Forest Kingdom Trilogy 2 - Blood and Honor

need you, Jordan. We need you to be the Prince in public, so that our people can carry on the search behind the scenes.'
    The four of them stood silently around the fire for a while, each man considering the complications of the situation, and his own part in it. Gawaine roused himself first, and set about preparing a frugal breakfast.
    Argent went to make sure each of the horses had a nosebag. Roderik pulled a folded map from one of his panniers, and busied himself plotting the quickest route back to Castle Midnight. Once again Jordan found himself rather left out of things, and decided to go for a little walk, to see what there was to see.
    Besides, the exercise might warm him up. He blew on his hands and wished, not for the first time, that he hadn't bet his gloves on that last roll of the dice two towns back. He never had been lucky with dice, unless they were his own. He had been given a pair of Viktor's gloves, but they were light, flimsy things meant for show and not for keeping the cold out. Besides, the colour clashed with his outfit.

    The open moor stretched away in all directions, coloured grey and purple by the hard-wearing heather that flourished where little else would. The only disturbance in the even landscape was a smooth oblong mound that rose a good ten feet above the moor, lying not far from the rough trail. Jordan walked slowly through the heather towards it. Despite the patchy heather that covered the mound from crown to foot, he could still tell the shape was too regular for it to be a natural phenomenon. More likely it was a barrow of some kind, a burial mound for some ancient chieftain. When he was a child, Jordan's mother had told him never to go near a barrow, because that was where the faerie kind lived, and if they tempted him through the secret door in the heart of the barrow, he'd never be seen again. When he was a little older, he sat and listened wide-eyed to the old ballad of Silbury Hill, which told of a King in golden armour who lay sleeping under a barrow with his great sword in his hand, waiting to be called forth to do battle with the final evil at the end of time. When he reached a man's age, Jordan decided that all the stories and ballads were nothing more than myths and legends, and barrows were just graves and mounds of earth.
    He still had a fondness for the old stories, and often incorporated them into his act, but he knew there was no truth in them. Or so he'd believed. Until now.
    Approaching the great mound of earth was like knocking on the door of a haunted house. There was
    something about it, a disturbing sense of presence, of something evil waiting and watching . . . Jordan stopped halfway to the mound, and stared at it for a long moment. He shivered suddenly, and pulled his cloak about him. The chill of the early morning air grew sharper, and a gusting wind tousled his hair. The temperature dropped sharply, and Jordan was startled to see his breath suddenly steaming on the air before him. The light began to fade away. Jordan looked up at the sky. Dark clouds were rolling overhead, cutting off the sun. The wind began to blow steadily, carrying a bitter cold that sliced through Jordan like a
    knife, despite his thick cloak. He moved quickly back to join the others, who were chattering agitatedly together.
    'What is it?' demanded Jordan. 'What the hell's happening? The sky was clear ten minutes ago. Storm clouds can't gather that quickly. It's not natural!'
    'Damn right it isn't,' growled Gawaine. He drew his axe, and hefted it lightly. 'Stay close, your highness.
    We're under attack.'
    Jordan looked up at the sky again. The dark clouds stretched across the sky, and thunder rolled menacingly close at hand.
    'Is this what you meant by elemental magic?' he asked Roderik.
    Roderik shook his head quickly, still staring at the darkening sky. 'No, Jordan. You'd need more than air or water magic to build a storm like this. This has got to be High Magic.'
    'All right, it's High Magic. What do we do about it?'
    'I don't know,' said Roderik. 'Give me time to think. Gawaine . . . stand ready with your axe.'
    'His axe?' said Jordan incredulously. 'What's he going to do with that - climb on my shoulders and start carving chunks out of the clouds?'
    'Keep the noise down, your highness,' said Gawaine calmly. 'This isn't just an axe. The High Warlock made it for me a long time ago.'
    He hefted the heavy weapon easily in his hand, and for the first time Jordan noticed a series of