Chapter 7

Little did the sun’s rays warm the riders as into the chill wind they rode. Though they were satisfied that the rain was gone for now, it had done little to improve visibility, for the lingering dampness in the earth gave rise to a white fog that blanketed the hills. It had come up almost imperceptibly from the dells and the streams as the morning wore on, first crawling on its hands and knees to envelop the unkempt blades of sun-browned grass, then climbing into the sky to form a continuous wall about the party that followed wherever they went. Now a layer of high clouds crept down from the north to hide the ineffectual sun.
      ‘It feels like we’re running in place,’ said Burak as they slowed to cross a modest creek. ‘These hills all look the same when you can’t see anything beyond thirty feet.’
      ‘It is rather thick, isn’t it?’ agreed Raavan.
      ‘Well, at least we’re well hidden from unfriendly eyes,’ said Talen.
      ‘Hsssst! ’ hissed Alatar suddenly. ‘Listen!’
      They all stopped and bent an ear in the direction Alatar indicated.
      ‘Riders,’ said Berethir quietly.
      ‘And they ride on a solid road, by the sounds of it,’ said Valainis.
      All watched as Falco drew his Elven sword to see that the blade glowed red.
      ‘We will wait for them to pass,’ whispered Raavan loudly enough for all to hear. ‘As Talen has astutely observed, they can see us no better than we them, so we should be safe as long as we are silent.’
      They all strained their ears to hear the sound of hooves receding into the distance. When the riders were gone the party relaxed somewhat and sheathed their blades.
      ‘We must have wandered too far to the east,’ said Burak. ‘It sounds like we’re close to the road again.’
      ‘Or maybe it is a different road,’ said Valainis.
      ‘Perhaps,’ said Raavan. ‘Nevertheless, I think it would be wisest to adjust our course a few more points toward the west. I am becoming increasingly alarmed by the number of spawn in the area. And they are certainly using the Wellorn Way, which is unfortunate, for that is the fastest road to Mornaru.’
      ‘Perhaps that is their destination as well,’ suggested Berethir.
      ‘An attack on Mornaru?’ said Raavan. ‘It’s possible, I suppose, after the news of Druindor. But I rather suspect these may just be bands of simple grave robbers, sent out to collect corpses for the insatiable hunger of Silgoth’s abominable cauldrons. I think Silgoth is waiting to unleash his main horde till after the Unsundering has been accomplished. Till then he will probe our strength while continuing to build up his armies.
      ‘Nevertheless, though the forces we’ve seen in Wellorn so far have appeared to be small we should do our best to avoid them to the extent that it does not cause us undue delay.’
      With that they went on, turning somewhat westerly from their current path. Soon, however, they heard sounds of riders off to their left. Falco’s blade confirmed that these too were spawn. All drew their blades and waited expectantly in stillness, for the riders sounded as though they were approaching. No road could the company see through the fog, though from the sound of the approaching hooves they surmised that there must be one nearby.
      Now they could just barely see the riders beyond the wall of fog to their north. It was a force of Goblyns, and was somewhat larger than were the previous two, numbering perhaps in the twenties. The spawn rode easterly, and now the companions could see that a road did indeed run by them just to their north. Though the companions were both silent and still they could not evade detection for long, and indeed they did not. The first Goblyn who spied them through the dense fog let out a cry which was immediately cut off by the penetrating wood of an Elven arrow, but others took up the ululating call and circled round to come at the companions from both left and right.
      Soon the companions were engaged in a confusing melee that swirled rudely about them. The Elves and Elflings dared not wield their bows at such close quarters and were instead forced to draw their blades. Very surreal was the encounter, for as he watched the combatants perform their deadly dance in the mist Talen was struck by the quietness of this grim scene: between the clang! of steel on steel and the wet chop! of blade against meat could be heard the solemn stillness that reigned over Wellorn this day. Though they found themselves in the heat of battle, this was not the storm, for the storm was yet to come. The calm that was to precede that storm was now insinuating itself between their every noise, their every strained grunt.
      As if cued by this very thought, Raavan suddenly called to the party: ‘They are too many—we must flee! Sequálmarí, this way !’
      With that each companion broke from the mortal embrace of his adversary and rode as best he could behind Raavan, who was leading them in what they collectively believed to be a roughly northward direction. Though the Goblyns gave chase the thick fog worked to the companions’ favour by quickly hiding them from the enemy. After changing directions several times they had lost their pursuers.
      ‘That was getting pretty intense,’ said Berethir quietly as they stopped to catch their breath and listen for any indication that the spawn were near.
      ‘There were simply too many,’ said Raavan. ‘Our chances against such a large band of Goblyns would not have been very favourable.’
      ‘Well, at least we escaped,’ said Burak.
      ‘What name did you call back there?’ asked Talen. ‘I had never heard it before.’
      ‘Sequálmarí ,’ said Raavan. ‘It is an Elvish term which means, quite literally, warriors of the light , and is therefore a rather appropriate name for us given that our adversary is one who promises to bring permanent darkness to Entira.’
      ‘Warriors of the light, ’ said Talen. ‘I like that.’
      ‘Sequálmarí is also the name that was given to the party which stole into Ilimath during the war against Mythron, of which I was a member,’ continued the wizard.
      ‘And now we pursue a similar mission, albeit against a different enemy,’ said Burak.
      ‘Indeed,’ agreed Raavan. ‘Yet I fear it will be an even more difficult undertaking than was that fateful mission.’
      ‘How so?’ asked the Dwarf.
      ‘As I am sure you know, Burak, Hélethrôn is rather a larger place than Ilimath,’ said Raavan. ‘Its tunnels bore deeper into the earth, where live creatures far fouler than mere Troells and Goblyns. After Rúlatár evicted the Dwarves from that place over four thousand years ago he began to populate its depths with some of the most vile creatures imaginable. The mount itself is actually a dormant volcano. Deep within the mountain are the lava chambers, where underground lakes of fire belch forth their foul gasses. Within those lakes dwell hordes of devils and demons that originally were summoned from the depths of Helh by Rúlatár but now choose to make Hélethrôn their primary haunt.
      ‘The entire site is one of the unholiest in the world. It is the unholy fire of the place and the terrible power it bestows which attracted the Deathlords of old, for they feed off of its evil essence. I believe it is why Mythron was unable to achieve the Unsundering at Ilimath, even though he must certainly have read and studied Omenaton’s work thoroughly. He simply lacked the resources available at Hélethrôn.’
      ‘Unfortunately, Silgoth doesn’t have that problem,’ said Alatar.
      ‘Precisely,’ said Raavan. ‘He has the Nurune Codex and he has access to all the same resources that Omenaton was able to utilize when he did the original research. Replicating his powerful predecessor’s results should be entirely within his reach. That is why we are virtually certain he will achieve the Unsundering if we do not stop him. Unfortunately, that will be harder for us to do, I am afraid, than it was for the original Sequálmarí who stole into Ilimath to confront Mythron, precisely because Hélethrôn is a more dangerous place, inhabited by vastly more powerful forces. This will be nothing like our recent venture into Ilimath in search of the codex.’
      ‘If what you say is true, Raavan, then I don’t see how we could possibly succeed,’ said Talen. ‘In Wellorn we flee from mere Goblyns, yet in Hélethrôn we will be surrounded by demons and devils and who knows what else. How can we possibly win through to Silgoth’s private quarters and then expect to overcome the Deathlord himself?’
      ‘Fear not, lad,’ said Raavan. ‘There are powers that we ourselves shall draw upon, one of them being that with which the Elflings are particularly blessed—namely, the ability to sneak quietly and unnoticed into tight places where they can remain unseen. Your people have ever been good at these types of things, and when the time comes I will likely call upon you to use your skills to deadly effect. Yours may indeed be the most critical role in this entire affair.’
      All of this talk was highly alarming to Talen, who had not expected that all might in the end depend entirely on the actions of just himself and Falco, and as he did little to hide his alarm it was quickly noticed by the wizard.
      Raavan continued, ‘Well, why did you think I wished for you to come along in the first place, Talen Featherby? For your invaluable sense of humour?’
      This of course provoked a laugh from all, including Talen, though the Elfling still harboured some deep reservations about his own role in the mission. Glancing at Falco he saw that the other Elfling of this elite party did not appear in the least worried. Of course he’s not worried , thought Talen to himself, Falco wants to be the one to sink his blade into Silgoth’s chest. Yet, I wonder if even Falco will be strong enough to survive this terrible test .
       
       
      By noon the fog had finally dissipated, the sun having emerged once again to burn the opaque moisture away. Yet now the company found they had a new problem, for they had allowed themselves to stray too close to the mountains, where they knew they ran an elevated risk of encountering such unfriendly inhabitants as Oghors and Baisks.
      Now as the company rode out from behind a small pine grove close at hand they became rather more concerned as perched atop a low cliff off to their left was an ancient-looking tower. The structure itself was not very tall but was quite stout, with an open balcony about midway up. The very top narrowed into a chimney from which rose an unwholesome looking smoke. Though the tower was yet a fair distance away they could see that upon the balcony stood several sentinels—most likely Goblyns.
      ‘Well, there’s the tower of our enterprising sorcerer, I’ll warrant,’ said Berethir.
      ‘You may be right,’ agreed Raavan.
      ‘How will we get by?’ asked the bear-sized man. ‘I doubt those sentinels are the only spawn in the vicinity.’
      ‘We will go closer,’ said the wizard.
      ‘Closer?’ exclaimed Burak. ‘Then they will surely see us!’
      ‘I want to get a better look,’ replied Raavan. ‘We will leave our steeds in this grove. That way we can move on foot and stay behind that rock ledge up that way.’
      The cliff upon which the tower sat was positioned at the head of a small valley that stretched a short distance into the hills. The vale was formed by a small creek which emerged from the mountains not far from where the tower stood. Across from the cliff ran a ridge up the southern edge of the vale and along this the companions stole once they had tethered their steeds within the protective cover of the trees.
      When they were across from the tower they crawled on hands and knees up to the ledge to peer down on the ancient structure. They saw then that the sentinels were indeed Goblyns and that there were three of them. As there were no windows in the tower they could not see within. There was an awful fetor in the air.
      ‘What is that terrible stench?’ complained Burak. ‘I have never smelled anything so revolting, though I expect a burning corpse in combination with a lake of sewage would come close.’
      ‘A by-product of the spawning process,’ answered Raavan.
      ‘It smells awful,’ said the Dwarf.
      ‘What did you expect?’ replied the wizard. ‘The procedure involves corpses and lots of blood, not potpourri and rose water.’
      ‘Perhaps they should make some substitutions in the recipe,’ said Burak, holding his nose.
      ‘You’re not thinking of going in there, are you?’ asked Taoren of the wizard.
      ‘I would like to,’ said Raavan, ‘but it probably wouldn't be wise. We don’t know how many others may be in the tower, or lurking nearby.’
      Just then a door opened at ground level on the south side of the tower and out strode a Goblyn followed by several grotesque creatures. Though the latter were shaped like men they had eyes of pure white and great muscles that bulged beneath sickly green skin. Their bodies were entirely hairless and clothed in filthy, torn rags. Every sinew was flexed with extreme, unnatural tension that made their green veins protrude prominently from their flesh. Upon their faces were fixed a grimace of utter and complete horror, as though there was within each one a man now terrified to see what manner of beast he had become.
      ‘Naegrim,’ said Raavan.
      ‘They are terrifying!’ said Talen.
      ‘They aren’t pretty,’ agreed Raavan.
      ‘I fear I shall have nightmares just from having seen them,’ said the Elfling.
      ‘That you may, lad,’ said Raavan.
      Now they watched as the last of the Naegrim emerged followed by a second Goblyn. The group followed their leader down a stone stair to a ledge jutting out from the rock. From there they made their way to a narrow cave opening partly hidden behind a rocky outcropping.
      ‘I wonder how many are in there,’ said Alatar.
      ‘Indeed,’ said Raavan, ‘Well, there’s nothing we can do about it right now anyway. We shall apprise King Baaragh of the situation when we arrive at Mornaru. Very likely he will send a contingent of Dwarven axes down here to dismantle this little operation. For now, however, we need to concern ourselves with actually getting to the northern Dwarvenholt. Let us be on our way, for we are getting nowhere sitting here.’
      Retreating back to the grove they fetched their steeds and mounted up once again. They could not ride directly north-east from there, for that would take them in plain view of the tower, and they knew not whether any mounted Goblyns might be within hearing distance of a horn call.
      So they instead turned south to ride back the way they had come. They went on for some distance, accumulating a wide margin of hills between themselves and the tower, till they were confident they could not be seen. They then turned north-east and rode until they came to the lane leading up to the tower. From here they could see that they were not now very distant from the Wellorn Way. It was soon agreed that the safest route would be one that ran parallel to that road, but on the far side away from the mountains. In this way they would be able to avoid both the traffic on the main road and the many dangers which lurked in the Greywall Mountains.
      They met no other creatures that day. Even the birds were notably absent from the skies. By nightfall it had clouded up once again, and though the winds were calm it was dreadfully cold, for they were now in northern Anyar with winter soon on the way.
      They camped in a tiny hollow where they felt they could risk a fire without attracting the attention of unfriendly eyes. Though firewood was not plentiful they invested the time to collect a fair quantity, and they were glad for it later, for it was only in the warmth of the fire that they realised how cold they had been. Alatar brewed for them the last of the lossara, with which they washed down their Oromenna cakes.
      ‘When we arrive at Mornaru my brethren will treat us to some real food,’ proclaimed Burak as he downed a wafer of the crunchy waybread.
      ‘Yes, but precisely what does a Dwarf mean by real food , I wonder?’ asked Valainis, suppressing a smile.
      ‘Not Melimbar, I hope,’ said Taoren to chuckles all around.
      ‘Very funny,’ said Burak. ‘Well, there might be rather more meat and less vegetable matter than would please an Elf, but at least it will be good, wholesome food. And if it puts a bit of muscle on that lanky frame of yours, Taoren, then I am sure it will do you little harm in the struggle ahead.’
      ‘If I was any stronger I would likely break my bowstring,’ replied the Elf. ‘And anyway, I would not want to be mistaken for an overgrown Dwarf when I return to Merethir.’
      ‘You have nothing to fear,’ Burak assured the Elf. ‘Only female Dwarves are beardless, and they do not become warriors.’
      ‘Ah, then I guess I am quite safe,’ replied Taoren amiably.
      ‘Just so,’ said Burak with a smile.
       
       
      In the morning they broke camp and began the final leg of their journey to Mornaru under heavily leaden skies. Turning north they sought out the main road, which they soon found. The highway angled northward not long after, indicating that they now were less than fifty miles from the gates of the Dwarvenholt. Equally pleasing to the party was that they also were able to travel faster now that they were again on an established road, for they had less often to contend with the irregularities of the terrain.
      Around mid-morning they finally reached the mountains as the road took them into a wide slot cutting northward through the rocky terrain. Here there was snow on the ground, though it was not terribly deep and little actually lay on the road itself. Soon cliffs began to rise up on either hand to obscure their view to east and west, so that the many snow-covered mountain peaks were soon lost from view.
      It was about this time also that a fresh layer of snow began to accumulate, for snowflakes had begun to fall thickly from the sky, further limiting visibility in all directions. As they trotted briskly along they could feel the cold flakes against their cheeks—something they had not felt since the previous winter.
      Talen found himself once again wishing that he were back in Laurelindor, this time welcoming winter’s first snowfall with his friends and family, rolling in the white powder with the youngsters in his neighbourhood or packing it into great balls to make a Snow-Elfling. He would have to forego all these things this year, and maybe for all years to come. Yet, even if he did not survive to return to his beloved home in Dunnoch at least he would do his best to insure the success of their quest, so that friends and loved ones back home might be able to enjoy the season’s first snowfall for years to come.
      Just after noon a great stone façade emerged from the wintry curtain not far ahead. Tall columns and arches there were, adorned with the most elaborate architectural ornamentation, including more than a few runes and hieroglyphic devices, all expertly carved directly into the solid rock of the mountain. In the centre was a great arched portal, but immediately beyond this doorway was nought but a solid rock wall. There did not appear to be any other entrance. They dismounted before the main gate and looked about for some sign of a sentry.
      Just then Talen noticed that high above the gateway was a balcony with a stone balustrade stretching nearly the full width of the façade though projecting but little from it. Here could be seen two Dwarven warriors gazing down at them with crossbows at the ready. Now a third sentry appeared and spoke to them.
      ‘Who goes there?’ boomed the Dwarf in a deep voice.
      Burak stepped back so as to better see the guards above. ‘I am Burak Stonebreaker, son of chief architect Baskal Stonebreaker and official messenger of King Khazâl of the Belling Hills, come to seek counsel with His Highness King Baaragh of Mornaru in matters most dire to the fate of all Dwarves.’
      ‘And the others?’ said the guard.
      Burak gestured to each of the others in turn: ‘I have with me Raavan, chief wizard of the Kastairi at Aberlaven; Alatar son of Avalar and wielder of Noromendor, the East’s great Sword of Power; Lord Valainis, a noble Elf from Avalesse; Lord Taoren, an Elven guide and captain in the employ of King Ceirdain of Merethir Forest; lieutenant general Berethir of Pencairn; and last but not least, Talen Featherby and Falco Whiteleaf, two inestimable Elfling warriors of the highest repute, come from the land of Laurelindor in Aresse.’
      There was some delay as the guard took this rather lengthy message to his king. Meanwhile the sentries kept a watchful eye on the companions, though they no longer pointed their crossbows at them. The snow continued unabated, so that as the visitors gazed expectantly toward the guard post the watching faces accumulated ever more of the powdery white stuff that fell from the heavens.
      At length the silence was broken by a grinding sound as the rock wall beyond the gateway began ponderously to move aside. When the rock barrier had been removed they saw that behind it stood a rather formidable looking iron gate. Beyond this gate was yet another portcullis, and beyond that was darkness, so that they yet saw no one there to greet them. Now the first gate opened, and as they stepped forward the rock wall slid noisily into place behind them. Then the second gate opened and they all stepped forward.
      Before them was a dark hallway of prodigious size. As they gazed down this passage a Dwarf stepped out from a doorway to their right. He had a red beard and was dressed in a thick leather kirtle that extended to his knees. On his feet were heavy boots.
      ‘This way,’ said the Dwarf, motioning for the party to follow. ‘I am Kulri-Kory. I will be taking you to the King. Bows are not permitted in the King’s court, however, so those of you so armed must leave your weapons here.’
      Once the archers among them had left their bows with another of the guards they were led by Kulri-Kory down a maze of passageways that reminded the Elflings of their brief trek through the Belling Hills.
      They did encounter quite a number of other Dwarves along the way. Though some of them were clearly warriors, most appeared to be labourers or craftsmen of various sorts. They all had long beards of red or black or brown or grey, and they all were very stout and powerful looking, with their great muscles bulging from their arms and shoulders and legs. And they all regarded the visitors with a silent gaze, appraising their appearance without a word or greeting of any kind.
      When all the companions excepting Burak were certain they could not possibly remember their way out again they at last arrived at the court of King Baaragh. Along the way Raavan had explained to the companions that the king was affectionately known by his subjects as Baaragh One-eye , for his left eye had been lost many years ago. During an expedition in his youth Baaragh had come face-to-face with a scimitar-wielding Goblyn. Though Baaragh was able to dispatch the Goblyn with his war axe, the Goblyn first took Baaragh’s eye. In repayment Baaragh had taken the Goblyn’s head as a souvenir, and ever since then Baaragh had held a contempt for Goblyns unlike any Raavan had ever encountered.
      The court of King Baaragh was the most splendid any of them had ever seen. The walls, floor, and ceiling were all of white marble, as was the throne upon which Baaragh sat. The hall was both wide and long. On three sides there opened wide passageways, and behind the king there opened two smaller ones. In each of the four corners was a large brazier in which a lively flame danced, providing warmth and light to this splendid hall. In the midst of the great chamber was a modest reflecting pool bordered by an exotic stone marbled with blue and black.
      As the companions approached the king they saw that he wore no patch to cover the horribly scarred place where his left eye once had been. Much of the rest of his face was, however, covered by a thick red beard that hung far down his chest. The hair on his head was quite short, and was red also. Upon his head he wore a richly jeweled crown. So many large and dazzling gems were there in that crown that most who looked upon the king soon forgot entirely about his missing eye, their attention being instead almost completely absorbed by the wonder of seeing so many priceless jewels.
      Only two other Dwarves were present in the hall at that time, these being the guards who stood against the wall behind the throne with axes hanging at their sides and crossbows held cocked and ready. The king himself was armed with a curved dagger, which he twiddled absent-mindedly in one hand. In the other he held a parchment from which he was silently reading when the company neared the throne.
      ‘Ah, Raavan, it has been some months since I have seen you, old friend,’ said Baaragh to the wizard as the two shook hands.
      ‘You look good, Baaragh,’ said the wizard.
      ‘And you look older,’ said the king.
      ‘I feel older,’ replied Raavan.
      At this the king laughed heartily. Then seeing the Dwarf in their midst he said, ‘Burak, how is your father? Last I heard, he was quite ill. I trust his health has improved somewhat?’
      ‘He is getting old, Your Majesty,’ replied Burak, ‘though he will not admit it to himself, nor to others.’
      ‘Time catches up with us all eventually,’ lamented the king. ‘No sooner do we reach the ripe old age where we are finally counted among the wise than the grim reaper comes to weaken our limbs and dim our eyes. Can you believe, Raavan, that it has been nearly a year now since last I slew a Goblyn? It is so long now, I can barely remember the feeling of it.’
      ‘You may soon have a chance to refresh your memory,’ said Raavan wryly.
      ‘O, I truly hope so,’ lamented the king. ‘It is so very difficult to lead a satisfying life without regularly spilling the fowl ichor of dungeon spawn. You can’t imagine how much I miss playing football with a freshly hewn head.’
      ‘Yes, I’m afraid it is rather difficult for me to imagine,’ said Raavan.
      ‘When I die, the name Baaragh One-eye dies with me,’ proclaimed the king. ‘I wish to be remembered instead as Baaragh Goblyn-slayer . What do you think, old friend?’
      ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ replied the wizard.
      ‘Very good,’ chuckled the king. ‘And now, to the rest of you—Taoren, is it? I don’t recall meeting you before, good Elf, but I trust you will take my regards to your King Ceirdain.’
      ‘That I will, Your Highness,’ replied Taoren with a bow.
      ‘And Sir Berethir, how fares your King Eiliath?’ asked Baaragh.
      ‘Eiliath is King no more, your majesty,’ replied Berethir. ‘He passed away in August. His son Telurin has ascended the throne and is now King of all Pilinon.’
      ‘I am very sorry to hear that your King Eiliath has passed on,’ said Baaragh. ‘He was a fine man. I met him on several occasions. Please take my condolences to his family, and my warmest regards to your new king.’
      ‘Of course,’ replied the bearish man.
      ‘Very well,’ continued Baaragh, eyeing the others. ‘To the rest of you I offer my welcome, for if you travel with Raavan, then you are welcome indeed at Mornaru. Now, Raavan: I understand that you have some rather important business to discuss?’
      ‘You could say that,’ replied the wizard. ‘But first, let me ask you this: Did a messenger arrive by chance from Pencairn some months ago? The message he bore would have been one of critical importance.’
      ‘Not to my knowledge,’ replied Baaragh. ‘No, I am sure of it. I would have been informed immediately.’
      ‘Then it is as I feared,’ concluded Raavan: ‘Very likely none of the couriers dispatched to Tolor arrived at their destinations.’
      ‘What exactly was the message?’ asked Baaragh.
      Raavan replied: ‘It’s time to dust off your axe, Baaragh. We go to war.’
       
       
      Raavan proceeded over the next two hours to recount for Baaragh the recent events which led to the precarious present: Raavan’s confrontation with Silgoth at Mâg Tuor and the sorcerer’s subsequent move to Hélethrôn; the appearance of large numbers of spawn in Tath; the discovery by Alarus of the significance of the Nurune Codex; the fateful quest by Raavan and company to Ilimath to retrieve the codex; the loss of the codex to Nostaite, and its gain by Silgoth; the company’s journeys through Tath and Druadaneth, Telesse, Arnedia, Arvalla, and Pilinon; their stop at Pencairn for the coronation of King Telurin; the re-emergence of the three Swords of Power; and finally, their arrival at Valassea and the proceedings of the council that was there convened.
      ‘And so, now you know the state of things,’ concluded Raavan, ‘and also our purpose in coming here. Penyandil Pass was taken by the enemy while we sat at council in Valassea, and Foireách followed some three weeks later, just three days ago. Our company was in fact attempting to cross over the pass when the spawn came up out of Tolor and forced us back through the slot. It was the closure of the pass which forced us to aim instead for Mornaru and Egladhren, for we must cross over the Greywalls in order to reach Tolor, and Tath beyond.’
      Baaragh sat silently in thought for a moment digesting all that he had heard. Finally he spoke.
      ‘Well, Egladhren is not passable now, either,’ said the king. ‘It has been snowed under and will require the action of many shovels to clear it.’
      ‘How long would that take?’ asked Raavan.
      Again the king thought for a moment, then answered, ‘At least twelve hours, probably more, even with the heavy equipment.’
      ‘That still would be faster than going the long way around,’ said Raavan. ‘And I assume you will be wanting the pass open for your own purposes, anyway.’
      ‘Yes,’ agreed the king as he considered the situation. ‘If we were to march on Tath, then Egladhren and Sochail would be our chosen route.’
      ‘In that case, allow me to make a suggestion,’ said Raavan. ‘As Penyandil and Foireách are both of considerable importance to the allies of the East, Ceirdain has taken it upon himself to see to their recapture. He indicated to me that Penyandil was his first priority. However, in a few days’ time I expect his forces will be marching on Foireách from the east. Were you to simultaneously assail the pass from the west it should fall all the more easily, to the benefit of all.’
      ‘True,’ said Baaragh. ‘I think I can accommodate Ceirdain in this way, as long as our attacks are properly coordinated.’
      ‘Taoren here will be leaving first thing in the morning for his return to Merethir,’ continued the wizard. ‘You might send word with him as to your intended schedule, and indeed, an escort might be in order, considering the dangers we encountered in Wellorn.’
      ‘Oghors and Baisks?’ asked Baaragh.
      ‘Some, but also Goblyns and Naegrim,’ answered Raavan. ‘It seems one of Silgoth’s enterprising underlings has taken up residence in the old tower of Imrë Raikasse—you know the one I mean?’
      ‘I think so,’ replied the king, ‘—it is perched atop a cliff at the head of a vale not a hundred miles from here.’
      ‘That’s the one,’ confirmed the wizard. ‘It appears they are methodically digging up all the graves they can find in Wellorn and carrying the remains back to the tower to have them reconstituted into Naegrim. I expect that before too long they will have a reasonably sized army of the abominable creatures, and once that happens, assailing nearby Mornaru would not seem out of the question.’
      ‘I will take care of that problem as well,’ said the king. Presently he called for several of his servants, who were sent off with urgent messages to his top engineers and generals.
      ‘There is one other thing,’ said Raavan once the servants had been dispatched.
      ‘Speak,’ said Baaragh.
      ‘What can you tell me of the Dragons of Yultauron?’ asked the wizard.
      ‘Not much,’ replied Baaragh. ‘What is your specific concern?’
      ‘Well,’ answered Raavan, ‘if any of them have lairs along our intended route, I would like to pay one or two of them a visit.’
      ‘Eh?’ said the king.
      ‘Just the more respectable ones,’ added Raavan. ‘I think we could gain some measure of advantage on the battlefield by enlisting the help of a few of their kind.’
      ‘Have you lost your mind?’ said the king.
      ‘It has been done before, Baaragh,’ replied the wizard.
      ‘Aye, and many a fool has been burned alive before!’ returned the king. ‘If that is your wish, Raavan, then we can easily accommodate you right here. A quick dowsing of oil and a strike of the flint and we can get you just as charred and blackened as you fancy.’
      ‘I’m serious, Baaragh,’ said Raavan.
      ‘As am I!’ said the king. ‘Dragons are no laughing matter, my friend. Many a Dwarf has spent his final moments contemplating the view from within the maw of such a beast. In my experience it is always worthwhile to go out of your way to avoid them, which is the only reason information concerning the locations of their lairs generally is considered to be of great value, when it can be safely had.’
      ‘I appreciate your concern, Baaragh, but you must remember that Dragons and wizards have enjoyed a special relation since nearly the dawn of both their species,’ said Raavan. ‘If you do know the locations of any of their lairs, I implore you to share that information with me.’
      The king scowled at the floor and slowly shook his head. After a moment he replied, ‘The only one I know of is that of a golden Dragon who lives just beyond the Sochail Pass. I can point it out on a map later. That’s assuming he hasn’t relocated, of course. But he was sighted, I believe, just a few months ago, so it’s likely he is still there.’
      ‘Very good,’ said Raavan approvingly.
      ‘If you say it is,’ said the doubtful king.