11
Sandy was just about to go out and let the other guard, Warren, come in for some dinner, when they heard a thump on the ground behind the guardhouse on the forest’s edge. The three of them rushed out and found a pale young man sprawled on the ground beside a lavender bush, his long black hair half covering his face. The man groaned and dragged himself into a sitting position, wrapping his arms around his knees. His nondescript soft brown shirt and leggings did not seem any the worse for wear, although not warm enough to stop him from shivering against the misty cold that was seeping through the trees. When he had regained a little strength, he dragged his huge wolfskin cloak around his shoulders.
“High Lord Tarkyn!” exclaimed Markos, bowing deeply.
The man in question raised his head
