The sheep were mostly gone by the time Steffan reached his house. A man with a torch was herding them out of the pen, while his companion used a branch to keep a snarling, snapping Theodora at bay.

Steffan crept up behind the man with the torch and stabbed him through the neck. The light flickered as the torch hit the grass, sparking a fire in a small circle. Distracted, the other would-be thief turned toward Steffan, which gave Theodora the opening she needed to go for his crotch. He toppled over with a shriek, and Steffan finished the job with his sword.

Unlike the temple fire, this one could be put out. It needed to be put out.

Steffan decided not to send Theodora after the sheep in case there were more bandits waiting for their chance to strike. “Dora! Heel!” he called, and she trotted beside him as he ran for water.

That might have been a mistake, because by the time Steffan returned from the well with a full bucket, the rest of the flock had scattered, leaving behind only their stench and their hoofprints. Even worse, the wind had picked up, spreading both fires around. Several buildings in the village had caught, including Steffan’s home. He emptied the bucket onto it, but embers floated over and lit it again.

Steffan swore. It was all growing too quickly. By the time he got back with another bucket, the fire would be too large to put out. But he didn’t have any time to be sad about it. He could mourn later. Right now, people needed him.

“Come on, Dora,” Steffan said weakly. “Let’s go help the rest of the village.”

The rest of the village was also in the process of catching fire. The wind had carried the sparks onto Seamus’s thatched roof, where they caught and spread to the rest of the house. The entire thing burned bright and hot in the cool night air.

“Seamus!” Steffan shouted over the cracking of wood and crackling of fire. “Seamus!”

There was no answer. Either the man was hiding somewhere else, or he was inside but hadn’t heard Steffan. If the former, Steffan would be wasting his time trying to help. If the latter, Seamus would die without someone to save him.

It wasn’t hard to figure out which would be worse.

Steffan kicked the front door. Weakened by the fire, it broke open easily, allowing a stream of smoke to pour out of the house. Steffan stepped back to take a deep breath of fresh air before charging inside.

Like most of the village, Seamus’s house was a single large room. Steffan staggered past the burning table and chairs--all of which he knew Seamus had carved himself--in search of the man. The smoke made it hard to see and kept Steffan from calling out, but he was still determined to save Seamus if it could be done.

Something caught Steffan’s foot, sending him sprawling to the floor. The wood scraped his elbows and knees, but he ignored the pain, as well as the pain in his lungs and the heat on his skin. Turning around, he looked for what had tripped him. It was easier to see down here under the smoke, and he found it quickly.

It was Seamus’s body.

Though his lungs felt like they were wringing themselves out, though he could feel his skin roasting, Steffan clambered to his feet. Grabbing Seamus’s wrist with his good arm, he dragged the carpenter back out of the house, collapsing when he was free of the smoke. The air was warmer due to the fire, and it carried the acrid smell of burning wood, but it was still better than not breathing. Steffan took great gulps of it until he felt dizzy from too much instead of too little. Dora licked his hand.

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Shouts and cries echoed from the other side of the village. The fire had spread to Darlene’s house and smithy. As much as Steffan wanted to lie here for days, the village still needed help. He didn’t even have time to check if Seamus was alive.

Please let him still be alive. It was a prayer, of sorts, though he didn’t know who he was praying to. The Beohur didn’t exist, and the Torchbearers weren’t strong enough yet to work miracles. Still, it felt like the thing to do.

Steffan forced himself to his feet once again. Fear gripping his heart, he staggered over to Darlene’s house and called out for her.

“Steffan?” came the muffled voice from inside the smithy.

“Yes! Are you all right?”

“A couple of burns, but I’ll be fine. It’s all stone in here and there’s a good chimney for the smoke. I’ve got water too. Go help the others.”

“I will!” The fear loosened its grip, letting his heart beat normally again. At least one person would survive.

It was time to add to that number.

Steffan ran toward the shouting, which came from the direction of the inn. He drew close just in time to see Brother Ferdinand, of all people, confronting the black-clad bandits out front. One of the bandits was already on the ground, and as Steffan watched, the old priest smacked another one in the head with the poker, dropping her too.

That left Brother Ferdinand defenseless, though, as a third bandit stepped forward and stabbed him several times in the back.

A scream tore its way out of Steffan’s chest. He charged the three remaining bandits, slicing the neck of the one who killed Ferdinand. Before the other two could react, he chopped off one of their hands, and Theodora advanced on the last one, sharp canines bared.

Both of them turned and ran, sprinting away from Steffan and out of the village.

Steffan knelt next to Brother Ferdinand. The old man’s eyes were glassy and his breathing was shallow.

“The inn...” Ferdinand whispered. “Help...Winston... Billy...”

Then he was gone.

Steffan let out another scream, only stopping when it turned into a coughing fit. Mourn later. Act now. Wiping his eyes, he stood and ran toward the inn, whose door had been knocked off of its hinges.

Inside lay two bodies. The pool of blood spreading out from Billy’s head told Steffan all he needed to know about the boy, though Winston only had a lump on his forehead. Kneeling next to the man, Steffan put his hand in front of his mouth and nose and was rewarded with warm breath. It seemed the old innkeeper would recover from the wound to his body, if not to his family.

The inn was far enough from the other buildings that the fire likely wouldn’t reach it, so Steffan decided it was best not to move Winston for now. He staggered outside to find Darlene and Charles standing over the bodies of Ferdinand and the bandits. The two survivors’ tears flowed freely.

“Did you find Seamus?” Charles asked thickly.

Steffan led them over to where the carpenter lay. Charles knelt beside him and put an ear to his mouth, then his chest.

“Dead,” the healer said.

With that single horrible word, Steffan’s exhaustion caught up to him. He fell to his knees, then to his side, then curled up in a ball. He shook, but not with sobs. In the place his sadness should have been there burned a white-hot fury.

Steffan had been angry at his sister before, but never like this. Gwen’s newfound fighting skills would have made a difference tonight. One of the siblings could have stayed with the inn or Brother Ferdinand. They could have worked together! But instead, she disappeared in the middle of the night with only a cryptic note.

As far as Steffan was concerned, these deaths were at least half his sister’s fault. If she’d kept her promise and stayed the month, maybe he’d still have the flock. Maybe their village wouldn’t have been reduced to three buildings and a dozen funeral pyres.

Maybe his entire life wouldn’t be in ashes.

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