“Aye, that goes without saying. As for this corpse—”

Sir Los drew rein abruptly and blocked the path of the rider bringing the dead man. “Bury him here and say he deserted.”

Everyone stared at Sir Los, and Gavril’s bad temper abruptly cooled. It was one thing to claim he hunted on Thirst land and did not defy Lord Odfrey’s orders against exploring the Dark Forest; it was another to conceal a murder, to hide the body and lie about it. Such a lie would have to be kept forever.  Feeling strange and cold, Gavril gripped his Circle. The men stared at him, waiting for him to decide. The dead knight, oaf that he was, deserved more than a hasty grave scratched in the forest. Rites should be said to protect his body at least, but there was no one among them who could do the task. Gavril himself knew the correct prayers, but he had no intention of blaspheming by trying to act as a priest.

This was wrong. Gavril felt he should ride back to Thirst and deliver a frank confession to Lord Odfrey of what he’d done and why. But his quest was private, a deeply personal thing. Lord Odfrey would condemn him for it, would point out all the unpleasant details such as disobedience, unnecessary risk, and now, disaster. Gavril felt that today’s crushing disappointments were all he could bear. He was running out of time, and he had failed to accomplished the one objective that could have made him great. Enduring a reprimand from Lord Odfrey would be too much.

He looked up and met Sir Los’s eyes. The protector’s rounded face gave nothing away. It never did.

“See that it’s done,” Gavril said harshly.

As he watched the work commence, he knew he was making a mistake. The dead man was of the faithful. He should not be buried out here in secret, in unhallowed ground, certain prey for anything evil that wished to dig him up. Still, the arrow had caught him in the throat. Surely his soul had been released and was now safely where it belonged. Wrong or not, concealment would solve many problems. Desertion was a simple explanation; no motive for it need be supplied.  The knights used the dead man’s sword to dig the grave, since the weapon could not be kept anyway and the dulling of its blade did not matter. Gavril sat atop his horse, his dogs nosing his stirrup and whining. How he wished he could ride on and leave this dismal, gloomy forest behind. He would never come back. His dreams and best intentions had been for naught. He had imperiled his conscience for this holy mission, had prayed and sacrificed, and still he had failed.  His quest to find the missing Chalice was over.

Four days later, Dain and Lander returned. The plodding mule drew them along the muddy ruts of the river road, where Dain saw a column of black smoke rising above the trees beyond the marsh. Already edgy, he frowned and nudged Lander in the ribs.

“Look yon,” he said.

The smith hunched his shoulders and slapped the reins harder on the mule’s rump.  His face was haggard from fear and lack of sleep, “Think you the hold is burning?”

Dain shook his head. Already his senses told him that the hold was standing firm. Nor had there been death in the deserted village they now passed through.  The killing had happened farther ahead, south of the hold, perhaps where that smoke was coming from. Images of agony and blood flashed through his mind. For an instant he seemed to be elsewhere, as though his spirit had been yanked backward in time to the vicinity of that recent battle. He could even hear the screams of the dying mingling with the shrieks of Nonkind. The very air hung thick with the stench of evil.

Dain shivered despite the sultry heat of the afternoon, and with great effort he wrenched his mind back to the here and now. Thirst knights had fought. Some had died in the four days Dain and Lander had been gone; Dain didn’t want to know which ones. Already his heart felt torn with horror and grief over how suddenly and unexpectedly danger had come to Thirst in his absence.  He should not have left. He should have been here with his comrades, fighting alongside them. Instead, he had been off in the Dark Forest, striking bargains that Lander could have made alone.

Dain clenched his fists on his knees, gritting his teeth as the cart wheels jounced over the ruts. He wanted to jump down and race ahead on foot, but at the same time he feared what he might find.

It was a hot, sultry day, the air sticky and close with no breeze stirring.  Although the sun shone strong and bright, the world seemed to have stilled itself, waiting for trouble the way small rodents hide under the blades of grass when vixlets hunt the meadow. On the distant horizon, storm clouds were massing.  Now and then Dain heard a distant rumble of thunder.

The weary mule slowed down as they passed through the village’s abandoned huts.  Crude doors stood ajar. Kettles and brooms lay on the ground where they’d been flung down. A half-mended fishing net hung on a pole frame, with the mending cords still swinging by their knotted ends in the breeze.  A noise from behind them made Dain spin around on the cart seat, his hand reaching for his dagger.

“Demons!” Lander shouted, and whacked the mule so hard it shambled forward into a trot.

Nearly overbalanced, Dain gripped the smith’s shoulder. “Have care!” he said.

“It’s just a dog.”

Lander glanced back unwillingly, his eyes nearly bulging from their sockets.  The mongrel, spotted black and white with burrs matted in its floppy ears, slunk away between two huts. Its tail wagged nervously against the wall, making a hollow thunk of sound.

“A dog,” Dain repeated in relief, his heart beating too fast.  Lander gulped in several deep breaths. Perspiration beaded down his face, darkening his fringe of red hair. Hastily he drew a circle on his chest. “Thod is merciful.”

Sheathing his dagger, Dain gripped Lander’s slack hand and shook the reins to make the mule walk on. “Let’s get to Thirst before dark.” Lander mumbled something and gave the mule a halfhearted tap with the whip.  Dain sighed. He’d sweated through his tunic so much it had plastered itself to his back. He wished he was carrying salt in his pockets. When he lived with Jorb he never left the burrow without filling his pockets from the barrel kept standing always at the door, a wooden scoop jammed upright in its center. But while he’d been living at Thirst, he’d lost the habit. Men depended on swords and stout walls to protect them. Right now, Dain and Lander had neither.  At the end of the village grew a copse of trees that blocked a clear view of the road beyond. Dain disliked the place, for the bushes grew close and thick, and he could not see ahead. He smelled no Nonkind, but the flick of men-minds suddenly assaulted his senses. At the same moment, a squad of horsemen in armor burst upon them from the cover of the trees.

Before Dain could draw his dagger, they were surrounded, and a lance tip hovered at Lander’s throat.

The smith sat frozen, his face red, his mouth hanging open. He tried to speak, but could only sputter.

Dain sat beside him with his dagger half-drawn. Already he’d noted with alarm that these knights did not wear the dark green of Thirst. Their surcoats were scarlet, and their cloaks black. The eyes of strangers glittered through the slits of their helmets.

“State your name and business here,” ordered a gruff voice.  Lander whimpered in the back of throat, and it was Dain who answered: “This is Lander, smith of Thirst Hold. I am called Dain.”