“Oh, nothing,” the woman said. Even in the dim light filtering through the forest’s canopy of broad green leaves, Lan saw the smirk on Kiska’s lips.

“Make any sound to attract their attention and I’ll kill you,” Lan said.

Kiska laughed at him, the laughter drifting through the forest and alerting the man on the closest end of the combat line. The grey-clad soldier spun and motioned to the man next to him.

Lan gripped his sword hilt until his fingers turned white. He shook himself and then started off through the forest at a breakneck clip. The mage hardly cared if Kiska kept up with his pace or not. He wanted to eliminate her with a single sword thrust-and he couldn’t. The fires of the geas burned the brighter within him now as his anger grew. The spell laid upon him always proved more powerful than his own will. Cursing, damning Claybore for doing this to him, damning Kiska and all the grey-clads, he found a rocky knoll poking up out of the gently grassed forest on which to make his stand.

“They come for you, Lan my love,” mocked Kiska.

“Go on, kill me now,” he said. He stood, sword point lowered. Kiska k’Adesina pulled forth her dagger and started to obey. She wanted to kill him; with all her heart and black soul, she would!

The dagger danced about in her trembling hand. She swallowed hard and sank to her knees. “I can’t,” she muttered. “I can’t!”

Lan looked at her and, in that moment, shared the frustration. The spell Claybore had wrought bound them both. Whatever the disembodied mage had in mind, the time was not yet right for the trap to spring. Lan Martak recognized the deadliness of having Kiska beside him and could do little to prevent it. If anything, knowing Claybore’s spell would suddenly erupt into violence and death-and not knowing the exact instant-made the waiting all the more excruciating.

“Defend yourself,” Lan said. “These grey-clads will kill anyone with me.”