Luviara stared up at Elen, wanting to ask but knowing—for once—that she must remain silent. Fulmo waited unmoving, statue-like.

Ipis hissed softly, and when Elen looked that way she saw nothing at first, then movement in the grass: a green snake slithered past, seeming unaware of how close it was to Ipis, who stood completely still, watching it with wide eyes.

Kem murmured, “That kind isn’t venomous, you can tell by the black dots on the back of its head,” and Ipis relaxed slightly.

A startled shout rang out from the abandoned village. Elen whipped her gaze back that way in time to see Xilsi darting behind a half-fallen shed, sword in hand. A man burst out of the door of a cottage. In the blink of an eye, an arrow sprouted in his shoulder. He staggered forward, sprinting for the forest, and Simo tackled him from the side, the two crashing together to the dirt. From inside the cottage came a burst of noise, then silence, too distant for her to know what was going on.

The haunt appeared in the doorway, dusting off his hands. Simo rose, keeping one foot on the fallen man’s back, and set two fingers to his lips. A sharp birdcall pierced the air.

“Let’s go,” said Ipis.

They hurried over. Based on the deteriorating condition of the buildings’ roofs and walls, the village had been empty for at least one generation and possibly more. When Elen and the others arrived, the wardens had corralled three rough-looking men inside the target cottage. Elen went in, leaving Ipis, Kem, Fulmo, and Luviara outside.

Jirvy was tying up the last of the captives, the wounded one, and lashing all three to a heavy wooden pillar. The man with the arrow in his shoulder was pale and in pain. The other two had the look of people who are thinking very, very fast about what to say next. They looked less dirty and thin than Elen had expected, as if they had a place where they washed and ate like normal people.

One said, belligerently, “We never did anything wrong. We’re just woodcutters.”

Xilsi retorted, “The stamped sacks of wheat, turnips, and dried nuts in the next-door shed say otherwise. You’ve been raiding local produce wagons on their way to the intendancy storehouse, haven’t you?”

“You can’t prove it was us,” said the belligerent one.

Simo gave a sarcastic laugh as he picked up their fallen weapons: three long knives, a spear, and two old militia swords. “If you are woodcutters, then where are your axes?” he asked lightly. He looked unusually pleased with the outcome of their altercation.