Dragon Heartstone > Chapter 41–Journey to Landros

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The mountain path snaked beneath Gall’s feet; each step equally treacherous as urgent. They had to reach Landros before the Council’s troops did. His practiced eye and memories of the path caught the subtle break in the rocks marking the hidden entrance to the Land of the Damned. After lighting a torch, he led them inside. Mists surrounded them as they trudged downward. The subterranean darkness pressed against them like a suffocating shroud.

Mists curled around them as they descended. The passage flattened out. Gall’s torch flickered, flames revealing little in the all-consuming darkness. His breath rose like a vapor as the subterranean cold seeped into his bones. Suddenly, his warrior’s instincts prickled—something malevolent was waiting.

When the specter materialized, Gall recognized the threat instantly. “Septimus,” Gall growled out in warning to his companions. Why had he come unsummoned? The dead rarely manifested themselves unless angered.

The ghost of the High King’s druid emerged, translucent and seething. Gaze fixed on Larah, recognition and hatred burned in hollow eyes. “Faline,” he whispered.

Gall stepped forward, positioning himself between Septimus and Larah. He raised a hand, and spoke, “Fermati, non avvicinarti [Stop, go no farther].” A dull yellowish glow radiated from his palm, probing the darkness. “She is not who you seek,” he warned, his voice a low threat. “You will not touch her.”

Septimus faltered, the weight of Gall’s spell pushing against his spectral form. For a moment, recognition flickered in the ghost’s eyes—then was gone. The phantom’s rage transmuted. His gaze shifted, cold and stern. “Not Faline,” Septimus muttered, “but death follows her nonetheless.” His spectral eyes locked onto Riasean. “Death will come. By her hand.”

And then he was gone, leaving only the echo of his warning hanging in the dank, lifeless air.

“What was that about?” Riasean asked, glancing between Gall and Larah.

Larah swallowed hard but remained silent. Gall answered, “Be cautious listening to the dead, for they hate the living.” Even as he said this, his mind wandered. During their last encounter with Septimus a few days ago, Faline’s name had come up. Is that why the spirit mistook Larah for Faline? Even if it was a simple mistake, he knew better than to dismiss the warnings of the dead.

* * *

Hours dragged by, even walking as fast as they could through the fog-shrouded lands. Shadowy images stayed just out of the torchlight. Larah pulled her cloak closer, trying to keep the chill away from her bones. Yet the encounter with Septimus burned bright in her mind. She knew of him from Avalir’s library. He was the master druid of the High King, powerful and dangerous, who disappeared from history at the same moment Faline appeared. Their connection was known, but its exact nature had been lost to time. But mistaking her for Faline? How? Why?

Septimus’ prophetic warning needled her anxieties. Though the dead often spoke in riddles to mislead and confuse the living, what if he wasn’t twisting his words? Still, she could never envision harming Riasean.

The misty shores of a subterranean river appeared. The underground waters seemed to swallow all sound. Gall handed them each a coin to put under their tongues to ensure passage. Out of the fog, the ferryman appeared, plying the still waters.

“Coin for passage,” the ferryman stated in low tones. Each of them opened their mouth and showed their token, and the thin figure collected them. Saying nothing, the group glided across the mirror-like waters.

Scraping noises came from under the barge as it ground to a stop, but the shore remained several feet away. The ferryman turned to Riasean. “Take my pole, and I will help everyone get ashore.”

But as Riasean reached to do so, Gall pushed him away and grabbed the ferryman’s painfully thin arms. “Push the barge to the shore, or I will toss you into the waters.”

The figure stared at him and slowly looked toward the waters before letting his head droop. He reluctantly pulled away from Gall and pushed the barge closer to the shore, but not entirely on it. “Go,” the ferryman droned, a subtle annoyance in his monotone.

They leaped from the barge and began moving away from the shore, except for Larah, who watched the ferryman disappear into the mist. Her curiosity burned as she turned to Gall. “Why did you stop Riasean from pushing the barge?”

“Because the only way the ferryman can escape from his chore is to have someone else do it. Then that person is forever cursed with the task of ferrying the dead to the Land of the Damned. Had he grabbed the pole, we would have lost him forever.”

Gall’s explanation sent a chill down her spine. She glanced at Riasean, seeing the young man’s face drain of color, the weight of their narrow escape settling over them.

* * *

Gall traced the familiar path through the tunnels, his boots scraping against stone worn smooth by centuries of use. When they reached the exit, the portal opened with a grinding noise. The pre-dawn air hit his face, carrying the damp scent of the Old Forest.

The ancient trees loomed before them, their branches twisting overhead like gnarled fingers. As he picked his way between massive trunks, the weight of their mission pressed down on him.

“We must get to Landros,” he muttered, more to himself than Riasean or Larah. “Bretagne needs to know what’s coming. If we move quickly enough, perhaps Britta can be recalled before the Council’s troops arrive.” Even as he spoke the words, doubt gnawed at him.

They fought through thorny underbrush until the road emerged, a pale strip cutting through the forest gloom.

“Will the Priori be patrolling this?” Riasean asked, voicing the fear scratching at the back of Gall’s mind.

“Perhaps, but we haven’t the time to go cross-country.” Gall stepped onto the packed earth, every sense alert. They’d barely gone twenty paces when he froze.

Five Priori horsemen lined the path ahead, their armor gleaming in the weak light of approaching dawn. Their attention was fixed eastward, giving him precious moments to act. He waved Riasean and Larah back into the cover of the underbrush.

“The Council must have sent advanced parties to scout the way ahead,” he whispered, mind racing through their options. “We either go around them or find a way through them.” He scratched his chin. “I would go around them, but I’d much rather take their horses. But we can’t tarry or risk drawing the attention of other patrols.”

Riasean’s face was pale in the dim light. “How good are these Priori?”

“The Council only hires the best.” Gall’s grip tightened on his Mordblade.

* * *

An idea sailed to the forefront of Larah’s mind. So insistent and clear she couldn’t ignore it. Then she spoke, her voice quiet but firm. “I can even the odds.”

The men turned to her; Gall’s eyebrows raised in question.

“How so?” he asked.

“Watch,” she said, raising her palms skyward. Ancient words flowed from her lips as she wove her fingers in wave-like patterns, power thrumming through her hands.

Through the branches, she watched her magic take hold. The Priori’s horses twitched, their tails whipping back and forth. Whinnies pierced the morning air as the animals tossed their heads, fighting against their riders’ attempts to control them. Each syllable of her spell sent another wave of wild panic through the beasts.

Two horses broke free first, bolting back toward the pass with their riders clinging desperately to their necks. The remaining three reared up despite their riders’ frantic kicks and yanked reins. Larah winced as the men tumbled from their saddles like fallen leaves.

One rider crashed hard and disappeared into a roadside ditch. Another leaped up only to dodge flying hooves, each near miss driving him closer to their position until Riasean sprang from cover to tackle him. The third man grabbed for his saddle, but his mount’s head whipped around like a snake, catching him square in the chest. He scrambled to his feet and fled westward.

Larah’s hands trembled slightly as she shifted her magic. “Venire ad me, venire ad me [Come to me, Come to me],” she intoned, letting gentleness replace the wild force of her earlier spell. The three riderless horses froze, ears pricking toward her voice. She stepped from cover, heart pounding as the massive animals approached. Their soft muzzles pressed against her palms, eyes now calm and trusting.

When she returned with the reins, Gall’s expression twisted her stomach. Not wonder, but disapproval darkened his features.

“Where did you learn that?” His tone was sharp.

“Animal summoning is taught to all acolytes at Avalir.” Even as she spoke, she knew that wasn’t what he meant.

He gestured toward the scattered riders. “No, not that. How did you get the horses to throw their riders?”

Heat crept up her neck as she answered. “I convinced them that they were wild once again.”

“I thought the Druid’s principles forbade that level of mind manipulation.”

Shame flooded through her. What stung more – that this warrior understood Druid philosophy better than she’d expected, or that she’d so readily abandoned those sacred principles? Before she could respond, a muffled cry drew her attention to the Priori in Riasean’s grip.

Her heart clenched as Riasean drew his knife. “NO!” The word burst from her. “Don’t do it.”

He looked up, annoyance plain on his face. “He will give us away if I let him go.”

“No,” she insisted, the memory of the earlier violence still too fresh. “Enough killing. I will handle this.”

Pushing aside her earlier guilt, she touched the struggling man’s head. “Obliviscimur recenti memoria et somnum [Forget and sleep],” she whispered. His eyes rolled back, body going slack as sleep took him. Riasean lowered him to the ground, where he immediately began snoring.

She watched in silence as Gall checked the other fallen rider. “This one is dead. Broke his neck when he fell.”

Larah winced. Another life lost.

The men wasted no time donning the Priori greatcoats. The uniforms fit poorly but might pass inspection from a distance. As everyone mounted up, the echo of marching feet reached her ears from the direction they’d come.

Gall spurred his horse forward. “Hurry, we must ride for Landros. Time is our enemy, too.”

* * *

Viperious sat stiffly upright in his saddle, conscious of how his red robes caught the morning light. A wet, hacking cough drew his attention to his right. Brecc huddled beneath his wrinkled brown cloak, eyes squeezed shut, his face a sickly shade of greenish white. Ahead of them stretched the long column of mercenaries and Cazidoran conscripts, disgorging like insects from the southern pass.

“We should be at Landros in a couple of days.” When Brecc remained silent, Viperious felt a spark of irritation. “Did you hear me?”

“Yes,” Brecc mumbled, rubbing his temples. “I heard you.”

Stupid sod. Serves you right for drinking too much wine. The thought brought him a small measure of satisfaction.

The clatter of hooves announced Quorous’s approach. The mercenary commander reined in beside them, his leather armor creaking. “There are no troops between the pass and city and only three villages, none of which appears ready to fight.”

“Excellent news.” Viperious allowed himself a thin smile. “Perhaps we can reach Landros by tonight.”

“Sorry, but I don’t think so.”

Heat crept up Viperious’s neck. Even Brecc lifted his head, bloodshot eyes struggling to focus on Quorous.

“Why ever not?” Viperious could hear his voice rising and hated it.

“Per our agreement,” Quorous said, fixing him with an insolent stare, “we get the spoils of war.”

“Yes.” Viperious fought to keep his tone level. “But only when Landros has been taken, not before.”

Quorous tilted his head, his smile cold as winter frost. “That is your understanding, not mine. If you want our continued support, you will let us do what we want.”

The man’s boundless temerity made Viperious’s jaw clench. Yet he had to swallow the acid rising in his throat. Without this mercenary rabble, he had no army—and therefore no means to capture Landros as commanded by the Council. “Very well, do not tarry in collecting your spoils of war. Every day we give the Bretagne to prepare for us, the more difficult it will be to sack the city.”

Quorous nodded. Brecc cleared his throat, drawing the mercenary’s disinterested glance. “Do not slaughter the inhabitants of the villages you loot. They are—or will be—my subjects.”

“Of course.” Quorous’s lips twisted into something between a sneer and a smile before he wheeled his horse away.

“He didn’t even say, ‘Your Majesty,'” Brecc muttered, his frown more befitting a spoiled child than a future king.

Viperious pressed his lips together, watching Quorous’s retreating form. “That man is going to be trouble. But no matter, he was simply a means to an end. His kind will be dealt with in time.”