It was well into the night before Arn fell asleep. His father's levity with the rules made quite an impression on him. Worse yet, it related rather uncomfortably to Rana's words about the Inspectorate. He wished that his father behaved as he always did. Instead, the man sang just a short way out of Nysaros. Sang! What did it all mean? Arn wondered. He hated the fact that Rana's words kept clawing back into his thoughts and scratching at everything he thought he knew.

Then came the memories of De'al. Arn clamped his mind shut and didn't let them spread. He knew that if he began recounting the - whatever it was that happened, he'd never fall asleep.

Arn turned inside his thick wool sleeping bag, tightly shut his eyes, and willed himself to sleep. Surprisingly, it worked.

Atrel woke him up with a nudge. The first thing that Arn saw was a dimly lit sky, dark blue in the west with hints of warm colours coming from the east where the sun was just rising. The coals of yesterday's fire were still bright amber, burning unnaturally long by the power of the fire starter device.

He'd have to withdraw the Esarel from them before they left the campsite. His father had already set the water to boiling and prepared their breakfasts, which they finished quickly before packing up and returning to the Hillside way.

They crossed the bridge over the swift Dolinoan river, which flowed from the white peaks of the Zekasar Ridge to the west. The Snowy River that they followed from Nysaros had merged into the Dolinoan a few miles back. The land beyond the bridge was hilly, with sparse trees here and there. Small shrubs peaked through the snow, their dark branches bare of foliage.

Arn and his father followed the road as it rose and fell with the terrain, and soon the great expanse of the Yisaor Foothills unfolded before them.

When they'd stopped for lunch, several hours after they set out, Arn realized that his father still didn't tell him the tale of the Black Warden. He didn't quite feel up to wrestling with his father's wit for the story just now and let it go.

His father occasionally sang short rhymes like the one at the campfire. Each time he did, Arn looked all around them and made sure that none were in earshot. Arn grew to like them and this side of his father that he hadn't seen thus far.

The sun once more passed the midpoint of its daily journey, and still, they pressed on. The expansive views around them, while breathtaking in their beauty, soon gave way to fatigue and expectation of comfort at the end of their path.

"We're almost at the Looking Hill. From there, you can see the Old Stone - as the travellers call the Old Fort Inn, you'll know why once you see it," his father said.

They kept on for a half-hour until they crested a particularly tall hill that stood above the rest. True enough, Arn saw the Old Fort in the distance. It looked to be at least three or four miles away yet. Even from this distance, Arn could tell that it was quite a large structure. Ancient stone walls stood in a broken-up circle and what looked like newer construction filled the gaps. He could just see wisps of smoke rise from several chimneys and more than one road converging at the structure.

"I think we can make it before nightfall," his father said, then looked at the sky and nodded, "yes, we can make it, in one piece perhaps," he smiled at Arn and hurried off, picking up the pace even more than before.

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Arn briefly glanced at the setting sun and rushed after his father. His heart already pounded, and even the soft and comfortable boots on his feet were now chafing in places.

"There is a tale of this Old Fort," his father said when Arn caught up.

"What about the tale of the Black Warden?" Arn said he couldn't help himself.

"So hasty! There are many tales in the history of the world. Now is time for the tale of the Old Fort," his father replied.

"Alright, but you promised to tell me about the warden - I won't let it go, you know."

"I will tell you, don't worry - but now, listen," his father said, then looked at Arn and added, "it seems that you can scarcely spare the breath to speak as it is."

Arn scowled, but his father was right, so he listened on.

"So goes the tale for those who'll hear it told

There stood a fort as old as time itself

None left who saw it come into our world

Long years of war and battle it withstood

Blood soaked its stone, and death lived in its wood

Dark stood the tower in winter and summer

Its halls and its stones drank all fear and all sorrow

It consumed sound of war and sharp clang of sword

And those who dwelt there beheld in their dreams

Dark murmurs, old whispers, and soft echoes of screams

Deep in the tower a dark mind had stirred

Crimson it's thought filled by anguish and wrath

It whispered in dreams and made itself heard

And the lips of its dwellers carried its voice

Abiding its biddings, never making the choice

'Till Egthon the Bloody, with marauders in tow

Assaulted the tower, under moon's glow

Its whispers and words bewitched Egthon's thought

Lord and his bandits bloody deeds wrought

And the tower once more with crimson was bought

Dawn cast its warmth on the tower's dark walls

Where Egthon the Sleepless meandered the halls

Thought bent on his reign that he yearned to expand

The tower's dark mind had its bloody right hand

And its will now had means to ravage the land

Each night Egthon's mind wrestled the tower

Drawn was his face and his countenance dour

His thoughts ever darkened, and anger did grow

Fear spread 'midst his allies like a disease

His kingdom did shake 'neath his bloody decrees

Folk of the land lived in fright of his madness

His rule brought to them nothing but sadness

To spirits they prayed for relief of their plight

They sued for a hero to cleanse the dark Fort

To relieve them of Egthon, their ruthless lord

Yet for many a year, their pleas were ignored

'Till first day of spring, two score years in his rule

There came a man with the dawn at his back

Wind bore his words over walls and through stone

Oh Egthon the Sleepless, I seek you alone

O'er the rampart, the guards sneered and mocked

Begone ye poor fool, bother not our great lord!

Blue cloak hid his face, yet his voice clearly sang

Egthon the Bloody, descend from your throne!

Guards cried in one voice, flee fool, you're alone!"

Arn's father paused at that and looked at him. "Are you paying attention?"

At that specific moment, Arn was observing the ruins of the Fort in the distance as they grew closer.

"Arn!"

"What?"

"Are you listening to the story?"

"Yes."

His father smirked, "no, you're not."

"Well, I didn't expect a long poem like this - I thought it's a normal story."

Atrel sighed and shook his head, "youth," he said, "fine, just come on."

Arn could have sworn that his father picked up the pace in retaliation for his lack of interest. He was soon panting and out of breath. Thankfully, the Old Fort was getting closer.

"So, who was the guy at the gates?" Arn asked.

"Oh, now you want to know!"

"You could have just told the tale normally."

"You don't understand style," his father protested.

"Fine, but can you just tell me?"

"The man at the gates was the Son of Adarsara, The Northern Wind."

"And what is -"

"None of that now," Atrel cut in, "when you learn to listen, I will continue the tale."

Arn grunted and hurried after his father once more. He was now sure that the man walked faster anytime he wanted to avoid a conversation. Arn was determined to improve his stamina just to deny his father the satisfaction.