In the heart of the Great Forest, nothing is as it should be. Sir Vladisal and her Knights of Boska are lost and far from home. The son of their Duchess has been kidnapped, spirited away to a nameless place within these dark and endless woodlands. V...
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Death permeated the air. The remains of tree-demons were literally smeared across the battlefield. The magic which had animated these corpses, which had merged them with plant life, had died. Supernatural putrefaction had set in, liquefying flesh and bone, rotting wood to mulch. While Luca and Dief searched for fallen comrades among the foul-smelling mounds, Üban and the knights watched the trees for any sign of a fresh attack.
Sir Vladisal stood alone, observing proceedings, her thoughts grim. Her gaze travelled up the slope to where the company had stood before the battle. Her five archers still lined the ridge, nervously guarding the clearing.
She should never have led such a reckless charge against the enemy. Was it pride that had stood in the way of taking Abildan's advice - a need to save face in front of her women? Vladisal felt her soul darken. These were desperate times indeed.
Üban approached. The old knight carried a haunted look, and when she spoke, her voice was a low growl.
"There's nothing out there but trees. It's as if the demons simply vanished." She snorted. "And I see the feliwyrd is still missing. Perhaps she has deserted us for good this time."
Abildan had been absent since the battle's conclusion. The bitterness in Üban's voice was evident; she loathed the assassin, and not without good reason. But as contentious a presence as Abildan was, no one could deny that the Knights of Boska would be hopelessly lost in the Great Forest without her guidance.
"I should have listened to Abildan, Üban. We should have kept the higher ground."
"What difference would it have made?" The bitterness in Üban's tone grew deeper. "The battle was still won."
"No. We were Lucky. The Bone Shaker withdrew her army. You know that, old woman."
Üban gave a resigned sigh. "Tonight, I do not feel proud to be a Knight of Boska. These were humble village-folk we slew. The Mother has cursed us."
"No. These people were damned by magic long before they reached us. There is no shame in our actions. We simply acted as we had to, and gave them peace from torment."
"Then what of Elander?" Üban retorted. "What if that poor boy has already been . . ." She sighed again. "I do not think Duchess Mayland would see things as simple were her son to fall foul of the Bone Shaker's magic."
Vladisal's gut twisted. The older knight's blunt manner was close to shattering an already fragile atmosphere, and a heated debate in front of the women would not help matters. Still, she had a point.
The son of their duchess was the prisoner of a madwoman called Dun-Wyrd. Elander was an infectious youth, barely twelve summers old, full of life, full of kindness. Vladisal was his champion, his protector; and she already felt as though she had failed her charge. What horrors, what tortures, did that sweet child face in the clutches of a Bone Shaker and her dark magics?
