The children were silent, but their eyes were wide with wonder. There was something in the very air of this world that called to each elf as they returned to their ancestral soil; the Conjurer could only liken it to a reawakening of something deep within their souls that had been dormant for generations.
The Regent Lord knelt, removed his gauntlets and picked up a handful of soil. He lifted it to his nose, sniffed and said, ‘This land is rich with life. We shall reclaim our home, no matter what.’ He fell silent, reflecting for a moment, then he turned to Laromendis. ‘This is our world,’ whispered the Regent Lord. ‘Our world.’ He looked at the first ragged refugees, and shook his head. Those in the city would be the last through, with the defenders who still held the demons at bay, giving their lives to save the last of their kin. A play of emotions flickered across the ruler’s face, before he again composed his mask. He said, ‘We must rest, recover and grow, for we have lost too much in recent years.’
Removing his fur mantle, as the day’s heat grew, he took a deep breath. ‘The air here is sweet, despite the dwarves and others using it.’ He chuckled at his own joke.
Moving closer to his ruler’s side, the Conjurer lowered his voice so that those emerging from the portal would not hear him over the wagons’ rumble, ‘Sire, there is but one other troubling matter.’
‘Tell me,’ said the Regent Lord.
‘As I said before, there have been rumours of demons . . .’
The Regent Lord’s eyes closed as if he was in pain. Softly, as if he could hardly bear to utter the words, he said, ‘I had put that out of my mind.’ He regarded Laromendis and asked, ‘Here, as well?’
‘They are only rumours. I have seen no demon sign personally; and as you know, I have diligently searched for any hint that they are here. Still, I lack certain arts that others possess, which would ensure the demons were absent.’
The Regent Lord looked at the wagons as they continued to rumble through the portal, more warriors appeared as well, flanking the caravan of taredhel females and young. There was hardly one fighter without a wound or damage to his armour. The People had been battling the Demon Legion for almost one hundred years; millions had perished. At one time the taredhel ruled the stars, travelling through magic gates from world to world. But the demons had reduced their millions to thousands and now the very last of their kind sought refuge on a world known only through ancient lore, a world upon which they had abided in hallowed antiquity, before the time the gods warred and chaos reigned.
The Conjurer smiled. ‘Yes, my lord. It is rich with life here; and much of it is familiar. There are deer and bear, lions and wyverns; game is plentiful. The corn tastes oddly sweet, but not unpleasantly so, and the dwarves, for all their despicable flaws, sell their brews to any and all. The humans and dwarves have herds of cattle and sheep, and the seas are abundant as well. Here lie riches beyond what we’ve known in a century.’ Then he fell silent.
The Regent Lord stood and said, ‘You have something to say. Say it.’
‘My lord,’ said the Conjurer, ‘if I offend you, take my head, but as I am sworn to serve, I must speak only truth: If the rumours are true, or if the demons follow us here, we will be left with two choices: to flee and leave the humans, dwarves and our primitive cousins to battle the Legion, yet again seeking another world—’
‘Where?’ injected the Regent Lord. ‘I read every report. You have found no alternative, only harsh, barren places where life scarcely survives . . . no, there is nowhere else for us to go.’
‘—Or we stay and fight.’
The Regent Lord said, ‘When my father was a boy, the Seven Clans numbered two million swords, Conjurer.’ He watched as more wagons and beasts of burden emerged from the portal. Livestock was now being driven through, a herd of razor-spine hogs, herded by wolf-like dire dogs. An especially large canine loped through the portal and came to the Regent Lord’s side, licking the monarch’s hand while wagging its bushy tail.
Roughly patting the beast’s massive neck, the Regent Lord almost crooned as he knelt and said, ‘Sanshem, my good companion.’ He looked fondly upon the animal, perhaps the only being in all creation for whom the Regent Lord felt genuine affection.
Looking back at the Conjurer, he continued, ‘When my father took the throne, four hundred and twenty thousand swords could answer the call of the taredhel battle horn.’