It was a dark night but the trail was well known by all. They made good time racing up the steep slope. A half mile ahead a fire was burning, its light reflecting from the walls of the narrow gorge that formed the heart of the pass.
The frantic shouts of combat and the scrape of steel upon steel could be heard echoing down out of the defile. Gaelan drew his sword.
“Sound the horns!” Gaelan shouted to his men.
Twenty bronze horns were raised and a long clear note pierced the frigid air. Three times the call rang out, a reassuring note to the men locked in combat. Help was on its way.
Gaelan spurred his horse coaxing more speed from the beast. The icy wind stung his cheeks and leached the warmth from his body. He was not properly dressed for this weather. Beneath his ring mail and padded shirt he wore only a thin tunic that he slept in. He was cold now but he knew he would soon be warm enough, too soon for his liking.
Up the final rise they raced, with lances lowered the men screamed their battle cry.
Bodies lay strewn across the narrow roadway. Twelve men of the guard were still alive and locked in mortal combat with dark robed warriors that moved with amazing speed.
“Morne!” Gaelan shouted in anger. He rushed into the fray scattering the Morne. One of the reptilian warriors was slow to move and it went down its skull crushed by Gaelan’s mounts hooves.
The Morne were inhumanly quick, they rushed forward seeking to pull the men from their mounts. Outnumbered by more than three to one they fought on as if possessed.
Gaelan lashed out with his sword and blocked a blow directed for his leg. Sparks flew when the blades met. The reptile sneered its golden eyes narrowing as it redirected its blow.
Gaelan turned the blade aside at the last moment and countered the attack. His blade opened the Morne’s forearm from wrist to elbow. The Morne dropped its blade and leapt forward seeking to pull Gaelan from his mount.
Gaelan leaned back and kicked him in the throat. The Morne staggered its thick neck nearly snapping. Gaelan struck the bruised Morne a savage blow that severed its head. Hot blood the color of tar sprayed outward.
Wiping the blood from his face Gaelan spun his horse around. Chaos reigned around him, men shouting and dying while the Morne hissed and grunted. The weight of the mounted guardsmen’s charge had driven them back to the east. They were forced backward until they could go no further.
The men had them pinned to the northern wall.
“Enough!” Gaelan shouted, halting the guards’ advance. “The day is lost to you, drop your weapons and your lives will be spared.”
One of the Morne hissed and licked his maw with a thick purple tongue that dripped with saliva. He shouted in their harsh language and they rushed the guardsmen with berserker like fury.
Swords clashed, the narrow gorge rang with the clamor of battle. Men cursed and the sharp ring of steel upon steel contended with the harsh barking shouts of the Morne. It was over quickly, none of the Morne survived the final onslaught but they had taken down many men with them.
Gaelan dismounted and cleaned the gore from his blade with one of the fallen Morne’s cloak. Out of the hundred who had ridden with him into the pass only thirty-two were left standing. He was appalled by their losses, the original guard posted here numbered forty now only twelve remained and six of them bore serious wounds.
Forty Morne lay dead; it was a miracle that the guardsmen had held the pass for any length of time at all.
“Sound the all clear,” Gaelan ordered one of his buglers.
The single note hung in the air echoing for what seemed an eternity in the darkness.
“Forty Morne,” Gaelan said to Burcott his face dark with barely contained rage. “Forty slew ninety six of our best.”
Burcott nodded, “They are a terrible foe to face.”
“We cannot afford these kinds of losses.” Gaelan cursed and motioned for the watch commander to join him.
“What happened?” he asked the nervous man.
“They came upon us without warning sire. Moving as if they were ghost, they appeared out of the dark. Half our number died before we were aware of the danger.” The Guard wiped the grime from his face with a shaking hand.
Gaelan nodded, “I would have done the same had I commanded the Morne.”
“They’re assassins with no sense of honor,” Burcott grunted. “These men were ill prepared for such an attack. We had expected a few merchant caravans not a Morne patrol.”
Gaelan looked to the guardsman. “Send a messenger to Carich, have wagons brought to carry our dead and wounded back to the keep. Inform Balar that I want two hundred men brought up here with stone working tools as well.”
“At once milord,” the man replied rushing off to fulfill his orders.
“You have an idea?” Burcott asked puzzled by Gaelan’s request.
Gaelan nodded to the loose scree lining either side of the roadway. “We build a wall.”
Burcott kicked aside one of the Morne swords. It was a long curving blade with sharp saw like teeth running along its length. “What of the Morne?” He asked. “We cannot leave them here.”
“Burn them,” Gaelan suggested. “At the entrance to the pass. Their blackened bones may serve as a warning to any others who would attempt to come this way.
A wicked smile crossed Burcott’s lips. “You learn quickly milord,” he answered, standing tall in his stirrups. “Dismount!” he ordered the men who were still on their horses. “We have much work to do ere these bastards try to win past us again.”
Some of the men were not pleased with the prospect of working through the night, but none would dare protest. Burcott had a reputation and in the days of his youth he was known as the face splitter for a reason.
Sentries were posted and the dead gathered. The bodies of the Morne were piled upon a pyre of dried brush and set aflame. About the burning mound their weapons lay broken and twisted. The wagons arrived as the fire was lit and the dead and wounded were taken back to Carich.
An older man who had ridden in one of the wagons approached Gaelan. His hair was a tangled mass of snow white that stood out starkly against his sun-darkened skin. He bowed his head in respect to Burcott and the Prince.
“My lords,” he said in greeting. “I am Cias the keeps stone mason. I came to see if I could be of some assistance.” He stuffed his hands into the deep pockets of his leather apron to keep them warm. “When my tools were confiscated I decided to tag along. Without them I have little else to do.”
Gaelan smiled at the man’s remark. “There’s work enough for all Cias, and your skills are sorely needed.” Gaelan pointed to where the pass was narrowest, scarcely sixty feet across. “I need a wall, nothing fancy. Something we can erect quickly and that can be defended.”
Cias looked at the loose rock lying about. “Easily done, with all these lads standing about it should not take long. It will have to be dry set, little more than a large pile of rubble.”
Gaelan nodded, “I’ll leave it to you then Cias.” He said mounting his horse. With Burcott following they rode back to Carich. Over taking the wagons bearing the wounded and dead.
Cias watched the Prince ride away; looking about at the blood soaked stone he was thankful he was no longer a young man. From the foot of the pass a huge fire burned, the stench of burning flesh reaching him from time to time. He was curious but after watching them load the bodies onto the wagons he had no desire to see what it was that they had set afire.
Their return to the keep was a solemn occasion. Gaelan and Burcott led the slow moving wagons into the Bailey past ranks of silent men standing at attention. Burcott stood next to Gaelan as the wounded were helped into the hall. “There is a vale to the west, a hidden place where those who have died in the service of this keep are laid to rest in honor.”
Gaelan nodded his eyes filled with sadness. “Have another group of two hundred sent to the pass after sunrise to relieve those who are working there. We will do so every five
hours until the wall is completed.”
Burcott knew Gaelan was feeling the sadness that comes with the loss of men you had commanded. “This whole business is going to be costly Gaelan.” he said softly. “There will be many more before this is over.”
“We have no choice in the matter, Burcott. The price will be higher should Goliad succeed. No man, woman or child would be safe from the Morne. If Trondhiem should become his.”
That afternoon a procession of three hundred guardsmen marched out of the Keep’s gate. At the end of the column came ninety-eight horses, each bearing a shroud wrapped body.
Gaelan and Burcott marched behind the horses, dressed in full armor. A black cloth tied about their left arm. Behind them a single drummer kept the pace. The resonant boom of his instrument drowning out the jingle of both harness and armor.
A mile down the road they turned off the path and entered the shade beneath the tall pines that crowded the mountainside. A thick carpet of pine nettles crunched underfoot as the column made its way deep into the wood.
The land rose higher the further they ventured. Until the steep slope they followed ended at the head of a deep valley. Lush amber grass carpeted the valley floor. The thin Ribbon of a spring fed rill split it in twain. A few trees grew along its banks their branches swaying in the gentle breeze blowing down from the heights above.
The northern end of the valley rose sharply, ending at the base of a high cliff. Nestled within the rocks shadow lay many earthen mounds. Most were small but there were a few that measured ten or more feet in height. Small golden flowers grew in abundance upon them.
Dar’lea, deaths blooms they are called, a rare flower that could only be found on the burial places of the dead. An old wives tale that claimed it was the earth’s way of proclaiming the honor of the men who lay beneath.
A freshly dug pit stood among the mounds. It was deep and broad. It was going to be a large mound, a mute testament to the damages inflicted by the Morne attack.
A group of twenty workers stood a respectful distance away, beside a mound of excavated earth and freshly cut sod. It was their labor, which had created the grave, and once the men had been interred it would be their task to cover their bodies.
The guardsmen formed a ring about the pit, and one by one the horses bearing the dead were led forward. As each man was lowered into the grave Burcott would announce their name, and the assembly would raise their swords and shout “Tel’lav an Amos!” It was an old phrase meaning for honor and glory, a tribute to those that had passed.
Gaelan stood rigid next to Burcott, a statue in glittering mail. When the last man was laid to rest he raised his sword and in a voice thick with emotion he repeated the tribute. “Tel’lav an Amos, may you find peace in the halls of your fathers.”
The workers stepped forward and covered the bodies with the rich soil. When their labor was completed a new mound stood among the others, towering fifteen feet in height. Gaelan walked up its steep side and plunged a sword into the fresh sod, leaving two thirds of the blade exposed.
Reforming the ranks Gaelan took his place behind the rider less horses. With the first drumbeat they left the valley.
Gaelan took one last look over his shoulder down into the tranquil valley. The light of the afternoon sun was reflecting brightly from the blade atop the mound, a blazing beacon marking the first of many Gaelan thought darkly.
Burcott took his place at Gaelan’s side; he too spared a quick look back onto the field of honor. “We’ve done all that we can for those men my prince,” he said softly for Gaelan’s ears alone. “The living have need of you now.”
Gaelan nodded. He marched back to the keep in silence, the weight of responsibility smothering his spirit.
For two weeks the men worked upon the wall across the pass. During that time men from all walks of life began to appear at the keeps gate. From wealthy merchants to simple farmers they came. Armed with whatever was on hand, they crossed the plains seeking to come to their prince’s defense.
They welcomed one and all, no one was turned aside and the Keep was becoming crowded. Burcott arranged training sessions in the bailey. The novice warriors were drilled in the art of warfare.
Gaelan and Burcott rode up to the wall upon news of its completion. They were pleased with the sturdy construct Cias had created.
The wall rose twenty feet, running arrow straight it spanned the sixty feet of the defile. A single narrow gateway pierced its heart, barred by a heavy wooden door banded in iron.
Although the wall was completed the work crews were still carting stone to the northern end.
Amid the workers stood Cias, the old stonemason directing the placement of each tone.
“Cias,” Burcott said in greeting. “What are you making now?”
“Strong soldiers,” one of the men quipped as he wrestled with a large stone. The comment drew a few laughs from the weary men; even the somber face of Prince Gaelan was brightened by the touch of a smile.
Cias bowed, “A shelter mi lord.” he answered. “Nights tend to get cold up here. I figured we have stone enough and plenty of willing men.”
“Good thinking,” Gaelan said approvingly. “It will make the duty up here more palatable for the men.”
“At the rate you’re going we could have a fair sized Keep up here by summer.” Burcott said jokingly.
Cias smiled as a few of the men nearby groaned at the thought.
Their visit was cut short by the arrival of a messenger from the keep. The young man rode his horse recklessly through the workers. He was one of the newcomers, barely fifteen years old. “Prince Gaelan,” he stammered suddenly unnerved by the thought of speaking to the lords.
“You have a message?” Burcott urged.
He ducked his head, “A rider has arrived from Timosh!”
Gaelan needed no further urging and with a parting nod he rode hard for the Keep. They entered the hall of the tower and approached a trail worn soldier who was speaking with Balar. The weary warrior saw the prince approaching and dropped to one knee his fist striking his heart in salute. Raising a cloud of dust from his filthy tabard.
Burcott pulled him to his feet, “We’re not much for formality here.”
“My liege,” he said with a short bow. “Lords Deneb and Neros send their respects and have charged me to inform you that Timosh is yours to command.”
Gaelan’s heart skipped a beat, “That is good tidings indeed.”
The messenger nodded, “It gets better, the force holding Timosh is seven thousand strong. Made up of free men from many of the noble houses.”
“Hah!” Burcott exclaimed smacking his fist into his open palm with a resounding clap. “It would seem Goliad’s plans have a few flaws.”
“It would explain why they have not fallen upon us as yet.” Gaelan mused. “He cannot leave Thorunder unguarded lest Deneb and Neros strike at his back.”
“Caught in the middle,” Burcott said with a smile. “He must be uncomfortable indeed.”
“Mi lords,” the messenger said drawing their attention. “I left Imnos eight days past. Taking the western path across the plains of Theranduil. Goliad has sent a sizable force southward; they are burning homesteads and putting entire households to the sword. I came across several on my trek here.”
Gaelan’s face reddened in rage, he clenched his fists and held his tongue allowing the man to continue.
“I encountered those fortunate few who have escaped. They claim Morne ride with the marauders.” He looked to Burcott, “Can this be true?” he asked.
Burcott nodded, “Aye it is, Goliad has damned us all in his quest for the throne.”
The Messengers eyes hardened, “Then he must be stopped.”
“You have served honorably,” Gaelan told the weary man. “Rest tonight, if you are up to it I will give you a message for Lord Deneb and Neros.”
The man snapped to attention and saluted. “It would be an honor my Prince.” With a quick bow he left the hall searc
hing for a hot meal and a place to sleep.
Gaelan walked to the hearth and warmed his hands over the fire. “How many men do we now have?” he asked his advisor.
Burcott frowned in thought before replying. “Perhaps two thousand, our number grows daily and keeping an accurate count is difficult.”
“Many of them have never seen combat.”
“An untried sword is better than none,” Burcott countered.
“Horses?” Gaelan asked.
“Seven hundred and thirteen at last count,” Burcott answered. “That number is growing as well.”
“Goliad is losing his control over the men,” Gaelan said watching the fire dance along the sputtering logs. “He failed to consider the consequences of bringing the Morne into Trondhiem. No man of honor would willingly serve beneath his banner now.
“Where do you suppose he would gain the manpower needed to maintain the throne?” Gaelan asked, walking over to a table littered with maps.
“Morne,” Burcott answered following him.
“With Timosh standing firm and our forces here,” Gaelan said, laying his hand on an open map of the Kingdom. “There is but one way to get a sizable force into Trondhiem with any speed.” He let his hand slide down the parchment to the southern border.
“That’s ten miles of open ground between the Rahlcrag Mountains and Easterling Marsh,” Burcott commented. “The Rivers are shallow and easily forded in those lands.”
“Could the Morne make a safe passage through the Gaul-Tyrian waste?” Gaelan wondered. He knew the fierce reputation of the nomads who called the shifting sands their home. The desert dwellers had a habit of killing any who dared violate their lands.
“Perhaps,” Burcott nodded, “Given enough men. The greatest danger is the Randorien Forest.” Burcott pointed to the wiggly line indicating the forests edge. “Any force entering that tangled mass would be cut to ribbons by the savage tribes within.”
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