Tom Osterman gripped the reins impatiently but made himself keep them slack, letting the lead horse set the pace as the team, a pair of massive draft animals, pulled the old farm wagon toward Solace. The wagon, heavily laden with potatoes, carrots, beats, and freshly ground flour, rattled and jolted over the rutted road. To the right, the rising sun had cleared most of the trees, and the day was already warm and tangy with pine resin. Somewhere a meadowlark sang its clear, lilting notes.

"I don't care what you say," Tom's wife, Sophie, went on, continuing an argument that had occupied the pair since leaving Jutlin Wykirk's mill down on Solace Stream. "I don't like him. He's such an… an…" She searched for a word that sufficiently expressed her distaste. "An odd sort," she concluded at last. "Always going on about outsiders who've been making their way into Solace these days-kender, elves, and whatnot. Even a couple of minotaurs he claims to have spotted." She thought for a moment.

"Well, maybe the minotaurs I can understand, though I've never seen one myself. But I've heard things about the horned race, and I know I wouldn't care to have any direct dealings with one."

"Ah, he's a good sort," Tom said.

"Who?" she asked, having lost her own train of thought.

"Jutlin," Tom said, flicking his eyes at her-like all of his movements, a tight, intense action. "He's a mite peculiar, I admit, and he does carry on about outside influences, but he's basically all right."

Sophie sniffed, her mouth pursed disapprovingly.

"I rather like the few elves I've met," Tom continued. "Such fine fellows. A bit on the proud side, perhaps, but basically a good sort."

"Oh, that's the trouble with you, Tom Osterman. You think everyone is a good sort."

"Well, weren't you just criticizing Jutlin for not thinking everyone is a good sort?"

"Don't you go getting all logical on me!" She stared straight ahead for a moment. "Besides, even you have to admit Solace has changed since they've all been pouring in," she added.

"Well, of course it has. I never denied that."

"There you go, then."

Tom wasn't sure where he went, except to market, but he knew better than to argue.

Around them the woodlands opened out, giving way to fields as they approached the outskirts of town, although they were still far enough away that much of the land stood untilled. Tom hauled back on the reins, and the wagon lumbered to a stop. The lead horse stood patiently waiting for the next command while the other horse began contentedly munching grass along the side of the road.

"Look, there it is," Tom cried, indicating a field to the left of the road with a sweep of his arm. "That's the one I was talking about." He jumped to his feet and surveyed the land as if he could see it more clearly from the vantage of his modest height. The lead horse, evidently mistaking his arm gesture as a command, started forward again, jolting the wagon. Tom sat down abruptly. "Whoa!"

Sophie rolled her eyes. "Yes, I see it."

"Well, what do you think? Wouldn't it be the perfect place to start expanding the farm?"

"What I think is that we'd better get going if we want to get to market in time. You know all the best deals are made early."

Tom stood up again and sprang down from the wagon. "Ah, we've got time."

"Tom, where are you going?"

"To get the proper feel for the land, you've got to walk it." He motioned to her. "Come on."

She didn't budge. "We've talked about this before, and I still say we can't afford to spend the coin."

"Just walk it with me," Tom pleaded.

She rolled her eyes again but stood. Tom grinned and helped her down. "Come on," he said again and, taking her hand, pulled her with him into the field. She plodded after him, unwilling to be hurried. "Isn't it a great piece of land?" he asked. He let go of her hand and crouched, scooping up the loose, black earth. The rich odor of it rose to his nostrils, and he inhaled deeply. "That's good soil. We could grow anything in that."

"We already do, in the fields we have," she reminded him. "People already say we sell the best produce in Solace." She studied the sun, now angling higher beyond the other side of the road. Her mouth was set in a grim line. "That is, when we make it to market in time."

"Ah, why can't you see the beauty of this?" She spun on him. "Because I've seen the 'beauty' of too many of your schemes as it is, Tom Osterman! I've seen how hard we both have to work taking care of the land we already farm."

He shrugged. "We'll hire more help."

"Spend more coin?" She stalked back to the wagon. "I'm not even in favor of spending what it would cost to buy the land, and already you're wanting to hire extra hands."

Tom scowled, staring off toward the far edge of the field. "What's that?"

"I said I don't want to spend the coin."

"No, that." Tom pointed to where crows were flocking around what looked like a small earthen mound.

Her gaze followed in the direction he was pointing. She pursed her lips. "I don't know. A pile of dirt maybe. What difference does it make?" She again headed for the wagon.

Tom didn't move. "That's not a pile of dirt."

"Tom, we don't have time to waste on any of your wild ideas. We've got to get these goods to market."

But he was already bounding across the field, his attention fixed on the crows that cawed and feuded as if contending for something. By the time Tom was thirty yards away, he had a pretty good idea what that something was, although he kept hoping he was wrong. But the closer he got, the more his certainty grew. It was a body.

Not just any body, he saw when he drew up to it, scattering crows as he windmilled his arms and shouted.

It was the body of Graylord Joyner, sheriff of Solace.

A blue-black line of coagulated blood stood out against the sheriff's throat, and the ground around him was stained the same dark color where that blood had spilled out upon the earth. The air here reeked of blood, drowning out the fertile, loamy smell of the field. Tom held his breath against the stench and stooped for a closer look.

The sheriff's shirt had been torn open and into the flesh of his chest was carved a word: Morgoth. Tom shook his head in incomprehension.

"Tom, what is it?" Sophie called from the wagon.

He said nothing, thinking what to do. Already the crows were gathering again, flocking closer. He couldn't leave Joyner's body to their predations.

"Tom?" Sophie called again.

He grabbed the body under the arms and heaved. The gash in the sheriff's throat burbled grotesquely as Tom dragged the body toward the wagon. Tom fought down the urge to gag. The sheriff had been a huge man, and although vigorous, Tom was a man of relatively slight stature. Dragging Joyner across the uneven terrain proved hard work and soon had Tom breathing heavily and sweating. Sophie came and stood beside him. "Oh," she said, staring at the body.

"Sophie, wait in the wagon!"

Instead, she leaned down and grabbed one of Joyner's arms. "Don't you even think to be ordering me about, Tom Osterman. I'm your wife, and I'm going to help."

They each took an arm and between the two of them hauled the body to the wagon. Loading it into the bed proved harder, but eventually they managed, flopping the dead man in among the vegetables and flour.

"Here," Sophie said, handing Tom a lap blanket from under the wagon seat. "Wrap him in this so he doesn't get blood on any of the produce."

"I think all his blood ran out already back there," Tom said. Nevertheless, he covered the sheriff and tucked the blanket hem under the body, as much out of respect for the dead man as to prevent any further blood from getting on anything.