Free The Stair Of Time (Book 2) by William Woodward

will.  But don’t let that worry ya, Young Master, I won’t let it go to my head, or let it keeps me from doin’ right by you and your girl.”
    After kissing Mandie on the forehead and wiping a rogue tear from his cheek, Andaris walked from the for cibly cheerful room—that being Doctor Terrell’s bright idea—and made his way down to the stables. 
    Gaven would be waiting, probably shaking his head at Andaris’ tardiness while attempting to lure the stable boy into a high stakes card game.  Del would be saddled, and all the supplies they needed for their journey would be packed.  Everything they could think of, anyway. 
    Once again, the open road awaited, and Andaris couldn’t say that he was entirely displeased. Between his obsession with the archives, Ashel’s obsession with the tower, and Mandie’s illness, things had become awfully bleak of late.  It would be good to stretch his legs a bit, to breathe some fresh air and clear his head, to find some answers, or at the very least some perspective.
    Despite everything, he smiled.  And why not?  The open road did indeed lay before them, as familiar as it was enticing.  And although he’d learned a great many things about life and himself since first leaving Fairhaven, he still felt the proverbial tug of the unknown.
    Apparently, neither his wanderlust nor his thirst for adventure had been wholly quenched.  This time, however, he was setting out with a truly noble purpose in mind, and not alone, determined to accomplish two very specific goals—find a cure for Mandie, and then a way home.  He and Gaven would stop at nothing to save her. They would climb any mountain, swim any sea, or fight any foe.

 
     
    Lost Blood
     
     
     
    As though i n preparation for winter’s chill, a blanket of leaves was pulled snug over hill and dale.  Tendrils of mist snaked across the forest floor, adding a touch of gloom to autumn’s patchwork.  The ruins of a small stone church huddled beneath a confusion of low-hanging boughs, its thatched roof long since caved in, five of its six stained-glass windows reduced to shards, uneven teeth in narrow, cobblestone mouths. 
    The window that remained intact showed a white knight kneeling atop a hill, head bent in reverent contemplation, plate d mail glinting in the sunlight. The knight’s gauntleted fists were clasped around the hilt of a broadsword, the shining blade of which was thrust deep into the earth, its forte adorned by five glowing runes: strength, honor, faith, purity, and wisdom.
    All around, offering vivid counterpoint to the knight—whose hair did billow beneath a glistening helm, and whose jaw was set with righteous indignation—lay a dark sea of corpses, all manner of man and beast, all manner of shapelings.
    Tyler shivered, wrapped his cloak more tightly about his body, and cocked his head to the side, ears perked.  A cool breeze blew from the north, a harbinger of things to come, whispering to whoever would listen, spreading tales of gray skies and plunging temperatures, of dark, twisted things that are beyond absolution.
    According to local legend, here in this very church over a millennia ago, a child was born who would one day shape the destiny of all.  That child’s name was Lectavian Jandar, an exceptionally handsome lad who glowed with both health and happiness.  Everyone who saw him commented on how special he was, his eyes alight with an awareness that far surpassed his years. 
    If only they’d known how right they were.  He was special.  Very special. Had they known, they might have done something to prevent the cataclysm that was to come, something like bludgeon Lectavian’s small skull with a stone until he breathed no more, and then cleanse his body with fire atop a sacred altar encircled by twelve white-hooded priests, hands clasped in holy retribution, mouths feverishly muttering incantations.
    Following a fortnight of continuous praying over his remains, they might have then