Moth Read Free

of evil, Torin thought, a sheep grazing just outside the wolf's den .
    Finally he looked behind him at the Watchtower, a stone steeple that rose from the hilltop. It dwarfed every other building in the village, even the temple, and battlements crowned its top. Torin had climbed the tower many times since joining the Village Guard last autumn. From its crest he could see for miles, past the dusk and into the night itself. For hundreds of years, the Watchtower had guarded the border of night. For hundreds of years, its guard had been peaceful.
    And now a child lies dead, Torin thought. And now this peace is shattered.
    He returned his eyes to the crowd of villagers. Farmers, shepherds, and tradesmen, they wore woolen tunics and leather shoes, and they clutched what weapons they had—sickles, hammers, and knives. Their faces were pale. Their eyes darted. Some shouted for vengeance, others for calm. One woman wailed that Fairwool-by-Night was too close to the border, and that the entire village should be uprooted and moved upriver.
    "Everyone, calm down and listen!" Torin said, but the villagers ignored him.
    He turned toward Lord Kerof, the mayor of Fairwool-by-Night, who sat by his side in a wicker chair. Torin placed his hand upon the old man's shoulder.
    "Grandpapa, they need you to speak," Torin said softly. "They're frightened. They need to hear that everything will be all right."
    The old man looked up at him, blinking rheumy eyes. The breeze ruffled his thinning white hair. He licked his lips and tried to speak but only coughed.
    Torin lowered his head, remembering how strong the man used to be. Ten years ago, after the plague had torn through Fairwool-by-Night, Kerof had adopted two children to live in his manor. One was Bailey, his granddaughter, her parents fallen to the illness. The other was Torin, the quiet son of a soldier. Lord Kerof had been a tall, bluff man in those days, his shoulders broad, his hair thick and grizzled. The loss of his sons, the passing years, and the infiltration of the Sailith Order had done their work. Now Kerof could only walk with a cane, speak with a rasp, and see little but smudges.
    "Grandpapa," Torin said again. He always called him that, despite not sharing his blood. "Will you speak to them?"
    As the villagers bustled and cried out, Lord Kerof clutched the arms of his wicker chair. His fists trembled as he pushed himself to his feet. Torin helped him stand, holding his arm. Kerof cleared his throat, then spoke in a scratchy voice.
    "Fellow Fairwoolians!" he said and raised a shaky hand. "Hear me."
    The villagers finally fell silent. If they ignored young Torin, a humble gardener, they would still listen to their mayor, old and feeble as he was. Kerof cleared his throat and continued.
    "You have nothing to fear, my people," said the elderly lord. "You're safe here in the sunlit lands. Our courageous Village Guard protects you."
    Faces in the crowd soothed, and men lowered their sickles and clubs. Torin looked around at his fellow guards. Bailey stood up in the Watchtower now, her bow and arrow aimed at the night beyond. The remainder of the Village Guard stood by a mulberry tree here below—young Camlin, wiry and shrewd, and Hemstad, large and lumbering and licking mulberry juice off his fingers. The two friends were seventeen—a year younger than Torin—and inseparable.
    He sighed. The Village Guard was only the four of them; not one had yet turned twenty. Torin was gardener, Cam was a shepherd, and Hem was a baker. As for Bailey, the mayor's granddaughter, Torin wasn't sure she even had a trade. Every few hours, one of them donned a breastplate, grabbed a sword and a bow, and climbed the Watchtower to gaze into the night. The rest of the time, Torin tended to his gardens, Cam herded his sheep, Hem baked his breads, and Bailey explored the countryside to return with scraped knees, bee stings, and stories of adventure.
    We're not much of a military force, Torin thought, sighing as