Aster felt a coarse hand shake him. Bleary eyed, he rolled to look at the man who had roused him. 

The wood beneath his straw cot creaked with his weight, but he paid it no mind. Everything was dark. He closed his eyes and tried to remember the night before. He had returned from the wood, yes that much was true. Then what? He met Canth at the tavern and they had...

Pounding pulsed behind his eye and his head anguished as he sat up. Ah, right, that's what they had done. 

"Get up," a deep voice ordered. "Your beckoned to the Strongfast." 

"Who's that?" 

The room was too dark to be morning. Something was happening but exactly what remained a mystery. 

"Gheul, Watchman," the man answered shortly. "Get up." 

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Aster reluctantly complied. He only had time to slip on his leather boots and gulp a dash of the water before the Watchman was half-dragging, half-leading him out of the tavern and into the street. 

From the road he could see the city was still asleep. Nobody moved in the low streets, save an occasional rat foraging for remnants of the previous day's feast. Joining the few Watchmen Aster could see on the wall was a host of stars that kept the night at bay along with their captain, a half-moon glowing silver in the sky. 

"The skies have cleared," Aster mused. 

"Perhaps a good omen," Gheul offered. 

"Are you to go on the march?" 

"Aye." The Watch had surrendered the formal garb of wolf pelt, leaving the man's skin open to the coolness of the night and the goose-flesh that was spreading up his arms. Aster suspected it was not from the gentle breeze. 

The Strongfast was the only building that stirred, though the casual eye might have missed it. Above the uneven edge of the keep's highest fortification he saw heads peaking down at them. Arrow loops in the face of the stone occasionally betrayed the light of a torch, and voices drifted more quietly than the soft wind through the ghostly street. 

Two Watchmen nodded welcome solemnly as they entered, faces half-disguised by the shadows crawling along the damp brick walls. 

Inside was scarcely more lively than the shrouded city outside, though far more bodies occupied it. The make-shift table from the morning still commanded the center of the room surrounded by a small collection of huntsmen. Three daggers pinned the same aged map to its uneven surface.

The dragon is missing, Aster mused. 

Emereld's long grey beard made him immediately recognizable on the far side of the room. It took longer for him to notice Endel amid a small gathering of men standing across from the governor as they were standing with part of their backs to him. 

"Pst." 

Aster turned to search for the noise. The Watchman beside him seemed not to notice or at least not care as he walked to where the commander was consulting. 

A finger tugged on Aster's tunic, causing him to jump. 

Canth's face was mixture of humor and concern and the mixture did not seem to sit well with him. He smiled waveringly. 

"Good to see you made it." 

"To what?" Aster whispered back. "What are we doing here?" 

The other boy shrugged his narrow shoulders. "Emereld sent for me some time ago but hasn't told me anything."

"None of the moonwalkers are here," Aster noticed. "Do you suppose it has something to do with the march?" 

"I don't suppose how it couldn't," Canth replied. "I've heard Endel and Emereld talking - they don't trust Narenhior any more than he seems to trust them. Maybe they're planning something for him." 

"Is that the boy there?" Emereld's thin voice called across  the chamber.

"Aye," Endel confirmed in a lower tone, "get here, boy." His huge arm waved impatiently toward the two young men. 

Aster shuffled uncertainly toward the table as an uncomfortable silence broken only by the patter of his footsteps settled. 

Emereld crossed his arms, letting the deep green of his sleeves twist around his arms as his lips twisted distastefully. "He doesn't look like much." 

"He isn't," Endel spat. "Just took his first blood two nights prior." Emereld raised an eyebrow. "Wolves," the captain confirmed, shrugging off the look. "But the fool left the gate open and Gregon Sensol was killed in the night." 

"Unacceptable," the governor glowered. 

Aster felt his cheeks warm and his pulse quicken. "If I may, Mir, it was I who escorted -"

"Silence." Endel cleaved his words as cleanly as though he had wielded an ax. "You are living on goodwill. Give me one reason to take it from you and don't think I won't." 

Biting his tongue, Aster turned his eyes to his feet. Don't speak - don't speak. 

"But you believe he'd be an asset on the march?" The governor's eyes scanned every scar and speck of dirt on him. Despite being shrouded in the wrinkled eyelids of an old man, the gaze was unnervingly penetrating. Aster fought the urge to shiver. "I am not convinced." 

"He small," Endel shrugged. "Expendable too. The moonwalkers will expect nothing from a mere boy. Errands, scouting, even a blade if the need arises. Aye, we'll find uses for him." 

"It seems you have already made your decision then. And of my scribe?"

"We'll have no use for a scribbler in the wood," Endel scoffed. "Keep his pens and parchment here - they'll be nothing but baggage on our party, as would he if he joined I suspect." 

Aster did not have to turn to imagine Canth balling his fists. Either the Hunter heard his silent urgings or his friend had more self-control than he expected. The boy's lips remained silent. 

"Well enough," Emereld nodded. "I have another task for him. He shall need an guard from one of your number." 

Endel's eyes narrowed under his stormy eyebrows. "For what sort of task? It would seem to me the only proper task for such a sprig is scribbling the drabble of old politicians. None of my men would be wasted on such a task." 

"Tactful as ever," Emereld muttered dryly. His frail hands unclasped from where they were crossed over his chest. The jagged fingernail swept from the point where Arcath was marked on the map south. "You will remember Narenhior's tale of the southern realms I trust?" 

"It was hardly half a day past," the captain grumbled. 

"Aye, though it is hard to tell how much makes it through your pelts to your ears. Aeron knows the wisdom of your elders hasn't made it there yet." A wrinkled finger settled on the scratches that formed a narrow sketch of mountains on the lower end of the chart. Endel's scowl deepened to resemble the creased paper. "Here is the only mountain range we have any records of within two leagues from here. Here must be the Tegonoragoth that he speaks of." 

The Watchman rolled his shoulders. "What of it? A rocky crag far from Astfall, filled with Halfmen."

It was Emereld's turn to narrow his gaze. "If you had a wit half as sharp as your ax, you might be useful. Do you trust these wayfarers? This moving army that comes in the night?" 

"Not more than I trust the wood to be my refuge." 

The old man's thin lips curled in a humorless smile under his beard. "At least you have commonsense about you. Nor do I. It would seem prudent to verify their story, does it not to you? An army that marches only by the word of a stranger whose honor is untested is an army that marches to its death." 

"We have no rangers or horses who could the journey before dawn," Endel grunted. "An interesting proposition but a futile one it seems." 

The governor ignored him. "Boy, tell us of Halfmen's realm." 

Canth shuffled toward the table until Aster could see him. He wrung his hands and glanced up at the men. 

"They, well the texts from - the scrolls that is -" 

"Moonlight, must I wring it out of you?" Endel thundered. 

The governor wordlessly raised a hand. Veins ran through the thin skin and over frail bone, but it successfully silenced the huge fighter. 

Canth took a deep breath. "The Dwarf Empire used to be an authority in these parts. Some scrolls say their border stretched as far north as this very soil. In the height of their power they fielded ten legions of legendary warriors supposed to have slain demons, dragons, and despots alike. 

"After the Young Years ended, their glory ended as well. Lore speaks of mountains we have no other record of, but write that the Dwarfs were driven out from all until they possessed only the High Mountain." 

"A thrilling history lesson. Of what relevance does it play on my men?" 

"Perhaps there is more than one army that could help with our quest within a ride from our city?" 

The captain's bushy beard remained as still as the shaggy pelt it resembled. His face revealed neither comprehension nor interest. 

"My request first and explanation later then. Is there anyone who can be spared?" 

"Aye, a girl. A fighter at heart, though as useless to me as this scraggling pup," he answered, waving to Aster. "She will make the ride with your scribbler. 

Emereld clenched his eyes closed. "I will send the scribe to the mountains with a guard, not a soft-skinned youngling."

"She'll do," Endel growled. "And she'll be all you receive of my men." Emereld held his gaze. "Besides," the captain shrugged, "she'd seat a horse better than these oafs." 

At long lost Emereld blinked and nodded. "They will question the Halfmen, find the truth of Narenhior's tale, and send a bird with their verdict. If the elf's words are true, my pillow will feel that much softer at night. If false, we will garner what help we can from the Halfmen and prepare the city in case they should return." 

"Not that we should have to be with them," Endel growled bitterly. 

"I shall weep more for the loss of your ax. Steel is hard to come by in these parts." 

A blur brought a dagger from Endel's belt. Its point bit a full inch into the wood of the table a breath from Emereld's hand. 

"Here's some to remember me by," he snarled. The captain raised his cloak's hood, dousing his fiery face in shadow, and gestured to his men. Their footsteps faded up the staircase leading to the upper levels of the Strongfast. 

Emereld sighed. "Canth, an arm to my quarters." 

Aster watched his friend scramble to take the elderly man's arm around his shoulder with a sinking feeling. The pounding in his head had largely been stilled by the cool night air but the dizziness returned until the world around him spun. 

Canth is to go South. He shook his head, suddenly alone in the large, friendless room. The Canth who would empty a hundred inkwells before tiring but more likely stab himself with a sword than a still target. 

In no hurry to return to the dismal shack of inn where his threadbare blankets waited, Aster found his feet wandering the lifeless streets of Arcath. 

He felt ill. Suddenly everything unsettled him - the way his boots scratched the cobblestones, the brightness of the moon, the thought of impending morning, even the smell of the dew that blanketed the city's street wormed uncomfortably into his nose. 

Footsteps behind him made him turn as he headed toward the Square where the last tongues of smoke coiled from long-since burnt out brazers. 

Canth jogged up behind him, breathing lightly. "Where are you off to?" 

He shrugged wordlessly. 

The wiry boy smiled. "Fair enough. I've got a sight for you then. Come on," he nodded toward the west side of the city and quickened his pace. 

Footsteps did their talking as they walked off the main road into a side street that wound toward the wall. 

As the road began stooping downward into the low streets, Aster finally stopped. 

Canth glanced back at him. "It's not much farther."

"Aren't you afraid?" Aster blurted. "We could die." He searched for better words, but the concern building inside him had reached its zenith. The dam of hope and reassurance he had felt in the wood that afternoon could only hold back so much as the rest spilled over. "You could die in some moonforsaken rock, I'm probably going to be felled in the dark by some phantom, and wolves eat whatever's left of this place in a fortnight." The words cascaded from his tongue before he could arrange them more eloquently. His voice's threat to crack finally brought him pause. 

Canth's smile faded to solemness. "Follow me." His echoing steps left Aster speechless. At last he followed as the lanky scribe disappeared around a corner. 

The other way was waiting for him by a twisted heap of boards that, judging by the two wheels in the pile, might have once been a wagon. The boards cluttered next to the wall next to a stone house hewed in a rough square. Snarling likenesses of wolves sat on the edge of the building's roof, some howling voicelessly while others bared their grey teeth motionlessly at the road below. 

The scribe did not wait once he saw Aster come around the bend in the low street. Scampering up the pile of timbers, he leaped up to the house's roof. His fingers clenched the head of a wolf petrified by the stonemason's hand in mid-howl. Pulling himself up, Canth waved a hand from the top of the house. "Come on. We haven't all night." 

Aster was slow to follow. The boards shifted unsteadily under his feet, threatening to spill up back onto the muddy street as he tempered their balance. He managed to scale the tower of wood before eyeing the roof. 

It was no great distance but enough to make his palms sweat. Wiping his hands on his breeches he leaped. 

His fingers stroked the masonry of a wolf, slipping from its jagged face to the roof's edge. Grunting, his fingers hooked over the lip of the overhang and his muscles tensed until he was left hanging. A deep breath brought renewed strength to his limbs, heaving himself over the edge onto the roof. 

Canth was already scaling the wall across from him that shared a wall with the house. Crumbling rock, loose bricks, and a relatively short distance to the top made it a friendly climb. Dusting himself off, Aster followed hesitantly. 

"What are you after?" 

"C'mon," Canth answered as pulled himself to the top of the wall. 

Shaking his head, Aster followed. Deep cracks in the stones where rain had corroded and ice had driven apart made easy handholds. The callouses on his hands coupled with the polishing of rain and the moisture of the dew made the stones treacherously slippery. 

When he reached the top Canth was already reclining against a sack stuffed with flour or sand. 

"You must not be taught climbing in the Watch." 

"And they do in the scribbler's guild?" 

Canth smirked. "A wizened old crone who croaked two years past is hardly a guild. Without an ax to wave around, I've had to find alternative ways to get around." 

"Does the man who owns that house know you've made it into a refuse heap for your 'getting around?'" 

"He's Scalio, a shopkeeper. Needed a man to keep records for him when the nomads came in the spring so he does me a favor every now and then. That wagon was his three winters past but the wheels went bad and the timber was better for firewood than taking up space." Canth shrugged. "They didn't get through it all before spring so I made it a discrete ladder." 

The scribe nodded west where the wall's battlements - or what time had left of them - reproachfully stared out. 

Aster paced forward, eyes searching for the sight he had been led to. 

Fires.  

Some twenty flames wavered in the black field between Astfall and the wall. The tongues licked the night fearlessly. From his standpoint it looked like the demon of the dark was posed to extinguish each. Their formidable orange daggers were oddly appropriate between the wall and the wood. His hands wrapped around one of the wall's cracked nobs of stone. The coarse feeling under his hand was comforting while his eyes examined the field. Occasionally an invisible sword caught a ray of firelight, casting a beam toward where he stood. 

A hundred blades, he pondered. He could imagine the midnight black armor that melded the moonwalker's into the night. Gauntlets of it would guard every blade-wielding hand. A soft whinny drifted to his ears.  Horses too. 

Canth examined his face with narrow eyes. "They're an army, Aster. A damn powerful one too. For better or for worse." 

Another noise rode the night air, sweeter than he would have expected. 

"They're playing music," he murmured. 

"Aye. Since sundown."

The two boys sat in silence trying to make out the soft melodies for some time. Smooth ribbons of song curled like the swirling cloak of a dancer's silks through the black. Beautiful voices chorused in indistinguishable words. A tongue unknown, Aster bent his ear to catch the drifting syllables trickling from the moonwalker's campfires like gentle beams of moonlight. 

Aster sat and crossed his legs beside the rampart. "I didn't think I would be this afraid." 

A grin scrolled on Canth's face. "Perhaps it's better that you are." Aster looked at him quizzically.  "A phantom dwells outside our wood. An elf of an unseen land appears in the night at our gate promising victory to a deathless foe. You march into the wood at long last. I ride south with Castleia to write to a king who hides under a rock. These are the makings of the legends we read about, eh?" 

Aster could not help but smile. "I think you have the worst of it," he finally laughed. 

The scribe shared a chuckle. "For braving the south or missing the march?"

"Neither," Aster smiled. "For braving Castleia." 

The two shook with laughter, momentarily drowning out the moonwalkers' songs. Canth wiped a tear from his eye, clutching his stomach. "Oh, fair enough. She's not all that bad, though, to tell the truth. Has a fair face at least." 

Aster raised an incredulous eyebrow. "That's like admiring a wolf's fur as it snarls to tear your throat out." 

The scribe frowned. "Nothing quite so bad, as far as I remember." 

"You had more mead last night than I did," Aster smiled.