For seven days blizzards and heavy snow plagued Ravenhold and the mountainous terrain surrounding the stronghold town, and when the worst of the storms had passed, heavy snowfall continued to besiege her walls and the people living within them. Snow drifts had piled up against the walls, nearly to the top of the battlements above and soldiers were busy clearing it away. Within the walls people stayed mostly indoors, venturing out into the frigid temperatures only when necessary—as it was for Kendrick. With the frequent storms and the river being too treacherous they had moved all the wares off the boat and into Ravenhold; the boat itself would need repairs before she was worthy to ride the river, having been damaged in the high winds and extreme blizzard conditions. Broan and his men were bored, yet they complained little, finding ways to pass the time. Broan had even put his men to work helping to repair caved in roofs of some homes and businesses. Now the big merchant sat scratching his beard across from Kendrick as he was helping Durinald in his readings and learning of The Teachings of Jandrous. Durinald was learning much and had immersed himself in the book when not busy with other duties. And Kendrick traveled frequently between the inn and the temple with Kieran who put herself to work helping those who found themselves sick or injured from the foul weather or staying at the temple due to damaged homes.
Occasionally, another merchant boat would come into Ravenhold, having been forced to continue their journey until they could find a place suitable to find shelter from the storms. One of those boats had just landed, and cold and miserable, they secured the boat before they would look for an inn that would provide warm food and beds. With the boat secured, many needed help from the others even to make the walk to the stronghold, and a few had to be carried on litters. An old white haired priest had arrived with them, tired, worn, and disheveled looking. He thanked the captain of the merchant boat and walked up the short path to the gates, hugging himself to ward off the cold and lowering his head against the bitter winds. The merchant's men apparently had a favorite inn they stopped at whenever coming to Ravenhold, for they continued on after entering the gates but the old priest, eager for warmth stopped at the first inn he could find. He would find the temple later, but for now he only wished to get out of the cold—and have a hot meal.
Kendrick glanced at the door when it opened and his jaw dropped in disbelief when the old priest entered. Standing in the doorway, with his white hair a mess and his beard ungroomed, stood Donnagan. His blue eyes instantly found Kendrick sitting at a table looking toward him as though at a ghost.
"Kendrick?" the priest asked, as though not believing his eyes. "Oh! Kendrick!" he exclaimed as he hurried over to the young priest. He embraced him as the young man stood from his chair. "I cannot tell you how overjoyed I am in finding you!"
"Wha—" Kendrick looked up at Donnagan in confusion. "What are you doing here, Donnagan? Is everything alright in Danir?" The look in the old priest's eyes told him nothing was alright however. He didn't even have to speak for Kendrick to know that something terrible had happened. With his eyes filling with tears, Donnagan relayed the story of what had befallen their brothers in the temple—what had almost befallen the old high priest himself, and what likely would have befallen Kendrick. As he told his tale, Broan pulled up a chair so the older man could take a seat. They all listened in horror as he told of the attack and his escape.
"I was afraid to do anything other than leave Danir, certain that my escape from the temple would be discovered, so I felt I must leave. I had to warn Kendrick of the danger." Donnagan explained. "And I—I couldn't stay there. Not after killing that man." The old high priest lowered his head, the shame he felt evident on his face. "I could not stay after what I've done," he whispered. "I see it every night in my dreams"
"That wasn't your fault, Donnagan." Kendrick, with tears in his eyes, took the old man's hand in both of his. "You had no choice."
"I agree," Broan joined in. "I do not believe the One God would fault you. His death sounds more like an accident of his own doing. If it were not him priest, it would have been your life taken by his dagger."
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The column of soldiers slowly entered through the western gate of Ravenhold, their white surcoats and cloaks blended with the snow that fell heavily to blanket the rough terrain. The weariness of their journey was evident in their sloped shoulders and lowered heads. Most rode, yet some walked or were born on litters; those who could not walk due to illness, frostbite, or death. Theirs was a terrible journey. They had endured the cold weather and snow the first two thirds of their journey from Rosenguarde, but the blizzard struck them suddenly and without warning—too far to turn back, all they could do was find what little shelter they could when the weather was at its worse and then continue toward Ravenhold. They had lost horses and men to the blizzards anger, and some were still in danger of losing life or limb from the frostbite or pneumonia. At their head rode Greandor, High Priest of Rosenguarde with Dran, the commander of his personal guard to his right and Jarren, Tia, and Marek riding to his left. Runner, the big Forever Lands wolf trotted alongside seemingly unaffected by the cold with his tail wagging and tongue hanging out in a huge canine grin. Behind them rode, walked, or were carried, the nineteen other personal guard of the High Priest of Rosenguarde as well as five of King Erehk's personal guard; men he insisted accompany Greandor. They moved through the gates and traveled directly to the temple as those brave enough to venture into the cold watched them pass. Many of those gazed in awe upon the elven woman upon her roa'an while others retreated quickly back into their homes or businesses at the site of the massive Forever Lands wolf. Inside an inn as the column traveled past, a tall, broad shouldered merchant stood looking out a window and scratching his beard as they slowly rode past.
"Take a look at this," Broan motioned for the others to join him. "Those are soldiers of Rosenguarde—the high priest's personal guard to be matter of fact about it. A few of the kings personal guard as well."
"Oh—and look!" Kieran pointed to the front of the column. "An elven woman is with them!"
"Surely that is no ordinary wolf—" Donnagan was taken aback by the massive wolf that trotted alongside the soldiers near the front of the column.
"Forever Lands wolf, I wager," Durinald said. "I've heard tale of them. He must belong to one of them. And I suppose that man in the front would be Rosenguarde's high priest."
"Well—it appears there are sick and injured with them," Kendrick pointed out. "I'm going to see what help I can offer."
"As am I," Kieran said.
"Don't count me out," Donnagan said. "I'll come along."
"Are you certain, Donnagan?" Kendrick looked at his old high priest with concern. "You only just arrived. Perhaps you should rest."
"I'll be fine, Kendrick." The old man smiled. There was fatigue in his eyes and upon his features, but it appeared his mind was made up.
"Well then!" Broan said. "We may as well make it a group effort. I tire of sitting here on my backside. Let us see what we can do to help."
And so the five donned heavy cloaks and walked the short distance up the snow covered street to the temple. A young priest met them at the doors of the building and upon recognizing Kendrick and Kieran for their help with Ravenhold's sick or currently homeless from the storms, said they would be more than happy for their further help. So they split up and went from room to room tending to the needs of those laid up in beds. Kendrick was just about to head downstairs again after several hours, when he noticed a door at the end of the hallway that he had not checked on before. After approaching the door, he quietly knocked, and when a voice inside asked him to enter he peeked through the doorway.
"Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked as he stuck his head in the door. Here stood a tall powerfully built man in leather armor and clothing of earthy browns and greens, he stroked his short thick beard and mustache, pausing when Kendrick opened the door, and looking upon him with deep, intense, brown eyes. The elven woman they had seen earlier from the inn window sat by the bed untying a leather band that held her red hair pulled back. A middle aged man with some grey in his dark hair smiled from the bed, and an old and somewhat portly, bearded priest; the one that had ridden at the head of the column of soldiers welcomed him with a warm smile.
"We're fine here," the priest said. "But please, come in. I look forward to meeting all the priests here in Ravenhold."
"Oh," Kendrick said, stepping slowly through the door while keeping a wary eye on the very large wolf curled up in one corner of the room. "I'm not from here. I'm from the temple in Danir. My name is Kendrick. I'm actually just passing through on my way to Seaport—these storms have delayed that journey."
"Ah!" The old priest exclaimed. "And what takes you to Seaport?"
"I'm delivering a letter to High Priest Greandor from my—" But he was interrupted before he could finish.
"Oh dear—well I'm sorry to say you won't find Greandor there, young Kendrick."
"What?" Kendrick's spirits fell. He was never thrilled with the idea of suddenly leaving the temple in Danir to travel all that distance south to Seaport, but he had been through so much already that to not see that mission fulfilled seemed like a horrible failure to him. And the message in the letter was very important. "What do you mean? I've been through so much—what do you mean he's not there?"
"Well," the old man answered. "I mean just that. He is no longer in Seaport."
"He's no longer there?"
"Well, that's what I just said is it not? There is a new high priest in Seaport."
"I must speak with Greandor!" Kendrick said impatiently. "Where has he gone to?"
"Rosenguarde."
"Well then," Kendrick sighed. "That's actually good news then. Rosenguarde is much closer. I can find him there."
"No, no, I'm afraid not." The priest scratched at his white beard. "He is not in Rosenguarde right now."
"What?" Kendrick asked loudly, and the wolf raised its head to look at him causing him to speak quieter. "Then where is he?"
"Well he's right here!" The priest exclaimed.
"Where? Here in Ravenhold?"
"Yes!"
"Well—where?"
"Right here!" The old priest laughed heartily. "You're looking right at him! Oh how I love doing that!"
Kendrick was momentarily speechless. He looked at the old priest before him in disbelief. The thought that High Priest Greandor could be standing before him, there in Ravenhold of all places.
"You're High Priest Greandor?" Kendrick asked slowly.
"Yes I am. And I believe you had a message for me?"
"Yes, from Donnagan!" Kendrick exclaimed.
"You don't say! Donnagan! I haven't seen him in so long—please take a seat." He genuinely seemed pleased, as he motioned to a chair at a small table. "I would hear this message from an old friend."
"I can do better than that." Kendrick smiled. "Donnagan just arived here this morning." And with that, he was out the door and hurrying down the hallway to find Donnagan. "Donnagan!" he yelled as he ran down the hall and down the stairs. "Donnagan where are you? You're not going to believe this!"
Later that night after a long day of helping the sick and injured at the temple, Kendrick and those he traveled with returned to the inn; all but Durinald who had gone down to check on the boat. They were accompanied by Greandor, as well as Jarren and Tia. Marek stayed at the temple with a fever but otherwise in good spirits and expected to recover well. They had all become acquainted with each other in Marek's room as Donnagan explained in person what he had meant to say in Kendrick's letter to Greandor. The two high priests, surprised and excited to see each other, had greeted each other warmly and embraced each other in a brotherly hug. The two old friends reminisced about old times, as well as spoke about the prophecies of Jandrous and of recent events, including the attacks on priests and their temples, and what they were sure was the horn of Gaulin. Long Winter was not only coming—it had already come. They wondered of Jandrous; if he had already returned to the mortal world, unknowing that the wrapped object in Jarren's possession was the very sword that had slain him and must somehow find its way into his hands. He remained very secretive about the sword, ignoring any questions about the wrapped object, or changing the subject when it was mentioned. Tia still planned on confronting him, in private if necessary, about the object and his secrecy. Its overall shape suggested it was a sword, but why be so secretive about it?
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The horses ran hard across the snow covered ground, weaving between the trees, great puffs of steam rising from their nostrils and mouths in the cold air. Chunks of snow and ice flew into the air and about the riders, forced up by the heavy hooves of their galloping mounts. Prince Arden's icy blue eyes were glued to the hoof prints he followed, his long brown hair and gold embroidered forest green cloak flew out behind him in the wind. He reined his horse to a sudden halt, the powdery snow flying out from his horses hooves like a crashing ocean wave.
"We're close, Drogan." The E'eldroan prince said when his two companions rode near.
"How close?" Faldrek asked.
"No more than an hour behind them now," Arden answered. "We're gaining quickly."
"He must think the storms slowed us longer than they did." Drogan said. "We will have them tonight. No more escaping us."
"Ravenhold is a short distance from here as well," Arden explained. "A warm meal and bed for us all when this is over."
"Let's finish this then," Drogan nodded and Arden again took the lead.
Annyaa was too weak to cry out in pain any longer as her ribs bounced against the horses back—and too cold to care. As they passed through the mountainous forested terrain, Andorin slowed his horse to a trot, picking his way carefully around trees and obstacles. Heading for the pass that would lead him and his captive past Ravenhold and eventually into the Barren Wastes, he was certain if his pursuers still followed, he would be hard pressed to keep a strong lead on them when their horses reached flatter lands. He could widen the distance between them for a short time, but his horse carried two. He also knew, however, there were Skraeg within these mountains and if he could find some he may be able to convince them he was loyal to Belkarus—as most Skraeg now were as well, if not all. If so, he would have added protection from his pursuers. He reined in his horse and turned in the saddle, listening. For a moment the wind ceased and he thought he heard the jingling sound of metal on leather; the tell tale sound of tack and harness from somewhere behind. He turned his ear, listening as the wind picked up again, waiting it for it die down once more. A break in the wind brought the sound again—closer now. He cursed loudly and muttered something about Drogan and his persistence as he twisted the horse around, digging his heels into its flanks and urging it once more into a fast gallop.
Arden brought them to a halt once more, studying the ground before them.
"He's riding hard now," he said. "He must have heard us coming."
"Then we're close," Drogan nodded. He snapped the reins and took off at a galop, with Faldrek and Arden riding close behind. He would not allow Andorin to escape him again, he thought. He had chased him too far. Men had died because of that man. Elves had died because of that man. A friend of his had died because of that man. A priest who meant no harm to anyone died because of that man. A father worried for his daughter in Misting Hill and had lost a long time friend because of that man—needlessly. The whole situation was needless. None of this had to happen. His eyes burned with the anger he felt rising up within him. Andorin would pay. He would pay for it all when taken back to Grey Home bound hand and foot. He would pay for it tonight, painfully if he resisted. Part of him hoped he would resist.
Andorin had always been a snake, and he knew in his heart he was responsible for the deaths of some of their own men in Duke Nordhelm's army. He knew he was responsible for the death of some of his own squad mates. He thought of young Danan, who died by Andorin's blade in their most recent campaign. He spurred the big charger on, a growl in his throat—and then suddenly thought of a passage he had recently read in The Teachings as he had promised Halin he would. A fool gives himself away to his anger, but a wise man keeps it under control, the passage said. He clenched his teeth in an effort to calm his anger. He had to admit to himself that the passage read true. Anger would not help him bring Annyaa back to Misting Hill safely. But still he urged his horse forward, giving it rein and letting the big black steed run.
Andorin's horse flew through the trees, leaping and twisting over and around obstacles. To the left and across the river a walled structure could be seen as they broke through the tree line into a mountain pass that would send them eastward. Annyaa caught a glimpse of it for just an instant as she bounced atop the horse's back. She fought to catch her breath—if only she could catch a strong breath perhaps she could call out for help. Would anyone even hear her? She had to try. With every ounce of energy she had in her she inhaled deeply and screamed.
"Help me! Someone help me please!" She screamed. "Somebody please!"
The scream for help reached the ears of Drogan, Faldrek, and Arden and they hurried their horses along. At last, as they burst from the tree line they could see Andorin's horse in the distance riding hard through the pass. Andorin was riding hard, but Drogan knew they would catch him now. They spread out with Faldrek and Arden each to one side of him; Arden on the left, bow drawn with an arrow ready to shoot, riding his horse with his legs only.
"Andorin!" Drogan called out. "Stop! You cannot get away!" But Andorin rode on with no intention of slowing. Drogan gasped as suddenly Annyaa threw herself from the saddle, tumbling into the snow. As she tried to rise, Andorin in a rage twisted his horse around and drew his sword, eyes wide. He was going to run her down, Drogan knew. He would not be able to reach them in time to stop it.
"Drogan!"Annyaa screamed.
"Is this what you wanted Drogan?" Andorin bellowed in rage. "Now she dies!" She was still struggling to rise, hands bound, fear in her wide green eyes—Drogan could not reach her in time. Andorin rode beside her and raised his sword. Drogan tried to scream, but his voice caught in his throat as the sword began to drop down. And then suddenly the sword fell from Andorin's grip and he cried out in pain, thrown back, as Arden's arrow penetrated his right shoulder. He was able to right himself in the saddle however and spun his horse back around, digging his heals to the horse's flanks to escape just as Drogan and his companions reached Annyaa. At that same moment dark shapes moved out of the trees to either side and in front of them. Half a dozen large creatures, powerfully built and bearing spears, axes, and maces.
"Skraeg!" Arden warned, but too late, they were already advancing, intending to encircle them all. Drogan leaped down from his horse to place himself protectively over Annyaa who knelt in the snow, too weak to rise. The skraeg began to move in as Andorin kicked his horse into a full gallop heading east through the pass. Drogan's anger returned as he caught site of Andorin once again evading capture.
"Andorin!" He screamed at his retreating form as the skraeg moved in, weapons ready. "Andorin! This isn't over!" He screamed once more just as the nearest skraeg lunged with it's spear. He clenched his teeth, standing protectively over Annyaa, parrying the skraeg's first strike.
Durinald had just finished looking over things at the boat and was about to walk back up the path to the gates when he heard faintly a womans scream from somewhere across the river. He turned, his eyes searching for the location of the voice. He heard it again. Quickly he ran to the gates explaining what he had heard to the guards there. They had heard nothing themselves, and would not risk sending soldiers out there at night. There were rumors of Skraeg about and with no way of knowing how many and where they were it would be too dangerous. They were convinced that Durinald had only heard the wind—strange sounds it could make as it swept through the pass through the trees and around the rocky terrain. Unconvinced, Durinald raced back to the inn, explaining what he heard the moment he burst through the door.
"We have to at least check the area to see if I was mistaken!" Durinald exclaimed. "I'm certain it was a woman's scream!" Jarren stood from the table where he was conversing with the others and slung the wrapped bundle over his shoulder with a leather strap.
"Tia and I will go with Runner." Quickly the two, with the massive wolf alongside, left through the door and were soon heading toward the gates. There was no bridge. Usually travel across the river was done by ferry along a rope from one side to the other, but at this time there was no ferry so they plunged into the icy river letting the horse and roa'an swim them across. The current was strong but manageable and they made it to the other side not too far downstream from where they intended. After shortly surveying the area, Tia found tracks.
"Horses," she said. "At least four—moving quickly."
"Fear." Silverprince sent his thoughts to Tia. "Fear and anger near."
"I know, my roa'an friend," she said aloud. "We go to help." She pulled herself into the saddle and they rode at a gallop, Runner close beside them bounding through the snow. It was not long before they heard the sound of steel on steel. There was a battle being fought somewhere ahead.
"There are too many of them!" Faldrek flinched as the heavy ax struck his blade sending a shock through the hilt of his sword to his hand and up to his shoulder.
"Form a tight circle!" Drogan ordered. "Back to back, Faldrek! Back to back Prince Arden!" They were all on foot now, both Faldrek and Arden having nearly lost their lives when the skraeg pulled them from their saddles. Both were able to scramble to their feet and now stood with Drogan protectively over the young woman at their feet. Faldrek was right of course, but Drogan knew they had to keep fighting if they were to survive. Ravenhold was not far away, they had to have been seen or perhaps heard. If they could only stay alive until then. His hopes began to fade however when Faldrek took a glancing blow to the head from the flat of an ax that nearly drove him to his knees. But the older soldier bellowed in rage and met the next blow with his own sword. Drogan was growing tired. They could not keep this up long he now knew for certain. But he would try, if anything else, to take at least a couple skraeg down giving Annyaa a chance to escape.
"Annyaa—" he panted between blocks and strikes. "First chance you get— If I say run, head to the stronghold— back down this pass. Stop for nothing!"
"I don't think I can. I'm injured, I think—and weak."
"You have to!"
But the fight went on and although they were holding the skraeg now, they were growing fatigued and knew their time was short. The skraeg seemed to have an endless supply of stamina— and there were six of them. That the two men and elf still stood, was a testament to each of their skill and valor. Suddenly Arden was tripped by a spear shaft and fell to his back. Two skraeg stood over him and raised their weapons to finish him— a snarling blur of grey fur and bared teeth leaped through the air and slammed into one of them. An arrow whistled through the air and embedded itself in the throat of the other. Arden was back on his feet just as a man on a horse rode past him to bury his sword into the back of a skraeg fighting Drogan. In a matter of seconds, half a dozen skraeg became three—no—two, as a second arrow ended the life of another. Faldrek drove his sword into the gut of one of the two remaining surprised and confused skraeg. As it fell, the last roared in fury before turning to run. However, Drogan hamstrung the massive creature and Arden finished it off as it fell.
"Andorin!" Drogan exclaimed and turned for his horse, but Faldrek's restraining arm brought him up short. "Let me go!" He turned on Faldrek in anger.
"No Drogan!" He yelled back at him, but then spoke softer tone. "He's long gone, Drogan. And we know not if there are more of these around." Drogan glared at him a moment and then calmed. He knew Faldrek was right. He placed his hand on his old friends shoulder and then turned to Annyaa. She looked up at him with those green eyes.
"Thank you," she muttered and her eyes closed and she slipped into darkness. Carefully and ever so gently, Drogan knelt and cut her binds, and then gathered her up in his arms. She felt so light and frail. He turned to the man and elven woman who had come to their aid.
"Thank you," Drogan said as Jarren returned from rounding up their horses. "We owe you our lives."
"No," Jarren said. "There is no debt you owe us. We're pleased we were able to help."
"What happened with you all?" Tia asked. "I assume someone got away from you."
"Let me get her to shelter," Drogan said. "Then I will explain everything to you. My name is Drogan, and this is Arden and Faldrek."
"Prince Ardena'athurin?" Tia asked, looking at the elven man as he held Runner's head in an embrace.
"Beautiful creatures, the Forever Lands wolves are, and as this one saved my life just now, he must be the most beautiful of them all," Arden said with a smile before rising to face Tia. "Yes. I am Prince Ardena'athurin. Thank you, E'eldradin. Well met." He then nodded to the tall man, clothed and armored similar to E'eldradin soldiers. "And what is your name, friend."
"My name is Jarren," he nodded.
"Ha!" Faldrek exclaimed. "So we've been rescued by the legendary Jarren The Hunter! Well met Jarren. And thank you again." He then turned, helping Drogan get Annyaa into his saddle before him. "Let's get ourselves a warm meal and bed."
They all agreed and turned west to ride down the pass that would take them across the river and into Ravenhold. Drogan held Annyaa close to himself, somehow trying to will her some warmth, knowing that in her tattered and torn dress she must be freezing. As they plunged into the river he could not keep her from getting a little wet, and she gasped at the coldness of the river, coming awake.
"Shhh, Annyaa," he said. "I'll have you warm and cared for soon." Her hand came up and touched his cheek and she managed a small smile as her green eyes looked up into his.
"I prayed for a golden armored warrior to rescue me from the villain," she whispered. "Thank you, Drogan."
"I'm no golden armored warrior, Annyaa. I only wanted to do what was right."
"Everything about you is golden to me right now," she replied before wrapping her arms about him tightly and closing her eyes once more. "Golden," she whispered. Drogan said nothing, and only looked ahead toward the gates of Ravenhold— but his heart swelled.
After they reached the other side of the river and passed through the gates of the small stronghold city, they stabled the horses and the roa'an. While Jarren stayed behind to see to their mounts, Tia led them inside the inn they were staying at, where the innkeeper mentioned he did not think there was enough room for all of them.
"The three of us," Drogan motioned to Faldrek and Arden behind him, "will share a room if need be." The innkeeper thought it over and agreed.
"The young woman can stay in my room," Kieran mentioned. "I'll look after her." She looked the sleeping girl over while shaking her head. "She's cold, wet, and filthy! And her dress is in tatters! How long has she been out in this weather?"
"She hasn't been indoors since Misting Hill," Drogan answered.
"Well it's a wonder she's not sick with fever!" She held a hand to Annyaa's forehead. "Or worse! She's clearly not dressed for travel or for the weather! What were you all thinking?" She pointed to the three newcomers as though they were the culprits of the womans current condition.
"It—it's a long story," Drogan stammered taken aback by the woman's rebukes. "She was taken—" But Kieran cut him off.
"Well follow me. Carry her to my room. Tia would you help me with her please? We have to get her cleaned up and into some warm dry clothes." Tia nodded, and with Drogan carrying her while being sharply rebuked by Kieran, they disappeared up the stairs to the rooms above.
After Jarren entered the door, Faldrek and Arden introduced themselves to the others. Drogan was soon returning downstairs and looking over his shoulder as if he expected something to be thrown at him. He introduced himself as well and then explained everything that had happened since he left Greyhome to return to Misting Hill, his childhood home. He grew quiet for a time after telling of Halin's death. He felt somewhat responsible, although it was Halin's decision to accompany him. He shook his head while he remembered him laying there, giving him his copy of The Teachings and telling him of his father. He was a good man. A man who had once been a soldier but had become a hunter by trade. He should not have had to die the way he did. He should have died an old man— in peace. This made him think of his own decision to take up his fathers profession as a blacksmith. Would he be able to follow through in that decision? Or would he too die by the sword in a violent death? So much needlessness, he thought. So much needlessness. He shook his head and continued with his story.
"Are you going to return to Misting Hill now that you have the young woman?" High Priest Greandor asked.
"I am not certain yet," Drogan answered. "I feel I have a duty to pursue Andorin and return him to Grey Home. I'm afraid there will be no catching up to him this time, however. And I promised Annyaa's father I'd do everything I could to return her home." He looked over his shoulder to the stairs. "I hope she is alright."
"She is in good hands," Kendrick smiled. "Kieran has brought me through the effects of being caught in a blizzard, and a nasty head wound." Drogan nodded and then turned to Jarren.
"I want to thank you again, Jarren. If not for you and the elven woman, we would all be laying dead in the snow by now."
"Durinald heard the girl scream," Jarren said. "No thanks are necessary, but you may thank him and his persistence when the guards didn't believe him." Drogan nodded to the blond man.
"Thank you then, Durinald."
"Well," Jarren said, rising from the table. "I am tired. All of you have a good night." He paused as he was passing Drogan and looked down, catching his eye. "There are few men like you, Drogan. I believe you are a good man. You did not have to begin the chase that brought you all the way here from Misting Hill. But you did. From what you have told me, I believe, Halin would be proud." He paused a moment before continuing softly. "I knew Halin, Drogan. We fought the Skraeg together under King Erehk twenty years ago. People talk often of those they call legends, but they do not talk often enough of those that fought with them. Halin scouted with me often, and saved my life more than once. I'm sorry it ended the way it did for him—but I believe he would have had it no other way. He died attempting to rescue that young woman upstairs and helping you. That's the kind of man the Halin I knew was. Somehow I doubt he changed much—he was a good man." He turned and walked up the stairs.
Drogan watched him go. Jarren The Hunter, he thought. A man that commanded respect. And there he was speaking so highly of another man. Not what Drogan would have expected, but Drogan found himself respecting him more for that, than for the legend he was.
Andorin rode slowly into a camp of Skraeg warriors. He had almost passed them by, they were so well hidden up on a ridge above the pass. But out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed a fire burning and rode up toward it. At least a dozen skraeg there were, conversing quietly together and they stared at the man in disbelief as he dismounted his horse in their midst, and walked to their fire. A few of them had risen, raising their spears, axes, and spiked maces, as he tore the arrow from his shoulder and then took off his armor and knelt to grab a burning brand. He forced the red glowing tip of the wood into the wound, cauterizing it and crying out in pain. He looked at the skraeg around him, smiled, and spoke one word.
"Belkarus," he said. And then his eyes rolled up in his head and he lost consciousness, falling forward into the snow with a thud.
©Anthony David Rosenthal/To The Valley Of Dragons 2010
