The Ruins of Gorlan: Prologue–Chapter 2

This was all that was left to him now—a jumble of rugged granite cliffs, tumbled boulders and icy mountains. Of sheer gorges and steep narrow passes. Of gravel and rock, with never a tree or a sign of green to break the monotony.

This was all that was left to him now—a jumble of rugged granite cliffs, tumbled boulders and icy mountains. Of sheer gorges and steep narrow passes. Of gravel and rock, with never a tree or a sign of green to break the monotony.

Even though it had been fifteen years since he had been driven back into this forbidding realm that had become his prison, he could still remember the pleasant green glades and thickly forested hills of his former fief.

Morgarath watched them for a few seconds, listening to the guttural, rhythmic chant that accompanied all their movements.

They were stocky, misshapen beings, with features that were halfway human, but with a long, brutish muzzle and fangs like a bear or a large dog.

As a result, they had been totally susceptible to domination by a superior intelligence and willpower.

Now, looking at them, he remembered the brightly dressed knights in glittering armor who used to compete in tourneys at Castle Gorlan, their silk-gowned ladies cheering them on and applauding their skills.

He had planned it all carefully as the old king’s sickness progressed, banking on the indecision and confusion that would follow his death to split the other barons and give Morgarath his opportunity to seize the throne.

Then, in the days of confusion and grief following the king’s death, when the barons traveled to Castle Araluen for the funeral rites, leaving their armies leaderless, he had attacked, overrunning the southeastern quarter of the kingdom in a matter of days, routing the confused, leaderless forces that tried to oppose him.

But then one of those gray-cloaked meddlers known as Rangers led a force of heavy cavalry across a secret ford ten kilometers upstream.

His spies told him the kingdom had grown slack and complacent and his presence here was all but forgotten.

The name Morgarath was a name of legend nowadays, a name mothers used to hush fractious children, threatening that if they did not behave, the black lord Morgarath would come for them.

He was a thin, gangly and studious boy, fascinated by rules and regulations and with a penchant for examining and debating both sides of any question—sometimes at great length.

He was a thin, gangly and studious boy, fascinated by rules and regulations and with a penchant for examining and debating both sides of any question—sometimes at great length.

In spite of himself, a wry smile touched Will’s mouth.

“He ought to be nervous!” Horace scoffed. “After all, which Craftmaster is going to want him as an apprentice?”

Her pretense that she was nervous about the following day, and her tact in refraining from pointing out Horace’s gaffe, showed that she was already a diplomat of some skill.

Her pretense that she was nervous about the following day, and her tact in refraining from pointing out Horace’s gaffe, showed that she was already a diplomat of some skill.

Her pretense that she was nervous about the following day, and her tact in refraining from pointing out Horace’s gaffe, showed that she was already a diplomat of some skill.

Ordinarily, craft apprentices were selected by dint of their parents' occupations or influence with the Craftmasters.

Horace caught his eye now and gave him a smug smile.

Where Horace was tall and muscular, Will was small and wiry.

In the anteroom outside, Will heard the parting sally and felt blood flush to his cheeks.

Alyss’s mother, devastated by her loss, succumbed to a fever some weeks after giving birth.

The torches burnt down to smoldering husks and were replaced at midnight by the change of watch.

Alyss finally elected to lead the way, as Will had guessed she would. The others followed the willowy blonde girl.

Sometimes his secretary’s zeal on these occasions could be a little overwhelming.

The Craftschool heads entered the room in no particular order of precedence.

Tall and broad-shouldered like the Baron, he wore the standard battledress of chain mail shirt under a white surcoat emblazoned with his own crest, a scarlet wolfshead.

He had earned that crest as a young man, fighting the wolfships of the Skandian sea raiders who constantly harried the kingdom’s east coast.

He had keen brown eyes, strong, muscular forearms and heavy wrists.

Baron Arald regarded her abilities highly and she was one of his close confidants and advisers.

Martin nodded several times, consulted a sheaf of notes he held in one hand and marched to confront the line of candidates.

He looked up and actually started with surprise as he met the dark, unfathomable gaze of Halt, the Ranger.

Now he stood behind the Baron's chair and slightly to one side, dressed in his usual brown and gray clothes and wrapped in his long, mottled gray and green Ranger’s cloak.