Jennadil started. “What makes you think he’s a bounty hunter?”
“Please Jennadil.” The Ennadil’s expression hardened. “Stop evading the question. Bounty hunters aren’t difficult to spot. Who is he working for and can we expect any others?”
Cornered, Jennadil swallowed hard. Meanwhile, the bounty hunter was starting to protest. However, the bed of damp ferns his face pressed into, muffled his curses.
“Very well,” Jennadil replied sullenly. “He was hired by Lord Brin.” The others remained silent, waiting for the wizard to explain himself. Jennadil cleared his throat in embarrassment before continuing. “A year ago I was working for Theo Brin. I’d been at Serranguard for three years but then . . .” Jennadil paused, deciding whether to tell the truth, before he ploughed on, “. . . he caught me bedding his wife.”
Lassendil’s expression grew incredulous. “And he didn’t have you executed on the spot?”
“I was scheduled to be executed the following morning—but luckily I have friends at Serranguard and one of them helped me escape.”
“No wonder there’s a price on your head,” Lassendil replied.
Jennadil snorted. “It never would have happened if the fat toad hadn’t had us spied on.”
A sharply indrawn breath from behind him caused Jennadil to glance over his shoulder at where the girl stood silently listening to his confession. Her face was strained and white, and her hazel eyes blazed.
“What’s wrong with you?” Jennadil snapped. “Don’t tell me I’ve shocked your sensibilities as well?”
Her fist shot out and slammed into Jennadil’s right eye. The force of her punch knocked Jennadil backwards. He sat down heavily on the ground and clutched his eye before yelling at her. “Vicious bitch! Why did you do that?”
“That fat toad you speak of.” Gywna stood over him, her fist ready to deliver another punch. “Is my father!”
***
Pale, watery sunlight broke through the rain clouds the next morning. Shafts of light warmed the vegetation and caught on each droplet of water still hanging from the leaves—causing the forest to look as if it had been frosted with millions of tiny crystals.
In the small, trampled clearing, Jennadil, Gywna and Lassendil ate a frugal breakfast and eyed their captive. He was in his late thirties, dark skinned with high cheekbones, chiseled features and short curly black hair. A silver crescent moon, a Tarantel good-luck charm, glimmered from one ear.
Lassendil had tied him to a tree and the bounty hunter did not bother to struggle. He just sat and stared at his captors with disarming intensity.
“Any ideas on what we should do with him?” Lassendil finished his Aka-fruit and threw the stone into the bushes. He turned to the others but their expressions were as mutinous as the bounty hunter’s. Lassendil suppressed a sigh; he was beginning to regret taking up with these two. They were tiresome with their constant bickering. Without his help they were unable to feed themselves or come to a decision.
“Let me go Ennadil!” the bounty hunter spoke for the first time since his capture. “Don’t interfere. I came for the wizard. Give him to me and I’ll be on my way.”
“Good idea,” Gywna agreed. “After what he did to my father he doesn’t deserve our help.”
“Listen to the girl,” his voice softened and became coaxing, hypnotic. “Free me.”
Lassendil’s face creased into a rare smile. “Your Tarantel tricks won’t work on me.” Lassendil glanced at Jennadil and Gywna as he spoke. “Don’t look into his eyes when he speaks like that or he’ll hypnotize you.”
Jennadil and Gywna hastily averted their gazes from the bounty hunter who, to their surprise, laughed.
“We can’t let him go!” Jennadil spoke up. “He’ll just have to come with us.”
Gywna snorted and Lassendil raised an eyebrow, regarding the wizard calmly. “Well Jennadil, if you want to bring him along he’s your responsibility. You watch over him but if he escapes be it on your head.”
Jennadil frowned at the Ennadil; until now he had quite liked Lassendil. However, he did not appreciate Lassendil’s off-hand way of speaking to him. He and Gywna Brin had behaved like prudish old maids when he had told them about why the bounty hunter was after him.
No wonder Gywna had reminded him of someone—when she scowled her face was a replica of her father’s. When would this run of bad luck end? His right eye-socket was aching. Gywna had punched him hard; he would have a black eye by nightfall.
It was in this cheerful mood the day began. Lassendil set a brisker pace through Delm Forest than the day before. It was not long before the others were struggling to catch their breaths. Jennadil brought up the rear, and was occasionally forced to prod his captive with his staff when the bounty hunter deliberately dawdled.
The forest glistened after the recent rains, until the sun evaporated the moisture, turning Delm Forest into a steam bath. They stopped for a brief lunch, when the sun was at its zenith, before Lassendil pressed on relentlessly. Finally, an hour before sunset—as the shadows lengthened and the forest’s green deepened —the trees abruptly drew back.
There before them rolled an expanse of grass-covered hills, stretching north and disappearing over the horizon. The company halted and gazed across the vast Endaar Downs. Falcon’s Mount lay northeast.
“Long have I heard of this place.” Lassendil spoke for the first time since that morning.
“It looks a bit empty for my liking,” Gywna replied. “You’re not Orinian—why do you know of it?”
“Many Ennadil fell here,” Lassendil replied, “during the last great battle between the Tarzark, and the Ennadil and Orinians over a century ago. My grandfather fought here. Many Orinians and Ennadil fell during that battle but they ultimately triumphed against the enemy. The Tarzark could not withstand the combined strength of both armies.”
The companions stood for a moment and looked across the downs, imagining a time when Orinians and Ennadil had fought side by side in this lonely land. Apart from Falcon’s Mount, this city-state was sparsely populated. There were a scattering of small communities to the west of Falcon’s Mount but nothing but rolling grassland between the great citadel and the garrison at Hammer Pass where the jagged Saw-Tooth mountain range created a natural border between Orin and the Tarzark Kingdom. No Ennadil had ventured here in long years.
“How times have changed,” Jennadil observed solemnly from the rear.
His words were met by silence.
CHAPTER TEN
THE OCCUPATION OF SERRANGUARD
Will Stellan would never forget the day the Morg marched on Serranguard. He had readied himself for bloodshed, and steeled himself for watching his home being sacked and burnt. However, the reality was far worse.
The vast Morg army flooded across the rolling farmland towards the golden hued fortress—only to find Serranguard castle completely undefended.
Where was Serranguard’s home guard? Where was Lord Brin and his entourage?
Will and the other prisoners were swept along; debris caught up in a swiftly moving tide. The Morg swarmed up the winding road to the castle, and finding no archers on the walls to impede them, they battered the great gates down. The invading army spewed into the Keep but no army awaited them.
Serranguard was empty.
The prisoners were among the last to enter the castle. Howls echoed off the stone walls as the Morg looted the Keep. Will stared numbly at first before anger hit him like a battering ram.
No Ennadil lord had abandoned his doomed citadel during the Morg attacks. Theo Brin had fled in terrible cowardice.
Will gazed about him, his mouth sour and his stomach roiling. His men looked on with pinched white faces, similarly affected. Will felt the gazes of the Ennadil witch and the Gremul on him and felt humiliation join the boiling rage within him. Wisely, both Adelyis and the Gremul kept silent.
Only one of the Morg bothered to draw attention to the lack of honor in finding Se
rranguard open for the plundering. A small, whippet thin warrior stopped in front of Will and curled his lip. He spat at Will’s feet before disappearing into the seething crowd.
Moments later the tide of Morg pushed the prisoners forward and Will found himself being swept across the vast courtyard between the empty stables, up familiar stairwells and along oft travelled corridors – only this time the familiarity was tainted. The Morg shoved the prisoners into a small chamber, which had once belonged to one of Serranguard’s servants. Will listened to the sound of the door being bolted from the outside before he turned his attention to the chamber in which they stood. Overturned chairs and a few personal items strewn over an unmade bed gave signs of a hasty departure.
The prisoners were silent while the fortress echoed and throbbed with the Morg’s celebrations.
Will crossed to the narrow bed and sat down heavily on the edge of it. If he had been alone he would have buried his head in his hands but the presence of his soldiers, the girl and the Gremul made him control his despair.
“Well that’s it then Captain,” one of his men eventually spoke, his voice thick with emotion. “It’s over, and we never even gave them a fight.”
Will nodded listlessly and heavy silence hung in the air—then a hoarse, gravelly voice intruded upon his misery. “The rest of Orin is free is it not?” the Gremul rasped. “Why do you whine like whipped dogs?”
Will snapped out of his reverie. “You speak our language!”
“I do.” The creature’s voice was rough as if it had a severe throat infection but it was still easy to understand. “I am Taz, my tribe’s emissary, so learning your tongue was necessary. You still haven’t answered my question.” Two yellow eyes fixed on Will, unblinking and full of cunning.
“We do not whine,” Will replied coldly. “We are just attempting to understand what has happened here. Even if Falcon’s Mount and Mirren are still free, Serranguard was our home. We can’t understand why Lord Brin did not attempt to defend it.”
“Maybe he had a good reason for abandoning Serranguard,” a cool female voice interjected. “Perhaps he thought he was saving more lives this way.”
“Lives that will only be lost later,” bitterness hardened Will’s voice but he could not bring himself to look at Adelyis Florin. Her words might be fair but he could just imagine the superiority on her face.
“This is a humiliating day for the City-States of Orin,” Taz the Gremul added unnecessarily.
Will glared across at the squat, fur-covered creature. “And what of your kind? I doubt the Gremul have fared any better.”
The Gremul stared back at Will and appeared to hunch down on himself, crossing his sinewy green arms across his furry chest. He made a low growling sound in the back of his throat. “What remains of my kind have fled deep into the heart of Gremul Forest where the Morg have yet to reach. We fought them for as long as we were able and whole tribes were slaughtered. I was sent to ask for help from the Orinians but I was captured south of the Cradle Mountains.” Taz turned to Adelyis. “And what of the Ennadil?”
Adelyis compressed her lips and shook her head. “I fear Aranith has fallen. It was under siege when I left it a week ago. I know not the fate of my people.”
Their conversation was abruptly terminated by the grating of the bolt being drawn back on the door. Moments later Morg flooded inside like cackling black crows. Hard, pinching fingers grabbed them and herded them out into the corridor. Moments later, they were being pushed down a narrow stone stairwell.
The Morg were taking them down into the dungeons.
A wave of stale, mildewed air hit Will as he descended the stairs into the dungeon’s top level. He knew the labyrinth of tunnels intimately, having escorted numerous prisoners down here. He had never expected to be among their numbers and the irony was not lost on him.
The Morg had procured a large ring of rusty keys. They fiddled and argued over it before finally unlocking a door at the end of a tunnel on the dungeon’s second level. The prisoners protested and struggled when the Morg attempted to push them into the dark cell. Adelyis was the last to enter. She grappled with the edge of the doorway before the Morg ripped her fingers free and tossed her inside.
The door slammed shut behind her, sealing them all in fetid darkness.
***
As night fell over the land, swallowing Serranguard in its long shadow, the Morg reveled. They were celebrating their easiest victory yet in their conquest of Isador. With over half of the continent taken, they could afford to celebrate with gusto. Unlike the Ennadil fortresses, which had been reduced to rubble by the fighting, Serranguard had been left intact. Geographically, it lay at Isador’s heart, and as such was an obvious choice for a Morg capital. The Morg lit great fires on top of Serranguard’s four towers; giant torches that welcomed the approaching Morg legions that were still traveling north.
An enormous feast of raw meat and entrails was prepared in the castle’s banquet hall. Heaps of sheep’s eyes, a newfound Morg delicacy, were heaped on silver platters. Great cauldrons of the potent Morg beverage they drank at every opportunity bubbled at the far end of the hall; this fermented brew gave the Morg great strength. The bubbling liquid gave off a pungent, earthy smell, like the bottom of an ancient forest. The Morg preparing the banquet scuttled to and fro across the great hall.
Their frenetic activity heralded the imminent arrival of someone of great importance.
The last streaks of light faded from the indigo sky outside when drums started to pound in the lower levels of the Keep. The Morg inside the dining hall froze mid-action for a moment before scurrying and tripping over each other to make the finishing touches to the feast.
The drums rolled like approaching thunder, and the last Morg had flattened himself against the wall alongside his fellows—who were all standing rigidly to attention—when a tall, caped figure swept into the hall, followed by a considerable entourage.
The fear and awe that this individual inspired was palpable inside the hall. There was not one Morg who did not resist the urge to cower as he strode by them, before taking his position at the head of the long table. The Morg shamans filed into the hall, their heads bare, their staffs at their sides. They took their places near the head of the table, flanking their master.
The individual who led them settled into his chair and watched under hooded lids as the rest of the company took their seats. He reached out a large hand and grasped the chalice in front of him. The hand was white and bloodless; its pallor contrasting sharply with the Morg’s bronzed skin. Pocked, leathery skin covered the powerful hand and long black nails protruded from its fingertips. Slowly, he raised the chalice to his lips and as he did so, the cowl slipped back slightly, revealing the ghastly visage within.
Chalk white skin, slitted pink eyes and a black slash of a mouth flashed into sight like a naked, evil white rabbit. The lipless mouth opened revealing a double row of sharp yellow teeth. Grinning, the Morg’s leader drained his chalice and brought it back down onto the table with a thump, where it was immediately refilled.
The Morg at the table all sat with unnatural stillness, watching their master hungrily but not touching the plates of offal in front of them. Not one of them would have dared. Sensing this, their master drained his second chalice slowly and leant back in his chair, his gaze slipping over them. Finally, he leaned forward and clapped his raw-boned, bloodless hands. The sound echoed in the great hall.
The Morg fell upon their banquet and the grunting and growling of their feasting caused a great din. Their master looked on dispassionately, eating slowly as he savored his food. His gaze never left his subjects for a moment.
Outside, the drums pulsed the rhythm of a slowly beating heart. The sound echoed for leagues in every direction, summoning all Morg to the castle. Below the fortress lay a forest of black, cone-shaped tents crawling with Morg. All signs of the Orinian villages that had dwelt there until today had been virtually obliterated. By daybreak the
landscape around Serranguard would be unrecognizable.
Men no longer belonged here.
***
Adelyis’s stomach growled loudly. Hunger gnawed and bit at her belly like the rats that infested this vile dungeon. Darkness cloaked the cell and the chill of damp rock numbed her skin through her clothes. She was a mess; her hair was now dirty and matted and her fingernails were broken and ragged. She could not see the others but she sensed them sitting nearby, lost in their thoughts and worries.
So this would be her fate—left to rot in this festering tomb. She would have preferred almost any end than this. Left in this cell, her death would be drawn out to extricate every bit of suffering. Adelyis squeezed her eyes shut to halt her morbid thoughts. There was no use in torturing herself; she was sure the Morg would get to that soon enough.
“Witch.” A voice rasped to her left, making Adelyis jump. “For that is what you are, is it not?” The Gremul’s attempt at conversation unnerved Adelyis.
“My name is Adelyis,” she replied coldly. “Not witch—although that is what I am.”
“Gremul do not trust magic,” Taz continued bluntly, “but can you not use your powers to help us?”
Adelyis sighed deeply. “Without my staff my powers are limited. I know some spells but none of them will unlock this door and free us.”
“Not one trick which could aid us?” The Gremul’s voice roughened accusingly. “A real sorceress would not be defenseless without her staff!”
“I am not defenseless!” Adelyis snapped. “You know nothing of my magic Gremul! To blast down an armored door and clear a path through a Morg army is beyond my means at present—and if I were capable of such power I would not be locked up in here with you!”
Taz growled and muttered under his breath and Adelyis took a few deep breaths to calm the anger that bit at her empty belly. If it was not the Orinian captain and his sarcasm, it was this stinky, hairy creature and his whining. She hated them all.
Will Stellan and his men were mercifully silent at present. Still subdued after seeing their beloved castle abandoned to the Morg, they had listened to her altercation with Taz but did not comment on it. The events of the last few hours had stripped them of hope and left despair in its place.