The archers cast aside their bows and drawing their blades they ran down into the carnage.
All since of order disappeared, the fight became a disorganized brawl. Man and reptile locked in mortal combat. Bodies lay strewn throughout the dale, Men, Horses, and black-cloaked Morne.
The Morne fought as if they were possessed and for several moments it appeared as if they would break free. The odds were against them, vastly out numbered they were pressed back and cut down from all sides. When the battle was over more than two hundred Morne lay dead, and half that number of Burcott’s warriors lay dead as well.
The loss of life weighed heavily on Burcott. He knew the Morne and how ferocious they were in battle, but he did not think he would lose so many.
Burcott walked among his men, the untested youths who had joined him in the past week were now veterans who have fought the dreaded Morne and lived. In their eyes he saw the fire of his bygone youth, he knew these men would follow him to the ends of the earth.
Burcott found Tellius; the young captain was having his head stitched. He bore a deep cut across his brow, the blood flowing from the wound colored his chain hauberk deep red.
“Their not human,” Tellius remarked when he noticed Burcott standing over him.
The old lord nodded, “They are twice as strong and faster. But they bleed just the same.”
Tellius grunted as the needle passed through his flesh.
“We will bury our dead on the crest and raise a pyre at their feet.” Burcott said. “Let the Morne burn, I will not sully the land of my fathers with their remains.”
It was arduous work but no one complained, by the end of two days a broad mound of earth stood upon the hilltop. A ring of one hundred swords encircled its crown. The blades shinning bright reflecting the flickering fire light from the pyre of burning Morne in the dale.
Burcott led his men from the dale at a brisk pace; they had many long miles left to travel. He was eager to reach the southern border, should he fail to secure it he knew Trondhiem would be lost.
Three days pass, the men and horses settling into the routine of long days and frigid nights. The ground grew rougher, large gray fingers of stone rose up out of the rocky soil. Stark monoliths weathered by the passage of time.
In the distance a wall of jagged stone rose several hundred feet into the overcast sky. Its base piled with broken stone and gnarled trees. The escarpment originated in the Shardwall and ran westward gradually diminishing in size until it disappeared back into the earth fifty miles from the city of Imnos.
The Vaelan wall marked the beginnings of the southern frontier. A hash unforgiving land that few men called home.
For two days they traveled westward following the cliff face until it became nothing more than a series of high hills and shallow gorges. They swung south, crossing the hills.
Before them was a low lying plain dotted with a thousand small lakes bordered by dense copses of evergreens. There were no roads to follow, only well worn game trails that meandered across the countryside aimlessly. Though they had traveled far to the south the days were still growing colder. It was as if winter had rallied itself and refused to give in to the coming spring.
Vast herds of red deer roamed the land, bolting at the sight of so many men intruding upon their realm. Although they were wary, Burcott’s hunters were very adept at bringing them down.
In seven days time they came to the shore of the Evtor wash. The shallow river flowing down from the north that eventually merged with the stagnant waters of the Easterling marsh. The slow moving water cast off cloaks of thick fog in the early morning light. Its muddy banks ever changing and treacherous with areas of deep mud that sought to drag you down should you stray into its grasp.
Fording the wash they follow its course south until the high grasses that mark the outer limits of the great swamp stood before them.
Turning westward they journeyed five days along the swamps edge. Through a thick fog that rolled off the black water. Reeking of decaying plants, the cloying mist soaked through their clothing.
Cold and wet the men were growing more nervous, with each passing mile the accursed fortress of Fro’Hadume drew nearer. Even the most skeptical of the men were second-guessing their disbelief. The land about them only served to reinforce the tales of vengeful spirits that haunted the keep.
Chapter Four
Burcott could not blame his men for their nervousness. He had always felt uneasy about venturing into the Bal’Trae hills. The very landscape was cold and forbidding. It was as if nature itself was trying to warn them to turn back.
There was nothing inviting here, dense thickets of firethorn and pools of dark oily water seemed to bar their progress. The nights were freezing cold and by daylight both man and horse alike were hounded by swarms of biting insects.
Four weeks and two days since leaving Carich keep; the weary column left the swamps edge behind and rode up into the Bal’Trae hills. Here the soil was dry and firm, the roiling fog held at bay by the rising ground. The bothersome insects no longer hounded them and the moral of the men improved.
Less than half a mile to the south stood the impenetrable wall of the Randorien forest. The towering trees festooned with hanging sheets of dark moss. A dried riverbed stood between the forest and the hills. It formed the southern border of Trondhiem, a deep rut in the earth that was rarely crossed by the tribes that called the forest home.
Silhouetted against the afternoon sky rose the ruined walls of Fro’Hadume keep. The stones were dark, stained with patches of moss. Clinging to the crevices, thick vines of ivy lay entangled along the merlons. Their leaves yellow and withered damaged by the persistent cold.
The column grew still, the men staring up at the brooding fortification. The curtain wall was mostly intact; however it was breeched in several places. The vandals were still present, large gnarled oak trees whose roots had forced the stones apart. Twisted trunks and skeletal branches pushing up through the debris, relentless in their quest for sunlight.
Behind the curtain wall stood the remains of a broad tower. Over time it had become little more than a broken ring of set stone, its roof a gaping hole open to the sky.
The gatehouse yet remained, but the wooden portal had long since rotted away. The rusted remains of its iron banding lay on the cobbles staining the stone blood red.
Burcott looked on the faces of his men; he could see the fear in their eyes. He knew he had to quell their concerns. He urged his mount forward up the slope until he stood just before the gatehouse. Turning to face his men he removed his helm.
“I feel the dread that permeates these stones as strongly as you.” He said in a loud clear voice that echoed from the walls. “There are many strange tales about this place, stories told to scare and entertain. They are just that, nothing more.” Burcott could see the resolve returning to the warriors’ faces.
“When I was younger, my brother and I came to this place to prove our manhood. We spent two weeks within these very walls.” The men no longer looked upon the ruined edifice behind him, their eyes were now fastened solely on Burcott.
“No harm came to us, grim specters of the dead do not walk here! Only the sound of wind whistling through the stone kept us company. The only thing within these walls to fear is that which you carry within you. Your imagination is the true enemy in places such as this.” Turning his mount he rode through the vacant archway into the bailey.
The men followed Burcott into the littered Bailey, speaking in hushed tones they prepared to set up camp. They spent the remainder of the day clearing the debris from the courtyard. Lines were formed and the loose stones were passed from man to man.
With years of experience from fashioning stone fences about their fields, the skilled farmers dry set the stone into the breaches of the curtain wall.
Tellius oversaw the work while Burcott took one hundred men out of the keep. Riding hard he rode the entire length of the border, leaving two men to stand watch every mil
e. Their orders were simple keep watch and remain hidden. Should the enemy be spotted one would ride hard for the keep alerting the others as he passed. The remaining man was to shadow the enemy leaving a clearly marked trail for the force out of the keep to follow.
From the edge of the swamp to the rugged foothills of the Rahlcrag Mountains they rode. Returning to the keep they guided their mounts within the dry riverbed searching for any signs that an army had crossed from the forest.
Night had fallen by the time he returned to the keep. The fortress was silent the men sitting in small groups about fires trying to fend off the evenings cold. Most were too nervous to sleep, they acting as if at any moment the very stones would rise up and attack. At the slightest cough or sighing of the wind their hands leapt to their sword hilts.
Tellius approached him as he dismounted. “The walls are weak.” He reported. “We have patched what we could but these are soldiers not brick layers.”
“You have done all that could have been accomplished.” Burcott shrugged. “If we are attacked, we can always push the curtain wall onto them.”
Tellius smiled at Burcott’s suggestion. “We have sentries posted every thirty feet along the wall. I’m hesitant to place any more men up there. It’s not safe for them to walk about, the allure is fraught with missing stones and weak spots.”
Burcott nodded in approval. “Have the men build a large fire.”
“Sir?” Tellius asked puzzled by his suggestion. “Too much light may draw attention to our presence.”
“Aye it may,” Burcott answered. “But we did not come this far to hide. Moreover the added light will hearten the men and chase back the ghouls that their imaginations are placing within the shadows.”
“A fire it is,” Tellius answered. “Should any see the glow I doubt they will draw nigh to find the cause.”
A massive fire was built in the center of the bailey. The men scouring the ruined keep for any scrap of lumber that would burn. The roaring blaze cheered them, lifting the fear from their hearts. Burcott walked among them offering words of encouragement and sharing a laugh now and then. The night passed swiftly and the legendary phantoms of Fro’Hadume remained unseen.
With the coming of dawn the men returned to the task of strengthening the walls. They worked hard and did not jump at the slightest sound. Fro’Hadume’s reputation no longer worried them. The ruined keep was simply that and nothing more.
Another patrol was dispatched to relieve the sentries who had stood watch throughout the night. The men returned to the keep and were greeted warmly by their comrades.
It was nearing noon when Burcott was summoned to the gate. Tellius stood near an unfinished barricade that would seal off the opening awaiting his commander.
The men lined the wall looking southward, crowded along the allure until there was no room for more. Some of the men had left the keep entirely and stood outside the curtain wall.
A man stood at the base of the hill upon which the keep was constructed. He was tall and muscular armed with a long spear topped with a leaf shaped blade of iron. Even though it was close to freezing outside he was dressed in only leather sandals and a loincloth. His chest covered by an ornate tattoo dark against his pale skin.
He wore his red hair in a single long braid woven with bright leaves the color of brass and emerald. A dark stripe had been painted across his eyes. His ice blue eyes burned brightly against the pigment, looking up at the men manning the keep he strode boldly forward.
After three strides he plunged his spear into the soil and took three more steps forward. He stopped and stood with his hands on his hips.
“He wishes to talk,” Burcott informed Tellius. “Keep the men here I’m going down to see what he wants.”
“Are you sure that’s wise?” Tellius asked. “He is a savage after all.”
“He is a man like any other.” Burcott replied. “He will not attack unless provoked.”
Burcott strode down the hill until only fifty paces separated him from the woodsman. Drawing his sword slowly he slid the gleaming steel into the earth and took three steps forward.
Several moments passed, the woodsman looking at Burcott and back to the warriors upon the wall. With a curt nod he strode bravely forward until he stood before the old warrior.
“Do you speak our language?” Burcott asked slowly.
“Better than most of my people, although it has been many years since I have done so.” He answered with a curt nod.
“You speak it well,” Burcott complimented him.
“Why have your people returned to this place?” the woodsman pointed to the ruined keep. “It has stood empty for many generations.”
Burcott knew this would be the topic of conversation. “Trondhiem is at war.” He answered. “We merely seek to protect our lands from invasion.”
“My people have no desire for the lands beyond our forest.”
“Our war is an internal affair and we wish to prevent others from interfering.”
“The affairs of the open lands are of no concern to my people.” The man stated with aloofness. “But the appearance of a garrison here is a threat to the wooded lands. One that the united tribes cannot simply overlook.”
“We have not come here to provoke your people, for more than three hundred years there has been peace between our people. I will do nothing to jeopardize that, it is the Morne that we stand watch against.”
“The snake men?” The woodsman asked. “They do not come this far south.”
“They have entered Trondhiem and have killed many of my country men.”
“We will not suffer them to pass within our borders.” The woodsman said with a hint of pride. “Last night I counted your number at less than one thousand, will more come?”
Burcott was taken aback; he knew the men of the forest were stealthy. But for this warrior to come close enough to count his men and not be seen by the sentries was nothing short of amazing. “Not many,” He answered truthfully. “Next week our supply train will arrive with perhaps two hundred men. After that I do not expect more to follow.”
The man nodded, “I must take this news to our council of chiefs to consider.” He looked back to the keep. “Stay within your fortification then, I will leave you with one warning. Keep your men clear of the forest, come within fifty paces of the trees you risk death.”
Burcott smiled, “I thank you for your understanding, you have my word that my men will heed your warning.”
“That would be well,” The man replied. “Enough blood has been spilt upon this ground.” He turned and retrieved his spear. “Safe travel,” he said while touching his forehead with his free hand. He turned and ran back towards the forest.
Burcott turned around and slid his blade free of the earth. He looked over his shoulder just in time to see the woodsman disappear within the sheltering darkness of the forests edge.
He headed back up to the keep; he was surprised to see so many men crowding the curtain wall. “It isn’t every day that a man gets to see a demon out of the Randorien.” He muttered to himself, praying that the wall would not collapse under his men’s weight.
Chapter Five
After a week of hard riding they left the lowlands of Ao’dan behind them and entered the lands of the sunset hills.
Flat-topped mesas of russet colored stone several hundred feet high lined the horizon. Most were only a mile or less in length bordered by narrow canyons choked with scree. Forming a narrow labyrinth through which they must pass.
Connell led them northward until they came to a canyon whose entrance was marked by a stone pillar set upon a high cairn of piled rubble.
“We enter here,” He announced pointing into the shadowy cut. “Keep to the main path and by the day after tomorrow we will be in Brymir.”
“Are these ways often traveled?” Casius asked not liking the appearance of the path ahead.
“No,” Connell answered. “Several days north the highlands slope into Ao’dan far more ge
ntly, that path is preferred by the caravan masters. We can go that way as well but it will add two more weeks on our trip.”
Marcos moved his mount to the opening. “I prefer roads less traveled.” He said entering the canyon.
Connell shrugged and followed. D’Yana and Casius waited for Suni to pass before they too slipped into the cool shadows between the walls of rock.
Deep into the stone maze they traveled, the rock faces leaning over them cutting off all but a thin swath of sky. The ground was sloping upward, sometimes they were forced to dismount and lead their horses up rocky inclines.
Casius studied the stone about him and came to a disturbing conclusion. “These canyons were carved by water.” He announced.
“That was long ago,” Connell said. “Brymir is now an arid land, ringed by high mountains on three sides. Rarely does it rain in these parts now.”
They camped within a narrow cleft, barely wide enough for the horses to enter. With no fuel to burn it was a freezing night so dark that you could not see your hand even if you held it before your eyes.
The thin sliver of sky above them brightened with the coming dawn. Their campsite remained in the gloom the sun not yet high enough in the sky to cast its light into the canyons.
They ate a cold meal of dried beef and strong cheese, while the sunlight eventually reached the canyon floor warming them only slightly. The path ahead grew broad and stunted trees grew down its middle. Along the walls clung dried vines with long bone white thorns.
The day passed and the walls about them grew lower. A gentle breeze blew down the canyon, dry and cool it carried dust from the highlands above.
That night they made camp in the shelter of a broad overhang. An old fire pit testified to the passage of others. There was dead wood lying scattered about, the fallen branches from the trees.
By the fading light of the setting sun Casius and Connell gathered all the scraps of wood they could find while D’Yana started the fire.
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