Silence.

Grace led the way, picking her way over the roots of the iron-wood trees with an ease befitting her name. True, they moved at a slower pace than Lord Hinterstrad had led them on, but they made good time. Grace stopped to help her sister every so often, pausing once or twice to disarm traps.

These were not the toothless bear-traps of Lord Hinterstrad's woodsmen, nor the cruel leather-piercing bear-traps of the Hobgoblins and Oerdoegs. Instead, they were simple tripwires set high enough off the ground that only bears and humans would trip them. The tripwires were attached to small hand-crossbows, but the crossbows themselves were badly aimed. Grace found herself non-plussed by the first one she triggered accidentally, but it was Faith who explained it to her.

"Laszlofi's rangers can tell if someone's been through here."

Grace squinted. "But this is still Hinterstrad's county."

Faith shook her head. "It doesn't matter."

"But why would Lord Hinterstrad be so concerned about--"

"They're lords, Grace. They don't even play the rules they make."

Grace sighed, carefully resetting the trap.

The sun rose higher in the sky behind overcast clouds. There was no rain in the clouds, though there might be snow later. The wind had turned slightly colder. After more travel, they crested a ridge, the geographical border of Hinterstrad's lands. As they descended, they began to see more signs of travel: more crossbow trip-wires, more flattening down of the underbrush, more scrapes along the bark of the trees, and eventually, silver-threaded netting in the trees.

Grace signaled silence. Faith gave a nod.

And then, the banks of the lake. Faith and Grace spent a silent moment watching from the cover of trees, not yet daring to trust that the area truly was clear, despite its silence and apparent emptiness. Even the remnants of the wooden crates that Lord Hinterstrad had mentioned began to look like just so much flotsam washed up on the beach.

Faith looked to her twin inquisitively. Grace shook her head, pointing up to the silver-threaded nets.

Were-ravens, ubiquitous in this nation, and probably sweeping the skies as scouts and spies. They couldn't break the cover of the trees, or they risked being seen.

Grace led them in a circle along the edge of the beach, to the north. Twice they had to duck down and hide, to dodge patrols. Rendruan regulars, wearing the veil and raven coat of arms of Lord Laszlofi. They conversed with each other in bored tones, and once, one of them relieved himself not two feet from where Grace hid. If she had flashed out her dagger, she could have cut the man's throat. Unaware of his brush with Brownstone death, he went about his business humming a folk tune.

Finally, they came to a part of the beach in which the gritty sand had been scorched. Black glass glinted from the circular yet angular pattern on the sand. A cold wind blew.

Grace squinted. Faith turned to her and mouthed, "What is it?"

Grace shook her head.

Faith could make out that it was a deliberate sigil of some kind, but she could not make it out from here. Bending down to her sister, she whispered, "I need a closer look."

Grace shook her head again, urgently.

Frustrated, Faith started to explain, but she looked around quickly to see if anyone would hear. Finally, unable to come up with a quick explanation, she whispered again, "I need to see it closer!"

Grace sighed frustratedly, and looked around. She looked hopelessly at her other half, and shrugged. she signalled her final piece of advice by pressing her finger to her own lips in a gesture of silence.

Faith nodded once, seriously, and stepped out.

The pattern on the sand was a complex glyph of some kind, inside a perfect hexagon burned into the sand as if a giant branding iron had reached down out of the sky to mark the land. At each vertex of the hexagon, another smaller hexagon with a smaller sigil in it. Faith bent down, fingering the black glass.

And in the middle, the obsidian outline of a stylized figure, vaguely humanoid, but apparently drawn in bulky spiked armor and carrying an over-sized sword. Faith studied the figure, her mind superimposing the outline over her memory of the Oerdoeg she had fought at the docks. She supposed this could have been a crude and somewhat over-indulgent representation of that figure, but he was dead. Why would he appear inside such a bizarre mark in the sand?

She stood up, walking around the hexagon, studying it from her full height, a slightly higher vantage point, as if hoping to see something in the big picture that was not in the details. She walked around the sigil, but still it availed her nothing.

Faith squinted, trying to fuzzy the picture up a little in her eyes. Perhaps if she--

Bang. something caromed off the sand several yards away. Shouts in Rendruan called out in the direction of the bang. Reflexively, she ran back to her twin. Grace seized her hand, yanking her into the cover of trees as more musket-fire rang out. The first patrolman barred their way, raising a pistola for a killing shot.

"Halt!"

Faith ducked down and thrust upward with her hands, forcing the gun upward. If the guard had been any better trained, he would not have fired the gun in his panic, and one of the sisters would be dead, but Faith had not lost that gamble yet. She came back up, guiding the man's hands back over his head as she stepped past him, throwing him down and backward over a root. He hit hard, snarling a scream of pain.

Two more appeared. Grace's instinct was to kill, but she feared giving Laszlofi any manner of cause for war. She swung the butt of her spear up, knocking the gun out of the man's hands with a bang as the impact caused it to discharge.

But the second one did not flinch.

Bang.

Grace's side exploded in pain.

"GRACE!"

Grace's consciousness wavered. Her hand at her side felt no blood, but did feel the leather sheath of her dagger, which now felt as if it had broken glass in it instead of a metal blade. The handle of the implement had been forced painfully into the flesh of her side.

Something hit her, and she felt herself lifted off her feet. She came down hard on an ironwood root, just like her sister's foe.

"NO!"

Diplomacy was no longer on Faith's mind. Her sword was out, and with it, she knocked the pistola out of the hand of the other patrolman. She said a quick prayer to the Great Equalizer. "Mother of the Scales, grant me the roar of the dragon..."

She felt her mind open. She gave the call.

"Surrounded and wounded in the woods west of Hinterstrad County, need backup."

But she could feel that the Roar of the Dragon fell on not just deaf ears, but in fact no ears. There were no other Brownstone agents nearby.

Faith finished her attack, stepping in with the pommel of her sword. With a precise strike to the bridge of the nose, she caused the patrolman to stumble backward. She stepped in with a knee to the stomach, forcing him back and down to his knees. Faith turned her attention to her sister, reaching down to pull her up. Grace shook off the impact and stood up.

In unison, they said, "We have to go!"

And so they ran. Musket-fire rang out through the woods, splintering bark from ironwood trees. No longer concerned with stealth, they moved much quicker. Faith clotheslined herself on a high tripwire hard and fell down in the mossy ground with an unforgiving splat. Grace reached down to pull her up, but the delay was all their enemies needed. More musket fire rang out, this time closer, and Faith reached up to pull her sister down.

Shouts. "Take them alive!" The first of the patrolmen emerged from the trees, a saber in one hand and a loaded pistola in the other, the latter of which was trained right between Grace's eyes. She eased her hand away from her shattered dagger and raised her hands. Faith followed suit.

A shadow appeared over them from behind. A deep male Rendruan voice said, "You're over the ridge, captain. I suggest you retreat back to your own county."

Grace looked behind her. Lord Morphiel Hinterstrad stood over them, looming like a protective daeva with his staff held down across his waist in both hands. His flame orange eyes seemed to glow just a little.

But the captain did not obey. With an angry scowl, he raised his pistola, firing. Lord Hinterstrad flinched back.

Both twins screamed. "NO!" Faith tried to struggle up, but Grace was faster. The Captain flashed his steel down toward Faith's back, but Lord Hinterstrad's staff thrust out, blocking the blow. With a wrenching motion, he sent the implement flying.

And what happened next, neither Faith nor Grace were sure they could accurately describe: Lord Hinterstrad changed.

His body, previously only that of a tall, fit Rendruan man, filled out with a little more muscle, especially around the shoulders. His neck thickened. His skin sprouted a thick, silky, luxurious brown coat, and his face took on the fierce sleekness of a tiger. Stepping between the twins and their assailants, he leaned in toward the captain menacingly. He opened his mouth, the inside of which glowered with a fiery orange furnace light, illuminating sharp ivory fangs. An angry, deep feline roar issued forth.

The captain kept his head admirably. "IRON WEAPONS!" He drew a dagger from his side. His men cast aside their firearms, doing the same.

Faith could not help but admire their discipline. Faced with the full fury of this creature--she had to admit he was beautiful in his own frightening way, and this was the only time in her life she had ever seen what she could only guess was a Rakshasa--they still maintained their focus. She looked at Grace, who stared back at her with the same wonder she now felt.

Lord Hinterstrad danced with them. His motions were balanced, practiced, elegant. He kept the staff in close, not daring to swing it out in such a confined space of trees, using it primarily for short punches and leverage as he tossed the foes like rag-dolls. But even he could not defend against all sides at all times. Faith and Grace tried to keep some of the foes off of him, but they dared not get too close, for fear of feeling the impact of his staff. Lord Hinterstrad over-extended himself, and one of the patrolmen plunged an iron dagger into his side up to the hilt.

Lord Hinterstrad roared, spinning with his staff and throwing the man back into his fellows. They began to circle. Lord Hinterstrad doubled over, snarling in pain. Faith ran up to him to brace him up, and Grace took a defensive position. Both flinched a bit when Lord Hinterstrad roared again.

This time, the patrolmen retreated. Faith felt the weight of the strange Rakshasa press down on her. She grunted under him. "Grace, help!"

Grace turned, giving a small yelp as they let the unconscious form of their rescuer slump to the ground. They guided him down as well as they were able, but his eyes were closed before he hit the mossy leaves beneath him.

Faith wasted no time. She bent down to him, feeling for the artery in his neck through his thick fur. His pulse was still strong. A blackened, wrought-iron dagger protruded from his bloody side. She pulled it out, wadding up a handful of the tail of Lord Hinterstrad's cloak to press against the wound.

Grace paced behind her. "Oh my god. He's a Rakshasa."

Faith pressed her ear to his mouth. She could feel hot breath. "Explains all the iron weapons. Get me some bandages, I have to bind his side."

Grace began to dig in her pack for some cloth. "What are we going to do?"

"We have to get him back to his manor. He's probably got remedies for iron-poisoning there."

Grace began to rip cloth. "Will you know them when you see them?"

"One thing at a time! Build a fire. We have to boil the bandages, and hope he's got needle and thread at home." She smoothed the fur back out of his eyes. "I hope we don't have to send for help. I bet this is a closely guarded secret."