The Endurlon

Chapter One: Flight from Astiol

Chapter I

Flight from Astiol

From under the dark boughs of old gnarled trees, two mounted steeds broke out into the light of day, a wild glare in their eyes, snorting and frothing at the bit. Hooves franticly pounded the ground with a matched pace. Their riders hooded and crouched low in the saddles clutching the reins, and their horses spurred on with fear of what may befall them. On they sped over rough turfs of coarse grasses as shrill cries went up into the air and faded into choking end. Winding between the rocks strewn across the lowlands, they sped towards the wide valleys before them. Only when a great distance was behind them would they slow their charge. But one rider looked back; crystal grey eyes looked deep into the darkness from under the forest eaves. Shadows, shadows deeper than the shade of the trees moved, waving weapons and cursing the light, cursing the riders as they fled .Arrows whined and swept through the air falling about them, embedding the earth with black feathered stalks.

Beyond the treeline, rank above rank the forest climbed in deepening hues of green until they were pierced by the enormity of Astiol. The ancient fortress of old, broken from uncounted years of the world. Grim against the mountainside of cold grey rock it stood as a bastion of another age, an age of another power. One which brought so much destruction to Arillion, and devised the future of it's dwellers, almost lost to history save a few.

"Foul creatures of the underground, those from the North Rents!" cried the rider. "Astiol is rebuilding its army, and it is far reaching if the evil of the north is here."

"Keep riding! We do not stop till we reach the Howling Hills." The other shouted in return.

On they rode as the sounds of hatred faded into the distance, till all that was left was the footfall of hooves on the soft grass. Many miles passed as the sun wandered west into the late afternoon. Thin streaks of cloud upon high blazed with orange and red, thus was the hour that they came to the feet of the Howling Hills. Picking their way through the tumbled and broken paths, they wound their way up to the heights of the first ridge, and rested their steeds. No fire was lit and no sound could be heard. Keeping guard, they watched the way south as the hours passed into the evening.

"The moon rides high and the clouds are thin and few, it is a good sign. We shall take turns to keep watch. Eat and rest, I shall watch first." The elder rider said wrapping cloak and hood tightly around him to keep out the chill air, and seated against a large stone, the long hours of night passed without danger.

As the sky drew back its nightshade, dawn crept into the world snuffing out the stars and their beauty. The cold morning grew grey, and the pale shapes of the Howling Hills loomed up against the dark backdrop of the west and north.

"Geldrid, have you not rested?" Came a voice.

"No, no I have not. But I am fine!" He said in return as he rose to his feet.

"I fear for you, you look... weakened. The fight to escape the old fortress has taken its toll on you." His companion said with concern.

"I am fine. A little cold and tired, but no more than expected." His smile betrayed his thoughts. As he gazed southwards, his companion now saw his grief. Long years played out their part upon his face; winter crept into his hair and beard, and age had taken his eyes .Care worn and grave were his looks now, for indeed life had taken its toll.

"We have many miles more to go, and much to do. At the north vale of Bar Cinyar we must go our separate ways." And he handed a small pouch to his companion. "Go to Redstone, Olban and the Kingdoms of your kindred. Give each lord a token of old. Set them to fortify their kingdoms, and send messengers to Cragstaldh. I go now to Greyridge and then to the Middle Kingdom. For there I shall find my friend, and a captain of Olban."