HEIR | The Cursed Monarchy | Book 1

Rise: Part II, Chapter 6

By mid-morning, a thick fog filled the air of Bráithre Delve's gray range. Traveling on horseback, Daire and Cecily watched as mountains rose with the sun across the barren plains. With a predator's instinct, Daire's black wolf, Cerin, followed close behind, speeding down a narrow path beside them. While their horse's hooves struck the ground in a steady beat, Cerin ran, side by side, his own feet making no sound. The large, black beast could have easily outrun them, but he deliberately chose not to.

Nothing disturbed the sea of flat, dry soil, except for the treacherous peaks that towered defiantly above the clouds, their tips raised against the rising sun. Slowly, as if afraid of the great blades of rock, the sun retreated high in the sky, bathing the landscape in a warming red light. Yet the most outstanding feature of the realm was the wind. It rose in the morning just after daybreak, building from a barely audible whisper to a deafening roar. They couldn't open their eyes or hear one another above the ruffling, roaring and rattling in their ears for most of the day.

They forged ahead despite the deafening howl, only occasionally peering out from behind their high leather collars to see if their destination was close by.

The solitary symbol of Imrath grew tired of chewing the dust that hovered in the air, and unhooked a leather pouch from her belt, pouring cool water down her parched throat. A few drops spilled out of the corners of her mouth, flowing down her black braid which hung from her head and rested on her chest like a delicate cord. A bitter northerly wind whistled around the mountaintops, gusting through the weaving of her hair.

"Is it always this cold?" Cecily asked, glancing at Daire over her shoulder.

"You'll grow accustomed to it." The prince shook the dust from his hair and grinned. "Dare I say you might like it after a while?"

Miles ahead, along the base of a distant mountain, stood two vast slabs of solid rock to stem the tide of those foolish enough to attempt an invasion on Bráithre Delve. For some, the sight of the imposing gateway was not enough of a deterrent; decaying bodies and twisted scraps of armor were all that remained of them.

"Where are the dwarves?" she queried, looking away from the edifice of remains.

"Below. It is always night in the caves. Be wary of this, Raven. The young and inexperienced are always the first to fall to the darkness." As his hold tightened around her waist, Daire's eyes stole a quick glance at the weapon at her side.

Aware of his concern, Cecily placed a steady hand on the hilt of her sword, and when she pulled, the steel rang sweetly against its sheath. A ray of sunshine cast a beam of light upon the blade, illuminating polished inscriptions. Though he was personally untrained in the ancient art of rune casting, Daire made certain that the weapon would provide protection, a surefire aim, and lengthy life to its holder. She looked it over for a moment, feeling confident, and then slid it back into its casing.

Behind her, Daire turned his eyes to the road ahead, sweeping his gaze over the plains. "We are still half a day's journey to the passageway."

Unable to wrest her eyes from the distant fog, Cecily asked, "What's out there?"

"The Moorland. A place of bloodshed and death," Daire said simply, his eyes never diverting from the path ahead. "Rumor has reached me that the fog of the Moorland bewitches and infects the mind."

"A rumor?" Cecily leaned back onto his chest, cupping her hand over her brow to shade her eyes from the sun. "Trying to scare me again?" she asked; her tone was flat, almost dull.

"Perhaps one day, I just might." Startled, she looked up and found Daire smiling wickedly. "In times gone by, kings dispatched armies in all directions of the region. No one truly knew what lay there," he revealed in an eerie tone. "The expeditions were rarely fruitful and the few who did return brought Veils in their wake."