As soon as Adelyis had eaten, they threw her back onto the Yangtul and continued on their way. The river valley was hazy and airless; flies and mosquitoes buzzed around them in an incessant whine. Adelyis hung over the Yangtul’s back, miserable and afraid.
It was late afternoon when they finally reached Valdorn. As a child, Adelyis’s father had once brought her and Lassendil to Valdorn. She remembered it as a strange place. The Ennadils’ beautifully crafted stone cottages had contrasted against the rickety two-storied wooden houses on the east bank. A glittering expanse of fast flowing water divided the two towns and a vast granite bridge spanned the divide. The current Bridge of Valdorn had been built by the Ennadil and had stood for over a thousand years. It rose high on delicately curving arches, solid and yet elegant. The River Serran’s clear waters eddied around the granite pillars, heedless of the Ennadil and Orinians who trundled across the bridge from dawn to dusk.
However, Adelyis’s memory of the town was completely unlike what she saw upon her arrival in Valdorn this day. She raised her head and momentarily ignored her protesting neck muscles.
The once sleepy border town had been transformed into a bloated Morg colony. The only Ennadil or Orinians she saw alive were surprisingly passive—and they stared at Adelyis with vacant eyes as she passed by. Every Morg strode confidently about the streets with at least two Ennadil or Orinians in tow. For the first time, Adelyis saw some female Morg. Unlike the males, they did not walk around swathed in black capes. Their skulls were covered in fine dark hair that fell lankly to their shoulders and they wore long shift dresses made from coarse, sack-like material.
Adelyis’s captors slowed their pace as they passed through Valdorn but they did not stop. They reached the great bridge and Adelyis saw that the tollgates at each end had been smashed down. For the first time in centuries, there was no barrier between the City States of Orin and the Ennadil Territory—and the irony of it was not lost on Adelyis. They crossed the bridge, the Yangtuls’ heavy clawed feet thumping and clattering over the worn stone, and when they reached the east bank, Adelyis saw Orinians mechanically piling their dead into heaps by the roadside. By now Adelyis realized that these people were enslaved, not just in body but in mind. The Morg shamans had obviously worked some spell, turning their prisoners into zombies who would carry out their masters’ bidding without question.
The Morg had not been long in Valdorn for many of the wooden townhouses on the east bank still had smoke rising from their ruins. Looking upon the ruined town, tears ran down Adelyis’s face. Her grief was sharp; a thousand jagged blades tearing at her insides—if the Ennadil frontier had been taken then Aranith had fallen. Her father and brother were dead.
Leaving Valdorn behind, they travelled south into the City States of Orin. As night fell they camped amongst the wooded hills just west of the southern reaches of the Cradle Mountains. The setting sun stained the gently curved mountain slopes violet and a cool wind, charged with the promise of a coming storm, sprang up. The hot weather was ending.
The Morg tied Adelyis to a tree and fed her some more stale bread. Chewing slowly, Adelyis watched them go through their evening chores of feeding the Yangtul, boiling water, brewing tea and feasting on freshly killed animals. After dinner they huddled around the campfire. The firelight illuminated their gaunt faces as they conversed in low, sibilant voices.
Through her grief, Adelyis wondered, not for the first time, from where the Morg had come. All the Ennadil had learned was that they came from across the sea, from a great continent far to the south—a land far hotter than Isador. Indeed, they did not look happy about the approaching storm.
The storm finally hit an hour after nightfall, sweeping in a great wave over the woods where they camped. Adelyis huddled inside her cloak and prayed one of the questing forks of lightening would strike her—anything to escape the rending loss of the two people she loved most. The hammering rain doused the Morg’s campfire. Cursing, the Morg pulled their voluminous cloaks over their heads and dived into their tents.
It was as if nature itself was in a rage. The wind howled, the rain slashed and thunder exploded overhead. Lightning lit up the sky in eerie violet flashes. Finally, nature exhausted itself and the thunder rolled into the distance. The sky darkened and the rain lessened to a drizzle before stopping completely. Water dripped from the branches above Adelyis’s head, landing in large drops on her face. Disappointed she was still alive, Adelyis shivered in her sodden clothes. She was completely drenched but so exhausted by grief that she soon fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
The next morning, Adelyis was roughly shaken awake and handed a cup of rainwater. The woodland around the camp sparkled lushly below a sky full of gently scudding clouds. This morning the Morg did not hurry. Huddled deep in their clothes they leisurely packed up camp and rode east towards the purple outline of the Cradle Mountains.
Adelyis’s body ached as she lay over the Yangtul’s feathery back. She felt strangely warm and disconnected from her surroundings. As the hours passed, she felt increasingly worse and realized she had caught a chill during the night after sleeping in wet clothes.
The Morg rode steadily across the undulating landscape, in and out of clumps of woodlands and grassland, and everywhere they passed through fell silent in the Morgs’ presence. It was midday when they entered the last valley before the mountain slopes rose skyward—and there they joined a vast Morg army. A black trail of bobbing heads, conical tents and squawking Yangtul filled the narrow valley floor. It was a rendezvous point for the bulk of the Morg force, gathered from all areas of the vast continent they were slowly conquering.
The new arrivals were greeted with much fuss and backslapping before bony fingers prodded Adelyis as if she were a prize cow at market. Suddenly, a sea of sharp-featured, tanned faces was staring at her. From this Adelyis guessed she was the only Ennadil witch they had managed to take alive. Adelyis gazed upon the Morgs’ eager faces and felt fear crawl up her spine. Spying a group of bareheaded shamans approaching, Adelyis hastily looked down at the muddy ground. The newcomers started to confer with the shaman who had captured her, all the while eyeing Adelyis with bright, greedy gazes.
Once again, hard fingers fastened around her limbs and pulled Adelyis off the Yangtul. One of the shamans shoved her forward and Adelyis only just managed not to fall face down in the mud. Throwing the shaman a dark look, Adelyis lifted her chin and walked unsteadily through the heaving crowd. It was terrifying walking through the midst of them. Many of the Morg hung back as she passed, watching the Ennadil witch from within shadowed hoods.
It took a while, but at last, the small procession consisting of Adelyis and her shaman escorts reached the center of the vast encampment where a huge tent towered above the rest. A black and red flag with intricate designs fluttered in the breeze from the top of the tent. It was obviously the dwelling of someone of note— someone Adelyis had no desire to meet.
As they approached the tent, an ancient figure swathed in flowing black robes shuffled out to meet them. His skull was painted white and he carried a white-tipped staff, marking him as a shaman. He was the first elderly Morg Adelyis had seen. His ravaged face was a spider web of wrinkles and he grinned at Adelyis and licked his lips as if she were a tasty morsel his minions had brought him to snack on. Nausea stung the back of Adelyis’s throat. Her body was now trembling from fever and she felt so weak all she wanted to do was lie down and rest.
The shaman who had captured Adelyis greeted his superior before passing the ancient Morg the staff he had taken from Adelyis. The shaman took the staff with a leer and stroked the polished wood with such obvious pleasure it was almost obscene to watch. When he had finished with his new toy, the shaman looked up and the grin was replaced by a chilling gaze. Then, to Adelyis’s shock, he spoke her language.
“I am his mightiness, the Great Chak of the Nidu Clan,” he spoke her tongue haltingly and with a hissing sibilance, but Adelyis still understood ever
y word he uttered. “And I demandsss to know who you be?”
“Adelyis of the House of Florin,” she replied. There was little to be gained from being insolent, but Adelyis spoke with reluctance nonetheless. “Witch of the Ennadil Mystic Council.”
“Young you are,” the Morg hissed. “Too young for my liking. A girl witch is the best they bring me!” The Great Chak cast a malevolent look at the shaman who had so proudly offered Adelyis to him.
“You be not ideal but you suits our purposes nonetheless . . . yesssss. You will explains to usss the secrets of Ennadil magic. Explains us you will how you channels the energy of the staff you carry.”
“I will not!” Adelyis shot back recklessly, her anger boiling over for the first time.
The Great Chak scowled and his eyes seemed to disappear into the folds on his wrinkly face. “His Mightiness the Great Chak informs you that we have waysssss of convincing little Ennadil witch to speak. Cooperate with us you will otherwise we cause you great painssss.”
The Great Chak then turned to the shamans and hissed an order. The others had not understood the conversation that had passed between Morg and Ennadil but had nonetheless seen the Ennadil witch’s defiance.
Suddenly, hands grabbed Adelyis by the hair and dragged her from the Great Chak’s presence. Kicking and shouting, Adelyis was towed a short way through the mud to a small clearing. In its center was a small cluster of Orinian men. They were bloodied, mud-coated and chained together—and they all stared unabashedly as Adelyis was hauled screaming into their midst and dumped in the mud, before the Morg shackled her to the end of their chain. Then, the shaman who had brought Adelyis all this way only to find his prize was not to the Great Chak’s liking, booted Adelyis in the stomach and spat on her before stalking out of the clearing in disgust.
***
Will Stellan had watched the gang of shamans drag a young Ennadil woman into the clearing. One of them kicked and spat on her before leaving her prostrate form in the mud.
Even laying there, her long dark hair caked in mud; her tall, slender body shaking, he could see she was fine looking. She wore a thick blue traveling cloak of rich material, and when she finally raised her head to look at her fellow prisoners, Will caught his breath at the beauty of her heart-shaped face and exquisitely delicate features. Her skin, though slightly flushed, was alabaster and her eyes were as blue as the waters of Lake Farne on a summer’s day. He had not seen many Ennadil women during his life, and had heard they were beauties, but he guessed that even among her own people this girl was considered more stunning than most.
Will moved forward to help the girl to her feet, his chains rattling as he did so, but she shrank away from his touch and shuffled sideways like a crab. She crouched and stared at him with fierce eyes that warned him not to come an inch closer.
“Who are you?” she spoke finally, her voice husky with thirst and hunger. She spoke Orinian well, Will noted, much better than he or anyone he knew spoke Ennadil. He was not surprised by that however—it was common knowledge that the average Ennadil was better educated than most Orinians. Will himself could barely write or read his own language, let alone speak another.
“I am Captain Will Stellan of Serranguard and you, milady?”
“I am Adelyis of the House of Florin—witch of the Ennadil Mystic Council,” she replied with an imperious tilt of her chin.
Maybe it was the tone of her voice, or the way she looked down her perfectly chiseled nose at him—but whatever the reason, a sarcastic response tripped off Will’s tongue before he could stop it. “A member of the aristocracy? And a witch too? We are in distinguished company lads!”
The other men managed a few snorts before Adelyis’s look of icy scorn silenced them. There was a moment of frigid silence before Will attempted to restart the conversation, this time without sarcasm. “The House of Florin,” he mused. “I believe I met your brother a little over a year ago. He came to Serranguard to seek an audience with Lord Brin.”
The girl frowned at this but Will continued. “I remember your brother well. He was an excitable fellow—for an Ennadil that is.”
“He had every reason to lose his temper,” Adelyis Florin replied coldly. “Theo Brin refused to help us and insulted our people.”
“That I also remember,” Will agreed. “Lord Brin is not known for his love of the Ennadil.”
“Lord Brin is an idiot.” Adelyis replied simply.
Will did not answer. He could not say he disagreed with her for Theo Brin’s refusal to listen to the Ennadil had had disastrous consequences. However, Will was not about to admit this to this supercilious young woman. “What news of the Ennadil?” he asked finally.
“My people have fallen,” Adelyis replied. “The Morg now control the Ennadil Territory. And what of the Orinians?”
“Our army was defeated four days ago on the Jade Plains. None but the men you see before you survived. Now nothing stands between the Morg and Serranguard.”
Adelyis Florin wrapped her muddied cape around herself and sat down in the mud. She was shaking slightly. “Then all hope is lost,” she said softly. “Isador will fall.”
“Well.” Will cleared his throat. “There’s nothing like a little optimism to cheer up a drab afternoon.”
Adelyis lifted her head and stared at him. Will noticed for the first time that the girl was sweating, despite the cool evening. Her eyes however, were bright with anger.
“Fool.” Her voice was clipped and hard. “There are some things you should never ridicule.” With that, Adelyis Florin turned her back on Will Stellan.
Her words had been the verbal equivalent of a slap across the face. Anger and humiliation flooded through Will and he opened his mouth to inflict similar injury. Then, hesitating, he shut his mouth and waited for the sting of her words to pass. Nothing would be gained by arguing with this spoilt young woman.
One of the soldiers nudged Will and upon catching his eye, winked. “You sure have a way with the ladies, Captain!”
CHAPTER SEVEN
ACROSS THE WATER
A cold sweat was starting to slide down Jennadil Silverstern’s back as he frantically searched for a boat in which to escape across Lake Farne.
There were none to be found—everyone in Brenna appeared to have the same plan. The lakefront was a riot scene; people were knifing each other to get to the few boats moored along the dock. There was not much to choose from, just a scattering of fishing and trade vessels and two barges used to ferry people across the lake to Sylvin to the east and Issil on the northwestern shore.
Jennadil dodged slashing dagger blades and fists. Deciding he was never going to get out of Brenna like this, he wove his way out of the seething crowd of panicked townsfolk and strode west along the wooden pier away from the docks—uncomfortably aware that he now possessed another shadow.
The girl had suctioned herself to him and she was proving impossible to lose. If that was not bad enough, he knew his third shadow—the bounty hunter—would not be far behind.
“So what’s the plan now?” The girl ran to keep up with his long stride. “I hope you noticed all the boats are taken.”
“Very observant,” Jennadil snapped.
The girl chose to ignore his sarcasm. “So how are we going to cross the lake?”
“I have no idea how ‘we’ are going to get across. But ‘you’ my lovely can swim if you wish.”
The girl did not reply and Jennadil hoped she would go off in a sulk. However, after a few moments she resumed her prattle as if he had not even spoken. “I know! Let’s steal someone’s boat. Just blast them into the water with that staff of yours!”
“I don’t think so!”
“Why not?”
“A wizard can’t use his powers to harm the innocent. We have a code of conduct!”
The girl snorted in reply. “Well, you keep your code of conduct while the last boats leave this pier and the Morg turn up and chop us into fish bait!”
> Jennadil quickened his step. This girl was pushing him to the limits of his patience and he was sorely tempted to blast her into the water. They had now left the hysterical rabble behind and entered a run-down area of the lakefront. Guttering street lamps cast an orange hue over the pier and featureless stone warehouses looked out like blank faces across the lake. No boats were moored here, despite the dilapidated wooden jetty that jutted out from the waterfront. Rotting and listing to one side, the jetty looked as if it would collapse into the water the moment someone set foot on it.
Gywna Brin turned to the wizard, who had stopped in front of the jetty and was observing it intently.
“Why are we wasting time here? The boats are that way.” She jerked her thumb to the east.
“Off you go then,” the wizard muttered before he stepped onto the jetty and gingerly picked his way over the rotting planks.
“What in my ancestors are you doing?” Gywna was starting to get irritated. “That jetty is completely rotten. You’ll fall into the lake!”
“I have an idea,” the wizard replied. “We’ll make a raft!”
“What!” Gywna stared at him incredulously. “We don’t have time for that!”
Meanwhile the wizard had started pulling up planks.
“Idiot,” Gywna muttered; turning her back on the wizard she walked off down the pier. She glanced over her shoulder back at the jetty and sneered— the imbecile was still yanking at rotting planks. Any moment now he would fall through them into the icy waters of Lake Farne. She decided to leave him to it.