Gedain took his rest beside the warmth of a pyre ringed in stones, with its bright tongues of flame dancing into the wheeling stars. Surrounded by wild folk, their suspicious glares never leaving, weariness nevertheless overtook him and he drifted off into sleep.

  He found himself upon a vast and open field, beneath a heavy sky, where many thousands laid slain or mortally wounded, their twisted bodies strewn and piled unto the horizons on either hand. It was a place unvisited by him, yet he somehow knew it lay within the Norlands. He stood alone, sword unsheathed and clotted with blood, horse fallen, lying near. The scent of smoke and filth arose with the sound of wind carrying the groans of the dying strewn upon a plain of pools of blood and mud. He was the only survivor.

  Gedain panned, gazing in horror at the legions of the dead, numbers beyond any reckoning. Yet despair did not take hold, but rather there was relief that the Archons of The One had chosen him and he still breathed life. As he turned, a presence emerged, a visage appearing before him, clad in a golden armor the likes of which he had never wrought by forge of man. Tall and slender, its helm bore the likeness of a ram concealing its face. Above, the grim clouds parted, and a halo of Sol’s rays beamed through causing the golden plate to gleam so that it blinded Gedain’s eyes. Fearful, he fell to his knees. The glorious figure approached and reached forth with shimmering crown of diamond and set it upon Gedain’s brow.

  He woke to darkness.

  He found the pyre had burned down into glowing coals and the air was but cold shadow. He closed his eyes to fall back asleep, but a voice interrupted the hush of deep night.

  “You were dreaming,” it said.

  Gedain saw the form of a man seated quietly in the shadows beside him. He drew himself up.

  “Aye, I was,” Gedain answered.

  “Was it of the dragon?”

  “Nay, it was of a golden king. Yet it was more like a ghost or a spirit than flesh. It beamed like the fires of Sol at midday, blinding me.”

  “Yes,” the voice affirmed. “Bafomet hath come to thee in thy dreams. Thou art summoned.”

  “Bafomet?” Gedain scoffed. “Bafomet is but a legend. A myth to spur False Men by fear.”

  The voice lowered. “Oh, I assure thee Bafomet is no myth. I can attest by mine own eyes; the golden king is yet living flesh, indeed.”

  Gedain scoffed. “Bafomet is long dead, many centuries.”

  “All Neandilim are long-lived. Bafomet was with your sage Kethu when they crossed from Vallis, and Kethu yet draws breath. Does he not?”

  “He is frail,” Gedain said, uncertain if wake or dream still held him. “He may have passed already for all I know.”

  “Kethu is not nurtured by the dragon’s spirit.”

  “Who art thou?” Gedain asked.

  The voice in the darkness laughed. “What profit is there in who I say I am?”

  “Art thou chieftain of these folk?”

  “These are thy folk, Gedain. Norlanders all. Tribesmen and bandits and nomads, most from beyond the River Lunde. Some come even from Moorwater Plain and the frozen skirts of Ankenlund. While Methundor’s lords gnaw over thrones, these gather here to bleed and fight, to slay the invader ere they come north by this route.”

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  “If thou be not their thegn, then who commandeth them?”

  “Aye, they follow my command, yet I am not their thegn.” He rose. “Come, follow me.”

  He took up his torch and led Gedain away from the glow of the dying fire. They followed a rocky footpath into the woods, then upwards, the trail turning back on itself as it climbed a sheer wall of stone. For near an hour they laboured on until the skies paled in the east with the coming dawn. At last, they reached a high precipice, and the view unfurled before them beneath the newborn light.

  The guide was then revealed to Gedain in full. His hair and beard were black as coal. His eyes, blue as clear sky, fair as any fair Norlander’s, set deep within his heavy brow. Youth clung to his face, though hardened by trials unspoken. When he spoke, his voice was stern, yet calm and measured.

  “Seest thou those mountain spires,” he said, pointing, sun glinting off the gold ring on his index finger, its red garnet glowing like a fanned ember. “There, those points of black stone?”

  Gedain answered, “That must be Edam of Meru?”

  “Aye, and yet thou hast never seen it?”

  “I have not.”

  “All men know it by its grandeur at first sight,” he replied, quenching his torch in the dirt. “Look down toward the base, left, where the stream coils. Tell me, what seest thou?”

  “I see stone ruins— high columns, arches, curls of smoke… an encampment,” Gedain answered. “And banners! They look Neandilim.”

  “Aye. They are far off. Your sight is keen.”

  “It is but a small host. Why have they come so few in number? It seems insufficient for an invasion.”

  “That is no invasion host. That is an expedition. They guard the road from the High Gate, awaiting Norland’s host. The way is narrow. It takes but a few— a hundred men, perhaps— to stop ten thousand. Thus, we have come to foil their design, so that your host might pass through unhindered. We will clear the way,” he paused, “yet they are here for more than just an ambush. Bafomet is among them.”

  “What else, then?”

  “They wait for one to come.”

  “For whom do they wait?”

  He answered, “One who would be made the Norland King.”

  Gedain studied the distant camp. “They search for you, then?”

  His voice darkened. “They search for the one who wills to be made. I have no will to be made by anyone.”

  Gedain pondered. “They believe this man will ride down there, into their camp, and present himself as the one?”

  “It is already known that he will.”

  “Perhaps a fool riding down there, believing he would be crowned, would then find himself flayed on a rack.”

  He smiled thinly. “I am hungry. Let us return to the vale.”

  Below, the Norland men shared game and clean water with Gedain. His guide soon took his leave. Then Menek appeared at his side.

  “I shall not return with thee to Gruen,” Menek said.

  “I see no means by which I might compel thee.” Gedain answered.

  Menek continued. “I will not speak against thee for thy part in Cerenid’s undoing.” He went on. “Thou wouldst deny it, anyway, and none would heed my word, regardless.”

  “Aye, I would deny it. And they would not heed it,” Gedain affirmed.

  When they had finished, Menek led Gedain back to the cavern mouth where he had entered the vale.

  “Return to thy riders before they abandon you,” Menek said. “Tell the boy rex that Bafomet hath claimed me. Or tell him aught else, it matters not. My place is here, now. Yet tell him the High Gate road shall be cleared for his host.”

  “Who is the man thou followest?” Gedain asked.

  Menek grinned, then his voice lowered. “That, my fool, is the Wolvenking. Eleom is his name, son of Cleon Rex and Amarah the Aeonite. And if thou wouldst speak truth, then carry this to Gruen, and to thy boy rex, and unto Kethu if he yet breathes, and to every trembling, fickle lord: If they would live— if they would shatter Bafomet’s host ere it bringeth ruin to race— that they should come and bend the knee here to Eleom, the one true Norland King.”