The Shadow Tome (ch. 12 & 13)

Chapter Twelve:
The Ghost in the Mist

         With the break of morning, the five companions parted from the old man’s company and continued eastward, where they hoped to find Cam, the key to the Shadow Tome’s resting place. Only he could guide them through Gamael, a black land few had scarcely heard of, and fewer still had traveled it’s haunted plains.
         It took several more days to traverse the large expanse of the north country, and these days were uneventful. The Dagmor furs they wore kept the hungry animals away, as Annias had said, and they left the valley unmolested.
         The eastern passage was a small, jagged pass through the mountains that would lead them into the east, a land scarcely traveled by men of the north. The air was cold and bit at their faces as they traveled across the small mountain range. The mountain range was dotted with small pockets of snow and ice, and they had to walk their horses across the mountains for fear of the animals slipping under their riders weight. The old worn boots they wore did little to keep their feet warm against the elements and the cold air and moisture began to form a thick fog that worsened as they descended from the mountain.
         Night had fallen upon the land as they reached the base of the mountain. The fog now shrouded the whole region in a think grey blanket, however it no longer felt cold and moist on their skin. Since they had left the mountain behind them, it had changed distinctly, feeling almost warm on their faces, though it still hindered their view in every direction.
         Romand stood some distance from the others, peering into the warm, unnatural mist they now surrounded them. “It is a strange thing,” he spoke to the others as they began to make camp.
         “Indeed,” responded Matthew. “This should not be possible.”
         “No, it should not,” the cleric agreed. “Sleep softly tonight, my friends, for I fear we are not alone here.”
         They finished setting up camp then, in silence, and every noise made them tense with anxiety. For the rest of the evening they kept their weapons close, peering into the fog for any sign of ill.
         “Damn this fog,” barked Mortimer at last, tearing at a strip of dried meat. “It did not appear to extend this far, from the mountain.”
         Romand shook his head in agreement. “No, it did not. I believe this mist has formed as a direct consequence to our presence here. I fear witchery may be at play.”
         Matthew retorted. “Please, there is a enough evil in our midst, let us not conjure our own demons as well.”
         He nearly choked on his words, as a soft voice broke through the fog, seemingly carried to their ears on wisps of shapeless smoke. It was a woman’s voice, and she sang a song to them from behind the mist.
         Instantly their weapons were drawn, and Matthew nearly lost his balance, such had the song startled him. Bearing arms, they strained to hear the mystical seductive song that seemed to call to them. It was a tongue that Matthew did not recognize, though it sounded much like the old hymns sung by Laerian priestess’.
         “Romand, what is it?” He asked.
         The cleric listened another moment before responding. “It is a prayer, I think. Although, it is unlike any I have ever heard.”
         “Than it is not Laerian?”
         “Not in the traditional sense. It carries many similarities, however it differs slightly in language, and tune.”
         “What does the prayer say?” Asked Mortimer.
         Romand breathed in.
“O brave souls, lost in the mist,
Please guide our lives, so we might live,
But keep safe our place, within the mist,
Where we will someday come home”
         They all stared at Romand as he finished the translation, completely bewildered.
                   “And that means?” Asked Mortimer.
                   “I don’t know,” responded Romand. “The traditional Laerians do not like to speak of it, but I have heard of a certain sect of women that worship Laeriana not as a corporeal being, but as an abstract entity. Life itself, as it were.”
         “And what is the mist? Does the singer speak of the mist before us now?”
         “I do not believe so. At least, by the way the prayer is sung, it would not appear to be the case.”
         “I do not believe we are in danger,” Romand continued. The others sheathed their weapons, and returned to their places in the camp.
         Soon after, two more voices joined in the song, adding eerie, mystical harmonies to the melody. They listened, for what seemed like hours, and one by one they drifted into sleep, save for Matthew who stood watch.
         Wrapped in his Dagmor cloak, he sat before the small fire, listening to the tune of the three women, somewhere in the clouds. He wondered what they might look like, wrapped in mystery, but also peace it seemed.
         This peace finally came upon him, and they fell asleep, among the mist.
*  *  *  *  *
         The dreams of Mortimer were commanded by a single face. A woman, draped in silvery garments. Beautiful, he thought, in a magical way. Her skin seemed to shimmer slightly from a liquid gloss, and her eyes were green, like the trees around her. The woman was slightly aged, as he was, and the gentle lines in her face did nothing to hinder her beauty. She was something out of a fairy tale. Tall and mystical, silver hair and a curving body to make the strongest men squirm uncomfortably. Her garments revealed long, perfect legs and arms that were dressed in golden bracelets.
         She brushed the hair out of his face, and smiled. Those same wise eyes twinkled in his, reminding him of happier days.
         He was awoken by screaming.
         Mortimer jumped to his feat as did the others to see Leniea writhing upon the ground, shrieking in agony.
         “Stay away!” She cried.
         Becken reached for her, but she struck at him, sending him reeling back.
         “To hell with you! Demons, black things that steal my soul!”
         “She’s gone mad,” Mortimer exclaimed.
         “Perhaps,” was Romand’s response.
         Becken continued to struggle with her. It was as if a demon now possessed the poor girl, threatening to tear her away from her sanity.
         “She is not mad,” came a women’s voice from behind them. They turned to face the women in their dreams.
         Becken screamed. “You did this to her! Devil, make it stop!”
         “I have done nothing to harm her,” she replied calmly. “She battles something now that few understand, even the people of the mist.”
         She walked then elegantly towards Becken and Leniea. The others made no attempt to hinder her, for what reason they knew not.
         “Stay away from us!” Becken shrieked. She continued to approach, calmly, speaking gentle words in her foreign tongue.
         The sharp ring of steel broke the air as Becken’s sword was drawn, ready to cut down the mysterious intruder. Suddenly the mist constricted around him, weighing heavily against his arm. After a moment the blade clattered helplessly to the ground.
         Restricted by the mist, Becken was helpless to stop the woman from reaching out and touching Leniea’s face. “Peace for now, Leniea,” she said.
         Instantly, the poor girl fell asleep, and into the arms of Becken as the mist released its hold on him.
         “What did you do to her,” he demanded.
         She responded cooly, “I have soothed her soul, for now at least.”
         Matthew came forward. “Who are you?” He asked.
         “My name is Awyendya, of the mist. Me and my people live here among the mist, and with the mist.”
         “I don’t understand,” he responded.
         She smiled. “Nor would I expect you to, Northman. Not now anyways.”
         She then turned to address all of them. “You are welcome here, my friends. I know you mean no harm, for the mist sees through all men. Were you of ill will, you would surely be dead.”
         Romand spoke. “Do you serve Laeriana, for you speak her tongue?”
         “Indeed, for it is a woman’s tongue. But please, there will be plenty of time for us to talk.” She gestured to Leniea, sleeping soundly in Becken’s arms. “She needs attention that cannot be given here. Will you come with me?”
         They all looked at Romand who, after a slight pause, nodded in agreement.
         Awyendya smiled. “That is good. I will wait for you to gather your things.”
         After they had done so, she spoke again.  “Please follow me, and stay close for it is easy to lose oneself in the mist.”
         She turned away then, and stepped forward into the mist.
         She looked more like a spirit then a woman, shrouded in the thick fog she called, the mist. Her shining silver garments rippled against her skin as she walked. She seemed to almost float along with the clouds, like an angel, leading their way.
         Shortly after they had left their camp with Awyendya, walking the horses beside them, they began to notice their surroundings, since the mist seemed to be thinning as they ventured farther with the mysterious woman. It was a forest, one unlike that which they had ever seen. Though the mist had lessened some, the place was still shrouded in that magical aura it seemed to create. The forest floor was covered in a sprawling, vine like plants that sprouted silver, glossy leaves. Huge trees, some wider then houses, climbed high into the air and out of sight, emptying some where off in a different world; their world, for this was anything but.
         The crunching of dead wood and rocky soil could be heard as they plodded along, following the woman Awyendya. They could now see an extensive network of catwalks that sprawled out high among the trees. Ghostly white figures walked upon them, looking down at the five strangers that had entered their realm.
         “You live in the trees,” Mortimer asked inquisitively.
         “Yes,” she responded. “The spirit is more free above the ground than upon it”.
         She led them to a huge tree, far bigger then any of the others. An archway had been carved from the trunk, and after tying their horses, they passed under it, and into a chamber within the tree.
         A spiral staircase led up high within the trunk, and torches were placed around the room, held on brackets that were carved from the walls. White fire burned from them, illuminating the room in a eerie glow.
         “It was magic that made this place,” Romand stated.
         “Yes,” replied Awyendya, as she began to ascend the stairs. “This place was formed many years ago by a man named Erian, a priest of Laeriana.”
         She continued. “You see, my people and I do not believe as most Laerians do. We honor Laeriana, of course, but it is the power of life itself that we worship.”
         “And so you were not welcome in the Laerian kingdom,” Matthew stated.
         She nodded. “Indeed. They drove us away for our blasphemy. All scorned us, save Erian. He believed as we did that the true power of life dwelled within the earth, in a place we call the mist.”
         “The mist?”
         “Yes, let me explain. The mist refers to the space between the Vendara. As you know, the Vendara’s power returns to Nirvalla when it dies, but that is only energy. So what happens to the life itself? We believe that the memories are discarded when the Vendara dies, but they are not lost. The souls of the dead live on in the mist.”
         They reached the top of the staircase and she led them out onto the catwalks. They heard Romand grumbling under his breathe.
         “You doubt this to be so, cleric,” she said.
         “Sounds like an old faerie tale,” he retorted.
         She just smiled. “You will see in time.”
         Another woman approached them. She was younger then Awyendya, and just as beautiful, dressed in the same silvery garments that exposed her legs and midriff.
         “This is Myrna,” Awyendya said, gesturing to the girl. She turned to Becken, who still held the sleeping Leniea in his arms.
         “You will go with her.”
         Matthew spoke. “No, we will stay with them.”
          She shook her head. “What must be done, they must do alone. There is nothing to fear.”
         Matthew began to argue with her, but Becken interjected. “Please, if there is anything that can be done for her, I believe it may be found here. I am not afraid.”
         Matthew paused for a moment, and then surrendered to his friends wish. “I fear for us all, Beck, but for you, I fear the most.”
         Becken nodded, and then left with Myrna across the catwalks. Matthew, Mortimer, and Romand watched them leave until they were out of sight.
         “What will be done for them?” Matthew asked when they had gone.
         “Their spirits are troubled, there is no doubt,” she responded. “Myrna will lead them through an ancient ritual of ours known as Nyra’Val. It is a way for us, in a sense, to commune with the mist, and feel the harmony and peace that dwells therein. The word means, essentially, ‘among the ghosts’.”
         She could see the concern etched upon their faces.
         “There is no need to worry,” she added. “I assure you there is no danger for them there.”
         They walked thereafter for a time more, and it was Mortimer who began speaking with her. Matthew and Romand were silent, alone with their thoughts as Mortimer discussed many aspects of the mist with Awyendya, especially the Nyra’Val
         After awhile, Matthew spoke again. “I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he said to Awyendya. “This fog that protects you so. How did it come to be here?”
         “It is Erian,” she stated simply.
         They looked dumbfounded. “Erian?”
         “Yes. You see, our brothers in sisters of Laeriana were not content to simply drive us out. They hunted us where ever we fled. Erian helped to hide us as best he could, but eventually, they would always find us. Horrible things happened to many of my sisters of the mist.”
         “Sisters? Are there no men among you?” He asked, interrupting her story.
         “There was once. However, most were killed, and made such an example of that none dared join us afterwards. We soon ran out of places to hide, and so we gathered quietly here, in these gentle woods, and waited for them to come and kill us.”
         “Did they come for you, then?”
         She nodded. “As surely as the sun rises, they did. Erian pleaded with them to spare us, but they refused. Again and again he cried out in vain, before at last, they struck him down, and moved to kill us.”
         “But it was then that we witnessed his final blessing upon us. It is still unclear to us how it happened. Perhaps it was a gift from Laeriana herself, or maybe some enchantment instilled by the priest before his death. Whatever the reason, as the soldiers came to descend upon us, Erian’s body began to shimmer, and a scentless smoke crept out from it, growing thicker and thicker as it multiplied. It was the mist you now see before you.”
         “Erian’s mist killed the first of the soldiers that had moved upon us, and began to afflict the others as they tried to escape. I do not know if any ever did, for they never returned for us. We have lived in peace, all these years since then, among the mist, unmolested by others that would bring us harm.”
         Romand spoke then. “And will that protect you from the evil that now spreads across all Leodoria. You are no fool Awyendya. You have seen it, the dark lord Sargoth and his armies will not be stopped by heavy fog and some long dead souls.”
         “Perhaps,” she said quietly.
         She stayed silent after that, deep within herself, and continued to walk ahead of them.
         “Was that really necessary?” Mortimer asked Romand, agitated.
         Romand glared at him. “It is the truth, isn’t it. You know it is, don’t fool yourself, captain! I’ve seen how you have looked at her, and spoke with her. What you seek, you will not find here, I promise you!”
         Mortimer glared back at the old man with stone cold eyes. There was anger but also sadness hidden deep within them.
         “I promise you, Romand, that one day you will be a loss for words, and as uncertain as the rest of us! In this god abandoned place, colder then winter’s darkest day, you will one day wish someone would look you in the eyes and smile, and offer to you a hope unfound anywhere else!”
         Romand tried to speak out in retort, but only grunted, choosing to remain silent. Mortimer than walked on ahead of Romand, moving to Awyendya’s side, and placed his hand upon her shoulder. She smiled at him, and touched his hand with hers.
         At last, they reached their destination; a hollowed out tree containing some beds and a few chairs.
         “These will be your quarters for as long as you choose to stay with us,” she said to them. Two girls, similar to the age and appearance of Myrna, appeared around the corner. “Please, if you have need of anything, these women can assist you.”
         She then addressed Mortimer. “Do you still wish to come with me?” She asked him.
         Matthew and Romand looked at them, confused.
         “Yes,” he responded, with out hesitation.
         She smiled. “I am glad. Come, the place is not far from here.” Mortimer looked back briefly to the other two men before leaving with Awyendya back across the catwalks.
         Matthew and Romand sat quietly upon two chairs that had been provided, and kicked off their boots, glad to have a moment to rest and reflect on the days events. After asking the two girls if they could get some refreshments, the women left them.
         “I believe there is much left unsaid about our old friend,” Romand stated after a moment.
         “Who, Mort? Yes, it has been sometime since I have seen him like this. Not since I was a boy really.”
         “You speak of his wife?”
         “Yes, I do. He was a different man, once. She meant everything to him. I thought we would lose him forever after she died. I think in part, we did.”
         Romand nodded in agreement. “Matthew, do not think I try to keep him from trying to restore some bit of happiness to his life. I wish very much that the goddess fulfill him with all that he deserves, for it is much indeed.”
         Matthew replied spitefully. “It is an empty wish my friend, that you make.”
         “Perhaps to you,” he said, choosing not to fight with him. “But even you know what he seeks he cannot find here.”
         “Do I know that? I don’t think it is something we can know. The world is upside down Romand. What I ‘know’ per say, has now become what I do not know. I will make no speculation on the matter.”
         Romand chose not to pursue it further. The girls returned shortly after with wooden cups filled with wine, and a plate with bread and cheese. They ate and drank for a time conversing casually of nothing in particular. Shortly afterwards, they retired to their beds, the wine and bread having settled in their stomachs.
         They found themselves thinking about their friends and especially the old ritual of Nyra’Val, as they drifted off to sleep.
*  *  *  *  *
         Matthew was awoken during the night by a strange whisper. He sat up quickly from the small bed and looked around. Romand remained sound asleep in his cot, and the others had yet to return. Looking to the doorway, he flinched as the whisper crossed his ears again.
         He felt something pulling him to get up, and he did, without fully knowing why. Pulling on his boots, he left the room behind him and ventured forth onto the catwalks. It was quiet in the forest, and all that could be heard was the soft creaking of the catwalk boards as he walked across them. He made several turns along the way, without any real sense of where he was going, but somehow, he thought he knew.
         Finally, he stopped at a tree that contained a staircase spiraling upwards. He followed it up a ways until it ended near the top of the trunk, where it narrowed. There was a doorway there, draped over with silvery cloth. He could hear movements from inside.
         He wondered why he was here, and began to turn back the way he had come, not wanting to disturb the occupants.
         And then the whisper returned, beckoning him not to turn back. Matthew rested his hand against the wooden walls of the tree, and he felt something carved there, under his hand.
         He read the inscription: Nyra’Val.
         Then he understood what the whisper had said to him.
         “Nyra’Val.”
         He turned back to the doorway, and pushing aside the cloth, he entered the room.
         It was hot. Almost unbearably so, which seemed to contrast uniquely with the pale lighting of two blue flames against either side of the wall. The room was filled with mist more so then he had seen anywhere else before, and he could not make out anything other than the weak flicker of the blue fire.
         He could here sounds again, coming from ahead. Matthew took several more steps into the room, when he made out two shapes ahead of him. They were pressed closely together, and moved erotically, seemingly to a tune only they could hear. Matthew recognized them as the two women that had served him earlier. He should turn back, he knew, but he did not. He moved closer to them, who continued their foreign dance.
         Beautiful andmysterious, unlike anything he had ever seen; he could not turn away. Their perfect, naked bodies intertwined with surreal grace, and their skin glistened in the blue light, slick with ointment and perspiration. From their mouths came soft sighs and moans, which came however, not from any kind of sexual gratification that Matthew could tell.
         They noticed him then. He thought they would scream, but they only beckoned him to join them. They glided over to him, smiling and giggling, and stripped him of his clothes. Matthew breathed the hot, humid air into his lungs and his skin tingled as their fingers brushed against him. They offered him to drink from a glass they brought, filled with a glowing silver liquid. Matthew looked into red, dilated eyes as he drank from the cup.
         Instantly the world began to change around him, and felt others with them now, everywhere. Two bodies pressed against him, naked and perfect, and hands gripped at him. He was lost now, utterly and completely, in the Nyra’Val, an ecstasy unlike any he had ever experienced. He felt the mist all around him, and it electrified him. To the tune only they could hear, the three bodies danced among the mist in perfect harmony.
         Instantly his whole body convulsed violently, and the pale blue light of the room erupted into wicked red flames. Matthew cried out in agony as he felt his soul tearing away from his body. The girls screamed and backed away against the wall.
         And then he cried out no more, and his lips curled into a cruel smile. Instantly, he thrust out his arms, grasping the girls tightly by their throats and pinned them to the wall, slowly squeezing the life from them.
         Power and malice; darkness undefeated. He squeezed tighter against their fleshy throats.
         And then he couldn’t breathe. The mist flooded into his lungs, hardening like stone inside his body. He fought it, but Erian would defend the people of the mist. His hands weakened and the wicked black eyes closed.
         In deathly silence, the three naked bodies collapsed upon the floor, and the wicked fire burned out and was gone.

Chapter Thirteen:
The Alliance United

         Matthias Lysander, king of Cyrinth Myriad and agent of Sargoth awoke from his bed in a cold sweat. His chest began constricting violently and he lurched forward, gasping for breathe. Two  terrified shrieks echoed through the room from the concubines beside him, and they leapt out from the bed, naked and afraid.
         “Get out!” He roared at the horrified girls, and they scrambled for their garments strewn out across the floor, and bolted from the room, running  into the adjoining hallway.
         Sargothan power had been unleashed and the sleeping lord had been disturbed. Lysander held his hand hard against his chest, feeling his heart beat furiously. What had just occurred, he knew not, but he was the agent of Sargoth, the commander of the lord of vengeance’s power on Leodoria. The fact the he did not know what now disturbed it, troubled him greatly.
         After a moments rest, he rose from his bed and, donning a black robe of silk, walked over to the burning hearth that laid within the wall. He pressed his fingers against one of the blocks in the arch. Instantly, the sound of grating stone reverberated through the room as the fireplace began to rotate, revealing a dark passage way behind it. Once it had stopped, he entered the passage that led downward towards the earth.
         The king grasped a torch from a wall bracket and took it with him to light his way through the tunnel. It winded around for a time, before finally emptying out into the masters book chamber.
         The three books of shade remained undisturbed upon their pedestals, and the platform that was meant to house the Shadow Tome remained empty. Lysander placed the torch in an empty bracket and hurried over to the books of shade.
         
         How many hours he spent there, he knew not. Page after page he tore through seeking what he had to know. “Surely it is here somewhere,” he thought to himself.
         At last he discovered it, hidden among a small passage within the second book. He read the passage over and over again, to be sure he had not missed anything, nor misinterpreted its meaning. He smiled then, a wicked grin boasting venomous triumph.
         Lucious Drakvhal, captain of the Ill Daemon, entered.
         “My lord,” he said.
         “What is it captain?” Lysander inquired, his face still etched with a wicked grin.
         “My lord, are assassins tracking the Xavious boy and high cleric Sohm have dispatched a report to us. It reads . . .”
         Lysander interrupted him. “I do not care what it says, for it matters not. They are to return to the city immediately, for there is no longer a need to track them.”
         “My lord?” Lucious said, puzzled.
         Lysander smiled. “The master has seen to all things, my good captain. Now it is time to make war upon Leodoria. I leave you with making the necessary preparations.”
         “But my lord, what of the tome?”
         The king laughed wickedly. “It is as good as ours.”
         He turned from the other and walked out of the chamber, that cold, hideous laugh echoing across the hall behind him.
*  *  *  *  *
         Grey tents spread out across the green grasslands as far as the eye could see. Proud, grey banners rippled in the soft breeze, signifying to the world that the army of Galahadran was on the move, marching towards war. Soldiers, donned in chainmail and leather, walked about the camp talking amongst themselves, and the smoke from hundreds of smouldering fires rose into the air as the sun waxed into the sky of the new day.
         Kendalar Bane walked boldly among them, stopping every so often to strike up a brief conversation with some of the soldiers. He had learned to admire these south landers in the time that he had spent with them. They were men, just the same as the men he had once commanded in the field of battle. He could see in them the same courage and fortitude that he had expected from his own auroran troops. He almost laughed at the irony of his thoughts. Just months ago he could never have imagined the scene before him now.
         War makes for strange bedfellows, he thought.
         “I trust that you find everything in order, lord Bane,” spoke lord Hornwall from behind him.
         “Indeed,” replied Kendalar, turning to meet him. “What news of lord Danforth’s army? As I understand it they have yet to arrive.”
         Hornwall nodded. “He comes, you can be sure.”
         “I have no doubt, my lord. However, our time is short. Every moment we delay brings our allies in the east closer to annihilation. If our armies are united, we may hold the ability to fend off the enemies advance, at least for a time.”
         “And to what end, my lord Bane?”
         “I do not think strength of arms alone will allow us to prevail against this new foe. I have to believe that Romand had known of what must be done, and had set into motion, events that would aid us. I fear him dead however, and Matthew as well. They have not been seen since the city was attacked.”
         Hornwall responded. “Kendalar, methinks we have not the liberty to pray for such miraculous events. You may yet underestimate the value of Galahadran courage and steel.”
         The first knight smiled weakly. “I pray you are right, my lord.”
         They spent the rest of the morning inspecting the camp together. Overall, some three-thousand men now plodded the grasslands of Galahadran, ready for war. Kendalar estimated the strength of the army of Auron near ten-thousand. “It will have to do,” he thought to himself.
         As the sun began to die over the hills, there was still no sign of lord Danforth’s armies.
         “They will come, Kendalar,” Hornwall assured, as they sat within his tent, pouring over maps of central Leodoria.
         Kendalar looked at him with resolve. “My lord Hornwall, I will wait no more. I will depart tonight, with the cavalry, for Enwyn. When Danforth arrives, the Galahadran army will follow suit.”
         “Very well,” Hornwall surrendered.
         Kendalar concluded his business with the regent, and then left the tent to begin making preparations for departure. As he suspected, his horsemen were eager to begin riding east and upon hearing the news, quickly began to gather their belongings.
         It was well into the evening before all was prepared. Kendalar counted his men at three hundred, including brothers Thaden, Balmort, and Tomin of the order. The Galahadran riders were armored lightly with chainmail and leather, and carried lance and sword with them. They would travel light, taking only enough supplies with them to sustain their three day ride to Enwyn. A march that would take the Galahadran army two weeks to make.
         Under the light of the moon Kendalar and his three hundred riders left the camp behind them and thundered across the plains towards the east. They rested little during their ride, stopping only to keep the horses from collapsing of fatigue. The days passed quickly under the sun and the moon, and it was not long before the brilliant golden flags of Laeriana could be seen blowing in the wind atop the towers of the city of Enwyn.
*  *  *  *  *
         “Captain Fandorius!” Exclaimed a sentry. “Riders are approaching sir, from the west. They fly the flags of Galahadran and Aurorai!”
         In disbelief, the Laerian captain of the guard abandoned his post upon the wall, and rushed to the battlement, looking out over the plains.
         It was late in the day, but the sun still shone of the fields, and the contingent of cavalry now approaching could be clearly seen coming towards them.
         Quickly, Evyan descended from the city walls, and towards the gates, barking orders along the way. “My horse! Quickly now! Where is sergeant Wyngoth! Send word to Marshall Hym-Thane at once! Wyngoth, where are you sir!”
         Near chaos had now taken over upon the wall and surrounding areas. Soldiers ran across the walls in near panic, most being unaware of the situation at hand. The people in the streets, seeing the disorder that had suddenly erupted, rushed to find shelter with shops and taverns.
         A younger Laerian soldier appeared before him after a moment, still slipping on pieces of armor and adjusting his sword at his side.
         “Sergeant, there you are. We will ride out to meet them. Summon your men and horses. Quickly lad!”
         Sergeant acknowledged in salute and then left the captain in haste, attempting to gather his men together, shouting orders all the while. After a few minutes captain Fandorius and Sergeant Wyngoth and his men, rode out to meet Kendalar Bane, and the last of the brotherhood.
         As they approached, Kendalar through up his hand as a gesture of goodwill.
         “Peace, captain Fandorius we ride to join you in your fight.”
         Evyan looked dumbfounded at the presence of the first knight before, as well as the other knights of the brotherhood.
         After a moment he spoke. “I thought you were all dead?”
         Kendalar lowered his head. “No captain, only most. We ride with cavalry from Galahadran, which has sounded the cry of war. Their army marches this way as we speak.”
                As the reality of their presence settled upon the captain, he responded. “Lord Bane, you are most welcome here. These are troubled times sir, and we have had little celebrate in many weeks. Come, you and your men must be hungry, and we have much to discuss.”
         Kendalar bowed his head. “I thank you captain.”
         “None is required, my lord.” He saluted the first knight, and then turned his horse about back towards the city. Sergeant Wyngoth and his men rode behind him, followed by Kendalar and the Galahadran riders.
         “Open the gates!” Evyan roared as they approached. The huge oaken doors creaked open slowly, allowing them passage into the city of Enwyn.
         It was night before Kendalar and his men were shown to there quarters and their horses and supplies properly stored. The city was in a frenzy at the arrival of the riders. For weeks now they had feared they were alone in their fight. Now the old allies of light were reunited in arms. The Galahadran soldiers were welcomed as well with open arms, religious discrepancies mattered little now.
         In response to their arrival, the council of Enwyn ordered a feast to be prepared for them, and soon after, Kendalar and his men were led to a large hall filled with long tables and chairs. It reminded him greatly of the mighty hall he had once stood in at Cyrinth Myriad. They ate with Evyan and the other officers of the army of Enwyn, as well as the councilmen. Kendalar relayed to them all that had transpired at Cyrinth Myriad, as well as their escape to Galahadran, and the blowing of the Horn of Stormgale. Evyan and the other council members listened to the first knight’s tale in silent horror, but also with a bitter relief. They knew now they were not alone.
         As the night wore down, most retired to their beds, a well earned comfort. As Kendalar prepared to do the same, a messenger entered and spoke with Evyan. Kendalar watched as the color drained from the captains face as he listened to the courier’s message. Upon its conclusion, Evyan only gave the man a slight nod, and the courier left.
         Evyan Fandorius was afraid.
         “What is it captain?” Kendalar asked urgently.
         The captain of the guard remained silent for a moment longer before speaking. Finally, he opened his mouth to speak. “How long, did you say, the rest of the army would arrive?” He asked. His pale face seemed to fear the answer.
         Kendalar responded. “I did not say.”
         “How long?” Evyan repeated.
         “What message has the courier brought, captain?”
         “How long, man!” Evyan roared.
         Kendalar was quiet as he responded. “A fortnight sir. Maybe longer.”
         The room was deathly quiet for what seemed an eternity before Evyan spoke. “The dark steward marches as we speak, Lord Bane. He and fifteen-thousand men, will be here before the week is out.”
         Then, in that moment, Kendalar Bane had never felt more alone in his entire life.