Sighing despite his iron resolve, Laromendis stood up and left his quarters. He must eat something, then be about his business quickly, for by dawn tomorrow a thousand taredhel warriors, magicians and scholars would be moving through the translocation gate into that lovely valley long ago abandoned by the Forgotten, and where the Clans of the Seven Stars would return to their ancient homeland on the world humans called Midkemia.
Laromendis stood next to the leader of the Clans of the Seven Stars as he surveyed the valley below. The Regent Lord’s face was a fixed mask, but the slight sheen in his eyes and the softening around them told the Conjurer all he needed to know: the trap was sprung. Any thought of somehow saving Andcardia fled, as the ruler of the taredhel looked upon the ancient homeland of his race: Midkemia.
Undalyn waved his warleader over to his side and softly said, ‘Begin.’
Warleader Kumal stood silently for a moment beside his ruler, experiencing the intense emotions that had struck every elf like a hammer’s blow after they stepped through the translocation gate. Then he nodded once, turned and walked back through the portal. The Regent Lord stepped aside. Behind them a humming sound filled the air, more resonant than before, like the sound of heavy stones being dragged across the ground, producing vibrations in the soles of the Conjurer’s boots. He knew his brethren on the other side of the portal were employing their arts to widen it so that the numbers waiting on the other side might pass through with more haste.
Pointing down the game trail that marked the edge of this clearing in the hills, the Conjurer said, ‘My lord, in the vale below stands a vacant stockade of familiar design. I judge the Forgotten once lived within it, and with little effort it can be made to serve us now. Beyond this immediate area are more campsites, for the stockade will only serve temporarily as your court, and no more than a thousand can occupy the vale until more shelters are built. I have marked the trails so that the trackers can lead bands to those campsites. They will serve as a defensive perimeter until the city walls can be erected.’
To the warleader, Undalyn said, ‘Let them begin. I want lookouts posted in the hills above us, sentries in the passes below. Let the workers build signal towers so the outer settlements can be summoned when needed. Send out hunting parties and let it be known that no member of the Clans must be spied by human, elf, or dwarf, or I will have his head on a pike before my throne. Any who discover us must die before word can spread to others that we have returned. We shall decide when our cousins to the north and the lesser races discover that the true masters of this world have returned.
‘The day will come when we will rid this land of our enemies,’ he said, looking back at the portal as it ceased its expansion and the first soldiers came through. Each wore the Clans armour: a heavy metal breastplate, pale yellow in hue, with peaked shoulders. The pale golden colour came from the metals used to forge them, a blend that the taredhel smiths guarded closely, and which provided their warriors with protection stronger and lighter than steel. Each breastplate was trimmed in the clan colours, one hue for each of the Seven Stars, one for each colour in the rainbow. Upon the heads of the standard-bearers rested crested helms, more ornate than functional and topped with a plume dyed in the colour of their clan. The infantry carried their more functional helms tied to their belts.
The first hundred soldiers hurried away from the portal, splitting into squads, each led by a tracker who led them to various positions around the valley. Within hours, camps and watch stations would be in position and a secure perimeter would be thrown up around the valley. The taredhel bridgehead would be established.
Laromendis watched patiently as heavy-bodied horses pulled massive wagons through the gate, laden with females and the young. These were refugees from the outer villages and strongholds that had already fallen before the demon horde.
The children were silent, but their eyes were wide with wonder. There was something in the very air of this world that called to each elf as they returned to their ancestral soil; the Conjurer could only liken it to a reawakening of something deep within their souls that had been dormant for generations.
The Regent Lord knelt, removed his gauntlets and picked up a handful of soil. He lifted it to his nose, sniffed and said, ‘This land is rich with life. We shall reclaim our home, no matter what.’ He fell silent, reflecting for a moment, then he turned to Laromendis. ‘This is our world,’ whispered the Regent Lord. ‘Our world.’ He looked at the first ragged refugees, and shook his head. Those in the city would be the last through, with the defenders who still held the demons at bay, giving their lives to save the last of their kin. A play of emotions flickered across the ruler’s face, before he again composed his mask. He said, ‘We must rest, recover and grow, for we have lost too much in recent years.’
Removing his fur mantle, as the day’s heat grew, he took a deep breath. ‘The air here is sweet, despite the dwarves and others using it.’ He chuckled at his own joke.
Moving closer to his ruler’s side, the Conjurer lowered his voice so that those emerging from the portal would not hear him over the wagons’ rumble, ‘Sire, there is but one other troubling matter.’
‘Tell me,’ said the Regent Lord.
‘As I said before, there have been rumours of demons …’
The Regent Lord’s eyes closed as if he was in pain. Softly, as if he could hardly bear to utter the words, he said, ‘I had put that out of my mind.’ He regarded Laromendis and asked, ‘Here, as well?’
‘They are only rumours. I have seen no demon sign personally; and as you know, I have diligently searched for any hint that they are here. Still, I lack certain arts that others possess, which would ensure the demons were absent.’
The Regent Lord looked at the wagons as they continued to rumble through the portal, more warriors appeared as well, flanking the caravan of taredhel females and young. There was hardly one fighter without a wound or damage to his armour. The People had been battling the Demon Legion for almost one hundred years; millions had perished. At one time the taredhel ruled the stars, travelling through magic gates from world to world. But the demons had reduced their millions to thousands and now the very last of their kind sought refuge on a world known only through ancient lore, a world upon which they had abided in hallowed antiquity, before the time the gods warred and chaos reigned.
The Conjurer smiled. ‘Yes, my lord. It is rich with life here; and much of it is familiar. There are deer and bear, lions and wyverns; game is plentiful. The corn tastes oddly sweet, but not unpleasantly so, and the dwarves, for all their despicable flaws, sell their brews to any and all. The humans and dwarves have herds of cattle and sheep, and the seas are abundant as well. Here lie riches beyond what we’ve known in a century.’ Then he fell silent.
The Regent Lord stood and said, ‘You have something to say. Say it.’
‘My lord,’ said the Conjurer, ‘if I offend you, take my head, but as I am sworn to serve, I must speak only truth: If the rumours are true, or if the demons follow us here, we will be left with two choices: to flee and leave the humans, dwarves and our primitive cousins to battle the Legion, yet again seeking another world—’
‘Where?’ injected the Regent Lord. ‘I read every report. You have found no alternative, only harsh, barren places where life scarcely survives … no, there is nowhere else for us to go.’
‘—Or we stay and fight.’
The Regent Lord said, ‘When my father was a boy, the Seven Clans numbered two million swords, Conjurer.’ He watched as more wagons and beasts of burden emerged from the portal. Livestock was now being driven through, a herd of razor-spine hogs, herded by wolf-like dire dogs. An especially large canine loped through the portal and came to the Regent Lord’s side, licking the monarch’s hand while wagging its bushy tail.
Roughly patting the beast’s massive neck, the Regent Lord almost crooned as he knelt and said, ‘Sanshem, my good companion.’ He looked fondly upon the animal, perhaps the only being in all creation for whom the Regent