Oathbreaker: Condemnation

By L.A. MacDonald

Matthan had lost everything...
When the fog cleared from his mind, Matthan began to see that he had lost his people, his kingdom, his friends, even his beloved.
Now he wanders the land, a fallen knight with nothing to live for, but unwilling to die without making amends.
Can he find redemption and make those responsible for his fall pay before he finds his end on the tip of some brigand's sword?
Taking the name 'Brok', the orcish word for failure, Matthan slowly learns deep truths about himself, his people, his kingdom, and those he trusted most.
From the moment his father died in an ambush, the world had been set against Matthan. Now, as Brok, he has lost everything important to him... Except himself. Deep inside, he knows right from wrong. Deep inside, he knows that those who used him must be stopped. And deep inside, he knows that he is the one that must stop them.
More than just a kingdom might be at stake. The very future of his people might well rest on his ability to find worth in himself after years of being unworthy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: L.A. MacDonald
• Release date: Feb 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781736645611

L.A. MacDonald

L.A. MacDonald lives in the Northwoods of the USA with two shelties, armor, and weapons of all sorts. When not writing, MacDonald is dreaming up new stories and worlds.Classically trained, MacDonald believes that heroes should be heroes, in spite of their flaws, and villains should be villains in spite of – or even because of – any virtues. It is the choices each of us make as individuals that decides our heroic status. The pikeman that stands and saves the King’s life is the same species as the ones that run, the difference is in the choice each makes.MacDonald has a shelf full of books that have not yet seen the light of day, many set in the same world as Oathbreaker. Others set in more exotic locales. Watch for them from Hellebarde Publishing.

Book preview

Clarity returned without warning.

The girl at his feet, her station marked by the handkerchief tied around her head to keep a length of dark brown hair from spilling into her face, was sniffling. Her hands trembled as she reached desperately for the small potatoes rolling haphazardly across the floor toward his boot. A platter, its silver face reflecting the flickering light of torches burning in their sconces, lay on the floor near her knees. The broken remains of a delicate tea cup, its inked decorations long lost to time, scattered across the floor.

Matthan’s hand was upraised for some reason he could not fathom. In his confusion, he let the hand drop to his side. The foundations of the ancient keep suddenly shook and screams outside rent the air. Instinctively, he bent his knees to keep his balance and spun his head toward the window. Heavy draperies rejected the light of day that should have been streaming inside. With uncertain steps, the young man strode to the curtains, and flung them aside.

The city beyond the east wall was in chaos. Smoke streamed from between buildings across the city and the thunderous sound of a thousand horses rumbled in its wake. The barking of men and the shrill cries of women filled the air. In the courtyard below, armored men in white cloaks rushed about to form tense fists of soldiers ready to march out through the gate and into the city itself.

He whirled, confused, seeking out the girl. What goes on here? he demanded, his voice sounding harsh in his own ears. She shrank back from his question as though she expected a harsh reprisal to follow.

We are un-un-under att-attack, sire, the girl stammered fearfully, chancing a glance up at the king when he did not strike out.

Matthan saw the girl’s naked terror and realized with a start her fear was not of the attack, but of him. The recognition turned his stomach uncomfortably. He did not recognize her, let alone recall ever striking her. He recalled very little when he stopped to consider it, and the realization made his throat constrict with sudden dread.

An inhuman roar sent a shudder coursing down his spine and drew his attention back to the window. Matthan gaped as he caught sight of its source. What had sounded to his ears like a thousand horses belonged not to an army, but to a thing of such incredible proportion it defied belief. It was taller than the highest temple tower in the city, and shaped vaguely like a crouching, winged man. Like the dragons of lore, when it breathed out it sent billows of smoke into the air that rose up and wreathed its scaly head in an ephemeral crown. It set a massive foot down and he felt the foundations shake yet again. It brandished a fist, an otherworldly grin of delight on its face as it slammed into a building and swept away brick and mortar that had stood for hundreds – if not thousands – of years. Smoke was rising more furiously from somewhere deeper in the city and from the sky he could see bolts of lightning appear, crackling with energy as they struck in what, from Matthan’s vantage point, appeared to be random patterns.

People were screaming. His people were screaming. He knew he should be doing something other than standing here, staring, but for the life of him he could not recall what that should be.

The fog began to return. Matthan could feel the concern for his people draining away as wine drained from a glass turned gently on its side. Panic set in. While he was confused by what was going on around him, at least he knew what was going on. But the bliss of the fog beckoned, like a warm fire on a cold night. In spite of his panic, he started to relax as the fog enveloped his mind, washing away the screams of the men that continued to hammer at his ears. The vile sound of the demon – for there was no other name he could think of to give that thing – laughing caused him to flinch, and the air was suddenly filled with the smell of sulfur, and the cries of the dying.

Clarity returned again, this time with a wrenching sensation in his gut, and an irresistible urge to move. To leave. To run.

Matthan did not pause to care where it came from or why. He ran toward a bookcase on the far wall, knowing it hid a passage that would take him to his room and beyond. He called out to the girl, Leave! Run, now! without even glancing her way, the sense of urgency that drove him growing with every step.

He pulled hard on the bookcase, ignoring the volumes that fell to the floor with the sudden motion, and ran as though the hordes of ancient Tasnami were on his heels. He was suddenly more concerned about the fog returning than that demon. If he could run far enough, fast enough, maybe he could escape the fog - and whoever or whatever kept him trapped in it.

Chapter 1

Gasping with the frenetic pace of his flight, Matthan paused to catch his breath. The field in which he stood was relatively quiet compared to the panic of the city, though the booming sound of buildings crashing to the ground still reached his ears even here. He struggled with his coat, realizing it marked him even more than his bright blue eyes. Its rich, royal blue coloring along with the crowned shield of Freeland Hold would declare him without words. Desperately he fumbled with the gilded buttons, finally resorting to tearing them off to get the blasted coat off his back.

Stripped to his white silk shirt, he felt the cool metal of a chain against the back of his neck. Reaching up, his hand closed around the shield of Dirge that had lain against his chest since he’d taken his vows. Gripping it tightly, he made as if to tear it from his neck.

He could not. His arm, tensed with the strength to do so, refused to obey him. Matthan shook his head, trying to drive away the fog that lay just below the surface of his awareness. He let the talisman fall back against his chest and turned his attention to the field before him. Reaching up, he ripped at the leather thong that kept his dark hair from covering his face. Tossing the length of leather into the grass, he picked up his feet and began to run again.

A few miles later, the small city of Moonbarrow appeared in his sights. He sighed with relief, until he came close enough to take in the frenetic activity in its demesne. Women were herding children into wagons. Men were barking at each other and pointing frantically toward the west. Flashes of streaming white raced between the buildings. Roars of anger, cries of fear, and howls of grief rose up to meet him.

Matthan slowed, unsure of himself. The unfamiliar feeling of being afraid struck him as strongly as the smell of brine near the fishing docks in Fair Enton. A man in a blue cloak, tall and bearing a sword, appeared from the narrow alley between two buildings behind a family that huddled together even as they ran toward a wagon. A door in the back of the building flew open, and its empty frame was filled with a man in flowing white robes. Unhurried and unintelligible words erupted from his lips before he pointed imperiously at the wagon into which children were being tossed with desperate need.

The wagon, its floor covered with hay, erupted with flames. The screams of the children made Matthan’s spine stiffen with equal amounts of dread and desperate need to do something. The man in blue roared in time with Matthan’s sudden rage, and flung himself at the robed man, sword flashing.

As strongly as Matthan had felt the need to do something to help the children, he suddenly felt a need to help the man in white robes. The conflict made his head ache, and without conscious thought he stepped back away from the terrible scene, paralyzed with indecision. With each faltering step the need to help the robed man lessened, and his shame at his cowardice grew. When he could stand it no more he turned and ran out and around the city, determined to avoid it at all costs. As he ran, Matthan tried to understand what had just happened. Helping the children against the robed man made sense – it was the type of thing a sworn knight would do – but helping the robed man? Right after he’d burned children alive? That was not him. Or he didn’t think it was. But his memories were so foggy, perhaps it was?

When he finally fell hours later, exhausted, into a ravine in the woods south of Moonbarrow, he lay on his back with chest heaving and heart pounding furiously. The scene in Moonbarrow had been but the first, and each one had made him nearly mad with conflicting desires. As his breathing slowed, he realized how dry his mouth was. His tongue snaked out to wet his parched lips and a craving for the tea he was fond of welled up within him. Rolling onto his stomach, Matthan looked toward the south, back to the capital city of Fair Enton and the palace, where tea and every other comfort awaited him. His stomach rumbled at the thought of dinner and the robust flavor of a Freeland Hold ale, its crafting perfected over thousands of years of attention to the art of brewing. He was gripped by a sudden longing to return to the safe embrace of the palace where his every whim would be waited upon by eager young girls and a bevy of priests in clean, white robes.

At the thought of the priests and their pristine garb, his stomach clenched. The screams of the children in Moonbarrow and their mother’s desperate wail at the fiery death unleashed by the white-robed man filled his ears and made him cover them with his hands like a frightened child. Eyes clenching tightly closed against the image, one hand groped for the shield of Dirge that lay against his chest. As his fingers closed around it, silence filled his ears and his mind cleared of the terrible memory. An urge to run, again, spread slowly from his gut until it took over his legs and made him rise to unsteady feet. Glancing about, he began to race through the brush at the bottom of the ravine in the direction of the road he knew lay somewhere to the east.

His pace was slowed by the ragged inclines and rough terrain of the ravine. Sharp drop-offs and broken tree limbs caused him to stumble and slip more than once, the land itself forcing him to greater caution. Fair Enton sat in the shadow of the Dwarvenforge Mountains to the west, where snows in the winter often found their way into the hills and valleys of Freeland Hold. The melts in the spring renewed the streams and rivers that reached down into the fertile farmland that lay in its shadow, but left behind evidence of its unintended destructive force. In times past the foothills had released even more danger upon the western edge of the kingdom in the form of orcs and their smaller but no less violent kin, the goblins, but the kings of Freeland Hold had long made it their task to contain that threat. This close to Fair Enton it was unlikely one would see such a creature, but not impossible.

Feet slipping on the soggy ground, still full from the spring melts, Matthan stumbled his way east. When the sun began dropping toward the horizon, he realized with growing dread that he would be forced to shelter in the ravine for the night. His mind was still sluggish and his head felt like a blanket had been laid over it, making him struggle to remember even the most basic of precautions he should take. He was not untrained; every son of Freeland Hold’s kings for a thousand years had been raised in the knights’ tradition and Called to serve the warrior god, Dirge, before they might be made king. But that training now seemed as distant as the fabled cities of Larodan and Il’Negra that stories said once crowned the kingdoms far to the north. He could barely remember his education, and when he tried it was like clawing through mud. Each time he thought he remembered something, it would immediately be obscured by something that seemed almost actively blocking him.

He found a small depression next to the aged trunk of a fallen tree , and decided it would serve well enough. Huddling next to it, he realized how completely unprepared he was. He had no weapon to defend himself, no food or water, and no gold. Frantically, he dug in his pockets and found nothing of any value save the compass his father had once given him and the ring on his finger that declared him king. With a ragged sigh, he huddled against the rough bark of the tree trunk, and stared forlornly at the growing darkness.

As the chill of night settled into his bones, he shivered and began to curse his hasty decision to run. It had been a foolish decision. Surely the King’s Guard were out looking for him even now, scouring the countryside. All he need do was climb the side of the ravine and walk south and he would soon be back behind the sturdy, protective walls of the palace. The mocking call of night birds taunted him, encouraging his desire to return. Unknowingly, he stood and lifted one foot as if to step over the log and make his way to the top of the ravine. He was about to do just that when his foot suddenly felt as heavy as lead and a stubborn anger welled up within him. He was a man, a knight, and a king, not a frightened child. One night in a ravine was hardly the kind of challenge that should cause him to tremble like a sapling at winter’s first chill blast. Deliberately he flung himself back to the ground, crossing his arms across his chest and laying his head against the trunk of the log, determined to stay right where he was until daybreak. The stubborn anger he’d felt settled into a satisfied warmth at his decision, and within minutes Matthan had fallen into an exhausted sleep.

The sound of branches breaking and the low rumbling of men’s voices brought him awake hours later. He froze, simultaneously terrified and relieved at the prospect of being discovered. Cautiously, he turned toward the source, his eyes drawn to the flickering torch light at the top of the ravine. Three eerily lit figures stood at the precipice, pointing into the dark expanse of the ravine.

Matthan recognized the white cloaks and armor of the King’s guard on two of them, and the garb of a priest of the White Church on the other. Their voices marred the stillness of the night, yet the words did not reach Matthan’s ears deeper in the ravine. The air carried them across the top, leaving him with the knowledge that they spoke in earnest and sometimes frustrated tones, but without being able to make out what it was they said to one another.

The same desire he’d felt earlier in the evening gripped him. All he had to do was stand up and call out, and he would be delivered from the nightmare of sleeping in the dirt. To Matthan’s bone-chilled body and muddled mind, they represented safety. The King’s Guard and priests of the White Church had always protected and guided him, keeping law and order in the kingdom. These were friends, who would return him to where he belonged.

The priest above began chanting in a low voice and a moment later Matthan swore he heard a comforting whisper beckoning him to join the men. It was nearly irresistible, and he shifted his weight to obey. As he turned, the talisman of Dirge around his neck swung from its chain, glinting off the edges of the torchlight. He grabbed at it, annoyed, and began to shove it beneath his shirt. As before, the contact brought forth a swell of stubbornness that demanded he ignore the compulsion to stand and keep himself firmly hidden in the depths of the ravine.

The conflicting demands warred with one another, until Matthan’s head swam and the men began to move along the top of the ravine. Panic gripped his insides as he realized the men had not seen him and might leave without him. Then the stubbornness enfolded his panic and scoffed at the notion he needed them to protect him.

His breath came in ragged gasps as he shakily returned to his hiding place behind the log. With the desperation of a sailor hanging onto the last, broken piece of wood from a lost ship, he held the shield-shaped talisman in his hand as he returned to sleep. When the first rays of morning managed to penetrate the depths of the ravine, his fist was still gripping the pendant.

Northward

With a stomach loudly protesting the lack of food and a desperate desire for a cup of tea and a frothing ale, Matthan struggled up the northern bank of the ravine and into daylight. Raising a filthy, torn sleeved arm to shield his eyes against the sudden brightness, the young man tried to figure out where he was.

Eyes scanning the open field that lay to the north and the thick woods to the east, he found nothing familiar at all but the road. And that was only familiar in the sense that it was recognizable as the king’s road, being the only one so well-maintained in the whole of Freeland Hold. It was not that other roads were not maintained, it was just that the king’s road ran the length of the kingdom, from north to south, and had been laid with stone a thousand years ago. Others might be tramped down and hard packed from use, but the king’s road was a reminder that at one point in the past, the kingdom had been a force to be reckoned with.

Matthan flinched at the sound of voices and the jangling of tack and harness from the road. Cautiously, he made his way closer. What he saw confused him. Groups of travelers, ragged and obviously weary, traipsed along the road heading north. There was no one going south, and even if there were it would have been hard for them to find a path through the throng that seemed urgently headed out of the kingdom. Watching, he noticed that many were merchants but more were smallfolk; farmers and the like, who had obviously filled their only wagon with all of their possessions in a hurry. The rickety contraptions were pulled by ancient nags and plow horses that ought to have been retired years ago. The creatures’ backs were bent under the weight of the cargo they pulled in creaking wagons, piled haphazardly and swaying precariously with every bump in the cobblestoned road.

But it wasn’t just their obvious flight that bothered him; it was the way the fathers and mothers glanced nervously over their shoulders, as if fearing pursuit from a threat. Had they been townsfolk, he might have thought they were fleeing Fair Enton and the wrath of that terrible thing he’d seen from the palace window. But most were not townsfolk, and still they fled something that made their eyes dart fearfully behind them with alarming frequency.

His first instinct was to head south, back toward Fair Enton. He was hungry, and thirsty, and filthy from a night spent lying in a ravine. Whatever it was the people sought refuge from was certainly a threat to him, as well. He needed the safety of Fair Enton and the King’s Guard and the comfort of his priestly advisors.

He waffled at the thought, and suddenly his blood ran cold at the thought of something happening to him that would end a line of kings that reached back into history beyond even the Great Cataclysm some sixteen centuries ago. Like a whisper in his ear, he was reminded of the importance of maintaining that line, and that only the White Church understood how precious he was. With increasing certainty in the rightness of his decision, he took sure steps toward the south, intent on returning to Fair Enton.

Ye okay, boy?

A rasping voice from the road made him jump, and he flinched at the approach of a portly merchant. The man saw his skittish response, and slowed. Holding out his hands in a non-threatening gesture, he peered curiously at Mattan, noting his obviously bedraggled state. Are ye okay, boy?

Matthan began to nod, then for some reason shook his head, hanging it to let the strands of his dark hair hide his face as much as possible.

Are ye hungry?

The mention of food made his stomach respond of its own accord. Matthan managed a wan smile and nodded, still afraid to speak lest he demand the man to return him to Fair Enton.

With a reassuring smile, the man beckoned for Matthan to join him, encouraging the younger man with gestures and nods. Examining the merchant, Matthan noted he was fairly well-dressed, but not as well as those who frequented court. A lesser merchant, then, Matthan decided with a glance at the wagon that was covered well. The tarp bulged with obvious boxes and barrels underneath, but they had been neatly stacked and distributed well across the breadth of the wagon. Its wheels did not squeak, and a driver whose head was topped with a jaunty leather cap rode on the seat along with a man whose appearance suggested he was employed not for his conversational skills but rather those with the sword that poked out from beneath his long leather coat.

Matthan gratefully took the waterskin the merchant handed him and drank greedily from it. He sighed with relief as the wet liquid smoothed out the jagged edges of his dry throat. My thanks, he offered, surprised that he was able to form words at all.

The merchant eyed him appraisingly, reaching out to grip one arm to test its strength.

Matthan gaped at the man’s disregard for his person, shocked that anyone would reach out to touch him so familiarly. With a start, he realized he looked nothing like the king should. He was caught between horror and relief at the thought.

You seem strong enough, if you were fed, the merchant observed. The name is Kase Wright, he offered, then looked expectantly at Matthan.

Matthan froze, his stomach twisted into a tight knot. His own name stuck in his throat. At the terrified look on his face, the merchant smiled indulgently. No worry, boy. As long as ye know mine, I suppose, he said. Ye headed north?

Matthan glanced longingly to the south and opened his mouth to say no, surprised when yes came out instead.

The man gave him a thoughtful frown. Ye can’t be going alone through the Wasteland, ye know, he commented. But if ye can lift and stand watch and hold a sword, I could use one more man on the way.

When Matthan did not reply, the man peered curiously at him. Ye ain’t daft, are ye boy? Ye can hold a sword, can’t ye?

Indignation flared at the question. Matthan had been holding a sword since he could walk. He had been instructed by the finest knights in all of Freeland Hold, including his own father. He nodded angrily. Yes, I can hold a sword, he returned. It was on his tongue to dress the man down, but something swallowed the prideful response and reminded him of his current state. I can hold a sword, and lift well enough, he offered in a less hostile tone.

The man nodded. Good enough then. I can’t pay ye, but I can feed ye and offer ye the safety of numbers.

The word safety rang in his ears like a gong. He needed that. He needed safety more than anything else. His eyes slid again toward the south, indecision on his face. The lure of the palace was like a siren’s song, trying to pull him back. Whoever – or whatever – it was, it wanted him back in its grip. The fog shrouding his thoughts seemed to thicken at the mere thought of returning. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to call on the stubbornness that seemed able to combat the desire. He blew out a defeated breath when nothing happened.

Kase laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. No one is safe that way, boy. Not with the White Church running things.

His head swung to face the man. Is that why you’re leaving? he demanded.

Aye, Kase replied, surprised Matthan had to ask. He gestured at the long train of folk behind them. It’s why everyone is running from the kingdom. Isn’t that why you look like ye spent the night in a ravine?

Matthan bit back his first response, which was to explain he had spent the night in a ravine. He nodded instead and ducked his head. He didn’t actually know why he was running, except that something kept urging him away from Fair Enton and the lassitude of the fog that threatened to envelope him. His head was still muddled. He could not remember much of anything before the demon thing, and even the past day was somewhat distant in his mind. But he knew if the fog overtook him again, he would be lost forever.

He squared his shoulders and met Kase’s eyes. I accept your offer.

Matthan saw the suspicion flash in the man’s eyes, relieved when Kase nodded and clapped him on the shoulder. He hurried his steps to reach the side of the wagon as it trudged along, and grabbed a small sack. Tossing it to Matthan, he told him to eat up. You’ll need yer strength, boy. And a name if ye don’t want to be called boy for the next two months.

Matthan, digging in the sack as though it were full of gold, merely nodded. He shoved a piece of stale bread in his mouth and chewed on it as he fell into step behind Kase, headed to the north.

Chapter 2

Matthan kept his head down as he walked with Kase and his wagon each day, trying to hide his eyes. He hadn’t realized how distinctive their blue coloring was until he’d been entangled in crowds of people that, while having similar coloring in general, tended to have brown or even black eyes. The interbreeding between Tel and Tar humans after the Great Cataclysm had erased most of the differences between them, and left the world largely with similar looking people. Tanned skin, dark hair, and dark eyes. But the kings of Freeland Hold, for reasons no one could explain, were always gifted with an easily identifiable shade of blue. Occasionally one would see fairer-haired folks, their eyes an interesting shade of green or brown, but blue seemed rarer than the dwarves that lived in the mountains to the west of Freeland Hold.

Without the tie that bound his hair back and the tangled mess hanging freely in his face, the well-groomed look that separated most knights and nobles from the common folk had been erased and his loose hair served to shade his eyes from view. There was little more he could do to mask his appearance than crawling through fields and pushing his way through the ravine hadn’t already done. His clothing, upon close inspection, would be found to be expensive and well made. However, that close inspection would require a highly-blunted sense of smell. The stench of sweat and fear along with dried blood from scratches left by thorns and branches that easily rent his silk shirt would be off-putting to all but the most persistent. At this point Matthan couldn’t even stand to smell himself.

Still, it would not do to have someone recognize him. He’d heard enough from the beleaguered folk he traveled amongst the past few days to know that as king he was not welcome. Many folks had accentuated their distaste with fists slammed into palms while several had patted their chests, their sly grins intimating they had daggers hidden there that would fit nicely into the back of the king.

What distressed him more than their obvious hatred was that he could not, no matter how hard he tried, remember what he had done to earn their ire. The fog that shrouded his mind refused to lift from his memories, leaving only the time before he’d been crowned and since escaping Fair Enton clear enough to recall. He recalled no such loathing in their faces when he’d been crowned. Certainly, they had been somber, but that was unsurprising for a king crowned while the people still mourned the untimely death of his father. The years since then, in Matthan’s memory, simply did not exist.

He tried to ignore the people’s loathing and kept putting one foot in front of the other. He had enough to worry about without concerning himself with how badly his people wanted him dead right now. Of particular concern was getting control of his own mind. With every step that took him further from Fair Enton, his head slowly cleared. The persistent tug he felt to return lessened with each night, and even his longing for the tea he loved seemed to be fading. The more the fog lifted the more determined he became to wipe it away completely. He could go hours now with a clear mind, his thoughts his own. Then suddenly he’d feel it yanked away from him, like a marionette that had just had its strings jerked roughly.

It was during those hours when Matthan relied on that same strange insistence deep inside that kept him moving forward at a measured pace. The same insistence that had told him to run from the palace was now making certain he did not stop. Occasionally he would reach up and grasp the shield around his neck, comforted by the way it seemed to stop his heart from racing with panic at the thought of leaving Freeland Hold. Kase eyed him curiously when he did so, but said nothing. If the man suspected something was off about Matthan he kept it to himself, except to bark at him when the fog reclaimed him and made him skittish, ready to bolt at the slightest perceived threat.

Kase said little to him, his expression dour much of the time as he joined those who tended to glance over their shoulders at any sound that might indicate the approach of danger. At this point Matthan understood that they feared the White Church and its knights. What Matthan did not understand was why. The single memory of the priest in Moonbarrow stood starkly in contrast to those of his youth, in which the White Church and its knights were nothing less than loyal servants of the king and Freeland Hold. Something had changed that and made the people fear them, and Matthan did not know what it was. No one would speak of it openly, as if they were afraid the Church had ears even amongst those who professed to stand staunchly against them.

When the rain had come one evening, Kase had offered Matthan a non-descript, coarse brown cloak that scratched at his exposed skin but kept the rain from his head and the chill from settling into his bones. Kase still called him ‘boy’, and though Matthan was slightly offended by the term – he was fully a man and a knight to boot – he let it go without comment. Better to be called boy and treated as just another faceless commoner fleeing the kingdom than to expose his true identity.

Four days north of Fair Enton word passed up and down the growing lines of refugees that men in the white cloaks of the Church were approaching from the south. Some folk shrugged in resignation and kept going while others dove into the woods near the edge of the road and hid themselves, shaking with fear and hiding their little ones in the underbrush.

At first Matthan was paralyzed with indecision. A knowing glance from Kase sent him crashing into the woods along with others where he found a briar bush and hunkered down, his eyes darting nervously back and forth on the road, dreading the sight of white cloaks.

They came from the south, of course, from the direction of Fair Enton. They bore down on any who refused to or simply couldn’t give way. Matthan watched, sickened, as two of them almost casually swung their weapons from horseback, neither caring or concerned about who they might harm. Two more men in white cloaks rode behind with a white-robed priest, their eyes scanning every face, every single body, and every movement as if searching for something.

More likely someone.

Matthan tensed as he felt a desire welling up to go to the priest. Surely, he would be safe with the White Church, as he had been most of his life. His resolve to stay hidden began to crumble, the urge to approach the priest increasing, while the insistence in his gut shouted at him to refuse the urge. The familiar fog crept over his mind, and he suddenly knew that if he simply returned, Fregare would fix everything, as he always had. The old priest was his rock, his stand-in father, his truest adviser. Surely, Matthan was running out of fear of the demon, not the church. Suddenly, in spite of the fog, everything seemed so clear.

Matthan shifted his weight as if to stand. He would either fly to the White Cloaks or flee from them, and at that moment he was uncertain which he would choose.

A hand grasped his forearm, squeezing it gently but firmly. Matthan’s gaze followed the hand to an arm and on to a face filled with fear. The old man to whom the arm belonged was gaunt, his narrow shoulders barely covered by the tattered remains of a plain, homespun tunic. He shook his head once, sharply, his eyes desperately begging Matthan not to draw attention to them.

Matthan’s inner stubbornness flared. The sense that he should protect this man spread from deep within his gut. For a moment, Matthan felt the fog recede and his longing