Falan stuffed another fur into the saddle bag he had found beside the dead war horse. It had been stripped of its meat. He frowned when he saw the lady mage rushing out of the keep, Leisa at her heels. What was wrong?

“Gather the others!” The mage commanded.

By the time Falan turned the others were already striding out from where they had been searching for supplies.

Brassen snorted. “What is it?”

Serin gripped his sword as Gorkis looked to the skies, spear in hand, as if expecting winged monsters to descend on them any moment. The guardsmen shifted uneasily, most of them wielding farming tools as weapons they had found in the village.

Falan looked to the mage for an answer. “Riders!” she said. “Near fifty of them. They carry the banner of house Birtran.”

Brassen croaked, uttering an oath. No one else said a word as they eyed each other.

Fifty? Falan thought. Not good odds.

They could not hold the keep. That left them only one option. He mounted one of the stocky work horses they had brought into the keep. It had a saddle for proper riding now. Falan had lifted it from the dead stallion earlier.

“We make for the Blackwood!”

Leisa’s eyes widened. Sorela frowned up at him suspiciously. She was probably wondering if he would abandon them now that they were in real danger.

“Are you seriously suggesting—“ Serin began, but Falan cut him off.

“Yes! If we are caught, we get the rope—all of us. We have no choice but to make for the Blackwood.”

Gorkis cocked his head. “We might as well let the Nelothans have us. It is death to enter the—“

“We would still stand a chance,” Falan said, fervently. “It is our only chance.”

It was the forest or the noose.

“Very well, Serafe” the mage said. “As you say. We make for the Blackwood.”

“Wait,” Jasen said, stunned. “We’re—“

“No time to ask questions, stable boy,” Serin barked. “Move!”

Brassen seemed about to balk.

Gorkis nodded agreement.

Leisa swallowed hard and the mage made for the west wall toward the other sally gate. “This way.”

There was no place to hide. The grounds to the west of the village were as barren as any plowed field, apart from newly sprouted Blackwood saplings in the withering.

Falan glanced over his shoulder, several of Birtran’s cavalrymen jumping their horses over the blackened trench. “They have spotted us!” he bellowed. “Run!”

He lingered behind, making himself the target of their arrows instead of the others. Abruptly his animal stopped, whinnied and reared. Falan jumped to escape being crushed under his mount’s weight. He scrambled to his feet, making for the forest. He leapt over a guardsman with an arrow in his back.

Gorkis faced him, hefted his spear. “Down, Serafe!”

Falan jumped, turning in the air to land on his back to face whatever enemy was upon him, but when he caught sight of his attacker the cavalryman rolled off his horse, dead with Gorkis’ spear in his chest.

The golden-haired warrior sprinted past Falan, removed his spear from the dead soldier’s middle. The two men sprinted for cover of the forest, barely making it into the Blackwood as shafts skidded into dirt or thunked into trees.

Lord Birtran’s men did not pursue them farther. They would have been mad to, just like they were.

Panting, Falan blinked in the new darkness as he and Gorkis went deeper to catch the others. Glancing at his hand, he could barely make out his fingers. Thankfully small streamers of light dotted the forest floor, or else he and Gorkis would have stumbled their way to the others.

This place is truly cursed to let in so little light.

“This place...it feels evil,” Gorkis said, warily eyeing the dark canopy overhead, spear ready.

Falan peered deeper into the forest where the trees seemed to grow more thickly, ending in pitch blackness.

Everyone made it into the forest, save one of the men-are-arms. “Is everyone okay?”

Murmured responses came as the group glanced about warily. “I don’t like this,” Leisa said.

Could her eyes have gotten any larger? Falan knew how she felt, knowing the stories, of the crusades that had entered and never returned. Everyone knew the stories. He touched Leisa’s shoulder. “Do not worry. These are only the outskirts of the forest. We are safe here as long as we keep quiet and do not travel any further into the wood.” He did not believe it himself.

Serin eyed him dubiously and Jasen looked as though he were about to bolt, preferring one of Lord Birtran’s gibbets.

“Keep quiet,” Lady Casen said. “We wait here until Lord Birtran and his men leave.”

Leisa sidled closer to her teacher. “And then?”

“And then we make our way back to Nalandor. To Castle—“

An echoing voice cut through the trees. “Lady Mage!”

“The damn man is going to get us killed,” Brassen growled.

Leisa visibly shivered. “It’s Lord Birtran...”

“After you escaped, my force was routed and destroyed by those bloody Soles,” Birtran went on bitterly. “I cannot return to Lord Nightkar like this...not without a consolation prize.” He laughed.

Was the man drunk?

“I know you can hear me!”

Leisa jumped. The mage put a comforting arm around the girl.

“My men and I will stay here as long as need be. I will not return without you as my prisoner. If you come out now, I will spare your friends—you have my word.” He hardly sounded sincere. “I will make camp, and you will come to me, Lady Casen, or you will die in there.” He laughed again, but this time it was more of a drunken cackle. “Do not believe that you can escape. My men will be patrolling the borders of the forest. Make a choice! Quickly.”

They looked at one another.

“It’s a trap,” Serin said. “Once he has you, he’ll kill us all.”

“Then what do we do?” Jasen asked.

“We wait,” Falan said, glancing into the darkness. “We wait and hope nothing within this cursed place notices we’re here.”