Jennadil rubbed his contented stomach and leaned back against a tree trunk, silently observing the Ennadil curiously, while he finished eating. Lassendil Florin had introduced himself while the rabbits roasted and had told them that Aranith had fallen to the Morg.
Jennadil usually had an irreverent attitude to the happenings in the world around him—caring little for Isador’s politics. However, this news could not be swept aside or played down. They were running out of places to run, and if Falcon’s Mount fell then they would be forced to flee across the Sawtooth Mountains into the Tarzark Kingdom—to a fate even worse than capture by the Morg.
The Ennadil ate hungrily but without great enjoyment. Jennadil could see the grief etched in the grooves around his eyes and mouth. He had recounted how he was the only member of his family left—save his sister who had escaped to the north. Lassendil had also told them of his miraculous escape thanks to Grey-Wing, the giant blue owl that had rescued Lassendil, moments from death and carried him to safety, hundreds of leagues from Aranith before dumping him on the northern edge of Lake Farne.
Lassendil wiped his greasy fingers and looked up as the first drops of rain splashed onto his nose. “The storm is almost upon us,” he announced. “Let’s take shelter.”
The three travelers pulled up their hoods and huddled together under the sheltering boughs of an ancient oak. Moments later the storm exploded overhead and rain lashed across Delm Forest.
Their campfire hissed and went out, plunging their tiny corner of the forest into darkness.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE MARCH NORTH
Lord Theo Brin stared moodily out of the window and was aware of the gazes boring into his back. They all expected him to open his mouth and spout miracles. As if he could change the course of events by uttering a few words.
If only it were so easy.
Outside, leaden skies presided over a sodden landscape. The good weather had broken yesterday evening and a violent storm had hammered Serranguard’s walls. Distant thunder rumbled towards the south, signaling that more bad weather was on its way.
Theo Brin sighed heavily, his eyes skirting the southern horizon. Indigestion burned at the back of his throat. He almost expected the Morg to come flooding over the crest of the hills at any moment. The enemy was not so close yet—but unfortunately, they were not that far away either. They had annihilated the Orinian army on the Jade Plains and a messenger had arrived, on the point of collapsing from exhaustion, half an hour earlier with the news that Brenna had also been sacked. The messenger had ridden like a demon, covering the distance between Brenna and Serranguard in little over twenty-four hours. He had ridden while Serranguard’s southern-most city burned—and his horse dropped dead upon arrival but the message had been delivered.
It would take the Morg army just over two days to march from Brenna to Serranguard. Lord Brin had to make a decision immediately.
Finally, the City-Lord turned around. They were all watching him, their faces tense and their gazes revealing a mix of fear, expectation and hope. Theo’s gaze moved down the length of the vast oak table where they all sat: Myra, pale and tense; Vermel Ham, sweating and startled; and his new wizard, Arridel Thorne, silent and brooding. Behind them, his chamberlain, Hugo hovered uselessly. The oily little man was practically wringing his hands in fear. Apart from the wizard, they were all of little use to Theo Brin.
“My Lord, we can delay no longer. What is your decision?” The wizard finally broke the ponderous silence.
“What would you suggest Arridel?” Theo deliberately stalled. He watched the wizard under hooded lids. He was at least two decades older than his previous wizard, Jennadil, although it was hard to discern his true age. Theo Brin’s new wizard was as different to his former as night to day. Arridel Thorne was subtle and sly. Unlike Jennadil, who could be disarmingly candid, nothing came out of Arridel Thorne’s mouth that had not been censored first. He was not an attractive man; he had pale, waxy skin, a short black beard and long, lank black hair laced with silver, and his black wizard’s robes hung from his raw-boned frame. As always, Theo Brin detected the power emanating from the wizard, despite Arridel Thorne’s best efforts to hide it under an urbane façade.
“We cannot defend ourselves milord,” Arridel conceded. “Serranguard has little more than eight-hundred soldiers to protect her against an army of thousands.”
“We’re doomed milord! Doomed!” Hugo cut in. “They will destroy us. They will—”
“Silence!” Theo snarled at his chamberlain and Hugo choked his hysteria obligingly. Theo Brin shifted his gaze to Vermel Ham but the counsellor looked back at him beseechingly.
“Hugo has a point,” he said quietly. “It will be a fight we cannot win.”
Lord Brin’s cold gaze finally settled on his wife. Myra looked thin and washed out these days. Since the fiasco with Jennadil he had enjoyed making her suffer; not physically, for Theo got little delight in doling out floggings or torture, but mentally—there were many subtle ways to diminish someone. On feeling Theo Brin’s eyes on her, Myra’s grey-blue gaze met her husband’s. He had not yet broken her spirit, but in time he would.
“Do you wish to concede an opinion my dear wife?” Theo asked softly, sarcasm dripping from every word. Myra shook her head and looked down at where her slender hands rested on the tabletop.
“I thought not,” Theo mocked. “You do not have opinions do you Myra? You are as simple-minded as you are plain.”
An uncomfortable silence followed Lord Brin’s words. They were all used to hearing the City-Lord taunt his wife but, nonetheless, it still put them on edge.
Theo Brin looked away from his silent wife and turned his attention once more to the view outside the window. He deliberately avoided the gazes of the others for he knew they would not like his decision.
“We have no other option open to us,” he announced finally. “We must evacuate Serranguard.”
***
It was raining steadily when the Morg packed up camp and marched north. After a long, wet night, more Morg legions had reached the encampment. The Morg numbers had now swollen to truly intimidating proportions. However, they were evil tempered as they prepared to march north, and it was obvious to their prisoners they detested the rain.
Sloshing through ankle-deep mud, Will Stellan glanced across at the Ennadil witch. Her face was flushed with fever and her blue eyes were glassy. Her chill had worsened overnight and trudging through the driving rain was not helping it. He had not spoken to her since their altercation the day before. Occasionally, he had caught the other Orinian soldiers staring at the girl. She possessed an ethereal beauty, so different from earthy, voluptuous Orinian women. Despite her beauty, the witch’s haughtiness prevented any of them from attempting to converse with her.
Will’s legs ached, his back throbbed and his stomach burned from the lack of a decent meal. The Morg fed them morsels of dry bread and a disgusting gruel that only the ravenously hungry could stomach. More than hunger though, what tormented Will Stellan was the knowledge that this army was preparing to march on Serranguard. Will did not worry so much about his own death, for he had a fatalistic attitude towards life and death. He had been estranged from his family for years and most of his friends had died on the Jade Plains—but his loyalty to Serranguard caused him physical pain when he thought of it falling to the Morg.
A sharp tug on Will’s chains pulled him out of his thoughts. The prisoners were all chained together so when the witch suddenly stumbled and fell, she nearly took Will with her.
Will reached down and pulled her out of the mud. Behind them, a Morg snapped a bullwhip in the air and snarled. The Ennadil witch hung limply in his arms; her eyelids fluttered as she struggled to keep conscious. Having already seen what the Morg did to prisoners who slowed the army down, Will gave Adelyis a gentle shake, attempting to wake her. She groaned and turned her face away from him. Will shook her harder and she reluctantly opened her eyes.
“Stop manhandling me!” she mumbled and made a weak effort to pull free of his grasp.
“Sorry, milady, but if we don’t keep moving that fellow with the whip will flay us both.” Will pulled her upright. “I’ll carry you on my back for a while.”
“You will not!”
The bullwhip whistled dangerously close to their—and, without any further argument, the girl clung to his shoulders.
Will carried her piggyback for a while. For such a delicate beauty, she was no featherweight. Her legs and arms that clung around his neck and waist were sculpted with hard muscle and, after a while, Will started to stagger and was forced to pass her to another soldier to carry for a while.
The army moved steadily through the sparse woodland carpeting the foothills of the Cradle Mountains. The mountains themselves loomed grey through the rain and marched south as the day progressed. By the time the sun set in a misty haze, the peaks lay behind them.
The prisoners collapsed in a huddle while the Morg made camp. The rain had lessened to a drizzle and the Morg bickered while erected their tents. Their black robes dripped with water, they were caked with mud and they squabbled over campsites. A few fights broke out over the poaching of suitable space.
The prisoners, oblivious to the Morgs’ squabbling, huddled together in a miserable, sodden heap. To Will’s surprise the Ennadil witch stretched out on the wet ground next to him and laid her head on his lap. Moments later she was asleep. Will could feel the heat from the fever radiating off her. He tried to summon up irritation at being used as her highness’s pillow but, in truth, he welcomed the human contact.
Adelyis opened her eyes to the sound of voices. They were Morg voices but the pleasanter softer tones of the Orinian language. Sunlight warmed Adelyis’s face; her body felt surprisingly relaxed and free of aches and pains. The fever had spent itself. She stretched her arms and legs as she turned over, freezing when she saw that she had been sleeping curled up on Captain Stellan’s lap. He was smiling down at her with a definite air of smugness. “Slept well, princess?”
Adelyis bolted upright and tried to recover her dignity, her face flushing hot. “Fine thanks,” she muttered, pushing her hair from her eyes.
“Are you feeling better?”
Adelyis managed a mute nod in reply.
“Glad to hear it. Here, we saved this for you.” Will passed Adelyis a piece of dry cheese. “Sorry it isn’t much. They were in a foul mood last night.”
Adelyis took the cheese, keeping a wary eye on the man before her. She had not spent much time in the company of Orinians. Studying them at close quarters, she was a little humbled to realize that despite cruder manners and an obvious lack of culture, Orinians were not so different from Ennadil. Despite his arrogance and smug manner, Captain Will Stellan radiated strength of character. His eyes sparkled with intelligence and good humor, and he was even quite attractive— for an Orinian—despite the silver scar that marred the left side of his face.
Adelyis swallowed the rest of her cheese and took a long drink from the earthen cup Will Stellan held out to her.
“Thank you for carrying me yesterday,” she said finally. “You could have let the Morg trample me into the mud but you didn’t. I appreciate that.”
Will Stellan gave her a warm, unexpected smile. It was the perfect opportunity for an arrogant comment but he let it pass.
The bellow of horns to the east of the sprawling Morg campsite, interrupted Adelyis’s breakfast. Swallowing the last of her cheese, Adelyis watched another legion stomp into the clearing and felt her stomach clench at the sight of them. The Morg could suffocate Isador with their sheer numbers.
Now that the rain had stopped the Morg were in much better spirits. They cackled to each other as they packed up camp. The prisoners were jostled unnecessarily, poked and prodded like livestock.
The army had almost finished packing up camp when another prisoner was dragged through their midst. The crowd parted and much snarling and spitting could be heard before something large and hairy was hurled towards the prisoners.
Gazing upon their new companion, the other prisoners all drew back sharply.
The creature picked itself up off the muddy ground and made an obscene gesture at the Morg who had manhandled it. Then, it turned and stared balefully at the other prisoners.
It was roughly the height of a short man and its round, barrel-like body was covered in a thick russet pelt. The creature’s arms and legs were long and sinewy and covered in leathery green skin pockmarked with warts. Large clawed hands and feet were attached to deceptively scrawny ankles and wrists. Its nose, jaundiced yellow in color, protruded like a hooked beak below two beady topaz eyes. Beneath the hooked nose, was a wide mouth with two fangs protruding from each side. The creature’s keen gaze viewed its fellow prisoners—five Orinian males and one Ennadil female—all staring at him as if they were looking at a two-headed warthog.
Although Adelyis had never set eyes on one of these before, she knew exactly what she was looking at. They were rarely seen this far west, rarely venturing far from the borders of the great forest in which they lived.
This creature before her was a Gremul.
CHAPTER NINE
THE BOUNTY HUNTER
Gywna blinked water out of her eyes and, deliberately, let the branch she had pushed aside snap backwards so that it whacked Jennadil in the face. She smiled as she heard him curse behind her. Before her, the Ennadil’s tall, lean form flitted through the trees like a shadow. Gywna’s sodden clothes dragged her down as she walked. Despite everything, Gywna felt surprisingly in good spirits. For the first time in her life she was free.
Jennadil was not in a good mood—his face stung from where the branch had caught him and he glowered at the back of the girl responsible. She was lucky he was a gentleman. As soon as they arrived at Falcon’s Mount he would rid himself of her.
Ahead of Gywna and Jennadil, Lassendil’s keen eyes picked out a path through the forest. He barely noticed the rain for his thoughts were divided between the task at hand and the turmoil of the last few days. He knew it did no good to dwell on it but his thoughts kept returning to the last few moments he had shared with his father in Aranith.
The small band traveled in silence for hours on end. Their strides splashed in time with the steady tempo of the rain, deeper and deeper into Delm Forest. By the time they made camp for the night, they were all exhausted and weak from hunger.
Gywna sat down heavily on a moss-covered log. She was so hungry that she felt ill. Unfortunately, it was too wet to light a fire—there would be no roast rabbit tonight. Jennadil collapsed into a morose huddle nearby while Lassendil disappeared in search of food.
It was after dark when Lassendil returned, only to find the wizard and the girl in the same positions he had left them in. They were still ignoring each other. The glowing tip of the wizard’s staff lit the waterlogged clearing in a sickly green hue.
“I didn’t find much,” Lassendil announced. “Only some mushrooms and Aka-fruit.”
His companions were so hungry that neither of them complained about the meager fare. The mushrooms were delicate in taste with a meaty texture that satisfied their empty stomachs and the Aka fruit were tart and delicious. Aka Trees, characterized by their gnarled trunks and branches, grew abundantly all over central Isador; their fruit resembled large red cherries, although sourer in taste. The meal, while light, was surprisingly filling and Lassendil had found enough of it to last them for lunch the following day.
The rain was still falling when they wrapped themselves in their cloaks and rested against tree trunks for the night.
***
Jennadil awoke from a deep, exhausted sleep to find the cold metal of a knife blade pressed against his throat.
At first, he thought it must be part of some evil dream caused by the mushrooms he had eaten for dinner. However, the chill of the blade seemed too real to be part of a nightmare—even an extremely vivid one. Hardly dari
ng to breathe, Jennadil stared into the darkness as the fog of sleep sharply receded. Fear prickled across his body like thousands of tiny marching ants.
“Keep very quiet,” a voice hissed in his ear, “and do exactly as I tell you.”
Jennadil held his tongue while his left hand stretched out, fumbling in the darkness for his staff. He had fallen asleep clutching it but during the night, the staff had rolled off his lap onto the ground, and now he could not find it.
“I’ve moved your staff out of harm’s way,” the voice continued. “If you try that again my knife will slip and cut out your windpipe. Now get up.”
Slowly, Jennadil did as he was told.
“Walk backwards, carefully . . . we don’t want to wake anyone up, do we?”
Jennadil began to shuffle back out of the clearing.
All at once the cold steel at his throat was abruptly removed and there came the thuds and smacks of a violet tussle in the undergrowth behind him. At the sudden realization he was free, Jennadil dived forward on his hands and knees and frantically searched for his staff. His fingers finally closed over its polished surface a few feet away—and seconds later the clearing was lit up in green iridescence.
A cloaked man lay face down in the mud. Lassendil, mud-streaked but calm, sat on top of him with one knee pressed against his neck and a thin-bladed Ennadil dagger pressed at the man’s jugular.
“A friend of yours?”
“Obviously not,” Jennadil rubbed his neck where the blade had pressed. The skin still tingled.
“I’ve seen him before.” Gywna came over. “In that tavern in Brenna. He was sitting in the corner. What does he want with you?”
Jennadil silently cursed the girl; he hated women as clever as this one. Ignoring her question, he looked back at Lassendil who was watching him curiously.
“Am I going to sit on the fellow all night or are you going to tell us what this bounty hunter wants with you?” Lassendil asked finally.