Really enjoyed this illustration when I finally got round to it! Spent a while with ideas flowing round my head, but in the end just went with something simple and close up. I'm not exactly experienced with ghostly gentlemen, so I'm really quite pleased with the result ^^

If you have any critique or constructive criticisms on either the illustration or the story, please do drop me a comment - everything helps me be a little bit better next time :)

Next chapter's illustration, some k-i-s-s-i-n-g!

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The Foxwood Chronicles
Chapter 24 - Dejection


Memory.

It was a funny thing, Cassanya thought, how the oddest things came back to you at strange times, unbidden and unwanted. But then, her head hurt, and her body didn’t feel very cooperative, so perhaps it was easiest this way. Just remember, and see if that would explain anything.

“Tee...”

The apprentice slumped sideways onto a carpet that provided neither warmth nor comfort, the front of her coat white with frost, her face pale and lifeless as the winter moon.

“No,” the leonin tried to move forwards and found that she could do so freely, now released from the unseen grip that had held them both. Heedless of the black figure that stood nearby, she scooped the slim apprentice into her arms. Tallow’s face was colourless, her lips bluish, but her heart still beat and her breath still clouded the air in front of her face. It was only now, cradling her friend against her, that Cassanya realised she had light by which to see. The blackness had lifted from the window, and though the light that entered through that cracked and dusty pane was feeble, it felt to Cassanya like the noon sun in the height of summer, radiant and life-giving.

The dark figure stood before it, but somehow... it wasn’t threatening any more. The dread chill it had emanated had vanished, the shadows of its hood no longer illuminated by the unnatural light of its eyes.

“Does she live?” the figure asked. The voice was a soft, dry whisper, like the wind through a wicker screen.

“Yes,” Cassanya nodded, holding her friend tightly, chill forehead against furry cheek.

“I am glad.” A tattered hand rose, pushing back the black hood, and Cassanya gasped.

The man was old. Terribly old. His wispy grey face was wrinkled and gnarled and quite translucent, doing little to block the light behind him. A white halo of thinning hair surrounded his head, waving gently in a breeze that no one alive would ever feel. As he stood, he leaned upon a cane that was every bit as insubstantial as he was.

“I am sorry to have frightened you so,” the ancient wizard said softly. “Your friend is very brave. Many would have fled once they encountered the first wards. She must be truly driven, more so than simply by her own curiosity or personal desires.”

“We need that book,” Cassanya nodded to the shelf, uncertain how to react to a conversation with someone who didn’t seem to be entirely substantial, and decided to say nothing about it in case it was impolite. “She’d have done anything for it.”

“So I have gathered,” the old man whispered. “Take it, if you will. I understand now. Despite my time here, war has begun again. It seems that once more I have failed.”

“Failed?” leonin eyebrows drew together, but Cassanya stood nonetheless, swiftly retrieving the book from its place on the shelf before returning to her friend’s side, wrapping the still motionless young woman tightly in her thick cloak.

The translucent face gave a sad smile. “When the dragons came to destroy Taer Kallori Endryr, I, alongside my brothers in the order, stood against them. Needless to say,” he sighed softly. “It was a battle we did not win. To my shame, I did not have the courage to see it through. Ah, but what a fool I was... my last breath of magic, my last words of life might have been enough. A last spell, a final shield, or charm, perhaps might have saved the day, but yet...” Wispy grey eyelids closed for a moment as a look of deep sorrow crossed the old man’s face.

“I was too afraid to let go. As I lay wounded and dying, my mind turned not to a shield spell for the others, not to a final counter attack, but to self-preservation. I used the last of my strength to remain in this world.”

“You succeeded,” Cassanya whispered.

“To a degree,” the old man said sadly. “I am, you might say, but a shadow of my former self, a mere reflection of who I was. A ghost?” he raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps. My body, such as it was, is certainly long gone. Consumed by the dragon fire,” he nodded in the direction of the dim window.

“And now, for my cowardice, for my failure to perform my duty, I am bound here. It was years before I knew the war had ended, as I saw those remnants of the magi come to reclaim what was lost here. I drove them away. I had seen the terrors that the knowledge of this library had brought, and I could not allow it to be used again. Thus I have remained, watching, and waiting, and occasionally frightening away interlopers such as yourselves.”

“Except that this time...” Cassanya started.

“That which I feared, that which I hoped to prevent, has already happened,” the old man bowed his head. “At least, your friend is entirely certain of that. If she is lying, she is unaware of doing so.”

Silently, Cassanya shook her head, holding Tallow’s limp form tightly. “She will be all right?” she asked.

“I would think so,” the old man looked out of the window, for a moment reminding the leonin forcibly of the apprentice’s tendency to vagary. “I have never killed anyone in my life, nor in what passes for it these days,” he said, looking back at her. “And I have no intention of starting today. However, you may wish to leave swiftly, if you wish that book to be of use to anyone. You may have gathered that you are not alone. You companions certainly have,” he nodded again towards the gloom beyond the window.

“What?” Cassanya nearly stood up, but checked herself before she dropped Tallow on the floor. “Where? What’s happening.”

“Your friends seem to have encountered the others.”

Lifting her friend in her arms the leonin strode to the window. From the vantage point, all she could see was a bright flare of torchlight surrounded by moving shadows.

“Can you stop them?”

“No,” the old man shook his head with a whispery chuckle. “No more than I could stop your friend. The leader is... not gentle. I have no doubt the followers will pay with their lives, should they run, and I will not have their blood on my hands.”

“I can,” he went on as Cassanya glared at him. “Perhaps help you, however. After all, you have done me a greater service than you perhaps realise. I suggest you brace yourself, you may find this unnerving.”

That was when the world had seemed to split apart. Or perhaps, Cassanya thought, it had been her that split apart. In either case, the important thing was that it had hurt a lot, sufficiently that she now found herself lying on her side, curled into a small ball and shivering. And it really was time to be moving, she decided, the intrusive memory fading as it caught up to the now. Time to work out what had happened.



When Tallow finally stirred, it was only to settle herself a little more comfortably under the warm blanket, stretching her legs out a little straighter so that... blanket?

She opened her eyes quickly, trying to sit up and discovering that she was already propped half way vertical.

“What...?”

“Safe,” Cassanya reassured her softly, and Tallow looked over her shoulder to find her friend at her back, arms around her middle. “You looked cold,” the big leonin said apologetically, releasing her grasp so that her friend could get up. “And I didn’t want to risk a fire. I’m not sure if anyone’s following us.”

“Thank you,” Tallow murmured, surprising her friend by hesitating only a moment before settling back into the leonin’s arms. Must still be cold, Cassanya thought. Tallow was usually one of those people who preferred to remain at arm’s length – and then some – from others.

“Where are we?” the young woman asked, looking around at the trees. The wind gusted gently through the treetops, setting the leaves into whispering motion as a small bird sang from somewhere to their left. It was clearly not the same forest they had entered earlier.

“Not where we were,” Cassanya echoed the thought. “Do you remember what happened?”

“I... yes! He spoke to me, inside my head... He was an old man... just an old man. He seemed so sad...”

The leonin nodded. “I think he sent us out here... I don’t know how, I think I passed out, too. When I woke up...”

“A teleportation spell? Cass, that’s incredible! I don’t even know of anyone still studying it, not since... where are the others?” Tallow changed track mid-sentence, leaning forward to look around her, seeing nothing but the forest, looking back at her friend in confusion.

Cassanya’s lower lip quivered a little.

“Cass?”

“I don’t know, I couldn’t find anyone!” she said, and burst into tears.



Dragons. Dozens, perhaps hundreds, Feral couldn’t count them as they raced overhead. Scales of ruby red and diamond white glittered in the sun. The hill to the east shone emerald, the lake sapphire. The four dragon clans. Feral didn’t know how he knew this, he just knew.

And he knew why they were here.

Glittering in the sunlight, the Dragon Staff, its shining surface seeming to twist and writhe as the light ran around its edges.

Had it summoned them?

Feral didn’t know. All he knew was what he had to do.

The staff must be broken. If it wasn’t, then the war would continue, to the annihilation of both sides.

The Dragon's Ward was in his hand, shaped into a silver blade. He knew it could be done.

He gripped the hilt tightly, and pain exploded inside him.

Falling to his knees, clutching the hilt of the sword, the sunlight streaming down on him, metal biting into his palm.

Reality, and a realisation that it was the first real part of anything since being back in the darkness of the magefort. The pain was pretty real, too, Feral decided, gritting his teeth and trying not to cry out. It seemed like every bone in his body wanted to tell him it was broken.

It also seemed like they were all lying, he discovered with gratitude, agony settling to a dull ache.

Grass poked up between his hands as he crouched on all fours, and sunlight shone warmly on the back of his head. A hillside, light and fragrant with growing things, a gentle breeze stirring the grass into ripples that danced across the slope. He was nowhere near the magefort it would seem. Not even near a mountain, from the look of it.

“Wha...?” he stopped, realising that there was nobody to ask a question to. He was completely alone. Something glittered in the grass near his left hand. A second fragment of the Dragon Staff.

“Well,” he told it, picking it up and standing. “At least we got you away, then. But where have we got you away to?” Revolving slowly on the spot, he took in the green hills around him. “Where indeed...”

Towards evening, he still couldn’t answer his question. He hadn’t seen anyone, hadn’t passed a road sign (or even a road), hadn’t eaten since before entering the magefort, and was now sheltering in a dilapidated old hut, watching as the rain dripped through a hole in the roof at the far end. It looked as if the shepherd who normally used it hadn’t been by for a season or two.

Sniffing, he blinked a few times, and pulled his knees up to his chin, feeling very lonely and hungry. The Dragon's Ward had formed itself into the shape of a puppy, looking up at him from between his feet and occasionally switching its tail from one side to the other. He reached down to rest his hand on the small silver head, but it didn't help much. As wondrous, powerful, and versatile as it may be, it wasn't much by way of a companion who would talk, advise, and encourage. Feral felt very alone...

“Stop it,” he muttered to himself. “You’ve been on your own before, it’s not like you don’t know how to handle it.”

Ah, but, a small voice reminded him from the back of his head. Then you didn’t have something that at least one kingdom would happily kill you to get at, did you?

He wiped his eyes on the back of his hand.

And you weren’t wondering where all your friends were, were you?

Shook his head, trying not to think anymore, wishing his chest didn’t feel so tight.

Or if they’re still alive?

A tear escaped, slipping down his cheek.

And what about your sister? That leonin woman, Katrina – she told you you could have had Shara back. You may never see either of them again now...

“’Ello, Red.”

Feral looked up to discover a familiar russet furred face peering at him, upside down, from the top of the door frame.

“Archer!” he was on his feet in a heartbeat as the sciurel neatly dropped off the edge of the roof, landing with catlike agility and grinning as he stepped inside.

“I... thought...” Hands on his friend’s shoulders, Feral was dangerously close to hugging him as Balthor appeared in the doorway.

Archer held up the pointer charm. “It’d ‘ave been easier to find you if you’d stayed put instead of wanderin’. The way this thing jiggles about it weren’t...”

Feral did hug him.

“Um... yeah, glad to see you too, Red...” he said awkwardly, patting the half race gingerly on the back. “All right, now?”

“Yeah, fine,” Feral nodded, blushing as he stood back, wiping his eyes hastily on the cuff of his sleeve. “Sorry, it’s dusty in here, gets in my eyes. You’re both ok?” he looked at Balthor.

The lupari nodded, shaking Feral’s hand and patting him on the shoulder by way of greeting. “Three,” he amended, as Woodward fluttered onto Feral's shoulder, the raven pecking softly at his ear in a ticklish greeting. “I hoped Cassy would be with you, though,” Balthor went on, looking concerned. “You haven’t seen...?”

Feral shook his head.

“Damn. No fire yet?” the big lupari nodded to the small stone fireplace in the corner, apparently not wanting to dwell on the subject.

Feral pointed at the hole in the roof, and the steady trickle of water that was washing down the slight incline and would douse any kindling set in the nearby hearth.

“Hmm.” Looking thoughtful, Balthor disappeared outside. A wet thud, the water stopped, and Balthor reappeared, his shoulders conspicuous only for the sudden absence of his travelling cloak.

“Tis there to keep the rain off,” he smiled affably as Feral looked at him. “Don't mean you have to wear it.”

“Oh...” Feral felt rather foolish as Balthor dabbed the fireplace dry with a rag from his pack, then grabbed several logs from the pile in the dry corner. Behind him, Archer pulled a dry stick from his pack, taking his knife to it to shave off thin strips of kindling.

It wasn’t long before the little hut was lit by the light of dancing flames, the fire casting their shadows back onto the wall, and the smell of a wholesome stew wafting out of the door as Balthor once again displayed his prowess with a simple cooking pot and only meagre ingredients.

“Red, mate?” Archer asked, regarding Feral thoughtfully over the top of his bowl.

“Hmm?” Feral's large ears angled forward as they often did when someone caught his attention. He never really needed to, his hearing was quite acute, but it seemed to be an instinctive motion that he had never managed to suppress.

“Where did you know that leonin woman from?”

Feral felt his hand start to shake and hurriedly set his plate down on the floor. Instead of replying, he stared into the fire, the flickering flames merging with his memories of running through burning streets, the feel of the heated wind as it blew embers into the sky, the rush of the dragon’s wings and it passed overhead, his sister...

“Red? You ok?”

Looking up, Feral felt his lower lip tremble as the sciurel’s eyes met his. “She did it,” he whispered quietly, and Archer cocked his head. “That night, when the dragon came. She was riding it. She killed everyone... took Shara... She's... why I'm out here.”

“Bloody ‘ell,” the sciurel breathed. “No wonder you were acting like you would’ve taken a piece out of her with your teeth...”

“I thought you’d kill her if I let go,” Balthor nodded in agreement. “Or... more likely get yourself killed,” he added after a moment’s reflection as he eyed Feral's short, slim figure.

“...and it explains what she said to you,” Archer said thoughtfully.

Feral stayed silent, staring into the fire, not wanting to meet his friend's gaze.

“I wouldn't 'ave blamed you for taking 'er up on it,” the sciurel said quietly, no hint of accusation in his voice.

“She was lying,” Feral whispered.

“You sure?”

Feral stared at the floor, unable to find an answer. No, he wasn't, was the short version. The longer version was possibly, with a helping of hopefully not, and a small portion of what if...

“Even if she wasn't, I couldn't have accepted!” he blurted out. “Everything else... everyone else... I couldn't have let her have...”

Archer leaned over and put his hand on the half-race's shoulder, capturing his gaze. “Guv, if you 'adn't been at least tempted, you'd not be the lad I think you are. Tis all right. If someone offered me that deal to free my sisters, I'd listen long and hard too. Move the earth to get em back I would.”

“You wouldn't wipe it out though,” Feral said quietly.

“No,” the sciurel agreed. “Don't think I would. But I'd have considered it. By the great oak, I'd 'ave considered it long an' proper. Don't worry about it.”

“It doesn't matter anyway,” Feral sighed. “Never know now. Don't know if she was being honest, or what I'd have done.”

“Maybe,” Archer shrugged. “But you do know one thing for sure now.”

“What?” Balthor asked.

“That crazy leonin is pretty tightly tied with our favourite prince of Lordenor.”

“I knew that...”

“No, you suspected it,” Archer said. “Now you know for sure – and that gives you a starting point. She also mentioned a holding house, and throwing your sister in it. What does that tell you?”

“...” Feral suggested.

“Yon crazy lady wants your sister alive,” Archer filled in the blank. “She kidnapped her back when, and nobody's killed her on purpose, which means odds on she's still out there to be found.”

“She... yes! I...”

“Can't do anything about it right now,” the sciurel pulled Feral down as he started to stand. “Not from this old shack in the middle o' nowhere with nobody in the know to talk to. You've got a name an' a direction, not a destination, nor a plan.”

It wasn't really what Feral wanted to hear, but it was probably true, he decided. Feeling defeated, he slumped back onto the floor. Balthor passed him his bowl of stew.

“Can't do anything on an empty stomach,” the lupari advised. That was also probably true.

“Don't worry, guv,” Archer assured him softly. “I won't walk away.”

“Nor I,” Balthor said, his voice a low rumble.

“You, me, Bally ‘ere, everyone – we'll find your sister, we'll put crazy cat lady to justice, or the blade, just as you like.”

Feral hesitated. Katrina probably did deserve a death sentence, he thought. She had murdered, kidnapped, and committed who knew what other unspeakable crimes, but to kill her? To willingly end the life of another person, to put an end to every potential, every thought, every future contribution they might have made? He had always liked to believe that anyone could choose their future, change direction, turn a new leaf or make a fresh start – who was he to say that someone would never change and must be put to death?

Feeling a tear slide down his cheek, Feral shook his head, his eyes closing. “No,” his voice barely made a whisper, but he knew it had caught his friends’ attention. “No,” he said again, a little more firmly, and looking up at Archer. “I won’t become like her. I just want her to stop what she's doing, get her away from the people she's hurting. I don't want to kill her if I don’t have to. I’ll put her in prison, if I can, let her stand a fair trial. If the authorities decide she’s guilty of... it all... her punishment is their call.”

“Are you sure that’s what you want to do?” Archer asked.

Hesitating for only a moment, Feral nodded, biting his lip. “When we get her, she’ll stand trial for what she’s done. That’s all I want. Tiernach Irontooth too, and anyone with him. Whatever may come of all this, whatever they've done, whatever they may plan to do – I won't be judge and jury. I don't know enough, I don't understand why they're doing what they're doing, and I sure as hell can't bring someone back to life. I will not kill anyone, nor wish for them to be killed.”

Balthor smiled, and raised his cup of water in a toast. “Cassy would be glad to know you said that,” he told the half-race softly. “Not to mention I am – fancy silver sword or no, she’d kill me if I let you go off on a manhunt!”

Feral gave a hollow laugh. “I don't even know why I said that,” he admitted. “I'll settle for getting Shara back, and keeping this, this, and this,” he indicated the two fragments of the dragon staff, and the silvery puppy now leaning against his leg, “away from anyone who would abuse their power. What am I thinking of, stopping the whole thing? That's a job for the magi, or the Freelands' army, or someone like that. Just give me Shara back without losing what I’ve got, that's all I want.”

“Never hurts to have aspirations,” Archer grinned. “I like a lad who thinks big. But let's focus on your sister for now – and whatever it was your wizardly uncle had in mind. Meet him in Farview, as I recall.”

“Yes,” Feral nodded. “Maybe he'll have some ideas, or at least we can point him in the right direction now. I hope Cassanya and Tee are all right,” he added, suddenly realising they’d all been putting off saying so.

“They’ll be fine, Red. Good smart girls, both of ‘em. Either they got out the same way we did, or they saw what was going on and stayed put until they could move out safely.”

“How did we get out?” Feral wondered.

Balthor and Archer shook their heads.

“Not one of yours then?” the tall lupari looked at him.

“Not that I know... I've never seen the Ward do anything other than change shape, and I sure as anything didn't ask for what happened! I’m pretty certain that’s not in Tee’s book of spells either, she doesn't act powerful and confident enough to be able to pull off that kind of thing...”

“Hmm,” the lupari looked pensive.

“So... what should we do now?”

“That’s easy, Red.” Producing a map from one of the numerous pouches around his belt, Archer unfolded it. “I think we landed about four miles south of you, passed a crossroads on the way over, with signs to 'ere, and 'ere,” he pointed to two small towns marked on the map. “Meaning we were 'ere. You said the plan was to head for Farview, which is 'ere. A few days walk, but not too bad, eh?”

Feral nodded mutely, wondering why he’d never thought to get hold of some maps to their destination.

“What about Cassy?” Balthor asked softly.

“And Tee,” Feral added.

“They can take care of themselves, and I don’t doubt they’ll do the same as we are. We’ll have you back together soon enough,” Archer said, winking at the lupari.

“I hope so,” Balthor said quietly, missing the wink entirely. “I promised...”

Feral looked at him, but the lupari didn’t finish, instead lapsing into an unusually thoughtful silence.





W Goldwood Esquire

Guest

The Willow Estate

Westhills

Or Beyond



20th Day 11th Moon



Dear West,



Good work, son. Those men you sent arrived last week, along with a fairly ragtag bunch from Woodlund. I am guessing you finally shook Keeper Riverwell into action. I shall remember to lean on him at the next meeting, this is absolutely not the time for sloppy behaviour or half-hearted efforts like this one! Those men are currently wasting time in basic training that they should be proficient in, the fat idle bunch. Fortunate that Woodlund is only small – if one of the larger counties delivered men in this state a notable chunk of our army would have to be recalled!

Irontooth has not let up since you've been gone. Our borders are under constant threat and I have had no choice but to issue orders to retaliate – the fighting will happen one way or another, better it be on his soil than ours. Following the loss of Deepsby, the Lordenor army has been marching south-east using it as a base. For every inch we gain along the border, we are losing it along our shore as they advance. Please redouble your efforts, we must have more men!

To that end, you will find enclosed written authority to order the Keepers of the Counties to provide the necessary manpower. Should they be reluctant to cooperate, you have been granted the power to relieve them of their lands and title, and place their county under direct ministerial control until this war has ended. In this eventuality, you have full authority to assemble troops by whatever means necessary. Standard solider wages are offered, plus five percent hazard pay, but should this prove insufficient then remember that the ex-Keeper’s personal guards (where available), and the police force of the county will be yours to command. Use them if you must, but keep those men coming to the front line. We cannot allow this fight to continue on our soil!

Son, I know you will not enjoy this task, but it is necessary, and I ask you to be strong for me, and for all the people of the Freelands. You are not alone. All ministers are now engaged in raising military support, though thus far you remain in the lead with regard to numbers. Knew you were good for something.

As well as raw manpower, we require skilled labourers to support the troops. Try to find blacksmiths, armourers and fletchers, and encourage them to make their way here to Elmswell. You can assure them that they will be well compensated for their services.

Strangely, your comment about a dragon with Irontooth’s army is not the first I have heard. Several people claiming to be refugees from Deepsby brought the same story last month. I agree with you that this is most likely a weapon of some variety. I am assembling a group of specialist soldiers to attempt to get close enough to destroy it, or even better capture it, as I wonder if it may be some new kind of siege weapon. I would take great pleasure in turning Irontooth’s prized toy on his own cities – see how he likes it!

Your mother sends her love, and insists that I ask you to remember to buy extra clothing before the cold weather arrives.

Keep up the good work, West. The Freelands are depending on you.



Milton Goldwood, Freelands First Minister



P.S. Word has just reached me that Callum Plainspire has been lost while defending Featheridge. I am sorry, son, I know he was your friend. I am losing count of the towns we have officially lost to our enemy! We must not allow the sacrifice of our brave people to go ignored – we must win this war! Please do everything in your power to raise troops. I will be sending out more representatives to support you in this task. Please focus on the western counties, but for your mother's sake, stay away from the coastal towns. She would never forgive me.



The room was clean, quiet, and spacious – as it should be, belonging to the most expensive inn in town. It also lacked a view of the ocean, because its occupant had obeyed the instruction not to go near the coast. And it was very dark, as it should also be when the water clock in the town square was showing the time to be the middle of night watch.

Westley was aware of none of this however, because he was asleep in the appropriately warm and comfortable bed.

A sharp knocking sounded against the closed door to his room.

Westley remained asleep, unaware of it.

The knocking continued.

Westley was, he decided firmly, still asleep and whatever fool was trying to wake him could come back in the morning. He rolled over, pulling the pillow over his head.

The knocking stopped.

Good. Yawning, he settled back down.

Was that a smell of smoke, he wondered, unwillingly cracking one eye open just enough to peer blearily at his surroundings. Yes, yes it looked like smoke was a very appropriate smell about now, since the blanket was on fire.

“What the hell?” leaping out of bed, he bolted for the door, wrenching it open and nearly running right into the old man outside.

“Good evening, Westley,” Fellirion smiled up at him, his features cast into sharp relief by a pinkish light shining from the top of his battered old staff.

Westley felt like he ought to be shouting something about fire, and alarm, but this sudden encounter seemed to have thrown him off track, and all he did was blink several times.

“Come come, you can’t go wandering the halls like that,” Fellirion said calmly, taking Westley by the elbow and leading him back into the bedroom. “You’d give that young barmaid quite a turn if she saw you.”

“Wait, the...”

The blanket was not on fire. Nor was it even slightly singed. The smell of smoke had evaporated, leaving only the faint odour of polish emanating from the over-groomed furniture.

Westley eyed Fellirion suspiciously as the old man closed the door.

“You may want to put your dressing robe on,” Fellirion said quietly, smiling but politely looking away.

Flushing, Westley did so, as Fellirion moved around the room, igniting several candles by touching the wicks with the glowing tip of his staff. Satisfied, he put his hand over the end of the staff as if it wasn't so much as slightly warm, and it darkened immediately, leaving them with more familiar, flickering illumination

“Why are you here?” Westley asked bluntly, recovering from the surprise of the unexpected pyromancy he had just witnessed.

The old man looked about to reply, but there was another knock at the door. Fellirion opened it with his customary beaming smile, and a maid entered, carrying a tray with plates and glasses.

“Ah, excellent, thank you,” Fellirion thanked her as she set it down on the table before retreating. “You’ll have to forgive me, I really am rather hungry, would you care to join me?” he said, sitting down at the table and holding a knife and fork up in Westley’s direction.

Westley wasn’t particularly hungry, but he decided that it was better to follow the lead for now and see if the old man would explain what was going on.

“Oh, and you might like to read this,” Fellirion pushed a scroll of parchment across the table.

“Yesterday’s news scroll? How did you get hold of it so quickly? It takes eight days for a messenger from Elmswell to get out here, and that’s riding non stop!”

“I don’t like to wait for messengers,” Fellirion smiled enigmatically.

“Continuing hostilities... troops stationed along the northline... backup to Freeman Spire? Surely they wouldn’t be so stupid as to kick off in Fortitude?”

Fellirion just raised his eyebrows and shrugged slightly.

“War orphanage opened in Elmswell, capacity of thirty, filled within six days. Permission requested to expand into a nearby warehouse...” Westley’s face fell as he read this. Just how many orphans was this conflict going to leave in its wake? He put down his fork without having eaten anything.

“Ineffectual strategy... calls for increased military jurisdiction, placing command with General of the Army, Archius Emberstride, what?” he looked up sharply.

“Just what it says, I would imagine,” Fellirion said quietly. “Your father appears to have bitten off more than he can comfortably masticate.”

“The military has always been under the control of the council,” Westley shook his head. “It’s in the founding charter, they’re an army for the people!”

“Yes, they are,” Fellirion nodded. “But the trouble with that definition is that it leaves General Emberstride with the problem of what to do if he thinks that the army is not currently being used in the best interests of the people.”

“Take command of it himself...” Westley said quietly.

“Precisely. He is, after all, your military’s finest, and it will not come naturally to him to execute orders that he sees as flawed.”

“Are they flawed?”

“Not especially, I don’t think so,” Fellirion sighed. “But I am no great judge of such matters, and perhaps the results speak for themselves. Of course, it isn’t really your father's fault, I suppose, he didn’t know he was going to be fighting dragons.”

Westley rolled his eyes. “Not that old rumour again,” he muttered, but to his concern the old man’s face hardened the moment the words had passed his lips.

“My dear boy, do you honestly think I would be here if it was only a rumour?”

“Er...”

“Oh dear,” Fellirion sighed again. “I see you really haven’t been well informed at all, have you? Well, let’s see where I should start... Our problem appears to originate with Tiernach Irontooth, who has for reasons unknown, decided to start a war between Lordenor and the Freelands, in which he is using at least one dragon in order to maintain the upper hand,” he said, deciding it was simpler just to make the entire statement at once.

Westley stared at him blankly.

“Tiernach? Irontooth Tiernach?” Westley echoed, as if hoping he had heard wrongly.

“Yes,” Fellirion nodded.

“Started the war?”

“Yes.”

“With a dragon?”

“Yes.”

“Madness...”

“Possibly, yes,” the old man admitted. “I certainly don’t...”

“How would he keep a dragon under wraps?” Westley interrupted.

“He hasn’t,” Fellirion shrugged. “You said yourself there was a rumour floating about. Nobody has taken it seriously, thus nobody has considered appropriate defences, and thus nobody has been able to stand against Lordenor’s army.”

“Ah,” Westley nodded slowly. “I see,” he added, leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head. “Bugger.”

“Quite.”

They looked at each other for several long seconds.

“So what should we do?” Westley asked.

“Aha,” Fellirion’s eyes twinkled slightly. “Glad you ask, my young friend. First, forget all this military mobilisation rubbish. Sending more men to the front men is not going to end this conflict any quicker. Second, send those guards who’re following you home, they attract attention. Third, you and I are going to take a little trip to Farview, and fourth...”

“Farview?”

“Nice town west of here, on the coast. Good fresh fish.” Fellirion supplied helpfully.

“I know that,” Westley snapped, frowning. “Why?”

“Well, you see,” leaning forward, elbows on the table, Fellirion lowered his voice to a more conspiratorial tone. “I have had, or rather my great nephew has had, a rather astonishing turn of luck – something that might be very useful to us. I’ve asked him to meet me there.”

“Ok... why do you want me?”

Fellirion gave him an apologetic look. “Because I’m rather afraid I don’t know of anyone else who your father might actually listen to.”

“He doesn’t listen to me!”

“You are his only child,” Fellirion insisted. “He has granted you a position of power and placed a great deal of faith in you. If you and I find proof that the Freelands and Lordenor have been played off against each other, then he will pay attention to what we have to say.”

“Played off? You said the problem was Tiernach Irontooth, that’s not played off, that’s an act of war...”

“I am aware of what I said,” the old man’s tone was cool. “But I do not believe that Tiernach would initiate such an act. I know him rather better than you, you see. He is at heart a man of conscience, and decency, capable of great love and empathy, and it is my belief that someone is leaning on him. I want to find out who, and I want to find out why, I want to know what it is they are holding over him, and I want you to witness that and relay the news to your father directly. I am going to ask Princess Aleana to do the same for King Irontooth. Hopefully between us, we can bring some sanity to the matter.”

Westley rubbed his temples. “Can’t your people help?” he asked.

“Possibly,” Fellirion nodded. “But the Council of Magi currently sees this matter as a conflict between nations, nothing more. If we want them to enter the fight, we need to prove and demonstrate the involvement of dragons, because all I have right now is deduction and second hand reports, and they are not accepting that as evidence. Possibly rightly so.”

“You know you’re likely to get us all killed?”

“It is a possibility,” Fellirion admitted. “But hopefully it won’t come to that.”

“I don’t really feel like dying.”

“My dear boy,” Fellirion looked sadly at him. “Lordenor’s military is superior to yours, and backed up by one or more dragons. You have no concept of how destructive such creatures can be. Whatever you have in your head, you are underestimating them. Even with sensible defences, without magical assistance you are going to lose this war, and it will very likely be at the expense of a large number of the people now living in the Freelands. I don’t suppose they really feel like dying, either, but that’s not really their choice – it’s yours.”

Slumping in his seat, Westley looked very pale. “Then I guess I don’t have a choice at all,” he said quietly. Then he downed one of the glasses of wine in a single swallow.