The inn grew quiet as the night wore on. Finally, even Alvar turned in, leaving Amon alone in the common room. He had taken to an armchair by the hearth with a book from Alvar’s small collection. As usual, he had selected The Tales of Varashir Moonhunter from the stack. It was really the only good book Alvar had. He’d read it again and again, to the point that he knew every plot point and twist by heart. The worn book was like an old friend, one he visited whenever he could. The tales were simple adventure stories, the plots full of monsters and heroism. Varashir was a hero-adventurer who had lived some 1,000 years ago. He was also a half-breed. In most versions, he was a half-elf, the son of a Tuath father and a Westerling mother. In others, including this one, he was half demon instead, the product of a union between an elf and a demon.

  He'd been thumbing through the book for some time now, never really settling on a particular story. He usually read it all the way through whenever he had time to pick it up, getting lost in the romanticized tales of dragons and heroes.

  Not tonight. He couldn’t keep focus on the pages in front of him. There had been no sign of pursuit since he had left that Seeker tied to that tree, yet he couldn’t relax. The events of that day weighed on his mind. He hated to leave enemies alive at his back, but there was nothing to do about it now.

  Killing those two Seekers had brought no joy; killing never did. There was no honor in shooting a man in the back before they even knew he was there or catching the second with his pants down and putting an arrow in his eye.

  Desperate events brought about desperate actions, though. And any event involving the Scarlet Tower was desperate indeed. No doubt the two Seekers left had found each other by now. Once the prey was sighted, they would never give up the chase. They might retreat to regroup in Stormgarde, then come after him in force.

  Amon deeply regretted revealing himself to Justan. It had had the desired effect in the moment, but now agents from the Scarlet Tower knew that the ranger sometimes known as Nightwolf and sometimes as Amon was a demon. He’d had dealings with the Tower long ago, and if the Tower knew that he was still alive, they would never stop trying to kill him. The brand on his forearm was the least of what their Inquisitors had done to him while he’s been a prisoner in the Scarlet Tower. As far as he knew, he was the only person to ever escape the place. His hand went idly to his throat, where the scar of a rope still showed against his skin. It had been a long time, 80 years at least, since he’d last encountered agents from the Tower, but the Tower had a long memory.

  The other was even more concerning than the Seekers. That thing that had been leaving mutilated animals in their path was always on his mind. He wasn’t certain, not yet, of how or what it was, but he had some suspicions. Could it be a Shade? A Shadowman? Had Mirithial Celeriand finally sent an assassin after him?

  With the Tower and this other threat now pressing close, it might do to take Liddy’s suggestion and leave Tol Morad with Galan and Nora. His cabin was just 10 miles or so up the mountain from where he sat in Farshire. He would have liked to sleep in his own bed for the first time in months, but he didn’t dare take the children there. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust them, well, he didn’t trust anyone anymore. He didn’t dare lead their pursuers straight to his home.

  He rarely stayed the night in the inn, but it was either this or sleep out in the cold. If he’d been alone, he would have gladly picked the latter, to his and Alvar’s relief. He couldn’t force another freezing night on his charges, though, not with a warm inn tantalizingly close.

  He smiled at the memory of the look on Alvar’s face when he had informed the man that he would be staying the night. A warm bed, a hot meal, and a bath had been worth the coin. He’s had to argue with Alvar for the right to use the bathhouse, though. The inn sported three bathhouses, two private and one communal, all fed from a mineral hot spring over which the inn had been built. Alvar had been on the verge of refusing Amon access to any of the bathhouses on the grounds that should any of the villagers or regular patrons should see a demon coming in or out might refuse to ever frequent his establishment again.

  With a sigh, Amon closed the book. He couldn’t keep his mind on the page long enough to make reading worthwhile. He hoped Galan and Nora were getting some sleep; at least they would be well-rested tomorrow. He himself hadn’t slept more than an hour or two each night since setting out from Ambermill. He never slept well around others, even ones that seemed as innocuous as those two. The strain and exhaustion were starting to tell on his wits. Still, sleeping in this place, even behind a locked door, was out of the question.

  Amon idly adjusted the dagger at his belt so that the hilt didn’t dig into his side. Alvar gave him sour looks for wearing a weapon openly in the inn, but Amon had been attacked, more than once, in this very common room. Alvar also grumbled about him bringing Ferron inside. Alvar grumbled about a lot.

  Footsteps echoed in the hall leading to the kitchens. Too light to be Alvar, Amon thought. He didn’t turn to look but continued to stare at the fire. If whoever it was intended him harm, he would know soon enough. In addition to the dagger at his belt, he had a knife stashed in each boot and another slender stiletto blade sheathed beneath one sleeve.

  “It always surprises me that you read.”

  The voice was an echo of his past. Dark memories came rushing back. It had been more than 60 years since he’d last seen her, yet he painfully remembered their last encounter. Forcing down the panic that threatened to overwhelm him, Amon set the book aside and rose to face Sarella.

  Her hair was short, cropped just below her pointed ears, a true elven shade of silvery blue. The color of her hair made her deep blue eyes look even darker. She’d worn her hair longer the last time he’d seen her, but other than that, she was exactly as he remembered, right down to her clothes. She wore tight blue trousers that hugged her form and a white blouse, unlaced to display an indecent amount of cleavage and an embroidered blue and gold vest. She had always bucked tradition, going out of her way to violate basic elven decency standards.

  Two burly bodyguards leaned casually against the wall at the mouth of the hallway, one on either side, cutting off an escape route and insuring Alvar wouldn’t disturb them. Amon was glad for the weight of his dagger at his belt. One of them would end up bleeding by the end of this.

  “What are you doing here, Sarella?”

  Sarella cocked her head to the side and considered him. She stood just a few paces away, a few tables in between them. “So nice to see you too, Amon. And here I was worried you wouldn’t remember me.” She gave him a sickeningly sweet smile.

  “As if I could forget,” Amon said. He let his hand hover near his dagger, just in case. Sarella wore no visible weapons, but with her, that meant little and less.

  “How long has it been? Sixty years?”

  ‘Sixty-four,” Amon said. She had always been irritating. It was a particular talent of hers. “What are you doing here?”

  “I could as the same of you? The End of the World? They certainly named this place well. I never figured you for living like a hermit in the middle of nowhere. You’ve fallen a long way, Amon. Lost your sense of adventure?”

  Amon put his back to the wall, just in case. He put on a calm fa?ade, but underneath he was close to outright panic. Sarella always did that to him. “Answer me, what are you doing here?”

  “You never did have any tact,” Sarella said, moving closer, swaying her hips in what was supposed to be an alluring manner. “It’s pure coincidence that I happened to meet you here. It’s an academic interest that brings me to this miserable little shithole of a town. I need a guide to take me up Mount Basal.”

  Amon didn’t believe for a moment that Sarella was here by coincidence. She did nothing at random. She could lie as easily as breathe, he recalled, and he would never trust a word out of her mouth. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Have you become a scholar now?” he asked, hoping to put her off guard. “If you want to go up the mountain, then go up the mountain.” He glanced at the two hulks by the hallway. “You seem well protected. Why do you need me?”

  “Did I say anything about needing you? You think too much of yourself, you always have. You haven’t changed a bit, have you? I need a guide who knows the area well, but you… you really would send a woman into the wilderness alone?”

  “As if you need protection,” Amon said. “You’re as good with a blade as I am.”

  Sarella laughed at him. “You really do think too much of yourself. The last time I saw you fight, you got knocked in the dirt and begged for mercy. I could kill you where you stand and you couldn’t do anything about it.”

  Amon tried not to edge away. It was what she wanted, to make him squirm. He didn’t doubt her boast. She had a dozen knives hidden on her person, he knew. And she had always been fond of poisons. “I have no interest in helping you.”

  “Oh?” Sarella put on a petulant smile. “Such a shame.” She sidled up to him, pushing him back against the wall beside the hearth, far too close for comfort. She stood a hand taller than Amon, and this close, he found himself looking up at her. He didn’t like that; it put him at a significant disadvantage. She knew that, of course. That was why she did it. She raised her hand.

  For a moment, he thought she meant to slap him across the face. Then, she traced the line of his jaw with one finger. She knew he didn’t like to be touched, but she did it anyways. She always had. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of making him pull away.

  “We used to have so much fun together,” Sarella said, not taking her hand away. Her breath smelled of mint. “We could have fun together again. Your talents shouldn’t go to waste out here in the middle of nowhere.” Her eyes had a dangerous gleam. “Don’t tell me you don’t miss it?”

  It took Amon a moment to realize that she was really suggesting what he thought she was. She had often dragged him into her bed in the years they had spent together, so long ago, whether he was willing or not. She had been able to snare him back then, when he was young and stupid and still had some measure of trust in people. She had killed that in him. It wouldn’t happen again.

  He caught her hand in his and removed it from his face. “I don’t miss what you did to me,” he said. “You used me for your own ends. I don’t like being used.”

  Sarella ripped her hand out of his. “Oh come now, it wasn’t like that. You came to me willingly. You could have left anytime you wanted.”

  If he had tried to leave her back in those days, Amon knew, she would have put a dagger in his back. “What do you want with me?”

  Sarella moved. She seized the collar of his jerkin and shoved him against the wall. He felt the point of a dagger prick the skin beneath his chin. “I seem to recall promising to kill you the next time I saw you,” she said dangerously. “I should. A demon like you doesn’t deserve to live.”

  Amon started to speak, but stopped himself. He would not give her the satisfaction of making him beg for his life. He had few options. If he moved, she would drive that dagger up into his brain before he could react. “You don’t need to do this,” he said calmly, as though the dagger at his throat did not exist. He had to keep her talking. “If you kill me, then I can’t tell you what you need to know about the mountain.” He felt the dagger point withdraw a tiny bit.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  Sarella’s eyes were hungry. “So, you do know something? Tell me.”

  “Get that dagger out of my throat and I might,” Amon growled. She had taken the bait; as he felt the knife withdraw, he knew he had the upper hand. Ignoring the line of blood now trickling down his neck, Amon extracted himself from Sarella’s grasp and moved to the opposite wall, putting as much distance and furniture between them as possible.

  Well, a few tables and chairs would make for a poor obstacle should she come at him again, but any advantage was better than none. Amon was aware that her bodyguards had shifted positions. One now guarded the base of the stairs, the other, the front door. Each had a nasty, studded cudgel at his belt and a shortbow and quiver on his back, but as yet, neither had drawn a weapon. They seemed content to wait. Likely, Sarella had ordered them to stay back. If it came to it, she would want to kill him with her own hand.

  “Tell me about the mountain,” Sarella demanded, sliding around a table to get closer. Amon moved away. He wouldn’t let her corner him again.

  “I don’t really know that much about it,” Amon said, enjoying the incredulous look that flashed across Sarella’s fine face. It was dangerous to antagonize her, though. “It’s a mountain. Rock, snow, ice. There are some hot springs around the base. I could tell you which ones are safe to bathe in and which are so acidic they’d dissolve you in minutes. There are some griffins that roost near the summit…”

  “I don’t care about griffins!” Sarella’s voice was loud enough to wake the entire inn and half the town besides. “You were here when the mountain erupted, weren’t you?”

  “Was I? It was so long ago, I can’t say that I really recall events from ninety years ago.”

  Sarella had an object in her hand. Not a blade, a book. Where had that come from? She threw it at his head. He ducked. The book exploded off the wall behind him in a shower of yellowed pages. He glanced down at the pile of vellum at his feet and caught a glimpse of the title page. The History of the Great Eruption of Mount Basal in 1248…

  “What is your interest in the mountain?” Amon asked. “You never were one for history books.” He studied her. “It’s dragons, isn’t it?”

  She seemed irritated that he had figured it out. “Yes,” she snapped. “When Mount Basal erupted, some claimed to see a dragon rising amid the ash plume. You were here. You were on the mountain. You might be the only person alive who actually saw the mountain erupt. Is there a dragon under Mount Basal?”

  So that was it. Even after all these years, Sarella was still obsessed with dragons. She had dragged him halfway across the known world in her search for the great wyrms that most believed had died out thousands of years ago. In a way, Amon pitied her. To devote your life to a lost cause...

  “I was on the mountain when it blew,” Amon said. “There was so much confusion, raining rocks and ash and fire, the ground quaking, chunks of glowing hot rock larger than a house rolling down the sides of the mountain, the snow melting into mud and flowing like a river...I was more concerned with ducking for cover than watching the skies. I never saw a dragon that day.” Those were hard memories to dredge up. He had been the guide for that expedition up the mountain. There had been seven, three scholars all the way from Silmyr, an adventurer, and three officials out of Lath, and every one of them had looked down their noses at him. They had come to investigate the volcanic activity of the mountain, which had been ramping up for a few years, the earthquakes growing steadily worse. None of them had been pleased that the only guide they could secure had been a young demon with nothing to lose. The expedition had gotten off to a rocky start and only got worse as it went on. The scholars, college-bred snobs from Aluna-across-the-sea, had been the worst. Well, elves never treated him with any respect. They tended to look at him like a piece of dung stuck to their boots when they weren’t trying to stick a blade in him. When the mountain began to erupt, they had even had the audacity to blame Amon for using some sort of “demon magic” to cause it. Three of their group had been killed during the eruption. Those poor fools had been on the edge of the crater when it blew, taking soil samples or some such. That any of them had survived at all was nothing short of amazing.

  “You should talk to some of the people here,” Amon suggested. “Master Alvar can point you to those who do believe there is, or at least was, a dragon under the mountain.”

  “I want you to take me up the mountain,” Sarella said.

  “I can’t,” Amon said. Telling Sarella no was always dangerous. There was no surer way to provoke her anger. Despite that, there was no way he was going to do what she wanted. “As much as I would love to spend more time than I must in your company, I have a prior obligation. I can’t put it aside to help you.”

  Sarella glared at him as though she wished she had something else to throw. If she was going to fling a knife his way, it would be now. “Those two you came in with?” Sarella smiled a cold smile that chilled Amon to the core. He hadn’t known that she knew of Galan and Nora. She was not above harming them to get at him. “What are they to you? The girl is a bit young for you. Or do you like them that young now? She’s pretty for a Westerling, in a country sort of way, I suppose. Or is it the boy? Have your tastes changed that much?”

  She was trying to provoke him. It almost worked. Amon bottled his anger deep down. He wouldn’t let her know just how deeply her words cut. She knew...she knew things about his past, about his childhood. He deeply regretted telling her anything. He had been young and stupid then, and he had thought he loved her. She was the last person he had ever been open with. She had taught him an important lesson. No one would ever hurt him like that again.

  “Thank you, Sarella, for reminding me why I never wanted to see you again.” Amon made himself smile. He wouldn’t let her see what she had done. “I would advise you to forget this ridiculous quest, ride away from here and go spin your schemes somewhere else.”

  “You think idle threats and vague warnings will deter me? You won’t do anything. You never could do anything. You’re like a dog on a leash as far as I’m concerned. I don’t know who’s holding your leash now, but they do seem to have you well domesticated. It looks like you’re fit to be allowed indoors these days. If I call, you’ll come.”

  Amon had to do something to divert her, to get her to leave. If this continued, he would lose control of his temper. It was either that, or shed blood in the common room of the inn. Alvar might never let him inside again if that happened. If it came to blades, he would most like have to kill Sarella and both her bodyguards. He deeply regretted leaving his swordbelt upstairs.

  “There is a cave,” Amon said.

  “What?”

  “A cave. On Mount Basal. I don’t know how far into the mountain it goes, but if there is a chamber beneath the mountain, it might lead to it. I’ve never explored it much.” He saw the gleam of greed in her blue eyes. “I’m not leading you there, don’t even ask, but I can tell you how to get there.”

  That seemed to settle her down a bit. She stood back and crossed her arms over her chest. “I have a map,” she said. “Show me.”

  She spread her map on the table. By the light of the hearth and an oil lamp, Amon showed her where he had found the cave entrance. She was standing uncomfortably close, close enough that he could smell the faint, lingering jasmine and vanilla perfume she had always been fond of.

  “Look for a rock formation called the Dragon’s Eye,” Amon said. “You’ll know it when you see it. It stands out above the snow. The cave is directly below, at the tree line. With the snow the way it is, I don’t know if the cave is even accessible. Your friends over there might be able to dig out the entrance for you.”

  “Such a shame you have that prior obligation,” Sarella said. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have any good reason to refuse me.”

  There was an implied threat there, Amon was sure of it. He rolled up the map and thrust it at her. “We’re done here. I hope you find what you’re looking for, Sarella, but leave me out of it.” Without giving her a chance to respond with either a verbal dig or a knife, he walked away. He kept his ears open for the sound of a knife being thrown and didn’t let himself breathe until he had gained the hallway and turned the corner.

  Master Alvar accosted him immediately. “What is going on out there?” the fat innkeep demanded, glowering his most threatening glare. Amon ignored it. “I thought someone was going to get killed out there!”

  “It’s over,” Amon said. “Keep well out of that woman’s way, she’s dangerous. We’re leaving, now. Have your stableboy saddle out horses, if you would. I mean to be out of here quickly.”

  “She said she knew you,” Alvar said.

  “Oh, she does,” Amon said.

  Whether Alvar would summon his stableboy as he asked or not scarcely mattered. Amon took the servant’s stair behind the kitchen, taking the stairs two at a time in his haste. He wouldn’t put it past Sarella to send someone to do something to Galan and Nora just to spite him. The End of the World wasn’t safe anymore.

  He reached the rooms he had rented for them, and realized with a bit of horror that neither Nora nor Galan had thought to bar their doors. It was the innocence of youth, he supposed. The world would kill that in no time at all. That was a depressing thought. He woke Galan and made sure the boy understood the need for haste, then went to Nora’s room next door.

  Ferron was sleeping on the bed next to Nora. Despite the events of the evening, that made him smile. As he lit an oil lamp, the wolf rose and hopped off the bed, the motion waking Nora.

  “We have to leave. Get up, get your boots on, quickly.”

  “Why, what’s happening?” Nora asked, rubbing sleep from her eyes. She looked at him “Why are you bleeding?”

  Amon’s hand went to the spot under his chin where Sarella’s dagger had pricked him. A thin line of now dried blood ran down his throat and disappeared under his scarf. “It’s nothing,” he said. Sarella did use poison from time to time, though. If she had poisoned that blade, he would have already felt the effects. Not all poisons worked on demons, though. Angara was supposed to kill within hours when added to food or wine, but the last time someone tried to use it on him, he had spent two days doubled over in pain and the better part of a week too sick to move, but it hadn’t killed him.

  Nora was pulling on her boots as Galan entered, still pulling on his coat. “What’s wrong?” he asked, still groggy.

  “I’ll explain later,” Amon said. “We have to go.” He gratefully buckled on his swordbelt, then slung his saddlebags over his shoulder and led the way back down the narrow servant’s stair. He didn’t dare try the main staircase. Sarella might well still be in the common room. That was a confrontation he wanted to avoid.

  An orange glow from inside the stable could have been good or bad. Entering, Amon found that Master Alvar had indeed followed his instructions. One bleary-eyed stableboy was saddling Shade, while Alvar himself saddled Red.

  “You can deal with that hellbeast yourself,” Alvar said, nodding toward Flint still in his stall.

  Nora went to Flint and led him out. She was good with the horse. The dark bay was significantly better-tempered than he had been back in Ambermill. That first night, Amon had been almost certain Flint was going to kill the girl. He claimed Shade from the stableboy. The lad gawked at him. Amon hadn’t bothered with his hood. It hardly mattered now. He checked the girth, snugged it up a bit, and led Shade out into the darkness. Scarcely waiting for Nora and Galan to lead their horses out, he swung into the saddle.

  “Will you please tell us what’s going on?” Nora asked as she mounted. Galan emerged from the stable a moment later pulling Red behind him. He climbed aboard.

  “It’s not safe here,” Amon said. He itched to be riding. He glanced at the darkened inn.

  “What do you mean?” Nora pressed.

  “Someone arrived tonight who would do you harm to get to me,” he explained reluctantly. “You don’t need to know the details; beyond that we must leave now.” He led them out of town slowly, walking the horses so as not to stir up too much noise and draw attention to themselves. He suspected Sarella was watching them depart from within the inn, but he wasn’t about to leave a trail a blind man could follow. As the last house was dwindling in the darkness behind them, Amon pushed them to a fast trot. The roads out of Farshire were rough and in disrepair. Anything faster risked a horse breaking a leg in an unseen hole.

  For the second time in as many days, he had left an enemy alive at his back. That thought rankled him. He was never for leaving a threat unanswered. First the Seeker he had left bound to the tree and his friend who had gotten away. He still didn’t know how he felt about Nora stepping in when she thought he meant to kill the man. He still wasn’t entirely certain he would have done it. Slaying a foe in combat was one thing, executing a prisoner was another matter entirely. And now Sarella. Of the two, the woman was the far greater threat. Skilled with sword and dagger, fond of poisons, and devious as a snake. He would rather face an entire Legion from the Scarlet Tower than go up against her again. She used mental warfare as much as steel and she knew how to hurt him, to break his walls, to twist his mind. He hoped that she would simply leave him be, but that was not how Sarella operated. Now that she knew where he was, she would never give up trying to sink her claws into him, or kill him.

  He was going to have to leave Tol Morad, that much was clear. Too many uncertain players now knew that he was alive and where he was. It meant abandoning all he had in the world, this meager life he had scraped together over the past half century. His cabin, his home here, the only town where he could walk with his head uncovered. Anywhere else, outside of Blackreach of course, the horns on his head were a pariah’s mark at best, at worst, a death sentence. Starting over would be difficult, but not impossible. As he led Galan and Nora through the darkness, he thought of Tol Doril, the small isle to the north. A short sea crossing could be managed when the weather was decent, and occasionally the sea ice would form thick enough to make the crossing on foot possible during the winter. Fishing boats out of Hardcoast and a few other villages fished the waters around Tol Doril, but no one lived there. No one but the druids who maintained a small enclave somewhere on the island. Druids had always been more tolerant than him of most, though they still looked down on him the way elves always did. It might be for the best. No one was like to bother him there. If he kept away from the druids, he might never see another human being again. Yes, that was the best option. There were few places a demon could live unmolested.