Seppelitus darted quickly into the deeper shadow cast by low-sweeping branches, relieved to find the soft needles of pine trees or spruce, rather than the crackle of discarded knotwood foliage. Trying very hard not to think of what else might have found shelter beneath the tree or amidst the needles, he started to work his way cautiously away from the battle. He tried not to panic when he realized that he hadn’t heard the ogres make a sound for the last few heartbeats, and looked toward the next stand of trees.

  Now that he’d remembered the harsh crackle of fallen knotwood leaves, Seppelitus chose trees of lighter colored bark to creep beneath. He noticed the ground under his feet was sloping upwards, and resisted the natural urge to descend. With any luck he’d be able to make it to the ridge, and into whatever gully lay beyond. Once he was out of sight of the battle, he should be able to move more quickly.

  But where to? Seppelitus quickly quelled that thought, and forced himself to be still. It would do him no good to get clear of the battle, only to find himself captured by something else.

  Crouching beneath another of the droop-branched pines, Seppelitus took a long, slow breath, and let it seep slowly out. He pulled his magic about him, and then sent it away in a gentle wave. He felt like a spider in the centre of its web, waiting for something to touch its strands. Only when he was sure, did he move to the next stand of pine. And the next. Until the trees thinned, and all that lay before him were open patches of grass, interspersed by piles of boulders.

  How high was this hill, anyway?

  Seppelitus knelt in the shelter of the last stand of pine, and inspected the boulder pile nearest him, pushing the magic out in the last careful pulse he thought he could manage. One thing he had never admitted to his father or mother was that there was a limit to how many times the magic would come—and still allow him to control it.

  With the sound of battle behind him, and a good screen of trees between, Seppelitus decided he’d just have to risk relying on his own eyes and ears until he’d had time to rest. Not waiting for the magic to return, he stepped carefully out of the trees and ran, half-crouching to the boulders.

  Pausing in their shadow, he waited, listening for any sound that might show he’d been discovered. When none came, he glanced skyward, noting the gleam of white on the horizon, the first touch of color at its edges. Soon, he would have to decide whether to hide or run. Soon, he thought, but not now.

  He slid around the boulder’s edge and peered beyond it. To his relief, the crest of the hill was not as far as it had seemed from the shelter of the trees, and there were plenty of rocky outcrops to hide his passage. Not allowing the nearness of his goal to distract him, Seppelitus again studied the outcrops, and chose his path. It was not until he’d passed the crest and prepared to make a headlong dash to a stand of trees further down the slope, that disaster struck.

  He’d made sure to put the boulders between him and the ridgeline, and pushed out into the open, when he found he was not alone. Not only was he not alone, but he had been ambushed, as surely as the ogres behind him.

  Stepping out from the trees ahead, were a group of armored warriors. They moved with quiet surety into the open, and arrayed themselves before him.

  At least, he thought, they haven’t tried to kill me.

  Glancing over his shoulder, Seppelitus saw others, stepping out from behind outcrops he had deemed safe. None had weapons drawn, but all moved, slowly and certainly, to close the gap between them. The sound of footsteps deliberately scuffed over rock, had him twisting back to face the trees, and the now approaching line of men.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  “Give it up, son.” Well, at least their leader could get away with calling him ‘son’.

  Seppelitus studied the man, as he came closer, his footsteps near silent, now he had his prey’s attention. His bearded face was gnarled beneath the helmet, and his arms, bare in spite of the morning chill, were well muscled. The men stalking either side were just as powerfully built and silent, but did not seem as dangerous. Seppelitus resisted the urge to run, and tried to hide the disappointment that welled within his chest. Instead, he bit his lip and nodded.

  “Come, then,” the warrior ordered, halting his advance. “We have miles to go, and the day’s just started.”

  And, so saying, he turned, and walked back the way he’d come. Seppelitus was not surprised to find he had the swift company of the warriors from the crest, when he started to follow.

  “You have weapons?” one asked, laying a hand on his arm.

  “No.”

  “We will check.”

  “Feel free,” and Seppelitus stopped in his tracks, raising his arms.

  They did not ask twice, but searched him carefully—as thoroughly as the garitzik, but without removing his clothes.

  “Where are your boots?”

  “The garitzik said I didn’t need them.”

  “Tread carefully, then.”

  Seppelitus did so, and soon found himself riding pillion, his lack of footwear more problematic when they arrived in the lamp-lit dark of a private courtyard.

  “There is a city three days’ ride south-east,” his companion informed him, “though I doubt it’s yours.”

  So far, none of his new captors had seemed surprised at his mention of the garitzik, and none of them had asked his name. It was as though his name wasn’t important to them—or it was already known. Seppelitus pushed back the weariness of the day’s efforts, and took note of his surroundings.

  The courtyard was set within the four wings of a lodge. Coming in, Seppelitus had noticed the ground floor consisted only of stone walls from which no light seeped. Two sets of gates formed a double-lock against the wilds, and only when the outer set had closed had the inner set been opened.

  Seppelitus slid to the ground and waited for his escort. He might be in friendly hands, or he might have been acquired by yet another interested party. Either way, they had to be warned that the ogres would go on a rampage to find him.

  * * *

  “The ogres are already on a rampage,” he was told, when they were inside, and settled around a long, wooden table, “but without you, they can be defeated.”

  “Without me.” Seppelitus kept his face devoid of interest, and wondered what they intended next.

  “They have no sorcerer.”

  Seppelitus waited, aware of being studied, his worth weighed by those gathered about him. He studied them in return, gauging their fighting strength by their build and armor, judging their experience by the lines on their faces and the shadows in their eyes. It was like facing down a wolf pack, and he knew he’d gain nothing by demanding answers.

  After what seemed an age of listening to the fire crackle, the men’s leader took a breath, but whatever he was about to say, was forestalled by the sound of hurried footsteps, and urgent voices.

  “Your lordship, they’ve taken the villagers.”

  “The village?”

  “Burning as we speak.”

  “How many dead?”

  “A handful at most, but they took everyone they could find. These two escaped,” said the man, escorting two others into the room.

  From his age, aura of authority, and the way he had greeted them in the yard, Seppelitus thought he might be the household steward. The two he indicated were a young woman and a young man, both wide-eyed, and still breathless from their flight.

  “Said they were putting the animals to bed.” The explanation brought chuckles from around the table. From the straw clinging to their clothes and hair, and the misbuttoning on the man’s shirt, it hadn’t been the animals they’d been putting to bed.

  Both flushed red, the woman’s eyes daring further comment, but none was forthcoming. Getting to his feet, the warriors’ leader pushed back his chair, picked up his helm, and headed for the door.

  “My lord, she said we had until midnight.”

  His lordship turned. When he answered, his voice was compellingly soft.

  “And what will happen to the villagers when the messengers don’t arrive by midnight?”

  “There will be blood,” a woman’s voice rolled into the room, powerful enough to dominate.

  Seppelitus felt the overload of magic in its tones, and pushed down an answering roll of fear. He looked for the source, and saw the small figure of an old woman, dressed in simple robes, standing by a second doorway. She looked at him, and her eyes burnt with blue fire.