Elger's words struck Ryan like a trumpet-call. At once he rose, buckling on his armor as swiftly as seasoned hands allowed. The sharp clink of clasps and steel filled the tent, steady and relentless, while his eyes grew colder, his thoughts already racing ahead.
If shadows moved in the night, there could be no doubt: Orcs, or Hill-men. He weighed the likelihoods. Orcs, more than Hill-men, were creatures of the dark; it was their way to creep abroad by night.
"How many?" he asked curtly.
"We could not tell for certain," Elger admitted, his brow dark with worry. "The night hides them, but I guess near a hundred."
Ryan's gaze narrowed. A hundred foes—yet within the camp there were but eight hardened blades: himself, Elger, Ailin, and eight Rangers. The rest, three to four hundred, were craftsmen and laborers, unarmed and untrained.
Many would flee in terror if left to themselves. Yet Ryan's eyes burned like a drawn blade, and he spoke at once:
"Wake them all. Put a torch in every hand. Gather them before the camp!"
"Yes, my lord!" Elger sprang to the task.
Soon the camp thrummed with alarm. Workmen and masons, startled from sleep, crowded together, faces pale, voices fearful. Some clamored to flee into the night. But when Ryan strode forth, clad in armor, the sword Glamdring blazing at his side, silence fell.
He climbed upon the half-built wall of the star-fort, his figure outlined in firelight, terrible and kingly.
"There are foes abroad," he declared, his voice carrying like a bell in the dark. "I cannot yet say whether Orcs or Hill-men, but be certain: they come for us. And now you must choose."
"First—take up your torches, follow me, and charge the enemy. I cannot promise all will live, but I give you this: I will be the first into the fight, and the last to turn back."
"Second—seek your own fate in the night. But you know what stalks the wild. Beyond these walls lie the Troll woods. Think well before you choose."
His words, stern and unwavering, cooled their panic like cold iron plunged in water. Northmen they were, men hardened to hardship. They knew too well the terrors of the night, and not one of them was wholly craven.
Silence held for a breath. Then one youth stepped forward, torch in hand.
"I will follow, my lord! Better to fight and fall than wait for death like sheep!"
"Me too!" cried another.
"And I! I stood in the defense of Dessen—I will not cower now!"
"Let them see," shouted a grizzled man, "we are not four hundred swine to be slaughtered, but four hundred men, willing to charge!"
A roar rose, and torches lifted high. Flame upon flame joined, until the camp was lit as by dawn, and in every eye burned a fierce resolve.
….
Out in the wild, a band of a hundred Hill-men crept beneath the moonlight. At their head strode a burly chieftain, scarred face daubed with black paint, a curved blade in his fist.
"Orram," he growled to his guide, "you are sure of this hoard? That village was eaten clean by Trolls long ago, and Orcs plundered what remained. There should be naught left."
"I am certain, Chieftain Savar," the guide said quickly. "The Rangers came. They slew Trolls, and from their lair they brought out treasure, grain beyond counting. I myself crept within not long ago. We lost some men, aye, but I saw it with my eyes."
"And half a month past, I watched wagons roll, laden with food, more than I've seen in my life. It all went to that ruined place."
Greed glittered in his gaze, and the same hunger showed on the faces of those who marched beside him. Savar's tribe had starved through the last cruel winter. This was their chance—or so he believed.
But fate had other designs. For as they neared the camp, a spark flared on the rise ahead.
"What light is that?" Savar demanded.
"A torch," someone muttered uneasily.
Then all froze, for the torch was joined by another, and another, until a sea of fire blazed forth, rolling toward them like a tide.
"Drive back the darkness!"
"Drive back the darkness!"
The cry thundered across the plain, shaking the stillness of night. In the flames they saw men's faces, fierce and resolute, charging like starved wolves loosed from the leash.