His servants were busy grooming his bay stallion, Furo. The five-hundred-mile journey to Porista would take ten orbits at most, so everything he needed could be stowed in the saddlebags.
At length Lot-Ionan clambered somewhat stiffly onto his horse. Furo snorted excitedly as the magus leaned forward, stroked its mane, and whispered some enchantment in its ear.
With a loud whinny the stallion thundered out of the underground vaults and through the gates. Once out in the open, with the path ahead and fresh air all around, it picked up speed, accelerating from a canter to a gallop. The cobbles flashed beneath its hooves, covering multiple paces with each stride. Thanks to Lot-Ionan's art, the horse could outstrip any mount in Girdlegard and it relished its speed.
And thus Furo carried his master, who was clinging on for dear life, across Ionandar and beyond. Kingdom of Gauragar, Girdlegard, Late Spring, 6234th Solar Cycle The Blacksaddle? Never heard of it!" The morning could scarcely have got off to a less auspicious start. Tungdil pushed the map to one side as the publican placed his breakfast on the table.
Particles of dust danced in the wide rays of sunshine pouring through the plate-glass windows. It came as a relief to Tungdil that he could see without peering; his eyes had adjusted to the brightness already.
None of the good people of Idoslane could tell him anything about the Blacksaddle; it was not even marked on the tavern's ancient map.
"Is there anyone in Goodwater who could help me?" he persisted. "A clerk or a magistrate or someone?"
The publican shook his head regretfully, sorry to disappoint the outsider. Tungdil spooned his breakfast halfheartedly. The porridge was decent enough, but frustration had taken the edge off his hunger.
Privately he was still hoping that the villagers were too simpleminded to be relied on. The publican struck him as the sort who had never strayed more than ten or twenty miles from home.
Annoyingly, Goodwater was not marked either, but with a bit of luck one of the mercenaries would know the area sufficiently well to pinpoint its location and send him in the right direction.
No doubt Friedegard and Vrabor would have been of some assistance, but they had long since departed. Stopping only to give the publican a few gold coins to pay for the window, they had struck out for Ionandar and taken the arrow with them.
Tungdil was similarly anxious to leave. "Vraccas be with you," he called to the publican as he slung his pack and the leather bag over his shoulder and stepped out into the street.
The sentries from the previous night had been replaced with a new set of stubbly faces, but Tungdil lost no time in inquiring about the Blacksaddle. Thankfully, the mercenaries had heard of the wretched mountain and could point to Goodwater on the map. It was getting on for midday when he left the settlement and set off down a narrow road, heading north as the sentries had advised.
"If you see any orcs, tell them where they can find their dead friends!" one of the men shouted after him, thrusting his spear at a festering skull and raising a cloud of flies.
He could still hear the soldier's laughter as he skirted the fields that he had seen in the distance from his window the night before.
Goodwater was an apt name for the place. Tungdil could picture what it would be like at harvest time: fields of corn blowing gently in the breeze, ripe apples hanging from the branches, and enough nuts for countless busy hands. Idoslane struck him as a beautiful place, with the obvious limitation that it wasn't underground. He never felt quite comfortable in the open.
At least there's a decent road. He dreaded the moment when he would have to strike out across the countryside. It's beyond me how the pointy-ears manage to find their bearings when there's nothing but woods and fields. From what he'd gathered from his reading, the elves had retreated to the glades of Вlandur as part of their quest to live in harmony with nature, art, and beauty. But the smug creatures' desire for perfection had failed to save them from their treacherous cousins, the дlfar.
It's funny, thought Tungdil, remembering the face at the window, the дlf looked just the way I always imagined an elf.
The northern elven kingdom of Lesinteпl had fallen long ago and now the kingdom of Вlandur was two-thirds under the dominion of the Perished Land. As for the elves of the Golden Plains, they were history: The дlfar had seized their land, renamed it Dsфn Balsur, and made it their base, from which they sent out scouts to reconnoiter the surrounding land of Gauragar.
Gauragar's sovereign, King Bruron, was powerless to repel them. As warriors, men were no match for the дlfar, and if it came to a battle, Bruron's soldiers would be lucky to draw their weapons before they were killed.
Tungdil thought of the envoys and tried to estimate the distance between the southeasterly tip of Dsфn Balsur in the north and Lot-Ionan's vaults in the south. Four hundred miles or more, he reckoned-a formidable distance, even for an дlf.
Unless, of course, the Perished Land has edged southward and the дlfar have extended their range. If that was the case, it would explain the envoys' business with Lot-Ionan: Any expansion southward of the Perished Land would pose a threat to the enchanted realm of Lios Nudin.
Tungdil kept a watchful eye on his surroundings as he walked: If there were orcs abroad, he had no desire to deliver himself into their clutches. He took particular care at blind corners, stopping to listen for clunking armor and weaponry or bestial snarls and shouts. To his considerable relief, he encountered no one and was spared the unenviable task of choosing to stand his ground or flee the orcs' superior might. By the time he reached the gaily painted pickets marking the border between Idoslane and Gauragar, it had been dark for about four hours.
His feet were weary, so he decided to journey no farther that night. Spotting a nearby oak, he walked over and scrambled into the branches, hauling his bags after him with a rope that he had purchased in Goodwater.
He valued his life sufficiently that sleeping like a bird in the treetops seemed a fair price to pay for the extra protection it afforded. The orcs were hardly likely to spot him and in the event of trouble, he would draw on his ingenuity to find a way out. Wrapping the rope twice around his body, he tied himself to the tree to stop himself from falling or being shaken from his perch, then closed his eyes-and dreamed.
He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the fresh cold air that swept the majestic summits of the Great Blade and Dragon's Tongue. The Northern Pass appeared before him and his imagination took off, soaring high above the Gray Range like an eagle.
A sudden welter of monstrous shouts shattered the serenity of the mountains and echoed hideously against the age-old rock.
On looking down, Tungdil saw the mighty portals of the Stone Gateway and all around them Giselbert and the fifthlings fighting to the death. Axes thudded into enemy armor, biting through sinew and bone, only to be torn out and planted in the next foe.
Still the hordes kept coming.
Tungdil stared in dismay when he saw the endless tide of assailants battering the stronghold. A foul stench of dead orc rose from the battlements where the stone was awash with green blood. He could practically taste the rancid fat on the creatures' greasy armor. The reek was so unbearable that he woke up, retching.
Tungdil opened his eyes and was surprised to discover that it was light. What…?
At the foot of the tree, a dozen fires were burning in a ring. Guttural laughter, low grunts, snarls, and angry curses sounded from below.
His blood ran cold. He was trapped: The bands of orcs so eagerly awaited by Goodwater's mercenaries had set up camp around his tree. No wonder he had dreamed of the fifthlings' battle against the hordes. His ears had heard the brutes, his nostrils had smelled them, and his sleeping mind had conjured the images to fit.