A few weeks after the momentous family dinner, things are looking quite different for the House of Thrandolil. Namely, most of its members are far beyond the edges of their home forest, now encamped on the northeastern slopes of the Estmark Hills. Tric and Heppa are there with the Estbryn forces, as are Heppa’s father and sister.
The terrain in the region is quite varied where the Bitter Swamp laps up against the hillsides. The encampments are as well. Different shades of blue and gold flutter above tents: the sky blue butterfly-shaped flags of Estbryn in one quarter and the sapphire, horse-emblazoned pennants of the Horse Clans in another. Dame Terwaen can be found under the latter, along with many others that Tric and Heppa met in Dolydd. Down there, also in the flatter stretches of grass, are the red triangles of Earl Gweddry’s forces, led by Captain Mhaev. Further up in the hills fly the green squares of Lord Knutan. Near them, Lord Cleomithir prepares his troops under Wesmere’s laurel green flag with fern embroidery… and Ash lurks somewhere in the shadowy stand of trees. These hills are also dotted with the scattered homes of the local human population, some of whom form an additional ragtag force, one armed with dwarvish weapons and trained by Dame Merriver. Down in the swampy area, somewhat off on the side, tattered light green flags wave from spears. Each is marked with a muddy three-toed print, and they sparkle as they wave, as though with the twinkling of many tiny stars. Hezzis and Bzzazz have come as promised. From the occasional strains of bagpipe music carried by the winds, Glammur is present as well; history will be made here, and a bard would want to observe such things firsthand. There are a lot of people amassed here, and that is just on their side.
Heppa’s Falcon Sight reveals that there are orcs and undead farther afield, including some enemy troops mounted on wolves and others that just look like shadows. No one has yet determined whether those groups are coordinating their efforts. To be fair, no one is collectively in charge of the allies, either. Messengers frequently pass between the encampments, but the fighting began before any consensus on how to proceed could be reached. Apparently no one notified the orcs and the undead to wait a while longer.
High Lord Volas commands the Estbryn troops; leading from the front is the elvish way. Baeowin is in charge of the scouts, but as an appointed squad leader, Tric is free to engage in whatever small excursions he deems useful to the effort at large. He has a simple goal: steal back Kachen’s journals and Anador’s circlet. Heppa is coming along for this, of course, and Kachen will be too, just as soon as Tric finds a safe enough place for him to teleport to. Endathalas is also along for the ride. He does not know their true purpose, but he is keenly interested in the dwarvish black powder Tric told him about—not that they will be picking that up just yet. Tric can think of few ideas worse than leading his new pony, covered in casks of explosive materials, through a battlefield. No, fetching that from Knutan’s forces will have to wait until there is a safe way past their foes.
Tric and Mesquite are slowly getting more comfortable with each other—despite Mate’s attempts to intervene—but it is still good to have Endathalas along as a pony expert. As they are all securing their saddlebags, Heppa suddenly looks up from Butterbell. “Do you think that orcs lose their teeth when they get older?” she asks with all seriousness.
Tric raises his hood and grabs Mesquite’s reins. There may be a need for him to use his bow, and he is no Dunefolk Windrider, so he keeps his feet firmly on the ground. Mate, however, swoops down and lands on Mesquite’s back. As Tric begins leading his pony out of the Estbryn encampment, he calls back over his shoulder, “I think orcs grow new teeth. Constantly. Each set more ferocious than the last.”
Endathalas gracefully springs onto Milquetoast’s back and follows Tric. “I don’t think orcs live very long,” he contributes.
“Because their lifespan is short or because they die violently?” Heppa asks, leading her pony along as well.
“Why not both?” Endathalas suggests philosophically.
“How many orcs die of old age, though?” Tric asks.
“I doubt many do.” Privately, Endathalas wonders whether these two cousins will be talking inanities for the duration of the mission. Still, avoiding front-line fighting makes it worth putting up with. Endathalas is not looking to make himself a hero the way Renwick is, out amidst the foe with two swords swinging about.
“Ah-ha! So we don’t know how long an orc would live naturally,” Tric asserts. Heppa mulls over how to research this particular topic, but a trumpet fanfare interrupts the conversation. Out below them, a group on horseback charges. This has been going on for days. Sometimes it is scouting parties returning, sometimes it is advanced sentries encountering the other side’s scouts. Battle has been joined in many small pockets throughout the area. Tric and his companions intend to do their best to avoid these as they proceed.