Villagers ran screaming. Old Wela, the brewer’s doughy and dark-haired wife, clutched a gash on her belly, blood leaking between her fingers. Finian the tinsmith, a kindly man who had often played dice with Torin, ran in flames, a living torch. Torin’s head spun. He could barely see a dozen feet in any direction; the smoke was too thick, swirling everywhere. He stumbled between the cottages. He could no longer see Bailey.
“Bailey!” he shouted. “Where are you?”
Two red-haired women emerged from the smoke ahead, wearing aprons—Mae and Yara Hearthstone, twin cooks at the village tavern. Mae held a rolling pin, while her sister still held a half-plucked chicken. Welts rose across their arms, and they coughed in the smoke. Torin headed toward them when a black figure leaped. A robed Elorian swept across the street, and a blade lashed. Yara Hearthstone fell, green eyes wide, her chest gushing blood. The Elorian swung his blade again, tearing into Mae, driving his sword into her belly. She too fell and her rolling pin rolled down a bloodied street.
Torin felt like gagging, trembling, fainting, or all three together, but he forced himself to run. He swung his sword, racing toward the Elorian. The cloaked figure retreated into the smoke.
“Come face me, coward!” he shouted. He ran into the smoke and coughed madly. He waved his hand, trying to clear it. His eyes and throat burned.
Cursing, he dropped to his hands and knees. He crawled along the ground—the smoke was thinner here—and emerged from the inferno by the village temple.
He straightened and looked around, still coughing. Sparks covered his clothes. Cam and Hem stood ahead, looking around, bewildered. Blood dripped down Cam’s arm, while Hem trembled wildly.
“Boys!” Torin said. “We have to find the Elorians. Three are still alive. Have you seen Bailey?”
They shook their heads, faces sooty and eyes wide.
A shadow moved at the corner of Torin’s eye.
He spun to see black robes flutter behind a house.
He ran in pursuit.
“Boys, with me!” he shouted.
He raced around the house, only to see the Elorian disappear behind bales of hay. An instant later, the bales burst into flame.
Cursing and wheezing, belly twisting with worry for his friends, Torin ran around the blaze. He skirted the fire to see the Elorian aiming a flaming arrow at him.
Torin leaped aside.
The arrow flew.
Pain slammed into Torin’s chest. A bolt drove into his breastplate, denting the steel.
He fell to his knees.
A second arrow whistled. It felt like a giant punching his chest. Torin gasped and fell to his side. Burning hay rained onto him, and smoke blinded his eyes. He couldn’t breathe.
A shadow fell. Torin looked up, seeing only smudges. Two figures leaped above him, one slim and small, the other large as an ox. The shadows roared and swung blades.
“Cam and Hem,” Torin whispered, voice hoarse. Smoke invaded his mouth and burned down his lungs.
His eyes rolled back.
Torin found himself floating through smoke, darkness, and memory.
Night glided around him.
The moon and stars shone.
Again he saw her, the Elorian girl with silvery hair, her eyes as large as chicken eggs, her skin white as milk.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t want your father to die. I’m sorry.”
Somehow in his dream, he knew the fallen Elorian was her father; he could see a mourning daughter’s pain in her eyes.
But she only fled from him, disappearing into the shadows of the night, leaving him alone with the bones, alone with his shame, alone with the agony driving through his chest.
He coughed.
Hands touched his forehead and he jerked.
“Torin?”
The voice was soft and warm. He blinked, reaching out into the shadows, seeking the Elorian girl.
“Torin! Merciful Idar, stop grabbing at me.”
He opened his eyes to see Bailey glaring down at him, and he realized he was pawing at her clothes. He blinked, looked around him, and found himself lying in his bed. He recognized the clay walls, wide hearth, and wooden floor of Lord Kerof’s manor, the place where Torin had lived since losing his parents.
He leaped up in bed, but his head spun and he fell back.
“Bails,” he said, voice hoarse. “The Elorians. The battle—”
“—is over,” Bailey said. “The Elorians fled. You got knocked around too much and took a nap under a burning bale of hay. Cam and Hem dragged you here before you burned into a piece of toast.”
Wincing, he pushed himself onto his elbows and examined his foster sister. A bandage wrapped around her thigh, and a welt marred her arm. Her braids ended with singed hair. She seemed otherwise unharmed, and he breathed a sigh of relief.
He looked down at his own body next. Somebody had removed his armor and tunic, and two bandages clung to his chest. Welts covered his arms and hands.
“I took two arrows to the chest and survived,” he said, not without wonder.
Bailey snorted. “Oh, Winky. You were wearing a breastplate. The arrows only dented the steel and scratched you a bit. Don’t be acting like a hero.” She smiled crookedly, kissed his cheek, and mussed his hair. “You’re still just a baby face.”
Grumbling, he sat upright, twisted around, and placed both feet on the floor.
“The village,” he said. “How bad is it?”
Bailey’s face darkened. She lowered her eyes.
“Bad. Fifteen people are dead. Five houses burned to the ground.” She twisted her fingers. “The only Elorian who died is the one I slew. The three others fled, taking the body of their comrade with them. At least…” Her voice dropped. “At least, Elorians on the surface. Torin, I think this was all fake.”
He rose to his feet, wobbled, and sat back down on the bed.
“Fake? Bailey, we’re both banged up and bandaged. Five houses burned.” His eyes stung. “Fifteen people died. What do you mean ‘fake’?”
She bared her teeth and gripped his shoulders. “I mean those weren’t real Elorians! You saw the Elorian that burned on the pyre. He didn’t wear a black cloak or a mask. He didn’t wield a doubled-edged sword, but a curved blade.”
Torin managed to push himself upright. He tried to walk forward, but Bailey stood in his way. Taller than him, her feet planted firmly on the ground, she wasn’t moving anywhere.
“The last Elorian was dragged here,” he said. “Of course he wouldn’t be wearing robes and a mask. These ones didn’t want the sun to burn them. Bails! They spend their life in darkness; the last one’s skin was turning all red before Ferius burned him.”
“And where was Ferius during the battle?” she said. “Where were his three monks? Nobody saw them. Four monks were missing … and four robed figures attacked us.” She dug her fingernails into her shoulders. “I saythey did this—the Sailith monks.”
Torin sighed. He placed his hands on Bailey’s waist, trying to move her aside, but she wouldn’t budge.
“Bailey, I hate Ferius too. But damn it, even he wouldn’t stoop that low. To don a disguise and massacre fifteen people? For what?”
She shoved him so hard he fell back onto the bed.
“You know for what!” She placed her hands on her hips. “He hates Elorians more than anything. So he framed them. He probably murdered Yana too. The man wants to start a war. Don’t you get it? He wants the king to invade Eloria with armies. He wants to see all of Eloria burn. That’s all he cares about.”
Torin froze, considering. He thought back to the Elorian burned at the pyre. He remembered the Elorian girl peering at him from behind a boulder. They had not seemed cruel, but then again, Ferius had slain one of their own. Wouldn’t the other nightfolk want revenge? Torin didn’t know what to believe.
Before he could formulate a reply, the door banged open. Red-faced and huffing, Cam and Hem burst into the house.
Soot still filled t
heir hair, and bandages patched a dozen wounds across them. Wheezing for breath, Hem had his arm in a sling. Cam was limping and leaning against his shepherd’s crook.
“Bailey, the snake’s at it again!” Cam said, cheeks flushed. The young shepherd coughed and wiped soot off his brow. “He’s ranting about Eloria more than ever, and I think he’s up to—” Cam froze, stared at Torin, and his eyes widened. “Torin, old boy! You’re awake. Did you enjoy your nap?”
Twice his friend’s size, Hem grinned. “Torin! By Idar, I thought you were dead when I saw those arrows slam into you.”
Cam rolled his eyes. “The arrows were harmless. You almost killed him, jumping over him like that. Imagine you landed on him, a boy your size; you’d have crushed him like an ant.”
The larger boy growled. “I saved his life. Careful that I don’t crush you. You’re about the size of an ant.”
Cam glowered and shoved Hem, who shoved back, and soon the two were slapping at each other, grumbling and cursing. It took Bailey to step between them, place her hands on their chests, and shove them apart.
“You two can bicker like an old married couple later,” the young woman said. “Right now, save your strength for battling Ferius, not each other.”
She grabbed their ears and twisted. The two boys yowled, bent over, and winced. Bailey dragged them toward the door as they mewled, tugging their ears like leashes.
With a sigh, Torin stepped out of bed, pulled a tunic over his head, and followed. The four friends, the only members of the Village Guard, stepped out the door and into the sunlight.
When Torin beheld the village, his chest deflated and his lungs blazed anew.
It looked even worse than he’d expected. Several houses had burned to the ground; nothing remained but clay shells, charred furniture within. Their gardens, which Torin had lovingly grown over a span of years, had turned to ash. The maple tree still stood, but its leaves had burned off and soot covered its trunk; Torin doubted it would ever sprout again. Blood still coated the cobblestones of the village square. A charred robin’s nest lay upon the ground, the eggs inside smashed.
“By Idar,” Torin whispered.
Bailey placed a hand on his shoulder. “You slept during the funerals; you were hurt and we couldn’t wake you.” Her eyes hardened, her cheeks flushed, and her fingers tightened around his shoulders. “Ferius buried them in his temple graveyard. Fifteen bodies. Most of them were Idarith, not followers of his twisted order, and yet he took their bones and claimed their souls.”
Queasy, Torin took a few steps farther into the village square. Past the charred maple, he turned to see the Sailith temple. Aside from the Watchtower upon the hill, the temple was the only building in Fairwool-by-Night built of stone, and it had survived the flames. Outside its gates stood the statue of a noble Timandrian crushing a twisted Elorian. Behind the sculpture, thick with brambles, sprawled the graveyard. The fresh graves rose in mounds.
“Why did Lord Kerof allow this?” Torin whispered.
Bailey lowered her head. “Grandpapa weakens every hourglass turn, his cough deeper, his limbs thinner. I fear he no longer has the strength to resist the temple.” She looked at Torin, her brown eyes haunted. “I fear that Ferius has become the true ruler of this village.”
As if on cue, the monk’s voice rose from within the temple, twisted with fury. Standing outside in the square, Torin couldn’t make out the words, but the monk’s tone sounded venomous as ever. Bile rose in Torin’s throat.
“He will demand another raid,” Torin said and held Bailey’s hand. “He will cross the dusk again and avenge this new death, and more blood will spill.”
His wounds still blazing, Torin limped across the square, heading toward the temple. The stone structure towered above the smaller houses, its steeple seeming to tilt against the gliding clouds. Still holding hands, Torin and Bailey climbed the stairs toward the temple doors.
When he stood within the archway, Torin beheld a crowded chamber. A hundred people or more filled the place, covering the stone tiles. Despite the daylight slanting through the windows, torches crackled upon the walls. At the back of the room, Ferius stood at a stone altar, arms raised, a candle in each hand. The monk’s eyes were closed and he chanted prayers, vowing to bring light to the darkness, to burn the demons of the night.
Two of his monks stood silently at his sides, faces hidden in their hoods. With every prayer their leader uttered, the monks mumbled their approval.
“See, Torin?” Bailey whispered, standing beside him within the doorframe. “Only two monks here. He used to have three. Remember the Elorian I killed?” Her voice dropped even lower. “I reckon it was a monk my sword slew, not an Elorian at all.”
Ferius’s words died on his lips. Across the hall, he lowered his arms and gazed toward the doorway. His eyes narrowed and he smiled thinly.
“And so,” said the monk, “our brave defenders come to share the glory of the Sailith light. Have you come to beg forgiveness after cowering during the battle?”
Bailey snarled, drew half of her blade, and stepped forward. Torin grabbed her shoulder, holding her back; if she attacked Ferius now, she’d only be playing to his fiddle.
Torin took a deep breath and tried to speak calmly. “Ferius, you’ve brought enough death to this village. You have—”
The crowd of villagers jeered, and Ferius spoke above them, his voice twisted with laughter. “Again you blame others, Torin the Gardener, for the sins of your demon friends. The nightfolk slew many in this village while you, supposed guardian, failed to defend us. But the Sailith Order will defend Timandra.”
Bailey gave a wordless cry, tore herself free from Torin’s grasp, and elbowed her way through the crowd.
“You venomous snake!” she shouted, face flushed. “You lying worm that crawls under stones. The Elorians did not slay our villagers. You did. Where were you in the battle? Hidden under cloaks, I reckon, disguised as Elorians as you burned and murdered.”
Silence fell over the crowd.
All eyes turned to stare at Bailey. She stood fuming, fists clenched, glaring up Ferius.
The monk placed down his candles. Yellow robes swaying, he left the altar. He moved through the crowd, villagers parting to let him pass. When he reached Bailey, he leaned so close his nose almost touched her.
“Bailey Berin,” he said, voice dripping disgust. He stood several inches shorter, but with his broad shoulders, bulging brow, and beady eyes, he seemed as menacing as an enraged bull. “Beware, girl, whom you choose as your enemy. The power of Sailith is greater than you can imagine. If you are not careful, it will burn you.”
Torin stomped forward, placed his hands on Ferius’s chest, and pushed the man back. He had never dared lay hands on Ferius before, but seeing the monk threaten Bailey, his dearest friend, sent rage shooting through him.
“Threaten her again,” Torin said, “and you’ll lie buried among those you killed.”
Ferius hunched over, tightened his cloak around him, and glared up at Torin. With his sallow complexion and darting tongue, he seemed less a man and more a rabid beast.
“Your father would be ashamed of you, Torin the Gardener. He defended our kingdom. He fought the enemies of Arden. You betray your own people, and you spit on his memory.” As if to demonstrate, Ferius spat onto Torin’s boot. “Instead of fighting the true enemies of the sun, you have made an even greater enemy, boy.” Fingers twisted into claws, Ferius began trudging toward the doors. “Make way, my people! Follow me to the river.”
Ferius barreled past Torin and Bailey, knocking them back, and barged out the gateway into the sunlight. The people followed in a torrent. The congregation drained out into the square. Ferius walked at their lead, heading toward the docks.
Several boats moored upon the river. A month from now, on the summer solstice, the sheep of Fairwool-by-Night would be shorn, and these boats would be loaded with wool for the capital. A month later they would return, laden with iron ore, smoked sausages
, parchment, furs, lumber, and other goods the village needed. But now the boats were empty, awaiting the busy summer. Ferius climbed into one boat, gesturing for his two monks to follow.
“People of Fairwool-by-Night!” he said. He stood in the boat, wobbling but speaking firmly. “I travel to Kingswall. I will speak with King Ceranor, my dear friend. I will return with armies!” He raised his fist. “I will bring brave men with swords and armor, true warriors, not gardeners and shepherds and bakers.” He shot Torin a venomous look. “I will return with the might of Arden’s hosts, and we will crush the enemy.”
Silent and shadowed in their hoods, his monks untethered the boat, grabbed oars, and steered away from the docks. Once in deeper waters, the men unfurled the boat’s sail. It caught the wind, propelling the vessel upriver
“The Sailith light will protect you, friends!” Ferius called from the stern. “We will return.”
Torin stood on the riverbanks, watching the boat shrink into the distance.
Cam and Hem came to stand at side, the former grumbling curses after the dwindling boat, the latter nibbling on a pickle.
“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” Cam said and shook his fist at the distant boat. “We’ll enjoy a few days without that snake. I hope he drowns and never returns.”
Hem nodded, chewing. “Me too, I—Hey!” The baker’s boy whined as Cam snatched the pickle from his hand.
“I told you, don’t speak with your mouth full!” Cam tossed the pickle into the water.
Shoulders slumped, Hem watched his snack float away. “You didn’t have to throw it into the water.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a second pickle, and began nibbling again. “As I was saying, I’m glad Ferius is gone. Did you hear how he said you’re not a real soldier, Cam? Finally we can get some peace and quiet around here. Now come on, let’s go grab a pint. Tor, old boy, I’m buying yours. You deserve it.”
The two boys turned toward Torin, eyes eager and mouths smacking.
Torin looked at his friends and sighed. He wanted nothing more than to sit in The Shadowed Firkin tavern and enjoy some cold ale. Hem would sing his drinking songs, his voice surprisingly mellifluous, and Cam would entertain them by juggling turnips. Bailey would sit by the fireplace, beautiful and smiling, and maybe kiss Torin’s cheeks like she did sometimes after a few drinks. He sighed again. Since the plague that had swept through Fairwool-by-Night, his tavern visits had soothed him almost as much as gardening.
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