Almost instantly, images began to form in front of him; images so clear he resisted the urge to reach out and touch them. His gaze swept over Isador’s southern reaches, lands he had never seen, and he saw the devastation caused by the invaders. The ruined walls of Aranith rose before him, as did Serranguard, occupied by strange, cloaked creatures with hollowed, gaunt faces. Yaduk stared, fascinated by the images of the ravaged landscape and enslaved Ennadil and Orinians moving before him. Grull would be delighted by this news.
Suddenly, his vision was pulled back towards Serranguard. The great red fortress shone like a crown atop the desolation although its ruddy hue had taken on a jaundiced shade. A heavy yellow cloud now hung over the land.
Yaduk’s vision narrowed and he was sucked into Serranguard’s south-west tower. There, standing before him, seeming to fill the chamber in which he stood, was a tall, cloaked figure. The figure turned towards him and pushed back his hood.
Yaduk gasped.
Morgarth Evictar curled back his thin lips, revealing rows of sharp Tarzark teeth. His pink eyes deepened to red and burned into the sorcerer.
“Welcome Yaduk,” Morgarth spoke the same language as he, although with a strange, lilting accent as if it was a while since he had spoken the Tarzark’s tongue. “I have waited many long years for this moment.”
Uncomprehending, Yaduk fought the urge to get down on his knees and grovel. He gripped the sides of the bowl and bowed his head. “I am filled with joy that you have returned to us my Lord.”
“So, you have not forgotten me then?”
“Never my Lord!”
“Isador has. That is why I have waited so long. I waited until all memory of me had faded far from living memory; until the only references they would find to me would be in the dustiest history books, forgotten in unvisited libraries. I waited until they grew complacent, confident that they had defeated their greatest enemy, until they began to fight amongst themselves. Two-thousand years I have waited, and yet the Tarzark have never forgotten me.”
“We worship you!” Yaduk replied vehemently. “You were with us during our Golden Age. Long have we waited for your return.”
“Your patience has been rewarded for I am close by and the time has come for the Tarzark to cross the Sawtooth Mountains and claim what is rightfully theirs.”
“My Lord?”
“The Ennadil have fallen and the last Orinian stronghold, Falcon’s Mount, is vulnerable. Falcon’s Mount is yours. Take it for me and I will join you there. Too long have Ennadil and Orinians walked free in Isador but my army of Morg have beaten the arrogance out of them.”
“Who are these Morg, my Lord?”
“They are creatures from a great continent far to the south. They are my slaves, and they will do my bidding like dogs until they are no longer needed.”
Yaduk was so overcome with emotion he nearly wept—fortunately, he managed to restrain himself.
“We will prepare our troops and leave for Falcon’s Mount at dawn,” he whispered. “We will not fail you my Lord.”
Yaduk bowed his head but when he looked up again Morgarth Evictar was gone. The vapor before him evaporated and the warm south wind caressed his face. Yaduk straightened up and, to his surprise, discovered he was shaking. He took a deep breath and attempted to collect his thoughts. There was much work to be done.
Yaduk turned, his cape billowing out behind him, and hurried to seek audience with his King.
***
“We should leave this afternoon,” Arridel Thorne’s face was set in grim lines as he addressed the amassed company who stood before him in the palace’s largest courtyard garden. “We can delay no longer.”
The two City-Lords before him nodded while their entourage looked on silently. Standing beside Arridel Thorne, Jennadil Silverstern avoided their gazes. Arridel may have been hopeful but as far as Jennadil was concerned they were going to their deaths, and he was sure the others knew it too.
Lassendil Florin stepped forward, his lithe form tense and restless. His gaze met Arridel’s with an almost violent intensity. “I am with you. I will help ready the horses at once.”
The Ennadil ignored the others and strode from the garden. In his mind he was already leagues from Falcon’s Mount. Ever since he had learned his sister was alive he had been distracted and aloof; hating every moment that kept him at Falcon’s Mount when he wanted to be riding to Adelyis’s aid.
“So just the three of you will go?” Lord Aran Fire said finally.
“It is safer that way,” Arridel replied. “We intend to slip in unseen. We will ride by night and sleep by day. Jennadil has told me of the secret tunnel which leads to the dungeons. It will be our path inside.”
At these words, Jennadil felt Theo Brin’s accusing gaze on him. Even now, with his own doom rapidly approaching, Theo was still stewing over Jennadil’s escape from Serranguard. Only Theo Brin and Will Stellan knew of that tunnel. Now, Theo would be surer than ever that the Captain of his army had helped Jennadil escape. Not that it mattered now—Theo was unlikely to get his chance for revenge.
“Whatever you need for the journey will be put at your disposal,” Aran Fire added. “I just wish I could do more to help you.”
Arridel bowed his head in thanks before turning on his heel and leaving the garden. Jennadil followed close behind and when they were in the colonnaded arcade outside, Arridel turned to him.
“I’ll leave you to return to your quarters to pack your things. I will bring up our supplies and meet you at the stables in an hour.”
They went their separate ways and Jennadil was grateful for the momentary solitude. He made his way up to his little chamber and packed his meagre possessions. He now owned so little; his belongings fitted into a light leather bag that he slung across his front. It took him only a few minutes to pack and when finished, Jennadil sat on the edge of his bed and picked up his staff. He ran his fingers over the polished wood. The staff hummed with energy as he touched it, and the sensation relaxed him. Its energy seeped into his body and flowed through his veins.
He was frightened of the task appointed to him; for he knew he was not up to it. Arridel was so matter-of-fact and appeared undaunted by it all but it was all Jennadil could do to keep his wits together. Arridel was a powerful wizard whose skills had been honed by years of methodical study and practice. Jennadil, on the other hand, had never applied himself. He had a sickening, gnawing fear he would let everyone down when faced with Morgarth Evictar, if he even made it that far. Eventually, unnerved by his own thoughts, Jennadil got up, left his chamber and made his way down towards the stables.
There was an eerie quiet in the palace this afternoon. Jennadil walked alone through the corridors leading towards the stables. He was halfway there when he heard a woman’s soft voice call to him.
“Jennadil!”
He turned and saw Myra Brin standing behind him. Dressed in a pale blue gown which made her look more fragile than ever, Myra was unrecognizable as the carefree young woman he had seduced from under Theo Brin’s nose.
“Myra.” He shook his head. “You should not be here. We cannot be seen together. It will be terrible for you if Theo learns of it.”
“I care not!” Myra rushed forward and threw herself against Jennadil’s chest. She squeezed him tightly and when she looked up at him, Jennadil saw her face was streaked with tears.
“I cannot bear it any longer,” she whispered.
“I am so sorry Myra,” Jennadil had not thought it was possible to feel any more wretched. Now, as well as feeling like a sniveling coward, he also felt like a villain. “This is my fault.”
“It is not! I wanted to be with you. You did not force me!”
“But life is unbearable for you now. I know Theo makes you suffer—I know what he’s capable of.”
Myra buried her face in his chest. He felt her thin body tremble in his arms and he had to fight the sudden urge to cry. It was a mess—all of it.
> “I can put up with his cruelty,” she whispered. “I can put up with anything if I know you are nearby. I cannot stand the thought of you going away again.”
Jennadil stroked her hair, not knowing how to respond. “I have no choice,” he said finally, hating the inanity of his reply. “My fate no longer lies in my own hands.”
“Then take me with you!” Myra’s blue eyes glittered with a sudden, vehement passion as she stared up at him. “Take me away from him!”
Jennadil took a deep breath and, gently taking hold of her shoulders, stepped back from Myra, not breaking her gaze as he did so. “It’s no summer’s picnic I go on,” he said quietly. “Where I’m going I would never take you. You are safer here.”
“Bring me with you!” Tears spilled down Myra’s cheeks. “I cannot stay here. I cannot!”
Jennadil felt sick with self-loathing as he shook his head. “No Myra . . . I am sorry, so sorry. Please go now—we cannot be here like this.”
He extracted himself from her grasping hands and stepped away from her. He slowly backed off; worried she would throw herself at him and start screaming. However, she did not. She seemed to crumple in on herself. Her hair fell forward and she covered her face in her hands.
Watching her silent sobbing, Jennadil stumbled away and upon reaching the end of the corridor, he turned right. Further on, he sank against the wall and rubbed at the tears which were suddenly streaming down his face.
***
Lassendil Florin mounted the grey gelding Lord Fire had given him for the journey to Serranguard. High-spirited, the horse sidestepped and tossed his head, eager to be off. Lassendil knew how he felt; he too was impatient to leave. He watched the two wizards swing up onto the saddle. They were both wearing long traveling cloaks; Jennadil’s was of a dashing forest green whereas Arridel’s was a more somber charcoal.
Only Aran Fire, his wife and Vermel Ham had bothered to come to see them off. Lassendil was surprised that Gywna Brin had not come as well. He had not thought her as lacking in manners as her father but, obviously, he had been wrong. Lassendil was irritated it should bother him that she had not wanted to say good-bye. He turned to the wizards, impatient.
“Shall we leave now?”
Both wizards nodded—Arridel’s face was grim and introspective whereas Jennadil was looking a bit peaky and thoroughly unhappy.
“May the wraiths of your ancestors protect you all,” Aran Fire said quietly. “I would send a host of soldiers with you but it appears magic is the only weapon of any use to you now.”
“You too have a difficult task to face,” Arridel replied. “Falcon’s Mount must not fall.”
Suddenly, Lord Fire looked very tired. The City-Lord smiled sadly and nodded. “The Morg will not take us easily,” he assured the wizard.
The small company of three rode out of the courtyard and through the high stone gates into the city. None of them looked back as they journeyed down the spiraling road, through a city preparing itself for war. Jennadil was shocked to see the townsfolk so energetic. He had expected the lethargy of hopelessness to have settled over Falcon’s Mount, but instead he witnessed every blacksmith hard at work fashioning weapons.
The clang of steel echoed through the streets. Jennadil saw men gingerly loading barrels of explosives onto carts and in one of the main squares he witnessed women and children practicing archery. Such a sight should have lifted his spirits, but after his encounter with Myra nothing could ease the wretched knot in his stomach.
On Falcon’s Mount’s lowest level, they entered the market place; a long rectangular square which stretched down to the city’s massive iron gates. They wound their way past clusters of townsfolk buying produce and live-stock. Life still went on, despite the shadow of doom that was almost upon them. Gone however, was the laughter and cheerful banter that usually echoed around the market place.
The three riders arrived at the main gates and waited while the locks were released. The guards nodded curtly at the Ennadil and two wizards before they pushed the heavy iron gates open. Lassendil caught sight of the open grasslands stretching south-west before him and felt his skin prickle with anticipation. For the first time in days, his mouth curved into a smile and he urged his horse on, under the raised portcullis, on to the bridge and over the shallow moat, with the others close behind.
All three of them had passed out of the city, and the guards were just preparing to pull the gates shut, when a shout from one of the guards made Lassendil turn in his saddle. A caped and hooded figure atop a stocky bay horse thundered through the narrow opening, nearly colliding with Jennadil’s horse. The horse twisted to the left just in time and scooted past Jennadil’s left leg. Drawing level with Lassendil, the rider threw back her hood.
The guards, who were just drawing their weapons, gave a collective gasp at the sight of the brown curls and the pert, freckled face of Lord Brin’s only child.
“Lady Brin!” One of the guards found his voice. “Your father did not permit this. Come back inside this instant!”
Gywna lifted her chin and stared back at the guard in question. “Neither you nor my father has command over me,” she informed him. “I’ll go where I wish!”
“Well you’re not coming with us!” Jennadil had been momentarily shocked out of his misery. “I’ve already had to endure one journey with you and I’m not enduring another!”
“Well then stay behind,” Gywna countered. “I’d prefer not to listen to your whining anyway.” She turned to Lassendil who was staring at her in mute surprise. To his greater surprise, she gave him a cheeky smile and winked. “I hope you can keep up!”
Gywna dug her heels into her horse’s flanks. The heavy-set beast lumbered off down the road, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake. Lassendil glanced back at the two wizards. They both looked like they had been drinking vinegar. Lassendil gathered up his reins with a sigh of resignation.
“You heard the girl,” he said.
The guards watched as the Ennadil urged his horse into a canter and the two wizards followed. They continued watching until the four riders were nothing but fast-moving specks on the horizon, before one of the guards turned to the man next to him.
“Lord Brin is going to have a fit when he hears of this.”
His colleague shook his head and slapped him on the back. “I’ll let you break the news to him.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A WEAKNESS AT LAST
A smoky dusk settled over Serranguard, promising yet another claustrophobic night. The heavy clouds that hung over the castle blocked out the moon and the stars, and the landscape below Serranguard twinkled from the fires of the Morg encampments like an inverted night-sky. What looked so foul in daylight had a surreal beauty after nightfall.
In the corridor outside their hiding place, Adelyis pulled her hood over her face and wrapped her cloak around her. Nervously, she followed Will and Taz; her apprehension tinged with relief. The day had dragged on endlessly and Adelyis preferred to finally be in action rather than biting her nails down to the quick, worrying about what lay ahead.
Will had assured Adelyis he could find his way around this castle blindfolded; which was just as well since she could not see more than three feet ahead of her. This area of the castle had no torches lining the walls, enabling them to move about with relative ease. Unfortunately, they would have to make their way to the heart of Serranguard if they were to find Adelyis’s staff or more information about the Morg.
There, they would only have the shadows to hide in.
Adelyis could only just make out Taz’s caped form in front of her and quickened her step so as not to lose him. Will moved quickly and decisively; the soft leather boots he wore noiseless on the stone floor. Their caped forms could pass, at first glance, as Morg. However, their flimsy disguise would not stand up to a closer inspection, and they would have to rely on Will’s knowledge of the castle to escape detection.
Adelyis’s heart crept higher into her
throat the nearer they came to Serranguard’s north-west tower. Will had explained earlier that each of Serranguard’s four towers had a name and a particular function. The north-west tower was called the Scholar’s Tower. It was where the City-Lord’s wizard had once resided and the location of Serranguard’s library. The south-west tower, where Adelyis had met the Morg’s master two days earlier, was the Lord’s Tower. The City-Lord’s chambers were located here. On the south-east corner rose the Wraith Tower, so named because of the small temple to the Ancestral Wraith’s house there; and the north-east tower was named the Ceremonial Tower. This tower housed Serranguard’s great dining hall and meeting rooms.
Having already spent an afternoon in Serranguard’s library, Adelyis had guessed that the Morg’s highest-ranking shamans, including the one who had taken her staff, slept in the Scholar’s Tower. She hoped her intuitions were correct, for she did not relish the idea of searching all four corners of the huge fortress.
Will led them on a torturous path, through the narrowest passageways, instead of the principle thoroughfares. This circuitous route took them nearly an hour to cross the Keep but it ensured they met no Morg.
Finally, they were two corridors away from the circular stairwell leading up into the Scholar’s Tower. Will came to the end of the narrow passage leading to one of the main corridors and stopped so suddenly that Taz nearly ran into the back of him. The Gremul hissed but Will put up a hand to silence him. Slowly, Will peeked around the corner and spied four Morg sentries guarding the entrance to the stairwell. He had hoped to find them slumped against the wall, dozing. Instead, they stood up straight, spears grasped at their sides. News of their escape from the dungeons was obviously now widespread and, although Will guessed the Morg thought their prisoners had somehow fled from the castle, they were still taking precautions to keep their new stronghold secure.
Will turned to the others, held up four fingers and pointed to his left. His companions nodded and Will hesitated a moment, feeling their expectant gazes on him. He had got them this far and they expected him to have another plan up his sleeve.