Chapter 4 - The Preparation

Chapter 4 – The Preparation

 

Finally they came to it, the land of ancient darkness. It is said that this land was once cursed by a dark magician to never bear fruit or plant of any type. Whether this is true or not no body knows, but the land is a desolate wasteland. It is all dirt and ash, riddled with rocky hills and plateaus. One cannot put a finger on it, but the very air you breathe has a foul scent. In the very center in this valley of death is a great stronghold. The city had no name, because men rarely talked of it. After the great darkness in the first age was banished, men tried to destroy it, but no stone or ancient magic could break the walls. The city had barracks running in rows running wall to wall in the city. After each row a new set of barracks formed, forming what looked like steps made for the mighty mountain trolls. All but the mightiest men could not enter its center building, a castle crowned with a grotesque head staring out with flaming red eyes. This is where many of the dark lords of old sat on their thrones of evil and directed their armies.

 

Gildor and Brethor were camped in a cave overlooking the great city of dread. Gildor sat on a rock trying to work out a plan. Brethor sat in the back of the cave not trying to look at the great city.

 

“Does it not fill you with a great dread?” Brethor asked Gildor quietly.

 

“Yes, but I think of hope when fear threatens to overcome,” he said, touching the silver ring lightly as he said it. The words flared across the ring for an instant, then vanished. He considered for a moment that Brethor was not courageous, but quickly banished the thought. Most men could not have even entered the dark realm.

 

Suddenly movement near the gate stopped his musings. A battalion of horsemen in great black cloaks road through the gate, and the guard barely paid any attention, he waved them through absentmindedly. This gave Gildor an idea.

 

“Brethor, if we can catch two of these horsemen unawares, we can take their cloaks and slip in, climb over the barracks and sneak into the castle,” Gildor suggested.

 

“Easier said then done, but our best bet to get in,” Brethor mumbled.

 

….

 

After watching the patterns of the black cloaked horsemen, Gildor gathered information in his mind. These were patrol guards, cloaked so that they were hard to see against the black hills. They moved around in pairs, convenient for Gildor and Brethor. The group of horsemen riding into the city was the change of patrols and the end of day and night. This was their chance to get in. Fortunately the horse colors were bay and black, so Gildor

could take Tycra into the city. This would be a small comfort. There would likely be no more. He looked at the ring and mounted Tycra, glad to see the message for what could be the last time.