《Dragongate I》


 Prologue – Part 1 (From the Annals of Durwyn, King in the North)

    The passing of the Great is portentous. It means change and oftentimes trouble. This year of Our Lady has witnessed the conjunction of three such deaths. There will be a great deal of trouble.


    One passage. Light and vaulted. High in a fair and many-towered castle set in a green sequestered vale. One passage. Three young women. That is where we need to be; one passage, three young women and then, of course, a princess, but to get there, first we need three deaths.


    One death is of a prelate, and one is of a king. The other is to be regretted. Two result from invisible darts of doom set by mishap upon fatal courses. One is purely malicious. Two turn the wheel of fortune sooner than any had expected, raising some men to unlooked for heights while lowering others. One death will benefit no man. All three will, within a half-year, have consequences none can imagine.


    The first in point of time is Adeldore, Archvilicor of Eoforwick. He is a man of middle years, young for a prelate, especially so for the second highest in the Kingdoms. He is from a dynasty; power among those who fight usually determines power among those that pray. An ascendant family, a winning manner and a good deal of money well placed secured the matter. Abeldore likes being an archvilicor. It has many benefits. He does not think he is making that bad a fist of it either. He is not a great reformer, or organiser, yet at least he is not an ambitious aggrandiser or strict disciplinarian. He tends to favour a light touch. There are plentiful abuses in the Chirche, it is true, but then there ever have been. Those whose abuses become too public may look to be punished, which tends to have a dampening effect on excess. There are also enthusiasts, those who take the Word of the Mother a little too much to heart, like the black mourners, or those red pilgrims that have been so troublesome of late, but, again, a persistent strain of fundamentalism is also in the nature of the Chirche. It will come to the fore, from time to time, but then subside. Things are best, Abeldore has found, when left to follow their natural courses. Extremes abate. Everything tends to balance out in the end. There still are worries, from time to time, of course, but on the whole it is a good life.


    Now, however, Abeldore¡¯s enjoyment of life in high office is being cut short by an ill-advised goose, a bone of which sticks in his throat and chokes him to death. While preosts, muncks and servitors flap helplessly around the dying man, his guest, a visiting baron, remains seated, remains calm. Even as the second highest preost in the land heaves his last, choking, breaths, the baron calls his squire to him and bids him ride with all haste and no pause to the Abbey at Gislandune with news of the death. The squire, who knows his master, hesitates only briefly before hurrying away. The baron sits back in his chair, cocks his eyebrow and awaits the inevitable cessation of choking. He does not need to wait long.


    History does not record the name of this squire, which is rather unfair, because, not sparing the horses, he reaches the Abbey at Gislandune, a distance of 210 miles, in a little more than four days. Quite a feat. In the hall of the Abbat¡¯s lodgings at Gislandune he meets the Pryor and also a man who wears the garb of a cleric over the harness of a soldier. His hood and cloak are red. This holy warrior passes by the name of John of the Land, a name not yet widely known, not yet widely feared. It is he who questions the squire. He does so closely in an undertone before dismissing him and directing him to the lay refectory and into the care of the hospitaller. John of the Land then turns to the Pryor, ¡°his Grace Archvilicor Abeldore choked to death in his palace at Eoforwick four days ago, which will teach him to eat goose on a Friday on the pretext it is fish. I will inform the Shepherd¡±, and the warrior-priest stomps off to an inner chamber.


    The Pryor recalls that geese are said to be born in the water and thus generally accounted fish, though, he reflects, they are in many ways not at all like actual fish. The Shepherd¡¯s view of the Rule is narrower than most, it is ¡­ uncompromising.


    When John of the Land re-emerges, the Pryor stops his pacing, ¡°Well?¡± he demands.


    ¡°The Shepherd sorrows, of course, for the untimely loss of his Grace Adeldore of Eoforwick, and will pray for the Archvilicor¡¯s soul and for guidance.¡±


    ¡°Meaning?¡±


    ¡°Meaning we shall see a world transformed. We are to muster the Orders and see the Will of the Powers done.¡±


    The Pryor is still looking confused. He raises his hand questioningly, ¡°So¡­?¡±


    John of the Land is a little impatient now, ¡°So the Chirche will be returned to the truth and to the light, to the Red Rule!¡±


    ***


    News of the Archvilicor¡¯s tragic demise has yet to reach the court of the Paramount King before tragedy strikes there too.


    King Bonomio is also a man of middle years, vigorous middle years, and he likes to show his prowess sometimes on the jousting field. Today the colours of one of his mistresses are borne on his lance and he is in his arming tent readying for his next tilt. Yet, even here, even now, he is not free of the bothersome business of the realms. As Paramount King he finds that his care extends beyond his own kingdom. He must show a lead to the Second, Third, Fourth and Fifth Kingdoms. Increasingly he is engaged also with matters pertaining to the two Fallen Kingdoms of the north. Thus, he is seldom free of counsellors or of counsel. Three plague him even now as he is armed for the field of honour.


    One, Sir Jolion Throape, is a tall, spare-framed man of about thirty. He wears an old-fashioned tunic that hangs loosely, save where girt at the waist with a belt, and which reaches almost to the ground. Its cloth is rich, its colour dour. He stoops. He looks far older than he is. He speaks deliberately in a deep laconic drawl that confers the authority of absolute certainty upon anything he chooses to say.


    What he chooses to say is that the matter cannot be put off. The other Kings and a good portion of their nobles, and of Bonomio¡¯s own lords, will not be put off any longer.


    ¡°Sire, a decision must be made. Since the Kings¡¯ Wars we have enjoyed thirty years of peace, thirty years of prosperity ¡­.¡±


    ¡°Spare me a lesson in what we all know, Throape¡±.


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    ¡°Yet years of want are now upon us. A surfeit of villeins who grow hungrier by the day. The people groan under the burden of the Elventithe at such times. They wonder what it is for. They see the rich lands reserved to the Elves, left fallow in the main, while they have not the land to support themselves¡±.


    ¡°Yet Elves hold less land than the acreage your lords and the chirche take for themselves anew each year, reducing ever more folk to bondsmen,¡± this is from a modestly attired man in black, a law-speaker, his demeanour that of a man who feels he must say what he sees to those who do not wish to see it.


    No one speaks in support and the King looks pained, as if the man has soiled himself before him.


    Throape continues smoothly, ¡°It is without need of saying, even to Sir Sanwell,¡± Throape shoots a look of contempt at the law-speaker, ¡°that lords and abbats provide places for the common folk on the land and so support them.¡±


    But Sir Sanwell is not done. Truculence overcoming fear gives edge to the sombre timbre of his speech, ¡°Times of want fall hardest upon those with least, where is our relief of their condition? A third failed crop and the people will starve.¡±


    ¡°Then the Powers grant us a good harvest this year. The Powers will surely treat the people according to their desert. Yet, the Elves suffer not in times of want, of that you may be sure, and the poor wonder at that.¡± Throape pauses, then decides to go further, ¡°They wonder why a King of Men should kneel to a Lord of Elves.¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes, but be mindful of what we owe to the Elves¡­¡± says the King, feeling all this talk suddenly so very tiresome.


    ¡°We might have owed them once, Sire, though I, fear that has been overstated. We did not truly need them then and we do not need them now.¡±


    ¡°Nonsense, Throape!¡± This is the other man, silent until now. Unremarkable in build and stature, a little older than Throape, yet more fashionably dressed in a gaily-coloured buttoned doublet. His voice is perhaps less persuasive, for it is agitated and betrays impatience, ¡°they yet aid us, in a thousand ways with skills we had not possessed since the days of the Ancients, new skills, indeed, exceeding those of the Ancients¡¯, and all freely shared with us ...¡±


    ¡°Oh, my Lord Beviers talks again of ploughing I suppose,¡± Throape affects an exaggerated disdain.


    ¡°Yes, better ploughs, cloth-working, brewing, these things improve the lot of the of people, giving increase to the common wealth. Though you care not, who dress like your grandfather and who always have wine to drink ¡­¡±


    ¡°The People were content without all these costly ¡­ innovations,¡± that last word Throape pronounces with distaste as if the word is unfamiliar, unwelcome.


    ¡°You may count the people as credulous, but you and I know better, Throape. The Elves have protected us. They do protect us.¡±


    ¡°No, my Lord Beviers, the Elves constrain us. The claim that we need them is false, a lie to keep us in their tutelage, their thrall. Are we to fear the monsters of mere faerie tales? And it is not merely the people, but the lords of this realm who in ever increasing numbers call for us to break the shackles by which the Elves seek to bind us.¡±


    ¡°The Elves, who once returned to this lonely isle to teach us the Faith and the art of praise..¡±


    ¡°Long ago, Beviers, long ago, and who now can say¡­ Listen, all the people need is pious submission to the Powers and faith in the good government of the Chirche and their Kings.¡±


    ¡°Like the good government that led to the misery of the King¡¯s Wars?¡± interposes Sir Sanwell, not yet cowed, ¡°We would have destroyed ourselves entirely without the mediation of the Elves¡­¡±


    ¡°Hardly¡­!¡±


    ¡°Enough!¡± The King¡¯s patience has run dry. ¡°We have not resolved this debate in ten years of angry argument, we will not resolve it now!¡±


    ¡°Yet we must, Sire¡±, counters Throape, ¡°and without more delay, before the condition of the land worsens. Before the people lose faith in their leaders.¡±


    Lord Beviers clears his throat. The King gives Throape a very nasty look.


    Sir Jolion appears perfectly composed in spite of this, ¡°Sire?¡±


    ¡°Very well¡±, says the king as trumpets herald the next bout. He strides to the tent flaps and flings back the command, ¡°Call a moot, call a great-moot for all the Kings, all the lords temporal and spiritual and the knights and commons of all the Kingdoms. Let them consider and counsel what is to be done¡±, and with that he is gone.


    ¡°A great-moot ¡­.,¡± exclaims Lord Beviers, ¡°there has not been one for ¡­.¡±


    ¡°Thirty-three years. It is, however, the only way to settle the matter for once and all,¡± concludes Sir Sanwell.


    Perhaps this wearying conversation has distracted the King. For years he has been plagued by ambitious, rebellious kings and lords chafing against each other, and against the wild Wallacha of the west, against the kings across the Narrow Sea and, increasingly, against what they are pleased call the Elvish Yoke. So much needless rancour, and all so mis-directed. Hate, he remembers a preost once saying, seeps through the cracks in this world and feeds the demons beyond. He hopes that is as silly as it sounds, but wonders why he now recalls it to mind. The King sees the covenant with the Elves as more of a partnership. A fruitful, indeed, an essential partnership. Albion is surely blessed by it. He does concede that things need adjusting in favour of the kingdoms of Men. Have we not waxed strong and come into our full estate? That should be recognised, he reasons, and the balance may not be quite right for these difficult times. Yet still, he cannot really understand the hatred some of the powerful nurse against the Elder Folk. He would like to dismiss the matter from his mind but finds he cannot wholly do so. Perhaps this is why, even in the charge as he bears down upon Sir Ortaire, his lance point glances wide. Sir Ortaire rocks in his saddle but remains seated, and his lance drives upward, tearing the helm from King Bonomio¡¯s head.


    It makes a mess of his nose. Some flesh is torn. There is a lot of blood. Yet it likely looks worse than it is, concludes the King, as he, too, remains seated. As he makes to canter to the end of the tilt for the next, pass, Sir Ortaire calls to him. Should you continue, Sire, he says, visor up, face full of concern. Well might he be concerned, thinks Bonomio, he is captain of my house knights and responsible for my safety, and he¡¯s just given me the mother of bloody noses! Let him worry, thinks the King, and he waves the knight away. He glances up at where he knows his mistress, Lady Torena, is seated. It shocks him to see her blanched, mute and rigid, with a look of frozen horror on her face. Then he hears Queen Aonene call to him. Those are not her colours he bears on his lance tip, they are Torena¡¯s, yet the Queen is loyal. She begs him to stop. He will not hear of it. He hopes she will not entreat him more, he says. He hopes she stops lest she appear unseemly, though, of course, he does not say that. He reaches the end of the tilt and turns. He has not replaced his helm. The mask of blood that is his face remains unprotected. He levels his lance.


    This time he is not distracted. His lance tip finds its mark. Before his lance shatters, as it is designed to do, its blunt tip slips beneath Sir Ortaire¡¯s pauldron and drives home, dislocating the knight¡¯s shoulder. Sir Ortaire is thrown backwards off his black destrier. The fall, Sir Ortaire thinks briefly, will be heavy. Before he hits the ground, however, something worse happens. By some curse¡¯d fluke a splinter from the King¡¯s lance shoots backward and penetrates Bonomio¡¯s left eye as far as the brain.


    It takes him ten extremely painful days to die.


    The first conversation anyone has after the King hits the dirt, and shock and shouting subsides, takes place in the dim interior of the King¡¯s arming tent. An official from the Ministrare asks Sir Jolion Throape if they had best not proceed with the convocation of the great-moot until the King has recovered or, the Powers forfend, a successor has been chosen?


    ¡°Certainly not,¡± replies Sir Jolion, ¡°the King¡¯s decision will be confirmed by the Council this afternoon. In the meantime, there is much for you to set in motion. Thought must be given to which of the athelings will succeed. The King will not recover.¡±

 Prologue – Part 2 (From the Annals of Durwyn, King in the North)

    Of course, if this were a proper chronicle, scratched out in the fitful light of a single tallow by a cheerless munck in his comfortless cell, it would start as all chronicles should, at the beginning of what is known, with the lives of saints, genealogies, lists of kings and miracles, and so forth. But here we are come straight in at the deaths. And arriving thus, what use is it now to intone ¡°¡¯twas such and such year since our Bless¨¦d Redeemer died for our sins, when the Seven Kingdoms were sore beset and then began the time of trial and lamentation.¡± Things are already unravelling. That much must already be quite clear. Even those who count themselves safe in the Hidden Kingdom will suffer. For most people it¡¯s going to get bad. Really bad. But before we turn to those great days, we yet must witness more death.


    ***


    A lord and lady ahorse pick their way through the forest path on a bright brittle morning of a fateful spring. It does not occur to them that they are trespassing. They are accustomed to go where they please. The notion that these glades are denied them would merely bemuse them. It is the same cruel spring that has lately witnessed the deaths of the Archvilicor and the Paramount King, but as yet no rumour of this has penetrated so deeply the shires of Albion. The flight of Death is swifter. It is swiftest. Even now Death stalks this wood.


    The man is a baron, of ancient lineage, yet undistinguished in wealth, honour or achievement. The woman was born to a house not quite so old, yet both prouder and poorer than the house of the baron. She is, however, a queen, or so she insists. This is quite remarkable, for she is not a queen of any of the five ruled-realms, be it consort or dowager. This is problematic for the baron. Yet, if as she insists, her husband was Elf-anointed, then by the ancient law and custom of Albion, he is every bit as much a king as the Five. That, too, is problematic. She has fled this king she says, and, though she says she does not wish to talk of it, he somehow gathers there was much rage, drunkenness and cruelty. He is glad to be spared the details.


    What his retainers, following at a respectful distance, make of it all, History neither knows nor cares.


    The baron does not profess to be a great man, or even necessarily an especially good one, but he feels sure he is not a bad one. His marriage turned out to be a love match, and the castle they built together is a monument to that love. She died over a year since to his great sorrow. He does not suppose he will love again, but this queen is attentive and compelling. She has let him into her bed and he finds himself drawn to her. She is very keen to be presented at the courts of barons and kings, and, indeed, there are a number of introductions he could make, though he worries how this self-proclaimed queen will be received. It will reflect upon him, and that is problematic.


    They pull up beside a break in the trees. They glimpse distantly above the mists of the meads a great green hill, the ring of great trees upon its brow and the graceful tower that rises in their midst upon the summit.


    She turns to him, her pale-blue eyes wide and yearning, those thin red lips set darkly in her ironic smile, her alabaster complexion and her pale-golden hair caught in the low sun between the boughs, ¡°Pray, my lord, whose lands and tower is this?¡±


    It is a moment before he can summon an answer. He is bewitched.


    ***


    Proud as only one newly come into his full estate may be, the Star of the Morning smiles and gives knee to his dappled grey courser. He brings the beast to a canter. They sail through the sea of long grass, breaking through the straggling mists, the towered hill far behind them, the skirts of the circling woods before them. The eastern sun lights the blue dome of the heavens above. The tall lord laughs in the joy of his youth. His merriment trills like an icy spring tumbling between the mossy rocks of an upland dale. This, he thinks, is as near to perfection as this seen world can offer. And he is glad in this dawn.


    It could not last, of course; like summer, joy was fleeting. Presently, galloping hooves mark the arrival of his panting seneschal, a man, yet loyal to a fault. Also comes the lord¡¯s kinsman, the Knight of the Lily.


    ¡°Liege¡±, cries the man, ¡°pray have a care, the outer fences of your land have not proved the better of poachers of late. You should not ride out so far alone¡±.


    Pulling up his horse, the bright lord turns to answer, ¡°Edelstan, faithful one, we are never alone among the living things of this middle earth, besides, this is my land and I may ride as I like and where I please¡±.


    ¡°Suri herah¡±, says the other, ¡°Elfwynn Edelstan is right in this I deem. These days are ¡­. uncertain. We must have a care. Your father ¡­.¡±.


    ¡°Has retreated to the blessed isle and leaves the care of these lands to me. He may judge what he will from the courts of the evening at Luthany, but for Elvendon it is a new and glorious dawn¡±. Then, not wanting to seem self-important or censorious, he beatifies them with a smile and adds softly ¡°Dear friends, your love and your care I indeed cherish, for what are we but the sum of our companions and the joy they have in us? Yet¡±, he adds, an infectious smile tugging at his lips, his bright blue eyes sparkling like the heart of a diamond, ¡°it is the nature of this star to shine boldly in the dawn and this is a morning in a thousand. It should be greeted gaily ere it fades!¡± and with that he laughs and spurs his grey swiftly toward the forest.


    Just then a cloud, hitherto unnoticed, moves across the sun. Suddenly deprived of its warmth, the lord¡¯s companions feel for the first time the chill of the early morning air. The man shivers. The trees ahead now lie in shadow and look less friendly than they had but a moment before. Sooner than they had expected, their lord has disappeared beneath the darkling boughs.


    ¡°There is a change in the wind¡±, says Gallanthyss, the Knight of the Lily.


    ¡°Hmm, some chill in the east I deem,¡± answers Edelstan the Seneschal.


    ¡°Come, our Lord has passed from my sight, we must away to him will all speed.¡±


    ¡°Bugger¡± is all the response the seneschal offers, and they both spur their mounts toward the waiting forest.


    ***


    The clouded sun leaves the clearing in twilight, yet the two men have light enough for their work. Huffing and groaning they manage to sling the stag¡¯s carcass over the broad back of a patient and disdainful mule. They are ordinary folk, of no status, no importance. They are not even freemen, yet the older, gruffer one is chief to his tithe, though he is more of a bully than a father to his tithe-men. Now the man starts at a sudden sound as into the clearing rides the Star of the Morning, his steed stepping proudly and his bearing noble, his array bright and rich even in the sombre light. The gruff man considers the newcomer warily, calculating. Hagen is his name, indifferent is his reputation and unkempt his person. His reddish-brown tunic has old dirt crusted round its lower edges where they reach below his knees. The side slits are frayed. The elbows worn, but not patched. His half-boots are old and cracked, and muddied. He pulls down his old grey hood and looks directly at the Elf.


    ¡°What is this?¡±, cries the Elf lord, ¡°you tread without leave in the sacred groves of Elves, and you deal here in death and low thievery¡±.


    The Elf is chilling in his anger and disdain. His face exudes a cold light of fury, which bathes them in a chill of dread. The younger man is visibly trembling. He in fact wets himself. The older man, Hagen, thinks. He has committed trespass and poaching. Either one means death. He finds no explanation likely to excuse him both.


    Casually, almost without apparent thought, he draws a mattock from the baggage of the mule and walks over to the Elf. There is so little aggression in his movements that it barely registers as a threat. ¡°Fucking Elf¡±, says Hagen. With a great upward swing of the arm, Hagen strikes, burying the blade of the mattock in the Elf¡¯s neck. Blood spurts either side of it and the Star of the Morning¡¯s once beautiful face is contorted with horror. He slips off his mount and crashes to the ground. The light of the Far Shore fades from the eyes of the greatest of the Elder Folk in Albion. The Star of the Morning is dead.


    ¡°The Powers save us, what have you done?¡± cries his young companion.


    ¡°Ridded Albion of one more bloody Elf¡±, Hagen shoots the boy a threatening look and snaps, ¡°don¡¯t shit your braies on account of him¡±. Hagen then pauses in thought, ¡°a fine horse, but too rare for us to sell and death to be seen with. Let¡¯s see what else he had; search the body and be quick about it!¡± Hagen leads the nervous grey to the edge of the clearing and sends it into the deep wood with a smart blow to the haunches.


    ¡°He has this¡±, offers the young man to Hagen, holding up a large gemstone, gold mounted and on a gold chain. Hagen snatches it. It is brown and glints but dully in his hand. Hagen snorts in contempt at this unprepossessing bauble. Thinking the gold will give him wealth and freedom even if the rock is a worthless pebble, still, he cannot quite accept that something without value would be so extravagantly set. So, he holds it up to the light and the cloud passes, bathing the scene in warm light. The stone appears to come alive. It is no longer a mudstone, but translucent, with an inner, answering, light illuminating many colours within, browns, greys, even yellows and reds. Warm colours, as of sunbathed stones and rich dark earth. And they swirl and constantly change within the bright heart of the stone. They move, as if the thing were alive. ¡°What?¡± comes Hagen¡¯s gruff cry.


    The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    ¡°What indeed!¡± cries a cultivated voice.


    Examination of his prize may have meant fatal delay for Hagen, as a lord and lady, followed by armed retainers, trot into the clearing behind him, the scene of his crimes bathed in soft sunlight before them. Hagen pockets the gem, he does not think the newcomers have seen it. The lord who has addressed him is now looking alternatively at the slaughtered stag and the slaughtered Elf.


    ¡°What in the Hells proceeds here?¡±, says the lord, ¡°Why, I know you, you are a bondsman of mine and capital pledge of your tithe. Speak swiftly or your life is forfeit!¡±


    Then, miracle of miracles, in Hagen¡¯s view, before he can answer, the lady intervenes.


    ¡°Surely my lord it is clear. As chief tithing-man, no doubt this villein upholds the honour of your lordship by honouring his pledge. He doubtless followed this youth, his tithe-man, who even now trembles in craven shame and guilt, in time to witness, but sadly not prevent, his poaching of the deer and his slaying of the Elf who first discovered it¡±.


    The lord looks quizzically at the lady. He does not address her but turns to Hagen. ¡°Is this true, villein?¡±


    Hagen is later sure that he owes his life to being the first to find his voice, ¡°Aye, lord, the lady has the right of it. The lad had been sneaking of late to these very woods. I feared poaching, though none of the meat was seen by his village. Sold no doubt. Mindful that we, his tithe-men, are responsible for his conduct, and I am chief to them, I followed to see what he was about. My worst fears proved true, but, alas, I came upon him too late!¡±


    The young man, whose name History neglects to record, is to reflect, briefly, that his failure to speak first has probably caused his death. He is presently proved correct.


    Asked by the lord if it is true, his vehement denials and increasing panic fail to carry conviction in the face of the chief tithe-man¡¯s lucid evidence. He is not believed.


    He experiences brief, faint, hope, when the lord declares that he supposes the man must be arraigned to the King¡¯s Court for trial. Blood was drawn and the crimes are both grievous.


    Then the lady says, ¡°My lord, you have caught him red-handed. Your charter, I believe, has right of outfangenthef, so even though he is caught off the manor, you have the power¡±.


    The baron is staring at her in open-mouthed astonishment now. She fears she may have over-stepped. She lowers her eyes meekly and blushes, ¡°My husband the king, he trained in the law as well as in arms. If not so wise as you my lord, I will always concede he is learned. Some of what he said must have rubbed off on me and led me to speak of matters reserved to your lordship. Forgive me for the presumption¡±.


    The baron is surprised, not cross, and her explanation seems to him meet, ¡°Oh no my dear, you merely remind me of a power I have as yet held in abeyance¡±.


    ¡°Then, pray, spare this poor fellow the prolongation of his agony, waiting for his inevitable end for months in a foetid cage¡±.


    ¡°Very well¡±, says the baron, and motions to his retainers. They dismount, drag the boy behind a tree (he is crying and wailing, begging all the while, it is piteous) and cut off his head.


    ¡°Let us leave this dismal place¡±, says the baron. He should not allow the lady further distress he thinks. He also thinks that if more elves arrive, there will be awkwardness and unpleasant debate. Justice swiftly served is justice well served, and they should not linger.


    She, however, dismounts, ¡°First, I would have speech with your bondsman my lord¡±.


    He again is astonished, but the will to defy her is not there, and no words of objection come to him in time.


    ¡°Your name, villein?¡±


    ¡°Hagen, my lady.¡±


    ¡°Pray, Hagen, let me see that pretty bauble.¡±


    It is Hagen¡¯s turn to be astonished, but he knows he has no choice with this one and so draws out the stone.


    Suddenly the lady seems animated. Her eyes glow wide with a new light, though, thinks Hagen, it is not a kind one. She is smiling coldly when she speaks, ¡°This was from the Elf?¡±. Hagen nods.


    ¡°Good. It is not for the likes of you¡±. She is speaking low, her actions out of sight of the lord, Hagen notes. She gives him an appraising look. ¡°You cannot return to your tithing now. They must know your character, and will realise you betrayed the Youth¡±. Hagen shoots her a look of pure hate but says nothing. He knows she is right.


    That smile again, ¡°You will be your lord¡¯s gift to me and have a place at my table. I would have the service of a man such as you. Good¡±. She gets up, slipping the gem into the folds of her rich grey riding habit, ¡°you will soon come to see this day as the turning of your life. Of all our lives, come to that¡±.


    When the cloud passes there is more light in the wood. It is only a little time after the baron and his party set course homeward that the seneschal and the Knight of the Lily see the signs of their Lord¡¯s passing through the wood. They follow and swiftly find the clearing where he lies in blood and the ugliness of violent death. For them the horror of what has happened is unimaginable. The man¡¯s grief breaks forth first. The Elf seems still overcome, stilled by the shock of it. Then he springs his first tear and turns to Edelstan the Seneschal, ¡°Whatever happened here it is the foulest deed and the greatest loss in all the days of Elves in Albion. Mark, as you grieve, this death signifies the beginning of the end of all things as you have known them¡±.


    ***


    That might be thought a portentous enough beginning. Events have been set in motion that will, by turns, run to ends unseen, ends that might yet see all of us undone. I, the author of this chronicle, can merely record what has lately passed. I have not the gift of prophesy, but then, what is prophecy beyond a man saying a thing must happen and he or some other setting out to see that it becomes so? A thing is either done or it is not done. It is not pre-ordained to be so. Nothing is inevitable until it happens. By this you may know me as heretic.


    So, the Knight of the Lily and the seneschal grieve and rage and by and by rouse the guard. Far-sighted and skilled as trackers, the elves follow the lord and lady. Spying the retinue, they overhaul them beyond the borders of their land.


    This is what the lord has feared. An awkward encounter. Armed warriors on both sides. Elves in anger. Men in fear. He thinks to take the initiative, so rounds on his pursuers, calling out to them.


    ¡°You are not in the Elf-lands, but ride under arms in my demesne. Pray, state your business, but ready yourselves to retire peaceably.¡±


    ¡°We ride hot upon the trail of infamy,¡± replies the Elf-knight, ¡°a most grievous murder has been done, our lord is slain. Even by your own laws we have the right to pursue his killer.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll not find him here. He was caught, adjudged, and despatched by our authority.¡±


    ¡°It remains to be seen whether you dispensed justice thereby, but as to your authority, enacting the laws of Men in the land of Elves is an uncertain thing. You must return with us and be examined before the Council. All of you.¡±


    ¡°We will not!¡± The lord is struggling to retain his composure, he is purpling, in fact, ¡°Get ye gone from my fief!¡±


    ¡°We have the just cause, and the advantage in both numbers and puissance, my lord, pray do as we ask and do not make yourselves reluctant guests in Elvendon.¡±. The Knight of the Lily remains calm, yet there is no mistaking his tone of decision.


    The lord is no fool. He should avoid this fight, he full well knows, but he cannot afford to submit. He cannot be seen to do so, and he does not trust the Elves. He is fearful of being in their power. He likes to think he is a man who weighs his words, who knows where they will lead before he speaks them, though who, truly, knows that? Now he does not know where his word will lead, but he says it anyway, because, it is the only word he can say.


    ¡°No¡±.


    Elven blades sing forth from elven scabbards. They glitter like stars. The lord¡¯s men look fearfully, one to another, yet draw their swords in turn. The flowers of the meadow are trampled by the restive horses. The morning sun beams uncomprehendingly upon them.


    The lady draws forth the brown stone she lately took from Hagen. She holds it in the palm of one hand, circling her other hand over it. She closes her eyes and incants. The opposing warriors eye each other. No one is looking at her.


    She knows what the stone is, of course, though most would not. She has art enough and will to awaken it, she is sure, but it will take many weeks, months probably, to gain any degree of proficiency, she thinks. Yet she must see what she can do with it now. Truth be told, she is pleased at the chance. She clears her mind in order to focus upon the stone.


    The Knight of the Lily walks his horse forward. His warriors fan out behind him. The lord¡¯s men form a tight circle around him. There is a pause, it will only be a short pause, before the Elf-knight calls the attack and his warriors will spur forward to close the gap.


    But then the ground begins to tremble. The surface of the meadow deforms. Tufts of meadow grass and flowers are torn up as if by invisible hands and tossed aside. They are followed by gouts of earth and small stones. The clumps of earth become larger. They are torn up, rise higher, and are flung aside with accelerating speed. They are flung towards the Elves and their mounts. The line of erupting earth advances towards them. The lady observes the effect impassively as her hand weaves ever more deft and complex patterns over the stone at frantic speed. The men and their horses are spooked and edging backward. They are not in danger, but they do not understand what is happening. The Elf mounts are shying away as great clods of earth are hurled at them. Soil and stones clatter off raised shields. One Elf is struck a heavy blow on the helm by a rock. They are involuntarily yielding ground as the violence of the advancing earth-storm increases. A widening, deepening chasm in the earth now blocks the forward path of the Elves, and they cannot now withstand the fury of the onslaught. The Elf-knight sees what is happening and perceives the cause. He locks eyes with the lady, yelling above the tumult, ¡°What have you done?¡±


    She only smiles in reply, and there is no let-up in her storm of soil and stone. The Knight of the Lily looks upon her in horror admixed with disgust, and wheels his horse away, calling his men to follow.


    The earth and rock cease to rise, they fall swiftly and heavily, drumming onto the ruined ground. Only beneath the lord¡¯s party is the grass still growing. He is looking at her now with an expression of absolute horror, ¡°What devilry of the Seven Hells was that? Witch you are, get gone from my house and lands and darken not my door henceforward!¡±


    ¡°Pray, be not so foolish G¨¦rald,¡± replies the lady, smiling in the revelation of her power, ¡°I am now mistress of an Elfstone, and you should rejoice that you still have chance to aid me. It is time, I deem, that you present me at the court of your liege lord, Earl Gredig.¡±


    The lord is gazing at the stone. Seeing this, the lady slips it away. He raises his eyes to hers. They are large and beautiful, and he feels momentarily lost. He tries to recall what he was about to say but cannot. He was, he feels, about to rebuke her, but he is not sure why and feels his sense of opposition weakening. She is smiling at him. Her lips are thin, but full red. Her smile is hard, but it is given to him, and he feels elated. He was about to say something, but whatever it was, it does not matter now, so, instead, he says ¡°why?¡±


    Still smiling, perhaps a little sardonically now, she answers, ¡°Because, my lord, he is said to be the richest man in Albion, and I shall need an army.¡±


    ***

 Chapter 1: The Vale - Part 1

    The First Room ¡­


    A shadow fell upon her mind. The flickering room seemed briefly darker to her, the cheer of the fire diminished. The autumn chill struck at both warmth and comfort as if they were the illusion. The Veil seemed suddenly taught here, thin. Did she cast the shadow, or was it cast upon her? Her thoughts hunted the danger through the darkness. They found nothing. This was a place of Men. The castle savoured of an unfamiliar tang in her mind, her inner sight was dulled by this Mannishness, the stolid stone of prosaic walls. A place of safety for her, yet what could she do hedged about in the narrow world of the Second Born?


    The slaying of the Morning Star had changed everything. Men of Albion were restive, at odds with themselves. The Dark Elves, shadow-folk of the Combes, were wary, were arming. For the High Elves summer passed with injured Elvendon yet wrathful, keen in watchfulness, unslaked in anger, while her mother, she suspected, had mourned her cousin with defiance, with plans drawn and armouries stocked. For all peoples, old scars grew again livid, while raw fresh wounds smarted. The air of Albion tasted of uncertainty tinged with an edge of pregnant violence. It was the end of all things as we knew them, they had said.


    She was not the same, now this had been laid upon her. Hers was but a part, a little light in the vastness of night Nan Un had said. Yet would anything she did remove her taint? Her bitter smile rebuked the question and gave the answer.


    The Dark Elves sang no songs for the passing of the Star of the Morning, why should they? Their mood was grim nonetheless. Nan Un had sent for her.


    Nan Un¡¯s chamber had reeked of a pungent greasiness, wholly alien to her.


    ¡°Eat¡±, Nan Un had said simply.


    ¡°What is that?¡±, she had cried in dismay.


    ¡°Boiled bacon and peas, Elyssa. It¡¯s what Men chiefly eat.¡±


    ¡°And this?¡±, she had indicated a second dish, which contained a green-grey repellent soup, marbled with more grease, in which suspicious shapes floated malignantly just below the surface.


    ¡°Same. In a form called ¡®potage¡¯¡±, she articulated the last word carefully, with delicate unfamiliarity, ¡°You must learn to eat such fare. And like it. There is much else to learn besides¡±.


    At that, her grandmother declined to say more. So Elyssa had eaten the rancid man-food and kept silent.


    Elyssa was not stupid, marked, cursed perhaps, and outcast, but not stupid. She knew she was being schooled to pass as a Daughter of Man. Yet it was many weeks, after many furtive lessons in the food and apparel, speech and manners, laws and customs, and superstitions and beliefs of Men, before Nan Un deigned to offer an explanation.


    ¡°You must seek out the King in the North¡¯s daughter. He holds the gryphon castle in the Vale, beyond which stands the dragons¡¯ gate. Though it lies in the very lee of your mother¡¯s lands, no consideration, even that, can stay you or check your resolve for a moment. Your mother places her trust in the king her father, but my daughter is prideful and not always so wise as she thinks. Besides, the mettle of his daughter is untested. The stone above everything, Elyssa. Save the daughter, if you can, but save the stone she bears. Bring them safe within our western walls. Or bring the stone.¡±


    ¡°How will I know this stone?¡± Elyssa had asked at length.


    ¡°Because I will give you this to study,¡± and Nan Un withdrew from her sleeve a small soft bag, and, gesturing her granddaughter to hold out her hand, dropped it into Elyssa¡¯s palm.


    Elyssa rolled the polished oval stone round her palm. It felt light for its size, and held many shades of blues and greys, flecked with whisps of white, stirring within it.


    Nan Un spoke again, ¡°Each elf-stone has its silent sisters, so-called because they are mute, with the appearance of a singing stone, but no power to voice. Take it to the window, Elyssa.¡±


    Elyssa did so, holding it up to the light and seeing the hues of the sky change and swirl in the depth of the stone, now made bright and translucent in the sun.


    ¡°Look for the stone that looks like this, but which has a power deep within it. You, I trust, will know the difference. I doubt Men have the ability to sense a stone of power. Your princess will be deaf to the song in the soul of the stone.¡±


    And so, with this task before her, Elyssa departed the fair Elfcombes of the west. Ever hidden in plain sight of Men, she had picked a weary way northward, always in fear, ever in hope, if generally in bad weather. Now at last was won the safety of the Vale, and she would not now be cowed by mere unfamiliarity of circumstance. Besides, there were reasons for present cheer. Had she not travelled out of danger into safety, and was it not good for any exile to be out of the cold and the wind and the driving rain? And this was a homely enough room to be in, even elegant, after the fashion of Men. The fire was now more cheerful seeming, and she could almost fancy herself warm. For all that the places of Men were strange to her mind, the white turreted Gryphonhold, high amid the pretty Vale, with the blue waters of the mere and its fields and woods, was a good place. It was said that the King and his daughter would come here to meet an Earl of Men and his son, who had travelled from a place to the south. If so, there might be no need to pass beyond the Gryphonhold to Dragongate, though she had hoped to see the Hidden Realm. It was known that the shadow-folk had found sanctuary in the Hidden Realm. Curious, yet thrilling, it seemed to her, these cousins shared the land with other races. She must at least amid Elf-friends, she decided.


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    She began to relax. She saw strength, or at least resolution, in the young woman in the looking glass. Her raven hair was shining, adorned by a simple silver circlet on which the bloodstone glowed fiercely. Her pale Elven face now looked calm and implacably beautiful, her crimson and black gown gathered about her with a silver girdle. Motionless and silent she stood as she thought the last of her thoughts there.


    Then she sensed something chillingly dark. Something Fell. She threw a mantle over the glass. Something was suddenly very wrong. Concern flared in her crystal grey eyes, deep within them the red flecks of her blood-kindred flashed in alarm. Her lips parted in shock. A change was happening. Was she too late, after all? There was a raw pain in her head now. She staggered at its onslaught. She fought back; she had to master her mind and regain her sight. At length she succeeded.


    Something was moving, she saw, great, powerful and malevolent, and it was here, in the Vale, at the very walls of the Gryphonhold.


    Just then she heard the insistent ringing of a great bell, as if the very metal was in fear and great anguish. She touched the stone upon her forehead and uttered a silent invocation. There were strange shouts and hurried horn calls now. Rushing feet. She took up her bow and quiver and let herself out into the passage¡­.


    ***


    The Second Room ¡­


    A start, even an unpromising one, is a start, she reflected. It was an unfamiliar room in a strange place. The image in the looking glass also looked unfamiliar, as if she had left one Sigird behind and found another. She supposed she had. Or, she added ruefully, it could just be because she was wearing a frock, and with her copper-red hair grown out, combed and dressed. This was a Sigird seldom seen. She supposed it was the Sigird she would now see every day.


    She had escaped her home with its suffocation of expectation. And trousers, and swords and spears, and the back-slapping heartiness of flatulent boys; she had escaped them, too. She left behind the bitter censure of her father, the sting of his reproaches, to be somewhere she had chosen, to embark upon a life she had chosen. There was always a place in the Hidden Kingdom, for those who needed one, she had heard, if one had the spirit and endurance to win through. She was immensely lucky, she knew, to have been offered such a place; her family knew the King¡¯s, apparently, and she silently thanked her grandmother for making the discrete approach. Thus, it seemed to her all the more vital that she did not bungle it. Yet her plans may yet come to ruin. Her first day at the castle, had been an exercise in humiliation. Through the acerbic medium of Afor Housemother¡¯s scalding tongue, she learnt how little she knew of the world of court, or of royalty, or of fine ladies. In time, she hoped, she would adjust. At least the dress looked well enough on her, and her curtsies, which she sternly reminded herself she would remember to make in future, would become more graceful and less like ¡°a collapsing scaffold.¡± Of most immediate concern was to understand what was expected of a princess-companion. Not that she had so much as glimpsed the Princess, but, then, no one she had spoken to seemed to have so much as glimpsed her either. Strange. She had heard the phrase ¡°the Hidden Princess¡± spoken on the back stairs, but, somehow, sensed that it was not a name to be repeated in the upper rooms. She supposed from this insight that she was capable of learning the subtleties of court life after all. At least her awkward bearing, jerky gait and offensive sitting (¡°legs together, girl, you are not milking a cow!¡±) had yet to offend the royal gaze. With luck, her rough edges would be knocked off before she had to meet it. In the meantime, she should stop staring at herself in the elf-glass. A novelty, to be sure, but one to be wary of. You could lose yourself in the reflection of a looking glass, they said.


    She gathered that the court would remove to Dragongate in the coming days. If she was accepted into the Princess¡¯s household, she would be assigned lodgings there. She supposed these would be somewhat smaller and more workaday than this guest chamber in the Gryphonhold. She suspected, too, that this would hardly matter; she would hardly have time between duties to inhabit it. This evening, however, she had leave to retire to her chamber to ready herself for a feast in the Great Hall, a welcome for the Earl and his son.


    She moved to warm herself by the grate. This far north in the Marchlands, she supposed, all but the warmest summer days must see a fire kept for much needed cheer and to keep at bay the damp that would creep through the walls from the mists and drizzles, the rills and becks, and the mossy grass of the hills. But, tonight at least she had window-glass and shutters and thick woven hangings to keep draft and damp at bay, and, of all wonders, a canopied bed. Such luxury she had not known in the oaken halls of her father. Yet, nor, she reminded herself, had there been much of cold, damp or draft in the warm, rich, glow and insulating fug of her home. The searching wind was a constant cold companion in the Northern dale she called home, but her father¡¯s halls were proof against it. The smoke of peat hearths hung among the rafters before it seeped out through the thatch and turf of the rooves. The soft shadows and bright hearth-light of the dim interior were ever there to welcome the warrior home from the hard ride. A pang of something sharp, a shard of regret sliding like a knife between the ribs, stung her for a moment, then passed. She was, she assured herself, where she wanted to be. It would be fine. She would not fail. If need be, she would take each day as it came and survive them one at a time, and this day saw her warm, dry and ensconced in modest luxury.


    She would embrace the comfort, the style of the place. She would make it part of her. She would come to belong to it and it to her. She drew strength from her new sense of purpose. Strength to face the throngs of courtiers in bright halls to which presently she must descend. Yet, even as she surveyed the trappings of her new life, she was reminded that her old life was still a part of her, and, in every sense, she had brought it with her. These fine stone walls would have to learn to accommodate that Sigird too.


    Her spear, Mail-Piercer, stood leaning into the dim corner of the stone chamber. She had left it where it was least likely to get in the way or startle a servant, or, she admitted, be noticed by her. Yet, she was drawn to it now. Beside it a small and battered plain wooden trunk, folded upon the closed lid of which were her boots, breaches and jerkin. In the trunk, hidden from her gaze, her harness - sword, dagger, jack, hauberk and helm - lay in reproachful darkness. They had, she thought, been the embarrassing relics of a past she had turned from. She had not wanted to bring them, or, expected to. She had found, though, that she could not bear to leave them to gather dust in her father¡¯s halls, the subject of remark by the curious; the arms of the maid who fought like a man so she could be the son her father had wished for. Unexpectedly, she found that, from these things, too, she drew a strength. She, who had ridden hard, in both flight and pursuit; she, who had fought hard, in both red-vengeance and at bay; she, who had killed at need for hearth and house and the honour of her father. She could surely master the parlour games of courtly dames?


    It was then that she heard the frantic ringing of a bell, swiftly taken up by the blaring of horns, both near and far, as if calling and replying throughout the castle. And then, the sound of shouts and the pounding of many feet. Without thought she rushed to her chamber door and stepped out into the wide stone passage beyond it ¡­.


    ***

 Chapter 1: The Vale - Part 2

    The Third Room ¡­


    So far, so good, and pretty good at that, thought Sacrissa. Thanks to Fool Brother, I¡¯m in precisely the right place at precisely the right time for once. Keep a cool head, don¡¯t get cocky and it¡¯s job done. And looking good, too, if I say so myself, thank you mirror on the wall. Still, I always did scrub up well when I wanted to. And purple really is my colour. A fine chamber, richly appointed, and a warm fire. I feel quite at home. And a fine goose feather bed. Let¡¯s hope I shall have a chance to enjoy it. For the present there is a cushioned chair, and wine and luxury enough while I await the festivities below. Fine duds and a fine gaff. It¡¯ll be back to working clothes and queer lodgings soon enough. But, for now, the Lady Sacrissa must walk the stage to the manner born, as, of course, she is. In life one must learn to take the smooth with the rough.


    She was alone, which was how she liked it. The less the servants knew the better. Her man was doubtless getting drunk with the lewd soldiery in a guardroom somewhere and her dupe of a maid she had sent off as soon as she was dressed. Grateful for the night off, perhaps she was also now in search of lewd soldiery? Let them both depart and enjoy themselves. It was not, after all, their tale.


    She smiled in the glass; ¡®Mine is a life of danger, to be sure, but that is what makes it a life worth living, besides, to be fair, the danger is usually to other people. I¡¯m not one for regrets, but, truth, I have no cause for them. I could have chosen the cloying comfort of home, but a feather bed is nothing to the open road and a night gallop.  I have much that others do not, the fruits of study of arcane mysteries. And sword-pay and wrestling, pitting speed and grace against lumbering strength. Fine things, but not so fine as a war of wits where the deadliest weapon is a pretty face with a lie upon its lips and merry devilment in its eyes!¡¯


    There were risks, of course. A castle full of knights and men-at-arms was a tough proposition. Yet, she told herself, she could handle it. True, there were many layered defences, the twisting ramp passing under successive gates up the rock foundations of the massy curtain wall, the bridges and portcullises, the many round towers, the concentric walls.  But they were all to keep people out. She was already inside. Only if she failed here might she have to go onto Dragongate, assuming it even existed.  If it did, it would be a lot more castle, full of many more knights and men-at-arms, oh, and not to mention, guarded by dragons, apparently.  All this might be seen as a disincentive for others of her profession, but she had advantages that they did not. She was a woman in a predominantly male profession.  That, if you knew how to work it, could be an advantage. And, boy, she knew how to work it. Moreover, such work took her generally among the rich, powerful and high-born. Most in her line of work suffered under the handicap of sticking out like an elf¡¯s ear in the upper rooms, but she, well, she knew she could play the tavern wench or scullery maid to perfection, but nobility was the role she was born to. It got her to all the right places and she fitted in perfectly when she got there. True, it galled her sometimes that she often had to rely on Eric for access. He, tall, handsome, if mentally slow, never lacked invitations. Still, he was useful, and, like all those strapping knights and men-at-arms, was easy enough to fool. Dragons, mind you, it was said were impossible to fool. If the hunt took her further north, what then?


    This had not been an easy job thus far, she thought, and she deserved success. Aside from the brilliance and audacity required tonight, she had endured a tiresome journey trailing her father¡¯s entourage at a discreet distance. The trek north over the interminable Wastes to the mysterious Marchlands had been, well, interminable.  The Earl¡¯s party had been forced to stop at innumerable dank castles and wretched inns while envoys sped ahead, far and wide, searching for the Vale. She had followed the rumour of them at a discrete distance. The Vale, had been hard enough to find, yet was rumoured somehow to be merely the gateway to Dragongate, whence no stranger was suffered to pass. Dragongate, if it were any more than a children¡¯s story, lay somewhere in the freezing wastes of the uttermost north. It guarded the fabled Hidden Realm, where all manner of folk were said to dwell.  Beyond that, well, some said, there was an endless wild, home to the Elves and the Powers knew what else. Her enquiries, as always, had been extensive.  Yet, few were able to tell her aught of Dragongate, and none could, or would, say where it lay.  One informant assured her that no-one in living memory had seen the Guardians of Dragongate, though, to be fair, she imagined there was not much incentive to brave the perilous ascents to their eyries to see if they were still there.  Still, if they hadn¡¯t been seen in years, they either didn¡¯t exist or had been asleep for ages and were not easily roused. Rather like Eric, she thought.


    Fool Brother was already playing his unwitting part. His billing and cooing had brought the King and the Hidden Princess to the Vale. Tonight, in the Gryphonhold there would be feasting and dancing ¨C Eric can at least do those things well enough ¨C and by his gallantry the great secret of the hidden princess would be revealed.  Sacrissa contemplated this outcome with satisfaction, and may even have smacked her lips, though that was not ladylike in the least. She would accomplish her work here, she decided, without a whiff of suspicion, and without need to go dragon-hunting in mythical realms. She had potions and powders to confuse and disable, though it might be that a misdirection and a moment of well-timed audacity would gain her prize. Then it was simply playing the part until the dreary visit was over and then home with an extra bulge in her baggage and an escort of her father¡¯s house guard. And, if it went wrong, a swift horse waiting at the town gate. In the meantime, she had put the time waiting for Their Majesties to good use, gathering all the knowledge she could, while messengers went to and from the heights of the castle and the splendour of her father¡¯s tented encampment with rumours of marriages and alliances.


    After a stay at the rancid inn in Stowham, she had penetrated the castle and spent some days in the guise of an indoor servant learning what she could, before presenting herself once more at the gates, but this time as a scion of the House of Daw, accepted as an honoured guest at the very heart of the court. All was in place. She could enjoy surprising her father and brother at the feast, though only one of them was likely to be pleased to see her. She had the sense she was living in a great tale, and that it was very much her story. Hers was the leading role, and she must play her part to the utmost; ¡®I must be prepared. I just have to reach out my hand to the prize of my life ¡­¡¯.


    But then she heard, or sensed, a change in the atmosphere that cut her train of thought dead in its tracks.  The normal background noise of castle life ¨C this castle, any castle ¨C seemed to have suddenly ceased, like a sharp intake of breath. For a moment, just a moment, there was silence. And then she understood as the alarm bell, swinging wildly with a desperate, fearful, clanging, assaulted the air. All the Hells then seemed to break loose. She heard anger, but, above all, fear in the harsh shouts of men.  For the merest moment of time she felt fear, the fear of discovery, fear that she was now no longer the hunter, but the hunted. Reason took over in an instant.  This was nothing to do with her.  This was a general alarm. She heard the anxious braying of the soldiers¡¯ horns from the lower walls to the topmost and back. The clanging of arms and the thudding rapid tread of heavy feet. The guards and watches and reserves were mustering at their places of battle.  Presently the fortress would, literally, be crawling with fearful, suspicious and, above all, heavily armed men. This was a complication and complications were unwelcome. She must think and adapt her plans. Whatever the cause, the present state of the castle was one she recognised, and, indeed, was one she sometimes had reason to induce; panic.  Panic, she reflected, was opportunity. At the very least, it seemed to her, it should make for an entertaining evening. She hitched up her skirts and checked that the long, thin, assassin¡¯s dagger was present and correctly seated in her thigh scabbard, before smoothing everything back in place. She took a last glance in the glass and saluted her reflection; ¡°Take courage then roll the dice!¡± Three elegant and haughty strides took her to the door. With a quite unnecessary toss of the head, she stepped out into the passage ¡­


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    ***


    The Passage ¡­


    One passage. Three young women.  All had emerged from their respective rooms the same instant. For the same cause. They looked each other up and down in that pause while it is just too soon to speak, or to think what to say.


    Sacrissa spoke first. In her line, you had to think on your feet and speak before a blow could be struck so that it wouldn¡¯t have to be. You had to assess. You had to do it quickly. Then you had to take control ¡­ with conversation. She looked to the right and assessed. An inoffensive girl, looking hesitant. Another guest dressed for the feast. Not the priority. Now, left ¡­. an Elf! High born and highly strung, no doubt. Nice gemstone. Fence it where and for what? Full court gown with jewel and archery accessories. Interesting look. Very rich, too; Elven nobility or royalty. Ransome value? Proud and dangerous and ¡­. unusual. What is she here for? Looks like she can handle herself. If I had to fight her, I might lose. Still, useful to stand beside, or behind, in a fight, and she¡¯s clearly up for it. Good.


    Now, right, where I left you my timid friend.  Wait¡­! For the split second I saw it, she moved with a certain ¡­. What? Hard to tell in that dress.  Why? Women move well in dresses, that¡¯s the point of them. What did I see then? She moved with the ease of a cat, not the grace of a lady. No, with the poise and balance of a fighter!  Well, how now, my awkward little shy-boots with your red tresses and pretty freckles and your downcast eyes. There is more to you than meets the eye, my squirrel.


    So, interestingly, Sacrissa concluded, it might be that we are three fighters together, well, two fighters and a rogue, perhaps. In dresses. Not ideal; I¡¯ll come to that in a moment. First, take control.


    ¡°That is the alarm bell, which means the castle is under-attack,¡± Sacrissa began, ¡°We are in an internal passage while our rooms face a courtyard. This passage runs north to south, with at each end a stair tower pierced with windows. We can, then, easily discover the direction of the threat. Shall we see? Name¡¯s Sacrissa of Trenisslia, by the way.¡±


    ¡°My honour¡± replied the Elf, inclining her head, ¡°I am Elyssa of the Blood, known as Bloodraven,¡± and, turning to the other ¡°I would be honoured to know your name.¡±


    ¡°Sigird of Tuttadale,¡± Sigrid replied, ¡°as I am honoured to learn yours.¡± She curtsied. She hoped properly. The Elf nodded in acknowledgement.


    ¡°Good, then, come, daughter of Tuttadale, let us to the south window. The threat is to the south.¡± Elyssa took Sigird lightly by the arm and they hurried to the stair.


    ¡°Alright,¡± Sacrissa shrugged, and with that she followed on.


    Sacrissa had been right there would be a view to the south; through an arch and down a short flight there was a break in the stairs and the bay of a window, narrowing to a tall open slit in the stone.


    They squeezed their heads to the embrasure. And for a beat, it was as if their hearts had stopped and their breath was stayed.


    There, in the evening light, lay the lower walls of the Gryphonhold, glinting pale and pink in the low sun above the western cliffs of the Circling Hills.  Below them, in shadow, lay the town of Stowham, the meeting place and the limit of where strangers to the Vale might come and abide. Beyond its streets, a wall, then a wide, open, bailey where the Earl was not camped, and beyond an outer wall.  Beyond that lay the rich pastures and fields of the Vale, a place of streams and byres and little copses. None of this fair farmland could now  be seen, for covering the ground beyond the outer wall, and both sides of the road all the way to the Circling Hills beyond, was a mighty host.  The like of it they had never seen, and it was greater than any of which they¡¯d heard tell from the Kings¡¯ Wars of their parents¡¯ far off youth.


    ¡°By the Powers ¡­.¡± murmured Sigird. Elyssa briefly closed and then opened her eyes, as if that might dispel the sight.


    Sacrissa swallowed hard in mute agreement. A mighty host of heavily armoured, well-armed and apparently homicidally inclined men put, she considered, a rather different complexion upon things.  For one thing, they blocked her way back south should she need an escape route. For another they had doubtless upset her plans for the evening. They would certainly need to be disposed of before she could continue with her machinations. That, she confessed, was annoying in the extreme.


    Turning from the window, the Lady of Trenisslia smiled, ¡°Well ladies, we are all in some measure women of the North I deem. Might we thus in some measure repay the hospitality of our royal host by assisting him with this difficulty?¡± Sacrissa turned to the Elf, ¡°Lady, may I ask, have your barbs yet tasted blood?¡±


    ¡°I had the honour to lead the High Host of Belshlannoth against the Moon-kin at the battle of Gellathwyn, as told in song,¡± then the lady blushed a little, ¡°Truth be told it was more of a skirmish, though my arrows flew true and deadly enough. Bards will be bards; the tale was sung quite a bit, as I recall, for a year or two.¡± And for the first time, the Elf smiled.


    ¡°It is well,¡± answered Sacrissa, ¡°for I am no shot with the bow, and with the sword I am but an indifferent hacker and slasher,¡± she turned to Sigird, ¡°but you, my lady, you are surely trained to the blade, and staunch and puissant and ready for the fray?¡±


    ¡°Well, yes¡±, replied the slight red-headed girl uncertainly.


    ¡°Well then, I fancy I can find us the quickest way from here to the royal armoury. Though as I, for one, came here for quite another sort of engagement, pray let us shed this finery and don something more suited to the dance at which we find ourselves.¡± With that Sacrissa turned to her chamber.


    ¡°But I ¡­,¡± began Sigird, but the mischievous lady had already left. Turning to the Elf, ¡°how was she so sure I would fight, could fight?¡±


    ¡°I imagine that Lady Sacrissa has observed something of the power that lies now veiled within you,¡± answered Elyssa.


    ¡°Power?¡± replied Sigird.


    ¡°Yes, your bravery, your honest loyalty, and your skilful propensity for extreme violence.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± said Sigird, ¡°that.¡±

 Chapter 1: The Vale - Part 3

    The Fourth Room ¡­


    Higher, larger, lighter and more opulent was a fourth chamber. A young woman, golden-haired, with fine if haughty features, was also regarding herself in a looking glass. She stared critically at her reflected image with hard cold green eyes, which stared back, green, hard and cold, with marked disapproval. She had cleaned her face in the ice-cold water of the basin before her, but otherwise remained travel-stained, in the dour and dusty mannish garb of her travelling clothes; more woodsman than lady. She had seen what she needed to, and it did not do to linger in the glass. She sighed and turned aside.


    By her side sat her companion, auburn hair put up and dressed, and richly garbed in an opulent damask green gown. She lounged easily on the rich canopied bed. Beside her lay a discarded gown of infinite richness, raw red silk and gold brocade. In an adjacent chamber a servant was to be heard weeping.


    ¡°Lady ¡­.,¡± began the woman in the green gown.


    ¡°I know,¡± said the other, turning again to regard herself harshly in the mirror, ¡°it is not that poor child¡¯s fault, she was just trying to do her job,¡± she paused and, frowning at her reflection, added, ¡°Amora, I should be better than I am.¡±


    ¡°So should we all,¡± replied the other, ¡°but we do not all face what you now do.¡±


    ¡°Yet I made my bargain. My father has honoured it fully all these years, and my bartered freedom ends now.¡±


    ¡°It is a bargain you made when you were but thirteen, a child, and you know your father would never hold you to ¡­. all parts of it.  Did he not say so at your last meeting?¡±


    ¡°It is a bargain that gave me years of freedom that one in my position had no right to expect. It was never forever, I knew that, and it has run its course.¡± There was a pause. The Lady Amora, knowing there was more, remained silent and presently her companion continued, ¡°The things we saw on the road north ¡­ I felt we were followed, spied out as never before. Ragged doomsayers ranting in marketplaces. Bands of men abroad on the roads, sullenly furtive, yet purposeful they seemed. The arming at Eoforwick. The attack¡­ It seems to me these are times that recall me to duty. We must add our news to the King¡¯s counsels ere we feast.


    ¡°Yet now the time has come to give it up ¡­.. it is hard. I know cannot pick and choose the terms of my surrender. If this is what my father needs, what the North needs¡­. well, it is part and parcel of duties long evaded. In fact, I¡¯ve seen the merchandise; honey will sweeten the bitter draft! Yet, I wish it were not so. It is not my choice or my desire to do this now.¡±


    She sounded selfish in her own estimation, which made her cross, which caused the girl in the glass to pout, which made her crosser. Annoyed at her worst self, she finally turned again to her companion speaking softly, ¡°Knowing the right thing to do does not made the doing of it any easier.¡±


    ¡°Then ride,¡± said the other, ¡°let us take up our saddlebags and ride.  Let the night wind take us where it will. You have been content to live the life of an outlaw, and you know your father would forgive you.¡±


    ¡°You would counsel treason? But yes,¡± said the other, suddenly grave, ¡°I daresay he would.  He always has. Yet, the knowledge that he would not rage at my defiance somehow takes the savour from the wilfulness of my desires. He loves me truly, and I am the only happiness in his life. How could I grieve him so?¡±


    Sombre as a mourner at a graveside, she stepped to the bed and managed a smile of sad resolution as she picked up the dress, ¡°Here, help me with this, would you?¡±


    But before the other could return her smile, the quiet of the chamber was suddenly broken by loud and deep metallic note, then another. Boom, sounded the stern notes, like brazen strokes of doom.  Then they became faster, an insistent clanging.


    ¡°The alarm bell!¡± the stern lady cried, her cheeks flushed with colour, her emerald eyes shining bright. She strode to a cupboard and took out a sword, bow and quiver, turning to her companion as she did so, ¡°Amora, get out of that dress and back into your boots and breaches, while I rouse out that good-for-nothing page of yours!¡±


    ¡°Of mine?¡±, said the lady in the green gown, blushing fiercely.


    The other woman simply winked at her in response, then, as she swung open the door to the passageway, she added, ¡°and please give that servant the week off. I don¡¯t think I¡¯m going to be needing one after all.¡±


    ***


    The armoury ¡­.


    Sergeant-of-Arms Bartaland was on duty in the royal armoury at the Gryphonhold. He¡¯d had his hands full. This had proved his hardest half hour¡¯s work in years, though, he noted with satisfaction, his system ¨C he had brought it from the armouries of Dragongate - had run smoothly. Sergeant Radwin, the Gryphonhold armourer, and his lads, had worked well, and the men coming on duty had been equipped with commendable speed. After the first rush, his visitors had slowed to a trickle and then, apparently, ceased. He told Radwin to get off and get some rest; soldiers should take rest when they could.  He saw off the last remaining soldiers and closed his inventory book. Clattering echoes died from his cavernous dungeon domain. All fell silent. He let the last of the armoury lads go. Well, they deserved to see some of the fun, didn¡¯t they?


    Bartaland was an old soldier, and he¡¯d had his share of fun, oh yes, though never say never, as they say. He¡¯d served the King since ¡­ well, since before he¡¯d ever thought to be a king, back when he¡¯d been a mere snot-nosed knight in his first command. Ambushed by brigands whilst on patrol in the glooms of the Morosian Forest, Bartaland had carried, dragged, and, at least at one point, rolled, the wounded young knight to safety. That young knight had survived Bartaland¡¯s rescue and prospered, and that young knight had not forgotten him. When the expedition commander, Lord Selwin, commended Bartaland for his deed in front of the whole company, all the soldier could think to stammer was ¡°well, ¡®e was down on the ground, like, so I thinks I¡¯d better just lug him home¡±.  That turn of phrase had elicited a good deal of ribald laughter, which Bartaland recalled only too well. As the Keeper of Arms in the royal armoury, Sergeant Bartaland was a figure of great dignity, as well as responsibility, and the terror of young recruits. Only their royal Highnesses and select intimates of Bartaland, mainly grizzled veterans as old and ugly as him, knew, and could dare to apply, his nickname, Lug.


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    As the Keeper of Arms Bartaland never let anything out of his keeping without receiving two things in return; a mark in the ledger from the man drawing his weapons, and the answer to any enquiry he saw fit to make of him. This way, as the armoury had emptied, and men returned to all parts of the castle, Bartaland¡¯s knowledge of the tactical situation had grown. Aside from the commanders, Bartaland sat in his windowless subterranean gloom probably knew more than any other soldier in the place about what was going on outside. This was his post in time of siege, but he need not keep it when there was no longer any need.  He could rouse out Radwin, now off duty, handover the keys and join the fun. He knew some likely lads around the place who might join him. He was just considering where he might best lend his support, when he heard footsteps descending toward the privy door, from the royal apartments. He straightened, put on his helmet and turned to greet his latest visitors. It was four youths, two young women and two young men. He knew them well. He knew what they had come for. The taller of the ladies, fair and proud despite her dour ranger¡¯s garb, carrying a hunter¡¯s bow, stepped forward to address him.


    Bartaland stepped forward in turn ¡°Your ¡­.¡± This elicited a sharp glance of reprimand from the tall, proud lady.  ¡°I mean,¡± Bartaland continued, ¡°my Lady, how can I be of service?¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± she replied, ¡°my friends and I were heading this way when we bumped into the Librarian.¡± A very tall and very well-developed young man beamed greeting at this mention.  ¡°And we all thought,¡± continued the lady ¡°we might take the evening air, see the sights and, well, kill some people.  We rather thought you might equip us for our excursion.¡±


    ¡°Right you are, your ... my lady. Step this way and I daresay ¡­¡±


    At that moment there were other footsteps, descending other stairs, this time to the main entrance. Three figures stood in the gloom of the arch. Bartaland squinted. Light of build for soldiers, he thought, though dressed roughly enough. Young boys wanting to do their bit, no doubt. They stepped forward. Three girls was it? One dark, lithe and with a mocking smile dressed in black soft boots, breaches, tunic and cape, like an assassin, or a thief, simple clothes, yet elegant and of quality. Not a sight to inspire trust. Another in armour, slight, but in good boots, a mail hauberk no less, and with red locks incongruously escaping from beneath an iron helm. She carried a bloody great polearm and looked strangely dangerous. The third was, if anything, more outlandish, if only because she was an Elf in a blood red cloak and the light war-gear of the woods. She carried an Elf bow, casually, but, in his old soldier¡¯s eyes, ready in an instant to nock and loose a shaft. Clearly, she was bloody dangerous. He knew none of them. And here he was, with Her in the room. Slowly, cautiously, he began to draw his sword.


    Sacrissa stepped forward, ¡°good sir knight, please, we mean no harm ¡­.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t call me ¡®sir¡¯, young lady, I works for a living ¡­¡±


    ¡°Though hardly so hard as you used to, Lug, though I daresay you have been busy enough this eve.¡± This was the tall proud girl, stepping forward, her golden hair glowing in the lamp-light and her piercing green eyes alive with intelligence. Despite her woodman¡¯s garb and weaponry, she had the grace and presence of a fine lady, ¡°Come, it seems that some introductions are called for. The good sergeant does not know you and nor,¡± she added, with, the others noticed, a slight edge of steel to her voice, ¡°do I.¡±


    Sacrissa deferred to Elyssa, who in turn indicated to Sigird that she should speak.


    ¡°My lady, I am Sigird Siglaug¡¯s daughter, and my father is Dravain of Tuttadale of the House of Duna.¡±


    ¡°And what do you at Gryphonhold?¡± asked the fair and graceful lady, not unkindly.


    ¡°I am to be a companion to the Princess, my lady.¡±


    ¡°Are you indeed? And is it customary, do you suppose, for a companion to the Princess to array herself like a warrior?¡± the lady¡¯s tone amused, but still friendly.


    ¡°I suppose not, my lady, but it is fitting for a battle. The Princess I know not, but I know when a warrior is needed.¡±


    ¡°Then it seems you would be a fit companion for your mistress at such a time. You will be the spear that gives victory to your Princess.¡±


    ¡°If my lady thinks so.¡±


    ¡°This lady knows so,¡± and the lady turned to Sacrissa, ¡°now I mark you, you have a likeness to your brother, my lady.¡±


    ¡°My brother?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Eric, Eric the Elding of Trenisslia. Tall, handsome. Not big on conversation. We met recently. We met in the town. He left for the castle.  Matters of State, I understand. Your presence at the Gryphonhold thus requires no explanation, though your attire may do. Fortunately, there is not time for that.¡± Last, the lady turned to Elyssa, and bowed her head gravely to the Elf. Sacrissa saw a flash of something in the meeting of their eyes, but what might it mean? Recognition? Understanding? Something shared or some confederacy? What? Thinking thus, Sacrissa was surprised when the lady addressed the Elf, ¡°my lady, I am honoured by your presence. I do not know you but feel that I should. Whatever brings you to the Vale, you are most welcome.¡±


    ¡°I am Elyssa Bloodraven. I have come to the Gryphonhold with great and grave purpose, though I can speak of it to none but the Princess or her father.¡±


    ¡°Interesting,¡± replied the lady, ¡°let us both hope that you gain that chance. I will introduce my companions, though the time is not yet ripe to speak of myself. I am known by some as a huntress, you may call me that if you will.¡± After the slightest pause she added, ¡°You must forgive that.¡±  It did not sound like a request.


    The lady then indicated her female companion, dressed much as she, like a woodman or a tracker, ¡°This is the lady Amora, my attendant. She, like me, can fight at need. And this,¡± she indicated the most ordinary of the party, ¡°is Trystan, my page-at-arms.¡± A slightly gawky youth, not yet full grown into his body, he was handsome in a slightly confused way and his ears stuck out. He looked tough enough, for all that, and was dressed in boots and a quilted jack, ready, it seemed to don a mail shirt and helm.


    ¡°And last,¡± continued the lady, ¡°I present, fresh from the royal library at Dragongate, the court bookward, and scholar without equal, Conan.¡±


    Sacrissa looked Conan up and down. Thoroughly. All six foot one from the shapely, muscled calves up to a chest sculpted like an antique breast plate and shoulders that looked as broad and powerful as an ox. ¡°A librarian?¡± she uttered.


    ¡°Yes, my lady,¡± answered Conan, cheerfully, ¡°I train, of course, because every man must be able to fight at a time of such need.¡±


    ¡°And every woman, it seems,¡± added Sacrissa, archly.


    ¡°Yes,¡± replied the fair lady evenly, ¡°every gentlewoman not least. We must fight beside the men for our hearth and house, for what we have, we must hold. Now, if the good Sergeant can help us to arms, we may lend a little strength to the fray!¡±

 Chapter 2: The King – Part 1

    The attack had begun at once. There was no exchange of heralds or converse, no tryst or truce. Those before the walls of the Gryphonhold had a different message. Yet it was a measured assault, a probing of the outer wall, testing its defences. It was a show of strength and of their earnest, committing but a handful of the great host. The King expected that after a wound had been inflicted upon the defenders, then there would be talk. Then, we shall see, he mused.  There was no cause for immediate concern. The Gryphonhold had been built for such a day. The walls were manned, the harvest was in and the granaries were stocked, and the cisterns full. Not that they need be prepared for the conditions of siege. Fertile land and springing rivers lay safe at their back and the road to the north was open. Let them storm, let them bluster, let them break their strength at the feet of his high walls, let them starve, let the fires consume them in their folly.  There would be hard work to do before the thing was over, but nothing to trouble the present hour. His only difficulty was Stowham and its inhabitants.


    Elsewhere, Sacrissa followed the company out of the armoury. She was intrigued. She considered the two women they had just met. They dressed humbly but carried themselves like nobility. I should know, thought Sacrissa. They do not, or cannot, disguise it. Their ranger¡¯s clothes were practical, though of quality, and had seen hard service; the mud and dust of many roads, the sun and rain of many skies, had left their mark on the garb of the two women. These were no play-acting ladies, concluded Sacrissa, they¡¯d been places and done stuff. And they could handle themselves, from the look of them. Like Sacrissa, they had donned mail corslets over their tunics, beneath their cloaks, and furnished themselves with what weapons they wished. Amora now wore a sword belt, and a shield was slung on her back. Her companion too now wore a sword at her side and had filled two quivers of arrows. For good measure she had slung upon her back a shield bearing two dragons, one black, the other golden, facing each other on a red field. This Sacrissa found odd; the livery of this place was red and green, it¡¯s emblem a rearing gryphon. What was odder was that she had tied off a waxed cloth cover concealing it. In the armoury, this striking girl with the insistent green eyes, the golden hair and the lordly bearing had taken control. She had arranged everything with Bartaland, with whom there was evidently much familiarity. She had concealed her name and said she was a huntress.  Well, there was a name to conjure with; the Huntress was a matter of dark rumour. She was a hunter and she killed. Sacrissa preferred to have no reputation, it was bad for business, aroused suspicion and put people on their guard. The Huntress was altogether different. Fear ran ahead of her, like hounds ahead of the hunt, and anyone learning that the Huntress was on his trail was half-beaten before his foe caught up with him. Well, so the tavern stories went, for what little they may be worth.  What manner of huntress this fine lady might yet turn out to be remained unclear, and Sacrissa had not the means or leisure for her scrying, only her eyes and her wits were to hand. The name of this proud, fair girl had, however, ceased to be the focus of Sacrissa¡¯s interest. It was her companion who so intrigued her.  The huntress¡¯s ¡°attendant¡±, Lady Amora, had hardly spoken in the armoury, though Sacrissa noticed she was also easy enough with old Bartaland. But now¡­well, now it seemed she was the leader of their little party, something her companion evidently accepted. Through the halls and passages of the living quarters Amora led them. One did not pass easily through any castle at any time. Every passage, room, courtyard had liveried servants or guards at its entrance and exit and the leave to pass was always controlled. Sacrissa had relied upon the temporary confusion and a well-chosen route to get them to the armoury. Now, in this time of war and alarm, with every man at his station, it was impossible to go anywhere one was not supposed to be. Yet, the Lady Amora proved to be the key to all doors. She, her woodman¡¯s garb cloaked, but with her hood down, revealing her auburn hair and fine features, led the party; Trystan, now in full harness of war, at her right hand, alert to danger; the huntress, hood up, trailing behind in the middle of the group. All doors stood open for Amora. A nod, the wave of a hand or, rarely when it was needed, a whispered password, from Lady Amora carried all before them. Sacrissa, whose studies of the fortresses¡¯ layout had been diligent, was finding it hard to keep up with the twists and turns. They were, by stages, descending and heading south, she knew, apart from that, she was finding it hard to know exactly where they were or whence they had come. Sacrissa guessed that they would travel some way yet, before ascending, this time to a high place on the walls, which, she deemed, would be their destination. The little squirrel Sigird, Sacrissa noted, was not missing much either. She walked with the easy fluidity of a warrior, apparently casual and entirely relaxed, but unmistakably ready. Sacrissa reckoned this shy squirrel could have wheeled round and cleaved an attacker in a heartbeat. Sacrissa was impressed. The Elf, in contrast, seemed withdrawn, but, strangely, still watchful, as if she would see first what was ahead in some inner vision. ¡®Spooky¡¯, thought Sacrissa, ¡®and I thought I was the witchy one¡¯. The rather monumental librarian, now also in full harness, wore a look of earnest concentration, which broke into an unaffected smile for anyone who caught his eye or who addressed him.  He hurled out cheerful greetings to all he passed, as if he knew them, but he never forgot why he was there; his hand rested easily on his sword hilt and, always a step or two behind Sacrissa, he had clearly taken station as if to guard the rear of the party. And so they went on.


    Sigird was enjoying the freedom of the castle, of seeing rather more of it.  Striding through it fully armed and passing its guarded portals as of right and on the way to who-knew-what, pleased her. It pleased her very much more, in fact, than lessons in embroidery or the strictures of Afor Housemother. She no longer felt overawed, and she all but forgot the shame and mortification of her recent failures. After all, she reflected, the ladies of the court do not seem so frightening when you remember your blade could slay the whole pack of them bloodily in an instant. Thus, satisfied, she walked on. She ran a practised eye over the defences and the defenders as she passed. It looked meet and good to her eye. The arrangements of this castle fascinated her. This was a place built to give the appearance of cultured ease. The King was a lover of art and music and a great reader of books, they said, and that was a thing rare indeed for a king and passing strange. Yet Sigird could see that the mind behind this fortress had built it for pure strength and defiance. She could see how all was arranged to bring weapons to bear and men speedily to the defences that would confuse, slow and trap the enemy coming the other way, and expose them to slaughter. Even here, in the rich dwelling halls, the place was a fortress entire. She could imagine herself doing great execution in this place.


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    Elyssa had stocked her quiver, found a short sword fine enough that it might have been an Elf-blade, and, as something of an after-thought, donned a graceful light helm, which had a sort of plume, which she thought would look rather well on her.  Otherwise, she remained as she was in the fleet fighting garb of the Elves, but in her colours, blackened leather armour and deep red raiment, red as the blood that was her kin, and as the burning flecks deep in her in flint grey eyes. It had bothered her that she had not met the Princess, and was now heading who-knows-where with strangers, yet, something deep within her was insisting that abiding in this strange company was the right course. It was a motley enough band to march to battle, fine ladies dressed as huntsmen and arrayed for war, and these boys, a scholar and a page, who had also decided to take the part of soldiers.


    They were climbing steadily now, as often as not, up stair towers and spiral flights set within the thickness of the walls, and the passages between them were shorter than before. They passed few people, and presently saw their last of these, a boy with buckets of water in each hand, and a bundle of cloth for binding wounds tucked under his left arm. A short sword, or long dagger in a scabbard from his belt slapped at his thigh as he went. They were alone, now, and in narrower, lower passages than before, windowless and dimly lit with economy by sparse torches. These were the passages of soldiers under arms behind the great walls, no one lived or worked here.  It seemed wrong, as they drew nearer to the scene of strife, to give rein to idle talk. Their thoughts they were inclined to keep to themselves. Thus, by tacit consent they refrained from all speech and lapsed into pensive silence. Their expressions changed and grew fixed. No longer was Sigird¡¯s gaze one of curiosity. Elyssa was no longer distant and Sacrissa no longer showed her amused smile. Their mood grew grave. They bore a determined mien.  They looked within themselves and gathered their strength, as all warriors must during the calm that precedes the storm. And they trudged onward and upward. Soon, light began to permeate the stairs from above. Presently, as the stair turned, a rectangle of bright light marked an open doorway and showed them that the end of their climb was in sight.


    The low sun¡¯s rays bathed the high battlements where they emerged to the last of the evening light. They were at some lookout, thrust out from the battlements to command the view east, south and west. The lower walls, the outer town and its defences were now wholly dark in the shadow of the western cliffs yet lit fitfully in the red glow of fires. Innumerable torches, of both attacker and defender, showed as yellow points of light against the black. Larger blossomings of red and orange light, fading and intensifying by turn, marked the many conflagrations now set in the town of Stowham. The fires bathed parts of the town in a fitful and flickering sullen red glow in which men, tiny and black, like tortured ants, could be seen running to and fro. There was a great clamour, shouts and horns and the clash of arms all heard together in one blaring noise; the sound of a thousand pains and fears had come together to reach them as one great voice of agony. Above it all, the smoke from the town rose in great upward rolling clouds, black against the pale western sky above the failing sun.


    A knight, some way off, perceived them there and came running to them. Young and noble and keen he was. His armour fine and polished, his helm decorated and plumed, his tabard clean and bright, richly coloured and skilfully embroidered. Sacrissa knew the type, she thought, and would have dismissed him as some painted knight, playing at war, but then she saw what was hard at first to see, the places where blows had dinted pauldron and helm and had been hammered back, the places where the mail had been pierced and renewed, or the tabard expertly repaired and cleaned so that the tear was all but invisible and the blood mark all but gone.  And then her eyes travelled to his, and she saw that they were old eyes, and eyes that had seen death, and dying, which is worse, and grief, and she relented, and gave him the first, and last, kind smile of her day.


    ¡°My ladies, sirs,¡± he said, ¡°the King is in conference yonder and I know he would speak to the Lady Elyssa of the Blood Elves and ¡­,¡± he hesitated, looking at the mix of familiar and unfamiliar faces (he is assessing the situation, noted Sacrissa), ¡°the others of the party known to His Highness.  Perhaps¡± he hesitated, ¡°he will wish to see the others too.  You are most assuredly welcome,¡± he added, with a doubtful glance at some of the party.


    ¡°Your name, sir knight?¡± said the fair huntress.


    ¡°Renward, son of Rodor,¡± replied the young man.


    ¡°Come then, Renward son of Rodor, take us to your Liege Lord and King.¡±


    Sir Renward led them along the wall toward a tall tower, before which were gathered many richly clad retainers, idle for the time, the captains, squires and shield bearers of lords and great knights. Great banners, too, were carried by this company, and upon their dress and shields and the standards they bore were the many colours and devices of the realm, the Gryphon and the Twin Dragons among them. These men looked curiously at the party that had arrived on the battlements. Seeing nobility in the carriage of the newcomers, and seeing they were led to where the King now took counsel, the men said nothing, but bowed solemnly to them as they passed.

 Chapter 2: The King – Part 2

    They came then to a tower door upon the ramparts and passed the guard to enter a dim chamber, a guard room whose walls were rough, bare stone, neither plastered nor white-washed. Spear racks were against the walls and shields were also hung upon them. In the centre of the room, bearing great branches of candles, the only light to see by, was a rude oaken table, such as soldiers mess at, littered now with disregarded papers and a half-gnawed loaf and some cheese. Standing beyond the table, with his Council in attendance around him was the King. He turned as they entered, and they had the impression of a stooped figure rising to his true height as he stepped into the light. His head he held proudly, and his face was a mask of calm, as well might a king¡¯s be, but it was lined with the many cares he had carried for long years and his beard grew more white than brown. A simple circlet adorned his dark hair, which was flecked white, like a merlin¡¯s breast. Over his mail shirt he wore a long tabard blazoned for his house, Daegan, a gold gryphon upon a scarlet field. A long sword hung at his side.


    Seeing them, he bowed first, Sacrissa noted, to Elyssa. Elyssa met the King¡¯s gaze and nodded gravely in return. Again, thought Sacrissa, that look of some fellow feeling in the eyes, such as the huntress and Elyssa had exchanged. Then the King turned to the two ladies of his court, and, again, bowed, but Sacrissa could not tell whether the bow was to both or, if not, to which of them. They bowed their heads to him. Sigird curtsied with grim inevitability, while she, Sacrissa, inclined her head with an ambiguous smile that could be accepted as something just short of amusement, such that the recipient could not assume insolence. It was the sort of smile that, Sacrissa reckoned, no man complacent in his power could resist, be he king or lord, merchant or innkeeper, and she could wear it well, she knew. It was then the King met her challenging gaze with eyes that showed a curious and lively intelligence, which she rather liked. Her perception ever keen, she realised with some shock that those grey eyes were also windows upon a profound and enduring sadness and that they showed also the wisdom to bear such sadness and yet to strive. As his eyes quested her intent, they revealed something of him to her. He was a man, she realised, who abided on the shores of a sea of bitter tears. Yet, though he might never leave it behind, he would not go forth to drown upon it. In the face of its moods, both its calm melancholy and its cruel storms, he would endure in the peace that his will had made. A strong man, then, and one honest in his suffering. Ashamed, she lowered her gaze from him.


    Stepping forward to Elyssa the King spoke ¡°Honoured daughter of the Sun, born to the Blood, my roof is your shelter, my hearth is your comfort, and my sword is your safety for so long as you choose. You honour them with your presence. Accept our welcome.¡± They each bowed again to the other. ¡°Mind you,¡± the King continued, ¡°your bow is likely to be my safety in these unlooked-for times,¡± and he smiled and his countenance was open and his eyes kind. ¡°Your counsel would be most welcome, and any news you might have from your people.¡±


    The words were fair and Elyssa could not help but like this King of Men. She had been curious and unsure what to expect; after all who knew aught of Men? Yet this man, she had heard of as honoured by the High Houses of her people. For this King and his daughter were woven into their sight. Prophecies, Men would call them, though there was no such thing. Yet, there were some strands woven together; House Daegan and the Elves had intertwined fates. As she looked at him, she sensed his great and abiding sadness. For a moment, she closed her eyes and let it flow over her. Then she sensed that hope was not dead in his breast and that he had yet the power to endure. His daughter had grown from that same strong root and there was much hope in that also, and Elyssa drew strength from it. She opened her eyes and smiled at the King.


    ¡°Elfwyn of the Clans Paramount, Dread Keeper of the Dragons¡¯ Gate and Protector of the Hidden Realm, Lord King of the Seventh Kingdom,¡± replied Elyssa, ¡°the welcome of your house is a blessing upon me. I accept it with grateful joy. My service I give you freely in return.¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± said the King, his tone lightening, ¡°then this is a happy meeting. Might I present my counsellors,¡± and the noblemen present turned and bowed with great courtesy to Elyssa.


    ¡°The Earl Strang,¡± said the King, indicating a man of middle years and stature with a powerfully compact frame. His eyes were small and bright and alert. His beard was black and close-cropped, but little hair had he upon his crown, as if the growing of it was something for which he would not spare the time. His wargear was plain for such a high lord, and his cloth was a sombre green, chased purple, and on it strode a mighty black bear. His demeanour was brusque, a man, Elyssa thought, with no time for fools, and no one¡¯s fool, but diligent and kindly enough in his way. A plain man and a fighter who would brook no opposition, but above all, a man of honour.


    ¡°The Earl Aldred,¡± said the King, indicating to Elyssa an elderly man in pale yellow surcoat with a wolf¡¯s head sigil upon it. He looked as though he might have first given counsel to the King¡¯s father. Tall, and now rather willowy, he was. Yet, old as he was, he was nevertheless clad in full harness of war, which hung limply upon him now that the muscles and sinews that once filled his coat of mail were wasted and thin. His white hair was long, his cheeks hollow, but the grip on his sword hilt was still firm. Elyssa saw that his blue-grey eyes alone seemed ageless, bright and keen, a great wisdom and sympathy she found in them. His mouth was firm, its set non-committal. It suggested the patience of one who need not speak first, but whose answer men awaited.


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    ¡°My Lord Warian,¡± the King continued, indicating a man, like Strang, in middle years. His features were a little too sharp to be truly pleasing and his dark hair was faded in places, but he was tall and cut a fine enough figure in his finely wrought harness. Like the others, he wore the long surcoat of a northern knight, his bearing a pale embattled tower, a sturdy keep on a field of forest green, a yellow star was set above it and it was garthed with a fence of thorns. Warian looked guarded yet attentive.


    ¡°The Lord Nerian, Warden of the Marchlands and Castellan of the Vale,¡± said the King, indicating a wiry man, with a weather-beaten face and hair greying before its time. His pale green habit bore a gloved hand grasping a dagger. He looked alert and grave.


    All, thought Elyssa, bore testament to hard years spent establishing order and kingship on the wild northern marches of the Fallen Kingdoms.


    ¡°And my Knights Paramount, Kendrick son of Kimbal, Algar son of Aldred and Bryce son of Beorys,¡± concluded the King, presenting to Elyssa three younger men, not yet arrived at their full estate, but with faces wise and grave and respectful.


    Then the King turned to the Lady Amora and the huntress. ¡°I see ladies of my court are present, in wargear, to stand with the men and fight at need, as was ever the custom in the Northlands. I had looked for another to join me in Council this day, but I see she is not yet here among us. Might, perhaps, a huntress with a cloaked shield take her part, by my Lady Amora¡¯s leave?¡± Amora nodded in acquiescence. Neither her face, nor her companion¡¯s betrayed the slightest trace of their thoughts. Amora whispered something to the other, then, with a bow in the direction of the King, she withdrew, scooping up the boys and ushering them out into the fading light.


    ¡°Was your journey here without incident, my lady,¡± the King asked, turning to the huntress.


    ¡°No, my Lord, it was not,¡± said the huntress, flatly.


    ¡°Well then,¡± he replied in careful tones, ¡°we will talk of that, though we will not do so now.¡± The King¡¯s tone brightened as he continued, ¡°Was that the Royal Under-Bookward I saw leave this moment past? Goodness but he¡¯s ¡­ filled out.¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Liege¡±, she replied, ¡°he trains, I¡¯m told.¡±


    ¡°By the Powers, what with?¡± laughed the King.


    ¡°The weight of his learning, I believe, Lord King.¡±


    ¡®Well, those two seem to get along,¡¯ thought Sacrissa, and then she felt the King¡¯s gaze turned upon her.


    ¡°But we have two other guests, and they are not known to me,¡± said the King, in a neutral tone that put aside his burgeoning joviality in an instant.


    ¡°I have met them but lately myself,¡± said the huntress, adopting the same neutral tone.


    Then Lady Elyssa spoke up, ¡°Lord king, to me these ladies are strangers also, yet my heart urges that they have some part to play and that we might depend as much upon them as upon any of us here. Pray admit them to your Council, noble elfwyn¡±


    The King looked thoughtful. Sacrissa¡¯s smile, now somewhat fixed, began to experience strain.


    ¡°My Lord King,¡± the huntress intervened, ¡°I believe Elyssa Bloodraven sees the truth of this. Let them for my sake also stay and be a part of your plans.¡±


    Sacrissa¡¯s next thought was short, expressive, and exceedingly profane.


    ¡°Then be it so, and right welcome,¡± said the King. Elyssa presented Sigird and Sacrissa. Upon hearing of Sigird¡¯s house, the King smiled fondly and bad her right welcome. Upon hearing that Sigird was to become princess-companion, the King grunted with satisfaction. When Sacrissa was named to him, he merely raised an eyebrow and chuckled, which she thought rather rude.


    ¡°Elyssa Bloodraven, huntress, my ladies,¡± the King began, ¡°these things you should know. We have few ¡®useless mouths¡¯ here. Though it wanes in the rich lands of the slumbering south, in the North old custom waxes strong and all who can hold a spear will fight at need. We are well set, armed and provisioned in the Gryphonhold. Yet before us is Stowham town, abode of such strangers to this land as have commerce with us. Its walls are stoutly manned, and we will prevail there for a time yet. I expect news of our defence this hour.¡± As he said that, he cocked a look straight at Sacrissa, which annoyed her, because she could not understand why.


    ¡°Yet there is no safety in Stowham. It can furnish no reserve of trained townsfolk to stand at our soldiers¡¯ backs. Our subjects are now withdrawn to the Gryphonhold. What remain are not of our realm but strangers who cannot pass within the walls of this castle. Doubtless among them are many spies and concealed foes, gathered there to serve the enemy at our gates, indeed, the streets are now patrolled against such, to the lessening of our strength upon the wall. But many are innocent, set to die when, at last, I needs must recall the men from the walls and Stowham falls, as it surely will. I cannot let those people in; people who cannot fight for me, people who I am not provisioned to feed, people who might carry our enemies with them to our secret places and who are forbidden our lands for the sake of our subjects. Nor, it seems to me, can I let them die. I cannot take my shield from them, nor see the feet of these noble towers drenched in their innocent blood while I stand aloft and do nothing. Were it so, I would dishonour my House, which then would surely fail. It is the fate of these people I must now doom. For this I seek your counsel, and from that you will see why your presence here is timely, and, perhaps, ordained by the Powers.¡± The King fell silent and looked expectantly at his guests.


    It was, to everyone¡¯s surprise, not least her own, Sigird who spoke first.

 Chapter 3: On the Wall - Complete

    Eric the Elding adjusted his grip upon his sword and shifted his shield arm against the stiffness as he waited.  Another attack was forming.  The enemy had indulged itself in digging a shallow trench at the limit of bow-shot. There those about to be thrown against the outer wall could await the signal that would send them into the jaws of all the Hells. It was all but dark this deep in the Vale, but he could mark them by their torches. He saw also the occasional glint of arms and helms in torchlight, or as they reflected the fires set in the town or, occasionally, in the pale light of the cloud-wracked moon.


    Eric, born long after the Kings¡¯ Wars, had nevertheless seen war. He was no stay-at-home tourney knight. He had hunted down brigands occasionally foolish enough to plague his father¡¯s lands, lent his sword to Western Marcher Lords against the fierce Wallacha, and even had a stint in the knightly wars that flared periodically in the Great Lands beyond the Narrow Sea.


    This first night¡¯s activity was not a serious effort, Eric thought. There were no siege towers. There had not yet been time to attempt a mine. No ram had approached the gates. He was aware that this outer bailey wall, too far forward to be supported by the town walls or the castle, was not a barrier to a siege-equipped foe. For now, though, the large engines necessary to breach it with heavy stones were not in evidence, so perhaps had yet to be brought up and sited. Perhaps they had arrived with too little light for that. Smaller engines had cast many incendiary missiles over their heads and set fire to the town. Those that fell short, on the plain between this and the town¡¯s inner wall, had burned such tents of their party as were not struck in time. Thus, it was deemed unsafe to stand amid the debris of their former encampment. Rather, they stood behind the outer wall, sheltered in its lee. His father¡¯s men and those of the Vale garrison were safe enough there while the wall held.


    The attacks, of which he feared he had by now lost count, had no real chance of success in Eric¡¯s opinion. Unsupported by any more effective means to get them through or over the wall, the attackers had to rely upon ladders. Assault by escalade, in Eric¡¯s experience, could only succeed by surprise or where there were simply too few defenders to man the walls and cast them down. This was not the case here. If anything, the defenders had more men than they needed. His father, as an earnest of good faith in the negotiations, had insisted upon the honour of defending the walls. The King could not in all honour allow his guest to bear the brunt of the attack while he stood safe on his lofty walls and, so, had sent many more garrison troops out of the castle to add to those few whose duty had found them at the wall at the time of the attack.  They stood now, shoulder to shoulder, on the wall, the golden phoenix of the House of Elding, rising against the blue of Trenisslia, and the gryphon of the House of Daegan rearing in defiance against a field of red and green, signifying the King-in-the-Vale. Below them, in serried ranks behind the wall, ample reserves of both Houses stood ready to reinforce them as needed, or to relieve by turns those who had defied the last attack.


    The purpose of these ceaseless attacks, it seemed to Eric, was to boast the strength of the enemy, and to tire and deplete the defenders. They were certainly doing both, but not to an extent that would win them the wall. Daylight, then, must bring the rain of stone and the ram that would allow this overwhelming force through the wall.  He hoped someone up in the Gryphonhold had thought about what to do then.


    Should the wall be scaled or breached, or the gate broken, there needs must be a fighting retreat in stages across the field of their camp to the town wall. With bodies of men alternatively standing in defence as rearguard, and withdrawing, this, Eric thought, could be accomplished before the enemy were through the wall in numbers sufficient to overwhelm them.  It would be a close-run thing at best, though, and if discipline was not maintained, and any one party of the withdrawing defenders routed, it would become a massacre. He hoped his men would stand the test, brave as he knew them to be, and he hoped the men of the Gryphonhold would prove as staunch.


    And then the enemy came upon them again. Brazen horn calls and shouts from the trench ahead and the bobbing of torches as they ran for the wall. Either side of him Eric heard the twang of bow strings as the archers took aim amid the torches in the hope that many a chance shot would find a mark in the press of enemy coming against them.


    And before, it seemed, he could draw breath again, he heard the slap of ladders against the wall and was calling his men. He went first to his right, but saw a ladder ahead suddenly illuminated by fire, the man near the top, his back arched in pain and his hands flailing uselessly before the whole collapsed, red flame plummeting through a roiling column of acrid black smoke.  Eric smelt the horror of burnt flesh and tasted the tang of burning oil. An expensive, if nastily effective trick, the oil, thought Eric. This King evidently meant business and was unsentimental when it came to his enemies. He turned to his left.  There his men, and men of the garrison, were struggling over the parapet to throw off a ladder, but even as they did so, one enemy footman, and then another, came over the battlements.  They saw Eric. Eric snarled and leapt forward.


    The fight was a brief one. Eric crouched and swung his sword upward, under the enemy swordsman¡¯s over-extended guard. Eric¡¯s sword point bit, its edge sliced the man up his torso from belly to chest. The blade went clean through the rib cage and the man fell away. Another came on, a billman brandishing a wicked blade. Eric feinted; as the soldier thrust home, Eric was not there.  He had sprung to side and was past the point of his enemy¡¯s weapon with his sword running through the billman¡¯s neck. Dragging his blade clear, Eric looked round in search of further enemies.  Seeing none, he ranged along the length of wall under his direct command. He passed a ladder where he lent in, providing the decisive push to send it spiralling into ruin. He received the thud of a spent quarrel on his pauldron for his pains. It seemed that there were no more enemies to hand and he saw them moving off, another flight of arrows from the wall sent after them. He waited for his knights and sergeants to make their report, of casualties and arrow stocks and any other matter or concern. Fiery missiles, thrown from the enemy once more began to arc through the dark sky toward them. He waited for them to whoomph over his head before he stooped to tend to an exhausted soldier sitting with his back to the wall in a daze. Eric helped him to a drink of water from his flask and made what he hoped might prove encouraging remarks. After the reports came in, he paused and took a drink himself, and then another matter claimed his attention; a message calling him to attend his father below.


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    Lord Daw, Earl Elding, looked grim as he stood among his retinue a little distance inside the outer wall. This alliance was proving costly before it was even concluded, but, it seemed to him, this assault proved the wisdom of seeking it.  A great change that he could not understand, had been sweeping through the Kingdoms in the south and had lately reached the skirts of his demesne in the south of the old Sixth Kingdom. The Red Shepherd and his bloody crusade to restore the Chirche to purity was an open threat to order, yet there was something more. The untimely death of Bonomio and the endless manoeuvring of athelings vying for the paramount kingship had left more sinister shadows to grow in the unwatched corners of the realm. Old friends and allies had become distant or turned their backs and Lord Daw feared that they had been drawn under some influence he could not perceive or understand. Yet even while the lords and prelates plotted and armed, an unnamed power arose that might eclipse them all, and in their neglected shires the common folk saw the return of evil times, strange threats, murrains and blights, and deaths and disappearances; old enemies walking once more among them, kine barren, milk found sour in the pail, dogs running mad, cots found empty. Against all this there was no strength of unity in the Fallen Kingdoms of the north. And no king unless he was to be found here in this shadowy fief. The Sixth and Seventh Kingdoms were otherwise crownless and divided. No power there to resist the lengthening shadow to the south. Lord Daw had grown uneasy and feared for the freedom of Trenisslia, He had reached forth to his old friend Durwyn. Durwyn was rumoured to hold kingship, albeit of some outlandish realm in the far north hard by the fabled gates of perilous Elvenholme. Small states like Trenisslia were wary of kings, lest they become mere fiefs and tributaries. Yet now Lord Elding wished he had extended his hand long ago, for Durwyn treated him fair.  There was no expectation of fealty to this King, and no homage or tribute demanded in return for his friendship and strength of aid. Rather, Durwyn treated with him as an equal. And, at least today at this place, they were near equal, for it was Trenisslia that gave aid to the Vale. Yet, if he knew Durwyn at all, the old warrior would not stand at bay for long, and whoever this enemy was, it would rue the day it came upon the Marchlands, killing and burning.


    Like Eric, Lord Elding knew that the outer wall would not hold a determined assault. It was too long, for one thing. Penetration at any point and the defenders on the wall could be rolled up and the defenders behind it outflanked with a great stretch of open ground between them and the safety of the town wall. And the outer wall was not so high or so stout as the town and castle walls. Like Eric, he expected the coming of daylight to bring great engines to bear. Once they were in play, a breach in the gate or the wall was only a matter of time. After that there must be fighting in the open ground before the safety of the town walls was won, and there the Enemy¡¯s vast strength would tell. A messenger lately arrived from Gryphonhold said that the King would ride forth on the morrow in strength to cover the withdrawal once the wall could no longer be held. Daw was urged to have his mounted men in readiness. That was welcome news; cavalry would be a boon in covering the withdrawal. Yet, considered Lord Elding, it would take careful timing to get his men away unscathed.


    He saw his son approach him, ¡°Eric, you are come,¡± he greeted, ¡°the King has sent to me. He understands that I cannot come to him.  He will, he says, and thank the Powers for it, come to me on the morrow when he will put forth his strength to cover us.  He asks, then, if I might spare you, for he esteems your counsel and would hear the state of things and discuss with you a plan for the withdrawal.¡±


    ¡°As the King wishes, Lord Father,¡± replied Eric, ¡°My post is here, but I see the need for such counsel.  Withdrawal must not be haphazard tomorrow and cannot be left to chance.  You know this King, father, will he do what he says on the morrow, the lives of our army depend upon it?¡±


    ¡°I knew him as a brave and good man,¡± replied Lord Elding, ¡°Long ago I saw him sacrifice his good name and position because his honour demanded it. King in a strange land he may now be, yet he once lost far more than he has gained. Men change, of course. The cruelties of fate make them bitter, and ambition or expediency bury the fine feelings of their youth. There has been great change and travail in my friend¡¯s life, and I knew not if I would find him the same after so many years. Yet I believe he is unchanged, though he bears great grief. He will come as he has said.¡±


    ¡°Come,¡± said his father, ¡°before you go up to the castle, you have seen more of them than I, tell me what you think they are who we face.¡± He had guided Eric to a row of corpses, some few of the enemy who had gained the wall, only to die there. They mainly wore grey quilted gambesons or jacks, cut long down to the thigh, but some were men-at-arms and captains who wore long mail hauberks, covered in cloth coats.  These were of a dark grey colour. All wore a common sigil, on the breasts of surcoats, and on grey cloth patches sewn to the breasts of the quilted jacks, and also on the slate grey shields the men had borne, A yellow maneless lion, known as a leopard, reared proudly there.  Unlike any device he had before seen, the head of this beast was not in profile, but turned to face him in challenge. This was not something recognised in the sigildry of the Kingdoms, which was strange. The image itself was audacious and disturbing. Even on the crude cloth patches, those leopards had eyes that seemed present, and which seemed to see him. They drew his gaze and seemed to hold it against his will.  As he stared, the black cloth of those empty sockets seemed alive with malignant intelligence. With panic he felt them striving at him. Then those abysmal eyes seemed to bore into his very soul, flaying aside his hopes and certainties, leaving him the powerless prey of this beast. Finally, with what seemed like great effort, he tore his gaze away.


    ¡°I think,¡± said Eric, ¡°they are death.¡±

 Chapter 4: Counsel – Part 1

    ¡°Lord King,¡± Sigird began, curtsying awkwardly as she spoke, ¡°I have been in the castle but a few days, yet it has seemed to me that no place has been better conceived for defence. The preparations of which you have spoken show also that the needs of the defence have been considered¡± she hesitated and blushed, ¡°most wisely.¡±


    ¡°Go on,¡± said the King, with interest.


    ¡°Well, my Lord,¡± she continued ¡°it seems to me that, in the ordering of this great defence, much thought was given to every need and chance. From that I deem that thought must have been given also to Stowham and the need to clear it in the face of an assault. I wonder then, what provision was made for its people and,¡± she again hesitated, but took courage and resumed, ¡°and why the plan miscarried.¡±


    ¡®Clever squirrel!¡¯ thought Sacrissa, admiringly, ¡®A thinker and a killer! Well, well.¡¯ She was impressed and felt a twinge of pride in her new acquaintance. Elyssa was also impressed and wondered if she had not, without having meant to, underrated Sigird. The huntress looked upon Sigird intently, not unkindly or disapprovingly, but appraisingly. Sigird sensed the gaze and blushed more deeply than ever. Then the huntress smiled.


    ¡°Lord King,¡± said the huntress, ¡°a worthy question, and timely.  Perhaps the answer to it will guide our counsel.¡±


    ¡°Well spoken, both of you,¡± replied the King, and he shot Sigird a look of approbation that seemed to say, ¡®you¡¯ve impressed a King, my girl, keep it up.¡¯


    ¡°The Lady Sigird is right. My lords,¡± he turned to his Council, ¡°you will forgive me if I now treat upon matters well known to you, but I have been asked to account for my failings and must now do so!¡±


    Sigird looked alarmed at this but saw that the King¡¯s face was smiling upon her with kindness, though in his eyes she yet saw much sadness.


    The Earl Strang cleared his throat, ¡°Durwyn King, I can answer the Lady¡¯s question with another. How an army crossed the Great Waste that sunders the Marchlands from the Kingdoms I could perhaps guess. Yet how it then traversed your lands and tributaries without rumour, to arrive here, well, what answer is there to that? There were towns and farmsteads and garrisons they needs must have passed through, yet none there thought to warn their lords and king? At any rate, an Enemy must surely drive before it a tide of dispossessed out of conquered lands. Yet none fled before our Enemy, to seek sanctuary in the Vale and give us warning. All this is dark to me; this is the question I cannot answer.¡±


    The Earl looked around at his audience, perhaps to satisfy himself that all there understood the import of what he said, and, perhaps, the implication.  He then continued:


    ¡°We are not hidden here, merely obscure; gold paid to some ranger or to a merchant who trades with the Vale, or to any that know the passages across the Waste, would bring them here; we are not proof against the ardent seeker. It is possible that they followed the rumour of our friends out of Trenisslia¡±, at this he bowed gravely at Sacrissa, ¡°yet I think they must have known of us long before the Lord Elding set forth; such an army as assails us was long in the planning.¡±


    ¡°We have a March Warden,¡± Strang looked keenly at Nerian, ¡°whose task it is to maintain our borders, be they with Men to the south or Elves to the north. The Waste is patrolled. We have fiefs to the south of us who have sworn fealty to the House of Daegan and we have lands beyond the entrance of the Vale that your Lords hold from you, my lands among them.  Towers there are to spy for danger from afar and bring the news swiftly home, the last two upon the very flanks of the Circling Hills where they make their opening to the Vale.  Yet no warning came; all such precautions failed. No beacon was lit, nor errand rider sent to give reveal this host. Not a single soul reached the Vale with tidings of our enemy.  That is your answer, my Lady; the Vale was entered and Stowham was invested before the town could be cleared.¡±


    Lord Nerian, the Warden, scowled at this speech, Sigird noticed.  She looked at Sacrissa, whose face was a mask of impenetrability, a sign, thought Sigird, perhaps, that Sacrissa had noticed the Warden¡¯s reaction too.


    ¡°And in due time, my Lord,¡± said the King, ¡°we will endeavour to answer it, and many other such questions. I am inclined to think that the answer to who our enemy is might prove the vital clue. First, Lady Sigird¡¯s question needs a little more in answer. As Lord Strang has said, the Elvenmarch was ever a land of watch and ward, and rumour of the host should have come to us from the Marchland Fiefs to our south. It did not. Lady Sigird herself travelled there but three days past without encountering our enemy. Those set to watch the border of the Great Waste sent no warning. However it was done, this host appeared at our gates unheralded as evening approached. That denied us time to clear Stowham, which we had never expected would be so. The outer wall, where the fight now rages, is little more than a fence to mark the garth of Gryphonhold from the farmlands beyond. It is not fit to delay an enemy for long and in the absence of any warning from further afield it barely gives us the time we now need. I said I would not admit the people of Stowham to the Gryphonhold, so another refuge was found for them, and a safe passage to it. Safe, by day at least. My Lord Warden and I conceived of it, and I will let him tell of it.¡±


    ¡°Lady Sigird,¡± the Warden commenced ¡°you will, I deem, have heard of the Debatable Land?¡±


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    ¡°Yes, my Lord,¡± she replied, ¡°we know it to be a land between the realms of Men and Elves, the lordship of which is uncertain and disputed, though from Tuttadale we know not where it lies.¡±


    ¡°It lies here,¡± the Warden replied ¡°hard by the Vale, beyond the western cliffs of the Circling Hills. Know you now its true name and purpose. We know it as the Dimlicdale. It is often called the debatable land, but that is a corruption merely. It is properly called the batable land, for it is a land of rich pasture fed by a clear, cold, river.  It stretches some three leagues west from the Vale and as it falls it widens, and is some two leagues at its broadest. It has marshes and bogs in its low points, and close little woods abound. It has many folds and little hills and dells and secret places.  Its bounds rise to inhospitable moors and the few safe descents to it can only be found by those few who know them. It is not, however, a disputed land and its ownership is known. It is owned by no one.¡±


    ¡°But everywhere is in some domain,¡± blurted out Sacrissa, to her embarrassment.


    ¡°Indeed,¡± said the Warden, unaffected by the interruption, ¡°so it is in the Kingdoms, yet, even so, by ancient law of custom no one may claim dominion over the batable land. Those who live on its borders may drive their cattle to pasture there but may make no dwellings in the valley and they and their kine must not be found there after sunset. Thus, it has been since times that lie beyond the memory of Men, from before even the Kingdoms first were established.¡±


    ¡°Has no one in all that lost count of years never attempted to dwell there and claim its rich pastures for their own?¡± ventured Sacrissa.


    ¡°None that have lived,¡± interjected the King, and his look was grim, as if some unkind and painful memory had been stirred, ¡°for there are things there that I would hesitate to name in light of day but will not dare invoke now the darkness falls about us.  Whenever any have ventured to spend a night in that dale, only the scraps of ripped corpses and shattered bones remain when daylight returns to that land.¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± said the Warden, ¡°whatever might be there, it is feared by those who live about its borders and, so, they do not go there after dark and attempts to settle the place have long since been abandoned.¡±


    ¡°Thus,¡± spoke the Earl Aldred for the first time, ¡°are the realms of Men kept separate from the realm of the Elves¡±, he bowed respectfully to Elyssa, ¡°in a place where there are no mountains or great rivers to divide them. For Men first feared, then later loved the Elves who as teachers first brought Men to holiness, yet the two races have ever kept to their own ways and lands and have thereby known peace. I now fear for that peace,¡± and the Earl bowed his head as if in sorrow at the folly of Men.


    The King nodded gravely and indicated that the Warden should continue.


    ¡°At the farther end of the Dimlicdale,¡± resumed the Warden, with a trace of irritation at the Earl¡¯s interruption, ¡°its river flows on through a pass in the hills, carrying, perhaps, some of its mystery, and, on occasion, its anger, west, into other lands.  Here, on the southeast slope of the northern spur of the hills overlooking the river, on the very edge of the batable land, is a stone keep, stout and strong. It was founded at a holy spot where once, it is said, Ostreon the Anchorite abided in his hermitage. His cave can still be seen there. Now the lands beyond are home to a folk as stout as their keep, the Stedinglas, they call themselves.  They have a village there, enclosed in a high stone barmkin.  They till the fields by the river to the west and drive their cattle east into the Dimlicdale to graze at will by day. They will house the folk of Stowham until such time as they may safely return.¡±


    ¡°I thank you, Lord Warden,¡± said the King, ¡°your knowledge of the lands in your charge is commendable.¡±


    ¡°They owe me fealty, the Stedinglas,¡± the King explained, ¡°though I make no claim on them. For their land, Lady Elyssa, your wise and ageless mother and I agreed they should have. With the Elf Queen¡¯s leave, I bestowed it upon them.¡± The King bowed to Elyssa, who had winced at the mention of her mother, but was disguising her discomfort tolerably well.


    So, thought Sacrissa, this is the daughter of Elvenholme, the great and mysterious kingdom of high elfdom. What, then, in the Hells is she doing ranging here?


    ¡°Against the day that the Vale was in danger,¡± continued the King, ¡°these allies have set aside a great bay in their woods, there to furnish a camp for the folk of Stowham should need come upon them, and, indeed, for any of mine who must flee thence.  It will be seen, my Lady Elyssa, Ladies Sigird and Sacrissa, that if the people of Stowham are to be brought to safety, their start must be made in the morning of the day, as they must not be caught in the Dimlicdale when night falls.¡±


    ¡°Now, you will have seen in the Vale that there is a bridge, towered and embattled, that crosses the river just as it flows from the lake.  It takes a road from Stowham over the river to the lesser part of the Vale. Here the fields rise from the far bank to a wooded bluff, a forest where we hunt. High on its slopes is a holy sanctuary and place of healing. Beyond that is a defile that leads up and over the western spur of the Circling Hills and passes, on its further slope, by the foot of a tower set to watch the Dimlicdale. From that tower, no news, good or ill, has yet come. We do not think that the Enemy has yet occupied the Vale beyond the river.  Without use of the bridge, no great force can come there, but we do not know if spies or scouts have been sent there by boat. Much will depend upon whether the outer wall and the bridge can be held long enough for the town folk to make it out of the Vale, either undetected, though we can hardly hope for that now, or at least until they are far enough on that no effective pursuit of them could be made; they could be slaughtered by our enemy in the pastures of the batable land as easily as in the fields and meadows of the Vale.  The bridge must be held at least until they are clean away.¡±


    ¡°I suppose, Lord King,¡± mused Sigird, ¡°that a garrison sent across the river, one sufficient to defend the place, and thus block any pursuit, would be at too great a risk of the bridge falling.¡±


    Sacrissa was looking impressed, and not bothering to conceal it, and she thought, ¡®Pretty Squirrel, you are the wisest in warcraft of all in this room, notwithstanding the lords of battle that crowd it!¡¯


    The green eyes of the fair huntress sparkled to hear Sigird, and the lady wore a look of satisfaction.


    ¡°So I deem,¡± said the King, ¡°Once the outer wall falls and the town is assailed, the bridge will be vulnerable, the road to it defenceless. Such a force would then be beyond our aid and we beyond its.  Thus, only those not expected to return to the citadel should cross the river.¡±

 Chapter 4: Counsel – Part 2

    Then, a squire craved entry from the room.  Strang beckoned him, and he whispered something to the Lord.


    ¡°Sire,¡± explained Strang, ¡°the messenger from the outer wall attends and begs admission.¡±


    ¡°Pray let him come, for it is time now to hear his report and to add his counsel to our own,¡± said the King, and the squire bowed and retired to usher in the newcomer.


    A tall and broad figure stepped into the gloom of the guardroom. His features were handsome, strong, open and forthright. His fair hair hung in stray whisps before his sweat-stained face and he brushed these aside as he peered around the interior in search of the King.  When he saw him, he bowed gravely and deeply, and said, ¡°Lord King, I come at your summons and am at your service.¡±


    ¡°Eric!¡±, cried Sacrissa. Are not you and our father safe in the castle?¡±


    ¡°Sister,¡± acknowledged Eric, smothering his surprise and gritting his teeth.


    ¡°Lord Eric,¡± replied the King, ¡°you are welcome and have my thanks for your service. Introductions may have to wait, for once, as time and the enemy press us to the resolution of our Council. Forgive the interruption to your duties, but I must learn how things fare at the wall and the prospects for the morrow from one whose judgment I may trust.  Upon your counsel will rest my plans for the clearing of the town and the withdrawal of our forces to the inner wall.¡±


    ¡°Lord King, by your leave,¡± began Eric.  The King nodded for him to continue, ¡°the Enemy is legion and its attacks have been all but ceaseless. We have the men enough to repel all attempts to scale the wall. Thanks to you, Lord, we have enough to stand watch on watch throughout the night, giving all their share of rest and relief from danger.¡±


    ¡°This Enemy, though, it is unknown to us,¡± continued Eric, ¡°we have but this sign to know them by,¡± and he pulled a torn cloth from his belt and unfolded it. The King stooped to look closely.  His Councillors did likewise behind him, but then involuntarily took a step back. All perceived the bright yellow leopard, blazoned on its cloth of shadow, its head turned to them in challenge.  Though a thing of mean rags and coarse stiches, it seemed to all who now gathered round it that it was a token of malevolence. Its blank eyes were alive and, it seemed, saw them.  Bold eyes seemed to penetrate their thoughts, and even to sense their fears, darkly revelling in their terror.  It seemed to Eric that the candles had grown dim and that a creeping cold he had not before noticed now chilled the bare stone guard room.


    ¡°Yet this is not a sign we any of us know,¡± Eric faltered.  The others had shrunk from the bleak cloth eyes, but the King leaned in still, regarding the device with an expression both thoughtful and grim. It seemed to Eric that, if the King did not recognise the emblem, he at least, and alone amongst them, had guessed at what it meant. Finally, the King stood back and turned from the ragged cloth.  Eric hastily bundled it away.


    Eric paused while the Council composed itself, ¡®What is my accursed sister doing here,¡¯ he thought, ¡®and dressed as a boy, or, rather, like some rogue or assassin, who prowls the night? She is altogether ridiculous and must make the House of Elding look so. Though, she seems well-suited to her company, such a group of outlandish females ¡­¡¯ He stopped, for there she was in the shadows of that room, smirking sardonically at him. That striking green-eyed, golden-haired beauty with whom he had tarried in those wearisome days when he could go no further than the tavern of Stowham. He had made a fool of himself there. He had thought ¡­. well he had thought highly of her and, perhaps she of him.  But that had been the dream of a playing holiday and could not be. For he was to be bound to another.  He should not have forgotten himself.  He should not have let things go so far. He had endured a ¡­ difficult conversation with her just yestereve and he saw that she was regarding him now with nothing but wry contempt showing in her cold emerald eyes and mocking smile.


    ¡°My Lord Eric,¡± prompted the King, ¡°and on the morrow ¡­?¡±


    ¡°Lord King?¡± fumbled Eric, still distracted and taken unaware by the question.


    ¡°You deem yourself secure for the duration of this night. And on the morrow ¡­?¡± repeated the King.


    ¡°Lord King,¡± resumed Eric, somewhat discomforted, ¡°The morrow will see the outer wall fall within an hour of full daylight.¡±


    This elicited a sharp intake of breath from those in the room, followed by a non-committal grunt from Earl Strang and some surprised murmurs from the other Lords.  The atmosphere suddenly bristled.


    ¡°Pray continue, Lord Eric,¡± said the King calmly, ¡°and tell us why this shall be.¡±


    ¡°On the morrow, even their present mode of attack will start to tell. We must man the walls thickly to ward off the ladders thrown against it. In daylight, at each assault their bowmen must harvest a tithe of us as we work to topple the ladders. A day of such work will see them lose many men, but we know they care not for that. The defenders will be depleted and can only be reinforced by crossing the space between the walls, where the engines of the enemy will do great execution with stones and fire. Our men should cross that inferno but once, when retiring, when the Enemy¡¯s presence on our side of the outer wall will impede and then prevent the casting of enemy missiles.  If we stay to die on the wall, eventually we will be too few to defend it and manage an orderly retreat. It may even be that a day and night of such wasteful assaults would see the enemy step over the outer wall in spite of us.¡±


    The lad knows something, at least of war, conceded Sacrissa to herself. He is still a great lumpen dolt, though, she concluded. She glanced across at Sigird, wondering what she might be thinking.  The girl, Sacrissa saw, looked thoughtfully at the Dolt.


    ¡°Yet you do not deem they will wait a day to take the wall?¡± asked the King.


    ¡°Nay, Sire,¡± replied Eric, ¡°if they have come to do aught but dance and caper for our amusement beneath the walls of Gryphonhold, they will have brought great engines to beat down our walls. It seems that these were not ready before darkness gathered this evening. They most assuredly will be ready by daybreak.  They will be sited and ranged as soon as the light is full in the Vale. If well practised and well-knowing of their craft, as I fear they must be, they will have our measure within a short time and, as I have said, within an hour of full light, they will have beaten down our wall in divers places.¡±


    ¡°What then would you counsel, my Lord?¡± this from Earl Strang.


    ¡°I would wait until full night, which is nigh, when the attacks must cease, and then abandon the wall before daybreak.¡±


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    ¡°What¡¯s this?¡± cried Lord Warian.


    ¡°Impossible!¡± said Strang, ¡°the King must maintain the outer wall well into the morning for reasons you do not yet know.¡±


    Others snorted or mumbled.  The Lord Warden gave brief life to a pained smile. The eyes of the huntress flashed in doubt and anger, and Sacrissa felt shame, and, momentarily, sadness, for her brother, who appeared now revealed as a poor, timid fool who would hand their Enemy premature advantage.


    But then, Sigird interrupted.


    ¡°You mean to dig a ditch,¡± she said. She asserted it calmly as it were a known and obvious fact, with utter conviction, ¡°a ditch, perhaps even two if there are men and time enough.  Yes, I see that would work. In cover of darkness you mean to site a ditch, at perhaps a third of the distance that separates outer and inner walls. You plan to throw the earth up to form a dike, breast high, behind the ditch, on the town side. If you have pales for it, you might place spikes in the ditch. The enemy will not apprehend your design, the darkness will hide you. No cause would there be for the enemy to cast missiles at the spot in the night while you labour. Come daylight, the earthen breastwork will shelter your men from such missiles.¡±


    ¡°Lady,¡± stuttered Eric, astonished. He regarded for the first time this slight, unassuming young woman, outlandishly rigged out in the full harness of war, marvelling at her, ¡°yes, you are right. That is my design almost entire. I would say two ditches are possible, a quarter and a half the span of ground from the outer wall.  I come to ask my Lord King¡¯s permission to abandon the wall and commence this work and ask that he would site the engines on his walls to strike the outer wall and the ground immediately within it.¡±


    ¡°Thus,¡± said the King, musing upon what he had just heard, ¡°you avoid the casualties you would take on the wall and start the withdrawal with all your force intact and with much distance toward safety already gained, and with a means ¨C your fieldworks - of slowing the forces that must pursue you.  The cavalry I shall send will not need to range so far or for so long to shepherd your men home in safety, and we, too, shall suffer less from the blows of our enemy.¡±


    ¡°We?¡± asked the huntress, whose had been looking at Eric with a neutral gaze, but who had now turned to address the King.


    ¡°It will be my honour to lead Gryphonhold¡¯s force on the morrow.¡± Sharp glances were exchanged between the King and the huntress.


    The King turned to Elyssa, ¡°my Lady you have, I recall, some experience of battle and command, what say you to my Lord Eric¡¯s plan?¡±


    ¡°It will stay the enemy as long, or likely longer, than any other means, and will do so at less cost. I deem it good counsel,¡± said Elyssa.


    ¡°My Lords,¡± the King turned to his council, ¡°what say you to this?¡±


    ¡°It will serve us well, I deem¡±, said Strang. The others nodded.


    Then the King turned to the pale huntress, and said, though to some there it seemed strange, ¡°And you my Lady, do you consent to this?¡±


    And she turned to him, head raised, proud and perilous, her green eyes glittering, and said, ¡°There are many ways we can die tomorrow. Lord Eric¡¯s counsel may save us yet, but if not, he shows how we might sell our lives most dearly.  I assent.¡±


    ¡°Then, my Lord,¡± said the King to Eric, ¡°give my love to your father, tell him it is my wish that you do as you have counselled, and tell him that I will seek him out and fight at his side as his brother in arms on the morrow.¡±


    Eric bowed and left. And so was the course of the coming battle decided.


    With little squirrel Sigird leading the counselling of the King, the King deferring to the huntress, and her own Idiot Brother revealed as a military genius, Sacrissa decided that, for once, she really didn¡¯t know what to think.


    ¡°Now that is settled,¡± said the King, ¡°we must allot the task of taking forth the folk of Stowham to safety across the Dimlicdale.¡±


    ¡°I claim that duty, Dread Lord,¡± cried Nerian the Warden, ¡°for I know the secret ways and can lead the folk all to safety across paths known to few.  I know the land all about as few can know it, as it is in my care as March Warden, and it is my duty to the Vale to conduct folk safely through it.¡±


    ¡°Good Warden,¡± replied the King, ¡°indeed, you know well all the paths and passes, our secret ways and defences, but the fate of this great castle is also in your care.  Would you not rather stand with me on the morrow to defend it?¡±


    ¡°Well, Lord, I ¡­,¡± began the Warden.


    ¡°I will lead them free and clear to safety,¡± asserted the imperious huntress.


    ¡°No you will not,¡± replied the King, ¡°I forbid it.¡±


    ¡°My Lord,¡± replied the huntress, with a gentler voice, ¡°were your daughter here, as you had wished, you could command her.  I grieve, truly, at your sadness that she is not yet appeared before you. Only I am here in her stead, friendless wanderer in the wilderness as I am; an outcast with no mark of House or estate, and yet with no homage owed to lord or king am I. By the solemn pact you honour I am to be free to choose my path, and I have chosen it.¡±


    ¡°Very well,¡± said the King, ¡°but there are some hundred and more strangers to your charge. Who will you choose to go with you?¡±


    ¡°The Lady Amora and Trystan Dreyma owe me service,¡± she replied, ¡°and Conan Svar I would have, if my Lord can spare a librarian at such a time,¡± she smiled, ¡°as to others¡±, her voice faltered, ¡°I ¡­¡±


    Elyssa stepped forward, ¡°Noble lady, if, by my sight or my skill, I can aid you, my bow is yours.¡±


    ¡°And my spear, Lady,¡± added Sigird, who looked now at Sacrissa.


    ¡®I¡¯m backed into a corner now,¡¯ realised Sacrissa, ¡®Oh, by the Powers, what have I got myself into? Nothing for it; courage and cast the die!¡¯


    Sacrissa smiled. ¡°And my ¡­. wits!¡± she said, finally.


    ¡°Well then,¡± said the King, ¡°it seems settled. I had wished that Lady Elyssa had tarried and given me news of how matters lie with your people, but I see the thing is decided.¡±


    ¡°My Lord, Elfwyn,¡± replied Elyssa, ¡°I have lived these past years in the west and can say nothing concerning the realm to your north, but should our rebellious kin, the Moon Elves, hear of unrest, they may cause trouble there. The Paramount Clans of High Elfdom little regard the affairs of Men and the present danger has grown unperceived. The slaying at Elvendon has awoken us, but counsels are divided. We fear there has grown unchecked a worsening antipathy among Men towards Elves. The western Combes where I dwell have grown wary of late and we hear that Elvendon is under arms.  Sea rovers again ply the western seas and no ship came from Luthany before I left the west. Until succession in the First Kingdom of Men is settled, we do not know how the will of Men may be shaped, but there is fear and anger now between both races. The Elves look to their own defences. Do not look to them to aid you unless the Hidden Realm itself is in danger, then, at last, they may hear you. Yet always there are some wise enough to know that you, Elfwyn, are ever their bulwark against the dark.  My grandmother sent me here to give what aid I can.  To your daughter.  It is said, she will save the Hidden Realm and all the lands around, and perhaps has an even greater destiny.¡±


    ¡°I thank you, Lady, for those tidings,¡± replied the King, ¡°it is much as I thought. It is good to know that I have no enemy at my back.  Your aid is great indeed, be it but a single elf-bow. As for my daughter, it is not yet her time, though I had hoped that time had come. Yet, for all that, I feel it draws near.¡±


    ¡°Huntress,¡± the King turned to her, ¡°you have my blessing and my thanks. I will pick some few stout men at arms and field-crafty scouts to help you with your charges. You must try to win the cover of the trees across the river before daybreak, though with your numbers and the slow pace of the young and infirm, you will be hard pressed to do so.  Yet you must do so both to avoid the enemy at your heels and the horrors that come by night. Start as soon as you may.¡±


    ¡°My Lord Warden,¡± the King turned to Nerian, ¡°pray go now with our Lady. She will need the lists of all those registered as resident in Stowham, and such gear and supplies as she will have and provisions for the townsfolk upon their journey.  Sir Kendrick,¡± he turned to the knight, ¡°will you assist his Lordship in all this, and be his right-hand man in all things?¡±


    The young knight nodded.


    ¡°Then you may oblige him by attending him in his preparations for tomorrow,¡± concluded the King.


    ¡°Sire,¡± they all bowed, save Sigird, who curtsied of course, and withdrew, the women to join their comrades on the battlements and tell them the news.


    The King watched them go, ¡°They are so very young, Aldred. Skilled of course and stout-hearted, yet so very young. Will they see the dangers on their road and fear them as they should?¡±


    ¡°Sire, the young possess strength, deep and as yet unseen, and they have hope. They do not have to endure without it. Hope for them is an ever-blossoming tree. That must be enough.¡±

 Chapter 5: Sergeant Bartaland Volunteers - Complete

    Sergeant-at-Arms Bartaland was an old soldier and he knew a thing or two, oh yes. He had kept his ears open and he had made his own appraisal of the situation. When the King had asked him to join him on the ride from Dragongate, he had wondered. The number of Lords and Knights travelling to the Gryphonhold was explained by the need to make a show for the Lord of Trenisslia and his entourage.  You had to get these things right, understood Bartaland, who¡¯d seen his fair share of spit-and-polish ceremonial. It was about rank and swank, he knew. Yet, the number of men-at-arms accompanying the party, and, especially, the inclusion of archers and specialist artificers, seemed an unnecessary supplement to the forces of the Vale. He had hardly needed to be of the party; Gryphonhold had its own armourers.  They were good, he¡¯d trained them himself. A tour of inspection of the Gryphonhold armouries, the King had said, to ensure everything was to Bartaland¡¯s satisfaction. Well, that had seemed innocent enough.  Radwin was the Warden¡¯s man, a Valeman and not of Dragongate or the Hidden Realm.  You could probably say that of most of the King¡¯s human subjects, come to that. It did not usually cause a problem, and it hadn¡¯t here.  Radwin had made him welcome and Bartaland could see that his system had been well implemented. The alarm, calling all the off-duty men and the trained bands to arms, had seen it working well. Yet Bartaland heard things.  For one thing, he learnt there had been a crop of visitors to Stowham a few weeks back.  Nothing that odd, just a few more than usual.  They had apparently arrived a little before the delegation from Trenisslia. An old soldier is a good judge of men.  He needs to be. This lot he hadn¡¯t cared for. He¡¯d only had time for one swift lunchtime half in the alehouse since he¡¯d got here, but he¡¯d seen a few of these newcomers. They were talking to locals, and he thought he saw the odd familiar face from the garrison in conversation with them. Seeing he wore the garb of Dragongate, some of these strangers had tried to be friendly.  Well, you get a lot of that, he conceded, bound to.  But this lot? Different, he thought, like they thought they could play old Bartaland for a garrulous fool. Then ¡®Her Ladyship¡¯ turned up, always trouble, that one, though at least she was on your side. You hoped. And that dark, striking young women, dressed like a footpad who was in the armoury this evening. He hadn¡¯t liked the look of her one bit, and he recalled that he may have seen her at the alehouse, consorting with the undesirables. Now she had apparently gone off with Her Ladyship, and the elf-lady, and that pocket paladin with the ginger hair, and he wasn¡¯t at all sure what to make of all that. Still, all he had was a sense of disquiet and incomplete information.  Plans laid with incomplete information were likely, he knew, fatally to miscarry. He couldn¡¯t do much about it then, could he? Still, he reflected, the thing about old soldiers is that they can smell trouble on the wind.  What that trouble was, he had been unable to guess, but he knew it was coming all the same.


    There was, he reminded himself, an abundance of trouble already at the gates, and there was something he could do about that. Of the clearing of the town, he knew a little and guessed more.  They would need to spare some stout men for the task. No doubt they would call for volunteers. As an old soldier, he knew never to volunteer.  Not volunteering, for anything, had, in fact, to be an old soldier¡¯s first rule, he concluded. Never to be broken, that one. Expeditions that he himself contrived, though often insanely tough and dangerous, were, to his mind, entirely different. And he¡¯d never ask for volunteers to go with him. No, that wouldn¡¯t be right. No, you didn¡¯t ask people to come, you told them they were coming.  And he had enough gnarled old cronies stuffed about the place, both here and at Dragongate, that he could always find someone that he could ¡®volunteer¡¯ to come along on whatever madcap adventure he¡¯d dreamt up.  Never mind that these old sweats would gladly follow him through the Gate of Hells, and, like as not, back out again, with a few more enemy to their account, some choice souvenirs and a plump chicken for the pot.  No, the important thing, the decent thing, was to make out they didn¡¯t have a choice whether they came or not. In a military life, no less than elsewhere, the proprieties had to be observed.


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    So, he shut up shop, roused Radkin in his quarters, and pressed the spare armoury keys upon him, explaining, cryptically, that he had to see a man about a dog. And, so, he went on his way, armed, armoured, with a pack on his back, a coil of rope that had been struck off strength for being an inch shorter than regulation length, a dark lantern he¡¯d won at dice off some really dodgy looking bloke at the alehouse the last time he was here, and a set of keys that he really, really, should not have had.


    Bartaland stalked round the castle in search of his mates. He¡¯d known most of them since extreme youth, when they¡¯d met at a levy muster in the south kingdoms. Gawky kids trying to look older and tougher than they were, called to drill in the district¡¯s Trained Band in a dusty village square. Farm hands, shop boys and tradesmen¡¯s apprentices, mostly, their hum-drum occupations interrupted.  Their names had been called in the ballot to form a band to train for a season and, if lucky, to come home again before any fighting happened, for were war to break out among the squabbling kingdoms, then their time would be extended and their lives expended at the whim of their king. If all was well, nothing would happen. and they would be released before the next harvest. They were then bound by the law to band together again, every other year, for a shorter period of training, to maintain some degree of readiness. So, they saw each other again a couple more times at the Trained Band¡¯s muster before, as the Powers would have it, they¡¯d been whisked off to war.  Thereafter, as happens so often in such cases, they¡¯d found themselves in thrall to a life they both loved and hated. Thus, they had continued, each year adding to their tally of wounds, and tall tales, hard lessons learned and complaints well-honed, until they knew, and could do, nothing else but soldiering.


    He¡¯d told them all to meet him in a storeroom by the western wall at midnight, and now, in a narrow room of barrels, Bartaland surveyed a circle of familiar faces in the candlelight, most feigning complete disinterest in whatever he was about to say. Yet, they¡¯d all come to hear it. Their glory days behind them, they¡¯d earned the reward of less arduous duties. Some were still in the ranks, legendary old Sergeants like Bartaland, but they represented all aspects of life, here or at Dragongate; castle storekeepers, tradesmen and an innkeeper in the upper town, a sub-captain of the town watch, water bailiff, steward to a lord¡¯s house, craftsmen (various), one a priest.  All respectable men of standing.  All with deeply unrespectable pasts. And then there was Pogg the Unreliable, resolutely still in the ranks and without any rank. He must be the oldest footman in the King¡¯s armies, thought Bartaland, and a man who repelled promotion like an oiled helm threw off water. Yet Bartaland could not wish for a better man beside him in a fight.


    ¡°Well Lug¡±, said Pogg at length, ¡°now we¡¯re all ¡®ere, what d¡¯ave in mind?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s like this, Lads,¡± replied Bartaland, ¡°I¡¯m getting the Band back together.¡±


    A little later, through a narrow postern gate giving directly on to the lake shore, some eighteen or twenty figures, between them carrying six rowing boats laden with kit, slipped out of the castle and crunched softly upon the shale. Quickly, with practised quiet and purposeful efficiency, and only the odd barely audible groan and curse, they launched their boats and sped silently across the smooth surface of the mere while the moon was lost in the cloud above.

 Chapter 6: Flight & Fight- Part 1

    The night waned and dawn was already a rumour. It had taken time to rouse the departing townsfolk and for them to be ready for their journey. Now a forlorn line of folk of all ages and conditions were assembled in the town square. Some had carts with ponies, others mules and some very few were mounted on horses. Most were on foot and took whatever each could carry. There were mothers and fathers with careworn looks and idlers joshing to look brave, there were children with faces bright with the prospect of adventure, and children who were crying.  Most of the people looked grave, or wary. Smoke drifted through the darkness from the smouldering remains of fires set in the town by the Enemy. Yet the full scarring of the town was hidden by the night from those now forced to make their sorry retreat. Those who were of the Vale had departed Stowham at the first sign of the attack, taking all they could of value through the castle gate to the safety of the upper town. These now were the strangers with no place of safety. Around them there was much wreckage, glimmering fitfully in the torch light; ruined half-burnt houses and the detritus of peaceful and prosperous lives, suddenly abandoned. Sacrissa could see nothing of value left among the broken carts and empty overturned stalls and baskets, staved barrels and smashed pots. Her fine black destrier, a fryson mare, snorted disdainfully at the acrid tang in the air. Sigird viewed the charred spoilation grimly, absently leaning forward to pat the neck of her horse to comfort the beast.  A fine large dales horse, she rode, such as had bourn the Heroes of the North in ages past. Its brown patches now appeared almost black in the dull grey gloom, its patches of white glowed faintly like the moon. The huntress and Elyssa were also ahorse. They had been in conference with the King and together the three of them now approached the escort, clopping with a soft dolefulness across the silent square.


    ¡°It is the hour before dawn and time you must depart,¡± the King addressed them, ¡°I will tell you now how I have ordered things for your journey.¡±


    He was proudly clad in his wargear, with bright helm upon the saddle pommel of his fine caparisoned grey. Today he wore the bold red of Dragongate, glowing softly in the firelight, its two dragons, one gold, the other black, facing each other, tails entwined.


    ¡°The escort is mounted and Dimlicdale can be crossed on horseback,¡± he continued, ¡°This will enable you better to scout, provide flank and rear guards and to travel swiftly to the site of any trouble. The column must be kept moving yet will be as slow as those with the slowest feet. You must cross the dale before sunset.  That is the only advice I shall give you.


    ¡°As to the ordering of the party, the huntress shall have charge of it, and by her side always are to be the Lady Amora, Trystan and Conan. I give you the service of Captain Trum and picked men of Dragongate.  Three are scouts, garbed as the hills and well hardy and field crafty, their leader is Ebban the Stealthy.  Twelve are bowmen, of whom Lady Elyssa has, at my bidding, agreed to take charge. Twelve more are Men-at-Arms. All are mounted and cloaked in grey against the eyes of the enemy. Ladies Sacrissa and Sigird have offered to ride with the party also, for which I am grateful, and the huntress will use them as she will.¡±


    The King leaned forward and spoke softly, so that only the huntress would hear him, ¡°Beware, there are many in your company not of the Vale. There will be traitors among your ranks.¡±


    ¡°And among yours, Lord King,¡± whispered the huntress in return.


    The King nodded and sat back in his saddle, addressing the company at large.


    ¡°Go now, and may the Powers go with you.¡±


    Bows were gravely exchanged (even Sigird could not curtsy on a horse), and, at the command of the Captain and his sergeant, the townsfolk were shepherded from the square and the party set out along the road called Stanebriggate toward the river.


    The huntress rode up to her three companions of yestereve, ¡°Ladies, we are companions on the road for at least this day, and, who knows, for some time longer, perhaps. I expect your help and trust.¡±


    Sacrissa smiled, ¡°We are chance companions, by the will of the Powers it seems, on a road far from straight or certain, yet may we not at least know the name of she who expects our aid and trust?¡±


    The huntress stiffened momentarily. ¡°When we met, I referred to myself as a huntress,¡± she began, slowly, ¡°though perhaps I should say that some know me as the Huntress.¡±


    Sacrissa interrupted with a long, loud intake of breath. ¡°Well, well,¡± she murmured pensively, and then added, brightly ¡°Well, after all, what girl isn¡¯t reassured to have a stone-cold killer by her side on an adventure!¡±


    The Huntress frowned, ¡°My true name cannot be given lest it bind my freedom at this time.¡±  She saw that this just left the others looking confused, so added, ¡°But you can call me ¡®Elle¡¯.¡±


    Elyssa nodded in acknowledgement.


    ¡°As my Lady pleases,¡± said Sigird.


    Sacrissa raised an eyebrow and left it at that.


    ¡°Good, then,¡± said Elle the Huntress, ¡°let us be on our way.¡±


    As they approached the town gate, they saw cloaked men about the gate, muffled against the chill autumn air. They stirred at the approach of the column of townsfolk and their mounted escorts. Elle rode forward on her black and feathered destrier. Like the rest of the mounted party, the hooves were muffled against noise on the cobbles. Strict silence was enforced in the ranks of the shuffling townsfolk. After a brief hushed exchange, the gates swung silently inward on newly oiled hinges. All was dark beyond the wall. Was the enemy already there, lying silently in wait on the invisible plain?  The Huntress worried. No, she assured herself, there had been no sound of strife. Eric and the King¡¯s men would still be there, she hoped, silent and dark in their new positions. Looking right from where the road forked toward the river, she thought she could faintly make out the white towers of the leading gate on the fortified bridge.  It looked a long way away, and she had never had to travel the distance at the pace of one on foot. Trum and Ebban were now at her side. After a whispered exchange with them, Ebban made a slow sign with his arm, at which his two scouts trotted forward to be lost in the blackness. Trum and Ebban returned to their chosen posts. Elle turned in the saddle to Amora, who came to her side.  The Huntress smiled reassuringly at her friend, though as she did, she realised that she was smiling to reassure herself.


    Progress along the road was painful.  The townsfolk seemed to do their best, but their best speed was frustratingly slow. The Huntress had no doubt that the enemy had contrived to watch the town gates, the roads and the bridge.   The darkness should shield them, provided the clouds still hid the moon.


    Sigird did not care for the situation either. She knew there was no choice. She knew that they were safe on the road, even if seen.  The outer wall was unbreached and Lord Eric, she did not doubt, stood between them and the enemy with a great force in a prepared position. It was what lay beyond the bridge that troubled her. No enemy had been reported across the bank, but no friendly troops were stationed there. If she had the ordering of the enemy, she would have used the darkness to occupy the woods with many light troops.


    Elyssa noted the return of the two scouts.  The column continued forward. All was evidently well. Elyssa took stock of her bowmen.  Tall and grim they were, though they treated her with a courteous deference, devoid of the fear and distrust she was used to from Men, or, come to that, from her mother¡¯s people, when what she was had become known. These men seemed to take her as they found her.  These were men of Dragongate, the twin dragons blazoned on red tabards beneath their grey cloaks. Elves did not abash them. Dark Elves, shadow-folk, lived among them. She and Nan Un had sought sanctuary with Dark Elves in the western coombes, where she found other Blood Elves. She had fled from Elvenholme once her blood-nature had become known.  It was strange to think that these men had mixed with such kin and it troubled them not. The men went about their duties, adjusting gear, setting watch and arcs for their bows along their route with a calm economy of movement, gesture and low conversation. She was sure they knew their business well.


    Just then, a bright light erupted in the centre of the column. Unbelievingly, Elyssa realised that someone had lit a brand!  They were now waving it in a frantic motion, and now, shouting. The glare hid the fool from view, but all around him townsfolk were to be seen trying to edge out of the circle of light cast by the bobbing and swaying torch. Elyssa had her bow strung and instinctively nocked an arrow.  Now Men at Arms were galloping towards the torch-bearer from both ends of the column.  One momentarily blocked her view. Then, she raised her bow and aimed just below the centre of the torch¡¯s swaying movement. She focussed her mind, blocking all the noise and commotion, and controlled her breathing. She breathed in slowly, then held it for a heartbeat and loosed her arrow. She heard a scream and saw the flaming point of light pause in mid-arc, then drop suddenly to the ground. The light was gone. The whole party seemed to hold its breath.  All was still and silent. Then, far across the plain, horn calls were heard.


    ¡°A fine shot in the dark, my Lady,¡± observed her senior man, Hirdman Stralbore, in a matter of fact, but approving tone.


    ¡°Yes,¡± replied Elyssa, ¡°but now they know someone is on the river road.¡±


    Just then a great sound, as of a sudden wind, disturbed the air. After a moment¡¯s silence a loud thud was heard to the side of the road, some distance away, and the ground beneath them shook. A wave of dust rolled through the air towards us.


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    ¡°The greatest of their engines cannot reach this far,¡± concluded Stralbore.


    ¡°Yet, if they have men across the river, they will be expecting us now,¡± she replied.


    ***


    Sacrissa had been talking to Amora when the torch flared.


    ¡°What in the Seven Hells¡­?¡± Amora had begun.


    ¡°I know not,¡± Sacrissa had replied, ¡°but I don¡¯t have a good feeling about this.¡±


    Sacrissa¡¯s Second Sight had caused the taste of bile to flood her mouth in response to the alarm. She savoured its rankness, discerning and dividing its parts. ¡®Treachery, of course,¡¯ she had noted, ¡®and fear, hate, and ¡­ yes, defiance.  Yet there is something more.  Something that lies behind.  Something I have not tasted before. Something dark and not of this earth.¡¯


    Suddenly, without understanding why, she had felt a thrill of fear, ice-cold down her spine, and her stomach had churned.


    She was still shouldering her black Fryson steed through the confused crowd on the road toward the dancing light when the light fell. She had reached the stricken traitor as the wump of a great rock¡¯s impact was heard a bow shot ahead of her. It had spooked the Fryson and shaken the ground, disorientating her for a moment.  She had quickly recalled her situation and settled the beast with Words of Command.  She was dismounting as the choking dust swirled round them.


    Now, she lent over the expiring figure where he lay, kicked by the soldiers to the edge of the road. She revived him with a drop of liquid from a vial, aware that his respite would be temporary and that she must work quickly. He had the appearance of some entirely unremarkable and unmemorable peasant. A freeman, they all were here, apparently, but unkempt and with his better days behind him. He gazed at her with a look of truculent disdain through the fading light of glassy eyes. The arrow had struck close to the man¡¯s heart, and he was near his end.


    ¡®Bloody Elf,¡¯ thought Sacrissa, ¡®not one in a hundred could have hit him, a shot into the dark against a blinding light, and she all but drilled him straight through the heart. Note to self; probably not an Elf you want to upset.  Now, to work ¡­¡¯


    ***


    Conan possessed the happy coincidence of an insistently cheerful demeanour, which made it hard to take offence, even when he was ordering you about, and an imposing physical presence, which suggested that taking offence was, in any case, probably pointless, and certainly unwise. Although he was ever friendly and scrupulously polite, it was found that people seldom needed reminding twice to return books to his library. Now his talents were employed to good effect, calming the townsfolk, preventing panic spreading in their ranks, and chivvying them ever forward. When he next had leisure to look up from the worrying, scurrying horde, he saw the gate towers of the bridge looming pale above him.


    At their approach, the oiled and muffled gates swung silently open and the long line of silent townsfolk filed through. A cobbled road led over the span and head-high walls, with fighting steps, flanked them.  The escort dismounted and led their horses across. Nothing heard they, save the hoot of an owl and the solemn and relentless rush of the cold river beneath them, and, far off, behind that sound, the dull roar of the waterfall that fed the mere.


    The Huntress, with Trum by her side and Amora and Trystan in attendance, walked ahead of the column out of the bridge gate onto the further bank, the soft clop of their horses¡¯ muffled hooves barely audible. Ahead of them, out of sight, Ebban and his men were scouting on foot, with a fore-guard of Men at Arms in close support. Further back were mounted Men at Arms, and Elyssa and Stralbore were disposing their archers to cover the advancing footmen, though it might be thought they would be of doubtful aid in the enveloping dark.


    Away to their left stretched a pale ribbon of riverbank wall, blocking the river itself from view and disappearing into the trees that rose, tier on tier, up the flanks of the Circling Hills as they parted at the river-gap.  The wall was not manned. Like the river itself, the wall was an impediment to any mass movement of enemy forces, though no proof against a stealthy escalade by night.  There was no way of knowing how many Enemy might have penetrated this side of the Vale, but they had to assume the Enemy was here.


    The road lay uphill through fields. Hedges and walls might conceal many foes to either side, as might the farmstead through which the road ahead would soon take them. Beyond the field to their right, the bend in the river secured their flank, but to the left the fields ended where thick forest marked the course of the Circling Hills.  The hills and the forest curved in a vast arc on the slopes above them, ultimately to lay across their path as the road ahead climbed toward the forest.  The road to Dimlicdale lay through those trees, up that steep, wooded, slope, and through a high pass at the summit of the Circling Hills. Anyone could see that, once they had disappeared into those trees, at any point, the Enemy could take them. It struck Elle that what had seemed a reasonable chance, a calculated risk, on the map in the guardroom, now looked like suicide.


    They decided that, for speed, the town-folk must stick to the road.  At the farmstead straddling the road, the forest jutted out closest to the left side of the road, before receding to form a great bay of open land that would end only as the forest reached round to close over the road.  The farm was deserted, and they passed on, the column hedged on its flanks and to its front by an anxious soldiery, scanning the black borders of the forest, straining to see into its shadows and penetrate its secrets.


    Then the moon passed beyond the clouds, and they saw the forest curving away from the farmstead to their left and that now they were about to cross the wide bay of open ground, the whole of which was now illuminated by the moon¡¯s pale white light. The road and everything on it was exposed to view from any unfriendly eyes lurking in the forest.


    ¡°From here,¡± remarked Trum to the Huntress, ¡°the trees that reach to the farm behind us block any view of these fields from the Enemy across the river.  If the Enemy is already here, however ¡­.¡±


    ¡°We must pray to the Powers that they are not,¡± answered Elle, flatly, and they rode on in watchful silence.  There was not one among the party who did not feel agonisingly vulnerable as they crossed the open fields beside the forest, naked under the glare of the moon.


    Eventually the treeline was reached. The road passed under a canopy of pines. The darkness closed over the party and ghost-like figures rose out of the gloom; members of the escort, marking their flanks and probing ahead. They all felt relief at first as they reached the sheltering gloom, yet the dark wood that now closed around them was the greater danger. It would have been better to have faced any Enemy in the open, under the moon, thought Elle.


    They had fanned out, trudging among the trees to the left and right of the road.  That way they could sweep the forest to some distance from it, flushing out any Enemy at a safe distance from the main column. Dismounted Men-at-Arms teased their way through the trees. Mounted supports lay behind and closer in toward the road. In the trees, the Enemy could be established on either, or, more likely, both sides of the road, but it was on the left that Sacrissa and Sigird found themselves, now on foot, lending their support to the sweep through the woods. The bright moonlight was dim here, filtered through fog and a thousand branches to a faint and unsettling glow that seemed to collect around the dense atmosphere at the base of the trees, showing them thickly planted in every direction. Ever on the trees marched before them.  Ever upward they stretched, toward the bare rocky heights beyond. In any direction just five or six bare trunks could be seen through the half-light and the ground mist before the trees were swallowed by blackness beyond. The forest floor was clothed with fallen pine needles, which softened sound and dulled sense. It was as if they walked in a dream from which they could not awaken, the course of which was beyond their power to determine. Every trunk they passed gave way to another at the limit of their sight, never changing.  It was as if they made no progress at all, ceaselessly repeating steps already taken.  They were held in some other world, a twilight place outside time, quite helpless to resist its power to keep them there. Doomed, it seemed, to trudge this endless forest and, yet, to arrive nowhere. Yet they could feel the fallen cones beneath their feet. That connected them with something tangible, real and solid. They pressed down to feel them through the soles of their boots and felt alive and alert once more. Through the thickening ground mist, they trod softly on amid the still and silent trees.


    ¡°My Lady,¡± said Sigird after a while.


    ¡°¡®Sacrissa¡¯ Sigird, just ¡®Sacrissa¡¯ will do,¡± she replied.


    ¡°You tended the traitor, back there, before the bridge.¡±


    ¡°Aye,¡± said Sacrissa, ¡°though I would not say ¡®tended¡¯.¡±


    ¡°Did he say anything?¡± asked Sigird.


    ¡°No,¡± said Sacrissa, ¡°leastways not that he meant to.¡±


    Sacrissa was content to let the conversation lapse at this point, but, after a pause, Sigird persisted.


    ¡°He told you something¡±, she said at length, ¡°something that has made you thoughtful and¡­¡±, she hesitated to choose the word.


    ¡°Afraid,¡± re-joined Sacrissa, bluntly.


    ¡°Afraid? But ¡­¡±


    ¡°Aye, afraid, or did you think I merely laugh in the face of danger? My dear, I devote considerable thought and effort to avoiding danger.¡±


    ¡°Yet,¡± Sigird again persisted, ¡°you are a fighter? You showed us that at the castle.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I daresay I can be quite formidable at need, but there are more profitable and less risky adventures to be had than walking into a fair fight, or,¡± she added, ¡°any fight, come to that.¡±


    Despite the dark, the lightness of her tone told Sigird that the dark Lady was smiling as she spoke. Sigird frowned, feeling strangely disappointed.


    ¡°Look,¡± said Sacrissa, suddenly serious, ¡°there is something in all this I do not understand.  This is not some baron¡¯s war or king¡¯s squabble, this is ¡­. I don¡¯t know, but there is something behind all this.  Something dark.  Something unknown. The man the Elf killed ¡­ he was so full of hate but also so sure he was right, that his kind would triumph over us. We are all of us hunted, I deem, but who leads the hunt, and why¡­¡± She trailed off.


    The trees were thinner here; something of a clearing to the left of the road seemed to be opening out. Room to fight, room to shoot, thought Sigird. She did not like Sacrissa¡¯s dark hints. She did not count herself particularly superstitious, but ¡­


    ¡°I thought I heard a noise, off to the left,¡± resumed Sacrissa.


    Sigird had not heard anything.  She was still intent upon Sacrissa¡¯s vague forebodings.


    ¡°If you have found something out about this phantom army, you should tell the others ¡­¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t call it that!¡± snapped Sacrissa, ¡°for fear that it may be so.  I cannot tell anything yet. I would not know how to describe it more, or what to say to¡­.¡±


    And then a twig snapped off to the left and an arrow whistled past them.


    ¡°Down!¡± shouted Sacrissa.


    ¡°To arms! To arms! Enemy to our left!¡± bawled Sigird, standing on her toes, waving pointlessly in the dark, and attracting far too much attention, Sacrissa thought, so she pulled the girl down to where she was already crouching.


    A volley of arrows screeched over their heads.  There were no cries as the feathered shafts disappeared behind them in the dark.  None, it seemed, had found a mark. There were cries and horn calls from the column.  Men at Arms ran forward, forming a shield wall in front of them, and then the Elf and the Huntress were bounding forward, leading three or four archers. They scanned for targets.  With uncanny night sight and practised eyes they sought out their enemies and loosed arrows. Wherever they did so, there were screams. Brazen horns, as of brass, sounded deep in the forest and the cries of their enemies were heard, growing fainter until there was again silence under the boughs.


    Elle bounded up to them, all bristling intent. Like a hound on a scent, thought Sacrissa.


    ¡°Well,¡± said Elle, ¡°These Leopards were easily scattered! Yet I deem they will return soon enough now they have found us, no doubt in force.  Be ready!¡± and she bounded off.


    ¡®Bloody heroes,¡¯ thought Sacrissa, and she let Sigird, already up and scanning their Enemy¡¯s ground, pull her to her feet.

 Chapter 6: Flight & Fight – Part 2

    The Men-at-Arms resumed their sweep of the forest, and they all continued forward as before.


    The second attack was not long in coming. The Leopards had waited just long-enough for the pre-dawn light to suffuse the forest with a soft illumination.  Men and horses were becoming detailed and apparent, not mere vague and shadowy forms. Whoever had suggested that the darkest hour was that before the dawn had been a total idiot, Elle decided. By dawn they should be cresting the pass to Dimlicdale, but they had to cut their way out of this trap before they could worry about the delay. Their Enemy had chosen the perfect spot, as the road entered a shallow defile in its climb through the forest.  The Enemy attacked on both sides of the column with volleys of arrows, interspersed with brief and violent charges.  The latter were not pressed home, however, and it seemed to Elle that the aim here was to pin down the flanks of her force and occupy her men.  Elyssa agreed and advised her to ensure that he main force of arms was concentrated at the front of the column.  Sure enough, when determined attacks came, they came from the front, downhill, smashing into the Huntress¡¯s shield wall on the road. Elyssa had divided her archers into three, to cover each flank and support the front of the column.  She was still on the left flank, Stralbore, on the right. They kept the Enemy¡¯s bowmen disrupted and, after each charge, did great execution upon the retiring Enemy; slower returning up the slope into the trees than when they had rushed down to attack, and without the protection of their shields. The problem was, the Enemy did not seem to care about its losses, and there was no shortage of men in each attack, however many were felled. To succeed, they did not need to kill her men, they simply needed to keep them away from where they would be needed most. Now she heard Trum¡¯s horn calls from the front of the column. It was time to go.


    The fighting was at close quarters now. Some of their Enemy were as rangers, garbed lightly in cloth of dark and mid-grey, some with leather armour only. Others wore long skirted and quilted jacks and steel helms. They bore swords or spears and some had bows. Yet all bore the detestable yellow leopards, on cloth patches and round shields.  Though they were many and determined, Dragongate¡¯s Men at Arms were sturdy and full harnessed and their shieldwall could not be broken. The Men of the Leopard made easy targets for Elyssa¡¯s bowmen. The defence could hold for a time, yet Elle realised that it was death to stay where they were; the Enemy could not be seen until it was upon them. They needed more open ground, where the tree cover by the road thinned towards the summit.  Though few here knew her, she knew this land and she knew they would stand a better chance in the more open ground a little way ahead.  She ordered the shieldwall to advance and for the column to edge forward behind it.


    Steadily they climbed, though with painful slowness, every step costing a blow taken. Slowly the canopy above them thinned. The lowlight of dawn was creeping above the rim of the eastern hills far across the Vale. It pierced the tree-gloom and lit the cresting road ahead of them. They crawled out of the shallow defile to more level ground. They saw the trees begin to thin and stand further from the road, though either side of them, beyond the lighter patches of grass and scrub, the last stands of dense forest stood from which their Enemy still came forth.


    There, blinking in the dawn light, they were brought to a halt once more. Leopards surrounded them.  Dour grey figures, their red faces snarled with hate through open helms that tipped them with silver in the cold dawn light. Silvered too were their swords and spear tips. Dull grey their coats and painted shields, yet on them glowed a multitude of defiant yellow leopards. Here and there a leopard sported on a fluttering grey banner. Stolidly the Leopards moved forward, out of the denser wood, through the outlying trees, and into the clearing where the column stood at bay. On all sides the refugees were crowded and threatened. They were beset. With near six-score of townsfolk now in a dense knot, pressed by the Enemy on all sides, there were not enough of the escort to make a defence of the whole perimeter. If the column were pressed in several places at once, and the Leopards had the numbers for that, inevitable gaps in the defences would expose the townsfolk to slaughter. Stout town lads, and some lasses with them, equipped themselves with staves and scavenged weapons from Leopards lately felled before the Dragongate shieldwall. They found their own leaders, among them Hyldere the butcher of the Stowham Shambles, who had left town with the precious tools of his trade, secured on his belt, save now for the large and wicked cleaver in his hand. Berend, the carter, who plied the Marches as far as the Vale with trade goods, licked his lips, narrowed his right eye, and sited the crossbow that he took to comfort him as he traversed lonely moors.  Slaga, an unkempt newcomer to the town, though gruff seeming and unpromising, brandished a wicked falchion in one hand and gripped a long dagger in the other, while eager violence lit his eyes. Coquin, the rascally pot boy of the Stowham alehouse, was a practised street fighter, and now passed a plundered sword nervily from hand to hand, quivering with anticipated violence. Despite all such help, there were too many helpless folk, who, along with baggage and soldiers¡¯ horses, occupied more ground than could be defended.  Elle realised this and gave orders for parties to be formed to sally forth and drive the attackers off wherever they pressed the closest.  That done, she realised that no more orders were necessary, and that her help now must be in fighting alongside the others.  She strung her bow and, in silent competition with Elyssa, began to take her toll. Those yellow leopards on their enemies¡¯ breasts, she noted with satisfaction, made excellent aiming marks.


    So it was that the companions sallied forth whenever the attacks threatened to turn the line of defenders. Amora led Trystan and Conan into the attack. Lead Man Fram of the Dragongate guard was surprised to see the practised way Amora plied her steel.  The four of them, in a diamond-shaped wedge, drove straight into the middle of the attacking foes, Amora at the tip, Trystan on her right hand, Conan on her left, Fram centre rear. Now, though, there was no front or rear; the wedge had driven to the heart of the attack and was assailed on all sides. Each aware of the other, they fought to their fronts. The other three, Fram thought, had done this before. There were no better trained soldiers than the Men-at-Arms of Dragongate, and intelligence was as prized as stolidness in their ranks. Fram could understand how they fought and slotted into the pattern.  Amora looked grim, and rather cross, Fram reckoned. Her brows furrowed with concentration as she parried and struck.  She knew she could not afford to put a foot wrong, so she did not. The gawky boy Trystan was no less adept. He was less conventional in his moves than Amora, concluded Fram.  You might suppose he didn¡¯t really know what he was doing, but if you thought that, Fram noticed, you died; Trystan could produce a blow or a thrust from the most unexpected place at a time when you thought he must be fending off your blow. It seemed almost like cheating, thought Fram, but it was not deliberate, Fram decided, it was just the way Trystan¡¯s ungainly body and rather subtle mind worked together. It was actually quite fun to watch, like someone whose dancing is so outrageously bad that it¡¯s actually quite good. Then there was the big fella, Conan, who for all the world was a picture of contented industry, felling foes right and centre with no trace of malice, merely satisfaction in a job well done. His open countenance seemed to convey the idea that these people really should not be in arms against his friends, but that they were fortunate that he was there to teach them the error of their ways. Whether any of them would ever be in a position to profit from that lesson, Fram rather doubted.  He glanced towards their lines; his comrades were easily keeping a handful of Leopards at bay.  So, they had been successful in saving the line, but only because they were now the focus of the attack.  Well, so be it, that had been the idea. But how long could the four of them survive in this sea of enemies, and if one fell, what of the others?


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    Elsewhere on the perimeter, and Sacrissa was, by now, a little confused as to where, another attack was forming. There was a relatively clear patch of land on the flank of the road, and across it, under the eaves of the wood, the Enemy was taking its own sweet time, bringing up its full strength of warriors and forming them into ranks or waves. Sacrissa rather wished they¡¯d get on with it. It angered her to think that they knew they could take all day about it if they chose; the result would be the same.  The tension seemed unbearable to her.  At that moment, Sigird loosed her scabbard, adjusted the strap of her shield and drew her sword.  Then she simply walked slowly towards the Enemy.  About halfway towards them she stopped, quite alone, and waited for them to get their act together and try to kill her.  Sacrissa was horror-struck. She saw Sigird now not as the lithe and deadly warrior-maid, but as what she was; a very young and inexperienced woman, a girl, really, shy and diffident and not at all knowing. The refreshing opposite of herself, noted Sacrissa, but, therefore, entirely vulnerable.  She looked quite pitiful, in fact, standing there in a man¡¯s armour that now seemed too great and heavy for her slight frame and spare limbs. What could she know of how to fight off the dozen thick-set, heavily armed men, each looking twice her mass, snarling and leering, swearing and jeering as they came on at a jog that would surely bowl her over and trample her to dust even without a blow?


    Sigird had found waiting for the Enemy to order its ranks wearisome.  It irked her that they wasted time. They evidently considered that their intended victims posed no threat to them while they milled about in the growing light. This was making her cranky, Sigird had realised. It was time to get things started, she¡¯d felt. So, she had adjusted her gear and walked forward. She ignored the calls from behind her, Sacrissa, probably, and took up her position and waited. As predicted, the brute soldiery took her boldness amiss and, without waiting to finish forming up, came on as they were.  That meant her first order of business would be the dozen men now running in a staggered and straggling group towards her, gaps widening between them as they ran. Distance between them meant time, time meant opportunity. She hunched down and waited.


    Someone was shouting, and it was a moment before Sacrissa realised it was her. She had no time to think what she was doing.  She called forward the two Men-at-Arms in her party and then turned back to Sigird, but it was too late, the first enemy soldiers were now upon her.


    Three men sprang at Sigird, swords raised. She smiled. Then, so far as Sacrissa could tell, there was blur as Sigird span towards them. The men just collapsed before a whirling death that had cut them down before they understood what was happening. There was a lot of blood-spray and spatter, and pools of it bubbled from the crumpled forms of Sigird¡¯s assailants, who now seemed disturbingly contorted and distressingly incomplete. The next three or four had come on.  Sigird cried out; the joy and song of battle was in her heart. She was Sigird of the House Duna, daughter of Victory and Thunderclap of Doom! Her people were sea raiders before they were lords and were sea raiders still. They fell upon their enemies with merciless speed. She would do so now. Her face was radiant.  She turned it upon her attackers and they saw Death.


    The final five were now arrayed before her.  They seemed inclined to be more circumspect and hesitated just out of sword reach, no doubt recalculating their chances in the light of recent events and wondering which of them should strike first. Sigird had no patience with this sort of thing, so she stepped forward once more and started to work through them. By the time Sacrissa and the two Dragongate soldiers had started running towards her, the last of the screams had died at the point of Sigird¡¯s blade. ¡®So far, so good¡¯, thought Sigird, with a certain grim pride in her workmanship. Killing was a prized craft in her world, and all present should take satisfaction in witnessing the skill involved. ¡®Mind you,¡¯ she thought, ¡®this lot probably didn¡¯t have time to appreciate the craftsmanship of their demise. Still,¡¯ she consoled herself, ¡®at least they got the point.¡¯


    Meanwhile the main body of attackers was having a rethink. They had now ordered themselves in a shieldwall hedged with spears, a perfectly natural and sensible thing to do, conceded Sigird. Yet, behind the shields there seemed to be some confusion as to whether to take their crouching walk forward ¨C they were supposed to be attacking, after all ¨C or backwards, which appeared to offer certain advantages. Again, Sigird reflected, patience was not her strong point and she censored herself for her childish petulance at the delay. Nevertheless, she could not stand around here all morning, so, while the shieldwall shuffled to and fro, she strolled in easy strides towards it, swinging her sword in her hand loosely and humming.


    Seeing this, the Leopards evidently felt their pride stung and mustered the resolution to strive forward. ¡®So,¡¯ thought Sigird, ¡®it¡¯s probably time to take things a little more seriously.¡¯ She sheathed her sword, loosed Mail-piercer from the straps on her back and slung her shield away in its place. Mail-piecer, her spear gave her reach, but it also had a long blade with the tip of a sword and the edge of an axe. She stopped humming and frowned in concentration, appraising.  Then, she ran at them. Dodging their spear tips, she jumped up, and with both hands tight round the grip of Mail-piercer, she brought it down upon the top of the shieldwall like the hammer of some ancient God. Then suddenly Sacrissa and the two Men-at-Arms were beside her and they drove the mass of enemy back, Sacrissa¡¯s blows, borne of fear and relief, rained as heavy as any.  The shieldwall parted and the companions stood briefly among their tumbled enemies and slaughtered them. Then it was time to withdraw.  Leopards were shouting and running at them out of the dense forest from all directions, arrows skittered past them, and there were horn calls of distress from the direction of the column.


    ¡°Back!¡± shouted Sacrissa, ¡°They are attacking the column again!¡±


    At the front of the column they were hard pressed, and starting to take casualties. There was no sign that the attacks were relenting.  The simple fact, Elle realised, was that this was a fight that they could prolong, but not win. Prolonging it brought defeat in any case, as even if they somehow won through, further delay would risk them facing Dimlicdale in darkness.   The attacks, if anything, were getting more organised, Enemy numbers greater.  And it was getting light.  They were barely holding their own and were no longer making any forward progress toward the pass.  As the dawn light climbed the rise of the road before them, they saw a mass of the Enemy forming across their path.  The noise and rumour of strife from the flanks and rear of the column had ceased. It seemed that the Enemy had concentrated its remaining strength here, ahead of them. Elle realised with a sick tug of her guts that an all-out attack down-hill by such numbers would sweep them away. Elyssa shot her a knowing glance. The Enemy began to shout and clash spears upon their shields, a row of dancing, clamouring leopards in mockery of them.  Then began a low and menacing chant, of a kind not heard on the lips of men of the kingdoms. The words were indistinct, but the message was clear.  The chant spoke of a dark power that would violently overwhelm them. For the first time the peril of their situation came home to them, and every member of the column felt fear and despair according to their measure.  Brazen horn calls blared and the chanting and stamping of feet and clashing of arms rose to a crescendo then stopped.  In an instant spears and shields were levelled against them, and, as a single grey mass of great span and depth, the Leopards ran down towards them.


    At that same moment, seemingly from further ahead, and away to the right, the Huntress and her party heard a new noise, rising above the sound of the Enemy¡¯s thudding feet; the clear, pure mountain notes of a Dragongate horn, sounding the attack.

 Chapter 7: Battle – Part 1

    Eric crouched behind the breastwork they had thrown up in the night. ¡®Any time now,¡¯ he thought.  His father was commanding the reserve sheltering behind the second ditch and dyke. Eric was in charge of the first. Something caught the corner of his eye. He looked down to his right; he realised that the sun had now crested the rim of the eastern hills; what he saw now was his shadow in the dust.


    Incendiary missiles were hurled far over their heads into the deserted town behind them. That was a mere distraction, however, and of no purpose save to signal malice and burn wantonly. It was not what concerned Eric and his men. He coughed, and gratefully sipped some proffered water. It refreshed and soothed a dry throat and loosed a dry tongue from the roof of his mouth. He swallowed the water too quickly, with an involuntary gulp. Nerves, he reflected. He never had been much of one for the wait.


    Then it came.  A succession of crumps as stone smashed into distant stone to their front, sending up silent clouds of dust and fragments from behind the outer wall.  Eric rose, loosening his limbs and walked up and down the line, exchanging greetings and encouraging remarks, checking that all was well. The noise of impacts continued, and Eric noted that they tended to concentrate on two or three places. Castle walls needed to be undermined or climbed, or their gates taken. Throwing rocks at them was a fool¡¯s errand. These walls, however, were but a discouragement and, Eric knew, were not so stout that the great engines of the Enemy could beat them down.  The Enemy brought overwhelming numbers, and, Eric had reasoned, whether by pounding out a breach with its trebuchets, mining, ramming the gate or escalade, the unsupported wall must soon fall and leave its defenders in a dangerous position. Yet doubt unbidden now assailed his conclusions. What if the wall did not fall? What if the Enemy instead pounded them on this exposed ground? Perhaps he had taken too much comfort from the earnest young woman in the mannish armour? He realised he was second-guessing his assessment of the previous day. He decided that doubts he could no longer act upon were unhelpful. He forced himself to concentrate on the wall. The first practicable breach would see an assault on that section, which the attackers would carry with surprised swiftness as they encountered the straw-stuffed sacking sentinels on the walls.


    The minutes dragged slowly on and Eric began to see the ramparts of the outer wall crushed and brought low at places either side of the gate towers.  The towers themselves still stood proud and inviolate in the early morning light. At one the red and green banner of the Vale still flew defiantly.  From the other, the bold blue of Trenisslia. Proud, yet forlorn, thought Eric, and he regretted the need to leave them there. Their fate was to be torn down and trampled by their relentless foes, perhaps borne back in triumph to whatever dark captain led this sinister host.


    ***


    In the still shadowy town, hidden, in the lee of the inner wall and its barbican, was the King with his lords and knights.  They were arranged in three divisions, a centre and two wings, each several ranks deep.  Lords and knights of both the Vale and of the Hidden Realm were clad boldly in the varied hues and symbols of their sigildry, save the King¡¯s Household Knights, who, like him, wore the red of Dragongate. Behind them were the red-clad squires and Men-at-Arms also of Dragongate who had ridden with him to the Vale in the expectation of quite a different meeting.  The Men-at-Arms of the Vale wore red and green, and those of the Hidden Realm, who had come also with the King, wore red and golden yellow. The shadows cast by the town still dulled their brilliance and cloaked their valorous glory. The drifts of smoke obscured them. Soon, though, they would stride forth upon the sunlit plain before them.


    To the King¡¯s right side, clad in the pale green of his House, Lord Warden Nerian. Behind them Sir Kendrick was stationed.


    ¡°It looks set to dawn a fine, bright, chill autumn day, my Lord Nerian,¡± remarked the King.


    ¡°Yes, my Liege,¡± the Warden replied, ¡°though it will become hot enough by and by.¡±


    ¡°No doubt,¡± answered the King, ¡°a day of hard choices and harder knocks, I deem.¡±


    ¡°My Liege,¡± ventured Nerian after a pause, ¡°it is a great honour to be at your right hand, but I fear for the keeping of the castle, should anything befall us on the battlefield.  The castle is the Vale¡¯s, and your realm¡¯s, last defence.¡±


    ¡°Not quite the last, Nerian,¡± replied the King, ¡°and I believe that Lord Aldred has wit, strength and vigour enough to hold should we fail. Yet, I deem we are not doomed to fall this day.¡±


    An incendiary missile passed over head and hit a building behind them.  The King¡¯s gloved hand brushed away the cooling fallen ash from his vambrace.


    ¡°Come!¡± said the King, turning to his Lords, ¡°let us share a horn of mead ere we depart,¡± and he motioned to his cup bearer, who walked from one Lord¡¯s stirrup to another, holding up the mead horn for each to drink gravely in turn.


    ¡°To Gryphonhold and the North!¡± cried the King.


    ¡°To Gryphonhold!¡± shouted the Lords in unison.


    When they were done, the King turned to Earl Strang, ¡°we will resume this formation once we are clear of the gate.  My Lord Strang, take the right wing, if you would do me that honour. You will lead us through the gate.¡±


    ¡°Aye, Sire,¡± Strang replied. He bowed and spurred off to the right of the line and his retainers.


    ¡°My Lord Warian?¡± said the King, scanning for Warian¡¯s white tower guarding its green field.


    ¡°My Lord,¡± said Warian, nudging his steed forward.


    ¡°You would honour me if you took charge of our left division and would follow me out of the gate.¡±


    ¡°My Lord,¡± bowed Warian, and departed.


    ¡°And, err,¡± coughed Nerian, ¡°to what post does it please my Liege to send me?¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± replied the King graciously, ¡°I think you should stay right here by my side, where your actions will speak loudest.¡±


    ***


    Eric was actually quite bored. He¡¯d said that the outer wall would fall within an hour of dawn, and the precision and weight of stones that, bit by bit, pounded down the defenses, was work that could not be faulted. These were powerful engines, well manned and sited. The Enemy knew what it was doing. Yet, for all that, an hour spent watching the Enemy¡¯s progress on the wall was a long hour, a slow hour, and a jarring hour. ¡®Would they were done and coming for us at last,¡¯ thought Eric. Then, in a pause between salvoes, he heard distant shouting beyond the gate. A drum struck up a rhythm and he next heard the first strike of a ram against the timbers of the gate. The sound was dulled and softened by distance, but he knew what it was. It was risky to attempt the gate while great rocks were striking the wall either side of it, but the rocks seldom went far astray, Eric noted, and the ram would have some shelter from splinters from the protruding gate towers.  They had no shelter from the arrows and rocks they could expect from those manning the gate, yet no such defence would be encountered.  Unexpectedly unmolested, the ram party would soon conclude that the walls were deserted.


    ***


    Lord Aldred strode the battlements of the Gryphonhold. Age had not dimmed his sight, and the bright morning sunshine revealed all to him. He could well see the devastation to the outer wall.  Lord Eric¡¯s two thin lines of ditch and dyke looked puny in comparison to the masonry that was diminishing by the minute in clouds of silent dust. Lord Aldred could see what those crouched and wearied men in the plain could not see, and he was glad they could not see it.  For Lord Aldred could see beyond the outer wall.  The whole Vale, it seemed, was covered in rank upon rank of grey-clad warriors. No Lord, and few Kings, could muster so much, even for a short season.  There were knights, and companies of men-at-arms, but most, it seemed, were a great quantity of ordinary soldiers. The harvest would be in throughout the Kingdoms, so that, while the granaries of Gryphonhold were full, anyone minded to assemble an army could now field all the men he could command. Equipping such a force was another matter. These were lightly, but well and uniformly, armed soldiers, not some peasant levy. Difficult, too, was provisioning them. He could see great cavalry reserves in the distance. Did they bring with them, across the Great Waste, the vast amounts of forage they would need, or had they stripped the lands behind them for fodder, lands from which no word had come? A man who could wield such a force could do whatever he wished before autumn rain came to bog him down, or winter snow to freeze him.


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    He heard a discrete cough beside him, his squire addressed him, ¡°My lord, there is a Marcher Captain who would speak with you.¡±


    ¡°Bring him forward.¡±


    ¡°My Lord,¡± said the man, dressed modestly, yet with a very fine quality of clothing and gear in the pale green and dagger of the Warden, ¡°may it please your Lordship, I am Forrada, Captain of the March Riders.  My Lord Nerian bade me attend you and lend you what help I may.¡±


    ***


    Eric now heard faraway war-horns blaring beyond the outer wall.  His unseen foes were gathering. At various points he saw grey-clad men in steel helms struggling over the battlements. They had evidently thrown ladders up.  He saw them now, like distracted rodents, scurrying back and forth along the rampart challenging his straw sentinels before contemptuously casting them down. Still the whump of flying boulders continued; one, crashing too close to the men on the wall, sent the nearest spinning off the parapet, their bodies limp as they hit the ground. Others screamed and writhed as stone splinters eviscerated them. The remaining men on the walls searched for a way down. More came clambering over the battlements. They fled further from the damaged sections of the wall, which were now dangerously low, like the savage bites of a great giant.  Hurled stones crumped into the failing wall and great clouds of dust sprouted and drifted slowly off. All of a sudden there was a great cry of exultation from the Enemy and the ram pierced the doors and many shoulders heaved the shattered wood aside. One by one, in accelerating numbers, his enemies pushed through the splintered gates. They formed a phalanx between the towers and looked ready to move forward. Just then, Eric heard a whoosh of air behind him, and felt it briefly on the back of his neck, as a great rock sailed from the tall ramparts of Gryphonhold castle and smacked the enemy at the gates into pulp with a great plume of dust; grey, flecked with red.  Eric felt a slight tremor in the earth reach him. Some seconds elapsed as the shock subsided. No more grey-clad enemies came through the gate. The enemy troops now dispersed along the battlements crouched in uncertainty, then the best bowmen the defenders had, who had lain in what shallow cover they could find or make in advance of Eric¡¯s first dyke, stood slowly, nocked their arrows, and took deliberate aim at those Leopards on the exposed inner face of the battlements, and one by one, shot them down.


    The check on the Enemy did not last long. More cheering followed from afar after more stone was knocked from the breaches either side of the gates. Men were seen clambering over first one, and then the other, in increasing numbers.  More men emerged from the gate. More ladders brought more enemies over the battlements.  Soon companies were forming inside the outer wall. More stones from the castle landed, to gouge great gaps in their ranks, yet many came forward, to escape that danger and to make way for the fresh arrivals who must form-up amid the failing stones.  Eric¡¯s bowmen loosed off a further flight of arrows ¨C most finding a target ¨C and then withdrew behind the dyke, helped up over the breastwork by their comrades. Rocks sent spinning overhead from the castle continued to distress and deplete the Enemy, but a large force was slowly and surely gathering in defiance of both rock fall and bow shot. Soon, they would be coming. A man a yard or so from Eric appeared to sit up and then lie back. ¡®What foolishness?¡¯ thought Eric, and was about to rebuke the man, when he realised that arrows and crossbow bolts were now falling amongst them and that the man had been shot in the chest and hurled upon his back.


    ¡°Down! Down!¡± cried Eric as each man sought to place himself behind the shelter of the turned earth rampart. Arrows seethed uselessly over their heads.


    Eric needed to know what was happening, so, after a pause, he poked his head above the breastwork into the growing storm of arrows shot down from the outer wall¡¯s rampart walk. He saw with satisfaction that the enemy archers did not have it all their own way and could not shoot with impunity; the castle relentlessly sent swift stones their way to smash or dislodge them. The dust obscured their aim.  Eric saw, though, that many companies of grey soldiers, in their long, quilted coats, were established on the inside of the wall. Here and there, in mail, grey tabard and closed helm, were companies of knights and Men-at-Arms. Everywhere, from every man, insolent black-eyed yellow leopards stared at him, taunting it seemed. Then, with strident horn blasts, the grey horde came, tramping forward in grim unison. They were heralded by missiles cast at Eric¡¯s dyke; word of the unexpected inner defences evidently having reached the enemy captain. Fire and stone landed around them, but few strikes were close. One fell short and took out some advancing Leopards. The hail of missiles soon abated as the Leopards closed the distance to the dyke. More stones fell from the castle, and behind the shelter of their earthen dyke, the bowmen of Trenisslia and the Vale began a new toll. Through the dust and out into the sharp autumn sunlight the Leopards came on regardless. Hundreds abreast and dozens deep, they marched relentlessly toward the dyke. Arrows ceased to whistle about Eric¡¯s head, and he gave the order for his bowmen to have full rein, shooting in unison now, each volley thinning the Enemy¡¯s ranks like an invisible scythe, yet each time the Enemy closed the gaps the arrows had made in its ranks and marched on.


    At fifty yards from the dyke, the Leopards began to run. The thud of their feet became louder and faster, and the muffled but insistent jangle of belts, arms and equipment was heard. This was the point when a soldier¡¯s fear gripped him; the full violence of the Enemy was imminent and the defenders, forced to remain impassive, knew they now had no escape from it. It had not rained for days, a boon for the harvest just gathered, for the North at least had had a good one, and dust was driven up from the earth at each heavy footfall. Still the defending bowmen took their toll.  Still the ranks closed over the fallen and the Leopards came on. Bright now in the morning light their yellow leopard sigil, bright now glinted sword blades, spear tips and helms. The men themselves resolved into individuals; thick-set, with weathered faces, many bearded, now red with effort, wet with sweat, stained with dust and contorted in violence. Hellish they looked.  Hellish they sounded. Their brazen horns called them on, their captains and knights shouted encouragement, goading them on.  They growled and increased their pace.


    Eric¡¯s men had managed to dig a ditch some 3 to 4 feet deep and had thrown up an earthwork with the spoil to the same height. The bottom of the ditch was cut at an ankle-breaking angle, and it was sown with wooden staves, pared to wicked spikes, though nowhere as many as Eric would have wished.  Into this ditch now came the Leopards.  Some stumbled, or were pushed in by those behind, and landed to break their limbs or impale their bodies on the sharpened stakes.  Others milled about, struggling against the sloping side of the ditch and rampart, which was just too high to let them pull themselves up. The defenders shot arrows at them, but soon there was too great a throng in the ditch to be eliminated by bow shot. As Leopards crawled or were pushed up to reach the earth rampart, the defenders reached over it and, with spears, spitted them. Blood began to pool at the base of the ditch, and the Leopards slipped and cursed in it. Yet, more Enemy came, and the struggle was relentless. The dead began to fill the ditch. In many places, the living, clambering over the corpses of their comrades, could now reach far enough to contest the rampart with its defenders. The defenders retained advantage, but the struggle to keep the Leopards from gaining the dyke was both terrible and ceaseless.  Eric turned his attention to forming a reserve to cover his men when they could hold the rampart no longer. Thirty paces behind the line two men guarded a makeshift pole. It extended to some eighteen feet. A red bundle, attached to a halyard, lay at its foot. At a horn call, every third man withdraw from the rampart and ran to the rear, in line with the pole.  There, thirty paces behind the line, the men withdrawn from the fight came together in groups. Eric oversaw the disposition of squads of men, which he and the captains now stationed at intervals along the length of the line. Satisfied, he returned to the rampart. Wherever he looked, he saw enemy soldiers clambering over the breast work, the earth of which was worn down in places by the repeated struggles over it. Each time a Leopard¡¯s torso breasted the rampart, he was killed ¨C speared or hacked ¨C and pushed back into the ditch, but the numbers crowding the ramparts threatened to overwhelm the reduced garrison. Eric looked at the sun in the sky. By its position he judged that they had been fighting for no more than half an hour. His men looked exhausted already. They were struggling to hold their own. He must not leave a decision until it was too late, he warned himself. He turned north towards the Gryphonhold.  He needed to know the King would come.  He needed to know this King was ready.

 Chapter 7: Battle – Part 2

    ¡°Sound the call to advance¡±, the King instructed his hornblower. A brave pure note rang out, followed by others in a rising call. An answering call came from the right flank, then another came from the left. With a jingle of bridles and a bobbing of banners and lances, the King saw the right-hand division of the cavalry on the move.  Earl Strang came trotting along the line at their head, turning, as he drew level with the King, to salute him wordlessly by thudding a clenched gloved fist to his chest.  He then turned, and as the gates were swung silently open, drew his sword and clattered through the archway into to the bright sunlit plain, a rising clatter of shod hooves on the cobbles echoed under the arch as the right-hand division trotted, three abreast, after the Earl. As soon as they had cleared the gate, the King raised his hand, pressed his heels to the flanks of his mount and moved off.


    ***


    Eric, who had heard the distant horn calls, craned his head again anxiously toward the castle and saw the glint of arms as the Valour of Gryphonhold emerged from the shadow of the town gate and fanned out in front of its walls. The relief almost overwhelmed him; he had not realised the tension he had been under, He grabbed his hornblower, ¡°Sound the withdrawal,¡± he half gasped and half shouted, ¡°the withdrawal!¡±


    The call was given and passed from the centre by repeat calls to each flank.


    Eric turned to the reserve line, ¡°Shieldwall!¡±


    There was a clunk, as the front rank knelt with their shield points in the dirt, and the rank behind set their shields to overlap their comrades.¡¯


    The men at the ramparts ran.  The seconds it would take the first Leopards, suddenly unopposed, to clamber of the breastwork was life to the defenders. They ran, as they had been told to do, straight for the intervals between the reserve squads, the gaps in the shieldwall. There sergeants paused to direct the bowmen to one side. The rest kept going towards the reserve earthworks.


    ¡°The signal! The signal!¡± cried Eric, and the bundle of cloth was jerked hurriedly up to the top of the makeshift pole where it broke out into a blood red flag. In answer, and with barely a pause, the engines on Gryphonhold¡¯s walls, sited now on Eric¡¯s first line, sent rocks crashing into the rear of the breastwork his men had just quitted, burying the bloody remains of the Leopards in the crumpled earth.


    ¡°Bowmen!¡± cried Eric, ¡°Loose!¡±


    As the surviving Leopards stumbled forward, they met a volley of arrows, shot over the heads of Eric¡¯s shieldwall, and were cut down like wheat before the scythe.


    ¡°Withdraw!¡± cried Eric.  His command was taken up by the horns. The bowmen turned and ran backwards. The shieldwall came neatly apart, the men turned to follow. Eric, now finding himself alone before the flagpole saw Leopards begin to emerge from the dust and wreck of the dyke, even as more missiles from the castle fell among them. He realised that this was no place to be. He turned to sprint after his men.


    It was a straight race, now, for the second line, but one that Eric¡¯s men would now win. They had too much of a head start and their Enemy was too depleted and disordered to follow immediately.  As at the outer wall, the Leopards needed to amass in numbers and form up clear of the murderous volley of rocks hurled from the castle. Yet, they were disciplined and they organised quickly. Though they could not hope now to catch the withdrawing defenders in the open, they came on as fast as they could, their numbers increasing until they all but covered the plain. For, all this time, they had continued to pour through the breaches and the gateway in the outer wall. Included now in the growing host upon the plain, the first of their cavalry.


    ***


    Lord Aldred had regarded the newcomer, ¡°Greetings, Forrada. We have not, I think, met before?¡±


    ¡°No, my Lord,¡± the captain had replied, ¡°I have not had the fortune to serve at Dragongate.¡±


    ¡°It takes more than mere fortune to earn a place at Dragongate,¡± was the reply, ¡°it takes many qualities and makes many demands, not least of which is sacrifice.¡±


    ¡°Indeed, Lord,¡± the captain had said, tonelessly.


    ¡°Be that as it may, captain,¡± Lord Aldred had continued, ¡°what think you of our position?¡±


    ¡°Perilous,¡± the captain had said.


    Lord Aldred had not replied at once but had remained silent for a pause. He had looked forth across the war-ravaged Vale. It crawled with grey-clad enemies where its fields and meadows, gardens and homesteads had lain. Now, it appeared to him, all that had been fair was trampled to dust; its peace forever lost in the shrill clamour of war. He had next regarded the burnt and empty plain that lay between the outer wall and the lower town of Stowham. The plain was carved with two long gashes in the earth from eastern cliff to riverbank. Behind them men crouched still and silent to him. The town itself had seemed to him alive with men, or, rather, the with much movement in the shadows that still lay deep in the smoking ruins.  Somewhere there, steeling himself for the fight, his son. At that moment his attention had been dragged back to milling masses of enemy troops in the distance.  For, it was then that they had heard the harsh war horns of the Enemy, as the assault upon the outer walls had commenced.


    ¡°Come,¡± he had answered Forrada at last, ¡°let us withdraw to yonder chamber so I may take counsel with you.¡±


    ¡°Indeed, Lord,¡± Forrada had answered, ¡°I have gathered many staunch captains and men of renown who would speak with you at this juncture, and they await your summons.¡±


    ¡°Indeed?¡± Lord Aldred had replied, and he had let the Marcher captain lead him to gaping black entrance of the tower room beyond, the Lord¡¯s squire trotting nervously behind.


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    Now, some half or three quarters of an hour later, he was once more upon the battlements.  This time he leant upon them.  He did so because he must; the shock he had lately suffered had robbed him of all bodily strength, just as it had robbed him of old certainties. Perhaps the stones would both support and strengthen him now at his time of most need. No, that time was not yet here, though was surely soon to come.


    As he abided there, in the impassive stone of the embrasure, he felt his years as never before. He felt utterly enervated, too weak even to stand.  He had just the strength to cleave to the battlements, as a mariner adrift might, with the last of his strength, cling to the wreckage of the wooden walls he thought would shelter him in the storm. Yet now beneath him all seemed weak and shifting, the bedrock of his certainty splitting along flaws unseen and unsuspected until now. This castle and his life of service, all, now, seemed to be built upon sand. He trembled and wept at the shock of it.


    His squire, he was dimly aware, stood at a discrete distance. Aldred recalled the look of shock his squire had been unable to suppress when he had turned and stalked from the table over which he and Forrada had been bowed in conference, cloistered in the tower chamber. At the knights and captains who had come to him, it seemed at Forrada¡¯s bidding, he had been disgusted and amazed. He tasted still the bile that had risen to his throat. He gasped and swallowed with difficulty, earning another start and a worried look from the squire. Many of this parade of fine fellows had been unknown to him. Vale Men and some seemingly new to the Vale and, he supposed, recruited by Nerian until the March Companies were plagued with them. Yet, some also of them he knew, and that tasted the most bitter of all the truths Forrada had obliged him to swallow.  Yet, what exactly were they saying, and how much of it could be true?


    Lord Aldred felt sick, dizzy and sick. He closed his eyes as he battled with his reeling thoughts. He must retain the semblance of calm, he told himself. He must command himself. He needed to clear his head.


    Things were in motion below in the Vale, he saw, as things, he knew now, were in motion in the castle. He must act. Yet, for some minutes, he still could not move. Below, he saw the defenders of the first dyke making an orderly withdrawal towards their second line.  The Enemy, in innumerable strength, was filling the plain behind them with men, but they were still at some distance from the defenders.  An implacable tide of grey, the Enemy, lapping at the heels of little knots of men in blue, or in the red and green of the Vale. None had broken. All maintained discipline, and all were keeping at least a bow shot ahead of the grey wave that swept after them. Good. The Vale Men below remained stout. He then saw a glitter at the edge of his vision and glanced toward the Stowham gate; a line, both long and deep, of knights and men at arms emerged from the lee of the town wall into the low morning sun, which lighted their arms and armour like rippling silver and unveiled the bold colours of their chivalry to the day. He looked for the red of the king, then next for the pale yellow of his own house; Algar was somewhere in that host. Seeing him and his little party, Aldred prayed to the Mother that his son would remain safe and, more importantly, that he remained true.


    ¡®There is hope yet,¡¯ thought Lord Aldred, ¡°hope in the King¡±, and he pushed himself up from the embrasure, and, slowly, and stiffly, stood fully erect. His tall, spare, wasted frame now stood taught. Pale and gaunt of face he seemed to his squire, but with the graven lines of care now set in resolution, his pale eyes no longer watery, but gleaming hard with cold anger.


    ¡°My Lord?¡± uttered his Squire, amazed at this further change in him.


    ¡°Come!¡±, Lord Aldred addressed his squire, ¡°we have much work to do.¡±


    And he strode off the battlements, his squire behind him.


    ***


    ¡°This will take careful timing, will it not, my Lord?¡± the King turned to Lord Warden Nerian.


    ¡°Yes, my Liege,¡± answered Nerian. He looked drawn and anxious, noted the King, and distinctly uncomfortable.


    They were arrayed in line of battle before the walls of Stowham, awaiting the moment for action.


    ¡°Hmm, timing. That dagger in your hand, for instance,¡± continued the King equably, ¡°it could not stab me before Sir Kendrick¡¯s sword severed your arm.¡±


    Nerian made a strangled noise in his throat, ¡°My Liege, my Liege!¡± he began.


    The king ignored him and continued, ¡°I suspect Sir Kendrick will be disappointed if you don¡¯t at least try. No? Oh well.¡±


    Nerian stared wildly over his shoulder.  The face of Sir Kendrick¡¯s great helm stared impassively back at him. Then, through its dark slits, the Warden saw two narrowed eyes regarding him fixedly. He turned to the King, who was, the Powers curse him, now smiling at him. Under his cloak, Nerian slid the dagger back into its sheath.


    ¡°Well, my Lord Nerian,¡± said the King in a tone of frankness, ¡°what will you do now?  Will you ride with us and find what honour you may in the fray?¡±


    ***


    Eric stood at bay, dusty, sweat stained and panting, waiting for the last bodies of men to reach the second dyke. Then he followed them. He spotted a file of men passing through one of the gaps in the ditch and dyke left for the purpose and went that way, scanning, as he did, for his father¡¯s standard. A flight of arrows, then another, and another, passed over him and he turned to see the front ranks of the Leopards, still a furlong distant, thrown into disarray. The front ranks had been brought to a halt.  Those behind them cannoned into them.  A great confusion was spreading, and he heard the angry shouts of sergeants and captains and the frantic braying of brazen horns. ¡®Good¡¯, thought Eric, ¡®that¡¯s given them something to think about.¡¯ A man clean and fresh in his father¡¯s livery ran up to him.


    ¡°Lord¡±, the man addressed him, ¡°your father bade me bring you to him ere he rides.¡±


    At that point Eric was astonished to see a knight in full harness, appointed in livery of pale green, visor lowered and head down, cloak streaming behind him, galloping at full pelt through their lines towards them.  He passed them in a blur and headed straight for the centre of that great, grey waiting mass of enemies. He did not pull up, or change rein, or slow. He continued to spur his mount for all he was worth and plunged into the ranks of the Enemy.


    For a while he was visible above the crowd of footmen, deep in their ranks he was now, then Eric lost sight of him. He fancied the man had been unhorsed.  At any rate, he did not come up into view again, and Eric saw no more of him.


    Eric had no time to consider the fleeing apparition further. He saw his father mounting his great black destrier with the aid of his squire.


    ¡°Eric!¡± Lord Elding cried in greeting., ¡°Hold the line. I go to join the King. Hold the line!¡±


    ¡°Father,¡± replied Eric in acknowledgement.


    ¡°Eric,¡± added his father as he swung into the saddle and grasped his reins, ¡°you have done well and have brought honour to our House.¡± Lord Daw took his great helm from his squire, ¡°Remember that. If the day goes ill, as yet it might, you have already won great honour. Do not fail!¡±


    With that, Eric¡¯s father donned his helm and turned away to canter at the head of his retinue toward where the Valour of the North stood waiting the call to advance.


    The King hailed Lord Elding with raised hand in greeting, and the Lord of Trenisslia saluted him in return. The Earl¡¯s retinue was numerous, liveried knights of his house, bravely apparelled knights of Trenisslia sworn to his service, with men-at-arms in support. Space was found for his party to wheel into line at the King¡¯s right hand.


    ¡°Well,¡± said the King to Sir Kendrick, ¡°it is surely time to follow where our Lord Warden has led¡±, and he closed his visor, touched his hornblower gently on the arm and nodded.

 Chapter 8: Salvation – Part 1

    Far up on the eastern flank of the western hills the Huntress and her party were lost to sight and sound to the defenders of the Vale. Far across the river and cut off by dense forest, neither from the plain nor from the embattled towers of the Gryphonhold, could they be seen. Yet, there were those who knew of their plight.


    As Lord Eric the Elding had crouched behind his earthen rampart, awaiting the first onslaught, and as the King had led the mounted strength of the Gryphonhold through the silent, smouldering streets of Stowham, matters in the forest had reached the point of crisis.


    Amora swung again at the Leopard, but he stepped back and evaded her blade.  Then, without Amora understanding what was happening, he turned and ran from her.  She looked about, confused. She swayed and stumbled.  Her fatigue was overwhelming, but she forced herself to consider what was happening.  Leopards were withdrawing all along the flank.


    ¡°Come,¡± said Trystan.


    ¡°Trystan, don¡¯t fuss!¡± she insisted, but her sword-arm went limp and she let him take her arm and lead her gently back to the column.


    Lead Man Fram and Conan exchanged looks and backed slowly, swords ready, to cover the others. Fram might fairly regard himself as a veteran, but he could not recall a harder fight.  The Enemy had withdrawn but remained numerous and unbowed. He was not sure of his courage if, when, they attacked again. Conan looked grim, and even he showed signs of fatigue. Folk ran up to them. Not soldiers, but townsfolk.


    ¡°Come,¡± said a powerfully built tradesman with a belt of knives and a bloodied cleaver in his large fist, ¡°you need to go, they¡¯re attacking the front of the column in force.  You¡¯re needed there. Me and some of the lads will stand-to here.¡±


    ¡°Ah,¡± whispered Amora, her head still drooping and her auburn hair now hanging lose and obscuring her face, ¡°everyone¡¯s a general.¡± But she allowed herself to be led forward and she gratefully accepted a flask of water from a townswoman.


    After a few sips, Amora handed back the flask with a nod of thanks, straightened up and tied back her hair.


    ¡°Right,¡± she said, ¡°we go¡±.  And the four of them ran forward along the dusty ragged column, summoning new strength, found simply because it needed to be found. From ahead came the clamour of spears on shields and a hideous chanting.


    On the other side of the column, Sigird backed away from a circle of dead Leopards. She became aware of Sacrissa tugging insistently on her sleeve.


    ¡°Sigird! Sigird! We have to go!¡±


    ¡°What?¡± As the red haze receded she began to take stock.


    ¡°The Leopards are massed to the front, we have to go!¡±


    ¡°Right,¡± said Sigird, and she wiped her sword absently on a dead Leopard. ¡°Right,¡± she said again, and then, suddenly alert, ¡°let¡¯s go!¡±  With the remaining soldiers, they ran forward. Sacrissa, who had an eye for dodgy people (no, she corrected herself, for other dodgy people), saw the very dodgy potboy from the Stowham alehouse. He was gaily swinging a sword that was nearly as tall as he was. Chest puffed out, he was treating a line of armed townsfolk to what he evidently felt to be encouraging words. The townsfolk nervously fingered their staves and spear shafts, their faces looked either non-committal or, frankly in some cases, non-plussed. Sacrissa smiled, but then she saw the deep and wide gash on the boy¡¯s right shoulder and the torn and bloodied tunic. She saw too that the sword was stained with fresh blood, at the tip and all the way along the fuller to the hilt.


    Ahead of the column all their strength was now arrayed.  The Leopards were stamping, clashing shields and chanting. It was a harsh and cruel chant. The words of it were obscure, but its meaning was clear.


    ¡°Shieldwall!¡± cried Elle, and the Men-at-Arms of Dragongate moved in unison.  Only one man deep, with the bowmen making a second rank, these latter siting their arrows between the shoulders of the shieldmen. Armed townsfolk stood behind.


    The chant grew louder and more insistent. Vile yellow Leopards danced and jeered, their mocking stare came from every clashing shield and waving banner. All the while the chanting built and built until it became almost hypnotic. It pushed a wave of incomprehensible dread ahead of the Leopards. It passed all shields and pierced all hauberks to grip men¡¯s hearts with the icy talons of fear.


    Elle saw Sigird, Sacrissa and their party run up and join the line to her left, Amora, with her companions, arrived on her right. Elyssa, beside Elle, was ready with her bowmen.


    ¡°Well, the gang¡¯s all here,¡± muttered Sacrissa. Elle overhead and smiled to herself. Anything to break the tension.


    Brazen horn calls blared and the chanting and stamping of feet and clashing of arms rose to a crescendo then, suddenly, it ceased.  In that instant the Leopards levelled their spears and shields and charged.


    ¡°Bows!¡± cried Elyssa, shouting the warning order. Then everything seemed to slow down. The Leopards could be seen running, but slowly, so that the defenders had time to note them clearly, their pumping legs and arms, the rise and fall of their shields, the way their levelled spears quivered, the swinging of swords and scabbard from belts and baldricks, the snarling, shouting mouths, even the heaving of their chests at each breath.  ¡°Nock!¡± ordered Elyssa. The seconds stretched like ages, then, ¡°Draw!¡± came Elyssa¡¯s cry, and a moment later ¡°Loose!¡± Sixteen arrows flew at the advancing grey mass. Sixteen Leopards fell. But there were many more.


    Then they heard it, ahead of them, off to the right, but close; the clear, pure mountain notes of a Dragongate horn sounding the attack.


    The leading Leopards smashed into the shieldwall. The Dragongate soldiers hacked them and with difficulty threw them back. The bowmen decimated the Leopard¡¯s second line. Just then, that clear horn call sounded a second time. Following the sound, Elyssa¡¯s keen sight saw men cresting the ridge behind the Leopards, a motley crew, revealed clearly and distinctly for brief seconds as the rising sun shone full upon them, picking out their colours and their detail. Clad as soldiers, in many colours from the drab of everyday clothing to the red of a livery coat that might signal Dragongate, others appeared more like woodsmen or rangers, one, she swore, was dressed after the fashion of a priest of Men.  Outlandish as they seemed, capering over the rise like a rascally pack of players, all were heavily armed, as if they had sacked some ancient armoury of its treasures to find all manner of jacks and hauberks, helms and shields to their liking.  Some carried bows, and these men stopped every few paces to nock, draw and bring down a Leopard.  Most had either swords or a variety of wicked polearms. And then she perceived a further oddity. They were old! Grey beards and wrinkled faces, often as not weather-beaten or ruddy from ale, rheumy eyes and crooked gaits. They were hallooing loudly as they came skipping down the slope, swinging their vicious weaponry; delinquent grandfathers spoiling for a fight. Then, they were lost from view as they descended upon the rear of the Leopards. All this Elyssa had seen in a bare few seconds, perhaps just a second or two. She was not sure she trusted that she had seen what she thought she had seen. The Leopards were breaking their strength a second time upon the shieldwall, like the angry surf, foaming and seething with malice around a stubborn rock. The bowmen now shot individually, each as fast as they could; Elyssa, the Dragongate men, the rangers and, of course, the Huntress. They did not lack for targets. A third time the Leopards gathered themselves and charged. A third time they broke upon the shieldwall like a vengeful sea. Elyssa heard cries to her left; the shieldwall had collapsed or been driven in at the flank. Then, on the cusp of disaster, up sprang a lithe, slight figure, a girl in mail with red locks escaping from beneath a dinted helm. She vaulted over the fallen shieldmen into the ranks of the Enemy, slashing the leading man across the throat with an edged spear as she leapt. Quick as she could, Elyssa sped best wishes toward the rash girl and arrows toward her foes. The Leopards stumbled back, desperate to avoid the deadly arcs of the slashing Mail-piercer.  Then Sacrissa came, dragged Sigird back and the shieldmen closed the gap. The shieldwall had held.


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    The Leopards did not form another attack. They hesitated, Elle saw, confused, milling and turning about. Some ran forward, some ran back. Their captains and sergeants berated them but did not seem themselves to know what to do. The pure mountain horn note was heard a third time, and the Leopards broke, scattering in every direction, shot down in their flight by Elyssa¡¯s men, as well as by the unseen bowman behind them. Then hearty shouts and halloos were heard, and strange figures broke through the seething mass of Leopards, hewing left and right like men hacking through some dense grey undergrowth. They spread out, chasing down groups of unfortunates.


    ¡°Advance!¡± cried the Huntress, and without waiting for her men, ran to join the fray.  The Dragongate men followed swiftly and many townsfolk joined them. Their exhaustion forgotten, the defenders turned upon their tormentors in fury. Soon, the only Leopards in the vicinity were the dead and dying. Many others had escaped into the forest where the trees soon concealed them. They were not followed far ¨C that would have been unwise for such a small force of victorious defenders ¨C but far enough to be satisfied that they had gone. Their cries were heard heading downhill through the forest to the riverbank, where, perhaps, the boats they came in remained.


    A tall figure in mail hauberk and the long flowing red surcoat of Dragongate stood in the centre of the carnage. His was a frame trained to arms, if now a little saggy and run to fat. He was bent over calmly wiping a great two-handed sword clean on the bracken. He wore an old kettle helmet, still seen in the Vale, but no longer issued at Dragongate. The broad brim concealed his face in shadow. His men stood around him at a respectful distance.  Clearly, he was their leader.


    Elle strode forward and bowed to the man. He stood straight, and, as he lifted his head, he saw her and broke into a very nasty smile.


    ¡°My Lady,¡± he said, evenly.


    ¡°Hello Lug,¡± said the Huntress.


    ***


    Just over the ridge they sat, on the mossy banks by the track down to the dale; Elle, Elyssa, Sacrissa, Sigird, Trum and Ebban.  Sergeant Bartaland crouched in the roadway, leaning on his great-sword for support, facing them, with his back to the dale.  The sun was now full across the Dimlicdale and opening up below them they saw a broad valley formed by shallow, rolling hills, stepping down from high moors. The green autumn grass still retained colour and vigour. Where the sun shone through the clouds, the hills were bathed bright in a golden light. In other places, the clouds cast deep shadows, and, so, a patchwork of warm light and cold shade was spread across the vale.  The wind was fresh and brisk, plucking at their clothes and searching through the folds and layers of their garments to chill the skin and bones beneath. The road descended by turns, here disappearing in the folds of the gentle hills, there reappearing on a rise, but its course marked always by intermittent trees. A small grove of apple trees, sheltering in a dell, stood where the road first dipped and turned into dead ground, before a slight climb revealed it once more. Not a soul could be seen in all that fertile vale, nor game nor kine. But, above the stillness of the valley, a straggling, chuckling flock of birds roamed; fieldfares, most like, or redwings.  Off to their right some half a league distance, now in the shadow of the clouds, lay a long, dark canopy of trees marking a deep fold in the valley where the Dimlicwater flowed from the hills into the vale.  It was wooded throughout its course and the trees marked its widening descent and winding progress until the treetops were lost in the hazy distance. Several looping meanders seemed to be marked indistinctly by the trees, but mist hung over the little peninsulas of land they formed, obscuring them. To their left, the watch tower cast a long shadow down the hillside. Bartaland explained how they had found it abandoned. Bowls and tankards and uneaten food on the guardroom table, warmth still deep in ashes of the oven, shields and weapons in their racks, chests and trunks containing the men¡¯s meagre comforts intact at the ends of their beds.


    There had been wounded, townsfolk and a couple of soldiers. As soon as the fighting ceased, a formidable dame had appeared as if from nowhere, Mother Helend, of the Sisterhood of Small Mercies, with others of her order. She reminded Sigird, with a shiver, of Afor Housemother. The sisters had a sanctuary somewhere in the wood, Elle recalled, and they were known as healers. They helped to patch up the injuries. A cart was requisitioned for those who could not walk. It was understood that none could stay.  The sisterhood expected to be treated as inviolate, but for anyone else it would be death at the hands of the prowling Leopards, whom, it was assumed, would soon steal back across the river. Everyone had moved with great urgency, yet time had been lost in the re-ordering of the column. It was now mid-morning, and the whole length of Dimlicdale still lay ahead of them. Now they were ready at last.


    ¡°My Lady,¡± said the Sergeant, ¡°if you go now and do not stop, there is still more than enough time to reach safety.¡±


    ¡°I agree, but we must pray there are no further delays,¡± replied Elle, ¡°we will be faster upon our return without the townsfolk.¡±


    Bartaland looked surprise, ¡°begging your pardon, my Lady, I thought the King would intend you to stay with the Stedinglas.¡±


    ¡°Well, Lug, the intentions of kings are not your concern,¡± was the curt response.  There was something of an awkward silence. Then:


    ¡°Lug,¡± said Elle, ¡°you will join our march?¡±


    ¡°Nay, my Lady,¡± replied Bartaland, ¡°we will go to ground in the woods of the Circling Hills.  The Leopards do not know the land as we do, and there is too much forest to search.  We know the becks and springs and there is game aplenty. On the afternoon of the day after tomorrow, we will come back to the pass and ensure it is held open for your return.¡±


    ¡°So be it,¡± concluded Elle, suddenly very conscious of the danger Bartaland had, and, now, would, endure for their safety, ¡°thank you, Lug,¡± she added softly.


    ¡°Now,¡± she said, standing, ¡°lets us move and work some of the cold out of our bones.¡±


    ***

 Chapter 8: Salvation – Part 2

    The horn rang out, that clear, pure mountain call of Dragongate. Helms were donned, or visors closed. Lances were lowered and couched, and the Valours of the Vale, Trenisslia and Dragongate started forward. A call brought them rapidly to the trot, then to the canter.


    The grey-clad infantry faltered. They had stopped advancing and stood, half a furlong, before the second earthwork. This second line of defence gave them pause. Arrows from behind the earthen dyke plagued them. Now they saw the solid line of horsemen, lances levelled, many ranks deep, coming for them. Heavy cavalry, mounted on great warhorses. They saw the pace increase and then the brighter among them realised that the horsemen were not slowing down, as they would need to if they were to channel through the gaps in the second dyke. No, they maintained their line and broke into a gallop.


    Eric realised what the cavalry were doing. The call went out to the ends of the dyke to take cover, but the men hardly needed telling, pressing themselves as tightly as they could into the base of their earth rampart as hundreds of hooves thundered ever louder and the earth beneath them shook.


    Faster, ever faster they came. Their bright, brave colours alive in the sun. Caparisons, cloaks and mantles, flags and pennants streamed and fluttered in the wind of their making, A mailed fist, driven forward by powerful sinews, tipped with wicked steel. And the noise, the only noise on that field now, was the beating of their hooves, and that noise was terrible.


    The front ranks of the Leopards were becoming disordered. Some shuffled forward with the weight of the ranks behind. Others tried to step backwards or turn. Groups were locking shields and levelling spears or bill hooks, but were off balanced when those behind them, who understood less of what was happening, shoved forward. Orders were confused and contradictory and the shouts of the captains and sergeants became drowned by the mad drumming of the hooves as the host of horsemen swept pitilessly onward. Then, in a moment which, for all who saw it seemed to take an age, when their hearts were stopped and their breath stilled, the front rank of knights jumped the second dyke. The horses left the ground together. Rear legs extended, front legs tucked under, necks stretched, their riders leaning forward out of their saddles, the horses sailed silently over the crouching defenders. The earthen rampart and the ditch were taken in one bound. Together the horses thudded into the earth the other side with a roiling cloud of dust, and, without seeming to break their stride, thundered forward. Each successive rank followed in their turn, like great waves breaking over a reef.


    Some now tried to turn and run before them, but it was too late. Others tried to stand in defence, but it was to no avail. The charge hit the grey mass and at once overwhelmed it, a steel point driven deeply into the enemy host. Hundreds were ridden down and killed before the impetus of the horsemen slowed. Then the merciless hacking down of the foot soldiers began in earnest. Ever backwards the Leopards were pressed, the first of Eric¡¯s earth ramparts stood behind them, giving them no room to disengage and form up. Slowly but surely, they were whittled down, but the work became slower, harder, and increasingly desperate. In their extremity, the savage Leopards began to push back. Then cries of dismay came from either side of the striving Leopards, as the Earl Strang lead the right division upon their flank, and Lord Warian did the same upon the left. Then the pure horns of Dragongate sounded again, and the King reeled the centre division round and reformed it a few paces back. It now stood as an implacable steel wall, penning the Enemy into the ever-narrowing space between the right and left wings of the cavalry, which crushed them to ruin like the clashing of great hammers. The enemy soldiers beyond the first dyke watched with horrified disbelief as their comrades, the greater part of their force there on the field, was wiped out of existence. The Enemy¡¯s horsemen looked on in impotent rage. Dismayed, their steeds pawed the ground and tossed their heads about.


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    Eric, who had led his men to the safety of the inner town walls the moment the last horseman had passed over them, gazed down at the scene with grim satisfaction. When this king stirred himself for war, reflected Eric, he acted with decision. He and his father had won themselves a powerful ally this day. With this Leopard prowling the Northlands unseen and striking without warning, powerful friends were vital. He hoped that, whatever the Enemy¡¯s intent, it had not penetrated southward to the Sixth Kingdom, where his father¡¯s lands lay and his mother bided. He wondered if he would still be expected to marry this Hidden Princess. Remote, cold, unloving and unlovely he imagined her. Perhaps it did not matter now. Yet, no secret bride, no mere abstract woman could compare with the flesh and blood lady, beautiful, vital and intoxicating, who now ruled his heart. And he did not even know her name! He tore himself, with difficulty, from these thoughts. His passion could come to nought and he had a siege to fight. Yet, he realised, even while he defended the Gryphonhold, the citadel of his heart had been stormed and taken before he knew it. The nameless lady had spurned him, rightly, for his reckless dalliance. He had no idea where she was now. Safe within the Gryphonhold, he hoped. He prayed she was not taken off, the Powers knew where, in that forlorn parcel of refugees who had shuffled out of Stowham in the dark small hours of that morning. Now he saw the King lead the mounted host back from the field, this time at a proud and measured trot, and this time filing through the gaps in the second dyke. Behind them, in the plain between the two dykes, lay a dark sea of innumerable lifeless grey bodies. It was as if the knights had scythed a field of men, and they lay there like so much dead grass, grey, like wet hay turned to rot before it could be gathered in, fodder fit only for worms. It had been a brilliant action, and a complete success. He saw no fallen horse in that field of corpses, and the Enemy there had been utterly destroyed in great numbers. Yet Eric reflected bitterly that the ground his men had defended all last night and this morning had now been abandoned by them, and that the King was riding from the field of battle, leaving the Enemy in possession of it. The Leopard was now one step closer to the walls of the Gryphonhold itself. The wind blew up and sent a vast bank of cloud coasting across the sun. The plain beneath him grew suddenly dark.


    ***

 Chapter 9: Dimlicdale – Part 1

    They rode down the gentle slope into the dale. The wind was chill and searching. The sun bathed them with enough warmth to take the edge off, but it was good to be moving again. They reached the apple grove and saw it laden with ripe rosy pippins, apparently cultivated, perhaps by the men who had inhabited the tower.   Elle and Elyssa rode abreast, Sacrissa and Sigird likewise behind them. Elyssa marked a plain little stone, like a boundary marker, set to the side of the road. As she passed, she saw that there were carvings, the trefoil by which Men signify the Powers, facing down into the dale.


    They all seemed subdued and thoughtful. Sacrissa felt exhausted.  Moreover, she was discontented.  The thrill she had often felt in her adventures, of danger courted and averted, was distinctly absent. In her world she decided her actions and calculated their outcomes, sometimes relishing the delicious weighing of the risk. Here things were out of control, and she was lucky to be alive. She felt trapped amid unlooked for companions in an unfriendly land. She wanted to get away from these people for a time. She turned her horse out of line and made to trot forward to find the freedom of space for herself on the road ahead. As she passed, Sacrissa felt a hand grip her wrist and so turned sharply in her saddle.


    ¡°Keep to the order of match¡± ordered Elle flatly, evidently as tired and shocked as any of them.


    Sacrissa flamed angrily at this and did not deign to answer. She attempted to shrug off the grip, but was jerked back.


    ¡°I said to keep in line.¡±


    ¡°And I¡¯d rather take my chances out there,¡± Sacrissa indicated the dale ahead with a toss of her head.


    Elle really did not need this from this tiresome woman, and she felt her colour rising, ¡°Our safety lies in discipline and in maintaining the order of our force.¡±


    ¡°Safety, is that what you offer now? Really? Do you not see? We survived the fight of our lives in that forest, only by the narrowest of margins and only with unlooked for help. Had it been left to chance and to you, Huntress, we¡¯d all be dead or captive by now. And now we are late in the crossing of a land where, apparently, it is death to remain after dusk.¡±


    Elle looked stunned at the rebuke and her cheeks were crimson now. Sacrissa did not care. She had no idea what lay ahead, but her every witchy sense warned her they were riding from danger into greater danger. This haughty woman, no older than herself and certainly, Sacrissa considered, no wiser, was likely to lead them into fresh disaster. Her arrogance, in Sacrissa¡¯s estimation, was not justified by her abilities.


    ¡°Have a care lady¡­.!¡± began Elle.


    Sacrissa did not care but now succeeded in slipping Elle¡¯s grip and rode off, ignoring the rebuke. Elle was trembling and fixed the retreating form of Sacrissa with a look of hatred. She seemed about to ride after the wayward Trenisslian.


    ¡°Lady,¡± said Elyssa, ¡°do not.


    Elle was not happy and evidently keeping her composure with difficulty yet maintained her place beside the Elf.


    ¡°It takes us all in different ways. Death and violence. You commanded us well this morning.¡±


    ¡°Whether I did or not is not a matter for comment.¡±


    Elyssa nodded, ¡°Your people need time.¡±


    ¡°We have none to spare.¡±


    ¡°Well then, perhaps at least our care,¡± and Elle followed Elyssa¡¯s gaze to where Sigird rode behind them, detached and downcast, tear tracks down her expressionless face.


    ¡°I ¡­.¡± Elle did not know what to say.


    ¡°Everything we do comes at a cost, but we pay it, and go on.¡±


    They lapsed into silence, then Elyssa spoke once more, ¡°Lady, by your leave¡­¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    When Elyssa was gone, Elle slowed until Sigird was beside her.


    ¡°Lady¡±, said Elle softly, gently placing a hand on Sigird¡¯s arm. Sigird looked up and after a moment seemed to perceive the other for the first time. Elle gave what se hoped was an encouraging smile, ¡°you helped save many lives today, Sigird of Tuttadale ¡­¡±


    ¡°We took many, too,¡± sniffled Sigird.


    ¡°We courted no enemies and sought no fight¡­¡±


    ¡°And will that satisfy the Powers? Killing is ill, and I know, for my father¡¯s demesne is won and warded with strife, and I have killed for him. Every ill deed we do, they say, feeds the evil that waits behind the world.¡±


    ¡°My father, once told me that if a man¡¯s heart is honest, and he kills at need in a just cause¡­¡±


    ¡°But had he experience, or merely wisdom? Had he known much strife in his life?¡±


    ¡°Well, he¡¯s married to my mother, so yes, I would say so!¡± This attempt at levity falling rather flat, Elle continued with, ¡°he was a commander of men in battle in his youth, I believe, so he knew of what he spoke,¡± though Elle chose not to add that she recalled how he did not like to speak of it, for it seemed in his later years to trouble his mind with doubts.


    Sacrissa heard a horse behind her but would not look back. Elyssa reached her side and was met with raised eyebrows, an ironic expression.


    ¡°I come not to judge or to chide,¡± offered the Elf, ¡°yet I would seize this chance to talk a while.¡±


    ¡°So talk.¡±


    ¡°So, you saw where I had shot that unfortunate?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Sacrissa replied.


    ¡°You were with us, not near him, I think.¡±


    ¡°I ¡­ went to him.¡±


    ¡°You examined him perchance?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± said Sacrissa, carefully.


    ¡°And did you ¡­ find anything out?¡± asked the Elf.


    ¡°Only that you are an exceptional shot, my Lady.  You drilled him straight through his heart.¡±


    ¡°Not really,¡± said Elyssa, lightly, ¡°I was aiming for his head.¡±


    And Sacrissa chuckled at that, then said, ¡°he had some information to impart ere he died. Nothing coherent, but ¡­ the impression I had was of implacable hate and the certainty his cause would triumph. There was a sense that these men of wrath had ¡­ help. I do not think the man himself appreciated the nature of that help, but the savour of it in his mind ¡­ it felt unnatural.¡±


    ¡°I believe you speak more truth than you know.¡± Elyssa looked thoughtful and would say no more until a short while later she added, ¡°perhaps we should return to the column.¡±


    Sacrissa said nothing yet followed Elyssa when the Elf turned back.


    Low words of greeting were spoken, Elyssa to Elle and Sacrissa to Sigird. Then they rode on in silence. Some kind of truce, it seemed.


    The land remained quiet and still. Ebban and his scouts were somewhere ahead. The chill wind abated somewhat as the road descended into a dip. A clear fresh rill trickled downhill from their right, carving its slender way between mossy banks and disappearing under the road to reappear to their left.  Some yards off it ended its journey in a bog of standing water in which innumerable islands of little round tufts of tall tawny grass were crowded. As the road led upward once more, icy gusts of wind greeted them, and the greener grass of the dale¡¯s prized pastureland opened up to either side. With a nod to Trum, Lead Man Fram spurred off from the column and, at some distance, took to pick his way through the pasture.  At length, he dismounted and moved about, head down, occasionally squatted to the ground.  Sacrissa was following his activities somewhat absently, though when she turned to Sigird, the girl was staring fixedly ahead.  Sigrid looked rather absorbed, she thought. Sacrissa turned and rode off down the column, feeling that she might prove her own best company for a while and that this time no one would care to stop her.


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    Elyssa, scanning around with her keen Elf-sight, spotted a small, rude stone structure high up on the skirts of the moors to their left, the south side of Dimlicdale. It looked to contain but a single room or cell, and was rectangular, its length pointing down to the dale. It had a simple pitched roof of stone slates.


    ¡°What is that place, my Lady, do you know?¡± Elyssa asked the Huntress.


    ¡°A shrine, I deem,¡± Elle replied, ¡°there to guard the borders of the land from evil spirits.¡±


    ¡°To keep them from coming into this land, or to keep them from getting out?¡±


    But Elle did not answer.


    Fram trotted up to them, ¡°My Ladies, Captain,¡± he began, ¡°It is strange.  There have been some sheep pastured here briefly, and a quantity of cattle, but not for some three or four days.¡±


    ¡°Why strange?¡± asked Trum, who was no agriculturalist.


    ¡°Because cattle were brought to this pasture for the first time only recently, but only for a day, after which they were not brought back. The grass here was but half-grazed.¡±


    They continued, through a land of grassland and little woods, for another hour or so.  The dale was noticeably broader now. The Dimlicwater had swelled with many other becks and rills and was now a river. It lay in an ever-meandering wooded haze, now far to their right.  High moors frowned down from beyond it in the pale distance. More sharply seen was the face of the nearer highlands to their left.


    Ebban returned to the column to report that no sign of life, hostile or otherwise, had been seen for some miles ahead. It was now an hour or so past noon, and they reckoned they had travelled a good league along the dale, so, they judged, a third of the way.


    Amora reported from further down the column, ¡°My Lady,¡± she addressed Elle, ¡°the people are weary and crave a moment to rest and take sustenance.¡±


    A frown of impatience darkened Elle¡¯s face momentarily, but she caught sight of Elyssa regarding her with that inscrutable Elf-expression.


    ¡°What say you Captain?¡± she turned to Trum.


    ¡°Dusk will be four to five hours away, but not full dark for a further two hours after that. At this pace we should clear the dale with an hour to spare before dusk, and the real danger, I deem, comes only with the dark. If we are to keep this pace, there must be stops for the people to rest, so, perhaps no more than two or three stops, each for some quarter of an hour.¡±


    ¡°Make it so.¡±


    Trum bowed, motioned to Fram and they cantered off down the column.  Elle led on to a little dell, below the road to the left, situated above a little beck. Clothed in mossy grass, soft and dry, the dell was comfortable seeming, between rocks. There, in that shallow valley, warmed by the sun, but out of the bite of the wind, they found places for all their people. They took bites of bread and cheese, and apples for those who had taken them from the grove.  They drank and then recharged their flasks from the clear stream. Many lay back on the mossy banks, closed their eyes, let the sun warm them, and dozed for a precious few minutes before the soldiers roused them and they reassembled on the road.


    Sacrissa had used her time away from Sigird and the others to chat easily with members of the column whom she sought to cultivate, but now she was back, presenting her aimable side to the Huntress, who seemed always open to respectful attentions, and to Elyssa, who wore a pre-occupied air and who was, thus, rather harder work.


    As they resumed their march, the windings of the road bore them right, to the north, more to the centre of the dale and closer to the tree-lined river. In places the river looped towards them, the trees blocking off their view that way. Little bays of land opened where the river receded before looping back towards the road. Mist still hung in these tree-sheltered pockets of land. They were now low down in the broader part of the dale. The wind from the north was muted and its cold fingers no longer reached them. A vast bank of thick cloud hung above them here, miring them in gloomy shade. Looking left, far off to the south, caught in a bright patch of sunlight that reflected off its stone roof, another little shrine clung to the top of the moorland ridge. Elyssa noted that these windowless little buildings had maintained their blind watch over the dale at regular intervals. So that they were never out of sight of one.


    They passed through a little copse that straddled the road and out into the sun.  The river had swung away from them, and the road turned towards it, rising slightly. The cloud shadow now hung over the northern slopes of the dale, and, so, it was sometime before Elyssa realised that there was a figure up there, mounted, perfectly still, and looking down at them.  It was an Elf.  Gently she touched Elle¡¯s arm and pointed out the distant rider.


    ¡°Of my kin,¡± she said, ¡°and I deem set there waiting for us, and that we are intended to follow.¡±


    ¡°Us?¡± replied Elle.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Elyssa replied, ¡°the four of us.¡±


    And, strangely, that did not seem strange to Elle. It did not seem strange that Elyssa had divined the rider¡¯s intent, or that she, the Huntress, understood that the four of them meant herself and the three young women she had met only yesterday evening. Yet there was an edge to this. Elyssa¡¯s voice was stonily inexpressive, yet her eyes spoke despite themselves of wrenching pain. Red fire in their grey depths writhed in turmoil.


    Elle turned to Trum, ¡°Captain, we would speak with yonder rider.  Keep the column moving while we are gone.¡± With that, she spurred her horse toward the rider, beckoning the others to follow. Sigird dutifully followed. Sacrissa, with a look of resignation, did likewise.


    The Rider had expected them, Elle decided, standing sentinel at a spot that overlooked a ford in the fast, chattering stream of the cold clear Dimlicwater.  The four women picked their way carefully across the stream to avoid a wetting; they none of them wanted to endure the cold autumn wind of the dale in wet clothing.


    The Elf rider sat, motionless and imperturbable, as the women slowly made their way up the slope. The Elf¡¯s pale horse made no movement save the occasional swish of its tail, but its ears were alert. There were few safe paths down from the moors by which a horse could pick its way through the ankle-breaking holes and tussocks, or negotiate sudden sheer declivities. The ford connected to one such path, but their fine warhorses took a weary wary time nervously feeling their twisting course. At last, they arrived within speaking distance. Tall and straight-backed they now saw that the rider was. The Elf¡¯s dark-haired head was bare. The handsome face was elven pale, high cheek bones and forehead were evident.  The Elf wore a simple style of clothing, but perfectly made to such a slim figure.  This garb was in muted tones; the colours of the hills.  The slender grey horse looked as elegant and Elfin as its rider. The only decoration the rider had allowed were silver bells about the horse¡¯s bridle. These were silent now. Elle raised a hand in greeting, and the silent sentinel simply turned up the slope with a soft quiet jingle of bells and rode off. They assumed they should follow, so they did.


    At length they crested the summit of the dale.  Soon after the moorland stopped climbing so steeply and contented itself with gentler slopes, rolling up and down but, overall, still climbing north. Here and there the folds in the ground were found to contain a narrow, steep re-entrant, generally carrying some tinkling rill or beck down from the watershed.  Here the wind was fierce and noisy and tugged at their clothes.


    ¡°Where is the creature going?¡± posed Sacrissa.


    ¡°I know not,¡± said Elyssa, ¡°but we are now in the lands of my people where Men trespass not.¡±


    This exchange was made with effort, as they now must shout above the wind that roared in the ears and stung their eyes. ¡®Just great,¡¯ thought Sacrissa.


    Presently the strange Elf turned off what passed for a track in these parts and descended into a dell.  As they followed, the women saw that this was a deep, wide dell, roughly circular in shape and, perhaps, half a furlong across. As they gained the bottom of it, they were sheltered from the wind, whose roar was transformed to a distant, if persistent, whisper. The tussocks and rocks of the moor petered out around the edge of the dell and the grass was short and smoother here; it had evidently been grazed so by sheep. The ground here was also almost flat and level.  A shallow rill lazily wound its way across the dell. What gained the attention of the four companions were the stones set in the centre of the dell. The Elf rode to the centre and dismounted. The others did likewise and walked together toward the stones.  They saw two long, wide, and slightly curved stones, that looked intended as benches, with room, perhaps, for three or four to sit side by side. They faced each other across the very centre of the dell where stood an upright stone.   This stone, perhaps some five feet high, had three sides until some two hands¡¯ distance from the top. Here the three-sided pillar was carved to form a sloping point that, before it reached an apex, gave way to a stone sphere. Now stained and grown with lichen, it was clear that carving was rich upon the stone. The carving remained crisp. On the three sides of the pillar was a carven frieze, each side with some sigildry after the fashion of Men, but the sphere was carved in the Elven style with a swirling confusion of gracefulness, the precise pattern of which eluded all but Elyssa. There was, however, a plain circular area carved on the surface of the sphere, facing them. Upon it was a spreading tree. On seeing it, Elyssa gasped aloud, ¡°This,¡± she began, amazed, ¡°this is the symbol of my house!¡± She then added in a more subdued tone, ¡°Well, my Mother¡¯s House.¡±  The tang of the wind had given her cheeks a high colour, so her blush went unregarded.


    The others, meanwhile, looked to see what family the carvings on the pillar might denote, and if the sigildry was known to them. They were. It was their turn to stand amazed.


    When each had seen all round the pillar, they stood back and regarded one another.


    ¡°The Phoenix,¡± began Sacrissa, ¡°well, the Phoenix, flanked by quills, that¡¯s my House, the House Elding.¡±


    ¡°The Raven,¡± said Sigird in wonder, ¡°that is me, that is Duna. But how?¡±


    ¡°That leaves the Lion,¡± said Elyssa, ¡°but I feel, though I do not understand how, you, Huntress, could speak to that.¡±


    ¡°It was the symbol of my father¡¯s house in a time now past,¡± said Elle eventually, as if the words had been dragged from her. She said no more but continued to stare at the carved lion. It was rearing, its head in profile with a full mane in evidence. She looked as confused as the rest of them.


    All four stood steeped in thought for a time.


    ¡°It is no accident that we four have been called here together,¡± Elyssa was the first to break the silence.


    Then, after a further pause, Sacrissa turned to Elle, ¡°I recall, Lady that only yestereve you told the King that you had no House?¡±


    It was framed as a question, but Elle ignored it.  Sigird and Elyssa, meanwhile, stood lost in their own thoughts.


    ¡°Lady,¡± tried Sacrissa again, ¡°you are clearly of noble birth. What House are you?¡±


    But whether Elle had not heard, or had merely affected inattention, she did not answer the question. When she next spoke, it was quietly, thoughtfully, as if to herself, as if reciting some lesson learned from a tutor long ago.


    ¡°The sigil of your house is the Lion. In the sigildry of the Kingdoms, the Lion is always shown with a mane. If it does not have a mane, it may be intended to show some other like beast, or, oftentimes, the female lion, yet, in our sigildry, it is always in that case known as a Leopard.¡±

 Chapter 9: Dimlicdale – Part 2

    Sacrissa looked as if she might again speak, but just that the stange Elf, who had been waiting patiently while the others explored the stone, came forward to address them.


    ¡°Greetings, noble ones. You stand before the Trysting Stone. It marks the place where Men and Elves may meet in safety and without arms, be it a time of peace or¡­,¡± paused the Elf, ¡°war.¡±


    Their graceful host now had their full attention, and continued, ¡°I am Farherde Celandrim. As none of you have leave to enter upon our lands, I have brought you here.¡± Here the stranger exchanged looks with Elyssa. They were not happy looks.


    ¡°We are uncertain of your purpose in coming here,¡± the Elf continued, ¡°If that purpose is no threat to us, I am here to bless your journey and to give you what news I can. One amongst you is known to us, the others we have guessed at.¡±


    Elyssa shot the newcomer a questing look. In turn, the Elf seemed to be regarding her with particular attention, ¡°Fear not. I am charged to hear your account, and, if I deem you mean no ill, not to hinder you. Any of you. For it is time, we deem, for the sun to rise, even if it rises in blood, and for the Houses of the Most Faithful to come together once more.¡±


    Elyssa was dumb and noncommittal at this. It was the Huntress who replied, ¡°Gentle One, I cross this dale in peace with this daughter of your people as my friend and equal. We lead the townsfolk of the Vale, now beset, to safety among the Stedinglas.¡±


    ¡°How so?¡±


    ¡°The Vale is a sea of a numberless unknown Enemy. The Gryphonhold is besieged.¡±


    ¡°Darkness contests for the Vale. This is ill news indeed,¡± replied Celandrim, ¡°who is this Enemy and whence did it come?¡±


    ¡°We know not. The Vale had no warning.¡±


    ¡°This is passing strange. What of the King?¡±


    ¡°He is safe, for now¡±, Elle replied.


    ¡°And his daughter, does she fare well, does she bear her burden well?¡±


    ¡°She does,¡± Elle spoke levelly.


    It was now the strange Elf¡¯s turn to pause and look thoughtful.


    Elle broke the silence, ¡°Pray, what of the Men who dwell hard by the borders of this dale, and of your own people, for we have seen none but you in this fair land all day?¡±


    ¡°We meet with Men but seldom,¡± Celandrim replied, seeming to relax somewhat, ¡°There is another such trysting place on their side of the dale. There of late both folk would meet to treat of things of mutual concern, mainly the grazing of the dale, and to renew the bonds of friendship.


    ¡°In former days it was the place where disputes were to be settled, raids and theft accounted for, wergild and ransom determined and paid, prisoners exchanged. The custom had fallen into abeyance, then, a generation of Men or so ago, there was¡­ well, three men of the North helped restore the custom between Elves and Men. This stone was then set up as an earnest of our new faith in one another.


    ¡°These three men¡­.?¡± ventured Sacrissa.


    ¡°Yes,¡± anticipated the Elf, their sigils mark the stone, set beneath the sign of our Queen.


    ¡°There has been but little trouble over the years since the stones were raised.  But we have still met here in fellowship, keeping in mind the blessings of peace. Thus, my people and those sons of Men who dwell on the south side of this dale keep tryst twice a year, in the spring and in the autumn. This spring, our invitation to this place was given yet none came here. And this autumn, no invitation has yet come from the Men to their trysting place, though the time for it is overdue. Men have yet grazed the dale, as we do, but have ceased to greet us where they come upon us, preferring to turn their backs. Then suddenly, three days ago, the herds of Men were withdrawn from the dale, and they have not yet come back.  Our people deem it unwise to enter the dale without knowing the cause of this latest strangeness. Perhaps your news from the Vale makes some sense of this.


    ¡°The light of the Morningstar has been snuffed out, and we fear that the darkness we perceive growing in the Kingdoms of Men has now reached the borders of this dale. If so, you are not safe here. The Stedinglas will remain true; they are Elfwyn, blessed of both our High Queen and the King-in-the-North. Yet we are unsure of all others. Other Men may aid your strange Enemy, willingly or unwillingly it matters not. They will surely know you are here and lead your foes by the paths they know down into the dale to hunt you.¡± Celandrim seemed genuinely concerned at this prospect, and Elves were not known to trouble over much concerning the fates of Men.


    ¡°Then we must hurry from you,¡± said Elle, ¡°we cannot afford to meet the Enemy here. We may not overcome him, but if we do, the delay could yet be fatal.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± replied the Elf, ¡°you must not delay!¡±


    ***


    They had left swiftly after that. Elyssa tarried just long enough to exchange some private word with Celandrim.  The others knew nothing of what passed, but Elyssa looked worried when she caught up with them. Mystery upon mystery, thought Sacrissa, reflecting upon the strange news that her father had once been at this place. They were now making their way as quickly as they could down to the river. They could not risk a broken horse¡¯s leg, so their progress was tense and slow. Once they were free of the steep moorland descent, they broke into a trot to a canter, down the gently sloping pastureland towards the ford. Elle and Elyssa soon stretched out in front. Sacrissa and Sigird were soon someway behind. Sacrissa rode fast when pursued and when she wanted the thrill of doing so. At other times she was a more circumspect horsewoman. Sigird was a competent rider, but where she surpassed her companions was in seacraft, not in the saddle. Thus, the two of them fell a little behind. Not much, but enough to change the rest of their day and the night. As Elyssa and Elle passed through the gap in the belt of trees that overlooked the river, they saw, to their horror, a strong body of mounted men disgorging into the valley from a pass in the southern hills.  There must have been some three score.  They were approaching the road. They wore long quilted grey coats and open helms. They carried long spears and round shields on which were seen splashes of yellow.


    The Leopards saw the four riders. A small group of them, a dozen or so, spurred forwards to beat them to the ford. Elle and Elyssa exchanged a look of understanding, dug their heels in and galloped for the ford. They splashed across it, not noticing the soaking they got and changed rein to pelt down the road after the column, even as the first grey horsemen gained the road. But these Leopards did not turn to pursue the two riders, they carried forward to win the ford before Sigird and Sacrissa could reach it.


    ¡°Damn!¡± cried Sacrissa, as they saw their way blocked and pulled up their horses.


    ¡°We must turn here and ride west along this side of the river,¡± shouted Sigird.


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    ¡°Wherever we go they¡¯ll catch us now, for sure!¡± cried Sacrissa, ¡°We cannot fight them all!¡±


    ¡°No, look,¡± replied Sigird, pointing to the other side of the ford to where the main body of the enemy cavalry had turned onto the road to pursue their two companions, and the column.


    Half a dozen grimacing Leopards were now splashing across the ford towards them.


    ¡°Alright,¡± decided Sacrissa, ¡°go!¡± and they turned the heads of their steeds to the west and galloped across the empty pasture in the direction of the afternoon sun.


    ***


    Horses had been heard, thundering up the road, so the column was prepared for trouble.  Trum, Ebban and half a dozen soldiers greeted the women as they pulled up at the rear of the column with their news of the pursuing Leopards. Elle and Elyssa quickly gave their orders for the disposition of their men. They took in the lie of the land at this place. Here, about half-way along the dale, they reckoned, the river had swung south a good way and crossed the path of the road again, forming a second ford. About a third of the column had passed, or was passing, across the ford. The rest were here, on what was now the Enemy bank. Naturally, the pace of the column was slowed as it waded the ford.  They would not all gain the farther bank before the Enemy horsemen caught up with them. The Leopards had chosen the time and place of their descent into the dale well.  Whether that was by luck or judgement, they could not say.  Ebban and his scouts were sent, pushing, cajoling, slipping and splashing, across the ford to the front of the column to watch the road ahead. Conan went with them, smiling, bowing, easing their passage through a confused crowd close to panic.  The soldiers were concentrated at the rear of the column.  They watched the billowing dust grow larger and listened to the sound of hooves grow louder as the grey horsemen drew nearer.  The Leopards emerged from the dun cloud of their own making, at the canter, in a line.


    ¡°Well, my Lady,¡±, observed Trum, ¡°I make that about three to one in their favour.¡±


    ¡°Let our bows even that up a little,¡± replied Elyssa. The Huntress nodded, nocking an arrow.


    ***


    Sigird and Sacrissa pounded along the northern bank, a thin line of trees down to their left stood between them and the river, obscuring the view south. Inhospitable moors rose upon their right. All that concerned them was the wide margin of grassland between the two and the speed their great horses made upon it. The wind roared in their ears, their cloaks billowed behind them. Their horses¡¯ hooves thudded on the ground and the green grass flew away beneath them. They exchanged a brief glance; they were in mortal danger, yet the thrill of the ride gave them joy.


    Sacrissa risked a glance behind. The Leopards were not gaining, thank the Powers, but they were keeping pace, and, somehow, she and Sigird must outstrip them. The belt of grassland was beginning to narrow and the knees of the moors to their right stepped more steeply.  There was no way up and out of the dale to their right. The ground was rising before them, leaving to their left a thicker belt of trees in the river valley lying below them. Sacrissa saw a ridgeline ahead. Much might depend upon what they found beyond it.


    ***


    Amora and Trystan were with Trum, his dozen men, mounted, swords drawn in readiness. Elle had her horse ready to hand, so she could join them after she had added to Elyssa¡¯s small strength of bows. Sixteen riders against forty-eight, Elle¡¯s quick eyes reckoned. Elyssa would need to thin the Enemy¡¯s ranks. She bent her bow, now, glancing across at where Elyssa stood. Fourteen bows bent in readiness, and then, huffing and dripping came Berend the Carter, who had fought his way back across the ford to lend his crossbow to the fight. Elyssa nodded to him with grateful approval. Berend grinned sheepishly.


    ¡°Wait!¡± cried Elyssa, ¡°Nock. Wait ¡­¡­ Draw! Loose!¡± and fifteen missiles flew towards the Leopards and fifteen saddles were emptied.


    ¡°Ha!¡± cried Elle, ¡°Two to one now! I¡¯ll take those odds,¡± and she swung herself into her saddle and drew her sword, ¡°On! On! For Dragongate!¡±


    Elle led the riders in file, two abreast, and quickly spurred on to the gallop. They pierced the Leopard¡¯s extended line about a third of the way from the right of the line as they faced it. Elle slashing to her right, Trum to his left, they crashed through, followed by Amora and Trystan and then the Men-at-Arms. Such was the speed of the action that the Leopards had no time to respond to the move. Only the lancers either side of the breach in the line could bring arms to bear, and they didn¡¯t last long.  Immediately on passing through the line, Elle reeled right, taking her file of riders behind her, whilst Trum wheeled left, leading the other file. The riders turned and spurred towards the rear of the Leopard¡¯s line. The Enemy horsemen as they tried to slow up and turn, tangling with those beside them in the line. They were still disordered when Elle¡¯s riders charged through them, slashing as they passed through, leaving confusion, death and many ugly wounds.


    Meanwhile, as those to the left of the Enemy line reeled towards the centre the join the fight, Elyssa¡¯s fifteen bows took their toll upon them.


    The Enemy broke off, reeling round to canter rearwards and re-group, several slumped over their saddle pommels, or trailed weapons or shields from limp arms.  Elle¡¯s force galloped back to the right of the edge of the column¡¯s rear, turning again, ready to renew the attack. Elyssa called a halt to the shooting, the Leopards had withdrawn beyond effective range and they could not now waste their remaining arrows.   Two score and more Leopards littered the field amid shattered lances and round leopard shields. Riderless horses skittered nervously among the reck of their charge.


    Just then, they heard a commotion behind them; hoarse shouting and the clash of blades. Elyssa turned, and to her horror, saw that the townsfolk were no longer making their way across the river, but something, or someone, was pushing them back, ¡®The Powers forfend! Is the Enemy before us? If so, we are caught in a vice.¡¯


    There was, she realised, nothing she could do. With all the escort, save four, here at the rear, the townsfolk must fend for themselves. For now, her attention was once more commanded by the Enemy before her. Half the remaining Leopards, lances levelled, broke right to charge Elle¡¯s riders. The other half were heading straight for her small band of dismounted archers.


    ¡°Loose when ready, then draw your swords!¡± Elyssa cried. She wished that diffident girl Sigird with her mail-piercer was at her side. What of her and the dark-haired girl now? But there was no time for that. She squinted and loosed, and a Leopard toppled backwards over the cantle of his saddle.  Then she slung her bow, drew her sword and crouched braced in readiness for the shock.


    Across the river, at the head of the column, Conan was staring placidly at a shouting man. He was grubby, mind you, they all were a bit grubby by now, and cross. His eyes were bulging, and foam flecked his beard.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you see? It is the Leopards who come to save us?¡± the man demanded, ¡°They will not drag us through danger to exile, as you do. They will leave us free to go where we will and let us prosper!¡±


    ¡°You are a very silly man,¡± said Conan, ¡°and you are holding up the column and risking the lives of these people. Please step aside or I will have to move you.¡± Conan smiled encouragingly.


    The man also smiled, nastily, and spat.  Then he drew forth a wicked long dagger and raised it with the cry ¡°For the Leopards! For the Queen!¡±


    ¡°That, my friend,¡± replied the still smiling Conan in a matter-of-fact tone, ¡°was a mistake.¡±


    Yet the cry was met with similar cries and half a dozen of the rougher looking townsfolk drew their weapons ¨C they all had blades of some kind ¨C with a scrape of steel.  Conan found himself beset on all sides, and the men moved to drive him, and any townsfolk in the way, back towards the water.


    To me! To me!¡± cried Conan in a deep loud voice, ¡°Rangers of Dragongate, to me!¡± and he parried the first thrust aimed at him.


    Then young Coquin was at his side, twitching and grinning wildly, addressing the rebellious townsfolk ¡°Come on then! You grumbling grandsires, come on! You want some? Do ya? Well, come on!¡±


    ***


    Elyssa thought to herself, ¡®so this is how it ends.¡¯ Just a dozen or so of them on foot with swords, while a dozen or more enemy horsemen with lances bore down on them. She asked herself what more she could have done. Nothing. That did not help, so she asked herself what she could do now; this was not a fight she could win.


    ¡°Strike the horses!¡±, she cried, unseating the riders was their only chance.


    Just then, Elyssa heard a hoarse shout behind her. It was the town butcher, Hyldere. ¡°Make way! Make way!¡± he cried, as he and a dozen stout lads trundled two carts towards them. The bowmen stepped aside as the carts trundled forward. The horses of grey riders reared at the sight of the cart rolling towards them and all momentum of the charge was lost as the horses bucked and reared in circles as their riders fought for control.


    ¡°Charge!¡± cried Elyssa, and her men ran forward to engage riders with the odds very much evened. At the same time Elle¡¯s horsemen traded their first blows with the other Leopards. The fight was no longer in their enemy, and both groups of horsemen swiftly disengaged and wheeled off, retreating the way they had come.


    Elle and Elyssa, both flushed and panting, waved greeting as they approached one another.


    ¡°Come,¡± said Elle, less steadily than she would have liked, ¡°let¡¯s see if this trouble ahead is dealt with and get the column moving. We are running out of time.¡±

 Chapter 10: The Land of the Little Brown Trees - Part 1

    It was time to take stock, now the column was back in order and on the road.  Thank the Powers they were moving again, thought Elle. With her were gathered Elyssa, Amora and Trystan, and she motioned captain Trum to join them. Conan was off doing what he did well, cheerfully chivvying the weary townsfolk along, his calm good humour lightening their steps even as he exhorted them to greater efforts. Some fifteen men of the town had proved to have been the problem. Leopards, no doubt, or their creatures. They had been sent, Elle was sure, to spy out the Vale and to cause trouble behind the lines, the Powers curse them. Fortunately, Conan, the Rangers and the loyal townsfolk had overcome them quickly and without loss of life. She had them bound, and, on pain of death if she saw them again, expelled from the column and sent across the river with the advice to get out of the dale before darkness and the terrors that dwelt there overtook them. She had questioned them first, and, for her pains, she had received little but insults, wheedling excuses or defiant complaints. These bitter men had not seemed grateful, let alone repentant, at being spared. It had seemed, thought Elle, as if mercy, though gladly accepted, was at the same time an insult to them. Surly to the last they had been, the sort of men who resent everything, even a kindness. She wondered what had happened to them; what their story had been to make them thus. She knew, of course, that there were hard times, and that many lacked much, not least in the Fallen Kingdoms of the Northlands.  Yet, she had not expected to find such discontent. These men, she deemed, who felt they had never yet received their due, had reflected not upon what little they might have done to deserve better. It seemed to her that these were men who, above all, feared that others received more, or even as much, as they, and hated them for it. Such, then, it appeared, were the malleable malcontents that cleaved to the Leopard¡¯s cause. Beyond that, she did not pretend to understand them.


    Looking east, Elle saw that the rebellious townsfolk were now in the far distance, picked out in sharp relief by the lowering western sun, like tiny carven figures. She saw that they were herded now by some Leopard riders, and that they walked in the right direction for the southern pass in the moors down which the Leopards had come. Where the rest of the horsemen were, she could not tell, but she did not think they would be bothered again, unless in conjunction with any force that might have infiltrated the dale ahead of them.


    ¡°Good riddance to bad rubbish¡±, remarked Trum, who seldom allowed himself to express an opinion, nodding towards the departing malcontents.


    Elyssa tugged at Elle¡¯s sleeve, and silently pointed to where the far distant knees of the southern moors had almost climbed to their peak. There, against the gorse and heather, barely to be seen, a mounted figure bearing a spear was picking its way westward, tracking them, it seemed.  One of the hill men, he looked to be, who farmed the dales beyond, grazed the moors with their sheep, and drove their kine to Dimlicdale. It saddened Elle beyond measure to think him a spy for the Leopards. She nodded in acknowledgement.


    ¡°What of Sigird and Sacrissa?¡± asked Amora.


    ¡°We will not meet them again in this dale,¡± said Elle grimly, ¡°I fear for them.¡±


    ¡°Why, my Lady?¡± asked Trum, ¡°Surely there is some point at which they my cross the river to join us? There has been little rain of late, the river is nowhere near its full spate.  Surely they may swim it on horseback?¡±


    ¡°The river is not their obstacle,¡± replied Elle, ¡°though it soon comes to step banks on its north side, like a gorge. I fear because across their path lies the Frencenlic Wood. Steep and tangled and dark, it is avoided by all who enter the dale, for it is deemed perilous even in daylight, for the sun barely reaches its dark depths.¡±


    ¡°Aiee!¡± cried Elyssa, ¡°that is a place of evil omen amongst our people, though I knew not where it lay. There is a power trapped there that it would not be wise to disturb.¡±


    ¡°It is a nightmare place,¡± added Elle.


    ¡°But what is the danger they face?¡± this from Amora, who now sounded concerned.


    ¡°I know not,¡± replied Elle, ¡°Frencenlic Wood is seldom spoken of in the Fallen Kingdoms, and it is many years since anyone ventured there. When it is named, old men and loremasters blanch pale and fall silent.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a pity they could not have been more specific,¡± commented Trystan, but he too looked worried.


    Trum looked troubled also, ¡°then, even if they can keep their course and pass through the wood, it will be at the cost of time they cannot spare.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± replied Elle, ¡°they, as we, will be racing the sunset. We have a chance, but they ¡­. If they pass through the perilous wood, they will then face the Dunwald.¡±


    ¡°The Dunwald, what is that?¡± asked Trystan.


    ¡°A place of great mystery is all I know, and that it is said to lie to the west of Frencenlic Wood,¡± answered Elle, ¡°My father made me study all that is known of the Lore of the North, but the lore falters here. Whether the Dunwald is a greater or a lesser danger to our friends than Frencenlic, I cannot say, but my heart is troubled at the thought of them there.  If they even make it so far.¡±


    ¡°We call it the Baran Wood. It is a place where the two worlds touch,¡± said Elyssa, ¡°Between them is but a thin sliver, as if a pane of ice. At night it is yet thinner, as if then a sheet of falling water.¡±


    The company looked thoughtful at that, save Trystan, who looked as if he had questions.


    ¡°I have questions,¡± he said.


    In response the Elf shook her head as she searched for words to convey her meaning, ¡°Have you never felt a presence you could not account for, or thought you saw something, a movement, or, even, a figure, in the corner of your eye, but when you turned, there was no one there?¡±


    Amora nodded. Trystan looked sceptical. The others looked pensive.


    ¡°The Elves, and only the Elves, may walk in both worlds. You should be grateful that


    some other folk may walk only in the Other World.¡±


    ¡°Hmm, again, though,¡± said Trystan, ¡°any specific idea of what the Dunwald may hold?¡±


    ¡°Perhaps it is the origin of the terror that stalks Dimlicdale by night,¡± replied the Elf, ¡°I know not. It is a place of stories, told to Elflings at their mothers¡¯ knees to frighten them!¡±


    ¡°It is also told of in tales of Men throughout the Northlands,¡± added Elle, ¡°of strange creatures and disappearances. With what truth I cannot tell.¡±.


    ¡°I pray that some power is there that will protect them,¡± said Elyssa, ¡°Even should they pass through that place, I fear that it will not leave them unchanged.¡± Her voice trailed off into silence.


    Trystan looked set to ask Elyssa for further and better particulars, but the Elf now looked closed-off and distant, and Amora motioned him quiet.


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    Elle broke the silence, ¡°At this rate, we will be lucky if we get the townsfolk clear of the dale before dusk. There will not be time to go back for our lost companions.¡±


    With this solemn conclusion they fell silent, and drifted apart, each to find some task to do for the good of the column.


    ***


    Sacrissa¡¯s fine black destrier reached the crest of the slope, and she reigned in. Sigird¡¯s piebald mount thudded up beside her.


    ¡°Damn!¡± cursed Sacrissa. Before them the ground sloped away gently, but a quarter of a mile or so away, the land was closed to their front by a thick, darkling wood. She glanced back to see a dozen Leopards, as expected, still slogging up the slope after them. ¡°Come on!¡± she cried to Sigird and spurred her steed down the hill.


    As their horses pounded down the slope it steepened and narrowed.  Approaching the treeline, they dropped to a canter. They sensed a nervousness in their mounts, and the beasts slowed greatly in spite of their riders. Frantically they urged on the now reluctant steeds. Glancing once more behind her, Sacrissa saw the first Leopards breasting the ridge.  ¡°Come on!¡± she grunted with gritted teeth, and she dug her legs into to her horse¡¯s flanks. They were now at the margins of the wood. The trees looked old, straggly and untidy. Past the first few gnarled and rangy trunks, they could see little. All was dark beneath the boughs, and they sensed, rather than saw, that the ground beneath the trees began to drop sharply away. Their horses tossed their heads and turned first to one side and then the other. Through sheer will power, it seemed, they forced the beasts forward under the ragged tree canopy and passed between the twisted trunks.


    Gloom immediately overcame them in the wood.  Well, thought Sigird, a dark and difficult place was a place in which they might lose the encroaching Leopards, yet she did not like this place. They were descending steeply. The leaf mould muffled the horses¡¯ feet, or was it the air about them? Indeed, all sounds seemed dulled in this place. The atmosphere was thick and heavy, the air seemed opaque in the half-light. Her horse trudged reluctantly on.  Trees loomed up as she passed them; grey trunks flecked with lichen, the bark deeply grooved in crazily twisting patterns. Bent branches hung down, brushing Sigrid with frail mossy twigs, gnarled like witches¡¯ fingers. Brambles hid the dips and pits, roots and stumps of the forest floor, tugging at the horses¡¯ legs, snagging and pricking them, causing them to stumble. She feared their horses might stumble and snap their legs.


    They found themselves in a ravine now, with steep banks of brambles and nettles, here and there broken by tumbled rock sides. The trees clung and leaned thickly on the bank, with exposed mossy roots in weird loops, home to boles of ancient ferns. No bird was heard, nor sudden scurry of any forest creature. Somewhere, unseen, a beck or rill wound a course along the bottom of the ravine; Sigird could hear its faint trickle. Overhanging bows now laced across their way. Soon these proved as great an obstacle as the treacherous weeded ground.


    ¡°We must lead the horses, I think,¡± said Sacrissa softly, ¡°before they throw us or break a leg.¡±


    Sigird nodded. Somehow, she felt disinclined to challenge the quiet of the wood with speech. They swiftly dismounted. They picked their way painfully along the ravine leading their reluctant horses. There was no trace of a path of any kind, and the ground remained rough, pitted, and riven with roots and the holes of secretive, burrowing animals. It was festooned with undergrowth; the nettles were waist high in places and stung through their clothing. It was now their legs the bramble pricked and snagged. Almost wilfully, it seemed, the brambles would wrap around their feet and trip them. Still, reflected Sigird, they were going no slower than when mounted. She strained her ears for sounds of pursuit, but all remained still and silent in the wood.


    Then, by a tall riven stump of a shattered and fallen tree, that stood, pointing like a sharp finger in their way, the horses planted their hooves and refused to go a step further. The two women cursed and shoved and dragged at the reins to no avail. Sacrissa then muttered words of calm and comfort to her horse, secret words Sigird could not hear. The destrier stepped slowly forward. Sigrid¡¯s thick-limbed brown and white dales mare whinnied. After a pause, she began to follow. Yet, but a few paces past the jagged stump, the horses spooked. They put their ears forward and their nostrils flared, snorting.  Then they cried out, as if in great horror or pain and shook their reins free of the women¡¯s¡¯ hands. Eyes staring, mouths foaming, they reared, and the women flung themselves aside. When their hooves crashed back to earth, the horses turned and scrabbled up the sloping ravine, back the way they had come. By the time Sacrissa and Sigird had freed themselves from the clawing brambles, there was no hope of catching their mounts.


    They brushed themselves down and exchanged looks.  There was nothing to say. The atmosphere in the wood was close and it depressed their spirits beyond the loss of their mounts. After all, without horses, they could move reasonably freely, but they began to feel trapped by the place and to fear that, somehow, it would prove reluctant to release them.  They must fear dusk, and had no clear sense of how much of this eerie dale they must cross before its haunted night closed in.  All was dim in the wood, and they could glimpse no sky through the dense canopy or see through the dense trees beyond its margins. For all the light in the wood told them, it could be dusk already, but they told themselves that outside the wood, it must still be a bright autumn afternoon. The ravine had narrowed so that there was not much distance between them, as they struggled and stumbled abreast of each other, and the ravine¡¯s increasingly rocky walls. It was deeper and darker here, too. They had not walked for long before they realised that a sense of oppression had steadily grown and settled upon their spirits. They glanced occasionally at each other, but neither felt she wanted to speak. The silence was intimidating to begin with, but now they felt that it would take great strength and determined will to break it, and then they saw that they lacked such will.  Sigird realised that she had long since ceased to listen for sounds of pursuit. She sensed that the Leopards were not close, but that something was. This stultifying, close dark wood had sought to rob her of her senses, perhaps even of her sense of herself. Yes, she thought, the wood is doing this. Suddenly she found that she could brush away the fog that had settled on her mind. Yes, this wood, or something in it, has an ¡­ influence. It has a will and a purpose.  She glanced at Sacrissa and saw that she was looking around with a thoughtful expression. Suddenly she felt the hairs on her arm and the back of her neck bristle and tingle, and a sick plunging fear in the throat and chest.  ¡°Sacrissa,¡± she said, ¡°I feel we are being watched.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡±, said Sacrissa deliberately.  Then, in a clear, quiet voice tinged with resolution, ¡°I know we are.¡±


    Sigird realised that her companion might have merely nodded, but had chosen to speak as an act of defiance, a reassertion of will, in the face of whatever oppressed them in this unnatural wood.


    Sacrissa seemed to have seen something, up on the side of the ravine, at the top, some feet above them. She glanced back at Sigird, then turned to assault the steep rocky slope, clambering up to whatever had caught her eye, Sigird stumbled after her.


    At the top of the slope, looking over Sacrissa¡¯s shoulders, Sigird saw something seemingly hanging in the trees, a sickly white face she thought at first, surrounded by a crimson halo.  Behind the ghastly visage rose an impenetrable looking thicket, a natural or seeming natural abattis. Then she saw that the face was a skull, mounted on a stake, and set about with blood-hued cloth and feathers. The skull was unlike anything she had seen, larger than a man¡¯s and with a slightly protruding face, like a dog or a wolf, but much shorter and quite unlike any animal skull she had seen. From both jaws protruded long, fang-like teeth. A man-like forehead rose above it, on which was carefully marked some charm in Elf-runes. The skull¡¯s black sockets stared past them, down into the ravine.


    Sacrissa turned suddenly, and Sigird saw a grim look was set upon her. Without a word, her lips tight together, Sacrissa strode back down the slope, leaping over obstacles to reach the foot of the ravine. She then moved rapidly up and down scanning the opposite bank until, again, an object seemed to catch her eye. This she also climbed up to and inspected. Sigird, following, got close enough to see it was another such sightless dead face staring down at them, just as Sacrissa turned to her.


    ¡°Another one,¡± said Sacrissa, ¡°we are seeing them now the ravine is so narrow, but I bet they¡¯ve been along its length. I wager, if we went back, we¡¯d find one this side of that ragged stump where we lost the horses.¡±


    ¡°What do they mean?¡± asked Sigird, now sounding very worried.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know exactly,¡± replied Sacrissa, ¡°but they are a ward, a token of the sort, set to stop something from passing them. I don¡¯t know what, but the thing of it is, the thing is¡±, the pitch of Sacrissa¡¯s voice was rising, ¡°they¡¯re all facing inwards, into this ravine!¡±


    Then they heard a twig snap loudly. It sounded close. Fear like she had never known seized Sigird, and she saw it at once reflected in the other¡¯s eyes.


    ¡°I have a really bad feeling about this,¡± said Sacrissa.


    Sigird seemed now to hear, or sense, an unpleasant grunting and sniffling. She stuttered ¡°I ¡­ I think we should ¡­¡±


    ¡°Run!¡± cried Sacrissa.

 Chapter 10: The Land of the Little Brown Trees – Part 2

    As they turned and ran, a high-pitched wail, quite inhuman, rose in the glade, penetrating the dampening fog to rise eerily above it and disappear among the treetops.  Ten times more horrible than a vixen¡¯s screech it was. Drawn out agonisingly, within it was the scream of changing sounds, of meaning and intent. And it was close.


    Then, closer still, rose a similar answering cry, and something crashed out of a brake of ferns towards them. All Sigird saw, from the corner of her eye, was a flash of fangs and hate-filled eyes in a hairless, yellow parchment face, gnashing, slavering, madly staring. They ran, taking fallen trees at a leap, trips and falls at a roll, letting bramble rent their clothes and flesh, but not stay them for an instant.


    Whatever they were, the creatures were hard at their heels. Snarling and panting was in their ears, hot fetid breath scorched the backs of their necks. Claws snagged at their boots. Teeth tore at their cloaks. The chase was surely near its end.  They must be caught. Just then, immediately ahead of them, something else was on the move, heavily crashing down the bank, pushing through the undergrowth. It was a Leopard! His ruddy, bearded face contorted, he stumbled, panting towards them. Yet his terror-filled eyes stared blankly past them, and they swerved around him and pounded onward.  Seconds later they heard his screams. They were agonised and endless, and, between their insane crescendos, the sound of tearing flesh and cracking bone reached them. But, the pursuit had slackened for a few precious moments. They did not slacken, though their chests were bursting and their muscles were a searing fire. The sounds of pursuit were heard again behind them, and they found themselves slowing despite the goad of fear upon them. Then Sigird realised it was because the ground was rising; they were running uphill. Then she saw it, ahead on a shattered tree stump directly ahead of them, looking down the wooded ravine towards them, the fanged white face in its blood halo. If only they could reach it.  The things again sounded almost upon them, and the stench of them enveloped her as the hot breath was again felt on the back of her neck.  If only they could make it. If only ¡­ and then, before she knew it, they were there, and past it.  They kept going yet heard no more the sound of pursuit. The westering sun struck out over the lip of the ravine and blinded them.  They covered their eyes and instinctively turned away. They could see little behind them, sun-blind, as they scanned the dark interior of the wood, but no sign or noise of pursuit could they divine. All was silent once more in the darkling wood. They scrambled their way into the open and found they were looking up a gentle slope of moorland grass to a shallow flat hill crowned with brown bushy trees. At first, they thought it must be some considerable way off, for the trees looked small.  Then they realised that the trees themselves were small. Nowhere in the Northlands had trees yet turned to their autumn hues, that would be some weeks off. Their plump, densely leafed canopies did not seem near to falling, yet were all brown, as if that was their colour at all their seasons. At any rate, the sun was now low behind them.


    ¡°Those poor horses,¡± said Sigird bent over, once she had caught her breath. The she looked up again at the low hill ahead and gasped. ¡°Oh!¡± she said.


    ¡°What?¡± demanded Sacrissa.


    In reply Sigird, of all things, let out a little childish giggle, ¡°Don¡¯t you see? It¡¯s the Land of the Little Brown Trees!¡±


    ¡°What?¡± said Sacrissa, again, ¡°I mean, you know of this strange hill?¡±


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t everyone?¡±


    ¡°No!¡± infuriating girl, thought Sacrissa, ¡°What is this place? Is it good news at least?¡±


    ¡°What? Good news? Oh no, I shouldn¡¯t think so,¡± replied Sigird, absently, but she was still grinning happily.


    ¡®Impossible!¡¯ thought Sacrissa, then, out loud, ¡°Sigird!¡±


    ¡°Hmm, yes? Oh, well, don¡¯t you see, it¡¯s the Land of the Little Brown Trees,¡± then, seeing Sacrissa¡¯s look of impatient hostility, she added ¡°you know, like in the story, well, the rhyme really?¡±


    Sacrissa stared inquisitively, an eyebrow at full elevation, arms folded, foot tapping.


    Sigird cleared her throat, ¡°Well, err¡­¡±, and she began:


    In the Land of the Little Brown Trees


    Sigird recited in a sing-song voice, standing straight, hands behind her back, as she had been taught as a child.


    Oh Plodwyn the Plodling¡¯s daughter


    Fear the land of the little brown trees


    Unless you would go to your slaughter


    Where the horriboos chomp at their ease


    Bidyes spin between each bough


    Naynells haunt the hollow


    No passage do their webs allow


    Unless the slime to follow


    Oh Plodwyn the Plodling¡¯s own dear


    Fear the land of the little brown trees


    The govies will gnaw off your right ear


    And the gorbies will bite out your knees!


    The Panting Dangazone, my child


    There lurks within its lair


    His teeth are sharp, his breath is vile


    And he stinks like a blandiblare!


    ¡°Oh, for the Heavens¡¯ sake!¡± answered Sacrissa, ¡°That¡¯s enough of that! While I deplore the impoverished minstrelsy of your childhood, let us, for the Powers¡¯ sake, get on!¡±


    So, they trudged up the rise to the flat hill with its stumpy dun trees, Sigird seemingly oblivious to the possibility of danger, was humming contentedly, apparently happy to see a favourite faerie tale come true. It didn¡¯t seem to matter to her, thought Sacrissa, that it was a typically gruesome tale, portending a bad end.


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    Just then they heard cries behind them. Looking back, they saw that five Leopards had emerged from the dark wood below. One was pointing at them.


    ¡°Out of the frying pan into the fire,¡± remarked Sigird, equably, and Sacrissa wondered if Sigird meant the ¡®fire¡¯ was their pursuing enemy, or whatever lay now before them.


    ¡°So, five survived the terror of darkling wood!¡± cursed Sacrissa, ¡°Come,¡± she added, pointing to the line of brown trees, ¡°we¡¯ll deal with them in there!¡±


    ***


    One of Ebban¡¯s men cantered up the line to Elle, ¡°My lady,¡± he hailed, ¡°We see the far tower!¡±


    ¡°At last!¡± she cried, not caring to hide her relief.


    ¡°But wait, Lady, there is more,¡± replied the scout, ¡°Leopards are ahead of us.¡±


    ¡°Damn!¡± she swore.  The Leopards they had fought at the ford had lately been seen again, dogging their steps, albeit from a respectful distance. Now their intent was clear; they were waiting for the column to run into their compatriots. It was what she had most feared ever since they had encountered Leopards in the dale, and now, it could not come at a more perilous moment with the sun sinking below the western horizon and with the column set to clear the dale with minutes to spare.


    ¡°How many?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Some two score,¡± replied the scout.


    ¡°Caught between the jaws of the Leopard at last, M¡¯am,¡± remarked Trum, grimly.


    ¡°The sun is all but lost,¡± replied Elle, ¡°We have no time to stop and fight. Trum, you take the strength of all our arms to the head of the column and drive through those who face us. I will stay here, with those sworn to me and we will keep the Leopards behind us from interfering.¡±


    Trum, who knew better by now that to debate with the Huntress, nodded, ¡°Aye, m¡¯lady,¡± and, motioning to Ebban¡¯s man, the two of them cantered forward.


    ¡°So,¡± remarked Amora, ¡°there is more blood to be drawn before this day is done, the Powers forgive and preserve us.¡±


    ¡°We may yet daunt them with our show of defiance,¡± answered Elle, ¡°they may decline to close and trade blows with us.¡±


    ¡°Happy that would be,¡± agreed Amora, ¡°but just in case their valour should exceed their discretion, might I send for Conan to join us?¡±


    ¡°Aye, do so,¡± agreed Elle, ¡°but quickly.¡±


    Trystan immediately spurred forward to find the librarian.


    ¡°Those Leopards are closer now than at any time since we drove them off,¡± remarked Elyssa, ¡°they know they have friends ahead and that this is their time.¡±


    Elle suddenly felt a wave of bone-weariness almost take her, then grunted assent, shook herself free of fatigue with some final reserve, ¡°They will find their time has run its course,¡± she replied.


    ¡°I will stay here with you, sister-archer,¡± replied the Elf, ¡°and we will see what practice our bows may make in the fading light.¡±


    Moments later Trystan returned.  With him were Conan and Ebban, who looked a little sheepish and said, ¡°There is no longer any need for scouting ahead, my Lady, and my men will do service for me with the main force.¡±


    The tail of the column was already some way off, and they now sat alone on their tired steeds in the gathering gloom.


    ¡°So, then,¡± said Elle, ¡°we are half a dozen against two dozen. I¡¯ve had worse odds¡±.


    ¡°As have I, Huntress,¡± replied Elyssa. And they smiled.


    ***


    They noticed the change as soon as they stepped among the trees. This place was different. It was as if they had passed through a vale into another world. Behind them they could see the moorland grass sloping down to the darkling wood, with stones and tufts, and trudging, sweating Leopards all picked out golden in the last rays of the failing sun, yet, somehow, they knew that all this belonged to a different world, one that they had now left.


    The trees were, indeed, little and brown.  Dense bushy foliage, a slightly coppery brown, formed a round and bushy shape, tapering a little toward the top; not unlike a pear, in fact. Below this the trunks were straight and smooth and a greyish brown. Around them, short greyish grass grew, and some short straggly grey ferns.  There was no sign of leaf litter, or fallen, mouldering trees. There was no path, in sight, but there was space to walk among the little trees, and no riot of brambles, nettles, nor any tall growth to impede them.


    Even the air was different. No chill wind, like the dale that autumn day. No stultifying fug, like the darkling wood they had passed. The air seemed rarer, the light, thinner, and a little silvery. It was very odd. Yet, it was growing dark there too, and so they kept going. Ominously, at least Sacrissa thought, there were wispy webs to be glimpsed among the dense brown leaves, and wide trails of silver slime flattened the low grass in places. Yet, there was no hint of movement, the creatures responsible for these strange signs seemed nowhere about. Once they passed a gaping black hole in an earth bank. It could have been merely a badger sett, thought Sacrissa, but here it could be something a good deal less wholesome. Sacrissa preferred not to think that Sigird¡¯s homespun nursery tales might be true. The ground sloped down for some distance, and then began to rise as they stepped into a clearing beyond which a tall earth and stone bank, topped with more little brown trees, curved round to close off the clearing, save for one gap between it and the trees to the southwest. The bank was concave, sculpted like a frozen wave, its top jutting out to mirror its base. Roots and ferny tendrils hung down from its grey grassy lip.  Little brown trees leaned over it. It would afford some shelter, if necessary. Their immediate thought, however, was that here was a clear space in which to wield a weapon, with the bank to guard their backs. Here two women such as they might face five Leopards without too much cause for concern. So, without need for speech, Sacrissa drew her sword and Sigird unhitched Mail-piercer, and they waited.


    They did not have to wait for long. The Leopards stepped into the clearing together in a curving line an ox horn, with fighting space between. They were ragged now, their long grey quilted gambesons were torn and stained. Only one still had a shield, only two still a helm. They all had their swords, though, and three of them had knives in their left hands.  They were speckled here and there with blood splatters.  Their faces were dirty, and their hair and beards matted with sweat or blood.  Their expressions were grim and set. Their chins jutted angrily, and their eyes burned with hatred. To be fair, thought Sacrissa, they¡¯d been having a pretty bad day. If they hadn¡¯t been when day had dawned, now at least they were grizzled veterans. It was vital, however, that they should not live to be pensioned off.


    Crouching ready to pounce, the women eased their positions, transferring weight from one leg to the other and back. The Leopards came on. One or two Leopards might be engaged by each of the women, but not all of them at once. That was the danger. Mind you, thought Sacrissa, if Sigird had it in her for another of the berserk rages in which she¡¯d fought in the column¡¯s fierce first battles ¡­Yet, the girl looked as haggard and done-in as Sacrissa felt. The Leopards edged forward. The women edged backward. They could not be trapped too close to the bank. They cast about for a means to gain the advantage. Glancing back for an instance, they both understood what to do. The Leopards, as one, stepped forward again. Sacrissa and Sigird nodded to each other, turned and ran at the bank. Running up its sides, they used it to push off, back towards the startled Leopards. Flipping round in mid-air, they landed with a clash of arms amid the Leopards, pushing them back stumbling and off balance. To the right and left they hewed them until four prone bodies lay unmoving around them. One Leopard, wounded, had run off. They didn¡¯t suppose they¡¯d see him again. They stood back, catching their breath and grinning at one another. They cleaned their blades on the short grey grass and stood straight to adjust their belts and buckles. It was now very certainly dusk, and darkness was falling rapidly on this low, windless hill.


    ¡°What are we going to do now?¡± asked Sacrissa.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know, it¡¯s nearly dark.  What if we press on?¡±


    ¡°Well, we may see how far to the end of the dale,¡± answered Sacrissa, striding to the gap in the clearing to the southwest. Sigird followed. The land rose too much about them, so they turned to their right and zig-zag up the slope until they stood upon the bank under which they had fought the Leopards.  Westward they could see between the trees beyond the edge of this queer little wood. They saw a far-off glint, as if of the river, and the sunset bordered by the break in the hills that must mark the end of the dale.  And, as they shifted to peer between the little grey tree trunks, they saw the failing sun glint off the top of a tower that otherwise they might not have seen, black against the darkening grey of the hills.


    ¡°It is not far,¡± said Sacrissa, ¡°yet it is too far.  We would not get three furlongs beyond the wood before the darkness closed in upon us.¡±


    ¡°Then,¡± said Sigird, slowly in reluctant conclusion, ¡°we are better to face whatever night in this haunted dale may bring here, rather than out in the open.¡±


    ¡°Agreed,¡± replied Sacrissa, ¡°so let us make camp quickly here. We¡¯ll move the bodies out of the way, settle ourselves with our backs against our friendly little cliff, and set a fire before us.¡±

 Chapter 11 Night Terrors - Part 1

    The Marchland captain led Lord Aldred through the stone passages of Gryphonhold. They met no one, as every man and woman was at their station. Behind them strode the Lord¡¯s Squire and two trusted Dragongate Men-at-Arms, whose iron-shod boots echoed in the stone corridors; their harness jingled as they marched.


    Treason was what he had told them it would be. In that tower room he had made it clear to those knights and captains. Even to raise the possibility of surrender was treason, he had warned them. They had not seen it that way. They had said that Gryphonhold could not withstand such a siege. Nowhere could.  The Vale was cut off, they had said. The castle must fall eventually, and in great carnage. Think of the people, they¡¯d said. Better terms were always gained from an Enemy who had not been forced to storm your walls at great cost. The Grey Leopards had men to spare. They would eventually prevail. Why not avoid the suffering? Who in all reason did not seek terms? It was their duty to do so. If we sent to know their terms, they had insisted, what harm could there be in that? Lord Aldred had authority in the King¡¯s absence, they had pointed out. He should use it now to ask for terms. They knew a way, a sally port guarded by trustworthy soldiers (trustworthy to them, Aldred had thought, they should not have given me that).  Messages could be sent and replies received, they had explained.  But they must send to the Leopards now, before the King wrought such carnage below that they would spurn any offer to treat fairly. They should not risk such a thing. If only Lord Aldred would send a message, they¡¯d said. Look, a message had been prepared for his mark and seal, they need lose no time!


    Aldred¡¯s rage and indignation had been beyond all measure, yet he was a wise man, with mastery over his passion. Thus, he had tried to reason with them, but nothing he said would move them. Shrewd as he was, he had divined doubt amongst them as to what he, Aldred, might do. Yet, he had sensed no doubt amongst them that they were right. He had begun to see from the way many of them spoke that this was no mere making the best of a bad situation. Rather, they positively welcomed the Leopards, as if the attack was a liberation, not an invasion. A liberation from what? From the rule of a good and a wise King? What order and prosperity and safety there was in the Fallen Kingdoms came from this King and his brave little realm. Surely they must see that? So, he had ended by cursing them for deluded fools, and denouncing their cowardice and treachery.


    They had not liked that, of course, yet it had not shamed them. They had been angry that he would not agree with them and do their bidding. He had told them that their doom was for the King to decide. For now, all Aldred would require them to do was refrain from acting against the defence of the citadel. They had said nothing to this, beyond angry murmurs. Aldred could not have pushed the matter further; to provoke outright defiance would only have made matters worse. Some, yet might still have been waverers in the cause of the curse¡¯d Leopards. Yet, defiance had not been far off. They had barred his way when he had made to leave, and swords had been half drawn. His Squire, who had remained in the doorway, and not party to the debate, needs must have heard some of the loud and angry words, and he had started forward to his Lord¡¯s side when he had seen blades begin to scrape on scabbards. He, too, had drawn his sword. Without turning to look in his Squire¡¯s direction, Aldred had waived him gently back. With calm face and hard ice-like eyes, Aldred had stared down his antagonists. This had frozen them in hesitation, but the tension would have snapped eventually, then they would be blood, Aldred had feared; he would be dead and the conspirators committed beyond all hope of return. Then Forrada had stepped forward, ¡°No,¡± he had said, simply, ¡°not like this.¡± And, ushering the Squire out before them, they had left the council unmolested together.


    Later, Aldred asked Forrada why he had spoken as he had.


    Forrada had been subdued since the encounter in the tower room, and sounded uncomfortable as he spoke, ¡°I am Nerian¡¯s man, set to spy on you, set to make you see things our way,¡± then he paused, grimaced, and added, ¡°set to kill you if need be.¡±


    ¡°Quite so, so you agree with them?¡± asked Aldred.


    ¡°Yes,¡± replied the captain simply.


    ¡°Yet now you have betrayed them,¡± said Aldred.


    ¡°Yes ¡­,¡± the man paused, his eyes downcast, then he began again, ¡°I ¡­,¡± and faltered.


    ¡°Would not go so far?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Yet those in that room, or at least enough of them to carry the others with them, they would go that far?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°How far?¡±


    ¡°As far as necessary to let the Leopards triumph and free our land of the curse of the less worthy¡±


    ¡°The less worthy?¡±


    ¡°The greedy lords, gluttonous clerics, the outsiders ever plaguing our shores, the heretics and infidels, the beggarly kind, the elves and other abominations, the monsters left to haunt the margins of our settlements. The land will remain barren and cursed and honest men poor until all is cleansed.¡±


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    ¡°I see,¡± replied Aldred, ¡°Quite the list. am I on it, I wonder. A word of advice, in case you should live long enough to prosper from it. Treason, sir, is a path you cannot tread but part of the way to stop at the limit of your comfort. It is one that takes you far further than a man of conscience can go and yet survive the desecration of his wits and the loss of his soul. Remember that. You may yet turn from that path; perhaps in your heart you have already, or perhaps your heart hesitates, because you now betray someone, whichever way you turn. Which, then, is the greater betrayal; which might save, and which will damn, your eternal soul?¡±


    Aldred let that sink in. Forrada was downcast and stood mute.


    ¡°Well, Master Forrada,¡± Aldred resumed, ¡°let me save you from the agonies of choice. It seems that you occupy a most uncomfortable position. Yet, if you wish to outlive this day with any vestige of honour, you had better go about with me and help to frustrate your cause.¡±


    They had been busy since then checking the defences and the men there, sounding out the men, picking through the barrel for the bad apples. He had sought out Lord Eric the Elding. It was not for him, Aldred considered, to set the Vale¡¯s soiled honour before a stranger, even one now a brother-in-arms, so he was circumspect, but he asked that the heir of Trenisslia might have his most trusted men on call. Eric hid his curiosity, and gravely assented. On the King¡¯s return, Aldred and Eric were at hand. When the portcullis at the castle gate had clattered down ¡®accidentally¡¯, it was claimed, between divisions of the King¡¯s returning cavalry. Aldred had moved swiftly to relieve the tower guard with Eric¡¯s picked Trenisslians. When he saw Aldred beyond the gate, the King nodded at the blue tabards over the arch and cocked a questioning glance at his counsellor. By the time Aldred had completed his report, the King¡¯s face was set grim. There was cold fury in his eyes as he gazed unseeing. Yet, he had said simply that Aldred¡¯s actions were meet, and, so, they had set about their work, to prise from treacherous hand the dagger that now pricked the heart of the Vale.


    Thus, it was at the day¡¯s end that Aldred and Forrada now hurried through the torchlit passages on their way to check the last section of the defences; a watch whose fate was unknown. They hoped to find a loyal pocket of men at the outer wall and give succour to them. Sturdy men, Aldred accounted them, but men, who might yet be unaware that they had enemies within, as well as without, surrounding them.


    ***


    It was, reflected Sacrissa, undoubtedly turning out to be a night to remember, assuming, of course, either of them survived to remember it. What she had desperately wanted to do was rest, rest and reflect. She felt she was on the cusp of insight regarding the mysterious Huntress but was too dog tied to come to it. The blood she had been forced to wade through to get even this far on this madcap jaunt, she pushed to the back of her thoughts. She whittled instead over the presence of her sigil overlooking this uncanny vale. Had her father, had all their fathers, been here and seen that stone raised? It seemed insane yet attempts to dismiss the thought were met with the memory of that implacable carving.  She had, however, more immediate concerns.


    The evening had started out as unpleasant, but the night was waxing to downright dangerous.


    The ¡®govies¡¯, if that¡¯s what she should call them, had been first on the darkening scene. They were a sort of over-enthusiastic malignant bat. Usually endearingly timid, bats, Sacrissa had always thought, and she had often been happy in their company on her moonlit rooftop excursions. These flying rats however were bold and vicious little ¡­ one tangled in her hair and, yes, bit painfully on her ear while she was collecting firewood.  Her left ear, she noted with a crumb of satisfaction.  Still ¡­ faerie tales and nursery rhymes had no business coming true, she considered.  Anyway, she¡¯d batted it away; ¡®ha-ha,¡¯ she thought, ¡®batted the bat away!¡¯ Oh, that was terrible, she realised, like the jests of her father. No, she must not succumb to that, even in the face of angry bats, or, at least, with angry bats in her face. What next, she had asked herself? Well, she¡¯d regretted the question when it was answered almost immediately by red glowing eyes, hundreds, gathered in clusters, staring out at her between the leaves of the little brown trees.  Then they all went dark, and she heard much scurrying and clacking, almost like talk, amongst the boughs. Nervously she backed away.  Then there was a swishing and she saw in the moon¡¯s faint glow hundreds of tiny spidery creatures swinging on threads between the trees, lacing up the space between them with webs, even down the length of the trunks.  The clearing was being sealed.


    She made her way back to Sigird, and was about to feed the fire when she noticed that Sigird was roasting a small spitted animal in the flames. It didn¡¯t look familiar, a sort of rat with a wolf¡¯s maw, so far as she could make out.


    ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± she asked Sigird.


    ¡°Oh,¡± the girl replied, looking up, ¡°I¡¯m not sure. I imagine it¡¯s a gorby. It had a bit of a go at me, my knees, actually, while you were collecting more wood, and I thought ¡®there¡¯s not much eating on him, but waste not, want not¡¯.¡±


    ¡°Well, there are also large and nasty spiders in the trees ¨C your bidyes, I suppose ¨C they¡¯re closing all the gaps between the trees with webs, so, if we survive the night, we might have to cut our way through in the morning.¡±


    ¡°Well, they haven¡¯t blocked the gap over there,¡± said Sigird, indicating, with the spitted gorby, the gap between the trees and the bank to the southwest, ¡°Too wide, I ¡¯spose¡±, she added.


    ¡°Well,¡± said Sacrissa, ¡°by your account we still have, what, horiboos and naynells to look forward to, so we might need to make a break for it out that way.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re forgetting the panting dangazone,¡± said Sigird. They fell into an uneasy silence, lest the casual tone of their chat seem forced by lightly speaking of their peril. On the other hand, that their prospects seemed gloomy was not a thing to dwell upon. Presently Sigird spoke again, ¡°You know, I think this is almost ready.¡±


    ¡°Ugh!¡± said Sacrissa, but they neither of them had the chance to find out if there was good eating on a gorby, for then a great shape loomed in the south-west corner of the clearing, blocking their exit, and began slithering towards them.


    ***

 Chapter 11 Night Terrors – Part 2

    They had made it, just. The Stedinglas had seen them from their tower and had sent a party mounted on their hardy yet deft dale ponies against the rear of the Leopards. Attacked on two fronts, the angry grey-clad soldiers broke and galloped east, past the column.  Those behind the column turned and ran when they saw their comrades fleeing towards them.  It had all been quite easy in the end, with the Stedinglas shepherding them past the limit of danger as the shadow of night took the dale. With Conan back with the others of the Huntress¡¯s little band, Trystan took his chance to test the librarian¡¯s lore on the subject of the Frencenlic Wood and the Dunwald. When he learnt the two women had gone that way, Conan looked grave.


    ¡°Some monsters lurk there,¡± he said, ¡°but old tales that pass many lives before a scholar can pen them can hardly be trusted. It seems though that a pack of savage hunters, four-legged like giant naked wolves, that killed for sport were once trapped there. Some say they were cursed men, hunters, and their hounds, but I give no credit to that. Whatever they are,¡± he lowered his voice and his face darkened, ¡°I fear for our companions. The slight girl with the hair like the heart of fire, she might fight her way out, perhaps, and the other, darker lady, she might survive if they stay together.¡±


    The librarian¡¯s downcast eyes looked sad, then he added, softly, ¡°There may be worse in the Dunwald. An ancient and creditable sage once made record of it. No less an authority than Caed-Caedwaldir of Druge it was. He wrote that the wood only appears to be in the Dimlicdale. Once one steps between its outer circle of trees, one is in another world entirely. What that means exactly, I cannot say. Caed-Caedwaldir the Wise reports that he spoke to one man who had braved it, a knight of pure heart who said that strange Guardians appeared in the air about and sheltered him else he would have surely perished.¡±


    ¡°Was he alone or were there others to bear witness to the encounter?¡± asked Trystan.


    ¡°There were. He entered with a company of men. They were all slaughtered most horribly according to the knight. Not pure enough, I suppose. Still there may be hope for our companions in this strange tale.¡±


    Conan thought again about the good heart he saw in Sigird. He was not nearly so sure about the other one, so said nothing further.


    Just then, Elle bustled up to them, nodding to Trystan before addressing the other, ¡°Master Conan, those of the townsfolk who rebelled at the ford, are you sure all were expelled from the party?¡±


    ¡°All those who opposed us openly were dealt with, my lady,¡± replied Conan.


    Obvious and unspoken was the shared thought that a cunning traitor would not have betrayed himself.  Elle anxiously bit her lip and, brows furrowed, departed as suddenly as she had arrived.


    ¡°There will be death in the dale tonight,¡± mused Trystan bleakly, ¡°but have we brought it also to this haven?¡±


    Conan did not reply, but he did not look happy.


    The Stowham folk made do with a make-shift camp, and the Stedinglas welcomed them with straw palliasses, blankets and hot food. Elle and her companions lodged in the hall, screened off from the soldiers.


    The Huntress was not taking rest, however, Captain Trum was loitering in the shadows, wearing his concern plainly on his honest face, but uncertain what to do as he witnessed Elle stagger around the hall like a drunk. Amora found them thus.


    ¡°Rest, my lady,¡± Amora gently chided, as she attempted to steady Elle, ¡°We are all safe now, and you did that, but once the last of us passed the western wardstone your task was fulfilled. Rest now.¡±


    ¡°Not all of us,¡± Elle¡¯s voice was slurring, ¡°Not all of us passed.¡±


    Captain Trum, emboldened, stepped forward, ¡°Forgive me, my lady, but your father once told me ¡­ you will have always losses. That will cut you like a knife, as it should, but where you led well, and you did lead us well, lady, you earn a blameless rest.¡±


    ¡°Ssh,¡± said Amora, ¡°there is hope yet. Do not despair, lady.¡±


    Elle grunted, and then suddenly slumped heavily against Amora. Trum reached out to take the weight and together he and Amora gently conveyed Elle to her rest, and then took rest themselves.


    Elle¡¯s companions had all looked forward to a sound night¡¯s sleep, in which the needs of their weariness must overcome their anxiety for their missing comrades.  And sleep they did, until the screams started. Terrible wails and fell calls were heard in the air above the dale. Then the fearful shouts of men and the neighs of panicked horses, and then the screams of many, minute after minute, for the best part of an hour. The Leopards had camped in the dale, it seemed. Eventually their screams died down, and the night returned to silence, save for the mournful hooting of owls. The people tried to sleep again, but for most the attempt was in vain.


    Some two or three hours before the dawn, there was again noise, a commotion at the northern gate to the settlement. Elle and Elyssa were awake and beyond thought of sleep, so they pulled on outer garments and left the hall to investigate.  It was Celandrim, cloaked and solemn, sitting astride a fine Elven steed, but leading two large war horses of the kind men rode; a proud black destrier and a strong dales horse, patched brown and white. Elle and Elyssa looked at each other, and their hearts sank.


    ***


    ¡°That¡¯s your naynell, I presume, a bloody great snail!¡± said Sacrissa, standing up and backing off.


    Whatever it was, it didn¡¯t look friendly, thought Sigird, and Sacrissa¡¯s expression told her that her companion agreed. It was huge. It was also rather aggressive for a snail; what was it about this place?


    It was aware of them. It turned and headed straight for them.


    ¡°Well,¡± said Sacrissa, ¡°it doesn¡¯t seem very friendly,¡± she again drew her sword.


    As it drew near, it reared up, as if it intended to bring its bulk down upon them. A horrid, gooey slime dripped from its underside, which rippled horribly and made a hideous squelching sound. And it stank like rotting vegetables.


    With its monstrous head weaving and its horns thrust toward them, it prepared to lunge.  Sacrissa had no warding charms for a creature of convulsing slime, so she prepared to strike with her blade. Just then, Sigird leapt past her, waving her stick of roasted gorby, or whatever it was, at the creature¡¯s head, which, in response, contorted wildly to avoid the fragrant morsel of cooked meat, evidently not to its taste. Indeed, the beast was clearly desperate to get out of the way of their supper, which, considered Sacrissa, was not much of a recommendation for it. Everywhere Sigird thrust the toasted wolf-rat, the head of the naynell recoiled. Unable to get past the roasted menace, whichever way it turned, the naynell started to slide backwards.


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    ¡°Good naywell,¡± chanted Sigird happily, ¡°nice naynell, that¡¯s it, now off you go!¡±


    ¡®The girl is insane,¡¯ thought Sacrissa, ¡®effective, but insane.¡¯


    And so it left them, horns, house and all, and they saw it sliding off along the further side of the clearing, towards where the four dead soldiers lay. When it reached them, it stopped, and the women could dimly see its neck stretched out, slowly questing forward, and its horns waggling. Sniffing, perhaps, if they did that. Probably they did, thought Sacrissa, the creature¡¯s reaction to the roast gorby suggested it was possessed of refined olfactory sensibilities, even if decaying vegetables were beyond its range.


    Presently they heard a sort of sucking and squelching, a very unpleasant sound, emanating from where the naynell seemed happily engaged.


    ¡°Is it ¡­?¡± began Sigird.


    ¡°Sucking on the dead flesh of our fallen enemies?¡± Sacrissa replied, ¡°yes, I should think so. And why wouldn¡¯t it? This place is a nightmare, perfect in all respects.¡±


    It was then the spiders started to drop on and around them, from the trees on the bank above them. In their hair, landing on shoulders, attacking their feet, the bidyes for a moment seemed everywhere. With more panic than skill, frantic fighting with fire and steel eventually drove the bidyes to a respectful distance. Yet these over-large and socially confident spiders did not go far, and soon crouched attentively in a ring around the two women, glaring malevolently at them with thousands of redly glowing eyes.


    Other eyes now lit up the night, cruel, white eyes, above and behind the ghastly spiders. And, below these eyes, the flickering firelight played on sharp teeth and lolling tongues. There was low growling from many throats, which changed, as they listened horror-struck to an ominous hooting; a sinister chorus of doom.  They might be the horriboos at last, thought Sacrissa, but, to be honest, she didn¡¯t much care what they were, provided they could fight them off long enough to see the dawn. That did not look particularly likely, it must be said.


    The fire was dying. There was no more wood to hand. Seeing or sensing this, the double ring of predators tightened and drew closer.


    The crashing and flailing at the treeline beyond was, in the circumstances, a welcome distraction. Some great shape was lurching, waving and dancing towards them. As it came closer, they saw it was their last Leopard. He was bleeding profusely, whether their fault or some due to the attentions of some absurdly awful predator, they could not tell. His arm and his deeply notched sword were festooned with the trails of bidye webs. He was, they concluded, most parts mad by this point, and unlikely to last long, yet his maddened plight conferred a fearless recklessness upon him, as he blundered about the clearing, swiping at the hooting terrors and stomping on outraged spiders. Yet, he was continually glancing over one shoulder or the other. His rash courage seemed to be born of a terror of something so great that he would gladly run into this nightmare clearing, full of deadly danger, and face what was before him, rather than whatever had pursued him hither.


    That, thought Sacrissa, could only mean one thing. One very bad thing if Sigird¡¯s rhyming catalogue of horrors were to continue to prove true. Bloody typical, she concluded.


    Then, cutting through the mayhem like a cleaver through a carcass, there sounded a great roar. It was deafening, and it shook the glade, and the stinking wind of it blew hot on their faces.


    Perceiving them, and their fire, as if for the first time, the Leopard ran forward. ¡°Help!¡± he cried, in a hoarse cracked whisper, barely human in sound. The bidyes, horriboos and whatever else was there, shivered and ran round frantically. Then a great whoosh was heard, as something of monstrous size leapt into the clearing, brushing through the rustling brown leaves, clearing the roof of the naynell¡¯s great house.  Oblivious, the naynell slurped on contentedly, the only creature apparently unaffected by the horror that now stood in the centre of the clearing, regarding them with calculating yellow eyes.


    It was huge, much larger than the monstrous naynell. And it, too, stank, but far worse than anything else in this wood. It was a hot, sweaty, decayed, evil stench of bile and dead flesh. It was like the smell of the savage things in the darkling wood, yes, quite like that, but ten times stronger, and with a few affectingly pungent ingredients besides.


    It was hairy. Very hairy. Dark and shaggy, like Black Shuck himself, but this was more than a dog, however demonic. This was more dire than the direst wolf. Yet, it was something of that kind; four legs, long head, powerful shoulders, massive slavering jaws. Its feet were the size of trenchers and bore many wicked claws. Its tongue was long and livid. Its lips were arched in a permanent snarl and its teeth were many, long and vicious. Stained and yellow they were, but razor sharp, and thick sticky drool pooled in the clefts between them and dripped from the monstrous maw.  Above all, though, it was panting. Panting from exertion, panting from anticipation. Panting constant hot breaths like hammers on their faces, the stench of each powerful exhalation nearly overwhelming them with nausea.  Nature could hardly suffer such a monstrosity; surely no Power had framed its dreadful symmetry. It seemed a travesty of all wild hunters that go on four legs; it possessed a power and a will and a joy in the terror that flowed before it. No natural creature could so revel in the fear of its prey. It was savage not because, in the moment of the hunt, it had to be. No, this beast was savage for the sake of savagery. It killed for the joy of killing, and it bore hatred that could never be sated, a blood-lust that could never be slaked.


    Sacrissa, though, sensed intelligence. And that gave her faint hope. She could always work with intelligence, so long as it was not greater than her own. It works on fear, Sacrissa thought, so I will not fear it.


    She stepped forward, which surprised the beast, and locked eyes with it and began a low chant. At first it was difficult, painful in fact. Through those terrible eyes, the creature¡¯s will bored into her, and she fought to push it back. The searing pain in her head risked distracting her, but she concentrated and blocked it out, exhausted though she was. Sacrissa was not used to losing a battle of wills. She was determined not to lose this one.


    Sigird stood amazed. She could not make out Sacrissa¡¯s words, the tongue was foreign, but the manner of her chanting suggested an incantation and that smacked of witchery. That was never good. Yet it had captured the beast¡¯s attention, and whatever Sacrissia was saying to it, seemed to give it pause for thought.


    The panting slowed. The growling became lower and quieter. The fire in the eyes died down.


    Sigird was frightened of her companion¡¯s strange power over this great beast of evil. The beast was more frightening, however, and she felt this was hardly the time to worry about such things. The beast was visibly calming down. In fact, it no longer seemed so monstrous or so evil. Unbelievably, thought Sigird, whatever Sacrissa was doing, seemed to be working.


    Then the Leopard perked up. What he now saw was not salvation, but opportunity. He made has way unsteadily toward the beast, and shouldered Sacrissa aside. Eye contact was broken, so was the spell. Shouting and waving his sword, he struck at the dangazone, scarring its foreleg, drawing blood. The light in the beast¡¯s eyes flared. It roared in pain and anger and struck out with its claws. The Leopard was eviscerated and collapsed shortly after his entrails hit the ground in a cloud of blood-spray and with a nasty plop. The dangazone lunged with its head and it took the dying man in its massive jaws, gulping his broken body down its throat. Then it turned its head and shot Sacrissa a look of pure hatred and let out a long, low, snarl.


    ¡°Well,¡± remarked Sacrissa, ¡°that¡¯s torn it. But what do you expect from a world with Seven Hells and only Three Powers?¡±


    Sigird worked her jaw silently for a moment before she managed to say, ¡°I think we should ¡­¡±


    ¡°Run!¡± cried Sacrissa.


    And they bounded off to the gap in the clearing, crunching furious bidyes, swatting importunate govies and kicking away startled gorbies and horriboos, not giving anything even a second to attach its jaws to them.