The Hob's Bargain

was. His great golden antlers shimmered in the sunlight. Eyes blue as the sky settled first on the hob, then on me.
    For a moment I thought they twinkled with the same mad humor the hob’s did, but his gaze moved on. When it was through looking us over, the stag darted into graceful motion. The mercenaries, freed from the spell of surprise, dropped their weapons and ran to follow.
    When we were alone, I released my grip on the hob’s tail. I’d been holding it so hard that my hand was stiff.
    â€œThe white beast,” I said in awe.
    â€œIf I find a safe place for you, will you stay there?” Caefawn asked abruptly. “The stag is a little too contemptuous of humans to watch out for his own safety.”
    â€œFine,” I agreed. I think that if he’d asked me to stake myself out as bait, I’d have agreed to that, too.

    T HE TREE LIMBS HAD LONG SINCE CEASED FEELING PRECARIOUS and had slipped into flimsy when the hob, climbing behind me, quit urging me farther up the ancient oak that dominated the grounds of the manor.
    â€œThere, now,” he said, his voice a toneless whisper. “Without that thrice-damned road the oak listens to the mountain and will hide you from notice. The raiders are moving this way, so be careful.” He placed my hands at apparently random places on the swaying branches. “Stay here until I come for you.”
    â€œMmm,” I said, which was as much of an agreement as I was prepared to make.
    He apparently thought it agreement enough because he slipped down. I watched him leave, then put my forehead against the tree.
    â€œOh, Gram,” I said out loud, “hobs, hillgrims, sprites, the white beast…and the day is not over yet.”
    I’d killed a man today, not because I had to but because I wanted to. I thought about it and decided I could live with it. But I also decided vengeance was for fools. If I’d killed him only because I’d had to, I wouldn’t be feeling nearly this bad.
    His death hadn’t made Daryn less dead. Instead, I wondered if the raider’d had friends who’d mourn his passing.
    A movement below caught my attention. One of the raiders crept stealthily forward, scanning the perimeter of the parkland. My perch, which had seemed so high moments before, now seemed pitifully vulnerable. I missed the reassuring weight of my crossbow. Next time I went hunting hobs, I’d be sure to bring it.
    The man stopped just below me, crouching forward. He held a longbow and had a quiver strapped across his back. He was missing a finger from his right hand.
    I was still staring at that missing finger when the thin shaft of an arrow slid through his throat at an angle, emerging gore-covered from the skin on the far side of his neck. His body convulsed, twisting with instinctive desire for life. I watched as he finally stilled, and I got a clear look at his face.
    He was the man who’d shot Caulem as he went for help. Fighters, like farmers, often lose a finger or two, but I could not mistake the face.
    The irony of it all made me laugh. Whoever killed him had saved me from testing my resolve to not look for vengeance.
    As the raider’s eyes glazed, the blood that had pumped from twin wounds slowed as the beating of his heart slowed. There had been too much death in the past few months for the gore to raise more than a hint of horror. Horror was watching Kith’s face as he held down a man so Koret could cut off the farmer’s infected hand, crushed in combat.
    I looked around to see if I could find the archer. Hadn’t the hob said the raiders were looking for a couple of archers as well as Kith? Even though I was watching, he was almost to the tree before I noticed him.
    He wore a hooded, mottled green tunic and dark pants, and carried the bow that was Lord Moresh’s pride and joy. Moresh had gotten it from a traveling merchant who’d brought it from far across the ocean. It was an exotic and powerful weapon—and to Moresh’s chagrin, he’d never been able to draw it. He kept it on display in the manor.
    The archer nocked his bow again, using the arrow he’d pulled from the dead man’s throat. As he did so, he turned his head to the side and I saw his face clearly. Wandel’s harp-calloused fingers pulled the bowstring with the same deft skill they had on the harp.
    Almost gently he released the string. I tracked the arrow’s flight to its target. A