The dream took shape and substance, more vivid than any he had experienced so far. Tomas strained to hear the faint laughter, the sound of alien music, and the spoken words of these people.
He was ripped from his reverie by Dolgan’s voice. “Will you take some food, laddie?” He could answer with only a part of his awareness, as he rose and crossed the space between them to take the offered bowl of meat stew. When his hand touched the bowl, the vision vanished, and he shook his head to clear it.
“Are you all right, Tomas?”
Slowly sitting, Tomas looked at his friend for a moment. “I’m not sure,” he said hesitantly. “There is something. I . . . I’m not really sure. Just tired, I guess.”
Dolgan looked at the boy. The ravages of battle were showing on his young face. Already he looked less the boy and more the man. But beyond the normal hardening of character expected from battle, something else was occurring in Tomas. Dolgan had not as yet decided if the change was fully for good or ill—or if it could even be considered in those terms Six months of watching Tomas was not long enough to come to any sort of conclusion.
Since donning the dragon’s gift armor, Tomas had become a fighter of legendary capabilities. And the boy . . . no, the young man, was taking on weight, even though food was often scarce. It was as if something were acting to bring him to a growth sufficient to fit the cut of the armor. And his features were gaining a strange cast. His nose had taken on a slightly more angular shape, more finely chiseled than before. His brows had become more arched, his eyes deeper set. He was still Tomas, but Tomas with a slight change in appearance, as if wearing someone else’s expression.
Dolgan pulled long on his pipe and looked at the white tabard Tomas wore. Seven times in battle, and free from stain. Dirt, blood, and all other manner of contamination were refused purchase in its fabric. And the device of the golden dragon gleamed as brightly as when they had first found it. So it was also with the shield he wore in battle. Many times struck, still it was free of any scar. The dwarves were circumspect in this matter, for their race had long ago used magic in the fashioning of weapons of power. But this was something else. They would wait and see what it brought before they would judge.
As they finished their meager meal, one of the guards on the edge of camp came into the clearing before the cave. “Someone comes.”
The dwarves quickly armed themselves and stood ready. Instead of the strangely armored Tsurani soldiers, a single man dressed in the dark grey cloak and tunic of a Natalese Ranger appeared. He walked directly into the center of the clearing and announced in a voice hoarse from days running through wet forests, “Hail, Dolgan of the Grey Towers.”
Dolgan stepped forward. “Hail, Grimsworth of Natal.”
The rangers were serving as scouts and runners since the invaders had taken the Free City of Wahnor. The man walked into the cave mouth and sat down. He was given a bowl of stew, and Dolgan asked, “What news?”
“None good, I’m afraid,” he said, between mouthfuls of stew. “The invaders hold a hard front from out of the valley, northeast toward LaMut. Walinor has been reinforced with fresh troops from their homeland and stands like a knife between the Free Cities and the Kingdom. They had thrice raided the main camp of the Kingdom’s host when I left two weeks ago, probably again since. They harry patrols from Crydee. I am to tell you that it is believed they will start a drive into your area soon.”
Dolgan looked perplexed. “Why do the dukes think that? Our lookouts have seen no increase in the aliens’ activity in these parts. Every patrol they send out we attack. If anything, they seem to be leaving us alone.”
“I am not sure. I heard that the magician Kulgan thinks the Tsurani seek metals from your mines, though why I do not know. In any event, this is what the dukes have said. They think there will be an assault on the mine entrances in the valley. I am to tell you that new Tsurani troops may be coming into the southern end of the valley, for there has been no new major assault in the north, only the small raids.
“Now you must do what you think is best.” So saying, he turned his full attention to the stew.
Dolgan thought. “Tell me, Grimsworth, what news of the elvenfolk?”
“Little. Since the aliens have invaded the southern part of the elven forests, we are cut off. The last elven runner came through over a week before I left. At last word, they had stopped the barbarians at the fords of the river Crydee where it passes through the forest.