Janril Norin was sharpening his sword, face impassive and eyes empty as he worked the stone along the edge. Beyond him Master Rensial tended their two remaining horses, the veteran stallion and the mare. Recently he had expressed his desire to breed them, providing a new blood-line for the Order’s stables, the state of which drew his constant criticism. “Too much straw on the floor,” he tutted. “Walls haven’t been whitewashed in months.”
“We were wondering, brother,” Arendil said, breaking into his reverie. “About the Volarians.”
“What about them?”
“Where they come from. Davoka says you’ve been there. Her ladyship thinks they all come from the same huge city, whilst my grandfather said their empire covered half the world.”
“It’s a big place,” Frentis said. “And Volar is said to be the greatest city in the world, though I’ve never seen it.”
“But you saw their empire?” Illian asked. “You saw what makes them into these beasts.”
“I saw cities, and roads of marvellous construction. I saw cruelty and greed, but I’ve seen them here too. I saw a people live a life that was strange in many ways, but also much the same as anywhere else.”
“Then why are they so cruel?” There was an earnestness to the girl’s face, an honest desire to know.
“Cruelty is in all of us,” he said. “But they made it a virtue.”
He returned his gaze to the camp, forcing himself to count every soul in sight. Forty-three, and eight hounds. This is not an army, and I am not a Battle Lord.
He stood up, hefting his sword and bow. “We’re leaving,” he said, loud enough to draw Davoka’s attention.
“Moving camp again, brother?” Arendil asked with a note of weary reluctance.
“No. We’re leaving the forest. There is no victory to be won here. It’s time to flee.”
Janril stood with the old Renfaelin sword resting on his shoulder. He carried no pack or canteen, nothing that would sustain him.
“You don’t have to do this,” Frentis told him. “I would hear you sing again, my friend. This land was always richer for it.”
The onetime minstrel just cast an impassive glance over his face then turned to walk away. He went a few yards before pausing to turn back. “Her name was Ellora,” he said. “She died with my child inside her.”
He resumed walking, soon lost from sight in the trees.
It wasn’t easy, the master’s eyes seemed about to birth tears as Frentis explained, but eventually he managed to persuade him to loose the horses, sending them north in the hope the hunters would follow the trail. “Too easily tracked, Master,” he said. “They have horses at the Pass, and I’m sure Master Sollis will have need of the finest stable master in the Realm.”
He ordered a westward course, intending to hook north having left more false trails for their pursuers. Frentis and Davoka brought up the rear whilst Ermund scouted ahead with Arendil and Illian, the girl’s ear now as well tuned to the song of the forest as any brother or huntsman. They covered at least twenty miles by nightfall, a good day’s march in the Urlish.
They made a silent and fireless camp, huddling together for warmth. “Stop fidgeting!” Illian hissed at Arendil as they lay side by side next to a fallen birch trunk.
“Your bloody dog keeps licking my face,” the boy returned in a sullen whisper.
Frentis sat watch beside Grealin, eyes and ears alive to the forest’s song. The forest appears black at night, Master Hutril had said years ago. An endless void. But it’s more alive in the dark than the daylight. Still your fears and know it as a friend, for it’s the best watchman you ever met.
In the tree tops an owl hooted at its neighbour with trustworthy regularity. The wind brought only the scents of the forest, free of man’s sweat or the sweeter tang of dog. The void was empty of any telltale gleam of metal in moonlight.
“Open country to the north, brother,” Grealin said in the softest whisper. “And near a hundred and fifty miles of Renfael to traverse before we reach the pass. The risk is great.”
“I know, Aspect. But it’s greater here.”
They kept a westward course for the next day, Frentis ordering a turn north come evening. He spent an hour continuing west alone but for Slasher and Ermund, laying a trail of broken branches and conspicuous boot and paw prints. They kept at it until nightfall then moved north to find the river, following the bank to a shallow ford. The others were waiting on the other side, Davoka stepping from the shadows with spear ready and Illian rising from a bush, crossbow in hand.
“We move on at dawn,” Frentis said, slumping at the foot of a pine trunk and letting sleep claim him for the few hours left until daylight.
Morning brought a new scent on the wind, musty and acrid. Frentis called to Illian and nodded at the pine trunk. The girl handed Arendil her crossbow and began to climb, scampering from branch to branch until she had reached the highest point.
“Fire,” she reported on returning to earth. “Lots of fire.”
“Where?” Davoka asked.
“Everywhere. All around. The largest one is burning to the south of us though, just a little ways from the city.”
Frentis exchanged a glance with Grealin. Darnel burns the Urlish just for us?
“What do we do?” Draker asked, unable to keep the old whine from his voice.
“What every other living thing is this forest is doing.” Frentis slung his bow across his back and began to throw away anything that might slow him down. “We run.”
He ran them for an hour at a time, taking the lead and setting a punishing pace. Some of the fighters flagged, collapsing from the strain, but he allowed no lingering, setting Davoka to haul them along, promising direst punishment if they fell out again. All the time the smell of smoke grew thicker, the first columns rising to stain the sky through breaks in tree cover. Predictably, Grealin found the pace the hardest to bear, huffing along behind with sweat streaming over his fleshy face. But he voiced no complaint and kept on his feet until nightfall.
Illian climbed another tree as the sun waned, her slight form black against an orange sky as she surveyed the forest. “It’s just one big fire to the south now,” she said. “You can’t see the city for it, the flames are so high. There’s another one almost as big to the west.”
“Ahead of us?” Frentis asked.
She gave a grim nod. “Still patchy. But it’s growing.”
“Then we can’t linger. Move in a line and stay together. When the smoke gets thick join hands.”
They felt the heat build after the first mile, a pall of cinder-rich smoke descending soon after, bringing coughs and retching as they stumbled forward hand in hand. Frentis had hold of Illian whilst she held to Arendil. He was forced to stop frequently to peer ahead, looking for a path free from the orange glow of flame. Occasionally a deer or wild boar would come racing through the haze, lost to view before he could discern any escape route their senses may have revealed.
They were following a narrow trail when a great crack told of a falling tree, a tall pine descending to block their path, wreathed in flame from end to end. Frentis looked about for another path, seeing only the orange glow on all sides. He pulled Illian closer, obliged to shout into her ear against the fire’s roar. “Tell the Aspect to come to the head of the line!”
Grealin appeared shortly after, the sweat now a constant slick over his face. Frentis pointed at the blazing pine trunk with a questioning glance. The Aspect stared at it for a moment then stepped forward with a resigned grimace. He raised both hands, fingers spread wide, his shoulders hunched as if straining against an invisible wall.
For a second nothing happened, then the pine trunk trembled, shuddered and burst apart, scattering burning splinters in all directions. Grealin fell to his knees, gasping and retching in the smoke, blood pouring from his nose. He waved away Frentis’s helping hand and gestured impatiently for him to move on.