“Are you ready to ride?” said Ardal.
Nyam grunted something unintelligible, but Vaddi spoke for both of them. “We are.”
“We eat on the road,” said Fallarond, no less brusque than usual.
Vaddi went to the raised basin by the wall and tossed cold water over his face. Nyam was less eager to wash but did so with another grunt.
Ardal held out a scabbard of light leather from which the haft of a weapon protruded. “A gift for you,” he said. “Draw the blade.”
Vaddi did so, aware of the keen eye of Fallarond. It was an elven sword, made not from metal but from bronzewood, the prized wood of Aerenal. As Vaddi wrapped his fingers around the haft and turned the blade in the air, he saw it glow in the dawn light, its length decorated with the most intricate runes. They were of the same script as that of Erethindel, and as the blade passed through the air, it left a brief line of runes behind it, slowly winking out like embers.
“It is beautiful,” Vaddi said, feeling that somehow a part of him that had been missing for years had been recovered.
“It is both beautiful and terrible,” said Fallarond. “It pleases me to see that the blade might have been made for you. If you did not have elf blood, it would be no more than base wood in your hands.”
“Can you read the runes?” said Ardal.
“A little, though some are strange to me.”
“Do not speak them aloud. We cannot read them all. They are more than elf runes. Some are draconian. When you use the blade, the runes will empower you, but there is danger in them.”
Ardal turned to Nyam, who had been watching with interest. “We have no blade for you, Nyam Hordath, but while you ride and fight with us, you are under our protection.”
Nyam grinned, patting the haft of his own weapon. “I’ll put my trust in what I have, thank you. Cold steel has served me well enough.”
Fallarond motioned to the door. “Then let us go.”
Moments later they were out in the morning air, crossing a narrow courtyard to where the Deathguard was already mounted. In the light of day Vaddi saw that they, too, had faces either painted or tattooed to resemble grisly skulls, and more than a few of them bore scars along their faces and hands.
Other steeds had been prepared, and in silence Vaddi and the others mounted. Vaddi stroked the mane of the huge stallion that had been chosen for him, and he felt the vital energy flowing through the creature’s muscles and flanks.
The gates of the courtyard swung open, and the company, twenty strong, rode out into the mists of daybreak, hooves drumming on the streets as they made their swift way along the upper passages of the Shae Thoridor, bound for its edge and the sloping hills that curved away eastward to the new dawn. Aside from their swords, each of the Deathguard had a bow slung over his back, accompanied by a quiver full of arrows, their iridescent green feathers picking up the sunlight. Strapped to the flanks of their steeds were their shields, each embossed with the skull mask emblem of their station. Vaddi and Nyam had also been provided with shields, though these had the plain markings and sigils of the city painted upon them. Although there was no time on the rapid journey to study them, Vaddi could see that they were also made of wood, but of a type so hard that they must be almost impenetrable—bronzewood most likely, though they might’ve been densewood.
Once they were up on the higher slopes of the hills, the warriors tossed small loaves to and fro. It was like a game to them played at fantastic speed. They caught the loaves and tore pieces from them with their teeth, laughing musically as they chewed. Vaddi was thrown a half loaf and caught it instinctively, biting into its delicious flavour, savoring its heat. It needed no butter, for it almost melted in his mouth as he swallowed. He could feel his whole being reacting to it, as though he had been given a drug. But this was no drug, it was wholesome power—the clean, invigorating magic of the Aereni.
Beside him, hair streaming behind him, face enrapt by the thrill of the ride, Nyam was also tossed bread. He almost fumbled it but caught it and stuffed a thick chunk in his mouth, eyes streaming. He tried to shout his appreciation, but the words were lost in the chewing.
Once the bread had been eaten, the Aereni passed to each other a number of waterskins, and again Vaddi and Nyam partook. It was icy water, the purest they had yet tasted, but its effect was more potent than any wine.
“Wonderful! I am reborn!” Nyam cried to the wind, and the Deathguard around him smiled.
“How sad to be a man,” Ardal called to him, “to spend your life asleep except for moments such as these.” But he was smiling as he said it.
Nyam responded, but his words were lost in a spray of crumbs.
Vaddi was aware that their stallions rode at an unnatural rate, infused with powers that he could not begin to guess at. This was, after all, Aerenal, a land of magic so ancient and powerful that it surpassed almost all supernatural powers known in Khorvaire. What last vestiges of torpor had been forced into his veins by the tampering of Cellester were shredded in this almost ethereal ride, and he knew for the first time the awakening of his true nature. He felt the earth beneath him, the power of this ancient land, as if it not only spoke to him but claimed him. It was as though his very flesh had been molded from it. As he thought of Zemella and those who had stolen her, his anger arose afresh, fed by darker emotions, no less powerful than his new zest for life. The sword at his belt pulsed with energies that hungered for satisfaction.
An hour flew by, then two, but they seemed no more than the fleeting passage of seconds, as if the company had slipped out of time altogether and sped down some separate stream. The land around them was a blur, a rushing, whirling flicker of colors. From time to time Nyam looked across at Vaddi, his face crinkled up in wonder and sheer joy, like an adolescent revelling in unbridled freedom.
When the company at last stopped, taking cover in a small copse that overlooked a deep inlet far below them, Fallarond bid them all dismount.
“So soon?” said Nyam.
“It is mid-morning.” Vaddi indicated the sun.
Ardal joined them. “Fallarond sent watchers ahead of us last night. Their hawks will meet us here shortly.”
“How long before we reach the forest?” Vaddi asked.
Ardal pointed down the hillside. The inlet wound further eastward, its far shore very dark, as though the sunlight made little impact on us thick, endless forest. “That is the Jaelarthal Orioth, the Moonsword Jungle. We ride far through it until we reach the river Naalbarak, which is called the River of Whispering Evil, being a deeply cursed place. On its eastern shores, the Madwood begins. Naalbarak is one way into it, though it is a terrible, living thing and would test our sanity to its limit. It is a consolation that our enemies also risk much by entering the Madwood.”
“They come!” called one of the Deathguard.
Vaddi, Nyam, and Ardal turned to see two winged shapes plummeting from the skies, dropping like stones out of the sun. They were hawks, companions of the watchers who had gone on ahead the previous night. Fallarond stretched out his arm and both hawks alighted, talons gripping the arm, heads bowing to the Deathguard. Fallarond cocked his head, listening, reminiscent of a huge predatory bird himself. Then he handed the hawks to one of his warriors, who fed them with the meat of a fat lizard they had just killed.
Fallarond joined Vaddi and the others. “There is news. Thumeridor has been watching the far coast and the birds come from him. Zemella has been seen. She is alive, though a prisoner.”
“In the Madwood?” said Ardal.
“I fear so, but we are not so far behind. The Murughel who took her from Vortermars’s ship sailed around the east of Aerenal no more than half a day ahead of the ship that brought Vaddi and Nyam to Shae Thoridor. The Murughel landed in Valen Bay, at its southern tip. This was at dawn yesterday. There is a path there into the jungle. If we ride throughout the day and tonight, we can be there by dawn tomorrow.”