'If you'll excuse me, Gorstan.'
'With great pleasure,' replied the Dordovan. Selik nodded curtly and swept away, the hood of his cloak back over his face, two aides by his sides.
Gorstan watched him go then turned back towards the south,
head down, eyes fixed on the ripples on the largely still waters of the River Arl as it fed into the Southern Ocean.
He supposed Vuldaroq was right and that Selik was a useful ally for now. But he couldn't help thinking that Dordover would be forever mired by their now open contact with the Witch Hunters. Gorstan was nominally in charge of the one hundred mages and two hundred foot now billeted all around Arlen and it wasn't hard to sense the nervousness among the sleepy port's populace. And, with rumours of Xetesk on the way, backed by Protectors, he wondered whether it wasn't really Selik who was driving it all.
Vuldaroq was due in Arlen shortly and the sooner he arrived, the better.
Hirad, The Unknown and Ilkar led their four horses into Grey-thorne late in the evening. Cloud still hung heavy in the sky, the wind whipping across open land. Everywhere, the ravages of the wind had been evident as they had ridden in: flattened plains grass, interspersed with sections of dirt where stalks had been torn out at the roots and, here and there, the corpses of animals and even two people that none of the survivors had yet found.
They had been a middle-aged couple, huddled together inside a barn that had collapsed on top of them, crushing their bodies beneath thatch and beam. Ilkar had spotted them as The Raven had ridden past to see if they could help. All that was left for them was a burial.
Not long after leaving Thornewood, they'd come across a ragtag column of refugees heading south to Gyernath from Rache in the north. Rache had been struck by gales off the Northern Ocean and a massive mudslide from surrounding hills. It had engulfed most of the town, burying many alive. Those that had survived had fled, believing it would be safer in Gyernath, a warm, tranquil southern port. The Raven hadn't the heart to tell them that nowhere was safe.
The last leg of the journey had been slow and largely silent, each of them brooding on what they had seen and heard on the road. Greythorne was the worst of it.
As The Raven approached, the multiple lights had given them hope that the quiet market town had escaped the hurricane. But closer to, the gathering gloom could not obscure the reality.
What Hirad thought were sloping roofs revealed themselves as part-collapsed walls, leaving angles of broken stone spearing into the sky. The lattice of swept cobbled streets that ran to the market place was filled with rubble and debris. Dust blew through the town and the only roofs standing were tented ones, raised as emergency shelter.
The Raven had seen this sort of destruction before, albeit not on such a scale, but it was the people that brought home the horror of what had befallen Greythorne.
Although the hurricane must have struck two or three days before, the shock was only now setting in. Hirad could well imagine what had happened in its immediate aftermath. Adrenalin and panic would have banished fatigue as teams of survivors battled to find loved ones, free the trapped and salvage anything useful. Indeed, stacks of crates under skins and canvas spoke of the scale of the effort.
But the first night without proper shelter, sleeping in the ruins of once proud houses and, following that, the first dawn, would have sapped wills and leached morale away. Those awash with energy the previous night would have woken dark-eyed and exhausted as they looked on their town, and realised that all they were going to uncover now were bodies.
And this is how they were. Faces streaked with dirt, men and women worked as hard as they could but the spirit was gone. Eyes were wide and uncomprehending, still disbelieving.
They walked past a child wrapped in a blanket and sitting under a small, staked-out leather bivouac. No more than five, he was too traumatised even to cry. He just sat, stared and shivered. The Gods only knew what he had seen and the fate of his parents.
Walking into the main square, The Raven, who had been largely ignored, saw signs of the organisation behind the desperately slow but determined activity. The town hall and grain store were gone but for a corner which still supported windows, their glass reflecting lantern light like malevolent multifaceted eyes. An open-fronted marquee was pitched below it, lit up like daylight, and within, men and women swarmed around tables marking maps and parchments or prepared hot and cold food and drink.
In the centre of it all, sat a man bandaged around the right eye
and right leg. Even from twenty yards, he was pale and haggard, a deep-etched face, grey hair and a drained body fighting hard against exhaustion.
'We need to speak to him,' said The Unknown.
'You two go on. I'll find somewhere for the horses,' said Ilkar.
The Unknown nodded and he and Hirad walked into the warm tented space to be stopped by a young man, scared and tired.
'Out-of-towners? Come to help?' he asked, long blond hair hanging all over his pale, thin features.
'We are The Raven,' said The Unknown by way of reply. 'We're looking for Denser.'
The young man drew in a sharp breath.
'He said you'd be coming.' He nodded them on towards the bandaged seated man. Hirad put a hand on his shoulder.
'And yes, if we can do anything to help, we will.'
A smile brought a spark of life to his bloodshot eyes.
'Thank you,' he said. 'Thank you.'
The Unknown walked up to the man who still wore his mayoral chains and dark green cloak of office around his shoulders. He put out a shaky hand which The Unknown took and shook warmly.
'Gannan. At least you're alive.'
'Barely, Unknown, barely. I'd say it was good to see you but I fear your appearance here has little to do with salvage and much to do with the causes of all this mess.'
Ilkar had walked up to Hirad's shoulder.
'Is there anyone he doesn't know?' whispered Hirad.
'Apparently not,' replied the elf. 'I've left the horses with a local. There's a makeshift picket and stable in the west of the town.'
The Unknown ignored them.
'You've spoken to Denser?' he asked.
'Not at great length, but yes.' Gannan shifted on his chair, using both hands to adjust the position of his injured leg. 'He's very agitated, Unknown. Not making too much sense.'
'Where is he? We need to speak to him.'
Gannan gestured towards a table nearby. 'Some refreshment first, surely?'
'No,' said The Unknown. 'Save it for your people. We'll find our own.'
'He was behind the grain store a while back, wanting some peace and quiet. You could try there.'
'Thanks Gannan, we'll talk later.' He turned away. 'Hirad, you staying or coming?'
Hirad shrugged. 'I've got to talk to him sometime. It may as well be now.'
The Unknown nodded. 'Good.' He led the way outside.
The grain store had butted on to the town hall but was little more than a pile of rubble. Beyond it, to the north end of Greythorne, the activity and light were lessened, though the devastation was equally as severe. Clearly, there were simply not enough survivors to work everywhere.
But someone was moving through the debris, punctuating the windblown quiet with the shifting of slate and the grating of stone on stone.
'Denser,' said Ilkar, pointing away into the gloom.
For a time, Hirad couldn't make him out against the drab, dark background, then he saw his head move.
Denser was crouched in the rubble of what had probably been a house. Timbers were scattered around and slate, thatch and stone was piled where the corners of the walls still stood, defiant. He was holding something and, as they moved closer, they could see it was a tiny human hand.