Book One

The Eyes Of Myrl

Chapter Two

 

 

The Tordon Valley

             

           

As Rork Konal, Lord of Shadowfal, entered the ancient forest, he drew off his dented black iron helmet and hung it from his saddle. A north wind cooled the sweat on his brow and stirred the gnarled branches which mingled overhead to form a ceiling of red and gold. It was late in the season; the forth Moon of Gathering was fading and both oak and birch had donned their brilliant colors. Small yellow birch leaves fell across the slanting rays of morning sunlight like coins from the heavens. Wisps of white fog snaked like searching spirits between the irregular patches of fern and moss covered stones that carpeted the darkened woods.

 

 

Steely black scales of a warrior’s mail, scarred and pitted, covered Rork Konal’s chest and arms. His faded, crimson cloak had seen many seasons under Tavian skies. The garment and armor hung from his shoulders like trophies of honor, hinting at past battles; some won and some lost. The breath of his black warhorse misted the air while its massive hooves stepped gingerly between the jutting roots of ageless trees. Rork reined his mount to a halt as he approached the rim of the Tordon Valley. Beyond the foothills, the scent of a hundred campfires told him that the enemy was near. Less than a quarter league ahead, in the dim light of the rising sun, an army was preparing for battle.

 

A frigid blast of cold air caught Rork’s cloak and twisted it out behind him like a banner. He knew only too well that this wind, which blew strong and icy from the north, was a harbinger of the long dark days ahead. For the season of the first Ice Moon drew near and the snows of winter would soon follow.

 

Rork dismounted and tied the leather reins of his warhorse to a low branch. He made his way up to the crest of the final hill and looked down upon the encampment of King Zarek D’Myrl’s army. Rork calculated that there were at least fifteen hundred Myrl warriors gathered in the valley below. Hundreds of seasoned fighters from Zarek’s kingdom of Noircliff and the wild territories of Krigkarl had marched east to challenge the Konals for the lands of the eastern plains. As he observed the movements of the awakening horde, Rork realized that a large number of Orcs had recently joined the ranks of the enemy army. Zarek’s gold was plentiful it would seem, for Orcs, and the mercenaries of Krigkarl always demanded high payment for their fighting skills.

.

The shrilling of a Thistle Jay, in the woods to the east, alerted Rork that his men were approaching. A code of woodland calls enabled the warriors of Shadowfal to communicate with each other without disclosing their presence to the enemy. Rork quietly backed down the hill to this horse; mounting the black beast and fitting his helmet onto this head once more.

 

 Rork was a prince of Konal and a direct descendant of the first King, Konal. The Konals, like the savages of the Krigkarl and the warriors of the Myrl, were human and had originally inhabited only the northern shores of Tavia. But as their numbers had increased, the clan of Konal had invaded the territories to the southeast and west. They built huge walled cities and laid claim to the surrounding lands until nearly half of Tavia lived beneath the banner of the Black Bear. The Konal clan now boasted seven strongholds, and the fortress of Shadowfal was one of the most notable. For the fortress of Shadowfal protected the eastern pass of the Tordon Valley, blocking the armies of the West from invading the trade port of Saefhaven.

  

Rork’s younger brother, Fenn, emerged from the forest shadows, riding his grey warhorse. The black iron, winged helmet, which Fenn Konal wore into battle, made the novice warrior look like the war god, Athayr.

 

Rork suppressed a smile as he brought his mount to a halt beside Fenn “They are camped just over the ridge.” he reported “I count three brigades of Krigan and Myrl troops. There is also another one hundred or more Cog Orcs with this army. Tell father that I will lead my men through the center of the Orc’s ranks as soon as he and Bram begin their charge.”

 

Fenn nodded as he guided his stallion around with a jingle of bridle. “I shall meet you in the middle of the Orc camp, Rork.” he promised with a grin, before spurring his steed into a gallop and vanishing into the woods.

 

Drawing his long sword from its scabbard, Rork glanced towards the woods and saw that his Shadowfal knights, dressed in black and red, were appearing quietly along the tree line. A bold red banner, with the emblem of a Tavian black bear in its center, was raised halfway down the line. The number of his knights had greatly decreased since the campaign had begun three moons ago. Losses had been heavy in the last two weeks and Rork’s troops had been reduced to eight hundred and seventy infantry troops, one hundred fifteen mounted knights and one hundred fifty elven archers from the Giraloth territories.

 

 Silently, the vanguard of Giraloth archers moved into position along the ridge. The royal blue and gold of their uniforms glowed in the first rays of sunlight that filtered through the trees. The elves, who inhabited the Giraloth forest along the southeastern shores of Tavia, were a tall and slender race, mostly fair skinned, with long fine boned faces and delicate pointed ears. But for all their grace and seemingly frail features, the elves of Giraloth were fierce warriors with a strength and agility to match that of any Konal.

 

The commander of the Giraloth army, Valikar, appeared out of the mist several yards down the front line and signaled, with a single fluid motion of his arm, for his archers to make ready for attack. The Giraloth warriors drew and notched their arrows in practiced unison. Valikar was said to be a five hundred winters in age and had fought in more battles than there were leaves upon an oak tree. The ancient commander’s life had been devoted exclusively to training for battle and protecting the forest of Giraloth.

 

 As sons of the Konal king, Rork and his brothers had fostered with the elves at a very young age, learning the skills of battle under Valikar’s ever watchful eye.  The Konals counted Valikar as their closest ally and King Nilas never went into battle without seeking the elder elf’s counsel before hand.

 

Valikar’s silver hair, braided with golden beads and tied back for battle, stood out in sharp contrast to the gloom of the early morning forest. His deep blue cape billowed gracefully around him as he strode towards Rork.  Valikar’s longbow hung across his back, seven feet of richly carved wood, which seemed to dwarf his six foot height. As he approached Rork, the Giraloth commander fisted his hand to his chest in a salute “May the hand of Athayr guide you this day.” he greeted Rork.

 

“And you, my lord Valikar” The Konal Prince responded, clenching a gloved hand against his mail covered chest.

 

 “Silvermane has arrived with a company mounted troops.” Valikar informed Rork, referring to the leader of the dwarf regiment “I have placed them in the vanguard of the attack on the Krigan camp.” The Dwarves rode small, sturdy, mountain bred steeds. Though they were little more than ponies, compared to the warhorses of the Konals, the short legged horses were surprisingly fast and very nimble in close combat.

 

Rork grinned “I had feared that the dwarves had abandoned our cause until after the season of the Ice Moons.”

 

“Nay.” Valikar replied, sharing a rare smile with Rork. “Torgrim Silvermane would never miss a chance to use his axe on so large a force of Krigans and Cog Orcs. Decreasing their population is his favorite sport.”

     

“Tis true” Rork agreed. “To be an enemy of Silvermane’s Hearth is not a position I ever wish to find myself in.”

 

“Nor, I.”

 

The two warriors were silent, sharing a moment of quiet reflection, as their breath clouded the cold air between them. The energy of the pending battle surrounded them like the very mist of the morning woods. Many would die this day. Sacrificed, for the protection of their clan, to the God of war, Athayr.

 

“Fight well, son of Konal” Valikar offered a warrior’s blessing to Rork.

 

The Elvin commander turned and strode back to the waiting troops as Rork urged his steed up the slope to its crest and inspected the enemy camp once more. Most of the troops were still asleep or just waking; except for the Orcs and half-breeds, who, having sensed the presence of the Konal troops, were now arming themselves.

 

The Orcs were somewhat shorter than men, but massively built and powerful melee fighters. Their flat, wide, dark skinned faces and low slanted brows made the Orc races easy to identify on the field of battle. At the moment a company of well armed and well rested Orcish warriors were beginning their advance on the ridge where Rork’s knights waited for the command to attack. Rork surveyed the dark woods to the east of the valley for any sign of his father’s men. Not wanting to alert the Myrl and Krig warriors to their presence until the king had begun his charge, Rork held his troops in check as the Orcs marched steadily in their direction. But some of the Myrl troops had already noted the movement of Orcs and were sending up a cry of warning to the rest of the enemy army.

 

Having no other choice, Rork gave the order for the elf archers to let fly the first round of arrows. With a whoosh of feather and sleek shaft, a volley of death rained down upon the horde of Orc foot soldiers. At that moment a Konal war cry erupted from the east. A second shower of arrows traveled in a smooth arc and hit with deadly accuracy as the name of the war god, Athayr, echoed across the battlefield. The Konal knights of King Nilas thundered out of the woods and down the ridge with weapons drawn and red banners flying.

 

Lord Rork of Konal raised his sword high and bellowed the name of Athayr, before galloping his huge, black steed directly into the path of the raging Orc fighters. Rork’s infantry followed, streaming down into the valley, and the two advancing lines of opposing warriors met on the open plains with a deafening clash of weapons. Axes glistened with blood as the Orcs hacked at the fighters of Shadowfal. The knights blocked the bone crushing blows with well dented shields and the proud banner of red and black disappeared into a churning sea of flesh and weapons.

 

Swinging his sword in a wide arc, Rork severed the arm of an Orc as he maneuvered his warhorse between the battling troops. With reflex borne of many years of fighting, his shield blocked the deadly spiked head of a war mace from crushing his ribs. He pushed out with his shield, knocking the orc fighter off balance and sliced downward with his sword through the brute’s thick leather breastplate, opening his torso from belly to backbone. Rork used his booted foot to shove the mortally wounded half-Orc into the mud and without a moment’s hesitation swung his sword over his steed’s head, bringing it down upon the nearest Orcish neck. Blood pulsed from the wound, covering the right side of Rork’s armor with gore.

 

Using his knees to guide the warhorse, the prince of Konal continued to move among the enemy soldiers, killing and maiming in a frenzy of blood lust. In battle, instinct took control of the man, turning him into a vicious beast, capable of destroying any living thing without mercy or guilt. Sweat ran down his face from under the heavy iron helmet, at times blinding him. But Rork had been taught to fight using all of his senses and butchered two more of the enemy without ever seeing them. Circling around to the edge of the fighting, Rork wiped his face with his cloak and quickly evaluated the battlefield. He saw his younger brother, Fenn, still astride his horse and battling a Myrl infantry soldier with his bloodied sword. This was the lad of fifteen winters first campaign and Rork was keeping a watchful eye on him.

 

King Nilas and his three hundred infantry warriors had caught the Myrl encampment completely by surprise. Many of the soldiers of King Zarek had died unarmed and unaware that the enemy was attacking until the Konal troops were upon them.

 

Torgrim Silvermane, the dwarf commander, and his one hundred mounted fighters, along with Rork’s oldest brother, Bram Konal, and his sixty cavalry knights, had charged into the Krigan camp. But the barbarians of Krigkarl slept with their weapons at the ready and were defending their encampment with great skill. The skirmish between Rork’s men and the Cog Orc fighters was nearly won, so Rork sounded the battle horn, calling his knights to follow their prince towards the Krigan camp. The combined forces of the two Konal brothers and the dwarves drove the Krigans west across the plains of Tordon. The mounted warriors of Krigkarl fought to slow the Konal army while their king, Brondol, raced away from the battle on his white stallion.

 

Rork recognized the pure white steed and its rider, the Krigan king. Realizing that the cowardly chieftain was leaving the battlefield, Rork spurred his warhorse into a full gallop, following Brondol in a desperate attempt of cut off his escape. To capture or kill the king of the Krigan clan would put and end to the eastern campaign before the winter snows covered the central plains of Tavia. The thought of taking his knights home to Shadowfal before the first hard freeze, motivated Rork to whip his heavily armored steed onward in an attempt to overtake Brondol.

 

Brondol looked back to see the hated son of Nilas Konal bearing down upon him. The Konal prince was bent low over his stallion’s neck, the bloody blade of his sword held high and ready to strike. Brondol maneuvered his mount to the left and circled south, trying to put as much distance between himself and Rork as possible. He would not perish on the sword of a Konal and Brondol knew that he could not win against this knight. But his stallion was bred for speed, not strength, and was unaccustomed to carrying the added weight it now bore.

 

Brondol was forced to make a choice and once that decision was made, the Krigan king suddenly slowed to a trot, let a large green bundle slide to the ground and then kicked his horse into a full gallop again. This time, without the added burden of his cargo, Brondol’s horse fairly flew across the flat grasslands; leaving Rork’s warhorse a quarter league behind.

 

Rork reined in his huge black steed, slowing him to a walk and giving up the chase. He guided his mount towards the bundle which Brondol had deposited in the tall grass. As he drew the horse to a halt beside the spot where the bundle rested, Rork could see that the Krigan King had abandoned a human wrapped in a green cloak. Now the inert form was lying on its side in the same place where it had fallen. Removing his helmet, Rork dismounted and warily approached the hooded figure. The person did not move as he knelt down and turned the limp body over onto its back with the bloody fingers of his gloved hand.

 

The pale face of a beautiful woman appeared within the folds of the hood. Her finely arched brows, smooth cheeks and soft, full lips were unmistakably female. The woman lay perfectly still; her breathing shallow and her skin as pale as a corpse. Rork pulled the filthy gauntlet from his right hand and touched her cheek to find it warm with life. But the woman did not wake.

 

Gently unfastening the ties of the cloak and pushing the material aside, Rork saw that the woman was naked beneath the robe. Her ankles and wrists were bound with leather strips. Beside her, in the tall grass, there lay a golden lap harp.

 

For a moment Rork was struck dumb by the sight of the young woman. She was perfectly formed, with skin as white as the marble of Elassar temple.  Her long, bronze colored hair was wrapped, like lengths of shining silk, around her shoulders and across the rosy peaked, roundness of her breasts. The warrior had never seen beauty such as this woman possessed, and for a heart beat, wondered if he were gazing upon the goddess Taviana, come to life.

 

But the maiden’s fair skin was badly bruised in several places; evidence of a recent, violent struggle. And her delicate wrists and ankles had been chaffed raw by the leather bindings.

 

“Krigan swine!” Rork cursed the barbarian under his breath; realizing that the lady was quite mortal and had been badly abused at the hands of Brondol.

 

Taking his dagger from its sheath, Rork cut the woman’s bonds. The Krigan king had obviously kidnapped this woman for ransom or to sell as a slave. And it was also clearly evident, by her lack of response, that she was either injured or drugged. Rork shook his head as he gazed down at the helpless woman in the grass. The Krigan king had no honor to treat a woman with such disrespect. The warriors of Krigkarl were, indeed, barbarians.

 

Rork pulled on his gloves and, after collecting the golden harp, wrapped the woman and her instrument tightly in the green cloak. She was as light as a child in his arms and Rork easily mounted his warhorse with her nestled against his chest. He used his knees to guide the steed across the open plain towards the battlefield.

 

As Rork drew closer to the enemy encampment, he observed the battle between Zarek’s army and the eastern allies in the distance. Most of the remaining Krigan troops were retreating; with Torgrim Silvermane, and his dwarf clansmen, following close upon their heels. The Myrl soldiers of King Zarek, dressed in their fine uniforms of green and gold, had clustered together on the west side of their camp. The Myrl soldiers formed a tight circle; shields out, with their archers protected in the center of the formation. Although well executed, the tactic was of little use against the combined forces of Konal knights and Giraloth archers. The remaining soldiers of King Zarek’s army were decimated before the morning sun had climbed to its zenith.

 

By late morning the battle was over, with the dead and dying strewn across the sweet grass and the red banners of Konal, once again, flying high in the north wind. 

            

 

 

 

            The corpses of the enemy were dragged into the center of the battlefield and burned without ceremony. The bodies of the Konal soldiers were buried in a mass grave with prayers to the Goddess Taviana; that she might guide their souls to the ever green forests of heaven. The elves of Giraloth would return to their own kingdom, taking with them their fallen warriors to bury in the land of their ancestors. The wounded were carried in litters to a make shift hospital of tents, which lay just east of the battle field.

 

            Rork Konal made his way to the large, well guarded tent where wounded officers were taken for treatment. The woman he carried needed medical attention and he would not trust her care to anyone except the royal physician, Kerwyn. But as Rork approached, he saw that his brother, Bram Konal, stood with his father outside the opening to the officer’s hospital tent. Even from this distance there was no mistaking the heir to the Konal throne. Like Rork, Bram and his father, King Nilas, were both tall and broad shouldered. The king and his sons wore long hair and full beards, which were as black as a raven’s wing. Although the elder Konal’s hair was now streaked with silver, King Nilas remained a formidable opponent on the field of battle. Nilas and his sons were all massively built and dark, resembling at times, the Great Black Bear which was the totem of the Konal clan.

 

            The king and his heir were deep in conversation and did not notice Rork until he drew the great black steed to a halt beside them. Upon seeing Rork, Bram turned to his brother, a look of deep concern upon his face. Immediately Rork knew what troubled his sibling. “Fenn is wounded?” he asked, as Bram reached up to take the woman from his arms.

 

            “Aye” Bram replied, studying the unconscious female’s face “He took an axe in the thigh. The wound is deep and he has lost much blood.”

 

            Rork quickly dismounted, handing the reins of his steed to a waiting squire “What does Kerwyn say? Will his lose his leg?”

 

            Nilas joined his sons, looking much older than his fifty six winters “The lad may lose his life if they can not stop the bleeding.” Nilas answered “We can do nothing but wait and hope that the doctor is skilled enough to perform a miracle.”

 

            “Where did you find the maid?” Bram Konal asked, transferring the unconscious woman back into Rork’s arms.

 

            “The Krigan king was attempting to escape with her.” Rork answered as he turned towards the entrance to the hospital tent “I fear she is injured, for she has not strirred since I rescued her from that barbarian.”

 

            The interior of the hospital tent was dimly lit by smoky oil lamps. Two rows of beds lined the walls, with a surgeon’s operating table at the rear of the infirmary. The doctor and his two male assistants were gathered around the operating table where Fenn Konal lay moaning in pain. Fenn’s squire, Rylan Kale, stood by his head holding the black iron, winged helmet. Rylan was close to Fenn’s age and the two had been inseparable since the campaign’s beginning. The squire’s face was streaked with dirt and blood, his uniform torn at the sleeve. But he stood fast beside Fenn as the doctor tried to staunch the flow of blood from the grievous wound.

 

Rork stopped a few feet from the operating table, the woman forgotten in his arms, and stared in dismay at the sight of his young brother bleeding to death. The doctor’s wife, Molly, who always traveled with the army and acted as head nurse, approached Rork.

 

 “Please follow me, my lord.” Molly commanded with her usual efficiency. The nurse scurry ahead of Rork and stopped beside an empty bed in the rear of the tent. “By Tav’s mercy, where did you find the lass?” Molly asked, as Rork deposited the woman onto the mattress. Molly drew a blanket over the unconscious woman and smoothed a wisp of silken hair from the female’s forehead. “What ill has befallen this lady?”

 

But Rork did not answer. Instead he removed his soiled gloves as he went to join those who tended his brother. Fenn was only half conscious and moaning in pain. Rork took Fenn’s hand, feeling more shaken by his young brother’s injuries than the sight of any carnage he’d witness in battle. The lad was obviously dying.

 

“T’was a Myrl foot soldier, lord Rork.” Rylan Kale said quietly “Took him by surprise with his axe.”

 

“Young Rylan may have saved prince Fenn’s life with his quick thinking.” the doctor informed Rork, as he began to wrap the neatly stitched wound in clean bandages “He tied your brother’s leg with his belt to stop the bleeding, else the prince would have perished on the field.”

 

Rork turned his gaze on the tattered squire. Serious brown eyes under a mop of sandy hair met his. “My thanks, Rylan Kale. I shall not forget your bravery.” With a nod, the lad turned back to Fenn, concern for the young Prince upon his face.

 

“That is all I can do for young Fenn, lord Rork.” the doctor finally pronouced, washing the blood from his hands in a bowl of water. “His fate must now be decided by the gods.”

 

Rork, Rylan and Kerwyn’s two assistants lifted Fenn from the table and carefully carried him to the bed beside the woman that Rork had found on the plains. Fenn moaned as he was lowered onto the small cot, but did not open his eyes.

 

Molly took Rork by the arm and gently tugged him away from Fenn’s side. “Best tend to your own wound, my lord.” she advised, motioning to the gash in the warrior’s bicep. Rork had not even felt the blow which had penetrated his armor until now. He let Molly lead him to a low stool, where he sat, allowing the matronly doctor’s wife to help him remove his chain mail and then clean and bandage his wound.

 

Rork felt suddenly tired. Tired of fighting and tired of death. Should Fenn die, their mother would be inconsolable. Fenn was the youngest child and Queen Fiona had already lost two sons, in as many winters, to war in the Tordon Valley.

 

Returning to Fenn’s bedside, Rork put his hand on Rylan’s shoulder. “I charge you to guard the prince’s life.” at the squire’s surprised look he continued “And that of this unfortunate woman.” Rork drew his curved dagger from his belt and placed it in Rylan’s hand. “Guard them well in my absence, youngest son of Kale.”

 

            “Aye, my lord.” the lad replied, tucking the dagger into his own belt “I shall keep watch.”

 

            Leaving both Molly and Rylan Kale hovering near Fenn’s bedside, Rork went outside the hospital tent to find his father and brother conferring with their generals near the entrance.  Bram looked up, his eyes searching Rork’s face for the truth about Fenn’s condition. “He lives?” Bram asked.

 

            “For now.” Rork answered, grimly “But his wound is very serious. Fenn’s life is still in Tav’s hands.”

 

            “Take me to him.” King Nilas commanded, striding towards the hospital tent “I would see for myself.”

 

            As Rork turned to accompany his father, something protruding out of the mud caught his eye. It was the golden harp which had lay in the grass beside Brondol’s captive. The instrument must have fallen when he dismounted. Rork pulled the lap harp out of the mud and carried it into the hospital tent where Fenn lay dying.

 

 

 

 

 

           

            Jestaen felt as if she were floating. Her eyelids seemed too heavy for her to open, so she lay listening to the sounds around her. Somewhere beyond the haze in her mind there were hushed voices and low moans of pain. A sharp cry of agony brought Jestaen’s eyes open with a jolt. The roof of a huge tent blocked the sky from her view; the canvas was water stained and dirty.

 

Blinking to clear her vision, Jestaen turned her head slowly and saw that she was in a small bed with a blanket covering her. In the bed to her left, the corpse of a man was tightly wrapped in a crimson blanket; only his pale face and pitch black hair showing within its folds.

 

A movement at the foot of Jestaen’s bed drew her attention to a young soldier with dark blonde hair. The fair haired youth, dressed in a uniform of black and red, stood looking down at her, his hand resting upon the hilt of a large curved dagger. Realizing that Jestaen was awake, the lad fisted his hand to his chest, bowing slightly in a respectful manner. “Fear not, my lady.” he told her “I keep watch for lord Rork.”

 

 At that moment a short, round woman, in a blood stained apron and a white cap, appeared behind the lad. “You’re awake.” she said with a smile. The kindly woman moved closer, placing her hand upon Jestaen’s forehead, as if checking for a fever.

 

            “Where is this place?” Jestaen croaked. Her throat was dry as dust.

 

            “Do not fret, young one. You have been asleep for a very long time.” the woman put her arm behind Jestaen’s shoulders, helping her to sit up and holding a mug of water to her parched lips “There now, have a sip to quench your thirst.”

 

            After Jestaen had taken a few swallows of water, the kind woman eased her back onto her pillow. Around her there were many small beds, such as the one she now occupied. And upon those beds were injured men; bandaged in white cloth, head, torso and limb. Servants and armed soldiers, dressed in black and red tunics, hurried between the beds of wounded, intent upon their tasks.

 

Closing her eyes to keep the room from spinning, Jestaen tried to remember how she had arrived in what appeared to be a military hospital. Images of events flashed before her mind’s eye. There had been a raid on her village and she had been taken hostage by a vile barbarian.

 

Suddenly, she remembered seeing Linna’s naked body in the dirt outside the cottage door. They had killed her; murdered gentle Linna without mercy. Tears welled up in Jestaen’s eyes and rolled down onto the pillow beneath her head. As the reality of her step parents’ deaths hit her like a physical blow, she drew a deep labored breath and let it out in a wrenching sob. Covering her face with her hands, Jestaen gave way to her sorrow.

 

But Jestaen’s weeping was interrupted by a series of loud, agonizing groans emanating from the corpse in the bed beside her. Wiping her eyes with her hands, she rolled her head in that direction and saw that the dark haired soldier was still alive and in considerable pain. Jestaen struggled to sit up and turn herself; swinging her legs over the side of the bed to sit facing the injured warrior. She still felt dizzy from the drugged wine, which the Krigan woman had forced upon her, and remained on the edge of the bed, trembling and clutching the mattress with both hands until her equilibrium returned.

 

When her eyes regained their focus, Jestaen saw that Linna’s healing harp was resting at the foot of her bed. The fair haired lad stood beside it, still grasping the hilt of his dangerous looking dagger and watching her every move through solemn brown eyes. Very cautiously, she reached to retrieve the treasured harp, hugging it close to her body as if the boy might steal it from her grasp. The effort left her shaking, in her weakened state, but she managed to lean forward and study the face of the moaning man wrapped in a red blanket.

 

The wounded soldier was also no more than a boy, with the shadow of a mustache darkening his upper lip. The sight of if touched Jestaen’s heart with pity. This adolescent was too young to be dying in this tent among grown men.

 

Resting the harp upon her knee, Jestaen let the pads of her fingers gently pluck the golden strings. A soft and soothing melody drifted through the tent as the Myrl princess used the magic of Linna’s healing harp to try and save the dark haired lad.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Night had fallen over the Konal camp and the survivors of the campaign against King Zarek D’Myrl’s forces were celebrating their victory with a ration of ale around low burning fires. Their festivities were tempered by the memories of those lost in battle this day.

 

King Nilas had made his camp a short distance from the hospital tent where his youngest son, Fenn, lay wounded. Dressed in a warm, fur lined, black cloak, Nilas gazed up at a clear and star filled sky. In the distance, a dragon roared as it hunted for steer in the valley to the west.

 

Today’s defeat of the Myrl army had, hopefully, brought an end to the fighting in the eastern plains. It would take a considerable amount of time for King Zarek to gather a force large enough to challenge the Konals again. The season of the Ice Moon was fast approaching and soon the deep snow and freezing winds would deter any reasonable man from sending troops across the frozen lands of the Tordon Valley. Nilas could only hope that Zarek D’Myrl was a reasonable man.

 

King Nilas’ two oldest sons, Bram and Rork, sat nearby; speaking in low voices as they warmed themselves by the fire. He felt blessed by the Gods that his first and second born sons were unharmed after today’s bloody battle. If only he could bring young Fenn home to Queen Fiona, alive and well. In truth, Nilas would rather face one thousand enemy troops, than give his wife news of another child lost.

 

In the previous two winters, Nilas had lost his middle sons in battles against the army of Myrl. Ganon, his fearless fourth son, had been only sixteen winters in age when an enemy arrow had struck him down. And Padrig, handsome and charming, was in the nineteen winter of his young life when the blade of an orcish axe had found him. Slow deaths both. It filled his heart with sadness to think upon their loss too closely.

 

A fortress was being constructed for Ganon upon the very ground where he had fallen. The keep would bear his name that he be remembered, forever and all.  Padrig, at least, had left an infant son to carry on his name. And for this small blessing the Queen had given thanks to Taviana.

 

Now it was Fenn, the Queen’s youngest, who lay dying the same slow death as his brothers. And despite all of his power, there was naught that Nilas could do to prevent it.

 

A chilling wind carried the music of a harp to his ears, distracting him from those dark thoughts. The notes, soft and clear, sounded totally alien in the camp of battle harden soldiers and the king turned his head trying to determine the source of the melody. Nilas stood and wandered in the direction of the hospital tent where Fenn was resting. As he drew near to the entrance, the music was distinctly louder and Nilas Konal entered the tent, searching for the musician within.

 

Dim, smoky light filled the infirmary and Nilas saw a group of people gathered in the furthest corner of the tent. The king approached doctor Kerwyn and his wife where they stood watching the harpist. Molly turned to him with tears in her eyes. “Tis a miracle, my lord Nilas. The goddess has blessed us with such magic.”

 

Looking beyond Molly, Nilas saw a figure dressed in a green hooded robe, sitting on the edge of a hospital cot. The hooded one was leaning forward and playing a lap harp; the tune so hypnotic that he could not turn away. Nilas stood transfixed, along side a dozen or more armed guards and servants, listening to the musician in green. His two sons, Rork and Bram, crowded in behind him as the melody ended.

 

“Fenn is cured!” Nilas heard Rork exclaim. The king looked passed the harpist to see his youngest son was sitting up in his bed, smiling at the musician and looking as though he had just awakened from a sound slumber.  At the sound of Rork’s voice, the harpist stopped playing and twisted around towards Nilas, revealing the ivory face of beautiful woman with pale green eyes.

 

 King Nilas had seen such eyes before and knew well the mark of Myrl royalty. The woman, who looked innocently up at him, was without a doubt the spawn of his enemy, King Zarek D’Myrl. An assassin of his most hated nemesis had somehow invaded the camp and was within striking distance of prince Fenn.

 

“A Myrl! Kill her!” the Konal king roared. And drawing his dagger, Nilas shouldered his way through the crowd to Fenn’s bedside.