'It is a beautiful day,' said Shira.
'I don't think Capel would agree with you,' he answered, pointing to the grey-bearded officer as he rode up and down the line of wagons, seeking to instil some sense of order. The head of the convoy had set out almost three hours before, but the wagons in the rear were still waiting.
At last Duvodas received the signal to move, and he flicked the reins against the backs of the four oxen.
The beasts leaned in to the traces and the wagon jerked forward. The land was hilly at the start of the journey, and before they had gone more than a mile from the city they came upon the first casualty. A wagon, taking a turn too fast, had tipped over and slid down the slope. Furniture was strewn over the snow-patched grass, and one of the oxen was dead. Soldiers were cutting away the traces as Duvo and Shira drove up.
Hitching ropes to their rear axle they hauled the other wagon upright. The soldiers repacked it, and the journey continued. On the last of the high ground, Shira swung round to see the distant city of Corduin, brilliantly lit by sunshine. 'Oh look, Duvo! What a wonderful sight!' He glanced at her and saw that her eyes were moist, her
lips trembling. Putting his arm around her, he drew her to him.
'Your father will be fine.'
'I don't know. I just wish he had come with us.'
'So do I, my love. But, as he said, his life is in Corduin.' Cupping her face in his hands he kissed her. 'I will do everything in my power to make you happy for as long as we live. I will keep sickness from you and our son, and we will know great joy.'
'I already know great joy,' she said. 'From the moment you came into my life.'
The oxen had halted. Now Duvo rapped the reins and they moved on. For several hours they rode. As far as the eye could see, the line of wagons stretched out towards the south-west. Soldiers rode up and down the line, checking on the stragglers.
Towards mid-afternoon the rear of the line halted once more. To the right was a high cliff-face, to the left a wide-open section of gorse and heather. Duvo climbed down from the wagon. 'I'll see what's holding us up,' he said, loping off towards the south.
As he neared a bend in the trail he saw a wagon some fifteen paces ahead, its left rear wheel shattered.
Men were unloading boxes and furniture, lightening the load so that a spare wheel could be lifted into place. There were enough bodies for the work, and Duvo turned back and strolled along the line.
Suddenly a woman screamed.
Duvo's eyes sought her out. She was middle-aged and stout, and she was standing on the driver's seat, pointing to the east. He turned. Half a mile away, across the gorse, a long line of riders was moving slowly forward. They rode huge horses, and the faces of the riders were bone-white. Other people began to shout. Then to run.
He started to sprint back towards his own wagon. As it came into sight, he saw Shira standing up and waving to him - and behind her two Daroth riders, galloping along the trail. Fear welled in him, and he continued to run towards her.
One of the Daroth levelled a long spear. 'No!' Duvo screamed. 'No!'
Shira turned. The spear took her in the belly, lifting her high in the air, the bloody point emerging from her back. Almost casually the Daroth flicked the spear and Shira was flung from it to the ground. All his life Duvodas had been taught to eliminate anger from his soul, allowing it to float through him, leaving him untouched. But it was not anger he felt in that dread moment.
It was a blind, bottomless rage.
Letting out an animal scream he pointed at the Daroth, sending out a heat spell which burst to life inside the creature's skull. With a hideous shriek, the Daroth dropped his spear and grabbed at his temples.
Then his head exploded.
The second Daroth bore down on Duvo. There was no fear now in the Singer, and a second heat spell exploded in the Daroth's chest, sending white blood and shards of bone spraying through the air. Duvo continued to run, coming alongside Shira and dropping to his knees. The wound was terrible, and he cried out in anguish to see it. Her body was almost torn in half, and Duvo saw the tiny arm and hand of his dead son protruding from the wound.
Something died in him then, and a terrible coldness settled on his soul. Trembling he touched his hand to Shira's blood, then smeared four bloody lines down his own face.
Duvodas rose and walked slowly towards the Daroth line. There were hundreds of riders, but they were not moving with speed. It was as if they wanted to delay the moment, so that every ounce of fear could be extracted from the helpless refugees.
'Fear,' hissed Duvodas. 'I will show you fear!' Raising his hands, he drew on the magic of the land. Never before had it felt so strongly within him, pulsing with a power he had not realized could be contained in a single human frame. Darkly exultant, Duvodas extended his arms, redirecting the magic, flowing it like a storm over the gorse and the heather. Every seed and root beneath the earth swelled with sudden, rushing life, writhing up from the ground, the growth of years erupting in seconds.
The ground below the Daroth writhed and trembled. At first it only slowed the huge horses, whose powerful legs broke the new roots and branches.
Stronger and faster grew the plants and bushes and trees. The horses were forced to a halt and the Daroth swung in their saddles, their dark eyes seeking out the sorcerer. Duvodas felt their power strike him, and he staggered. He sensed their hatred, and their arrogant belief that they had defeated him, and he allowed them a brief moment of exultation. Then he fed upon their hatred, and hurled it back at them with ten times the force. The nearest riders shrieked and pitched from their saddles. Sharp roots pricked at their skin, then burrowed through muscle and around bone. Horses reared and fell, toppling their riders. The Daroth tried to hack their way clear of the eldritch forest, but even their massive bodies were no match for the power of nature.
One Daroth tried to reach Duvodas, his huge sword cutting left and right to smash through the surging growth, but he stumbled and fell to his knees. A fast-growing oak sliced into his stomach, lifting him upright. One branch burst through his lungs and out through his back, another surged up his throat, slithering from his mouth like a grotesque tongue.
Roots clawed their way into flesh - ripping into bellies and chests, lancing through legs and arms and necks.
And still the forest grew. The struggling bodies of the Daroth and their mounts were lifted higher and higher, dangling like corpses on a colossal gibbet.
The refugees watched in awe-struck silence as hundreds of Daroth were destroyed.
At last Duvodas let fall his arms, and men, women and children gazed upon the dangling corpses which moments before had been a terrible threat. There were no cheers from the saved. No one rushed forward to congratulate the blood-smeared young man who stood staring malevolently at the dead.
The officer Capel rode slowly towards him, dismounting by his side. 'I don't know how you did it, man, but I'm grateful. Come, let us bury your dead. We must move on.'
Duvodas said nothing. He stood stock-still, his body rigid. Capel placed his hand on Duvo's shoulder.
'Come now, lad. It is over.'
'It is not over,' said Duvo, turning his face towards the officer. Capel blanched as he saw the blood red lines on the young man's face. Pulling a scarf from his belt, he gave it to Duvodas.
'Wipe your face now,' he said. 'You'll frighten the children.' Dumbly Duvo wiped the blood away. But it made no difference. The crimson lines remained, as if tattooed upon his skin.
'Dear Heaven,' whispered Capel. 'What is happening here?'