homecoming spot, but he closed his eyes in the moment he reached it. “We’re home,” he said with a sigh, then opened his eyes.
The Nentir Inn was in flames, pouring smoke into the sky.
Tempest rode up beside him and stared with him at the wreckage of the inn. They exchanged a glance, then together spurred their mounts and galloped down the road. Even before they reached it, Roghar could see that they were too late to do anything. The building was an empty husk already, withered beams and posts standing above blackened fieldstone. A moment later, he realized that no one was fighting the fire-no one was even watching the inn burn down.
“Tempest, wait,” he called, reining in his horse.
“What?” She slowed, but didn’t stop her chestnut mare. “We have to help!”
He shook his head. “There’s no help for it now. I think it’s a trap.”
She looked at the inn and back at Roghar, then came to a stop. He caught up with her and pointed at the burning inn.
“There’s no one there,” he said. “Where’s Erandil?” The half-elf Erandil Zemoar had built the Nentir Inn only a few years ago. “You think he’d let his new inn burn down without even watching it? Where’s the watch? Where are the spectators drawn to the disaster like moths to flame?”
“You’re right,” Tempest said. “That is strange. But a trap?”
“I think someone lit the fire in hopes of drawing people here to fight it.”
“So what do we do?”
Roghar thought for a moment, then dismounted. “Leave the horses,” he said. “Once we clear the forest, we make a wide circle around the inn and see if we can catch whoever is lying in wait.”
Tempest slid out of her saddle and nodded. “Let’s do it.”
Roghar took her reins and led both horses off the road, where he draped the reins around a low tree branch. It would keep the horses in place for a little while, but if he and Tempest didn’t come back, they’d free themselves eventually and find their own way to safety. He patted his stallion’s flank and left the horses.
They hugged the forest rather than walking along the road, alert for any sound among the trees, but not even a squirrel or bird rustled in the leaves as they drew closer to the burning inn. Tempest signaled a stop just before the road left the shelter of the woods, then she drew the afternoon shadows around herself in a concealing cloak and stepped to the edge of the trees.
The inn had its own fire apple orchard, and two small farms shared the clearing on this part of the river’s west bank. The road ran straight to the inn and then forked, with the left branch crossing the Five-Arch Bridge into Hightown and the right passing the farms before winding down the bluff toward Aerin’s Crossing.
Tempest scanned the clearing and then waved Roghar forward. He moved as quietly as he could, but he was under no illusions about his capacity for stealth-his bulk, the weight of his armor, and the tendency of the metal plates to clank against each other despite their padding combined to make him easy to spot and especially easy to hear. He chose a path through the fields, aiming to pass close by the two farmhouses on the west side of the road.
“You don’t want to keep to the shelter of the trees?” Tempest asked.
“If they’re hiding in the farmhouses while they watch the road and the inn, maybe we can catch them off guard. At the edge of the woods, we’ll be too far away to see them.”
Roghar felt the tension in every muscle of his body. This was not his preferred way to face danger-he would rather have charged at top speed toward an obvious foe, sword in hand and divine power at the ready. Sneaking around didn’t sit well with him, and waiting for enemies to reveal themselves made him anxious. Tempest seemed much more at ease, moving swiftly and all but silently through the fields, barely even making the corn sway as she passed. For all her earlier trepidation, she was facing imminent danger without a moment’s hesitation.
They reached the first of the farmhouses without incident. Roghar peered in the back windows and found the home dark and apparently deserted. It seemed intact, though, so he doubted that attackers were lurking inside. After a cursory glance, he nodded to Tempest and they moved on.
As they drew near the second farmhouse, Roghar heard the sounds of fighting-the clash of steel, explosions of magic, and a great deal of shouting. It was distant, coming from somewhere off to the south, roughly where the road wound down the bluffs. He looked at Tempest, and she smiled at him.
“Sounds like your kind of fight,” she said.
He returned the smile. “Let me make sure there’s nothing in this farmhouse, then we’ll see who’s in trouble on the bluffs.”
“It’s the first sound of other living creatures we’ve heard in the last half hour,” Tempest said.
Roghar nodded and broke into a run. Even before he reached the second farmhouse, he could see that it was the same as the first-dark, abandoned, empty. He signaled to Tempest and changed course, running full out toward the sounds of fighting. His body started feeling better at once, the exertion of the run soothing the tension from his muscles.
As soon as he reached the bluff and looked down, he saw the fight raging-and recognized two of the fighters. “Shara!” he shouted. “Uldane!” His friends were locked in a struggle with dark figures of shadow laced with the same glowing red liquid that was becoming all too familiar. A white-haired, dark-skinned man in black leather fought alongside them, but it was obvious that he was using his last reserves of strength-and Shara and Uldane weren’t doing too well, either.
Rather than wind his way carefully down the road, Roghar slid down the bluff with a yell, bouncing and rattling as he went but thrilling at the battle ahead.
My kind of fight, indeed, he thought, smiling.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
As Kri grumbled, arms folded across his chest, Albanon paid the princely sum of sixty gold pieces to the boatwright in exchange for a simple wooden rowboat. Calling plenty of attention to his own generosity, the boatwright threw in the oars and a coil of sturdy rope for mooring at no additional charge. Kri shook his head all the way as he and Albanon wrestled the boat out the door and down to the quay.
“We should have paid a few silvers for a ride,” Kri said as they lowered the boat into the water.
“But there were no rides to be had for silver or gold,” Albanon said, shrugging. “The money doesn’t matter.”
“It should. A frugal nature is essential to the development of good moral character.”
Albanon stared at Kri.
“It is!” Kri protested. “Do you want to be one of those prodigal adventurers who returns from every expedition laden with cash and proceeds to spend every copper piece in a fortnight, drinking up the town’s supply of ale and enriching its thieves and con artists?”
Albanon knew exactly the kinds of adventurers the old priest meant. He’d often sat in the Blue Moon Alehouse listening to their tales and dreaming of their adventures. In fact, he would have put Roghar and Tempest into that category before he got to know them. It didn’t seem like such a terrible life, as he thought about it.
Kri continued his rant. “Do you think such people spend their days in careful study before carousing through the town at night? Do you think they’re prepared for the dangers they face, the dangers that threaten the world? How long do you suppose such adventurers tend to live?”
“N-not long, I suppose.” A brief, glorious fire burning in the night.
Kri fixed him with a level gaze. “A true hero will light the world for ages, Albanon.”
Albanon started. Did I say that out loud? he wondered. He half-expected Kri to answer his unspoken question, but the priest had returned to the work of coiling the rope.
“I don’t think I ever imagined myself as a hero,” he said. “I just wanted excitement.”
Kri looked up from the rope. “But you’ve grown up since Moorin’s death, haven’t you?”
“I suppose I have. I’ve grown in so many ways.”
“Nothing is holding you back now.”
The thought quickened Albanon’s pulse. What might I accomplish now? What heights of power might I
