I ate the food that was brought to me, and left the mead less than half empty. I avoid impaired judgment at the most peaceful times, and wanted myself especially sharp then.

I sat. I waited. As the day grew later, I noticed a few things. For one, the locals started clearing out of the Cymrian Sword not long after I showed up. Secondly, perhaps three hours before sundown, the innkeeper sent his daughter back into the kitchens and she didn’t come back out. He took up the girl’s broom himself and busied himself tidying, ignoring me.

Then, about two hours before sundown, the mercenaries started filtering in. They came in twos and threes at first, small patrols or watchmen coming off their shifts. They stank of sweat and leather, calling for drinks the moment they laid eyes on the innkeep.

By dusk, the taproom was more than halfway to crowded.

From a corner table I observed the front door open for perhaps the fiftieth time. A group of five men — no, four men and one woman — stomped into the Cymrian Sword. They were more heavily armored than most of the other mercenaries, with scarred breastplates, vambraces, and greaves decorating their gray uniforms. They exuded the same bitter scent as the stables I’d noticed before, and their eyes were shadowed with fatigue.

“Captain!” At this word, every chattering voice in the inn went silent and nearly thirty mercenaries stood, some so abruptly their chairs clattered to the floor. The innkeeper was sorting glassware on the wall behind his bar and carefully gave no reaction to this new arrival.

It was the one woman in the group who stepped forward. She was a grizzled old hawk of a soldier. Her armor was simple, expensive, and marked by many failed attempts to kill her. Her uniform was finer than any of the others, the flinty gray material of her knee-length coat accented by silver thread. She wore a long cloak of such a pale shade of foggy gray it was nearly white, nearly the same color as her hair, and tucked a crested helm with a plume of white chimera hair under one arm.

She waved a lazy hand, and the entire room once again returned to its previous relaxed air. The old woman had large, intense eyes of a very deep shade of blue. The rest of her was so colorless that they seemed to glow within the stark lines of her skull. They fixed on another man who’d arrived perhaps half an hour earlier, a huge man wearing more armor than the rest. The captain made a beeline for him, and a few other sellswords with the look of company veterans gathered around that table.

I folded my arms, tucked my chin against my chest, and closed my eyes. To the casual observer, it would appear I dozed in the shadows at the corner of the inn’s common room. I was not asleep. I focused my senses, drowned out the din of conversation, and listened to the captain speak with her lieutenants.

“New orders from his lordship,” the captain said. She sounded younger than she looked, her voice lacking the rough edges one gained over the course of a long life. “He wants third company pulled back to the island.”

One of the men cursed. The big one waited a beat before saying, “we’re already stretched thin in this marsh.” His voice was a deep basso, polar opposite to his commander. “The irks have been out for blood ever since we got rid of the troll.”

“It wasn’t a suggestion, Vaughn.” The captain’s tone was more one of weary acceptance than reprimand. “More of the baron’s guests are expected soon, and he wants to make sure there are no…” she seemed to chew on her words a moment. “Misunderstandings.”

“You mean he wants to let his would-be courtiers know who’s in charge,” one of the other lieutenants said, snickering. I recognized him from the gate. The reedy man who’d made Lisette uncomfortable. “Nothing better for it than a wall of steel.”

The big man snorted. The captain said something else I didn’t catch across through the din. “Just see it done,” she said. “Have Berregon’s men take over patrols in the eastern marshes, keep the damn spiders away from our throats. I’ll talk to the baron, see if I can get him to deal with our eld problem. Devil knows he has the means.”

“You think he’ll send his pet?” The reedy man asked, eager.

The captain made a hissing sound. “Keep your mouth shut, Tarkley, or I’ll have it sewn. With wire. We don’t need the local stock more tense than they already are.”

“…Yes, Captain.”

The group split then. The aged captain moved to the bar and began to speak to the innkeeper, who turned his somber regard on her with the sort of wary calm one uses with large dogs and angry drunks. The other mercenaries she’d spoken to lingered, save for the big man, the one called Vaughn. He gathered two men and left the inn through the front door.

I saw all of it through slitted eyes. I considered for a minute, waited a moment longer, and then left the inn myself, drawing as little attention to myself as I could.

Night had settled over the town, and a chill that did not belong to early summer lingered in the streets of Caelfall Village. A thin mist accompanied it, clinging low to the shadowed streets and hungrily devouring what light filtered through from the stars and moons so it seemed to nearly glow with a spectral luminescence all its own.

I pulled my cloak more tightly around my shoulders and glanced up and down the street. I caught the shadow of movement in the direction of the gate, along with the dim flicker of torch-flame, and moved in that direction. The moons were out, so I pulled my cowl up to cover my head. Last thing I needed just then was od sickness.

I tailed the big lieutenant to the gate, where I saw him speaking to the watch — a different group than had welcomed the doctor. I ducked into the alley between two shops, but I caught only the end of their conversation. It sounded like the big mercenary was passing along the same order he’d been given by his commander. After a minute or two, he turned down another street, and his two followers followed just behind and to either side.

I moved along with them, a shadow within the night and mist. Their armor made them easy to follow, especially the big man’s — he wore nearly a full set of plate mail, and its echoing clanks enticed me on.

My plan, as it was, was still developing. I needed to know more — about the baron, the forces he had at his disposal, his plans and knowledge — in order to carry out my mission. Weeks of observation and waiting had gone into the death of the Bishop of Vinhithe, and I suspected the Baron of Caelfall would be an entirely unique challenge.

The mercenaries had mentioned an island, guests, and patrols. I needed to know more, and I suspected I could get those details by following the commander’s mouthpiece as he went about his duties.

My earlier impression of Caelfall Village was that it was more town than village, and that impression became more cemented as I tailed the mercenaries through the streets. The settlement had been established in rough marshland, forcing its builders to construct their abodes on what were essentially islands of varying size divided by shallow water, much of it concealed by growths of cattail and reed. Narrow walkways of wood connected sections of the village, some of them rudimentary and others showing the careful labor of generations.

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This was an old settlement, rough as it might look to an outsider, and there were signs of long decades of human attention. Houses made for beauty as much as function, lovingly tended yards with small gardens, and even the occasional hint of statuary were present throughout the village. Olliard had mentioned that this had once been a prosperous community, and I saw signs of it.

Faded though they were.

I caught these details only in passing, images and impressions flickering by as I ghosted from wall to wall, letting the darkness and the mist do much of my work for me. The mist grew thicker with startling speed, almost as though it wanted to lead me astray.

Belatedly, I realized the men I followed weren’t holding torches despite the deepening shadows. What had that light I’d noticed before been? The sky was clear enough to make the darkness less than impenetrable, but it was still dark and cold enough to impair an ordinary man.

The elven magic in me made that darkness less deep, gave more vibrancy to the starlight falling down from on high. It was easy to forget small details like that, but I took note of it. The cold too was strange, for the season, but I tried not to let it make me paranoid. The weather had been unpredictable everywhere the past ten years.

The rot smell of fish and stagnant water grew more sharp as I shadowed the sellswords. I realized we were drawing closer to the lake. This suspicion was confirmed when I began to hear the creaking of wood and boat hulls — the docks. I saw them ahead, as the street dipped down into a semi-open area where the fishing boats were moored.

I had a sudden and vibrant memory of Vinhithe. The driving rain, the roar of thunder, metal singing its lethal song as I fought with the Glorysworn. I felt the dagger ram into my leg again, the bolt embed itself in my hip.

I shut my eyes and fought down the sudden wave of fear. You’ve faced worse, Alken. You’ve faced far worse. You’re more honed than this.

I wiped the cold sweat that’d beaded across my brow and stepped forward. The big mercenary and his two cronies had stopped near one of the docks. Vaughn was talking to another figure, this one lacking the armor and gray uniform of the company guarding the village. They were clad in a dark green cloak of fine quality, a heavy hood shadowing their features. Not so unusual, given the crisp air and the late hour.

They were speaking in hushed voices, and I couldn’t hear from my distance. I pressed myself to the corner of one of the lakeside homes and knelt, keeping myself as small a target as possible. Still nothing. I ghosted closer, hoping the mist would help cover my approach, and was finally able to catch the voices of the group.

“Your band’s job is very simple, vice-captain.” The voice within the green cloak was cold, aloof, and very slightly nasal. I couldn’t tell gender — the voice might have been a young man’s or a woman’s. “You guard my lord’s property, and in return he pays and… indulges you.”

Vaughn’s reply came as a lazy drawl. He towered over the hooded figure, and held himself as though looking down his nose at them. “Hard to protect his property when it includes a fucking marsh half as big as most kingdoms. If he wants to properly garrison his keep, we’re going to lose more territory to the biters, and that’s a fact.”

“The Baron’s fief would not be threatened by the Eld if not for your company’s desecration of the forest,” Green Hood said coldly. “You should not have killed the sentinel.”

I could hear the rattle of Vaughn’s armored shoulders as he shrugged. “Damn troll was costing us every time we had to use that road. ‘Sides, his lordship would have had us off the ugly git sooner or later, just like he had us get rid of the old preoster.”

“Silence, fool!” The hooded figure stepped forward. All three of the mercenaries stepped back, hands going for weapons. Despite this, Green Cloak didn’t seem intimidated. Their voice came as a raspy, angry hiss through the shadows of the hood, threatening as a serpent. “If the locals overhear you, it could lead to revolt. These people are faithful.”

Vaughn snorted in derision. “Let them revolt. Twenty of my boys could secure this entire village and hold it.”

Venom crept into Green Cloak’s voice. “My lord does not seek the blood of his own subjects. Remember that. They are still needed.” They seemed to assert calm over themself before saying, “I hear strangers arrived in the village today. Tell me about them.”

“Wouldn’t call them strangers,” Vaughn said. “One of them was this old thin-neck, some sort of healer I think. Village knows him. Name’s Olliard.”

“Just Olliard?”

“Olliard of Kell,” Vaughn added, after one of his men whispered in his ear. “He was apparently an old friend of the preoster. He and his apprentice are staying at the church.”

Green Hood was silent a moment, pondering this. “I’ve heard the name. Keep an eye on him. If he grows suspicious of the priest’s death, it could spell trouble for us. Kill him if he proves to be trouble, and only then. What of the other? You said there were three.”

“Didn’t catch his name,” Vaughn said. “Just a bodyguard, I think. Big brute, red hair, in his thirties. Has scars over his left eye, like claw marks.” He ran a thumb over his left eye at an angle, to demonstrate. “He’s staying at the inn. Want I should off him, too?”

“If he proves to be trouble,” Green Hood said. “The deaths of outsiders will not draw much attention, and we can afford no interference from the Accord. The baron is wary of spies. Question this hired guard, find out if aught seems amiss.”

“Aye aye,” Vaughn drawled. He motioned to his men and turned back toward the street. Green Hood turned the opposite way, beginning to move toward a boat moored near the shore. Two figures, similarly cloaked and hooded, sat in the boat with readied oars.

Vaughn paused, waiting until the boat was out over the water. The boat vanished into the night-darkened lake, mist coiling like hungry tendrils around its hull until they seemed to swallow it.

“Creepy bitch,” Vaughn said to his men. They muttered agreement, and he jerked his head back toward the direction of the inn. “Go find that merc who came in with the doctor. Take him somewhere quiet and get him talking. Give his body to the marsh when you’re done.”

The two sellswords began to head back toward the Cymrian Sword. I didn’t intend to be there, among more than a score of their friends, when they arrived. I silently cursed. I’d hoped for more time, but this village was too hot.

Time to go. I’d find a place to hole up in the marsh until I came up with another plan. I had enough clues to suspect the baron’s keep was probably on an island out in the lake. I’d come up with a plan of attack after I got away from these mercenaries. I moved into another street, using the buildings to block line of sight between me and the mercenaries.

As I walked, part of me considered going to the church and warning Olliard of the danger. It was a dangerous use of my time, and likely to lose me the window I had to get out safely.

Olliard and his young disciple had saved my life.

I had a duty, and my bloody work wasn’t going to be doable while protecting anyone. If I wanted to succeed, to survive, to win, I couldn’t afford any baggage.

But they saved you.

People died all the time. The world was an unjust place. There wasn’t anything I could do about that.

Tell yourself that all you want, but you have the power to help them.

I’d just get them deeper into danger if I went near them again.

You owe them.

Damn it.

Distracted by these thoughts, I was taken off guard when a lance of startling cold shot through me. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, and in a flash of instinct I knew something Dark had taken notice of me. The mist had condensed into a deepening fog. That fog had an oily quality, slow and languorous, and it was gathering more thickly around me.

“Well well,” a deep, gravelly voice said from directly behind me. “What have we here? A little jackal snooping in the shadows?”

I tensed and turned, and found the three mercenaries I’d followed standing directly behind me. They’d approached without sound. They stood relaxed, gray uniforms nearly blending with the fog as it swirled around their legs.

Impossible. I would have noticed their approach. How had they cleared the distance so fast?

The leader — the big man who’d spoken to the captain before — watched me with a lazy, calm indifference. My earlier impression of his size held true. He was near my own height, with thickly muscled arms and a broader midsection. His armor was just as battered and professionally made as his commander’s, and his head was shrouded in a thick mane of brown hair lined with ghostly gray. His face was clean-shaven, square-jawed, and set with eyes dark as two pieces of coal.

He lifted a heavy sword between us, flashed pale yellow teeth, and said “hello, jackal.”