“We will eat and sleep at our post. When the Morne come we must be ready in a moments notice.” Turning to a nearby guard he issued the orders, within several minutes the keep was alive with activity as the men prepared for their vigil.
Several hours past midnight Gaelan was proven right. The Morne stirred, they formed their ranks and girded themselves for battle. The drums sounded and Trolls took up their hawsers preparing to drag the siege towers forth.
The enemy had learned to fear the bowmen, and Trolls moved among the front ranks bearing huge shields fashioned from beaten metal and wood.
Shouting erupted in their ranks and a siege tower burst into flame. One after another in rapid succession they lit up the night, swift-moving figures fled into the darkness with Troll and Morne in pursuit. Three of the five towers burned brightly, the wood cracking as they collapsed.
The men atop the wall cheered loudly, enjoying the disaster that befell their enemy.
“It appears that we have allies,” Gaelan said to Wolhan. “Perhaps the sentries from one the watch towers have survived.”
The siege engines burned brightly, their flames crackling in the wind. Glowing embers drifted across the open ground burning anyone foolish enough to stray too close.
More chaos erupted as the final two towers ignited. Three men fled and were set upon by the Fell hounds. No one cheered upon the walls, they watched in silent horror as they were savagely torn apart.
Gaelan grit his teeth, he was helpless. The men were dead before any action could be taken.
Order slowly returned to the Morne ranks. The formations dissolved and they returned to their camp, beyond the crackling wreckage of the siege towers.
“Have the men stand down,” Gaelan said to Lord Hurin with some satisfaction. “There will be no attack tonight.”
“For tonight at least,” Hurin agreed. “But tomorrow will be a bloody night.”
“That it will,” Gaelan agreed.
He walked the walls throughout the night. He found that his men were holding up well and he showed a brave face as he moved among them.
Gaelan was summoned to the parapet by the distant thrumming of the drums from the enemy camp. It was well past sunrise and the new light gleamed from the iron head of a massive ram in the hands of eight Rock trolls. Behind them the Morne assembled into their orderly rows.
Gaelan was concerned, the gate was fashioned strongly but could it withstand the onslaught of the giants. He ordered more archers to the parapet above the gate.
A strange rhythmic chant rose lightly upon the wind. The Morne stood motionless even the milling Fell Hounds sat upon their haunches.
The air grew colder and the light of the sun dimmed. A blue mist roiled through the Morne ranks. It flowed out from their ranks, faintly glowing but casting no light in the gloom. It flowed towards the keep, moving against the wind, clinging to the ground.
King Wolhan studied the strange phenomenon. “I do not like the looks of this, Gaelan. Only ill can come of it.”
“How can we stop such a thing?” Gaelan wondered in concern.
“We don’t.” Wolhan answered. “This is not a fight we are prepared to wage.”
The fog seemed to slow and grew thicker a few feet from the wall. After several moments it flashed forward as if drive through the stone.
When the fog touched the stone a brilliant flash of golden light erupted outward from the rock. A deafening thunderclap shook the keep and sheets of flame raced back through the mist burning it away.
The flames raced into the Morne ranks, setting their cloaks afire and scattering them. A flash of light blossomed in the trees followed by an immense boom that knocked hundreds of the reptiles from their feet. The force of the blast was powerful enough to stagger even the Rock trolls.
A howl of pain and rage shook the very mountains. The drums sounded and the Morne raced forward.
The defenders along the walls raised their bows. A cloud of iron tipped death fell upon the horde, decimating the front ranks. Morne archers replied in kind, their arrows filling the sky.
The men ducked behind the protective stone of the merlons lining the rampart. Only a few men were hit, having sought the stones protection too late.
Long ladders clacked against the wall, the Morne racing upward in an effort to gain the rampart. Using long poles fashioned for this purpose the defenders pushed the ladders back. The climbing Morne fell to their deaths some landing upon their comrades.
With a resounding boom, the whole tower seemed to shake. The men along the ramparts felt the stone quiver beneath their feet. The trolls had gained the gate and were bringing the ram to bear upon it. Swinging with all their might they sought to burst through the iron barrier.
Men within the entry chamber braced the gate with heavy timbers. With each strike of the ram dust rained down from the ceiling.
The men above the gate leaned out to fire their arrows down on the Trolls. Exposing themselves to the Morne archers who were in place to protect the giants.
From the north wall Lord Hurin could see what was happening. He gathered a group of men to him and ordered their fire into the enemy. Arrows flew into the Morne, the archers scrambled to escape, leaving a third of their number dead upon the frozen ground.
Boom! Another bone shaking blow befell the gate. Freed from the Morne threat, the men on the ramparts fired arrow after arrow into the giants.
Oil was poured down onto the Trolls and torches followed after. Screaming in terror and pain the flaming giants lashed out at anything that moved. Hundreds of Morne died before the trolls were brought down by their own comrades. The mighty titans fell pierced with hundreds of arrows, their bodies wreathed in dark oily smoke.
The defenders held and the horde lost warriors by the thousands. Their losses were horrendous and yet they pressed on. After four hours the drums sounded and the Morne retreated, worn and bloodied, a ring of their dead lining the wall three feet deep. There were wounded on the field but the Morne ignored them and simply walked past.
The men of Timosh cheered, striking their shields with the hilts of their blades. The clamor drowning out the beating drums of the Morne.
Gaelan sheathed his bloody blade and leaned against the cold stone for support. He looked to his men, they were weary but their casualties had been surprisingly few. He knew they could not win this fight; the enemy could afford to loose thousands and still carry the fight. The numbers of defenders was far too few to succeed. Timosh was doomed, but he was determined to make the dark lord’s army pay dearly for its capture.
Two days pass with little movement from within the Morne encampment. A blistering storm blew down out of the mountains bringing with it a terrible snowfall.
Gaelan rarely left the towers ramparts, only going inside when the freezing cold numbed his cheeks to the point that he feared frostbite would set in.
It was during one of these sojourns he was awakened late at night and summoned to the walls by lord Hurin.
Racing up the narrow steps he steeled himself for the horrors of combat. Upon reaching the towers roof he was surprised to see Lord Hurin and King Wolhan looking eastward into the sheltered comb.
In the dim light a long line of marching men were emerging from the tunnel. With burning brands held aloft they marched tall and proud. The flickering lights they held shone brightly upon the suits of burnished plate armor that they wore. A thousand strong the men strode toward the eastern gate.
“Who are they?” Lord Hurin wondered aloud.
“Knights of Ril’Gambor,” King Wolhan answered with a smile. “They have never been many, but the Gamborian men are formidable fighters.”
“Marcos said others would come.” Gaelan said happily. He could not help but smile, he knew of their prowess in combat. Even a small number of these men would bolster their defenses greatly.
He fairly raced through the towers depths until he came to the eastern entry. “Open the gate,” He ordered the men standing watch.
; With King Wolhan at his side he stood watching the disciplined Knights marching past. Along side the column of men marched a young warrior flanked by the royal standards of Ril’Gambor.
He removed his helm and bowed deeply. His hair was dark and cut so short that it stood on end. “I am Jerudan, son of King Dragord. My liege sends his respects and asks for the new King of Trondhiem’s pardon. My father’s years have put him beyond such ventures and asks that you accept me in his stead.”
“Welcome Prince Jerudan,” Gaelan responded with a bow of his own. “King Dragord has honored the people of Trondhiem, and should seek no pardon from me. I am most grateful for your arrival in this hour of our need.”
“The Knights who have accompanied me will stand at your side during these dark times.” Jerudan vowed sincerely.
“Your men will be looked after and their needs met,” Gaelan assured Jerudan. With a nod to a nearby guardsman the order was conveyed to the captain of the watch.
“My father also extends an invitation. When our business is finished here he wishes for you to do him the honor of visiting fair Valiness.”
“I would like that very much,” Gaelan answered honestly. He recalled the tales his father had told him of the white city. Lofty towers overlooking the sapphire blue waters of lake vell. The capital of Ril’Gambor is said to be one of the fairest cities of the world.
Jerudan eyed the Keshian King. “I see that the horse lords have come to your aid as well.”
“Prince Jerudan,” Gaelan said cautiously. He knew there was no love between the two nations. They had warred in the past. “This is King Wolhan of Kesh.”
Jerudan bowed low, “I am honored to meet the lion of Kesh.”
King Wolhan arched an eyebrow in surprise; this is not the greeting he had expected.
Jerudan smiled at Wolhan’s expression. “I am not my father,” He said. “Wars fought before my birth are of little importance to me. I have no desire to continue a feud of my grandfather’s that does little to profit my people.”
Jerudan looked at the fortress about him. “If only my father could see this. He has changed since the realization of his mortality has come upon him. Pride and arrogance no longer rules him as it once did.”
“Your father is a proud and honorable man.” Wolhan said. “But I would never have called him arrogant, willful perhaps or even stubborn.”
Jerudan laughed at the rebuke. “You have not lived within the shadow of what he once was.” Jerudan grew serious. “He instructed me to give you these words should we happen to meet during this undertaking.
Jerudan paused remembering the image of his bedridden father, a frail ghost of the man he once was. “Tell King Wolhan that Ril’Gambor has laid aside the glaive of war and extends the hand of friendship. It is my wish that our two peoples may once more live in peace as we have done in the past. Without fear or hatred to tarnish our lives.” Jerudan pulled off his gauntlet and extended his hand.
King Wolhan grasped it firmly. “Done.” He said happily. “Long have I wished for a day such as this, Prince Jerudan.”
The last of Jerudan’s men entered the keep and the gate swung slowly closed. “We have sworn our oaths to the defeat of this menace from the west.”
Come with me Jerudan,” Gaelan led him to the stair. “I will hold you to no oath until you have seen the scope of that which we face.”
Jerudan looked at King Wolhan puzzled by what Gaelan had said. With a shrug he followed, pulling on his gauntlet.
Once he had gazed beyond the towers battlements Prince Jerudan’s perpetual smile faded into a frown of consternation. He had never dreamed that they would face such an enemy. “By the grave!” He exclaimed. “How long can we hold against such an army.”
“We have repelled one attack,” Wolhan stated. “Timosh is well suited for this kind of warfare. The Morne are skilled warriors in the open, but not in the taking of fortifications.”
“Then let us hope no one comes forward to educate them.” Jerudan said looking away from the massive encampment.
Chapter Seventeen
The tunnel had been carved with great care. It was both broad and high, the smooth floor sloping downward at a slight angle. The light from outside only reaching a short distance into its depths, as they moved into the inky darkness a faint silver glow shone ahead lighting their way.
A silvery orb, seemingly fashioned from woven wire glowed faintly within a niche in the wall. Further ahead another orb glowed dimly, and beyond that yet another.
They walked in silence the stiff attitudes of their escort curtailing any attempts at conversation. After what seemed to be the better part of a mile the tunnel sharply bent to the left, daylight shone brightly on its polished walls.
The Mahjie led them around the corner and out onto a broad balcony overlooking a scene that shocked the company.
Casius’s mind reeled as he took in the vista. They stood upon a ledge, easily one thousand feet above a lake of steaming water the color of milk. The mountain was hollow with a great rent upon its western face.
“It is said when Thoron’Gil died the heart of the mountain exploded in despair.” One of their guides stated. “Even the stones of the earth lamented his death.”
Through the opening daylight streamed, in the bright glow could be seen the snow bound summits of three other peaks crowding close to the mountain in which they stood.
Buildings carved from the rock huddled about the water’s edge. In a series of eight broad terraces the structures rose until the upper most buildings roofs nearly touched the rough dome of stone forming the caverns ceiling.
The temperature within the mountain was well above freezing; even with the great opening in the wall it was comfortably warm.
Casius shrugged off his heavy cloak and draped it across his arm.
The Mahjie led them down a narrow pathway carved into the rock face. No rails guarded its edge, one misstep and a careless walker would fall several hundred feet to the terrace below. The Mahjie had trod this path countless times before and set a brisk pace downward, heedless of the potential danger.
They reached the first terrace, here the trail broadened and they moved between narrow buildings. They passed many doorways and windows, secured only by finely woven mesh draperies. Children stopped playing and rushed to their parent’s sides as the group passed.
A deep cleft split the terrace. A narrow bridge of stone spanned the opening to where the ledge broadened once more and here more houses stood. Many of them were in disrepair, having been abandoned for generations.
They circled the inside wall of the cavern as they descended. A great building with a golden roof drew their attention. It was a stepped pyramid over two hundred feet high with a gold dome resting upon thin marble columns upon its top.
It stood upon the shore of the lake, the milky fluid lapping at its base. The lowest tier ended in the roiling mist. Before them lay a path of damp stone leading to a broad stair that climbed the ziggurats western face in four steep flights.
The air was hot and sticky, smelling faintly of sulfur. The mist formed beads of moisture on their clothing and dampened their skin.
A crowd had formed, the curious Mahjie moved in silence staying a respectful distance behind them.
Casius was apprehensive, the more people who gathered about, the less likely they could escape if the need should arise. Marcos appeared to be unconcerned; perhaps the power he possessed made him more confident than a prudent man would be. In fact Casius could not remember a time that Marcos had actually showed any sign of fear, concern certainly but never fear.
The Mahjie who had accosted them on the glacier stopped at the base of the ziggurat. “Your weapons have been left in your care as a sign of respect. The Se’estra has commanded this and we have obeyed.” His voice was stern as he spoke. “Even now I will not dishonor my Seh’ja by removing them.” He looked up to the pyramids top. “This is the heart of the Mahjie, our holy place. Draw your weapons or threaten the holiest
of our kin and you will be killed.”
“What is a Seh’ja?” Casius asked his accent slurring the word badly.
Their guide pointed to the terraces above them. “We stand within the first Seh’ja, there are seven more above. Each is a clan and is responsible for the various tasks that enable our survival here.
“I am of the second Seh’ja, and among our duties lies the guarding of the ways. You have entered our lands through the dawn gate, and above you stands the sunset door.”
Casius nodded in understanding.
“The Se’estra awaits,” The Mahjie turned his back to them and ascended the stair.
The stair ended at the first level of the ziggurat. Twenty feet away another flight rose upward.
Casius stopped at the top of the first rise and looked over his shoulder. The crowd that had gathered made no effort to climb after them. Instead they fanned out along the tiers base watching in silence.
“Come,” The Mahjie warrior said in a tone that expressed little patience as he moved to the second flight.
Casius moved forward walking at Connell’s side. He could see the agitation Connell was masking by the way his fingers toyed with the hilt of his father’s sword.
Marcos strode upward boldly his eye’s taking in the fantastic city rising above them. At his side walked Suni, his calm exterior concealing the tense warrior within.
They climbed three more flights, the final steps ending between two upright columns that supported the gilded dome above them.
Within the domes shadow stood a low dais. In the gloom Casius could see a large chair upon which sat a small figure robed in white.
Above their heads more of the light giving orbs had been affixed to the dome mimicking the stars of the night sky.
A group of Mahjie warriors approached from behind the throne. They wore leather kilts and sleeveless vests of pale linen. Broad circles of gold twined about their upper arms. Across their backs they bore broadswords in sheaths of ornately tooled leather.
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