They were there—watching her.
Adelyis lunged sideways for her staff. Her fingers fastened around the smooth wood, just as dark shapes leapt from the far edge of the clearing and hurtled towards her.
Her shout of alarm brought the others awake with a jolt. The attackers would have reached them in seconds if Adelyis had not sensed their presence. She jumped to her feet.
An explosion of blue light shot out from the staff and mushroomed around Adelyis and the others, throwing their attackers onto their backs. Howls shattered the morning’s stillness. The Ennadils’ horses squealed in fear, pulling back at their ropes. Miradel, Ladril and Gannadil drew their swords and Eryn ducked behind them.
“Get the horses!” Adelyis shouted.
The Morg scrambled to their feet. It was difficult to see them properly, for they were wrapped up, mummy-like, in black cloaks. But Adelyis could see their eyes, burning at her from within the folds of their hoods. They were shouting at each other in sibilant voices.
Miradel came up next to Adelyis and flanked her, his sword raised in case any of them broke through the shield. Behind them, the others moved to ready the horses and remove their hobbles. There would be no time to saddle the horses—they would have to ride bareback.
Holding up the energy shield was exhausting Adelyis. Her staff vibrated in her hands and sweat trickled down her back between her shoulder blades. The Morg formed a semi-circle, just beyond the shield that lit up the clearing in an eerie blue glow. They raised their weapons and waited.
Behind the Morg, detaching itself from where it had been lurking in the shadows, another figure appeared. Adelyis saw the gleaming bald head and gnarled white staff of the Morg shaman. His skin, pulled tight over angular cheekbones and a hooked nose, was leathery and tanned. He grinned at Adelyis through the energy shield, revealing a line of yellow, pointed teeth. Adelyis loosened her grip on her staff—although she was fully trained, she was still a novice and her abilities had never been tested. The shaman’s grin widened, for he sensed this.
“Adelyis!” Miradel urged. “The horses are ready. Come on!” He grabbed her arm and pulled but she stood firm.
“No!” she replied through gritted teeth. “I can’t let the shield down—go with the others!”
“You’re coming with us!”
Adelyis glanced over her shoulder at her companions. They had mounted bareback and the horses danced nervously, eager to flee. The energy-field scared them as much as the Morg did. Her own horse stood just three strides away but she would have to let the shield down to mount. The Morg would reach her before she even got one leg over her horse’s back.
At that moment, the Morg shaman thrust his staff into the air. A bolt of purple fire shot out and hit Adelyis’s energy shield. The force of it caused Adelyis to stagger backwards. Miradel was knocked to the ground and, savage with desperation, Adelyis kicked him hard in the leg.
“Go!” she shouted. “You won’t get another chance!”
Adelyis turned her attention away from Miradel and back to the Morg. She gripped the staff hard and channeled her thoughts into it. The energy shield expanded and met the shaman’s purple fire with a hiss, like water on hot coals. Purple and blue sparks rained down over the clearing.
Behind Adelyis, Gannadil clambered off his horse and dragged Miradel over to his bay gelding. Miradel’s face was white as he vaulted onto his horse’s back. Adelyis was oblivious to her companions. She focused on the shaman and nothing else.
Miradel turned his horse back towards Adelyis. The others galloped out of the clearing, expecting him to follow.
Adelyis saw Miradel ride towards her and knew what he intended. She freed one hand from the staff, invoked a spell and flung her hand towards him. A blue whip lashed out from her fingertips and caught his horse across the rump, causing the gelding to rear. Miradel tried to control his horse but, terrified, the gelding took the bit between his teeth and bolted after the other horses with his rider powerless to stop him.
Adelyis’s distraction had only been momentary but it was what the shaman needed to press his advantage. A forked tongue of flame shot out of his staff and smashed against Adelyis’s rapidly weakening shield. This time she could not contain it.
The fire clove through her shield like an axe and knocked Adelyis onto her back, engulfing her.
CHAPTER TWO
THE ORINIANS UNITE
Will Stellan was awake long before the first rays of sun peeked over the tops of the grassy hills to the east. He had awoken tired with a slight headache and eyes stinging from fatigue. He felt as if he had not slept at all. It was difficult to sleep easy these days, what with Isador in the midst of war. He had lain awake for hours in the stuffy darkness inside his tent, mulling over things until his brain hurt. Finally, he pushed aside the rough blanket covering him and sat up fully clothed.
Will emerged from his tent and rubbed sleep from his eyes. His gaze scanned the eastern horizon where the first rays of light were slipping over the edge of the world. Beyond those hills lay the dark mass of Gremul. The vast forest carpeted the entire eastern side of Isador—from the Ennadil border in the south, to the Sawtooth Mountains in the far north. It was late summer but the morning was cool. Dew lay thick on the grass beneath Will’s boots and there was a pleasant freshness to the air. Will yawned and shook off the tiredness that still fogged his brain. He drank deeply from a bladder of stale water and massaged a tense muscle in his left shoulder before turning away from the sunrise.
He was camped on the top of a hillock. Around him, a sea of weather-stained tents made of animal hide stretched for as far as he could see in every direction. It was a makeshift city of ten thousand men – not nearly enough. Wisps of smoke, the dying embers of last night’s campfires, dirtied the lightening sky. Will savored the peace, his mind returning, not for the first time in the past month, to how it had all come to this.
The Ennadil had not been able to contain the Morg. Once the invaders gained a foothold on Isador’s southern coast, they tore through the Ennadil Territory with terrifying speed. The Ennadil sent out an army of their most able sorcerers to combat the Morg shamans, but the battle that ensued destroyed the great southern city of Mithridel. A city of lofty marble walls and palaces, gardens and fountains, Mithridel was the Ennadil center of learning and culture. Mithridel was two-thousand years old, founded on the grave of a great Ennadil wizard. In a matter of days, the gleaming city was destroyed, pounded to rubble. The surviving Ennadil either fled north-west over the river Serran to the last Ennadil stronghold of Aranith, or the Morg had enslaved them.
As they encroached further into the Ennadil Territory, the Morg then turned their attention to the City States of Orin, of which Serranguard was the closest. One flank of their army pushed north-west, following the fleeing Ennadil to the city of Aranith, while the other flank marched north towards Serranguard.
The Ennadil managed to slow the Morg’s journey north, and over the months that followed, many of the enemy fell. However, the Morg’s supply of foot soldiers and huge birds they called the ‘Yangtul’ were endless. The sea off Isador’s southern coast now bobbed with flotillas of massive ships. The Morg were not just transporting armies but colonists to settle the conquered territory.
The situation could not have been worse. Will kept cheerful around his men but underneath his bravado, he was plagued by a constant sense of foreboding. They had very little information about the Morg, and that worried him. After the Orinians had refused to aid the Ennadil, there had been little communication between the two races. Lord Brin had sent scouts south to gather what little information they had. It was rumored that the Ennadil emissary to the Tarzark had been killed and eaten. Will was sure their King, the barbaric Grull who loathed the Ennadil and Orinians, would have used the news of an invasion to his advantage. He would hope for the Morg to do what the Tarzark had never achieved—enslave the Ennadil and Orinians—before trying to take these lands for himself.
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Will stretched his tired limbs and took a deep breath of the crisp air. He turned his gaze eastward once more and wondered what had become of Isador’s fourth race—the Gremul. Just two days earlier they had received news of sightings of smoke rising above the tree tops of the great forest. It appeared the Gremul had not escaped the Morg either.
The aroma of frying bacon wafted past Will and reminded him of his growling stomach. He pushed his thoughts aside and wandered down to where breakfast was being prepared. At the bottom of the hill, Talyn Belderell, Captain of Mirren’s army, was helping himself to crispy bacon and fried stale bread. At least a decade older than Will, he was a tall, wiry man and completely bald.
“Good morning.” Talyn passed Will a plate of food. “Did you sleep well?”
Will smiled at their unchanging morning ritual. “Of course not Talyn. Did you?”
“Come now, Will. I have not slept in years.”
“Listen to you two maidens!” Reb Ethern, Captain of Falcon’s Mount’s army, still half-asleep and scratching himself, lumbered into their midst. He was a hulking, hairy fellow who always looked as if he was recovering from a hard night on the ale. “I slept like a hibernating bear.”
Will’s smile widened. “You snore like one too. You kept the whole camp awake.”
“Insolent pup,” Reb muttered good-naturedly, taking a plate of bacon and bread that Talyn passed him.
The three captains ate in silence while around them the camp stirred into life. It was the beginning of the fourth day since they had arrived here. Sensing the Morg were not far off, the men were nervous and restless. They were tired of waiting and beginning to squabble amongst themselves. Relations between the three city-states had not been good for a while. Just ten years earlier, there had been a civil war between Serranguard and Falcon’s Mount, a petty border dispute which had escalated into a civil war lasting two years. Even a decade later, there were still lingering tensions between the two city-states. It was just as well that the three captains got on well or more fights may have broken out.
The captains were just finishing their breakfast when shouting from the southern edge of the camp caught their attention. They watched a rider cut his way into the center of the camp. The scout wound his way in between closely packed tents, eventually reaching the clearing where the three Captains stood.
“They have arrived then?” Talyn spoke calmly.
The scout was pale and breathless. “They are crossing the Jade Plains Captain.”
“Did you get an idea of their numbers?” Will asked.
“Their army is vast Captain.” The scout’s eyes were enormous. “It stretches to the horizon and beyond.”
His words hung in the air before Will let out the breath he had been holding. “Well, let’s get these boys moving.” His face was expressionless as he turned and strode off to where the Serranguard troops were camped. Reb Ethern’s face tightened into a fierce mask; his thoughts were already focused on the battle ahead. He nodded curtly to Talyn and stormed off towards his men.
Talyn Belderell watched him go and paused a moment in the clearing. Around him, the makeshift city heaved off the grassy hills and made ready for war. He thought briefly of the home he had left behind in Mirren, and of his wife and daughter waiting for him there. They were who he was fighting for—not the greedy and bickering city lords who were ensconced safely in their fortresses. Pushing aside his sadness and bitter regret, Talyn left the clearing and hurried to ready Mirren’s troops for battle.
Captain Will Stellan swung up on to his warhorse and spurred it on to the front of the riders heading towards the crest of the hill. Adrenalin surged through him, dissolving the tension and nerves that had accumulated during the four days of waiting. He had an exalted sense of connection to the thoughts of the men around him—almost tasting their fear, aggression and blood lust.
Will reached the front of the riders and led them up to the brow of the hill. His war-horse, an enormous grey stallion, rolled its eyes and sidestepped nervously. Will reached forward and stroked the stallion’s quivering neck, murmuring soothing words. He urged the stallion forward and braced himself for the sight of the Morg on the plains below. He could feel his men watching him, drawing their strength and courage from him, and was glad his helmet hid his expression. He could not falter before them.
They reached the crest of the hill and fanned out there, forming a long line. Will drew his horse to a halt and looked down onto the Jade Plains.
The sight that greeted him made Will gasp. The Morg army was a seemingly endless, black carpet bristling with spears and standards, stretching back and disappearing beyond the hazy southern horizon. It appeared an army from another world—a sea of black cloaked figures carrying broadswords and axes. Many of them rode birds with glowing eyes and hooked beaks—the Yangtul. The birds’ silver-grey feathers glittered in the morning’s sun. Their cries were feral screams that made the hair on Will’s neck prickle. It was impossible to get a good look at the Morg from this distance as they shrouded their bodies in cloaks. Only the Morg shamans were bareheaded, with gleaming bald skulls and maniacal grins.
The shamans carried long white-tipped black staffs, and there were scores of them. Will realized with alarm that their own army had only twenty wizards, and it had been a struggle to find even that number. Magic was far weaker in Orinians than in Ennadil and Tarzark. Not only did the Orinian army only possess a limited number of wizards but they were all cowering at the back of the army, ready to flee at the first sign of defeat. They would be little use Will realized bitterly.
Around him, Will sensed his men’s growing panic as they viewed the approaching Morg war machine. If he did not act soon, terror would seize them and they would be useless in battle. Will dug his heals into his warhorse’s flanks and rode forward, along the line of riders. His men were frozen to their saddles, gaping in fear at the Morg. He drew his sword and held it aloft, gaining their attention.
“Look at your enemy!” He shouted. His voice echoed across the valley. “Don’t shrink away from them. Look at them! They are our enemy, Isador’s enemy! They have taken the Ennadil Territory and they will take ours. We are all that stands in their way.” He paused here a moment, his throat burning. Then, he shouted. “This is our land!”
A great roar went up among the army. It rippled through the riders and boomed off the sides of the valley. Will stood up on his stirrups. “Look at them! They have come to rip this land from us! I will die to protect my home and the wraiths of my ancestors will guide my sword as they will guide yours. Are you with me?”
This time the roar was deafening, like rolling thunder. The soldiers drew their swords and Will saw that their fear had been replaced with righteous rage. They were savage, terrifying warriors who would follow him willingly to death.
Will turned his stallion on its haunches and together they charged. In the valley below, gathering like a giant black wave, the Morg army surged forward to meet them.
CHAPTER THREE
CAPTIVES OF THE MORG
When Adelyis awoke, she found herself slung, like a sack of wheat, across the back of something moving fast. At first she thought it was a horse but it did not smell or move like one.
Adelyis sneezed—her face was pressed up against the coat of silver-grey feathers of the Yangtul that carried her. Her wrists and ankles were tightly bound and, below, the ground rushed by in a blur of sun-seared grass. As far as she could tell, they were travelling south, away from the Arden Highlands.
Adelyis raised her head and twisted her neck sideways in an effort to see where she was. One of the Morg sat astride the bird in front of her, his black cape billowing and snapping in the wind. The birds ran in long strides, eating up the ground much faster than a galloping horse.
Squinting up at the sky, Adelyis saw that it was a beautiful summer’s day. The sky was a rich, unblemished blue from one horizon to another and the sun beat down on Adelyis’s back. She felt a sense of u
nreality at what was happening to her. It seemed such a short time ago she had been finishing her apprenticeship in Mithridel—and now that city had been reduced to a mountain of stones, Aranith was under siege and her father and brother would surely perish, if not today, then during the days which followed.
Adelyis hung limply across the Yangtul’s feather back. She could feel the bird’s powerful muscles moving under her in a steady rhythm, and she closed her eyes and fell into a numb meditative state; emptying her mind and concentrating only on the hot sun on her back, the Yangtul’s jolting stride and the wind against her face.
It was some time later; the day’s heat was waning and the sun had softened, basking the land in gold, when the Yangtul came to an abrupt halt. Adelyis was jolted out of her meditation and she looked about her, bleary-eyed and disoriented. Upon getting her bearings, she saw they had left the wide grasslands behind and had stopped in a lush valley, dotted with trees and wildflowers. A wide river, its waters glittering in the dusk light, flowed serenely by. Adelyis knew this be the might River Serran—the Morg had not taken her south as she had thought, but east. The river marked the border between the Ennadil Territory and the City States of Orin. On the other side of the River Serran lay Serranguard.
Rough, pinching hands grabbed Adelyis, dragged her off the Yangtul’s back and dumped her unceremoniously in a patch of clover. Adelyis watched as they made camp; there were six of them, including the shaman, who was thankfully ignoring Adelyis for now. The small band had obviously tracked her from Aranith after a scout had spotted them leaving.
The hot day faded into a balmy evening, so the Morg did not bother to erect tents. They imbedded iron stakes into the ground and tied their Yangtul to them. Adelyis observed the Yangtul with distaste—they were foul birds with burning eyes and enormous hooked beaks that looked able to split a head in two in a single stroke. The Yangtul stood on thick, muscular legs and large two-toed feet, tipped with long, black talons. They squawked and made a terrible racket until two of the Morg came back from a nearby thicket dragging a wild boar. Ravenous, the Yangtul scrambled over each other and fought to get a piece of the carcass. However, just one boar did not appease them, and it was only after a few dead rabbits, another boar and a deer had been added to the feast, that their screeching died down.
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