The Brat's Final Gambit

Nearly two weeks went by spent in painful combat training. None of Joachim’s officers or guardsmen seemed to care that Niam and his two friends had almost singlehandedly brought Eason’s illegal invasion of the Lake Valleys to an end. Niam was so sick of swords and staffs that he was about ready to foreswear weapons entirely and disappear into the mountains as a shepherd until he realized that with his luck he would probably have to use his shepherd’s crook to fend off a herd of rabid cave bears or something like that.

While he wasn’t the kind of person who sat well with a lot of thanks, a few days off wouldn’t have killed anyone, would it? Yet for all of his efforts, the only thing he had gotten over the past eleven days had been mashed fingers from fending off wooden practice blades.

“Staffs don’t come with cross guards to protect fingers!” Jolan Kine taunted him as he knelt on the practice mat to make sure all of his digits were accounted for.

At the present moment, Niam winced as a cold wind blew, making his swollen fingers smart fiercely. He was glad, however, for the horse he rode—but he prayed nobody else missed it. Because the trall had ruined his coat, Niam had been forced to borrow from other people, and he had suffered enough. Davin’s things fit Niam like Niam’s clothes fit Bug, and everything Maerillus wore was just big enough to not fit right in all the important places—elbows and shoulders were too big and the sleeves way too long. Once Maerillus found out that Niam had absentmindedly allowed his coat’s cuffs to become soaked in gravy, he was going to be extremely displeased.

Niam couldn’t help it, though.

Maerillus should have had the good sense to stop growing about a year ago. And really, if anyone should be blamed, Niam knew that it should be the Sartors. After all, they were the ones who passed their traits down to their son. So really, it wasn’t Niam’s fault that he was the runt of the litter. The moment Maerillus began complaining, Niam was going to tell him to take it up with his mother. After all, if Andromeda had chosen to marry someone a bit shorter than Gaius, then maybe Maerillus’s coat would have fit better, wouldn’t it?

Of course, Niam reflected that maybe the horse he had stolen—borrowed temporarily—had probably belonged to the Sartors, in which case Maerillus would never shut up. Earlier, Niam crept into the barn where all the good horses were kept because the only other one nearby was an uncomfortably large draft horse with withers that would have turned any man into a eunuch. Joachim told all of them repeatedly that none of them could go walking wherever they pleased while Kreeth’s minions still remained on the loose. So Niam made sure that he didn’t walk anywhere.

He rode.

Besides, he most definitely was not going where he pleased. His leg ached mightily and the saddle stirrups didn’t help. Where he wanted to be was in bed. Going there would have pleased him mightily.

The road was busy today now that word had spread about the trall’s death. Niam found that he had become quite a celebrity, which made him uncomfortable. Nothing good came of it. Like a day off. Maerillus might mope about how aggravating it was to have to concentrate to be seen, but Niam reasoned that a year shaved off of his life would be a fair trade for such an ability. Most of the beatings Niam had taken in his life would have been avoided.

Anonymity was what Niam liked most these days, and now more than ever all of them found themselves noticed by . . . well . . . by everyone. Rumors started to spring up about three local boys constantly seen in the company of a Wizard’s Hammer.

In the event that this issue arose, Kine concocted a convincing story to explain Niam’s constant presence with the Hammer: On his most recent visit to the Valleys, Kine discovered that Niam had the talent to be trained as a Hammer. And since he and his friends had inadvertently roused the Sorcerer’s ire and were witnesses to some of his worst acts, Kine now kept a watchful eye on all three boys.

Niam turned toward his home—his real home—and reflected on how strange it felt to be there. For the past several months, Niam had called the Sartor manner and the Joachim estate his home. As his mount ambled through the deep snow, he looked at the modest dwelling he had grown up in and was overcome by the aching sense of loneliness and loss that he had known since Sarah’s and Seth’s murders.

Maybe he should have kept his butt at Joachim’s estate.

He dismounted, careful to keep from applying too much weight to his injured leg. The trall’s attack left the thing inflamed where three long, angry cuts ran down his calf. Kirse was nowhere to be found, so Bug’s father recommended honey—honey!—of all things to keep infection from spreading. To Niam’s surprise it worked.

The important thing was that he had developed no infections that could have cost him his leg. There had been a fever, but that passed. Now, Niam just felt sore and tired as he went into his room and pulled several coats out the cabinets over his bed. His mother had made his bed, and placed a new pillow and blanket on it before leaving with his Dad on their trip for Joachim. Though the rooms were cold, the blankets were thick and warm, and his eyelids were growing heavier by the moment. Niam thought how nice it would be to curl up beneath them for a while. Just a short nap. He could make it back to deposit the horse in its stall without making too much ado after waking up. So Niam slipped between he sheets and sighed. There was nothing in this world like the feel of a comfortable bed. As he drifted away, his thoughts became vague and gently distant things, and Niam was soon heavily asleep.

Maerillus felt uneasy as he walked along the hallways of his home looking for . . . for anyone. Staff flitted through the rooms of the business wing, busy at their chores, and each time he stopped one of them to ask where his parents were, all he got were blank stares followed by apologies and shrugged shoulders. As the last person he asked walked off without any more useful information, Maerillus frowned. His mother and father were supposed to meet him for an early lunch, but they never showed up. And that was strange. Davin wasn’t anywhere to be found, and that was also strange. Niam was gone, too. So was one of his father’s favorite horses. And that was . . . well, suspicious. If his father had been called away on business, why hadn’t anyone seen him leave? And if he hadn’t, why was it that Niam was gone at the same time that the stable was shy one very valuable horse? That had better be a coincidence.

The halls were quiet, and fewer staff than usual moved about. This was a slow time of year, and the people working for his father had to tend to their own affairs while duties on the estate were not so pressing. As he turned past the hallway leading to his parents’ rooms, he thought about checking them one more time just in case they had returned there when a familiar figure stepped around the corner.

“Mom!” he called out. “Where in he world have you both been? I was loo—“ but before Maerillus finished the sentence, his words stopped in his throat. “Mom?” he asked, suddenly concerned. “Mom? Mom, where’s Dad?”

His mother said nothing, but seemed to wear a vague grin as she walked toward him, keeping her left hand extended slightly toward the wall as a drunken woman fearful of loosing her balance might try to keep herself steady. Yet the way she walked and the childlike expression she wore were not the things that worried him. No. It was the look in her eyes—or rather, the lack of anything in her eyes that bothered Maerillus.

“Mom, what’s wrong?” He placed a hand on her shoulder to stop her. His mother’s head slowly turned toward him. When her eyes found his, the pupils were abnormally wide and her gaze went right through him.

“Gaius?” she asked in a dreamy voice. “I won’t be having dinner with the guests tonight, sweetheart—Alexandretta is running a fever.”

Maerillus felt the frown he wore become a scowl. “I just saw my sister and she was fine. I’ve had her looking for you, too.”

Andromeda brushed his hand away, and continued on, telling him with a dreamy tone, “I’ll be in my nursing room with Lexa,” she said vaguely.

Maerillus had no idea what to do. The nursing room had been remodeled into a reading parlor years ago. He felt an urgent need to check for his father. Why does this have to keep happening? Frustration surged through him. He couldn’t let his mom roam the halls in her present state, but something was probably wrong with his dad.

“Oh maggots!” Maerillus felt his fists clench, and with an explosion of pent up anger, he began running to his parents’ suite. As he turned the corner, several maids were stomping snow and ice off of their boots onto a floor mat at the end of the wing. Even from the distance separating them, Maerillus saw the surprise on their faces as their heads snapped in his direction once he started yelling at them to check on his mom.

The door to his parents’ chambers stood half-opened. As soon as he rushed into the small antechamber where two coatracks stood, he realized that the room was empty, but Maerillus felt an odd tingling on the back of his neck. Instead of barreling into his mom and dad’s bedroom, he slowed before opening the door. Some instinct cautioned that doing so would be a terrible mistake.

Maerillus moved quietly to the door and listened for any sounds of movement or voices on the other side. The hackles at the nape of his neck rose. From the crack at the bottom of the door, he felt a cold breath of frigid air brush across his ankles. Someone had left the bedroom door patio door open.

His parents would never have done that. Maerillus was glad that his mother had left the hallway door ajar. Though he heard nothing, he was more certain than ever that someone was in the room beyond. Fearful of being detected, he wondered if he could mask sounds the way he had used his ability to conceal his friends on several occasions. Before opening the door, he closed his eyes and concentrated on being as silent as a cat stalking a mouse. Concentration was always the key when using his power. If I concentrate on making it hard for someone to see the door opening . . . Maerillus thought.

Maybe.

Slowly, he opened the door. It squeaked slightly. Maerillus blocked out any other conscious thought than willing sounds he made to go unheard. Great Lord let this work. Metal hinges grated softly as the door swung open. Loose drapes fluttered languidly as the winter poured itself into the room. To his left sat his parents’ canopy bed, and from behind it the urgent whispering of intruders that did not want to be heard.

Maerillus slipped into the room, sure to keep the bed between himself and the intruders. He edged his way closer. His father’s dueling sword hung from a post at the other end of the bed. This made him wince. He was going to have to round the corner in order to unhook the blade and arm himself. For a second Maerillus considered creeping back out of the room and fetching a blade, but he knew that any delay on his part meant success on intruders’ part, and that couldn’t be allowed. With any luck the staff had found his mother were sending for help. Rather than the sound of approaching footfalls, however, every moment that passed brought only silence. Maerillus knew his dad might be hurt or worse.

Intensifying his concentration, Maerillus rounded the foot of the bed and peered around the side, thankful that the drapes were drawn shut. From inside the canopy, a deep moaning issued, along with incoherent mumbling. Maerillus recognized his father’s voice.

“Shut up!” one of the men hissed.

“We shouldn’t have let the bitch go,” the second voice muttered quietly.

“Someone will bring her back here. They’ll think she’s drunk. We’ll kill the servant and take the two Sartors.”

The second speaker didn’t sound as sure of the plan. “What if the stuff he ate don’t keep him out?”

“Hit him with the butt of your sword,” the owner of the first voice growled. “Once we drag them out to the cart, we’ll be on our way. There’s going to be too much happening tonight to pay us any attention.”

Two men dressed in the estate’s livery stood intently over his father. Beneath the servants’ uniforms they wore, the bulges of short swords poked against loose tunics. Anger flared within Maerillus. He quickly slipped around the canopy bed and drew his father’s sword. The two men suddenly froze, and Maerillus realized that in his anger he had let go of his concentration. The larger of the two drew his sword the quickest. With a snarl, Maerillus sprung forward and slashed the man deeply across the underside of his wrist, causing him to howl in pain and drop his sword. The second mam was on him in an instant. His sword flashed downward, but Maerillus darted outside of his swing. The man’s stroke was entirely reactive and left him wide open. Maerillus drove forward, but caught a flicker of motion in time to avoid being struck by a heavy vase hurled by the wounded assailant. The porcelain object stuck Maerillus a glancing blow, but the momentum knocked him back.

The armed intruder sprang toward Maerillus, but the man’s blade did not have the reach of his father’s dueling blade. What it lacked in length, though, it more than made up for in weight. He easily beat the tip of Maerillus’s blade aside, causing him to focus on keeping his defensive stance. His attacker came on doggedly. Maerillus used the corner of his parents’ bed to give him enough time to grab one of the drapes. With a hard tug, he pulled it from the overhead canopy and used it to deflect his opponent’s blade. The man’s eyes widened when he realized Maerillus now had the upper hand, and he snarled, “Get him you idiot!”

His accomplice held his wounded arm tightly. “He got me good. Can’t close my fingers,” he whined. His good hand was now gloved in blood.

The man with the sword circled warily between a row of marble columns that limited the effectiveness of Maerillus’s long blade. “If you don’t, he’ll have us all good! Now use that damned blade, fool!”

Maerillus suddenly changed tactics and threw the drape at his assailant’s face. The man’s reaction was immediate. He dropped his guard as he tore at the fabric. At the same time, Maerillus heard the second man moving toward him. With three quick steps, Maerillus launched forward and plunged his blade into the attacker’s chest. Maerillus gave his weapon a savage twist as he pulled his blade free. The drape slipped off as the man fell with a surprised look on his face.

Maerillus spun to face the wounded man as the intruder used his good hand to swing a chair at his head. The thing hit him hard, sending him sprawling to the floor. Maerillus’s head burned like fire and the world lurched sickeningly about him. The sound of approaching footsteps told him that he had to move fast or die. Propelled by fear, he scrabbled away from the man who clutched his useless wrist beneath the crook of his arm. Maerillus felt a fleeting sense of satisfaction that he had severed tendons and a major vein. The man looked down at him with a mix of fear and distaste. His face was thin and scruffy, and his eyes darted rapidly about as he tried to decide what to do next with time running out. In a high, pained voice, he said, “They told us to look out for you.”

“Who?” Maerillus spat.

“Never you mind, boy. You ruined my arm. Now I’ll have to wait on the others to get your parents out of here.”

Before Maerillus had time to say anything else, the man let go of his wound and wiped his good hand on his tunic, leaving a smeared and bloody handprint like a twisted piece of child’s artwork. Maerillus crawled desperately across the floor. He had to get to the place where his father’s blade had fallen. The intruder drew his blade. Maerillus knew he wasn’t going to make it as man lifted his sword up to deliver a stroke.

Before the attacker could finish the act, a diminutive figure stepped into view and brought a vase crashing down across the man’s skull with a ferocious shriek. Maerillus watched in amazement as the vase connected hard with the man’s skull. While the thing didn’t break, Maerillus was sure something within his attacker’s head did. The man’s eyes rolled backward and his body collapsed like a limp doll. Standing where he fell was Casey, the old servant Maerillus had nearly scared off of a ladder this past fall.

“Casey!” Maerillus cried out in equal parts surprise and relief.

“That was a fine vase,” she said, panting with excitement. “I’d have felt poorly if it had broken. Now be a dear and bring me a good chair to sit on, young man.”

Maerillus stood up. His head pounded. “I’ve got to get Dad out of here! It might not be safe for either of you.”

Before the old servant responded, she looked around as alarm bells began ringing throughout the estate. Casey picked up the first attacker’s short sword and said adamantly, “I’ll stay here and watch him, lad. Go find help and see to this ruckus. I’ll run the first man through who thinks he’ll lay a hand on Mr. Sartor.”

Maerillus closed his eyes against the throbbing in his skull and nodded. He simply didn’t have any other option. “Close those doors and lock them,” he said quickly. “And then lock the door behind me after I leave and don’t open it for anyone you don’t recognize.”

“I wasn’t born yesterday.”

Maerillus nodded his head. Somewhere down the hallway someone began shouting “Fire!” Outside, all across the property, alarm bells began sounding in the cold, cold night.

Niam awoke with a start. For a moment, he had no idea where he was. The room was dark and the air redolent of hardwood smoke from a fire burning somewhere nearby. Niam even heard the popping of heated wood as the fire bit into its fuel.

Ah, my room, he thought drowsily. Mom must be in the den, cooking. There was comfort in that thought, and Niam nearly rolled over and went back to sleep. But there was a fire and his parents were gone.

Niam bolted upright in alarm. The crackling of hungry flames seemed to be more insistent with each passing moment. Worse, the sound came from overhead.

Niam got out of bed and made his way through the darkened interior. The path from his room, down the hallway, and into the Kitchen was a blessedly simple one. Above him, the sound of the flames was like the sound of an attic licking its thatched tongue across teeth of wooden rafters. That meant the entire roof was ablaze. A flickering light streamed down onto the floor from between the ceiling boards above, and terror instantly flooded into him. That meant the fire had already eaten through the thick layer of thatch on the roof.

And that meant he didn’t have much time

Niam jumped out of bed. Dimly, he remembered the reason for his trip home and paused for the briefest moment. On the other side of his room, his belongings sat neatly on shelves in his closet—his clothes, books, and a life’s accumulation of memories. Sarah’s drawings lay in there squirrelled between his own sketches. A pang of grief tugged at his heart, but somewhere in the attic a hot beam cracked loudly amid the flames, and Niam bolted into the kitchen, leaving his coat and memories behind to perish. As he ran, he noted wispy tongues of smoke gently nudging through the ceiling. Where they met the cooler air below, they curled like babies’ fingers, gently caressing the wood beneath. Knowing smoke meant death, he ran to the door at full speed with his hand extended to catch the latch and launch himself out into safety . . . and collided hard with unyielding wood.

A loud “oof” escaped Niam’s lips as he bounced off of the door and fell to the floor. Niam looked up dumbly at the thing as if it had traded places with the wall and moved four feet to the left without prior warning. “No . . .” Niam said in confusion. Fire bit at the wood and thatch above the ceiling more loudly now.

“No, no no no!” he shouted. Hurriedly, he scrambled across the floor on all fours as he tried to convince himself that he had just bungled the latch and that it wasn’t locked shut. Feathery-fingered tentacles of smoke pushed trough the ceiling in cords like the ephemeral blood of a bleeding devil. Niam looked at it and swallowed hard. Dying this way was nearly as unthinkable as drowning.

In a growing panic, Niam reached out and pushed the latch on the door handle, but it wouldn’t budge. For a moment he froze. The air was growing denser. The acrid bite of smoke caught in the back of his throat, making him cough. Niam looked around, noting that the room was growing brighter as he stood there. He had to get out.

The window.

Niam moved unsteadily along the perimeter of the room. In a few shot moments the smoke had grown thick enough to make it hard to see. His irritated eyes watered copiously. Niam kept bumping into furniture as he stumbled about. Holding his arms out, keeping his fingers in contact with the wall, his foot connected with something hard and he ran headlong into a cabinet, sending it along with dozens of plates and bowls crashing to the floor.

Niam’s forward momentum sent him sprawling across the fallen mess, and for a second time tonight he found himself on the floor. Pain flared in his head and he was rapidly overtaken with vertigo. The next thing he knew, he was on his side with something hot and thick raining across his forehead and trickling down his cheek. A loud pounding seemed to come at him from several directions at once.

Niam blinked in confusion, and he realized with some difficulty that what he felt on his face was his own blood. When he stretched his arm out, a hiss involuntarily formed on his lips. His head throbbed. His eyes were nearly gummed shut by smoke and tears. The air was now frighteningly thick, and the roar of flames above drowned out nearly every other sound save the fracturing of charred timbers and the pounding that still seemed to be coming from somewhere in the smoke. Everything became indistinct. Niam felt almost as if he were in a trance.

The smoke is getting to me, a distant part of his mind noted, and then he wondered, How long was I out? More of the room was aglow. Niam struggled up, ignoring the pain. The moment he took a breath, the air above waist level was almost too thick to bear. Niam lurched blindly. Now, firelight emanated not only from narrow seams in the ceiling, but from the hallway as well. His lungs felt like they were about to burst. He didn’t think he was going to make it. As he lurched toward the place where he knew the window lay, a tremendous crash reverberated through the room, and a familiar voice cried out in alarm. “Niam!”

Niam’s throat worked hard to produce words. “I’m here!” He screamed out in terror. He had breathed in so much smoke that his mouth was filled with the sickening flavor of charred wood. A painful spasm sent Niam to his knees. Again someone called out frantically. “Niam!”

Niam tried to scream back, but as he tried to draw enough air into his lungs to respond, his throat closed shut. The world spun nauseatingly, and his field of vision began closing like curtains on a stage. The glow in the room began to recede and grow distant. Somewhere in the back of Niam’s mind, he thought to himself, I’m passing out—and with the thought came a small relief. At least I won’t feel myself burning. But Niam never felt his torso hit the floor. Darkness wound itself in around him, and his world went away into smoke.

“Ouch! Are you trying to kill me?” Niam protested as the world faded back into view and a pair of hands tugged at his armpits tightly enough to wring all of his blood down into his toes. The ground slid beneath his heels as he struggled back to consciousness. Someone was dragging him across the ground.

“You’re welcome,” that someone said between coughing fits.

Niam felt himself being carefully lowered to the snow, and he turned to lift himself up, but the world spun and he realized that he was coughing hard enough to rupture something. As he reached behind himself to lay his head back down, his wrist screamed at him in pain.

Maybe I already ruptured something, he thought humorlessly, and began laughing between furious bouts of choking.

“Only you would laugh at a time like this.”

Niam looked up as everything finally began to resolve itself into a sensible whole. Davin stood above him half bent over, trying to force the soot and smoke out of his throat.

“My Hero,” Niam managed to say, hacking as if his lungs were about to come out.

While they both collected themselves, Niam finally managed enough clean air to clear the thinking in his head. “Help me up,” he groaned.

Davin knelt down at his side to look him over. The blazing house lit up the surrounding woods brighter than the noonday sun. “You look awful,” he said.

Niam moved himself carefully, testing all of the moving parts to see if they still worked. “I thought I was dead,” he said, finally taking a good look at the fire. The home he grew up in burned furiously.

Niam’s hands went up to his mouth as another painful bout of coughing and retching overtook him. When he withdrew his hands to wipe them, he saw that what came out of his lungs was black. “Think I’ll live,” Niam croaked as he watched his life’s memories waft up in sparks and embers into the cold winter air. “My door was locked, Davin. Somebody did this on purpose.”

Davin’s voice was filled with anger. “I know. Mine was, too,”

Niam looked back at him. It took some time for that information to set in.

“When I heard that one of Joachim’s horses had gone missing, I knew you had been bellyaching about not having a good coat to wear, so I put two and two together. I stopped by home on my way here to make sure everything was okay. Someone must have followed me. Wasn’t there long before we smelled smoke. Someone jammed our door, too. I got us out, but nothing else survived.”

Niam didn’t know what to say. A sense of guilt began to burn within him. “If I had just listened and stayed put—” he said shamefully.

“If you had done that, somebody might have burned my house without me there to get my family out,” Davin told him.

“Maybe,” he said. “But we’ve got to get to Maerillus. If someone tried to kill us, they might be after him now.

Lucky for Niam the horse was still in the small pasture behind the house. Davin had one of his own, an old draftie named Brindle, who moved like a boulder through the snow once they left the road and cut though fields making a bee line for the Sartor estate. Niam followed, taking advantage of the furrow made in the knee-high snow by Davin’s large mount.

As they drew closer, they crested a hill with a commanding view of the surrounding countryside. The Sartor manor glowed like a jewel where it sat atop its own hill like a crown. “There are an awful lot of lights burning down there,” Davin muttered nervously.

Niam peered into the dark and was able to make out shapes of people moving rapidly among the buildings closest to Maerillus’s home. “Something’s up. There are people with lanterns all over the place.

“Look at that!” Davin exclaimed, pointing to where the fields gave way to woods and the western edge of the property. It only took Niam a moment to see what Davin was pointing at.

Orange light illuminated the uppermost branches of treetops in the distance. Something was burning, and it took Niam only a heartbeat to realize what lay in that direction.

“Great Lord,” Niam groaned. “That’s where Bug lives!”

“Wait!” Davin shouted as Niam kicked his stolen mount and shot away across the snow toward the woods.

Niam ignored his friend’s pleas to slow down. The horse snorted nervously as the wood line drew closer. There was no telling what lay beneath the crusty blanket of white, and as the animal tensed and attempted to slow its gait, Niam urged it onward.

“Niam!” Davin called out.

Niam paid him no heed. His lungs burned, but he didn’t care. The trail leading from the gorge to the edge of the Sartor estate where the beekeeper’s family lived lay just a short distance through the forest. The Marie family lived in swath of land set aside for Joachim’s servants sandwiched between the two. Branches and limbs lashed at Niam’s face as he drove Gaius’s horse into the gloom. He kept his head down and ignored the smaller limbs slapping his forehead and cheeks. Large trees and branches loomed out of the gloom, and the horse shied away from them with more agility than Niam would have expected. All he had to do was keep moving toward the trail. When the dense shroud of trees abruptly ended, Niam pulled the reins hard to the left and onto the path that clove the woods in two, allowing for the infrequent passage of travellers to fish the banks of the lake-filled gorge.

Behind him, Davin’s mount noisily crashed through the forest while he swore loudly each time a limb lashed at his exposed skin. All Niam was able to think of was Bug. Images of his young friend trapped, choking, burning to death played out in his mind in merciless detail. He continued to cough up blackened spit and phlegm from his smoke-corrupted lungs. Ahead, the flickering glow cast by hungry flames licked at the trail’s edge, and as it drew closer with the drumming beat of hooves cracking through the frozen, icy crust, he prayed that one of the barns was ablaze instead of the house.

When Niam burst into the clearing his worst fears grew into fruition. Ahead, just beyond the low swell of the hill, everything was lit by the final demise of his young friend’s house. The guard’s shack and a barn beyond were illuminated by the firelight, while Bug’s neighbors and a smattering of estate staff looked on with resignation. Niam angled his galloping mount toward Bug’s father and pulled the animal to a breathless stop in front of the sooty man. Before the animal was completely still, he swung his leg over the saddle and leapt off. Pain flared in his leg, but Niam hurried to the man.

“Where is she?”

Mr. Marie wiped the sweat from his face with a dirty sleeve and met Niam’s gaze. His eyes were bloodshot from the smoke, and his face and hands were noticeably red. “She made it out with the rest of us in time, thank the Creator.”

“Did you see who did this?” Niam blurted out.

Bug’s father shook his head. His face was creased with fatigue and his eyes held the same far-away look Niam knew his own might hold if it were not for greater concerns worming their way through his mind.

Davin galloped up to where they stood. Brindle sounded like a bellows and Davin breathed just as hard. “Is she okay?” he asked, coming to a halt.

“Yes, she’s alright . . . scared as a filly, but she’s okay.”

Niam looked around, frustrated that no one seemed to be doing much. Bug’s father saw the look on his face and said tiredly, “Don’t be angry with them. They did all they could. We’ve been running around putting out fires since late this afternoon.”

“There have been more fires?” Davin asked, shocked.

“Oh aye . . . that there have. Mr. Sartor lost two barns, and several servants’ houses are gone, too. The entire garrison has been mobilized. Joachim’s got them pulled away from that black sorcerer’s property and hopping about looking for the bastards doing this,” the man spat.

Niam looked at Davin, and the uncertainty and confusion in his friend’s eyes echoed his own. “Where did Bug get off to, sir?”

“A young man your age came shortly after we got out of the house. He said Joachim needed her. He’s probably looking for her now,” he responded absently, watching his home wasting away to ashes. “With all that’s going on, I’ll be glad to have her up at the Count’s manor.”

A wave of relief momentarily swept through Niam, but something about what her father said didn’t sit right with him. The timing was all wrong. Why would someone show up looking for her right after they had all managed to get out of the house?

“Was it Maerillus, sir?”

“No, lad. This boy seemed more of a commoner. His hair was all lank—“

Niam felt a sudden dropping sensation and interrupted the man, finishing his sentence for him. “Long hair, loose, and kind of greasy?”

Her father nodded his head. “He was sort of tall . . . not quite as big as Hapwell or Maerillus,” he said.

Niam felt as if Davin’s horse had just kicked him. “Your daughter is in danger. Which way did she run?” he demanded.

Bug’s father looked taken aback. “What’s going on?”

“Which way did she go?” Niam shouted.

“Back toward the hives,” he responded quickly.

Before he could go on, Niam flashed, “Did you tell the guy that came looking for her?”

Worry now creased his brows. “Um . . . no . . . now what is happening with my daughter? I thought all of this business with the trall was over.” The irritation in his voice was clear.

“The boy that came for her was Salb,” Niam said in disgust.

Mr. Marie’s eyes narrowed. “The boy who killed Corey.”

“Yes. And he is probably one of the people behind this madness. Our homes burned too.”

Mr. Marie’s face clouded over in multiple shades of red, and he began bellowing for someone to find him a sword.