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river.
    Domor’s eyes lingered on the bank as they left the village behind, his hands fumbling at his pack. It was too soon to regret his choice to leave, but he could feel its niggling taint building inside as he set the wineskin to his lips. He sat back with a satisfied sigh and let his arm dangle over the side of the raft. As his fingers trailed through the cool water, he forced himself to feel optimistic. The wine helped.
    He had no doubt he would feel differently when they reached the Dead Lands.

Chapter Three
     
     
    Cael stood rigid in terror as the Korme cavalry rumbled through the lower vineyards toward the village of Nurale, the capital of Nurin. The sound of their passage was like a terrible storm. Thunder rumbled in the distance as a cloud of violence grew ever closer.
    Their passage cast dancing glimmers across the land, the morning sunlight reflected off the mass of weapons and shields carried by the soldiers. They rode down the vines as though they were the enemy, slashing their way through the delicate crop. Their blades showed no more mercy for the stunned tenders caught in the field, cleaving them to bleed red alongside the crushed purple of their crop.
    Fear spurred him on as though it was a searing brand, and Cael stumbled from the upper vineyard and raced toward home. He cried out a warning as he wound his way through the maze of greenery, finding his voice in the adrenaline that coursed through his veins. Other voices joined his, but all were little more than whispers beneath the roar of the hooves and the maniacal shouts of their riders.
    Free of the vineyard maze, Cael dashed along the dirt path that led toward home just as the Korme cavalry reached the outskirts of Nurale. Men and women filled the streets to catch a glimpse of the commotion, children huddled at their feet. Their eyes were wide as they saw the soldiers bearing down on their village. Surprise mixed with a sense of betrayal as parents scrambled to pluck their children from harm’s way.
    Little more than a farming nation, the people of Nurin had long ago given up trying to fight the oft-appearing Grol and Korme raiding parties, their resistance a pitiful reminder of their inadequacy with the arts of war. Instead they struck a deal with both, providing each with Nurin’s famous red wine in sufficient quantities to offset the need for either to raid. It worked.
    The deal rewarded the aggressors with the much sought after wine in abundance, much more so than any raid had ever produced. Both races agreed to cease their attacks for as long as the wine flowed. Save for the rare, minor border skirmish, The Grol and Korme remained faithful to the arrangement.
    Until now.
    The Korme cavalry sped through the village, silvered blades lashing out at anything that moved. Screams filled the air, cut short by blade or hoof. The tempest of horses and men sounded overloud as they galloped past. Cael was forced to duck behind a hut to be clear of the charge. The horses barreling on, he peeked from behind the sheltering wall and spied the endless waves of foot soldiers that approached the edge of town.
    Though he’d been born after the historic agreement between the Nurin people and their savage neighbors, and had never seen their forces in action, he knew a war party when he saw one. The Korme had not come to raid for wine, they had come for blood. The torches flung at the wooden homes of his people confirmed his belief with brilliant flashes.
    Those homes closest to the vineyards burst into flame, tongues of flicking red fire infecting those gathered behind. Billows of black smoke began to waft upward, gratefully obscuring Cael’s view of the soldiers and the burning homes of his friends and neighbors.
    His fear making him ill, Cael tore his gaze from the wall of fire and ran the rest of the way home. Korme soldiers rode by in blurs, strafing at any who still lingered in the open. Cael was forced to hide several times as he made his way through the