Moreana escapes from the confines of Turòlas, home of the Athwyr, and races for Orthen’s court.
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Moreana tore across the Fields of Dygoneth, racing her horse against her pursuers, against time itself. Behind her the men of Ffairdin gave furious chase. For over an hour they had hunted her, beginning the moment she had passed by the unwalled city — its skyline dominated by the mighty dome of Adhlac’s library — across the rushing waters of the Afon Praidd. From the grey of her cloak and the white of her ibar staff, they had known her for one of the Athwyr, a defiler and oppressor. Alarms were rung, horses mounted, and the mad Lord Ylnir’s minions pursued her south along the Telian road. It was darkening now, yet they showed no signs of giving up the chase.
It had not taken long for Moreana to escape captivity. The enchantment on her dungeon’s door was not complex, and Adhlac had, after all, taught her all but one of the mysteries of Turòlas. But the lack of her staff had added to the challenge, costing her days rather than minutes. By the time she broke free and reclaimed her staff, she found the tower nearly empty, save for the few disciples and Duridir who had been left to guard her. Those were easy enough to evade. Nivan and Caelran were gone, joined with Daras.
She had cursed the delay, knowing it would be days of hard riding before Gallodel was in sight. And Logren was hot with strife, ruled by petty lords like Ylnir who feuded with each other and with their Eburnean oppressors. Yet all these were united by their shared hatred of the Athwyr.
Casting a look over her shoulder, Moreana saw three of Ylnir’s men, who rode upon faster mounts, break away from their companions. They were gaining on her, the pounding of their hooves like thunder in her ears.
How easy it would be to turn their bones to water, to blight their flesh with corpse’s pallor. She need only smite one of them and the rest would lose heart, an example of terror to fill Ffairdin’s people with dread for years to come.
She brushed the thought aside as the unworthy thing it was. Bending low, she whispered in Seithan’s ear, urging the stallion in his own speech to greater speed. The black horse shot out under her like a loosed arrow, his hooves clattering against the stones, widening the gap between Moreana and her pursuers.
But it could not last for long. Seithan, enchanted though he was, had ridden for restless hours before reaching Ffairdin, and these were fresh mounts. When she looked again, the three men had gained on her. She would have to face them.
Tugging at the reins, Moreana wheeled abruptly, holding up her staff like a jouster’s lance.
“Defiler!” one of them screamed, drawing his sword. He looked like a knight. His dark cloak streamed behind him, but, aside from his sword, he carried no arms.
She whispered to Seithan and the stallion leapt forward, heading directly for the swordsman. His horse shied as the warhorse bore upon them, turning the man’s shield side to her. But he carried no shield and her staff leapt like a living thing, catching his naked temple. She heard the weapon’s thud and the pursuer’s groan, as her enemy slumped back in the saddle, tumbling over his horse’s rump.
The other two were close behind. Both carried spears, but, like the first, they wore no armor. One had long, black hair that streamed in the wind behind him; the other was older, with a head covered in grey stubble.
“Begone!” she called, brandishing her staff. “I would not harm you.”
“Bitch!” the long-haired warrior shouted, cocking his arm for the throw. He hurled it, and Moreana gave her reins the slightest tug, nudging her horse to the side as the javelin flew past her.
He cursed, drawing a dagger from his belt, spurring his horse towards her. On her right, the older man charged with a leveled spear.
Moreana knew that what followed must have seemed instantaneous to the men, though to her they all moved slowly, like figures trapped in mud. She parried the bald man’s thrust, shattering the shaft of his spear with the rod’s hardened wood. Then on her left, she struck, using the staff like a spear, ramming the jeweled head into the young man’s ribs. Several broke with a sickening crack. And back to the right she whipped the weapon again, striking the other man’s neck. It was a vicious move, though she held back, taking his consciousness rather than his life.
In a moment it was over. Dropping their weapons, falling from their horses, they were a threat no more.
She spoke to Seithan again and the stallion whipped round, continuing south. Ylnir’s men would lose heart, seeing three of their number reduced so easily to agony. And she would be free to ride on, through the heart of war-torn Logren. She would rest when she could, though nowhere was safe. Not here, not even beyond the rushing Arveon.
Not till she reached King Orthen’s court.
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