A/N – Here we go with chapter 4. This chapter contains Aethan, the Grey Lord, Mountains of Blood, and a dwarf named Toggle.

Disclaimer – I don't own Labyrinth, the Underground, or the Goblin King. All the rest should be mine. Don't sue.

Chapter 4

Word spread, as it always did, of Bran and his mad companion, the Grey Lord's son, who spoke impossible words of unity, strength, and sanctuary. The brethren of the road spoke of his dream of an Exiles' Kingdom, where even the most shameful criminal would have a second chance; peddlers debated the makeup of the lands to the west, and itinerant bards and minstrels sang of noble quests and great journeys.

The lords living near the Fringes – absorbed as they were in the greater concerns of the war – took little notice. But although they were blind to the consequences of this mad dream, one man was not; through arcane ways and secret messages, information, rumour and supposition made its way to Aethan the Grey, who made it his business to hear such things.

In the great palace beneath the Lake of Glass, an unobtrusive messenger bowed before his lord, seated at his breakfast table, and reported on all that he had heard and seen on the Fringes. Even to such a seasoned intriguer as the Grey Lord, his tidings were astonishing –

"You say he is gathering followers to him?" he asked, in his cool, precise voice, those odd, mismatched eyes studying the messenger closely. "Who?"

"My lord," the messenger said, "it took me three weeks to make my way here, and so he may have gathered more in the meantime –"

Aethan waved away his concerns. "Tell me what you do know."

"At his right hand stands an exiled sidhe known only as Bran. He is one of the major figures on the roads; everyone knows him and everyone trusts him. It is why the exiles are willing to listen to Jareth, when he openly proclaims that he is your son…"

The Grey Lord's smile was very, very thin and devoid of humour.

"He made his first declaration at Butterbur's inn, and was almost killed in the riot; after that, he travelled throughout the Fringes, speaking at meeting places and gatherings. At first, most people laughed, dismissing him as a madman, but as word spread, his quest began to catch people's imaginations…"

"A kingdom sanctuary," Aethan said, his eyes dark and flat. "As well it should. If he can make his ridiculous dream into a reality…"

"Do you think it's possible, my lord?" the messenger asked, sidetracked. His tone spoke of his disbelief; surely the lords of the Underground would never allow such a thing to happen.

"If anyone can, it is Jareth. Go on."

"The last time I saw him, there were fifteen who were willing to follow him. Criminals, thieves, refugees seeking a better life…"

"Does he allow anyone to follow him?"

The messenger paused. "Not precisely. I believe there were some who first followed him who later, er, went their own way. There are whispers – very small whispers, you understand – that those who left were known for their treacherousness, their ambition. But Jareth himself still speaks of accepting everybody who comes to him…"

"Ah…" The Grey Lord breathed, smiling a little. "So he has won our good Crow's loyalty, not just his services." He tapped his fingers a little on the table, his eyes far away and thoughtful.

"My lord?" the messenger ventured. "It may be possible to slip a spy in among his followers. I have some suitable men on the roads and on the Fringes…"

But, after a while, Aethan shook his head. "No, Llyr. Let him stand or fall on his own."

With a small gesture, he dismissed the messenger, who bowed again and left the room.

When he was alone, Aethan sat for a time, thinking on the extraordinary news. Jareth could not have picked a more opportune time to launch his mad venture. If the Underground weren't at war, with vultures gathering around the beleaguered High King, and ambitious lords seeking power and opportunity through the blade, diplomacy, or sometimes both, then the idea of an uprising of the despised would never be tolerated.

No adviser, in normal times, could possibly allow a young upstart to gain the allegiance of the largest group of unsworn warriors in the Underground, all of whom had some kind of grudge against the Courts. But these were not normal times, and the world's focus was fixed firmly on the war –

If Jareth succeeded in his quest, it would change the whole political landscape of the Underground. And in the aftermath of a devastating war, many unforeseen opportunities would arise…

Almost a month later, far, far to the west, Jareth and his motley band of followers rode in the shadow of a great mountain range. The small, wretched creatures that had guided them across the Great Plains cowered in superstitious awe, whispering amongst themselves, making the sign against evil as they approached the rising foothills. Their unease was contagious, and the mounted band shifted restlessly, eyes constantly searching, disturbed by something they could not name.

Besides the general aura of the place, there was one very pertinent problem.

"They call them the Mountains of Blood," Bran said, drawing him away from the others. "It is easy to see why."

Jareth looked down at the discoloured soil passing beneath the horses' hooves, his eyes narrowed and his face stark white. "It's easy to feel why," he countered. "Iron ore…"

"Even the streams run crimson. We cannot drink the water; we dare not even touch it –"

But Jareth had come too far to be turned back by his lieutenant's concerns, no matter how justified. "Just imagine," Jareth breathed, summoning up a tight, ironic smile. "What splendid walls the gods have given us. We could last out a siege behind these battlements…"

"If it doesn't kill us first," Bran said bluntly. "Goblins and the smallfolk may have some immunity to iron, but not sidhe – you know this. If we go into these mountains, some of us will die before we even reach your fabled kingdom."

"Then they will die in pursuit of a dream."

"Small comfort to them, Jareth."

Jareth's mouth tightened and his eyes grew cold. "There is no other way. If some of us die on the way, then so be it. We cannot turn back now, Bran."

Watching, Bran saw the set of Jareth's jaw and the grim determination in his eyes. For a moment, he recognized echoes of the Grey Lord in his son's ruthless drive…

He sighed. "Are you sure that your promised land lies behind these mountains?"

Jareth's face softened and relaxed. "I have seen it, Bran. In a dream, I saw it…" His voice trailed off. "It's so close I can feel it calling to me. It's as if I could reach out and touch it, grasp it, take it –"

"And will we reach it in four days, before our drinking water runs out?" In their strange partnership, where Jareth supplied the dreams, the ambition, and the charisma, he provided the practicality and took care of the details – sometimes with brutal finality.

Jareth sighed. "Bran…"

But Bran was insistent. "This is no jest, Jareth. We have only so much water shared amongst thirty men. The water, the earth, the very air is poisonous – now tell me, once again, that we will reach this paradise of yours before the water runs out and we all die."

"You know I can't tell you that, Bran," Jareth said quietly, turning his eyes towards his second-in-command. "Do you want empty reassurances? I don't know."

There was a moment of tense, fraught, frustrated silence. Bran's face was set, grim, and completely unreadable as he looked up at the mountains, stained deep crimson by the afternoon sunlight and the rich, poisonous deposits of iron ore. "We are all fools," he said finally. "You and I most of all." With that, he spurred his horse further up and further in, making for a red-shadowed pass that looked to be the quickest way through.

Three days into the pass, Adan, one of the more sensitive to iron among them, was riding hunched over his horse, a red-stained cloth pressed to his mouth. His face was ashen and there were huge dark circles under his eyes – the coughing was almost constant, now. Bran kept a hand on his back, lending what strength he could, while trying to ignore the pounding ache in his temples. The mountains seemed to shift before his eyes, shadows moving, mirages shimmering and taunting his vision –

By his side rode Toggle, a twisted, misshapen dwarf, perched precariously in his saddle. Unlike the tall, pale shining ones among the party, Toggle had only a minor reaction to the iron all around them, and Bran had been forced to rely on the dwarf for many of the things he would have taken care of himself.

"He's dying," Toggle said bluntly, looking critically at Adan. "And Deith isn't far behind him."

Bran's mouth tightened. His horse stumbled, stepping into a small stream and sending crimson stained spray up into his face and hands. The agony was immediate and overwhelming; he dropped the reins and gasped, almost falling out of the saddle – Toggle grabbed his shirt and hauled him back, saving him from an immersion in the poisoned water.

Once, the dwarf might have laughed in sheer glee at the sight of so many bright, beautiful sidhe brought so low. But over the last three days, as he and his fellow 'smallfolk' – the lesser fae – had had to take a greater role in the expedition, Toggle had begun to realize that iron was a great equalizer –

Lleu, bright golden Lleu, so lighthearted even Toggle and the other lesser fae had been drawn to him, had died yesterday, crying out in agony as he thrashed and writhed.

Adan, with his disdainful sneer, his stained lace shirts and his fancy rapier, was coughing his lungs up and dying, and Deith, sullen and brooding, was chalk white and labouring for breath.

Even Bran, the strongest, most quietly capable of their band, was shivering under Toggle's steadying hand, his solid, reassuring strength only illusion now. In fact, the only one of the sidhe unaffected by the iron was Jareth, or else his glamour was a good deal stronger than everyone else's was.

He rode at the head of their column, sitting straight and elegant in the saddle, a shining white beacon illuminating the way. Toggle could see the glances the rest of the party sent him, looking up and drawing determination from some unnamed source, finding the strength to carry on so that they could follow him. Even Bran did it; with a wan grin and a nod of thanks, he removed his sleeve from Toggle's grip and straightened himself in the saddle, renewing the illusion of unshakable strength.

But Toggle had seen behind the glamour, and knew – as so many of his cousins still did not – that the sidhe were not invulnerable, not all-powerful and invincible. And he would remember…

On the fourth day, as Deith had to be tied into his saddle and another rider had to hold Adan around the waist to keep him upright, Toggle heard one of his scouts calling out excitedly. He turned to Bran, who was riding slumped over, swaying in the saddle, and shook him, hard – no need to worry about swordsman's reflexes here.

"Goblins!" he hissed, snapping his fingers in front of Bran's face. "Snicks has spotted sign of goblins."

Slowly, Bran shook his head, his eyes gradually clearing, brightening. "Goblins?" he repeated. Toggle saw the exact moment when he returned to full awareness. "Where? Have we come to the end of the pass?"

They spurred their horses, riding to the front of the column to join Jareth, who was conferring with the scout. "Did you hear, Bran?" Jareth asked, his eyes shining. "There is some kind of a primitive road; Snicks followed it to the other side of the mountains. In an hour, maybe more, we'll be through!"

Bran's smile as Jareth spurred his horse into a gallop, shouting the news aloud was thin, bitter, and rueful. "Goblins," he said again, softly. "Did you ever think you would be grateful to hear of goblins sighted?"

They kicked their horses into a trot, and behind them the column picked up speed, the weary, half-dead riders heartened by the word that their journey was nearly over.

Toggle frowned. "You do not believe in his dream?" Then why did Bran follow Jareth, if he did not wish to be free?

"I believe in Jareth," Bran replied. "Dreams are fickle creatures, and far more expensive than they're worth." He bent over, suddenly, and began to cough, a paroxysm of deep, harsh convulsions. Toggle stared at him in alarm, made to help him, but Bran waved him off impatiently.

When he straightened, with difficulty, and removed his hand from his mouth, it was stained with thick, crimson blood –

And they emerged to find Jareth and the scout at the end of the pass, on the far side of the Mountains of Blood. Below them stretched wide, green plains and thick dark forests, a winding silver ribbon of a river and air – pure, clean air untainted by iron or any other pollution.

Jareth was staring, his eyes wide and awed, and a small, very private smile playing on his lips. With a wild, echoing cry of exultation, he dragged his horse's head up, sending it careening headlong down the mountainside in a mad release of all the stress, doubt and exhaustion of the last terrible four days. The horse stumbled, went down, but Jareth launched himself into the air and rippled –

A white owl rose on the air above the mountains, superimposed itself against the aching blue sky, and soared aloft as the other riders finally came to the end of their journey.

Bran had watched the owl's flight with more care than the others, who had been engrossed in the new land, and so had seen the wavering wings and the effort it took to stay steady in the air. When the sun fell, he finally tracked Jareth down to a small clearing in the tangled woods, noting the gleaming white of his skin –

He lay half-collapsed near the stream, completely still, his eyes sunken and closed and his face grey and drawn. Dappled leaf-shadow made patterns on his skin, and Bran had to put a hand on his chest to feel the halting, rattling breath.

"You fool," he said. "You magnificent, moonstruck fool…"

A/N - Thank you to my reviewers: dansemacabre: Thanks for the compliment! I don't intend to go into too much detail here, because this story is sort of a prelude/prequel for my other Labyrinth fic (which actuallyis an epic) named the Catalyst. I wanted this to be more of an adventure story, with far less politics. Midnight Lady: Thank you for all the compliments you've ever given me! Glad to know you like this one too. Thessaly: Yes, I'm already a Lymond fan, devoured Game of Kings about four years ago and finished Gemini in August. There are otherDunnett fans on this sitebut not nearly as many as there should be. And it's amazing how different a story is if you don't have Sarah. Coran Nackatori: The Borgias were always my favourite Renaissance family.There's something fascinating about their audacity and ruthlessness.

Feedback is always appreciated! Thanks very much for reading.