THE SEVEN FOLD CONVENANT

The Howl in the Hills

The howl led Kaelen into a valley he had never seen on any map.

That was his first warning.

Military scouts mapped everything within a hundred miles of the border. Every creek, every ridge, every deer trail. Kaelen had studied those maps for years. He knew the terrain around Grey Creek better than he knew his own face.

But this valley was not on any map. The hills folded together in a way that hid it from the ridge above. A man could walk within fifty feet of its edge and never know it existed.

Kaelen crouched at the valley's rim and looked down.

A village. Maybe thirty buildings, arranged in a rough circle around a central well. Wooden walls, thatched roofs, thin smoke rising from a handful of chimneys. People moved between the buildings. Normal people. Farmers, by the look of their clothes.

Werewolves.

He could tell by the way they moved. Too fluid. Too aware. Every one of them kept glancing at the tree line, checking angles, tracking sounds. They had lived out here long enough to make caution a habit.

The howl had come from this village. He was sure of it.

Kaelen studied the layout. Two entrances that he could see. One to the south, one to the east. Both guarded by a single figure each, though neither looked particularly alert. A shallow stream ran along the western edge, cutting between the village and the hills.

He could leave. This was not his fight. Whatever trouble the werewolves had brought on themselves, it had nothing to do with stolen military supplies or his father's records.

Then he saw the smoke.

Not from a chimney. From the northern edge of the village, where a storage shed was burning. Flames licked up the wooden walls. A group of villagers had formed a bucket line from the well, but the fire was spreading faster than they could fight it.

And on the ridge above the village, half-hidden in the trees, Kaelen counted six figures. They carried torches. They were not helping with the fire.

They were waiting.

Kaelen's jaw tightened. He had seen this before. Raids on border settlements, dressed up to look like accidents. Burn the evidence, blame the victims, move on. It was a tactic used by people who did not want anyone asking questions.

He checked his knife. Then he moved down the slope, keeping to the trees, circling toward the ridge where the six figures waited.

He was halfway there when he heard the first scream.

The raiders had moved. They were coming down the ridge in a loose line, torches raised, shouting. The villagers below scattered. A woman grabbed two children and ran for the southern gate. An old man tried to block the path of a raider and was knocked aside.

Kaelen stopped. Six raiders against thirty villagers should have been no contest. But the villagers were not fighting. They were running.

Then he understood.

The werewolves could not transform. Or they would not. Either way, they were trying to escape without revealing what they were. That meant the raiders did not know they were werewolves. They thought this was a normal village of humans.

Kaelen had a choice. Walk away, or get involved.

He had never been good at walking away.

He sprinted along the ridge, staying above the raiders, and reached the village's northern edge just as the first of them came through the trees. Kaelen dropped behind a woodpile and waited until the man passed. Then he rose and put his knife against the raider's throat.

"Drop the torch. Quietly."

The man froze. He was younger than Kaelen had expected, maybe twenty, with a thin face and a nervous twitch in his jaw. He dropped the torch into the mud.

"How many more?"

"Five. Please, I'm just—"

"Following orders. I know." Kaelen pressed the knife a little closer. "Who sent you?"

"I don't know his name. A man in a gray coat. Paid us in silver. Said the village was harboring traitors."

Gray coat. Kaelen filed that away. "Where are the others going?"

"The storehouse. He said there were records there. Documents. We were supposed to burn them and leave."

Records. Documents. Kaelen's chest tightened. This was not a random raid. Someone was destroying evidence. And the werewolves had something someone wanted hidden.

"Get out of here," Kaelen said. "Run south and don't look back."

The man did not need to be told twice. He scrambled up the ridge and disappeared into the trees.

Kaelen turned toward the storehouse. The fire had spread to the roof. A line of villagers was still passing buckets, but the flames were winning.

"Get back!" he shouted. "The roof is going to collapse!"

They looked at him. A stranger, armed, ordering them around. The bucket line hesitated.

Then a woman stepped forward. Gray-haired, sharp-eyed, with a scar running down one cheek. "Who are you?"

"Someone who doesn't want you all to die tonight. The men who set this fire are coming this way. Six of them. They want your records."

The woman's face changed. Not fear. Recognition.

"Records," she repeated. "You know about the records."

"I know someone wants them burned. That's enough for me."

The woman looked at him for a long moment. Then she turned and shouted orders. The bucket line broke apart. Villagers ran for the southern gate, grabbing children and supplies as they went.

The woman stayed.

"My name is Hessa," she said. "I keep the village records. And I think you and I need to talk."

"After we deal with the raiders."

"No." Hessa grabbed his arm. "The raiders are a distraction. The man in the gray coat is already here. He came in through the east gate while we were fighting the fire."

Kaelen's blood went cold. "How do you know?"

"Because he's standing in my archive right now. The one building we didn't move the records to." She pointed at a low stone building near the well. The door was closed. "He's not here to burn anything. He's here to take."

Kaelen looked at the archive. Then at the burning storehouse. Hessa was right. The fire was a decoy. The real thief was already inside.

"Get your people out," he said. "I'll handle the man in the gray coat."

"You'll need help."

"I'll need speed more."

Kaelen crossed the village at a run. The raiders had not reached the center yet. He heard shouting from the south gate as the villagers pushed through. The fire roared behind him. Smoke stung his eyes.

The archive door was ajar. Kaelen slowed, drew his knife, and slipped inside.

The building was small. One room, lit by a single lantern. Shelves lined the walls, packed with ledgers and scrolls. A man stood at the far end, his back to the door, sliding documents into a leather case.

He wore a gray coat.

"That's far enough," Kaelen said.

The man did not turn. "You're the scout. Veyr's son."

Kaelen stopped. "You knew my father?"

"I knew of him." The man turned. He was older, maybe fifty, with silver hair and a calm, tired face. No weapon in his hands. No fear in his eyes. "He was a stubborn man. He kept looking for answers he should have left alone."

"Who are you?"

"My name is Aldric Thorne. I was a friend of your father's." He held up the leather case. "And I'm trying to finish what he started."

Kaelen did not lower his knife. "You're stealing records from a werewolf village. Forgive me if I don't trust you."

Aldric smiled. It was a sad expression. "These records are not from the village. They were hidden here nine years ago. By your father. He asked the werewolves to protect them."

Kaelen's hand tightened on the knife. "Why would he do that?"

"Because they contain the truth about the night he died. And because the man who killed him is still looking for them."

Outside, a raider shouted. The fire cracked and roared. The village was falling apart around them.

Aldric held out the leather case. "Take it. Read it. Then decide if you still want to hunt for answers."

Kaelen looked at the case. At the man. At the flames visible through the archive's small window.

Then he heard the howl again. Close. Inside the village.

Hessa's voice rang out across the square. "They've come through the east gate! All of them!"

Aldric's calm expression cracked. "That's not possible. The raiders should have been—"

He stopped. His eyes went to the window.

Kaelen followed his gaze. A second group of men was entering the village. Not raiders. Soldiers. Uniforms Kaelen recognized.

Eldorian military.

And at their head, walking through the smoke and fire like he owned the place, was Sergeant Moran.

"Scout Veyr," Moran called. "You're a hard man to track. But I knew you couldn't resist a mystery."

Kaelen looked at Aldric. At the leather case. At the soldiers outside.

He had walked into a trap. And he had brought the werewolves into it with him.