[Saurreg]

Snow started to fall as Belegorn made his way back to the camp with the standard bearer by his side. They fell endlessly and everywhere; on his hair, on clothes and on his face where they melted instantaneously on contact with his warm skin, creating tingling little shocks that were invigorating. Fire and ice, he recalled the words of an old campaigner, worldly imperfection at its absolute – life itself. If there was anything Belegorn had learned to appreciate more than the wondrous beauty of celestial bodies at night, it was the sensations only the living could feel.

They trampled through the loose snow for a while until they reached the camp fire and torch lit camp. It was far smaller than the one the refugees had pitched before entering the Blue Mountains – a testament to the numbers that have fallen. Even with the map of the old dwarf king, Belegorn could not save all of his people. Many bands were lost forever, swallowed by the tunnels and caves that give no inking of their fate. Some were found but decimated, their members wide-eyed and trembling, slurring incoherently about monstrosities that burst out from the walls and watery depths, taking away screaming victims in their lethal coils and cruel maws before returning whence they came from. Even the king’s party was not spared and Belegorn learned soon after the re-ascend that chief amongst the victims of that band were Targon, commander of the king’s own guards and foul Mellonar – constant agitator and tormentor of Hirvegil whom they left in the underground also. He was also surprised to hear from the gossips that it was King Arvedui himself who led the rearguard of his party in the wake of his military commander’s demise and when a huge segment-bodied beast attacked, he was the one who slew it and in that struggle, Crown Prince Aranarth was the only who stood by his father’s side.

Belegorn’s mind was still fixated with the fantastic deeds of the King when a huge silhouette stepped out from the dark and neared him. Years of well honed reflexes kicked in, Belegorn immediately drew his blade and turned to face the intruder. However the dark figure had stepped out of the old soldier’s peripheral and revealed it to be a king’s own guard clad in dark mail and thick furs with the king’s own crest embroidered boldly across his breastplate.

“Well met, Lieutenant Belegorn,” intoned the soldier cautiously with his eyes on Belegorn’s sword, “The King requests your immediate presence, sir. I have been sent to fetch you back to the camp.”

Belegorn’s eyes narrowed and for a moment tension filled the air. The standard bearer eyed the newcomer and then his commander nervously but neither man moved. Finally Belegorn broke the deadlock and sheathed his sword. “I recognize you soldier. Very well, I shall go and see his Majesty. Lead the way.” He then turned to the standard bearer,

“Where is Captain Carthor?”

“The captain is at the west of the camp, sir.”

“Good, tell him that I will see him later,” Replied Belegorn and he turned to face the king’s guard,

“Lead the way.”