Adelyis closed her eyes and murmured soft words. The energy that buzzed around her increased in intensity and prickled her skin. The sensation of her hands on Will’s clammy skin changed and she became aware of the network of veins, muscles, sinews and bones that held his body together. He had lost much blood and was dangerously chilled and dehydrated.
A bolus of heat formed in Adelyis’s open palms. She reached out with her mind and pushed the heat into Will’s body; feeling it suffuse him with warmth. She repeated this until the skin under her hands lost its corpse-like feeling and his breathing deepened. Color reappeared in his face and his pulse strengthened.
Finally, Adelyis removed her hands from him and did up his shirt. She covered him with a rough blanket.
Will’s eyes flickered open. His gaze met Adelyis’s.
“Hello, princess,” he croaked.
Adelyis felt tears sting the back of her eyes. She blinked furiously and smiled. “Welcome back,” she whispered.
Adelyis propped Will up with a few cushions under his shoulders and poured him a cup of warm water, to which she had added some herbs. He winced as he tried to sit up straighter so the water would not spill down his neck.
“Easy does it.” Adelyis steadied the cup and when he had finished it, poured him another. Then she spoon-fed him some broth. He had not eaten since his capture and, despite his weakness, he was ravenous. Adelyis sagged in relief as she fed him. She had never used her magic to heal before. It was a skill that usually took many years of study to acquire; and she could not even remember how she had done it. It had been instinctive and had drained her of the ‘enhancement’ she had felt upon combining her powers with Jennadil’s—bringing Will back from the brink of death had sapped it from her.
Will finished the last of the broth and looked up at Adelyis’s face. His eyes were soft and, once again, she forced back the urge to cry.
“I wanted to thank you,” she said hesitantly, “for what you did for us. It was far too noble and self-sacrificing but I understand why you did it.”
Will smiled weakly, “I had to give you a chance to escape—even if you didn’t listen to me.”
“I know I’m stubborn,” she replied. “It is one of my least endearing traits.”
Will smiled and, reaching out, caught Adelyis’s hand in his. His skin was warm. Adelyis could feel his pulse beating quickly against her palm. Her gaze locked with his.
“Adelyis,” Will murmured, “I must speak to you.”
Adelyis gently brought her free hand up and placed her fingers across his lips. “Not here Will. We should wait until this is all over.”
“We might never get another chance,” Will replied, his face suddenly so sad that Adelyis had to look away. She knew what Will wanted to say to her and she felt the same way—only she was terrified of hearing it.
“We will,” she promised him.
***
Jennadil trudged down the long road through the melting snow. The way spiraled down from the great castle to the river valley below. The wizard walked at the head of the ragged band of survivors; tall and regal despite the travel and battle-stained green cape and clothes he wore.
Adelyis, Gywna, Lassendil and Taz followed close behind him. Taz and Lassendil carried Will on a stretcher. Will had awoken at dawn and after a light breakfast of broth and stale bread was rapidly looking better. His face was still pale and he winced as Taz stumbled over a rock and jolted the stretcher, but he had rallied now that his wounds had been cleaned and bandaged. Lassendil, who had tended the Orinian’s wounds the night before, had seen their severity and was amazed at Will Stellan’s rapid recovery.
Jennadil preferred not to question why it was he and not one of the others who led them down the hill. Ever since the weather spell, he had assumed an authority over the group, which was as unnatural as it was unnerving for him.
A lifetime of looking after himself and no one else made him uncomfortable in his new role. It had been thrust upon him and he did not want to lose the others’ respect by refusing to lead them. He was aware his manner and entire outlook on life had changed. He could not say he was happier this way; his once irreverent attitude had cushioned him against life’s harsher realities—but he had not liked the weak individual he had transformed into after Will helped him escape from Serranguard. The crushing, self-pitying sense of hopelessness that had dogged him since their departure from Falcon’s Mount had gone and he was aware of exactly what was required of him.
The snow had melted in patches and Jennadil saw, in the hollow of the river valley, the remains of the Morg’s tent city. He wondered if there had been any other survivors who had sought refuge in their former masters’ tents. He hoped so, for the eighty-two men who had spent the night within Serranguard’s protective walls were not nearly enough to take on the Tarzark.
Jennadil stared with fascination at the ravaged landscape. The Serran Valley had once been famed for its pastoral beauty. Jennadil had fond memories of lazy summer afternoons—and there had been many of those—lying on the banks of the Serran, listening to the sounds of haymaking and of the farmers working in the fields. He remembered the scent of apple blossom in the spring when the valley’s orchards blossomed, and the apple festival at the end of each summer. Apples in every edible form: pies, tarts, strudels, cakes, puddings; and potent cider were consumed in vast quantities. There were apple bobbing competitions and archery contests where apples were shot off barrels.
Jennadil had spent many an evening in local taverns in one of the hamlets that dotted the valley, drinking fine local ale and flirting with serving wenches. They were all fine memories, but all the more vivid for the Serran Valley unfolding before him bore no resemblance to Jennadil’s memories.
The Morg had felled every tree they could find. As the weather had grown colder, they had built large bonfires in a vain effort to warm themselves. The thickets of low evergreen trees that had once carpeted large tracts of the valley were gone, replaced by the wreckage of the Morg’s city.
They reached the bottom of the vale and travelled in silence down the narrow road that ran alongside the River Serran. Upon hearing footfalls on the road, figures emerged from some of the tents—more survivors. Jennadil welcomed them with a wave. He sent Gywna on to explain to them what had happened, while Taz and Lassendil went in search of discarded Morg weapons. Jennadil and Adelyis left Will with a group of Orinians and went looking for any animals – horses, mules or donkeys in particular—which would quicken their journey to Falcon’s Mount. They found none. Not even a scrawny chicken or a plaintively bleating goat remained. The Morg and their carrion birds had eaten everything.
Adelyis and Jennadil had almost given up when they discovered a Morg tent that was larger than most. The tent sat slightly apart from the others at the far end of the valley. Unlike many of the other tents, it had withstood the storm and was intact.
Jennadil parted the entrance to the tent and gasped when he saw what was inside.
Huddled together inside the tent, a quivering mass of silver feathers, was a roosting flock of Yangtul.
“You’re not getting me up on one of those things!” Gywna crossed her arms across her chest and glared at Jennadil under hooded lids.
“Fine, you can walk to Falcon’s Mount,” Jennadil dismissed her.
“We’ll all be walking to Falcon’s Mount,” Taz cut in. “These foul birds will peck out the eyes of anyone foolish enough to come within reach.”
As if to prove his point one of the Yangtul gave an ear-splitting screech and yanked at the heavy chain around its ankle—the only thing preventing the bird from savaging them. The Yangtul were all awake now, fiendishly hungry and in vile tempers. Where were their keepers? The birds stared at the group of humans with glowing, malevolent eyes.
The witch and the wizard exchanged a knowing glance before they turned to the others.
“They’ll do what we ask if they have no choice,” Adelyis said. <
br />
“An enslavement spell is crude but effective,” Jennadil added by way of explanation.
Their companions stared at them with varying degrees of distaste; none of them were warming to the idea of riding one of these Yangtul, even if it was under an enchantment. Seeing their skepticism, Jennadil sighed.
“None of you has a better plan so it will be done this way. Please step outside.” The wizard waved his companions away. “Adelyis and I have some work to do.”
The sun was well above the horizon when an unlikely army rode out of Serranguard. The procession of Yangtul and humans trickled out of the valley, across the river and onto the East-West Highway towards Falcon’s Mount.
Most of the travelers rode double atop a disgruntled Yangtul, while some sat on wagons pulled by a pair of birds. Jennadil had managed to gather just one hundred and fifty-four men. It was not nearly enough but there was no time to search for more survivors. Apart from a few women who insisted on fighting alongside their men, the women and children had remained at Serranguard with the men whose injuries prevented them from accompanying the army. Will Stellan should have been among them, but he had made such a fuss about being left behind Jennadil had finally relented.
“You won’t be much use to us, half dead as you are,” Jennadil had reminded his friend bluntly.
“I’ll be the judge of that!” Will had countered.
Jennadil had known better than to argue the point and truthfully Will’s tactical and battle skills would come in handy once they reached Falcon’s Mount. Will Stellan was riding double behind Taz and stoically putting up with the pain Jennadil knew his wounds must be causing him.
The day was crisp and bright—not a vestige of the thick, yellow clouds lingered. The sky was pale blue and the sun glittered white upon the bare landscape. Even though the weather spell had cleared, winter had definitely arrived. It was lucky for Isador it had, for any Morg remaining on the continent would surely perish if they stayed on.
Jennadil rode with Gywna behind him. Next to him rode Adelyis and Lassendil. The Yangtul squawked and tossed their heads, but could do nothing to break free of the powerful enchantment the wizards had placed upon them. The birds’ long sinewy legs covered the ground swiftly and by the time the sun had reached its zenith they had left Serranguard far behind.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
PARALLEL PATHS
On the same clear and frosty morning that Jennadil and his ragged army left Serranguard, the Orinians were struggling to hold the second level of Falcon’s Mount.
Battle had resumed at dawn and the Tarzark attacked even more ferociously than the day before. They erected great catapults and sent flaming projectiles over the walls. Fire plumed from many of the second level’s buildings; a great pall of oily smoke hung over the besieged city.
Even though she was some distance from the wall, Myra Brin was still not safe from the comets of fire that the Tarzark sorcerers hurled from their fingertips. Myra felt dangerously exposed on the ground. She peered up at the sky and blinked rapidly as her eyes watered from the smoke.
Atop the wall, a company of Orinian archers braved fire and arrows to prevent any Tarzark from scaling the fortification. A number of the reptiles tried to clamber up on the wall, only to be shot full of arrows and sent back from whence they came. The Orinian defense was holding for now but it was only a matter of time before the Tarzark would break through and take the second level.
Wiping her streaming eyes, Myra looked about for a position where she would be able to get a clear shot at the Tarzark. The greasy smoke caught at the back of her throat and she choked. Coughing and retching, she stumbled off the main thoroughfare and made for one of the townhouses. This one had been built with a high, slender tower so that its owner could survey Falcon’s Mount like the lords and ladies who resided in the palace above.
A domed roof, where carved pillars held the dome aloft, crowned the tower. The townhouse’s front door was open—the owners had long since run off. Myra made her way through the deserted house and found the entrance to the tower off the back courtyard. She climbed the circular stairwell and, reaching the top, saw she was not the only one who had realized the tower would make a good sniping spot.
The bounty hunter stood there, leaning indolently against a pillar. He was in the process of slotting an arrow into his bow. Upon Myra’s entrance, he looked up with mild surprise.
“Milady? Still dressed for the occasion I see,” he grinned at her.
Myra knew she looked a fright in her grimy boy’s clothes with a filthy hat pulled down around her ears—but since a horde of Tarzark were probably going to come crashing through the wall and hack them to death at any moment, her state of dress hardly mattered. She hesitated at the top of the stairwell and decided whether it was worth remaining up here with this man. Petty dislike seemed pointless when the enemy’s shadow was looming over them.
A fireball hit the side of the tower then—jolting Myra out of her introspection. She flung herself on the ground and narrowly avoided being toasted. Thick, pungent smoke filled the top of the tower. Choking, Myra rolled over onto her side and came face to face with Dael, who had also managed to save himself just in time. He was looking considerably less smug, for they were not as safe up here as he had assumed.
Exchanging wary glances, they pulled themselves up into a crouching position and readied their bows. The smoke was making Myra feel queasy, and they would have to wait for it to clear before getting a clear shot.
“So you’re staying?” Dael asked finally, his voice hoarse from the smoke.
“I have little choice,” Myra replied coldly. Just because she had to suffer this man’s company did not mean she had to share his banter. He smiled at her then, in such a way that Myra knew he had read her mind.
“Stop that!” she snapped.
“What?” He feigned innocence.
“My thoughts are private!”
“Private? Milady, you have the most transparent face I’ve ever seen. One look at your face and I don’t need to read your mind.”
Myra’s palm itched to slap him. She settled instead for turning her back on the bounty hunter. He was possessed with such a keen intelligence and sharp wit it was almost impossible to outtalk him. After snapping up the bait he offered, she came away looking foolish.
The smoke was beginning to clear. Myra peered over the edge of the tower wall and saw she had a clear shot of the Tarzark front lines. She could see the foot soldiers slithering over each other at the front, while their sorcerers formed a tight row further back and lobbed flaming globes of fire across the wall at regular intervals.
Dael glanced across at Myra, observing her reaction at the sight of the Tarzark. He was impressed to see her pale, grime-smeared face was calm and resolute. He had not said as much but he had been quietly impressed by her transformation since he had prevented her from taking her own life. She was a lot stronger than he had thought.
“Are you ready?” he asked her.
Myra nodded. “Once they realize we’re up here, they’ll bring the tower down,” she replied grimly.
Dael did not answer. Instead, he drew back his bowstring and waited for her to do the same.
Their bows sang as arrow after arrow shot into the Tarzark front lines.
Such was the fury of the Tarzark’s assault that they did not notice at first when the first few warriors fell and were trampled underfoot by their comrades. Dael and Myra managed to bring down more than a dozen before Argoth, killed by an arrow in the jugular, toppled against the Tarzark King.
Grull glared up to the slender tower wreathed in the haze of smoke. Argoth was Grull’s most loyal follower, a Captain from his earliest campaigns—and if Grull had been given to sentimentality he might have felt a pang at seeing this great Tarzark warrior felled. However, Grull felt nothing save fury that one of his best warriors had been slain and would no longer be of service to him. He shoved Argoth’s corpse aside and
shouted for his sorcerers to aim an attack at the tower.
Now that Yaduk was no longer leading them, Grull’s sorcerers had become considerably more biddable. Ridding himself of Yaduk had been easier than Grull had anticipated. While they had been fighting that morning, Grull had employed his other loyal captain, Grimmak, to ‘accidentally’ fall against the sorcerer during the first assault. While doing so, he had slipped a knife between the sorcerer’s ribs. Yaduk had fallen and, in the chaos of battle, no one had suspected a thing. Although, even if they had, the rest of the sorcerers feared their King enough to pretend they had seen nothing.
A group of sorcerers nearest the tower clustered together in a red, fluttering mob. Howling curses, they sent forth tongues of fire.
Dael and Myra hit the ground as a sphere of flames wreathed the tower. The heat was blistering. Myra pressed her face to the stone floor and covered her head with her arms.
The heat clawed at her back and she felt a stomach-churning moment of fear at the thought she might be incinerated up here. Then, strong hands grasped her around the waist and dragged her backwards into the protection of the stairwell.
Just in time, for at that moment hungry flames spilled over the edge of the tower and roared across the floor where Myra and Dael had stood moments earlier. Dael’s ragged breathing was harsh in Myra’s ear. He pulled her close against him, protecting her body from the flames that licked against the entrance to the stairwell. They were in a furnace. Flames blazed in an orange mist through Myra’s closed eyelids and the intense heat made it difficult to breathe.
Finally, the flames abated. Myra and Dael sat up and sucked in deep gasps of air. The top of the tower was charred from the unnatural fire. Dael crawled past Myra and peered cautiously over the edge of the tower. He was careful not to touch the stone, which was still hissing with heat.
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