The Scourge of Muirwood (Legends of Muirwood #3)

Of all the tasks Martin had been given to perform during his duties as the Prince’s advisor and protector, gathering acorns near a forsaken swamp marked one of the most humiliating. The tree was thick with them, as he had been told. There were hundreds to gather, and Martin wondered at the reason. During one of his sea voyages, he recalled some wisdom he had learned from a sea-captain that enabled him to lead other men. The wisdom was that when men are employed in labor, they were contented. On the days they worked they were good-natured and cheerful, and, with having done a good day's work, they spent the evenings with mirth. But on idle days they were mutinous and quarrelsome, finding fault with their pork, the bread, the cider, and in continual ill-humor. That sea-captain, Martin recalled, had a rule to keep his men constantly at work. When his second once told him that they had done every thing, and there was nothing further to employ them about, the sea-captain ordered them to scour the anchor. Martin himself was known to employ that device with the Evnissyen, choosing to keep their minds and bodies active with too many orders rather than not enough.

When he finished filling his saddle bag with acorns, he mounted and followed the Prince’s trail back over the ridge of the hill and into the muck-ridden sludge of the moors. The storm raged in the sky, the constant vivid lightning making it easy to spot the trail in the dark. The wind howled around him, as if warning him away from what lay ahead. He grit his teeth, plodding into the eye of the storm. The stallion faltered with the strain of mud at its hooves. A burned smell drifted in the air.

Picking the fallen acorns was like scouring the anchor. He was certain of it. Could a man really see into the future? How was it possible since it had not happened yet? Or was the future like a river, bound by rocky banks and flowing from the high ground to the low ground? Knowing the pitch of the land, knowing the bounds, one might guess where a boat would end up at any time along the course. Was that it?

Another white blast of lightning scarred the sky, forcing Martin to shield his eyes. But in the light, in that moment of total glory and vividness, he had seen something. Martin shook his head, trying to steer his stallion towards what he had seen. It was the Prince, standing in the middle of the moors, his horse nearby and neighing. That was not what Martin remembered. It was the boulder hovering in the sky.

Another surge of lightning, another throaty roar of thunder. The Prince stood in the middle of the valley, his hand raised high. Before him, a huge slab of boulder hovered in the air.

“By Cheshu!” Martin swore, unable to believe what he saw. He wiped the rain from his eyes and stared again, trying to see through the blackness once more. Lightning lit up the sky overhead, the image revealing the boulder slowly coming down, as if it were hoisted in the arms of some invisible harness. The Prince’s skin glowed white. In the flash that followed next, the boulder was firm on the ground. Martin started. The Prince had collapsed.

He kicked the horse’s flanks and rode hard down the hillside to the valley. The hooves churned and splashed up mud. As he reached his master’s side, Martin shook himself out of his stirrups and came down. The Prince’s face was ashen.

“My lord!” He felt for the throb of his heartbeat and it was there, just a tremulous little thing. “My lord prince! Are you awake? Can you speak?”

The Prince’s eyes fluttered open. He was exhausted. “A little rest, Martin. Then I will be well.” His voice was barely a whisper.

“I brought the acorns. My saddlebag is full.” He wiped rain from the Prince’s face. The sky drenched them.

“Scatter them,” the Prince whispered. “All around the stone.”

“You want me to scatter them? But why?”

The Prince grimaced with pain. Air hissed through his teeth. “Do it,” he repeated. “They will remind her of home when they are grown. Remind her…of Muirwood.”

“My lord? Who is this girl you keep seeing? Who is she? Is it your bride? Is it Demont’s daughter? Is she in danger?”

A smile twitched on the Prince’s mouth. “Danger,” he whispered. “When is she not in danger? You must help…protect her, Martin. Train her. Evnissyen – she must be trained as one. You must teach her to survive. To live. She will save…our people…from the Blight.”

“Your wife? Your young wife in Dahomey? Demont’s daughter?”

“No,” the Prince gasped, shaking his head against Martin’s arm. “No. My daughter.”

His arm trembled as he lifted it, finger pointing to the boulder that moments ago had hovered in the air. When the lightning flashed again, Martin saw the Leering carved into its face.

It was the face of a young girl with rivulets of unruly hair.





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