"Alder, your pace is slipping. Keep moving." The irritation was obvious in the baron's voice as he moved, unencumbered, through the undergrowth.

"Yes, my lord," puffed Alder around the handle of the machete in his mouth. He slashed through another bundle of vines, the thick ropes thudding to the ground. He stepped over them carefully, wary of the weight of the packs strapped to his back. He felt as though one misstep could send him tumbling to the ground.

"Good grief, Alder, quickly!"

Alder felt a hard push from behind as Annaeus shoved him over the tangled vines into the clearing. He lost his footing, front legs crumpling underneath him. The clinking of fragile glass bottles followed Alder's fall, and the baron turned to glare at him, accompanied by the sharp intake of breath that usually preceded one of his long rants.

"WHO ARE YOU?" boomed a voice, echoing in the small chamber.

Annaeus froze, mouth half-open to begin his tirade, and his gaze moved from Alder to the source of the sound. Alder scrambled to his feet, thankful for his master's distraction.