unholy visitor.”

“Save your arrows,” said the tallest Rivernaut, towering behind Kydon. “Be assured, your weapons are useless against the Watcher.”

“Torcus, son of Ormis,” Ethwin greeted warily, “salutation is darkened by violent trespass. Soon shall friendly halls brighten your return.”

The muscular, seven-foot man removed the cowl shadowing his face. Long black hair tumbled to broad shoulders in curled ringlets, rounding a handsome face highlighted by green hawklike eyes. The tall visitor embraced Ethwin, then smiled sadly behind ruby red lips and a short-cropped beard.

“The Waylander!” elders gasped near the gate.

Darc watched citizens gather in the thoroughfare. He left the arched entrance and joined Foren and

Hath by their father’s side. The three brothers stood in awe before the man with the iron physique and penetrating green eyes. They recalled the childhood stories and campfire tales, the great teachings and discipline to follow the footsteps of the man who had dedicated himself to the preservation of life. They remembered the history lessons, the daring acts of bravery, the heroic leadership during the Dragon War. The three princes had never laid eyes on the Waylander, but now, standing over the crowded circle, stood Torcus the tracker, nomad and adventurer, legendary explorer of the Four Lands. Alive in the flesh stood Torcus the Traveler, Captain of Rivernauts, last Waylander from the Scorched Plains.
Torcus held a hand over his heart when bowing. “Lord of Fenmuir, I return under trying times. Our fair city is plagued by malice and besieged by trickery.”

“I know not what you say,” Ethwin said, clearly baffled. “A shadow, without