Hungry and cold and still the bloody mage would not use her powers unless it meant saving them from certain death.

She could at least open the portcullis!

Instead we spend the better part of an hour searching for that sally port, she thought, blowing hot air into her hands. It was frustrating. What is the point of becoming a mage if you never use your powers?

Leisa couldn’t wait to get inside, sit next to a crackling fire and eat food brought out by some nice old woman still living in one of the ramshackle houses.

It was a fancy. The whole village seemed deserted. They walked through what must have been the green. The smell of ash carried on the wind. Leisa regarded the abandoned houses. She spotted a local woman watching her before she abruptly closed her window shutter. “My lady,” she said, taking the mage’s arm in her hand, pointing. “There are people still living here.”

“Yes... Lord Nightkar has abandoned them to weather out the winter—and perhaps this war—on their own. So close to the Blackwood, I fear they will probably not survive.”

The cool statement from the mage sent shiver up Leisa’s back. She could have been talking about her laundry.

Gorkis grunted. “In a few more weeks the Withering will be over the walls. These people should leave this place and head south if they want to survive.”

“Falan,” The mage said, “You and the others search for supplies—anything we can use on our journey back.”

“And weapons,” Jasen said. “We need weapons.”

Falan nodded, turned toward the others. “Spread out. You know what to look for.”

“Do you really think we will need more weapons?” Liesa asked the stable boy. He looked at her. She could see the fear in his eyes as he nodded. She shook her head and smiled. “We’ll be okay.”

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To add emphasis, she looked to Sorela, then to the north men.

“Come, child,” Sorela commanded.

Leisa followed her past a second inner portcullis—the gate was smashed from its hinges—into the keep. The ante hall was covered with black soot. She nudged a chunk of charcoal, wondering of the fire had spread through the rest of the structure too.

The lady mage breathed in, then slowly exhaled, making her way to the second level.

Leisa frowned at her surroundings. No fire damage. “How could Lord Jalen simply disappear? Surely some of the townsfolk could tell us what happened?”

“I’m afraid any survivors of the keep were probably taken captive by the Soles before they escaped,” Sorela said, “or perhaps by those winged creatures Lord Birtran spoke of.” The mage continued surveying her surroundings. “There’s no way to know what happened to young Lord Jalen, I fear. At least not at this time. If the Soles do not have him...” She left the rest unsaid. The common townsfolk, what was left of them, probably hadn’t seen anything. When the attack came, they probably hid, huddled under their beds.

Liesa shivered, and not from the cold. She imagined the lady mage bringing Lord and Lady Warfink news of their son’s death. In her mind the lord raged while Lady Warfink sobbed uncontrollably. Leisa hoped she would not be there.

A cold gust blew into her cloak as she turned toward a murder hole. She approached the elongated opening to get a look outside.

The Withering.... She shuttered. Enumerable little saplings with black bark were taking over new land past the trench. They reached out, like hands grasping desperately for something. She’d read about the Withering and the Blackwood, but she’d never seen it with her own eyes. She felt a knot forming in her stomach as she looked at it.

It’s so dangerous. And no one is doing anything about it anymore.

Lord Nightkar was willing to lose territory to the Blackwood just to win this war with the Soles? Why doesn’t he sue for peace? she wondered.

Leisa was pulled from her thoughts when she saw movement on the bend where the road disappeared behind a tall forest of evergreens growing alongside the mountain.

Mist twirled about. It was thick, but not forbidding. Riders came out of it, a double row of armored men with spears and banners.

Her eyes widened and she stepped back. “My lady!” she yelped, pointing.

At least fifty cavalrymen cantered toward the keep. At the head was an important-looking man and what looked like an honor guard.

The banners carried a white hawk’s head on top of crossed spears on black.

The lady mage glanced out the murderhole, then immediately whirled for the stairs, cloak held up above her ankles. “It’s Lord Birtran! Come, child!”