《Dark Ranger》


 A Discovery in the Woods

    Death had come to Tol Morad, and on its heels, war.


    The men had been dead at least a week by the time Amon found them, judging by the smell and the condition of the bodies. Whoever had killed them had made no attempt to hide the bodies but had instead left them where they fell, haphazardly strewn through the tall grass and ferns in the middle of the wooded glade. They had been camped here, just a dozen yards off the road between Moonbrook and Red Falls. The ashes of their cookfire were still visible in the center of the glade, surrounded by tangled bedrolls and other abandoned gear. All of it was there, their weapons, even their coin purses. They hadn¡¯t been robbed. This wasn¡¯t the work of highwaymen.


    Amon pulled his scarf over his nose and mouth in an attempt to dampen the smell. It didn¡¯t help. The stench of death was so thick he could taste it. He was no stranger to death. The sight of the bloated, mottled, ravaged corpses should not have fazed him. It was his duty as a ranger to find out what had happened here. It was not the corpses, but the sheer brutality of their deaths that gave him pause.


    The crossed-battleaxe sigil, silver on black, marked the dead men as sworn to House Raith, the main power on Tol Morad. Their armor, plain undyed boiled leather and unadorned ring mail showed them to be men-at-arms, not knights. Each of them wore the same surcoat, black bordered in silver, the Raith sigil on their breast. Their weapons were longswords, shortbows, and one crossbow, plain and unadorned but utilitarian, serviceable weapons, for all the good they did them. All the weapons were good steel, not bronze, which meant that these men had a good commander who armed his men well.


    Still, Amon wondered, who would be bold enough to attack five men-at-arms well within the borders of Raith land, men more than capable of defending themselves? He doubted they had killed each other. Nor did it look as though there had been any more than these five; there were five kits of travel and camping gear, no more. The remains of their horselines, where the animals had been cut free to run, had held five horses. Whatever had done this had left no sign of itself.


    A big, blue-gray wolf prowled through the bracken nearby. ¡°Ferron,¡± Amon called. The wolf ignored him. ¡°Ferron, to me!¡± A wolf was not a dog, Amon reminded himself with a sigh of exasperation, to obey his master¡¯s beck and call. He had reminded himself of that often these past nine years. A wolf, even a tame one, was still a wild animal, and wild animals did as they pleased. He had to call several more times before the wolf finally left off sniffing through the ferns to trot over to his side. Ferron pushed his big head under Amon¡¯s hand and leaned heavily against his legs, wanting to be petted. Amon scratched him behind the ears.


    ¡°What happened here?¡± he asked the wolf. Ferron of course, did not respond, except to lick Amon¡¯s gloved hand. ¡°Who killed these men?¡±


    Ferron at his side, Amon searched the glade. He inspected each bloated corpse in turn, looking for any sign that might betray the identity of the killers. Surely there had to have been more than one assailant. Each man had been killed with a blade. Not a sword, Amon thought, but something shorter. A dagger.


    The attacks had been savage, brutal. They had been hacked and slashed and stabbed far more times than was strictly necessary. He had seen war, seen violent deaths, had caused them on occasion, but the sheer brutality of these killings took him aback. He had seldom seen a murder so savage, let alone five at once. One man had tried to run and been dragged down and stabbed so many times that he looked to have been savaged by a wild animal.


    Beyond the men¡¯s wounds, there was little evidence to indicate the culprit. The wind and rain had obliterated any tracks and scavengers had been at the bodies. Even now, a silver-furred cleverin, a small, long-haired creature similar to a monkey, peered down at Amon from the boughs of a moss-draped fir, while ravens held court in the canopy, quorking and muttering to each other, all waiting for Amon and the wolf to move on so they could resume their grisly feast. He eyed the cleverin. The bright-eyed little things mostly ate fruit and insects, but they wouldn¡¯t pass up fresh, and not so fresh, meat when it was available. The rest of the troop was likely nearby, waiting. A bear had eaten on three of the men, and wolves as well.


    It was on the last body, the one who had tried to run, that Amon at last found what he was looking for. A scrap of cloth, deep green in hue, pulled from between the dead man¡¯s stiff fingers. On it was a pattern, alternating crescent moons and ravens on the wing. The sigil of House Celwyn was a silver crescent moon and black raven on forest green. The cloth might have come from a cloak, a fine one, judging by the weave of the fabric.


    It made no sense. Why would the elves do such a thing? House Raith and House Celwyn had never been anything short of rivals, ever since the Goding Rebellion divided Lath along racial lines 150 years ago.


    Raith and Celwyn had skirmished often in the prevailing years. House Raith controlled the only port city and kept a stranglehold on all trade going up the Ravenway to Ravenwood Castle, the current seat of House Celwyn. The disputes were almost always over borders and trade. They had gone to war no less than four times in the last century-and-a-half, most of them short, bloody conflicts that never seemed to accomplish anything. The past 30 years had been relatively peaceful, though. Tol Morad had returned to the quiet, sleepy island it had been before the Godings took power. Of late, Amon had heard only the usual gripes over trade routes and tariffs, and the high cost of the fine elven wines and brandies produced by House Celwyn. There had been no rumblings of war, not like last time. It seemed that Varic Raith and Matron Astoria had settled into an uneasy truce of late. Amon had even heard that as a gesture of good faith, Lord Varic was reducing the tariff on stormberry wine. Why then, during one of the most stable periods of peace since the Goding Rebellion, would the Celwyns do something like this?


    It had been a close thing for Amon to avoid getting swept up in the last major war between Raith and Celwyn, 30 years ago. Rangers like him were highly valued as scouts and spies, often conscripted into service by one side or the other. That was the last thing Amon wanted. He had no side in the conflict and no taste for battle, not again. If a new war was brewing, he would have to act fast to prepare. He had chosen Tol Morad for its remoteness; here was one of the few places left in Lath that he could find true solitude, away from people and prying eyes. The deep forests and tall mountains were his place, not the cities of gaians and elves. Tol Morad was a good place for a ranger like him, if not for the rival lordlings disturbing the peace.


    Gripping the scrap of cloth tight in his fist, Amon considered his course of action. He didn¡¯t think anyone else had discovered these men as of yet. The road west of Moonbrook was seldom traveled even in summer, and the weather had been bad of late, storms blowing in off the North Sea with surprising intensity for this time of the year. It was nearly midsummer, but the storms had continued, the high mountains still holding onto their snowy cloaks.


    Someone had to be told. If Celwyn men really had murdered Raith men-at-arms and left them for the scavengers, that had to be answered, even if that answer might mean open war on the isle. Still, riding into Raith Castle in Stormgarde was not likely to end well for someone like Amon.


    Something bothered him about the scene. It was too sloppy for elves. Even if this had been a crime of passion, a group of Celwyn scouts coming upon the five Raith men-at-arms camped in the glade and falling upon them, what had Celwyn scouts been doing this deep into Raith territory in the first place? The attack had been savage, animalistic, the wounds on the bodies unlike those he would have expected to be left by the elven weapons and fighting styles he knew.


    Amon looked down at Ferron. ¡°Something is wrong here.¡± The wolf looked up at him and whined. These men had been left for someone to find, that scrap of cloth, left for someone to discover.


    Amon tugged his gloves more firmly on and set about moving the bodies into the shelter of the trees. He covered them with their cloaks and laid bracken over them. It was better than nothing, better than leaving them out in the open for the scavengers. He didn¡¯t have a shovel with him, nor the time to dig five graves, but he had to do something. It was a useless gesture to dead men, one that would quickly be undone by the first passing bear or wolf, or even that cleverin that was still watching him from the trees.


    When that grim task was done, Amon left the glade and went to where he had tied Shade. He stroked the horse¡¯s strong neck and swung easily into the saddle. He tucked the scrap of cloth into his belt. He needed answers. Those murdered men needed answers.


    He couldn¡¯t go directly to Lord Varic, nor could he go to Ravenwood to Matron Astoria. The elves were like to kill him on sight, even more certainly than the gaians. Yet someone had to be told. Those men had had families, like as not, and at the very least, those families deserved to know what had happened to their sons, their brothers, their fathers. It had to be handled carefully, though. The wrong person told, a wild accusation made, and the isle could be at war within a moon¡¯s turn.


    The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    He turned Shade and trotted briskly down the road, Ferron coursing alongside the horse. The wolf and the horse had long ago become accustomed to one another. He liked to think that after nine years, they were even friends. Wolves were known to kill horses on occasion, but Ferron had been raised from a pup alongside the horse. He had ridden on the saddlebow as a pup, when he was too small to keep up.


    Amon turned Shade north. He wouldn¡¯t go directly to Lord Varic, but to a contact he had in the Moonbrook garrison. It was the right thing to do. They would send men out to see to the murdered soldiers. They would be identified, their families notified of their fate. They would be given proper burials. He had one stop to make first, though.


    ***


    The road sloped steeply upward toward the low Ilfyr Pass. Patches of old snow still lingered beneath the towering boughs of redwood and silver fir. It was nearly midsummer, and the snow should have been long gone at this elevation. Yet the weather had been odd for two years now. Winter had lingered longer than it should have, and the summer past had been short and cool, punctuated by cold winds, hard rains, and blowing storms. This summer was shaping up to be much the same. It was so cool that Amon still wore his fur-lined winter cloak. Down in the valleys, crops were struggling. The cost of a sack of potatoes had more than doubled since last year.


    Amon made camp for the night amid the roots of a huge redwood, beside a tumbling creek. He fished a large trout out of the water for supper and shared it with Ferron. He slept under the brilliant stars with his wolf beside him for warmth.


    The morning found Amon on the road again, riding north. Four more days of twisting wagon roads that wound up and down the rugged mountain passes found him overlooking the Amber Valley and the village of Ambermill.


    Amon waited until full dark before he dared approach the town. Ambermill had no wall. It was too small for a contingent of guardsmen. Still, he had to be careful. He had an agreement, thanks to Liddy, with the village council. He could come and go as he needed, so long as he did so under the cover of darkness and kept his head covered.


    He rode down into the valley and followed the road as it wound along the Amber River and toward the town. The town¡¯s mill stood hard against the water, its wheel still in the darkness. Amon made his way past quiet houses of plaster and stone and thatched roofs to the green, Ferron at his side. Liddy¡¯s inn, the Gilded Trumpet, was just on the western edge of the green. He made for the stables and dismounted in the yard.


    Not bothering to wake the stableboy, Amon unsaddled Shade, brushed him down, and set him up in a comfortable stall with hay and oats. Ferron waited outside, for his scent tended to disturb horses not used to him. Leaving the horse to rest, he went to the kitchen door.


    Always the kitchen door, never the front door. He knocked, three quick beats and two slow ones, the appointed signal. After a moment, he heard rustling beyond. The door opened.


    Liddy stood in the doorway. Behind her, the kitchen was filled with warm light. The delectable scents of roasting meat and fresh bread wafted out. Liddy was a tall elf woman, her golden hair contained beneath a beige kerchief. She wore a blue kirtle that brought out the dark blue of her eyes and accented her pale skin. Though she was elven, she was willing to speak to him, friendly even, markedly different from the rest of her kind. The elven hatred for demons was legendary.


    ¡°You¡¯re late,¡± she said, holding the door open so that Amon could enter. She sniffed as Ferron followed him in but said no word about it.


    ¡°I found something unexpected in the woods near Moonbrook,¡± Amon said. He pushed his hood back and pulled off his cloak, hanging it on a hook by the door. Beneath, he wore a leather long coat that fell past his knees. He took a seat at the table, adjusting his dual sabers to be more comfortable, as Liddy filled a plate. A candle burned in a holder in the middle of the table. He poured himself a cup of water from the pitcher on the table.


    Liddy set a plate heaped with sliced venison, roasted potatoes, turnips, carrots, and onions before him. She followed with a second plate of bread and pastries. Amon smiled. He could always count on a good meal when visiting her.


    ¡°Five Raith soldiers are dead,¡± he said as Liddy took a seat across the small table from him.


    ¡°Five?¡± she repeated, her eyes going wide. ¡°Bandits, highwaymen?¡±


    Amon shook his head. He produced the scrap of cloth he had discovered and tossed it down on the tabletop between them.


    Liddy¡¯s hand trembled as she reached across the dark wood and lifted the triangular scrap. She turned it over and over in her hands, not saying a word as she did so. Finally, she laid the cloth out on the table, so that the moon and raven stared up at them both like an eye.


    ¡°How many others know?¡±


    ¡°Just you and I,¡± Amon said. ¡°I came straight here.¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± Liddy said. She snatched up the scrap of cloak and held it to the candle flame. The cloth caught, flared brightly. She dropped it into a dish before the flame touched her fingers.


    ¡°Why did you do that?¡± Amon asked, alarmed. Some things Liddy did bothered him, even if he understood her motivations.


    ¡°You know what this represents,¡± Liddy said.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think everything is as it seems,¡± Amon said. ¡°The wounds on the bodies, the way they were killed, it¡¯s too sloppy for elven work.¡±


    Liddy nodded. ¡°No Celwyn would have left that bit of cloth behind. That was left for someone, not you, I think, to find. Someone is trying to start a war.¡±


    ¡°Those were my thoughts,¡± Amon said. ¡°But why now? Why, when all signs were pointing toward peace?¡±


    ¡°I may know why,¡± Liddy said. ¡°Would you like some tea, or something stronger? I have a nice bottle of stormberry red in the cellar.¡±


    ¡°Coffee, if you have any,¡± Amon said. He never drank wine. Alcohol dulled the senses, and a ranger couldn¡¯t afford to let that happen.


    Liddy rose. Stepping around Ferron, who had sprawled out before the hearth, she put water on to boil. She frowned at the wolf. Those two had an interesting relationship, Amon thought with a smile. He was unwilling to leave Ferron outside, for there were always village dogs about, not to mention the villagers themselves, nor would the wolf accept being shut in the stable, nor a chain.


    They had both learned the hard way not to leave Ferron shut in the kitchen alone, though. One evening, several years before, Liddy and Amon had retired to the sitting room to enjoy some tea before the hearth fire. Ferron had been sprawled asleep in the kitchen. Not long after shutting the door, they heard a crash and went to investigate.


    The wolf had eaten three loaves of bread, two roasts, a ham, multiple strings of sausages, had tipped over and lapped up a pitcher of milk, and licked clean a large crock of butter. He had then been sick on the floor. Liddy had chased both Amon and Ferron out with a broom after that. Still, Amon insisted that either he and the wolf be allowed inside, or neither.


    ¡°We have a new king,¡± Liddy said as she set two steaming mugs of coffee on the table. She added cream and sugar to hers. Amon drank his black, a habit he had learned in soldier camps a long time ago.


    ¡°Oh?¡±


    ¡°Old King Edric died of a bad belly, or so they say. His son, Ulfric, rules in Belfalas now. The old king isn¡¯t even buried yet, but Ulfric has already crowned himself.¡±


    ¡°Or so they say?¡± Amon asked. Liddy knew more than she was letting on, as always.


    Liddy smiled over the rim of her mug. ¡°I have it on good authority that Ulfric poisoned his father. The old man wasn¡¯t dying fast enough for his liking.¡±


    Amon shrugged. ¡°What does it matter? These Gaian kings come and go like leaves in the wind. We¡¯ll have another one in 20 or 30 years. You elves are supposed to be patient.¡±


    ¡°I am not patient, not where it comes to the Goding kings. You know that. These usurpers need to fall, and I mean to see it happen.¡±


    ¡°The Istarions are dead and gone,¡± Amon said.


    ¡°Not all of them. Queen Nithoniel still lives, you know that. I would see her back on the Moonstone Throne.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s been 150 years,¡± Amon said.


    ¡°Elves have long memories,¡± Liddy said. ¡°The elves of Lath will rise for the Istarions again.¡± There was fervor in her blue eyes. ¡°This new king is no friend to elves. He hates us nearly as much as he hates demons. You need to be careful.¡±


    ¡°I am always careful,¡± Amon said. ¡°I don¡¯t see how it matters to us here on Tol Morad. The politics in Belfalas rarely reach all the way out here.¡±


    ¡°And now they have,¡± Liddy said.


    ¡°You think that these dead men have something to with our new king?¡±


    ¡°Ulfric is weak. A show of force, stepping in to end a minor war between two vassals, might go a long way toward solidifying his rule. And Varic Raith has long been looking for a reason to take more Celwyn land. Raith and our new king know each other well. They all but grew up together. Ulfric is good to his friends, or so they say.¡± She took a long drink of her coffee. ¡°And there is another thing you must be aware of.¡±


    ¡°Oh?¡±


    ¡°Ulfric Goding has ties to the Scarlet Brotherhood,¡± Liddy said.


    Amon felt a sinking sensation in his stomach at the mention of the Scarlet Brotherhood. They were dedicated to destroying demons and witches and stamping out any form of magic wherever it was found. Their Seekers hunted his kind like hounds after wolves. He¡¯d had his own dealings with them in his younger days. But Tol Morad was so remote, so far from the populous of Lath that it seemed safe from such forces.


    ¡°There hasn¡¯t been a Seeker on Tol Morad in more than a hundred years,¡± he said, his mouth suddenly dry. ¡°They can¡¯t operate in Lath.¡±


    ¡°That law was put in place by Ulric the Bold,¡± Liddy said. ¡°150 years ago. It can be repealed by Ulfric the Younger. In fact, he already has. Ulfric trained at the Scarlet Tower in his youth. He is close with the Lord Commander.¡± She shook her head. ¡°The Brotherhood is on the move. Ulfric may be using them as his agents in Lath. You must be careful.¡±


    The morning found Amon riding the roads of Tol Morad yet again. Liddy¡¯s words weighed heavily on him. He cared little for what king had his ass in the Moonstone Throne, but the Scarlet Brotherhood was another story entirely. He absently touched the scar around his neck. They had tried to kill him before. If they ever discovered that he was living on Tol Morad he would never find safety again.

 Life in a Northern Town

    Galan was drawing again. He hunched in his desk at the back of the schoolroom, shielding the illicit paper with his arm from the eyes of his classmates. His fingers were smudged with charcoal as he sketched away, throwing the occasional glance toward the front of the room where his mother stood before the slate board, teaching class. She was lecturing on the Battle of Telmorr Field, when the last Istarion king was slain by Ulric Goding, bringing an end to a dynasty that had lasted more than 3,000 years.


    The wind rattled the shutters of the classroom, cold drafts sneaking through as though it were winter, not midsummer. The shutters should have been thrown wide to let in the fresh summer air. Instead, the winds blew cold down from the Gulf of Baral, buffeting the isle of Tol Morad with wintry air.


    School had run late this year due to the cold spring and the late planting. The fields should have been tall with barley and wheat turning golden in the summer sun. Instead, the green shoots were struggling. The soil was still too cold. The village council, in order to keep the Ambermill youth out of trouble, had decreed that school would go an extra month. That didn''t help Galan''s standing among his schoolmates. It had been all their parents who had decided it, but that hardly seemed to matter. Galan¡¯s mother was the teacher, and that meant it was his fault.


    It also didn¡¯t help matters, at least in Galan¡¯s view, that he and his mother were some of the only elves living in an otherwise gaian town. Ambermill lay within the borders of House Raith, the gaian rulers of Tol Morad, at least on the map. Most of the elves on Tol Morad lived closer to Ravenwood, the seat of House Celwyn. He¡¯d asked more than once why they had to live in Ambermill, but his mother¡¯s answers had always been vague.


    What that meant for Galan was that he was smaller than the other boys his age, and much smaller than the older boys like Caleb and Behil. He couldn¡¯t fight back as well as the others, couldn¡¯t hold his own against them, and that made him an easy target. It didn¡¯t help that he looked different, either. ¡°Long ear¡± was Caleb¡¯s favorite insult to throw Galan¡¯s way.


    "Did you hear? Flora found an ill wish."


    Galan looked up from his drawing. The speaker was Darcy, a black-haired girl occupying a desk two seats over. She kept her voice low, darting furtive glances toward the front of the room.


    "Are you sure?" Nora asked. She sat directly to Galan''s right, as she always did. She was his buffer from the rest of the village children. She had taken on that unspoken role since they were little. She was a year older and prettily plump, her hair and eyes a rich brown.


    Darcy nodded. "Flora showed it to me. She found it on her porch yesterday, but she hid it before her pa could see it."


    "Did she burn it?" Galan asked. "That''s what you have to do with an ill wish."


    Darcy scowled at him. "I wasn''t talking to you."


    "Did she burn it?" Nora asked, glancing Galan¡¯s way.


    Darcy shook her head. "She said she''d do it later. She wanted to show it to Staenie first."


    "Who would leave Flora an ill wish?" Nora asked.


    "No idea," Darcy said.


    Galan went back to his drawing. At least no one was paying any attention to what he was doing. Caleb, three desks over, was whispering with Behil, while Jordie had his head down, drooling on his papers as he dozed. He hoped it would stay that way, but previous experience suggested it wouldn¡¯t. Caleb was two years older than Galan, almost too old for school, and he had made it his goal in life to torment Galan whenever he could.


    ¡°What are you drawing this time?¡± Nora asked, leaning over in her seat to peer at the charcoal-smudged paper in front of Galan.


    He moved his arm away to show her. It was the Battle of the Telmorr Field as he imagined it, the same battle his mother was currently lecturing about up at the front of the room. It was the deciding battle of the Goding Uprising, where Ulric the Bold slew King Talathan Istarion and his sons and took the throne of Lath for himself. Galan had drawn Bright King Talathan and his brother, Andresin, upon a hill, the elven forces rallying around him as the gaian army of House Goding closed in.


    ¡°That¡¯s really good,¡± Nora said, giving him a smile.


    Jeren looked back over his shoulder. He sat directly in front of Galan and usually ignored him. He snatched Galan¡¯s drawing off the desk and held it up in front of him. ¡°Just like you to draw something like this,¡± he said.


    ¡°Give it back!¡± Galan reached for his drawing, but Jeren held it over his head, out of reach.


    Jeren looked at the drawing, squinting his brown eyes at it as though he even knew what art looked like. ¡°Just like you to draw something like this,¡± he said. ¡°Is that supposed to be your pa?¡±


    ¡°Give it back,¡± Galan said sullenly. He sank back into his seat, unwilling to play Jeren¡¯s game.


    ¡°Give it back to him, Jeren,¡± Nora said.


    ¡°He can come get it,¡± Jeren snapped, waving the paper over his head. He was smudging it with his fat fingers.


    Galan hunched his shoulders and hunkered down in his desk. Jeren¡¯s dig stung. Jeren, Nora, Darcy and every other person in the room, except for Galan and his mother, were gaian. It seemed to Galan that it shouldn¡¯t matter that he was an elf, but it seemed to matter a great deal to everyone else. Well, everyone except Nora.


    ¡°What is going on back there?¡± Sheora¡¯s voice cut through the ruckus at the back of the room. Her long black hair was contained by a light blue scarf that covered the tips of her pointed ears. When Jeren did not respond but continued to hold the drawing over his head, she waded into the class, her long, narrow skirt swishing against chair legs. She snatched Galan¡¯s drawing from Jeren¡¯s fingers and took it back to the front with her. Galan kept his head down and did not look up to see if she looked at it or not.


    ¡°That will be all for today,¡± Sheora said when she returned to the front. ¡°Remember, today is the last day of class for the season, so I will not see most of you back here until the fall. I hope you all will remember what you¡¯ve learned here this year.¡±


    Then the room erupted in a flurry of children hurrying for the door. Galan stuffed his charcoal into a pocket and headed for the door as well. He was just behind Nora and nearly to the door when he heard his mother¡¯s voice.


    ¡°Galan, can you come over here please?¡±


    He groaned and stopped while everyone else streamed out into the cool sunlight. Nora paused and glanced back at him, then continued on with Jeren and Darcy.


    Galan reluctantly turned away from freedom and scuffed his feet on the rough plank floor as he made his way over to the slate board, where his mother waited.


    She was tall and dark-haired, her eyes deep blue. Her skin had a light golden hue that did not fade even in winter. That was the only characteristic she shared with Galan. His hair was blond, almost gold in the right light, and his eyes were pale as well.


    She held up Galan¡¯s drawing. Jeren had smudged it. ¡°This is really nice,¡± she said. ¡°But you need to pay attention.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s boring,¡± Galan said.


    ¡°It is important. You need to know these things.¡±


    ¡°I already know it all,¡± Galan complained.


    ¡°Do you?¡± Sheora raised an eyebrow. ¡°Can you tell me the square root of 72? Do you know the date that Dolinaar Istarion defeated the Auyurdic king?¡±


    Galan shook his head, staring at the floor. Sums were not his strong point and history dates all blurred together after a while.


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    Sheora put her hand on Galan¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Look at me.¡± He looked up. ¡°I know this seems boring and unimportant right now, but you will need to know these things one day, I promise you. Do you still wish to go to the University at Green Falls?¡±


    Galan nodded.


    ¡°Then you will need to pay attention.¡± She handed him his drawing. ¡°I¡¯ll see you at home before dark?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    Sheora gave him a quick hug. Galan bolted out into the cool summer afternoon.


    Nora was waiting in the trees beyond the schoolhouse. She had her green cloak pulled around her shoulders against the wind. ¡°Did you get in trouble?¡± she asked, falling into step beside Galan.


    He shook his head. ¡°Not really. Were you hiding there?¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡± Nora dusted the leaves off her skirt. ¡°Caleb was waiting for¡­well, either you or me, I wasn¡¯t sure. He left,¡± she added as Galan looked around.


    Galan and Nora headed off into the woods behind the school. They had played in the woods beyond the edge of town almost every day since they had been old enough to be off apron strings.


    ¡°Let¡¯s go to Flora¡¯s house,¡± Nora said. ¡°I want to see this ill wish. Who would give her something like that, do you think?¡±


    ¡°No idea,¡± Galan said as he followed after Nora through the woods. He pondered her question silently as they headed south through the trees, the sun riding high in the western sky. An ill wish, that was bad. Someone wanted Flora, or her family, to have bad luck, or worse. Someone meant her harm.


    He knew what to do with an ill wish. You had to burn it and scatter the ashes, ideally on the doorstep of whoever left it for you, or else far from your home as possible. Galan knew these things. He and his mother often found them around their farm and around the schoolhouse. Sheora always took them down and did away with them. Galan had an idea of who might be behind it, but his mother didn¡¯t let him talk about it. Ill wishes, and what you had to do to get rid of one, smacked of witchcraft.


    Flora¡¯s house lay just south of Ambermill. Rather than go through town though, where Caleb and his gang might be waiting, Galan and Nora took the long way around, cutting through the woods east of town. The wilderness pressed close to the farms and homes of Ambermill. As they skirted the edge of a sheep pasture, they spied wolf tracks in the mud beside a trickling stream. Each one was bigger than Galan¡¯s hand.


    ¡°We need to tell Master Ashlock,¡± Nora said. ¡°Before it gets into his sheep.¡±


    ¡°You tell him,¡± Galan said. ¡°He scares me.¡±


    He glanced toward the farmhouse at the far end of the pasture, then away. Master Coewynn Ashlock had no love for either Galan or his mother. He actively spoke out against Sheora teaching in the schoolhouse, though Ambermill had not had a schoolteacher for more than 20 years before Sheora arrived. He claimed she was spreading ¡°elven ideals,¡± whatever that meant. The wolves could eat every single one of his sheep before Galan would go and knock on his door.


    They continued on. Nora seemed as comfortable in the forest as Galan himself. She walked quietly, her leather boots making barely a rustle on the duff of the forest floor. ¡°Grayar Callahan is putting together the caravan to go the horse fair at Stormgarde again,¡± she said as she walked.


    ¡°Already?¡± Galan asked.


    ¡°It¡¯s nearly midsummer,¡± Nora reminded him.


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t feel like midsummer,¡± Galan said, looking skyward.


    ¡°Are you going to come this year?¡±


    ¡°I want to,¡± Galan said. Every year, Grayar Callahan, a horse farmer, took his best colts to the horse fair at Stormgarde, far to the south at the mouth of the Alewyll River. Every year, he brought along a group of Ambermill youths. Anyone older than twelve was welcome to come, as long as they pulled their weight and helped out with the horses. Galan had been old enough to go for two years now, but his mother had so far forbidden it. It was too dangerous, she said. Yet Nora had gone twice now, and she was only a year older than Galan.


    There was already a group of Ambermill adolescents gathered about at the Danford farm when Galan and Nora arrived. They had congregated in the barn, out of sight of Flora¡¯s father. Flora Danford, a brown-haired girl of 13, was holding court in the center of the barn, half a dozen similarly-aged children, mostly girls to Galan¡¯s dismay, gathered around her.


    Flora looked to the new arrivals and frowned. ¡°Did you have to bring him?¡± she demanded of Nora, jerking her chin in Galan¡¯s direction.


    ¡°Yeah, I did,¡± Nora said. ¡°He¡¯s my friend. Do you still have the ill wish?¡±


    Flora held up something in her hand. It was a bundle of herbs and sticks, bound with red thread. Galan could see the white sprigs of bog nettle, the deep green of yew, the red and gold blossoms of demon¡¯s eye. There might have been some black mint as well, but he wasn¡¯t sure.


    ¡°Are you going to burn it?¡± Galan asked.


    ¡°Of course,¡± Flora snapped. ¡°I¡¯m not stupid.¡± Galan fell silent. He was used to being talked to like that. He suddenly wished that he had gone straight home rather than coming with Nora.


    Staenie, her honey-blonde hair pulled into a thick braid, leaned close to Nora. Galan was close enough to hear. ¡°Harin said he saw the Nightwolf,¡± she said.


    ¡°Really?¡± Nora asked. Galan leaned in a bit, but he kept quiet, not wanting to interrupt. He wanted to hear this.


    Staenie nodded. ¡°He rode through town early this morning and stopped at the inn.¡±


    ¡°Did he have his wolf with him?¡± Nora asked.


    ¡°He did,¡± Staenie said. ¡°Harin saw it.¡± The Nightwolf was a ranger, one of the men who wandered the wilds, hunting monsters and wild beasts, keeping the roads safe for travelers. Most rangers were seldom trusted though, being odd as they were. No honest man would forsake civilization and choose that life of living rough and wild, after all. That, at least, was what the people of Ambermill said about rangers. Galan was more than a little fascinated by them. The stories of Black Wren and Grenn the Giantslayer were his favorites. They were scouts for armies and hunting guides, but rangers were hunters at heart, stalking the edges of civilization, fighting monsters and dragons and demons.


    The Nightwolf seemed a ranger straight out of legend. He rode a night-black horse and came and went under the cover of darkness. Even more, he kept a wolf for a pet. Galan had read stories of rangers with valiant animal companions at their side. Black Wren had kept a talking raven that told him secrets. Sir Laurel of the Greenwood was said to have befriended the deer of the wood, which came to his defense in his hour of need.


    Galan had seen the Nightwolf once, two years ago. It had been a cold spring morning, the mist lying thick over the Amber River as it snaked past Ambermill, when Galan spied the dark figure on the road ahead. He had been walking to school after finishing his morning chores. He was alone, his mother having left early to ready the day¡¯s lesson. He had thought at first that it was simply Goodman Callahan or another Ambermill local riding out to check their fields, but as the rider drew near, Galan saw that he was swathed from head to heel in a black oilskin cloak, riding a tall black horse. Slinking through the weeds at the side of the road, following in the horse¡¯s wake, was a huge silver-gray wolf. Galan had stepped to the side of the road and stood staring in wonder as the ranger and his wolf passed.


    The man wore a generous hood that cast his face in deep shadow. Only the bare hint of the man¡¯s face was visible as he turned his head to regard Galan with oddly-bright eyes. Then he and the wolf were gone, vanished into the morning mists.


    ¡°What was he doing here?¡± Galan asked. He couldn¡¯t help himself.


    Staenie frowned at him, but chose to answer. ¡°Harin wasn¡¯t sure. He said he saw the Nightwolf come of the inn, though. I don¡¯t think he stayed the night, though.¡±


    ¡°Is he gone?¡±


    ¡°Of course he¡¯s gone,¡± Staenie snapped. ¡°He never stays more than a few hours, usually less. You know that.¡±


    Galan drew back a bit. He wasn¡¯t actually hiding behind Nora, but he was close to it. He hoped no one wouldn¡¯tice. Nora did.


    ¡°Are you okay?¡± she asked.


    ¡°I think I¡¯m going to head home,¡± Galan said. He didn¡¯t wait for a response but headed out of the barn into the fading light of evening. He slipped away from the Dunford farm and into the woods.


    He hated gatherings in general, and gatherings of children his own age even more. He was always the odd man out, unless he was the target of someone¡¯s ire. He was always the target of someone¡¯s ire.


    The woods were growing dark as Galan turned towards home. He was more comfortable in the forest than he was in town, but this evening, he was strangely uncomfortable. The shadows seemed darker than they should have been on a summer evening. The wind picked up, blowing cold. Galan tugged his cloak tighter about his shoulders.


    Galan started to hurry. He glanced about him at the deepening shadows. Did that one move? He picked up his pace.


    Galan and his mother lived a mile north of Ambermill. The Dunford farm was half a mile south of the town, close to the Amber River. That meant he had three and a half miles of forest to traverse. He had never been afraid of the forest around town, not when the winter winds blew cold off the Gulf of Baral, not when the wolves howled close to the pastures and catamounts stalked the trails.


    Something was out there. Something was lurking in the shadows between the trees. Galan scanned the woods, searching for whatever it was that was out there. He walked faster, alert for any sound. He wanted to run, but he knew better. Ambermill was surrounded by the wild mountains of Tol Morad, the dense fir and redwood forests pressing close to the edges of the town. Those forests were full of wild beasts. Tol Morad was home to big northern timber wolves, black bears that raided orchards every autumn, and catamounts, huge tawny cats that hunted their prey from the shadows.


    Never run from a beast. That had been one of Galan¡¯s first lessons living so close to the wilds. This was not a wild beast, though. Somehow, Galan knew that in his heart. He stopped in the middle of a clearing, his heart pounding in his chest.


    He scanned the forest around him, searching for any oddity, anything out of place amid the trees. There was nothing. There was¡­There!


    A shadow that was darker than the rest stood beside a tall fir. Galan stared. It resolved into a vaguely mannish shape, as though that of a man wearing a hooded cloak. Galan¡¯s mind went immediately to Nightwolf the ranger, recalling the shrouded figure atop a tall, black horse. But no, there was a pervading feel of wrongness about whatever this was, a feeling of dread washing off the figure beside the tree.


    It did not move. Galan stood frozen, like a deer under the gaze of a catamount. Was it even really there? He wondered if his eyes were playing tricks on him.


    Then he saw the hand. At least, it might have been a hand, once. Four long, bony fingers gripped a tree branch. The nails were long and yellow.


    The hood shadowed the face completely. Galan saw no features beneath the hood, only two glowing red eyes. Those eyes burned into his soul, measuring him, weighing him. He ran.

 Long Live the King

    The King is dead! Long live the king!


    Sarella Estermont leaned against the chimney of the inn roof, watching the funeral procession in the streets below. The sun shone bright of the Bay of Belfalas, mocking the solemn mood of the dayt.


    The City of Belfalas and the country of Lath wept for their king. Edric Goding had been said to be a strong man and a strong king. He had held the Moonstone Throne for eighteen long years, and for eighteen years, Sarella had hated him. She might have rejoiced at his death, but for the fact that she had not been the one to kill him.


    The official story, spread by the royal council and other Goding sycophants, was that King Edric had died of a bad belly. Sarella, through her sources, knew the truth. King Edric¡¯s own son, Ulfric, had poisoned him.


    That same Ulfric Goding now rode at the head of the column of knights and freeriders, the golden griffin of his house rampant on his surcoat. The colors of his house, black and gold, flew from every rampart of the city.


    The entire city guard had turned out to honor Lath¡¯s fallen king. The cheers and cries of the Belfalas populous rose as the caisson of Edric Goding rumbled through the West Gate, the black wagon drawn by four white horses, all barded in the colors of House Goding. The honor guard, a full thousand knights, all with black and gold cloaks streaming, surrounded the caisson. Down below, peasants tossed flowers beneath the feet of the horses as they passed.


    Ulfric himself rode a tall black courser, waving lazily to the crowd every now and then. Sarella was too far away to see his face, but she thought he was smiling. He was resplendent, she had to admit that. His brown hair was cropped short above his ears, his beard neatly trimmed to frame his face. The lynx mantle made his broad shoulders seem even broader. He did look kingly, for a gaian, at least.


    But a gaian had no business with his ass in the Moonstone Throne. Lath had been an elven kingdom for 5,000 years. Ulric the Bold had smashed one of the proudest, long-enduring dynasties in the world when he rebelled against Talathan Istarion. His son and grandson, and their sons and grandsons, had held the throne for 150 years, but Sarella meant to see the end of them.


    As she watched Ulfric Goding ride through the streets of Belfalas, smiling smugly to the crowd as though it was not his own father in the caisson behind him, Sarella imagined what it would be like to sprint across the rooftops, drop down into the street, and ram her dagger into his eyes.


    She realized she was fingering the hilt of her dagger. There was no one else on the roof to see, but she still made herself take her hand away. Killing Ulfric Goding, even if she could get close enough to him, would do nothing. His son, Eldric, would be king after him. No, she couldn¡¯t simply kill the king. She would have to pull his house down around him and stamp out the Goding line, root and stem.


    She needed dragons. The beasts were always on her mind. The Istarions of old had been dragonriders. The histories were full of tales of dragonknights and their armored mounts, of how they dominated the skies and turned the tides of battles.


    Dragons, however, were extinct. The last one was said to have died out more than 1,000 years ago. Or so the scholars said. The scholars were wrong, she was sure of it. There were sightings, too many to chalk up to chance. IF she could find and master a dragon, the realm would rise for her.


    Sarella through one final disgusted look down at Ulfric Goding and descended from her rooftop vantage point to the street below. The streets were packed with Belfalians trying to get a look at their new king. She shoved her way through, drawing angry curses from those she passed. She sneered at the unwashed Westerlings. They didn¡¯t dare touch her. They knew she was their better.


    The heels of her boots clicked loudly on the paving stones as she sought the livery stable where she had left her horse. Without sparing a glance at the sullen stableboy, she swung into the saddle and kicked her mount into motion. She rode at a swift trot. The people in the streets made way for her as she headed for the rocks.


    The narrow tavern of the Ropeway might have had a name once, Sarella thought, looking at the weathered sign above the door, but the paint had long since faded from the salt and wind. She went inside, letting the door bang shut behind her. Pipesmoke, sour wine and sweat assaulted her senses, but she merely raised a hand to her nose and scanned the room. A dull-eyed serving woman poked her head out of the kitchen, but Sarella waved her away. She wouldn¡¯t dare eat or drink anything in a place like this. The windows were clouded over with grime and sawdust on the floor looked like it hadn¡¯t been changed in a year, at least.


    Only one table was occupied. Everyone else had gone to watch the funeral procession. Sarella strode across the room and took the chair opposite the grimy Westerling man.


    ¡°You¡¯re late,¡± he growled, hardly looking up from his cup of greasy wine.


    ¡°I stopped to get a look at our new king,¡± Sarella said. ¡°To remind myself of why I¡¯m doing this. Tell me, do you believe the rumors about Ulfric Goding?¡±


    If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    That he poisoned his father when the old man wouldn¡¯t die fast enough? Aye, I believe it.¡± He looked up from his wine. ¡°Ulfric as king won¡¯t be good for you elven types, I¡¯ll tell you that. You look like you got coin. If I were you, I¡¯d get out of the city and ride for whatever castle my family owns before that sot takes control. Speaking of coin, late costs extra.¡±


    Sarella tossed a leather coin purse on the table. The man snatched it up and peered inside. He withdrew a silver crescent, bit it to ensure its authenticity, then slipped the purse away. In return, he produced a thick, leather-bound book and pushed it across the table toward her.


    Sarella read the title embossed into the leather cover. The History of the Great Eruption of Mount Basal in the Year 1349 and the Lingering Effects on the Isle of Tol Morad and the Surrounding Area by Grand Advisor Chevalith Wormwood, Scholar of Silmyr. If the title was any judge, it would be a ponderous read indeed. She lifted the stiff leather cover. The book had the peculiar scent of an old library. It was hand written on thick vellum, not printed in the new fashion. The leather spine creaked. It was clearly stolen, probably from the library in Leyfyll Citadel, or maybe from the University at Green Falls or Vinter. Lath boasted some of the best libraries in the world, surpassed only by the Grand Library in Silmyr, far across the sea in Aluna.


    ¡°And what secrets and I supposed to find in a dusty old book about a volcanic eruption that happened 90 years ago?¡± Sarella asked. If she had just paid fifty crescents for a useless old book that only Cyril would be able to interpret, then this rogue was about to find out just how well she could use the dagger at her belt.


    The man smiled at her, revealing a mouthful of yellow and brown teeth. His breath was abominable. Don¡¯t these Westerlings know how to care for their teeth? she wondered.


    ¡°None, if all you do is read it. But I hear you¡¯re looking for dragons. Everyone in their right mind will tell you the dragons are all gone, killed off a thousand years ago, but there are those who claim that when Mount Basal blew its top, a dragon was seen in the smoke plume. Not a dragon of smoke, mind you, a real one. There are still those alive who saw it with their own eyes.¡± He stretched a grimy hand across the table and tapped a scrap of paper marking a spot halfway through the book with a thick finger.


    The yellowed vellum cracked as Sarella opened the book to the indicated page. She stared at the sepia-toned drawing with a mixture of anger and amusement.


    ¡°I take it you know him, then?¡± the rogue asked.


    Sarella did not deign to answer. She ran her fingers over the image. He looked so young, exactly as she remembered him. The artist had captured every feature, depicting him standing on a cliff overlook, Mount Basal in the background. The caption beneath read: Our guide, a local demon. It had been more than sixty years since she had last seen Amon.


    She closed the book with a thump. ¡°He¡¯s long dead.¡± He had to be. He had gone off into the wilderness to die.


    The man smiled again. Her stomach turned at the sight of those rotten teeth. ¡°He, or his twin brother, has been living on Tol Mora, right in the shadow of Mount Basal, for half a century.¡±


    ¡°What name does he go by?¡±


    ¡°No name that I¡¯ve heard, just a description. Looks an awful lot like that demon in the book. White hair, horns, a bit shorter than his kind usually is. Don¡¯t know if you want to go looking for him, though. I always hear how you elven types don¡¯t care much for demons. Still, if anyone knows what¡¯s living under Mount Basal, it¡¯s him.¡±


    Sarella took her leave, the book tucked under her arm. She had a lot to think over. Outside, the wind had come up, blowing in strong off the Bay of Belfalas, carrying the sharp scent of the salt sea. It tugged at her cloak and hood as she rode smartly away from the docks.


    She had rented rooms in a better inn, in a better part of the city, far from the docks district and its stink. Ensconced in the comfort of her room, she poured over the old book. Nothing in it indicated the presence of a dragon except for one line in the epilogue. Some of the locals in the village of Farshire, which lies in a quiet mountain valley at the foot of the mountain, having claimed for years that a dragon lives at the heart of Mount Basal. We found no evidence of this, nor did our guide have anything to say on the matter. The locals claimed to have seen a dragon exit the mountain amid the ash plume. We were on the mountain during eruption and saw nothing of the sort. Scholars always discounted the fantastical until proof was shoved under their noses.


    If the scholars hadn¡¯t cared much about dragons, they were fascinated with Amon. The artist had drawn him again and again and he was made mention of many times in the text. ¡­Our guide showed us a wolf den today. He claimed the villagers had killed the wolves for eating sheep¡­Our guide showed us where the mountain griffins roost on the peak called the Overlook and gave me the claw of one he had killed the year before¡­


    The beeswax candles gave off a sullen light. Sarella found herself flipping back to the page with the drawing of Amon standing on the cliff. She traced the lines with her finger. If he was still alive, somewhere on Tol Morad, then he might have the information she needed. She remembered the last time she had seen him, nearly 60 years ago now. She remembered their last job, their last fight, the words flung in anger, the dagger she¡¯d tried to drive into his heart. She might just have to finish the job, if he was still alive. That demon had lived long enough. But first, she would make him tell her everything he knew about the possibility of a dragon living under Mount Basal.


    ¡°Did you find anything interesting today?¡±


    Sarella snapped her head up, fixing Cyril with a glare. He knew she hated to be interrupted while she was reading. Cyril Rolen was a tall, brown-haired elf of middling years. That hair color hinted at some gaian ancestry in his lineage; the drab color was not often seen among elves. She herself had silver hair, not white, not gray, but true metallic silver, and she was only half elf. Her mother had been gaian, the lady Elicia Estermont. Her father had been Talathan Istarion, the Bright King, the last elvenking of Lath. She had his hair and his eyes. The Godings thought that they had destroyed Istarions in their entirety. They were wrong. She was heir to the Moonstone Throne, even if she had been born on the wrong side of the sheets. She was the rightful queen of Lath.


    She ripped the page from the book and shoved it in his direction. It was the page with the drawing on Amon. Cyril winced a bit at the tearing vellum. He was an academic type, one of those who held books one step below sacred. His expression turned dark as he looked at the drawing.


    ¡°Him?¡± he asked, disgust coloring his voice. ¡°Isn¡¯t he dead?¡±


    ¡°Apparently not,¡± Sarella said. ¡°What do you know of Tol Morad?¡±