Surprise rendered Jennadil speechless for a moment. How had he known?
“It was a dream,” Jennadil replied, his voice wary, “or, rather, a nightmare.”
“Tell me of it.”
Jennadil hesitated. He did not like Arridel Thorne. He had once studied under him and would never forget the humiliation he had suffered at this man’s hand. However, the need to share his worries with someone overrode his dislike. Since he had no friends here, Arridel was as good an audience as any.
“I had a nightmare like this many years ago, when I was about seven or eight.” Jennadil broke the silence between them reluctantly, “and I had forgotten about it until tonight. As a child, none of it made sense but I realize now it was about the Morg.”
“Then it is no dream but a prophecy,” Arridel answered; his voice was quiet and thoughtful.
Aghast at this, Jennadil stared at Arridel’s shadowy face a moment before he turned back to the night.
“If it is a prophecy then we are all doomed,” he replied. “For in it I see this continent controlled by them. Their cities are soulless citadels of stone—there is no green, no beauty and we are their slaves. Isador was completely unrecognizable to me. Everywhere there was fire, and it was as if a dark shadow covered everything.”
“It was the future you saw Jennadil.” Arridel’s voice was serious. “Or rather, what has already happened in the Ennadil Territory. I know for I have seen it too.”
Jennadil turned and studied Arridel’s face. The wizard’s gaunt features were emphasized by the shadows. “You have seen it?”
“I have.”
“Then you’ve also seen him?”
Arridel sighed and moved closer to Jennadil, looking over the battlements at the sleeping landscape below.
“Yes, I have,” Arridel admitted. “Last night I had the same dream as you.”
The two wizards stood in silence for a moment. The darkness around them was suddenly oppressive and watchful. Jennadil’s stomach knotted and his bowels turned to ice; prophecies only came to wizards at times when doom was about to fall. If Arridel spoke true, Jennadil had seen the end of the world and now he would be forced to wait while it arrived.
“He is more powerful than any being that has ever lived in our time,” Arridel said finally, “and the Morg are but his puppets, forced to do his bidding.”
“Who is he then?”
Arridel turned his face towards Jennadil and the younger wizard felt his piercing gaze stab at him. Jennadil fought the urge to step back, away from his cold, shrewd intelligence. The years had not softened Arridel Thorne—just as they had not made Jennadil any wiser—he still had a mind like a steel trap. Arridel had a habit of staring as if he was looking into his victim’s soul and reading his darkest secrets.
“Follow me.” Arridel whirled away from the edge of the tower, his robes brushing against Jennadil, before he disappeared into the stairwell. Reluctantly, Jennadil followed.
The guards at the bottom of the stairs stirred in surprise as the two wizards came down the stairs together. The guards glanced at each other, unsure whether to stop Jennadil from passing. However, a word and a gesture from Arridel stilled their protests.
Jennadil followed Arridel through the palace’s silent corridors before they emerged into the shadowed courtyard. Here, they passed through the gates out into the city itself. Unspeaking, they walked down the main thoroughfare, through the sleeping city. Eventually they entered a maze of narrow lanes.
It was not long before Jennadil realized Arridel was leading him to the Ellenrith. It had once been the greatest school of wizardry in Orin; a vast complex which drew aspiring wizards and witches from each of the City-States. Jennadil had studied here, although the place did not hold fond memories. Stepping inside the grey-stone halls brought back the humiliation and inadequacy he had suffered within them.
The complex was eerily silent. No one studied here these days—since the Morg threat had crept over the land, the college had been closed. Now there were not enough wizards left to run the school, let alone attend it.
Arridel led the way through the complex to the great library of Ellenrith. Inside the library, Arridel went directly to the restricted section in the basement. Jennadil followed curiously. He had never been inside ‘the inner sanctum’ as he and the other students had nicknamed it. The books contained in here were too valuable to be given to careless students. Jennadil watched as Arridel produced a key from his pocket and inserted it into the lock.
“This is Lord Fier’s key,” Arridel explained as he struggled with the rusted lock. “No one but me has authorization to be in here, but I suppose Fire will make an exception for you.”
Arridel’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. Jennadil’s fatigued brain was still searching for a suitably cutting reply when the lock gave way and the door creaked inwards. The wizards descended worn stone steps into Ellenrith’s basement.
The subterranean room was surprisingly spacious and covered wall-to-ceiling with shelves of ancient, leather bound books. Jennadil’s spine prickled as he looked around him. The history of Isador was contained within these walls. Memories that had faded from living memory would be contained here for as long as these walls protected them.
Jennadil took a seat at a table in the center of the room and watched as Arridel took a wooden ladder and climbed up to get a book from the top shelf. It was an enormous volume bound in cracked, faded leather. Arridel brought it over to where Jennadil sat and dropped the book with a thump in front of him. Fine dust billowed up from it. Reaching forward, Arridel wiped the cover with his sleeve.
“Your generation of wizards were not taught the history of this time.” Arridel’s voice was full of scorn. “But mine were and that dream triggered a memory in me.”
Arridel opened the book and started to leaf through it. The parchment was so old that he had to be careful not to tear the pages as he turned them. Jennadil observed Arridel’s hands as he read—they were large, powerful hands but their skin was weathered and the flesh had sunk into the spaces between the tendons and bones, giving them a gnarled appearance. They revealed his age and reminded Jennadil that Arridel was much older than he looked.
Using an eyeglass, Arridel moved ponderously over the script. Time passed slowly in the silent library. Jennadil’s eyes stung with accumulated fatigue and he stifled a yawn. When Arridel finally spoke, Jennadil was on the verge of dropping off. He started and blinked rapidly to clear his mind.
“Here it is.” Arridel pushed the book across the table. Jennadil took the book and looked down at the open page. His mouth fell open and he did not bother to stifle a gasp. There on the page was a picture of the creature from his dream. The sketch was chillingly accurate, portraying the tall, cadaverous figure dressed in a long, hooded robe. His face was depicted clearly: the white, corpse-like skin, lipless mouth and terrible pink eyes.
“My ancestors . . .” Jennadil whispered. Then he read the page opposite the drawing aloud: “Morgarth Evictar; born to an Orinian witch and Tarzark sorcerer in the First Century of the Second Age, was the most powerful sorcerer that has ever lived. Evictar was briefly head of the Council of Wizards at Falcon’s Mount until he was cast out of the order. It was discovered he had been plotting to take control of the City-States of Orin. After many years at large, Morgarth Evictar was killed at the battle of Hammer Pass and so it was a great evil vanished from Isador.”
Jennadil looked up from the book at Arridel. “But he lived over two-thousand years ago. How can he still be alive?”
“I have no idea, for it was said an axe cleaved his skull and killed him during that battle. But survive he did and he has grown more powerful.” Arridel’s face was grave as he spoke.
Jennadil resisted the urge to bury his head in his hands. This was too much to take in. His head was spinning.
“There’s something else which worries me,” Arridel continued ominously. “Two-thousand years ago, Morgarth Evictar nearly dest
royed Orin. He brought a massive army of Tarzark through Hammer Pass and got as far as Serranguard before the Ennadil came to our aid and beat his armies back. Despite being of mixed blood he always hated Orinians. He was elevated to a god-like status by the Tarzark, and they still worship him as a God. If they find it is he who is conquering Isador they will think he wants to unite with them—and they will attack us without hesitation.”
Jennadil stared back at Arridel Thorne and digested the older wizard’s words. Instead of just having the Morg to contend with—they were instead sandwiched between two enemies who would take Falcon’s Mount apart stone by stone if they combined forces.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
PATHS TAKEN
Serranguard slumbered, and the occupied land around the fortress lay deep under the shadow of night when one of the Morg soldiers stirred from a deep sleep.
The Morg groggily sat up and looked around him. Sleeping bodies wrapped in black cloaks carpeted the floor of Serranguard’s ceremonial hall. Slowly, the soldier got to his feet and picked his way through the slumbering Morg. He moved mechanically, mindlessly, like a sleepwalker.
There was not a soul about at this hour and the Morg padded silently, barefoot, down the stone steps leading into Serranguard’s lower levels. At the entrance to the dungeons, a Morg sentry sat slumped in a chair, snoring quietly—and above his head hung a heavy ring of keys. A lantern flickered on the table next to him.
Careful not to disturb the guard, the Morg took the keys in one hand and the lantern in the other. Then he disappeared down into the dungeons.
The occupants of the cell had long since dropped off to sleep, or were slumped against the wall drowsing, when Adelyis finally stirred. Slowly, they roused themselves, stifling yawns, as she stood up.
“Adelyis?” Will got to his feet and stretched his numbed limbs. “Did you manage it?”
“The Morg is on his way down to the dungeons.” Adelyis’s voice, soft and tired echoed in the darkness. The spell making had drained her. “He is alone. We must be ready for him.”
Will, Taz and the four soldiers positioned themselves behind the door and waited. The waiting seemed to drag on endlessly—and then they heard a key turning in the cell door.
The Morg who opened the door was in a dream-like state and never expected to be ambushed. A sharp blow caught the back of his neck. Hands grasped him as he fell and the bunch of keys and lantern were extracted from his limp fingers. Will and Taz dragged the unconscious Morg into the cell and dumped him on the ground before joining the others in the corridor outside.
Nervous excitement rippled between the prisoners while Will closed the cell door and locked it.
“Follow me,” Will ordered, automatically slipping into the role of leader. “I know a secret way out.”
Unquestioningly, they followed Will Stellan through a maze of corridors. Will led them into the depths of the dungeons, down to the lowest level where the Morg had yet to explore. Finally, he led them down steep steps to a trap door.
“There is a tunnel under here which will take us as far as Delm Forest.” Will hunkered down, and fumbled through the set of keys until he found the one that unlocked the tangle of chains above the trap door. “We’ll be half-way to Falcon’s Mount before they even realize we’re gone.”
The Gremul cackled at this news, the men murmured excitedly between them but Adelyis remained silent.
Will untangled the chains off the trap door and pulled it open.
“There’s a ladder leading down to the passage below. It’s quite safe. Adelyis, you can go first. Give me your hand.”
“No.” Adelyis’s voice was quiet and laced with sadness.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m staying here.”
All of them turned to stare at her.
“Witch!” Taz hissed. “We do not have time for this.”
“I’m sorry.” Adelyis shuffled back towards the steps, as if expecting one of her companions to manhandle her down the ladder. “I don’t expect any of you to understand my decision but I’ve decided to remain here and try and find a way to stop the Morg. Yesterday, they made me spend the day in Serranguard’s library, searching through magic books. There is something they are desperate to find—something that worries them—and I intend to remain here and discover what it is.”
“Madness!” Will snapped. “They’ll find you and when they do . . .”
“That concerns me, not you,” Adelyis countered. “I will not argue with you. The Gremul is right, time is short. You must make haste to Falcon’s Mount and alert them. I haven’t had the chance to tell you all, but yesterday I met the Morg’s leader—a powerful sorcerer who is not one of them. I’d wager he is more danger to Isador than the entire race of Morg. Falcon’s Mount’s City-Lord must learn of this.”
“Then you should be the one to tell them,” Will replied. “Only harm will come to you if you remain here.”
“I am staying.” Adelyis voice developed a steel edge to it. “Do not try to force me to come with you. If you touch me I will stop your heart.”
“Leave her here Captain,” one of the soldiers interrupted. “If she wishes to choose death let it be her look out.”
Will turned to Adelyis, struggling to contain his anger. “Ancestors curse you Adelyis! I can’t leave you here. If you stay than I must as well.”
“What?” the soldier, who had just encouraged Will to leave Adelyis behind, spluttered. “Has everyone taken leave of their senses?”
The Gremul started muttering under his breath in his own tongue.
“Will,” Adelyis said coldly. “This is not the time for heroics—please leave with your men.”
“I should leave,” Will replied, “and so should you—but if you insist on remaining here you will need my help. You won’t last five minutes alone in Serranguard without me.”
Adelyis frowned; the arrogance of his comment rankled.
“I cannot believe I am saying this,” Taz growled, “but if this witch believes there is a chance of stopping the Morg then I will stay to help her as well. I cannot return home with bad news.”
“Marek.” Will turned to the soldier who had protested. “Lead the others to Falcon’s Mount. Travel with as little rest as you can manage; you must reach Falcon’s Mount safely and report to them what Adelyis has discovered.”
“Yes Captain.” Marek’s voice was sharp with disapproval but he dared not argue further. “May the wraiths of your ancestors protect you . . . all.”
“And you Marek—now go.”
The four soldiers climbed down into the passage below. Will gently closed the trap door after them but left it unlocked. He pocketed the keys and turned to where Adelyis and Taz stood silently, lost in their own thoughts.
“You can still change your mind Adelyis?”
“I won’t,” Adelyis replied tiredly, “but I am sorry to have involved you both in this.”
“We were already involved girl,” Taz grumbled.
“We should find a place to hide.” Adelyis turned to Will. “Before they realize we’ve gone.”
“I know of a place that should be quite safe for the moment,” Will replied. “Follow me.”
They turned and started to climb the steep, crumbling steps, back up into Serranguard’s belly.
***
A grey morning hung over Falcon’s Mount when Gywna rose from her bed. Despite her fatigue, she had slept badly, hovering on the edge of sleep and wakefulness for most the night.
Gywna now had a slight headache and was in a rotten mood. She pulled on a robe over her nightgown, padded barefoot over to the window and drew back the heavy drapes. The weather did not improve her mood. Heavy, colorless skies presided over the land and the air was humid and suffocating. A general malaise: a mixture of depression, boredom and irritation niggled at her, and she longed to be back in Delm Forest, hiking in the rain, far away from her father and the pall of doom that had settled over Falcon’s Mount.
Gywna had been at the window, lost in her own thoughts, for about ten minutes when Lassendil Florin entered the garden below. He was dressed in blue leggings, a white shirt and his long hunting boots, and Gywna noticed he carried his sword buckled around his waist. She guessed he did not feel comfortable here. Lassendil did not trust her father and she could not blame him—she did not trust Theo Brin either.
Lassendil climbed up onto the lookout point and gazed across the Downs. He had his back to her. Gywna wondered what he was thinking of. His family probably, the people he had left behind. Did he have a wife or lover? Such thoughts caused Gywna to feel grumpy but she pushed her sudden ill temper aside without bothering to analyze it. Why should she care if Lassendil was married or had a lover? Just yesterday he had tried to kill her father. She should hate him but, strangely, she did not.
Sensing someone’s eyes on him, Lassendil turned from the view. His expression was unreadable when he saw Gywna.
“Good morning Lady Brin,” he made a perfunctory bow. There was nothing mocking in his behavior but it irritated Gywna nonetheless.
“Don’t call me that,” she snapped. “Just call me Gywna.”
“Did you sleep well, Gywna?” Lassendil inquired politely.
“No,” Gywna replied shortly, suddenly on the edge of tears. “I wish I were a thousand leagues from here.” She rapidly blinked back the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks. “How long will you stay on here, Lassendil?”
“I know not,” he replied, a note of tiredness creeping into his voice. “My people lie far to the south but they are enslaved. I cannot return to them so, in many ways, I am a prisoner here—like you.”
Gywna gave him a piercing look. He saw too much, this Ennadil.
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