The Azuleah Trilogy Fantasy Boxset

By Daniel Adorno

When Lucius discovers he is the fabled hero tasked with stopping a dragon uprising, he sets out from his elvish home seeking to reforge an ancient sword that once killed the dragon lord, Kraegyn. But Lucius knows little about the wide world of Azuleah where he encounters dwarves, faeries, and the villainous Draknoir. With dark forces at every turn, Lucius must depend on the aid of new friends and allies from distant lands to help him reforge the Requiem Sword before the dragons usher an age of fire and darkness to Azuleah.

The Azuleah Trilogy is an epic fantasy series filled with action, adventure, and intrigue. Fans of C.S. Lewis' Chronicles of Narnia and John Flanagan's Ranger's Apprentice will feel right at home!

This boxset includes the following novels:

The Shaman of Neroterra (prequel)
The Blade Heir
Gauntlet of Iniquity
Keep of Dragons

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lost Coin Press
• Release date: Nov 16, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386961062

Book preview

The Azuleah Trilogy

Daniel Adorno

Lost Coin Press

The Azuleah Trilogy Boxset

Daniel Adorno

Copyright © 2017

All Rights Reserved.

Lost Coin Press

St. Paul, MN

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are

products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any

resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is

entirely coincidental.

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This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any

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http://www.danieladorno.com

Books by Daniel Adorno

The Azuleah Trilogy

The Blade Heir

Gauntlet of Iniquity

Keep of Dragons

Other Works

The Shaman of Neroterra

Thy Kingdom Come

Carpe Tempus

For Ariel, Gabriel, Julian, and Miriam.

You are all my blessings.

The Shaman of Neroterra

Daniel Adorno

Chapter 1

The Snowy Lane

The cold wind whipped through the trees of the forest and dusted the snow off the pines all around Silas and his company. It was a tranquil evening, but the early winter's cold bit harder than a dragon woken from its slumber. They rode at a leisurely pace through the woods of Neroterra, which held the last orc stronghold in the continent of Azuleah. Silas' father, King Alfryd, had received an envoy from Neroterra the previous fortnight asking for help on some fool's errand. In decades past, the king would have beheaded an orc with the gall to enter the court of Gilead Palace, but no more. His father had made a treaty with Banupal, the orc chieftain, a year ago when the Aldronians failed to storm Neroterra's defenses. Orcs were brutish, stupid beasts with little understanding of strategic warfare, but not the half-orc, Banupal. He possessed a cunning mind unlike his dimwitted kin. The terms of the treaty stipulated aid from the King of Aldron if the orcs of Neroterra were in dire need. In return for this provision, Banupal swore never to invade any surrounding towns in Joppa. He would settle his kin in Neroterra and content himself with the spoils lurking in the mines of that former bastion of the dwarves.

Silas believed it was a foolish deal, but his father agreed to it. The nobles of the Four Houses wondered if the old man had lost his mind. Silas decided not to press the issue, choosing to trust his father's wisdom. But now as he rode in the night with a dozen men into an orc stronghold, he questioned the decision.

How much farther, Asher? Silas asked the old man riding the mare to his right.

Asher, a grizzled warrior unfazed by the frost forming on his beard, consulted his map. I'd say a quarter mile, sire.

Silas kicked the flanks of his bay mare, Arabella, increasing her speed to a canter. The rest of the men followed at a similar pace. Steering the horses through the trees proved to be a difficult task with mounds of undisturbed snow blanketing the ground. Arabella shivered slightly anytime her hooves sunk into a deep pile of snow. The gusts of howling wind didn't help. He knew they needed to reach Banupal's village soon or else suffer frostbite if they camped in this bitter cold.

Their situation improved when they reached a clearing where a thin trail rounded through the forest. The snow-packed lane allowed the horses to advance at a decent clop. The scent of smoke emanated from some unseen part of the wood, inciting both relief and dread. Asher had smelled it too. He clasped the hilt of the broadsword hanging at his side. A visible unease fell upon the men and they slowed their steeds to a trot along with Silas and Asher.

We're close now, Asher said, tucking the worn map between his gambeson and chain mail.

All eyes on the forest. We needn't be caught by surprise if we stay alert, Silas commanded them. Rounding another bend in the road, Silas spotted a dark mass blocking their path. As they approached, the fresh hewn oak logs and brush piled on the ground became visible to him. Silas darted his head to either side, realizing the snow embankments lining the road created a trench that made escape impossible on horseback. Fool! He'd walked right into a trap.

Arabella snorted uncomfortably. A flash of movement amid the trees caught Silas' eye. Two of the men holding the rear, Leif and Troy, unsheathed their swords. Asher and the rest armed their crossbows while Silas searched the dark wood around them. Orcs are not known for their subtlety. They are lumbering creatures with no penchant for stealth. But these were Banupal's forces, an altogether different breed of orc. To underestimate them would be a costly mistake.

Form a circle, Silas ordered, unsheathing his sword. The men broke the line and maneuvered their horses into a tight circle in the snow. Each man faced the forest in a different direction, all watching and waiting for movement. Asher aimed his crossbow at the darkness, shifting anxiously on his saddle.

I thought we had a treaty with Banupal, my lord. Why are they ambushing us? Lief, a stocky man with a thick mustache, asked.

They're orcs, Lief. How many orcs do you know that've kept a treaty? Asher replied.

Silas ignored them. He kept watching the swaying branches and wispy drifts of snow cascading off the trees. Behind a large oak, he saw it. A hulking figure advancing slowly. Perhaps one of Banupal's envoys? He wasn't waiting to find out. Asher and the men aimed their crossbows at the approaching orc, but the order to fire never came.

The snow banks along the road burst open as orcs brandishing spears rushed out of their hiding spots. The horses whinnied in panic, rearing back on their hind quarters and ejecting riders from their saddles. Arabella reared back violently, forcing Silas to grasp the reigns. But he could not hold his grip and fell backwards onto the frozen ground. The orcs surrounded them in an instant. They held out their spears and rusted scimitars at the men's necks and sides. No one dared move including Silas, who's jugular stood a half-inch away from the tip of an orc's spear. From the corner of his eye, he saw the large orc who distracted them emerging from the forest.

He stood a good eight feet in height with crude iron armor shielding his chest, arms, and legs. A neck wide as a tree stump held up a dark green visage peppered with piercings in both nostrils and ear lobes. His subordinates looked to their leader for a command. He grimaced at the sight of Silas. Dispose of them, he growled.

Chapter 2

Banupal

Wait! Silas yelled. You would dare bring war upon Neroterra by killing Aldron's prince?

The orc commander eyes widened. You are…Dermont? His gravelly voice tinged with the guttural accent of orcs.

Silas narrowed his eyes. Yes.

The orc scratched his round chin then surveyed the surrounding scene. A dozen Aldronians held at bay by the blades and spears of his orc warriors. Silas wasn't sure if the orc was considering the truth of his claim or contemplating how to kill them. Orcs were unpredictable creatures. He grunted something in Balek, the orc language, and his troops lowered their weapons. Silas stood up from the ground and grabbed Arabella's reins then rubber her nose to calm her. The mare looked less spooked than the men, who were unsure whether to retaliate or stay put. Asher offered a concerned gaze, but Silas kept his eyes on the big orc leader.

We received a summons from your lord, Banupal, for a meeting and this is how you receive us? Silas growled.

Apologies, prince of Aldron. But many men try to invade our land. We are just being careful, the orc replied. We will escort you to Neroterra. Your associate has already arrived.

My associate? Silas asked, raising an eyebrow. The decree from his father had only included him and a contingent of his choosing. Naturally, he chose Asher and his vassals in the Drakengard to accompany him—thirteen capable warriors trained to take on dragons. Who else had been summoned?

Felix Gryn is also awaiting an audience with Banupal. Come, I will take you to him, the orc grunted. He ordered his underlings in Balek and they followed in filed ranks of two. A trio of orcs moved the logs blocking the path then advanced along the road.

Gryn is here? Why? Asher asked.

I don't know, Silas said, mounting his horse. He pressed his foot into Arabella's barrel and she moved forward at a decent canter. They followed the orcs through the tunnel of snow-covered trees leading to Neroterra. All the while Silas pondered why Felix Gryn, the governor of Tarshish, might be here. Gryn was a man of dubious standing in Aldron's court, an opportunistic politician who did little to aid the fortunes of his subjects. Tarshish was once a prosperous port city profiting from the maritime trade brought in through the Sea of Lagrimas. Ships carrying fine silks and linens from the Southern Isles and precious metals from Allesmeade had filled the coffers of the merchant class. But under Gryn's administration, corruption and crime had soared. Merchants had to pay higher taxes and shops closed their doors due to bankruptcy. Shortly thereafter, a black market emerged and became known as the Spindle. Whether the Spindle is connected to Gryn or not remains a mystery. Several high-ranking members of the Spindle now operate in towns throughout Joppa, securing lucrative deals with merchants and nobles to smuggle goods in and out of Tarshish. The whole organization is a blemish on a once proud city now tarnished by one man's arrogance and greed.

The orcs slowed their pace in the woods once the tree canopy opened. A full moon shone in the cloudless night sky, illuminating the snow underfoot. There was a clearing ahead where a large gate stood, presumably the entrance to Neroterra. A giant wooden wall with stakes encircled the city, shutting off any unwanted visitors. The orc leader approached the gate and rapped on the cedar door with his fist. A panel set in the gate slid open and yellow eyes peered from within. After a short discussion in Balek, the gatekeeper shouted to unseen guards behind the entrance. The gates slowly swung inward allowing the orcs and Silas' company inside.

In his teenage years, Silas had once visited Neroterra—an ancient city dating back to the Golden Millenium before Kraegyn and the dragons of Ghadarya terrorized the land. The town was an unimpressive ruin in those days. Nothing more than a row of wattle houses with thatched roofs encircling a stone basilica which held an altar of Yéwa. On the edge of the town stood an abandoned dwarven mine, long forgotten by the sons of Ulfric. Most men of Joppa made poor miners so the mine fell to disuse when the dwarves left. For several hundred years it merely served as a humble outpost between the cities of Tarshish and Sylvania.

But the memories of the Neroterra Silas remembered faded when he stepped inside the orc-occupied town. The wattle houses were no longer standing. In their place stood tall huts fashioned from animal skins and erected on the bones of large beasts. Smoke rose from many of the crude dwellings, wafting putrid odors that caused Silas' eyes to water. The orcs leading his company fanned out to their homes where she-orcs and their offspring awaited their arrival. Hateful stares filled the orc families watching them gallop along the dirt path running the center of the city. The large orc leader marched ahead, gesturing to the familiar basilica in the city's square. As they drew closer, Silas realized the place had transformed considerably since Silas last laid on eyes it.

The simple wooden roof of the structure was replaced by a bronze spire jutting toward the heavens. Horns of bone stretched out like spindly fingers from the top of the spire down to its base. The stone edifice was a brilliant white, appearing like an extension of the snow covering the ground around the building. Macabre statues of the orc pantheon lined the round courtyard of the basilica like dark sentinels watching their advance.

Wait here, men of Aldron, the orc leader said. He trudged through the snow and entered the structure. Minutes later, he reemerged and stood to the side. The half-orc, Banupal, walked out along with Felix Gryn, who grinned at Silas. Banupal was shorter than his orc commander and dressed unlike any orc Silas had ever seen. He wore a purple robe with a glittering brocade pattern and a gold sash cinched around his slim waist. His jet black hair flowed down from his scalp to rest on his shoulders, framing his olive green face.

Banupal looked at Silas and his men with a bored expression. It's about time. Come inside, we have much to discuss, he said.

Chapter 3

Restless Slumber

The air inside the redecorated basilica reeked of incense and burnt meat. Silas, Asher, and Felix Gryn sat together at a long table along with the rest of the Aldronian soldiers. Exhaustion and anxiety had set in among the men after riding so long with little sleep. The king had stressed urgency to complete this errand in Neroterra. Silas, not wishing to disappoint his father, pushed his men hard to complete a month-long journey in just two weeks. They rarely pitched their tents and when he allowed it, they only slept for a few hours. He had prayed to Yéwa for a meal and an immediate audience with Banupal to discuss the important errand everyone was going on about. But in typical orc fashion, Banupal delayed any meeting until morning. At least they would be fed and allowed quarter in the basilica. Although he feared what orc gruel awaited them.

A fat she-orc in a stained smock served them a plate of dark meat resembling beef doused in a foul smelling gravy. Most of the men poked at the meal with their crude utensils, except Leif, a stocky soldier with a bushy mustache. Leif picked off chunks of the meat and shoveled them in his mouth. Those sitting around him watched curiously to see if he'd retch or fall over dead. When he didn't, the others joined in—making pained faces as they chewed the food, but they ate it nonetheless.

Stewed moose flank is an acquired taste for most people, Gryn said, spooning food to his lips. The orcs have a love affair with gravy. All of their meat is swimming in it.

Silas frowned and shoved his plate aside.

Not eating, your Highness? It's not as good as the meals at Gilead Palace, but Banupal and his kin might be quite offended if a royal refused a meal, Gryn said.

I don't care what the orcs think. We're here to discuss an important errand, not eat their slop.

Asher and the men abruptly stopped eating, looking at him curiously. He sighed, gesturing for them to continue eating and they happily resumed the meal.

My lord, if I may be so bold—we represent the king. It is our duty to acquiesce to the customs of the orcs, our allies by treaty, Gryn explained.

I know what my duty is, Gryn. But tell me, what is yours? Why are you here? Silas asked. He narrowed his eyes at the thin, balding man sitting across the table. Gryn cleared his throat and locked eyes with Silas, unintimidated by the prince.

It just so happens I was traveling with my valet and squire on business from Sylvania. The road brought us near Neroterra, so I thought I'd drop in and meet with Lord Banupal. We have trade dealings to discuss, you see. Tarshish imports meat and fish quarterly for a handsome fee, he said with a smirk.

You trade with the orcs? They aren't a sovereign nation. Does my father know about this?

No, he does not young Prince, he replied in a condescending tone. But it might be to our political advantage not to force an embargo on the orcs. Aldron's treaty with Neroterra is flimsy and we needn't cause undue friction.

Silas scoffed. You think the orcs pose any threat to Aldron? We could have slaughtered the lot of them—

And yet we didn't, Gryn cut in. Ask yourself why that might be, my Lord.

Because my father is too benevolent, Silas quipped. He always wondered why his father didn't finish what the goblins of Northerwyld started and wiped out the remaining orc clans. Banupal's clan was the last remnant in Azuleah, save for nomads wandering the northern wilderness. No man needed their filth so close to Joppa, but Gryn implied something else was at work here. Not just mercy, but some unseen gain. He might have to press Gryn about it further, but not in front of his men. No soldier wished to follow a naive prince who didn't know the true answers to his father's decisions.

After the men supped, and the maid gathered the dishes, an elder orc with a wiry frame lead them to their lodgings. They descended a spiral staircase near the foyer of the basilica that led to an underground hall. Nestled at the end of the hall was a locked door illuminated by a candelabra overhead. The orc pulled out a rusty key and opened the lock before stepping aside to allow them entry. Inside, a spacious cellar lined with piles of straw and lit torches hanging from the walls awaited them. Empty casks and honeycomb shelves lining the interior confirmed the room once housed the basilica's wine supply. The reek of mildew and aged wine hung heavy in the air. It was a lousy hovel compared to the rooms Silas typically slept in, but it trumped sleeping on the frozen ground outside.

Lord Banupal shall receive you an hour past the dawn, the elder orc muttered. Erlgad be my name. Pound the door if ye need me…sirs.

Quite good, Erlgad, Gryn replied with a curt smile.

Erlgad sneered then exited the room, grumbling something under his breath.

He seems hospitable, Asher said, inciting chuckles from some of the soldiers.

I've seen dungeons that look more welcoming than this place, Silas said, unbuckling his belt, letting his sword and shield fall next to the straw pile.

These lodgings certainly need work, Gryn agreed, running a gloved hand across a stream of cobwebs overhead.

Can we trust these orcs to keep their word about an audience? Are we sure they won't kill us in our sleep? Asher asked, genuine concern present in his voice.

Silas ran a hand through his long mane. We have little choice now. Assign guards for now and rotate the shift every two hours.

Leif, Troy! Asher called over the large mustached soldier and a tall young man with a pointed nose. Take the first shifts of the night guarding our company.

Yes, sir, both men replied in unison.

After a few minutes of idle chatter and unpacking of supplies, the men settled in for the night in their smelly haystacks. Silas found his bedding to be quite comfortable, but then he'd slept on forest floors many times on military campaigns without complaint. The odor of cow dung was pungent in the hay which made it difficult to fall asleep. He tried distracting himself by reaching into his tunic and clutching the gold ring hanging from his necklace. He turned the ring between his fingers, a nighttime ritual he'd created since the death of his mother. Her wedding band was the only possession he treasured more than anything in his vast wealth. The ritual set his mind at ease and soon he drifted to sleep. Not an hour later, the heavy door of the room swung open and crashed against the opposite wall. Erlgad's voice boomed in the chamber, The Lord Banupal will see you now!

Chapter 4

A Favor

Silas stood shoulder to shoulder with Felix outside the double oak doors of Banupal's chamber, waiting for Erlgad to summon them inside. The rude awakening by the orc servant had made all the men uneasy, especially Asher. Banupal specifically wanted to hold an audience with Silas and Felix. No one else was invited. Silas reassured his second-in-command that everything would be fine, even though his blood boiled at the audacity of the half-orc. He wasn't noble in any sense of the word and yet he expected an audience with a Prince and a governor in the middle of the night!

This is ridiculous, Silas said, pacing the anteroom. Why couldn't he have met us when we arrived?

He is an eccentric leader, no doubt. But I'm sure he has a good reason for summoning us at this hour, Felix replied.

Silas scoffed. There's no good reason, Felix. This is an ingenious ploy—a means of control. He knows we must comply with that infernal treaty and he's throwing around his weight like an emperor.

Don't be so cynical, my young prince. The orcs have odd customs compared to Aldron, but believe it or not, Banupal exemplifies the best of both races. Half orc and half human. A refined savage would be the appropriate way to describe him.

An abomination would be a better description, Silas quipped.

The oak doors creaked opened and Erlgad's leathery green face appeared. His smug expression hadn't changed since he led them into their filthy bedrooms. The master will see you now, he croaked.

Felix glanced at Silas with a raised brow. Silas walked beside him and they both entered the half-orc's chamber. Purple standards hung from the stone walls on either side of them, painted with orc symbols relevant to Banupal's clan. Large golden statues of orc deities and bronze lamp stands filled the interior. The flicker of candlelight glittered on the gilded surfaces, creating a golden aura around them.

A dais hewn from stone rose at the end of the oval room with a simple throne placed at its center. Silas guessed the dais was converted from the priestly altar devoted to Yesu worship into this pathetic imitation of a royal court. Seated on the throne, Lord Banupal glared down at them like an owl watching mice beneath its perch. Welcome lords of Aldron to my court, he said in a low voice.

We are honored to hold court with— Felix began.

What is it you want, Banupal? Silas cut in. He was done with formalities, especially in the middle of a winter's night.

I beg your pardon? Banupal said, visibly annoyed at Silas' impropriety.

Silas stepped closed to the throne. You called for immediate aid from my father. We rode out facing harsh winter to the ends of the wilderness and you ignored us. Then you wake us and summon us, for what? What is so urgent? I see nothing in this rabble of an encampment you've organized that shows need of military aid.

Felix exhaled deeply, turning to Banupal. My Lord Banupal, please excuse the prince's…candor. He is weary from the day's travels, I'm sure.

You need not excuse anything, Gryn, Banupal said. I appreciate Prince Silas' honesty. I am half orc, after all. Candid statements are common among my kind. The truth is Prince Silas, we have quite the crisis on our hands here in Neroterra. A valuable artifact from my treasure store has been stolen and I need you to retrieve it.

Silas laughed incredulously. You can't be serious? You summoned me here to fetch your stolen trinket?

This is no trinket, your Majesty, I assure you. It is a weapon of unspeakable power in the hands of a capable conjurer.

Felix furrowed his brow. A weapon, you say?

Silas sighed, but he had to admit his interest was suddenly piqued. Go on.

Of course, Banupal said with a satisfied smile. He rose from his throne and walked down the dais to them. "Four nights past, Lofur and Grintt, two of my best warriors spotted something in the woods to the north. No one is allowed entry into Neroterra except by my specific order. Any wayfarers traversing the forest are summarily killed. So, Lofur and Grintt set out to kill whatever creature or person had trespassed on our land.

Lofur thought it was an old woman, dressed in rags carrying a woven bag over her shoulder. My scouts advanced with scimitars drawn, ready to kill her but a flash of light from the woman's palm knocked them over. Lofur couldn't remember much after that except the sound of Grintt screaming when he came to his senses. The old woman was in fact a goblin shaman named Urbengal—a nasty blighter from Northerwyld, who's been trailing us for years. Lofur managed to escape and bring me the news. Grintt was not so lucky."

A goblin shaman? I've never heard of such a thing, Silas said. I thought the orcs killed all the spawn of Urr in the Northern Wars a decade ago?

Indeed we did. Slaughtered them in droves—their deserved punishment for nearly eradicating us to begin with. But we lost more in the end—our land and our way of life. Without goblins as slaves and a decimated populace, the orc clans became nomads. Settling wherever the wind might have us.

Settling? You mean raiding and pillaging decent villages, Silas corrected.

Banupal raised his chin up and squinted his eyes. He brushed off the slight and continued. Urbengal is a threat to all of us. His family was killed in the wars and he seeks vengeance. After killing my scout, he found a way inside my city and descended into the mines. There he took his prize—an old gauntlet long forgotten since the Golden Millenium.

A gauntlet? That's no weapon to fear, Gryn said with a smirk. Silas agreed. This entire affair seemed like a waste of their time. A goblin conjurer stealing a gauntlet wasn't worth a constable's time in Aldron much less a prince and a governor.

This is a matter for you to settle, Banupal, Silas said. The treaty stipulated aid on matters of utmost importance not some aged artifact missing from your collection. We will take our leave now and wish you the best on your…scavenger hunt with the goblin. Silas turned to leave the chamber and to his surprise, Gryn followed. He expected the governor to excuse his outburst to the half-orc.

Wait! Banupal yelled. Your father entrusted me to guard that gauntlet in exchange for settling this ancient town. Do you think he'd be pleased that you refused to retrieve the central object of the treaty between Aldron and Neroterra?

Silas could barely make sense of what Banupal suggested. A treaty between orcs and men over an old gauntlet? What are you talking about? He asked.

The gauntlet is a gateway to limitless power—

Enough, Banupal! Gryn scolded. You were sworn to secrecy.

The half-orc recoiled at the rebuke, but his nostrils flared at the affront to his authority.

Secrecy? You know about this? Silas asked, feeling his neck tighten.

Gryn cleared his throat. The gauntlet is a magical artifact that must be safeguarded from everyone. Your father thought it best that no one, but he and those present at the treaty signing should know of its existence.

Silas could hardly believe what he was hearing. His father, the amiable and kind sovereign of Aldron, had made a pact with orcs to keep a powerful weapon hidden. He'd kept it secret from his own son. Silas felt like a child and he hated it.

If this gauntlet was a secret, how did Urbengal know of its existence? Silas asked, fighting to remain calm.

He likely sensed it's magical properties when he invaded the camp. Shamans are moths to a flame when it concerns such things. The allure of that gauntlet has clouded Urbengal's judgment. Despite having every opportunity to flee the woods of Neroterra, the goblin has set up camp on the northern outskirts, Banupal said, lifting a goblet filled with a black liquid from a table nearby.

That's excellent news! We can rout the imp and retrieve the gauntlet in no time, Gryn replied.

Banupal laughed before gulping down the dark contents of the goblet. You are welcome to try, my lords. But I've lost ten of my hardiest warriors already. Shamans are not to be trifled with, especially those in possession of enchanted gauntlets. None of my orcs stepped within a yard of his camp before being blasted to oblivion.

Silas thought for a moment. The northern edge of Neroterra's forest butted up against the hills of Sylvania. If he led his men charging from the north and Banupal led a feint from the south, they might catch the shaman unaware. Not even the best mages or druids could fend off a two-front assault by themselves. The only problem was Banupal's willingness to comply with such a move.

I have an idea, but you won't like it, Silas said.

Banupal squared his shoulders. I'm listening.

Chapter5

The Hunt

Silas saddled his horse as the sun peeked over the forest canopy. He felt tired and agitated. The straw piles that served as their bedding did not offer restful sleep for him nor his men. Despite their overall crankiness, everyone woke up before dawn preparing for the day's hunt. Breakfast consisted of sausage and a hearty porridge Leif had cooked in the kitchen inside the orc's mess hall. Silas would not have any more orcish food on this excursion—royal etiquette be cursed. Besides, Banupal could not care less about their disdain for the food. He was more worried about sending a battalion of orcs for Silas' planned attack on Urbengal. It took much persuasion to get the half-orc to agree on the strategy, even Gryn became exasperated at his hesitance. But the half-orc's agreement came with a catch. Every orc killed in battle would cost ten centens from Aldron's treasury. How nice that Banupal cared so much for his troops.

Are the soldiers saddled and ready? Silas asked Asher, who looked more haggard in the early morning light.

Aye, my lord. We only need Gryn and his company to show up before we can set out, Asher replied. Must he come with us?

Silas smirked. Asher, if I were king, Gryn would be assigned to a remote outpost in Azuleah.

Ten minutes later, Gryn emerged from the basilica with his entourage. A young man with light tousled hair, presumably his squire, and his valet, a barrel-chested man who dutifully carried the governor's many bags. They loaded their horses and a pack mule while Gryn watched and paced in the ankle-deep snow. A few minutes later, a dozen orcs filed out of a large tent behind the basilica. Banupal led the group to the square where Silas and the others had gathered. The orcs wore crude armor with fur boots and shawls. Their muscled green arms and thick legs exposed, impervious to the frigid morning air. In contrast, Banupal wore a fine linen robe covered in a heavy fur doublet. He strode toward them with his troops in tow.

I can spare twelve of my best fighters to aid your battalion. Lofur will guide you to Urbengal's camp and command the feint, Banupal said, gesturing to the large orc whom Silas recognized. He was the commander who had previously led them to Neroterra the night before.

You're not coming? Silas asked.

Banupal smiled. I'm afraid not. Lofur is more than capable of leading this expedition in my stead. Besides, I have matters to attend to here.

Right, Silas said, turning to Lofur. The giant orc looked displeased to be sharing the same air with humans. Can your soldiers hold off the shaman long enough for our offensive?

We have killed goblins and trolls in battle by the hundreds. One shaman will be nothing but a pestering horse fly, he growled.

Fair enough, Silas replied. Felix, take the rear and follow our trail. We'll be moving fast and your mule will be hard-pressed to keep apace in this snow.

Felix scowled, but nodded deferentially. After a brief discussion of the battle plan with Asher, Silas and his group set out with the orcs. Banupal watched from afar as they exited the gates of Neroterra and entered the snow-covered forest. Lofur spat out orders to his battalion and they marched on a northeast route. Despite their large, lumbering frames, the orcs moved quickly through the thick snow blanketing the forest floor. Even on horseback, Silas struggled to keep up. The chilling wind had died down since last night and the clouds had thinned overhead. Pockets of sunshine cut through and illuminated the pristine white all around them. Though they trudged through miles of woodland, the snowy scene appeared to go on forever. Little time was spent in conversation. Asher kept asking how much further until they'd split their groups, but Lofur ignored the question.

Five miles from Neroterra they reached a clearing that dipped into a ravine where a stream ran in the summer. The water had turned to thick ice and a thin sheet of snow covered it. The orcs stopped at the bank and unloaded the canvas packs slung over their shoulders.

Why are we stopping? Felix asked.

To eat, Lofur bellowed. Orcs don't fight on empty stomachs.

Are we close then? Silas asked.

Lofur nodded. Another half-mile and he'll detect us. We'll hide here along the bank until you've reached the hills. Broku will be at the edge of the wood and wave the signal for you to attack.

Signal? Asher asked.

A smaller orc with a bone pierced through his nose stepped up and pulled out a ragged blue flag from his pack. One wave means attack. Two waves means retreat, Broku instructed.

You should head out now. Follow the bank, it will lead you out of the forest and into Sylvania, Lofur said.

Silas nodded then commanded his men to leave. They followed the stream for a mile before it wound northward where the tree cover thinned. The terrain changed around them as they left the forest behind. Numerous outcroppings poked out of the snowcapped plain around them. A hundred yards away, the hills rose to create the northeast border of Joppa and Marsolas. Silas dug his heels into the sides of his horse as they climbed the steep hillside. His hair whipped around him with the return of the wind on the rising incline. The men grumbled on the ascent, but they reached the top soon enough. From the top, Silas easily surveyed the northern edge of the woods where Broku would wave his flag. Behind him, the city of Sylvania stood apart from the wintry world. Smoke rose from chimneys on the thatched roofs of houses and buildings packed tightly together. The heavily populated city was untethered from Aldronian rule and run by elected officials. Silas' last trip to the city was three years prior. He stayed at a luxurious inn in the Scarlet Quarter. A crackling hearth and a goose-down mattress were an inviting thought here on the snowy slopes.

An hour passed with no change in their condition. Cold and anxious, Silas wondered if this whole plan had been a horrible idea. Asher and the men had started a fire to keep warm. Gryn paced around and grumbled at his valet about not packing warmer clothing. Silas tried to tune him out by watching the forest for Broku. Perhaps Urbengal sprung an ambush on Lofur? Their proximity to the shaman's camp might have given them away. If Banupal's dozen had fallen, they'd have no way of knowing about it. There was also the sinister possibility that Banupal was in league with Urbengal. Silas had pondered why a goblin would go through the trouble of traveling hundreds of miles from Northerwyld to exact revenge on an orc village in treaty with Aldron. Although he knew little about the magical powers of shamans, he was certain a single shaman could not overwhelm an army. It seemed plausible that Banupal planned for the gauntlet to be stolen so King Alfryd would aid the half-orc. And if this gauntlet was as significant as Felix claimed, perhaps Banupal wagered that the king himself would show up to retrieve it. But why? Did he plan to assassinate his father with Urbengal's help? No, Silas thought.. Regicide would be a suicidal course of action for Neroterra. A war with Aldron would destroy the orc remnant in Azuleah. Banupal seemed too savvy to incite such a war over a petty gauntlet. Nevertheless, Silas sensed Banupal was up to something, but he couldn't figured out what exactly. Orcs could not be trusted, much less a half-breed who pretended to be royalty.

Sire, I see something moving to the northwest! A scout named Dillinger yelled.

Silas scanned the forest and caught the movement. A small figure similar in stature to Broku, slowly trudged through the trees on the perimeter of the woodland. Asher put out the fire and the rest of the men climbed onto their saddles. Gryn raced to Silas' side, watching with bated breath as Broku stopped. The orc waved his flag…twice!

Doesn't that mean retreat? Gryn asked.

Silas nodded. He saw Broku pause for a moment then he lifted the blue flag once more. Again, he waved it twice. Something is wrong, Silas said. The words barely escaped his lips before two arrows pierced Broku's back and he fell dead into the snow.

Chapter 6

All is not well

The horses raced down the hill, kicking up clumps of snow in their wake. Silas and Asher rode side by side pushing their steeds toward the forest where Broku's limp body lied. Half of Silas' company followed while Felix and the others waited atop the hill. Silas reached the body first. Dismounting from the saddle, he held his shield close and inspected the area. The woods were quiet, save for the wind howling between the trees. Nothing stirred except the horses behind him. Two thick arrows protruded from Broku's back; one next to his heart and the other close to the jugular. He turned the orc on his side. The snow obscured Broku's face, but a pained expression was easily visible. An arrowhead penetrated through the orc's chest, leaving a trail of black blood in the snow. Upon further scrutiny, Silas realized the arrows were of an orcish design.

Broku was killed by his own kind.

Either a mutiny had occurred among Lofur's troops or Urbengal had cast some elaborate spell to trick them. The former was more probable to Silas. He grabbed the flag still clutched in the orc's thick hands and waved it at the men on the hillside. They quickly descended the hills. He puzzled over the best course of action now. Felix and the men gathered around, waiting for orders.

Sire, has Banupal betrayed us? Asher asked, breaking the silence.

I doubt it. He might be arrogant, but he's not stupid. I suspect this is Lofur's doing or one of his warriors, Silas said.

Or that shaman, Felix added. You heard, Lofur. We were very close to his camp. He might have hexed them…or us for all we know.

It's a possibility, but I'll trust what my eyes see at the moment. And they see orc arrows in Broku's back, not a shaman's spell. Silas stroked his chin. They were only fifteen men strong including Felix, his valet, and his squire. Lofur's force numbered a dozen minus Broku, so the odds were in their favor, but the orcs had the advantage inside the Neroterra forest. If the woodlands weren't covered in snow drift, Silas would consider an assault against Lofur's mutinous lot, but Urbengal was the wild card. Not knowing whether the shaman was to blame for Broku's death complicated matters.

Well, now what? Felix asked, shifting uncomfortably in the saddle.

Silas' was at an impasse. Attacking Lofur would surely break the treaty with Neroterra, but retreating back to Aldron with his tail tucked between his legs was not an option. They could seek out Urbengal's camp and take the shaman down without Lofur's aid. From a strategic perspective, it was foolish to attack an enemy camp blind. He wasn't sure what a shaman was capable of. Spells and hexes were likely weapons, but the enchanted gauntlet was an unknown variable. An incalculable risk to Silas and his men. He had hoped to diminish the risk by enlisting Banupal's forces to attack first. Now they were on their own.

We will press on and attack Urbengal's camp, Silas said, turning to Asher and his men.

But my lord, we aren't sure where that goblin devil is hiding, Troy protested.

No, but we do know he's camped somewhere on the northern edge of the forest. We aren't in Ithileo or the Burning Woods with massive ground to cover, so scouting the area won't take long, Silas said.

I hear a 'but' coming, Felix said, crossing his arms.

Silas scowled. But…Lofur will be a problem. We don't know if he's waiting to spring a trap, dead, or being controlled by Urbengal.

And attacking Lofur directly will be seen as an act of war by Banupal, Asher added.

Exactly. We must attack Urbengal first. He's the largest threat to us right now.

What if he expects us to do just that? He could be the one who will spring the trap, Felix countered.

I've considered that, but our dilemma remains the same. Our orders from the king are to aid Banupal and retrieve that gauntlet. We either follow them or flee. And as you know, Felix, my father is not fond of cowards, Silas said, hoping the corrupt governor caught the subtle dig.

Felix frowned and said nothing more. He caught it.

Silas mounted his horse then led the company north, along the border of the forest. They kept to a slow canter, watching the woods to their left for signs of Urbengal's camp or the orcs. The morning sun became enveloped by gray clouds. As they progressed around the northeastern swath of woodland, snowflakes floated down around them. Blast this snow, Felix cried, brushing off the flakes from the shoulders of his suede overcoat. Stifled laughter spread among the ranks and even Gryn's squire suppressed a smile. He shot the young man a furious glance and the squire quickly looked down at his feet without a word.

The bitter cold was prickling Silas' gloved hands like thousands of needles. The light snowflakes turned to a steady snowfall, blanketing them in white and making the search for Urbengal much tougher. When they reached a bend in the tree line, he ordered everyone to stop and take a break. The soldiers dismounted, many with swords still drawn. Asher and a middle-aged soldier, Philippe, unloaded rations for everyone. A meal of stale bread, aged cheese, and cold water didn't lift Silas' spirits. He longed for a pint of hearty mead and roasted pheasant next to a roaring fire.

We'll catch our death of cold in this wintry hell, Felix protested while biting off a chunk of bread in his hand. Can't we at least start a fire?

Absolutely not. We needn't give away our position. The orcs and the shaman already have the advantage, let's not make it easier for them, Silas said. He finished the last piece of his cheese wedge then looked beyond them where the forest slope dipped to the south. Another quarter mile and they would be on the east side of Neroterra's forest. If Urbengal's camp was here, the goblin had done an excellent job of concealing it. The snowfall made their task harder. Silas squinted as he searched between the endless rows of trees alongside them, looking for any sign of a dwelling.

Nothing. He cursed to himself. This is a fool's errand through and through, he thought.

All right, pack up the bags. We ride to the end of the northern rim and make another pass back to the hills. If we don't find that infernal creature, we'll head north and lodge in Sylvania, Silas said. At the mention of lodging in Sylvania, all the men perked up including Felix. The luxury of a comfortable bed by a crackling hearth had captivated Silas since their miserable stay in Banupal's dungeon. But retreating to Sylvania felt like a defeat. He still wanted Urbengal's head on a pike before the day was over. With a quick prayer to Yéwa, he grabbed Arabella's reins and led the way.

Less than a yard into their trot through the snowy slope, a high-pitched scream cut through the air. It came from within the forest.

Chapter 7

The Child

It came from over there! Asher yelled, pointing at a thick collection of underbrush several feet inside the forest. Sounded like a girl's scream.

Silas' thoughts raced as he moved closer to the forest. From atop the saddle, he peered into the shadowy, snow-covered forest and caught some movement. A child dressed in a simple gray gown was on her knees, crying. Please, someone help my Da! she cried.

It's a trick. The shaman knows we're here, Asher said.

Silas didn't disagree, but he still pitied the child. He recalled years ago as a boy walking among the ashes of his mother's remains. The pain of her loss still tugged at him. A dull ache not mended by the passage of time. What if the girl in the forest experienced a similar grief? She might have been traversing the forest with her father before encountering Urbengal or the orcs. But the more he considered the idea, the more unlikely it seemed. What kind of father would travel so close to an orc stronghold with his child in the middle of a snowstorm? Not a good one.

Get your bolts ready! Silas commanded. Everyone, except Gryn and his company, loaded their crossbows. Then the soldiers lined their horses in a row facing the forest. Silas turned to Gryn's squire. You. What's your name?

The young man's eyes doubled in size. Me? I—I'm Morton Alpheas, your Majesty.

Can you handle a sword, Morton?

Aye, sir. My father was a knight in the King's army. Taught me everything he knew about the blade, sire, Morton said.

Excellent. Draw your sword and come with me, Silas ordered. He dismounted from his horse, prompting Morton to do the same. Asher, I'll need you too. Let's find out what we're dealing with.

Wait a moment, you can't go in there! Gryn said, poking his finger toward the woods. We don't know what power that shaman possesses. It would be much wiser to go to Sylvania and enlist more men, Prince Silas. Besides Morton is a lowly squire, he's not fit to fight a sorcerer.

Morton's face drooped at his master's assessment of his abilities. Silas put a hand on the boy's shoulder and squeezed, If you can brandish a sword, Morton, you can follow me into battle. Morton offered a half-smile, but looked nervously at Gryn. Silas turned to the governor. We will not flee from here, Felix, until Urbengal is dead, and the gauntlet is retrieved. You will stay here with my men and order a volley at the sight of anything suspicious. Do you understand?

Gryn lifted his chin, visibly annoyed. I do, my lord.

Good, Silas said. He turned to Morton and Asher. Let's slay a goblin.

The three men entered the woods and walked toward the girl. An unnatural quiet hovered over the place, save for the muffled sobs of the child. The crunch of their boots in the snow startled the girl. She stared at them like a doe in a hunter's snare. As they drew closer, Silas noticed blood stains on the girl's smock. On the ground in front of her lay a man's body. Red splotches contrasted brightly against the snow around the girl. Please help…Da, he's hurt, she said, sniffling. Silas stood several feet from the girl, cautiously surveying the woods. He stared down at the girl's father. The man's chest neither rose nor fell, confirming he was likely dead. Silas shifted his gaze to the blood on the snow and then he saw it. Unnatural mounds of snow surrounded the girl like a semicircle of miniature hills. The orcs were hiding in the snow—just like the previous night.

The girl caught the realization on Silas' face and hissed. Fire a volley! Silas yelled. The mounds shifted at the cry and the orcs burst out of the snow. Silas pulled Asher and Morton down to the ground. The sharp thwack of a dozen crossbows echoed in the forest. Four orcs fell backwards, bolts now embedded in their chests and necks. Others were struck, but not killed—six in all including Lofur.

Bring me their heads! Lofur growled, yanking a bolt from his large bicep. The orcs charged in unison, armed with scimitars and monstrous flails. Silas rose to his feet and swiped his sword wildly at the first orc in his path. The blow connected with the orc's chest, but the beast didn't fall. Equipped with a flail, the large orc flicked his wrist and the spiked flail flew at Silas' face. He ducked, missing the hit by an inch. Another swing caught the orc off-guard and landed in the monster's unprotected ribcage. He gurgled something in Balek before falling dead in the snow. Hoof beats from behind prompted him to turn. His men were entering the forest to engage the enemy. Troy cut down one of the uglier orcs and even Morton landed a killing blow on a fleeing orc scout.

To his left, Asher fought hard against Lofur. The orc overlord was giving his second-in-command a worthy fight, but Silas could see fatigue in the elder man's eyes. His movements became sluggish and soon Lofur would overpower him. The orc swung his scimitar downward at Asher's neck. The older warrior sidestepped the swing, but Lofur lunged his massive shoulder into Asher's face, knocking him to the ground. Before Lofur could capitalize on the move, Silas charged at the orc with a rapid flurry of strikes. Lofur parried most of them, except for a horizontal cut that opened a gash on his forearm.

You'll die for that! Lofur cried, swiping at Silas with clumsy strokes that missed their mark. Silas shuffled his feet to the left then quickly to the right with each attack. Stop dancing and fight, filth!

Silas couldn't hold back a grin as he parried another stroke. The orc was tiring and getting angrier with each missed blow. Silas waited for an opening. He dodged a slash to his torso and stepped away. With his back to a tree, he waited eagerly for the orc's next move. Without hesitation, Lofur swung the scimitar in a wide horizontal arc. Silas ducked and rolled as the sword struck the tree. The force of the hit caused the scimitar to be wedged into the tree's trunk. Lofur struggled to free his weapon, but to no avail. Silas seized the advantage and swiftly thrust his sword into the orc's unprotected stomach. Taken by surprise, Lofur punched the prince's face with unnatural force. Silas careened backwards onto the icy ground, tasting blood on his lips. Pain swelled from his mouth to every inch of his face. He looked up to see Lofur staring at the sword in his gut with widened eyes. The orc pulled the sword out and tossed it aside. His face contorted into a rage-filled grimace, but when he took a step toward Silas, he lost his balance and fell to the ground. Silas slowly stood up, waiting for Lofur to do the same. But the giant orc didn't move, he only bled profusely in the snow.

The rest of the orcs shared a similar fate to their leader. Their bodies littered the white forest floor, hewn by swords or pierced by multiple crossbow bolts. Walking toward Asher, Silas realized the victory was not easily won for their side. They'd lost both Leif and Philippe, two brave men whose families would be devastated by their loss. Troy was inconsolable at the death of Leif, his close friend and relative.

What should we do with their bodies my lord? Asher asked solemnly.

Wrapped them in their blankets and bury them in snow. That should keep away any vultures or coyotes until we can retrieve them for a proper burial in Aldron, Silas said.

And the orcs?

Silas frowned. Leave them to Banupal to worry about.

Morton, who suffered a shallow cut across his left cheek, approached them with a grim expression. My lords, I cannot find Master Gryn anywhere. Philippe told me he stayed behind from the initial charge.

Typical Gryn, Asher whispered.

His horse is still here, but he remains unaccounted. Dear Yéwa, I hope he hasn't perished! Morton bit his lip. He had a sincere worry and loyalty for his master which oddly pleased Silas despite his animosity toward the Tarshish governor.

Silas surveyed the surrounding forest, but saw no sign of Felix. The man is a coward, Silas thought. He probably hid away somewhere in the forest to avoid being harmed or killed. But then Silas remembered the girl—the sole reason for this attack. He spun around quickly, searching for the body of the girl's father. As he retraced his steps in the battle, Silas found the place where the orcs ambushed them. The same spot where the girl had hissed at Silas' command for a volley. He expected to find the dead man there, but the blood and body had disappeared. It had all been a clever distraction. During the heat of the battle, Urbengal had fled with a hostage.

Chapter 8

Taken captive

After the grim task of burying Leif and Philippe in the snow, Silas and the others found a trail of footprints leading deeper into the woods. One set of tracks matched Gryn's boots while the other set were smaller and definitely not human. Silas led his men cautiously through the snow, attempting to be as quiet as the snowflakes descending upon them. He had ordered the horses be tethered to trees and left Gryn's valet, Georges, to attend them. The portly man's face had a pallid appearance and he looked ready to vomit. Silas knew the expression all too well. Young recruits to Aldron's military academy had the same look after experiencing their first battle. Georges was a servant not a fighter and the sight of the grisly battle likely unnerved the valet. In contrast, Morton shone with confidence after the skirmish. He looked all too eager to join Silas in rescuing his master. Despite the boy's relative inexperience in combat, he had proven himself by slaying two orcs. If his luck continued, Silas might have to consider transferring him from Gryn's apprenticeship to his own command.

The trail turned south into a thicket where fallen trees and underbrush made it difficult to follow the tracks. Over here, Silas whispered to Asher, picking up the trail past a pair of withered elderberry bushes. They followed the tracks up an incline where a family of spruces overlooked the white forest. At the top of the hill, the spruces encircled a hastily built structure made of branches and logs—no larger than a tent. A fire roared in a pit just outside the dwelling and a short figure stood before the flames. Silas raised a hand to stop the men from advancing. He gazed at the figure, realizing it was Felix kneeling on the ground. His face was expressionless and pale.

Load your crossbows and draw your swords, Silas ordered. The men complied then followed him into the small camp. Felix, are you all right? Silas asked, watching the tent for any sign of Urbengal. Felix did not move or speak. He looked ahead with lifeless eyes.

You are fools to enter here, a raspy voice said.

Silas searched the trees, but neither he nor his men saw anyone except Felix. Show yourself! Silas yelled.

Urbengal let out a laugh that resembled a cackling crow. But I'm right here, Your Majesty. A soft glow emanated from the roof of the ramshackle hut. An outline became visible amid the light and as the glow faded, the goblin appeared. He was an ugly creature—a long hooked nose poked out of a green leathery face riddled with warts. The shaman's beady eyes shifted to and fro, taking in Silas and his men. "What an honor to have royalty visit my humble abode, hee-har!"

Release your prisoner, Urbengal. Unless you desire a painful death, Silas said.

Strong words, lad, strong words! But I'm afraid it will not come to that. I have an advantage, see? Urbengal tucked his long fingers into his cloak and retrieved a metal glove. He held the gauntlet over his head, a crooked grin forming on his lips. At last, the Curse of Nergoth!

To Silas' right, Asher made a quick hand signal, and the men aimed their crossbows in unison. A dozen bolts whizzed past Silas and flew toward Urbengal. The goblin disappeared in a puff of smoke before the bolts landed in his small body. Spread out and find the imp, Silas ordered. Asher, get Felix out of here.

But sire…

Follow my order, Silas told him. Asher nodded without further dissent and ran toward the kneeling man. The other men fanned out on the hill, some with swords drawn and others with crossbows trained ahead. They trudged through the snow in pairs, disappearing behind spruce trees as they searched for the shaman. Silas cautiously approached Urbengal's hut. A long strip of deer hide hung over the hut's entrance. Silas reached out with his left hand and yanked the hide away. A low sigh of relief escaped him when he realized the goblin wasn't inside. The small hut contained nothing but discarded fish bones and a pile of foul-smelling blankets that served as a bed. A yell from one of the men startled him. It was Morton.

Orcs! the young man cried, pointing to six orcs emerging from the trees. This group was not part of Lofur's original force which seemed strange to Silas. Had Urbengal possessed them somehow? Morton and Troy led the charge against the new threat. Swords flashed quickly as the two men attacked. Silas ran toward the skirmish, looking around for the rest of his contingent. Asher had already fled with Felix, so he didn't expect to see him. But it troubled Silas that no one else was visible on the hilltop. He turned his attention to the orcs, who were successfully fending off the advance. That's when Silas noticed the orcs' weapons. They wielded Aldronian swords.

Stop! Silas yelled, but a second too late. Morton thrust his sword and skewered an orc with his blade. The orc fell backwards into the snow, blood pooling beneath him. Before their eyes, the orc at their feet transformed into Geoff—one of the stoutest warriors he'd known. The color drained from Morton's face at the sight. But they had little time to grieve—the rest of the orc-men continued their attack.

What's wrong with them? Troy asked, narrowly missing a slash to the head.

They're hexed. Fend them off as best as you're able, but don't kill them! Silas ordered. Two orc-men advanced at him from both sides. They thrust their swords at his torso. He parried the first thrust then dodged to avoid the second. Turning on his heel, Silas punched the hexed soldier on his right and knocked him off his feet. The second soldier swung a vertical cut aimed at Silas' shoulder, but he expected that move. He sidestepped the attack at the last possible moment. Then he gripped the broadest part of his sword, where the blade met the cross piece, and flipped it so the hilt faced upward. Silas swung the sword and smashed the pommel into the soldier's face. The orc-man doubled over then sunk to the ground unconscious.

Morton knocked another soldier out, but struggled to keep his defense tight. Meanwhile, Troy was successfully defending two of his compatriots' swipes with powerful ripostes. The lithe man slashed the hexed men at the knees, bringing them down quickly. A few more shallow cuts at the arms disarmed them. Troy kicked one in the head and struck the other with the flat side of his blade. The field was clear except for the lone orc-man dueling Morton. The man's movements were fluid and flawless, exhibiting the type of discipline only a veteran possessed. Silas reasoned it was probably Leonard, the soft-spoken Allesmeade native with an unrivaled skill in swordsmanship. They'd fought in many campaigns together against the Draknoir and Silas was familiar with his adept handling of the blade.

Sweat poured down Morton's face as the young man barely parried a blow to his torso. Another quick horizontal cut followed from Leonard. Morton jumped back to dodge, but the tip of the sword cut a line across his cheek. The boy lost his footing in the wet snow, falling on his side. Silas rushed towards Morton, but Troy—the faster of the two—reached him first. He delivered three quick strikes, but Leonard parried each with