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Chronicles of Arborell, Copyright Wayne Densley 2008 All Rights Reserved
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 The early dusk settled over the plains of the Surgis'Ka as Mallen and Gremorgan hastened their way northwards. The remainder of the afternoon had been warm but a chill had touched the wind, and as they continued their pursuit of the Warband both men looked anxiously to the horizon. Storm clouds were brewing in the north, the winds forcing huge thunderheads in their direction. Before them the endless grasslands were a sea of undulating green, a wide panorama of waving grass that spread to all the horizons and gave no hint that it had either border or boundary. Since leaving the ruin of the old farmstead the two men had ran, the afternoon falling away as they attempted to make ground on the Hordim. Somewhere upon the vast plain ahead moved their quarry, and in the slanting light of the afternoon suns Mallen could not be sure how far ahead of them the Hresh actually were. The signs left in the harder ground of the Surgis'Ka were faint and the Kalborean found himself regularly having to pause in the knee-deep grasses to test the remnants of the Hordim's advance.
"What do you see Master Cael" asked the Dwarvendim as he bent into the grasses. Mallen rose from his consideration of the trail and made an arc with his arms, encompassing a wide area of the ground ahead. In his hand he held a small scrap of yellow cloth.
"The Hordim move at a rapid pace, their number spread wide across the plain. I fear it will be impossible to tell if any of the Warband break away. There are simply too many tracks."
Mallen brought the piece of cloth to where the Dwarvendim stood and showed it to him.
"I have found a number of these over the course of the day. There must be many more of the yellow-marked Hresh than the Denmar. It makes me wonder if there is any possibility of them separating, and whether we would know anyway, considering the wide swath they cut across the plain."
Gremorgan nodded and pulled a water bottle from one of his bags.
"It is in the hands of Providence as to what they might do, all we can do is follow, but we must trust that at this stage of the game they will see the benefit of their strength in numbers. I am sure it will take a major event to separate them now. And if that is so, we will know about it when we stumble across its aftermath. Hopefully the sign they leave behind will show us the way."
The Dwarvendim took a drink and wiped his mouth. In the evening light the ground had started to darken, and he looked anxiously towards the sky.
"I think that it will be prudent for us to find shelter. I do not like the look of those clouds. There's a storm coming and I have the feeling that we will need to be properly protected when it does."
Mallen agreed, but as he looked about the plains he could see little sign of any suitable refuge. "I think we have few choices here Gremorgan, shall we not move on and trust in Providence to provide cover when we need it?"
Gremorgan smiled and pulled a small device from one of his many pockets. Mallen immediately recognised it as the metallic object the Dwarvendim had used once before to find his way within the labyrinths of the Hra'gora.
"Master Cael, in these lands you do not trust to anything if you wish to stay alive. We have been relying on your skills for some time. Now I believe it is only appropriate that I add something to this enterprise."
With that he placed the instrument in his hands and muttered something quietly as he looked into its glass face. When he had finished he nodded his head in satisfaction and held out his hand for Mallen to look as well.
"This is a Dirge-compass Master Cael. Unlike a sailor's instrument that might show you true north, this device seeks out and identifies the remnants of past life-energies. I have asked it to show me the nearest human habitation and it has done so. For good measure it has also given me the distance as well."
Mallen looked into the top of the disc shaped device and found a slender stone needle suspended over a field of glowing metal. The needle was pointing slightly west of north. In the descending night the metal plate glittered, displaying a field of shining points of light that Mallen could have sworn were moving slowly over its surface, as if the device was tracking something.
The Kalborean turned to Gremorgan. "How does it work, and what does it tell you?"
The LoreMaster took one further measure from it and replied, "It tells me that an old farmstead lies no more than three kilometres from where we stand, roughly in that direction." He pointed to the north-west and then continued. "If we are lucky we can reach it within the hour." For a moment he paused, looked out to the setting suns and then closed up the compass before returning it to his pocket.
"How the Dirge-compass works is a simple affair. It is a product of EarthMagic, the needle you saw floating within it is stonewood, a shard of petrified wood taken from an ancient tree that resides at the very source of the Shan'duil. You may remember when I described the nature of the River of Life that it binds the cycle of life and death in this world. Stonewood is drawn to any life, and when placed in a Dirge-compass it can tell me where any person, or other living thing may be, or has been in the past. What the compass is measuring here is the echo, or the residual life-energies, of those people who lived in the farmstead. It may well be that they abandoned their farm to the elements generations ago, but their life-struggle, their emotions and their determination have all left a mark which the compass can sense. It can be a very useful device when the circumstances warrant its use."
Mallen thought that this was probably an understatement, and in the gathering gloom he followed as Gremorgan began a rapid march towards the farmstead. To the north a solid bank of black cloud had obscured a third of the sky, and even as the first stars of night struggled into view both men could see huge blasts of lightning hitting the ground far ahead. As of yet there was no rumble in the air, the storm still a good distance away, but it was advancing rapidly and Mallen could feel the air changing, an energy creeping into his surroundings, charging everything with the anticipation of the tempest to come.
Before they could cover less than a kilometre they were hit by the first of a series of winds that flattened the grasses around them and sent debris flying southwards. In the bluster of the winds Mallen pulled his cloak tighter about him and sensed in the air that this was not going to be just a storm. Within its blows and eddies he could feel an icy chill, and as the storm closed in upon them he could see the tops of the thunderheads being torn apart by crosswinds and shears. The lightning grew closer as they marched, a deep rumble shaking the ground as blast after blast of light assaulted the plains below. It felt like the ground itself was being shattered by the force of the pounding. With every stride they took the velocity of the wind increased, attempting to push them back as they struggled forward.
In the gathering bluster Gremorgan came closer and shouted into Mallen's ear.
"We are in trouble Master Cael. This is no ordinary storm, we are confronted by the Treachersa, and if we do not find shelter before it hits we may well not survive it."
Mallen agreed and immediately followed Gremorgan at the run. He had used one of the old languages when he described the storm as a Treachersa, a murderer of the innocent, and as good as their name such storms were killers. He had heard tales of travellers disappearing within the violence of such tempests, and of entire villages that had been flattened by their power. To be out in the open when one hit was not a proposition he relished.
With their attention focused on the approaching storm the two men ran onwards, finding what they were looking for huddled between two shallow hills. The farmstead was a large affair, a two-story stone dwelling that had been overcome by the spreading branches of a stand of Elm trees. It must have been abandoned for at least three generations and as Mallen and Gremorgan approached its solid stone walls they could still identify the outlines of fencing, outbuildings and barnyards surrounding the main structure. In its day it would have been an impressive establishment, but with the black wall of cloud thundering down upon them they had little time to appreciate the effort that would have been required to build it out here in the wilds. Mallen's only concern was where they might find refuge.
Above the howl of the wind he shouted to Gremorgan, "Where to now?"
The Dwarvendim surveyed the building quickly. Most of it lay shattered by action of wind, root and branch but at the rear of the main structure there stood a small outbuilding, a tool-shed. It looked both solid and was still in possession of its slate roofing.
"There we should find shelter. It looks solid enough for our purposes. Let us hurry. The storm is almost upon us!"
Mallen did not need to be convinced. The door to the shed was weathered and broken but still serviceable to a fashion. Together they made it inside and then forced the door closed. Inside the shed was a morass of broken shelving and rotting cupboards. Against its far wall a heavy workbench stood squat and immovable. Gremorgan took one look at the contents of their refuge and set to work. With Mallen's help they reinforced the door with shelving and bolstered the walls with planking they found stacked in a corner. When they had finished the Dwarvendim crawled in under the workbench and motioned Mallen to join him.
"Come quickly Master Cael. This shed may survive the storm but then it may not. If it doesn't you do not want to be standing out in the open do you?"
The Kalborean took the point and crawled under the bench himself. And it was there they stayed, crouched beneath its heavy wood, waiting the inevitable impact of the Treachersa.
They did not have to wait long. About them the air became suddenly chilled, and as the storm approached the building was hit by powerful winds, then hail that hammered at the shingled roof and tore at the stone walls. In seconds the whole farmstead was engulfed in a cacophony of crashing ice and blasts of lightning, a rising tide of elemental power that shook the foundations of their refuge, smashing in what remained of the shed's windows and tearing at its walls.
Beneath the workbench both men remained huddled, wrapped in their travel cloaks, waiting for whatever might follow. Quickly the power of the storm increased, hail and sleet slicing through the shattered windows, hammering against the makeshift boarding Gremorgan had put up to cover them. In the deluge Mallen could hear ice building on the roof. Under its weight the timbers were beginning to buckle and over the rush of the wind he could hear the low groan of wood under pressure. About them the lightning crashed into the ground, sending out shock-waves of sound and charged energy as thunder rolled away along the plain. In the maelstrom the Kalborean could not bear the noise. In an attempt to escape its overwhelming volume he placed his hands over his ears and pressed himself closer to the stone wall at his back. It was to no avail.
For his part Gremorgan watched the storm build before him more with awe than fear. He had always marvelled at the power of nature and over the years had come to accept that life in the outdoors had its dangers. As the lightning crashed about them he placed his hand against the cold stone at their backs and felt the power of the storm send shudders through its structure. He believed the main building was strong enough to stand the onslaught, but its ruin offered no protection from the pounding hail. The shed had a roof but he had his doubts it could withstand the enormous forces that were being vented on its slate shingles. The workbench itself was their real protection. As long as they were beneath its thick timbers they should be safe enough.
For an hour the storm raged unabated, venting its power on the unprotected plains, before lessening as a change in wind direction sent the centre of the storm eastwards. In the ensuing rain the two men sat in the dark and chewed at some Nahla bread, waiting for what was to come next.
Both men tried to sleep but it was impossible in the confines of their refuge to do so, the noise and the cold making the cramped conditions under the workbench too uncomfortable to find rest. Instead Gremorgan decided to tell a tale to pass the time.
"Master Cael, have you ever heard of the Verk'haalen?"
Mallen shook his head and waited for whatever the Dwarvendim had to say. There was a look of devilment in the LoreMaster's eyes, as if he was about to perpetrate some type of mischief.
"The Verk'haalen are an ancient Hordim myth, a legend from a time long before the coming of Men to Arborell. As far as I can tell it originates at the time when the Mutan first gained their hold on EarthMagic and their grasp upon its power was shaky at best."
Outside of their refuge the storm rumbled ominously and both men looked again to the windows as rain lashed the sides of the outbuilding. For Gremorgan it was a suitable backdrop for the tale he was about to tell.
"After the destruction of the Trell, the Mutan took control of EarthMagic and began to experiment with its powers. For whatever reason their dabblings tipped the balance of the Shan'duil and unleashed the creatures the Hordim called the Verk'haalen into the world."
"Who were they?" asked Mallen.
"As best as I can say the word Verk'haalen means 'storm shepherd' but they were nothing like their name suggests. In the worst storms they would appear, gruesome spectral beings using the power and the malevolence of the maelstroms as doorways into our reality, and for as long as the storm lasted the Verk'haalen would create havoc, destroying what they could, and killing everything that was unfortunate enough to cross their path."
Gremorgan paused for effect before continuing.
"For the Hordim, especially the Hresh who lived upon the plains of Arborell in those times, the Verk'haalen were demons that could not be killed and who spread trails of murder and fear wherever a storm might travel. Many died. It is said entire Kraals disappeared in those days, taken by the storm shepherds to a tortured end. Even now, the Hordim will not travel in times of storm or inclement weather. They fear what lurks in the dark power of the Treachersa, and I myself do not blame them."
Outside an arc of lightning hit the ground nearby, illuminating the windows and sending thunder crashing through the shed's stone walls. The storm was returning, the wind changing once again and pushing the power of the storm back in their direction. For Mallen the story of the storm shepherds gave him one more reason to wish the refuge they had found was more substantial. The noise of the storm was increasing again, the wind sending cold blasts of debris and icy hail hammering into the farmstead, rocking its weathered stone and drowning all other sounds in its howl and bluster. As he tried to huddle further under the bench he shouted to Gremorgan. "How did the Mutan get rid of the Verk'haalen?"
The Dwarvendim looked out at the storm and then turned to his companion. His words were almost drowned in the increasing violence of the storm. "Who said they did?"
Before Mallen could ask anything further the storm broke against the ruined buildings with added fury; a grinding, tearing force that pounded at the foundations as if the Verk'haalen were indeed outside, trying to break down the stone walls to get at them. The Kalborean had never witnessed such a maelstrom. A lifetime of travel upon the roads of Kalborea had not prepared him for the absolute power of this storm. Tightly he held his pack and dug himself deeper under the workbench.
Then the roof collapsed.
In a deluge of ice and slate the outbuilding's roof caved in, throwing timber and stone in all directions as it came down directly on top of the workbench. Protected only by the heavy wood the roof smashed down upon them, covering the bench entirely in debris. Gremorgan cried out as a piece of shattered timber drove itself down across his shoulder. Within the thrash and tear of the storm Mallen did not notice his companion's injury until a bright blast of lightning illuminated their small refuge enough to show Gremorgan pinned by the beam, his back forced against the cold stone behind them.
"Gremorgan!" he shouted, but the storm muffled his cry. In the confines beneath the bench he pushed away some of the debris and attended to his companion, grabbing the timber with both hands and wrenching it away. The Dwarvendim looked winded, his face a mask of pain as he grasped at his shoulder. Blood poured from between his fingers.
Mallen was unsure what he should do, but he knew he had to do something, and quickly. Carefully he exposed the wound and found that it was not deep. It was however a long gash that ran from Gremorgan's collarbone to his sternum. And it was bleeding profusely. The Kalborean looked worriedly at the LoreMaster.
"What must I do? This bleeding must be stopped."
Gremorgan nodded and pointed to one of his bags with his free hand.
"I do not feel any damage other than the tear in my skin. In the bag you will find some powder and a long roll of bandage. The powder I can apply, the bandaging will be up to you."
Mallen grabbed at the bag and found what the Dwarvendim had asked for. As the storm raged about them Gremorgan went to work. With hands slick from his own blood he unscrewed a small jar of white powder and carefully sprinkled some of its contents over the open wound. In the crash of lightning Mallen saw his face contort with pain and a veil of mist rise from the surface of the wound, but as the Dwarvendim lay more of the powder upon the tear he could see its tattered edges begin to fuse, the blood disappearing as the powder reacted with his body.
When Gremorgan had finished the wound lay red and sore across his chest but all sign of bleeding had dried up. The LoreMaster had paid a price however. His face was drawn and his breathing laboured.
"The powder has only closed the injury. It will need to be bound if it is to heal sufficiently. Take the bandage and bind it tightly about my chest and shoulder."
Mallen watched as his companion stripped off his cloak and vests. In the freezing cold the Kalborean carefully bound the Dwarvendim's torso as he took directions as to how it must be done. When he was finished Gremorgan dressed and lay back against the cold stone. Once the task was complete Mallen could see he was breathing much easier, however there was no doubt in his mind that the pain was still intense, regardless of the unusual power of the white powder.
Under the debris they waited as the Treachersa pounded the ground around them. In waves of wind and hail, the storm clawed at the farmstead and its stand of trees. Blinding flashes of lightning hit the earth all about them, sending mounds of dirt erupting into the air, spilling soil in all directions and filling the space beneath the workbench with foul vapours. It was not long before everything was soaked by a mist of smashed hail that found its way between the cracks in the debris about them, chilling their bones and fogging their breath as they exhaled. Mallen could see that the cold was aggravating the Dwarvendim's injury and he decided he must do something about it.
Carefully he organised a small pile of wood splinters and enclosed it in a ring of broken stone. With flint he struck a spark to some tinder and carefully built a small fire that twisted in the drafts that found their way through the debris surrounding them. After some effort it caught and he was able to build it up until its licking flames provided a small amount of warmth. For both men it was a welcome comfort in the midst of the tempest. In this manner they passed the hours that followed, waiting patiently as the storm did its worst and then moved on, lessening in intensity as it slowly edged southwards. It was past midnight before the last of its strength dissipated. Only when it had gone could either man try and find rest.
Morning broke upon a world scattered and torn by the Treachersa. The violence of the night had left destruction and chilling cold in its wake, but with the rising of the suns the new day gave some promise of milder skies. When he awoke Mallen immediately began working to force a way through the rubble pile that had been their sanctuary, and found it easier than he had expected. The slate roof of the shed had collapsed directly on top of the bench they had been sheltering under, spraying slate tiles and beams of weathered timber upon the dirt floor. Most of the roof had remained intact however, and even though it had appeared in the dark of night that they had been completely engulfed in debris, the morning showed instead that the roof had collapsed at one end, forming a pocket of shelter within which they had remained safe from the worst of the storm. It was only a matter of pushing aside the loose slate at one end of the roofing and he was free. Able to stand for the first time in twelve hours Mallen stretched aching limbs and looked about him at the devastation the storm had caused.
Behind him the farmstead remained resolute in the face of the Treachersa. Apart from their shed the remainder of the house had survived, only a small portion of the front of the building succumbing to the winds. The stand of Elms had not faired so well. They stood as solitary stems, stripped of all foliage and a good portion of their upper branches. Such was to be expected, the trees were no match for the violence of the winds that assailed them. The lands surrounding the farmstead shocked Mallen however, the level of destruction a testament to the unrestrained power of the tempest. The ground itself had taken a terrible pummelling. All about him he could see the shallow craters of what he assumed where lightning strikes, pockmarks of broken earth and burned ground that extended as far as he could see. Trees lay smashed and broken, and all of what remained of the farm's outbuildings had been utterly flattened. If Mallen had not known better he could easily have mistaken what he was looking at as the aftermath of a vicious battle, one where the earth itself had been a combatant.
As he surveyed his surroundings he concentrated on the sounds on the morning and tried to clear his head. Birds called to the west, and as he listened to their raucous carousing he tried to remember what lay in that direction. He knew that the central plains of Arborell had been opened up and claimed for Kalborea. Two great fortress cities were already under construction, named after the Frontiere and the Nephrim, legendary ships of man's early history. He could also recall somewhere in that direction that there lay a great forest, and beyond its breadth a wide area of wetlands that had only newly been discovered. The Chemblain it had been called and it was a magnet for hunters and hopeful settlers. He pondered the idea for a moment that they should have better luck than whoever owned the ruin behind him.
In the quiet of the dawn he listened to the breeze, taking in the chill of the morning air to fully awaken, and in his contemplation began to hear something different. It was the pounding of horses hooves coming from the north. For a moment he did not move. Some two hundred metres from where he stood lay a shallow rise, and beyond it he could see the points of at least two dozen lances appearing upon its grassy crest. Before he could turn to inform Gremorgan the first of the riders appeared out of the plain ahead and was then followed quickly by his compatriots. They saw him immediately and veered in his direction, lowering their lances as they rode.
Mallen had nothing to fear from them. He recognised the riders as Kalborean Army Scouts and could see no reason to do anything but wait and greet them. As he watched them approach however, an ill-defined anxiety began to grow within him. The cavalrymen were not at ease, they rode with a sense of purpose that struck Mallen as aggressive. Carefully he surveyed each of the riders and saw that a good number of them were injured, their mounts stained and muddied. These Scouts had been in a fight and they did not look as if they had won it.
Mallen took one step backwards and then stood fast. He knew he had nothing to fear but he could not say the same for Gremorgan. The Dwarvendim were not enemies of Kalborea but they were treated with suspicion. The last thing he needed was for them both to be arrested. One look at the LoreMaster and no amount of quick talking could save them from interrogation and delay.
Before he could move again the scouts were upon him, drawing their mounts to a halt as they encircled his position. Only one dismounted, an officer who himself appeared injured, a deep gash in his arm only partly covered by a makeshift bandage. He did not look like he was in any mood for either small talk or salutation.
"State your name and registered place of abode." The officer barked at Mallen, but there was a hoarse edge to his voice that indicated his arm was not his only injury. It was a request he would have to answer truthfully.
"Mallen Cael, resident of Callenfrey."
"And what is your purpose here?"
To this Mallen decided he could not answer truthfully. There was only one enemy of Kalborea and that was the Horde. To say he was following a warband to rescue his brother would have been met with derision and suspicion. He instead gave the soldier a more palatable purpose for his sojourn on the plains.
"I am a hunter, travelling west to the lands of the Chemblain. I have been told that a man can make his fortune there if he does not mind hard work."
The officer strode closer and put out his hand. "If this is so, then I will need to see your Hunter's Permit."
Mallen placed his hand slowly into his tunic and pulled out his wallet. It was the only thing that he had not lost in the raid on Callenfrey and amongst other things held a current Hunter's Permit. The young Kalborean had always kept it up to date, more out of habit than need, and now it would prove very useful.
Carefully he removed the frail papers and gave them over. As soon as the officer saw that his permit was up to date he relaxed visibly, and motioned for his soldiers to stand easy. He could see no danger here and his men needed rest.
"My name is Sanclare, Unit Commander of the 17th Mounted Scout Detachment. We have ridden long and need rest. If you have no objections we will share the shelter of this ruin with you for a short time."
He handed back the permit and then called his unit to take rest. Now Mallen could see that these soldiers saw no danger in his presence, and as long as Gremorgan stayed out of sight they would no doubt move on. He had a few questions of his own though.
"It looks as if you have been in a fight. Is there any danger here I should be aware of?"
The officer shook his head and looked back to the north. "There has been a major battle this day past upon the plains of the Surgis'Ka, not more than fifteen kilometres from here. A major force of Hordim have been ambushed and destroyed, but at the loss of all those who made the attack. We may have defeated the Hordim but the cost has been great. By our measure more than twelve hundred cavalry and foot soldiers have died, for a similar loss amongst our enemy."
Mallen looked aghast, for a moment his head swam, his thoughts racing as he tried to find some composure. Sanclare could see his distress. "Is there something wrong? Did you know someone who might now lay dead?"
The question was more inciteful than the officer knew. If the Hresh had indeed been ambushed then there was every chance Tomas was now dead, killed by his captors as they lay besieged upon the plain. He would have to get to the site of the battle as quickly as possible. None of this could be imparted to Sanclare however.
"No, I have no relatives or friends who could have been involved. I am just shocked by what you have said. Have you come from the battlefield?"
"Yes. We were on patrol to the north and found the slaughter spread out about us. We checked as many of the bodies as we could but they are scattered over a wide area. I have decided to return to our base at Hallenbrook to the south and report our findings. It will take a month for the Administrators' Guild to work out the casualty lists. It is a job I do not envy them."
In Mallen's mind the sight of the Administrator at Callenfrey's Civic Hall came back to haunt his thoughts. It was their job to ensure that all who died were properly certified, no matter what the reason, and the thought of it filled him with fear for his brother's safety.
"Is it safe to travel? Are there any of the Hordim remaining?"
"As you are heading west you should find no danger, the Hordim have been destroyed. We came across a few stragglers making for the north-west but cut them down as they ran. The injuries you see amongst us come mostly from the storm last night. You found shelter I see. We were not so lucky and had endure the soft caress of the tempest within a stand of sparse acacia. It was not a night I wish to repeat for a long time."
For an hour the scouts rested before moving off. Sanclare gestured goodbye as they mounted and then rode off quickly southwards. Mallen watched as they disappeared into the undulations of the plain and then, once they were out of sight, crawled back into their refuge. Gremorgan was waiting for him.
"Did you hear what was said?"
Gremorgan nodded and gathered his bags. In the gloom of his hiding place the Dwarvendim looked pale, but his injury was not going to stop him.
"Aye, it is the worst possible news and I fear that something terrible has been perpetrated. Grab your pack Master Cael, we cannot wait for breakfast. We must get to the battlefield before anyone else. There is something very wrong about what has happened and we need to find answers."
Both men ran, their footfalls muffled in the sodden earth of the plain as they laboured northwards. Gremorgan did not let the pain of his wound slow him, and as they ran he took the time to eat a small piece of his Nahla bread. Mallen did the same and felt it immediately quell the stiffness in his limbs, clearing his head of fatigue and infusing his body with new energy. He did not eat too much though. Ahead lay a long journey and although he held great fears for his brother, the Kalborean found himself not quite able to believe that anything had happened to him. It was a feeling that only grew stronger as they moved closer to the battleground, and by mid-morning they had made it more than half way to their objective.
"I think we should rest for a short time Master Cael. I need these bandages re-wrapped."
Gremorgan could go no further until his wound had been attended to, and after the morning's exertions Mallen had to agree. The plains were wide and almost featureless, only the boundaries of the horizon showing anything other than a sea of waving grass and rolling hills. It was only in the north-east that the summits of a mountain range broken the line between grass and sky, and it was in that direction that they now travelled, trying to intersect the tracks of their quarry.
Upon a crest in the terrain the two men settled to rest. The day had turned fine, the remains of a high overcast blowing steadily southwards, following the storm of the night. Birds had returned to the air as well and as they rested Mallen amused himself by feeding scraps to a small ground-fowl that seemed to have no fear of the interlopers in its small territory.
"We can only tarry for a short time Mallen," said Gremorgan as he ate the last of his dried fruits. "It will be important that we reach the field of battle before anyone else. News of such calamities spread as a fire might in dry grass, and it will not only be the Administrators who will be visiting the site. We must get there before anything disturbs the remnants of the battle."
Mallen could see the need for haste, he did not relish the idea though, of having to pick through a battleground to find his brother.
"Who else could possibly want to visit such a disaster?" he asked.
The Dwarvendim paused before answering. There were things about human nature he did not enjoy nor wished to contemplate. "Many are the reasons that men visit a place of the dead, and most have nothing to do with treating the fallen with respect. There are those who would wish to rob the bodies or take souvenirs for sale. It is a distasteful practice but not my main concern." He looked earnestly at Mallen and continued. "It is very important that we get there before any other, regardless of their motivation. For us to find out if anything happened to your brother the scene must be undisturbed. This is very important."
Mallen was intrigued by the LoreMaster's concerns. "Why is it so important? If he has been harmed won't we find evidence of that within the borders of the battlefield?"
Gremorgan shook his head. "When was the last time you heard of a battle where everybody on both sides was killed? Where are the wounded, the prisoners? The Kalborean Scout you spoke with was quite specific about his description of what had happened. All the combatants had died, their bodies strewn across a wide area. He did not mention anything about survivors except for a few stragglers that they killed without difficulty, and certainly nothing about a large group of Hresh still on the move. The aftermath of large battles always leaves survivors on the field, to tend the wounded or despatch those enemies that will not be taken prisoner. It all makes me think that the Denmar Hresh found their opportunity to get away and took it."
Mallen could see some of the logic of the Dwarvendim's argument but could not see how the Denmar Hresh could have engineered such circumstances. Gremorgan however, felt he had the answers.
"If we can get to the battlefield quickly I will show you what happened."
Before Mallen could open his mouth to ask how, the Dwarvendim raised his finger and smiled. "We will be there by midday. There are some things that are better seen than explained."
After a short time for rest the two men returned to the trail, and the seemingly limitless ocean of grass that lay before them. The day was fine but still cool, an energetic breeze waving the grasses in long furls as they ran swiftly over the plain. Gremorgan was pale but he showed little sign of his injury. Only every once in a while would he flex his arm as if testing his shoulder, and each time he did it Mallen noticed him wince slightly. No matter what the recuperative power of the white powder, he was still injured.
By the hour before midday Mallen found sign of the Warband. The previous night's rain had washed away most of the prints left by the Hordim, but there was enough to show that the Hresh were still moving northwards, and were still spread over a wide area. With Gremorgan following behind, the Kalborean set to his task and carefully tracked the Hordim as they ran. It did not take him long to find the tracks far more complicated than he would have expected. In the bright light of midday he stopped and stood pondering what he was seeing. It did not make a lot of sense.
"What is the matter?" enquired Gremorgan as they came to a halt. Anxiously he looked at the surrounding countryside but could see nothing. Mallen was on one knee, intent upon a bootprint stamped into the ground.
"I do not understand the sign left here Gremorgan. It tells me two different things and I cannot reconcile it." After he had finished with the print he moved to another, and then a third before standing and scanning the horizon.
Gremorgan moved next to him, his face flushed from the exertions of their chase. "It seems straightforward to me, all the sign moves northwards, the battleground lies only an hour ahead. What do you find disconcerting?"
Mallen pointed to the bootprint at his feet. "See how the heel of this boot has dug deep into the ground? The Hresh wearing it was running, moving quickly northwards as you say. But look at this print here, it is far less deep in the ground and far more consistent with someone walking. I have found prints like this ever since we found the trail."
Gremorgan considered his friend's words but couldn't see the problem. "Some of the Hresh were walking. Is this not a good thing for us?"
The Kalborean nodded but then began scanning the ground to the east, searching the grasses for further sign and finding more evidence of the walking Hresh there. When he had finished he scratched at his neck and shook his head. Gremorgan could see that he was disturbed by what he had found and Mallen kicked at the ground in frustration.
"There are now two groups of Hresh moving on the plain. One group maintains its speed northwards, another has separated from the main group and has slowed to a walk, falling back as the other group runs ahead. The walking group is moving slightly more eastwards of north. They have split and for some reason the slower group has changed direction. There is a chance that the second group took no part in the battle."
The Dwarvendim looked at where Mallen was pointing and then nodded. "There is a chance that the second group missed the battle and has moved on to the north-east. The mountains in that direction would provide sanctuary, but I am not convinced. Let us take a chance at this time and keep going north. The answers to our questions will be found there. And if it transpires that we should have followed the other group then we can always pick up their trail again."
Mallen agreed and they set off once again. With the wind gusting before them they ran into the north, their need for haste driving them forward as they followed the trail. Ahead lay a barrier of hills and for the next hour they moved closer, the hills growing on the plains as they headed north. It was upon their lower slopes that the two men found the aftermath of the battle of the Surgis'Ka.
It was Mallen who saw it first and he put out his arm to bring Gremorgan to a halt. Before them spread a wide battlefield, the long grasses of the plains trampled and broken by the death throws of thousands of Men, horses and Hordim. Upon the slopes to the north and east the Kalborean could seen clusters of bodies, banners and equipment thrown recklessly in all directions and above it all the smell of blood mingling with the wet earth. Gremorgan moved forward, the edge of the main fighting was a good two hundred metres from where they stood and he ran quickly to a large tangle of dead Hresh. When he got to it he began searching the ground. Mallen was not far behind.
"What are you looking for?" he shouted over the blusters of a rising wind. Gremorgan pointed at the ground and then began pulling a small leather pouch from one of his bags.
"I need to find a set of bootprints that clearly show where a man stood. See if you can find this for me. I must prepare for a difficult task."
Mallen began to search the ground without questioning the unusual nature of the request. He wanted nothing more than to begin searching the field for his brother but he would do what the LoreMaster asked first. It seemed important.
Beyond the first collection of bodies he found a clear set of boot-prints. They were from a man, much smaller than the more oval-shaped footfalls of the Hresh, and arranged in such a manner that their maker would have been standing with a lance or spear at the ready. Mallen called to Gremorgan and the Dwarvendim came at the run. What happened next would not be forgotten by the young Kalborean for the remainder of his days.
Carefully Gremorgan stood in the bootprints of the hapless soldier and untied a small strap that held the leather pouch pursed at its opening. From its soft folds he took a small globe of crystal and held it in his open palm at his chest. Mallen looked at the crystal sphere and was instantly intrigued. It was the most brilliantly clear piece of stone that he had ever seen, and as he stared into its surface he could feel some part of himself being drawn towards it. He had to consciously stop himself from stepping closer.
Gremorgan began to chant as he stood upon the boot prints, a whispering string of words and sounds that wove themselves into the air as he uttered them. The Dwarvendim motioned for Mallen to stand by his side, and as he did so he could feel a dome of misting light beginning to form around them both. The sphere was glowing, within its crystal form a swirling miasma of light and shadow began to spin, and as it did so the dome of light surrounding the men grew more translucent, blocking a clear view of the grasslands as a fine mist might in the early morning.
It was then that Mallen began to discern movement, and the mist began to expand. When it was so fine that it appeared as nothing more than a vapour surrounding them, ghostly images began to coalesce, taking on form as the crystal sphere began to shine brightly in Gremorgan's hands.
"What are we seeing?" whispered Mallen.
Gremorgan put his free hand to his mouth and motioned the Kalborean to silence. He was preoccupied with his task and instead pointed generally in the direction they were facing. Mallen watched, and as he did so he began to see the faintest of images beginning to materialise before him. Upon the plain he could see men on horseback charging down from the slopes to the north and long lines of Hresh running to form defensive lines, but these faded as he was overwhelmed by emotion. Suddenly he felt fear, hatred and pain running through his thoughts like hot knives, and before he could shut it out, memories flooded into his consciousness.
He was not seeing with his eyes but through the memories of others. In a wave of uncontrolled image and sound he felt the overwhelming power of hundreds of minds as they fought desperately upon the grassland. In one instant he was charging down the slopes to the north, lance in hand, thundering down upon rank after rank of Hresh warrior as they waited for the crash of arms; the next he was a foot soldier, armed with halberd, standing his ground as a huge armoured Hresh rushed him with scimitar flashing in the sunlight. Image after image swept through his mind, and above it all he could feel the raw emotion of the battle; of fear and of courage, of pain and frustration. All combined to tell a story that laid out exactly what had happened, and how each soldier had died.
In the turmoil of his thoughts Mallen struggled to find his own identity amongst the clamour of the images. His mind felt free of body and time, wandering the battlefield, searching the multitude of raised voices, looking for one that he recognised. He could not find it. Instead he found the vague spectres of men and Hresh engaged in combat, locked in a grim dance that always ended in pain and death. Amongst it all however, he began to make sense of what had happened on this grassy plain and began to realise the treachery that had been perpetrated. When the images stopped, Mallen found himself standing next to Gremorgan, he had not realised it but he had closed his eyes. Everything he had seen had been placed directly into his thoughts for him to experience and it had exhausted him. He opened his eyes and was overcome with fatigue. Before Gremorgan could steady him he fell into the grasses and lost consciousness.
Mallen came too as the suns of Arborell had settled against the western horizon. Overhead he could see the orange-glow of dusk and a few faint wisps of cloud moving to the south through the branches of an old tree. Birds called out to the coming night and in the air he could smell the spices of one of Gremorgan's hot stews. Tentatively he raised himself on to one elbow and looked around. The Dwarvendim was hunched over his camp-stove and from a small pot came the heady aromas of meat and vegetables. The battlefield could be seen to the east, but they were some distance from where he had collapsed. When he remembered what had happened his temples began to hurt, memories and emotion threatening to rise up again and overwhelm him. Unlike before he was able to quell the voices and took the time to clear his head. Gremorgan heard him rouse and turned from his cooking.
"Well, I was wondering when you'd wake up. Took a nasty turn you know. Had a devil of a job carrying you into this stand of trees."
Mallen rubbed his forehead and looked at the Dwarvendim, "What happened? Last thing I know was I was standing next to you at the edge of the battleground."
"Aye, that's where you collapsed. It was a hard thing to watch, but at least we have the answers we needed."
Mallen did not feel like he had found anything except a bad headache. "What answers have we found, Gremorgan? And what happened to me?"
The LoreMaster sat back against the trunk of a tree and crossed his arms. His shoulder appeared to be feeling much better.
"What happened to you happened to both of us, but in different ways. That crystal sphere you saw in my hand is a Gatheringstone, it focuses the remnants of great emotion and attempts to make sense of the memories and the echoes of traumatic events. In essence we witnessed the ghosts of the dead, re-living their last moments, feeling the fears and exaltations of their thoughts as they fought for their lives. Through them we were able to see exactly what happened. But what we have seen was not the same for each of us."
Mallen turned his head and tried to read the meaning of Gremorgan's words. The LoreMaster smiled and paused only to stir the stew that was bubbling on his stove.
"You saw the battle from the viewpoints of the men who ambushed the Hresh. I have no doubt it was a harrowing experience. War is a brutal and merciless affair, and those who witness it through the vapours of the Gatheringstone see it at its most personal. It was necessary though, that you be the one to see it. If your brother had died in this battle then his thoughts and experiences would have been the most noticeable to you. They would have shouted loud and clear the last moments of his demise, and you would have had no doubt that he was indeed gone from this existence. Did you find him?"
Mallen shook his head and tried to keep the memories from flooding his thoughts. "I found nothing of him."
The LoreMaster pulled two bowls from his bags and began ladling out the stew.
"Good. I can assure you that he would have been there if he had indeed died. The fact that he was not can only mean that he had no part in this blood-bath. I believe I know why."
The Kalborean sat up and pulled his travel-cloak about him. He was about to ask what the Dwarvendim meant when Gremorgan continued.
"Just as you experienced the last moments of the Men I instructed the Gatheringstone to find for me all the echoes and remnants of the Hordim, and I have to say it was more than illuminating. You see Master Cael, the Hordim are not that different from ourselves, they look upon the world from a different perspective but their motivations and emotions are very similar to our own. What you experienced with Men I experienced through the Hresh, and what I found, well it surprised even myself."
"This entire battle has been part of a plan within which most of the participants were unwittingly swallowed up. The Denmar Hresh have known of this ambush from the time they laid the clues of their escape before the Kalborean Army, and in doing so told them exactly where they were going. The leader of these Hresh is a creature of formidable mind and authority. He manipulated the distrust that had been festering between the two groups of Hresh to ensure that the majority of the Tomsk Hresh ran straight into the ambush. It was an ambush the Tomsk were never going to escape alive."
"When the cavalry rode over the hills to the north they found most of the Warband exposed upon the plain. The Hresh quickly formed a defensive position and tried to repel the initial charge but where pushed forward from their eastern flank towards the small pass that they had initially been making for. On the other side of the hills lay a large force of foot soldiers, waiting for the Hresh to pour through and be slaughtered. What the Kalboreans did not count on was the second force of Hordim that came up quickly from the south-east."
Mallen's eyes went wide. "The walking Hresh."
Gremorgan nodded. "Yes, the walking Hresh, but mostly Hresh of the Denmar Kraal. They caught the cavalry from the rear, crashing into their number and scattering their formation so that the Tomsk could move more freely. With the advantage lost the foot soldiers advanced and met the Hresh head-on. It was a mistake. On open ground the Hordim are better warriors, and soon the battle deteriorated into a grinding melee where neither side could get the upper hand."
"And what of the Denmar? What did they do?" asked Mallen.
"Nothing. They did nothing except hunt down the cavalry units that had slipped through their initial attack, keeping all who fled their way within the killing field. Whilst the Tomsk fought almost to the last warrior they waited patiently in the south and only advanced when the battle was almost done. At the end little more than fifty of the Tomsk survived. All the Kalboreans were dead."
"It was only then that the Denmar showed the true intentions of their inaction. With the Tomsk diminished and the Kalboreans gone they turned on their own, cutting down the remaining Tomsk and killing all who lay wounded. When they had finished there was nothing left but themselves and their captives. And they had been very careful to ensure that all the captives remained alive."
Mallen took in the words and knew them to be true, he had felt the progress of the battle in just the same way and had found no trace of his brother at all. "What must we do now? Where have the Denmar gone?"
Gremorgan pointed to the west. "After they had finished their deadly work they moved westwards. I can only assume they took their captives with them. They are going into the depths of the Old Forest so that they might evade whoever is first to investigate this bloodletting. From there they will travel north through the Black hills until they meet the Keln'Kraag Mountains. This I know from what I felt. It is now where we must go also."
Mallen accepted his bowl of the stew and thought about what his companion had said. There was only one thing that he needed to add.
"If we are to continue on, then we must start now. After what I have seen this day I do not wish to remain here for the night. The closeness of the dead is sending chills up my spine. I know I will not be able to keep the memories of the fallen from my mind until I have left this place. Let us eat and then we should go."
Gremorgan agreed. Hurriedly they ate their meal and then packed away their equipment. Under a starlit sky the two men strode out on to the grasslands and then disappeared into the gloom of the west. Ahead lay the Old Forests, and in the darkness of the night neither man could know how close Mallen Cael's brother was, nor how far their quest would ultimately take them.
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