"Just keep your mouths shut and your eyes down!" Erak had ordered his men as they shoved their way into a crowd of jogging Wargals. The Ranger was semi conscious in Nordal's grip. He had begun to run a high fever from what Erak could only guess was from his wounds and stress.

The narrow confines of the Pass echoed to the tuneless chanting; the Wargals cadence. Erak's plan was to move eastward as soon as they had cleared the Pass, ostensibly with the purpose of taking up position on the right flank of the Wargal army. In actuality, however, Erak planned to break off as soon as possible and escape into the swampy wilderness of the fenlands, moving through the bogs to the beach where he knew Horth's fleet would be.

They rounded a final bend and were greeted by a lance of almost blinding light as they reached the tunnel. The Ranger hesitated, jerking his head away from the brightness as the light hit his eyes. No wonder the Celts loved the tunnels so much, was the first thought Gilan's fever addled brain offered him. Nordal quickly yanked him forward. Erak directed them to the right, and they formed a human wedge until they were to the far right of the army. A familiar ice cold voice could be heard, called commands to the Wargals. Morgarath was here, directing operations.

"Curse him! Of all the places he could be!" Erak muttered angrily. "I'd hoped he'd be out with the vanguard of the army." Turning to Nordal, he said quickly, "Keep the boy moving."

Gilan was fading rapidly. Every movement felt like knives in his knee, and he felt lightheaded and faint from his head wound and fever. He would have collapsed a long while ago had Nordal not kept a firm grip on him, keeping him upright whether he wanted to or not, muttering threats and encouragement alike. Blinking away the crumbling black dots at the edge of his vision, Gilan could make out the tall, thin form of Lord Morgarath, now clad in polished black armor, still seated on his dull coated white horse. He was calling orders to his milling, chanting Wargals.

As the creatures moved into a more ordered formation, Morgarath's face turned and took in the group of hurrying Skandians. Kicking his horse into a gallop, Morgarath moved toward them, almost trampling several of his own soldiers. "Captain Erak! Stop!"

"Don't stop. Go, go, go. Keep him on his feet!" Erak barked, directing his last order at Nordal as Gilan stumbled.

"Stop! Stop, NOW!" The voice was cold and filled with a terrifying, intense anger. The Wargals froze, uncomfortable by their master's sharp tone. Reluctantly, the Skandians did the same, Erak turning to face the owner of the dominating voice.

Morgarath hauled his horse to a stop as he reached them. Locking his dark, livid eyes with Erak's grey ones, Morgarath slowly dismounted, the building tension in the air palpable. "Where are you bound, Captain?" he asked, his voice eerily calm.

Erak shrugged. "My men and I normally fight on the right wing," he answered as casually as he could. "But I'll go wherever you need us if that doesn't suit."

Morgarath arched an eyebrow. "Will you?" he replied, sarcasm practically dripping from his speech. "Will you indeed? How terribly kind of you..." Morgarath trailed off, his eyes narrowing as he caught sight of the slim, lanky figure being held up and unsuccessfully trying to be held hidden from his gaze behind several of the Skandians. "Who is that?" He demanded, his former sentence forgotten.

Erak forced another nonchalant shrug. "Just a Celt. We captured him in Celtica and were planning on selling him to Ragnak as a slave."

"Celtica is mine, Captain, as is everything in it," Morgarath informed him coldly. "That means any slaves are mine, not yours to sell to your barbarian of a king."

A ripple of anger ran through the Skandians at Morgarath's words. Morgarath's narrowed gaze flicked to his Wargal troops, poised and read for whatever action their master ordered. The message was clear.

Erak motioned for silence from his men and tried again. "The prisoner is injured; not any use to you right now. Besides, our agreement was we fought for booty, and that includes slaves -"

"IF you fought!" Morgarath cut him off, furious. "IF! Not if you stood by uselessly and let my bridge be destroyed!"

"It was your man Chirath who was in command at the bridge," Erak retorted. "It was he who decided no guard was to be left on it. We were the ones who tried to save it while he was hiding behind rocks!"

Morgarath's voice dropped deadly low. "I will not be spoken to in that fashion, Captain Erak." he hissed. "You will apologize to me at once. Then..." He once again trailed off mid sentence. His black gaze turned and trained on Gilan. "What is that?" He raised one thin, pale finger towards Gilan's throat. Erak felt his stomach sink like a stone.

Though they had hidden the distinctive mottled cloak and double knife scabbard, they had neglected to remove the silver oakleaf. Morgarath surged forward like a snake about to strike and snatched at the oakleaf. The harsh yank pulled Gilan off balance, and between the vertigo in his head and the gimp leg, he fell heavily to his knees, unable to hold back a cry of pain as he landed. Fever bright eyes stared up at Morgarath's face, taking in every furious detail.

"This is no Celt!" The rogue baron raged. "This is a Ranger! This is their sign!"

"He's just a lad..." Erak began quickly, but Morgarath's sharp backhand blow across his cheek cut him off.

"He's a Ranger!" he seethed.

The rest of the Skandian group moved forward angrily. Morgarath simply looked at the Wargals, who growled and positioned themselves into a fighting stance. Erak signaled for his men to settle, the red mark from Morgarath's blow standing out vividly on his cheek.

"You knew," The baron accused. "You knew what he was!" His expression, if possible, grew even darker as realization dawned on him. "Arrows, you said! My Wargals were hiding from arrows when the bridge went down! Ranger weapons! This is the swine who destroyed my bridge!" The voice rose into a shriek as he spoke.

Erak stood before the raging Black Lord and said nothing, but let a sorrowful gaze fall onto the Araluen Ranger. Sorry, lad, he thought despairingly. I tried.

Gilan, only semi conscious from fever and pain, met Morgarath's black gaze, and felt a small tug of bravery. If you're going to go down, Halt had always said, it's better to go down kicking. Don't let them crush your dignity.

Just as Gilan had come to this conclusion, another horse suddenly forced its way through the crowd. Riding it was one of Morgarath's Wargal lieutenants, one who had learned basic human speech.

"My lord!" he called, in the odd, flat monotone of all Wargals. "Enemy advancing."

Morgarath broke his furious gaze from the contemptible form of the crippled Ranger to his lieutenant, who continued. "Their skirmish line moving to us, my lord. Battle is starting."

The Lord of Rain and Night came to a decision. Whirling to Erak, he barked, "Captain! The Ranger comes with us."

Erak looked quickly at the Araluen, knowing the horrors that were in store. "He can't walk. Nordal's been carrying him," The Skandian tried once more.

"Then Nordal will continue carrying him. But he comes with us. I'm not letting a Ranger slip through my fingers." Morgarath mounted his dead white horse once more. A terrible smile that didn't reach his eyes broke through on his face. "It's time the Araluens see first hand what happens when their Rangers meddle."

And with that, he urged his horse into a canter, Nordal giving his leader a helpless look before being shoved after him by the Wargal lieutenant's spear.


PLOT TWIST!

Sorry for the long wait in updating. My folder is full of half finished stories that I would like to get up, so (hopefully?) watch for them, along with updates in this story, I'm NOT Overreacting, and The Little Things in Between.

Leave a review if you have time or so desire! :)

-TrustTheCloak