CARRADOC’S BLOOD RAN COLD—and not because of the chill wind fingering the edges of his cloak. He paused at the base of the little knoll beside the ancient stone circle to scan the area. Something was out there. Watching him.
Wind moaned as it blasted through the ruins, bending the stiff prairie grass to the ground. The sun sagged into the western horizon as if weary after its long journey across the sky. Carradoc tugged the woolen cloak around his shoulders against the cold and crouched to examine the ground. The distinct imprint of a boot had crushed the prairie grass and disturbed the dry soil. The track was fresh.
A trail of prints led up the knoll into the circle of standing stones. Carradoc straightened, wriggling his frozen toes inside his boots. He wished again he was inside the hut beside the crackling fire with Madden, drinking warm ale. Why the new king of the West Mark had sent them to keep watch over this forsaken land was beyond him. Wouldn’t they have been better used by helping him retake the city of Yarwick from the traitors? Perhaps the king was paranoid after the hard-fought battle with Bardon’s army at Torwyn, where they had narrowly avoided destruction.
Carradoc and his companions had hunkered down amid the ruins of what had been a large village on the southern edge of the Crimson Plain to watch the south road. Three guards rotated the work. He and Madden shared the watch during the day and night, while Gethin carried messages back and forth and brought in much-needed supplies.
A flash of light danced amid the upright stones. Carradoc’s hand drifted to the hilt of his sword, but the faint blue light was gone as suddenly as it had appeared.
“Blood and ashes,” he breathed.
First, the sense of being watched, then unknown footprints, and now ominous lights. Carradoc rubbed his eyes, struggling against the exhaustion and the creeping dread that pinched his stomach.
The whole of the southern Crimson Plain had been emptied of its inhabitants for more than a hundred years. After the terrible battle at Torwyn a few weeks ago, the Inverni all fled farther south, fearing retribution. And yet, the young king had placed a cordon of scouting outposts all along the southern border of the Crimson Plain, while King Gareth of the East Mark set his own scouts along the eastern edge of his domains.
Perhaps Gethin was playing another one of his pranks which he often did after returning with a load of supplies. Carradoc ghosted up the hill toward the stones, following the distinct trail. He usually avoided entering the ancient circle on principle. It was said to be the home of the dead who had once occupied this land. Such a place did not appreciate intruders. It was best left alone. He had a duty to perform, and he would do it, but there was no sense in disturbing the ancient powers that lingered in such places unless absolutely necessary.
The icy wind stung his cheeks and made his eyes water. Nothing stirred on the vast prairie, save the waving prairie grass. No one with any sense would be out in weather like this. An unseasonal chill swept down from the southern mountains, feeling more like a winter gale than a midsummer breeze. The crops back home at Yarwick would struggle to survive this cold snap.
As he approached the megaliths, wariness sharpened his senses. This place had a timeless quality about it that left one feeling thoughtful and melancholy. It smelled of earth and decay with a hint of the rancid odor of rotting meat. Bits of broken pottery and razor-sharp shards of flint littered the ground. Few walls remained from the ancient village. Instead, mounds rose in regular intervals where buildings once had stood. In the center of the old village on the round hill squatted this monument of ancient stones, stabbed into the earth in a wide circle.
A shiver swept through him, along with an appalling sense of dread. He paused, crouching low. To his left a hundred paces away, tendrils of white smoke trailed from the chimney hole of the little hut he and Madden had assembled from the remains of several buildings. The sight tempted Carradoc to seek out the warmth, but there was something strange prowling about.
He continued uphill until he reached the edge of the stone circle. The grays and browns of the flat stones were interrupted only by the occasional splash of green and orange lichen. Faded etchings of ancient runes and fantastical beasts had been chiseled into the weathered megaliths.
The runes meant nothing to him. In his younger days, he had sometimes imagined a world with flying serpents and hulking giants, but he knew they didn’t exist. These were matters for lords and the Varaná, not a simple farm boy-turned-soldier.
Carradoc paused again, not wanting to enter the circle. Dread gnawed at him. Where did it come from? He’d encountered Mahrowaiths while scouting for the king in the recent battles. This terror felt different. It was less crippling and originated from some sixth sense.
A shape wavered by the standing stones on the other side of the circle. It formed and slipped away again as if something—or someone—was flitting between the stones. Carradoc stiffened and studied the jumble of ruins. It hadn’t been a mere shadow this time. A black bird winged away, driven before the wind. Perhaps that was all it had been. Yet, something nagged at him, the way an itch tormented a person until they scratched.
The crunch of booted feet on gravel penetrated the howl of the tempest. Carradoc started and gripped the hilt of his sword. Madden wasn’t due to relieve him for some hours. A tall figure wrapped in a black cloak stepped from behind one of the upright stones. His features remained hidden by a high cowl.
The stout figure was the size and shape of Madden. Perhaps Carradoc had read the signs incorrectly. He relaxed his grip on the sword and smiled, ready to greet his friend and companion. But then Carradoc stopped.
This wasn’t right. The wind didn’t disturb this man’s robe. The fabric didn’t whip about as one would expect in a tempest like this. The man strode through the gale like it was nonexistent, and the grinding of his boots on the gravel sounded unnaturally loud. He also lacked Madden’s easy swagger. His walk was stiff and purposeful. Carradoc eased into a fighting stance. Who else could it be? The man shifted, and a gentle blue glow radiated from beneath his cowl.
Carradoc crouched low, seeking the shadows. His stomach clenched tight as the familiar thrill of coming battle swept through him. Who or what could this be?
The figure stopped a few paces away, as unmoving as the surrounding stones. Wind whipped the brown prairie grass about his feet, leaving his person undisturbed.
“Carradoc.” The voice was low and ragged like a wood rasp skidding across a board.
Goose flesh rose all over Carradoc’s body, and he shivered. He straightened, drawing his sword, placing it between him and this strange man to ward away whatever evil was approaching.
“Who are you?” he questioned. “What do you want?”
“Come with me, my friend.”
Carradoc hesitated. He wasn’t about to be led off into an ambush. He glanced around, checking for any sign of other attackers. The desolate land was empty and silent, save for the ominous howl produced by the wind. An odd sense of stagnant time washed over him. All existence held its breath, waiting for Carradoc’s reply.
“Where is Madden?” he demanded, hoping he might purchase a few moments to decide what to do.
“Do not worry about him. I have come for you.”
The man whipped out a thin stiletto blade and threw it, flashing toward Carradoc’s heart. Carradoc threw himself sideways, slashing at the flying blade with his sword. He missed, and the stiletto caught in the sleeve of his jacket, nicking his arm. He stumbled and slammed into one of the huge stones. Before he could recover, the man was on top of him, swinging a great sword in a high arc.
Carradoc hadn’t seen a sword poking out from the man’s cloak. He snapped up his blade in a desperate attempt to deflect the blow. The swords clanged, sending a numbing shiver of pain into Carradoc’s hands. He drove his shoulder into the man’s chest, earning a grunt and a momentary reprieve.
Regaining his footing, Carradoc circled away from the stones. His blood rushed through his veins, making his limbs tremble. If it was a fight to the death this man wanted, he would have it. Carradoc needed room to maneuver. He yanked the stiletto from his sleeve where it still dangled and tossed it far behind him where his attacker couldn’t recover it.
“Let us not quarrel, Carradoc,” the man said, obviously trying to make his harsh voice sound soothing.
“Old friends have no need to squabble.”
“Old friends?” Carradoc sneered.
He had no friends here other than Madden, who was sleeping off the exhaustion of the night watch beside a cozy fire. Still, that voice was familiar. Carradoc tried to place it. But no. This was an unnecessary distraction. He didn’t need to know who the man was. It was enough to know that he meant to murder him. Carradoc would keep his head by not losing his focus. He shifted the weight of his sword in his hand for a better grip and assumed a fighting stance.
The stranger flicked his wrist and another thin dagger appeared in his left hand. He closed the distance between them in one great bound, driving the long sword toward Carradoc’s heart. Carradoc swept the blow aside with a ringing clang and reversed his sword for a stab at his attacker’s face. The shadowed man avoided it, and the thin blade of the stiletto bit into Carradoc’s thigh. He gasped and staggered backward.
“I have drawn first blood,” the man said. “You must yield.”
What did this man think this was? Some judicial combat or weapons play for sport? He would never yield to someone who had already proven he could not be trusted.
The great sword hummed as it swung toward Carradoc’s neck. Carradoc ducked and swiped at the man’s knees. The man laughed as he leaped to the side and attacked again. There was something familiar about the man’s fighting style. Carradoc deflected the charge and kicked the man in the groin. The man grunted and bent forward.
Carradoc brought the butt of his sword down with all his strength on the man’s head where the spine meets the skull. A loud crack rang off the walls. The man crumpled in a heap. Carradoc kicked him over and leveled his sword at the man’s throat, ready to thrust it home. The man’s hood collapsed inward to reveal Madden’s face. Carradoc gasped. A chill swept through him.
It was Madden, and yet, it wasn’t. Where his comrade had possessed a swarthy complexion, this man was as pale as a ghost. His skin appeared translucent and waxy, as though he had never seen sunlight. The once deep brown eyes now stared up at him, vacant in death, with a horrible aqua-blue glow.
“No,” Carradoc whispered. He knelt beside Madden and shook him. Madden did not stir. Caradoc fingered his neck, searching for a pulse. There wasn’t one. Madden’s skin was ice-cold, too cold for a living person or even one recently dead. Carradoc yanked his hand away and wiped it on his trousers.
“By the crystal waters,” he mumbled. “What have I done?”
Horror boiled up inside him. Something unnatural was at work here. This could not be his friend and comrade. Carradoc would not accept the terrible truth. He couldn’t be responsible for killing Madden. He jumped up and raced to the little shelter, ignoring the burning pain in his thigh.
Throwing his shoulder against the door, Carradoc burst into the shack. Warm air, laced with wood smoke, slapped his face as did the coppery reek of blood. He skidded to a stop. The breath caught in his throat. Gethin, the messenger, sprawled on the floor with his throat slashed open. The oozing cut curved like an awful grin.
“Sweet Anarwyn,” he whispered.
This couldn’t be happening. Madden was gone, as were his weapons and cloak. A cup of ale lay overturned on the rough table, staining its wood a dull brown.
A pile of rones, the small, blue gemstones that served as money all through the lands of Anwyn, lay strewn across the table and trampled into the dirt floor. One stone rested in a blackened hole in the surface of the table and pulsed with a gentle blue light. Carradoc reached out. Before touching it, he jerked his hand back. The hole in the wood was the exact size and shape of the rone as if it had burned itself into the wood. Was that even possible?
Carradoc clenched his teeth and wiped the cold sweat from his brow with a trembling hand. He had killed Madden—his friend and fellow scout on many adventures. It was too awful to be believed. Madden was gone, and the dead man outside looked like a phantom of him. Something or someone had possessed his friend.
A malicious power was at work in this place of death, and Cam needed to know about it. Carradoc stuffed all the remaining food into his saddlebags and slung the waterskins over his shoulder. He couldn’t carry the little barrel of ale, so he chugged as much as he could before snatching up a bow and a quiver of arrows, along with his bedroll.
He paused as he considered the blue rones scattered on the table and floor. It seemed foolish to leave money behind when he might need it. The rones glittered the same shade as Madden’s eyes had, and Carradoc couldn’t bring himself to touch them. Spinning away from this scene of death, he fled the shelter.
The icy wind stole the breath from his lungs as he staggered around to the makeshift corral where they kept the horses, their heads bent to the tempest. Carradoc pitied the poor beasts. Still, he couldn’t afford to be soft today. He saddled his horse and set the others free to seek their own shelter before galloping through the ruins and out onto the open plain. The gale blew at his back, shooing him on his way. It would take him half a day to reach the next outpost, and it was already twilight.
Daylight faded as he made his way northwest. The ominous red glow of the horizon guided him until it washed away, and he rode on into the gathering darkness. No moon rose to light his way, so Carradoc relied on his memory of the rolling hills and his instincts to guide him. He was certain of his direction. Yet, when he reached the jumble of rocks where the next guard was to be posted, no one hailed him. The night was silent except for the constant rush of the wind over the prairie grass and its intermittent wails as it whipped through the rocky crevices. That odd tingle of danger rippled over his skin, and he reined his horse to a stop to listen.
Finding no new sounds or scents on the wind, Carradoc dismounted and draped the horse’s reins over a shrub, tying a quick clove hitch to keep it there. Why hadn’t they lit a fire on a night like this? He drew his sword and worked his way into the rocks. The bitter darkness made the going difficult. He banged his shins off jagged stones and slipped on loose gravel, making the wound in his thigh ache. He wasn’t surprised when he tripped again as he approached the pile of boulders where the guards’ shack nestled.
This time, his hand landed on something cold and wet. He scrambled to his knees and fingered the object. It was padded linen and had the shape of a man. Revulsion pinched Carradoc’s stomach. It was one of the guards. He yanked his hand free with a curse and lunged to his feet, away from the dead man. He wiped the sticky blood from his hands, wrestling with shock and confusion. Was anyone left alive?
He crashed into the shack. It was so dark he could discern nothing. He fumbled around until he found the flint and tinder and struck a spark with a steel rod. In his nervous agitation, it took him several tries to get a candle lit from the burning tinder. When he did light one and a pale yellow flame lit the room, he surveyed his surroundings. The shack was deserted and in a state of considerable chaos—furniture was overturned and broken, and a trail of blood led out the door. Something, or someone, was killing the watchmen on the Crimson Plain. That was clear enough. But why?
Carradoc raced back to his horse and leaped into the saddle. He reined it around, when a dark feeling crept over him. The horse shied, and Carradoc squinted into the darkness, trying to see what had frightened it. Above him, not twenty paces away, two bright blue eyes peered at him. His horse reared and bolted. Carradoc clung to the saddle, leaning low, giving the horse all the rein it wanted as they swept into the night, fleeing the death that pursued them.
