“Guntard you bastard, why haven’t we caught them yet?” said Dolwillen. “You promised me we would catch them. That was several days ago.” Beceorfan rubbed against his leg as he rode.

So irritating.

“Yes, your Grace,” said Guntard.

“And.”

“I believe the delay is due to our relative speeds. Being savages, they do not require an elaborate camp every evening. Your Grace.”

“That would explain it. Very well, Guntard. How is the Heoruwearg?”

Such a thrilling creature.

Its goopy chunks and variegated splinters had shuffled into slabs of flesh, quivering organs, and dense bones like bundles of maggots. He’d watched it for hours and would have observed it all night had Guntard not suggested it would be ill-advised to be there when the creature woke up.

“It follows them. I suspect they have it’s heartstone.”

“I want it back.”

I need to think of a proper name for the Heoruwearg. Gristbitung? Tórendan?

“Of course, your Grace.”

“The mutant woman. I want her killed.”

“She would make an excellent soldier.”

“She’s wrong. Not natural. Completely unlike Gristbitung. We can’t have things like her running around.”

Guntard blinked, “Yes, your Grace.”

“Where are they headed?”

“East. Once they hit the Werodflód, they may try to escape on the river, either to Burnehálig, where it would be difficult for us to follow them among the marshes, let alone deal with the political issues of chasing fugitives in another country, or South to Werodmúða and out to sea. Whichever way they go, if we don’t catch them before they reach the river, we’ll never recover the Heoruwearg’s heartstone.”

A country of mud dwellers or a city state pretending to be a commonwealth? Why would anyone go to either place? Guntard is an idiot. They are after my Feorhhord Gimcynn, the beautiful gems that kept my blackouts at bay.

Pain swept in behind his moment of doubt. It started as a tiny swirl of darkness, like a drop of ink in a bowl of water, and spread in a swirl from the upper left of his vision. As it spun and wriggled, colour bled from his sight, consumed by the black, parasitic, worm-like whorl. In less than a minute, his entire vision became a drab, uniform grey.

His head ached and pulsed. Dolwillen noticed his sleeve’s lace was uneven. He straightened it. With order came a moment of colour and a second’s lessening of the shocking pain. He smoothed the creases from his clothes, re-folded his dark green handkerchief, and pushed all of his horse’s mane to one side.

That’s better.

He looked up. Millions of randomly spaced grass blades taunted him, daring him to rearrange the world and return it to perfect order.

Grass, dust, trees, insects; they mock me.

Dolwillen dropped from his horse and ran through the grass, hands outstretched, every little flick of his fingers restoring colour like a wide paintbrush on a wall. He ran. He panted. He tripped. He cried.

“Your Grace?” said Guntard.

“Fix that disgusting single nose hair. Fix it. Fix it!”

Guntard rubbed his nose, found the hair, and yanked it out. His face returned to an unhealthy cream.

“Your armour, I see three spots of rust on the twenty third scale up and nine across. Fix it!”

Guntard rubbed the scale with his thumb, the scale rippled and the rust faded.

Dolwillen sniffed. He looked at the plains again.

They are all wrong and I don’t even know why.

Dolwillen reached under his armour and held the heartstone. He felt the power reach out and squash his anxiety. He breathed a sigh of relief and lay down.

A shadow fell across him, “Don’t stand over me.”

Guntard sat.

Horses snorted, flies buzzed, and men muttered.

“They’re going to take the Feorhhord Gimcynn. We ride till we drop,” said Dolwillen. “Don’t let them take it. They must never have it. It’s mine.”

*

Elewýs ran backwards for a moment. Riders, twenty miles off. The dust made it difficult to count them.

A hundred? Two hundred? The exact number doesn’t matter. If they catch us, we will die. Should I be leading these men and women to my home? The Cwylla will be restrained, and I will be stuck. Again. Yet I agreed, with no hesitation, to help the people that helped me. The people who gave me a chance to see the world before I am imprisoned within a world of my own.

The people who enabled me to see my parents once more - a mixed blessing.

She sniffed and stuck out her tongue. It tingled. A little electrifying buzz that let her know magic was in the air, that she was safe, and coming closer to the Wúduwésten.

Elewýs took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, hoping to calm down. She focused on the shadow of a small rock, the gentle sway of the long grass, and the ghosts of clouds swimming across the earth. Her tension eased.

A flicker of movement caught her attention.

What’s that squiggle? It’s like I’ve rubbed my eyes so hard I see spots, but when I focus, the marks move away.

A vibrant, shimmering thread of yellow magic, fluttered atop a healthy looking flower, home to a tiny wisp, bounced between its petals. She followed the thread to the sky where it joined a torrent of magic streaming through the heavens.

Elewýs traced its passage north-west and walked towards it, knowing it would lead her home. The troop continued to trail her.

She caught a glimpse of the Werodflód.

“We should move a little faster,” said Elewýs. “The river is close, though I’ve no idea how wide and fast it is.”

“It won’t be a problem,” said Leth. He sounded pleased with himself.

“I bloody well hope so,” said Cempa. “That creature is practically breathing down our necks.”

“The Duke or the Gréatian?” said Weard.

“Does it matter?” said Tadhgán. “Both of them are rabid.”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“Maybe it only wants a scratch,” said Weard.

“I doubt it,” said Péton.

The Gréatian padded along, little more than a mile away. The black cord of braided magic was more prominent than before. It hung from Leth’s left saddlebag and wove through the grass back to the Gréatian’s chest. The cord looked heavy, as if it should clank and clatter, yet it passed through everything without a sound.

The cord pulsed ever so slightly as power passed between the two stones. The effect was both mesmerising and nauseating.

Weard was a hundred yards to Elewýs’s right. He kept glancing at the bouncing sack at Leth’s side. Every time he looked, a little shudder passed across his face.

Perhaps he could see the cord too.

A light rumble echoed from far away. Elewýs shivered, “The riders have spotted us. I doubt they can keep their pace for more than half an hour, but it might be enough to catch us if we don’t run too.”

Everyone looked tired.

I should set an example.

Elewýs broke into a run. The horses, who’d followed her for so long, ran too. She wasn’t quite sprinting, but it was fast enough to drive the horses into a gallop.

They were bred for distance, not speed, yet she found herself smiling at the absurdity of it. Elewýs had run with the horses once before, but she’d been too scared to enjoy it the first time round. She savoured the feeling of her stretching legs, the deep, sure breaths she pulled inwards, and the rush of air past her face.

After a few minutes, she couldn’t take it anymore. The temptation was too great. She sprinted, and the horses fell behind, bit by bit.

I want to drop my gear and see how fast I can really run, but that would be foolish.

A shout and her increasingly ragged breath slowed her back to a more sustainable pace.

Milde rode up beside her and smiled.

Elewýs smiled back.

They reached the river. Elewýs didn’t wait, she dropped her pack and waded into the cool waters. It was difficult to catch her breath and drink at the same time, but somehow she managed it. She leaned over and rested her hands on her knees.

“How deep is it?” called Cempa.

“Give me a moment.” She stretched, then waded deeper. The river was wide, maybe eighty yards across. Ten yards in and she was up to her neck. The sheer weight of the water made it difficult to stand. They must have come much further south than she’d thought.

“Too deep and fast to swim,” said Elewýs.

“Time to unveil your master plan, Leth,” said Cempa.

“And whatever it is you’re planning, please do it fast,” said Tadhgán. “Their dust cloud is huge.”

“You need to get out of the water,” said Leth. “Maybe stand back a bit too.”

Elewýs pushed herself back to the bank. She really didn’t want to leave the water just yet.

“What are you scheming?” said Weard.

“Do you remember the accident with the milestone in the forest?”

Cempa, Milde and Clæfre rushed forward and dragged the thirsty horses from the river bank.

“I feel like I missed out on something,” said Weard.

“Not really,” said Leth. “This will be much bigger.”

“He froze my cooking fire,” said Péton, “flames and all.”

Weard whistled.

Leth sat cross-legged by the river and closed his eyes. He removed his gloves and ran his hand over his staff. After a couple of minutes Elewýs noticed he was repeating a complex pattern over and over again. He stopped, replaced his gloves and placed the top end of his staff in the water. Leth repeated the pattern, only this time the symbols he pressed glowed white. Elewýs smelled hot leather.

Leth angled the base of his staff at the sky. Droplets of colour rose from the ground and fell from the sky until he was surrounded by a thick, silent storm of suspended rain. Magic pooled and twisted into thick strands, then drifted to the staff’s base.

Little fissures and fingers of ice grew through the water like roots, meshing into a mat of solid ice, two meters across. Either side of the ice, the water boiled, filling the air with steam. Further splinters of ice tried to push into the bubbling water, but withered under the intense heat. Cooked fish bumped against the ice sheet.

Leth stood and the water stopped boiling, “We should cross quickly. I don’t know how long it will last.”

“Looks like you have your magic touch back,” said Cempa.

Leth gave a small smile, “It’s a start.”

They started leading the horses across the water, enticing them with the final handful of carrots.

“Milde!” said Cempa.

“What?”

“Leave the fish alone.”

“Seriously?” said Milde, nibbling on a fragrant trout.

“Move your arse, unless you’d rather be monster jerky,” said Cempa.

Milde turned and saw the Heoruwearg sprinting for them. She dropped the fish and pulled her horse forward with both hands.

Half way across, the Gréatian howled, a mangled warble of terrible magnitude that shook Elewýs down to her bones. The troop clattered across the cracking ice.

Elewýs reached the other bank.

The Gréatian placed a paw on the ice. It went right through with a splash. The creature yelped and jumped back, then repeatedly patted the water, growling.

“Do you think the river will stop it?” said Leth.

“Seems too good to be true,” said Elewýs.

The Heoruwearg sat on the bank and whined.

“That was way too close,” said Cempa.

“What’s the chance Mánfeld has his Drýmann with him?” said Péton.

The riders were close enough for Elewýs to see what they were wearing. Forty odd men in full plate and a host of other soldiers, around one-hundred, perhaps one-hundred and twenty in cloth and mail, with twice as many spare horses. Light shimmered around one of the riders.

“He’s there,” said Elewýs. She noticed a similar chain between the Drýmann and the vile Duke.

“Then we shouldn’t hang about,” said Tadhgán.

The Gréatian submerged its front paw into the river.

Cempa remounted his horse, “Let’s go”.

“Wait,” said Leth. “I have one more thing I want to try.”

“Now?” said Tadhgán.

“Yes, I mean now,” said Leth. He reached for the Feorhhord Gimcynn.

Cempa put a hand on his shoulder, “Is that really a good idea?”

Leth frowned. His lips drew into a tight line, “Five minutes, Cempa.”

Cempa nodded.

Leth relaxed. He unwrapped the encased heart. He struggled to hold it every time it pulsed.

“Would this go quicker if I hold it for you?” said Elewýs.

“Please,” said Leth. He held out the stone.

Elewýs crouched and took it. She became conscious of every little thing. The water dripping down her neck, the sharp engravings beneath her fingertips, and even the pebble under her foot.

Her body quivered with every beat of the Gréatian’s heart.

The Gréatian stopped and stared at her.

“Can we get this over with?” said Elewýs.

Leth tapped the heartstone’s symbols, leaving a trail of red sparks in his wake. The heart’s tempo accelerated.

A growl echoed across the water.

A nimbus of crackling energy materialized around stone. Elewýs’s hands tingled.

Black tendrils crept into Leth’s hands.

“You should stop there,” said Weard. “You don’t want to mess with that.”

“How do you know what I’m trying to do?”

Weard grit his teeth.

Leth shrugged and continued to tap symbols.

The Gréatian moaned.

Black lightning arced from the heartstone. Elewýs nearly dropped it.

Weard whispered in Elewýs’s ear, “If it’s about to reach your chest, let go.”

He was so quiet she was sure only she’d heard him. Elewýs nodded. She could live with annoying Leth a little.

Black lightning swept along the braided magic, linking the two hearts. The stone vibrated so hard her arms shook.

The Gréatian screeched. The stones on the riverbed ground together as the Gréatian scrabbled backwards.

“You’re hurting it.” said Elewýs.

“I am,” said Leth.

“Are you trying to piss it off?” said Cempa. He sounded as incredulous as she felt.

“I’m hoping it’ll run away.”

“So am I,” said Weard. “It was scary before you pissed it off.”

The creature lay down on the bank, panting.

“Shock it again,” said Tadhgán.

Leth grimaced, “I think having it not follow us for a while is the best we can hope for. Cempa is correct. If I make it too angry it could ignore the pain and attack us.”

Cempa crossed his arms, “Damn right.”

Elewýs glanced down at her hands, black ichor dripped from her fingertips, killing the grass beneath. She looked at Leth’s fingers as he put the stone away. They were worse than hers. It didn’t seem to bother him.

Perhaps he can’t see it.

They ran from the shattered ice and crying Gréatian.