Despite our loss of Dawnmire, only loud ovations and exuberance followed as we entered High Crag Hold. Where I expected the rest of the population to have long abandoned the safety of the Hold, many still remained.

With every step we took, voices spoke in hushed whispers.

“Talus is worth a hundred Legions,” some said.

“The goblin commander Maapu, slew a thousand before the dawn broke,” others chimed in.

“The werewolves hunted the vampires, drove them away,” more voices joined.

“Merowyn,” screamed Finn as he extracted himself from the company of his own soldiers and with all the enthusiasm that his youthfulness could muster, rushed. “How many did you slay? I reckon a few commanders? perhaps even a nosferatu or vrykolaxas?”

Merowyn stifled a snort. “My role was purely to support during this engagement.”

“But you were in the thick of battle?” asked Finn, unconcealed curiosity dancing on his face.

“When you lead,” replied Merowy, calming his nerves, “when you realise that the soldiers under your control will lose their life should you make impulsive decisions, war and battle is no longer romantic.”

“But there is romance in sacrifice, isn’t it?” replied Finn.

Merowyn’s eyes darkened and the corner of his lips twisted into a hook. “No there isn’t. Only vibrant life, thrown away for a worthless cause.”

Finn looked as if he was about to argue, when Merowyn retorted, “Tell me, has the lovely Arlene come back from her reconnaissance?”

The young noble answered with a shrug and turned to me. “Dame Commander Rylonvirah, Lady Lyriendriath is presiding over a small celebratory gathering and your presence is required?”

“is she?” I said, cynicism stirring within. “Out with it Finn, who made the plan? I know Lyria well enough. She could not organise an evening dinner. A celebratory gathering is far beyond her abilities.”

“Well, I bow down to your perceptive skill,” said Finn with a bow and a slight hue of shame colouring his cheeks, “It was my idea. I took the liberty to convince Gwain to open a few casks, and roast some meat over the hearth fire.”

“So where is Lyria?”

“She is eagerly awaiting you by the gathering,” replied Finn and then with a sly smirk added, “You have a warm spot beside her.”

I would have corrected him but a whistle with a contorted mirth came from Merowyn followed by some more of his soldiers and the Viridian Dawn Rangers.

“It is the onset of springtime. Everyone creature living will feel the need,” shouted one wood elf ranger, receiving acknowledging laughs from his fellow rangers.

I thought of admonishing him for his mocking words, but then the sight of a slight smile of approval on Zaehran's face made me reconsider. If the ascetic monk approved of such a comment, perhaps there might be an element of truth to those words.

Dispersing the tired and wary to recuperate, I gave a small nod to Zaehran before seeking the gathering.

Lyria beamed a radiant smile at my approach. She was still clad in her usual workwear. No shirt, despite the cold. Just a wrap around her chest, and a wrapped leather skirt around her waist that reached to her knees. Her abdominal muscle glistened in the low light of the setting sun.

As if catching the look in my eyes, she gave a mischievous smile. Lyria extended her hand, beckoning a warm wet cloth from Theko and then extending her callous hands, she wriggled her finger, beckoning me.

The will to resist her call failed, not that I wanted to resist. Standing close to Lyria, I felt her warmth embrace me as she slowly wiped the dirt, sweat and grime from my face and neck. Her strong hands cupped both my cheeks, while her eyes sought the thoughts roaming behind my stupid smile.

“Rils, something is bothering you? isn’t it?” she asked.

“The whole deal with the Horde of the Cambion Warlord. Something does not match.”

“You mean Lyllantharas’s approach?” she asked.

“No, I mean I disposed of a few of his generals. Crippled the assistance from the demon realms. Even relieved him of his undead advantage.” The tiredness seeped into my voice and for once, I could abandon the mantle of a commander and expose my true thoughts. “Now, he had a vampire Lord as his field marshall.”

“That is how Lyllantharas is,” replied Lyria with a steady voice. “He is a devilkin. He commands the charisma of a celestial born.”

“No Lyria, I meant the Sanguine Lord Volinaris. Something is preventing him from entering the pass directly.”

“Perhaps, Rodo and his pack claiming the pass?” suggested Lyria.

“I don’t expect a vampire Lord, who bends his knees to lick the morsels thrown by the Cambion Warlord would honour the claim of a small werewolf pack. There is something else we are missing.”

A small silence stretched between us until the first vibration from a drum shattered it. Soon more thrums, almost rhythmic and lulling, filled with vibrancy, too much vibrancy to be anything but festive came.

Soon someone took a fiddle to play along with the repurposed war drums. This was followed by a flute joining the tune.

“Come.” Lyria tugged my arms, pulling me closer. “The celebration has begun.”

As the evening slipped in, more tankards were passed around. Between Lryia and myself, we shared a single ale, frothy and too watery, but Lyria’s presence made it all sweeter than the finest wine.

“Compose us a tale, Gwain.” Someone screamed at Gwain.

“Make a tale of our sacrifice.”Another voice joined.

“We are heroes. Remember us in your legends.” Shouted another voice.

Gwain stepped before the crowd and apologised. “I am no minstrel.”

“Then how about you tell us the tale of these lands,” I shouted. “If we are going to spill blood to defend this pass, you owe us at least a story...a marvellous history of the land.”

“There is none,” said Gwain. “Armies march and travellers pass. That is all there is to this pass. Nothing heroic or epic. That is, until you came.”

“Oh, really,” I replied. “Then how about any tale, perhaps a local legend about the pass?”

In small isolated communities where written records held less value, oral tradition might hide secrets for all to hear but none to interpret.

“We never had a Lord or Lady,” said Gwain, “No legends to speak of.”

It was then that Lyria spoke. “Then how about a love tale? Surely, even small isolated hamlets have their fair share of those.”

“That I could,” said Gwain, “The tale of Cendrien and Riordan.”

In the midst of still silence, the rich voice of Gwain flowed, revealing the bard hidden behind the guise of a tired innkeeper.

“Cendrien was the mother goddess of the Lands. She was the spirit who regulated the flow of seasons. The wind blew with her consent. The seasons awaited her approval to change. She made sure the rivers flew and the wild lilies bloomed.”

The sound of a flute slowly joined the narrative.

“In those times, the land was young and so was Riordan. A young man, a warrior, a traveller of the people unsung. He roamed the lands for he would call none his home. And so, he roamed the land far and wide, till his feet took him to the very pass.”

Gwain paused for a brief moment to allow the fiddler to join and then continued.

“As fate destined, one auspicious night, he stumbled onto a stream, witnessing the goddess taking a bath. Her hair dark as the starless night and her skin pale than moonlight, was hard to resist. Yet Riordan was a hero of morals. So he turned to walk away. The goddess Cendrien was so intrigued by this, that she invited Riordan to spend some time in her company.

They met the following day and then the following season. Cendrien abandoned her duty as a goddess, only seeking to indulge in the company of Riordan. She waited eagerly for the season to pass for Riordan to appear.

Obviously, this fateful union disturbed the natural balance and soon, spirits far and wide, ancient and new, met. They cursed Riordan, robbing him of his life, his youth and his vitality. When the next time, Riordan entered the pass, gone was his beauty and his cheerfulness. He was clad in the guise of a beggar. Scabs of dead skin fell from him in his steps and when he went the stench of festering wounds followed.

Riordan became a stranger to all. His friends no longer recognised him, but the goddess Cendrien knew her lover for who he was. Angered by the actions of those who hurt her beloved, she banished them from her lands, cursed the land itself in anger and offered all her essence, she reached out to her lover. With her power, she held her lover till the curse lost its power before her love.

Renewed and lifted on his curse, with his youthfulness and vitality restored, Cendrien departed with Riordan. In the years to follow, she bore him a number of children who went on to become heroes and legends of their own.”

“So where in the Pass was their meeting place?” I asked.

“The realm of the goddess is not revealed for us, mere men,” replied Gwain.

Lyria leaned closer, delivering a not-so-innocent kiss to my neck. “Rils, I never knew you would be so moved by a lovelorn tale.”

“I perceive something else here,” I answered her, “All I see is someone who is beyond mortal falling in love with a mortal traveller. I reckon this goddess Cendrien is a Vampire Lord of the Pass and the betrayal came from other vampires.”

“Gwain, tell me this,” I shouted for him to hear loud and clear, “Where do your youngster take their young love when they need time away from prying eyes.”

The innkeeper gave a toothy grin. “But you are not young and you have all the comforts in my inn.” But seeing the hard squint in my eyes, Gwain answered in earnest, “Feydance.”

With a quick flick of my wrist, I beckoned the ever-present Taltil.

“Grand Mistress,” said Taltil with eagerness.

“When Rodo is fully recuperated, take his pack to feydance and search. What we seek may not be obvious, so avail the enhanced senses of the pack to find the entrance.”

“What are we seeking, grand mistress?” asked Taltil.

“A catacomb, if I am not mistaken.”

Turning to a curious Lyria, I added, “The tale of Cendrin and Riordan may not have had a happy ending, after all.”