silently waiting for the strangers’ next announcement.
The other figure who wore yellow armour trimmed with purple and gold, so garish compared to the dark grey-and-black of the moredhel fighting garb, stepped forward and announced himself. ‘I am Kumal, Warleader of the Clan of the Seven Stars.’
That brought total silence. Despite his advancing years and colourful raiment, the speaker possessed a warrior’s carriage and visible scars, and his manner communicated a kinship to the moredhel chieftains that they recognized. A few chieftains shouted out traditional words of greetings to a fellow warrior.
If the warleader was pleased to be received in such a fashion, he showed no sign of it but simply nodded once and continued, ‘The Regent’s Meet has elected to recognize your independence.’
Instantly the mood of the gathered chieftains turned ugly once more. ‘You recognize us?’ shouted more than one chieftain.
‘Quiet!’ shouted Narab. ‘He brings news!’
‘The humans war among themselves,’ Kumal went on when the noise had died down. ‘Their Empire of Kesh has marched against their Kingdom of the Isles, and much of the land to the south lies covered in smoke and blood.’
This brought a mixed reaction, for as much as the moredhel hated humans, dwarves, and the eledhel, war in the south meant trouble for the southern clans. The leader of one such clan shouted, ‘What of the west?’
‘Kesh has taken Crydee,’ returned Kumai, ‘and is driving over the northern pass in the Grey Towers to Ylith.’
‘What of the Green Heart?’ shouted another voice.
‘Kesh ignores all but the human towns and cities. The dwarves stand ready at the borders of Stone Mountain and the Grey Towers, but will act only if their lands are threatened. The Green Heart and the mountains to the south of E’bar are untroubled.’
One of the southern chieftains cried, ‘Now is the time to return to the Green Heart!’
‘As to that,’ said Kumal, ‘the Regent’s Meet has decided that we shall welcome any of our kin who venture south of the river boundary … as long as they recognize our rule over all lands south of Elvandar. You must pledge fealty to the Clans of the Seven Stars.’
Instantly, furious shouts rang out. ‘That is
‘We bow to no one!’
‘Our ancestors died there!’
Arkan turned to Morgeth. ‘It’s time to leave.’
Morgeth nodded and the two of them quickly made for the sidestreet and gate beyond. As they entered the dark lane, the sound of approaching warriors made Arkan motion for Morgeth to stop. He pointed to the door of an abandoned building and they ducked inside, crouching down beneath broken windows.
A moment later, they heard the sound of a large band of armed warriors passing by. The two warriors from the northern mountains kept silent until the sound of boot heels on cobbles was replaced by war-cries and the noise of steel ringing against steel. Arkan touched his companion and signalled, and they ran from the abandoned building towards the distant gate.
‘Narab seeks to be king, then?’ asked Morgeth once they were clear of danger.
‘Since killing Delekhan.’
‘A hundred years of hunger is a long time.’
Arkan nodded, then pointed to the distant gate.
Morgeth frowned. ‘What do we do if it’s guarded?’
‘Talk first, then fight.’
They reached the gateway and found a company of guards waiting: a dozen warriors stationed in front of fifty or more horses. Even before the warrior in charge could challenge them, Arkan waved and shouted, ‘Hurry!’
‘What is it?’ asked the leader.
‘Take your detail up the road, and go north at the first cross street. Cut off those trying to escape behind the palace! Hurry!’
‘The horses-’
‘We will take care of the horses, now go!’
The twelve warriors hurried off and Morgeth shook his head. ‘Clan Bighorn always were a little thick.’
Arkan said, ‘Our horses are on the other side of the city.’ Looking at the large selection of mounts they had to choose from, he added, ‘Seems a fair trade.’
Picking a handsome gelding, Morgeth said, ‘You can’t possibly think of taking them all?’
Getting into the saddle on a bay mare, Arkan said, ‘I was thinking of it, but we have more pressing business. We should hurry back to camp before word of this fighting reaches them.’
‘Should we break camp?’ asked Morgeth.
‘That would draw too much suspicion. Narab has been planning this for a while, I think. He’s made arrangements: Bighorn is not one of his usual allies, which means he has added new ones. No, have our men stay close to the tents and tell my sons to be ready to fight, but we should keep our swords sheathed unless attacked first. No one is to look for trouble. Anyone who starts a fight, answers to me.’ He grew thoughtful for a moment as he gazed into the distance. Then he said, ‘I don’t think Narab is ready to crown himself yet. Tonight he was merely showing the unallied clans who held the most power here by breaking a few heads. I doubt more than two or three warriors will die before morning.
‘Tell Goran that if I discover his sword has been drawn before I get back I’ll personally make him eat it.’
‘Your son won’t like that.’ observed Morgeth with a wry, half-smile.
‘He doesn’t like a lot of things, which is why Antesh is my heir,’ answered Arkan. ‘Make sure Cetswaya stays close to my sons.’
Morgeth nodded. Cetswaya was their shaman and always a calm voice and wise counsel.
‘If I don’t return by sunrise tomorrow, have Goran and Antesh take the men north, then west. Find the rest of our people and take them back into the icelands, then wait until it’s safe to return to our normal range.’
‘And how will we know when that time arrives?’
‘That will not be my problem, for if you must flee tomorrow, I will likely be dead. If I don’t find you in the north by next spring, I will certainly be dead.’ Arkan put his heels to his horse and shouted, causing the other mounts to shy. Some pulled up stakes.
As Morgeth watched his chieftain ride off into the deepening gloom of the hills around Sar-Sargoth, he said to no one, ‘They’re not going to like this much.’
Then weighing Clan Bighorn’s ire at finding their mounts scattered against the wrath of Narab discovering that Arkan wasn’t among those chieftains in the square, he decided his chieftain had the better bargain. He shouted at the horses nearby without enthusiasm, then turned his mount down towards the plains. There, twenty thousand moredhel warriors awaited the return of their chieftains, and he wondered if it was possible for the Ardanien to somehow get away intact.
Arkan rode for more than an hour, circling the vast array of camps outside the walls of Sar-Sargoth. A thousand fires or more burned as the main host of the moredhel nation had gathered outside the walls of the massive city.
Despite being the closest thing to a moredhel capital, the city was deserted for most of the year. Delekhan, the last moredhel chieftain who had attempted to occupy the city as a symbol of his supremacy, had been killed by Arkan’s father, Gorath, during the second abortive attempt to seize the Kingdom city of Sethanon.
Since then, Delekhan’s heir, Narab, had occasionally moved his clans into the vicinity, but had avoided the vanity of occupying any of the palaces scattered through the city. Today, it appeared, was to be the day he decided to advance his claim to pre-eminence, if only symbolically.
And so Arkan rode through the night, seeking the one leader among the moredhel with enough power to balk Narab’s ambition for a crown one that no moredhel in history had dared to wear. The Ardanian chief hoped what he saw tonight was just another tribal conflict, one quickly resolved, rather than the beginning of a true dynastic struggle. For in the first instant he had seen them, Arkan knew that the true threat came from the elves from the distant stars.
