Adelyis felt sick watching them feast, wondering how many Ennadil had been fed to these creatures. Once the Yangtul had devoured their meal, they chirped contentedly, clustered together and settled themselves down on the grassy riverbank. Then, tucking their heads under a wing, they went to sleep—a quivering mountain of silver feathers.
The Morg made a campfire, unconcerned that the smoke might attract attention to them. They were supremely confident; acting as if this land was already theirs. Adelyis watched them, rigid with outrage.
The sun slid behind the western horizon and the sky glowed pink, promising another hot day to come. The Morg tied Adelyis to a tree and gave her a cup of water and a piece of dry bread. She ate her morsel and continued to observe them while they talked amongst themselves in their whispering tongue. They did not use the campfire to cook but to boil water; then they emptied a small bag of herbs into the boiling cauldron. After it had infused, they drank it out of earthen cups. Their dinner consisted of freshly killed rabbits which they ate raw, using their sharp teeth to rip away the fur to get to the flesh beneath. The Morg shaman sat a little apart from the others, at the far edge of the camp-fire. The firelight danced on the shiny dome of his bald head as he ate.
Gradually, the light faded and soon Adelyis found herself staring up at the stars. She listened to the gurgling river and the sounds of the Morg bedding down for the night – except for one caped figure who silently took the first watch.
The world slumbered around her but Adelyis did not sleep. Alone and frightened, she sat and stared into the darkness.
***
Excruciating pain woke Captain Will Stellan. The pain exploded in his forehead and rippled out in spasms over his entire body. Something heavy was pressing him into the dirt. Will opened his eyes and blinked away the grime that clogged them.
His body was pinned down, save for his head, shoulders and arms. Will raised a trembling hand and reached behind him, touching the motionless flank of his horse. It was dead but not yet cold; he had not been unconscious for long. Slowly, as the mind-fog cleared, images and sounds filtered back. Memories of that terrible, hellish battle, of soldiers falling around him, of seeing his terrifying enemy up close, flooded back. He remembered the noise, the clash of steel and the screams of the dying—until the moment his horse was shot from under him. As his stallion fell, it dragged Will underneath it. He had lost his helmet in the early stages of the battle, and was surprised the fall had not killed him. Then, as he heard the hiss of Morg voices approaching—he wished it had.
Will attempted to push his war-horse off him but the weight flattened him against the dry earth. He was trapped while the Morg combed the battlefield for survivors and the spoils of victory. They would soon reach him.
Will did not want to be taken alive. He looked around desperately for a weapon. He would not be taken prisoner and be forced to be part of their war machine – he would take his own life rather than let that happen. Will caught sight of his sword, laying an arm’s length away, and reached out for it. His fingers only brushed the tip of the hilt and, gritting his teeth with the effort, Will stretched out his fingers once more – he could almost touch it.
At that moment, two cloaked figures stepped in front of him.
Will stared at their heavy, dust-coated boots, watching as one of the Morg kicked his sword out of reach. Laughing and, presumably, congratulating each other on their find, they hunkered down in front of Will and gazed at him hungrily; their gazes wolf like from inside their shadowed hoods.
These two Morg were young—their skin had not yet taken on the leathery appearance of most of the warriors he had fought during the battle. Nevertheless, their faces were hollowed and gaunt, and their skin was mottled as if some skin disease afflicted them. The young skin was pulled tightly across their skulls and when they grinned at Will they revealed sharp, yellow teeth.
Will punched and gouged at the Morg when they reached forward to bind his wrists. Exasperated, they called for help and within moments, a mob of Morg surrounded him and held him still while he was bound. They lifted the dead horse off him and, despite himself, Will groaned in relief at being able to breathe properly again. They pulled Will to his feet and, to his surprise, Will found he could stand. The fall had not broken any bones, although under his clothes he would be livid with bruises. His head throbbed, feeling three times its normal size, and his vision speckled dangerously.
Once the world had ceased spinning, Will looked upon the carnage around him. A sea of dead men and horses covered the battlefield as far as the horizon; their tangled, bloodied bodies contrasted sharply against the hard blue sky. There were hundreds of dead Morg, as well as the corpses of their birds—but men far outnumbered them among the dead.
It did not surprise Will that the Morg had won the battle. However, he felt devastated and cheated to have survived it. The other captains had perished, but he was still alive while his men lay massacred around him. He had no right to be alive and he envied Talyn Belderell and Reb Ethern their oblivion.
The Morg, growing impatient, shoved Will forward. He stumbled and nearly fell over the corpse of one of his men. Cursing his clumsiness, Will’s captors hauled him up by his shoulders and manhandled him through the battlefield. The death, carnage and devastation were overwhelming, and trampling over it, Will felt as if he was desecrating a mass grave.
Ahead, a city of conical black tents loomed like a great shadow over the land. It was the Morg’s encampment and upon seeing it approach, Will felt despair pull him into its clutches, Moments later, Will Stellan was swallowed into their midst.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE SIEGE OF ARANITH
The Morg attacked at dawn.
As the first rays of sun peeked over the eastern horizon, the enemy rose up from their encampment and swarmed north. They battered down the forest that stood between them and Aranith. There had been no parley, not like before the Morg attacked Mithridel. Then, they had sent a delegate, one of their shamans, to state their conditions. The shaman spoke the Ennadil language crudely, learned no doubt from their captives. Nevertheless, he had made his demands clear: unconditional surrender by the Ennadil in return for a Morg government and over-lords or a wholesale slaughter. The Ennadil response to his demands was to shoot him full of arrows, tie his body to his saddle and send him back to his fellows looking like a hedgehog. Their answer had been clear—and the Morg were not going to waste shamans at Aranith.
Lassendil, dressed in light silver armor and helmet, his grandfather’s sword at his side, with arrows and a longbow strapped to his back, watched the black tide sweep towards them from the southern horizon. His stood beside Padrell Florin, atop the high wall on Aranith’s fourth tier.
The sight was incredible—even from this distance, the Morg looked like one entity, as if they would swallow Aranith whole. Lassendil quelled the fear creeping up from his bowels and looked down at the Ennadil soldiers who lined the walls of Aranith’s first three tiers. They had close to five-thousand soldiers, enough to defend Aranith for a spell, but too few to meet the Morg in combat face to face.
Lassendil’s gaze followed the lines of immobile Ennadil soldiers. Their eyes were riveted on the horrifying spectacle approaching them. Among the soldiers, resplendent in long grey and blue robes, were the last of the Ennadil wizards and witches. They stood, hard and proud-faced, as they mentally prepared themselves for the coming battle.
Lassendil looked once more at the Morg. They were so close now he could see the sun glinting on their weapons and the individual motifs of their standards—and Lassendil’s stomach clenched at the thought of facing the Morg yet again in combat.
“Come Lassendil.” Padrell Florin turned to his son. “It is time to join the others.”
Lassendil followed his father wordlessly; glad his father had not seen the fear on his face. Father and son turned from the battlements and ducked into a narrow stairwell that led down to the tier below. A short while later, the
y emerged on the third tier and took their places alongside the other soldiers.
At that moment, the first Morg reached Aranith’s outer walls.
The Morg’s blood-chilling war cry echoed across the city and the first long-bows sang. The siege of Aranith had begun.
***
The whip cut across Will Serran’s back, causing him to trip and nearly fall. Behind him, the Morg astride his Yangtul brandished his bullwhip and hissed. The Captain of Serranguard’s army did not need to speak their language to understand the threat issued—and he picked up his speed alongside the others.
Will had not been the only solider taken alive, as he had first thought. There were three men from Mirren, one from Falcon’s Mount and two of his own men from Serranguard. Two of them were in a bad physical state and urgently needed medical attention. A forced march northwest over the Jade Plains would kill them.
Will’s own injuries made it difficult to keep his balance during the march. His head throbbed and he was dizzy from lack of food and water. Travelling in the middle of a bobbing black sea, he was having trouble walking in a straight line.
Finally, one of the seriously injured soldiers cried out and toppled forward. The whip slashed down across his shoulders, and the man groaned but did not get up. The whip was raised for a second blow.
Will threw himself in between the whip and its victim. He stared up at the Morg who brandished the whip. He was bigger and more muscular than most, and sat astride his Yangtul with supreme arrogance. He snarled at Will’s interruption and the whip twitched in his hand.
Will braced himself for the blow he was sure would come but, instead of lashing him across the face, the Morg lowered the whip and sprang from the Yangtul’s back. He walked round to the injured man and hauled him to his feet. The soldier was doubled over, groaning piteously. The Morg inspected his wounds before turning his attention to the other prisoners. He presently came across the other badly wounded soldier. The man’s skin was ashen and blood stained his once grey shirt crimson. Completing his inspection, the Morg turned to two of his henchmen who were watching the proceedings, and barked an order.
The soldiers’ bonds were cut and, too late, Will realized what the Morg intended to do with them. Will shouted out and leaped forward but the two soldiers were dragged out of reach.
Two Morg unsheathed their curved swords and, with one practiced stroke, decapitated the two men. The headless corpses flopped, twitching and kicking, to the ground.
The Morg, who had issued the order, turned from watching the execution and caught Will’s eye—then he smiled. Will stared back, understanding perfectly. They did not need to speak a common language; the Morg had made himself perfectly clear. From now on, Will was to behave himself or others would lose their heads.
His point made, the Morg turned his back on Will. His black cloak billowed like a sail as he vaulted back onto his Yangtul.
The Morg war machine moved on. Will stepped over the bodies of the two soldiers and forced himself onwards. Part of him wanted to give up—it would have been so easy to just fall over and let them beat him to death. However, the survival instinct that had seen him through every one of his thirty-four summers refused to let him do so. He would see this nightmare through to the end, wherever it took him.
***
It was mid-afternoon on the second day of the siege when the Morg finally breached Aranith’s walls. From the first morning, they had rolled in wooden siege towers and placed them against the outer defense so that their soldiers could scale the walls. The Ennadil were ready for them, dousing the siege towers will boiling oil and setting them alight. This did not daunt the Morg for they had used their Ennadil slaves to construct over a hundred towers.
The Ennadil held out valiantly, but as the light dimmed on the second day, a battalion of Morg scaled the walls and trampled the exhausted defenders who tried to stop them.
The Morg flowed over the walls like water over a bursting dam. Night was falling but there would be no break in the Morg’s attack. Now that they had breached Aranith’s defenses, they would push forward until the fortress city was theirs.
Two hours after the Morg scaled the city walls, a shower of arrows cut Padrell Florin down. Standing a few feet away, Lassendil saw his father fall. They were on the fifth tier, using longbows to pick off the bolder Morg who clambered over the city’s lower tiers. The fading light made visibility difficult and they had been about to about to abandon their bows and descend to the lower levels with their swords drawn, when the enemy’s arrow found its mark.
Lassendil dropped his longbow and rushed to his father, dragging him away from the edge of the wall and into a shadowed alcove where they were hidden from view. Around them, the evening air rang with the screams of the dying and the chilling war cries of the Morg that had not ceased since the siege began. Flashes of purple and blue sporadically lit up the darkening sky as the Ennadil wizards engaged the Morg shamans in battle.
Lassendil pulled off his own helmet before removing his father’s. Their faces were sweat-streaked and their hair was plastered to their skulls. Padrell’s face was contorted in pain, and Lassendil bent over his father and held him as close as he dared without hurting him. Then, he heard an ominous rattle in his father’s chest and knew it was hopeless.
Padrell Florin stared up at his son and clutched his arm. The arrow had pierced him in the chest, through his lungs. Blood bubbled on his lips and his face drained of color.
“Father,” Lassendil whispered as tears streamed down his face. He was vaguely aware of shouting and the sound of boots hammering up a nearby stairwell. They would not be hidden here much longer.
Padrell Florin smiled weakly up at his son before he raised a bloody hand and touched Lassendil’s face. “My son,” he whispered hoarsely, “I am sorry…”
“For what?” Lassendil replied, swallowing a sob. “You have nothing to . . .”
Lassendil trailed off as he felt his father’s body go limp in his arms. He observed Padrell Florin’s indomitable spirit drain from his eyes.
Paralyzed by grief, Lassendil clung to his father. He would not even be able to bury his body—and in a short while, he too would be dead. The shouting had grown louder. Within seconds, Morg would be all over the wall.
Gently, Lassendil lay his father down and climbed to his feet. He drew his sword and strode forward out of the shadows, just as four cloaked figures burst from the stairwell onto the top of the wall. They spied Lassendil immediately. One of them laughed and said something to his companions, before the Morg warrior stepped forward, still chuckling, to face the lone Ennadil warrior.
Lassendil cut him down before the Morg got within three feet of him. His thin Ennadil blade flashed silver, slicing through the Morg’s hooded neck and severing it. The Morg fell, arms flailing, to the ground—as the remaining three Morg let out a collective howl and rushed at Lassendil.
He knew it was over for him but he intended to butcher as many Morg as he could before he died. He howled his father’s name and rushed to meet the Morg in combat.
He never reached them.
Out of nowhere, something large and fearsomely strong, gripped his shoulders like a pair of giant pincers, and suddenly he was being lifted above the Morg. They grappled furiously at his kicking feet—but whatever held him was too quick and their claws grasped nothing but air.
Lassendil struggled wildly. He had no idea whether his abductor was friend or foe, but it took no notice of his struggling and cursing.
The Morg were now far below him. Lassendil was sailing high above Aranith. The wind was cold against his tear-streaked face. Lassendil looked down and caught his breath—even under siege, Aranith was breath-taking. The forest around the city was burning. Lassendil could see the battle still raging below and he struggled even more desperately.
“Let me go!” he shouted. “Let me die with my people, damn you!”
His pleas received no response. Up and up they went
, travelling east, and soon the fires of Aranith were nothing but a pale speck on the western horizon. Night shrouded the land and the moon was just starting to rise into the inky sky. Below Lassendil, woodland, fields and hamlets crouched in the darkness. Lassendil wondered how much of this land had already fallen to the Morg. He hung suspended in mid-air, the fight gradually draining form him. He was still gripping his sword in his left hand and had considered using it against whatever had him in its clutches. However, now that the madness of grief had cleared, he did not relish the idea of being dropped at this height.
It was only when he caught sight of the glittering waters of the River Serran below that Lassendil realized how far he was being carried. A few leagues more and he would be in the City State of Serranguard. He began to struggle again.
“Who are you?” he shouted but his words were whipped away by the wind as soon as he had uttered them. “Where are you taking me?”
There was no response, only the roar of the wind in his ears.
CHAPTER FIVE
TROUBLE IN BRENNA
“How could you be so careless?”
The High Guardian’s querulous voice echoed around the chamber. “The Morg are at our borders and you let our precious Flame go out! We do not need our ancestors’ fury unleashed upon us at a time like this—you stupid, stupid girl!”
Gywna Brin clamped her jaws together and attempted a placating smile. “Please forgive me Eddelyn. I did not mean to fall asleep. I was feeling a little drowsy and then . . .”
“Silence!” Eddelyn shrieked, finally losing her temper. “Your insincerity is as nauseating as your lack of faith. For years I have put up with your sullen ways, your rudeness . . . but this . . .” The High Guardian paused a moment, struggling to contain her anger. Her eyes were two dark slits on her pale, angular face. Her thin body trembled with rage. Gywna stared back at Eddelyn, her mouth curled in an insolent smile. “But this is as much as I will tolerate,” Eddelyn finished. She drew herself up in triumph. “I am sending you back to your father— you are no longer a Guardian of Isador. A true Guardian would take her own life rather than let the Ancestral Flame go out. If you were not Lord Brin’s daughter I would have you horse-whipped for your negligence!”
The Children of Isador Page 5
