Aurian

36 Battle in the Wildwood

Late at night, Vannor walked with his daughter Zanna, along the torchlit shingle beach in the smugglers’ great cavern. Fragments of shell crunched softly beneath their feet, and the only other sound was a hushed, soothing sea song as the waters lapped gently against the sheer walls at the rear and farther side of the cave. The companionable silence was broken by Vannor’s sigh. His reunion with Antor and his daughter had been joyous, but the brief time spent here with them had flown—and tomorrow he would be leaving again.

“Cheer up, Dad.” Zanna squeezed his hand, much to Vannor’s chagrin. Why, he should have been consoling her\ But his middle child, just turned sixteen, possessed common sense far beyond her years.

She was his favorite, taking after him in all ways—including looks, unfortunately. He smiled at her, taking in her sturdy, compact little body, her plain, pleasant face, and her brown hair, pulled back from her face in no-nonsense braids. “I thought you’d want to go with me,” he said.

“You should have taught me to fight, then, like the Lady Aurian,” Zanna replied. “The maidenly arts that caught my sister a husband are wasted on me.” She sighed, betraying her true feelings. “I wish I could come—but I’d only hold you back. Besides, I’ll be of more use here.”

Vannor put his arm around her, hugging her close to his side. “Well, you seem to have it all thought out. Do you have any plans your old dad should know about?”

Zanna smiled, a secret little smile that added a new maturity to her face. “I have, indeed, but you must promise to hear me out before you start yelling!”

“All right.” The merchant wondered what she was up to.

Zanna hesitated for a moment. “I’m going to marry Yanis.”

“What? Are you out of your mind? Over my dead body will you wed some base-born outlaw—”

“Dad, you said yould-jiear me out! You can’t be choosy now,” Zanna reminded him. “You’re an outlaw, too! It may not be what you want, but don’t you see the sense of it? I’m not cut out to be a merchant’s wife, all decorative and ladylike.” She made a wry face. “Besides, you know how merchants go for looks. You can’t afford a dowry that would tempt one to take me—and I’m needed here. Yanis has been struggling since he took over. Oh, he’s brave, and full of ideas, but he doesn’t know how to plan\ But I do—I’m not your daughter for nothing!

Vannor gaped at her, astonished and—reluctantly—impressed. “But he’s twice your age!” he objected.

“Not even thirty,” Zanna corrected swiftly, “and you have no room to talk about age differences!” Vannor flinched, knowing her vehement disapproval of Sara, and changed the subject hastily. “Was this his idea?”

“Certainly not!” Zanna was all indignation. “But Remana will help me. She thinks it’s time he married—”

“Hold on! You mean Yanis doesn’t know about this?”

Grinning, Zanna shook her head. “No—but I don’t plan to let that stop me’. Dulsina says—”

“Dulsina again!” Vannor growled. “I might have known she’d be in this somewhere!” He tried to quell the fond smile that was creeping over his face at the thought of his indomitable housekeeper. When he was outlawed, Dulsina had insisted on accompanying him into the sewers, where she had proceeded to organize and mother his ragtag band of rebels, learning to shoot a bow and wield a deadly knife in the process, with the same calm interest tharshe would have shown in trying out a new recipe. Now she had come with him to join the Nightrun-ners, and was reorganizing the lives of his family again, as though she had never left off.

Vannor shook his head. “Dear Gods!” He suddenly found himself ceasing to worry about his levelheaded daughter. His sympathies swung instead toward the unsuspecting leader of the smugglers. Poor Yanis didn’t stand a chance!

“Come along, Dad.” Zanna tugged at his arm. “Here comes Parric, with the others. It’s time to say goodbye.”

“And that’s another thing—” Vannor began—and shut his mouth abruptly. He had no right to burden his daughter with his doubts about Parric’s pigheaded insistence on traveling south, in search of Aurian. He should be coming with us, to the Valley, Vannor thought. Even supposing the Lady will help us, how will I set up a rebel base without his help? It’s all very well to say I’ll have Hargorn to help me, but the man is a soldier, not a strategist! I just don’t have the military experience for this —and Parric is going off to get himself killed for nothing!

The Cavalrymaster came out of the opening that led from his lodgings, and smiled to see Zanna with her dad. He was glad the little lass had come to say farewell—he’d grown right fond of her. Why, if he’d been a few years younger . . . Parric stifled the thought. Vannor wouldn’t stand for a randy soldier tumbling his favorite daughter! Besides, her attentions were fixed elsewhere—and good luck to her. Yanis wasn’t bright, but he was a handsome catch, and Parric knew whose hands would hold the reins of that marriage! He chuckled, wondering if she’d had the chance to break the news to her father. By the stunned look on Vannor’s face, it seemed she had. Sure enough, as he approached, Zanna gave him a sly wink behind her father’s back. Parric fought to keep a straight face, feeling absurdly pleased that the lass had chosen to confide in him. Even if it did imply that she saw him in a more fatherly role than he liked . . .

“Better get a move on!” Idris, the weatherbeaten, pinch-faced captain of the ship that was to take them south, hailed them from the deck of his vessel. “The tide won’t wait, you know!” Parric grinned and made an obscene gesture at him, before turning to Vannor.

The merchant looked troubled, as he had done since the Cavalrymaster had first broached what Vannor called “this crazy scheme.” Parric decided to beat him to it, for he had no time to argue the whole thing out again. “It’s all right, Vannor,” he said firmly. “You’ll manage, and I’ll manage—and I’ll be back as soon as I’ve found Aurian.”

“If you find her,” Vannor muttered doubtfully. “You have no idea how big the Southern Kingdoms are—not to mention the hostile, warlike nature of the Southerners!”

“But that’s why Aurian needs my help . . .” Parric might as well not have spoken.

“Added to that, you’ve saddled yourself with an old man and a mad Mage,” V§njnor went on, but to Parric’s relief, he shut his mouth hastily as the old man and the mad Mage came over the sands toward them with Sangra, who had refused to be left out of the expedition.

“Ready to go?” the warrior asked cheerfully. Parric could have kissed her—but that could wait. “Get them aboard, love,” he told her, “I’m just coming.” He turned back to Vannor. “You’re right about one thing—I wish we could have persuaded Elewin to stay behind. The journey here took it out of him, and he’s in no fit state to go traipsing around the South.”

Vannor shrugged. “Meiriel will be in good company— you’re all bloody mad! I don’t know why Elewin is so sure that he’s the only one who can take care of her—she’s been lucid enough since she came with us.” Suddenly his gruff reserve broke, and he flung his arms around Parric with tears in his eyes. “I’ll miss you, you idiot,” he muttered. “Take care of yourself—and for the sake of all the Gods, come back safe.”

“Count on it.” Parric returned the hug, his own voice choked with emotion. “Don’t worry about commanding the troops, Vannor. They know their business, and they’ll keep yon right. Besides, once you’ve found Eilin, she’ll give you the help you need. I’ll be back before you know it, and what’s more, I’ll bring that wife of yours with me.”

“I hope so, Parric, I truly hope so.”

The following evening, Vannor stood with Dulsina and Zanna on the grassy clifltop as the pallid sun set over the hills behind him. The air was chill with the unnatural winter that had lingered this year, but the view was glorious. Below and to his right was a pale sweep of crescent beach, embraced by cliffs and cradling the calm, shining sea. Some half-league distant on the opposite horn of the crescent was a green knoll, crowned by a stark and sinister standing stone. Directly below the merchant’s feet, a vee-shaped niche hid the beginnings of a narrow crumbling path that descended the cliff. Apart from the secret tunnel for the horses, this perilous, well-guarded ledge was the only landward access to the smugglers’ stronghold.

“Having second thoughts?” Yanis approached, panting from his climb up the steep path. “You ought to,” the smuggler went on. “Why take your folk inland, Vannor? It’s safer here, and you’re welcome to stay. Your children are brokenhearted that you’re leaving them again.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling him,” Dulsina put in.

The merchant sighed. “This place is no good to us as a fighting base, Dulsina, as you very well know! All these objections are only because I wouldn’t let you come!”

Dulsina shrugged, and raised an eyebrow. “Your mistake, Vannor,” she said serenely. Vannor scowled, wishing they would leave him alone. It was bad enough parting from his children again. Tney were all he had, now . . . Nonsense, he told himself. Sara is with Aurian, and she’ll be all right . . . And Parric had promised to bring her back. Vannor hated to admit that this was really why he had allowed the Cavalrymaster to talk him into his crazy scheme.

“Anyway, Yanis,” he said, picking up the thread of the conversation. “It’s my children and your people that I’m thinking of. They’ll be safer if we’re away from here.”

“But the Valley has an evil reputation now,” Yanis protested. “They say the Mage Davorshan was killed there.”

“That’s exactly why I’m going! Davorshan’s death was no accident, I’m sure. After what happened to Aurian and Forral, the Lady will protect us—you can count on that.”

“But the risk in getting there! Angos is combing the countryside looking for you!”

“We’ll be careful. And the Valley is a far better base for us —more central, and nearer the city.”

“That’s what worries me,” Yanis said glumly. “Well, I’ll let you go. If we hear any news of Parric in the south, I’ll try to get word to you. The Gods go with you, my friend. And don’t worry, I’ll take care of your children.”

“Goodbye, Yanis—and my thanks for all you’ve done,” Vannor told him, reflecting that in the case of one of his children, it might end up being the other way around.

“Take care of yourself,” Dulsina told the merchant, “since I won’t be there to do it for you!” she added tartly.

“Goodbye, Dulsina.” Vannor hugged her. “Take care of Zanna for me, won’t you?”

“As if Zanna couldn’t take care of herself!” the housekeeper snorted. “It’s you idiot men I’m worried about!” With that, she left him to say his farewells to Zanna.

But there was little need for words between father and daughter. They had said it all already. “Don’t you dare marry that smuggler of yours before I get back!” he teased her gruffly. “That’s a wedding I don’t want to miss!”

Zanna hugged him. “Then you’d best get a move on, Dad.” She looked up at him through her tears. “I don’t plan to wait forever, you know!” For a long moment they looked at each other. Zanna bit her lip, and her arms around him tightened. “Bye, dad.” She whirled, and was gone.

The merchant turned away, back to his waiting rebels. Perhaps it was the confusion of the departure, perhaps it was the tears in his eyes—but he never noticed that he was one man short.

As soon as Vannor’s troop had vanished over the nearest rise, the gorse that concealed the horses’ tunnel parted. Zanna emerged, followed by Dulsina, dressed in warrior’s gear—and the grizzled veteran Hargorn, carrying two packs. He looked at them and shook his head. “The Gods know why I let you talk me into this,” he sighed. “Vannor will have my bollocks off— Begging your pardon,” he added hastily, to a frigid look from Dulsina.

Zanna grinned. “It’s because you love us,” she teased him. “Are you ready, Dulsina?”

The housekeeper smiled wryly. “I hope my old walking muscles come back quickly,” she said dubiously.

“With respect, ma’am, they had better!” Hargorn snorted. “We can’t afford to let you slow us up—and you’d better hurry, if we want to catch the others now! Vannor won’t notice if we slip in quiet, at the back.”

“Don’t worry, Hargorn. If Vannor can do it, then so can I. The man hasn’t walked anywhere in years!” With a hug for Zanna, Dulsina shouldered the pack, and raised her eyes heavenward. “The things I do for Vannor,” she sighed.

“The things you do for love, you mean,” Zanna murmured softly, as Dulsina strode away into the dusk.

Smiling, she began to pick her way back down the cliff to find Yanis.

Where in the Pits of Torment are we? Vannor wondered. The partings with his family and friends seemed like a long-ago dream. The rebels had been wandering for days on these bare, blighted moors that stretched from the sea to Eilin’s Vale. Because they had been forced to keep to the winding valleys for concealment from the searching bands of mercenaries—far more numerous than Vannor had expected—they had soon become lost. And now they were doubly lost in this pitch-black nighr, for clouds had dropped to the hills, shrouding them in a thick clinging mist that brushed the merchant’s face like cold cobwebs.

Vannor curbed, as he’d been cursing for days. What had the Magefolk done to the weather? By the calendar, it should be haytime going on harvest, and these hills should be basking in sunshine, swathed in the vivid green of young bracken and the cloudy purple of early heather, the sky a deep blue bowl filled with the wild, bubbling joy of the skylark’s song. But spring had never come this year, let alone summer, and the land was withered and sere. People would be starving now, Vannor thought. Those who had died in the Night of the Wraiths might have been the lucky ones.

The grim, wintry weather preyed on the merchant’s spirits, sapping his courage and hope. If only Parric were here, with his military skills and unquenchable spirits! He wouldn’t have got them lost in a fog! If they had had horses, instead of having to make this slow and winding journey on foot, they could have reached the sanctuary of the Valley days ago! But there were no horses to be had. The smugglers had not had enough to supply them, and most of the others had probably been eaten already, Vannor suspected. Parric had trusted him to take care of the rebels—and a fine mess he was making of it! “I’m no good at this!” he muttered helplessly. “Oh Parric, why did you have to go?”

In desperation, Vannor had left his band and crept to the top of this hill, hoping to pierce the mist that lay in the Valley like a deep gray river. But it was no good. Even up here, he could see nothing. “Fional? Hargorn?” he whispered to the scouts who had accompanied him. There was no reply. Confound them! Had he not warned them to stay close? Sound carried in fog, and he dared not call out to them. The hills were alive with Angos’s soldiery. If they were lost, there would be no chance of finding them_JTL this murk. Angry at their stupidity and worrying about their safety, he set off down the hill to rejoin his troop.

Vannor had walked for some time before the dreadful truth dawned on him. His scouts were not lost—he was! He had reached level ground long ago, sure he was heading the right way—but there was neither sight nor sound of the rebels. Van-nor’s heart began to thunder, and a clammy sweat trickled between his shoulder blades. When he had been sure he was heading in the right direction, he’d been all right, but now . . . The cloying mist swirled around him, confusing him beyond all hope of finding his bearings. Vannor choked on panic. Was the ground really level beneath his feet? Was he moving in the wrong direction, and heading straight into the arms of the enemy? He fought a desperate battle with himself to keep from running blindly into the darkness, fleeing from the fear that threatened to consume him . . . With an effort, Vannor got hold of himself. Steady, he thought. Calm down, you fool. What would Parric have done in this situation? He wouldn’t have got himself lost, for a start—but that’s no comfort!

He stopped and took a swig from his waterflask, wishing it contained the fiery liquor he used to keep at home. What now? He could wait here until the mist cleared or dawn came, whichever happened sooner. Or he could try to retrace his steps, in the hope that he would blunder into his troop. He knew the most sensible course was to stay put, but the cold was piercing and inactivity galled him, forcing his mind into futile imaginings. Was that a sound over there? Or that way? Was it his people? Or the enemy? Again and again he was on the verge of racing after illusory noises, though common sense told him that he risked losing himself even more completely on these vast stretches of moorland. In the end, with his nerves frayed to breaking, Vannor gave up. Better to be moving, he decided, to try to retrace his steps. At least that must surely bring him closer to his people. Turning himself carefully to face back the way he had come, Vannor set off again into the fog.

Damn and blast it! The tilt of the ground beneath his feet and the strain on his thighs were no illusion. For some time, Vannor had been wandering uphill again—a hill far steeper than the one he’d climbed before! How could it have happened? He’d been so careful! Dismayed and disgusted with himself, the merchant sat down heavily and put his head into his hands. It was no good. Maybe he could think more clearly if he rested a little.

Vannor sat up with a jerk. It was still foggy but there was dingy gray light around him, and he could see yellowish, withered turf for a few feet around where he sat. He must have dozed! Then he heard again the faint noise that had awakened him. From somewhere on the hillside above him, the sounds of fighting carried, through the fog. His fear for his troops churning in his belly, Vannor scrambled to his feet and ran, with drawn sword, up the incline.

The steep slope seemed to stretch on forever, but the clash of battle was growing in his ears. At last,

Vannor saw vague, dark shapes ahead of him. Distance was deceptive in the mist, and he was into their clutching limbs before he knew it. Trees! Thank the Gods! There was only one place on this grim moor that boasted trees. He must be near the edge of the Valley. But he could hear the fighting ahead of him, its noise still undimin-ished. Flinging up an arm to protect his face from the tangle of springy branches, Vannor began to force his way through.

Flinging caution aside, the merchant crashed heedlessly through the undergrowth until finally he broke through into a clearing where the sound of fighting was loud ahead. “Halt, Vannor—traitor and outlaw!” The voice was loud and harsh. Vannor stopped, lowering the arm that obscured his vision. From the trees came a ring of unshaven, flint-eyed mercenaries, bristling with naked steel.

“Drop your sword.” The circle parted and Angos stepped forth, cold, callous amusement on his face. “Some rebel!” he said, sneering. “You never stood a chance, you fool.”

Almost of its own volition, the sword fell from Vannor’s numb hand. He had failed his people! Parric had been wrong to trust him! In the forest, the sounds of battle faltered, and ceased. One by one, the rebels were pushed into the clearing, their numbers fewer than before, the merchant saw with a sinking heart. Their hands were bound behind them, and they were forced to kneel on the ground at swordpoint. Vannor’s gaze searched the demoralized captives, picking out faces—until he saw one face that turjjed him cold with horror. There—uncloaked and unmasked, her long black hair straggling across a bruised and filthy face—was Dulsina.

A blow from a mailed fist caught him hard across the face, sending Vannor staggering. Through swimming eyes, he saw Angos, standing over him, grinning evilly. “The Archmage wants you and Parric for questioning. If you survive, he has a nice little public execution planned.” His cold gaze flicked over the captured rebels. “What, no Parric? Has the little runt abandoned you? Or is he hiding elsewhere?” He shrugged. “If you know, we’ll get it out of you. If not, we’ll find him, never fear. I don’t think we need bother taking the rest of this scum, though. It’s not even worth notching good steel on them. Archers—”

The mercenary’s voice was drowned in a thunder of hoof-beats. Before Vannor’s eyes, Angos jerked and stiffened, his chest exploding in gouts of blood as though he’d been pierced by a sword. His body was tossed into the air, to land in a crumpled heap several yards away. Pandemonium broke out among the mercenaries, but before they could lift a sword or put arrow to bow, the trees around the clearing came to life. Boughs and roots writhed forward, clutching them in a deadly embrace. Thorny twigs gouged at eyes, and branches ripped soft bellies, spattering the ground with offal and gore. Then, drowning the screams of agony and the crack of breaking bones with their wild song of death, the wolves erupted into the clearing in a seething mass of gray.

It was over in seconds, though Vannor, taking in every detail of the hideous slaughter, knew that he had seen enough to furnish himself with endless hours of nightmares. As the wolves finished their bloody work, the frozen calm of shock left him, and he fell to his knees, doubled over with vomiting and moaning in terror.

Vannor opened his eyes to witness what his numbed brain had been trying to tell him for several minutes. The wolves and trees had known which people to take! The bloody remains of Angos and his men were strewn across the clearing. Not one had survived. But in the one clear space, the bound and terrified rebels huddled together, wild-eyed and trembling—but totally unscathed! Beside them stood the biggest of the wolves, alone now, for his companions had melted away into the forest. He pricked his ears questioningly at Vannor, whined—and wagged his tail!

Shaking his head in disbelief, the merchant approached the wolf, his hand outstretched. As he closed the distance between them, the animal backed away, his tail still wagging furiously. Vannor picked up a dagger from the discarded weapons that lay about the clearing, and having wiped it clean of blood on his cloak, he began to free the others. “Nobody hurt the wolf,” he warned in a low voice.

“Nobody hurt it?” someone muttered incredulously. “Nobody’s going near the bloody thing!”

There was a swell of nervous chuckles from among the rebels, and their courage gave Vannor the strength to take charge once more. He yanked Dulsina to her feet. “You,” he said sternly, “have some explaining to do!” He glared at his assembled troops. “In feet, it took a conspiracy to hide her all the time we were marching—so you all have some explaining to do!”

Everyone looked at Hargorn, and the veteran shrugged. “Well, Parric was depending on me to keep you right—and since you were trying to set up a permanent camp without a cook and quartermaster . . .” He grinned. “I couldn’t let you make a mistake like that now, could I?”

Luckily for Hargorn and Dulsina, an urgent whine took Vannor’s attention away from the miscreants. He looked around to see the wolf, still waiting patiently on the far edge of the clearing. Beyond him, the trees had somehow moved aside, leaving a clear path through the forest. The wolf turned and ran along the path, then stopped, looking back over his shoulder at Vannor. The merchant looked at his rebels and shrugged. “I don’t know what you think, but it looks to me as though we’re being welcomed.”

As the weary rebels followed the wolf toward the sanctuary of the Valley, D’arvan closed the ranks of trees behind them, concealing their passage and all signs of the carnage in the clearing. Maya was wiping her horn on the grass, cleansing Angos’s blood from the sparkling weapon. She looked wistfully at the departing back of her dear old friend Hargorn, and gave a sad little whinny. D!acv£n knew that she wanted to follow her former companions—and he knew how she felt. He laid a comforting arm across the unicorn’s warm, gleaming back, wishing the men could see him—wishing that he could talk to them, and tell them they were safe. He longed for companionship. The forest was proving a lonely place for its Guardian—and it must be worse for Maya. “Well, my love,” he said to the unicorn, “Hellorin told us to shelter the enemies of the Archmage —and I can’t think of anyone better than our old friends from the Garrison. And others will come in time. It may not be much of an army yet, but at least we’ve made a start.”

It was dusk by the time the tree had been felled and stripped of its branches. Parric watched from the rainswept beach as it was towed to the crippled ship by rowing boats. “Well, that’s it,” Idris said. “We’ll be off now, Parric, and do our repairs as we go.” He looked heartily relieved to be leaving this desolate place.

“But surely you’ll stay until the new mast is in place,” the Cavalry master protested.

“Not a chance, mate. Take you to the South, Yanis said— and that was all. I’m not stopping here until the bloody Horse-lords come, thank you very much! From now on, you’re on your own.” He spat into the sand. “Besides, I’ve my crew to think about. I’ve never seen such storms at this time of year. No, I’m running for home, and grateful.”

“But you know these people ...”

Idris raised his eyebrows in astonishment. “Who told you that? We trade with the Khazalim, farther south—we don’t know this lot at all. Bunch of savages, or so I’ve heard!”

Parric took a deep breath, counted to ten, then swearing a vile oath, he grabbed the smuggler captain by the throat. “Then why the bloody blazes didn’t you take us to the Khazalim?” he grated. Idris freed himself with a struggle and stepped back hastily, giving Parric a dirty look as he straightened his jerkin. “Because,” he said, “I’m not going any farther south in this weather—and I’m not taking that bloody Mage another inch! She’s been a pain in the arse all the way here, and she’s nearly had the crew in mutiny, with her orders and complaints! Besides, her sort are bad luck—look at the storms we’ve had, if you doubt it! I’m sorry, mate, but she’s all yours—and I wish you luck:with her!” With that, he got into the last boat. His men rowed away, fighting the boiling surge of the breakers, and leaving Parric fuming helplessly on the shore.

“Parric . . .” Sangra interrupted the Cavalrymaster’s heartfelt swearing. Taking his arm, she drew him away from the others. “Cursing won’t do any good, love. We must get the supplies they left us under cover, and Elewin needs a fire. He’s in a bad way.”

Parric nodded, knowing that she was right. During the unending misery of the storms, the old man had almost died from cold and seasickness—and Meiriel had refused to help him, haughtily insisting that it was not her business to waste her powers on Mortals.

They found an overhang—it was too shallow to be called a cave—among the rocks of the cove, and sent Meiriel and Elewin inside. Sangra began to haul the supplies into shelter, while Parric gathered driftwood. Looking at the sodden pile, he knew no Mortal could ever get it to light. And Elewin looked terrible. The Steward huddled, wracked with coughing, in the back of the shelter. Seeing his gray fitce and bloodless lips, Parric felt a pang of alarm. Remembering Aurian’s talents, he suggested to the Mage that she use her magic to light the fire.

Meiriel looked at him as though he were a cockroach—a particularly stupid cockroach, at that. “I can’t do Fire-magic,” she declared. “I’m a Healer, not a Fire-Mage.”

Something snapped inside Parric, He leapt forward, seizing the Mage and twisting one arm up behind her back. With the other he drew his knife, laying the blade across the exposed white skin of her neck. “If you’re a bloody Healer, then do your job,” he snapped. “Heal Elewin now—or I’ll slit your worthless throat!”

“Parric, don’t move!” Sangra’s quiet warning broke the tableau. The Cavalrymaster glanced up to see several strangers blocking the entrance to the shelter. They were warriors—there was no doubt about that. Their rain-darkened hair was long on both men and women, tied back for battle in intricate braids. Though they were small of stature, there was wiry strength in their knotted muscles, witnessed by the great swords that they carried. They were clad alike in jerkins and breeches of supple leather, and the men were clean-shaven. One of the women stepped forward, and spoke some words in a fluid, rolling tongue.

“That’s torn it!” Parric muttered. “I can’t understand a bloody word they say!” He felt his knife move against Meiriel’s throat as the Magewoman laughed harshly.

“I can,” she shrilled triumphantly. “She said put down your weapon, Parric. She said that we’re their prisoners.”