King Jarrek suddenly thought about the warning message he had sent to King Broderick. The rider was Marshal Culvert’s son, Brady. The Marshall had died in the battle. Jarrek hoped that Brady would make it to Dreen, the capital city of Valleya, to warn them of what was marching their way. Brady would be safe there. The young man had trained hard with both bow and blade to earn his Redwolf armor, and was a capable woodsman too. With two of the four cavalry men they had picked up in High Crossing riding with him, Jarrek figured that Brady had a better chance of getting through than most would. Old Marshal Culvert would’ve been proud of his son. Jarrek hoped he had remembered to tell Brady as much before he had sent him off.
As his mind drifted from horror to horror, Jarrek stared absently at the dark clouds rolling down from the Giant Mountains to the north of them. A light drizzle fell now, but the downpour was coming. He could feel it in his weary bones. The storm mimicked his mood all too well, and the precipitation hid the occasional tear that trailed down his cheek. They would be in the thick of the lower Evermore soon. The forest would offer at least some protection from the coming weather.
King Jarrek, his three remaining red armored guardsmen, the Highwander wizard Targon, and two cavalrymen made up the party. The cavalrymen were nothing more than glorified bridge guards, who had probably fled at the first sign of attack. Jarrek couldn’t be angry with them for it though. After all, what was he doing?
The group had crossed out of Wildermont and somehow managed to escape the Westlanders’ pursuit. They had made it into the fringes of the Evermore Forest, where it touches the northern tip of the Wilder Mountains and borders the Leif Greyn Valley.
For days, they had ridden up and over rocky ridges, then down through thickly forested valleys. Up and down, over and over again, until finally, they were about to put the hills behind them. They were now descending the last un-forested hillock and about to enter the thick of the Evermore Forest.
Targon had tried desperately to get word to his Queen of what had transpired, but it wasn’t yet to be. He had drained himself so completely when he’d made the tunnel-like tube through the fabric of the world to save the King of Wildermont, that he was only now, days later, beginning to look alive again. Jarrek had thought that the man would die. At first, Targon had looked like a corpse. If he hadn’t insisted on coming with them, Jarrek might have left him in one of the mountain villages that they had passed recently. The wizard’s intense desire to share his ramblings of demon might and broken bindings with his Queen, and the simple fact that Jarrek wouldn’t deny a man who had saved his life anything, had kept him from it.
King Jarrek wasn’t sure he wanted to meet with the Witch Queen. She was rumored to be a strange and powerful woman, who had lived for hundreds of years. Just thinking about the unnatural mess of it made Jarrek shiver.
He doubted that most of the tales were true. Targon had told him that they weren’t; that she wasn’t really an old witch, and that she would most likely help them in any way she could. But who could trust the ramblings of a half dead wizard. The remoteness of her kingdom, and the strange ways of the people who ventured out of it, lent to the spooky image of Highwander, like butter lends flavor to bread.
King Jarrek’s practical side knew that the place, however magical and mystical in nature, was once the seat of all the human lands. The palace in the city of Xwarda was ancient, and had once been the home of many of the realm’s heroes and legends.
Targon didn’t have to defend his Queen, or the Kingdom she ruled over. King Jarrek most likely wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for him. As a man of honor, Jarrek would dutifully repay his debt by escorting the man any where he wished ago. What could a Witch Queen do to him compared to what King Glendar and Pael had already done? She couldn’t be as bad as rumors would have one believe. Maybe she would lend him enough men that he could ride to Dakahn and try to free some of the people Glendar had sent into slavery there. It was a big hope, but enough to keep him from sinking into the gloom and sorrow that threatened to consume him.
The rain was coming down hard now, but the end of the storm was in sight. To the north, along the tailing edge of the black swirling clouds, was a golden line of sunshine. A few days of clear blue sky seemed to be pushing the storm southward. Another dark line was on the horizon, beyond the expanse of blue. It was no surprise. In the heat of summer, storm after raging storm came rolling down out of the Giant Mountains. His only realistic hope, was that the sun would still be in the sky when the rain finally passed over them so that they might dry out before nightfall. A glance ahead of them, reminded Jarrek that they would be entering the forest soon. The sun wouldn’t be able to penetrate that canopy, he knew. The sun would heat the soggy woods like a steam bath. He decided that he wouldn’t even begin to look forward to dry clothes until they had a fire raging.