The coppery smell of burning flesh filled the air.

Embers leapt from the funeral pyre into the growing dusk, joined the winking points of light that would later become a blaze of crystalline stars. Around the flames villagers gathered in dark clots, their faces overwritten with blank, unreadable expressions. Like moths to a candle they drifted near and mourned and thought and sniffed. They had come to watch the flames feed.

Gorath's fathomless green eyes nictitated in the firelight as he turned and gazed at Owyn who flinched uncomfortably at his side.

"There can be no uneasier sleep than a warrior murdered in his cups," Gorath said, his voice only slightly louder than the spitting hiss of scorched bone. "They nipped at the heels of the Nighthawks, be certain of that."

"So you think we're getting close?" Owyn asked.

Gorath began to speak, but his words congealed on his lips as his eyes locked with the burning gaze of Seigneur James.

JAMES: I've had it with your mysterious half-answers, moredhel! Now for the sake of your continued good health, I want to hear some explanations fast why you were here in Romney a six-month before you made your appearance at the Inclindel Pass.

GORATH: The only explanation, Seigneur, is that you are mistaken. I have never been south of the Inclindel...

JAMES: While we carried the dead from the Black Sheep Tavern, a tavern boy informed me that a man answering to your description called on three unwholesomes dressed in black, all of whom wore the trademark silver rings of the Nighthawks. He heard them refer to the moredhel as Gorath.

JAMES: It seems that this moredhel paid a sizeable sum of money to those Nighthawks before departing, enough perhaps to arrange the death of a company of the King's soldiers?

GORATH: He may well have paid a king's death, but I know nothing of it. I realize it may impress little upon you, but Gorath is a passing common name in the Northlands and oft as not your Kingdom fellow folk have mistaken me for an elf! The barkeeper was likely deceived by enemies of mine.

GORATH: If I had cause to mislead you or your Prince, I would have found a far less convoluted means of confusing the royal sanity. Look elsewhere for your enemies, James. While we may not be friends, I mean you no harm.

JAMES: I shall look where I wish until you are no longer my responsibility.

JAMES: We may not be able to strike at the Nighthawk stronghold, but if we can locate it, we may still be able to get inside and find the information Prince Arutha needs.

GORATH: The Nighthawks will shun Romney for a time. However bold they may be in their murderous nights, they flee when daylight breaks.

JAMES: No one walks without leaving footprints and these men are no different. However skilled they may be at assassination, they have never been any good at covering their tracks. Let me see those things you found in the tavern.

GORATH: They are here.

JAMES: Good. Those are our footprints. Of all the items we found on the dead company, both those items seemed conspicuously out of place and may be related in some way to our elusive murderers.

JAMES: We begin our hunt for the Nighthawks with a spider and a spyglass.

THE CHAPTER ENDS
Opening the DARKNESS Chest in Cavall Run

Spiders scurried out of the opened chest.

Careful to avoid the miniature albino menaces, James snatched a fresh-looking scroll out of the box and unrolled it on the floor. As his dark eyes darted across the page, his lips moved in an incantation of places, names, figures and dates.

"Northwarden," James whispered. "The attack will come at Northwarden very soon. But this is all wrong."

"What is it?" Gorath asked, also bending to see the page.

"These figures. If Delekhan takes a force this small to Northwarden, he hasn't a hope of taking the castle. Far too few soldiers. Baron Gabot will maul him unless Delekhan can bring something serious to bear. What could the moredhel have?"

"Maybe the Nighthawks have infiltrated the castle." Owyn said. "Why else would they be so helpful to the moredhel unless their own necks were on the line too?"

Paling, James suddenly snatched an ink horn from his pack and began to scribble an addendum to the Nighthawk note.

"It is very important that this note reach Arutha. Although you were not told this, he has stationed an army outside of the Dimwood to await my word about the attack," James said, finishing his note. Fixing his gaze on Gorath, he handed it firmly over. "I want you to make sure that it gets there. I'm going to have to trust you."

Owyn gaped. "But what about..."

"I've got to go to Northwarden. If there are Nighthawks in Baron Gabot's castle, we stand a good chance of losing it in an attack. I have to ensure that doesn't happen.

"Remember, Arutha is outside the Dimwood forest near Sethanon. When you give him the note, tell him there's a party at Mother's."

"What?" Owyn sputtered.

"Just do it. I haven't got time to explain. Good luck, the both of you."

In a moment the Seigneur was gone, his shadows chasing after him down the long dark tunnel.

An hour later, Owyn yawned expansively, his vision growing dim with each step taken further down the road. Next to him, Gorath trudged without complaint, his eyes fixed on the dusty cow track.

"Enough, enough." Owyn murmured. I think my legs are going to crumble. We can't reach Arutha tonight. Let's stop for a while."

"Quiet," Gorath snapped, seizing Owyn by the arm. Beneath his hood, his feral eyes glowed like blood tinged emeralds. Someone's near..."

Abruptly patches of darkness detached themselves from the woods, ambled into the pale moonlight, huddled onto the roadbed. In the shadows, arrow points gleamed, aligned in deadly sights, quivered...

NARAB: As much as I would enjoy delivering your carcass to Delekhan I will reserve the pleasure of your execution for him.

NARAB: Do not move, Gorath. You are completely surrounded.