The Trollking Saga:
THE DVARGAR OF AMUNDBORG
by Noor A Jahangir
Smashwords Edition
Seven Earths Publications
Copyright 2011 Noor A Jahangir
All characters, events and most of the places in this book are fictional; any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
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Also by Noor A Jahangir on Smashwords:
The Changeling King - http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/66828
The Dvargar of Amundborg
The following chronicles the embassy of Lord Gillieron and Lady Merenwen as they travel to the fortress city of Amundborg, to raise an alliance with the dvargarn people. These events take place at the same time as Nathan, Logan, Salina and Katrina travel north.
Gillieron was astonished to see the number of alvor who had come to say farewell to the humans. The time they had spent in Alvorn Reach was like the passing of a day for the alvor, and yet it seemed they had touched many.
He examined the faces of the four humans and realised that their expressions no longer seemed other to him. The humans used their facial muscles and eyebrows to emote their speech in the same way that alvor used their ears. They were dressed in plain travel robes, over ring-mail armour, with enough weapons between them to outfit a small fighting unit. Gillieron smiled as Nathan caught his eye and rode over.
‘I guess this is goodbye, Lord Gillieron. I speak for all of us when I say that we are honoured to have known you.’
‘And I speak for all those who live in Alvorn Reach. The honour was ours and you will be missed. May Kige guide your hearts, strengthen your arms and make swift your journey home.’
Gillieron shook Nathan’s hand and then joined Arazan and Lady Merenwen to watch the four ride out from the forest.
‘Will they make it?’ asked Arazan.
‘Kige knows, Arazan. You’ve done a good job with them. Hopefully it will be enough to see them through.’
‘Have you said your farewells yet?’ asked Merenwen.
Gillieron watched the alvor gradually returning to their homes and smiled as his wife waved at him from a distance.
‘Yes. We will depart immediately. Our mounts are ready and Arazan has given us two of his alvor as an escort. They await us by the river with a boat.’
‘Kige watch over both you, Gillieron. I know you will not fail,’ said Arazan.
Gillieron took one last look at Alvorn Reach. This forest felt more like home now than Maidenhall ever had. He breathed in the scent of acorns and wildflowers before pulling himself up onto his horse. Lady Merenwen exchanged a few hushed words with Arazan before she too mounted up. Silently, the two rode out toward the river.
The river was a fair distance away from the forest. The nearer they approached, the louder it became in their ears, overpowering all other sound. It was perhaps for this reason that they saw the skirmish by the river before hearing it. Two alvor fought back to back surrounded by goblins. A number of dead already lay at their feet.
Gillieron spurred his horse into a gallop with Merenwen close behind. He drew his sabre as the lady notched an arrow to her bow.
Goblins scattered as Gillieron’s stead crashed into them, Gillieron’s blades slashing left and right. Arrows flew by his head cutting down more.
Gillieron wheeled his horse about and waded into them. Two goblins tried to make a run for the river.
‘Lady Merenwen, don’t let them escape.’
Merenwen slowed her horse by pushing her feet forward in the stirrups and shot off three arrows. The first punched through a goblin’s chest. The second caught the other goblin high in the shoulder, spinning him about. The third arrow struck it between the eyes.
The remaining goblins threw down their weapons. The alvorn troopers quickly rounded them up and made them kneel before Gillieron’s horse. Merenwen rode over to join them. Her great redwood bow was already unstrung.
‘Troopers, take these prisoners back to Alvorn Reach to wait upon the judgement of the Archmagus.’
The alvorn troopers saluted and then set to securing their prisoners with rope from the boat.
‘You know, those goblins are as good as dead,’ said Merenwen.
‘They were dead when the passed south of the Belt,’ replied Gillieron.
‘The Archmagus doesn’t even acknowledge goblins as sentient. Insects are more likely to get a fair trial than goblins. I’ve seen alvor darker than sin walk into Alvorn Reach with nothing more than a slap on the wrists and a stern look.’
‘This is a most inappropriate topic of discussion,’ said Gillieron as they dismounted at the river’s bank by the boat. ‘The Archmagus is wise and knowledgeable beyond our ken. He saved the people of Maidenhall from suffering the same as our Ranushan brethren. He guided us along an unfamiliar coast to our new home in Alvorn Reach.’
‘As I recall, Alvorn Reach was already home to the protesting alvor, well before their northern cousins came to stay. The Trollking would have been defeated if Maidenhall had come to our aid,’ said Cassiopiea, securing her bow to her whip-thin back.
Gillieron did not reply. He lowered his head and pushed the boat into the water. He remembered all too well the day when he had stood over the gates of Maidenhall, watching the Trollking’s horde pass within bowshot of the walls. The alvorn cavalry had stood ready to ride out, waiting for orders that would never come. In his hand he had held the twisted writ bearing the signatures of the Council of Elders.
Water sloshed around his ankles as Merenwen leapt nimbly into the boat. He had dismissed their escort to take charge of the prisoners. He would have to endure the lady’s company on his own. The boat was built for five, but now it seemed too small for two.
###
Gillieron watched the midday light playing over Merenwen’s face. She lay curled up at the front of the boat, legs tucked close to her chest. Her precious bow rested beside her, sheathed in oiled canvas. She seemed almost peaceful except for the arrow clutched in her hand.
Lady Merenwen was a legend amongst alvor. There were many versions of the story of how she had escaped the fall of Ranush. Some versions had a wivere appearing out of nowhere to whisk her away. Others included magic. She had been the youngest child of the noblest Ranushan lineage. Her grandfather had been an advisor to the human High King. Later he became one of the founding members of the Alvorn Council of Elders.
Every single person in Merenwen’s household had been killed, down to the children that had cowered beneath their parent’s bed. Her mother and father were believed to have fallen defending the city walls. Somehow she had escaped the destruction of the city and the slaughter of her family without a mark on her.
The boat lurched as the river grew choppy. Merenwen awoke with a start and looked about anxiously.
‘We’re coming to the rapids. It’s going to be a bumpy ride. Here, take one of the oars. It will take both of us to get this boat safely through,’ said Gillieron.
‘If I didn’t wake up, were you just going to let the boat get smashed?’
Gillieron didn’t reply. He didn’t want to get drawn into a pointless conversation. Merenwen took up an oar and joined him on the bench. Ahead of them the white rapids awaited.
The boat dropped from a hidden ledge. It pulled first one way, and then the other as the seething waters tried to smash the vessel on the jagged rocks that peeked from under the surface.
The boat dropped again, the prow slapping the river’s surface so hard that it sent up a spray of water, drenching Cassiopiea. Gillieron chuckled as Merenwen spluttered and cursed.
The excitement of the rapids was soon past them. Shortly, they came to a point were the river branched. If they continued on, it would eventually lead to the coast and the sea. Gillieron steered the boat toward the narrower branch that led east; into dvargarn country. As the pace slowed, Merenwen was soon distracted by the long legged insects that scudded on the surface and the whiskered, ray-finned fish that leapt out to snatch the busy insects for lunch.
Gillieron’s ears twitched to the sound of something large whistling through the air. It was getting louder.
‘We’re under attack. Into the river,’ shouted Gillieron.
Merenwen grabbed her bow and threw herself overboard, followed immediately by Gillieron.
A large projectile smashed through the centre of the boat.
The vessel filled quickly and was carried away by the current. Gillieron and Merenwen swam to the embankment and clawed their way up. The bank came alive as a squad of dvargar rose up from the ground, effectively disguised with clumps of grass and leaves. They stood five feet tall and at least that much around in girth.
‘General Dedric Soulhammer; was it completely necessary to kill our boat?’ said Gillieron, singling out a large dvargar with a beard the shade of iron and a large bulbous nose.
‘You won’t need it. You are Lord Gillieron. We got your message. You will come with us.’
###
Amundborg was more mountain than castle. Indeed it seemed that the dvargar had carved an entrance and ramparts out of the Logard Hills to give it the appearance of a castle. The main entrance was a huge arch with an iron portcullis fronting a sliding stone door. The lower half of the castle retained its natural form, with the ramparts nearly a hundred feet above sea level. Arrow slits were hidden amongst the craggy nooks and crannies of the mountain castle as well as other anti-siege weapons crafted by the dvargarn smithys and technicians. The top of the mountain castle had been levelled, forming battlements that could only be reached by eagles. Dvargarn mythologians had postulated that Amundborg was even dragon-proof.
Gillieron tried to make polite conversation with Dedric, but the dvargar didn’t seem inclined toward idle chatter.
‘Save your breath for the walk,’ the dvargar grumbled.
The castle was even more impressive up close. The main gates were built to intimidate as much as deter forced entry. The portcullis was studded with spikes and its centrepiece was embossed with a huge, twin-bladed war axe. The fifty-ton door behind the rising portcullis seemed to have been formed out of solid limestone. Gillieron admired the way it slid aside as if it was made of paper. The gates began to grate shut behind them, as the small party passed through, leaving them in near darkness. The dvargar didn’t bother lighting torches.
‘Lord Gillieron, you seem very interested in our defences,’ said the dvargarn general.
‘We live in times of war. It is good to see that your people will be safe and not suffer as they did in the last war with the Trollking,’ replied Gillieron.
Following the fall of Ranush, the Trollking had turned his attention on the dvargar that made their home in the Pervilheln Mountains. Dedric nodded sombrely.
‘You need not fear for us, alvor. If in the unlikely event the main gate is ever breeched we have installed several spiked racks, suspended high above the entire length of this corridor. A forced entry will trigger a delayed release of the racks. There are many such surprises throughout the castle.’
Gillieron shuddered at the thought of hundreds of spikes hanging over them, just beyond his sight. He glanced at Merenwen and found her lost in her own thoughts. Gillieron loosened his cloak as the clammy chill of the hills was replaced with prevailing warmth. The temperature rose steadily as they travelled deeper into Amundborg.
‘General, I get the impression that we are descending. Surely the dvargarn court is situated high up in the castle?’ said Gillieron.
‘That is what we want outsiders to think. By the time an invading force has searched the castle, their numbers will have been considerably whittled down. Our homes are located way down beneath the surface where it’s nice and cosy.’
‘I’d prefer it if you did not reveal your secrets to us, general’ said Merenwen, ‘You are making me nervous.’
The dvargar laughed aloud until his eyes gleamed with mirth.
‘You’re a sharp one, missy. Fear not, we don’t kill guests here.’
Gillieron noticed that the dvargar’s words were not having the desired effect. If anything, Merenwen clutched her bow that much tighter.
‘I give you my personal guarantee that you are safe while you are with us, on the beards of my forefathers,’ said the dvargar.
Dedric related the histories of various sights to the alvor as they passed through cavernous halls. Gillieron noted that the dvargar had become quiet talkative now that he was safe within the castle. Gillieron couldn’t understand what dvargar found comforting about having thousands of tons of rock and earth over their heads.
Dvargar stopped to watch the party walk by as they entered the upper rings of the dvargarn hearth homes. The journey took them past foundries, factories and smithies where dvargar worked tirelessly; making all manner of things from weapons and armour, to jewellery and cutlery. Young dvargar played at soldiers, while the elderly drank outside inviting-looking taverns. Plump maidens thronged the shop fronts and boutiques. It was just as lively and busy as Alvorn Reach on any given day.
Eventually they came to a set of great doors, guarded by four dvargarn warriors dressed in ceremonial armour, iron breastplates inlaid with gold and crystals, with bronze skirts and pauldrons. They saluted Dedric, before one of them banged on the doors with the hilt of his axe. The guards pushed the doors open and announced them.
‘General Dedric Soulhammer approaches the Reichstag of the Dvargarn Kings, with Lord Gillieron of Maidenhall and Lady Merenwen of Ranush.’
Dedric led Gillieron and Merenwen into the grand hall. It was large enough to seat a thousand dvargar with a great dais, upon which stood a curved table of stone. Two identical thrones were set at the apex of the table, formed entirely of precious metals, studded with priceless jewels. The dvargarn kings sat upon the thrones surrounded by their advisors. On the right sat Merton Thorson, king of the northern dvargar. On the left sat Raynar Sanctorum, king of Amundborg. The Reichstag were dressed in full ceremonial garb, bedecked in enough finery to ransom Kryllon, if greed had been what drove the Trollking. Merton’s face was fixed in a frown while Raynar smiled benevolently. Dedric bowed deeply, holding his beard back with one hand. Gillieron and Merenwen remained standing.
‘Present your case, alvor,’ said King Raynar.
Merenwen was about to step forward when Merton made a huffing sound.
‘Be still alvor maid, permission to speak has only been granted to your mate,’ said Merton.
Gillieron looked to see how Merenwen would react. She gave him a tight smile and nodded her head. Gillieron cleared his throat.
‘Be mindful of what you say, alvor,’ whispered Dedric as he brushed past them to take his place amongst the retainers.
‘This is Lady Merenwen, survivor of Ranush. She is a warrior and an icon of hope. She is not beholden to anyone but Kige. I speak with her permission,’ said Gillieron. ‘We alvor hold in reverence the quickening that possesses all living things; the energy of life that emanates from the great earth spirit, Kige. The dvargar hold in veneration the physical embodiment of the earth and make use of its bounties. In essence, we serve the same source. Yet our people have stood divided by doctrinal difference that only the eldest of us understand.
‘We have a common enemy that has driven us from our ancestral homes in the north. This enemy has stolen the warmth from our halls and doused our hearths with the dust of a hundred years. Yet we stand on each others borders and threaten war.
‘Now the means to reclaim our ancestral homes is at hand. Kige has guided four alien warriors across the stars. Archmagus Amrus, Guardian of all Kryllon, tells us of whisperings of apprehension within the Black Keep. The Trollking himself is said to fear these aliens. He fears his own doom.
‘The aliens wield the strength of the first men. Destiny has set them on the path to Ranush. They will bring down this false king who wishes to humble and enslave us. Already, we alvor have begun the mustering of our forces. The era of the return is upon us. The north is calling us home. We go to war to win back our heritage, our honour and our land.
‘Maidenhall-on-the-Sea will soon again breathe with life. But what of the dvargarn halls of Pervilheln? Will they ring to lusty songs and industry? Will the dvargarn people raise the hammer and strike their fetters? Will Merton King lead his people out of exile?
‘The time to put aside our differences has come. Alvor and dvargar must stand shoulder to shoulder to vanquish this enemy once and for all. Will we take back what is ours with our own hands? The alvor sail at high tide for the north. What of the dvargar?’
‘You have given us much to ponder, Lord Gillieron. Your pretty words hide much loss and risk,’ said King Merton finally. ‘My brother king and I shall discuss this matter with the Reichstag. Until we reach a decision, you two will remain as our guests. General Dedric, show them every courtesy befitting a dvargarn prince.’
The kings stood and left the hall together, followed shortly by the remaining members of the Reichstag. Gillieron felt his heart sink. He had hoped for a swift resolution to this business. Now he and Merenwen would be held hostage until a decision was made. Pampered and cossetted; but prisoners nonetheless.
###
Gillieron and Merenwen were seated on squat stools, at a large banquet table. The feast was being held in their honour in one of the many great halls. This one was decorated with round, hereditary shields, hung along the walls. All around them, the dvargarn nobility feasted on meats and delicacies. The dvargar were dressed in ornate armour made of gossamer lattices of precious metals, studded with quartz crystal of various shades. Dedric who was sat opposite them, munched on the roasted leg of some unfortunate beast.
‘Isn’t the food to your liking?’ asked Dedric, pointing to various vegetable dishes and stews and fruit desserts.
‘No, the food is quite fine, thank you, General,’ said Merenwen as she glanced toward the entrance of the banquet hall.
Gillieron knew what she was thinking. He too hoped to see a royal herald soon, come to summon them. He would rather know quickly, one way or another, what the dvargarn kings had decided in the reichstag. They had been underground now for several hours and his eyes ached for greenery, his lungs for clean air. Incense burned throughout the hall but it did little to mask the pong of the breweries and the oily fug generated by the forges. Even the smell of cooked meats was turning his stomach. He longed for the crisp sea breeze and the spicy scent of amber that he had taken for granted in Alvorn Reach.
‘Your sense of duty to your people is admirable, milord and lady, but you’re going to need your strength. I am a general, and that has some privileges. Whatever the decision of the Reichstag, I will go with you and do battle with the Trollking,’ said Dedric.
‘I thank you for your generosity, General, but what difference can one dvargar make?’ said Gillieron.
‘Quite a bit, my friend; especially when the dvargar in question leads a battalion of a thousand heavy infantry,’ said Dedric with a chuckle.
Gillieron smiled, picked up an apple and bit into it.
The royal herald arrived a short while after supper to inform them that the reichstag had arrived at a decision and were ready to reconvene. This time they entered without being announced. The alvor stood in the centre of the chamber before the dvargarn kings.
‘The Reichstag has come to a resolution. Are you ready to hear our decision?’ asked King Merton.
‘We are ready,’ replied Gillieron.
The members of the reichstag rose to their feet to the sound of creaking armour and rustling silk. King Raynar raised a ceremonial axe over his head.
‘This axe was forged by the first dvargar king that ruled these halls. Since then this axe has been the symbol of the dvargarn kings of the south. Thus it has been in my family for many millennia and thus it has passed to me. By this right do I speak as the lord of these halls and the keeper of my brethren,’ intoned Raynar.
Merton raised a war-hammer above his head and spoke, ‘this hammer was forged by the first dvargar king that ruled the halls beneath the Pervilheln Mountains. Since then this hammer has been the symbol of the dvargarn kings of the North. Thus it has been in my family for many millennia and thus it has passed to me. By this right do I speak as the lord of lost halls and the keeper of my brethren.’
Merton and Raynar lowered the symbols of their sovereignty. The members of the reichstag returned to their seats, all except Merton.
‘Long has the path to the North remained derelict. Hidden we remained beneath these hills within this fortress. Our weapons have hung over our hearths collecting dust, while our armours gathers rust. Let the command go out for the forges to be fired and the siege craft be oiled. Let it be known that the dvargarn people of Kryllon go to do battle once more.’
Gillieron and Merenwen bowed before the Reichstag, bereft of words. The kings returned the bow then strode from the hall. Dedric walked quietly forward, waiting for the alvor to collect themselves.
‘It is time for you to rest awhile. I’ll appoint some of my lads to show you to your quarters. It will take perhaps a week or more to arm and mobilise our army. The siege craft will take a week further. If you want for anything my lads will be at hand. Feel free to wander our halls and be at home. Now I must leave you. I have preparations to oversee,’ said Dedric.
As the days wore on, Gillieron grew tired of his quarters. He took to exploring the lower levels where the forges and the siege craft workshops were situated. The dvargar laboured industriously, working with an economy of movement and relentless precision. Ever since he had heard Merton mention the siege craft in the reichstag, Gillieron had been obsessing about them. In his mind he painted fantastic images of magical inventions that rivalled the artistry of the spellweavers.
The workshops spanned three halls. Gillieron walked past craftsmen building mobile towers, ballistae, catapults, crossbows and composite bows. He studied each new thing and marvelled at the innovations of the dvargar. But nothing he saw matched the splendour of what he had imagined.
A short while later, Gillieron entered a hall to find a team of dvargar bustling around four large objects concealed under canvas. An elderly dvargar wearing brass eyeglasses was making notes with chalk on a square of slate.
‘Excuse me, master dvargar? What is it that you are working on?’ asked Gillieron.
The dvargar put down his slate and peered over his eyeglasses at Gillieron.
‘Ah, you must be one of the alvor that everyone’s been talking about. Well of course you are. I mean, you’re hardly a dvargar. Come, you’ll understand better if I show it to you.’
The dvargar bustled over to the nearest object and called out to some of the other dvargar to help him remove the canvas. It slipped off slowly with a crackle. Gillieron braced himself to be struck dumb in awe.
‘We call it the Glyptodont.’
The engine indeed resembled the giant armoured mammal. The glyptodont had an oval carapace, sheeted with iron plates and bristling with spikes. It rested on a flat chassis with six wheels. Each wheel was the height of a dvargar, the spokes reinforced with strips of iron. The carapace featured sliding flaps, presumably to allow archers to fire from, a compact, crank-operated ballista mounted on top and an armour-plated battering ram up front. The whole apparatus must have been the size of a small house.
‘Come, take a look inside.’
A hatch, at the rear of the Glyptodont, folded out to reveal a series of steps built onto its reverse side. The dvargar led Gillieron up into the gloomy belly of the Glyptodont. It smelt of boat-varnish and sword oil. Two crafts-dvargar were busy adjusting several cogs. A raised gallery ran around the sides, with a ladder rising up from the centre to a platform beneath a top-hatch, presumably to allow access to the ballista.
‘Now, sir alvor, you see these seats on either side of the Glyptodont? Notice the oar-like protrusion at waist height? Well, a dvargar’s waist height anyway. And also, the pedals at the bottom? Let me demonstrate.’
The dvargar slid into one of the four benches. He placed his feet on the pedals and grabbed the oar with both hands.
‘The pedals and oar, when pumped and cycled, set to motion several sets of gears. These impel each of the four driving wheels. Now I can’t do this on my own, but with three stout dvargar in place, the glyptodont is capable of reaching a speed of five miles an hour, generating a power to weight ratio to knock down a tree. The gears ensure that the wheels keep turning, regardless of rocks, stones, water, and so on, without slowing down. It makes for a bumpy ride, but that can’t be helped.’
The dvargar slipped out again and moved to a fifth seat, situated closer to the front. There were two sticks rising up from the floor.
‘These are the steering columns. The left stick controls the left wheel and the right stick controls the right. You push one forward and pull one back, depending on which way you want to go. It’s a rather elementary set up. If I had more time, I’d like to have replaced the steering columns with a ship’s helm; on a much smaller scale, of course.’
‘This is all absolutely amazing from an inventor’s point-of-view, but what is its application in war? What is its purpose?’ asked Gillieron.
‘Well haven’t you guessed? What use would you put it to?’ asked the dvargar.
Gillieron stood quietly for a moment. His mind played with concepts and notions that were alien to his world, even as eyes measured and re-evaluated what he been told.
‘It is a means of conveying troops. I would use it as infantry unit to bypass castles defences and exploit breaches,’ said Gillieron.
‘Hah, you see now the genius of the dvargarn people. We may not have been fighting wars since our exodus but we didn’t stop inventing. Now all that remains to be seen is how they fare in battle.’
‘They haven’t been battle tested yet?’
‘Not yet, but that will soon be rectified.’
###
The two alvor grew tired of life underground and Dedric furnished a room each for them in the castle. They spent their remaining days with dvargar pacing the battlements. No matter how hard they looked they could not see the treetops of the home they longed for. The forest would be starting to turn yellow now, as autumn began to set in. Gillieron wondered whether his people had begun harvesting the nuts and fruits of the forest before the cold set in. His wife and daughters would be out with the other women preparing for the Festival of the Long Sleep.
Gillieron wiped the molten tears from his eyes. This would be the first time in nearly fifty years that he wasn’t home to celebrate the holy day with his family. Merenwen came and stood beside him, her presence a source of comfort on this lonely battlement. She of all people knew how bitter loneliness could be. No family to turn to for comfort or reassurance. A hundred years without sharing the festival with a loved one.
From the battlements the alvor watched the dvargar performing manoeuvres in the hills surrounding the castle. Dedric came and joined them in their vigil as supper time drew near.
‘Our preparations are complete. The fires in the forges have been doused and the army will practice their manoeuvres no more. Now I will sleep. In three days we leave for Ranush and to battle.’
###
The last days passed quickly. The castle and the halls were strangely devoid of activity and sound. On the third day a horn sounded, echoing though the great halls, riding out over the hills. The gates of Amundborg opened and out marched the dvargar, dressed in newly made armour; armed with recently forged weapons. In their wake followed the glyptodonts and cattle-drawn wagons loaded with siege craft, their wheels cutting furrows in the grass. After more than a century, the dvargar of Kryllon were marching to war.
###
Storm clouds gathered above threatening to unleash the first rains of autumn. Gillieron and Merenwen marched at the head of the column with Dedric and King Merton. The dvargar marched twenty abreast with the army stretching out so far behind them that even their far-sighted alvorn eyes couldn’t make out the rear guard. They had been marching for two days with only a few stops for rest and sleep in between. Merenwen’s face was set and her eyes seemed distant. Gillieron could see that she was faring better than he. She was no stranger to travel by foot. He himself would have preferred to ride, but the dvargar had little use for horses. Finally, Merton signalled to Dedric to call a long overdue rest. The army slowly came to a halt. The king turned to address Gillieron and Merenwen.
‘The path ahead is the greatest secret of the dvargarn people and must remain so. I must ask you to submit to being blindfolded. From this point on you will be borne forth by carriage.’
The alvorn nobles nodded their assent. There was no point in arguing. Besides, Gillieron was so footsore that he would have submitted to being tied up too if it meant he didn’t have to walk any further.
‘I must also ask you not to remove the blindfolds until I give you leave, on the pain of death.’
Gillieron and Merenwen allowed themselves to be led back to a wagon that was loaded with the command tent and its trappings. Dedric himself tied the blindfolds over their eyes. The dvargar was surprisingly gentle but a quick feel of the knot informed Gillieron that there wasn’t much chance of the blindfold shifting from its position. The alvorn nobles were helped into the wagon and seated down on soft cushions. After a few moments, they heard Dedric’s voice reverberate through the valley ordering the army to resume its march. The motion of the wagon was jerky and slightly nauseating, but the footsore alvor were glad not to be walking.
‘How fare you, Lady Merenwen?’ said Gillieron.
‘Don’t worry about me. I have endured worse.’
‘How did you survive on your own for so long? I have always wanted to know.’
‘Being on my own was easier than living in Alvorn Reach for me. Of course, there were times when I longed to see another alvorn face, but all that concerned me was getting my next meal and finding somewhere dry and safe to sleep. Living amongst others reminds me constantly of what I’ve lost. Then there is the sense of responsibility. I feel I’m personally bound to restore our people back to their former glory. The scale of it all makes me despair,’ said Merenwen.
Gillieron digested this information silently. He was stunned at this revelation from the normally reserved hero. He found it difficult to think of a comparable loss to help him empathise, but found his own woes fell short.
‘This is a burden we all must share, milady. Victory is close now. We must find the strength to persevere,’ said Gillieron, though his brave words felt inadequate and hollow even to his own ears.
Gillieron tried to keep track of the passage of time. The blindfold coupled with the lulling motion of the wagon was disorienting. Gillieron emptied his mind and focused his hearing to the sounds around him. He tried to listen to the world beyond the constant clamour of the marching army; feet, wheels and armour. A different song emerged once the immediate vibrations in the air had been filtered out. The stealthy flight of an owl, wide wingspan cushioned on the air creating a feathery beat. The rodents it hunted called softly to each other and scrambled for safety. Crickets chirped, like artful fiddlers accompanying the orchestra of the night. Gillieron smiled as he caught the whiff of ozone that preceded a heavy rainfall. But there was something else out there beyond Kige’s design.
The sensation became more powerful as the night air gave way to the pungent odour of subterranean tunnels. Gillieron braced himself as the wagon began an angled descent and put out a hand to steady Merenwen. The nocturnal sounds of the open air gave way to echoes and the snuffling of subterranean creatures, burrowing furtively, harvesting nutrients from the earth itself. Then the dvargar began to sing.
Deep baritones rose soulfully, drowning out the night and the earth song. They sang the litany of the exodus from Pervilheln. Gillieron listened to the words until his imagination carried him away on an epic journey.
Gillieron awoke with a start. He hadn’t meant to go to sleep. Immediately, he realised that the wagon had stopped. The feeling of the otherness was even more overpowering now. He could feel his skin crawl as if hundreds of insects scrambled over his body and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled as his apprehension grew. It quickly became unbearable.
‘Do you feel that?’ he asked Merenwen.
‘It is not unfamiliar to me. I know this strangeness perhaps better than any sentient being. We are beneath the Belt. I think I have been this way before,’ replied Merenwen.
Before Gillieron could question Merenwen further, the order to charge was called down the line. The alvor clutched the sides of the wagon as it lurched forward. A searing wave of heat passed over them followed by a soul numbing cold. Some unseen force grasped them and squeezed them, as if it was trying to compact them into the space of an atom. Gillieron clenched his teeth to stop from crying out as darkness enveloped them.
###
‘Lord Gillieron? Lord Gillieron?’
A hand gently patted his shoulder. Gillieron forced his eyes open. Merenwen sat besides him squinting her eyes against the light filtering in through the canvas. The dvargar who had awoken him disappeared around the side of the wagon. Gillieron rubbed his eyes, glad to be rid of the blindfold. He filled his lungs as the sharp smell of a strange sea permeated the air around him. We are out in the open again, he thought to himself.
The alvor parted the canvas and slid out of the wagon. The dvargar had finished erecting tents and were busy digging latrines. Gillieron looked to the sky but grey clouds hid the low-hanging sun from view. Gillieron pulled his cloak around him as a brisk wind caused it to open. Dark hills rose around them, broken up by rocky outcrops. The dvargar who had woken him returned and led them to a large tent pitched in the shadow of one of the hills. Exhausted dvargar shivered desperately trying to light fires. They looked up at them with haunted eyes as they passed. The alvor were ushered into the command tent. Gillieron and Merenwen had to bow to pass through.
The tent was toasty inside and well lit by several braziers. Dedric sat by one, warming his hands. He gave the alvor a tired smiled and gestured to a camp bed where King Merton lay. He had been propped up with several cushions and had several blankets piled over him. He looked frail. His lips were blue and dark circles ringed his eyes. Gillieron’s heart fluttered in fear for the old king.
‘What has happened to you?’ asked Gillieron, kneeling down besides the king’s bed.
‘Don’t look so concerned, my dear alvor. The journey tired me a little more than I thought it would,’ said the king.
‘If I am not mistaken, only a few hours have elapsed since our eyes were bound. And yet your troops look like they’ve already fought a battle,’ said Gillieron.
Dedric looked at the king.
‘We are in the Higard Hills. Just a few days march from Ranush,’ said the king.
‘How is that possible?’ asked Gillieron. ‘We’ve travelled over a hundred miles? Not even all our Spellweavers together could have transported an army such as this, let alone over such a distance.’
Dedric stood up and began to pace in obvious distress. Merton sighed.
‘My dear alvor, it was not magic that brought us here; well, not magic as you and I would know it. I can tell you no more. I am bound by oath, as are all of our people. I ask that you refrain from enquiring further into the matter. Now, I suggest you get some rest and food. Dedric, please escort our friends to their tent. I think I’ll sleep now.’
Dedric led them out of the tent and walked them to a second tent erected not too far away from the king’s. The tent was partitioned into three areas with woven curtains. Braziers had been lit for them too and a simple meal of porridge, bread and tea waited for them on a rug. Dedric bade them goodnight and went on his way. Gillieron and Merenwen removed their boots and sat down to eat.
‘How does it feel to be back in the North?’ asked Gillieron as he took a sip of his tea.
‘For years I have dreamt of nothing else, but now that I am here, I feel apprehensive. What about you, we must only be a hundred miles from Maidenhall?’ said Merenwen.
‘I have lived in Alvorn Reach for too long. I have not thought of myself as a ‘northern alvor’ for many decades now. Still, it would be a strange homecoming, seeing as a whole generation of alvor have been born and raised in Alvorn Reach. They have no memories to haunt them and no connection to Maidenhall. The only home they know is Alvorn Reach.’
‘Let us rest now. War will soon be upon us and sleep will become a luxury in short supply,’ said Merenwen.
‘Or maybe the long sleep is all that awaits us outside the walls of Ranush.’
###
About the Author
Noor A Jahangir was born and raised in Lancashire, England. He grew up in a town very much like Affrington and knew at the age of seven that he wanted to be a writer. Most of his teen years were spent in an Islamic boarding school for boys, set in the Pennine Moors, overlooked by Peel Tower. He is a qualified Muslim scholar, holds an honours degree in English Studies with Media Studies and Creative Writing, a post-graduate Diploma in Management Studies, and is currently studying for his Masters. He works as a senior manager in the non-profit sector. The Changeling King is his first novel.
Also by Noor A Jahangir on Smashwords:
The Changeling King - http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/66828
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