

Perfidy

By Tunmise Onifade

Copyright 2019 Tunmise Onifade

Smashwords Edition

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TUNMISE ONIFADE

PERFIDY

This book is a work of fiction. Places, events, and situations in this story are fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission of the author.

© TUNMISE ONIFADE 2019.

All rights reserved.

# CHAPTER ONE

In the ninth hour of a certain winter night, two men clad in the green gambesons of the imperial guards of the Navlan Empire made their way down Derbart street with burning torches held above their heads. The crunching sounds made by the grinding of their boots against the frost paved road combined with the fierce howling of the eastern wind, and the occasional cries of a discomfited toddler from a peasant cottage nearby to form the melody of the night. The men conversed in low tones but their voices were amplified by the relative vespertine quietude.

"We are suffering, don't you think?" Jeral, the shorter man, said. His speech was accompanied by a grand billow of vapour.

His companion, a young man with frizzy brown hair, lowered his torch to save it from the wind. "Well, speak for yourself."

"Oh, we are. To be abroad in this vile cold when other men are locked in the arms of their women, it is hard to bear. Even the guard tower is no respite, the cold will still sneak under your coat and freeze your limbs, all for the wage of five ciblis every other day."

"Gripe on, my friend, see if it will make you warmer," Legard, the frizzy-haired fellow said. "No one is forcing you to stay. You can return to lumbering. The pay is worse and you will spend a few coins nursing sore limbs but your nights will be spent in warmth."

"I am truly considering that," Jeral said. "Now, speaking of warmth, don't you think Dergel is one callous soul?"

Legard looked askance at his colleague as he could not fathom the correlation between warmth and their boss' supposed callousness. He fancied that the cold had sunk in Jeral's scalp, and was slowly getting in the cracks of his skull on the way to freezing his brain. "I do not understand you."

"You don't understand?" Jeral repeated as if he could not comprehend Legard's ignorance. "Why, the man keeps a bevy of wenches in the watchtower for his pleasure but never grants us permission to bring our girls around."

Legard's thin lips widened into a fat smile. "Now I see. Amaryllis will do you a lot of good on a night like this. Right?"

A smile crept unto Jeral's face as he nodded in reply.

"You can arrange with a lessor for a room in a nearby cottage for a small sum. Then, you can bring any girl of your choice at will. As for me, the girls at Alin's are excellent."

Now they passed Derbart street and arrived at their destination—the Northern city gate. The magnificent bronze gate was one of the four legal entry points into Casville, the capital city of Navlan empire. The gate was always manned by different squads of sentries day and night. A massive standard flew over the gate, bearing the imperial emblem of Navlan—a green crowned wolf holding a spear and a sceptre.

"Hail fellows," Hved, one of the other guards on the night shift, greeted as Legard and Jeral entered the guard post.

"Hail thee," they greeted back.

"The night grows cold by the minute," Cuzan, another guard, remarked. "I hope we will not have Vavires."

Vavires was the Xivec word for bands of trading parties from the South that frequented Casville in caravans loaded with their merchandise. It was the duty of the guards to check the goods and ensure that no outlawed substance was brought into the city.

"Certainly not," Hved opined. "It is too late and too cold. Nobody in his right mind will be travelling in these inclement conditions. Besides—"

The remainder of Hved's remark was drowned in a distinct cacophony of snapping branches, beating hooves and neighing horses. The guards rushed outside the guard post in response to the sounds and they saw not an approaching trading party but two men dressed in peasant clothing, riding two brown coursers swiftly towards them.

One of the riders caught more attention because of his odd outlook. He wore a black cloak with the hood covering a good portion his face, and he bowed his head low as he rode so that the uncovered part of his face was totally obscured from the guards from distance. The other rider was a clean shaven man of formidable girth and fearsome visage. Looking at him gave one the impression of a predator raring to pounce. This image was further aided by the giant sheathed sword girded to his waist.

"Do you think they are bandits?" Jeral asked his colleagues, as he reached for his spear in anticipation of an engagement.

"I do not know," Legard said. "We will find out soon."

In no time, the two riders arrived at the watch post of the guards, and they were promptly waved to a stop.

"What do you want?" Cuzan, the most senior in rank among the guards, demanded in a tone that disclosed his belligerence.

"We seek entrance into this city," the big one replied. The tonal inaccuracy of his Xivec suggested that he was from one of the Southern states of the empire where little Xivec was spoken.

"We cannot grant you entrance into the city with his face covered up like that," Cuzan said, indicating the hooded rider with a sweeping motion of his hand. "Tell him to show us his face."

The big man made to protest but his hooded companion motioned to him to save his breath. The mystery man raised his head and pulled the hood off his face without delay. Back length blond hair, intense blue eyes, an aquiline nose and a small mouth fenced by a fancy moustache all came to the torch illuminated view of the guards. Cuzan blinked in rapid succession as he took in the familiar features of the rider. Only one man had all these features combined . . .

"Sir Garhel. . ." he called softly as though he thought the figure before him an apparition.

"Aye, it is me," Sir Garhel said with a weary half-smile. "Now, hasten to open the gate. I have to get to the castle at once."

There was no response. The guards stood rooted to the spot with their gazes transfixed on the man before them whose sudden disappearance at the battlefield of Voules had plunged the whole empire into depths of despair. This man who had not been seen anywhere for the past seven years.

"Open the gate now!" Sir Garhel's hulking companion roared.

The response to that barked command was instantaneous. The four guards almost crashed into one other as they scrambled to open the gate at once. In the moment that followed, Sir Garhel and his big friend began their ride through Derbart street to the royal castle where the king's court was situated.

AT THE SIGHT OF SIR GARHEL, the royal court was thrown into the kind of uproar and hysteria which persons of noble descent were rarely associated with. The men of the court milled around Sir Garhel, shaking his hands, slapping him on the back and on the impulse of a zealous noble, they hoisted him in the air and roared their thanks to the great god Ligan for the safe return of their king's long lost nephew. The ladies of the court, many of whom greatly admired Sir Garhel for his unearthly handsomeness and unmatched prowess as a knight, refused to be outdone as they sang numbers in his praise and danced around him.

The king had earlier retired into his bedchamber after a wearisome day at the court, now he doubled back into the hall after the earth shattering noise that followed the advent of Sir Garhel. At the sight of his beloved nephew, a lone tear of compassion slid down the king's cheek. Sir Garhel moved to curtsey to the king as was required of all knights of the Palladium but the king cut him short and pulled him into an emotional embrace.

The king then ordered that a great feast be prepared and all the important people in the land who were not already in the court be invited at once despite the fact that it was late into the night. While the feast was being prepared, Queen Hylla asked Sir Garhel to tell the court what adventures had kept him away from Casville for as long as seven years.

When Sir Garhel stood up to answer, his eyes were so teary and his countenance so sad that no one in the court was left untouched by the knight's grief.

"My lord, my lady,'' he began by bowing to King Gradiel and Queen Hylla. "Distinguished ladies and gentlemen of the imperial court, it was never my intention to leave Casville for this long. I have only been a victim of destiny's cruel wiles. I am thankful to Ligan and the blessed twins for bringing me back here safely after the great tribulations I have faced.

"During our battle against the allied rebel forces at Voüles plain seven years ago, I got surrounded by about thirty rebels and I was cut off from the rest of our army. I killed a handful of them and shook off the rest by riding into Euschires forest but not before I received a deep blow from one of their men. I could only ride a few leagues further into the forest before falling off my horse unconscious from fatigue and loss of blood. I woke up much later to find myself in the rebel stronghold at Longt and there I was held for all the time I was absent from this court, living in the height of deprivation and pain."

Emotions welled inside of the people at the feast, especially the ladies, some of whom could be heard sniffing back tears of pity as Sir Garhel recounted his sorry tale.

"Your story touches the heart, dear nephew," the king said in a tone that betrayed pity for his dead sister's only son. "Now, how did you escape from there?"

Sir Garhel slowly nodded his head as if in introspection before he replied, "like I said earlier, I owe my freedom to Ligan's faithfulness and I also have this gentleman beside me to thank, for it was he who schemed and executed the plan that broke me out of Longt at great risk to his own life. He also took me to his abode and nursed me back to wellness."

The man to whom Sir Garhel was referring was Vruth, the huge man who rode with him into the city. Vruth stood and took a bow as soon as he was mentioned.

"We are indebted to you fair warrior, for this great kindness you have shown to our people by delivering our beloved son from the clutches of the enemy," said King Gradiel. "I shall see to it that you are handsomely rewarded for your bravery."

"Thank you my lord," Vruth said.

"And for you dearest nephew, we are all very happy to have you back in this land and for this reason, we will offer a big sacrifice of thanks to Ligan for his faithfulness. That will be done tomorrow at the temple. Also, a great tournament will be held in your honour. All the knights of the Palladium will take part and fine warriors from other lands will be invited. The winner of this tournament will be promoted to seventh star, which no knight has been able to attain in your absence."

A smile tugged at Sir Garhel's mouth. "My lord, I beg you to allow me to defend the exclusivity of the seventh star. Let me compete in the tournament and if I win, I shall yet remain the only seventh star knight."

"If that is your wish, it is granted."

A roar of joy erupted in the court. The people of the court were overjoyed to have a tournament to look forward to and the fact that Sir Garhel was competing made the tournament more appealing. A cataclysmic tournament it turned out to be.

WHILE THE MERRY MAKING about Sir Garhel's return was ongoing, a figure dressed in red cape and black tunic stealthily made his way through the throngs of menservants and maids scurrying around the castle to serve the feast. He was heading towards the third floor of the castle. A careful observer might notice that the man's face was misty as if a wisp of cloud hung before it but on the night when even the most steadfast guard was chattering excitedly about how Sir Garhel was going to light the arena again, no one was going to notice easily.

The figure made his way to the third floor unchallenged and he slipped closer to his destination—Prince Galleine's room. He stood for a while before the hung torch that illuminated that part of the castle, staring at the brand as if mesmerized by it. The heat of the brand seemed to dispel the wispiness of the figure's countenance, revealing a balding head, lean cheeks and a stubbly chin. After a while, the man reached for the door knob of the prince's chamber and slowly turned it while applying a gentle pull. The door refused to yield; it was secured from behind.

The caped man lifted his left hand and muttered words that belong to the ages past, to the ages when the gods of today were yet unborn. A cloud of black smoke left his open palm and slipped through the door. In the next moment, the door creaked open.

The interior of Prince Galleine's chamber screamed affluence. An ornate chandelier hung from the ceiling, a fine brown rug from the far East adorned the floor and the colourful tapestries on the walls bestowed on the room a certain variegated elegance. The man looked at the silk drapery at the window and shook his head in wonder of how so much wealth could be concentrated in one place while entire villages suffered poverty.

"My lord, are you back so early?" A voice called from a corner of the room that was curtained.

The man could not see who had spoken but he could tell the voice belonged to a girl. He heard the creaking of a bed and the shuffling of feet and before he could find somewhere to hide, a short maiden with flowing red hair came into sight with her body wrapped in a blanket.

"Otut be damned!" The bewildered girl screamed. "Who are you?"

"I am Dagca. Fear not, I have come in peace."

"How did you get in? The door was locked!"

Dagca gave a shrug. "I am a prophet of Tris. A little hinge breaking magic is not beyond me."

The girl went stiff with fear. She knew that Tris was one of the two gods banished from the pantheons of divine beings by the emperor of old, Guldheries Loghris. It was a crime punishable by death to identify with Tris and Otut anywhere in Navlan.

"Wh..what d..do you w..want?"

"I have a message for the crown prince. One that must not fall into the wrong hands."

"What message?"

"I have a part of it here. He will need to see me for the rest," Dagca said as he waved a scroll. "I could have sent a raven to deliver this but I was afraid it would be intercepted. Will you..."

"Who is in there?" A stern voice queried from outside.

Dagca and the girl stood still, desperately wishing whoever it was would go away.

"I know it is not the prince or Breyn," the voice said. "I saw those two at the court on my way up. Whoever you are, come out now, or I will come in and get you."

Dagca realized his mistake, he had left the door slightly ajar and now a zealous guard had noticed.

"What do we do?" the girl whispered. "I must not be caught here."

"Sshhh," he whispered back. "I will take care of this. Take the scroll and hide."

On the other side of the door, the guard took a deep breath and pushed the door open. He walked in and saw a man standing at the centre of the room with his back to the door.

"Ah, I was right. A burgler. Turn around!"

As the man turned with his hands raised in surrender, the guard clutched his spear tighter in anticipation of any clever move. The guard's eyes went wide with shock as he recognized the man who now stood facing him; Dagca Mauvan, foremost enemy of the empire. He quickly grabbed the conch hung on his girdle and blew the warning note.

"All to arms! An enemy on the..."

A gust of wind from Dagca's open palm swept the guard off his feet before he could complete his alert cry and slammed him against the tapestried wall.

Dagca dashed behind the silk curtain that partitioned the room and found the red-haired girl cowering under the bedpost.

"They will find you there. Come out."

The girl rolled out and rose to her feet. "Other guards will come in response to the sound. Oh, I should have known today was going to be bad when I kept seeing crows on my way here."

"Listen, what is your name?"

"Elna."

"Now Elna, I will get you out of here. Just close your eyes, draw three deep breaths and slowly flap your arms."

While the girl did as he bade her, Dagca stepped closer, whispered a spell and laid his left thumb on her forehead. The girl jerked at the touch and began to spin wildly. The spinning lasted several moments during which Dagca could clearly hear the thumping of several boots climbing the stairs. When the spinning stopped, there was no Elna to be seen anymore. She had transformed into a raven holding a scroll by its beak.

Dagca picked up the bird and whispered, "fly over Euschires. Fly to the bank of Süt and wait till the morn, then you will regain your form."

He walked back to the window in the anteroom, parted the fancy drapery and threw the bird up in the air.

The hustle of booted feet came closer still until the door of the prince's room was kicked open and a squad of guards armed with spears and lances poured in. Behind them, King Gradiel and Sir Garhel stood side by side.

"Seize him!" The king roared.

The guards levelled their spears and rushed at Dagca, who stood with a mischievous smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. When he adjudged that the guards were close enough, he uttered a spell that brought the chandelier crashing down on the advancing men. The glass ornament smashed against the heads of several guards in the vanguard and set fire on the clothes of several more. The room was suddenly filled with the smell of burning flesh and the cries of wounded men.

While some guards scrambled for cover, a few valiant ones drove forward to carry out King Gradiel's order. Dagca took a step back and raised his palm at the onrushing men. Darts of fire began to fly out of his stretched palm. The fiery missiles struck many of the guards running towards him and left the others unwilling to go any further. A burning dart came perilously close to hitting King Gradiel but Sir Garhel was close by to push him out of harm's way.

"O king, your end is near," Dagca said. "Your life and kingdom is endangered by the people you trust and..."

He could not complete his revelation because in that moment, an irate Sir Garhel drew a dagger and hurled it at Dagca. The wizard did a quick swirl and was seen no more.

"Such brashness!" Sir Garhel spat. "A man whose generations have been banished to the western hinterlands has the gall to walk into the royal castle and give dire prophecies after attacking a squad of guards. Surely, I dream."

"This is no dream, dear nephew. The men who were bescorched certainly know it is not."

"My lord, why have you not killed this man? Is he not a threat to the safety of the empire?"

"Not that I haven't tried, I have lost countless fine warriors while trying to get him. The fellow is as slippery as an eel."

Sir Garhel drew his sword and went down on one knee. "I pledge on my honour that I will get him before the upcoming tournament."

"I trust you, dear nephew," King Gradiel said.

A few yards away, behind the dazzling curtain of silk, Prince Galleine collapsed onto the bed with his mind becoming increasingly burdened with worry. He had checked the whole place twice and had seen no sign of the beautiful maiden he left there.

Elna. Where is Elna?

# CHAPTER TWO

Elna Fier leaned on a short tree in the grove behind the royal castle, fiddling with her hair as she awaited Prince Galleine's arrival. She had sent a message to him through his servant, Breyn, stating this hideout as a meeting place. Now, she had waited for over a stound and he was yet to show up.

A gentle wind rocked the clearing, scattering dried leaves and twigs, and causing Elna's green robe to billow. She sighed as memories of her experience the previous night came back for the umpteenth time that morning. She remembered everything she went through last night all because she wanted to spend the night with the prince in the castle.

First, the prince had taken her into the castle by the old cobwebbed tunnels because someone had discovered the little trapdoor that had for long been their passage into the castle. Then when they had finally left the stale air of the tunnel behind and they were safe in the prince's chamber, just at the point of savouring each other's body after tearing off each other's clothes, a guard came along with the message that Sir Garhel had returned and that the prince was required at the court. The prince had not gone for long when the bald prophet of Tris came by with all his troubles. Her heart skipped as she remembered the great fear that had seized her when he tossed her into the air and the dread that she felt during the initial plunge that almost killed her.

Between last night and this morning, most of the great thrill she felt when she first became the prince's consort had died. Although she adored him and enjoyed his company, maintaining an affair with him was becoming too difficult. He belonged to someone else, a certain Princess Æthrynne of Loyle in the Old kingdoms. It was a bethrothal made long before the prince was born and the arrangement was such that he could not break it off without tangible reason. It meant she could never be seen with him in public, limiting them to covert nightly encounters in the castle and at faraway inns.

Even those encounters were far and in between because Sir Garhel's erstwhile disappearance had thrust the prince into a position of responsibility which ensured that he had little leisure. He had become the lord protector of the realm which required him to always be on saddle, moving from one campaign to the other, battling desert bandits, sea pirates and petty rogues. Perhaps now that the knight had returned, the prince would have less burden on his youthful shoulders.

A rueful smile crept onto Elna's face as her mind went back to her first meeting with the prince two winters ago. It had been a terrible situation for her. She and her younger brother, Belaine, were aboard a Zarst bound trading ship, which was loaded with precious cargo. They were only a day away from Zarst when pirates appeared on their tail.

Elna had watched in trepidation as the pirates made light work of their ship's defence unit and as they transferred all the goods aboard the trading ship into their boats. And they didn't stop there.

"Listen to me, form a line and come forth," the leader of the bandits cried. "You will drop every valuable on your person into this bag."

The passengers filed up and began to move towards the pirate and two of his men who held open the large leather bag. An age bent, shrivel faced trader shuffled towards the stern faced men.

"Drop your valuable," the pirate spat.

"I have naught," the old man croaked.

"You have no ciblis on you?"

The man shook his head in response. The sea brigand drew his blade and slashed the man across the chest. Bright red blood spurt wildly out of the struck region as the man fell first to his knee and then face first onto the stern, soon to be surrounded by a pool of blood.

"Next!" The pirate roared.

The next person dropped thirty gold coins, and the person after, an embroidered linen of fine quality. Elna found herself shuddering, not only because she had just witnessed a grisly murder, she also wasn't sure if the cheap trinket in her pocket and the single silver coin on her qualified as valuable.

Elna turned to look at Belaine, who was further behind on the line. His face was grim and his jaws taut, he looked like he might draw the short blade hidden under his tunic and fight the pirates on his own, but Elna knew her brother would not do that. He was not stupid.

The line moved apace so that Elna found herself in front of the pirates in little time. She trembled as she slid a hand into her pocket to retrieve the coin therein.

"Does this one need a valuable?" One of the pirates said. "She is a valuable herself."

"You speak the truth, my good man," their leader said. "Come pretty, you shall be my prize loot...."

Elna's reminisce was brought to an abrupt end by a loud rustling of leaves behind her. Elna turned sharply with the hope of seeing the prince but was disappointed to see that it was only a deer running around.

How long will I have to wait for him? She wondered. For a moment, she considered leaving the grove and ending their affair by a farewell message through Breyn. She would send the scroll as well. Perhaps, it was best thing to do. It would be easier than telling him to his face that she no longer wanted him.

She heard leaves rustling behind her again. She turned half-heartedly and was rewarded with the sight of the prince in a commoner's robe walking briskly towards her. His blond hair fluttered gently in response to the gentle midday breeze. He walked up to her in three long strides and linked his muscular arms around her, sweeping her petite frame into a loving embrace.

"My Lord, I have been here two stounds. . ."

"Forgive me, dearest," the prince whispered his apology into her fiery hair. "I was held back in training. Sir Garhel asked me to train with him and I could not refuse."

"I see," she replied as she pulled out of the embrace. Just then she saw a gash on his forearm. "Otut be damned! What happened?"

He followed her eyes and saw what she was talking about. "Oh, it is nothing. I got it in training."

"This is deep, my Lord," she said. "Did Sir Garhel do this to you?"

"Nay, I got it while I sparred with other men," Prince Galleine said. "Tell me what happened after I left the room yesterday."

Elna told him everything, from the Dagca's mysterious appearance to the manner of her escape.

"How does it feel to fly?" He asked her.

She thought of her scary descent and the way she continuously bumped into clouds. "Not great. Maybe a second time would be pleasurable but I do not want to find out."

"Where is the scroll?"

She pulled it from under her robe and handed it to him. He collected the parchment and slipped it under his belt.

"My lord, I think we should end this affair. I am afraid we have ridden our luck for so long and we had better stop now, lest we be found out and you be brought to dishonour."

"Hear the lady in whose honour I intend to compete at the forthcoming tournament," the prince said.

Elna was tongue tied for a moment. She was torn between the euphoria of being the lady in whose honour the crown prince would contest in the tournament and the dread of the grim consequences of such brazen defiance of reason. "The honour is beyond me, my lord. How would you do such? Lady Æthrynne's kinsmen will be in attendance if the lady be absent herself. Your actions could cause war between Navlan and the Old kingdoms."

"May Tzha's pox fall on Æthrynne and her kinsmen. The gods know how I hate that cat. Hear me, my helmet will bear your token, nothing will make me change my mind."

"Don't do it sire. I will not even be at the tournament, Belaine and I are going to Iztier for trade on that day."

"You will not watch me win the tourney and earn the seventh star? Ah, well. Some other tournaments then. But we will not stop seeing each other. We must not stop. I have been with you long enough to know that I want you beside me forever. I do not care what Æthrynne or mother has to say. I will not sacrifice my happiness for the sake of an engagement that predates my existence."

Elna began to protest but the prince pulled her close and silenced her with a kiss. She yielded to him with a sensual sigh. Prince Galleine's resoluteness had slayed her doubts about their affair and had planted a seed of hope in her. As her lips moved in passionate tandem with his, she dared to imagine a future where she would no longer be old merchant Feir's fair little girl, where she would be Galleine's wife, his queen.

Someone coughed loudly behind them, sending the lovers apart in trice. Elna looked up to see a huge warrior with a smooth scalp, standing at the edge of the grove with his blade drawn.

"Apologies, fair Prince," the intruder said with a brusque bow. "I lost my way."

"No surprise. It is your first time in our city," said the prince. "I trust you know your way out of here."

"Certainly," He replied with a double jerk of his head. He lingered a moment to sheath his sword, using the opportunity to ogle Elna. Then, he turned and ambled away.

"You know him?"

The prince gave a slight nod in reply. "He is Vruth. Sir Garhel brought him to the court yesterday."

"How did he get that close without us hearing him?" Elna mused after the big man had disappeared into the shrubbery.

"He is a warrior, he can be stealth when it pleases him to be," Prince Galleine said. "Why, do you think he is one to be wary of? You think he can be trouble?"

"Verily," Elna said. "He has a certain ill aura about him. Sir Garhel will do well to shun his company."

"I do not share your sentiments," the prince said. "He saved Sir Garhel from the despicable rebels, and that makes him a good man. Come, let us speak of him no more. Shall we return to what we were doing before he came?"

Elna broke into a happy smile as the prince pulled her back to him so that her youthful bosom crushed against the hardness of his stomach. "I want nothing more than that, sire."

SIR GARHEL SAT AT THE TABLE in his small study, poring over a large map of Navlan and the areas around it. He hummed an old war song as he traced a line from the region marked Casville on the map eastwards to Stangol, the one city of the Navlan empire where gold abounded. Then, he ran his gloved finger eastward still, from Stangol to Gurt, the first city of the Old kingdoms, beyond Sithen forest.

Sir Garhel took a moment away from map reading to reach for the goblet of Northern wine beside his table. He raised the silver vessel to his lips and drained it in a long swig. He tossed the goblet away and made to return his attention to the map, but a loud knock on the front door of his fancy cottage stopped him.

"Hilbur," he called his manservant. "Tell whoever it is that I am observing a rest."

"Yes, my lord."

He was tired of people coming constantly to his residence to welcome him and to say a few words of thankful invocation to Ligan and the blessed twins for his safe return. It was over three days since he returned into the city but the outpour of public goodwill to his return did not seem to be on the decline.

He heard the front door swing open, followed by rapid footsteps in the direction of his study.

"Hilbur, I do not want to know who the person is," Sir Garhel hollered. "Go back and tell him to leave. I am resting!"

Hilbur gave no answer and the footsteps did not cease approaching. Sir Garhel stared in wonder as the door of his study was pushed open, and a noble lady attired in a red robe and a fanciful black headdress strutted in. A lofty smile played on her lips as she walked deeper into the room.

"Apologies for impeding your rest, Sir Garhel, but this conversation is very important."

"What did you tell my man to make him lose his sense?"

The lady chuckled. "Some words of ancient wisdom. He has indeed lost consciousness. He lies asleep by the door. I would rather not have him hear what I want to discuss with you. Of course, I will remove the spell on my way out."

Sir Garhel waved her to a seat opposite his own. His initial annoyance at Hilbur's failure to keep out an unwanted guest had melted, and now he felt nothing but a keen desire to know what the lady was there to talk about.

As the lady eased into the seat, Sir Garhel immediately observed that he had seen her several times in the imperial court. "You do look familiar, fair lady. Are you not Lord DeBlyde's wife?"

The lady clasped her hands and leaned forward. "His widow. He died last year in a skirmish at the Marsh."

The Marsh was the long and wide stretch of marshland which separated Navlan from its fierce northern rival, Lailles. A handful of military nobles like Lord DeBlyde were captains of armed units, consisting of errant warriors and war captives, which defended the Marsh from occasional Laillean intrusion.

Sir Garhel heaved a sigh. "Such a loss. Your husband was an embodiment of valiance."

"Indeed, he was," Lady DeBlyde said. "Now, I speak of the purpose of my visit. I have come to help you achieve that which you have long desired."

Sir Garhel reached for his goblet of wine and stopped halfway when he remembered that he had drained it. "I am a man of many desires. Which of them do you speak of? Which do think you know?"

"I do not think. I am certain," Lady DeBlyde said, easing to her feet and pacing gracefully around the study. "I know certain things about you that others do not. I know that sole desire that has been in you from the dawn of your existence. Yes, I know why you left the empire in the thick of the battle at Voules and it is a different story from the garbled mendacity you served the court last night."

"Tell me what you know."

"You left the city because you got to the height of your frustrsation with being in the shadow of the king. You wanted the crown for yourself so you hatched a plan to vanish during battle, and you went to make treaties with the kings of all the Old Kingdoms save the king of Loyle who is the father of the prince's bethrothed. You sought their help in dethroning Gradiel and they pledged their support.

"You also went southwards to the rebel overlords to ask them to join hands with you to usurp the king and they swore allegiance to you on some conditions. From among them, you were given a deadly assassin to follow you back to Casville while plans to strike the empire were being set in motion."

For a few moments, Sir Garhel was left stunned by the ease with which the lady had laid bare his dealings of the past which he had undertaken with utmost discreetness. When he recovered from his shock, he could not help laughing at the incredulity of the situation.

"The gods know I did my best to cover my tracks and maintain stealthiness in all I did. Who is the your spy? He is the best."

"I did not set a spy on you, Sir Garhel," the lady said, as she turned to the adjacent wall and muttered a long series of strange words with her left palm open in the direction of the wall. There were three quick flashes of light followed by a display of Sir Garhel walking side by side with a tall, heavyset man in a garden.

"That is your meeting with the king of Ferthen," Lady DeBlyde said. "I followed every of your moves just like this."

Sir Garhel leaned forward, heaving a short sigh as he did so. "Well, why are you here?"

Lady DeBlyde was silent for a while, then she muttered. "I told you I am here to help. You are not the only one who wants Gradiel off the throne. The commoners are grumbling over harsh taxes and forced conscription. The elite are mad that Gradiel has lost too many gold mines to the rebels, thus plunging the finance of the empire to scary depths. Also, the worshippers of Otut and Tris, and the entire clans of shapeshifters who are still living after the repeated attacks of Gradiel's army on them can't wait to see him fall."

"Which one are you?" Sir Garhel asked. "A noble concerned about the empire's dwindling fortunes?"

"Nay. I served as priestess of Otut for a decade, I only pretended to have renounced the religion during the last grand purge so that I can still reside here while I plan on a long lasting liberation for my persecuted people."

Sir Garhel knew that Otut and Tris were the only gods whose followers wielded real magic. The other gods of the land; Ligan, Feliyra, Txhi and Tzha were largely ceremonial. His mind flicked to the tales his mother told him of the origins of the grand purges, in which followers of the banished gods who were still in the city were sniffed out and burnt at the city square. He was told that when Guldheries Loghris, the eventual founder of the Navlan empire, was yet a farmer in the fields of Auztier, his wife and child fell sick and he brought them to the temple of Otut for cleansing. The priest of Otut declined to treat them because Guldheries could not afford the newly hiked consultation fee, and his wife and child died as a result. There and then, he became an enemy of the gods and decades later, after fighting his way to the seat of power with the edge of the sword, he ordered every follower of Tris and Otut, the two gods he deemed powerful, to publicly renounce their faith or face the sword. . .

"Gradiel has made enemies everywhere and it is hard to see him being emperor for long. I am here to lend my support to your cause. With my help, your conquest will be easier and faster."

"How exactly do you intend to help?"

"In many ways," Lady DeBlyde said. "I will supply you an army that needs no feeding or payment. I will help you enchant King Gradiel's trusted officers so that they will obey your wish over his and I will provide a beast that kills better than your new friend."

"Save me, Ligan," Sir Garhel said. "That is almost too good to be true. What are your demands?"

"For the great tasks I shall undertake for you, I have but two demands. One is you will let the banished religions return."

"That would be easy. Two?"

Lady DeBlyde moved closer to where Sir Garhel sat and then reached over her back for the fastener of her dress and slowly undid it. Sir Garhel's breath caught in his throat as he beheld the wonder that was the lady's half clothed body. A short white petticoat was all that stood between his eyes and her nudeness.

"Two is that you will satisfy every need of this body," she whispered, running a hand seductively over the twin mounds on her chest.

A wide grin surfaced on Sir Garhel's handsome face. "With all pleasure, my lady."

# CHAPTER THREE

"Southern gate on the horizon," the caravan head man announced.

A loud cheer broke from the company of travellers who were journeying in a caravan of camels and pack horses towards Casville. Their strenous week long journey from the plains of the southern region of the empire was gradually drawing to a close now that they were a league away from their destination.

Corthiel, one of the travellers at the rear of the caravan did not join in cheering. He could not, for the mere sight of the city gate in the distance made him jittery. All the bravery and daring that made him undertake this outrageous adventure seemed to have deserted him and for a short while, he felt like turning his mount back before it was too late.

"O son, move your dead mare along or get out of the way!" Someone yelled behind him.

Corthiel bit his lower lip in suppressed anger. Granted his brief moment of indecision had caused him to slow down, still the lout behind him had no right to call Nigna a dead mare. She belonged to his lord, but for the duration of this adventure, she was his.

"Do not speak ill of my horse, sir. I will not take it the second time."

"What will you do? Ride me down with your dead horse?"

"Leave him be," another man said. "He is but a boy trying to protect his honour."

"I try to ignore him but his hair forbids it. Say, son, what tincture did you use on your hair?"

Corthiel ignored the jibes of the men and rode faster to keep pace with the procession. He was not a boy, he stopped being a boy eight years ago, when he killed his first beast as a skinny, fourteen year old huntsboy. It was his first time of venturing into the hunting woods without the entire company of fellow huntsmen. He was stalking a deer when he came across the beast, massive and dreadful...

The caravan rolled to a halt before the city gate where there was a mass of people waiting to be checked in.

"More people entering the city than I have ever seen. This tournament may be the biggest in recent history," a fat chatty merchant ahead said.

Corthiel had been in Casville on several occasions with his knight, Sir Eweid, to participate in tournaments but the gate areas have never been filled the way it currently was. The guards were trying to maintain order but it was difficult with the large crowd.

"Indeed, everybody wants to see Sir Garhel partake in the tournament again," the fellow behind Corthiel said.

The travelling party spent about an hour outside before the gate before they finally found their way through. Once inside the city, the caravan head led the way to a long row of tents beside the road that led to Derbart street. In one of the tents was the fare collector, who the travellers went to one after the other according to the arrangement on the ledger to pay the balance of their fares. Corthiel slipped his hand in his purse and found that it had been cut open and all the coins stolen. He stood rooted to the spot, with his heart thumping. Without the balance he could not collect his bag. He could afford to lose his change of clothings but the items that really mattered were those that did not belong to him; the helm, the armour, the sword and shield, all his master's.

"Corthiel Zelac!"

He sighed and headed towards the tent, with his mind numb with fear. Should he tell the collector that he had no money or...

He entered the tent and saw his bag beside the collector, who was seated at a desk on which were stacks of coins.

"Pay your balance and get your baggage."

Corthiel swallowed. "I... My purse is cut. I have nothing left."

"I have heard that lie a dozen times before and I will tell you what I told others. Pay up or get lost."

Corthiel heaved a deep sigh. He turned away from the collector as if to walk away, then he turned back swiftly and kicked the collector's desk very hard so that the collector fell backwards from the force with which the desk slammed against him. Amidst the collector's groan of pain and the clatter of falling coins, Corthiel dashed forward, grabbed his bag and sped out of the room.

He found his horse and quickly mounted. "Come on, Nigna. Let's get out of here."

"Get that bastard!" The collector groaned from inside the tent. "Don't let him get away."

Three caravan hands leapt on their mounts and rode after the fleeing Corthiel. He rode down the road, shouting to unwary footgoers to make way. He could hear his pursuers riding nearer, taking advantage of the busy road to close the little distance between them.

Corthiel saw that the road was ill suited for an escape and decided to turn his horse and face the oncoming riders. He quickly opened the bag on the saddle to retrieve the tourney sword therein. He withdrew the blade in time to parry the thrusting spear of the first rider, and leaned sideways to deliver a counter that caught the rider's neck and sent him crashing onto the dusty road.

The two other riders attacked at the same time, the sides of their horses pressed together as they thrust their spears at Corthiel simultaneously. He evaded one of the spears by twisting his trunk away but the other one nicked his side, drawing blood and a grunt of pain from the young warrior. He rode forward and struck the rider whose spear had cut him on the head with such venom that the man fell to the ground dazed. The other rider turned his horse and galloped away.

Some of the passer-bys who witnessed the fight applauded Corthiel for his skill with the sword and he bowed to them.

"You should leave quickly. The greens will soon come up to see what has happened," one of them called.

Corthiel nodded, then he realized that he had nowhere to go. He had no money to secure a lodging for himself or a stable for Nigna.

"Say, sir, I am in need of money and I am ill disposed to begging. How can I make a dozen ciblis before nightfall?"

"No day's job will earn you that much," the man said. "But you are in luck, the pre tournament sparring events have started. There will be nobles and rich persons all eager to throw a fortune in the way of fine swordsmen. With what I have seen you do with the sword, I reckon you should be able to win more sparring contests than you will lose, if you choose your opponents right."

Pre-tourney sparring was mainly for unranked knights and itinerant warriors who were trying to secure a place in the tournament teams. His master was a single star knight, so Corthiel would not have needed a series of duels in the king's square to covertly compete in the knight's stead during the tournament, but the lack of lodging and feeding funds left him with no choice. Corthiel thanked the man and spurred Nigna on, towards the king's square where the events were held.

ON A SMALL FIELD BEHIND a fancy stone cottage in the heart of Casville, Sir Treine slowly turned a wooden practice sword in his hand as he regarded the four swordsmen before him. Like him, they were clad in helms and chain mail. Sir Treine tightened his grip on the sword and beckoned the men to attack.

Two of them charged at the dimunitive knight first. Sir Treine was more than ready for them. He exchanged a series of fast strokes with the first swordsman and reacted quickly to a slow parry from the man to strike him on the head. The blow was so fiercely struck that the man lost his balance, stumbled sideways and fell to the grassy ground. Sir Treine ducked a blow aimed at his head by the second man and in one deft movement, dealt him a heavy blow on the neck, just below the protection of his helmet. The man cried out in pain and collapsed to the ground clutching his neck.

The two other men took a moment to look at their fallen comrades before they charged at their adversary like enraged bulls. Sir Treine's experienced eyes summed them up for weaknesses and he found one in no time; they were moving too fast, he would use that against them. Sir Treine sidestepped expertly, making his adversaries rush past him. The knight gave them no time to recover. He struck the one closest to him so hard that he sailed in the air for a few seconds before crashing head first onto the ground.

The fourth man charged at Sir Treine, determined to fare better than his fellows. The knight gave him no chance as he promptly hurled his sword at the unwary swordsman and leveraged on the distraction to leap at him and ram an elbow into his stomach. A groan escaped the swordsman's lips as he staggered backwards and sank onto his knees.

"This is pathetic," Sir Treine addressed the fallen swordsmen. "None of you could strike a meaningful blow. Is it that you were holding back because of who I am or you are just plain useless?"

"No, you are too good for them," A strange voice chipped in.

Sir Treine turned to see who had spoken and beheld a tall golden haired man dressed in an all-black royal apparel walking across the field.

"Er. . . Sir Garhel," Sir Treine muttered in genuine surprise. "What adventure brings you here?"

"I have come to discuss an important matter of the state with you."

"Very well then, let us go in."

"Fine," Sir Garhel agreed, then as an afterthought he asked. "Who are these people?"

"They are professional swordsmen I hired to train with for the upcoming tournament, but it turns out they are not worth the ciblis I paid for them."

"I see."

The two knights walked through the narrow winding path that led to Sir Treine's cottage from the training ground without speaking to each other. Sir Treine felt a certain awkwardness as they approached his abode. He was not used to having Sir Garhel around without some other person as a buffer. It was true that they both belong to the same order of knighthood, but they were not exactly close. They were more of rivals than friends. Every now and then, people debated on who the better knight was between them, but a consensus was never reached. Sir Garhel's better ranking aside, the two knights were considered to be on the same level, although Sir Garhel's unearthly handsomeness and his kinship with the king earned him a lot more goodwill and respect from the people.

Presently, they arrived at the cottage which was a lot more austere than the average lodging of a foremost knight. Sir Garhel, after accepting the offer of an oak stool, began to speak. "I can see you are anxious to hear what has brought me to your house, I will waste no time and will state my mission at once. Now, it has come to my hearing that some nobles are scheming to overthrow the king."

For a split second, Sir Treine was overwhelmed by the sheer incredulity of his compatriot's words. He couldn't believe his ears. What noble would want King Gradiel off the throne?

"Verily, I have heard no such thing," Sir Treine said. "Was a name mentioned?"

"My source does not know that much yet. But I know you as one of the most influential persons in the city..."

Sir Treine felt a whirlpool of rising bile within him. "Otut be damned! Do you come then to accuse me of having a hand in the plot to depose the king?"

"Far from it," Sir Garhel said. "I was going to say, you being a important son of land and a foremost knight can help me uncover the identity of the men faster."

"How?"

"I want you to drop subtle hints of frustrations with the king's reign when you are in the company of other knights and nobles. If you maintain the false disposition for a while, those behind the evil schemes will notice and will no doubt be glad to have you on their side. When they reach out to you to join them, we will know who they are then, and we will not dither in putting them to the sword."

Sir Treine heaved a sigh. "A grand plan. But I will be involved in this on two conditions."

"Pray, say them."

"Both conditions are to secure my honour and my reputation while I help to withstrain the evil men. First is, you will put on a parchment the plan you have just told me and you will put your seal on it. The second condition is that a trusted man, a noble it must be, should be present at the moment you will hand me the parchment and he must be privy to our plan. He shall be the witness of my honour should it be called into question in the course of undertaking this task."

Sir Garhel eased to his feet. "Excellent. I shall return with Sir Lerte on the morrow to grant your demands. Do we have an agreement then?"

"We do," Sir Treine said as he grabbed Sir Garhel's outstretched hand in a firm handshake.

As they shook hands, Sir Treine felt a powerful jolting of his entire body. He swiftly withdrew his hand and placed it on his head that had begun to shake wildly.

"Are you okay?" Sir Garhel asked.

Sir Treine tried to answer but nothing came out of his open mouth. It took a while before he could get his body back under control.

"Aye. I am fine," Sir Treine said. His voice had taken a sudden hoarse turn.

Sir Garhel walked closer and drop a hand on Sir Treine's shoulder and whispered, "I am your king. Bow to me."

Sir Treine suddenly realized how much of a king Sir Garhel looked in that moment, he had the bearing, the voice and the face befitting of any throne. He stood tall and lordly, a figure for which there was no rival in the royal court. In a powerful upwelling of reverence, Sir Treine fell to his knees and bowed.

# CHAPTER FOUR

Corthiel Zelac led his horse slowly through the busy Eig street that linked the king's square with Derbart street. He was weary and hungry after his exertions at the pre tourney events where he had been made to sweat and bleed for each coin of the ten ciblis he earned on the field. The event as a whole was a lot more competitive than he had expected. There were too many warriors and too little space and time for them to adequately show their swordsmanship. There were no extravagant nobles lavishing money around, only enterprising merchants who were wagering monies on the warriors and giving them a small part of the winnings as motivation.

Corthiel was two ciblis short of the adequate funds for his feeding, lodging, and payment for Nigna' stable but he could not have continued. His last fight against a towering northern warrior had left him terribly worse for wear. What he needed was a wash, food and long sleep, not an hour of waiting before another round of sparring with some overzealous warrior.

Presently, he took a left turn off Eig street into a less busy street where it was possible for him to proceed on horseback. He whispered a word of affection to his horse and swung into saddle. In the process of mounting, a bunch of dried elm leaves fell out of his hip pocket. Corthiel quickly dismounted and snatched the bunch from the ground. He stuffed it back into his pocket with a silent prayer of thanks to Ligan for keeping him so far from the dreadful condition that required him to inhale the fragrance of the leaves.

As Corthiel made to remount, his attention was drawn to the appearance of a shirtless youth running from the other end of the street. The young man kept looking over his back as he ran, giving the impression that he was being pursued. Corthiel pursed his lips in empathy as he remembered that a few hours ago he was in a similar position with the caravan mercenaries hot on his trail. With the shouts and footfalls of his chasers now distinct, the fleeing man changed course and leapt into an unmoving, curtained carriage by the roadside that Corthiel had not noticed earlier.

There was a muffled cry from within the carriage some moments before the little party of those chasing the man arrived at the spot where Corthiel was.

"Pray fellow, did you see a man flee this way?" One of the pursuers asked.

Corthiel replied that he did not.

"He is a Laillean spy, if you..."

"I did not see anybody," Corthiel repeated firmly.

His questioner nodded and ran off to join the other men who were turning right towards Eig street. Corthiel Zelac waited till the men had gone, then he sped towards the carriage. He was close when the fugitive sprang out and began to scamper back the way the way he came. Corthiel was temporarily blinded by the glinting of the evening sun off the blade of the small knife the fellow held.

"He has my purse!" A feminine voice wailed from within the carriage.

Corthiel drew his sword and threw it hilt first. The handle struck the fleeing man's head, knocking him onto the road. He tried to scramble up again, but Corthiel was on hand to strike him a hard blow to the chin that rendered him instantly unconscious.

"Is he dead?" The voice that had spoken earlier asked.

Corthiel turned to see the prettiest girl he had ever seen, standing outside the carriage. She was tall, about his own height, and lithe. Her beautiful face was framed by a length of black luscious hair. Her piercing blue eyes held his gaze for what seemed like an eternity. In those moments, he felt he had known her all his life.

"No, he is only dazed," Corthiel said as he snapped out of his fantasy. He picked her purse from beside the fallen man and handed it to her. "If he is lucky, he will awake before those men chasing him return."

"Thank you for recovering my purse."

"Aye. Say lady, what were you doing all alone in a still carriage when the sun is fast waning? Do you not know how dangerous it is?"

"It is but the hardness of luck. My driver has gone to get a cartwright from Derbart to fix a faulty wheel for over two stounds. I am stuck here, for I know no one around. Lorna will be getting sick with worry."

Corthiel looked around nervously. "Err... Perhaps I should—"

"Vynne!" Someone called behind them.

"Oh, it's my sister Lorna," the girl said, brightening. "I will leave with her. Kurg will take the carriage back to our lodge when he is done. Fare thee well, I am thankful for your help."

Corthiel felt a rush of relief as he watched the girl run over to her waiting sister. As much as he found the girl alluring, he was in no condition to perform the chivalrous act of keeping her company till her driver returned. He needed to secure a lodging and retire for the night, his body needed that much. With a tired yawn, he walked back to where Nigna stood waiting.

"Good girl, we are going home now," he whispered to the mare.

He hoped there will be no more adventures for the day.

BREYN BRISKLY CLIMBED THE FLIGHT of stairs that led to the third floor of the imperial castle. He was going to see the prince, who had instructed him to source for some commoner clothings because they were both going somewhere out of the city to covertly to meet someone; someone that was not Elna.

Breyn got to the prince's door and gently pushed it open without as much as a knock. Well, he knew he was one of the few people who could get away with that. He entered the large, impressively decorated room and saw Prince Galleine leaning out through an open window that overlooked Loghris street.

"My lord, is Elna down there?" Breyn asked his master.

The prince turned around and chuckled good-naturedly, "of course not. I would have called her up here."

"What is down there that you were looking at so intently then?"

"Nothing spectacular, I was just observing the multitude of people milling around the street," the prince replied. "I heard Derbart is worse, they say the whole place is brimming with people seeking a place to pass night. I was wondering why we have so many people around for the tournament. Do they not know that our arena can only accommodate ten thousand?"

"I am sure they know. They are just hoping to be part of the lucky ones who will get to watch," Breyn offered. "Maybe so," the prince reasoned. "Where are the materials I asked you to bring?"

"Here sire," Breyn patted the medium sized bag that was slung over his shoulder.

"Good. Let us change into those wears," the prince said. "We have to leave now."

Several moments later, Breyn and his master succeeded in stealing their way out of the heavily guarded castle. It was by no means an easy task; they had to pass through secret chambers and tunnels. Even at that, they only barely escaped being caught by the ever watchful sentries.

"My Lord, you still have not told me who we are going to meet," Breyn said to the prince as they left Loghris street in their wake and made a right turn for Levois street.

"I told you, don't call me my lord when we are supposed to be commoners just like everybody else around," the prince chided his servant in a voice that was barely above a whisper.

"Apologies sire," Breyn muttered and did not bother repeating his initial question. He somehow felt the prince was not willing to giving a response. After all he had asked the same question twice earlier without getting a concrete answer.

Presently, they entered a dark alley off Levois Street that would lead straight to the southern gates road. They were halfway through the alley when they began to hear muffled cries from far ahead.

"What is that?" The prince asked.

"I know not, sir."

"Very well. Let us get closer."

They moved on until they heard a thunderous voice ordering them to stop.

"I said stop right there," the voice repeated when there was no response to his initial command.

The prince stopped, more from surprise than reverence for the voice emanating from the darkness. Breyn followed suit.

"Who are you?" The prince demanded.

"I should be asking you that question," the voice retorted. "Who are you to enter my territory uninvited?"

"What territory do you speak of? Everywhere in this kingdom belongs to the king and he is my father."

"Save me Ligan, it is our prince," the voice drawled. "Now boys, this is a real chance to get some royal blood on your weapons. Charge!"

Immediately, a torch was lit and Breyn clearly saw five armed figures running towards them. He also saw a huge furry man that looked like he was the leader of the pack. The ruffian was gently stroking his luxuriant beard and had a look of grim satisfaction slapped on his face. Breyn recognised him immediately as Halkan, a renowned bandit and the leader of several street gangs in and around Casville. Beyond the men, Breyn saw a chubby girl who looked no more than sixteen. Her tunic was ripped from the neck, leaving the girl to huddle herself to cover her bosom.

The men were closing in now, forming a crude circle around the composed prince and his trembling servant. One of the men lurched at the prince wildly. The prince reacted by kicking the sword off his hands and leaping to retrieve it mid-air. On landing, the prince struck the astonished goon a blow from which he would never recover. Breyn watched on in awe as the prince turned his fury on the gang men, attacking them with such vigour that in little time, only one of them had not gotten on the battering end of the prince's sword and that was the eccentric gang leader, who was indeed smiling throughout the whole encounter.

"It is good to see that you have transformed so quickly from the little boy who was always struggling to get a proper hold of the hilt into a fine swordsman," Halkan said smugly. "But you still have a lot to learn. A lot."

"Come. Let us see who really needs to start taking more sparring lessons," the prince replied.

With that, both men stepped towards each other and crossed swords. Breyn watched on helplessly as they fought, it was a terrible fight in which neither of the fighters seemed to have the upper hand. For one, Galleine was fast, but Halkan compensated for his lack of pace by being incredibly strong.

In a moment of wrong decision making, Galleine got his footwork wrong, stumbled and fell. Halkan promptly pounced on him. Breyn grew alarmed, knowing he had to do something or the brute would kill the prince. He looked around for a suitable weapon with which to join the fight and he settled for a club used by one of the gang men. He stealthily walked up to the site of struggle between Halkan and the prince. He positioned himself, targeted Halkan's head and swung the club.

WHAM!

Breyn stared widemouthed at the effect of his blow; the club had hit the prince instead of Halkan. It seemed the prince had experienced a fresh burst of energy and had wanted to turn Halkan over, but he had only succeeded in connecting his head with the thick end of the wooden weapon. Prince Galleine immediately went limp.

"Excellent, boy. You have broken your friend's skull," Halkan said as he eased off the unconscious Prince and began to inch towards the shaken servant. "Guess who is next to be bludgeoned."

Breyn's first impulse was to turn and make a dash for the relative safety of Levois, but the sight of the big man coming at him left him paralyzed. His legs trembled for a short while, then they buckled, making him fall to the cold paved floor of the alley. Halkan raised his sword, looking ready to plunge it in Breyn's heart. Breyn squeezed his eyes shut and began to mutter rogations of absolution in anticipation of death.

In the next moment, he heard the sound of sword penetrating flesh and a loud cry of pain. Wondering what was going on, Breyn opened his eyes. He saw Halkan still raising his sword in the air, but now a shiny metal covered with blood was protruding from the left part of his chest. He had a dazed look on his face and blood was oozing from the corners of his mouth. Moments later, he collapsed to the floor dead.

"My lord, forgive me. I did not mean to hit you," Breyn said to the prince, who was looming over the dead body of Halkan and eyeing it in contempt.

"It is alright, I know you meant well."

The prince hurried over to the girl still sat, sobbing gently. "You are safe now. They can't hurt you anymore."

The girl nodded dumbly.

"What is your name?"

"Larya," she said between sniffs.

"Breyn," the prince called. "I have to get this girl to safety and also make an official report of this event to the king. That means you will have to continue our journey alone."

Before Breyn could protest that he knew next to nothing about the journey they were making, Prince Galleine tossed him a rolled up piece of thick brown paper. "That is the city map. Follow the dotted lines. Where it ends is your destination. The place is called Death's cave and you are going there to meet Dagca Mauvan."

"Dagca the sorcerer?"

"Yes. You will take note of everything he says and ensure you return before the start of the tournament. Do you understand?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Good. Now, be gone."

Breyn bowed and left the prince's presence in fear and misery.

DAGCA MAUVAN WAS BURNING INCENSE to Tris at the little altar he had set aside on the rocky hill near his cave house when he noticed a brown haired youth walking towards the mouth of the cave. Dagca dropped the censer and rushed down the steep hill, wondering who his visitor was. As he made his way swiftly down the rocky path, he thought of going through a back route to catch the youth from behind but he decided there was no need for that, this boy he was seeing did not look harmful.

"Hail sir," the young chap asked Dagca when he saw him. "Is this Death's cave?"

"Certainly, and you are?"

"Breyn, the Crown Prince's servant."

"You are in the right place. Where is your master?"

Breyn quickly recounted the events of the previous night that prevented the prince from coming.

Dagca was not impressed. "He should have come all the same. The safety of the empire is more important than every other thing he has to do."

"Tell me what he has to do. I will relay it to him."

"A poor substitute, I must say. It would have been better if he came himself. Now, come with me."

Dagca led the way down into the cave after whispering some words. "Do you know what would have happened to you if you entered without me removing the attrition spell?"

"No."

"Your blood would have dried up just as your flesh would shrink. That has been the fate of most men King Gradiel has sent to get me. The wise ones never come here."

"The king knows you are here?"

"Verily, this has been my home since the king put a bounty on my head for remaining in the city against his orders. And he knows I am here but he can't do anything about it. I will remain until the voice of Tris tells me otherwise."

Now they got to the part of the cave that had semblance to a parlour.

"Sit son," Dagca said, waving Breyn to a vacant stool. "I have—"

He stopped speaking and cocked his head as if he was listening to something. "Did you bring someone along?"

"Nay."

"Did you notice someone following you?"

Breyn paused to think. "I did not notice anyone trailing me."

"I have a feeling someone with an evil intent is close by," Dagca said. "Worry not. The attrition enchantment will handle encroachers. Now, let us speak of why you are here. Navlan is on the precipe of destruction. And for the first time in the empire's short history, the danger is not from the might of Laillean armies or the growing rebel forces to the south or the swarming numbers of Thombrük raiders. The imminent collapse will be caused by one man."

"Who is the man?" Breyn asked.

"You, Mauvan Dagca," a strange voice announced.

Dagca looked behind to see a huge man with a drawn bow looming at the entrance of the cave room. His eyes were instantly drawn to the glowing pendant on the big man's neck. Someone had given him a talisman strong enough to break the attrition spell at the mouth of the cave.

"Up, the two of you! Arise and raise your hands or I will shoot your eyes."

Dagca let out a chuckle. "Tell Garhel that he has started a war he can't win."

That said, the sorcerer whirled and vanished in a cloud of smoke, leaving Breyn at the mercy of the hulking bowman.

# CHAPTER FIVE

It was the morning of one of the biggest tournaments in the history of the empire. The arena brimmed with spectators who had come from all nooks of the empire to watch the showings of the hundreds of fine knights as they battled for greatness. The only part that was not so full was the section reserved for the royal family and the grand entourage of nobles. Also present were dignitaries from each of the seven divisions of the Old Kingdoms.

Presently, the king arose from his high throne to give his usual pre-tournament speech. He was a tall and well-built man with a face that looked so much younger than one would expect for his fifty eight years of age. He wore a purple silken robe and held a royal sceptre that dazzled in the morning sun.

"Good people of Navlan, I welcome you all to this grand event. I can tell you that you will be treated to the finest of jousting and sparring here today. However, we should not forget the reason behind holding this tournament, which is to celebrate the return of our brother Sir Garhel after his years of incarceration in the hands of the rebels. We all know Garhel is a good man who—"

A thunderous applause from the spectators greeted the king's unfinished speech. King Gradiel smiled in understanding. His people wanted action, not long speeches.

"Very well, on this note I say, let the tournament begin."

A horn was blown to signify the commencement of the much awaited jousting event. A gate swung open on the eastern end of the arena, and the knights and warriors that were to take part in the tournament galloped to the centre of the field.

Sir Garhel, flanked on the left by Sir Treine and on the right by his cousin Prince Galleine, led the Casvillean charge. Sir Garhel wore a golden armour that glittered like a gem. He looked so strong and balanced in saddle that it was hard to think of anyone capable of unhorsing or outperforming him. The spectators began to hail him as soon as he entered the arena and he waved backed in appreciation.

Behind the visor of his helmet, Prince Galleine bit his lips in suppressed anger. He was mad that the spectators were hailing Sir Garhel without paying much attention to the other knights. Why would they so adore him alone? The prince resolved to steal the show from Sir Garhel by outperforming him when the jousting began proper.

The knights took sides and fell into ranks. The Casvillean knights were on the left while the visiting knights and warriors took to the right side. There were two hundred and fifty knights on each side, with the same number of squires standing outside the field, waiting to take weapons to their masters when called upon.

The horn went off the second time, this time charging the contestants to start jousting. The knights on both sides broke their ranks and charged towards their opponents with the sole aim of knocking them off their horses.

Sir Garhel led the Casvillean charge as expected. He held his lance in his favoured left hand and galloped furiously towards Pogones, who was leading the charge for the opposing side. Both knights met at the centre field and thrust their lances at each other. Sir Garhel deftly ducked Pogones' lance and then thrust his own lance further so that it struck Pogones' breastplate. The spectators roared in delight as the Zarstian knight tumbled off his horse and landed on the turf with a sickening thud. It was a perfect blow, and a perfect start to the tournament for Sir Garhel.

Sir Garhel broke his lance in that encounter. He wasted no time in unsheathing his tourney sword and he began to strike blows of exceeding brilliance here and there. Sir Treine was no less impressive, he kept raining deadly blows on every opponent that crossed his path. Prince Galleine, in his crazy bid to surpass or at least equal the lofty achievements of Sir Garhel, was not faring badly either as he struck several eye catching blows in the early stages of the melee.

The combined brilliance of these three men; Sir Garhel, Sir Treine and Prince Galleine, ensured that the Casvillean side possessed a great lead over their opponents as they progressed through the tournament, and as the end of tournament fast approached, it looked like Casvillean side would finish with a landslide victory. But it was not to be.

A mysterious knight on the Visiting side suddenly began to perform wonders. He dazzled everyone, spectators and fellow knights alike, with the speed, accuracy and frequency with which he thwarted the Casvillean knights. Every adroit movement of his sword produced a fallen knight on the other side. His impact was so enormous that the spectators momentarily forgot all about Sir Garhel and shifted their concentration and adulation to this mystery knight whose coat of arms revealed that he was only a single star knight.

Prince Galleine was livid with rage and green with envy. Someone had finally surpassed his cousin and that person was not him. He decided to unhorse the mystery knight and take all the glory for himself. He promptly beckoned to his squire to bring him a new tourney sword as he had dropped the one he started the tournament with. On getting the sword, he turned his horse and galloped swiftly to the center field to engage the mystery knight in combat.

The prince struck the fiercest blow of his life. It was a blow that would, in fact, have unhorsed the strongest of men, but the mystery knight did not fall. He simply shook his head and replied with a fiercer blow of his own.

The prince grunted in pain as he felt the impact of that terrible blow on his head. True, the extra strength of his helmet and the bluntness of the mystery knight's blade prevented his head from being split into two, but nothing could save him from an ignominious descent from his horse as he lost hold of his gallant destrier and fell face first to the grassy ground of the field.

The whole arena reverberated with the applause of the spectators. It was a rare sight seeing the prince getting knocked off his horse so spectacularly. Even the king applauded the unknown knight.

At this point, Sir Garhel took notice of the mystery knight who had since been wreaking havoc on the Casvillean knights. Sir Garhel decided then to take him down because the longer he stays in saddle, the worse for the Casvillean side. With that, he turned his horse and galloped towards the mystery knight.

The spectators held their breath in anticipation as these two knights, the best knights so far in the tournament, faced each other. As Sir Garhel inched closer to the unknown knight with his sword aloft, ready to strike, the horn blared, signaling the end of the time given for the melee. Loud murmurs of protest could be heard from the stands where the spectators expressed their desire to see the jousting continue.

"The jousting event is over," Lord Osth, the noble in charge of the event announced. "The rule is the rule. Once the hour mark is reached, the game will stop, and a count will be taken and the victorious side will be determined, from which the best knight will emerge."

He then turned to the judges. "Take the count of fallen knights and let us know which side is victorious."

After the count which spanned a quarter of an hour, it was discovered that both sides had exactly the same number of fallen knights. The tournament had culminated in a tie. The mystery knight had snatched from the claws of defeat a respectable draw for his side.

"We all know what that means," Lord Osth said. "We shall have a combat session between the best knights on the two sides as a tie breaker. Tomorrow, after the hour of prayer, we shall have Sir Garhel and this other knight, whose coat of arms has revealed his identity as Sir Eweid, take on each other at this same venue in a deciding sparring contest."

The spectators were overjoyed because they knew the fight between the two knights will be more than memorable.

As the knights filed out of the jousting field, Sir Garhel rode up beside Sir Eweid.

"You were lucky the horn went off before we could joust today, I would have made you bite the dust. There will be no escape route tomorrow. Prepare yourself for some serious beating. Better find squires who can bear a dead weight."

Some other knights who were close by heard Sir Garhel's caustic words and burst into laughter. Sir Eweid did not say a word, he only increased the pace of his horse and left Sir Garhel and the other laughing knights in his wake.

Prince Galleine sat in a corner of one of the numerous tents pitched around the arena where knights could rest before heading back to their lodges. He was lost in thought over his failure to secure the seventh star by outperforming Sir Garhel in the tournament. He had spent countless days training hard with fine swordsmen in anticipation of this day, yet all his efforts had been laid to waste by a single blow from a one star knight. How cruel is the hand of fate.

"My lord, I need to speak with you."

Prince Galleine looked up to see his squire, Arblen, walking briskly towards him.

"I believe you are doing that already."

"No my lord, we need to go somewhere beyond other ears."

The prince looked round, there were three other knights lounging in the tent. They were not paying attention, but they were well within earshot. He looked at Arblen and saw seriousness coupled with deep fear in his sweaty face. He then motioned Arblen to the recess of the tent where nobody could hear their conversation.

"So what is it?"

"I am afraid I have bad news for you sir."

"Bad news?" Prince repeated. "It is not about Breyn. Is it? I sent him somewhere days ago and I have not seen him back yet. Has something happened to him?"

"It is not Breyn sir. Someone stuck a piece of papyrus in my pocket while I tended your horse after the tournament. I looked around and could not see who had done it. I read the sheet and... it was about Elna."

"What happened to her?" The prince screamed.

"It was a ransom note. She has been kidnapped.

# CHAPTER SIX

Vynne stood at the entrance of a tiny room in a dingy lodge in one of the poorer quarters of Casville, wondering if she should take the forward step that her heart so desired. She had knocked the termite ridden door thrice and had gotten no answer. Her noble manners dictated that she either continued knocking till she got an answer or she turned and leave, but she was not ready to do the latter. She had gone through a lot, trailing Sir Eweid in a hired carriage as he rode through the busy streets around the arena till he dropped his horse off at a public stable in the heart of the city. Next, her fancy shoes had become plastered with mud as she followed him on foot deeper and deeper into the outskirts of the city, until he finally entered this broken-down lodge.

Now she began to question the wisdom in following him all the way rather than walking up to him in the streets and telling him what her trouble was. She had believed appealing to his sense of chivalry would be best done in privacy but now there wasn't even the chance to speak. She knocked the door again and this time, there was a response. What she heard was not the well phrased reply expected of a knight who had just conquered the king's arena. It was a groaned plea for help.

Vynne felt her heart clench with fear within her. What could have happened to him? She wondered. Perhaps a jealous knight had trailed him home just like she had done and had stuck a knife in his gut.

She pulled the door knob and the door gave way with a mighty creak. She entered the room and saw a figure in an arming doublet sprawled on the floor, groaning and crawling forward. When she walked over to where the figure lay and saw that the figure was pale faced, beardless and green haired. It was the young fellow who helped her retrieve her stolen purse some days back. His breaths were laboured and he was sweating profusely. He looked like life was slowly draining out of him.

"What ails you mister?" She asked as she knelt beside him. "Is there someone around I can call for help?"

He grimaced and pointed to a chair in the corner of the room on which a few clothing items were strewn.

"You want to sit?"

"No. Th..he b..black leg..gings."

Vynne dashed over to grab the black leggings from the chair and handed it to him. With great effort, he dipped his hands in the pocket of the trousers and brought out a bunch of leaves. He held the bunch to his nose and took a deep breath, then his breathing began to normalise. Vynne watched as colour slowly returned to his face and strength returned to his limbs.

"Thank you lady. I owe you my life," he said as he pulled himself upright.

"Thank the gods," she said. "Are you well now?"

"Verily, I am."

"Very well," She said. "I do not think you told me your name the last time."

"I am Corthiel Zelac of Marmenn."

"I am—"

"Vynne. Your sister called you the other time."

Vynne nodded. "Corthiel, do you know where Sir Eweid's room is in this lodge? I think I missed the room he entered. I need to speak with him."

"Sir Eweid? Who is he?"

"You do not know him? Did you not watch the tournament?"

Corthiel rubbed his eyes. "I am afraid I do not find very entertaining the idea of watching hundreds of men running around on a small field on horseback, trying to knock one another to the ground."

"Ah, well. My family came from Vath to watch this tournament and I can say it was unparalleled entertainment."

Vynne picked her fan and purse which she dropped while tending to Corthiel, and she rose. "I should check the next room."

"Wait," Corthiel said. "Otut be damned! What kind of eyes are yours? They pierce my soul as I utter every untruth."

"I do not understand you."

"I know Sir Eweid and I know where he lives."

"You do? Pray, tell me where."

Corthiel heaved a sigh. "I am the Sir Eweid you seek."

"You lie!" Vynne shrieked. How could he be the gallant knight who bested so many of the king's knights? Was it him who astonished the spectators with excellent swings of his tourney sword that left even the prince kissing the grass?

"I do not lie. I was the one that competed at the tournament. In truth, I am Sir Eweid's third squire but he fell seriously ill a few days ago when every arrangement for him to compete at the tournament had been completed. I decided to take part in his place."

Vynne stood looking at him, finding it hard to believe that this lad whose face was void of hair could have delivered such a matured showing at the highest level.

"You do not believe, eh? Let me show you something."

He walked to the chair in the corner of the room and pulled out a shield from behind it. The metallic shield bore the same coat of arms Sir Eweid donned during the tournament.

"I am bereft of words," Vynne said. "Does your master know about this?"

"He does not. I will tell him when I get back to Marmenn because if I refuse to tell him myself, he will find out eventually when he gets well."

"What do you reckon his reaction will be?"

"Anything but good. What I have done is serious enough to get me in gaol. But it was a fine adventure indeed. Come lady, you wanted to speak to Sir Eweid about something. I am all ears."

"I am afraid you cannot help me."

"Try me."

"I seek a knight to challenge a despicable man to a duel."

"Must it be a knight?" Corthiel asked.

"Aye," Vynne said sadly. "The man is a noble, he will not fight a man who he deems below his office. Such a shame. You would have dealt with him so well."

"He will not know who I am when I don the armour."

"The man will demand to see the face of his challenger," Vynna said. "That is the way of duels. I suppose I have to look somewhere else for help, though I am disinclined to start looking for another knight."

She pulled her headdress off, causing her shiny black hair to cascade over her shoulders. She kissed the headdress and offered it to Corthiel.

"For luck against Sir Garhel tomorrow," she said.

"Thank you lady," Corthiel said as he accepted the token. "You have the heart of Feliyra. May the gods send a fitting knight your way."

"I should head back. Lorna will not take kindly to me stay away from her for so long."

"I will accompany you back to the centre of the city," Corthiel said. "Let me wear a better coat. I will be fast."

Vynna stepped outside to allow him change, and he joined her shortly. In the dim lighting of the passageway, she saw that he had run a comb through his tousled green hair which he now framed with a headband fashioned out of tiger hide, and he had picked an emerald tunic that matched the colour of his eyes. Vynna felt her heart flutter within her chest in a manner that could only mean one thing.

No, this is not happening.

SIR GARHEL GENTLY PUSHED open the door of Lady DeBlyde's quarters. He peered into the living room to see it unoccupied and unlit, save a ray of moonlight that penetrated through a slit between the muslin curtains that adorned the window.

"My lady, are you home?" He called, wondering what was wrong. Would Lady DeBlyde send her maid to call him when she knew she was not around?

"I am in the inner chamber," A feminine voice replied from deep inside the house. No doubt it was Lady DeBlyde's.

Sir Garhel groped his way through the dark living room to the inner room, where he saw Lady DeBlyde seated on a high stool in a corner of the room with her back to the door. He regarded her tall and voluptuous figure from behind and shook his head in lustful wonder. After years of dallying with young prim maidens who had limited experience in the secret art of pleasuring a man, he found Lady DeBlyde refreshingly different.

"What are you doing?" He asked when she did not turn to face him, although he was quite sure that she was aware of his presence.

The lady turned now. "I was making this for you."

Sir Garhel looked intently at what she was holding up for him to see. It was a golden amuletic wristlet with several magical inscriptions on it.

"What is it for?"

"It is to help you win your duel tomorrow," She answered.

The smile on Sir Garhel's handsome face promptly morphed into a frown. "Is this how lowly you now regard me? You think I need some talisman to beat a single star knight?"

"He is not even a knight," She said. "He is a mere squire."

"What are you talking about?"

Lady DeBlyde dropped the wristlet on the table in front of her. "I know what I am saying. The person you are going to fight at the arena tomorrow is not a knight. He is just a young squire who is fighting in the place of his knight for some obscure reason."

"How did he—?"

"Destroy several high ranking knights the way he did? Well, a lot of things are strange about the lad but one thing is certain, a powerful force is backing him and filling him with super strength at certain intervals. As it is, it will be hard for him to be outdone in battle against any human, for when the power comes upon him, he is nigh invincible like you saw with your own eyes yesterday. You may never be sure of besting him in battle except sorcery is involved, which is what I am doing."

"So this wristlet will help me defeat him?" Sir Garhel asked.

"Certainly," said the lady. "My ring enchanted Sir Treine for you, did it not? Trust me then. This wristlet will sap the boy's energy during the fight so you will not have a hard time disposing of him."

"Very well."

Lady DeBlyde returned her attention to the magical band. "I did not know you will arrive this early. Wait a little time for me to finish the enchantment."

Sir Garhel took his seat on another high stool and began to brood over Lady DeBlyde's latest revelation while she went through endless lines of magical words. He stared blankly at the graven image of Otut that hung on the wall opposite him, wondering how one could get so much dark powers from following a god that could not save itself from banishment.

"I am done, come to bed," Lady DeBlyde said with a seductive smile, patting the bed space beside her gently. She had completed the enchantment process and had slipped under the pink bedsheet.

Sir Garhel shook off the disturbing thoughts that shackled his mind and focused on the alluring woman who was beckoning him to bed. He felt a keen stirring in his loin as he watched her. He hastily kicked off his combat boots, tarried a moment to blow out the lamp on the worktable and then dived under the sheets, into Lady DeBlyde's waiting arms.

# CHAPTER SEVEN

Corthiel slowed his horse's gallop to a leisurely trot. He had successfully gotten past the tough southern guard post of Casville, so he saw no need to continue riding at breakneck speed. He ran his hands lazily through his longish green hair as he ruminated on the events of the days past. He had not planned to leave Casville this quickly, but then there were so many things that he did not plan that had happened anyway. Like his fight with the caravan hands, his spontaneous rise to prominence at the jousting arena and his meeting of that beautiful girl, Vynne.

Thinking of Vynne, he felt a sense of guilt at his hasty exit of the city. Granted, his decision to forgo his duel with Sir Garhel and leave the city as soon as possible had come after they departed at Derbart street that evening of the tournament, he felt now that he should have found a way to reach her and tell her he was leaving, rather than letting her go to the arena with other spectators only to find out that he had absconded. He knew it would have been impossible to stay any longer in the city given that he had no funds and mainly because he also suspected that he would be required to remove his helmet for recognition, still he strongly felt he should have tried to see her again, if not for anything but for this unnervingly enormous feeling of affection he was beginning to have her. He could not help feeling he had blown something big.

He turned his mind to the tournament. He had undertaken this adventure with modest expectations. He would unhorse a few knights, last a few rounds and that would be it, but things had turned out so much differently. To be candid, he was a fine warrior in his own right, solid with swords and swift with arrows; none of his peers back in Marmenn could stand up to him in combats of any sort. But what had happened in his hands at the arena in the presence of thousands of viewers was far beyond his natural capability. Back there, an impossibly powerful energy had coursed through his entire system making his strength triple and his fighting skills quadruple.

It had happened to him before, that unshakeable strengthening force. It was the power with which he vanquished that nameless beast in the depths of Euschires forest. He remembered now how his strength had flagged so terribly not long after he killed the beast that he had collapsed on his way home, vision blurred, life force fast draining and he had begun to hear the songs of the hosts of Hanka, the abode of the dead, until a hand waved a bunch of elm leaves over his nose. . .

Presently, a sudden darkness descended over him, snapping him out of his reminiscence. Corthiel looked up, half expecting to see dark rain clouds fast gathering but he was shocked to see that it was a huge creature flying over his head, blocking the sun rays from reaching him.

"Otut be damned!" Corthiel breathed in amazement as he got a clearer view of the creature. It was quite unlike anything he had ever seen. It was a huge, winged beast with claws of steel and a long spiked tail. As the beast flew over his head, it gave a ground shaking roar that revealed a serpentine tongue behind rows of black, tiny fangs.

In a flash, Corthiel remembered that his immediate elder brother Uhlas, who had a scholarly interest in wild beasts, had once told him about a creature like this before. The Waeon, he called it. It was said to be a terrible killing machine usually awakened by powerful sorcerers and sent to eliminate their enemies.

"How can I kill it?" a twelve year old Corthiel had asked his brother. He had been excited by the idea of facing off with the evil creature. Looking at the real thing now, Corthiel felt a lot of things. Excitement was not one of them.

"Oh nay, I pray you never come across it. Very few of its victims live to tell the tale," Uhlas had replied in his characteristic dreamy way. "It tortures its victim to the brink of death, allows them to recover, then it starts over again, killing them slowly and painfully."

"So I cannot kill it?"

"You can try if you are a high priest of dark gods or you are a powerful wizard."

"I have no hopes of becoming either."

"Then you can't kill it."

That conversation had taken place long ago, but the sight of the Waeon brought the scene vividly to Corthiel's mind.

His hand instinctively hovered around his sheath as he watched the Waeon for any attacking movement, but he soon noticed that the Waeon was not interested in him. It was flying far above and in front of him. With a sigh of relief, Corthiel concluded that he was not the one it was sent to kill.

The Waeon soon flew a far distance away from the young warrior and just as it was beginning to get out of his sight, it dived downwards, and disappeared into a meadow far way. Corthiel knew the Waeon had found its target. Someone was in trouble. He felt a great desire to dismount and go to help whoever was the intended victim of the Waeon.

"You do not have magic. How do you intend to stop the Waeon? Why would you foolishly risk your life for another person? You are not a knight. Only knights are compelled to do things like this," a voice sang in his head.

Corthiel mentally stilled that voice. He did not have to be a knight to help someone if he could. He muttered a short protective prayer to Ligan and at once began to canter towards the faraway meadow.

THREE MEN RODE SWIFTLY ACROSS the Weschion plain. One of them, recognizable by his handsome face and blond hair was Prince Galleine. The other two were Sir Naurt of Auztier and Sir Varding, fellow knights as well as good friends of the prince.

Sir Varding cast a long sideways glance in the direction of the prince and saw him staring straight ahead with a forlorn look on his face. That look had been on his face ever since he got the news of Elna's kidnap. Not even the ransom note from her captors had convinced him to the fact that she was fine, for the meantime at least.

"Sire, you need not brood too much over this issue. Everything will be alright," he advised the distraught Prince.

"Sir Varding is right," Sir Naurt said. "We will soon get her back."

"I am not brooding, not anymore. I have been thinking of a second plan in case those bastards try to hoodwink us. It may come to us having to break her out of the rebel stronghold if things go awry."

"Break?" Sir Naurt repeated with raised brows. "That would be a tough task. I pray it does not come to that."

Prince Galleine sighed. "I pray too."

The prince had barely finished replying when Sir Varding looked up to see a beast; a huge, winged beast hovering over them. It looked poised for an attack and from the look of things, the prince was the prime target.

Sir Varding, known in the imperial military circles for his excellent reflexes, swung into action. He leapt off his horse and knocked the unsuspecting Prince off his white royal horse. That was a split second before the beast swooped on the exact position where the prince had been before he was knocked off to safety by Sir Varding. For his troubles, the knight took the full impact of the beast's blow with its powerful forelegs. He sailed in the air for a few moments and crashed to the ground in sheer pain.

Sir Naurt dismounted his own horse and raced over to stand between Prince Galleine and the menacing beast. He would rather die than stand by and watch the beast devour the prince.

The beast charged, baring its deadly fangs as it dashed towards the fallen prince and the knight who was shielding him with his body. Sir Naurt did a feint and then plunged his sword into the spot where he felt the heart of the onrushing beast should be.

The blade had no effect on the beast. At first, it failed to penetrate and when Sir Naurt pushed harder, the sword, forged by one of the best blacksmiths in the land, splintered into pieces. The beast then proceeded to deliver a ferocious headbutt on the bewildered knight. He staggered backwards till he landed on the floor with a thud.

The beast stood there watching as the three knights scrambled to their feet in spite of the pains they felt and milled together for a possible counterattack.

"Do you think we can kill this thing? It just splintered my sword," Sir Naurt said to his companions.

"I saw that," Sir Varding groaned. "What do we do? Should we run?"

"No," the prince said. "We are imperial knights of the palladium. We do not flee from anything."

The beast started moving again. It was inching towards the knights, exuding its bestial strength and waving their helplessness in their face. Then in a trice, it picked pace and charged at the knights. Something in its bearing suggested that it was going for the kill this time.

"It is coming now. Close shields!"The prince yelled orders at the other knights.

Their formation did them no good for they scattered like chaff in the wind when the beast hurled its sturdy frame against them. The prince was the only one to rise after beast's attack, not because he was the strongest but because he had been the least hit when the beast hurled itself at them. The two other knights had simultaneously stepped forward in the last moment to receive the brunt of the blow. It was the best they could do to protect the prince from harm.

The prince watched with flicking eyes as the beast came at him again. He did not need to be told that he was no match for this monster. He could barely keep a firm hold on his sword. His head was spinning and darkness lapped in the corners of his eyes. Only a miracle could save him from the wrath of the monster.

A miracle indeed happened as a young warrior with bobbing green hair dashed into the meadow and made a great cry that distracted the beast. The prince saw all that through his increasingly blurry vision and wondered if it was real or mere hallucination.

The bestial creature gave an angry howl and began to glide towards the warrior with the sole aim of tearing him apart. The young man did not flinch. He focused keenly on the beast and then he threw the javelin in his hands at it. It was a perfect throw. The light spear sank in the beast's left eye drawing a howl of pain and a spurt of blood.

For a while it looked like the Waeon would retaliate, but the moment passed and it only let out a vociferous roar, flapped its wings wildly and flew out of the meadow.

"Whoooooooa! I did it." The warrior punched the air in ecstasy.

Just then, he remembered something that made him cut his jubilations short. The prince! He rushed to where the prince laid supine beside his unconscious comrades.

"Sire, are you okay?"

"Nay. . . Ride to the city and get help," the prince sighed and then lapsed into a swoon.

"Do not despair son," a gentle voice whispered to the warrior from behind. "Bring them to me."

BREYN FELT A SHARP TUG at his belt. A strong hand was trying to drag him by the buckle out of the tiny cart which had housed him for the past three days. Breyn did not resist, he did not have the energy even if he wanted to. He was weary and hungry. He simply slackened his body and let himself be dragged out of the cart onto the sandy floor.

"Get up!" A terrifying voice boomed as Breyn crumpled to the ground.

He scrambled to his feet and came face to face with the mountain of a man who had abducted him from the ruinous cave. It was the same man Sir Garhel had introduced to the royal court as his saviour—Vruth.

"Move on in front of me," Vruth ordered. "Make any suspicious move and I will be forced to kill you earlier than I intend to."

Breyn nodded in response and promptly began to shuffle down the narrow bushy path that Vruth pointed out to him.

"Your legs are not tied. Move faster!" Vruth hollered from behind him.

Breyn increased his pace from a tired shuffle to a trudge. His leg felt as heavy as lead as he took each slow, painful step. Even worse, his stomach ached abominably, giving off occasional terrible sounding growls, a testament to the fact that he had not eaten anything since he was taken at the point of the arrow at the Death's cave.

Breyn tried to take his mind off the pains he felt by thinking of other things, but he was not successful. His mind was numb and his memory seemed to have lost its sharpness.

"Stop," Vruth commanded suddenly.

Breyn, grateful for an opportunity to stretch his burning legs, quickly eased himself onto the ground. They must have come a long way from the cave, he thought as he looked around and observed they were in an entirely different terrain now. They were in a wide plain as against the rocky terrain around the cave.

Vruth let out a high pitched whistle, he waited a few seconds and repeated the signal. In the next moment, six men dressed in the yellow gambesons characteristic of the rebel troops joined Breyn and Vruth in the woods.

"Hail you. I thought you were bringing two. What happened?" The fellow at the head of the rebel troops asked Vruth.

"Dagca disappeared before I could put a leash on him," Vruth said. "Say Laum, have you captured the prince?"

"Nay," Laum said. "My men watch yet for any sight of him. It appears he is not much enamoured of the girl."

"Keep the men on the watch still. Now, take this chap to camp. Clean him up and serve him a decent meal, we might get one or two things out of him."

Laum scratched his head. "Then?"

"What else? Nothing. Just put him in the same cell with the girl and her brother."

"You think that is a good idea?"

"Just do as you are told," Vruth snapped. "I hope you have not done anything with the girl."

"Ah, well. Not yet."

"Don't try it all," Vruth warned, shaking his fore finger threateningly in the air to emphasize his point. "I will be on my way now."

Laum stroked his beards as he watched Vruth head back the way he and Breyn had come.

"Let us go brothers," Laum said to his men as he grabbed Breyn by the collar of his shirt and hustled him, in a most ungentle fashion, in the direction of the rebel camp.

# CHAPTER EIGHT

Corthiel watched with wonder as the sprightly middle aged man who had showed up after Corthiel's entanglement with the Waeon busied himself with draping long pieces of white clothes over the still forms of Prince Galleine and his friends. The man, clad in a red cape and black tunic, had brown, thinning hair and large, watchful eyes. He was no one but the famously infamous Dagca Mauvan.

Corthiel had heard numerous stories about this man who had defied the king's orders and had chosen to remain within the boundaries of the empire despite the constant threat to his life, and Corthiel had to admit that he secretly admired the man's loyalty to his god and his abhorrence of the royal authority.

"By the hour of prayer tomorrow, The prince will be strong enough to continue his journey," Dagca said.

"And his companions?"

"They are a little worse than he is, but they will be fine too."

"Can I take my leave then?"

"Certainly," Dagca affirmed. "They do not require your attention or even mine to return to health. I have covered them with a healing shroud and I have surrounded them with a protective hex lest man or beast come upon them while they yet slumber. I would have loved to stay to speak with the prince when he awakes but I have to be in the hinterlands for the festival of Tris."

"Leave him a note then and tell him where to find you."

"Will it be worth anything? The last time I risked my head to get him a message to him in the palace demanding his audience for important matters, he chose to send me his servant. Perhaps my anguish is in futility, the doom of the empire which I have seen might be unstoppable after all."

"I should leave," Corthiel said. "Farewell."

"Ah, wait a moment. I want to discuss a few things with you before you leave."

Corthiel sensed trouble but there was hardly any other thing he could do than to hear the man out.

"Escaping death against a Waeon without the aid of magic is totally unheard of. How on earth did you do what you did?"

"I. . . er. . I don't know. I just had a little impulse and I acted on it," Corthiel replied, hoping he had not revealed too much.

"Indeed," Dagca mused. "I think I know the exact kind of impulse that can make a Waeon leave its victim without completing its job. Say, where were you coming from before you saw it?"

This time, Corthiel saw a need to withhold the truth, "I was coming from the capital. I was there to watch the tournament, and what a grand showing it was."

The lie came off smoothly. Corthiel hoped it was convincing enough.

Dagca threw his balding head backwards in a long, hearty laugh. "Listen son, I do not need people to tell me the truth. I can always see things for myself.

"You are Corthiel Velmein Zelac from the southern region of the empire, Marmenn to be precise. You are a few weeks past your twenty second birthday. You are the third squire to a certain Marmennian knight, Sir Eweid. Your knight master came down with severe typhus and you stole out of his presence with his arms and horse to participate in the tournament in his name. You tied with Sir Garhel for the most outstanding performer spot. Is it not so?"

Corthiel had always know Dagca to be powerful yet the knowledge did not stop him from being dumbstruck by the way the man had seen through him.

"I have seen the future of this empire, son," Dagca continued when Corthiel did not give a reply. "And, I am afraid, it looks bleaker without you."

"Me? What has the future of this kingdom got to do with a commoner like me?"

"What do you know? There are so many things about yourself that you have not the slightest idea of," Dagca said. "I am telling you this so as to prepare your mind for greatness. I have seen a lot of things about the future of the empire. Some good, many not so good, but they all point to one thing, the fate of the kingdom, whether it will stand united as it is now or it will crumble into a thousand fragments as it might very soon, rests in the hands of you and a few other people."

Corthiel shook his head vigorously. "No. I do not believe this."

"You do not have to believe what I say," Dagca said with a tolerant smile. "When some of these things start happening, you will be convinced beyond doubts. It is your destiny. A man cannot alter his destiny. When he thinks he is changing a part of his destiny, he is unwittingly fulfilling another part of it.

"One thing you must know is, that wave of energy that strengthens you, learn to embrace it and try to master it. It is one of those things that will lead you to greatness. Do well to always inhale the bunch of elm leaves before you enter any combat, it will prevent those long moments of wretched weakness that succeeds the surge of power.

"Oh, and another thing. The Waeon will return for another battle, not on the prince this time but on you. It will be far stronger than it was the last time. Be prepared and ensure . . ."

Corthiel stopped listening altogether. He just stood there, perplexed beyond words.

ELNA SPRANG UP FROM the cold bare floor of the cell as soon as she heard the thumping sound of boots approaching. She had been sleeping, but as usual with her, it had not been a deep sleep. Who could sleep soundly in a dimly lit, poorly ventilated, flea infested cell anyway? Well, her younger brother Belaine could. She could hear him snoring away even as the thumping sounds got nearer.

"Belaine," She tried to wake him up.

No response. The snoring only increased a notch.

The cell door swung open and Elna saw a solitary figure walk into the cell. In the dim lighting of the cell, she could see that the figure was that of a man, even though she could not see the features clearly.

Her heart began to pound furiously, pumping blood at an accelerated rate. Her second biggest fear, since the day she was abducted with her brother on the way to Iztier, was about to come true. One of the guards had gotten the idea to dishonour her.

"Belaine!" She screamed at the top of her lungs.

"Belaine?" The figure repeated in a voice that conveyed surprise. "Is that Elna?"

"Who are you?" Elna shrieked. She found the voice familiar but in her current state she could not place who it was.

"It is Breyn."

"Breyn, O Breyn," Elna cried as she ran to embrace him.

Breyn was more than surprised to find Elna there. "How did you get here?"

She gave no reply. She just stood there, with her face buried in his shoulder, weeping inconsolably.

"Can someone tell me what is going on here?" A voice demanded behind them.

They both turned to see a red haired young man standing with his arm folded across his chest. It was Belaine.

"Belaine, this is Breyn. I am sure you know him very well," Elna said, sniffing back her tears.

Neither Elna nor Breyn could have anticipated what happened next, as Belaine threw a heavy punch in the direction of Breyn's head. It caught him on the nose and sent him staggering backwards.

"Belaine! Are you crazy?" Elna screamed at her brother, but he was not deterred as he sent a vicious kick to Breyn's midriff, causing the latter to stumble to the ground, clutching his stomach in agony.

Belaine did not stop there. He pounced on the hapless servant and began to rain blows on his face.

"Belaine! Stop it!" Elna bellowed. This time her shouts brought the guards rushing to the cell. They forcibly separated Belaine from Breyn, although the former seemed quite eager to continue his assault on the latter.

"It is all your fault," Belaine yelled at Breyn as he was being bundled out of the cell. "It is because of you and your worthless prince that my sister and I are here. May the pox plague you. I will kill you the next time I catch you."

"I am very sorry. My brother can be unreasonable at times," Elna pleaded with Breyn after the guards had led Belaine away.

"You call that unreasonable? I think stupid is more appropriate," Breyn replied angrily.

"He is trying to protect me," Elna continued as if he had not spoken.

"By battering my face?"

"No, by trying to break my association with the prince, he always said the prince only wants to sow his wild oats in me after which he will on go to marry Lady Æthrynne," she said.

In spite of his anger against her brother, Breyn saw the need to reassure Elna of the prince's love for her. "He is wrong, very wrong. The prince loves you with the whole of his heart and I can tell you, he feels nothing for Lady Æthrynne."

Elna was not convinced. "But she remains betrothed to him. Why can he not put his foot down and break that arrangement off if he truly loves me?"

Tricky one, but Breyn thought he knew exactly what to say. "He truly loves you, but even you know he cannot just break a betrothal arrangement that has been made since his childhood without a genuine reason, which in this case is nonexistent because Lady Æthrynne has done nothing wrong to him. I will implore you to be patient till he becomes the king. He can then break the arrangement off without anyone challenging him.

"Thank you Breyn, I indeed feel reassured," She sighed in relief. "Did he send you here?"

"Er . . . yes, he did," Breyn lied. "He wants you to know that he is coming to get you out soon."

Elna broke into an expansive smile. "I knew it."

Breyn shook his head inwardly as he realized just how costly his little lie could turn out to be. He was lucky that Elna was light-headed enough to have forgotten that he had asked her what she was doing in the cell some moments ago. While he did not doubt the fact that as long as Prince Galleine was alive, he would come in search of his girl, Breyn only hoped it would not be too late before he came.

SIR GARHEL SAT AT A reading desk in Lady DeBlyde's study with his nose buried deep in a gigantic treatise on the states in the East of the earth. That book had become Sir Garhel's bible since he returned to Casville. He had come across it in the well-stocked book shelf of Lord DeBlyde, and he had been attracted both by the book's fancy cover and its sensational title. He had perused the content and had been blown away by how much relevant it was to his conquest plans. He had picked it from the shelf and had kept it with him since then.

The book divided the East of the earth into four major regions; The Laillean kingdom to the north, the seven autonomous territories that made up the Old Kingdoms, the growing Navlan empire and the vast scattered tribes of Thombrük barbarians. According to the book, each region continually strove through various means for more wealth, fame, glory and power, and the only way that desire could be achieved was for them to keep on extending their boundaries, to keep on annexing neighboring lands. That sometimes brought the regions at logger heads with each other. Often wars ensued, with the stronger regions conquering and the weaker ones suffering.

The book described the Old Kingdoms as the strongest region and Navlan as the weakest. However, it was quick to add that with the depth of her resources, the industry of her people and the wisdom of her emperor, Navlan was poised to become the leading empire in no distant time.

That had been in the days of the great emperor Guldheries Loghris, Sir Garhel thought. Guldheries had ruled like a real emperor. He had annexed several lands, won several battles and had extended the boundaries far beyond what anyone could have imagined. Overall, he had been loved by his subjects and greatly feared by his enemies.

He was unlike the current emperor, Gradiel, who ruled like a milquetoast. Everyone called him king because that was what he was, the king of Casville instead of the emperor of Navlan. He preferred treaties to war and feasts to annexation. During his reign, Navlan's erstwhile fast development had receded.

Sir Garhel cast his mind back to twenty five years ago, during the coronation of King Gradiel. He remembered he had been sulky all through the ceremony and his mother, Princess Luvella, had asked questions, but he had answered with his own question.

"Mother, why are you not the one sitting on that throne? Why is it uncle Gradiel?"

Luvella had been slightly taken aback by her ten year old son's question but she had answered nonetheless. "It is his right to be king as the first born son of our father."

"But you are older than him. Could they not have made you queen and Father, king?"

His mother had smiled tolerantly. "No, it does not work that way. The throne goes to the first son. Do you understand?"

The young Garhel had nodded in acceptance and just when his mother had thought that the issue was done with, he had begun again.

"Mother, who will be King after Uncle?"

"Who else? Young Galleine of course."

"What about me? What will I be?"

"You will be an official member of the distinguished royal family after your induction at thirteen. You could be made the governor of a province later if the king so wishes."

"No mother, I want to be king!"

"Shut up!" Luvella had yelled, obviously galled by her son's sheer impertinence. "What do you know about being king? I do not ever want to hear you speak of such things again or I will report you to your father."

At the mention of his father, little Garhel had lapsed into silence. He knew through unsavoury past experiences that his wicked father would only be too glad to take him through another grueling session of punishments.

Sir Garhel returned his focus to the book with a light hiss. He did not know why he kept losing concentration easily these days.

He heard the sound of the door being pushed open behind him and then the sound of approaching footsteps followed. He looked back over his shoulder to see Lady DeBlyde strutting towards him. She wore a resplendent, knee length, purple robe that hugged her superb frame tightly. A good proportion of her glorious bosom flashed in his face through the dangerously low neckline of her dress.

"Do you know the first thing I will do when I become the emperor?" He asked her as soon as she settled in the seat opposite his.

"No idea."

"I will remove Feliyra as the goddess of beauty and put you in her place."

Lady DeBlyde let out an amused chuckle. "Do not flatter me, Garhel."

"I do not," Sir Garhel said as he snapped the book before him shut. "Are you headed somewhere?"

"You and I are going to see something."

"Really? Tell me about it."

"Come and see," Lady DeBlyde whispered as she eased to her feet.

Sir Garhel followed her out of the study, through the passageway all the way to the expansive courtyard of the DeBlyde manor. There, Sir Garhel beheld a host of warriors about five thousand large. The warriors, all clad in full armour, stood at perfect attention as Lady DeBlyde and Sir Garhel went through their ranks.

"Do you like what you see?" Lady DeBlyde asked.

"By the gods, I do. How did you come by this large army?"

"I conjured them up," Lady DeBlyde replied in a voice laden with pride.

"You conjured them?" The knight repeated. "You mean they are not real men?"

"Nay. They are, each of them, awakened bodies of dead war veterans. Complete beings of magic is what they are. When I promised you an army that needs no feeding or payment, this is what I was talking about."

"I thought you were bluffing," Sir Garhel said. "Are they destructible?"

"With magic, they can be destroyed but it is going to be a very difficult task. With anything else, you are wasting your time."

Sir Garhel reached out to remove the helmet of the immortal soldier closest to him. He wanted to verify Lady DeBlyde's claims. The warrior caught Sir Garhel's hand mid-way and held it there. Sir Garhel tried to pull his hand out but he could not, his hand was held there in an iron grip.

"They do not like being touched," Lady DeBlyde revealed. "Even I have to cast spells before I can touch them."

"Tell it to release me," Sir Garhel pleaded after another unsuccessful attempt to free himself.

"Benlik, leave him," Lady DeBlyde commanded. Immediately, Sir Garhel felt the hard grip on his hand slacken and the immortal soldier, Benlik, joined the others in standing at attention.

"You know all their names?" Sir Garhel quizzed as he rubbed his hand.

"I do, but collectively they are called Tishkans, that is phantom soldiers in magical terms. Would you like to take on one of them to see if they are good in combats or not?"

"Nay," Sir Garhel answered. "Benlik here has shown me what they can do."

"Very well."

Sir Garhel stood there staring in awe at Lady DeBlyde's army of phantom soldiers. He wondered if he really needed to gather more men through his Old Kingdoms and rebel allies. With this immortal army, he was emperor already.

# CHAPTER NINE

He was running in thick darkness. Running from thousands of men chasing him down a path he could not see. He was getting tired but he ran on, knowing that his survival hinged on staying ahead of the chasing park.

The cries and footfalls of his chasers were getting closer, then came a strange distinct sound, the sound of a massive beast running at him from the front. He was suddenly trapped between two kinds of death.

"Help!"

His scream of help coincided with a bright light shinning forth from his left and he saw an elm tree standing in the middle of the light. A lady with her back turned stood in front of the tree and whispered, "come to me. Coooooome."

Corthiel woke up with a violent jerk. He sat up on the grassy floor he had been sleeping on. He was drenched in sweat and panting heavily. He had taken a nap to refresh himself ahead of his solitary southward ride and the gods have rewarded him with his usual nightmare.

"Are you okay?"

Corthiel looked up sharply and saw Dagca looming over him. Corthiel had been too deep in thought to hear the other man approach.

"I... I am fine. I thought you were gone."

"I was indeed about to leave when I heard you. Was it a nightmare?"

"Aye."

"Tell me about it."

Corthiel recounted the dream in detail to Dagca, who listened with rapt attention.

"Ah," Dagca sighed as soon as Corthiel finished. "This dream is recurrent, is it not?"

"Aye, it varies in little details but it is largely the same."

"Good. It is a message from the gods."

"A message?"

"Yes. You are going to face hard times, you will go from fight to fight, from battle to battle, but if you believe, you will not be defeated."

Here we go again, Corthiel thought.

Dagca continued. "The beast in your dream is the Waeon. The dream is a proof of what I told you, the Waeon will return for another encounter with you."

"What about the tree and the lady?"

"The tree was meant to be a place of safety for you, but there are a lot of things unclear about the tree and the lady you saw. Even now as I try to enquire about your dream in the spirit, a giant elm tree blocks my vision. Perhaps your next dream might be clearer, seek me when you dream these things again."

"Very well," Corthiel said.

"You should head back if you want to make the inn before nightfall," Dagca said. "I will leave for the west too."

"Farewell Dagca."

"Farewell son," the sorcerer said. "Be on the watch. Do not let evil sneak up to you, be ready. Oh wait, there is something else I need to tell you..."

SIR GARHEL HELD THE GAZES of the three pairs of eyes before him as he paced around the underground chamber in his lodging. The floorboards creaked in response to the continuous movement of his booted feet.

"I called this meeting for us to discuss the strategies we are going to employ in executing our plans," Sir Garhel said. "First, I would like us to know how many we have on ground now. Vruth?"

The burly, clean shaven man cleared his throat. "The total number of men I have gathered in our Longt stronghold for this cause is a little shy of three thousand and we have enough weaponry and supplies to match that number."

"Three thousand rebels? That is impressive. Lord Bradeigh, how many men do we have from our allies in the Old Kingdoms?"

"Sire, I must say your decision to go in person to the cities of the Old Kingdoms rather than use an intermediary was very wise. The kings have been more responsive to this cause than they would have been had you sent them some noble to speak on your behalf. So far, we have gotten fifteen thousand well trained men and there are two kingdoms we are still expecting men from."

"Excellent!" Sir Garhel exclaimed. "Lady Milady?"

"As you saw with your own eyes, I have an army of five thousand battle ready, immortal soldiers," She said.

"Immortals?" Lord Bradeigh and Vruth chorused.

"Yes," Lady DeBlyde said with a lofty smile. "You can call them Tishkans."

"Um, are they completely servile?" Lord Bradeigh inquired.

"Worry not. I have them under control," Lady DeBlyde assured him.

"Okay, we have over twenty thousand men. That is far greater than I initially envisaged," Sir Garhel said. "Now that we have analyzed the strength of our numbers, let us talk about how the conquest will be carried out."

"Is it not simple?" Vruth said. "Let our men launch a direct attack on Casville. Somehow in the battle, we will ensure the king is killed."

"That is not a solid idea," Lady DeBlyde opined. "The imperial army has a far greater numerical strength than what we have. Besides, an attack on Casville will leave so many fine buildings in ruins and there is a chance that the king will escape unscathed because the entire order of knights of the palladium will form a protective wall around him."

"The lady is right," Lord Bradeigh reasoned. "Especially about the destruction. I am sure my lord does not want to rule over the carnage that is likely to follow a direct attempt to take the city."

"What do you suggest then?" Sir Garhel asked.

"If the attack is made on another city of the empire, then the imperial army, led by the king, will be forced to leave Casville to save the city. I am certain it will be easier to eliminate the king in the battlefield than in the safety of his castle."

"Great reasoning," Sir Garhel said. "I think I know a city we can set the men on that will get Gradiel scurrying out of his castle. Now, are there other people who are threats to our plans that we need to eliminate before we strike, apart from Galleine and Treine whom we have taken care of?"

"Threats?" Lord Bradeigh repeated. "None comes to mind."

"There is Dagca Mauvan," Vruth said. "He slipped away from my grip at Death's cave. I think I should have shot him on the spot instead of attempting to get him alive."

"Dagca?" Lady DeBlyde sniggered. "He is nothing. I knew he was going to escape even as I gave you the glowing pendant. I will get him myself when the time is right.

She continued, "The only one person I still consider a threat to us is that boy that represnted Sir Eweid at the recent tournament. He is the only one that is capable of disrupting our plans."

"What boy?" Lord Bradeigh inquired.

"A certain gifted warrior from the south. He can be trouble for us if we do not take care of him."

"What do we do about him?" Sir Garhel asked his cohorts.

"I will handle him," Lady DeBlyde said.

"Well then, each of you should get your men ready," Sir Garhel declared. "We are going to strike soon. Now, let us drink to the fall of a king and the rise an emperor."

"Aye!"

IT WAS SIX HOURS PAST THE hour of prayer. Prince Galleine and his two comrades were riding around the valley which Elna's captors had chosen, as conveyed by the ransom note, as the meeting point for her release.

"Where are those spineless brigands?" Prince Galleine said.

Sir Varding looked to his left and right. "I will say they are lurking somewhere, trying to see if we brought an army with us."

"Look at that," Sir Naurt said, pointing to the imposing mountain ahead.

"I cannot see a thing," Prince Galleine said.

"Ah, I can see them now. Look at the left slope sire," Sir Varding said.

The prince checked and saw eight figures coming down that side of the mountain.

"What is happening? I can't see Elna," the prince said as he trained his eyes on the approaching party.

"Worry not sire. Now that we are here, we will surely get her back," Sir Varding assured him.

"Don't tell me not to worry," Prince Galleine said. "The last time you said something like that, we ended up being attacked by a crazy beast."

Despite the huge tension in the air, Sirs Varding and Nuart had the heart to laugh at the prince's words. Presently, the rebel party got to the part of the vale where the prince and his companions waited for them on horseback.

"Finally, you are here. We have waited long for you," the long haired leader of the troop said with a crooked smile on his disfigured face. "I am Laum."

"Where is she?" The prince fired.

"Be patient my lord," Laum said in jest. "Where is the money?"

Prince Galleine signalled to Sir Naurt and the knight quickly went to retrieve a bagful of ciblis from among the supplies.

"This is it," the prince said, opening the bag and picking two gold coins.

Laum's eyes shone with greed. "Are you sure these are original mint?"

"See for yourself," Prince Galleine replied, handing him a coin as proof.

"Okay, this is not fake," Laum remarked, then he turned to his men. "Okay brothers, our lordship has shown us the money, now show him the girl."

Neither the prince nor his two companions could have anticipated what happened next as the all rebels, save Laum, unsheathed their blades and charged at them

"I knew it. Spineless spawns of Otut!" The prince yelled as he pulled his own sword out of its holder and ran forward to meet his adversaries.

Laum stared in horror as the prince beheaded the first rebel that came his way. Sir Varding toed the same path by burying his sword in the head of another rebel. Sir Naurt was no less lethal with his sword as he parried an attack from a rebel and swiftly plunged blade in the rebel's groin.

"Why are you holding back? Kill them, you fools!" Laum yelled at the remaining four rebels.

The remaining rebels rushed towards the three knights, goaded on by their leader's rebuke, but they were no match for the excellent swordsmanship of the knights who counterattacked them ferociously. After a period of slashing, plunging and hacking, the rebels were undone by the knights.

"Brilliant," Laum clapped. "I really underestimated you. Especially you, the prince. You are no milquetoast as I have been made to believe."

"Show me Elna now or you will feel the depth of my wrath," the prince said through gritted teeth. His tone suggested that if other man did not comply, he would promptly take his head off.

Laum laughed mirthlessly. "You are so impatient to see her? Very well. Look over there, that is where she is."

Prince Galleine turned in the direction that Laum pointed to him and saw something that weakened him. There were now over two hundred men standing on the slope of the mountain with more than half of them being archers.

"I suppose you know you are within the range of those archers. Do you see, my lord, that I am the one in control here?"

The prince wiped the beads of perspiration that was beginning to cascade down his forehead with the sleeve of his coat. "You feckless brigand. I have given you the money you requested. What else do you want?"

"You . . . I want you," Laum replied with a wide grin slapped on his face.

A GENTLE BREEZE CARESSED KING GRADIEL'S cheeks and blew his coat hither and thither as he leaned over the parapet roof of the royal castle. The king especially loved coming to this place. Alongside his throne room and the royal chamber, it was his favourite spot in the castle.

One thing that particularly appealed to him about the place was the impressive view of Casville it offered him. From that dizzying height, he could see the beautiful northern landscape, the tallest trees in the forests, the snowcapped mountains and the lush greenery that stretched across the east. He could watch with swelling pride the training sessions of the imperial army, the trading activities at the market or any other thing that caught his fancy.

Presently, King Gradiel stood at the apex of the castle with its aesthetic appeal completely lost to him. He was not there to enjoy the scenery. Rather, he was there because he wanted time and space to think about certain matters that bothered him. Things were going awry and he could not afford to sit back and watch. He had to think and come up with solutions.

The first thing on his mind was the fact that his son had vanished from the court without trace. His servant and two of his friends were missing too. The king very well knew the kind of son he had. He rarely left the royal castle and whenever he did, it was never without permission from the Crown. Now, no one has seen him in over a week and the numerous search parties that had been sent to look for him were still clueless concerning his whereabouts.

King Gradiel felt the hairs on his nape rise as he pondered the second thing that was giving him sleepless nights. It was the report that a large portion of the nomadic Thombrük tribesmen dwelling to the south of Navlan have found a leader in the banished Old Kingdoms warlord, Jedhun, and they have begun pooling their resources together to ensure the destruction of Navlan.

Imperial spies have reported that the savages were building their massive army near the Bolg boundary and they would strike the empire as soon as they were done massing up. Even more disturbing was the report that the Laillean king was offering to help the Thombrük army bring Navlan down on her knees.

"My lord?" A voice called from behind the king, interrupting the flow of his thinking. The king immediately ascribed that voice to Wertchen, the highest ranking guard in service.

"Go away!" The king barked.

"My lord, it is Lord Burth—"

"Tell him to leave, I do not want to see anyone now."

Wertchen was not deterred. "My lord, I think you should listen to him. He would not tell me exactly what has happened but he says it is a terrible situation for the empire."

"A terrible situation?" The king echoed in surprise. Lord Burth was a general, a war hardened man who had lived his entire life for warfare. If he called something a terrible situation then trouble was surely lurking. "Send him in right away."

In the moment that followed, Lord Burth walked onto the castle rooftop looking utterly miserable.

"Burth, what is wrong?"

"My lord, I am afraid I have come with terrible news."

"Whatever it is, tell me right away."

"This morning, a large band of robbers attacked the treasury at Auztier. They carted away all the gold and burnt down the building."

The king stared at Burth, not believing his ears. Yes, his aural faculty had to be malfunctioning. That treasury alone held about half of the whole of Navlan's wealth, and for that reason, it was always heavily fortified with sentries. There was even a joke in Casville about the treasury being more secure than the castle where the king resided. Now, thinking of that safe haven left in ruins by bandits made very little sense.

"Are you sure about this?"

"I was close to Auztier when I was given the report. I rode there myself and I saw the smoldering remains of the treasury with my own eyes."

The king felt crushed, like he had been struck with a warhammer. How could this happen at a time when his son was missing, when the Thombrük savages were massing up for war, when his wife was down with a nameless illness?

"What about all the guards there? Could they not stop the raid?"

"The guards could do nothing, they were outnumbered. An eye witness said there were about one thousand robbers in the band."

"Okay. I have heard enough of this," said the king. "Now, get one trusted man to go around and inform all the knights of the palladium and all the valiant warriors in the city to gather at the citadel square. We are going on a campaign against those bandits."

Lord Burth's jaw dropped, "But my lord, we . . ."

"No buts. Go and do what I said now!" The king commanded, "and listen, keep this news secret, I don't want panic spreading among my people."

Lord Burth bowed and left the king's presence. The king pulled his purple coat tighter and headed back towards the stairs. Yes, he had a campaign to lead, but he had to see his wife first.

# CHAPTER TEN

Prince Galleine itched to slam his fist on Laum's already crooked nose but he could not carry out his wish because his hands were firmly tied to his back. He hissed as he remembered how he and his comrades had been subdued at the valley by the sight of the numerous rebels. Laum had ordered for them to be bound and blindfolded before they were dragged southwards for leagues unending. Now they were in front of a tent outside the gate of the rebel stronghold, Prince Galleine observed. His blindfold had been taken off by a foul smelling rebel when they arrived at the gate.

"What are you thinking about, my lord?" Laum asked with a mocking grin plastered on his face as he walked even closer to the prince.

The prince's keen eyes saw a small scroll in Laum's hands that had not been there earlier. "Why are you doing this?"

"What?"

"You bringing me down to your rathole after I have paid every ciblis of the ransom you demanded."

Laum grinned. "Don't be a thickwit, my lord. Your girl that we abducted was only a little trick to get you out of your father's castle. You are our real target."

Prince Galleine blinked rapidly in surprise. "What do you need me for?"

"I am not going to tell you that. You will find out in due course. But I have to warn you, you will not like it."

The prince swallowed. That did not sound great, he thought. "Then let Elna and my friends go. You have me already, do not make them suffer what they know nothing of."

"That is none of your business," Laum spat. "I am in charge here. I decide who I release and who I keep here. You'd better get that into your head now. You are no longer in the castle where you and your father reign supreme."

"Look at me, If you do not release them, I swear by Ligan's greatness, I will kill you," the prince threatened.

Laum's chuckle was a dry one. "How do you intend to do that when you are going to be locked in a nice little cell very soon?"

"That is none of your business," the prince said, echoing the same thing the other man said moments ago. "Just bear it in mind that someday I will kill you and I will do it with your own sword. I will sink that long blade in that grotesque face of yours and twist it in—"

"Enough!" Laum roared with the ferocity of a lioness whose cubs were endangered. "Tyhen!"

A rebel dashed out from within the tent in response to Laum's call.

"Call the other men, I have changed my mind about this bastard," Laum said to the rebel. "Don't put him in the same cell with his girl again. Put him in with Maris. A day or two there will teach him to use his mouth more sensibly."

"What of the other two?"

"Put them in the next cell. Let them hear their prince cry for his life and be powerless to help him."

The rebel nodded and at once, went back into the tent to call other rebels. In the next moment, the group of rebels began to hustle the prince and the other two knights towards the gated entrance of the rebel stronghold.

Prince Galleine knew he should regret his outburst that has cost him a temporary reunion with Elna, but strangely he did not. If for anything, he had felt good saying those words to Laum and if his sight was any good, then his words had gotten to the crook nosed rebel.

"Tyhen," Laum called from behind them. "If Maris gets too hostile, put the fool beside you in another cell. I do not want him dead. Not yet."

QUEEN HYLLA TOOK GREAT PAINS to turn her head in the direction of the door of her chamber after she heard it creak open. She turned just in time to see her husband, King Gradiel, walk into the room. The king made his way to his wife's bed and flopped on a high stool beside it. The queen was moved to tears when she saw the sadness that crept into her husband's face as he regarded her silently.

"Hail, my lord," Queen Hylla greeted in a low raspy voice.

"Hail my queen. How do you feel now?"

"Not—" A violent cough seized her, muffling the better part of her reply and sending her lurching forward like an unmanned cart into the king's arms.

"It is okay. I understand," the king said as he patted her back gently.

"Have you found my son?" The queen asked, looking into the king's eyes after a moment of awkward silence.

The king looked away sadly. "Not yet. We have sent more parties in search of him. I believe he shall be found very soon."

"Please find him. I want to see him before I die."

"Do not speak in such manner, my queen. You will recover from this illness. Sarlen assured me of that."

It was the queen's turn to look away in sadness. "Sarlen is probably afraid of telling you the truth. I will never rise from this bed. This sickness has eaten too deep into my being. I am like a shrinking sack of bones."

Before the king could remark about her pessimism, the Queen quickly asked, "And what is this I am hearing about you going on a campaign with your men?"

"How did you hear that?" King Gradiel asked in surprise. "That is supposed to be a secret between myself and a few other people."

The Queen gave a weary half smile. "You do not expect news of that magnitude to remain secret. Do you? My maids told me. They heard from a guard in the market stalls. It is the talk of the town now."

The king silently cursed whoever it was that leaked the news. "Well, since you have heard it already. There is nothing I have to tell."

"Tell me if it is true that you will be the one leading the knights of the palladium against the bands of robbers like I heard."

"That is right. We intend to set out at first light tomorrow."

"Don't go please," the queen begged her husband. Her large blue eyes glistened with tears as she made the plea.

King Gradiel was totally taken aback. "Why?"

"I have seen bad things about that campaign."

"That is amusing," the king remarked. "I do not remember you ever being a seer."

"No. I have had dreams, nightmares about this event and you know how my dreams mostly come true."

"Well, what bad things did you see?"

"I saw that your knights were unable to get the stolen gold because you fell in battle and your men got disheartened," Queen Hylla narrated. "Do not go, I beg you. The campaign should be cancelled."

The king shook his head vigorously in outright refusal. "The campaign cannot be cancelled. We must recover the valuables plundered from our coffers by those bastards."

"Then don't go with your men. Let another person take charge. Sir Garhel or Sir Treine will lead the troops just as well as you."

"Relax my queen. Perhaps Sarlen's drugs are having a strong effect on your mind. We are setting out with a force ten times larger than the brigands. I can assure you nothing is going to happen me or anyone else because the thieves will be fleeing from us, not engaging us in battle," King Gradiel said.

After some trivial talks, the king leaned forward to kiss Queen Hylla's forehead and bade her goodbye. Hot tears streaked down the queen's cheeks as she watched her husband's retreating figure. She had a strong presentiment that she was seeing him for the last time.

MARIS WAS TAKING A nap on the only chair in his cell when the sound of the iron bars swinging open jolted him awake. He opened his eyes just in time to see two guards pushing a tall blond fellow into the cell.

"You," Maris called out to one guard. "Who is this you are bringing in? I told you I want no more men here."

"He is your newest cellmate," the guard answered.

"Treat him nicely," the other guard added and they both left laughing.

Maris regarded the new inmate. The chap was tall with a slight build, blond hair and a very handsome face. Maris experienced a powerful pulsing in his nether region as he observed the features of the new boy.

"Come here," he ordered in a hoarse voice.

The fellow paid him no heed.

"Come here son," Maris repeated. "When I talk, you obey or I cut off your ear."

"It is the prince," one of the inmates said.

"I do not care if he is good old Guldheries himself. I am the king here," Maris said, then he turned to two inmates behind him and ordered, "bring him here!"

They both rushed at the prince. One of them brandished a deadly looking dagger that glinted dully in the light of the burning torch held outside the cell, the other kept faith with his big fists. The prince allowed himself the luxury of a small laugh. These men are in for some serious whacking, he thought. The unarmed prisoner attacked first, he attempted to grab the prince by the collar and drag him to Maris but the prince quickly evaded him and then sent a damaging kick to his knee cap. He fell to the ground with a sharp cry of pain.

The other inmate wasted no time in charging at the prince. He leapt at Prince Galleine with the sole aim of burying his dagger in his arm but the prince had other plans. He spun around with the grace of a court dancer and then stuck his right leg out so that it connected with the base of the inmate's neck. There was a loud snapping sound and in the next moment, the inmate fell to the ground, fatally injured from a broken neck.

"Do you still want me to come?" The prince asked with a crooked smile playing on his lips.

Maris was irked beyond measure.

"You will pay dearly for this," He roared and then rushed at the prince, berserk with anger.

Now, if the prince had easily conquered the first two inmates, it was because they were broomsticks compared to Maris's mountainous frame. Vruth had been the biggest man the prince had ever seen before but Maris was almost two times bigger. Merely watching the big man run across the run cell towards him sent shivers down the prince's spine.

As the huge inmate neared him, Prince Galleine sprang into action. He quickly retrieved the dagger lying on the floor and in the moment that followed, plunged it into the onrushing man's thigh. To the prince's horror, the dagger did not stop the big man. He did not even flinch.

"You will have to do better than to prick me with a needle," Maris said in that hoarse voice of his as he grabbed the prince by the neck and hurled him like a sack of oat against the wall.

The prince cried in pain as he crashed into the hard wall of the cell. He attempted to spring to his feet immediately but Maris had already pounced on him and was raining punches on him. The prince's shout attracted the guards, who promptly restrained Maris from wreaking more havoc.

"What is this? I told you to treat him nicely. Didn't I?"

"The animal mauled my boys," Maris replied gruffly.

"Don't worry," the guard said. "I will tell leader Laum to make sure that you two are paired in the upcoming inmate fights. That way, you will be able to expend your fury in the front of everyone in this facility."

Prince Galleine froze. Every pain he felt, the throbbing head, the burning cheeks, aching ribs and every other ache, temporarily dulled as the message in the guard's words sank in his brain. So he would have to face this crazy brute again?

"Save me Ligan," he muttered.

THE EXPANSIVE PLAIN AROUND the Noederth Mountain was always desolate. That was not exactly a thing of surprise since the mountain was situated deep in the heart of the Euschires forest, a forest widely believed to be evil. Legends had it that the wildest beasts and the darkest beings resided in Euschires. Even the dreaded Waeon was said to have a resting place there.

Presently, an average heighted, frizzy haired young man by the name Legard made his way unceremoniously to the base of the Noederth mountain. It was his turn to watch over the tents of the other members of the search party. The party had trailed the prince to this place and they were camping there for the night. They would continue their search the next day.

Lagard took his seat on one of the large rocks that littered the base of the mountain. He set his torch to one side and then he unsheathed his double edged sword and admired the markings around the hilt. That sword had been given to him fourteen years ago by his father who was a renowned blacksmith. He had only been thirteen then and the sword had been a trifle heavy for him to wield, but he had kept on practising with it till he had become quite adept at using it.

A high profile knight had seen him compete at a tournament for minors and had been quite impressed by his excellent swordsmanship and he had ensured that young Legard joined his retinue of squires. Being in the retinue of a top notch knight had opened Legard's eyes to the glory and grandeur that usually accompanied knighthood and he had set his sights on becoming a knight of the palladium like his master.

It was very hard for a commoner to attain knighthood, he had to perform a great act of valiance in the presence of a noble and he had to get a letter of endorsement from another noble. He would then pay a hefty amount of ciblis to be commissioned for the tough recruitment process where only a tenth of the original number of entrants would be chosen to become knights of the Palladium. Legard had received his letter of endorsement from his knight lord after he slew a water monster bedeviling a hamlet in the outskirts of Auztier. He had hoped to get the entrance fee for the recruitment from his knight master but that hope had been dashed when his lord was killed in the great battle at Voules. Distraught with the turn of events, Legard had ditched his dream of becoming a knight and had joined the imperial guards to fend for himself. Only recently, when the news of the prince's disappearance filtered into the city and recruitment began for the search parties began, did he leave his job as an imperial guard.

Presently, Legard heard the sound of approaching footsteps behind him and he turned sharply to see a young ruddy fellow sneaking up to him.

"Dalun, you should know better than sneaking up to people in times like this."

"I thought you were asleep. I wanted to give you a shock."

"You fool, why will I sleep when I am on the watch?" Legard said.

"Some of us do it anyway. You know, nature is hard to cheat."

"It is not nature, it is you who fail to master your body," Legard said. "What are you doing here by the way?"

Dalun chuckled and scanned the area for a rock that could adequately support his big posterior. "I could not sleep. I thought it would be better if I came here to keep you company. Have you heard the latest news in the camp?"

"About the fresh tracks?" Legard asked, although he knew that could not be the latest news.

"No brother, that is stale. This one is about the treasury at Auztier."

"What about it?"

"It was looted by a large group of bandits," Dalun revealed. "Thousands of thousands gold bars carted away."

"Ligan up high!" Legard exclaimed. "How could it happen? That place used to be impregnable."

"I was surprised myself," Shaun admitted. "I also heard the king will be leading the knights of the palladium on a campaign against them tomorrow."

"Very well. Then we should not worry much about this issue, we should instead worry about finding the prince before anything happens to him," Legard said.

"Nothing will happen to the prince. I heard he ran off with an old merchant's daughter to marry her in a city in the Old Kingdoms and he took his friends along as witnesses of their union."

"Does that make any sense? Is the prince's betrothed not a princess in the Old Kingdoms?"

"Perhaps, he is doing it to spite her," Dalun reasoned.

Legard wanted to say he did not think so but he could not utter the words in his mind because in that moment he heard sounds of numerous footsteps approaching their camp.

"Did you hear that?" he asked Dalun.

"What? You are always hearing sounds that are not there. I think—"

Dalun stopped too because mid-way through his reply, he caught sight of not less than a hundred fully armed men dressed in the signature yellow gambesons of the rebels, rushing into the areas around their camp. Dalun and Legard exchanged glances. In that rare moment, their minds mirrored each other.

"We are in big trouble," Dalun whispered to his companion.

"Bigger than you can imagine," Legard whispered back.

# CHAPTER ELEVEN

Corthiel Zelac struggled to keep his small green eyes open as he rode Nigna, his knight lord's war trained mare across the expansive plains of Moire. He had neither slept nor left the saddle since he left the inn he spent the night two days ago. Now, it was obvious with the way his eyelids kept flicking off and on that he could not cheat on his nature. He had to take a break if he did not want to break down.

"A few more miles," He muttered to himself. "A few more miles and I will stop."

Dusk was fast approaching. Corthiel sleepily scratched the length of stubby hair that now covered his chin and most parts of his cheeks. He leaned back against the bags of supplies loaded on the horse, letting his thoughts roam as his horse galloped slowly towards the Noederth mountain. If he had to be honest, he did not have much knowledge of what he was doing. Dagca had instructed him to embark on a quick journey to Bolg to retrieve the sword of Guldheries from the temple there and that was about all he knew about his current mission. He had tried to find out why the sword was needed and how difficult getting it will be, but Dagca had refused to reveal anything of substance, except the fact that acquiring the sword was the beginning of their victories over the enemies of the empire as well as Corthiel's first step towards greatness.

Corthiel wanted to tell the other man that he did not crave greatness in the way he kept portraying it. All he wanted was to be another knight of the palladium who will be happy to fight battles and wars alongside the legendary knights; Sir Garhel, Sir Treine, Sir Sthgain, the prince and others like them. A knight who will be proud to defend the unity of Casville and Navlan to the point of death, a knight who will compete in tournaments in honour of the lady of his choice. He did not crave special fame or glory, but he could not bring himself to say these things to Dagca, perhaps because he felt that the sorcerer expected far greater things from him than what he had in mind.

Corthiel turned his mind away from Dagca and his mission, and let it focus on Vynne, that pretty damsel whose looks had smitten him like a kitten back in Casville. He had been suppressing his feelings but now he was overwhelmed. He admitted to himself that he terribly itched to see Vynne again, to watch her elegant lips curl into that sweet smile that melted his heart, to hear her angelic voice call his name in the manner of the gentle rustling wind, to hold her. . .

"All to aaarms! Enemies within!"

It was a loud war cry. That cry jolted Corthiel back to full consciousness of his surroundings. He quickly reined Nigna in so he could correctly ascertain where the battle was brewing.

The sounds of clashing swords and screaming men led him to discover that there was a battle of some sorts taking place around the base of Mount Noederth. It sounded like a unit of the army was under attack. Could it be that the Thombrük tribesmen have managed to infiltrate this part of Navlan already?

At that moment, Corthiel experienced a sudden, inexplicable surge of energy. He could very much feel that raw energy coursing through his body system, making him three times as powerful as he had any right to be. A strange, unshakeable desire to dismount his horse and join whatever battle was going on followed closely. Remembering the wise words of Dagca, Corthiel resisted the temptations to fight these strange feelings. Not that he would have succeeded if he had tried anyway.

Corthiel quickly leapt off his horse and proceeded to tie it to a tree nearby. He brought out the bunch of leaves in his pocket, filled his lung with a deep intake of air and put the bunch back. Next, he unsheathed his sword and promptly headed for the battlefield. It was time to show some people what a possessed warrior could do.

THE NIGHT WAS A MIGHTY COLD one for Lady DeBlyde. Sir Garhel was not around to warm her bed as usual. He was over at Lord Bradeigh's place, alongside Vruth, to draw the final plans ahead of tomorrow's event. She had declined to join them because she felt that she had very little to contribute to their discussions. She had even handed over the control of her phantom soldiers to Sir Garhel. Sorcery was her thing, not warfare.

Lady DeBlyde busied herself in the magnificent kitchen of the manor, preparing for herself a grand dinner as well as fending off the chilly winter cold of the evening with the heat that was emanating from her cooking place. She chuckled drily as she remembered that the last time she had actively been in the kitchen was well over twenty years ago. From the day she had married Lord Altone DeBlyde, her cooking days had been firmly over. She had more than enough maids to take care of that.

Tonight was different though, all her maids had returned to their respective homes ahead of tomorrow's festival of the blessed twins. And Riana, her right hand maid, who never left her at all times came down with a high fever just that afternoon, leaving the lady with no choice than to attempt a culinary adventure on her own.

Lady DeBlyde walked gracefully to her hung cupboard to retrieve a dish to serve her almost done meal. For reasons she could not quite comprehend, that singular action brought back the long forgotten, dark memories of the first grand purge she experienced as a child. Images of the imperial army burning her village, killing everyone who did not accept to renounce Otut bounced around in her mind.

"No!" Lady DeBlyde screamed with her eyes clenched shut in an unsuccessful attempt to blank out the intruding images of the ugly scene in her head. Her balled up fist reflexively banged on the kitchen table, sending a few utensils clanging and rattling.

"So the great lady of sorcery loses control too?" A voice came from behind her.

Lady DeBlyde almost jumped out of her skin with fear. She certainly was not expecting anybody to show up in her kitchen without her prior knowledge.

When she turned and saw who had spoken, her demeanor changed from that of surprise to that of being especially furious. "What are you doing here, Dagca?"

Dagca smiled darkly. "Are you not happy to see me? You should be. We are both outcasts of the empire."

"What are you doing here? Is that not a simple enough question?"

"Is this what Otut commands? To be hostile to visitors?"

"Enough of your piffle, leave my house now Dagca!"

"Calm down lady," the sorcerer appealed. "I did not risk my neck to come here to trade hot words with you. I came to deliver a message of the highest importance."

Lady DeBlyde folded her arms across her bosom. "What makes you think I want to listen to whatever it is you have to say?"

"I don't know, perhaps because it is for your own good," Dagca replied with a shrug.

"Well, what is it then?"

Dagca cleared his throat. "I have been sent by Tris, in truth and in holiness, to implore you to desist from helping Garhel Clenier to dethrone the current emperor."

"I knew you were going to say something so stupid. Does Tris prefer Gradiel who has persecuted his followers in a matter even worse than the past emperors to Garhel who has promised to restore the banished gods to their rightful places of honour?"

"Garhel is too power-hungry. He is going to commit worse atrocities than his predecessors if he ascends the throne. The empire will crumble if Garhel becomes the emperor."

"Well then, let Tris stop him from wearing the crown if he can," Lady DeBlyde said.

Dagca shook his head in an obvious gesture of pity. "Do not say I did not warn you when the whole thing backfires and—"

"Thank you," Lady DeBlyde interjected hotly. "And now that you have delivered your rotten message from your equally rotten god, will you please leave my house?"

"What if I choose not to?"

"I will make you."

"Ha. Let's see you try."

Lady DeBlyde was angered beyond control. She wasted no time before she screamed a short spell and pointed her left hand at her archenemy. A huge ball of fire left her open hand and flew at Dagca with the impossible speed.

Dagca did not need to be told that if that fireball hit him anywhere, he would be as dead as they come in a matter of seconds. He trained his expert eyes on the approaching ball, in a bid to determine the landing point and time. He dived away from the spot where the missile of death was poised to land in the very last second so that the ball missed its target and crashed into a pot close by, setting it on fire.

"Lady DeBlyde, I am disappointed, to be honest with you. Is that the best you can do?" Dagca resumed his taunt almost immediately. That near death experience had not taught him to curb the causticity of his tongue.

"I will show you the best I can do now!" The infuriated lady yelled. "Caesa rasetta fyreeee!"

This time, seven fireballs, each of them seven times bigger than the fireball Dagca managed to evade the other time, flew one at a time out of Lady DeBlyde's palm as soon as she cast that spell. Dagca blinked rapidly as the deadly looking balls of fire flew towards him with utmost precision.

"Accept it Dagca, your end has come." Lady DeBlyde said to the sorcerer as her fireballs inched closer to him.

Dagca chuckled as he heard Lady DeBlyde's damning words. He was more than certain that he was not going to die any time soon. He had seen numerous visions of himself in times further into the future.

"You are wrong, lady. My time is not near. Perhaps, it is you whose end is nigh."

Having said that, he raised his left hand at the approaching balls of fire and cast a very powerful spell that brought a mighty whirlwind from the bowels of the earth and consumed all the fireballs in one sweeping moment.

"Any more fancy tricks lady?" Dagca asked the bemused Lady DeBlyde as he walked to her shelf and picked up a bunch of southern berries. "Sorry, it has been very long since I had one of these."

"I have underestimated you too much," Lady DeBlyde said as she watched him devour the berries. "We both know that little of your magic comes from Tris. Much of your powers are from spell reading. You are a copycat sorcerer who learnt everything he knows from the spell books, and I have to admit you are a very good one."

"Reverting to cheap flattery, are you?"

"No, I am not flattering you," Lady DeBlyde replied. "I am just trying to tell you that all those spell books you and others like you depend on so much were written by me and some other people and there were so many things we did not include."

Dagca paused mid-bite, wondering what Lady DeBlyde was driving at. In the moment that followed, Lady DeBlyde's intent was revealed as she cast a spell that sounded quite unlike anything Dagca had ever heard before. A figure clad in full armour appeared before the lady.

"You summoned me," the soldier said in an impossibly thick voice. The whole building seemed to shake right to the foundation as he mouthed every word.

"Welcome Benlik," Lady DeBlyde greeted. "I want that man over there knocked out and taken to Sir Garhel's house."

Benlik nodded in response.

Lady DeBlyde turned to Dagca and said, "Save your breath, spell reader. He is immune to everything in the books."

"Farewell lady, I have delivered my message," Dagca said and promptly did his whirling movement, expecting to vanish as usual, but nothing happened.

Lady DeBlyde broke into a wild laugh. "Dagca Mauvan, all your magic is gone. You are dead meat"

Cold sweat broke out on Dagca's forehead as the lady's words registered. Was he really doomed? He did not want to believe that, but there seemed to be no means of escape. He could not vanish or shift shape anymore, Lady DeBlyde had stolen his powers.

Benlik, having got in an arm's length of Dagca, threw a punch at the sorcerer's head. Dagca saw the huge fist approaching and tried to duck, but he was not successful, the punch was too fast. The blow caught him square on the forehead.

Dagca tried to withstand the impact of the blow, but he could not. He staggered backwards like a drunk, eyes rolling in their sockets, wondering if he had been punched or if he had been struck with a warhammer. In the next moment, he fell to the ground and his world turned black.

IT WAS NIGHTFALL IN the valley to the east of Noederth mountain. The whole area was littered with the bodies of dead and mortally wounded men. The smell of blood and death pervaded the air. Cries of pain from the injured rented the air, swallowing the silence that was to be the norm at this time of the day. In the dull silvery moonlight, it was just possible to make out the features of a young man with puckered hair crouched beside another young man who had a gaping battle wound in his chest. The wounded chap was Dalun, Legard's friend and colleague. He had been pierced in the chest with a trident during the clash between the rebels and the search party.

"Keep still Dalun, you will worsen things with the way you are moving," Legard advised.

"What is there to worsen? This wound is as wide as a chasm, I cannot survive it," Dalun replied with a voice that was devoid of emotion. He was taking great pains to speak. It was obvious from the bunch of veins that stood out prominently on his forehead as he spoke.

"Shut up. You are not that bad off," Legard rebuked. "Sarlen's men will soon be here to take you for treatment."

"I know, but I will be long dead before they come," Dalun said and before Legard could get a word out, he added, "my throat is parched. Do you have a drink on you?"

"I think so," Legard replied as he ran his hands over every pocket in his apparel in search of a goatskin. He found a small one in his hip pocket but its content had been long drained. "No, this one here is spent. I will get you another from the camp."

"Please do," Dalun groaned his plea.

"I will be back in a minute," Legard said, bolting upright and dashing towards the camp to retrieve a bottle of drink.

As he raced to and fro the campsite through the mass of still dead bodies and the writhing injured ones, the whole events of the night replayed in his head. The rebels had attacked them with great force, catching them unawares. His comrades had defended themselves to best of their abilities but it was nowhere near enough. If there was any reason that the battle had not been completely one sided, then it was because of that green haired young man who had joined their side midway through the battle.

"Here. Sude from the south, best stuff I could find," Legard said, handing Dalun a shabby looking goatskin.

The dying warrior took a swig and then nodded in appreciation, "Thanks brother. I wish—"

The sounds of beating hooves and approaching footsteps interrupted Dalun's speech. Legard turned to see five men with a carriage moving towards them; four of the men were dressed in the official white and red garbs of the royal physicians and the fifth man was a youth dressed in a hooded commoner garb with two swords hanging on both sides of his girdle. He was the same man who fought for the search party during the rebel skirmish.

Legard regarded the youth more intently as the party drew nearer. For some obscure reasons, he found himself drawing comparisons between himself and the handsome youth. The comparisons were not quite favourable for Legard, he adjudged the other man taller, more handsome, better built and he was a finer swordsman, if tonight's battle was anything to go by.

"How is he?" One of the physicians inquired from Legard, indicating Dalun with a movement of his hand.

"He needs urgent attention, he will not last much longer without that," Legard replied.

The physicians promptly lifted Dalun and placed him on a litter. They carried him to the huge wagon they came with while the youth struck up a conversation with Legard.

"Do you know why the rebels attacked you?" The youth asked.

"I have been thinking all this while and I still have not seen the sense behind the attack. I mean, why will the rebels launch an attack of this magnitude on a small volunteer search party like ours?"

"You are a member of a search party? I thought you fellows were a patrolling army unit. What is the object of your search?"

"The crown prince," Legard replied.

"Do you jest?"

"I do not."

"How long has he been missing?" The youth inquired.

"Well over a week," Legard answered.

"A week? Why, I saw him just two days ago."

"Where?"

"Can I trust you to keep a secret?"

"Yes, anytime."

"I saw him at Weschion plain in the company of two knights. They were attacked by the Waeon and I was around to help. I got them to safety after the beast knocked them out."

"Do you know where he is now?"

The green haired warrior shook his head, "I am afraid, no. He must have left with his men shortly after getting well."

Legard ran his hand through his puckered hair in a gesture of reflection. "I am trying to think deeply here. The prince is missing, we are searching for him, then a group of rebel militants attack our camp. Does it tell you something?"

"Perhaps the prince is the rebel stronghold and you fellows are searching close to their facility, so they felt threatened or something."

"You can say that again, Longt is only a day and a half away from here."

"I have a strong feeling that the prince is with the rebels. Words have been flying around that he was seen headed southwards with his friends. What I do not understand is why the imperial army has not picked the hints and set their banners against the rebel stronghold."

"Perhaps they are distracted by the robbery at Auztier," Legard said. "You are a fine swordsman and you look like you are up for an adventure. Let us ride southwards, maybe we can get something concrete to report or we might end saving the prince and become heroes."

"Good idea. I am Corthiel, son of Zelac," the youth offered his hand.

"Legard Wilmok," he grabbed the hand and nodded.

Unknown to both men, they were being watched, not by the physicians who were busy working their skilled hands on the injured men, but by a man who was hundreds of miles away from them. The wizened, old man who donned a silky, snow white robe had been watching them through a huge ball of crystal. In the very moment that Corthiel and Legard shook hands, the aged man broke into a lofty smile that revealed that age had taken its toll on his dentition.

"Finally," He cackled. "Salvation cometh."

# CHAPTER TWELVE

It was a cold winter morning. King Gradiel rode out of the royal castle flanked by his generals and high ranking knights. He stopped as soon as he got to the square where a grand assembly of warriors and knights was gathered. The king took a few moments to survey the assembly and he nodded in approval. He remembered his wife's presentiment about his men losing in their campaign against the bandits and once again, laughed it off. In his own eyes, there was no way an army this strong will fall to a band of petty robbers.

"Esteemed armed brothers," the king began his address. "It is no news to any of us that some spawns of Otut have broken into our collective purse and have carted away every valuable there. It is our sworn duty to ensure that we recover all that was plundered from our coffers as soon as possible."

"Aye sire!"

"While we are not fully represented to our optimal strength because of some of our brothers who have been drafted to curtail the growing unrest at the Marsh, I still believe that this assembly has enough quality and quantity to crush the band of thieves and take back what is rightly ours."

"Aye sire!"

"Right now we shall all ride to the imperial arsenal to pick up weapons after which we will split into three groups. I will lead the first, Sir Garhel will lead the second and the third will be led by Sir Treine. Then all the groups shall ride straight to Lehbein where those brigands are camped and we shall hit them from right, left and center."

The king paused for several moments, and then he screamed, "To victory!"

"Aye!"

As the warriors and Knights dispersed, Sir Garhel sought Vruth among the ranks and rode up to him.

"Feeling nervous?" he asked the bigger man with a wink.

Vruth shook his clean shaven head in refusal. "Not in the least. If anything, I am dying for the campaign to commence."

"Hmmm," Sir Garhel mouthed as he pulled at his fancy moustache in a gesture of reflection. "Em, I was thinking of giving our plan a little twist."

Vruth followed Sir Garhel's lead by whispering his reply too, "what twist is that?"

Sir Garhel leaned over to Vruth's side and whispered some words to him.

"Now that is quite a brilliant way of squashing an enemy without getting your hands stained," Vruth said. "How in Ligan's name did you think that up?"

Sir Garhel grinned darkly, "I am more evil than Otut. Don't ever forget that."

"Need I be reminded?" The other man said with a similar grin and both men careened in laughter.

As they rode out of the assembly ground towards the state's arsenal, they caught sight of a gorgeously dressed Lady DeBlyde leaning over a turret. She was engaged in an absorbing conversation with an unfamiliar looking gentleman.

"What do you intend to do with her after all this is over?" Vruth inquired from Sir Garhel, whose eyes were still fixed on the conversing duo.

The knight waited a few moments before giving his reply, "I do not know. I really do not know yet. Everything will fall in place in the end."

"I agree."

"Right now, my friend, it is time to live our dreams," Sir Garhel said as both men spurred their horses towards the states' arsenal.

VYNNE, THE FAIR DAUGHTER OF Lord Hergand of Vath, paced up and down her room like one in debt. She was expecting the return of the stable boy whom she had sent to steal a horse from her father's stables. He had gone for well over a stound now and Vynne was becoming unable to think of any rational reason behind the delay.

Perhaps the stable guards have caught him and he is being questioned on...

A rather loud knock on the huge, marble door of Vynne's room put an end to that train of thought. She heaved a sigh of relief and quickly dashed across the room to let the stable boy in. Just as she got to the door, the knock came again, louder even than the first one had been.

"Don't be silly, boy," Vynne spat as she turned the knob. "You have kept me waiting for long."

She pushed open the door to see, not the teenage stable boy, but a tall, dark haired lady with a slim build. It was her elder sister, Lorna. Their eyes locked for several seconds before Vynne finally averted hers, unable to hold her sister's burning gaze any longer.

"Vynne, what business do you have with the stable boy?" Lorna queried.

"I ... I have no business with him," Vynne lied.

"Really?" Lorna intoned. "Then why did you call him before opening the door? Why are you dressed up like this at bedtime? Tell me the truth sister."

"I sent him to—" Vynne stopped after an apparent change of heart.

"Come on, tell me," Lorna urged, softening her voice.

Vynne stared speechlessly at her elder sister, wondering if she could trust her with her secret. She remembered those times in their childhood when they were each other's confidant, but a lot of time had passed since those beautiful times and they had gone through so many fights and falling outs since then that Vynne was not sure if Lorna was somebody she could trust with something as grave as what she was scheming.

"I do not know what you have done or what you are planning to do," Lorna began as she moved closer and laid a hand on her unspeaking sister's shoulders, "but if you ever need someone to talk to about those things, just know that I am always there for you. I have always been."

That said, Lorna turned and made for the open door. She was about reaching the threshold when she heard her sister's soft whisper.

"There is someone I have fallen for—"

"The stable boy?"

"Nay, a young mister I met at Casville."

"Is that the reason you are up at this time? You are thinking about him?"

"I am dying to see him again so I have arranged with the stable boy to steal out of here to visit him where ever I can find him."

Lorna stared wordlessly at her sister for several seconds of eerie silence after which she burst into hysterical laughter.

"What is amusing here? I just told you my deepest secret and all you could is laugh?" Vynne said as she folded her arms across her bosom and gave her sister a wicked look.

"Forgive me little sister, I just remembered how you used to mock me when I was smitten by Lord Aut," Lorna said amidst giggles. "Okay sister, does this mister share your feelings?"

"Absolutely."

"Then I have no problems with what you are doing," Lorna said. "But be careful, we are in perilous times in this empire. Our queen is sick, our treasury has been broken and the prince is missing. Be safe."

"Worry not, I will be fine."

In the moment that followed, Estan, the stable boy, walked in to tell Vynne that the horses were ready for the ride to Marmenn.

"Horses? I told you to get only one."

"There is no way I will let you ride alone through Euschires. I am going with you, my lady."

Moments later, Lorna leaned out through the open window, watching Vynne and Estan ride two white horses into the darkness of the night.

"There is no bigger a fool than a young person in love," she concluded as the riding figures disappeared into the night. "And that is talking from experience."

"DARYL, YOU LOOK LIKE YOU SAW a ghost. Are you unwell?" King Gradiel asked his chariot driver as he entered his war chariot.

"I am fine, my lord," Daryl replied as he spurred the horses. They responded by swiftly, pulling the chariot away from the arsenal towards the road that led to Lehbein. A loud war cry erupted behind the king's chariot as all the soldiers of Casville, both horsemen and cavalry, followed their king's lead.

In the middle of all the noisemaking and dust-raising by the Casvillean soldiers and their horses, Daryl let his mind wander to the disturbing events of the previous hour. He could afford to do that because the horses he was supposed to control were special palfreys that were used to moving on their own accord.

Daryl had been in the arsenal to carry the king's weapons when a hooded figure showed up beside him.

"Are you Daryl, the new driver of the king's chariot?"

"Who wants to know?" Daryl asked courageously although he was feeling jittery on the inside.

The figure chuckled and removed his hood. In that moment, Daryl found himself staring in the attractive face of Sir Garhel.

"Oh! Sir Garhel, I am sorry—"

The highly rated knight cut him short, "You do not have to be sorry. You did not know it was me."

"What can I do for you sir?" Daryl stammered.

"Ease up Daryl, I mean you no harm." Sir Garhel said as he put an arm around the quaking man's shoulders and then he whispered, "the scroll in your pocket is for your eyes only. Destroy it as soon as you are done reading it. Make sure you read and understand every bit of it, your life and that of those you love depend on it."

It was on the tip of Daryl's tongue to ask Sir Garhel what scroll he was talking about when he saw that a rolled up piece of brown paper was indeed lying in the side pocket of his coat. It was then he realized that Sir Garhel had slipped the scroll in his pocket when he put his arm around his shoulder the other time. Daryl looked beside him to see that Sir Garhel had disappeared from there. He looked around but saw no sign of the elegant knight.

With a shaky hand and a sweaty forehead, Daryl unrolled the scroll and began to read the small, neatly written words. Halfway through the letter, the shakiness of his hand had transferred to the whole of his body.

"Stop the chariot!" King Gradiel roared his command.

Daryl jolted out of his reverie and promptly stopped the horses from pulling the chariot any further. He wondered for a moment why the king had halted the progress of their campaign when they were only halfway to Lehbein, and then he saw a man dressed in the full armour riding a white horse towards them. His breastplate and helmet were smeared with blood.

The man, on removing his bloody helmet, turned out to be Sir Garhel. He rode straight to the front of the king's chariot and engaged him in a conversation after curtsying.

"My lord, there is an ambush ahead," he began. "My division was attacked by some strange beings. They are immune to the strokes of our blade."

"Are they then invincible?"

"It appears they are sire. I have instructed my men to hold them off while I come to warn you of the danger."

"How are your men faring against them?"

"Badly, I must confess," Sir Garhel replied. "My lord, you should return to the castle while I take control of these men."

"Why? Will these men do any better than your men?"

"I will hold the northern pass with these men so that those beings will not find it easy attacking our city. And for you sir, your life is more precious to the empire than the lives of all of us here put together. If I take control of this unit now, then you will return to the city to deliberate with the chief priest and other council members on how to quickly tackle this menace."

"You have spoken well nephew," King Gradiel replied. "I will heed your wise counsel."

With that, the king commanded that his chariot turn and head back to the royal castle. In the process of carrying out the king's order, Daryl caught sight of Sir Garhel winking at him. He knew what that meant. It was time to execute that glamorous plan in the scroll.

THE NOISE WAS DEAFENING at Garras, a local inn cum brothel in Werl, a small farmers' settlement just a day's ride from Longt. It seemed everyone in there was trying to outdo the next person in blowing out his vocal chords.

Corthiel watched with disgust as men drank themselves senseless and dallied with half naked wenches moving around. He wished he had not listened to Legard when he suggested that they come here to see if they could get any information about the prince's whereabouts.

"You have no idea how much one can learn from a drunken bugger or some chatty wench," Legard had said.

Since they arrived there, all Corthiel had done was to sit in a corner and observe proceedings while Legard had long disappeared into one of the service rooms with two girls beside him.

"Hail you, young mister," A red haired, middle aged woman with a heavily painted face called out to Corthiel. "Do you want to get into one of those rooms?"

"Nay. I am not interested," Corthiel replied gently but firmly.

"Come on," the woman urged as she leaned forward so that three quarters of her bosom was flashing in Corthiel's face. "I am willing to take a quarter of my usual fee. I just want you in there with me."

"No," he replied, struggling to avert his eyes from the luscious flesh in front of him.

The woman seemed to think that if she pressed Corthiel a little more, he would succumb to her. She grabbed his right hand, ignored the shakiness therein and rubbed it against her breasts.

"Let him go Rena, he does not feel like it," a voice said behind them, above the din.

Corthiel cocked his head in that direction to see Legard standing with his arms folded, watching the redhead's seductive antics. He was thankful for Legard's timely intervention.

"O Legard! I have missed you," Rena said, turning her attention to Corthiel's frizzy haired friend.

"Have you?" Legard said, pulling her close and grabbing her buttocks.

"Verily, should we go inside?"

"Not today, Rena," Legard said. "I came here for something different."

Rena nodded and left but not before another seductive wink at Corthiel and after that, Legard was left with his new friend at the table.

"You did not tell me you are a patron here."

"Well, I come here once in a while."

"How do you live with yourself after sleeping with whores?"

Legard shrugged. "You might as well ask me how I live with myself after eating. The urge to lay with a woman is like every craving of the body that must be satisfied in due course. I have neither the means nor the desire to settle with some country maiden. What then shall a man do? Let us speak of other things. Did you find out anything?"

"Nay," Corthiel replied. "You?"

Legard wiped sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his coat, "I did find something. Do you want wine?"

"No. What did you find?"

"I found out we were right about the prince being held captive at Longt," Legard disclosed. "One of the wenches told me a friend of hers who services one of rebel warlords saw the prince being taken from one cell to another in the rebel stronghold. She believes the prince will not survive a long time there if the imperial army does not go to his rescue because she heard he was going to be a part of the rebels' inmate games."

"Has any of them made a report to the nearest army station?"

Legard doubled with laughter. "A whore will rather take that time to rest from her many exertions."

"We should send someone up north to alert available forces. Then you and I should ride to Longt to see if we can save the prince."

"Very well," Legard said after a swig from a goatskin. "I know a runner who can get the news to Casville very fast. Let us leave now before Rena comes back for you."

Both men laughed as they walked out of Garras to the stall where they tied their horses in a bid to resume their journey southwards.

"Otut be damned! Our horses are gone," Legard whistled.

# CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"How far are we from Marmenn?" Vynne asked Estan after they rode past what looked like an abandoned camp of patrols.

The brown haired stable keeper rubbed his sleepy eyes gingerly before replying. "A couple of days at our current pace, but I know a certain trail that will get us there a day earlier."

"Is it a safe trail?"

"Nowhere is completely safe when it comes to forest trails. Even caravans with mercernaries guarding them are sometimes attacked on these trails," Estan said.

"Let us keep to the normal route then," Vynne offered.

"Aye my lady," Estan answered with a shrug of resignation.

The duo rode on for several moments not saying a word to each other. Vynne was lost in thought about Corthiel, she wondered if it was possible that he had not returned to Marmenn yet. If he was not there, then there had better be some way she could reach him because she could not imagine journeying that far and not seeing him.

"Tell me about you." Vynne asked abruptly.

"There is nothing to tell. I am a simple stable boy," Estan said with a smile.

"I know that. Tell me something different. Something I do not know already."

"My father was a fine warrior. He held a fiefdom. It was not big but we were living in luxury."

Vynne's jaw dropped in genuine shock. "How did you become a stable keeper?"

"My father died and his cousins took over everything. My sister and I were thrown out."

"What about your mother?"

"I never knew her. She died before I became of age."

Vynne felt an upwelling of pity for this boy who was so young, yet had experienced so much. "I am sorry. I will surely speak to my father about you—"

"Oh, see!" Estan interjected sharply.

"What?"

"Night chasers," Estan replied in a voice that betrayed concern. "They are coming this way."

"But it is daylight. What do they do?"

Estan scratched his head as he tried to think of the best way of explaining the concept to the lady. "They are the military arm of a sect of Otut worshippers. What they do is to kidnap people, ladies mainly, for the sect's rituals."

In that moment, two turbaned up riders of black horses rode nearer, approaching Vynne and Estan from their right side.

"Can we outrun them?" Vynne asked in a shaky voice.

"Not to worry, I can handle these two."

That being said, Estan retrieved his long custom made whip from his bag of supplies and lashed it at one of the chasers when he was sufficiently close. The whip caught the chaser around the neck and when Estan pulled the whip back to himself, the chaser roared with pain as the blady edge of the whip cut into his neck, causing him to fall off his horse and smash his head on one of the numerous rocks by the side of the trail.

"You are dead meat!" The second chaser bellowed at Estan when he saw the fate that befell his colleague.

Estan immediately decided that a whip would not be enough to deter that one, so he removed two flint knives from his bag and hurled them in succession at the fast riding chaser. The chaser evaded the first knife but he was not as lucky with the second as it sank in his chest. He fell to the ground a very dead man

"Oh Ligan! That was brilliant," Vynne gushed. "I can't believe you just..."

Vynne's speech was left uncompleted as a very large pack of chasers, numbering about two hundred, rode down the plain.

"Do not try to run," the leader of the pack yelled.

"I am sorry my lady," Estan muttered his apology to Vynne before leaping off his horse and raising his arms in a gesture of surrender.

"It is fine. You did your best," She whispered to his back.

They were both tied and blindfolded before being bundled into two different wagons.

"Take the girl to the temple and feed the boy to the dogs," the leader of the group commanded his subordinates before leaving.

Unknown to the chasers, a figure lurked behind a cluster of trees to their left, taking note of everything they said and did. The figure's voice was a gentle rustle in the wind.

"Fear not girl, I am coming to get you."

"WHY ARE YOU TAKING THIS route?" King Gradiel asked Daryl as the chariot took a left turn off the paved road to a narrow path on the way to back to Casville.

"Nothing. . . No, I mean it is er. . . the fastest route to the castle," Daryl blabbered. He had been rehearsing on that line since he read Sir Garhel's scroll. Now that he said it, it did not sound any convincing even to himself.

"Are you sure about that? This does not look more than a footpath to me."

The king was right, the path with overgrown weed and uneven ground looked nothing like one used by beasts of burden. Daryl scratched his head as he racked his brain of a more convincing lie to tell. He was saved the stress of saving his face by the sudden appearance of a fully armed knight in the middle of road far ahead, blocking the path of the chariot as well as brandishing two double edged swords that glinted in the morning sun.

The king's face immediately became flushed with anger and he roared, "go and tell that knight that he is obstructing a royal chariot and if he does not give way he will be run over."

Daryl stopped the chariot and alighted with a feeling of apprehensiveness. He knew that this little drama was part of Sir Garhel's grand scheme which he was supposed to play along but the part of him that was still loyal to the king and the empire kept screaming that he should turn back and drive the king out of this death trap immediately.

I can not sacrifice my family for the king, Daryl thought as he walked up to the unmoving knight.

"Sir, my lord the king says. . ."

That was how far Daryl got with the king's message to the knight before he felt a pain that defied any form of definition course through his neck. He had never experienced anything like that before and never will he feel it or anything else again because in that instant he fell to the floor with his head landing a few seconds earlier. The knight had sliced Daryl's head off his neck.

In the next moment, the knight removed his helmet to reveal the grim facial features of Sir Treine. He approached the king's chariot with slow, leisurely steps.

"Sir Treine?" The king called in shock, not believing that he had seen the knight behead his chariot driver. "What madness is this you just displayed?"

Sir Treine chose not to give an instant reply to the king's question. He only inched closer to the chariot and after he had gone considerably close, he pulled off his metallic hand gear and flung it on the floor, right in front of the awed king.

"King Gradiel," He called after a brief period of silence. "I challenge you to mortal duel."

"I CAN DO THIS," Dagca muttered to himself as he sat in the darkness of his solitary confinement which was somewhere in the recess of the empire's prison facility. He sat still with his legs crossed beneath him and his hands placed against his forehead while his fingers were arranged in a certain way. His current stance was a perfect portrayal of the body posture needed to awaken his clairvoyant powers.

"Mesteu Sanhiu," He whispered into the darkness.

Dagca repeated the spell for the second and third time, and instantly a dark feminine being with three big horns and a pair of wings emerged from the earth.

"Dagca Mauvan, your supplication has gotten to high god Tris and he has sent me to give you this," the strange being said, handing him a small black pouch.

On opening the pouch, Dagca brought out an unevenly cut piece of crystal. He looked back at the daemon in askance. He obviously did not fathom the relevance of this irregularly shaped crystal to his cause.

"All the answers to your questions are in there. Just keep looking into it."

Dagca looked into the crystal ball again. At first he saw nothing, then after a period of persistent staring, the flashing image of a regally dressed man lying at the feet of a knight with blood gushing out of his mouth became visible. Dagca immediately had the understanding that the man on the floor was King Gradiel.

The disturbing image remained for a few moments after which it was replaced by something more sinister, a couple was seen busy kissing as they seemed not to be aware that a large creature was diving towards them from behind. It was the Waeon.

"May Tris help you Corthiel," Dagca muttered as soon as he saw the image.

That image too was replaced after a short time. In the next image, Dagca saw a big man raising a trident aloft, ready to plunge it in the body of a blond man who was crawling at his feet, bleeding profusely through deep cuts on several parts of his body. Dagca easily recognised the bleeding man as Prince Galleine.

"The prince too?" exclaimed Dagca. "I have had enough of these doom visions, have your pouch."

The daemon shook her small head in refusal. "Not yet, there is something about yourself that you need to see."

Dagca removed the crystal once again and peered at it just as he had done the first time. He was soon rewarded with a bird's eye view of the city square. He saw Sir Garhel and Lady DeBlyde standing on a podium, arms locked, smiling and waving at the multitude of people beneath them. They both wore purple dresses and golden crowns. Dagca grudgingly admitted that they looked great together.

"Good people of Casville, we are gathered here, united in our stand to collectively bring down all the enemies of our great kingdom, both within and without," Sir Garhel said. "We all know the enemies on the outside. They are the armies of Lailles, the Thombrük raiders and others like them, but the inside enemies are more difficult to identify which makes them more dangerous to the safety of our beloved land.

"Today, we have gotten two of them, thanks to the valiancy of certain individuals and we intend to use the punishment of these unpatriotic infidels as a warning to others like them," Sir Garhel concluded after which he clapped his hands.

Two blindfolded and bound men were brought forward by the guards. Sir Garhel signaled to the guards to remove the men's blindfolds. The men turned out to be Sir Treine and no one else but Dagca Mauvan himself.

"Cast them into the furnace!" Lady DeBlyde roared.

In a flash, Dagca saw the furnace that Lady DeBlyde was talking about, it was burning wildly and fiercely. Even the heat radiation seemed to reach him through the crystal.

"These things I am seeing are terrible," He said to the daemon, after hastily tearing his eyes off the crystal. "What can be done to change them?"

She said. "I cannot say. I am but a messenger."

"Wait, are you saying that myself, the king, Sir Treine, the prince and Corthiel are going to perish in this struggle against evil?"

"If that was what you saw in the crystal, then so be it."

"But there must be something—"

The daemon vanished before the sorcerer could get the remainder of his protest out. Dagca sat there with his head hung in sadness.

KING GRADIEL WAS DUMBFOUNDED. Sir Treine had slaughtered his driver and now he was challenging him to a fight, what madness is this?

"Pick up the glove sir. I hate to kill people without resistance."

"You asked for a duel, Treine," the king said in a voice that gave away his fury as he drew his huge, golden hilted sword from his sheath. "You are going to get more than you requested."

So it began, the most brutal fight ever undertaken by any two men in Casville. The sparring competitions that were always held during tournaments were child's play compared to this one, a fight between a king, who was fighting to save his life and defend his honour, and a knight, who had lost his mind but not his might.

For hours unending they crossed swords, with neither of them seeming ready to succumb to the other. Strike for strike, blow for blow, they matched each other and fought on, each determined to prevail over the other.

The defining moment of the duel came when Sir Treine did a feint and sent a blow to the king's head. King Gradiel showed remarkable flexibility to turn his head away from the blow. He then used the situation to his advantage by suspending Sir Treine's sword in the air with his sword and then sending a kick to Sir Treine's shin. Before the knight could recover from the burning pain, the king knocked him to the floor with a hard elbow to the face.

"Treine, I will kill you slowly," King Gradiel said as he held his sword to Sir Treine's eyes, ready to gouge it out. There, the king saw something that made him stop—colour of the Knight's eyes. Sir Treine's eyes were blood red. The king knew what that could mean, the knight might be under a spell.

The king leaned closer to have a closer view of the knight's suspicious eyes but it turned out to be a mortal mistake as Sir Treine hastily produced a dagger from a small sheath on his side and he buried it the king's chest.

King Gradiel fell to the ground, cursing himself for being such a fool. He should have been on the guard more. He tried to speak but blood instead of words tumbled out of his mouth.

"Sir Treine, what have you done?" A voice roared from behind.

Sir Treine turned to see Sir Garhel and a handful of battle ready soldiers watching him. In that instant, he felt a sudden, inexplicable emptiness. It was as if something was leaving his body and taking a part of his memory with it.

"What happened here?" He asked, looking around him wildly in surprise. "Who did this to the king?" He queried when he saw the king's lifeless body beside him.

Sir Garhel's face was a mask of guilt and pain—he cut the perfect picture of someone whose uncle had been murdered gruesomely by one of his trusted men.

"You ask us when the dagger with which you murdered him is still dripping with blood in your hand," Sir Garhel replied testily and then he turned to the men with him. "Restrain the fool. I will see to it that my uncle is duly avenged."

As Sir Treine was being hustled away by the angry looking soldiers, Sir Garhel allowed himself the luxury of a little smile. His improvised conquest plan had been successfully executed, taking less time and resources than the initial plan could have cost. He had simply used his archrival to eliminate his uncle thereby simultaneously taking down two of the biggest threats to his plans.

At last, the throne is mine.

UGHAN TEMPLE, THE SPIRITUAL HOME of the Golden eye sect which was a secret group of Otut worshippers within the empire, was busy tonight. Two dozen chasers stood sentry around the temple to ensure that the monthly ritual ceremony that was being carried out by the leading members of the sect in the secret chamber was not intruded.

The secret chamber was lit by a giant lampstand that bore seven black lamps. The red and black tapestries on the four walls and the seven human skulls that adorned the stone altar in the centre of the room gave the room a complete feeling of the diabolical. About fifty persons dressed in red and black hooded robes formed a large circle around the altar, moving rhythmically back and forth as they chanted a ritual mantra that they called the song of death.

"It is time!" The chief priest of the sect said suddenly, bringing an end to the song of death. He then turned to a member beside him and said, "Soseu, go and bring a lamb."

Soseu bowed to his leader before walking out of the room to the special place where all the kidnapped ladies were packed. At the sight of him, all of them backed away, praying not to be picked. They knew what his picking them would translate to—rape and death.

Soseu took his time to scan the cowering ladies in his front. Unlike previous times when he just picked at random, he already knew who he was going to choose now. He just needed to identify that accursed girl whose abduction had occasioned the death of two chasers. He found her soon. She was in a corner sandwiched between two chubby redheads that appeared to be twin sisters. Soseu grabbed the girl and dragged her along to the ritual room. He was surprised that she did not utter a sound. Other girls, he reasoned, would have screamed their lungs out by now.

"I am taking you to where you will be defiled by forty nine men and then beheaded," He said, in a bid to scare her.

Her countenance did not change much, though a tear slid down her left cheek. She continued to stare blankly at him. Soseu concluded that she was a witch of some sort so he quickened his pace and hurriedly took her to the waiting sect members.

"Such a beauty," A senior member breathed. "Is this one not too pretty to be wasted at the altar of Otut?"

The chief priest shook his hooded head. "I am disappointed that this is coming from you, Roan. Have you not learnt that there is no such thing as beauty or ugliness in here?"

"Forgive me master," Roan apologized. "Let the ritual begin then."

"Bring her here," the chief priest commanded in a grave tone.

Soseu dragged the girl to where the priest stood. The priest signaled to four sect members to pin her down in front of the altar, then he cast off his robe and slowly approached the eagle spread girl on the floor. He smiled lustily as he fed his eyes on the features of the girl. This was a welcome change from that troll he had last month. As the priest went on his knees, ready to plunge his member in the depth of the young girl's thigh, a sharp, sudden pain exploded in his back. It was a life sucking, darkness inducing pain. In the next moment, the priest fell to the concrete floor of the secret chamber, dead from the effect of a barbed arrow with blue ribbon on its shaft that had lodged in his spine.

An unsurprising pandemonium ensued in the secret chamber. Some sect members were trying to revive their leader while others were trying to ascertain who and where the killer was. In the middle of the bedlam, two members went down at the same time, they had been struck down by arrows to their foreheads.

"Over there," An observant member cried, pointing to a corner of the ceiling. "He is shooting from—" He could not complete his revelation because an arrow had pierced his throat in that instant.

Three chasers raced into the chamber against their orders. It was an offence for a chaser to enter the ritual room, yet this trio took the current situation as an exception. They did not escape dire consequences as one after the other they were taken down by the sharpshooter above them. Before long, the secret chamber became empty save for several dead bodies and Vynne, who sat there on the floor waiting for the saviour to reveal himself so that she could express her gratitude. A part of her said it was Corthiel, but she didn't feel so sure. How could he have gotten here in time to save her?

The saviour waited for several more seconds to ensure that the coast was clear before easing himself down from where he had perched on the roofing. Vynne's heart did a double kick as soon as she saw the person who had slayed a good number of sect members for her sake. He was a sect member too, at least he was dressed like one complete with the hood, and his figure bore no resemblance to that of Corthiel.

"Who are you?" Vynne whispered, wondering if this person had meant to save her or he was just on a coincidental vengeance mission.

The saviour pulled back the hood to reveal that he was actually a she.

"Hail you. I am Xesandra."

# CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"BREYN! NO!" ELNA SCREAMED against the bars of her cell as she watched Breyn being dragged by two rebel guards down the passage way.

Elna flopped against the wall in despair. It was as if a chunk of her had been taken away with Breyn. Over the time of their incarceration, she had gotten used to being around him to the point that she now felt somehow empty that he was gone. He had been her sole adviser and comforter.

The sound and sight of the bar of her cell swinging open for the second time that night jolted her. A scary looking guard walked in. Elna sprang up sharply, folding her arms across her breast.

"Come," he growled.

"No please," Elna pleaded in a shaky voice. "Do not hurt me. The prince will be here to pay my ransom soon."

The guard laughed. He sounded like a toad. "What prince are you talking about?"

Was there any other prince in Casville apart from Galleine? Elna wanted to ask, but she considered the fact that such retort might bring unsavory consequences.

"Prince Galleine," She replied instead.

The guard laughed harder. "It is amusing that you are not aware the prince has been in our custody for some time now."

Elna went still with shock. The prince in the rebels' custody? How was that possible?

"You are lying!" She screamed. "I do not believe you."

"You don't have to," the guard said smugly. "If you don't go blind before tomorrow, then you are going to see him when he takes on Maris tomorrow evening."

Elna felt like the wind was knocked out of her. Her high castle of hope was instantly reduced to rubble of despair.

"Since you know that nobody is coming to pay anything for you any longer, will you follow me now? All prisoners are required to be at the ring."

XESANDRA WAS A TALL LADY WITH BACK length hair, a downright pretty ebony face and a voluptuous figure. She had a bow and a bag of arrows strapped to her back.

"How did you find me?" Vynne asked her after an effusive show of gratitude which the dark lady was dismissive of.

"I have been watching you since you were abducted. I followed the chasers down here thinking it would be less bloody to save you here. I didn't know you were going to be picked tonight," Xesandra said.

"Were you the only one shooting all those arrows? There were times when it looked like there were two or three archers up there."

Xesandra smiled knowingly. "I was the only one. I learnt to shoot multiple arrows as a child. I do not wish to be immodest, but I am the best archer in the empire. Now, let us get out of this place."

"Not so fast," a chilling voice said behind them.

Both Vynne and Xesandra turned to see a bald, little member of the sect behind them, brandishing a spear. His countenance suggested that he would not hesitate to let fly at any of them at the slightest provocation. Vynne recognised him as Roan, the sect member who had commented on her beauty earlier on

"Drop your weapons," he said mainly to Xesandra.

"Do not hurt us, please," She said. "We are willing to do anything for you to spare us."

She saw Vynne looking at her strangely. Don't worry girl, I am in control.

"Anything?" The little man squeaked, unable to keep the excitement of a chance to lay with two pretty ladies out of his voice.

"Yes, anything," Xesandra affirmed. As Roan was trying to make up his mind on how best to carry out the deed without any complications, Xesandra with incredible speed drew her bow and fired an arrow at the despicable man.

She was a little late. Roan was already gushing blood from the mouth a second before her arrow hit home. Someone had obviously beaten her to killing the pervert bastard. In the next moment, the mystery of Roan's killer was unraveled as the little man fell to floor to reveal a brown haired young boy holding a bloodied dagger in his hands. It looked like he had sneaked up to Roan and stabbed him from the back.

"Ligan be praised! Estan, how did you get escape?"

Before Estan could get a word out, Xesandra said, "I think that story will be safer to tell when we are out of here."

THERE WAS CONTINUOUS SCREAMING of obscenities at the ring in the stronghold of the rebels as the crowd of inmates awaited the arrival of the contestants for that night's fights. Elna sat in a corner with her eyes fixed on the large ring but her mind was very far away. She was still deep in thought about the revelation of the guard who had brought her here. If indeed the prince was in captivity like her then what was the likelihood of her getting out of this place?

The noise making around her died down suddenly, causing her to return to reality. The cause of silence was the arrival of a tall long-haired man who had a grossly disfigured face, it was Laum.

"Call the contestants in," he ordered his subordinates.

A gasp escaped Elna's lips as the two contestants were brought to the ring. Her brother Belaine and her friend Breyn were to take on each other.

"No!" She screamed, unable to bear to the thought of both men fighting each other.

"Restrain that whore!" Laum howled and Elna was instantly dragged out of sight amidst her cries and protests.

"You and your prince have turned my sister to a mindless fool," Belaine said to his opponent. "That is one more reason for me to beat the life out of you."

"Nay," A voice responded behind Belaine. "I will fighting in his place."

Belaine spun round to see who had spoken and he saw to his surprise the prince standing behind him in the ring.

"You are here too? That is great," Belaine said. "I have been meaning to settle some scores for some time."

"Enough of the talk, let us get to business," said Laum. "The rule is simply that there are no rules. You are to fight until someone surrenders. Is that clear?"

The two men nodded and promptly charged at each other with their fists since they had not been given any weapons. Prince Galleine knew that he had to be careful. He was more used to fighting with swords in structured tournaments than fist fighting and then Belaine did not seem a much less formidable fighter than him. He was just as tall and as built as the prince.

In the middle of his analysis of his opponent, the prince felt a sharp sting in his jaw. He had not been fast enough to prevent taking a jab from Belaine.

"How does that feel, royal bastard?" Belaine taunted as he looked to get in position for another attack.

Prince Galleine exploded with anger. In his fury, he leapt into the air and delivered a well executed double legged kick on Belaine's chest. The red haired youth somersaulted twice in the air before landing on his head and then crashing to the floor unconscious.

The spectators went wild with their cheers. The prince ignored them and walked to where Belaine lay and he crouched beside the still figure.

"In case you are hearing this, which I doubt, just know that the only reason why I am not finishing you off is because of my love for your sister. If not for her, I would have hacked your head off your neck, unroyal bastard."

In the area reserved for the rebel lords, Laum sat on a high chair, sipping wine from a goatskin as he watched Prince Galleine leave the ring. He leaned over to a rebel lord next to him.

"You think he can beat Maris?"

The rebel lord chuckled. "Maris is the champion of the ring. I think the prince will get the beating of his life tomorrow."

"Well, I think so too," Laum said. "I just—"

"Lord Laum," a young rebel called as he approached the reserved area. "I bear a message from the capital."

"What message?"

The young rebel handed Laum a small sealed papyrus. Laum broke the seal and saw the message written in Vruth's hand, signed in Sir Garhel's name. The message was two words long.

Kill him.

IT WAS A STOUND AND A HALF after noon. Corthiel and Legard could be seen making their way slowly to the stronghold of the rebels in Longt, through the south eastern highlands. They had resorted to continuing their journey on foot since their horses had been stolen at Garras the previous day.

"Can we take a break here?" Corthiel asked Legard as they reached the top of a small plateau. "My legs are shaking. We have been walking since dawn."

"Let us rest then," Legard smiled indulgently. "I take it you are not much of a trekker."

"I walked great distances when I was much younger. I once spent days traversing dense woods and mountain ranges on foot." Corthiel replied as he eased himself onto a nearby rock. "Do you suppose we can still get our horses back? That horse is not mine."

"You stole it?"

"Nay," Corthiel replied with a slight shake of his head. "Nigna was my master's but I had certain privileges with her."

"You had a master before?" Legard asked. "What are you? A runaway slave?"

"Nay, I am a squire," Corthiel answered. "A third squire to a knight from my town. I have very few responsibilities, so I spend my free time in the wild, hunting."

"That is interesting." Legard remarked. "Whose squire are you?"

"Why are you asking all these questions?"

Legard held his hands up in an amusing gesture of innocence. "I am interested, that's all."

"Okay, I serve under Sir Eweid."

Legard suddenly brightened. "That is it! You were the one who competed at the tournament."

"What are you talking about?"

"Oh, there is no use denying. I know the truth already."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean it was you who fought as Sir Eweid at the last tournament. Your fighting style perfectly fit that of the knight at the tournament."

"Have you seen me fight anywhere that you talk about my fighting style?"

"Did we not take on the rebels together when my team was attacked at the camp?" Legard replied with a question of his own.

"That proves nothing. Indeed, a squire can fight like his knight lord," Corthiel said, then he succumbed after a while. "You are right. I did compete at the tourney. I hope you will not tell anyone."

"Not to worry. I won't tell a soul," Legard promised. "Why did your lord let you use his coat of arms to compete?"

"He does not know what I have done," Corthiel said. "He was critically sick when the tournament was about to commence so I took it upon myself to partake in the tournament as that has been an old fancy of mine."

"One more question and I will let you have your rest. Why did you not show up for that deciding duel with Sir Garhel? I was one of those numerous people who stood vigil at the arena waiting for you to arrive. Were you really scared of him?"

"I would have been required to—oh, wait!" Corthiel cut himself short at the sight of some moving figures across the valley down the plateau. "Look down there."

Legard looked where Corthiel was indicating and he saw two ladies and a teen riding towards southwards.

"What about them?"

"O blessed twins! That is Vynne."

Before Legard could ask who Vynne was, Corthiel had disappeared down one of the sides of the plateau.

"Corthiel!" Legard called after him. "What are you doing?"

THERE WAS A MAMMOTH FEELING of emptiness in the Casvillean royal court despite the fact that there were no less than two hundred people of noble ranking seated in the hall. That feeling could be linked to absence of three key figures in the court—the queen, who was still battling with her rare disease, the king, who had been gruesomely murdered just a day before and Sir Garhel, who was grieving his uncle's untimely death.

Pieme Targa, the septuagenarian chief priest of the temple of Ligan and the head of the ruling council, stood to address the people. "Esteemed ladies and gentlemen of this grand court, I greet you in the name of Ligan and in the name of the blessed twins. I know we should all be in our homes grieving the death of our beloved king but this meeting is important to the safety of our land. We need ideas and suggestions on how to run the affairs of this empire now that the ruler is dead and the heir to the throne is nowhere to be found."

Lord Osth was the first to respond. "Distinguished ladies and gentlemen of the court, I will suggest that we increase the efforts we are putting in search of the prince. I believe the search parties are simply not doing enough. Let us increase them by seven folds so that we can see the prince and crown him as soon as possible."

"And what happens to the throne while we search?" Priest Targa asked.

"We keep it sacred of course."

Lord Bradeigh raised his hands for attention and after he was granted audience, he said, "my fellow noblemen and ladies, I agree with Lord Osth's idea of increasing the numerical strength of the search parties. It is indeed a very wise thing to do. But I think his second idea is dangerous one to follow. Keeping our throne empty in the name of sacredness is deadly. We need someone on that throne. Let us not forget that the rebels are waxing stronger every day, also that bastard Jehun has successfully united all the Thombrük tribes and our old enemy, Lailles, remains as dangerous as ever. If any of these people learn that we are without a leader of any kind for a prolonged period of time, then we will be in trouble."

"What are you suggesting, Lord Bradeigh?" Priest Targa inquired.

"Regency," Lord Bradeigh replied immediately. "I am saying we should install someone who has good leadership abilities from the royal family as regent pending the time we find the prince."

A general murmur of approval could be heard from the nobles in the room.

Priest Targa was silent for a few thoughtful moments after which he spoke in his usual calm voice, "although I have my reservations, your idea remains a good one and everyone here seems to agree. If I may ask, who do you think we can choose as the regent?"

"Well, we have a lot of options," Lord Bradeigh said. "But I believe Sir Garhel is the best man for the task."

"Aye!" The nobles in the court cried in support.

"You have spoken very well Lord Bradeigh, please have your seat," Priest Targa said. "Can those in support of Sir Garhel as regent signify by raising their hands so that we can take a count?"

There was no need to count after all. Every hand, save those of Priest Targa, was up. In the next moment, the process of installing Sir Garhel as the official regent of Navlan Empire began.

VYNNE AND HER TWO COMPANIONS, Estan and Xesandra were riding through a grassy valley when a long haired young man whose clothes were covered with grime jumped out the nearby shrubbery and ran at them. Xesandra reflexively nocked an arrow and drew her bow, ready to shoot at the intruder but Vynne's reaction gave her a rethink.

"Corthiel!" Vynne screamed, as she leapt off her horse and ran to embrace her much sought lover, grime and all.

Vynne shuddered as Corthiel took her in his arms and felt frisson as he bent a little to kiss her. Vynne had never been kissed before, though she had learnt about it from her sister Lorna. Now she found her lips engaged in blissful tandem with Corthiel's. The next thirty seconds they spent kissing was the best thirty seconds of Vynne's life to that point. Looking at the couple kissing away passionately, it was impossible to think that this was only the third time they were seeing each other in their lives.

"You look more beautiful than I remember," Corthiel commented as he observed her face after they broke the kiss.

"And you look older," Vynne said with a giggle, as she ran her hands lovingly over the stubble on his face.

"Is this the man you were pining for?" Xesandra asked Vynne, who replied with a simple nod. "Ah, I expected a more refined man."

Before Vynne could get a word out in favour of her man, another fellow emerged from the same part of the shrubbery where Corthiel had gotten out not long ago.

"What party is this?" Legard asked Corthiel as soon he sighted him in his lady's arms. "Are we still going to Longt or is this the end of it?"

Corthiel looked like he had forgotten all about that. "Oh that, well it depends on what this lady here says because after having found her now, I do not want to let her out of my sight anymore." He then turned to Vynne and asked, "Will you follow me to save the prince?"

"Nay. She is not going anywhere," Xesandra replied for her. "She has been through enough for you already."

"It is fine. I will go with them," Vynne replied. All she wanted now was anything to keep Corthiel by her side.

"I am coming with you," Estan, who had been silent all these while, informed Vynne. "Lady Lorna will have me skinned me if I go back without you."

"Ah, well. I should come along then. You will need me," Xesandra said.

"Good," Legard remarked. "Since your horses are available. Corthiel and I need not walk all the way down to Longt as intended. Can I ride with you lady?"

"No, I always ride alone," Xesandra spat. "Ride with the boy."

Moments later, the party began their ride to Longt where they would attempt to rescue the prince from the hands of southern renegades.

# CHAPTER FIFTEEN

A few hours after the council of noblemen had unanimously agreed to install Sir Garhel as the official regent of Navlan Empire, the knight and his cohorts gathered in their usual meeting place in his house to discuss the final steps of their revised conquest plans. They sat at a table replete with various dishes of delicacies and big jars of northern wine.

Sir Garhel opened the floor with his signature mellifluous voice, "Today, we are gathered to celebrate my installation as the regent of this grand empire, the process of which will be completed by tomorrow. This not exactly where we want to be, but we can at least celebrate the fact that we have gotten close enough in so little time. So let us drink and be merry while we decide on what our next course of action will be."

"To be true, we have very little left to do to get the absolute power that we seek in our hands," Lady DeBlyde said. "But there is still something that bothers me about still."

"What is that? Let me guess, you are thinking the prince will return and ruin everything we have done," Sir Garhel said. "The truth is he cannot. I have signed a warrant of his execution. He will be eliminated, as I have been told, by a beast of a man in the rebel camp tonight. What is his name, Vruth?"

"Maris," Vruth answered. "He was a lumberjack before we signed as a prizefighter years back. It might interest you to know that he has not lost any of the hundreds of fights he had undertaken since then."

"Impressive," Lady DeBlyde said. "But I am not as concerned about the prince as Corthiel. Like I said the other day, he remains a threat to the success of our plans."

"Excuse my forgetfulness but who is this Corthiel?" Lord Bradeigh asked through a mouthful of fried trout.

"He was Sir Eweid at the last tournament. He is a rare breed of warrior who possesses both military finesse and magical powers."

"Ah! I remember the weasel that could not show up for his duel with Sir Garhel," Lord Bradeigh said derisively, giving his balding dome a little scratch. "But I still do not understand why you consider him a problem. What makes you think he will join forces with our enemies? So far, he seems quite uninterested in the big affairs of the state. "

"I am sure you will not say that again when you see some things with your own eyes," Lady DeBlyde said as she turned to the northern wall of the room and muttered a spell. "Moou Aestiya!"

There were three quick flashes of light, followed by a moving picture of five persons riding towards through a plain.

"That is him sharing a horse with the dark haired girl." The sorceress said. "They are going to attempt to free the prince from the rebel stronghold."

Sir Garhel dropped the goblet of wine in his hand and walked to the part of the wall where the image was projected. "We have come too close to our objectives than to just sit back and let one little boy and his friends ruin it all for us. We are going to leave him to attempt to break the prince out of Longt. If he fails, well. If he succeeds and tries to come with the prince to reclaim the throne as I think he will, better. We will have the Phantoms waiting for them."

"Oh! I never thought of that," Lady DeBlyde cried. "I have other plans for him."

"Yes," Sir Garhel said as he returned to his seat and lifted his goblet of northern wine. "To continued success in our endeavours."

"Aye," the others chorused.

"Now, Lord Bradeigh, what were you telling me about the Thombrük alliance with Lailles?"

THE PRINCE, ACCOMPANIED BY THREE rebels, descended the flight of stairs that led to Elna's new cell with slow, thoughtful steps. He sighed as he remembered how much begging he had done before Laum granted him this little visit. One of the rebels opened the gate and Galleine let himself into the stinky little cell. He saw his love interest tied to a long stake by her arms and feet. He saw her head bowed and her hair rumpled and caked with dirt.

"Elna," He called her gently.

She glanced up and stared at him blankly for a moment in lack of recognition, and then when she realized who was in front of her, she brightened.

"My lord. . ." She mouthed gently. Words seemed inadequate to capture her feelings in that moment.

"Elna, I am really sorry for everything that you have gone through because of me. It's. . ."

"Don't be sorry. None of this is your fault."

"Nay," the prince objected. "It is because of me that you and your brother are in this place. But I promise to do everything in my power to set things right as soon as possible."

Elna nodded. She lacked the strength to argue any further. "How is my brother?"

"He is going to be fine."

"What do you mean?" Elna queried. "Did anything happen to him during the fight with Breyn?"

"He passed out, but I am sure he will return to consciousness soon. That is if he has not already."

"You mean Breyn knocked Belaine out in that fight?" She chuckled drily. "I would not have thought of that."

"Breyn didn't. I did." Prince Galleine revealed and when he saw the dark expression that crept onto Elna's face, he knew he had some serious explanations to do. "I took Breyn's place because I thought it was the best way I could prevent Breyn from being battered by your brother. Belaine could have beaten the hell out of him and maybe even killed him because that is part of the fight and— "

"My brother is not a monster!" Elna interjected.

"I didn't say he was. I was saying he could—"

"Shut up! I am sick of listening to you," Elna snapped, her despair reaching its peak.

"Elna. . ." The prince called gently, as he reached out to pacify his steaming lover.

"Do not touch me!" Elna yelled. "Just go. Go away, I don't want to see you ever again."

The prince stood there dumbly, unable to comprehend how quickly things had deteriorated between him and Elna. He stood a few more moments before he turned and headed for the door of the cell without saying a word. As he reached the gate, he turned and tried to say something but he decided against it. He stared at Elna for a few more seconds then he was gone.

As soon as Prince Galleine left her cell, Elna broke into a cry, letting the gates of her tears fling open. Torrents of salty water streamed down her sunken cheeks. She had not meant what she said about not wanting to see the prince again. The hopelessness of her current situation, the uncertainty of the future as well as the fear of her brother getting seriously injured had combined to make her utter those statements which she wished she could take back now. But then should the prince have just walked out like that?

"I hope those are not my last words to him," she muttered to herself.

THE WATCH TOWER AT THE LONGT facility of the rebels was designed to keep any influx of attack from the imperial troops or any other hostile party at bay. Three rebel guards were always there both day and night, thereby making the rebel stronghold one of the hardest places to sneak into in Navlan. However the watch tower had a weak point. That weak point was in form of a blind-spot to the west of the tower where it was possible to hide and not be seen by the sentries on duty. That blind-spot was where five persons; Corthiel, Legard, Xesandra, Vynne and Estan, hid themselves now.

Xesandra had discovered that secret spot two years earlier when she and her sister, Veramanda, had gone after a small group of rebels who had looted their village in the outskirts of Longt.

"Are you sure we are invisible to the guards from here?" Legard asked as he looked over his shoulders nervously. "I have a feeling we are being watched."

"Stop being a coward," Xesandra rebuked. "Nobody is looking at you. You think if they have seen us, we will not have got company by now?"

"Xesandra is right, we are safe here," Vynne said. "By the way, the prince's duel is in about to start, we have not agreed on how to get the prince out."

Corthiel, whose arm hung loosely around Vynne's waist, said. "I think we are going to be breaking more than the prince out. When I saw him the other time, there were two knights. I suppose they were kidnapped with him."

"There were about six people reported missing at our base," Legard informed. "There is the prince himself, the two knights in his company, his man servant, his lover who was the reason the prince left the capital in the first place and her brother."

"How are we sure they are all here?" Xesandra asked.

"We can't be sure," Corthiel answered.

"That said, I do not think we need an elaborate plan to get the prince out of here," Legard observed. "All we need to do is to launch an attack once the duel commences."

"Mindless attack, typical barbarian strategy," Xesandra said. "Are you a Thombrük?"

"Watch your tongue lady," Legard warned. "I have little patience for uncouth people."

"I wonder what you think you can do." Xesandra replied.

"Stop it, you two!" Corthiel said. "I have a plan but I don't know how viable it will be."

"Tell us," Vynne said.

"Well, the plan is this, when the fight starts we will create a big diversion, I don't know how yet. With the right diversion, we will get a good number of guards to come out. Xesandra will be waiting to cut down those that rush outside while Legard and I will go inside to break the prince and the others out," Corthiel explained.

"It will not be as easy as it just sounded but it is indeed worth giving a trial," Xesandra said.

"Excuse me, when you were delegating responsibilities, you made no mention of me," Estan observed. "Do you not think there is anything I can contribute to the success of this quest?"

"You will contribute alright," Legard replied. "You can assist miss badmouth here in keeping the rebel guards off or you can come with us into the facility."

Estan considered his options for a few moments before he replied, "I think I will be more useful alongside Xesandra, but I doubt if we will record any success with this adventure if you two do not stop antagonizing each other."

"That is true," Corthiel added. "I know you do not like each other, but for the sake of us all, put that aside for now."

"Alright, for the greater good," Legard said, before stretching his hand to Xesandra. "Friends?"

The dark lady kicked outstretched his hand away and made a face at him, "Forget it, I do not like you, nothing is going to change that."

Before Legard could react, a loud whistle went off in the rebel facility.

"I suppose that is signaling the start of the fight," said Vynne.

"Right," Corthiel replied. "Let us get to action. Vynne, you and Estan should think of something that will get some guards out of here. Xesandra, position yourself well to get clean shots at the rebels. Legard and I will go into the facility. Are we clear?"

"We are."

"Shouldn't we have a name for this group?" Vynne said

"A fine idea. How does Saviours of the prince sound?" Legard suggested.

"Terrible," Xesandra said, shaking her head in mock disgust.

"What about Red knights?" Corthiel offered. "I remember those wonderful tales my father told me about Black knights in the days of Guldheries Loghris. And what they do is the same as what we are doing."

"Fine. Red is a pretty colour and being a knight is pretty too even if the order is not official," Xesandra said.

"Any objections to the name?" Corthiel said.

No one objected. Moments later, the Red knights were positioned in their strategic places after Xesandra shot down the rebel guards at the tower. Corthiel breathed hard as he and Legard leaned against the back wall of the tower, waiting for Vynne and Estan to strike.

"What is she doing?" Corthiel heard Legard ask.

"Who?"

"Xesandra," Legard replied, pointing her to Corthiel. "She is making fire. That is not part of the plan."

"She wants to shoot burning arrows which is a very good idea. A burning arrow is way more dangerous than one that is not," Corthiel said. "Let us focus on our part."

"Yes, focus."

Turning away from Legard, Corthield slipped a hand in his pocket to remove the bunch of leaves there. He sniffed the bunch and then exhaled. Now, he felt ready.

DAGCA MAUVAN LAY ON THE COLD, HARD FLOOR of his cell with his mind devoid of any intelligent scheme. He had given up on plotting an escape plan or anything to that effect since he saw those doom visions from the crystal. All he had done since then was to sleep, wake up to eat the sordid meals that were passed to him through the little space under the giant door of his cell and then go back to sleep. He awaited his fate with as much serenity as was humanly possible.

Presently, Dagca pricked up his ears as he heard sounds of approaching footsteps. He listened more intently and gleaned from the sounds that there were no less than three persons coming in the direction of his cell. He found that very odd because no more than one person came to his cell at a time and that usually was the bearer of his food.

A few moments later, the door swung open and four persons walked into the dark cell. Three of them wore the garbs of the castle guards and held burning torches while the fourth person spotted a sparkling silver robe and a wand of matching colour. This person was none other than Lady DeBlyde, Dagca's eternal foe.

"What do you want?" He barked at his guests.

"Leave us," Lady DeBlyde ordered the guards.

The guards bowed, hung their torches on the wall pouches and left.

"Are you not afraid that I might just charge at you and strangle you?"

The lady smiled darkly, "Well, while you may not know that the guards I just dismissed are still very much around and they will come rushing in at a snap of my fingers, we both know that you do not have half the strength to carry out your threat."

"What do you want?" Dagca repeated his question in a voice heavily laced with bitterness. "Or have you just come to rub my helplessness in my face?"

"Far from that, I have better things to do with my time than coming all the way to gloat in front a crushed foe," she said. "I am here to help you, just like I have done so several times in the past."

Dagca could not prevent himself from laughing long and hard. "Please tell me that is a statement of jest."

"I am not joking. Do you know just how many times I have kept your secrets when I could have nailed you with them? When the late king put a price on your head and sent men after you, I knew exactly how to break your attrition spell but I let you be. When you got drunk at an inn and could not find your way home, I was in the background watching. I could have tipped the imperial soldiers and—"

"What exactly do you want? This is the third time I will be asking the same question."

"Very well, let me speak of why I came to see you. I learnt you have met this boy, Corthiel Zelac on one or two occasions," Lady DeBlyde said. "I want to know about him."

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything you know."

"Why do you want to know anything about him?"

Lady DeBlyde hesitated a while before replying, "The boy is a spiritual mystery. I have been trying for a while to discover the source of his powers but so far I have got nothing of note. My visions are always blocked by a big tree. Since you have had physical contact with him, I believe you will be able to say a few tangible things about his powers."

Dagca broke into another mirthless laugh. "You do not really think I will help you. Do you?"

Lady DeBlyde shrugged, "I was hoping you will be wise enough. After all you will get the state's pardon and maybe some ciblis as bonus."

"I might be tempted if I have not seen the future. Now, I know that my fate is to be executed, so even if I tell you what you want you will not save me."

"I cannot believe that you are this thickwitted. Do you not know that the future is never still, that it is ever changing, that it is entirely based on the actions you take now?" the sorceress said. "Well, since you are determined to go to your grave early, I will not attempt to convince you to the otherwise. Just know that whether you help me or not, Corthiel will be defeated. He is no match for my phantom soldiers."

"Phantom soldiers?" Dagca repeated in a voice that conveyed derision. "You mean these green clothed fools that accompany you around."

"No, I mean an awakened army of the dead." Lady DeBlyde said.

"By the gods! How is that possible?"

"I have told you Dagca, you are nothing but a baby in sorcery." Lady DeBlyde said as she turned and made for the exit door. "See you at your execution."

As soon as Lady DeBlyde got out of Dagca's cell, Vruth, who had been waiting for her all the while, briskly walked up.

"What did he say?"

Lady DeBlyde eyed the huge man with undisguised disgust. It was common knowledge that she grossly disliked him. The only reason she continually put up with him was because Sir Garhel constantly vouched for his unwavering loyalty and usefulness.

"He does not want to help. Not that it matters anyway. We really do not need him and. . ."

"What?" Vruth asked when she lapsed into silence midsentence.

"You don't worry, just tell Sir Garhel that everything is under control."

#

# CHAPTER SIXTEEN

"Kill him! Kill him!"

The spectators around the ring cried as Maris placed the forked tip of his trident at the base of his opponent's neck, ready to deliver the mortal blow that the inmates so much loved to see.

"Please. Don't kill me," the defeated man pleaded with blood gushing out of his mouth. "I will give you all the ciblis I have."

"Nay, nobody faces me in this ring and live to tell the tale. You will not be the exception."

Having said that, Maris drove the prongs of his huge trident into the helpless inmate's neck in one swift moment, causing blood to splatter on the floor. Wild cheers erupted from every corner of the room as the supporters of Maris reveled in the victory of their man.

Breyn watched all this through the bars of the little room opposite the ring with a growing fear for his lord, Prince Galleine. He was in the room alongside the prince and one grim looking guard. In that moment, the guard produced a bunch of keys from somewhere on his girdle and proceeded to open the gate of the room for the prince to pass into the ring.

"May Ligan be with you sire," Breyn said as the prince's figure slowly exited the cell. He got no reply.

The prince walked with grace to the centre of the ring where Maris stood waiting. He tried to ignore the incessant boos from the spectators and focus solely on picking out the weak points of his mountainous framed opponent. In a flash, he remembered the words of his tutor in the art of combats, Lord Ferleim, that the bigger a man, the slower he is.

Prince Galleine remembered the swiftness with which Maris had attacked him during their brief scuffle in his previous cell and he instantly came to a conclusion that Lord Ferleim's rule held no water as regards his current opponent.

"Keep the noise down. Wait till I beat the life out of him and then I will finish him in front of you all," Maris said to the inmates, causing them to yell even more.

"Alright, let us get this started. You two are not new to this. You are to fight until one of you dies or surrenders," Laum instructed, and then he turned to the attendants around. "Serve them weapons."

Both men were given the weapons of their choice. The prince was handed a broadsword and Maris, his legendary trident. A loud whistle went off and both men stepped forward to attack each other. The prince knew he had to be wise. Letting Maris corner him would be a deadly mistake. He had to hold the big man off till he was tired then he would go for the kill.

The prince charged at his ready opponent. He attempted to plunge his weapon in his adversary's head but Maris was too good for that. He blocked the sword with his trident then he retaliated by ramming his balding head against the prince's face.

The prince staggered backwards as the brute force with which Maris had hit him overcame his body's inertia. In that moment, a molar and a trickle of blood escaped his mouth as he struggled to regain his balance.

Maris charged now, aiming the trident at the prince's head. The prince was fast enough to evade that blow as he ducked but he was nowhere near being quick enough to do anything about the elbow that Maris sent to the pit of his belly. A low groan escaped the prince's lips as he staggered backwards still, leaving him completely opened to a slap-kick that Maris landed on his face. This time he totally lost every iota of balance and fell.

The spectators cheered wildly. Maris responded by doing his signatory killing sign. The prince quickly scrambled to his feet. He was not going to let the match be a walk in the park for his opponent.

Maris was on him again. He kicked the prince's sword away with so much force that the weapon tore through the netting that covered the ring and then proceeded to pierce the chest of an unwary spectator. The prince, now at the disadvantage of being weaponless, tried to use the age long trick of kicking the opponent's testicles but Maris seemed to know what was in the prince's mind as he quickly raised his right knee and then crossed it over his crotch so that the kick failed to hit home.

Just then, a guard dashed into the room screaming, "Fire! The arsenal is burning."

The response to that shout was instant. The arsenal was the store for every weapon the rebels owned. The reason why it was not heavily guarded tonight was because of the inmates fight going on. Two squads of rebel guards immediately rushed out to put out the fire.

Laum then called to Maris, "Finish this match already!"

Maris, buoyed by Laum's words, immediately charged at his weakened adversary. He struck the end of his trident hard against the prince's head and then followed up with a terrific looking series of bicycle kicks to Prince Galleine's chest. The spectators gave a standing ovation to Maris for the sheer impressiveness of his combative abilities as the prince collapsed to the floor, too weak even to raise his hands up in surrender.

"Kill him! Kill him!" The spectators chanted, urging the man whom they have for long regarded as the god of the ring on to finish off what he started.

Maris responded by repeating his killing sign and then walking over to where the prince lay, battered and exhausted beyond words. The big man set the prongs of his trident to the base of the prince's neck just like he had done with his previous opponent. He was moments away from slaying the crown Prince in front of a crowd of rebels and prisoners.

"Hold it right there!" A voice ordered.

Every head in the room turned from the spectacle in the middle of the ring to see two men who had sneaked in through the rear door, with two dead guards at their feet.

"We are here for the prince and we are not leaving here without him," the long haired youth who had spoken earlier said

There was a moment of eerie silence after which Laum thundered with fury, "Kill them both! Let them leave with their prince in winding sheets."

Legard turned to urge his companion as the rebels charged at them. "Fifty ciblis says I will kill more than you."

Corthiel only grinned as he unsheathed his sword. "Don't waste your money."

VYNNE SMILED TO HERSELF as she sat in a depression in the secret spot, reliving how she and Estan had sneaked behind two guards and disposed them of their weapons with logs, and how they had proceeded to set fire on the arsenal with torches and a few clothing items.

Two persons ran into the blindspot, prompting Vynne to raise her head to look at them. For a split second, she thought it was Legard and Corthiel but on close inspection, she saw that it was Xesandra and Estan.

"You stopped shooting?"

"Yes," Xesandra replied. "I have taken down enough men, besides, I am down on arrows."

Vynne peeped out of the blindspot and saw that only a few guards below them were still mobile, most of them were still with death, the moving ones were injured and nobody was climbing up to attack them yet.

"I hope your man will do justice to his part."

"He will. He never fails at anything he does."

"Out of curiosity, Vynne," Xesandra said. "What attracted you to such a petty man? A damsel of your class will be better suited to a high ranking earl or baron."

Before Vynne could reply, a terrible sounding roar erupted from inside the rebel stronghold. The three Red knights in the secret spot quickly moved to get a better view of proceedings.

In a trice, the gates of the stronghold flung open and a multitude of people ran out, screaming and pushing one another as they scattered in all directions.

"What in Ligan's name is going on?" Xesandra asked.

Vynne paid no heed to Xesandra and her questions. She kept peering at the crowd, trying to see if there was anyone who matched Corthiel's features.

"I think we should get out of here," Xesandra opined.

"No way, I am not leaving without Cor—"

Vynne's speech was punctuated by the sounds made by arrival of some persons in the secret spot. Vynne turned to see Corthiel with the prince hoisted over his shoulder. Legard similarly bore the weight of a redhead lady with sunken cheeks and dirt blackened clothing. Four men lurked behind Corthiel and Legard. Vynne recognised three of them. One was the prince's servant, Breyn and two others were knights even though she couldn't recall their names.

Vynne instantly ran to embrace Corthiel and plant a long kiss on his bloodied lips. A few blissful moments passed before they broke the kiss. Vynne sized up her man again. Even in his pathetic condition, she found him largely alluring. Whoever said Sir Garhel was the finest man in Casville?

"Are you okay?" she asked him.

"Aye, I am, but I am afraid the prince is not. Let us get out of here."

"What was the whole noise about?" Xesandra asked

"We killed a great deal of rebel guards and freed all the inmates and then Corthiel fought Maris in—" Legard narrated.

"Let us get out of here." Corthiel interrupted his friend. "I will feel a lot better without the prince's weight."

The Red knights started towards the exit of their safe haven.

"Sir Naurt, What is wrong?" Corthiel asked when he noticed that the knight did not appear like he wanted to leave with them.

"I will stay to make sure we do not get trailed."

Corthiel wanted to tell Sir Naurt that it was sheer folly to stay back. All he would succeed in doing was to get himself killed or injured. The rebels could follow them if they wanted but Corthiel knew that before noon tomorrow he and his companions will safely be in the imperial territory where no rebel would want to enter. But Corthiel did not say all these because he was tired out from his recent exertions, he simply lacked the strength to argue.

"If you so wish sir."

"See you all at the castle," Sir Naurt said.

Corthiel nodded in assent, though deep down, he had the strange feeling that he was seeing the last of Sir Naurt.

ALL WAS DARK AND STILL IN A LITTLE cottage close to the northern gate where Jeral, an off duty guard, slept after an overwhelming day at work. They had recorded an unusually high number of Vavires that day and Jeral, with his colleagues, had undertaken the demanding tasks of checking all the goods of the migrant traders for contrabands. In spite of their valiant efforts, they had not succeeded in getting anything.

Presently, the silence of the night was shattered by a loud tolling of many bells. The sounds of screaming and cursing men drowned whatever remained of the tranquil of the night. Jeral, a veritable light sleeper, instantly became awake. He laid there on his bed, listening to the continuous resonant sounds emanating from outside.

"Danger toll," He muttered to himself in realization.

Danger toll was not just any sound. It was an ominous sign, a harbinger of ill-fortuned and disastrous news. The last time it was heard in Casville was recently, when the news of King Gradiel's death reached the city.

Jeral made to get out of his bed in order to go and check what was amiss, but to his consternation, he discovered that he could not lift his body off the tiny bed. A strange force in the form of a mammoth weight was on top of him, pinning him down and keeping him bedridden against his wish.

Cold sweat broke out on the guard's body as he attempted to proffer an explanation for this strange phenomenon.

"O help!" Jeral yelled as he squirmed under the huge weight in a pathetic bid to wriggle free. His shout was muffled by the noise outside.

As if in response to his scream, the weight atop him stirred and rolled off. In that instant, Jeral realized what had transpired and he suddenly could not help chuckling at his own cowardice. It was Amaryllis, his mistress, who had rolled over him in the course of her sleep and her massive heft was the cause of his inability to rise.

Jeral retrieved a match from the bedhead with the help of the moonlight that poured in from the only window in the room and walked over to the lampstand to light a candle that illuminated the entire room. The noise that succeeded the toll was increasing. Jeral being quite eager to know what the chaos was all about, made for the door without delay.

"Why are you not in bed?" Amaryllis yawned her question as she sat up and rubbed her eyes sleepily. Miguel's moving around had apparently woken her.

"Something is happening out there. I need to go check."

"And you are going now, like this?"

Miguel nodded, taking care to avert his eyes from her exposed chest lest he become distracted by the double globes of silk thereat.

"You are underdressed. Take a moment to put something on," Amaryllis muttered before she pulled a sheet over her body and fell back unto the bed to resume her sleep.

Jeral was close to replying with an instant rebuke but he cut himself short when he realized that he had only an undergarment on. He picked up a robe slung on a nearby chair, pulled it on and bounded out of the room.

On getting outside, he found the street in chaos. Men were running around, screaming words that were made inaudible by the growing noise.

"Jeral, you did not tell me you will be away from the post. I have been searching everywhere for you," someone called behind him.

Jeral turned to see Hved, a fellow guard at the northern gate.

"Why, I thought the roll says my shift does not start till noon tomorrow," Jeral said as he walked up to Hved.

"You talk about rolls and shifts?" Hved scoffed. "The current situation transcends such."

"Pray, tell me what is happening."

"Thombrük savages are at our gate. There are over three thousands of them, fully armed, waiting to bring down this city."

"Those savages are fools. They think because they have Jedhun as their leader, they can lay siege on Casville of all places. What foolishness."

"I will not say they are stupid," Hved reasoned. "I think it is a sensible move to attack an opponent when he is most vulnerable. Now tell me our city is not vulnerable. Our king is dead, a good part of our army is held at the Marsh. There is in fact no better time to attack the city."

A mile away from where the guards argued, Sir Garhel and his right hand man Vruth sat in a carriage conversing in low tones. Lord Burth, who had been watching the savages approach the city from the watch tower, walked over to meet them.

"Lord Burth, what is going on?"

"Sire, there are over eight thousand men of Thombrük descent out there with two hundred catapults and mangonels. They want to lay a siege on us."

Sir Garhel scratched his beards lightly, "What do you think our next course of action should be?"

Lord Burth turned to face the watch tower again as if looking for answers there. "Well, I will say that we should recall the army from the Marsh and rally the militia across the empire."

"No, that will take too much time. By then, these savages will have gained too much morale for us to handle. Besides withdrawing men from the Marsh will open us up to Laillean attacks."

"We do not have other options."

"That does not make this one good," Sir Garhel insisted. "How many men do we have on hand?"

"A thousand or less."

"Send out your trusted men to gather those men. I am riding against the savages in the morn."

Lord Burth was so shocked that he choked on his reply. Before he could bring himself together to protest against the irrationality of Sir Garhel's plan, the regent had hopped back into the carriage and headed away from Loghris street. Lord Burth watched on in bemusement, unable to fathom how Sir Garhel intended to defeat an army of three thousand with less than a thousand."

Vruth too was just as surprised and as the carriage, driven by one of Sir Garhel's trusted men, headed back to towards the knight's house, Vruth cleared his throat and spoke. "What is your plan?"

"What?"

"You are fielding the imperial soldiers against an army eight times their number," Vruth said. "I know you well enough to conclude that you have other plans in place already. I am asking about those plans."

Sir Garhel laughed. "Is it so unbelievable? Well, Lady DeBlyde has released her phantom soldiers to me. I will use some of them in tomorrow's battle. The Thombrük bastards will not know what has hit them."

Vruth shook his head in awe. Sir Garhel never ceased to amaze him. Vruth remembered the first day he arrived heavily disguised at the rebel stronghold in Longt. He had been so full of evil ideas that Vruth had wondered if there was a man with a darker heart and a craftier head anywhere in the East of the earth. It has been eight years since then and with each passing day, Sir Garhel seemed to get better or worse, depending on how one looked at him.

"By the time we are done with the Thombrüks tomorrow," Sir Garhel said dreamily, "we are going to be in the history books of the empire."

# CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

"Vynne!" Corthiel called but the only reply he got was the echo of his own voice.

He was in the woods some distance from where the Red knights had situated their camp for the day. After hours of hard riding through the night, they had come to this valley and they had mutually agreed to stay there for a few days before they resumed their journey to Casville since it was clear that the rebels were not interested in chasing them.

Corthiel looked around the small area of trees. It was not the safest place to be. He shook his head as he remembered how he arrived there because of Vynne's playfulness. He had been in his tent, lying on his bed of straw, relaxing his aching muscles from his exertions at Longt when Vynne stalked in and said, "I am riding into the woods, catch me."

Then she had vanished. At first, Corthiel's unclear head had processed the event as a dream, then he realized moments later that it was no dream. A man cannot tell himself he is dreaming in a dream. With that thought, he had promptly dashed out of the tent, grabbed the nearest available horse and headed into the woods after her.

"Vynne!" He called again. No reply still.

The young warrior cupped his hand and exhaled into it in a gesture of exasperation and despair. He was getting worried, really worried. What if she fell into one of these ditches that appeared intermittently in here? Or if she was attacked by a beast or . . . . By the time he finished checking the little bush nearby for any sign of his missing lover, he had mentally run through hundreds of ugly things that could have happened to her.

"When did I become one who expects evil to happen?" Corthiel asked himself. Surely, he thought, love changes a man.

Corthiel was just about heading back to camp to seek the help of the others when he caught sight of a flickering light behind a cluster of pine trees. Without thinking, he raced behind the pines and, to his utmost relief, saw Vynne seated in the middle of four burning candles, smiling radiantly to an invisible figure in front of her. She cut the picture of one with no worries in the world.

"I knew you would find me," she said with a smile still on her face when she noticed Corthiel's presence. He discovered for the first time in the dim lighting provided by the flickering candles that she had a dimple on her left cheek.

"I was lucky to see the light," he said.

"Come and sit here."

"What is this? A fancy tryst?" Corthiel asked as he walked over to where she sat and eased himself onto the grassy floor beside her.

"We need it, don't we? We have much unspoken words between us. I daresay that we have spent far more time kissing than actually talking to each other."

Corthiel let out an audible sigh, "You are right."

"In truth," Vynne said, "how do you feel about me?"

Corthiel's cheeks instantly turned erubescent. He opened his mouth to speak then he stopped, unsure of how best to string the right words together.

Vynne stifled a squeal of delight. In a strange way, she enjoyed his general discomfiture and the innocent, embarrassed look on his face. It was particularly a thing of mirth for her that this handsome lad who was good enough to best the finest of knights in the king's retinue in combats could be brought back to earth by a simple question from her.

"I think. . . No, I am sure I am deeply in love with you," He said at last. "At the time I left Casville, I could not stop blaming myself for not establishing enough correspondence with you. I thought I would never see you again."

"Tell me, why did you leave?"

"I didn't want to be found out. I knew if I showed up at the arena against Sir Garhel, I would be required to remove my helmet for recognition."

Vynne nodded in agreement. "I didn't know. I was really mad at you for several days. Then I was mad at myself for some more days for falling in love with you so quickly. I felt my feelings were not shared."

"That's not true. I love you with the whole of my heart." Corthiel replied quickly. "I wonder if you still feel the same way about me."

She gave a slight nod. "Why, yes. Did I not leave the comfort of my father's manor to seek your face again?"

"True," Corthiel said. "Did you find a knight to aid your cause?"

"I stopped my search. Now that I am here, I need no protection from Lord Ressier."

"Who is Lord Ressier?"

"He is a spiteful old friend of my father who I am expected to marry in months to come. I needed a knight to challenge him to a duel to win me off him, but now, no such thing will happen. I am not a prize to be won in a duel."

"Will your father not send men to look for you?"

"Indeed he will. But in the vastness of Marmenn, I do not think we will ever be found. That is until I deem it fit to return home."

Both lovers lapsed into silence, thinking about the future and what it held for them. In a ponderous movement, Corthiel drew close to Vynne. He pulled her close and parted his burning lips to accommodate her red, moist ones. For the couple of moments that followed, they kissed away with unimaginable passion.

Suddenly Vynne pulled away, a little too abruptly. This was a strange occurrence on its own because Corthiel was always the one to break the kisses in their previous sessions. Before Corthiel could voice his objection to her sudden withdrawal, Vynne let out a blood curdling scream that could well wake up the dead from the great abyss.

"What scares you so?" Corthiel asked as he grabbed her shoulders to calm her. She did not stop screaming, she only responded by pointing her hands over his shoulder to something behind him. Corthiel spun, wondering what could have had such a scary effect on his lover.

Then he saw it; a massive, winged beast flying towards them. Add the steel claws, the spiked tail and the deadly fangs and you have it. . . The legendary Waeon.

"Run!" Corthiel roared at Vynne, whose mouth was still agape at the sight of the beast.

Vynne, on hearing Corthiel's command, promptly took to her heels. She had covered some distance when she realized that Corthiel was not following her. He stood there blocking the Waeon.

"Are you not coming?"

"Just go. I will meet you in camp."

"No," Vynne replied stubbornly. "I am not leaving without you."

"Be sensible, Vynne. You staying back might get us both killed."

"Let her stay if she wants. No one is to die, not yet at least," a familiar voice said behind Corthiel. The young warrior took his eyes off his shaken lover and turned it on a bald, middle aged man, dressed in red cape and black tunic.

"Dagca! A pleasant relief it is," Corthiel said, brightening. "It is good you are here."

Dagca did not look as pleased as Corthiel about the reunion. He pulled his coat tighter and indicated the Waeon with a slight nod. "That means a lot of trouble."

"I understand. Perhaps you should fend it off with magic and avoid me battling it to save some bloodshed."

Dagca shook his head slowly. "Alas, it is not here to fight you. It's presence is a divine sign."

Corthiel's confused look sufficiently betrayed the fact that he did not quite follow.

"You seeing the Waeon now is a sign that you have failed the gods," Dagca explained. "You have disappointed them with your unseriousness with the tasks assigned to you by the greater beings."

"What are you saying? How have I been unserious?"

"Did I not tell you to go to Bolg to get the sword of Guldheries? Tell me if you have gotten it."

"Truly, I have not. I got caught in some other issues," Corthiel explained. "I can get it right away."

Dagca shook his balding crown again. "It is too late. Another has been chosen to complete the mission."

Corthiel looked incredulously at his guide.

"Furthermore, the gods have cursed you. You are damned for the rest of the days you spend in Casville and its environs."

"Pray sir, do not let this happen."

"I have no say in the judgement of the gods. I am merely a conveyor of their messages."

"Is there anything I can do to reverse this judgement?"

"Nothing can be done. The gods have decided. Fare thee well boy," Dagca said and he faded away from Corthiel's sight in that moment. The Waeon too flew off, leaving a disconsolate Corthiel to flop onto the grassy ground in despair. He had no idea of what to do next. He had never felt more miserable all his life.

"What now?" Vynne asked.

"You heard him, I have to go southwards, away from anywhere close to the capital," Corthiel replied coldly.

"When will you leave?"

"As soon I can."

"I thought we would. . ."

"Will you hold your tongue for a while and afford me some thinking time?"

Vynne winced. That got to her. While she understood that he was in a most unfortunate situation, still she felt that the tantrum was highly uncalled for.

"Never mind then. I will give you plenty thinking time," She declared as she turned her back on him and began to walk away. "More than you will know what to do with."

"Where are you going?"

Vynne gave no reply. Corthiel watched in rueful amusement as she walked away till she vanished into the woods. He should not have let her go, he knew, but he just did not feel like he cared anymore. Maybe it was because of Dagca's revelation or maybe he felt she was one of the reasons he failed in his duty to the gods or maybe. . . Those were possiblities anyways. Only one thing did he know for sure; he was damned.

IN A FLUID MOVEMENT OF HIS ELEGANT ARM, Lord Bradeigh clapped a black, velvet hat on his balding dome as he strode out of the premises of the Casvillean castle into the bubbling Loghris street. The move turned out to be of some shrewdness as it saved the nobleman's crown from being scorched by the sweltering rays of the mid-day sun.

Lord Bradeigh walked down the most important street in Casville, his destination being the twin buildings at the end of the street that served as stables for the nobles.

"Lord Bradeigh, are you headed to Lieg?" A deep, firm voice queried from behind him.

Lord Bradeigh turned to see a man with chubby cheeks and sagging jowls, poking his head out of the window in a compartment of a luxury caravan across the street. He was Lord Fhost, a noble and a prominent member of the Council.

Lord Bradeigh was indeed going to Lieg and past experiences showed that Lord Fhost was a most enjoyable travelling company. The last time Lord Bradeigh had been in that caravan, he had been treated to varieties of excellent food and exotic drinks. Lord Bradeigh decided to decline the tempting offer, he needed a clear head today.

"Nay, I'm going to Strend," He said.

"See you at the next meeting then," Lord Fhost's voice echoed as he withdrew his fat head from sight and the caravan resumed its ride down the street.

Whistling casually, Lord Bradeigh proceeded to the stables to retrieve his white palfrey and then began a slow, leisurely ride to Lieg, taking an alternate route to the one he presumed Lord Fhost's caravan will take.

As he rode further away from the centre of the city, his mind drifted from the winding, dusty road and the tall shrubs that lined themselves on its sides, to the happenings of the last few hours. Some crucial events had occurred within that short frame of time. Events that brought him tantalizingly close to the future he had always craved.

In the early hours of that morning, Queen Hylla, the last surviving member of King Gradiel's immediate family, had passed away. According to the report of Sarlen, the royal physician, she had died from the heavy grief of her husband's death and her son's disappearance. Lord Bradeigh knew, of course, that Sarlen's report was anything but true. He was there when Sir Garhel paid a bagful of ciblis to the physician to finish off the ailing monarch.

Some hours after that, Sir Garhel had raised himself to the status of a god in the sight of Casvilleans as he performed the legendary feat of leading a sally against the Thombrük soldiers and crushing them completely. He further consolidated the already inconceivable victory by beheading Jedhun and delivering the warlord's severed head to the Council.

Not very long ago, the council members sat and unanimously agreed to crown Sir Garhel the king of Casville and by extension, the emperor of Navlan. The decision was triggered by the death of the Queen and Sir Garhel's heroics against the Thombrük invaders.

Lord Bradeigh was crudely brought back to the present by the noisy approach of a rider behind him. The nobleman half turned in saddle to see a large, clean shaven man dressed in a brown kirtle and matching pantaloons, riding a black stallion towards him.

"O Vruth, what are you doing around here?" Lord Bradeigh requested.

Vruth did not reply until he had gotten considerably close. "I've been looking for you everywhere."

"Why? You have something for me?"

"Not me exactly. I'm on Lady DeBlyde's errand," Finn replied, his facial expression going dark as he mouthed his next statement. "She sent me to kill you."

Lord Bradeigh's mouth flew open with shock. "Why? What wrong did I do?"

"I do not know. It is none of my business. My orders are simply to put you down."

"But . . . You are not going to do it, right?" Lord Bradeigh queried in the manner of a kid. "I will pay whatever price you demand and I will leave the city to prevent her from knowing."

"No, I cannot take that chance."

"Wait, wait. You want to kill me now, have you not considered the fact that they could be planning on taking you down too?"

"You are wrong, my friend," Vruth said. "I am indispensible to their plans. You are not."

Lord Bradeigh's eyes narrowed and he looked straight ahead of him. "Why then are we having this pointless dialogue? Why have you not killed me yet?"

"You have come to terms of death so quickly. That is impressive," Vruth said. "Trust me, I want nothing better than putting a quick one into your skull but Sir Garhel made it clear that you deserve better. He was particular about—"

Vruth's delivery was muted by an unexpected move by Lord Bradeigh. The lord, who had all the while been crazily brainstorming on how to get out of this death trap unscathed, finally settled for a seemingly brilliant idea. He slipped his hands stealthily into his large coat to retrieve a little sabre which he kept there for moments of need like this, and in a swift movement, he had stabbed the big man in the chest.

"You bastard!" Vruth cursed as he struggled to maintain his balance in saddle with one hand on his bleeding chest and the other holding the reins. Lord Bradeigh elbowed Vruth in the face, sending him tumbling off his horse into a huge heap on the sandy floor.

Vruth scrambled up. Lord Bradeigh's unprecedented move had certainly done more than shock him, he thought as he cast his expert eyes on his wound for examination. The sabre had opened a deep gash just above his left breast. A few inches down and the blade would have pierced his heart.

"Not so fast," Vruth mumbled as he reached over his shoulder to retrieve his crossbow. He drew the bow and calmly trained his eyes on the hard riding Lord who was almost out of his sight now. Vruth knew that he had just one shot and he'd better not miss. Finn drew a deep breath and fired.

He did not miss. The arrow caught Lord Bradeigh in the back of the neck. The nobleman gave a pitiful cry of pain as he fell headlong off his horse's back. Vruth walked over to where his victim lay, bleeding profusely from the mouth as he struggled to speak through the excruciating pain barrier.

"Te. . . Tell. . Sir Garhel. . ."

"Die!" Vruth yelled as he released another shot betwen Lord Bradeigh's eyes, silencing him forever.

# CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Riana walked briskly down the wide passageway of DeBlyde manor to the lady's bedchamber with her long yellow robe flowing after her as she took each springy step. She was going to deliver a letter from Vruth which had been brought to the manor a while ago by a courier. A few meters away from the room, Riana began to hear low, sensual sounds of her lady and someone kissing. The maid smiled, she could bet her left bosom that the someone was Sir Garhel.

She rapped twice on the hard wooded door of Lady DeBlyde's chamber. There was silence for a moment, then came a reply, in a loud, clearly irritated, feminine voice.

"What is it, Riana?"

Riana was not surprised that her name was called. She was the only maid with enough liberties to come this far. "My lady, I bear a sealed letter from Mister Vruth."

"Slip it under the door. I will pick it."

"Yes, my lady." Riana did as her lady bade her and promptly took her leave.

On the other side of the door, Lady DeBlyde released her tight grip on Sir Garhel's shoulders and rolled off him with the grace of a swan. She got off the bed, pulling the sheet over her nude body and walked over to where the letter lay to pick it. Sir Garhel watched in lustful admiration as the elegant lady bent to pick the sealed note. Her impossible combination of a beautiful face and a divinely shaped body made the quadragenerian, at least in Sir Garhel's sight, the most alluring woman in the empire.

"What does it say?" He asked, forcing his eyes off her exposed bosom.

Lady DeBlyde read for a few more moments before answering. "The expected, he has taken care of Bradeigh. Oh, and he sustained an injury in the course of the mission. He is at Sarlen's place for treatment."

"Did he say how bad the injury is?"

"Nay," She replied as she dropped the letter on a nearby stool and returned to bed. "But it can't be very bad if he was fine enough to hold a quill. This letter was written in his hand."

"True."

"Do you not hink it will be great if we eliminate him as well?"

Sir Garhel felt his brows suddenly go up on their own accord. "Why?"

"I just feel the lesser the people who know what has happened, the better," the lady said with a shrug.

"I do not support the idea," Sir Garhel objected. "We can't kill him. I have an agreement with his people. Besides he has proven to be extremely loyal and quite handy."

"You win then," Lady DeBlyde conceded. "Yes, why don't we celebrate this good news with another course of what we just finished before the girl came around?"

"Surely, you will kill me before my time," Sir Garhel said with a roll of his eyes. "But I am at your service, my lady."

"Yes," Lady DeBlyde said as she straddled the knight. "Let us see how well you can render the service."

THE FIRST THING PRINCE GALLEINE SAW when his eyes flicked open was the image of the Casvillean flag imprinted on the canopy hanging over his bed. The crowned wolf in the flag was making faces at him, or so it appeared.

"My lord.. "

Prince Galleine cocked his head to see Breyn seated calmly by his bedside and staring into his face.

"My lord. How do you feel now?"

Prince Galleine pulled himself to a sitting position. A low groan escaped his lips as he felt a raging pain all over his back.

"Not great, but I will live," He replied. "For how long have I been unconscious?"

"A day sir."

"Don't tell me I did not wash in all that time.'

"Elna took care of that sir."

The prince shook his head and instantly got out of bed. He began making slow, unsteady steps towards the end of the tent where his clothes hung. Breyn offered to help but Prince Galleine waved him off.

'My lord, you are not fully recovered. You should not be out of bed yet."

'Do not worry about me. Where is she now? I mean Elna."

"The adjacent tent. She spent the whole night here and I only prevailed on her a while ago to go and rest her sleepy eyes."

"Ah," the prince said absently. By now, he had slipped into a brown shirt and tight fitting leather pantaloons. "how did I get out of Longt alive?"

'Some warriors came along after you became unconscious. They somehow freed all the prisoners in the stronghold there and let them fight the rebels. They used the diversion to get us out."

"Who is us?" Prince Galleine asked as he laced his combat boots.

"You my lord, Elna, Belaine, your knight friends and I."

"What of that bastard Laum?"

"He disappeared in the middle of the everything," Breyn answered.

"Among the group of warriors, is there one of them of that fights with two swords and has greenish hair?"

"Certainly sir, how did you know that?"

"Just a feeling. The fellow once came around when I was in trouble. Where is he now?"

"His tent is opposite this one but I do not think I have seen him around since yesterday."

"He always seems to disappear afterwards too,' Prince Galleine mumbled to himself. "Do you know who he is?"

"His name is Corthiel, he is from Marmenn. I do not know anything else asides that."

The prince nodded darkly. He was now fully dressed, having slipped on a pair of leather gloves.

"I will be back soon," He told Breyn as he strode out of the tent.

The air outside was cold, Prince Galleine observed as a light breeze hit him. He looked round the camp, there were six tents arranged to form a semicircle. Beyond the camp was a tract of densely growing trees. Whoever had chosen this camping site had a good military sense. No attack could sneak on them and they could easily take refuge in the woods if threatened.

Prince Galleine knocked on the wooden frame of the tent adjacent the one he just left in a bid to gain admittance. A head poked out a moment later, it was Belaine's.

"My lord," He bowed when he saw the prince.

The prince nodded in acknowledgement, "I came to check on Elna."

"She is sleeping inside."

"Tell her I came by."

The noisy approach of a rider from the woods diverted the prince from his conversation with Belaine. The sound of the incoming horseman attracted other people in the surrounding tents. A young man with a mass of frizzy hair popped out a tent nearby, followed by another armed man whom the prince instantly recognised as Sir Varding. A dark lady sprang out of a tent opposite that one.

Presently, the rider pulled his horse to a stop in the middle of the camp. He was a short, young man dressed in a nondescript outfit.

"My lord. . . " He curtsied when he sighted the prince.

"Who are you?" The prince asked. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the frizzy haired fellow reaching for his sword.

"Sir, I am Moreau from the palace at Casville. I am afraid I have brought terrible tidings."

SIR GARHEL WALKED INTO THE STUDY AT DeBlyde manor to find Laum looking through the long rows of books on the magnificent shelf at the eastern corner of the room. Although Riana had informed on his way up that a long haired man with a hooked nose was waiting for him, still he felt some surprise seeing Laum.

"I did not know you were given to reading," Sir Garhel remarked as he walked deeper into the room.

Laum turned and gave a slight shrug. "What meaningful man despises books? The mind has to stay nourished."

Sir Garhel settled in a chair and asked, "What brings you here?"

Laum returned the book he was holding and walked over to settle in a chair opposite Sir Garhel's. "Well, our stronghold at Longt was attacked by some fellows and the prince escaped in the course of the fighting."

"I see," Sir Garhel said casually.

"You see?" Laum repeated in surprise. "Why, I thought you would be concerned that the prince might come hitherward and ruin all your plans."

"No, I'm not worried about that. I have things planned out already. If anything, I am only disappointed that your so called stronghold could not hold out against a simple attack."

"What can I say? It was in a moment of weakness. We were having the inmates games when they struck."

"And all the gold, liquor and ladies inhibited your defense eh?"

"Indeed. Where is Vruth?" Laum asked, tactfully changing topics.

"He is at a physician's, he is indisposed," Sir Garhel replied. Before Laum could get a word out, he added, "Come with me, there is something I would like you to see."

Sir Garhel led Laum out of the study, down the central passageway to the courtyard.

"This is my private army," Sir Garhel announced, indicating the endless rows of armed men that stood.

"Impressive," Laum commented as he feasted his eyes on the smart looking soldiers. "Where did you get them?"

"I bought them from a general in the Old Kingdoms."

"Fine soldiers is what they look like."

"Do you want to have a combat with one of them to see how well you will fare?"

"Very well. Let's see what they can do," Laum said as he drew his sword.

"Tylok Thickbeard," Sir Garhel called. A tall, barrel chested phantom soldier with a characteristic misty face stepped forward. As far as Laum could see, Thickbeard had no beard, leaving him to wonder whence the sobriquet arose, perhaps he had shaved.

"Attack!" Sir Garhel commanded.

The big phantom attacked Laum with great ferocity. The rebel warlord stood no chance against the blinding speed with which the phantom fought. In less than two minutes of combat, Tylok Thickbeard had disarmed Laum and held him up in the air by the scruff of his neck.

"Okay mate, you win. Let me go," Laum groaned.

'Thickbeard," Sir Garhel said calmly. "Kill him."

SEVEN PAIRS OF CURIOUS EYES WERE RIVETED on Moreau as he stood in the middle of the Red knights' camp site, recounting the tragic events that had transpired in Casville of late. His narrative had a mesmeric effect on the company as they all paid unwavering attention to his detailed description of the king's death and the gruesome way it had been occasioned by Sir Treine. He told them as well of the incursion of the savage hordes into the Casvillean territory and how Sir Garhel had led a sally that vanquished the siege at the city gate.

As Moreau spoke of Queen Hylla's passing away, Elna, whose sleep had been truncated by the noisiness of the palace guard's arrival, couldn't help shuddering. As she tried to steady her shivering body, her roving eyes fell on the prince. His face was devoid of emotion. Elna could only imagine how terrible he felt having become an orphan so unexpectedly.

The palace guard continued relaying his news. "Before I left the city around dawn four days ago, I listened from my post as the Council members decided to crown Sir Garhel. The coronation is in a week's time."

The Red knights were shocked and for a good reason, it was unheard of for another member of the royal family to be crowned when the crown prince was still alive. Perhaps the only person who did not seem as flummoxed by the news was the prince himself. He appeared to bear the bad tidings with remarkable sang-froid.

"Why would the Council make such an absurd ruling?" Sir Varding mused.

"How can they do that?" Legard asked. "Do they think the prince is dead or what?"

"I don't know if they think the prince is dead but I think I understand their motive," said Moreau. "The attack by the Thombrüks had taught them that the throne could not be left vacant for too long as that could give enemy empires the incentive to attack and cause subject territories to revolt."

"Even that does not justify crowning someone else instead of the king's heir. Could they not have elected a regent or let the council continue to run the affairs of the state until the prince is found?" Xesandra argued.

"Get me a horse!" The prince barked at his servant suddenly. There was an unmistakable icy quality in his voice.

Breyn instantly disappeared behind one of the tents to carry out the prince's orders. Just then, Moreau suddenly remembered something important. "My lord, I have a note for you from Dagca."

"I do not have the time for any note," Prince Galleine said through clenched teeth, ignoring the folded brown parchment in Moreau's outstretched hand.

"But sire, he warned. . ."

"I said, no!" The prince roared, his eyes giving off a lightening-like flash.

"Take it easy, my lord," said Elna as she stepped closer to pacify him.

The cold, menacing stare Prince Galleine sent her way made her stop in her tracks and caused her to wonder if by any chance she had overstepped her bounds. So intense was the hostility in his eyes that she feared, perhaps illogically, that he might lay a hand on her.

Somehow, he did. His hand shot out and grabbed the scruff of the neck, drawing her close to him in manner that could not be exactly described as gentle. Elna stood petrified as Prince Galleine hungrily lowered his mouth unto hers and engaged her in a wild kissing bout. It was nothing like the passionate ones they had shared in the past, this one bordered on violent. It only seemed Prince Galleine was venting his despair.

"My lord. . The horse," Breyn mumbled.

The prince took one long last suck at Elna's lower lip before he disengaged his mouth from hers. "Thank you for everything," he whispered into his mistress' red curls before turning to Breyn who promptly handed him the rein.

Prince Galleine leapt onto the dark equestrian beast of burden and announced, "I'm going off to recover what is mine from the Council and my uncle. I hope to see you all at the capital soon. Moreau, give the note to Breyn."

Having said that, the prince turned the horse and galloped furiously out of the camp site, leaving behind him a thick cloud of dust and seven souls that wished him nothing but the best.

"Here," Moreau broke the silence as he handed Breyn the note.

The sandy haired manservant set about breaking the seal. "How did you come to know Dagca? And how did you become his courier?"

"I once did a shift guarding the maximum confinements and he was in one of the cells. That was how I knew him," Moreau said. "Then I agreed to come on this errand because I owed him a favour. Before he was imprisoned, he had once forewarned me of an event that could have claimed my life. Besides, he said the fate of the empire hangs on the delivery of the letter to the prince. I hope you having it is just as good."

That piqued Breyn's interest and he began to read the bold letters that were scribbled on the vellum once he was done unfurling it. He read the content quickly, and as he read downwards, his face contorted and a gasp escaped his open mouth.

"What is wrong?" Elna asked.

"The prince is in great danger," He spluttered. "I have to warn him."

"What danger?" Legard asked.

Breyn took a moment to toss the scroll at Legard before he ran off to grab a horse from the makeshift stable at the back of the tents and galloped wildly after the prince. At the behest of others, Legard read the scroll out.

In the interest of your life, stay away from Casville. Garhel killed your parents and he will not hesitate to kill you if you return, trying to foil his attempt to rule the empire. He has the council's backing and a secret army of the dead protecting him. Ride to Sokken in the western hinterlands and find Haldrinne, only he can tell you how to defeat your treacherous cousin.

"This is not good," Xesandra commented with a low sigh.

"Nay, it is not," Sir Varding said. "And I know one thing though, Breyn will not catch up with the prince no matter how hard he tries."

"How did you know that?" Elna asked.

"The prince is a better rider and he took a faster horse."

"If the prince gets to Casville ahead of Breyn . ." Elna let her voice trail off. She could not bring herself to speak the words that had formed in her head.

Xesandra dropped a friendly hand on Elna's shoulder and flashed her a reassuring smile. "It's okay, Elna. Everything will be alright." Then she turned to Legard and said, "by the blessed twins, where is your friend?"

"I do not know. I have not seen him since last night," Legard replied.

"I saw his lover and her servant riding away not long ago," Belaine chipped in.

"Riding away?" Xesandra repeated in incredulity. "Why?"

Just then, Corthiel popped out of the grove behind the camp and headed straight for his tent. On sighting his companions, he waved perfunctorily before disappearing into the tent

"I'll be back soon," Legard announced as he walked away from the other knights towards Corthiel's tent.

He entered to see Corthiel stuffing his odds and ends into a big bag.

"Hail you brother, what are you doing?"

Corthiel squeezed the last of his clothes in the bag and then turned to face his friend. "I am going home."

"Now? Why?"

"There is no reason for me to stay. Vynne has left me."

"So I heard. What happened?"

"We had a little falling out, then she left in anger. Now I can't see any of her things around. I suppose she has returned home."

"What a shame? You too were handsome together. But her leaving is not enough reason for you to leave. Have you no desire for fame and glory anymore?"

"There is no more glory to quest for. Dagca has told me to leave Casville, that I have failed my divine mission and all that. Failure to leave, he said, may attract dire consequences."

Legard's ears pricked up, "How did Dagca tell you?"

"How did he tell me? I do not understand you."

"I mean, how did he communicate to you? Did he send a note or . . ."

"He told me in person."

"It cannot be. Dagca is in prison at Casville. This is a letter he wrote from there today," Legard waved the parchment in Corthiel's face.

Corthiel eyed the parchment with little interest, "What does it say?"

"That Sir Garhel killed the king and Waeon because he wanted the throne. That he will kill the prince too if he returns to Casville. It says only a fellow called Haldrinne, who lives in Sokken to the far west, knows how to bring down Sir Garhel."

"So the prince is going to find the fellow?"

"Alas, the prince took off for Casville without reading Dagca's letter. That means we have to ride to Sokken to hear Haldrinne out while hoping the prince keeps out of danger."

Corthiel hauled his bag off the floor. "I am sorry brother. You will have to proceed without me. I am accursed and can take part in this no more."

"There has to be a mistake somewhere. Are you sure it was Dagca you saw?"

"Yes, I saw him. And Vynne saw him too. You may want to ask yourself if the letter was truly written by Dagca. Farewell brother."

Legard watched as Corthiel walked out of the tent with the heavy bag slung over his shoulder and wondered what had come over him. The Corthiel he knew, the adventure seeking, daring Corthiel would not meekly accept such an atrocious revelation. He would defy the words of Dagca and go with them to Sokken anyway.

"It must be the girl's doing," Legard mumbled, heading for the exit. He had to prepare for the long ride to Sokken.

# CHAPTER NINETEEN

The golden afternoon sun had just slipped out from behind a patch of ghostly white cirrus cloud when Lady Vynne Hargand and the stable boy, Estan arrived at the gates of Vath on the back of a long, strenuous ride across the plains of the East.

"My lady, I desire to return to the Red knight's camp," Estan announced suddenly.

"Really? Now?"

"Yes my lady."

"Why, you have come a long way. Why not rest the day and return tomorrow? I do not see the need to rush back."

Estan rubbed his forehead. "I have a feeling they would leave the camp soon. If I do not catch up with them soon, I may have to search the entire Euschires forest for them."

Vynne peered into the stable boy's face and saw in it a fierce resolve that could not be defeated. While she was concerned about his safety and welfare, she knew nothing she said would stop him from returning to team up with the Red knights.

"You should have told me of your intention to return earlier. I would have forbidden you to come this far," Vynne said as they rode pass the city gate and its unsmiling sentries.

"I wanted to see to your safety."

"You can take your leave now then. Dusk will soon be upon us, the earlier you leave, the better."

"No, my lady. I will stay till we get home."

"I insist, Estan. We are back in Vath, I have no need of you anymore."

With an obsequious nod, Estan turned his horse and began to trot in the direction they had come from. "Be safe, my lady."

"You too, Estan. Tell Corthiel I . . ."

"You what?"

"Never mind."

Vynne rode on without a backward glance at her departing companion. She felt a strange heaviness of the heart and quickly dispelled it with thoughts of her family. Would her father have noticed her absence from the castle? Surely, he can't be too occupied with his numerous meetings with his fellow noblemen to detect his beloved daughter's absence. She wondered what lie Lorna had employed to cover for her.

"Look out young lady, you are going off road," A solemn looking elderly man in smock called out.

"Oh, thanks sir," Vynne replied with an embarrassed smile as she turned her white mare back onto the sandy road of the Vath suburbs.

"Perhaps you should get a driver. Young ladies like you with little experience should not be riding unaccompanied around the city."

"I have been riding since I was a child," Vynne retorted in her head.

She chose to ignore the nosy man and dug her legs into her horse's side, a cue for the beast to switch from cantering to galloping. She only slowed down when her father's castle came in sight.

Not wanting to attract attention, Vynne got off her horse and led it through a small path to the back of the manor. The path was seldom used by any inhabitant of the house, so her chances of slipping in unnoticed was high. She would then go to Lorna's room and find out what Lorna told their father so the she would not say something discordant.

Vynne was stealthily approaching the courtyard when a most unexpected event happened. A hand grabbed her from behind and pulled her off her course. In a fit of panic, Vynne let go of the reins and gave off a scream. But her scream came off as nothing more than a pitiable whimper as her assailant's hand secured her mouth very tight. Seeing the uselessness of screaming, Vynne changed tactics. She opened her mouth as wide as she could and clamped her teeth in the flesh of her attacker's palm.

"Oh, you bite like a carnivore," her assailant cried. The voice was unnervingly familiar.

With the grip on her slackening, Vynne spun and came face to face with her attacker.

"Lorna! you scared the life out of me. What horrible joke is this?"

"Forgive me sister, I meant well. Count Ressier has come to see Father and I don't want you running into him," Lorna said. "Come, how was your romantic traipse? Tell me everything."

Vynne felt her cheeks grow hot, flaming hot. "There isn't much to tell. I spent most the time I was away looking for him. When I found him, things went well until he started throwing tantrums."

"You have been away for what? Weeks. And this is all you can tell me."

"What do you want to hear?" Vynne asked.

"Did he kiss you?"

"Well yes. Many times."

"Oh, wonderful. Did he...?" Lorna asked with a wink.

"Lorna!"

"I was just asking." Lorna's smile was mischievous. "By the way, you have come back at a very wrong time."

"What do you mean?"

"Despite my manoeuvrings, Father discovered that you were away and now promises to marry you off to Count Ressier, the moment he sets his eyes on you."

Vynne was speechless, leaving her sister to continue. "Now sister, do not swoon. I will advise that you go back to your lover at once. You must not let Father see you."

"But Corthiel and I are not on good terms," Vynne protested feebly. Her voice caught in her throat in a way that testified to her ill ease.

"I suppose, you will return to him or do you find living with Count Ressier more appealing?"

"No, of course not."

"Then you have to leave."

"I'm afraid it is too late."

Those words, chilling in their way, did not belong to Vynne. They belonged to a short, corpulent man with cropped hair and big eyes. Two men armed with broadswords stood beside him.

"Count Ressier!" Vynne gasped. The two sisters exchanged shocked glances. How on earth the balding man had gotten behind was beyond them.

"It is so good to see you again, my lovely," Count Ressier said, bowing enthusiastically to Vynne. To his men he pronounced firmly, "Seize her!"

THE MORNING WAS COLD AND BLUSTERY. Activities were in full swing in the Red knights' camp. Tents were being taken down, valuables being stuffed in bags and loaded on horse backs as they feverishly prepared for their trip to Sokken.

Xesandra brushed a strand of hair off her dark face as she strode over to her gallant ride. An interesting thought struck her and she promptly voiced it.

"Fellows, seeing how low we are on food supplies, don't you think we should consider hunting?"

Belaine replied without looking up from the pole he was digging. "I am fully in support. I am so sick of these wild nuts I may just drop dead if I eat another."

"No, no. Why should we burn time hunting when locating Haldrinne is our priority? We have no time to waste," Legard posed.

With practised ease, Xesandra leapt onto her horse. "It is amusing how easily you talk of responsibility when you have never really been responsible for anything since I knew you."

"And it is amusing how you never seem to be able to string two sentences together without insulting people," Legard said with an exasperated sigh.

"Peace, peace," Sir Varding offered. "I will suggest that we ride for Sokken right away but keep our eyes out for any game that may come our way."

The Red knights agreed to this and before long, they were off on the narrow trail that led westwards to Sokken. They had only rode a few leagues when they sighted a boar standing in the middle of the road, facing the opposite direction from which the Red knights approached.

Without scruple, Xesandra grabbed her bow, nocked an arrow in it and fired, all in a matter of seconds. The boar was caught in neck and gave a piteous cry of distress. It staggered, looking certain to hit the ground immediately but the moment passed and the boar, rather miraculously, seemed to recover from the supposedly fatal shot and began to scamper down the road.

"After it!" Xesandra and Legard chorused.

The Red knights rode after the tusked beast. It was soon out of sight but they were able to follow it with the blood trail.

"I must confess I am intrigued by this boar. It has kept on the road whereas it could have shaken us off by leaping in the woods. Is it not surprising?" Belaine asked.

"I find it more surprising that the great Xesandra could fail to hit a clean mark at such a close range," Legard said.

"What are you driving at?" Xesandra bristled.

"Simple, you are not as good as you make out to be."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, you have always carried on about how you are the best archer in Casville, yet this gaffe of yours is a clear indication that you are nowhere near being the finest marksperson around. Sir Crevall certainly would not have failed to kill the boar at that range. Lady Liamy too."

Xesandra smiled gently. "I shall not excuse my failure to kill the boar with a single shot, but I know that I have bested Liamy in so many private tournaments that it has ceased to be a contest to me. As for Sir Crevall, the only reason he wins all the royal archery tournaments is because women are not allowed to compete."

By now, the company had trailed the boar to a clearing and there were no blood trails anymore and the boar had vanished from sight.

"We should start heading back, we have wasted enough time chasing this accursed boar," Legard opined.

"The boar is over there!" Estan said, pointing to the branch on which the beast hung dead. A hooded figure came from beside the tree. A gigantic sheath was girded to his coat.

"I am Garrs, leader of all the shapeshifters in the western hinterlands. The boar you killed," the man said in a voice that was morose, "is my brother. Our parents entrusted him in my care, now you have killed him."

"Your brother is a boar?" Estan said.

"We apologise sir. We had no idea that the boar was human," Legard said.

"Which of you struck him?" The aggrieved man asked.

Xesandra stepped forward, her face a mask of guilt. "I did sir and truly, I have never been more sorry for anything in my life."

"Dark lady, you shall pay for this great evil!" The man said as he pulled off his glove. "Accept the gage. Yes, I cannot fight you so pick a man to fight for you!"

Sir Varding made to step forward but someone pulled him back. It was Legard. "Let me."

"Are you sure?"

The mass of small curls on Legard's head jiggled as he nodded in assent. He unsheathed his blade and walked towards Garrs.

The shapeshifter huffed. "You? You are not afraid of the fury of a shapeshifter?"

"The woman's innocence is my strength. I fear thee not," Legard said.

Garrs laughed, a wicked laugh indeed.

"Perhaps my current shape is not awe-inspiring enough," he said and with a great roar, he transformed quickly. His features swiftly morphed into that of a doddering old man clad in a spotlessly white robe. The giant blade in his girdle became a wand of some sort.

"Oh don't look so nonplussed," the old man said, a wide grin exposing his depleted dentition. "I am Haldrinne, whom you seek."

PRINCE GALLEINE'S LONG GOLDEN hair bobbed wildly on his crown as he galloped through Rayon valley en route Casville. His mind was in turmoil. He kept muttering the same question to himself, Why did they have to die just like that? With his mind's eye, he could see the last time he had seen his parents together. That had been at the tournament held at the arena. They had perched on their gilded thrones, both looking great and neither of them showing any sign, however subtle, that they would not live to see the next waxing of the moon. Why was death so callous?

A twig snapped rather loudly in the bush adjoining the spot where Prince Galleine was but he did not hear it, he was occupied with thinking about the fact that his father never had the satisfaction of seeing him in battle. The last battle in Casville was the one against the allied rebel forces at Voules and his father had barred him from joining the warriors.

"But I have been training with them for years and I can hold my own against many of them. I am good enough to fight," the prince had said.

"You are too young. No warrior can take the arms until he is eighteeen."

"Father, I will be eighteen next month."

His father had remained unmoved. "Until then, you will stay at home and continue to improve."

There went what would be his only chance to fight alongside his father, to show that he was a true descendant of god of war and empire builder, Guldheries Loghris. To show that his shoulders could bear the legacy of his prestigious ancestors.

Oh Treine, I will gouge your eyes and make you eat it.

Prince Galleine's grievous musings did more than dull his spirits, it also dulled his perceptive abilities, ensuring that he failed to pick out the susuration around him. On a good day, he certainly would have heard the suspicious rustling sounds from the bush to his left side. Four men, all armed with swords and spears, lurked in the bush. They were waiting for the right time to pounce on this lone traveller on the winding road. They had no idea that it was the prince.

One of the bandits, a sturdy fellow with bulging arm muscles, decided they had waited enough. He lifted his spear and hurled it with the intention of knocking down their unwary victim off his horse. He missed, by a few inches. The spear tore the back of the prince's shirt and nicked the skin of his lower back before going on to sink in the ground not far off.

A groan escaped the prince's lips as he felt the impact of the blade that had cut his skin. He looked in the direction he felt the spear came from and saw his assailants. He recognised them by their chequered overgowns and revers as Iztier bandits.

"Otut take you, Sanzel. You have ruined our surprise," another member of the band complained to the one who had thrown the spear.

"Stow it Rerk," the leader of the gang rebuked. "Let us get him first, you can complain later."

"Aye," said Rerk as he hurled his own spear. His aim was truer than Sanzel's as his spear sank into the horse's neck, sending it to the ground dead in a instant. The prince tumbled off the horse and crashed to the ground next to his dead ride. The four bandits rushed out from behind the bush in time for the prince to scramble to his feet and reach for his sword.

"Oh! He wants to fight," Sanzel said as they closed in on him.

The prince lunged at the bandits like a mad dog. He fended off the thrust of one of them and in a brilliant counter attacking move, slashed his neck with an adroit swing of his sword. Two of the men tried to strike him at the same time, one aiming his head and the other his trunk. The prince did an acrobatic leap in the air, his slight frame getting airborne before the swords of his adversary could get to him. On landing, Prince Galleine plunged his sword in the collar bone of one and then parried off a blow from the other before deftly burying his sword in the bandit's chest.

The last bandit, having seen the gory fate that befell his companions, decided to take to his heels. He spun and skittered off in the direction of the little bush where he and his fellows had emerged from. The prince did not bother with a chase. He pulled out a spear that had sunk into the ground and threw it at the fleeing bandit. The spear pierced the bandit's nape all the way to his Adam's apple.

Having dealt with the bandits, the prince was left to ponder on how to get to Casville since his horse was dead. The city was some days of galloping away, could he walk all the way? The answer was no, of course. He did not have the strength, even now he was aware that the cut on his back was bleeding copiously. He could feel the trickle of warm blood down his lower back.

After a moment's deliberation, Prince Galleine decided to go to Stangol. The eastern city was only some hours away on foot from he was. There he would get a physician to treat his wound and a horse to ride to Casville.

"Stangol it is," Prince Galleine mumbled as he broke into a jog in the direction of the city.

He did not get too far before the distant whinnying of a horse behind him drew his attention. He turned to see a young man on horseback on the horizon. Even from the considerable distance, the prince recognised the brown hair and the servile garb.

"What are you doing here, Breyn?" The prince asked when he rode up.

Breyn did not reply. He could not, he was out of breath for riding so fast to catch up with the prince.

"Get off the horse."

"My lord, I. . ."

"Get off. I need the ride."

Breyn got off the horse and watched as the prince swung into saddle. "My lord, I read Dagca's letter. . ."

The prince was adjusting the reins. "What does it say?"

"Sir Garhel is responsible for your parent's death. He did it to claim the throne. He wants to kill you too."

"I don't understand. You are saying my cousin killed my parents?"

"That's what Dagca wrote sir."

For a long while the prince said and did nothing, though his countenance gave away the fact that he was seriously embittered. His grief soon overcame him. He buried his face in his left palm and broke into tears. Breyn watched on in pity, he was unsure of how to entreat to one who had lost his parents to the vile wiles of a beloved relative.

"Grieve not, sire. This is the time for you to be strong," Breyn said finally.

"I shall know no peace," the prince declared suddenly, taking his sympathetic manservant by surprise. "Garhel, I shall have no rest until I have made you pay for this perfidy."

That being said, the prince began to canter away towards Casville.

"My lord, don't," Breyn pleaded. "Dagca warned of the dangers in your going to the city. Sir Garhel wants you dead. He has lots of phantom soldiers guarding the castle. There is no way you can get past them to fight him."

"Phantom soldiers or not, I will have my revenge on Garhel!" the prince roared before increasing his horse's pace to a gallop, leaving Breyn to watch him disappear in an envelope of dust for the second time that day.

"Surely, he is going to get himself killed," Breyn said to himself as he began his own slow, foot journey to Casville.

# CHAPTER TWENTY

"Go away! I need nothing!" Vynne bellowed as soon as she heard the short rap on the door.

She knew exactly who it was. That witch of a maid had been troubling her all day with her sharp knocks and the successive poking of her ugly head in the room to ask if she needed anything. Vynne could not lay a finger on why the maid's actions riled so much but truly it did.

It was her first day in Count Ressier's magnificent castle and it had not by any means been enjoyable. The whole house with its whitewashed walls, marbled floor, fine arches and columns peeved her. The serenity of the whole house seemed to mock her own troubled state of mind.

"The Count is on his way up, my lady," the maid announced and quickly withdrew her head from Vynne's sight.

With a slight frown on her face, Vynne pulled herself off the bed. For the first time, she appreciated the girl's intrusion. It would not do for that old pervert Count to meet her scantily dressed and seated on the bed. She could imagine the amorous thoughts that would cross the man's mind on sighting her in such a compromising position.

From a bag, Vynne selected a full-bodied, purple houppelande with big sleeves and hastily helped herself into it. Next, she pulled her silky black hair into a heart shaped headdress. A glance at the mirror showed her as presentable without being provocative. Her cleavage was nowhere in sight and her figure was concealed by the big houppelande, leaving one with no choice than to focus on her beautiful face.

For a moment, Vynne's eyes were magneted from the mirror by a small object beside it, a short blade with an handle. The sight of the knife put the idea of killing the Count and running away in her head but did she have enough courage to do that?

"Confound you, Corthiel. This is all your fault," she muttered.

Presently, Count Ressier let himself into the spacious room. His grizzled black hair was damp and neatly combed. The stubble on his chin and the down on his face had disappeared and Vynne thought he would have looked at least passable if not for the puffy fold of skin beneath his eyes that made him look like a toad.

"I know that you do not love me," Count Ressier said softly. "Oddly, that is the reason I chose you. I could have taken your elder sister since my agreement with your father was that I would marry one of his daughters for a bad debt he incurred years ago, but I know that your skin recoils with every touch, I can see the sparks of anger in your eyes. I know you hate me with every fibre of your being. And that is why I will get married to you on Glens day, that is two days after Sir Garhel is crowned. I am dying to see how you will get through our conjugal consummation."

"Vile being!" Vynne shrieked. Didn't this obnoxious man have a daughter older than even Lorna? Vynne told herself the Count was not to blame as much as her father who had pawned her to settle an old debt promise.

"Dinner will be ready in a few minutes. Will you, my betrothed, join me? You look perfect for the occasion."

"I'll die sooner than go anywhere with you," Vynne spat.

"O, you'd better be dead before Glens day or you will have no choice than to go to the altar of Feliyra with me," Count Ressier said with a dark smile. He pulled himself upright and walked out of Vynne's bedroom, blowing a kiss as he left.

Vynne flopped on the bed in acute dolour. Things were beyond her control. She could not run away because unlike her father's house that was sparsely guarded, Count Ressier's castle was bursting with sentries. Also killing Count Ressier in cold blood would be insane. First she was not sure she had the strength of mind to do it. Even if she succeeded in eliminating the Count, then she would surely also succeed in ruining her prestigious family name. She would almost likely get caught too which meant she would either be executed in the city square or at the very least, face an eternity at Faws, the central penitentiary in Casville.

Mired in despair, she buried her face in the floral patterned sheets of the bed and cried aloud, "Oh Corthiel, where in God's name are you?"

There was a moment of stultifying silence, then someone just outside Vynne's room said in a masculine voice that sounded familiar to her. "Come, I'm here."

It is amazing how what seemed like a complex, hopeless situation can in a matter of seconds be transformed into a simple thing. And how the gloomiest heart can turn joyful in a trice. Vynne's heart leapt with happiness. Her Corthiel had come to rescue her, was she dreaming?

She skipped out of her room into the passageway with hopes of seeing Corthiel brandishing a sword, ready to take on the entire squad of sentries for her sake but she was grossly disappointed. What she saw was her maid in the arms of a guard, kissing away with reckless abandon.

"You two are kissing beside my window. What insolence!"

The couple sprang apart, the heat of passion between them quickly gave way to the fear of the Countess to be telling the Count of their misdemeanour.

"Forgive us, my lady. We are. . ."

Vynne was not listening. Ideas were bouncing in her head. A plan was forming already. Perhaps she could get herself out of distress instead of waiting for a knight in shinning armour who was not forthcoming anyway.

"You, what is your name?" Vynne asked the guard.

"I am Keigh, my lady."

"Follow me," Vynne said as she swirled and headed back into her room. She had found her way out of Count Ressier's castle. She would use Keigh to get herself out.

XESANDRA HEAVED A SIGH OF relief at the words of the sorcerer. She had been greatly concerned about Legard getting wounded or getting killed while trying to prove her innocence.

"And how did you know we were looking for you?" Belaine asked.

With a smile, Haldrinne dipped his hands into his pocket to produce a glittering crystal ball, "I was watching when you read Dagca's letter. I knew about your decision to watch out for game, that was why I used that boar to get you here. I decided to save you the time and strength you would have expended going all the way to Sokken. You will need them for greater causes."

"Why did you not just appear at our old camp?" Estan said.

"Why, I had fun watching you fellows chase the boar."

"Dagca said you know how we can bring down Sir Garhel," Legard said to Haldrinne.

The wizard gathered his flowing white robe around himself with an affected grace and took a step towards the Red knights. "Ah, yes. The secret lies in knowing how to defeat his Tishkans or phantom soldiers."

When nobody said anything, Haldrinne continued, "The phantom soldiers are dead war veterans resurrected by magic. Their souls are at the gate of Ligan's heavenly palace. The body is what the phantom soldiers are. One phantom soldier may well be equivalent to a hundred well trained human soldiers, because they have no fear and they are immune to any human weapons."

"You are scaring us, old man," Belaine admitted.

"Do not be scared, child. The phantom soldiers are not indestructible, at least in theory."

"So how do we kill them?" Legard asked.

Haldrinne cleared his throat before responding. "According to the book of the chosen, a Tishkan will fall dead at your feet if you strike it with a weapon that has been buried for three days in the Waeon's ash."

"The Waeon?" Sir Varding echoed. His mind went back to the monumental struggle he, Sir Naurt and the prince had gone through with the beast. They had barely escaped with their lives. He was not even sure how he made it alive because he had been knocked out.

"Yes. Have you had an encounter with one before?" Haldrinne asked.

"Certainly and I do not crave another meeting with it."

"You are a lucky man. Surviving the Waeon's attack is as rare as finding magic druses."

"Tell us how to get the Waeon's ash," Legard said.

"This is where things get cloudy," Haldrinne said, scratching the length of white hair below his chin. "No one has ever killed a Waeon. They die naturally in a sacred grove in the Euschires forest. Guldheries Loghris, who ruled long before Gradiel was said to have killed one but the story remains apocryphal. There are not a few sorcerers who think that the supposed vulnerability of the Tishkans using a Waeon's ash is a way of saying the phantom soldiers are invincible."

"What do you think?" Xesendra asked.

"I am not certain but I believe that if you can strike the Waeon with the flaming sword of Guldheries that is in the golden chest in the temple at Bolg, then you will have all the Waeon ash you need."

"The golden chest in the temple at Bolg?" Legard repeated.

"Yes. One other thing is, only Corthiel Zelac can retrieve the sword from the golden chest. You need to get him back on board."

"Why only him?" Estan asked.

"It has something to do with his origin."

"But Dagca told him to leave Casville and return no more," Legard revealed.

Haldrinne's eyes crinkled with laughter. "What a heavy mendacity! It was not Dagca who did that, of course. A powerful sorceress took the form of Dagca and told Corthiel those hefty lies so that he can leave the scene."

The company lapsed into silence.

"So we have to go back and convince Corthiel to come with us?" Elna asked.

"Not to worry, I will do that for you. Just ride to Bolg and get the sword," the sorcerer said. "Before you go, I have some weapons to give you."

He gave Belaine a halberd, Xesandra he gave a pouch of inexhaustible arrows, Estan he handed a pair of gilded hilt daggers, Legard a broadsword and Sir Varding a warhammer.

"These weapons will aid you in battle, for your time in Bolg will not be without combat," Haldrinne said. "I have a few prophecies too, if I may. Estan, you shall regain possession of your father's estates. Legard and Xesandra shall have a baby together. . ."

Haldrinne's prophecy was punctuated by wild laughter from the company. Only Xesandra maintained a mirthless disposition.

"Why do you look so cross?" Legard drawled, moving closer to the bristling lady. "Is the prospect of having a baby for me so repulsive?"

"It is worse than you think," Xesandra said as she launched a kick into Legard's shin the moment the warrior tried to put his arm around her waist. The vicious kick drew a groan and a swear from Legard and more laughter from their companions.

"Listen, the Tishkan's strongest point is not his skill with the sword or his strength, it is the fact that he has no fear. To defeat one that has no fear, you must shed your fears like a snake does its scale. May Tris grant you success."

The company rallied and rode out of the clearing after thanking Haldrinne. He watched them with softened eyes. He had seen something else in the crystal ball. Something that he could not bring himself to utter. Something that spelt doom for their quest to bring down the treacherous Sir Garhel.

Mighty Tris, let it not happen.

THE HEAVY STENCH OF FESTERING COW dung and the sight of a verdurous plain beyond the knoll from which he was descending alerted Corthiel to the fact that he was now on the outskirts of his town of birth, Marmenn. In this town, there were no prominent boundary markers, like the magnificent city gates in Casville and Auztier or the grand triliths and megaliths in other Nersean cities and towns. The reason for that lacuna was that Marmenn was the last of the Thombrük territories annexed by the all-conquering empire builder, Guldheries Loghris and there had not been enough time for the town to be properly integrated into the empire before Guldheries died. His successors had not bothered with the integration because Marmenn was a town of little consequence, populated by peasants and situated at the southeastern end of empire, as remote as possible from the pomp and civilisation of the capital city.

With weary legs and a wandering mind, Corthiel ambled through the grassland, following the footpaths that led to the small cottage that he shared with his father and brothers. He had left home with the intention of having a wild adventure and nothing more but after the adulation and attention he got while putting the Casvillean team to the sword during the tournament, his desire for adventure had morphed into strong hopes of making a career as a warrior and becoming a knight of the realm under the king's service. And he had gone close to achieving his lofty aspirations before he was so cruelly thwarted by fate. The king had been murdered and the prince's place taken by a power hungry aristocrat and worse of all, he, Corthiel, was banished. Now, his hopes of becoming a knight were crushed, dashed. He would never return to Casville because the gods have willed it that way. The rest of his days would be expended in this backwater town where nothing seemed to have life or joy.

Days of ploughing his way through forests and terrains of different kinds ensured that Corthiel's clothes were soiled and his body full of grime. In this, he looked no different from the few folks he came across in the streets of Marmenn, mostly farmers on their way back home after hours of relentless tilling. Trudging on, he found the road that led to his father's house, which was usually deserted, lively. A group of shirtless, little boys were capering around, joyful with their noises. The afternoon sun was glinting with dazzling brilliance off the sweat on their bare backs. Corthiel found himself begrudging the little boys of their laughter, lack of worry and . . .

"Corthiel!" Someone called behind him with a suddenness that jolted him. The voice which had spoken was such that Corthiel knew who it was before turning.

Staring in his eldest brother's bronze coloured face, Corthiel faltered – unable to form words of any sort of profundity. Uhlas walked up to his dazed brother in a few strides and wrapped his arms around him in a loving brotherly embrace. Together, they strode homewards.

"You look pathetic," Uhlas remarked, having stepped back to observe his brother. "Where have you been? You have caused us a lot of worry and a lot more trouble."

"Did you see my note?"

"How explicit it was. 'I'm sorry', was that not all you wrote?"

"I could not find the right words to paint the adventure I was embarking on in a good light."

Uhlas snorted. "There can be no such words. You went gambolling with your knight's armour and horse. Do you realise just how stupid that is?"

Corthiel felt his heart slam to a stop within his chest. "How did you know? Has Sir Eweid recovered from his typhus?"

"Aye. He came hither two days ago with two squires to report your misdemeanour."

A question popped in Corthiel's mind and he went pale even before knowing what the answer was. "Did he. . . Did he report anything else apart from the missing horse and armour?"

"No. Why, you look faint. Did you do something else?"

"Yes. No, I mean no," Corthiel said, relieved that Sir Eweid had not learnt about his impersonation. At least not yet. "How did father take all these?"

"Father is in detention."

"What did he do?"

"I wonder, O my brother, if I should have struck on the nose instead of hugging you the other time. Do you not realise the magnitude of what you have done? Well, Sir Eweid came with some men to restrain you for the unauthorised possession of his armour and horse. When he could not find you, he said Father was hiding you and arrested him."

Corthiel closed his eyes and surrendered to the guilt that gnawed at his heart. Albeit unwittingly, he had always been a source of problem to his father, but this—this was too much.

"Where is he held?"

"In Sir Eweid's cellar. They say he is going to be transferred to Faws in Casville if you do not show up."

Presently, they arrived at the modest cottage which was their home. Outside the house was Ulhom, Corthiel's other brother, seated on a canvas, re-stringing his bow.

"What is this bastard doing here?" Uhlom said, springing to his feet.

"Take it easy, Uhlom," Uhlas offered.

"I am sorry, Uhlom."

"You scum! Spawn of Otut!" Uhlom roared, still enraged. "My father is in detention because of your little bastard self. Is this how you repay him for picking you up in the wild and raising you like one of his own?"

Uhlas entered a raging mood of his own. "You will stop this blabbering now, Uhlom or I will shove your tongue in your throat."

Corthiel watched on without speaking as his brothers bartered hot words because of him. It all made sense to him now; his pale face as against the brown ones of his brothers or every other person in Marmenn, his greenish, straight hair against their dark, curly ones. As a child, he had been endlessly taunted about his appearance by his peers. The teasing and taunting had prompted him to ask his father why he looked so different from everyone around.

"You took after your mum. You know, she is from the northern province and she has green hair too," his father had said. Corthiel had been satisfied with that. He could not have debunked that claim since his father and mother were separated. Now he knew the truth.

Corthiel breezed past his brothers and headed for his room, fumbling his way through the dimly lit cottage. His room smelled of mothballs. Rodents had eaten a few things here and there. He knelt down beside his littered straw bed and began to unpack his bag. He arranged the pile of clothes on the bed. He got to the bottom of the bag where Sir Eweid's armour was – the plate mail, boots, helmet and metal glove, all his knight master's. He will never own any of these, he thought in sadness.

For a while, he gave himself to a pleasant reverie. He was back at the arena in Casville. He was dressed in Sir Eweid's armour and was engaged in combat against a squadron of knights. Roars of delight from the spectators thrilled him as he dealt the knights blows that sent them off their horses. In little time, he had knocked all the knights down save one. He charged at the last knight, intent on making him bite the dust like the others but the knight was faster than Corthiel. He struck him a blow to the head and Corthiel found himself so dazed that he fell off his horse. The spectators gasped with shock; who was this knight who had struck Corthiel down? The knight removed his helmet and it turned out to be Corthiel himself.

"Daydreaming, are you?" An unfamiliar voice said behind him.

Corthiel turned to see a wizened, old man donning a white robe at the doorway. The man looked at him, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Who are you?"

"Haldrinne. No, you do not know me. But I know you. Suffice it to say, I know more about you than you know yourself."

Corthiel was sick of wizards who knew so much and instead of enlightening, they confounded him. "Why are you here?"

"I have come to disprove what you were told the other time that you have been cursed and banished from Casville. There is no such thing. It is a big lie in frock and smock. To be fair to the man, Dagca has no hand in the mendacity."

"I don't understand. He was the one that told—"

"I know what he told you, but it was not him. It was someone else who took his form and told you those things. By the blessed twins, Dagca is still at the restraint facility in Casville as I speak to you."

Corthiel remembered Legard's claim and realised his friend was right. "Who took his form?"

"Lady DeBlyde, a powerful sorceress and a former high prietess of Otut. She is one of the forces backing Sir Garhel."

"Why are you telling me this? I am no more involved in these things. You should be talking to the prince or Legard."

The sorcerer stepped closer. "Let me tell you a story. Twenty one years ago, Xyriel Hyle, a fine warrior in King Gradiel's army, got lost in the Euschires after a campaign. He was unable to find his way out for days. Hungry and dying, he leaned against an elm tree where a tree nymph and took care of him. He spent some time recuperating with the dryad. One day, Xyriel. . . I do not know what led him to it. He slept with the dryad."

"If you will excuse me, old man, I have better things to do than listen to senile stories that have nothing to do with my life," said Corthiel as he resumed unpacking his clothes.

The old man smiled with strained tolerance. "Oh, it does have something to do with you. The dryad in question got pregnant. And she gave birth to you."

Corthiel paused midway of folding an doublet. His mother, a dryad?

"Is this a joke? Can nymphs give birth?"

Haldrinne shook his head at what he saw as acute ignorance on Corthiel's part. "Indeed they can.."

"Where is my father?"

"Banished to the Thombrük lands. That is his punishment for going against Ligan's divine order by sleeping with a half-human."

The old man continued. "Listen Corthiel, you were born of man and dryad which makes you better equipped to fight against the forces of evil dominating our land. You have been divinely endued with the powers to lead the quest to requite Garhel's perfidy. You must head to Casville immediately to meet your friends who have gone to bring the golden cask in which the flaming sword lies. With the flaming sword, you shall slay the Waeon. After killing it, you and your men should bury your swords in the ash for three days then you can attack the castle. You will find abundant Tishkans, beings of magic, to contend with. May Tris be your strength."

"No. I cannot leave immediately. I have to free my. . . my father from detention," Corthiel said in protest.

"Leave that to me. Be gone Corthiel, the more you tarry, the worse for us all."

That being said, Haldrinne's figure vanished from Corthiel's sight. With the old man gone, Corthiel hastily began to return his clothes into the bag while thinking of how to get a pacy horse. Before long, Corthiel finished his packing. He slung the bag over his shoulder and headed for the door only to remember that he would be expected by Uhlas and Uhlom to go to Sir Eweid as quickly as possible to facilitate the release of their father. But he could not do that now, there was a matter of greater urgency on ground.

"I know what to do," Corthiel mumbled.

Outside the room, tantrums were no longer flying, tempers were now cool. Uhlas and Uhlom were debating on whether Corthiel would be able to free their father out.

"How can he? He did not even return with Nigna. The bastard has sold the horse."

"Surely, he would not do that. I will ask him where he kept Nigna."

Uhlas stood up and went over to the room with Uhlom in his tow. In the room, he saw no sign of Corthiel or the baggage he brought with him. The window was compromised and there was a note pinned to the door that read;

I'm sorry. Again.

Uhlas inhaled, at loss of what to say. Uhlom hissed and mumbled, "Filthy bastard."

# CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Bolg, as Xesandra remembered it, was a bustling town of about thirty thousand souls. She had stayed a few days in the town in company of her sisters, Veramanda and Hazemily, before going on to an archery tournament held at Zarst. That was three months ago. Now as the Red knights rode through the streets of Bolg en route the temple, they found the whole place desolate. Deserted farmlands and homesteads, dark red patches of blood on the floor and a few lifeless bodies could be seen all around. A good number of buildings were smoldering.

"Who could have done this?" Belaine asked. The sight was indeed heart rending.

"I can not think of a reasonable answer," Legard said.

"I think it's the Waeon. I heard the beast breathes fire; that could explain the burnt houses. As for the blood and death, we all know that is what the Waeon all about," Sir Varding said. Yet even he was skeptical of his own proposition, for he could not understand how the Waeon which was working for Sir Garhel could attack one of his territories. Perhaps he was punishing them, but for what exactly? Bolg was not a rebellious state. Longt, Marmenn and maybe Iztier were. But definitely not Bolg.

"We should tread with caution. Whatever or whoever did this may still be very much around. Let us get off this road and use the alleys. I can get us to the temple," Xesandra said.

Her suggestion pleased the Red knights and they, following her lead, made for an alley off the road. Just then, Estan caught sight of a gigantic red flag with black stripes, hung on the architrave of a big building not very far off.

"Look at that," Estan said, pointing out what he had seen to his companions.

"I was wrong. It is the Thombrük savages," Sir Varding muttered into his beard.

"What?" Elna asked.

"Thombrüks," the Knight repeated. "That is the flag of the Thombrük nation. They must have taken the city again."

Bolg was at the southeastern end of the empire and was perilously close to Yatheb, the capital of the Thombrük nation. Even under the golden years of Guldheries Loghris' rule, Bolg did not escape days or sometimes weeks of occupation by the Thombrük raiders. But never had they done damage like this before. This was not mere occupation. Annihilation came closer to the point.

"O fine warriors, help me! They are hunting me," Someone cried behind them.

The Red knights turned to see a man that looked in his late thirties with a few severe cuts on his body. He was dragging himself towards them and seemed to be in intense pain.

"How many?" Legard asked.

"Three."

"Cover my run," Legard said to Xesandra as he rode to where the man was.

Now, three savage warriors, dressed in loin clothes and painted red from head to waist, appeared from the same place the poor man had emerged. Xesandra fired three quick shots at the savages. One of them was caught in the neck, another between the eyes and the last one, on his shoulder. Xesandra had aimed his head but the arrow had been deflected by a sudden change in the direction of the wind.

The surviving savage spun and sped down the alley. Xesandra let fly another arrow at the fleeing savage, this time taking cognisance of the windage. With a swish, the arrow rapidly covered the distance between the fleeing savage and Xesandra's bow. This time the man's luck ran out. He got hit in the back of the head and fell onto the sandy floor.

Legard helped the man onto a horse before mounting. "Tell us what happened er . . . "

"Thaend, my name is Thaend," the man replied. "And I thank you for saving my life."

It was one of the few times Xesandra could be seen with a smile on her face. "You are welcome, Thaend. Now if you please, tell us what has happened."

Thaend let out a deep sigh. "I woke this morning to the shouts of people. I rushed out of my house to see the raiders everywhere, getting everyone to move in a line, killing those who resisted and burning their houses. I joined the line."

"Where were they taking you?"

"The temple," Thaend said. "They wanted to make a grand sacrifice to their gods using our people. They believed their gods were angry and that was why they lost the battle at the city gate of Casville. They wanted to use the blood of our people to pacify their idols."

Xesandra imagined a grand hecatomb where people being slaughtered instead of oxen.

"I could hear their tongue because I have lived in their lands before. When I heard what they were saying, I made a run for it. Five of them followed me initially, I think they split up. One of them threw his spear and it got me here," Thaend paused to show the red knights the deep cut at his side. "But I did not stop running until I saw you."

"We need to stop the massacre," Xesandra said. It just did not sit with her knowing people were dying and they could do something.

"Yes, but we can not do anything on our own," Legard said. "Tell us Thaend, how many are the savages?"

"A thousand at the least."

Legard turned to Xesandra and said, "With you, me, Belaine, Sir Varding and maybe Estan, that is one to two hundred. And that is a glorious suicide."

"I can fight too," Moreau said.

"The odds are still strongly against us," Legard said. "Who knows what garrison is closest to this place?"

"Goviere," Sir Varding answered. "It's fifteen minutes away."

"Excellent," Xesandra said. "If we could send to them for help while we find a way of holding off the savages till the army arrives. . ."

"There are no more military personnel at Goviere or any other garrison in the empire, they were withdrawn by the late King to defend the Marsh," Moreau informed.

Xesandra groaned. They really needed to do something, if not for the people of Bolg who were being slaughtered in every of the moments they were taking to think, then for the sword that had to be retrieved from the temple.

"We have two things we can do," Legard said with a commanding air. "One is we stay here till the Thombrük savages leave the temple before going over to get the sword, that way we can keep ourselves fresh and alive for the numerous challenges ahead. Two is that we risk it and go for the sword immediately and tangle with them in the process. Which of the options do we opt for? I need not tell us that option two is unreasonable."

"I do not know why it sounds to me like you are scared of fighting the Thombrüks," Xesandra said to Legard. There was an hint of reproach in her voice.

"Oh, me? I am not scared of fighting anybody. But the truth is, no matter how good we think we are. We cannot defeat the Thombrüks with this vast numerical disadvantage."

"You are right. We should get out of Bolg to somewhere safe," Thaend said.

"No, I think with a sound plan, we can pull something off. Maybe we strike their leader from distance or something and get his followers to flee," Xesandra said. "Look, let's vote. Who is with me on fighting the Thombrüks and saving precious lives?"

Legard sighed. The only hands down were his and Thaend's. Even Elna hoisted her hand as if she was going to partake in the fighting.

Legard ran a hand through his hair and looked straight into Xesandra's eyes. "Your plan had better be sound."

MADAM ZELOE, OWNER OF THE DINGY SERVING house close to the northern city gate of Casville, banged her fat fist on the kitchen table and screamed at an employee.

"I do not pay you sixty ciblis a month to come here and daydream! Do your bleeding job or get out of my establishment."

The object of that vitriolic verbal attack was Larya, a nineteen year old girl with an oval, freckled face. She did not voice her apology for it was an unwritten and unspoken rule at Zeloe's that you do not say anything when criticised by the owner. Larya simply resumed her job, which was ladling soup into plates and arranging those plates in trays.

Zeloe stormed out of the kitchen and slammed the door behind her. Larya breathed easy again, it was not as bad as she expected. To be honest, she had not been daydreaming, she had been distracted by the thoughts of a bizarre customer she had served that day. He was an apostle of paradoxes. His face seemed to have aristocratic leanings, yet the same face was full of hair which suggested the kind of neglect a noble would not indulge in. His brown hair was worn in a curious fringe when it would have been better packed to the back. His blue eyes, which she saw from close quarters, suggested someone she knew very well, yet he was, for all she knew, a total stranger.

The girl resumed her ladling. It would not do for the lady to catch her idle again. She did not want to get the sack; jobs were hard for commoners to come by these days. For a while, she heard a little noise just outside the kitchen but she paid no special attention to it. After some more creaking, the window gave way and through it, a figure let it self into the kitchen. It was the stranger.

Up close, Larya found that he looked more familiar than when she saw him earlier. His height, slight frame and gait, all of which she observed as he strode towards her with casualness, were that of someone she saw everyday. Still she could not lay a finger on who exactly he was, perhaps she did not know him and her mind was only playing tricks. Larya backed away from the approaching stranger and having reached the limits of her bravery, she tried to give off a scream. But the stranger would not let her. As quick as the wind, he was already on her before any sound could escape from her mouth, his hand was quickly snaking around her throat.

"Don't shout. I will not hurt you," the stranger breathed. He was close enough for Larya to feel his hot raspy breath on her face.

You are hurting me already!

As if he read her thought, the stranger slowly released his vise grip on her neck until it was possible for her to speak. Her voice, when it came out at last, was like a horrible croak. "What do you want?"

"An answer to a question and maybe something else," the stranger said. "I was watching you for most of the time I spent here today. You kept looking at me and I came to the conclusion that you know who I am. Do you?"

"I do not know you. I have never seen you before today," Larya spluttered.

But even as she said that, she knew that she was not being truthful. She knew this man, every of his features seemed to evoke familiarity, yet she could not place a finger on who he was.

The fellow leaned closer. "You lie. Tell me the truth."

Larya was about to shake her head when she caught a glimpse of the narrow chain hanging loosely around his neck. Her eyes travelled down until they got to the pendant—a small orb with the letter G on top. She instantly knew who he was. He looked familiar because many times before he went missing, he usually came to Zeloe's at late hours to weed out hooligans. She knew who he was because he had saved her from rapists at alley off Levois street. The entanglement with those ruffians had left him with a badly torn shirt which had exposed his heaving chest and the pendant she just recognised.

"Prince Galleine!" Larya squealed. How did she not see through the false hair on his face and on his crown?

The prince slapped his palm against his forehead in a gesture of despair. "Ah, I wasted my time disguising."

"By Ligan's holy name, you are well disguised, sire," Larya said. "Your chain gave you away."

"A terrible oversight," the prince muttered as he yanked the chain off. He tossed it in the breast pocket of his coat.

"Why are you disguised, my lord?" Larya asked. "The entire city will shake to the foundation with joy for your return."

Lady Zeloe entered the kitchen just then and she went into a seizure of some sort at the sight of Larya talking to a strange man instead of filling the plates with soup.

"Larya!" She wailed when she recovered from her shock. "I tolerated your indolence, now you dally with a tramp in my . . ."

The lady stopped short, entering another bout of shock because in that moment she noticed the broken window.

"A burglar in my kitchen! Boys, come here!"

Boys were the three ruffians who Madam Zeloe spent a tenth of her earnings on, just for times like this. The triad rushed into the kitchen and, at Madam Zeloe's behest, charged at the prince, and Larya who was cowering behind him. Prince Galleine decided against fighting the onrushing men; he would deal with them without getting his hands dirty.

The prince sped behind the large kitchen table and pushed it at the men. The rapidity of the table's movement was such that the men could neither halt their run nor leap over the table in time to avoid collision. The groans of crushed men, the clattering of plates and trays, the splattering of the watery soup on the floor and the screams of madam Zeloe filled the room, triggering a fit of giggles in Larya. She could not stop giggling as the prince helped her out through the broken window.

Outside the serving house was the Derbart street. Prince Galleine and Larya joined the busy street and walked on without speaking to each other. After a while, they took a turn off the road to enter an alley and there, with no prying eyes and ears, they began to converse.

"What does my lord want from me?"

The prince combed a hand through his altered hair. "I want to get into the citadel unnoticed, unheralded and I am not wholly confident in this disguise. I want to use you to distract some guards around the tunnels while I handle the others. I will pay you two thousand daris, that would be for your service and to compensate for your lost job. Are you interested?"

It was a big struggle for Larya to keep her mouth from falling open. Two thousand ciblis was almost four years of her wages at Zeloe's.

"For a quarter of that sum my lord, I will die for you. I am already indebted to you for saving me from the vile men who wanted to ravish me."

"Very well," Prince Galleine said. "Meet me here by the hour of prayer and I will tell you the detailed plan. You will also get everything you need to play your part."

"Aye sire," Larya said. "I should warn you about a new set of guards at the castle. They have unclear faces and they never leave their guard posts. People say they are not human but I hold no such belief. Nonetheless, these special guards are quite adept at sniffing out trespassers."

He knew to what she alluded—phantom soldiers. Once he could get past the guards at the rear of the castle, then he knew the secret chambers and tunnels that would get him in the throne room without tangling with the phantom soldiers

"Not to worry. I know how to get around them."

"Then I am fully in sire," Larya said. "I shall be back by the time you said."

The prince sighed as he watched Larya exit the alley. His body yearned vengeance. The urge to head straight for the castle and behead Sir Garhel was overwhelming but he managed to keep it in check. He knew such haste will only get him killed. He needed patience and tact.

Be Afraid Garhel, I'm coming for you.

# CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Clouds gathered overhead, blocking out the sun and casting a sombre shadow on the terrain below. Through the window of a deserted cottage, Elna watched the rapid darkening of the sky and fancied it as a sign of Ligan's disapproval of the ongoing bloodshed. The Thombrük invaders were locked in a battle with the men of Bolg, who were supported by the Red knights and so far, Elna had witnessed more flow of blood and loss of life than she had ever seen in her life.

The Red knights had not needed an elaborate plan to halt the sacrificial killing of Bolgians. A single shot from Xesandra had sent the high priest of the Thombrüks into the raging fire in which the body of the sacrificed Bolgians were still burning. The men of Bolg had been emboldened by this sight and many of them had grabbed the Thombrüks nearest to them, seeking retribution for the gross atrocities they had been subjected to. The invaders had been left stunned by the sudden downturn in their fortunes as the conflation of Red knights and Bolgians put them to the sword.

Now, the battle was far from over. The invading party were down to a handful of men yet they did not give in. Thombrük folks had strong anti-surrender traditions. They were trained never to turn away from battle whether in the euphoria of victory or in the sting of defeat. They would fight on until the enemy was completely crushed or they themselves were totally vanquished.

As the battle raged on, Elna watched with blossoming pride as her brother, Belaine decimated the Thombrük ranks with swift, purposeful swings of his halberd. The truth is, the invaders were getting lashed and Belaine was the whip. He struck every Thombrük warrior that strayed close to him with exemplary vigour and strength, and it did not seem at all like his energy was flagging. Elna had seen him fight many times, mostly undignified fist-fights over gambling debts incurred at obnoxious alehouses and on some occasions, sword fights with seething cuckolds but unlike those times, she felt neither embarrassment nor fear. She only watched in awe now as her brother covered himself with glory and blood.

While Belaine made her proud with his exploits, Xesandra with her nimble running and efficient shooting made her feel useless. She was there hiding when the dark lady was killing the enemies in scores. For a while, she wished she had Xesandra's keen eyes and quick hands, Belaine's brute strength, Legard's courage and Sir Varding's experience. Even young Estan's mastery of the twin daggers was impressive for he held his own quite well against the Thombrük men.

In a move that would be the theme of Elna's nightmares for days to come, one of the Thombrük warriors, angered by the unending damage caused among his people by Belaine, leapt at the fiery redhead from behind and wrestled him onto the floor. Elna's heart went still as her brother disappeared from her sight. For a while, Elna saw neither her brother nor the accursed warrior as she frantically scanned the areas around the site of the scuffle. Then she saw the warrior rise, raising a bloodied dirk aloft. Even from the considerable distance, she could see the smile of triumph on his face. Without doubt, her brother was dead.

"No!" She screamed in horror.

Thaend, who had been napping, was instantly at her side, covering her mouth to prevent her from giving off another scream that may attract unwelcome attentions. He pulled her away from the window to a sitting position where she could no longer see the battle. She screamed, kicked and struggled but she was no match for the man despite the fact that he was injured.

"What happened?"

"Belaine. . ."

Thand was not sure who Belaine was but he could see that this little lady in front of him was bereaved. "I am sorry. Just keep calm."

Elna knew all sense of calm was lost as far as she was concerned. Her beloved brother was dead, gone forever. She felt submerged in a pool of pain and sorrow. Even guilt gnawed at her heart. Belaine would never have died in the hands of a savage if not for her associations with the prince which led to the rebels kidnapping them on their way to the trade fair at Iztier.

Torrents of hot tears gushed down her cheeks, blurring her vision. She cried so much that her head became fuzzy, the shouts of battling men and clashing of weapons outside the cottage slowly becoming indistinct to her ears. Soon the only thing she heard was Thaend's soothing words and even that slowly became inaudible as she drifted asleep.

She woke up much later to the gentle patter of rain on the roof and thundering footsteps just outside the cottage. She shook her head to clear the fuzziness therein. The interior of the cottage was darker now, but she was not sure if it was due to the rain or the passing of time.

"They won. The Thombrük savages are crushed," Thaend offered. To Elna, if there ever was a pyrrhic victory, this was it.

Now, the company of Red knights returned. Xesandra entered first, her vesture dripping of a mixture of blood and rainwater. Legard and Moreau followed. They bore a wide slab of timbre on which a shrouded body lay. Overcome by fatigue and despair, they dropped the slab and flopped to the floor beside it, not saying a word to Elna and Thaend.

Elna felt her heart collapse within her when she saw her brother's covered corpse. She scrambled over to where the slab was and knelt beside it, her hands quivering as they moved to pull the sheet off Belaine's face so that she could gaze at his features again.

"Don't, please," Xesandra said in a tremulous voice. Her red, teary eyes suggested that the wetness on her face wasn't entirely due to rainwater.

"Please, I have to."

With unsteady hands, Elna pulled the shroud off her slain brother's face. His hair was not red and his lips not fenced by a fancy moustache. His facial hair was too abundant to be Belaine's.

"By the blessed twins. . . Sir Varding!" Elna gasped. "How. . . How?"

"He was surrounded," Xesandra said between sniffs. "We could not save him."

Belaine trudged in just then, leaning on Estan for support. There were cuts on his face and there was a deep cleft in his chest; the wound inflicted by the Thombrük invader Elna saw. Elna leapt to her feet at once. Here was the man she was mourning, still alive, still breathing. She rushed to his side and swept him up in an embrace.

"Where is the chest?" Thaend asked.

Silence.

"Did you fellows get it?" Thaend repeated.

Again, Thaend got no answer. The warriors stared into space, none of them seemed willing to talk.

"Xesandra, where is it?" Elna asked.

It was Legard who answered. "We could not get it. The chief hermit at the temple said just yesterday, a group of armed men came to him carrying a letter that bore the royal seal. The letter, written in Sir Garhel's name, ordered that the chest be released to the men. There was nothing he could do."

"But we cannot let them get away with the chest," Elna cried. "That is the only way to stop Sir Garhel. Can't we ride after them?"

"We can't," Legard replied. "A few questioning led us to realise that the men who that took the chest were really phantom soldiers. We cannot attack them. I think it is over. This is the end of our rebellion against the forces of darkness. We have lost the battle against evil."

In the soft evening light that poured into the room through an open window, Elna could see the disappointment and despair slapped on the faces of the warriors. Truly, she thought, it was over.

SIR GARHEL LEANED AGAINST THE parapet on the roof of the castle with a half full chalice of Northern wine in his hand. He was watching a training session of a troop of imperial soldiers going on in an adjoining field. He watched the drilling with interest until a hand laid on his shoulder made him turn away. It was Vruth, he had just returned from Sarlen's two days before and his clothing was padded around his chest region where a poultice was applied.

"I have checked you in the court," Vruth said. "Have you heard the news?"

"What news?"

"Bolg has been pillaged by Thombrük tribesmen. One of those who escaped after the Thombrüks arrived said they were burning houses and killing people at will."

Sir Garhel's face clouded. "It is not them I blame. Gradiel should have rooted out those rustic bastards long ago. Say, when did the attack begin?"

"Yesterday, in the morn."

"And there are no military outposts there anymore?"

"None. The town would be ravished without resistance."

Sir Garhel took a swig from the chalice. "Get a good man to go down there with eight hundred men. Let them stop the Thombrük nonsense."

"And if they are outnumbered?"

"Let them send for support. Be gone."

Vruth nodded and skittered off to obey Sir Garhel's command. Just as Sir Garhel made to turn back to the training he had been watching, two phantom soldiers walked onto the parapeted roof, bearing a large chest made of gold. The soldiers set the chest down before Sir Garhel and stood at attention.

"Pray, what is that?"

"The chest bears the flaming sword, the only weapon that can bring about your downfall," Someone who was just walking onto the roof said. The person was Lady DeBlyde. "So I wrote an edict in your name, sealed it royally and sent the Tishkans to get it down here before it could fall in the wrong hands."

"Priceless woman, what would I do without you?" Sir Garhel said. He crouched beside the chest and ran his hands over the markings on it. "Such a beautiful holder for a dangerous weapon. Just like the beautiful body houses the dangerous mind eh?"

Next, Sir Garhel tried to open the chest but it did not yield. "What is happening here?"

"Only people with the right powers can open it," Lady DeBlyde said. "As far as I know, only Corthiel Zelac can open it."

Sir Garhel exhaled. "I am tired of listening to the boy's merits everytime. I will have to do something about him very soon. Now you, break the chest open."

The Tishkan which Sir Garhel commanded swung his mighty blade and brought it down with superhuman force on the chest. The sword was smashed into pieces. And the chest remained undamaged.

Lady DeBlyde chuckled. "Even blades forged with high magic won't destroy it."

"Well, well. You two, take the chest into the royal vault and seal it in," Sir Garhel said as he drained the chalice and tossed it over the parapet.

The phantom soldiers carried the chest away, leaving Sir Garhel and Lady DeBlyde alone on the balcony.

"The big day draws near," Lady DeBlyde said. "Have you decided on what to do with Treine and Mauvan?"

"Public execution, of course. Nothing else will satisfy the people."

"Good," Lady DeBlyde said. "And you have not been coming for our nightly engagements of late. Is something wrong?"

Sir Garhel grinned. "Ah, I have been trying to conserve my strength. You know, I would not want to swoon during my coronation."

"What if I do more of the work this time?" Lady DeBlyde asked as she sauntered closer.

Vruth's hasty return deprived Sir Garhel of giving a reply.

"What is it, Vruth?" Sir Garhel asked. "I thought you had gone to assemble the men."

"One of the guards saw this just outside a serving house near here. It must have fallen off the bearer."

"Where? Alin's?"

"No, Zeloe's."

Vruth showed Sir Garhel what he brought. It was a chain with a globe surmounted by the letter G as pendant.

"Galleine," Sir Garhel breathed. "Galleine is back."

A NEAT GAMBADE OVER A LARGE LOG OF WOOD obstructing the meandering pathway at the edge of the Euschires forest brought the horse and its rider closer still to their destination. They were now a few leagues away from the Southern gate of Casville. The horse was a thin, brown coated, two year old filly which the rider had paid seventy five Ciblis to get. The rider was Corthiel, donning Sir Eweid's armour. Although the horse was not close to being as fleet footed as the good old Nigna, it had still pulled off a decent mileage and at their current pace, they would reach Casville before sun down. Corthiel would then concern himself with looking for Legard and the other Red knights in Casville.

In the middle of pondering on where he and the others would convene since they had never discussed a meeting place in Casville before, Corthiel saw something that shocked his wit away. Right before his own eyes, the front half of a giant elm tree not far from him was sliding sideways, in the manner of a door, and beyond the opening was a dark passageway that went as deep as eyes could see. Corthiel looked away with some difficulty as he began to feel enchanted by the things he was seeing. He concentrated his efforts on getting as far away as possible from there.

"Come here!"

That command, delivered in a crisp feminine voice, seemed to come from everywhere. From the drooping leaves and gnarled branches on trees to the little rocks that littered the path and the shrubs that lined it; everything seemed to resonate those words. Corthiel let go of the rein and closed his palms against his ears in an attempt to block out this dreadful voice that was threatening to drive him crazy.

"Bring him here!"

Blocking his ears did not stop him from hearing the orders dished out by the peculiar voice, because now the order came from inside his own head, like a thought or a prick of conscience. It was terrifying. And there was worse to come.

This is not happening. I am dreaming!

A big tendril, as thick as a nautical rope, shot out of the yawning, black aperture in the tree and wound its thick self around Corthiel's neck. The sinister tendril began pulling him with great viciousness towards that wide dark hole in the tree. Corthiel gasped for breath as the tendril drove the wind away from his windpipe. He had to wedge a hand between his neck and the knot formed by the tendril in order to prevent being smothered, while his other hand worked the horse. He could not maintain that balance for long. A sharp tug from the other end of the tendril yanked him off the horse and heightened the strain against his neck.

Not one to give in, Corthiel reached for the sword on him. He unsheathed the blade, getting a firm grip on the hilt despite the clamminess of his hand. Surely, this would end it. With all of his might, he struck the tendril a blow that was powerful enough to snap a chain, but it was useless. The sword bounced back with a curious clang, failing to do any damage. The tendril, as if in retaliation, now pulled him towards the tree with more fierceness and before long, Corthiel was lying supine, gasping for breath in the pitch blackness he had been trying to get away from earlier.

"Come to the great hall."

Corthiel scrambled to his feet without hesitation. It was difficult, nay impossible, to disobey the voice. He did not know where the great hall was, he could not even see anything but he submitted himself to a force, similar in a way to the one which filled him with superhuman strength in times of combat, which now led him through the darkness till he got to a threshold where there was dazzling light beyond. He was now in the great hall.

"I am here," Corthiel said. "Who are you? What do you want from me?"

There was no response, not even the echo of his voice. Corthiel found the eerie silence in the lit hall more disconcerting than the gloominess outside. He looked around, trying to figure where the light came from, there were no brands, candles or lamps. He was still looking for the source of the room's lighting when he heard behind him the thumping footsteps of someone of monstrous avoirdupois. He turned in time to see a massively built, three eyed being with trunk-like limbs and a hanging forked tongue charging at him. Such monstrosity!

"You. . . You were the one who called me?"

The monster's response was a bellicose jab to Corthiel's head with one of his behemoth fists. Corthiel evaded that punch and twisted his way away from a knee aimed at his midriff. He was not as lucky with the third attack, the monster's elbow catching him on the nose. Still reeling from the impact of the blow, Corthiel was treated to a kick so vicious that he collapsed to the ground, howling.

The monster smiled, apparently pleased with the havoc he was wreaking. "Hear, O hear the chosen mortal. How he howls!"

Feeling the rise of that raw energy that made him incomparable in combat, even against the finest knights around, Corthiel spat some blood, grabbed his sword and scrambled to his feet. "Now let's hear you howl."

They glared at each other, eyes flashing, weapons readied for attack—Corthiel's weapon being his sword, the monster's, his entire body. Corthiel charged swiftly and wasted no time in striking the monster's neck with such a force that should cleave the head off, but for the second time that evening, his strength and skill with the sword amounted to naught. The monster, unharmed by Corthiel's blow, grabbed the young warrior's sword and once he was able to wrest it from him, twisted it out of shape with a single turn of his large, hairy hand. Not satisfied with the twisting he had done, he lunged again at Corthiel and grabbed him by the arm, delivering a vicious twist to that appendage.

Hot white pain surged through Corthiel's arm. The pain was as unbearable as the knowledge that the strange energy that usually empowered him was useless against this beast. Corthiel's adversary was not quite done. He rammed his bestial head against his dazed opponent's chest, sending him sprawling to the ground and coughing up some more blood.

"Enough, Wurst!"

That was the voice which brought Corthiel into this recess in the tree.

"My lady," Wurst said, bowing slightly. "I see nothing in him. He can't be the chosen one."

"It is him."

Now, the lady was in Corthiel's sight. She was a tall thin woman with massive black hair and prominent fingernails. She was clad in a glittering green robe. Her face was kind, yet firm. She walked over to where he lay, groaning in agony.

"Open your mouth."

Corthiel obeyed through the maddening pain he felt. The lady placed a lozenge pill on his tongue.

"You are healed," she said with a kind smile.

As soon as the diamond shaped pill dissolved on his tongue, every bit of pain he felt melted away. It was surreal. He was even able to turn his arm, which had been hanging at an odd angle, back to the normal position without any pain.

"Thank you." Corthiel said. "Why did you bring me here?"

"You were headed for Casville. It is dangerous for you to go there. That DeBlyde witch and her phantom soldiers would smell you out once you enter the city and you will be killed before you know what is happening."

"What phantom soldiers? I can defend myself against anyone."

Wurst sniggered.

The lady shook her head. "They are not human. They are awakened bodies of dead veteran warriors. Against them, you will fare as badly as you fared against Wurst here because they are beings of magic against which your powers have little effect. You will not survive if you go to Casville."

"How do you know this?"

"Well, I see things."

Corthiel sighed. "Haldrinne, who sees things too, said I must go to Casville to wait for my friends to bring a certain golden chest."

"Their going to Bolg was to fulfill a certain purpose. You being here fulfills another. Here you will be trained to harness your full power and no, I am not talking about a strengthening wave that comes once in a while. I speak of something permanent."

"I wonder why Haldrinne or Dagca never mentioned this."

"It was not for them to," she replied with a shrug.

"And how do I know I can trust you?"

The lady crouched before Corthiel and ran a spindly finger down a side of his face. Corthiel felt a bizarre sensation, a strange feeling of having been touched by this lady in this way before. How could that be when he had never met her before? Surely his mind was being messed with.

"You must trust me, Corthiel," the lady whispered in his ear, "because I am your mother."

# CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Prince Galleine lurked behind a tent and watched Larya's ostentatious walk towards the guard post. The girl, clad in a dress befitting the nastiest of whores, walked like a wench and it was not long before her lascivious antics caught the attention of the two sentries guarding that side of the castle.

"Miss, this area is reserved. What are you doing here?" One of the guard asked.

Larya laughed like someone who had taken too much cheap wine. "Sorry. . I am sorry. I lost my way, I think."

"Where are you headed?"

"Alin's"

The girl's mention of the Alin's, a local brothel, and her lewd actions convinced the guard on what kind of girl he was talking to.

"If you can help me find my way," the girl continued. "I am willing to pay handsomely—in kind."

The other guard who had been disinterested in the exchange between his colleague and the girl, now turned his head, not believing his fellow's unusual luck. These days, it was hard to find easy lays like this.

"Why, I will gladly help you," the first guard said to the girl, before turning to face his colleague, "you will cover for me, Raen. Tell anybody who asks of me that I left for lunch."

"It is ten ciblis," Raen replied. "Or I will be telling anyone who cares to listen the exact kind of lunch you left your job for."

"I will give you seven. See you."

Raen watched his colleague hold the girl's hand as they walked down the passageway and soon disappeared from sight. He sighed, seven Ciblis for keeping shut was not bad. Now, he felt a sudden, strange urge to look behind and when he did, there saw a tall, slightly built man build with fringy, brown hair standing, flexing his digits.

"Lunch time," the man said as he sent a punch to a pressure point in Raen's neck, rendering the guard unconscious instantly.

The prince did not let Raen fall straight to the floor after punching him as the thud could attract attention. He cushioned the guard's fall and as noiselessly as was possible, he dragged the unconscious guard into a corner where the body could not be seen. He stepped back outside in time to see Larya hurrying back from the direction she and the guard had disappeared.

"It did work sir," Larya said, panting from her sprint back. "I waved it over his nose and down he went."

"Did you cover his body up the way I said?"

"Aye sir."

"Nice work, Larya," the prince said. "Now go back to the hideout, I will see you there."

"Are you sure you do not need me for any more distractions?"

"No, Larya. You have done your part. I will handle the rest. Now, be gone."

Larya made to turn away then stopped short and before the prince could stop her, wrapped her hand around him.

"I greatly fear for your safety, my lord. Promise me you will be fine."

The prince freed himself and patted the girl on the cheeks. "I will be, Larya. Now go before someone sees us and alert the sentries."

When the girl was gone, the prince returned to the task at hand. He wanted to go right to the top floor of the castle where he will throw his gage down and challenge Sir Garhel to a combat to be held at the arena, where he will proceed to avenge his parents' death before the whole of Casville. But he needed to get to that top floor without being caught by the sentries. He had done an important part of the task by taking these two guards, now he only needed to navigate the tunnels which he was sure will be largely unguarded.

He slipped quietly behind the gate and walked with a great deal of stealthiness towards the first trapdoor. He pushed the door open and let himself in. It was dark and he almost swore at himself for not bringing a brand. But then, wouldn't a torch bearer attract attention in daylight?

He ambled down the tunnel. He had been here many times, he knew the way by heart. As a child, he and his friends, children of other nobles, had played in here. Suddenly, he heard footsteps outside the tunnel. He halted and flattened himself against the tunnel wall. The sound of banging boots came nearer until it formed a rhythm with the beating of the prince's heart.

The prince breathlessly watched the darkness give way as Vruth led a hundred phantoms into the tunnel where he was. For a while, all was still, silent. Prince Galleine knew he was out of their sight for now but if they decided to move a little further, he would be found out.

"He is not here," Vruth said. "Let us check the second floor."

The phantom soldiers made their way out of the tunnel and before long, their footsteps faded away. That was close, the prince thought. He was breathing easily again as he opened the next trapdoor, which led to the throne room where he suspected his treacherous cousin will be.

He was right. In the throne room, lounging on the throne with a splendid meal of meat and herbs splayed in his fore was Sir Garhel. The prince simmered. His palm went clammy with sweat. He felt like abandoning his plan to avenge his parents publicly and just end it right at the moment by hurling his sword straight at his despicable kinsman. But he restrained himself.

There were two perfectly still beings beside Sir Garhel. Their wispy countenance suggested that they were phantom soldiers but Prince Galleine, having never seen one, was not certain. As the prince made to move out of the recess into the lit part of the throne room, the door of the room swung open and the prince stood still to observe proceedings. In came Vruth and the phantom soldiers, just like they entered the tunnel a while ago but now there was an addition. One of the guards help a whimpering, scantily dressed girl—Larya.

"Sir, we found this lady within the castle premises. Two witnesses saw her with the prince."

"Is that true?" Sir Garhel said as he left his meal and slowly approached the girl.

"It is a lie, my lord. Nobody has seen the prince since he left the city."

Sir Garhel produced a knife from his sheath and waved it in the girl's face. "I can see you are lying. It is written all over your face. Say the truth and I will spare you."

"Let the girl go," the prince announced as he step into the light.

"Ha ha. My coward little cousin. Hiding behind a little girl's shadow, are you?"

The prince pulled his glove and hurled it on the floor. "Pick it up Garhel, I have come to make you pay for your perfidy."

Sir Garhel laughed as he returned the knife into its small sheath. He stooped and picked up the glove and in a move the prince did not expect, he held it to his nose and sniffed at it.

"It stinks," he said, dropping it back onto the floor. "I do not accept your gage. I will not fight you Galleine. You do not deserve my attention." Then he said to the Tishkans, "restrain him."

The phantom soldiers started towards Prince Galleine. Seeing he had little else to do, the prince hurled his sword at Sir Garhel who was walking back to the throne. The aim was true and it looked at one point that the sword was going to chop the retreating knight's head off but in the last moment, he ducked so that the sword flew harmlessly over his head.

"Wait," Sir Garhel said to the phantoms who were charging towards the prince.

He pulled Prince Galleine's sword of the tapestry into which it had sunk and said to Vruth, "Kill the girl."

"No, don't—"

The burly rebel drew a knife and plugged it into Larya's neck. Just once.

"Larya!" Prince Galleine screamed as he raced over to cushion her fall. "I told you to return to the hideout."

"Forgive, my lord," she said. Her nose was bleeding as much as her neck.

Prince Galleine was burdened with guilt. She was a young girl and would still be alive if he had not involved her in this. But Garhel will pay for this.

"Raaa!" Prince Galleine roared as he grabbed the huge blade that hung limply at Vruth's side, taking the big man by surprise.

He evaded the phantom soldiers by dropping to his knees and gliding over the smooth marbled floor with his upper body bent backwards, and once he was beyond them, he charged at Sir Garhel, intent on making him pay for his excesses. For all the lives he had taken and all the havoc he had wreaked.

The blow was struck with venom and it was fatal. But it was not Prince Galleine who struck it. With dazzling speed and skill, Sir Garhel had parried the prince's strike and had struck the prince, with the prince's own sword which he hurled earlier.

It was a slash across the midriff. Blood gushed out in a wild stream out of the prince's chest as he fell backwards. He felt the pain of injury, of failure, of loss. He landed on the ground with his glare fixed on his perfidious cousin.

"Farewell, cousin. My regards to your folks," Sir Garhel said.

"And to my dead grandfather," Vruth joked. The room quaked with laughter.

"Now you, dispose of these bodies," Sir Garhel said to a pair of Tishkans.

"Galleine is not dead yet," Vruth mumbled. "He is breathing."

Sir Garhel said something in reply but Prince Galleine could not catch it. He sank deeper into darkness, into oblivion, into formlessness until at last, he heard the shrill caw of the raven which will be his guide to Hanka.

XESANDRA WATCHED WITH TEARY EYES AS THE chief hermit placed a brand on Sir Varding's burial pyre. The bright yellow flames of the brand lapped at the straw for a few moments before the pyre began to burn. A dirge broke out from the assembly of mourners, consisting of the Red knights and a handful of sympathetic Bolgians. It was a slow, mournful dirge that caused tears of grief to slide down Xesandra's face.

Sir Varding's death had affected her badly for two reasons. One, for all her abilities with the bow, the battle against the Thombrük invaders was her first. She had never felt the pain of losing someone on her side in battle. Also, she felt responsible for the knight's death because she had been the most vocal about them taking on the Thombrük hordes. But for her vehemence, perhaps reason would have prevailed and the young knight would still be alive.

"May the gods receive his soul," the hermit pronounced.

"Aye," the mourners replied.

It did not take long before Sir Varding's dead body and the pyre beneath it combusted into chars that was scattered by the strong eastern wind, and smoke that drifted skywards in a curious spiral. The mourners began to disperse; the natives returned to their steads while the Red knights returned to their new camp which was situated in the outskirts of the town.

"What now?" Legard asked when they got back to their base.

The camp was silent for a while as the Red knights began to ponder on the best course of action.

"We should return to Sokken and find Haldrinne. He can tell us what to do," Elna offered.

"Confound Haldrinne!" Belaine roared. "He is useless if he could not tell us that we were going to lose someone or the cask was going to be wrested from our grasp."

"I agree," Estan said. "We risked it all for nothing."

"Look there," Moreau said, pointing to something on the horizon. It was a large band horsemen riding swiftly towards the camp.

Belaine grunted. "Don't tell me we are under attack after we just barely got through one battle."

"That does not look like a hostile party, as far as I can see," Legard said as the horsemen rode closer.

The men rode up, halting their horses just yards away from the Red knights who were lined up outside their tents. The riders were Bolgians, some of whom were present at Sir Varding's burial. The leader of the group, a massively built redhead with luxuriant beards, snapped his fingers and three men brought three oak chests and placed them at the feet of the Red knights.

"We are indebted to your collective skill in battle. For without you, the Thombrük nation would have annihilated our people. Accept our token of appreciation," the leader said.

Legard dropped to his knees and unlatched one of the boxes. Even before he saw the content, the smell of freshly minted coins wafted into his nostrils. The box was full of gold ciblis.

"This is too much."

"It is not. And the other boxes contain the same," the leader said. "Listen fair warriors, we have thought of demanding our independence from the empire. In our hour of great need, they were nowhere to be found. We pay taxes but we get no protection. The other clan leaders and I have deliberated on this matter. And we have come to agreement that we shall employ you as captains of our army. And we shall set about gaining our independence from the empire."

"You want to break away? And you think Sir Garhel will let you go?" Moreau asked.

"That is why we want to raise an army that can resist the imperial army. If you will stay here with us, we shall banish the governor of the town and treat you as royalty."

Belaine shook his blond head gently. "I am sorry, I and Elna would need to return to Casville. Our father would have lost his head worrying about us."

"I would get back to my business at Hargand manor," Estan said. "I have unfinished business there."

Moreau said something about returning to his post. All eyes fell on Legard and Xesandra, who were yet to say if they were interested.

"I will stay," Legard said in the exact moment that Xesandra mumbled her own assent to the proposal of the Bolgians.

"Great!" The leader exclaimed. "The two of you are more than enough to turn our militia into a decent army. Will you come with us now? We can begin proceedings straight away."

"No," said Xesandra said. "We need to spend some time with our departing friends. We shall come to you. Or will you go with him now, Legard?"

"Not me. Not till this golden chinks are shared."

"Take all the time you need. Farewell," the man said with short bow, then he signalled to his party to leave.

"I wonder how you two will manage together without a third party to keep you apart," Elna said as they returned into their tents.

Legard swaggered up to Xesandra and dropped a hand around her neck, with a disarming smile lighting his face. "We will manage alright. Won't we?"

"Sure," Xesandra said as she wiped her teary eyelashes with the back of her thumb. "I will manage to stay alive if you will stop oozing your foul breath in my face."

Amidst the mocking laughter of their companions, Legard shook his head in wonder of Xesandra's caustic tongue which even distraughtness had not been able to curb.

IN THE LITTLE COTTAGE AT BACK OF THE CASTLE where Arblen and other squires of prominent Casvillean knights passed their nights, Breyn sat by an open window, staring vacuously at the starry night sky. Arblen was brewing sude, an alcoholic beverage for commoners, in a corner of the room. The smell of liquor and human sweat filled the room.

Breyn wondered what the prince was up to. He had asked Arblen moments ago and he said the prince had not returned. Where was he? What was he doing?

"Sude?"

"Nay," Breyn muttered. "I need a clear head tonight."

"I suppose you do."

Breyn returned to watching the night sky. The moon was nowhere in sight. "How have the people taken the news that Sir Garhel would be crowned in the place of the prince?"

"In good faith. They know Sir Garhel would make a great emperor. It is a pity what happened to the prince. I daresay Sir Garhel would rule better and that is a sentiment most people share."

"But the prince is alive."

"Is he?"

"By the blessed twins, I have been with him for some weeks but he departed straight for here days ago."

"If he came here everyone would be delighted to see him. Something might have happened or he changed his mind. Perhaps he is not interested in ruling the land, otherwise he would not have disappeared without trace as he has done."

"You do not know a lot of things, my friend," Breyn said and he proceeded to tell Arblen everything that has transpired, from the events that prompted the prince to leave Casville to Sir Garhel's grand treachery.

"Otut be damned! This is unbelievable."

"Indeed it is, my dear Arblen, but I witnessed a good part of the events as they unfolded," Breyn said.

"Where is the prince then?"

Breyn grabbed the cup on the table. "I think he is in the city, hiding and planning how to strike."

"That is grand folly. He should have ridden into the city and called out Sir Garhel for his excesses right in front of the people. Then he can have the people's backing."

"Suffice it to say he was not thinking right, perhaps the shock has gotten better of him," Breyn said. "Why, let us go into the castle."

"Why?"

"Something tells me he might be somewhere in there. We might find him before he gets into trouble."

"I can't do that," Arblen said. "Most of the castle guards have been replaced with some cloudy faced beings. We were told they are specialist warriors."

Breyn bounded to his feet. "We have a duty to salvage the situation. If the prince is in castle then he is either in grave danger or dead already. I am going inside the castle right away."

"Well then, I will go with you."

# 

# CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

The caravan moved slowly towards the gate. Inside one of the carts, Vynne sat with an ailing heart. She was afraid that this escape would fail. Keith had assured her that the outgoing cargo were never searched, yet her instincts kept screaming doom. She knew there was little she could do than pray her instincts were wrong.

The long line of horse and mule-driven carts dragged on. As far as Vynne was concerned, a snail would move faster. She heard the gate swing open and hope rose in her chest. She was a few yards away from freedom. She was going to be free of the obnoxious Count at last. All she had to was offer some of the ciblis on her to the driver of this cart when the cargo would be unloaded or she might sneak out when the caravan stops for a break.

Where will I go?

She could not return to her father and looking for Corthiel was out of the question. She remembered her aunt, the elder sister of her late mother, in Stangol. She would find her way there.

"Stop! Stop there!"

Vynne felt her heart slam to a jolt. Slowly, the caravan pulled to a halt.

"The Count's bride to be is missing and a search is to made right now. Nothing leaves this vicinity until she is found."

The guards began to search the carts one after the other. Vynne wanted to hide but there was no such room. Her head began to ping with thoughts. The cart shook a little as one of the guards clambered aboard to search. The guard poked his head in and saw Vynne whispering and rubbing her palms together in a silent plea for him to keep his mouth shut.

"I am sorry, my lady. The Count will kill me if he finds out I tried to aid you," he whispered back, then he announced, "I have found her, she is in here!"

Another guard leapt into the cart, eager to bring Vynne out. Vynne grabbed a weight and hurled it with venom at the zealous guard. The man was struck on the forehead and he tumbled out of the cart with blood flowing down his temple. Other guards rushed to his aid while Vynne stepped outside and came face to face with Diyd, Count Ressier's brother, who ordered the search.

"You little cat, there is noehere you can run to. I will—"

His speech was left uncompleted because Vynne, driven by a frustrated anger, spat in his face.

"You witching cat!" Diyd yelled, then he turned to face the onlooking guards. "Don't stand gaping. Take her to the cellar and chain her to the post. You there, get my whip."

IN THE DARKEST AND DENSEST PART OF Euschires forest where only huntsmen of great accclaim and warriors of boundless bravery dared to tread, Corthiel and Wurst, the tree monster, stood several yards away from the lady of the elm tree as she knelt in a small circle of ash. Her lips parted and met with rhythmic regularity as she whispered powerful words of magic into the cimerian night.

While the lady continued casting spells, Corthiel found himself wondering if he was really ready to face what was coming. Wurst had earlier told him that they were going to the dome of Anthix where Corthiel would find the great chalice containing the potion that would grant him control over the strengthening force that usually came on him.

"I can't see any dome around here," Corthiel whispered to Wurst.

"You won't see it yet," Wurst said. "That tree over there is the portal. The great witch Layet sealed the portal because the magical armour of Guldheries lies in a cask in the dome and the armour can be a terrible weapon in the wrong hands."

"Am I to take the armour as well?"

"Don't try it," Wurst warned. "The armour grants the wearer great power in battle but it also takes over the mind of its wearer and pushes him to doom. Your business is with the chalice on the stone altar."

"Is the chalice guarded?"

"Yes, it is. Two hundred elmen warriors lie in the wait to thwart any adventurer who might want to stray into the dome. You must find your way past them if you must succeed," said Wurst.

The lady of the tree was in a frenzy now, muttering her spell in a rapid fire manner. The speed of her muttering kept on increasing, until she let out a loud scream that seemed to echo through the entire Euschires forest and almost immediately, there were great blinding flashes that lasted several seconds. When the flashes stopped, a dark oozy hole appeared at the base of the tree.

"She has opened the portal," Wurst informed Corthiel.

"Come, son," the tree lady whispered as she rose. Her face was dripping with perspiration. "It is time to tame the beast in you. Go in there."

"No." The voice of the speaker behind them was feminine and firm.

Corthiel turned to see Lady DeBlyde sitting on the Waeon's back with a squad of phantom soldiers behind her. "He is going nowhere."

"You cannot stop him, DeBlyde" the tree lady said as she wiped beads of sweat off her forehead. "It is his destiny. The gods have ordained it. Your petty schemes can not hold him from achieving greatness."

"I have not come to trade words. Pouile Tishkani!"

The phantom soldiers charged, brandishing their giant broadswords. Wurst made to draw his sword but the tree lady held his hand on the hilt, preventing him from removing his blade from the sheath. Corthiel stood still, with his heart threatening to burst within his chest as he experienced dread like he had never felt before.

"Leste Friele!" The tree lady screamed.

There was a cracking sound. It was low at first but it grew louder by the minute. The ground was slowly opening and the phantom soldiers were, in a few moments, swallowed up into the bowels of the earth.

"I am impressed," Lady DeBlyde said smugly. "Now, Waeon! Show them thy fury."

The Waeon roared, leapt in the air and dived straight at the trio opposite it.

"Corthiel, get in that hole now!" the tree lady yelled.

The command, like every other from the lady, was impossible to refuse. Corthiel dashed towards the hole with as much speed as he could muster. As he got nearer the hole, the foul stench and the repulsive manner in which the hole seemed to ooze black slime made him falter. He looked over his shoulder and saw that the Waeon had leapt over the two behind him and was headed his way. He turned back to the hole, took a deep breath and began to run towards it with renewed determination.

"Trete!" Lady DeBlyde cried behind him and at once, the hole began to close fast.

Corthiel, realizing that he would not make it into the hole in time before it snapped shut if he kept running, leapt foward with all his might. The powerful leap sent him squeezing through the slimy black hole a mere seconds before it closed.

ARBLEN AND BREYN MADE THEIR WAY THROUGH the hidden tunnels that ran through the royal castle. They tried to move as stealthily as possible but the wooden floorboards on which they walked gave noisy hollow creaks as they took each step.

"I am sure the guards will be waiting for us at the end of this tunnel," Arblen mumbled after a particularly loud creak.

When they got to the end of the tunnel and climbed out, there were no hostile parties awaiting their ascent.

"Where do we go first?" Arblen asked.

"Let us check the prince's room first," Breyn said.

Arblen shook his head. "Nay, he can't be there. Let us check the quarters of the maidservants, we can hear from them any strange thing that has occurred."

Both men started towards the female quarters but they were halted by a close sound of several thumping boots in the direction they were headed. Arblen and Breyn turned and broke into a sprint to evade the approaching men. They bolted down the passageway, uncertain where they were going to. As they sprinted on, a small door creaked open behind them and a gentle voice whispered in the darkness, "come in."

The two men dashed inside the room, grateful for the intervention. They stood in the darkness and listened with thumping hearts as the footfalls they heard earlier came closer and closer, till it went past the room they were currently in.

Their saviour was a maid, one of those who aided Sarlen in caring for the sick. She took them deeper into the room and gave them stools to sit.

"Breyn, where did you vanish to?" The maid asked. "You have been away from the Citadel since before the tournament held in Sir Garhel's honour."

"A long tale it is. Say, do you know if the prince is indeed in the castle?"

The maid dropped her head. "He is. Though he is half-dead, Sir Garhel injured him in combat."

Breyn felt an upwelling of sorrow. The prince had finally gotten himself fatally injured with his obstinacy.

"He lies in a bed in the chief physician Sarlen's sickroom, breathing those peculiar shallow breaths that preceed death."

"Is there any chance he may live?" Arblen asked.

"None, I heard Sarlen say," the maid said in a broken voice. "Very little of his soul is left in his body."

Breyn sprang to his feet. "Take us to him."

"Breyn, there are phantom soldiers out there," Arblen said. "We only managed to escape danger moments ago. Let us stay here for now."

"You can stay if you want. I will go to see the prince right away."

"There is an unguarded tunnel that leads to the room. It is fraught with cobwebs and dust but we will get through," said the maid. "The sickroom is guarded by one of these cloudy faced guards but there is no problem with him if you wave a torch three times, that is the passkey for entering. I know that because a part of my duties here is to dispose used poultices from that room."

Breyn and Arblen followed the maid through a trapdoor that opened into the old tunnel. They walked down the tunnel till they got to a secret stairway that brought them to the front of the sickroom. Just like the maid said, a helmeted figure stood sentry in front of the room and he promptly stepped aside after three waves of a burning torch.

The trio walked in to find the prince sprawled on a straw bed, with his lips open. There was a deep laceration on his chest on which a damp poultice loosely hung.

Breyn hurried over to his side and whispered. "My lord?"

The prince stirred, but did not reply.

"He never talks," the maid said.

"My lord, talk to me," Breyn said as he went on his knees at the prince's bedside. "You will not die, my lord. I will find a way to get you out."

No reply still.

"Let us head back. It does not look like he is well enough to speak," Arblen said.

With one last pitiful look at the prince, Breyn rose and joined Arblen and the maid in exiting the sickroom. They were almost at the threshold when the prince slurred. "Don't come back. My time is almost over."

Breyn rushed back to the prince's side. "My lord, stay with us. We will get you out and nurse you back to health."

The prince's face twisted into a grimace. "Nay. I can't make it. I am surprised that I still breathe. My soul is wounded and my body is damaged. Breyn..."

"My lord."

"You have done enough for me, but shall I ask you of one last favour?"

"It will not be the last, my lord, but speak."

"Make sure Garhel never wears the crown. I know I should have listened to you but I can't change what has happened. Just see to it that Garhel is not enthroned, in any way you can."

Breyn clasped his hand over the prince's and declared solemnly. "By the ashes of my forebearers, by the power in the name of Ligan, by sword of Txha and the staff of Txhi, I swear that I shall do anything in my means to destroy Sir Garhel's quest to be the emperor."

"Good. Now be gone."

Breyn kissed the prince on the cheek and rose to join his companions in slipping outside the sickroom, and as they departed, Breyn began to ponder ways of fulfilling his vow to the prince.

CORTHIEL ZELAC SLOWLY STIRRED AWAKE. He brushed his green locks off his face and slowly pulled himself up. He peered around, taking note of several giant roots above, a long stretch of bronze pillars and a small hole from which light filtered in. Far ahead, he saw a cask, presumably that which contains the magical armour of Guldheries Lighris, and a giant silver chalice on top of a massive stone altar. He was indeed in the dome.

Corthiel tried to move and at once felt sharp bursts of pain all his body. He wondered how Wurst and his mother had fared against the evil lady. He hoped they were fine. Now, Corthiel forced himself to rise and shuffle forward with his eyes firmly planted on the chalice. Where were the elmen warriors? He thought. Perhaps Wurst was wrong about that.

He was a few hundred metres away from the chalice when he heard a great rumbling that echoed across the dome.

"Turn back now mortal, while you still can," came the words from beneath the ground.

"Nay. I have come to sip from the great chalice and I cannot leave without achieving that."

"The sap is meant for higher beings. Leave now or you will die!"

Corthiel stopped for a while. should he listen to the voice and leave with his life intact? He shook his head slightly, deciding not to heed to the voice. He stepped forward now with greater courage and determination. He walked on, and just when he began to think that the voice was just to scare him, the whole dome shook violently. It shook so hard that Corthiel stumbled and had to clutch a nearby pillar to remain standing. Then the quake stopped and an even more wonderous event began to happen.

Strange beings began to rise from the ground. They were gigantic beings that bore semblance in figure to the elm tree. All the rising monsters were armed with giant battle axes.

Corthiel went down on one knee as his mother had done earlier, and he began to make a silent prayer to whichever force was currently responsible for his powers.

"Aid me in this hour. Come to me. I need you," Corthiel said as the monsters began to approach. "Come to me!"

Corthiel felt his body go stiff for a while and almost immediately, there was an outburst of energy in his limbs. The energy was wild, impulsive and untamable. The strengthening wave was back!

Corthiel drew his sword and charged at the elmen warriors. He struck the first one hard, so hard that the monster's head rolled off. The other monsters growled in anger at the sight of this and they lumbered forward to meet him, their axes glinting collectively in the light of the cave.

Corthiel stood his ground against the elm hordes, dishing out blows after blows on the monsters and though he got struck several times he was none the worse for it because he felt no pain.

Now, Corthiel's battle with the monsters dragged on and on. He realized, to his consternation, that the ones he had earlier slain were rising again. Worse still, the wave of energy was slowly leaving him. He began to feel pain in his body and heaviness in his limbs. He knew at that point that he had to do something or he would perish in this battle against his insurmountable enemies.

His survival instincts made him to start looking for an escape route, any way to get behind the elmen monsters even as he parried their axe swing and struck them on the counter. His eyes went back to the giant roots above, if he could get a hand on it and use it to swing himself towards the cask...

Corthiel did just that. He evaded a high attack, thrust his sword back under his belt and leapt at a low hanging root. He got a hand on it and swung himself over all the elmen warriors, into the little space between the monsters and the cask. On landing, he quickly steadied himself and broke into a run in the direction of the cask.

One of the monsters, seeing how Corthiel had outwitted them, hurled his axe at the fleeing warrior. He missed, with the blade only nicking the top of Corthiel's shoulder. Corthiel felt a sharp sting on his shoulder, and he ignored it but he could not ignore the sight of the axe that had just hurt his shoulder rolling swiftly forward till it struck the chalice.

The chalice tipped and fell over. Corthiel leapt over the altar and was mortified to see the precious content of the chalice spilling onto the floor. He picked the chalice and drained what was left of the foaming, green fluid in a single gulp. The magic sap hit the back of his throat with such a force that made him gasp. His eyes began to turn and he quickly grabbed the stone altar for support.

As he held on the altar, he began to hear strange hissing sounds coming from his own body. His eyes steadied a bit and he began to see thick green vapour oozing out of every pore in his body as his body vibrated violently.

Corthiel began to fear. He wondered if the tree lady had lied to him and tricked him. But why will she do that? Was she not his mother? Did Haldrinne not confirm that his mother was indeed a tree nymph.

The emission of vapour from his body left him languid. His hold on the altar slackened and he fell to the floor, lulled to a strange sleep by the magical potion he had just downed. He struggled to resist the sleep, unsure if he would be able to rise again if he allowed himself to be drawn into unconsciousness. In the end, the potion triumphed over his will to stay lucid. He fell on his side with a curse, and drifted out of the realm of the living.

He woke up a short while later to see that his body had stopped vibrating and emitting green gas. Now, as he lifted his body up, he felt weakness and pain ebbing away, to be replaced by a kind of strength he had never experienced, stronger than anything the strengthening wave had ever bestowed on him. When he looked before him, he saw something that surprised him—all the elmen warriors were now on their knees, their monstrous heads bowed in surrender.

# CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

The tavern at the square of Bolg was brimming with fiesty locals putting themselves in good spirits ahead of their secession from the empire. Jars of sude, northern wine and sticks of fried venison were passed around as men and women made merry in the tavern and in the expanse of space outside.

Legard swirled wine in his mouth as he watched Xesandra laughing with Hysjep, the bearded leader of the Bolgian clans. She was drunk and giggled with the silliness of a girl. Legard felt the urge to go over and take her under his care but he restrained himself with the thought that inebriation would scarcely have curbed the causticity of her tongue.

Legard set down the cup of wine and wiped the dregs off his moustache. He felt a sudden longing for a female company which he found understandable since he had not been with a lady since the two girls he had at Garras. He scanned the tavern for a wanton he might pass the night with, and in a corner of the room, he saw a young girl with a modest body staring in her cup like someone who was having such an opportunity for the first time. Without wasting time, Legard rose and began to walk in the girl's direction. His legs were heavy and he faltered several times, he was more inebriated than he thought.

While he pushed his way through the crowd of half drunks, a young boy dressed in loin clothes bolted into the tavern. His loud panting as he tried to regain his breath after his exertion attracted the attention of those who were not too drunk to notice.

"An army approaches," he finally said. "I saw them from the steep while I was tending my sheep."

"Did you see their banner?" Hysjep asked.

"Nay, I did not, elder."

"Can you tell us how large the army is?"

"About a thousand. I did not check well."

"How close are they?" Another elderly Bolgian asked.

"Very close, elder. I took a short route here when I saw them. They will be here soon."

There was a sudden stillness in the tavern as men who had taken drams after drams of sude and wine struggled to grasp the implication of the shepherd boy's news.

The clan leader lifted his cup and roared. "Whoever the enemy is, we shall let him taste the fury of a free Bolg!"

The atmosphere became charged. Men reached for their weapons, singing war songs. Those who were unarmed scrambled out of the tavern to retrieve their weapons from their homesteads.

Legard saw Xesandra restringing her bow and he walked up to her. "We have barely spent two days with them and there is a battle brewing already?"

"Oh, someone is scared."

"And someone is drunk. I am not sure you can handle the bow in this state."

The armed men arrived just then, announced by the massive pounding hooves outside the tavern. Legard walked outside, with his hand on the hilt of his sword. The supposed enemies were a company of the imperial army, led by Lord Burth.

"We heard of the Thombrük attack and we were sent by the empire to deliver you from the invaders."

"How timely, General. How timely," Hysjep spat. "You sat in your fancy mansions while the raiders burned our houses and slew our men. Now you come when we have overcome our trials. Tell this to your emperor, we are no longer part of Navlan. We are Bolg!"

The crowd of Bolgians who had gathered around screamed their assent. The crowd was swelling as more people had gotten to hear of the proceedings and they came to watch.

"You dare not do that. You are all toying with the wrath of the empire."

The clan leader turned to the multitude and asked, "is it true that we are tied to the empire against our will? He said we cannot sever ties with the empire. Let us show him that we can!"

The crowd began to sing obscenities and started to pelt Lord Burth and his men with rocks.

The general pointed a gloved finger at Hysjep and screamed to his men, "bring me his head."

A number of the imperial soldiers broke their ranks to obey their commander's order, but they were prevented from getting to Hysjep by the locals who blocked their way. The stoning and cursing grew worse.

"You all will regret this show of foolishness," Lord Burth blurted out. "Your worthless town will be razed again, this time it will be by ---"

A barbed arrow fired from within the revolting crowd caught Lord Burth in the throat and the rest of his outburst blended into a groan of pain.

Blood rushed down his neck and onto his chain mail, as he fell backwards off his horse. There was a hush over the entire assembly as the warlord landed in a thud on the ground of the square.

Xesandra stepped forward, holding her bow aloft. "To the freedom of Bolg!"

"Freedom!" The people chorused and charged at the imperial soldiers who were stunned by the sudden demise of their commander.

In the melee that ensued, Legard sought Xesandra.

"Do you know the implication of that shot you fired? Sir Garhel will not spare a soul in this town when he hears."

Xesandra smiled drunkenly. "Will he? Let him ride here if he wants. We will give him a befitting reception."

"Nay. We will not give him the chance to do that," Hysjep said, as he joined them under the shade of the tavern. "We will gather the militia and attack the capital."

"That is madness. Casville is bursting with phantom soldiers. How can we attack the seat of the imperial power?"

"Nothing is impossible for those who believe," Hysjep said, before turning back to watch his people as they mauled the imperial soldiers.

VYNNE SAT MOROSELY IN THE TEMPLE at Vath as the moment she had long dreaded began to inch closer. Beside her, Count Ressier sat bedecked in the befitting attire of a noble groom. The temple was scanty as few people were invited because the wedding had been brought forward.

"Let the woman and her man come forth," the priest said.

"Go sister. Everything will be fine," Lorna nudged her.

Lord Hargand took Vynne's hand and led her to the altar of Feliyra, the goddess of beauty, love and fertility. Count Ressier and his equally despicable brother, Diyd, walked in from of them.

"You will now hand the bride over to her groom," the priest said to Lord Hargand when he stepped with his daughter onto the reserved area around the altar.

In the moment that Count Ressier stretched his hand to receive Vynne's decorated hand, a dagger hurled from somewhere around the back of the temple made a swishing sound as it flew through the air and struck the Count's outstretched hand, slashing his wrist and drawing blood. His cry of pain echoed in the temple, causing alarmed guests to turn in the direction where the dagger was believed to come from. A fellow dressed in full armour stood there with his arms crossed and his legs spread.

"By the gods, do I need to tell you what to do?" Lord Hargand bawled at the guards who were standing at the entrance of the temple.

The guards turned sharply and rushed at the fellow but they both jolted to a stop when they saw strange monsters rushing into the office temple.

"It is Otut himself with his demons! Flee for the sake of your lives!" one of the guards screamed to those in the temple.

There was pandemonium in the temple as people strove to get out of danger's way. Lord Hargand grabbed Lorna in one hand and tried to hold Vynne in the other but she deftly twisted away from his grip. She pulled her robe up and began to run towards the unmoving figure at the threshold. The figure's stance suggested it was Corthiel, but she did not want to set her hopes too high. Perhaps it was Xesandra who had come to her aid again. Or even Estan.

As Vynne drew closer, the warrior bent his head and removed the helmet. Vynne felt a surge of emotion as her saviour turned out to be Corthiel. For the first, and perhaps the most important time, he was there to save her. She fell on his shoulder and began to sob.

"Do not hold her like that, she is mine!" Count Ressier cried, still clutching his bloody wrist.

"Is she?" Corthiel said with a dark smile before he lowered his lips onto Vynne's and savoured the sweetness thereat.

Diyd drew his sword and pointed it at the kissing couple. "For injuring my brother and for attempting to steal his bride, I challenge you to a duel."

Vynne pulled out of the kiss and whispered to Corthiel. "That despicable man tormented me with his whip. Please, make him pay for doing that."

"He whipped you?"

"Aye. He did till the thong flayed the skin of my back."

Corthiel let out a grunt of fury and unsheathed his sword with remarkable swiftness. He charged at Diyd who stood waiting for him beside the altar of Feliyra and when he got near enough, he swung his sword with all his strength. Diyd parried the blow but the force with which it was struck threw him off balance and left him open to the follow up blow from Corthiel. Diyd gasped as the blade sank into his stomach.

"No man ends well who beats a woman," Corthiel whispered to Diyd and at once pulled his sword pulled his sword out of the dying man. He watched in contempt as Diyd uttered a groan of agony and collapsed dead to the floor of the temple.

"Corthiel Zelac," a familiar voice called from outside the temple.

Corthiel turned and saw Haldrinne standing beside a carriage in the middle of the adjoining street with his snow white robe billowing slightly in response to the gentle wind. Beside him was Estan, turning twin daggers in his hands.

"Come now, let us ride to highlands at the edge of Euschires," the old sorcerer said. "There you will get a chance to battle the Waeon again and you will eventually be reunited with your friends."

Ignoring her father's shouts, and Count Ressier's threats, Vynne let Corthiel lead her out of the the temple into the street where Haldrinne waited for them with a patient smile.

"I HAVE TO LEAVE, THE MEN ARE waiting for me," Sir Garhel said to Lady DeBlyde as he rummaged his oak chest for his combat boots.

Lady DeBlyde shook her head in bemused wonder at Sir Garhel's obstinacy. She had warned him earlier against his decision to lead an army to attack Bolg after the news of the mutinous events at the southern town reached Casville. Now she struggled to believe her eyes as she watched him dress up for battle.

"I do not see why you should go. There is Vruth you can send," Lady DeBlyde argued as Sir Garhel found his boots.

"I will not sit back in the capital while tides of rebellion ripple fiercely in the south. That is exactly what Gradiel did that turned people against him, and I will do no such."

"Why do you care so much about Bolg?" Lady DeBlyde asked. "It is a worthless town. Its mines no longer produce gold. What use are Bolgians to the empire? Why not let them go if they want?"

Sir Garhel kicked a foot into his combat boot, "If the worthless town is not chastised for this dreadful misgiving, other towns and cities of consequence will rise in defiance and the empire will be in chaos. I intend to make the empire bigger than I met it, not to have portions of the empire slipping away at will."

"Well, I am truly not against the fact that you need to keep the empire intact," Lady DeBlyde said. "What I do not support is you leading the army down there when there are able men to do the job. It is just two days to your coronation, you should be careful with where you go."

Now almost fully kitted in his military regalia, Sir Garhel took his helmet off its holder. "I will not stand by and let some miscreants bring my empire down. I have learnt that if you want to deal with insurgents, it is best you do it yourself rather than sending a subordinate, however good he might be."

Lady DeBlyde spoke no more for a long while, and just when Sir Garhel began to take her silence for acquiescence, she muttered words of magic and sent a vision ball blasting into the wall athwart her. A moving image of a carriage with four passengers, moving across the southern plains was visible for several moments before it cleared off.

"Now you see why I do not want you to go?" Lady DeBlyde said.

Sir Garhel snorted. "I saw nothing shocking. That was Corthiel in the carriage, right?"

"Yes," Lady DeBlyde said, "he is going to join the men of Bolg in arms."

"And I, the only seventh star knight in the land and the finest warrior since old Guldheries himself, am supposed to run away because a scoundrel is going to join forces with others like himself? I do not understand why you fear the boy so much. Is he not the one who took to his heels when he got matched against me in the tournament? You say he is gifted with the sword, will he alone save Bolg from the force of my cavalry or the fury of my pikemen?"

Lady DeBlyde chuckled at Sir Garhel's ignorance about the extent of Corthiel's power. "You do not understand these things. The boy has now taken a potion from the magical chalice in the dome of Anthix. He is now a more formidable enemy than he was before."

"Has the potion made his skin impenetrable?" The knight asked as he drew his broadsword, swung it twice and made a stabbing motion. "Will a swing of this blade not draw some of his hybrid blood? Tell me, my lady."

"You are following the path of destruction. You will die if you do not take care with this boy."

"I will rather die, which I know I won't, than cower the citadel in the fear of a boy who is probably yet to master all the strokes of the sword."

"Very well, I wished it wouldn't come to this but it has," Lady DeBlyde said as she produced a string of crystal beads. "If you must go, then you must tie this rosary around the hilt of your sword. It will drain the boy's power and he will become just as an ordinary swordsman."

"No."

"By the gods, why are you being strong headed? This is to immune you to the boy's power, what harm is there in tying this little thing around your sword grip? Did you not agree to use a magical wristlet against this boy at the post tournament duel?"

"I do not want the rosary or the wristlet. I will fight the Bolgian rebels with my own strength. If a man places his hope in the gods for help for too long, he loses belief in his own abilities, so I have learnt," Sir Garhel said as he sauntered closer to the lady. "Do not despair, I will come back alive."

He drew her close and kissed her tenderly. Then he drew back and walked out of the room. Lady DeBlyde ambled to the window and leaned over it to watch Sir Garhel emerge after a long while at the front square of the castle. The knight took his place at the head of the imperial army, swinging onto his white destrier. He turned his head up to look at Lady DeBlyde and gave a slight nod of acknowledgement.

"Bolg, a town of worthlessness in the far south have defied the power of the empire. They assaulted a company of valiant soldiers sent to rescue them from distress and they killed the commander of the company.

"It is my duty as the ruler of this empire to punish them for these misdeeds. Now, we shall ride to that accursed southern town and raze every building, and kill every man. We will take all their women and children as slaves. And I will ensure that the land is repopulated with law abiding people. Charge!"

Lady DeBlyde looked on as Sir Garhel led the cavalry charge southwards with the infantry pikemen and archers marching on the flanks. She tore her eyes away from the departing army to look at the rosary in her hand and now, she began to mutter the sacred words of Otut. She continued casting spells until the crystal beads began to glow with dazzling brilliance. She lifted her hand and pointed the rosary in the direction of Sir Garhel who was riding hard at the head of the army. Black smoke started to emerge from the rosary, swirling for a short while, before wafting out of the room through the open window towards the army.

"I can't let him kill himself," Lady DeBlyde muttered with a lofty smile.

Many yards away, Sir Garhel felt a strange clenching of the heart. His breath siezed and his heart clenched within his chest. He quickly pulled off his helmet to aid his respiration but the move did him no good. The clenching grew even worse and now, his vision began to blur. He lasted a few more seconds before he slipped off his gallant warhorse and crashed onto the turfy ground of the square.

"CAN YOU HEAR IT, CORTHIEL?"

The sagely voice of Haldrinne cut through Corthiel's sweet conversation with Vynne. Corthiel turned his attention to the advancing sorcerer. He was bedecked as usual in that white robe that seemed to forever repel stains.

"Hear what?" Corthiel asked.

The shapeshifting wizard cocked his head sideways as if in reception to some sounds that were audible to him alone. "Hear it, son. Hear the fluttering of wings and the loud roaring."

"What are you talking about?"

"The Waeon. It is a few miles away."

Corthiel sprang to his feet, pulling Vynne up with him. "Will you keep her safe while I fight the beast?"

"She will be safe with me," Haldrinne muttered.

Corthiel leaned closer to Vynne and whispered, "follow him. I will be fine here. Where is Estan?"

"He is asleep in the tent," Vynne said, looking away in sadness. "Can we not live in peace without having to battle all these beasts and enemies?"

"Someday, my love," he whispered huskily, before he pulled her close and planted a kiss on her lips.

"Make it quick or the Waeon will swoop on you while you are holding each other," said Haldrinne.

The lovers broke their kiss. Vynne ruffled Corthiel's green hair and whispered to him, "Keep safe, my love."

Then she started after Haldrinne who was heading into a small bush. Corthiel stood watching as Haldrinne led Vynne into the darkness beyond. He slowly drew his sword and stabbed the sandy ground of the clearing with it as he awaited the arrival of the Waeon with the serenity of a monk.

It was not before the Waeon appeared on the horizon, its bestial figure illuminated by the bright moonlight. The beast glided around for a while, before swooping on the spot where Corthiel stood waiting for it. The warrior grabbed his sword and leapt high to slash the oncoming beast on the chest. The blow hit home but it failed to penetrate the beast's magical hide.

The Waeon let out a terrifying growl as it turned to its side and threw its spiked tail forward and wound it around the blade of Corthiel's sword several times. Corthiel tried hard to pull his sword out of the Waeon's grip but it turned out to be an exercise in futility as the beast easily wrested the sword from his grasp and flung the blade into the darkness beyond.

The beast then ran towards Corthiel with its forked tongue hanging over its deadly fangs. In the yellow eyes of the onrushing monster which bore no sign of injury from Corthiel's perfect javelin throw in their first encounter, Corthiel saw a kind of feral anger that sent a trickle of sweat down his forehead. He knew very well that this encounter would not end without a death. And a gentle, sinister voice was whispering to him that he would be one to end in a winding sheet after this battle.

The beast threw its tail forward again, this time targeting Corthiel's neck. The young warrior ducked in the last moment so that the spiked tail went over his head with a loud swish. Corthiel quickly regained his balance and now began to look for ways to vanquish the great beast before him. If he let the Waeon continue its tail swinging game, it will not be long before he would be undone by the tail. He had to do something.

Corthiel raced forward to pick a pointed stick nearby and he hurled it at the Waeon. The beast slapped the stick away effortlessly with its left forelimb. Corthiel indeed did not expect the stick to harm the beast, what he did was to charge at the Waeon immediately after the throw, so that as the beast knocked the missile away, it saw Corthiel right before him, thus eliminating the distance which was giving the beast the chance to continually use its tail as a weapon.

The Waeon lashed the warrior before it with the steel claws at the end of one of his great forelimbs. Corthiel sidestepped swiftly out of danger's way and launched forward to grapple with the beast. It was the only chance he had to fight for victory since the Waeon had deprived him of his weapon. He grabbed the beast's forelimbs and wrestled it onto the ground.

There were grunts and growls from both man and beast as they tussled for supremacy in the copse at the edge of Euschires. Corthiel tried to get on top but the bestial strength of the Waeon kept him at bay. They continued to roll on the ground, constantly seeking advantage over the other. The Waeon was slowly bringing its steel claw closer and closer towards Corthiel's neck. Beads of perspiration were cascading off Corthiel's forehead as he strained to prevent the Waeon from impaling him with its sharp claw. The Waeon growled louder now, certain that it was going to sink its claw in his adversary's windpipe. A wave of nausea hit Corthiel as he inhaled the smell of decaying matter that was the beast's breath.

The voice of death began to whisper in his head again. Corthiel reacted by pushing the Waeon's forelimbs back up with all his might, and with a swift upward lunge, he overturned the beast. While the beast sought to regain its advantage, Corthiel twisted one of its limbs backwards till a loud creaking sound was heard. The Waeon roared in fury and lunge upwards to bite Corthiel but the warrior was ready. With all his might, he smashed a punch in the beast's forehead, cracking its skull. Corthiel wasted no time in grabbing the Waeon's neck under his arm and delivering a twist that snapped the beast's neck. The beast gave a muffled growl, and crashed onto the ground with a mighty thud.

Corthiel rolled off the dead beast on the ground beside, panting hard with exhaustation. For moments unending, he lay there savouring his victory over the deadliest beast in the land. He ached all over but he was filled with unimaginable joy. The enemy's greatest tool had finally been destroyed.

Haldrinne and Vynne returned to meet Corthiel still on his back, sweating profusely and breathing hard.

"I saw everything here," Haldrinne said, waving a ball of crystal. "You fought valiantly. The gods are proud if you."

Vynne dashed over and hugged Corthiel tight even as he laid supine on the ground, and whispered to him, "I almost swooned when it looked like the beast was going to tear your throat."

Haldrinne knelt over the carcass of the Waeon and after clasping his eyes shut and whispering words of magic for a while, he released a ball of fire from his palm on it.

"By the time Legard and the Bolgians will arrive, the Waeon would have been reduced to the valuable ashes we need to conquer the Tishkans and their masters."

# CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

Sir Garhel jerked awake to find himself submerged in a cauldron of boiling herbs and aromatic spices. The heat was unbearable. He jerked upright and at once moved to get out of the scalding liquid.

"Stay in there!" Lady DeBlyde barked. "It is not yet time to get out."

Sir Garhel took one step out of the bath. "You will have to kill me, it is too hot."

The lady came to sight now, she was dressed in a silken purple houppeland that hugged her frame. "Get back in there Garhel, don't ruin the magic."

Sir Garhel dithered for a while and even looked like he was going to pull out his second leg but he relented and got back in the cauldron, with only his head above the scalding liquid. Lady DeBlyde picked a vase from the side of the bath and emptied its black foaming content into the cauldron.

"Immerse yourself in the liquid," Lady DeBlyde said. "Let the magic bond with your body."

Sir Garhel pulled himself deeper into the cauldron. The liquid was still burning, but he bore the heat with stiff dignity and sat still. In an indescribable way, he felt the liquid seep into his body and he could feel a strange toughening of his skin. Slowly, the heat began to dissipate until it felt no different from water fetched from River Sūt.

"That is enough. Come out."

The knight heaved his naked frame out of the bath and walked up to Lady DeBlyde who held out a thick robe for him. He slipped into the coat and observed the room they were in. It was Lady DeBlyde's chamber. It was lit with fourteen red candles and there was a large censer that emitted clouds of black fragrant smoke.

"What are these things for?" Sir Garhel asked, indicating the candles and the fuming thurible.

"Restoration and fortification rites," Lady DeBlyde said.

"What fortification? I told you I want to fight my battles with my own strength."

Lady DeBlyde clenched her left fist for a while, then she raised her palm to the wall after she muttered a short foreshadowing spell. A vision ball flew from her open palm and smashed against the wall, leaving a series of moving images of a battle scene there. One of the moving images was peculiar because it was not as fleeting as the others. In it, Sir Garhel saw himself kneeling on the battleground with his hand clutching his neck. There was a long thin line on his neck from which blood flowed freely onto his armour.

"Take it away," Sir Garhel groaned.

Lady DeBlyde made a sweeping motion with her hand and the images vanished. "If you had gone up to take on the men of Bolg, what you saw there would have been your fate. I stopped you from leading the battle and the army has held back to await your recovery. What I have done now is to make your skin divine. You will no longer feel the pain of being pierced. No blade or arrow will cut you ever again."

She moved over to corner of the chamber to retrieve Sir Garhel's sword and she returned to where he stood. She slowly parted his coat sideways and drove the sword into his belly. The blade failed to penetrate the knight's flesh.

"Can this magic be broken?"

"In a way," Lady DeBlyde said. "If by any chance you behold your blood in the course of combat then the power in your skin will disappear. But how can you see your blood flowing when no blade can pierce your skin? Now take the blade. I have tied the rosary on the hilt."

"I am indebted to you," Sir Garhel said as he received his blade and stared at it as if wondering why it had not pierced the skin of his belly. "Then, I can ride south today."

"Nay, you do not need to. The Bolgians are already on their way. They are almost here."

"Do you jest?"

"I speak the truth. The men are approaching with a company of elmen warriors. And the boy is with them."

"Wait, for how long was I out?"

"Three days."

"Three days? Why, that is a long time. That means—"

"Yes, today is indeed the coronation," Lady DeBlyde said with a smile. "I told Sarlen to inform the council you will be fine, so it was not rescheduled."

Sir Garhel looked on, trying to process the news.

"Do not look so troubled. The day we have worked tirelessly for is upon us. Sarlen's men will soon be here to get you back to the royal castle."

THE SQUARE WAS BRIMMING WITH the people from all over the empire. Belaine and Elna lurked at the back of the multitude, watching the proceedings with rueful interest.

"If Galleine had been a little less hotheaded, he would be the one getting enthroned now. Only the gods know what he has gotten himself into," Elna said.

Belaine dropped a comforting hand on her shoulder. "He will be fine. He might have had second thoughts on his way and he might be hiding somewhere. I believe he is fine."

"I hope you are right."

Presently, Sir Garhel walked up the podium with the grace befitting a king. The people of Casville cheered every of his steps. Priest Targa stepped forward with the golden imperial crown just as Sir Garhel stood in the enthroning circle.

"Today, by the powers endued in me as the voice of Ligan and the eyes of the people of Navlan, I declare you the king of Casville and emperor all the nine provinces of Navlan empire."

A loud cheer went up around the people. Sir Garhel went down on his knees and Priest Targa slowly brought down the crown to fix it on Sir Garhel's head. The crown did not end up on the knight's head because in that moment, a burning torch hurled from within the cheering crowd struck the priest, setting his robe on fire and causing the crown to fall with a loud clang onto the floor of the podium.

The blaring horns and sweet sounding lyres stopped playing as pandemonium broke among the people. Over the din, a voice screamed, "Garhel is a criminal! He destroyed his kins so he can ascend the throne."

If the speaker expected a reaction to his impassioned utterances, he would be disappointed because no one paid him any heed, people were more intent on getting away from the square.

"Get that scoundrel for me!" Sir Garhel bellowed. He was apparently not pleased that the day he had long waited for was being ruined before his own eyes.

The hooded figure who had thrown the torch, seeing he had achieved the distruption he wanted, joined the multitude in running away from the square.

Belaine turned to Elna. "Let me follow that fellow. You go back home."

"It is Breyn," Elna said.

"Is it him? How did you know?"

"I know his voice well," She told him.

"That is one more reason for me to help him before those guards get to him."

Elna agreed and bade him to keep safe. Belaine pushed his way through the mass of running people, with his eyes trained on Breyn's hooded frame. As he ran, Belaine closely watched the three guards Sir Garhel had sent to bring Breyn. He drew his sword and on getting close, slashed one of the guard's head from the back. Without wasting time, he plunged his blade in another guard's neck after grabbing him from behind.

The last guard looked back just as Belaine was removing his blade from his companion's neck. He turned and charged at Belaine with his spear, but Belaine was quick to parry the blow and he surged forward in a masterly fashion to slash the guard's head into halves. Blood from the mutilated head splashed onto the face of an wary maiden closeby. She first touched the fluid that had squirted onto her face and let out a vociferous scream when she saw that it was blood.

Belaine's entanglement with the guards made him to lose track of Breyn. He no longer saw his cloaked head anywhere. He was still looking around when he noticed a strange occurrence. All those who had escaped from the square and headed in the direction of the city gate were bounding back with even greater speed.

Belaine took a hold of a fair haired prepubescent boy who was running with a face white with fear. "Say boy, what brings the multitude back from yonder?"

"Monsters... Scores of them... Mounting the city walls... Coming this way."

ONLY A FIFTH OF THE ELMEN WARRIORS were at the northern city wall, attempting to get themselves into the city that way. The rest of the elmen warriors, the entire Bolgian militia led by clan leader Hysjep, and the remaining Red knights were wriggling through a pass in a mountain range at the south eastern part of Casville which was an illegal trail that could grant entrance into the city.

The company scaled the mound of rocks that marked the boundary of Vath and Casville in that area, and they headed straight towards the centre of the city. As they charged, the Bolgians screamed war songs and waved their weapons in the air. Legard saw Xesandra matching the enthusiasm of the Bolgians as she screamed and he chuckled to himself.

They marched all the way to the edge of the city's square, and there they met an army of Tishkans under the command of Vruth. There were also about a dozen knights of the palladium, recognized by their fine horses and glittering armour.

"What madness is this?" Vruth roared. "You Bolgian dimwits dare attack the capital with your miserable army when you should be sending emissaries to plead with the emperor not to wipe you off the surface of the earth."

"He is your emperor, not ours," Hysjep said. "We are Bolgians, we choose how we live and how we die. We will never again kowtow to your perfidious emperor! Brothers, charge for freedom!"

Hysjep's roar was greeted with raucous shouts of approval fom his men. The men did not stop their screaming as they rushed forward to engage the phantom soldiers and the knights in battle.

Legard unsheathed his sword which had been buried in the ashes of the Waeon with all other weapons of the Bolgian force. He was leading a unit of the Bolgian soldiers while Hysjep led others, leaving Corthiel at the head of the elmen warriors. Xesandra was in control of a unit of Bolgian archers she had taught her advanced skills with the bow.

"You fellows take them from the flanks," Corthiel said. "I will take them on from the centre."

Legard led his men to the left flank and began to fight the phantom soldiers there. The Tishkans were brilliant warriors, they struck and slashed with inhuman strength, but were immediately reduced to dust the moment they were struck with the weapons which had been laced with the magic of the Waeon's ash. Legard was aware of distinct screaming around him as he took on one of the knights of the realm in charge of the phantom soldiers. The knight was swift with his attack, forcing Legard to remain on the defensive. He brought his great sword down on Legard with impossible strength but Legard parried the blow in the last moment and held on to life by the barest inch.

The knight was now forcing Legard to pedal backwards with the speed and consistency of his blows. Legard kept on defending till he saw the advantage of an uncharacteristically slow follow up to attack by the knight. Legard switched to attack, swiftly knocking the knight's sword to one side and lunging forward to run his sword halfway through the knight's neck. The knight stood stunned for a moment then he fell to the ground, succumbing to the mortal wound he had been dealt.

The clashing of swords around Legard took on a chaotic rhythm. He blocked the sounds of screaming men and the metallic rings of steel coming against steel from his mind and focused on his next opponent, a towering Tishkan. Legard attacked the big phantom soldier and, though the Tishkan defended valiantly, Legard did not relent with his blows until he was able to draw the magical being's green blood with his sword, thus causing the Tishkan to dissolve into black matter right before him.

Legard cut down three more phantom soldiers before coming up against Vruth who had killed so many of the Bolgian militia both with the giant bow strapped to his back and the great sword in his left hand. Legard charged at the big man and before long, he found that Vruth was a better fighter than he had imagined him to be. His mighty girth was surprisingly of no disadvantage to his footwork which was impeccable. He received Legard's repeated blows with little stress. When he had had enough, he blocked Legard's sword with his own using all of his brute strength and Legard's blade broke. He gave Legard no chance to recover as he sent a kick to his chest, causing the frizzy haired warrior to fall on his back.

"Die, bastard," Vruth spat as he swung his blade and made to pierce Legard in the chest.

There was a cry of pain and a splash of blood, but it did not come from Legard. The warrior looked up to see an arrow with blue ribbon jutting from Vruth's forehead. Legard rolled away in time to avoid Vruth's hefty sword dropping on him. He scrambled to his feet just as his big adversary fell onto the battleground.

Legard looked in the direction he presumed the arrow came from and saw Xesandra sliding another arrow into her bow and striking another knight on the opposite side. When she caught Legard's gaze, she stuck her tongue out at him.

By the advent of dusk, the last of the imperial defenders had been scythed down. The remaining men on the Bolgian side gave a great roar of triumph. They had lost many good men in battle and many more were injured. Clan leader Hysjep had a bleeding forehead and one of his sons was hamstrung. Estan had a long slit on his shoulder and there were indeed more men in worse conditions, but these men, exhausted from their exertions, covered with blood and grime, had won a crucial victory at the edge of the city square.

"Should we retire for the night?" Legard asked.

"Nay, let us head for the royal castle," Hysjep said.

"We are all spent, let us find somewhere to rest for the night then tomorrow we shall resume from where we stopped," Legard said. "We can withdraw into the pass just outside the city, there is plenty of place to hide around there.

Corthiel said, "We must finish this. If we go back to sleep. Garhel will hunt us and kill us anywhere we go."

While they deliberated, they began to hear heavy pounding sounds. Before long, they saw an army of pike men behind them, and several moments later, an army of infantry approached to their right and the cavalry advanced to their left. At the head of the cavalry was Sir Garhel, with Lady DeBlyde on a horse beside him. The depleted Bolgian militia were surrounded by an army ten times their number.

"You southern dolts, how dare you attack the capital? Very well, I will see that all your heads are hung on stakes in Derbart for your foolery."

Legard surveyed the entire force on the opposite side; javeliners, archers, swordmen and pikemen arranged in formation. He knew that his side stood no chance, even with the elmen warriors. A chill passed among the men of Bolg. They knew it, this was the end.

Legard's peripheral vision suddenly caught Corthiel stepping forward from the Bolgian militia and walking towards Sir Garhel's destrier.

"What is he doing?" Xesandra whispered her question to Legard.

"I do not yet know but knowing Corthiel, I believe he is trying to save our lives."

Corthiel walked closer still to where Sir Garhel sat on horseback, till the infantry soldiers surrounding the knight drew their swords as a warning that if Corthiel took a step closer, he would be instantly scythed down.

Corthiel slowly removed his glove and tossed it at the hoof of Sir Garhel's horse. "You killed King Gradiel and his family because you were desperate to seize power. You are a indeed a demon among men. I challenge you to mortal duel in the name of getting recompense for the royal family which you have wronged so much."

Sir Garhel laughed out loud, until he was joined in by Lady DeBlyde and the whole imperial army.

"Why will I accept your gage, young fellow? I can ask my men to crush you and your dimwit companions with a snap of my fingers. You are here thinking you can save the lives of these men by coming forward to sacrifice yours. Well son, the fates of these men are sealed. All your heads will be hung on stakes during my coronation. That will be an example to any region thinking of leaving the empire."

Sir Garhel leaned over to Lady DeBlyde and whispered some words to which she nodded. He got off his saddle and walked up to Corthiel, peering at him with scornful eyes. He bent suddenly and picked up the gage.

"Now, we shall finish the business you ran away from after the tournament," Sir Garhel said. "I will give you the night to recover. Tomorrow at the arena, we will duel it out. This time, you won't be able to run away."

"Do not get your hopes high boy. It will not be a duel," Lady DeBlyde said with a dark smile. "It will be an execution."

CORTHIEL ZELAC STEPPED INTO THE CASVILLEAN arena dressed in a mail shirt and cheered on by the surviving Bolgians who were detained in a cell at the western end of the square. The young warrior was immediately stunned by the crowd that had gathered there. It looked like there were even more people present than those that witnessed the tournament.

Lord Osth, governor of Auztier stood up among the nobles on the podium. "We have a duel between our king to be, Sir Garhel and the vermin who was responsible for the disruption during the coronation yesterday and the battle that took place at the city square afterwards. He threw his gage before Sir Garhel and our leader accepted the challenge because he wants to publicly humiliate and execute this enemy of the empire. Already you have seen the challenger. Now, I present to you, the king to be, knight of the seventh star, conqueror of the Thombrük hordes, slayer of Jedhun. Here comes, Sir Garhel!"

A small gate swung open on the eastern end of the arena and Sir Garhel swaggered into the arena in his usual manner. The spectators screamed themselves hoarse as they hailed him. He walked to the centre of the arena with every of his footsteps cheered by the spectators.

As soon as Sir Garhel got close to him, Corthiel began to feel dizzy. His footsteps started faltering and he struggled to maintain his grip on his sword. He remembered that the Lady said the duel will be an execution, rather than a contest. Had those swines somehow poisoned him?

With his flagging strength and a growing sense of despair, Corthiel pushed himself to attack, even before Lord Osth gave the order. Corthiel tightened his hold on his sword and charged at his opponent. He attacked high, bringing his sword hard in the direction of the knight's head, but Sir Garhel blocked the attack and retaliated with a swift slashing movement that ripped the clothing at Corthiel's shoulder and tore the skin beneath it.

Corthiel lumbered forward to attack again, his breath was laboured, uneven. He lifted his sword with all his might and aimed a stab at chest of his adversary. Again, he was pegged back and Sir Garhel's new counter attack drew a bloody horizontal line across Corthiel's left cheek. Corthiel began to sweat under his doublet. His energy, both his own and the foreign, were slowly dissipating. He could barely stay on his feet.

Determined to fight to the last, Corthiel attacked again, making for the exposed area under Sir Garhel's armour, but his blow was so slow that Sir Garhel had all the time to block his sword and elbow him in the face. The impact knocked Corthiel to the ground and for the first time in his life, he felt like raising his hands in surrender.

The cheer of the spectators was, at this point, deafening. Corthiel tried to get back on his feet, but Sir Garhel slammed his feet against his chest and held him down there. The knight raised his sword first to the god of war and turned the blade towards Corthiel's forehead, ready to finish him off. In that moment, Corthiel saw the glowing strings wrapped around the hilt of the Sir Garhel's sword. He quickly observed how the faint glowing of the rosary matched the shallowness of his own breath, and right there he came to the realization that rosary was responsible for the strange draining of his life force.

"You cheat!" Corthiel cried as he mustered all the strength in his reserve to roll away from under Sir Garhel's feet.

When Sir Garhel brought his sword down, Corthiel was already out of harm's way and was slowly rising to his feet. He lunged forward, and grabbed Sir Garhel's hilt and with a single jerking motion, he tore the string afflicting him.

Someone gasped in the stand reserved for the nobles. Corthiel could tell that it was Lady DeBlyde. Sir Garhel attempted a thrust but Corthiel, now feeling a great burst of energy, sidestepped and delivered a stunning riposte. He dashed forward and dealt Sir Garhel a wicked thrust into his left eye socket and twisted left and right. There were gasps of horror as Sir Garhel's cry of pain rang through the arena.

"Flee Garhel, the magic is broken!" Lady DeBlyde screamed.

Corthiel gave him no time to do that, he swiftly swung his sword and struck the knight on the neck. The knight fell onto his knees as blood gushed in a stream onto his plate mail.

"Nooooo!" Lady DeBlyde gave a screeching cry. She dashed out of her seat in the noble area and ran with her purple robe flowing. She got into the arena in time to catch Sir Garhel as he fell to the ground. She wailed loudly as she buried her head in his bloodied chest.

Then she raised her face and pointed a finger at Corthiel. "You will pay for this! That is a promise."

With that, she laid a hand on Sir Garhel's forehead and roared a spell that brought a great whirlwind from the bowels of the earth. The whirlwind raged for a while and when it stopped, both Lady DeBlyde and Sir Garhel were gone.

The great silence in the arena was suddenly replaced by a roar of joy from Legard and the surviving Bolgian militia.

VYNNE WALKED THROUGH THE STALLS opposite the castle with an empty basket in her hand. The heady scent of southern berries filled her nose as she moved around the market while keeping an eye on the entrance of the royal castle for Corthiel and the other warriors who had been taken in before the council for trial.

Vynne had spent the previous day at Zeloe's, unable to watch Corthiel's fight with Sir Garhel for the fear of seeing her lover getting killed. She had listened from the serving house with an ailing heart as she heard screams after screams from the arena, while she wondered what had become of her man. She had heard later from the chattering Madam Zeloe that Corthiel had conquered Sir Garhel to the surprise of everybody when it looked like he was defeated.

Vynne tore her eyes off a sweating woman hawking her merchandise when she heard the giant gate at the entrance to the castle swing open. She turned and saw Estan shambling down the steps. She hurried to a part of the market that was free of stalls where she was sure he could see her and she waved till he saw her and started approaching.

"How did it go?" She asked when he arrived.

"Not bad. They tried us for various offences. Corthiel for aiding rebellion and illegal entry into the city. He was also tried for regicide. We all faced similar charges. However, Breyn's testimony and that of Moreau convinced the council that we were acting in the interest of the empire. Eventually, they gave their judgement that we should be set free on one condition."

"What condition?"

"They said if we are going to be free men, then we need to be away from the public eye to avoid people thinking we easily got away with injustice against Casville's favourite son. The council ruled that we should all be drafted to the Marsh to help the empire secure her boundary from the Laillean armies for a year while they will try to redeem our images before the people and also resolve the terrible situation caused by recent events in the land."

"That means you will not see your sister for a year?"

Estan shrugged. "She will be fine. She has managed well without me for some time. I will seek her after my time at the Marsh and go to regain my father's estates."

"What of the Bolgians. What was the council's ruling regarding them?"

"The council promised to reduce their tax rate by three quarters. There will be no more forced conscription in their lands. And an active military outpost will be built to prevent further Thombrük invasions."

The front gate of the castle opened again and Legard stepped out with Xesandra beside him. They were having a good laugh about something.

"Look at them. Is it not strange?" Vynne said.

"I am not surprised," Estan shrugged. "Haldrinne prophesied that they will make babies together."

"I still find that hard to believe," Vynne said. "Do you know what I heard among the market people about Elna?"

"Nay."

"They say she is carrying the prince's baby. The—"

Vynne stopped because she felt a hand drop on her shoulder. She turned and came face to face with the man she had been looking out for. With a cry of delight, Vynne launched herself into his arms. Estan slinked away to give the lovers the private time they deserved.

"I am going to the Marsh," Corthiel whispered as they held each other still.

"Estan told me," Vynne said as she drew back from him. Just then, she saw the long cut on his face. "Ligan up high! You should see Sarlen for that."

"Sarlen has taken to his heels. It appears he was involved in Garhel's perfidy," Corthiel said, wincing slightly as Vynne ran a finger around the cut. "Where will you be when I am gone? How will I find you again?"

"You will not need to find me," Vynne said. "I am going with you."

Vynne saw the surprise on his face and she understood. She knew the Marsh was no place for a lady. The conditions were harsh and the men brash. Skirmishes took place almost everyday, but she did not care. She would stay with him and together, they would conquer. Just like they have always done.

THE END

Author bio

Tunmise Onifade is a talented Nigerian writer of fantasy and historical fiction. When he is not writing, he is busy reading every kind of book he can lay his hands on or researching for his works in progress. Perfidy is his debut novel.

