Free The Free Kingdoms (Book 2) by Michael Wallace Page B

horse and roused the poor beast, ready to ride again. He’d hoped to reach the western edge of Estmor by daybreak, but ten foot water reeds still choked the edges of the Way and the thick smell of water and rotting vegetation still filled the air. At last the road began to climb out of the lowlands and the fog cleared. He crested a hill.
    Whelan’s first full view of the Free Kingdoms took his breath away. The bloom of summer swathed the land in green while the sky stretched blue and clear as far as he could see to the west. Farmhouses sprinkled the land, separated by stone fences, while sheep grazed on hillsides. He’d reached Meadow Down.
    Several men rode hard from the west on war horses. They rode three abreast on the road with sharp, glittering armor and a white, unadorned banner. Each man had a shield painted with an outstretched hand that dripped blood.
    Knights Temperate. Whelan rode to meet them, heart pounding. He didn’t recognize any of the men. They were young knights, some only a year or two older than Whelan had been when he joined the Brotherhood.
    “You there!” the lead man shouted.
    Whelan pulled his horse to a stop. Its tongue rolled from its mouth and it drooped its head. He rubbed its neck in gratitude. He had ridden the poor beast hard and it had borne up admirably.
    “Yes, good knight?” Whelan asked.
    “Who are you and what business have you in Eriscoba?”
    Whelan lifted his hand, palm facing outward. “I am a brother and knight. I ride with news of the enemy’s forces in the mountains. Will you come with me?”
    The man rode forward and took Whelan’s outstretched hand. “Welcome back, friend. I am Hob. These are my men.”
    Whelan recognized the man now. Hob was a friend of Ethan’s, and had ridden with Whelan’s brother against brigands troubling the Old Road. It was no wonder Hob didn’t recognize him. The Balsalomian sun had darkened his skin and he had shaved his beard when the Brotherhood banished him from the Citadel.
    “The Way isn’t safe to ride, Hob, not with the dark wizard marching. Where are you riding?” Whelan asked him.
    “We ride to Estmor, but perhaps your news is more important. Come with us to Sleptstock where we can get you a fresh mount. What is your name, friend.”
    Whelan hesitated.
    Kill them, Malik’s voice whispered. You can take them all. They are young and foolish and have no idea of your strength or of your sword. You can kill their captain before he even draws his sword.  
    No, Memnet said, pushing Malik’s voice back where it belonged. You are not their enemy, Whelan. Prove your worth to them and they will follow you again.  
    Hah! The wizard’s advice made Whelan want to laugh. Prove his worth to them? What nonsense was that? And if he fought as Malik urged, what hope did he have against these men, heavily armored and riding fresh mounts? No, he would not follow the pasha’s advice either. Indeed, he made it a point to never follow the pasha’s advice.
    “My name is Whelan. I’ve come to beg my brother’s forgiveness and pledge my sword in his defense.”
    Hob let out a hiss of air. Two of the men shouted and drew their swords, while the others looked to each other in amazement. Whelan made no move to defend himself, although his hand itched to reach for Soultrup. He felt the whispers of souls waking in the depths of the sword.
    “It is you,” Hob said at last. He shook his head. “But you swore never to return.”
    “I have sworn also to defend the Citadel. And I am your captain. I plan to lead you into battle.”
    “We have a new captain now,” one man growled. He drew his sword to join the other two. Hob and the others put their hands on the hilts of their swords, ready to draw them as well should Whelan move. But he had no intention of fighting.
    “Where is this captain? I would expect Roderick to have an army to crush the enemy when he puts his first foot in Eriscoba. Indeed, to drive the dark wizard back to Veyre and