Betrayal of the Covenant (Dragon-Called) (Volume Two)

By Peter Cruikshank

The Dragon-Called twins face more peril as they search for a way to control the Fire in their veins.

Pursued by minions of the vile Shin-il Priests the Dragon-Called twins, Willoe and Rowyn, journey into the perilous northern mountains. Their lives depend upon retrieving relics, created by the mythical dragons of old; rumored to control the dragons’ blood that flows through their veins.

Sellswords, Blood Stalkers, and Shades—creatures as much dead as alive—will do anything to prevent the Willoe and Rowyn from succeeding. And should the twins survive, they’re facing the impossible task of gathering an army and leading it against impregnable Tierran’s Wall to drive the invading Shin-il Priest from their island country.

Caught in a struggle for freedom and survival, they’re facing the biggest danger yet: a betrayal that may end the covenant and with it the twins’ ability to defeat the Olcas Mogwai, the great evil that led to the creation of the covenant in the first place.
If you like strong characters, evil creatures, intricately interwoven plots, and immersive worldbuilding, you’ll love Peter Cruikshank’s Dragon-Called series.

Reconnect with your love of dragons and get the second book in the series today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Cruikshank
• Release date: Feb 2, 2017
• ISBN: 9780997824537

Peter Cruikshank

Writing has always been in Peter's blood. His love of writing started in his early teens when he cut his teeth on Sci-Fi and the passion never left him. Peter lives in Southern California with his beautiful and fetching wife, along with an exceedingly talkative cat.At an early age, Peter was introduced to Robert Heinlein's Stranger in a Strange Land and has been an avid reader ever since. As a teen, he picked up a copy of Lord of the Rings and expanded his love of reading to include Medieval Fantasy. By 18 years of age, he knew he wanted to be an author, but life got in the way, and his dreams were put on hold - until 2012 when he turned his energy to writing.Outside of writing he obtained a Masters of Science in Information Systems while working in the private & public sectors, academia, and the field of ministry. His diverse work life has provided a wealth of experience that has helped him to understand his characters and the way in which they deal with their trials and tribulations - overcoming obstacles that transform their lives. The process of how some characters fail, and others rise above their own expectations, mimics his personal life. The passion and fire of a life led without regret is what he hopes to bring to his stories. As the Dragon-Called tell us:Stay True to Your Fire Within!

Book preview

Day 97

Rowyn: Just a Dream

It took Rowyn a moment to realize that the rapid tormented breathing he heard was his own. His chest pounded; his heart felt like it was being forged on a blacksmith’s anvil. He breathed deeply until the beating lessened, then pulled the blanket up over his shoulder. An instant later he rolled to the other side. He yanked the blanket; it sounded like the crack of a branch snapping. He twisted onto his back; his eyes opened. Rowyn stared at the wood beams spanning the ceiling. Something tugged at his mind, but it wouldn’t manifest itself. He turned his head from side-to-side, he scanned the room and realized he did not recognize any of the furnishings. The walls were bare, the wood darkened as if burnt.

A flash of light ignited inside his head, and he screamed in pain. He squeezed his eyelids tight as his fists flew to his face, his palms pushed hard against his eyes. The pain of his own flesh drove away the searing torture. He lowered his hands and took a deep breath, but the feeling of heaviness remained in his mind. It felt like when the fog rolled in off Lake Windo Bri and blanketed his home, Castle Westhedge. A dampness cloaked his thoughts. He shivered and his body twitched, a jittery feeling encompassed his entire body.

Something in the far corner of the room stirred and Rowyn. It was as if the light had been sucked out and whatever was there was hidden in that midnight black. Sitting up, Rowyn felt for what he had come to call the Fire Within; the simmering warmth of the dragons’ blood that stirred in his veins. He had learned from Lor Cian that the Fire was what made he and his twin sister, Willoe, the Dragon-Called. Considering Lors were revered among elves as the wisest of their kind, along with the most powerful, it was likely Cian knew what he was talking about. The Fire had become as much a part of Rowyn as the beating of his own heart. But the familiar heating of his blood did not come. His initial surprise at the absence turned to fear. A murmur came from the corner as something moved again.

A shadow detached and moved toward him; the darkness flowed from the wall with it. The only thing visible were two green orbs that shone brightly near the top of the shadow. Rowyn pushed up against the back of the bed. His hands ran along the sides of the wooden pallet as he searched for something to defend himself with.

He squinted; his hands flew to his temples as the blinding light forced its way into his mind once again. The pain subsided after a couple of moments.

The grinding of his teeth distracted him, and he opened his eyes to see the edges of the shadow start to harden. The darkness formed into a tall frame, over seven feet tall. It donned a black and red robe that hid its features.

The mystery moved toward him. As it reached the foot of the bed, Rowyn pushed his back up against the wall and tried to force his way through it.

The robed nightmare stood still, then reached up with a clawed hand and pulled back the hood.

Fear flowed through Rowyn as he stared at a face, or more accurately, at bleached skin pulled tight over a skull. Strands of flaming red hair, the color of Rowyn’s own, fell along the sides of the creature’s head, the top bald. Green eyes were deep set, and the nostrils were a stub with slits. He’d never seen one, but Rowyn knew that it was a Shade. The vilest of creatures from the Shadows.

Rowyn felt a darkness flood his mind that seemed to shred his thoughts so that he felt confused and lost. A depression followed, the depth of which he didn’t know existed, and he could feel the tears that streamed down his cheeks.

One of the creature’s arms pointed at Rowyn, the finger extended; it had a three-inch curved nail that looked more like a blade. The green orbs, similar to Rowyn’s own eyes but brighter, stared at him like two green suns.

Prince Rowyn, sired of Beynon Brynmor, lineage of the First King. Thou art summoned to your destiny. The voice was high, almost a shrill, and it cut through Rowyn’s mind like a bolt from a crossbow.

Instead of the Fire Within building through his veins, his blood felt icy cold.

He shook with a painful prickly sensation that surged through his entire body.

The Shade came forward, walked right through the bed as if it didn’t exist, the knife-like finger still pointed at Rowyn.

Rowyn, the piercing voice called.

Rowyn, the voice deepened slightly. Rowyn.

Something touched Rowyn’s arm and he jumped. His eyes sprang open, and the room was gone. He sat against a stone wall, outside in the dark, and covered in sweat. He could smell the fear that seeped from his skin. The elfyn, Helel, was on one knee and stared at him, a hand on his arm.

Are you alright? The way she stared intently spoke of her concern.

I’m fine. He shook his head and glanced around, still not fully convinced that the creature was gone.

The vision again? She put a hand on his cheek and looked into his eyes. Her lips tightened.

He could feel his face flush as a tingle muddled his thoughts. Soft, he thought, and then he moved his face to the side, away from her fingers. He needed to keep his thoughts clear. Not now, he reprimanded himself, not for the first time. She was two years older than him, though the thought only seemed to make the tingling more intense.

Just a dream. He battled against the feelings he felt from her touch and the eerie feelings that still filled his body from the nightmare. It’s nothing, he lied.

The nightmare had plagued his every dream since they had left the village of Peltbush and traveled up the waterway toward the Saltrock River and later to the trading town of Northurst. The waterway and river were supposed to be the easy segment of their trip to the Hoarfrost Mountains. The boat’s captain complained when they had to constantly pull off into obscure streams and creeks to conceal the flatboat. The captain told them he had never seen Franchon troops patrolling on the channel just north of Castle Mount Somerled. Cainwen green and gold uniforms were missing as they traveled along the waterway and continued to be absent all the way up to Northurst, the town on the south side of Tierran’s Wall, butting up against the Kingdom’s Gate Mountains. So, it did not surprise Rowyn when Northurst and the Wall, west of the Saltrock, were controlled by sellswords under Franchon command.

He pushed against the side of the building and stood. Is it time already?

Yes. She turned back to look at the others near the end of the small alley.

He followed her gaze to Cian, who waited along with the sergeant and two of the Guardsmen conscripted by Ser Rhein in Peltbush. Rowyn breathed deeply with relief. His nerves were extended to their limits, and he was more than ready to move forward. The need to hide like rabbits from winter-worn wolves meant that it had taken more than a week to reach Northurst, twice as long as it should have. The guard will change soon and the sellswords will be the least attentive. Helel reminded him as if he had been drugged during all the previous planning, though he had to admit he had been less than attentive.

After reaching Northurst, Ser Rhein and Sergeant Crowley had acquired laborers’ clothing and gone into the town, only to return with news that confirmed the rumor they had heard in Peltbush: the Cainwen army had been routed at Daere Mawr. It explained the mystery of Franchon soldiers on the Cainwen side of the Saltrock and the massed companies of foreign sellswords at the Wall. Gossip had it that the burnt-damned Shin-il Priests had brought tens of thousands of the sellsword mercenaries with them from the mainland, Kieran.

From what information the Shield and sergeant had managed to gather, the despised sellswords controlled the northern lands of both Cainwen and Franchon. It was said that the Franchon army held reign along the border between the two kingdoms, with more than half involved in a siege on Castle Mount Somerled where the remnants of the defeated Cainwen army had fled. The only light in the darkness was that Baron Owein Manus still held Fort Winterpass.

The Shield could give them little comfort regarding Rowyn’s father, Crown Prince Beynon, or his cousin Casandra’s father, First Duke Drem Cadwal. Their whereabouts were unknown, as was that of General Rees since their defeat. By silent agreement neither Rowyn nor Casandra brought up the subject, but it continued as a veil over his mind.

Rowyn looked up into the sky. Finally, after days of lurking around the town and hiding out in the nearby forest, a cloudy night with little moonlight.

Understood. He kept his irritation hidden and followed Helel as she led the way over to join Cian and the others.

As tired as he was, he couldn’t help watching Helel as she walked in front of him. He shook his head to erase the thoughts that passed through his mind, though he had little success. Focus, he chided himself. They were about to attack a heavily guarded gate in Tierran’s Wall, a massive fortification that had never failed. He could not afford to be distracted…by anything.

The Shield should be nearly in position, Cian told Rowyn in a hushed tone. When he gives the signal, we will remove the guards on the left side while he deals with the ones on the right.

Rowyn wondered if they all thought him completely dull-witted, but he had to admit weariness had robbed him of the clarity he had always prided himself on. He ran the details of the plan through his mind again to make sure he kept up with the others.

It took a moment, but then he remembered that Ser Rhein’s group would make their way up the riverbank to approach the gate from the east. The barred openings were spaced every two miles this side of the Saltrock and the one they had decided to attack was more remote than the others, the last gate on the western shore of the river. Unfortunately, the guards were tripled along the shore and above on the Wall. They had considered taking the flatboat upriver and avoiding the gate altogether, but the archways that ran across the river had iron bars that were only lowered or raised to allow river traffic to pass after close inspection. Overgrown reeds ran up the bank into brush that had not been cut in some time. It would give Ser Rhein the cover he needed. Everything considered, this gate offered their best hope.

He wished he had been awake when Ser Rhein, Saraid, Sergeant Crowley, and four Guardsmen had gone down to the river. He wondered how long he had slept. The closer they had come to Tierran’s Wall, the more severe, and the more real the dreams had become. He only slept now when exhaustion overtook his body.

Between Rhein’s group and those with Rowyn, it accounted for everyone except Casandra, Dilys, the tink Krel Monlor, the borlender Swift, and Guardsman Rhodri, who still had not fully healed from his leg wound. Memories from the battle at the edge of the Greymoor Forest flashed in his head. Less than a moon ago. Those involved had taken to calling it the Battle of the Rock. For Rowyn it was just a horrific reminder of the death he had wrought against Ser Rhein and Dilys’ pursuers.

He did not look forward to what was coming, but he was at least comforted that Casandra and the others waited farther back, just outside Northurst, away from the upcoming fight. They remained with the beautifully menacing kata-henis and the skittish horses. It was another reason they had picked this gate. Not only was it the most remote, but it was also the closest to the small grove of trees that jutted out from the Kingdom’s Gate Mountains. The woods provided the cover they needed for those in the rear to move up at dusk from their hiding place among the trees.

How will we let Casandra and the others know the way is clear? Rowyn was concerned about his cousin. No one was happy with the plan, but neither did anyone have a better solution. No help was forthcoming from Fort Winterpass. He was sure Baron Manus would do his best to help if they made a request, but Ser Rhein had learned that sellswords blocked the only road that led down from the fort, atop the mountain, to Northurst.

Krel Monlor will know when it is time. Cian’s tone was authoritative and certain.

Thump…thump…thump…thump-thump-thump. A drumming sound started and sped up. A low frequency, but one that could be easily heard in their hiding place. Anyone hearing it might mistake it for the call of a grouse, except the bird didn’t live this far north.

Cian motioned to Helel. She pulled her bow off her back, crouched, then went around the corner of the building. The sergeant and both Guardsmen pulled their bows and followed Helel. Cian put out a hand to keep Rowyn back. This is something you don’t need to do.

He began to argue, but Cian just shook his head.

A few long moments later Helel came back around the corner, her sword out and bloodied.

Quickly. The tink is on his way. Cian touched Rowyn’s shoulder and Helel led them around the corner of the building toward the massive stone wall.

Under the tutelage of Uncle Brom, Rowyn had read about the legendary Tierran’s Wall that separated north from south in great detail. But reading that it was one hundred twenty feet high and more than twenty-five feet thick was not the same as standing in front of the ancient stone fortification. He had to bend his head all the way back and still had trouble seeing the top in the dim light.

Rowyn, Helel whispered.

He looked back down, somewhat embarrassed.

More than a dozen sellswords lay on the ground around the gate, most impaled with feathered shafts. One hung halfway out the guardroom on his back, sliced across the chest.

Ser Rhein ran up, bow in hand. They didn’t get off an alarm. No sounds from above. He glanced up at the parapets high above.

The mounts will be here in a moment. We can ride north along the Saltrock until we are out of sight of the Wall. Cian repeated the rest of the plan, though they all knew it by heart.

Rowyn looked back and expected to see the giant borlender squeeze out of the alley, when a searing pain raced through his mind. No, it can’t be! It’s only a dream. He fell to his knees, his hands pressed against his forehead.

What’s wrong? Helel dropped to her knees next to him.

Pain, was all he could get out. He had to suck his breath in quick spurts to get any air.

The vision? Cian asked as he knelt next to Helel.

Rowyn nodded as it took everything he could muster to keep from falling flat on the ground. Then the pain was replaced with an eerie, tingling feeling that filled his mind. It felt as if something foul swam through his thoughts. A heavy feeling, like what he felt in the dream.

Ah, we wondered when you would arrive, a distinctly foreign voice called out.

Rowyn stood with Helel’s help and turned away from the gate toward the buildings they had come from.

A man stepped forward, but even in the poor light there was no doubt he was a sellsword. The clouds must have drifted as the area brightened with partial moonlight. The man’s armor was leather on top and bottom, with chainmail woven in between. Emblazoned on the left breast was a yellow sun, the bottom half of the sun dripped what looked like blood. The insignia was different from the boar’s head and long silver bolt that the dead gate guards wore. The man also had a long-curved sword, drawn, but held by his side. He had broad shoulders and close-cropped blond hair. He smiled as he told them, I would suggest it be in your best interest to lay down your weapons as escape would be futile. The mark of nobility came through in the man’s tone.

Rowyn knew that many of the sellswords were the third or fourth sons of Kieran nobles, but this was the first time he had met one. His musing ended as dozens of men came out from the buildings that surrounded the gate.

Some appeared to be sellswords, but others were strangely dressed in some type of fur and leather outfit. Taller than the foreign mercenaries and bulkier. All had swords drawn. He realized they must have taken their positions after Ser Rhein had gone to the riverbank. A sound behind them made Rowyn glance back. The double doors of the gate opened to expose dozens more of the men on the other end of the tunnel that ran under the Wall.

Two green orbs appeared in the darkness and a creature glided up next to the leader.

The smile on the sellsword’s face dropped as he stepped away from the creature.

Rowyn couldn’t understand why he hadn’t felt the ambushers: the Others had always warned him of danger before. I had Sensed the soldiers at the gate, why not these?

Rowyn rose from his knees, and he could feel his blood start to boil. It’s no matter, I’ll destroy them. One part of his mind went back to the boulder in Greymoor Forest and smiled, while the other part cringed in disgust. Then a blistering agony struck him in the chest and knocked him back to the ground. It had not come from the Fire Within and it wasn’t from the pain that raged through his mind. It was the agony of emptiness: he could no longer feel any heat in his veins.

Thou art summoned, Rowyn Brynmor. The desolation seemed to encompass every part of his body as the creature’s voice flooded his mind…the same high shrill voice that haunted his dreams.

Day 97

Willoe: A Village Boy

The night seemed bleak without moonlight. Trees, that Willoe imagined as tall, deformed wooden soldiers bordering the path, their long fingers stretched out to snag at Willoe and her three companions. She wondered if Protector Dougal really knew if this hunter’s trail would take them to Lake Walpurga. She would have thought that after leaving Captain Harte and the others behind they would have reached the lake in three days’ travel.

It had seemed a short journey when Dougal had traced out the path they would take. She could still see his finger as it ran around the northern edge of the lake, crossed over the Torra Creer River, and then traveled through the hill country and forest north of Tierran’s Wall, to reach the Saltrock River, which was the border between Haldane and The Open Lands. If Willoe understood the Protector correctly, following the waterway north would make it easier for them to travel to their real destination: the image of high icy peaks came to mind as she thought, the Hoarfrost Mountains.

A rustle of branches pulled her out of her wandering mind.

Willoe, Ser Tanguy, and Dougal turned to the noise with swords drawn. The groom Doy slid off his horse and moved a little further up the path; an arrow nocked in his bow. The trail was dark in the moonless night, but she could see the large horse that plodded out from under the trees. A haggard looking boy slumped across its back. She wondered what a lone rider would be doing on the hunter’s trail and riding a warhorse. Willoe frowned. The hope had been that they could travel the trail without being discovered.

As the horse came closer, she noticed the youth looked like he came from a farm or village. Her puzzlement grew. Why is a peasant riding a warhorse?

The rider looked as if he could barely keep himself in the saddle. He rolled from side to side with the movement of the horse, his head hung as if asleep. He must not have seen Willoe and the others until he was almost upon them, and her horse snorted. When he did, he pulled up sharply on the reins. The horse reared as he was thrown to the ground.

Doy slung the bow over his head and shoulder, then lit the torch with a fire-striker. He planted it in the ground and helped the boy to sit up.

Willoe could see the lad’s face in the flicker of the flames.

His eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he seemed limp. His body jerked and his eyeballs returned. The boy’s gaze shifted to them in turn: Doy, then Willoe, Dougal, and finally Ser Tanguy, before returning to the groom. He started breathing heavily, then tried to bolt away from Doy.

He didn’t get far as the groom grabbed the collar of the youth’s worn coat and pulled him back down to the ground.

What are you doing out here, boy? Ser Tanguy took the lead as his horse moved forward, so the youth had to lean his head back to look up at the Shield. Steam rose from the horse’s nostrils as it snorted in the cool of the night and added to the youth’s fear.

Nothin’, Milord. He bowed his head and kept it down.

Explain the courser? The Shield pointed down the path to the warhorse Dougal held by its bridle. I suppose a Shield gave it to you? The sarcasm wasn’t hidden in his voice.

No, Milord. I steal it. He lifted his head and grinned proudly.

Willoe jerked back in shock: he must know that thievery could cost him a hand…and probably more for stealing from a Shield.

The boy’s expression changed quickly, his eyes widened, and his jaw dropped. He shook his head in denial. It not like it seem, Milord. He must have realized his predicament because Willoe could see tears well up in his eyes. I got to or they goin’ kill ’em all.

She was still confused and was going to ask the youth more questions when Dougal rode up, with the courser in tow, and asked, Where be ye from, Laddie?

The boy answered quickly, Hedgebarrow. Then he paused as if trying to figure something out and added, There. He pointed back down the trail, to the west. On the Lowhill.

She supposed the Lowhill was a small river, stream, or maybe even a large pond.

Who’s killing who? Ser Tanguy asked harshly.

Willoe could imagine the Shield’s mind whirling as he considered a host of possible threats. The bald-headed, heavily scarred Shield would terrify even the most stout-hearted warrior.

The village youth shrank under the Shield’s gaze.

Doy shook him, but not roughly. It’s best if you answer the Shield.

The frightened lad looked up at the groom and then Willoe.

She smiled back at him encouragingly and, finding a more hospitable face, he told her, The village. They goin’ to kill ev’rone. His eyes pleaded with her.

What happened? Ser Tanguy demanded, and the boy cringed.

It’s fine, Willoe tried to ease the terrified youth’s fears and gave Ser Tanguy a harsh glance, though he only glared back at her. She told the lad, You’re safe here. Just tell us what happened.

Looking at Ser Tanguy, the boy appeared to think for a moment, then turned his body so he faced Willoe. Riders come. A lot of ’em.

How many riders? Willoe asked calmly.

He shrugged, ran a hand through his dark brown hair, frowned, then his eyes popped a little and he smiled as if proud of himself, More than the village’s ‘tire goat herd.

How many goats are in the herd? Doy asked in a soft, but commanding voice.

Speak up boy, Tanguy added in a harsher tone.

The young rider tried to pull away in response.

Don’t harass him. He’s telling us what he can. Evidently, he doesn’t know the number of goats in the herd, or he would have told us the number to start with. They needed gentle persuasion to get the boy to talk, but she was nonetheless impressed with Doy’s authoritative tone. Not your every-day-groom, she reminded herself and tried to hide her smile.

The boy’s eyes turned away from Tanguy and back to Willoe; she could tell he was grateful. Ther’s more than I ev’r see b’fore. He said as if that would help. The riders come from all round the village, but not the river. He stopped, then continued as if he remembered something important, Hedgebarrow is oth’r side of the Lowhill, north of the lake.

Is the Lowhill a river? Doy asked.

Yes. The village youth smiled as if he was finally making progress.

The riders. Did ye be recognizing them? Dougal asked.

The boy took a deep breath. Still shaken over the events in his village, he spoke hesitantly as he tried to sort out his thoughts. I not see ’em b’fore. They carry cloth held up on a stick. Cloth was black with an ugly snake on it. A red snake.

Be the snake be having wings? Dougal asked quickly.

Yes. He answered, looking at the Protector in awe.

A dragon banner. Probably sellswords, Dougal said as much to himself as anyone.

The sellswords. The youngster spoke the word as if it was something foreign to his tongue. They come to the village and want food. Grandfath’r, he the village chief. He smiled with pride. He tell ’em that we got a bad harvest. The boy’s expression became serious. It the truth. Not ’nough to last the winter. But the man, the leader, din’t listen to Grandfath’r. He say we give all our food to the rebels. That we rebels. Grandfath’r tell ’im no, but the sellswords start killin’ people.

Willoe was going to ask another question when the boy blurted out, his words speeding up with his excitement. More riders come along the Lowhill and fight the sellswords. They shoot arrows, then start fightin’ with swords. They got armor like ’im, he pointed to Ser Tanguy, but their cloaks ’re grey and they got a red lion on them chest.

A Franchon surcoat. That made no sense to Willoe. The mercenaries were fighting for the Franchons.

While they fightin’, more sellswords come and start herdin’ ev’rone away. Tears started to appear in his eyes again. The leader keep yellin’ that we rebels. His cheeks were streaked. We not rebels. I hear what they do to rebels. A trader come through last moon and tell us. He say they kill ’em. Kill ’em all.

Did you see what happened to the Franchon soldiers? Ser Tanguy asked. A confused look crossed the boy’s face.

The red-lion men? The lad squinted and tilted his head toward Tanguy.

The Shield nodded.

No, Milord. They still fightin’ with them sellswords when I ride away. They— A shriek drowned out the youth’s words. Willoe grabbed for her chest as his face was replaced with another blinding flash of pain. She started to fall to the side when a pair of hands grabbed her and lowered her from the horse.

Vague voices shouted over her head as the agony faded. Her eyes opened, but her sight was blurred from the tears. Dougal’s face came into view as she wiped her eyes.

Where ye hit? He scanned her body, looking for a wound. It was the first time she thought she had heard him panicked.

I’m fine, she managed to get out, though the residue of the pain floated in her throat.

Is the prince hurt? Ser Tanguy’s worried voice came from somewhere beyond the Protector, who blocked the view of both the Shield and the groom.

Dougal took her arm and helped her to stand.

Ye be sure? His eyes shifted from one part of her face to another, looking for some sign that would confirm this.

Yes. I’m not sure what it was, but it’s gone now. She rubbed her chest and tried to smile.

He be fine, the Protector kept his eyes on Willoe as he answered the Shield.

Willoe mouthed ‘Thank you’ for maintaining her ruse.

It must have been intense. Ser Tanguy rode up. You screamed like a girl. He added quickly, Your Highness.

What about the boy? She looked around with the change of subject, her hand still rested on her chest.

Dougal moved and she could see that the boy sat on the ground a few paces away, Doy standing guard over him.

How did you get away? And with a warhorse? Doy pulled the youth up. He continued the questioning from before, but glanced over at her, his brows knitted.

A red-lion man…a Franchon. He smiled like a dog waiting for a reward. He got killed, and with the fightin’ and screamin’ no one see when I jump up and ride as fast as the horse run. The smile faded as his head bowed, his shoulders shrank as he seemed to be remembering what had happened.

Where be ye going? Dougal asked, evidently accepting that Willoe was safe, if not satisfied that she was uninjured.

The boy looked at each of them, his eyes questioned as he pushed back his shaggy brown hair, then with the hint of a smile, as if they should have known, he stated The Dragon Lady.

Doy didn’t lie. An empty feeling filled Willoe’s stomach at hearing the title the groom had said the mountain people used for her aunt. Then she realized her entire body felt empty. The ever-present heat, and the sensation of never being alone, what Aunt Kerye once called the Others…was gone!

Day 98

Rowyn: The Tuath

Rowyn put a hand to his chest and brushed his fingers to feel for the burn that wasn’t there. He still couldn’t believe he hadn’t been struck, even when his chest still felt as if he had been on the wrong end of a lance.

Cian and Helel helped him to his feet. His vision was blurred, all he could see were two luminous green orbs, buried in a black hood. Though it pained him, he raised his arm and wiped his eyes.

Thou art summoned, Rowyn Brynmor. The shrill voice repeated.

Wind brushed his ear as an arrow flew past his head toward the robed creature. The elfar, Saraid, stepped up to his side, the string on the bow still vibrating. Rowyn stared, frozen, as the creature held up a hand and the arrow disappeared in green flames.

The Shade, spawned from the depths of the vile Shadows, lowered its hand and took two steps toward him, though it seemed to glide rather than walk. It repeated, Thou art summoned, Rowyn Brynmor.

Ser Rhein and Guardsman Gerallt stepped forward between Rowyn and the creature, their swords drawn, though both men shifted their feet nervously.

The remaining Guardsmen and Helel spread out; some faced the open gate, while the rest faced the creature.

Cian called out, Be gone, vile creature. Return to the Shadows. There is no place in these lands for your kind. His voice swelled as if magnified and Rowyn thought he saw a glow engulf the Lor.

I go where I must. The piercing voice rose to match Cian’s. Then the creature held up a hand and a green fireball flew toward the Shield and Guardsman. Cian threw up both hands and yelled in the Ancient Tongue, Yoshraibre! The green flames exploded a couple paces in front of Ser Rhein and the Guardsman. The two men jerked to either side, but the flaming ball dispersed before it reached them.

Rowyn couldn’t see what had blocked the Shade’s attack, then he noticed a blue-tinted shimmer in the air where the ball had exploded. ‘Yoshraibre’ must mean barrier or shield.

Take them, the sellsword leader commanded, and his men started forward from both the front and through the gate behind.

Krel Monlor, Cian said with a smile.

The blue shimmer faded.

A panicked scream was quickly followed by another, and then a loud roar filled the air.

The men approaching from the front stopped and turned to look behind. The robed creature and the sellsword leader also began to turn,

A large brown object barreled through the back of the massed mercenaries so quickly Rowyn could barely see it.

The Shade screeched above the chaotic shouts of the men, though it came out more like a shrill hiss. It started to lift its hand.

Rowyn expected to see green flames fly toward the borlender, but Swift lived up to his name and reached the Shadow creature first. Swift exposed long claws, Rowyn had never noticed them before, and with a sweep of his right paw, the borlender raked the creature across the hood and chest.

The Shade was knocked sideways into a group of men.

The sellsword leader reacted quickly and dove under Swift’s deadly paw as the borlender raced toward Rowyn and the others.

The tink, Krel Monlor, rode the barreling Swift, a sling twirling above his head. He released one strap, and a stone flew out to crack into the helmet of one of the sellswords; a loud clang rang out as the man dropped to the ground. Behind Krel Monlor and Swift came the five kata-henis. If the sight of a bear-like creature, larger than a horse, hadn’t shocked the attackers, the kata-henis, Rowyn still thought they resembled immense mountain lions, should have had them running. The kata-henis’ teeth snapped from side to side at those sellswords and foreign warriors who hadn’t succumbed to the kata-henis’ claws. Casandra rode in the front, on her kata-heni, Lydenna, and held on tightly as the animal roared and slashed a man foolish enough to still be in her path. As the sellsword fell, Lydenna continued behind the borlender. Guardsman Rhodri galloped up the path cleared by Swift and the kata-henis, a string of horses behind him.

Atop one of the horses was his sister’s servant, Dilys. Not Willoe’s servant, he had to remind himself, more like a mother figure. It wasn’t until the Battle of the Rock that he discovered Dilys was the last surviving member of a race called the Cradoe, who inhabited Taran before the arrival of men to the island; Rowyn wondered how old she could possibly be.

Age seemed to mean little to her as she rode next to Guardsman Rhodri, a long pole in her hand. She flicked it with the ease of someone born to its use. The end tapped one of the fur-and-leather-covered warriors on the neck, just below the man’s helmet, and he collapsed as if his bones had dissolved.

Rowyn had trouble keeping his feet as the borlender and tink charged past. Swift’s paws pounded the brick and stone groundwork in front of the gate. Krel Monlor smiled at him as he passed, the sling again twirled above his head.

Rowyn turned back to the front, the tink shouting behind him, Out of the way, you milk-livered bastards! The cry was immediately followed by the slap of leather, and another clang.

Moya, Rowyn’s kata-heni, came to a halt in front of him while the other three kata-henis ran to their riders. He grabbed the fur on Moya’s neck and pulled himself up into the saddle.

Guardsman Rhodri’s horse slid up next to Casandra.

Mount. Ser Rhein ordered his men as he jumped up and threw a leg over his mount, then turned his horse toward the gate.

Moya— Rowyn began to command the kata-heni, but Moya was already headed for the gate along with the others.

The sellswords who were coming through the gate had retreated when confronted by Swift and Krel Monlor. Arrows from the Cainwen Guardsmen kept the sword-wielding mercenaries behind them at bay. We should be well away before they can bring a bow to bear. Rowyn realized the mercenaries did not have an archer in their midst. They must have thought their trap complete without the need for a bow.

Rowyn glanced over his shoulder, in the torchlight and increasing moonlight, heads look down through the crenel openings between the stone merlons on top of the Wall. Shouts could be heard, but the defenders were positioned to keep invaders out, as no one intentionally escaped into The Open Lands. A few arrows fell harmlessly among those fleeing through the gate, but it wasn’t long before they were out of reach of the archers on the Wall. They fled west toward Crystal Bay, a direction that confused him. The plan had been to head north along the Saltrock. But then, the plan had not included the Shade, sellswords, and the tall, thickset fur-clothed warriors.

They rode hard for six hours until dawn was nearly upon them. When they came across a stream, Casandra declared that the horses needed water, though she didn’t explain how she knew this.

Rowyn slid off Moya’s back, stood, and rubbed the large beast as he laid his head on her back. His eyes closed and he focused his attention inward. A foggy mist closed in around him. The fog slowly divided, and he could see a tunnel, like a mountain trail, but with a rocky ceiling. His mind moved forward and glided down the tunnel, searching for the incomprehensible Fire that had filled him since leaving Westhedge…and had now deserted him.

As he floated down the tunnel, he noticed a dry streambed that ran along the path. He couldn’t imagine its purpose, yet he felt drawn to it. Nearly overcome with a strong urge that he should be filling it somehow, he fought the sensation, as he had no idea of the dry bed’s function. Instead, he continued along the trail, searching for the Fire. The sides of the tunnel were hidden in fog, as were behind and in the front. The mist kept pace with him so he could not see what lay ahead.

He came to an opening in the tunnel that expanded and contracted as if it were breathing. An odor came from the opening, which reminded him of embers in a dying campfire. He slowly approached and stepped through as it expanded.

Inside was a cavern with a great pool that lay below. A thick liquid, sometimes blue, sometimes green, rippled and bubbled, random white streaks ran through it. The entire cistern was in constant motion and splashed up against the rhythmically pulsing cavern walls. Smoke rose from the liquid and a mild heat filled the cavern, but nothing like the Fire he was used to. Angling down from the small ledge he was standing on was the dry bed, the only way into or out of the pool.

Rowyn. The fog dispersed and he opened his eyes, his head lifted off Moya. Rowyn. Cian has called us together. Helel smiled as she walked up.

Cian, Dilys, Saraid, and Ser Rhein were talking off to the side. The rest of the men were watering their horses.

Casandra was nearby as she probed the hoof of one steed while it drank. Her connection with the animals seemed to have intensified over the last couple of weeks. The kata-henis had already gone off to find water for themselves.

He nodded and inhaled deeply; the sight of the throbbing blue-green liquid still fresh in his mind.

Rowyn stopped as they came up to Casandra. Is there a problem? He had been worried about his cousin since they had started up the river on the barge. She had seemed withdrawn, spending much of her time with the animals.

No. Everything’s fine. Her tone was drawn, frayed and she looked just as bad. I just want to check on the rest of the horses. She forced a smile as she moved on to one of the other horses.

"I Sense she is bearing a great weight, but I can’t decipher what it is, and she refuses to discuss it, Helel had grown close to Casandra over the past weeks being the only female in their group other than Dilys. Rowyn wanted to press his cousin, but Helel put a hand on his arm. Now’s not the time. She’ll talk with us when she’s ready."

He didn’t like the advice but huffed and continued over to the meeting. As they came up to the group, Rowyn pulled Cian to the side, out of the others’ earshot.

"I can’t feel the Fire." Rowyn lowered his eyes, for some reason he felt ashamed.

Is it gone? Cian did not raise his voice and it did not carry any condemnation.

He looked up at the elder Lor. At first I thought it had. He hesitated, not sure how to answer. But I think there is a spark…deep inside.

Cian nodded, then reached out and put his hands on the young prince’s shoulders. "The power inside you is not strong enough yet. When the Shade struck you with the Shadow’s darkness, the Fire retreated to protect itself."

Is it of the Spirit? Rowyn had never thought about where the Fire Within had come from. He just knew he could feel it in his blood.

I can’t say for sure. Cian stared into Rowyn’s eyes. "Yet I suspect it is so. The Spirit, the Burning Lady’s Essence, is in all of us. It’s our connection to the Lady and the Spirts of the il fennore. Your connection with Her is different, yet I can Sense it is there."

The center of Cian’s forehead furrowed, and his lips pursed in reflection. "Since the beginning of time, the Spirits from both the il fennore and the Shadows fought for domination over the physical world of Athule. It has been more than a thousand years since the Lord of Darkness had nearly subjected Athule. And more than a thousand years since your ancestor, the halfling king, had made a Covenant with the Goddess’ dragons to defeat the Great Evil, the Olcas Mogwai."

Cian paused as he breathed deeply before finishing, I have thought hard on it and believe that there is something in your blood, something passed down from your ancestors. Is it the blood of the dragons? I can’t say. But this connection with your Spirit calls to whatever it is.

Will it come back? Rowyn’s hope rose.

It is to be seen. Cian’s somber tone wasn’t encouraging. We must continue as if it will. Cian gently patted him on both shoulders and walked back to the others.

Rowyn followed, his mind filled with Cian’s conjecture and the uneasy feeling it gave him.

The others stopped talking and turned to Cian as they approached.

Rowyn thought Ser Rhein seemed to be studying him.

We should continue west. Cian looked at the others. There are rocky hills to cover our tracks and enough trees for us to remain hidden. It will delay them for a short time.

I thought we were going north to the Hoarfrost Mountains? The Shield’s eyebrows knitted; doubt threaded his tone.

The sellswords will not tarry long. They will be coming after us. Saraid looked behind as if expecting them to show up at any moment.

At least Swift killed the Shade. Rowyn said with some relief, though something still nagged at the back of his mind. I thought Shades existed only on the mainland, if they existed at all.

There be few left on Kieran and not a one seen in Taran for a thousand years…until now. Dilys shook her head and then twisted her lips as if she were working through a difficult puzzle.

She looked back in the direction of the Wall and after a deep breath added, Ye be not thinking the Shade be dead. It be hard killing something that be already journeyed in the Shadows. It be on our trail soon.

The idea that the horror from his nightmares was hunting him made Rowyn’s stomach turn.

Why west? Ser Rhein asked.

Cian turned to look in the direction of the Forever Waters, far to the west. Our only chance is to make for the Misty Forest.

Rowyn thought it was going out of their way, but he was willing to let Cian guide them as he himself was not familiar with The Open Lands. At least, he was willing until he saw the thin-lipped, uneasy expressions on both Saraid’s and Helel’s faces. He stared at both of them, his head tilted, and eyebrows narrowed.

What awaits us in the Misty Forest? Rowyn finally asked.

The Clan of Tuath. Helel answered softly as she looked at the ground. He could hear the concern in her voice. She looked back up and added, The Hill Elves. She looked to Saraid as they seemed to share a private thought.

Hill Elves? Rowyn questioned, but no one answered. Didn’t all elves live in the Greenwald Forest? He had never heard or even considered that there was more than one clan of elves.

As the two elves still seemed lost to the rest of them, Dilys tried to explain, There be one race of elves, or the Arussa as they be calling themselves, but as with men, there be more than one clan. She let that sink in for a moment before continuing, A quarrel be existing between the Tuath and the Siar. She paused and then pointed to Saraid and Helel. They be of the Siar Clan. Forest elves.

Rowyn wondered how many elfin clans there were and realized that she had not indicated Cian. He looked at the elder Lor.

I am Lor. Cian stated bluntly as if it explained everything about him.

How’s that different, Rowyn wondered, but more important questions nagged at his mind, and he asked in quick succession, Wait. First. What sort of quarrel are we talking about? Will these Tuath help us reach the Hoarfrost Mountains?

Saraid and Helel wouldn’t make eye contact with him or Cian and neither spoke. The silence dragged on for several moments.

It is time to end this feud, Cian finally stated, his chin firm. It has gone on long enough. He started to walk, more like stomped, over to the kata-henis who had finished watering.

How long have you been at odds with the…the Tuath? Rhein asked the younger elves, his face mirroring Rowyn’s own feelings.

Saraid looked up at the sky for a moment. He hesitated, then said, "The two clans lived in peace for hundreds of years after the defeat of the Olcas Mogwai, then they parted ways. More than five hundred years ago." Saraid and Helel didn’t wait for any more questions, but quickly followed after Cian.

Dilys watched until the two elves were nearly to the kata-henis, then she turned to look at Rowyn and Rhein. She shook her head with a frown. At first blood flowed between the clans, then a frail truce be formed: Siar in the south, Tuath in the north. He could see the sadness in her eyes. The Tuath be sworn to kill any Siar who tread on their ground. She continued to shake her head as she headed over to Casandra.

Rowyn and Rhein looked at each other. Rowyn wondered if his expression looked as shocked as the Shield’s.

Rhein didn’t speak, but sighed heavily, then headed toward his small unit of men.

The worry over the dragon’s blood rolled into the back of Rowyn’s thoughts as he considered what they intended, wondering if the Cian truly was insane. He muttered to himself, What are they going to do when we break a five-hundred-year-old truce?

Day 98

Willoe: Black Falcon

The sun had just risen, and the world narrowed to a saucer-sized view as Willoe peered through the spyglass down at the village. Hedgebarrow lay forty feet below the ridge, and she watched as armed men brutally held domain over its inhabitants. A rough-hewn fence, a little over the height of a man, ran along the north and south sides of the village. They bounded the village from a small river on the east to a single gate, now burnt, that faced west. It would protect the yellow, brown, and grey buildings from wild animals and bandits, but unfortunately not the Priests’ mercenaries.

She lowered the spyglass and rolled over to her back.

Willoe’s head shook ever so slightly. She frowned as her thoughts turned to the missing heat while her eyes scanned the clouds that passed overhead. The hollow feeling inside pulsed like an open wound, though none were visible. Where did it go? She sought to understand the loss of the fiery warmth that had filled her. No answer came, so she rolled over and put the glass back up as she continued to scan the village.

How many do you think? Willoe asked the Shield who lay to her right. The armed men in the village wore leather jerkins, some studded, a few in chainmail, but their black banners displayed a red dragon, which confirmed what the boy had said: there was no doubt that they were sellswords from Kieran.

Maybe fifty or sixty, Ser Tanguy answered. We can see around thirty, but probably that number again, or more, outside the village.

The reports be true, Dougal said to her left. Ere leaving White Cliffs, our agents be saying the Priests be using the sellswords to subdue the rebels in the north of Franchon. The villagers be coming to Lady Kerye’s cabin confirmed their ruthlessness. Their weapon be fear.

They’re just villagers, not armed rebels. Willoe couldn’t believe the men and women below had any involvement with the northern rebellion. She rolled onto her side and glanced over at her Protector, a man who would inspire dread in most other men.

They are an example to other villages. It has happened before in our own history. If you don’t help the conquerors, then you are supporting the rebels, Ser Tanguy said through gritted teeth. In war there are no neutrals.

The groom, Doy, lay beyond the Protector. The four of them had wormed their way up to the ridge’s edge and watched the scene below from behind a dense thicket of brush that sat atop the dirt mound.

The village boy had led them to the ridge above Hedgebarrow, but stayed back, away from the edge, with the horses.

Willoe shifted back the other way and handed the spyglass to Ser Tanguy, who raised it to his eye, extended the brass cylinder to a little over a hand’s-width, then twisted the eyepiece.

Look there. Ser Tanguy pointed to the eastern side of the square, near the river, and handed the glass to Willoe as she rested on her stomach.

She put the glass up to her right eye, closed her left, and focused it until she could see clearly. Kneeling on the ground were over eighty men, with twenty sellswords standing along the sides of the group with blades drawn. Many of the village men had their heads bowed, some shaking, but a few glared at their guards. From the way some swayed, they had been kneeling for many hours. Three of the mercenaries stood in front of the group.

She moved the spyglass to the left and saw twice as many women and children across the village square. A half-dozen sellswords stood between them and their men. Some of the women tried to come forward, more than a few on their knees, their hands out and clasped together as they pleaded with their guards. The men seemed unaffected and forced the women back, their blades used to threaten the begging women. The wails of the distressed women and children floated up to the ridge.

See the Franchons? Ser Tanguy asked.

Moving the glass back to the captured men, she noticed a dozen or so in the front of the group with their hands tied behind their backs. They had the Franchon red lion emblazoned on their grey surcoats. Most had a wound of some type. One appeared to have a serious shoulder injury, blood covered one arm and he was barely able to stay on his knees.

In front of the Franchon prisoners were two men, also on their knees with hands tied. One was dressed like the other Franchons, but the grey cloak over his shoulders appeared shinier, seemed cut from a finer material, and the collar was trimmed in red fur. He had a thick mustache and beard. It was hard to tell, but she thought he looked a good bit taller than the men with him. The other man was dressed all in black armor, surcoat, and cloak. He was the only one wearing a closed helm that hid his face.

One of the sellsword guards walked over and took the black Shield’s helm off, throwing it to the ground. Willoe extended the spyglass a little more and focused it on his face. She had to catch her breath. She lowered the glass.

What be wrong? Dougal looked over at her.

Nothing. Nothing. Willoe took a deep breath. I just hadn’t expected such a large company of mercenaries. She held the glass up and twisted it to look closely at the man’s visage again. Her first thought was that he was beautiful. His long, deep black hair hung down around his face, wet and sticking to his neck and cheeks. He had a light beard the same color, and his eyes…his eyes were a piercing blue that reminded her of a deep pool, like Emeline’s. His nose was not thin or too large, just right for his rugged face, yet there was a softness about him that made her laugh to herself. Definitely a Franchon, but beautiful, nonetheless.

She returned the spyglass to the previous view as one part of her mind berated the other for such carnal thoughts in such dire times. Sweeping the lens away from Blue Eyes, she spotted another sellsword. This one was dressed in more ornamental and expensive chainmail than the others. Probably the leader, she figured. He walked up to Blue Eyes. She couldn’t make out what he said, but it was evident that the leader was yelling at the black-clad man.

I would imagine that Shield is the Black Falcon, Doy stated.

She turned to glance at the groom as he peered through another spyglass. Surprised, she thought, I thought we only had the one. Where did that come from? He pulled it down and handed it to Dougal.

She brought the glass around to look at the man again and sure enough, there was a red lion emblazoned on the left breast of his black surcoat with the image of a black falcon inside it. She chided herself for getting lost in the man’s face earlier.

How do you know about the Black Falcon? Ser Tanguy asked before Willoe did, but she turned her head to look at the mysterious groom for his response.

One hears things, Doy said, shrugging his shoulders.

The same agent who had brought them news of the Priests’ mercenaries had spoken of a Franchon noble who was leading a rebellion among the northern lords. He was called the Black Falcon a harbinger of death, by the local Franchons, and she had to agree that he could only be the man in her scope.

She looked up in time to see Doy pull two more spyglasses out of a bag slung over his shoulder and passed one to Ser Tanguy. He lifted the last brass tube and turned to look down over the ridge at the village below.

Where did you get these? Willoe looked closely at the one in Dougal’s hand. These are like the ones the scouts carry.

Dice is a foul tool of the Shadows. One that scouts should refrain from engaging in...at least, the ones I came across. He didn’t look over at her, but continued to scan the village through the spyglass, though a smile creased his face. She shook her head, and since he didn’t offer any further explanations, she looked back down at the Black Falcon.

The sellsword leader was still ranting at him.

Finally, the man in black answered.

Willoe couldn’t hear what was said, but as she watched he punctuated his response with a wide grin.

The leader swung out with a gloved fist and struck the noble in the face. The Black Falcon’s head snapped to the right, and he fell sideways.

The bearded Shield pushed off his knees, his tall frame slammed into the leader, driving the man to the ground. As the bearded Shield tried to shift back to his knees, a different sellsword knocked him to the ground.

Both the Black Falcon and the Shield lay still; Willoe thought maybe they had been knocked out or even killed. The leader screamed at the Shield, then kicked him hard in the stomach. The body flinched; the man unable to defend himself.

After a short moment Willoe realized she had been holding her breath, the Black Falcon shook his head and struggled back to his knees, the side of his face red and blood running from the corner of his lip. The Shield stirred, but still couldn’t rise. The Black Falcon stared down at him, seemingly checking to make sure the bearded man was not severely injured, then straightened his back and glared at the leader with steely eyes. His bloody lips turned up into the same wide grin and he said something else to the sellsword.

The leader drew his sword and raised his sword above the black-clad Franchon. He seemed poised for the killing blow when he suddenly stopped, arm frozen in mid-air, as he looked to his left.

Willoe twisted the glass for a larger view and saw an armored man stride forward from between the buildings. As he stormed up to the sellsword, she could see that he wore a surcoat like the Black Falcon’s men over his armor; grey, with the Franchon red lion painted over the left breast. He gestured wildly with his hands as he talked to the leader.

Who do you think he is? Willoe asked, without putting down the glass for fear of missing something. She could see the sellsword’s body stiffen, and she guessed whatever the Franchon was saying did not sit well with the leader.

Probably the commander of the Franchon contingent, Ser Tanguy told her. I doubt the Franchons would let the sellswords have free rein. I would not in their place. A Franchon escort would be expected.

An escort loyal to the Priests, Doy added with a snort.

She turned her head to frown at him, but a shout from the village drew her attention and she watched as the leader shouted again to some of his men who were standing back by the houses from which the Franchon captain had come. The mercenaries forced the Black Falcon and his men to their feet. Two of the sellswords helped the tall Shield who had been knocked down, as they were all led down a narrow alley between two buildings near the river’s bank. A few moments later most of the mercenaries returned, but not all. Willoe could only guess that the Black Falcon and his men had been imprisoned in one of the houses.

The Franchon captain