Martin rounded a curve and suddenly a moredhel warrior loomed up before him. Without hesitation Martin lashed out with his bow, striking the dark elf in the head with the heavy yew weapon. The surprised moredhel staggered, and before he could recover, Martin had his sword in hand and the moredhel lay dead.
Martin spun about, seeking signs of the moredhel’s companions. In the distance he thought he saw movement but couldn’t be sure. He quickly hurried upward then discovered another bend. Peering around the bend, Martin found a half-dozen horses tied. He had somehow managed to double behind the pursuers and stumble across their mounts. Martin ran forward and gained the saddle of one of the horses. He used his sword to cut the reins of the others and slapped them across the flanks with the flat of his blade to drive them off.
He spun his horse and spurred it forward. He could race down the wash and reach the trail. Then he could outrun the moredhel to Stone Mountain.
A dark shape launched itself from atop a rock as Martin rode past, dragging him from the saddle. Martin rolled and came up in a fighter’s crouch, his sword out as a moredhel did the same. The two combatants faced each other as the moredhel cried out in his harsh elven dialect to his companions. Martin attacked, but the moredhel was a skilled swordsman and kept Martin at sword’s length. Martin knew if he turned to flee, he’d get a blade in the ribs for his troubles, but if he stayed, he’d soon be facing five moredhel. Martin kicked rocks and pebbles at the moredhel, but the warrior was an experienced fighter who moved sideways, avoiding dust in the eyes.
Then the sound of boots pounding over the rocks could be heard from both directions. The moredhel shouted again and was answered from Martin’s left, to the south. From the right the sound of armour and boots grew louder. The moredhel’s eyes flickered in that direction, and Martin launched his attack. The dark elf barely avoided the blow, getting a slight cut in the arm for his troubles. Martin pushed his slight advantage, and while the moredhel was off balance, he struck out with a risky thrust that left him open for a riposte if he missed. He didn’t. The moredhel stiffened and collapsed as Martin pulled his blade free.
Martin didn’t hesitate. He leaped for the rocks, seeking high ground before he was overrun from both sides. Moredhel warriors came rushing into view from the southern end of the wash, and one had his sword back, to slash at Martin.
Martin kicked out unexpectedly and the warrior ducked, causing him to mistime his blow. Then, equally unexpectedly, a hand reached down and gripped Martin’s tunic.
A powerful pair of arms lifted the Duke of Crydee and dragged him over the lip of the wash. Martin looked up to discover a grinning face, with a thick red beard regarding him. “Sorry for the rough handling, but things are about to get nasty down there.”
The dwarf pointed past Martin, who turned to see a dozen dwarves dashing down the ravine from the north. The moredhel saw the superior number of dwarven warriors and turned to flee, but the dwarves were upon them before they moved ten yards. The fight was quickly over.
Another dwarf joined the one at Martin’s side. The first handed Martin a waterskin. Martin stood and took a drink. He looked down at the pair of dwarves, their being barely five feet, and said, “Thanks to you.”
“No bother. The Dark Brothers have been poking about here of late, so we keep this area heavily patrolled. As we have guests” - he indicated some dwarves who were climbing up to join them - “we have no shortage of lads willing to go out and have a bash at them. Usually the cowards run, knowing they’re too close to our home, but this time they were a mite slow. Now, if you don’t mind me asking, who might you be and what are you doing at Stone Mountain?”
Martin said, “This is Stone Mountain?”
The dwarf pointed behind Martin and the Duke turned about. Behind him, above the edge of the wash he had crouched in, a stand of trees reared up. Following the woods, he saw they blanketed the sides of a great peak that rose high into the clouds. He had been so intent on the pursuit of the last day, so intent on hiding, that he had seen only the rocks and the gullies. Now he recognized the peak, He was standing with a half day’s walk of Stone Mountain.
Martin regarded the assembling dwarves. He removed his right glove and displayed his signet. “I am Martin, Duke of Crydee. I need to speak with Dolgan.”
The dwarves looked sceptical, as if it was improbable for a lord of the Kingdom to come in this fashion to their halls, but they simply looked to their leader. “I’m Paxton. My father is Harthorn, Warleader of the Stone Mountain clans, and Chieftain of village Delmoria. Come along, Lord Martin, we’ll take you to see the King.”
Martin laughed. “So he did take the crown.”