The Talon of Peace

Part 1 of 2


Chapter 1

The world of Eltahn, Year 656 of the Common Era



I wouldn’t mind being notorious. Notorious or famous. Either would do, Will thought to himself. The young thief would have to escape from prison first, though.

With darkness came rest from arduous toil in the stone quarry flanking the imposing walls of the prison. Will was beyond the point where the quarry work made his muscles feel as though they would hurt less if they were torn. His small, sinewy frame made him appear like a boy tumbler in a travelling circus. Indeed he was capable of some of the less impressive maneouvers of such folk. His average but friendly looks belied his trade, and made a quick getaway all the more easier through market crowds. This evening, he lay in the encompassing blackness in his cell, listening to the silence and daydreaming of a better life elsewhere. Shivering from damp and cold, despite it earlier having been a warm sunny day, Will pondered his plight. The prison, dark and damp, sat atop a small hill on the outskirts of Glory Lake, sneering at the village below it. Will had grown up in this small town, and now he was sentenced to view from afar each day of the life he should have led.
Will would wake, each morning, knowing that this could be the last, an all-too-easily angered prison guard’s sword ending what remained of his destiny. Perhaps, he reminded himself, that would not be a bad thing.


This night feels different somehow, Will thought to himself. Even now, as dusk took hold upon the day, the light seeping through the small window had a wintry feeling accompanying it. The season was summer, yet the day felt as though a chill had run through its bones. Will swung his legs down from the cot. The floor, too, had an icy touch. Anticipating the evening meal, he took his boots, dirtied and holed, from beneath the cot, and shivered as he pulled the laces tight. Donning his grey prison shirt and breeches he moved to the tiny circular window.
Has winter arrived in Glory Lake already? It was Summer today, surely, Will reasoned. Oh well, it will be supper soon, and that will warm my bones.
He stretched up to see out of the tiny window. A thin sheet of frost covered the sun-yellowed grass bank of the hill, and far afield, angry grey storm clouds threatened to wash away the town below. Will shrugged, then turned as he heard heavy footsteps approaching the cell. A rasping voice he knew all too well boomed through the darkness outside of the cell door.
"Move, scum, work is waiting.”
Will halted before his cot, as the clunk-clink of an iron key rattling in the lock found the tumblers, and the heavy door swung out into the corridor. Garlic (that was Will’s name for him) stood outside, slavering and leering at him, his twisted features poorly masking his vicious nature. He was taller, stronger, and more intelligent than most other orcs and because of that was the leader of the prison guards. The thief shuffled out into the passage, glancing briefly at his captor.
Will raised his eyes in objection.
“We’ve only just finished the day’s work!”
“Weak scum!” Garlic hissed, “Had you been born an orc, you’d have been denied even the status of dogs!”
Will turned and grinned at the guard, “Had I been born a dog, I would be glad I was not an orc!”
Garlic, enraged, crashed his fist into Will’s jaw. The young man reeled, but stayed on his feet. The orc moved again to strike, but the thief sidestepped the blow, and the guard overbalanced toward the wall. With no weapon, Will decided not to press home the advantage.
The guard turned to Will, staring coldly at the boy’s bruised face. “Your time will come, pup, and I will take pleasure in your slow death,” he sneered.
Garlic shoved Will up the staircase and out toward the dreaded cold of the quarry.


Following Graham, another prisoner whom he had befriended, Will trudged through the entrance hall of the dark prison to the steps up to the main gate, and already he was searching his mind for ideas of freedom. Graham walked with a slight stoop which, together with his voluminous grey hair and beard, made him appear venerable despite his being less than fifty years of age.
The heavy iron doors were opened by the unseen mechanism which all who dwelled within the prison were used to. Over the years, he was sure that it had become slower to open each time. Perhaps the doors represented his opportunities for escape, diminishing with each new day. As the doors parted like the jaws of a dying carnivorous plant, the darkness and moisture that befell the evening accosted the pair. Even at this distance, Will could see that he and Graham were the last to join their prison fellows at the quarry.
Garlic grunted.
“You work till bell tolls.”
Clearly the weather had dented the prison’s unpublished work schedule.
The flames of many large torches dug into the ground at regular intervals cast a yellow glow on the scene. The pair made their way down to the worksite, accompanied by their insidious jailer. The young thief lifted his pick and began work, but Graham was slower to start, his mind obviously elsewhere.
Once Garlic had moved off to join (and ridicule) his colleagues, the old man broke the silence, “Boy, I think we should try to escape tonight.”
Will nearly lost his balance, “You mean you want-”
Graham silenced his query with the answer, “I’m not the type to sit around for weeks formulating plans. We have an ideal opportunity with night on its way. Despite the torchlight, the gloom might just give us a chance against the crossbows.”
Flickering light from the torches framed Will’s beaming smile.
“That’s brillian…”
The old man stifled this outburst with the butt of his pick. It landed squarely on the toe of Will’s boot and he nearly went blue.
“Uuurggh!!”
“Quiet, boy, or they’ll be onto us for sure. That new guard has been eyeing us all the time we’ve been out here.”
Graham began working the stone once more, and discreetly sized up the situation. The new orc was shorter than the other ones, and thinner as well, but with the same ruthless glint in his foul eyes, and an even more worryingly large axe in his hands. He was standing about twenty yards from the pair, between them and the forest, but looked equal to the challenge of pursuing them if they decided to run for it.
Two more orcs were standing about sixty yards from the first one between the forest and the prison. They stood guard over a group of three prisoners who were carrying rocks to a nearby cart. On the roof of the prison, two guards, one of them human, laughed and shouted with each other between the spires. These two were the bowmen, Graham realised and ordinarily, during daytime, they would cut a fleeing man to shreds before he had made one hundred yards towards the treeline.

After about ten minutes, Graham whispered to Will, who had been working slowly, conserving his energy for what lay ahead.
“This is what we’ll do,” he jabbed a thick, meaty finger towards the new orc, “I’ll take our new friend over there, try to steal his axe and subdue him. You make for the other two, but when a short distance from them, turn left and run towards the trees,” he paused, placing a hand on Will’s shoulder, “I’ll be right behind you, and hopefully the two bastards will follow us and create a barrier for the arrows. If they take us as far as the trees, we can handle them in there one-on-one, and maybe the three prisoners over there will try to get in on the action.”
Will looked around at the guard, and then back at Graham, “Old man, are you sure you can-”
Graham cut in with a steely look, “Just do as I say Will, and one, if not both of us is sure to make it.”
This was enough for the thief, and he readied himself for the fight.



Chapter 2

The reds and purples of dusk began to give way to darkness. Early evening stars lit the quarry with a light which seemed subdued and melancholy, almost unnoticed in the glow of the torches. The Twin Moons performed the greater of the luminary tasks each night, but this night they were obscured by the storm clouds from earlier, which were making their way towards the east. A breeze danced and sung through the valley, cooling the prisoners and, no doubt, their captors as well.
Graham cast a glance at Will, its meaning clear in the light of the friends’ earlier discussion. He was to wait for Graham to act, and then complete his side of the plan.

The Orcish guards were becoming restless, waiting for the bell to toll in the prison and free them to supper. The two looking after the three other prisoners began to taunt the men.
“That rock obviously too heavy!” offered one Orc, pointing at the thinner of the three men. Will and Graham had never socialised with these prisoners, and had never paid much attention to them while eating in the hall. Will looked more closely at him now though, and noticed that he was unlike his companions. They were strong, with broad shoulders, and handled the rocks with ease. This one, on the other hand seemed more like Will, wiry and dextrous. His pointed ears seemed to indicate that he had elven blood in him, but otherwise, he appeared human. If Will had to put professions to the three men, he would have bet that the burly two were warriors-for-hire, and this thin one was the guy who opened locked doors for them.
The second guard stretched the capacity of his wit, “Work faster, or you’ll taste dirt, ugly human.”
The younger, taller prisoner stopped what he was doing, and turned to face the Orc, still holding a boulder that he had been carrying to the cart, his biceps rippling from the weight. He had an angry look in his eyes, despite the false calm his face displayed. The other large man stopped as well, but only looked across at his friend. Will noticed that he was much older than the first, with some remaining black hairs struggling against a sea of silver locks.
“Don’t, Redarr. This one isn’t worth it,” he shouted.
The younger man’s demeanour eased.
This only served to encourage the Orcs.
“You let your grandfather control you, oaf?” hissed the delighted guard, fingering his scimitar.
In a single moment, the scimitar was dropping to the ground, the hand that held it clutching at a bloodied head, as the Orc reeled backwards. Redarr had thrown the boulder full into the face of this guard, and had already darted towards the now owner-less sword.
The other guard had raised his axe, ready to dismember the on-rushing Redarr, but a powerful force knocked him sideways, hitting him full in the gut. It was the older warrior, still quite clearly a potent fighter, who had dived at the Orc.
“Will!! Run! Run now!” Graham cried out.
Will blinked, and realised that he had stopped working, mesmerised by this series of events. He turned towards where Graham had shouted from, and was surprised to see him holding his own in a fight against the younger, nastier Orc. His old friend had seen his chance when the commotion began, and had caught the new guard from behind with his pick. The orc was bleeding from the thigh – the chain mail armour dispelling most of the pick’s potential damage – and was limping as he dodged Graham’s blows. Will spun around, a hot feeling welling up inside him, and looked towards the roof of the prison. Despite the darkness above and the flame-light on the ground, he could make out the two archers on the rooftop, readying their crossbows. Clearly, their joking earlier had prevented them from carrying out the usual routine of cleaning and arming their bows. The thief started to run towards the first fight, noticing that the three prisoners had encircled their captor, but the orc was keeping them at bay with his huge axe.
Then Will turned towards his friend who was winning the struggle.
“Go, Will. I’m right behind you!”
The thief continued his escape.
He heard the prison bell began to toll urgently, and suddenly he stopped, his heavy breaths and that hot feeling causing him to have to concentrate to think clearly. One of the Moons had come out, and the sand of the quarry shone in its silver light.
After running for some distance, he realised Graham was not behind him. He turned back towards the old man. A crossbow bolt streaked past his head, plunging deep into the grassy bank at the head of the quarry. Squinting hard at the change from dark forest ahead to lighted quarry below, he made out the figure of Graham, slumped over near the back of the quarry. Graham had managed to push the orc back some way from the prison, but must have lost the fight to the orc’s greater speed and ability. His pick broken in half, the old man was still alive, Will could see that, but he was no longer a threat to the guard, and so the orc had left his victim, and was now no more than fifty yards from Will, closing fast with his axe in hand. Will noticed with some confusion that the orc’s limp had gone, and had been replaced by a graceful gait.
Shouts and clashing steel drew the young thief’s attention and he focused again on the first fight, and saw that the three prisoners were now two. Redarr lay face-down near the body of the first orc, the second also vanquished. Out of the warrior’s back protruded two crossbow bolts, buried to the middle of the shaft. The older one and his wiry friend were making off towards the forest perpendicular to Will’s escape route, and close behind them were five more orcs. One of them was Garlic, and Will felt sure that this was something the loathesome bully lived for, a chance to renew his fighting skills with the odds firmly in his favour.

The bell continued to ring. Will glanced back to his pursuer, intending to test the armoured orc’s resolve with a footchase into the forest, but all that he saw approaching him was a cowled, cloaked figure, thinner even than the wiry prisoner. As he had noted moments before, its chase had slowed to a swift, almost feline walk, and there was no sign of the large, bloodied broad-axe it had carried before. Another bolt whistled between him and the figure, and he decided to turn and head for the forest as before. Perhaps once he had made it to safety, he would imagine what person or thing was beneath that billowing grey cloak.

The bell stopped ringing, and the sudden silence was louder than the din. Wheeling around, Will dashed towards the line of trees at the higher end of the valley, but within seconds he heard the terrified cries of the orcish archers, and slowing, looked back towards the prison, and the screams. The archers were just outside of the main doors of the prison, together with two more guards. They were not pursuing though, their faces twisted and horrified, staring transfixed at some sort of huge, shapeless mass, which was rising up out of the ground near to them. It was adding to the shrill sound of the guard’s screams, its own moans and shrieks perhaps a kind of warning or hunting capability.
Will had certainly heard of no creature, real or fantastic, which matched the sheer size and ugliness of this monster. Even as he watched, it was still coming up through the ground, its flesh a white, mottled grey, and its flanks quivering and dripping with slime. The amorphous mass bulked greater than the outside wall of the prison buildings, and its horrific movement elicited shrieks of dread from those it sought to destroy. Again, Will found himself staring, almost afraid to look away from the sight and the terrible horror which now threatened to dwarf the prison, and destroy the guards below it.
He glanced to his right, towards the cowled figure. The figure was also staring at the monster, but it seemed to be chanting, its arms tracing strange patterns in the air.
Then the figure stopped, and bending over, stood still for a few moments, perhaps repulsed by the monster it had been watching, Will guessed. Suddenly, a thunderous tremor shook the ground and the walls of the prison, and the screams stopped. Will looked, and realised that the creature had crushed the orcs under its immense bulk. The thing then turned its attention to the prison doors, sensing more live prey contained within. It began to pound upon the iron doors with some sort of trembling appendage, sending a din reverberating through the inside of the jail. Will’s heavy breathing had slowed to a steady, nervous intake of air, but his heart was still pounding. A hand grabbed his shoulder, and he fell forwards, turning onto his rear in some sort of instinctual movement, glancing up at the figure, and scrambling backwards on his heels and hands.

“Stop. Rest a moment, but we must go soon, young thief. The garrison at Glory Lake will be here shortly, and the Ooze Demon will not hold their attention long.”
Will’s eyes widened at the hard, feminine voice coming from within the cowl. He stopped scrambling backwards, then cautiously raised himself to his feet, never removing his untrusting gaze from his pursuer.
“What, who are-“ he managed from his strangled voice.
“All that you need to know now is that I am a friend, and I will help you to escape. Now come.”
The figure turned and headed forward, with the same hurried walk, towards the edge of Kerdaina forest.
Will reached out a hand, and pointed to where his old cellmate lay, “But what about Graham, we…”
The figure turned its head, stopped, and uttered a few words which Will could not make out. Then, as its voice grew quieter, it reached a hand into its cloak, drew out a small clump of fur and tossed it into the air.
A hundred and fifty yards away, a green glow enveloped Graham’s still, limp body. Will gazed, not understanding what was happening. The glow grew, completely surrounding Graham, and then there was a flash, like the touchpowder Will sometimes used to blind the town’s militia if he was in a tight spot, and Graham’s form was replaced by that of a small, brown hare. Its legs gave way for a moment, and it fell forward, then it sniffed the air, its ears straightening, and it bolted across the quarry into some thick grass.
Will turned back to the mage, his face contorted by confusion.
“What will-”, but his question was stopped by the annoyed gesture of the figure’s left hand.
“We go. Now.”
Will, seeing the flames of the town militia’s torches approaching the prison, decided that this strange cowled person would be a safer bet than both the Ooze Demon, and the Town Guard, and so hurried after his new companion into Kerdaina Forest.







Chapter 3



Moonlight spilled through the leaves of the tall trees, casting a patchy glow on the brush floor of Kerdaina Forest. The two fugitives ran through a thick growth of bushes and trees, and stopped at what seemed to be a large clearing. The floor was sandy, and only small patches of grass grew here. One of the two moons could be seen fully through a hole in the trees above, and it gave enough light for the old warrior and his wiry companion to see each other’s exhausted faces. Each was gasping from the chase, and knew that shortly, Garlic and his malevolent cohorts would interrupt this brief respite.

“D-do you think they’ve given up, Khirron?” the younger man asked hopefully.
Khirron Du Sann shook his grey-haired head, his eyes blinking shut, “Don’t bet on it. This is their excuse to tear us to shreds. They’ve always wanted that.”
Bryn Birchkind, the younger, thinner man, looked back at the way they came, straining his ears hard to hear if he could pick up the shouts and retorts from the orcish pursuers, but there was nothing. Even the forest noises which were quieter at night but nevertheless there, had stopped. It almost seemed as though this clearing had an invisible wall around it, blocking out any sound.
Bryn looked down at the ragged palms of his hands, “If only I had my spell book.”
The warrior grinned, “Sure. Conjure up a dragon which breathes flame and flies, but makes absolutely no noise. Useful.”
Bryn, his face flushed, forgot to whisper, “Well, it would be better than dressing up as women to get past the Lord Cleric’s men. You should have let that guard feel your—“
“Shh, quiet.”
Khirron had stopped chuckling, and he looked around urgently at the trees on the edge of the clearing.
Then the clear sound of a twig snapping ended the discussion, both men spinning to face the direction it had come from. Only darkness protruded from the trees there, and then a look of realisation overtook Khirron’s face.
“Into the bushes, ” he hissed, pointing at the trees opposite from the noise’s origin.
Bryn had a long time ago realised that when Khirron issued an order, he should squash any of his natural questioning instinct and do exactly as he had been instructed. Once the two had taken up positions behind the small bushes, Bryn looked at Khirron, hoping to see in his eyes the reason for his fears. He didn’t have to wait, though, as out in the clearing, one of the orc guards arrived, looking left and right, and then sniffing the air with his hog-like snout. Sure that he was close to his prey, the orc didn’t relax. Instead, he turned his back to the pair and shouted to his compatriots repeatedly in an effort to guide them to the clearing. Before very long, all of the five orc guards were in the clearing, arguing amongst themselves.
Bryn whispered to Khirron, “Can we run?”
Khirron shook his head.
“No chance of that. They’d be on top of us within fifty yards.”
He looked back at the mob.
“Wait! What are they doing?” he whispered.
Most of the guards were siding against Garlic, led by a larger, older orc.
“We run no more. Leave two to die in forest,” he said, tucking his sword into his grubby belt. “These dogs not worth more time.”
Garlic’s lower jaw jutted out more than before, exposing his two bottom fangs.
“What? You leave these dirty trash to tell tales of escape from our prison?”
The two orcs behind the large one looked on intently at Garlic, their fingers twitching on the handles of their axes.
“It not our prison. It the Lord Cleric’s. I not care.”
The young orc behind Garlic blinked, and he was shaking. This was too much talk for Garlic, and his bloodlust would be satisfied somehow tonight. Without a word, he raised his scimitar, and hacked at the disloyal leader. Despite his clear lack of intellect, the leader had obviously honed a battle instinct over time, and Garlic’s raging blow missed the ducking orc. It did, however, cut the arm of one of the dissenting guards behind the leader. He howled with pain, dropping his axe as he fell backwards, blood seeping from his ripped sleeve. The other orc raised his axe and lunged at Garlic, who had kept his attention firmly on the leader. The stroke stung into Garlic’s right leg, his leather leggings doing little to dilute the rusted steel’s bite. He growled with pain, and lashed his scimitar in a sweeping movement behind him, in an attempt to catch the orc who had gashed his leg. This one had moved back by then, and the swipe cut through empty air, unbalancing the bloodthirsty guard. The leader, recovering from the dive which had saved his life, kneeled on one leg and dug his short sword into Garlic’s left side, burying it to the hilt. The sickening sound of muscle and bone tearing filled the clearing, as did his howl of pain. Seeing Garlic felled and dying before him, the one loyal orc, who had not entered the fray through his own fear and lack of experience, dropped his sword and ran back through the trees.
“Get him! Get him before he get back to prison and tell story!” the leader barked, and both young orcs, ran off to catch the other, fearing that they would be hung were the mutiny to be found out.
Garlic lay on his stomach on the sandy forest clearing, his hands clutching the short sword sticking out of his side. He had breathed his last, trying to remove the sword, but had not the strength it took to do so. The leader stood up, and walked over to the body of his former captain, an ambitious gleam in his eyes.
“Fool. Try to kill me?” he growled.
He bent down and with his right boot against the back of Garlic, tried to prise his weapon from its victim.
Suddenly, a blur of movement seen out of the corner of his eye caused him to look up, and the palm of Khirron’s hand thrust into his nose, knocking him back two yards. On his back, stunned, he raised his hand to the stinging pain, and felt the warm liquid streaming from his nose.
“Surrender, orc, I do not wish to kill you,” Khirron ordered, pointing while steadying himself in a combat stance.
The orc moved to stand.
“I not surrender to worms!” he growled, curling his hand into a fist, but he was too slow.
Khirron picked up the scimitar which was lying next to Garlic, turned and stabbed the orc through the heart, denying the leader his promotion.
Bryn strode over to Khirron, then seeing that the battle had been won, he turned to the body of Garlic, and pulled on the short sword. It wouldn’t budge. The big warrior elbowed him out of the way, “Let me try.”



Chapter 4

Will was finding it hard to keep up with this mage who had helped him to escape. He had stopped listening out for cries of pursuers from the prison. He also ceased the constant turning of his head convinced that every forest sound was an orc guard about to ambush his flight from captivity.
Will turned his attention to his mysterious companion. The figure before him, still maintaining a brisk composed walking pace, was distorted by its billowing hooded cloak. He was convinced, however, that this woman, if indeed this was her true form, had for a time been the orc guard who had felled Graham. He had still to see her face.
“Can we stop… for a rest?” he panted theatrically, slowing his stride.
Though he was walking quickly, his lungs had adjusted to the pace and he no longer found it difficult to breathe.
The cowl moved side to side in the negative.
“No. We must keep on, until we reach the river. Then you may rest,” she ordered.
Will stood his ground, bent over as though his lungs were burning.
“Why-why should I come with you?” he asked.
The disdain was not masked in her voice.
“You are a fugitive. Anywhere you choose to go, you will be captured or killed,” she hissed, “My lord can return your life to you!”
She turned and made off through the brush.
Her accent, he noted, was not from Moss Glen, or indeed, any of the Western Province region of Garfinia. Will winced, and then resumed the escape, his curiousity not quashed by the brief conversation.

After what seemed to Will about half an hour or so, the vegetation of the forest began to change. It was growing more lush, and wilder. The tree line of the forest was thinning with every ten yards progress. Will had noticed that his companion was keeping their trail even with that of the main road through the forest, about fifty yards to their right. He was almost certain that she was using it as a guide, but was eager not to travel on it directly, as bandits would probably not sympathise with their story. He did think though, that a mere group of robbers would probably not be a match for this particular sorceress. Then a very welcome sound met his ears. The roaring of a large river, cutting a path through the rocky, whitewater part of its trail. As they neared it, the din grew louder, and Will smiled, sure that no pursuers would hear them now, even if they made camp, and sung songs to the gods all night.
Her objective found, the sorceress slowed and began to look round at the last of the trees, before the clearing which led out to the river’s bank. She kept her eyes at the middle or top parts of each of the trees as she scanned them.
“Uh, excuse my ignorance, madam, but what exactly are you looking for?” Will shouted, unsure if she would hear him above the water’s voice.
She didn’t answer, her attention caught by something within a tall willow, and moved stealthily towards her target. Then she stopped, pulled a dagger from within her cloak and waited, for some moment only she knew the relevance of.
To say that Will never saw the dagger fly from her hand or hit the target, would not be true. However, even his quick hands and eyes, tools of his life-sustaining trade, had difficulty making sense of the blur of motion he witnessed at that moment.
A very definite thud was heard though as the weapon’s victim fell from the willow, and struck the forest’s grassy floor. Will looked at the woman, but she didn’t move towards her kill. She simply turned, and moved back towards the edge of the tree line, and began gathering sticks from the bushes.
“Why didn’t you just kill it with magic?” he asked her naively.
She continued walking and did not look back.
“It would have spoiled the taste!” she smirked.
The thief took it upon himself to fetch the dagger and its prey, realising that this was what she intended. When he returned a few moments later carrying a large lifeless owl, a small fire was crackling. Will caught his breath as he turned from the fire to the sound of the sorceress coming back from the river. She had tossed back her hood, and at last, he saw the face of the magic-user who had helped him to flee. Long raven-black hair framed a face with strong features. She was undeniably attractive, her mouth, nose, and cheek-bones well-formed, but her eyes seemed soulless. Dark grey pools of apathy, and Will had to avert his gaze, as it felt as though his own soul was being probed by her when she looked straight into his eyes.
“You are unwell, thief,” the sorceress ventured, as she sat upon a rock near the fire.
Will instantly gazed back at her, confusion apparent in his eyes.
“So, you are indeed unwell. Not from bad health, but from a dark and troubling past.”
The words hissed from her mouth and caught and held Will in invisible manacles. He stared into the flames and remembered his nightmares.

Later, her tone changed to a much lighter and caring one.
“You must eat, my troubled friend.”
Her hand gestured towards the bird, spitted and roasting on the small fire.
“I-I’m not hungry, perhaps just tired,” he said, his mind elsewhere.
She was more commanding this time.
“Eat. The owl may be the last meal we are able to enjoy on the trail to Skirlburg.”
Will looked again at her, noting the dull flaming star symbol tattooed on her forehead, then turned his attentions to the meal. He removed a wing from the bird and began to tear at the cooked flesh with his fingers. She was indeed a sorceress, of high standing as well. What little he knew of the magic arts, Will knew that the Burning Star symbol on the forehead of a mage meant that their quality of life was meaningless. Their days were spent poring over books and arcane symbols and cants. Their nights, summoning demons and elemental servants to command to their every whim. The Order of the Burning Star were considered irrational zealots by more “ordinary” wizards and mages. And so, they were shunned by the Order of Wizardry, the ruling council of mages on Garfinia. Most inhabitants of the world, however, felt that theses zealots were more powerful than any other magic-users.

Then the question came back to him that he had wanted to ask at every moment of the flight through Kerdaina Forest.
“What do you want with me?” he asked cautiously, watching her as she ate with small bites.
She turned and with a look devoid of expression, hissed, “It is not what I want with you, but rather, what my Lord would find of use with you.”
Will swallowed nervously, “Who is your Lord?”
He looked down at the ground and then at the fire, as he realised that he was again staring into those dark, unnerving eyes.
She rose from the rock she had been sitting on, and turning back to Will, said with a slight sneer, “I cannot tell you now. Your curiosity will be satisfied within three days. I will say this, however: A great destiny awaits you. Greater than your meagre existence up to now warrants.”
She unplugged a clear glass phial she had removed from a pocket hidden deep within the folds of her dark robes beneath her cloak, and strode off towards the river bank.

Will sat cross-legged on the hard ground staring into the red smoking cinders of the fire, the haze conjuring images of gold and of glory. Those, however, were quickly replaced by images of his death or imprisonment at the hands of her lord, whomever he might be. For what further use could a thief be to a powerful wizard? He quickly decided that he would wait for the right moment in the morning and escape, preferring to make a new existence for himself rather than be a pawn in some game of hers. He had always depended upon only one person in life, himself, and that was not going to change now.

* * *
That night, Will’s dreams replayed the minutes that consigned him to this living purgatory: the sound of a young lad’s screams; Will finding the body, still and bloodied, defiled by a shadow which leapt into darkness’ secure hands; and the town guard’s crushing blow which sent him sprawling to the floor, before binding and dragging him away to unbalanced justice.

* * *
Just after daybreak, he awoke to a glorious blue sky, with no cloud in sight through the forest canopy. The sun’s light glinting off of each dewed leaf caused Will’s eyes to water, but they were soon adjusted to the brightness. He sat up, and looked around. The river’s waters still roared through the rocks ahead of him, but the sound seemed less harsh, softened by the calls of birds and insects in their woodland habitat.
Stretching to shake off the drowsiness of sleep, he slowly stood up and looked around for any sign of the mage. She was nowhere to be seen, but there were indications that she had slept at the camp during the night. The fire had been dowsed by her, and her cloak lay on the ground, presumably as a makeshift mattress for the hard woodland floor. His back twinged with a sharp pain, and he was sure that he had simply fallen asleep through sheer exhaustion, not carefully assuming a sleeping position before nodding off.

For Will, her absence was all that was needed to encourage his escape. His well-practised skills as a thief enabled him to make his way from the camp without even a small sound. He headed back into Kerdaina Forest, hoping that the trees and bushes would provide cover, were she to discover his absence and pursue. Within moments, he stretched his pace to a run, and was almost sure that she would not catch him. The rest had strengthened him, and his fear of being caught by her ensured that he remained alert.
Dry leaves crackled beneath his feet, and shadows cast by the thickening foliage above created a threatening atmosphere within the woods.
Just as he began to feel confident that his escape was assured, the spine-tingling howls of several wolves penetrated his optimism.
As if they had materialised out of the shadows ahead, three unnaturally large wolves stood before him, and he was forced to stop short. Their coats were a pale grey, and the sight of their slavering maws compelled Will to inch backwards. He had seen wolves before, and none had ever caused such dread in him, their feral eyes pinned to his every move.
The one directly ahead blocked his path, while the others slowly encircled him, a low moaning originating deep within their throats.
Will was unarmed, and he swiftly attempted to remedy that defficiency with whatever he could find near him. A broken branch, thick and gnarled, was spotted by the thief, and he crouched to the floor, not making any quick movements. Armed with the meagre weapon, he decided to wait for an attack, rather than take the initiative and strike at the beast ahead of him. For many moments, Will’s foes waited for their prey to make a mistake, and the tension began to take its toll on the thief.
And then a voice rose above the moans of the savage animals surrounding him, and his wavering concentration was replaced by surprise and a grudging relief. He turned slowly to face the sorceress, her dark eyes betraying the irritation and controlled rage within her.
“It would seem that you have yourself some difficulty, thief,” she hissed.
Will expected a spell to dispatch the wolves with awesome magical fire or lightning, but none came.
She merely raised her hand, and the dangerous trio encircled her, each cowering before the woman.
“You have done well, my servants,” she said loudly, regarding them with a proud look, “And now you must return to the shadows!”
Her lips twisted into a smile, and with a word of power, the beasts were no more, replaced by a trail of amber mist which dissipated soon after.
It was then that Will realised.
“You created them to stop me, didn’t you!” he bellowed, angered and awed at the same time.
She did not answer, but merely turned and stalked back towards the river, her dark robe sweeping the forest floor, visibly infuriated by his attempt to escape her.
“Your next attempt will not go so favourably, thief!” she growled.


He resigned himself to accompanying thhe sorceress, given very little choice after the demonstration of her power.
She mentioned a timescale of three days, he thought to himself, as he searched the bushes and grass for sharp stones and twigs. Surely though, Skirlburg was only about a day from this position on the outskirts of Kerdaina Forest? He pondered upon the questions, searching his memory for a time when last he had taken notice of a map of Garfinia. He confirmed to himself that they were heading in a westerly direction, Skirlburg being a port town at the coast. Perhaps the sorceress had taken us west, only to turn North or South, in an effort to throw pursuers off the trail, he wondered. His thoughts were broken though as he heard the rustlings of his companion back at the fire. She had returned, and so he made his way back to the clearing, still holding the sticks and two sharp pebbles he had found through his efforts.

Upon reaching the clearing, he noticed that the sorceress had put her cloak back on, and she had wet hair, probably from having bathed at the river. She was busily brushing a large part of a bush she had cut over the sandy part of the clearing, in an attempt to mask the signs of their camp from the previous night.
Will cleared his throat loudly, and she looked up at him, not stopping her efforts with the bush.
“Ah, I see you are well-rested. It will be important to be such as we have a very long walk ahead of us today,” she said with a slightly crooked smile.
Will was sure that she was somehow taking delight in his lack of knowledge with regard to their current situation, and he was determined to get some answers out of her that morning.
He strode forward boldly towards her, and held out his hand, “I guess we should know each other’s names, since we’re going to be spending the next three days with each other. I’m—”.
She cut him off, “— You are Will Sendella, the pickpocket from Moss Glen. Wrongly convicted of murdering a boy, and incarcerated in the town’s prison for two years if I am not mistaken.”
She trailed off at the last two words, still brushing the clearing, never looking up at him.
The thief was shaken by her knowledge, but was determined not to let her succeed in deterring him from asking the questions he needed the answers for.
Again he cleared his throat, this time through necessity, and looked straight into her eyes, “At least someone is aware of my innocence. What is your name, sorceress, and what is your interest in my past?”
She began to laugh, a dry deep cackle which would have seemed more at home on an old crone, rather than this beautiful, mysterious woman.
“I do not care for your past, pickpocket, as much as other people I have met recently, but what interests me is your potential in the future. The very near future.”
His voice broke slightly, belying his surprise, “You-you’ve met people who are interested in my past? Who, who are they, and what—”
She seemed ready for that question, and headed it off with an answer to his previous one.
“My name, young one, is Marellen Estral, and you are incorrect in your assumption that I am a sorceress. I do not deal in petty sorceries like many of my brethren.”
Pointing at a small tree, a mere sapling, she rotated her index finger in the air and breathed two words of, Will thought, some dread language. Within two moments a stream of icy cold whistled through the air towards the sapling, and instantly it withered and blackened, as though charred by an invisible fire.
The thief’s eyes opened wide in disbelief. Until yesterday, he had only heard about the dark magicks which could be invoked in this world, but now he had witnessed three mystical acts, possibly four or five, if the demon thing and the winter weather had been her doing as well.
“What then are you, Marellen, and why can you not teleport us to our destination?”
His voice choked, still staring at the young tree, now a dead husk.
She turned back to him, her eyes burning with annoyance at his facetious question.
“Know this, young thief, that I am a Necromancer, of the Order of the Burning Star. My magic deals in death. I can easily summon a wight to syphon your soul from you, or a skeletal army to burn entire villages and towns, but the petty magicks which deal in trickery and teleportation have never interested me beyond what spells I can be bothered to remember.”


* * *


The two made good progress through the morning, reaching the mouth of the great river by midday. Little was said between them during the hike, and Will was sure that this was because of his earlier remarks. He was quickly becoming used to the proud, if not haughty, nature of his companion. Mages in general were not noted for their inter-personal skills, and this particular magic-user was of the Order of the Burning Star, which made her worse in that respect.
Will found himself on several occasions thinking about Graham, hoping that old man was alright, and wondering whether the changing spell that Marellen had cast upon him would wear off, or if Graham would be a hare for the rest of his life, if indeed he was still alive. He was uncertain though that the spell had saved Graham’s life, for necromancy is centred around entropy and death. He was just about to ask the spell-caster about his friend’s plight, when the sight before him caused the breath in his lungs to be ripped away.

A bright, clear ocean’s waves crashed against the golden shimmering sands of the coast. From where they stood atop a cliff, the river’s mouth below them cut a gaping hole into the natural sea wall. From there Will could see far beyond even the range of a spyglass from a tall masted ship. He had known that they were approaching the sea from much earlier in the day, due to the changing breezes, and a salty tang in the air. That scent was reinforced now by the waves pounding the rocks at the bottom of the gorge, sending great plumes of spray into the air. The sun, too, was aiding the magnificence of the scene, its rays adding a bright glow to almost every part of the landscape. All of that was framed by the royal blue sky, cloudless and pure, promising a glorious evening end to the day, with all the indigos and crimsons that one could hope for.

Throughout the whole of their journey, the din of the river had ensured that any conversations where drawn out, each one frequently mishearing the words which were spoken by the other. But now the noise was immense. Waves and seagulls, wind and ocean spray, collided together into a cacophony that Will could only compare to the favourite place of his childhood, the Moss Glen marketplace.

Marellen had stopped, too, to take in the sights that lay before them, but her face was troubled and dark. She did not seem to be enjoying the scene as much as Will was. He noticed this and spoke above the noise.
“You don’t seem happy that we are nearing our first port of call,” he said, ignoring the possibility that she would prefer not to share her troubles with him.
She turned slightly towards him, but held her gaze fixed upon some distant sight southwards down the coast. He drank in the contrasting nature of her alluring looks and disdainful attitude.
“You are correct, young thief. My thoughts are elsewhere, with the War, and how the Lord Cleric’s armies are faring.”
Will found this statement puzzling, how a mage could be caught up in the politics and wars of the state.
Somehow, she noticed the confusion in his eyes.
She turned and looked straight at him, “Ah, yes, you are wondering why I care about the Lord Cleric and his minions.”
Will’s expression changed to one of slight alarm. Was it possible that she could read his mind? More likely that her high intelligence allowed her to anticipate the thought patterns of lesser mortals. Either answer, Will thought, was worrying considering the power that she already wielded with her magic.
She did not belay his alarm by continuing, but rather turned, this time away, and her attention seemed to switch to some faraway place, out beyond the Western Straits to the continent of Delstantia, Garfinia’s enemy in the Ascension Wars. Her cloak ruffled slightly in the sea breezes, and she pulled the front tight together against the winds.
“Your curiosity is well-founded. Perhaps I will tell you why,” her tone changing to a less-formal one.
She turned to face Will, but looked down at the ground between them.
The thief glanced around, and seeing a smallish boulder near to them, he placed his full weight down upon it, offering his attention to her.
“I am in the service of the Lord Cleric, yes, he is my Lord that I spoke of. I have been his advisor now for nigh on twenty years.”
Her eyebrow raised slightly, “To say that I am the only person he trusts in his domain, is without doubt.”
“He takes my guidance usually without question, but this time…”
Her voice trailed off, then returned with a note of frustration. Will flinched at the sound of that, but made no comment.
“…This time he has completely ignored me. He has sent me to ‘retrieve’ you from the prison, without any mention of why he wants you to appear before him in his castle in two days time.”
She drew her hand into a fist at her side, and was about to continue, but Will interrupted her.
“You’re saying that the Lord Cleric, ruler of Garfinia, wants to see me? Me, a pickpocket from the tiny town of Moss Glen, imprisoned to rot in that gaol for ten years? What could he possibly want from me?” he said, his face twisting from the anger and confusion welling up within him.
Marellen ignored this outburst, and continued, “It is no matter. We will stop in Skirlburg for tonight, then tomorrow we sail north up the coast to the port of Alamandos, arriving the following day with an escort of the Lord Cleric’s cavaliers in the Stronghold in Garfin City.”

Will hadn’t noticed, but she had stooped to trace a crude map of their journey in the sand at his feet. Her fingertip moved to trace the sand, but it was clearly two inches away from the golden grains. His eyes glazed over as he searched his memory for some robbery or confidence trick of his that could have brought him to the attention of the Lord Cleric. He could not think of one, other than the time he stole the visiting Provincial Provost’s wife’s jewels in a daring burglary in their room at the burgomaster’s house in Moss Glen, four years ago nearly to the day. With a swipe of his hand through the air, he quickly dismissed that possibility as well.

When Will looked around, Marellen had already started off down the trail towards Skirlburg, the seagulls cackling high above her head. Will rubbed his eyes, picked up the sticks he had gathered in the forest, then shaking his head, dropped them knowing that they would be of no use in the town, and headed off after the Lord Cleric’s advisor.


Chapter 5

The mountain air began to thin as Khirron and Bryn, human and half-elf, travelled north and upward through the winding pass. It made it harder for them to breathe, but neither would stop until night fell on the mountain’s face. The warrior and his friend had made good time that day, leaving the forest at daybreak, and moving quickly through the hilly ground which foretold their impending climb through the Seligar Mountains. Khirron knew enough of the regions in the Western Province to know where the mountain pass was, and how long it would take them to reach the nearest town. He also knew, and Bryn had guessed too, that word of their escape may well have reached other towns near to Moss Glen. That was why he had decided to travel north through the mountains, to dissuade a second pursuit party from continuing, and to be sure that news of a bounty would not have beaten them to an otherwise welcoming Inn.

The fading light of what had been a glorious Summer’s day in terms of weather, eased the worry on the two men’s faces.
“Shouldn’t we look for a reasonable place to camp for the night, and to gather what provisions we can find?” asked Bryn.
Khirron slowed his long strides, and started to look at his surroundings.
“I agree, my friend. First though, we will confirm one last time that there are no pursuers.”
Bryn couldn’t argue the practicality of that, much as he believed that there certainly was not any party following them.
“I’ll scan the lower pass and hills with my Elvensight, seeing as it is now almost dark,” he sighed.
He shrugged his shoulders, and turned back towards the last rocky outcrop they had passed a few minutes before.
Moving carefully out onto the natural footholds, he blinked twice in the gloom and began to search for any large red outlines below in the hills. These outlines would indicate the heat from the body of a living being, and he had used the Sight enough times in his thirty-two years of life to know the difference between a humanoid shape and that of an animal, despite the blurred nature of the outline.
When he returned to the spot where he had left Khirron only a short while previously, he found that the warrior was no longer there. He looked up the path, and above on the rock face, but saw neither Khirron nor any red shapes. During their travels together, the two had agreed upon a whistled call, which would alert them to danger, and another call which could be used for general purposes. Bryn pursed his lips and whistled the latter, and a few moments later, the answering call came back. He figured its location at about twenty yards up the rock face above his position, although the acoustics of the mountain pass made it difficult to be absolutely sure. He sighed again, realising that a climb up the rocks would be required to reach his colleague.

Nonetheless, once he reached Khirron’s location he realised the benefits of it. It was another rocky outcrop, with a somewhat smooth floor, and a large overhang above it provided some shelter from rain or a rockslide. Khirron had already begun gathering kindling for a fire, though he lacked the method to light it. When the warrior heard Bryn emerge from his climb, he turned around towards him, with a wry smile on his face.
“What took you so long? I thought elves enjoyed climbing?” he grinned.
Bryn rolled his eyes upward in resigned irritation.
“You know that’s rubbish, Khirron. Only perhaps mountain dwarves and mountain goats would enjoy a climb like that. And anyway, I’m a half-elf, you forgetful buffoon.”
The two stood looking at each other, grinning playfully, almost to the point of laughter. They had built quite a solid friendship through the years since they had met, and this almost youthful banter did much to lift the spirits at times of gloom and worry. Redarr had been the stoical one of the three, pouring scorn upon their “childishness”, as he always called it.
Almost at the same time, their smiles disappeared from their faces as they both remembered the death of their comrade the previous day. Both realised what the other thought, but Khirron was the first to speak.
“He would have enjoyed our escape, I’m sure,” he said, the words almost choking in his mouth.
It was almost as if they had lost a brother that day, despite the three only having met some four years previous.
“I’ll miss the big man’s solemn outlook on things,” Bryn added, looking down at the twigs and sticks of the unlit campfire.
“He was always there for you, at your back in a fight, or making the more sensible suggestion in a dilemma.”
Khirron looked straight at Bryn, the half-elf returning his gaze, “He had an uncontrollable temper, though, didn’t he?”
Bryn nodded, tears welling up at the corners of his eyes, “That’s what did him in the end, wasn’t it?”
The warrior squatted down next to the kindling, and began sifting through it for some way to light it.
Their eulogy to their dead friend ended, a silence descended upon the camp, Bryn searching for stones and flint amongst the rocks and dirt which made up the floor of the outcrop.



Within a very short time, though, the two men were asleep, their energy completely spent on the escape which had started the previous evening and had continued unabated for the entire night and day. They had not wished to stop for rest, both of them being in very good shape from the prison work. They had travelled some forty miles since the death of the orcs. The fire was not lit, none of their attempts to ignite it succeeding. Without the flint and tinder they were used to, the exercise had been futile. And so they had both fallen asleep without a fire to warm their dreams.


* * *

Three men moved down a corridor, torches in sconces on the walls providing scant light to see what dangers lay waiting up ahead. One, a tall tanned man, muscular, athletic, carried a huge two-handed sword. He wore chain armour, and a leather cap and boots. The other warrior, flecks of silver beginning to age his dark curling locks, wielded a broadsword, and was encased in shining field plate armour. The suit was not complete though, the parts other than the breastplate, leggings and armguards were missing. No doubt to aid movement in combat, greater protection thus sacrificed.

The two moved through the corridor abreast, and a third man brought up the rear. He was smaller, thinner, clothed in robes and a purple cloak. The ends of the cloak billowed with the breeze that was coming from the end of the corridor they were heading towards. He carried a plain wooden staff, and belt pouches bumped against his waist as he strode forwards behind the two warriors.

They sensed that their objective was near, and tensed with the expectancy of battle and bloodshed. Shadows cast against the walls and ceiling of the corridor occasionally caused one or other of them to glance at the resulting movement. As they neared the end of the corridor, the breeze grew stronger, cooling their faces from the blood rush which made their brows sweat. Ahead of them only darkness, and a strange thumping sound, almost like a drum beating out the timing of the oars on a slave ship.

The two warriors leading the party slowed, and Redarr raised his hand to indicate they should stop. They had come to an archway, darkness beyond, the lights of the torches making it impossible for them to see what lay ahead, other than their realisation that it was a very large room, possibly a grand hall of the abandoned castle.

The thumping sound stopped. Whispered instructions were exchanged and both Khirron and Redarr squeezed up against the wall on either side of the passageway, allowing Bryn to move forward to the lip of the arch. He gazed out into the hall, and noted a very small, moving orange glow at the far end, but no other signs of heat. Probably a rat, he thought to himself. Taking some silver dust from a pouch, he tossed it into the air, and spoke a word. A silver glow appeared this time at the far end. He reported his findings to the others with finger signing, maintaining as much silence as possible.
Now it was Khirron’s turn. He replaced the mage at the archway, sheathed his sword and pulled a holy symbol which was attached to a silver chain around his neck from beneath his tunic. He raised it forwards in one hand, closed his eyes, and began chanting softly.
Within moments his chanting had stopped. Bryn glanced across to Redarr, and they both then looked towards their companion. Turning back to the other two, he indicated with a shake of his head that he had sensed no threats, and then drew his sword once more.

The three crept out into the hallway. Bryn unfurled a scroll he pulled from a pocket in his robes, read the contents, and a second or two later, a glowing orb appeared in his left hand, after he had tossed the scroll away. The orb gave enough light for them to see ahead about forty yards, across and up, and they then realised the enormity of their surroundings.
It was indeed the grand hall of the castle. The ceiling was higher than even the cathedral in the capital city. At the west wall and east wall were stained glass windows, long ago greyed through the abandonment of the castle, and vast spider webs visible from the dust and dirt spanned the corners of the walls. It was then, when they had moved a third of the way into the hall, towards their legendary prize, that the attack came.

An icy, disembodied hand touched Redarr on the shoulder from behind. With a roar of pain, he dropped his sword, and fell to one knee, clutching at his shoulder. The other two swung around, just in time to see their comrade roll onto the floor, seemingly unconscious, his armour clanking loudly as it hit the stone tiles. Above him was the faint outline of a figure, with glowing, wicked eyes. Khirron was the quicker to react. In a fluid movement, he sheathed his broadsword, pulled out the holy symbol and held it before him prominently.
“Begone, from the depths of the underworld you have come, and by the word of my god, I command you to return there,” Khirron cried out, forcibly. Having recognised that the attacker was undead, he had called upon his power as a Holy Knight, a Paladin, to turn the creature, forcing it from the mortal plane.
A few seconds passed, and the outline of the undead figure began to shimmer, and fade. Bryn had not been idle while the turning had taken place, however. He had already drawn out spell components, and was repeating over and over in his mind the words of a minor spell of levitation. His plan was to raise the body of Redarr, so that they could easily float him out of the room and to safety, should they need to escape.

A few more moments, and the undead monster had disappeared completely, leaving only the amber glow of Bryn’s light globe spell, to cast shadows upon the walls and ceiling of the Great Hall. The young mage turned to Khirron with a broad smile upon his face.
“I’m certainly glad you’re not the one he touched first, else Redarr and me might have had a serious scrap on our hands,” he joked, mindful of the fact that Khirron might be weaker from the turning and may have difficulty were other undead to attack.
Bryn had expected Khirron to at least smirk at that remark, but the knight’s face was grey and foreboding.
He moved to crouch beside the big warrior, his body still relaxed in an unconscious state. Bryn decided to change to a more serious demeanour.
“I guess that’s why this thing didn’t show up with my Elvensight, huh?”
Khirron, who was preparing to heal Redarr with the power of his faith, did not look up.
“What worries me, my friend, is that my check for evil presences before we entered the room did not reveal this Wight we have just met.”
He removed the shoulder plate of his companion’s armour set, and, having uttered a silent prayer to his god, laid his hand upon the wound.
“Either this wight was stronger than any I have ever fought, or…”
His face twisted into an expression of horror. Bryn, seeing this, clutched at his staff with nervousness.
“Or what? What’s wrong, Khirron?”
The answer did not come from the paladin, but rather, the rematerialised Wight, screeching and floating slowly toward them from the far corner of the hall.
“Khirron, is that the same…” Bryn asked, already sure of the answer in his mind.
The paladin was quickly up on his feet, and having abandoned the idea that he could banish the creature, had drawn his sword and raised his shield.
He turned to Bryn, a grim look in his eyes, “You get Redarr out of here, back through the corridor. I’ll hold this thing off and fall back to you both when you are safely out of the hall.”
No sooner had he finished speaking, than the dull sound of bones knocking together cast a strange din upon the room, adding to the howls of the wight. Both men turned toward the creature, hearing the new sound coming from behind it. They did not have to wait long to find the cause. Skeletal warriors, with helm and shield and small axes, were rising up through the floor, from behind their shadowy summoner.
The half-elf, who had seen enough of combat and strange monsters through the years not to freeze at critical moments, had cast the spell of levitation he had prepared moments before. Redarr’s body floated up from the hard dusty stone floor of the hall, and when it had risen to about Bryn’s waist, bobbing back and forth as though carried by a sea’s current, he grabbed hold of the torso, and pushed it back hurriedly towards the entrance.
Khirron began to move backwards towards the entrance as well, never removing his eyes from the threat before him. He raised his shield to chest level and kept his sword balanced carefully in his right hand, ready for the possibility of a thrown axe, or a rush by the wight or its skeletal minions. Normally, he would not have been as fearful of these undead foes as he was now, but having seen neither the detection, turning, nor healing work, he had a new feeling of vulnerability he had not experienced since his early days of combat.

Bryn was back through the corridor, the spell greatly reducing the weight of Redarr and his armour, making it easy for the mage to push him ahead. All that he had to do was to prevent the body from floating further upwards towards the ceiling, which was not difficult. He suddenly stopped, having realised that he was taking the light globe with him. This would leave Khirron further back up the corridor, possibly still in the hall, without very much light to see his attackers by! He turned back, and cancelled the levitation spell with a single word, easing the weight of Redarr’s body to the ground. Moving back towards the entrance to the hall, he readied another spell, this time a more powerful one. He had a plan, but timing would be crucial.

The paladin had inched his way back to the entrance and was nearly at the opening. His head was spinning from the high pitched screeching of the wight, still advancing slowly towards him. For some reason, it had not rushed forwards with the twenty or so skeleton fiends. Perhaps, Khirron thought, it would raise others behind him, trapping him before he could reach the exit. A lesser man might have turned back and fled from the advancing death, but Khirron was sure that the skeletons would have closed quickly, slicing at him from behind. Their caution now, was partially due to Khirron’s retreat manoeuvre, but more so to the fact that their leader, the wight, had not psychically ordered them to attack.

Khirron reached the archway a few moments later, and as he turned to run, was surprised to see Bryn heading towards and past him, the light globe still trailing close behind him in the air! He stopped, mouth open, as the mage strode past him, to within ten feet of the entrance. The half-elf had already begun chanting, a look of fierce concentration on his face. Khirron decided to stand just behind him, sure that pyrotechnics would soon be in evidence. He had often seen his half-elf colleague cause fearsome damage with one or two of the spells in his repertoire. He was not disappointed this time.

The wight, sensing that his prey had somehow become trapped near the front of the corridor, let out a wail which was like that of a demonic choir and swooped forwards through the hall to attack. Bryn had finished chanting a second earlier though, and a small ball of fire streaked out from his left hand. Not at the on-rushing wight, but up towards the front ceiling of the archway. Then an immense explosion, coupled with a deafening roar as flames rushed towards the pair. Stones and rubble fell to the floor as the ceiling collapsed behind them. They had both already turned to run back through the shaking corridor, diving to ground as the flames streaked past at head height. Then silence. Lifting their bruised heads to look around, a cloud of dust settled near the entrance to the hall, and they saw that it was indeed sealed. The mind-numbing screech of their foe had ceased, and only the occasional clatter of stones onto the rubble strewn floor interrupted the welcome silence.

They decided it would be best to leave the castle as quickly as they could carry Redarr between them. Thankfully, the way out was lit well by torches on the walls, which they had ignited on the way into and through the castle.

Once outside the castle, they gave one last effort to carry their comrade through the gatehouse, with its rusted portcullis stuck long ago at waist height. They rested once they reached the grass beyond the drawbridge. Both men took vast lungfuls of clear night air.

Bryn was in good spirits, feeling quite the hero for his life-saving fireball spell. He looked at Khirron, a broad grin on his delicate features, “I wonder how that wight feels now, trapped in his musty old hall? It’s a shame we didn’t get the gold, though.”
Khirron, however, still had the worried, creased brow from before. He looked back at Bryn, eyes wide with grim realisation.
“My god has abandoned me!”



Chapter 6

A figure in shadow emerged into the tent, the flap billowing from the mountain winds. Red hues of daybreak followed the man into the tent.
“The scout’s report, Sir,” he said urgently.
“Approach, Lieutenant. I’ve been waiting on that report all morning,” General Doron Nehemie barked.
The young lieutenant’s cheeks flushed, as he sought to explain, “Uh, Sir, the rider had to take a longer route. He came upon some trolls lower down the pass.”
The general’s face darkened.
“Trolls! Filthy beasts. They may prove a difficult irritation should we need to make a stand against the invaders.”
Nehemie stood up from his chair at the wooden table, replaced his pen on the desk, and strode towards a table in the far corner of the medium-sized tent. It was well-lit from a lantern hung from the wooden frame below the ceiling of the tent. Near the tent-flap, Lieutenant Rayner Krel, the general’s second-in-command on this mission, indulged in his nervous habit of kicking his heels to dislodge imaginary soil and mud. Not removing his gaze from his general, he noticed, as he and others always did, the tall, muscular frame of Nehemie. The general commanded not by force (although at times he could be brutal), but by respect for his reputation.

His usual position was as Commander of the Azure Guard, the elite squad of troops assigned to protect the Lord Cleric. However, the Ascension Wars were wearing the Lord Cleric’s forces thin, and he had had to disband them so that they could take up command positions in all of the other forces spread throughout Garfinia.

Nehemie had taken control of this battalion of troops, whose duties were to guard the mountain passes from Delstantian forces dropped into the mountains by potentially their greatest asset, the dragons. Only five years before, the King of Delstantia had somehow created an alliance with the inhabitants of the island of Kintfell, the most powerful creatures in the world, the dragons. It was common knowledge in Garfinia that the dragons had become loyal servants to the Delstantian armies, but not how that had taken place. Most speculated that the King held the ancient ruling dragon, Tshi’laru, captive, thus ensuring the their loyalty. Others felt that an evil pact had been struck, the dragons promised that they would be given the entire continent of Garfinia as home once the King’s armies had conquered it.

While the Lord Cleric was wary of the power that the dragons’ possessed, he had soon after ensured that they could not be used as weapons of war by the Delstantians. A magical protective barrier had been created by the Order of the Burning Star around the skies of Garfinia, perpetuated by the legendary Stone of Kiraylia, a diamond the size of a giant’s head. This stone, and thus the barrier it perpetuated lay somewhere near the Lord Cleric’s castle deep underground. The magical barrier prevented dragons from flying through it, and so their role in the Wars had been relegated to troop carriers, dropping Delstantian brigades from high in the clouds, their falls slowed by the spells of their priests. As long as the barrier held, the war could be won, but even Nehemie knew that the Stone could be destroyed, but not how.

Nehemie scrutinised the war maps of the mountain passes. All trails joined at the crossroads they were now camped near, some ten miles away. At least, he thought, they wouldn’t have to defend several positions. The mountain geography ensured that invading parties of more than about ten would have to make their way up through the mountain passes to have any chance of moving north or east. South was strategically unimportant, as it was the least populated region, and was filled with forests and lakes. It contained creatures, such as the elves, which tipped the scales of war firmly in the favour of randomness and luck. Therefore, no seasoned general would make the mistake of trying to gain a foothold in the south of Garfinia, and Nehemie knew that. No, his battalion, camped at the crossroads was all the defence from a mountain insertion that the continent needed.

Nehemie glanced up at his subordinate, and realised that he had been deep in thought looking at the map for several minutes.
“That report, Krel?” he said firmly, holding his right hand out towards the man.
“Yes, Sir,” he replied, handing over the report. It was a scroll of parchment, bound by a silk ribbon in the purple colours of the battalion. The lieutenant had not been with the General long, only some three months or so, and thus, had not yet begun to feel confident or close to Nehemie. He was still very much in awe of this legendary soldier that he had heard tales about since he had joined the army at about eighteen years of age.
The general raised an eyebrow as he read the report to himself, amazed at its contents. He had read it all in under a minute, but reread it to make sure that he had not misunderstood it.
“Fetch the scout and bring him here. I want to hear it from him personally,” he ordered, not looking up from the report.
“But General, it will take several hours, and we will need someone to replace him at his lookout position halfway up the second peak,” Krel stammered.
Nehemie looked up at the Lieutenant, his face beginning to harden further with irritation, “What? You think that I had not thought of the consequences of calling that scout here?” his voice rising with every word.
“Replace the man with another scout from the troops, and send him on horseback with a skilled rider, and do it now!” he enunciated each word.
Krel edged backwards until he felt the tent flap beneath his hand, “Yes, General. At once.” He turned and walked hurriedly out into the camp. Inside the tent, Nehemie ran through the contents of the report once more in his mind. Then he turned his attention back to the map, studying the terrain markings and distance pointers. “Druids!” he confirmed to himself.


* * *


A hand touched Khirron on the shoulder, lightly at first, then shook him quite strongly.
“Wh- what is it?” Khirron awoke groggily, the dream having been interrupted, thus heaping extra drowsiness upon his first few waking moments.

It was still dark, although a full moon and the other, a half moon, provided good light to the mountainside and the valley below. Bryn stood above Khirron, his short sword glinting in the moonlight, and put his finger to his lips. Khirron instantly understood, and turned over very slowly and quietly to pick up the scimitar which was on the ground next to him. To either side of them was mountainside. Out in front, they could only see straight ahead, not down to the mountain pass, unless they stood on the end of the rocky platform.

They could hear the threat, though. The sound of a dozen or more booted feet, heavy footfalls on the dirt track of the mountain trail below them. The sound they made was even and steady, more of a march than a walk. Incomprehensible chatter could also be heard, men barking orders intermingled with friendly joking.

Crawling forward on their stomachs, the two inched towards the edge of the rock platform, and glanced over, making sure that their heads protruded only enough to see whomever the sounds were coming from. Their eyes widened at the sight. Not a dozen, not twenty, but at least fifty men were passing underneath their position moving in an orderly march up the pass. The experienced eyes of the paladin and the half-elf scanned the party for signs of who they were. None could be seen, however, despite the quite brilliant light of the two moons casting an unearthly glow upon their shields and helms. Bryn and Khirron did not speak, even to whisper, sure that the acoustics of the mountain could allow these men to hear their voices, even from above. Silently they lay at the edge of the outcrop, mental notes being taken as to the strength, armament and potential skills of this force.

And then Bryn nearly cried out, having seen another more startling sight beyond and above the men. He clasped his free hand to his mouth to stop the sound from escaping. Khirron, startled, looked at his colleague in confusion. All that he had to do, though, was to follow the line of sight of Bryn’s very wide eyes. A group of dragons, flying high up in the sky, their massive wings propelling them due west, no doubt already out over the Straits.
Both men stared at each other for some moments after following the flight of dragons before they became tiny dots outline by moonlight in the clear night sky. Then looking back at each other in disbelief, they realised that the sounds that had alerted them from below had all but passed, having diminished to their right, up the trail and further into the mountain range.

Once the two were sure that the party had completely passed out of earshot, they made their way back to the rear of the outcrop, and sat by the unlit campfire, eager to share their observations.
“Well, they sure weren’t the Lord Cleric’s men,” Bryn confirmed, encouraged that they were not a pursuit group after the two fugitives.
Khirron searched his memory for some experience of the colourings or markings he had seen on their armour.
“You are right. I’m almost completely certain that they are Delstantians,” he remarked.
Bryn was taken aback, “Delstantians, here? That would confirm the dragons’ involvement. So the War has moved inland somehow.”
In almost all of the seven years of the Ascension Wars, most of the fighting had taken place in sea battles and on the coasts of each continent. Only small battles had been waged further inland, and each side’s commanders had quickly been discouraged from continuing such a campaign.
Khirron shook his head, the fatigue completely removed by his concern, “No, this must be some sort of advance party, to gain a foothold in the mountains. Perhaps they’ll try to defend a spot, and wait for reinforcements.”
Bryn’s mind ticked over through the possibilities, “Do you think there’ll be more through here tonight or tomorrow? Only, it could seriously hamper our journey if we have to keep hiding from these guys!”
“No. But this time, let’s organise a watch shift until morning. Then we can decide what to do,” Khirron said, a serious look in his green eyes, “I’ll take first watch, and you get some sleep.”

Bryn nodded, then settled down and closed his eyes, his mind still filled with dark-armoured men, and flights of dragons. Khirron began his watch, his ears trained for any sort of sound. He occupied the time that night with cleaning his scimitar’s blade, which still had dried orc’s blood from the day before.


* * *

The scout stood before his general, fear and uncertainty clearly evident in his face and posture.
“Make your report, scout,” Krel ordered from behind the man’s right shoulder. He stood at the rear of the tent, near the entrance, and before him was the scout, and a quite anxious General Nehemie looking straight at the lad.
“General, Sir. I saw a flight of four dragons at around third watch, drop an estimated sixty men at the foot of the Western pass and then fly West over the coast, Sir.”
The scout waited for Nehemie’s reaction, but seeing none, after a few moments he continued, “Thirty foot soldiers, two commanders, and ten to twenty archers, Sir. They were all heavily encumbered with packs, Sir, no horses or wagons. Oh, and two non-military personnel, Sir,” he paused, still no reaction, “That is all, Sir.”
At this news, Nehemie’s face darkened very slightly, then resumed its stony façade.
“I want specifics, scout, on the non-militaries in that group.”
The lad swallowed loudly, and shifted his weight nervously from foot to foot, “Two men wearing robes, Sir. They were not carrying anything.”
“Is that all you remember, boy?” the general said, his brow tightening as he glowered at the scout. “Yes, Sir.”
“Why did you not mention what type of non-military personnel in your written report?” he growled.
“Begging your pardon, Sir, but the Chief Scout instructed us to refer only to specifics on military personnel, Sir,” he said, pleased that the blame could not be apportioned to him.
The general turned to Krel, his face darkened with anger, “Get me Raker, Lieutenant!”
Krel hurried from the tent, then moments later, another man, the Chief Scout entered first, the lieutenant behind him. He was a thin, middle-aged man, with green and brown loose breeches and shirt. Underneath the shirt he had a thin, light leather armour jerkin, and brown leather knee and shoulder pads. They were purposefully dirtied to become a kind of camouflage outfit, and they did their job well, only changed to a white outfit in the snows of mid-winter.

Nehemie turned his attention to the man, using all his control to stop himself from drawing his sword and removing this imperfection from his battalion. He decided to allow the man to justify his mistake, or at least to grovel.
“Raker, your man here accuses you of an imperfect order. Is that correct?”
Krel swallowed nervously, he had briefed the Chief Scout before they returned to the tent, and he hoped that Raker wouldn’t give that fact away.
Raker stammered, his eyes not meeting that of his general’s, “I am sorry, Sir, for the mistake. May I know what it is I am accused of?”
The lieutenant breathed more easily. He knew Raker was intelligent, and was sure now that he was buying time to formulate answers.

The general belied his irritation somewhat, but answered despite it.
“You instructed the scouts not to specify non-military strengths or the lack of it.”
“That is true, Sir, due to the historical information on invasion forces for the last four years. Sir, no invasion force has ever contained non-military personnel of any threat,” Raker smiled inside, comfortable with the answer he had just given.
“General, I’m sure you recall that Delstantia has no indigenous magic-users. Their power comes from…” but he wasn’t allowed to finish.

Nehemie strode forward to his Chief Scout, and in a blur of movement, had dug a knife into the startled man’s left thigh, up to the hilt. Raker cried out in pain, grimacing in shock at the crippling effect of the small blade. Within moments he was on one knee, both hands clutching at the handle of the knife, trying to pull it out and thus remove the fiery pain from his leg. At the same time he felt a cold blade biting slightly at his neck. He turned his eyes to the cause, and saw that the general had his bastard sword held in one hand, the middle of the sword halfway up the right side of his neck. Beads of sweat trickled down the crippled man’s brow.

Raker did not meet Nehemie’s angry gaze. He stared down at the floor, like a dog who knows that he has been reproached firmly by his master’s ire.
“Certainly, my dear Raker, history would not have foretold what I have just done. From a small strike, I have you defeated, and lying like a wounded stag, knowing that your end is near,” Nehemie said with unnerving calm.

He sheathed the blade, allowing Raker to breathe again, and turned his back to the three men.
“You will return with your scout. Take up positions in the mountain peak, and report on every movement that band of scum make. Oh and Raker,” the general hissed, “leave the knife here”.
Krel, shocked at the incident, attempted to speak, but was silenced by the raised hand of his general.

All three left the tent, Raker, at a slower rate than he was used to. He had removed the knife, tossing it to the ground of the tent, and held a combat dressing he had taken from one of his belt pouches to stem the flow of blood. He spent an hour or two of the warm day with the battalion’s healer, before rejoining his now least-favoured scout for the trip back to the mountainside.



Chapter 7

Skirlburg was an enchanting sight, especially at the time of sunset. An orange glow seemed to enhance the rich scene which lay before them as they entered the walls of this ancient port town. Immediately they were inamongst the hustle and bustle of the market, last-minute trading by many residents and villagers who came from nearby to replenish their pantries. Every race and creed seemed to be present, laughter and shouted orders sounding like a fight amongst two male geese over their female attendants. Minstrels plied their trade in corners, notes from their instruments occasionally clashing in separate melodies. Rich smells of spices, freshly-baked bread and body odours penetrated the concentration.

Marellen seemed to hate the crowds, pushing and knocking into any person who did not make way for her. Will chuckled silently to himself as he watched her arrogance and self-importance rising to the fore. Surely she should know that pick-pockets had an immense advantage were physical contact to be made, especially if it was made at the intent of the victim. He decided to keep a watchful eye for his brethren, sure that such a crowded market would be infested with those perhaps more skilled in the Art than he.

It was at this moment that he realised that he was completely unarmed. The trip through the forest had been fairly uneventful, and perhaps subconsciously he had felt protected through the magical prowess of his companion. He swiftly made up his mind to acquire a short sword, or at least one or two sturdy daggers.

He was beginning to lose sight of the mage, her forceful gait carrying her further ahead through the throngs of bartering townsfolk. He quickened his pace, catching up with her before she left the perimeter of the market and strode down a completely empty side alley. At least she seemed to know where she was headed, Will thought. Once he had reached her side, he gave in to the curiosity which had been nagging at his mind since they entered Skirlburg.
“What are our plans for tonight?” he asked, a slight wheeze in his breath from the exertions of the market thoroughfare.
Marellen did not slow down, though she had plainly heard the question. Her pace suggested that she was trying to get to a rendezvous by a certain time.
“My dear Will,” -it always seemed that her preferred tone was a sarcastic, condescending one-, “Our first port of call is the ‘Gull and Slipper’, to negotiate passage aboard a vessel tomorrow morning, and from there, we shall see.”
At least, it seemed, the woman was mindful that they needed rest, Will consoled himself. He had always felt that his fitness was maintained through the rigours of the prison quarry work, but the mage seemed to have a super-human constitution, and Will was finding it hard-going.
They turned a corner at the far end of the alley, which was not lit by the remaining sunlight, and realised that their eyes would take a few moments to adjust to the meagre light. Will made the mistake of looking upwards, the purple sky outlining some clothes drying upon a washline hung between two windows several storeys above their heads. When he glanced back down and ahead, his eyes took even longer to adjust. When they had, he realised that she was nowhere to be seen in the tiny alleyway. Following a crack of light which hit the left wall from a door on the right, he peered into a small room where two people could be heard talking.

Marellen was one of the two. The other was a dwarf, with a slightly soiled white shirt, and dark blue breeches. His ample beard and ample girth were the most remarkable Will had ever seen on a dwarf, but his most striking feature was were his left hand should have been. A large shining steel hook protruded from his shirt cuff, no doubt representative of a story from this character’s colourful past.
The young thief decided to wait and listen from behind the door for a short while, at least until he was sure that his presence would not jeopardise any negotiations which might be taking place.
He heard the dwarf grunt, “Two of you, eh? Who’sh de udder one, a goblin?” He rambled on to himself, Marellen clearly irritated by his inebriated state, “Nashty, shmelly things, goblins. I had a passhenger who brought two, or wash it three, anyway, he brought two, no…” he stopped to count the stubby fingers on his right hand, prodding each with the point of his hook, which reminded Will of a scorpion’s tail. The mage had had enough, and she bent over somewhat, grabbing the dwarf by his shoulders.
“Do we have a deal, Gregor, or not?” she shouted, very close to his red cheeks and nose.
Too close as it turned out, and she quickly let go of his shirt, and held her nose closed with her thumb and index finger. Gregor scratched his beard for a few moments, then snorted.
“Alright, my little fiery lady, but I want payment now, elsh no deal.”
Will saw Marellen pull a pouch from within her cloak, the contents clinking metalically, and hand it to the dwarf, who was still slightly unsure of his footing. From the sounds of revelry and chatter that drifted through a curtain covering a passageway at the far end of the room, Will guessed that this was probably a rear stockroom of the Inn she had mentioned earlier.
“There it is, dwarf, all sixty silver coins. As agreed, passage for two on your ship, ‘The Golden Gull’ leaving tomorrow morning from the harbour.”
The dwarf grunted in the affirmative, then staggered out through the curtain, no doubt to spend some of those silvers on a whole crate of spirits. Will pushed the door open slightly, and walked into the room, glad to be out of the darkened alleyway.
“Do you mind telling me how that drunken dwarf, of all things, is going to get us safely through the ‘Straits? I don’t think he could negotiate his way back to whichever alley he’ll sleep in tonight!” Will whispered loudly.
The woman was having none of it.
“Trust me, thief, else I could arrange a visit from the town militia. Signs of your bounty for the escape from one of the Lord Cleric’s prisons will surely have been posted all throughout the Western Province by now. Well, what do you say?”
She was visibly angry from the negotiations with the dwarf, and Will was only adding to it. He backed down, and began to search the room for items of use. Marellen stood impatiently at the door to the alley, waiting for her young charge to satisfy his instincts. Within a few moments, they were away. The proprietor of the tavern would have never known that they were there, were it not for the ramblings of an incoherent sea-faring dwarf after a night of cheap goblin spirits.


* * *



That evening, they had found an alternative tavern, ‘The Crab and Oyster’, and Marellen had funded a room and several rounds of ale. Not for herself, of course. Mages of any order frowned upon the taking of alcohol, the loss of control it caused being deemed too dangerous coupled with the power that the mind could unleash were even lower-level spells to be uttered mistakenly. She had bought it as an exercise in extracting information from a local warrior, a red-bearded giant of a man. His companion, a jovial young bard, dressed in wildly mis-matched purples and reds, with an excessively preened moustache had been plying his trade of story-telling when the mage and thief had arrived. It was the Inn’s busy time, and that fact coupled with the table’s isolated location near the hearth, encouraged Marellen to ask to sit with them.

Neither of the two men had minded. If they had, they did not show it. Will’s meagre prison outfit raised a few eyebrows in the tavern, but most patrons did not notice it, as it was dirtied with dust and sweat and was torn. The bard continued his preposterous tale, a story of rags to riches, a mere boy rising to lead armies in battle. Marellen had seen the opportunity to relieve the two of whatever news they had with regard to the progress of the Ascension Wars.
“A jug of house ale,” she commanded a serving girl, which raised a cheer from the warrior, his flowing red beard already showing suds from previous ales he had consumed that evening.
The bard stood and offered his hand.
“A fine gift for all of us, my dear Lady. But I fear we do not know your name, and you ours!”
Kyle stopped and removed his bright green cap. He began introductions, although he was only sure of his own name at this juncture of the evening. Will recognised the bard for what he was, a charming, vain purveyor of stories, and nothing more. The thief had seen countless of these conmen. Weavers of fabricated tales, with the ability to remove coin from purse by exciting curiosity in their victims’ hearts. Will’s own Art, he felt strongly, was more dignified, not masquerading as some sort of adventurer having experienced the tale first-hand. He did not expose his feelings to the other three that evening, preferring to sit quietly, and perhaps let the others show their inner thoughts to him.

All of them, however, with the exception of the warrior, kept their dignity to some degree that night. The bard consumed little or no alcohol, and, having finished his story a short while earlier, had begun to take an interest in Marellen. She was her enigmatic, condescending self, though, and he got no further than a bruised ego. Will took a little too much of the spirits, having had none for more than the two years he had been in prison, but he restrained his exuberance once the feelings of merriment took hold.
Marellen listened eagerly to the warrior, whose tongue had long since escaped the control of his mind. She bought more and more rounds of ale, when the need arose.
The red-bearded warrior, whose name was Garth La Ruen (they had all discovered earlier), related the most recent events in his booming tone, in-between vast mouthfuls of ale.
“My own battalion was sent to the Northern Reaches, some six months ago. We only saw one bout of action. Met the stinking Delstantians on the Plains of Chal and Mer. They sent a wave of knights on horseback first, and we routed them with our own lads. Then they coupled rows of archers with slowly advancing pikemen. We thought that the pikemen were isolated, but their infantry were circling us a great distance away. They appeared on our flanks, and we retreated after losing many hundreds of good men.”

Garth stopped, a lost look in his eyes, then he took a swig of foamy drink, and continued.
“Damn fine commander whoever he was, and now the King’s armies have got a defensive stronghold in the North.”
His eyes brightened somewhat, “Our armies are massing at the North East, though, and I hear that the Lord Cleric’s generals are in talks with those savages, the elves in the south, to establish some sort of war alliance.”
Marellen was taken aback by this information, having not heard word of any sort of alliance before leaving for Moss Glen.
“Are you certain of that? Where did you hear it? Some drunken messenger no doubt. I don’t believe you.”
The warrior’s face darkened with irritation, and he stood up, knocking his chair backwards, before unleashing a torrent of ale suds upon the mage.
“I heard it from a captain who was very much sober at the time. My captain in fact, madam. There will be an alliance with the elves, I tell you.”

The other three at the table, embarrassed, looked round the room, which had quietened greatly since his outburst.
“Come, come, my dear Garth,” Kyle interrupted, “Let us drink to the Elves. Quietly.”
His eyes rolled with the enunciation.
Nearly all of the Inn’s patrons were staring in their direction, save for two men, clad in common clothes, who were huddled over their own table in a corner of the hall, whispering quietly. They had been watching Will’s table all evening, and Will was sure that he had looked up in time to see one of them glance towards Garth again, before resuming their conversation.


* * *

Dazzling rays of morning sunshine penetrated a gap left in the room’s tacky curtains. Their stained material caused a faded amber glow in the room. Will’s head left little doubt that his liver disagreed with him over the amount of alcohol it could safely dispose of. He realised then that he could not remember making his way to the room and falling asleep the previous evening.
He rose from the bed, glanced around the room, and noticed a new, clean dark grey tunic and black trousers hanging from the back of a chair in the far corner of the room next to the window. An earthenware jug filled with clear, chilled water and a bowl and some towels sitting atop the chair were no doubt for a guest’s ablutions. He smiled, glad that after two days of travel and the same outfit, he would finally feel clean once more.

He panicked somewhat, however, as he searched the room for the small knife and crowbar he had filched from the ‘Gull and Slipper’ yesterday evening. They were nowhere to be seen, and neither was anything else of value in this little room. Before cleaning himself, he decided he would look outside at the warm Summer’s day which beckoned them to the Straits aboard the dwarf’s ship. He strode over to the window, pulled back the soiled curtain, and lifted the catch which held the window closed. As it opened, he was assaulted by the sounds of the marketplace below. The previous afternoon’s cacophony had seemed overpowering, but the morning din was even worse! Perhaps, he thought, it was his aching head’s sensitivity, and not any increase in the market’s activities. Nevertheless, the overpowering smells of fresh meat and spices which drifted in through the window made his stomach turn, and he quickly sealed the catch shut again.

Once washed and dressed, he emerged into the corridor leading to the stairs down and made his way into the main hall of the Inn. Not seeing Marellen at any of the tables, he turned to the proprietor who was cleaning mugs behind the bar with a distressingly grey rag.
“I wonder if you could tell me, good sir, in which room the lady Marellen resides,” he said, in the most congenial voice he could muster that morning.
The barkeep, a solemn, rotund man with too few teeth, did not speak, but merely shrugged and indicated with his plump fingers the number four.
Will wasn’t sure if the man would care if he thanked him or not, but he did so anyway, and walked back up the stairs to the room.


Having found the door, he knocked, and whispered loudly, “Marellen, it’s me, Will.”
Within a few moments, the door rode back upon its hinges, and hesitating, he inched inside.

The thief was surprised to see that she was sitting cross legged on the floor of the room, candles placed at the four corners immediately around her. Her eyes were closed, as were the room’s curtains. Before her was a large leather-bound book, its pages open but seemingly empty. Will stood there, taking in this sight, realising from what he knew of wizards that they memorised their spell repertoire before travelling at the beginning of the day. He concluded that he must have missed the previous day’s event when they were in the forest.

Within a few moments she was finished and standing, placing her book within her pack, which Will had never noticed because of the cloak. She scooped up the candles, which seemed to have no wax running down their sides, thin though they were, and extinguished them with her breath. She then rolled them into a square of black cloth, and placed the cloth into a pocket within her robes. Turning to the young man, she sighed and regarded him with a look of disdain.
“It seems that you took a little too much liquor, my young thief. How is your mind this morning, and more importantly, your stomach?”
Will realised that she was probably referring to their impending maritime voyage, and he shook his head assuredly.
“I’ll be alright. My constitution is good for ocean travel.” Although, he thought, it hadn’t been tested properly for some two to three years.

He had last sailed upon a ship some three years previous, returning from the Delstantian capital city of Jurathina. The city was a vast, sprawling sea of humans of varying colours of skin, dwarves, and any other race one could care to mention. Its massive ivory white spires rose high into the azure heavens, signalling the grandeur which the King’s ancestor had called for when building the city. And its fortress-like inner walls meant that anyone could enter the city, but not the King’s castle, save that they held an office high enough to warrant the King’s attention.

The city’s popularity amongst the citizens of Delstantia meant that more and more circles of shops and homes were being added to the city’s outer areas. Its girth was expanding weekly, as more and more of the Delstantians sought solace at the heart of the continent. Their own villages and towns were starving and deprecated. The taxes, constantly increased, went almost completely on the war effort, and most able-bodied men were drafted into the armies of the King.

Will had been there on a contract run for a local merchant. He had found the contract through the regional thieves’ guild when times were hard for him in Moss Glen and the surrounding towns. It had been easy: Take a package to an address in Jurathina, and return with his payment. He was discreet, not having given in to his curiosity, and had not opened the package. He was sure, however, that it contained exotic spell components, given the fact that his run had ended at a magic shop deep within the heart of the city.

Within minutes, Marellen was leading the way out of the room, and down into the Inn. Will was close behind, by now used to her annoying lack of conversational impetus. The two had said very little to each other in the room, the mage successfully avoiding one or two more questions about Will’s relevance to the King. She had, however, handed back to the thief his knife and crowbar. She explained that she had also placed a lock spell on his door, were he to have awoken in the night, and decided the ship’s destination was not for him.

Once outside, she again surged ahead of her companion, leading the way through the throngs of traders and shoppers. At one point, she bumped into a surly oaf, with a balding head and biceps the size of an anvil. He was either less-forgiving than others who had felt her shoulder in the market, or undaunted by her obvious magical potential that her garments alluded to. With a sneer, he grabbed at her cloak, hanging onto it and pulling her offbalance. She stumbled backwards, losing her footing on the cobblestone pavement.
Will, close behind, had foreseen the danger, alerted by previously irritated but nonetheless forgiving townsfolk. Within a second, the man was down on the ground clutching at his bleeding head. Will grinned, then pulled her to her feet, and the two made off through the small crowd of onlookers. The crowbar had other, less profitable but no less important talents, it seemed.


* * *

Some time later in the morning, they were aboard the ‘Golden Gull’, and some several miles into the ‘Straits. The ‘Gull was a medium-sized vessel, its two tall masts resplendent with white sails, billowing in the ocean winds. They propelled her at a steady and at times quite magnificent rate through the choppy, dark blue waters.

Will’s earlier fears that the captain, Gregor, would more likely sail them South towards the Lertaan Sea, noted for its vicious pirates and buccaneers, were ill-founded. He stood on the deck, sturdy and sure-footed, gazing proudly at the wind-filled mainsail. His second-in-command, a well-tanned man with dark curly hair, and a strikingly prominent scar through his left cheek, seemed to be controlling the vessel. He issued orders in sailor’s speech, shrill and commanding, to his helmsman, a short but otherwise unremarkable human, and to three sailors.

The weather was ideal for the voyage. A bright sunny day, with high winds, tugging along not only the ship, but also several puffy white unthreatening clouds. Will turned his attention to the other passengers aboard the ‘Gull, seeking to avoid more violence were one or two of them to take a dislike to the arrogance of the mage.

He could not see all of them well, his view obscured by the masts, some cargo netting and crates. There was a well-dressed man, obviously a wealthy merchant, with two burly henchmen at his side at all times. A party of five gnomes whom all of the other passengers avoided as much as possible, their hurried chatter and insatiable curiosity for shiny, bright, or intricate objects, making them seem rude and thieving to other races; and a young man and woman, both quite good-looking, and both always in an embrace, whether moving along the deck or just staring out to sea. They were young lovers.

It was then, that Will saw the first unwelcome sight. Two passengers emerged from below decks, talking and arguing with each other, but otherwise seemingly friendly. Will and Marellen, who had hitherto been staring out to the horizon, noticed the two men, and recognised their guests at their table from the previous evening. Kyle, the flashy, self-important bard, and Garth, the, giant, red-bearded veteran warrior. Thankfully, at least for the time being, both were headed away from Will and towards the bow of the ship. Will grimaced. No doubt, they would be forced to endure the company of the two men throughout the rest of the voyage.

At that point, Will’s attention was drawn to the ship’s stern. Having only glanced in that direction earlier and seen the helmsman and first-mate, he had missed the second unwelcome sight: The two suspicious men he was sure only he had noticed from the Inn.



Chapter 8

General Nehemie stood tall and commanding in the centre of the encampment, his polished breastplate gleaming in the sun’s splendour. It was early afternoon, and he had decided to send a strike force to obliterate the threat the Delstantian invaders posed, were they to establish a base near either of the two mountain passes. He was worried that with archers and possibly two spellcasters, they would be difficult vermin to eradicate with the advantage that elevation provided.

The force was one hundred strong, and they stared out from the straight rank and file at their respected general. Younger troops shuffled nervously, and occasional coughing broke the silence. His dark hair, high cheekbones, and hooked nose gave him the appearance of a bird of prey, circling its frightened target.
He didn’t address the troops directly, preferring to let Krel issue the orders, thus maintaining his mystique amongst the men.
“You will engage the enemy at Point Rise. They will be attempting to set up base there, and may well expect an attack, but they are only half your numbers, and will be easily squashed with the might of the Lord Cleric’s army,” the lieutenant barked.
A unified cheer went up from the troops, firm in their belief of an easy victory, but Krel was not so sure. He had been given the command of this force, and would be directly responsible should they lose. He would prefer to be utterly wiped out by the opposing force, himself included, rather than face the anger of his general. His greatest concern were the archers. He was sure that they would be stationed at high positions nearer the peak of Point Rise, ready to unleash a deadly rain upon an advancing enemy.

He did take comfort in the knowledge that he would be allowed to take along arguably the deadliest assassin in the entire Garfinian Army, a female elf. Her name was Elonna Darkfern, and stories were told that she had been banished from the Elven Forests in the South from a young age. Taking her natural talent for archery, and a newly-found cynical view upon life, her fame quickly spread as she hired herself out as an assassin to whomever would pay. Her conscience completely obliterated by the unyielding justice of the elves, she soon became known for her lack of failure. When Nehemie had been granted a ‘bottomless purse’ for her services by the Lord Cleric, his command had soon become the most feared battalion in the army.

She was not with the strike force in the camp that afternoon, however, always preferring to travel alone upon a route she plotted, once given her objective. That way, if there were traitors amongst the troops, none would be able to give away her position, risking her capture. On this occasion, while the troop’s morale was being given a boost by Krel and General Nehemie, Elonna was already almost upon her unsuspecting prey.

* * *

“My stomach is beginning to argue with me!” Bryn shouted from below. An echo and then another ensured that Khirron, further up the mountain slope, heard his companion. He looked down, only once he had ensured that at least one hand and both of his feet had good grip upon the rockface. Bryn was about ten yards below him, grinning up at the paladin.
Khirron was concerned about hunger as well. They had not eaten since lunchtime at the prison, two days before. Their escape through the forest, and then the hills, had been hurried, and they had not stopped for anything more than a short rest until they had reached the mountain pass. And they had not seen any edible plants or animals in the mountains at all.
“I have complete trust in you that you’ll win that particular quarrel, my friend.”
He grinned, and then continued the ascent.
They were climbing the mountain to a flat position near the top. From there, they could move to the East Face, climb down and cross through the pass and head east for some distance. They had decided not to try to continue along the west trail, sure that the party of Delstantians they had seen the previous night would secure it for themselves.

Bryn was about to reply, but a sudden strong gust of wind caused his train of thought, and his footing, to be momentarily interrupted. Fighting gravity and momentum, he managed to swing his free hand back towards the face, and resume his climb. The ascent was not a sheer one. In parts they could walk upwards, as long as their balance held, but in others as at that particular moment, they were forced to climb.

Bryn kept trying to recall his levitation spell, which would have been immensely useful for the climb, but like a slate that had been wiped clean with a wet rag, his mind had lost most of the words, and indeed the order, of the spell. The source of both the words and the order, his spell book, had been confiscated from him when they were captured by the Lord Cleric’s guards in Haffnear, a city in the East of Garfinia. The trio had been forced into a bar brawl by a group of orcs, who were intent on bloodshed that evening. Much damage had been done by Redarr and Khirron, but mostly by Bryn’s more attack-minded spells, and they were forced to escape once the city militia took an interest. In order to flee through the gates, they had taken disguise as women, but Redarr’s height had ruined the charade.

The spell book contained about thirteen spells, some of high rank, Bryn having studied as a mage since his early teenage years. He had been in the tutelage of the renowned wizard, Tynnaren Garr. Tynnaren had never joined one of the orders of wizardry, preferring the peace and self-reliance that solitude brought. It had also served to increase his mystery and reputation. Bryn was an orphan, and, as a child, had lived on the streets of Garfin City from when he could remember, various homeless folk taking care of him and seeing that he did not perish along with the other unfortunates. One particular caring vagrant had unknowingly approached the wizard for a handout, and in return, Tynnaren had demanded that the boy be turned over to him. Having noted the lad’s intelligence and his elven heritage in conversation, he decided that this one might make an excellent apprentice. Bryn had not failed him, at least not until the moment he had lost the spell book.

The holy tome of any wizard or mage is their spell book. They travel the length and breadth of the land in search of spells to collect and learn, thus increasing their power. A spell discovered upon a scroll in some dragon’s treasure hoard, or one grudgingly traded with another wizard, fills the book, imbuing the mage with greater ability and confidence. And, later, great reputation. Upon the Day of Becoming, when an apprentice can rightfully call himself a Mage, his master hands to him a new Spell Book, each empty page within waiting to be charged with the mystical energies and scripts that detail a spell’s ingredients. In the book, a single spell, the new mage’s first. A proud moment.

Bryn remembered the Day of Becoming as though it were not eight years ago, but yesterday. He could still smell the aromas of unnamed spell components. Could hear the bubble and hiss of flasks and vials, the liquids frothing and foaming, and see the colours and the greys of Tynnaren’s laboratory. And that was why he would dedicate all days even to his last to reclaim his spell book. His life.

His natural optimism and exuberance hid the dark emptiness its loss caused him even now. Indeed, he wondered, as he climbed the rock face, whether Khirron even knew the relevance that the loss of his book a year ago caused Bryn. Whether he could see the effects upon the mage’s bright, youthful exterior.

In fact, Khirron knew all too well Bryn’s loss. He recalled it every time he expected the mage to whisper some unheard words and a light globe would appear in their prison cell, but it never happened. And he recalled it every time he detected the note of emptiness in Bryn’s conversation. Gone as quickly as it had come, but there nonetheless. Khirron remembered Bryn’s loss as he recalled his own. The loss of his faith. The loss of his god’s protection and strength. The loss of his life’s desire. The Paladin’s Code. To rid the world of evil, incarnated in the undead creatures who plagued the living. He remembered the realisation in the abandoned castle, and the feeling of being truly alone. He too, would dedicate all of the remainder of his existence to the return of his faith, and thus, his true destiny.


* * *



Krel, riding upon the mare, bred to be a war-horse he had grown attached to since joining the battalion, led the hundred-strong strike team along the wide path toward the crossroads. The men marched behind, some singing songs of war and victory, others silent with the worry which stalks those who are new to the battle. The force consisted of eighty men-at-arms, and twenty archers. The warriors, dressed in light ring-mail armour, carried shields and swords. Others carried ten-foot long pikes, ready for a pitched battle. Krel was sure, however, that the archers on each side would have the final say, as long as the spellcasters could be removed early on. He was counting on Elonna for that, but her name in his thoughts made his stomach turn. An assassin, in his battalion? He could see the benefits, but where had battlefield honour descended to, when shadows and striking from behind, never meeting your enemy face-to-face, could win a battle? It had sunk to the same place that allowing magic to win a battle had sunk to, his mind replied. A good answer, but it still failed to remove the hollow feeling he felt in his gut. No honour at all.

At the crossroads, he called a halt to the march. Ahead, the younger of the two scouts who earlier entertained Nehemie, emerged from the tree line bordering the road. Such was the scouts' stealth abilities that had they not agreed upon a whistled call-sign, Krel and the men in his command would not have ever seen the tracker as they marched through. He came up to within patting distance of the lieutenant’s horse, and begun his report.
He pointed ahead towards the peak, still some distance away, but nonetheless a magnificent sight, tall and majestic.
“Their progress is startling, Sir,” the scout said, urgently, “Most of their archers have already taken positions above the Eastern Pass, and the others are beginning to settle above the Western Pass. Their foot soldiers have created a perimeter camp at the base of Point Rise, where the mountain range effectively ends, and the two passes begin to close to meet there. No supply trains or even a mountain patrol could get through now without at least heavy casualties, Sir.”
Krel nodded, and looked up at the mountains, his horse stamping and snorting every now and then.
“What of the two spellcasters?” Krel asked, his gaze moving from the peak back to the scout.
The man’s cheeks reddened, reminded of the morning’s events.
“Neither myself, nor Chief Scout Raker have seen them recently, Sir. The last we saw of them was at the first sighting, before I made my initial report.”
The lieutenant’s eyes darkened.
“Very well, scout, return to your position. And find me those spellcasters. The moment either you or Raker see them, I want to know about it. Is that understood?” he ordered.
“Yes, Sir,” the scout replied, grateful to be allowed to resume his duties without the threat of another report to the General.
He pulled his brown hood back over his head, turned and entered the forest, his garments aiding his camouflage techniques.

This was certainly not the news Krel had wished to hear upon the force’s arrival at the crossroads. Missing spellcasters could cause untold amounts of damage. He had heard that some wizards were capable of invisibility, at the very least able to enter an enemy’s camp and eavesdrop on their strengths and plans. On the other hand, why shouldn’t they just sneak in and decimate the camp from within? It would be extremely easy to cause such confusion that the soldiers killed their own comrades in the process. Disturbing, Krel thought to himself, hoping that whatever it was that the assassin was planning, she’d at least try to equalise the odds by removing the magic-users first and then perhaps some of the archers, if she could get to them.

The lieutenant was happy that this clearing before the crossroads was a suitable place to plan an offensive from. Their archers would hopefully be facing West and East, their concentration firmly on the passes. Certainly, at this distance, the footsoldiers at the base of the mountain could not see as far as the crossroads, so the element of surprise was still with him. He turned his horse around to face the troops. Its glistening flanks did not hide the powerful leg muscles which had won it its reputation for speed.
“We’ll make camp here,” he shouted, so that the troops near the back could hear him as well. The three junior officers, two for the two squads of footsoldiers and one for the archer unit, ensured that their men followed Krel’s orders swiftly and efficiently.

Within half an hour, water and rations had been broken out, guards had been placed at the surrounding tree lines and back up the road, and the men were preparing their armour and weapons for battle. Krel strode through the camp, taking in the strong contrasting feelings of battle-readiness. A healthy dose of bravado, and an equal feeling of nervousness. The lieutenant had been in enough battles to know the signs. If the feelings were different or unbalanced, then the unit would be in danger of breaking up, losing its edge, and therefore, the battle itself.

Krel wished that Nehemie had given him more men from the battalion’s compliment of three hundred and fifty, but he felt sure that this was a test of his abilities under difficult conditions. The general had never seen the battlefield command capabilities of Krel, the two having come together only four months previously. He was sure he could get the best out of his men, but would Fate be in his favour?

An hour later, and the men were becoming restless. They did not show it outwardly, but Krel could feel it. He considered himself a good judge of fighting men, and he was sure that they were ready for combat. He had taken his time during the hour, playing through countless strategies in his field map of Point Rise, and had decided upon the least risky course of action. One which seemed to give neither side an advantage. They would meet the enemy in the field in-between the adjoining roads, away from the mountainside, and hopefully, out of their archers’ range. He had no doubt that this might afford the mages a clear target to aim for, but he had to disregard possibilities, and ensure that the certain advantage of their bowmen was nullified. After all, he wasn’t even sure that they were spellcasters. They could easily be healers. He certainly hoped that they were.

Sunlight began to steal into the camp from low between the treeline. The afternoon was nearing an end. Perhaps one hour of light left at most. Krel decided that this was a good time to spring the attack. Their men would hopefully be beginning to wind down for the long night ahead, and setting camp. He gave the order to gather arms and fall into line. The three officers had been briefed as to his strategy and they had added one or two good ideas of their own.
“I want order in the ranks, officers,” he barked, as he mounted his steed.
The man in charge of the second group of footmen shouted back, “Good luck, Sir. We’ll see you at the other side.”
Krel smiled, and kicked his horse forward at a slow trot. Turning back to his troops, he cried out, “Take prisoners only when the battle is won. I want every one of them accounted for.”
His war horse trotted out a slow march ahead of the first line. As the strike force left the tree line and marched out into the road towards the field, they separated into two groups of four lines of soldiers, with the archers in a straight facing line immediately behind them. In the front of the two groups, the pikemen marched with pikes extended upward in the air, not yet forward for the charge. The rumble of hooves and boots embodied the violent, thunderous spirit of war.

Within moments of entering the field past the crossroads, mountain looming high in front of them, Krel heard a cry in the enemy camp. They had been spotted, as he expected, and this was the signal to increase the marching speed. It was not yet time for the charge, though. He was still hoping that the Delstantian commanders would order the men forward to engage in the field. If they gave the opposite order, to hold ranks at the base of Point Rise, his plan would have failed, and he would then have to halt and call his archers to scatter their squads. He could not afford a skirmish at their camp, within range of their bowmen.

Ahead of the advancing Garfinian force, Krel could see the panicked, but still quite orderly, command to arms being shouted. Their forty or so footmen looking small and insignificant from the distance across the field. Once his force had reached the centre of the grass-covered field, he raised his hand, and the soldiers behind him slowed to a halt. The jingle of armour and steel was the only sound he could hear behind him, other than the faster-paced breathing of the men. Here they would await the next move of their enemy, before deciding upon their own course of action.

“I want a two-and-two line formation,” he shouted to the officers, who quickly passed on the order. Within seconds, the four lines of twenty men, split into the two groups, had spread further across the width of the field. They had now become two horizontal lines of forty, and so it would appear that their numbers were greater to the enemy in the camp. As this was going on, the lines of men at the front of the enemy encampment was growing, swelling from the original ten or so guards who had been ready for a fight. Men could still be seen grabbing sword and shield, straightening helms and breastplates. Orders were heard being shouted across the camp, although their exact wording was not discernible.

The same officer who had shouted to Krel before the attack, strode forward to his general, “Sir, they are a pitiful band. We are allowing them time to prepare,” he whispered in a haughty, arrogant voice.
The lieutenant turned to look down at the man, a look of disdain on his face, “You would have us attack a camp, and be bombarded by arrows and magic?”
“Sir, surely their bowmen would not fire into the camp, risking the death of their own men?” he pointed out.
“We would be cut to half our numbers by the time we got to the perimeter of that encampment, Hedrian. Resume your unit’s command position, man!” he spat, disbelief and anger crossing his face. The man turned back to his group, his brow creased with bruised pride.

Krel saw at this point that the enemy would not take the field, their numbers now complete at the front of the camp. They stood, weapons raised and ready, massed in a wedge formation, the point towards their foes. That would make a charge more difficult. Their captain knew his advantage and preferred to let the Garfinian’s make the next move. Krel, however, took their formation as a boon, realising that the enemy had not seen that they had archers. He turned to his bowmen unit.
“Front line, disperse. Bowmen, advance to forward and attack the enemy lines!” he ordered with a twisted grin.
The front line spread apart to let the archers come through. The bowmen knocked their arrows and let fly skywards, their deadly rain almost silent as the missiles cut through the air like a diving falcon . With the failing light, it was a second or two before the order went up outside the camp to take cover. Too late, the men scattered and were run through by a hail of whistling arrows. Those that were not hit by the first wave had mere moments to fall back before they, too, met their end from a second wave.
Some thirty men were cut down, shields providing little cover. Cries and howls could be heard across the field, as footmen lay clutching at wooden shafts protruding from their ring armour.

The ten remaining footmen fell back into the camp, and took cover behind tents and shields.
Krel laughed loudly. His forces cheered. Such a simple tactic, and the battle was all but over. He would simply wait until the enemy made another mistake, and then circle the camp in a line. There was still of course the archers, but seeing their squad in tatters would probably cause them to run like cowards, he thought to himself.

Suddenly, a shout went up from behind him. Then cries of fright from his own men! He turned and was unprepared for what he saw. His seemingly victorious force was breaking up, men running in all directions and hacking at the ground in fear. Grass from the fields was growing and writhing, capturing the soldiers’ legs and arms, and strangling them were they stood. His own horse reared up and whinnied with alarm, throwing him from the saddle, before bolting away. He landed amongst the living grass, which was now waist-height. It tried to entangle his wrists and ankles, but he was quicker, and was chopping at it with his longsword. Having worked his way free, he ran east towards the eastern road, hopeful that this monstrous vegetation would not be able to follow onto the sand and rocks of the path.

“Disband,” he cried, not sure if anyone would notice the order, “fall back to the road!”
Chaos and destruction were being meted out to his men, as more and more fell silent among the mortified screams of those still living. Two of the three officers, Hedrian, and Barkus, the archers’ leader, had heard him and were rallying whomever remained and were free to run.

Krel reached the road first, and before long another twenty five of his men had made it to this unusual safehaven. All stared long into the field, where more than sixty of their comrades lay dead, almost buried alive in the terrible grass. The lieutenant turned his attentions to the enemy camp. The remaining foot soldiers were still there, cheers going up from their numbers at the destruction in the field. He saw the cause of the rout: Two robed humans, an elderly man, and a woman, were chanting from the camp, their concentration firmly on the field.
“They must be Druids, Sir!” Barkus cried, still pulling at some remaining lengths of grass which were entangled around his arms.
“What, what the hell-?” Krel asked, alarmed.
Barkus realised the ignorance of his captain, and explained.
“They’re nature priests, Sir. Strange magic whereby they command the trees, the plants, all things from the land and air. I had heard stories as a youngster, legends mainly, of faraway isles, and the nature priests there. I don’t think we have a chance with two of them in there, Sir.”
Krel scanned the trees, the mountain passes and what he could see of the mountain side in the gloom of dusk.
“By the gods! Where is Elonna?” he shouted desperately.


Chapter 9

By midday, the ship was halfway to its destination, the port of Alamandos in the north-west of Garfinia. From there, Will remembered, they were to travel by road to the capital city, under armed escort. He was thankful for that, given the progress the Delstantians seemed to be making in the Northern regions.
It had been playing on his mind all morning, why the Lord Cleric would want to see him, and why he had sent his most powerful arch-mage to fetch him and bring him back. He could only assume that it had something to do with the fact that he had been inside Jurathina, had seen its defences up close, such as the city walls, and the guard strengths, but that had been three years ago. Beyond that he had no idea why a nobody like himself would be of interest to the ruler of the entire continent.

He decided that morning that when the opportunity presented itself, he would find out a little more about the two shadowy men from the ‘Crab and Oyster’. He was hoping too that Garth and Kyle, their drinking partners from the previous evening, would leave him alone at some point so that he could find a moment to think freely. They had stuck like limpets to him from mid-morning.
Will sat on a barrel on deck, staring out at the Garfinian coast off the starboard bow. Deep blue sky met golden sand, slowly caressed by the tides and breezes of an inviting ocean. He wished that he could make use of the many sandy beaches they had seen so far that day, but was resigned to the fact that it was highly unlikely that, once the Lord Cleric had obtained his information or purpose from him, he would be free to even walk a street, let alone amongst the soft, warm grains of sand he could imagine between his toes.

Across from him was Kyle, leaning up against the side of the deck, fanning himself with his ridiculous green cloth cap. Garth sat on the deck itself looking decidedly off-colour from some bad goblin spirits he had consumed earlier.
“Damn goblins,” he boomed, in-between belches, “their stuff is the worst. It is cheap, though.”
Will stifled a laugh, but nearly fell off the barrel with the nasty look Garth flung at him.
“Now, now, you two,” Kyle grinned, his chin high in the air, wafting the cool air onto his increasingly sunburnt neck.
“I’ve had just about enough bad feelings from you both. Stop it now!” he commanded, cocking a wrist in Will’s direction.
Will wasn’t sure, but if Kyle had been any more vain and self-conscious, he might have locked himself up in a cabin all day with a mirror, with just his reflection to look at and converse with.

Will decided that creating pleasant conversation might allow him to eventually slip away, rather than force Kyle’s attention on him all the time by staying silent.
“Where was it that you said you were headed to?” Will inquired, not really caring what the answer was.
Kyle stopped fanning, a look of forgetfulness on his pampered features.
“I’ve forgotten! How terribly useless of me. Garth, stop choking, and tell the man where it is that we’re headed.”
Will looked over at the warrior, who rolled his eyes in irritation.
“I am headed to Garfin City. I don’t know where you are headed,” the big man growled at his multi-coloured companion.
Kyle’s face echoed the irritation playfully, “But that’s where I’m headed, my good fellow…”
Will groaned quietly and held his head in his hands, as they argued. Surely the Fates had not thought of such a cruel coincidence to plague him with. These two, the oaf and the vain conman, would be with him at least some of the journey, if not all of it! He decided to take his leave while they argued over their respective destinations.

By some good fortune, the two suspicious-looking characters were still on deck. Leaning over the port bow, lost in conversation. Will reckoned that this was as good a time as any to put his plan into action. He would go below decks to the living quarters, penetrate their room, and try to turn up any evidence which might convince Marellen that his fears really were justified. He had mentioned the men to her that morning, an hour or two into their journey, but she had waved the suggestion away, as a nobleman waves away an irritating servant. No doubt that she would still harbour disbelief, even with some sort of proof, he thought to himself.

Slipping away with accustomed ease, he opened the door to the decks below, where the rooms for the passengers were. No more than tiny cupboards, each contained three beds, arranged in a bunk fashion, one atop the other, with some floor space next to the beds leading to the porthole at the far wall. A small corridor led through to each door from the stairs leading down from the deck of the ship. Two lanterns, evenly spaced, along the corridor, gave light, which was dim, but sufficient. This was the first Will had seen of the living quarters, a crew member having taken Marellen’s pack down to their room when they boarded. He was thankful that their voyage was not an overnight one, once he had opened the first door on the left. It was unlocked and within the bunk beds looked hard and unforgiving, and the space to stand in front of them was meagre.

From the general untidiness of the room, small clothes strewn across the floor, and various shiny objects carefully placed upon the bedcovers, he guessed that this was the gnomes’ room. He doubted that any of the other passengers would have slept at all that night, because of the chatter from their four-foot-tall occupants. He closed the door, taking care not to disturb any of the chaotic scene inside.

Moving on to the next unknown door, he chose it from only two alternatives. He knew the number of his own cabin, and Garth had told him his and Kyle’s one during their conversation, leaving just two and a final door which was marked ‘storage cupboard’. Will listened at the first of the two doors. Within he could hear the hushed but excited conversation of the two young lovers. Their talk was of their wonderful future together, littered with promises and compliments. He did not listen for long, although the optimism with which they spoke was infectious. As he moved to the final door, his mind raced with possibilities for his own future: A farm or cottage; a wife and family of his own; the sun setting as he embraced his soulmate.

His daydream broke as the ship lurched to one side, throwing him off balance. Steadying himself against the wall, the lantern’s flame flickering above his head, he awaited the next exaggerated movement, but it never came, and so he continued with the task at hand. Listening for a moment at the door, he heard nothing, and withdrew the thin lockpicking tool he fashioned from a hairpin he had found in the Inn. A satisfyingly loud ‘click’, and the door swung open to reveal the secrets he was searching for.
A trunk at the far end, just below the small porthole window, was all that could immediately be seen of their belongings. Closing the door quietly behind him, he moved inside the room, glancing at the beds and corners for other objects, but there were none. He focused on the wooden trunk, a large iron bolt and padlock standing between his curiosity and its eventual satisfaction.

Although he was only twenty, Will had been a thief for some twelve of those, forced by a life of necessity and hardship. His skills as a burglar were rusty, not having made use of them for some two or three years. His preference was for pickpocketing, an easier profession yielding less reward, but also promising greater opportunities for escape. Nevertheless, his mind searched his wisdom regarding padlocks and keyholes, and came up with the correct information: Check for traps first. Every sensible person in that day and age made sure that their valuables were safely stowed under lock and key, especially when travelling. But those who had more to hide, or more to lose, took extra assurances. Such as poison needle traps, or exploding incendiaries wired to the mechanism. Others made use of magic traps, web spells and the like, entrapping the offending thief, or more likely killing him.
Will had experience of some of these, having been schooled in most contemporary traps at the Thieves’ Guild, and having learnt first-hand on one or two aborted burglaries. He examined the padlock, taking care not to move it. His speed was hampered by his not having his usual set of tools. Most of the wires and implements within that set having a singular use, for times when the more exotic lock or trap was encountered. He was sure his lockpick could suffice, however, in this case. No trap. Or at least none he could identify. He twisted the pick upwards, and the padlock snapped open. He grinned, satisfaction crossing his face . Will had worried that the years in Moss Glen prison had dulled his talents, but, it seemed, they were still there, and evidently still effective.

The ship lurched once more, and he steadied himself by holding onto the beds. It must be undercurrents, or an errant wind catching the sails sideways, he assured himself. Once confident that the ship would not hamper his efforts again, he lifted the trunk’s lid, and examined the contents within.
After memorising the positions of the top objects in the trunk, he began to move them, one at a time, to study the secrets they would reveal to him. Falsified birth records; he knew because he had had some made for the contract to Jurathina, the ink not looking quite right to a trained eye. That would indicate that they were not from Garfinia. Their accents could arouse suspicion from town militia, and they would be required to prove that they were not Delstantian spies. Three swords, all short, probably for ease of movement and their ability to be hidden on their person. Some more outfits, all black. Boots, soft soled; no good for marching, but ideal for stealthy movement. They were spies, Will calculated, obviously from the other side in the Ascension Wars. But why would they travel on a ship from Skirlburg to Alamandos, he wondered. Why not just travel straight across to Alamandos and then through to their ultimate destination?

His puzzlement gave way to fear, as his keen hearing picked out movement in the corridor. Quickly replacing the contents, taking care to position the top objects as they were when he had opened the trunk, he closed the lid, and locked the padlock.
The door’s lock rattled as the person outside attempted to open it, but found that it was not secured. Will hid immediately behind the door, in the space between it and the bed. It would swing in towards him, and the intruder would have to enter with a blind spot behind the open door to his left. Will was sure that the knife he gripped tightly in his hand could afford him some protection, given that he had left the crowbar with Marellen, and she had surely put it in her pack.
The wooden door swung open, into the room, it’s hinges squealing softly. Light flooded in, adding to the small amount through the small, dirty porthole. An indistinct shadow of a person was evident on the floor of the room, stretching all the way to the front of the trunk. And then the door slammed shut, and Will was face to face with one of the men. A dark-haired bearded man of about six feet towered over him, grabbing the thief by the throat, and flinging him towards the trunk. Pain stung Will as he crashed headlong into the heavy wooden frame, his knife flying from his grasp under the bunk.

The fight was over moments after it had begun, Will unable to move quickly enough, and being pinned down to the floor by the spy. Surprisingly, the strong man did not break his neck, but loosened his grip, seeing that his intruder was dazed.
“You should not have come here,” he hissed, his eyes intense.
Leaving Will for the moment and opening the trunk, he checked to see the extent of the invasion.
Turning to the thief, who had now sat up against the lowest bed clutching his dulled head, he whispered, “You are the one called Will, are you not?”
Will’s eyes widened with surprise, and he nodded, the pain still making it difficult for him to talk.
“You must listen to me now. Your very life may depend upon what I will say,” he said, very softly.
He glanced up at the door, as though he had heard a sound, but Will was sure that he had not. Moving over to it, the man locked it, then returned and crouched down next to Will.
“My name is Ridber, but that is unimportant. You travel with a sorceress called Marellen. She is a servant of the Lord Cleric, is this not true?” he said, seemingly assuring Will of his knowledge.
Will did not speak, although the pain had subsided, and he could have if he had wanted to. He nodded once again.
The man stared deep into Will’s bloodshot eyes, and his hand then took hold of the thief’s shoulder. His grip was strong, and it seemed to burn through his tunic.
“Everything they will tell you is a lie.”

* * *

Will returned to the deck, amazed by what he had heard. Leaving the man below in the room, he began to unravel this revelation. Now he would have to decide whether to believe the spy and distrust Marellen. As he emerged into the fresh sea air, he first looked for the spy’s companion. The man was propped up against a mast, drinking from a small hip flask, and he glanced up and nodded reassuringly at Will as the two stared at each other across the deck. The spy had given him a ring. A magical ring of Truesight, which according to him, would allow Will to see through any illusion. Will fingered the small ring in his pocket, thinking that it didn’t feel very magical.
He had only once before seen or touched a magic ring. Will had stolen it from a wizard of the Burning Star Order, he had discovered later, and had barely escaped with his life when the mage had found him in his hideout in Moss Glen. Needless to say, the old man took it back, and Will never found out what its powers were. He remembered that that ring had not felt or seemed magical either.
The spy told him that he would know the time to use this ring.

The thief joined Marellen, who was injecting her biting sarcasm into a conversation with Kyle and the big warrior. All three turned as Will neared.
“Will, my fine friend, have you taken a nap below? You were gone some time,” the Bard shouted, no doubt pleased that another pair of ears would be privileged to hear his voice.
He waved his slight hand in the veteran’s direction. The big man was still very much hung over, and had turned to a large tankard of what looked like water to help him back to health. “Garth was just saying that you looked a bit green around the gills, weren’t you Garth?”
His red beard was wet with water, probably having earlier splashed it onto his face to keep from passing out. He shook his head, and took another swig from the mug.
“Oh, of course you did, you big buffoon,” he turned back to Marellen, “Anyway, as I was saying, the ogre nearly trapped the unicorn, but the gorgeous beast escaped, spurred on by a wondrous rainbow that rose up before him.”
Marellen was having none of this.
“You’re lying, Bard. You would have to be over three hundred years old to have seen that,” she smiled bitterly, the end of one of her eyebrows turning up, “The last surviving unicorn was killed three centuries ago.”
Kyle ignored her, turning instead to Will, “Well, I remember a time when wizards and sorceresses would help people. Now they’re just engrossed in silly things, like gaining immense power or masses of gold. Ridiculous.”
She completely ignored his jibe, noticing instead that Will kept rubbing the back of his head. And his clothes were slightly ruffled around the collar. Again her eyebrow raised.


Chapter 10

Khirron and Bryn’s plan to avoid the Delstantians had failed. They were huddled behind some large rocks on the Eastern slope of the mountain, pinned down by an archer. Completely unable to move, Bryn’s sword had been knocked out of his hand by the force of an arrow, when he had tried to test their attacker’s accuracy by holding the blade out in front of him. The arrow’s momentum had nearly taken his arm with it as well. He lay next to Khirron, clutching his bruised shoulder, thankful that his arm was at least intact.

“What can we do?” he asked the paladin, but Khirron was at a loss.
“There’s more than just the one,” Khirron said, gloomily, “If we try to climb, one of the others is bound to be luckier than his colleague, and if we descend or move right or left, same result.”
He scanned the valley below, with its thick tree growth, sure that a few moments earlier he had noticed movement near the edge of the trees, just on the other side of the pass.
“We can’t make a break for it when it gets dark, either, because there’s someone in that forest. We should count ourselves lucky he hasn’t fired on us yet!” he sighed.
“We’ll have to give up. Wave a white flag, or something,” Bryn ventured.

They didn’t have to though. Three distinct objects whistled past close to the positions of their would-be attackers. They thudded into something soft, having originated, Khirron was sure, from the trees below. The noises repeated a further five times, ending at different points on the mountain face, and Bryn suggested that they sounded very much like arrows. At least they weren’t being fired upon themselves, whoever it was in the trees below concentrating on the Delstantians who had them pinned down.

Another arrow whizzed by, much higher up the mountainside, and a few pebbles and sand tumbled down the rockface, covering the mage and the paladin in dust. They looked up carefully and noticed an archer scampering along the flatter level near the top of the peak. He was almost certainly running away now, not liking his chances against an enemy who was completely covered by trees. His foe took aim again, and instantly his lifeless body tumbled down the mountainside, a small landslide of rocks and stones following it.
Bryn noticed a slight figure emerge from the trees below, cross the eastern pass and begin a cautious ascent in their direction. They decided that to surrender would be a good option given that this person could probably pick them off at a range of over four hundred yards. Holding their hands aloft, they waited nervously for their unusual benefactor to arrive.

As the figure neared, they began to realise, even in the gloom that it was female. She wore black leggings, and a black blouse, with a large belt around her waist. A dark blue cape flowed behind her as she climbed towards them, her strides becoming more assured. Her head was covered by a hood which seemed to be part of the cape, but they could not be sure. Before she reached them, she spoke.
“I do not know who you are, but since my enemy sought to kill you, I have no quarrel with you. I have more yet to do, so you may come with me, or leave. Whichever is your preference.”
Her voice was like an angel’s, but the tone with which words were spoken seemed like a stone’s: lifeless and disinterested.
When she removed her hood, they were disarmed by the beauty of the woman. Her close-cropped red hair the only feature to detract from her elegance. Sharp eyebrows and pointed elven ears framed her deep brown eyes and perfect nose. Bryn was sure now that the parents he had never known must have been a human male and an elven woman.
She spoke again, having reached the two men, who were still dressed in their prison outfits.
Although his ancestry was not discernible by any part of him other than his covered ears and wiry frame, the woman had already recognised his racial mix.
“You, half-breed,” she pointed at Bryn, “Get your sword. And you, old man, make your choice. I haven’t the time to waste. What is your decision?”
The paladin was still smarting from her reference to him as “old man”, but grudgingly indicated their willingness to accompany her, at least for the time being, he thought. Her skills might just allow them to escape without more Delstantians emerging and picking them off.

It was at this moment that they heard the screams. Quite near, yet muffled. Probably near the base of the mountain closest to the field. Elonna hurried toward a vantage point, Khirron following close behind. Within a few minutes, they reached a point near to the northern-most edge of the mountain, while still being on the east slope. From there they beheld chaos before them on the field. At the foot of the mountain, a camp, many soldiers lying dead just outside it. On the field, something that Khirron had never thought he would ever see. An army in tatters, men running this way and that, screams and shouts invading the stillness of approaching darkness. Many men were entangled in the field, struggling with some unseen foe. Unless, of course, that foe was the field. Strangled cries were silenced one after another, as the army was cut down by Nature itself. Archers, having abandoned their longbows, were fleeing or caught by the ankles and covered in an instant by thick suffocating grass and weeds. The footsoldiers hacked and sliced at the vegetation, a hundred times larger than the surrounding grass. And a single horse galloped away from the madness, the only certain survivor. Except a dozen men, maybe more, who had reached the road, Khirron observed.

The half-elf caught up with them, and nearly lost his balance on the slope as he noticed the spectacle.
"What is that? Some sort of living grass. I'd heard tales about it, but never…"
Elonna cut in, "No, it is the two spellcasters in that camp," pointing at the druids.
She managed to tear her concentration away from the rueful scene, to scan for her next targets. Whatever happened now to the strike force, she knew that she would have to remove the two causing the havoc.
Elonna turned to the two men, "Will you assist me?", she asked, in the same unemotional voice as before.
Khirron was sure that she didn't care whether they did or not, that his answer would simply alter her plan of attack slightly.
Bryn nodded to Khirron who was looking to him for an answer, "OK, but I'm not sure that there is much we can do."
The elf bent down and traced a crude map of the camp and surrounding terrain.
"If I were to attack with my bow, it would lose us the surprise. The mages would take cover and continue their assault," she explained casually.
"You create a diversion. Can you handle a number of soldiers?" she asked.
Bryn's face drained of colour, but the paladin saw this and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. He smiled at the woman.
"My friend and I can do it. What do you suggest?"


Inside the camp, the surviving Delstantian soldiers were at ease, laughing and shouting at the torment of their foes. The commanders had seen that some of the enemy had survived and were trapped some distance away on the open road.
"You, man," the older one pointed at a soldier, partially wounded by an arrow which had grazed his arm, "I want you to climb to the signalling position on Point Rise, and get those two teams of bowmen down here. Fast."
The man saluted and scrambled off up the slope. The commander felt that if the druids, who had stopped animating the wild grass to prepare the next more powerful spell, could not destroy the enemy, his archers would do it at distance, without risking more of his flagging unit. His orders were to defend Point Rise, until reinforcements in the shape of a squad of knights could reach them, having come across the sea by ship. He knew that even at full gallop, it might take until the afternoon of the next day before they arrived from the coast.
With night almost upon the valley, he wanted to end the conflict soon, before his beaten foes escaped. He took that moment to survey the damage. Only ten of his combat unit remained, plus the ten archers in the mountains, the two druids, and he and his second-in-command.

He turned his attention to the druids. He had never really gotten to know them. He felt that was how they liked it, though. Their part in the War was assured so long as their interests were being served. He smiled bitterly, knowing that their loyalty lay only with the land, the animals, and themselves. Once the war was over, they would return to their secret forests and disappear from the world for another thousand years. That was assuming that the King's army won it, of course.
The man and the woman were crushing crystals with a mortar and pestle, and mixing some sort of liquid into the dust. All the while they were chanting. Crazy lot, these druids, but a useful ally, he agreed grudgingly.

Suddenly, his cape blew up around his head, momentarily blinding him, and the smell that one associates with a thunderstorm was thick in the air. He turned his attention skyward, and he noticed that the laughter and noise that his men had been making was hushed in awe. Above them a mighty thundercloud was seemingly unfolding before their eyes, lightning glowing within every few seconds, and a deep, foreboding rumble followed each flash. They could see the height of the vast pillar of cloud from the glittering within which cast an eerie glow upon the field. The commander saw his foes, huddled together in a defensive formation out on the road. No doubt, they too were awed by the massive cloud which grew moment by moment above them.

Then he realised what was taking place. The druids were summoning the cloud from nothing. They were deep in concentration, pooling their efforts, their chanting rising and falling in time with the thunder booming from the cloud. The rest of the night sky was clear, the moon still shone with a brilliance, but it was the lightning within the cloud which was causing the greater illumination.

Their chanting was momentarily interrupted, however, by a small rock thrown from some unseen attacker near the mountain. The spell was not broken. All of the men turned, and saw a thin small man waving a sword above his head and shouting obscenities at them. The commander recognised the clothes he wore almost immediately. He shouted an order to his men above the crashing thunderclaps.
"He's a madman, probably escaped from prison. Kurt, take four of your men, and go and get him. We can't have him ruining the spell," he ordered, and his second-in-command gathered four soldiers and headed off up the mountain slope, weapons drawn.
Bryn waited a few moments, as he saw the soldiers heading for him, before he turned and scampered off up towards the eastern slope. Khirron had agreed to enter the camp and attempt to quietly knock unconscious as many of the remaining footmen as possible. Elonna, however, had not discussed her plan with the two, but the paladin was sure that she would try to dispatch the druids soon enough.

Lightning streaked down from the thunderhead, and a massive explosion rocked the road where Krel and his surviving team sat. Three of the men were thrown several yards into the air, dying before they had hit the ground. Most of the others, Krel included, were knocked backwards, their ears completely deafened by the strike. He screamed orders to break rank and find cover, but the words died in his mouth, as he realised that his men were already scattering. Another lightning bolt lit up the gloom around the road, and blasted rock shards into the air. Several more of the survivors were seared by the deadly debris.
In the camp, there was as much confusion as out in the road. Two footmen engaged Khirron in a swordfight nearby.
The last five of the soldiers had been fighting a seemingly invisible enemy, darkness aiding Elonna as she satisfied the controlled blood lust which welled up within her in every fight. Her way was blocked to the spellcasters by the commander.

She hissed at him, "You must stand aside, and flee. I want only those two."
The commander, of course, was not a coward, and had to restrain his laughter at her arrogance. Raising his broadsword in a knight's salute he feinted left, then slashed at her unprotected chest. This was what she had expected, though, and one of the two curved daggers she held parried the blow with ease, drawing him off balance and away from her. He regained his footing, and turned, only in time to glimpse her other dagger arcing through the night air and smashing into his throat. His eyes misted over and he fell to his knees. Dropping his sword, he clutched with both hands at the dagger's blade, but removing it only caused the blood to flow forth faster, and gush onto the ground before him. His last breath gurgled in his blood-filled mouth, as he fell face-forward and died at her feet.

Khirron had tried to allow the men to surrender, but that had merely encouraged their attack. The paladin had made short work of one of the soldiers, but the more experienced chap was dodging his scimitar with ease. The man had even struck twice, Khirron having no armour or shield to parry the blows. Only slight wounds, however, his blood welled up on the torn material which hung from the slashed areas. And then Khirron spotted the man's weakness: he always placed his weight on his front foot when slashing, and did not rock back to his trailing foot quickly enough if the blow missed. A few parries more, and the two men circled each other within the ring of tents. Occasional flashes of lightning lit up their peripheral vision, but both men never removed their eyes from each other.
Khirron's chance had come. The warrior slashed forward at his right shoulder, but the paladin did not block or return the blow. He simply slid forward and with his left leg, kicked the man's front foot away from him. He crashed forward onto the dusty floor, and was silenced forever as his head was removed by the heavy rusted scimitar. Immediately, the paladin turned his attention to the druids.

The were completely focussed on Elonna, the lightning cloud having dissipated once their chanting had permanently ceased. They had disarmed the elf by causing the metal in her daggers to boil, Elonna gasping as her gloveless hands reddened from the burns. However, when they saw that Khirron was approaching, along with Krel and his surviving men, they simply disappeared in a magical cloud of dust.

* * *

A short while later, Bryn returned, having double-backed on his pursuers. He had seen archers as well, and had nearly been hit, although the darkness had allowed his escape. They were close behind him, he reported.
Krel introduced himself to the three heroes, still having to shout and be shouted at, his ears ringing from the earlier lightning bolts.
When the Delstantians arrived, they were captured without much fight, knowing that their cause was lost without the druids, even if the knights arrived the next day.
They all returned to General Nehemie within two hours, victorious but still stunned by the power of the nature priests. Krel insisted that the paladin and half-elf change from their prison clothes into spare army uniforms before setting off, so that their past transgressions would not prejudice their heroic acts that night. The paladin and the half-elf stood alongside Elonna before the imposing General Nehemie. A look of pride filled the general’s face. Around them, in the centre of the camp, the battalion soldiers stood hushed, watching eagerly the scene which unfolded near the massive campfire. It was close to midnight, yet no man wanted to sleep and miss the introductions of these two new heroes, and the almost certain revelries afterwards.

To the left of the General stood Krel, having changed out of his battledress, soiled green and dusty by the events at Point Rise. He moved to bridge the space between his general and his new colleagues.
“My lord, the three heroes of the Battle of Point Rise,” indicating with his hand each of the three in turn, “You already know Elonna, of course. She slew the enemy Commander, quite easily, I am told. She also forced the dangerous nature priests to flee, effectively winning the battle for us.”
Nehemie stepped forward, a thin smile evident from the glow and shadow cast by the crackling fire.
“Of course, but what else could we expect from our Elven Assassin?”
He took her hand, “Failure is not an option. Your service and loyalty are exemplary, my dear Elonna.”
He stared intently at the elf for several moments, and she shuffled with uneasiness at his gaze, sure that she saw some sort of desire there. Retracting her hand, she looked away from the tall, powerful, disturbing leader.
The lieutenant and the general moved to the next in line.
“May I present the young mage, Bryn, my lord,” Krel said, grasping Bryn’s shoulder.
“His part is no less impressive, having led some of the enemy a merry dance, before ensuring they were captured by our men.”
Not entirely true, of course. But tales of valour were rarely precise.
The general towered above the mage, and he looked at him with puzzlement.
“My good man, your livery betrays your magical prowess. Were you forced to change from your usual outfit?” he said with cunning in his voice.
Krel stepped in, as Bryn stumbled with what to answer, “Sir, his and his companion’s clothes were badly torn and broken in the fight. I suggested they change into the only garments we could provide.”
“Very good. Very good. I thank you Bryn, as does I’m sure Lieutenant Krel,” he hissed, his eyes thin slits, and his mind clearly at work.
Lastly he turned to Khirron, the paladin looking on with unease.
“And this, Sir, is Khirron, a noble warrior. Who accounted for many of the Delstantian guards while Elonna pursued her targets,” Krel said, sure that the general would take to the new man, a combat veteran like himself.

Yet again, he was deep in thought as he thanked Khirron. The two stared at each other for a few moments, and then a faint look of recognition burst forth onto Nehemie’s face.
“A noble warrior, yes. Have we not met before? Perhaps fought together in some battle years ago, when we were both younger, and perhaps, less noble?” he laughed, his deep voice betraying some sort of dislike of Khirron.
The paladin was sure that he and Nehemie had never met, but that there was some history or ill-feeling there. Had he still his faith, he would have been able to determine the man’s allegiance to good or evil.
“Or perhaps we fought on opposing sides,” he retorted, preferring to leave the discussion at that point.
The general stepped back and spread his arms wide, “Once more, my gratitude to you all, and to the warriors who fought bravely in our victory today. Come, we shall feast!” he boomed, and a hearty cheer rose from the troops all around. He moved toward the heroes, and smiled thinly, “There is good news! I have communed with our Lord Cleric, and he wishes to meet you three. Tomorrow, you ride to his castle. A great honour!”
Bryn and Khirron exchanged disturbed looks.

Turning to Krel, he whispered throatily, “I want the prisoners’ interrogations to begin as soon as the revelries have ended for the night. I put you in charge of that. Find out what their objectives were, and what part these druids are to play in the War.”


Chapter 11

Once the Golden Gull had docked safely in the harbour, it was time for farewells, however grudgingly. Will and Marellen waved goodbye to the bard and the big warrior, glad to be rid of them at last. The evening was a fine and warm one, but a breeze chilled the air somewhat, and storm clouds were moving in from the West. Gregor, the dwarven captain, was barking orders to his crew to batten down the hatches and secure all objects on deck, sure that the squall which was coming would be a strong one.
“I’m afraid that we will have to travel in the storm, Will,” Marellen said, coldly.
The thief had noticed her sour towards him somewhat, if that was at all possible. He put it down to his leaving her with the two pests for some time that day, but he wasn’t completely sure. After hearing the warning that the spy had imparted to him, he began to distrust her every action, while still trying to retain his casual, friendly demeanour. He felt the ring in his pocket, its cold circumference somehow reassuring in all of his confusion.
“I’ll be OK,” he assured her, attempting to note any emotion that her features would expose.

The spies had disappeared from the ship seemingly as soon as it had docked. Their work only half-complete, perhaps, while the gnomes were the last to leave, squabbling over whose shiny comb, or bit of crystal, it was. They looked a strange, comical sight leaving the ship with their garments slung across their backs, pockets bulging with useless objects.

The port of Alamandos was not nearly as busy as Skirlburg, townsfolk being far more reserved with the large guard detachment which was stationed in the town, surveying every vessel’s departing passengers for possible spies. A strong stench of rotting fish polluted the air, small fishing boats returning before the storm hit the bay.

A pair of town guardsmen headed towards Marellen, and she duly waited by the boarding plank until they had arrived. Will’s heart was pounding, having to suppress the desire to escape.
“M’Lady Marellen,” the taller one spoke, as they both bowed, “the Lord Cleric’s carriage awaits. We have been instructed to…”
“Yes, yes,” she cut in, impatiently, “I suggest we hurry. The squall will penetrate inland, I fear.”
Within a few minutes they were away. The carriage, more luxuriously appointed than even the Provincial Provost’s Will had hid under a long time ago, bore them swiftly out of the town, and into the very strong gusts of wind along the winding road which cut through the fields of sugar cane, on its journey towards Garfin City.

Will, who was not content to merely sit back and endure the numbing ride of the carriage, which conversed with bumps and shakes, stared out of the window most of the way. The countryside was unimaginably beautiful, even though the approaching darkness and the grey storm clouds cast a pallid hue upon everything. There were vast sweeping fields of green, and hills beyond which the eye could not see. Crystal clear rivers and small lakes dotted here and there, and all the while, this single road cut through all of the beauty.
He even stared at the guards for some time. They were in full honour dress, armour polished, silk and steel comfortably fused. They trotted alongside the carriage in a drilled formation, ensuring the safety of those within. Will was not convinced though, that eight knights, however battle-hardened they were, could hold off a small band of brigands who, in a forest, would surely cut two or three of them down before even showing themselves. But his fears were allayed, however, with the thought of the monsters and magic Marellen could evoke.

He sat back and, before long, engaged in conversation with the icy mage.
“I feel it is only right, Marellen, that you warn me about the Lord Cleric. What sort of man he is, and what he will want from me,” he said, still wary of the cunning of the woman who sat before him.
She looked at Will, like a lioness who seeks out patiently the weak and infirm amongst a herd of wild beast, glancing around his whole frame.
She can sense the ring! he thought, slightly alarmed. But he relaxed as she softened, realising that she was not completely aware of its location or what it was. If she were, she would have taken it by now.
“Young thief, you must not worry. What the Lord Cleric will require is well within your abilities, and you will be glad to give it. For it is your land that you will be serving, and great rewards will await your return,” she said coolly, a difficult smile emerging on her lips.
Will smiled inside. He had won a further piece of information with which to prepare himself.
“I will be returning? From where?” He feigned undue concern.
She waved a hand dismissively, “You have but hours to wait, and your curiosity will be fully satisfied. I can tell you no more.”
She paused, “Perhaps there are other questions you would ask. About the war or the Lord Cleric’s lands?”
Will had not been especially concerned with anything other than his immediate welfare these past two days. Now that he could relax and formulate questions, his mind was a blank page.
“I, uh, don’t really know anything about the Lord Cleric. Other than his peerless rule,” he lied, hoping to gather more preparation for what lay ahead. It was like a battle between two evenly matched armies on a battlefield, a stalemate.
Marellen countered.
“Then you already know much about him. I am sure that you would not want to hear about those things that are evident from his reputation.”
Will tried another avenue.
“Please tell me about his faith. Why he is known as the Lord Cleric.”

The mage took a moment to weigh up the tactical disadvantages of this question, and then, deciding that there were none which were significant, continued.
“He is the greatest holy man in Garfinia, that there ever was or will be. Every priest and cleric come before him to learn what their destinies are. He communes with the gods of Good at all times. He knows what their will is, what they require of him and his people. You might say that he is their vessel, their emissary. It is obvious, then, why he has the title of Lord Cleric.”
She sat back, content with her answer.
Will steeled himself for her response to this question.
“Why then must he make war upon the Delstantians, if the gods of Goodness ally with him. Surely they are stronger than any other force within the world?”
He was right to be concerned. Marellen’s features darkened, her cheeks became a crimson red.
“It is not my Lord who makes war upon the King. You should check your history, my young pickpocket,” she growled, “The King is really the demon, Kuhra-tu’ur!”


Will’s own face drained of colour, his skin prickling, “The-the King of Delstantia is a demon?” he stammered, fearful now of the part he would play in the very near future.
This was certainly not common knowledge.
Check-mate. Marellen bristled with the victory she had just secured, but could not halt there.
“He desires the continent of Garfinia, and then his power and rule will be complete. He will bind the world with evil, and the gods of Good will lose this world to darkness.”
The thief scrambled for some sort of refuge within his mind.
“But why do the gods of Good not simply remove the King, and banish him back to his underworld?” he questioned, anticipating the answer.
“The demon has entered the mortal plane. It is here that he must be vanquished, or must be victor,” she explained, a distressed look in her eye.
“You see now, Will, the part that you must play. You will have a hand in all that is good within this world. You must aid the Lord Cleric in his battle with this creature of evil.”
The thief was not finished though, his mind searching the past for some clue as to what the truth was.
“But I have been to Delstantia, to Jurathina City. You must know that. And I have seen that Kingdom. It appears prosperous though its resources are strained by war. The population do not appear as though they are controlled by evil,” he questioned.
Marellen shook her head, disappointment showing through her face.
“I am saddened by your unwillingness to look beyond what is superficial, dear thief. The demon controls the land, sucks it dry, and he does it through coercion. The people of his kingdom would die for him,” she hissed “He has all of eternity to claim his prize…”

Will was not allowed to gain any more answers, as a shout went up from outside.
Marellen’s dark eyes took on a look of contentment.
“We are at Garfin City, Will, and your destiny awaits you.”
Chapter 12


The city was designed centuries before with splendour and magnificence in mind. Its streets were all of cobblestone, and every building was a shade of white. It seemed that dirt and time could not dull the vision which greeted Will that morning through the open window in the castle.
He looked out upon the city beyond the high fortress walls, and was sure that he would desire to live there for an eternity. Marble and quartz adorned nearly every structure, aiding the gloriously opulent nature of the capital. A winding river cut through the middle of the city, small boats upon it carried along by currents under bridges with carved reliefs on their flanks. Following the river back to its beginnings with his eyes, his breath was further denied escape, as he saw the most fantastic mountain, adorning Garfin City with its stature. Birdsong assailed his ears, each beautiful group of notes repeating every few moments, as they sung to one another, oblivious to the war which was raging less than two day’s ride north.

They had arrived at the castle soon after entering the city’s gates that night, many of the citizens appearing at the side of the main road to watch its passage, curious and respectful. Marellen had ensured that his room in the castle was commodious and welcoming, and he had quickly fallen into sleep’s comforting arms.
The events and realisations of the previous day were still playing upon his mind, and conscience. Which truths was he to believe, and which lies to disregard? He could only hope that the audience with the Lord Cleric later that morning would satisfy some of the questions burdening his soul.

* * *

The glorious day welcomed him forth, however. Only a knock at the door could tear him from the sights and sounds of the world outside.
“Enter, please,” he shouted.
A young serving girl entered, bearing a silver tray which was bedecked with many wild fruits, bread, and cheeses. A flagon of water, and one of wine, completed the feast, and this was merely breakfast.
After washing, he clothed himself in a fresh outfit, which had been brought to him after his meal. The stone floors and walls of the castle existed in stark contrast with the city’s majesty. Their cool, grey surfaces doing much to hamper the heat of the Summer outside, but what of Winter, Will wondered?

Within a few moments of his leaving his room and setting out to discover the castle for himself, an elderly man introduced himself to the thief as Derek.
“I am assistant to the Lord Cleric, young Sir,” he whispered, the merest conversation echoing through the stone corridors.
His frail frame and white hair indicated his age, but his assuredly proud stance confirmed his noble servitude.
“My Lord commands me to your side, so that I may introduce to you his castle, and all that it has to offer you, Sir,” he continued.
Will was unused to the stuffiness of station, and insisted that Derek refer to him by his first name only.
“As you wish, young Will,” he struggled, unused to informal references.

They covered much distance that morning, the old man showing Will all of the castle’s splendour and functionality. The pair focused upon some statues about fifty feet up on the castle’s single stone spire.
“Those, Sir, are the gargoyles which legend says protect the structure of this fortress. Were intruders to penetrate the walls, those beasts would attack,” he said in a very light-hearted tone.
“You don’t seem to believe that particular legend, Derek,” Will said, attempting to continue the first really interesting moment of their walk.
Derek shook his head, “I have been here through three assaults upon the castle, and never once did they live up to their grisly reputation. Stone, grey and lifeless, is all they are.”
He touched Will’s arm, “Purest myth, young Will, but it livens up this otherwise dull tour.”
They both chuckled heartily, their laughter echoing in the front courtyard.
And then the noonday bell sounded, and Derek whisked Will away to the Main Hall.

* * *

When Will entered the unimaginably huge hall, he realised he was not the only guest in the castle. Three figures sat at the massive oak table. Two of them he recognised, although he could not immediately remember where from. They were a warrior with silver-grey hair, and a smaller man, dressed in a grey cloak and robes. A mage.

There too sat an elven woman, quite the most beautiful female of any race he had ever set eyes upon. Her short red spiked hair and pointed elven ears were remarkable. But it was her eyes which captured his soul, as she looked up at him. They were large and as brown as the flanks of a new-born deer, and equally as captivating, He could see, though even from across the room, that there was a despairing hollowness within them.
He had to force himself to look away, his curiosity winning through to his senses, and directed his eyes firmly upon the figure which sat at the table’s head. The Lord Cleric, he surmised. Although the man wore the fine livery of a king and holy man, his features suggested a lowly birth. He was a noble, but his looks did not suggest that he was. His eyes were dark and large, his cheeks gaunt and his chin long. His hair was as black as a night with no moons. Perhaps it was his reputation which had formulated a different picture of the Lord Cleric, but Will could almost not believe that this man was he.

When he spoke, the voice was certainly kingly, however. It boomed with a throaty growl, even when he was pleased.
“Ah, and this would be our final guest. Will, please be seated, and make yourself comfortable,” he smiled.
It seemed genuine enough, Will thought. Moving nearer to the table to take a seat at the right of the elfwoman, he thought he noticed shocked expressions on the faces of the two men opposite.
The Lord Cleric continued, “I have enlightened our other guests here as to the King of Delstantia’s origins, as I’m sure you have been by my dear Lady Marellen.”
As if by some rehearsed timing, Marellen entered the hall from a side door and approached the gathering. Will merely glanced at her before resuming his appraisal of their host. The three others turned to view her as she advanced to the table.

The holy man rose from his seat and with outstretched hand began introductions.
“To my left, Bryn and Khirron, newly discovered heroes of the realm,” they both looked up at him, and then at Will, “To my left, our legendary servant, Elonna,” he looked deeply at the thief, “And the final member of the group, Will, whose roguish experience will be of profound use, I’m sure.”
This last comment raised the eyebrows of the other three.
Elonna voiced her surprise first, “I beg your forgiveness, my Lord, but what is this group that you have just mentioned, and why are we all here?”
The Lord Cleric grinned, his imperfectly positioned teeth evident.
“Your question, dear Elonna, will be answered as will all of yours, I’m certain, by Marellen,” he drew his hand across and motioned to her.

She moved around the table’s side, behind the half-elf and paladin, and joined the Lord on his left. Looking at each guest intently before starting, she drew out a small scroll, opened it and placed it on the table.
“This is an intercepted message from one of the King’s spies. Its contents have already been confirmed by the experiences of three of you at the Battle of Point Rise.”
The ample light from many large torches, ensconced on the four walls of the Hall, danced upon her face.
“The King has overcome the lack of magic in his forces by sealing a pact with the Druids of Thrine. Once thought to be only mythical, they have emerged from their caverns and mountain dwellings, and taken interest in the conflict.”

The four guests looked at each other, confusion evident in their faces.
“The King’s forces have established a stronghold in the north, and they are able to strengthen it daily by moving men across the ice wastes in the extreme north. They continually attack our western flanks with increasing numbers. Our hope is pinned on the pact with the elves, but that may not come for weeks,” she said with a dire note in her voice.
She continued, “My Lord has decided that the time to act is now. Your objective will be the death of the King.”
The half-elf swallowed nervously, and Khirron whispering, echoed the last words of Marellen’s sentence, death of the King.
Something other than the mission was causing the paladin discomfort. The feeling had begun immediately upon his meeting the Lord Cleric, and it had heightened once Marellen entered the room. It was a strong gnawing sensation in the pit of his stomach. He glanced at the others, but they showed no sign of similar discomfort, and so he put it down to the food he had eaten earlier in the day.
The Lord Cleric, staring at each of the four in turn, rested his eyes upon Will.
“You, Will, have seen the King’s defences. Have been within the city. You can get these three into his fortress,” his hand closed to a fist, “Get them close enough to that demon.”
This was too much for the thief, and he blurted out a protest, “But- but, I…”, which was completely ignored by the Lord Cleric.
He was already regarding the mage and paladin.
They both sat, staring fixedly into space, mouths agape. Bryn blinked away from his imaginings of how they could accomplish the task, and stammered, “Uh, how, how do we kill a-a demon?”
Marellen had anticipated the question, and answered the half-elf.
“You will not actually kill him. I will be with you, and will cast a protection spell upon you all. With it in place, you will be able to defeat his body, and return the demon to the underworld, never to return again.”

Elonna sat quietly, shifting in her chair every few moments, no doubt less uncomfortable with the mission as the other three. She had killed many men, most of them extremely powerful. A demon held little extra worry for her.
The paladin did not like the idea of coming face-to-face with the single-greatest threat of evil without his faith.
“And what if we refuse?” he blurted, rising from his seat.
The Lord Cleric did not blink, his smile did not leave his face.
“I do not think that you will. Your land needs your protection, against an evil which you once swore to defeat, even to your last breath.”
Khirron moved backwards with shock, his face a mask, but inside was turmoil.
“How did you know?” was all he could force out.
Marellen stepped in, irritated at the man’s arrogance.
“You question the knowledge of the emissary of the gods of Good?”
Khirron took the opportunity which was presented to him.
“Then, my Lord,” he stared at the holy man, “You must know that my faith has deserted me. My god communes with me no more. I no longer have the powers to fight evil that I once had.”

The Lord Cleric regarded him coolly, the smile completely vanished from his face.
“You must see this as a test of faith. It was not your god that forsook you, but your own doubts which had begun to emerge as you aged.”
He raised a hand towards the heavens.
“Your god will return to you, once your faith has been shown to him. He has told me this,” he said confidently.
Khirron’s heart leaped at this promise, but the gnawing feeling inside him continued unabated.
Elonna interrupted.
“And what of us, my Lord, this thief and this half-elf, and myself. What are we promised?”
Marellen once again answered for her master.
“You will gain forest lands for yourself,” she said, noting the spark of desire in the elf-woman’s eyes.
She turned to Will, “You would have riches. And you, Bryn, shall have your precious spell book returned to you.”
The half-elf’s face lit up with delight.
“You have my book?” he shouted, “I want it now, before we go.”
The Lord Cleric shook his head.
“I am sorry, young mage, but you must earn its return. For otherwise, with what could we reward you?”
Both the half-elf and the paladin were taken aback by this remark, thinking that these rewards sounded very much like ransoms.
Marellen stepped in, her cold exterior could be felt by those seated at the table.
“Your book would be of no use in Delstantia. I am surprised that your master did not tell you. A mage’s power comes from a hidden source somewhere within this continent. That is why Delstantia has no mages of its own, and indeed, why we have not already lost this war. There is no source of power there,” she convinced Bryn, “You will be provided with spell scrolls. Items infused with magic will work, even if they are away from the power source in Garfinia.”
Each of those sat at the table had their misgivings, some more than others, but they all agreed that day to carry out the wishes of the Lord Cleric, even though it might ultimately cost them their lives.


Chapter 13

They were all in reflective mood for the rest of the day. Their plan was agreed that they would travel upon specially trained griffins to the shores of Delstantia. The riders would then turn back, and they would make their way inland to the King’s fortress at Jurathina, most of the way under the cover of darkness.
Each of them knew that they had no choice in the matter. The gods of Good had spoken, or at least, their emissary had, and they had no decent lives to turn back to anyway.

Will decided to get to know each of them in turn. He remembered that afternoon where he had recalled seeing the half-elf and paladin. The prison break and resulting escape had taken their toll on him, and he was constantly in turmoil from the confusion the spies had caused him. And so it had taken some time to place Bryn and Khirron in his recent memory. They filled him in on their adventures en route to Garfin City.
“I’m really glad you made it here. It looked like those orcs were out for your blood!” he said, glancing at both of them in turn.
Khirron was busy polishing a broadsword which he would be using on the mission. Bryn on the other hand was lying on one of the beds in the room, his arm resting across his eyes to block out the daylight.

“We were sure that no-one else had made it in the break, what with that giant slimecake crushing everything in its path,” the half-elf grinned, not altering his relaxed posture.
The paladin turned and looked inquisitively at Will, without pausing in his work, “What were you in there for? Burglary?”
The thief regarded both of the men, amazed at how different each looked, now clothed in fine garments, from when he had seen them last in the quarry.
“No, it was for killing a young boy.”
The paladin stopped polishing, and Bryn removed his arm and looked across at Will in surprise.
Will had a faraway look in his eyes, “I am innocent of course.”
Both men relaxed, and continued in their respective pursuits.

Will was silent for a short while, remembering the pain and disbelief at the magistrate’s sentencing. He vowed to himself that once this mission was over, and he was a wealthy man, he would find the truth, find the cause of his change of fortune.
He decided to alter the track of the conversation to more pleasant things.
“What do you know of this Elonna?” he smiled, trying to act mildly disinterested.
“She was banished from the Elven Kingdom in the South,” Bryn injected coldly. Although she had saved his life, he knew that elven law was not given to frivolous injustice, and that banishment was the supreme punishment, elves having outlawed the barbaric penalty of death decades before.
“Her crime would have had to have been severe,” he concluded, not realising that the other men were looking at him, surprised at his lack of sympathy.
Khirron stepped in.
“My good friend, there sits in this room three men, all the victims of injustice, yet you condemn this woman without hearing her tale?”
Bryn swung his legs over the side of the bed, and calmly added, “Elven justice is pure. She must have committed the crime. You can tell anyway from her demeanour. She’s a murderer now. How can you defend her?”
Khirron admired the gleam of the blade, moving it around before him trying to catch all angles of light on its mirrored surface.
“That she is a murderer now, is not disputed,” he spoke calmly, “but could that not be a product of the injustice meted out to her?”
Bryn was having none of it, and hotly stalked out of the room.

Khirron turned his attentions to the present.
“Will, it is time that we discussed matters which are very near to us in time’s flow. What is your opinion of our chances?”
Will closed his eyes, “The mission is suicide. That is why he sends us. Four expendables. No soul upon Garfinia will miss us should we die.”
The paladin nodded in agreement.
“We must attempt it, however. Each of us needs the salvation and reward that success would bring.”
Will nodded, “You’re right,” he looked gravely at the floor of the small living quarters, sunlight flooding in from the small window.
“I have no life otherwise. Perhaps it would be better to die at the hands of the King, rather than to return to an outlaw’s existence.”
Khirron stared at Will with puzzlement, “Surely the Lord Cleric would not imprison you again?”
Will looked up at the paladin, who had started to wipe down his chain armour suit.
“Why would he not?” he asked in answer.
Khirron paused for a moment, “Because he is the highest holy man of Good in the entire world, surely.”
Will rose from the chair, and opened the door. Glancing back to Khirron, he whispered, “I am beginning to have my doubts.”


* * *


The late afternoon’s sun descended low onto the horizon, and a sea of reds and oranges melted from it. Thin, shredded clouds gathered before it, like wolves encircling a dying stag.

The elfwoman Elonna stood staring into the sunset, her arms resting on the battlements. Will approached carefully, weighing up the tone he should take. Even from behind, her beauty was apparent. She still wore her dark, shadowy outfit, but her lithe figure did much to make it appealing. He moved up alongside her right, also staring at the sun’s last waking moments in the west. Ahead of them lay hills and small patches of forest.
“We follow the sun’s course this night,” Will said, hoping that she would soften in his company. She had a permanently dour demeanour, and he wished he could see the true person behind it.
She did not look at him when she heard him approach, but it was evident that she knew he was there. Her stance stiffened, and her face, the reds of the sunset lending it a lovely glow, darkened with suspicion.
“My Lord has faith that you will help us to enter the Fortress. I am not so sure, thief,” she growled, “It is not a mayor’s apartment, or a wizard’s tower. It is a fortress, with all of the armaments and defences which that name promises.”
Will was expecting her coldness, but not quite the cynical examination that had just occurred.
“My skills are not sufficient, you’re right,” he said with a feigned innocence.
She looked up at him, and he smiled inside, having secured her attention.
“Between the five of us, we will succeed, where only one or two would fail.”
She sneered at him.
“Your optimism will be your downfall, thief.”
He could not hold back.
“And your arrogance and cynicism will be yours,” he hissed.
All colour drained from her face, and she wavered in her pessimism for just a moment.
Will turned and walked away, leaving her alone with her sunset, confident that his words had struck deep into her conscious mind that day, and hopeful that he would see the moment that the good in her reasserted itself.



* * *


Early evening arrived faster than any before it, or so the four felt. Their journey, and perhaps their doom, lay ahead. They had not again seen the Lord Cleric after his audience in the Main Hall, and all instructions from him came now from Marellen.
“My Lord has already provided you with any weapons, armour and provisions you desire, and he now asks if there is any other requirement before we leave,” she said in her usual commanding tone. None of the four, however, answered in the affirmative, their minds already on the tasks which would confront them once they entered the lands of Delstantia.

Bryn, while not having his spell book, had been furnished with several magical scrolls, each containing a single spell. He was pleased not to have to memorise them, their only requirement to be read out aloud upon casting, but realised that his usefulness to the group was constrained by his only having the four scrolls, each becoming useless once its contents had been read just once.

All of the party were clothed in black, with extra garments of green stowed in their backpacks should their travel require stealth during the day. They hoped that they could arrive near Jurathina by sunrise the next morning.
Certainly, the griffins which stood tall and fantastical before them in the courtyard, would aid their progress. If all went well, they would be dropped some thirty miles inland, with only six or seven hours of foot travel required to reach the fortress. None of the group had ever been this close to the beasts before, and each was glad that a skilled rider controlled the fearsome steed. In battle, the griffin would prove awe-inspiring, its eagle’s beak, and lion’s claws could rip enemies asunder. Its shrill cry, which each griffin in the courtyard occasionally made through an eagerness to fly, would strike fear into any army’s ranks.
Their fighting potential was second only to a dragon’s, and all who were there that night knew that the possibility of meeting one or two in the skies over the enemy’s continent was high. Will stared at one of the riders. His green and gold armour and vestments were unique to the griffin riders, and coupled with his bright silver helm, completed the fearsome spectacle which greeted their arrival in the castle’s outer area some time earlier.

The tower’s bells tolled the sixth hour. Night had completely fallen, and their flight was due.
Will looked across at Elonna, as she strapped herself to the saddle behind the griffin rider. She made no eye contact with him at all since their conversation, and his heart sank somewhat to see that.
Behind her on the same griffin was Khirron. The paladin looked the most nervous of the group, and it appeared that when he had found out that they would be flying that night, his secret fear of heights had emerged for all to see. Every few seconds, he checked his straps, although they were fully secured by the rider some ten minutes previously.

Bryn then tapped Will on the shoulder, the thief turning to look back to his companion on the second griffin.
“I’m sorry for my earlier impetuousness, Will. It wasn’t anything personal, you see,” he grinned, “I’m sure that we will all come through this, and become true heroes!”
The young thief grimaced in a poor attempt at a smile.
“Good luck to you as well, mage. Your spellbook will not be out of your grasp for too much longer!” he shouted, above the noise as each griffin began to beat its massive wings in readiness for flight.

Across the large courtyard, Marellen strapped herself to the third beast. She would travel alone with the rider. Behind her were the backpacks of each of the group, completely full with provisions, weapons and the like. Several of the castle guards looked down from the second tier of the fortress walls, amazed at the spectacle below.
Then the lead rider raised his hand and one-by-one, each of the griffins rose slowly into the air, their wings straining hard to propel their unusual cargo into the heavens. Soon enough, the castle was again silent, and below them, Derek looked up towards the group as they became smaller and smaller to his ageing eyes.
“Farewell, young heroes…” he said softly, sure that he would not witness their safe return.


Chapter 14

Both moons were completely clear of clouds that night, and their light shimmered on the waves of the sea far below the party. It had taken only one hour of quite slow flight to reach the coast of Garfinia, and they had marvelled at the tiny specks of light from Alamandos and other towns below them as they flew past. The inhabitants would probably not have seen the three fully-laden griffins, even had they looked skywards on such a clear bright night.

Will gazed across to his right, at the other beasts and their passengers. Elonna slept, completely at rest even in the saddle. Khirron appeared to sleep, but Will noticed that his eyes opened every minute or so to look down, only for him to shut them tight and groan. His silvery grey hair caught the moonlight perfectly and that, coupled with the lines of worry on his brow, made him seem much older than he was.
All of the eyes of the passengers besides Khirron’s stared down at a sea battle about midway through the journey. Two small, fast longships sailed round a large dreadnought, volleys of fire arrows being exchanged, before the large vessel rammed one of its tormentors. Flames and smoke consumed its wooden hull, and it sank quickly into the murky waters. The other small boat tried to outrun it towards Garfinia, but was soon caught up by the massive ship, and boarded. The rider carrying Elonna lifted his helm’s visor and identified the dreadnought as one of the Lord Cleric’s fleet, a great swell of pride running across his face. No-one said anything after that, reflecting upon the increasing urgency of the War.

Across on the furthest griffin flew the Lord Cleric’s devoted necromancer, of the Order of the Burning Star. Had she come along to ensure that they did not abandon their objectives, allowing fear to capture their souls? Or was her agenda something more sinister? Will could only wonder. Her role in the assassination was to provide some sort of protective spell against the demon King, but was that all? Many thoughts crossed Will’s mind that night, before he too fell asleep through sheer exhaustion, only to wake several times later when a stream of wind caused the steeds to drift or descend slightly. The riders were clearly experts, however, keeping such huge beasts under complete control at all times.

The half-elf, too, sat wondering as to the agenda of the King. His so-called ‘prize’ was nothing of the sort, and he could not imagine how an emissary of all that is good could seemingly hold him to ransom like that. His brief dealings with General Nehemie, and the woman Marellen, led him to feel that their outlooks on life did not lie firmly within the circles of Good, either. It was all too confusing. But if it meant that he would regain the spell book, and thus correct the failing he had committed in the eyes of his dead master, he was willing to go through with the mission.

Before long one of the riders noticed the jagged lines of the coast below them, and ordered complete silence and watchfulness from all of the passengers. They were over Delstantia now, the silver moons picking out soft rolling hills and fields on the landscape. Their journey still would require about a half hour of flight, before they would be dropped in the Forest of Hile, to begin the final phase of the mission.


* * *


The land below was dotted with campfires, keenly mirroring the starry sky above. Will was sure that these were war parties, camped for the night on their way to the coast. The thief’s griffin rider nudged him, calling his attention. Will peered over his shoulder as he pointed way off to the horizon ahead of them.
“Jurathina. Can you see it?” he shouted, above the rushing wind.
Will nodded, although all he could see was two spires, and lights here and there on a grey blob in the distance. Before long, all of the companions were awake, if they had been sleeping, and were looking at their objective, which was the largest thing for miles around. The King’s fortress. Grey and mesmerising, it’s huge walls dwarfed those of the city around it. They would not get close enough in the air to be able to see finer detail, such as guards on watch, or arrow slits in the battlements, but the defences that they could see from that distance looked imposing enough.

The geography below became more and more forest-like, as they continued on towards the capital city, and within minutes the griffin riders had signalled the descent, and their steeds started to circle in the air above a huge forest.
They were still thousands of feet above the ground when two dragons were spotted, some distance away, moving on an intercept course.
Will cried out to the others. “Do you see them? Are those dragons?”
One of the riders nodded and hurried the descent.
It looked bleak for the griffins and their masters. They would have time to drop the party, but might have to fight their way back home. The onrushing air chilled Khirron, and he checked one last time whether his straps were still secure. He preferred to close his eyes rather than see the ground below, rushing towards them.
The strange ill-feeling which had overcome him in the castle, was all but gone now, replaced by the anxiety of flight.
Bryn was firmly holding onto the saddle, his robes fluttering madly in the wind.
“Do you think we’ll get to the ground before they arrive?” he shouted, not worrying whether Will or the rider answered the question.
The thief shook his head despairingly. The rider, however, held out his right hand, his left still holding the reins, and made a fist with his thumb pointing upwards, signalling that he was optimistic.
It was a dizzying ride, the three huge griffins circling each other, getting ever closer to the tops of the trees. The pair of dragons were close enough now so that riders could be seen on their backs, pointing and encouraging their charges to close the distance.
The dragons scaly hides were red in hue, and occasional flashes of flame were seen in their huge maws, as they beat their long bat-like wings in flight. Certainly, pace was the griffin’s advantage over the dragons, their lizard-like counterparts able to fly at only two-thirds of its speed.

Descending into a clearing in the forest, the riders did not land the beasts, but hovered within ten feet, signalling to the group that they should jump, because of the urgency of the situation. Vast plumes of dust and leaves consumed the clearing, caused by the swift beating of the griffins’ wings.
Elonna had to push the paladin off first – he refused to jump – before she too leaped from the side of their griffin. Will and Bryn successfully landed on the ground unhurt, but Marellen seemed to linger a short while on her steed, in heated conversation with its rider.
“I can help you fight them,” Will heard her shout. But the rider refused, and she jumped, descending lightly to the ground, after throwing the packs off before her. The half-elf knew the spell she used to facilitate her feather-like fall, but the others stood mesmerised by the grace of it all.
Before a second had passed, the griffins were away, up into the dark blue sky. They narrowly missed the first flames of dragonbreath as their enemies closed on them. The group stood watching, urging the griffins on to safety, but the dragons were able to catch the beast Marellen had travelled on, setting alight one of its wings. The other two did not turn, knowing that the same fate awaited them should they try to turn and fight.
Its eagle-like head gave a shrieking cry which pierced the still night air, the companions observing its last seconds with grief, as it plummeted to earth. Both rider and steed crashed to their deaths. One sacrificed for the lives of two, thought Elonna. The other two increased the distance from their foes once the dragonriders had halted the pursuit, and turned back to Jurathina.

Khirron was thinking practically.
“Do you suppose that the Dragonriders saw us?”
Blank looks greeted his question, but Marellen nodded.
“Yes, knight, but while it will report our position and search parties will be sent, they will not expect our destination, nor our rate of travel,” she smiled.
Marellen whistled, two sharp notes rising into the still, clear evening air. Within a few moments, an answering whistle could be heard, some distance away.
“Come. Our aide awaits.” She pointed through the trees to the west, and then stomped off towards them.
The others stared at each other with puzzled expressions, before gathering their packs and making off after her.

Khirron was limping slightly, having fallen awkwardly, and he glowered at Elonna whenever the two’s gazes met.
She simply smiled caustically at him each time.
The four of them emerged from the treeline into a smaller clearing, and saw Marellen talking to two men. Behind them were five horses and a mule, each horse saddled for riding. The men appeared to be ruffians, with dirty faces and tatty clothes, but they were talking quite amicably with the woman, and before long, slinked away into the trees with a small bag each, no doubt containing their rewards.
Marellen beamed contentedly. “Those were our traitorous allies,” she said as she approached the group, “By day they work in the King’s stables! Is it not wonderful how disloyal one can be when promised gold?”
Khirron looked away, disgust evident on his face. Will noticed it, and was sympathetic to his feelings. He was a thief, certainly, but a proud one, who considered loyalty and honour good traits, even though thieves were well known for their lack of each.

Once the mule had been burdened with the packs, they each mounted the horse they had been provided with, and made good distance through the forest that night.

* * *

By dawn they lay covered in thick trees just outside of the city itself. They were tired and hungry, and some of them broke out the simple rations which they had brought with them.

Bryn used the time to familiarise himself with the spells which were on the scrolls given to him. Light, web, and fireball, and two rather intriguing ones which he had not seen before, and thus could not readily identify. Scanning through the magical words, he could certainly read the magic script, and realised that one was an attack spell, but of what exact nature he did not know. The other was a defensive spell, and he felt sure that it evoked some sort of wall. Again, his lack of knowledge of the particulars of the script denied him the precise nature of the spell. He was confident it would prove useful, however.

Will had been furnished with a set of thieves tools, and what a set it was! He unfurled the leather roll cover within which the tools lay, and examined each one. There were easily twenty tools, ten of which he had never owned himself. His face a picture of contentment, it attracted the sarcasm of the elf.
“Found something that’s going to get us into the King’s bedroom have you?” she smirked.
He looked over at her, sitting up against a tree. If she wasn't so beautiful, he might have thought that she were some sort of devil, balancing out any optimism she could find within the party.
He looked back at the tool, a grin beginning to take form.
“No, but I’m sure that you could use it to steal back your wit from whoever has it imprisoned.”
She scowled at him, and dug one of her daggers into the tree bark with a sweeping movement of her arm.
“Quiet! I don’t want this mission ruined because some moronic guard heard your pathetic banter,” Marellen barked.
She was sitting cross-legged on the forest floor, her eyes closed, in a state of relaxation. The frown which had just crossed her face disappeared as her concentration once again returned.

The morning sun’s rays began to touch the outer walls of the city, softening the slate-grey to a peach colour. Already, many people were moving about. From the western wall of the city, the town crier called the hour, and the shanty homes of those who were camped permanently outside Jurathina began to give off the smoke and steam of fires boiling pots of water. It was behind this patchwork town that the party lay hidden.

Again, as the night before, Marellen signalled to treacherous helpers. This time it was a short stubby man clothed in rags driving a horse and cart.
“Now, when the cart pulls near to the trees, everyone get under cover in the back,” she said, directing the other four to ready themselves.
It was not a pleasant journey into the city, Will discovered, along with the others hidden under a tarpaulin in the cart. For with them lay the bodies of some six dead folk, their corpses not yet rotting, but the smell of death strong amongst them. The man made a living transporting those deceased to their burial mounds. He only hoped that the guards would not find it strange that he was returning with bodies.

The five lay still amongst the rueful cargo, taking care not to alert even townsfolk. At the gatehouse, the cart stopped, and those within could hear the conversation taking place outside.
“An odd hour to be returning, Huelbert, my friend,” a guard questioned, his colleagues taking up positions around the cart.
Huelbert did not look at the man directly, his low social station necessitating humility at all times.
“Yes, sir, I was jus’ returnin’ with these remainin' dead, since I been told they’ll be goin’ in the King’s graveyard, sir,” he lied, quite well at that.
The guard captain’s eyebrow raised.
“The King’s graveyard, eh? Who are they, nobles?” he asked, full of suspicion.
He moved round to the rear of the cart, about to raise the tarpaulin to look inside.
From a side alley, a young vagrant boy winked at Huelbert, then ran into the guard holding the reins by the horse. He grabbed the guard’s sword, then ran off down the street, whooping and shouting profanities at them.
“Hey, you little…” the man shouted, running off after him.
The ruse worked perfectly, and the captain signalled to his other colleague to assist the first, before allowing Huelbert to continue on his way.
“Just get this lot off the streets quickly, man. The smell is disgusting,” he shouted, pinching his nose, as the cart moved off into the city streets.
The sentiment was echoed by those within, but they were soon out, having arrived at a small safe house within the shops and tenements of the old part of the city.

It was a room atop an Inn, the proprietor being a Garfinian sympathiser in secret. He greeted them with food and water, welcoming them once they had settled into the room.
His large, puffy hands, and reddened cheeks from climbing the stairs indicated a lack of regular travel.
“Eat, eat, my friends. I do not know why you have come,” he paused, hoping that one of them would enlighten him, but none did, “I am sure, though that your long journey is for good cause, and, with such a fine band of mercenaries, one well within your capabilities.”
He grinned, wringing his hands with expectancy.
None of the four paid him much attention, before Marellen thanked him with coin, and shooed him from the room.


They ate heartily, making light work of the breads and cheeses which he had brought them. Later they rested, while Marellen ensured that they knew what to expect from later in the day.
“We will wait here until darkness, then make our way to a rendezvous point outside the walls of the fortress. A servant will aid our way under the castle into the dungeons, through a little known entrance. I have maps of the fortress but not of the dungeons.”
She looked fully at Will, who was sitting on one of the beds, back to the wall, his eyes shut.
“Our thief will ensure we make it into the castle. There is the small matter of the iron doors leading to the basement level,” she paused.
He opened his eyes, and found that they were all watching him, save the elf who was sharpening each of her arrows in turn.
He struggled with a suddenly dry tongue, “Uh, no problem.”
She continued, “Good. It is imperative that Elonna, myself and at least one more reach the King’s sleeping quarters. I will not be able to assist with his death, as my concentration will be fully taken by the protection spell. One of you will have to occupy him, while the elf does her work.”

Bryn looked up at her, her stony façade preventing any emotion to surface. She sat quietly on the other bed, running the sharpening stone across the blade of one of her daggers.
The paladin’s mind was already thinking of other matters.
“You haven’t mentioned an escape plan. What is it?” he asked the sorceress, her face a mask as she listened to his question.
“It will depend on our success or failure,” she said, her face darkening, “And how many of us survive. I have further aides within the castle walls who can facilitate our escape.”

He drew out the holy symbol from around his neck, and fingered it out of habit.
“Who are they? What if you die in there? How will we then make our way home?” he hissed, already beginning to dislike her.
She laughed, a loud cackle which made the hairs on the back of Will’s neck stand on end.
“If I die, then none of us will return!”