Into Forbidden Lands

Darkness.

Not heavy, nor dense, but silky smooth, like a bath in warm, oiled water.

And so peaceful.

Silence, an infinitely deep silence.

Like being immersed in an ocean of contentment.

A painless, sorrowless space where nothing intruded.

It did not last.

Nothing this good ever seemed to.

Far away, in a world she scarcely remembered, a door cracked open and a voice called to her.

No, she thought. Not again! I will not.

Child. This voice was close beside her; it was one she recognised instantly.

Go, child. Go now. They await…

She turned towards this ethereal voice, her entire soul aching with longing, but the light coming through the opening door would not be denied. It enveloped her and pulled her through.

She heard her name being called, over and over.

Illiom.

And with that, she fell back into the being of blood and flesh and bone that responded to that name.

“Well, she was gone, I tell you!” a male voice insisted.

“But obviously she was not dead, right?” argued another.

A hiss of exasperation.

“She was not breathing and her heart had stopped, that is what I call dead!”

There was a scuffle nearby.

A woman’s voice.

“Hush, you two, I think she is coming around.”

Silence.

Illiom opened her eyes.

“Illiom…”

The light was too bright, after all that soothing darkness. It was harsh and real. She squeezed her eyes shut again.

“Illiom?”

The voice was Azulya’s.

Illiom smiled without opening her eyes.

She tried to speak her friend’s name, but nothing came.

Cautiously allowing her eyes to open, she found herself falling into the burning brilliance of Azulya’s eyes, just inches away.

“Thank the Gods, Illiom! You have returned,” Azulya murmured as she touched her cheek and leaned to kiss her forehead.

Tears burned in Illiom’s eyes.

She closed them again and almost immediately drifted back into blessed darkness.

She awoke to find herself in a twilit room.

Tentatively she sat up and, after a few moments, got to her feet.

Aside from some dizziness and nausea she thought she was doing quite well. Shaking and unsteady, she stumbled towards the door. She had almost managed to reach it when it flew open.

Tarmel stood before her.

His eyes were ringed with exhaustion and his face was etched with pain and confusion.

Shocked to see him like this, she staggered, but he caught her before she could fall and carried her back to bed.

She leaned helplessly against him. Her body seemed to have lost all its strength.

He whispered her name over and over, kissing her face, her neck, her lips. She was incapable of giving anything back.

After a time, he laid her down.

“I am so cold,” she whispered, teeth chattering.

He lay down beside her, covered them both with a coarse woollen blanket and, taking her in his arms, offered her all the warmth of his body.

Sensing the depth of his distress, she sought his hand and held it pressed against her heart.

And once more, she drifted into sleep.

He was still there when she awoke.

“Promise me that you will never do anything like that again,” he whispered.

She was about to ask what he meant when it all came back to her in a bewildering rush of images.

“Elan…” she murmured. “Mist?”

He shook his head.

“Mist is gone.”

Illiom closed her eyes.

“How long have I been…?”

“Dead?” Tarmel asked, his voice heavy with pain. “Because that is what you were, Illiom. You had died. The sword had run you through, piercing both lung and liver. You bled so much, so quickly. It was…”

He swallowed hard, unable to continue.

“Did the healing lights…” she started, but then did not know how to finish her question.

He nodded.

“They came immediately, there and then, in the field. You were encased in their glow, but we all thought it was too late for the damage to be repaired, even by magic. Illiom, you were dead. I know it because I held you. And I have seen enough death to know it far too well. You were drenched in blood, your heart had stopped, your skin had gone pale, and your pupils were wide and empty. You were gone.”

She shook her head but held his gaze.

“How long have I been recovering?”

“The battle was yesterday.”

It was almost noon before they left the house. Illiom felt like a newborn colt, her movements uncoordinated and awkward.

The common was a nightmare of carnage and devastation. The air was thick with the buzzing of flies; the caw of feasting ravens punctuated the silence of the death field. The living had taken themselves as far away as they could.

Tarmel and Illiom skirted the village common, heading to where their own people were gathered.

Undina ran up to embrace Illiom with a cry of joy. Azulya was right behind her.

The other Chosen greeted her with a mixture of curiosity and relief. The Riders, on the other hand, regarded her with a degree of caution she had not felt before, and the tribals looked upon her with unrestrained wonder.

Had she truly died?

The few vague snippets that she remembered were all dreamlike, and she could still hear the echoes of Sudra’s voice, urging her to return.

“Where is Elan?” she asked her companions.

Sereth’s smile faded.

“She is over there. She will not leave him.”

She looked at where he pointed.

Birds perched on the roof, others circled overhead. No, not just birds, she realised, raptors: hawks and falcons and even a few owls. Higher still, a score of eagles soared languidly in the still air.

She turned to Azulya, but the Kroeni just shrugged.

“They have been there since the battle. They follow her everywhere. They come and go, but their number never seems to lessen.”

“Has Elan said anything about them?”

A shake of the head.

“She has not spoken at all since the slaughter.”

The birds watched as Illiom approached the dwelling.

She pushed the door open and stepped quietly into the dark interior. When her eyes adjusted she saw Elan, kneeling beside the body of her lover.

“Elan,” she called softly.

There was no answer, but after a moment Elan held out her hand, which Illiom clasped in both of hers.

Wordlessly, she gathered the grief-stricken priestess in her arms and wrapped her in her empathy.

The losses they had incurred were comparatively low. Aside from Mist, four tribals had lost their lives and many had sustained various injuries, but of these only two were serious.

“One of the Shakim is unlikely to make it,” Azulya informed Illiom later that day. “The other may still recover, given time and rest. Unfortunately, travel is out of the question for him.”

“Oh, so we are stuck again.”

Azulya shook her head.

“Argolan is adamant that we must not delay, and I agree. If we remain here we run the risk of another encounter, one that we may not survive.”

Illiom nodded. She felt a compelling need to resume their quest.

“On the other hand,” Azulya continued, “we cannot simply leave the poor man here to die or worse.”

“What could be worse?”

Azulya nodded in the general direction of the common.

“Falling into the hands of the Meresians.”

Illiom shuddered at the prospect.

“So what will happen to him?”

Her friend shrugged, her look expressing uncertainty.

“And what about the villagers? Are any still reluctant to leave?”

This time Azulya smiled as she shook her head.

“They have begun sorting through their possessions. I believe that none wish to remain here a moment longer than necessary. Oh, and we have decided to leave the corpses of the soldiers where they lie. Too much effort to do anything with them.”

Illiom sighed with relief.

“When do we leave?”

“I overheard Argolan mention that she wanted us away from this place by the day after the morrow, and now that you have…” Azulya hesitated.

Come back from the dead, Illiom thought.

“…now that you are fully recovered,” Azulya continued, “that is very likely. One more day of preparation before we continue our mission.”

The Kroeni narrowed her eyes slightly.

“Sereth mentioned something about you throwing a ball of fire during the battle and killing one of the soldiers.”

“That is not quite true,” she answered. “I did not kill him, Tarmel did that , but I did incinerate his arm.”

“…and melt his weapon! Yes, Tarmel showed us, so since when have you been able to summon fire out of thin air?”

Illiom smiled.

“Are we really going to talk about this now?”

“Why not?” Azulya countered. “Our recent melds have revealed some things about each of us, but not all. So why not speak candidly?”

Illiom nodded.

“I suppose you are right, fireballs and resurrections were not revealed by the melds.”

Azulya smiled.

“Do you know what intrigues me?” Illiom continued. “It is apparent to me now that we all had some abilities prior to receiving our Keys, and I have no doubt that the Keys have enhanced them, but the point is, we still had them before the Keys. I am beginning to think that the Keys may have singled us out as Chosen because of those abilities.”

“When we find the Adepts, we will ask them. Surely if anyone knows the answer to that, they would.”

“Ah, the Adepts…” Illiom echoed, lapsing into a prolonged silence before continuing. “So much hinges on them, and yet I feel a growing reluctance to put my faith in them. I know what the Prophecy says, but the more I think about the Adepts, the stronger my unease grows.”

Azulya laughed.

“The holder of the Key of Faith has no faith in the Adepts? That is a dire omen.”

“Well, how do you feel about them? Are you confident that when we finally find them they will be able to save the world?”

Azulya’s eyes narrowed.

“No, I am not. They have been in hiding for thousands of years. I cannot imagine what that must have been like. Maybe they are all dead. Or worse, driven to madness by millennia of solitude.”

She gazed into the distance.

“I do not even know how they will respond to our message.”

She looked at Illiom then, her eyes sparkling with humour.

“But are you side-stepping my question about that fireball of yours?”

Illiom laughed.

“Believe me, the first I knew of it was the very moment that it appeared. It is almost as if it had nothing to do with me. I did not summon it, I certainly could not control it, nor could I bring forth another.”

As she spoke, Illiom’s gaze fell to where the priestess grieved her lost love.

“Poor Elan,” she sighed sadly.

Azulya nodded.

“Yet something has freed up in our priestess as a result of all this.” She looked up at the eagles spiralling overhead. “I suspect that something is stirring awake inside each of us.”

When Illiom and Tarmel joined the others for breakfast the following morning, she felt an inexplicable unease.

“The wounded tribals are both dead,” Dreel informed them. “One died of his wounds, as was expected, but the other took his own life.”

“What?” Illiom said, shaken by the news.

“How did the other Shakim react?” questioned Tarmel.

Dreel looked at them levelly.

“Stoically. They weren’t perturbed in the least. To them, rather than risk harm to all because of his condition, sacrificing himself for the greater good was the honourable choice.”

“How does this affect our plans?” Illiom asked.

“It simplifies them,” Dreel answered promptly. “Your Shieldarm is determined to leave in the morning.”

That evening as they shared a final meal together, Argolan raised the issue of which direction their party should follow.

Malco produced the map Faer had given him at Stonecress. He spread it upon the ground before the elders, weighing the corners down with stones.

He stabbed at their destination with his finger.

“This is where we must go. What is the best way to reach it?”

After studying the map for a while, several of the elders shook their heads.

“We have no knowledge of these lands,” an elder by the name of Shanna confessed.

Another stepped forward to peer more closely at the map.

“Well, I have never seen a map like this one, but I can see straight away that this here is the Thel Drus,” he exclaimed, as he traced the river’s southward flow with a finger. “Quendor is up here somewhere, I think. I cannot read, so these marks mean nothing to me. But I have travelled to the river with my father, once, in my youth.”

He hesitated and looked up from the map.

“My wife, Ella, died of grief after the Meresians took our daughter away. I have nothing left and I do not care much whether I live or die. If I can aid you in bringing an end to this nightmare, then I offer my life gladly.” His rheumy eyes were bright with rekindled grief. “I will go with you and guide you as far as the Thel Drus.”

He turned towards the other villagers.

“If the Gods smile on me, I will meet up with you again. If they truly love me, I will be with my Ella.”

“Maest, are you sure about this?” Shanna asked. “You are no longer young and the journey is long and hard.”

The old man shrugged.

“Any longer or harder than the journey you now face?”

He turned to Malco.

“If you wish it, I will guide you.”

The Blade glanced at his companions and, noting their eager assent, he nodded.

“Thank you, we accept your offer.”

Maest grinned.

“Very well! When we leave in the morning we will head north, skirting the hills on the eastern edge of the Werewood until we reach Kragenvar Drus. Then we will see what lies in store for us.”

“North?” Malco scowled. “But is that not the direction the Meresians came from?”

“Aye, it is, but there is no other way.”

“Well, what about this Werewood then?” Scald asked.

Maest studied the cowled Chosen like a master might regard a fledgling apprentice.

“You clearly know nothing of the Werewood. We cannot go that way.”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” repeated Maest with a look of consternation.

“They are strangers,” Shanna reminded him. “They cannot know.”

Maest looked between Shanna and Malco, eventually settling on the latter.

“Nothing that goes into the Werewood comes out again.”

Scald laughed and turned towards the Chosen with mock puzzlement.

“Does this not sound familiar to any of you?”

He turned back to Maest. “How is an encounter with the Meresians preferable to a stroll in the forest?”

It was Shanna who answered.

“If you venture into the Werewood, it will chew you up and spit out your bones. The Werewood is cursed. It is not like other woods. It holds an ancient hatred for humans. No one goes in there. Not the Meresians or even the Illian Gar dare enter it. They, who seek dominion over the entire world, have thought it wiser to steer clear of the Werewood. If they cannot face it, neither can you.”

But Scald was shaking his head.

“If we had let ourselves be daunted by forbidden places, we would not be standing here now.”

“How do you know this, Shanna?” Sereth piped in. “Have you been there? Seen this wood with your own eyes?”

Shanna shook his head.

“No, I have not, but Maest has.”

All eyes turned towards the old man.

“Aye, I have.”

“And did you step into it?”

“Are you mad? No one dares enter the Werewood! All the stories clearly warn against…”

“There!” countered Scald, raising a hand theatrically. “What did I tell you? Nothing but stories.”

“They are not just stories!” the old man shouted. “When I went there in my youth, I spoke with many who lived on the Thel Drus, and none of them would sail close to the banks infested by the wood. Each had tales of happenings concerning the forest, and all warned of deadly danger.”

“You are wrong to mock us,” Shanna chastised. “The warnings of the ancients are sacred. They have kept us safe all this time.”

“Yes, but they are failing now, are they not?” Malco asked. “Now you must flee your own home because something far worse than any of your stories is coming.”

“Malco! Enough!” Azulya commanded, silencing the Blade.

“I know of only one way,” continued Maest, “and that is the way I will lead you tomorrow. It will deliver you upstream of where the Thel Drus enters the Werewood. That is as far as I go, for I will not set foot in the wood itself. I said that I did not care whether I lived or died, and I meant it, but that does not include letting Werewood gnaw on my bones for the rest of eternity.”

There were a few things left to tend to before they could leave the following morning.

The first of these concerned their young prisoner.

“We need to dispose of him,” Malco said, without hesitation.

“What?!” Illiom and Azulya spoke simultaneously and Malco looked puzzled by their reaction.

“Are you suggesting we let him go?” he asked. “To bring more Meresians down upon us? We cannot afford to let that happen.”

“Malco is right,” Tarmel agreed.

Shocked, Illiom stared at her Rider.

“We have drawn enough attention to ourselves already. If we release him, it may well go as Malco says; we could have an army snapping at our heels in no time.”

Argolan stood aside, listening, but not participating in the discussion.

“Why not leave him here alone and on foot?” suggested Azulya. “He will not get very far without a horse, so he will not be able to raise the alarm.”

“Unless he is picked up by soldiers sent to find out what happened to the first two groups,” argued Tarmel. “And then what?”

“What makes you think they will send anyone else?” Illiom asked.

Tarmel laughed.

“If something like this happened in the Ward and a patrol went missing, another would be sent out to investigate. If that in turn did not return, a much larger force would be dispatched immediately. One cannot lead an army or control a land by ignoring the disappearance of one’s troops.”

“I still do not want him killed,” Illiom said.

“Nor I,” Tarmel said, looking puzzled. “We have to take him with us.”

Illiom looked into her Rider’s eyes, feeling overwhelmingly relieved.

Malco, clearly not enchanted by this suggestion, groaned.

“Good thinking, Rider. That should give him the opportunity to kill us one by one in our sleep. Or betray our presence at the first chance he gets!”

Tarmel snorted.

“And you, Blade, cannot be a very keen judge of character. The prisoner is no more than a boy. He has not turned into a murderer, not yet. I say he comes with us.”

Argolan intervened.

“I support Tarmel’s suggestion. We are not butchers. The prisoner will come with us. We will release him when we deem it safe to do so.”

Argolan lit a brand from the breakfast fire and handed it to Elan.

The priestess took it in a daze, empty eyes staring into the spluttering flames for a long time before she walked, white-faced, towards where Mist lay.

As Elan neared the house, all the raptors perched upon the roof took wing, circling in an ever-widening spiral.

Elan walked around the house, lighting the thatch as she went. She then stood some distance away, watching as the flames took hold.

One by one the villagers did likewise until every house, barn and field in and around Wendfell fed a great pillar of smoke that rose, thick and high, into the sky.

Soon there would be nothing left of the hamlet, save the burnt ruins of the houses and the remains of the Meresian contingent scattered across the common. Nothing useful or edible would be left for the soldiers to salvage.

The villagers gathered around the horses and wains, watching with a mixture of grief and awe as their former existence went up in smoke. Regardless, Illiom also saw the look of determination on their faces.

Against the backdrop of the burning village, they exchanged well-wishes before they parted ways.

The column of refugees moved off towards the rising sun, a dull red orb behind the curtain of heavy smoke.

True to his word, Maest led them north for three days before veering north-west. The landscape continued to shift and change as they travelled. To the west, beyond the hills, they caught glimpses of a vast expanse of forest.

“The Werewood,” Maest informed them.

Illiom found her gaze drawn to the wood time and again. She was not the only one. The mysterious forest seemed to attract the attention of many in the party and Illiom began to feel that an encounter with the forest was inevitable.

The Werewood’s canopy was dense and impenetrable, a dark-green ocean that stretched into the distance.

The journey continued uneventfully for the first four days, then on the fifth the two Shakim who had been scouting ahead doubled back to warn that men were riding their way.

“How many?” asked Argolan.

“Two,” Sereth told her.

The Shieldarm did not hesitate. She ordered everyone out of the way and into a copse of trees, then asked Keilon to cloak them. This was child’s play for the conjurer as the pair of soldiers rode some distance from where the party hid.

When the Meresians reached the spot where their party had entered the woods, one reined in sharply, staring intently at the ground.

Illiom heard their exchange faintly, but clearly.

“What’s the matter?” asked his companion.

Instead of answering, the man turned and peered into the woods.

“A whole lot of horses have passed this way,” he said. “Not long ago, either. The tracks are fresh.”

“Yer sure?” asked the other.

Illiom heard Argolan whisper to Keilon.

“Can you do something about those tracks?”

“What tracks?”

“Our tracks!” she explained, in a slightly exasperated tone.

“Oh! Yes, of course.”

Illiom noticed Grifor reaching for her bow, but a gesture from Argolan stopped her.

The second soldier had caught up with the first. They were both staring at the ground now.

“What tracks?” the new arrival asked.

A short silence ensued.

“Those? They’re not horse tracks, they’re deer! Too much ale is what it is! It’s addled what brain yer got left.”

The first rider shook his head, bewildered.

“But, I saw…”

His companion was already galloping away.

“Come on, hurry up! The others will catch up with us and then you’ll have to explain why yer can’t tell the difference between horse and deer tracks.”

With that the two were off again.

“Stay where you are,” Argolan cautioned.

Illiom soon heard the pounding hooves of many horses coming their way. They watched silently as a large contingent of mounted soldiers filed past at a steady trot. She was aware of her heart hammering in her chest until the very last one was gone and the noise of their passing faded into complete silence.

“There were at least four hundred riders in that group,” Malco estimated. “Even Keilon’s tricks would not have aided us in a confrontation with that lot.”

“People from village safe from soldiers?” Undina asked, eyes full of concern.

“Good question,” Grifor said. “The villagers will have left an obvious trail behind them.”

Argolan shook her head.

“This lot are equipped for fast action, not a prolonged campaign. They did not have many supplies, just a few pack horses. They are not planning to be gone for long. I am sure the villagers are safe.”

Two days later they reached the bank of a river that Maest identified as the Inghel Drus, a sizeable waterway. Maest led them, following the fast flowing waters downstream, until they reached a place where the river was manageably shallow and safe to cross.

Travelling true west now, they clung to the river’s northern bank until this became impassable and they were forced into marshlands. Here, there were no paths that Illiom could discern, and travel became wearisome. Firm ground would suddenly become boggy, and at such times the slosh underfoot forced the riders to dismount.

They trudged along the edge of the marshlands for ten long days. Then, on the morning of the eleventh, they finally climbed a rise and negotiated a cluster of low hills. Upon reaching a summit they had a good view of what was ahead. Less than two leagues from where they stood was the sea – or so Illiom thought – until Maest spoke.

“That is the mighty Thel Drus.”

Illiom gaped at the expanse.

The river was so vast that she could not make out the other shore. Admittedly a haze hung over the waters, but even so, its breadth was incomprehensible.

They descended the far side of the hills and the dense trees soon hid all the western lands, limiting their gaze to their immediate surroundings.

They followed a gully out of the hills and found themselves moving closer once more to the Inghel Drus. Avoiding the bramble-infested bank, they rode westward as much as the lay of the land allowed.

Illiom was travel-weary and physically exhausted. All the Chosen suffered similarly, except for Malco and Sereth who, as usual, seemed impervious to the rigours of travel.

A cry from Grifor alerted them that something was afoot.

The Rider galloped to the front of the column and reined in, abreast with Argolan.

She pointed towards the thicket that screened the river from sight.

“Over there!” she said. “I saw a man.”

“Where?” asked the Shieldarm, searching the dense vegetation.

In response Grifor spurred her mount forward, making directly for the bank. She jumped from the saddle even before her horse had come to a complete halt.

“Stop!” she called out, and vanished into a stand of reeds twice as tall as she.

A command from Argolan brought Zoran and Tarmel swiftly to where the Rider had disappeared.

“Do not harm him,” the Shieldarm instructed, before they too were swallowed up by the dense growth.

The reeds rustled, a voice cried out a few times and then rose into a high-pitched wail of protest. Soon the three Riders emerged, dragging a lone figure with them.

The man struggled helplessly.

“Let go, let go! I do not harm! No harm!” he wailed in terror.

It took some doing to reassure the poor terrified wretch. His clothes were nothing more than rags, crudely stitched together into a single, ill-fitting garment.

He was so petrified that he kept his eyes tightly shut, until the Chosen’s quiet words reassured him.

Illiom thought it clear that the man was not entirely in command of his wits. Interestingly, he responded more readily to Undina than to any of the others.

“What name is?” she asked.

“Tanner?” he answered, as if he sought permission for it to be so.

“Tanner,” Undina nodded encouragingly. “What you here do?”

“I check traps. I am hungry. Traps have food in them – sometimes. I need more food.”

“We not you hurt. We questions ask, but you not frightened be. We not Tanner hurt. Where you live?”

The poor man looked on the verge of tears again.

“Here. I live here.”

“By river?”

The man nodded.

“Ask him about the settlements along the river,” suggested Argolan.

Undina nodded.

“You alone live?” she asked instead.

Tanner nodded, his eyes darting nervously around.

“Why?”

The question seemed to confound him. He gaped in astonishment at Undina.

“Why?”

“Yes, why you alone live?”

“Are you mad?” he spat with sudden vehemence. “You not see what lives in Thel Drus? You not Meresian, not Illian Gar, yet you not frightened? Not frightened of dead or monsters?”

The man was so beside himself that he seemed to have forgotten his earlier fear of them. It was as though the remembering of a greater fear had suddenly rendered them harmless in his eyes.

“What does he say?” asked Argolan, alerted by the man’s change in tone.

“I not yet ask,” Undina replied, turning. Then she addressed Tanner once more.

“Tanner, we strangers are. We from far land. We west travel. Are towns or villages on big river? Where supplies and food we find?”

“Few towns in north full of Meresians and Illian Gar. South towns free. Too small, too poor, Mereas not interested. Too near Werewood.”

Sereth related the man’s response for Argolan’s benefit.

“Ask him if there are any boats we can hire,” she instructed, and Undina complied.

“What you want boats for?” was Tanner’s response.

“To reach the other side,” suggested Malco. Tanner seemed to not notice the Blade’s sardonic tone. Instead, he burst into laughter.

“You are strangers! Nothing on other side.”

“Define nothing,” Scald piped in.

“Maybe nothing not right word. How about slow painful death? There, that better? That what you look for?”

The Chosen exchanged knowing glances. The Werewood’s reputation was consistent.

They pressed Tanner for more information and soon learned that the nearest hamlet was a place called Aspelant, about a day and a half’s ride along the bank of the Thel Drus.

“You cross Inghel Drus soon, yes?” Tanner advised. “Water too deep further. Sometimes monsters from Thel Drus come. If not cross you end in Thullen. Mereas last south town.”

He looked at them with wide eyes filled with alarm.

“You not go there,” he said, and his head seemed to shrink back into his torso, like a turtle retracting into its shell.

“Inghel Drus south bank become Thel Drus east bank. You follow to first village. Aspelant. Food, boats there. Very poor village. Next village smaller, poorer. Coldspree. Same as Aspelant, but less food, less boats, so cheaper.”

When all this had been related to her, Argolan asked Tanner to lead them to the nearest safe crossing.

They were about to follow the man when Maest stopped them.

“This is as far as I go. I have fulfilled my task and now I will go back and try to catch up with my people.”

When Malco conveyed the old man’s intentions to Argolan, the Shieldarm nodded but was concerned.

“Very well,” she said. “Make sure to supply him with enough provisions to make the journey back to Wendfell three times over. That should see him catch up with the others. Malco, thank him and be sure to tell him that he must avoid all paths, and to be on the watch for the soldiers. Make sure he understands that he should not light any fires until he is certain that there is no danger of being discovered.”

Malco delivered Argolan’s warning, while Zoran and Pell provided the elder with the supplies he would need.

Maest reassured them that he would be careful and then turned his horse to begin the journey back.

Illiom watched, along with the rest, until the old man was out of sight.

May Sudra ward you, she prayed, but her heart was heavy with foreboding.