Late on the second day of their ride, Adalon and Simangee emerged from the secret tunnel under the smoking mountain. They galloped through the Hidden Valley to the Lost Castle.
Moralon had barely spoken during the whole journey from High Battilon and Adalon was deeply concerned. It was most unlike his uncle, a saur who had been full of wit and high spirits before the murder of his brother. He was glad to hand Moralon to Varriah, who met them inside the gate of the Lost Castle. She looked perfectly calm and assured, as if she regularly welcomed armoured saur at midnight.
The next morning, over a hasty breakfast, Varriah reported to Adalon and Simangee. She had a bundle of papers in her hand. 'We have three wagons, but no riding or draft beasts, so you'll have to haul them yourselves. I've assembled enough provisions for your company and they're all armed and armoured, even if they're inexperienced. Farmers and miners from Sleeto, mostly.' She wagged a finger. 'I'd appreciate a little more notice next time. I've had to work through the night to get this ready.'
'How many have volunteered?' Simangee asked.
'Thirty,' Varriah answered.
'Thirty,' Adalon repeated. He'd hoped for more. 'Perhaps we can recruit on the journey.' He tapped the table with a claw. 'And my uncle? How is he after a night's rest?'
'Not well. He has eaten little, and hasn't spoken much. His spirit has been broken, I'd say.'
Adalon sighed. He felt that Moralon was better off now, yet wondered what the future held for him.
***
The march to Sleeto was maddening. Adalon was frustrated at the slow pace of his small company and longed to give his magical steed its head. Dragging the wagons slowed the saur considerably, despite the roads being in good condition thanks to the efforts of Adalon's father. He worried that his estimate of a two-week journey had been optimistic. They laboured along, lifting wagon wheels out of ruts and putting their shoulders behind carts to help them over rough patches.
As they went, they began to pick up volunteers – stragglers and the dispossessed who'd been driven from their farms and homesteads by either Wargrach's cronies or Queen Tayesha's Army. These saur had been living in the woods and fens, in small bands or in solitude. Most had been staying alive by living off the land, and were lean and suspicious. From them Adalon gathered that the main body of the Queen's Army was still some days away, but advance scouts were creating havoc. The scouts had been arrogant in their demands, ignoring protests and taking whatever they wanted. Any lingering loyalty to the Queen was quickly vanishing thanks to such tactics.
Adalon itched to reach Sleeto. He worried about the Winged Ones and Targesh's recruits. He worried about Targesh's broken horn, what could be done for him, and whether he would make it safely to Sleeto. Simangee had no doubts. 'He'll be there,' was all she said whenever Adalon fretted aloud. He worried about Moralon, too, and hoped that Varriah would take good care of him.
His tail thrashed constantly.
At noon on the fifteenth day of their march, they reached the point where the road to Sleeto began to climb toward the mountains. Simangee tried to hitch her riding beast to one of the wagons to help pull it up the slope, but the beast refused to cooperate, simply freezing in place and becoming the statue it so much resembled. The ragged dispossessed who'd joined the company volunteered to act as draught beasts and the wagons were slowly hauled upwards.
Even though the air grew colder, it was hot, hard labour. Adalon pitched in, straining to push wagons that stubbornly seemed to find every pothole in the road.
A halt was called at a particularly difficult bend in the road. Adalon sagged against the wagon wheel and wiped dust from his brow. Suddenly, Simangee leaped onto the wagon and peered back down the mountainside. 'Adalon!' she cried. 'Targesh! He's coming!'
Adalon straightened, feeling a twinge in his back. He stared back down the twisting road to see a company of saur on riding beasts approaching from the south. He made a rough count of four dozen. 'Are you sure?'
'It's him! See the brass steed?'
There was no mistaking the giant riding beast and the massive figure in green armour astride it. Adalon called a halt. Wheels were chocked to prevent the wagons rolling back down the road. Saur threw themselves onto the springy grass at the roadside and stretched their aching muscles.
Soon, the riders approached. Adalon hailed his friend. 'It's good to see you, Targesh!'
Targesh grinned and Adalon was pleased to see delight on his friend's face. 'High Battilon still has courage, Adalon!' He gestured at his band of saur. 'And the best riding beasts in Thraag!'
Targesh dismounted and joined Adalon and Simangee. He gripped their forearms. 'Good to see you,' he said. 'Took us a bit longer than I thought.'
Adalon didn't mind. He was simply happy to see his Horned One friend again. He gave the order for the company to start marching again. With renewed spirits from having reinforcements, the saur applied themselves with vigour. The wagons began to rumble uphill.
Targesh dismounted and walked alongside his friends. He told of finding small bands of saur in the forests surrounding High Battilon. They'd been raiding, skirmishing against Wargrach's troops, barely avoiding capture again and again. They'd been glad when Targesh had appeared and offered them the chance for real battle.
'And so here we are,' Targesh said.
'And here we are,' Simangee said, pointing ahead.
The swelling company had crested the final rise and directly in front of them was the Fist, the towering rocky outcrop that loomed beside the entrance to the small valley where Sleeto lay. This small valley was the only route through the otherwise impassable Skyhorn Ranges. In the clear, cool air, Adalon could see the road winding down into sparse greenery strewn with rocks, a pocket nestled among the peaks. The sun shone on a tiny lake and a wild, young river with water like quicksilver. At the eastern end of the valley was what had been the village of Sleeto.
Adalon's heart sank. He hadn't realised how much he'd been hoping that their allies would be waiting for them. 'No Winged Ones.'
'What's kept them?' Simangee wondered. 'They should be here by now.'
The sword at Adalon's side quivered. He put his hand on its hilt and felt a surge of something like hope. 'We shall prevail, with or without them.'