“That’s the thing about men and their mettle. Everyone— and I do mean everyone, is made of different stuff. It’s only when the hammer swings down that you see what sparks fly from. And you, my friend, had better pray it’s something hard,” he stirred the coals in the fire. “Because to me, you’ve got the look of obsidian, boy. Sharp, dark, and brittle,” he drew out the last word. Caul bristled at the comments. Staring off into the forest to avoid looking at the older man.

The caravan had passed through the edges of Malton Keep, but they were keen to exit the land quickly. Foul rumors had spread about the late king of Malton. The caravan leader, Leoirna, a wizened woman born to the trails, knew better than to involve herself in the game of thrones. She’d seen the destruction of Malton’s rival, Gennify, firsthand, and on dark nights, she still heard the screams and sizzle of flesh. She’d rather die than suffer another siege.

Plath had been a guard for Leoirna for three seasons. He didn’t like the look of the young man she’d just recruited. All sour looks and cocksure steps. He’d get himself or someone else killed with that attitude. Plath didn’t have time for risks like that. Better to wean the expectations early. No need for guards geared up for blood. You wanted the bored, but open-eyed veterans. The men who didn’t want to fight, but would end anything in a vicious punch. That’s what Plath wanted. It’s not what he got.

The cold mountain air laced with the scent of pine did nothing to invigorate Plath as he stared at the mauled body of a caravaner. The battered corpse had once been a man named Tulare. He’d been a gems merchant, a bit ornery, but nothing Plath couldn’t handle after a mug or five of ale. Leoirna didn’t want the rest of the travelers to know yet. Plath ordered the boy and the three other guards ahead. Caul, the boy, tried to argue with Plath. But a slap upside the head sent him packing with a mean glint in his eyes.

“What were you doing off the path, old man?” Plath hunched down to look at Tulare. Deep gouges to his chest and face. Whatever had done it had long, quick claws. The air felt loose. He didn’t worry about being surprised by anyone out here. He fingered a rusty amulet at his neck. He’d taken precautions for that. One backstab proved enough to teach that lesson. Plath checked Tulare’s pockets and found a pouch of uncut gems. Along with a amethyst mounted pendant. That would go to Leoirna. She could unravel that mystery.

A sharp whistle cut through the woods. Leoirna’s call to Plath to get moving. He shook his head and closed Tulare’s cloudy eyes. “Find the fires, my friend.”

Dark thoughts crossed Caul’s mind as a light drizzle soaked his hair. If it wasn’t the rain, it was the dust. If it wasn’t the dust, it was Leoirna. And if it wasn’t anything else, then it was always, infuriatingly always, that jumped up bag of bones, Plath. Captain of the guard, my ass, Caul thought as he kicked a stone out of the path. He hadn’t come to guard caravans from boredom and the occasional fireside brawl. He’d come to defend against forces of darkness. Against bandits! All he’d gotten was aching soles and worn conversations.

The caravan train stretched twenty carriages long. A couple wagons and other makeshift mobile shelters filled in the spots between the more expensive wooden carriages. Caul’s mind boggled at the money needed to build even one of them. Plath had explained the cost lay in the metal bits. Sure, they looked mostly wood, but the interlocking parts. The reinforced wheels and cabin, those needed metal. Which meant a smith. Which meant ore. Which meant miners. Plath would have kept going if Caul hadn’t begged off. Point being, any bandits that held up the caravan train and left the carriages would be foolish indeed.