“Lord Brin, I would thank you to remember you are no longer in Serranguard. Hold your tongue!”
Theo turned puce but did not reply. The shock of nearly having his throat cut had still not worn off.
“Come now Aran,” he finally blustered. “The Ennadil just doesn’t like hearing the truth.”
“That does not interest me,” Aran Fire snapped. “What matters is that while you sit here dallying with your personal grievances, the Morg invasion force is sitting on our doorstep!” Lord Fier’s blue eyes glittered dangerously. “Never forget that you are a guest here Lord Brin—as is Lassendil Florin. Keep your temper under control. I also understand this wizard betrayed you and for that, you placed a price on his head. You may wish him dead but right now he’s more use to us alive.”
“What!” Theo spluttered but Aran Fire silenced him with a gesture and rose to his feet. A commanding presence, he towered over Serranguard’s City-Lord.
“There is a very real chance the Morg will trample Falcon’s Mount. If they do then you will get your wish—Jennadil will die—like the rest of us. Weak of character as he may be, Jennadil Silverstern is still a vital resource. He and Arridel Thorne are the only wizards we have left. We do not have the army necessary to defeat the Morg, you know that. Magic is our last hope. If we manage to defeat the enemy then you may do what you wish with Jennadil.”
“This may be your city,” Brin erupted, “but Jennadil Silverstern is still my prisoner and if I wish to cut off his head and let the crows pick out his eyes, I will do so!”
“Your pettiness disgusts me.” Aran Fire took a step towards Theo Brin. “You forget yourself!”
“My Lord.” Arridel Thorne inserted himself calmly between the two City-Lords. He placed a cautionary hand on Theo’s arm. All eyes in the hall turned to the enigmatic, black-cloaked figure with long, silver-streaked hair and beard contrasting against the pallor of his skin. “I have as little love for this man as you but his skills are needed.”
Shaking, Theo Brin struggled to his feet and gathered his robes around him. “I allow him to live only for the good of Isador.” The words sounded as if they were choking him. “Although you will soon see that this shiftless wizard will be more of a hindrance than a help to you.” He stepped off the dais.
“Gywna, Myra, Vermel—come!” he barked.
Vermel Ham, sweating profusely, his face creased in consternation, lumbered after his master, followed by Myra Brin, her eyes cast downward.
Gywna followed last of all. She bristled at being ordered about like a dog and cast a regretful glance behind her. Her adventure was over— she was now back inside her gilded cage under her father’s control, and would be treated like his other minions. Gywna passed Jennadil and Lassendil but neither of them looked her way. Neither of them cared and why should they? She would not be surprised if they loathed her.
Gywna followed her father, his wife and counsellor out of the hall—each echoing footstep a lock turning and a door slamming shut behind her.
CHAPTER TWELVE
ADELYIS TAKES HER CHANCE
Barely a flicker of light penetrated the decaying depths of the dungeon. Time lost all meaning in the dark. Apart from the sounds of their breathing and the murmur of listless conversation between them, the suffocating, timeless monotony was broken only by mealtimes when the door creaked open and trays of rancid food were shoved inside. At the far end of the cell, barely hidden in an alcove, was a stinking privy.
Four mealtimes had passed since their capture and Adelyis was wondering how much more she could bear when she felt a light touch on her shoulder. Will Stellan was sitting beside her.
“How are you feeling Adelyis?” he murmured. “Speaking for myself, I’m ready to dash my brains out on these cell walls.”
Despite herself, Adelyis smiled in the darkness. He had distracted her from the hysteria that had been rising from a point just under her ribcage. The darkness forced them to dwell in their subconscious; in the dark recesses of the mind where childish fear and paranoia lurked.
Adelyis reached out her hand and fumbled in the darkness for human warmth. She found Will’s hand and squeezed tightly.
Will placed his other hand over hers. His skin was cold and clammy, like her own. To Adelyis’s surprise, Will suddenly gathered her close and held her tightly against him – and to her even greater surprise, she did not mind. Under normal circumstances, she would have shoved him away but in the terrifying dark she merely huddled against his chest.
Adelyis slowly relaxed against Will; his warmth and steadily beating heart was a safety net that stopped her drowning in her own fear. Apart from her brother and father, she could not remember the last time she had hugged anyone. Wizards and witches stood apart in Ennadil society and, since she had entered the order, months would go past before her hand would brush another’s. Most of the time she never gave it much thought. It was the life she had chosen and she accepted it. However, she could not deny the comfort of being in a man’s arms.
Time melted away and Adelyis must have eventually fallen asleep for the sound of the rusty key turning in the cell door’s lock intruded slowly into her consciousness. She came awake reluctantly; not wanting to leave the comforting oblivion of sleep.
The door opened and with it came a whisper of fresher air. A lamp’s pale glow illuminated the cell from the corridor.
“Witch!” A voice hissed from the shadows. “Come!”
Blinking rapidly in the sudden light, Adelyis did not move. A caped figure moved into the cell. Fingers fastened around her arms and dragged her out of the cell.
Outside in the corridor, Adelyis shivered in the lamplight. As her vision cleared, she saw a dozen caped Morg surrounding her. They grinned and clawed at her, laughing when she shrank back from them.
Finally, tiring of tormenting their captive, the Morg pushed her ahead of them through the maze of corridors and up out of the dungeons. They led her through the lower levels of the castle until they reached a spiral stairwell. Adelyis obediently started to climb, realizing as she did so that she was in one of Serranguard’s four towers. The air got fresher and cooler as she climbed and when she reached the top of the tower, she inhaled deeply.
A strong wind with a slight chill to it was blowing, and after the rank dungeon it smelt fresh and sweet. Autumn was almost upon Isador. The wind ruffled her hair and stung her cheeks. However, any pleasure she might have had at being free of her cell was obliterated when she saw the cluster of Morg shamans waiting for her.
At the head of the group, she recognized the ancient, shriveled Morg shaman, ‘His Mightiness, the Great Chak of the Niduk Clan’, as well as the shaman she had fought in the Arden Highlands. Chak was holding her staff and when he saw the direction of Adelyis’s gaze, he drew back his lips to reveal shrunken gums.
Then, before Adelyis had time to prepare herself, the crowd parted and a tall figure, swathed in black, stepped through their midst.
The being glided towards her across the tower top and Adelyis was suddenly filled with terror. She staggered backwards and collided with the Morg who had escorted her from the dungeons. They sniggered at her fear and, gripping her arms, pushed her forward to meet the hooded one.
The tall figure stopped a few paces from her and Adelyis could feel sharp eyes burning into her. She looked into the face, shadowed by a deep cowl, and gasped. She was looking at a cadaver – a chalk-white face, lipless mouth and albino eyes.
This was no Morg but some deformed parody of man. She sensed his power; rippling just beneath the surface—and if the Morg had not been holding Adelyis still she would have run from this creature and hurled herself from the top of the tower to escape him. Adelyis cowered against the Morg holding her still.
The cloaked one had been watching Adelyis carefully, his hooded pink eyes reading her face with interest, before he finally spoke.
“Adelyis Florin,” his voice crawled across Adelyis’s skin. “How does it feel to
be the last Ennadil sorcerer alive?”
The albino eyes studied her before he continued. “You are young and inexperienced but I still hope you will be of some use to me.”
Adelyis wanted to be brave and defiant. She wanted to scream that she would never help him—ever. However, the brave words stuck in her throat, and she just stared as if hypnotized.
“You will cooperate with us little witch,” her captor continued. “As will your fellow prisoners. The Gremul and the Orinian Captain will be questioned soon. There is much they can help us with.”
Adelyis listened numbly, her mind too frightened to make sense of his words or to analyze them.
“You will stay by my side as I conquer the rest of Isador. You will be my aide, my helper.” The horrible visage contorted into a smile. “And I have a little task you can assist with right now. Chak and Salazth will accompany you to the library where you will do as they command.”
Adelyis somehow dredged up the courage to defy him. “I won’t help them!” she choked. “I won’t help you destroy us!”
Unfazed by her outburst, his smile—a slash across his bloodless face—widened. Then, he hissed an order to his minions.
The Morg shoved Adelyis forward towards the edge of the tower and for a moment she thought they were going to throw her off it. Instead, they held her tightly, just in case she tried to take her own life, forcing her to look out across the lands to the south of Serranguard. It was only mid-afternoon but a rosy glow lit up the southern sky. Below, the once pastoral landscape was studded with black tents. They were hacking down the woodland; scarring and polluting the landscape as they made way for the Morg townships.
“Down there are many Ennadil who are doing my bidding.” He moved close to Adelyis and whispered in her ear. “The next time you defy me, one of them will be brought before you, tortured and killed. We will continue in this way until you learn that I am your master now and my will is yours.”
It was hot and fusty inside the library; so different from the lofty ceilings and marble pillars in Ennadil libraries. Here, the chamber was barely big enough to hold the stacks of books piled up on every available surface. A layer of dust covered everything.
Adelyis stood before Chak and Salazth who were exchanging heated words before they fixed her with malevolent stares. Then Chak spoke. “His Mightiness the Great Chak demands you finds every book containing magicsssssss and places it on table.”
Adelyis obeyed without argument, noting as she did so, that their urgency had an edge of desperation to it. At this stage of their invasion, she would have guessed the Morg were invincible, and yet something troubled them.
As Adelyis worked, a plan slowly took root in her mind—however she would need to gain strength to carry it out. She turned to Chak, who was hunched over his staff watching her work.
“I am weak, I can barely concentrate.” She forced herself to hold his gaze. “You must bring me some food and water if I am to be of any use to you.”
Chak’s eyes narrowed and the folds of flesh hanging around his face quivered. He looked as if he would deny her, but then he abruptly turned away and barked an order at Salazth. The younger shaman stomped from the library and a short while later, a tankard of ale and a plate of dried meat and heavy rye bread were thumped down in front of Adelyis. She fell on the food and ate ravenously, washing the meal down with the ale. A short while later she felt strength seep back into her weakened limbs.
The library was airless and far too warm. The Morg had lit a fire in the hearth at the far end despite that it was not a cold day. Adelyis’s robes stuck uncomfortably to her back as she worked. Finally, as the day waned and the light dimmed outside, she finished piling the last of the reference books containing magic on the table. It was not an extensive selection for she guessed the wizard residing here had taken his prized books upon fleeing Serranguard. Nonetheless, there was still considerable information in these books; information that could make the Morg’s final victory over the peoples of Isador a certainty.
“Tomorrow you returns here and we will be reading each books,” Chak hissed.
No I will not—came Adelyis’s silent response.
A group of four Morg guards accompanied her back down into the dungeons.
It was a long journey through the massive Keep but eventually they reached the entrance to the dungeons and descended into the bowels of Serranguard.
They were descending the last flight of stone steps down into the dungeon when Adelyis took her chance.
Adelyis moved swiftly, jabbing the Morg to her left in the stomach with her elbow and kicking the Morg to her right in the shin, tripping him up. The Morg to her left doubled over with a vicious wheeze, while the one to her right fell headlong and landed on his face.
A violent scuffle ensued—Adelyis kicked, punched and clawed until they subdued her. Her ears were ringing and her head throbbing from their blows, when they finally man-handled her into the cell and slammed the door behind her.
Adelyis groaned and slumped against the closed door.
“Adelyis?” Will put his hand on her arm. “Are you injured?”
“No, they just knocked me about a bit for trying to escape,” she gasped in response.
“Save your strength girl,” the Gremul growled from the darkness. “There is little point in picking a fight unless you are sure to win it.”
“I did not intend to win,” Adelyis countered. “It was a diversion and it worked.”
Silence fell in the cell as all its occupants held their breath and listened.
“My powers are weaker but not insignificant without my staff,” Adelyis explained, “and during the scuffle on the stairs I ripped a piece of material off one of their cloaks. That is all I need to cast a spell.”
“What kind of spell milady?” one of Will’s men asked, his voice rising in hope.
“A spell which will give me temporary control over this Morg’s mind,” Adelyis replied. “This eve, at midnight, he will do my bidding.”
“How will you achieve such devilry?” Taz’s voice betrayed the fascination and distrust of magic that battled within him.
“Through a spell that requires an enormous amount of concentration,” Adelyis replied, “and I will need all my strength to weave it. None of you must speak to me for the next few hours.”
Adelyis leant back against the door and stretched her legs in front of her. The side of her head still throbbed from where one of the Morg had slammed her head against the wall. It would take all her concentration to achieve this. She fingered the scrap of coarse cloth she had torn from one of the unsuspecting Morg and cupped it between her palms. Then, closing her eyes and deepening her breathing, she prepared to cast her spell.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE PROPHECY
It was well after midnight when Jennadil awoke in a cold sweat. His heart was beating so hard he thought it was going to explode from his chest. He shivered in the darkness and took deep gulps of air.
Jennadil lay, seemingly frozen to the thin mattress beneath him, and tried to push back the panic grappling at his throat. Remnants of the nightmare that had ripped him from his sleep still lingered. This was not the first time he’d had such a dream. He had all but forgotten about it, but as a child, shortly after the death of his parents, the same nightmare had woken him in the night. As a child, the dream had been as mystifying as it was terrifying—but on this occasion it had disturbing relevance to what was happening around him.
Jennadil stared into the darkness for a while until his pulse slowed. He would not be able to fall asleep again after such a nightmare. Giving up on trying to rest, Jennadil got out of bed, dressed in leggings and long shirt, pulled on his boots and left his sleeping chamber. He was lodged in a tiny tower that protruded from the highest level of the palace like a hooked finger. It housed political prisoners, and a couple of guards were stationed at the bottom of the stairwell, just in case Jennadil had any middle-of-the-night urge to d
isappear again.
Jennadil could not go downstairs, so he made his way up to the top of the tower instead. It was a pitch black, moonless night and the lands around Falcon’s Mount were cloaked in darkness. Above him, millions of stars glittered in the night-sky. A chill wind was blowing; Jennadil welcomed its sting against his skin and turned his face up to the stars.
He had come to a dead-end. Jennadil suddenly felt very sorry for himself. He had not become a wizard by choice. After his parents died, he had been taken in by an aged wizard named Durel, who noted a striking magical ability in the young lad. Despite his apprentice’s character being thoroughly unsuitable for a career in wizardry, Durel had persisted. Orin had few wizards of talent and Durel was determined that Jennadil would go on to become a great sorcerer. Jennadil was grateful that Durel was dead now; so he would not have to see what a failure his apprentice had become.
Then there was the dream. Even now, some time after waking from it, he grew cold at the memory. Its meaning was very clear and Jennadil wished he could erase it forever from his mind.
“It is an odd hour to be out admiring the view.”
A voice behind Jennadil made his heart leap for the second time that night. A nerve jumped erratically under his left eye as he turned to see who had spoken.
“Sorry, did I startle you?”
Jennadil recognized Arridel Thorne’s voice and, now his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he could make out the wizard’s caped form, a few feet away.
“How long have you been lurking there Arridel?” Jennadil was relieved to note that his voice did not sound as shaky as he felt.
“Lurking?” Arridel feigned hurt “I was doing no such thing, Jennadil, I was out enjoying the night air like you.”
“What do you want?” Jennadil was too tired and shaken to play games. “Come to gloat?”
Arridel gave a low, humorless laugh. “I could but I would not get up in the middle of the night for that … no I am here because I sensed your terror a short-while ago and was curious to know what had befallen you.”
“Disappointed not to find me dead?”
“On the contrary, I am intrigued to know what caused such a strong reaction in you that I, on the other side of the palace, was woken by it.”