The Children of Isador

Watching the bounty hunter, Myra saw his body stiffen in alarm.

  “Myra,” his voice, usually so self-assured, had a panicked edge to it. She moved closer to him and peeked over the edge of the wall, gasping when she saw what had alarmed him.

  The Tarzark had broken through the Orinian defenses.

  They swarmed over the wall, an unstoppable tide of fearsome, scaled bodies. They would overrun the second level in a matter of minutes.

  “We have to get out of here!” Myra’s voice rose in panic, “we’ll be trapped!”

  Dael pulled Myra from the wall and pushed her ahead of him in the direction of the stairwell. For once Myra did not complain about his forthright manner. Instead, she shot down the circular stairwell with Dael at her heels. They raced through the empty townhouse and out onto the narrow street. To the right—the direction Myra had come from earlier—they could hear fighting and screams on the thoroughfare. The most direct route up to the citadel’s highest level was blocked. They would have to find an alternative.

  Neither Dael nor Myra knew Falcon’s Mount well. Away from the main road, which corkscrewed its way up to the massive granite wall encircling the palace, Falcon’s Mount was a labyrinth of steep stairs going off in various directions and narrow lanes, many of which led to dead ends.

  Fear drove them up stair after stair without thinking about stopping to catch their breath. It was only when Myra’s chest started to burn with exertion that she realized she would not be able to keep up with the lithe bounty hunter much longer.

  “Wait!” she gasped, “I … can’t … go on without a rest!”

  Myra stopped and bent over in an effort to breathe much needed air into her burning lungs. Breathing heavily, the bounty hunter stopped, drawing his sword as he stood beside Myra. His keen gaze swept over their surroundings.

  “Do you know how to use that sword you carry?” he asked Myra.

  “No.” Myra replied between gasps.

  “Well, now would be a good time to learn. They’re coming.”

  Myra looked up and saw, at the bottom of the long stairs they had just climbed, the flurry of grey capes. The Tarzark, fitter than either of them, were gaining easily.

  Suddenly, Myra got her second wind. She turned and shot up the next staircase, clumsily drawing her sword as she did so. Seconds later, Dael was at her side. Myra’s legs felt rubbery but she forced herself on. She knew that they could not be far from the Palace. The ground was starting to level out now; a sign they had almost reached the wall. Fear clamped itself around Myra’s ribcage when she heard the slap of Tarzark feet on stone and the rasp of their breathing close behind them now.

  They reached the end of a street and the gigantic stone wall which protected the palace reared up before them. Unfortunately, they had come out far below the main entrance. Dael started to turn right, towards the main gates but Myra grabbed his arm.

  “The back entrance is closer!” she urged.

  A gang of Tarzark surged onto the street in time to see the man and woman they had been pursuing, disappear down the wide cobbled street that encircled the palace walls. Their leader gave a roar of triumph and the Tarzark gave chase.

  It was downhill and Myra was running so fast she was afraid her legs might give way under her.

  Then, she risked a glance over her shoulder at their pursuers—and that was her undoing. The sight of them bearing down on her made Myra’s step falter. They were huge beasts; their flat reptilian faces and slit eyes, gleaming with bloodlust, scared her so thoroughly that she forgot she was running. Her legs tangled and she fell.

  That would have been the end of her if Dael had not been there.

  Myra sprawled on the cobbles, narrowly missing impaling herself on her own blade. Her chin hit the stones and she tasted blood. The Tarzark would have fallen upon her then and ripped to pieces, but Dael sprang in front of her.

  “Myra! Run!”

  Myra scrambled to her feet and blindly did as ordered. She had run a short distance when she realized she was leaving Dael to face the Tarzark.

  She was leaving him to die.

  Myra stopped and turned back to look behind her. Dael was sweeping his sword in front of him in a broad arc. The Tarzark were encircling him, waiting to pounce.

  One of them saw Myra had foolishly stopped running. The Tarzark grimaced at her, revealing rows of pointed teeth and a serpent’s tongue that flicked out between them. Then, he started towards her.

  Throwing aside her sword, Myra whipped out her longbow and before the Tarzark realized what she was up to she had shot an arrow at him. Her hands were shaking and so her aim was off. The arrow thudded into the Tarzark’s shoulder instead of his heart.

  The Tarzark roared and thundered towards her. Within seconds, he would be too close, but Myra released the second arrow just in time—and this time her aim was true. It impaled him in the chest. The Tarzark staggered forward and collapsed, twitching, on the cobblestones in front of his intended victim.

  “Myra, I told you to run!” Dael shouted.

  Ignoring the bounty hunter, Myra shot four arrows in quick succession, which felled two more of the enemy. The remaining Tarzark, incensed that these two slight creatures were proving troublesome, fell on the bounty hunter in a rage.

  Myra was relieved to see Dael knew how to handle himself with a sword. She watched in awe as he danced his way around the Tarzark, deflecting their chops and lunges with graceful feints and parries. Myra waited, longbow at the ready, for another clear shot but she could not get one.

  Given time, she and Dael might have been able to fight off the small band of Tarzark – but when another pack exploded from a side street, Myra’s burgeoning hopes faded.

  Dael saw them as well, before the Tarzark he was fighting did. He pulled his blade free of the belly of one of the Tarzark and pushed him into the path of his comrades—then he turned and fled.

  Dael and Myra sprinted down the street; and this time neither made the mistake of looking behind them. From the thundering behind them, they knew they did not just have a company of Tarzark on their tail now, but a whole host.

  Terror gave Myra speed she never knew she possessed. The gate loomed before them and Myra was horrified to see they had almost finished lowering the portcullis. The large metal teeth were nearly at the ground. In seconds, they would be locked out.

  “Stop!” Myra screamed. “Open the gates!”

  “Myra!”

  On the other side of the metal grid, Myra saw Lord Aran Fire. His lean face seemed to have aged years since she had last seen him. He stood, covered in dust, blood and grime, overseeing his guards as they sealed the palace’s back entrance.

  “Let us in!” Myra pleaded. “The Tarzark are almost upon us!”

  Without hesitation, Lord Fire gave the order and slowly the portcullis started to rise.

  Dael and Myra rolled to the ground and squeezed under it. There was barely enough room for them to get under and the metal teeth snagged and ripped their clothes. Then, suddenly, they were through and the portcullis slammed down as the Tarzark crashed against it. Their claws raked at Myra and she felt a sting as one of them slashed her arm. She rolled away and sat up, staring at the giant, bipedal lizards.

  The Tarzark watched her with malevolent, hooded eyes. They bit, clawed and slashed at the portcullis in blind rage but to no avail. Lord Fire barked an order and his men locked the portcullis and pushed the heavy oak gates shut, bolting them securely in six places.

  “Seal off the gate!” Lord Fire bellowed. “No one will be getting in or out of this entrance!”

  All of Myra’s remaining strength drained from her. She sat there in the dust, not even bothering to get up. She looked across at Dael; his dark skin shone with sweat and he was breathing heavily. However, when he caught Myra’s eye he winked.

  “Not bad milady,” he drawled. “I’ll make a fighter out of you yet.”

  To her own great surprise, Myra laughed.
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  ***

  The half-moon hung high in the heavens when Jennadil slowed his Yangtul. Behind him, the army of ragged but resolute Orinians and Ennadil came to a halt. They had ridden hard for hours without taking a break. Falcon’s Mount still lay many hours ride to the east but Will had warned Jennadil that his army would be no use to him if they arrived at Falcon’s Mount and then collapsed from hunger and exhaustion. It was time to take an hour’s rest.

  It was a clear, cold night and a thick silver crust of frost had settled over the landscape. The highway was deserted and shadowed on one side by the silent boughs of Delm Forest.

  Jennadil swung down from the saddle, grimacing as he did so. He was not much of a rider on horseback at the best of times – but these birds were even more uncomfortable to ride and their feathers made his nose itch.

  Gywna slid down after him, brushing aside the hand he held out to steady her. She cast him an imperious look and Jennadil was reminded, once again, of her father. Since confronting Morgarth Evictar, he and Gywna tolerated each other more readily but Jennadil doubted they would ever become fast friends. She was one of the few females he had ever met that he could not charm.

  Jennadil watched as Gywna rubbed her aching posterior and scowled. Her gaze then traveled over to where Adelyis and Lassendil were dismounting. Jennadil saw Gywna’s face soften as she looked at Lassendil, and the wizard felt a twinge of pity for the girl. He had seen that expression before when women had fallen for him. He had once enjoyed the knowledge his easy words had charmed yet again, but he had never known what it felt like to be infatuated. Seeing Gywna’s look of hurt when Lassendil ignored her, Jennadil was relieved that he had not.

  Jennadil had always been a keen observer of human nature and over the past days, he had noticed an intricate pattern of unspoken tension between those he traveled with. He observed Adelyis and Will’s closeness and their obvious, but undeclared, attraction and affection for each other. He also saw that it upset Lassendil.

  Jennadil had suspected that Lassendil had firmly held views on Ennadil and Orinians inter-breeding, and even stronger views on Ennadil wizards and witches remaining chaste. His inflexibility did not surprise Jennadil for many Ennadil still believed they were genetically superior to their neighbors, and that their bloodline should be kept pure.

  Being half Ennadil, half Orinian—Jennadil had no such views. He marveled at how two races with more in common than not, could get on so badly. His parents were a notable exception. Ennadil and Orinian society had banished them because they each refused to give the other up. Jennadil knew he could have blamed the prejudices of both races for indirectly causing his parents death; for they would never have been living in the isolated foothills of the Silver Peak Mountains, where they died, if they had resided at Mirren or Aranith as they had wished.

  Despite this injustice, Jennadil Silverstern could not dredge up any bitterness. It saddened rather than embittered him to see that, even now, when both races had been so diminished, petty resentment lingered between the Orinians and the Ennadil. Some, he mused, never learned.

  Jennadil stretched his arms skyward in an effort to release his cramped back muscles. As he did so, he saw Lassendil remove a bladder of water from his saddlebag and hand it to his sister. Adelyis gave a wan smile in thanks, pulled off the plug and took a few gulps of water before passing it back to him.

  Then, Adelyis walked away from her brother, over to where Will Stellan was gingerly dismounting, with Taz’s assistance. Adelyis approached Will and Taz, and wrapped her arms around both of them.

  Watching the trio, Jennadil realized how much they must have gone through together. Like him, Lassendil and Gywna, circumstance had bonded them.

  Jennadil saw he was not the only one who had witnessed the hug between Will and Adelyis. Lassendil’s face was dark, and his body rigid with disapproval. He looked as if he wanted to smash his fist into the Orinian’s face.

  Making matters worse, Adelyis smiled warmly up at Will and held his gaze for far longer than was appropriate between friends. Disgusted, Lassendil stalked off into the mass of resting Yangtul, Orinians and Ennadil.

  Jennadil took a swig of stale water and chewed on a piece of cheese. He offered Gywna some water but she shrugged him away. Lassendil was the only person she had regarded a friend on this quest, and he had ignored her ever since they had taken refuge in Serranguard after the snowstorm.

  On the verge of tears, Gywna brushed past Jennadil and disappeared into the shadowed boughs of Delm Forest. After a moment’s hesitation, Jennadil put aside his light supper and followed her. When he caught up with Gywna, she was leaning against the trunk of an ancient oak, crying. It was obvious that tears did not come easily to Gywna Brin. She cried as if in physical pain. Jennadil was not surprised she had developed a tough shell—her father had taught her that.

  Overcome with pity, Jennadil went to Gywna. In an effort to comfort her, he gently pulled her against him. In other circumstances, Gywna would have kneed Jennadil in the groin for his familiarity, but such was her misery that she just hung limply in his arms. Jennadil did not speak a word. He just stroked her tangled brown curls in an effort to soothe her.

  Finally, Gywna managed to regain some self-control and pulled back from the wizard. Jennadil met her eyes and smiled gently but Gywna looked away from him and hastily rubbed at her face with the edge of her cloak.

  “If you tell anybody about this, I’ll geld you!” Gywna muttered, trying to grasp at her shredded dignity.

  Jennadil laughed and shook his head. “Your secret is safe with me Gywna,” he assured her, “but don’t go thinking anyone would think any less of you if they saw you cry.”

  “For you perhaps,” Gywna sniffed. “It matters not however for this time tomorrow we’ll all be dead.”

  “That may be the case.” Jennadil looked Gywna in the eye. “Or it may not be. You don’t have the gift of foresight so I suggest you let the future write itself.”

  “I don’t care,” Gywna snapped before the defiance suddenly went out of her. Fresh tears threatened, but this time Gywna was able to push them back. Her eyes glittered as she glared back at Jennadil. He could see she hated him for seeing her so vulnerable.

  “Gywna,” he said sadly, “you’re too young to give up hope so easily. Where’s that fighting spirit of yours? Don’t throw away your life tomorrow as if it has no meaning. You are young and beautiful … yes don’t scowl like that … you are beautiful.”

  Gywna was now glowering at him; certain he was having fun at her expense. Jennadil sighed and tried to remain patient.

  “Listen to me Gywna. I saw Arridel had faith in you and it may surprise you to know I do as well. That sword you carry is the last of its kind—and so are you. You are the only remaining Guardian of the Ancestral Flame and when you wield that sword an ancient magic that has all but been forgotten comes alive in your veins. You’re strong. Don’t let one man’s opinion of you make you forget who you are.”

  Gywna stared back at the wizard, at a loss for words. He was not sure if his bluntness had offended or embarrassed her. “I know who I am,” she replied finally. Her cheeks had turned pink. The wizard saw her conflict and smiled in sympathy.

  “I apologize if I see too much Gywna but I know the look of a woman in love.” He held up a hand to ward off the fury he could see brewing. “Save your wrath for tomorrow on the battlefield. Remember though that Lassendil has his mind on other matters at present. Adelyis and Will are getting too close for his liking and he is having trouble understanding or accepting it.”

  Gywna’s eyes widened at this. She had been so caught up in her own thoughts she had not noticed.

  “Thank you for your advice,” she said gruffly. Tired of letting the wizard see her at her worst, she turned to go back to the others.

  Jennadil’s hand closed over her shoulder and stopped her in her tracks. “Gywna?”

  She met his gaze. “What is it?”
br />   “You’re not in this alone. We’ve been through a lot, you and I, and although we haven’t always gotten along, fate has ensured our paths have run parallel. I’ll be at your side tomorrow and I’ll be looking out for you.”

  Gywna smiled and the expression transformed her face. “Thank you Jennadil,” she replied sincerely, “and I’ll be looking out for you.”

  Jennadil let Gywna go ahead, hesitating under the branches of the ancient oak where he had found her crying.

  This forest had an aura about it; a primeval wisdom and silence that whispered of what the world had once been millennia ago, before the Ennadil and Orinians arrived and tamed its wilderness. In those days, the Tarzark and Gremul had roamed freely over the continent. Jennadil made a silent promise to himself that if they somehow managed to defeat the Tarzark and he survived the battle, he would return to this forest to live.

  Its age, silence and wisdom had a lot to teach him.

  After a few minutes, Jennadil followed Gywna back to the army and shared some of his supper with her. Then, massaging an aching muscle in his shoulder, he wandered over to where Adelyis and Will sat in companionable silence next to each other on a fallen log. He could see they were both exhausted.

  Jennadil perched on the edge of the log and took a piece of dried meat Will handed him. He smiled at his friend, remembering their parting in Serranguard’s dungeons over a year earlier. Like Jennadil, Will Stellan had changed since then. A little of his arrogance had been knocked out of him. Will and Jennadil had once shared the same love of banter and witty, barbed comments – but neither of them had the energy for it these days.

  “How are your wounds?” Jennadil asked Will finally.

  “I’m holding together,” Will replied. “Lassendil wrapped me up pretty tight.”

  “Will you be able to fight?”

  “If I can’t I’ll be Tarzark fodder.”

  “Any thoughts on how a hundred soldiers against a Tarzark force of thousands are going to prevail?”

  Will gave a wry grin and for a moment, his boyish countenance reminded Jennadil of the Will Stellan of old. “The odds are not in our favor,” Will agreed, “but remember Falcon’s Mount has been under siege for the past three days. If the Tarzark have managed to take the city our journey will have been for nothing, but if the Orinians have managed to hold against the enemy then the Tarzark force will be greatly diminished and we may have a chance.“ Will paused then and looked over at where Adelyis sat silently next to him. Then, his gaze flicked back to Jennadil.