Thealos glanced up as the sun fought against the pall of mist. When the fog cleared, he would be able to determine how far inland he had strayed. He and Jaerod had reached the Shadows Wood together before his friend had left to return to Safehome. Thealos would not be allowed to go there until he had made all nine of the Oaths. It was supposed to be a crowning moment, when the Mages entrusted a Ravinir with a weapon and a shield. Some Ravinir had to wait before being granted the honor. There were some Ravinir who forsook their calling after it had happened. The consequences…Thealos bit his lip and tried not to think about the Oath of Silence.
He expected to reach Castun before sundown. Through Jaerod’s knowledge of the Oath magic, they had traveled together out of Sol as they had through Avisahn to Silverborne Palace. The Sleepwalkers called it ‘walking the Crossroads.’ The experience had still made Thealos retch, but not as much the second time. He hoped by the third time he would be able to keep his stomach under control. Walking the Crossroads alone took great concentration and skill. Taking another along was difficult indeed and limited the distance considerably. Maintaining that kind of concentration for long was debilitating. Through the memories of the wellspring, Thealos had an idea how it was done. But he did not have the self-confidence yet to try it himself. A Ravinir endowed with all Nine Oaths could walk the Crossroads over a deep moat and through the walls of a keep. But most Sleepwalkers could not start out doing that.
Thealos was plodding over a low hill when the smell of Forbidden magic wafted up through the grass. He stopped in his tracks and loosened the sword at his waist from its scabbard and felt the blade’s magic for the first time. Silvan magic, though not as strong as that of a Wolfsman blade, spoke to his Shae senses. Warders had charmed it to feed the bearer with strength. The pulse of it throbbed up his arm. But the Oath magic was stronger, more penetrating, a constant whorl of thoughts in his mind. Memories darted in and out of his awareness, memories of fighting and death. He calmed himself, not ready to invoke them yet. The smell came on him in waves, a stench of wilt and decay and all things vile. Yet it came from in front of him, not behind. The Vocus should have been gaining on him from behind, not in front. Or had the mist completely turned him around? Clutching the stones in his left hand, he invoked the magic to keep him from the sight and hearing of others. Cautiously, he started down the slope.
The churn of mud and trampled grass showed him that horses had stormed down the hill—many of them. Thealos followed the tale told by the hash-marks and strewn clumps of sod and came upon the scene of the horrible stench.
The mist retreated as he advanced and he saw the broken pikes and split pennants first. Huge mounds of dead horseflesh ghosted in and out of sight as he walked through the muck. The smell was overpowering and he covered his mouth with his fist, squeezing the stones and debating whether he should draw the missing one that banished smell—even the smell of magic.
He stepped around the broken shell of a suit of armor and wondered why it had been left on the field. The breastplate had corroded in the center and the metal looked as if it had been left to rust for a year. There was another full suit of armor near a dead horse. And another. But where were the bodies?
Thealos knelt near one and noticed that the buckles were still fastened tight. The smell nearly choked him. Was the armor all blackened? Soot covered everything but the grass was untouched. He reached down to touch it, but something in his heart warned him not to. Memories came again, this time from his own past—from the warding beneath Landmoor. Memories of his Foretelling when he had seen the Empire of Sol-don-Orai fall.
Deathbane.
He recognized it now. There were no bodies because they had been consumed by Deathbane. He looked at another crumpled suit of armor and recognized the twisting ivy scrollwork of it. These were knights from Owen Draw. He remembered Sturnin Goff, his friend who had been killed in the dungeons of Landmoor saving his life. The Deathbane dagger had killed him instantly, sucking all his Life magic away in moments. It was a nightmarish memory. Thealos rose and looked around the field at the dead. And he realized that he was standing in the middle of it.
If one mote of this dust…
Voices.
*
"Another for my brother, you banned rook!” The sound of a boot kicking metal.
“You’re in luck, lads. We’ve got enough rope for you all. Finished the nooses yet, Gram?”
“Almost done with the second, sir. Give me a moment. There we go. Toss that third one over. Let’s be quick about it.”
“Quick? I want to watch these banned knights dangle and kick their spurs in the air a little while. Toss it over that high one. Good throw, man. Ready them, Boren.” Someone hawked and spat. “What? No final words? No lashing insults?”