Setting out with the sun, the escort party made good time to the Dark Woods. The sleepy countryside remained quiet and the night’s remaining breezes whispered against the travelers’ cheeks. By noon, when the crofters’ fields were passed, the surrounding area was flush with chirruping insects in the tall, green grasses and boisterous birdsong coming from the trees. The bright sun cast radiant beams, threatening to blind the escorts as the light struck the polished metal carriage accents and brassy helmets of guard beasts.

  Walking next to the carriage’s left, Martu squinted as one such sunbeam bounced off the elaborate conveyance’s door handle. She raised a paw to block the light as Jessup chuckled next to her. She balled her free paw and punched his mailed shoulder. The burly beaver acknowledged the gesture with a belly laugh.

  At his laughter, the lead wagon pony behind the carriage neighed for attention. Although Jessup could charm all livestock, the stocky fey pony was his. The caravan’s precious munitions were being pulled by Jessup’s mare, granting her a more defensive position in the wagon train.

  “Nice try for a little weasel,” said good-natured Jessup.

  To the big beaver, most things were little this or that. To everyone else, Martu was more of a large weasel, a pine marten to be specific. Her measuring to Jessup’s shoulder was an admirable feat of vertical ingenuity.

  Martu adjusted her tunic and cloak, noticing a cloud shadow before their pace. Looking up in surprise returned a blast of sunlight. As she pressed her paws into her eyelids, she noticed a flicker of movement. She mimed rubbing her eyes more while stealing a glance in her periphery. The small curtain in the window of the carriage was peeled back. When Martu dropped her paws and attempted a friendly smile, the peeking gold eyes disappeared in a ruffling of curtain.

  The pine marten shrugged at the carriage occupant’s shyness. Martu and the rest of her band were outsiders to this region and she did not know if it was normal custom for brides and dowries to be shipped to expectant spouses. This particular gig involved Orrik’s Redsnouts acting as supplemental protection to Lord Taverand’s soldiers. The rider in the carriage was Miss Odette Taverand, Lord Taverand’s granddaughter.

  “Steady on, lads!” called out Tirig, the lord’s guard captain, an immense boar that managed to exceed Jessup’s proportions. He threaded through the walking guards on a destrier that dwarfed the draft team pulling the carriage.

  The liver chestnut equine showed no hint of strain as she bore her armored rider’s weight, and took sure steps with her strong, white-stockinged legs. The mane was in braids and the long tail had a bow tied at the tufted end. The look seemed at odds with the rider and a sentiment out of place in the northlands.

  As the guard captain passed Martu and Jessup, the boar’s small, black eyes glared down his snout at them, right paw on the hilt of the saber at his hip. Martu did not take his dislike personal. The captain had well-earned pride and did not like that Lord Taverand thought his personal guards were insufficient to escort his granddaughter.

  Martu took note of the boar’s paw resting on the weapon, thinking the captain was more on edge then the idyllic surrounds demanded. The entire caravan was now under the strange cloud shadow. It did not match the sky above, but Martu did not try to verify the phenomenon again. She had the urge to fall farther back in the escort train to consult the Redsnouts’ feathermage about the mismatched cloud cover.

  A glance over her shoulder showed a lynx, gallant in his silvery mana-steel chest plate and navy tunic, riding up to meet the boar captain, his gauntleted left arm raised in greeting. Although he had discarded the official title when he went mercenary, he would always be Sir Orrik to Martu. The handsome leader of the Redsnouts tilted a tufted ear at a jaunty angle and grinned at Tirig, letting his charisma diffuse the boar’s anxiety.

  Jessup noticed Martu’s linger and teased, “Moonin’ after Master Orrik, again?”

  Martu punched him in the arm again and lifted her snout, a regular marten brown. When a noisy, fat fly landed in her whiskers, she snorted and ruined the effect of her indignation. The beaver gave a distracted laugh, his paws fidgeting with the braided twine coming out of the pants pockets of his coveralls. Jessup’s role in the Redsnouts was main cook and demolitionist. If he was reaching for explosives, then the eerie feeling causing the hair to rise on the back of Martu’s neck was not imagination.

  The escort party’s destination was a harsh, rocky region on the other side of a dark forest, named as such because the light of day could not penetrate the thick canopy. There was talk of demonic specters under the gnarled boughs in the tavern last night.

  After another ten minutes of walking, the soldiers started to notice the strangeness in the air. Several pointed paws upward at the open sky, shaking their heads at the shadow covering them. It seemed to come from the front of the escort train. Martu made a few hops in her march to attempt to see. A gloomy mass lingered ahead. It was the Dark Forest, the most dangerous part of the escort mission and the reason Orrik’s Redsnouts were hired.

  As they approached the quiet woods, clouds came together overhead, blocking the sunshine. Martu looked behind and saw sunlight at the edge of the storm clouds, undisturbed by the unnerving darkening of sky over the escort party. Heavy drops of water preceded a steady rain that continued as they followed the path into the trees.

  The soldiers were murmuring superstitions to each other, but Martu could not catch what they said. Their furtive glances into the trees were enough to put her on alert even if they were worse than sailors. The boar captain seemed robbed of his earlier bluster. He gestured to some soldiers and they began lighting the lanterns on the carriage and supply wagons.

  “Let’s send a scout through,” suggested Orrik, turning his head over his shoulder to catch Martu’s eye.

  Martu tipped her head, spilling water from the wide brim of her hat. She hated scouting in rain, but was experienced enough that it would not impede her duty. Sounds were muted and amplified in a way that rendered her ears less than helpful. Getting a nose to the earth and a vantage point in the trees would tell her more about the lurking danger.

  “Already did,” Captain Tirig grunted, pensive as he chewed on a nail.

  On cue, a single rider cloaked in Taverand teal trotted up to the two leaders in front of the carriage. The boar captain leaned down as the thin weasel scout made the report. Tirig nodded a dismissal at the end and moved his equine closer to Orrik to confer in mute tones that Martu could not decipher.

  As the scout turned and rode to the back of the wagon train, Martu caught the haunted expression on the weasel’s face. She had seen the look before. Shock was suppressing horror. Jessup nudged her with his elbow and gave a minute turn of his head at the scout. She nodded acknowledgement.

  “Wheelll, it looks like yon Millie needs some assistance with them raindrops,” Jessup suggested, pitching his voice to carry and adjusting his hardhat.

  The beaver drifted back to the wagon right behind the carriage to attend his pony, twiddling the explosive cord coming out of his pocket. The sweet-natured beast was in a temper, shaking her sopping tan forelock from her eyes and snapping her teeth at her indulgent owner.

  One of the riders at the front of the carriage fell back to Jessup’s position. It was Grasswhistle, the Redsnouts’ sharpshooter, wearing a hat with an exaggerated brim and a frayed gray cloak that once belonged to one of the southern Lion Guards, evidenced by the remnants of gold embroidery on the tattered hem. The hare’s long ears were tucked under the hat, their crossed decorative ribbons trailing down her back and dripping.

  She unslung the rifle on her back and inspected the bayonet fastened to the barrel, muttering, “No reliable shooting if the action starts. Poweder’ll be all wet. Jess is just dreamin’.” Her eyepatch, used for tuning her aim, was covering her right eye. The seasoned merc’s instincts told her that combat was imminent.

  Martu checked her short sword scabbard at her left and her hatchet looped on her belt at her right hip. Her crossbow was in the wagon pulled by Jessup’s pony. Not being able to rely on gunshot was concerning. The escort was walking too close together to safely draw blades, the soldiers compressing inward from the twisted branches.

  After a half hour of walking in the constant pitter patter of raindrops on leaves, the murmuring started at the back of the caravan. Martu did not hear the commotion until someone muffled an anguished shout. Her concern focused on the Redsnouts’ feathermage and machinist riding at the back of the supply train with the dowry items. She had to remind herself that tranquil Gloria and foul-mouthed Chicrose were an effective duo.

  Two heron feathermages rode up from the supply wagons. The distinguished elder dismounted from his steed onto the squirrel driver’s bench with grace. The younger heron, looking new to his dark blue adept’s habit, clambered with little refinement onto the back bench of the carriage. He adjusted round spectacles on his long beak as he clutched the carriage for balance with tiny feathered paws coming from the outward bend of his wings. A walking spear-wielder passed his weapon to his nearest companion and took the reins of the mages’ mounts.

  Gloria once explained to the Redsnouts that feathermages grew the paws after consuming large quantities of manaberries, a unique effect to birds. Scholars and magic went together like sleep and a warm bed. Gloria was a gifted calligraphist. Martu could not believe there was a time when the dove scholar had no paws. In any case, Gloria was also considered skillful at script with her talons.

  Although Martu had seen many a beast in her travels, great herons were few. Trusted counselors and adroit sages, they did not often mix with the common rabble. The heron feathermages must have powerful combat-oriented spells if Lord Taverand would send his important advisors to reinforce the escort party.

  The old mage perched his long legs on the bench and sank downward, his rune-embroidered, violet robe pooling around him. “I figure the safest place to cast will be in the middle,” he remarked in a cheerful tone.

  “H-how long have they been following us?” stuttered the young heron, twisting his long neck around, yellow eyes wild with fear.

  “Enough,” scolded the elder, the one word sterner than his affable appearance indicated. He angled his elongated bill downward and peered over his tiny, half-moon spectacles at Martu and Grasswhistle. “The coal-wraiths following us are very dangerous. One scratch or bite and you will be poisoned. This is really a job for a holy order but they are scarce in these parts of the realm.”

  “Is there an antidote, Uncle?” asked the young mage.

  Uncle Feathermage raised a paw digit as lightning cracked overhead. “Ah… No, not for this analogy. Direct injuries are fatal for our purposes.”

  “Lovely,” grumped Grasswhistle with a general sourness that remained consistent during rain. The rumble of thunder punctuated her ire.

  Martu gritted her teeth. This was a much more dangerous job than Lord Taverand indicated a week ago. She had accompanied Orrik and Grasswhistle to the negotiations. Although the mercenary leader and the lord talked circles around the marten’s straightforward mind, she was certain the mink lord had downplayed the peril.

  There was a shout from behind, much closer than Martu would have liked. Grasswhistle laid her rifle across her lap, right paw resting on the handle by the trigger. She pulled the pistol at her right hip holster with her left paw and kept it sheltered from the rain under her cloak. Martu followed suit and drew her short sword. While she would have appreciated the height advantage of a mount, the marten was more effective on her own two foot-paws. She did not appreciate that the precipitation had sunk into the earthen road, but it would not be the first time she had to tussle in mud.

  “Engage the enemy!” roared Captain Tirig. “Do not break! Death before dishonor!”

  Orrik drew his sword and raised it high. “Redsnouts, equip!”

  More shouts followed by clashing of weaponry and snarls of violence. Martu slowed her steps to fall behind Grasswhistle’s mount so that she could have a direct view of the forest. Branches snapped from the shadows between trunks. Somethings were running alongside the escort party.

  “T-they’re taking the train,” cried the young mage. “Uncle Ken!”

  The old mage stood, wings spreading as he raised his paws. “Well, we can’t have that now, can we?” he said, as the runic threading on his robe began to glow. He moved his paws as if he were rubbing a sphere until a yellow-green light began to gather in the space, increasing in intensity as it turned an opaque yellow. With a vitality that belied his years, the heron leaned his body away from the carriage and lobbed the light to the back of the wagon train.

  An unholy chorus of whines and howls assaulted Martu’s ears. Another stream of lightning flickered, the strobing effect disguising the yellow lights approaching fast from the right.

  Grasswhistle pulled back her lips and bared her incisors to let out a piercing whistle. “On your toes, bark skulker!” she growled, brandishing her pistol.

  Martu turned, blade ready as a strange, shadowed creature jumped from the forest and sprinted on all fours. It lunged, dark jaws open and filled with conical bone-white teeth. The flickering eyes were the yellow-orange of flame. The marten swung just in time to meet the maw, the blade catching as the creature’s mouth snapped shut. Gunshot blasted nearby, a bullet going straight through the head. The fiery eyes extinguished as the body collapsed.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  “Keep a move on!” bellowed Jessup.

  As his pony cantered through, the beaver bent over with a brawny arm outstretched. Martu caught his paw, grateful for the boost. From the vantage point in the front seat of the wagon, she could see the escort party was beset on all sides by the scrabbling, twisted figures with eyes of fire. A glowing dome encased the rear of the wagon train. It was one of Gloria’s barrier spells.

  Ahead, Grasswhistle stabbed down with her bayonet at a creature attempting to attack her mount’s flank. As she withdrew, she twisted in her seat, right paw sliding down the barrel to the trigger, and fired a shot across the draft team to snipe a creature attempting to pounce on the rear right-side equine.

  Orrik weaved through mounted guards at the front of the escort train, placing his blade where needed. As his steed pitched forward to throw hind hooves into the skull of an assailant, he caught sight of a felled tree in front of the path. He pivoted his stallion, the equine rearing, and shouted, “Blockade!”

  The boar captain reacted instantly, turning his steed and racing to the back. “Halt! Halt the wagons!”

  The carriage driver slowed the excited draft team with great heaves on the reins, her long, bushy tail leaning the opposite direction for balance. Jessup steered Millie between Grasswhistle and the carriage for safety. Martu’s heart sank when she saw the fallen tree, knowing it was no coincidence. They were trapped.

  “Unhitch the equines,” the marten suggested. “Maybe we can jump it.”

  “And leave behind my boom kit?” Jessup said. “We’re gettin’ yer noggin checked when we get done. I’ll blast us through.” He ducked himself under the tarp covering his wagon and began rummaging through his supplies.

  “We ain’t got time!” snapped Grasswhistle, nudging her mount away from the carriage to trample a particularly misshapen attacker.

  Not wanting to be outdone, Martu retrieved her crossbow and bolts from the under the wagon’s tarp. The rain would affect only her aim, but she was still a good shot.

  To Martu’s eyes, the shadowy creatures almost looked like they had once started as beastfolk. Their strange snarls and howls were unearthly, and they did not move with the patterns of locomotion inherent to normal beastfolk. The black forms had a dusting of grey, not unlike charcoal after hours of burning. The only thing wraith-like seemed to be their ability to materialize from the darkest spaces between the trees.

  The old heron feathermage released a frightening barrage of red and orange lights that honed on their targets, exploding upon making contact. Not a single sphere struck an ally in the chaos.

  His junior did not have the same level of magnitude and pitched yellow spheres one by one. He started to lose control of a spell ball that manifested too large as a coal creature jumped at the rear of the carriage. He spilled the amorphous mass onto the creature and it recoiled with an ear-splitting howl of pain.

  “Whew, that was a freebie,” he said, gasping with adrenaline. As he scanned the back of the wagon train, his relief faded. “They’re getting out the flamethrowers.”

  “What?!” exclaimed the older mage.

  Jessup pulled up from the tarp, goggles over his eyes and his gloved paws covered in black powder. “They’ll blow us all up!”

  The escort was condensed into a traffic jam of crooked wagons and panicking ponies. Quarters were too close. The destructive power of the flamethrowers would harm friend and foe with equal intensity.

  The guard captain rode up to the carriage, eyes making a swift assessment. “We must break the blockade,” he said between heaving breaths. “At least enough for the beaver’s wagon.” He rapped his knuckles on the carriage door, but did not wait for answer and opened the door. Amidst the chaos, his hoarse bellow was reduced to near groveling when he enunciated, “Miss Odette, we are under attack. You must escape in the wagon with the mercs.”

  Martu turned and planted another bolt between the eyes of a coal creature, hiding her smirk at the boar’s sudden submission. Her target dropped without a sound. She reloaded and waited to get a look at the precious cargo.

  Jessup’s pony was blocking the door next to the wagon. The younger mage bent around the other side to help with an outstretched wing. In an unexpected feat of acrobatics, a cloaked mink took the feathermage’s paw and slung across the back of the carriage, making him look like a dancer as the momentum spun the heron around.

  Martu pointed her crossbow skyward and scooted across the bench, but the mink landed off balance and pinwheeled her arms before falling into the marten. Martu was propelled backward against the back of the bench, banging her spine against the edge.

  “Tirig, you old pig,” shouted the older mage, his voice going shrill. “Your idiots are readying the flamethrowers!”

  “What?!” The captain spun his equine, calling, “Blast the blockade, Kensidore! Save the Mink!” He rushed back to the other end of the escort train with a roaring squeal, leaving behind a flurry of small hair bows that had come free of his steed’s braids.

  Miss Taverand jumped away from Martu, her hood peeling back to reveal a pretty, dark brown mink with copper-ringed eyes leaning toward orange. “My apologies, soldier,” she said, blushing.

  She wrinkled her snout at raindrops and pulled her hood all the way to the edge of her nose, her limbs disappearing under her full-body traveling cloak. Her small, rounded ears sticking up in the hood’s fabric smoothed against her skull when a deep baying began in the surrounding trees.

  Martu shivered at the doom knell as she knelt down to gather the crossbow ammo she dropped when the mink miss fell on her. The rest of the soldiers paused at the noise and the even the coal-wraiths’ assault ebbed.

  The old feathermage became grim. “That can’t be good. Meladore, come here.”

  The younger mage looked over the length of the carriage, his expression starting to go stubborn until his uncle caught his eye. Sighing, Meladore heaved himself onto the roof of the carriage with his odd paws. His long-toed talons scrabbled for purchase on the smoothed surface and he ended up sliding beak first across, into the bench between his uncle and the driver.

  The old mage chuckled at the ungraceful move and held out both palms. Red orbs of light materialized in front of them and burst forth to the fallen tree blocking the path. As the orbs met the tree trunk, the mage closed his paws into fists. Instead of exploding, the tree seemed to implode on itself as it dissolved.

  Orrik appeared on foot, leading his stallion. “Take Plucky with you,” he said to Grasswhistle, putting the reins in her paw. “He strained his ankle and cannot bear a rider.”

  “The paw was for you, you fool,” Grasswhistle scolded, pulling back with Plucky’s lead. Although she did not care for equines, she would not fail in the keeping of Orrik’s steed.

  The lynx shook his head. “Nay, I will stay with Tirig. If our suspicions are correct, the enemy will give chase once they realize Miss Taverand is on the move again. You have that long to get ahead.”

  Jessup tossed a flare and a bundle ornamented with several twists of cord. “Save the flare for if you survive,” he advised, tone harsh with emotion.

  Martu patted him on the back as a lanky fox soldier ran up and laid an injured squirrel baring a resemblance to the carriage driver in the back of the wagon. Miss Taverand recognized them and hopped into the wagon, muttering with anguish, “Oh no.”

  “I see our mounts, Uncle,” said Meladore, pointing over the carriage.

  Uncle Feathermage set a magic paw on his nephew’s shoulder, shaking his head. “You must go with Miss Taverand’s wagon. But first...”

  Martu lost the rest of his sentence as a wave of wraith creatures attacked. She managed to fell two before they reached the remaining Taverand soldiers. As Orrik went to the aid of a weasel beset by two foes, a third leaped as lightning flashed. Grasswhistle cried out when her pistol misfired. The former knight raised his left arm on instinct, after seasons of shield bearing. Black jaws closed on his gauntleted forearm and began shaking with voracity.

  Orrik wrenched his arm back as he slashed with his sword. The beast loosened its hold to gurgle as it fell, bone teeth dragging the gauntlet, to expose a golden mana-tech prosthetic. Swirling blue light diffused from the puncture marks in the forearm. Orrik opened and closed the paw to gauge its remaining functionality.

  Jessup whistled at the manaturgical wonder, a collaborative project by Chicrose, Gloria, and himself. “Next time, we use the arm cannon!”

  The front line broke from the attack. Several wraiths dashed toward the wagon. Martu and Grasswhistle, having retrieved her own crossbow from the saddle, felled all but three. The elder heron feathermage hit two with his homing magic, but the last leapt onto the carriage. It’s razor claws struggled with the surface, making Martu wonder if the conveyance was enchanted against boarders.

  A wayward claw struck the feathermage in the shoulder. The team driver pulled a hunting knife and went to his aide, wrath in her eyes.

  “Uncle Ken!” The young heron caught the other, tears forming as he saw the red through the rips in his uncle’s robe. A strange black smoke began to eke out. “I know mother’s antidote spell,” he started.

  “It won’t work,” his elder replied, tranquil in his mortality. “You must take my heartfeather.” He reached inside his chest and retrieved an iridescent, glowing feather. “Tell my dear sister, I have kept you safe.” His magic paw twinkled and disappeared as the feather landed in his nephew’s shaking paw. The illumination of the runed embroidery on his purple robe snuffed.

  Another baying sounded and multitudes of orange eyes illuminated round all sides of the stopped escort train. Coal-wraiths came through the cleared area and climbed over the remaining areas of trunk.

  Captain Tirig retreated half the distance from the back, more than a little singed on his left side. “Go!” he bellowed, raising a pike with his right arm, his left limp in his lap.

  The carriage driver scurried across the backs of the team equines, cutting them loose with her knife. After the last was loose, she jumped back to the carriage and cracked the sparkwhip over the them. The noisy crackle above the equines startled them into motion and they stampeded to the opening in the road.

  “Worth their weight in gold an’ now they’re gone,” the squirrel commiserated as she helped support Kensidore.

  “Hurry, Melly,” the old heron urged, now sounding twice his years. His blue-gray plumage had dulled, taking on an ashy finish, and his yellow eyes were darkening. “Protect Miss Taverand and return to your mother.”

  “I will, Uncle Ken,” blubbered the nephew.

  Martu shot one of the wraiths before them and reached for ammo, her paws bumping into a near empty quiver. She risked a glance down to see that she had three bolts left. They were out of time. Jessup also noticed her reduced munitions and leaned forward to grab Meladore before the young adept could fumble across the carriage again.

  “I’m goin’ first!” Grasswhistle decided, tossing her crossbow and a half-full quiver back to Martu. She signaled her mount to charge forward, Plucky in tow.

  Millie did not wait for a command and burst into motion to follow Orrik’s stallion out of habit. The mana-chrome shoecaps on the fey pony’s hooves began to spark like small firecrackers as her gait became fluid, her body and limbs seeming to lengthen. Martu set her crossbow in the back of the wagon and grabbed the seat. Only Grasswhistle could hit a mark at this speed.

  The equines that went before cleared the way and the wagon passed through the broken tree. A wraith jumped from the top of the trunk and managed to catch the back of the wagon with a gnarled paw. The unnatural strength in the spindly limbs levered it on to the wagon. Miss Taverand looked up from her ministrations to the injured squirrel and her face contorted into a snarl.

  Martu moved without thinking. She jumped over the seat and slammed into the wraith, finding it to be solid. She grabbed its wrists to keep it from slashing and drove her knee into the jaw, feeling as the mandible cracked with an audible snap.

  “Don’t let it scratch you!” Meladore wailed, his grief fresh.

  The marten won the grapple and threw the wraith overboard to be trampled by the remains of the Taverand guard as their equines strained to keep up with the Redsnouts’ equipped mounts. Far behind the escapees, an orange light shone as if dawn were taking place within the forest, expanding as it grew in magnitude. The pursuing wraiths cried out in alarm and those closest to the light fled into the trees as if actual sunlight struck them.

  Martu squinted and held up a paw, trying to watch through her claws. Miss Taverand hissed and huddled under her hood. Jessup still wore his goggles and watched the brilliance erupt in a sizzling explosion, sighing at the beauty of detonation.

  “Oh, Uncle,” said the young mage, slumping against an unoccupied area of the wagon. He cradled the glowing feather and wiped a tear from his eye. Without another word, he pushed the feather into his chest. He shivered, eyes blanking to white before returning to a yellow that was less golden than before.

  Although Grasswhistle was farther ahead, her voice carried back on the slipstream, “I see the end!”

  Her announcement of hope was met by one final assault from the trees. Coal-wraiths dropped from the boughs upon the exhausted remnants of the escort. A large wraith in the distinct shape of a fox landed in the center of the wagon, it’s long bushy tail black and frayed like a burnt duster. It lunged for Miss Taverand, a farther target, with savage singlemindedness.

  Martu jumped in front of the mink noble, readying to grapple again. Miss Taverand was in the process of drawing a dagger and lost her balance at the back of the wagon. She pinwheeled her arms, dropping her dagger and grabbing for the nearest support, Martu in this case. Martu gritted her teeth and held her ground as the mink’s tiny claws pierced through her tunic. She would fail the grapple now.

  Before impact, Jessup caught the wraith by the mouth, his thick engineering gloves protecting him from the fangs. His back and arms flexed as he slammed the creature to the side and jammed a spherical object with a sizzling wick down it’s throat.

  “Fire in th’ole!” he shouted. The beaver lifted the writhing wraith fox over his head and threw it over the entire wagon. The resulting blast was an abrupt expelling of black cloud, resembling soot. “Hmm…” he mused, cocking his head.

  They cleared the trees, the gloom of the overcast sky seeming bright as noonday sun. The few remaining wraiths gave chase but lost their enthusiasm away from the protection of the darkened woods. Grasswhistle reined her mount, cueing the other equines to slow. All of them but uncanny Millie were heaving and covered in sweat.

  The last wraiths were blasted by homing streaks of green light. The young heron feathermage’s robe was embroidered in dark, runed thread that glowed as he cast the spell and his narrow crest feathers had risen into a plume.

  Martu rubbed her shoulder where Miss Taverand clawed her, an uncomfortable burning sensation spreading from the wound. How sharp were those claws? Martu turned back to check the mink’s condition to see her face was frozen in panic, eyes a flickering orange. Martu glanced about but saw no foes. When she returned her gaze to the mink, she noticed the recent and familiar ocular smolder.

  Miss Taverand put a paw to her mouth to shush the pine marten, mouthing the words, ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Martu kept her voice low, paw going to her sword hilt. “Am I going to die?”

  Miss Taverand shook her head, eyes dropping. “Worse,” she said.

  Martu clenched her teeth, keeping her body killing still. “Like you?”

  The mink pulled her hood down, shaking her head again. “Worse.”

  The carriage had been protection for Miss Taverand’s escort, not for her. Lord Taverand’s shiftiness at the business meeting was revealed. He knew his daughter was infected with the wraith-disease. Why he was sending a death sentence as a gift to another noble house was suspicious.

  Heavy hoof falls changed to rhythmic clattering as the reduced escort party found the road. In the distance, a dark castle loomed at the edge of a cliff. All sharp angles of wrought iron and black stone, the destination managed to look drearier than the Dark Forest.

  “Aren’t you glad we made it?” Jessup was saying, voice raised to spread cheer to all. He gave the pine marten a hearty slap on the back, causing her to pitch forward into Miss Taverand. In a quick switch, he was somber again. “I hope Sir Orrik made it.” The Redsnouts leader was also ‘still Sir Orrik’ to the demolitionist.

  As the mink helped steady Martu, she leaned in and whispered close to the marten’s ear, “Come find me after we arrive and I will help you.” She raised her gentle voice to add with crisp authority, “Captain Tirig is equipped with an artifact that will repel coal-wraiths, provided their target is not present.”

  Martu massaged her overwarm shoulder again and wondered if any of the other Redsnouts realized that the mink noble was the sole reason for the attack. The pine marten examined each of the present Redsnouts for any injury. No one seemed to have the incessant urge to scratch or rub a minor wound like her. They were unharmed, untainted. She would have to trust the mink noble. Martu folded her worries in the back of her mind. All there was left to do was complete the job and wait for their leader to return from the mists.