Dark circles had appeared around the lady mage’s eyes as though she had not slept in days. Using those powers had obviously sapped her strength. But even so, the mage was persistent, as she said, “We must move on. Those creatures will not attack us again.”

Despite agreeing with her, Falan felt that he wanted to argue the point.

“How do you know?” Brassen growled. “They might just bring back twice those numbers for all yer witchcraft can tell!”

Jasen regarded the fur-cloaked man, then turned to Sorela with a questioning look.

The man is right, Falan thought. Even if they were lucky, they still had to rescue Lord Jalen’s corpse from creatures much worse. Was it worth it? They might still survive if they turned back now. Lord Birtran would probably be gone. Likely, he thought they were dead. It had been two days without a sound. Surely he would think they were dead—taken off in the night by some Fellbeast.

He searched above, finding no sign of those creatures they had fought, as he had expected. But could they regroup for another attack? Falan doubted the lady mage would be able to fend off another attack. Without her help, they would have been overrun. He had seen plenty of war. But remembering the two men-at-arms still made Falan’s stomach turn. Now they kept their weapons at the ready at all times.

The lady mage seemed unworried, doggedly carrying on toward her goal, shoulders slumped. She leaned against Leisa for support. The younger woman was probably not much help. She was too small.

Perhaps the lady mage was too exhausted to care.

The wildlife of this accused place seemed to have returned, chirping or croaking, or making whatever noises they made. It took some of the edge off—for Falan anyway.

After a few more hours of travel, the mage turned to regard the others. Her chest heaved, but she was not puffing for air. “Stop. I must—we must rest and gather our strength.”

They made camp between three gnarled Blackwoods, giving them some enclosure against whatever else was out there.

Falan spread his fur on the cool ground and sat with his legs crossed and his sword balanced atop his thighs. “What do you think?” he asked Serin in a low whisper.

The other man shook his head. “We should have never bothered with this, Falan.”

“No, I mean, what do you think we should do?”

Serin gave him a quizzical look. “We have agreed to help the mage, so we will help the mage. Our word is our honor.”

It was, but was it worth dying for? They were being paid coin—as mercenaries. They had sworn no oaths of loyalty to this venture. One time Falan would have wholeheartedly agreed, but now... now he was not certain. He had broken an oath once before—but an agreement was an agreement—to break a contract seemed far easier than an oath.

Falan regarded Leisa. She tried to hide her fear, but it was plain on her face. She was probably repeating some catechism taught to her by the mage over and over in her head. Maybe it was the only thing keeping her from breaking down. The girl was terrified and the stable boy wasn’t doing much better.

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Brassen bolted upright. “What are we doing here? We should go back while we still can.”

Sorela frowned. “You know what we are about, Master Brassen.”

Brassen’s face reddened. “He’s dead!” Some of the men-at-arms nodded in agreement. “There’s no reason to go on.”

Their commander, along with five sixths of their company dead, it was a wonder the guardsmen did not side with Brassen in revolt then and there.

It’s her keeping them in line, Falan thought.

Hope showed on the scared stable boy’s face. He wanted out of the Blackwood as much as anyone else, maybe more. The lady mage seemed to be the only one truly committed. If it could be called that. It was more like dogged determinism. “We go on!” she said, her lips tightening. “You want your gold, do you not?” She eyed Brassen, a look of anger and disgust on her face. She turned to Falan with the same look.

He did not believe she could read minds, but she was looking at him as if she knew.

Did she know?

Lord Jalen was dead. More than two weeks had passed since his disappearance. How could he possibly still be alive? If he was in the Blackwood, he was a corpse!

If he was still alive, it was more likely the Soles were holding him hostage.

The lady mage thought it her duty to explore every possibility before returning to announce her failure, it seemed. Even then hope would not be lost to her, not if the Soles were holding the boy, but to know that would take weeks to find out, possibly longer.

If the boy was taken by some Fellbeast, he was surely dead. Was his corpse worth their lives just so the lady mage could offer closure to his parents?

He stabbed at the dark dirt with his dagger. It was so black it seemed more like the soil found at the base of a volcano. There were no volcanos even close to the Blackwood.

The forest really was cursed!

“I agree with Brassen,” Falan said, feeling a pang of guilt as he uttered the words. To be craven was not the way of a Serafe. But was it really craven to save one’s own life?

The lady mage turned to regard him, eyes turning to slits. “I thought I could trust you, Falan.”

Falan wanted to get up and take a step back. The woman’s bruised eyes and disheveled hair, accompanied with her fierce gaze made her look well disturbed. “My Lady, this quest... the boy is dead, and I will not die for a corpse. Or let you kill your company.”

The mage’s back straightened. “How do you know he is dead, Serafe? Did you see his body and forget to mention it?”

Was she near to tears, or did she want to pull her hair out? Either way, the mage’s reaction made Falan feel even worse. He kept a cool tone, though. “I do not care about the gold. I am leaving.” He turned to the man covered in furs. “Are you coming Brassen?”

“Aye.” He smiled, then nodded. “Aye, that I am!”

“Gorkis?”

Gorkis crossed his thick arms, shook his head. “It is not my way.”

Now he felt like a traitor. A craven one, he thought. Better to live with shame than to die an honorable man. The mage was not his queen. “Serin, are you coming?”

Serin was intent on his boots for a moment, his fists on his hips. He looked at Falan, shook his head. “No. I cannot.”

Both men knew what it meant to stay or leave—there was nothing else to say. Falan turned to the rest of the group, keeping eye contact away from Sorela. “Does anyone else want to come with us? If so, now is the time.” His eyes went to Leisa and the stable boy in turns. He would not ask them directly, though he gave them the chance to speak up if that was what they wanted. Surprisingly, Leisa said nothing. He thought she would have been one of the first to speak. The girl looked at her feet when Falan’s eyes came into contact with hers.

Without an answer, he began to pack his fur as Brassen shouldered his own pack. Jasen stood with a few of the men-at-arms. They quickly made to look as though they only wanted to stretch their legs when the mage’s fiery eyes landed on them.

Falan and Brassen stepped out from the cover the Blackwoods when Sorela turned to them. “The Blackwood is no place for craven men,” she hissed. Then a gust of wind buffeted them. “BE GONE!”

Falan glanced over his shoulder, feeling a solemn traitor. “May your swords move swiftly if battle finds you.” It was a Nelothan sentiment, but it felt right. Falan really did wish them the best of luck, even though they were surely going to die.

If Jalen truly was in this cursed wood, then a suicidal quest would be an honorable venture. But I won’t throw my life away on a whim.