Two

Avalus took in a deep breath as he entered the courtyard, his body clad in chainmail pieces connected by thick leather hunks. His helmet jutted a bright red plume, eyes wide and bright, ready for anything. His blood flowed faster than ever, and even his wife looked more alive, somewhat penetrated from her dreamy haze to bid Avalus farewell.

He swung himself nimbly onto his bright white horse beside Tyrthan’s own black war steed, closing his eyes against the biting chill. A full-on snow cloaked the ground now, Halsin dressed in thick winter robes, looking like a small child on the war pony that clopped next to Avalus and Tyrthan. The Mountain Guard had assembled behind them, the color sergeants bearing their flag charges proudly. The High Lord made no speech as they turned. There was no time for one- The window to pass into the Mountains without a thick haze of fog cloaking everything was narrow and it had to be made. With a kick of his plated boots, Avalus was charging forward- Tyrthan on one side, Halsin on the other, an entire army at his back.

They were galloping forward on the first of several hour ride, toward the looming mountains that grew even taller as they approached. Avalus was in marvel at their size and glory, something he rarely noticed from his castle, where they were cloaked in fog and cloud. He was snapped from his state by the voice of Tyrthan, calling to him on the wind.

“Just like old times, eh, your Highness?” The High Lord laughed loudly, nodding. “Old for you, maybe! I’m still young and spry as a spring chick!” The commander laughed, and even quiet Halsin chuckled. The chemist twitched nervously in his saddle, seeming unable to adjust to going so fast, in a world that was, to him, so slow. “Halsin! How’re you holding up, old friend?”

The Chemist shrugged. “Nervous, your liege! I haven’t been to these mountains, since I was going the other direction in a Royal Cart.” Avalus patted his friend gently, staring forward at the rising mountains in the distance. “Commander! You’ve been here before, have you not? What can we expect?”

“Goblins.”

“Well of course, Goblins. Everyone knows that Mountains are Goblin Territory—“

“No. Goblins.” The Commander unsheathed his blade, pointing. Avalus’ eyes turned northward, narrowing at the massive horde of Goblins that had fortified the entrance to Dragonspire since the last expedition. He released the clasp on his own blade; Halsin fidgeted and dropped back, a spearman taking his place.

Avalus opened his mouth to let out a battle cry; but the next thing he knew he was on the ground. His horse had an arrow through its throat and was coughing out its life. He wheezed and stood carefully, Tyrthan was next to him in an instant; clashing blades with a short, pale-skinned humanoid, its eyes bulging and black, its mouth dripping with saliva. The skilled commander easily swept the creatures legs from under it, cutting its throat before it could even cry out.

The High Lord adjusted himself, feeling for the first time the warm smear that was working down his scalp. His helmet was gone, lost in the fray that was now surrounding him. Tyrthan yelled for an advance, and Avalus followed, roaring in a wounded animal like rage that overtook him.

He drove his blade into the heart of the first Goblin that approached him, blood trickling from its bulging eye sockets. He knocked the corpse away- Growling as one of the forms landed on his back, hammering wildly with a stone mace, trying to break through the chain that protected Avalus’ neck. The bear of a man dropped his sword- grabbing the goblin with both hands, and hurling him forward, impaling him on a series of jagged rocks, the fleshy creature clenching its hands at Avalus before going still.

Avalus sighed as his blade was back in his hands, turning and letting out a cry as a creature slammed into his stomach; sending him tumbling from a ledge he’d gone near in the melee. He slammed through the thatched roof of a Goblin Hut, wheezing and rolling as the creature stumbled, picking up its axe.

The Goblin approached- wheezing and spitting, speaking in a strange, broken language that made no sense to Avalus, filled with an almost song-like accent. He was stunned as the thing rose its axe- Screeching as a small hand reached around and grabbed its chest, tugging it back, a curved dagger digging into its throat and slashing across. Blood splayed, and the Goblin dropped, Halsin standing in front of Avalus, panting, his robes thrown open to reveal a leather vest lined with knives and potions.

“My apologies for taking so long to assist, my lord.” Avalus shook his head, standing quickly as two more things appeared in the doorway, charging the smaller man. Avalus stooped down- Low enough to grab them and hurl them into the wall of the hut, sending them sailing through. “Not a problem, Halsin! I didn’t know you were such a deadly little man!”

Halsin didn’t respond- Simply laughed and crawled through the hole the Goblin made. Avalus stood for a moment in the hut, investigating it; carefully pawing through various possessions. He kicked open a strange, wheeled chest- picking up a small leather bundle. It opened, but was stitched together to simply close again- And had a pouch, for small, pale-green pieces of paper. They were tattered, and hole-filled, but one was still readable.

“WASHINGTON”.

He grunted, sliding it into a pouch on his belt. A souvenir for his wife; before turning and exiting the hut. Smoke curled around his nostrils; the village lit aflame by the crusading Mountain Guard. Halsin stood next to him suddenly, Tyrthan nodding as he emerged from a Goblin hut, bloodied and grinning. “Good battle, you two?”

Avalus nodded, Halsin shrugging and rebuttoning his cloak. “Let’s go, then. They’ve built a gate in the mountains; seem to be looking to keep us out. Possibly established some form of Order in there.”

“Doubt it. Goblins are stupid little things.”


The High Lord mounted the new horse that was brought to him, turning back towards the city that seemed years away. He sighed, turning the horse towards the path, closing his eyes as they trod along.

He was already tired.





Avalus hooked his helmet to his belt, maneuvering his horse carefully around the shards of the smoking gate. He gripped his blade, staring at the few Goblins who had been trying to hold the gate, crushed under the explosions. They had a jarring, human-like quality to them; with their mentality, and that human look, it called to mind images of slain children during the Dark Fourth Age.

He shook his head clear of the image, Tyrthan gripping Avalus’ shoulder and nodding. The connection was made by him, as well. Halsin remained quiet, staring forward and puffing, the ride seeming to take physical tolls on the small man, who had once again became small and broken. He seemed exhausted, ever since he changed into a blade-slinging death dealer during the battle.

Avalus forced his horse onward, staring up at the rise, keeping his eyes forward. It made time go faster that way, or, at least, it had during the Dark Age. He unsheathed his blade, sharpening it as they rode. “So, Tyrthan. Is Goblin hostility always this sharp? I don’t remember it being so, back in our day.”

“It wasn’t,” Tyrthan responded, holding his reigns tight. “They’ve been startlingly active. The army is a buzz with suspicious rumor, that some bandit lord has made camp here and started ruling them.” He snapped his reigns slightly, staring up at the jagged outcroppings of the hills around them. Fog was closing quickly at their back; the battle had set them back, and they had hardly made the window.

“It’s no form of leadership. They’re banding together out of survival,” spoke Halsin. “We did it in the Prisons. Something is driving them outwards, from the center of Dragonspire.” Avalus peered to Halsin. “Something scaring Goblins? Truly a terrifying thought. Perhaps a real dragon, eh, Tyrthan?”

Tyrthan grunted in response, face cross and annoyed. “You know, well as I do, that Dragons aren’t real. All three of us know that, Lord Avalus. They’re fake, to keep people from crossing through the mountains and reporting what’s beyond them, in the Lost Land.”

“I’ll take that as a joke, Commander.” The voice made all three start suddenly, Avalus and Halsin whirling on their horses, blades at the ready. The King’s Agent rode behind them, atop a pitch black horse with seemingly glowing, crimson eyes. “A way to keep your men in check.” He was a foul looking man, his eyes sunk into his skull, his skin yellowed and pale. “Agent Kruthisan. At your service, High Lord. The King thought it fit to insert me into your army; to report any findings from the Lost Land.”

Halsin shied away from Kruthisan, drawing his hood tighter. Avalus spoke in a sharp, commanding voice. “We appreciate it, Agent. But, the front rank is reserved for commanding units. Halsin, Tyrthan, and myself.” His voice was calm, reserved- It unnerved Avalus, but he tried to match the uncaring, business like tone. Still, he could hear venom dripping from his own words. “If you would be so kind as to fall back.”

“You’re letting a… Half Goblin filth, command your army?” The agent’s face turned sour, peering at Halsin, who kept his head down and spoke quietly. “I can fall back, your Highness-“

“Nonsense. I dubbed you a honorary commander for this expedition. You’ll remain so. Now fall back, Agent. You’re not needed as of now.” Avalus glared daggers as the Agent turned and fell back- trotting away quickly. The High Lord grunted, eyeing the bow and arrow on the agents back, gripping the reins tighter.

Tyrthan spoke his thoughts. “I didn’t find a single Goblin with a bow in that camp. Seems strange, he doesn’t appear until after the attack, and wields one.” Avalus grunted. “Mind your tongue, commander. Insinuating such things is grounds for court martial.” Avalus felt an anger at himself, for not snagging the arrow that had downed his horse, for comparison.

Avalus turned into the howling wind, the horses stopping as they neared a narrowing in the road, dismounting. “The horses have to stop here. They can’t keep on the road, even after this. Too rocky.” Tyrthan was speaking, but Avalus hardly heard. He was staring at the shadows of the path, before snapping back to reality and quietly gathering his gear. Halsin spoke quietly, in hushed tones, as the commander rallied the guard.

“He’s a strange one, that Agent. Looks half dead.” Avalus shrugged, tying his pack on. “They all look half dead, Halsin. The recruitment methods for the Agents are insane. They’re scum; conniving and cruel, but you have to respect their dedication.” Halsin grunted, slinking forward into the pass, his small feet easily navigating the rock, his hands grasping the stone walls carefully. “I suppose so. Loyal as dogs. Same mentality and intelligence, too.”

Avalus chuckled softly, standing after relaxing the laces of his boots slightly. “Where are you going so quick?”

Halsin shrugged. “Scouting ahead. Away from that agent, for now. I’ll come squirming back if I find anything.”

Avalus nodded, turning to approach the Guard.

He peered back at the pass to remind Halsin to stay close, but the small man was gone. He was startlingly fast, that Halsin. Avalus couldn’t help a chuckle as he finished his stride, moving behind Tyrthan as instructed.

It was a suffocating, slow, and dangerous walk. Avalus hated every moment of it, being crammed between two rock walls, forcing his way forward, fighting nature itself to not suffocate in this tomb. The heat was stifling here; the hundreds of human bodies causing a storm of sweat and stink. Avalus clenched his fists, wheezing. “How much farther, Tyrthan?”

Tyrthan grunted. “A lot.”

Avalus shook his head, sweat trickling down his nose. “Not gonna’ die by an enemy’s blade. Gonna die in this God Damned ass crack of the world.”

The Agent sneered from behind. “Such regal language, your highness.”

“Shut it.”

Avalus closed his eyes- managing every step forward by flooding his head with images of strangling the agent, throwing him from the narrow ledges of the mountain. His thoughts drifted to home, and he wondered how the city was doing. The High Lord shook his head clear of such thoughts; it was bad luck, to think of home on the battlefield.

Finally, Tyrthan picked up speed before bursting from the earth with a loud pop, wheezing and resting on his knees. Avalus broke through as well, grunting and struggling to catch his breath. His head throbbed, vision foggy for a moment until he stood.

His eyes locked on Halsin, collapsed on the ground, an arrow in his back.

High Lord Avalus moved before his mind thought. He reached back into the small passage, and dragged the Agent out by the front of his Tabard, shouting for everyone to hurry. Hell had broken loose in the few moments it’d taken him to act; Goblins stood atop the high, sharp rocks, raining arrows down on the army that was virtually helpless.

Tyrthan was at Halsin’s side, the smaller man wheezing and coughing, but assuring that he was alright. Avalus snatched more and more men from the canal of rock, suppressing a cry of anger as he dragged one out, only for the man to receive a quarrel to the throat. Blood splashed Avalus’ face, the deep crimson fusing with the red of his beard.

He snatched the shield from the dead mans hand, raising it and wedging it between the two close rocks. Soldiers dashed under it as quarrel after quarrel slammed into the well-tempered metal, more and more Goblins starting to amble down the rocks, producing daggers and axes from their cloths. Avalus snagged one from the air as it leapt at him, squeezing its throat until there was a sickening pop, and the body went limp; blood was trickling from its mouth, legs dancing a jig of death.


Finally, the last of the surviving Guard was out, turning about to face the new enemy. The air was suddenly filled with the cries of wounded and dying men, desperately battling against the ambush that was, for goblins, massive. Tyrthan had replaced the longsword with a massive war hammer from his back, swinging it in great arcs that sent broken goblin bodies flying here and there; bones jutting from the impact places, their bodies caved and bleeding. Halsin was nowhere to be seen; having vanished to find a medic in the melee.

Slowly, Avalus fought his way to Tyrthan’s side, slicing the head of a goblin from its shoulders, kicking the body out of his path. “They’ve gotten wise! I’ve never seen them perform an ambush before.” Tyrthan nodded stoutly, bringing his hammer down on a wounded Goblin that was gurgling in the guttural tongue. More of the Guard fell, but finally, the army forced the Goblins into the small passage; from there, it was easy enough to massacre them.

Halsin had returned to Avalus’ side; wearing a stiff bandage about his torso, sweating, cloak having been tossed away to reveal the simple, combat-ready leathers that clad to the small, old man. The High Lord nodded to recognize his presence, and cast his eyes around the battlefield. “We don’t have time to burry the dead. The ones that ran back through the pass will be on our tail; no doubt with all manner of allies.”

Tyrthan grunted in response, tying his hammer around his body once more. “Indeed. Did the Agent fall in the battle? I don’t see him.” The Commander seemed nervous; his eyes scanning the tops of the pass carefully. Avalus shrugged; adjusting his sword and placing the shield on the ground. “I haven’t a clue. We don’t have time to look for him, Commander. We need to be moving.”

Tyrthan paused for a moment, glancing one final time back at the rocky pass, then turned to follow the commander, and what was left of the Guard.

THREE

Lady Miranna sighed softly, rubbing her temples as she, for the first time she could remember, shook off the fog of drug and drink. Her body ached, crying out for more of what it had been using as substance, enraged at being so suddenly removed from its life-giver. She stood from her chair shakily, peering at herself in the mirror, groaning at her state; dress ragged, hair scraggly and undone, eyes possessing dark circles. It took her a great deal of time, but, finally, with deep red robe and hair falling to her back, she was ready to leave her chambers.

She moved towards the door- Instinctively reaching for the bottle of Everwine that sat next to it. Her fingers curled around the neck of the bottle before she shook off the desire to guzzle it, leaving it where it was as she braced against the cold of the day. She crossed the bridge to the keep easily, nodding curtly at the agent of the Crown who had, according to her servant, been there since the day before, when her husband had left.

The agent fell in step with Miranna, following her more closely than her guard did. “My lady,” he began in a false-respective tone that oozed condemnation, “What a pleasure it is to see that you are better.” Miranna did little to disguise her expression of disgust- All the agents looked half dead, with pale yellow skin and sunken eyes. “I’m certainly glad it’s a pleasure for you, Rolf. However, I must ask, what business do you have here? Lord Avalus left yesterday, in the escort of your lesser.”

“Indeed he did, my Lady, but my orders are to remain here, until his return. To… Protect the High Lady. Quite exciting, isn’t it? You’re the first High Lady to rule a Keep since the Fifth Age began. Even if you are ruling it as a reagent-“

The rest of his words were lost on Miranna. She hadn’t taken into account that, in Avalus’ absence, she would be the ruling body in the court. It was no longer any wonder that Bjorn, her Guard Captain, had ordered everything but a bottle of Everwine removed from her chambers. She felt a lash of anger, at first, but it slowly gave way to shame at her state for the past few years.

“Be that as it may, Rolf, I do not need your protection. I have the Rosen Guard to protect against anything that may threaten my person.” She straightened her robes, glaring forward, seething at the idea of this Agent making himself right at home in her city. Rolf’s face turned to a cruel smile. “Well. I’m certain the King would insist on my presence; so, as to save me the trip back to the High City only to be herded back here, I’m sure you won’t notice my presence.”
They passed into the Courtyard, Miranna climbing the simple steps to the balcony, settling on the throne and waiting for the first of the open courts to arrive. “I’m noticing your presence now, Rolf.” She turned to glare daggers at the agent- But started, the sickly man having vanished.

“Sir Bjorn.”

“Your Highness?” Bjorn was at her side, his golden armor gleaming in the dull sun that was hovering above. Miranna folded her hands in her lap, straightening. “Lock all the doors in the keep except the most common areas. I dislike the idea of Agent Rolf slinking around, trying to find evidence of any inappropriate deeds occurring in my sanctum.”

Bjorn nodded, and strode down the stairwell into the keep. Her Rosen Guard stood sharply, staring straight ahead, as the first swarm of the Court entered into the yard. Miranna leaned back, closing her eyes, longing for a drink.



Avalus woke suddenly, gripping his blade, peering about his darkened tent. The trauma of the day before was settling in on him; his body stiff and pained, hot needles of aching striking his joints. His knees popped as he stood, wishing nothing more than to be home. His fingers were nearly numb as he buckled his boots and his squire fitted his armor onto him; and they weren’t even in the coldest mountains yet.

He fumbled a cigar from his pouch, lighting it off a torch outside his tent, which was being quickly collapsed. He drew his cloak tighter around him, turning his head towards the crunching of gravel and fresh snow that had powdered the ground during the night. Tyrthan raised a hand in greeting.

“Second day is always the hardest, eh, your Highness?” Avalus yawned in response, stretching his arms above his head. “Aye. Has anyone seen the Agent yet?” His dreams had been filled with the yellow-skinned Agent, but twisted forms of him; ones with maws lined with jagged teeth, or skin peeling like a snakes. “Indeed, your Highness. He came into the camp at about four this morning, covered in blood. Not a scratch on him, though.”

“Fantastic.” Avalus had hoped to get a little more time without the strange man shadowing him. The journey was bad enough, without having to remain stiffly formal to appease the judging agent, whose yellow eyes were constantly drilling holes into the back of the commanders.

Halsin appeared in the strange, near magical way he always did, rubbing his hands together. His cloak had been reapplied, his green eyes shiny and refreshed. “Nothing like a night of freezing oneself, is there?” Avalus laughed, patting the smaller man on the shoulder, peering around the camp. “No there’s not. Have I slept through breakfast?”

“And damn near lunch, you snoring beast.” Tyrthan handed Avalus a simple loaf of bread. Avalus eyed it for a moment, before storing it in his bag. “Why didn’t you wake me? We should have been moving hours ago, should we not?” The commander simply shrugged, waving around to the snow. “The storm would have made it impossible to move; the Goblins don’t move in heavy snows, so we weren’t too terribly worried. Now, however, we need to make up for lost time.”

Avalus nodded, adjusting his blade and standing next to Tyrthan, Halsin on his left. The Mountain Guard moved in steady columns past them; flags raised high, but the entire group looking much more ragged than they had the day before. The King’s Agent made his way to the decorated High Lord, smiling in that condescending, annoying way he often did. Avalus eyed him suspiciously, gripping his blade tight, nodding curtly. “And where were you last night, Agent?”

The agent shrugged softly. “Hunting.”

Avalus rolled his eyes, choosing to not press further into the agent’s business; to do so would be treason. Instead, he willed his feet forward, moving steadily behind the men that lead the way; Halsin scurrying forward to help the leading Captain navigate the terrain that Halsin was more used to. The agent vanished into the ranks of men, but Avalus could feel his eyes watching him and Tyrthan, watching for any sign of insubordination.

Tyrthan spoke tersely, the stiff, formal manner returning to him. “Your Highness, does it not seem suspicious to you, the Agent’s answer to where he was, to get covered in blood?” Avalus grunted. “Who’re we to question the rituals of Capitol Men, no matter how strange, my dear Commander?” The tone he used had an edge to it; it told Tyrthan all he needed to know. That while it was suspicious, it was something to be discussed among the commander tribune, where the agent’s prying ears would be useless.

They walked for the better part of the day; a high sun lighting their path easily, allowing them to overstep most pitfalls of the mountains. As they climbed, though, the air grew thin and freezing, and it was soon noted by Tyrthan that they were getting close to The Dark Pass; where no man had trudged through for nearly four hundred years. The idea frightened Avalus; no one knew how far the pass was; it was deep enough, however, that sun didn’t penetrate it, and it took days for the last march through to arrive at the other side.

The last march had never been heard from, since arriving on the other side, either.

Finally, the soldiers stopped. Avalus was startled by Tyrthan hissing his name, the high lord having been lost in his own thoughts and fantasies about what lay on the other side of the dark pass. The lord felt his jaw drop as he stared up at the utterly massive canyon in front of him; two solid stones, about fifteen men wide, on either side. Fog, so thick it could be physically felt, drifted lazily out of it, shrouding everything within, giving the outlines a monster like quality.

Halsin had found his way back to the two soldiers, and cowered in sight of the massive opening, like a small child cowering from some sort of monster. Avalus’ hand found his blade, his heart pounding in his ears. Even Tyrthan seemed astonished by the size of the crag, shivering slightly at the brutal wind that beat from its mouth.

“Who knows what manner of creature waits in there.” Mumbled Tyrthan “Dragon, Goblin, something more. There may even be entire cities on the other side of that thing- Perhaps that’s where the lost expedition is.” Avalus didn’t respond. His eyes were scanning the army for any sign of the Agent, and there was none. His eyes narrowed- The entire army looked a tad thinner in rank, as if a small bit had been broken from a loaf.

“By God,” murmed a soldier near the back “we’re doomed.”




Miranna stood stiffly as the last of the court shuffled out from the yard, rubbing at her eyes, wishing desperately for some endless fountain of drink to appear. She didn’t see how Avalus did it; to constantly listen to common bickering made her head throb, and her spirit tired. She stretched, staring out over the quickly emptying courtyard before moving towards the steps, taking a sip from her water flask before starting, the great horn blowing to announce the approach of a rider. And then twice more.

To announce the approach of the King.

She moved quickly down the stairs, now, falling in step with Bjorn and the Rose Guard. They strode quickly across the snowy courtyard, through the gates- staring down the main road of the city as King Valgruf road in, bearing the star of the Central Kingdom. A small army road behind him, for protection of God knows what.

“Lady Miranna!” The king let out a genuinely friendly cry, the Lady raising an eyebrow at his tone. He dismounted carefully- A servant placing a wooden stool under his heavy boot, his helmet encasing him in metal that was made to look like a bear. The symbol of the Central Land.

He threw the top of the helmet back, before wrenching the whole thing off his head and handing it to an awaiting squire. His gauntleted hand took hers, before he raised it and kissed it gently. “As much as I am pleased to see you are feeling better, I must ask. Why does the King not receive me himself?”

Miranna stared a long moment at the King, tilting her head. “You sent him, and the whole Mountain Guard, on a mission to the Lost Land, did you not?” It was Valgruf’s turn to be surprised, adjusting his sheathed blade and carefully tucked Tabard. “I certainly didn’t. Who told you I did?” Bjorn straightened, eyes wide with unhidden anger. Miranna placed a firm hand on his plated arm. “Why, your Blade did, sir.”

“Blade? I haven’t had the King’s Blade ride for ages, let alone give orders for some suicide mission to the Lost.” He laughed, clearly thinking his old friend was trying something. After a long moment of silence, he spoke again. “You aren’t kidding, are you?’

Miranna didn’t respond. Her mouth moved before her mind, and everything gained the haze-like quality she was used to. “Bjorn. Find and bring me Rolf. Lock down the city until he’s here.” The large guard nodded, shouting in his thick northern tongue, moving across the Courtyard to supervise the city being virtually shut down. Valgruf wringed his hands, peering towards the mountains, eyes wide. “So, he’s gone to the Lost Lands?”

Miranna nodded. “He has, your highness. In the company of Hero of the North, Commander Tyrthan, and Halsin Half-Goblin.” She paused a moment, staring out towards the misted mountains, aching for a puff of some dream-making herb. “Your Highness, what is in the Lost Lands, anyway?” She had to control her voice; an edge creeping into it.

Valgruf sighed, rubbing his chin. “God knows, my Lady. How long ago did they leave?” He peered at her, wind beating at his hair. She counted on her fingers, murmuring nervously. “Almost three days ago, your highness. When the sun rises tomorrow, it will have been three days.”

Valgruf mounted his powerful steed, adjusting his blade as he did. “Then they haven’t wandered into Everwinter Pass yet.” Miranna cast a glance at the mountains once more, before turning her attention to Valgruf. “Everwinter pass? What lurks within?”

“I do not know, Lady Miranna. My men are at your command. We will ride once the charlatan Rolf is found, and pray that we are not too late to stop them from entering the pass.” He spurned his horse onwards, towards the stables, leaving Miranna alone with her thoughts. She lingered in the Courtyard a short while, before turning and entering into the grand hall. She refused dinner; scaling the stairs to her bridge, moving across it to her quarters. Bjorn was waiting for her- an entire squad of Guards in her sitting room.

“Sir Bjorn Hellfrost. You took an oath, as the Rose Guard, to obey my every command. Yes?” The large man started at the suddenness of the question, before nodding and speaking in a voice that, even at a whisper, seemed booming. “Yes, my liege. To obey your every order.” He lit his pipe, watching as Miranna entered into her chambers. “Very well then. I order you to go and fetch my armor from the Honor Hall. If anyone pesters you, tell them I ordered it myself.”

Bjorn nodded, bowing stiffly before departing from the chamber. Miranna threw open a dust-covered door in the back of her room, striding down a darkened hall to a small room; candles burning, cutting the darkness. In the center, there was only a pedestal, bearing a large chest. Her hands trembled as she turned the lock on it- Rotated it, until twin dragons chased each other. Both tails in the others maw. It spun wildly, before the chest creaked open.

Her hands took up the short, stone gavel within. Mumbling ancient words, the hammer hummed with energy, crackling with lightening. She spun it- Streaks of energy floating in the air. Finally, she turned back to the chest, and hefted the buckler from its cushioned position. She stared at it proudly, before slipping it on her arm.

Miranna Rose, the Shield maiden, would ride once more.

Four

“Agent” Kruthisan Black moved carefully through the pass, his feet leaving no footprints in the dusty snow that packed itself in the massive canyon. His Tabard fluttered in the wind, his flesh warm despite the freezing temperatures. The small unit he had broken away from the army followed close behind him, adjusting themselves, peering nervously around. The one he had dubbed Commander fell in step with him, glancing back before speaking in hushed tones.

“Why did we have to leave the High Lord, again, your grace?” Kruthisan turned his sunken eyes towards the young Commander- a Sergeant, before he had been commandeered. He hardly had chin scruff, let alone a beard that would mark him as a powerful soldier. Kruthisan spoke in a calm, warm tone that he had so carefully perfected. “They were traitors, my dear Commander. I heard them plotting our deaths in the night; all of us here. All of us truly, excellently loyal soldiers.” He smiled a disturbing, toothy grin at the Sergeant, teeth filed to dagger-like points. “You are loyal, are you not, Commander?”

The Sergeant- His name was Riles, Black remembered- fidgeted slightly, staring at the ground. He spoke in the quiet voice of a scared child. “Of course, your grace… It just seems it would have been wiser to, to tell the men of the High Lord’s plan, and then progress…”

Black patted Riles on the back, shaking his head. “Now now, Commander, what if they had failed to be loyal? Our plans would have been for naught, and we’d had been killed by traitors. This entire group should be… Honored, to be here. To be the best, and most loyal. Now, fall back would you? Announce that we camp soon.”

The sergeant did as ordered, slowing until he was back with his unit. The agent glanced up- Raising his arm to a falcon that was circling the group. The bird dived fast, latching onto Black’s gauntlet, presenting its neck, which bore a letter.

Black worked the rolled letter from its case, breaking the seal on it, and reading it quickly. His blood ran cold. The King had, according to Rolf, made an unexpected visit to Northrock. They had been compromised. He cursed loudly, crumpling the scroll and stopping the army for a rest- Moving to a rock to set up his writing equipment, scrawling quickly on a sheet of parchment. All agents in Northrock would go active— and it would fall to His Highness. He shoved the scroll in the falcon’s pouch, clicking it off, shooing it. It rose into the sky, before vanishing into the misty clouds.

He turned and started at the sergeant’s sudden presence. He hadn’t noticed the man approached- to absorbed in the letters he forced on paper. “Yes, Riles? What is it?” He walked, Riles falling in step with him once more. “Your Grace, the Scouts report smoke from a cave about a mile up. They bare banners of a Hill Tribe.” Black paused, brow furrowing in confusion. “A hill tribe? This far north? What one?”

Riles worked a scroll from his belt, opening it and reading a moment. “Summer’s Hand, your grace. It appears they’ve taken shelter from a coming storm in a cave. That’s what the one we captured said, anyway.” Riles yelped at the sudden action Black took; smacking him across the face, filling his mouth with blood. “We captured one? Why did you not start with that, you damned fool?”

“We did, sir. But he attempted escape, and the Scouts killed him…” Black groaned, rubbing his face. “Very well. Tell the men to prepare for battle. We have Hill savages to destroy.” His boots still left no impression on the snow as he moved back towards the small unit, leaving Riles to stand there, rubbing his gashed face, silently doubting the mission.

Black knew but one thing. Winter was approaching- And the chill of death was in the air.



Northrock was, for the first time since the Fourth Age, on lock down. Guards marched on the snow-covered streets, a snow storm having overtaken the city just hours after the King’s arrival. The castle, which was normally dark at this hour, save for a few rooms, was lit up brightly, Guard watches constantly shifting, the court yard sealed to the people, smoke billowing from the chimneys.

Miranna Rethithan moved quickly through her chambers, nodding to Bjorn as he returned from the keep, bearing a chest lined with gold and draped in a banner that bore the image of a rose surrounded by blades. They set it in the floor of her chambers before moving quickly out, leaving the two Squire Maidens to strip Miranna of her simple clothing, and clad her in thick leathers that clung to her body- Her long, elegant hair being sliced away by a dagger to make room for her helmet.

It took a good while, but finally, her boots were laced and her gauntlets latched, her helmet on her belt. On her head was a golden crown, the two layers of it weaving together to resemble vines, ending in a curling, layers bloom of a golden rose. Bjorn nodded as she exited her chambers, straightening her white, rose-marked tabard. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you as Shield Maiden, and not as drunkard, your highness.”

Miranna balled and unballed her fists, staring at herself in the mirror for a long moment- her gavel on her hip, tied by a thick leather rope, the shield being carried by her squire. “Has Rolf been found yet?” Her guard paused a moment, before stiffening. “No, your Highness. He has done well at camouflaging himself among the populace; our guards have done everything but break down doors.”

“Keep them watching, Bjorn. He must be somewhere in the city.” She turned- Striding out onto the bridge that connected the two buildings, Bjorn and the Rose Guard following her close behind. The Nobles of the province had been called to the city; gathering in the throne room that was to be used at night, and in deathly cold weather. Guards stood at attention as the now stern-faced Lady strode past, throwing open the door to the room; feeling the eyes of frightened nobles that had never lifted a blade drilling into her.

She nodded to the King who had, in her husband’s absence, settled into the throne marked with an etched mountain, before sitting stiffly in her own; a golden-fabric chair, with silver vines crawling up the back, connecting to a living rose that had not wilted in five hundred years. She slowly looked about the room; nodding to each of the nobles she recognized, especially to the four chairs of the Grand Houses that had been assembled in front of the thrones.

“Lords and Ladies of Northrock; I have gathered you here to discuss a disturbing turn of events. It appears that the men we have regarded as agents of the King for five years, have been falsehoods and charlatans. They have sent many a man to die, unjustly and without authority. I have called you all here, so that we may discuss a solution, to hunt down and slaughter these enemies of the throne.”

Murmuring rippled through the crowd, and the four Grand Houses adjusted in their seats. “Your Highness and Majesty, is it correct to call them enemies of the throne? It seems that, they are enemies of Northrock alone. Why should the Central Province have any say in capturing them?” The speaker was Anthiron, the Falcon; a man who despised the treaty of three kingdoms, and longed for the days where the North was little more than a band of Hill Tribes.

Jezebel, White Wolf of the West spoke suddenly, peering at Anthiron with her hostile expression. “And how are we to know you do not support them, Anthiron? You’ve sent my court more than one request to aid in a war of secession from His Lordship Rethithan. I’d bet my title that you were behind it, some how or another.”

Anthiron stood suddenly, gripping his rapier. “Talk to me that way again, and I’ll cut your whorish tongue from your head.” Jezebel’s husband; a hulking Hillman and chieftain of one of the many tribes, stepped forward and unsheathed both of his cruel-looking axes. “I’d see you try it, blue blood.” Lazarus, the Owl, spoke up, his Honor Guard fiddling with their crossbows nervously. “Please, both of you, you represent two of the Grand Houses in Northrock. Such bickering is hardly appropriate.”

Miranna watched it unfold, hands going to her temples. Bjorn shook his head sadly. This was nothing new; any time the Four Houses got together, they went at each other like goblins; threatening war and secession, throwing around cries of treason and violence. The only difference was that normally, Avalus’ huge form kept them in check.

Lazarus, his beady eyes shining, continued speaking. “Now if you would both sit down, I’m certain his Highness and her Majesty has some form of plan for the coming days.” His archers continued staring at Jezebel’s husband and Anthiron, ready to fire at a moments notice. Sylvan, the Snow Fox, had still said nothing.

“Sylvan,” spoke Valgruf “the skill and capability of your trackers are known even in the central province; as I’m sure you know, as we commissioned several scouts from you before.” Sylvan smiled an appreciative curl, standing and bowing stiffly. His throat bore a deep purple scar- his Herald stepping forward to translate as he whispered. “His Lordship Sylvan says that he appreciates your words; and agrees humbly that his trackers are some of the best in the three Kingdoms.”

“Thank you. Lord Sylvan, if your trackers had some form of evidence left by the False Agents, could they not begin contemplating some form of pattern by the organization, and thustly slowly lead to a discovery of their whereabouts?” Sylvan cocked his head, appearing in deep thought for a moment. He waved a hand to his only guard- A half-goblin, by the look of him- and whispered quietly. The Halfling considered a long moment, before nodding. “Yes, your Highness, I suppose that is possible. But do we have any such evidence?”

One of the Rose Guard stepped forward. “Agent Rolf left several pairs of clothes in his chambers, your Highness. Would that do, Lord Sylvan?”

Lord Sylvan peered again to the half-goblin, who nodded. “It would. With your leave, your Highness and Majesty?” Miranna and Valgruf nodded, Miranna speaking a quick thank you. The Half-Goblin returned to his post; and three cloaked trackers stepped from the shadows, the Rose Guard leading them to the room. Sylvan looked at Valgruf expectantly. The King bid him to sit, and Anthiron spoke again.

“Fantastic. We’re trusting this mission in the hands of an inbred half goblin.” His guard snickered. Jezebel rolled her eyes; the Owl sighing audibly. A foreign voice filled the room; raspy and rough, it took everyone a moment to realize it was coming from the thought-mute Fox. “If you insult my guard again, Lord Anthiron, I will do to you as I did to your father.”

Anthiron was up before anyone could stop him, and had locked blades with the Fox. Archers stepped in front of the Owl and raised their weapons; and the barbaric husband was back, axes crossed. None were so fast as Bjorn, who began descending the stairs, weapon not drawn. He moved to grab Anthiron; but Sylvan was faster, disarming the Falcon and kicking him in the knee, dropping him. He whispered harshly.

The Herald spoke. “His Lordship requests you hobble back to your chair, you…” He peered awkwardly at Sylvan, who simply smiled and nodded as he resettled himself. “… Motherless son of a goblin.” Anthiron gripped his blade, sheathing it and shoving Bjorn away as he fell into his marked chair. Silence overtook the chamber, Miranna having fallen into a sullen silence at the unwillingness of the houses to work together.

The Wolf spoke. “Do you wish to say anything, your Majesty?” Miranna paused, considering before standing. “You four embarrass the North with your outbursts. If you so much as touch your weapons against each other in this court again, I’ll strip you of your titles and have you thrown to the mountains. We are not wandering Hill Tribes anymore; we are supposed to be united, not only under the Three Flags, but under the Flag of the North. Remember that, and be aware that this is not a threat we can fight separated.” She sat as the King and several other nobles clapping simply at her words. The four houses looked ashamed, adjusting themselves. Anthiron stood. “I… Apologize.”

“As do I,” spoke Sylvan. “My words were harsh, Falcon.” The four houses begged forgiveness, and finally the world fell silent again. Miranna slumped into her chair; speaking automatically. “The next order of business is the expedition of the North.”

Five

Avalus was walking in a daze; his head throbbed, and he felt feverish. He was certain he had caught something, from the deadly cold. Tyrthan walked with the soldiers; keeping their morale high with tales of war, while Halsin stood close to Avalus, constantly feeding him some syrupy red liquid that tasted vaguely like peppermint. “What is this stuff?” mumbled Avalus. His body felt sluggish.

“Five-Leaf Extract.” Responded Halsin, pouring another spoonful for the High Lord and shoving it in the man’s mouth. Five-Leaf was a plentiful plant around Halsin’s hut; it gave off a euphoric feeling when smoked, and the extract made one slower than a drunken snail. Avalus grumbled, closing his eyes a moment. He slowly opened them and raised his head; a smell clearing his head for a moment. “Smoke,” he mumbled “I smell smoke.”

Halsin peered up from measuring another spoonful, and started. “From the cave, yonder.” His small hand pointed up- a cave with fluttering flags billowing smoke. The flags bore a hand, covered in bark and roses. The Summerhand, one of the few Mountain tribes to respect the Three Kingdoms. Avalus unsheathed his sword; stumbling slightly. He coughed, spitting out a good amount of the goopy substance that had stuck to his teeth. “Tyrthan! Tyrthan, rally the troops! We’ve found a group of Summerhand!”

Tyrthan glanced up from his position in the march; grasping his own hammer. “Mountain Guard! Move up, and assist the Summerhand! No tribesmen are to be harmed!” They began jogging forward, Avalus moving behind them, letting out a bellowing war cry. Halsin broke off, leading the scouts in a charge that took them into the cave before anyone; blades out, ready for battle.

Avalus stumbled into the cave, shaking his head in an attempt to clear it. His eyes locked on the guard tabard moving at him, expecting a scout report; screaming as a blade slipped into him. He roared angrily; swinging his sword and lopping off the head of his attacker. Halsin shouted over the blurry gloom; stating that they were the deserting unit. The High Lord ripped the blade from his body, stumbling forward and grabbing a charging warrior’s head, squeezing. Hard. Blood sprayed from his nose as the gauntlet closed around his clean-shaven head, a scream escaping his throat before his head collapsed like a rotten melon. He tossed the corpse away, impaling another charging hostile. His weapon twirled, finding another mark.

Tyrthan was grabbing youth from approaching flames; a fire having started in the back of the cave. Youth, and women- Men were being tossed weapons from the supply officer that had charged near the front, his three squires following after him. A quarrel flew over his head; finding its mark in a ash-covered, loyal soldier; a crimson flower blooming on his chest before overtaking his body, smoke pouring from him as flames at him.

“Oil Marks!” Tyrthan was screaming above the din of battle; warning of the oil-soaked quarrels that lit aflame when they found their target. Several more pierced the ground in front of him; spreading fire on the ground, forcing Tyrthan away from the battle. Sweat poured from his forehead.

I’m going to die here, his mind uttered. The whole expedition is going to die here, in this god damned cave, trapped between fire and traitors. He whirled around, bringing a hammer down on a traitor, blood exploding from his ears. He whirled again; knocking several quarrels from the air, watching them explode mid-air. Rage took over, and he forced himself towards the shooters.

A quarrel flew at him; chest level. He closed his eyes, knowing it was over. The flames never came. His eyes opened slowly, a man in heavy wooden armor stood in front of him; leaves tied in his hair, eyes nearly black from his massive pupils. The man stood nearly two feet above Tyrthan, putting him at almost eight feet. Tyrthan took a step back, eyes wide.

His shield was aflame. He turned slowly towards the shooters; pressing forward, an entire squad of the wood-armored men approaching the attackers. Tyrthan’s jaw dropped. His mace left his hands, clattering on the ground. His eyes found Halsin, who was laughing.

Tyrthan didn’t have time to scream a warning; Agent Black dragged a dagger across Halsin’s throat, a cruel crimson smile opening on his neck before spewing blood, Halsin falling to the ground. Tyrthan moved before he thought; throwing a punch at Black.

Black grabbed him between blades; twirling him and sending him to the wall. Black and Avalus locked blades for a moment, before a rock slammed into his head, and everything went black.


Miranna Rethithan stood on the balcony of Northrock Keep, staring into the mountains. Something felt wrong.

Rolf had not been apprehended; but Fox’s best trackers were moving across the countryside rapidly; at last report, they had just entered the territory of the Dragon tribe; one of the smaller, non-represented tribes, despite its powerful name. The city had been brought of lockdown, and all members of the houses other than the Great Four were allowed to return home.

Fox, Wolf, Falcon and Owl sat quietly in their chairs behind her. The King had departed just a few hours earlier, towards the mountain ranges, intending to bring Avalus back from his suicidal expedition; but still, Miranna felt ill at ease. She turned away from the view; settling in her marked chair. Owl spoke quietly, in his calm, reassuring tone.

“I’m certain he’s alright, your Highness. Both his Lordship Avalus and His Majesty. They are both stout warriors, and would not succumb to goblins or Mountain Tribes.” Miranna gripped her chair lightly. She hadn’t even thought of the savage Mountain Tribes; groups that had resisted unification, and lived too far beyond the Everwinter Pass to reinforce. Silence overcame the group as they sat gloomily; a horn from the city announcing a rider.

Miranna waited for the rider to arrive in the courtyard; but none came. Slowly, a courier entered the yard and scaled the steps with Bjorn’s permission; Bjorn’s eyes following him up, eyes wide with surprise. Wolf and Falcon stood suddenly as the man arrived; unsheathing their blades instinctively. Even Owl, who hadn’t barred a weapon since his arrival, brought a hand gingerly to his belt.

The messenger wore the tabard of the Thunder tribe.

Thunder had been the only northern Hill Tribe to resist unification, and succeed. Their warriors were savage in the field; and massive. Their men were thought to be half-giants, and it was believable. They broke men in two with their bare hands, and ripped throats out with their jagged, sharpened teeth. Thunder had been responsible for the genocide of many clans; and held its capitol of Black Cloud in the southeast of the Northrock province.

Miranna stood, producing her mace and pointing it at the courier. The Thunder tribe had been at war with both her own tribe, and Avalus’ tribe, for years. Ever since the second age. Bjorn slowly scaled the steps, as the courier threw up his hands. “I bring no harm, your majesty. I have travelled unarmed since Black Cloud, bearing a letter from his greatness, Storm King Everan.” He reached to his belt, Bjorn growling as he dug in a pouch, producing a sealed lette

Miranna took it slowly; breaking it open. Her eyes scanned it quickly, widening and tossing it away. “Tell me, why would Storm King Everan, who has resisted the Three Kingdoms since it’s formation, suddenly want to hold a Moot to discuss alliances?” The Courier shrugged softly. “It is not my place to say, Your Majesty. However, he has requested, at the least, a representative from all five of the Great Houses.” He nodded to each leader. “Fox, Owl, Wolf, Falcon, and… Of course, your husband’s house, my lady. House Snow.”

“Lord Avalus…” Miranna held up a hand to Owl. “Would be delighted to join your Moot. Assuming of course, you can get the others to attend.” There was a moment of discomfort among the four houses; hushed whispers and a growl from the giant of a man that was Wolf’s husband; his tribe, Stallion, had been obliterated by Snow. Finally, the four houses nodded in unison. “We will attend this Moot, Courier. Send word to your king to expect us in a week’s time.”

The Courier nodded his thanks; quickly stepping past Bjorn and returning to the snows.

“Quite odd, isn’t it?” Falcon was speaking. “The False Blades get uncovered, and suddenly Thunder wants a moot to talk politics. The only politics he’s been known to do until now was at the edge of a blade.”
Wolf grunted. “For once, I’m inclined to agree with you. It sounds like a trap, your Highness.”

Miranna nodded, settling in her chair. “It does. But the Storm King has always made his intentions clear; he’s never been one for stealth. Though cruel, they’ve always fought with honor. It seems strange that they would suddenly want to resort to cloak and dagger political tactics.”

“From the way he spoke,” muttered Fox in that rough, gasping voice of his, “it seems that he intends all the tribes to attend; not just the great ones. Though the Greats are preferred. That would, of course, give us a chance to get Dragon, Roses, and Bulls opinion on the matter.” Miranna continued sitting in her slouched, brooding position; she didn’t like the idea of riding to Black Cloud, deep in enemy territory, for a moot with her country’s most hated enemy. But there was, of course, little choice.

“I suppose you should all pack your things.” Miranna stood slowly. “We ride to Black Cloud come morning.”

Six

Avalus awoke slowly, groaning and holding his head. He sat up; positioning himself on the bed of grass and straw he lay upon. Smoke curled around him; incense surrounding the bed he lay in. His eyes glanced wearily around the room, before he stood on shaky knees. He found his way to a mirror near his bed; peering at his shaven head, which was completely bandaged. He struggled to a small hole filled with water in the left side of the tent, sliding into the steamy water and groaning softly. His muscles relaxed and the many small cuts and bruises on his body seeming to pour out their swelling and pa

He bathed himself slowly; muscles, though relaxed, pulsing with ache. He wrung a cloth over his head; stripping the bandages away before they could turn to mush. Finally, he climbed from the hole, slipping on the tribal robe that had been left in his tent, along with the sheep-skin boots. He found his sword in a chest beneath his bed, sliding it into his belt loop, before venturing out of the tent.

Several people glanced at him as he exited the tent, squinting against the bright sunlight. Grass played at his ankles, birds chirping in various, and massive trees around him. Avalus stepped forward slowly, before several men in white robes stepped forward, looking him over quickly. His confusion and agitation was obvious; a hand moving to his blade in surprise. However, the hand slackened and went to his side, a grin playing at his face as three forms approached him.

One was a massive, dangerous looking man; never-shaven, hair growing in massive, black locks, a beard stretching to his waist. His green eyes were stern, but flickered friendliness towards Avalus. Flanking him were two, slightly smaller forms in deep cherry colored wooden armor, axes on their back. The man stared at Avalus, who bowed slightly before staring.

“… You’ve gotten old.” The large man grunted at Avalus’ comment, crossing his arms. “And you’ve gotten fat.” A moment of stern silence; before both burst into laughter, the armored guards slacking slightly. “Zachariah Dundil, Tree King. You crazy son of a b****. How’re you?”

The massive man laughed heartily, patting Avalus’ shoulder before turning sterner faced; the pair turning and leaving the tree-like guards, who took up positions at the entrance. “Well,” started Zachariah “I was a lot better, before a group of men wearing Mountain Guard Tabards burnt down our forward post, and we found you three in the middle of it.” Avalus glanced at Zachariah, keeping in step with the giant of a man. “Apologies for that, Dundil. We had… Some treason issues.”

“Indeed. And according to the one we captured, you’re the traitor.” Avalus turned full, raising his eyebrows. “Oh? I hope you know better than to just believe that, Dundil. How long have I kept the Kingdoms off your back, or kept you two from going to war?” Dundil shrugged. “I never said I believed it. I’m simply saying what the ones we captured said. According to them, you plotted murdering an… Agent of the Crown?”

Avalus laughed heartily now. “Mate that ‘Agent’ took a third of my damn men, and led an assault on your people. I’ll let you decide how trustworthy any information you get from him is.” Dundil yawned slightly, adjusting his Thorne crown, dusting off his tabard. “I’m having your armor cleaned. However, we did find two others; judging from their badges, your commanders. One, a Hill Man, like yourself. The other, a small one. Very small.”

“Ah, yes. Dragoon of the Three Kingdoms, and my personal commander, Tyrthan… And it sounds like you’re describing my Half Goblin friend, Halsin.” He turned, smiling. “How’re they? Where are they, anyway?” Dundil leaned upon his great staff, which looked more like a massive branch of some great tree. “Well. The Dragoon is doing properly. He’s recovering from a head wound, like you.” He paused, kneeling and dipping a hand in the water. “The Halfling, unfortunately, was killed in battle. Cut from ear to ear.”

Avalus felt his heart drop to his knees, eyes watering suddenly, head swimming as if he just received a blow to it. He grasped Dundil’s shoulder, standing stiff until his vision cleared. “You’re… Kidding, right? Halsin can’t be dead.” His stomach ached. Badly. He felt vomit creeping up his throat.

Dundil took Avalus by the arm, steadying him. “Careful, lad. I’m afraid so. The man everyone called an ‘Agent’ sliced his throat right as we arrived… I’m surprised you don’t remember. You flew into such a rage, but he escaped into the Dark. We had to subdue you so you didn’t chase him into that god forsaken place.”

Avalus simply stared into the distance. “He fled. Into the Dark?”

Dundil nodded. Avalus remained quiet, before clenching his fist. “That’s where we’re going. The expedition, I mean. The King sent us north, to investigate the Lost Land.” Dundil started at the idea, staring. “Surely you jest, Avalus. The Lost Lands? What would your King possibly want from there?” The High Lord shrugged softly, adjusting his blade. “I don’t know. But I intend to find it before that damnable agent does. When will the Dragoon be ready for travel?”

Dundil paused, speaking slowly. “I am unsure, Avalus. But lad, you must understand what you have to pass through to get to the Lost Lands. The Dark… The Dark is filled with Goblins, and is the domain of the Dread King.” Avalus nodded stiffly, stroking his beard. “I know of the Dread King. He that makes the Dead Walk. We call him The Pale in Northrock.”

Dundil stroked his beard slowly, closing his eyes against the bitter wind that blew through the city. “I also bear news from your homeland.” Avalus peered. “What now? Is my wife dead, or some such?” Dundil shook his head, grunting. “The opposite, Avalus. Your wife has agreed to represent Northrock at a Moot held by the Snow Tribe.”

Avalus groaned, clutching his head. “Anything else, Dundil?” The massive man nodded one final time. “The King rides for High Bluff, intending to meet up with you.”


Miranna of Northrock slipped on her Snow Tribe Tabard over her armor, nodding to Bjorn. The massive man had insisted on leading the entire Rose Guard to protect her, Fox, Wolf, Owl, and Falcon. They’d meet up with Rose right outside Snow Tribe territory; and then Dragon and Bull a few miles to the east. They departed going south, riding through the freezing wilderness to the frigid tundra of Rose territory. It had been decided that all nine tribes would arrive at Thunder at once; to give an air of unity among the tribes, and ensure that any hostile action would result in the obliteration of the Thunder tribe. At first, Miranna didn’t feel this necessary, but Bjorn had convinced her it was for the best.

She rode in front, with the other four great houses. “I can’t believe Thunder called a moot,” mumbled Fox’s voice above the thunder of hooves. “I was thinking Dragon might, or perhaps Bull. But Thunder? It’s hardly believable.” Wolf spoke in her gravelly voice, cloak bellowing in the wind. “That’s why we’re arriving with a small armies worth of Guard, Fox.”

“Fox. Any luck on Rolf’s location yet?” Miranna shouted above the whoosh of wind; peering back at the smaller man. He shrugged softly. “Nothing to report. It appears he took a sharp turn north, though. Towards the Everwinter Pass.” She nodded, turning in her saddle to face forward again. Owl spoke, now. “Perhaps we should not go bearing Tribal flags, but the Kingdom flag?”

Falcon spoke now. “I refuse to place the flag of the Kingdoms on my men. Lord Avalus may have submitted to the Unification Concordant, but he certainly didn’t ask me about it.” Wolf laughed loudly, taking a verbal jab at Falcon again. “Because you’re the smallest of the Great Houses, Falcon. No one gives two shits what you have to say. You’re only a Great House because you made the decision to have thousands of your men die trying to fight the Unification, and the King liked your fire.”

“Remember, whore. In your sleep.”

“Both of you. Silent. If we are going to look unified, perhaps neither of you should talk through the Moot.” Owl was speaking again, his hood pulled up, long hooked nose poking out from under it. Wolf got the final word in. “Hey, Falcon. Remember that time I made you sign the surrender at the tip of a blade, as your palace burnt around you?”

Silence fell over the group again as they travelled, each leader staring forward as a series of challenging hills rose in the distance. “I don’t like the look of that pass at all,” mumbled Wolf. “It’s a perfect place for an ambush.” Fox spoke softly, repositioning himself on his horse. “I took the liberty of having my archers take the hills before we rode, and make sure there were no minor tribes ready to strike at us. And of course, no Thunder soldiers.” Falcon grunted. “That sure does comfort me that the Fox took care of security on the hills.”

Owl shot a glare at Falcon. “My Archers were otherwise preoccupied with making sure that battalion of soldiers you placed on my doorstep doesn’t make any moves at my city, while I’m away.” Falcon grunted in response, dusting his tabard off. “As if I would want your s*** heap of land.” Miranna turned her head sharply. “We approach the Rosen Border. I’d request you all mind your tongue.” The group fell silent, staring sullenly forward.

The Rose riders arrived at the group, before Leaders reached the Mountain. They were clad in the thick, pink and purple robes of their nation; long, curved blades on their sides. Their leader trotted forward quietly, an elderly woman on a steed of brilliant white, her body clad in a deep azure robe bearing a golden vine design, her hands thickly gloved, eyes wrapped in a clean cloth. Her hair; once golden, but dulled silver by age, was tied back in an elaborate bun, her two guards’ small for Human standards, but agile looking.

Miranna bowed slowly. The other four leaders did the same, a respectful air surrounding them, despite the Rose nation not being a great house; it was possibly the noblest of the houses, calm and refusing to war unless absolutely necessary. The leader smiled slowly, bowing back. “Your Highnesses. It is a pleasure to guide you through the lands of the Ever Rose. Will we be meeting with their lordships, Bull and Dragon?”

Her voice was a calming, wispy one that almost startled Miranna with its quiet frailness. She was becoming certain the blind, old woman would become a liability on the trip, her beautifully crafted hammer little more than a decoration. Miranna spoke carefully, hiding the agitation in her voice. “Yes, my Lady Rose. We will all be riding from the Dragon’s land to the Thunder Tribes. Our arriving there together will give a sense of unity.

The old woman laughed loudly. “Unity? Were you all arguing for fun on your way here?” Miranna visibly winced. She was hoping Rose hadn’t heard that bickering between the Lords on their way. “My apologies, Mother—My Lady Rose.” She adjusted herself on her sadly, motioning for the Guard to move forward, riding in the center of her unit now, the entire group moving at a decent pace. Fox made his way to Miranna, riding slowly beside her. “Quite the cold one, is she not?”

Miranna peered at him. “Our Lady Rose? I don’t think she’s too terribly bad.” She cared little if Rose heard them. She was angry at Rose, for scolding her in front of the people she was supposed to be leading. It made her feel like a child again. Fox laughed softly, patting Miranna on the shoulder. “Your Highness, I can nearly feel the anger oozing out of your voice at Our Lady Rose. She is your mother, is she not?”

The High Lady straightened, speaking sharply. “She is.” Fox nodded, pulling down his hood to reveal his pale blue eyes and thinning red hair. “Indeed, I remember. Your marriage to Our Lord Avalus resulted in the unification of Snow and Rose to Northrock, if I am not mistaken.” Miranna nodded again. “It did. And twenty years later…” Fox finished. “Your son, Valgruf, and Our Lord Avalus lead the Tribes against the Kingdom. I remember well enough.” He nodded. “I was forty when your Husband came to my throne, asking me to lend my scouts to the effort.”

Miranna stared. “You’re sixty, Lord Fox? You don’t look an hour over forty.” Fox laughed softly, in the raspy, wheezing way that showed he was genuinely amused. “Well, I take good care of myself.” He gripped the reigns. “Your son was a good man, my Lady. I was sad to hear he fell in the siege.” Fox shrugged his shoulders. “But I am glad to see you’ve freed yourself from the grasps of depression.” Miranna opened her mouth to respond; but Fox was already falling back to Owl, who had produced a deck of cards from his saddlebag.

Miranna adjusted herself uncomfortably, somehow rubbed the wrong way by Fox’s statements. She shook it off as natural mistrust of the man, and rode forward, eyes closing for a small sleep in the saddle.


Agent Black gasped in pain, dragging himself forward through The Dark Path, sliding down the cool stone wall and clutching his chest, blood oozing from around his fingers. He stood slowly, forcing himself along the wall, a prayer at his lips. “Dread King,” he mumbled to himself. “I’ve done your bidding… Why do you not help me?” He closed his eyes a moment before lurching forward, losing his grip on the wall, falling flat on his face. He laid there for a long minute, wheezing and bleeding on the ground, mind drifting to the cave.

It had been going well, the ambush, when he’d killed the disgusting Halfling. He’d easily dispatched the Commander, but hadn’t been expecting the hulking form of the High Lord to slam into him. He’d battled hard, but ultimately the two daggers he wielded were no match for the longsword. He’d driven a dagger between the High Lord’s ribs, and then fled from the cave, not before getting slashed deep and hard across the chest.

He’d stumbled from the cave; slipping past the Summerhand that had come to claim the attackers, but had fallen down a slope in doing so, riddling his back and face with small cuts and marks. His body ached, and he was fading fast; he could feel his blood escaping quickly.

The sound of heavy, plate boots brought him back to reality, head slowly raising and staring into the wispy green eyes of a hulking Mountain Man, a massive scepter in one of his black gauntleted hands. A shield bearing a rotten hand was on his left arm, a crown constructed of bone on his brow, a blue gem resting in the center of it. His voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. His mouth didn’t move; jaw locked in eternal grimace.

“Black… You failed to kill the High Lord, and bring down Summerhand. Explain yourself.” The wound on Black’s chest stopped bleeding, and the man slowly rose to his knee. “My… My Lord. The False King, he made an unexpected move to Northrock. Our… Your agents were discovered.” His mouth felt deathly dry as he continued. “I… I was not expecting the High Lord to move so quickly. I killed one of his servants, but he was too strong for me. I am sorry, my Lord. Please forgive me.”

The massive form remained silent for what felt like hours. Finally, it spoke again. “You will be given… One more chance. I will give you an Army, Black. And you are to destroy High Bluff. Then, all of the North. Let them feel, the chill of death. Go through this path; find the ones known as Bone Breakers. They will be your instrument, and you the hand that guides them.” A moment of silence, and then “But do not forget who is the brain that controls the hand, Black.”

The hulking form turned slowly, retreating back into the pass. Black stood slowly, eyes wide with terror, frozen still until the form dissipated. He moved forward with renewed vigor, walking for hours as the sun above settled. Finally, he came to a cliff, and his eyes widened.

A sea of campfires met him. A cold smile came to his face as he saw the banners; a hammer, descending on a femur. He had found his Bone Breakers. He had found his army.

And soon, High Bluff would know that the hand of death had selected them. And they would know fear.