Hundreds of miles away, on the
top of a bare tor, an ancient weathered trilith of stone raised itself against
the fading sunlight, standing like a doorway to nowhere. There was a sudden
flashing sheen between the uprights and the lintel stone, and three figures
stepped out of the empty space behind it, one sure-footed old man and two
bewildered Morgs.
“Now, that,” said Dunwolf in
satisfaction, “Is what I call a shortcut.”
“What the hell was
that?” roared Thron, grabbing his sword and pulling it out with a hiss. He
looked around in angry confusion. “Where were we? Where are we?”
“That, my good fellow, was the
Domain of Doors. Let’s see your common street conjurer pull that one off. And
there,” he said, pointing to a grim black wave rising sullenly in the north.
“There are the Norkult Mountains. Right now, we’re some two hundred and fifty
miles from that little sheep-cote outside Tronduhon.” He smiled smugly.
“Convinced yet, lieutenant?”
“The Domain of Doors,” Belmok
said quietly, stepping back to examine the trilith of stones they had come
through. He stuck his hand back through the doorway, but nothing happened. He
just felt the chill wind pouring off the mountains and saw their lurking gloom.
“So the tales are true.”
“Not so convinced that you
might not yet be an agent of Thoravil,” Thron said, sword still at the ready.
“Luring us out here for Mog knows what nor why…”
“Hush!” Belmok snapped
imperiously. “What’s that?”
The other two stopped and
listened. There was a faint chiming on the wind, gathering and growing louder.
Tiny, shining glints started twinkling and dancing in the air around them,
swirling inward to a point on top of a flat boulder near the trio.
“Ah,” said Dunwolf, stepping
forward towards the rock, eyes glowing in the dimly concentrating luminescence.
He turned back to them. “Gentlemen, our host; the Ivra Wellolellenlerenwol. And
waiting for us, just where we planned.”
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