Day Four Parts 1 to 6

Day Four

Dawn was just beginning as the sun peeped onto the surface of the horizon. Lyria looked carefully at Orlan, nodding once pleased at what she saw in his face and kissed him deferentially on the cheek.
“If you need me you know where I will be. I will begin to make preparations in Durrh.” Packing her things away she ignored the pleading look in Varon’s eyes as she kept his flask of illicit alcohol.
Seconds later they all watched as she walked through the fire and left them.
“It doesn’t matter how often I watch her do that it still freaks me out,” Harry’s voice was gruff as he gripped Banya above his elbow steering him towards the track.
“Have you seen this often?” Banya would like to more about the fey and was pleased Harry was to walk with him.
“Hundreds, if not thousands of times over the years,” The answer displeased Banya as he thought Harry was making fun of him. Lyria looked as if she was but a few years older than him.
Quietly castigating him, Banya was astounded when Harry told him that Lyria had returned home to tend her daughter, Lyta. Lyta was just turned thirteen a very special age for a feyhrine girl child.
“So just how old is the Lady?” he voiced the question and Orlan laughed at him,
“She is far, far older than you would believe young man. If I remember rightly she had to attend your birthing too,” Banya’s jaw dropped in disbelief, how… before he could speak Anjii chimed in,
“Lyria is very special. She knows things before they happen. I have seen her do many things which I would deem impossible. Then again, with Orlan around,” she helped the old man to his feet as she spoke,
“With Orlan around nothing is impossible,”
Banya couldn’t understand why they all deferred to the Greybeard. He was always polite to the elders, it had been drummed into him since he was a small boy, but he had never seen any as old before. Voicing his question he was surprised when the young priest answered speaking softly, all trace of his previous panic gone,
“Orlan is the leader of the Great Convocate Council, he has been for more than forty six years,” Banya felt his heart pounding in his chest. All this time he had been worrying needlessly on how to find someone of more importance in Gryph. Orlan was the most important man in the world; his deeds were the stuff of legends. Most of the stories he had heard he thought were make believe but, after seeing a woman walk through a fire he was now prepared to suspend his disbelief until he could further investigate.
Orlan led the way placing his staff firmly on the ground with Anjii at his side. At the rear Varon encouraged Thadd to keep up by giving him a hefty shove every fourth step. He didn’t want to get too far behind this time as usually happened with this young charge.
It seemed less than an hour later when they arrived at the gates of the largest town on their world. Banya couldn’t see how, to speed their journey up, Orlan had used certain magicks to remove bends or curves in the road; the straightest path is usually the quickest to follow so Orlan had provided them with straight paths.
As they drew close to the tall stone pillars that marked the outskirts of the town, Orlan paused and looked up at the statues that topped them. Weathered by a thousand years most of the distinguishing features had eroded due to the changes in the weather, plus liberal coverings of droppings left behind by the bird population.
Shading his eyes he looked up into the sky surprised by the huge whirling cloud of strange black birds which had seemed to follow them over the past few miles.
He could not recall ever seeing birds such as these before and a chill went through him at the thought they too were not from his world.
A single note from a horn sounded out from the high watchtower built on a hill overlooking all corners of the countryside; they knew the watch had seen them and was alerting everyone in the Great Chamber to prepare for their arrival. Orlan chewed on a knuckle as he walked, realising that the next few hours would be the most trying in all their lives and he could only hope that he still had the stamina to do the necessary work.
A chorus of voices calling out all at once disorientated Banya and he clutched hold of Harry, terrified they would get separated. Another voice caught his attention and he called out excitedly,
“Finn, Uncle Finn,” holding his hands out, he was relieved when they were gripped firmly by his only surviving relative.
“Ban… how did you get here? What has happened to you?” the man that stood in front of the youth was tall, over six foot with thick reddish blonde hair. He spent a lot of time outdoors and in places the sun had streaked it white in places. His skin a smooth golden tan. Anjii leant close to her husband and whispered,
“If I was not already married to one of the most handsome men here I would be in front of the queue of women beating the path to his door.” Harry raised his eyes and looked into the green eyes sparkling at him,
“And why would you be telling me this? Are you feeling neglected my love?” They had been travelling with Orlan for a month and the opportunity to spend some time alone had been rare.
Anjii growled and nibbled his ear before moving to rescue Orlan who had been trapped by other priests querying his unusual arrival. Deftly extricating him she led him down a side street towards his usual lodging house, calling for Varon to bring Thadd too.
Harry was talking to Finn explaining Lyria’s treatment of his nephew. Finn was a healer and immediately was awed by the mention of her name. He agreed to settle Banya in the infirmary and come to the Chamber directly afterwards. The expression on Harry’s face told him that something big, something enormous was in the wind; he did not want to miss it.
Behind the great chamber a huge fire was lit. When it was burning all the way through, the keeper emptied a bag of powder which Orlan had sent. The smoke flared for a moment then streamed into the sky; vivid bright red in colour, red for danger.
******
Col awoke suddenly his eyes snapping open listening intently for the sound which had disturbed his sleep. Every night for the past fortnight the gnawing of the rats and mice had woke him and he had tucked his feet under his blanket to ensure that they couldn’t get at his small toes.
He turned over reaching for the rough edge of his blanket and was surprised to feel a smooth cotton cover over him. As his eyes got used to the semi -darkness he realised he was not in his lonely bunk in the galley; instead he was on a bed made up in the corridor outside the High Warlord’s quarters.
Across from him in another bed his friend Geron lay soundly asleep, exhausted from his labours of the previous day. Col smiled to himself, he had never had a friend like Geron before.
Most adults he knew had been hell bent on knocking some sense into him; his father had told him every day he was a stupid, good for nothing, ingrate before taking off his thick heavy leather belt and beating the boy unconscious.
Col had believed his father and tried even harder to please him but to no avail; every day had ended up with him crawling bloody and broken into the filthy cot he had always lived in.
Geron and the soldier Akhri had only needed to tell the child what they wanted once and he had scampered off, completing each task without making any mistakes. Both men had patted him on the head and praised his hard work.
At noon Geron and Akhri had sat down tiredly to eat a meal which Col had thought was a veritable feast. The lad was crouched down, hidden away from them waiting to see if they would leave anything so he could eat.
“Come here boy,” Geron had ordered abruptly and Col had scuttled forward bobbing his head waiting for either further orders or the belt to come off.
“Have you eaten?” Col shook his head slowly and was amazed when Akhri pulled him to sit on the deck at his side while Geron had shouted the mean old galley cook to bring another plate of food.
Cols eyes grew round in astonishment at the plate which appeared in front of him. A leg of roasted chicken and some fried potatoes with a large piece of soft white bread slathered in butter. There was a large shiny red apple for afterwards and a tall mug of cool, creamy milk.
“Is…is this All for me zur?” he had looked at Geron expecting him to say he had to share with the other cabin boys and Geron had laughed,
“Eat it all boy, you have earned it, you will need all your strength for this afternoon as that will be even harder.”
Col had set too with a will and within minutes had cleaned his plate, chewing on the chicken bone for a while before eating his shiny apple, core and pips included. Belching loudly he had just grinned at the roar of laughter from the men seated nearby.
It had been the best day he had ever had and at dusk Geron had shouted him over and with Akhri watching had given him another plate of food, this time there was a delicately flavoured piece of fried fish with some strange looking vegetables. Col couldn’t say what they were as he had only ever eaten potatoes before.
The Warlords chef had made something called a dessert and Col had drooled when he saw it, filled with fruit and cream, dusted with powdery sugar, he had never seen anything like it in his life before.
Geron had waited till the Warlord had finished his meal before taking the dish and dividing the remaining dessert three ways. Both men had laughed once more at the expression on Col’s face as he had rolled his eyes in ecstasy and licked every inch of his plate clean.
Col had not enjoyed the next part of the day so much when Geron had stripped his clothes off him and held him in the sea by the scruff of his neck; waiting until he had used the sliver of soap and scrubbed every inch of his body clean. He had then scraped his sharp knife over Col’s head shaving the hair from his head and destroying the colony of lice which had taken up residence there.
Col rubbed his hand over his smooth scalp relishing the fact that he was clean and did not itch anymore; he realised that he looked like everyone else now as all adult males on board usually had shaven heads. The only person with hair was the Warlord; Col had only looked into his eyes once and had shuddered inwardly at the cold expression he saw there.
The noise came again and he decided to investigate. It couldn’t be rats or mice here and he wanted to make sure Geron got all his sleep. Hitching the loose cotton trousers up he padded softly down the corridor peering both ways down the passageway.
Canting his head on one side listening intently he moved to the darkest part, just past the Warlords door. The strange scratching noise seemed to be coming from inside so he moved closer and pressed his ear gently to the wall. Behind him the door swung open silently and he was unaware of the scaly hand which reached hungrily towards him.
One hand covered his mouth and nose preventing any noise from being made and the other swiftly lifted him over the sleeping Geron and back into his room. The door was silently closed and the only sound heard in the corridor was a strange muffled drumming noise.
The tramping of boots overhead woke Geron and he cursed as he saw the sun had already risen.
“Col, damn you boy I thought you…” he ground his teeth annoyed that he had trusted the child to obey him. He hastily ascended the stairs and scanned the quarter deck; Akhri lifted a hand to signify he had completed the work they had discussed. Moving rapidly his boots squeaked as he strode over the well scrubbed deck boards. He didn’t hear the Warlords door open or see the figure carrying something bound tightly in a white cotton sheet.
The open porthole faced away from shore and the package was lowered into the sea; seconds later the door closed again as if it had never been open.
“Have you seen the boy?” Geron was terse with Akhri and the other man shook his head, expressing surprise that Col had disappeared. He had never seen such a case of hero worship before and did not think Col would let Geron down deliberately.
“Damn him and damn me for thinking he could amount to something,” he cursed and Akhri felt compelled to speak on the child’s behalf.
“Maister G’ron, zur, if’n you don’ mind me a’sayin’ so, I don’ b’lieve dat boy would jus’ go ‘n dis’pear lettin’ you’m down, no zur, I don’ b’lieve he would do dat,” his dark eyes shone with his conviction and Geron stood and looked at him for a minute.
“Have any boats gone to shore yet today?”
“No zur,”
“Then he must be on board ship, a search must be made and if I find out he is deliberately skiving off…” Geron didn’t finish his statement and Akhri prayed that Col had at least got a sprained ankle somewhere or he would get a good beating.
Geron had to rush first and arrange the Warlords breakfast, he noticed the crows had already flown and hid his own shudder of revulsion. The birds had spooked him out the previous evening and he knew that most of the men on board had been unhappy with the silent watchers.
Eventually he had caught up with his work; the Warlord was seated facing the shore waiting for the stable master to announce the successful unloading of Fury from the Orlop deck. Most of the soldiers had been steadily transferred onto the beach and he had just dispatched the Mage Terrill and his students in a small boat.
Akhri and his friend Hahmon were waiting for him. They had examined every inch of the ship where Col could have gone, from stem to stern and found no sign of him.
They had discovered a ships cat that had borne a litter of kittens at some time since their departure; a drunken chef was found passed out in the ships pantries but still no Col.
Geron was now anxious; he had never lost anyone on board ship before and a strange chill was enveloping him.
“Split up and if one of you takes the port side and the other larboard I want you to start at the stern and look over the sides and see if he somehow fell overboard through the night,” he made the grim request and moved to the prow of the boat beckoning to a young guard stood rigidly on duty.
Directing the soldier to search the port side facing the beach he leapt onto the nearest edge peering down into the deepest part of the sea.
Akhri let out a yell a few minutes later and he ran back to him. Pointing out to sea he showed Geron a strange piece of flotsam. Geron gritted his teeth and ordered a boat just returned from shore to fetch whatever was out there.
He watched as the oarsmen soon powered the boat through the choppy waves; a large gaff was pulled through the water and then two sailors were seen to drag something into the boat.
They brought the boat into the sweep deck, where they had until recently been unloading the horses and, where Geron waited silently. Akhri and Hahmon stood slightly behind him; all three men had grim expressions on their faces.
The boat was lashed firmly to the side and Geron moved lithely to take the soaking wet shroud from the equally silent sailors. As he lifted the package he knew instantly what was in it, the weight and size was right.
Stepping back he gently lay it down and cut through the strips which tied it in place. Behind him he heard Hahmon retch uncontrollably before running feet told of his departure.
“Oh my good lord maister, oh my dis …,” Akhri murmured in his ear and pressed a sympathetic hand briefly on his shoulder.
Geron’s face had gone blank with revulsion at the savagery of the attack on the boy. He reached out his hand and noticed it didn’t tremble; it ought to tremble he thought.
He cupped a cold, wet cheek and moved Col’s face bringing it into full view,
“Ye Gods, oh my boy, my poor, poor boy…” his voice broke off at the empty sockets which looked back at him; he moved his hand and the corpse’ mouth fell open; then he too gritted his teeth to stop his gorge rising as he realised Col’s tongue had literally been torn out.
Breathing shallowly through his mouth, the bitter taste of bile on his tongue, he carefully examined the small naked body; a hole had been punched through his ribcage and his heart and liver were missing, lower down both kidneys had also been removed, torn out as he noticed shreds of tissue hanging by a thread.
He had been a soldier, a warrior for all his adult life and had seen grievous hideous injuries inflicted by blades and axes, limbs torn away and bodies mutilated in explosions caused by the Mage gunpowder; never had he seen wounds such as these.
Frowning he gently turned the body over, grimacing at the signs of old whippings, he had been about to do the same and the sense of shame which came upon him almost unmanned him.
He realised what had been troubling him, all these open wounds and not one drop of blood was to be seen; even the coverings were only wet with sea water.
The sailors had crowded over him now and were muttering of ill-omens, from the moment they had started this campaign things had gone wrong and they didn’t like it one little bit.
Geron realised that Akhri was pushing something into his hands; he had fetched an old clean cotton shirt to put the body into. He himself stood holding a small piece of canvas to stitch as the boy’s shroud.
The ships saw-bones had been fetched and he looked appalled at the condition of the body. Geron demanded that he examine it and detail everything which had been inflicted on the child; without that information he could not in all conscience organise a burial or try to ascertain what had done this.
Gathering everything which had been wrapped around Col’s body Geron stood and signaled the men to return to their duties. The sailors had moved away their usual rough and ready camaraderie on hold. Faces bleak, they made the sign for the evil eye as their feet scuffed the deck whilst they somberly filed past.
The quartermaster appeared then and took the situation in at a glance, extra rations of grog were required if he was not going to have a bloody mutiny. Hastily shouting below decks he had soon organised the small cabin boys to dispense hearty helpings of strong black rum, allowing the men to drink before going back about their business.
Passing his bundle to Akhri, Geron told him to wait whilst he went to see if the Warlord was ready to disembark; Azhmel on his horse was usually a force to be reckoned with and he could safely leave him for an hour or two without fear of any assassins.
On the half deck used by the High Warlord the chef had just served a light meal, comprised of the rare beef Azhmel enjoyed above all else.
Mounting the stairs two at a time Geron was watching where his feet were placed and almost missed the sly look Azhmel gave him.
Taking the situation into his control, Azhmel discarded his napkin after fastidiously wiping his face and fingers.
“Tell me Geron, do I ride today after all?” he then drummed his fingers on the table and gave all the signs of a person ready to erupt in a temper tantrum.
“Yes Sire, Fury is on the beach he can be readied for riding by the time you arrive.” Azhmel nodded at last pleased to be getting off the ship.
“Lead on then,” standing he stretched out a hand to pick his ever present riding crop up. Geron was surprised, expecting him to change but hid it well.
Calling out to the boatswain Geron indicated that the Warlords own craft be brought to the Orlop deck. Within minutes Azhmel was seated between the burly sailors manning twin banks of oars.
Geron knew he was expected to leave with him but could not go until he had further investigated the death of Col; waving the boat away he saw the flash of anger in the Warlords eyes and knew that he would have to be careful when next he saw him. The last person to displease him had been fed to the fish two days earlier.
Making his way to where Akhri waited he gratefully accepted the tankard of fiery rum offered him. Shuddering as he downed it in two swallows he was glad of the heat which lodged in the centre of his body. He had not realised he felt chilled to the marrow.
Opening the parcel Akhri passed him he studied the strips of fabric which had tied the corpse up and the coverlet which had been wrapped around him. The boys cut down trousers were also there and his fist clenched around them.
“I know where these come from,” he shook the coverlet, rage filling him and stalked downstairs throwing open the door to the Warlords cabin.
Akhri followed and his face blenched as he stood at the threshold. The room was immaculately tidy, bed made with crisp white cotton sheets. Hairbrushes and razors lined neatly on a marble topped washstand. Two large leather trunks were at the foot of the bed, bound with broad straps and fastened with large padlocks.
Geron could see nothing untoward in the room; except - the tiny porthole was open letting the fresh salt air in. He puzzled over that as when they had first boarded the window would not open and he had intended to ask the ships carpenters to attend it.
They had been run off their feet so he had waited as Azhmel had said it was unnecessary. He examined it closely and saw deep grooves in the brass edging and surrounding wood. Placing his fingers inside he realised that they were more like claw marks than anything else.
Whatever had opened it had done so from the inside as the hinge of the window only opened that way. Turning around he again studied the room. Akhri had dropped to his haunches and was closely looking at the floor.
In the centre it looked to be slightly cleaner, as if someone had rubbed it harder there than anywhere else. Geron leaned down and sniffed at the area; strong lye soap had been used and recently. Stroking his hand across the surface he rubbed his fingers together unsure of what he hoped to find.
“Did you die here boy?” he mumbled to himself and was just about to rise when underneath the washstand he noticed something darker than the floor itself.
Wiping his hand across the surface he lifted it and saw a smear from what looked like a partly dried droplet of blood, missed by whoever had cleaned the room.
Dabbing his tongue onto it he tasted it before spitting on the previously spotless floor.
“Why Maister? Why would de Warlord do such a ting?” Akhri voiced what was spinning through his head.
“I don’t know Akhri, I have served him for many years and have never seen…” standing up Geron went to the trunks and lifted the locks hoping they were loose.
Pulling a face as he found they were firmly fastened he once more went to the open porthole and measured it with his hands. Although was a small boy, it would have been virtually impossible to force his body out through there; but, perhaps someone had thought they could.
“Akhri you must swear to me that you will not talk of this with the rest of the crew.” He placed his hands on the worried mans shoulders.
“Until I can investigate further we must keep this between us two, but, I promise you, I swear on everything that we find most Holy that I will get to the bottom of this and that whoever or even whatever did that to Col, they will pay.”
A shiver went through Akhri at the bleakness in Geron’s voice. He would not want to be at the end of the man’s icy cold anger.
“Yes zur Maister, I will keep dis to myself fo’ now. If’n it happens agin tho I tink I mus’ warn de odder men.”
His dark eyes made Geron nod his agreement and he held his hand out to solemnize the deal.
Both men soon had their belongings collected and made their way to where the boat waiting to take them to shore was waiting. Geron noticed that the sailors were silent and on looking around saw the canvas shroud with Col’s body was on an empty bench. He was going to shore for an honoured burial.
Noticing a tree standing back from the skyline he pointed it out to Akhri and the other man took two other men with him to bury the boy. It didn’t take long and they soon had a small hole dug out. There were plenty of small rocks around and Akhri took the time to mark the surface and then scratch Col’s name onto a piece of wood which was firmly tamped into the earth.
No words were spoken over the small grave, Akhri becoming too choked to speak and the sailors not having known him.
“Goodbye boy,” Geron had stood waiting for his horse to be readied and watching from a distance. He was unsure why Col had affected him so deeply; he was not a stranger to death and a small boy should not have affected him so. Whatever the reason he made a pledge to himself that the child would not be unavenged.



A strident note from a different horn blew loudly, startling the people who were milling in the streets. Convocation was not due yet so they looked around puzzled. When a second horn sounded, their feet sped over the dusty ground as they anxiously tried to get to their allotted places. A third note from the horn had not been heard in many years, so when that sounded dishes were dropped, fires left untended, meals were left uneaten, children were scooped up as the parents rushed to the Chamber.
Orlan entered the Chamber flanked by Anjii and Harry, Thadd and Varon close on their heels.
Not an inch of space on the rows of seats was vacant. Hundreds of frightened people sat murmuring amongst themselves; it was a flood, a tidal wave, a fire; locusts had eaten the crops. The stories grew more fantastic as they waited for the leaders to take their places.
Convocation was not due for three more days so there were many elders and priests still absent.
Finn slipped into a seat saved for him by Halle, the Master healer of the infirmary. Five years his senior she had been trained by Lyria before coming to Gryph so her medical knowledge at present was far greater than his. He had admired her work for many months from a distance unable to get near as she was zealously segregated from her junior staff.
Discovering by accident that she liked to climb the hills behind Gryph searching for rare herbs and plants, he had patiently waited until she ventured forth alone, and then had casually manipulated his first encounter.
Now almost twelve months later she classed him as a close friend but it was not the form of friendship that he desired. Halle was the total opposite of Finn; he exuded confidence and was, as Anjii had claimed a very desirable young man. Halle chewed her nails anxiously before going into the company of strangers; at less than five feet tall she was easily overlooked.
Her soft brown hair was unremarkable but, her eyes, her eyes were an unusual rich shade of cobalt blue that showed her not inconsiderable intelligence. She was aware that Finn had a crush on her but did not believe him to be serious as he had never pursued her with any diligence. Sliding a sideways glance at his profile she was unsure how she would react if he ever did make advances.
Halle although older than him was naïve; her heart had never been touched by any man until the day she had looked up and seen a blonde demi-god holding his hand out to help her down a steep rocky incline. Her heart had jumped into her throat at his touch; it took a few minutes before she could speak and her usual impression of vague absent mindedness had helped her out of a potentially sticky situation.
Orlan crashed his staff on the podia; the metal base making sparks fly, causing her to jump, startled, bringing her attention back to the present, with various voices calling out for quiet.
The old man’s presence filled the chamber as he stood directly underneath a large branch of lit candles, his silvery eye’s glittering brightly.
Pitching his voice so that even the furthest away could hear what he was saying, he swiftly described what had occurred to cause this extraordinary meeting.
People cried out their disbelief, Banya must have been drunk to come here frightening everyone. Righteous indignation in their voices they called for the miscreant to be hauled in front of them so they could summarily deal out some justice.
Jumping to his feet, Finn cried out at the injustice of their words. His nephew was a good, sober boy and would never make cruel practical jokes as they were claiming.
Acrimonious words rang loudly through the chamber until a small, corpulent, middle aged priest dressed in robes of a rich burgundy, managed to calm the frightened, angry crowd and gain everyone’s attention.
Orlan cast his eyes up to the heavens praying the obnoxious little toad wouldn’t get started today. Obadiah and he had clashed often in the past. As head of a different order he was forever trying to move them into a position of power.
“I daresay that you have allowed yourself to be fooled by this youth, everyone here knows that in your eyes the youngest of us can do no wrong,” he began and was curtly interrupted by the young priest Thadd,
“Don’t you believe it because I have yet to be able to do anything right for him!” the bitter indignation in his voice relieved some of the tension and a round of laughter ensued.
Obadiah flushed angrily at the interjection before continuing,
“What I meant to say was that at your advanced age you are easily confused,” his oily manner irritated most people. He had challenged Orlan in the past for leadership of the Convocate and his defeat had been unanimous. Now he saw an opportunity to reiterate that the older man was going senile and therefore needed to be summarily replaced.
Orlan sighed keeping his temper in check. He had been going to step down at the end of this meeting and put his position to the vote, forty six years was enough for any man to serve the capricious whims of his fellow man.
Circumstances had now made him reconsider his decision. He could only hope Harry and Anjii would forgive him as they would be tested beyond their limits. The only blessing he could see was that seven year old Hoppy, their son, was safe in Durrh, with his grandparents and Lyria watching over him.
Pounding his staff again for quiet he waited until everyone once more fell silent.
“I am hoping to be able to prove what young Banya said is truth in a moment but I first of all want to show you this,” he brandished the bloody arrow and held it for those near him to see.
Confused muttering came from all sides as the strange object was examined.
“What is it?” everyone queried him. He spoke to another priest who hastened to a small ante-chamber before returning with the oldest book that resided in the Sanctuary of Knowledge.
Leafing carelessly through the ornate pages, Orlan showed them a hand tinted picture from the time of the Old Ones; showing a hunter killing a strange beast with a two piece weapon. The man held one piece and the arrow was clearly embedded in the animal’s neck; a fact not even Obadiah could dispute.
As he spoke, Varon came in carrying a huge shallow metal dish; he was the only man present with the strength to do it alone. A concerted gasp echoed from everyone there as they recognized a magickal scrying dish. Rarely was this used as the magick involved was complicated and dangerous.
Orlan had last used it ten years earlier after a hurricane had swept the land, killing herds, destroying crops and necessitating the search for survivors.
Obadiah opened his mouth to object, his order had abandoned magick a number of years earlier as being an unreliable source of information, (they vociferously refused to consider that their inept way of practicing had caused the problems they were encountering); but Varon who had deliberately stood at his side, rested a large hand on his shoulder and, in a soft but firm voice told him to sit down and shut up. Looking into the hard blue eyes glaring at him he hastened to sit out of his way.
Orlan painfully lowered himself to the floor, rejecting the helping hands of Harry and Anjii. He accepted a kettle of boiling water and poured enough to cover the base. Finn was seated almost directly opposite him and still could not see where he produced a glass phial from; one moment his hands were empty. The next the phial appeared.
Sprinkling the contents over the surface of the water Orlan’s lips moved, his voice was heard murmuring softly for a few seconds. He then plunged his hands into the near boiling water. Everyone watching held their breaths as they waited. Finally his eyes opened and as usual the sight of them caused most of the audience to shudder and turn away.
No one noticed Obadiah take advantage of the fact Varon was distracted and he sidled from his seat to leave the room. An idea had come to him and he wanted to put it into effect before the others could voice their objections.
Old Magick should be banned in his opinion. It was dangerous and he firmly believed it would ultimately destroy everything that was noble and true. The fact that the only time he had tried to use it had turned out disastrously did not occur to him. A final quick glance at Orlan made him shudder before scurrying away.



Azhmel studied Geron as he walked up the beach to where a large white tent had been erected. His servant had stood for many minutes watching the burial of that child and his body language was indicative of extreme anger.
Transferring his gaze to where Terrill and the Mage students were struggling with their papers and equipment he wondered why Gwinn had been so insistent on bringing them along. He had begged the High Warlord to agree claiming that they were vital for an experiment he had planned to perform.
The experiment was to have been the pinnacle of his career and make both the Warlord and himself virtually immortal.
Azhmel had clutched at the word; his life span was far longer than Gwinn had realised but even now he could feel his body fading.
Aggravated by the raising of the crows, his need to feed had been so intense that he had risked being found out by taking the boy.
As his thoughts went back to the boy, his face impassive Azhmel cursed inside at the disasters which were mounting on this campaign. If Gwinn had been alive now he would have taken extreme pleasure in gutting him and feeding on his life force, perhaps that would have been sufficient to keep his golem, his monster under control.
He had cursed his own murderous impulse, in driving his sharp blade deep into the old man he could have lost the only person capable of returning them all to Qol.
Geron had arrived outside the large tent and was studying the lay of the land. The Warlords tent was safely surrounded by his army; one hundred thousand men had disembarked from all the ships.
Twenty five thousand were mounted cavalry and the rest the usual foot soldiers who most rulers relied on to keep their occupied territories under control.
Most were there because they wanted to be there; the life of a soldier suited their bloodlust and kept them from rotting in a prison or swinging from the hangman’s rope.
This time twenty thousand men had been pressed into service. From villages, towns and cities men had been forcibly removed to train specifically for this supposedly final campaign on Qol.
The rest of the planet had been subjugated and the enclave which remained would have capitulated within three months, unused to fighting a trained army with modern swords and horses.
Geron nodded at Azhmel, unable to make his voice work as he wanted to accuse him, ask him why he would commit such an atrocity.
Reading the expressions as they chased across Geron’s face, Azhmel leapt to his feet the anger building up again, damn Gwinn, damn him to hell for stranding them here, on a godforsaken world far away from everything and everyone they knew and trusted.
“Thank you for finally deigning to join us, I trust that we can now finally get to work,” the icy sarcasm dripped from his mouth as he turned to the cage containing the crow, Corvus.
Releasing the bird to fly up and onto his shoulder, he stalked to the large table which had been erected and covered with a growing map of the world they stood on.
Two men were frenetically copying all the details onto smaller maps which would be given to the generals who were to spearhead the next part of the campaign.
Azhmel rapped his crop on the table to attract his general’s attention.
“I trust that you have now made me a new battle plan and we can finally get on with finding out the secrets of this world; before hopefully returning home as soon as humanly possible.”
Brigadier General Bruce, a small rotund man with a mind like a steel trap and in overall charge proceeded to point out the major areas of habitation; no cities anywhere but towns, villages and the occasional croft were marked.
He indicated the large range of mountains and quite rightly pointed out that the crows needed to fly over them as there could be other larger occupied areas there.
A route had been drawn to three of the areas which looked like they were the most occupied. Azhmel pointed to the smaller one nearest the mountains, he would take a group of riders there, and he wanted to send his crow army over before the week was out. He would take ten thousand horsemen with twenty thousand foot soldiers to follow and take control of any settlements in his wake.
Bruce indicated that he would take ten thousand horse and forty thousand foot soldiers; the final five thousand horses and fifteen thousand foot soldiers were to be given to Major General Creed, a tall thin man who wore an eye patch over his right eye covering a hideous wound gained as a young man in the military academy.
Terrill had wandered over and was listening intently. No mention had been made of him and his students and he was troubled that the Warlord’s advisors were not including them in his plans.
Clearing his throat he found himself under the hard gaze of everyone in the tent.
“Might I enquire where my students and I are to be assigned? If there comes a need for more gunpowder then you would…”
General Bruce nodded slowly, he had despised Gwinn as power hungry; over the years he had watched the Mage whisper into the High Warlords ear encouraging more reckless battle tactics which had caused the deaths of thousands of men.
This new Mage although a necessary evil, could be moulded into a useful tool and he was eager to test his abilities.
“Two students to each party and you…?”
“He will accompany me. He has other skills I will find useful.” The Warlord was swift to speak and noted the grimace given by both Bruce and Geron, each for different reasons.
Terrill took a few minutes whilst walking back to the anxious youths watching him, whilst he decided which students were to accompany which group of soldiers.
Glinn would be best kept close to him, as would Rikh; Jonah and Nelle both competent and unlikely to mess simple spells up would go with General Bruce; Matha and Denon would go with General Creed, they were the quietest and least confident but he thought they would be able to cope with the simple tasks given them.
To keep in contact with all his students Terrill opened his own large leather bound, brass studded trunk and removed pendants which he had made for them.
Carved from a piece of star- fire metal, it had taken Terrill many hours to perfect every piece. Each youth had a specific charm embedded in an oval of ebony and these were strung onto thin leather thongs.
Terrill had been making them for their graduation ceremonies where they would have advanced up in the ranks of the school. Students usually wore these pendants to enable their master to stay in constant contact with them.
Gwinn had made him one eight years earlier and on his death it had vibrated wildly under his robes before it had too had died, losing its glowing beauty to become a flat ugly worthless thing.
Standing looking at the glittering pendants, he blessed his forethought in bringing them with him; there were other things in his trunk which for some reason he had found himself compelled to bring and he prayed that they would be as useful.

Crimson orbs looked out blindly on them as Orlan called out the name of Hekti, the elder who had died in the massacre. Expecting to see her image appear in the water of the bowl which was gripped tightly by Orlan; gasps of shock came as the surface of the water rippled before rising high into the air taking on the shape of the dead woman.
“Who calls to me?” the watery voice gurgled loud in the total silence which reigned.
“Who brings me from the doorway of the Realm of the Dead?”
“I Orlan of Durrh call on thy spirit. I mean thee no disrespect Hekti. I will let thee go to thy eternal rest momentarily,” he forced the words through gritted teeth. The pain of holding a bridge to the realm of the dead was almost too much for him to bear, almost.
“Speak Orlan of Durrh, I know of thee and trust thy words,”
Orlan begged for news of the tragedy which had befallen her people.
Hekti held her arms wide wailing, her grief open, naked and raw for all to hear and see. On speaking her words causing even the strongest of them to reel in shock and quail in fear.
“An enemy comes to Galiana, seeking something, I know not what. His mind is shrouded from me; he is obsessed by images of a strange creature,” Her shape changed and an image appeared of a huge beast with wings, massive claws outstretched as its mouth opened to spew forth…
Orlan gasped in pain and the image he was helping to maintain disintegrated as he lost control; Hekti returned and spoke again her voice awful with prophecy.
“Beware of him this two- sided man, this murderer; he feeds on the blood of innocents whilst seeking...” She groaned then her pain visible for all to see then spread her arms,
“Release me now Orlan of Durrh, release me so that I may take my people to the Realm of the Dead,” Orlan pulled his hands from the water and the surface shimmered before settling still as a pond on a windless day.
“Rest now Hekti, may you and your people soon sleep with the Old Ones.”
The silence that followed was almost deafening as it was only broken by the harshness of Orlan’s breathing. Harry and Anjii appeared and tried to help him up but he slapped their hands away.
“I have not finished yet,” the tiredness in his voice was apparent to all and Anjii looked from Orlan to Finn in alarm.
“Please come and stop him, this is too dangerous for him, he has done enough for one day” Finn glanced at Halle and they both stepped forward to offer advice.
Orlan’s eyes were still crimson and as he gazed at them they both, the intensity of his stare froze them in their tracks. Before anyone else could move or speak he took the bloody arrow and immersed it in the water.
They waited; the silence only broken by the occasional shuddering breaths coming from the crowd of onlookers, louder than normal they almost deafened them all.
Finn stood behind Halle resting his hands on her shoulders, while Harry a little further away was doing the same to his wife. The young priest Thadd was whispering in Varon’s ear nodding and gesticulating fervently to emphasise his meaning.
Moving rapidly they stood up and slipped outside unnoticed by anyone else, all intent on the water in the dish which now moved in a strange bubbling motion.
Slowly the water cleared and showed a scene whereby men were cutting down trees. Another man wearing a rich emerald green robe was directing the operation; he turned forwards and his eyes were as black as Orlan’s were red. He was directing the men in the cutting of wood to make the arrows. The scene rippled to show the same man stood with two vats of liquid they too were red and black and again he directed the dying of the feathers for the arrows.
Moving again they were taken to a blacksmith’s forge where a fire blazed and a man was hitting a delicate piece of red hot metal causing sparks to fly, burning holes on his own leather apron and in the green robes of the man who stood supervising. He plunged the strange triangular shaped item into a bucket of cold water causing great gouts of stem to fill the air.
Finally they watched as the arrow was assembled. The man smiled grimly as he received the completed article before turning and proffering it to someone as yet unseen. Orlan’s breath rasped in his throat as he struggled to keep the scene; his eyes were blurring with tiredness when he was surprised by a sudden surge of refreshing strength as someone else entered and merged their powers with his.
He held the scene unable to turn and see what was happening behind him.
Another man moved forwards, half his face and body hidden in shadows. This then was the two-sided man. He accepted the arrow and appeared to examine it intently.
The eye that was visible was crimson, the exact shade that Orlan’s had become, and his skin a rich dark bronze.
Orlan felt a shiver flow through him, a premonition of danger and fought to break the spell before… it was too late, the stranger spoke to the first man then suddenly paused as if holding his hand up for silence. Turning he peered as if staring directly through the water into the room in Gryph. He stretched his arm forth and the watchers were horrified as it came through the water and clutched at Orlan’s sleeve with long clawlike fingers topped with thick yellow nails.
With a cry Orlan broke the casting but the hand remained and was now pulling the old man closer to the bowl, trying to drag him through the water.
Harry leaped forward to help and an unseen force flipped him backwards into the wall where his head bounced on the stone leaving him in a crumpled heap. Anjii gave a cry of anguish but stayed where she was wrapping her arms around Orlan’s chest trying to prevent him falling into the dish and going through to the Other Side. His head was pulled by an unseen force into the water and he held his breath against the very real danger of drowning.
Pandemonium struck as panicked screams came from the people closest as they stood and attempted to flee. Halle and Finn went to assist Anjii as Orlan strove to free himself. His voice garbled and choked with water as he tried to counter the spell and the connection. A softer, sweeter voice quickly joined him; her voice whispering and echoing around the chamber then, moments later Orlan was free, landing on his bottom with a thump.
He was in great distress wheezing and coughing to clear the water which had been forced into his lungs. A call for healers arose near the back of the room but was forestalled,
“That will not be necessary,” Lyria appeared her tiny hand resting on the sleeve of Thadd. Lines of fatigue around her eyes showed the strain of what she had just done; barefoot as normal she wore a dress which was the identical colour of her eyes. Gasps resounded across the chamber. It had been many years since any here had seen a fey; Lyria had ceased to come after the birth of her child and the scurrilous gossip spoken by Obadiah regarding the father. They hoped her appearance today was to be a good omen.
“Might I beg the indulgence of the assembly, a small room for Orlan to rest and for your healers to tend to Harry” her voice tinkled through the air and the gathering of priest’s nodded in approval. Waving to Varon she pointed down at Orlan and he swooped and lifted the old man carrying him into a small side chamber. Placing him on a small bed she dispatched him to assist with Harry.
Orlan’s face was greyer than his robe; she carefully stroked his long hair away from his eyes, biting her lips shocked at the blood which oozed from beneath his lids and down his nose. A noise alerted her to Harry being carried in. He was strapped perfectly flat to a board with Varon at one end and Finn at the other. Halle followed them and Lyria smiled relieved that her one time pupil could care for him until she was free.
Varon disappeared again and came back with Lyria’s distinctive basket. Once more she opened it and studied the contents. Where she had given Banya amber for his injuries she now gave Orlan a small polished emerald in one hand and in the other placed a small insignificant piece of plain crystal which would amplify the healing powers of the other stone.
In a cup she mixed feverfew with white willow tree bark and encouraged him to drink. It would help to eliminate the violent headache which she could feel pounding through her head as well as his.
Leaving him in the care of Thadd she hastened over to see how her old childhood friend was faring. Halle had just pronounced him free of any broken bones, but his head had hit the wall very hard so she would let Finn watch him for signs of a concussion. Lyria placed a sliver of lapis in the centre of his forehead and left a cup of her tried and tested headache cure for when he came round. Anjii sat holding his hand tightly and Lyria stroked her neck as she passed, releasing the tension she felt.
Orlan had by now opened his eyes and smiled at her. Wincing as the candle light aggravated the pounding in his head.
“I did not think we were to see you for at least three more days?” he gently queried.
“Very true old friend, but when I receive a frantic call for help, you were being reckless and needed saving then, I had to come,” she looked at Thadd and he blushed fierily embarrassed by her regard.
Orlan looked at both of them, the colour flooding back into his cheeks,
“You call me reckless yet you answer a call from a part trained novice?” his voice was flat, indicative of the great anger he felt,
“Lyria if he had mispronounced anything, anything at all, when you stepped into the fire you would have been lost to us forever,” his voice was hiding the horror he felt.
“Master, I was very careful,” the youth began before he was interrupted,
“Careful… Careful! If you had been careful Lyria would still be safe in Durrh,” he blustered angrily.
“And if you had been equally careful then there would have been no need for his call,” Varon once more spoke sense, defending the youth who had asked for his help when he noticed what Orlan was doing.
“Orlan dear one, you are being most unreasonable. I am fine and without my arrival …” her voice trailed away until the silence became oppressive.
Varon straightened from where he had been leaning on the wall,
“It was done and cannot be undone. Everything is as it should be for the moment, what I want to know is where we go from here?”
They all nodded and looked to Orlan for his advice. He had stood and moved to the doorway listening at the panic which had begun after they had left.
“Most of us will be going back out into the chamber, by the sound of it they are getting very restless. I would like someone to stay with Harry though,” he dropped his hand on Anjii’s shoulder holding her down,
“You too can stay with your husband; I can hardly get into trouble in the Great Chamber if Varon will accompany both Thadd and me.”
Halle and Lyria were to remain in the small chamber; they could hear what was said and intervene if necessary.
Varon led the way while Thadd took the opportunity to apologise once more to Orlan.
“If I overstepped my bounds Master then I truly am sorry, but, I still believe that the calling I did was necessary. Without Lyria’s strength…”
Orlan patted his arm, an indication that he forgave without actually saying the words. As they entered he looked around and was surprised to find his old protagonist was not in the centre holding his own mini court. There was no sign of Obadiah and it made him uneasy; usually the man could be found one step away from him every time he was in Gryph.

The soldiers of Qol had been well trained on their home world and were soon organised to begin a steady march; wearing identical black leather face masks, jerkins and trousers, intricate coloured lacings on the jerkins and up the side s of the trousers indicated rank and which company they belonged to.
For every thousand men there were huge wagons drawn by great shire horses which carried fresh water and dried rations. Anyone who became ill or injured was usually loaded onto the wagon; and as all cook’s carried basic herbal medicines they would be treated by them.
The foot soldiers had marched briskly for four hours before their sergeants had called for them to bivouac; every man was given water and food and told to inspect their weapons. Blades were once more honed and polished until even the finest of hairs would be split in two.
While they were at rest the horse soldiers thundered past; taking the lead they spread out and rode through orderly fields and orchards searching for natives and anything which may provide a way home.
Nowhere would be missed by these soldiers; they were ruthless; methodical they would surge through crofts and hamlets destroying anything and everything in their paths if instructed to do so.
Overhead the crow armies endlessly cawed and cried out, swooping low revealing hiding places the horse soldiers had missed.
Slowly, like a plague of locusts the Warlords soldiers spread out covering every available inch of land.
Akhri and Hahmon had been seen preparing to depart by Geron; he had decided both men were worth the trouble of speaking to General Bruce and getting them allocated to the Warlord as foot soldiers.
Bruce’s men were marching north towards the largest town marked on the map. He had noticed a small diversion through an area of swamp and had dispatched a thousand horsemen to clear the way to the town.
General Creed and his men had struck out to the south-west, there were a string of small hamlets, crofts and villages which led toward a series of lakes and rivers the area as yet unexplored by the crow army.
Azhmel and his army went east to the huge mountain range which covered over half of this world. There were some small places inhabited by farmers, the land looked rich and fertile but the Warlord was not interested in those. He was interested in a village at the base of the largest mountain he had ever seen. That was to become his base whilst the rest of his men explored this world.
Azhmel had galloped Fury for an hour, fighting to regain his mastery over the half savage stallion. None of the other riders could keep up with him and he relished the chance of extending his senses to take in and absorb the sounds, scent and taste of this new place.
Geron continually rode his horses backward and forwards keeping an eye on the straggling walkers. He had five spare horses which would give the Warlord a ride when Fury was tired but none had the power or temperament of his main beast.
Terrill, Glinn and Rikh found themselves perched precariously on the back of a food wagon. Offered horses they had all refused them as none had any experience riding.
The day grew hotter and the soldiers began to grumble, footsore and tired they all wanted to stop early and take their bearings and compare notes and eat whatever the cooks could whip up fairly fast.
Azhmel had at last conferred with Geron and they had decided the foot soldiers could continue until dusk, despite their grumbling the track had been fairly even.
The horsemen had advanced rapidly and were within a couple of hours of reaching the village. A conference was required to discover the progress of the rest of the army so camp was made while Terrill was brought up, bouncing heavily on the back of Geron’s saddle.
Sliding off he had gasped in pain as his ankles burned with the hard landing he made. Geron looked down on him curiously; he had been studying the Mage and his eerie black eyes for the past two days.
Every boy upon reaching puberty on Qol was tested for signs that they held magick inside them. The strongest were taken from their homes and placed under the supervision of the Mage College.
Others who could feel certain spells but were incapable of performing them were usually selected to work in some other capacity there; wild magick had been known to affect these in many different ways.
Geron had escaped the drudgery of working there due to his size and skill as a swordsman. Mage Gwinn knew he was one of the Touched and he had been careful not to perform many spells in front of him.
Geron had not been taught how to shield himself or others from any adverse side effects but he was capable of feeling magick and eventually finding out who was performing it.
For three days he had felt the subtle sting of constant magick; Terrill was the source of it, Geron was positive that the Mage was performing a powerful spell, but why, what was he was doing?
Azhmel was striding impatiently up and down the dusty track and slapping his thigh with his crop, eager to be off once more on the back of Fury.
Watching the Mage prepare to speak with the students placed in the other parts of his armies he once more regretted his surge of temper which had led to the killing of Mage Gwinn.
He had been able to oversee everyone and report back without causing the army to stop. He was also able to move large amounts of men around on land with his translocation spells; if he was still alive this world would have been conquered by now and … he broke off his thoughts here.
Regret would not help anyone now; what was done was too late to put right now.
Terrill had brought with him a small metal dish and into that he poured cool water before immersing his charm. The water bubbled briefly then grew still and he spoke the name of Nelle, one of his students with General Bruce.
The water remained still and clear and Terrill frowned in puzzlement. He knew he had made no error in the making so the problem had to be with Nelle.
“Jonah,” he tried the second youth and was relieved to see the water fizzing around the outside edges.
“Ma…Master Terrill, is that you?” the pale frightened face that appeared before him was shocking to Terrill. Jonah and Nelle knew what they were doing and should have been in no danger tucked in the centre of General Bruce’s army.
“Jonah, of course it is me,” he spoke testily to cover his anxiety for his charges,
“Oh thank the Gods Master; it’s awful, just awful here. Nelle is dead and so is General Bruce and at least a hundred of the other soldiers.”
“Dead! How could this happen?” Terrill cried out and both Azhmel and Geron drew nearer their hands on their swords waiting for an unseen enemy to attack them.
Jonah was sobbing in distress and it took Terrill a few moments to get him to calm down and explain.
“We had pulled up to have a meal break and that’s when it happened,” Jonah was heard blowing his nose vigorously as he tried to tell the tale.
“Nelle had an upset stomach and could not wait for the soldiers to dig the latrines so he ran into some bushes. He screamed and the general and the rest of his men rushed after him, kicking and hacking at some strange bushes. Sir, it was… it was the bushes. They… they…fired their spikes at anyone who got near. Within minutes the men were rolling around on the floor, screaming in agony at first. Then they fell silent and we thought they were dead, but they weren’t,” the horror in the youth’s voice was apparent to all who could hear him.
“What happened next Jonah?” Terrill gently encouraged him to finish,
“One of the men got a rope and managed to get it around the leg of General Bruce and they pulled him clear. When they went to see how he was he still breathed, his eyes were open but his mouth was covered with a blister of some sort, all of his body was and you…you could see he was in agony.”
“Kill them all,” Azhmel spoke and turned his back on Terrill looking warily at the scrub and trees which surrounded them.
“Jonah is the General still …” Terrill was interrupted by the youth, who was sounding more hysterical,
“Not anymore. A man… the cook I think made the archers shoot at everyone with arrowheads he had wiped with… well I don’t know what it was but it killed them all instantly.”
His voice broke then and the renewed sound of sobbing reached them.
“Jonah can you describe these bushes to me?” Terrill needed him lucid for a while longer, the rest of the Warlords army needed warning of these bushes.
Sniffing as he spoke Jonah managed to give them a description and without hesitation Geron strode off looking around keenly.
“What is happening now Jonah?” Terrill pushed the boy for more information,
“The bushes and the bodies are being burnt Master, burnt!” The full horror of the situation dawned on Terrill, none of the men deserved this; soldiers usually received honoured burials to help their souls on the way to Chak’ir’ee, the Land of the Dead.
Burning was usually how the carcasses of food animals were disposed of. Terrill shuddered trying to think of something to reassure Jonah with.
“Ask him who is in charge now?” Azhmel had returned and was listening intently to the conversation.
“Sergeant Benar was the only person unaffected by the thorny bushes.” Jonah called for the man to be brought to him and began to relay instructions from Azhmel. They were to continue as swiftly as possible to the town, avoiding anything else which looked deadly. The Warlord would organise for someone of rank to rejoin them as soon as possible.
Sensing Jonah would be alright for the moment Terrill contacted Matha who was accompanying General Creed. They were all well and the youth was saddened and shocked when Terrill reported the losses from the majority of the army.
Creed fired a series of commands to his men and within minutes he had passed his command onto Colonel Klimm his second in command. He would take fifty men and ride to take over Bruce’ command.
The Warlord had no option but to agree with this, his fist was clenched tightly in anger. Up and down this track, fires began to bloom as Geron organised the burning of the strange bushes; there would be no dawdling and resting tonight.
The men must reach the safety of the village where the natives could tell them of any other dangers which could befall them.

Shaking off the sense of foreboding that filled him, Orlan nodded once more to the other priests and took his place on the podia once more. There was no need for anyone to call for order as it took mere seconds for silence to fall.
“We are in desperate need of help,” his first words did not fill anyone with hope, a sense of despair began to invade the air and some of the assembled females began to weep softly.
“For over a thousand years we have lived in peace; we don’t have wars and if there are disputes be resolved we bring them here, for the wisdom of Convocation.” The silence was total as everyone drank in his words, nodding occasionally in agreement.
“We are not a warlike people and rarely do we feel the need to resort to violence for solving our problems. We have lost that ability over the years and, I now fear that unless we find some way or, someone to help us then as a race we will be totally annihilated by these…these savages.”
The other priests were nodding their agreement; no-one offered any another ideas or advice, Orlan then paused for a sip of water before casually announcing,
“I propose we organise and send out an expedition to find the Old Ones.”
A single person began to applaud at the back of the chamber causing necks to crane as they tried to see who was clapping. The next instant everyone recognised the unctuous dulcet tones of Obadiah.
“For someone who is supposed to be a great powerful and wise leader, you really are an old senile fool Orlan,” the contempt he felt could no longer be hidden, his face distorted with a scathing sneer.
“The Old Ones were a myth perpetuated by your order to keep the population under control. You people have done that for hundreds of years and until now no-one has had the audacity to challenge you.” The other man was making his way down the stairs to the centre of the chamber as he spoke, occasionally reaching out a hand and grasping someone as if in an act of consolation.
“I challenge you now Orlan. I challenge you to prove that your… your Old Magick can be as powerful and successful as my plan will be.”
His face was flushed and he acted as if he could barely contain himself, so proud was he of his actions.
“So Obadiah,” Orlan leaned forward eagerly hoping that by some miracle this stuffy puffed up fool had actually come up with a workable plan of action.
“Come on, don’t be shy, tell us your brilliant plan,” he moved to a seat and watched the other man pontificating in front of his audience.
“You said that we needed help Orlan and I have already dispatched two of the brightest and best priests from my order to get the help we need.” His eyes glittered brightly under the candles and Orlan felt a presentiment of danger swoop over the man. A hum of sound came from all sides as they watched him preen, proud as a peacock as he gained the floor near the podia.
“You automatically disregarded hundreds of years of peace and decided without consulting anyone else I may add, that we needed warriors, proper warriors or an army to solve this; not the pathetic Convocation guard that exists at present. Well, I disagree,” he looked around his eyes sparkling before he dropped his bombshell.
“As a peaceful society we should continue to follow that rule and make peaceful overtures to these invaders. They must have misunderstood that fool Hekti’s intent and that is why they were killed. She must have frightened them so they attacked,”
“What have you done Obadiah?” Orlan moved closer his face paling as the other priest continued to puff his chest out importantly.
“I have done what you should have done, I furnished my men with an invitation for the leader of these people to come here, to Gryph, and discuss things in Convocation peacefully, as we have always done.”
Finn felt a hand clutch his arm and he looked down to see Halle had reappeared. The fear on her face echoed around the room as man and women cried out their shock at Obadiah’s words.
“You fool, you silly jealous old fool,” Orlan looked at his rival pityingly.
“Even now you do not realise what you have done do you, DO YOU?” The fading smile on Obadiah’s face was replaced by puzzlement and he churlishly demanded for Orlan to explain.
“These invaders were trapped for now at the beach, whilst they were busy exploring the outer areas to make sure they would leave no resistance behind them. We could have been equally busy here. It would have taken them weeks to work their way overland. We could have organized an evacuation of towns and villages, and got everyone into the mountains for safety. I had everything in hand…” Tiredly he made his way to a chair and sat down,
“How long ago did you send these men?” the other man tightened his lips still determined that he had done the right thing.
“HOW LONG?” Obadiah jumped as Varon stood in front and roared the question.
Gobbling indignantly, his fat jowls wobbling he eventually admitted that as soon as Orlan had begun his ‘Chicanery’ he had slipped from the Great Chamber. At least four hours had passed since they had been dispatched, and as he had not told his acolytes to pursue a particular route they could not guarantee on anyone catching them. As he spoke the last he moved to leave the Chamber, unprepared to remain where he was and be ridiculed in front of the whole town; a nod from Orlan and Varon held him back.
“Sit down little man.” His voice was barely a whisper but Obadiah could recognise that if he didn’t do as Varon said then he would probably do something to make him.
Orlan rested his face in his hands wearily as he contemplated all his options; he could try to search magickally for the men Obadiah had sent but without a specific route it would probably take him days to find them ,if at all. He could flee, take his entourage and as many townspeople as possible and leave. The way would be hard as they would have to walk every inch, with that many people it would be impossible for his magick to work. Leaving here would only solve the immediate cause for concern though.
These invaders would sweep through this town then move on to the next, and the next so, if he took these people then he would have to take everyone from the next town and the next. How could he possibly save all those people?
His other option would be to leave these people behind and do what he suggested – search for the Old Ones. He could hope and pray that some townspeople would survive but he knew deep down that not everyone would make it. Wearily scrubbing his face with his hands he decided he had to let the people decide.
Standing in the centre of the great chamber he raised his arms and brought his staff down onto the floor, sparks flew from the base and everyone fell silent waiting for him to speak, to save them.

Terrill stumbled on the dusty track, instead of waiting for Geron to return him to Glinn and Rikh he had begun to walk on, hoping that the wagon would soon catch up with him.
Azhmel had thundered off on the devil horse Fury; the soldier who had held his reins cursing vilely through the dust cloud which enveloped him was nursing a bruised leg where the animal had kicked out protesting against the strong grip.
Grief was once more threatening to unman him, Nelle had been a gentle boy from a good family with a happy smile on his face most of the time; popular with the others he would be greatly missed in the future as his magickal skills were becoming formidable.
Ahead of him another plume of smoke advertised Geron’s diligence in keeping his men safe. The thought brought a bitter taste to his mouth; if he had revealed his full knowledge of magick then perhaps Nelle and the others would still be alive. He had played the bumbling fool for so long that to do otherwise now could prove as fatal for him as Gwinn’s incompetence had.
He thought of the sad funeral which had taken place on the beach that morning, the child Col. If they hadn’t arrived on this world would he have still been alive? His throat closed on a moan of anguish.
Had he in his eagerness to find and save his brother caused another child to die? Waves of guilt threatened to overwhelm him and he felt his stomach churn with nausea.
Could he risk revealing himself to Geron? He had been watching the big man for over two years since they had devised the new arrows for the Warlords arsenal.
Terrill had thought that nothing would break through his hard exterior, yet one small insignificant cabin boy appeared to have done it.
Would the story of another small boy missing for forty years make another crack in that implacable demeanour? He had noticed the sideways looks from Geron and was tempted to try revealing some small thing and see if the man could be trusted.
A shout at his side startled him and he looked up to see Rikh seated with the wagon driver waving madly at him, his dark face glistening with perspiration under the hot sun.
“Master Terrill, no need to walk now sir,” the youth called out to him and jumped down to help Terrill mount. His foot caught in the hem of his robe and he landed chin first in the dirt.
A guffaw from the wagon driver attracted the marching soldiers’ attention and they were all soon laughing at the youth’s mishap. Rikh smiled at them and brushing his robes down whilst trying to help Terrill mount caused clouds of dust to fill the air and make everyone sneeze.
“For goodness sake Rikh can’t you do anything properly?” Glinn muttered nastily as he too ended up covered in dust. He had a pounding headache and the usual incantations were not curing it, he didn’t like asking Mage Terrill for his help as he had an odd dream recently regarding him and it had left him with a strange fear of the man who had taught him for over a year.
“You should have gone with Nelle he could put up with your clumsiness…” Glinn broke off at the expression which crossed Terrill’s face.
“Is something wrong Master?” His question caused Rikh to scramble onto the wagon and listen intently as Terrill broke the bad news to them. Both youths lost all colour, silent with shock they could do nothing but weep softly.
Overhead a group of crows was returning, swooping low over the ground snapping at strange flying insects before mobbing a large rabbit which had unwisely stayed out of its warren feeding on the sparse grass; some of the birds already had beaks stained red with the blood of small birds or animals unwary enough to stray into their path.
Gagging at the bloody spectacle, Terrill sighed wearily, he would once more be expected to get down and rejoin Azhmel to add detail to the map they were making; he was so tired of all the pretence. If they were at home on Qol he would have taken his brother to a place he knew where no other people had walked and there he would have tried to revive him.
Glinn had been watching his face and volunteered to go this time; if map drawing was all that was required he was perfectly capable. Terrill was going to accept until he saw a sly look on the youth’s face.
Glinn was his least favourite student and he didn’t trust him around the Warlord. He was known to snoop in other people’s rooms and belongings and had managed to get three boys expelled after reporting forbidden items in their possessions.
Geron was galloping back towards them and Terrill, with a momentous leap of faith, decided if he was going to test him, trust him, then now was to be as good a time as any.
Taking his small wooden chest from his pack carefully making sure the sharp eyed Glinn had not seen what he was doing, he rifled through the myriad of rare and not so rare stones he used in small magick.
Chrysoprase would do nicely he decided. Jumping from the wagon he waited patiently whilst holding a small green stone in his hand. When Geron focused his attention on him he popped it into his mouth, instantly fading from sight.
Translocating himself up to a small outcropping of rocks away from the main body of soldiers, he seated himself before spitting it out and watching Geron’s face.
The man was stony faced as he cantered down the trail. He pulled his horse up sharply causing its hooves to come dangerously close to Terrill’s face; if he had not such a rigid hand the Mage’s head would have been split asunder. Terrill knew he was perfectly safe from Geron for the moment.
“Neat trick,” he reached a hand down and Terrill clasped it openly, trusting that at last he had managed to find an ally.
“I can teach it to you,” Terrill spoke softly in Geron’s ear as he squirmed on the heel of the saddle, and the man stiffened before turning his head,
“I am no Mage,” he forced the words to sound natural and felt a gentle squeeze on his shoulder,
“You were tested and told that you do not have enough magick to become a mage – yes?” At the other man’s nod he continued,
“What the test was actually for was how much money could your family pour into the College’s coffers,” Terrill paused and allowed Geron to absorb what he was saying,
“No-one is born with magick and we certainly don’t come into it at puberty. Any of us can perform it but it is easier for some of us, the ones who are prepared to work hard and with plenty of determination and concentration.”
They were nearing the Warlord and Terrill risked another statement,
“I can help you find out what happened to the boy, Col, if you will allow me.”
Dismounting with difficulty he was surprised when Geron reached out a hand to steady him and they stared for a long moment into each other’s eyes before clasping hands; a pact was made at that moment.
Azhmel had been watching them and a slow curl of something in his gut warned him to be careful. These two men had no reason to worship him yet, they had never been exposed to his true self so could not fear what they did not know or understand.
Gwinn and Bruce had understood him and they were both dead now. The curl resolved itself and he was surprised to find that he feared the combined strength from these two men.
He would have to put his powerful mind to searching for a solution. Watching closely as they stayed hand-clasped, he knew he would have to solve the problem quickly if they were not going to ruin everything he had striven for.

Opening his mouth to speak, Orlan was startled by the sound of the strident horn blown by the watchers. They should be silent; Convocation was in session so there was no need for the calling. A second horn made his skin crawl; Varon looked at him and he nodded approval for the man to run lithely up the stairs, he reached the top as a third horn blew.
Exiting the building they heard his feet pound across the wooden boards outside. Within minutes he was back, his face ashen and now Orlan knew that the tightening in his gut was an omen something seriously bad was happening.
Varon broke all records reaching him; he was swearing under his breath and the look he gave to Obadiah pinned him to his chair.
“Well, the genius’ plan worked.” Orlan looked at him blankly, not understanding what he meant.
“Less than an hour from here these invaders have caused the dust to fill the air. They are seated upon strange four legged beasts.” The wonderment in his voice as he described the creatures carried to the furthest reaches of the chamber.
Obadiah stood and preened again,
“I told you that my plan of conciliation would work,” he began but soon fell silent when even young Thadd told him to shut up. Passing him a fulminating glance he decided that when he was in charge Orlan’s order would be disbanded and he would make the youth work in the most demeaning position possible to make up for how he had spoke to him today.
“The watchers had been told by this one,” Varon flicked his thumb at Obadiah,
“They were told to move further away from town and as soon as they saw anything unusual they were to signal. Well this is unusual.”
Orlan’s mind was working frantically, they needed to put his plan into action soon or all would be lost.
“Varon, I need you to take Thadd, Finn, Anjii, Lyria and Harry to the old catacombs. Get as many of those,” he pointed to the other priest’s who were now standing talking amongst themselves anxiously,
“Get those to go with you,” he turned to speak again but Finn interrupted him hastily,
“And Halle too Orlan,” he pulled the diminutive woman forward and Orlan frowned down at her,
“Eh… who? Halle? Hmmm,” he studied her and realised he had noticed her on the peripheral of everything today but didn’t know who she was. Howenever, she could be the answer to part of his remaining problem. He beamed at her then at Finn,
“Of course she is coming dear boy, run along now, quickly,”
Two short. The thought pounded through his head as he moved towards Obadiah. Two short.
“It occurs to me that as you invited these gentlemen here you should be the first to greet them,” placing his arm across the other man’s broad shoulders he escorted him up the stairs.
“It also occurs to me that as I was stepping down as leader of the Great Convocate Council within the next week, that you would probably have managed to coerce enough members to vote for you,” Obadiah slowed his pace and his heart began to beat as what Orlan was saying registered with him.
“You… you were stepping down you say?”
“I was stepping down so all your machinations today were totally unnecessary,” Orlan’s words were so quietly spoken that it took a few seconds yet again for Obadiah to comprehend his meaning.
“Humph,” Obadiah shook the arm off his shoulder and paused looking at Orlan. They had climbed the stairs to the entrance whilst talking and Orlan raised his voice attracting the attention of the townspeople who had stayed in their seats. He spread his arms wide as if bestowing a blessing upon them.
“I must hand over the reins of the Convocate to Obadiah now. He has promised to guide you through these troubled days to the best of his abilities,” he cocked a knowing eye at the other man who nodded vehemently; he would agree to anything knowing that once Orlan relinquished all his power he could only get it back if Obadiah willingly gave it up or died. He had no plans on doing either for a long, long time.
Reaching through the neck of his robe he pulled out a thin silver chain with a round medallion hanging from it. The centre of the medallion appeared to have worn away as it was hollow and empty, but Obadiah was taking no notice of that. Once the chain was over his head he was the leader, he would have achieved his lifetime ambition, it would be the pinnacle of his career and the only thing needed to eclipse it would be to solve the conflict with the invaders.
Orlan placed the chain over Obadiah’s head and sadly realised that this would be the end of an era. He had worn this symbol for forty six years the longest any priest had led the Convocation and he expected to feel more of a wrench than he actually did. The strongest emotion he felt at this time was relief. Relief that without this chain binding and holding him here he would be able to leave and hopefully help save his people.
He turned to leave but Obadiah caught at his sleeve, holding him and he raised an eyebrow in query,
”The staff, you didn’t give me the staff,” he held his hand out imperiously and Orlan laughed and leaned forward, pitching his voice so no-one could overhear,
“You cannot control the staff. It is not meant for the likes of you. Be satisfied with what you do have,” the other priest’s nostrils pinched together as he drew breath in temper but Orlan shook his hand off more vigorously than a man in his eighties was meant too and strode away his robes drifting around his legs.
Outside Orlan was surprised to notice the sun had travelled so far. It was late afternoon and wanted but three hours to sundown. He had three hours to get everything ready. Two short, two short. The number vibrated in his head causing him to wince momentarily in pain.
The townspeople were milling around uncertainly, they did not know whether to remain and greet the intruders or do as their hearts were urging and flee. Orlan could feel the panic barely held in check, Obadiah should be talking to them, reassuring them. He didn’t want them to come to him now; he had the welfare of a world to care about.
As he walked he sprinkled a fine layer of salt on the ground and any who looked at him were surprised to find it was just a shadow going past as if a cloud had passed over the sun.
Obadiah decided he would take the town elders with him to meet the invaders, the other priests had mysteriously disappeared even the ones from his own order. When this day was over he would soon let them know exactly who was in charge.
Orlan hurriedly made his way to the catacombs. It dawned on him that for the first time in forty six years he was outdoors alone. He had always had an honour guard by his side to tend to his every need. He would have to get used to dealing for himself in future. It could be fun.
Reaching his destination he noticed an extra person with them. The youth Banya, Finn’s nephew. He looked slightly better, was moving easier but, it was less than twenty four hours since Lyria had treated him so no-one could predict whether she had saved his sight. If she had then he would only need one more person and his fantastic plan could go into action.
Harry had been taken off the stretcher and was carried by Varon as if he was a small child; no mean feat as Harry was a goodly sized person in his own right. Anjii looked serene though which was a good sign that all was well and she had no immediate concerns.
Hastily greeting everyone, especially the priests who had reluctantly come with Varon, he led the way through passages only his feet had covered in the past. His staff was lit by an eerie white flame; it gave off no heat and did not appear to be burning through the wood. He knew of a chamber nearly as large as the one they had just left; it was hidden, covered with a large stone which had not been moved in hundreds of years. His plan hinged on the strength of Varon, if he could not move the stone then everything would be for naught.
Obadiah signaled the elders to come and stand near the pillars leading into Gryph. He had organized a group of the strongest singers to put a display on for the invaders; their voices were enough to soothe the angriest of men and with the fine food and drink he had in place ready to placate them with, he was convinced the misunderstanding would soon be resolved.
Straightening the chain so the medallion was centred in his chest he grimaced as he realised the centre stone was missing. Orlan! Gritting his teeth he vowed that he would have strong words with him before the day was finished. To remove the stone was sacrilegious and Orlan had pushed him too far now. Banishment to the backwoods hovel he had come from sounded the best way to make him suffer.
The sun seemed to inch across the sky, he soon overheated when standing outdoors. As it began its lazy dip onto the horizon they were all startled by the sound of flapping wings and a host of strange birds flew overhead landing on every building, statue and wall, watching the people who in turn were watching them.
Obadiah frowned at them. Large screeching black birds with cruel looking black beaks whose beady blue eyes intently studied the gathering were not his idea of invaders who had apparently slaughtered a whole beach community.
The birds suddenly fell silent as the sun finally disappeared from the horizon; people clamoured then asking Obadiah what was happening and reluctantly he raised his hands waving everyone to silence.

Sergeant Benar was a strict taskmaster. He had been pressed into the army as a youngster of sixteen. For the next twenty years he had relished any tasks which were given him. He was a soldier and it suited him.
His family was poor and he had been poaching game from the Warlords huge country estate when a heavy hand had caught his collar. The punishment for stealing was usually the loss of a hand and a term in prison but his mother Grania had begged Justice Boman for mercy.
Her husband had served in the Warlord’s army and had died of fever leaving her with four children to care for. Benar was the oldest of her children and without his help they would all starve.
Grania was still an attractive woman; the justice was a man with a healthy appetite. He had given them the option of Benar joining the army to repay his debt to the Warlord; in return for his lenience Benar’s mother was to return the favour.
The leer on the older man’s face had sickened Benar but his mother had agreed to his terms; for the next five years he had worked hard and sent his wages home to feed his brother and two sisters.
Returning home after the first glorious campaign, his purse bulging with his share of the bounty he had found his mother grievously ill, his eleven year old brother Holt missing and his older sister Marne aged just fourteen apparently taking his mothers place in the justice’s bed. His youngest sister Arayne was just nine years old and terrified out of her mind as she had tried to care for their mortally ill mother.
Blinded by her illness and raving out of her mind, unable to work his mother was burning up with a fever. Holt had ventured forth three weeks earlier, hoping her protector would provide the money for a healer. No-one had seen him since that day. A week later his next Marne had also ventured forth looking for help.
Arayne had gone into the streets then, begging until someone had given her some mouldy carrots and potatoes which she had used to make into a weak broth.
Benar had seethed with rage on hearing this and sent his sister to find the nearest healer; the woman who came, Emmie, was known to him and she had barely looked at his mother before taking him to one side.
“I spoke with her nearly six weeks ago and told her she needed better medicines than I could provide,” she wrung her hands as she spoke frightened of the pent up rage bubbling underneath his rigid face.
“What is wrong with her? I have never known her to be ill before…”
“Benar, she…she has the Black Lion Disease, she has syphilis,” her voice faltered then and stopped unable to offer him any hope.
Less than an hour later Grania lost her fight for life and Benar was seated in front of the empty grate nursing his youngest sister as she wept heartbroken at their latest loss.
It had taken him the rest of the day to organise the burial of his mother, she could now join his father in the grave which was maintained by the army.
He had then taken his younger sister to the park and as she sat watching the ducks come for the bread he had brought to throw to them he prised the rest of the unfortunate story from her.
Leaving her with Emmie that night, he had set forth to find the rest of his family. It didn’t take him long to reach the house of the justice. It was in a secluded cul- de- sac and although the lamps and candles were lit in downstairs rooms he could not here any sounds from guests.
It was the work of seconds for a strong man to force his way through a window and he had stood for a moment letting his eyes adjust to the extra light.
A sound from upstairs made him tread silently across the wooden boards, grateful that a thin runner was muffling his footsteps as he mounted the stairs.
Piteous noises from a partially open door on the landing made him press his back to the wall before peering through the gap. A mirror on the wall revealed a large four poster bed hung with thick dusty blue velvet drapes.
The drapes were dusty and in the need of cleaning as was the rest of the house; he noticed cobwebs hanging from the ceiling and dust around the edges of the skirting and on the windowsills.
A cry from the bed drew his attention and to his horror he could see the body of his sister crushed into the dirty bedclothes by the obese figure of the justice who had forced his body into hers.
As his naked buttocks moved up and down Benar was reminded of the death his mother had suffered; this slug of a man had used her body like this and she had suffered the abuse for the sake of her children.
Benar roared angrily and surged into the room, the door bouncing on its hinges as he took two great strides to the edge of the bed. His large hands had fastened themselves around the Justice Boman’s neck, pulling him from the bed before snapping it like a twig.
His sister had screeched in terror and tried to pull a blanket up to cover her nakedness, before crying out in fear. Benar managed to speak softly to her and was rewarded by a look of recognition.
He took note of bruises on her neck and breasts, marks where she had been cruelly bitten, and when he passed her clothes she had turned her back to him, exposing whip marks and other bruises on her bottom and thighs.
Looking around him he had noted signs that the justice had fallen on hard times, patches on the wall where paintings had used to hang, marks in the dust where items had stood but been removed.
His sister was still sobbing and when she turned and saw the body of the dead man she had moaned in fear. Murderers would swing at the gallows as would any accomplices; no-one would save them now.
Holding her head into his shoulder he had half carried her down the stairs into the kitchen where he had found a half full bottle of strong spirits. Forcing some down her throat he had been relieved when the violent shivers coursing through her body slowly ceased.
“Oh Benar why… what have you done..?” she reached her hand out to touch her eldest brother’s strong face; smiling tremulously at him as he took her hand and warmed it between both his own.
“Mother is dead,” his words were harsh and brutal and she covered her mouth as she gasped, huge fat tears flooded her eyes and once more she cried.
“How…how did…” she couldn’t complete the sentence and Benar cleared his throat before focusing on a patch of torn wallpaper over her shoulder. He explained in detail what had caused the illness.
“How long has he been forcing himself onto you?” Marne had blushed fierily, great flags of red across her cheeks.
“A little over two weeks,” she could barely force the words out of her dry throat and he patted her hand comfortingly,
“I think you will be alright. I have plenty of coin and Emmie the healer says she can get the best medicines to make sure you do not go the same way.”
Blinking her tears away she had nodded tremulously and given him a shy smile.
“Have you seen Holt, our brother?” Benar had queried and she shook her head,
“I came here to search for him and he… the...the Justice forced me into a small room which he bolted from the outside. I have not seen or heard anyone else in days.”
Benar stood and looked around the kitchen as she spoke, espying a door leading to a cellar in the corner he patted her on the shoulder in reassurance before telling her to wait there.
Lighting a tallow candle he descended the stairs slowly and carefully, wrinkling his nose at the stench which came to him.
Half an hour later he returned and his face was grey, he was wiping his mouth and the look of horror in his eyes made his sister bite her tongue.
Benar never once in the following fifteen years mentioned the broken, bloody, abused body of his brother which he had found casually tossed away as rubbish.
He poured the rest of the spirits into a glass and downed it in one swallow never even shuddering. A small hand crept into his and when she asked about their brother he had shaken his head once, not wishing her to know the atrocities which had been wrought on his frail body.
Rifling the cupboards and drawers he had looked for anything of value which would not make up for the devastation this man had caused but which would help him to move his sisters to somewhere warm and safe.
There had been nothing and he bit back a vile epithet, not wanting to upset his sister further. Making her wait in the hall near the door he had gone upstairs and searched the bedrooms.
To his horror the smallest bedroom in the servant’s quarters contained the partially mummified remains of a young female maidservant. He couldn’t tell what she had died of but thought she too probably had died from syphilis.
Disgust had made him kick out at the Justice’s body as he re-entered the master bedroom where he had found his sister. By now he knew that there was nothing of value left in this house. In all likelihood the justice had used all his money to try and procure the best medical treatment he could for himself.
Taking a last look around Benar had picked up the branch of candles and casually held the flame against the thick curtains of the bed. It took a few minutes to catch hold and he had to turn his face away to avoid breathing in the dark smoke and noxious fumes.
Hurrying down the stairs he had touched the flame from the candle to anything which would burn. By the time he rejoined his sister the whole house was alight and there was no chance of the conflagration being extinguished.
They were three streets away before the cries of fire sounded loud in the thin night air. A bell rang loudly calling the watch and any person who could hold a bucket of water.
Benar raced away with his sister before anyone stopped them; he should have been the first volunteer in the fire crew as he still wore his soldier’s uniform.
They were soon home and he gratefully paid Emmie the healer after she had treated the visible injuries. She promised to return the next day with other medicines which would prevent his sister dying in the same horrifying way as their mother had.
For the next fifteen years Benar had managed to send most of his income home to care for the three of them. As he won more prize money with every campaign he had managed to buy a small piece of land in the country where his sisters had settled with his wife, the healer and their small son, Holt.
This was to be Benar’s last mission. The bounty for serving twenty years would be considerable and they had decided that with what they had in the strongbox Benar could retire, stay home and work on the farm.
He had overheard the Warlord and Terrill speaking about something on this world attracting them. He didn’t fully understand what they meant but he planned to search everywhere in this town tearing every building down brick by brick to find a way home to his family.
They were nearing the outskirts of the town now; his men had been pushed harder than ever before after the strange bushes had fired thorns at them and killed the General.
Two natives were running down the trail towards him, waving their hands and crying something out in a strange language. Benar nodded to the soldier with him and they both aimed their horses at the men and simultaneously slashed with their swords, decapitating both men instantly.
The blood was pounding in his ears now sounding as the hooves of the horses pounded on the dry dusty earth. He leaned forward in his saddle, bloody sword perfectly balanced in his hand; overhead a portion of the High Warlord’s crow army cawed and screeched, diving low then soaring as they showed the way into the town.
Benar nodded to the youngster on a horse at his side, he lifted a curious shaped metal instrument to his mouth and blew three strident notes to sound the attack.
Standing high in his stirrups he raced through the gates and in one smooth movement slashed his sword at one of the people stood waiting.
As far as Benar and his men were concerned the people in this town were enemies to be subjugated in the only way they knew how.

A peculiar drumming noise reached the official greeters at the gates of Gryph. The strange sound of another horn caught at their attention, causing everyone to spread out again looking through the opening. The ground shook and a huge cloud of dust engulfed them; Obadiah raised a kerchief to his face as the dust tickled his nose making him sneeze and caused his eyes to water against the grittiness.
A woman’s scream reached his ears and he tentatively moved a step backwards; another scream, this time it was clearly male and made him press his back firmly against the wall. More screams from both men and women reached him and he began to sob softly under his breath, this could not be happening, this was not the plan he had sent to them.
“Stop this please I beg you, stop this!” he cried at the top of his voice trying to attract someone’s attention, he staggered to one side trying to find the leader, still convinced that this was a dreadful mistake.
Tears began to well as he was still unable to believe that his own arrogance was responsible for causing this. Tripping over he fell to his knees, and on forcing his bloodshot eyes to open he looked for what had caught his feet.
At first he believed it to be a strange gourd fallen from the trays of food and he picked it up and turned it around. He dropped it instantly, the gorge rising in his throat as he looked at the stricken features of a young child; its head totally severed from its body by one slash of a sharp blade.
Retching he heaved and heaved, vomit spewing forth, burning his throat and the soft tissues inside his nose. He could hear terrified snuffles and moans and realised unsurprised that they were coming from him.
Running haphazardly around, he was only now fully appreciating the enormity of what was happening. He was wrong. The realization caused him more pain than he believed possible. May the Goddess forgive him for causing this atrocity due to his petty jealousies and imagined snubs.
“This is not my plan, this is not MY plan, please stop this…” his voice failed as the clouds of dust made him cough and choke, no-one was taking any notice of the pathetic figure he made.
A noise in front of him caught his attention and he raised his head to see a monstrous apparition bearing down on him; a huge four legged beast which towered over him, breathing grey smoke; ridden by a man dressed in black leather. The man leaned forward as Obadiah moved to greet him, still hoping to salvage something from the debacle happening around him.
“No, no, no. Please I beg you…” were the last words ever spoken aloud by him. A bright flash before his eyes and he saw that the nightmare figure had moved away. His neck hurt and he raised his hands to touch it before noting his eyesight had blurred. His legs gave way and with a surprised whuff he found himself landing heavily on his knees.
Looking down at his hands he noticed they were drenched in his blood as was the front of his robe. His hand touched the chain which Orlan had passed onto him such a short time ago. It no longer mattered that he had taken the centre from the medallion. A regretful tear escaped, nothing mattered anymore. Moments later his lifeless body collapsed into the dirt.
All around the pitiful screams had died away; hundreds of bodies littered the ground, the blood from them soaking into the earth turning it into a huge road of red mud.
Some people had managed to escape the butchery by going back into the Great Chamber and sealing the door. Others had fled on foot managing to get through to the far side of the town and were now running through the fields, frantically trying to put as much distance between the carnage, the coppery scent of spilled blood and themselves.
Deep underground Orlan suddenly stopped causing Thadd to trample into the back of his ankles, tearing the thin skin there. Apologising profusely the youth became alarmed at the strange pallor which suddenly covered his mentors face, calling for Lyria to come quickly.
Orlan reached into the pocket of his robe and drew out the small centre of the medallion and gripped it tightly. His eyes were closed and he felt the concerned stares of the others but could not tell them yet what was wrong.
Sensing Lyria at his side he extended the hand with the medallion and she clasped it between her own partially closing her eyes as she viewed with him.
Behind them the priests who accompanied were grumbling unhappily; their feet hurt and by now they had convinced themselves that Obadiah was right and Orlan had lost his mind.
Banya spoke sotto voice to Finn and Halle who were guiding him,
“If they think their feet hurt now they should be grateful they had not run through the grass and swamp with nothing on them. I thank the Goddess the last cottage had something to treat them with or I wouldn’t be here now.”
Finn nodded then spoke, he sometimes forgot the youth couldn’t see his actions,
“Harry said Lyria didn’t disturb those dressings, next time we stop I will look at them if you have pain,” Halle silently thought that if Lyria had left them they shouldn’t be disturbed, but knew that Finn was frustrated and needed to be doing something, anything to take his mind off what he had heard.
Before they could continue Lyria caught their attention by crying out piteously, tears streaming down her face dampening the front of her gown.
Halle hurriedly moved forward but was restrained from touching her by Finn. Whilst Lyria was still joined to Orlan it could be dangerous for anyone to touch either person.
Varon was surprised by Harry suddenly demanding his supper and wanting to know where his wife and son were. The man was confused but conscious and the sound of his voice gave them all hope. Anjii smiled her eyes luminous with love and reached over to stroke Harry’s head.
Lowering his burden to the ground Varon left them alone for a moment whilst he went to the rear to make sure they had not been followed. He had a keen sense of self preservation and his senses were screaming that there was danger all around.
He was happier ten minutes later and even more relieved to find that, as yet they were still the only ones to have taken advantage of the sanctuary of the old caverns. Hurrying back to the others he was displeased to find Orlan and Lyria still bound together in silent communion.
Speaking softly he asked Thadd if he knew what was happening?
“I am as mystified as you Varon; he did not like to share many of the Old Magick with me.” Thadd smiled briefly,
“He barely tolerated me, you know that. There were certain things I picked up, due to him using the spells more frequently, certain simple spells he allowed me to use but this… this is far beyond my comprehension.”
Varon sympathised with the youth, he had been on the receiving end of Orlan’s sharp edged sarcastic tongue on many occasions in the past.
Orlan coughed and wheezed breaking his connection, attracting everyone’s attention and they saw the dazed look in his eyes matched by the expression on Lyria’s face. He pulled his arm back and rested it wearily on the wall before he too wept for what he had seen.
Lyria stood hunched over, arms wrapped tightly around her waist as she fought to regain her usual composure. Halle came to her and spoke softly and gently stroked her arm, a sign they were already friends. Finn was surprised at that. They knew each other and he had been unaware of that. What else did he not know about Halle?
“Can you tell us what you saw?” his voice sounded loud in the confines of the caverns and everyone glared at him. He shrugged at their expressions; he was impatient and wanted to know what had happened.
“They are dead, most of the town… all dead.” Orlan spoke and for the first time ever they all appreciated how old he really was, his voice sounded as only someone of a great age would.
“Who is dead? How do you know this?” the questions were fired from shocked friends and priests who had been close enough to hear.
Orlan held up the centre of the medallion, making sure everyone had seen it he explained that is was still linked to the main part and he had been able to see what Obadiah had seen.
“The link is broken now and unless someone else wears the medallion this is of no more use,” he slipped it into his pocket as Finn asked,
“But…but why does someone else need to put the chain on, surely Obadiah…”
“Obadiah is dead,” the words sounded loud coming from Lyria and not Orlan.
“How do you know this?” Halle queried,
Lyria looked at her,
“The medallion only works when someone is alive. It is powered by their life-force. When they cease to exist so does the medallion.”
Turning to Orlan she waited till he nodded he was able to travel again before setting off. Where Orlan had led before Lyria now led, the flame lighting their way seeming to come from the tip of her forefinger.
They travelled forever downwards for another two hours, huge cobwebs blocked their way at times and as they were pulled aside Varon joked that he hoped they wouldn’t come across the inhabitants as he had a mortal fear of crawling insects!
Everyone laughed overly loud; they were all tired, hungry and in shock and needed rest and sleep to allow their systems to absorb the grief of the day before they could move on.
Finally after a particularly tricky passage had been negotiated they found themselves standing in front of a huge circular stone. A series of symbols was carved around the outer edge with a strange image in the centre. The image depicted was impossibility, an aberration of nature, a lie.
Tiredly they all looked at Lyria as she announced they had arrived. Orlan was showing his age and for the past hour had been supported on one side by Thadd and Finn on the other. There were sconces all around with torches which Lyria lit the traditional way before allowing her flame to go out.
Looking around she saw dirty, hungry, tired faces watching her expectantly.
“A fire I believe is what I need,” she chivied everyone to look for anything they could use as firewood and busied herself marking a strange diagram on the floor, a square with a circle inside, divided into triangles and segments, the lines as near to perfect as she could manage.
Thadd came and stood watching her before remarking,
“Where are you planning to go?” Lyria looked at him for a moment before pointing to a tiny symbol she had written in one corner,
“There is only one place for me, Durrh. My daughter is there and if I know her she will have some things ready for me now,” at his raised eyebrow she continued,
“Food and drink is the most important. Everyone here has had a dreadful shock and they need good hot nourishment inside of them.”
“How will she know to have a fire…?” Thadd was still keen to understand old fey magick, it differed in various ways from what Orlan’s magick was and hoped his subtle probing would not be too intrusive.
Lyria looked around at the others; Harry was more awake and Anjii had attached her hand to his, she was not leaving him soon. Orlan was seated on a small boulder surrounded by the other priests; he was ignoring their queries by the simple ruse of sitting with his eyes closed as if asleep. Banya was also curled on the floor near his feet, by his body language she could tell he too was dozing. Finn, Varon and Halle were searching for firewood, the only three people doing as she had requested.
“Lyta and I are always linked through our minds,” her words were soft and Thadd had to stand closer to hear her,
“There are many powers passed down by the Old Ones, not all of them are common knowledge.” She stood frowning at her markings and made an imperceptible change to one of the lines. Thadd held his breath knowing that the revelations she was making here were not common knowledge.
“From the moment she was conceived I could talk with her. When she was born she had accumulated all my knowledge. But, where I can treat people and heal their injuries with my medicine and magick, Lyta can do more, much more.” A tinkle of laughter escaped her and Thadd looked surprised when she added,
“Lyta thinks you will be quite handsome when you have grown up,”
“How can she know what look like?” Lyria looked closely at him and he watched amazed as her pupils seemed to change colour from the usual vivid violet to a paler more delicate shade.
“I know many things about you Thadd of Birr,” the voice that came from Lyria’s mouth was younger more youthful and he felt his mouth fall open in amazement. Before he could say any more the others returned with large amounts of firewood.
Lyria stepped forward before they could just dump it on her markings and began to layer it in a specific way. Varon had seen Orlan and Thadd lay magickal fire grids and pursed his lips surprised that she was going to contemplate leaving them now.
Seconds later the grid was prepared and she lit it, waiting until it was burning merrily before sprinkling a handful of powder across the flame. It flashed up to the roof then widened into a shimmering sheet of flame.
The priests cried out alarmed as they had never before seen this magick and Orlan spoke softly reassuring them. Banya sat up his bandaged eyes turned towards the heat, sensing that Lyria was going through the fire again.
“Do not let the flames die down, I will not be long, listen for my voice and when I speak I will need you,” pointing to Thadd and Varon,
“You must sprinkle this and say the words as before, and you must be ready as the basket will be heavy and I cannot hold it for long,” she nodded to Thadd to encourage him now, he needed to memorise the words until they became second nature to him.
“I speak to the Guardians of the Flame, I seek a boon and your protection for the person wishing to cross your barriers,” he followed Lyria’s instructions and was soon rewarded by the flames becoming heatless and transparent.
Lyria picked the basket up and checked that Halle had emptied it. Taking a deep breath to calm herself she then stepped forward and walked through the flames.
“Good job lad,” Orlan spoke pleased that Thadd had performed the ritual perfectly.
“Master, if I may ask a question?” Thadd had hundreds of unasked questions but this one he was desperate to find the answer to,
“Go ahead,”
“Could you or I go through the flames?”
His words caused everyone to look curiously at Orlan waiting while he contemplated his answer.
“Laddie, I hope you aren’t planning on leaving me now?” Orlan was trying to divert him but Thadd sensed that if he pushed he could find something important out.
“Please Master, I need to know,”
Orlan looked at him then nodded,
“We can go through the flames but it would be just the once. It would be perfectly safe that one time and from then, well afterwards we could never get within three feet of a naked flame before it would sense us, be attracted to us and want ultimately to consume us.”
Drawing in a long slow breath Thadd absorbed the meaning. Once they had passed through the flame then they would never be able to light a candle or sit in front of a fire without the flames trying to destroy them. They would freeze to death in winter and they would never be able to see in the dark.
“Thank you Master,” his voice was hushed and Orlan clapped him on the shoulder,
“Don’t worry lad, I have never been tempted by the flames and look how long I have lived. You could probably equal my achievement,”
“Gods I hope not,” Varon spoke sotto voice and they all laughed heartier than the jest deserved.
“Thadd are you there?” Lyria’s musical voice sounded loud in his ears and he hastened to the fire, carefully shaking the powder before closing his eyes recited the blessing perfectly.
A hand pushed the basket forwards and Varon stretched out his arm snagging it. It weighed heavier than he expected and he nearly dropped it.
“Hurry and empty it I need it back,” Lyria spoke quickly and they all noticed a trace of anxiety in her voice.
******
Azhmel gave Geron and Terrill no more opportunities for conversation. He began to act with a never before seen petulance and Terrill decided that for the next few hours Rikh could be trusted to adapt any maps.
Glinn was unhappy when this was announced and his verbal jibes nearly unmanned Rikh causing him to shed an angry tear. The driver of their wagon, a country man who went by the name of Farl liked Rikh and did not like to hear the other boy speak with such spite.
A simple person, Farl had simple remedies and at the next rest stop when he made tea he stirred some dried valerian root into Glinn’s cup. Within fifteen minutes the youth had crawled among the bags of dried oats and beans unable to keep his eyes open.
Tapping the side of his nose when Terrill began to mention it he had stood up,
“Begging yur pardon zur but, I be a zimple man and if’n zumthin gits too aggrivatin’ then I loikez to zort it out, roight zimple like,” he stomped off then to take the nosebags away from the large cart horses and to make sure the wagon was packed neatly ready for their departure.
Terrill waited until they were moving again before opening a book he had found in the crate where the limp lifeless body of his brother had been.
The pages were totally blank and had resisted his attempts to reveal their secrets. He had tried every charm and incantation he knew but was still no further forward.
“By heck zur haz you had an assident on that theyre book?” Farl had wrinkled his nose up in distaste and Terrill sniffed gently trying to identify the odour which was coming off it.
“It smellz loike one of them they zhipz catz dun pizzle all over they pagez.” Farl had a colourful turn of phrase but Terrill had a triumphant smile as he realised the man may have given him a clue as to how the book was written.
Certain items would dry invisible and ammonia was one of them. He racked his brain trying to think of the counteragent for it, vinegar of some sort.
“Farl do you have any of Mage Gwinn’s favourite food at all?” He threw in the question and was rewarded with a grin which revealed a gap in the man’s lower teeth.
“Duz I zur, by heck zur, we’em all loike zum o’ dat pickled red cabbage zur, even hiz Lordzhip do zur. I got me jarz and jarz of it packed roight nize and toight zur,” he waffled on for a few minutes and Terrill knew that he was on the right track for unlocking the secrets Mage Gwinn had cleverly hidden.
There still was the strange chest which he had been unable to remove from the hold of the ship; there was tremendous power coming from it and unless he knew more regarding it he did not dare to open it.
Tucking the book back inside a cunning hidden pocket in his robe, he looked up and around taking more interest in his surroundings.
Up ahead loomed an enormous mountain range; as he looked at them an eerie sense of foreboding threatened to overwhelm him. Closing his eyes he began to hum a hypnotic tune which made the huge horses twitch their ears before surging forward into the leather yoke jerking the wagon unnaturally.
“Mazter, zur, do you be all roight?” the anxious voice made him pause and he opened his eyes, the blackness even more disconcerting than before.
“I am Farl, thank you,” he had a way of talking at times which endeared him to other people and, when he smiled most, if questioned would agree he was a gentleman.
“Whut are ya doin’ zur?” His face held nothing but innocent curiosity and Terrill found himself explaining in more detail than he would usually have done.
“The universe is a great and powerful thing Farl and sometimes if we are very careful how we treat her she will open up and reveal one of her many secrets.” His voice was soft and carried not only to Farl but to the dozing Glinn.
“If you get in… tune shall we say with her, then she sometimes gives us a closer look on things which would otherwise remain a mystery.” He noticed a look of blank incomprehension on Farl’s face and gave a bark of laughter.
“Do not worry my friend; I will not harm you with anything I do here today.” He began to hum again and once more the horses twitched and kicked out with more vigour as before. Behind him Glinn had opened his eyes and yawned listening as he spoke to the driver.
Terrill held a perfectly round polished piece of crystal in his hands; as he hummed the crystal began to vibrate and glow. Suddenly it leapt into the air level with his face and spun around and around faster and faster causing its own humming to begin.
Glinn had rolled onto his stomach and was peering through the sacks and boxes packed on the wagon. He had a perfect view of Terrill’s face and the revolving orb.
Light began to limn Terrill’s face and as both Glinn and Farl watched it was as if two people were seated there, the man Terrill who was familiar to them and another pale skinned man with delicately pointed ears.
Unaware of what they could see Terrill barely moved his throat whilst continuing to hum and reached out with his mind to explore further. He felt as if he was floating high in the air above his body and stretched his essence out hoping to make contact with something or someone.
“Hello,” a rich female voice reached him. Startled he slowed his body down looking around at the blurred scenery. Before he could speak she queried,
“Are you the one who called out before?”
Stunned for a moment Terrill paused before thinking his answer,
“I have not spoken to you before but I very much would like to continue our conversation.” He held his breath, eyes tightly closed oblivious to everything around him and waited.
“Who are you?” the voice spoke again and he relaxed slightly relieved that the person was still there.
“My name is Terrill,” he paused as she interrupted urgently,
“Do you have a child with you? I am desperately trying to contact a child who spoke to me earlier…”
“No…you can’t have spoken to him… he is…” Terrill struggled to control his thoughts and emotions, he knew that strong feelings would break the link.
“He asked if his Mama, Pappy or Ter was there – are you either Pappy or Ter?”
“I don’t believe it,” Terrill blurted the thought and felt an indignant humph from the female; her next words were colder than frost on a crisp winter morning.
“I am not in the habit of lying about anything. I…” Hurriedly interrupting once more Terrill broke in,
“Nay, lady please I beg you, forgive the implication… I did not mean to… when did you hear him?”
The female seemed to be distracted for a moment before she answered him,
“Last evening after moonrise I became aware of the voice… please may I ask… are you one of the strangers coming towards our village?” The last statement was slightly out of breath and strained and Terrill opened his eyes for a moment before answering,
“Yes I am here…” before he could say more she cried out,
“Stop them from killing us; please… you must stop them. We are peaceful people…whatever you want you can have it but you must stop…”
He waited but the voice had gone and he somehow knew he would not get her back.
Coming back into his body fully he let the orb fall onto the wagon where it rolled into an open sack of grain. Ahead he could see the horses lining up to advance upon their destination.
They had made swift progress, pushing the horses and men beyond all endurance. A gap had appeared between the riders and foot soldiers as Azhmel had urged them on faster and faster.
A huge mountain range appeared to hang over them and the men who were near were awed at the size of the largest peak. Farl was going to pull his wagon to the side keeping out of the way of the initial onslaught but Terrill couldn’t allow that.
His voice echoed on the breeze as he dominated the small man,
“You will drive on until I tell you to stop, allow nothing to hold us back, whip the horses up.”
“Now.” “Now.” “Now.”
The word went on and on but Farl had already flicked the hindquarters of his horses and caused the huge beasts to break into a frantic gallop. Glinn whumphed as his body bounced up and down and he buried his head under his arm praying the wagon wouldn’t overturn.
Ahead of them Terrill could see the first of the soldiers entering the village. Azhmel was level with the lead soldier and he had his sword drawn, a feral smile across his face. Slightly behind him was Geron, sword drawn but he looked doubtful as to whether he would need to use it.
A group of people were stood smiling and waving happily; as the original natives were on the beach Terrill realised.
“Oh my… it will be another massacre,” he muttered the words aloud and knew that he needed to try and stop the wholesale slaughter which had commenced.
Azhmel’s sword arm moved, once, twice, thrice and each time saw a head decapitated from its owner.
Screwing his eyes up tightly Terrill tried to contact the female again projecting his thoughts in every direction.
“Where are you…please I must know…tell me quickly,” his breath caught in his throat and he could hear himself moaning.
“Past the well…the end cottage…hurry!”
The voice that came to him sounded younger; somehow Terrill latched onto it and half stood, frantically looking around. Horrified at the bodies already strewn in his path, he feared he would be too late to save this woman.
“Farl go left now and slow down,” he had seen the well and dwellings which lay beyond. The horsemen were now milling in the centre of the village and Terrill knew the wagon could not get through safely.
Jumping down he decided he would translocate and hope to reach her before the Warlord and his men.
Glinn raised his head in time to watch him disappear from view; pushing up onto his knees he looked round wide-eyed in astonishment, Terrill had always professed an inability to translocate and yet he had done it now.
A flash of green caught his attention and he saw him entering a small cottage. The Warlord drew near on his horse; hooves flashing in the dying sunlight, stained red with blood from the bodies he had trampled into the dust.
As the Warlord looked towards Glinn his eyes glowed redly and the youth shuddered in fear before calling out loudly and pointing,
“There, Sire, in there… Master Terrill he managed to translocate… there is something…” he let his words trail away as the Warlord launched from his horse roaring something unintelligible as he charged into the cottage.
Geron was too far away to prevent the student from calling out but saw the expression on his face a moment later; this youth would be trouble later and Terrill needed to be warned.
He vaulted from his horse calling for someone to come and catch Fury and for the men to take prisoners instead of killing more people. No-one had noticed his sword was unbloodied; he had used the flat part of his blade to encourage men and women to seek shelter in any house away from the bloodshed.
Copyright Protected March 2008