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

  The men had been dead for at least a week by the time Amon found them, judging by the smell and the condition of the bodies. Whoever had killed them made no effort to hide the bodies but had instead left them where they fell, haphazardly strewn about in 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 coinpurses. They hadn’t been robbed. This wasn’t the work of highwaymen.

  Amon pulled his scarf over his nose and mouth. 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, ravaged corpses should not have fazed him. It was his duty as a ranger to investigate, to discover the truth of what 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 ringmail 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 utilitarian but serviceable, for all the good it did them. All the weapons were good steel, not bronze, which meant that these men had a good commander who took care to arm 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 more than these five; there were five kits of travel gear, no more. The remains of their horseline, where the animals had been cut free to run, had held five horses. Whatever did this left no sign of itself.

  A big, silver 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. A wolf, even a tame one, was still a wild animal, and wild animals did as they pleased. Finally, the wolf left off sniffing through the ferns to trot over to the ranger’s side. Ferron pushed his big head under Amon’s hand so that the ranger would scratch him behind the ears.

  “What happened here?” Amon 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 been more than one assailant, to take down five at once.

  Each man had been killed with a blade. Not a sword, Amon thought. A dagger. The attacks had been savage, brutal. They had been slashed and stabbed 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. One man had 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 monkey-like creature, peered down at Amon from the boughs of a moss-draped fir. Ravens held court in the higher canopy, quorking and muttering to each other, all waiting for Amon and the wolf to move on so they could resume their grisly feast.

  Amon 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 symbol, a raven on the wing before a full moon. The sigil of House Celwyn. The cloth may have come from a cloak, a fine one judging by the weave.

  It made no sense. Why would the elves do such a thing? House Raith and House Celwyn had been nothing short of rivals, ever since the Goding Rebellion divided Lath upon racial lines 150 years ago. Raith and Celwyn had skirmished often in the prevailing years, with outright war breaking out no less than three times, 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. Why, 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. 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 where 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.

  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 year. It was nearly midsummer, but the storms had continued, the high mountains still holding onto their snowy cloaks.

  Something bothered Amon about the scene. The killings were too sloppy for elves. The attack had been savage, animalistic, the wounds on the bodies unlike those he would have expected from 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 leaving them for the scavengers. He didn’t have a shovel, nor time to dig five graves, but he had to do something. It was a useless gesture to dead men, one that would be quickly undone by the first passing wolf or bear, or even that cleverin that was still watching him from the trees.

  With 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. But he had to be careful. The wrong person told, a wild accusation made, and the isle could be at war within a moon’s turn.

  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 pommel as a pup, when he was too small to keep up.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  ***

  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. The weather had been odd for two years now. Winter had lingered longer than it should have, and the summer past was short and cool, punctuated by cold winds, hard rains, and blowing storms. This summer was shaping up to be much the same. It was still 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.

  “You know what this represents,” Liddy said. “If this truly is what we think it is, then our isle could be at war within a moon’s turn.”

  “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 could not 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 House Goding. 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 do 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 populace 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. If they ever discovered that he was living on Tol Morad he would never find safety again.