you.”
Azhure turned her eyes back to her father.
“I am not the Traitor that many think. The third verse of the Prophecy speaks of a Traitor, but I am not he.”
“You seem to know your way about the Prophecy very well,” Azhure said sharply.
“The Traitor has already made his move, Azhure. Fear not the people about either you or Axis. The Traitor is already with his master. He has already made his decision to betray, although he has not yet committed the final betrayal.”
Azhure stared at WolfStar. Who was the Traitor? But WolfStar would not answer this unspoken query. He lifted his fingertips to her cheek again, the touch so light that Azhure could hardly feel it.
“Be assured, Azhure. You will find the answers you need to know on the Island. You think that you need to be by Axis’ side, that you need to be there to fight for him, but the greatest service you can do for him now, as for yourself, is to spend time alone to accept and develop your power.”
She nodded slightly, reluctantly. “I feel pulled in so many different directions. So many people, demanding different things from me. I do need time alone.”
He leaned down and scratched Sicarius under the muzzle, then glanced back at Azhure. “You look very much like your mother, Azhure, and she was very, very desirable.”
Later, as WolfStar sat huddled under the stars, he thought on the afternoon’s encounter with his daughter. First Gorgrael and his Gryphon, then Artor, and now the Enchantress’ ring resurfaces. Were things moving beyond his control?
Perhaps, but the fact that the ring had chosen Azhure gave him great hope for the future. Suddenly neither Artor nor a sky blackened with Gryphon seemed such an insurmountable threat.
For the past ten or eleven days an icy nightmare had closed about Jervois Landing. Nothing Jorge had seen before – not even the appalling conditions at Gorkenfort or the weather that Gorgrael had thrown their way last winter – had been this bad. The storm front, if such a mild expression could possibly describe what had descended on them, had moved into the town in an unbelievable two minutes. One minute it had been cool and blustery, the clouds heavy with the promise of snow, the next … the next blew a wind so severe that only the strongest stone houses in the town were left standing. The wind carried with it ice and death, and everyone caught exposed to it had died; Jorge had lost over two thousand men in five minutes. The four Icarii scouts just returning to the town had fallen from the sky frozen solid.
When they hit the streets their bodies were shattered into such tiny pieces they were scattered away within moments.
Day after day Jorge and the remnants of his command had huddled by fires. No-one was left manning the defences of Jervois Landing – the system of canals that Borneheld had caused to be built – for none could survive in the open. And what defences anyway? Jorge thought. The canals must have frozen within minutes of the storm’s arrival. He grimaced under his blanket and crept an inch or two closer to the fire. Jervois Landing did not have defences any more.
The six thousand remaining men were, to the best of Jorge’s knowledge, scattered throughout the town. He no longer sent men out into the streets to gather information, for that was far too cruel in this weather, so Jorge frankly had no idea about the state of his command.
The remaining eight Icarii were the most miserable of all. The Wing had arrived the day before the weather closed in, and now four of them were dead and the others cramped about what warmth the fires provided.
Jorge knew that his men all expected to die, because when he moved from group to group, trying to revive spirits, he found men praying, preparing their souls for the inevitable journey to the AfterLife. Some, but only a few, prayed to Artor. The Icarii prayed to their Star Gods, the few Ravensbund men in his command prayed to their own mysterious deities. But, to his surprise, Jorge found many men praying to Axis, the StarMan, invoking his name as a god. Some even prayed to Azhure, the woman who had ridden with Axis and whose reputation with the bow was almost as legendary as the Wolven itself and the ghost hounds that ran at her back.
Jorge had backed away, sickened, when he first heard a group of three soldiers praying in a low monotone to Axis. Had these men gone mad? Axis was a man like any other, was he not? Did a string of military victories qualify one for god-like status? Jorge had returned to his spot by the fire and sat for many hours, his thoughts in turmoil. Somehow this disturbed him even more than the Gorgrael-driven storm outside.
Had the world turned completely upside down? Did Axis now insist that his command worship him as a god?
Unknown to Jorge, Axis was not behind the actions of these men. He would have been confused and horrified had he known that many men within his command, and their wives and children, had begun, slowly and unconsciously, to perceive him as a god. The process had started a long time ago, among the three thousand who had followed Axis out of Gorkenfort to lead the Skraeling mass away from the fort so that Borneheld and the remaining soldiers could escape to Jervois Landing. They had seen him wield the emerald fire, and they had watched five magical winged creatures greet him at the foot of the Icescarp Alps. Once Axis’ command had been ensconced in Sigholt the trend to understand Axis as something other than human or even mortal had continued apace. Surely no mere mortal could wield the power that he did? Surely no mortal power could command the winged creatures as Axis did? Surely no mortal could live in such a magical castle as Sigholt now showed itself to be? Then Axis had led his command south through Achar, defeating the murderer and usurper Borneheld, and had created for them the mighty realm of Tencendor. No mortal, many muttered, could have done all of this.
Slowly but surely, men and women everywhere were starting to worship Axis as their god of choice – the StarMan. Others preferred the calm beauty and the sure deadliness of the Enchantress.
Especially those who still recalled the ancient prayers to Lady Moon.
It was this trend, more than anything else, that had terrified Artor out of His heavenly kingdom and into flesh to try to stop the rot.
Jorge shivered and pulled his blanket closer and listened to the muttered prayers echo about him. Had he ever thought he’d live to see the day when the names of so many gods could be evoked by a force he led? Damn the impulse that had seen him volunteer to lead the command in Jervois Landing! Jorge had not wanted to linger in Carlon after the death of Borneheld and Axis had granted his request to come further north. Now the price of his impetuousness was apparently going to be death, and Jorge suddenly realised that he did not want to die. He might be close to seventy and he may have led a full life, but Jorge still had a lot that he wanted to do.
Jorge considered praying himself, but he did not know who to pray to. His life-long devotion to Artor seemed inconsequential; of what use was a Plough-God here among the ice? Had Artor protected those who had called His name but had still died over the past two years? No, Artor was ineffectual, but Jorge was not yet ready to pray to any of the Star Gods, nor was he prepared to invoke the names of Axis or Azhure to his aid.
So he just sat.
And waited for death.
In the space of a heartbeat, the storm stopped. The sudden silence almost hurt the ears, but it did not cause any gladness. All knew what it meant.
Gorgrael
