Guardian Last (Lords of Syon Saga Book 2) by Jordan MacLean Page A

disbelief.

Five
    Moncliff
    The three riders were still the better part of a day’s ride
outside Durlindale, which itself stood a day’s ride from Brannford, when they
were forced to slow their horses.  They had ridden hard through the night,
almost to exhaustion for man and horse, and they’d had to cut overland to avoid
being seen by Maddock’s spies on the roads surrounding Castle Damerien, which
had slowed their travel.  As they’d cleared the east gate, they had of course
seen the distant glow of battle over the far western hills, over Castle
Brannagh, but their path lay east.  So they had not stopped, had not slowed
their pace, riding on into the night in resolved silence and leaving Brannagh
to its fate.
    This close to Durlindale and Brannford, and with the morning
about to dawn, they would need caution more than speed.  The roads here saw heavy
traffic by day, between the farmers and the town, but also between various
monasteries and temples, many of which––most of which, the duke feared––were
likely in the hands of their enemies.
    Colaris, the sheriff’s harrier, circled high above the
trees.  The duke had watched the little hawk dodging and hunting between the
trees, happily filling his little belly on warm, fresh field mouse, a luxury the
bird had likely not enjoyed since the war.  By now, Colaris had no doubt
wearied of terrorizing squirrels and rabbits on the ground as he scouted ahead
of the riders and just glided lazily between the trees, matching the riders’
pace and watching the ground below.  It seemed Daerwin had tasked Colaris with
staying with Damerien since Castle Brannagh was no longer safe for him, which
suited the duke.  Already the bird had more than earned his keep.
    Twice in as many miles, Colaris had warned them of traffic
approaching on the road, and twice they’d barely slowed and composed themselves
before they were seen.  In the dappled shadows of the trees, their Bremondine
cloaks made them virtually invisible to those who had passed them on the road––farmers,
as it happened in both cases, rather than priests or knights––whose thoughts
had been lost in their own business.  As a result, they’d not much inclined to
notice one more band of travelers. 
    The riders could not afford to be memorable, not to anyone
they passed.  For someone to recognize Duke Trocu Damerien was unlikely, given
his rare appearances in public.  But he could not risk it.  Such recognition
would bring questions and the demands of his station from the people of
Durlindale which would delay him.  At worst, it would bring unwanted attention
from those who might wish him harm while he was still too weak to defend
himself. 
    Lord Daerwin had clearly written his message to his nephew in
haste, so it had not been terribly clear.  Something about Brannagh being
besieged and a rendezvous in Brannford…  The rest, Trocu already knew. 
    He’d smelled Xorden’s ancient and all-but-forgotten stink
all over the disgusting little Hadrian cardinal as soon as he’d entered the
audience chamber at Damerien.  But by that time, Trocu had been all but
incapacitated with protecting those of Brannagh from the plague threatening to
leak in at the edges of his power if his attention so much as wandered.
    Five times, only five, he had been able to rally just a bit
of extra strength while still holding off the main body of the plague.  He’d
sought out the traces of B’radik’s power in her priests and lent his own to
help purge the plague from some few of the knights.  Only five.  Without sleep,
without food, as his own strength had begun to fail him, to his sorrow, Damerien
had not been able to save another.  As he’d weakened more and more, he’d
despaired of outliving the plague himself, much less being able to protect
Brannagh much longer. 
    So it was in this helpless, nearly dead state that he had
watched as through a fog as his beloved cousin, Lady Renda, Knight Commander