In the forest, the evening light was fading fast as Isolde, Cullers and Teagan gathered what they needed for their stay with the Brotherhood. But on the Burning Moor - half a world away yet only a single stride through the portals of the chosen - the sun had only been up for a few hours. The party of knights, led by Chairman Yarl, stepped out of the glowing blue portal with their guests onto a plane of cracked red earth. The air was hot and dry, with the smell of ash and sulphur hanging in the faint breeze. In the distance, Isolde could see fissures in the ground where bright orange lava seeped out, flowing for a while like little streams before cooling into ugly grey scars of volcanic rock. The ground they had arrived on was more stable, but Isolde could still feel the heat of the molten rock below ground through the soles of her boots. It made her feel as if the whole moor was an island floating on a sea of boiling lava.
Before her there was a tidily built camp of canvass tents, defended by a circle of sharpened stakes and a handful of alert guardsmen. But inside the ring of defenders, the camp looked anything but orderly. Several men were staggering about as if they were drunk, clutching their heads and babbling incoherently as their comrades tried to herd them back towards their tents. A tall guardsman with a thick black moustache strode over towards the portal calling to Yarl as he approached.
“Chairman! Our search parties have fallen foul of some dark new magic!”
Yarl walked up to meet his officer, saluting him with a fist held over his heart as he spoke.
“Sergeant Bron, Is our safehold intact?” he began, “We have guests whose safety I have sworn to ensure. How many of the men have been affected, and in what manner?”
The sergeant sighed, deeply “Perhaps a third of our number,” he answered, “And there are six men yet to return. I fear they may have befallen the same fate. The men came back, Chairman, at least their bodies did, but their minds are clouded by sorcery. We can get no sense out of them.”
“Clouded, you say?” asked the Chairman, glancing with concern at the camp’s staggering soldiers.
“They babble like lunatics, sir,” Bron continued, “They can’t even tell us what happened to them, or where.”
“I don’t like this,” interrupted Cullers, who was holding his daughter closely to his chest, “Yarl, your promises are no good to me if you cannot keep your own men safe. I won’t have my daughter exposed to the Dark Lord’s murderous whim!”
“What can I say?” the chairman protested, “The situation here has developed since I left to meet with you. But look. The camp is sound. Our troops may be depleted but we have enough steady blades yet to hold off an army. I beg you, knight, for the honour of that ring you still wear, stay and help us.”
Cullers looked grumpily from Yarl to Isolde. He stamped his foot.
“Dammit! Alright!” he spat, “But your men will guard my daughter with their very lives, Yarl, or it won’t be the Dark Lord you have to worry about”
*
The atmosphere in the camp was tense as the search party, including Isolde and her mentor Cullers, prepared to venture into the heart of the Burning Moor. Yarl’s men were jostling each other and placing wagers on who would find a stone. The Brotherhood and the Order had long held the right to trade fragments of the Stone of Ruins in Luxis, and there was much pride and profit to be had, quite apart from the need to harvest their magic.
Isolde made sure that Teagan was comfortable in one of the Brotherhood’s tents. The young girl had brought along a book of tales to keep herself amused, as well as the ingredients for a fine forest stew of venison and hare.
“I’ll have it ready for you when you get back,” she told Isolde, smiling, “Good luck with your hunt!”
“With your father by my side, I’m sure we’ll find what we need and be back soon,” said Isolde, comfortingly, “See you for supper.”
Teagan left the tent to wave her father and Isolde off and, at a cry from Yarl, the group set out across the harsh, hot, rocky ground of the moor.
“Hey!” A call went up from behind them and Isolde and the others to see Park and his sister Roline, leading the rest of Isolde’s mercenary team; Shcer the Guardian, his blue steel armour glinting in the sun, and the ever solemn priest, Carason.
“Where the Hell do you think you’re going?” cried Park, stomping up towards the bewildered soldiers, some of whom raised their weapons in alarm.
“Park? What are you doing here? I came to help the Brotherhood. We’re gathering shards of the Stone of Ruins,” Isolde blurted out, embarrassed as Yarl’s eyes turned to her.
“Not without us, you’re not! We’re not paid to keep your spot at the bloody tavern, you know!”
“You know these mercenaries?” asked Yarl.
“Aye,” Isolde muttered, “They are in my employ. Park, Roline, Shcer and Carason. A formidable team, I assure you.”
“Then control your employees,” said Yarl, “If you can rein them in, they may make themselves useful.”
“Of course,” said Isolde, nodding respectfully. Her ears were burning red as she stamped angrily over to meet Park.
“What are you doing?” she whispered sharply to Park as he came up to her.
“What am I doing? What are you doing?” said Park, angrily, “We’re mercenaries! Warriors! No battles without us. That’s part of the deal.”
“Shh! You’re embarrassing me!” said Isolde, slapping him on the arm, “Look, I didn’t come here to fight. It’s a search party not a raiding party. If you want to help, great. But for pity’s sake try to look like a professional.”
Park seemed deflated. His face slumped into a dejected frown.
“No fighting?” he moaned, “But we bribed one of the Brotherhood fifty gold pieces to find out where you’d gone, and gave another eighty to one of the chosen to open a portal!”
“Ha!” laughed Isolde, “Serves you right. Now come on, seeing as you’re here, make yourselves useful. And behave!”
*
Isolde’s team behaved impeccably as she introduced them to Chairman Yarl. He eyed them carefully before nodding his approval.
“We’ll make use of our greater numbers,” he ordered, splitting the troops into three groups; one led by himself, one by Cullers and the third comprising Isolde and her mercenaries. “My men will search to the west, Culler’s to the east, yours to the north,” Yarl told them as they gathered around him,, “Remember that we do not know where our brothers fell prey to their enchantment and take care wherever you go. The Dark Lord’s followers are everywhere. Do not allow yourself to feel safe in this accursed place.”
“I hoped to have my tutor’s guidance,” Isolde complained, looking nervously at Cullers who was fingering his bow nervously.
“Aye, well,” Yarl nodded, “You have your warriors to protect you if there’s trouble, and whether you acknowledge it or not, the power to find the stones lies in you. You’ll see soon enough tat you don’t need your hand holding by an old man.”
“Rude and unnecessary,” muttered Cullers through his beard. “No way to treat a guest… Come and look for stones” he said mockingly in a voice a little like the chairman’s, “It’s perfectly safe. Bring your daughter. Yarl, you politician. You’ve changed your tone.”
Yarl glared at Cullers fiercely.
“You volunteered,” he said, “If you’d like to un-volunteer, now’s the time.”
Cullers gritted his teeth.
“Let’s just do this,” he spat.
*
With a few words of reassurance to Isolde, Cullers left to guide his team into the moor. Chairman Yarl turned without a word of farewell, leaving Isolde with her mercenaries.
“Well then, chosen one,” said Park through his customary grin, “Lead the way.”
“I haven’t done this before,” Isolde protested, “I don’t know where to go.”
“North, the man said,” said Shcer, his voice muffled by the visor of his helmet, “So North it is.”
“Hold on, Shcer,” said Park, putting his hand on Isolde’s shoulder, “Take a moment to focus, Isolde,” he told her, “Feel a path for us. The power is yours to use.”
Isolde closed her eyes. Her hand went to the necklace at her throat; the one Cullers had given her, with the shard of blue stone mounted in its delicate metalwork. She tried to clear her mind as he had instructed her, focussing instead on the feel of the stone against her skin.
“Anything?” asked Park.
“Oh, shut up, Park!” snapped Isolde, opening her eyes, her concentration broken. Park just grinned.
“Sorry. Couldn’t resist,” he smirked.
Isolde closed her eyes again and breathed deeply. And, as her mind cleared, she began to feel something, like a change in the air, or the strange, magnetic pull of a stormy sky before the thunder breaks. She imagined herself connected to the land around her by a thousand silver tendrils, snaking out from the tips of her fingers and toes and running along the dry ground like bindweed. Then, suddenly and insistently, there it was! Like a child tugging on the hem of her jacket. She felt the pull of the stones and saw the path ahead as clearly as if it were laid out in cobbles. Her eyes snapped open and her thoughts rushed back into her head, but the path remained clear.
“Come on!” she said to the others, and set off at a run.
Park and Roline had no trouble keeping up with their enthusiastic young leader, but Shcer - in his heavy armour - and the thin limbed priest Carason were soon falling behind. They saw no sign of the enemy, however, nor any sign of life at all, so sticking together for safety’s sake seemed like an unnecessary caution.
On they ran, past running rivulets of lava and the crumbling remains of ancient buildings until,
after two - maybe three - miles, Isolde stopped suddenly and pointed, without hesitation at a boulder in the way ahead.
“There,” she said confidently.
“You sure?” asked Park, eyeing the unpromising grey rock with suspicion.
“I’m sure,” said Isolde.
“Because it looks kind of… normal,” said Park, walking over to the boulder and kicking it with the toe of his boot.
A layer of grey fell away and something blue glinted beneath.
“Do that again,” said Isolde.
Park kicked the boulder. More grey fell away; not rock, but caked mud. And under the mud, a cluster of bright blue shards.
“The Stone of Ruins!” said Carason, panting as he arrived on the scene, “Praise the Gods!”
“Aye, a fair old chunk of it, anyway,” said Park, slapping his comrade on the back, “Get your breath, old man. No need to hurry on the way back. We’ll walk, eh?”
Carason frowned at his young tormentor and sucked in air as Isolde, Shcer, Park and Roline gathered shards of the blue stone and filled their pockets for the walk back to camp. It was a substantial haul, for sure. More than enough to put a smile on Yarl’s face.
As they strolled back the way they had come, Isolde paid closer attention to the ruins they had passed before.
“It’s hard to believe anyone ever lived here,” she said, as they passed a fallen column from what must have been a huge ancient building, “Who would choose to build a city in such a place?”
“The Burning Moor was not always like this,” replied Carason, who had recovered from earlier and was much happier with the new pace of travel, “The city that stood here was called Kestran. It fell in the first great war against the Dark Lord.”
“How?” asked Isolde.
“Back then the lands around Kestran were know as the most fertile and fruitful in all Midgard. And the city itself was the jewel in the crown of a mighty empire. Of course, the Dark Lord wanted that jewel for himself. He besieged the city for three years, but Kestran held out valiantly against his forces. The magic of the Stone of Ruins is a powerful defense against his evil charms. Eventually, when he realised the city’s defences could not be breached by magical means, the Dark Lord sent his dragons to raise Kestran to the ground. No man, woman or child was spared. And the earth about the city was so scorched by the dragon’s fiery breath that a blaze ignited under the rich soil of the land. For a thousand years it the fires have burned underground, melting even the rocks beneath our feet. All that remains of Kestran are the broken fragments of its temples and palaces, and in the heart of the moor, a flaming sword, made of that same blue stone that thwarted the Dark Lord’s magic and that even the dragons could not scorch.”
Isolde said nothing. She was thinking about Kestran. About a mighty city reduced to burning ruins by the Dark Lord. How could she hope to stand in his path this time? Park seemed to sense what she was thinking. He came alongside and leaned in to speak to her, softly.
“One day ago, chosen one, you would have scoffed at the notion that you could find the stones that now stuff your pockets. Every time you doubt yourself, you soon prove those doubts wrong, is that not the case? You have the power, Isolde. Embrace it.”
Isolde turned to Park as she walked. He, like no other, had the ability to calm her fears. His faith in her shone through even when he was at his most exasperating.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
“You’re welcome… boss,” said Park. Was he blushing. Isolde wondered? Surely not.
*
The journey back to camp did not take long and the mood was light among the mercenaries. But as they approached the spot where Chairman Yarl had pided the troops for the search, Shcer the Guardian put out his hand to stop the group in their tracks and pointed down the track towards the Brotherhood’s camp. A wisp of black smoke could be seen rising over the ridge that hid the camp from sight. The comrades fell silent and listened for any sound that might be carried on the moor’s hot breeze. The faint sound of clashing metal came to their ears.
“It seems we’ll get to fight today after all,” said Shcer, unsheathing his broadsword and jogging off towards the ridge. The others drew or unshouldered their weapons too and set off in hot pursuit.
“The girl!” cried Isolde to her team as they ran, “Cullers’ daughter is in the camp. Get her to safety and I’ll double your wages for the month!”
The sound of fighting grew louder as they appraoched and, as Isolde and her mercenaries charged over the ridged, they found themselves on the edge of a fierce skirmish.
“The girl!” Isolde cried again, before ploughing into the crowd. All about her the Brotherhood’s beleaguered guards clashed with bone soldiers and pale-faced elves, their blades clanging and arrows flying through the air.
Among the Dark Lord’s elven troops, one warrior stood almost a foot taller than his fellows. A gigantic, muscle-bound figure, he towered over Isolde as he began to march purposefully in her direction. She drew an arrow from her quiver and fired it straight at him. It lodged in his thick, leather armour and he snapped the shaft off as he marched on without slowing. A large, gauntleted hand pushed Isolde to one side.
“Leave that one to me, chosen one,” said Scher, who was easily equal in height to the imposing elf, “Find the girl.”
Isolde thanked him with a nod, scanning the camp for any sign of Teagan. Her tent was still standing, at least. Isolde could see it over the heads of the fighting men. She cast her eyes back to see Shcer cutting a path through the comparatively puny bone soldiers towards his towering foe. As he got within an arm’s length, the mighty elf raised his sword to strike, but Shcer was fast - faster than Isolde had thought possible for such a big man. He dodged deftly to the left of the elf’s strike and brought the hilt of his huge sword down hard on his enemy’s head. The elf staggered backwards and Shcer seized the advantage, spinning round to bring the his sword in a great arc that sliced into the elf’s neck and sent his head spinning off over the crowd. The elf’s body fell to its knees and collapsed as Shcer swung again and again, scattering the Dark Lord’s skeletal footsoldiers like weeds before a scythe. Isolde saw her chance and doubled back to use the path Shcer had cut through the enemy to reach Teagan’s tent. She threw back the canvass and cried the girl’s name, but the the tent was empty. Broken furniture was scattered about and the girl’s precious book of tales lay torn to pieces on the floor. Isolde’s heart sunk. Teagan was gone… But perhaps not far! Isolde ran back to the door of the tent and threw drew the flap back. The hideous grinning face of a bone soldier stared back at her. His dagger was drawn and he snapped his jaw together as if cackling as he raised up his bony arm to strike at Isolde. She fumbled for her own blade, but too slowly. The soldier lunged at her. Then, suddenly, he was yanked to one side and hurled to the ground; caught on the staff of Carason’s rod. The priest pinned the bone soldier to the ground and brought his heavy boot down hard on the creature’s neck, severing his head from his body. Isolde’s heart was thumping. Her knees wobbled as she contemplated how close to death she had come.
“Thank you,” was all she managed to say to Carason.
“You are welcome,” came the priest’s dry, mumbled response.
Isolde surveyed the field of battle. The mercenaries had arrived just in time to relieve the embattled guards, it seemed. With their champion beaten, the elves had retreated, leaving only the enchanted bone soldiers to carry out their suicidal attack. Now, the camp was quiet again but for the sound of bones crunching under the guards’ feet and the low cries of the wounded. They had arrived Just in time to sway the battle… but too late for Teagan.
Isolde didn’t know what to do. She had no special power that would allow her to feel a path to a lost girl. She didn’t know where to begin looking for the child. And here came Cullers, back from his search to the east of the camp, running across the burned ground, his eyes wild with fear and fury, his voice raised in a desperate call as he sprinted towards the empty tent where Isolde stood, shaking.
“Teagan! My child! Teagan!
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