Dragondoom

CHAPTER 22

Mid and Late Spring, 3E1602

[This Year]

Rain fell unremittingly from leaden skies. Across the drenched grey land plodded a column of horses, eleven in all, five mounted, six bearing burdens, drawing nearer to the drizzle-shrouded castle standing at the edge of a low range of foothills. It was late in the day when at long last the weary troop neared the iron-clad gates in the dark stone wall, and atop the barbican a sentry called to those below, and the portals swung wide. Dismounting, the Men led the steeds in through the entryway, coming into the open bailey.

“Armsmaster Ruric-” The Gate Captain’s words juddered to a halt as his eyes fell upon the burdens borne by the steeds: six bodies wrapped in weather cloaks.

Whether it was tears or rain that streamed down Ruric’s face could not be ascertained, yet his voice nearly broke as he said, “’Tis Prince Elgo. And Bargo, Brade, Pwyl, Larr, and Fenn. Dwarf-slain all. Lay them in state in the great foyer, then sound the funeral horn.” Ruric ran the back of his hand across his eyes, and gave over the reins of Flint to a stable hand. “Captain, be the King yet returned?”

“Nay, Armsmaster.” The Gate Captain’s voice was hushed. “He still be parleying with the Naudron, for all we know.”

“The Princess Arianne, and Elyn, be they here?”

“Aye, Armsmaster, in the keep.”

Without another word, Ruric trudged through the downpour and toward the keep, his feet leaden; while behind him, grieving Men followed, leading the horses with their sad burdens. Inside, a page informed the Armsmaster that both Ladies were in Princess Elyn’s quarters.

As Ruric strode up the steps he could hear the silvery glissade of Women’s laughter, and he could do nought but steel himself for what was to come. He entered a room illumed by a crackling blaze in the fireplace, pressing back the chill of the drear day. Bram waddled across the carpet, the child bearing the small silver horn glittering orangely in the amber light cast from the fire. The Princess stood across the chamber, her face alight with humor, Arianne at her side, each Lady glowing with joy at the moppet’s antics. For Elyn had winded the horn for Bram, and now the tot himself tried to coax the clarion call forth from the argent metal, setting it to his mouth and puffing stoutly to no avail, his efforts bringing forth gales of laughter from Elyn and Arianne.

Once more Bram blew, his essay so fierce that he fell whump! on his bottom. And again Elyn’s and Arianne’s laughter rang forth, tears of merriment streaming down each face.

And Ruric stepped forth from the enshadowed doorway and into the ruddy firelight, his armor casting back scarlet glints, except where stained darkly with the blood of a Prince slain five days past, a stain now seeping with the soak of the rain.

Faces full of mirth, both Elyn and Arianne looked up to see the travel-worn Armsmaster, bespattered with mud, water dripping from drenched cloak. “Ruric!” exclaimed Elyn, yet with but a glance she knew something dire was amiss. Arianne, too, sensed a doom; “Elgo,” she breathed, clenching her fists, bracing, but said no more. And both Women held themselves in check as Ruric knelt upon one knee.

“Princess”-whom he addressed, Elyn or Arianne, it is not certain-“my Lord Elgo be slain-”

— What he said beyond that, Arianne did not hear, for a great numbness fell upon her spirit, and she felt as if her heart had died in that dreadful moment-

“-by the hand o’ Brak, DelfLord o’ Kachar, whom Elgo slew in return-”

— Elyn could not believe the words that were coming from Ruric’s lips, and she stooped and picked up Bram, holding onto the child as if he were an oak in a windstorm-

Ruric’s words went on, yet Elyn did not hear aught till “-a courier to fetch King Aranor, for War be upon us-”

At that moment from the bailey below came the mournful funeral knell of the Vanadurin, the black-oxen horn slowly calling out far and wide to all within hearing that Prince Elgo was slain in combat: Roon!. . Roon!. . Roon!

And in that same moment Arianne slumped to the floor unconscious, her mind and heart and soul fleeing into oblivion, while outside the bleak sky wept cold grey tears.

The next day, under a somber overcast, Elgo was laid to rest among the barrow mounds. He was dressed in full armor, and his weaponry and shield-battered and scarred by Dwarven axe-were interred with him, a new saber in his scabbard. Too, in a mound alongside their Prince, Bargo as well as the four slain in Kaagor Pass-Brade, Pwyl, Larr, and Fenn-were laid to eternal rest as well.

During the ceremonies, Elyn glanced up to see five warriors standing across from her on the opposite side of Elgo’s grave: Arlan, Reynor, Roka, Ruric, and Young Kemp. Five warriors: none else lived from the forty-one that had ridden forth to slay Sleeth.

Desolate, Ruric knelt at the graveside; and he reached down and pressed a small golden coin into his dead Prince’s palm, closing Elgo’s cold fist about it-a coin retrieved from a blood-stained floor of a stone Dwarvenholt, a coin that in more ways than one had led to the death of this proud youth.

Eyes filled with tears, the Armsmaster stood, and solemn attendants carefully covered the Prince. And then they began lading the barrow with sweet earth, mounding it, mantling all with green turves, while stricken mourners stood beneath drear skies, stood grieving while Elgo was buried, the dead youth clad in princely raiment, bearing his arms, wearing his armor, and grasping a small golden coin.

Late that day, Elyn set out from the castle, riding forth upon the plains in the long light of the foredusk, Elgo’s horse, Shade, on a trailing tether behind. A time she rode until at last she came unto the Kingsherd, and there she dismounted and loosened the bridle, slipping it away from Shade’s head. “Run free, black horse, run free,” whispered Elyn, her eyes brimming. “Run as Elgo would have you, could he but say. . ” Suddenly Elyn’s grief welled up within, and bitter tears choked her; and she held onto Shade sobbing, the black standing patiently, nickering softly, while a Princess clasped him about the neck and wept for a brother slain.

Four days following, in early afternoon, King Aranor rode in with his retinue, his eyes bleak with unresolved grief. He had set forth but a month or so past, and all was well within his Realm. He had concluded an agreement with the Naudron that would set to rest this eternal skirmishing between them, exchanging a gift of horses for a gift of falcons, sealing the treaty. But now all seemed shambles, for three days past as his train fared southwesterly toward the castle, a courier had come galloping among them bearing dire news: his son was slain and his nation verged upon War.

On the steps before the great oaken doors stood Arianne, and at her side Bram. Elyn, too, awaited the King, as well as Mala. Wearily, Aranor dismounted, handing the reins of Flame to an attendant. “Bear word to those who accompanied Elgo on his fated mission to Kachar,” he grated to a nearby page. “I would see them in the War room at sunset.”

With leaden feet, Aranor trudged up the steps, and Arianne stepped forward and embraced him and kissed him on the cheek, her eyes laden with tears. Elyn, too, clasped her sire, hugging him long ere loosing him, though her eyes remained dry. Aranor bent down and swept up Bram, pressing the child close unto him, turning his face away, peering to the west so that none could see his grief. And Bram’s small hands tugged at Aranor’s red-gold beard, age-streaked with grey; and Mala would have taken the child then, but Aranor shook his head, for Elgo as a wee bairn had done the same. Then it was that grief came unto the King, and with tears streaming down his face, he clasped Bram in his strong arms and strode across the bailey and out the foregate and unto the barrows. And none followed him on his pilgrimage. And only Bram heard what he had to say.

Aranor entered a room illumed by horizontal rays of the foredusk Sun, and at a small table before a window sat Elyn, her saber in one hand, a whetstone in the other, sharpening the weapon’s edge to a bitter keenness, the upheld blade slicing the very sunlight itself, the orange rays slashed into glittering shards where sunbeam met steel. Sshkk, sshkk, sounded stone on metal. Sshkk, sshkk. Methodically, slowly, her hands drew the oiled hone along the cutting edge. Sshkk, sshkk. Behind her, soft grey leathers hung upon a stand, readied for combat, her black-oxen horn adrape o’er a shoulder. Too, Aranor could see that her bow gleamed with wax, and full quivers depended from wall pegs, the green-fletched arrows carefully arranged. There as well leaned her spear-lance, sharpened blade glistening. Sshkk, sshkk.

Before the open fire stood Arianne, gazing into its depths as if seeking a vision beyond seeing. She did not look up as Aranor stepped to her side. And he took her chin in his hand and turned her face to his. Her eyes were sunken in dark hollows, and were filled with a desolation nearly beyond bearing. Aranor’s hand dropped back to his side, and his words fell softly: “Daughter, they tell me that you’ve eaten little, and spend your time within the private quarters, ne’er joining the others below.”

Sshkk, sshkk.

Arianne turned her face to the fire once more, her lashes trembling with unshed tears. Her voice came low, and was filled with a soft agony: “Oh, Sire, why did Adon take him from me? My heart’s very beat is gone. My breath is no more. My blood has fled. I want to die.”

Again Aranor reached out to her, gently taking her by the shoulders and swinging her to face him. “I’ll not answer for the Allfather, my Daughter, for only He knows His plan, only He can pierce the veil of what was, and what is to be. But this I do know, Child: ye must press on, keep up your strength, for Bram needs ye. And wee Bram is all we have left of Elgo.”

Arianne’s soft reply was nigh lost in the pop of burning log. “Yes, Bram needs me. But I need Elgo. He was my life.”

“He was my son.”

He was my brother. Sshkk, sshkk.

“He was my love.”

“He was my heir.”

He was my twin. Sshkk, sshkk.

“Ah, god, my soul is filled with grief.”

“. . with regret.”

. . with hatred. Sshkk, sshkk.

“I would have solace.”

“. . justice.”

. . revenge. Sshkk, sshkk.

Slowly the rays of the Sun crept up the far wall as the golden orb slid down the sky, the disk now sinking beyond the far horizon. None said aught, the only sounds being the siss of the fire and the steady sshkk, sshkk of hone on steel. What thoughts spun through the webs of their minds, it is not known. But at last the hush was broken:

“We will get them, Father.” Elyn’s voice was low-sshkk, sshkk-barely audible, her eyes focused upon the razor-sharp saber, her gaze burning with a bitter fire. “They will pay. They will pay.”

Now Aranor stepped to his daughter’s side, the King reaching out his hand and stilling the whetstone, removing it from Elyn’s grasp and setting it down next to the oil flask on the table beside her scabbard.

With deliberate slowness, Elyn laid the saber across her knees and then looked up at her father, a darkness deep within her eyes. “I ready for War, Sire.”

“Nay, Elyn, you ready for the coming of Death.” Aranor’s voice held a chill bite. “I have seen this look of yours upon the faces of other warriors as they, too, prepared for battle, and they did not survive to tell of it.”

“He was my twin,” she whispered, as if that explained all. “He was my twin.”

“Aye, twin yes,” answered Aranor, “but that gives you no leave to think of”-his words struck with deadly accuracy-“riding alone among the teeming enemy, reaping their blood to pay for that which they took from us, riding alone into battle to wreak a vengeance beyond bearing, knowing that Death will find you hacking and slashing unto the very end.”

“But that’s what I would do, Sire!”-her voice filled with venom-“Slay as many as I can before they bring me down.”

With an agonized cry, Arianne ran from the chamber ere any could stop her, though Aranor called out, “Arianne!” Yet Elgo’s widow heeded him not, and was gone.

Wearily, the King dropped into a seat opposite Elyn, the small table between them, fatigue dragging at his frame. “Now list to me, Daughter: Once I promised you that none would gainsay your right to ride into battle. . and none shall. Still, War is come upon us, and this is what I propose to do: I mean to take the battle unto Kachar, unto the very Dwarvenholt itself.

“Yet, even though the War be fought in a distant Land below the heights, still, this castle may not remain safe. The Dwarves might think to send an army by secret mountain ways to assail the keep while I and mine Host swarm upon the slopes before the iron gates of their Realm. Too, other enemies of Jord might think to attack this place during the time we are away.

“Hence, Bram must be taken to safe haven, for he is the living heir of Elgo, and now is next in line to take my place and be King. And so I deem that Arianne and Bram must ride under escort unto Riamon, and stay with her sire, Hagor, until this matter be settled.

“There is this as well: should I fall, Jord will need a strong hand to guide it until Bram has reached his majority.

“Elyn, that hand must be yours.” Aranor held up a palm to forestall the protests springing to Elyn’s lips. “Hear me out, Daughter: The Realm needs a Steward, a Guardian, one who can rally the Castleward if need be, to protect these walls, someone skilled in the ways of battle to keep the castle safe. And I need someone to rule here in my stead while the War is carried out in a distant Land. You have served frontier duty and know how a fortress is to be defended. Too, you know that no army can remain long afield without proper supplies, and you have the training to know what is needed. And these Dwarves will hole up in that mountain fastness of theirs, and we will be long in the field.

“Finally, there is this: Those remaining behind need to know that the royal family has not abandoned them. I will be at War before the gates of Kachar. Bram and Arianne will be gone to Riamon, to safety. That leaves you, Daughter: the one best fitted to serve as the heart of the Land; the one best fitted to serve as lifeline to mine Host; and the one best fitted to ward the Realm in my absence; and lastly, the one best fitted to serve as Steward should Death claim me.

“Again I say that none shall bar your way should you decide to ride to War, for you are a Warrior Maiden. Yet often it is that Duty has each of us hew to a course not of our liking or choosing. You may ride to War if you so choose. But should we both fall, then Jord may fall too.”

Aranor fell silent, and but for the occasional crack of the small fire aburning, a stillness descended upon the room. Elyn sat unmoving, staring down at the saber lying across her knees, its edge winging glints of cloven light unto a gaze filled with bitter tears. Long they sat thus, father and daughter, sire and get, and slowly the Sun slid below the horizon.

Aranor cleared his throat. “You need not make your decision now, for it is dusk, and we need be in council. But it is there that I expect your answer, among all the counsellors, for plans need be made, and in the end your decision will sway what we say and do.”

Aranor stood and reached out his hand, but it was long ere Elyn responded, for tears blurred her vision. But at last she grasped her saber in her left and slipped her right in his and rose to her feet. Taking up her scabbard, she sheathed the glittering blade, and turned and stepped to the armor stand. For a lengthy time she stood with her back to the King, gazing at her readied accouterments. Finally she squared her shoulders and swiftly looped the scabbard belt diagonally across her racked leathers. “Let us begone, Sire,” she said, turning, tears glistening upon her cheeks, and together they strode from the chamber, leaving the weaponry of War behind.

“Aye, Sire,” rumbled Ruric, “if ye be looking for any to blame in this, then it be me, for the Prince was under my care when we sallied into Kachar. I should ha’e seen it in his eye. That the Prince strode unto Brak’s throne wi’ such an insult wrapped in cloth, ’tis no surprise now that I look back on it. My fault plain and simple. I should ha’e guessed. . I should ha’e guessed.”

Aranor gazed across the great map table at the Armsmaster. At Ruric’s side stood Reynor, and flanking them were Arlan and Roka to the left, and Young Kemp to the right. At Aranor’s right hand stood Elyn, slender as a willow reed in her dark leathers. Torchlight and candles illumed the hall, driving back the shadows creeping inward with the waning dusk. “Nay, Armsmaster”-Aranor’s voice was filled with bitterness-“the blame lies not here within this chamber. Instead it rests squarely upon those who seek to gain that which they abandoned long ago: Damn those grasping Dwarves! Such a claim. Such an outrageous claim!” The clench of Aranor’s fist crashed down upon the table, and rage flared in his eyes. But then his gaze softened. “Yet would I give it all, and gladly, if it would but restore Elgo to the living.”

The King fell silent, and long moments stretched out within the shadow-wrapped room. And nought was said by any to break the moody dolor. At last Aranor stirred. “All things come clear in hindsight, Old Wolf,” growled the King, “so take no blame upon yourself. Elgo’s pride was his undoing, as well as that of Brak.

“But this assailing of emissaries. .” Aranor’s voice dropped into silence.

Reynor glanced at his comrades, guilt showing in their very stances. “Sire, I do not deny my own wrongdoing. The Prince that I loved was dead by the hand of these Dwarves, Bargo too, and when Brade charged forth and was slaughtered by bolt, my rage knew no bounds. Given the chance, I would have slain them all, yet Armsmaster Ruric stayed my hand.

“My King, I seek no pardon, nor do my comrades, I deem”-Arlan, Roka, and Young Kemp stood with their heads bowed-“levy what punishment fits the transgression, yet whatever that punishment may be, I ask that you let us fight at your side in the coming conflict.”

Long Aranor stood in thought. At last he turned toward the five of them. “This, then, is my decree: should there come a time I need emissaries to carry word ’neath a grey flag, you five shall bear that flag. And should some hot-blooded foe decide as you did that the flag has no meaning, then so be it. Justice will be served.”

“Sire,” objected Young Kemp, “tha ha’e tarred Armsmaster Ruric wi’ the same brush as ha’ rightfully slathered us. Yet he were no’ a part o’ it, an’-”

“Quiet, lad”-Ruric’s voice stilled the protest-“the King ha’ spoken.”

Aranor rubbed his gritty eyes with the heels of his hands, his voice weary. “Ruric, remain here. You too, Reynor. You other three are dismissed. And on your way out, tell Hrosmarshal Gannor and his Captains to attend me.”

Clenched fists to hearts, Roka, Arlan, and Young Kemp saluted the King and spun on their heels and marched from the War room. Pages were signalled and chairs were drawn to the table. And when Gannor and his retinue entered, they found King, Princess, Armsmaster, and Castleward Captain seated ’round the great table, awaiting them.

Aranor shook his head and sighed. “Ah me, this I do not relish. Yet let it be so: Let the balefires atop the Warcairns be lit throughout Jord; ride the Realm with the red flag, for War is come upon us, and we must muster to drive it back whence it came. Let those who can come now do so in haste, for in a fortnight we shall set forth. Let those who come later ride straightaway to Kachar, they will find us encamped before the Dwarven gates. It will take much to bait these badgers from their den, and we will need all strength to do so.”

Gannor nodded to one of the Captains, who called a chief herald unto him and spoke in a low voice. And as the Captain gave over his words, the look in the messenger’s eye became steely, resolute. And upon receiving his charge, the herald withdrew. Within moments the fire atop the beacon spire would be lit, its ruddy message burning in the night. At distant points, on knolls of hills and rock built towers, watchers would see the flare, and put the torch to their own beacons, the signal flashing across the Realm, searing through the darkness. And horsemen would hammer out from gates to spread across the Jordreichs, red flags whipping in the swift air of their passage. And everywhere the Harlingar dwelled the call to arms would sound, the knell of War upon the Land.

After the rider had gone, all eyes fell upon the King. “Well then, Fortune has turned her second face to scowl down upon us, and I deem long it may watch. Let us now make careful our plans to keep her unseen third face gazing elsewhere.”

Aranor stood, sliding back his chair and leaning forward on his arms, palms down upon the great table. “Unroll the maps and let us lay out this campaign, and see to the needs of the Realm as well, for we cannot let the Land lie undefended.” All about the table, chairs scraped back as others rose to their feet, Gannor reaching for the map case. “Too, we will have an army afield, and much will be required to sustain it.” Aranor paused, glancing at Elyn, awaiting some signal from her.

After long moments, her eyes met those of her sire, anguish in her gaze, and she nodded but once, bitterly accepting the fact that the Realm needed her as Steward during the long days that were to come. At this sign, Aranor stepped to her and held her close. Yet this time his embrace did little to take away the bitterness she felt at accepting this onerous duty, for it was vengeance her heart cried out for and not the care of a Kingdom.

Hrosmarshal Gannor unrolled the chart showing the area of Jord where lay Kaagor Pass. Elyn could not help but note that beyond the Grimwall where stood the Realm of Kachar the map was blank, and she wondered at this portent.

O’er the next fortnight, swift heralds bearing red flags raced ’cross the Land, and every day the muster at Aranor’s keep grew. In ones and twos riders accoutered for War drifted into the campsites ’round the walls. At times, Warbands of twenty or thirty arrived. And slowly the ranks swelled.

On the third day ’neath overcast skies six wains stood in the bailey. And to and fro, in and out of the castle servants bustled, lading the waggons with goods for a lengthy journey. In her chambers, Arianne took one last long look about and sighed, for on this day she and Bram and three Ladies-in-waiting-Kyla, Elise, and Darcy-were to set forth under heavy escort for the Court of her father in Riamon. Seeing nought to keep her in these barren quarters, Arianne hoisted Bram up and stepped toward the door. But as though he realized that they would not soon if ever come again to this room, the young Prince reached out his wee hands calling for something, using words from his own private language, a language only he could understand. Arianne cooed, but Bram was not to be mollified, and struggled to be let free. Setting the child down, the Princess watched as Bram scurried across the floor and scrambled under the bed, emerging triumphantly bearing his favorite toy: the little silver horn.

“Ah, Brammie, I should have known we could not leave that behind,” said Arianne, smiling. . smiling perhaps for the first time since. .

Again Arianne took up her babe, and this time he contentedly allowed himself to be borne from the room.

As Arianne stepped down the long straight staircase, below she could see the great entry hall; and at the foot of the steps awaited Aranor and Elyn. There, too, stood Mala. And from the left just entering the vestibule came Elise and Darcy, weeping, their arms about one another. Bringing up the rear was Kyla, her countenance somewhat stricken, yet at the same time looking as if a great romantic adventure awaited her, an adventure that beckoned irresistibly.

And as the three Ladies-in-waiting came to the staircase, Mala snapped, “Hush, you silly gooses. Don’t you know that the Court where you are bound puts this one to shame?”

Elise and Darcy cried all the harder, and Kyla pouted up and began weeping as well.

Exasperated, Mala turned her back upon the trio, though Elyn stepped to each and embraced them in turn, whispering, “Care well for Bram, he is the future of Jord. Care well, too, for the Lady Arianne, for in these darkest of days she needs you most desperately.” At these words, Elise and Darcy managed to stifle their tears, though Kyla’s weeping intensified.

Arianne came to the bottom of the steps, and Bram reached out for Aranor. Taking the babe from his mother, the King turned and strode for the hall doors, followed by the six Women. “You shall be borne down through Jallor Pass, south and west of here some one hundred fifty leagues. Then it’s south and east to the Court of your sire, eighty or ninety leagues more.”

“I relish not this prospect of being so far from home,” whispered Elise.

“But don’t you see,” quavered Darcy, “this is the adventure we have longed for since we were but little girls: travel to a great Court in a far Land.”

A muffled sob was all that Kyla could utter.

Attendants opened the doors, and the entourage paced out onto the marble veranda and down into the bailey. There awaiting them stood the escort: fifty Men ahorse; but for one. Red-haired Aulf stepped forward, Captain of the escort. “My Liege,” he said, saluting the King, his voice resonant. Then, turning to Arianne, “My Lady.”

“Aulf,” responded Aranor, “from this moment on, I be your Liege no more. ’Tis this wee bairn that be your Lord and master now. This I charge you with: that you and your Men take him and his mother to safety in Riamon. Remain at his side, and when it is his time to return, when Jord be free of War, then bring him home. Keep him safe from all harm, for it is his destiny to one day rule this Realm.

“Here, take him, feel the weight of him”-Aranor held the boy out to Aulf, who gingerly received the tot, carefully cradling his arms about the Prince-“for he goes under your protection now.”

Bram struggled to be held upright so that he could see. And the Captain realized that this was no suckling in his arms, and so he raised the child up to sit on his shoulder, much to the lad’s delight. Aulf’s eyes shined, and he turned to the mounted Harlingar. “All hál Prince Bram!”

And all the Harlingar shouted: Hál, Prince Bram!

Bram crowed in delight, and Aulf, beaming, turned to Princess Arianne, and for the second time that day Arianne smiled at the joy upon Bram’s face.

“Come, Daughter,” growled Aranor, turning to Arianne, “the day grows older as we stand here, and there be a long journey ahead of you.” Aranor stooped and embraced her, his voice gruff with emotion. “We shall miss your brightness at Court. Care well for our Bram. We will let you know when it be safe to return.”

Arianne hugged Aranor fiercely, for she had come to love him as if he was her own sire. “Take care, Father,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face, and then she turned to Elyn.

They embraced and kissed one another farewell, and all that saw them marvelled at their beauty. Like daughters of Adon, Himself, they looked: one copper haired, one with tresses of wheat; one tall with willowy grace in every movement, one tiny with the exquisite bearing of a Princess of fable.

“I shall miss you dearly, my Sister,” whispered Arianne.

“And I you, Arianne,” responded Elyn. “Care well for Bram, for Jord needs him.”

“Fear not, for he is all I have left of Elgo, and I would not have his memory fade from this world.”

Releasing Elyn, Arianne turned and stepped toward the wain indicated by Aranor, and the King helped her to mount up. Aulf passed Bram up to her, and then sprang to his saddle.

Three Harlingar gallants leapt down from their mounts and aided the three Ladies-in-waiting into the waggons: Elise moving forward matter-of-factly, Darcy uncertain, and Kyla somewhat warily.

At a nod from the King, Aulf sounded a call upon his black-oxen horn, and at the fortress wall Men at the winches began cranking, and with a clatter of gears the portcullis was raised. Others haled the great bar from the fore gates and swung them wide, opening out into the land beyond. Drivers flicked reins and called to the teams, and slowly the waggons moved forward, bearing their precious cargo from the keep. Iron-rimmed wheels ground out their messages of movement, and the column of mounted Harlingar surged forward as well, steel-shod hooves clattering upon flagstone and cobble. Out from the bailey trundled the waggons, and faces of the passengers and of those remaining behind peered at one another for perhaps the last time: Arianne smiled wanly; Elise and Darcy wept as if their hearts would break; but in a quicksilver shift, Kyla’s features bore a great wide grin. And behind stood Aranor, grim was his look; Elyn’s countenance was stoic; Mala’s face bore its usual air of disapproval. Only Bram in his mother’s arms seemed unaffected by it all.

Out through the portal clattered the train, and when it was through, with a rattle of gears and a grind of metal the portcullis lowered and the great gates swung to. And when the keep was shut, Aranor turned and made his way back into the castle, his arm around Elyn.

On the ninth day, Reachmarshal Richter came, tall and graceful, and with him rode nine hundred Harlingar, the muster of the East Reach.

On the twelfth day came the Legion of the west, some eight hundred strong, led by Reachmarshal Einrich, a great shouting, laughing, barrel of a Man.

From the north, throughout the final four days, three Warbands came: some twelve hundred Men altogether, commanded by Marshals Roth, Boer, and Mott, all united under the hand of Reachmarshal Vaeran, a small fox of a Man said to be a master of military strategy.

And from the South Reach, the land in which stood Aranor’s keep, the muster raised nearly eleven hundred, and they rode under Gannor’s flag. And Gannor was Aranor’s blood cousin, yet a mighty warrior in his own right.

And so they gathered in a fortnight, nearly forty-five hundred warriors in all, counting the stragglers and strays. Forty-five hundred Vanadurin to face an unknown number of Dwarves.

During this same fortnight, Elyn trained as she had never trained before: But it was not in missile weapons nor in those of mêlée combat that she prepared herself. Nay! Instead, it was waggons and supplies that occupied her mind, and the governing of a Kingdom gone to War. Figures danced in her head as counsellors advised her: food for Men afield, fodder for horses, medical supplies needed by healers, armor and weaponry and other such accouterments, blankets and bedrolls, boots and clothing, cloaks and tents; the lists went on and on. Often she would hurl a ledger from her in a fit of frustration, vowing that she never would master all the details needed to supply an army in the field. Yet after a cooling off of her temper, and at Mala’s urging, reluctantly she would retrieve the offending journal and once again take up the study of the provisioning of legions.

She was joined in this endeavor by Mala, who, for the first time in her life, found something at which she was gifted. Mala seemed to have a natural flair for logistics, and swiftly gathered facts and figures and the rules of thumb necessary for maintaining the King’s Host, whether near or far afield.

And as Aranor and his staff would assemble in the War room to plan the campaign, Elyn and Mala would join in the council, scribbling notes unto themselves, or asking just where in Hèl this or that commander supposed he would get the supplies needed for some outrageous scheme, and suggesting the types of goods that they could get to the battlefield, and the means of transporting them.

And after such councils, Aranor would approach the two of them and grin, saying, “Garn! This War will be won or lost right here at the keep, for here begins the lifeline that will sustain mine Host when we stand before the iron gates of Kachar. Yet, hearken unto me: I be in the best hands available when I be in the hands of you twain.”

And suddenly the time was come upon them: the fortnight had fled. Red flags had swept across the nation and the swift muster was done, though in the days to come other Harlingar would drift past, heading for Kaagor Pass and Kachar beyond. And the hastily assembled Host prepared for departure, for at the dawning of the morrow, Aranor would lead them in a War of retribution.

Hundreds of wains filled with supplies stood out upon the prairie, and hundreds more would assemble in the coming weeks, for an army’s appetite is nearly insatiable, and game afield swiftly exhausted. Too, herds of cattle stood lowing amid the lush grass, to be driven in the wake of the Men.

That last night Elyn and Mala pored over the books, noting what was to arrive in the near future, noting what was already on slow wheels heading for the front e’en now. And when Elyn retired at last, exhausted, her mind awhirl with lists of supplies and schedules, she wondered what factor had been overlooked, what need would come that they were unprepared to meet. But ere any answers came, she was fast asleep.

The next morning Aranor led Elyn to the throne room and sat her upon the chair of state. “Here, Daughter, I leave the Realm in your hands. None of us know what Fortune has in store for us. But this I do know: I will be far afield for some time to come. And you will be here dealing with the governance of the Kingdom. Chance and circumstance oft’ lay out a different course from the one first charted, calling for decisions unforseen. Only you, and none other, will be able to select among the choices given you. Only you will be able to decide what is the best course to follow. But heed me! Listen to the advice of those that you trust before making your decisions, whatever they may be. Rely upon their knowledge, their wisdom, their talent, and give over to them the responsibilities that they can best fulfill. At times they will have the better skills to accomplish that which need take place, at other times it will depend upon you and you alone to do what must be done. Regardless, yours will be the final decision: consider well the choices you are given, and do that which is best for the Realm, for that be the responsibility of the one who sits in this chair.”

Aranor now raised his daughter up and embraced her and kissed her farewell. And she hugged him fiercely and bade him to strike Elgo’s murderers a blow they would never forget, yet above all to remain safe.

And they strode out into the bailey, where awaited the King’s escort of Reachmarshals. And Aranor mounted up on the great stallion Flame, and with his entourage rode out before the gates and among his Host. And a thunderous shout rose up into the air thrice: Hál, Aranor! Hál, Aranor! Hál, Aranor!

And amid a clamorous sounding of black-oxen horns, slowly, like a great long columnar creature, the mighty Host of Harlingar wended out upon the prairie, flanked far and wide by outriders, scouts, dimly seen in the distance.

And atop the barbican, alongside most of the staff of the keep, Elyn watched as the riders and waggons slowly drew away. Then the herds of cattle were driven after, following in the wake of the Host, as was the plan.

If I were but a wee girl, then this would be most exciting. Yet all I feel is apprehension and disappointment: apprehension, for Men ride off to a War from which many will not return; disappointment, for I go not with them.

Long Elyn watched, but at last turned to make her way back into the keep. And she passed among those left behind: for the most part Women and old Men and young boys and girls, too old or too young or too unskilled in the ways of War. Garn! Should a calamity befall this keep, we will be hard pressed to deal with it.