The cover of this old tome is metal, beaten and dented from the roads. It rests upon a faded maroon missionary robe. Upon it rests a single red rose, carved from crystal and stone.
"Who is with me?! she yelled, raising her sword high. "We have prepared for this day for a year, now is not the time to reveal yourselves fat Kypiq pretending to be Hrothi!"
The crowd laughed and roared its approval, the crunch of heavy shields on stone echoed about the vast chamber, then as one they fell silent, the echoes chasing themselves into nothing.
"A year ago we sealed ourselves from the misery sweeping the world outside. But not to hide, not to cower, not to ignore. You have done all and more I have asked of you, and now we march. Not for pride, not for glory, not for conquest or riches. We march because from ashes new seeds grow, but from plague only death seeps. We march for our children's future. We march to defend the future of Mann."
She paused as the din of shields thumping into the stone floor overwhelmed the chamber, falling quickly into time Thump. Thump. Thump. The footfalls of the giants.
"Unseal the gates!" she yelled, lowering her sword; her words lost in the noise, but the Gatekeeper was waiting and swung his mallet true.
As one, behind their commander the First Company marched out; heavy foot first, then the archers, then the first of the wagons loaded with tents, smocks, and barrels of water from the clear mountain streams, and ale. The Company's newly trained doctor and nurses rode on the wagons; they would need every last part of their strength soon enough to walk.
The second company began to lead out, waving to those who would run the hospital they had built, standing beside the tall doors built for outsiders, rows of long beds beyond.
The noble lady looked high to the vaulted ceiling of the grand entrance hall, and then saluted the hospital staff. She walked to her place before the Third, and without ceremony led them out of the Mountain, her Scenechal marking their exit in the Gatekeeper's ledger. I will probably never see this place again she mused. But like all her Hrothi brethren, she had a stone chip from the mountain tied on a leather strap about her neck; home would be with her forever, even in death.
Her boots crunched on the stone, the sun warm on her back. They did not use trumpets or horns; too easy to bring an avalanche down. Horses and anything else that could pull a wagon was doing just that ... everyone else had two good feet, and was using them.
It was a simple plan ... set up a hospital outside every major town, by a river. Have the villagers throw all their clothing on fires, wash themselves clean, and then change into smocks. Then they, too, would join the army of healers, whether as soldiers, nurses, or if their skills suited, farmers, teamsters, or crafters. All would drink only water from the mountains, and each would have their own recently made cup so none would share. Nearly every metal decoration, trinket, or prayer bead from Home had been melted to do that, but every wagon had a crate of new cups on it.
She smiled, banishing the trickle of fear that she would not live long enough to have heirs, that her line would end here, that they would all die and be forgotten. Darkness had come to Elyria: the Shields of Mann would bring the light, or die trying.
