The lead rider pushed her hood back and prepared for the mind-trance. Her gaze took in the raven soaring high above the leaf-bare branches. Sleek coal-black plumage silhouetted the bird against the pale cloudless sky.
With dark, purple-flecked eyes narrowed, the rider focused on the circling shape. She raised a hand from where it rested on the pommel of her saddle, and the five mounted warriors following behind slowed. Their horses walked the snow-deepened track as the figure cast her senses upward.
She stiffened, head tilted back, and her vision shifted as her mind entered that of the bird. It seemed unaware of the interloper whose thoughts insinuated themselves throughout its being.
The woman recalled that the mind-trance was a technique she had learned from her mother. For a moment, she pictured a smiling face, full lips framed by lustrous crimson hair, and remembered a lilting laugh. Mother! If only I could see you one more time. What happened to you?
She forced her awareness back to the raven. The creature, obeying the urge it now felt, flexed its broad wings, banking to gain altitude.
From a great height, the dark-haired rider could now see what the bird saw: the tips of the snow-mantled trees far below, where the trail left the encircling woods and crossed open ground ahead.
As the raven flew higher still, the woman gazed through its eyes toward the distant horizon. Her mouth tightened as she glimpsed smoke drifting in ponderous clumps above an expansive forest, away to the north.
Eyes and ears straining, she detected faint screams, a bare whisper on the breeze, as if half heard in a dream. But these outpourings of agony and fear were all too real.
She urged the creature to glide lower, following the track as it plunged beneath more woodland, the trees massing outward and onward on all sides like silent, watchful sentinels. Instinct, heightened by her connection with the raven, caused the figure to stare at the line of trees with the aid of the bird’s sharp eyes.
Silence stretched for a few more heartbeats.
The woman smiled her thanks at the bird as she released the mind-link. She turned to her companions, gesturing for them to halt their mounts. As they did, the riders’ breath mingled with that of the horses to form floating streams of vapor in the crisp, biting air.
“We are not alone.”
She spoke in a calm, resonant voice. “The trail crosses open grassland and then enters another section of forest. I sense about a dozen armed warriors hiding in the undergrowth on the far side of the clearing.”
“Outlaws lying in wait for passing travelers, or a deliberate ambush set for us, I wonder?” The speaker lifted dark gray eyes and glanced ahead to where the track left the shelter of the woods.
“I do not know, Salith, but I suspect their purpose is not friendly.”
“Then let us prepare to meet them, sister-mine.” Salith pushed back his broad hood, revealing long, silver-veined dark hair. “Some exercise to warm my chilled bones would be most welcome.”
The leader turned her head to look at the others. Each wore black from head to toe, heavy cloaks wrapped around them. All but her wore swords at their hips, while bows with arrow-packed quivers lay strapped to their saddles.
“That’s not all. I saw smoke and heard screams in the air from the direction we came. Something is wrong back in Havenwood. The town may be in danger.”
One rider gasped and urged his horse forward.
“Patience, Barok,” said the woman, raising her hand. “I understand your concern for the safety of your birthplace and kin, but we must first deal with the threat in front of us.”
Barok bowed his head and quieted his mount. “As you wish, Galindra. But if Havenwood is under attack, then the portal itself may be at risk.”
Galindra brushed a lock of hair from her brow and glanced at her brother. She said nothing aloud, but Salith felt her words resound in his mind.
I do not believe it is a coincidence that these warriors are waiting for us. We left Havenwood at dawn two days ago, after portaling from Centristra only the night before. Few knew of the mission from our uncle, Arch Mage Mirchelius, to journey to Castle Grayrock. Someone may not want us to investigate the abduction of Prince Cael-Rath. We may have been betrayed.
Salith’s expression grew grim as he met his sister’s impassive eyes. Then let us deal with this obstruction on our path, and if we can, take one alive to discover what he or she may tell us about the prince’s whereabouts. His reply slipped unobstructed between Galindra’s own thoughts.
The rest of the company watched the unspoken exchange, aware that the turn of events troubled the two siblings.
Galindra gazed across the open grassland toward the distant tree cover as she nudged her horse forward and wondered what the coming encounter would bring.
On the opposite side of the clearing, the waiting warriors were almost numb with cold. They had been forbidden a fire and stamped their feet to keep warm. Their leader, Reynald, fingered the hilt of his sword, and for what seemed like the tenth time in as many minutes, screwed up his eyes to peer at the faraway trees.
He had been told to expect the six riders to arrive at this point in the track leading from Havenwood town to Castle Grayrock during the early morning. Where were they?
His mind traveled back two nights earlier to the meeting in the roadside tavern. A mysterious figure had approached Reynald as he sat in a dark corner, cradling a tankard of ale. Hooded and muffled against the cold, the newcomer’s words were hard to hear over the din of the busy inn. But there was no mistaking the welcome chink from the fat leather bag that was tossed onto the table.
The stranger described the job and told him where and when to position his band of outlaws for the ambush. It sounded straightforward enough—until his new employer mentioned that two of their opponents were ForeSenders.
Reynald almost turned the job down when he heard this. His hand reached forward to push the bag of coins away when, with an even louder clink, a second bulging bag was deposited beside the first. He knew better than to turn down such a lucrative undertaking, and despite his misgivings, had nodded his assent.
“Two further bags of gold after the job is done and the ForeSenders and their companions are dead. Bury the bodies deep in the woods, then meet me back here five nights from now.” The voice was a gruff whisper above the hubbub that enfolded the pair.
Reynald was sure it was a man from the timbre of the person’s speech, but the other’s features were obscured by the deep cowl and the dim light in the shadowed corner where they sat.
Now, as he stood under the trees, doubt wound its tendrils through his thoughts. To attack a lone ForeSender was risky at the best of times. There would be two of them, no doubt possessing dangerous magical skills, else the payment would not have been so great.
That was why he had brought Melnik along. He glanced at the thin figure standing nearby and wondered if the disgraced mage would be enough.
True, Reynald had a dozen warriors, twice as many as he had been told he would be facing. But ForeSenders had a habit of evening the odds. And Reynald had no plans to die that day, bags brimming with gold coins or not.
He was about to tell Melnik that they had been misinformed when he glimpsed movement at the far side of the clearing. Six black-garbed riders appeared from the woods and approached across the intervening grassland.
Reynald smiled and drew his sword, as several of his companions fitted arrows to their short bows and prepared to rain death down on the unsuspecting group.
The riders seemed oblivious until the figure in front raised a hand, and they came to a halt. Reynald started when he realized they had stopped just out of arrow range.
He cursed under his breath when the leader called out in a commanding voice that carried to the trees beyond, the sound almost echoing in his mind.
