The weather was pleasant, and with all the commotion caused by the visit, Tormjere was in no hurry to return. He relaxed, idly watching as the flow of travelers became sporadic.

  The day-moon caught his eye, hanging so low in the blue sky that it almost appeared to be seated on the trees. He imagined it rolling down the road like some gigantic boulder, scattering travelers and knocking over trees, and he chuckled at the strange thought.

  Two figures passed in front of the moon as they walked up the road, and for a fleeting moment Tormjere caught a glimpse of a familiar face beneath one of the hoods. He snapped out of his daydream, not believing his luck. The face he’d glimpsed was that of Loren, the King’s Ranger. He would be the perfect person to tell about the spy.

  Now dressed as a simple merchant, Loren had obviously taken pains to hide his identity, and Tormjere wondered how to pass him the information without ruining Loren’s careful disguise. He remembered the goose call Loren had used to mark his position at the Overlook. He was unpracticed at making animal noises, but gave it his best attempt.

  Loren’s eyes flicked sharply in his direction, and Tormjere shifted sideways to give him the exact position. Loren said something good-natured to his companion and handed him his pack, then wandered off the trail. He stopped on the other side of the tree and began to relieve himself.

  “Your goose call is terrible,” the Ranger said softly, with obvious mirth, “but I assume you have something important you wish to share?”

  “There was a spy watching the King’s company,” Tormjere said, trying hard to ignore the sound of liquid running down the other side of the tree he was leaning against.

  “Oh? Why would you think that?”

  Tormjere recounted his pursuit of the spy and what he’d observed. When he mentioned the man working with something in his lap, Loren made an interested noise.

  “This wagon that he got into, what did it look like?” Loren asked, putting himself back together.

  Tormjere quickly described the wagon and driver.

  “Again you are most observant, and with good cause.”

  Tormjere smiled at the praise.

  Without further conversation, Loren turned and rejoined his companion as if nothing had happened.

  Once they were out of sight, Tormjere stood and stretched his cramped muscles, then turned back towards home. He smiled to himself as he walked. At least something interesting had come from the King’s visit. He hurried down the mountain, eager to return home and finally let Blackwolf out now that the King was gone.

  As he drew within sight of his house he spotted a wagon in front, with a pair of mules staked out close by. Uncle Otten! Tormjere’s face split into a broad grin as he rushed to the door.

  Leaving the Cove

  Tormjere and his brother had always loved it when Uncle Otten came to visit. Their uncle was a trader, buying goods in one town and selling them in the next as the opportunity presented itself. He was always travelling and had no real place he called home. Tormjere’s mother was his last living relation, so he stopped by Kenzing several times a year to visit. A large, gregarious man with a perpetual grin on his bearded face, Otten’s stories of faraway people and places had always filled their heads with dreams of adventure.

  “There’s the rascal now!” Otten greeted Tormjere as he entered the house, grabbing him in a big, back-slapping hug that almost took the wind out of him.

  “When did you get here?” Tormjere asked. “The King just left today.”

  “So I heard.” Otten looked back to Tormjere’s parents.

  “It was exciting having a King here,” his mother said.

  His father nodded, but without the same level of enthusiasm. He’d tried repeatedly to meet with some of the entourage about purchasing quality Enrik dogs but hadn’t been successful in locating the contact Sahadii had told them about.

  “Did you sell all the ale you brought?” Tormjere asked his uncle with a grin of his own. The boys had always tried to guess what their uncle had brought to sell. As he’d gotten older, Tormjere’s guesses had gotten better, by virtue of living in one place and paying attention to what was needed and by who. Plus, this time he’d checked the wagon on his way in, and it still smelled of the drink.

  “Aye, I did son,” Otten said, shaking his head in amazement. “And why would I bring ale to this little town when there are so many brewers already?”

  Tormjere thought for a moment. It was a valid point, given that many homes in the village brewed their own ale, with varying levels of quality.

  “Because you missed the King on purpose, hoping that the inn would run out?”

  “Ha! Boy’s got a head on him alright,” his uncle said, slapping the table. “Yes, Kenzing is small enough for that troop to drink it dry in a day, which they pretty much did. Old Simmons was as prepared as he could’ve been, but his cellars are empty now.” He reached into his pack and pulled out a bottle. “Kept one for you, Byron.”

  “Thank you,” Tormjere’s father said, accepting the offered flask with a smile.

  The conversation continued through dinner, as everyone caught up on each other’s lives. Once they had eaten their fill, Tormjere took some scraps out to Blackwolf while his mother cleared the dishes. He found Otten still sitting at the table when he returned.

  “So, your brother’s a monk now?” his uncle asked.

  Tormjere nodded glumly, his good mood disappearing faster than food in a dog’s dish.

  “Always thought he’d follow through on that. The brotherhood will suit him well. Quite an honor really.”

  Tormjere’s parents beamed. He was just as proud of his brother as they were, but he’d have been happier if Eljorn was still there.

  Otten smiled fondly. “The monks of Toush have come to my aid more than once, as they do with any who are in need, and I’ve tried to return the favor when I could. I’ll never forget that time my wagon slipped a wheel and my entire haul went into the river. Thought I was ruined for sure, and I would have been if one of ‘em hadn’t come along just then. Stayed with me the whole day, helping to get it all put back together, and accepted naught but a meal for his efforts. They always have room for a traveler down on his luck, too. I’ll have to give a little extra to the next one that I see.”

  “Where are you headed next?” Tormjere asked, wanting to change the subject.

  “I’m off to Fallhaven. Have to get a new grindstone for the Insmen’s mill up the way. The stonecutters haven’t visited this year and he’s hard up for a new one. I’ll be back in a week.” He gave a small belch of appreciation for his sister’s cooking. “You should come with me.”

  Tormjere had rarely been outside the valley, and never for more than the day. He sat up eagerly. “Can I?”

  His father considered. “Well… I suppose I could handle the dogs by myself for a time.”

  Tormjere practically jumped out of his seat with joy.

  “It’ll be good for you,” Otten said. “Oh, don’t worry, Ellis,” he added, noticing his sister’s panicked expression. “The road’s as safe as any these days. Last time was just bad luck, and I’ve got Ven and Sordin with me on the other wagon.”

  His mother looked slightly mollified, but far from pleased.

  “When do we leave?” Tormjere asked excitedly.

  “Day after tomorrow. I have to finish my deliveries and check around for some things to take with us so we don’t go empty.”

  “Can I bring Blackwolf?”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem.”

  Tormjere was so excited that the rest of the evening passed in a blur. The next day, he packed and repacked his bag at least three times, just to be sure that he had everything that he might need. Blackwolf knew that something was afoot, and his exuberance matched his owner’s.

  The morning of their departure dawned bright and clear. Tormjere had been awake since long before the sun came up and was waiting impatiently for everyone else to get moving. They ate a quick breakfast while waiting for the other wagon.

  When it did arrive, Otten introduced the two men who’d brought it. One was Sordin, a lanky young man with a relaxed manner, and the other was Ven, who was near his uncle’s age but not nearly his size. Then it was finally time to go.

  “Go throw your kit in the wagon and lend a hand with the mules,” Otten told him as they stepped off the porch together. “Ven’ll show you what to do. I’m going to have a few words with your mother.”

  Tormjere smiled, and walked off to do as instructed.

  “Or she’s going to have words with me,” Otten muttered under his breath, as he turned back to face her.

  “This isn’t a good idea,” she said as soon as Tormjere was out of earshot.

  “Now, Ellis —”

  “No, you listen,” she interrupted. “Torm is a different person since his brother left. He spends all his time alone in the woods. His friends don’t talk to him anymore. I —”

  “They’ve been so close all these years. The boy just needs time to get used to the difference.”

  “He’s not lonely, he’s… restless. Eljorn always kept him grounded. They both had their dreams, like all boys, but they were fanciful things. Now…?”

  “You weren’t this upset about Eljorn leaving.”

  “Eljorn went to Toush. There is nothing I fear there; they are the living form of helpfulness and wisdom. Tormjere is…” She looked at Otten fearfully. “It can’t be like Tormjorn. You remember.”

  He nodded grimly. “I do.”

  “We came here to be far away from that.”

  Otten shook his head. “And yet each boy is named for him, by your own choice.”

  “Named in his honor, not to be him. Named for his strength and health and love, not so that they would…” Tears filled her eyes and she looked away.

  Otten stepped close and put his arms around her. “Were he to grow a beard, he’d be the spitting image of the man we held so dear. I’d wager that no matter what your wishes, he shares the same spirit as well. Ellis, he’s too smart to stay here forever. He has to find his way. I’ll be there to watch over him.”

  “Promise me,” she whispered, more a plea than a demand.

  “I care for him as much as you. I’ll not let him come to harm.”

  Ellis dried her eyes and looked past Otten at her son, who was smiling as he talked with the wagon’s crew. She shuddered at the memory she could never forget, and could not bear to relive.

  While Tormjere’s mother and uncle talked, his father pulled him aside. “I want you to promise me you’ll be careful,” the senior Enrik said, “and mind what your uncle says.”

  “Of course,” Tormjere replied, catching the note of concern in his father’s voice.

  “You’ve heard the talk at the inn,” his father said in a serious tone. “There are rumors of war everywhere, and that can make people scared. Scared men do things they normally wouldn’t. Even in the best of times the roads can be rough.” He reached into his vest and pulled out a knife, carefully turning it over in his hands before continuing.

  “This was your grandfather’s. When he first came to this valley, it was still a wild place, and he always spoke of how this helped him out of more than a few tight spots.”

  His father passed the knife to him, and Tormjere accepted it with reverence. His grandfather had died just two winters before, and the stories he’d told by the fire each night were still missed. Many times he had spoken of his favorite knife, but Tormjere had never seen it.

  He slid it carefully out of the sheath. The blade itself was as long as his hand, with an edge sharper than any he’d seen. The handle was fashioned from the hoof of a deer, still covered in fur and somehow preserved and made stiff. It was surprisingly comfortable to grip, given the unusual shape.

  “I never had need of it,” his father said. “Once the castle was built, the valley settled in a bit, and nothing wild ever comes around all the dogs anyway.” He put his hands on Tormjere’s shoulders. “Be safe.”

  “I will.”

  Otten ambled over and climbed in the wagon. “Walking or riding?” he asked.

  Tormjere grinned. “I’ll walk a bit.”

  “Suit yourself.” Otten gave a flick of the reins, and the mostly empty wagon lurched into motion. Tormjere waved a cheerful goodbye to his parents, then fell in beside his uncle. Blackwolf trotted along with his usual enthusiasm. The second wagon followed, empty except for the two men.

  They made their way at a steady but relaxed pace, following the mill road as it curved out of the trees and around the town, then turned onto the one that would take them out the east end of the cove. Everyone in the village was out, doing what they did every day this time of year, but he was going somewhere. With his grandfather’s knife on his hip, he felt quite the man, heading off into the world on a grand journey.

  He saw Amber in front of her house, setting bowls and pots out to dry in the sun. She caught sight of him and smiled as she raised her hand in greeting, but that smile faded as soon as she realized what he was doing.

  Tormjere grinned and returned her wave. It was a perfect spring day, and the newness of what he was doing added extra vigor to his step.

  Once beyond the farms, the road wound into the trees once more and began to narrow. Tormjere boosted Blackwolf into the seat and then climbed up beside him. It was cramped with the three of them there, but Otten didn’t seem to mind.

  “The road ahead is rarely maintained and goes up and down a bit, but it will be faster than going south to Jonrin and around,” Otten explained as the road steepened. “We should be two or three nights before arriving in Fallhaven.”

  Tormjere would have wagered that he could walk it in under two days, so he wasn’t worried about the distance. Besides, he was looking forward to camping under the stars.

  After a long, winding climb out of the valley, the wagons descended into a steeply walled, heavily wooded gorge. Though the forest looked the same as any other, everything felt new to Tormjere.

  His uncle showed him how to handle the brakes on the wagon to keep the mules safe during the descent, and Tormjere strove with all seriousness to do the job correctly. Blackwolf looked this way and that, enjoying the adventure every bit as much as Tormjere.

  At the bottom of the gorge ran the river that had cut it. Its turbulent waters were wider and flowed more swiftly than anything in the cove, though it looked no more than knee deep in many places. The road faded to little more than tracks through the trees and grass as it snaked its way alongside the river.

  Tormjere hopped down to walk again. Blackwolf looked at him for a moment, then happily stretched out on the now empty seat.

  Otten laughed. “Dog’s got more sense ’en you do.”

  Tormjere just smiled. In truth, he was more comfortable not being bounced around in the wagon seat, and now he could stop and look at interesting things along the way.

  The rest of the day passed pleasantly, and the wagons made good time on the empty road. They stopped to make camp beneath an ancient hemlock as the light was just beginning to fade.

  Tormjere scurried back and forth more than Blackwolf as they settled in, asking countless questions about everything from what knots were used to secure the mules, to how the food was being prepared. His enthusiasm rubbed off on the more seasoned travelers, who found much amusement at his fascination for such chores.

  The nearby water was cold enough to lend a chill to the damp air, and after a dinner of fresh fish Ven caught from the river they sat enjoying the warmth of a small fire. Even Blackwolf finally settled and lay half-asleep beside Tormjere while the men talked. It wasn’t long before the conversation turned to what lay ahead.

  “So, what do you make of all this talk of war?” Tormjere asked his uncle, trying to sound knowledgeable of worldly events as he sat picking ticks off Blackwolf.

  Otten shrugged. “Hard to tell with these things. There seems to be little concern from any of the soldiers I’ve seen hereabouts, and business moves at its usual pace, from what I can tell.”

  “Who would even want to fight us?”

  “We have lots of neighbors,” Otten said. “You know we’re presently in the Kingdom of Actondel?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’d be surprised how many don’t. To the north lies Westholm, a longtime ally and trading partner, and an unlikely enemy. To the west you have the wildlands beyond the mountains, and below that the elves of Ildalarial — not the friendliest lot but unlikely to up and attack. To the south lies the Rossian Sea and the dwarf lands.” He paused and scratched his chin. “I’m less sure about the east, where you’ll find Ceringion and Namarin. I know little of them beyond what you’ve no doubt already heard.”

  “So the east would be the most likely place for trouble?” Tormjere asked. “How far away are they?”

  “At the speed we move, perhaps twenty days or more.”

  That sounded like the other side of the world to Tormjere, who could understand why his uncle had always been reluctant to attempt such distant trade routes.

  Too soon it was time for sleep. Tormjere was excluded from the watch rotation, much to his disappointment. He wasn’t sure if it was due to kindness or distrust, but his legs were reminding him of just how far he’d walked that day, so he didn’t protest much.

  The second day passed much like the first. The road climbed out of the gorge and then into a shallow valley, then rose again before dropping them into another steep-walled gorge carved by a river almost indistinguishable from the first. Apart from a delay to repair a wagon wheel that had been damaged on one of the countless rocks it bounced over, it was every bit as enjoyable as the one before.

  Eventually, the road turned away from the river and zig-zagged its way up and out of the gorge before settling into a more gradual descent towards the foothills. There were signs of increased traffic as they descended the forested slope, but there wasn’t another traveler to be seen. They spotted the lights of Fallhaven in the distance as the sun began to set.

 

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