 
### Heart of a Hero

Book One of _Daran's Journey_

Kenneth McDonald

km4101@netzero.net

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2010 Kenneth McDonald

* * * * *

BOOK 1

Chapter 1

Daran looked down at the food on the battered iron plate in front of him. The bread had weevils in it, and the lump of stew was a cold, congealed mess of grease. The meal was less than appetizing, but Daran hadn't eaten in almost a full day. Still, he put the plate down on the pallet next to him and slid it away. His guts clenched, a twisting pain that had been slowly building in intensity for a few hours now.

"Not hungry?" Albrizar asked. "Aye, facing a hanging in the morning will do that to a man, from what I understand."

Daran looked up at the man in the next cell. Albrizar had already consumed most of his food, and as the younger man watched he used the remnants of his bread to sweep up the trailings of grease left on the plate. "Ghastly, but a man needs to keep his strength up," he said.

"You don't seem to be that worried," Daran offered. He shifted, trying in vain to ease the needles of pain that felt like they were stabbing him from the inside.

"My neck is not on the line."

"You were taken with me. The magistrate said you were an accessory."

"I was merely in the wrong place at the wrong time," the other man replied. He was dark where Daran was fair, possessed of the swarthy features and angular expression of a citizen of the distant Amarian Empire. His beard had been carefully trimmed to a point, giving him a somewhat exotic look. His clothes had obviously once been colorful, but in the current circumstances were somewhat drab and dirty. Albrizar licked his fingers, then tossed the plate down onto the floor near the door to his cell. It rattled loudly, and someone from further down the block hissed something deprecating that the southerner dismissed with a wave of his hand.

"What do you think they'll do to you?" Daran asked.

"Oh, some sort of indentured service, no doubt. I am certain that my skills will be useful to the Baron. As a practitioner of the arcane arts, I am not like the common sort of ruffian who infests this place."

"Yeah, well, I've seen your magic, and it doesn't seem to be very useful. If it could get us out of here, for instance..."

"You speak of matters that you do not understand," Albrizar said. But as he looked at Daran, he seemed to get some sense of the other man's distress, for he added, "Come now. You need to take your mind off of all this. 'That which cannot be changed, must be endured.' Was that Efram, or Zelotothes? I can never remember my ancients. Why don't we well each other tales to pass the time? I doubt I will be able to sleep tonight, with such poor accommodations." His nose wrinkled as he flicked an insect off of the thin fabric covering his pallet.

"I don't know any tales," Daran said gloomily.

"Nonsense! Obviously a country lad like yourself must have an account worth the telling, to end up at the baron's court with a sentence of death over his head. We did not get much of a chance to speak at the inn, but I believe I shared the tale of my modest origins with you and my fellow gamblers over the cards ere that little... incident. And we did not have time the next morning to get acquainted, before the baron's men interrupted. I admit, I am curious, that such a humble-looking fellow could get in so much trouble so quickly. Indulge me, and perhaps the night will pass more swiftly for both of us."

Daran looked doubtful, but at that moment a new twinge transfixed him, a wedge of pain so sharp that it drew a gasp from him. "Are you quite all right?" Albrizar asked.

"Yeah, I'm in perfect health, for a man who's going to have his neck stretched in a few hours," Daran said. But after a moment, he settled back on his pallet, closing his eyes as he leaned his head back against the hard and cold stone wall behind him. "There's not much to tell," he said. "Like you, I guess I was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

He kept his eyes closed and tried to ignore the pain that was radiating out from his belly.

"I was a nobody, in a nothing village in the middle of nowhere," he began, keeping his voice low enough so that only Albrizar could hear him. "My friends said I was a lucky sort, or as lucky as a kid with no parents and little prospects could be, I guess. Maybe I got out of a few scrapes. But my luck changed big about a month ago, and all for the worse."

Albrizar listened quietly. After a while, Daran started to get caught up in his words, and both that discomfort and the sense of his surroundings started to fade somewhat, as he revisited the pathways of the past in his mind.

* * *

"Dragons, dragons, dragons!"

"Just roll the damned dice already."

Daran grinned and snapped his wrist, catapulting the two white cubes into the circle in front of him. The light filtering in between the cracks in the walls and ceiling of the decrepit old barn were the only illumination, so it took a moment for the four young men to discern the result: six pips showing on one of the dice, and four on the other.

"Fortified castle," Sludge said in disgust. The result was not the best possible, but with no dragons showing on any of the pairs in front of the other three players, it was narrowly sufficient for a win.

"Damn your blasted luck, Daran," Armon said, although his grin softened the impact of the words. Daran swept up a small handful of oblong brass tokens from the center of the circle. It was a weak pot, the entirety of the coins barely worth an Evrosian copper duccan, but none of the four young men here had the look of folk used to quantities of wealth.

"Pass and play, already," Brannik said. He was a tall, lanky youth whose chin was covered with the first hints of what someday might become a beard. The young men each grabbed their dice and passed them to the person on their right. Sludge, the pock-marked youth who'd taken Daran's dice, lifted them up to a few inches in front of his face, peering at them intently.

"You going to eat those dice, Sludge, or play? It's your wager."

"Just makin' sure we playin' a fair game," Sludge said.

"You calling me a cheater?" Daran asked. The poor light made his dark brown hair seemed almost black, but it could not conceal the tattered state of his attire, or the fact that one of his ears was mangled, half of it torn away by some old mishap.

"I ain' callin' yer nothin', yer majesty."

Daran's eyes narrowed at the slur, promising danger. Sludge either didn't see the message in the other boy's stare, or didn't care; he sneered. For a moment there was a taut tension between them, before Brannik intervened. "C'mon, let's play a few more runs. I got a ton of chores need doin', and my ma will tar my hide if she catches me in here gambling. It's your wager, Sludge."

"Keep yer shirt on, Brannik," Sludge said, tossing a pair of tokens into the dirt circle. The others made their own investments, and tossed their dice as one into the ring.

The initial round was inconclusive; none of them scored high enough to take the pot outright. Play continued into the second round, with each taking turns betting and making an individual toss. This time Brannik won, and Sludge threw the worst combination, known as the "Village House" in most places, with more colloquial names, mostly involving body secretions or disgusting acts, popping up among the baser communities of players. On seeing his roll—he had to lower his face almost to the dirt to make it out—he let out a curse.

"Your damned dice have cursed me, Daran!"

"Maybe they're magic," Daran returned. He seemed to regret the words as soon as they were spoken, for the other boys looked suddenly uneasy, and one made a hex to ward off evil.

"Of course, if that's the case, then Brannik here must be a sorcerer," Daran continued, nodding to the pile of tokens in front of the tall youth, considerably bulkier than that before any of the others. Brannik was an apprentice, and had brought more coins to the game than the rest of them combined, but the comment seemed to satisfy the others.

They passed the dice again, and this time Sludge's luck seemed to have changed. While he didn't capture the pot outright on the first roll, his Dragon's Breath combination put him in very good position for the follow-up roll. There were only a few pairs that could beat the Dragon's Breath, but the wise play was to start with a moderate wager, since the other players could bow out if the stakes were too high, although they would forfeit the first round's bet.

If he was aware of the orthodox strategy, Sludge didn't show it. Instead, he shoved a fistful of tokens, nearly his entire stake, into the center of the circle. He looked smugly at Daran, and in fact on closer examination it did appear that there was a method to his action, as the value of his bet was just slightly higher than the size of Daran's stake.

"Match or forfeit," Sludge said. According to the rules of the game, on the opening bet of a round, a player either met the totality of the wager, or had to withdraw.

"What do you say, Armon?" Brannik said to the fourth youth, a darkly tanned fellow clad in the unadorned tunic of a farm laborer.

"Nah, I'm saving up for some new arrowheads from Torvik," Armon replied, sliding back from the circle.

Sludge and Daran didn't even acknowledge the side conversation; their attention was fixed entirely on each other. "Well?" Sludge asked.

Daran glanced at Brannik and Armon.

"Heh, they're not likely to offer you a loan," Sludge said. "Everyone knows the Arbiter's got all yer money locked up real tight in that strongbox of his. Guess yer folks shouldn't a'gone and died while they was in debt."

Daran's expression darkened like a stormcloud, and a deep growl arose from his throat. Even Sludge sensed it this time, and he paled slightly, perhaps recognizing that he had gone too far. His hand stole behind him, toward a broken axehandle that lay discarded in a heap of old tools a few feet away. He'd been careful to sit next to it when they'd chosen their spaces around the circle that Armon had drawn in the floor with a scrap of chalk.

"Hey, guys, c'mon," Brannik began, trying to defuse the situation.

Daran's hand dipped inside of his open tunic, and each of the others tensed. But it returned with only a small object, which he tossed into the circle.

It was an Evrosian silver dolmen. The coin was a round trade mark, not one of the cheap clipped wedges one occasionally saw in the village. It was stamped with the vague outline of the baron's head. For the four of them, it was a small fortune.

Sludge squinted at the coin, and his eyes widened when he recognized it. "Where did you get that?" he squeaked.

"None of your damned business," Daran said. "It'll cover your bet, and ten more just like it. It's your roll."

But despite the increased drama of the game, the other boys were more interested in the source of the coin. "It was that Free Company caravan last month, I bet," Armon said. "Right, Daran? You were real chummy with that guardsman, I saw you talking with him for an hour in the tavern."

"I bet you _earned_ that mark," Sludge said. "Them Free Company guards like soft boys, I hear." His confidence had returned somewhat, since his probing fingers had found the axehandle and he now had it concealed against his leg, the maneuver shielded by the bulk of his body.

But Daran's expression hadn't changed. "Roll the damned dice."

Chuckling, the boy made the toss. The dragon that might have given him the game outright didn't show, but the two-five combination was decent, the Knight's Host. With Sludge's earlier Dragon's Breath, Daran had to either toss double dragons, or another combination that totaled 10 pips or more to win. The odds were not in his favor.

"Go ahead, roll," Sludge said. He was sweating, either from the stale heat of the barn or the intensity of the confrontation.

Daran took up the dice, and shook them in his hand. He didn't shift his gaze from Sludge's as he snapped his wrist and released the pair into the circle.

Sludge's reaction was predictable; his head lunged forward, his eyes squinting as he tried to see the results of the roll. The movement brought him right into Daran's hand, as he smacked the other boy solidly across the face. Sludge squealed and tried to recoil, already reaching for the axehandle, but Daran was faster, leaping up and slamming his knee solidly into Sludge's face. Sludge fell backward, stunned. Daran took advantage to kick the axehandle out of reach, and stood over the other, who was squealing as he clutched at his nose.

"You bastard! You bwoke my nose!"

The other two youths had risen as well, but they made no move to intervene; both had seen the axehandle. "You had it coming, Sludge," Brannik said. "And you lost, as well," he added, glancing at the dice that showed the Lord's Towers, the six pips showing clearly on each cube. "I guess the game's over," he said, bending to recover his jacket from the dusty floor.

"I'll get you for this!" Sludge said, but he wisely didn't make any aggressive moves; he knew at least when he'd lost the field.

At that moment, the heavy outer door of the barn suddenly groaned loudly and swung open, revealing the outlines of two men silhouetted in the bright afternoon sunlight. "There he is!" one of the men yelled, as both charged into the barn.

* * * * *

Chapter 2

The boys shot away like lightning. Brannik and Armon vanished through the side door of the barn in a flash. Sludge went the other way with just as much alacrity, blood spraying out of his damaged nose as he darted behind one of the stables. The crack in the wall there was well known to all of the boys of the village. It was a tight fit in the best of times, holding Sludge for a few seconds, but desperation gave him added strength and with a crack of old wood he was free and gone.

Daran had hesitated for only a heartbeat, diving for his silver coin, reflexively swooping up a few of brass tokens with it in his fist. The delay cost him only a fraction of a second, but as he sprang for the door after the others, the faster of the two men seized him. He tried to aim a kick for the man's knee, but Garath was ready for it, and jerked him roughly aside, painfully twisting his arm.

"All right, none of that," he growled. Garath stood a full foot taller than Daran, his muscled frame distinctive even under the vest of boiled leather he wore, its metal studs gleaming in the afternoon sunlight that filtered in through the open doors. There was a small sword at his hip, and an old scar running along the left side of his jaw added a further air of menace to his features. He held Daran in a grip like an iron manacle, ignoring the youth's pained squirming.

The other man, clad in plainer working clothes of old wool, had dropped to the floor, and was scooping up the remaining brass coins left by the fleeing lads. "Just leave it, Tobbs," Garath growled.

"Money's money," the other replied, finishing his search, the coins vanishing into his clothes as soon as they were discovered. But when he reached for Brannik's jacket, dropped by the young apprentice in his haste, the man-at-arms barked another command, yanking his captive along with him as he exited the barn. The farmer came along behind him, rubbing his hands against his dirty leggings.

A few of the villagers stopped to look at the unusual procession as it crossed the commons, but all quickly went back to their labors. Garath led them around the decrepit pilings of Jannsen's place, the store's interior dark against the warmth of the day. There was a faint trail heading off the main road behind the leaning structure, which the two men and their captive started down without stopping.

Daran knew where they were going, had known from the moment that Garath and Tobbs had busted up the game. He wasn't quite sure what he'd done to earn old Sovern's ire; he hadn't even been out to the estate in a few months. There were a few outstanding crimes for which he'd never been pinched, however, so he had no doubt that something unpleasant was in the brewing. He considered trying another break, but his arm was already numb from where Garath's meaty fingers were locked around it, and he could sense that the guardsman was in the sort of mood where the smallest excuse would draw a few cuffs to the head, and maybe worse.

At least he'd recovered his dolmen; the coin lay in a hidden pocket close against his skin, proof against anything but the most determined search. If things at Sovern's place _did_ get too hot, he could always blow up to Tollerton for a week or two, eating off the silver and sleeping in the woods behind the adjacent hamlet.

The small company passed between two low hills, and along the longest fence in the village, marking off a considerable expanse of tilled fields. Even in the heat of the afternoon there were a dozen men working there, tending to the rows of tomatoes, lettuce, and other plants that were only a few weeks from harvest. Daran remembered hearing that the farmers had been dealing with some new bugs that were threatening some of the plants, and some of them had said that Sovern was even considering sending to Evros for an alchemist who could work up a brew that would repel the pests without harming the plants.

The laborers were even more studious in ignoring them than the villagers had been. Eventually they left the fields behind, and skirted a copse of old growth trees until they could see the estate up ahead, ringed by lush meadows that were all surrounded by fencing.

The place was impressive, especially for someone like Daran, who had never been further than Tollerton in his life. The estate house was a broad two-story structure with a sloping tile roof, flanked on each side by single-story wings that swept out from the main building like outstretched arms. The place always had a clean look about it, especially in contrast to the dingier structures prevalent in the rest of the village. A few animals were visible in the side paddock, looking unhappy in the late afternoon heat. A laborer clad in overalls emerged from around the right side of the building, saw them, and hurried off in the opposite direction.

"What's this about, anyway?" Daran asked, his first words since being captured. His only reply was a rough tug on his arm as Garath led them up to the side door, although he thought he heard a faint snicker from Tobbs behind him.

The farmer did not follow them inside. Garath led him—dragged him, really—efficiently through the kitchen, along the edge of a foyer with polished hardwood floors, through a small study, down a narrow hallway, and then up a set of stairs up to the second level of the main wing. At the top of the stairs, Daran tried another escape, hoping that the man-at-arms would not be too violent in his master's house. But Daran must have felt him tense, for he grabbed onto him with both hands, giving him a rough shake and looking into his eyes. The man's cold stare gave the Daran a cold chill; he suddenly found himself believing all the hushed tales about men that the man-at-arms had killed.

Garath said nothing, merely holding the stare for a few long seconds, then continuing to a wide door not far from the top of the staircase. He paused to knock, and at a faint noise from within opened the door, and brought his captive inside.

The room looked like another study or office, but was rather more spacious than the one downstairs. Bookshelves lined the walls, and a pair of antique desks stood under the two windows that faced the front of the house, covered in neatly ordered piles of parchments and leather folios. Three chairs occupied the corners of the room; all were occupied by people that Daran knew. Kirim Dellock, the mayor of the village, had an uncomfortable look on his face, and he didn't quite meet Daran's gaze when they entered. Allus Sovern was as old as Dellock, but while the mayor looked tired and weathered, the elder of the Sovern clan seemed to radiate an aura of command. His stare at Daran was intense, and a fire burned in his eyes that was the opposite of Garath's chill, but no less dangerous for it. He was clad in a robe of layered blue and gray silk that was probably worth more than most men in the village earned in a year.

The unexpected presence of the mayor, and the intensity of Sovern, was such that it took Daran a moment to notice the last occupant of the room, in the far corner to his right. Delya Sovern sat deep in her chair, her face marred by puffy cheeks and red eyes; she'd been crying. Even so, she was gorgeous, gifted with a beauty that made her the fixation of every young man in the village. Daran had lusted after her with the rest of them, despite the obvious hazards of such an interest. He needn't have worried; the girl had rejected him with a decisiveness that had left not even the slightest gap for a counteroffensive. Even so, he found himself straightening some, and turning his head to conceal his damaged ear from her gaze.

Sovern noticed the gesture, and the corner of his mouth twitched slightly.

"Sit," he commanded.

Garath released him suddenly, and he nearly fell down as the support disappeared. He wondered where he was supposed to sit down, as there were no other chairs in the room. But then Garath dragged a stool out from under one of the desks, and set it in the middle of the room.

Daran glanced behind him. The door lured tantalizingly, but Garath stood there within arm's reach, waiting for him to make the try. And he still didn't know what he was doing here.

He sat down.

Sovern said nothing, measuring him with that stare that seemed to weigh his very soul with its intensity. Daran fidgeted slightly, but kept his mouth shut. He was smart enough to know that his tongue would only dig him in deeper here.

"If I am not mistaken, your seventeenth birthday is not far off," Mayor Dellock said, finally breaking the uncomfortable silence.

"I believe the young man has already preempted his majority," Sovern said, his voice as sharp as ice.

Dellock's gaze flittered to the nobleman. Daran, who had never seen the mayor this uncertain before, was feeling increasingly uneasy. "What Lord Sovern is saying, Daran..."

"What I am saying, boy, is that your childhood is over. As of this day. If you are old enough to engage in manly pastimes, you are old enough to accept the concomitant responsibilities."

Daran didn't have to fake a bewildered look; he had no idea what either of them was talking about. Sovern's expression darkened further, if that was possible. "Do not pretend ignorance, boy. I doubt even you are simple-minded enough to lack comprehension of the consequences of your action. Although your father was certainly irresponsible enough in his business dealings to have neglected that obvious lesson, surely those lazy clots you associate with provided you with ample information to plug the gaps in your education. Well?"

Daran opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. His mind, however, was working feverishly; he was especially thinking back to the long discussions he'd had with the guard from the Free Company, working the last merchant train that had passed through the village a little over a month ago. The man had plied him for information for all sorts of things about the village, information that Daran was only too happy to provide in exchange for the promise of reward. The conversation had kept coming back to the Sovern family, and had included detailed queries about the elder lord, his holdings, _and_ his young, attractive daughter. Daran's pride had still been smarting from his decisive rejection at the hands of the young Sovern lady, and the Free Company man—Talloq? Tallek? He didn't even remember—had been sympathetic as Daran had regaled him with Delya's litany of desirable traits. Like many pampered young maidens of the aristocracy, Delya sought adventure, danger, and perhaps a hint of wildness. Traits where he, an orphan boy of limited means and no caste to speak of, was quite obviously found wanting.

Two days later, the caravan had left the village. But as the merchants and teamsters had been gathering their animals and preparing the wagons, the guard had found Daran, and with a wide grin had tossed him the silver dolmen that now nestled securely in the pocket against his breast.

Though it was warm in the room, with bright rays of afternoon sun flowing in through the windows, Daran suddenly felt as though he'd been plunged into a bucket of runoff.

Sovern had clearly lost patience. Swiveling to face his daughter, he said, "Tell him what you told us."

Delya avoided looking at the men, and seemed to sink even deeper into her chair.

"Speak!"

She did not look up. "I am with child. Daran is the father."

* * * * *

Chapter 3

For the fourth time, Daran paced the confines of the tiny storeroom in the Sovern mansion, and for the fourth time he finished the circuit in just ten paces, without any new options. He slammed his fist into a crate, one of the dozens piled up against the walls, and regretted it as a stab of pain shot up his arm.

Damn all nobles and their get. Damn that lying wench, and her lousy father. Damn the mayor, and damn all the people of the village, who had looked down on his parents for their ill luck, and at him for having the poor grace to be left an orphan, making them uncomfortable whenever they saw him on the street.

He understood Delya's motivation. Admitting that she'd given her virtue to an outlander mercenary would have sent her father into a fit of apoplexy, and would not have ended well for her at all. Not that naming Daran as the father had pleased the elder Sovern any better, but he recognized the logic behind the girl's choice. Not only could numerous people bear witness to his foolish and failed efforts to gain what the Free Company man had so easily won, but in a carefully measured irony his low status made her claim all the more persuasive. And in fact his denials had only seemed to enrage Sovern. Mayor Dellock had tried to mediate, but ultimately it had been Garath who'd had to intervene, dragging Daran off to be tossed into this supply closet, the door securely locked to ensure that he would not be going anywhere. He had no idea what fate Sovern had in mind for him, but he had no doubt that the end result would not be anything pleasant for him. The usual outcome in such circumstances was a hasty marriage, but despite his earlier infatuation with Delya, now he found even that outcome strangely unappealing. Not that he expected Sovern to suddenly accept the idea of him as son-in-law.

He looked up at the window, which let a narrow trickle of light into the room, over the stacked crates. It had been the first thing he'd checked; the iron bars set into the frame were set into the surrounding stone, not the wooden frame, and while aged they were far beyond his strength. The boxes contained sacks of wheat flour and finely ground cornmeal, and nothing as convenient as a prybar had turned up in his initial search.

He drew a loose crate out and sat on it. The rough boards creaked under his weight. There was a smell of freshly baked bread hanging in the air, which reminded his stomach that he hadn't eaten anything since breakfast. He didn't feel much like eating raw flour or cornmeal. He felt as though a crushing weight was falling upon him, and for a moment, he thought he would succumb to it, and just crawl up in a corner and await whatever fate was rushing toward him.

But then he looked up. Odd, that smell, here. While the room was filled with the ingredients for bread, the odor he was detecting was distinctive, and clearly coming from an oven. There was something else, a tinge of soot, a smell he was likewise accustomed to.

He got up and started moving aside the crates along the wall.

Within a minute he'd found that a segment of the wall was of a darker stone than the rest. Continuing his excavation, he uncovered an old hearth. The fireplace was cold and clearly hadn't been used in quite some time; someone had even made an effort to plug it up with a loose frame of wooden boards nailed together. The wood was blackened with soot, which confounded Daran for a few moments, until he figured out the source. Then it was just a question of removing the barrier. He let out a muffled curse as a few splinters dug into his hands, but this obstruction was not as solid as the bars on the window, and within five minutes he had removed enough boards to peer up into the chimney.

His initial suspicions were confirmed, in that the shaft upward rapidly grew far too narrow for him to consider an escape in that direction. But the smell of bread was stronger, as was the stink of soot. As he lifted his head he saw that the chimney was linked to an adjacent hearth in the next room. By scrunching his shoulders up into the gap he could just look down into that other fireplace. The bricks of the chimney were warm, and an acrid wave of smoke told him that the other hearth was in use. But with no other options, it looked as though he would have to take a chance.

Several minutes later, Daran's blackened form dropped out of the chimney into the manor house's spacious kitchen. His hands and face were a soot-stained mess, and his hair formed a filthy halo around his features. He looked like some sort of demon being birthed by the hells as he twisted around the iron frame suspended over a small flame in the active hearth. The young man hissed as a metal hook caught on his shoulder, and his tunic tore with a loud ripping noise as he staggered out into the room.

His luck had held; the room was empty. The kitchen was cluttered with racks, shelves, and tables that had been constrained to a severe sense of order. Everything was clean, even the pair of massive brick ovens that were set into the wall on his left. Fronting them was a long wooden table, upon which rested a tray where two brown loaves of bread were cooling. For all the gravity of his circumstance, Daran's mouth watered at the sight of them.

There were two obvious exits, a pair of doors, one on the far wall, and one across the room to his right. The far one, he knew from his initial passage through the room, led outside, while the other led deeper into the house. He headed toward the far exit, grabbing one of the loaves as he went.

He'd barely tucked it under his arm when his target door started to swing open.

He ducked down behind the table and rapidly retraced his steps. At least two people entered the kitchen; a man and a woman by their voices. He might be able to dart past them, but one shout, and the whole household would be after him.

There was only one other option. Careful to stay low, using the long table as cover, he headed for the doorway that led into the main wing of the house. That door was open, but as he neared it, he could hear loud footsteps on the polished wooden floor of the foyer, clearly drawing closer. Heavy, booted feet, a confident stride... the hallmarks of Garath. Behind him, the table creaked as the other newcomers placed a heavy weight upon it. They were nattering on about something or other, and it was clear that they weren't planning on going away in a hurry.

He was trapped.

Looking desperately around for an escape, Daran saw a small wooden door, maybe three feet square, set into the wall behind the cover of a large rack of wooden shelving. The heavy bootsteps of the approaching figure were almost upon him; without hesitation he shot low across the room, tucked himself behind the shelves, slid open the door, and jumped through.

He found himself in a tiny nook barely wider than the dimensions of the door. He was standing on a small wooden platform that shifted alarmingly under his weight. He could see through the crack of the door, but his view was blocked by the adjacent shelves. He could hear just fine, however, and thus was treated to an explosion between the newcomer and the two servants who'd come into the kitchen earlier. The man he'd heard must have been the head butler or something, for he berated the two others harshly for laxity in their work.

Something brushed across Daran's arm. As his eyes adjusted to the near darkness he saw that it was a rope, running up into the darkness above him, bound in metal rings driven into the stone. He realized that the tiny room was actually a shaft, leading up to the second story of the main wing of the house.

A stray word caught his attention and drew it back to the kitchen. The head servant had said something about the missing bread. Daran glanced down at the oblong object lying between his feet.

Oops.

Shoving the loaf into his tunic, he crawled up the shaft.

Climbing was one area where Daran had few peers in the village. Even before his parents' death the boy had been a wanderer, and his curiosity had driven him to seek out places where other people could not go. The shaft contained no handholds other than the metal rings, and he ignored the rope, guessing that it wasn't designed to support the weight of a person. But the shaft was constricted enough so that he could easily use the opposing walls to slide up using his hands and feet, and it only took a few seconds for him to reach the top.

There was a pulley there for the rope, and another small wooden door. But once again escape was denied, as he could clearly hear voices from beyond the portal.

"My fool daughter has placed me in quite a difficult position."

Sovern. Daran shifted in alarm. The movement nearly caused the bread to slide out of his shirt, and he had to frantically grab for it before it plummeted to the bottom of the shaft. Fortunately he caught it moments before it fell out of reach, and held it, silent save for the furious pounding of his heart.

"Did you hear something?"

A few steps. "Sounds like Angus is yelling at some of the staff downstairs," came Garath's familiar voice. A door shutting.

"I am surrounded by incompetents. If those fools had kept a proper eye on Deyla, I wouldn't be in this fix."

"It is hard to keep a close watch on someone that doesn't want to be seen."

A silence. Daran could almost see Sovern's cold stare.

"In any case, I must be practical. The boy must be dealt with; I will not have a bastard born in my household."

"A wedding, then."

"I have already spoken to the mayor. The boy's coin in trust will be put into my control as soon as the pair is wed."

"Can't be much. Kid's family left a lot of debts, and I don't think they got much for his farm."

"No, as a matter of fact I know that they did not. But the sum will be augmented by the quantity I will get from this bill of indenture."

A rustle of paper, and a chuckle. "Ah, a promising career in the iron mines at Thusk, eh?"

"Indeed. A perfect way for a boy of low caste and no inheritance to meet the burden of supporting a family."

"You know, I've heard that mining is a dangerous profession."

"Indeed. Yes, indeed."

A thoughtful pause. A creak, a slight sound of wood scraping on wood. "Should I get the boy?" Daran froze. But Garath was only walking toward the door.

"Let him stew for a while. I have a few matters to attend to in town before full night. Verify that our 'guest' is comfortable, and also make sure that my daughter does not leave her chamber. I have had quite enough foolishness for one month."

"I'll see to both personally."

"That would be best, my friend."

A tread of footsteps, and a closing door, then silence that was broken almost immediately by another sound directly below him. Looking down, he could see a light appear in the shaft, and a balding man's head briefly popped into view. The young man froze, although it seemed like the noise made by his heart beating hard against his ribs would certainly be heard from below. But the head withdrew, and the lower door closed again, returning the shaft to darkness.

He waited for two breaths, trying to steady himself. Then he pushed at the door, cautiously. There was a latch of some sort on the outside, but it clearly had been designed just to secure the door, not to keep out an intruder hiding in the dumbwaiter. It took only another second to work it free, and then he slowly pushed open the door.

The room beyond was a study, smaller than the one where he'd been interviewed earlier, with only a single window and another large desk beneath it. The window opened onto the back of the house, and Daran could see that the sun had set while he'd been imprisoned, the afternoon already deepening rapidly into twilight. A small fireplace with a cushioned chair beside it were the only other features of note, although Daran mentally calculated the value of the paintings and curtains hanging from the wood-paneled walls to be worth a small fortune. Two doors offered escape, but Daran was done with doors. He crossed to the window, his dirty feet leaving black smudges on the carpet in his wake. A twist of his fingers unsecured the latch, and in a flash he was through. The back porch of the house had a sloping roof that came almost up to the outer sill of the window, so it was trivial to make his way to its edge and slide down to the ground below, first checking to verify that there were no more bystanders lurking about.

He landed, rolled, and was up again in a flash, running across the broad yard toward the long shape of the stables. With every step he was waiting for the inevitable hue and cry that would announce that his absence had been discovered. But there was no alert from the house, and the few people he could see out in the fields and adjacent paddocks paid him no heed.

The sliding front doors of the stable were open, and a faint glow issued from within. Daran, feeling invisible eyes on his back from the dark windows of the house behind him, darted inside.

And slammed hard into the laborer, Tobbs.

Daran's speed gave him added momentum, and as the two men collided they staggered backward into the interior of the barn. Both were surprised, but Daran's reflexes took over faster, and as the two started to come apart the youth drove forward, bringing up his knee into the other man's gut in an effort to drive the wind out of him.

Unfortunately, Tobbs was clad in a leather apron over his working clothes, and the heavy garment absorbed much of the force of the blow. Furthermore, he had at least fifty pounds on the gangly lad. Grunting as he took the kick, he grabbed roughly onto Daran's shoulders and spun around, hurling him backward into a nearby support post.

Now it was Daran who had the air blasted from his lungs. There was no time to recover, however, as Tobbs rushed toward him, a fist cocked to deliver a punch to his head. Fighting for breath, he dodged aside, using the post to cover him as he fell back toward the line of open stables against the back wall of the barn.

Seeing his foe in retreat, Tobbs growled and charged forward with renewed intensity. Daran grabbed a shovel that jutted from a heap of manure near the stables, but before he could get it into position to strike, Tobbs lowered his head and slammed hard into him. Daran could not absorb the impact of the larger man, and both went flying into one of the empty stables.

The world spun around Daran as he left his feet, and then he was falling, the laborer's arms locked around his body in a vise-grip. Even though the stable's packed-earth floor was covered in a thin layer of old straw, the impact drove an iron spike of sharp pain through his torso. Stars flashed in front of his eyes as Daran tried to struggle against the oppressive weight of the man pressing down upon his chest. An acrid stench of manure and sweat filled his nostrils.

Belatedly, Daran realized that Tobbs was no longer struggling. Twisting his body, he rolled the heavy but inert weight off of him, sucking in deep breaths as he pulled himself painfully into a crouch.

Someone had left an old portable anvil, the sort used for shaping horseshoes, in the back of the stable. Daran had only narrowly missed it when he'd fallen, but Tobbs had gone face-first into the wedge-shaped end. The left side of his face above his eye was dented unnaturally, although there was only a narrow trail of blood where the skin had torn slightly under the impact. Daran felt his gorge rising for a moment, and only narrowly avoided being sick.

Cold reality brought Daran back to the present, and the gravity of his immediate circumstances. He pulled himself to his feet, leaning against the low wooden side of the stable. He felt groggy, like he'd drunk a mug of ale too quickly. But the part of his mind that was still clear was warning him that reinforcements from the house could arrive at any moment, and that no lucky fluke was going to keep Garath from inflicting harm upon him, once the guardsman detected his absence and what had happened to Tobbs.

He half walked, half staggered out into the open space in the center of the barn. Two of the stables were occupied, but the animals were heavy draft horses. Even if they'd been coursers, Daran lacked both experience in riding and controlling the big animals, and time to prepare the necessary tack and harness. He had an alternative plan for escape, but as he scanned the interior of the barn, he realized that he needed a distraction to help himself win free.

His stare settled on the lantern dangling from one of the support posts, its soft glow brightening the interior of the barn.

Ten minutes later, as Daran scampered up the side of a low embankment, he was able to turn around and see another glow in the distance. His heart was pounding in his chest at the unaccustomed exertion, but he wasn't about to stop until he was well clear of the village. The burning barn might slow down pursuit, but he knew that it wouldn't take long for Sovern to rally men, horses, and dogs to find him. And with a corpse now added to his tally of offenses, he was not certain that the nobleman would stop at sending him to the iron mines of Thusk.

He didn't linger to admire the results of his handiwork. The far side of the embankment sloped steeply down to the bank of a stream, maybe ten paces across at its widest. In the deepening night the stream was just a flat black line that wandered off out of sight between the hills to the east, but Daran had spent a good deal of time on and around the water, and he had no difficulty finding the spot he sought.

The bend in the stream was shrouded in dense growth that stretched out over the placid water, including a tree that bent over like a man slowly falling forward. The spot concealed a small niche where a pool of water gathered, barely affected by the current. It was a bit too far from the village proper to be favored as a swimming hole, but Daran and his friends had put that remoteness to another purpose.

Cautious of snags, he made his way down to the water's edge. Here, deep in the shadows, everything was almost a uniform black. Daran fumbled a bit in the darkness, but he eventually found the concealed hollow nestled in between some of the old tree's exposed roots.

The boat was there, where they had left it last. It was a tiny bark, little more than a crude raft, really, fashioned from scraps of wood bound together by twined reeds. The vessel was mostly Brannik's work, although all of them had put a hand in its creation, and it had seen a lot of use in fishing expeditions. It was sturdier than it looked, capable of holding three boys in a pinch. It would do him well enough tonight.

It took him only a few seconds to find the crude oars that they used for navigating the craft, but he hesitated. His fingers traveled to a familiar knot in the bole of the leaning tree. Almost of their own volition, he found the plug and wrestled it out.

The niche was used by the boys for storage. At the moment, it contained only a few rusty fishhooks. Almost without conscious thought he found himself holding the silver dolmen, hefting its comfortable weight in his hand.

He would need the coin in his flight, no doubt. He had never gone farther than Tollerton in his life, but he knew enough of the outside world from talking to traders and other outsiders to know that things were expensive in the bigger villages and towns. His hesitation here was not so much rooted in the morality of taking the boat. Instead, he wondered if the coin might prod his friends into making the choice he'd hoped they would make anyway, to cover for him. Sovern and Garath would assume that he'd taken the main road out of the village, mostly likely, and it was doubtful that they knew he had access to a boat.

He thought he heard a familiar chuckle. Closing his eyes, he could almost see Sludge's leering face. No, Sludge would turn him over in a heartbeat, coin or no. And Daran could just not leave the silver here if there was even a slight chance that he would be the one to come upon it first.

That decision made, Daran turned back to the boat. But as he shifted, his foot snagged on a root, and he staggered forward into the pool with a loud splash. The water was cold, but not bracingly so, but more significantly the coin went flying out of his grasp, and vanished within the black depths of the pond.

Daran's spirits fell as he dove for his lost treasure, knowing that it was futile. Finally, sodden and shivering, and empty-handed, he pulled himself onto the boat, and pushed the craft out into the flow of the stream. The current was slight, but a few strokes of the oar got him going, and within a few minutes he'd left the bend behind him, and along with it the village where he'd spent almost his entire life.

* * * * *

Chapter 4

The sun was a brilliant yellow orb high in the sky. Summer was coming to an end, but on days like this one, it seemed as though the season was fighting a last-ditch action to remain, bathing the landscape with a hot intensity where even the smallest breeze was a welcome companion.

Lines of old trees followed the course of the trade road, their boughs coming together to form a canopy over the worn stones. The road, once an Imperial thoroughfare in the days of Amar's greatness, was still far superior to the dirt tracks most common in the region. In the days when the writ of the emperors extended across the entire continent, the roads were kept in constant repair, worked by levies under the supervision of engineers of the Imperial College. But no engineer had visited this road in decades. Weeds now often poked out from between the stones, and occasional gaps offered bone-jarring bumps for the unlucky or unwary wagoneer.

Daran was grateful for the shade. He was thirsty. He'd last passed a stream about two hours ago, and while he'd drunk his fill then, he had no container in which to store water. He'd had a few berries left over from the bushes he'd found yesterday morning, but those hadn't lasted him past breakfast. There was nothing he could do except keep walking, however. He knew that there were settlements along this road, or at least that was what he'd been told, but he had no idea where the nearest one was located. His feet felt like he'd been walking for dozens of leagues, but realistically he knew that he'd only covered only a fraction of that.

He glanced over his shoulder. It wasn't enough. Sovern would send agents after him, of that he had no doubt. Garath himself, most likely. The two-day trip down the stream had covered a lot of ground, especially once it had opened onto a swift-flowing river that Daran could not name. Already at that point he'd gone farther from his village than ever before, and since then he'd put a lot more distance onto that tally.

He would have gone farther down the river, all the way to the sea, perhaps. But his crude boat had not been up to the rapids. At least it had come apart gradually, giving him a chance to make it to shore before it foundered. And it wasn't like he had any possessions to worry about losing, he thought grimly. Thus far his meager woods lore had been barely up to the task of keeping him alive. He'd hunted with the other boys back at the village, and upon disembarking from the river he'd crafted a crude sling from a strip of cloth torn from his tunic. A few river stones served as ready missiles in his pockets, but despite a few efforts against rabbits and other small creatures he'd spotted on his trek, thus far it had only been fortuitously-discovered fruit that had kept him alive. His stomach grumbled just at the thought.

With luck, soon he'd find a settlement where he could trade work for a real meal. Or failing that, steal something and move on.

Luck. Daran grimaced. His friends had proclaimed him lucky, when he'd taken up the dragon dice at Sludge's challenge, but he did not feel lucky now. In fact, he—

His thoughts were interrupted by a sound behind him. It was familiar; the sound of shod hooves upon the surface of the road. Instinct told him to seek cover, but as he turned around he saw that he'd already been seen by the approaching rider. With an effort, he forced himself to remain calm, and he stood to the side, waiting for him to approach.

The man was barely older than he, a well-built youth in his late teens or early twenties. But he carried himself with a calm confidence that bespoke a birth much higher than Daran's. That was borne out in his attire, a tunic and breeches of natty linen, covered with a loose outer coat of pleated cloth that dangled open at the cuffs and breast, enough to reveal the links of a light mail vest beneath. Daran immediately noted both the glint of silver at his neck and the slender blade he wore at his hip, a rapier with an ornate basket hilt. His horse looked to be as true-bred as he was, and as it drew nearer Daran could see that it bore stuffed saddlebags in addition to its rider.

The young man regarded Daran with a cold look as he approached.

"Good afternoon, m'lord," Daran said with a slight bow. He couldn't help his eyes drifting to the plump waterskin hanging from the other's saddle. The only answer he got was a nod, barely polite. It looked like the young noble was going to keep on riding.

"Ah... m'lord, would you mind if I traveled with you? I have heard that there are bandits on the trade road, and you obviously know how to handle yourself."

"I have neither the need nor the desire for company. Good day."

"Ah," Daran interjected, stepping in front of the man's horse, "Could I at least ask for a small drink from your skin? I've been walking all day, and I'm dying for a swallow of water."

"Your own fault for not bringing a skin with you," the man said. "I say again, good day." He spurred his mount forward, forcing Daran to skitter out of his path. For a moment his hand stole to the rocks in his pocket, but he forestalled himself. No, that would be stupid.

The noble apparently didn't think him above it, for he kept a close eye on him as he rode off, darting frequent looks over his shoulder until he was a good fifty or sixty feet ahead. The rider was still looking back when a goblin emerged from the bushes ahead of him and shot him with an arrow.

The rider jerked back, and the horse reared, letting out a startled cry as more goblins, at least a half dozen of them, emerged from the brush along both sides of the road. They were ugly, stunted little things, barely four feet tall, though they moved hunched over, with an odd, skittering gait. They carried weapons that seemed crude but were obviously effective, small bows and spears that they poked at the crazed horse and its rider as they spread out to surround them.

The nobleman nearly lost his perch, but as Daran watched, stunned by the sudden violence, he managed to yank hard on the reins and turn the horse around. A goblin with a spear tried to cut them off, but he got a hoof in the face for his trouble. Daran watched as the goblin was flung back, and could see the indentation in his face even from where he was—obviously the horse was iron-shod.

The youth could also see the arrow jutting from the nobleman's side as he roughly kicked the horse into motion. The beast shot forward as if shot from a catapult, breaking the ring of goblins, which shouted angrily after their fleeing quarry.

A quarry that happened to be fleeing directly toward Daran.

The young man froze as the horse bore down on him, its shod hooves pounding on the packed surface of the road like hammers. By the time that his brain had processed the danger it was already right on top of him, and he flung up his arms in a vain attempt to protect himself from being crushed.

The horse screamed again, and Daran blinked, belatedly realizing that he was not dead. He heard a solid thump on the road ahead of him, and lowered his hands to see the nobleman lying in the dirt maybe six paces ahead. The horse was even closer, rearing again, lashing out wildly with its hooves in a wild frenzy. Daran jerked back reflexively even though those deadly hooves were a good six feet away; he didn't want to suffer the same fate as that goblin.

The sudden thought of the goblins drew his attention back down the road. The goblins were still there, and they were coming closer.

The sight of the creatures unfroze his muscles. The horse turned, looking for a way out that wasn't blocked. It nearly trampled its master in the process, who was trying unsuccessfully to get back to his feet. Daran saw the arrow sticking from the horse's hindquarters, put it together all at once. He moved without thinking, lunging in, narrowly avoiding being knocked down as the horse jerked reflexively toward him. He grabbed onto the pommel of the saddle, and pulled himself up onto the horse's back. The animal was still skittish and obviously in pain, and he almost lost his grip before his feet found the stirrups, but fear gave him strength, and he held onto the pommel for dear life.

The horse twisted and bucked, and as it turned he caught sight of the goblins again. They were only about twenty paces away, now, and still closing, if a bit wary, now. An arrow shot past him before he had a chance to even notice the archer, who had hung back behind the others, and who reached for another arrow from the quiver at his hip.

Daran desperately reached for the reins, which had fallen forward over the horse's head in its gyrations. The horse let out another wild cry, and once again nearly tossed him off its back.

"Help me!"

Daran looked down to see the nobleman reaching for him. The young man—now bedraggled, his fine coat soaked with blood from the wound in his gut—had gotten to his feet, but the saddle of the horse may as well have been on top of a mountain for him. Still, he tried, desperation flaring in his eyes. "A fortune... yours... pull me up!" he hissed, grabbing at Daran's leg. For a moment, his hands closed on Daran's, and he felt himself being pulled down by the other's weight. The goblins were close enough now for him to hear their guttural cries.

"You'll kill us both!" Daran yelled. He tore his hand free; he felt something hard in his hand, and reflexively formed a fist around it. He drove that fist down into the nobleman's face. The man screamed and fell onto his back. Daran jerked back up and kicked the horse with both heels, and it launched forward again, fortunately in the direction of the road instead of into the trees and the tangled brush that fronted the road to both sides. Daran was reduced to holding on for dear life, unable to do anything to affect the horse's wild course.

He did not look back.

* * * * *

Chapter 5

It was a radically different-looking, if still footsore and tired, young man who made his way into the town of Vimbros. The community of ramshackle wooden structures that crowded around a core of older, more distinguished stone buildings seemed like a grand metropolis to Daran's eyes, certainly in comparison to his village, or even Tollerton.

He approached the weathered stone bridge that crossed the river Charathis, and paused to look down at the town's docks below. Dozens of small vessels were tied up along the wooden piers, ranging from tiny one-man skiffs to lumbering barges bringing ore down from the mining camps in the upcountry hills. There had to be a hundred people in view, rushing about at a pace that seemed frenetic to the young villager.

The sun had just passed its noon peak and shone brightly in a cloudless sky. Daran had spent the last night in a thicket off the road, barely sleeping out of fear of goblins and other monstrosities whispered by his imagination. He told himself it was foolish, worrying about attacks this close to a major town of the barony, but then again, a day ago he would have thought it impossible for goblins to attack men on one of the baronial roads.

Despite the lingering weariness and worry that clung about him like a cloak, Daran had a slight spring in his step as he crossed the bridge and entered Vimbros. He was clad in silks, now, fine garments that showed off his lean form to good effect despite their slight looseness around his center. The lord whose horse he'd appropriated had left a full change of clothes in his saddlebags, in addition to a fine woolen blanket, a waterskin, and a dagger of real folded steel, not molded iron like all of the other knives he'd ever used. He carried the saddle under his arm, the bags over his shoulder; both were too valuable to simply discard, despite the inconvenience of the weight. He still wore his old boots, holes and all, but all in all he had little reason to complain.

And there was the ring, the one that had slid off of the young nobleman's hand into his own during their brief contact during the fight with the goblins. It was made of a metal he'd never seen before, dark and gray and without luster, marked with tiny, intricate patterns that he could not quite make out even when he squinted at them. It was too small for even his little finger, so he kept it hidden in a small pocket on the inside of his new vest. Even if it wasn't magic—the very thought sent a thrill of excitement down his spine—it was probably worth a fair bit of coin.

He regretted the loss of the horse. He'd ridden it hard and long after escaping the goblin ambush, the creature's own fear and pain proving an urging greater than anything he could provide. He'd thought the arrow wound in its hindquarters minor, but when the animal had finally blown itself out, and he'd stopped along the road, he'd found the injury swollen and puffy from infection. He'd had no idea how to deal with it, so he'd pressed on, walking the horse, hoping to find a village or farm along the road where he could seek treatment for the beast.

But he'd found no such settlement by day's end, and the horse was really suffering by then. Daran started to suspect that the goblin arrow had been tainted in some way, and he felt a renewed sense of gratitude that they hadn't managed to stick him. He'd started to have other thoughts by then as well, thoughts about how a wounded horse might lead to questions, questions that could lead to some unsatisfactory outcomes for someone who was already a fugitive. So he'd led the horse off the road for a ways, to a deep thicket that ran into a ravine. It took some doing to get the horse to go in there, as the thing was starting to become wild in its pain. He'd intended just to leave it there, but the animal was making noise, noise that might have been detected from the road. He had the dagger, but he didn't want to get blood on his splendid new clothes. So after he'd secured the horse's reins to a tree stump and climbed out of the ravine, he'd sought out a few big rocks the size of his head. It took quite a while, since the damned horse kept moving around, but eventually he was able to make an end of it.

The streets of Vimbros were narrow, crowded, and smelly. At least the stinks were familiar, Daran thought to himself, as he gawked at all of the other new sights. He was almost run over by a wagon drawn by a full team of six horses, but the teamster swallowed his angry curses after a look at his silks. Daran smiled to himself—he could get used to such deference.

But the simple fact remained that he had no coin, and he knew enough of towns to know that one could not get very far at all with such a lack.

Pausing to ask directions of a washerwoman, he turned down a side street that led back out toward the edge of town. The shifting wind brought new odors to him, and told him that he was heading in the right direction.

The shop was right across from the animal yards, where cows and pigs clustered miserably in pens, ignorant of the import of the men arguing back and forth over their fates. There was a more comfortable enclosure where horses were visible, although fewer of them were present, and a sharp-eyed man with a long dirk at his belt kept an eye out for any untoward behavior.

Daran went into the shop. The smells were familiar; he'd worked for a time in old man Darthon's place, but this operation made the villager's simple workshop look primitive by comparison. Pieces of leather in all shapes and sizes hung in sheets from the rafters, while finished goods dangled from hooks long the walls or were spread on shelves that occupied what little free space was available. A low counter subdivided the front and back portions of the shop. Three long workbenches formed a "T" in the rear of the place, supporting active projects; the shop owner looked up from one of these as Daran entered.

The leatherworker was not quite as old as Darthon, although there was more than a smattering of gray in his hair and beard. He took in Daran with a single sweeping look that missed nothing. "What aren' do fer ye, m'lord?" he asked.

Daran felt a thrill of nerves for some reason, but he forced himself to step forward boldly and put the saddle and bags onto the counter that ran across the room. "Had a spot of bad luck on the road," he said. "Horse broke a leg, sadly, nothing could be done. I don't fancy carrying this gear all the way back to Evros, wonder how much you'd give me for it. Leather's in good shape, excellent material."

"As you say, m'lord," the leatherworker said. He went over the saddle with expert hands, probing at the seams, grunting as he lifted it and turned it over. His eyes lingered for a moment on some dark stains near the horn. Daran had been worried about those too, but they really could have been anything. The shopmaster said nothing, but put the saddle down and gave the saddlebags an equally thorough investigation. "Three dolmens," he finally said.

An hour ago, Daran would have thought that a king's fortune, but in his walk through Vimbros he'd seen how much merchants were asking for their wares here. That much money might get him through a few days, or a few weeks, he wasn't sure. But he didn't know enough to guess whether the man was offering him a good price. The shop owner's weathered face may as well have been made of the same leather he hawked, it offered no clue. Daran didn't know if noblemen haggled, but he had an idea that they did not. The leatherworker merely waited, while Daran felt a flush of heat as the uncomfortable silence stretched out.

"Done," he finally said. The leatherworker nodded, drawing the silver coins out from a lockbox behind the counter. They felt heavy in Daran's hand, more money than he'd ever possessed in his life. The leatherworker shoved the saddle and bags onto a shelf behind him, and then returned to his workbench.

Thoroughly dismissed, Daran turned and left.

The craftsman waited until he'd been gone for a good five minutes before he put his tools down and went back to the shelf. He picked up the saddle and turned it over, looking more closely at the sigil burned into the dense leather. Nodding as his initial suspicion was confirmed, he tucked the saddle under his arm and grabbed his hat, closing and locking the door of the shop behind him. Pausing to pull his hat down low to protect his eyes from the afternoon sun, he set out in the direction of the river, and the small keep that stood watch over the town.

* * * * *

Chapter 6

Daran's suspicions about prices in Vimbros were confirmed as he haggled with the innkeeper at The Honest Wayfarer for food and lodging. He was half tempted to walk out and try his luck in the forest, but ultimately he slid a silver dolmen over the counter, accepting a few scant copper divots in exchange. He took a seat at a small table near the stairs for his luncheon. The stew was plain but filling, and the serving girl smiled at him when she brought him his mug of ale.

He wasn't the best-dressed man in the room, but it was clear that he would not have fit into this place at all in his original garments. The Wayfarer may or may not have been honest, but it clearly drew an eclectic crowd of merchants, tradesmen, and travelers who had more than a few dolmens to clink together in their purses. Armed men, likely guards for their more prosperous brethren, occupied a long table in a side room, close enough to be present in case of trouble, but far enough away so as not to offend the sensibilities of their betters.

He still had no plans beyond the day. His walk through Vimbros had not suggested any ideas. He thought about seeking work, but his skill set was not exactly diverse, and his clothes weren't exactly suited to hard labor. Perhaps it was the way the fine silks and linens made him feel, or maybe it was the unprecedented silver in his pocket, but at that moment Daran wasn't exactly inclined to dig ditches or muck out stalls.

"Good day, my young lord. M'lord?"

Daran belatedly realized that the man was talking to him. He looked up to see a middle-aged man, clearly prosperous, his considerable girth covered by a padded tunic trimmed with silver thread. He wore a sigil on a silver chain around his neck that probably identified his house; the design was meaningless to Daran.

"Something I can do for you?" he asked.

"My name is Tradas, m'lord, Yeran Tradas of the Tradas Coster and Exchange. I'm afraid that I'm detained in Vimbros awaiting a new axle. To pass the time, my companions and I are engaged in a round of King's Crown, but we have just lost our fourth. I could not help but observe that you have secured lodging for the night, as we have. Perhaps you would care honor us in our game?"

Daran almost blurted out that he preferred dicing, but he doubted that young noblemen engaged in such sport. He knew of King's Crown, at least that it was played with a deck of cards; people like Allus Sovern played it. "I'm afraid I'm not familiar with the game."

An almost predatory look flashed across the merchant's face, concealed quickly behind a neutral smile. "It's really quite easy, I would be happy to instruct you, young ser..."

"Daran," he said, realizing too late that it might have been better to make up an alias. "I... ah, I lost my horse, and I'm not flush in coin at the moment."

"No worries, young Daran. It's just a friendly game, a few divots here and there. Come, join us. It'll pass the day away, and it's better than being out in that damnable heat outside."

Nodding, Daran rose and followed him.

The merchant's companions were seated at a table secluded in a nearly private nook behind the bar. Tradas introduced him first to Gelran, a second trader even more portly than Tradas, dressed in a vermillion coat that he wore buttoned to the collar despite the warmth of the common room. The second man was leaner, more exotic, with the darkened skin of a southerner, and a beard that had been trimmed down to a jutting point. He bounced a divot on his knuckles as Tradas introduced him. "This is the mighty Albrizar, a magi from the south, currently in our employ."

* * *

Daran leaned back in his cell. His guts were on fire, now, but even that extremely unpleasant sensation was overshadowed by the dread brought by that the faint brightening through the bars of the sole tiny window high along the dungeon wall outside the cells. A faint moan escaped his lips.

"You have gift for tale-telling, young Daran," Albrizar said, his expression perhaps softening slightly, or maybe just a trick of the poor lighting. "Please, continue the story."

"You know the rest," Daran said, his eyes captured by that terrible glow slowly brightening beyond the window.

"I know part of it, but to hear the rest from your perspective may be enlightening. Pray, do continue. It will help to take your mind off of... matters."

Daran nodded, absently, even the pain in his belly fading as a numbness began to spread through him. He barely even noticed his lips moving as he resumed his narrative.

* * *

"Magi?" Daran asked, unable to conceal his surprise.

Tradas and Gelran shared a look. "Why don't you show him the _Ignus Fatuus_?" Gelran said, as Daran and Tradas took their seats. The trader had a thick accent, and Daran could see gold rings on each of his fingers, which looked like fat sausages.

"I am not inclined to perform tricks at your behest," Albrizar said.

"You accept our coin readily enough," Gelran said. Albrizar bristled, but Tradas intervened. "Come now, clearly our young friend would like to see your talents, and personally I never get tired of the display."

Albrizar snorted, but he lifted a hand, turning his wrist in a grand flourish. As the palm turned up, he opened his fingers, revealing a bright ball of red flame that hovered in his grasp. The flames burned eagerly, but they neither scorched the wizard's flesh, nor consumed any fuel that Daran could see. Fascinated, he leaned forward, captivated by the display.

He was caught by surprise as the wizard flicked his hand forward, hurling the ball of flames at Daran.

Daran let out a small shriek and fell back, nearly tipping his chair over backwards. He patted violently at the flames that splashed over his chest, causing the bright flickers to spread out, twining around his fingers like wisps of smoke.

Except that there was no smoke, no heat, nothing save the glowing tendrils that rapidly began to fade. Daran looked up, eyes wide, to see the two merchants caught in paroxysms of laughter, the pair rubbing tears from the corners of their eyes as their considerable frames shook with humor. Albrizar's lips twisted into what might have been a hint of a smile.

"What is the meaning of this?" Daran exclaimed, jerking to his feet. "You invite me over here so you could attack me with your sorcery?"

Tradas grasped his elbow. "Peace, my good sir," he said. "It was but an idle prank. Come, we will make it good with you, by teaching you the glories of King's Crown. As reparations, I will fund your stake. Gelran, please give our young lord a dolmen's worth of tokens, from my tally."

The innkeeper had come over, attracted by Daran's cries, accompanied by a man whose muscles seemed to bulge out from under his tunic like overripe fruit. Seeing that no fight was inclement, the big brute looked disappointed, and after a moment, he returned to the main room. Daran hesitated; a free dolmen was no small thing, and while he had never played with the cards that lay in a stack before Gelran, he'd always been lucky.

The game was not especially complicated, although it took Daran a few rounds to learn the various cards and how they interacted. The game used five suits of cards, numbered one through eight, with a special card bearing a crown in each of the five colors. These cards were the most valuable, and greatly augmented a hand. Most of the cards were displayed on the table, but each player kept two private in his hand, forcing the other players to attempt to deduce their value. Daran lost a few tokens, then won a few, while the two merchants instructed him on the various strategies. Through it all Albrizar remained almost silent, holding his cards in a compact alignment in front of him.

"Well played, young master!" Tradas exclaimed, as Daran placed down his last two cards, indicating two crowns that pushed his total hand to the highest value displayed. "You seem to have a knack for games of chance."

"Crowns is a game of skill," Gelran said, plopping a dolmen into the small box in the middle of the table, drawing out a fresh supply of tokens for his wagers. There was a small mound of silver and copper there, the top of the pile just peeking out above the rim, drawing Daran's eyes with regularity. Both merchants observed this, and shared a private look.

"Teaching our young friend here has given me a thirst," Tradas said. "Allow me to treat you all to a bottle of the innkeeper's finest vintage."

"Bah, the wines of this region are mediocre at best," Gelran said. But he didn't protest further when Tradas summoned the innkeeper, or when a bottle and four glasses were brought to the table. Tradas poured, giving all of them a generous portion.

The game proceeded, and Daran's string of luck came to an abrupt end. Gelran treated for a second bottle, and the young man's head began to swim as his tokens rapidly abandoned him. He found himself turning in first one and then his second dolmen, but still the cards seemed to turn against him. The game continued as the sunlight streaming in through the smoky windows faded, and the inn became populated with the evening crowd. The merchants ordered snacks to accompany their drinking, and the game proceeded through dinner, with the four of them stirring only to attend to natural promptings.

Returning from one such trip, Daran met up with Albrizar in the hallway. "Your stamina is considerable," the wizard said. "You may wish to accept your losses and retire."

"My luck will return," Daran said.

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. I would not underestimate my current employers." He said nothing more, moving past Daran toward the jakes.

Daran returned to the table, grimacing at the small size of his remaining stack of tokens. Gelran and Tradas welcomed him eagerly, and Daran began to feel like a rabbit caught in a snare.

However, this time, as play resumed, Daran's luck indeed seemed to have returned. He won several consecutive hands on the last card, and while the merchants seemed to have grown conservative, reducing their wagers considerably, nevertheless Daran's pile of tokens expanded rapidly. Albrizar had been reduced primarily to an observer, betting the minimum amount, and withdrawing from hands quickly once the wager grew beyond a few tokens. His stack of tokens had waxed and waned but slightly from its original quantity, and he had not invested new funds since Daran's arrival at the table.

The game seemed to pick up speed, with the two merchants pressing Daran from both sides. Both men began to sweat, and after a hand where Daran again picked up a desperately needed crown on the final draw, Gelran finally loosened the collar on his coat. He still had yet to draw the merchants into a large wager, as they somehow seemed to be able to divine whether he held valuable cards or dross in his private hand, but they were still losing, and Daran's pile continued to grow.

Finally, after another hand concluded with a victory, he blinked and looked down to realize that he owned well more than half of the available tokens from the game box. The mound of silver—the copper now almost invisible—leaned precariously out from the container. Daran felt a sudden cold chill, as though he'd sat down in the torrent of a mountain stream, and the alcoholic haze that had clouded his senses parted enough for him to realize long he'd been here.

"Well, are you going to open the round?" Gelran asked, rather more testily now than he had spoken earlier. Tradas's constant smile had ebbed as well, and now he had a sharp look, his brows drawn down low over his hooded eyes. Daran could not imagine how he'd thought the man to have an amiable look, before.

He yawned. It was not a feigned gesture; his eyes suddenly felt as though heavy weights had been affixed to the lids. "I greatly enjoyed the game, gentlemen, but I doubt I will be much sport if I remain longer. I would to my bed, please exchange these for coin." He slid his tokens forward. The merchants, sharing another look, were not at all pleased, but Gelran quickly counted the tokens and traded them for coins from the box.

Daran blinked as he looked down at the small mound of silver and copper coins in front of him. His hands shook slightly as he gathered them up and poured the small horde into his purse.

The merchants were far from gracious, but they did not interfere as Daran collected his winnings and unsteadily made his way to the stairs, ascending to the second floor of the inn, where the rooms were located. The chamber assigned to him was at the far end, the roof slanting deeply under a jutting eave, the bedding just a rude pallet with a straw mattress and a few ratty blankets. But his concerns about the high costs of lodging in Vimbros had eased significantly, and he laughed as he jangled the coins in his now-heavy purse.

"Luck, luck, luck!" he said. He splashed his face with water from the basin—chipped, but serviceable—and used the chamber pot. He was tired, tired to the bone, but once refreshed he realized that he was also ravenously hungry. The merchants had ordered foodstuffs at the table during their long game, but he'd drunk more than he'd eaten, and the result was a bit of roiling unsteadiness in his gut that demanded something more substantial.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he drew out his ring from the inner pocket of his vest. He liked to look at it, the tiny little thing, its patterns dancing around the outer part of the band. An odd reflex had him trying it on again, although when he'd tried before, it hadn't even fit on his smallest finger. To his surprise, this time it slid up to the second knuckle, although he couldn't get past that. Taking the ring off again, he frowned at it, turning it over and over again with his fingers.

A grumbling in his belly reminded him of more pressing matters. Replacing the ring in its pocket, he looked around the room, considering stashing part or all of his newfound wealth. But remembering his interactions with the innkeeper, and the shifty look the man had about him, he finally elected to keep his coin with him, carefully folding the purse and tucking it into his trousers so that it wouldn't be obvious or make noise.

The common room was still well-populated, although less so that it had been earlier. A pair of musicians, armed with a flute and six-stringed lute, had set up on a bench along the far wall near the door, playing a lively melody. The flutist had a number of bangles sewn to his sleeve, which he shook occasionally, adding punctuation to his melodies. Daran stood there on the stairs for a few long moments, watching the pair perform.

"Hungry, m'lord?"

Daran started and looked down to see the innkeeper regarding him with an odd expression. "Ah, yes. I missed supper earlier, thought I could get something."

"Of course. If you'll take a seat at that back table there, I will send Jeara over with something for you."

Daran sat, his head still swimming from the wine, and the noise of the busy inn. The melodies played by the musicians blended into the general din, and the young man had difficulty sorting anything out of the mix.

The food helped. Jeara wasn't the girl who had served him earlier and smiled at him, and she ignored him once she'd laid his meal out before him on the table. In addition to the stew, which was very close to what he'd eaten earlier that day for lunch, there was a fat loaf of black bread and a daub of herbed butter that had a slightly bitter tang to it. The ale was good, but after his experience with the wine Daran drank it slowly, taking sips to cool his tongue after bites of the hot stew.

He felt much refreshed by the time he'd finished, and was able to focus his attentions when Jeara returned to collect his dishes. The server was brusque, but to his surprise she leaned in close once she had everything. "Deana said to meet her out in the back courtyard, by the water pump," she said.

"Who?"

Jeara glanced around before responding; she seemed nervous. "Deana. The other girl. She served you earlier today."

"What does she want?"

"How should I know?" Jeara tisked. "I'm just to give you the message, and I've done that." She hurried off to the kitchen with her loaded tray, almost dropping the mug before straightening and vanishing through the narrow doorway behind the bar.

Daran remembered the girl, and how she'd smiled at him. With a wry grin, he got up and headed for the hall leading to the back of the inn.

The night was still young, the cool evening breeze coming low off the river, taking with it some of the smells of the crowded town. The courtyard back of the inn was surrounded by a tall wall of mortared stone some seven feet high. A garden that had obviously not been tended for some time lay off to the right, while to the left there was a storage shed, and a narrow doorway that led onto the adjacent stableyard.

And there was the pump, standing next to a long trough beside the shed. Daran headed that way, looking for the girl, enjoying the pleasant stirring in his loins at the thought of her. His first thought was that she was waiting in the shed, but he detected movement to the left, at the gap in the wall that led to the stables, and turned that way. But his light greeting died in his throat as a figure too tall and big to be the girl materialized in the doorway.

He turned around to see that two others had appeared behind him, coming out of the inn. One was a lean, lanky fellow with a sagging old cap pulled down low over his brow. The other was bigger, with a boiled leather vest and a squared beard; for a moment, Daran thought it was Garath, Sovern's man, somehow catching up to him here. But then the big man spoke, and his voice was deeper, thicker, though no less threatening.

"Hand over the coin, boy, and you can walk out of here."

Daran scanned the courtyard, looking for a route of escape, but both exits were blocked. "Careful there, Dregs, this one's got a flighty look to him," the reedy man standing in the threshold of the inn's back door said. He and the man standing in the stableyard door laughed, but Dregs's expression didn't shift, his hard eyes boring into Daran's.

"Leave me be, or I will shout for the Watch," Daran said.

"You obviously have not been in Vimbros long," Dregs said. He stepped forward, and Daran retreated until the bulk of the storage shed loomed up behind him. It offered little in the way of sanctuary; its door was an affair of thin planks that would have slowed a big man like Dregs for scant moments. "The Watch is in the pocket of the costers. Only a fool would think to cheat one of the coster heads in an inn that he owned, and think he'd get clear of it."

"Yeah, you stuck you head in the bloomin' noose, boy!" the dark figure in the stableyard doorway said. Daran still couldn't make out his face, in the bad light.

"You keep your mouth shut, Rozo, or I'll give you a share after I've handled this whelp," Dregs said, without taking his eyes off Daran. "Give me the coin, boy. If you make me take it, it'll go worse for you, I promise that."

"I didn't cheat anyone!" Daran exclaimed. His back pressed up against the shed. He tried to sidle around it, but Dregs shifted a step forward, blocking him.

"I don't care whether you did or not," Dregs said, holding him with that stare. His hands looked big enough to crack walnuts. "Master Tradas wants his money back, and my job is to see that he gets what he wants. I won't ask again."

"My father is a powerful lord, he—"

Daran's breath crashed out of his body as Dregs smashed a fist into his gut. There had been no warning; the big man had just _moved_ , the blow striking before Daran could even see it coming. He started to crumple, his muscles turning to water, but something grabbed him, held him up. Then he felt a hammerblow across the side of his head, and he was in the dirt, the tangy taste of blood thick in his mouth.

"If he's a lordling, it could be trouble," Rozo hissed.

Rough hands grabbed him, slammed him hard up against the shed. Daran's vision wasn't steady, but he could see Dregs looming over him, pinning him with one fist clenched around the front of his tunic. "He's no noble's get," the big man said. "I don't know where you stole that suit, boy, but you need to learn that clothes don't make the man."

"He ain' got no purse," Rozo hissed. Hands padded at his clothes, but they failed to find the bag of coins he'd hidden.

"Where's the money, boy?" Dregs asked. He shifted slightly, the hand not holding Daran coming up just enough for him to see the fist.

"I... in... room," Daran was able to gasp out.

"Give me the key, then, and my boys will keep you company here while I fetch it."

Daran grabbed the key out of his pocket, but it fumbled from his fingers as he thrust it at the big guardsman. As Rozo went for it, and Dregs's eyes followed, Daran tried to get free. He punched the big man's elbow as hard as he could, hard enough so that his own hand felt a stinging pain as it smacked into the joint. The grip holding loosened only fractionally, but it was enough for him to break free. Daran spun toward the garden, hoping to vault the wall before the others could catch him.

He didn't get far. Dregs's hand closed on his collar before he'd taken his first step, and he was spun wildly around, his feet leaving the ground altogether before he was slammed into the shed hard enough to crack the heavy wooden boards that formed its wall. Daran fell to the ground, and barely had time to suck in a painful breath of air before a boot caught him in the ribs, lifting him back into the air, flipping him over before he sprawled again upon the packed dirt.

"I told you it would go worse," a cold voice said. "Bleed him a little," Dregs said, and Daran could do nothing as rough hands pulled him up, thrusting him back hard against the wall of the shed. Then a faint gleam of light shone off of a length of steel, and Daran knew that his luck had finally deserted him.

* * * * *

Chapter 7

"Release him."

A bright glow appeared in the courtyard near the door. Daran looked up to see the mage Albrizar standing there, a globe of brilliant red fire cupped in his raised right hand. The two men holding Daran sucked in a breath of alarm, but their grip on him did not loosen.

"This is not your concern," Dregs said to him. "We're here on the merchant's orders."

"I did not ask why you were here," Albrizar said. The flames seemed to crawl around his fingers and around his hand, all the way to the wrist, but did not harm him. "You will release him."

The two thugs shared a worried look, but Dregs would not be cowed. Turning to face the wizard, he said, "You may have a knack for finding water, curing a stomach ache, or predicting whether it will rain, but you're no magi."

"I will teach you otherwise if you test me."

"What are you going to do, throw fire at me? Remember, I've seen your tricks, southerner."

"As you say, I have eased the burning of your guts with my philters. But the pulsmatic hex can accomplish the opposite," Albrizar said, lifting his other hand, and passing it in front of him in an elaborate weave. "You will feel my fire in your vitals," he said, adding words in an unfamiliar tongue.

"Boss, maybe we should," Rozo began, but Dregs cut him off. "Shut up." The big man started toward Albrizar, the threat obvious in the way he moved, but he abruptly stopped with a grunt.

Daran felt it, a slow churning in his guts that felt several times worse than the time he and the other boys had stolen a dram of tobacco and smoked it behind farmer Kurhan's stables. The men holding him obviously felt it too; they released him and clutched at their bellies, Rozo leaning over to vomit the contents of his onto the ground. Daran was free, but he couldn't move; it took everything he had to avoiding doing the same.

Dregs, however, was either not affected or was able to overcome the magic. He stepped forward to confront the mage, who dropped a hand into a pocket of his cloak. "Come no further, or I will be forced to harm you!"

The brute snarled. "I've wanted to do this for quite some time," he said, lifting a fist. Albrizar drew out his hand and hurled something into the man's face. All that Daran saw was a sparkling cloud that glimmered in the air between them for an instant, then vanished.

Dregs felt it, however. The big man yelled in obvious pain and staggered back, clutching at his eyes. The two thugs in front of Daran had clearly seen enough; together they broke and ran through the stableyard gate, vanishing in an instant. After a moment, Dregs followed, crashing through the gateway blind, almost falling as his shoulder caromed off of the narrow threshold. Daran could hear the noise of his retreat, culminating in the noise of the outer stable door slamming shut a few seconds later.

Daran looked up as Albrizar came forward, giving the heap of bile left by Rozo a wide berth. He'd let his magical flames lapse, casting the small courtyard back into deep gloom. "That was... powerful magic," Daran said.

The wizard snorted. "Vannis powder is anything but magical. It is expensive, however, and I suspect that my actions tonight will ensure that I will need to seek out new employment."

Daran looked to the stableyard door. "Will they be back?"

"The blindness and pain caused by the powder are merely temporary, and of course, the hex is but a mummer's trick, a cantrip that can briefly discomfit the weak minded. I suspect that they will report to their masters ere they return, but it might be a good idea to seek new lodgings elsewhere. I trust you are recovered?"

Daran nodded; the nausea he'd felt had faded as quickly as it had come. He had a tougher time getting to his feet, but he did it, the wizard watching him silently. "Why... why did you help me?"

"I am not sure that I know myself," the man said. "Come. If you have anything of worth left in your room, gather it swiftly, and let us be off. I know a quiet place on the opposite side of town that exercises discretion on behalf of their customers, and I believe that I can negotiate a fair price for our custom. You will be paying, naturally."

"Yeah, sure," Daran said. "I didn't leave anything in my room." He almost reflexively grasped his trousers, confirming that the purse he'd hidden was still there.

"Then let us be off."

* * *

The next morning, Daran and Albrizar sat at a back table in the inn, enjoying small mugs of strong coffee, freshly brewed from crystals imported from the south. The hot liquid gave Daran a firm jolt that wasn't altogether unpleasant, although the price the innkeeper had quoted when Albrizar had requested it had made him blanch. But for now, at least, he was well off, and he felt it would have been petty to refuse the man who had saved both his wealth and quite possibly his life.

The wizard had a generous appetite, although the fare was rather plain, biscuits slathered in somewhat lumpy gravy, along with small black sausages that burned with the zing of pepper. The meal and the room had cost him less than he'd paid at The Honest Wayfarer, even with the cost of an extra bed added to his tally. But he'd been in Vimbros long enough to know that even the purse full of dolmens he carried wouldn't last for more than a few weeks.

"So, young Daran, what will you do now?" Albrizar asked, leaning back in his chair, letting out a belch of contentment.

"I... I don't know. I guess I didn't think that far ahead."

"If I might make a suggestion? Secure some decent boots. The ones you are wearing now create a discordant effect when contrasted with the remainder of your wardrobe."

Daran looked down at the boots, the last vestige of his humble origins. "Yeah, I guess that's a good idea," he said. "What about you, wizard? I guess the merchants will be angry with you."

The wizard's lips twisted into a wry grin. "You could say that. I thought I might try my luck to the west. Lots of scattered villages out there where a man with my talents might make a coin or two. Perhaps you would care to accompany me? I could use a companion with audacity and luck, combined with the energy of youth."

Daran shook his head. "I can't go back... that is, I thought I'd head east."

Albrizar fixed him with a weighing look. "Mark for the baron's capitol, eh? Well, I suppose Evros has sufficient excitement to draw an enterprising young man. As for me, I have had enough excitement for..."

He cut off in mid-sentence, his eyes narrowing, and Daran followed his gaze to the door, where five armed and armored men clad in identical livery had just entered the inn. He recognized the sigil threaded across the surcoats of red fabric covering their chests; a much smaller copy was stitched into the breast of his tunic.

His body tensed, but Albrizar touched his arm. "Do not be foolish. Those are the baron's men."

Daran turned in his seat. His hand fumbled inside his tunic, then he raised it to his mouth. After a second he turned back, looking rather pale, but he didn't try to run.

The leader of the squad scanned the room quickly before his eyes settled on the table where Daran and Albrizar were seated. His soldiers spread out behind him as he walked over to them.

"Something we can do for you this day, subaltern?" Albrizar asked.

"You will come with us. Bind their hands."

It was too late to try to flee. As rough hands grasped him, Daran shot a desperate look at Albrizar, but the mage's expression was one of resignation, and he offered no resistance as the soldiers took the pair into custody.

* * *

The glow coming through the bars had brightened into the gray shade of the immediate pre-dawn. Daran could now clearly see down the length of the cell block, although none of the other prisoners were visible behind the bars, save Albrizar, who sat quietly in his cell, as resigned now as he'd been on that morning just a few days ago, when Daran's luck had fled for good.

"Why didn't you try to escape?" Daran asked Albrizar. "You could have tried the fire, or the hex, or something, anything. Even if you'd only distracted them, I could have gotten away."

"There was no point to it. I do not believe in throwing away my life foolishly."

"Yeah, but they're going to kill me," Daran shot back, his voice breaking. His eyes kept sliding back to that barred opening, then beyond it, down the corridor that led outside. He couldn't see the outer door from his cell, but he imagined it, thick and heavy, implacable. Imagined the treat of booted feet approaching it.

'What happened to the ring?" Albrizar asked.

"What?"

"The ring. The one you took from the young nobleman, on the western road."

"I, ah... I lost it. Before the soldiers took us."

"A pity. From your description, it sounded as though it might have been magical."

"What kind of magic?"

"Without the ability to examine the device, I cannot be certain. But I have heard that the wizards of the north empower such bands with protective magic. I would not be surprised to find such a boon in the possession of a scion of the nobility. It might also explain why the young lad was so confident, to travel such a road alone."

"It didn't help him," Daran said. "It didn't help me, either."

"I am truly sorry," Albrizar said.

"I tried to tell him," Daran said. "I told the baron what happened! They wouldn't listen... they wouldn't believe me... I didn't kill anyone!"

A noise echoed through the cell block, a harsh clank of metal. Daran rose, slowly. The ache in his gut had settled down to a steady fire, but he ignored it, ignored everything save for the corridor.

The sound of booted feet approaching, not imaginary, now, but real, all too real.

Daran turned to Albrizar. "Please! You must help me!"

"There is nothing I can do," Albrizar said. "I shall offer a prayer, that your spirit will find its way to the Fair Realms."

The footsteps grew closer, and Daran turned to see the jailor appear around the bend in the corridor. He was a gaunt, wiry figure of a man, shorter even than Daran, but the two soldiers who followed were huge brutes, men who would have made even Dregs seem scant by comparison.

He struggled, he resisted, but to no avail. The hands that gripped him were like iron bands, and when he tried to claw his way free, lashing and kicking like a wild man, one delivered a blow to the base of his skull that quieted him at once. Dazed, he was half-walked, half-carried out of the dungeon, down the corridor, through the thick iron-banded door, then up first one set of stairs, then another. And then into the courtyard, where the bright rays of the dawn sunshine blinded him with their brilliance. The warm glow touched him, and he cried at the beauty of the morning.

It wasn't until they reached the gallows constructed in the middle of the square that he came back to himself. Only then did he realize that he was surrounded by people, nobles and commoners alike, clad in a dizzying variety of raiment, their attention fixed upon him. He was startled by the hatred he saw in their eyes, but then the gallows drew his attention, and he could see nothing else.

His feet refused to carry him, and he fumbled, trying to avoid the rough wooden steps that led up to the platform. With the two hulking guards holding him, he may have well been trying to arrest a plummeting fall off a cliff while halfway down. The crowd had been quiet with his arrival, but now he began to hear jeers, shouted taunts, hisses of derision from those closest. They were nothing to him; everything was that noose, hovering like a deadly unblinking eye, witnessing his approach.

A wagon lay behind the gallows; several bodies covered in black cloth already occupied its bed. Daran tried to protest, to say something that would stir someone, anyone, to pity, but his mind had frozen. The executioner—a lean man who looked more like a clerk than a butcher—gestured, and two of his helpers stepped forward to take custody of Daran. There was no declaration, no preamble, just a rough thrust forward to the center of the platform, where a square outline indicated the location of the trap door in the floor. They put him on that, and when he tried to get clear another buffet sent him reeling. But they didn't let him fall, dragging him to the noose, fixing it around his head.

He'd heard that sometimes condemned men were hooded, but they did not even offer him that option. He didn't even have time to think before the lever swung, and the floor dropped away from under him.

He heard a loud crack, and then a terrible crushing sensation. He kicked, once, twice, and then everything folded into gray, and came to an end.

* * * * *

BOOK 2

Chapter 8

The smartest goblin in the Barony of Evros, perhaps in the entirety of the territory that had once comprised the Empire of Amar, was scrubbing dirty pots. His wiry arms thrashed up and down as he worked a bristle-brush against the crude iron containers. Behind him, in the doorway, a pair of females tittered in amusement, but the goblin studiously ignored them. The task was punishment duty, intended to be a humiliation, but in truth, he didn't mind the work all that much. There were worse chores.

The noise from the females stopped abruptly. The goblin turned to see a newcomer in the doorway, a lanky young goblin clad in the tunic of an acolyte.

"Og'ok wants to see you," the other goblin barked.

Such a request could not be denied, at least not by a goblin with any sense. The dishwasher quickly removed his work apron, a tattered white rag barely sufficient to be called cloth, and followed the acolyte. The creature was silent, and the other was left to ponder the many possible permutations of significance behind this unusual invitation.

It did not take them long to reach the holy quarters of the elder shaman. Neither goblin stood taller than four feet, but both still had to duck low to avoid the dangling fetishes that hung from the lintel and announced their destination. The empty skulls that hung from the cords seemed to mock them, twisting ever so slightly in the nonexistent breeze.

The outer chamber was decorated by a century of accumulated drawings and crude devices of wood and bone that were affixed to the walls and ceiling. A thick smell of something unfamiliar hung in the air, somehow unpleasant and alluring in the same instant. There were no chairs, but a crude altar of bones overlaid with a stretched leather hide was aligned against one wall. A censer of ancient bronze hung directly above it, currently unlit. The only illumination came from a pair of thick tallow candles that fluttered gamely beside two round tunnel mouths in the far wall, dark openings warded by hanging furs. The acolyte headed for one of those exits. The other goblin knew better than to follow him.

The acolyte disappeared behind one of the furs. It seemed only seconds before the barrier moved again, revealing the figure of Og'ok.

The shaman radiated an air of great wisdom, but there was also something unnerving in his stare, a potency that tended to make one lower their eyes. He was not wearing his usual robes, his bare torso revealing the crisscross of self-inflicted scars that covered his body. A pair of bone-handled daggers were arranged at his waist, alongside a pouch that no doubt contained unpleasant things, the bric-a-brac of his collected magic. Other ornaments were woven into his hair, mostly small bones and scraps of fabric.

"Welcome, Filcher," the shaman said.

"Great one," Filcher said, lowering his head a notch further.

The shaman walked across the room, drawing nearer until Filcher could smell the faint odor of blood that hung around the other goblin like a cloak.

"I have been watching you, Filcher. You are smart... almost too smart. You have antagonized the warriors on times too numerous to count. You would do well to learn wisdom, and to recognize the advantage of concealing your true feelings."

Filcher said nothing, recognizing that the shaman was not inviting dialogue on these points.

"It is a pity that you are too old to be initiated in the rituals of the shamanic cult," Og'ok went on. "You might have made a good servant of the Black Spirits."

At that comment, Filcher did feel a chill, and had to repress a shudder that would have betrayed him. If the shaman detected his reaction, he did not show it. Filcher knew that they would eventually get to the reason why he'd been called here, so he tried to remain still and waited for it.

"The Spirits have revealed much to me, and have helped to protect our tribe for many lifetimes," the shaman continued. "But they in turn, demand a high price for their aid."

Filcher knew this to be true. His eyes flickered slightly, to the scars covering the shaman's body. This time, the goblin did acknowledge the motion.

"Yes. I have sacrificed much to them, all for the good of the tribe. But it is time for a greater commitment."

The shaman continued to pace, walking a broad circle around Filcher, who stood silent, facing forward.

"As you know, the chief has recently sent parties of warriors to raid the human lands to the south of us. Teams have stalked the human trade road, and scouted isolated farmsteads far from their soldier forts and walled towns. Your standard grab-and-slip, as the warriors style it."

"Yes, I had heard," Filcher said.

"And did you hear the reason for these raids, in your listenings?" Og'ok snapped at him.

Filcher quickly dropped his eyes, silently cursing his loose tongue. "No, great one," he said, keeping his head bowed low in a gesture of respect.

"The Black Spirits require a sacrifice," the shaman said, pointing to the altar. "This they have revealed to me. They demand blood, and will reward us with great power."

Filcher did not respond, nor look up, but he felt a small tremor, a bad feeling that rapidly spread from his gut throughout his body. He sensed the shaman approaching, his proximity intensifying the sensation until he could not suppress a shudder. For a long moment, Og'ok said nothing, perhaps letting the tension grow until Filcher's fear matured.

"The raids have been disappointing thus far," the shaman finally said. "The raiders slew a few humans, but did not bring me the prize that the Spirits require. I have expressed my displeasure to those involved."

Filcher remained silent, but he was starting to have an idea of where this was going.

"Human soldiers have stepped up patrols on the roads, and there have been several incursions along the edges of our territory to the south. However, they dare not enter our mountains, and things are quieter to the east, where the humans send their people to dig metal from the ground."

"The Black Spirits must have their sacrifice. I have prevailed upon the warchief to send another expedition east, into the Grol Hills. Basher will be in charge, and Tog and Noggle will go with you, as well as a fist of warriors."

"As for you... I have a special task for you. The warriors... well, their skills are useful, but in the heat of the fray they often neglect their instructions. Basher, in particular... well, I do not need to tell you, do I?"

Og'ok halted directly behind him. Filcher could feel the elder goblin's hot breath on his ear. "You will ensure that I get a prisoner. A miner, or a merchant, perhaps. The captive must be brought to me alive. If you fail, I will be... displeased."

Something cold and slimy brushed against Filcher's neck, and the goblin stiffened. It slithered along his collarbone, across his throat. Filcher closed his eyes, trembling, unable to release the breath that was burning in his lungs. But then the feeling passed, and he felt a slight brush of air against him.

He opened his eyes, and looked around.

The room was empty. He was alone.

Swallowing heavily, he rushed off toward his quarters.

* * *

The men came for Arla while she was drawing water in the courtyard of the old castle.

She had filled one of the two buckets attached to the long staff, and had just dropped the dipping pail back into the well, when she became aware of them. It was early in the morning, the sun yet to crest over the uneven bricks of the eastern battlement, so she was alone in the courtyard. A slight scuff of a leather sole on the packed earth warned her, and she turned and straightened to see the three men approaching her. Almost reflexively her withe came into her hand, but she kept it pressed close against her leg, the bound sticks hiding in the baggy folds of her leggings.

The men were rough-looking, clad in simple peasant woolens, and all three were armed, each with a different weapon. The one in front, presumably the leader, bore a long stick, not quite thick enough to be called a quarterstaff, but definitely solid enough to be dangerous. The man to his left was shorter and bulkier, and carried a thicker lump of wood, a club with a heavy knob at the end as big as both of her fists together. The last man hung back, likely because he carried a sling, a strap of leather that hung with the weight of a smooth stone as he idly swished it back and forth with each step.

The men straightened slightly as they were detected, but they didn't speak. Arla barely had time to tighten her grip on the withe before they surged forward to attack her. The staff-bearer and the stout man with the club came straight forward, while the slinger shifted to his right, his weapon spinning in a faster and faster arc. While not as menacing as an archer with a longbow, Arla knew that a stone from the sling could crack her skull, leaving her just as dead.

She stepped back, and kicked the empty bucket from the water harness at the first man. He avoided the bucket, but the connecting staff got tangled in his feet, and he stumbled forward, falling hard to one knee. He grimaced, and as he got up, Arla could see that he'd wrenched it, although not badly enough to stop him.

She could spare no more attention for him, though, as the man with the club came quickly at her. His swing was anything but subtle, its momentum bolstered by the considerable weight he carried on his frame. Arla brought her withe up, not to block, but to deflect, turning the heavier club as she dodged forward and to the side. That put the man off balance, and as he stumbled past her she snapped the withe up and cracked it hard into the back of his right leg. The bundled sticks alone would have inflicted nothing more than a stinging bruise, but at their core was a thin iron rod, giving the simple weapon both weight and strength. The stout man cried out and fell forward, almost braining himself on the edge of the well.

Arla turned to meet the swing of the staff-bearer, her weapon and his meeting in a loud clack. The man, already hurt, kept his distance, using the superior reach of his weapon to keep her at bay. Arla shifted to the side, keeping him between her and the slinger, whose weapon was now just a blur in his hand. The slinger cursed and moved back to his left, trying to get an open shot.

Staff and withe met again, then again. The man wasn't pressing her hard; he didn't have to, not with two friends backing him up. Arla head a groan behind her, but she knew that if she turned to look at the man she'd knocked down, even for an instant, the man with the staff would strike.

She did shift her eyes, but toward the slinger, who had come around the staff-bearer again, lining up his shot. The staff-bearer's lips twisted into a slight smile.

Arla darted left. There wasn't much room between the well and the wall of the castle keep, and no shelter there save for some bundles of straw that hadn't yet been stored away. The maneuver was also well within the reach of the staff-bearer, who swung hard at her back, trying to smack her soundly or perhaps strike her arm and knock away her weapon.

But Arla's charge abruptly stopped, and she pivoted back to face the staff-bearer. Her withe snapped into the staff, cracking hard on the fingers of his foremost hand. He cried out in pain and loosed his grip, the end of the staff falling into the dirt at his feet. He tried to withdraw, but Arla followed him, again using his body as a shield from the slinger, who still could not get a clear shot. Had he been faster, he might have gotten clear, but as he fled his injured knee gave out under him. As he fell, Arla snapped her withe into the side of his head, and he fell hard, the staff clattering away.

The slinger immediately lunged, but Arla hadn't stopped once the staff-bearer was down. Even as he released his missile, Arla dove forward, coming up into a roll right in front of him. The stone shot harmlessly over her, missing her by a good foot, and he had no chance to react as Arla drove her withe into his stomach with both hands, knocking the wind from his body. As he crumpled, she snapped her knee into his face, and he fell over backward, blood surging from his broken nose.

The faint scuff behind her was her only warning, and she shifted her weight, turning on her pivot foot and driving the other behind her in a powerful kick. The sole of her foot buried hard into the gut of the stout man with the club, who staggered, the breath coming out of him like a punctured bellows. He tried to recover and swing at her, but she easily avoided the weak sweep of the club and smacked him hard on his hand with her withe. The club fell, and she stepped closer, kicking his knee as she passed. The man fell to the ground, and let out a groan of pain as his bulk pinned his left arm under his body. Kicking the club well clear, she leaned in to finish him, but a voice from the far side of the courtyard abruptly interrupted.

"Peace, sister."

Arla drew back, turned, and bowed in a single motion. There were two men standing there in the shadow of the keep, clad in simple gray robes that were unadorned save for the faint outline of a starburst sigil upon the left breast, above the heart. She walked over to join them; out of the corner of her vision she saw two other men emerge from the castle keep, and jog over to attend to the men she'd defeated.

The two robed men were of similar age and build, their hair and beards more gray than brown; they might have been brothers by the look of them. But to Arla, they were worlds apart, something more abstract than physical features setting them apart from each other. The one on the left, the one who whom she'd directed her bow, had a slight edge to him, a hardness visible only in the faint tightness to his jaw, or the bulge of his muscles almost invisible under his robe. The other man did not look weak by contrast, but his strength was something else, maybe in the way he carried himself, or the intense look in his pale blue eyes. He was older, with more gray crowding out the brown in his hair. He seemed distracted, Arla though, as she stopped in front of them.

"Arlanna," the man on the left said. "I believe that you know elder Parath, of the Order of the Bracer."

"Yes, elder Turin," Arla said. She inclined her head toward the blue-eyed man, a gesture of respect not quite as significant as her earlier bow.

"I have heard much about your skills, child," Parath said. "It seems that the reports are not an exaggeration." He looked past her at the men being helped out of the courtyard, into the shelter of the keep. "In the Bracer, the trials are somewhat more... predictable."

"In the Sword, we are taught that one must be ready at all times to defend one's charges," Arla said.

"Indeed," Turin said. "Arlanna, Parath has been summoned by high elder Tranarath for a mission to the northlands. The high elder has asked that you represent the Sword on this mission."

Arla's slight shift betrayed her surprise. Turin noticed it, and said, "You doubt your capability for this assignment?"

"No, elder. It is just that..." She glanced at Parath, only the faintest shifting of her eyes, but to Turin, an obvious gesture.

"Speak," Turin commanded. "There is no need to conceal your thoughts here."

"I have not yet completed my training, elder, nor have I been ordained by the Order."

"I have seen ordained Swords a decade older than you who did not wield the withe with such skill, child," Parath said. But Arla looked at Turin, and while she knew he respected and supported her, saw in his eyes that he did not agree with her assignment to the as yet-unspecified mission. There wasn't much to the north, she knew, only wild lands, some mining outposts, and the barbarian goblins, none of whom would be likely to respond favorably to a mission from the Khel'arun.

"The high elder is aware of the concerns you have raised," Turin said. "However, he requested you specifically, by name. You, and the child with whom you came to us; he will represent the Order of the Heart on this mission."

At that, Parath did frown, slightly, but Arla was too surprised to reflect on that, her own thoughts suddenly cast awhirl. The high elder had summoned her _and_ Jaros?

She had no doubt that Turin had noticed her discomfiture, but she covered it with another bow. "I stand ready to serve, elder."

"We will set out in two days, child," Parath said. "I must travel briefly to Cabarnes for a meeting, but I will be back by the time that the young Heart-in-training arrives from the abbey at Edeberon. Elder Turin has agreed to prepare horses and supplies for our journey." Neither of them had elected to explain just what the mission's purpose was, but by now Arla knew when she could get away with asking questions of the elders. This was not the time, but she had two days to learn more.

"It will be as you say, elder," Arla said. She'd regained control of herself, at least on the outside, though her inner thoughts continued to roil. With a slight look at Turin, who inclined his head to release her, she turned and headed back to the well. The ground around it was scuffed from the brief melee, and there was a few spatters of blood from the man whose nose she'd broken. She could feel the weight of the two elders upon her back as she gathered up her pails and returned to the well to finish her task of drawing water. The dawn tea would be late, but at the moment, she had more momentous concerns preoccupying her.

It wasn't until she'd gone back into the keep, fumbling a bit with the burden of the two pails dangling from the pole across her shoulders, that she realized something important. When he'd greeted her in the courtyard, Turin had referred to her not as _child_ , but as _sister._

* * * * *

Chapter 9

Daran sucked in a breath, and with it came a surge of sensation, as though he'd been doused from head to toe in a trough of icy cold water. Something else came with the breath, though, a rank stench of filth and decay, and he nearly voided his stomach as it roiled in his nostrils.

He got up, slowly, very slowly, for he was weak, his muscles feeling as lax as they had when he'd come down with winter fever. His mother had nursed him back to health then, but he had no mother now, had no one to rely on but himself.

He looked around, bewildered, uncertain of how he'd gotten to where he was. That seemed to be in a midden heap, occupying a long trench beneath a stone wall that loomed up high behind him. Bits of trash fell from him as he shifted, and ugly smears of stuff better left unidentified slicked his body. He was naked, save for the remains of his trousers, now barely sufficient for modesty.

A sudden noise drew his attention around. Poking around near the edge of the refuse pile were several children, none of which could have been more than ten years in age. One caught sight of him, and Daran could see the sudden fear that sprung into his eyes. He tried to say something, but all that came from his lips was a strangled hiss. The youth let out a cry and grabbed the sleeve of his nearest companion; within seconds all three of them had vanished into one of the narrow alleyways that penetrated the line of buildings arrayed almost up to the very edge of the trench in which he lay.

Memory slowly dawned. Daran's hand rose to his neck; he could feel the rough band of bruised flesh there, but other than that, and his inability to speak, he seemed to be surprisingly intact.

He glanced back at the wall behind him, its battlements far above, etched across the sky like a row of stone teeth. He couldn't see any guards, but even the thought of watchers up there added a sense of urgency. Sliding down the refuse pile, he clambered up to the edge of the trench. It took some effort, as his muscles continued to resist his orders. At least the exertion seemed to clear his head a bit, and by the time he finally scrambled back up atop level ground, he could almost think clearly.

The area of town he found himself in was clearly a slum, but he knew that even here, he'd likely stand out in his current circumstances. Fortunately, there didn't seem to be many people around, although he could hear the sounds of activity from somewhere ahead, probably where these tangled alleys opened up onto more active thoroughfares of the city.

He crept into a small enclosed yard that appeared to adjoin a blacksmith's shop; he could hear the pounding of metal coming from inside the building. An open trough full of brackish water lay along the fence to his right. He could smell a rank tinge of oil from the water, but that didn't stop him from dunking his head and drinking until he thought he would burst. With one eye on the back door of the shop, he hastily rinsed himself off the worst of the filth covering him. For a moment he hesitated, but then quickly returned to the alley.

Further down he came to a row of hovels that looked about to collapse. Small things scurried out of his path, but Daran paid them little heed; a shift in the breeze had brought a sweet smell of roasting meat that awakened a ravaging hunger. He quickly followed it, coming to a rough wall of mortared stone blocks that rose a good two feet above his head. He found a crate buried in the trash of the alley and dragged it over to the wall, using it to boost himself high enough to get a view over it.

The space beyond was a small yard, fenced in on all sides, pressed back up against a sagging wooden structure that leaned precariously over until its eaves jammed up against the solidity of the stone wall. The smell came from a crude griddle formed out of a bit of scrap iron that had been pounded into the shape of a bowl, set over a pit of burning coals. A man was bent over a small carcass that might have once been a dog, cutting free strips of meat that he handed to a woman standing next to the firepit. She dabbed each of the pieces with lard from a bucket before dropping them into the roaster to cook. As pieces were done cooking, she extracted them using a battered set of tongs, then stabbed them onto wooden skewers laid out on a tray on a rickety table next to her. Both the man and the woman were old, their hair gray, their skin wrinkled and pocked with the marks of a long and difficult life.

Daran didn't pause to think. Hunger drove him, and with a sudden burst of strength, he pulled himself up over the wall. The pair cooking the dog had their backs to him, and they didn't hear him over the sizzle of roasting flesh as he dropped to a crouch on their side of the wall. The ground was littered with bits of stone that had probably come off the wall, and as Daran fell his hand closed over a piece the size of a melon.

The man crumpled as Daran struck him hard at the base of his skull. The woman, turning from the griddle, saw him and opened her mouth to scream. Daran threw the rock, which caught her on the side of her head. She fell over backward into the table, knocking over the tray of skewered meats, which scattered over and around her.

Daran was there in a flash, uncaring that the meat had fallen into the dirt, ripping the cooked pieces off of the skewers with his fingers and teeth. It was only when he staggered back to his feet, his face and hands covered in grease and bits of dirt, that he looked around and realized what he'd done. He stared down at his hands, looking at them as though they'd belonged to a stranger.

The meat still in the roaster hissed and popped, but he no longer felt hungry; if anything, he had to struggle to keep down the food he'd already eaten. The sounds of the city surrounding him on all sides, which had faded into the background during the brief episode, now returned with a full furor. That shook him out of his reverie, that and the thought of a dangling noose, and the agonizing sound of a snapping neck.

Bending over the fallen man, Daran yanked off his jerkin. There wasn't much to it, just a faded piece of cloth belted by a strip of leather. As he grabbed the garment, the old woman groaned and stirred. Daran looked up, a stricken look on his face. He tried to utter an apology, but only a strangled groan issued from his lips. He dashed back to the wall, the stolen garment slung over his shoulder. This time it was terror that gave him strength, and he was up and over before the woman's screams started up behind him.

* * *

Baron Antonin Thargus of Evros walked up the stairs that led to his personal suite, the ermine trim of his robe brushing lightly on the carpeted steps. His expression was dark, although the fury that had animated him earlier had begun to ebb, replaced by a pit of sour, unfulfilled hostility that resided in his gut. The guard at his door, who had been in the Baron's service for many years, wisely divined his master's mood and ventured no comment other than a precise salute. The Baron ignored him and pushed through the heavy door into the foyer beyond.

A man was standing there, his back to the Baron, examining a vase full of brightly colored flowers. He was clad in a robe that seemed plain in contrast to what the Baron wore, but the rings on the fingers that touched the blossoms were silver, gold, and platinum, and crusted with precious stones.

Thargus let the door close fully behind him before he spoke. "High Wizard Khaltos. I had received no word of your coming."

The wizard did not turn immediately. He extended a slender finger to touch another bloom, and as Thargus watched, it took on a bright sheen, the color draining away until it was utterly white. Khaltos flicked it with his fingernail, and it shattered, covering the table with a spatter of frozen shards.

"The members of my sect prefer not to advertise their movements," Khaltos said, turning to face the baron. The High Wizard was a man of indeterminate age, his features unblemished by wrinkles or the discolorations brought by time, his hair and beard a perfect black. There was a certain settled air in his manner, though, that made it clear at a glance that he'd seen a great many years.

Thargus's dark mood loosened his tongue. As he crossed to the sideboard on the far side of the foyer, taking up one of the crystal goblets there and a decanter filled with amber liquid, he said, "Have you come to offer a refund, Khaltos?"

The wizard's expression didn't shift a hair, but it seemed as though a chill developed in the brief moment of silence between the two men. Thargus felt it, but he pretended not to, downing the liqueur in a single harsh gulp. For a moment he considered pouring another, but hesitated, finally thrusting the plug back into the decanter.

Khaltos still had not responded. Thargus pointed with the hand holding the glass. "You promised protection, even until death! Those were your words, as I recall."

"Indeed," Khaltos said. "I note that you still wear your ring."

Thargus glanced at his outstretched hand, which flickered as the light of the room's lamps caught the band around his third finger. He grunted and slammed the goblet down onto the sideboard, hard enough to chip the hard crystal. "What of my son?"

"What of the ring I gave him? I understand it was not on the man you captured."

"He was searched thoroughly. A stupid commoner, little more than a peasant. He claimed to have been with Dalren when they were attacked by goblins on the West Road. He said that they killed Dalren, and he only narrowly escaped himself."

"And you investigated this tale?"

"Bah. I sent a squad of men, but they found nothing. He was almost certainly lying; the goblins know better than to molest humans on the baronial roads, and this rake had Dalren's personal possessions on him when he was arrested. He probably sold the ring for coin, or a woman."

"I would speak to this commoner."

Thargus snorted. "That might take more magic than even you possess." He started to laugh, but it died when Khaltos fixed a hard look upon him. "I had him hanged at first light." He didn't mention the Amarite; if the southern mage was not of Khaltos's order, he wasn't going to bring him up.

"I will see the body, then."

"The carcass was tossed onto the midden heap behind the castle, along with all of the other trash. By now it will be... unpleasant, even if the dogs and rats haven't gotten to it."

Khaltos's lips twisted into a grim smile. "This will not be my first time treating with the dead, baron. See that the remains are brought to my quarters."

Baron Antonin Thargus, the most powerful man in Evros, swallowed and nodded.

* * * * *

Chapter 10

Daran wandered through the streets of Evros, lost and more than a little dazed.

The city teemed with people. Fleeing the screams of the old woman he'd attacked, he emerged onto a thoroughfare to be swept up into a current of people, animals, and vehicles moving steadily forward, accompanied by a cacophony of shouts, curses, and hails that blended together into what seemed, to Daran's senses, to be utter chaos. He was nearly trampled twice in the first few seconds, first by a team of four horses drawing what looked to be a tiny house built on a wagon's bed, and then by a flatbed cart loaded with a small mountain of wooden kegs. The curses of the brewer followed him as he leaned into the shelter of a recessed doorway, then the man and his wagon vanished in the ongoing sea of motion and action.

_How can there be so many people in the world_ , Daran thought. But he was forced to move on a second later, as a shopkeeper established in a stall adjacent to his refuge started yelling at him. Gathering his courage, he once more braved the flow of humanity.

He understood the merchant's hostility; clad in stolen rags, his feet bare, his features filthy and ragged, he had to look like a beggar or rogue. His hand started up to the scar around his neck, before he caught himself. He'd tried to hide it with the tunic as best he could, but if someone saw that marking, they'd know he was a criminal.

At that moment, all he was looking for was a way out of the city, but the buildings to either side of the street were too tall to see over, and the press of the crowd ahead and behind blocked his view beyond a few paces. Unable to even ask for directions, all he could do was shuffle forward, trying not to get run over or trampled. He was jostled a few times, but most of the citizens he walked past gave him enough distance to avoid contact, likely out of fear of being pick pocketed.

Daran didn't want to pick anyone's pocket; he wanted to avoid any notice at all, and to get out of public view. Once he saw a knot of four guards on a street corner, and felt a knot of terror that almost froze him. But the guards weren't paying any attention to the crowd, chatting and laughing amongst themselves, and Daran was able to cross to the far side of the avenue and make it past them without any difficulty.

Were they looking for him? He was still a little fuzzy on exactly what had happened to him. He remembered being dragged before the baron, the accusation of murder, the time in the cell with the southern mage who'd befriended him in Vimbros. He remembered being dragged to the courtyard with the gallows, the futile struggle, the rope, the drop...

Daran nearly fell as someone collided hard into him. He looked back to see a big man clad in a leather apron, burdened with several bulging sacks slung over his shoulders. The man opened his mouth to say something, but once he got a good look at Daran's face, he swallowed whatever comment he'd been about to make, and turned back to whatever errand had brought him out with his cargo.

Daran likewise moved on. His head was starting to throb, and the bright sunlight of the day hurt his eyes. He wanted another drink, but there were no water troughs or public wells in view. There was a river that ran through the capitol—he remembered being taken over the bridge as a prisoner, in shackles—but he had no idea where it was located. Even a single block along this avenue held more buildings than his entire village.

And then the street opened onto a huge square, and he sucked in an amazed breath.

The square was big enough that he doubted a man could fire an arrow across its breadth. There had to be a thousand people here, or more, trading, eating, or just milling about. He took in the market stalls arranged in crooked rows, the bleating of penned animals, the buildings that fronted three sides of the square. But his gaze was drawn to the fourth side, and the towers that rose over the high walls, looming over him like stern sentinels.

He had gotten turned around, obviously, for what he was looking at was none other than the baronial castle, the center of power of Evros. He felt a sudden stirring of alarm, and felt a sense of self-awareness, as if hidden eyes were fixed upon him. There were more guardsmen here, over a dozen just within view on his side of the square alone; none were looking his way, but that did little to ease the sense of panic that Daran felt. His feet took a step back, then another, without conscious direction. That seemed like a good idea, so he turned to retrace his steps.

And found himself facing Garath, Lord Sovern's guardsman, who stood not six paces distant. The burly soldier had been walking toward the square, but something in Daran's manner must have alerted him, for he stopped as he looked upon the bedraggled youth, and recognition flared in his eyes.

"You!" he hissed. Any doubt about his intentions vanished as a cold satisfaction replaced surprise in those dark eyes, and he lunged forward to seize Daran.

* * *

"You think you so clever, ha? How you like taste of mud!"

The other goblins of the fist laughed. Filcher felt a hard pain in his gut—he'd landed on a jutting root or something—but said nothing, made no moves that could be interpreted as threatening. He hoped it was enough to placate Basher. He was fortunate; with just another kick, not hard enough to do anything more than bruise, the goblin raidleader returned to the circle of warriors around the pit where they'd laid their small fire.

Filcher waited a few more seconds before he picked himself up, moving gingerly. He saw that it was a rock, not a root, that had poked him. He started to reach for it, then abruptly stopped himself, realizing that the move could be considered a threat if Basher was still watching.

He needn't have worried; the big goblin was laughing with the warriors of the fist. "Fetch more water!" Basher yelled after Filcher, as he retreated further from the fire.

Filcher headed off toward the stream after gathering up the empty waterskins from the heap at the edge of the camp. He passed Tog, or maybe it was Noggle; he had a devil of a time telling the two scouts apart. The scout watched him silently from a perch in the fork of a dead tree, like some black owl. The pair had spent little time in the company of the fist, ranging out ahead to mark the best trail and scout out signs of human passage. They were also good hunters, and had brought back a catch each morning for the stewpot.

Filcher made it to the stream without incident, and crouched to refill the waterskins. Full, they would make a heavy burden. He rubbed at his back; that last kick from Basher had hurt.

Once again, the incident had been his fault. It had seemed pretty evident to him; goblins preferred to travel at night, as their large eyes, accustomed to life underground, were particularly sensitive to bright light. Their encampments thus far on the trip had been like this one, shaded within the depths of a densely wooded hollow. Humans, he knew, were the opposite, and as the party of raiders left their own lands behind, he'd thought that their best chance of finding a lone traveler was to change their own habits to match those of their prey. At night, they tended to retreat into their holds, which tended to be, like the humans, big and durable.

He'd tried to couch it as a casual suggestion, but Basher had chosen to take it as a challenge to his authority. Or maybe that was just an excuse; the goblin enjoyed his work, and rarely passed up a chance to live up to his name.

He filled the last of the bottles and returned to the camp. Careful not to draw attention, he left the filled bottles where he'd picked them up. Basher and the other warriors were engaged in a discussion around the fire. The light was fading; it would be dark soon, and time then to move out for the night's march.

"We're nearing the human lands," Basher was saying. "In another few days, we'll likely start coming upon their roads. We'll set up near one, and wait in ambush for someone to come by. That is, unless someone has a problem with that plan."

Filcher felt eyes on him, but kept his own low, carefully organizing the bottles near the discarded packs left by the warriors.

* * *

Daran ran blindly through the maze. He had no idea where he was going, but he had no choice but to keep running. He could hear his pursuer behind him, steadily gaining. Panic and surprise had given him a brief lead, but his body, still weak, was quickly forfeiting that advantage.

At least his disheveled appearance worked to some slight benefit, for those ahead, hearing his frenetic approach, quickly moved to avoid him lest they come into contact with his ragged form. His flight took him down a narrow, curving street that led off the main square. Initially he'd managed to duck or dodge the pedestrians, small two-wheeled carts, and stalls that jutted out from the buildings crowding to either side, but up ahead a big ale-cart, loaded with barrels, was coming around the bend, pulled by a full team of four horses. Those on the street crowded to either side to let it pass, forming a thick barrier.

There was a shout behind him, accompanied by the hard sound of booted feet on the flagstones. He didn't hesitate, and darted into a narrow alley that opened to the left. The ground here was packed earth, and slick with noisome residues, but he kept his footing, at one point glancing off the wall as his feet skated out from under him. He chanced a look back, only to see Garath not ten paces back, charging full forward.

He ran, darting into a side fork, then another, running around the natural curves of buildings, dodging clotheslines and curing vats and trash heaps and in one case, a half-dozen cats that had gathered around some discarded scrap. A loud noise behind him as his pursuer crashed into something drove him on, though his limbs felt numb, and his guts twisted again, pulsing pain up against his burning lungs.

He emerged onto another street, into bright sunlight. He started right, but there, not twenty paces distant, was a group of three guardsmen, laughing at some jest. They looked up, and maybe it was the look on his face, or the way he was dressed, but their light expressions shifted, their hands dropping to the clubs at their belts.

Daran did the only thing he could; he turned and ran the other way. He wasn't surprised when he heard shouts behind him, or the renewed sounds of pursuit, now augmented in number.

The street widened ahead, and Daran felt a dark twinge as he saw the outline of the baron's citadel ahead through the gap between the flanking buildings. Somehow, he'd gotten turned around, and headed back the way he'd come. And the square had been full of guardsmen.

He spun and picked a side street at random. He rounded the corner in time to collide into a woman picking out fruit from a farmer's stall. Both of them went down, the woman knocking over several bushels of corn and squash that went scattering in every direction. Over the angry shouts of the farmer, Daran found his feet again and kept on running. The only thing keeping him going now was the memory of the noose, and the painful tearing snap as he'd fallen through the trapdoor of the gallows, and kicked his last upon the rope.

The street opened onto another square, this one much smaller than the big one in front of the citadel. It was bounded on only three sides by buildings, for the other, to his right, was marked by the gorge that housed the Charathis River. Several ramps led down to the watercourse, and a large wooden crane leaned out over the gorge, operated by a gang of men who worked to bring goods up from the vessels that docked down below. A bridge stretched across the gap, the stone span easily ten paces across, divided down the middle by a low wall that separated the traffic into incoming and outgoing streams. Both sides were crowded with people, animals, and wheeled transports, those coming in generally loaded down more heavily than those traveling out.

There were a few buildings on the far side of the bridge, but the vista was mostly greenery and open landscape, a sight that drew Daran like a magnet. He was running toward the bridge almost before he realized it, and certainly before he spotted the guardsmen who were stationed on a small wooden platform adjacent to the outgoing concourse of the bridge.

Shouts came from behind him. Daran couldn't make out the words over the pounding of his own heartbeat in his ears, the ragged hiss of his breath as it rushed in and out of his lungs. The guards on duty at the bridge turned, and Daran darted left, thrusting through the stream of incoming traffic, narrowly avoiding collision with a group of men clad as day laborers, and then a mule-drawn cart behind them that literally overflowed with baled straw. More shouts, accompanied now by angry curses, followed him, but at least those angry travelers helped to shield him from the view of the guards on the other side of the bridge.

Ducking low, he made some headway going against the flow of traffic, but then another wagon appeared ahead, its draught extending across the full width of this side of the bridge, the big black horses at its fore clopping as their metal-shod hooves banged on the stone of the bridge. The wagon was loaded with heavy timbers, which rattled as the wagon's iron-rimmed wheels rolled forward. The teamster at the wagon's board saw him and yelled for him to get out of the way; he certainly took no action to stop or slow the wagon's progress.

Daran had no choice; he leapt up onto the low wall on the outer lip of the bridge. The barrier was flat and a full pace across, but as he stared down into the gorge, and the busy course of the river a good thirty paces below, he felt a decided sense of vertigo grip him, and he swayed precariously for a moment.

Then a yell behind him shook him; he spun to see several guards headed after him. Behind them, in the crowd of faces that had turned to look, he caught sight of Garath, the tall man's form distinctive in the melee of people. Those travelers, traders, and common townsfolk were slow in getting out of the way, but Daran could see a few other guards rushing along the outbound traffic on the far side of the bridge, moving to get ahead of him before he could clear the span.

The sudden activity spooked the horses of the lumberman's wagon, and they shied against their reins, jerking the wagon sideways. A big wheel collided with the barrier wall, and the entire wagon rose off-balance, the uppermost timbers of its load leaping out from between the metal braces holding them in place. One of those timbers, a thick plank of seasoned lumber a good fifteen feet in length, slid down out of its banking, over the edge of the bridge.

As Daran turned to continue his flight, the edge of the timber caught him squarely across the brow. The impact was like that of a battering ram, slamming the hapless youth over backward, his shoulder clipping the edge of the bridge wall before its momentum carried both him and the board over the edge, tumbling end-over-end in the air before striking the water below.

* * *

Arla dressed quietly, and with purpose. She'd worn mail links before, and the heavy tunic that went over the shirt wasn't too difficult to manage alone, even with the stiff leather drawstrings along the sides and the hooked clasp in the back that took a bit of effort to fasten securely. It was more the purpose of the thing that gave birth to the tumbled ball of anticipation that floated in her thoughts and lingered in her belly. She'd deliberately skipped the dawn tea that morning; all she needed was for an unruly bladder to embarrass her in front of the elders. She finished with the cap, flexible leather with flaps on the sides and rear that covered her short hair, and a metal band around the brim that felt oddly heavy. The starburst was etched into the front of that band, and likewise had been stitched into the tunic, above her heart. Or at least it was in that general neighborhood; the tunic had originally been designed for a man, and the fit was slightly off in a few places. She hoped that the ensemble did not look foolish. She would not have minded a glass to let her see her own image, but that was a vain thought, and quickly dismissed.

She'd already packed her possessions, which had fit in the two saddlebags with ample room to spare. She tucked her gloves into her belt and slid her withe into the dangling leather band that kept it close at her hip, always within easy reach. Steadying herself with a deep breath, she moved out from the tiny nook that had been her dwelling for the last four years, and made her way to the stables.

It was early, again, the lamps still flickering in the alcoves below the narrow shafts that let light and air in from outside. The initiates of the orders stirred early, and none earlier than the Sword, but this was still night, and the passageways were deserted save for a few black-clad servants who did not even lift their eyes to meet hers. When she stepped out into the courtyard, there was only the faintest hint of glow along the east wall promising the coming dawn, and the air was cold enough to make her breath steam in front of her face. She quickly drew out her gloves and put them on, hurrying over to the stables standing in the lee of the castle gatehouse.

Stepping through the wide entry of the long wooden building, she saw several people waiting within the bright glow of a hooded lantern. Turin was there, the elder looking away from her as he watched a team of black-clad servants saddling a large dun mare. Turin sensed her entry and turned to regard her, but Arla's attention had already been drawn to the young man sitting on a bench between two of the stalls, a small book open on his lap. She felt something twinge inside her as he looked up, and pierced her with his eyes.

"Jaros," she whispered. She was too overwhelmed to move to him, but he came to her, springing up and rushing to enfold her in a warm embrace. When they'd last seen each other she'd been a finger's length taller than him, but he'd grown; now she had to look up to meet his eyes when he released her.

"Arla! It's... it's fantastic to see you. It has been a long time..."

"Yes, four years," she said. She hadn't meant it to sound so harsh, but his expression dimmed slightly for a moment, before he chuckled and shook his head. "Aye. A long time, and a long road traveled since then. Still, it _is_ good to see you, Arla."

She cleared her throat, and looked down at his chest, at the starburst sigil there, and the stitched insignia below it. "By Khel, they've made you an initiate!"

She could see the pride in his eyes; it shone like a beacon. "Aye, they did. The ceremony was only last month; I was about to go on my Service when I was summoned here.

She was going to ask him what he knew of the purpose of that summons, when Turin interrupted by clearing his throat. "Brother Parath will be here shortly," he said. "You will need to be ready to depart when he arrives."

Arla looked up at the saddled dun mare. "That is my horse?"

Turin nodded. "Her name is Bright Star. She will carry you far without complaint."

_How far?_ Arla thought, but she didn't ask the question. She approached the mare, which whickered slightly and shied a bit at her approach. Arla had spent time with the mounts as part of the assigned chores of a noviate, and she'd been trained both to ride and to fight mounted, so she knew how to proceed. Making soft, reassuring sounds, she slowly closed the distance between her and the horse, taking the reins from one of the servants while giving the animal a chance to smell her and get used to her. The horse would quickly adapt; all of the animals of the Khel'arun were well-trained.

Then she saw what was dangling from the side of the saddle on the far side of the horse, and her eyes widened slightly.

"Do us proud, sister," Turin said from behind her.

She reached over and ran her hand along the hilt of the sword. She wanted to draw it, but there wasn't really space for it here, and she didn't want to alarm the horse. The scabbard was just under three feet long and slightly curved; the sword would be single-edged, a light weapon useful both from horseback and afoot.

A slight commotion drew her attention back to the entrance to the stables. The guard there was focused on Turin, but Arla understood the significance of the man's nod.

"It is time," Turin said.

Arla quickly slung her saddlebags across the mare's hindquarters, tying them to the rings in the back of the saddle. The servants brought a second animal from the back of the stables; as it came into the light, she saw that it was a mule, equipped with a simple riding blanket and harness. "A more humble ride for me," Jaros said with a smile. He took the animal with a nod of thanks to the servant, and followed Arla and Turin out into the courtyard.

Parath was waiting there by the outer gate, astride a black horse that whickered and snorted as it saw the other animals. The elder was dressed in similar fashion as Arla and Jaros, save for the thick leather bands etched with silver filigree that covered his arms from wrist to elbow. Those were the markers of his order, the Order of the Bracer, dedicated to protection and defense within the Khel'arun. He bore a riding mace in the harness attached to his saddle, a weapon similar to Arla's withe, but with a shaft a full four feet in length, and an iron cap at the end that supported four broad metal flanges.

"Brother, sister," he said in greeting. He acknowledged Turin with a nod, but it was bad luck to offer a formal welcome at the start of a long journey to those who would not be part of the trip. Arla's teacher and mentor held Parath's gaze for a long moment, then turned away without further comment and retired back into the shelter of the keep. The citadel was starting to stir, and Arla could smell the odors of the morning tea along with the more savory waft coming from the ovens. It made her stomach grumble, but thankfully neither of the others were close enough to hear.

"Come then," he said to them. "We ride north."

Jaros shot her a look as they fell in behind them, a look that held the same questions she was asking in her own thoughts. It appeared as though they weren't going to learn the purpose of their mission, at least not until they were well and truly engaged upon it. So they followed the elder through the gatehouse and down the causeway beyond, the shod hooves of their mounts raising a clatter on the packed earth. She glanced back, once, to see the old castle outlined in the dawning light of the morning, wisps of smoke rising from within. She looked at her old home for just a moment, then turned her attention to the road ahead, where Parath was leading them to a destination yet unknown.

* * * * *

Chapter 11

"So you say that the boy you chased is a murderer _and_ a thief?"

"He was both," Garath said. If the man-at-arms was concerned about the presence of two armed soldiers at his back, he didn't show it. He fixed a hard look at the man in front of him, a veteran sergeant of the Watch, with more gray than black in his close-cropped hair. "I've told you this already, told you the whole story. I'll not waste my time telling it again; I'll need to track down the body to bring it back to my lord Sovern."

"And if the boy somehow managed to survive the fall?"

"I'm to bring him back, one way or another."

The sergeant's lips tightened slightly over his jaw, where several teeth were missing. "The baron's justice still rules in this land," he said. "The local lords would do well to remember that."

"Oh, and does the baron let killers walk free these days, then?" Garath leaned forward, a finger jerking toward the other man's chest. Even though he carried no weapons, the two soldiers behind him shifted, alert to a threat. But the sergeant waved them back. "I could have you flogged for causing a public disturbance," he said.

Garath leaned back and folded his beefy arms across his chest. He said nothing.

The sergeant's fist bounced off the hard wooden top of his desk. His expression was a stormcloud, but as he opened his mouth to speak, the outer door cracked open. He swiveled in his chair toward it. "I said there were to be no inter—"

He trailed off, and after a moment, Garath turned and looked over his shoulder to see a stranger clad in a plain but expensive-looking robe standing there in the doorway. The newcomer's eyes flicked briefly over the armsman, and he felt a sudden chill slide down his back, drawing a shiver from him.

"Sergeant," the robed man said. "I wonder if I might have a brief word with your guest."

"I... that is, of course, my lord Khaltos. I... come in..."

"In private, if you don't mind."

That gave the sergeant pause, but only for a moment, and within a few more heartbeats both he and his two escorts were beating a hasty retreat. Garath caught the sergeant's eye at the door and shot a smirk in his direction, but he had to admit that the look he got back was more than a little disquieting.

It was the look of a man who was utterly and completely afraid.

He turned back to Khaltos, who was casually seating himself in the sergeant's chair behind the desk. "So," he said to Garath. "Let us talk of this young man you are pursuing."

Khaltos had a heavy stare and the look of a man who was used to getting what he wanted, but Garath was not one to buckle easily under that kind of pressure. "Who are you, anyway?" he shot back. "One of the baron's men?"

"I am nobody's man," Khaltos said, leaning back in the chair, his lips twisting into a simile of a smile. "I also have an interest in this youth, but I assure you, I have no intention of trespassing on Lord Sovern's prerogatives. What I can do, however, is help you locate him."

"How?"

"We'll get to that. First, why don't you tell me your story, from the beginning. Every detail, especially where it concerns this young... Daran."

* * *

Lying in a copse of dead brush on the crest of a low ridge, Filcher and the other goblins looked down at the homestead below.

There wasn't much to it, but what was there looked pretty damned solid. The main building was of dressed logs, with just a few narrow slits for windows, and those protected by interior shutters. The roof was also of wood, rather than thatch or wattle, which indicated that the humans living here were not complete fools. The two outbuildings flanked a small fenced pen, where a few small animals that Filcher couldn't quite identify at this distance lurked.

"There be no back door," Tog said. "But they's got dogs."

"I see no dogs," Basher said.

"I ken smell 'em," the scout said. It had been Tog, along with his brother-kin Noggle, who'd first detected the settlement, then led the warriors to their current vantage undetected. Filcher could feel the breeze blowing toward them, ensuring that the human inhabitants and their dogs would not sense them coming.

A slight stir went through the warriors of Basher's fist, and Filcher lifted his head just enough to see the human that had emerged from the log house. It was a female, clad in a flowing dress that swirled around her ankles as she moved. She emerged from the house carrying a large basket, which she carried over to a line that ran from the back of the house to the nearer of the two outbuildings.

"What she doing?" one of the warriors, Gruk, hissed. He had only one eye, the other covered by a leather patch on a cord, and he couldn't see very well from the one he had left.

"There the dog," another warrior, Klug, said. Filcher could see it now, a big mastiff that probably weighed as much as two of the goblins put together. The thought of that thing tearing him to pieces created a knot of fear in his gut.

But the other warriors were not dissuaded by the dog. "I thinks they got chickens down there, or a pig," Dragnak said. The other warriors began to vie for a better look, though they were careful to keep both their heads and their voices down. The scouts said nothing, but Filcher saw them share a glance and burrow a bit deeper into the hillside, their bows strung and ready, their quivers within easy reach.

"Silence," Basher growled.

"What's the plan, boss?" Gruk asked.

"Plan? We go down there, kill the dog, and take the woman as our captive. Whatever's in the pen, or the house... well, we'll see." That last was accompanied by a broad grin, one that was quickly echoed on the faces of the warriors.

"Um..." Filcher said, only to falter as eight faces turned toward him. "What about the human male?"

"Maybe he went out into the woods to take a crap," one of the warriors said, and they tittered slightly at the comment. Filcher thought of at least a dozen things that he could have said to that, but this time he wisely kept his mouth shut.

"You watch the trail there," Basher commanded, stabbing a finger at Filcher. "Yell if you see anyone coming." He rose, and drew out the big war-club he always carried at his side. "Come on, boys," he said. His warriors hefted their spears and followed him down the hillside. Basher remained at their lead, his weapon in one hand, his wooden shield in the other. The scouts followed a good distance behind; their primary task was done, and now their job was to provide support. Ordinarily the first inkling that the humans would have had of their presence was a volley of arrows and spears from ambush, but this time they were here to take captives. Besides, Filcher thought that even Tog and Noggle would have a tough time shooting more than ten paces in this wind.

Filcher was grateful that all he had to do was watch as the warband made its way down the hill toward the clearing. They got almost to the bottom before they were detected; the dog, sitting in the shade of the house near the woman, shot to its feet and started barking. Basher and his warriors kept on coming, and Filcher imagined he could see the dark grin on the leader's face.

He guessed that the smile faded as a second dog emerged from the house, this one only slightly smaller than the first. Both charged toward the goblins, while the woman screamed and ran toward the front door of the house.

Basher yelled a command and his troops ran forward. The bigger dog came straight at Basher, who fell into a crouch as the dog leapt at him, spinning to the side as the mastiff slammed into his shield. The hound landed behind him and spun, but Basher was already swinging, and the head of his club collided into the side of the animal's skull, staggering it.

The other goblins charged past the pair toward the fleeing woman. The second dog sprang onto Klug, crushing him under its bulk. The goblin's scream became a gurgle as the animal's jaws snapped down hard on his neck. Several of the other warriors spread out and came at the dog from its flanks, stabbing at it with their spears. Dragnak got a solid hit in, and the dog spun on him, lunging with its powerful jaws. But the warrior was fast, darting back out of its reach, and as it tried to reach him his comrades stabbed into its body, inflicting more wounds on the struggling animal.

Gruk avoided the entire melee and went straight for the woman, trying to cut her off before she could get into the house. He lunged at her, trying to trip her up by tangling her legs up with the shaft of his spear, but she screamed and lashed out at him, catching him across the face with an elbow and knocking him over onto his ass. He scrambled to his feet quickly, but by the time he'd recovered she was inside the house, and the door slammed shut in his face, no doubt bolted from within.

Filcher looked back to see that Basher was putting the finish to the first dog, smashing it repeatedly in the head with solid blows from his club. But as he started forward, a cry of warning from the scouts drew his attention, as well as Filcher's, secure in his sheltered spot atop the hill.

The male human emerged from the forest at a full run, roaring something incoherent but definitely threatening. He carried a big axe in his hands, its haft almost as long as Filcher was tall, and as he emerged from the woods he hurled it at Basher. The iron head spun end over end and crashed into the goblin warrior's shield, cracking it and knocking him over onto his back. The human barely paused, rushing forward, drawing a smaller axe out from his belt as he came.

The warriors turned from the crippled second dog to face this new threat. The man shifted from Basher and came right on into them, not even giving them a chance to set their spears against his rush. Gruk happened to be the closest, and he stabbed at the human, only to have his spearhead glance off of the thick vest of fur and leather that he wore over his torso. The man lashed out with his axe, his longer reach more than making up for the shorter length of his weapon, and even as far away as he was, Filcher could clearly see the bright red droplets of blood spray into the air as the axe split the goblin's skull wide open. Gruk crumpled like a hunk of meat. The man spun on the other goblins before they could get into position on his flanks, and they darted back as he swung wildly, roaring death at them.

The human was bigger, stronger, and faster than the goblins, but he was gravely outnumbered. Filcher saw him flinch as one of the scouts fired an arrow into his side, the missile stabbing deep into his body under his right arm. He staggered back but still managed another swing as Dragnak warily stabbed at him with his spear. Filcher heard a scream from the house and an answering yell from the human. He wasn't close enough to make out the words, but he understood the intent; the male was telling the female to stay inside, where the goblins couldn't get her.

A second arrow thudded into the man's chest, the stubby missile quivering as it protruded from his thick coat. The goblins had him surrounded now, and were in no hurry, poking at him with their spears but careful to stay out of his reach. He staggered between them, and Filcher could see where this was going. He found himself heading down the hill, drawn by something inexplicable toward the battle. He arrived just as Basher walked up, tossing the ruined wreckage of his shield aside. The big warrior was bleeding, but he didn't appear to be seriously hurt. The human's eyes narrowed as the two faced off, and the other warriors drew back. Blood flecked his lips, and he was swaying on his feet. Basher smiled, and lifted his club.

"We're supposed to take a prisoner!" Filcher cried.

"This one's already dead," Basher said. He lunged, and waited for the human to swing his axe before he shifted, pivoted, and cracked his club into the man's knee. The man cried out and fell hard. The axe fell out of his hand, but still he tried to get up, tried to get away, to do anything to escape the fate that had sealed around his neck like a trap snare. Filcher felt a little sick as Basher came up behind him and smashed his club down into the back of the man's head. That didn't end it, of course, and the goblin warriors whooped as their leader cracked his club down repeatedly into the human's skull, until it split open from the impacts.

Filcher caught a hint of movement from one of the slit windows in the house, and he yelled. Basher shifted, and the crossbow bolt that came from within shot past him. It hit Noggle in the shoulder, knocking the goblin off his feet.

"Watch the house!" Basher yelled, and his warriors ran forward, stabbing at the opening with their spears. The shutters snapped shut from inside, but the goblins kept rattling at them, giving the woman inside no chance to attack them again.

The big goblin turned to Filcher, and he cringed, expecting trouble. "You know some of the human speech," Basher said to him. "Tell her to come out, that we won't hurt her."

Filcher looked down at the wreckage of the male and the dogs, one of which was still whimpering in a bloody heap, the tendons of its legs cut. Somehow, he thought that the female wouldn't believe him. But with Basher watching, the head of his club wet with blood and brains, the battle-rage still burning in his eyes, there was nothing to do but obey.

Not surprisingly, the door didn't open. Filcher tried again, but there was no response. Dragnak tried to get through the window, but the shutter was secure.

"All right," Basher said. "Burn it!"

Basher turned to him, as if expecting the retort, but Filcher caught himself this time. "When the house is burning down around her, she'll have no choice but to come out," Basher explained, as his warriors gathered dead brush and started piling it around the house. Tog helped Noggle to his feet—the wound in his shoulder looked serious, but not immediately life-threatening—and kept an eye on the windows.

The fire took slowly, but once it got going, it quickly rose up around the walls of the log house, and really started catching once it reached the plank roof. The animals in the pen—pigs, Filcher saw now—let out a ruckus, but they weren't going anywhere. The goblins kept a close eye on the windows and especially the door, waiting for the woman to make a break for it.

Except that the door didn't open, not even when the roof fell in, and the house blazed up like a bonfire, forcing the goblins back. They watched as the fire surged up into the afternoon sky, which was quickly deepening into evening. Basher growled, and none of the others were stupid enough to say anything.

"Well, shit," he finally said. "All right boys, why don't we kill us some pigs, eh? Fresh meat in camp tonight!"

The goblin warriors whooped again, ignoring the corpses of their two fallen companions as they rushed over to the pen. Tog attended to Noggle, removing the crossbow bolt from his shoulder and applying a rough bandage to the wound.

"Get these bodies hidden away, in the woods," Basher ordered Filcher. Filcher looked down at the dead human, who had to weigh fifteen stone, if not more. But he was too smart to say anything. Maybe Tog would help him, once was done treating Noggle. Basher strode away, muttering to himself.

It looked like they weren't going home yet after all.

* * *

Daran heaved and returned to consciousness with a start. He tried to breathe, but found that he could not. He coughed, and water erupted from his lungs and stomach, kept coming, until he felt as though he'd poured out half the river from his body.

He was lying in the mud, but other than that, he was barely aware of his surroundings. A film hovered over his vision, blurring his senses, but as he finally cleared enough water to suck in a clean, glorious breath of air, he realized that there was someone there with him, holding him, helping him. He still couldn't see much more than a vague outline, and when he reached out, his fingers slid nervelessly through a bit of sleeve, as though the other were just a ghost.

"Who—" He couldn't get any more out, as he continued to cough up water and bits of other matter from his lungs.

"Don't try to talk," a warm, reassuring voice told him. "We'd thought you dead, at first. You are fortunate to be alive; the river is very vigorous upstream from here."

Daran grabbed again, and this time he caught hold of the other's arm. A man, by the voice and the strength of his grip. He blinked, and his vision cleared enough for him to see something, a bright star, a white burst surrounded by darkness. He moaned and would have fallen back, had not the man caught him.

"I'm losing him!" he heard the voice yelling, and then the darkness caught him up again.

* * *

When he came back, the first conscious thing he felt was a suffusing sense of warmth. He stirred gently, letting that reassuring heat trickle through his body, banishing the iron chills that seemed have penetrated into his bones. As it did, melting those icy nodes, he found he could move. He opened his eyes, blinking as a bright light in front of him caused his eyes to water.

"Don't try to get up just yet," a voice—the same voice he'd heard before—told him. Looking away from the light, he saw that it belonged to a young man clad in a tunic decorated with a white starburst design. It sent off a niggling memory in Daran's mind, but in his still-befuddled state, he couldn't quite identify it. "Here. Try to drink this. It's warm broth, it will restore your strength."

He accepted the proffered cup, and the smell rising from it awakened a hunger like a yawning chasm inside him. He drained it in a few swallows, earning a laugh from his benefactor. "Ware now! Your body's been through a great strain, give it a chance to adjust."

The broth added to the soothing warmth filling him, and some of the indistinctness began to fade from his senses. He could see that he was in a small campsite, bounded by a copse of trees. A blazing fire was directly in front of him; that had been the source of the light that had blinded him earlier. A heavy blanket covered his body. He was propped up against a fallen tree, and could smell the earthy odor of the slow-rotting wood. And horses; as his eyes adjusted he could see at least three of them, secured with lines and hobbles. An older man, dressed much like the first, was attending to them, and as Daran handed the cup back over he came forward, dark eyes fixed on him in a way that made him feel suddenly self-conscious.

"You have a strong survival instinct," he said. "Your body wants very much to live."

"Don't we all?" Daran managed.

"I think what Parath is saying, is that you are very lucky," the younger man said. "I am Jaros. I am an initiate of the Khel'arun."

Daran blinked; the name meant something, he was certain, but at the moment he could not remember what it was. The two shared a quick look, then Jaros prodded, "And your name?"

"Uh... Daran. It's Daran."

Parath came closer, and dropped to one knee, facing him. "How did you come to be in the river, young Daran?" he asked. The way the old man looked at him made Daran's skin twitch, but he could do nothing to escape that penetrating gaze.

"I... I, ah, was in Evros," he said. "A wagon... I was crossing the bridge, and a wagon, a piece of lumber fell out, and struck me, knocked me into the river."

"The Archos Bridge, over the river gorge?" Jaros asked. "I have crossed it. That is a lengthy fall."

"Aye. I remember..." A vivid image of looking down into the chasm popped into his mind, the frothing waters of the river rushing up to seize him, and he shuddered. "I must have... must have blacked out or something. I don't remember anything before you found me." He looked around the camp, but all he saw were trees; they must have taken him some distance from the river.

Abruptly he heard sounds approaching, someone moving through the undergrowth. He started up, his weary muscles feeling like water as he tried to stand, but Jaros reassured him with a hand on his shoulder. "It is just another of our companions, there is no need to fear."

The newcomer turned out to be a woman, as young as Jaros, if not younger. She was carrying a leather bucket that sloshed with water as she moved. She had a nice face, but her hair was cut very short, and to Daran's surprise she wore a mail shirt under her tunic, the links visible in the loops under her arms. She was also armed, carrying both a small sword and some sort of club. The look she fixed on Daran was not quite as hard as the one he'd gotten from Parath, but it was also colder, as though he'd been a bug she'd found in her blankets.

"So, he's awake."

Parath glanced up at her. "Indeed." He turned back to Daran. "This is Arla, our representative of the Sword."

Daran nodded. He'd never seen a girl carrying a sword before, but he'd had quite enough of swords and armed people in general of late, so he kept quiet. Jaros had refilled his cup with more broth and offered it to him. He accepted gratefully, sipping the hot liquid this time, although his stomach continued to grumble for stuff of more substance. Arla dropped her bucket next to Jaros, and sat down on a log on the far side of the camp, watching him.

Parath was still watching him as well. "Unfortunately, young traveler, our errand is urgent and we cannot divert from it to return you to Evros. However, our course will take us along the river as far as Sterick, before our road heads north. From there, you can find help in getting back to the capitol, or to wherever else your path may take you."

Daran swallowed and nodded. He had no intention of ever going back to Evros, certainly, and while he had never heard of this Sterick, it had to be better than here. "Thank you, master Parath," he said. "I am very grateful to you for saving my life."

Parath grunted and rose. "Get some sleep. We will start out early with the dawn."

Daran looked up and realized with some surprise that the night had crept up on them during their conversation, and it was almost full dark, the forest deepening into shadows around the borders of their fire. He felt too agitated to sleep, but as Jaros took the empty cup from him he could feel a deep lassitude creep into his bones, the same way that the warmth had spread through him earlier. It stole over him too quickly to fight it, and he'd barely leaned his head back against the log at his back before he was asleep.

* * * * *

Chapter 12

The ride to Sterick was pleasant enough. The priests, or missionaries—Daran still wasn't quite sure—were generous enough with their supplies, and the young man felt almost human again after they had pitched camp and continued on the river road east and north. The track twisted and bent around hills and through forested dells, but it kept returning to the river, which continued its gradual ascent to its headlands in the distant mountains that loomed far off on the eastern horizon.

Arla and Parath were hardly boon companions; the two offered him barely a handful of words throughout the morning. Jaros, however, more than made up for that lack with his own conversation. The young priest spoke at length about his experiences as an initiate within the Khel'arun. Daran understood little of what the other man spoke of, but the ongoing noise of human speech in the background was somehow reassuring. At a few points Jaros asked about Daran's own history, but he didn't press when the youth had demurred, and let himself be directed back onto more neutral topics.

The mule carried the both of them without protest, once they'd transferred the young priest's saddlebags to the woman's mount. Daran could only imagine how he looked; he could feel his ribs through the skin of his torso, and his trousers were barely sufficiently intact to preserve modesty. Jaros lent him a clean shirt, but couldn't help him with his missing boot, no doubt lost forever in the depths of the river.

Daran let the priest's chatter drone out his own tumultuous thoughts, and he almost drifted off, the swaying of the mule's hindquarters carrying him into a half-daze. At one point, however, Jaros said something that caught on his perceptions, and he jolted back into wakefulness.

"What was that you said?"

"I was speaking about Thusk, our destination. I don't know much about it, only that the mining camps are said to be wild, lawless places."

"Thusk," Daran said. He knew little more than what Jaros had told him, a few stories of the dangerous frontier brought by merchants' guards or the odd traveling mercenary, but the name stirred something at the edges of his memory, something he couldn't quite identify. "Why are you going there?"

"You know, I'm not entirely sure myself. But if the light of Khel is needed anywhere, then a place like that might..."

"Brother, we have need to make greater haste," Parath said, as he reined in beside them on the road. "Our young friend will ride with Arla the rest of the way. We have to move more quickly if we are to make to Sterick before nightfall."

That was it as far as conversation went; Arla proved utterly impervious to idle words and rode her mount aggressively, forcing Daran to focus his efforts on keeping his tenuous perch behind the horse's saddle. Ordinarily riding behind a young woman, even one wearing a sword and armor, might have been a pleasant experience, but Arla made it quite clear that he was to hold onto the leather loops on the rear of the saddle, and not to her. The horse seemed no more amenable to the situation, and jostled him mercilessly, awakening unpleasant feelings in the muscles of his legs by the time they'd moved an hour along the road. But they were moving faster, and Parath reduced the time they spent resting the mounts, so that they ate up more of the terrain as they made their way further east. The afternoon sun dropped quickly through the sky, finally dropping out of view as the road entered a forest. Ahead the land grew rougher, with rises and dips that undulated around them. They passed through several streams that fed into the river, but the road was fairly well kept up, and the three wooden bridges that they crossed were solid and firm beneath their horses' hooves.

Daran's eyes kept returning to the forest, where the dense web of trees obscured vision beyond a few hundred feet. The undergrowth was not especially thick, but there was enough tangled brush and protruding roots to conceal a small army of foes. Daran thought back to the ambush by the goblins along the road outside of Vimbros, and shuddered.

"Stop jerking about so, you're scaring the horse," Arla barked at him.

"The forest," he said. "There's something... something about it."

"You're seeing shadows," she returned, but he noticed that she urged her horse to a slightly quicker pace. The club-like weapon she carried bounced against her leg, while on her other side, her sword hung down from the saddle, its hilt within easy reach. It should have been reassuring being with someone who carried such weapons, but he could only think back to the nobleman on the road, and how he had died, begging for Daran to help him.

They came to a bend in the road and then, so abruptly that he had to blink against the brightening of the light, they were out of the forest and Sterick lay before them. Perched on a small promontory of land that jutted out into the river, the town was a crowded collection of some fifty buildings cluttered behind a wall of heavy logs. A wooden tower rose up from behind the wall, and Daran could see two men up there, watching them as the party rode up to the gates. The sun lay over the river to the west, dipping below the horizon even as they approached the gates.

They dismounted and passed through the gates without ceremony; the guards made no move to hinder them, and Daran didn't have to as much as open his mouth. Parath paused on the far side of the small open square beyond the gates, and turned to him.

"Our roads part here, young man," the elder priest said. He offered a hand to Daran, who accepted the coins the other man pressed into his almost reflexively. "There is a tavern near the docks that accommodates travelers of modest means such as yourself, The Iron Keel," he said. "From there you can find passage back up the river, or honest work, as the case may be. Good luck to you."

It was a dismissal, and the priest had turned his mount back around and headed down the street before Daran could speak. Arla gave him a look and nothing more, but Jaros clasped him on the shoulder. "I wish we could have met under better circumstances," he said, and offered a small bag from under his coat. "More of that cheese, and the last of the sausages," he said with a smile. "Keep the shirt, and use that money to buy some boots—don't drink it all up, eh? And try not to fall off of any more bridges!"

Daran muttered thanks, but the priest was already following after the others, and just like that, he was alone again. He looked down at the money in his hand, surprised to find that he held three silver dolmen.

* * *

The merchant shot Daran a wary look when he entered his shop. The leather trader started to explain that he was about to close up for the day, and it took a flash of silver to get him to agree to show Daran some boots.

Sterick wasn't much of a town, and the shopkeeper obviously practiced a number of trades. Racks of shoes were crowded in with leather tack and belts, saddles, a collection of sacks and pouches, a whole shelf of jars holding what looked like herbs of various sorts, and even a dipping rack for the manufacture of candles. The combined medley of scents in the place was almost overpowering, and Daran found himself blinking as his head started to swim.

He jerked back as the shopkeeper thrust a pair of boots at him. "These good quality, I bought just yesterday from merchant who barely stepped down from wagon board." Daran gave them a look, and they seemed sound enough, if rather scuffed. "How much?" he asked.

"Five dolmen."

"I can't afford that."

"Fah! You waste my time, no afford new, no afford used."

"Look, I'm not an idiot, I know how much shoes cost. Just show me some that I can get for a dolmen, and we can both be done here."

"Dolmen? One dolmen? You can go shit in cellar and smear your feet in it for a dolmen. I running business here, not charity for stupid boys."

"What about those?" Daran asked, pointing to a pair of low-top leathers that looked as ragged as he felt. The stitching was crude, but they looked to be more or less intact.

The shopkeeper shot him a hard look. "Those good shoes. Two dolmen."

Daran looked at them dubiously. He started to reach for them on the rack, but the shopkeeper cut him off. "You want them or no? Two silver, take or leave."

Daran felt like he was about to be sick, but he pushed forward. "I'm not going to pay without trying them on," he said. The merchant growled but didn't try to stop him. Hefting the boots, Daran immediately found that they had loose soles and that some of the stitching was coming out on the left shoe. "These are shit," he said. "I wouldn't pay two coppers for these."

"You not getting anything for two coppers," the merchant shot back.

Daran's patience was ebbing fast. "Bad things happen to people who try to fuck with me," he said, his voice low.

The merchant exploded. "You threaten me, boy? I break your head, maybe!"

"I cannot be killed," Daran said. He felt a twinge in his gut. "I cannot be killed, you hear me!" he yelled at the man. His eyes and nose burned, and the merchant blurred in his vision.

"You crazy!"

"Look, are you going to give me the shoes I want, or not! Two silver, I've got two dolmen here, just give me a fucking set of shoes!"

The merchant thrust the boots, the first pair he'd shown him, into Daran's hands. "Take them and get out!" He snatched the coins that Daran proffered, and threw up his hands. "Get out of my shop, you crazy boy!"

* * *

The boots fit well enough, although the right one pinched his heel slightly. Daran paused to adjust it, leaning against the side of a house that in turn abutted the stockade wall of Sterick. His head had cleared since leaving the leather merchant's shop, leaving him a bit confused about what had happened in there. Had the man really been afraid of him? It was a remarkable thought, given that he'd been more or less in a state of terror since he'd fled Lord Sovern's fury.

There was a low wall jutting out from the side of the house, and he sat down there, unwrapping the parcel of food that Jaros had left him. He had almost forgotten what it felt like not be hungry, but he barely tasted the food, eating mechanically while thinking about his plight.

It was obvious now that something profound had happened to him. Twice now he'd cheated death, and while he was still a bit blurry on the details, there was little doubt in his mind that in both cases he should not have survived. He was no Grim Tollver from the stories, come back to life to wreak vengeance on those who had wronged him, and he was certainly no sorcerer, to defy death though the application of the arcane arts. But he had a sinking feeling that he knew what was happening.

He looked down in surprise to see that he'd finished all of the food that Jaros had left him. It should have been enough for a few days, at least. He rubbed his belly, where the food he'd eaten was sitting not quite comfortably.

It had been an impulse, when he'd seen the baron's men, back in Vimbros, that morning with Albrizar. It had taken only a moment for him to swallow the young nobleman's ring. He'd anticipated getting it back, certainly, and each time he'd moved his bowels he'd checked for it, hoping that he was wrong, that this was all just some bizarre coincidence. He should have told Albrizar about it; maybe the mage would have known something that could have enlightened him.

He rose, getting ready to search out the inn that Parath had mentioned, when he saw something interesting; on the edge of the back porch of the house, someone had left a leather coat hanging from a jutting plank. Daran quickly scanned the street to ensure that no one was looking in his direction, then hopped over the wall, slipping along the wall of the house to the back porch. Another look to verify that no one was lurking there, then he reached out for the garment.

He had a hand on it when he glanced to the side, and saw a small child standing there, looking at him.

Caught, he froze for the barest second, then jerked his hand back, tucking it behind his back. "Why, hello there. Is this your house?"

"Is my da's." The child couldn't have been more than seven or eight, of indeterminate gender, clad in a long tunic that was stained with more than a few spots.

"I'm Daran. Is your father home?"

"Grisel," came a hard voice from the back of the house. A big figure of a man, thick arms corded with muscle, emerged from a recessed doorway. He was clad in a leather vest over worn breeches, and carried a short-handled iron axe in one fist. The child scooted quickly over to him, and his eyes were icy as they swept over Daran.

"Excuse me, sir, I was hungry, and I was wondering if you had any work I could..."

"No work," the man said. "You go, now." The way he held the axe suggested that the alternative would not be pleasant. Daran was content to make a quick retreat, jumping the wall and making his way in haste down the streets of Sterick.

The Iron Keel was busy, noisy, and full of grim, unwashed men who drank cheap ale from tall clay mugs. No one paid him any heed as he made his way inside, and the tavernkeeper ignored him until he showed silver, his last dolmen slapping onto the stained surface of the bar that ran down the length of the common room. The coin drew a few eyes, eyes that made Daran feel uncomfortable. He thought about leaving then, but he had few alternative options, so he took the mug and bowl of stew that was provided, and sidled into a vacant stool near the end of the bar, the comfort of the wall hard against his side. The tavernkeeper left a small pile of copper divots with the food, and told him he could have a bench near the hearth, once the night crowd was done with their drinking.

It wasn't exactly a boon offer, but better than sleeping in an alley or on the river, so he sat there in his corner, trying to ignore the raucous scenes. Two serving wenches, little more than girls, made their way through the crowd, patiently ignoring the casual groping by the customers as they served fresh mugs, taking the old ones back to be refilled from the huge casks racked up behind the bar. The kitchen was little more than a big pot of the same stew that Daran had been served, tended by an old woman who Daran caught glimpses of as she moved into the open doorway that separated the front room from the back of the place. After a while one of the girls brought out loaves of coarse black bread, which were served out with refills of the stew. The stuff had been greasy, the meat scant and full of gristle, but he'd eaten every bite, and he handed over a divot for the refill and a hunk of the black bread. A mug was thrust in front of him for another divot, and without anything better to do, he ate, and drank. No one tried to talk to him.

He'd been there for an hour, maybe more, when there was a commotion that started near the door, stirring through the crowd like a wave. Men got up and hurried to the door, or pulled aside the shutters that warded the narrow front windows so they could look outside. The tavernkeeper shouldered several men aside so he could get a look. Once he got to the door, he started yelling, and about three-quarters of the men quickly left, some pausing to down the contents of their mugs before they took up their threadbare coats and rushed out into the town.

Despite himself, Daran found himself curious. As the tavernkeeper returned to his bar, he lifted a hand, and as the man came over to him, he asked, "What's happening?"

The man spat in the general direction of a spittoon on the floor behind the bar. "Carloon's house and shop are on fire. No need to worry; Javob's got the bucket crews at work, and we be on the far side o' the town. 'Course if'n ye wanted to help, every hand is welcome."

Daran felt a sinking feeling in his gut before he asked the question. "Who's Carloon?"

"Merchant, runs the store near the front gate, leather goods, mostly."

"Is he... is he all right?"

The tavernkeeper looked at him with an odd expression. "I reckon he be, least nobody been yellin' 'bout no one trapped in the fire. Ye sick, lad? If'n ye goin' to vent, best do it out back, not on me floor."

Daran shook his head. He got up off his stool, the room swimming a bit from the ale he'd drunk, his stomach rebelling some with a queasiness that he ruthlessly quashed. He wasn't going to be sick, but it was pretty clear that neither could he just sleep here on a bench by the hearth, not after the merchant remembered who'd threatened him with dire consequences earlier that day. If he wasn't already headed this way, maybe with the town guards in tow.

He reached the back door of the tavern, stepping out into the cool night. The rear courtyard was tiny, and like most of the rest of the town buildings, backed up against the log stockade. There was a parapet at its top, empty now, the guards distracted by the fire like everyone else in town. In a crowded place like this, built almost entirely of wood, they'd be used to moving fast to stop a blaze from spreading and destroying everything inside the walls.

He took a step toward the latrine, in a small hut built up against the shelter of the stockade wall. He hesitated, and looked back over his shoulder. He couldn't see the fire over the bulk of the tavern, but he could see the black smoke rising into the night sky, could smell the stink of it in the air. He thought of Vimbros, and a cell under the baron's citadel in Evros, and of kicking uselessly on the end of a rope.

Turning back, he made his way forward. There were barrels stacked up against the side of the latrine shed; he clambered up on top of them, and from there to the roof of the shed. From there he could reach the parapet, and with a grunt he pulled himself up, then over the stockade wall. It was a decent drop to the ground below, but he tumbled with the landing, and he wasn't particularly worried about breaking his neck.

After all, he could not be killed.

Clutching his stomach, which continued to roil unpleasantly, he darted off into the night.

* * * * *

Chapter 13

In the common room of The Lord's Rest, the chatter over breakfast was of the fire the night before. The inn was small, with just six rooms, but it attracted a well-heeled clientele, affluent traders and skilled craftsmen passing through on their way west or south. Arla didn't linger, and finished her bowl of sugared oats and groundberries quickly. She listened to the conversations around her with half an ear, attentive to any mention of the road north or to predictions of the weather, but heard nothing she didn't already know. At the next table over, a tradesman was providing an audience of traveling merchants a detailed account of the blaze, spiced with numerous references to what she presumed were local notables. It seemed that gossip was something that transcended social class, she thought to herself, as she handed over her bowl and mug to the serving girl and headed into the stable to check on her mount.

She found Jaros already there, tending to his mule. The stable lad was absent, and knowing Jaros, he'd probably decided to prepare the animal himself rather than get the boy in trouble by summoning the innkeeper. He had laid out a supply of oats for the mule, and while it ate he affixed the padded cloth he used as a saddle, using leather throngs to fasten the small bags that carried his share of their supplies behind the seat.

They hadn't quite avoided each other last night, but a subtle distance had developed between them, an invisible gap that seemed to have grown steadily since their initial reunion. He looked up as she came in, and nodded in greeting before returning to his work. She saw that he'd fed hers and Parath's horses as well. He'd always been good with animals, she remembered, and unlike some of the members of the Orders that she knew, he had never seen stable or farm work as something to look down upon.

She sighed, and walked over to him. "Jaros," she said.

"Yes?" When he saw her expression, he gave the mule a last pat and came around the animal to face her.

"I just... I just thought we should talk."

"You're still upset with me," he said. "After all these years."

"It's not... Look, Jaros, it's just that..." she trailed off, frustrated by her inability to express what she was feeling. He smiled, a sad smile, but an understanding one. He'd always understood her so well. "I am the way I am," he said. "It doesn't change the way I feel about you." He came toward her, just halfway, offering while leaving the choice to her whether to accept. She hesitated, wanting to sunder the barrier between them but unable to salve the hurt that she still felt, even after all that had happened between their last parting.

The door creaked, and she started, turning to see Parath there. The elder priest's expression was serious. "Come," he told them. "I think it's time that I spoke to you of our mission."

The inn had a small, private room in the back, with rich wood paneling and a small hearth, where a fire burned despite the temperate morning. The room was a bit crowded with a large table of varnished pine and a half-dozen chairs, but Parath made no move to sit, leading them to the back of the room by the hearth. He gestured for Jaros to close the door behind him.

"As you know, we are headed toward the outpost at Thusk," he told them. "What do you know of that region?"

Arla and Jaros shared a quick look. "Not much, elder," Arla said. "It marks the farthest edge of the frontier, and contains a number of mining camps. At once time the outpost was a war-fort, back when the Kidari tribesmen still occupied the northern reaches, but they've been gone for centuries now."

"They are not completely gone, but your outline is sufficient," Parath said. "We are tasked with seeking out a rising threat in the area of Thusk," he told them. "Someone or something is treating with the powers of Shadow, and would tear the boundary between that realm and ours for their own advantage."

"Black sorcery," Jaros breathed.

"Yes. We are to meet with an agent in Thusk, a man named Cole Darron. He will have more information for us. He is a member of the order of the Flame."

"An inquisitor?" Arla asked. She furrowed her brow. "Forgive my question, elder, but if the Flame is involved, why are we being sent? I thought that they preferred to work alone."

"This mission comes from the Preceptor himself. It was his decision to send our expedition to investigate these reports."

"Koledouris?" Jaros asked. At Parath's raised eyebrow, he amended, "I mean, Elder Koledouris... did he... was there a vision, then, of this evil?"

"The Preceptor has temporal as well as spiritual resources at his command," Parath said dryly, but he touched his chin with his hand, a sign of agitation that Arla noted.

"Elder, we are honored to be chosen, but..."

"You wish to know why you were selected for this mission. A pair of promising initiates, but young and untested."

Arla found herself straightening slightly, but she did not shy from Parath's stare. "As you say, elder. If the Preceptor's Sight, or his agents, have knowledge of this evil, why send just we three? Why not constitute a Sword Legion?"

"Or tell the King?" Jaros said.

Parath leaned against the hearth, a slight gesture, but one that made his years weigh more heavily on his shoulders, just for a moment. There was nothing tired or weak in the blue eyes that fixed on Arla, however. "Sister, what did your master teach you of history, of politics?"

"We were instructed in the history of the church, and of the kingdom," she said. "We read the works of Jarens, Talto, and Amas Thorune, as well as the Baris's _Chronology of the Five Orders_. We studied the wars and great battles of the past, to learn tactics and strategy. We were taught the organization of the church hierarchy and the monarchy, and the nine ranks of the feudal order. Finally, we were held to the code outlined in Jarens' _Virtues_ : discipline, obedience, fidelity."

"Your course of work did not include study of the Book of Khel?"

Arla reddened slightly. "No, of course, elder. That was the foundation for all the rest."

"And you, brother?" he asked, turning to Jaros.

"Much of the same," Jaros admitted. "But less of the fighting, and more of our obligations to the people under our charge. Jarens' _Civic Obligation_ was our primary text at the abbey, in addition to the book of Khel, of course."

Parath rubbed his chin with both of his hands, and took a breath. "Your masters kept you shielded from the broader world beyond the borders of your priories. I cannot say that I do not understand this decision; I might have made the same in their shoes. But it would have made my task easier if you were better informed."

"Perhaps you could instruct us, elder," Arla said, somewhat stiffly.

Parath smiled slightly. "You think I apply blame for matters beyond your control. A fair enough judgment. I will answer your earlier question then, sister. I do not know why you two were chosen, specifically, although I do know that you were selected by name. As to why a Sword Legion is not being sent... there is an easy explanation, and a more difficult one. The easy one is that a Legion has not been constituted in more than fifty years. The kingdom has long been at peace. Amar is long since faded, and the realms it left behind have not had to face an existential threat in my lifetime. Even Koledouris was but a child when the people of the north last marched to war." He trailed off, running his fingers along the old stone of the hearth. Some of the mortar between the stones flaked off under his fingernails, drifting down to settle on the floor.

"And the more difficult reason, elder?" Arla prompted.

Parath smiled as he looked up at her again. "Politics. Politics is always difficult." He straightened, and adjusted his long tunic. "But we have a long road ahead, and daylight that is being wasted. There will be ample time on the road for me to fill in the gaps in your instruction. It will take a good three days for us to reach Thusk, even if the weather holds."

The morning was bright and clear, and soon they had left Sterick behind them, riding north along a road that wound its way through a line of low hills to the north. The terrain would be much rougher further on, they knew, so Parath set a rigorous pace that would allow them to eat up the leagues by the end of their first day on the north road. They passed a few farmsteads on departing Sterick, solid-looking structures with thick walls and shuttered slits for windows, but by the end of the first hour they had thinned and ultimately vanished, and they were once more alone with the wilderness.

Or nearly alone.

"There's someone up ahead," Jaros said. He started to urge his mule forward, but Arla moved in front of him, reining in alongside Parath. The elder stared ahead down the road, which curved around the shoulder of a rocky hillside tangled with dry brush. There were no travelers in view, and no sound but the whickered breathing of their own mounts. Arla glanced up at Parath, but the elder priest only shook his head. "Let us see who it is," he said, urging his own horse ahead.

The elder rode quickly around the bend. Arla hurried her own horse after him, glancing back to verify that Jaros was coming behind, as fast as his own mount could carry him. As she came around the shoulder of the hill, she saw that the road straightened beyond it, sloping down slightly into a dell between several hills before entering a forest a few miles ahead. She also saw a man who was running toward the cover of a cluster of boulders just off the road, a good fifty paces ahead of them. The traveler had clearly been spooked by their sudden appearance, and as he darted a look over his shoulder at them, she caught a good look at his face. He must have recognized them as well, for he stopped running, only to trip over a protruding rock and topple forward into a tangle of brush.

"This must be some sort of jest at our expense," she said dryly, as she reined in alongside Parath.

"The scriptures warn against making prejudgments, sister," Parath said.

"Is he all right?" Jaros asked. He started to get down off his mule, but Parath forestalled him with a raised hand. "Come hither, young Daran!" the elder shouted. "We will not harm you."

The youth extracted himself from the tangle, brushing dirt from his tunic as he made his way back to the road. "You seem rather skittish this morning," Arla commented.

"I've learned that there is danger on these wilderness roads," Daran said.

"You have secured new boots, I see," Parath said. "You decided against remaining in Sterick, then?"

"I can't stay there," Daran said. "I can't stay anywhere, it seems," he added in an undertone.

"Thusk is not exactly a friendly place," Parath said. "Life is rough on the frontier."

Daran shrugged. His expression was one of resignation, as though he doubted that things could get worse.

"You would be better served waiting for a caravan heading north," Arla said. "There is security in numbers."

"Maybe I could travel with you."

"Our business requires us to move swiftly," she said. She glanced at Parath again, who had a considering look on his face. "You'd be wise to return to Sterick, wait for a caravan. Use your labor to earn your bread."

"I have nothing," Daran said. He turned toward the road, as if he could see the leagues and leagues that stretched out ahead of him, culminating in distant Thusk somewhere beyond the line of hills, in the shadow of the mountains to the north.

"You have an overdeveloped sense of drama," Arla said impatiently. "Wandering off into the wilds will only get you killed—"

"Arla," Jaros began.

"Very well," Parath said abruptly. "As Sister Arla said, our business is urgent, and we will travel quickly, but if you can keep to our pace, you may accompany us. He nodded to Arla, who sighed and scooted forward in her saddle. She unhooked her saddle bags and handed them over to Jaros, then urged her horse forward.

"Come on then," she said, offering him a hand. The young man's expression was still bleak, but he accepted it, and she pulled him up behind her. "Hang on," she told him, as Parath kicked his horse back into motion, resuming their advance toward Thusk.

* * *

With Arla's horse carrying two they had to walk the horses more frequently, and their pace slowed as the road led them deeper into the hills. But the sun was just touching the western horizon when they reached Fanner's Hold, the last settlement along the road before Thusk. The name of the place was more impressive than its actual appearance, six squat log buildings connected by a log palisade, with a sturdy outer gate barely wide enough to admit a wagon. Fanner was long dead, but his son Seaghus still ran the Hold, and he admitted them to its shelter readily enough once a few coins had changed hands. The frontiersman was a sour man, and he treated all of his guests identically, regardless of gender or standing. The other residents of the hold were nearly all his kin, and they related grim tales of the dangers of the far north, and the harsh conditions to be found at Thusk.

They spent an uneventful night within the shelter of the walls of the hold, and Parath had them back on the road well before the sun broke over the summit of the mountains far to the east. Seaghus's people had refreshed their supplies, though it had cost them twice the silver they'd spent in Sterick for the same amount of foodstuffs. Parath paid over the coin without complaint, however, and the priest seemed distant, distracted, as they resumed their ride north. Intersecting lines of tension partitioned the group, and made for a quiet day of travel. Parath rode off slightly ahead of the others, and he grew more reticent as the day went on, speaking only to urge them to a quicker pace. Arla and Jaros in turn avoided eye contact, and exchanged even fewer words. Jaros tried to engage Daran in conversation during the intervals when they walked their mounts, but the young man seemed to have withdrawn into himself since their last meeting, and he responded to the priest's comments with curt syllables that did not stimulate further discussion. As if to reflect the dour mood, a brisk wind rose up as the morning passed into afternoon, whistling as it passed through the barren hills, tugging at their cloaks and driving stinging dust into their eyes. Dark clouds gathered to the north, but thankfully they seemed content to remain there, promising bad weather ahead but leaving them dry for now.

The road grew rough and untended, the ruts worn by generations of wagons descending laden from the mines grown thick with tangled weeds. It was clear that people passed this way, for the route was never overgrown completely, and they could see places where brush had been hacked clear. It was the only sign of human civilization that they encountered all day, save for a bridge that they crossed a few hours after the sun's noon peak. The bridge, a solid construction of logs and thick planks, crossed over a dry course occupied only by a wan trickle of a brook. Parath had them stop and refill their water bottles. Jaros found a few thickets of wild dewberries, and descended into the culvert to fill a sack with the tiny, sweet fruits. The elder priest rode ahead to the far side of the bridge, where he took a parchment from his pouch and examined it, frowning as he looked over the markings.

"That bridge seems like a lot of work for such a tiny stream," Daran noted, as he filled one of several flasks that Arla had tossed down to him. He seemed more animated now, and nodded in thanks as Jaros offered him a handful of the fruits, which left sticky smears on his hands.

"Look how deep the course is," Arla said. She remained atop the bridge, keeping a wary eye on the surrounding landscape. "Once the winter rains start, you'd be damned glad to have something this solid under your feet."

"Sister, language," Jaros said, tossing her the bag of berries. She caught it and snorted, but ultimately smiled as he laughed and grinned at her. She popped a few of the berries into her mouth, and for a moment, the easy camaraderie between them reappeared. Daran, washing his hands in the trickle of water, sensed the change in mood and started to smile himself, but then he grimaced, and rubbed at his belly.

"You all right, Daran?" Jaros asked. "The berries under ripe?"

"No, I'm fine. Just not used to this much riding and walking."

Arla snorted again, but this time there was no warmth in it. "You'll need to be tougher if you expect to earn your keep in the mines of Thusk," she said. "Come on, you two, it looks like the elder wants to get moving again. We've still got a few hours of daylight left."

"Is she always like that?" Daran asked, as he and Jaros made their way back up out of the watercourse to the level of the road.

"Arla is... Arla," Jaros said.

"By the way you were acting earlier, I could not tell if you were close friends, or dedicated enemies."

Jaros let out a little sigh, accepting Daran's hand to pull him up over the lip of the streambed up to the road. "Our relationship is complicated."

"I don't know about you two, but I'd like to make it to Thusk before winter," Arla said, trotting her horse back across the bridge to them. Parath waited for them on the far side, looking not at them, but at the road ahead.

Daran let Arla pull him back up behind her, while Jaros quickly untied his mule and climbed up onto its back. Daran had to hold on for his life as Arla kicked her mount into a brisk trot, its shod hooves clattering loudly on the hard planks of the bridge. "Stop fidgeting, you're scaring the horse," she told him, easing into place behind Parath as the elder priest led them back onto the road toward their destination.

* * *

They came upon a campsite right as the sun was starting to settle over the horizon, the broad space opening up before them almost providentially, nestled up along the shoulder of a low hill peppered with stunted, bent trees. Wagon tracks and several shallow pits lined with blackened stones indicated that the place was a regular stop for the caravans that brought shipments of metals down from Thusk several times each year. There was no shelter waiting for them, but they found a small heap of firewood stacked into a declivity between two boulders, and on the far side of the clearing a trickle of water ran down between a crevice in the hillside, providing a ready source of clean water.

The priests efficiently went about the tasks of setting up camp, and by the time that the sun had dipped fully beyond the horizon the horses were brushed, fed, and secured, a brisk fire was burning, and Parath was cutting vegetables to drop into a stew. Jaros took the rest of the dewberries, which had not survived travel well, and mixed them with a bit of sugar to make a jam for the hard trail bread that formed the bulk of their rations. After the long day riding and walking, the smell of hot food was a potent tonic, and Daran sat close to the fire, rubbing his hands together as he watched the preparations.

"If he keeps eating everything in sight, we're not going to have enough food to make it to Thusk," Arla growled, as she returned to the camp from a final check of the horses.

"Barring misfortune, we will be there by sunset tomorrow," Parath said, as he dropped a handful of chopped onions into the stew. "We have made good time, despite all."

"I appreciate you letting me come with you," Daran said, picking up a segment of carrot that Parath had dropped, and tucking it into his mouth almost without thinking.

"It's no problem," Jaros said, putting the bread and jam down atop a canvas sack next to the fire. Daran reached for them, but Arla slapped at his hand. "We eat together, after giving thanks for the bounty," she told him.

"We'll need more wood for the fire," Jaros said. "I'll get the woodaxe."

"Not alone," Parath said. "Always move in groups, and do not wander far from the camp, even for a few moments. Safety is more important than privacy on the frontier."

"I guess I could help chop some wood," Daran said.

"I'll go with him," Arla said. "I wouldn't trust the two of you to fasten your own bootlaces without help."

"I am not a child," Daran bristled, while Jaros said, "That's not fair, Arla."

Parath did not look up from the fire, but his voice cut through the budding argument like a knife. "Even those with the years of an adult can behave like children," he said. "There are dangers enough in the wilds, without us bringing our own conflict into them."

"I am sorry, elder," Arla said, chastened. Jaros bent his head and added his own apology.

"It has been a long road, and will be longer yet," Parath said. "The three of you can go together to secure the wood. Move quickly, and do not leave the view of the camp. One of those trees on the hillside should suffice. Watch your step and do not..."

He trailed off, and looked up, his eyes sharp. Jaros started, as if he'd been pinched. "Danger!" he said.

Daran followed Parath's gaze in time to see a small horde of goblins rushing forward into the camp.

The priests shot to their feet, their weapons leaping into their hands. Even Jaros took up a burning brand from the fire, the flickering flames casting his features into stark relief. He was scared, obviously, but there was a certain cool calm on his face as he took up a position on Arla's left.

Parath shouted a command, but Daran either couldn't hear him or couldn't make sense of the words over the pounding that filled his ears. Time seemed to slow as he watched in terror at the charging goblins. There were only four or five of them, and none would have come as high as his chest, but somehow, they seemed bigger as they ran forward from the road into the camp, waving spears or clubs. The one in the front was particularly fearsome, clutching a club as thick around as Daran's arm, with a knobby head as big as a melon at its end.

A stark memory of the ambush on the road outside Vimbros surged into his brain, stealing away what little control he yet possessed. He sprang up, but instead of rushing back behind the priests, who'd formed a wedge behind the fire, he ran toward the horses. Someone yelled something after him, but all he could see was the animals, and escape. The horses were as alarmed as the humans, and they reared as he approached, fighting the tethers that held them fast.

Daran saw what had alerted them a moment later, as a goblin emerged from the far side of Arla's horse, clutching a spear. The thing looked up at him with wide eyes, and jerked the head of the spear toward him. Daran flinched and staggered back. A sharp pain flashed in his side, and he fell, smacking his shoulder painfully against a flat rock. A sick smell filled his nostrils; he'd voided himself. Screams and hoots overpowered his senses; through the noise he heard someone yell his name, and it penetrated the chaos enough for him to look up.

Parath was there, holding his war mace with one hand, his other extended toward him. "Get up!" he yelled, and Daran felt a hard tug on his shoulder, the priest's fingers digging in tightly to his tunic. Daran was yanked up to his feet, but then, suddenly, Parath's grip loosened, and Daran fell backwards. A bright, terrible pain exploded in his back, and he collapsed to his knees. He could see Parath in front of him, wavering on his feet. A dark shaft entered his neck from one side, penetrated all the way through, then emerged out the far side before ending in a sharp point. It was an arrow, its jagged tip bright with the priest's blood. Parath's eyes had widened in surprise, and he opened his mouth to speak, but all that issued was sprays of blood, flecks of which Daran felt land on his face. The dying priest toppled over, falling into the fire, which sent up a roar of sparks and ashes and flames around his body. The stewpot clanked as it fell free and rolled, scattering the remains of their dinner all around the camp. A chunky orb of potato rolled to a stop in front of him, steam rising off it. He stared at it, paralyzed by a sense of unreality. This was all a dream. It had to be a dream.

The sharp pain that had pierced him had faded to a dull numbness that was spreading quickly through his body. His eyes dropped, to the bloody steel head of the spear that jutted from his chest. He lifted a finger, touched the metal. It was hard, warm, real.

He could smell the sick odor of roasting meat as the flames burned Parath.

The numbness continued to take hold of him, and he fell over onto his side. He could see Arla and Jaros, still somehow on their feet, the woman fighting with her bundled sticks in one hand and her sword in the other. Two limp forms lay at her feet. Daran could see blood smearing the dead face of one of the goblins with almost shocking clarity. As he watched, the big goblin, the one with the club, lunged at her, smashing her across the chest with his weapon. She staggered back against Jaros, and the two fell backwards, out of Daran's view. A black fog was starting to gather around the edges of his vision, folding him in. He felt like he was staring through a long black tunnel, which grew longer and longer as he lay there, until all he could see was a dim point of light in the distance. The shouts faded into the background, and then everything dissolved into the spreading black, and he died.

* * * * *

Chapter 14

Darkness, and pressure. A great weight bore down on him, like a mountain stacked upon his chest. He could not feel his arms or legs, could feel nothing but that overwhelming heaviness. He tried to breathe, but could not.

Panic slithered along the edges of his scattered thoughts. He shifted, slightly, but the movement did nothing to ease the weight holding him immobile. A gray haze stole over him. He tried to fight it, made one last effort to shake free of the immobility that held him prisoner, but there was no escape as the fog swallowed him, and drew him back in.

* * *

Awareness. The weight was still there, oppressive, solid, but somehow less than before. He still could not see anything; all of his senses were muted, as though his mind had been disconnected from his body. He drifted.

A sound reached him, a scraping noise, close. He tried to move, and found to his surprise that he could, his left arm shifting slightly. His body still felt numb, but he fought to hold onto the small opening he had, and again he was able to move his arm, pressing back against the firm weights holding him.

The scraping noise again, and then he could see, a tiny sliver of light that seemed as bright as a sun in front of his face. He blinked, but could not move his head; the heavy weights pinned him. He tried to order his legs to move, and felt a slight easing of the pressure, a soft clatter. He kept trying to fight, even as the numbness began to creep back, replaced by an unpleasant tingling that drove him to further efforts.

His arm broke free, but his feeling of triumph was interrupted as a sharp, tearing pain exploded in his wrist. More light, as some of the barrier pinning him fell away. His vision was blurred by the intensity of the light, but as he blinked back tears, he could see enough to realize what was happening.

His wrist was caught in the jaws of a dog, a big mongrel of a thing, a feral hound with a squashed face and a heavy, matted pelt. It was pulling on him, tearing; he could feel the bones of his wrist grinding together under the rough treatment, and could smell the acrid tang of his own blood over the nasty stink of the animal. He was dimly aware of others further back, their harsh growls just audible over the crunching sounds coming from the one tearing at his arm.

He was still half-buried under a mound of stacked stones, which fell away as he struggled to get up. The dog yanked harder, and he could feel his flesh tearing. Pulling his other hand free, he grabbed a stone, and smashed it into the dog's skull. The hound only tightened its grip, but Daran hit it again, and then again, and again, until its hold loosened and it slumped over, blood oozing from the cracks in its skull. A slight scrape and a hint of motion warned him of another hound lunging at him from the far side; he smashed the rock backwards. There was a crack, a canine yelp of pain; the threat withdrew. The growls intensified. Trying to ignore the pain of his ravaged left arm, he pulled himself free. His legs were like wooden posts, thick and awkward, but he was able to stand. The pack of hounds drew back, their lips drawn back over sharp teeth, their growls intense and hostile. Daran made a sound that was no more human than that terrible noise, threw the stone he held. It missed its target, but there was an ample supply at his feet, and he grabbed and threw, again and again, in a blind frenzy. Several of the stones hit their targets, and the dogs broke and fled, vanishing into the bushes. The one he'd struck down remained, its body twitching as blood continued to ooze from its shattered skull.

Daran blinked and held his ruined arm close against his body. He looked around. The cairn where he'd been laid was in a small dell, tangled with dry brush. There was another rocky grave just a few feet away, but there were no markers, no indication who had been put to rest there. He remembered Parath, falling into the flames of their campfire, an arrow through his neck, and shuddered. He tried to call out, but only a thick, raspy noise made it from his throat. He was desperately thirsty, and hungry, but the sensations felt strangely distant, as though they belonged to another person rather than himself.

His thoughts took on more clarity, though that did not improve the grim circumstances in which he found himself. Clearly at least some of the priests had survived the goblin attack; someone had built the cairns. He had no idea where he was; nothing he could see looked familiar, but it seemed unlikely that the survivors would have dragged his body far from the site of their camp.

He looked around for tracks, but he was no hunter, and the marks he found made no sense to him. There was an easier route up out of the dell to the west, and some of the bushes that way showed signs of having been recently disturbed. That might have been the dogs, or it might have been the surviving priests; there was no way to know.

He hesitated by the second cairn, looking down at the mound of piled stones. But after a moment he turned away, and made his way up out of the dell.

It was rough going; the dry bushes scraped at his skin, and his savaged wrist throbbed. He still had his boots, thankfully, but his shirt was torn and matted with dried blood, and his body was caked with filth. Dirt streaked his face and clung to his hair. He had no idea how much time had passed, but the day was fading fast, the sun dipping toward the horizon ahead of him.

Once he made it out of the dell, he stumbled upon the road in short order. He stood there in the middle of the line of packed earth, between the ruts worn by the iron wagons. He stared toward the north, where the road continued its winding route deeper into the hills. Somewhere between here and the distant mountains, invisible within the depths of the hills, was Thusk.

He started walking.

* * *

The air inside the inn's common room was hot and heavy, thick with the stink of human bodies and the more noisome trail of birrabar smoke rising from two-divot cigars. The room was big, the largest in Thusk, she'd been told, but right now it seemed oppressively close with the people who filled almost every inch of space.

Jaros's words filled that space, echoing from the high rafters. Like every knight of the Order of the Heart, he'd been trained to speak well. Arla could feel the reassurance that radiated from him like heat from a flame. But she could also sense the fear on the faces of the townsfolk who looked up at them, fear that was only a razor's edge from becoming panic. And panic, she knew, was a foe more deadly than arrows or swords.

"Your companion, he speaks passionately," Governor Jarret said. Arla glanced over at him. Jarret had a fixed, stern expression frozen on his face, the face of a man skilled at keeping his private thoughts hidden. Behind him stood his wizard, a southerner clad in ominous gray robes, and two of his guards. More of the guardsmen were arranged around the perimeter of the room, a show of force that seemed to agitate the crowd rather than reassure them.

Arla nodded at the Governor's comment. Jarret had already spoken to introduce them, and no doubt would again once Jaros was finished. Arla knew enough to know that they were being presented to the crowd as a balm; by now the news had spread throughout Thusk of the attack, of the murder of a priest of Khel on the roads. That, in addition to the raid on one of the outlying settlements, had convinced many in the mining town that a goblin invasion was imminent. The fact that Jarret had most of his guards here, rather than out on the walls, indicated that the Governor thought otherwise. Arla couldn't disagree with the man; she'd seen enough crowds to know that they could turn ugly in a hurry, and become deadly in their own right.

Jaros finished his speech, and was addressing questions from the crowd. Jarret stepped forward to stand beside him, picking out people by name, making eye contact, responding smoothly, shifting topics and distracting the crowd seemingly at will. It was obvious that he was more than just a political appointee; he was a leader by talent as well as by title.

A hint of movement brought her attention around. Captain Bartek, the commander of Jarret's guardsmen, had entered the room via the back door through the kitchen. He noticed her and inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement. She wondered if he brought news of another attack, but he betrayed no sense of urgency, content to remain in the background for now, his thumbs tucked into his swordbelt. Arla had only met him briefly early, but it had been enough for her to know that Bartek was a dangerous man.

The tension in the crowd had eased some. Jarret was promising retribution for the attacks, and argued with conviction that the town itself was in no danger. The Governor praised her and Jaros for fighting off the raiders. Arla didn't feel very praiseworthy. At least no one had asked her to speak; other than a few words acknowledging Jarret's introduction, she'd been content to let Jaros do the talking for them. He was a Heart; words were one of his weapons. All she knew was swords and death. And the former hadn't been enough to keep the latter at bay; all her training and supposed skill hadn't saved Parath, or Daran.

Her thoughts dissipated into vapors as she stared into the crowd, her jaw dropping. People had been coming and going throughout the meeting, and there had been an ongoing process of jostling in the back as the late arrivals vied for a good position in the crowd. But a space had opened around one of the tables, where someone had just come in and sat down in front of the remains of a dinner that hadn't yet been cleared. There wasn't much left, but the newcomer shoved crusts and other fragments into his mouth like a starving man, even upending a tureen that had been used as an ashtray, leaving bits of ash and smears of congealed gravy on the edges of his mouth. Several of the people in the crowd stepped further back, their expressions wrinkling in disgust.

She sensed when Jaros saw him, could feel the surprise that struck like a blow. The Governor's cadence had faltered; he too recognized that something was wrong. Arla shied forward, trying to catch his attention, but before she could Jaros interrupted.

"Daran! But... you're dead!"

Every eye in the room turned to the bedraggled young man, as a sudden silence descended over the room. Daran looked up and blinked, as if aware for the first time where he was. He absently pushed a bit of gristled meat into his mouth, and belched loudly.

* * *

"This is all that I fucking need," Governor Jarret said, angrily swirling the brandy in the large crystal snifter he held, before downing the amber liquid in a single swallow.

"Sir?" Bartek asked, standing near to attention, his arms folded behind his back. "The goblins, or... the rest of it?"

"All of it," the governor said. He slammed the glass back onto the top of his desk, just shy of enough force to break it. He raised his eyes and looked across the room at the only other man present, hovering near the warmth of the hearth. "Well, magus? What do you think of all this? You're supposed to be my advisor, so advise."

Albrizar drew in a deep breath. "The goblins are a legitimate threat, my lord. But they hazard only the outlying settlements, and casual traffic between the mine sites. They could never menace Thusk itself, or the satellite camps."

"And I suppose it doesn't occur to you that all of our operations are dependent upon that traffic, wizard? What happens when the miners refuse to leave their camps out of fear, or the teamsters balk at driving their ore wagons?"

"Surely the goblins could be easily routed, perhaps with baronial troops..."

Jarret interrupted him with a harsh bark of a laugh. "Do you hear that, Bartek? Our mage suggests we petition the baron for soldiers to clear away the goblin threat. Why, maybe he'll even raise a Legion!"

The soldier grunted but did not respond. Albrizar likewise held his tongue, only the slightest twist of his lips indicating his feelings. Jarret leaned forward. "Do I offend you, mage? Perhaps you will chastise me with your magical flames?" He laughed again. "The only concern that Baron Thargus has with Thusk is that his iron is delivered on schedule, and on quota. If I fail at that fundamental task, he might send troops, oh yes indeed he might, but you can be certain that they would be escorting my replacement."

Albrizar inclined his head. "As an outsider, I must crave forgiveness for my ignorance of Evrosian politics, my lord."

Jarret leaned back again his chair, which creaked under his weight. "You will learn, magus, you will learn. No, we must make do with what we have. And perhaps you are right, about the mettle of this foe. Goblins are crafty, but when it comes down to it, they are brigands, nothing more, nothing less. Every now and again, it becomes necessary to offer an... object lesson, let us say, to send them scurrying back to their holes. Eh, Bartek?"

The warrior's response was merely another grunt.

"With such effusive counsel, how can I steer wrong? What say you, mage, to a punitive expedition?"

"Ah, I am sure that your guardsmen will perform admirably," Albrizar said.

"Indeed they will, indeed they will. They know which side of the bread is buttered, so to speak. But we cannot deplete our forces unduly; the workers will panic if they see the walls unguarded. We shall have to be... creative. Bartek, what about the Blackhands?"

"The Blackhands?" Albrizar asked.

"Oh, that's right, you haven't had a chance to get out to all the mine sites yet. The term is a colorful appellation for one of our more... _animated_ crews. They suffer from what might be construed as an excess of enthusiasm, and are always on the lookout for a chance to earn a few extra coins. What about it, captain? Might master Tharos be persuaded to serve?"

"He's in the stocks for raping that whore."

"Ah, right. Can't have that; he might make our priestess nervous. Well, I am sure you can find a few other likely candidates. Ottile, certainly, or Briggs, perhaps. As many as you think you'll need, and can keep under control."

"My lord, do you intend to include the clerics in this expedition, then?" Albrizar asked.

"Why not? With the power of Khel on our side, our victory will be certain, no? Although you're right, the men might benefit from a more overt display of confidence in the outcome. Perhaps if I included my most trusted advisor as commander of the expedition..."

Albrizar paled. "Uh... my lord, I am no warrior, as you well know..."

"Difficult times force us all to make sacrifices, mage. And I have no doubt that the savage little bastards will be properly impressed by your mighty spells. Cheer up; a few days out, a few 'displays' for the unruly natives, and you'll be back here sitting in front of the fire before you know it. Rest assured that I shall credit you fully in my report to the baron."

Albrizar opened his mouth to speak again, but after meeting Jarret's eyes, he closed it, and bowed again, a bit more stiffly this time. "I am at your command, Governor, as always."

"Excellent. What do you think of our young prophet?"

The sudden shift left the magus blinking. "Excuse me? My lord," he added, at the Governor's hard stare.

"The boy. The one who claimed to have returned from death."

"Ah. From what I understand, my lord, the boy made no such claim; it was the priests who mistakenly thought him dead, after the goblin attack."

"Arunite priests are not generally known for such errors of incompetence," Jarret said.

"They are very young themselves, and they had just lost their elder and mentor. Perhaps they could be forgiven the mistake."

"Thank you, wizard. As always, I appreciate your counsel."

Albrizar hesitated, but after a few seconds it became clear that the statement was a dismissal. "Of course, my lord. I will attend to... my preparations." He bowed stiffly, but neither Jarret nor Bartek moved until he had left. When the door closed behind him, Jarret gestured to the sideboard, and the bottle of brandy there. Bartek recovered the half-full decanter and poured a generous dollop for the Governor, who swirled it in his cup. The soldier left the bottle on the edge of Jarret's desk, and returned to a wary stance that a fool might have mistaken for casualness. He said nothing as the Governor stared into his glass, finally downing half of its contents in a single gulp.

"What do you think?" Jarret finally asked.

"It is a complicated situation," the soldier said, to which Jarret grunted. "You have a solid grasp of the obvious. The priests I can deal with, but this boy, he is another matter entirely. Already I am hearing rumors from the mining camps concerning him. What have you been able to find out?"

"Little. Apparently the priests barely knew him either; they were just traveling together from Evros. The boy would seem to be just another penniless refugee from one of the villages, come here to seek enough work to earn his bread."

"Except for the fact that an Arunite priest proclaimed him risen from the grave in front of two hundred witnesses," Jarret said dryly. "Ordinarily I'd say throw him into the deepest pit we have, but the spirit is out of the bottle, and there are too many factions here who would welcome a ready-made distraction such as him."

"The punitive raid would seem to be a dangerous operation."

Jarret's eyes narrowed as he looked up at the captain. "Indeed. Indeed. Who were you thinking of to head the expedition?"

"Lieutenant Kovros has expressed his interest in opportunities for promotion," Bartek said.

"Kovros. Is he the one you sent to Site Four to break up that cell of agitators? 'General strike,' indeed."

"The same, my lord."

"Good, good. Well then, I expect that you will see that the problem is... handled."

"What about the priests? They seem to be interested in the boy's circumstances."

"As you yourself said, missions like this tend to be risky by their very nature," Jarret said. "I am sure that Kovros will be discreet. And Bartek? I want these raiders dealt with. A little fear can be useful, but what I said earlier... I don't give two shits for a settler family, or for a few Arunite priests, but I will not have my quota jeopardized. When a governor is replaced, those around him tend to cushion his fall. You understand?"

"Completely, my lord."

"You are dismissed, then," Jarret said, reaching across the desk to grab the bottle.

* * *

"This is all some kind of mistake," Daran said, holding the crossbow as though it might suddenly grow fangs and bite him. "I'm not a soldier."

"So?" the big soldier said, thrusting a quiver of squat bolts into his grasp, almost causing him to drop the heavy wooden bow. "You think they are?" He nodded to the dozen or so men, an assortment of big, hard fellows clad in the heavy layered leathers of a mining crew, who were horsing around and cracking jokes, pretending to shoot each other with their new weapons. One pair got into a brief scuffle that ended with one on his back, the other raining kicks down onto his head while his companions cheered him on.

"Hey now! Save some of that for the gobbos!" the soldier said, and the miners reluctantly gave up their entertainment. He turned back to Daran, who'd opened his mouth for another protest. "Look boy, this is war, we've all got to make sacrifices. Besides, this will give you a chance to put a bolt in those gobbos who beat the shit out of you, eh?"

The soldier moved off, leaving Daran standing there holding the ungainly crossbow and the quiver. For a moment he thought about putting a bolt into the soldier's back; _that_ would get his attention, no doubt. Or maybe that guard captain who'd interrogated him, or the Governor, or Baron Thargus, or Garath, or Allus Sovern. The thought cheered him only slightly.

Hooting whistles and shouts drew his attention back to the present; he followed the gazes of the miners to see Arla coming down the hillside from the inn to the cleared area that the soldiers were using as a staging ground. The priestess's expression was like ice, and she betrayed no reaction at the suggestive calls coming from the miners. She was dressed in her armored coat and wore both her sword and her club at her belt, Daran saw. She saw him, but headed first to the closest of the three guardsmen who were supervising the men loading the mules who would be carrying the supplies for the expedition. They exchanged a few quick words, then the priestess walked over toward Daran, still ignoring the antics of the miners behind him. For a moment he thought she would walk past him, but she stopped, her eyes dropping to the bow he still held.

"Let me see that," she said, taking it, looking over the weapon, holding it up to sight down its length, then testing the string with her thumb. Daran was surprised to notice that she was slightly shorter than he was; he'd never quite stood this close to her, face to face, but somehow in all their previous exchanges she'd seemed taller. She was only a few years older than him, but she carried herself with a calm coolness that he found quite imposing.

"It will pull to the right some," she said, handing back the crossbow. "I would take some practice shots with it," she added, nodding toward the stack of hay bales that someone had set up for use as impromptu archery butts. The wooden targets were slightly smaller than men, crude outlines that could have been anything. A few bolts jutted from them already, shot by the miners, but most of the shots had either gone into the hay or stuck out from the sides of the buildings behind the bales.

"I don't want to do this," he said, the words as earnest as a prayer. He wasn't sure what she'd give him, what he wanted from her, but she only shook her head, her lips pursed tightly.

"Life doesn't always give us what we want," she told him. "In fact, it usually doesn't. Practice with that, adjust for the pull. Learn to reload quickly, as quickly as you can. These little bows don't use a winch, but get good with that claw hook. And get a knife, as big a knife as you can manage. Don't bother with a sword; there's no time to learn how to use it without cutting off your own foot, but every bowman needs a knife."

"Arla..."

"I have many things to do, Daran. If you need to talk to someone, Jaros can probably do better than..."

"Hey there, pretty girl."

Daran flinched; he hadn't heard the man coming up behind him. He looked up—and _up;_ the miner was a veritable giant, standing almost a full foot taller than him, his shoulders and upper arms thick with the muscle that anyone who worked long shifts in the mines developed. The left side of his face was covered with old scars that gave his face a haggard look, the damaged tissue darkened like streaks of soot. Part of his left ear was missing, an odd echo to Daran's own disfigurement.

"You're the one they call Ottile, right?" Arla asked. Daran almost jumped again; for a moment he'd forgotten she was there as well.

"That's right. So, you heard of me, eh?"

She looked him over, her lips twisting slightly into a frown. "I suppose you're big enough to take care of a few goblins. She lifted her hand, pointed to the sigil on the brow of her cap. "Do you know what this is?"

"Never was much for religion," the big miner said. "Though if all priests looked like you, it could be I might change my mind."

"Ottile, am I going to have to beat the shit out of you in front of your friends in order to ensure the proper respect, or are we going to be all right?"

The giant blinked. "What?"

One of the guardsmen had started forward, but Arla held him back with a raised hand. "I can understand your initial reaction to my appearance; this is a dreary posting, and I realize that some of the typical rules for civilized behavior are neglected in such places. Therefore I am asking, since you seem incapable of offering the respect due to a sister of the Khel'arun, if I am going to need to pound you into bloody paste in order for your fellow miners and I to get along on this expedition."

Ottile glanced down at Daran and snarled, as if he was somehow responsible for the developing confrontation. Daran shrank back, but Arla did not let up. "I am the one speaking to you, Ottile, and I will ask one more time. Will you show me the respect due to me, or will we need to escalate this situation?"

The men gathered—and Arla was the only woman present—were silent now, the miners, guardsmen, teamsters, and Daran all frozen as they watched the pair facing off in the muddy clearing. Ottile stared at Arla for several long seconds; the priestess did not flinch. Finally, the giant grinned.

"All right, priestess. I am sorry for my rudeness earlier." He touched his fingers to his lips and heart, and with slightly mocking bow, withdrew.

"You're going to go out into the wilderness alone with _them_?" Daran asked. He didn't realize he'd spoken aloud until Arla turned toward him.

"I will do what I have to do," she told him. "You can do the same." Without waiting for a response, she turned and headed back up toward the inn.

* * *

The fortified mining camp at Thusk was surrounded by a bright ring of light that kept the night at bay. Torches dotted the wall that circled the camp at regular intervals, so that none of the cleared space around the camp was completely in shadow. Armed men patrolled the walls, while others in the wooden towers that stood at the four compass directions scanned the surrounding mountains for any hint of trouble.

Within the camp itself, the shadows held sway, broken only occasionally by a hooded lantern attached to the side of a building, or by the more mobile points of light carried by the quartets of guards that made a circuit of the camp every hour or so. Governor Jarret had instituted a curfew after dark, so the typical nighttime activities of the camp were rather muted. The inns and taverns were quiet and dark, their residents and guests already retired to an uncertain rest.

At The Miner's Mark, the largest inn within the walls, a single light glimmered through the shutters covering the windows. The innkeeper's hired guard sat dozing on a bench near the front door; the curfew meant lighter duties for him, at least. He didn't stir as the faint clink of metal announced the passing of the guard patrol.

As the sounds of the guards' footsteps faded, a small window on the inn's second story popped open. A dark figure emerged, dangling from the threshold before dropping lightly into the common yard that connected the inn to the adjacent stables.

Daran grimaced as his ankle twisted painfully as he landed, but he was relieved as he took a step and found it wasn't broken or sprained. He started toward the back of the courtyard, where an alley led behind the stables, but he jumped as a shadow emerged from the darkness there.

He'd turned and was about to sprint away when the familiar voice stopped him. "Don't be afraid," Jaros said, his voice pitched low so that it barely carried across the yard. "It's only me. Are you all right? I hope the ankle is not sprained."

"It's fine," Daran muttered. "What are you doing here?"

"I would think that would be obvious. I was waiting for you."

"I was at the next table over during dinner. You could have talked to me then, if it was important. Or come by my room after." Daran's lodgings were hardly generous; as a member of the morrow's expedition he'd warranted a bunk in the crowded common hall tucked into the back corner of the inn's second story, not like the priests, who were sharing a small but private suite on the opposite side of the building.

"I thought it might be better for us to have a bit of privacy."

"How did you get out here, anyway? The guard..."

"I convinced him to fall asleep."

"Convinced him? Are you... are you a sorcerer or something?"

"Hardly, Daran. We priests of the Heart are trained in Empathy."

"Empathy? What's that?"

"It is difficult to explain. We can sense what people are feeling, and sometimes can nudge them in a direction to where they already want to go."

"So you can read minds?"

"No, not exactly. More a general sense of what people feel."

"I guess I could have just walked out the front door then," Daran grumbled.

"Running away isn't going to solve your problem, Daran."

"Well, it's better than getting killed."

"It seems that you have a way around even that. I'd hoped for a chance to talk to you about that, but Arla and I have been rather busy since we've arrived."

"I don't want to talk about it. Look, I appreciate everything you've done for me, but I don't want to go on this expedition, and I don't want to stay here. Coming here was a mistake."

"How do you plan on getting out of Thusk? The gates are sealed at night, per the Governor's order."

"I'll climb the wall, if I have to. It won't be the first time I've gotten out of a town." He thought back to Evros, and how he'd escaped there, and shuddered.

"And where will you go then? Assuming that goblins don't take you on the road back south."

Daran shuddered, and Jaros instinctively moved closer to him. He young priest froze, however, when Daran flinched back, and let out a sigh. "I am not your enemy, Daran. I don't know what trouble you're in, or what you're running from, but I would help, if you would let me. If we didn't have our own mission here, I would convince Arla to take you with us south, somewhere safer. As it is..."

"As it is, I'm better off on my own."

"I don't agree. Come with us. We can protect you..."

"You couldn't protect the old priest." Now it was Jaros who flinched, and Daran shook his head. "I'm sorry. I know he... he died trying to save me. I'm not worth it, not worth anyone else losing their life over me."

"I don't agree with that either." Jaros reached out again, and this time he ignored Daran's flinch, touching him on the shoulder. "You feel alone, completely alone. But you're not, Daran. I don't like the idea of leaving you here, or of you trying to sneak out of here by yourself. That governor... he's up to something, and I don't like what I sense from him. Arla... Arla and I could use your help. She's a trained initiate of the Order of the Sword, and she knows how to take care of herself, but not all threats come from swords or bows. You could help me keep an eye on her. We three could watch out for each other."

Daran hesitated. "I'm not a fighter. Earlier today, that's the first time I've ever even held a sword, or a crossbow. I can barely manage to load the damned thing."

"Then you have that much more skill than I in that area," Jaros said.

Daran looked at him. "You're not... you're not enspelling me, are you? To make me want to go with you?"

Jaros laughed softly. "No, my friend. As I said before, I can only nudge people toward where they already want to go." He extended his hand. After a moment, Daran took it.

"Come on, let's get back upstairs before the guard wakes up."

* * *

When Jaros stepped into the tiny parlor that connected the two rooms of the small suite they shared, Arla was sitting in the larger of the two cushioned chairs. She was running a whetstone down the length of her sword, the slight rasping sound over-loud in the close confines of the room, here he could have touched each of the walls with one step from the center.

"I thought you went to bed already," Jaros said.

"I thought the same of you."

"I had... I had something to take care of."

"Yes." She looked up at him, her eyes cold. "I thought you preferred the big, beefy sort. I would have guessed a soldier, not the boy."

For a long moment there was a tense silence between them. Then Jaros said, "I think your sword is sharp enough," he said. He walked to the door to his room.

"I asked around, quietly, for our contact," Arla said hastily, and he paused. "The man Parath mentioned. He's not here, but he fits the description of a runner who carries messages to the other camps. He's gone missing."

He didn't respond, just stood there quietly, watching her.

"I know... I know you disagree with this, you think that we should return south."

"With Parath dead, you are next senior," he said.

"That's not... Jaros, I..."

"You'd better get some rest. It will be a long day tomorrow." He stepped through the door to his room and shut it behind him. There was a slight click as he drew the latch, then quiet.

Arla sat there for a long moment, then she lowered her face into her hands.

* * *

Filcher's hands wouldn't stop shaking as the acolyte escorted him to the shaman's quarters. Behind him, a pair of warriors were following, alert to any effort to escape the summons. It was stupid; why would he have come back at all, if he was going to make a break for it now? But with each step forward the fear grew, as his imagination began whispering all sorts of unpleasant scenarios into his mind. Especially now, with _two_ failures under his belt. But in the end, he'd had nowhere else to go.

This time the acolyte didn't go in. He paused at the outer threshold, and gestured impatiently for him to go inside.

The interior of the shaman's quarters was much as it had been on his last visit, but the back part of the room had been partitioned by a hanging curtain of black cloth, making it seem smaller and more crowded. The bronze censer was lit, trailing a thin cloud of slightly noxious smoke through the chamber. Filcher coughed as his eyes started to water, waving his hand in a futile effort to clear the air.

"Welcome back."

Filcher almost jumped out of his boots as Og'ok's voice startled him. The goblin shaman materialized seemingly out of nowhere, although Filcher realized that he had to have come from behind the curtain. There was no sign of Tog, who had been summoned an hour before him. Had the scout gone on his way, or had he already suffered a grim fate that he would now share?

"I am not pleased at your failure," Og'ok said. The shaman ran his hand along one of the crowded benches that were crowded into every vacant space in the chamber, the clutter amplified by the various and sundry objects that dangled from hooks set into the ceiling.

"Forgive me," Filcher croaked, his throat suddenly dry. "We killed two of them, but there was a warrior woman with them, she killed Basher with a sword."

Og'ok waved a hand. "Tog has already told me the details. An entire fist, wasted. You should have known better than to take on a party of Arunite priests, especially with a Sword initiate among them."

Filcher had felt exactly the same way, but it hadn't exactly been his decision to make at the time. He held his tongue.

"Tog says you killed one of the humans yourself." Filcher didn't need to be reminded; he remembered the feeling of his spear entering the man's body, the heat of his blood as it had splashed onto his hands. "Perhaps there is hope for you yet." Og'ok's lips twisted into a grim smile, but there was anything but humor in his eyes.

Filcher shuddered as the scene replayed itself in his thoughts. The man he'd killed had been twice his size, but he had stumbled and fallen onto his spear, so he couldn't even honestly claim to have defeated him. The battle had been utterly chaotic and frenzied, with the hooting cries of his companions echoed by the desperate yells of the humans. He remembered seeing Basher knock down the human woman, but when the warrior had turned to the last of the humans left standing, a man armed only with a burning piece of wood, he'd just _stopped_ , as if he'd been hit with a club. It must have only been a few seconds, but it had been enough for the woman to get back up and stab him in the heart with the same sword she'd used to kill Zurk and Dragnak. Tog had shot the old man dead, but not before he'd brained Huruk with that big iron club of his. Noggle had had a clear shot at the woman once she'd killed Basher, but maybe his wounded shoulder had thrown off his aim, because he'd missed, and the woman had sprung forward like a badger defending its lair. Noggle had done the smart thing and tried to run, but she'd thrown the club she carried like a spear, cracking him hard in the back of the head.

He hadn't stayed around to see what happened next. He'd run, as fast as he could without looking back, and he hadn't stopped, until it was so dark that he couldn't see where he was going any longer. Even then he'd kept moving, creeping carefully over the rocks, careful not to make a sound that might betray his position to the humans who might be on his trail. He'd collapsed exhausted in a small copse of trees shortly before dawn, only to be woken by Tog the next morning. The scout had confirmed then what he'd already suspected, that the two of them were the only survivors of the attack on the human party.

Og'ok's voice yanked Filcher roughly back into the present. "Fortunately for you, Filcher, yours was not the only party I sent out to accomplish the mandate of the Spirits." While the other goblin blinked in surprise, the shaman retreated back to the black curtain separating the back half of the room. With a sudden yank on the dangling fabric, he drew back the curtain, revealing what lay beyond.

The human was bound to a framework of wooden beams that bent him almost double, pinned with arms spread wide in a parody of worship. He was naked, and his skin bore not only the marks of bruises and welts, but crude designs painted on him by the shaman, symbols that crawled almost like a thing alive with each heaving breath of the prisoner. He managed to lift his head as the curtain was drawn back, and Filcher saw in his eyes the fear of a trapped animal.

"This one will bring the favor of the Spirits upon us," Og'ok said, his laughter sending a cold chill down Filcher's spine.

* * * * *

BOOK 3

Chapter 15

Arla awoke with a sound like the pounding of a drum in the back of her head. Her hand shot to the hilt of her sword, and she nearly started to draw it before awareness returned, and she slowly eased her tensed muscles, forced herself to take a deep breath, hold it, release it, part of the calming exercises Turin had taught her back at the monastery.

She sat up and looked around. At least none of the others had noticed her startlement. A few of the miners were talking quietly around the tiny fire that Kovros had allowed them; none of them so much as looked in her direction. Closer by, men were sleeping, their outlines mere shadows in their blankets. She looked over at the entrance to the cave, where the light was better, and saw several men engaged in intent conversation. There was a flash of lightning that briefly silhouetted them against the opening, followed by a rumble of thunder that told her what must have awakened her earlier. Kovros then, holding court. Jaros was with him, along with Tennar, the mountain scout, and Albrizar, the Governor's pet wizard. At first she didn't see Kovros's shadows, the two guardsmen who seemed to dog his steps at all times, but then she caught sight of the pair sitting in the shadows opposite the entrance, keeping an eye both on their leader and the miners deeper in the cave.

There was another burst of lightning and thunder, the latter almost on top of the former. Close, then. Near her someone groaned in his blankets, turning over to reveal a gaunt white arm that jutted out from the covers. She looked at Daran and shook her head. The boy—no, man, she corrected herself, for he was only a few years younger than she was, and he carried weapons like any other member of the expedition. He ate more than even the giant Ottile, and she'd caught Jaros sneaking him a portion of his rations a few times, yet he seemed to grow more gaunt with each passing day. Kovros had set a hard pace in the three days since they'd left Thusk, and she wondered if he would be able to keep up, even with Jaros supporting him.

She reached for her waterskin, and found it almost empty. She drained the few swallows left in it and got up, ignoring the twinge in her back. Sleeping in her armor on hard ground was not conducive to sound rest, but she was not going to leave herself vulnerable even for a moment, not with these sort of men as companions. The guardsmen, in her view, were only slightly better than the miners, hard-edged men of the frontier with little of the discipline she was familiar with from her training.

She avoided stepping on any of the sleeping forms as she made her way to the back of the cave. There was a narrow crevice there that quickly widened into another chamber, one that glistened with lichens that clung to the slick rocks. A gap in the ceiling let in light, along with a torrent of rain that fell into the broad pool that occupied most of the back of the cave. The sound of it echoed off the walls. She wanted very much to wash the sweat of their march off her body, but knew better than to tempt fate that way. Instead she bent and quickly refilled her water flask, downing a few quick swallows before topping it off and securely fastening the stopper.

She heard them come into the cave behind her, the sound of their boots scuffing on the wet rocks barely audible over the constant noise of the streams from above splashing into the pool. Her thoughts screamed a warning, but she forced herself to turn slowly, and rise, calm and in control.

There were three of them, Blackhands all. "Water's all yours, boys," she said, tucking the lanyard of the waterskin into her belt. The three stood there in front of the narrow entry, but made no move toward the pool. They looked at her with a hungry look that was unmistakable.

"Don't be fools," she told them. "One shout and Kovros will be here with his men."

"That's just it," the miner in the middle said. "Denbur came in here about an hour ago, yelled his head off. Mebbe it's the rain, or the shape o' the cave, but them's in the other room, they din't hear squat."

Arla's hand dropped to where her withe would normally be hanging, but she realized she'd made a mistake; she'd left it with her bedding. But the sword, that she had not let out of her reach since leaving Thusk, that was hanging on her opposite hip, almost a part of her, now. That cut down on her options considerably.

She tapped the scabbard but made no motion toward the hilt. "Look, this isn't just some ornament," she said. "I don't want to kill you, but I will if you persist."

The miners shared a quick look, but none of them backed off. The leader of the trio said, "You don' wanna make this rough, girl. You got a blade, we got blades, but you draw that sticker, might be you that ends up bloody. We just wants a little fun is all. Hells, you migh' even like it." At his words, the men flanking him moved forward slowly, cautiously, as if she were a nervous animal they were trying not to spook.

Arla merely held her ground. "This is your choice. You can still stop this, walk away, it will be the end of it."

"Get her."

The men darted forward, and Arla's hand whipped to her side and up.

* * *

Daran blinked and started suddenly. A tremor of panic surged through him before he realized where he was. The cave. Still in the cave. He could hear the sounds of the storm outside, which continued its violence unabated.

The echoes of a scream. That had brought him awake. Someone screaming. He looked around, saw Arla's bedding empty, and stood, absently grabbing the tattered coat he'd gotten in Thusk as his blankets fell away and let the chill of the cave touch him.

There were several people near the front of the cave, and he took a step in that direction before realizing that Arla wasn't with them. Jaros saw him and looked his way, half-raising a hand in greeting, but Kovros asked him a question, and the priest turned his eyes away, breaking the connection between them.

He turned back the other way. There was a knot of miners around the small fire, watching him. He started toward the crevice that led to the cavern with the pool, but a miner jumped up and stopped him.

"What..."

"You don't want to go back there right now, lad," the man said, lifting a hand to block him. His breath stank, and Daran saw an almost fevered look in the man's eyes.

"Let me go," he said. He started to push past, but the other man shifted to block, and for a moment they both stood there, quietly facing off. Daran saw that Ottile had joined the men at the fire, but he made no move to intervene.

"What is going on here?" Kovros asked. The lieutenant's voice cut like a knife, and the miner drew back, lowering his hands to his side. Daran looked back to see Kovros, flanked by his two men, their hands on the hilts of their swords. Behind them stood Albrizar, who avoided Daran's eyes the way that the wizard had avoided him for the entire journey since leaving Thusk. Jaros was there as well, and the priest pushed forward past the guardsmen, a look of alarm on his face as he scanned the cave.

"Where's Arla? Daran..."

The priest's eyes shifted past him, and Daran turned to see Arla emerge from the crevice. The young woman was just a shadow in the poor light, but as she stepped closer to the fire Daran could see a red streak that slashed across her tunic from one side to the other. Jaros saw it too, and he hurried forward, only to be caught up short by a raised hand from the priestess, a subtle shake of her head. She walked past both of them until she faced Kovros.

"Your inability to control the men under your command has cost two of them their lives. The third may live; he was still breathing when I left him."

The lieutenant's face was like stone for all the emotion it betrayed. "They assaulted you?"

"I might have incapacitated them, but they drew steel, and I did what I had to do." The miners were all on their feet now, those who'd been asleep blinking as they tried to assimilate what was happening. Arla walked past them, her gaze shifting neither to the left nor the right as she walked to the front of the cave, where she stood in the entry, facing the storm outside.

As the men argued, Daran found himself drawn to the crevice in the back of the cave. No one paid him any heed as he slipped into the opening. He heard the sound of water falling into the pool before the narrow gap opened into the cavern beyond, and detected the smell of fresh blood before he saw the bodies.

He stared down, fascinated, at death.

Two of the men lay face-down at the edge of the pool. Streams of red drifted out from under the bodies, flowing down and joining before touching the water, forming a red streamer that dissolved as it reached the streams of water falling from above. There was a dagger lying beside one of the men; as Daran bent to look at it he saw a faint gleam of red wetness on its tip. As realization set in he rose quickly, and had turned back toward the crevice before a voice stopped him.

"Yeah, he drew blood, but not enough, not near enough."

The third man was propped up against the wall on the far side of the opening. Blood seeped through his shirt, where a wadded bit of cloth had been inserted as a crude bandage. He coughed, and blood flecked his lips. Daran made no move toward him, and after a moment the dying miner's lips twisted into a grim smile.

"Bitch moved like a blur," he said. "Damn it if she didn't surprise us, when we thought to surprise her." He coughed again, and grimaced as a spasm of pain shook him. "Well, we got what was coming, I guess. Remember that, boy, life, it's cruel. We all get what's coming to us in the end."

"I don't," Daran whispered. His hand had drifted to the hilt of his knife, almost of its own accord. He looked down in surprise as it closed over the hilt, but jumped back as a miner appeared in the cleft. His eyes narrowed as he looked at Daran, then he turned and knelt by his fallen companion. "Looks like you bit off more than you could chew, Corth." He started to reach for the bandage, but the dying miner slapped his hand away.

"Leave it be, I've seen enough death to know when it's my turn." But he reached out and pulled the other man close, whispering something into his ear. Daran couldn't hear what was being said, but as the dying man fell back, the other miner looked at him, and he shivered at what was in that gaze.

Arla stood in the cave entrance, the rain sheeting down just inches in front of her. Cold droplets of it flashed into her face as the wind shifted, but she stood there, shivering, welcoming the feeling. She felt a twinge of pain in her shoulder where the miner's knife had pricked her flesh through the steel links of her armor. The wound wasn't serious, and would keep; she would ask Jaros to take a look at it later, but could not afford to show weakness now. She wanted someone to come to her, to offer solace, at the same time that she wanted the men to keep away from her. She wanted Jaros, but knew that he would not come to her until he'd made sure that the confrontation between the miners and the soldiers would not come to blows. She could hear the men behind her, but their words dissolved into a blur. She did not look back.

She looked down; there was blood on her hand. The first time she'd killed a man. Turin had spoken to her of death, an inevitability when one chose—or was chosen—for the Order of the Sword. Even then she'd sensed there was something in what he was telling her, something he couldn't quite encapsulate with mere words, something that one couldn't understand until they stood over the body of a man whose life they had taken from them. She understood it now, or at least, she would, once the shock of it had faded.

If it ever would fade. Turin's description had suggested that it never truly did, even if the intensity of it faded with the passage of time. She'd taken an oath, to a code whose strictures were simple but important. Protect those under your charge, defend the helpless. And now she was killing miners. Rough men, yes, and they'd tried to rape her, but did that justify their death sentence?

Arla shook her head, and tightened the muscles of her jaw until it hurt. She didn't have time, nor the luxury of solace, or consultation with an elder, or of even a moment of indulgent weakness. She had a mission, and by Khel, she would see it through to the end. Whatever the cost.

She detected movement behind her, and steeled herself. She looked back, but instead of Jaros, it was the lieutenant, Kovros. He must have sensed something in her look, for he said, "Your companion, he is tending to the wounded man."

She nodded; it wasn't a surprise, not knowing Jaros. She didn't think there would be anything he could do for him; her thrust hadn't gone deep, but she suspected she'd punched through his lung. She hadn't intended to kill any of them, but with three coming at her all at once there had been no room for subtlety, and when the first drew steel and come at her, another trying to grab her swordarm, to drag her down, the time for restraint had vanished like a spark in a rainstorm.

"None of the others will try anything," the lieutenant told her. She heard the lie, saw that he knew she heard it, a fiction that had to be stated. If she'd been vigilant before, she knew that she could not let down her guard for an instant, now.

He came up and stood beside her. "It looks like it's letting up some," he said.

Staring into the storm, Arla saw no easing of the rain or wind, but she knew what he meant; they couldn't linger here, not with hot blood fresh spilled staining the stones of the cave. Maybe the rain would wash away some of the tension, maybe not, but she understood the soldier, understood the focus on the mission, of channeling the violence they'd brought with them against an enemy, instead of against each other.

"I'll tell Jaros that we'll be moving out shortly," she told him. She headed back into the cave, aware of the eyes on her, hard looks that she ignored as she returned to her blankets and gathered up the rest of her gear. She found her withe lying there, sticking out under the edge of her pack. Would things have gone differently had she taken that weapon with her, and left her sword here? Would three men be alive now instead of dead or coughing their life out to a bloody ending? Or would see be the one lying broken, bloody, and violated on the cold stone floor of the cavern?

She reached down and took up the withe, and hooked the end of it into place on her belt, then started packing up her gear.

* * * * *

Chapter 16

The deep rumble of the ritual drum was muted and distant. The goblin shaman had banished his acolytes from his quarters, preferring solitude for what he was about to attempt.

"It's not too late to make a deal," came a muffled voice. Og'ok glanced aside in irritation at the prisoner, lashed across his frame in what had to be an extremely uncomfortable position. Even bound helpless, his head covered in a black canvas hood, the drums pounding his fate, he continued to jabber, distracting him from the final steps in the ritual. He'd had plenty to say, shifting between offers of bribes and veiled threats, but he had refused to share any useful information about the human mining complex. As a shaman Og'ok had varied methods of persuasion available to him, but he hadn't had time to break the human. He would still serve, in another way.

Og'ok hissed as he drew the ritual knife across his arm, drawing a string of blood that he trailed across the design he'd painstakingly etched into the floor. The packed earth, smeared with animal fat to provide a decent seal, glistened as the droplets fell across the markings. He made sure to drip the red fluid onto each of the junctions in the pattern, then he drew back, quickly coiling a cloth over the wound before he turned to the prisoner.

The human could not have seen him, but he somehow sensed the threat, jerking back in a useless gesture against his bindings. "They will come for you," he said, but any further statements were ended as Og'ok sliced the knife deep across his exposed throat. The man thrashed, once, twice, then fell limp as a bright red stream drained from him into the channel the shaman had prepared. The blood trickled down the channel into the pattern, where it expanded outward in two streams that gradually spread before coming together again on the far side of the circle. Og'ok watched, muttering a ritual incantation under his breath, letting the pulse of the drums fill his senses. As the streams of blood touched and the pattern was completed he reached back and hurled a handful of ashes into a brazier that burned low along the back wall of the room. The swirl of smoke was immediate and thick, rising into a noxious cloud that drifted over the blood-infused pattern. As the smoke passed over the center of the etched design, there was a flicker, and then another, until two vague points of light shone within the cloud, staring down at the shaman.

The voice was stronger than it had been before. When Og'ok had first summoned it, a little over a year ago, it had spoken to him in little more than whispers, faint touches upon the edges of his awareness. Now the voice filled his head, a battering that nearly drove him insensate with the intensity of it.

**You have done well, Og'ok,** it told him.

"I have done as you commanded, great spirit of the dark," the shaman intoned, bending forward until his forehead nearly touched the ground, careful not to smear any of the blood that still glistened within the pattern. He could see faint hisses of steam rising from the design, tiny trails of vapor that rose up to join the cloud.

It is a good start. But I will need a greater sacrifice to be able to fully enter your realm.

"The humans are not weak, nor are they fools, Great One. It will be difficult to steal more of them from their mining camps."

You will not need to go to them. They come to you.

The goblin jerked up quickly. "They have sent soldiers here?"

Do not quail, shaman. They are more fools than you credit them. A party comes, but their numbers are small, and they are not men of war.

"We will prepare for them, Great One, but even in small numbers, the humans are dangerous..." He trailed off, uncertain.

Speak, shaman. You cannot hide anything from me.

"They may have Arunite priests with them. A party of my scouts encountered some on the road north. They killed two, but two others survived to reach the mining town."

The glowing eyes pulsed with intensity, and the shaman flinched as an echo of the entity's anger stabbed painfully into his mind. After a moment, though, the pressure eased, and he was able to suck in a deep breath.

This may be an opportunity. Bring me the priests of Khel, shaman. Bring me the followers of the Light, and I will deliver unto you great power.

Og'ok bowed again, but after a moment he said, "I shall do as you command, Great One. But... I must confess to you, that I have only fifty warriors left. If the humans send a Sword..."

Place a bowl within the circle.

Og'ok hastily complied, grabbing a bowl fashioned from an animal's skull, tossing out the fetishes it held before placing it within the pattern. When he stuck his hand through the wisps of blood-smoke rising from the pattern he nearly dropped the bowl; it felt as though maggots were burrowing into his flesh, stabbing needles of pain into him. He placed the bowl without dropping it and withdrew, rubbing at the painful red marks that had been left on his arm.

The wavering wisps of smoke condensed until they formed a sphere around the glowing eyes. Lightning flashed within its depths. There was a sick spatter and Og'ok looked down to see a black smear along the edge of the bowl. It was joined by another, as a fat droplet fell from the cloud, then another. Then the cloud started to come apart; the ascending red mists started to fade. Og'ok could see that the channels in the ground were dry, without even a hint of red left, save for the scattered smears under the dead man. The voice sounded in the shaman's mind, once again distant, fading as the cloud did.

Dissolve the ichor in a gallon of ale. Give it to five of your warriors to drink. Bring me more offerings, shaman. Bring me the servants of the Light. Bring them to me, and you will have all the power that you crave, and more.

"I will bring them, Great One," Og'ok said, but there was no further response; the cloud and the eyes were gone, and once again he was alone.

* * *

Daran could still hear the voices of the miners behind him as he made his way up the slope, picking out the twisting path between boulders each the size of a good-sized cottage. He thought he could hear Kovros's angry voice, and for a few moments quiet returned, until someone else shouted something, and the din started anew.

Daran shook his head. They were in enemy territory now, if their guide knew what he was about, but the miners were too stupid or thick-headed to listen to Kovros's warnings. At least there hadn't been any more fights since they'd left that cave in the hills two days back.

But the voices faded behind him as the slope grew steeper. He glanced back at one point and couldn't even see the camp; Kovros had picked spot well-concealed either from above or below, and if they'd started a fire, there was no smoke that he could see. At least someone knew what they were doing. As for Daran, he both anticipated and dreaded the end of their mission. They were getting close, that much he could sense, even if nobody told him anything. The sooner they found the goblin encampment, the sooner they could start back to Thusk.

It was what lay in between that was worrying him.

He walked around one last boulder and found himself on a promontory that ended in a sheer cliff. There was nowhere to go; boulders blocked the route along the cliff to the left and right, and one would need to be able to fly to reach the bottom of the chasm that stretched out ahead. There was another cliff on the far side, but it was fifty feet across if it was a foot, and the goblins had clearly neglected the art of bridge construction within their realm.

He was nervous to be away from the others, but the reason he'd come up here was sitting on the ledge, facing out into the chasm. Albrizar looked up as Daran shuffled forward, giving the edge of the cliff a wide berth. He stopped next to the mage, looking past him into the chasm. The setting sun had left the bottom of the defile deep in shadow, but he could just make out the twisting line of a dry wash below, choked with weeds and tangled brush, maybe sixty feet below. He swallowed and edged back slightly.

Albrizar sighed. "The world is both more vast than our imaginings and smaller than we would like, it seems," he said.

"I take it you didn't expect to see me again," Daran said.

"You have to understand, there was nothing I could do for you then. And nothing I can do for you now. The Governor... well, I am not here by choice, neither his nor mine."

"I didn't ask for your help, yours or anyone else's. All I want is to be left alone."

"Life often has other plans for us," the mage said.

"Aren't you going to ask?"

"Ask you what?"

"You know. How I survived the baron's noose. How I survived being stabbed by goblins and buried on a hillside."

Albrizar fidgeted. "There is talk in the camp that you are cursed by the gods."

"Maybe I'm cursed, but the gods have nothing to do with it. Fuck the gods."

"Only a fool dares the storm to strike him down, or shouts insults at an approaching avalanche."

Daran stretched his arms out. "What more can they do to me?" he asked. "I've already come back... three times, now. I am invincible."

"Are you certain that... I mean, how can you know that you were truly dead?"

"I know. I know enough. Have you ever had a spear thrust through your body, mage?"

"I can say that I have thus far escaped that unpleasantness."

Daran lifted his shirt, and patted his belly. "Not even a mark."

"A remarkable gift," Albrizar said. "I have heard of this sort of magic, but have never seen it worked. The priests of the Khel'arun can speed the healing of wounds, sometimes, and the Jovans sect in my own homeland can do likewise with their herbs and totems, but bringing a man back from death, that is something else entire."

Daran turned away. "Not that it will help me from being carved up and dumped into a goblin cookpot."

"Our companions do not think much of the threat posed by the goblins."

Daran snorted. "I saw them kill a man in front of me, that seemed threatening enough."

"We have soldiers, and the priests..."

"And those miners, and a wizard with phony fire."

"You did not complain about my magic when it was used to save your life."

"Saved me for the baron's men. Saved me for... for this," he said, waving his hand at the landscape.

"As a member of this company, I would think that you would place greater stock in its chances for success."

"All I want..." he trailed off, staring into the gorge. There was a long moment of silence between them. "I wish I could fly out of here," Daran said.

Albrizar stared at the gorge, and lifted his hands. A faint glow spread out at his feet, extending out over the chasm. It formed a path maybe a pace across, extending across to the far side. Daran stared at the magical bridge, but after a moment he stepped forward and carefully extended a foot across the lip of the ledge. It passed through the glow, leaving wisps of trailing light in its wake.

"It's not real."

"Sometimes we need to believe that the false is real, and the real is false," Albrizar said. He rose, and brushed dirt off the back of his trousers. "It might be better if we continue to act as though we... had not previously met," the mage said.

"Whatever."

The mage turned and headed back down the rocky path toward the camp. Daran lingered a few minutes longer, and kicked a loose stone down into the chasm. It bounced off some rocks before settling in the wash. For a moment he stared down after it. If he jumped, would he return again, his wounds healed? Or would it all be over, for good?

"You shouldn't wander off alone," a voice said behind him.

Daran spun to see Kovros standing there, next to the boulder. The lieutenant stood easily, his hands tucked into his belt, not far from the hilts of his weapons. For once his two guards were nowhere to be seen.

"I, ah, I had to take a crap, and I stopped to... for the view."

Kovros came forward, until he was one step from the drop-off. He looked over at Daran, his eyes like sharp awls that bored into him. "You certainly stirred up things back in Thusk," he said.

"I just wanted to be left alone."

"Life rarely gives us what we want."

"Yeah, a lot of people been telling me that." He started back toward the trail, but the soldier grabbed his arm, and pulled him close. Daran flinched; they were dangerously close to the edge of the cliff. Kovros leaned in close, until mere inches separated their faces.

"Your arrival in Thusk has... inconvenienced the Governor," he said.

"What's going on here?"

Kovros released Daran so quickly that the young man nearly fell. He retreated hastily from the cliff edge, and pressed up against the boulder in relief. He looked up to see Arla standing there, both her weapons at her hips. Her arms were at her sides, but even he could sense the sudden tension.

Kovros, however, merely smiled and shrugged. "I was warning our young companion not to wander off on his own. Good advice for all of us, I think."

"It's going to be dark soon," Arla said.

Kovros nodded. "We'd better get back then." He gestured for Daran to precede him down the trail. Daran went, squeezing past Arla onto the narrow path. He went only a few paces then hesitated, looking back to where the priestess and lieutenant were still facing off on the ledge. "After you, priestess," Kovros said. After a moment, she turned and headed toward Daran. Kovros was still smiling, but as his eyes shifted past Arla and fixed on Daran, the young man felt a cold shudder, a sensation that lingered as he headed back down the trail toward their camp.

* * * * *

Chapter 17

Their arrival at the goblin camp was so sudden that at first, Daran didn't believe what he was seeing.

One minute they'd been walking along a winding, switchbacked trail up a steep rise, then they reached the crest and the camp was there, settled in a niche between two hills, just a few hundred paces from their vantage. The place was rude even by frontier standards, little more than a sad gathering of a dozen sagging huts clustered in a rough circle. It looked as though part of the camp was underground; at least Daran could make out a few dark openings in the cliff face behind the huts that could have been cave entrances. A crude berm that was more trash heap than fortification ringed the outskirts of the camp, facing them, but it did not look like the camp had any defenses ready. The few goblins in sight appeared to be ignorant to their presence, although as they watched, one of the creatures toddled into view from behind one of the huts; as it turned toward them it lifted a hand, shielding its face from the sun as it squinted at them.

Daran heard Kovros curse under his breath; none of the miners had so much as crouched down, or moved toward the adequate cover of brush and rocks that lined the crest. Belatedly he realized that they had to be standing out noticeably along the line of the ridge, clearly visible to anyone below.

"Where the hell is Tennar?" Kovros said. "He should have warned us that we were coming up on this."

"He was only just ahead of us," one of the soldiers said. "Should we draw back, sir? Set up for a surprise attack?"

"I'd say that the cat is pretty much fucking out of the bag," Kovros said, pointing at the goblin staring up at them from down in the camp. It was yelling, now, and while they couldn't hear what it was saying, it was pretty obvious what the gist of it was.

One of the miners lifted his crossbow and fired. The range was long enough that even a winch-operated bow would have had difficulty reaching the camp, but an odd gust of wind must have caught the bolt, for it soared into the sky, arcing up before plummeting down toward the huts. The humans held a collective breath as the bolt's course carried it directly toward the goblin, and they stood in disbelief as it thudded into the center of its chest. The goblin toppled over, and the miners let out a cheer.

"Gods! Did you see that shot?" the crossbowman yelled. "That was a one in a million shot!"

The other miners were already shooting, although the laws of probability seemed to have reasserted themselves, and none of the bolts went even as far as the trash berm. "Save your bolts, fools!" Kovros snarled, but it was too late to save the element of surprise; cries rose from the goblin camp, and more of them were emerging from the huts, staring about in alarm. They quickly saw both the dead goblin and the humans outlined atop the rise, and very quickly a stampede started in the opposite direction, toward the gap between the hills on the far side of the encampment. One or two goblin warriors started to make moves toward the berm, but as the panic swelled they too grabbed their weapons and ran after the fleeing mass; at least thirty were visible now, most of them females or children by their size.

Several of the miners had reloaded their crossbows, and a few, led by Ottile, had started down the hill toward the camp. "They getting' away!" one of the miners yelled, looking back at Kovros.

"By all means, have fun," the lieutenant said, with a wave of his hand. The miners let out a collective whoop and charged down the hill in a ragged line. Kovros gestured to his men to follow them. "Markhos, Keltan, keep an eye out," he said to them, before glancing back at Arla, Jaros, Albrizar, and Daran, who'd made no move to join the miners. "Coming, priestess?" he asked Arla.

Arla glanced at Jaros, who hadn't moved, and who stared down at the camp, pale. "There is something... _wrong_ ... down there," he said, swallowing as he turned to her.

"There's going to be something _dead_ down there in a moment," the lieutenant said. "It looks like we got lucky, most of their warriors must be out on a hunt or a raid. I understand if you do not wish to be involved in what looks to be a slaughter, but I was told to send a message, and I intend to do that. Wizard, you are with me." His expression darkened as he looked at Daran, who stood behind Jaros, holding his still-unloaded crossbow. But he said nothing, and turned toward the camp, moving down the trail at a quick pace toward his men and the miners, who were now more than halfway to the camp. After a moment, Albrizar shrugged and followed.

Arla drew her sword, but she remained with Jaros and Daran. "I don't like this," she said. "Can you sense what it is?" she asked Jaros. "Is it what Parath brought us here for?"

"I... I don't know. It feels... evil. There is evil down there."

Arla's jaw tightened. "Come on," she said. She glanced back at Daran as she started down the trail after the others. "You might want to load that," she told him. "If he's right, you might need it."

Jaros followed after her, with Daran bringing up the rear, reluctantly. His fingers felt thick and clumsy as he used the metal claw to set the bow, then slid a bolt into the slot waiting for it. A faint buzzing filled his ears, almost as though there was a swarm of invisible bees flying around his head.

The miners spread into two wedges as they approached the berm. The mound wasn't much of a barrier, but it tapered down at its edges, offering easier access to the goblin camp to each side. The site was nearly deserted now, but as the closer of the two groups rounded the berm a goblin appeared, darting out from one of the huts, running away from the miners. One of them raised his bow and fired, and yelled in triumph as the bolt caught the goblin in the leg, flipping it over and knocking it roughly to the ground. "That's right! That's right, you little bastard!" the miner yelled, as his companions rushed forward into the camp. On the far side of the berm Ottile and the two miners following him were just a few steps behind; theirs was the smaller of the two groups, but with the giant in the lead they seemed just as dangerous.

And then, without warning, the ground collapsed under the charging humans. Both groups cried out as the miners in the lead tumbled into hidden pits. Goblins surged out of hiding places that had seemed like innocuous rocks or tiny dips in the ground just a moment before. They hurled weighted nets into the pits. Others hefted long tubes of hollowed wood, which they lifted to their lips. Slender-vaned darts shot out at the men who hadn't fallen into the pits, and several screamed as they were struck.

The attack had been thrown into instant disarray. The humans lashed out and drew blood; one miner fired his crossbow into the face of one of the goblins holding the nets, only to crumple a heartbeat later as a dart slammed into his throat. On the opposite flank Ottile rose up half out of the pit. He was covered in a sticky mess of tar, part of the trap that the goblins had laid, and one edge of a net clung to his back, keeping him from pulling himself completely free. A goblin with a spear lunged at him, but the hulking miner grabbed the shaft of the weapon and tore it from the creature's grasp, using it like a club a moment later to bat it roughly aside. The goblin fell and did not get up, but two more replaced it, firing darts at point-blank range into the giant's chest. Ottile slipped and tumbled back into the pit, and this time, he did not get back up.

The last miner left standing turned and fled back up the hill. He only got three paces before a dart caught him in the small of his back; he kept on going, but his movements became jerky and slow, and he screamed for help as several goblin warriors rushed after him.

The two soldiers had started toward the miners as soon as the ambush had appeared, but as the full nature of the debacle became clear, they hesitated. Movement along the crest of the steep hillside to their left drew their attention even as arrows started slamming into the ground around them; a half-dozen goblin archers had risen into view, their small bows more than enough to cover the relatively short distance to the exposed soldiers. Both men were struck in that initial barrage, but their armor was strong enough to turn the stubby goblin arrows, and neither was hurt.

"Fall back!" Kovros shouted, his voice echoing off the surrounding hillsides. He lifted his crossbow and killed one of the archers with a perfectly-placed shot. He didn't bother to reload, but held his ground as his men ran past him, as if daring the goblins to shoot at him. Several did, but he avoided the shots, stepping aside even as one arrow shot through the space where he'd been standing a heartbeat before. Another clipped his breastplate as he retreated after them, but the arrowhead shattered against the hard steel. He could do nothing but watch as the injured miner was overtaken by a pair of goblins armed with wooden billets. One smacked the man in the back of his knees, while the other clubbed him roughly in the back of his head as he fell.

Arla had been as quick to see the turning of the tide as Kovros had, and even as the miners succumbed to the ambush she had turned back toward the summit they had just left. But the trail no longer offered escape. More than a dozen goblins had appeared along the crest, armed and ready. For a moment she considered charging, odds be damned, but a glance at Jaros had her reconsider. There was no escape to the west, where the hillside was just shy of steep enough to call a cliff, leaving aside the archers sniping from its summit. To the east, however, the hill, while steep, looked navigable, and there was a cluster of boulders and flanking undergrowth at its base that could offer at least some modicum of cover against pursuers. There were no goblins in that direction either, an absence that raised her hackles.

She looked over at Jaros, who saw it too. "Jaros! Ambush?"

He frowned, but shook his head. "I don't think so." The young priest flinched as an arrow shot past his head. Daran lifted his crossbow and fired a shot that missed the nearest goblin by about ten paces, while Albrizar lifted his hands and conjured a great gout of fire that streaked up the slope to explode directly in front of the goblin line atop the crest. The effect was dramatic and gave the goblins pause even if it caused no harm, but it also made the magus a target. Arla grabbed the shoulder of his robe and pushed him after Jaros and Daran toward the base of the hill. "Go!" she yelled, bringing up the rear. Something thudded against her right shoulder from behind, and she felt a sudden sharp stab of pain as the head of the arrow pierced her skin through the links of her mail coat, but she didn't stop. Ahead of her Jaros and Daran were running full-out toward the slight cover offered by the boulders, while to her left Kovros and his men had seen what she had seen, and were heading in the same direction.

One of Kovros's soldiers stumbled and fell, landing hard on the uneven stones of the slope. His companion turned and helped him to his feet, while Kovros loaded his crossbow and lifted it, forcing the goblins atop the far cliff into cover. The injured soldier had an arrow stuck through the meat of his left thigh, but he was able to limp with the support of his comrade, even as more arrows continued to fall around them. Several of the goblins along the trail crest also had bows, but the rest of the force had held its ground, rather than set off in pursuit of the humans. Those below had also stayed where they were, although they had their hands full securing the miners trapped in the pits.

Arla reached the cover of the rocks, and looked back to see Kovros and his men hurrying as fast as they could manage toward her. Daran and Jaros had ducked down behind the rocks, and Albrizar had fallen into a tangled bush, but he didn't appear to be injured as far as she could see. Jaros hurried to the mage's aid, but something flashed by his face, and he cried out in pain.

"Jaros!" Arla was at his side in a moment, but he held up a hand to forestall her, and turned back to Albrizar, pulling him to his feet. Arla could see that Jaros had been grazed by an arrow, and an ugly red gash marked his left cheek at the base of the jaw, trickling blood onto his tunic. Another arrow thudded into her back, but she barely felt it through the intensity that had seized her senses. She could almost feel her own heart beating, the sound of it pulsing in her ears like a drum.

"What the hell are they waiting for?" Kovros's yell shook her out of her reverie, and she turned to see that the goblins were still holding their ground, although the ones on the trail had shifted to close the range between them and the hillside. A few arrows continued to fall amongst the rocks, but the barrage was almost desultory, more to keep their heads down than out of a genuine effort to flush them out.

"We head up that hill we'll be beautiful bloody targets," Markhos said. The soldier flinched as an arrow glanced off the boulder in front of him, the carom narrowly missing his face. Jaros was helping the other soldier, Keltan, who grimaced as the priest tended the ugly wound in his leg, but there was little that could be done in the current circumstances with the arrow sticking through the man's thigh.

Kovros rose out of cover long enough to send a bolt up the hill, but the goblins ducked back into cover, and his shot missed. He leaned back behind the rock to reload. "We can't stay here," he said. "Wizard, can you give us some cover? Distract their archers?"

"I will do what I can," Albrizar said. "When I give the word, lower your eyes, as the effect may be temporarily blinding."

Kovros nodded. "When I give the order, then. Markhos, you and the priestess and I will cover the retreat. Everyone else, up that hill, and keep going until I tell you to stop. Priest, I expect you to help Keltan there."

"Sir, I can fight," the injured soldier said.

"You will follow my orders—" Kovros began, but he was interrupted as Daran shouted and pointed up the hill. "Look!"

The goblins along the trailhead had broken ranks, moving apart to let another force through. The newcomers were a small group of five goblins, haggard-looking things in ratty leather tunics, armed with crude mauls almost as big as they were. The five moved with jerky, sudden movements.

"What in the hells?" Kovros said, lifting his crossbow.

"They have been... altered," Jaros said. "Be careful."

"On my mark, wizard," Kovros said, but before he could give the order, the five goblins burst forward, charging in a full sprint down the slope toward them.

The lieutenant fired, and his bolt sped true, smacking into the lead goblin's chest. But the goblin didn't falter even a step, and if anything it seemed to pick up speed. The others fanned out into a wedge behind it, lifting their huge clubs above their heads.

Markhos screamed; as the others turned they saw the soldier crumple, the butt of an arrow jutting out from the socket of his right eye. But there was no time to do anything for him, as the goblins let out a harsh, guttural cry.

"Now!" Kovros yelled.

Daran barely remembered to look down in time, as Albrizar spread his arms wide and sent four burning orbs into the air above their position. The flaming globes exploded into a brilliant display of orange and white light that lasted barely a second, but was bright enough to dazzle Daran's eyes for a few seconds. He could hear the tread of the charging goblins now over their cries, and then someone was pushing him, up and away toward the steep slope. He could hear Kovros's voice behind him, "You go right, I'll go left!" and then a heavy smack of impact, a cry of pain, a ringing sound as metal struck metal. Had the goblins had swords? He couldn't remember, and didn't look back, rushing forward half-blind, clabbering up the slope of the hill. Loose stones gave way under his boots, but he kept going, bending until he was all but crawling forward on hands and feet. Slowly the gap between himself and the summit diminished, until he looked up and saw the crest ahead of him, fringed with a light cover of scattered brush and weeds. With a sudden feeling of triumph he surged forward, toward escape.

He heard the slight hiss of the arrow a split second before pain exploded through his back. He jerked up, and his left foot slipped on something. He reached out, trying to grab hold of something, anything, but his fingers caught only empty air as he tumbled backwards, falling back down the hill he'd just climbed. He heard a voice calling his name, but there was no time to respond. He bounced hard on the rocks, once, twice, then his head hit something solid, and everything went dark. His last conscious thought before the blackness claimed him was, _Here I go again._

* * * * *

Chapter 18

Arla didn't have time to think as the goblins surged forward, and the wizard's magical fireworks exploded overhead. She barely registered Kovros's shout, but was already shifting instinctively to cover his flank as the goblins charged in. Kovros met the first, which sprang forward with surprising speed, given the fact that it was half-blinded by the flare and had a crossbow bolt impaling it through the chest. The lieutenant loomed over the creature and had to have a hundred pounds of weight advantage on it, but it was the human who grunted as he deflected the sweep of the goblin's club. He pivoted into an expert counter, slashing his sword across the goblin's body, tearing a deep gash in its torso and flinging it roughly aside. Arla barely had a chance to register that it was _already getting back up_ before the goblin's companions were on her.

She dodged the powerful but clumsy swing of the first, and smacked her withe across its face. The goblin fell back, blood oozing from its broken nose. The blow should have at least slowed it, but the creature came in at her again even as a second darted toward her from the side, aiming its swing at her leg. She stepped back and avoided both attacks, then lunged forward before the goblins could react. The one on her right she kicked in the face, knocking it to the ground, while the other she stabbed with her sword, driving the slender length of steel downward through the gap between shoulder and rib, into the vulnerable spaces beyond. The thrust should have crippled it, but to her amazement the goblin drew out a knife and stabbed at her. She was barely able to get her bracer turned to deflect the edge, which scraped hard off the metal. She smashed the haft of her withe into its face and tore her sword free from its body as it fell back. The goblin she'd knocked down had gotten back to its feet, but she smacked it hard in the back as she turned, the sharp crack of the blow echoed by the snap of bone as she broke its spine. Somehow, impossibly, it still came at her, and she screamed as she swept her sword across its rush, the edge opening its throat from one corner of its jaw to the other. Only then did the goblin go down, and it was still trying to get at her as its blood spilled all over the ground.

She looked up to see goblins charging toward her, coming both from up on the ridge to the left and from the camp to her right. Arrows were still descending from the archers atop the far cliff, but they seemed almost unreal as they hissed past, making a loud popping noise as they shattered on the rocks. She turned to see Kovros still fighting one of the initial group of goblins, while a second, blood gushing from a cut that sliced its face almost from temple to chin, stabbed blindly at him with a knife. She intercepted that one, stabbing her sword deep into its neck, and was no longer surprised when she had to dodge a last lunge from its blade as it fell. The goblin's knife was covered in blood, she saw, as it clattered out of its grasp and fell amongst the stones.

The final goblin went flying as Kovros swept his sword across its body, cutting deep enough to show the ugly white nubs of its broken ribs through the deadly gash. Arla could see that the lieutenant favored his left side, where thin trails of blood were visible under the trailing edge of his breastplate. Seconds had passed, at most, since Kovros's shout and Albrizar's flash of light.

"We have to get out of here!" she yelled at him. She glanced up the hillside, and her heart froze as she saw a body falling in a clatter of dust and stones. She felt relief, and almost immediately shame at that relief an instant later, as she saw Jaros, still struggling with the weight of the injured soldier, up near the summit. As she watched she saw Jaros turn and almost fall, his intent obvious as he shouted Daran's name.

Kovros grabbed her arm and thrust her roughly toward the hill. "Go!" he yelled, turning as one of the crippled goblins, amazingly still not dead, staggered toward him. "I'll hold them off!" he added, as he sliced into the creature yet again. It fell for good this time, but the rest of the goblins were closing fast, forming a collapsing ring that closed around their position with inexorable momentum. There were only maybe two dozen goblins left, but that was still far too many, even if all of them weren't possessed of the mad fury and insane stamina that had driven the enemy vanguard.

She ran up the hill, past Daran's body. One look at the broken and bloody form was enough to tell her that he was beyond her help. Arrows sliced by, narrowly missing her. The others were already beyond the crest and out of view; she could only hope that another ambush did not lay ahead in that direction.

As she reached the crest, she almost ran into Jaros, who was coming toward her. "Arla! Are you all right?"

"We can't stay here, the goblins are pushing! Go!"

"But... Daran, I saw him fall..."

"He's gone! There's nothing we can do for him now!" She glanced back down the hill, where goblins were pushing through the brush along the base of the steep ascent. She could see other goblins around the knot of boulders that had served as their safehold for those few precious seconds; she couldn't see Kovros, but knew the uneven rocks might be hiding him from their current vantage. What she did see, however, was several goblins with bows who lifted them to fire at her and Jaros. "Go!" she repeated, pushing him ahead down the twisting path that ran down the far side of the hill. The arrows shot past overhead, and then they were out of view of the goblins.

They only covered a few paces before they caught up to Albrizar and Keltan. The soldier was slumped against a rock, and didn't look up as the priests approached. Albrizar rubbed his hands together nervously. "Where are the others?"

"We're it," Arla said harshly. She knelt beside Keltan. "I think he got hit by another arrow," Albrizar said. "I couldn't find the wound, the arrow must have broken off inside—"

"He's dead," Arla said. "And we will be as well, if we don't get out of here. Any idea where this goes?" she asked, indicating the trail. As the wizard shook his head, she rose and said, "Well, looks like we'll find out."

The trail was little more than a game path, obviously used by the goblins, but not frequently enough to blaze a clear route. They descended into a thicket of brush and then out again into a maze of knobby hills, the path twisting around and between them, almost doubling back on itself in a few places. Arla set a quick pace, glancing back periodically to verify that Jaros and Albrizar were behind her. At one point she looked back to see several goblins standing on the crest of the last hill they'd covered; the goblins pointed and yelled, and soon there were echoing yells that suggested that the chase was still very much in earnest. The trail continued around another bend and soon they'd lost sight of their pursuers, but they'd barely covered another hundred paces before the trail split at the base of a jutting cliff. Both trails continued into the hills, disappearing into the landscape within a hundred feet without clues as to where they might lead.

"Now what?" Albrizar said. "It would seem that the options are equally disagreeable."

"Then they are equally good as well," Arla said.

"I think this one heads more to the south?" Jaros said, indicating the right fork.

"They twist and turn so much, there's really no what of knowing where either ends up," Arla said. "Still, it might be the one they'd expect us to take." She started toward the left fork, but Jaros hesitated. "What is it?"

"Perhaps I'd better make sure they take that fork," he said.

"No, it's too dangerous. We—"

"More dangerous than what Kovros did, or Daran? My life is worth no more than theirs."

"Whatever we do, we'd better do it quickly," Albrizar said, looking nervously back toward the last bend in the trail behind them.

Arla hesitated for just another second, then nodded. "We'll wait for you around the next bend in the trail. Yell if you get into trouble, we'll come as quickly as we can." With one last look back she darted down the left fork of the trail, the wizard hurrying to catch up.

"What is he going to do?" Albrizar asked.

"Hopefully, buy us some time," she said.

Jaros found his spot quickly, in a niche behind a spur of rock that offered decent cover yet provided him a clear view of the fork. It would also effectively pin him if the goblins saw him, but he tried to force that thought clear of his mind as he settled down to wait.

He did not have to wait long; it seemed as barely a minute had passed since he'd crawled into his vantage before the first goblin appeared along the trail. The creature was alone, clearly a scout, and he stopped, regarding the fork with suspicion.

Jaros's hands were shaking, so he pressed them against the walls of his hiding place. His earlier bravado with Arla had belied the fear he'd felt, but his plan would not work if he proved unable to control his own emotions. Taking a slow, deep breath, he calmed himself. The goblin let out a short, sharp whistle, but he didn't look at it, didn't turn even as his peripheral vision detected more forms emerging out of the rocks, approaching the cliffs. Instead he focused his full attention on the right fork, the path opposite the one that Arla and Albrizar had taken just moments ago. He focused on that path, filling his mind with certainty, purging all distracting thoughts as he stared at the trail, the trail he _knew_ that the fleeing humans had taken.

Several of the scouts bent alongside the trail, looking for signs of their quarry's passage. Jaros didn't move so much as a finger, keeping his attention focused on the trail. He was dimly aware of voices, of the passage of a large group in front of his hiding place, but within the bubble of his concentration, his attention did not waver.

After an interminable time, he blinked, and drew in a breath. The goblins were gone; the only sign of them was a faint stirring of dust in the air along the right fork of the trail. He waited another full minute to steady himself; what he'd just done was strenuous, and he knew he'd likely have a pulsing headache soon. But maybe, just maybe, he'd bought Arla, Albrizar, and himself some time.

Careful not to disturb any loose rocks, he extracted himself from his shelter and hurried back along the left fork of the trail after his companions. He was looking for them as he made his way around the first bend in the trail, but he still jumped when Arla appeared from behind a boulder to his left and hissed his name.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"Yes... yes, just a bit tired. They went the other way."

Albrizar emerged from behind a bush a short distance further down the trail. "We'd better hurry," he said. "They may double back when they don't find any trace of our trail."

Jaros nodded, and fell in behind Arla as she led them back along the trail. The path grew rugged and began to ascend into a steep defile between two sharply sloping hills. From the shape of the path and the smoothed stones that littered its course, they were probably following the route of a wash, one of the many streams that flowed only during the winter rains. Jaros felt tired, but he summoned up what reserves of strength he could muster to keep plodding forward. Now that the immediate terror of danger had passed, exhaustion replaced energy, the shift exacerbated by the strain of distracting the goblins from their trail.

He didn't realize Arla had stopped until he'd almost run into her. "Are you sure you're okay? Do you need to stop for a minute?"

He shook his head. "We can't stop. The wizard was right, we may not have much of a lead on them."

She nodded, and looked up at the path. They were nearly at the summit of the defile, and up ahead the trail ran into a narrow ravine between the crests of the two hills. The gap was barely wide enough for them to squeeze through in single file, but it seemed to be unobstructed; as they reached it they could just see a slash of light at its far end. Arla drew her sword and led the way forward. Jaros felt a chill as they stepped into the shadows of the crevice. It was cold, as the sun didn't reach very far into the crack, but more than that it was the sense of being pressed in between thousands of tons of rock. The young priest looked up, at the sliver of sky visible above.

Albrizar cursed as his clothes got caught on a jutting piece of rock. Jaros turned back to help him, and they pushed forward, after Arla, who was nearly to the far side of the ravine. The crevice widened near the end, and it was with relief that Jaros stumbled the last few paces and emerged once again into the light.

Then he got a good look around, and his breath caught in his chest.

The trail ended a few feet beyond the crevice, dropping over a crumbling edge into a chasm that stretched a good thirty feet across to the far side. About twenty feet below them, a swift-moving mountain stream filled the chasm, sending up gouts of spray as the water pounded against the nearly sheer walls of the watercourse.

Arla crept carefully to the lip of the ledge, avoiding the rocks that clattered down from the edge. "Steep," she said. "We might be able to get down, but there's hardly anywhere to go along the water's edge."

"We're trapped," Jaros said. "It's a dead-end." His expression twisted with disgust. "No wonder the goblins were so easy to convince; they'd have thought we'd be fools to head this way."

"We can't—" Arla began, but she was interrupted by a cry from Albrizar. "Goblin!"

The priests turned to see a very surprised-looking goblin standing in the shadows of the crevice. Arla cursed and darted forward, drawing her sword, but the little creature was faster. It turned and ran screaming back down the ravine, its shouts echoing hollowly off the cramped walls of the passage. She stopped, knowing she'd never catch the thing in the close confines of the crevice. "Damn!" she cursed.

"Now what?" Albrizar asked, his eyes wide with fear.

Arla turned back to the ledge. "One option left." She looked at Jaros, who bit his lip, but nodded after a moment's hesitation.

The wizard looked between them. "No," he said, as realization hit him. "No, there must be another way."

"We are out of options," Arla returned. "This way, at least we have a chance."

Albrizar opened his mouth to protest, but before he could speak, Arla rose and charged to the edge of the ledge, and sprang into the open air, vanishing quickly as she plummeted into the river canyon. Jaros was only a few steps behind her, and although he cried out as he fell, the sound and that from the subsequent impact was all but drowned out by the noise of the river as it rushed headlong through the canyon. Albrizar stepped forward, wary of the edge, and stared after them. He caught a glimpse of Jaros, caught in the fast-moving current, and then he was gone, dragged around a bend in the watercourse by the river.

The wizard hesitated. Then he heard another sound over the rush of the river, coming from the ravine. Familiar voices, shouts.

"How do I get into these situations," he said to no one in particular, then he closed his eyes and sprang forward, grimacing as he plummeted down toward whatever fate held for him.

* * * * *

Chapter 19

Daran woke slowly, his thoughts in a fog as sensation gradually returned to his body. A harsh, acrid smell stung his nostrils, and he coughed, a simple action that send sharp tendrils of pain through his body. His vision was blurred, but he detected a hint of movement, and became aware that he was not alone, that someone was with him, someone that approached until he could feel the warmth of his breath on his face.

"You are awake? Good, good."

Daran tried to speak, but only managed a sick croak. Feeling was returning painfully to his limbs, but he couldn't move them; something was restraining him. He blinked, trying to clear the miasma that clouded his vision, but other than the vague outline of the speaker, and some bright orbs that might have been light sources, he couldn't make out any details of his surroundings.

The figure made a gesture, and something was pressed against his lips. A warm fluid was squirted into his mouth, and before he could consider his body responded, and he drank. The taste of the draught was sour and it burned his throat, but it steadied him somewhat, and after a few moments he was able to discern the unfortunate reality of his situation.

He was in a small chamber, a cave by the look of it, partitioned by heavy drapes of black cloth. An odd clutter was visible on shelves, low tables, and even dangling from cords attached to the low ceiling, a medley of objects ranging from bleached animal skulls to hollowed gourds to wooden carvings to things that Daran could not even begin to guess at. Wisps of smoke filled the room, causing his eyes to water and his nostrils to burn.

He was bound to a wooden frame securely fastened to the floor, with heavy cords holding his arms and legs fast. There was some sort of design cut into the floor in front of him, and splotches of red that sent a sick terror of fear through his gut.

He could now see the face of his captor. The frame forced him into a crouched position, leaning slightly forward, so he was almost eye-to-eye with the goblin. He was obviously some sort of priest or shaman by the look of him. He was clad in a robe that was open at the front, revealing old scars that criss-crossed his chest in a garish pattern. Streaks of color had been marked on his face, and bits of bone and fabric had been woven into his hair. He wore a pair of bone-handled daggers tucked into his belt.

The goblin smiled, and Daran felt a chill penetrate down to the depths of his soul.

"You heal very fast," the goblin said. His accent was thick but understandable.

"Why am I here?" Daran asked. "What do you want with me?"

The goblin waved a hand. "You do not remember? You come, attack my people?"

"No... no, I wasn't... they, the others, they made me, I didn't hurt anybody..."

The goblin leaned in close, and Daran trailed off, sick with terror. "You very young," he said, running his fingers through Daran's matted hair. "Very young. Very good."

"Please... please..."

The goblin drew something out of the pouch he wore at his hip. He muttered something, words incomprehensible to Daran, then flicked a small spume of ash directly into the young man's face. Blinded, Daran bucked uselessly against his bonds as the material seared his throat and burned in his lungs. The discomfort he'd felt earlier from the smoke in the room was nothing to this, and for a long stretch of time he was unable to feel anything other than the agony in his chest and head. Then, gradually, the spasm eased, and he sobbed with relief as he sagged against his bonds.

Fingers clawed into his hair and lifted his head up. "You have power within you, young human," the shaman said. "The black spirits sent you to me, perhaps."

He screamed, but it didn't do any good; nobody who cared was listening.

* * *

Arla woke, shivering violently. Her body felt numb, although there was a lingering twinge of pain from her shoulder. Yes, that was where one of the goblin arrows had pierced her armor, during their flight. The recollection brought a surge of memory, and she tried to get up, only to fumble as her limbs defied her commands.

"Don't try to move," Jaros told her. She couldn't see him, but she could feel his presence as he slid next to her. She felt a brief flush as she realized that he'd taken off most of her clothes, but any concerns about propriety were overwhelmed by the lassitude that broke up her thoughts before they could sharpen to relief.

"Need fire," she managed.

"The goblins are still looking for us," he told her. "We have to wait until dark."

She continued to shiver, but she could feel the warmth of Jaros's body against hers. He rubbed her arms, which felt good, even as tiny needles of pain tingled from the restored flow of blood. She'd been trained on the physical reactions to extremes of temperature, and knew that shivering was a good sign; her body was still trying to warm itself. "Where... where are we?"

"In a cave not far from the riverbank," he said. "Everything we carried was soaked through."

She looked around, but the interior of the cave was dark, and she couldn't make out details. Even Jaros, right in front of her, was just a vague outline.

A thought occurred to her. "Where is the wizard?"

"There is a lot of growth near the riverbank. He went to look for some herbs. He won't go far."

She leaned into him, absorbing his warmth. He flinched slightly, and she drew back. "What is it?"

"I'm all right. River bounced me around some. A rough ride."

"We survived."

"Not all of us did."

There was a moment of silence between them. Jaros extended his arms around her, and this time she didn't resist, pooling the warmth of their bodies. Finally she said, "If I'd known that all I had to do to get you this close was to jump into a freezing mountain river, I'd have done it long ago."

"Arla, I'm sorry."

"No. No need. I know... I know that it's not me, it's just who you are."

"Yes. But I'm still sorry."

There was a noise from outside, and reflexively the two priests parted. "Where's my sword?" Arla whispered.

"It's just Albrizar," he said. But he pressed the hilt of her weapon into her hand.

The mage appeared, ducking to clear the low overhang that shielded the cave's narrow entry. A small flame appeared in his palm, showing his pale features. He'd removed his robe, and was clad only in an undershirt and trousers of damp linen. He was shivering, too; Arla knew that the fires he conjured gave off no heat.

"Put that out," she told him.

"The cave entrance is well sheltered," Jaros said, but Arla fixed the wizard with a hard stare, and with a nod he let the bright glow fade.

"I found some neebrath roots," Albrizar said. "Once we can make a fire, I can prepare a broth that will help stimulate the blood."

"Was there any signs of the goblins?" Jaros asked.

"No, not that I could see. The river carried us a good distance, perhaps even out of their territory. It will be dark soon, then maybe we can get out of here."

"We're not leaving."

Both men turned to Arla, who sat up, fumbling with her gear in the dark. Her tunic was still damp, but she pulled it over her torso anyway. She left her armor where it lay for now, but buckled her sword belt around her waist.

"Arla—" Jaros began.

"This is why we're here," she said, interrupting him. "Why we were chosen. It is this. What you sensed in that valley, why those goblins that attacked us... they were unnatural, something had been... been _done_ to them. It's here."

"But Arla, there's only three of us left. Even with the ones you and the others killed, there are still dozens of them in that village."

"Don't worry, Jaros. I'm not going to lead us on a suicide mission. But the goblins were taking prisoners. The miners, most of them were captured, not killed. And there's one other."

She couldn't see his face in the near-darkness, but she could sense that he understood what she hadn't said. She could feel the slight shift that marked his acquiescence, more like a resignation than eager agreement. But she knew that she could count on him; she always had.

"My apologies, but I am not one of your order," Albrizar said. "I am not subject to your authority, and I believe it is foolish not to accept defeat in these circumstances. I will retire to the south, alone, if necessary."

"You are your own man, wizard," Arla said. "But how long do you think you will last, in these wilds, alone? Do you even know in what direction Thusk lies? And even if you should return, how do you think that the governor will respond? As I recall, your decision to accompany this mission was not made on your own initiative."

"Better to survive in difficult circumstances, than to lose one's life."

"Arla said we're not going to throw our lives away, and I believe her," Jaros said earnestly. "But we can't leave people, even such as those miners, in the hands of those savages. Our best chance at survival is to remain together. At least listen to her plan."

"I will not be easily swayed by honeyed words, priest of Khel," Albrizar said. But he leaned against the wall of the cave, and folded his arms in front of his chest. He would listen; at least Jaros had given her that much.

"First, I need to know what you can do," she said.

"Priestess, the mysteries of my art are—"

"Albrizar," she said, cutting him off. "If we're to get out of here alive, we need to trust each other. To be able to rely on each other."

"Very well. I command the _Ignus Fatuus,_ the burning flames of—"

"In plain language, please."

The wizard sighed, but he said, "I can conjure illusory flames, and can direct them over short distances. The flare that I caused during the battle is about the limit of what I can manage. I can also create other illusions with some degree of facility, visions that—"

"Can you create images of people? A group of soldiers, perhaps?"

"No, nothing so defined. An image of a wall, or a rock, although such things would not stand up to scrutiny, especially under bright illumination, when their insubstantial nature becomes evident."

"What else?"

"I can impose a pulsmatic hex." As Arla opened her mouth to interrupt, he quickly added, "It causes nausea in subjects lacking mental discipline."

"You can make people sick?"

"Well, it is not a real illness, of course, but the targets of the hex do feel sensations akin to one who has contracted an infection, or consumed an excess of alcoholic draughts."

"How many can you affect at once?"

"Ah, I see what you are getting at. No, I fear that the hex would be of little use against the goblins; both its range and impact are extremely limited, and as I said, the effect is not real. No real harm would be done, other than some discomfort in the subjects."

Arla sat there quietly for a moment. Finally, she shifted toward Jaros, who nodded. "It might work," he said.

Albrizar blinked. "What?"

"A chance, master wizard. An opportunity. But first, I need you to tell me more about this pulsmatic hex of yours."

* * * * *

Chapter 20

Filcher reflected that today had just about been the worst day of his life.

The human assault on the village had been a confused jumble of noise and violence. Hiding in the ditch behind the berm with three fists of his kin, he'd watched as Glook, the poor idiot who was to help serve as bait for the humans, was impaled by a crossbow bolt. Filcher had almost soiled his pants right there, and it had taken a supreme effort of will not to join the females and young who'd fled from the huts and made for the hills. The goblins around him had quailed as the sound of the charging humans had drawn nearer, but like Filcher they had heard what Og'ok had told them would happen to any goblin that spoiled the plan, and ultimately their fear of the shaman had outweighed their fear of the attacking humans.

He'd been assigned to the nets during the first stage of the attack, and while he and the others in his fist had gotten their heavy net over the pit, one of the humans had still almost gotten clear. With his face smeared on one side with the tar they'd slathered along the walls and floor of the pit, he'd looked like some demon summoned out of the pits of hell. Zuruk had tried to stab him, but the big human had grabbed his spear and clubbed the goblin down with it. Filcher had just stood there, frozen with terror, as the giant had clambered up the steep walls of the pit, right toward him.

The memory still send a thrill of fear through his gut, even though it the human had never made it out of the pit; several dart-shooters had hit him with their reedy missiles, coated with the narcotic seepings of the _dralanthas_ plant, distilled by the tribe's shaman into an effective poison. The human had fallen back into the pit, to join the others tangled up in the netting and the sticky tar.

The first wave of the human attack had failed, but the battle had not ended there. The human survivors had fallen back into cover, almost two full fists of them, and as they hid amongst a cluster of boulders, protected from the arrows of the goblin archers, Filcher had felt a growing dread that it would come down to close-quarters combat. He remembered the ambush of the human priests all too well, and could see that some of the surviving humans wore armor, and carried swords—soldiers, a different breed than those who had fallen into the ambush at the pits. Filcher was no warrior, but it didn't take a warrior to see that attacking these humans would be a bloody affair.

For a moment it had seemed as though it would not come to that. The assault by Og'ok's chosen fist had been... Filcher was usually good with words, but even he could not easily come up with a description of what he had seen. The goblins that the shaman had... _changed_ ... had swept down onto the human position like locusts. They five goblins had been outnumbered and outarmed, yet it had been the humans who had given way. All five had died. Filcher wouldn't share any tears for them—the five had all been warriors, and none had been friendly to him—but their death had meant that the final attack would happen after all.

Filcher's fist had been made up of crafters and diggers, like him among the smaller and weaker males of the clan. But in times of war, no goblin male was spared the spear. His fist leader had been fat Kurak, who'd chivvied Filcher and the other goblins forward as if he'd been warchief of the whole damned tribe. The fact that the other leaders were doing the same, and that all of the goblins were attacking, had been little consolation to Filcher, whose eyes kept drifting to the bodies, human and goblin, that had littered the hillside in front of the village.

Even Kurak had been given pause, however, when the humans had unleashed magic. The bright flash had been dazzling, and Filcher hadn't been the only goblin to cry out, covering his eyes. When he could see again, most of the humans were fleeing, and four fists were clustered around the last one, who was bleeding from several wounds as he held the warriors at bay. By the time that Kurak was able to restore some order amongst his fist the human was down, and the warleaders were shouting for pursuit of those who had escaped over the crest of the hill. Filcher had already been sidling back toward the pits by that point; one of the acolytes had been issuing orders to nearby fists to take charge of the prisoners, and guard duty seemed much preferable to chasing armed humans over the mountains. But that fat fool Kurak, maybe hoping to win some favor for himself, had clubbed and shouted his fist forward, after the scouts and warriors leading the pursuit. Two humans had laid dead amongst the rocks, but there had been five times as many dead goblins piled around them, and Filcher hoped that those who had fled were not as potent as the one who had stood against the fists here.

Fervently hoping that the humans would be dead by the time that they caught up to them, Filcher had hurried over the mountain trails, following the shouts of the main party ahead. Kurak's size worked to Filcher's advantage, since the fat goblin couldn't manage the speed of a scout or warrior. The others in his fist showed a similar lack of enthusiasm, even when they'd found another dead human lying dead along the trail on the far side of the crest. The human hadn't yet been looted, but Kurak hadn't let them stop even for a few seconds, driving them after the main body of warriors. They were only a short distance behind the lead group when they'd reached the river fork, and while they couldn't see the trailing elements of the warrior column, they could hear their yells from up ahead, down the right fork. Kurak had pointed them in that direction, but Filcher had hesitated.

"What are you waiting for, you fool?" Kurak had shouted. "Are you deaf? They went that way!"

Maybe it had been the heat of the moment, but Filcher had said something stupid in response. "But their tracks lead this way."

"Idiot! That trail doesn't go anywhere." But he'd looked at what Filcher had seen, marks in the dirt too big for goblin feet. "Our warriors went this way," he'd said, pointing right, but Kurak's expression had shown a bit of doubt. He'd grabbed Filcher and pushed him roughly toward the river path. "You go, then! Yell if you see anything."

He'd seen something all right, and he'd yelled. By the time he'd gotten back to the fork, Kurak's fist and another had been waiting for him. They'd gone back to the river ledge, and while the scouts had found smears of blood and other marks that confirmed what he'd seen, the humans were nowhere to be found. Being right hadn't helped him any; he'd earned a rough cuffing from Kurak for "letting the enemy get away."

"Hey! No sleeping! Get up!"

Filcher blinked and returned to the present with a jarring suddenness. "I'm not sleeping," he said, but as he looked around he realized he had slumped over the woodpile he'd leaned up against, just for a moment. The warrior loomed threateningly over him, his spear raised, but let him get back up without a beating. "You keep watch. The humans are still out there," the warrior said, his tone accusing. "Catch you sleeping on guard duty again, I report you."

Filcher knew better than to talk back, and he took up his spear, turning away from the warrior to cover a yawn. The warrior followed him to the cages that had been erected on the edge of the camp, low cells made out of wooden posts lashed together with leather throngs, built up against the steep cliff that formed the western boundary of the dell. The humans were just vague lumps in the darkness, less threatening now then they had been earlier in the day. They stank, too, both of tar and of their own excretions. One groaned and shifted, and one of the guards rapped his spear on the wooden shafts of the cage wall. "Quiet!" he hissed.

Filcher imitated the other guards, laying his spear against his shoulder. He started toward the cage, intending to take up a position there, but the warrior who'd woken him clapped him on the arm with the haft of his spear. "You go walk the perimeter," he said. "Check in at the guard posts."

Filcher nodded, but before he could go more than a few steps, he heard another groan from the cage. This time, however, it was echoed from one of the guards, who staggered off and voided his stomach next to one of the nearby huts. Filcher felt a sympathetic twinge in his own guts, one that was followed by an unpleasant gurgle as the contents of his belly rebelled. He heard the sounds of vomiting from elsewhere in the camp, then again much closer, as the warrior next to him bent over and regurgitated a noisome mess almost onto Filcher's feet.

"Stupid humans," the warrior said, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. "I told them they not cook that one enough." He wavered a bit unsteadily, but still managed a hard look at Filcher. "Why you not going? You..."

The warrior didn't get a chance to finish, as another bout of nausea overcame him, but Filcher knew better than to linger further. He felt anything but steady now himself, especially with the ongoing sounds of retching and associated stenches assailing him from around the camp. He was almost running as he slipped out of the ring of huts and headed up the path that led to the first watch station, on a vantage atop the ridge overlooking the camp. There were no sounds as he carefully approached the post; maybe the guards there had been lucky enough to have avoided the batch of bad meat that had affected the rest of the camp.

But as he crawled over the edge of the shallow trench that concealed the guard post, he saw that the two goblin sentries had been anything but lucky. His stomach rebelled again as the stink of blood and excrement struck him like a punch to the gut, but he was able to control it as he drew back and rolled over onto his back, breathing quickly in shallow draughts.

It seemed like he just laid there for a while. Then he heard a shout from the camp below, and that stirred him back to action, at least enough to lift his head up to look around. The camp was dark, and there was no moon that night, but the starlight was bright enough for him to discern the shadowy form, larger than the goblins that surrounded it, moving around the area of the cage. There was another yell, one that was cut off sharply as the tall figure moved past the smaller form of a goblin guard, their outlines blurring together from his vantage. Filcher saw a glint of metal, and then the two came apart, the smaller form falling to the ground.

He didn't linger further; he was up and running. Almost to his own surprise, his course took him not over the rise and away, but toward the far hill, situated at the back of the camp, where the entrance to Og'ok's cave was a slightly deeper shadow in the hillside. The confused noises coming from the area around the base of the cliff fell away behind him. There were just a few huts between him and the cave; as he approached one the front flap opened and two warriors staggered into view, clutching their spears. They saw him and one nearly impaled him before he could stop and raise his hands in alarm. "What is happening?" the warrior asked.

"Attack at the cages!" he yelled, pointing in case they couldn't work out the direction in their obviously addled condition. He didn't wait to see if they listened to him, and kept on running toward the cave. There was one last hut between him and it, a sagging, empty construction that was currently being broken down for parts. Filcher detoured around it, and didn't see the hulking shadow that rose up from behind it until it was too late. He managed a surprised chirp and flung himself aside, but something hard crashed into the back of his head, and he fell limp, unconscious even before he landed in a heap on the ground.

* * *

Arla's arms and legs burned with exertion, but within the inner core of her battle-focus the priestess hardly noticed as she slipped through the cluster of huts along the base of the cliff at the edge of the goblin camp. The area around the cages was clear, but she spun as three goblins appeared out of one of the huts, clutching spears. She didn't wait for them to realize what was going on, and was among them almost before they saw the threat. The first went down, his throat slashed open by a precise cut from her sword. She'd lost her withe in the river, but the goblin axe she'd picked up proved an effective off-hand weapon, and as she pivoted around the falling body of the first goblin she brained the second with it, the weapon's crude but effective head of pounded iron splitting his skull like a melon.

The third goblin managed to get his spear around and thrust at her, but Arla sensed it coming and twisted around on her plant foot, moving into the strike, the spearhead slicing past her back without doing more than scraping on the worn links of her mail shirt. The goblin looked up at her and tried to flee, dropping his spear and turning to run. She didn't hesitate, driving her sword between the creature's shoulder blades, knocking him down with the force of the impact. Even before he fell she was running back toward the cage. Some of the miners had sensed something was happening, and they groaned as they tried to get up. The door of the cages had been secured with throngs of wet leather, and rather than wasting time trying to unfasten the knots, she hacked them clear with heavy chops of her sword.

"Jaros!" she hissed, as loud as she dared. She could hear goblins yelling all over the camp, but for now, the area in the immediate vicinity was quiet. The distraction created by the wizard, the limited talent of his sickening hex amplified by Jaros's abilities, had worked better than she'd hoped. The wave of debilitating nausea had let her sneak up to the goblin guard post undetected, and kill both sentries before they'd even known she was there. The three of them had crept through the brush to the very edge of the camp before they'd repeated the process, with Jaros drawing deep upon his own talent of Empathy to extend the wizard's effect across the entirety of the goblin settlement. They'd agreed that the wizard and priest would wait while Arla cleared the guards around the cages and freed the miners, but it was clear now that the Thuskans had been drugged, and would need help to get back on their feet. "Jaros!" she repeated.

A shadowy form emerged from between the huts nearest the cages, but as it stepped forward Arla saw that it was only Albrizar. The mage started toward her, but he jumped as a goblin emerged from one of the huts, clutching a curved knife that he thrust at Albrizar's stomach. The wizard let out a cry and fell back, stumbling over a piece of timber that jutted from the other hut. The goblin sprang at him as he fell, but in mid-flight something slammed into him and dashed him roughly to the ground. Scrambling to his feet, Albrizar saw the end of the spear that had impaled the goblin quivering in the air.

"Where's Jaros?" Arla said, appearing next to him. Her face glistened wetly with blood, and more of it was smeared across her tattered tunic, but if she had been wounded, she showed no sign of it.

"He... he sensed something from the cave, on the far end of the camp. He said... he..."

"Damn him, by Khel! That fool..." She grabbed Albrizar's robe roughly and shoved him toward the cage. "Do you still have the rest of that broth? The stimulant?"

"I... yes..."

"They've been drugged, the miners. Do what you can for them. I'll be back."

"But... look out!"

Albrizar flinched back as two more goblins appeared, hefting spears as they charged forward. Arla went straight for them, and to the wizard it was like she was a blur, the goblins trying in vain to react as she shot between them, knocking their spears up with her weapons, then rushing past. He didn't see her attack, didn't even realize she'd hit them until she was well past, running toward the more distant outer ring of huts. The goblins toppled forward, and didn't get up. All that was left between him and the cage was a scattered assortment of dead goblins. Arla had killed almost a dozen, but he knew from what he'd seen the day before that there were at least that many warriors left in the tribe. All it would take would be another few emerging from one of the huts, and he would be in big trouble. The smart thing to do, most definitely, would be to hide, and wait for the priests to return.

With an audible sigh, he ran forward to the closest cage, and with some effort yanked the crude gate open. The first miner was awake, but his head lolled as he fought to lift it, his eyes blinking as they tried to fix onto the mage.

"Hold on," he said, taking the waterskin full of neebrath broth, and lifting it to the dazed man's lips. The broth was stronger when fresh steeped, and better hot than cold, but hopefully enough of its potency was left to help counteract the effects of whatever the goblins had dosed the miners with. "We'll get you out of here," he said as the man drank, but the mage's eyes were fearful as he stared into the darkness of the camp, wishing for Arla's swift return.

* * *

Jaros's hands wouldn't stop trembling as he approached the cave mouth, even when he tightened his grip on the length of wood he'd yanked out of the wreckage of the nearby hut. The dark opening filled him with a numbing, penetrating fear, but overriding that were the sensations of terror and agony that he could feel coming from within, sensations that he could feel almost as strongly as if they were being inflicted upon him directly, and not Daran. He didn't know how the poor youth was being dragged back across the veil that separated life from death, but he knew as well as he knew his own name that the tortures being inflicted on his young friend and the evil that seeped over this valley like a fog were connected. He could feel the latter, too, felt it building, deepening, spreading from its source.

From within the cave.

The combination of sensations blinded him to the more immediate danger until it was nearly too late. He sensed the approaching presences when he was almost on top of the entrance, and quickly flung himself to the side, his heart pounding in his chest as he clung to the cliff face near the opening, willing himself to be as small and unobtrusive as possible. A scant second later a group of goblins burst from the mouth of the cave, five of them, clad in long tunics of ratty leather sewn with thin plates of raw iron. They wore heavy fur caps ringed with a band of metal and drapes of leather that protected their necks, and each carried either a spear or a bow in addition to the long knives stuck through their belts. The warriors moved with purpose, charging forward into the night, toward the far side of the camp. None of them so much as glanced behind them, but Jaros waited for several seconds after they had disappeared from view before he let out the breath he'd been holding.

He felt a surge of shame. The goblins were heading straight for Arla, and he'd done nothing to warn her. Shouting a warning would have only gotten him killed, and he dared not try to send a mental pulse that might distract her at a critical moment. He could only hope that she could handle herself, as he turned back to the cave and slipped inside.

The darkness within the cave made the starlit exterior seem bright by comparison, but after a few moments his eyes had adjusted enough to make out the vague outline of a passage that descended deeper into the hillside. He had to fumble his way forward, all too aware that goblins saw much better in the dark than humans, and that if one appeared, it would probably be able to kill him before he was even aware that it was there. At least the tunnel was tall enough for him to walk without bending over double, though he probed ahead with a hand, wary of a low protrusion that could brain him if he wasn't careful.

The passage twisted slightly to the left after about twenty feet, and he caught sight of a faint gleam of light ahead. That resolved into the outline of a low doorway, shrouded by a curtain of heavy furs that had been crudely stitched together. The light came from the gaps around the edges of the curtain, which warded the entrance to another chamber beyond.

Jaros slipped forward as quietly as he could manage. He pressed up against the wall, and carefully reached out and pushed softly at the edge of the curtain with a finger, until he could see through into the room beyond.

It wasn't very big, maybe fifteen feet across, and devoid of furnishings or appointments save for a few hand-woven carpets that were strewn upon the hard stone floor. The light came from a smoking torch jutting from a crack in the wall. There was another curtained doorway on the far side of the room, guarded by a pair of goblins clad in fur-chased vests that didn't fully conceal the tattooed markings on their chests and arms. Jaros could see that they were armed with bone-handled knives stuck through their belts, but his attention was drawn from them to the dark curtain. He couldn't see anything through it, but he felt a cold prickling in his gut, an almost painful sensation that emanated from somewhere beyond. He blinked and drew back, his head swimming. He wanted nothing more than to turn and run at that moment, to escape from this place and keep on going until he was back in Thusk, or Evros, or best of all, to the safety of the abbey at Edebaron. He didn't know what was beyond that curtain, but he knew it was something terrible.

But he didn't run. He knew who else was beyond that curtain. He knew that _he_ was part of the reason that Daran was still here. The unlucky youth might not have gotten very far if he'd stuck with his decision to flee from Thusk, but his fate almost certainly would have been better than what had happened to him here. Jaros thought also of Parath, who had trusted him and Arla, and who had already given his life to this cause.

He turned back to the curtain, and pushed it open again, slowly and gradually. He saw that there was another exit to the right, a low opening barely five feet high, also covered with a curtain. He didn't see any more guards, but it was clear that he'd never get into the room without the two acolytes spotting him. Taking a deep breath, he focused his attention on the goblins.

Both goblins jumped suddenly, and drew out their knives. They exchanged a quick glance and cautiously moved toward the low doorway in the wall to the side of the room. They paused briefly before the curtain, then one lunged forward, grabbing the curtain and yanking it roughly aside. The two goblins blinked, as if surprised that there was nothing beyond the curtain save for another empty passage.

The goblin further back from the curtain crumpled as Jaros smacked him hard in the back of his skull with his club. The other acolyte spun as the priest came at him, and his second swing caught the goblin on the shoulder, inflicting a glancing blow that spun the acolyte around but failed to knock him down. Jaros quickly lifted his club for another attack, but at the same time the goblin snarled and lunged at him, stabbing him in the side just above his left hip. Jaros staggered back, and the goblin followed, bloody dagger raised. Hissing at the pain as the sudden motion tore his wound open further, Jaros smashed the club across the goblin's face. The acolyte dropped to the ground, dazed from the impact. With blood pouring from his smashed nose, the goblin tried to get up, but the priest finished him with another crushing blow to the head.

Breathing heavily, Jaros stumbled back and fell against the wall. His side pulsed with pain, and his fingers came away sticky with blood when he pressed them against the wound. He clutched the club tightly as he waited for guards drawn by the noise of the quick scuffle to arrive, but there was no sound save for a faint droning that came from behind the curtain in the far wall. Trying to ignore the spreading pain in his side, he moved in that direction.

The droning grew louder as Jaros pulled the curtain aside. The room beyond was much bigger than the first, but it was cluttered with a wild profusion of unpleasant items that limited the available space. Tendrils of smoke danced in the air, their source a heavy bronze censer that hung above a crude altar that stood against the wall to his left. The droning resolved as a rhythmic chant that originated beyond a drape of black fabric that partitioned the room. Dark shadows rose and ebbed as something moved in the space beyond; there was a flash of light, and he could see wisps of smoke issue from the gaps in the mountings that fixed the drape to the rough stone ceiling.

The young priest took a step forward, but stopped as a jolt of pain sliced across his neck. He fell against a nearby workbench, and clutched as his throat, half surprised when he felt no flow of blood there. The chanting coming from behind the drape intensified, and for a moment Jaros was paralyzed by a dense, seeping thread of pure malevolence that he felt gathering there. Then he was running forward, and with an angry cry he tore down the curtain and staggered through into the space beyond.

Daran was there, bound to a wooden frame, perched over a design that had been cut into the substance of the floor. Sigils had been scribed around the pattern in a glistening wetness, runes that felt startlingly _wrong_ to the Arunite priest. But that was nothing compared to the evil that he felt pulsating out from a spot in the air above the pattern. There was a distortion there, almost invisible, rimed in faint tendrils of red mist that were rising from the channels cut into the floor, and which seeped into it. _Feeding_ it.

Daran hung limply from the frame, and Jaros could see the bloody smears on the floor under him, where a crude gouge in the floor extended from directly under the imprisoned man over to the runnels of the pattern. For a moment the priest feared he'd been too late, but then he felt a familiar awareness within the roiling currents of painful sensation that filled this place, and he hurried forward.

He had been so distracted by the chaotic medley of sensations that he didn't even see the shaman until the goblin stepped into view from behind the frame holding Daran prisoner. The creature was gaunt and ferocious, naked save for a breechclout and a hide belt that supported a small pouch and a bone-handled dagger. The goblin's torso and arms were marked with ritual scaring that mirrored the patterns of the sigils marked onto the floor, and there were other patches of ugly, deformed skin visible that might have been the result of serious burns. The goblin held a second dagger, its blade slick with bright red blood, in his right hand.

"Ah, exactly what I needed," the shaman cackled. "The door has been opened, but not wide enough for the black spirit to come fully through. Your blood, Arunite priest, shall sunder the final seal!"

Jaros hesitated, holding his makeshift club, his fingers so tight on it that they felt numb. The energies radiating from the distortion within the pattern were intensifying, battering him almost like a physical wave. He felt light-headed, and he could feel his strength seeping from him as blood continued to ooze from the wound in his side.

The goblin recognized his weakness and smiled darkly. He extended a hand, touched his knife to Daran's cheek, trailed it down the youth's face, leaving a glistening red trail of fresh blood. "He was strong, his blood was strong. But not strong enough."

Jaros charged, but the shaman lifted his other hand from inside his pouch and hurled a fistful of dust at the priest. Jaros lifted an arm reflexively to protect himself, but that did nothing to stop the cloud of particles, which flickered in the air before it touched him. He felt a surge of agony, real physical pain this time, as the stuff sizzled in his eyes and throat, blinding him. He swung his club wildly, aiming for where he thought the shaman would be, but he felt only empty air, and stumbled off-balance as the wound in his side flared anew at the sudden movement.

Then another pain blossomed across his leg, as the goblin's knife sliced deeply into his thigh, cutting flesh and muscle. Jaros lashed out again, and this time connected with something, but the blow was feeble, and as he staggered back, trying to recover. His injured leg collapsed under him, and he fell hard onto the floor.

Groaning, he blinked, his eyes swimming. He still held the billet, and he held it up like a shield as he tried to roll clear, his injured leg dragging behind him. He heard a sharp hiss from behind him and spun, sweeping the club around. The wood cracked as it connected with his attacker, but at the same moment sharp steel bit into his wrist, and his weapon went flying clear. Jaros stifled a scream and tried to fight through the pain of his wounds, using his good hand to push off from the floor, to at least get up onto his uninjured leg. But his hand slipped on something wet, and as he stumbled he felt a fresh agony as his shoulder and one side of his face dipped into what felt like a pool of acid. The evil presence he'd felt earlier was suddenly _inside_ him, swelling eagerly in his mind, hammering at him like a uncontrollable storm. For a moment he felt the core of what he was slipping away, but then, somehow, he was able to tear free. He fell back from the connection, and landed on his back, sobbing.

"Yes," the shaman cackled, the voice not far away. "Now you see, you know what it is that is coming, priest."

Through the haze of agony that fogged his brain, Jaros realized what had happened; he had stumbled into the diagram on the floor, had come into contact with the entity present within the distortion. It was the source of what he'd sensed when they'd first entered the valley with the goblin camp, a being of Shadow. That was the evil that Parath had led them here to stop.

Only right now, he was in no condition to save himself, let alone to stop anything.

He was able to pull himself up on one elbow, but even that motion took a serious effort. The room was just a vague outline, and he could not see the shaman. Breathing heavily, each deep inhalation sending new stabbing needles into his lungs, Jaros closed his eyes, and reached out with his mind.

He felt like a cork bobbing in a raging torrent. The dark presence within the pattern was like a bonfire, close enough that he could have reached out and touched it again without straining. It was getting stronger, its malevolence pulsing through the room like waves of heat from a flame. He could sense Daran, a tiny spark, and then, to his left...

He fell back as the goblin lunged. The sting of the knife's edge slicing the flesh along his jaw was nothing against the tally of his other wounds. He reached out, grabbing hold of the goblin's arm as the shaman tried to stab him again, and he let his weight drag the other onto him, the two rolling over, back onto the edge of the pattern.

Jaros knew instantly the moment he hit it; the pain returned, along with the harsh presence of the entity that the goblin shaman had summoned. He screamed, and the cry was echoed by the goblin, which had fully half of his body immersed in the effect. He could feel the dark malevolence within the pattern pulse as it eagerly absorbed the life energy from both of them, growing stronger even as it weakened the two of them. Jaros held them there for a scant three heartbeats, then the goblin tore free and staggered back, stumbling over Jaros as he again rolled clear. The priest lay there for a moment, his mouth full of the taste of blood, struggling to catch his breath. He raised his head, and saw that the shaman had fallen against the frame, sagging against it, his hands leaving red marks on Daran's pale arms as he pulled himself up. He turned, and Jaros saw that the goblin's face and chest were streaked with red marks, smears of the blood that the power of his own ritual had torn from his body. He also saw the goblin's bloody knife, lying on the floor midway between them. His eyes met the shaman's, and both of them lunged forward toward the weapon.

As battered and bloody as he was, Jaros's charge was feeble, his wounded arm and leg leaving red splotches on the floor as he flopped toward the knife. He expected the goblin to finish him before he got close, but to his surprise, his hand closed on the hilt of the weapon. Looking up, he saw the goblin's head jerked back at a bad angle, just enough for the priest to be able to see Daran's fingers fisted in the tangled mess of the creature's hair. The goblin shrieked and drew his second knife from his belt, twisting enough to give him a clear angle as he stabbed upward, the knife slamming repeatedly into the youth's chest and neck. The youth's fingers clenched even as he expired, and the goblin had to push against the frame to tear free of that dying grip.

But even as he pulled clear, Jaros slammed the dagger to the hilt into the goblin's chest. The shaman looked down at the hilt of the knife, and let out a wet, gurgling hiss. He slumped to the floor, falling on top of the channel that connected the wooden frame to the pattern gouged into the floor. The shaman's blood filled that channel, and it surged into the path a fresh course of red mists rose up out of it into the roiling distortion in the air, which began to darken and solidify, taking on a denser substance as it consolidated its form.

Jaros pried the knife from the dead goblin's fingers, and used it to hack at the throngs that held Daran to the frame. The priest sensed no life from the young man, but didn't stop until his limp body slumped to the floor, on top of the creature that had killed him, and which he in turn had helped to kill. Jaros dropped the knife, trying in vain to lift the dead youth; an impossible task, given his own weakness. He felt a last surge of power from the pattern, and then, so suddenly that he nearly fell, the dark wave of malevolence abruptly vanished.

Turning around, he looked back at the design in the floor.

A demon stood inside it.

There was no other way to describe it. Its hide was a deep red, starker even than the sodden crimson of fresh blood. Its hands and feet ended in black claws that curved slightly, like daggers. Vestigial wings spread across its back, flexing as the creature wavered slightly, testing its footing. Its face was sinister, with jutting ridges of bone above its brows and along the edges of its jaws; those moved to reveal sharp black teeth. Black horns protruded from the sides of its head, and a smaller one stuck out from the end of its chin. Its eyes were bright points that sharpened as they fixed onto Jaros.

The only jarring inconsistency that struck Jaros was that the thing stood all of a foot tall. It might even have been comical, had the look in the demon's eyes matched so exactly the evil power he'd sensed before.

The thing let out a little noise, almost a chuckle, and stepped toward him.

Jaros's hand came up, smeared with blood, empty. He had no weapon, but somehow, some instinct manifested, something beyond his training in the orders of Khel. He focused his talent, concentrating on the little creature.

The demon stopped, and let out a hiss. It didn't move, but Jaros could feel it _pressing_ at him, testing his defenses. The young priest, already weakened, could feel his concentration slipping, like water through his fingers.

A sound interrupted the invisible battle: the flap of a curtain being hurled back, followed by the heavy tread of booted feet. "Jaros!"

"In here!" he managed, though it came out as a strangled croak. He didn't take his eyes off the little demon, which waved a hand at him, a casual farewell. It snorted and darted away, disappearing under one edge of the drape at the same moment that Arla yanked the other end aside and stepped into the sheltered nook.

"Jaros!" she cried, throwing herself down beside him. "By the gods!"

Jaros wanted to tell her about the demon, but he was already beginning to drift, his head swimming as the room started to spin around him. He grabbed her arm, forcing himself to cling to his fading consciousness. "Protect him," he said. "You have to... promise me, Arla!"

"You'll be there to watch over him yourself," she said. Her own clothes were tattered and sodden with blood, and he could feel the pain of her wounds; she hadn't gotten past the goblins unscathed. "I'm sorry," he said, as she tore off the trailing edge of her tunic, and used it as a bandage against the oozing wound in his side. "I didn't mean to leave you..."

"You did what you had to do," she said. "Just lie still."

His vision began to grow dark, and he could barely feel her hands as she tended to his injuries. "The goblins... I wanted to warn you... couldn't..."

"You did warn me," she said. She paused, just for the briefest moment. "I... I felt your concern for me, almost like you were whispering in my ear. I ducked behind a hut moments before the goblins came rushing past. I was able to kill two of them before they even knew I was there."

For a moment clarity returned, accompanying a sharp spike of pain as she adjusted his savaged arm. It only remained a moment, and he fell back into the gathering haze as she wrapped another strip of cloth around the bloody wound. He could barely hear her voice, but he could feel her presence, right above him.

"Don't you leave me, damn it!"

"Promise..."

"I promise, Jaros. Just don't... don't go."

Through a last effort, he lifted his hand, covered hers with his. Then he fell back into oblivion.

* * * * *

Chapter 21

Daran blinked, and stirred.

At first, all he could see were vague shapes, globs of light and shadow. There was sound, but it reached him like echoes through a long tunnel, blended and indistinct. For once he didn't feel panic or anxiety, just a sense of... _drifting_ , and he laid there, waiting.

"He's awake."

The voice, clear and familiar, brought his attention back to the present. He opened his eyes again and saw someone there, an outline that gradually formed into the face of Arla. She looked tired, with dark circles under her eyes, but she smiled as she looked down at him.

"So, you've come back to us once again. How do you feel?"

"Tired." He tried to move, found he could, but that his entire body felt numb, clumsy. Arla placed a hand on his shoulder. "Just rest. We're in camp, I'll bring you some broth to help you regain your strength." She made a motion to someone outside of his field of view. Daran shifted his head, even that subtle movement taking an effort. He saw Albrizar, standing on the other side of him opposite the priestess. The mage looked as ragged as she did, but most definitely alive.

"What... what happened?"

Arla's lips twisted. "A long story, and I still have a few things to do before we set out again. Maybe the mage can bring you up to date."

"Jaros? Is he..."

A cloud passed over the priestess's expression, but she quickly hid it behind a neutral mask. "He's stable now, but he was hurt very badly. We're bringing him back to Thusk as quickly as we can, so he can recover."

She rose, brushing dirt from her tunic. It was more a reflexive motion than a useful one; they were all filthy, their clothes torn and ragged. But there was still a quiet nobility in her face, a sense of fixed purpose that awed him. It had always been there, but something had changed in her, opening a gap between them that yawned like an invisible chasm.

A man appeared, carrying a bowl from which wafts of steam rose. The scent of it awakened an almost painful hunger in him. The man was one of the miners; Daran tried to remember his name, but the detail was part of the haze that still fogged his thoughts. The man nodded to the priestess before kneeling beside Daran, helping him up to a sitting position before lifting the cup to his lips.

He drank. The hot broth seared his throat, but it sent a soothing flush through his body as it reached his stomach, easing some of the stiffness that he felt. He was able to lift a hand to take the bowl from the miner, and blinked in surprise to find it empty.

"Recover your strength," she told him. Shifting her eyes to the miner, she said, "He's going to need a lot of nourishment in the coming days, give him as much as can be spared."

The miner bowed. "As you say, priestess."

She started to leave, but Daran cleared his throat, and she turned back to face him. "Ah... priestess... what happens, when we get back to Thusk?"

It was a broad question, but she seemed to know what he meant by it. Her expression didn't change, but the edge in her eyes seemed to soften fractionally. "We'll talk more about that later, but you do not need to worry, Daran. We will... we will take care of you. I made a promise." She turned and walked back across the camp to the fire.

"I'll get you some more broth," the miner said. He hurried off, leaving Daran alone with Albrizar.

"Where are we?" he asked. Looking around, all he could see was that they were in a rocky dell, their campsite surrounded by tangles of thick brush. It was hard to tell what time of day it was; the sky was covered with a thick blanket of dark clouds, and a cold wind blew from the north. Daran tugged the blanket covering him tighter around his body. He recognized several of the miners moving around the camp, including the hulking form of Ottile, who walked up to speak to Arla, lowering his head so they could talk without raising their voices.

"We're a few days out from the goblin encampment," the mage said. "Arla's been setting a hard pace, but the men aren't in very good shape. The goblins didn't have much in the way of good food supplies, at least not such that men would eat."

"Last I remember, I... they were coming for us, and we were running."

The wizard leaned up against a rock next to Daran. "The miners were captured, or most of them, anyway. Treyan took a dart to the throat and bled out, while Karver suffered a cracked skull and died in the cage. Kovros sacrificed himself so we could get away, but only Arla, Jaros, and I made it clear."

"So... you came back then, for the rest of us."

"I have to admit, it was not my idea," the mage said dryly. "She made it happen. The priestess has... she has a strong will."

"Yeah."

"The miners were not aware of your condition," Albrizar told him. "The priestess said that you were like Jaros, critically wounded and in a coma. She tended to your wounds herself."

Jaros didn't respond. After a moment, the mage leaned in closer, so his words would not travel. "You do not have to talk about it if you don't want to, but your secret will get out, eventually, even if the Arunites continue to cover for you."

Daran closed his eyes, and let out a small sigh. "I stole a ring. From the baron's son, though I didn't know that at the time, or that the ring was magic. I mean, I knew it was valuable, it was like silver, no gems or anything, but pretty substantial. I... when we met, I had it... when the baron's men came for us, I swallowed it. I thought, you know."

"You could recover it later? Hmm. And did you?"

"No. I checked, that is, I—"

"I do not need the expressive imagery, thank you. So you believe that this ring, this magic ring, is what is responsible for your... unique gift?"

"My curse, you mean?"

"Magic is neither a gift nor a curse, my young friend. I am not much of a mage, Daran; I know this, know my limitations all too well. But I have traveled much, and I know much _about_ magic." He clasped the young man on the shoulder, as the miner returned from the campfire with another bowl of broth. "Magic rings are rare and special, but none are so special that they can bring their wearer back across the veil between life and death," Albrizar whispered. "It is _you_ who are special, I think."

He straightened and walked away before Daran could respond.

* * *

The mining camp at Thusk glowed brightly as the night deepened around it. Hundreds of lamps hung from posts and in doorways, adding to the bright glow from the unshuttered windows that let out sounds of revelry and celebration into the air.

Governor Jarret had announced a general holiday, graciously allowing a late morning start for the next day's shift crews. It would have been difficult in any case to extract much useful work from the miners, given the number of barrels of ale—and stronger stuff—that were raised from cellars and broached that night. The governor's guards patrolled the streets and poked their heads into the taverns and barracks, but they didn't have very much to do. The degree of relief in the air precluded the usual drunken fights and other rows that were common in the mining camps.

The revelry in the spacious common room of Thusk's sole inn was somewhat more muted, despite the fact that every space on every bench was taken, and the innkeeper kept the ale flowing. The governor himself was hosting the celebration here, in the company of his mage-advisor and the young Arunite priestess who'd helped put down the goblin threat. The miners who'd survived the trip had already received their public praise from the governor earlier that evening, and had slipped out to visit parties where less restraint was the rule. The priestess, sitting at the governor's right, looked as though she too wanted to escape, but she kept her place, refused refills of her mug, and nodded politely when engaged in conversation. The governor did not stay late, and the priestess left when he did, accepting the adulation of the gathered crowd with a slight nod of her head. The crowd got a bit rowdier after they'd left, although a good number of folks left once it became clear that more free rounds would not be forthcoming after the departure of the notables.

Daran had little difficulty escaping notice; the governor had not introduced him during the early ceremonies, and almost no one in the camp could associate his face with the wild rumors that had spread in the wake of his initial arrival at Thusk. Sitting on a stool crammed in along one end of the long bar, he'd drunk two mugs of ale, and managed to grab a full trencher of warm bread and gravy-doused potatoes from the kitchen, where his loose affiliation with the Arunite priests had won him special privileges that he'd put to use since their return. As he slipped from the back door into the dark courtyard behind the inn, he finished off the end of the bread and belched. This was the first time he'd felt full since... since he'd been driven from his home? How many times had he been able to savor a meal since then, in all the time he'd spent running away, fleeing for his life from those who wanted to see him in irons, or worse?

He rubbed at his neck, where there was still a band of faint but tangible scarring from the baron's rope. Arla and Jaros had promised to protect him, but with someone as powerful as the leader of Evros after his head, how could he hope to lead a normal life?

He let out a sigh, and headed for the low structure that housed the jakes. He didn't see the dark figure lurking in the shadows in the back of the courtyard until it moved, and he jumped in surprise as it shifted slightly, coming toward him.

"Who's there?"

"You've led me a merry chase, youngster," came the familiar voice from the darkness.

"Garath!"

The big form of the guardsman materialized out of the shadows. "It would seem that you've managed to do well for yourself after all."

Daran edged back; Garath didn't move any closer, but his eyes followed Daran like a wolf watching a lamb. "Look, Garath, I didn't mean for what happened to Tobbs, that was self-defense—"

The guardsman snorted. "You think I'm still here because of that? You've made some powerful enemies, boy, and there are some folks who will pay over a fat purse indeed for your head."

Daran tensed, and Garath shifted slightly. "You can make it easy, or you can make it hard, but you are coming with me, boy."

"No, he's not. He's coming with me."

Arla emerged from the deep shadows along the side of the inn, and stepped forward into the courtyard. She was not dressed in her armor, but her weapons, including her new withe, were belted at her waist, and the faint light glimmered on the sigil of her order upon her brow.

"This is not your concern, priestess," Garath said.

"You are wrong, there."

"I have influential friends."

Arla glanced left and right. "They are not here now."

Garath's hand dropped to the hilt of his sword. Arla started to echo the gesture, but she hesitated a moment, and then with deliberation shifted her grasp to the haft of her withe.

"I hear you're popular with the governor," Garath said. "I suppose you will shout for the guard."

Her eyes did not shift from his. "I will not call out. Will you?"

The two stood there in the darkness for a long moment, then Garath stepped back. "This is not over."

"I suspect not."

"The people who are after him won't let him go easily."

"That is no longer your concern."

"And if I choose to make it so?"

"That is your choice. Make it, or be on your way."

The big guardsman turned and walked past them, disappearing in the street beyond the inn. Arla waited until he was fully gone from view, and then she turned to Daran. "Go inside."

"But I, ah," he fidgeted, and nodded toward the outhouse.

"Use the chamber pot in your room. I would strongly suggest you not go anywhere alone until we are free of this place, do you understand?"

He nodded. "I didn't think he'd back down."

"Men like him are often brave in the sunlight," she said. "But in the darkness, with no one to see, it is harder to keep the doubt and fear hidden."

"What happens now?"

"Now, you go to your room, close and bolt the door, and go to sleep."

"No, I meant..."

"Tomorrow will come quickly enough," she said. "Get some rest, Daran. I suspect we may not get too many chances in the coming days."

* * *

Daran's horse jerked its head and whinnied as he directed it off the road. He patted the animal on the neck, trying to placate it; thus far their relationship had been a tense one.

"You need to remember that you're working together," Jaros told him, as the priest rode up to join him. Behind him, the heavy ore wagons trundled past, their axles creaking under the weight of the crates of iron ingots and slabs of bar stock laid out in their beds.

"I'm still getting used to it," Daran said. "How are you feeling?"

"A bit tired," the priest admitted. Arla had insisted that he ride in the wagons, but he'd refused. He'd been quiet thus far on their journey, and Daran often noticed him with a distant look on his face. He flexed his injured hand; the wrist was still covered in a thick linen bandage, and the scar along the side of his jaw was still visible, an ugly red line that served as a visible reminder of what they'd gone through.

Daran had his own scars, but they were fading quickly, even the knot around his neck that had been left by the baron's noose. The more recent gashes left by the goblin shaman's knife were already gone, though he doubted that the nightmares would end as quickly.

Arla rode by without stopping. "We need to keep moving," she said to them, kicking her mount into a trot that took them ahead of the lead wagon.

Jaros offered him a smile. "Well, we'd better do as she says," he said. His own horse started moving with just a light touch on the reins. Daran envied him as he urged his own mount forward after him, the animal snorting as he kicked it the way that Arla had showed him. The horse started forward, reluctantly, it seemed.

Daran felt much the same way. He glanced back along the road. The plume of dust raised by the wagons was already dissolving, but Thusk was already well lost within the hills to the north. He wasn't sad about leaving the mining camp, but the road ahead was an uncertain one, as it had always been since he'd left his home village just a few short months ago.

His ultimate destination remained a mystery. Arla had not been forthcoming with details about their journey, only that they would stay with the wagons as far as Sterick, and then they would be heading south. She had promised to protect him, and he believed her. He'd overheard her and Jaros talking quietly, both back at the inn and earlier on the road, as they were leaving Thusk. Both times they'd changed the subject when they'd spotted him.

He thought about what Albrizar had told him. He'd thought about it a lot since they'd returned to Thusk. There had still been no sign of the ring, but at least the pains in his gut had eased off, and his appetite, while still considerable, had returned to more normal levels. He no longer felt gaunt and hollow, but he still felt a nearly constant lingering unease, almost as if someone were watching him. He'd caught the teamsters driving the wagons and the armed guards riding alongside them sending furtive looks in his direction, but their suspicion was almost welcome; at least they weren't going to try to kill him while he slept.

"Daran, come on!"

Shaken out of his reverie, Daran looked up and saw that he'd fallen behind the last wagon, which was a good fifty paces ahead of him on the road. Jaros had reined in and was looking back at him. Daran waved and urged his horse forward again. Ahead of them the road wound its way through the hills. Where it ended, Daran didn't know, but it had to be someplace better than the road behind him.

"Sorry," he said, as he fell in beside Jaros.

"If you follow behind, you just end up eating the dust of the wagons," the priest said. "Come on, let's catch up to Arla. At least we'll be able to see where we're going."

"Where are we going?" he asked Jaros.

The priest's smile was wry, and for a moment there was a hint of the old Jaros there. "Home," he said. "We're going home."

THE END
