Any of the Saltwood villagers looking across the moors to the far northeast would have seen a strange low dark cloud moving in contradiction to the strong sea winds. The conjured artificial black boiling darkness concealed the Lady and her skyriders as they flew southwards. She intended to reap the souls from the mankind animals in Saltwood and use these to bargain with Daemons and strengthen their incursion into Aledran. The White Witch Lady Myrtna’s glowing red cat-like eyes contrasted against her wrinkled albino skin. The thick black cowl of her cloak was pulled down lower over her face as she detested light of any kind. She looked around and snarled at her fellow skyriders, all with similar blood-red eyes marking them from the Wyrm Wood witches ‘coven. Their black cloaks lashed noisily about them as they cackled to one another in delight. They looked below them at their hastily recruited ragtag army of allies that did their best to keep up with the witches’ as they moved haphazardly over the ground. This small army was made up of misshapen creatures from the northern quagmires, a few hounds from the house of the Rottweil, a handful of goblins and some Deadbite canines being led by one bearing recent burn scars to her body.
A scouting party of hunters was three days south from the Great Rift along the steppes following the Scarbia Range. They were roaming unchecked through the Silent Ridge kingdom looking for any hiding wolves. The 30 or so brawlers from the house of the Shepherd and mastiff rested in the poor shade of burnt woods and drank from a small icy stream nearby. They waited impatiently and watched their pack commander eat his fill of the little pony they had just killed before any of them could hope to feed themselves. High in the hills above them laid a vast plateau, accessible by thin, steep tracks which marked the beginning of the bovine highlands.
A great shaggy brown bull with a short neck, massive broad shoulders and long, even pointed white-tipped, black horns, stood on a precipice overlooking the steep descent to the moorland below. Two long jets of warm steam billowed from flared nostrils as the mighty beast then inhaled the stench of the burnt woods beneath him. A long tail with a thick brush tip waved about to swat at invisible flies as a grey Kite Hawk spiralled up on the drafts from the moors below and landed on the branch of an overhanging tree. He whispered into a twitching ear as the bull listened intently, his eyes widening. On heavily muscled legs, the beast turned and stomped several times while letting out a blowing snort. He faced the plateau behind him and bellowed with a mighty roar that echoed for miles through the top of the ranges. He was answered by several similar bellows from the higher fields many miles away at the far side of the plateau. Lord Ironhorn had united the herds to lead his 500 fighting brags down the narrow paths to the plateau below.
The proud sons of the highlands awaited orders from their lord to descend to the low lands. An envoy from the Falcon order had earlier arrived with an urgent message from Aledran of war and stories about the upstart Wildpack being in league with the witches’. Then Mohair, a giant curly horned black ram and leader to the sheep droves from the nearby uplands had sent message advising that hounds and goblins were running unchecked through the moors below. Lord Ironhorn didn’t really care all that much as nothing ever threatened his lands high in the snow-capped mountains. However, a second Falcon messenger had now arrived with reports of his neighbour King Blackpaws being driven from his land and likely dead. Also further tales of hounds running rampant below killing everything and the goblins burning all the woods along the Steppes. The faint scent of burning woods had wafted on the breezes high into the mountains and also piqued Lord Ironhorn’s curiosity. Further that the Silent Ridge wolves who frequently conducted a peaceful visit every few months or so were overdue.
Lord Ironhorn had decided to descend the mountain and see for himself what was going on. He would start by having a chat with this little pack of hounds nearby down in the Steppes, and knowing full well that King Blackpaws would not have allowed these dogs to stray so far into the wolf kingdom. Lord Ironhorn held his head high and gave a mighty bellow to move forward. A thunder of hooves commenced as the brags embarked upon their journey to the lowlands. Several Shepherds pinned their ears back and looked around in alarm after hearing a distant rumble. Some thought it thunder from the witch storm to the far north over Aledran. A cold, snowy wind blew from the south ruffling their hair and masking the sound. The hounds shrugged it off and continued chewing on what was left of the pony. Several hours later and not finding any more wolves, the hounds began making their way north to rejoin the witch army. A howling blistery storm filled the air with white snow that had the hounds hugging an outcrop of rock to shelter from the worst of the cold winds. The two hunters in front whined out to one another then suddenly stopped dead in their tracks as several large dark silhouettes appeared in front of them and the warm stink of bovine filled their nostrils.
67.
THE JOURNEY EAST
Saniel now proudly wearing some comfortable boots fashioned for him by the elves bid his goodbyes to Gron and Princess Eylon at the east border of Aledran. They were several miles from the Vale and the forest that lay in front of them as the Great Rift continued, appeared dark and foreboding. Eerily, there was no sound of insects, birds or other normal forest noises and the canopy was so thick, that very little light made it to the forest floor. After some further last-minute advice, Red Whiskers with Jericho walked either side of Saniel having sworn to the Princess that they would protect the mancub to the end. Gron had told them tales of mountains that spewed fire and of a burning land of heat and sand. Red Whiskers didn’t think he liked the sound of that very much. The Falcon Ayah Cloudchaser circled high above to commence his reconnaissance from the mountain peaks.
At Lands’ End in the Boondor Peninsular, a near-frozen goblin named Grell cowered between some rocks from the icy blast of wind and fleeting snow. The freezing cold turned his usually dark red complexion to a pale hint of red. His black mantle wrapped tightly around his shoulders and under his ears did little to stop the numbing cold; however, it had managed to dull the throbbing pain in his left shoulder. The broken sting of the Chik-Vax had gone right through his shoulder, and he had managed to extract it without getting the full dose of poison. He had recently consulted with his patron Daemon Mazamaag who had promised him revenge and given him instructions to head to Lands’ End.
As far as Grell knew, nothing lived in that cold wasteland and beyond that was the Frozen Sea. Grell had left the last lifeless snow-covered forest miles behind and walked the frozen plain to the high cliff where he now sought shelter in the rocks. He shivered uncontrollably and peered through the snowdrifts to catch occasional glances of a sluggish freezing sea below. Behind Grell and out of the top of frozen rock, a black flickering flame suddenly appeared. With burning amber eyes, it looked down upon Grell and was pleased. Mazamaag had not finished with Grell just yet; the Dread-Realm Daemon had other plans that involved this goblin. Above the howling chilling wind, Grell heard a series of loud cracks from the sea below. He peered out from between the rocks with half-closed eyes, his ear tips frozen and saw the sea’s swell had stopped and the water was unusually still. The ocean surge and small white-capped waves were frozen in place as Grell caught a glimpse of grey hooded figures suddenly appear from the sea and walk along the newly formed ice bridge towards the black rocky shore. The Ice mages of the Middendoff Isles had come to escort Grell to the frozen lands.
END
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