“No, not the local shamans; their power is drawn from the realm of Zivilyn. There are stronger forces stirring.” When Tol looked alarmed, Felryn stared at him silently for a few seconds, rubbing the fused talismans between his hands. “I will see what I can see,” he said at last.
He pulled the silver Mishas medallion from beneath the neck of his robe. Clenching it in one hand and the fused Corij talismans in the other, he closed his eyes, lowering his chin to his chest. Tol held his breath, waiting to see what would transpire.
The silence deepened. One by one the night sounds from outside-the chirrup of crickets, the muted call of an owl, even the whisper of wind in the long grass-all ceased. Soon, Tol realized he could no longer hear even his own breathing. The lack of sound was absolute, pressing against his ears like a thick blanket. He could feel himself gasping for air, his mouth wide, but still heard nothing.
Felryn began to tremble. When at last he spoke, although his voice sounded flat and toneless, Tol felt a huge surge of relief. Any sound was welcome after the dreadful, smothering silence.
“Great forces are at work. They do not originate in the forest-though that’s where they’re working,” Felryn intoned. “Lord Odovar faces death-a trap, an ambush!” His eyes sprang open, wide and worried. “And so does Egrin!”
Tol’s hands clenched into fists. He wanted to shout questions, demand more information, but he feared distracting the healer from his vision. So he waited.
After a pause, Felryn closed his eyes again, and continued: “Six leagues from here is a stream, bent like a horseshoe, in a deep ravine. A large tree lies across it, like a bridge. The marshal cannot advance on horseback across the ravine. He dismounts and starts over the log on foot. The log breaks when he’s halfway across; it has been sawn through, save for the last bit on top. Odovar falls into the stream. It’s only chest-deep, but with his bad leg he can’t get out.”
Eyes still shut, Felryn turned his head, as though looking at something in the scene he described.
“Arrows fly-the foresters are all around.” Felryn’s voice lost its toneless quality, and he exclaimed, “Men struggle to reach Lord Odovar, but all who try are slain! The enemy is in the trees… they have good bows. The marshal is hit! He brandishes his sword and calls for a charge. But the mounted warriors have no room to maneuver among the closely growing trees. They are felled from all sides by arrows and thrown spears. Egrin-”
The healer grimaced, moving his head left and right, searching, then reported, “I cannot see. Something impedes my sight.”
Tears oozed from under Felryn’s rightly clenched eyelids-red droplets-blood, not water. He opened his eyes and inhaled deeply. Immediately the oppressive silence ended, and the familiar nighttime sounds flooded back into Tol’s grateful ears.
“I will rouse Durazen and seek his counsel!” he said, gripping Felryn’s arm. “He’s the senior warrior in camp.”
The healer slumped wearily against the side of the wagon, but he assured Tol he was well. Tol left him and ran to the center of the square, shouting Durazen’s name. Soldiers and shilder sat up all around, but he didn’t see the commander of the footmen.
Narren suddenly came running, wearing only a breech-clout and clutching a blanket around his shoulders. He had a war dagger in his free hand.
“Tol! Come quick!” he panted. “It’s Durazen!”
Tol raced through the roused camp. In the far corner, Narren stopped and stood over an unmoving figure on a bedroll. For a moment Tol thought Durazen must be dead or drunk, but Narren kicked the blanket aside to reveal not the commander’s body, but a bundle of grass and vines, cunningly lashed together to resemble a man.
“Torches!” Tol yelled. “Search the camp! Find Durazen, or anyone who doesn’t belong here!”
By now the whole camp was in an uproar. Brands blazed; shilder and foot soldiers searched the camp, even turning out the civilian wagons. Durazen could not be found.
No one slept for the rest of the night. At dawn, the nervous shilder and foot soldiers greeted the sunrise with relief, though there — was still no sign of their missing commander. And with Durazen gone, there was no clear leader among the footmen or shilder.
Tol, mounted on Smoke, addressed the assembled warriors and civilians. He told them of Felryn’s vision of an ambush.
“We must find Lord Odovar and Warden Egrin,” he declared. “I need at least a hundred men to do it. Who’s with me?”
“We can’t leave camp,” Janar protested. He was only half-dressed, his broad chest bare and blond hair askew. “Our orders were to stay here.”
“The marshal is in trouble-he maybe dead already!”
“We don’t know that,” said Relfas skeptically. “Felryn is an admirable healer, but I’ve never heard he was a seer.”
Tol turned to the older man for help. Felryn said, “I am a priest of Mishas, chosen by the goddess to serve the marshal of Juramona. If she grants me visions of my charges, you can believe them.”
The shilder remained unconvinced. “We should send a few riders to contact Lord Wanthred and the Firebrands,” Relfas countered. “That would be the wisest course.”
Many relieved voices supported this plan. Tol’s frustration grew.
“If Lord Odovar is to be ambushed and cut off, every hour is precious,” he insisted. “For the honor of the empire and the safety of our comrades, we must
On and on they wrangled, until a delegation from the footmen interrupted. Relfas disdained to discuss strategy with mere foot soldiers, but Tol went to speak to them.
“It’s Durazen. We found him,” Narren reported. Tol looked relieved until Narren added, “He’s dead, Tol. Come and see.”
Shilder, civilians, and foot soldiers streamed out of the camp behind Tol. Narren led them to the extreme eastern end of the meadow.
“Boys from the cook wagon went out a little while ago to collect tinder for their fires,” Narren explained. “Instead they found this.”
Forty steps from the edge of the woods, the crowd halted as though they’d all been turned to stone. Lashed to an oak tree, his hands bound behind him, was Durazen. The shaft of an arrow protruded from his throat, effectively pinning him to the tree trunk. His belly had been cut open, and his entrails wound around the tree.
The forest folk had not simply killed the commander of the Ergothian camp. They had sacrificed him to the spirits of the trees in which they lived.
The sound of retching behind him broke through Tol’s shock. He had to clear his throat twice before he could speak. Even then his voice was hoarse.
“Cut him down,” he rasped. No one moved. Dazed, he drew his dagger and did the job himself. Felryn knelt by the body, examining it closely.
“Why did they do this?” Tol asked, stunned by the method of the old warrior’s death.
“To propitiate their ancestors’ spirits-and to terrify their enemies,” Felryn answered tersely.
Tol stared at the bloody tree. Was Lord Odovar going to meet a similar fate in the forest? And Egrin?
His name, sharply spoken, called him out of his horrified daze. Narren and the footmen had gathered around.
“We’ll go with you, Tol,” Narren said. “We’ll find Odovar and the warden, and pay back the savages for what they did to Durazen, too!”
Tol surveyed the foot soldiers’ hard faces. Aside from Narren and a few others, they were generally older than the shilder, some as old as thirty. Of humble birth, they were used to being looked down upon by Riders of the Horde. None of that mattered now. Their blood was up, and they would take the battle to the devious enemy in their own way: on foot, face to face.
“Pick a hundred men, Narren, no more. Each man is to bring food and water for two days, his sword, dagger, helmet, a pair of spears, and breastplate. Everything else stays behind-we have to move fast,” Tol said. He looked up at the mid-morning sun. “We’ll leave as soon as you’re ready.”
Narren took off running, to do as Tol said. All the way back to camp Relfas, Janar, and the other shilder harangued Tol, warning him not to go. He was disobeying orders, they said. He was inexperienced. He was risking the lives of the ignorant footmen who chose to follow him.
