“I am not a prisoner here,” she reminded him coldly, “and neither are you. You could leave now and no-one would try to stop you.”
“And where would I go? The enemy is but three days from us, gathering their full force at Serranguard. They are making us wait before they deal the final blow.”
“Then nothing we do will make any difference?”
“Nothing short of a miracle.”
Gywna was silent as Lassendil left the garden, and she remained at the window long after he had gone. In many ways, the Morg were still an abstract concept to her. She had seen their destruction from afar in Brenna – the sight of the burning city was still fresh in her mind—but in many ways, the Morg were a faceless menace. She moved her gaze, south-west, in the direction of Serranguard. She knew the City-State was under the control of the Morg but to her it would always be the place of her birth, where her mother had lived and where she had been her happiest. She could not imagine it differently and did not want to.
***
Jennadil splashed cold water on his face, in an effort to clear his head. He was beyond tired at this point. His head throbbed as if he had spent the previous night downing jugs of ale. He sat down on the edge of his narrow bed and picked at the breakfast of freshly baked bread and cheese one of the guards had brought up to him earlier.
The thought of what awaited him today had taken away his appetite. Within the hour, he and Arridel Thorne were to go before Aran Fire and Theo Brin to speak of their discovery. He was not looking forward to it; such news would not be well received. Worse still, he and Arridel had no answer; no solution for the City-Lords with which to soften the bad news.
A loud knock on his door made Jennadil start slightly. His nerves were still on edge. The guard pushed the door open and motioned for Jennadil to follow him. With a sigh, the wizard pushed his breakfast aside and followed the guard out into the stairwell.
On the way to the Great Hall, Jennadil found Lassendil waiting for him at the foot of the stairs leading to the palace’s upper levels.
“They’ve summoned you too?” Jennadil said, surprised and a little alarmed.
“You are to have an audience,” Lassendil replied. “Word has it that you and Arridel have discovered something of great importance.” The Ennadil gave Jennadil a piercing sidelong glance. “I got the impression that you and Arridel Thorne are not on the best of terms. How do you know each other?”
Jennadil gave a wry smile. “Oh, we met years ago, when I was a student here. He was the same as he is now: humorless, arrogant and superior. He was my tutor for a time—before he had me expelled.”
Lassendil raised an eyebrow. “What for?”
Jennadil colored slightly and cleared his throat in embarrassment. “He caught me in his study, plowing a girl on his desk.”
Lassendil raised the other eyebrow. “You took a girl into your tutor’s study?”
“It was the only place we could be alone. Well, we were alone, until he walked in on us.”
“Wizard, you tread a thin line.” Lassendil shook his head.
Jennadil threw Lassendil a sour look. “Go on, say more. I can see you want to.”
“I would have thought that experience might have taught you something,” Lassendil said, his face disapproving.
“A wizard’s life is not an easy one,” Jennadil grumbled in response, “and I refuse to live the joyless life that Arridel embraces.”
“It is a choice that demands sacrifice. My sister is an Ennadil witch; she leads a solitary life.” Sadness tinged Lassendil’s voice.
“Where is she?” Jennadil forgot his own humiliation for the moment when he saw the expression on Lassendil’s face.
“She left for Mirren on the eve before the Morg attacked Aranith. I hope she is safe but I have no way of knowing. I do not know if the Morg have reached that far north.”
“Let us pray they have not.” Jennadil replied.
The wizard finished speaking as they drew near to the oak doors leading into the Great Hall.
When Arridel and Jennadil had explained their discovery, Lord Aran Fire was the first to speak. At first, when Arridel Thorne finished speaking, an ominous, chill silence had hung in the hall.
A small company was seated on the dais behind Lord Fire. Lord Brin, his wife, daughter and counsellor sat apart from Lassendil Florin. Next to Lord Fire sat his wife, Imeldia; a beautiful woman in her late twenties, with huge green eyes and a rippling mane of auburn hair. Jennadil had met her briefly at dinner the evening before, and back in the old days, he would have turned on the charm to see if he could woo her. However, too many troubles now clouded Jennadil’s mind for him to muster the energy which pursuing a married woman required.
“Alas that we do not remember the past.” Lord Fier’s voice was heavy with sadness. “This Morgarth Evictar should never have been forgotten. You say he nearly destroyed Orin during the second age of this world; and yet I have never heard of him until today.”
“Yes, My Lord,” Arridel Thorne replied. “My generation of wizards studied him briefly but it was thought after he was vanquished at Hammer Pass, that such evil would never arise again.”
“We pay now for our complacency.” Lord Fire rubbed a hand over his tired face. “Such events should never be forgotten.”
“Is there no way to defeat him?” Lassendil spoke up, “he is powerful but he is not immortal?”
“An axe in the head did not kill him once,” Jennadil replied, “and since then he has had time to strengthen his powers and amass an army.”
“Magic is perhaps the only weapon which can defeat him,” Arridel added.
“So do you know of a way to stop him then?” Theo Brin spoke, watching the wizards under hooded lids.
Arridel Thorne shook his head, “as yet—no … if there were more of us it would be easier to combine our powers, or if we had Ennadil sorcerers to aid us. Magic cannot stop the Morg but it is the only way to defeat their master.”
“So, you cannot stop him.” Theo’s mood had worsened from the day before. He supped deeply from a pewter goblet of wine and fixed Arridel and Jennadil in a humorless stare. The older wizard returned the City-Lord’s gaze impassively, “No, My Lord, I am saying we need time.”
“Unfortunately, we do not have time,” Aran Fire said, “but at least we now know what it is we face.”
“That is of little use to us if we cannot find a way to stop this Morgarth,” Theo Brin sneered.
“There is something else which worries me,” Arridel continued. “Morgarth Evictar is half Orinian, half Tarzark, and the Tarzark worship him as a God. It would be wise to strengthen the garrisons at the Blade and Hammer Passes. Evictar may send out riders to the Tarzark Kingdom—they must never know he lives or we will face an attack on both sides.”
“It is done,” Lord Fire replied briskly. “I will send reinforcements at once.”
Fire studied the two wizards—the last of their kind. They both looked strained, especially the younger one. Secretly, he doubted they would come up with a solution but he knew better than to voice his real thoughts. Hope was hanging on by a thread, and he did not have the heart to destroy it.
BOOK TWO
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE POWER OF THREE
A new day dawned, and with it came the end of bright summer days and blue skies. Dark clouds gathered over Serranguard but it did not rain. From her vantage point, peering out of the tiny window in the secret storeroom, Adelyis frowned up at the clouds. They were unnatural; not made up of shades of grey. Instead, sulfuric yellow and brown swirled in their noxious depths. A hot, unpleasant wind now blew across the land from the South.
Adelyis gnawed at her bottom lip as she pondered the weather—it took powerful magic to change the climate of a country. She wondered what evil purpose these clouds had.
“Adelyis.” Will’s voice broke her reverie. She turned from the window to see he had brought her a bucket of water and a weathered cake o
f soap. It had been days since any of them had bathed and Adelyis longed to soak up to her neck in a hot bath; but for now a bucket of cold water and a rock-hard piece of soap would have to suffice.
“Thank you.” Adelyis took the bucket and soap behind the screen Will had erected in the corner of the storeroom. He had fashioned the screen from a bolt of dusty muslin they had pinched from one of the City-Lord’s pantries.
“How long will we be safe here?” Taz growled from where he sat atop an empty crate.
Will passed the Gremul a piece of dried meat and took a seat opposite him.
“I cannot say,” he replied, taking a bite of dried meat and chewing thoughtfully. “This was the City-Lord’s secret store-room, containing delicacies from all over Isador that he didn’t trust his servants to keep their hands off. As you saw, the entrance is hidden; it looks as if it is part of the wall. As long as we are careful we could remain hidden here for quite some time.”
“I don’t like all this waiting about and sneaking around,” Taz grumbled. He scratched absently at his pelt as he spoke.
“I think you’ve got fleas,” Will observed, “you’re always scratching. Why don’t you take a bath after Adelyis has finished?”
Taz glowered at the man opposite him. “Gremul do not bathe! It weakens our constitution; brings the onset of illness and dulls the senses.”
A muffled laugh sounded from behind the screen, Adelyis was listening to their conversation. A grin tugged at Will’s mouth as he struggled to keep a straight-face. “Well then Taz, you’d better keep your fleas to yourself.”
Later on, as Will washed behind the screen and Adelyis sat combing her wet hair, Taz watched her with interest.
“Your hair is the color of obsidian little witch. You are very fair indeed.”
Adelyis laughed in surprise. “Why thank you Taz.”
“Why are you not yet married with half a dozen screaming brats in tow?” Taz asked bluntly.
Adelyis’s eyes widened in surprise but there was pride, rather than embarrassment in her voice when she replied. “Ennadil witches and wizards cannot marry.”
“Why not?”
“It is thought to be a distraction.”
“Ennadil are strange creatures,” Taz replied. “Your society has too many stupid rules.”
“Stop badgering the poor girl Taz,” Will emerged from behind the screen, naked to the waist as he toweled himself down, “she probably finds your kind just as strange.”
Adelyis looked across at Will; her gaze involuntarily drawn to his naked torso. Her gaze traced the network of scars that decorated his pale skin and the masculine swirls of hair on his chest, before she realized she was staring and hurriedly looked away. She concentrated on braiding her hair and did not look up until she was finished. To her relief, Will had put on his shirt and seemed oblivious to her embarrassment.
“They will have noticed our absence by now.” Will said. He leant against the wall and regarded his two companions. “Our only advantage is they won’t suspect we were foolhardy enough to remain in Serranguard.”
“I must retrieve my staff,” Adelyis said, “and we have to discover what spell they are searching for.”
“Don’t be hasty,” Will replied. “During day-light it is perilous to wander about the Keep. At dusk there will be shadows we can hide in.”
“What of those clouds outside?” Taz crossed his long, sinewy legs in front of him and wiggled the toes on his horny feet. “They have an ill-favored look.”
“It is the work of magic,” Adelyis replied, “of that I am certain.”
She got up and walked back over to the window. The clouds swirled over-head and the horizon was obscured by dirty fog. The landscape around her was unrecognizable as what had once been one of the most bucolic and picturesque areas of Isador. The farmland around Serranguard had been a patchwork quilt of cornfields, vineyards, orchards and vegetable patches, interspersed with woodland and villages nestled in the folds of the undulating landscape. It now looked as if a hurricane had ripped through it.
“Darkness thrives in darkness,” Adelyis murmured.
Listening to Adelyis, Will suppressed a shudder. Her words sounded prophetic, as if those clouds were a great blanket intent on smothering them all so that evil could crawl freely across the land.
***
Servants entered the dining hall, bringing with them platters of meat and roast vegetables. The food was aromatic and enough to feed a poor family for a week but none of those seated at the table, save Serranguard’s City-Lord and his rotund counsellor, had much appetite.
Theo Brin sat at the head of the table, flanked on one side by Gywna and Vermel Ham, and by Myra and Arridel Thorne on the other. Not one of them looked happy to be in his presence. Gywna scowled, Myra was pale and withdrawn, Vermel wore the expression of a frightened rabbit and Arridel Thorne brooded.
Gywna speared a piece of meat and chewed mechanically, observing Myra as she did so. She had not met her father’s young wife before coming to Falcon’s Mount, as Theo had packed her off to Brenna before the marriage; obviously fearing his bratty daughter would cause a scene during the wedding ceremony. So this was the woman who Jennadil had risked his neck over? Frankly, Gywna had expected a sultry, more alluring woman. Myra reminded her of a pretty, fragile bird. She was far too thin, although Gywna supposed it was unhappiness that made her pick at her food and avoid eye contact with everyone at the table. Gywna had not failed to notice that her father humiliated his wife at every opportunity. Still, Gywna reflected, taking a sip of red wine, she did not think much of Jennadil’s taste in women.
Feeling Gywna’s gaze on her, Myra looked up from her untouched plate and for a moment their gazes locked. Gywna looked into Myra’s pretty blue eyes and expected to see the pleading look of a beaten dog, an expression she despised. Instead, Myra’s eyes were vacant. They had an emptiness, a deadness, which chilled Gywna. Her disdain changed to discomfort. She was the first to look away.
“You!” Theo barked at a passing servant. “Fill my cup!” The servant nervously hastened to obey, filling his master’s cup to the brim with red wine. It was only lunchtime but Theo Brin was already drunk. He was dangerous and viper-tongued when in such a state. Even Arridel Thorne was wary of him today.
“Well people,” Theo slurred, raising his glass and slopping wine over his sleeve as he did so, “here’s to Isador, or what’s left of her.” He drained his cup in a few gulps and barked for it to be refilled once more.
“Why the long faces?” he roared at his companions. “We’re not dead yet! Enjoy your lives while you still have them!”
Gywna looked across at Arridel Thorne and saw the wizard’s mouth curl into a sneer.
At that moment, the doors to the dining hall flew open and one of Lord Fier’s personal guard hurried towards them. Gywna was momentarily relieved for the distraction; until the guard spoke.
“Milord! We have received word that Mirren has been sacked. Refugees have just reached us. Many are seriously injured and they say the Morg massacred thousands, milord.”
Theo Brin stared back at the messenger, his face expressionless, before he lowered his cup and sank back into his chair, deflating like a balloon.
Falcon’s Mount would stand alone after all.
Gywna picked up her skirts and picked her way through the crowd of bloodied, exhausted refugees. Many lay on the ground, hungry, dehydrated or unable to go on, whether it was from grief or injury. She was not sure why she had come here with the healers who were sent to help the injured. Perhaps she needed to see the reality of this war, to get away from her father’s drunken ranting. She carried a basket of bread that she distributed among the crowd. As she moved through the sea of people, a deep sadness settled over her; an emotion unlike any other she had experienced. Her breathing became shallow and her throat constricted painfully. Many of these people thought they had reached safety here. Instead, all they would have was a short reprieve
before the Morg slaughtered them, right down to the last man, woman and child.
Gywna handed out the last loaf of bread before turning back to get some more. As she turned, she caught sight of a man lying on the ground at her feet. She saw immediately he was Ennadil. His dark hair was plastered against his head. His skin was chalk-white. He was staring up at her with desperate eyes. Gywna knelt down and unfastened a flask of water she carried. She raised it to his lips and let him take a few gulps. His skin was dry and burning up with fever; his injuries were severe—two deep sword wounds in his side. She was surprised he was not already dead.
“Please,” he whispered between cracked lips. He reached out and grasped Gywna’s hand. His grip was still strong.
“What is it?” Gywna replied with a touch of impatience. He was crushing her fingers.
“Please . . . I must find someone . . . help me!”
Gywna searched the entire palace before she eventually found Lassendil in the armory.
He sat sharpening the long fine blade of his Ennadil sword, his face tensed in concentration. Gywna opened her mouth to speak but sensing her presence Lassendil looked up before she spoke.
“What is it Gywna?” He did not look that pleased to see her but then Gywna was used to—it appeared she had inherited her father’s effect on people.
“Have you not heard?” she paused to catch her breath. “Mirren has been sacked. Many refugees have just arrived here, and among them is a man named Miradel, an Ennadil. He asks for you.”
Lassendil leapt to his feet and sheathed his sword in one movement. “Where is he?” his voice was sharp.
“I’ll take you to him.”
Gywna picked up her skirts and led the way, out of the armory and through the maze of hallways leading to the House of Healing. It was a narrow wing, attached to the palace like an afterthought, near the main courtyard.
Gywna’s voluminous silk gown rustled as she walked, and Lassendil easily kept up with her shorter strides. Dust, men’s clothing and the Wraith Sword at her side suited her more than this impractical gown.