Day Three Terrill Reflects through to Terrill Retires

This was the first expedition he had been allowed on: he and the younger students had hidden their feelings when the old Mage had abruptly informed them to get their belongings ready to accompany him on a voyage.
Never before had this happened and they had all hidden their feelings under calm exteriors. Terrill was thrilled that it was his class and his students who had been requested; did the Mage suspect him? This had been his first thought; were they to be kept close under his watchful eyes to prevent Terrill continuing his search or, was it just a simple request made because he would need their assistance in performing a difficult working?
As he had gathered his belongings his door had been tapped on first by Glinn, the most adept of his students. He could barely contain his excitement and had asked hundreds of questions, his hazel eyes sparkling as he had jumped from each question without waiting for an answer.
He too was voicing the same questions in his head so to save time he had called them all out to listen to his words of encouragement.
“Rikh, Matha, Denon, Jonah, Nelle,” he called briskly and they had bounded into the corridor, their innocent faces shining with the same enthusiasm he felt sure was visible on his face also.
His brief speech had been enough to reassure them that he was as much in the dark as they were and when he knew why they were going he would tell them any and all information.
He had looked at the water clock on the wall and hurried them to finish packing, the Mage had only given them half an hour to prepare and their time was nearly up.
He had sped through his own packing used to carrying the barest of essentials with him; placing his bags on the chair near Gwinn’s study he had rapped on the door, hoping to gain some information before they left.
Gwinn had smiled at him, as he had entered and he voiced his questions diffidently, in the manner he usually adopted in his presence.
“Terrill, my boy, good, good… are you packed and ready?” he was busily putting books into a box and had barely acknowledged Terrill’s query.
“Master, please,” he emphasised his words,
“Might I know where…?” he wanted to know more any had hoped that Gwinn would reveal other details.
“Terrill, do you want to stay behind, is that it?” Gwinn stopped and looked at him,
“If you do not feel capable to come then … stay behind,” the indifference stung Terrill as he knew something unusual was happening.
“Oh Master, I have no worries for myself, it was just the younger students…” he had bluffed and the Mage had once more returned to his own packing.
Before they could speak again a heavy pounding on the door made him jump and within seconds the house was full of big, burly soldiers fetching the equipment boxes which were filling a large room.
That had been two weeks ago, his students had helped carry various smaller items and then summarily directed to their cabins. In the early hours of the next morning, as the quarter moon had disappeared under the faint mist which was bringing the new day, the ships had cast off; he was unaware of how many until the next day when he had climbed up on deck, hoping to find someone to tell him where he and his students could eat.
The horizon had been filled with the huge black ships; their massive sails had unfurled and he caught his breath at the huge golden dragons which filled the centre, each dragon had a blood red curiously shaped stone balanced on their right forelegs. He had tried counting the ships and had lost track at just over a hundred when a noise behind him had caught his attention.
A tall bronzed man had been watching his face, his arms folded across his broad chest; each muscle clearly defined, glistening with perspiration as if he had been exercising under the early morning sun.
“Geron,” he had indicated and Terrill had noted the keen intelligence in his face; this was no fool to try and trick by simple means.
“You should not be on deck without a soldier to accompany you, and you are not allowed up here unless I give you permission,” Geron had laid down a whole host of rules and Terrill had agreed he was in error before fixing his black eyes firmly on the other man’s face.
“You can try your tricks with other soft minded fools, but don’t try them on me,” before Terrill had digested the words he found his back firmly pressed to the side of the ship and a razor sharp knife blade resting under his chin.
Blinking furiously he had bowed his head, apologising for upsetting the man; he then made a point of telling Terrill that the only person he, Geron, was answerable to, either on board ship or ashore was Azhmel, he was the Warlords personal servant and also his champion. If anyone had a dispute they would come to him first, it was his job to ensure the smooth running of the Warlord’s household so if Terrill needed anything he should ask him and not the Mage Gwinn.
It was Geron who had arranged food for everyone, Geron who had organised a quiet area on deck for Terrill to continue teaching the students. It had been Geron who had charged into his quarters two days earlier.
The ships had been lashed by driving rains; sailors climbing hurriedly into the rigging to lower the huge dragon sails tearing under the onslaught of the tremendous gales which were blowing them off course. He had gasped trying to get his breath and watched horrified as two men were seemingly plucked by an invisible hand and deposited into the heaving waters.
Geron dragged him across the wildly pitching ship, his massive bulk the only thing between life and a watery death. He had pushed Terrill to stand at the back of the impromptu throne room where Gwinn was explaining that due to the enormous distance they had travelled that explained the weather.
Terrill was unsure why he had been fetched; he managed to force his tall frame into a corner listening intently as the generals had decided that they could still continue with the attack on their old enemy.
The watchers on the ships had reported seeing a huge rocky reef, it was not on any map of Qol but a spate of earthquakes the previous summer could have disturbed the sea bed causing this.
They now needed a concoction which the Mage College students made for certain spells, gunpowder. This was why he had been brought up here, Terrill realised with a sigh of relief.
Asking if the compounds necessary for its manufacture were on board he reeled of his requirements, sulphur, charcoal and potassium nitrate. Gwinn had told of the storage boxes which contained it and once more Geron accompanied him below decks.
His students were fetched and had set to work enthusiastically; too enthusiastically when Rikh had accidentally dropped a minute quantity onto a nearly extinct candle causing a small explosion and fire which was hastily put out by the seven of them invoking a water spell.
Rikh had paled at his causing of the accident and Terrill decided that he could now manage alone; his students were all showing signs of sea sickness and were all tired, he knew that as he was suffering with both himself.
Finally he had two dozen kegs of the fine powder prepared and on opening the door found the ships armourers ready to take the explosive mix from him. He was prepared to go back to his quarters and rest then but a soldier had been delegated by the ever efficient Geron to return him to the throne room.
He had slipped inside and found a seat near the back, out of the direct line of sight of Mage Gwinn and the High Warlord. There was a table laden with food and drink and he had enjoyed sampling the cuisine, roasted fowl, salty fish roe topped with scrambled quail eggs, raised pies and soft white breads made a refreshing change from the relentless dishes of goat stew which was served nearly every day in the college dining room.
He had looked at a large side of roast beef but was revolted by the bloody juices flowing from it; the meat looked nearly raw and was unappealing to his palate. He sampled the strong red wine but shuddered in distaste at the metallic taste it left behind. A carafe of ice cold water sufficed to quench his thirst and he looked around with interest studying the men there.
The Warlord was seated quietly listening to his generals discussing the forthcoming campaign. He consumed huge platefuls of the beef which Terrill had found so distasteful, his apparent enjoyment causing Terrill to disguise his own disgust.
He had heard the massive explosions as the gunpowder had been used to destroy the rocks and then the generals had swiftly disappeared to organise their men for the next phase.
Creeping up on deck he had watched as Azhmel and Mage Gwinn had taken their places, the Warlord sitting down with his spyglass clamped firmly to one eye, Gwinn standing slightly behind arms spread akimbo murmuring soft words which were supposed to encourage the winds to blow towards the shore.
His eyes had opened and the blackness shining from them made Terrill grit his teeth; this side-effect of magic was terrifying to watch for the uninitiated. The accidental discovery many years earlier allowed Terrill to disguise his true nature; if Gwinn suspected the younger man had not been damaged by wild magick as he had claimed then he showed no signs of it.
Like a smoothly working body part, Terrill had watched as longbow men and common archers had been ordered to take their places high up in the ropes and rigging on each vessel; every strut and spar was filled with someone who could fire and rain death on the people gathering on the beach.
The decks were full of foot soldiers and sailors ready to launch the smaller craft; a follow up after the initial onslaught had begun; he had expected to hear the noises of army on the beach preparing their counter attack.
Instead he became aware of the sweet sound of singing. He canted his head toward the beach trying to catch the words but he was too far away to hear the words clearly.
Moving carefully across the deck he reached the side of the ship parallel to the beach and studied the scene. This was not right. This was not the army of a nation defying the Warlord. Frowning in puzzlement he turned to make his way back to where he could now see Geron waiting orders.
Everyone was facing the beach except Terrill. His jaw dropped in stunned surprise as he saw the moon appearing behind them. It was full and round and small, far smaller than the moon on Qol. His eyes bulged as to his horror a second moon came into view, this was further away but larger than the first and still not the moon that he was used to seeing.
Geron looked up and caught the terrified expression on the younger Mages’ face. He placed his hand swiftly on the hilt of his sword spinning on his heel to face whatever had caused the man to have such a look of fear.
Drawing a swift breath he too watched the strange moons moving across the night sky. Behind him he felt the mage move close to his shoulder and was subtly aware of the singing which now reached them; it stirred his senses with its intrinsic beauty and he knew that something was radically wrong here.
Making his way swiftly over to the Warlord he bent and spoke rapidly into his ear. Terrill was wringing his hands together, they should call the attack off for now, investigate the strange phenomena before committing to the war which was the reason they were here.
Azhmel jumped from his seat knocking his chair over grabbing Gwinn by the sleeve and pulling him around. Terrill had always wanted to be there when the Mage master made a mistake and it looked as though his wish had been granted. Dealing Gwinn a tremendous blow Azhmel had turned to Geron ordering that the assault be delayed for now.
It was too late for his orders to be carried out the attack was underway. Word had filtered down from the lookouts that huge warning fires were to be seen and the enemy soldiers were apparently half naked savages. All the soldiers had been warned the last savages they had conquered had been cannibals until they had been persuaded to see the error of their ways.
The signal went up; flaming arrows had been fired into the sky and on board the archers had fired, taking careful aim to ensure that no arrows were wasted.
Between two of the fires had stood a tall red haired woman; full breasted, long legged with generous hips she had held her arms open as if in a personal greeting for him alone; she had been smiling, teeth white and even as small pearls. Terrill thought she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.
Seconds later she collapsed, arrow firmly embedded in her belly face down into the sand; Terrill felt his eyes swim with unshed tears as he watched men, women and children slaughtered.
“You there, Mage,” the voice came to him and he was aware that Geron was beckoning him,
“Quickly now, the Warlord needs you,” his arm was gripped and he was dragged across the deck and down the stairs. Behind him the arrow storm had ceased and the first of the landing boats had been launched.
Entering the throne room he blinked as most of the candles had burnt down whilst they had been on deck and the room was nearly in full darkness. If it wasn’t for the silvery gleam from the twin moons he would have had difficulty distinguishing who was stood where. Flattening his back to the wall, he recognised the High Warlord, seated, with his long legs crossed at the knee, watching his advisors heatedly arguing over what had happened.
Azhmel’s face was working angrily for a moment, the muscles in his jaw rippling as he fought to control his temper, for a moment Terrill thought he could see a strangeness, a shadow as if there was someone else occupying the same space, then it was gone.
As he regained control of his emotions his face stilled, as if carved from granite, impassive and showing no sign of the thoughts which flowed through him.
On the floor Mage Gwinn lay, bleeding from his nose and mouth where the Warlord had dealt him a tremendous blow. His eyes were rolled up so only the white was visible.
Terrill tucked his arms into his long broad sleeves, hiding the trembling in his hands from everyone assembled there.
Geron picked the carafe of water up and doused the unconscious man, the water flowing into his nose and mouth causing him to cough and choke as he regained his senses.
Rolling onto his knees he hacked and cleared his lungs, spitting foul mucus and blood onto the bare boards; the sleeve of his robe was used to wipe his face clean as he risked looking round to try and gauge the mood of the people gathering around him.
The Warlord steepled his fingers then spoke softly, his words causing everyone to fall silent, holding their breath as they waited for Gwinn to respond.
“Tell me old friend, exactly what working you did to get us here?”
Terrill vaguely knew which spell was to have been used; a translocation spell which over the years Gwinn had refined and perfected; meaning he could take either one ship or a thousand ships anywhere on Qol by the simple method of having special silvered mirrors placed on a number of perimeter vessels.
However there were other parts to the spell which he had not revealed and Terrill found himself praying that the Warlord keep a cool head on his shoulders.
By never revealing all the details to Terrill and Azhmel, Gwinn had thought his life to be safe from the Warlord’s mercurial temper. Unable to comprehend what had happened today; why the simple translocation working had failed, he hoped his powers of persuasion were working better than his magickal skills.
Instead of being on the largest ocean of Qol, five thousand miles from where they had begun they were apparently, impossibly on another world. A germ of an idea was emerging and he felt confident that he would be able to put things to rights.
Forcing his legs underneath him to stand he hoped to get the Warlord to listen to him, to coerce him as he had done so many times over the past twenty years.
“My Lord, Sire, an accident… I assure you I can rectify this…” he was looking anxiously at Azhmel, noting the telltale vein pulsing in his temple and the endless flexing of his jaw muscles.
Pushing himself to his feet the Warlord had stepped forwards, his eyes locked on those of the Mage; the room had fallen totally silent as his eyes had turned into bloody crimson orbs. Gwinn began to gibber in fear, backing away until he hit the cabin wall.
Azhmel had continued to advance on the terrified man, while his right hand reached for the blade which hung in a sheath at his waist. Terrill bit back a gasp as he saw his nails lengthen, thicken and yellow; the skin appeared to look scaly under the dim candlelight.
Gwinn began talking excitedly, trying to persuade him that it could be a fortuitous occurrence when he became aware of a sharp pain in his side and a sickening crunch as the hilt of the knife was ground into his ribcage.
Azhmel twisted the knife, viciously before carelessly pulling it out and shaking blood all over the people closest to them. Gwinn reached his arm out pleading before he collapsed onto the floor; blood spurted for a few minutes until his heart finally ceased to pump.
Terrill had felt himself gag when as he had watched, the Warlord had run his tongue down the edge of his blade, tasting Gwinn’s blood. He reminded himself that unless he was very careful then he could be the next person on deck, with possibly Glinn in his place.

Lyria smoothed the sweat dampened hair away from Banya’s face with a moist cloth; hoping that her work would not be for nothing; her keen eyes had spotted the mark she had inflicted on him seventeen years earlier and she really, really hated to lose her babies.
Waking up a few minutes later Banya was relieved to be free of pain. He lifted his hand to his eyes but felt it gripped tightly then moved back to his lap by a softer woman’s hand.
“You must not move or remove these dressings for three days,” Lyria told him firmly,
“On the third day I will return and we will go into a darkened room and see – well we will see what we will see,” Banya understood what she was telling him and felt the bitter sting of tears but refused to allow himself time to regret his choice.
“So lad, can you tell us what was so urgent you had to come through the worst swamp in the world risking life and limb?”
Banya recognized the old man’s voice and slowly, haltingly he told of what had happened. There were no outcries of disbelief here. They knew how much he had risked to get this far. Finally he told of the strange thing which had dealt death to so many and luckily for the sake of verifying his story, after his narrow escape from the swamp, his pack had stayed firmly over his head. He held it out and told them to look inside.
Harry and Anjii looked and shrugged, they did not know what the strange thing was. Passing it to Orlan they left Varon and Thadd craning to look over his shoulder. No-one could give it a name.
“Whatever it is called it killed everyone, every single person within minutes; it wasn’t choosy, men, women, children they were all slaughtered,” he wept his grief finally managing to overwhelm him.
Muttering her anger at allowing his distress, Lyria quickly mixed an infusion of meadowsweet and held it to his lips. Seconds later he was sleeping, although not dreamlessly at least his mind was not being continually assaulted with the nightmare visions he could see whilst awake.
Anjii stood with her husband, both were ashen faced; they had never seen or heard anything like this before. Lyria went and stood with Orlan, her eyes carefully checking him over for signs of shock, at his age any bad news could be disastrous. Just because on the outside he looked fit and healthy…she stopped her mind from dwelling on earlier events. It was imperative that she cared for all of them from now on to the best of her abilities and, whether they wanted her to or not.
The giant Varon quickly put his hand out and supported his companion. His was the fourth pair of hands which had held Banya down. He was a novice priest with just over a year’s study with Orlan under his belt, not long enough to bolster his confidence enough to cope with a disaster of this magnitude.
Dressed in a paler shade of grey, he wore the same style robes as Orlan and had up till now remained silent in deference.
“How can this be? It’s monstrous, monstrous. Surely this youth has made a grievous mistake?”
Orlan looked at him sadly taking in the soft downy cheeks, high pitched voice and trembling hands; this apprentice was still far too young to advance in the priesthood. Now was the time to teach the Old Magicks and unless a body was strong, pure and without fear the spells would not work. If they let fear into their mind whilst casting a spell the outcome would be disastrous. Orlan had warned everyone at last year’s Convocate but had been forced to bow down under pressure from other members.
“Pull yourself together lad,” the old man was deeply disturbed by what he had heard but was not about to show it.
“Pull myself…pull myself together!” the voice got higher as hysteria began to settle in but before he could say any more Lyria gently went to him and spoke in his ear. His eyes glazed and he staggered as she guided him back to Varon.
“You should take more care of your pets,” she spoke softly and he grimaced,
”I’m fed up of babysitting him already, he is such a…,” he tailed off unable to think of a word to describe him.
“Never mind what he is Varon,” Harry spoke, for the first time establishing his authority as the head of the Convocation Guardians
“Thadd of Birrh is the newest priest in Orlan’s order and is therefore your responsibility. You knew that when you were given the job,”
The big man agreed, hiding his sigh of discontent, he always seemed to get the worst jobs.
“Can you teach me that trick Lyria?” he nodded at the young priest who was now stood serenely watching them.
Shaking her head she went to Varon and whispered in his ear making the colour drain until he was as pale as fresh milk.
“Whatever she told him frightened him,” Anjii chuckled as she leant on her husband’s back wrapping her arms tightly around his broad chest,
“Probably had something to do with cutting off a specific part of his anatomy,” he quipped and they all laughed relieving the tension.
“We alone cannot make any decisions about what we are to do. I have an idea but… come, we must go to Gryph and make plans,” he looked up at the sky noting in surprise that the day had flown past. Nightfall would be upon them soon and they needed to start the new day refreshed and full of vigour as there were many tasks to perform.
It was the work of minutes to make the camp safe for their rest. Orlan drew a large circle with his staff and spoke softly; the grasses rustled as small nocturnal animals moved away from the weary travelers.
A snake wriggled from underneath a large rock, its forked tongue tasting the air as it swayed sinuously from side to side apparently watching them. Varon raised another rock but Lyria stayed his hand and seconds later the snake departed to look for somewhere warm to spend the night.
Waiting another minute to make sure everything was clear Orlan then snapped his fingers and the edge of the circle burst into flame, it kept night crawling creatures out as well as supplemented the heat from the fire which was dying down.
Lyria would stay that night and keep watch over Banya to ensure that he would not suffer any adverse reaction from her treatment; the others took blankets and made their beds where they could, however no one slept well that night.


Bringing his thoughts back to the present Terrill realised that the Warlord was awaiting an answer from him,
“I do believe you are right Sire,” his voice lost some of the calmness it usually had, excitement making him speak hurriedly whilst pacing impatiently with pent up energy.
“We need to explore as much of this place as possible and get an idea of its topography and its people. They must surely know everything we need to know,” his robes were brushing the deck, picking up tiny pieces of sand which had appeared overnight, deposited by the stiff breezes which had blown through the night.
“We must send out small groups of soldiers in every direction. They need to make us maps and bring any important hostages they can find so that we can question them. It is of vital importance that we find out the lie of the land Sire, vital importance.” He repeated himself to emphasise how deeply he felt and Azhmel nodded, for the first time in total agreement.
“Release the crows,” he hissed the words and Terrill looked at him in surprise,
“Crows..?” he had no idea what the Warlord was referring to.
“I see that old fool Gwinn kept you in the dark about more than one thing,” Azhmel spoke sarcastically, drawling the words.
“You are a Mage are you not?” the question stung Terrill’s professional pride and in response he gave an imperceptible twist to his fingers, beckoning a brimming glass of water from the flagon on the tray which had replaced the one emptied by Geron.
The glass rose and quickly floated to hover in front of the Warlord; Terrill wanted the drink but knew that if he was deliberately rude it would annoy the Warlord once more so decided to keep him placated.
Waving the glass away Azhmel watched as the Mage drank thirstily and gave a sardonic sneer,
“A schoolboy trick but, some slight skill was needed. Once more Terrill you manage to convince me into leaving your scrawny neck attached to your miserable head,” Terrill bobbed his head grateful for the reprieve.
“Come with me,” the Warlord moved to the stairs leading to the holds where the cargo was stored, Terrill hot at his heels. Behind them a shadow scampered from his hiding place and was soon reporting to his hero of the Warlords departure.
In the cargo hold Glinn had laboriously opened three large packing boxes, and stood with a puzzled frown on his face. Why his old teacher would have brought what seemed like crate upon crate of dead birds was beyond his comprehension.
Forcing the bar between the edges of a smaller crate he managed to remove the lid; this was slightly different. A single bird, larger than the others lay on the floor of the cage holding it. He shook his head bemused. Never in all his years of studying had he come across anything in his books to explain this. Master Terrill had never talked of birds either so he rightly assumed that he was as much in the dark.
The final two crates were different shapes and he hoped that they would yield more useful information. Opening the smallest square one, he had just started to lift a mound of soft cotton wadding when voices behind him alerted him to the fact he was no longer alone.
“My assistant is in here Sire; I dispatched him as soon as I found out that Mage Gwinn had ordered him to keep silent about helping to bring it on board,” Terrill hoped Glinn had the sense to follow his lead, a slight twisting of the truth was better than a downright lie.
Azhmel was blessed with keen senses and could determine a proper lie within seconds; Terrill had noticed this over the past few months so was determined to try and keep his falsehoods to a bare minimum.
Glinn hastily dropped the wadding and turned around, his bow to the Warlord so servile he nearly scraped his nose on the deck.
Lyria watched as her friends lay unsleeping on the floor. She had checked on the sleeping figure of Banya; he was restless but had no temperature, she was confident he would recover. Her only concern was his sight and that was in the hand of the Goddess.
“Mother,” a small voice sounded in her head and she smiled happily,
“You are late up. I thought Hoppy’s grandmother was watching that you went to bed early,” Lyria felt her daughter, Lyta chuckle.
“I am in bed mother, just not asleep.” The voice fell silent for a few seconds,
“Has something bad happened mother, I felt something bad had happened to a lot of people?” Lyria was astounded at her daughter’s perspicacity, once more she revealed a new facet to her character, a new ability for her to master as she reached puberty. Lyta was going to be the most powerful feyhrine in many generations.
“Yes, something very bad happened. A lot of people have died.” Lyria did not shield her child from the outside world. Although they lived in a small village at the base of the Forbidden Territory Lyria was in constant contact with Orlan and he kept them informed of anything interesting.
“Mother,” her voice seemed older, more mature,
“Yes little one?” Lyria had stood and walked to the fire,
“Are you going to sing for them?”
“I am,” Lyria had a voice like no other fey, she could sing as if a host of angels were joining her; even the hardest of hearts would melt and break down in tears at the sound of Lyria singing The Mourning.
Once again Gali rose and this time instead of a single male voice singing joyously, Lyria broke the silence of the night. Her voice soared effortlessly into the night soothing even the humblest of creatures.
Harry gathered Anjii into his arms and she wept for the people who had died; for the husbands and wives who could no longer share their love and for the children torn from their parents safe arms. Varon clapped a sympathetic hand on Thadd’s shoulder, the young priest openly weeping his distress visible for all to see.
Ana rose into the night sky and Lyria continued to sing, pouring her heart and soul into the words; Orlan had never heard her sing with such emotion and he too wept for the friends he had lost.
Banya still slept, the infusion of meadowsweet keeping him sedated enough to recover from his harrowing journey.
In the village of Durrh a small feyhrine child had crept from her bed and was now stood under the stars, her voice soaring toward the heavens uniting with her mother’s many thousands of miles away. The other villagers had stepped from their homes and gathered around her, joining hands in sorrow as her sweet voice reached its climax.
Both mother and daughter fell silent at the same moment, their faces wet with tears. Lyria sent a warm loving thought to Lyta who smiled wistfully before going back to bed.
“Goodnight my darling, sleep well,” she sent the thought and waited until she was sure Lyta was asleep.
Sighing sadly the older woman moved from the fire to sit back at the side of Banya when another voice sounded in her head,
“Hello… hello, is there anybody there?” she froze her mouth dropping open as she concentrated on the faint words.
“Mama is that you? Pappy are you there? Ter? Ter, please, you promised you would find me.” The voice was so sad, so pained and frightened that when it spoke again,
“Hello… is there anybody there?”
Lyria answered.
“Yes.”

“Sire, Master, I have not had chance to determine what Mage…” Glinn spoke nervously looking between both men for an indication of why they were there before Azhmel interrupted him,
“You have found them then,” his voice was pleased and Glinn exchanged a quick glance with Terrill who shrugged imperceptibly,
“Sire, I found naught but crate upon crate of dead birds,” he began and Azhmel laughed,
“Not dead boy, not dead at all,” he had seen the single bird and his eyes glowed in pleasure. Opening the cage he gently picked it up, cradling the limp body in the palm of his hand.
“Hello old friend,” he murmured softly running his forefinger down the fine glossy black feathers which covered its breast.
“Neither of you know of the crows?” his voice was a statement more than a query and both Terrill and Glinn confessed their ignorance.
“Many years ago Mage Gwinn came to me and told me he could re- animate animals from a state of near death. I had thought at the time that such a thing was a waste of his talents and time, why would I need these creatures. However, this one, whom I called Corvus was rescued and hand fed by me. He is cunning and smart and bound to me by ways which you will never have heard of,” he looked directly at both men then; Glinn gasping surprised to see that his eyes too were the same bottomless black pits as Terrill’s.
Only someone steeped in magic could transform like this and the student had never heard even a whisper that the Warlord was an adept. Terrill had seen his eyes change once a few months ago so he knew that Azhmel had some skill, but how much he was unsure.
Lifting the limp body close to his mouth the Warlord blew softly into the open beak then waited. Terrill and Glinn moved as close as they could without crowding the Warlord too much; they wanted to observe what was happening but also knew that if the Warlords servant were to appear suddenly they would be at risk as he had a clearly defined the boundary around the Warlord where no-one was allowed cross.
The small chest suddenly moved and the bird’s eyes twitched open, his sharp beak snapping trying to catch the unwary by surprise. Azhmel laughed and placed him back in the floor of his cage before taking his knife from the edge of his boot. He nicked the thick fleshy pad under his thumb with the razored edge, then held his hand over the opened beak and watched the blood drip down the hungry throat.
For a minute the bird fed before flapping his wings and flying onto his perch where he watched first Terrill then Glinn carefully before turning to the Warlord and emitting a raucous screech.
Azhmel had moved away and was picking each of the other birds up, breathing life into them and placing one drop of his blood into their beaks.
It took him nearly two hours to reanimate every animal and Terrill was becoming concerned at the grey pallor filling his face. He had begged to replace the Warlord and he would give his blood but the Warlord had refused. He did not want Terrill to be able to control any part of his flock; they were linked to the person who fed them their blood as well as to Corvus who by the reason of his size and intelligence became the dominant leader of all.
Finally all two thousand birds were recovered and perched on every available surface waiting for instructions. Azhmel ordered the two Mages to open the portholes and with difficulty they moved around the cargo hold forcing open every exit.
Corvus flew onto Azhmel’s shoulder and bent his head close to the Warlord, listening intently. Neither man could hear what was said but were unsurprised moments later when the large bird screeched before flying outside followed by the others.
For a few minutes they exercised their wings, vigorously flapping life into them. A flock of seagulls unwarily advanced to inspect the newcomers and within seconds had been mobbed and the black birds had used their vicious yellow beaks to rip flesh from bone to feed hungrily. Ten minutes later a thin film of feathers on the sea was the only sign of the dreadful attack.
Moving to a window to watch them, Terrill noticed that they didn’t stay in one large cloud but had split into four smaller groups who then flew away in all four major directions. Corvus flew in a large circle as if supervising them before going up onto the highest mast ever watchful, waiting for some sort of a signal from his brethren.
Azhmel beckoned both men to follow and they made their way back to the upper deck. All three men breathed deeply of the fresh air, not having realised how stuffy the cargo hold had become with the stench of acrid bird urine and guano.
Geron was waiting for them, a dark frown was aimed at both Mage’s and they knew he would make a point of seeking them out later, telling them of his displeasure in getting the Warlord to enter the smelly darkened hold. It wouldn’t matter to him that the Warlord had led the way, just that they had been foolish enough to follow him.
A table was laid ready for the Warlord to dine, and as their feet hit the stairs the sudden smell of meat cooking assaulted their senses making the juices in their mouths flow as they all realised they were hungry.
Terrill’s books and papers had been neatly packed away in a box by the boy Col, and he was safely tucked away in a corner with a large noggin of soft white bread and the leg of some sort of fowl. From his usual fare of mouldy ships biscuits with dried salted herring this was as manna from heaven to him.
Geron pulled his lips into a tight angry line when the Warlord demanded extra covers be laid for Terrill and Glinn, he needed to have both men to hand ready for when his unusual scouting parties returned and informed him of everything and everyone they could find on this world.

Orlan opened his eyes slowly, blinking to clear the remnants of sleep from them. The moons were still out and he calculated he had slept for no more than three hours. He rolled onto his knees then with the aid of his stick pushed himself to his feet.
Lyria was seated cross legged at Banya’s side, her eyes closed and Orlan frowned, surprised as she usually was awake and would offer him one of her soothing teas when he woke in the night.
He disappeared around the back of a bush to relieve his bladder, cursing his extreme age as it meant he normally woke at least once a night these days. Making his way back to his bedroll he grinned as a mug of soothing chamomile tea was stood on a smooth rock. Not asleep then, meditating perhaps, or communicating with Lyta, her daughter he mused.
Varon was deeply asleep at the far side of the fire, his snores occasionally earning him a well placed punch from Thadd, obviously used to hearing him by now.
Harry and Anjii were snuggled under their blanket; the only visible sign of them was Harry’s glorious red hair gleaming softly under the moonlight.
Banya slept on, he had moved onto his side and Orlan noted Lyria must have had to change his dressings; the ones he could see were clean and not stained with her medicines.
He knew why he had been unable to sleep; he had been struggling to recall a passage from one of the ancient texts he had access to. Finishing his tea he too assumed the cross legged position that Lyria had taken.
Grimacing with pain from his old aching bones, he placed his arms on his legs, palms uppermost touching thumb to middle finger on each hand. Striving to empty his mind he counted backwards from ten breathing deeply to ensure his meditative state was deep and true.
Picturing in his head the words he had read, he concentrated on bringing the text to the forefront of his mind, to recall the exact day he had read the work.
He was a young man, only eighteen and there had been a violent flood which had killed his parents. His mind was still cloudy over what had happened then but, he distinctly recalled joining the priesthood. He was to train in the Old Ways, magick being at the forefront of everything he learned.
He would also be taught the scriptures and could then go wherever he was wanted and needed.
At his initiation ceremony, the head of his order, Master Howlin, had casually given Orlan the staff of office to hold and it had glowed brightly, before a flame had come bursting from the end.
Orlan did not know that the staff only did this for people who would succeed to head the priesthood. Master Howlin had smiled delighted that at last he had a successor to pass his knowledge to.
There had been mistakes and hiccoughs early on in the training but when Howlin began to teach him on a one to one basis he had come on in leaps and bounds.
For the next few months everything had progressed well then one day in the scriptorium Orlan had found a manuscript which talked of an impossible sounding ceremony. It was only to be undertaken in times of great peril.
He had discussed this many times with Master Howlin, what could threaten the peace and tranquility of their lives so much that they would need to send people off on a quest? The only thing they could both decide on was a great natural disaster, floods or earthquakes.
This is where Orlan wanted to be; recalling the intricate instructions for the ceremony, he had a premonition that he would need to know them in great detail and forewarned is forearmed as Master Howlin used to tell him.
Beyond the fire Lyria opened her eyes; frustrated because she had been unable to make contact with the child who had spoke to her earlier. A chill passed through her as she thought of how sad and lonely he or she had sounded.
Looking over at Orlan she contemplated asking for his help, he could boost or amplify her mental powers enough to enable her to reach out further. No, once they reached Gryph she would come back and try again.
It occurred to her that she knew every fey that lived at this time; this voice did not resemble any that she could recognise. A mystery, Lyria was very good at solving those.
The rest of the night passed uneventfully, both Orlan and Lyria remained wakeful meditating and arranging their thoughts so they knew what they were going to do in the hard days that would follow.

Akhri sighed tiredly and took a long drink of the tankard of cool ale which the stable master had passed to him. It had taken all day but the rear of the ship was now lowered and they were preparing to bring the first horse up and see if his plan had been successful.
Geron and he had done the bulk of the work and both men held their breath as the quietest horse was brought to test the water. She shied at her first sight of the water but Akhri once more leapt into action and wrapped his sweat soaked jerkin over her head, covering her eyes from the unfamiliar sight yet reassuring her with his scent.
She tentatively stepped forwards whinnying her fear; with his soft murmuring in her ears finally eased her enough to let herself be guided into the warm water. It took less than five minutes to get her on the beach where, on removing his jerkin he had allowed her to run excitedly up and down, kicking her heels up relieved to be released from her cramped stable for the first time in two weeks.
The men on the beach cheered as she pounded up and down, her tail flicking the sluggish flies off her tender skin. On board the ship Geron raised a clenched fist to Akhri, acknowledging their success.
Col scampered around fetching as many of the men as possible who could swim and ride and within half an hour the huge beasts were nose to tail on deck and in the water.
The rest of the ships in the fleet had been told how to unload their animals and by the end of the afternoon had managed to get a steady trickle of animals and men unloaded.
One of the great black ships did not carry horses however but was filled with huge hunting mastiff’s, raised and trained by two of the Warlord’s slave overseers. These huge beasts were easily taken ashore and now the men began to patrol checking for any natives who may have been in hiding, whilst waiting for the rest of the army to disembark.
The sun was beginning to dip to the west as the birds began to return. Glinn was knelt on the floor, a blank scroll spread across the deck and each bird approached Corvus, silently communicating with him. Corvus in turn approached Azhmel who softly explained what they had seen.
A chart was slowly drawn, showing small settlements, villages and towns; everything the keen eyed creatures saw was carefully marked first by Glinn, then when his fingers cramped up by Terrill. Tracks and trails appeared, lakes and rivers, with oddly shaped hills and mountain ranges; gradually they all gained an idea of the size of the world far beyond the edges of the beach.
As the sun dropped below the edge of the horizon the birds then froze immobile on the masts and rigging, or perched precariously on the wooden sides of the ships. Azhmel had collected Corvus and placed him in his cage. If anything happened to him his army of crow watchers would be useless.
As full darkness fell both Terrill and Glinn noticed the birds didn’t even blink; the Warlord explained that they could only fly through daylight, at night their small bodies became dormant. Because of this they would live many years longer than usual unless they fell foul of a predator and there were very few birds prepared to move on a large colony of cannibalistic crows.
Geron escorted Azhmel to his quarters, placing his newly acquired small assistant who had fallen asleep on his own pallet whilst he completed making arrangements for unloading the final horse, Fury, in the morning.
Akhri returned to his bunk, exhausted and his already bronzed skin glowing a shade darker due to his exposure to the hot sun and the salty sea water. His friend Hahmon gave him a sour look as he returned, complaining at the extra work they had been given.
“Do you want to stay here for the rest of your life, or do you want to go home? I’se axin you Hahmon” Akhri posed the question. Hahmon shrugged his reply.
“I know you Hahmon and you want to take your share of the bounty and go home, get yoursel’ a wife and do some farming just as we had always planned, if’n I hadn’t helped den we would be stuck here on dis ship widout any way of getting’ off and findin’ our way home.” The other man looked at his feet and muttered under his breath causing Akhri to laugh ruefully,
“If’n you thought today was hard den you better wait till you get yoursel’ that farm acos today was easy compared wid farmin’.”
Both men finally fell asleep dreaming of the farms they would buy, the wives they would have, before praying that the way home would be found.

Terrill and Glinn were both utterly exhausted and descended to the quarter deck where their cabins were. As soon as they were out of sight Glinn had gripped the Master’s sleeve and laying a finger on his lips indicating the need for silence, led the way back to the hold where he had firmly closed the door against prying eyes and big ears.
“What..?” Terrill was desperately tired and wanted to go to his quarters and relax and was feeling annoyed at his student.
“Shhh, Master, I did not reveal this is front of the Warlord. I had not finished opening Mage Gwinn’s cargo when you entered this morning,” as he spoke he once more lifted the lid to the small square crate. Lifting the wadding out of the way both men gazed intently at the contents, wonderment appearing on both faces.
“There is another crate to open master,” Glinn’s voice was hushed and Terrill urged him to open it but quietly.
The final crate opened to reveal a chest; ornately carved, the wood was blackened through its immense age. Both men felt a frisson of excitement as they looked at it; the hair on the nape of their necks now standing on edge as they both shivered uncontrollably.
Terrill held the youths arm, preventing him from throwing the lid open. He wanted to examine the exterior of the chest before attempting to open the lid. There was power oozing from it and he believed that Mage Gwinn was not the fool they had seen but possibly a genius, a dead genius now and Terrill had no intention of following in his footsteps.
“No, not tonight Glinn, whatever is in this must wait until the morning. We have both been awake for over forty-eight hours and need all our wits about us.” Glinn opened his mouth to protest but Terrill performed a small twist of his fingers which appeared to tie the youths tongue making him unable to speak.
“You will obey me on this matter Glinn,” his voice changed timbre, echoing over and over again in the air and the student found himself agreeing without knowing why.
Under Terrill’s watchful eyes he repacked the chest and they went once more to the opened box.
“We cannot leave it like this,” Glinn spoke softly and Terrill agreed.
“No, but we must not tend it in here. Quickly now, go and make sure the passageway is clear,” as the youth went to the door Terrill picked the contents of the box up and carefully held it close to him. At Glinn’s nod he hurried outside and waited while the door was locked.
It took them ten minutes to make their way back to Terrill’s quarters, twice they had to stop and dodge down another corridor to avoid the night watch. Finally they entered and Terrill placed his burden on the bed. Both laughed relieved to have made it there unchallenged, their nerves being stretched tight to breaking point.
“What now Master?” Glinn stood at the base of the bed and wrung his hands together, fear of the Warlord finding what they had beginning to overwhelm him.
“Now Glinn, I am afraid you will have to forget what we found tonight,” as he spoke Terrill had been opening a pouch he carried under his robes and he blew a handful of the fine silvery powder in Glinn’s face.
Taking a deep breath Glinn had inhaled the drug instantly and Terrill smiled grimly as he produced an oval of wood which fit perfectly in the palm of his hand. The centre of the oval was a curiously shaped piece of polished stone which he flicked with a finger causing the stone to spin around and around.
“We left the Warlord’s company when he retired for the evening, checked to make sure the cargo hold was locked then returned to our quarters. You went directly to your bed where after stripping your clothes off you collapsed and fell into a deep sleep,” Terrill’s voice gained a singsong quality as he spoke to Glinn and the youth stood, slack jawed listening to the Mages’ words.
Terrill opened his door and popped his head out listening intently before pulling Glinn across and putting him in his own room. The youth was soon lay on his bed asleep and Terrill after making sure there were no lit lamps or candles went back to his own room where he barred the door and leaned his back against it, alone but for the crate’s contents which had remained exactly where he had placed it.
Rubbing his face tiredly he finally let his magick drain away and as he walked past the mirror saw his own eyes look back at him for the first time in many days, the deep violet colour glittering brightly with the candlelight.
Sitting on the edge of the bed he looked at what he had carried from the cargo hold and tears escaped the inner corners of his eyes to trickle down the creases either side of his nose and settle amongst the whiskers of his sparse beard.
He had finally found him; frozen in stasis like the birds he hoped just as he hoped he could revive them as the Warlord had done his army of avians.
Hands held tightly were the tiny body of a boy child; with glossy black hair and delicately pointed ears. He gently lifted his eyelids and saw to his delight that this child had rich violet coloured eyes, just like his own.
Terrill believed this infant to be his brother, stolen from the secluded home they had lived in nearly forty years ago. He had been ill in bed when his family farm had been raided by Mage Gwinn and another man. The Mage had heard tales of a strange family living hidden in the mountains. It had taken him two years of searching then one day quite by accident he had come across a tiny cabin.
For a day and a night they had watched a tiny child playing outside with a small man and woman whose resemblance could only make them his parents. They were unaware on another twin who had been pulled from the stream a few days earlier and was suffering with wet lung upstairs, tucked in his warm bed.
The Mage and other man had waited until dusk was falling before appearing, lost and confused as if they had been wandering for days and were starving and dehydrated. His parents were simple people unused to associating with outsiders; unused to dealing with men who made it a practice to lie, cheat and steal wherever they went.
They had been made welcome and the couple had opened their homes to them. In return his father had died while attempting to distract them and allow his wife and son to escape. A sharp knife severed the long vein in his neck, less than five minutes later his eyes had stared sightlessly across the cabin.
His mother had grabbed his brother and run to the door trying to flee but another blade had suddenly sprouted from between her shoulder blades and with a queer groan she had collapsed to the floor. His brother had crawled away, pushing his small frame into the alcove where logs for the fire were usually stored, too traumatized to even scream.
Upstairs Terrill had woken with a start. His cough had been gone for a day but his mother had wanted him to stay where he was and rest for the extra day. Something had screamed in his head, danger and he sat bolt upright in bed hardly daring to breathe.
He canted his head to the side, the delicate ears listening and heard a soft moan from his mother. Sliding softly, soundlessly from the edge of the bed he had stepped over to the open door and crawling on his belly looked down the stairs.
His mothers bloody body laid next to the door face down in the mud brought in by the assailants. His father lay by the table, his sightless eyes staring up at the ceiling. He could see a tiny foot which belonged to Darell poking from behind the sweet scented apple logs his father had sawn a few weeks earlier.
A hand had reached and dragged him out and Terrill had found himself biting the sleeve on his nightshirt holding in a scream. Darell’s eyes looked as dead as their father, fear had numbed him and made him unable to move. Gwinn had spoken to his accomplice then, warning him not to hurt the child as he believed he was the key to his research.
Terrill had stared at his brother willing him to be alright when suddenly his eyes had flickered and a tickle began deep inside his mind.
“Be still my sons, do not let these creatures know your full strength,” their mother was not dead, a tiny spark of life lingered in her and she used it to talk to her frightened sons.
“You are bound together by something stronger than these men will ever know. You are bound by your love for each other and by your love for your father and for me,” her voice faltered before coming back stronger than before,
“I share with both my sons my essence, my heart, my very soul. Know that wherever you go a part of me goes with each of you. Follow this part my sons, do not allow these…murderers to destroy what you could become. We come from an old family, far older than they could ever comprehend; older than even you were aware of. We come from a place far away from here and had hoped that at the right time we could take you back there.”
Terrill watched his brother and found his eyes were latched on him in return; both boys felt something in the air but could not say what was happening. Below the body of their mother sparkled slightly; scintillating in the embers of the dying fire, and an imperceptible thread of light flowing from her; writhing in the air, unseen by any other eyes, before dividing equally and wrapping itself tightly around both boys then being absorbed by them.
“I love you my sons never forget that…” they felt her pain then and knew she was nearly gone forever.
“Oh my beloved husband, my husband, are you there, shall we walk together one last time to..?” the fading anguished words were the last spoken by her, and Terrill once more forced the sleeve of his nightshirt into his mouth stifling the scream he could feel building up inside him, silvery tears streamed down his face to soak the floor in front of him.
Darell was held tightly by the scruff of his neck, his shirt twisted tightly around his fragile neck. Gwinn had been searching through their meager belongings, eager to prove that this family had come from a place he had heard of only as legend. When no papers were forthcoming he snatched the child from his companion and sat him on the edge of the table.
“Tell me boy, what is your name?” he approached the boy softly to begin with, stroking his arm in a conciliatory fashion. Darell stared at him blankly, unspeaking and the Mage had looked away before casually turning back and slapping him across the face.
Darell had blinked furiously, banishing the tears which sprang to his eyes; Terrill jerked his head as if he too had been slapped.
“I asked you a question boy, if you don’t answer me you will be punished and each time the punishment will be harder on you,” Gwinn lowered his face and to the boys’ horror his eyes had turned to hollow black pits totally devoid of any emotion.
“Dar…Darell zur,” the boy forced a squeak through dry lips and the Mage smiled cruelly,
“Good boy. Well Darell, tell me where do you come from?” Darell blinked for a moment before answering,
“Here zur,” his voice was soft but earnest and the Mage’s nostrils grew pinched as he struggled to control his temper,
“Before here Darell,” he snapped the sentence out and watched as Darell frowned,
“Before here zur? Why before here I wasn’t borned…” the man accompanying Gwinn lost his temper then and shouted angrily,
“You promised something special was here old man, something we could use to make ourselves rich. Up to now I haven’t seen anything…” he choked then as an invisible force gripped his neck tightly. Darell squirmed on the table trying to escape but the Mage had a secure hold on the neck of his shirt.
He watched dispassionately as his former companion writhed on the floor, trying to force air through his crushed larynx, his face had blackened and his feet were drumming on the wooden floor.
Terrill was trying hard not to scream projecting the thought to his equally terrified brother when suddenly he realised he could hear Darell’s thoughts, “Dar… can you hear me?” he craned his neck to see over the top step, the Mage was shielding his brother,
Ter… is that you?” the thought reached him and he could feel the barely contained panic,
“So who else would be calling you Dar?” he made the question sarcastic knowing it would sting his brother’s pride,
“Ter, what do I tell him? He frightens me… have you seen his eyes… his nails are awful too…” the stream of thoughts coming nearly overwhelmed both boy and Terrill fought to calm him down,
“Dar, we don’t know where we came from, if HE is a wizard then he will be able to find that out, if he isn’t then he is a fraud and it doesn’t matter what you tell him,” as they spoke the man on the floor slowly stopped drumming his feet and arched his body one last time before submitting to the lethal invisible force. His body relaxed in death, voiding both his bladder and bowels and Darell choked at the stench which reached him.
Gwinn wrinkled his nose in disgust before dragging the child from the table and going to the door threw it wide open. Taking a deep cleansing breath Darell risked a quick sideways glance upstairs but Terrill was no longer there.
He had retched badly at the smell; alarmed he might attract attention to himself had retreated into his bedroom where the window was partially open. Pressing his nose and mouth to the gap he drew a breath of the sweet clean air before hastily grabbing his clothes and dressing rapidly.
Easing the window further open Terrill had soon shuffled across the thick branch; scampering around the cabin and kneeling behind a water barrel watching and waiting for an opportunity to rescue his brother.
Gwinn was tired of waiting for Darell to answer him and had slapped him once more, screaming his frustration. He knew they were not from here, the ears and the eyes gave that away. Darell looked at him blankly; he had never met anyone else until that day so did not know what the Mage was talking about.
“Very well, if you won’t tell me here you will tell me back in my laboratoria,”
Terrill waited his body tense, ready to run out and grab his brother as they passed him; the horses were tethered under the trees so he knew they would have to pass him. He could not see the Mage drawing a symbol with his feet in the dusty earth; he did hear a few murmured words and the anguished scream from Darell which was followed by a loud thunderous boom and a bright blue flash.
Jumping to his feet he had smelt a strange odour which he now knew was ozone burning as the Mage had performed a powerful translocation spell.
“NO!” he roared at the top of his lungs, his glossy black hair swirling around his head as he stood feet firmly planted in the earth, arms outstretched as if by sheer willpower alone he could reach Darell and pull him back.
“No, no, no, no, no…” the words ceased and he found himself crying angrily at his failure.
“Dar,” he sent the thought out, questing for many miles, hoping his brother could hear him,
“I will find you Dar; I promise I will find you. If it takes the rest of my life I will find you.”
He swore the oath and watched, waited and listened until dawn came; seated on the steps which led into the cabin, unsure of his next move.
“Ter,” he felt a tickle deep inside his mind and was unsure if he had heard his brother or if it had been wishful thinking.
By the time the sun rose the next morning he had worked harder than a six year old child should. He had fought with the heavy bodies of his parents, dragging and rolling them together into the centre of the tiny room they had shared.
Wrapping their arms around each other he had fetched a large quilt from their bed and tucked it around them. Grimacing with distaste he had kicked and pushed the dead stranger outside. He was not going to be burnt with his parents.
Packing himself some clean clothes, food and medicines which his mother had made he stood outside thinking was there anything he could have missed. He forced his leaden feet to reenter by the door and the smell was getting worse. Flies buzzed in his face and he hurried upstairs into the room his mother and father had shared.
Near the hearth he looked for the broken board which always creaked when his father had stood on it. He recalled asking his father why the board creaked and he had said that it hid a great secret.
Falling to his knees he felt around the edges trying to raise it; a hollow deep enough for a man to get his finger underneath caught his attention and he managed to slide two of his fingers into the gap forcing the board out of the way.
A small wooden box ten inches square was stood on its end and he pulled it out before feeling for anything else. A crackle of parchment and he pulled out a tightly curled scroll.
Tucking everything into the pack he decided to get as far away from the cabin as possible, a feeling of great dread was upon him and he felt as if someone or something was about to come upon him.
Rushing downstairs he slipped and missed the bottom three steps, twisting his ankle and causing tears to spring to his eyes. Limping badly he made his way to the fire which he had managed to save.
He had placed three long branches deep into the hearth earlier and now reached out and pulled the first one, holding it tightly he once more limped to the stairs and touched it to the blankets he had pulled down onto the top step. Propping the branch on the stairs he hoped it wouldn’t take long for the dry wood to catch.
The second branch he pulled out caused huge sparks to float up the chimney and out onto the hearth. He used that to touch the pretty curtains at the window and to the hand tatted rug which was near the back of the room.
He then carefully lay that over the bodies of his parents, backing away from the angrily buzzing flies and the heat which now threatened to overpower him he took the third branch outside and carelessly dropped it on the body of the man who had died.
The only reason he had done that was to get rid of the thick swarm of bloated flies which were crawling over him. Already he could see movement from hundreds of maggots eating their way through the putrefied flesh; he hoped he could find Dar soon and return here, and did not want their land to be over populated with flies.
Picking his other pack up he had resolutely kept his back turned on the burning cabin and made his way to the horses. He had struggled to climb on the smallest but once on had succeeded in getting it to canter, by noon he was many miles away, even the smoke was no longer visible to him.
Exhaustion had caught up with him and he had made camp that night near a small cave. Pulling the saddles from the horses had drained what little strength he had; tightly fastening their reins to a branch hanging low on an old chestnut tree he crawled into the cave and fell asleep.
The next morning the horses were gone, having pulled the branch down in the night. Undeterred he had balanced his packs on his back. Whatever it took he was going to find and rescue his brother. His small lips were tightly pressed together. Whatever it took.
******
On the ship Terrill shook himself, his brother still looked six years old whereas he was forty six years old but masquerading as a man of twenty four or five.
He lifted the small limp body gently, cradling it close to his heart whilst his mind racing frantically. If he managed to revive him now, would he be like the birds, half alive; awake only through the daylight hours? Was that fair to him? Would it hurt? Could he actually do the deed and revive him, or would the Warlord be the only person able to do it? If he revived him how would he react, would he panic make a noise and cause the clever servant Geron to come here and search his quarters?
Ruefully he decided that it would be too dangerous to revive him yet, he could only hope and pray that his circumstances would change and allow him time to be alone. Underneath the bed drawers which held heavy flock mattresses for extra crew.
He pulled a drawer open and hollowed a mattress out, pushing its filling to one side. Lifting Darell he tenderly kissed his forehead before lying him down. He eased the drawer too but refused to close it fully; his brother had been in the dark for God knows how long and until he found a way to safely revive him he would never put him in the dark again.
Stripping his clothes off and removing his strange inner covering he exposed his delicate ears whilst he bathed. Before going to bed he would replace the coverings and unbar his door, the warlord did not allow anyone total privacy. He could cast the spell to cloak his eyes but his ears relied on other artifice.
Exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him as he lay on the bed; he closed his eyes and sent the thought out as he had every night for forty years,
“Goodnight Dar, I love you,”
“Goodnight,”
Terrill resolutely kept his eyes closed, convinced that once more the voice had come from his own imagination; finally he too slept.

Copyright Protected March 2008