begun its journey through darkness, and with the Goddess of Darkness’s pleasure, he may find his way to the Blessed Isles.’ Gorath looked northward, as if seeking sight of something in the dark. ‘He was my kinsman, though one of whom I was not overly fond. But ties of blood run strong with my people. For him to hunt me names me outcast and traitor to my race.’ He looked at Locklear. ‘We have common cause, then, human. For if I am to carry out the mission that brands me anathema to my people, I must survive. We need to help one another.’ Gorath took Haseth’s sword. To Owyn he said, ‘Don’t bury him, but you could pull him out of the way, human. By morning he’s going to become even more unpleasant to have nearby.’
Owyn looked uncertain about touching a corpse, but said nothing as he went over, reached down and gripped the dead moredhel by the wrists. The creature was surprisingly heavy. As Owyn started to drag Haseth away, Gorath said, ‘And see if he dropped his travel bag back there in the woods before he attacked us, boy. He may have something to eat in it.’
Owyn nodded, wondering what strange chance had brought him to dragging a corpse through the dark woods and looting the body.
Morning found a tired trio making their way through the woodlands, staying within sight of the road, but not chancing walking openly along it.
‘I don’t see why we didn’t return to Yabon and get some horses,’ complained Owyn.
Locklear said, ‘We have been jumped three times since leaving Tyr-Sog. If others are coming after us, I’d rather not walk right into them. Besides, we may find a village between here and LaMut where we can get some horses.’
‘And pay for them with what?’ asked Owyn. ‘You said the fight where you were wounded was when your horses ran off with all your things. I assume that means your funds, too? I certainly don’t have enough to buy three mounts.’
Locklear smiled. ‘I’m not without resources.’
‘We could just take them,’ offered Gorath.
‘There is that,’ agreed Locklear. ‘But without obvious badges of rank or a patent from the Prince on my person, it might prove difficult to convince the local constable of my bona fides. And we should hardly be safe penned up in a rural jail with cutthroats out looking for us.’
Owyn fell silent. They had been walking since sun-up and he was tired. ‘How about a rest?’ he offered.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Gorath, his voice falling to a whisper. ‘Listen.’
Neither human said anything for a moment, then Owyn said, ‘What? I don’t hear anything.’
‘That’s the point,’ said Gorath. ‘The birds in the trees ahead suddenly stopped their songs.’
‘A trap?’ asked Locklear.
‘Almost certainly,’ said Gorath, pulling the sword he had taken from his dead kinsman.
Locklear said, ‘My side burns, but I can fight.’ To Owyn he said, ‘What about you?’
Owyn hefted his wooden staff. It was hard oak, with iron-shod ends. ‘I can swing this, if I need to. And I have some magic.’
‘Can you make them vanish?’
‘No,’ said Owyn. ‘I can’t do that.’
‘Pity,’ said Locklear. ‘Then try to stay out of the way.’
They advanced cautiously, and as they neared the spot Gorath had indicated, Locklear could make out a shadowy figure between the trees. The man or moredhel – Locklear couldn’t tell which – moved slightly, revealing his position. Had he remained motionless, Locklear would never have seen him.
Gorath signalled for Locklear and Owyn to move more to their right, looping around behind the lookout. Without knowing how many men they faced, they would do well to seek the advantage of surprise.
Gorath moved through the woods like a spirit, silent and almost unseen once Owyn and Locklear left him. Locklear signalled for Owyn to keep slightly behind and to the right of him, so he knew where he was when they closed upon their ambushers.
As they moved through the woods, they heard the sound of whispers, and Locklear knew no elves waiting for them would utter a word. Now the question was were these mere bandits or agents seeking to stop Gorath’s journey.
A grunt from ahead signalled Gorath’s first contact with the ambushers. A shout followed instantly and Locklear and Owyn ran forward.
Four men stood and one was already dying. The other three spread out in a small clearing between two lines of trees, a perfect position for a roadside ambush. Locklear felt an odd flicker behind him and something sped past his eyes, as if an arrow had been fired from behind, but other than the sensation of motion, there was nothing to be seen.
One of the three remaining ambushers cried out in shock, his hand going out before him as vacant eyes stared ahead, ‘I’m blind!’ he shouted in panic.
Locklear decided it was Owyn’s useful magic, and thanked the Goddess of Luck the boy had that much talent.
Gorath was engaged with one man while Locklear advanced on the other. Suddenly their garb registered and he said, ‘Quegans!’
The men were wearing short tunics and leggings, and cross-gartered sandals. The man facing Locklear had his head covered with a red bandanna, and over his shoulder hung a baldric from which a cutlass had hung. The cutlass was now carving through the air at Locklear’s head.
He parried and the blow shot fire through his wounded side. Putting aside his pain, Locklear riposted and the pirate fell back. A strangled cry told Locklear the second pirate was down.
The strange missile sensation sped by and the man facing Locklear winced and held his hand up as if shielding his eyes. Locklear didn’t hesitate and ran the man through.
Gorath killed the last man and suddenly it was quiet again in the woods.
Locklear’s side was afire but he didn’t feel any additional damage. He put up his sword and said, ‘Damn me.’
‘Are you hurt?’ asked Owyn.
‘No,’ answered Locklear.
‘Then what is the problem?’ asked Owyn.
Locklear looked around the clearing. ‘These are the problem. Someone has gotten word ahead of us. We can be certain of that.’
‘How?’ asked Gorath.
‘These are Quegan pirates,’ said Locklear. ‘Look at their weapons.’
‘I wouldn’t know a Quegan if I tripped over him,’ said Owyn. ‘I’ll take your word for it, squire.’
‘Do not pirates usually ply their trade at sea?’ asked Gorath.
‘They do,’ said Locklear, ‘unless someone’s paid them to stake out a road and wait for three travellers on foot.’ He knelt next to the man who had died at his feet and said, ‘Look at his hands. Those are the hands of a man used to handling rope. Those Quegan cutlasses are the clincher.’ He examined the man, looking for a pouch
