פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּwפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ

Chapter Four: Last Sons of Manetheren

A blood red sun rose over the mountains of Dhorom, its light casting black shadows into its many jagged crevasses.

Stef Reimos shielded his eyes as he gazed up at the sun and wished that it was closer. He put all his bitter cold soul and body and heart into that wish. But alas, the Creator did not listen, and it looked to Reimos' wind-reddened eyes that the sun was even more distant. Reimos glanced back down to see the last foothills of the Dhoroms within sight.

T'Eldrene Company had traveled all night through the dangerous passes. One soldier had made a fatal misstep, falling into the darkness, never to be seen again. Thankfully, most took heed at this and found caution. Some had even taken to calling it the Mountains of Dhoom. An apt nickname and maybe someday Dhoom will be all that remains, when memories fade and names slip. The trek was slow and laborious, but they had lost no one else. At dawn, they had finally passed the mountains into Northern Aramaelle. Stef was tired and cold and extremely irritable, and was showing it.

"Hurry up, you milksops. And what the bloody ashes are YOU doing?" Stef growled at two of his men who seemed to be throwing balls of snow at each other during a march break, "One'd think you never saw snow before. The Creator damn me if I never saw this white slop again. Come on, git."

"Well, Reimos, you're cheerful today."

Tayren grinned. He looked so cheery that Reimos felt like punching him in his face. Or at least tapping him on the head with a sap.

Stef grunted, "We'd better link up to the Grand Legion soon. My bloody foot's frozen, my bloody face is frozen, and I haven't felt my bloody toes in days. I think I am still alive; but the only proof I have is this bloody, forsaken headache. And that could very well be the death spasm. For all I care, the spawns can keep Aramaelle."

Tayren nodded his head towards the front of the company, "Well, looks like your wish has come true, Sarge."

Stef followed Tayren's gaze, and saw, as the Company came over the last snow-covered ridge, a multitude of tents spread over a vast hill. In the middle were the Caldazar and Red Hand, flying proudly.

"Well...look at that." Stef grunted, his eyes capturing all the details of the camp. The sprawling encampment seemed to be concentrated around a rising, with tents in ring, enough for thousands upon thousands of soldiers. Squinting, Stef could make out tarp-covered mounds on the top of the hill, which could only be siege engines.

The front of the company entered the camp and it appeared the line was meandering towards the top of the hill. As Stef passed the perimeter, he inclined his head at the pickets who were gnawing on rations. Their cloaks were just as frayed as Stef's, but their spears were well kept and their eyes were alert as they attempted to break their fast, and apparently their teeth in the process. At that sight, Reimos' stomach gurgled, and he looked forward to breakfast, even if it was thin barley soup or frozen bread heels.

As T'Eldrene Company passed through the rings of tents, red-clad soldiers exited their tents to see the newcomers, milling around in excitement. Reinforcements brought supplies and most importantly, news and reunions. Stef saw two long separated brothers embrace, and he glanced around to see if he could find someone he knew. But though some looked vaguely familiar, the majority of these soldiers had left Manetheren five, ten years ago. Everywhere, soldiers began to call out questions.

"How is Manetheren?"

"Does anyone know..."

"...Twelfth Acre..."

"How are the people at..."

"My family, the Condas?"

"...please!"

Stef's desperately searching eyes finally found what it seeked.

"Da!" Stef called. He broke out of line and clasped the older man pushing out from the crowd. His father had changed so much. His hair had turned completely white, intense lines creased his face, and his eyes seemed to be paler and older.

"Stef," Jorj Reimos said as he stepped back, "I had heard you signed up. I can't say I am surprised." The older man seemed to hold himself back, muted in reuniting with his son, instead showing a sense of sadness in his hard face.

"I can make my own decisions. I've fought and served. Like you." Then Stef Reimos hesitated, "Da, about mom. I don't know if you heard. She's...she's... The years have been hard on her since you left. She became so weak, and I couldn't contact you...She passed away four winters ago. Before she passed away, she wanted me to give you this."

Stef pulled the thong-and-ring from his neck and placed it in Jorj's hands. Jorj's face had always seemed as if it was chiseled from stone, but when the ring found his hands, it seemed the stony exterior cracked just a bit. His fingers closed around the ring, and his eyes seemed to fade. To his son, Jorj has always been a hard man, but for a brief moment, he seemed vulnerable. He whispered to himself, "Oh Eve. Eve. For love of Manetheren."

Jorj sighed, and looked back at his son. He seemed harder than before, if that was possible. A statue which had once been a man. "Thank you, Stef. Your company's moving on."

Stef Reimos clasped hands with his father. Jorj's hands were cold and hard, almost all tendon and bone, its warmth long leached away. Stef nodded soberly to his father. This was not the reunion he expected. But what did he expect? He swallowed the confusing rush of words that he wanted to say to his father, and stepped back into the line. Stef felt a tiny ache of pain inside, like an old battle wound, but crushed it underneath a wall not unlike his father's.

The wearied sergeant and T'Eldrene Company continued up the hill and pooled around the large tents of the HQ. The majestic Red Eagle danced in the wind alongside the Red Hand. Below them flew the Wolfhead of Aemon, the Boarhound of Cathon, and the Shield of the Covenant.

An assembly of men stood below the banners and waited patiently as the entire company had arrived. A tall man with gray-streaked hair watched the gathering company. His cloak was faded and worn, but he wore it proudly.

When all had arrived, he began to speak, "Welcome, T'Eldrene Company. I am the commander of the Band of Red Hand, Marshall-General Lawe Cathon.

"I do not know many of you, for I have left home over thirty years ago. But I do know that every one of you is a true son of Manetheren. You will hold back the black flood so that the Mountain Home will not drown, and you have made the terrible sacrifices. I thank you.

"Since Aemon has pledged the Band...scores of years ago, we have held back the flood, but as most know, we cannot hold them much longer. Many of you will sacrifice your lives, your dreams, your hopes, for nothing more than the love for your nation. For humanity. Our greatest endeavor is nigh, an assault on the Bastion of Shadows itself. If we fail or we succeed, I do not know, and I cannot know. For I will not lie to you. You have pledged your lives and aspirations to this superhuman task, and that is all I will ask from you. All that I need.

"For those who have recently joined, the Band of the Red Hand is the Grand-Legion of Manetheren, consisting of five Legions, and divided further into Banners, Companies, platoons, and squads. T'Eldrene Company will be moving in under the command of the 50th Light Infantry Banner under Major General Drogan Tryth within Glene Hill's Zephyr Hawk Legion. You will bivouac in the Third Encampment. General Tryth will provide you with additional information.

"May the Light shelter us in the Darkness to come. Only with the love of Manetheren will we survive. For Manetheren!" Cathon saluted.

"For Manetheren!" T'Eldrene Company shouted. The Caldazar and the Red Hand flew above the True and Last Sons of Manetheren.

פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּ