The morning came as a subtle lightening of the shadows. It had snowed on and off all night. Now, three inches of fresh snow blanketed the ground. The clouds were fleeing, the storm passing. The day promised to be clear. Amon woke Galan and Nora early, before the light of morning had fully lightened the sky and had them in the saddle before an hour had passed. The sun breached the mountains as they were winding their way down the northern side of Basal Pass. As they rode, Amon tried to puzzle out what had happened the night before. One moment, he’d have sworn he would have never spoken of those terrible events, but the next, he was pouring his heart out to these two children who he barely knew. The previous morning, there had been only two people alive, and him one of them, who knew the story behind the ugly, dark scar encircling his neck. He tried his best to hide it beneath his scarf, but apparently, he had not hidden it well enough. At least they had the grace not to speak of it. Amon was hiding under his hood, despite the welcome sunshine. It was all he could do to escape the stares. He hated the feeling that someone was staring at him. Galan and Nora tried hard not to stare, he knew, but they couldn’t help it. Knowing that didn’t make it easier.

  Nora rode up alongside Amon. Flint was walking calmly with his head down. Amon hadn’t thought he’d ever see that horse settle down. He watched Nora carefully. If she spoke of what he had told her last night, he might simply put the spurs to Shade and gallop off. He hadn’t meant to, but he had put a great deal of trust in her and Galan both. He couldn’t simply ask them not to speak of it, but if either of them tried to ask about that scar again, he would never trust them again. He was considering letting them go alone to the mainland. Maybe it would be better that way.

  “What happens when we get to Hardcoast?” Nora asked. She had her hood thrown back, obviously enjoying the sunshine. The light caught in her auburn hair.

  “If everything has gone right, there will be a ship waiting.”

  “And if not?”

  “Then we wait,” Amon said. “Liddy keeps her word. The ship will come. And if it doesn’t, we’ll come up with another plan.”

  “Where is this ship going to take us?” Nora asked.

  “To somewhere on the mainland. I’m not sure where. Liddy didn’t tell me. There will be an escort waiting for you.”

  Nora frowned at the way he had phrased that. “You are coming with us, right?” she asked hesitantly.

  Amon didn’t know how to answer. If he let them get on that ship alone, he would never be able to forgive himself if something happened to them. If he boarded that ship, though, the life he had built here would be over. “Of course,” he said. Just like that, he’d made his choice. As if there had ever been a one in the first place.

  They wound down off Mount Basal, into the lesser mountains that couldn’t match the height of the great peak. They were less than 20 miles from the coast now, but the road would continue to climb and dip through these hills for two more days before they finally reached Hardcoast in its sheltered cove. They had glimpsed the sea from the slopes of Mount Basal, where the trees were sparse and stunted. They wouldn’t see the ocean again until they were nearly upon the village. They rode most of the day, winding down and down through dense forests of black pine and fir and cedars.

  Near evening, Amon spied a column of smoke off to the west. It appeared to be coming from the general vicinity of the road they would shortly ride. He instructed Galan and Nora to wait and went off to investigate. Smoke meant men, and men were always a cause for suspicion. Moving on foot, Ferron at his side, Amon crept as close as he dared to the camp.

  And a camp it was. Tents were scattered about the meadow like mushrooms after a rain. He counted nearly a hundred. Men moved about, some tending to the horses that stood in orderly horselines on the downhill side of the camp, some chopping potatoes and vegetables for the evening’s stewpots, some polishing armor. To man, they were elven in heritage. The device upon pennon and banner and breast displayed the moon and raven of House Celwyn. Everywhere he spied neat racks of polearms and halberds, swords and spears. It was a war camp if he’d ever seen one. What were they doing out here in the middle of nowhere? The largest tent, dead in center of the camp, flew a large banner that stirred in the breeze. The shield on the banner was divided forest green and deep blue, the moon and raven of Celwyn on one side, black on silver, the white seahorse of Caerheyes on the other. The offspring of Matron Celwyn and her lord, then. A single gold star hung above raven and seahorse, the mark of cadency for a firstborn child. It would be a son, a knight, leading this warband.

  A quick headcount revealed that at least 20 of the men who should have been in this camp were absent. Out scouting? If a scouting patrol stumbled across Galan and Nora...Amon silently slipped away from the camp. Ferron plunged ahead in the underbrush and soon vanished. The wolf did as he pleased. He was still a wild creature, even after nine years at Amon’s side.

  Amon moved swiftly, taking care to make no unnecessary noise. This was the skill he prided himself in, not his skill with swords. As he neared the spot where he had left Galan and Nora, the sound of voices reached his ears. He was too late. Creeping through the trees, he spied a dozen elven soldiers surrounding the children.

  Amon had rarely had good dealings with elves. They often seemed offended by his every existence. Some sought to remedy that with a blade. He briefly considered slipping away silently; surely the men wouldn’t harm two children alone in the woods. Yet Liddy had implicitly warned him not to trust Celwyn men, less Lord and Lady Celwyn. Not that he would have trusted them without the warning. It wouldn’t do. Amon edged a bit closer.

  Each man wore the surcoat of House Celwyn, forest green bordered in silver, the moon and raven arms upon their chests, over mail and boiled leather. Their helms were well-polished steel, elven style with swept-back wings at the temple and a nasal reminiscent of a hawk’s beak. As he watched, two more rode up. One was plainly a squire, a young man who sat his saddle too proudly, trying to look important. The second most certainly was important. He had the look of a knight about him. His breastplate was shining steel, his green cloak good wool trimmed in silver satin. He rode a tall bay courser with a blanket showing the Celwyn sigil. No doubt he was the one who inhabited the big tent back in the camp. He was one who flew the banner of Celwyn’s firstborn son. Amon cursed silently. This was bad, very bad. He watched the knight dismount, hand his horse’s reins to his squire, and stride forward, looking at Nora and Galan, who stood close together by the horses, as though they were common brigands.

  The knight removed his helm. His hair was raven black, his eyes deep green. The short cut of his hair marked him as unwed. “What have we here?” he asked, looking over the children. He was easily the tallest of his men.

  “We found them on our patrol, Sir Aren,” a man said.

  Sir Aren looked at Nora and Galan critically. “And what are two younglings doing with three horses way out here in the wilds?” he asked. “Where is the third?”

  “There is no one else,” Nora said quickly. “We’re alone. Shade is our packhorse.” She stepped forward, putting herself between Galan and the knight. Brave girl, Amon thought.

  Sir Aren clearly saw right through Nora’s story. “Alone. Miles away from any town. Where are you going?”

  “Hardcoast,” Nora said. “We came from Farshire.”

  “And what about your friend, the one with the white hair? Where has he gone?”

  Amon started at that. Had their scouts seen him? If they had, then he was growing careless indeed. Oh Light, if they had seen him without his hood...He took quick stock of the situation. A full dozen soldiers in mail and boiled leather, the knight in steel plate, each with sword and bow. No one yet had drawn a weapon, but each man rested his hands casually near the hilts of his blades. Four had taken up high ground, bows strung, arrows standing in the soil at their feet, ready.

  “I think you two will be coming with us,” Sir Aren said. “We will see you fed and then we will talk further.”

  Nora took a step back. Galan had his hand on the hilt of his pilfered sword, though he had yet to draw it. Don’t do it, Amon thought. He didn’t know what the soldiers might do if Galan drew that blade.

  “If you will not come, then tell me where your friend slipped off to. We will sort this out, whether here or back at our camp.”

  “There is no one else,” Nora insisted.

  “We will take you back to our camp, then,” Sir Aren said. “If I must, I will take you back to Ravenwood and let Matron Celwyn sort you out.”

  “You will do no such thing!” Amon rose and strode out into the jaws of the trap. He couldn’t let this go on any longer. The sound of steel scraping on leather resounded off the trees as a dozen blades were suddenly ripped from their scabbards and leveled his way. The four archers had nocked and drawn; four shafts aimed at his chest. The swords might have been daunting, but those arrows were the real threat. He might dodge one shot, but four?

  “The mysterious friend appears,” Sir Aren said, sounding satisfied. Amon immediately disliked the man. “Who are you?”

  “Give me your name, sir, and I’ll give you mine,” Amon said, pushing between Shade and Red to stand beside the children. He laid a comforting hand upon Galan’s shoulder. The poor lad looked ready to faint or flee.

  “I am Sir Aren Celwyn,” the knight said. “I have the command here. And you are?”

  “Some men call me the Nightwolf,” Amon said. He made no move to remove his hood. With luck, he might be able to talk his way out of this.

  “You are the ranger that haunts these northern woods,” Sir Aren said. “We have heard a bit about you.” That wasn’t good. Nothing good had ever come from a statement like that. Amon was certain of it a moment later. “Remove your hood.”

  Amon made no move to comply. How would these soldiers react if he took off his hood? They might cut him down out of hand, though they might do the same if he refused. They seemed familiar with that assumed name he used occasionally. How much had they heard?

  “I will not ask twice,” Sir Aren said, resting his hand on the pommel of his sword. He alone had not drawn a blade when Amon appeared out of the trees. He stood with the easy grace of a fighter.

  If he’d been alone, Amon might have tried to fight his way free. There was no way to defeat a dozen soldiers and a knight besides. He would die, but he might take a few of them with him. He expected that would be the same result if he complied. Certainly, this highborn knight wouldn’t harm Nora and Galan because of him... His heart pounded in his ears. Amon reached up and pushed back his hood.

  A ripple seemed to pass through the gathered soldiers, a collective gasp and whispered mutters given voice all at once. Amon fully expected to be run through at any instant.

  “So, it is true,” Sir Aren said, breathless. “I did not believe the tales that Nightwolf the ranger was a demon.”

  “What of it?” Amon said bitterly.

  Sir Aren’s green eyes narrowed. Amon wished he could have taken the words back. He was going to get them all killed at this rate.

  “Men may call you the Nightwolf, but I do not believe that is your name,” Sir Aren said.

  Amon thought better of pushing the knight further. “My name is Amon Am’rath.” He choked out the words. He hated giving his name. The alias men had saddled him with suited him fine.

  “Am’rath,” Sir Aren repeated. “I’ve heard that name before. You three will come with us.”

  “We will not,” Amon said. “We are on our way to Hardcoast.”

  “Whatever business you have in Hardcoast can wait,” the knight said. “You are coming with us.”

  “Are we under arrest?” Amon demanded. “Has your matron closed the borders? Has she made it a crime to be demon in her lands?” Inside, he cringed. They were not going to get out of this alive if he couldn’t keep his temper under control.

  Sir Aren looked at him as though he were a piece of dung stuck to his boots. “My matron has indeed closed the borders,” he said evenly. “Though you may not have known. The order came down just three days ago, so word may not have spread far beyond Ravenwood yet. But that is not why I detain you. Lord Celwyn has given orders that if any patrols encounter you, we are to bring you to him.”

  That was interesting. Not the part about the borders, Amon had suspected that would be coming eventually with all the aggressions from House Raith of late. Lord Celwyn had given the order for Amon’s arrest, not Matron Astoria Celwyn. A Lord giving orders like this, not the Matron, what was one to make of that? It was not unheard of for a matron to give the duties of commanding battles to her lord, but this order bespoke schemes, not war, and schemes were the domain of the matron. Still, it put Amon off guard. He had expected to be killed off hand, not summoned by the lord of Ravenwood. “And what does Lord Celwyn want with me?”

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  “The orders did not say,” Sir Aren said. “Only that you were to be brought to Ravenwood. I will give you one more chance to come along willingly. If not, I will drag you there in chains. You wouldn’t want anything to happen to those two young ones you have with you, would you?”

  Another choice that was not a choice at all. There had been so many of those of late. If he tried to fight, Galan and Nora might come to harm. That couldn’t happen. He let out a sigh. “I suppose we must go to Ravenwood, then,” he said.

  Sir Aren looked visibly relieved. He still kept his hand on the hilt of his sword. Nor did he signal his archers to lower their bows. “I must take your weapons.”

  Of course he must, Amon thought bitterly. Sir Aren must have seen the look that crossed Amon’s face, for he stiffened, hand hovering near the hilt of his sword. This could turn to blood in an instant. Without a word, Amon unbuckled his swordbelt and held it out. Sir Aren gestured. His squire sheepishly came forward to take it, then retreated.

  “I will have those back,” Amon growled. Those were fine elven sabers, blades that he had had since he was young. He lived by those swords.

  “Perhaps,” Sir Aren said. “Your bow as well.”

  Reluctantly, Amon handed over bow and quiver as well. He had fletched those arrows himself. He’d been lucky to get those back. He handed over his hunting knife as well. He still had a knife in each boot and the one up his sleeve, but they didn’t need to know about those.

  “And you, boy, the sword.”

  Galan paled. His knuckles were white on the hilt. Amon turned to him. “Hand it over, lad,” he said quietly.

  “What about Hardcoast?” Galan asked, his voice shaky.

  “Plans get changed,” Amon said sadly. “It’ll be alright. The ship will wait for us.” But for how long? Galan nodded though, and took the sword from his belt. He handed it to Amon who handed it over to Sir Aren. Only then did the knight signal for his men to lower the weapons. Amon dared to let himself breathe.

  “I will allow you to keep your horses if you give your word you will not attempt to flee,” Sir Aren said.

  “You have my word,” Amon said. “You have my swords. I’m not leaving without those.” Was a prisoner any less a prisoner if he did not go chained and bound? He would soon find out. Sir Aren gave the command to return to camp. The soldiers formed into a rough column. Taking Shade’s reins in hand, Amon turned to Galan and Nora. “Whatever you do, don’t fight them,” he said quietly. Do as you’re told and keep your heads down, and you’ll be alright.” Amon had no illusions; the children had a far better chance of getting out of this alive than he did.

  Sir Aren mounted his charger and motioned for his prisoners to do the same. Amon swung into the saddle. Behind him, Nora and Galan scrambled aboard their horses. The soldiers fell in around them. No, he had no intention of trying to ride off. He might be able to do it, if he had been alone. The children certainly wouldn’t be able to pull that off.

  Surprisingly, Sir Aren called Amon up to ride beside him. Amon watched the knight carefully. Nothing in this encounter had gone how he had expected. He expected drawn steel and blood. He expected Sir Aren would come to his senses at any moment and order his execution. He only prayed that it wouldn’t be a noose. He could face a headsman’s axe, he thought, but not a noose, never that! Until that came, though, it might do to gather what information he could.

  “Why has your matron closed her borders?” Amon asked.

  Sir Aren looked over at him, frowning. “I should not discuss my matron’s plans with a...” What word would he pick? Prisoner? Demon? Foul beast? “A ranger like you,” the knight finished.

  “I suppose it must have to do with the aggressions from House Raith,” Amon continued as though the knight had not spoken.

  “You are not wrong,” Sir Aren said with a sigh. “You are aware of what is going on, then?”

  “I do hear some things, even out in the Wild,” Amon said. “Tol Morad is not so large, after all.”

  “That it is not,” Sir Aren said. “House Raith is fast becoming a thorn in my mother’s side. They have attacked our shipping barges on Lake Sildar and moved against our southern border.”

  Amon hadn’t heard of the attack on the lake. It must have happened after he had left Stormgarde on his way to Ambermill. That the border was in dispute again was nothing new. Celwyn and Raith had squabbled over the exact position of the border for more than a century.

  “I saw Raith soldiers massing near Mountain Gate the last time I visited Stormgarde,” Amon said. It was old news.

  “They have closed the southern roads,” Sir Aren said. “And they have a cordon around the lake. None may cross the borders. So, we must respond in kind. They are trying to cut us off from knowledge and supplies. Vicious whoresons. They will soon learn that we are far more capable than that.” The knight was certainly passionate. It was to be expected from a son of the matron. The Raith cordon would be far less effective than they hoped, Amon knew. Raith suspected, though did not know for certain, that Celwyn maintained several secret smuggler’s coves and put them to good use, bringing goods across from the mainland without paying Raith’s tariffs. “You seem well-traveled. Do you hear many things on the road?”

  “Some,” Amon said. “I don’t frequent towns or taverns. Such places are difficult for someone like me. Too many people waiting to stick a knife in my back or an arrow in my throat.” He glanced over his shoulder. Galan was following close behind Nora, looking sick. Nora, amazingly enough, was speaking with the soldier marching at her side.

  “Someone like you, yes,” Sir Aren said. “I would think many aspects of life are rather difficult for you.”

  “I make do,” Amon said.

  “They say you are a bounty hunter,” the knight said. “They say you killed Ba’lel the Red.”

  “That was ten years ago,” Amon said. “Yes, I killed that one.”

  “I’ve always wondered what would drive a man to kill their own kind,” the knight said thoughtfully.

  Ba’lel the Red had been a demon. He had also been a bandit lord who holed up in some ruins off the road between Moonbrook and Silvergrove, demanding tolls of travelers, robbing wagons, taking girls for his pleasure and killing them when he was done with them. He had deserved to die. Amon was walking a tightrope here. One wrong word, one wrong move, and everything would fall to pieces. “I do what I must to survive,” he said. “We all do that.”

  “That we do,” Sir Aren said. “What else have you heard on the road?”

  “We came over the Basal Pass from Farshire. The townsfolk were nervous. They’ve heard only rumors.”

  “We are on our way to secure the town,” Sir Aren said. “What are they saying in Farshire?”

  “Mostly they’re scared,” Amon said. He’d gathered that much from Master Alvar. “Mostly they seem to think that this is nothing more than two nobles having a go at each other. They really don’t care one way or another which House rules over them, so long as they are left out of the conflict and the taxes don’t get too high.”

  “What about you?”

  “I have to agree with them,” Amon said. “Some lords are worse than others, but I don’t particularly care who sits the high seat so long as they leave me in peace.” That may have been the wrong thing to say, Amon reflected, watching Sir Aren’s expression change. “Of course, Celwyn men have always been more tolerant of me than Raith men. I’ve nearly lost my head a time or two to Raith soldiers.” That seemed to satisfy the knight.

  The camp came into view through the trees. Orderly rows of green and gray sailcloth tents dotted the clearing. A dozen cookfires scattered throughout sent up tendrils of blue-gray smoke toward the sky. Amon had been in enough military encampments to recognize a well-organized command. The tidiness of the camp indicated the preciseness of the commander. Sir Aren looked young, but the knight knew what he was doing. The camp was not ditched and staked, however. That could be forgiven, so far out here away from the main conflict, but a truly cautious commander would have ordered it, even if they were only remaining here a single night. Sir Aren plainly expected no attacks way out here on the north coast.

  Amon looked around at all the eyes staring his way. There was surprise, shock, even open hostility in those smooth elven faces. Not for the first time, he reflected on what a curse his horns were. He would have to watch his back in this place.

  The knight halted the column near the largest tent and turned to the prisoners. “You two,” he said to Galan and Nora,” may go where you will in camp, but you may not go beyond the tents. I will not hesitate to put you in chains if you disobey.” He turned back to Amon. “You will come with me. I would speak with you further. Come.”

  Dismounting, Amon took Nora aside before following the knight. “Look after Galan. I don’t trust these soldiers. Look after yourself, too.”

  “What are you saying?” Nora asked, looking afraid.

  “They are going to try to separate us. I have a very bad feeling about all this. I need you to be strong.”

  Nora nodded, lifting her chin and putting on a brave face. She trusted him enough not to argue, at least. Amon turned and followed after Sir Aren, who was waiting nearby. The knight’s tent lay in the center of the encampment, a huge green sailcloth structure. Two soldiers in polished steel helms stood out front as guards. That made Amon bristle. He was walking naked through a lion’s den now. He followed Sir Aren inside.

  The interior of the tent was almost warm thanks to the iron brazier in the center of the room that threw off more heat than light. Two oil lamps burned on a small folding camp table set to the right side of the rectangular tent, while a cot piled with thick furs lay on the left. Two slung-leather camp chairs sat near the table. Sir Aren handed his helm to his squire, a sandy-haired elf lad perhaps two years older than Galan. The knight took one chair and motioned Amon to the other.

  Amon’s nerves were frayed to the breaking point. He knew how to deal with men that wanted to kill him. He had little skill with men who wanted to talk to him. What was this knight up to? Amon had expected to be killed a dozen times over. If he had been bound in chains, the men stringing a noose over a tree branch or sharpening a headsman’s axe, he at least would have known what to do. This was so far beyond his frame of reference that he could scarcely think. He felt like a deer caught in the gaze of a hunting catamount. He worried about Ferron. He hoped the wolf was smart enough to stay well away from camp. The sentries wouldn’t hesitate to shoot a wolf if they saw one, for the pelt if nothing else.

  “Will you take some mulled wine?” Sir Aren asked. “I know it’s usually a winter drink, but with these cold nights and chill days of late, I find it welcome.”

  Amon nodded. He did not drink wine or spirits as a rule, but it seemed prudent to take what was offered. To refuse could be seen as an insult. Sir Aren gestured to his squire. The boy all but fled the tent. Now the knight was offering him mulled wine! “This weather is bizarre,” he said, making a poor attempt at conversation. “I’ve never seen anything like it. It snowed on us crossing Basal Pass.”

  “How long have you lived on Tol Morad?”

  “60 years, or close enough to make no matter,” Amon said.

  “And before that, where did you come from? Did you come down from Blackreach?”

  Amon shook his head. “No, I was born in Lath.” The squire returned, bearing a tray with two matching, green-glazed ceramic mugs. Sir Aren took one. Amon took the other. The squire tried very hard not to look at his horns. The boy caught his eyes and retreated quickly.

  Sir Aren sipped his wine. “Well, that doesn’t entirely surprise me. You have no trace of an accent. When I was a boy, my father took me to visit his family, House Caerheyes up in the north of Lath, and we encountered a couple of your kind on the road. They had the most atrocious accents I’ve ever heard. I couldn’t understand a word of what they said.”

  Amon had little to say to that. He tried the wine. It was hot and well-spiced, sweetened with just enough honey. And strong. It was a richer vintage than he had tasted in many long years. He had waited until he had seen Sir Aren drink before he did so himself. He didn’t expect poison, but suspicion was what kept him alive. The wine sent warm tendrils spreading through his chest, a reminder of just how chilled he really was.

  “You must be well familiar with this island, then,” Sir Aren said.

  “I am,” Amon replied. He had ridden the width and length of the isle for six decades. There were few places he had not seen. The dungeons of Ravenwood were one of those, though he fully expected to get a good look at them now.

  “Good. We are five days from Ravenwood if we make haste. My lord father will want to speak with you. I would rather not take my entire command back with us. We are supposed to secure Farshire and the North Road against Raith soldiers. Since the three of you have strong horses, we should make good time. I will be bringing ten picked men as an escort if I have an assurance of your cooperation. Otherwise, I shall bring my entire force, and you will go in chains.”

  Ten men would be easier to slip away from than a hundred. He didn’t like the idea of giving his word and then breaking his oath, but he had no intention of going to Ravenwood if he could help it. Getting Galan and Nora out would be harder, though. He had an idea. “We are no more than two days from Hardcoast. The road goes right near it. If our ship is there, I could see them on it and then return. It would be no more than an hour’s delay.”

  “Why is reaching Hardcoast so important?” Sir Aren asked sharply. “What are those two to you?”

  “I was given the task of bringing them to Hardcoast to meet a ship.”

  “A smuggler.”

  Amon supposed Liddy’s ship must indeed be a smuggler. He hadn’t actually realized that until now.

  “Who gave you this task?”

  “A friend.” Amon shifted uncomfortably. “I owe her a favor or three.”

  “And where did they come from?”

  “Ambermill,” Amon admitted. Honesty would get him farther with the knight, he suspected. “Four Seekers took an interest in them. I was conscripted into making sure they did not fall into the hands of the Scarlet Brotherhood.”

  “The Scarlet Brotherhood has never been a friend to elvenkind,” Sir Aren said. “But they are worse on your people. Those types must be handled carefully. It would be a terrible thing for those two younglings to be taken by the Brotherhood. Still, some of the work they do is for the best. Harboring a Mana-user is illegal, of course. We’re not dealing with something like that, are we?”

  “Of course not,” Amon said quickly.

  “You said they both came from Ambermill? I wasn’t aware of any elves living there.”

  “It was just the boy and his mother, apparently.”

  “Who is he?” Sir Aren asked.

  “Just a lad,” Amon said. “Grew up on the outskirts of town, just him and his mother. She died in a fire a few days before we set out.”

  “I see. And this ship in Hardcoast is waiting to take them to the mainland, I assume? I think my lord father will want to see the boy as well.”

  “That will hardly be necessary,” Amon said quickly. Liddy had told him not to trust Matron and Lord Celwyn. He wished she had told him why. “He’s just a boy.”

  A shout from outside drew their attention. A hue and cry went up outside. Sir Aren leapt up and went to the tent flap. Amon rose more slowly, unsure. An attack could be a chance to grab the children and slip away. He would be ready.

  “Stay here,” Sir Aren ordered, pushing through the tent flap to assess the situation.

  A word reached Amon’s ears. Wolf! His heart sank. Ferron. He knew it. The fool wolf was likely lurking around the edges of the camp, trying to find a way to come inside. He slipped out of the tent behind the knight. The horselines were in chaos. The mounts had caught the scent of predator. Beyond the last row of tents, a sliver-gray form rushed past. He saw a soldier take aim with a crossbow and fire. The bolt quivered in a tree trunk inches above where Ferron had been a moment earlier.

  Amon pushed past Sir Aren. The knight called out and moved to grab him, but Amon was already running. If he could reach the wolf, chase him away or calm the situation...If he could explain, show them that he was a tame wolf...A thought occurred that if he could find Nora, she could tell Ferron to run away...

  A blow as if from a club struck him in the back. He stumbled to his knees, all the breath in his body driven from him with the force of the blow. Amon forced himself to his feet and looked about for the source of the blow. He noted a man nearby with a crossbow. He heard a voice screaming his name. His eyes swiveled back to the commotion at the edge of camp. He tried to walk and staggered. His legs didn’t want to work. It was suddenly very hard to breathe.

  Ferron caught sight of him. The wolf paused and turned. A crossbow clicked. The bolt took the wolf in the ribs. Ferron spun, biting at the shaft buried in his side. Dimly, Amon realized he was on his knees. Someone was screaming. Ferron fell and lay on his side, heaving for breath. The world was turning red. Who was screaming? Why did it sound like his name? Ferron was still now. Pain radiated out from a spot near the middle of his back. Each breath was a torment. The ground swam up before him. He tasted blood.