Robert Salvatore - Mortalis

Those fears had been dispelled the moment Midalis had stepped off the boat onto the low dock of Pireth Vanguard, when a host of folk from all the neighboring communities had arrived to set out a huge feast of venison and fowl, with pipers playing tunes both melancholy and joyous all through the day, and all the young ladies of Vanguard taking turns dancing with their new Prince. Truly, Midalis had found his home, and so when the minions of the demon dactyl had arrived in force, Midalis had not only called out the militia and sent a message to his brother for aid but he had personally led the Vanguard forces. Never could it be said of Prince Midalis that he sat on a horse in safety at the back of the battlefield, commanding his troops into action.

Thus, when the barbarian Andacanavar had come to Midalis' camp that night a week before and Midalis had agreed to meet with him, other Vanguard men and women, traditional enemies of the barbarians, had deferred to the judgment of their heroic Prince without complaint.

Still, it was with great trepidation that Midalis and Liam made their quiet way over the forested hills to the field where Andacanavar and his fellows had set up camp. Might the huge barbarian have baited him, feigning friendship so that he could decapitate the Vanguard forces?

Midalis swallowed that distrust and forced himself to focus instead on poor Abbot Agronguerre and the other forty monks of St. Belfour and the three hundred commoners holed up within the abbey's walls.

At the edge of the field, the pair were met by a trio of huge muscled men, the shortest of whom stood nearly half a foot taller than the nearly six-foot Midalis. Huge spears in hand, the barbarians walked right up before the horses of the visitors, one going to each horse and grabbing the reins just below the beasts' mouths, pulling down forcefully.

"Which is Midalis?" the third of the group, standing back a couple of steps, asked.

The Prince reached up and pulled back his hood, shaking the wetness from his straight brown hair. "I am the Prince of Honce-the-Bear," he said, noting that all three of the barbarians narrowed their eyes at the proclamation.

"Your leader bade me to come to him," Midalis went on, "under a banner of alliance."

The barbarian in the back nodded his head quickly to the side, indicating that the pair should dismount; then, while his two companions walked the horses away, he motioned Midalis and Liam to follow him.

"They should be unsaddled and brushed down," Prince Midalis remarked.

The barbarian turned back on him skeptically.

"They're not knowin' much about horses," Liam whispered to his companion. "The folk of Alpinador ain't much for ridin'."

"But we have eaten more than a few," their huge escort promptly added. He looked at Liam and snickered, for Liam's voice, like his frame, was quite delicate.

Midalis and Liam exchanged skeptical glances; this wasn't going to be easy.

They were led to a large tent in the middle of the encampment. Both noticed that few eyes were upon them throughout the march, and when their escort pulled aside the flap, they understood why.

More than three hundred barbarian warriors-all tall and most with long flaxen hair, some with braids, others with ornamental jewelry tied in-filled the tent, hoisting great foaming mugs and making such a general ruckus that Midalis was amazed that he and Liam hadn't heard them a mile away or that the goblins outside St. Belfour hadn't taken note and sent scouts to investigate.

Or maybe they had, Midalis realized, when he looked to the side and saw a row of goblin heads staked out like macabre party decorations.

"Tunno bren-de prin!" their escort cried above the tumult in his native tongue, a rolling, bouncing language that the Vanguardsmen jokingly referred to as "bedongadongadonga."

Almost immediately, the hall quieted, all eyes turning toward the two smaller men at the entrance. The Prince heard Liam swallow hard, and he shared that nervous sentiment completely. Though it was late fall, and cold, most of the barbarians were wearing sleeveless tunics, revealing their huge, muscled arms, as thick around as Midalis' thigh.

The barbarian ranks slowly parted then as an older man, his face weathered by more than fifty winters, scooped up an extra pair of goblets and started to walk slowly across the tent. He was huge, his muscles taut despite his age; and though there were others his size or even larger, and though most of the men in the hall weren't half his age, from his balanced gait and stern visage, from the obvious respect he commanded from everyone in the hall, Midalis understood that this man Andacanavar could best any two of the others, perhaps any three, in batde.

Without a word, without a blink, he strode toward the pair of visitors, but stopped some dozen paces away. He lifted his own flagon and drained it in one huge swallow, then took the other two, one in each hand, and came forward slowly, the rustling of his deerskin breeches the only sound in the hall-other than the heavy breathing of both Midalis and Liam.

Right before the pair, Andacanavar stopped again and slowly brought his arms out wide and high above his head.

And then he closed his eyes and howled, turning it to a roar, primal and feral and as frightening a sound as either of the Vanguardsmen had ever heard.

And all the others took it up with vigor, a deafening communal roar that shook the tent walls and sent shivers coursing down the spines of the two visitors.

Continuing to roar, Andacanavar now opened his eyes and winked to the two, a signal that Midalis did not miss. Up went the Prince's arms, and he, too, loosed a tremendous bellow; and Liam, after an incredulous glance, did likewise, though his sounded more like a squeak. That only seemed to spur the barbarians on to greater heights, their shouts reaching a thunderous crescendo. Andacanavar dropped his arms suddenly, foam flying everywhere, and all cut short their howls-except for Midalis and Liam, who didn't understand the game and kept howling a few embarrassing moments longer. Both met the powerful gaze of Andacanavar, and the three stared at one another a few moments longer, before the imposing barbarian came forward and thrust the mugs into their hands, then reached back and called for another drink.

Liam started to bring the mead-filled mug to his lips, but Midalis, catching on, held him.

Then Andacanavar had a mug of his own, presenting it to the pair. "Ah, but we have a bunch of goblins to kill, now don't we?" the barbarian ranger asked.

Midalis took a chance. He raised his mug above his head-even splashing some mead on Andacanavar, though the man hardly seemed to noticeand shouted, "To the death of the goblins!"

Andacanavar slapped his mug against Midalis' and held it there, both men eyeing Liam, who quickly smacked his mug up there, too, while all the gathering took up the toast, "To the death of the goblins!"

Andacanavar drained his mug, as did Liam, for none in Honce-the-Bear could outdrink a born-and-bred Vanguardsman, and Midalis got his close enough to empty to call for more.

"Drink hearty, my friends," said Andacanavar.

"But not too much so," Midalis replied. "We've important business."

Andacanavar nodded. "But my men are wishing to see the truth of you both," he explained. "When you have taken enough of the mead, you will wag your tongues honestly, and let us see if we have a bond that can be forged."

Midalis considered the words and glanced to his friend, and then both held their flagons out as younger barbarians, barely more than boys, rushed about with bulging waterskins, refilling each mug in turn.

"This is Bruinhelde, who leads Tol Hengor," Andacanavar explained, holding his arm back and sweeping forward another imposing, stern-faced man, his blond hair tied with feathers and ornaments, his jaw square and strong. It occurred to Midalis that if he ever punched that jaw, he'd do more damage to his hand than to Bruinhelde's face. His eyes were the typical Alpinadoran blue, burning with inner fires.