Gywna strode along the dimly lit wharf and forced herself not to jump at shadows; her nerves were on a knife-edge after events of the evening. The far end of the pier had a distinctly creepy atmosphere. There were fewer street lamps away from the busy dock. Without the light of the full moon, Gywna would not have been able to see much at all. Abruptly the docks ended and her way was blocked by a forbidding structure that rose up from the water’s edge like a giant stone monolith. The building jutted out onto the lake and had its own private jetty—and there, bobbing in the moonlit water at the end of it—was an ancient wooden skiff.
Gywna did a little dance for joy on the spot at her discovery. Some luck at last! Then, she turned and ran back up the pier to find the wizard.
A short while later, Gywna and Jennadil jogged back together towards the western end of the pier.
“It’s the old saw mill.” Jennadil explained as the building loomed before them. “It closed down two winters ago when they opened another mill at Sylvin.”
Although he would never have admitted it, Jennadil had been relieved when the girl had rushed back to tell him she had found a boat. The raft idea was not working out as he had hoped. After a lot of effort, he had ended up with a pile of rotting planks but no idea how to construct a raft out of them. For the first time, Jennadil was glad the girl had tagged along.
They reached the deserted sawmill and stepped under its shadow. The entrance was boarded shut and threatening notices hung over the doorway.
“We won’t be getting in that way.” Jennadil scratched his chin and looked over to where the jetty thrust out into the inky water. “We’ll have to swim across to the skiff.”
A weighty silence followed his words before the girl finally spoke in a subdued tone. “I can’t swim.”
Jennadil swiveled round and looked down at her. He quickly suppressed his exasperation at her helplessness but she saw it nonetheless.
“I found us the boat!” she snapped. “The least you can do is swim across for it and come back for me.”
Jennadil’s irritation burgeoned once more. She addressed him like he was her lackey.
“And hurry up would you!” She put her hands on her hips and glared at the wizard as if he were a slow-witted servant.
Jennadil’s rude retort was cut off when shouts and screams suddenly echoed down the dock. The Morg had overrun the center of town; it would not take them long to reach the waterfront. Panic lodged in Jennadil’s gullet and, without another word, the wizard stripped off his cloak and handed it and his staff to the girl. Her bossy manner had disappeared for the moment; her eyes were enormous and frightened on her pale face.
Jennadil climbed down a rope ladder off the end of the pier and lowered himself into the water. “By my ancestors,” he yelped. “It’s freezing!”
Jennadil kept his head above the water and dog paddled across to the skiff. His wet clothes dragged him down as he attempted to pull himself into the craft. On the third try he managed to heave himself over the side. Working quickly, Jennadil untied the skiff from its mooring, picked up the oars and rowed back to where the girl fidgeted on the edge of the pier. She threw Jennadil down his staff and cloak and scrambled onto the rope ladder. Sliding down the ladder, the girl stopped a few feet above the water and looked over her shoulder at Jennadil. Her imperious young face was illuminated in the moonlight.
“Can you paddle a bit closer? I won’t be able to get in from here.”
Jennadil used his oars to maneuver the skiff nearer the dock.
“It’s still not close enough!” she protested.
“For the love my ancestors!” Jennadil exploded, his patience snapping. “Jump would you! I’m not waiting here all night!”
The girl sprang towards the skiff and missed it by miles. She belly flopped into the lake and disappeared beneath its phosphorescent surface. Moments later, she came up spluttering and Jennadil leant forward, grabbed her flailing wrist and pulled her onto the boat. She lay there choking and coughing before, sufficiently recovered, she sat up and pushed her sodden hair out of her eyes.
“You knew that would happen!” she wheezed, glaring at him. “I told you I couldn’t swim! Were you trying to kill me?”
“There are far easier ways to get rid of you if I were tempted,” Jennadil replied, picking up his oars. “Now sit still and keep quiet. Anymore prattle and I’ll stick your tongue to the roof of your mouth with a spell that’ll take a week to wear off.”
The girl’s face pursed and her small body coiled in on itself as if she were about to leap forward and strike him. However, the wizard’s threat appeared to work for she remained silent. Jennadil began to paddle away from the pier and soon the sounds of Brenna receded into the distance. After a while Jennadil chanced a look back at the town—and instantly regretted it.
Golden tongues of fire licked the night-sky, lighting up Brenna’s ancient skyline in terrible beauty. The wizard and his young companion watched the flames devour the city like a hungry beast. The knowledge they had only barely escaped from the Morg’s clutches did not fill them with relief but a sense of burgeoning panic—the sacking of Brenna was only a taste of what was to come.
Finally Jennadil tore his gaze away from the burning city. Heartsick and weary, he turned his back on the devastation and rowed away into the night.
A new day dawned, bright and warm with a limpid blue sky. The sun rose from behind the rounded outline of the Cradle Mountains to the south and sent rays sparkling across Lake Farne’s mirrored surface.
Jennadil blinked his tired, gritty eyes and rubbed his burning arms. He was taking a break after hours of rowing, and now his back ached and his arm muscles felt torn and bruised. The girl was now taking a turn at rowing, but since they had both begun to tire, their progress across the lake had slowed. Despite his fatigue, Jennadil was gratified to see that, whereas to the south only water glittered below the faint shadow of the Cradle Mountains, to the north he could make out the green-forested silhouette of the shore. Soon they would have soil instead of water underfoot once again.
“That’s it—I can’t row anymore!” The girl threw down the oars and collapsed against the bow of the boat. The ancient skiff, only built for one person, sat low in the water and the girl’s sudden movement sent icy water sloshing over the side, soaking them both.
“Well done,” Jennadil said between gritted teeth. “How long did you last that time? Ten strokes?”
“I was rowing for nearly an hour!” The girl’s heavy lidded hazel eyes narrowed into slits, daring him to argue further.
Jennadil glared at the girl—never had he met such a brat, but he was tired of arguing with her. Careful not to capsize the skiff, Jennadil edged forward and exchanged places with the girl. Then, wincing as his shoulder and upper arms protested against being made to work again, he started to row.
Slowly, the northern shoreline inched closer. Glancing over his shoulder, Jennadil could now see the southern edge of Delm Forest clearly, as well as the undergrowth of brambles that tumbled down to the water’s edge.
Eventually, the bottom of the skiff connected with the shingle lake floor. Jennadil threw the oars aside and clambered stiffly into the ankle deep water. Leaving the skiff at the water’s edge, he and the girl waded up the pebbly bank onto the shore. Relieved to be out of the rickety boat, they sat on the grassy bank and let the sun warm their chilled limbs.
Jennadil relaxed against the sun-warmed earth and contemplated having a short nap. He looked over at where the girl was resting a short distance off. However, his drowsiness vanished when he noticed the sword the girl wore around her waist. He had not seen it last night as she had been wearing her cloak.
The sword had a long, slender blade and its finely carved hilt was studded with diamonds. Jennadil recognized it instantly. It was a Wraith Sword—a magical weapon forged by skilled Ennadil sword-smiths and worn only by Guardians of Isador. What was this brat doing with such a sword?
Jennadil’s brief improveme
nt in mood dissipated. He had known from the moment he laid eyes on her that this girl was trouble. The Wraith Sword confirmed his suspicions. The Guardians of Isador were forbidden to leave the Temple of Ancestral Wraiths—and this girl had no right to be wandering about carrying such a precious object as if it were a trinket.
The girl noticed his observation of her sword and looked at him sharply.
Jennadil forced a benign smile. “It just occurred to me young lady that we have never introduced ourselves,” he said, deliberately putting on the charm. “I am Jennadil Silverstern—Wizard and Rescuer of Damsels in Distress.”
“Your accent is foreign,” the girl observed, ignoring his charm, “and you don’t look like the people around here.”
“My mother was an Ennadil and my father was an Orinian soldier from Mirren. I grew up in the foothills of the Silver Peak Mountains but I have lived all over the City-States of Orin.”
“The only wizards I’ve ever met were old and bent with long white beards,” the girl replied.
“Well if I live that long, that’s how I’ll look as well.”
“Do wizards really live three hundred summers?”
“They do, and longer,” Jennadil watched the girl intently. “So now you know all about me. What name do you go by?”
“Gywna.”
“Just Gywna?”
The girl was silent. She looked away from him and stared moodily out across the water. “That’s as much as you need to know about me,” she said finally in a tone that invited no argument.
“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me where you got that Wraith Sword either?” Jennadil pressed.
Gywna glanced back at him, her eyes hooded and her expression mutinous. Jennadil held up his hands in surrender. “I thought not.”
Gywna continued to glower at him and Jennadil was once again reminded of someone he could not quite place. “But if you want to be secretive, that’s alright by me,” he continued. “In fact, the less I know about you the better and—while we’re on the subject—you’re not to tell anybody you’ve met Jennadil the wizard, especially this close to Serranguard.”
“Why not?” Gywna’s frown deepened. “What have you got to hide?”
“About the same amount as you my dear,” Jennadil replied. “If anyone asks I’m just some vagabond you traveled with for a spell.”
“Very well,” Gywna agreed finally. “Don’t pry into my business and I won’t pry into yours.
***
The sun was already high in the sky when Lassendil awoke from an exhausted, dreamless slumber. He groaned and rolled over onto his back and looked up at the sky. The sun’s heat warmed his stiff limbs and Lassendil blinked wearily up at the heavens, wishing he could sleep for longer. There was oblivion in sleep and while he slept he did not have to think about his father’s arrow riddled body, of Aranith swarming with Morg—or that he now lay in the middle of Serranguard, hundreds of leagues from home.
Eventually, Lassendil sat up. He could have lain there all day but his stomach growled hungrily and his throat was dry. He stiffly got to his feet and left the clearing. Ahead, the oak trees parted and the flat surface of Lake Farne sparkled before him. His mind still foggy with exhaustion and grief, Lassendil stripped off his clothes and dived into the icy water. The shock of the water on his warm skin cleansed his body and mind. By the time he climbed, shivering, out of the lake, he felt able to think logically. He let the sun dry his body before he dressed; leaving off the silver armor he had worn for the battle at Aranith. It would draw too much attention to him and he had no use for it now.
As he pulled on his long hunting boots and fastened his sword around his waist, Lassendil formulated a plan. He had not been raised a defeatist and so he would not give up. Even if his people had been enslaved and the Ennadil Territory had fallen to the enemy, he could not let despair take him. Isador was still not completely under the Morg’s yoke and others were sure to need his help.
Lassendil had not forgotten his encounter with Lord Theo Brin the year before. His bitterness towards the City-Lord had grown rather than diminished over time but the severity of the situation did not allow for personal resentment. Still, he would rather not face Serranguard and Brin; instead, he would travel north-east to Falcon’s Mount. There, he would do all he could to prevent the Morg from traveling further north—although by now the enemy appeared virtually unstoppable.
Lassendil slung his quiver and arrows over his shoulder and set off northeast. His journey would take him through Delm Forest and the lonely Endaar Downs. He figured that if he kept up a brisk pace, Falcon’s Mount was five to six days journey. He knew he was still ahead of the Morg and his journey to Falcon’s Mount would not take him through particularly dangerous land. He still had time, for the Morg would sack Serranguard before they turned their attention to Falcon’s Mount.
Delm forest was ancient, cool and full of bird-song. Once, before the Ennadil and the Orinians had come to these shores, wood sprites were said to have dwelt here. It was a place of timeless tranquility—and Lassendil’s battered soul welcomed the forest’s peace.
It was not long before Lassendil realized he was not the only traveler through Delm Forest that day. Two others had recently passed this way, and recently. Their tracks were still fresh. Lassendil smiled; faintly relieved he had company. He guessed they were not far ahead of him, and glad to have found a new purpose, Lassendil set off after them.
Jennadil and Gywna travelled deep into Delm Forest. They had decided to travel northeast towards Falcon’s Mount rather than Serranguard, agreeing that, since the Morg were advancing with terrifying speed, it was best to travel directly northeast. There, Falcon’s Mount would be gathering its defenses against the enemy.
They had quenched their thirst from the lake but started the journey on empty stomachs. Their escape from Brenna had been too rushed to take provisions and Gywna’s stomach growled as she walked. Mid-morning, they found a growth of blackberries and ate hungrily before filling their cloak pockets for later. However, berries did not satisfy their hunger for long and by mid-afternoon Gywna’s head was spinning—she had never gone so long without food.
Jennadil strode ahead of her in silence and when she attempted conversation, he replied in monosyllables. As the afternoon wore on, rain clouds rolled in overhead. The wizard peered up at the darkening sky and announced it would be a good idea to make camp, light a fire and find some food.
“Why don’t you put that sword of yours to use,” he said as he gathered dry wood for a fire.
“What?” Gywna stared at him. “This sword is for combat, not hunting.”
Jennadil raised an eyebrow in reply and continued gathering wood. Gywna watched, with mounting irritation as he piled wood up for a fire. He tapped his staff twice on the ground and a green flash exploded from its handle, hitting the pile of wood. Soon a fire was crackling nicely but they had no food to cook on it.
Finally, Gywna could keep silent no longer. “Look, you’re a man are you not? All men should know how to hunt. Go and catch us some food!”
For the first time since they had met, the wizard’s face lost its good humor; his eyes flashed, his mouth thinned and his neatly trimmed beard formed a point at his chin, giving him a demonic appearance.
“Wizards are not trained to hunt—we are scholars of sorcery,” he replied through gritted teeth.
“Well then, you’re quite useless!” Gywna shot back haughtily.
Jennadil snorted, turned his back on her and stormed off, shouting over his shoulder as he went. “Well at least collect some more fire-wood instead of sitting on your fat rear-end like royalty!”
Gywna could not believe he had spoken to her so rudely—if they had been at Serranguard she would have had him flogged for that.
She cursed the wizard and she went in search of firewood, returning a short time later with her arms full of dry twigs. However, there was no sign of Jennadil. She added some wood to the fire and peered up at
the tempestuous sky. The air crackled with energy, warning that a violent storm was on its way.
Finally, Jennadil reappeared. He was disheveled with grass and twigs in his hair; and he was also empty handed.
“You didn’t catch anything?” Gywna’s voice rose as she faced him. “You’ve been away for ages and you didn’t even catch a bird. I’ve never met such a useless excuse for a man. If it wasn’t for—”
“Enough!” Jennadil bellowed. “I didn’t ask you to tag along. One more insult and I’ll leave you to fend for yourself.”
“I wouldn’t be any worse off!” Gywna shouted back. “If I had wanted to travel with a maiden I would have chosen one back in Brenna. Quite frankly, a handmaid would have been more use!”
“I should have let you drown in the lake,” Jennadil roared at her, his hazel-green eyes narrow slits of rage. “Better yet, I should have let that oaf carry you off in Brenna. Maybe he would have taught you some manners.”
Gywna drew her arm back, preparing to strike the wizard across the face, when something rustled in the undergrowth to their left. In an instant, Jennadil had his staff at the ready and Gywna drew her sword.
A man emerged from the trees. In one hand, he held the back legs of three dead rabbits, and the other he held palm up in a gesture of peace. He was a tall, lithe Ennadil, dressed in forest green. Handsome and delicately featured, he carried a bow and arrow on his back and a sword at his side.
“Have no fear,” he said with a smile. “I thought I should intervene before you killed each other. I believe we’re traveling the same way and I have enough food to share with you.” He held up the rabbits. “Am I welcome?”
Jennadil relaxed and lowered his staff. “You are more than welcome. A few moments more with this shrew and I won’t be held accountable for my actions.”
Gywna sheathed her sword and glowered at the wizard. “Neither will I,” she snarled at him.
The aroma of roasting meat made Jennadil’s mouth water. Such was his hunger, he gazed at the rabbits while they roasted, willing them to be ready. Eventually, their new companion removed the rabbits from their spit. Grease ran down Jennadil’s chin as he attacked the meat. All three of them ate ravenously and it was only when they had picked their rabbit carcasses clean that they bothered to acknowledge each other once more.
The Children of Isador Page 9
