Chasing the Prophecy

by Brandon Mull

  Bowing his head, Nedwin closed his eyes. Galloran had given him specific instructions. He could remember his master’s sober expression as he spoke the words.

  “I have learned a precious word of power. Few know that I have been searching for it. Fewer know that I now possess it. This word is vital to our resistance of the emperor. Three syllables are now inscribed in locations known to my allies. I will tell you three others, which you must take to Nicholas of Rosbury. You must never divulge these syllables or let others know I shared them. Our lives, and the fate of Lyrian, depend on it. Should I fall, you must abandon the company and make your way home to Trensicourt with this knowledge. This is why I brought you with us, Nedwin. I regret bestowing this burden on one so young, but you are the most likely to succeed. Should I perish, you must not fail me on this last assignment. I need your word.”

  Nedwin had given his word. He remembered the syllables and was committed not to speak them aloud until he could do so privately to Nicholas. Galloran had known he could keep a secret. Galloran had known he could sneak away if everything went wrong. And Galloran had known that others would not imagine he had entrusted this vital intelligence to one so young.

  Nedwin opened his eyes. Galloran had been captured, not killed. He was alive. He had not yet truly fallen.

  Groddic knelt beside Galloran, applying salve to his face. Two men held him down, but he no longer struggled. The other men loitered nearby, evidently awestruck that their unconquerable adversary now lay helpless before them.

  Groddic stood up, his back to Nedwin. An owl hooted. Nedwin hefted the globe. If he could hit the conscriptor high on the back with an explosive sphere, most of the surrounding men would feel the blast. Groddic’s body should shield Galloran from the worst of it. All Nedwin had besides the sphere were a small crossbow and a knife. But with the men newly blinded and injured from the explosion, the knife and crossbow might be enough.

  Nedwin tried to muster the courage to burst from hiding, but doubts restrained him. What if he failed and got captured? The precious syllables would be lost. With Galloran in custody, Groddic and his men already had their prize. Nedwin felt confident that if he held still and kept quiet, he could eventually make his way back to Trensicourt and successfully deliver the essential message.

  He hesitated. The word of power might be important, but what would become of the resistance without Galloran? Nedwin tried to imagine living with himself if he did nothing to intervene.

  Galloran understood how much he mattered, both as a leader of the resistance and as a symbol of hope for all of Lyrian. But when his men had faced execution, he had put himself at risk. Didn’t he deserve to have his squire show similar courage?

  Nedwin silently eased himself out of his hiding place. If he failed, Galloran would regret having put his trust in him, and the cause he had fought for his entire life would be irreparably damaged. If he succeeded, Galloran could finish his mission and bring down the emperor. So Nedwin only had one option. He had to succeed.

  He ran forward swiftly and quietly. As he left the cover of the trees, a couple of heads turned toward him. Groddic still faced away from him, standing over Galloran. Nedwin was not as close as he would have preferred, but Groddic was about to turn, and his men were about to scramble.

  Nedwin threw the sphere with all his might. It flew true, straight at Groddic. But the conscriptor reacted to the stares of his men by turning and then catching the sphere in his right hand with an almost casual motion.

  Nedwin skidded to a halt.

  In order for the sphere to explode, the crystal casing needed to rupture. Groddic had caught it lightly.

  Raising his undersized crossbow, Nedwin sighted at the sphere, but an arrow hit Nedwin in the shoulder, and his shot went wild. As he fell, other arrows whizzed past him. On his back, the feathered shaft protruding grotesquely, Nedwin felt despair flooding over him. His master remained an injured prisoner, no vengeance had been achieved, and the invaluable secret Galloran had shared would never reach Nicholas! Enemies gathered around him. Burning with frustration and shame, Nedwin closed his eyes and waited for death.

  PROLOGUE

  A HERO FALLS

  Nearly Twenty Years Ago . . .

  An arrow hissed out of the night and thudded near the embers of the shielded campfire. Always a light sleeper, the young squire jerked awake. This close to Felrook it was a wonder he had dozed at all. Nedwin stayed low, holding his breath, and stared out into the darkness, scrutinizing the shadows beyond the shelter of their modest encampment. All was dark and still. Some of the men around him whispered and stirred.

  Prince Galloran had posted two sentries up in trees. The angle of the arrow showed that it had come from Malak. Nedwin regretted having glanced directly at the arrow, because the nearby embers from the fire had dulled his night vision. Listening intently to the quietness, he tried to will his eyes to penetrate deeper into the gloom.

  Malak would not have launched an arrow into camp unless enemies were almost upon them. Such an arrow was reserved as their most urgent distress signal, and Malak was no jittery novice. Quite the opposite. The twenty men Galloran had handpicked for this final mission were among the most seasoned and intimidating warriors in all of Lyrian. All were veterans of daring campaigns, all had shown an ability to prosper against incredible odds, and all were despised by the emperor.

  Nedwin grimly reflected that he was the sole exception. As squire to Galloran, he had been thrilled and honored to learn that he would join this noble company as the only participant who had not yet reached full manhood. He was no great soldier, no master woodsman—his only real specialty was that he knew how to sneak.

  Although Nedwin was scarcely thirteen years old, Galloran had already used him as a spy for years. Nedwin possessed a knack for quietly ferreting out information. He understood where to stand in a crowd, how to position himself where a conversation could barely be overheard, how to use his expression and posture to appear inattentive. He had a sense for when to hide, when to run, and when to appear obliviously engaged in some mundane task. At first Nedwin had brought Galloran unrequested information—suspicious murmurs overheard at court. As Galloran began to recognize his talent, he gave Nedwin secret assignments, and Nedwin had faithfully delivered.

  Despite his useful history, Nedwin would not have expected to be included on a campaign like this or to be entrusted with a secret like the one Galloran had privately shared. Faced with the sudden prospect of approaching enemies, Nedwin was relieved to find that he was not particularly afraid for his life. His main worry was disappointing his master.

  A strangled cry interrupted the silence. The voice might have been trying to shout “Flee!” or “Fly!” Nedwin listened intently as Malak’s unseen body crashed through branches on the way to the forest floor.

  While men around him staggered to their feet, drawing swords and fumbling with bows, Nedwin scurried away from the encampment. He moved using his hands and feet, springing more than crawling. Haste was so crucial that he allowed himself to make a little noise. Finally, he paused behind the trunk of a knobby old tree, wedging himself between a pair of thick, gnarled roots.

  The half moon came out from behind a cloud, spreading soft silver radiance over the scene. Before sunset, Galloran had chosen to bed down in the remains of a hall of an ancient warlord. The walls had tumbled down long ago; a few jagged remnants jutted up like haphazard tombstones. Lawson had built the modest fire in the ancient hearth, shielding the flames and trusting the darkness to hide the wispy smoke. Although the timeworn ruins were all but forgotten, and far from a path, they were still something of a landmark. Nedwin would have preferred a more anonymous campsite.

  By the ghostly moonlight Nedwin watched a barrage of arrows whisper out of the night, thunking against shields, clanging off armor, and also finding flesh. After three heavy volleys, armored swordsmen rushed into the camp. Galloran’s men raced forward to engage the attackers.

  Nedwin gaped at the m
asterful assault. Clouds had obscured the moon all night. How had their enemies synchronized the attack so perfectly? Darkness had disguised their approach until Malak had issued a late warning. Then the moon had come out just in time to help the enemy archers find targets and to make escape into the murky forest more difficult. Could such impeccable timing be ascribed to luck?

  Nedwin noticed a pair of bodyguards ushering Galloran away from the oncoming foes. Galloran appeared to be resisting, and Nedwin had to clap a hand over his mouth to prevent himself from yelling for him to run. If Galloran fell, all would be lost. The other men understood this—all were ready to die for him.

  Tursock of Meridon, a bear of a man who wielded a huge war hammer in each hand, charged the onrushing attackers. Lesser fighters would have struggled to employ either of his hammers using both hands, but Tursock’s strength was legendary, and he began to send opponents flying, crushing shields, helms, and bones. Other comrades of Galloran followed Tursock into the fray, each a champion capable of singlehandedly turning the tide of a battle. The overmatched attackers quickly succumbed to sword, ax, and spear.

  In the brief lull that followed, a fresh volley of arrows hissed from various angles. In a flash Nedwin understood that the foot soldiers had been a sacrificial ploy to draw Galloran’s men away from cover! Many of the archers had sighted on Tursock, who staggered and then dropped to his knees, the dark form of his bulky body suddenly imitating a pincushion.

  As shields were raised and Galloran’s men sought cover, manglers—huge creatures encased in spiky armor and fitted with a deadly variety of whirling blades—appeared out of the darkness. Elite soldiers—conscriptors and displacers—joined them. And arrows continued to fly with fatal accuracy.

  Galloran and his bodyguards had retreated into the woods out of view. Nedwin knew how hard it must be for his master to run while others fought to defend him.

  Tursock struggled to his feet as the manglers approached. With a tremendous clang he toppled the nearest one, denting its iron shell. A clamor resulted as his hammers battered another, even as a multitude of merciless blades penetrated his furry robes. As the manglers plowed into the other defenders, it became clear that many of the men lacked their full armor. Nedwin’s eyes widened in horror as men he had idolized his entire life began to fall.

  He tore his gaze from the grisly battle. He had to hide! Galloran had entrusted him with crucial information. His position behind the tree would not suffice. Scanning the vicinity, he spotted a hollow log. He was small enough to squirm inside. But the best hiding places had to be unpredictable. He glanced up. If all else failed, he could climb a tree. He knew how to do so quietly, creeping up to limbs that would seem unreachable to most. No, he wanted something better.

  Some distance away Nedwin observed a minor tangle of dead branches on the ground. Perfect. The branches did not appear to offer terrific cover, but if he wormed deep beneath them, took advantage of the shadows, and camouflaged himself using the surrounding foliage, he could become virtually invisible.

  Despite the distracting uproar of the battle, Nedwin stayed low and moved silently. There was no way to be sure who else was lurking in the woods. Since he had watched the arrows fly, he did not believe an archer was near his current location, but he had no guarantee.

  No armor slowed him. When stealth is your best advantage, armor and cumbersome weaponry become more a hindrance than a protection. He carried only a knife, a small crossbow, and one of the precious explosive spheres that Galloran had entrusted to his care.

  Nedwin made it to the deadfall and squirmed underneath, dry twigs crackling despite his best efforts. He brushed leaves and moist dirt over himself, moving efficiently. His position still provided a partial view of the skirmish. Breathing softly, he watched as archers converged on the remaining combatants, bows drawn, led by a very tall conscriptor who held a heavy iron rod.

  “Hold!” the tall conscriptor bellowed.

  Amazingly, the fighting stopped. Only five of Galloran’s men remained standing, winded and injured. Several manglers had fallen, as had many enemy soldiers. But plenty remained.

  “You are surrounded!” the tall conscriptor asserted, leaning on his metal war bar. “This is over! Throw down your arms!”

  Nedwin bit his bottom lip. The conscriptor was right. The archers were now near enough that they could easily eliminate the remaining defenders.

  “Stand down, lads,” Lawson growled, dropping his short sword.

  Nedwin scrunched his brow. Then he realized that taking five live prisoners would cost the attackers more time than five speedy executions. The current priority was to buy Galloran time to escape.

  The other defenders surrendered their weapons.

  “Where is Galloran?” the tall conscriptor asked, his deep voice carrying.

  “You’re misinformed,” Lawson replied. “He was never with us, Groddic. You’ll have to settle for us as your prize.”

  Nedwin felt his jaw dangling. The tall conscriptor was Groddic? He was the emperor’s right hand, the commander of the conscriptors. No wonder the attack had been so flawlessly coordinated!

  Groddic turned to face the woods, raising his powerful voice. “I am willing to wager that Galloran can still hear me! Furthermore, I expect he will not be content to cower in the woods as I execute his men one by one.”

  A jolt of panic coursed through Nedwin. Apparently, this conscriptor knew Galloran well. Nedwin wished Jasher were here. He and two other seedmen had gone ahead to scout the rest of their path to Felrook. Jasher might have been able to restrain Galloran or, that failing, might have successfully attacked Groddic himself. Could Groddic know that Jasher was currently absent? He had known when the moon would emerge. . . .

  “Surrender yourself, Galloran!” Groddic demanded. “Come forth now, and I swear that your men will survive. Do not force them to pay for your inept leadership!”

  Nedwin found a hand straying to the crystal globe Galloran had given him. What if he burst from hiding and threw the sphere at Groddic? No. He could not defeat the remaining foes alone, and if they caught him, they would have even more leverage to lure Galloran out of hiding.

  “Don’t listen!” Lawson cried. “Honor us by succeeding! We are proud to die for this cause!”

  Groddic made a small gesture, and multiple arrows pierced Lawson. The woodsman kept silent as he collapsed.

  “As he requested, your companion has died honorably!” Groddic called. “You can still save the other four. Do not hide behind the corpses of your friends! We will track you and find you either way. Torivors are aiding us. No man can escape them.”

  Groddic waited. His prisoners remained silent. Nedwin hoped his master was hurrying away.

  “I am not a patient man!” Groddic bellowed. “Time for another of your comrades to perish.”

  A blazing white flash suddenly brightened the night, followed by a thunderous boom. Nedwin closed his eyes and listened to the subsequent explosions. Galloran had taken the bait and was hurling explosive spheres at his enemies.

  After the explosions ceased, Nedwin opened his eyes, blinking in an attempt to dispel the afterimage of the initial flash. Those explosions must have destroyed several manglers and soldiers and left the survivors temporarily dazzled.

  As his vision returned, Nedwin saw his master engaging the enemy. He and his bodyguards would have shielded their eyes as they threw the spheres. They were seeing clearly while the others were half blind.

  One of the bodyguards, Alek, had taken up a position atop a heap of worn stones, and he now fired arrow after arrow with lethal accuracy. The other bodyguard used his battle-ax to protect Galloran, who stalked implacably among his enemies, slaying them at will.

  Nedwin could not see Groddic. Could the initial explosions have slain him? Could they have been so fortunate?

  Galloran’s captured men were resisting, but as the enemy soldiers recovered from the initial surprise, the rebellious prisoners began to fall. There were too many enemi
es! Alek went down, injured by a projectile. Galloran and his remaining bodyguard ended up back-to-back, fighting for their lives.

  When his bodyguard fell, Galloran charged forward, whirling and dodging and slashing, somehow carving a path through the crowd of opponents. Nedwin had never seen a man dispatch foes so efficiently. Against all odds, having rescued no men, Galloran might cut his way free. If he could just carve a path to the woods, he could leave behind not more than fifteen disorganized enemies. Galloran raged forward, his matchless sword cleaving helms and shearing through armor. He was going to escape! As had happened so many times before, despite his ill-advised bravado, Galloran would live to fight another day.

  “Face me, coward!” a deep voice bellowed. Limping toward Galloran, Groddic shoved his own men aside. He wore no helm, and it was clear that part of his face had been charred.

  “No,” Nedwin whispered. “Go.”

  Groddic continued on a course to intercept Galloran. If Galloran turned away from the towering conscriptor, he only needed to fight his way past a few more men, and he could be running through the woods.

  “Make way!” Groddic demanded, and those between him and Galloran hastened to comply.

  Run, Nedwin mouthed, willing his master to flee.

  Galloran hurled a knife at Groddic, which clanged off his rod. “Let’s see if you can give me more of a fight than your men did!” Groddic roared.

  Galloran charged.

  His sword glinting in the moonlight, Galloran pressed Groddic back. The conscriptor was barely quick enough to defend himself as the sword chimed against his war bar. Nedwin felt some of the tension leave his body.

  Galloran slashed Groddic across the waist. The conscriptor tripped and fell. As Galloran sprang forward to issue the killing stroke, Groddic flung what looked like a handful of dust into his face. Galloran staggered backward, his sword falling from his hands as he pawed at his eyes.

  Nedwin squeezed a branch as Galloran tumbled to the ground. What could Groddic have thrown at his master? Galloran was reacting like his face was on fire.