The Orb of Piralak

By Dave J Morgan

When people start acting strangely in the region of Tara-Mech, a trapper and his friends discover the devastating truth of what is coming. Old enemies of the land of Mirabar and the newly found Ocrieser are gathering to wreak ages-old revenge on all involved in their fate. Can Paxley Wray, a trapper of wild beasts, make the right choices, and even then have the abilities to stop such fated, utter destruction of whole civilizations?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dave J Morgan
• Release date: Feb 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005385118

Dave J Morgan

I am one of the growing band of indie writers who believe ebooks are a way of breaking traditional author bonds. I write fiction and fantasy, with the emphasis on characters and their trials.

Book preview

The Orb of Piralak

A fantasy novel by

Dave J Morgan

Published by Dave J Morgan

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2021 Dave J Morgan

The Orb of Piralak

Prologue

Removing the arrow had been a bad idea. It had been reflexive and the old man knew he had taken away any hope of living. He crawled further into the undergrowth, one thin hand clamped over the wound in his side, trying not to leave an obvious trail for his pursuers. He sat back against a rotting, moss coated tree stump and peered through the plants at the open ground he had just crossed. He listened. The dawn light and a thin mist made it hard to see. Two of his pursuers came into view suddenly, less than one hundred feet away. The old man’s breath was increasingly laboured and noisy, but he paid it little heed because of the fast-flowing river at his back.

The two figures stopped and one sheathed his sword and cupped his hands to his mouth. Talgwyn Morinese, we know you can hear us! A pause. Let us get you to a surgeon. Your injury was a mistake we… We thought you were a deer. Another pause. Simeon is already heading into town, wouldn’t you like to join him?

Yes, in a box, thought Talgwyn, remembering seeing his friend’s death an hour before. The speaker waved a hand in Talgwyn’s direction and for one heart stopping moment he thought he’d been found.

No sign of him, Igrath! someone less than twenty feet away shouted. It was followed by boots tramping through the brush, so close that Talgwyn saw him pass.

The old man moved and fresh, deep red blood squeezed past his fingers. A shiver, a near convulsion, ran though his body. Escape, he must escape and tell someone what had happened. He watched the three men talk a little then move off in different directions, none came his way.

Talgwyn dragged his weakened body towards the sound of rushing water. He stopped at the lip of the high riverbank, breathing heavily, watching the waters race by. With gritted teeth the old man shoved through the shrubbery and into the damp air.

Igrath spun at the sound of splashing, his brown eyes narrowed. From upstream he saw the plume of spray and a dark hump in the water. Igrath sat back on a rock. The wily devil, he muttered, removing his worn black leather cap and running a hand through his short brown hair. He called to the others in his party. It would be pointless chasing though the dense brush. Besides, the waters fanned out into a small lake and slowed a mile downstream, they’d finish the job there.

CHAPTER ONE

The rider ducked beneath a thick branch that overhung the path, then glanced back at the two packhorses to make sure they were clear. Even on horseback an observer would notice the man’s poise, his ease with his surroundings, despite the inherent dangers which faced any traveller of Tara-Mech.

Long brown hair was tied back from his high-cheek boned face by a strip of thin blue-dyed leather. Pale blue eyes swung back to study the trail as it dipped and wound past a fallen ash tree. It had been felled six years ago by lightening, the old course of the path was little more than a furrow in the grass. Little in the area had changed little over the past fifteen years. He smiled broadly as he looked forward to meeting his friends in the town tomorrow.

They spent their summers in the new territories trapping some of the stranger creatures that inhabited Tara-Mech for numerous institutes and museums. It was profitable, for one with a nose for wise investments, and if he and his partners caught the right specimens this season he would be able to consider retirement come the next snows. Maybe he would find a wife.

He thought of Kalig, a friend back in Asurpher, a town on the south coast, and his seven children and a vixen of a wife. The forming smile twisted into pursed lips. Maybe not.

He pulled left on the reins and veered from the main trail onto a grass-grown version that muffled the hooves of his horses. Few came to his cabin in the winter. Despite its closeness to the town of Piralak, winter tended to bring the wilder beasts down from the ranges as life got desperate, and none but fools travelled under those conditions. Settlements in Tara-Mech had developed a siege mentality to get them safely through the winter months.

A quarter of a mile further on the trees gave way to a meadow, steeply angled at first, but quickly levelling to a gentle slope that ended as it was cut across by a slow-moving river. The opposite bank was thickly wooded. To the left was a log walled cabin built against the lee of a small granite rise. Free standing, and some twenty feet away, was a stable block, corral and several well-constructed holding pens and cages. Beneath the largest was a cold store cellar.

The man dismounted next to the pens and stripped the loads off his pack horses, then let them loose in the corral. He led his own mount into the stable and removed the saddle. It whickered softly and he rubbed the stallion’s muzzle, glancing about at the fresh straw, clean water and feed. Chana is worth the coin, eh Steel? said the man, untacking the horse.

Picking up a stiff brush, he gave the grey stallion a careful grooming then tipped feed into the trough and moved to close the door. Steel watched him carefully, then decided the food was a much more promising prospect.

The man noticed the open cabin door as he moved towards the dumped supplies. He frowned. In fifteen years Chana had not left so much as a latch off, knowing that damages would come from his wages. Drawing a half-sword from his belt he let his eyes roam the meadow, treeline, and sluggish river. Only wildlife could be seen. He looked at the stable. Steel was usually a good barometer for danger, and the stallion’s solitary interest at that moment was his belly. Still erring on the side of caution, he came at the cabin from the left to avoid the open door. The shuttered windows gave no hint of the cabin’s possible dangers. The trapper bobbed his head quickly into the room. He saw a body face down in the centre of the soil floor with blood staining the ground about its left side. Another glance revealed that the door to the rear chamber was still locked and there was nothing hiding on the ceiling – it was known for some of the great spiders to use man made structures to build their nests.

The trapper stepped into his cabin and moved warily to the corpse, all sorts of predators could be drawn to the smell of death. He turned the body over with his boot. It was an old man, white haired and slack faced. His clothes were well made, built for durability…and they were wet. The trapper hunkered down and examined the wound in the body’s side. Arrow hole, he murmured thoughtfully.

Rising, he closed the door and slid the steel bolts home. He removed his gloves as he returned to the corpse. Crouching once again, he laid one hand on the cold forehead of his unfortunate guest and dug the fingers of the other into the soil floor. He steadied his breathing and closed his eyes, immersing in the experience that he had come to call ‘tapping’ in his youth.

Gypsy lay dead on their porch. A pet cat killed by some malicious child who had a petty grudge or gravitated towards cruelty. The boy who would become the trapper had found his pet when his mother had sent him to the well for water. He knelt beside the pathetic corpse, stroking the sticky fur and crying – one hand resting on the ground. The vision was crisp, forming with violent certainty, intent on delivering the harshest of truths.

Gypsy had caught a large rat and killed it. He saw Matix, a boy from the poorest part of town, beat Gypsy to death with a rock. Matix was after the rat and Gypsy would not give up her catch. The cat’s dying vision was of the boy hugging the rat to his thin body and backing away from what he had done, eyes wild with desperation and sadness.

Matix came to the door of his hovel the following morning to find a large basket of fruit and vegetables on the step. The boy had watched Matix call to his mother, saw them weep gratefully, and, despite the beating his father would give for the useless gift of their own fruit, was glad.

The trapper saw the old man staggering from the river, soaked, shivering with cold and dying. His clothes and grey hair flattened and heavy with water. There was no sound, there never had been with tapping. He fell back onto all fours, coughing blood over the small shale beach. For some time he was unable to summon the strength to get up. Finally he clawed himself upright, eyes beginning to focus on the cabin a way up the slope. With barely controlled steps he staggered and swayed towards his last chance of justice. The door was unlocked, and he was too desperate for polite knocking. The door swung inward and Talgwyn Morinese collapsed a few paces into the room. The empty room watched the old man die.

The trapper withdrew, knowing that the water cut off his chance of retracing the man’s route from here. To find out more he would have to locate the place that the old man had gone into the water. A series of images flashed by as he broke off, each a frozen piece of what could be. It was as though he touched streams of prophecy. Never going in, always coming out of a tap, like a fish hook. They became memories to be recalled when he needed.

The trapper shook himself and got to his feet and moved to the rear of the room, pulling a key from his tunic pocket. He disappeared into the dark second chamber and for some minutes the cabin was filled by the sound of mechanical clacking.

He reappeared in the main room carrying two loaded heavy crossbows and left the cabin immediately. Outside the man sat on a tree stump beside Steel’s stable – one bow on the floor beside him and the other lying across his knees. The stallion’s head appeared and he snorted, tossing his grey mane.

One place ahead of you on this occasion, Steel, said the trapper, his eyes fixed on the treeline at a point between two large ash. The horse whinnied. I’ll be fine, go back inside. Steel eyed him a moment longer then withdrew. The man heard him snort again. And you, he smiled.

Igrath sat on his horse amongst the trees and gazed

down at the cabin.

Who is he? asked one of his companions.

"Just some ageing animal trapper, Tiverak. Alligan, use that spell of yours and move round below him. But don’t kill him yet," said Igrath.

Alligan handed his reins to Tiverak and dismounted, vanishing silently into the bracken.

How long? asked Tiverak, tapping the hilt of his sabre.

When I say. And tie that horse to a tree or something. I don’t want him knowing that there are three of us! snapped Igrath, dismounting.

The trapper’s pale blue eyes watched the two men walk their mounts into the open, stopping less than thirty feet into the meadow. Both were shabbily dressed, but their weapons were well maintained – the mark of coiners, mercenaries. One hung back, glancing at the trees. Nervous. The trapper looked to the other man. Sure, even brash, in his stance. Surprising for a man so young. Despite the heavy winter clothing he was lean, by his face and hands. He had the eyes of a hardened survivor. A killer.

Fine morning, opened Igrath.

The seated man remained silent, his long chestnut brown hair tied back from his clean-shaven, angular face with a strip of dyed blue leather.

We are…looking for a friend of ours. He was wounded by brigands earlier today, said Igrath, with a hint of theatrical concern that made the trapper smile thinly.

This is my land and you’re trespassing. You’ve overstayed your welcome, said the trapper loudly.

Igrath’s irritation grew. By who’s authority?

I have copy deeds in Piralak and originals held by Father Horale Paer of the monks of the Golden Sun, at Kirchen Abbey in Solci on the Slayer Isle.

The men looked at each other. The trapper shifted, appearing to be looking for a more comfortable position. The crossbow bucked in his hands and the quarrel flashed over a section of newly cropped grass, apparently stopping in mid-air. A scream echoed over the meadow and a man blinked into sight his left leg broken below the knee by the crossbow dart.

Pick up your friend and leave my land!

Igrath locked down his rage and despatched Tiverak to get Alligan. Who are you?

The trapper met Igrath’s gaze unwaveringly. I am Paxley Wray.

Wray watched the men leave. Come out, Chana.

A blond man of twenty-three rose from the tall grass off to the left and walked towards him. He ran a hand over a light beard which framed his blocky face and glanced at the trees.

Who were they, Chana? asked Wray, getting to his feet and handing the spent crossbow to Chana.

Coiners. Hired by Councillor Mallet a few weeks back. He threw a glance at where the riders had entered the trees. The talker was Igrath, Mallet’s right hand in all matters lawful.

Paxley stood, his brow furrowed, as he thought about Igrath. What does a good dwarf like Mallet need with hired thugs?

I don’t know, Pax. He shook his head. They’ll be back at some point.

I was well within the law… Chana opened his mouth. …but they know I’ll kill them with scant thought. Mallet will tell them that much. Maybe they’ll even see sense for themselves.

I doubt it, Pax. Chana caught sight of the body through the open door.

Do you know who it is?

Can’t say until I see the face, replied the other, walking towards the cabin.

How many people are missing?

Around six at last count.

What’s been going on this last year, Chan? The only way people died in Piralak last season was by wild animals or carelessness.

A few months back two archaeologists arrived and set up in the hills, despite being warned every time they came into town for supplies. They reckoned they’d found some kind of tomb. Soon after everything started to get a little weird, well, weirder than Tara-Mech usually is, and- Chana stopped in the doorway. Make that seven, Pax.

Why? Is he not on the list?

No…he’s one of the archaeologists who found the tomb. One Talgwyn Morinese by name. I guess Simeon is also dead.

The other archaeologist?

Aye.

Paxley glanced about. Listen can I ask you to do a couple of extra things for me?

Name them, replied Chana, laying the crossbow on the table.

Store the old man’s body in the cellar, then put my gear in the cabin. I’m going into the hills to try and find the old man’s spore. He turned to leave, then stopped and swivelled to look at the blond-haired man. Find Golf and bring him here. He’s probably at the Nine Lambs getting drunk, that’s his usual ritual on his first day.

The Nine Lambs lost its licence after it was found to be withholding taxes late last year. The new innkeep renamed it the Iron Cat.

Doesn’t sound as welcoming.

Anything else? asked Chana, irritated by Paxley’s assuming nature.

Yes…don’t leave the door unlocked this time.

The thin man held the flagon over his mug and watched the dregs slide together and drop into the half full vessel. His hand went to his money pouch then fell away. He had less coin than usual left after the journey to Piralak. He would have to pay the food and lodging in advance, at least until his friend arrived and he could move to the cabin. He sighed. No one trusted enough these days.

He watched the inn’s patrons through ale-shrouded eyes. Most of them he knew, but there seemed to be far too many coiners in the town this season, and that usually meant keeping your head down was the best way to avoid a night in the militia cells and the resulting fine that he couldn’t afford. He drained the last of his ale slowly, savouring the flavour. Rising on shaky legs, he gripped the table for support. This body could hold its ale much less than the last. He sucked in a deep breath and blew it out through the drooping brown moustache that kept his upper lip warm.

You okay, Golf? asked a barmaid, as she collected empties from the next table.

Yeah…yeah, just a little woozy, Clair. He tried a smile and found his face muscles incapable of co-ordinated actions.

Choose a better body next time, eh, she said, patting his shoulder. Golf nodded and swayed to the door, held the handle a moment, then plunged into the night.

That him? asked the smaller of the three men watching the thin man teeter from the Iron Cat.

Aye. See the bronze armband? Just catch him and try not to kill him, said the tallest. I don’t want to answer to Mallet if things go wrong.

Yeah, like we do either, put in the third man, scratching his long nose with a grubby finger.

Golf took a little time to wait for the world to stop whirling. When it did he lurched his way down the weakly lit main street. He was vaguely aware of a group of men walking across the street ahead. As they drew level Golf’s vision filled with long nose’s fist as a straight left caught him full in the face. Golf fell back into the shadows and silence came to the street.

Well that was easy, Maragi, said long nose.

We haven’t got him to the cell yet, said the taller Maragi. Mallet was very insistent about that, wasn’t he, Shink.

The smaller man nodded vigorously.

How dangerous can one man be? asked long nose, stepping toward the point Golf had fallen.

A fist the size of a small beer barrel cannoned out of nowhere and long nose sailed back through the air. The owner of the beer barrel stomped into the lamplight. If that was the best you could do, men, then this is not going to be a painful night for all of you! he said angrily.

Maragi and Shink stared up at a red-haired giant with slack jaws.

We have no quarrel with you, said Maragi glancing, back to where long nose lay, his face smashed and looking like he was dead. All we want is... his eyes fell on the twisting bronze band on the giant’s forearm. It was the same as the thin man had worn. Dear god…you’re him!

Who? asked Shink, his eyes flicking from one to the other.

"He’s Golf, Shink. He’s a shapeshifter!"

Golf took a step forward and raised his massive fists. A surprised look crossed his face and he toppled forward unconscious.

Do I have to do everything myself, Maragi? asked Igrath, stepping from the shadows casually waving an iron tipped cudgel. Shink, get the handcart and let’s get out of here. Some of the militia still have an annoying habit of being law abiding.

Chana watched from the shadows of a porch some distance away. He looked about frantically for help but knew there wasn’t any. He could shout, but there may be other coiners he had yet to see. But if he let them take Golf what kind of friend would he be? The blond man drew the half sword at his belt.

And just what are you going to do with that, Chana? Cut butter?

He spun and fell in an attempt to face the newcomer, who caught him. If you’re that scared of your sister, Chana, what chance would you have against Igrath and the other coiners?

Gods, Shannon, are you trying to kill me? At the noise of a cart he turned away from her.

Together they watched the coiners heave Golf onto the cart.

You’re militia, Shan, can’t you stop them? pleaded Chana, tugging at one of the faded blue lapels on her tunic.

And you don’t remember Capor and Nimep being found in that cellar on Folley Street?

The two militia had been foot hung by their feet, their heads removed and placed beneath them to be coated in their own blood. That’s something you never forget, Shan.

"Pax. Is he back?

Yes. Talgwyn Morinese is dead. Pax found him in his cabin. He thinks Igrath did it, and we both think that means Simeon is also dead.

It would be stupid to think otherwise, brother.

Igrath’s small group began to move away.

Right. You find a safe place until dawn then go find Pax and I’ll follow these and find out where they take Golf. I’ll pick up his stuff from his room if I think it’s safe.

I could follow them-

No you couldn’t, Chan. You know what Pax said about you and swords. Get a bow and get back to Paxley.

He studied her for a second, considering arguing, then sighed, saying, All right. Right. Be careful, Shan, they brought Golf down all too easily.

Shannon watched to make sure Chana had gone, then padded after Igrath. She just hoped there would be enough time for them to group and rescue Golf. What have you got involved in Mallet, she wondered.

Flecks of light blinked in and out of existence before Paxley Wray’s eyes as he reached the top of a hill. He bent over and clutched his knees, feeling his heart and lungs thump about looking for more space in his ribcage. Gasping air, he straightened and glanced back down a slope he had imagined an easy climb. He clenched his teeth as stitch tightened his right side. Paxley tugged his water skin free and took a couple of deep gulps. He had forgotten how much water a man needed in the wilderness. The stitch was a warning about the dangers of dehydration.

Asurpher had made him softer than any time before. Too much good living. He patted his stomach, feeling the jiggle of extra flesh. Not much, but enough to worry him. He had always taken great pride in his appearance. Never liking stereotypes, he fervently avoided the trap of opulence that many of his peers had fallen prey to, a civilised man who shunned the full embrace of civilisation.

Paxley crouched and buried his hands in the soft earth tapping into his surroundings. A fox ran by chasing the scent of a rabbit that had passed a few minutes previously. He ran two days of such sights, then stood, shaking the dirt from his hands. No humans or other two-legged creatures had passed this way. Shading his eyes pale blue eyes from the sun, he scanned the river that ran downstream to his right, and carefully scoured the landscape in every other direction. Igrath had to have ridden along the north road at some point because the terrain prevented horses from using any other path. According to a tinker he’d met along one of the trails, Talgwyn and Simeon had been camped out just north by north west of his present position. He’d start there.

It took two gruelling hours to reach the burnt out remains of the archaeologists’ camp. Paxley wandered around it looking for Simeon’s body. A large canvas tent sat in the centre of the clearing that they had used, its front support split in two causing the front to have collapsed. In front of the tent were two folding tables that had been overturned. A tray lay upside down as it had fallen, a scattering of bone fragments, china, oddly shaped bottles and a bronze clasp littered the floor around it. The fire pit had been pulled by wind and dampened by the morning mist. The spit had been pulled apart by wild animals and whatever had been the archaeologists next meal had filled their bellies instead. At the edge of the camp, tucked in beneath an overhanging rock, a tether sat tangled in the bushes. Paxley nodded. Maybe they were branded, or one of the town folk would recognise the pack horses that the archaeologists had owned.

The trapper tapped several points and finally saw Simeon stumble as an arrow struck his upper left arm, saw him scream and spin as it struck. Saw the second, killing shaft enter his chest and punch clear of his back. Paxley withdrew. In the background, between two ash trees, he had seen Talgwyn drop a pail of water in shock, then turn and run. Paxley walked off in that direction.

The angle had been wrong and he couldn’t see the archers, and so far he had not seen Igrath and he needed to know for certain whether the coiner was involved. Once he was sure he would confront Mallet. He shook his head still refusing to believe his friend would be involved in multiple murders, let alone a cover-up.

CHAPTER TWO

At four and a half feet tall Councillor Mallet was of average stature for a dwarf. He was less average in his chosen profession. Most dwarfs became miners and weaponsmiths, metalworkers or forgers of coins and ingots for numerous treasuries across Mirabar. He had become the administrative figure head for a border town populated with humans.

Mallet’s dress was less military than his kin. A double layered wool shirt and leather waistcoat of soft storah calf hide overlaid by his silver chain of office. Fleece-lined trousers were strapped at the top, about a very dwarven mid-riff, by a thick silver buckled leather belt, and pushed into mid-shin iron-shod leather boots. His hair was traditionally long, flecked from the temples with grey. His beard had been waxed into three stalactites beneath his chin.

Mallet peered through the open trap in an iron door. In a carved stone cell, lit by a single lamp, lay a red haired man of expansive proportions. The dwarf slowly closed the hatch and stepped off the box he used to manage high tasks.

Do we kill him, Councillor Mallet? asked Igrath, scratching at his scalp.

No. The dwarf turned to leave.

We really should, insisted Igrath.

Mallet’s blocky fist smashed into the coiner’s mid-riff and he folded, the dwarf glared down at the wheezing man on the floor. Never challenge me authority!

Igrath held his gut and breathed hard and deep to quell the pain as he watched the councillor stalk away.

Is the coin really worth this? asked Shink, helping Igrath to his feet.

For now, it is! said Igrath, snatching his arm away from Shink’s help and stalking out of another door to the one used by Mallet.

Mallet locked the door behind him and strode to the back wall of his quarters. Placing a hand on the chiselled surface he pushed and lifted his hand to the left. A thin crack appeared and then broadened, a section of the wall folded inward. The dwarf could feel its need. Feel his need. At the centre of the small chamber, on a stone pedestal, sat a green leather cushion. Atop that sat an Orb. The size of a man’s fist, its surface swam green and blue, like oil on water.

I was lonely, the Orb whispered inside Mallet’s head.

Those who found ye are dead.

But they were not sacrificed, hissed the Orb with anxiety.

They were difficult. One escaped and died on a trapper’s land.

They should have brought the trapper, sulked the Orb.

There are others we can use.

Why?

Because…because he’s me friend.

I am your only friend, purred the Orb. That must be enough!

Mallet’s will fractured some more, I’ve another.

Give them to me.

Soon. He’ll bring the trapper ta us.

Why do we need to wait?

They have magic-

Give them to me.

When the trapper comes. Mallet picked up the Orb. Show me!

The Orb was silent for some seconds. Then a silver tentacle curled out of the smooth surface, seeking. Mallet shivered as it attached to the side of his head on a small shaved patch. Images as clear as life filled the dwarf’s mind. A land of rolling hills, open fields and green trees. Open veins of gold that laced every other hillside. Mallet fed on the fantasy and the Orb fed on him, draining his life and bloating his greed and paranoia. Soon it would be strong enough to complete the task it had been created for. And the dwarf? It did not care. It would easily find a new carrier. A new dullard with all too easily embellished dreams.

Chana banked the fire then moved to the door and gazed out onto the darkening landscape. Night came on fast in Tara-Mech, even in summer. He was worried. No, not worried. Concerned. All day he had paced the empty cabin and waited for Paxley or Shannon to return, agonising over the limited choices available to him.

Chana locked the door and moved to each window in turn checking the bolts. It was the third time, but one could never be too careful. Returning to the fire he sat on the edge of the bench that jutted from the wall to the blaze’s right. Everything was as he had left it. Paxley hadn’t been back. A large flat case that was among the trapper’s belongings caught his attention. Intrigued, the blond man got back up. Paxley wasn’t known for buying frivolous objects. He would after all have to transport it from Piralak to Asurpher and back each year.

Chana ran his hand along the dark wood case, pausing at one of three silver clasps, wondering about the contents. The case alone was expensive, near as tall as a man, and as wide, but barely a hands length thick. It was well made to endure travel and protect whatever Pax had bought. What harm would it do if he opened it? He popped the clasps and pulled open the flat top. His reflection gazed back from a three-quarter length polished metal mirror that was held in place by rolled cotton cloth along its edges and across at two points. Chana ran his hand over the polished bronze.

This must’ve cost a small fortune, he breathed, pulling a section of the wadding clear and admiring the superb scrolling that formed the mirror’s decorated metal frame. Wray paid him well for his duties, and he was secretly well off, but he doubted he would ever be able to count such luxuries amongst his own belongings.

Easing the mirror from its case he stood it on the wooden floor in the bedchamber and stood back. Chana went back into the main room and came back with his sword. He made a few moves, watching himself from the corner of his eye. He grimaced. Pax was right, he had the skill with hand and eyes, swift and sure, but he lacked balance and sure-footedness, not a good trait in battle. or facing someone like Pax, as he had found in his lessons. He studied himself in the mirror. Slim waisted and broad chested with strong shoulders and muscular arms that were covered by well-made leather trousers and a green woollen shirt beneath his leather tunic. He was born to be an archer Pax had often said. Pax also admitted that Chana was a better archer than he would ever be.

He rubbed at the close-cut blond beard that coated his chin and jaw halfway to his ear and casually waved the sword. Perhaps he should tie his opponents’ feet together.

Tap tap. Chana froze, then his eyes slid sideways to look at the main door.

Open the door, Chan, it’s me, Pax! came a muffled voice.

How do I know it is? called the blond man.

Chan thought he heard a sigh. Just open the door, Chana, it’s getting bitter out here.

The bowman remembered their password. What bird am I?

A Blue Finch.

Chana slid the bolts free and Paxley pushed his way in. He made straight for his bedchamber and returned wrapped in a blanket.

"Get me a mug of warm milk, Chana,