Yeldom’s corporals are amongst those standing before me in formation.

  ‘These are ten of your finest, put forward by you.’ I speak loudly into the respectful silence. ‘Just imagine I’m a ssythlan, which, considering how green I am, isn’t too hard.’

  A ripple of laughter runs through the watchers, and Ardlan smiles alongside me. Conrol’s lips curl unpleasantly. Yet however much the Major dislikes me, he’s come to watch and learn, as I hoped he would.

  Unlike the swordsmen, I’m empty-handed, while Ardlan holds a long wooden stave I’d fashioned earlier.

  ‘When I give the command, you have thirty seconds to overpower your captain and me. Lay a stick on us, shield-bash us, anything to lay us low whilst avoiding Ardlan’s stave of death.’

  I laugh, but behind the joviality, I’m deadly serious. From the narrowed eyes of those facing me, they are too, for pride is on the line.

  Ardlan is less than sure.

  ‘Are you crazy?’ he whispers. ‘They won’t go easy on us.’

  Turning to him, I grin.

  ‘Have you ever dreamt of besting ten men at once, single-handed? Well, now is your time. Just trust me and attack when the chance presents itself.’

  ‘I might have to wait until they’re all asleep tonight then,’ he mutters. ‘Assuming I can still walk.’

  ‘Attack!’ I shout.

  There’s no hesitation, and I silently applaud our ten opponents for immediately breaking formation. It would have held them too immobile and unable to outflank the two of us. They’re supremely confident, and they aren’t stupid either.

  Ardlan firms his grip on the stave. It will be useless against their shields, and he prepares himself for the coming punishment.

  Yet it never arrives.

  I don’t need to put on a show, but I do. I raise my arms and then pull them down dramatically.

  After the first few steps, the men pitch forward as the ground liquefies beneath them. Then, as they struggle frantically, elbow-deep in mud, I bring my hands together, and they’re trapped as it solidifies.

  Even the birdsong stops at that moment as everyone watching is stunned into silence. Only those struggling hopelessly moan and curse in frustration as Ardlan theatrically moves amongst them, tapping them unopposed with his stave.

  I soften the ground a little with a simple thought, and the ten men gratefully pull themselves free and roll onto their backs.

  The magical drain makes me dizzy momentarily, but I recover unnoticed as Ardlan returns to my side. A low murmur of conversation builds as I let those observing assimilate what happened.

  ‘A ssythlan mage controls the four elements of earth, air, fire and water.’

  As I speak, everyone stops talking and pays attention to my words.

  ‘What you just witnessed is just one way earth magic can be used. Yet a ssythlan mage isn’t all-powerful, for their use of magic is finite. Magic cannot be used at long distances, and sometimes it requires direct touch. Nor are their mages immune to weapons. If you see a ssythlan on the battlefield moving their hands as if they’re about to cup your balls, target them first.’

  Laughter runs through the watching men, and I’m glad. The show I’d just put on would have rattled them badly, but laughter can melt fear like butter under a hot sun.

  ‘Throw spears, daggers, or even rocks to kill them or simply disturb their concentration, and then you’ll just have their warriors to deal with. I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know they relish single combat, not formation fighting.

  ‘The ssythlan warriors use every weapon with the utmost skill, from short swords to javelins and double-bladed staffs. Even their engineers or civilians seem to have no fear and will attack with tooth and claw if they have no weapons to hand. Yet, irrespective of whom you might face, against your shield wall and stabbing swords, they will lose, but only if their mages are dead.’

  I beckon Yeldom over.

  ‘Yes, King Slayer.’

  He stands to attention as if facing an officer, and I perceive Ardlan’s nod of approval next to me.

  ‘We have tents in the supply wagons in case of foul weather?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then the tent poles need to be turned into throwing spears. Fashion tips from daggers, knives, whatever you can. Then find those proficient in throwing, for they’ll be our mage protection.’

  Yeldom salutes, then hurries off, shouting orders which are echoed by the corporals. Soon they’re heading toward the wagons.

  ‘By the gods, I’d not have believed it,’ Ardlan says, picking up the heavy sticks our defeated foes had left behind on our way to the next company. ‘I don’t know about the spears, but I’m glad we’ve got you to help us deal with any ssythlan mages. Assuming we encounter any ssythlans at all.’

  ‘Well. If we don’t, Major Conrol has orders to slit my throat,’ I chuckle. ‘So I guess we’ll have to convince him otherwise. Anyway, I can’t do as much as you’d think. They’re more powerful than me. My reservoir of magic is smaller than theirs and replenishes slower. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’ve killed one in combat, and another of the Chosen killed one before she died, but they are my betters.’

  Yet suddenly, Nogoth’s words come to mind about me being more powerful than I could possibly imagine. He is the king of deceit, yet, just like the ssythlans, I can control all four elements at will, and like the Saer Tel, with a simple thought, not forgetting the blood magic.

  ‘Another Chosen?’ Ardlan echoes, interrupting my thoughts.

  ‘Her name was Lystra. The Chosen were what we were called. Chosen to serve the Once and Future King, Nogoth.’

  Ardlan rolls his eyes at the last bit, and my hand itches to slap some sense into him.

  Luckily for him, another hundred men of the next company are awaiting us. I’ve hardly spent time with them, although many faces are familiar. Most nod respectfully, and I hear many of them mutter King Slayer in greeting.

  ‘I need ten of your finest to defeat Ardlan and me,’ I shout as Ardlan throws the heavy sticks to the ground.

  ‘Who thinks they’ve got what it takes?’

  ***

  CHAPTER XII

  It’s been five days since my first display of magic. Weapons training is now undertaken before the evening meal, sharpening up the men and getting them into a combat mindset after three weeks of travel.

  Conrol still barely tolerates me, but that matters little as long as he doesn’t argue about keeping the troops combat-ready.

  We’re on foot, our packs bulging with supplies as we march two days west of Lake Hold. We’d passed through the town after a brief rest while Conrol talked with some of the inhabitants. It was a beautiful place, with small, well-built stone houses along cobbled streets positioned on a large lake’s north bank. Small fishing boats drifted upon the still waters, nets hanging from their bows, while the looming mountains were reflected in all their snow-peaked majesty.

  Despite Lake Hold’s tranquillity, there had been concern amongst the townsfolk as we left them and our horses behind. A week earlier, they’d sent a dozen men and women with wagons and a week's worth of smoked fish to Pine Hold, and none had returned.

  Yet they weren’t fearful of ssythlans, not that any of the Last Hope mentioned them. Instead, they were worried about the plague. Several years before, many of them had fallen sick as disease had spread amongst the mountain folk like wildfire through a forest. Hundreds of others had died, and they were praying that this wasn’t the case again.

  If only they knew.

  Guilt weighs heavily on my shoulders. The people of Lake Hold will be as good as dead, plague or not, for I’m cursed to be disbelieved, at least by those who matter.

  One of those marches up ahead with Ardlan while I hang back with Yeldom and his company.

  The crunch of booted feet is too loud, and I’m jittery. I’m used to stealth, concealment, and not marching around in the open. Although now they’re on foot, shields in hand, the Last Hope appear more formidable than on horseback.

  My eyes constantly scan either side of the trade road. The mighty trees that give Pine Hold its name are starting to appear, offering concealment for any number of enemies. We’re but a day and a half from our destination, perhaps even our annihilation. Three ssythlan ships had been built and set sail from the Isles of Sin. Three ships with two hundred ssythlans apiece. Were all six hundred warriors, engineers, or both. How many, if any mages accompanied them?

  But what if other ssythlan ships docked at Sea Hold, and we are marching to face thousands?

  I stop briefly as that thought hits me like a hammer blow, then mutter an apology and hurry onwards as the marching men behind curse softly as I disrupt their step.

  Then, my thoughts take me down a route that leaves me icy cold.

  The one scenario I’d never contemplated is that there aren’t any ssythlans or even a World Gate here. What if Aigul’s slip of the tongue and the painting were just an elaborate ruse?

  No. Whilst Nogoth is the king of misdirection and deceit, that would be beyond even him. Midnor, the wall at Iron Hold, the towns falling quiet … this is where they’ll come; I mustn’t doubt it.

  Movement in the sky catches my attention, and I squint into the sun. Birds circle on the air currents, wheeling then diving in an elaborate dance.

  Malina, don’t get distracted.

  Pine Hold is less than two days' march, and with small copses of pine and wooded areas, I need to keep my eyes down, looking for danger.

  A distant caw reaches me above the crunch of marching boots.

  ‘What birds do you think they are?’ I ask, pointing.

  ‘Mountain Carks,’ Yeldom answers. ‘They’re scavengers, a carrion bird.’

  DAMN.

  I raise my hands above my head, fingers extended. The corporals behind will now be copying my motion. Then, I close my hands into a fist and pull them down to the sides.

  Behind me, the column comes to a halt, and the Last Hope takes cover behind their shields to either side of the road, weapons drawn. We have men in pairs out to the left and right flanks, and upon seeing what’s going on, they take cover too.

  A few steps ahead, Conrol and Ardlan turn at the sudden lack of noise, then hunker down and run back.

  ‘Why did you order the column to take cover, Sergeant?’ Ardlan asks, head swivelling left and right.

  ‘It was me who gave the order, Captain.’

  ‘You don’t give orders!’ Conrol hisses at me, eyes narrowing, but I note he still stays low.

  Ignoring his comment, I point over his shoulder at the birds wheeling in the sky.

  ‘Yeldom says those are Mountain Carks, a carrion bird. That’s an awful lot of them for just a dead mountain goat. I suspect they’re circling the site of an ambush.’

  ‘Best we send some scouts ahead,’ Ardlan says, rubbing at the rivulets of sweat running down his neck. He takes a water pouch, has a swig, offers it around then replaces it at his waist.

  ‘No. I’ll go.’

  ‘You bloody won’t!’ Conrol shakes his head emphatically.

  Yet I hold his gaze, fighting his will with my own.

  ‘If I wanted to escape or kill you, I could have done it the first night we left High Delnor and not had to put up with your hatred these last three weeks. The men of the Last Hope aren’t trained as scouts, hunters or woodsmen. If you send them, and they, in turn, get ambushed, those men will likely die, and our enemy will be forewarned.

  ‘I’ll go, because out of everyone here, I’m the only one trained in stealth. But, if that isn’t enough reason, then this one really should be. The ssythlans will kill me if I’m discovered, and if I don’t discover any ssythlans, well, you get to kill me instead by order of Commander Farsil.’

  Conrol doesn’t say anything. He just jerks his head back down the road.

  Turning to Yeldom, I beckon him over.

  ‘I need five daggers right now.’

  He jogs off, and I can sense Conrol struggling with his anger. I’ve been kept unarmed and unarmoured over an enduring lack of trust, but there’s no way I’ll allow that to continue.

  I shrug off my pack and water skin to ensure I’m as light-footed as possible.

  A few minutes later, Yeldom is back. He’s taken longer than I expected, but then I understand why. He’s collected the daggers and attached them to a leather belt by tying the scabbards in place. He drapes it over my shoulder so that the weapons lay against my chest.

  ‘Do you have everything you need?’ Ardlan asks.

  ‘Yes. It’s time for me to get going. I’ll be back within five hours. If I’m not, I’m dead.’

  ***

  I set off at a ground-eating jog, parting with the road and heading toward the southern mountain slopes through the trees. It’s midday, with not a cloud in sight, and anyone would be forgiven for not thinking of death this day.

  Yet death is my trade, and it keeps me company like my shadow.

  Despite enjoying the security of marching with the Last Hope, the relief at leaving them behind brings me close to euphoria.

  I’ve only got five hours, although I’d have preferred far more. If an ambush awaits, as I’m sure it does, it won’t be at the site of the previous one where the carks are, as nothing forewarns a target like dead bodies. The ssythlans won’t be so clumsy, and they’ll be far closer if they’re here.

  If I get past them and find the original ambush site unobserved, I’ll ascertain the number of enemies that sprang the trap. Then, as I work my way back, I’ll approach from a direction that the ssythlans think is safe. Their eyes will be on the road toward Lake Hold, so they won’t see me coming.

  I doubt there will be enough to put the column at risk, but if they warn their main force at Pine Hold, this mission will end in a bloody failure.

  Despite putting speed over stealth, I’m confident I won’t be spotted. Any eyes will be toward the road, and it’s not as if I’m running in the open. I scurry low, from boulder to boulder, tree to tree, always choosing to move where there’s cover, shadow, or ridges that I can hide behind.

  I keep up a fast pace for an hour and am pleased with the ground I’ve covered. I’m now southwest of the carks, and it’s time to find out what’s excited them. This is a moment of great danger, coming down off the mountainside, not knowing if I’m spotted and walking right into the arms of the enemy.

  I hunker behind a boulder twenty steps short of the forest and reach out with my magic, listening for something untoward.

  Immediately I realise it’s a worthless exercise. The forest is too alive, making it impossible to distinguish any threat amongst hundreds of noises. Instead, I rely on more traditional senses and take my time scanning the trees and undergrowth for any telltale shapes or signs of danger. Nothing is apparent, yet still, I’m not satisfied. Then, as a deer appears and begins to strip bark from a tree, I have an idea.

  I summon a gentle wind and have it blow from every direction but mine. The deer pauses as the leaves rustle, raising its head, but then unperturbed by any foreign scent close enough to bother it, returns to grazing. I silently thank the magic within me, feeling it warm at my gratitude.

  If the deer can’t scent any ssythlans, it’s safe to proceed, so I move into the forest’s embrace.

  The woodland is alive with birdsong. I’m grateful for their music as it disguises my soft footfalls, and they’ll hopefully warn me of any predators. I spot occasional rabbits amongst the undergrowth and smile. The majesty of these mountains and being amongst nature calms my spirit.

  Light filters through the canopy, and unconsciously I glide from shadow to shadow, weaving amongst the numerous shoulder-high pine saplings. My heart beats in time with the symphony of the forest, and if this were any other time, I’d simply lie down and let the positive energy of this ancient woodland wash over me like a soothing balm.

  I move carefully, the road to my north just in sight, yet my focus ranges ahead as I scan the forest floor. Just like a muddy road will show footprints, so can the undergrowth. Studying nature’s canvas, I detect and then discard the disruption left by rodents, rabbits, and even a goat as unimportant. Of human or ssythlan passing, there’s no sign. No broken twigs, imprints, or scuff marks are evident. That doesn’t mean no one is here; my own trail is nigh on non-existent, but ssythlan warriors aren’t trained in stealth. Or are they?

  I know so little of them, despite having been trained by some and fought others. So, I’d be foolish to underestimate them, a mistake that might get the Last Hope and me killed. I need to be cautious in the extreme.

  Occasionally I discern the wheeling shapes of the Mountain Carks close by through the overhanging foliage, their cries harsh and brutal. Yet despite them hovering over my objective, I filter them out. I have to be in tune with the forest.

  I take my time, reading the terrain before moving slowly.

  It’s counterintuitive, moving slowly. Your brain screams at you to find cover and shield your vulnerable body behind the next tree as fast as possible, but nothing draws an eye's attention like fast movement. So I take my time, taking no unnecessary risks.

  Changing direction, I travel back east toward the Last Hope, knowing each step brings me closer to danger. The carks’ cries get louder, and before long, my fears are proved correct. As I peer around a thick pine trunk, I spy three wagons facing west pulled amongst the trees at the side of the road.

  A feeding frenzy is underway around them as hundreds of carks fight over whatever lies beneath the boiling mass of their black-feathered bodies and wings.

  I’m confident the ambushers are gone from this place, but I still take my time, changing my position to get different perspectives. Crossing the road, I check the woodland north.

  I’m glad I did, for here are the first signs of the ambushers. A trail leads from the road into the undergrowth. It’s at least a week old, and nature has almost covered the trail, yet vague bootprints and flattened fauna show me where they went. Cautiously, I follow the trail, noting how it splits in all directions, showing where the ambushers took their places behind trees close to the road.

 

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