CHAPTER FIRST — The Story of Yéla

When the man’s lifeless hand released hers and fell to the floor, she could have known it was over. She sat on her heels next to him, her knees embedded in the dirt floor, dust motes swirling in and out of the shafts of late afternoon sunlight filtering in through the weft of branches that served as the walls of this meager, sparse abode. The distant sounds of the woodland crept in around her—a woodpecker tapping, a hawk screeching, squirrels bickering. Somewhere a snake dragged its coils across a stone, elsewhere a centipede scrabbled up a tree. All these things lived, and writhed, and moved, and the cacophony of their quietude swelled to a deafening roar. But the girl remained perfectly still. As motionless as the dead man. Her eyes unmoving, unblinking, fixed on his. The weight of all the life around her, every tree, every doe, every sparrow, every mosquito, bore down upon her shoulders. Coiled her like a spring. But still she did not move, captured as she was by the eyes of the dead man. Made into a statuesque conduit for all of nature’s energy, the life force of creation, she could hear it all, could see it all.
It was the spider that finally drew her away. It crawled out from under the man’s thin blanket and crept along his neck up to his cheek. Watching the spider making unceremoniously toward the corner of the man’s eye, she came to understand that he was, in fact, dead. It was truly over.
She reached over and gently picked up the spider by two legs. It struggled between her pinched fingertips, its angry red eyes like tiny droplets of blood. It scuttled away as she placed it on the floor and returned her attention to the man. She had never seen a dead person before, with the exception of her mother—or so she’d been told, having been too young to remember. It occurred to her she ought to feel something, though what she could not say. It also occurred to her she was still holding the shiny black stone the man had given her, and for the first time she studied it closely. His words swam about feverishly in her mind. It was unfathomable, impossible, the implications too fantastic and too terrible.
She ventured another glance at the dead man’s eyes. This time there was no locking gaze, this time the eyes were pale and vacant. He no longer appeared brimming with the fiery strength and prodigious wisdom he’d been known for in life. Instead he looked small, and frail, and most of all, dead. Why was she here? How had this come to pass? Her presence could be explained easily enough, but why had she stayed? Especially when it became clear he was ill, why hadn’t she gone to fetch a healer? If the others found out she had sat and watched him die they might blame her for his death! With a nervous shake of her head, she promptly dismissed all his wild portents, bizarre instructions, and vigorous warnings. She rose to her feet. She would breathe not a word of what he’d told her.
Still, the man had known of her birthmark, something about which absolutely no one knew—or so she thought. But no, the only news worth bringing back to the village was that the magus was dead. No good could come of telling the others all that had happened.
Stepping out of the magus’s crude, circular house, she saw that the sky was clear again, though the trees still dripped from the sudden downpour hours ago. As she walked through the dense, damp woodland, she returned her attention to the shiny black stone in her hand. It was certainly pretty. Its shape was imperfect, as if it were crudely chipped from a larger stone. But the surface was smooth and glasslike, and the stone’s smoky black color seemed to reside just beneath the surface. But pretty or no, there was no way to prove she hadn’t stolen it from the magus, especially if she were to tell the others she found him dead. Without further thought, she threw the stone deep into the woods. She’d always had a good arm for throwing stones and it sailed away far and deep.
But as soon as it left her young fingers, she felt a sharp pang of dread. Regret welled up from her stomach as she watched the curious black stone sail away to melt into the shadows of the woods. Hearing it hit the hull of some ancient oak far beyond her view, she stood for a moment, trying to decipher the strange unease she felt.
Then, with a shrug, she carried on toward her village.
* * *
Gwyloden was the first to hear the even, methodical rumble. Standing on the crest of Fallen Tree Ridge, overlooking the King’s Road, and looking up from her nearly full basket of catsprite berries, she was also the first to see them coming. Her reaction was immediate. She ran toward the center of the village just as fast as her fat legs would carry her, leaving a scattered trail of catsprite berries rolling in her wake.
As Gwyloden went stomping up the dusty road, screaming an alarm that hadn’t been uttered outside of a fireside story in hundreds of years, some took heed, hastening inside in a surreal haze, locking doors, and closing shutters. Others, unsure of what to make of her alarm, simply stood by, mid-chore or mid-conversation, and stared at the huge and overexcited woman as she la¬bored by.
Had it been anyone but Gwyloden, whose pace hadn’t exceeded that of a brisk walk in twenty years, and who was well known for her even temperament, more would have neglected to flee.
Reaching a small house with lime-white walls, a blue studded oak door, and a smoking chimney hewn of ancient river stone, she bellowed her granddaughter’s name with what breath she could still muster. In the sickening absence of a reply, she searched frantically, crying, her voice cracking and straining, “Yéla! Yéla… where are you!”
A stout man with a bushy red beard filled the doorway beside the hearth. Yawning cavernously, he raked his fingers through the mass of unruly locks framing his broad, sleepy face.
“What are you on about now, woman?” he asked, his freshly awakened voice rusty.
“Staarn!” Gwyloden groaned. “It’s Yéla. I can’t find her anywhere!”
“She’s roaming the woods, and not returned. What of it?”
“They’re coming, and I can’t find Yéla!” Gwyloden was near hysterics.
“Who’s coming?” Staarn asked groggily.
She told him. The blood drained quickly from the man’s ever-ruddy cheeks.
“That’s impossible. You… you’re mistaken…”
“I saw the standard! The snakes!”
“But why… what could they possibly--”
“I don’t know! Where’s Yéla? We must find her!”
“I’ve told you,” Staarn said, an edge to his voice, as he reached for the great longbow above the hearth. “She’s in the cursed woods, woman! Have you seen my arrow bag?”
“She’s just a girl. They’ll...” She stopped talking. “Did you hear that?”
He had. It was the screeching bray of a distant warhorse. They both stood listening. Paralyzed. From the depths of their hearing emerged the low rumbling of a dozen or more heavy warhorses being driven hard.
Staarn broke from the dismal trance and continued searching for his arrows.
“By Sons of Stones, woman—where’s my arrow bag!”
Gwyloden said nothing. She could not move. Her trembling lips formed the word, “Yéla,” but she could not give it voice.
Horses whinnied and grunted as reigns were pulled and the marauding party slowed to a stop in the center of the village. Gwyloden and Staarn rushed to the window and stole a peek at the fourteen darkly garbed horsemen. They wore full battle armor and were armed with long swords, axes, war hammers, and crossbows. Their armor was burnished a smoky black, their breastplates bearing a symbol of two snakes forming a circle, each snake midway engulfed by the other. It was the standard of the Clan-Ohn. The warriors who bore it were known only as Dark Riders in the still whispered stories of their notorious acts of brutality and ferocity in battle. One Rider was set apart from the others in dress, stature, and manner. Standing at least a foot taller than the next largest man in the party, he wore a tattered, full-length, wraparound cape made from a heavy, black material with a velvety blood-red lining. He had a fluidness of movement in the saddle, as if he and his mount composed one living organism. But the most striking thing about this Rider was the silence. Even at a distance, and surrounded by other Dark Riders, silence characterized his being. He exuded it, wore it like a shroud.
The Dark Riders paced their black steeds ceaselessly about in the village center like a restless storm cloud, brimming with barely restrained power and malevolence, surveying their surroundings with cruel eyes. Along the stone-lined dirt path that ran through the center of the village stood scattered houses framed in birch or carved oak timber beams, with walls of clay-caked stone and rooftops of autumn thatch. Hastily abandoned tools littered half-tilled fields. Shutters creaked to permit frightened peeping eyes. A pool of freshly drawn milk spread from an overturned pail, seeping into the road, turning the powdery dirt black. There would be no threat from these docile villagers. Not a man among them remained outside to stand against the Riders. The village of Hammettshire was home to seventy-three souls, sustaining mainly on farming and gathering. But they would number far less than seventy-three souls by the time the sun set on this day.
“By stones, it’s…” whispered Staarn in a tone somewhere between awe and dread.
Gwyloden followed her husband’s gaze to the Rider with the cape. “Is that...”
“By the gods, I think it is.”
“By stones!” Gwyloden whispered to herself.
“Pray speak, woman, and tell me where be my sheaf of arrows.” Though insistant, his voice was scarcely more than a whisper. He couldn’t take his eyes off the singular figure with the cape. It was as if a nightmare had crawled from the recesses of his unconscious mind and was now parading, brazen and obscene, outside his window.
“It’s in the other room near the haybed,” she answered woodenly.
Staarn disengaged his stare, and rushed off.
Finally one of the Dark Riders spoke, his voice gruff and filthy, like that of a mineworker. “We’re ‘ere for the one called Searst-Ohn. Deliver ‘im or know the wrath of the Clan-Ohn.” There was utter silence in the village except for the scattered sounds of livestock and the beating of hooves. After a short while, the Rider who had spoken repeated his message. This time, while he spoke, a connection formed in Gwyloden’s mind. She’d heard that name once before, when she was a young girl and the magus had first arrived at Hammettshire. Her mother had told her… But her thought was cut short when the silent figure with the cape snapped his head in her direction. Very much like he’d found what he was looking for.
“Yéla’s bed or our bed?” Staarn called out, trying not to sound conspicuous.
“Wh-what?” Gwyloden stammered, shrinking away from the window.
“The haybed or the featherbed, woman, by stones!”
“The haybed…make haste, Staarn!” Though no longer looking, she was convinced that at least one of the Dark Riders was approaching. She didn’t understand what she had done to earn the attention of the silent one, but it was clear she had. She feared they were going to ask her where the magus was and that, if she told them, he would meet a horrible fate; at the same time, if she refused, she herself would “know the wrath” of the Dark Riders.
A moment later the blue studded oak door caved inward, and a Dark Rider stormed in.
“You know where he is.” It was not a question. The small baleful eyes encased behind the armor of his scored helmet were like those of a mad dog, barely under its master’s control. The froth in the corner of the sneer he wore enhanced the effect.
A gasp hitched in Gwyloden’s throat and died.
The intruder closed on her at a hostile pace, slowly drawing his sword. The old woman’s eyes bulged, fixed on the naked steel as it was exposed inch by inch with a sickening scraping hiss. In a flash thought, Gwyloden knew he enjoyed the horror on her face as the blade came out, was drawing it slowly for just that reason. “Tell me where he is you great bitch or I’ll cut you open and feed you yer own guts!”
Time seemed to slow to a crawl. Gwyloden thought he was hoping she’d defy him, give him the excuse to slice into her flesh with that terrible blade. And then she knew, truly knew that nothing she could do or say would stop him. Even if she gave him the magus and whatever else he asked for, he would kill her. And Staarn, and Yéla, and anyone else he could get his hands on. She knew his type well enough. Her father had commanded a host at Ryon Flats, and she’d seen him set off with his men, seen the bloodlust. The man moving toward her was a wild beast turned loose, who’d ridden hard and long from the bowels of the Deadlands with a sword thirsting for blood, and would not be sated until he’d killed and killed and killed. The sword was almost clear. At that instant Gwyloden’s fear galvanized into solid pitch anger. Before she knew her own mind she reached behind her back and grasped a large, cast iron pot. Wielding it sidelong with a scream that was somewhere between a terrified wail and a war cry, she smote the Rider a mighty blow.
Gwyloden’s almost instantaneous transition from victim to attacker, combined with the adrenalin-driven strength behind the swing, and the trajectory of the pot, which arced fortuitously along a blind spot inflicted by the Rider’s helmet, resulted in a terrible collision between the iron pot and the Rider’s helmeted head. His hearing disappeared with the terrific clang of impact, replaced by a thin tinnitic hum, while his neck strained against the violence with which he head snapped to the side scrambling his balance and orientation. A lesser man would have been laid down by such a blow; but the Rider was a battle-hardened man-at-arms, and he kept his feet. Nevertheless, he was momentarily stunned, and his sword slid back into its scabbard. Gwyloden was on him at once. The Rider staggered back as the heavy, hysterical woman pressed her attack, putting her considerable weight behind every strike of the pot. But after a few rearward steps, he mastered his senses, arrested Gwyloden’s swinging arm, and threw her off. She crashed against a wall, and the Rider’s blade was out in a flash. He released a strong downstroke aimed at the pot still clutched in Gwyloden’s hand. With a lick of spark and a din like the toll of a death bell, the pot shot from her grasp and thumped heavily into the rushes.
The Rider would make no further attempt at interrogation. He deftly circled the blade low overhead, poised to crash it into the side of the frightened woman’s skull, when he a voice fought its way though the murky hum still ringing in his ears: “It was next to the featherbed.”
Puzzled, the Rider stayed his weapon and turned.
Staarn was a wide-shouldered man with a vast chest, making him far stronger than one might expect his age to permit. Locally, he was he enjoyed no mean renown for his great longbow, the shaft of which was as thick as a man’s arm and cut from the heart of a mighty yew that had been struck open by lightning—or so it was said. It was as long and stiff as any war bow, and what gave Staarn his celebrity was the simple fact that he was the only man in the village who could draw it to full flex. And it was drawn to full flex now, the razor sharp broadhead pointed dead at the unprotected hollow beneath the Rider’s chin. Before the he could react, the bow twanged powerfully and Staarn’s arrow punched through his neck and out the back.
The wounded man’s eyes widened, not with terror, but something more like confusion. As the first jet of blood sprayed from severed arteries, his sword fell to the rushes beside Gwyloden's iron pot.
The Rider staggered out of the house and toward his comrades, a wet noise gurgling from his impaled larynx. Through the gaping open doorway, Staarn and Gwyloden watched as the other Dark Riders regarded their mortally wounded companion with apathy as the life seeped from his body and his blood sprayed into the air. Eventually the man fell to the ground, the plate armor he’d painstakingly strapped on before the journey to Hammettshire clattering uselessly around him. The blood gushing from his terrible wound heaved one final spurt, then quickly dwindled to a trickle.
Staarn, who had never killed a man before, was lost in the scope of what he had done. He tried to string another arrow, but his fingers had become thick and clumsy. Gwyloden ran to his side and held him tight. Her hair smelled faintly of plums.
The silent Rider dismounted and approached. Staarn had a guttural urge to break away from Gwyloden and run away. Her vice-like hold on him became all at once claustrophobic as he watched the silent figure approaching like the Nightfall of Death for the gravely ill. But a lifetime of partnership with Gwyloden overrode his instincts for sole self-preservation, and he stood by his woman.
And then the Rider was at the threshold, filling the doorway. He hunched and scraped through the entrance, over the splintered remains of the blue door, but made not a sound. A darkness fell over the home, like storm clouds gathering, blotting sunlight from the windows. Staarn was a large man by any standard, but when this Rider closed the final paces and stood before them, Staarn was dwarfed. A convulsive shudder shockwaved through him and into Gwyloden, but something lurked just beneath the membrane of Staarn’s fear: wonderment. The intruder’s physical presence was unlike anything Staarn had ever known or could have imagined.
A sense of emptiness poured off this Rider, his physical presence was more like that of a statue than a man. There was no sense of being, only an absolute stillness. In fact, it was as if he was the personified absence of presence, absorbing all the sound in the room. And the light. And the hope. He’s not breathing, Staarn thought disjointedly, while a lulling coolness wafted from the dark figure, like an icy midnight breeze after a hot day. Looking into the open space in the Rider’s helmet, two red pits glowed dull and angry like embers where eyes should have been. Elsewhere, the face was a black so complete, Staarn couldn’t discern shadow from matter. A wide black gauntlet, ragged and battle-worn, reached past Staarn’s transfixed gaze and gently grasped Gwyloden’s quivering, tear-streaked chin, turning her reluctant head upward. The silent warrior’s faceless eyes gazed into hers with a ferocious intensity for what seemed like minutes, though it was only seconds.
But suddenly, Gwyloden’s chin was released, and the Rider was drifting away, as though she was supremely uninteresting. A flurry of movement, and the Rider was effortlessly mounted.
Staarn’s eyes never left the cool dark figure while awaiting the fate he knew was his. Watched the silent one prepare to ride off, Staarn had the hysterical sense that he and Gwyloden were to be spared. In spite of his terrible sin against a member of the Clan-Ohn, they had survived an encounter with a Black Jarl.
* * *
After she was sure all the horsemen had passed, Yéla arose from behind the briar patch. Having heard the commotion from without the village, she’d taken the precaution of hiding until the party left. Now that they were gone, she ran the rest of the way at top speed.
Most of the villagers had gathered around the mess in front of her house. As Yéla got closer, she realized the mess was composed or pieces of slaughtered creatures that appeared to have been ripped apart. The blood and offal was in such abundance that it gave her the impression the creatures must have been huge—possibly horses, though nothing of a horse’s anatomy could be discerned. It was a terrible waste of meat, and the sight turned her stomach.
But Yéla had no time to gawk at the disgusting mess. Right now she wanted nothing more than to run past it and inside, where she could share the sad news of the magus’s death with her grandparents and find out what the horsemen had been doing in Hammettshire, what had been slaughtered, and why. But as the girl tried to push her way through the crowd, a thick, powerful arm barred her way.
“No, child,” said a naturally gruff voice she knew well, not unkindly.
Yéla had no time for this. She wanted to be inside with her Gwyloden and Staarn. “Let me be, Tharren!” Yéla protested, ducking under the arm. Tharren said nothing, but seized the girl by the collar of her frock. Surprised, Yéla beat against Tharren’s meaty fist where it held her collar, but her puny blows had no effect. Suddenly what had started off as a desire to see her grandparents became an urgent need, and she had to get inside the house now. It always smelled of plums. Everything her grandmother baked had plums in it, and she needed that smell in her nostrils. Yéla bit the big man’s forearm hard. He looked down at her with an eyebrow cocked and saw into her eyes. She had no way of knowing that her bite had had no more effect on Tharren than her flailing—his thick blacksmith’s skin being far too corded with tough burn scars from hand to elbow for her to damage it with her teeth. Could not know it was the jolt of surprise upon looking into her eyes that caused him to release his grip. That in them he saw something squirming, a hideous image of glistening fur and fangs and bloody circlets roiling in ecstasy. All she knew was that she was free.
Yéla dashed toward the small white house and hurdled the slain forms in a single heroic leap, but she slipped landing on the blood-drenched grass at the far end and slid into the side of the house, hitting her head with a hollow thud. Stunned, she stood up quickly and examined herself, finding that her back and the entire left side of her frock were streaked dark red.
“Where’s the blue door?” Yéla said looking down at her sticky hands, her voice soft and childlike.
As Tharren and some of the other dismayed villagers rushed to her aid, she began to feel dizzy, things started to swim. She sat down hard and tried to remember what it was she’d meant to tell Gwyloden and Staarn.
“I think I’m bleeding….” Yéla heard a voice say. Her voice. Suddenly, every muscle in her body involuntarily relaxed, and her head rolled back, dangling like a pendulum between her shoulders. “Wait…I need to…smell the plums...” she mumbled, watching as the rocking, upside down image of her grandparents’ house grew smaller and smaller.
Just before she blacked out, Yéla had a strong sense she was missing something. Something important.
* * *
As the Clan-Ohn legionnaires drew near the small, round, wattled house hidden deep in the woods, they dismounted and tied up their mounts. Fanning out, they cautiously picked their way though the ever-thickening undergrowth, war bows at the ready, arrows nocked. Quiet and steady, they converged on three sides. Twenty paces away, they stopped. Responding to an unspoken command, two legionnaires moved brazenly forward, long swords drawn. Reaching the undersized front door, over which hung an old carved sign declaring “Magus,” one stepped forward and kicked it with a mailed boot. It flew open with a violent creak that sounded like an animal cry, and the two legionnaires rushed through the diminutive entrance. The sign clattered off its peg above the door.
The magus’s home consisted of two disheveled rooms, illuminated only by the thin slivers of sunlight that sliced in through the wattle of the walls. The larger of the two rooms contained a small round hearth with fluffy white ashes heaped in and around it, and a sizable but low table upon which numerous scrolls, seals, tiny animal-skin pouches, bottles of various shapes and colors, candles at various stages of depletion, and a collection of varicolored stones and crystals were scattered. The hearth’s mantle displayed a candlestick holder with three unequally melted candles in it, two quills, an inkwell, and an ornate leather box. There were no sharp corners in this room; everything was round or domed. The second room contained a straw pallet with a pair of robes and a drab blanket draped across the foot, a metal tray with knife and fork beneath, and the lifeless body of the magus on top.
“Nine hells! If that’s him, we’re too late,” B’Korik spat, sheathing his sword and removing his helmet.
“How’re we to find it, then?” replied Horast.
“Buggered if I know.” He gestured at the magus’s body. “Bring it outside?”
“Aye, let’s,” said Horast, sheathing his own weapon. “Liege will never fit in here.” He positioned himself by Searst-Ohn’s withered feet and readied to lift, but all at once the Jarl burst through the wall in an explosion of pine branch and riverweed, moving gale-fast. The two Riders were flung away from the magus’s body like toy soldiers, striking opposite walls with enough force to rock the very structure of the house. The roof listed, thatch and more branches rained down opening gaps in the roof, but rather than the room brightening with the additional sunlight streaming in, it grew noticeably darker.
By the time the two had picked themselves up, the Jarl was kneeling peacefully, almost reverently beside the body of the magus. Rotating an injured shoulder experimentally, B’Korik looked from the Jarl to Horast. The silent warrior appeared to be concentrating on Searst-Ohn’s dead eyes. Horast met B’Korik’s eyes and shrugged. As they watched, the Jarl drew one gauntlet from his hand. Instantly the room was plunged into near complete darkness. Horast let out a gasp of surprise, but even to his own ears, his voice sounded vague and distant. The exposed hand was wide and so absolute in blackness the seemed to have no texture, and its from was nearly impossible to distinguish. The Jarl dropped the heavy metal gauntlet to the floor, where it landed noiselessly in the dirt, and reached his exposed hand toward the magus’s face, leaching from it the last tendrils of illumination and color as it grew closer. Soon, all that could be seen of the magus were his eyes, which strangely did not touched by the sucking darkness. In a single deft maneuver, the Jarl scooped out one of the magus’s eyes. He gazed hard into the iris of the glistening globe, that appeared to glow in its unaffected brightness. In a short while the eye’s light began to dim, and soon it was as lost in shadow as all else near the Jarl. After placing the eye into a pouch on his belt, he performed the same action with the magus’s other eye.
This rite completed, the Jarl stood and regarded his two minions one at a time, their expressions ones of befuddlement. Suddenly and simultaneously, the same thought assaulted both their minds: There was a girl here. She has the stone. The two Riders followed their master obediently out of the room. As they stepped out through the gaping hole the Jarl had rent, B’Korik called to the Jarl’s back as they exited. “Would you have us search the house, Liege?”
The girl is from the village. We search there. The words crashed into B’Korik’s and Horast’s minds like an invasion of thought.

* * *

“What... where am I?”
“Ssh. Safe, for now.”
“How did I get here? Who are you?”
“Be quiet, girl. They might hear you.”
“Who?”
“Ssh!”
“Sorry. Who?” now whispered.
“Those cursed Dark Riders what killed your grandparents. They’re back.”
That silenced her. Everything flooded back in a garbled rush. They were dead. She had known, had known without knowing. For a quiet moment Yéla braced herself for the inevitable vortex of grief. But it didn’t come. Horrified with her own response, she willed herself to mourn, to spiral in anguish, but she failed miserably. The sense of grief stubbornly refused to materialize—at least so far. Frustrated, her mind eventually shifted back to the matters at hand. She was lying down on what had to be the floor as it was flat and earthen and hard. The darkness here was absolute, save a hair-thin rectangular outline of light overhead. She waited for her eyes to adjust, but there was simply no light for her eyes to adjust to. The place had a musty smell, which, taken with the overall warmth of the place, made her feel claustrophobic. Realizing she was ensconced in some kind of blanket, Yéla unwrapped herself and sat up. This worked surprisingly well, and she found herself feeling unaccountably free in her mysterious, warm environment.
“Tharren! Is that who you are?” she chanced.
“Aye, ’course ‘tis,” said the voice absently. “But please be quiet. Please, child.”
“Tharren, where am I? What are we doing here? The last thing I can remember is that I...” It was then she realized she was naked. “By Sons of Gods, I’m bare!” she shrieked. From nowhere Tharren grabbed her and placed a massive hand over her mouth—covering most of her face as well.
“Quiet, child! Are you mad?” he whispered into her ear.
Yéla had no idea what was going on, and she panicked as she felt her nakedness pressed against the rough leather of his garments. She tried to scream, she kicked and she fought, but all she succeeded in was feeling extremely small and helpless in the clutches of this giant man. For all her trouble, Yéla got the strange sense that her nakedness was of no significance to Tharren, whose attention was clearly focused elsewhere. She nonetheless felt fully compelled to free herself and so bit down hard on his fleshy, callused hand. This time the reaction was not what she had hoped for. In fact, it was nonexistent. And so, disheartened, she acquiesced and decided to yield to whatever designs Tharren had on her.
But Tharren did nothing, said nothing. He just sat there with Yéla’s naked body locked against his. Yéla was quite confused with the turn of events until she began to listen to the world beyond her shadowy prison, the calamity and the shouting, both near and distant. It sounded as if the rooms above were being ransacked; beyond that came the din of total chaos. Yéla finally began to understand her situation and appreciate her proximity to mortal danger.
And she wholeheartedly dedicated herself to utter silence.

* * *

Yéla had much to contemplate on her trip back to the magus’s house. She had related to Tharren most of what the magus had told her before he died, in spite of her previous determination not to tell anyone. The way things had worked out, there was no point in keeping it secret. Furthermore, talking to Tharren had helped her sort things out in her own mind, though she remained overwhelmed. Snaking her way through the dense woods—keeping well off the common path—Yéla tried to recall everything whispered to her by the small dying man early that morning and piece it together with all that had happened since. From this, a plan could be formed. There was no doubt that, whether or not everything the magus had said was true, his words were at the very least not to be ignored. And so she and Tharren had decided that whatever happened, she should at least attempt to retrieve the stone the Magus had given her. If for no other reason, she might be able to bargain it for her life if she were captured.
Since she could not remain at Hammettshire even for another dawn, as the Riders could return any time, Yéla would have to take to the woods. The nearest village, Willowgate, was two days away, but there was no reason to suspect the Riders not have gone there looking for her, and if they rained the same destruction down on Willowgate that they did on Hammettshire, the villagers would not welcome her. So she would have to remain in the woods and avoid settled lands for the foreseeable. Though Yéla was quite comfortable in the woods, the idea of living far away from any village for an extended period was unnerving—there were wolves and outlaws in the deep woods—but was still a far better prospect than being discovered and turned over to the Riders. Nevertheless, Staarn had spent many a bright morning teaching Yéla the skills of woodsmanship passed down to him from his father, and although she had frequently been a reluctant pupil, preferring to simply wander and explore, she supposed she’d retained enough to manage—in any event, if the magus was to be believed she wouldn’t be alone on her travels indefinitely. She knew how to make a bed pallet in the boughs of a tree to keep her safe from wolves while she slept, and how to start a fire with flint. Which nuts, mushrooms and berries can be eaten, and which to avoid. How to catch rainwater with leaves, and how to make small game traps. He’d also taught her that the game that’s hardest to find is the one that moves around the most, for that which hides in one place is easiest to find. And so Yéla’s plan was to keep moving.
She considered that if she managed to find the stone, and she had to keep moving anyway, she might as well follow the magus’s directions. He’d said she was to travel east across the entire kingdom of Baeron to the River Nill, then along that river to the Dunes of Stayre, where she was to seek out the lair of a dragon called Bulzhec-Orc. These instructions presented a series of problems that hadn’t been apparent when they were originally laid out the day before—when she had not the least intention of carrying a single one of them out. Now that it was down to actually putting the plan into action, the problems exploded into the foreground.
One problem was the fact that the directions were too vague. The magus had told her to follow the River Nill, but he never told her in which direction. At the time the magus was instructing her, his breath was so labored and painful she was reluctant to ask too many questions. Another problem was that if she did, in fact, reach the Dunes of Stayre, whatever that was, how was she supposed to find this dragon’s lair? And assuming she did somehow find this specific dragon, how in the name of all the gods was she to deal with it? And for that matter, did dragons actually exist? People talked about them enough, but that was mostly in song and olden tales. Mraughn, an idol maker from her village claimed a dragon had taken his cow last spring, but most people put that down to a pair of outlaws that had been seen encamped in the Twilight Wood, which borders his meager crops. But even Mraughn had never claimed to actually see a dragon. Nevertheless, Yéla’d never seen a king before, or known anyone who did, but she supposed they existed. Even so, if she accepted that there were dragons, how was she supposed to talk to one—or understand anything a dragon told her in response? Can dragons even talk? she asked herself. And if they do… is it safe to talk to them? She couldn’t imagine it would be anything but highly unsafe.
Yéla really had no idea why the magus would have so much faith in her ability to carry out these tasks. She was just a girl, hardly a woman grown, whereas he had tasked her with a quest more suited to a great champion well accustomed to acts of daring such as these—and she told him as much, or at least she tried to. But the magus kept rasping out his instructions, punctuating each one with the same phrase: All of this has been scribed by Fate and revealed to me from within the valley wherest upon now I tread, and you shall know the way when you arrive. He must have said it ten times. She didn’t see how this was supposed to help her, or even how it made any sense, but she sensed by the way the magus pronounced those words that she was supposed to find comfort in them. And so she accepted, for the time being, that somehow she would know the way when she got to the River Nill.
But far and away her most pressing concern, dwarfing all the others, was the fact that she had no clothing. She’d had to leave Hammettshire in haste after the Dark Riders completed their rampage through the peaceful village. Twenty-six villagers had been murdered, numerous others were wounded. The Dark Riders had killed mostly women and children, while their husbands and fathers were interrogated about Yéla and the stone. Of those questioned, all would have gladly given Yéla to the ruthless assailants in order to end the savagery, but alas Tharren had hidden her safely away.
Tharren’s problems, of course, began the instant he emerged from hiding. Someone had seen her with him, and blame for the massacre fell quickly on his shoulders for his failure to deliver her to the Riders. In an ecstasy of horror and revenge-lust, many of the survivors, once gentle and benevolent people, wanted to see Tharren’s blood run—and Yéla’s. Sensing the gravity of the danger, Tharren had surreptitiously shuffled Yéla off into the woods behind his home. Owing to the necessity of moving quickly, and because the well-meaning Tharren had initially removed all of her blood-soaked clothes for cleaning, Yéla had nothing to wear except the blanket she’d been wrapped in. And so she was left to begin her quest without clothing, weapons, or companionship, and there was nothing the magus’s refrain could do to soothe her concern over these issues. All she had were those meager items Tharren could furnish her with in short order: the old blanket, a water skin, and a belt from which hung a small pouch containing sharp stubby knife wrapped in cloth, flintrocks, some nuts, a handful of dried berries and a few strips of cured meat.
She didn’t even have shoes—and her feet were already aching.

Yéla made slow progress through the woods to the magus’s house because her blanket kept getting caught in the jagged thicket. As she neared the house, Yéla worked one of the nuts out of her pouch. Its shell was thick—too thick for her to crack with her teeth and too hard for her to break against a tree. Why of all things did Tharren give me these to eat if they can’t be opened? she wondered. She bent to a large stone embedded in the forest floor and struck the nut against it several times, but it was too small in her hand for her to grip it so that the force of her blows were directed to the shell, and her knuckles took more of a beating than the nut. Frustrated, she snatched up a smaller stone with one hand, and held the nut against the large stone with the other. She cocked her arm to smash the nut between the two stones when she heard distant voices. Yéla dropped the nut, scurried toward the noise and ducked behind a dense brush. Through the weave of branches, she made out the magus’s small house just as three figures emerged from it. Though they were armed—one with a spear, one with a bow and quiver, the other with a hatchet and an ugly long knife—she could clearly see that they were not Dark Riders or even outlaws; they were villagers from Hammettshire. Yéla’s first reaction was to call out to one of them, Jowan, who had always been a close friend of Gwyloden and Staarn. But when she stood up to do so something seemed amiss. In addition to his spear, Jowan carried a length of rope draped around his shoulders. She stifled the call rising in her throat as she watched the three wander about in search of something. She was wondering what the three were looking for when it came to her: they weren’t looking for a what, they were looking for a who. They were looking for her.
Yéla dropped back down behind the brush to watch, but her sudden movement caught their attention. The three of them stopped in their tracks and shot looks in her direction. Looking through the branches, Yéla could see them clearly for the first time, and what she saw frightened her. Their faces revealed souls that were beyond emotion and pain; they revealed souls filled with emptiness. There was a cold determination behind their stares that led Yéla to believe they might just as soon kill her as capture her. Even Jowan, who had been such a large part of her growing up, had that stone faced look to him.
Yéla knew that if she stood and ran, her position would definitely be revealed. She would never be able to outdistance the bowman’s arrows, so what could she do but stay hidden and hope they wouldn’t find her? It wasn’t long, however, before it was clear they would find her. The three villager-assassins were moving directly toward her position, and it seemed like Gussern, the one carrying the horrible knife and menacing hatchet, was looking right at her. Could he see her? His pace quickened and his eyes narrowed as his feet closed the last bit of distance between hunter and prey. Now Jowan began to close behind Gussern, raising his spear. By stones, they see me! Yéla thought, her pulse racing in her ears, drowning out all other sounds—including the more obvious sound of movement that came from the far side of the magus’s house.
Fear welled within Yéla and was threatening to choke her when she saw her forthcoming undoers stop fast in their tracks and turn toward the new noise. Something scampered off into the cloak of woods around the other side of the magus’s house. Jowan was the first to react, and dashed off after it. The bowman followed but Gussern hesitated. He took another step toward Yéla’s hiding spot. He was only a few feet away, close enough for her to smell the tanner’s dyes that sullied his skin, and close enough for him to hear her breathing. She held her breath and re-evaluated the situation. With Jowan’s spear and the bowman’s arrows gone, she had a better chance of escape, but now that Gussern was so close, could she outrun the long stride of his legs?
There was nothing for it. One more step and he’d spot her. Then a desperate idea flashed into her head. She was still gripping the rock she’d picked up to break the nut. On Gussern’ next step, she’d hurl the stone right into his face. The surprise would hopefully buy her enough time to get an irretrievable lead on him as she took flight. If luck was with her, she’d split his pate, and he’d be too injured to give chase. Tightened her grasp on the stone, and began to slowly coil her arm, muscles toned from countless climbed trees tightening.
A voice echoed from a distance, “Come Gussern you fool! She’s getting away!”
And with only a moment’s more hesitation, Gussern turned and ran towards Jowan’s voice.
Yéla blew out her held breath and watched Gussern trailing away. When he was out of sight she sprung up and fled in the opposite direction as fast as fear would move her. She did not know what had distracted the men, nor did she know that Jowan had secretly circled back and saw her emerge from hiding.

Once she felt sure she’d put a good distance between herself and the three villagers, Yéla let her mind return to matters at hand. She tried to remember why she had returned to the magus’s house in the first place. The reason came back to her all at once...
“The stone!” she cried aloud, breathlessly. “By the Sons of Stones, I forgot to find the magus’s stone!” She sat down heavily and wept. But it was much more than forgetting the stone that brought her tears. It was loss. Loss of her grandparents, her home and village. The blue door, the smell of plums in a warm kitchen, and lessons in the woods. The loss of her entire life as she knew and understood it. Loss of her childhood. Her sobs were deep and wracking, and her entire body shuddered under their force. She wept for her powerlessness, and the crushing sense of futility. But her misery stopped short of despair. Thoughts of what lay before her turned her wretchedness into anger, and she beat her fists against her head with passion, over and over before she realized she was bleeding from a cut she’d opened over her right eye.
On feeling the trickle of blood circling her eye on its path toward her chin, she stopped to examine the cut, then the fist that had caused the injury. And saw the smooth, smoky-black stone she had picked up to break open the stubborn nut that she yet held in her other hand.