Sandreena felt a conflict; her Order mandate demanded that she should attempt to balance this conflict, which would almost certainly get her killed instantly. Yet it galled her to see cold-blooded murder, even if those being slaughtered were monsters. And she didn’t relish the notion of the mercenaries riding off without penalty. Some of those men, perhaps even those in the hut, had sliced her up and thrown her into the sea as food for the crabs.
Without thinking about it for too long, she picked up a rock and threw it hard at the foot of a sleeping cultist, just as the fighters started to cross the clearing to where they slept. In the dark, none of the fighters took note.
But the man whose foot she struck came awake with a cry and before anyone could ascertain what happened, chaos erupted. The waking cultists saw a band of armed men moving towards them and reacted with the only weapons they possessed, their magic.
Green energies shot out and several of the armed men screamed in pain, while the other fighters bellowed their outrage and charged. Sandreena scampered down the rock face, not wishing or needing to witness further carnage. She knew the thirty swords would eventually dispose of the twenty or so cultists, but a lot fewer Black Caps were going to ride safely away from this hellish place.
Sandreena rode down the trail at a nice canter, knowing those fighting for their lives behind her wouldn’t hear a thing.
*
Sandreena worked her way across the rocks to the cave where the hermit had tended to her. She called out, ‘Hello! Are you here?’ as she entered. It took her some moments for her eyes to adjust to the gloom after riding through the sunrise.
She carried a small kettle and an assortment of cooking items, a knife, ladle, several spoons, and two earthenware bowls. She had raided the inn when passing through town, knowing the previous owners had no use for them anymore. When there was no answer, she moved deeper into the cave.
She found the hermit sitting against the wall, with his eyes closed. ‘Wake up, old man!’ Sandreena said, for she had no time to tarry, but wanted to make good on her promise. The old man didn’t move.
She put down her burden and knelt next to him. She knew before she touched him that he was dead. She quickly examined him and found no wounds. He had simply died during the night while he slept. His face held no expression of pain, and there were no contortions on his body, so he must have never awakened.
Sighing, she reminded herself that sometimes, people just die. He was old, he had lived in a harsh way and it was his time.
She said a quick silent prayer to her Goddess to see him on his way to Lims-Kragma’s Hall, and then left the cave. She mounted her horse and turned it towards the south. With one last look around the forlorn seascape and rocky coasts, she wondered if there was anyone in the world beside herself that would note the passing of that strange old man. She put that question aside, for now her only goal was to get to Ithra alive and send warning to the Temple in Krondor.
*
Pug of Sorcerer’s Isle, perhaps the greatest practitioner of magic in the entire world of Midkemia, waved his hand and created a barrier to protect himself and his companions from the blinding, choking smoke. He looked at the elven spellweaver named Temar, and said, ‘This is the worst I’ve seen in a hundred years.’
Temar nodded. ‘I’ve seen a few that match, but not many. Drought and lightning are a bad combination, Pug.’
Temar was from the elven community at Baranor. For ten years Pug and Miranda had visited their enclave in the remote mountain area of Kesh known as the Peaks of the Quor, in an attempt to understand those strange aliens, those they protected - the Sven’gar-ri - and the equally odd race known as the Quor who protected them.
‘It wasn’t especially dry until a week ago,’ said Temar. ‘But the undergrowth here is so thick, that only lightning could start something like this.’ He glanced around and pointed to the north. ‘And an especially dry wind is doing us a double disservice; it’s fanning the flames and drying out everything before them.’
‘Rain?’ asked Pug.
The elf gave Pug one of his small smiles that meant his answer was going to be wry. ‘I’m good at weather magic, Pug, but not that good. There’s not enough moisture in the air, nor are there any clouds close enough for me to summon. I could attempt it, but I know the effort would be a waste of time.’
A loud pop alerted them to Magnus’s arrival. The elf was unfazed by the sudden appearance of the human magician, but Pug was startled to see he was not alone. ‘Father,’ greeted the tall, white haired magician.
‘Who is this?’ asked Pug.
‘This is Amirantha of Satumbria, someone whom you need to speak with.’
‘This cannot wait until I return?’
‘I think not,’ answered Magnus.
Pug nodded. ‘We’re concerned about this fire,’ he said, pointing to the raging flames on the next ridge. ‘It’s not likely to reach Baranor, but it might. Conditions here are not good.’ Turning to Amirantha, he said, ‘Sorry to stint on social pleasantries, but time is fleeting.’
Temar also nodded a brief greeting. ‘It’s going to get very hot here over the next hour, Pug.’