The figure stood high upon the crag, like a fell raven watching the world far below. His cloak whipped about it, sewn in rags and covered in crusts of filth and blood. The cold face of the figure was filled with elation as it stared down from the mountains into the kingdom of Tortall.
They were so close. After years of waiting, finally they were ready to take the final steps, to plunge into the final battle. Soon, now, so, so soon, they would be prepared to dive into Tortall and make their names known to the world.
The amber eyes glinted like bloody steel.
He turned to his followers, standing ringed around the fire far below, waiting on his word. He spread his arms wide.
'Let us begin.'
...
Alanna was the first to rise that morning. She crept out of the tent she shared with George and stood in the roadway, squinting as she stared up at the sun. Her back and thighs were protesting the long day spent in the saddle, and under her breath she cursed the bureaucracy that kept her so long in Corus.
Tortall was beautiful, she realised, standing in the dust of the road. The first blossom of spring was taking hold. Trees were bursting into new leaf and there were nest and hides dotted among the branches. A single magnolia tree had exploded into pale life, huge, globelike flowers drooping at the end of branches, to heavy for their thin stems.
Taking a towel from Moonlight's saddlebags, Alanna kicked the two tents, making sure the men inside were awake.
'I'm going down to take a bath, so no peeking, do you here?'
She was answered with a weak groan. Laughing, she kicked the tent again and set off through the woods.
She took a short, quick bath in the cold stream, showering her hair under one of the many tiny waterfalls dotted along its length. It felt good to have a cold bath again. The huge hot baths in Corus were wonderful in winter, but the palace servants would insist on scenting the water with spices and herbs, until you felt like you were swimming through a large, sweet smelling swamp of lavender and rosemary.
It was when she was rubbing her hair dry that she first felt that she was being watched.
She spun round, pulling her loose cloak tight around her, to hide her body.
'George?'
No answer came from the leaning trees.
Alanna's temper began to surface, and she crossed her arms tightly, scanning the trees for any sign.
'George, I am really not in the mood for this. Quit playing around.'
Still no answer. But the trees seemed to press in on her, hemming her in with their dark branches. She was finding it hard to breath: the air rasped in her throat, and buzzed in her ears. There was no noise at all. But she could feel eyes upon her, running up and down her body, weighing her up.
Cold amber eyes. Fingers running over lute strings.
She banished the thought, but could not stop a shiver running through her. Suddenly, the silver stream did not seem so inviting. She wished she was back on the road with George and Jonathon, and miles from the leaning pines.
Pulling her clothes on, she through her towel over her shoulder and almost ran up the bank.
...
There was a slight stirring in the circle as the image faded in the fire. Faces turned back towards the leader, who stood rock still, high upon the crag. His voice soundly clearly in each closed mind.
'Begin the calling.'
There was a moment's complete silence. Then a sound worse and more deadly that any silence began to buzz in the howling wind. It rose up and up and up, into the slate grey sky, colouring the stars black and the moon deep, blood red.
The circle was singing.
...
Prince Jonathon mounted Darkness and pulled him round to face the road. The young monarch looked slightly uncomfortable on his dark horse.
'I'd forgotten how foul horse riding could feel.'
George laughed, one of his big, happy laughs that made everyone laugh with him. Alanna smiled slightly. She was still uncomfortable with the closeness of the trees. She wanted to go, and get to Miles and safety.
'I'll lead, shall I?'
She spurred Moonlight forwards over the stones, and her friends followed swiftly after. Glancing over her shoulder, she could see them: dark Jonathon on his dark horse, brown, tanned George on his russet filly Minstrel. Something about the two of them made her think of passed times, off adventuring together, and her heart ached slightly. She wondered how Coram was doing.
The road rose up over green hills, a long, rolling ridge of them, going on in the sky. In the distance, Alanna could just about see the start of Miles' many apple and grape orchards, and the single standing tower in the Old One's ruins, dark against the sky. The sun was bright cold: the sky sweet lavender blue.
For no reason at all, Alanna shivered.
...
The song went on, growing in power and magic. On top of the crag, the leader let the painful notes wash over him, like the snowmelt that rushed into the valleys in summertime. Then, holding his mind rigid, he began to pull the song to him.
He wound it in, dragged the notes close to him, each meaningless word cutting him like a knife. He embraced the pain, feeling its own embrace filling him with black joy. He dragged the very fibre of the song, reworking it, remaking it, breaking and rebuilding, until it was a single entity, invisible, miserable, crying with pain.
And then he cast it like a net, sending it rushing across the land.
...
Something was indefinably wrong.
Alanna rose on her heels as they jogged through barley fields, looking into the distance. She tried to work out why her nose was itching. There were no farms nearby, no workers or anything. No one could cast spells here – that was half the reason why they had chosen this route.
Her head began to ache, and her eyes watered miserably. She could feel power building up somewhere, could feel its threat in the distance. It was her bright amethyst power, or the pure of Jonathon's purple, but angrier, blacker, more...evil.
She raised her head and looked around. The countryside was beautiful. George and Jonathon had noticed nothing, but rode on behind her, chatting and arguing.
It was getting closer.
...
The figure on the crag guided it. He conjured an image in the fire, and filled the fire with such hate and anger that it burned deep red. In the fire rode three people: one golden, one dark, one brown. The golden one glowed with a kind of deep, amethyst light, like fire from within. The light was like a beacon: it called to the evil spell, dragging it from the depth of human conscious to the forefront of reality, where it rushed to bear down on the riders. The amber eyes glowed, the circle's song grew in passion and power, as they waited...
...
The power hit Alanna like a knife.
One minute she was riding. The next, a sudden sharp spasm of pain rushed through her. She cried out, trying to pull Moonlight to a halt. Her eyes watered and her head almost exploded, so fierce was the power that tried to pull her from her horse. Moonlight reared once, and then again, throwing Alanna to the floor. She curled up, trying to escape the lashing hooves, and behind her she could hear Jonathon shouting and George's rough voice trying to sooth the spooked horse.
...
The figure on the crag watched with cold joy as the figures tried to calm the bucking mare. It watched with something close to delight as the dark haired monarch helped up the young knight. And then, staring out into the distance at something no one else could see, it began to laugh.
And the laugh rose like ice into the empty wind.