wagon supplied with utensils and braziers rolled
first in line beyond the column of troops. Close behind came the armament wagon, carrying extra javelins,
quarrels, bows, and maces.
At the head of the columns, Conar sat his black destrier, Seayearner. Both he and the steed were
dressed in full battle armor: thick brown leather and bronze chain mail, for Conar’s men strongly
suspected an attack on the road. On the steed’s saddle was draped the black crystal crossbow that
belonged to Liza, and on his own back, Conar had slung her quiver of quarrels. His grandfather’s
broadsword crossed over the quiver and rode high above his right shoulder in a fancy baldric that had
once belonged to the Outlaw. Within the cowl of his tunic, Conar’s blue eyes slitted with revenge.
The men who rode with Conar McGregor were, for the most part, seasoned warriors. Most came from
the King’s Force, either active duty or retired, but numbered among them were some seventy of Conar’s
own Elite Guard, all deadly men with the hard resolve of revenge turning their faces to granite. All had
gone to their knees to swear fealty to Conar and his lady-wife before leaving Boreas Keep. Now, they
rode behind their young Overlord with blood in their eyes and palms that itched to take lives.
Legion had spoken little to his brother on the trek. Speech wasn’t easy over the stamping hooves and
jingling harnesses, the creak of battle wagons bringing up the rear, and it wasn’t really necessary. He
knew all too well what his younger brother was thinking. The trek would take four days, if they did not
wait for the wagons and carts; six to eight, if they did. Legion could see from Conar’s expression that he
had every intention of reaching Norus Keep by dawn of the third day as if he had made this journey
alone.
Thom rode beside, and a little behind, Conar. His beady black gaze never left his commander’s back,
nor did his big hand stray far from the bow at his thigh. His hearing was cocked to catch even the faintest
sign of danger and his back was ramrod-straight in the saddle so he would stay alert.
At noon on the second day, the force crossed the shallow, rock-strewn riverbed named Lucifus, and
they entered the Southern Zone. The air became stagnant with heat, despite a cooling mist that had
showered them as they left Boreas the day before. Strange, twisted plants with sharp, deadly thorns grew
out of the barren wasteland. Venomous reptiles peered at the passing horsemen with hungry, hopeful
eyes. Huge arachnids scuttled about the hot sand and seemed to disappear as though the land had
swallowed them. A lone scavenger would stop to watch, but it would keep its distance, its mouth
slathering for the taste of the sweaty flesh moving close to its lair.
When sunset came, the troop passed through the tall dunes bordering the road. It was the spot where
Rayle Loure had been slain. Thom’s lids flickered with remembered loss, but his attention remained on
his Prince’s back. His huge hands tightened on the braided reins, but he gave no other sign of the terrible
pain in his oversized chest.
"He wishes us well, Thommy," Conar said softly, never turning to look at the man behind him. His own
gaze was on the high dunes from where the killers had come.
"Aye," was all Thom could reply, thankful he wasn’t alone in his grief.
Winding close to the thick forest near Rommitrich Point as darkness fell, the men dismounted and let
their horses water at the shallow stream near the old ruined abbey. Conar glanced toward the fallen-in
roof and looked away, his heart heavy. He patted ’Yearner’s head as the great black horse drank from
the stream, but he didn’t speak to his men as they cared for their own beasts. Mounted again, his silence
preyed heavily on those around him, but his privacy was inviolate to them all.
Toward midnight, the troop reached the pathway of cobbles that marked the entrance to the Hound and
Stag Inn.
first in line beyond the column of troops. Close behind came the armament wagon, carrying extra javelins,
quarrels, bows, and maces.
At the head of the columns, Conar sat his black destrier, Seayearner. Both he and the steed were
dressed in full battle armor: thick brown leather and bronze chain mail, for Conar’s men strongly
suspected an attack on the road. On the steed’s saddle was draped the black crystal crossbow that
belonged to Liza, and on his own back, Conar had slung her quiver of quarrels. His grandfather’s
broadsword crossed over the quiver and rode high above his right shoulder in a fancy baldric that had
once belonged to the Outlaw. Within the cowl of his tunic, Conar’s blue eyes slitted with revenge.
The men who rode with Conar McGregor were, for the most part, seasoned warriors. Most came from
the King’s Force, either active duty or retired, but numbered among them were some seventy of Conar’s
own Elite Guard, all deadly men with the hard resolve of revenge turning their faces to granite. All had
gone to their knees to swear fealty to Conar and his lady-wife before leaving Boreas Keep. Now, they
rode behind their young Overlord with blood in their eyes and palms that itched to take lives.
Legion had spoken little to his brother on the trek. Speech wasn’t easy over the stamping hooves and
jingling harnesses, the creak of battle wagons bringing up the rear, and it wasn’t really necessary. He
knew all too well what his younger brother was thinking. The trek would take four days, if they did not
wait for the wagons and carts; six to eight, if they did. Legion could see from Conar’s expression that he
had every intention of reaching Norus Keep by dawn of the third day as if he had made this journey
alone.
Thom rode beside, and a little behind, Conar. His beady black gaze never left his commander’s back,
nor did his big hand stray far from the bow at his thigh. His hearing was cocked to catch even the faintest
sign of danger and his back was ramrod-straight in the saddle so he would stay alert.
At noon on the second day, the force crossed the shallow, rock-strewn riverbed named Lucifus, and
they entered the Southern Zone. The air became stagnant with heat, despite a cooling mist that had
showered them as they left Boreas the day before. Strange, twisted plants with sharp, deadly thorns grew
out of the barren wasteland. Venomous reptiles peered at the passing horsemen with hungry, hopeful
eyes. Huge arachnids scuttled about the hot sand and seemed to disappear as though the land had
swallowed them. A lone scavenger would stop to watch, but it would keep its distance, its mouth
slathering for the taste of the sweaty flesh moving close to its lair.
When sunset came, the troop passed through the tall dunes bordering the road. It was the spot where
Rayle Loure had been slain. Thom’s lids flickered with remembered loss, but his attention remained on
his Prince’s back. His huge hands tightened on the braided reins, but he gave no other sign of the terrible
pain in his oversized chest.
"He wishes us well, Thommy," Conar said softly, never turning to look at the man behind him. His own
gaze was on the high dunes from where the killers had come.
"Aye," was all Thom could reply, thankful he wasn’t alone in his grief.
Winding close to the thick forest near Rommitrich Point as darkness fell, the men dismounted and let
their horses water at the shallow stream near the old ruined abbey. Conar glanced toward the fallen-in
roof and looked away, his heart heavy. He patted ’Yearner’s head as the great black horse drank from
the stream, but he didn’t speak to his men as they cared for their own beasts. Mounted again, his silence
preyed heavily on those around him, but his privacy was inviolate to them all.
Toward midnight, the troop reached the pathway of cobbles that marked the entrance to the Hound and
Stag Inn.
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