Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 145704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
“Magic.” I grin. “Why are we stopped?”
“There’s a town up ahead. The king wants you both up front with him.”
“Why?”
“Dunno, but there’s a lot of smoke.”
Gesine and I share a look.
“That sounds like trouble.” But why would Zander want me in the thick of it, then?
“Trouble, yes. But also fresh air.”
We climb out of the wagon, Gesine on my heels, as eager to escape our little box as I am.
I shudder against the chill as I survey our new surroundings. We’re in a dense swath of lofty trees a hundred—maybe more—feet tall. While I know those formidable mountains have embraced us into their fold by now, the view of them is blocked.
“I believe they call them Blackwoods.” Gesine’s eyes follow mine, taking in the sturdy ashen-colored trunks and evergreen canopies that allow in only dappled light. Their roots crawl along the ground, creating gnarly bulges that no wagon could pass over. The path we’re on must have been carved out over the centuries.
Our long convoy has stalled, curious heads poking out of wagons while the legionaries’ acute concentration remains outward, on every twig snap and animal call.
A mortal girl of no more than five peeks out from a gap within the wagon boards. I wink at her, hoping the simple act offers some reassurance when I have no idea why we’re stopped. It must have something to do with the fifteen-foot wooden wall ahead, blocking our passage. Beyond it, multiple streams of smoke curl into the sky.
“That’s Kamstead, the last of what they call civilized villages before things get real wild.” From atop his horse, Fearghal escorts us to the front of the line where Zander waits, holding Eros’s reins for me.
“What’s going on?” I collect them, and despite the somber mood, my stomach flutters as Zander slides his thumb across my palm. The simple touch feels like a reminder of this morning and a promise for later.
“I do not know yet, but that is far too much smoke for simply expelling a draft.”
I hoist myself into my saddle.
“Thank you.” Gesine settles onto the back of Elisaf’s horse. In the daylight, there is no hiding the sorrow wilting her features.
Zander looks to me, his unspoken question hanging in the air, and I offer a subtle nod.
His shoulders sink. “I am sorry for your loss, High Priestess.”
She swallows hard, her eyes watering. “What do we know of this village?”
Zander looks to Fearghal.
“Like I was sayin’, it’s called Kamstead. Maybe sixty livin’ there. Used to be all mortals, but then Isembert decided he wanted his kind here to collect a tithe on the trade that comes through. It’s the one main road between north and south. Rumor has it Isembert promised ’em he had a deal to protect ’em from the saplin’s and that they’d get a cut of the coin.”
It’s not so much rumor as fact. “What are these elven like? Anything like Isembert?” Self-proclaimed lords who don’t deserve the stations they’ve climbed to?
He shrugs. “Maybe fifteen of ‘em. I don’t care much for any of ’em for what they are, but the times I’ve been here, the lot seemed reasonable enough. None of ’em like anyone from the south, but that’s most of the north. The village is built around the road, and they control passage through either side with their gates. Sometimes they can be thorny about who they let through.” He peers over his shoulder at the long line of mortals and legionaries. “Not sure they’ll take kindly to this.”
“Would they have let the Ybarisans through?” I ask.
“Aye. The wall ain’t that strong. When a line of soldiers shows up, you open the gate.”
Zander studies the wooden barrier. Four archers watch from the ramparts. A minute ago, there was only one. “Are they fighters?”
“You won’t see ’em throwing down their swords in easy surrender, that’s for sure. They’ve been gettin’ some saplin’s lately, from what I heard last time I came through, even with Isembert’s deal.”
A deal that I hope the next leader of Norcaster doesn’t honor.
“Is there a way around the village?” Elisaf asks.
“I mean, you could squeeze a horse through the thicket, but not one of those.” He points toward the line of wagons.
Zander’s lips press together. “Then we will go through. A shield, if you will?”
“Your Highness.” Gesine’s eyes flare with a vibrant emerald luster.
“Fearghal, you know these people?”
“Aye, one or two.”
“Then you come with us.” He nods toward our small group of five.
Abarrane leads us toward the wall, her sword still tucked in its sheath.
I inhale, and my nose curls. “What is that?” A pungent stench of smoldering, wet wood and something else—vaguely like beef or pork, only sweeter and yet with a metallic component.
“Burning flesh,” Elisaf answers.
My stomach drops. No wonder Zander seems so apprehensive.
We’re twenty feet away when a man with an arrow aimed at Zander yells, “Who are you?”