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THE MISERY OF THIS dead forest that stank with the musty stench of rotted wood burdened their passage. The horses were uneasy and the woodland itself was wounded. Fallen trees were commonplace, their trunks looking as if small firedrakes had burrowed into the gaping wounds. Carbuncles of white and orange fungi blistered the standing trees, and their very leaves were a sickly yellow hue, diseased. The gods alone knew what lurked, awaiting unsuspecting victims.
It would have surprised none of them if Gethrond had fled entirely, but they knew he was hiding as a ploy to waste them much time. Fleeing would cost them, but they suspected he was keen to join the Circle and receive amnesty. They knew he was certainly prepared for them, and therefore Gethrond would be most confident he could win by some measure. As far as Astocath and Math were concerned, amnesty was out of the question.
Leading their horses on foot in a line, as the trees were too dense to allow for a comfortable ride, they reached a place where the woods thinned, though they certainly weren’t at the edges of this forest. Astocath halted. The others stood still behind him as he shouted out, “Gethrond!”
The sorcerer stood almost relaxed with his hands casually resting upon each hip. Brown hair tinged with grey curled down the sides of his clean-shaven face, and the locks rolled over his medium-sized, narrow-looking shoulders. His appearance, on the whole, did not indicate the number of years he was aged. On the top of his head, an old, red, pointy hat wilted down the back of his neck, making him look a little odd. He smiled as if expecting to make new friends, and his lips revealed ivory-white teeth that looked sharp enough to bite through his tongue if he took no care. His brown eyes flashed, almost as if he could cast lightning bolts from the pupils should he so desire. This was not something Astocath had anticipated. He thought Gethrond would bear the image of an emaciated old man, given his true age, not someone so easily underestimated as young and inexperienced.
“So, you’re here now,” Gethrond said.
No one spoke. They had little to say, and otherwise hoped this was not another simulacrum. Astocath considered him carefully. This time it seemed Gethrond was indeed here in the flesh. He cast a shadow and his magical aura was blatant. They marvelled at his nerve as it seemed he was really standing before them.
“Are you sure you’ll not sponsor my return to the Circle?” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other in discomfort. Math was working already. Gethrond had not yet noticed that roots were springing from the ground and winding around his legs.
“How could we trust you?” said Astocath. His tone sounded derisive. The effort to pronounce every syllable was begrudged. “You have murdered two wizards and hundreds of people.”
Mordrak was incredulous they were giving Gethrond the benefit of any conversation.
The man raised his hands with his wrists facing upwards and his fists clenched. “Oh! You seek to make me a whipping boy? I am the Medeanites’ saviour!”
Mordrak wondered if the suspicion that had long since been sown in his mind was correct. Gethrond was a hapless tool of the Medeanites’ cunning for the mage looked young, an age less than Math or Astocath and not older. Was this a complete contrivance of the Circle, to bring Tell to his knees so he believed he needed to tolerate them?
“We have already played your game.” Astocath spoke cuttingly of their recent battle against his simulacrum. “It’s tiresome. You killed Ifhrd.”
“I could have killed you all by now,” said Gethrond. “But I have rather preferred to seek ways of finding your good selves and discussing the many important issues with you. It was Mordrak I wanted dead, so things would not come to this. I was going to save us!”
Mordrak glanced up to see a bough beginning to break above Gethrond, who was still distracted as he attempted to draw them into his reasoning. “You are cutting me off from the Circle and I’m left to fend for myself. And now I find myself fighting for my very existence against unscrupulous magi who have turned into bounty-hunters, such as yourselves.”
“We are not bounty hunters in the slightest!” said Astocath angrily. “We are sorting out the status quo. And you know that, though we don’t know why you have done what you have done. How is it you look so young? Who have you contracted your soul to?”
Now Gethrond paused and scratched his chin as if he was lost to deep thought, looking assuredly upon the years of his sad lot. “I know!” He raised a finger. There was a loud crack as the bough broke from the tree to land just behind the renegade mage, though the branches caught him.
Mordrak leaped towards the wizard to evade a boulder that suddenly landed and rolled where he had stood only seconds before.
“You all die now!” cried a deep, mournful voice. The cry came from the ogre who had thrown the boulder and now pushed through the trees toward Mordrak. Haik and Talmar rushed forward to join Mordrak, intercepting the beast.
Meanwhile, Astocath cast a ball of fire at the sorcerer. Gethrond was struggling against the entangling roots that had now transformed into vines that he found had grabbed his legs, as well as the entangling branches from the bough. They wrapped around him like hands, twigs stretched out like clenching fingers. Flames from Astocath’s fiery ball readily took to the binding wood, and smoke billowed around Gethrond as he struggled. The very branches entrapped his arms and legs. Worse for hm, as he unravelled some, they fast became firmer. Math was quickly spell-binding them to become as hard as iron.
Mordrak was drawn to the fight against the sorcerer, the one who had tormented him so much through the wraiths, tarnished his name from his fight with Ifhrd, caused his sister to leave him for a mage, all because of Gethrond’s scheming. He left the ogre with the henchmen and walked until he stood over the sorcerer. Anger filled his heart as he stood looking at the distorted face that shouted desperate commands against the vines to set himself free. Yet Mordrak felt his sword urge him not to strike. The blade was as reluctant to pierce Gethrond’s chest as it had been to thrust against Ifhrd. Mordrak urged his mind against the power, but this time the sword seemed stronger, with a conviction of its own.
Gethrond suddenly opened his eyes. Not understanding the incanting language, Mordrak nonetheless realised Gethrond was uttering a spell to deal with him as an immediate danger. Mordrak felt the force of a wind rapidly grow, forcibly billowing around himself, and all the dead leaves and twigs, the dust from the ground, thrashed up into his face and eyes. Then a small whirlwind picked up and tore at him and spun him around, shoving him this way and that. His eyes stung as more clouds of dust blew into his face, and staggering backwards, he lost his balance and began to fall. The wind seemed to slip beneath his feet, and it lifted him up into the air. As if unseen hands clenched the soles of his boots, he rose a few feet into the air and then was turned upside down.
The forceful gust suddenly deserted him, and he was cast heavily to the ground. His sword fell away from his grip. Loose dirt and leaves that were scattered by the wind now whistled around him. Every loose piece of muck found its way up his nose and into his eyes and mouth; he might have been feasting on the dirt. He could do nothing but writhe as he choked on it.
Meanwhile, as Math attempted to harden the bonds around Gethrond, who in turn was fighting to loosen them, Astocath sent a small ball of fire at the wood constraining the mage. He did not want to set the forest alight.
Haik had fallen to an ogre. With Talmar a keen swordsman against him, and Tulan assisting, the other fought fearlessly until the squire slipped around behind him and stabbed him in the back. They cheered at their joint victory but nevertheless, another two ogres were crashing through the undergrowth to fight, summoned by Gethrond.
As Mordrak kept trying to evade the dust storm, he doubted they could cope with anymore than the two ogres. Apparently discerning that Mordrak was struggling to get into a position to assist them, the sorcerer laughed at him as he pulled against his restraining bonds, and reached for the rune-sword that lay near him. His hand was blood-stained from where a branch from the bough had pierced him, but regardless of his wound, Gethrond clawed for the sword and spat arcane words. Then he shouted, “I’ll have this blade! It’ll not kill me!” The blade slipped into his outstretched hand.
Smoke reeled from Gethrond’s pyre, only now, it began to flow like one huge sentient and malignant spirit, towards the whole company.
The two magi gasped for air, hoping for a chance to breathe without being filled with dust, dirt and bracken as Mordrak had already endured. Astocath found it difficult to cast a countering spell for the noxious fumes, even though manipulating and controlling the wind was one of his specialities.
Seeing the new danger of suffocating smoke crawling rapidly towards him, Mordrak could only think of rolling away to safety. He was soon clear of the miniature storm of dust and smoke, and he rubbed his eyes, but it made his vision worse.
Gripped in Gethrond’s fist, Ifhrd’s blade was being used against the wood as an axe, and it seemed that Gethrond could concentrate on many things at once. As he hacked against his bonds, the sorcerer was uttering all manner of incantations against both Astocath and Math. Math was apparently frozen to the spot where he stood. The mage looked as if he were turning into and out of the form of a tree. Astocath was spending as much energy in protecting himself as he spent directly fighting Gethrond. The fire itself slowly crept after the smoke, away from Gethrond’s pyre and towards the magi.
At last, Mordrak could see properly. The sword had lost its sheen, and looking at Gethrond’s eyes, the sorcerer’s face flashed with greater power than ever before. He had surely sapped the enchantment from the blade for himself. Mordrak then looked helplessly at his two accompanying magi for a brief moment and decided he was best placed assisting the others with the ogres. At least Jorlon was trying to affect the creatures with his magic.
Astocath concentrated on the fire, directing it to his will at the same time as fighting the magic trying to metamorphose him like Math. Math was incanting, binding and strengthening the imprisoning wood against the necromancer as best he could whilst fighting the enchantment trying to turn him into a tree. Even so, it seemed Gethrond would break free at any moment. In his turn, Gethrond was shouting out spells against the magi with an incessant energy. The ferocity of the fire set against him was easing, and he was weakening his bonds.
Jorlon was assisting the henchmen with his spells, slowing the movements of the two ogres that Tulan and Talmar were fighting.
Now the daylight was failing, the sky was turning grey, and thunderous clouds began to build up in view above the tree line. Mordrak began to run toward the companions, Jorlon and Tulan.
Over the noise, Mordrak could hear Ifhrd’s rune-sword singing, and chancing a look, he could see the fire billowing over Gethrond, where ghost-like forms flurried up the smoke. For a moment he stood stock-still as he wondered if his sore and stinging eyes were deceiving him. He strained his eyes to see if he recognised any of the faces in the swirling ashes.
Able to breathe now the wind dropped, he prepared to renew his attack against the ogres. But it was a short reprieve. Now a fresh wind tore away from the sorcerer and carried with it a fearsome amount of fire. Smoke billowed above the flames and swept down before them like the crest of a wave folding over a beleaguered ship. Again, the sulphurous cloud choked everyone whom it reached. As exposed to danger as Astocath was, he had the ability to maintain his fire that threatened to overwhelm Gethrond, but even so, the pyre would not entirely close in upon the sorcerer. Astocath shouted to empower their spells as he stood alongside Math, who remained paralysed where he stood.
Gethrond’s trapped limbs left him distinctly disadvantaged against both magi, which was probably why he had been unable to overcome them as yet, but even so Gethrond was obviously formidable as he was holding out against them.
––––––––
SO IT WAS THAT THE ogres caught in the melee against the warriors desperately shifted farther away from the smoke, even as they swung their clubs against the hacking swordsmen. Mordrak felt concerned about the distance between them and the magi that was increasing as the ogres also tried to avoid the smoke.
Astocath could not flinch. He stood beside Math, who had taken root to the spot. They both weaved spells, causing even more branches to fall from the overhanging trees and land upon the pyre. Yet it was as if he were empowering the heat from the fire, and the smoke which wrapped around everyone, increasing in intensity to an unbearable degree.
Gethrond continued to fight off the falling branches, and much of the wood fell clean away with gusts of winds. Then he shouted a command, and many branches seemed to mould into spears. From the ground they hurtled up through the air against the company—everyone would be run through. Astocath barked a command, at which an impenetrable wall of power shielded them from the worst, and happily for them, an ogre was caught by one spear. All the other missiles fell harmless into the surrounding woods. Gethrond fell silent for a moment, then resuming his desperate bid to finish the magi, he continued shouting and yelling terrible incantations.
Every so often, still fighting off the spell that was trying to metamorphose Math into a tree, he yelled out fearful cries, “No! No!” and three times he clutched at his chest as Gethrond tried to induce heart attacks. Nevertheless, Astocath stood by as flames raced around them. The fire was trying to break into some sort of circle to surround the magi, but they were protecting themselves within it where consequently the fire was slowly separating the magi from their companions.
Mordrak looked on with Tulan and Talmar, they were watching the two ogres fight one another. His face strained, Jorlon manipulated spells against them. The ogres were giving each other no mercy as one set against the other, clubbing each other with their heavy steel maces. Even though one was wounded by a spear, they were evenly matched.
Nervously Mordrak looked here and there to see if any more were coming. In one sense he hoped so because Gethrond was formidable even now and he did not really want to directly confront him. Then indeed, four more ogres came rushing through the woods. Tulan and Talmar rushed in against them, and Mordrak joined the fray, drawing two of the beasts to fight him.
So intent were the first two on killing one another, under Jorlon’s control, their attention was not drawn away.
The magi were duelling with phantasmal shapes, sparring with magic in spite of the smoke above the fiery ground between them. The illusions transformed their images from one creature to another. Astocath tended to the flames that seemed to cower and dwindle. He subdued it for a while. The effort was wasted. In a moment, it all arose again, and Astocath discerned the flames’ efficacy was dependent upon the apparent strength of the phantasms. “We have to fight the flames,” he voiced to Math.
The images were of mystical beasts, creatures so rare that most folk disbelieved their existence. These illusions made only the sound of the whooshing of air as they swept from side to side. Unicorns would pierce the muscular arms of jinn; a dragon would rise and fall, struggling to envelop the mighty figure of a fire giant; a wyvern would thrash its tail against a winged horse. All the phantasms were the power of arcane words that rang and rent the air.
The wind renewed its strength and blew the phantoms about, and still in the haze of the smoke were the faces of the souls who Gethrond had surely mastered, though Mordrak recognised none of them. Their groans and their curses carried as a melody of coarse voices:
Spread, oh fire!
Spread around!
Consume them all in a forest pyre!
Let their ashes and bones blow over the ground!
Mordrak shuddered in reaction to their tone as much as their horrible situation. His mind turned to his immediate needs where, as his sword sliced into the huge hairy chest of one of the ogres, he regained his concentration for this battle. Another ogre took advantage of the moment and battered his mace against Mordrak’s shield, sending him back several paces. He struggled to keep his footing, but managed to make a lithe side step and attempted a slash at the ogre’s side. His blow was parried more by luck than innate skill.
He hacked and slashed at the ogre. His back was now to a tree so the other three would not surround him, were they to join against him. Now the fire seemed to heat to greater degrees. Although he was a good distance from it, he could feel the temperature was like to a blacksmith’s furnace, and more and more they were separated from the magi because of it.
The fire crawled from the cage that was still somehow restraining Gethrond. His limbs were bleeding; his bonds had torn through his robes and into his arms. The imprisoning grip was ever tightening against him.
Now the flames quickly spread in an arc all around the company. The heavily built beasts had more stamina than any would have believed possible. Tulan and Talmar were flagging, and everyone could see the fire would soon trap them all. Even the ogres were looking around with a degree of wariness.
One of the two ogres who fought each other fell dead with a vicious wound to the skull. The other was wounded and ran screaming from the approaching flames, disappearing into the forest. Jorlon began incanting against the other ogres that Tulan and Talmar were fighting.
The intensity of the fiery heat around them continued to rise, and Astocath discerned that Gethrond had approached his threshold of power and was now weakening. For a while he had begun to metamorphose as Math had been caught. His feet were turning into roots, keeping him stuck on the spot, but now he could feel them slowly relax as they became free, as did the stiffness in his own arms and legs. Then the fire disappeared for a moment from around the sorcerer, before flashing back to life again. Out of this pyre stepped the wizened troglodyte Astocath had seen fight Ifhrd. The beast was laughing with malevolent glee.
Abandoning control over his phantoms, Astocath attacked Gethrond’s mind with direct ferocity and trusted to Math’s strength to be able to maintain the ghostly battle. Such spells could prove dangerous, involving one magi’s will against the other’s, the stronger will crushing the other’s. Astocath fought with fervour but continued with trepidation. Gethrond’s still had the upper hand, and appeared to be quite unaffected by the phantasms, the troglodyte leaped towards Astocath.
As the wretched creature approached Astocath, the mage pierced Gethrond’s mind for the first time. He imagined a sharp steel needle stab into the sorcerer’s skull and deep into the brain. He was determined to end to this, whether it was to be a final confrontation with the troglodyte alone, or would be overcome by Gethrond. If there were to come retaliation from the sorcerer, Astocath hoped that such an effort would at least take the last of Gethrond’s strength and permit Math to end it all.
Astocath’s memories, from an early age through to apprenticeship, his life as an immature mage and the acquisition of his beloved tower, came before him. Every pain and fear, every hope and moment of aspiration, every prayer and every curse. His spirits sank as the present transpired. He considered never seeing his son, as most supposed—or daughter—and abandoning Adriselle to a life of ruin after she had given all to be his wife. No, he would not give up to this! He closed his eyes with his whole mind determined to break Gethrond. Then the mental images in his mind dispelled, and he reawakened to the here and now. The battle of wills rekindled.
Opening his eyes, he saw the troglodyte racing towards him. He had no choice but to break off the duel with Gethrond, which left him reeling, as one sometimes did with the sudden release of a weight. His head ached, and he felt as if his skull had shrunk by inches, but he sent a fireball the size of a snowball to blast against the troglodyte. He missed, but to his surprise, the beast stopped. It turned to stare in awe at some sight above the flames. So Astocath looked up, and he could see a multitude of spirits spiralling about the dense smoke that poured up above Gethrond’s pyre. The faces swirled in the smoke; their perverse and disproportionate images were looking down around the whole arena with ugly intent.
Mordrak was also mystified. He had killed an ogre but moments before, and now saw Gethrond weak and vulnerable—he had lost his youthful face, which was now wrinkled with age, possibly making him look far older than he really may be. Mordrak, with his blade in hand, was ready to kill again. He raced over. Gethrond was so bound by the roots and branches they had wound through his flesh down to the bone. He was spent.
Mordrak hacked at some of the branches to get closer to the imprisoned sorcerer. Mordrak was becoming used to Haik’s sword, though it was not nearly as good as Ifhrd’s blade had been, nor as good as his own sword that he had swapped in place of the rune-sword. In addition, he missed the gentle, rhythmic songs that had pleasantly accompanied his actions. Gethrond’s eyes looked hollow and barely seeing. It was clear that there was nothing the mage could do to defend himself he was so weakened. Mordrak paused as he thought of battling against the defenceless children, Gethrond here was as vulnerable. But then memories of all the turmoil and pain and misery swept through his mind. He pierced Gethrond in the chest where, to his surprise, the spirits began to sing a charm against Gethrond, rather than rally to his defence:
It is not enough, Gethrond
To summon us for nought from Nastrond,
With us you must come
And ask Hel to take you for her son.
Gethrond cried out, wailing for mercy and for strength, but the ghostly bodies of the wraiths began swelling as they danced. Even so, Mordrak fell to the ground and landed on his back taking away all his breath. The spirits spiralled up and up; their voices laughed with scornful ridicule against the captor mage. Then Gethrond shuddered. His face peered through his cage of roots and vines with the look of a man who was barely mindful. Reduced to the shell of an almost lifeless creature, he looked at Mordrak and cursed.
Mordrak found himself again unable to do anything other than crawl away, almost like a coward. A residue of the mage’s magic protected him from the knight.
The troglodyte had turned to face Math and paused before charging in. The mage was no longer taking an interest in the failing phantasms and directed his attention to the troglodyte.
The troglodyte stood in confusion, not an arm’s length away from Math and Astocath. The half-elf could smell the rotting flesh that dripped with pus. As Astocath prepared to incant against the beast, the troglodyte turned away from the two wizards, and with a cry of hatred, it leaped upon the dying Gethrond. The fires in the arena were free to burn ever the closer now the protection failed, but these flames seemed to hold little fear for the troglodyte.
Crying with pleas for mercy as his soul fought to leave his body, Gethrond’s slaves also swept down from the smoke to battle for his soul, set free from his thwarted power. Astocath stood in shock, as motionless as Gethrond had wanted him, barely believing all these events, apparent as they were.
Now the rain began to fall cold and wearying from the grey skies above them all. Gethrond’s growing screams were lost to sudden roars of thunder that preceded the cascade of a torrential downpour.
Mordrak looked over to Tulan, only to find that again, as if out of nowhere, another ogre rushed against them. Mordrak shouted a cry of warning and then found he could stand, and so he ran to fight by Tulan’s side. Both were cursing their bewilderment at how many more of these ogres there might be. He quickly considered that some must have been lying in wait for an ambush and now come to rescue Gethrond.
He glanced at Jorlon, who had given up his incantations, for his talent was exhausted. He had taken to his sword to fight with reasonable competence beside Talmar.
The ogre repeatedly swung his steel mace against Mordrak’s shield, and when he parried with the sword, Mordrak sensed the blade weakening against the clashes. As if that were not enough, he felt his reactions were not at their best. He was more tired than he ought, and his blood was cooler than he knew it should be in the heat of this deadly battle. Nevertheless he had no choice but to fight, drained of strength as he was, which Gethrond had surely engineered. It would not do to die now, not after all they had been through.
Finally, his sword shattered, leaving his defences open to the ogre’s mace, who struck him a hefty blow to the stomach. Mordrak fell quickly, though the ogre was surprised and staggered off-balance.
With a cry of shock that his mentor had fallen, Tulan cried out, “Mordrak!” It was as if he hoped his shout would awaken the knight from his stupor. Then Tulan thrust his sword full into the ogre’s chest, and he fell with a screech beside Mordrak and died.
Glancing at Jorlon to see if he had done anything to help or hinder, Tulan saw the apprentice stood by Talmar and was looking satisfied with himself. Tulan held Mordrak by his arms. His master groaned in unbelievable agony with every breath.
The blow of the mace must have caused dreadful internal injuries, which Jorlon hoped would not soon prove fatal, certainly not after the long and painful process. The Brother was pleading, “Is it bad?”
Tulan looked at the armour. There were holes in it, and in places there was stretching of the chain mail. He tried to calm his friend and master, encouraging him that the battle was already won. Mordrak closed his eyes without giving any physical indication of relief from the pain.
The wizards approached as the fire spread all around them, and Gethrond let out a cry that pierced through the smoke-filled haze. Astocath saw the sorcerer’s face appear in the midst of the pyre that burnt over what would be his corpse. His face was contorted in agony. Gethrond lived yet, but only in soul. He gave up the arena with a final scream that sounded as terrified as a man could be. Gethrond’s image was gone.
The rain continued unabated. As solid as a waterfall, it hissed against the fire. Thunder rolled from above and lightning flashed. Astocath looked around to assess the current situation. Talmar had crossed the arena to see to the corpse of Haik. He saw Jorlon standing by Tulan, who was kneeling over Mordrak. Astocath quickened his pace to reach Mordrak; Adriselle would surely blame him for his death, and even if she did not, she would be heartbroken. King Tell would be his worst accuser; certainly, it would be so if he shared any such suspicions of the Circle that Mordrak suggested. He was horrified that the knight might be dead. It would not be good for the Circle if there were no King’s witness of this Faerie war.
Tulan looked up at him with tears in his eyes. “It’s surely not good.”
Astocath could tell the squire feared to speak outright, lest Mordrak heard his words. Neither of them could bear to look at Jorlon, but even so they could not help themselves. Math came over to report that Haik was dead, and he shook his head as he looked down upon Mordrak.
“I’ll see what I can do, for Mordrak,” Math said, quickly reaching for his pack. From his possessions, he produced a small earthenware vial. “Force this liquor down his throat,” he instructed Tulan. “I’ve saved men in worse states.”
The squire unstopped it as Math wearily incanted some words. His speech was almost slurred with fatigue. Astocath surmised the battle had lasted perhaps for an hour or two, but they were weary like it had been a day. He looked around at the fire that had almost enclosed them entirely. “We must sort out this blaze,” he said to Math. Then turning to Jorlon, he said, “Try and concentrate on where Gethrond’s gate is.”
“Will Mordrak survive?” Jorlon asked.
“Just find the gate.”
The two magi conjured with all their skill, using the continuing rain to the best of their advantage to quench the ever-growing fire. Astocath considered idly that he seemed to be habitually setting forests alight these days.
Much fire still burnt as Talmar and Tulan lifted Mordrak between them and endeavoured to find a way out through the only gap in the blaze.
“Now careful,” said Jorlon, “he’s in no condition to ride.”
“Indeed,” responded Tulan bitterly. “So we can see.”
After a long while, much of the fire diminished, and Jorlon finally approached Astocath to report with some pleasure that he sensed where the gate was situated.
The mage said tiredly, “You’ve done well, Jorlon. You’ve done well. But I am unsure what happened to Mordrak.”
“He’s tired is all,” Jorlon replied. He felt a pang of guilt stab at his heart, considering the fate he had hoped for Mordrak, and barely able to reply, he muttered, “Thank you.” He walked towards Mordrak and looked at him. Colour seemed to have returned to his cheeks, but he was barely conscious.
Fit now to incant a final spell, Jorlon strengthened his arms to help carry the man he had secretly caused to weaken. The spell had drawn natural strength from him, which though it had not killed the knight, meant he would be in for a tiresome recovery for possibly weeks to come—hopefully never completely. Jorlon drew satisfaction from the ordeal, for he could meditate on Mordrak’s misery in the future. Right now, no one would know, but he could do no more.
Tulan nodded to Talmar, and together they lifted Mordrak, forcing Jorlon to step back. They wanted him to take no part of the burden.
Math followed behind them all. He reluctantly denied himself the opportunity to root around Gethrond’s cave for useful titbits, as Astocath urged him away with warnings of traps and malicious curses. Astocath was also grimly aware of time passing them by too quickly. He hastened them towards the gate, leaving the remains of the fire to die out behind them. Math said the forest would have a chance to grow anew.
“Let us hurry,” Astocath insisted. “We are not yet safe. We are in Unseelie.”
Reduced to walking because of the trees and Mordrak’s limp body, they could hear the drumming of horses’ hooves, enough to suggest a small band of riders approaching. Apprehensively they stopped to make a stand, too far from the gate and too weary to flee. They carefully laid down Mordrak who had lost consciousness again.
Suddenly an owl swept across from some trees and hurled itself at Math’s face. Claws ripped into his cheeks, and he made a grab for the bird in defence. The owl flapped its wings to disengage fiercely, and ferociously it pecked for his eyes, only barely missing them. Blood seeped from his brow and cheeks, and he instinctively let go of the squawking bird, which with a vehement screech flew clear of further reach.
Now four black-clad elves with shadows that spiralled about them like a malignant fog came to stop not ten yards from where the company stood. The companions watched apprehensively as these harbingers approached, wondering if now was the time they would be overcome after all.
“Unseelie.” Astocath cursed.
“Perhaps we are too late to save Gethrond, but be sure there are others to take his place.” The sound of the lead rider’s voice was cold. He sneered at their silence. “Since you have nothing to say ...” His voice was like dark fingers that touched the very essence of their souls. “This is a message from our King—our majestic King Falandor, who sits upon his resplendent throne of marble and diamonds mined from the depths of Escavia. He whose true name is hidden from your ears. This is his word: ‘Be certain I will not grant you a peaceable kingdom.’”
With that, the four dark elves wheeled their horses about and departed from the company. They rode back through the woods faster than they had come but gave no indication of fear. They merely left a sense in the minds of the company that they had better tasks to perform for their King Falandor than to avenge Gethrond.
No one spoke except for a grumble from Math who dabbed at his bleeding face. “I suppose this will leave me scarred.”
“Come on.” Astocath motioned for them all to hasten on their way after him as the rain continued to fall beneath the thunderous sky. “Gethrond's curse is lifted. We are yet to see what has, or will be, left.”