Pfft!

Roland drove his sword once more into the chest of the man on the ground. Only when he was sure Sam was well and truly dead did he stagger back and drop onto the grass.

The adrenaline ebbed, and his legs went to water.

"Haa..."

Panting, he ran his fingers over the dent in the iron plate on his chest, and the fear arrived late and all at once.

If that crude heart guard hadn't caught the blow, Sam's dagger would have found his heart before his own blade found the man's throat.

"Thank the gods Basic Swordsmanship was maxed. And that I opened his arm while Sean had him occupied. Otherwise..."

Replaying that final life-or-death exchange, Roland set his jaw and pushed himself upright.

"I still don't have enough real combat under me. I should have seen that last desperate strike coming..."

"Roland!"

He turned toward the voice. Sean came stumbling through the brush.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine."

Roland shook his head.

"You?"

"What could happen to me?"

Sean looked him over anxiously, and only when he'd confirmed his friend was in one piece did his shoulders come down.

The relief lasted until his gaze found the stiffening corpse.

"He... he's dead?"

"Barring a miracle."

Where Sean had gone pale and adrift, Roland forced himself steady. Breathing shallowly against the copper stink of blood, he crouched over Sam's body and began to search it.

"What are you looking for?"

Sean's Adam's apple worked; his voice nearly cracked.

"He said someone hired him."

Roland kept searching without looking up.

"I want to know if he left any clues."

He had already settled on Marco in his own mind, but hard evidence would change everything. Hawk was harsh—and fair. With proof in hand, Hawk would throw Marco off the estate without blinking.

The thought quickened his hands. "Sean, keep watch. Anyone comes close, warn me."

"Understood!"

Sean pulled in a deep breath, squared himself, gripped his iron sword, and moved off.

"This is..."

Roland scowled at the portrait of his own face and tore it to shreds on the spot.

Then a heavy coarse-cloth money pouch caught his eye.

He opened it, and his pupils tightened.

"One, two, three..."

He counted under his breath, fingers not quite steady.

"Eight silver coins!"

A fortune.

Everything he owned in the world added up to a dozen-odd coppers.

He exhaled, set the pouch aside, and kept going.

A while later he sat back on his heels.

"More careful than I gave him credit for. Not one loose thread."

Seeing him stop, Sean hurried back over. "Find anything?"

Roland shook his head, brows drawing down. "No hard evidence. But other than Marco, I can't think of a soul who'd want me hurt."

"That son of a bitch!"

Sean's iron sword rang from its sheath and he wheeled to charge off.

"Stop!"

Roland caught his arm.

"Where are you going?"

"To kill that bastard!"

Sean's eyes were bloodshot, veins standing out across his sword hand.

"He hired someone to kill you!"

"Calm down, Sean!"

Roland bore down on his friend's shaking shoulder.

"Say you kill Marco. Then what?"

"Think of Uncle Gary. You want him to live out his years as the father of a murderer?"

Sean went rigid. His sword point sank, though the fire in his eyes didn't.

"So we swallow it? What if he tries again... Look, why don't I skip the army and go back to the estate with you? I can protect you."

His rough fingers strangled the hilt white.

"Worst case, I fail the examination and go home to inherit the butcher shop."

"No need, buddy."

Roland held his gaze.

"Marco's family has money and reach. If he truly wants me dead, you won't save me—you'll just die alongside me."

"But if you enlist, distinguish yourself, win Lord Beckham's notice..."

He let a small laugh through.

"Marco's father may be the famous blacksmith of Blackwater Territory, but he wouldn't lightly cross a knight. Not even a knight's trusted man."

Sean still wavered, so Roland tilted his head.

"What, no faith in yourself?"

"As if!"

The retort came fast, but Sean's fingers kept worrying the hilt, and after a moment he accepted it, grudging every word.

"All right, buddy. Maybe you're right..."

"That's more like it."

Roland clapped him on the shoulder.

"Besides, you said it yourself—Marco won't dare try anything inside the estate."

"So what now?"

"First, we bury him. And not a word of this to anyone. Understood?"

"Of course."

Waste nothing—Roland stripped the worn leather armor off Sam's body, and together they rolled the corpse into a fresh-dug pit.

Wiping his brow, Roland brought out the heavy pouch.

"Eight silver."

He gave it a shake, and the coins chimed.

"We split it even."

Sean's eyes flickered at the sound, but he turned his face away and mumbled, "You killed him. I..."

He kicked at a clod of dirt.

"I got my sword knocked out of my hands."

At the sight of that stubbornly stiff neck, Roland sighed and shoved the leather armor and daggers into his arms instead.

"Then take these. I can't use them inside the estate anyway."

Reading the finality in Roland's face, Sean quit arguing and started strapping on the armor.

Then he made a puzzled noise and dug at something inside the lining.

"This is... Buddy!"

Roland, sweeping the area for anything they'd missed, turned at the call.

Sean drew a roll of yellowed parchment from between the leather layers, its edges crusted dark brown with old blood.

"Uh... this..."

He scratched his head and held it out, awkward.

"You'd better read it. I can't make out half the words..."

Roland took the aged parchment with a slight frown.

The paper was creased and sallow, the ink badly faded.

He had to squint and hold it close to pick out the blurred writing.

Silence stretched.

His frown deepened; he pressed his lips together, thumb worrying the parchment's edge.

At last he spoke, half to himself.

"This looks like... some kind of potion formula?"