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mad?" the rotund youth said, lips stained blue. "It's dangerous out there."
    Half the baker's size, Cam nodded. "Hem only fears two things: an empty pantry and a land with no fruit trees. I only fear one thing: a hungry Hem. I ain't going nightward either."
    Torin growled and grabbed both boys. He began tugging them downhill after the mob, ignoring their objections.
    "We're Village Guardians," he said. "Our job is to protect the villagers, even if they're naive enough to march right into danger. Now put down those mulberries, draw your swords, and follow."
    Ahead, Ferius was already nearing the shadows, lamp held before him. The people followed in a mass, brandishing their cleavers, sickles, and clubs. As Torin trailed behind, he sighed. These villagers were no warriors, but neither were he and his friends—they were a gardener, a shepherd, and a baker who sometimes grabbed a bow and climbed a tower.
    Yet now we march into the darkness, he thought. He clutched his sword and shivered.
    He looked back up at the Watchtower. He could see Bailey upon the battlements, an arrow nocked in her bow. She looked down toward him, hundreds of feet away. It was too far to see clearly, but Torin thought she looked pale, her eyes wide with fear.
    "We will light the darkness!" Ferius shouted ahead. "Death to Elorians! Sailith will cast the light."
    The villagers left the sunlit hillside. They entered the shadowy, twisting forest where Torin had walked with Bailey only hours ago. As they moved deeper into the shadows, Torin remembered Yana's dead eyes and dried blood. His heart thudded, and even with fifty people around him, cold sweat trickled down his back.

 
 
CHAPTER THREE:
A DUEL IN THE DARK

    They walked along the riverbanks, fifty villagers shouting for blood. For the first mile, alders and rushes grew along the water, swaying in the breeze. Caterpillars crawled on leaves, grasshoppers bustled, and chickadees and robins sang upon the branches. Farther along the river, the sun began to sink behind them, casting dapples across the water. After a mile or two, the light was dim. The trees grew stunted here, and the rushes hung wilted and pale. No more birds flew. Shadows stretched ahead.
    "Raise your lanterns, brothers and sisters!" Ferius cried, leading the procession. He and his monks raised their lights, casting a golden glow. "Follow and fear no darkness."
    Torin followed the mob, but he did fear this darkness. He had seen the evil that lurked ahead. He had seen the dead, had seen a lifeless land and a sky strewn with stars.
    "The bloody fools," he muttered. "Why do they listen to Ferius?"
    Hemstad Baker trundled at his side. He was the tallest man in Fairwool-by-Night, but also the widest, and he struggled to keep up. The pots and pans he always carried, even on short journeys, clanked across his back. With every step, his sword swung between his legs like a tail. His ample belly swung almost as wildly, sweat soaked his face, and his breath wheezed.
    "Did you see one, Tor?" he asked. "An . . . an Elorian?"
    Cam walked at their side, a smirk on his face. The rushes, tall enough to brush the others' shoulders, nearly rose above his head. The diminutive shepherd had sharp features, dark hair, and intelligent eyes. Rarely seen far from Hem, young Cam was also never slow to scold his friend.
    "Of course he didn't see one, Hem," the shepherd said. "They don't really exist—sort of like leftovers on your plate. Ferius, that sheep's dropping, just made them up to frighten us."
    Hem bit his wobbling lip and trudged on, pots clattering like a suit of armor. "Why would he want to do that?" He gulped. "I don't like being frightened."
    "Hem, your mind is woolly as fleece," said Cam. "A frightened man is a follower. That's all Ferius and his monks want—people to follow them." He swept his arm across the twilit landscape. "And it's working. Look. Fifty villagers follow him the way my sheep follow me across the field."
    Hem stepped on a rock,