Dannil Taragon, King of Lodarno, knelt before the negotiators and held his breath, lest the stench of burning dead make him gag.

He tugged hard at his brown beard to fight his rising panic. There is no time! The second moon—distant, white Rhushim—was due to rise above the horizon any minute. Should the goddess fail to accept their plea before its ascent, Jahir’s curse would take hold again—and they would all die.

He stole a glance at the troops bearing the dead from the battlefield. They looked like wraiths in the smoke that engulfed the plain, and though Dannil was king, he wanted to howl in terror. Corana, save us! There are too many! The men bore the corpses to the pyre at a run, but he knew they had no hope of destroying the fallen before the moon would rise. Jahir had tied his curse to the distant moon, and with it the battle’s dead would rise.

The smoke stung his eyes, and he blinked back tears. We routed them, and this is how it ends? Dannil lowered his head and ground his teeth. Bastard! Damn you and your cursed god! He gazed to the top of a nearby hill and the body of the wizard Jahir.

Jahir had unexpectedly collapsed in the midst of the battle. Dannil had no idea why, but he gratefully accepted it.

Yet it didn’t matter.

He shifted his gaze back to watch Alfonse plead their case and prayed the form standing over the elderly priest would accept. Corana appeared to be a doe, yet no mere animal stood before them. Her argent luminosity came not from a trick of Daralon’s blue moonlight. He knew as deeply as his own heartbeat that a goddess stood before him.

The king flicked his eyes toward Prince Kasdan. The wiry, red-haired teenager kneeling to his right looked older than he had this morning. Kasdan’s father had led the infantry across the plain this afternoon, and one swipe of a zhramm greatsword had ended him.

Dannil sighed. At least Maneste would still have a king, even if Kasdan wasn’t ready. Dannil had already lost both sons in this war, meaning civil war in Lodarno would be inevitable upon his passing.

Next to Kasdan knelt the King of Fremoria, whose horsemen had mounted today’s cavalry charge. To a man they were gone. The legendary riders who had kept the Grasslands of Dun safe for generations would ride no more.

The others, monarchs all, knelt, and he knew their hopes mirrored his.

And yet Dannil knew it was those absent faces that really told all. Not a single wizard stood by. They knew naught of the plea Alfonse was making to the goddess, and their loyalty wouldn’t save them.

Millions were dead, and yet Dannil was horrified at what must follow. A curse upon his name, if Corana acquiesced tonight, he would give the terrible order himself. Then the libraries and universities would be burned and their stones removed. Not a single scrap would survive. It would mean another war, and he trembled at the enormity of the task ahead. The god Koldith had made Jahir, and he would make another. How do we destroy Jahir’s knowledge? How? But we must!

A sweet breeze like a lazy evening in spring wafted from somewhere to dispel the stench. Dannil snapped his gaze forward. Alfonse had stood and was bowing before the goddess. The doe’s delicate beauty was painful to view, and Dannil found himself fighting tears. He was afraid to hope. Would the goddess of life acquiesce? Only she had deigned to even listen to their plea, and they were out of time.

As he watched, the doe’s golden light blossomed and grew, bathing the kneeling circle. Dannil felt a wave of comfort and solace, and the hope that he had brutally locked away screamed for release.

Alfonse stood.

The doe stretched forward to plant a kiss on Alfonse’s forehead and nudged him around to face Dannil. The high priest waved and smiled—and his legs failed him.

Dannil forgot all humility and ran forward to kneel at Alfonse’s side. He risked a glance at the goddess. She locked him with a steady, unreadable gaze; a thousand emotions flashed in an instant.

“The bargain is sealed,” Alfonse whispered. All color had drained from his clean-shaven visage.

Dannil looked down. The priest looked unhurt, but the king’s instincts sent him a warning. “Alfonse! Alfonse, what’s happening?”

“She will contain the evil in this place, but she will not destroy the remaining creatures. They lived before Jahir and must live after. They will forget what he has brought them and return home.”

Alfonse’s whisper began to weaken. “You must do as you have agreed. You will have peace in return.”

“Alfonse, what is happening to you? What has she done?”

“The bargain, my King. I am…needed. Remember your part of the bargain. You must remember. Jahir…can never happen again.”

Dannil gripped Alfonse’s hand. It felt like ice. Not Alfonse! Have we not had enough death? He swallowed hard. They would not gain peace without a terrible price. “I will, Alfonse. I swear it. We will not fail. We’ll erase it all.”

The priest’s eyes closed. His lips quivered, and Dannil had to lean close to hear. “I go to my destiny. Goodbye, Dannil. The world shall know peace…for a time.”

The man Dannil had known since his childhood exhaled his final breath.

For a moment, the king was thunderstruck. He gently shook the old man with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking. “Alfonse? Alfonse!”

In Dannil’s peripheral vision, the doe stamped its hoof three times. Though the night sky was clear of clouds, a bright shaft of Daralon’s light shot down to bathe the king and his priest in an azure glow.

The ground trembled, a slight tremor that exploded to an earthquake in seconds. The rolling plain protested, and a roar like the end of the world filled the air. Men all around screamed in terror.

“The moon!” Kasdan shouted. “The moon rises!”

Dannil knew the signs and shut his eyes in resignation. Men would now live or die at a god’s whim.

“It is always thus,” a gentle voice sounded in his mind. “That does not mean we do not care.”

A song, soft as spring flowers yet sharp as a rose’s thorns, drifted through the night air. Dannil didn’t want to see what the goddess would wreak. He’d had his fill of gods and their ways. Overcome by the song’s divine beauty and his grief, he lowered his head over Alfonse’s body and wept.

CHAPTER 1

A New Start

           In the city of Bluestone, capital of Maneste on the continent of Alesaria, life proceeded as it always had. What was put to the torch was rebuilt, and the reason for the destruction eventually came to be forgotten. Uncounted generations were born, lived their lives, and passed on. Memories of a war too horrific to imagine faded and were lost to time. And yet, on a particular autumn day, two young mercenaries were considering taking an unusual job.

           Pointing, Hustin tapped Caeffel on the shoulder. Caeffel craned his neck around, shoulder-length blond hair swirling about his pale face in the morning breeze. Caeffel was a young fellow in his twenties, with slender, hawkish features. He was dressed in mail, a simple woodsman’s cloak, gray-green in color, covering his shoulders.

The young man shifted his gaze to follow Hustin’s outstretched arm. The notice board near the Farm Gate displayed a brightly painted sign.

NEED WORK?

Hiring eight able-bodied mercenaries

to act as escort on a quest into

Bol Haddiom forest. If you can

fight, sign up! Paying handsomely.

See Milkin Frey on Rose Avenue

for all inquiries.

Caeffel scanned the advertisement for some time, tapping his fingers on the pommel of the bastard sword at his waist. His face bore an unreadable mask.

The word finally came. “Maybe.”

Hustin blew through his olive-skinned hands in the dawn chill.

“It’s the first work we’ve found in days, Caf. I say we take it before anyone else does.”

Although he was about the same age as Caeffel, Hustin’s black mustache and small scar on his chin lent him an older if not wiser appearance. He was likewise wearing chainmail but his cloak was deep maroon. A steel helm lined with fur covered his head. The helm had seen use, evidenced by numerous small dents and scratches.

“You remember what I told you about that forest though?” Caeffel murmured.

Hustin nodded and took on a soft tone. Of all the places to work, he thought ruefully, it figures it would be there.

“Aye, I remember what happened to your village,” he replied, “but we need money before we either starve or freeze. What do you say?”

Caeffel didn’t respond, merely running a hand to his belt pouch, one Hustin knew to be empty. His own had only two silver coins left, enough to buy them meals and lodging at an inn for perhaps three days, but no more. They had been seeking work for weeks and had found nothing that paid a decent wage. With winter approaching, it was either this or joining the city guard.

As he waited for Caeffel’s response, Hustin noted his friend’s faraway stare and wondered which nightmares he was reliving. Caeffel’s mind apparently contained a whole library of them. He wanted to curse the gods for their cruelty. Caeffel had just stopped screaming in his sleep too.

Finally his friend sighed and nodded, a resigned look on his face.

There was another man, a middle-aged barrel-chested fellow with a brown goatee eyeing the advertisement.

Hustin looked over and tapped the sign. “Know anything about this, friend?”

The burly man looked over and laughed. “Sonny, you don’t want that job. Those people are mad.”

“How so?” Hustin asked.

“They believe in magic,” the burly man said, still laughing. “They call themselves magicians. You see them at festivals trying to show off. They’ve had that sign up for weeks trying to get people stupid enough to take it.”

Hustin knuckled his mustache. He didn’t like the sound of that. A weird cult? But he had a larger concern. “Bol Haddiom is no joke. Can they actually pay?”

“Oh, they’ve got the coin, all right. Some of them are wealthy merchants. Edward Hines is one of them.”

“Who’s that?” Hustin asked.

The man winked. “Only one of the wealthiest merchants in all the realms. Don’t you worry about the coin. They’ve got it, but they’re nuts and will probably demand you believe in magic too before they’ll hire you.”

Hustin sighed. Not only was it a near-suicide mission, if the tales of the forest were true, it was being put up by people with their heads in the clouds. For a moment, he considered changing his mind about investigating it before remembering they were broke. Well as long as they don’t try to force me to believe in some crazy thing or another, maybe it will be fine.

He got directions to Rose Avenue from a fruit vendor and led the way. They filed past the enormous grain stores, the lines in front already long this morning with farmers bringing in the autumn harvest. Sheep and cattle, vegetables and chickens, everything was being bought and sold this morning.

Several blocks down, they turned northwest onto Silk Street and passed more appealing shops and merchants. Inns nestled next to dress shops, food markets, and tradesmen. Most of the upper stories appeared residential. To the northwest, the shops became larger, and passersby took on a wealthier appearance. Cotton replaced wool, and colors became livelier and more varied, sometimes with elaborate stitching—but silk was nowhere to be seen; it was too chilly.

Eventually they turned right onto Rose Avenue. Nestled in the wealthy district of Bluestone, it featured large manor houses on both sides with neatly manicured lawns, delicate rows of bushes, and the occasional apple tree. Hustin took note of the fact that two city guardsmen watched them as they proceeded.

They reached their destination, a large three-story stone edifice sitting on manicured grounds. A small sign read “Frey” in teal and peach-colored tiles. A cobblestone walkway curved from the street to a brick porch at the front of the building, flanked by round flower gardens. Windows dotted the residence on all sides, some clear and some made of stained glass.

Hustin led the way to the porch and knocked on the carved wooden doors.

A young maid opened the door and gave them a dubious look. “Can I help you?”

Hustin blinked. She wasn’t just pretty but beautiful with silken brown hair that cascaded past her shoulders. Giving his tongue a swift mental kick, Hustin answered, “Yes, well, um, we came to ask about the notice at the gate. Bol Haddiom forest?” His face felt distinctly warmer.

The maid stiffened. “Then please enter, gentlemen. I’ll fetch Mr. Frey.” She led them to a parlor and spun toward the stairs.

The two companions studied the parlor’s furnishings after she had departed.

“How about that maid, Caf?” Hustin whispered.

Caeffel chuckled, baring his grin at a portrait of one of Mr. Frey’s relations. “Now you know why I never understood what you saw in Rhora.”

Hustin paused. “I admit she’s not as pretty and a hundred times less polite, but we had some good times together.” The more Hustin thought about it, the more he regretted having left her.

He could hear Caeffel chuckle again. “Aw, what’s the matter? Need a warrior woman to take care of you? Carry you home when life gets too tough?”

This only made Hustin’s thoughts all the more vivid, but eventually he was able to laugh about it. “Yeah, she sure is strong enough.”

“How many women do you know who can fight off three mercenaries without being scratched? I’ll wager that braid of hers weighs more than my sword.”

A sudden mental image of a six-foot-tall blonde-haired woman clad in interlocking banded mail and howling at some unheard crude joke brought back pain that Hustin had tried to defeat. Eyeing a vase painted with fighting scenes, he tried to quiet his aching soul. He wished Caeffel hadn’t reminded him of Rhora.

He shifted his gaze around to his companion. That was why he left; he was Caeffel’s only friend in the world, the only one keeping him sane. The young man staring at that mantelpiece had no relatives, friends, acquaintances, or even enemies for that matter—only horrors. Hustin couldn’t abandon him, even for Rhora. Caeffel would be dead in a year otherwise.

His friend’s family had been butchered. Caeffel had no other friends, even though they had been traveling over the continent for seven years. Yet Hustin, from fully the other side of Alesaria, was feeling the pain of loneliness. The gods knew he had tried to assuage it. Wherever the two had gone, he had buried himself in practicality. If they needed food or money, Hustin would see to it. If it was transportation, Hustin did the negotiations. If they needed work, ever-practical Hustin would be the first to knock. It had eaten his nerves raw.

The creak of floorboards from above reminded him of the maid, and he reached a decision. It almost certainly wouldn’t work out, he conceded, but he knew she was exactly what Caeffel needed. His friend was a terror with a blade, better than he, but their last stint up in Greymist had broken Caeffel’s spirit and left him teetering on the edge of madness. He was waiting for the day Caeffel either decided to give up and get himself killed or snap completely.

The two had enjoyed great fun over the years, but Hustin could see that his friend was through. Caeffel needed to settle down, find someone to look after him. His younger companion was twenty, and Hustin decided it was time for a change of occupation. As for himself, well…maybe he could go back to Rhora—if she still lived.

The maid’s light voice interrupted Hustin’s thoughts. “Mr. Frey will be down in a few minutes. Is there anything I can get you while you’re waiting?”

The two men exchanged looks. Best to stay conservative, Hustin thought. They needed this job. Caeffel’s visage was unreadable.

“Do you have any tea?” Hustin asked.

“Certainly.” She vanished into the hallway. Was it Hustin’s imagination, or did her eyes keep darting toward Caeffel?

When she returned a few minutes later with a tray holding two porcelain cups and a copper kettle, she confirmed his suspicions. Though the maid said nothing, her eyes moved toward Caeffel faster than those of a gambler. After serving, she bade them sit and took her leave to continue her morning duties.

Milkin Frey emerged from the hallway, wearing a black velvet tunic with silver thread. He was a middle-aged fellow, sporting a neatly trimmed brown beard, and quite overweight. As the two stood, he began, “My maid tells me you are interested in joining the expedition.”

“We could use the work,” Hustin said. “What does it involve?”

“Oh, it’s very simple,” Milkin said. “We require a rare mineral from the Pegaver river. It’s called morinah. It’s a bluish rock used in our magic potions. We need to send some people to collect it and are hiring people such as yourselves to protect them.”

Hustin ignored the mention of “magic potions” and concentrated on the task. “That sounds pretty simple. So we just guard them on the way to collect this mineral?”

“That’s it,” Milkin said. “You see? Simplicity itself.”

Hustin moved onto his next concern. “The Pegaver is a long river. Do you know where the mineral is along it?”

“We’re fairly certain it comes from the headwaters. I’ve journeyed a few miles upriver myself and can tell you it doesn’t come from its terminus. But we do have information from others who have traveled into the wood in the past, and they describe the water as carrying a heavy bluish tinge along much of its length.

Milkin shrugged. “If we don’t find any at the headwaters, that’s not your problem. You still get paid.”

So far, so good, Hustin thought. Now for the big question.

“What is the payment?” Hustin asked.

“One thousand Maneste sovereigns to each of you, plus an extra hundred for every five pounds of ore you bring back.”

Hustin kept his features cool. It was a staggering sum, though the danger of Bol Haddiom probably warranted it. Nevertheless, it only solidified his growing opinion that these people were crazy.

“That…sounds acceptable,” Hustin finally managed to say. He reached out, and they shook hands.

*         *         *

Hustin walked alongside Caeffel along a rundown street in Bluestone’s poor section toward the house they had been told to find. Nearly three weeks had passed since first meeting Milkin Frey. The merchant had hired them on the spot and, since they had been almost broke, set them up in a friend’s inn until enough people could be hired to make the trip. He had even been generous enough to give them some spending money, since they were in such dire straits. Just when the boredom threatened to make Hustin tear out his hair, the innkeeper finally gave them a note requesting their presence.

Caeffel hummed a tune as they walked. He’d been in an uncharacteristically cheerful mood all day. Hustin hid a smile: mission accomplished. He’d gotten Caeffel together with Frey’s maid, Anna. It had taken him five days to determine her routine about town before conveniently leading Caeffel to the same places, and luck had been a huge factor—but Hustin had always been lucky.

His imaginative excuses drew a smile. “Caf, I have to get a new knife. I’ll be back later. Caf, there’s a gambling bout at the docks. Want to meet me in a couple of hours? Caf, wait here for a sec. I want to see what’s in that shop.” Of course, there she would be. “Oh, look, there’s that maid—Anna? Hey, Anna! Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you later.”

It wasn’t one of the usual tales of Hustin the Madman, but he’d take it.

Hustin the Madman, he thought. How many times had he earned that nickname? There was one time for sure on a trip to hunt down a giant octopus. His friend had almost had a heart attack when Hustin jumped on its head to harpoon it. He’d gotten an earful after that one. It was time to pay Caeffel back for going along with his ideas, he decided.

Caeffel was still humming. “See Anna again today?” Hustin asked.

“Yup.”

Hustin laughed out loud. “Good for you.”

Caeffel turned and gave him a sidelong glance. “I’ve got to see her again tonight. She’s helping me with something. I need to finish it before we leave.”

Hustin raised an eyebrow. “You don’t have to tell me this, Caf.”

A chuckle. “It’s not what you think.”

“So what is it then?”

Caeffel gave a sly smile. “A surprise.”

Hustin opened his mouth to reply but shut it. He’d let him have his fun. The gods knew he’d earned it.

*         *         *

“By Corana, I forbid it!” Borfel said.

“They’ll need me. I’ve got to volunteer!” his diminutive wife Flani shot back.

Hustin rubbed his eyes and prayed for it to end soon. He couldn’t imagine what their neighbors went through. He and Caeffel had arrived early, and these “magicians” assembled in the parlor of a small bayside house were in an uproar. They had met early to decide which of their number would accompany the mercenaries, who were starting to arrive. Everyone had agreed early on that two magicians would be needed. Unfortunately, which two to make the journey had become a sticking point—they couldn’t get anyone to go.

Borfel tugged at his black beard in seeming frustration. “Listen, Flani,” he said, “this isn’t going to be a picnic in Bluestone Park. Are you ready for the creatures lurking in that forest as well as outdoors? Bol Haddiom is hundreds of miles away!”

The fire in Flani’s red hair echoed her demeanor as she retorted with a disdainful laugh. “I’m from Rockhill, remember? I didn’t grow up in a nice, safe city. I should be telling you not to go.”

Her husband made a move to reply when Milkin laid a hand on his shoulder. “Borfel, listen to me,” he began. “You’re right that Bol Haddiom is untamed. You’re right that so far away no one here can help them. But that’s why we need her to go. She’s the best at her craft that we’ve got. Those men need two people who’ll have no trouble finding what they seek. Flani can perform her enchantments flawlessly.”

Borfel turned to Milkin, and they locked stares. After a moment, Borfel released his death grip on the chair in front of him and sat with a growl.

Flani moved to comfort him. “Borfel, you know I have to go. I’m sorry.”

“Well,” Milkin continued, sitting down in a large padded chair, “we still need someone of the Path of Alchemy.” He scanned the room.

For an uneasy moment, the others glanced about. Hustin wondered if another argument would explode when a man with short brown hair rose from his wooden chair, his visage showing defeat.

The young wiry man sighed and looked around the room. “You can all stop staring at me now. I can take a hint. I’ll go.”

Milkin Frey sighed. “Thank you, Nagle. Does anyone have anything to say?”

An elderly man known as Edward Hines cleared his throat. Edward’s frailty lent the illusion that he wasn’t really there, just wrinkled parchment with a pair of wire-rimmed eyeglasses. “I find it commendable of our colleague to volunteer for such a perilous expedition,” he began. “Nagle has proven his ability, and I have every confidence that he will succeed.”

Nagle fixed Milkin with a stare. “While I’m gone, you’ll take care of my business. It’s not a request. If it stays idle, I’ll lose my customers.”

Milkin didn’t hesitate. “Yes, yes, absolutely,” he said. “I know exactly who to hire.” He put on a haggling smile. “You’ll be very pleased.”

A knock echoed from the front door a few minutes afterward. Clad entirely in black, a tall, swarthy man entered the parlor out of the fading twilight. His short-cropped goatee matched his ebon cloak, and he wore a mildly annoyed look. Black chain armor glistened dully in the candlelight. His brown eyes flickered across the room as if noting its inhabitants to determine their threat level.

“Greetings, Adif,” Milkin boomed. He shoved himself to his feet. Gazing at the shade of a man, he continued, “You know, when I said that weapons are unnecessary, I also meant armor.”

“It is custom among the Shadow Riders to wear the black armor at all special occasions,” Adif replied, as if mentioning something that even children should know. He gave a curt nod to those assembled and doffed his cloak. Otherwise, the man said nothing, moving to one of the proffered chairs. Even sitting, Adif seemed ill at ease.

A broad-shouldered, thickly muscled bruiser named Thoral arrived next. Not particularly tall but just as wide, he seemed formidable. He apparently understood Milkin’s suggestions, for the young man wore only a gray woolen tunic, brown trousers, and a ragged cloak to maintain warmth. In fact, he really didn’t look much like a trained warrior, until Hustin looked at the eyes. An intensity crouched behind those green orbs, almost daring him to contemplate what the man was about.

An unlikely pair followed. The smaller one had a roguish demeanor, arising from his light step, shifty eyes, and twitching fingers. He seemed rather successful given the gold and silver jewelry he wore. Perhaps the man was masquerading as a well-to-do merchant, for he was garbed in fine dark-blue velvet, topped off by a curled black mustache and violet broad-brimmed hat.

The man’s brown-haired companion seemed similarly extravagant. Tall and lithe, his outfit attacked the senses. It featured a sky-blue tunic and hose, dark-green boots, a bright-red belt, and a purple cloak. Topping it off was the object he protected like a babe, the lute strapped across his back.

Hustin suppressed a snicker. In a forest, he would stick out like a moose in a noble’s house. An easy smile spread across the man’s features, as if he were about to begin a ballad.

Several gaped at the minstrel. Borfel finally broke the silence. “What is this, Milkin?”

“What is what, my friend?”

“The bard! You hired him to make the journey? Is he going to protect my wife with lullabies?” Flani jabbed him in the arm, too late.

“Please, good sir, don’t jump to conclusions about my friend’s abilities until you have seen them demonstrated,” the troubadour’s short partner said. “Delg’s swordsmanship easily matches his fine tavern performances.”

Thoral snickered while Borfel snarled.

“By the way, gentlemen,” the little man continued, “my traveling name is Max the Quick, and you’ll not find a sharper bowman this side of the Western Reaches.” A grandiose bow completed the discourse.

Hustin raised an eyebrow. He would have bet on another specialty. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard Adif emit a low growl.

The last two hirelings arrived soon afterward, and it was immediately apparent that they were not partners. The first, a square-faced fellow with short brown hair, was scarcely a grown man. Although he was presumably trained to fight, Hustin would eat his helmet if this weren’t the young man’s first quest.

The giant of a man who followed him seemed the opposite, radiating experience. Battle scars ran everywhere. His shaved head and black topknot only accentuated the appearance. Hustin grimaced in satisfaction. Now this was the sort he wanted at his side in a scrape.

Before being seated, the last man bowed to all assembled and mouthed greetings. Hustin immediately recognized the accent. This man was from Assellaban, northwest of Sevallia. He was sure of it. He knew it as a land of decent warriors, if a bit mysterious.

Seemingly eager to get on with the proceedings, Milkin quickly introduced them as Shirah and Kot, respectively.

“As you all know, the purpose of this meeting is to finalize our plans,” Milkin began. “When you came to my house, I told you that the main object of the quest is to help my colleagues find a mineral at the Pegaver River’s headwaters. My friends and I have decided to send two with you to perform the task. They are Flani and Nagle, chosen because of both their magical ability and outdoor experience.”

Hustin grimaced. Magic? Really? You’re paying us to get some special rocks. Whatever. He reminded himself of what the blue mineral was called, morinah.

“Your job will be to protect and assist them throughout the journey. As far as we can tell, that should be easy enough until you reach Bol Haddiom.”

Hustin’s eyes goggled. Surely this man wasn’t serious about the lack of risk. He could name all manner of dangers they would likely face along the way.

“I’m afraid that we have little knowledge concerning the forest,” Milkin continued, “except that it is of course reputed to be extremely dangerous. Wages remain what we agreed upon. All payments depend upon the safe return of your two charges. Do you have any questions?”

“What route will we be taking to the forest?” Thoral asked.

If only you knew the brawl they had over that, Hustin thought.

“This has been a matter of much debate,” Milkin began. “Some of us feel that journeying by ship west to the Pegaver’s mouth would be better, since travel time would be lessened. But, this would mean a much longer trip within Bol Haddiom. There is also the Nessaronda, which lies closer, but it isn’t navigable where it crosses the Western Reaches.”

“Aye,” Hustin interjected, “dangerous country in those mountains too.” If there was one way he didn’t want to take, it was along the Nessaronda river through Goat Pass. It was loaded with monsters.

Milkin nodded. “For this reason, we decided that an overland route from the east would be safest. I’m sure many of you are familiar with this path east through the Pass of Tooth and northwest along the mountains and plains to the forest. If you cut a little more westward once you reach Bol Haddiom, you can find the Pegaver and follow it to its source. Legend says it springs from a small lake that is surrounded by mountains.

“The deposit of morinah should be nearby,” Milkin continued. Once you are close enough, we believe that Flani and Nagle should have no trouble finding some.”

“What about provisions?” Hustin asked.

Milkin rubbed his palms together. “Everything is ready. Each of you will get a horse and adequate supplies, and we’ve bought four pack mules.”

He walked over to a table and retrieved a sheet of parchment, which he handed to Hustin. “Here is the list. Since the quest will take several months, nothing was spared in obtaining everything you might need. We’ll provide some coin as well for buying extra provisions if the need or opportunity arises. I’m told there are frontier towns along the way. Be warned, there will be repercussions if your charges should come to harm or be abandoned.”

Hustin had been reading the parchment and paused to look up for a moment at that last remark before continuing. Once he had finished, he nodded and passed it to Caeffel. Soon everyone had read the list of supplies, and no one objected.

“When are we leaving?” Caeffel chimed in.

Milkin gave Caeffel an oddly dubious look. “We think it would be best if you started as soon as possible. As I’m sure you know, winter will be here soon, and the first heavy snows will block the pass. Should you run into problems soon after crossing the mountains, there will still be time to return. You depart the day after tomorrow.”

*         *         *

The questing party sat mounted in the morning light of what promised to be a beautiful day. Everything signaled their readiness—the horses’ impatient stamping, the jingle of mail, and the low voices as the group made their farewells.

“Caf, you will be careful, won’t you?” Anna asked, her hands on his cheeks and her face close to his.

“You know I will. I’ve done much worse things than this, and these are good men here. I’ll be fine.”

If only she knew, Hustin thought to himself. She’d give Hustin an earful if she knew half the things he’d gotten Caeffel into. He was unable to prevent a mischievous grin from surfacing. Look out Bol Haddiom, the Madman is coming. It would be dangerous, but it would be a tale to remember. He couldn’t wait to get going.

A sniffle to his left caught his attention, and his smile disappeared. Borfel was wiping a tear from his eye with one hand and holding Flani’s with the other. Hustin felt guilt wash over him as reality sunk in. Bol Haddiom. No one ever went to that forest willingly. He spied another glance at Caeffel and made a silent vow. Caeffel and their charges would return—no matter what.

Eventually all the goodbyes were said, kisses and hugs given and received, and nothing remained but to depart. Hustin recalled an old superstition that idle conversation during the very start of a quest would bring hardship. Whether it was for this reason or for something else, silence reigned as the riders snaked along the streets toward the Mountain Gate in the northeastern part of the city. Bluestone, quiet on this Felday—a day of rest—seemed to echo the mood. Children at play ran along Rye Street, but the shouts, bangs, and other noises accompanying shops open for business were absent. Blacksmiths and other craftsmen’s shops were closed. Bakers still sold bread, but none was being made this day. It felt almost as if all Bluestone was watching—and holding its breath.

Once they passed through the barbican at the Mountain Gate, idle talk and easy looks replaced those of anxiety as they left Maneste’s capital and the farms approached.

“So, Max, how did you come to be known as the Quick?” Hustin asked with a sidelong smile.

“I think you’ve already guessed the answer,” the little man began, grinning. “Some years ago, I was engaged in that most misunderstood of occupations, ah, pilfering from the wealthy for public benefit.”

Hustin laughed. That was a new one. It was no surprise and he would of course have to watch this man for a while.

“After a time, I became so successful that others began to call me the Quick,” Max continued. “Later on, I found that I had a talent for archery.”

“That’s quite a change. Why aren’t you still out ‘helping the poor?’”

Max coughed awkwardly. “Once I realized how successful I could become, I turned my attention to certain things—you know, burgling Lord This and pilfering from the Duchess of That. It worked out rather well until my most ingenious adventure went awry.”

“And what was that?” Hustin leaned closer in his saddle.

“Why, to make a midnight visit to Crown Princess Gelara, or, rather, her jewelry. It promised to be the culmination of my career—until her loud-mouthed father chanced to stroll down the hall as I was unlocking her door. You can imagine the events after my narrow escape.

Max gave a wry smile. “Now that you’ve heard my story, how did you come to be employed in Mr. Frey’s service?”

“Caf and I just happened to be in town and needed work,” Hustin said with a shrug.

Max gave him a shrewd look and grinned. “You’re hiding something. Bol Haddiom isn’t a place to go on a whim.”

Hustin laughed. “As opposed to just hiding?”

Max nodded his head to note the touché.

“I like a challenge,” Hustin said.

“And Caeffel?”

Hustin’s smile disappeared. “He’s my best friend. We’ve been through a lot together.”

Max chuckled and twirled his mustache. “Adventurers, eh?”

It was a long road, and Hustin decided to humor him with the tale of when he and Caeffel posed as bandits in Galstoriel. News of Hustin the Madman had spread somewhat, at least among some mercenaries, after their gamble at Titans’ Crossing. Hustin had to admit, he liked being who he was, having stories to tell, and true ones at that.

*         *         *

“More ale?”

Hustin nodded. He and his companions were spending their tenth night together in one of the small roadside inns that denoted Maneste’s holdings from the rest of the continent. Yawning, he edged his chair closer to the fireplace while the midnight wind whistled outside.

Blond-haired Caeffel gazed at older Adif, the only other person in the dim common room. “What’s it like living in the Great Eastern Wasteland, Adif?”

“Intense,” the man answered after placing his feet on a bench. He wasn’t wearing his odd mail, only a simple white shirt and black trousers. “People must be resourceful if they intend to survive the Expanse.”

“Are there many people there?”

“In some places. Most are nomads who travel the desert. A few villages lie near the canyons where water can be found, but there is a great city in the middle of the desert along the river Bilum.”

Caeffel’s face took on a dubious look. “Have you ever been there?”

This time it was Adif’s turn to yawn. “I spent some years in and around the city of Loril as one of the Shadow Riders. Twelve of us were assigned there to handle thieves outside the walls. For four years we set up camps outside and hunted them, until a tyrant seized power in the city and drove us away.”

“Just like that? He woke up one day and kicked you out?”

“She drove us out, but not ‘just like that.’ Her name was Rashta the Viper. I don’t have the details, since we were busy tracking thieves in the desert, but somehow she gained power over the city and mustered an army. Her army scoured the desert and scattered the Shadow Riders in all directions. There used to be over five hundred of us, but I haven’t seen one since.”

Hustin became intrigued. He was originally from Ravenpost, far in the north, and had been to such places as Bassinor and Cayre but never to the Wasteland. To most people, the place was an unknown, its mysterious inhabitants considered bogeymen. “How long ago was this?”

Adif took a swig of ale. “It’s been six years.”

“That’s a long time, friend.” Hustin gauged Adif to be in his mid-thirties. He couldn’t help but wonder at his history. “How long were you a Shadow Rider?”

The man stared into the flames. “Thirteen years.”

“Have you considered going back?” Caeffel asked.

At first, only the chill wind’s eternal whistle punctuated the silence before Adif answered, a mix of emotions crisscrossing his visage. “Yes and no. I’m sure that many of my brothers and sisters fought back, and they would need every man they could get. I became disgusted with life there though. Do you remember when I said that life there was intense?”

Caeffel nodded.

“That also applies to Loril,” Adif continued. “Though we tried our best to stay independent, the Shadow Riders were often influenced by political turmoil. I was tired of putting up with the whims of an incompetent ruler or a mad tyrant.

“Perhaps someday I will return, but I’m not ready just yet. I want to see more of Alesaria first. I believe that one of the biggest problems in my homeland is their isolation. Things are done not because it is the best way anymore but because it’s always been done that way. Perhaps I’ll try to bring something of the outlands back to make things different.

He gave a heavy sigh. “If the Shadow Riders even live.”

Soon afterward, Hustin rose to retire. “Early day tomorrow,” he said.

He knew they would follow soon, albeit reluctantly. This mountainside inn represented the boundary of civilization in Maneste, and no more would follow. Tomorrow’s journey would start the long trek through the Pass of Tooth. They might encounter some Maneste cavalry patrolling the pass, but he doubted it. The first snows would send them home for the season. They should post a sign outside, reading “Civilized Lands End Here,” he thought with a spark of humor.