Free The Name Of The Sword (Book 4) by J.L. Doty Page B

kill only the swordsman, and not the demon.
    There is danger.
    Danger? Rhiannead! Rafaellen! Kenna!
    He wrapped a shadow about him and sat up slowly. There was no hint of light in the eastern sky, so he guessed sunrise must be some hours away. The shadowwraith Soann’Daeth’Daeye, hovered above him, and oddly enough, he saw it clearly, even in the dark. Shaped much like a man, it had no face to speak of, only the poorly defined shapes of head, shoulders, arms, torso and legs.
    Nearby, one of the soldiers snored loudly. Another grunted in his sleep. At the far end of the camp, a lone sentry paced back and forth in front of the tent. But other than that, all remained quiet and still.
    Morgin whispered, “What danger?”
    An old one, Your Majesty. Come, we’ll show you.
    Still wrapped in shadow, Morgin pulled on his boots, gripped his sheathed sword and stood carefully. None of the soldiers sleeping nearby sat up to challenge him, and the sentry near the tent continued pacing back and forth. He quickly counted the sleeping forms on the ground, accounting for Rafaellen and all his soldiers, so the captain hadn’t posted any perimeter guards. No real need to do so in friendly territory.
    He left his blanket behind and stepped carefully between two sleeping forms. He had observed these men through the day. They were experienced soldiers, so even the slightest of sounds might alert them. He used all of his Benesh’ere forest skills to move quietly to the edge of the camp and slip into the forest beyond.
    Dozens of shadowwraiths awaited him. He considered getting Mortiss, but he couldn’t saddle her and ride out without alerting the entire camp. So he buckled on his sword and followed the shadowwraiths on foot into the forest.
    The shadowwraiths flitted through the branches of the trees in a simple, straight, easterly direction, as if they had no substance that could be hindered by mundane materials like wood and earth. The undergrowth of the forest was thin enough that he could have tromped through it, but it was easier to keep to small game trails, which forced him to zigzag back and forth. With his shadow sight he had no trouble following the wraiths in the dark.
    They led him to the remnants of a well-organized camp, now abandoned. Situated near a small stream, it had the look and feel of an efficient encampment carefully laid out by a group of disciplined soldiers. He counted six fire pits, long since cold, and by that and other signs he guessed there must have been three twelves of them.
    “Who are they?” he asked Soann’Daeth’Daeye.
    We know not, my king. We can sense only their spoor, and we fear they are a danger to the Living Forest.
    He recalled the way the forest had closed in about Rhiannead and her escort. “A danger? So why does the forest allow them to travel without hindrance?”
    There is some enchantment about them, some power that masks their presence from the forest’s awareness . . . and from ours. It is an old and deadly power.
    Morgin searched further until he found the latrine pit. It had been carefully covered over with dirt, standard procedure for a troop of disciplined soldiers. But that did not mask the odor.
    Dogs , one of the wraiths said.
    “No,” Morgin said, shaking his head. From an ancient memory he knew these foreign soldiers were not mere dogs. “No . . . jackals.”

7
The Forest’s Desire
    The sun had just begun to lighten the sky as Morgin approached Rafaellen’s encampment, but he heard the captain’s voice raised in anger long before he got there.
    “How did he slip away without you seeing?”
    “I don’t know, Captain. I’m sorry.”
    Another voice said, “He left his blanket behind.”
    Another added, “He left his horse too. So he’s probably coming back.”
    Morgin approached the camp cautiously wrapped in shadow and stopped at the edge of the clearing near the tent. Rafaellen, Kenna and the soldiers stood over his abandoned blanket at the far end of the