The song continued, too beautiful now for the work that must be done.

Yuthran let his tears come as he drove the point of his sword down through the dog’s ribs and into its lungs. It would soon breathe its last. The ridge of bone protecting its heart was too thick to pierce. This slow, suffocating death was the kindest he could manage.

Still, as he slew the beasts, one by one, compassion welled in his heart. He could not hurt those that drove the hounds, and the slaughter seemed obscene, like killing children for the sins of their fathers.

The song covered the forest air. The bayers made no sound but that of the blood bubbling in their lungs.

Bayers could feel no gratitude, but Yuthran imagined one looked at him with thanks in its eyes. It was a kindness, and yet he cried.

The work done, Briskle’s song tailed off. The nocturnal creatures were slow to wake, but slowly life filled the forest once more. Briskle’s face was like stone, but still Yuthran put an arm around his friend’s shoulder. He did not feel foolish for the gesture, or his tears. They had no choice, but sometimes compassion has its price.

That night they camped in peace, the first night they had not been beset by the howling of the bayers.

Tirielle knew, as did the others, at what cost that peace had been bought. Necessary, but saddening just the same.

Still, she did not feel safe, and found sleep elusive, even though her companions slept soundly. With so many hunters searching the woods behind them she imagined all too easily a sneaking sword finding its way into her ribs as she slept. The Protectorate had no horses, for a horse would not bear one, but they were tireless, and this new force, these red cloaked warriors, they were something she did not understand. That they could kill one of the Sard…she had thought the paladins invincible, perhaps even immortal. Her illusions were shattered, and whatever fleeting comfort she took from their presence was fading with the fire by her feet.

She pulled the cloak about her, and read one more time by the faint light of their small fire.

When the suns sing their child home, when the revenant’s heart beats once more within its breast, the time will come. Within the mountain of fire the beast has slept for a thousand years, yet its fire will come again. See the darkening skies, furious with its breath. What was once white will become black. Seas will rise and life will take its final gasp before the return. Only the three can lay the beast to rest, but in the final days hope will die and the suns will burn with shame no longer.

Her heart beat faster in her own breast. It was with luck that but a few paragraphs had been lost to the fire — most remained intact.

She laid the vellum on the table and wiped her eyes. It was not comfortable reading, however fortuitous the discovery had been. Whatever they did, whatever they were supposed to achieve, it would avail them nothing. Rythe would be destroyed, and there was nothing they could do to stop it.

Hope would die. Yet there must be a purpose for the three, for her and the two she had never met, toiling in a distant land, searching for a wisp of light within the growing darkness. A sacrifice, herself, and a saviour, the man called Shorn. A watcher. Perhaps Drun was only meant to observe the ending of their world. What point, then, in their actions?

But the Seer told her hope could not die. At least they had a starting place. She could not afford despair. To lie down and die was not her way. She would fight her fate, as she always had. Together, with her guardians at her side, she would find a way. Now they knew where the wizard rested — in the mountain of fire — a volcano. Dormant, no doubt, but it would wake with the wizard. It would cover the world in fire and ash. She had read the histories, and knew that while the world darkened when a volcano erupted, it brightened once more.

She read the next passage slowly, as she had the night she found the scroll.

Three to come, three to slay the beast, three to wake the wizard from his slumber. His time will come again. Only the wizard is eternal. Blooded in the banishment, he will rend the world asunder. The mountain of fire will fear his coming, the suns will call to him and quiver in the skies.

Fear the wizard. Only he can bring hope afresh, and with it only death can come.

What man — for surely the author could only be a man, could imagine anyone would want to wake the wizard, after reading his prophesies? It was foolish. If waking the wizard was the only way to save Rythe, surely it would have been more prudent to call him the saviour, and extol his virtues. Not this…doom.

Hope would die…the world would be torn…the suns themselves feeling shame? What nonsense was this? Poetic licence, she hoped. If it was all hopeless, if one was as bad as the other, then what was the point? She could not believe that. She needed to believe there was a purpose to their quest, a chance to destroy the Protectorate. With the wizard on their side they could do it. Who else but a being of such power could work such a miracle, and save her land?

Following the work was a map, and it was this which Tirielle studied now. A key showed the direction of the suns, and an opening, a natural cave leading to the bowels of the volcano. She thought she could find the entrance. It looked simple enough, although from what she knew of ice — in Lianthre it was a rarity, even in winter — it grew with time. The mountains north of Lianthre were often peaked with snow and there were lakes of ice in the crevasses and on the plateaus. It shifted. She had studied geography, and knew from the maps that the landscape changed over hundreds of years. In a land of ice structures could be torn down, shifted and even rock could crumble.

But she knew where to look. At the thought of finding the wizard, her heart tripped. It was not to be as joyous an occasion as she had hoped, but fearful and uncertain.

But what choice?

She did not feel sleepy in the slightest. Beside her the Seer slept soundly. Even Roth was tired from their flight. But there was so much to worry over. The end of the journey was looking no more attractive than the beginning.

She looked at the map again. Now she knew what to expect, where to find the mountain, and how to enter it.

All that remained was to travel thousands of miles before they were captured, tortured and killed.

She smiled at last. The whole thing was folly. But she watched j’ark’s frowning features as he slept, and she felt unreasonable happiness, if only for a moment. She put her head on the hard earth, head turned to one side to look at the warrior. Eventually her eyes closed, her mind shut down, and left worry behind for tomorrow.

Morning broke, and Tirielle at last found a moment to catch Roth before it ran on ahead, scouting before them for patrols or any other unwanted company. Soon, they would be at Arram.

“Roth, we must talk a moment,” she said urgently before it could leave.

“I have but a moment, Tirielle. I must scout, and I hunger. I need to eat.”

Tirielle felt somewhat embarrassed at the thought of the giant rahken hunting, and did not wish to know what it ate.

“I won’t keep you but a moment. The scroll tells of a joining of the rahken nation and the last wizard, of a time before, and age passed when man and rahken were allies…I must know what you know, Roth. The time for secrets is ended. To piece together the story, to know what lies in store for all of us, I must know what came before.

“I would have you tell me what your mother told you.”

“I cannot tell!”

“You must!” she said with fervour. “We stumble blindly, and you know something…”