James' breath emerged from his lips as a frosty white cloud.

Below him, Seigneur Locklear negotiated scrub brush as he worked his way up the winding mountain path. He cursed expansively as a thorn bush caught in the chinks of his leg guards and he paused to throw his friend an exasperated frown. James smiled, then turned to look out over the snowy peaks that marked the boundary of moredhel territory.

Five hours after arriving at Northwarden, Baron Gabot had called both he and Locklear into his meeting room. While worried about James' story of Nighthawks, he was far more concerned that his magical adviser had not reported back from investigating possible moredhel activity. With a large band of the Dark Brothers approaching his castle, he feared that the old magician might have fallen into enemy hands, and so, reluctantly, he had asked the two Seigneurs to finish Patrus' job.

Locklear arrived puffing, his face haloed by mist.

"I thought I was going to have to come down there and carry you up," James said grinning. "You shouldn't have stayed up all night with that serving girl."

"I didn't expect to have to get up at the crack of dawn," Locklear growled, yanking a twig from his chain mail. "Mountain climbing and armor do not mix."

Suddenly, the two Seigneurs wheeled to the sound of a horrible mewling...

PATRUS: ...And if it weren't bad enough I had to chase you, you made me get rocks in my best shoes! I'm blistered! Know how mad I get when my feet hurt? I get river bottom mud sucking badger whacked mad...

JAMES: Excuse us...

PATRUS: Go way. I'm busy right now agitatin' this here moredhel...

JAMES: Begging your pardon, but I am Seigneur James...and this...and this is...Seigneur Locklear. We have been sent...by the Baron Gabot...to find...you. You are his magical advisor, aren't you?

PATRUS: Just Patrus, please. I don't ken to titles much. Glad to meet you. I've just been out trying to get some information about these moredhel. They've been gettin' too close to the castle and it was makin' my tongue itch. Man can't respectably eat thataways.

JAMES: Have you...learned anything about the attack?

PATRUS: Only that there's six companies of 'em out creepin' in the woods somewhere, but I don't know exactly where yet. I think they've got their own magicians, too.

JAMES: Magicians?! The Baron will be sorry to hear that, I'll wager. We need to return to the castle. Which way would be quickest?

PATRUS: Northwarden? Oh, well it's THATAWAY...

JAMES: We're wasting time. Anything that's going on this far south won't have any critical effect on the battle at Northwarden. We need to head back...

James counted.

Although he had beaten tremendous odds on his various adventures, he knew the sheer numbers of opponents could easily overwhelm them. "We won't be able to take all these fellows. Maybe we can try another tactic to get by them."

The wind howled.

Eyeing the gap which was the mouth of Northwarden pass, James turned to Locklear and clapped him on the back. "So, how about a little fun old friend?"

"You know, I've lost friends every time I've gone into the Northlands," Locklear replied coldly. "Bronwynn, Captain Moyiet..."

James nodded. "Sounds to me you've got something to pay them back for then. What do you say we go stir up trouble with Delekhan's troops in the Northlands?"

YES:

They marched in silence.

Fearing that the sound of their Kingdom speech would carry in the cold, they moved as quickly as possible through the treacherous Northwarden pass, each steeling himself for the difficulties that lay ahead as they surveyed the snow covered landscape.

It was a siege engine. Roughly large enough to protect three men, the engine had been covered with a thick hide which had been stripped of all its fur. Narrow slits, cut near the top of the tower, would allow archers to fire at oncoming opponents.

Curiosity overcame him. Peeling back the thick hide which covered the frame, Locklear chanced a look inside...

The design was standard.
James examined the catapult with great interest, noting it was remarkably similar to the models used in the Kingdom. On many occasions he had seen rocks in excess of fifty pounds thrown twice the length of a barrel ball court with such a device.

Locklear gaped in wonderment at the heavy wooden catapult.
They walked around the weapon and studied it from every angle, spending extra time looking at the firing and trigger mechanisms. On the whole it appeared to be in good condition, though one of the torsion gears had broken.

PATRUS: Moredhel must'a built this toad throwin' toy to annoy the Baron. They'd never get it up the pass 'fore old grump buckets shot 'em down!

LOCKLEAR: Perhaps, but it's of no use to them now unless someone fixed it in order to lob stones at Raglam.

JAMES: Now, that's peculiar now that you mention it. Tell me Locky, if you were just going to leave something like this lying around in a field, even if you didn't have it working, would you leave it pointed at your home?

LOCKLEAR: What are you getting at?

JAMES: The only reason this thing won't function is because one of the torsion gears is broken, not something all that complicated to fix. Now suppose the gear didn't break of its own accord. Gorath told me that many of the moredhel clans had reservations about fighting under the old battle colors of Murmandamus. Now if you were one of those clans and wanted a backup plan in case you wanted to back out of the strike, it would simply be a matter of installing a replacement gear...

LOCKLEAR: ...and pulling the release lever! It even has a payload in the basket! Of course, assuming we could find the part ourselves, we could stir up some trouble. Maybe find a way to get to the plans Duke Martin needs in the confusion.

JAMES: Perhaps, but we'll need to find a replacement catapult part first. I doubt there is one lying about here somewhere, but let's check around...

They searched the area for half an hour, hoping to discover a replacement part for the broken gear. When it didn't materialize, they picked up their packs and prepared to leave.

Locklear took a deep breath.

Holding the catapult part they had found in the box, and using some makeshift tools he kneeled before the machine and set to work...

It took nearly two hours to install the part, and though Locklear wasn't positive the machine would work at all, he stepped back to admire his handiwork.

"I'm not an engineer, but I think that should work," he said, motioning to the others to join him. Together, they stood before the strange wooden creature, it's one arm poised, ready to fling its special cargo into the sleepy moredhel town of Raglam.

Locklear took a deep breath. "Shall we give it a try?" he asked.

James placed a hand on the wooden monster.

It was a marvel of moredhel engineering and though short on artistic value -- something that marked a difference between the moredhel and their elven cousins -- it showed signs of precision craftsmanship.

"Fitting we could turn their own weapon against them," Locklear said.

Though they had already done the damage they had come to do, James wanted to watch the machine work one more time.

An old moredhel answered their call. Despite the unusual group he found before him, he allowed them into his tent.

He spoke to them in the Kingdom tongue. "Were things you wear taken by combat? Or do they represent true loyalties?"

Locklear spoke quickly, "We are from the Kingdom, but we bow down before only two powers: gold and silver."

The moredhel was either satisfied with this answer, or he was too tired to care. He motioned for them to sit down. After a short conversation, they found out that he had come to Raglam to die. Too old to travel with the rest of his clan, and not willing to stay alone in Raglam, he had resolved to wander off into the forest and let his life slip away like the wind in the trees. Though he hated the moredhel race, the conversation made Patrus sort of sad. He was glad when they left.

Though they were speaking in moredhel, the loud voices inside the tent seemed to indicate that it was home to a small family.

"Moredhel discipline is very strict," said Locklear, listening to the harsh yelling going on inside. "Perhaps we should come back at a better time."

"The moredhel clans are largely migratory, there are a few small towns like this one with houses, but the tent before us is a more customary dwelling," Locklear whispered.

He called to the occupant of the tent but received no reply. "The owner appears to be away. Perhaps we should take a look inside," he said.

Locklear knocked loudly on the door.

Expecting a moredhel, they were a bit surprised to see a large bull of a man come to the door. He eyed them suspiciously then spoke, "Mother of Ishap! Look at this. Kingdom dogs looking for a bone," he sneered at James, then said with a snarl, "You'd best go back to where you belong! There ain't no work here for the likes of you. Now git!"

Rather than provoking a fight that could attract the wholetown, Locklear agreed they should leave.

It took no extended amount of time for Locklear to discover the establishment catered specifically to archers. Upon opening a latched bin, he discovered a stack of quarrels piled high like ricks of firewood, each meticulously tagged as to where it came from and who had fletched it.

James approached the moredhel tavern.

"So you really think we can just walk right in without attracting unwanted attention?" asked Patrus.

"It's a trick I learned many years ago, everyone will gravitate toward the simplest solution to any dilemma," he whispered, reaching for the door.

Patrus wasn't convinced. "This is highly irregular."

"Look at it this way," James continued. "We either have a legitimate reason to be here or we are completely insane and are walking right into the middle of enemy territory. That doesn't make a lick of sense, so everyone inside will assume the first is true. Now try to act like you belong here..."

Conversation within the room halted briefly as James pushed his way inside the room, returning a nod from a rough looking pair of mercenaries who otherwise seemed engaged in a dispute over a lost bet.

James approached a moredhel.

He eyed them suspiciously, then shrugged. Though he spoke to them in the Kingdom tongue his speech was broken and somewhat slurred.

"You been hired by Narab's brother? What's his name again...Nago?" asked the moredhel.

James nodded his head. "Yes, we are...mercenaries...from Queg, just arrived. What news have you of the thrust South?"

The moredhel lowered his head, then whispered, "They say Captain Kroldech has got final orders for the move against Northwarden. Beyond that, I ain't got the faintest what's going on."

Resigning himself to the fact that the moredhel had nothing more of value to tell them, James remained for a short while to listen, not wanting to attract undue attention to themselves. At last, he excused himself from the table.

The moredhel approached them.

Apparently satisfied with their story about being mercenaries from Queg, the moredhel told them he was a trader who made frequent trips to several of the towns located near the border between the Kingdom and the Northlands, explaining his command of their language.

"What can you tell of the push south?" asked James.

"Word has it that Captain Kroldech received his final orders for the move against Northwarden. Futile. With our numbers, we have no hope of surviving the march to it and then breaching the walls. This Kingdom baron will crush us utterly unless the engineer has come up with something."

Trying not to be too interested, James prodded the moredhel further. "Segersen?"

The moredhel stared at them strangely. "I had heard he was killed in a Quegian battle near Palanque."

"I wouldn't know," James recovered casually. "I've not been on foot for eight years or more. I've been working in a press gang."

"Mmm," the moredhel replied. "Well, it's all a moot point at the moment anyway. Kroldech has locked himself into his commandeered command post to work on the battle plans for a goblin offensive and the engineer just sits in his house drawing up design. Hopefully the Kingdom won't elect to retaliate after this madness is over with."

They thanked him for the information he was able to provide and casually strolled back to a spot near the tavern door.

A strange old elf answered the door.

He glared at Patrus suspiciously with upraised eyebrows, "Yes!? Did Eron the Minstrel send you to sing for me?"

JAMES: Well, it looks like this will be as far as we're going. Too many guards on the other side of that bridge for us to slip by. I don't think it's too important we go that way anyway. Our objective is to get those plans for the Duke. Come on, let's head back towards Raglam.

Locklear's legs ached.

It seemed that he'd been walking for eternity, and the long stretch of road which led to the south did nothing for his enthusiasm. "We can keep going this way, or we can turn about. Keep going?"

YES:

Snow capped the mountains.

Locklear motioned for a temporary halt as they came through the pass into their new surroundings. Vaguely, he could sense the cold that was coming down from the north and could imagine it would be even colder on the other side of the Teeth of the World...

THE CHAPTER ENDS
Entering Northwarden

The portcullis creaked.

An ashen faced soldier trembled as he labored at the monolithic peg wheel, his back arched backwards taut as a bowstring as he hauled the iron gate upwards. With a jerk of his neck, he gasped between clenched teeth for James and his companions to hurry inside.

Within, a handful of soldiers hurried to various tasks on the battlements and panicked captains attempted to rally the surviving contingents of the day's fighting.

"Something's wrong," James muttered, observing the disarray. "What's happened?"

"Baron Gabot's been murdered, that's what's happened!" a nearby soldier shouted, glancing up from where he worked feverishly at unplugging a keg of oil. "We found a bloody nest of Nighthawks in our midst! They murdered the Baron's staff and three of the captains before we cornered 'em in a storeroom."

"Torch those corpses immediately," James ordered. "They might be Black Slayers. Where is Duke Martin?"

"Don't know. You're the closest thing we have to nobility at the moment. Guess that puts you in command, Seigneur.

James said nothing as a rumble of thunder split the sky.

Half dead soldiers trumped past, their eyes hollowed with exhaustion as they traded places with equally worn men brought from the dining hall-turned-infirmary. Few men still possessed clothing unstained by blood.

Dour with the turn of events, James eyed the horizon for any sign of help. In all likelihood, the moredhel would attempt to breach the wall today and there was little he could do about it. Nighthawk treachery had silenced their cannons and too many men had fallen in four days of heavy fighting.

"Attack!" a voice screamed in the stillness. "Attack! Men on the south face!"

James cast a fuming curse into the sunrise. He might die, but he would send as many moredhel as he could reach in to the halls of the Death Goddess before he would go down...

The moredhel thrashed.

As life dimmed in his horrified eyes he toppled backwards into a wooden balustrade. With an ear splitting shriek the railing sundered into flying splinters, tumbled after his flailing feet as he disappeared into nothingness.

Almost too dazed to breathe, James bolted to the wall to sight his fallen opponent. A crumpled heap of armor lay far below, splashed in gore and a spreading stain of red. Close by, a grim looking figure lowered his crossbow and tilted up his shaggy dark head to favor the Seigneur with a rare smile.

Arutha!

JAMES: I was beginning to believe you were going to miss all the fun!

ARUTHA: Delekhan would think me impolite if I didn't attend his little party. How are the men?

JAMES: Very bad. Of the original garrison of four hundred and fifteen men, two hundred twenty seven are dead, thirty five are mortally wounded, and the rest are afflicted with dysentery or are too exhausted to wield a sword. Your arrival came none too soon.

JAMES: No discourtesy intended, Prince, but why did you wait so long in coming?

ARUTHA: We made all haste, nearly to the point of calamity! Your well-meaning messengers bumped into trouble and nearly didn't win themselves free. Consequently we didn't receive your word until it was nearly too late for us to respond. We were greatly fortunate to arrive as soon as we did.

JAMES: The moredhel are in retreat?

ARUTHA: What few of them remain. By the accounts of my scouts, they think there may have been up to at least six companies in the hills.

JAMES: About that. Since they didn't have the decency to attack all at once, we couldn't tell.

ARUTHA: If our trackers are to be believed, four of those companies slipped out a week ago while the other two kept your forces pinned down. The rest apparently turned southwest.

JAMES: Sounds like they mean to strike at Highcastle.

ARUTHA: Undoubtedly. Since the moredhel leader has mimicked many of the moves that his predecessor Murmandamus made, it stands to reason he may make many of the same mistakes.

ARUTHA: As a precaution, I split my forces and diverted half of them to Highcastle. As soon as we are finished cleaning up here, I will take the rest of our companies to engage him there.