"The peril will be great," Lily echoed almost inaudibly, but there was an edge of anger in her voice that spoke not of fear, but of retribution.
The following day, dawn showed itself only reluctantly. The skies were darkly overcast, sullen, and bleak with clouds that would neither release their moisture nor relinquish themselves to the dessicated skies of the northern wastes. The land itself seemed to hold its breath in angry surprise as the column of trespassers departed Belloc's lands, following Stony Book northeast towards the very heart of the pall of darkness hanging over the Marshes of Morag. Riding at the head of this column, Lily and Anest rode well out in front of their escort of fifty, followed by the five-thousand-strong army of Captain Triel. Such a thing had not happened in living memory: an open challenge to the force that clutched the northern wastes like a great, malevolent fist; an unremitting hatred that for centuries had beaten down the very bones of the earth, which itself lay broken and appalled by the malice that beat upon it solely for sake of malice.
Though what spirit of the land remained as crumbling, brittle shards down the long, dark centuries, at its heart lay the green Marshes of Morag like an emerald jewel. Over this living, vibrant tract, the evil that raised its hateful fist over the northern wastes never held the least power, not even to darken its pristine skies nor foul its crystal waters which sprang from deep within the earth.