THE SEVEN FOLD CONVENANT

Doubling Back

Kaelen heard them before he saw them.

Boots in mud. Three sets. Moving fast and careless, snapping branches and cursing under their breath. Moran had not sent trackers. He had sent soldiers who thought chasing a scout through the woods would be easy.

That was their first mistake.

Kaelen crouched behind a fallen oak and slowed his breathing. His side ached where he had landed on a rock during the escape. His left boot had split at the seam, letting in water with every step. He had no horse, no food, and a saddlebag full of evidence that would get him killed if Moran caught him.

He also had a knife, a length of rope, and six years of training.

The soldiers were forty yards away and closing. Kaelen studied the terrain. The ground sloped downward toward a gully filled with dead leaves and old branches. A narrow deer trail ran along the ridge above it.

He made his decision.

Kaelen moved quickly and quietly. He strung the rope across the deer trail at ankle height, tied it to a sapling on one side and a thick root on the other. Then he scraped leaves over the rope and retreated up the slope, finding cover behind a cluster of boulders.

He waited.

The soldiers appeared two minutes later. The one in front was young, maybe nineteen, with a patchy beard and a nervous grip on his sword. The second was older, heavier, breathing hard. The third walked behind them both, scanning the trees with more care than the others.

The third one worried Kaelen. He had the look of a man who had done this before.

The young soldier hit the rope first. His feet went out from under him and he landed hard on his back, air leaving his lungs in a wheeze. The heavy one stopped short and drew his sword.

The third soldier did not stop. He turned and looked directly at the boulders where Kaelen was hiding.

"I know you're up there," he called. "You left tracks on the ridge. Scout training, right? You're supposed to cover your trail better."

Kaelen did not answer. He shifted his position, moving three feet to the right behind the rocks.

The soldier stepped forward, sword raised. "Moran said you were smart. Smart men don't pick fights they can't win. Come down and we'll keep this simple."

Kaelen picked up a fist-sized rock and threw it into the trees on the far side of the trail. It cracked against a trunk and the heavy soldier spun toward the noise.

That was all the opening Kaelen needed.

He came off the ridge fast and low, driving his shoulder into the heavy soldier's chest. The man grunted and stumbled. Kaelen hooked his ankle and sent him sprawling. Before the third soldier could react, Kaelen had his knife at the man's throat.

"Drop it."

The soldier froze. His sword was half-raised, but Kaelen's blade pressed against his skin.

"You're making a mistake," the soldier said. "Moran will hunt you down. You can't run forever."

"I only need to run longer than you."

Kaelen disarmed him with a quick twist and shoved him backward. The soldier stumbled into the young one, who was still gasping on the ground.

"Here's what happens next," Kaelen said. "You're going to tell Moran I went south. Toward Arvendale. You're going to say I had a horse waiting at the crossroads."

"Why would I do that?"

Kaelen pointed at the heavy soldier, who was struggling to sit up. "Because if you don't, I'll leave you all here with no weapons and no boots. It's a long walk back to Grey Creek."

The soldier's jaw tightened. He was weighing his options. Kaelen could see the calculation in his eyes.

Then the young one spoke up. "He's lying. Moran said he was a coward. Scouts always run."

Kaelen looked at him. "You're bleeding on your shirt."

The young soldier looked down. A thin line of red was spreading across his chest where he had landed on a sharp stone. He had not even noticed.

"That's what happens when you chase someone through a forest without watching your feet," Kaelen said. "Now decide. South, or barefoot?"

The older soldier made the choice. "South. We'll tell him south."

Kaelen stepped back. He kept his knife visible as they gathered their wounded and retreated down the trail. The third soldier paused at the edge of the trees.

"You know Moran will see through this."

"Probably," Kaelen said. "But by then I'll be somewhere else."

He waited until they were out of sight. Then he took their supplies. A waterskin, half a loaf of bread, and a flint. He also took the older soldier's boots. They were too big, but he stuffed the toes with cloth and laced them tight.

The young soldier's warning nagged at him. Moran said he was a coward. That was interesting. Moran had known him for two years. They had served on the same patrols. The sergeant had never called him a coward before.

That meant Moran was not just following orders. He had a reason to discredit Kaelen. Someone had told him to.

Kaelen sat on a fallen log and ate half the bread. He needed to think.

The evidence in his saddlebag pointed to a supply conspiracy. Weapons and food diverted from the front. Money moving in the wrong direction. Whoever was running it had friends in the quartermaster corps and enough influence to move military records.

But Kaelen had assumed the conspiracy was about profit. Soldiers stealing from soldiers. It happened all the time.

Now he was not so sure.

His father had died investigating something. Nine years ago, the same night of the red moon. The note said the records were moved to Kaldren. Moran had orders to take the evidence and discredit him.

This was not about stolen supplies. This was about something his father had found. Something someone was still trying to hide.

Kaelen finished the bread and stood up. He had a new plan.

Kaldren was three days east on foot. But Moran would expect him to take the direct route. So Kaelen would go north first, circle through the foothills, and approach Kaldren from the mountains. It would add two days to the journey, but it would also take him through territory Moran's soldiers would not follow.

The foothills were dangerous. Rock slides, deep ravines, and the occasional bandit camp. But Kaelen had scouted that terrain two summers ago. He knew the paths.

He checked his saddlebag one more time. The evidence was still dry. Good.

Then he heard the howl.

It came from the east. Long, low, and mournful. Not a wolf. Wolves did not howl like that in daylight.

Kaelen had heard that sound once before, three years ago, on a patrol near the Moonfell border. A werewolf's howl. The sound carried farther than a normal wolf's cry, and it had a strange echo, like two voices layered over each other.

The werewolves kept to their own territories. They did not cross into human lands unless something had gone wrong.

Kaelen looked east. The howl came again, closer this time.

He could ignore it. Keep moving north, stick to his plan, reach Kaldren and find his father's records.

Or he could investigate. A werewolf this close to the border meant something was happening. Something that might be connected to the conspiracy.

The howl sounded a third time. Then silence.

Kaelen shouldered his saddlebag and turned east.

He had a feeling he would regret it. But the only thing he had ever been good at was finding answers, and that howl was a question.