Chapter Twelve

Mufaun stared at the scene of destruction before him. The Dungheap was in ruins, the stronghold dug into the mountain was no more than a shadow of what it once might have been. It was all too apparent the attacking troll army had had only one goal in mind, find the Seer and destroy everything else.

“Sergeant Rolen, you and two others are with me. Captain Steed, man the perimeter and track the monsters responsible for this. I want to know where they’re headed, how fast they’re moving, and how many prisoners they may have taken, and I want to be ready to move before I get back.”

“Yes, Lieutenant.” Both men responded at the same time and moved without further question. The time for questions was at an end.

Rolen was quick to return with two soldiers: one a scout, the other a man-at-arms. Steed had the battalion moving quickly to positions throughout the forest area surrounding the stronghold while he prepped what was left of his elite squad of scouts.

With Rolen at his side, Mufaun went to where the Battalion medic was treating the injured Chameleon. He knelt at her side. Her face was pale, sickly, bloodless. He glanced at the medic.

“Her injuries are internal and fairly minor as far as I can tell. Her jaw was dislocated, but I was able to reset it. The pain that must have caused I couldn’t imagine but she didn’t even stir. I’ve tried everything I know to wake her, sir.”

Mufaun looked the woman over another time. “Keep at it, Malone. Do what you can.”

“Of course, Lieutenant.”

As Mufaun turned to walked away, the Chameleon’s hand shot out and latched onto his ankle. He grabbed the thin wrist of the woman, but as he did so, his mind was suddenly assaulted with a barrage of images, caves, tunnels, rooms, stairways, and then seven faces. Three of the faces were men, the other three of women. At the center of the small group of warriors was a boy of no more than eight years. All around this boy, there was fear, the warriors surrounding him splattered with the blood of the enemy as well as their friends and comrades. But this boy, his eyes, vibrant, blue like Anduvian violets of the Southern prairie country. There was hope in these eyes.

“Find the boy. He is your only hope.”

The Chameleon’s words broke Mufaun from his trance and left him stunned, staring at the woman as she died before him. He still held the woman’s wrist in his hand, and a tingling there brought his eyes to gaze on blue tattoo that spread across his skin on the back of his hand and wrist. Mufaun recognized the intricately woven pattern even before it finished marking him. It was the Bastion Weave, a tattoo worn only by the Temple Knights of that ancient brotherhood of warriors Mufaun had idolized from boyhood. He touched the medallion hanging around his neck.

“What boy?” The words slipped from his mouth as he tightened his grip on the dead woman’s wrist, as if trying to coax her spirit back into her body long enough to get the answer.

There was no answer. Not now. But the images he’d seen, the boy and his guard were somewhere in the stronghold, trapped, and he had to find them.

Mufaun released his hold on the woman and bolted for the Dugheap’s only entrance. Rolen was at his heels, as were the two men going with them into the stronghold. Whatever lie ahead in the dark tunnels beyond the entrance they would face alone.