the ground and on top of the wall. They’re dormant now, but when they’re lit, the whole canyon is lit up with orange light. Only a couple of guards stand on top of the wall, rigid and unmoving.
The gates stand open; thick wood doors braced with steel, held by several large steel hinges. Ever since I was small, I’ve assumed that they’re controlled with connected levers on the insides of the adjacent towers.
Short towers jut out of the cliff side, out of reach of any sword or spear, on each side of the wall. They are accessible only from tunnels that lead from inside the city. Most people simply call them the Clifftowers.
I notice a guard leaning against the inside of the left gate. He only nods as we pass through, his helmet clinking slightly against his steel breastplate.
As we emerge on the other side, the mountains surrounding the city become visible. The walls of the city are the cliffs of the mountains; the towers are built into the rock.
The inside of the city isn’t terribly exciting. Travelling merchants have stopped their coming and going because of the war, so parts of the market usually abuzz are empty and silent. Many men from this city are risking their lives elsewhere, and here their wives wait in agonizing uncertainty. Some may have already received letters of condolences. Though Gilgal is not taking a huge part in the war, it is still a part of it.
Despite the somewhat melancholy weight in the air, people go about their usual business, most at least with some form of smile. There are people talking, laughing, playing music, dancing, and other things.
We pass straight through the market district and pass a few blocks of the housing portion of the city. As we walk down the road deeper into the city, the surrounding mountains loom higher and higher. The valley is becoming cloaked in shadow as the sun sets. Red streaks the sky and stars start to appear.
An enormous structure comes into view at the back of the city.
The Keep, as it is called rather than its longer name, sits as one with the mountain. It was built many ages ago but is kept sound by the multitude of hands that thrive in its shadow. Its halls and rooms run under the mountain, proving it a nigh impenetrable fortress. Nringnar’s Deep. It is within this keep that Hralfar, Lord Jarl of Gilgal, resides. At this time it is lit by enormous braziers, similar to the ones at the front gate to the city. The light of soldiers’ torches glints in the shadow of evening.
Gunther lives east of the Keep, so that’s the direction we head. It doesn’t take us too long; after only a few minutes we stand at his door. It’s a small home, constructed of wood and stone.
He answers, almost with a concerned air about him. As soon as he sees us, however, his expression brightens. “Kadmus! No one told me you were coming!”
“We would have gotten here before them anyway.”
He laughs and claps me on the back in a bear hug. I’m taller than he, but he’s almost as broad. That doesn’t make him any less of a blacksmith.
“The trip was good, yes?” He pulls away. “No trouble?”
“None. Everything went great!”
“Good! It’s been too long, brother! Come in, come in! Everyone!”
We file into the small house as he says something about getting more wood for the fire, which is still slightly burning in the stone hearth. A table and some chairs sit in the middle of the room, and it is on these that we finally rest.
Gunther sits at the head of the table, next to the fire. “I’m assuming you all brought something to sleep on, because I’m not cramming all of us on my bed!”
“Oh yes, don’t worry,” says James. “That won’t be a problem.”
Percival chuckles slightly and nods.
“Good,” says Gunther. “There’s not much space here, but we can make it work.”
As we move the chairs and unpack our bedrolls, I ask Gunther, “How’s the forge been treating you?”
He seems to mutter something under his breath, and then realizes that I’ve said something to him. “Hm?” he says.
“How’s the forge been treating you?” I repeat.
“Well!” he nods. “Haven’t lost any fingers!” His smile soon disappears, however, and he stares into the fire, the reflection of which flickers in his eyes. The orange light floods the house.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
He takes a deep breath and smiles again. “I’m just so happy to see