Hours pass, as preparations are made and business is concluded.

Part way through the morning, a boy turns up carrying a tubular leather case, and a bundle of papers.  Morgan's map, and the notes used by Ren Mayhew in its creation.

People come, and go, all morning, and Donovan isn't sure that all of them use the door.  Still, he is kept busy preparing food and drinks for them.  It is a matter of pride with him, as he tells anybody who will listen, that nobody leaves the Blue Rose hungry.

At the appropriate time, the Rokt leads the way down to the harbour, and to one particular vessel...

The Seahorse she's called.  A two masted sloop, in reasonable condition (though parts of her have clearly been freshly repaired).  She is also too small to carry all of the panthers.

Morgan soon realises that his road map may see some use, after all.

The troops at the city gate, most of whom had not been on duty the afternoon before, are somewhat surprised when a horde of panthers, each of extraordinary size, approaches their watchpost, from inside the city.  Their shock at this sight is further compounded when they note that the panthers have saddles, and that one is being ridden.

They are somewhat relieved when neither beasts nor rider show any sign of causing trouble, and, instead, rush straight through the gate, and up the slope towards the mountains.

Morgan, meanwhile, urges the panthers on, and through the gap ibto the pass.  A short while later, he sees familiar figures on the road ahead, but the way forks, and his path leads him to the left, and down the steep valley wall, while Trista and her companions continue along the clifftop, high above him.

Eventually Morgan's road plunges into forest, and he loses sight of the upper road.  By the time he emerges from the dense forest, the road runs out onto an embankment across a wide, marshy lowland, and the air is filled with the reek of swamp gas.

He passes a village, built on tall stilts on the wetland.  The villagers stop to watch the peculiar cavalcade of beasts as they pass by on the road.

Morgan rides on, for hours, and the land starts to rise a little.  Eventually he finds himself entering a region of lightly-wooded hills.  Rounding a bend in the road, he sees a pair of horses ahead, and a woman crouched over something by the side of the road.  As Morgan approaches, she stands up, waving her arms, and calls out to him, "Please stop!  My uncle is injured!  Help!"

liding to the ground,Later Morgan would have to wonder at the phrase of two minds. He had thought he understood it before he left home, but these days, he has sometimes been having trouble confining it to less than a dozen.

In this case, instinct and learned caution play their tug of war across his face. She needs help weighed against a cynical assessment of traps. A protest that they aren't using the broken path set against the knowledge that there is nothing limiting the darker side of human ... well, sentient nature to those paths.

The twisting expressions resolve into a grimace, as he leaps from the edge of decision. There'll probably be a nice assortment of blades at the bottom to cushion my fall With that last bitter thought, he shrugs to himself, knowing he can no more bypass her than he could have swum to Amber.

Morgan twists to the ground as Leareth passes, the panthers take station a quarter mile around the scene, leaving a pair walking by him to get a closer look.

"Help us, please, I beg you.", the woman calls out, and closer, Morgan sees that she is little more than a girl.

The object she was crouching over turns out to be a man, perhaps in his fifties.  A man who appears to be bleeding from an unpleasant head wound.

"A serpent startled the horses, and Bors, my uncle, was thrown.  I think he hit his head on a stone, in the grass, there, by the road.  At least there is a little blood on the stone.  Help him."

She looks to be on the verge of tears, as she continues, "He's alive, still.  Breathing, at least, and I can feel his heartbeat... but I can't wake him.  Are you a physician?  Or a chirurgeon?  Or do you know anything of the their arts?"

At last, she can no longer hold back her tears.

Morgan shakes his head. "I can offer you a bandage, but that's all I know for a head wound. Is there somewhere that has one inside a day's travel?"  Horses were slow, he remembered, so it sounded right.

"Verilan is about an hour's ride that way." she points back along the road, in the direction Morgan came from.  Though Morgan had seen seen no such place on his journey, that might just mean he had passed the spot while in a world where Verilan didn't exist.  Or it might mean she's lying.  "It's the biggest town around here.  We were riding from there to Hafton, which is, I think, a little closer, but I don't know if there's anybody there who can help this."

"A bandage might be of some use, yes."

She watches Morgan as he approaches her uncle, her expression betraying a little nervousness, "What manner of beast are those?  Are they tame?"

Removing a coiled beige strip, Morgan shakes his head. "Not as such. They're members of my unit."  He wets it with a generous splash from his flask, and begins wrapping the bandage around the man.

"A two hour ride between towns? I imagine wagons go through frequently. I'll let them know a doctor's needed."

"Your... unit?" the girl replies, puzzled, "That makes them sound a little like soldiers, but I have never heard of any such creature serving in any army."

Then she shakes her head, "Please forgive my manners.  I am called Fercalla.  This is my uncle, Bors, brother to my father, Laethran, who is a commander in the garrison at Verilan.  That is why I know a little about armies, and am surprised at the thought of these creatures being soldiers."

She watches as Morgan works on the man's injury, "We will, of course, be grateful for any aid you can provide."

"A bit more prestigious, but yes."  Morgan acknowledges.  "We're from rather far away."

With everything in place, he stands, and pulls himself onto a convenient saddle. "We'll be taking a few minutes of detour to notify a doctor everyone. Let's move." Coughs and calls from the others spread the word, and the small army got on its way down the road.

Leaving the girl, and her injured uncle, at the roadside, Morgan and his unit move away, at best speed.  The panthers are faster than most horses, certainly faster than any normal horse, and they reach the town in something less than the hour they'd been told it would take.

Almost.

From the top of a rise, Morgan looks down to the lower land, beyond, where the ruins of a small town smoulder still.  Thin streamers of smoke flow downwind from the charred remains of the buildings,

There are still a few people moving about down there, walking aimlessly among the wreckage.

Coping with the scene and a throbbing headache, Morgan almost turns away. They'll need the doctor more here than elsewhere, if he still lives. But then he pauses, uncertain. An hour's ride she said. Either she lied, or the cause of this, then, was close.

"Down, we'll ask the time, and then the cause."  His directions are simple, and twenty-some panthers flow down the hill.

The ground is wet, and many of the people are carrying buckets from a nearby stream, as Morgan rides in, carrying water to douse the last glowing embers.  Others are using wooden poles to poke through the still-hot ashes.   Their faces, and clothes, are blackened by soot.

Many of them look nervously at Morgan and his unit, and a couple of dozen grab makeshift weapons, moving to intercept him.

The air around the smoking remains of the buildings is hot.

One woman, steps forward, directly in front of Morgan, holding a scythe.

"If you've come to finish what that other thing started, you'll find us more prepared this time!"

Morgan shifts, shaking his head. He makes no move toward his sword as he speaks. "Sorry, no. I don't play with fire. Just hoped you would tell me what did do this, and if you could, which way it or they went. Also, a man up the road a ways has a head wound when a doctor is free, for all you've enough to do here."

She does not relax, and the smoke-reddened eyes, peering out of her soot-grimed face, regard Morgan suspiciously.  The scythe is still held in readiness, and she gives the impression that she knows how to use the implement to good effect.

She inclines her head to the left, "It went that way.  No more than a half hour ago, and moving fast.  If you see it, you'll recognise it, easy enough.  It'll be the thing that's on fire, and still moving, while all around it burns and dies."

"But I don't recommend that you go that way.  Common sense'd tell you, as would I, to go that way, instead."

Sadly, Morgan agrees. "Naught we can do to a living flame but bleed on  it. Thank you, we'll trouble you no further." They turn about, racing back along the road.

"Aye, that's about right.  I've heard of such things... Arches they're called, or somesuch... attacking other towns, only in the past few months, mind you.  But never this far north."  The woman looks behind her, as the charred posts of one of the buildings collapse in a shower of ash and sparks.

"If this has become the way of things, then there's no sense in staying here.  Maybe we should move closer to the sea.  More water to fight the fires.  It'll be hard to do, though."

A shake of her head, then she looks at Morgan again, "We'll send a couple of lads out to see to the injured man.  Might be able to find a wagon too, though I doubt it, in this mess."

"Thanks." Morgan stops Leareth to listen and speak. With her information, the woman has actually helped quite a bit. That done, a small bow from the saddle and the pride is off, intent on catching their fellows.

For hours the panthers bound along the road, moving faster than (almost) any horse, and the miles slip past, beneath their clawed feet.  When they reach forks, Morgan uses the map to determine the best way to take.  For the most part, the map seems accurate, so far, but there are a couple of places where the scenery does not quite match what he might expect.

Still... though the landscape may sometimes be at variance with the map, the road, itself, seems to run true.

Across the wide lowlands, and the up into the hills beyond, winding through gorges and valleys, the pride keeps up their relentless pace, and always climbing now.  The hills become mountains, grim crags, with only the barest vegetation, clinging to crevices and tiny ledges.  Often the rumble of distant landslides echoes through the valleys.

The road leads higher up the flanks of the mountains, high above the  narrow valley floor, where a river rages across rapids and between outcroppings of stone.  Mile upon mile of white water, beneath a slate-grey sky, filled with rapidly moving clouds.

The road veers left, into a twisting canyon, and away from the river valley, and the rain, long threatened, starts to fall.

The canyon connects to another valley, where a paved road runs, and Morgan turns right, descending now.  The panthers move swiftly across the wet slabs, and half an hour later, they turn off the road, and onto a narrow flight of of crude stairs, leading up the mountainside.  The pads of their large feet find good purchase on the slick stone, and they climb easily.

The stair leads up, and up, eventually reaching the clouds, and passing through, until it rises above the rain, and starts to level off, in a cleft between two higher peaks.  Ahead looms a tunnel entrance, marked on Morgan's map as a shortcut.  Ancient it is, the stones which frame it worn almost smooth, and some of them have fallen, laying about on the path which leads to that dark maw.

Everything here is shrouded with cobwebs, wet and gleaming in the cold, damp air, and a foul-smelling breeze blows out of the darkness.

And so man and panthers are presented with a choice... descend the stair, and take the road, or plunge into the foetid, Stygian gloom before them?

They are no stranger to the awful, but the past few days, weeks?, of comfort have softened the shell of indifference. Or so Morgan sees it, as he considers the map.  And going through that cave would not be comfortable.

There are other considerations, too. Without light, his power, dangerous as it is, will be of no help. They will have to rely completely on following the shadow trail left behind by past travelers.

But after a minute, he realizes there really is no choice here. He had sent a squad ahead, using this map and following these trails.  It was going to be substantially faster and safer following that squad's trail, both scent and shadow.

"We follow the others." He finally says, nodding toward the cave.  "Watch, though. The spiders are spinning quickly, so they must have food. And something must be feeding the bugs, that they go into the cave. I won't be able to see, so don't wait for orders."

The panthers plunge ahead, into the blackness.  Their sensitive noses, and excellent vision, make the going easier than it might have been for others.  Still, it is by no means simple.

Scarcely have they entered the tunnel than the way turns downwards, a long staircase, descending steeply.  Blind as he is, Morgan feels a change in the rank air of this place, and hears the echoing fall of a displaced pebble, and realises that the stair is running across the face of a wall, with a near vertical drop of unknown distance to one side.

For hours the panthers move downwards, and the air grows colder, as the path plunges into the roots of the mountains.  Eventually Morgan senses the rock enfolding him again as the stair enters a more confined space.

The light, when it comes, is no brighter than a firefly, but the man is almost dazzled by it.  A cold green radiance from the wall on his left as the panthers hurry around a corner.  Some sort of fungus.

The way continues, and then breaks out onto the floor of a large cavern, lit by more of the fungus.  There are bones scattered about here.  Large bones, many of them.  And something which moves among them.

Not a spider though.  Huge, and serpentine, with dozens of legs, in the strange light of the cave, it more closely resembles an eyeless dragon.  It lifts its head, and makes an odd coughing sound, and one of the cats leaps aside as a mass of sticky, entangling threads strikes the ground where it had stood.

The blind head swings about, seeking another target...

"Bypass." Morgan's decision is instant. If it uses immobilizing tactics, the thing wasn't likely to be fast. More, the bones weren't in the stair, were there was less room to dodge. He hopes that means it grew here, and can't leave.

In any case, the decision made, they race through the cavern in rough formation. Deafening roars from everyone's throats echo everywhere. It must be well used to tracking by sound and scent. But one can't see in too strong a light, and they intend to create too strong a sound.

They leap around and over the bones. They've not the time for pity, and their reinforcements sent for will be able to treat them properly, if they on't take the long route.

The panthers scatter, spreading out around the strange creature.  Blindly, it tries to select a target, but the cavern is filled with confusing motion.  So many possible targets, all moving so quickly, and making so much noise.

It rears away from them, looping backwards and turning away.  Slower targets will come by, sooner or later.  Easier targets.

Morgan and his unit continue on, and again the path starts to descend, curving slowly to the left, lit by the luminescent fungi.

Before long, though, that greenish light is gone, and Morgan rides once more in a darkness so profound that it is as if his eyes have been put out.  How long this lasts, it is difficult to be sure, but eventually a pale grey light grows, some distance ahead.

Finally the panthers emerge from the tunnel and into a broad, forested valley, illuminated, comparatively brightly, by stars.  The way drops down, towards the trees below, into them, through, and onto a stone-surfaced road.  Onward, as the valley narrows, and the walls grow steeper, and the panthers which were sent ahead are waiting.

They turn to face Morgan as he rides closer, and slows.

"All right. Everone but Leareth, hunt down some lunch, but don't take your time. We'll be off again after we hear what's ahead."

Standing, he wouldn't meet their eyes sitting, so Morgan doesn't bother, instead sinking into a comfortable crouch on the verge of the road while they talk. He spares a moment to be grateful for the excuse to stretch tired legs, but is soon back to business.

"A toll bridge? Did you catch what the charge is?" Morgan's inlined to pay it, but would like to know if someone tries to cheat them.


< Did it see you? How did it react? What did the caravan look like? > Leareth's reaction was more military.

"Was it already night when you got there?" He would have said dark if not for the recent lesson in true blackness.

"You'll have the point duties," scouting a mile or so ahead, to give them a minute or two of warning, "until we pass the bridge, then we'll switch it back."

The information given to Morgan is fairly clear.

The creature is big, at least twice as tall as Morgan, and much broader in proportion.  It looks like it's made of stone.  It has a badge, of some sort, claims to be official, and everybody pays it.  The price is always the same, varying only between foot-, mounted-, and wheeled-traffic, but never more than a handful of copper coins each.

After the travellers have paid, the creature hands them something, and they go on their way, unmolested.  Often he gives some small piece of advice about the road ahead.

Most of the travellers approach the bridge in daylight, but a few approach at night.  The time doesn't seem to matter to the guardian, who appears to live beneath the bridge.

To Leareth's questions, the answers are just as clear.  They were seen, and the creature watched them for a while, but largely ignored them once it became clear they weren't trying to cross.

The caravan consisted of ten carts, heavily laden, pulled by two or four horses each.  It had guards, who were very alert approaching the bridge, but once they reached it, everybody relaxed.  Once they crossed, some of the guards climbed up on the carts and seemed to settle down for a sleep.

The news reassures Morgan, and as everyone returns, licking away blood stains, he motions them forward. These people have far better roads than the one he made.

"Wait when we get to the bridge, I'll be paying."

When all have returned, appetites satisfied, Morgan moves them out.

The road curves upwards, and crosses a ridge, before descending into a valley, where it arcs over a swolen, fast-flowing river.  The amount of debris, fallen branches, and shattered timber being washed along with the flow might indicate that there have been recent storms here... but for the moment there is only a cold, sporadic drizzle.

As the lead panthers set foot on the bridge, a shape hauls itself up, over the parapet, to block the way.  Twelve feet tall it stands, and broad enough to appear squat.  Its arms are long, like some sort of grotesque ape, and its skin, most of which is visible, since it wears no more than a tattered loincloth, is black and covered with scales.

The face is a distorted mockery of humanity, with one eye missing, leaving a hideously scarred socket, and its twisted, leering mouth is filled with jagged fangs.  Tangled black hair, all knots and snarls, hangs around its face.

It's only possessions, other than the loincloth, seem to be a heavy club, and a large leather bag which is slung over one shoulder.  The bag's strap bears a large bronze brooch, which looks to have been polished recently.  It reaches into the bag, and pulls out a document of some sort, set with a seal, which it holds out towards Morgan.

"This off-ish-ul toll point.  I have paper from King Hodic says I off-ish-ul.  Toll pay for stop brig... stop brig... " it pauses, scratching its head, then, "Brig-gands.  Stop brig-gands on road.  Toll pay for fix road after big storms.  You pay toll, or not pass."

Morgan nods agreeably. "Not a problem."  He offers a hand pre-filled with slightly more than the correct amount. Thinking about it, he has the distinct feeling he does not want to get in a fight with the creature.

Shoving the document back into the bag, the thing on the bridge grins at Morgan, a not altogether reassuring sight, raises one hand, and starts to count the panthers.  Some of the counting is a little strange, in particular a tendency to confuse the numbers eight and nine whenever they are encountered ("... 6, 7, 9, 8, 10, 11... "), but the final figure is accurate enough, and the calculation of the required toll seems correct.

The creature accepts the coins, bites one, to ascertain its quality, after an apologetic explanation that it is part of the duty of a toll collector to make sure the coins are genuine.  The bitten coin, Morgan notes, ends up with an impressive dent in it.

A wooden box is pulled from the bag, and placed on the ground.  The toll collector leans over the box with the coins held in the palm of one hand, and flicked, one at a time, into the box with a grime-encrusted fingernail of the other hand.  The creatures lips move the whole time, and as the final coin drops into the bag, it squints at Morgan with its good eye.

"You make pay too much.  I make pay change, or... "  It turns, looking along the road in both directions, before continuing in a (relatively) hushed voice, "You can make offer what is call tip.  Bridge troll life not so hard like wild troll.  I live under strong bridge, so that not so bad.  But pay not so good.  Is good manners to give tip to bridge troll."

"I buy food.  Not beer.  Beer make troll stupid.  Make break things and steal things and kill things.  Karsk Horse-biter not do that.  Not buy beer.  King Hodic would take job and give same job to other troll."

"You make give tip, I not buy beer."

"Is tip."  Morgan enunciates, hoping he has the grammar correct. Or understandable, at least. "For you."

The troll, apparantly named Karsk Horse-biter grins again, then transfers a few coins from the box, dropping them into the bag instead.

A piece of paper, printed with a series of words, appears from the bag, along with a large piece of charcoal.  A number is scrawled on the paper, below the printed text.  The figure, Morgan can see, matches the actual toll, excluding the tip.

"I not remember name of this thing.  It say that toll is paid."

The receipt is handed to Morgan, and the troll stands aside, indicating that the troop is free to pass.

"Toll makes no brig-gands on road since two years, so you not worry.  That way... three miles... you find rest place, with some food.  Food not cost money there."

"Thank you."  Morgan glanced at the token, and led his people off. He ignored the rest place. They'd just taken longer for food while he considered the toll than it would to pass the place.

The road leads away from the bridge, climbing higher through rain-soaked wooded hills.  A short distance on, the shelter stands, a roof of boards and turf, held up by sturdy posts, with a firepit at its centre and a large iron trunk which, as Morgan is informed, smells of bread and cheese.

Further, and the road continues to rise, and climbs above the treeline.

Ahead a range of mountains is clearly visible, starkly outlined against a dark, sullen sky filled with the promise of more rain.  Morgan's course continues north, towards those mountains, across a barren plateau dotted with strange ruins, interspersed with marsh-fringed pools and cairns of stones.

Onward the panthers move, the whole troop reunited now, and the hours slide by, until, just at sunset, they reach a monolithic pylon carved with images which, although all but erased by time, wind, and weather, still manage to give the impression of disturbing strangeness.  The ground rises then, off the plateau and into the line of peaks which mark the boundary, and the rain starts to hammer down again.

As torrents of water flow down the slope around them, Morgan's troop find themselves entering a notch in the mountains, all but invisible in the night, save when lightning flares overhead, and illuminates the way.

Hours pass, as does the storm, and by dawn, as they emerge on the northern face of the range, there is just a steady drizzle.  Ahead of them a lowland stretches out, heavily forested, to a distant mountain which stands on the shore of a restless ocean.  On that distant mountain's flank, there is a city visible, gleaming in the first light of morning.

The troop sweeps down the slope and into the trees... a land filled with birdsong, and the calls of strange animals.  And a human voice.

"Halt!  In the name of Prince Julian of Amber, who brings these beasts to Arden?"
This message was last edited by the GM at 17:23, Fri 07 Dec 2007.

Morgan calls a stop. It wasn't necessary, Leareth did the same a heartbeat sooner, but it was his job.

"Morgan Julian, by invitation!" He can't help but be cheered. They're in Arden! A hundred hundred books aren't enough to tell all the stories set here! That gleaming city, it must be Amber! Better, they are in a forest again, no vast empty land, no barren wasteland, but forest.

The dampness doesn't even deserve mention in comparison.

There is movement among the trees.  Even some in the trees, and within moments, Morgan finds that he is suddenly the focus of a dozen pairs of eyes.  Probably more, since there he has the distinct impression that there are many more that he can't see.

Perhaps significantly, every one of the pairs of eyes, at least the ones which are visible, is looking at him along the length of a loaded crossbow.

The men (and women... there are a few women, he can see now) are all wearing green clothing, with light mail shirts, and short cloaks, with hoods.  The cloaks are dark green.

One of the men speaks, and it is the same voice as before.

"Things have grown dangerous here, of late, the road through Arden is closed.  You have a choice.  Come with us to explain yourself to the Prince, or turn back.  Or die, of course, that option is always open."

At least he smiles as he offers the third choice, even if it does appear a little... forced.

"Interesting." Morgan answered. "I'd heard the land routes were recently re-opened.  But as it's him I wish to see, I'll make the obvious choice. Lead on."  He smiled, gesturing at the forest.

And we finally get to see the strain that spawned our nation. Honestly, Morgan wasn't sure if he was thinking of the war-dogs or the Prince. Such an impact, for less than a week's stay some centuries gone.

"Whether or not the roads are opened varies from day to day, just lately.  And depends on who asked, and where they were when they asked." the man replies, with a completely deadpan expression.

"This way."

With a gesture, he shows that Morgan should move off the trail, heading away into denser forest, very old growth, by the looks of it.  A short distance from the trail Morgan had been following, they push through what a wall of dense undergrowth, and Morgan finds that the ground drops steeply into a ditch, a clear road, like a sort of tunnel with a roof of leaves.  Dim greenish light filters through that roof.

The guide indicates that Morgan should turn to follow the hidden route, and progress is quicker.

Once, from nearby, comes the bellowing roar of something large, and the man raises a hand to call for a halt.  After a little while, when the noise is repeated further away, he seems to relax, "As I said, things have grown dangerous.  That one is moving away though."

An hour later, Morgan finds himself exiting the concealed path, and entering a campground, where ten, or so, tents stand in a clearing.  One of them is larger than the others.

There are a lot of troops about, at least a hundred in view at any one time, not including the ones who have escorted Morgan here, and there is a constant flow of traffic in and out of the area.  And yet the camp is eerily quiet.  Most of the troops seem to regard the panthers with interest, rather than concern.

In the centre of it all, in front of the larger tent, a man in white armour stands, in deep conversation with several others, as they study a map laid out on the table before them.

Morgan's guide asks him to wait, and moves across to report to the white-armoured man, who lifts his head to look straight at Morgan.  Blue eyes look out of a face framed by long dark hair.  Then he speaks quietly to the others around the map, who bow, and move away.

The guide returns.  "The Prince wishes to speak to you now."

And so it is that Morgan finds himself presented to Prince Julian of Amber... a man widely regarded with awe and reverence in Morgan's homeland.

"My scouts inform me that you brought an army, of sorts, into Arden, but you claim to be here by invitation.  As master of these woods, I'm curious...  Who are you, and who issued the invitation?"

"Shit." It about summed things up for Morgan. Thought he was invited to meet his legendary ancestor, and wasn't even recognized.  "Morgan Julian. I have two. Three? I thought one was from you, sir. Only man ever known to ride a horse," He stopped, wiping his hand along his face, trying to be composed as he dismounts. It felt wrong talking to him from on high.

His speech is rapid, a bit disjointed. The surprise and disappointment not wholly concealed.  "You know a James, though? Nephew of yours, was running around with the late Ms. Wolfblade, a small dragon with a large mind, and a woman named Cyan? Group's changed some, I'm one of the newer members.  For some reason, he thought a ship would be faster from Cadiniagart, though it only took us a day and a night, and it'll be six for him.  Anyway, the ship obviously couldn't hold us, so we're to meet in Amber. He thought it'd give me a chance to meet my ances..."

"Anyway, I suppose its still your invitation. And no army yet. Only forty eight left of the seventeenth royal babysitter."  He dodged Sarati's swipe at his habitual joke, "battallion and a quarter gone home. Though the others should be coming." The value of the idea of mentioning that bit of news bypassed the prince. Ordinarily it might not have, but he was still in something akin to shock.

"I've brought some current maps and news on the archons for you, as well."

Julian ponders Morgan's words, and seems to relax a little.  "In times like these, it pays to be careful." he offers, perhaps, by way of explanation.

"Three times in the last month, we've had large groups of creatures appear at the borders.  The first group we recognised - a mixed army of men and Sodhra that we'd heard were raiding some of our further neighbours.  I suppose they thought that, since we hadn't tried to stop them, then we must have become weak, and they decided to try their luck."

"The few that survived the fighting were probably hunted down by my hounds."

He pauses, for a moment, then continues, "The others two groups were unknown.  Certainly they weren't enemies we've faced before.  They were killed, or driven off anyway.  One lot weren't even remotely human."

Frowning, he looks around him, and beckons to one of his men, before turning back to Morgan, "Do you need food, or something to drink?"

"I could use a drink." Morgan admits. "If you'd tell me what isn't eligible for hunting, the panthers can feed themselves." He somehow doubts they'd have enough extra on hand for thirty hungry predators.


"I should warn you that fire archons are destroying towns, on their way here."

"As long as it isn't wearing a uniform, they can hunt it." Julian replies, then turns to signal one of the nearby men.  "Wine, for our guest."

A few moments later, Morgan has a wooden goblet in hand, containing a reasonable wine.

"Afraid that's the best we've got at the moment.  I'll be sending some men out to meet the supply train in the morning."

He regards Morgan with a slightly perplexed expression, "I'm sorry, I don't know who these Archons are.  That's twice that you've mentioned them, now.  Are they some new enemy we should be aware of?  Mercenaries in the employ of the Courts, or the like?"

Morgan blinks, surprised again, while the majority of his host disappear into the woods. "You could say that.  I'm sorry sire, I'd thought you better informed.

Archons are the race of the leaders of the armies marching on Amber. They're shaped like spinning wheels, and come in varieties of steel, lightning, and fire, as far as I've seen. They destabilize and conquer 'Shadows', I think you call them, and install some involved sorcery mechanism. The intent is to break a line from Chaos to Amber, and shatter everything. Some sort of philosophic argument.

Tactically, each seems capable. The steel ones are the weakest, and killing one is almost as dangerous as fighting it. Imagine fighting a dozen rapidly spinning and size changing swords bound together with razor wire that bleed white fire and explode when dying, and you'll have a fair idea. The lightning and fire ones can spit their element out, rain fire from the skies.

They have some sort of nullifier for the powers of Amber and Chaos, involving a long dead entity's body, if I understand it right, aside from their own magic and enormous armies of differing types. Their last mass attack... they blotted out the sky. Never mind the recruited armies."  He pauses, gauging whether he has conveyed the correct intensity.

"One of the fire archons destroyed a town roughly nine tenths the distance from here to Cadinagart less than a day ago. So sir, I think it fair to say that the souting is nearly done, and they'll be on your doorstep within the month.

That aside, they apparantly secured a traitor in the family who is going to plant a device in that power maze thing. James called it the Pattern? And if you aren't the one sending visions, then someone is better informed and using your image."

He finally stops, ticking off ideas in a mental register.  He hadn't gotten everything, but for a summary, it was good enough.

"Interesting.  The last contact I had with the agents we sent out was some time ago.  They didn't mention any of this then.  In fact I had only just assigned them to their mission.  This must all be information they've gathered since then." the prince replies, with a slow shake of his head.

"If any of my relatives have recieved this news, they certainly didn't let me know about it."

He ponders Morgan's description of the Archons, and his expression falls, "A flying enemy, in great numbers, and capable of dropping fire from the sky, and of negating any defensive use of the Pattern?"

Turning, he indicates two of his men, "You two, find as many officers as you can, tell them I need to see them, urgently."

Only once they have gone in search of the officers does Julian face Morgan again, and gestures towards the forest, "Take a good look around you, Morgan.  I suspect that Arden will not remain as it is for very much longer.

In the distance, there are several troops hurrying towards Morgan and Julian.  Some are still pulling on armour, or buckling on weapon belts...

"Essentially, "  Morgan's answer came soberly, as he scanned the woods about them, "The nullifier might cover less ground, closer to your source of power. We, well, I sent for reinforcements; if they believe, your other descendants will be coming in numbers. They might have the information to include firefighting beasts. James is coming with some allies. Five days left by sea, if they guessed correctly. "

He grimaces, "He knows more.. all than I do, and is better at expressing it besides. Why people travel on something so slow as a boat..." He shakes himself.

"One thing which might go in our favour... " Julian muses, as he considers Morgan's words, "We've had a lot of rain lately.  I've had to put up with a few complaints from the less experienced officers, about how they're always wet through.  All that water could turn out to be a very good thing."  He looks at one of the approaching officers, and says, "Hear that, Marcus?  All the rain might be a good thing."

The man spoken too gives the prince a sour look, then glowers up at the sky.  Julian, meanwhile, returns his attention to Morgan...

"I'll keep patrols out, watching for any reinforcements your people send, and I'm sure that James and the others can provide enough information for Random, Bleys, and the rest, to be able to help out."

"We might be forced to sacrifice part of Arden, in order to save the rest of it.  But I'll hold that as a last resort.  I plan on keeping it all, if I can."

As he speaks, more officers are gathering.

"I suppose I should send a messenger to the palace though, just in case something happens to prevent James, Jonnee, and the rest, getting through."

Morgan nods, but does not interrupt his ancestor's musings. Instead, he gets out his copy of the travelogue cum map, and sips his drink.

Julian gathers his officers around the table and starts relaying Morgan's information to them, indicating locations on his own maps of Arden, and ordering troop movements.  Patrols are increased, and sent further out.  Camps are shifted, so that forces will be spread out more.  After all, with a flying enemy, there is little sense in concentrating troops around the land routes through the forest.

Finally, after an hour, or so, of quiet discussion, the officers start to disperse, taking their orders back to the units they command.

Julian stands alone for a while, his head bowed, then finally shakes himself, and turns his attention back to Morgan.

"Of course, all that planning might be in vain.  If they can fly, they might head straight for the city itself, and ignore us."

Thinking through his options, Julian occasionally asks Morgan for information concerning the Archons, their numbers and capabilities, any allies they may have, and other details which may prove important in the near future.  Morgan, for his part, answers the questions as best he can...

Finally Julian seems to come to a decision.

"Those cats of yours seem fast and intelligent.  So far I've been watching the roads and trails through Arden, but with an enemy which can fly, that's not really a workable strategy."

"What I need you to do is send the cats out to act as scouts.  Have them spread out across the ground, with orders to watch for intruders, and report any that they see to the nearest unit of Rangers."

He fixes his gaze on Morgan's face.  "Are they capable of that, reliably?"

Morgan nods, a smile forming at the request. "That, easily. They can even spot your rangers, though there's the worry of teaching your men enough of the language to understand how many and kind. Continually, about seven to fourteen can be on patrol, keeping a thousand or so miles of border under control each."

He considers, then adds, "That varies if you need sweeps more than twice in a day."

"The language could be a problem, that's true.  But we have a problem with... with our usual method of communication over long distances.  If they can learn a few words, that would do."

The prince studies the maps, running a fingertip along what appears to be a river, "I'll take whatever help you can give.  Thank you.  With your cats patrolling the borders, then I can keep my forces back a little way, in positions where they can react quickly, moving to any location where the enemy is reported."

"Now I just need to think of a way to engage an enemy that doesn't actually need to  come within reach of the weapons I have available."

A rueful smile, and then Julian continues, "Will they work on their own?  If I give you a message to deliver to Amber, to my siblings, describing the threat, and requesting assistance with the development of a way to fight these things, would your scouts be able to work while you were away?"

"In case your friends don't make it to the city."

"If I ask them to, yes." Morgan agrees. "Ordinarily, they each have a partner... but that is to make conversation and things like opening doors easier. Though as I can see the city from here, I don't know that the trip would take o'erlong."

"I imagine they might take a while to get there, anyway." He nods, at the last comment. "I still can not understand why they would go by boat."

"One of my brothers is the same... swears that ships are the finest way to travel." Julian replies, with a faint smile which fades as quickly as it appeared, and is replaced by a worried frown, "Rather, he does if he still lives.  It's been some time since we last saw each other."

"I hope your companions do make it through, but things have changed in the last little while.  The situation is a lot less certain than it used to be."

The prince of Amber grows thoughtful, for a moment, then shakes himself out of it.  "No matter.  The situation is what it is.  We cope, or we fall.  I'll start work on the message, immediately, if you'd like to instruct your forces."

It takes a second, more processing than dissent, but Morgan bows his head in agreement. "I'll do that." As they left, he began conversing with Leareth. The old creature was far better suited to organize this than him, and they all knew it.

Morgan issues his instructions to Leareth, who passes them on to the others, and a short while later the wanderer finds himself standing before Julian once more.

"Here is the message I want you to deliver, and this one will get you past the guard posts." the prince hands Morgan the two documents, before continuing, "When you reach the city itself, ask the first military officer you see, wearing the Unicorn of Amber, for directions to the Low Gate, and show him the second message.  The Low Gate is the quickest way into the right part of the Palace."

"Once you get to the Low Gate, show the message again, and tell the guards that you have urgent information for King Random.  Ask for an escort... it'll make your trip through my family home a little more direct."

Julian pauses then, thinking for a moment, "The important thing is that you don't show the other message to anybody except Random, and don't tell anybody, other than him, what information you have."

"Do you have any questions?"