was the result of some sort of forest magic, a spell conjured by the sorcerer who led the enemy. But she felt no magic now, staring down at the white gauze that lay over the world. Or if it was a spell, it was part of the magic of this place, not something conjured by Mortus. She was beginning to understand what Orestes had been trying to tell her, in their all-too-brief meeting after her arrival.

She walked over to the railing and nodded to the sentry there. It was one of the Wardens who had been here before her arrival. She didn't remember the man's name. He held his bow against his side, unstrung so as not to spoil the string in the damp air. She didn't need to be able to see inside the quiver slung over his shoulder to sense the presence of the magic there. Each of the sentries carried a few of the meager supply of fire arrows that Darrivan had left behind.

A noise drew her attention around, and she turned to see a man approaching from the north side of the building. For a moment she thought it was Grimm, and a surge of emotion started to swell within her. She'd already taken a few eager steps forward before she realized that she didn't sense the presence of her amulet, the one that she'd given to him.

"Mage?" Faris asked. "Are you... all right?"

"Yes, fine, sergeant," she said. "Couldn't sleep either, eh?"

He shook his head, the gesture barely visible in the weak light. "They will come soon," he said.

Miranda folded her arms tightly in front of her. Her coat was generously lined, and the mornings in the lake country got colder than this, but the chill she felt wasn't entirely from the crisp air. The weight of her amphal was a reassurance against her chest, underneath the heavy coat. She closed her eyes and let her perceptions extend out over the fort, taking in the wards she'd placed around the perimeter. She felt something else as well. There was Grimm, in the barracks. So he was up and about as well. She could not sense more than his presence through the link created by her amulet, but just knowing he was there, safe, eased some of the tension she felt.

It was strange, thinking about him in that way, when Edelvar could explode into bloody violence at any moment. They had only known each other for a few weeks, and had only spent that one night together, but none of those facts could change what she was starting to feel. The rational part of her whispered that it was just the context in which they found themselves, the intensity of their feelings born of the dramatic nature of their situation, but that explanation felt hollow compared to what she felt inside.

She felt something else, a tingle on the edge of her perceptions, a warning that quickly drew her focus back to the present reality. At the same moment, the sentry stiffened, and reached for his bowstring. "Something in the fog!" he hissed.

Faris and Miranda ran forward to his position, both of them leaning forward over the mantled railing to see better, despite the risk.

A man materialized out of the fog. Miranda felt Faris tense beside her, and the Warden sentry, who efficiently strung his bow before drawing out a red shaft that gleamed slightly to her attenuated senses. She focused on the new arrival.

There was something... _off_ to him, both to her magical senses and her physical ones. He wavered as he walked, like a man sodden with drink, staggering a step to one side or the other for every few strides he managed forward. There were shouts from the wall, as the guards there saw him too, and men began to rush about below. A few of those shouts were directed at the stranger, hails that Miranda was not surprised went unanswered. She wondered whether the man below even heard them.

The sentry raised his bow, drew the tension partway on the string. "Sergeant?" he asked.

"Hold for my order," Faris said.

The man was still a good fifty strides from the gate, his meandering approach bringing him only gradually closer. He did not appear to be carrying any weapons, but the ragged folds of clothing that clung to him could have concealed almost anything. "You there!" Faris shouted. "Stop where you are, or you will be stopped!"

The man stopped. His head came up, and Miranda started with surprise as she recognized him.

"Wilkens," she said. "It's Wilkens."

The fog had muted the distinctive bright red color of his hair, but once she had made the connection it was unmistakable. He peered up at them, blinking up at the fog. He was still too far away for Miranda to clearly read his expression, but she could sense the disorientation there.

"What happened to him?" Faris asked.

Miranda didn't have an answer, but she was focusing now on the other thing she'd sensed, the slight disturbance that had shaken her out of her Delving earlier. She grasped her amphal, intending to search his aura again, when she realized what was happening.

The hapless figure below was Warded.

Even as the implications dawned on her Wilkens started forward again, moving more quickly now, one empty hand coming up as if beckoning to them.

"Sergeant..." the sentry began.

"Shoot him," Miranda said. "Stop him!"

The sentry shot a glance at Faris, but only hesitated for that brief moment. That moment cost him, however, as his arrow went slightly wide, flashing past Wilkens's head before burying into the loose soil behind him.

Ordinarily that miss would have left the target unharmed, but the missile was a fire arrow, empowered with magic by Sacrethan steel mages that made direct hits unnecessary. The ground exploded in a bright flash of flames that dazzled the eyes of those watching, and a plume of dirt and smoke shot into the air. Wilkens vanished into that maelstrom. Miranda scanned for him even as clods of dirt and shattered pieces of stone pattered off the walls of the fort.

As the effects of the blast faded Wilkens reappeared. He was on fire, flames flaring around his arms and torso. He screamed as he continued forward, a raw sound that combined agony with something else, something that sent a chill through the tension that Miranda felt.

The Warden reached for his quiver for another arrow, but Miranda saw he would not get a second shot off in time. Other missiles shot out from the men behind the parapet. One struck the youth hard in the shoulder. The mundane arrow buried into his flesh with enough force to knock him off his stride, but he managed to straighten again and hurl himself forward toward the gates. Miranda felt the cold pressure of her amphal in her hand, but even as she reached out to the magic stored within it she knew she was too late, they were all too late. As his wildly pounding legs carried him across the last few strides he reached into his tunic and drew out something, a bundle of objects that Miranda recognized even through the Warding that had shielded them from her sight. Something else flashed around his neck, but her eyes were drawn to his face, where his expression transformed into a spasm of pure bliss even as the flames clinging to him formed a bright halo around his features.

She was able to turn her head around just as Wilkens slammed the bundle of captured fire arrows into the wood of the gate.

The explosion made the burst of the single fire arrow earlier seem like a harmless skyflare by contrast. The force of it plucked her off her feet and hurled her to the floor. The air was knocked from her, and she felt a jolt that stabbed knives of pain up her back and right shoulder. For a moment, all she could do was lie there and gasp in an effort to refill her lungs.

A sense of building urgency finally let her restore control over her limbs. She pulled herself up to see Faris stirring a few feet away, also looking more than a little dazed. She turned the other way to see that the Warden sentry was not moving at all. She pulled herself closer and saw that a bright smear of blood covered the entire side of his face that was visible.

The boards that formed the mantle around the edge of the balcony had been dislodged in a few places, creating gaps through which she could see. All she could make out, however, was flames and smoke. She rose, still unsteady, and pulled herself forward to the railing.

The scene below was one of thorough destruction. The gates were just... _gone_ , though bits of wood still big enough to be identified as part of them littered the area. Parts of the adjacent wall and the nearby buildings, including both the headquarters and the barracks, were on fire. At least half a dozen bodies were lying in the open space behind the gate, though there might have been more dead; there were a few shapeless clumps that were too small to be corpses but which might have come from men who had been whole just a few moments before.

Fighting down a rising gorge, she shifted her eyes to the foggy openness beyond the stockade wall. The sky, lost within the gray fabric, had started to incrementally brighten, but she could still see nothing beyond a few dozen paces. The entire enemy host could be just beyond that fringe, she knew, along with the sorcerer and his fell constructions.

She turned as Faris dragged himself up beside her, and took in the scene. "I have to get down there," she told him.

The sergeant nodded. "Go, I will keep watch here," he said. He bent to recover the fallen sentry's bow and quiver, his movements betraying the same aftereffects that she felt.

She turned and ran to the staircase. She grasped her amphal, using a focus exercise in an attempt to clear her mind of the lingering pain from the explosion. By the time that she reached the ground floor of the building her thoughts were steady, though she had only masked the complaints of her body, the tingling in her back and shoulder reminding her that she would have to pay the price for that later.

Faces emerged from the shadows as she passed, men and women not assigned to fighting duty, looking questions at her. She could offer them no reassurance, and only said, "Remain in your assigned positions!" as she hurried down the hallway to the outer door.

She was greeted by a dense pall of smoke and the heat of the lingering flames. The stink of burning flesh hung thick in the air. Between the smoke and the fog she couldn't see more than twenty strides beyond the empty gap where the gate had stood, but she could hear them, the shouts of approaching men, the answers from those upon the battlements. She could hear the flick of bowstrings, but it was impossible to tell if anyone was hitting anybody else in the confusion of the fog.

She checked the nearest bodies as she moved forward toward the gate, but she didn't have to linger long to see that they were beyond any help that she could provide. Behind her men were coming out of the buildings, clutching their weapons with desperation etched on their faces.

Grimm emerged from the barracks and ran to her. Fresh blood was smeared under his nostrils, but he appeared otherwise fine. He was yelling something, and it took her a moment to resolve the words into a coherent message. When she did, she shook her head.

"I have to stay here," she told him, taking his arm briefly. "Keep the others back."

She saw the resistance in his eyes, but she held them long enough for him to see the conviction there, and he reluctantly nodded. As he fell back, she activated her shield amulet. The air wavered in front of her, the swaying eddies of smoke disrupted as the invisible field of force took shape.

She did not have to wait long. Forms began to take on shape in the mists. The warriors of the forest tribes approached cautiously, wary of what they would find when they reached the fort. A man screamed as an arrow found its mark, and a few strides away, an orange blossom exploded as a fire arrow landed in their midst. Men scattered and fell back.

It did not take the insight of a mage to know what they were waiting for. Even in the thickness of the fog, its approach was unmistakable. The ground seemed to reverberate with the sounds of its stride, growing stronger as it got closer. Miranda could _feel_ it now, the magic driving the sorcerer's construct both alien and familiar. She had studied the fragments of crystal that she had recovered from the wreckage of the one she had battled at the spur mine, but while they were obviously some sort of focus, they'd otherwise felt nothing close to what Sacrethan gem mages used, the weapons crafted by the steel mages, or her own painstakingly prepared amulets. She'd stored those fragments carefully in her quarters, in a box that was both Bound and Warded. She'd intended that they be sent back to Sacreth for study, but that would depend on the outcome of the day.

She looked up at the top of the tower. She could see Faris there, another arrow drawn, searching the fog for a target.

The steady thump of approaching steps abruptly stopped.

She tensed. A strange premonition drew her eyes up again, so that she had full view as the boulder materialized out of the fog, and slammed into the balcony. Faris didn't even have time to cry out as the missile blasted through the wooden mantle, punching a hole both through the outer barrier and the roof behind it. Faris... the sergeant was simple _gone_ , his broken body either knocked down beyond her view or driven through into the building.

The golem's approach resumed, its pace swifter now. She heard the screams that had been denied to Faris coming from the men atop the wall now, though most of them held their ground. Glancing back she saw that the Grimm and the other defenders had done the same. She recognized only about half of the faces there. Grimm at the head of the group, his sword in his hand. Behind him Fils, Rojek, Shavkar. Perek, standing with a handful of the militia, huddled in the lee of the barracks, their spears seeming puny in the face of what she knew was coming.

She turned back in time to see it take on form out of the fog. Huge, that much she'd expected, half again the size of the first, the glowing crystal set into its chest confirming her earlier suspicions. This one was both more and less human in its form; its head was carved into the vague shape of a helmet, but its arms were longer and thicker, and it walked with a slightly bent gait, like an ape.

It was carrying something, she saw. Understanding flashed just as the golem planted its feet and raised one arm in a massive spiral, like the snap of a catapult arm or the sweep of a sling. Grimm shouted a warning, but she was already drawing more power from her amphal, pouring all that she could into her shield.

The boulder shot forward in a low arc. It hit the ground and tumbled forward like a rock skipped over a pond. Twice it jumped, flipping end over end before it slammed into Miranda's shield.

The barrier held, but the reverberation from the impact overwhelmed her senses for an instant. The boulder, its momentum almost fully absorbed by the shield, bounced up into the air and spun one more time before it landed with a heavy thud a few strides behind the mage. She couldn't help but take a look back; the thing was the size of a wagon wheel and had to weigh twenty stone. Had she been unprotected, it would likely have crushed every bone in her body.

Grimm had taken a few steps closer, stepping out of the shadow of the headquarters building where he and the other Wardens had taken cover. "Stay back!" she yelled at him.

The resumption of the golem's approach drew her attention back around. She looked around at the flames clinging to the wall and the nearby buildings, but while they might claim the fort if left to burn, they were currently too scattered to repeat the same trick she'd used at the spur mine. She had no doubt that the thing could dismantle the fort's buildings as easily as it had thrown those boulders. Her shield still held, but that alone would not stop it, and no one else there had the power to defeat it.

The golem was now a scant twenty strides away—its strides twice as long as hers, but still too close for her to hesitate further. She stepped more fully into the open, the gate forming an empty frame between her and it. She lowered her shield and raised her amphal, extending her senses out to incorporate all of the sources of energy within her reach. She could feel the pulsing reassurance of the men behind her, their fear like an oily slick upon the blazing beacons of their lives. But while both were powerful, neither was something she could use.

Instead she reached out to the raw energy of the flames. She had redirected that energy before, in her first confrontation with the sorcerer's golems. Her amphal was designed to accommodate such flows of energy, to shift or redirect them. She was a shield mage, her magic designed to protect others from either magical or physical attack. She had never understood that charge as clearly as she did at that moment. If she failed, everyone at Edelvar would likely die.

Without being able to recognize what Mortus was doing she could not counter it directly, but she could almost hear Velos's voice, whispering in her ear.

_There's always a way_.

She drew upon the flames, as she had during the fire in the valley. The amphal began to heat as it absorbed the energy, but instead of releasing it, she kept her hand closed around the metal, even as it began to sear her flesh. The golem seemed to swell in her vision, until it loomed over her, standing almost as tall as the surrounding wall at it reached the gate. Some of the men were throwing arrows and spears at it, but they had no effect that she could see. The men at the wall fled from the gate as it approached, running back along the parapet, out of the thing's unnaturally long reach. It paid them no heed, its focus entirely upon Miranda.

The light dimmed as the flames along the nearby walls faded out. The amphal glowed a cherry red now with all of the energy she'd absorbed, but she continued to hold it, even as her skin crisped and began to shade from red to black. The golem took one more step, clearing the empty gate as it raised a massive hand, its fingers shaped into long curving talons.

Miranda screamed, letting her pain and defiance out together in a primal release as she unleashed her magic.

A red beam erupted from the gemstone at the center of her amulet. It sliced through the fog and burrowed into the chest of the golem. The thing, unequipped with a mouth to scream, reacted by staggering aside. Its claw clipped an edge of the headquarters, gouging deep tracks into the wood and ripping a portion of the adjacent parapet away. The construct straightened and tried to come at her again, but Miranda held her ground, adjusting the beam so that it remained focused upon the center of its chest, directly at the glowing crystal embedded there. A surge of power flashed as the two magics collided, surrounding the entire golem with a bright halo of shifting colors. The golem lunged forward, driven by one more impulse to take her with it. Miranda held her ground, pouring every last bit of power she could muster into her spell. The golem managed only one more step before it suddenly stiffened, its wooden body frozen as the animating force left it. Its momentum carried it forward, toppling over with outstretched arms still reaching for the mage. She staggered back, slowly, too slowly, but a strong arm locked around her waist and yanked her back a scant instant before the golem's heavy carcass slammed into the ground where she'd been standing.

Miranda fell, still clutched in Grimm's embrace. Other hands reached for her, helping them both to their feet. She'd released her amphal, but it still clung to her blackened hand. She could feel the damage she'd wrought upon the amulet through her spell, but put both it and her injured limb out of her thoughts. Grimm looked down at it, his own features showing a depth of concern. There was a fresh cut upon his brow, leaving a trickle of blood running down the side of his face; he must have been hit by a fragment during the battle between her and the construct.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

Her own thoughts were scattered, but she managed to fight through the fog and focus her mind upon the danger that still threatened. She opened her mouth to reply, but the words were stolen by a sudden wave of power that swept over her senses. It came from somewhere outside the walls, within the fog beyond, where the golem had originated. She had no doubt of its source, and while she could not put a name to the spell that the sorcerer had cast, she could _feel_ its effect, a radiating wave of hatred and fury that felt like nails being thrust into her brain from inside her skull. Without her amphal all she could do was ride it out. She raised her good hand to her head, trying to focus anew from the wave of sensation.

"Miranda, what's happening?" Grimm asked. She looked up at him, and at the other men around her. Some of them frowned, or shook their heads, looking around as though trying to locate the source of an overheard whisper. Whatever the sorcerer's working, they obviously weren't its intended target.

Which left...

The roar from outside the gate drew their attention, mage and Wardens and militia alike. It was punctuated by the sounds of charging men, not tentative this time, accompanied by forms that became distinct as they materialized from the fog, running full-tilt toward the fort and its open gate.

"Get her inside!" Grimm shouted, drawing his sword as he thrust Miranda into the arms of several of the waiting men. "Inside, all of you!" he repeated, taking up a warding position behind them, his helmet concealing his face from view as he turned toward the gate.

"Grimm, no!" Miranda said, but she could barely hear her own voice over the sounds of the charging warriors, and she was still too disoriented to do anything to struggle against the arms holding her, dragging her back. Her magic... she reached for her amphal, only to remember everything as she looked upon her blackened and ruined hand. The disk had finally come free of the scorched flesh, and dangled from its cord against her chest, bouncing as she was carried backwards toward the open doorway of the headquarters tower.

The men standing in front of her blocked much of her view, but she could still see the surge of movement as the attackers charged in through the gate. A few arrows greeted them, but only a few, and those that took hits kept on coming, the shafts jutting from the thick fur vests they wore.

The defenders fell back toward the buildings that flanked the gate, the towering bulk of the headquarters, the long squat mass of the barracks. Each of the structures inside the walls had been fortified as best they could, with defenders behind those windows that offered vantage for a man with a bow or spear. But most were in those two by the gate, the two largest in the fort, and they lashed out at the attackers as they charged inside, hurdling the ruined form of the golem.

The enemy came on so fast that they were upon them before the Sacrethans could all get inside. The Wardens held them off, ducking under powerful swings from broad-headed axes or thrusts from iron hunting spears, lashing out at the forest men with their swords. Grimm tore an axe from one man's grasp, laying his arm open to the bone, and spun to meet another, parrying a thrust from a spear before its owner carried him into close quarters. Their impact knocked Grimm roughly back, but Rojek stabbed the spearman in the side before he could recover. Another screamed and came at both Wardens with a pair of hooked knives, only to crumple as an arrow from Fils's bow punched through his neck at point-blank range. But there were more men behind them, at least a dozen, with more coming through the gate by the second.

That was all that Miranda saw before the strong arms holding her pulled her through the doorway into the relative darkness inside the headquarters tower. "Wait!" she yelled, but she was unable to pull free before they'd dragged her clear of the door as men continued to pour through after her. She saw Perek, standing near the door, his sword in his hand. "Come on!" he yelled. "Come on!" Then, to Miranda's surprise, he darted back out, into the violence she could hear clearly through the opening.

Finally free of her helpers, she staggered forward. She fumbled with her amphal, finally taking it with her left hand when the fingers of her right refused to obey her orders. She could feel the damage she'd wrought upon the amulet by her spell earlier, but there had to be enough magic left in it, there _had to be._ She could feel the stirring of that power, though it felt like the flicker of a torch seen through the rain, vague and unsubstantial. She snarled in frustration at herself, willing her mind to focus through the haze of damage that had been wrought upon it.

She was nearly at the door when three men came through it, first Rojek, blood covering half of his face, then Perek, all but carrying Fils. "Close it!" Perek shouted, as he fell through the narrow opening.

"NO!" Miranda yelled, but before any of them could do anything, a man appeared, his disheveled features a mask of fury. He lunged directly at the mage with a long curved knife, almost a sickle. Miranda, caught by surprise, was nearly stabbed before Shavkar pushed her aside and punched his sword into the man's chest. The barbarian warrior fell back, and several men pushed the door shut, slamming the heavy bar into its mount with a hard clank.

Miranda pulled away from the man who'd caught her. "Open the door, Grimm's still out there!" she yelled.

"He went down," someone said.

"No," she said, pushing forward, but Perek caught her, pinning her arms easily against her body. "We can't open the door!" he said. As if to punctuate his statement the door shuddered in its moorings from a heavy impact. They could all hear the shouts from the far side, then another solid thud that shook the portal. But the door was solid, wood planks layered one upon the other, with both its bindings and the bar made of forged iron. Even men with axes would not be able to get through it quickly.

"No," Miranda repeated, but her defiance seemed to have faded, and the word came out more as a sob than a demand. Perek did not loosen his grasp, but she was almost glad for the rough hold; she could not have borne it if she'd collapsed in front of them.

"We have to get up to the windows on the second level, or to the balcony above," Perek said. "If they gain the parapet they'll be able to climb up there, it's our best chance to stop them. Morgath, take the Mage down to the cellars..."

"No, I can walk," she said. "I can walk," she repeated, willing it to be so, ruthlessly quashing any remaining weakness from her voice.

Perek released her, warily, as if expecting her to make another move for the door. It continued to shudder from repeated blows, but she did not even look at it, taking hold of her amphal again. Both Fils and Rojek were hurt but still standing, and they met her eyes with looks of determined anticipation. "Let's get above," she said. "Three of you stay here and mind the door, the rest of you grab anything that can be used as a weapon and follow."

One of the militiamen stepped forward. He was holding a large pick, and with a start Miranda recognized him, it was Jamor, the big, silent convict who'd been working as a butcher's helper in the outpost's kitchen. "They won't get past us, Mage," he said.

She nodded solemnly, then turned and hurried down the hall toward the stairs in the rear of the tower. She could have worked a Binding on the door, but doubted that it would have helped much, even if she'd been able to use her magic. She felt for her shield amulet, relieved to find it still in its place on her wrist. Its power too had been seriously depleted, but she might need to tax it yet further.

She reached the stairs and started up, relieved to hear the heavy tromp of boots behind her. She reached the second floor and the briefing room, sparing only a glance at the narrow slit windows before continuing up to the top level.

The door at the landing was open at an odd angle, knocked off its hinges. She had a premonition of what she would find even before she had climbed high enough to see the broken body lying on the floor, and the bloody smears that covered the wooden boards around it. Mercifully Sergeant Faris's head was turned away. The broken shaft of his bow was still clutched in his hand.

"Neva's grace," Fils said behind her.

She glanced back at him, regretting the loss of youth that she saw in his face, but there was no time for grief, not now. Her own heart twisted as she thought of Grimm, lying dead in the courtyard just outside these walls, but she crushed that feeling before it could take hold and tear her down.

"Come on," she growled, amazed that she could keep her own voice steady. The stairwell was damaged, the path of the golem's hurled stone obvious in the wreckage of shattered boards it had left, but the steps themselves were mostly intact. She could hear the sounds of violence and see the plumes of smoke from the top of the stairs, and was greeted anew by them as she reemerged into the open air.

She stepped out onto the covered balcony, and took a quick look around. To her immediate left was a gap where Faris had been standing, and while the log frame was intact, both the mantled battlement and the thick planks that formed the walkway were gone, blasted into splinters for a good two or three strides. Through the gap she could see the courtyard below, thick with bodies and shrouded forms that dashed quickly through her view.

Shouts and screams drew her attention ahead, and she leaned forward to see men fighting on the parapet of the stockade wall directly below her. About half a dozen of the forest warriors had gained the parapet, and were forcing back several militiamen and a single Warden, who were just barely keeping them at bay on the narrow walkway. She recognized the Warden as one of those who had come to Edelvar with her... Harsten, she remembered. Even as she watched one of the barbarians leapt onto the jagged edge of the log wall and sprang at the Warden, only to be caught in mid-air by one of the militiamen's spears. He screamed as he fell, dropping off the wall to vanish into the murk beyond.

Motion drew her attention up, to another Warden who ran along the balcony toward her. It was Lowen, whose expression was just shy of panic. "I'm out of arrows!" he shouted at her. His eyes suddenly widened. "Look out!"

Miranda turned to see a grimy hand close onto the edge of mantled railing right in front of her. She raised her amphal, trying to summon its magic through its damaged matrix. The hand became an arm, then a face that peered up over the edge of the battlement. The face was wild, covered with a mat of dirty brown hair, and it contorted into a vicious snarl as he spotted Miranda standing there. His other hand came up, clutching a dagger.

Before he could either lunge or pull himself up, Rojek thrust past her, his sword flashing as he slammed it into the barbarian's face. A spray of blood rose into the air as the man dropped away, his scream barely beginning before it was abruptly cut off.

Miranda grabbed the young Warden's arm. "Go back down and grab Faris's quiver," she told him. "Fils, shoot those men on the parapet. Lowen, you look out for more climbers, until Rojek brings those arrows."

As the Wardens rushed to obey, she took another a quick look around. She wanted to crawl over to the gap in the balcony, to look down at the spot where Grimm had fallen, but she knew that she would not be able to manage that sight just now. Instead she focused on the damage wrought by the golem's catapulted stone, looking for one thing in particular. Holding her amphal tightly in her intact hand, she focused on a minor Delving.

Knowing what she was looking for, it only took an instant. Her gaze sharpened on the canted roof behind the balcony, to one of the slots between the thinner logs that made up the roof. She felt a brief flash of relief; she'd thought it more likely that it had fallen when Faris had been hit.

She clambered over the inner railing, and crawled out onto the roof. Fils glanced over his shoulder at her. "Mage, what are you doing?"

Miranda didn't answer. The slope of the roof wasn't especially steep, but it was covered with thin wooden shakes, and her first step told her that crossing them was going to be treacherous. But she focused on her goal, and within just a few heartbeats reached it. She slid awkwardly onto her rear as she bent to recover the fire arrow that had been knocked from Faris's bow, very likely the last one that they had in the fort.

With the magical arrow in hand, she looked up and realized that she could see almost the entire interior of the fort from her current position. It was not a pleasant sight.

There were bodies everywhere, attackers and defenders merged in the remains of violence. The forest warriors had gained the parapet on both sides of the gate, and while Harsten and the militia were holding their ground below the tower, on the far side the attackers were working their way swiftly around the perimeter. They were taking fire from a cadre of half a dozen slingers perched atop the stable. More of the enemy were trying to get atop that building, while militiamen with spears were doing their best to stop them. She could not see the front of her own building, but opposite there was a crowd of nearly a dozen barbarians clustered around the main door of the barracks. She could see spears being thrust through the narrow windows by the defenders, but they were not close enough to hazard the men who were attacking the door with axes.

She could see at once that the barracks would not withstand the attack. Inside, she knew, were at least two dozen people, most of whom had never held a weapon in their lives before this week.

"Fils!" she yelled. "Fils!"

The Warden turned and saw her. She held up the arrow so that he could see the distinctive red fletching, and then pointed toward the barracks. Fils had to come almost to the edge of the breach to see what she had seen, but he understood and nodded. Behind him, Lowen was keeping up his barrage at the enemies on the parapet just below. Some of the militiamen had arrived, and were handing up assorted objects to Rojek and Shavkar, who were hurling them down at the foe.

Miranda hastened back across the roof to the balcony. She fell as she neared Fils's position, shooting a fresh jolt of pain through her body, but got up quickly and handed the arrow to him. He fitted it quickly to his bowstring, took aim, and fired. Miranda held her breath as the arrow shot into the knot of gathered barbarians. She didn't see which one it struck, remembering at the last instant to close her eyes against the explosion that seared hot even through closed lids.

When she opened them again, the doorway was clear, surrounded by a fringe of charred corpses. Swallowing down the gorge that threatened to rise in her throat, she clasped Fils on the arm. Seeing that there was nothing he could do to help the men on the far side of the fort, she nudged him back to assist Lowen in attacking those enemies in front of them.

She listened for the sounds of axes attacking the door two stories below, but could not make out the sounds over the general chaos of the battle. Had the defenders been able to reinforce the entrance to the tower? Were enemies even now pouring inside, crawling over the hacked bodies of Jamor and the other men she'd left down there?

She shook her head and pulled herself up, using the railing to steady herself. It was useless to wonder over things she couldn't control. The problem was, she wasn't sure what she _could_ do. Her store of amulets had been greatly depleted over the last few days, and her amphal was damaged, perhaps fatally so. She still had her shield amulet, but even if it had enough power for another confrontation, what was she going to do, vault down to the parapet below and attack the forest warriors in close combat? She had no illusions about her chances in the thick of melee, even without the magic that had driven them into a wild rage.

She blinked at that sudden thought. Leaning against the railing for support, she took hold of her amphal. She pressed it close against her chest, took a steadying breath, and closed her eyes.

She could sense it still, almost like an afterimage of the wave of emotion that had almost overcome her in the courtyard behind the gate earlier. Unlike the power that had animated the golems, this was a magic more akin to what she knew and understood. She still did not know its source, and she could not trace it to its origin, to the sorcerer who still had not made an appearance upon the battlefield. But perhaps she could counter its effects.

She opened her eyes, gasping from the demands that even that brief moment of concentration had cost her. Letting her amphal dangle from its cord, she reached into a small pocket hidden in the lining of her coat, and drew out another amulet. This one she had crafted during one of her Magical Theory courses back at the University. As always, her skin crawled as she touched the webs of silver, a chaotic skein that wrapped around a lump of ovoid quartz. She knew the effect was just the reaction of the amulet to her own magic, but it was still an unpleasant sensation.

Trying to ignore the screams and shouts that continued unabated all around her, she fumbled with the amulet, affixing it to her amphal until the two clicked softly together. Her ruined hand made it harder than it should have been, and she nearly dropped the second amulet when one of the Wardens shouted something a few strides away. She refused to look up, fixing her focus entirely upon what she was doing. When she closed her hands around the combined amulets, forcing her damaged fingers to contact the metal, she felt a jolt that felt almost like the globes that the mages at the University used to trap electricity for their research. She fought through that discomfort even as it reawakened the pain from her wounds that she'd masked earlier. Her lips moved soundlessly as she unlocked the power of the spell. She'd never completed a Disjunction against this kind of magic, let alone against multiple targets that she could not see with her own eyes.

She could feel the pulse as it traveled out from her. The sensations coming from the merged amulets intensified, crawling through her body until it felt like hot knives were being dragged through her skin. Still she kept her focus, even as the spell rattled through her mind, like tiny hooks being pulled out of her brain. She could feel the presence of the enemy warriors, tiny flashes of awareness against the gray haze of her senses. She channeled the energies of her spell toward them, but before she could tell if she'd accomplished anything the gray spread, swallowing up everything else before consciousness itself fled.

* * * * *

Chapter 19

Miranda woke with a hell of a headache.

Wary of moving her head too abruptly against the pounding within her skull, she blinked and looked around at her surroundings. They were unfamiliar and sparse, with just a simple cabinet against unadorned wooden walls. With a slight groan she pushed her head to the side. There was a small folding desk close against the wall, beside an open door in which Fils was standing. The Warden looked down at her, and his eyes widened.

She tried to say something, but her mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton. Before she could force so much as a word out the young Warden was out the door as if yanked by a rope. "She's awake!" she heard him yell.

She tried to get up and immediately regretted it. She was lying in a bed that was little more than a cot, pressed up close against the wall opposite the desk and the door. There was a small wooden cupboard built into the wall next to the head of the bed, she saw, its brass clasp shaped into the sigil of the Border Wardens. Somehow seeing that allowed her to finally put all the pieces together in her mind. This had to be Commander Darrivan's quarters, she realized. That meant she was still in the tower, and the battle...

Fils returned, accompanied by Lowen. The senior Warden had a fresh bandage wrapped around his left forearm, and had deep hollows under his eyes that suggested he hadn't had much in the way of rest lately. Both men still wore their armor, and both were armed, she noted. Fils was carrying a cup of something that drew her eyes, but she focused on the more immediate concern.

"The attack?" she managed, forcing the words out through her ragged throat. Fils saw her distress and came quickly forward, kneeling beside the bed to offer her the cup. The water felt better than Healing, almost, and she handed the empty cup back gratefully as Lowen answered her question.

"The attack broke up, just as it looked like we were pretty well fu—ah, doomed," the Warden reported.

"Yeah, they just sort of stopped fighting all of a sudden, like they was confused," Fils added. "Then one of them started yelling for them to fall back, and they did! We counted forty-two of them dead, including the nine I killed with that magic arrow you gave me."

Lowen shot Fils a hard look. "We sent a few men to check along the edge of the forest," he said. "It looks like they're gone, all of them."

"Our losses?"

"Less than they would have been, if the bastards hadn't run when they did. Twelve dead, twice that wounded. Most of the dead at the gate, when it exploded. And Sergeant Faris, killed by that wooden monster."

Miranda hesitated, swallowed. She didn't have her amphal, but could feel its presence atop the desk. But while she didn't want to use it to answer the question she had, she had to ask it. "Grimm?"

"He's gone," Lowen said.

"Dead?"

She noted the hesitation, the quick look shared between the two Wardens. She sat up, ignoring the litany of pains caused by the movement. "Tell me," she said.

The two men shared another look, but her intensity must have showed in her face, for Fils quickly blurted, "They took him. They took him with them."

"He may still be dead, Mage," Lowen added. "The forest folk, they... They aren't known for treating prisoners well," he finished lamely.

Miranda's expression cut off anything else that either man might have been about to say. "Help me up," she commanded.

* * *

Grimm's journey back to consciousness came in fits and starts. At first he had no idea of where he was or what was happening around him. The sensation of pain overwhelmed all others, finally dragging him back under.

Eventually he remained aware long enough to determine something more of his surroundings. He could not see, but he felt a sensation of movement—was he being carried somewhere? His entire body felt battered, as though he'd been rolled off a steep cliff in a barrel full of rocks. He tried to move, tentatively, but even as his hands felt at the fabric wrapped around his eyes something hard crashed into the back of his head, and he lost consciousness again.

The next time he woke it was suddenly, and he felt more of himself, able to more clearly decipher the sensations he felt. He still could not see, though he could detect a faint glimmer of light around the edges of whatever had been tied around his head. He was being carried, dragged really, the uneven ground catching on his boots. He tried to get his feet under him but could not; even that feeble effort caused the hands holding his arms to tighten their grip. Whoever was carrying him, they were strong. He doubted that he could have escaped even if he'd not been feeble from his wounds.

He only vaguely remembered the battle at the fort, and nothing of its aftermath. He had felt the hard jolt up his arm as he'd stabbed a man; he'd turned to yell something at the others, remembered seeing Miranda being pulled inside the open doorway of the tower... then only pain.

He was a prisoner, that much made it through the throbbing agony that still fogged his mind. Whether he was still at Edelvar, or had been carried somewhere else, he had no idea.

Without warning he was free of the hands holding him, and he fell roughly to the ground. A rough tug on the remnant of his tunic dragged him up to his knees; he was able to remain upright only through an effort of will. If he was going to be executed here, he wouldn't face it groveling in the dirt.

His blindfold was yanked off. He was in a small clearing in the forest. It was late in the day, the shadows already starting to grow long, but even the weak sunlight was painful to his dark-adjusted eyes. He blinked, trying to recover enough to be able to distinguish the shadowy forms gathered around him.

There were a dozen or more of them, their heritage instantly obvious in the thick fur vests they wore, their roughly bearded faces and the markings they had etched into the flesh of their faces or on their muscled arms. They were all armed with a mix of weapons, mostly axes and spears, though Grimm recognized more than a few swords that were obviously of Warden manufacture. Some of them bore bloody wounds that were still fresh, oozing through hasty bandages.

At the moment their attention wasn't upon him, and his eyes were drawn to the far side of the clearing to his left. Two big men were standing there, obviously leaders. One wore a suit of Warden mail under his coat, and the other looked almost more beast than man, with a thick forest of a beard that rose almost to meet the tangled thickets of his eyebrows. Grimm thankfully did not remember either from the attack on the fort; he doubted these men would have left him alive, had he faced them in battle.

A figure entered the clearing, emerging from the fringe of brush that marked its boundary. He was cut from the same ragged cloth as the other men, and was dressed in similar fashion, though he wore a long drape of black cloth over his fur vest and leggings. His face... Grimm had never seen that face before, but from his first look he instantly knew that this was the man in the wooden mask who had issued the ultimatum to Edelvar, the man behind the attacks on the Sacrethans.

The sorcerer, Mortus.

From their expressions the forester leaders were almost as unhappy to see him as Grimm was. Mortus nodded at both of them in a greeting that seemed almost mocking to Grimm's eyes. "Kieldor, Yahnnis. I am so pleased to see you both... alive."

"No thanks to you, wizard!" Yahnnis said. "You left us to die there!"

"No, you didn't just leave us," Kieldor added. If the first man's words were an explosion, his were the sharp edge of a blade. "It was your magic that drove us forward in a frenzy, without heed nor caution for our lives."

Mortus shrugged. "And still you failed."

"Failed... I will fail your head from your shoulders, you bastard!" Yahnnis exclaimed. He hefted his axe and took a step forward, but Mortus made a small gesture, and he abruptly stopped. Grimm could not see the warrior's face, as the man had turned away from him toward the sorcerer, but he felt a cold chill than ran down his spine like a trickle of icy water.

Kieldor made no move, but Grimm could read the threat in his stance. "You cannot stop all of us."

If Mortus was afraid, he did not betray it in his manner. "What is done is done," he said. "If you want more blood..." he left that hanging, but Grimm had noticed something else, hints of movements coming from the forest behind the sorcerer.

The barbarian leader hadn't missed it either. "Go burn in the darkness you serve then," Kieldor said. "We are done with you, and all of it."

Yahnnis stumbled back, apparently released from whatever magic Mortus had ensnared him with. He retreated back to his men, who looked unsettled, not surprising to Grimm. There was no one within five paces of him now, but he doubted he could manage to get even that far without someone stopping him, even if he could trust his legs to carry him if he tried to run.

The sorcerer walked forward, almost within Kieldor's reach. The warrior refused to give ground as Yahnnis had, and for a moment Grimm thought he might actually strike at the sorcerer, who still appeared unconcerned. "You will head west then, toward the sea?" Mortus asked.

"Where we go is none of your concern. Stay here with your tribe, what is left of it. The vengeance of Sacreth will come for you, and I hope it finds you soon."

Mortus's lips twisted into a smirk. He walked right past Kieldor, turning his back on him in an obviously dismissive insult. His attention focused on Grimm. "And what do we have here?"

"He is my prisoner," Kieldor said. Grimm did not miss the subtle emphasis on the possessive.

"A prize to take with you?" Mortus asked, without turning.

"No. He fought with honor, against great odds. I will give him a warrior's death."

Grimm tensed, but his worry was focused more on the sorcerer than the man who'd just said he would kill him. Mortus continued forward until he was standing right in front of him. Grimm couldn't tear his eyes away from the man's piercing gaze, even when his hands reached out to touch him. The fingers that brushed the side of his face felt cold, as if even the man's blood was ice. They traveled down, and grasped hold of the ruined collar of his tunic. Before he realized the significance of that, Mortus had already turned up the shirt, revealing the amulet pinned there.

"Your prisoner has a secret, it would seem," Mortus said quietly.

Grimm looked past him at Kieldor, who looked uncomfortable. "What are you babbling about now?" the warrior chief asked, as if the words had been dragged out of him.

Mortus looked back at him. "This one, he may yet be useful. Leave him with me, and I will use him to cover the escape of you and your men."

Kieldor's expression looked uncertain, but just for a moment. Grimm felt a cold clenching in his guts as the chieftain's features hardened, and his eyes shifted away. "Do what you want then," he said. He motioned to his followers, and walked out of the clearing. Opposite him, Yahnnis and his men did the same.

Mortus folded Grimm's shirt back, patting the battered material back into place. "You are more precious than you look, eh? Well then, well then. Let us see what we can do with that."

He released Grimm and stepped back, raising his hand in a quick gesture. Men came forward out of the forest, hurrying over to them. Grimm tried to resist, to get up, to do anything, but his body felt as though it had been disconnected from his mind and refused to obey his commands. He refused to scream, even when they took hold of him as though he was a sack of meal, and carried him off toward a fate he knew might make the death that had been offered earlier seem desirable.

* * *

The glowstone shed a tentative glow from the recess of the brass lamp as Miranda bustled around the compact space of her kitchen. The focus of her efforts was the table in the center of the room, which was cluttered with an assortment of items. Her amulets marched in a line along one side of the table, arranged upon a folded length of rough gray cloth. That procession ended with her amphal, lying upon its coiled cord, the crystal in the center gleaming slightly with reflected glowlight.

The amulets sat ignored for the moment, as Miranda occupied herself with a collection of vials and bottles on the other side of the table. She was pouring measures of liquid into a tall column of thick glass. A box lay open beside her, its weathered wooden surface marked with sigils that gave it a mysterious air. The vials had come from inside, from padded racks in a compact arrangement like ranks of soldiers in formation.

Miranda stopped abruptly and regarded the mixture she'd prepared. The glass beaker was more than half full, its contents a thick swirl of milky white tinged with flecks of dark color. There was a glass stirrer next to the box; her hand stole toward it, only to pause. She hesitated there for a moment before her fingers closed into a fist. Her other hand was bandaged in clean white cloth.

She reached into the box and drew out one more vial, this one buried in amongst its peers as if trying to hide. She held it up to the light. The glass was dark amber in shade, but she could clearly distinguish the thin coating of fluid at its bottom.

She lowered her hand, the vial held tightly in her grasp. She stood there for a moment that stretched out before she finally sighed, a decision made. She had to work a bit to get the stopper of the vial off with only one functional hand, but she tapped one, two, three drops of the substance into her concoction. She started to put the vial back into the box, but hesitated again, and finally tucked it into a pocket of her coat.

She took up the stirrer and briskly blended the contents of the beaker. She was done with hesitation and drained it as soon as she was finished, swallowing the contents in big swallows until only a thin coating on the bottom of the container was left. She put it down with a heavy thud, and leaned forward, her eyes closed as her hands tightened on the table's edge.

She remained there for several long moments before she straightened and turned to the amulets, walking around the table until she stood in front of the neat arrangement. There were years of her life represented there, years of painstaking labor and sacrifice and frustration. Her hands trembled slightly as she touched her amphal. She could feel the damage she had wrought upon it as clearly as if it had been a wound cut into her flesh. It would have to be replaced, all of the work it had taken to build it repeated.

She shook her head. Such thoughts were of no utility now. The amphal was damaged, but it would have to serve at least one more time.

She took up the amulet and went down the row, sorting through the remaining devices. Most were nearly drained, and there was no time to recharge them. She paused and picked up her Jolter. It had come in very handy in the battle at the spur mine, but the power left in it now would produce a shock barely stronger than the one that came from shuffling across a thick carpet in stocking feet. Still she touched it to her amphal, transferring even that tiny vestige of energy before placing the spent amulet aside.

She went down the line, quickly sorting. She had already used her Healing amulet heavily to treat the most seriously wounded at the fort. Her injured hand continued to pain her despite the numbing salves she had rubbed into the blackened flesh, but she refused to use the small reserve of power left in the amulet. She touched her amphal, drawing upon the connection to Grimm for the tenth time since she'd returned here a scant cycle ago. He was alive, but he was almost certainly going to need Healing when she found him.

Most of her other amulets were far weaker, useful tools she'd crafted during her apprenticeship or at the University. Still she paused to drain their potential into her amphal. She strapped a leather bracer over the bandage covering her injured hand, which was a bit awkward, but she grimaced and finished the task before hooking her shield amulet into its place onto the leather spur that extended over the back of her palm. She considered the Disjunction amulet for a moment before slipping it into another of the many pockets that were customary of garb made for mages. She doubted that there was enough magic left in it to do more than discomfit the enemy sorcerer, but she might need even that small potency.

There was one more amulet, a copper shell shaped almost like a spider that enfolded a disk of shiny obsidian, the whole covered in runes traced in a metal that sparkled in the light of the glowstone. She had not had need of the spell carried in that charm thus far, but she didn't even consider draining off its power; she would almost certainly have to cast a Shroud in the course of what she planned to do.

A soft rap startled her; she jumped and spun, her amphal coming into her hand. Perek was standing in the doorway that led into the front room; he quickly raised his hands as she lifted the amulet.

"Hey, I knocked, there was no answer," he said. "The door was open."

"What do you want?" she asked. She reached over and forcefully closed the lid on the box of elixirs, sealing the Binding on the clasp almost by reflex. As she pulled back she folded the end of the cloth over her discarded amulets. Perek had made no secret of his dislike of mages in general and of her in particular, and even if there was nothing here that was dangerous, she didn't like the idea of him seeing her magic.

He came fully into the room. He was still clad in a leather breastplate over ragged work clothes, and had a sword at his side. If he was intimidated at all he didn't show it, but she felt neither fear of him nor any particularly interest in a private chat.

"When are you leaving?" he asked.

She blinked but recovered quickly; of course he would have heard from the Wardens. She was almost certain that he had been one of them, at one time. The fact that he'd ended up as a prisoner convicted to labor service suggested an unpleasant separation, and she didn't need to see his records to guess that mages had had something to do with it. "What I do is none of your concern," she said. With a deliberate effort she lowered her amphal, letting the amulet dangle from its cord in open view. They were close enough that he could have sprung forward and seized her before she could react, but that would have ended very badly for him. Even the few drops of naetha she'd taken had her feeling sharp and jittery, her skin tingling. Even as diminished as she was, she could easily handle one man.

"He's probably dead," he said.

"He's alive," she said.

He held her eyes for a moment, but didn't challenge the source of her knowledge. "Sergeant Faris is dead," he told her. "There's no one left here to lead, and these people need leadership right now."

"I thought you didn't trust mages."

"It's not about whether I trust you. The rest of these people, they trust you, and they need you. You'll turn your back on them, just to save your lover?"

"I would advise you to be careful what you say," she said. "I am in no mood to be insulted."

"I think we would be better off if more Sacrethans were willing to speak truth to their masters," he said, his voice level.

"I am not interested in your 'truth'," she said.

"No? Do you know that those idiot boys are lining up as we speak to follow you into the forest?"

She thought back to Rojek and Fils standing before the barbarian rush, of Harsten holding off a dozen men on the parapet, Lowen running along the balcony with a bow. "Not boys," she said.

"No," he agreed. "Not any more. But they won't let you go alone, and their lives will be on your hands if you go through with this."

"The Wardens don't leave men behind. And I won't either. I don't expect you to believe me, but I'd do the same if it was Fils out there, or Shavkar, or even Darrivan."

"I don't recall you being this eager when the Commander went missing."

"I didn't know where he was, and that he was alive."

"You spelled Grimm, then. That's how you know."

"Look, I am not interested in having a debate with you, Perek, and I'm certainly not seeking your permission. There isn't much time."

"Are you so confident that the barbarians won't be back that you'll take our remaining soldiers with you?"

"Do you want me to order them to stay? Is that it?"

"I think you underestimate their commitment to you," he said.

"And is that what bothers you, Perek? That they don't see the truth of what I am?" She strode across the kitchen before wheeling back to face him. "What would you have me do, Perek? Lead everyone back to Sacreth? I haven't forgotten the attack on the supply caravan. Whatever the sorcerer did to the forest, it's spreading. And if the forest tribes are still out there, they'll have a much easier time ambushing us out there than attacking us in here. Edelvar's the safest place for them to stay, at least for now."

"What about the sorcerer, this Mortus?" he asked.

"I haven't forgotten about him either."

"He's there, with Grimm," Perek said, understanding showing in his face. He looked over at the cache of items on the table, as if seeing them for the first time. "You're going after him." He fixed a hard look at her. "How much do you have left?" he asked, his voice quiet.

She let out a tired sigh. "I need to get going," she said.

"He'll be expecting you."

She managed a smile. "Then I guess you won't have to worry about me and my scheming for much longer, then."

"Damn it, you think that you getting yourself killed will make me happy?"

"Look, I don't know what mages did to you in your life, Perek. Neva knows our history is not all heroics and justice, whatever the popular stories like to say. When it comes down to it, we're all just people, just people. I can't speak for all of them, I can only be who I am, and do what I have to do." She gestured past him toward the entry. "I'd like you to be there when I talk to the Wardens."

He stood there a moment, looking at her with an inscrutable expression on his face. Then, finally, he nodded, and walked with her toward the exit.

* * * * *

Chapter 20

Miranda walked through the forest, following a faint track that was little more than an animal path. A faint rustling accompanied her, but otherwise the only sound was the occasional gust of wind that passed through the dense canopy above. On the forest floor, the air was almost perfectly still.

Her progress was slow. She held her amphal in both hands, her fingers forming a cage that included both it and a second amulet, the black sheen of the stone facing out from the copper legs that held it in place. Her features were tight with a look of intense concentration, such that she barely seemed to notice her surroundings.

That was not completely true. She felt drained, the stimulating effects of the naetha she'd ingested cycles before long since faded. She would have stopped to take more, the dangers of the drug be damned, but that would have meant letting her concentration lapse. Her exhaustion was like a bottomless chasm that she could tumble into with one small misstep, but she kept on going, one foot following the other.

But even in the midst of her concentration she was aware that her progress was being monitored. Even without the almost painful sharpening of her senses that came from channeling magic over this length of time, she could catch the subtle flashes of motion from the edges of her vision. Either the watchers weren't as good hunters as she'd been led to believe, or they did not care whether she saw them.

The trail widened as the forest thinned out somewhat around her. She paused only for a moment to steady her breathing, then continued forward. The diminished canopy allowed stray shafts of light to drift down to where she was walking. Those beams formed nearly straight columns, pillars that transformed the forest into a cathedral. It had to be noon or nearly so. She felt as though she'd been walking for a day, and while she hadn't been using her magic that whole time, she knew that she was rapidly approaching the limits of her endurance.

She walked forward, one step after another. The trees grew wider apart, and she could see a clearing of some sort ahead. As she got closer she could see that it was just a small gap in the forest, not more than thirty strides across, the forest resuming just as suddenly on its far side. Two of the trees there had grown almost together, their angled trunks forming a wooden archway. The shadows beyond created the impression that that arch was a gate to an entirely different world.

She moved into the light and stopped. After the cycles spent under the cover of the canopy, the brightness of the sky was dazzling. She shut it out, and waited.

They came from all sides, from ahead and behind as well. She guessed perhaps ten, maybe a dozen. It was impossible to be sure as most remained in the shadows of the wood, creeping close to the concealment of the solid trunks and the surrounding growth that thickened in the bright light of the clearing.

A man emerged from the gap in the trees ahead. Miranda tensed, nearly losing her concentration, but then she realized that the figure that emerged into the clearing opposite her was not Mortus. But he had magic, that much she detected even before he raised the bow he was carrying, and the light clearly caught the red fletching on the arrow he had fitted to the string.

"He said you would come," the man said, his accent thick. "We will bring him your head."

Miranda waited. They closed in, some of them moving now fully into the open, into her field of view. They were a ragged lot, dirty, some bearing hastily bandaged wounds, but even those without injury felt somehow... _wrong_ to Miranda's senses. She thought of the scrags that had attacked her and Grimm at the pools above the valley and shuddered. One of the men hissed at her, confirming the impression of something bestial, feral. But their weapons were very definitely man-made, long knives and axes and bent scythes with hook-shaped blades. None of them wore armor as far as she could tell, but their numbers were danger enough.

She waited until the closest was just about six strides away, keeping a close eye on the archer in case he decided to make the first attack. The forest men came in like wolves creeping up to a trapped stag, wary but confident.

They somehow seemed to sense when she'd made her decision, and stopped suddenly. She shifted her grip and pulled the two amulets apart, gasping slightly in release as she lowered her Shroud.

Suddenly Fils, Rojek, Lowen, and Perek materialized around her, their weapons bare in their hands. They formed a loose square around her, facing off against the startled forest warriors.

For a single heartbeat the two groups confronted each other in silence, and then the clearing exploded into action. The barbarians charged, but were too spread out to coordinate their attack effectively. The Sacrethans had the advantage of position and surprise, at least for the first few moments, and combined with their training and superior weapons and armor that proved deadly. They sprang forward to meet the closest foes before their numbers could come together, lunging out to greet their rush. Swords flashed and men screamed, and in the first few heartbeats several of the forest men were driven to the muddy ground.

Miranda kept her attention on the archer, even as the Sacrethan fighters were driven back again by the surging enemy. She hadn't yet activated her shield amulet, but held her amphal ready. When the man raised his bow and drew its deadly missile back, she was prepared.

With a sound that was half-scream, half-hiss, he released his shot. The arrow flew through the air, coming straight toward her face. But her own magic was there to greet it, and as she raised her amphal the arrow slowed as if it had been fired through water. It finally came to a stop a scant half-stride from her, close enough that she could have reached out and touched the spinning point.

The archer's eyes widened, and he tried to retreat, but Miranda was already pushing her amulet forward, and as she did, the arrow flew back along its route, lancing through the air as if shot again from a bow. The archer let out a squeal and dove for cover, but even as the arrow passed over him it exploded. The dull thump of the explosion filled the clearing, the bright flash of flames sending a wash of heat across the battlefield in its wake. The warriors stopped in mid-charge, stunned by the unexpected release of magic. The Sacrethans were hardly less affected, but they recovered faster, stabbing out at their suddenly discomfited foes. But even as the battle turned against them the forest folk fought on with a violent fury, almost as if they no longer cared if they lived or died.

Miranda was already walking forward, toward the shadowed arch on the far side of the clearing. Fils saw her and yelled, "Mage, wait!" but he only managed a step after her before he had to turn and fight off an attack from the warrior he'd just stabbed, but who refused to go down.

Miranda stepped over the charred corpse of the enemy archer and continued toward the arch. She paused briefly and glanced back over her shoulder. Her men seemed to have the battle well in hand, but even as the fight had started she'd felt a sudden twinge through her amphal, through the connection she had established to Grimm's amulet. She couldn't wait, and without further hesitation rushed back into the forest.

It took her just a moment for her eyes to adjust to the relative darkness. The forest seemed to grow thicker here, the boughs of the trees forming a dense web above her head. It created an impression of running down a corridor. She held her amphal tightly, wary of an ambush, but the forest to either side remained silent and empty. She did not sense any more of the sorcerer's constructs lying in wait, but she remembered that he had used Wardings to conceal his workings from her in the past.

A brightening ahead and another fringe of brush suggested another clearing. She slowed, alert to either physical or magical dangers. She could sense _something_ from ahead, the presence of some sort of magic she could not fully identify without a full Delving. But there was no time for that; the thread of Grimm's life force felt through her bonded amulet seemed to flicker like a candle's flame. She did activate her shield amulet, keeping its protective aura transparent. She used it to push the branches of the surrounding growth clear as she pushed forward into the next clearing.

The space was even smaller than the last, a little dell that looked as though a scoop had been taken out of the ground. The far side was defined by a curving wall of exposed rock, part of which fronted a pond that glistened with a slick of floating weeds. A tree rose up at an angle on the edge of the pond, its branches reaching out over the water as though trying to touch the top of the cliff.

Grimm was bound to that tree, his arms and legs spread wide by ropes that had been strung around the thickness of its trunk. His head hung limp onto his chest, which was covered with fresh gashes that oozed a waterfall of blood down the length of his body. Most of his tunic had been cut away, but she could sense the presence of the amulet, still pinned to the collar. She knew now that it had been left there on purpose, to draw her here.

The man who had inflicted those wounds stood beside him, his gory knife held up against Grimm's neck. Miranda knew that one thrust, a mere finger's length, and the vital vessel that brought blood to his brain would explode in a deadly spray.

She could not see the sorcerer's face, but could feel the weight of his eyes upon her through the slits in his wooden mask. His clothes were ragged and dirty, his hair a disheveled halo that sprung out from around the edges of the mask. She could feel the magic coming from him, but there was something else, something discordant that she could not study further, not with his knife up against Grimm's throat.

The sorcerer let out a mad giggle, and leaned in even closer, his free hand leaving a bloody smear as he seized Grimm by the bicep. The injured Warden did not even stir, and Miranda knew he lived only by the connection that she felt through her amphal.

"I knew you would come," he hissed at her, his voice nothing like the confident, magically-amplified boom she remembered from the ultimatum at the fort. He seemed... shrunken, somehow, though no less deadly for it. "Drop that amulet, or I will..."

He didn't get a chance to finish; Miranda had been drawing power since the moment she'd seen him, and even as he issued his threat she released it. Magic flowed through her amphal, through her bond into the amulet pressed against Grimm's chest.

There was a flash, a jolt, as that power shot out from the amulet and down the length of steel into the sorcerer's arm. He screamed and staggered to the side, the knife falling from his scorched fingers. He fell to one knee, the sound of his labored breathing issuing from behind the hollows of the mask.

Miranda ran forward, unable to spare even the moment it would take to tell if her spell had hurt Grimm as well. Mortus recovered slowly, his head coming up as she closed the distance between them. He reached out and seized his dagger again, but instead of turning to stab Grimm with it, he instead rose up and screamed, the knife coming up as he lunged toward her.

She brought her warded arm up reflexively. Her shield deflected the downward thrust of the knife easily, and as he stumbled, off-balance, she thrust her amphal forward, unleashing its magic as she had against Grimm, back at that pool what seemed like a lifetime ago.

The invisible pulse of force caught the sorcerer solidly in the chest, flipping him up off his feet, slamming him to the ground a full stride back from where he'd started. He landed with a solid thump, the air dashed from his body in an explosive cough. His mask fell half away from his face, revealing pallid skin and one blinking eye.

She felt dizzy from the effort of using so much magic in rapid succession, the effects of the layered spells threatening to destroy her concentration. But she knew enough to know that Mortus, even battered and dazed, was still a danger. She rushed forward, closing the few strides that separated them. His arms and legs were flailing weakly as he tried to recover his equilibrium. He managed to get one hand up, pawing at the mask, trying either to fix it or remove it, she wasn't sure. He didn't get a chance to do either as she straddled him and smashed her amphal into the side of his head. A sick, heavy crack filled the clearing, and he slumped to the ground, fully limp.

Miranda staggered back, stunned more by what she had done than by the backwash from the spells she'd worked. It was a groan from Grimm that finally drew her attention back to the moment, to the urgency that remained. She released her shield, feeling a frisson of relief as some of the pressure on her mind eased. She reached down and picked up the sorcerer's knife. She used it to cut Grimm free, taking his weight onto her. It was hard to get to the bonds holding his feet with him slumped over her shoulder, but she managed it, and eased him down to the muddy ground on the edge of the pool.

"It's okay, it's all okay," she said, not knowing if he could hear her. She fumbled for her healing amulet, summoning up a reserve of focus, desperation cutting through her own weariness and confusion. The amulet glowed, its familiar magic steadying her as she guided it over Grimm's chest, closing the vicious wounds. She raised it over his face, pressed it to his brow, willing him to live, praying that everything they'd done would not be in vain. She kept praying even as the power in the amulet faded, the glow dying as it finished its working.

He stirred, blinked. For a moment there was no recognition in his eyes as he looked up at her, but then she saw awareness creep back in, and she felt a crushing weight in her chest loosen.

"Miranda. What... where... the sorcerer, he's here, he took me..."

A sigh of relief escaped her. "We stopped him," she said. She looked over at the limp form, to confirm that, but he still hadn't moved.

"Mage!"

She turned as Fils pushed his way through the bushes into the clearing. Perek was just a step behind him, his sword at the ready as he scanned the area, taking in both her and Grimm and the man stretched out beside them.

"The others, are they all right?" Miranda asked.

Perek nodded. Rojek took a wound to the side, but he'll live. Lowen is with him." He nodded toward the limp figure. "That the sorcerer?"

"Yes," Miranda said, but even as she spoke the word, she felt that same tingle of _... wrongness_ , that she'd felt before.

Grimm was trying to get up, but she held him down by his shoulders. "You need to not move right now," she said.

He yielded, but pointed toward Mortus. "He... something different, before you arrived..."

Fils came up to them. He was bleeding from a fresh cut along one side of his face, but he still managed a lanky grin as he looked over the mostly-healed scars that covered Grimm's torso. "Neva's grace, Grimm, you let that guy carve you up like a side of beef."

"They didn't... didn't give me much choice," he managed.

Miranda was hardly listening; her attention was focused on the sorcerer. Perek had reached them and knelt beside Mortus, touching his fingers to the man's throat. Seeing the question in Miranda's look, he shook his head.

She gently detached herself from Grimm and went over to the dead man—the man she had killed, with her bare hands. She had killed others with her magic, and had been indirectly responsible for the deaths of still more through her actions, but somehow those hadn't impacted her like she knew this one would. She looked down at the hand that had slammed her amphal, a device built specifically to protect, into the man's skull.

"He would have killed you, killed us all," Perek said.

Miranda nodded, and knelt again beside the fallen mage.

"We shouldn't linger here," Perek said. "These men here, they were only a handful of those that escaped from Edelvar. The camp we passed, it could have easily held a hundred men. Some of them could still be nearby, and I doubt they'd be happy to see us."

"I just need a moment," she said.

"Fils, go help Lowen bring Rojek here," Perek said. "We'll need to put together a stretcher for Grimm, keep an eye out for some likely branches." He backed up to give the mage space, but kept a watchful eye out. Again Miranda wondered at his past, that he so easily fell into taking charge, into giving commands. Fils just nodded and ran toward the path leading back to the first clearing.

Miranda reached into her pocket and took out her Disjunction amulet. It barely reacted to her touch, the magic all but gone, but any spell that had survived the sorcerer's death had to be relatively minor.

Since she already knew what she was looking for, she quickly detected the working. It took only a slight nudge to unravel it, her amulet flashing briefly as it interacted with the spell. In response the sorcerer's face blurred, resolving into a different set of features, older and rougher, with gray scars covering one side of his face and several teeth missing from his mouth.

Miranda let out a sigh. "What does this mean?" Perek finally asked.

"It means," she said, "That Mortus has played us for fools."

* * * * *

Chapter 21

The old village was deserted. Mortus approached warily, staying in the cover of the trees for as long as he could, carefully scanning the tufts of brush for hints of sound or movement. He didn't expect the Sacrethans to have penetrated his ruse so quickly, and if his former allies wanted him dead they wouldn't have passed up their chance at the staging camp near Edelvar. But he knew only too well that there were other dangerous things in the forest besides men.

But nothing stirred in the undergrowth, and no one emerged from any of the ragged buildings to greet him. Those residents who hadn't joined his cause had been relocated to one of the other tribal villages weeks ago, and would almost certainly join Kieldor and Yahnnis in their pilgrimage to the sea. They were welcome to each other; Mortus had no further use for them.

He paused for a moment at his house, checking once more for traps. The only ones he found were the ones he himself had placed, what seemed like an eternity ago. He carefully defused the wardings and entered.

It did not take him long to gather together everything he needed. He didn't have that much, when it came down to it. He filled a pack and a leather satchel, sorting things on the broad table in the central room, tossing the discards onto the floor. He was taking no crystals, and few objects of power at all; those would leave a blazing trail for anyone interested in finding him.

When he was done he paused and looked around. He had grown up in that house, but there were few pleasant memories, and certainly nothing to bind him there any longer. But there was one more thing he had to leave behind. Both his original name and his adopted one were too dangerous to take with him. He knew that Kieldor was right; the Sacrethans were likely to carry a grudge. He was no hare to be driven before the huntsman's whip, chased down by the Order's dogs, but he had underestimated the enemy once, and would not do so again.

He thought back to his brother. A necessary sacrifice on the road to power. Their paths had once been parallel, when both had lived here. Life had twisted those paths until they were opposed; he had recognized that early, even if his brother had not. They had become opposites on the same axis, and if he had not destroyed Abell, his brother would have been forced to destroy him, eventually. The only other option would have been to forfeit the power that he had come into, and accept a life of being mundane, weak, subservient.

He did not regret his choices, he was beyond regrets. Life was what came, not what had been.

In his packing, he had spilled some ground tarrenbar on the table; in his musings he'd idly shaped it into a ring. He stared at the design for a moment, then ran his finger across the table in a deliberate pattern. The wood smoked at his touch as he worked, and when he was done, a word had been etched into the surface.

ABELLAXIS

It would suffice. It might offer a clue that could lead an enemy to him, but names had power, and this one felt too right to reject.

He took up his burdens, adjusting them until everything was seated comfortably. It would be a long journey. His final stop was the small, crowded kitchen, where he grabbed the oil jug that rested in its usual niche in the wall. He splashed its contents liberally over the walls as he made his way back to the door, then hurled the empty container across the room. It shattered noisily as hit the far wall.

No regrets, no looking back.

He summoned a thread of power, just enough to spark the nearest edge of the spreading puddle into flames.

Then he turned and left.

* * *

"It would seem... that you are fully recovered," Miranda said, sagging back onto the bed next to him.

"Just as long as you don't ask me to get up—or move—any time in the next dozen cycles or so," Grimm said.

She leaned in to him, and despite his comment he managed to lift his arm around her as she snuggled in closer. She ran her fingertips over his bare chest. "When we get back to Sacreth, a healer can deal with those scars," she said.

"They don't hurt, not anymore," he told her. "Maybe I should keep them, as a reminder."

She couldn't help but shudder. "A reminder of how close you came to dying?"

He ran his fingers along the skin of her hip. "A reminder of how close I came to losing everything," he said.

She was stirred by the comment, but felt a tingle of alarm at the way the conversation was going. She hadn't come up here with the intention of... She'd only intended to check on him, and certainly hadn't been ready for the talk that was developing. She couldn't evade it forever, she knew. Soon it would be time to return to Sacreth, and there, away from the artificial circumstances of Edelvar, the differences between them would come back to the forefront of their relationship. She couldn't shake her memories of Grimm's initial reactions to her as a mage, and he only knew a tiny fraction of what that truly meant. Few Sacrethans did. That was a result of the deliberate efforts of the Order to keep the details of magic and its working murky.

Trying to lighten the mood again, she flicked her nails on his skin and said, "For someone who claims to know so little of women, you seem awfully... proficient."

"Hey, I never said I knew little. I'm quite adept, I'll have you know."

"Indeed, what woman could fail to notice you, as bright red as you get when you see one," she teased. "Hey!" she added, as he smacked her on the bottom. "You don't want to mess with me, I know magic."

She knew it was the exact wrong thing to say as soon as she said it, but it was too late to take it back as he flinched. But he didn't let her go, didn't turn away. "My father felt it was important for me to understand certain... things, when it came to, ah, pleasing a woman." Now he did flush, but she was grateful to him for changing the subject.

"I'll have to thank him when I see him," she said.

He pulled her up, kissed her lightly on the lips. "I'll introduce you to them, to both my parents," he said.

Great, she thought, she had managed to steer the conversation back to the uncomfortable topic of the future. She didn't get a chance to answer, as he kissed her again, and then things were starting to kindle again, his protestations of weariness notwithstanding, when he abruptly drew back. "Miranda, I..."

He didn't get a chance to finish, as a loud rapping sound from the door below interrupted. Grimm groaned as Miranda shot up from the bed and reached for her robe. He tried to smack her on the behind, but missed. "Neva's grace, this had better be the end of the world, or at least a major emergency," he said.

"Either way, I shouldn't miss it," she said, quickly pulling on her clothes. Her hand hesitated briefly as she reached for her belt, with its silver buckle hanging heavy from the back of the chair where she'd left it. But she finally put it on, checking the various pockets of her robe out of reflex. Her amulets had barely enough power left in them to light a candle, but she made sure of all of them anyway. Last of all she tucked her amphal into her robe, settling it in its usual place atop her undershirt, between the swell of her breasts.

"You should stay here, rest up," she told him, as he started to rise out of the bed. "I will try not to be too long."

"Bah, we're probably under attack by an army of evil magical squirrels," he grumbled, pausing on the edge of the bed before reaching for his shirt. She knew she wouldn't dissuade him, but as the knocking started up again she knew better than to wait. "I'll see you down there, then," she said.

The door opened to reveal Fils, who looked both uncomfortable and eager. He was in full armor and had his weapons in place on his hips. There had been no sign of the forest raiders since they had returned from their mission to recover Grimm, but none of them were going to take any chances. She had approved sending parties down into the valley to see what could be salvaged of the operation there, but everyone was still sleeping in the fort each night.

She didn't get a chance to ask Fils what was going on before he blurted it out. "Reinforcements, Mage Hael! Finally, they're coming through the forest, that is, we just spotted the signal smoke through the trees, they'll be here soon, any time now!"

"All right, let's go," she told him. She glanced back once more at the inside of the house, though Grimm would still be upstairs, struggling with his clothes. He'd find her when he was ready. She closed the door and gestured for the Warden to lead the way.

It was clear that word had already spread through the fort; by the time that she reached the door to the tower, people were running toward the staircases that led up to the parapets where several dozen men and women were already gathered. She made her way up to the top level, passing a few people who asked her or Fils what was going on. She had nothing to tell them, not yet. She wanted to believe that it was the promised reinforcements, but she'd already learned not to take anything for granted here in the Forever Wood.

When she got to the top, slightly out of breath from the exertion, she found half a dozen men already there, staring out over the western railing toward the forest. They had not gotten around to repairing the breach where Sergeant Faris had died; there were so many other things that demanded priority. Miranda had doubts whether Edelvar would ever be what it had been. Most of the buildings in the valley were a total loss, along with tools and machines that would have to be individually replaced from Sacreth. And from her own research, looking back at the records that Darrivan had kept under lock and key in his office, the profitability of the outpost had been in slow but steady decline for most of the last decade. The spur mines were evidence of the efforts made to keep the place running, but perhaps the attack by the forest tribes had merely been the last call for a patient who had been getting steadily sicker for some time.

Rojek looked back and saw her, and made room for her at the railing. He had a wide grin on his face. "It's our relief, Mage Hael," he said.

Miranda looked where he pointed. The approaching formation was still mostly concealed within the forest, but she could already tell that it was more than just another supply column. Shouts and cheers rose up from the parapet below as the lead elements came into view. There had to be at least fifty Wardens, Miranda estimated before her eyes fixed onto a standard carried by one of the soldiers. Even before she could clearly make out the men riding in a group behind it, she knew what it meant, and was running back down the stairs, ignoring the questions from the men above.

She got to the courtyard just as the new gates were being dragged open. That had been the first thing they'd repaired, while Miranda and the others had been out seeking Grimm. The replacements were purely functional, creaking on new hinges that had been forged inside the fort's tiny smithy. Eager residents of Edelvar surged out to greet the riders in the vanguard of the approaching column. Miranda looked around for Grimm but didn't see him. She hesitated only a moment, looking back at her house, before she hurried out to join the others in welcome.

She made her way past dismounting Wardens, who were already surrounded by grateful men and women from the fort, to where the standard fluttered slightly in the faint breeze. The men there were waiting for her, flanked by soldiers in the livery of the Order. Unlike the Wardens, those men remained on their horses, and the intensity of their expressions did not change as they scanned the scene for possible threats.

The men they were protecting dismounted as she approached. She did not recognize the younger man, who looked to be perhaps three or four years older than she was, but saw from his buckle that he was a scroll mage, even before he pulled down the long leather case from the back of his horse and flipped its strap over his shoulder.

The other man she knew very well, by reputation if not personally, and her relief at seeing him was tempered by the significance of his presence. "Councilor Corinther," she said, bowing deeply.

He dismissed the formal greeting with a wave of his hand. "Mage Hael," he said. "It seems that we have a great deal to discuss."

* * * * *

Chapter 22

Miranda sat impatiently at one of the tables in the briefing room, trying not to fidget. For the fiftieth time since arriving she glanced at the door to the commander's office. For all his apparent eagerness to talk with her, Corinther seemed quite content to have her wait.

She wondered what the two mages were talking about. The younger man had been introduced to her as Mage Deveras, but he'd hardly said ten words to her since then. Her focus was on the older man. Corinther was a senior member of the Mage Council, the body that ruled Sacreth. She had met him only briefly during her time in the capital, and then only because he was one of the leading members of her chosen school. Shield magic was so rare that it was almost impossible not to meet most of its practitioners, even in a city as large as Sacreth. There had only been slightly more than a dozen at the University when she'd been there.

If the Council had sent Corinther here it meant they were very concerned about what was happening out here beyond the frontier. And while she had not been technically in command here, at least not for most of her time at Edelvar, she was the Order's representative, and she would ultimately be the one called upon to answer for the disaster that had befallen the outpost.

But despite all that it was Grimm who she kept seeing when she closed her eyes. They hadn't had more than a few moments together in the confusion and bustle that had followed the arrival of the relief column, just long enough for her to apologize before she was dragged off to handle the first of a hundred tasks. Just finding enough room to accommodate the new arrivals was going to be a challenge, and then there was the matter of preparing her inevitable report to Corinther.

A report that the senior mage, it now seemed, was in no hurry to receive.

As if conjured by her thoughts, the door to the office suddenly opened and Deveras stepped into view. "He's ready to see you now, Mage Hael," he said.

She nodded and rose, straightening the front of her robe. He waited for her at the door, but to her surprise he remained outside, closing the door behind her. The faint click of the latch seemed somehow ominous.

Corinther was sitting at Darrivan's desk, a small spread of leather folios organized in front of him. She recognized some of the same reports she'd reviewed earlier among the collection. He finished adding a few notes to one parchment as she came in, and closed the folder, placing it deliberately aside before focusing his attention on her.

"Please, sit down, Mage Hael," he offered.

She noted that the second chair had been slid over to the edge of the desk, rather than against the wall where it had been on her last visit. Not that she'd ever been invited to sit while Darrivan had been in charge. In fact, she could not remember ever seeing the chair being used before.

Corinther barely waited for her to get settled before he opened the interview. "Why don't you give me your account of what happened."

She took a deep breath and launched into her tale, starting from her arrival at Edelvar and continuing until the moment she'd spotted the relief column from atop the tower. She tried to stick to the facts, to avoid placing inflection upon the actions taken by Darrivan or anyone else at the outpost. She did not mention Grimm by name, and kept her account of the rescue mission vague, focusing on the sorcerer and his attempt at misdirection.

"So this 'Mortus' clearly was using a dupe to distract us while he escaped," she said.

"The Council will deal with him," Corinther said simply. "Have there been any further signs of disruption since the attack by the forest tribes on the outpost?"

"Disruption?"

"Anomalies within the forest ecosystem. Such as the scrags that attacked you, or the bear that assaulted the supply caravan."

"No, nothing like that."

"And the creature you encountered, the one that gave the initial warning about the sorcerer. There have been no further sightings?"

"No, Councilor. What does it all mean, if I may ask? How is it all connected? I assume that it must be, somehow."

He looked at her for a long moment before nodding. "There is a great deal of power resident in this forest," he told her. "Whatever spells the sorcerer was working, they were causing significant disturbances that we detected even as far away as Sacreth. That was ultimately what drew me here."

"Oh. I had thought, maybe Mage Orestes..." She trailed off, not sure what she could say without coming across as denigrating a fellow mage.

Corinther's nod indicated that he knew exactly what she was getting at. "Unfortunately, Mage Orestes was... less than helpful. The fault is partly ours. No mage should be stationed here for as long as he was."

"Do you think that exposure to the forest is harmful, Councilor?"

"All magic involves risk, Mage Hael."

Miranda nodded; she'd expected that kind of non-answer. She tried to sit patiently, hoping that she could finish addressing Corinther's questions and escape.

He let her sit there for a few long moments. "I understand that you've been living with a Border Warden in your quarters here in the fort," he finally said.

Miranda blinked as she felt a hot flush creep up her neck into her cheeks. _So this is what Grimm feels like_ , popped an incongruous thought into her head. She tried to maintain her dignity against the anger she felt.

"It's not like that, sir. The man in question was very seriously injured, and he has been under my direct care."

"But you have been engaged in a personal relationship with Warden Grimm."

She should have been surprised, perhaps, but she wasn't. Mages did not get to the Council without knowing things they weren't supposed to know. Maybe this explained the delay in meeting with her.

Corinther raised a hand before she could recover enough to respond. "I do not bring this up to make you uncomfortable, Mage Hael. And it won't be going into my report to the Council. But you can understand why the Order places so much emphasis on matters of propriety."

Miranda had to bite back the wry comment that wanted to slip out. She was not an expert on the inner workings of the Order, but her own experiences in Sacreth had given her enough experience to know that the men and women who practiced magic were no different from their ungifted peers in terms of their personal behavior. Maybe they could fool the commons about that, but some of the favorite topics of the chatter amongst the students—and professors—at the University had been about the various scandals that percolated within the ranks of the Sacreth's ruling class.

She straightened in her chair and tried to mask her features, expecting a diatribe on the importance of maintaining the reputation of the Order when in the field. But again Corinther caught her off guard.

"I'm sure you know why it is very rare for mages—senior mages, anyway—to marry."

She smoothed her robe again, needing something to do with her hands. "It... I know very well the sacrifices required of magic-users."

"It's more than that, though that is certainly part of it. Practicing magic, at least the way we do it here in Sacreth, requires an enormous commitment. It can be... absorbing, the work. I know that you understand."

She nodded, unwilling to say anything else until she understood what he wanted from her, where he was taking this conversation.

"Mages are human beings, even the Council knows that," he told her, allowing a wry smile to slip through his controlled expression. "But we are more than leaders, we are symbols. We represent a power that many fear, and in many ways those fears are justified. Sacreth's mages practice within strict boundaries that are codified within the regulations adopted and approved by the Order. The use of foci—scrolls, gems, weapons, even our amulets, as complex as they are—is an essential part of this. A focus allows magic to be defined by boundaries, to be used safely. It makes magic something concrete, confined within something that an average person can recognize. It becomes a tool."

"But we know better, Mage Hael. You studied at the University, you know of what I speak."

Miranda swallowed. "Wild magic. Blood magic. Demon magic."

He nodded. "Yes, though those are just names that we give to a power that is not so removed from what we do as some would prefer to believe. The veneer we craft is thin, Mage Hael. Miranda. We must appear to be more than common men and women, we must live behind our veils of ceremony and ritual. Our entire system—our entire society—depends on it."

She did understand, but the earlier anger allowed her to keep a bit of contrariness in her tone. "And a Mage consorting with a Borden Warden undermines that system, presumably."

The Councilor's lips twitched. "I am not telling you what to do, and certainly not who you may... _consort_... with. I am merely making sure that you understand the implications."

At that moment she was tempted to tell him what she thought about his implications, but she held her tongue. But by the look he gave her, the slight narrowing of his eyes, she suspected he knew full well her thoughts.

He leaned back in the chair, adopting a more relaxed pose. "I am currently the only shield mage on the Council," he told her. He stretched his hands over the slight bulge of his belly, folding his fingers together. "Don't spread this around just yet, but I have been offered a faculty position at the University, and I believe I will accept."

His gaze sharpened on her, giving the lie to his eased posture. "The old men on the Council will cling to power until their last breaths rattle out of their bodies, but the future does not belong to them. They do their best to perpetuate their traditions and the system they know and understand, but change comes despite the best efforts of those who would see things remain ever the same. Women remain a small minority in the Order, but more enter apprenticeships or enroll at the University every year. We may even see a change in the Border Wardens' policy on female participation in its ranks. Perhaps just as important, we are seeing a cultural shift as more young people from the outlying regions join the Order as full mages. Places like the Danalb or Sirrath or even your Lake Country are changing in identity from provinces ruled from distant Sacreth to part of an evolving core. The force of tradition is always weaker on the frontiers, and every mage like you who becomes a part of Sacreth's ruling elite brings new attitudes to Sacreth with them."

"I am hardly part of the elite," she said.

"Do not underestimate yourself. I have read your file, and from what I have seen thus far, your efforts here are going to draw much attention to you, Mage Hael. As a—forgive the term, given my earlier soliloquy—as a provincial, and a woman, and yes, as a shield mage, you have the potential to have a great deal of influence in the scope of your career."

Miranda looked down at her hands, folded in her lap. Her career. She hadn't thought about that in those terms, other than a vague intent to return to her homeland at some point, to put the talents she'd gained to good use. Ultimately it had all been about helping others... and protecting them from a fate similar to the one that had been visited upon Stefan. She hadn't gone into this out of a desire to become powerful—or had she? Wasn't that what she wanted, power? She might justify it by focusing on what she wanted to _do_ with that power, but that was just getting into a twist of logic.

And then there was Grimm. Corinther was basically setting it up as a choice, an either/or situation where one objective was diametrically opposed to the other. If she hadn't yet worked out the details of her own ambitions, she'd thought even less about where their relationship was going. They had been thrown together in a tumultuous situation, after all, where the intensity of emotion was amplified by circumstance. Now, as that intensity eased, reality would return and reassert itself. She'd tried to dodge the implications of that in bed that morning, with Grimm pressed up against her. Just that thought brought a new flash of color to her cheeks, and she promised never to tease him about that reflexive betrayal again.

All those thoughts passed through her mind in a rapid flash, and she had the disconcerting sensation that Corinther knew every last bit of them. They exchanged only a few more brief comments, retreating to the comfort of formal niceties, and then she was dismissed, to try and digest and sort it all out.

* * * * *

Chapter 23

Edelvar was busy in the days that followed the arrival of the relief column. It was clear to Grimm that a number of important decisions had yet to be made, such as whether to rebuild the buildings burned in the attacks, or to restart the mining operations interrupted by the raids, but there was still plenty to be done. Patrols were constantly leaving the base, and while Grimm never went further than the outer mines, he heard from the other Wardens that they'd found only deserted camps and scattered tracks. They remained vigilant, but it looked as though the forest folk had elected to simply disappear.

He was assigned to more tasks as his wounds healed and his battered body recovered from its ordeal, but his thoughts were on Miranda and what would happen between them. He saw little of her during those hectic days, and the few times he did catch a glimpse of her she hurried on before he could grasp the opportunity to speak to her. He almost asked about her when he was summoned to a meeting with the new senior mage who had arrived, but he hadn't gotten the chance. The interview had been more like an interrogation, with him and a few of the other survivors of the siege grilled by Mage Corinther and several Warden officers that had arrived with him. Grimm had been assigned a bunk in the barracks and hadn't even had a chance to recover his things from the mage quarters; they had been waiting for him when he'd arrived.

Even as his body recovered, his mind grew more unsettled. The new sergeant he was assigned to didn't leave him with much time to ponder his circumstances, but he couldn't help but feel the absence of Miranda like a wound that refused to heal. A dozen times he nearly dropped what he was doing to go to the house where, as far as he knew, she was still living. The elder mage had taken up residence there as well, his presence a barrier that loomed large between them.

When he finally saw her emerge from the headquarters, three days after the last night they'd spent together, he felt a surge of relief. He ran over to her, ignoring the curious looks of the people in the fort that surrounded them.

"Miranda," he said, as he ran up to her. He didn't miss the look she sent at their surroundings, or the way she flinched back as his arms came up to hold her. He tried to rein in his enthusiasm. "I've missed you," he said lamely.

"I'm sorry, it's been a very busy few days," she said.

"Is there... is there someplace we can talk?"

"I... I don't think so, Eldwen. They're... they're sending me back to Sacreth."

He wavered as if she'd struck him. "But... when?"

"Tomorrow, with the last of the injured who have recovered enough to travel. Mage Corinther wants me to deliver my report directly to the Council."

"When will I see you again?"

"Eldwen," she said, his name like a dagger as it came from her lips. "I think... I think it might be best if we didn't see each other for a while."

"It's that elder mage, isn't it," Grimm said. "He heard that you were... that you were _with_ a Warden."

"It's not like that," she said, but he could see in her eyes that there was some truth to his allegation. "It's not fair to you, not fair to either of us..."

"It's not fair that I love you?" he said quietly.

"I'm sorry, Eldwen. I can't give you what you want. I just..."

She trailed off, then burst into tears and hurried away, leaving him standing there alone in the midst of the bustle that filled the fort.

* * *

Grimm's feet felt reluctant as he ascended the steep steps that led up to the parapet wall of Edelvar. His wounds had mostly healed, though there were still twinges from time to time when he tried to do something unaccustomed, a reminder of the ordeal that he had survived.

The same could be said for the fort itself, he thought as he continued his ascent. The damage to the fort was almost fully repaired, but he could clearly discern the fresh boards that had replaced gaps in the buildings that flanked the gate. The headquarters had suffered the most damage, its façade heavily burned, the battlement at its summit damaged by the stone hurled by Mortus's unholy construct. Only Miranda's intervention had saved the outpost from complete destruction.

The thought of her froze him again, though he was already high enough to look over the uneven edge of the stockade wall. There was little to see; the column had already vanished into the forest. He'd lingered in the barracks as the company had prepared for departure. A coward's move, but he could not bring himself to seek out Miranda for a final farewell. Everything that needed to be said had been said the night before. A part of him had held out hope that she would find him, tell him that she'd changed her mind, but that hadn't happened.

And now she was gone.

"You missed them," said a cloaked figure standing about ten strides down the length of the parapet. Grimm had mistaken him for a sentry, but as the man turned around he saw he'd been wrong.

"I thought that you would have been gone with them," Grimm said, walking forward to join him.

Perek hadn't changed, not overtly, but there was something different in him, Grimm thought. It was something subtle, maybe just a change in the way he carried himself, or in the way that people reacted to him now. He no longer wore a sword, and the garments under his cloak were again the plain attire of a laborer, but that didn't change what he was.

He raised an eyebrow at Grimm. "Oh? And why is that?"

"I heard that all of the convicts who fought with us would be pardoned. It was certainly earned, in your case."

"I heard the same thing."

"So it's not true?"

Perek leaned against the uneven tops of the stockade logs in front of him. "True that they promised, anyway. That's Sacrethan justice for you," he said. "They'll take a man's life away from him in an instant, but when it comes to redress, they move with eternal deliberation."

Grimm came to the battlement beside him. "You never told me why you hate them so much."

"No, I did not."

There was a long moment of silence between them. It wasn't truly quiet; the din of activity in the fort continued unabated, and over that they could clearly hear the sounds coming from the working parties down in the valley. The mines still hadn't been reopened, but that hadn't slowed the rebuilding efforts.

"It was all I ever wanted to be," Perek finally said. "I was good at it. They said I might earn my sigil, make sergeant well before I put in my ten years. Maybe even become an officer someday."

Grimm waited. He'd suspected that part of Perek's past even before the former convict had admitted to having been a Warden. But those wounds had clearly remained fresh, and the man had kept his past carefully concealed within a vault of privacy.

"I was assigned to work with a mage in the Waeld, down in the Roe Delta," Perek said. "Area's quiet enough now, but in those days... that was after the collapse of the Seashore Revolt, and the Tiroans were driving every troublemaker and petty villain out of their lands. They didn't mind dumping them on us, naturally. Most were just hard-luck folk, if desperate. Nothing to do with the revolt, but got caught up in events."

"Desperate people can be driven to dark deeds," Grimm said.

Perek nodded. He stared at the forest, but Grimm knew he was seeing other things, days long past. "It was the other ones, the real bastards, they were the heart of the trouble. I saw men do things to other men... it wasn't pretty. We were one of maybe half a dozen parties working in the area, a handful of Wardens each assigned to a mage. Mine was a Gem, a man of the old school. You probably know the type, we've got them in the Wardens too."

Grimm didn't say anything, letting Perek continue at his own pace.

"We were tracking a group of raiders that had attacked a village on the edge of the Waeld," he said. "What we found... it was bad, but things got even worse after we followed them. As we got deeper and deeper into the forest, the situation smelled more and more... wrong. The Gem didn't agree with me; he wanted to get the bastards who had hit that village. Hells, we all did, but I couldn't shake that feeling that something was off. I was the senior Warden on my squad, but the mage was in charge, and he wasn't the type to tolerate challenges to his authority."

"What happened?"

"It came to a head as we were getting close to the raiders. I defied him, refused to follow his orders. I wasn't going to lead my men into a trap."

"Were you right? Was it a trap?"

"Yes. But it was another party that ran into it. Four men died, including another mage. Kevros, the gem mage, he blamed me, said that if we'd been there, we could have defeated the raiders, saved those lives."

"Or maybe you would have died as well."

Perek shrugged. "We will never know. I was brought up on charges, convicted of dereliction of duty and cowardice in the face of the enemy. Maybe if the whole thing hadn't been such a fiasco... but everybody needed a scapegoat, and the commander didn't want to piss off the Order. So they drummed me out of the Wardens. Kevros didn't leave it at that. He made sure that my deed followed me. It cost me a few jobs after that. I moved around for a few years. Thought about leaving Sacreth altogether, maybe make for the coast, or south."

"Why didn't you?"

Perek looked up. "Sacreth is my homeland. I wasn't going to let them drive me out of it, let the Order get rid of me that easily."

"How did you end up here?"

"I wasn't exactly a saint," he said. "I got in trouble here and there; I was angry, and did some stupid things. But what finally caught me up... I had an opportunity to steal from a mage, and I took it. Turns out that was one stupidity too far. If I'd stopped to think about it, I would have realized that it only confirmed what they thought of me all along. They caught me, of course, and sent me here. They finally got me out of Sacreth after all. The rest you know."

"Sacreth could still count on you when it mattered," Grimm said. "That's what defines you, not what happened to you, not what was done to you."

Perek snorted, but after a moment he looked over at Grimm. "I'd like to believe that," he said.

"So what will you do now?"

"I don't know. I still have some family in the Sirrath, haven't seen them in years. Maybe I'll go back there, see if I can start again."

Grimm stared out into the forest again, though he couldn't see further than a short distance into its depths.

"What about you?" Perek asked. "Have you thought about what you're going to do, when all this is over?"

"I don't know. I still have half a year left on my Service."

"You'd make a good Warden, if you decided to go career," Perek said.

"I admit I'd thought about it some, before I came here. My uncle spent his life as a Warden. From what he said, it was a hard life, but a worthwhile one." He rubbed the dull point of one of the stockade logs with his fingertips. "I didn't know what I wanted, before all this." Again his eyes focused on the forest, and what lay hidden beyond the wall of trunks. Another silence stretched out between them.

"I know it's not what you want to hear, but it might be better this way," Perek finally said.

"It's not up to me, anyway," Grimm replied. "She made the choice for both of us."

"Normally I'd say that's bullshit," Perek said. "But she's a mage. They operate by a different set of rules than normal folk."

"That shouldn't matter," Grimm said. "I know that you have reason to hate them, but..."

Perek shook his head. "This has nothing to do with that. Look, I know I'm not an unbiased observer, but I learned a lot about the Order, both before and after what happened to me. Those things I said before, about corruption, the very nature of what their power does to them... I didn't just make them up. She's living in a world that's hard, with rules that are even harsher than the ones that the Wardens live under. Did you ever think that maybe she did what she did in order to protect you from that?"

"Maybe she did, but shouldn't I get some say? I mean, if she didn't feel the way I do, that I could accept. But I know that's not the case. At least, I thought it was." He let out a sigh. "Maybe you're right, maybe it was all just a lie."

Perek hesitated, then said, "She wasn't lying, not about that. She does care for you, Grimm, never doubt that much, at least."

Grimm's hands tightened on the dull wooden spikes. "So what should I do? What would you do, Perek?"

The older man chuckled. "Gods, I should be the last person in Edelvar you should be asking for advice, Grimm."

"What about that old mage? Corinther?"

"All right, second-to-last, perhaps."

"I am sure he influenced her, told her that she would be better served tossing me aside."

"And do you think that's what she did? Tossed you aside?"

"No, I mean... what you said before, I guess it makes sense. But it doesn't make it feel any better, or mean that I have to accept it."

"Then it sounds like you already have your answer," Perek said.

* * * * *

Chapter 24

Summer in the city of Sacreth was a time of brilliant sunshine, vibrant colors, and the constant din that accompanied peace and prosperity. Here at the heart of the Order's power it was possible to forget that there were places where poverty and conflict prevailed. Here there was no trash in the streets, and while there were neighborhoods where the buildings were a bit shabbier and the people dressed in plainer clothes of simpler cut, even there the citizens looked as though they all had enough to eat, and nobody looked over their shoulders in fear even after the sun set.

Near the banks of the Roe River, not far from the sprawling campus of the University, Miranda made her way along a broad boulevard lined with trees and well-maintained sidewalks. The day was fading, the sun already gone behind the line of trees and tiled roofs that extended along the riverbank to the west. The streetlamps were already beginning to flicker to life, their magical glow shining within glass orbs that dangled from iron pillars standing at regular intervals along both sides of the street. People were out and about, young students from the University mingling with merchants and artisans and others from all walks of life. Many nodded to her in respect as she passed them, and a few even offered deep bows that she acknowledged with a tilt of her head.

She'd almost forgotten what it was like to be here. The memories of the Forever Wood had already started to fade, though she still woke from time to time in the deep of the night, damp with sweat and shaking. She had spoken with a counselor assigned by the Order since her return, and he had told her that while time would help to heal those wounds, the experiences she'd had would always be a part of her. She would have to accept that she had been changed by them to move forward. To move on.

She was not sure exactly what that meant, not yet. She had earned some notoriety, and had not lacked for things to do since her return to Sacreth. She'd hoped to have time to return to Blue Lake, to visit her family and the ranch that she still thought of as home. She was officially still on leave, but every day it seemed she received a new invitation from a senior mage to attend private meetings, presentations, or interviews. She'd already received three offers to work on projects for mages associated with the Council. Thus far she'd followed Corinther's advice and hadn't made any commitments, but it was nice to know that she had options.

She stopped on the corner as she saw a familiar building ahead. The Golden Grimoire was more than a hundred years old, an institution that had its own history and traditions. It had been a familiar haunt when she'd been a student here, and by the constant stream of people going in and out its status had not changed any since then. It was still early; she'd planned on walking along the riverbank that evening, but on a sudden impulse she crossed the street and went inside.

The coffeehouse was doing a brisk business, but she had no difficulty getting a table. An elderly gentleman rose from his table and offered her his seat, turning aside her protests with a smile as he collected his hat and bag and left. She ordered herbal tea and a pastry from the display case under the counter. She hadn't yet had dinner, but it seemed a harmless indulgence, the sort of thing one did when times were normal.

She sat there sipping her tea and looking out the window at the passers-by. She had a thick folio of parchments in her bag but she left them where they were. The Grimoire was filled with a constant but not overpowering din. It did not serve full meals, but if anything business picked up as the sun set and night began to settle over Sacreth. Seating space was at a premium, but no one tried to take the empty chair opposite her. She felt as though she was draped in a cloak of privilege, and it left her with a vague sense of melancholia. She thought back to Corinther's words about what she could accomplish through her career in the Order. She also thought back to what she had given up to leave that path open.

She was brought back into the present as someone settled into the vacant spot on the far side of her table. She reached for her bag. "It's okay, I was just leaving," she said. She was half out of her chair before she looked up and saw who it was. Stunned, she slumped back down into the seat.

"Hello, Miranda," Grimm said.

She blinked and stared at him. He looked good, his skin tanned from exposure to the sun, the effects of his ordeal in the Wood replaced by an easy vitality that seemed to shine from him like the glow from one of her amulets. He was dressed in casual attire but wore the Warden badge on a pin stuck into the broad collar of his shirt. His smile was warm, and it belied the accusation she would have expected since the acrimony of their last parting. She'd replayed every moment of that scene in her mind a thousand times since then, and she had to blink against the intensity of the regret that seeing him stirred in her.

He watched her silently as she gathered herself. "How did you know where I was?" she asked.

"I had a feeling," he said. He slid his hand forward across the table. For a moment Miranda thought he was going to take hers, but then he lifted it to reveal the amulet she'd given him. "I didn't get a chance to give this back to you," he said.

She knew. She hadn't been able to sense him through it since she'd returned from the Wood; her amphal had been too heavily damaged to maintain the connection. He shouldn't have been able to use it to track her, but somehow he had. Or maybe he had just asked after her at the Hall of Order. Her thoughts were all jumbled all of a sudden. "You should keep it," she found herself saying.

"You look good," he said.

"You too. How are things at Edelvar?"

"I left a few days after you did, actually. I've been at Palrith Nor. I was... I was thinking of maybe going career."

"I think that you'll make a wonderful Border Warden," she said. "Serving Sacreth, protecting its people... you have a talent for it, I think."

His lips twisted into a smirk. "A few of my past commanders might disagree. Maybe I should have you write me a letter of recommendation."

She smiled. "There are plenty of people who know what you've done," she told him.

His eyes dropped briefly, but he looked up at her again before the silence grew awkward. "So. Are you a Council mage yet?"

She laughed. "Not yet."

His gaze fell again, dropping to where his fingernails scratched idly at the weathered surface of the table. "I've thought a lot about what you said before."

_I'm so sorry,_ she thought, but she couldn't speak.

His eyes flicked up, as if he'd heard the stray thought. "I apologize for... for what I said."

"There's no need..." she said, but he held up a hand to stop her.

"I'm not sorry for loving you, Miranda. I know that _what_ you are and _who_ you are, they are bound together. It took me a while, but I tried to think about it from your perspective. It's not fair for me to expect you to change who you are for me, and I wouldn't want that anyway, since it would take away from the person that I fell in love with. I just... I just wanted you to know that I don't blame you for choosing another path." He managed a smile, though it was clear that it took an effort. "After all, I'm not exactly the elegant prince from the stories." He reached out and grasped her hand, squeezed it. "I will never forget you, not for as long as I live. We're young, and it was a difficult time, I guess these things just happen."

She was crying now, the tears flowing down her face. She sniffled and nearly wiped her hand on her sleeve before she realized what she was doing. His own eyes were moist as he released her hand. "I guess I'd better go," he said, and started to stand.

She reached out and grabbed him so hard that he nearly fell into the table. "You would, wouldn't you, you big idiot, just come in here and say all that, and then walk right back out the door." She let out a thick sob. "Just come in and dump all that on me, then turn around and disappear."

"I didn't... I don't..."

She realized that people at the tables around them were watching, their expressions ranging from amusement to curiosity. "Come on," she said, grabbing his sleeve, almost pulling him over as she dragged him after her to the door. He almost stumbled on the doorsill before he got his feet fully under him. She didn't stop until they were past the coffeehouse, down the street, into the lee of a shop that had closed for the night.

"Miranda, what are you doing..."

She silenced him by pulling him into an embrace, her lips seizing his even as her arms came around his neck and drew him tight. After a stunned moment he responded, pulling her up to him, his own strong arms sweeping around her body. They stayed like that for a while, ignoring the pedestrians who circled around them with bemused looks on their faces.

When they finally parted he looked down at her. "Ah... what just happened?"

"That... was an apology," she said. "And a thank you, for not giving up on me."

"You were trying to protect me," he said.

She nodded, but didn't say anything.

"So...does this mean you love me too?" he asked.

She drew back and punched him in the shoulder. "Of course I do, you idiot."

"I just wanted to hear you say it."

She leaned into him. "I love you," she said.

"I love you, Miranda Hael. The rest we'll make work. The rest... we'll find a way, regardless of what anyone says."

She lifted her hand, and opened it to reveal Grimm's amulet. "I think you forgot something," she said. She reached up and pinned it inside his shirt.

"I will get you something as well."

"Eldwen," she said, pulling herself in close again against his chest. "It won't be easy, I can't promise it will be easy, that any of it will be easy. There will be... there will be certain things, being with me..."

He reached down and pulled her chin up. "I know. I know that mages hardly ever marry, that it's more than just a job, being part of the Order, working for them, for the Council. I won't ever ask you to sacrifice that part of who you are. But as long as I can be with you, the rest doesn't matter."

She rose to meet him, sank into another deep kiss. When she drew back, he reached up and tenderly wiped the tears from her cheeks with his thumb. She laughed and pulled out a handkerchief from her bag. "Neva's grace, what a mess I am."

"Not from where I'm standing," he said.

"How did you get so smooth, all of a sudden?" she said. "I seem to remember you being rather more clumsy around women."

"I guess when it came down to losing the only thing I've ever wanted, I had to get creative," he said.

She put her arm in his. "Come on, the place I'm staying isn't far from here."

"Far be it for me to contradict a Mage," he said. And this time when he said it, there wasn't any awkwardness between them.

Leaning into each other, they made their way down the street.

THE END

* * *

The story of Eldwen Grimm and Miranda Hael will continue in _Grimm's Loss_
