Ahead in the gloom, he saw the glimmer of water cascading down a huge rock outcropping, washing off the rock steps in thin white rivulets. It collected at the base of the beautiful falls in an overgrown pond, thick and teeming with moss. The moss was everywhere – blanketing the rocks and fallen branches. Even the outcropping and the falls were green with it. In the dim glare of the lanterns, he could see the moss cover the forested glen for thirty paces at least.
Half-clothed men with heaving muscles tore at the swamp with root furrows and shovels, hurrying to finish a network of wooden gutters to drain the pond. Lanterns hung from sagging lengths of twine, offering pale rings of light to the soiled crew. Sluggish gray water coursed through the tilting conduits, dumping into a flat gully forty paces away. Allavin and the small band of Shae skirted the workmen to the left, moving closer to the falls. The sucking sound of the shovels was replaced by the crack of scrapers and pickaxes. Standing in the pond water, the workers scraped the moss from the rocks and tossed the clumps into hand-barrows. Allavin stared at the scene, wondering what was happening. The Bandit Rebellion was collecting…moss? He studied the scene as other workmen approached and poured fresh water from jugs over the soiled moss. It turned a rich shade of green and even in the poor light it sparkled with buds of blue and violet.
Allavin motioned to the plant and made the sign of Forbidden magic. Tiryn shook his head, scrutinizing the workmen. He looked angry at the devastation of the grove. The falls would have been beautiful and quiet, but the workmen were destroying the peacefulness. Tiryn motioned again and Allavin watched the two scouts he could see raise their longbows and choose their targets. The Shae never allowed the earth to be desecrated like this.
Allavin put his hand on Tiryn’s arm, stopping him. He motioned to the moss and pointed to his own palm with the flat of his finger. He wanted some of it to bring back with him. Tiryn nodded begrudgingly and made a quick series of hand signals. There was plenty of moss in the area, and it wouldn’t be difficult for one of the scouts to creep in and snatch some. Allavin crouched, wiping the streaks of sweat from his face. He had to find out what the Bandit Rebellion was stealing from the swamp. Was it a poison? A cure? He knew a Zerite healer in Iniva who might know. Tiryn raised his hand again and pointed. The bows quietly bent.
From the shadows of the swamp on the east side, a knight approached the workmen. The glint of field armor became visible in the pallid light. The workmen slowed and regarded the new arrival. The dark armor was sculpted with a metal trim of ivy and leaves. It was the design of a particular regiment of knights in Owen Draw – a regiment that was now another word for treason. Allavin tried to swallow and found he could not. Sweet Achrolese, he thought in shock. It’s Balinaire. He knew the man before him better than most in the valley. He had tracked this man’s army throughout the vales and hills of the entire realm. It was Lord Ballinaire himself, the leader of the Bandit Rebellion and its three armies. Allavin had last heard he was entrenched in the Kingshadow Mountains, building a fortress. But here he was… in the Shoreland itself preparing the siege on Landmoor.
Ballinaire spoke in hushed tones to the men in the grove. His black eyebrows were stark against the creased folds of wrinkled skin. His thin hair and short beard were white, like shaded snow. The workers rested, their muscles quivering and dripping sweat. The quiet rush and patter of the falls muffled his words, but Allavin watched him with growing anger and determination. King don-Rion would pay a hundred Aralonian pieces to know that Ballinaire was hiding down here. He’d pay more and he’d rouse every knight and soldier under the Crown. But it wasn’t the golden mint from the king’s coffers that Allavin craved. No, he wanted peace. Maybe the Rebellion will end at last, he prayed. Dos-Aralon had been sundered by the Rebellion and would continue to be riddled with disaster until Ballinaire hung stiff from a gibbet. Ballinaire had enough men in the Shoreland to take Landmoor. But not enough to hold her against the brunt of Dos-Aralon’s armies.
Tiryn clutched his arm. “Jerrinwey is gone.”
Allavin looked at him and felt his heart lurch. The point scout was never supposed to leave the sight of the flank scouts. Never. He was about to tell him to send another in when Tiryn jerked at his cloak.
“Run!”
Allavin didn’t argue. In a start, he plunged back into the moors, no longer cautious of the sound they made. Cries of alarm came from the watch, but Allavin knew how to elude the Bandit army. Tiryn’s lithe body sprinted next to him, his longbow ready with an arrow. Shouts rose up in pursuit, but the Shae and the tracker had a tremendous lead.
A flash of blue lightning lit the murk of the swamp. A rushed cry of fear and pain followed instead of thunder and then silence. Allavin looked back and saw an inky black shape silhouetted against the trees as the light of the blue fire died. It wasn’t Ballinaire.