Though Laromendis believed that he was as dedicated to saving the People as the Regent Lord, he was aware that Undalyn suspected him of having a different agenda. Glancing at the journal once again he resisted the urge to smile; let the Regent Lord and the High Magister, and the other members of the Regent’s Meeting suspect him. Let them believe his ambitions to be personal: power, glory, wealth, and the freedom of his brother; those goals they would understand. Just as long as they didn’t suspect what his real aim was. His real purpose would be as alien to them as the nature of their terrible enemies to the north.
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.