Chapter Eight.

The Last Ride of Filar, of Clan Buhrodar.

Gwythlyn stood in the Great Chamber of the Shandalar High Council the very next morning. There had been no time to secure a gown that was fitting. She stood in the riding habit she had worn from out of Yeranoor; for all her wardrobe were plain country gowns, most unsuited for Court. Cirion had pillaged her wardrobes, but there was no gown that could be found. None would prevail, for although of like stature; Gwythlyn was, of bosom, more generously endowed... and broader of hip, 'aye, and longer of leg.

From the Assembly came whispers, as she stood tall in her stern riding habit. No frills and no fripperies there in their sight as she stood before them with her great sword, "Gurthelkaa" to her side, sapphires a'glittering. They looked upon her, and certainly knew that this was no pliant and simpering maiden from the Outlands of far Yeranoor. No, it stood plain... this was a Warrior maid cut from the same cloth as Queen Cirion. With no disputation that she was full kin of Eldamar; they wondered, perhaps, would it be that Gwythlyn too, might one day be a Guardian of The Light? For she stood in Grace... this was plain to see. But suddenly, such musings were cast away from them, as Court Herald trumpets made sound the fanfare that echoed most brazenly about the chamber.

At the Great door, Queen Cirion made entry. She wore a silk gown of a delicate blueness... the blueness of rain-washed skies in early spring; and about her temples, she wore the circlet of gold in which was set the great Sapphire of Laurelindor. With her stood Stannard the Chancellor, bearing a great crimson cushion upon which rested soft, the circlet of Khallis gold in the fashion of Windwillow blossoms, which she lifted on high. She stood then to Gwythlyn, who knelt, as Cirion placed the circlet of gold with care upon her brow. Raising her up, Cirion made gift of a slender smile of the welcome, and then faced the Assembly there gathered; saying:

'Behold... before you now, Gwythlyn, Grand Duchess of Shandalar. From this day forth, so shall she be. Make welcome my Cousin now into this Court. For I am well pleased that she stands beside me.'

And so it was done; and the gathered Assembly made homage to Gwythlyn, in manner of Court. They held full acceptance as she stood with Cirion. Here, before them, they saw the two Warrior kith-maids. Now... Shandalar's future appeared bright. Gwythlyn, indeed was a warrior; but of a kind somewhat different to Cirion. Ghlinngar the Seer had taught her the art of the Wraith-hunter... a skill that was rarely now seen. These skills, he had honed, and brought fully to perfection in days long ago, in the wild wooded places that one day, would be shining Amriath, long before came there the Questors from out of Astalan. The Wraith-hunter had need of the gift of the silent approach... in manner that a barn-owl will swoop upon a mouse. For a Wraith, like the moon-mist that clings to still water... one moment, is there, and the next... has yet, vanished.

With a great banquet laid to the honour of Gwythlyn; with wine, Algethimeade; Glowfire and beer flowing free; much was the merriment in the Citadel, and much the carousing. But then, suddenly... The great doors were thrust open. The Captain of Watch stood there with a Faluan guard and a Khuzud maid all begrimed from their ride. The first was seen to be the Faluan maid who had ridden the alarm into Khallis, and the other... was Taeana, the Khuzud, who swayed, fully spent from her gallop from out of the City of Rhom.

She laid forth the news of Caron's demise, and, in making the tell... there came the harsh scrape of chair as Karina stood, her eyes filled with fearing. She looked unto to Cirion, who said she must swiftly ride out a Faluan patrol to the City of Rhom. On the face of it... to gather informations. In truth, full un-worded... to seek out Caron. And no more the saying than the doing. Karina strode swiftly from the Court and they heard her make cry to saddle the swiftest of Shandalar's horses. And, no time to loiter, then... no time, at all.

Were that not enough; then the news out of Khallis beset Cirion with great worry and fearing. Kyla Dinush was fully smitten with ailing, and called upon Cirion to stand forth to her in haste. The rider said that Filar, the Clan Chief, had made tell that Kyla was fading swiftly before his eyes. The Thuvian physicks had told that it was the crab sickness, and cure was beyond any of them to gift.

Cirion stood; her eyes large at the telling... her countenance paling, her teeth to her lip. Kyla had been like a mother towards her. Kyla had taught her most all of her warrior skills. Eldamar, on seeing his Granddaughter fraught and beset with worry; said she should ride out Starshadow immediately. Gwythlyn cried she should ride out with Cirion, "Gurthelkaa" to her side. For two sword-maids could look, each to the other, as they made their ride down through The High Pass of Ling. T'was but twenty Leagues down into Khallis, and she would not countenance Nay to this thing.

Cirion thrust her circlet of gold into the hands of Stannard. She left the Hall, followed by Gwythlyn, who thrust her circlet to Stannard in like fashion. Swiftly, Cirion repaired to her chamber and divested herself of her gown. Then, garbed in a plain riding habit, she called for her blade. Moyna came swiftly with "Alasse Nenharma", and girded the thrice-buckled sword belt about the waist of Cirion. The Alfirin garlanded, Adamaunte scabbard glittered in the bright morning sunshine that streamed in through the casement of her chamber.

In the Great Courtyard, there waited Starshadow, in company with a fleet Rhola mare; the swiftest of all horse-kind in Amriath. She was a fifteen-hand yearling, and exceedingly fair. She was the mount for Gwythlyn, swiftly chosen from out of the Shandalar stables by the Master Ostler... and spirited, too. She was by no means as swift as Starshadow; but then, swift enough yet, for this task.

They rode out in the bright of the morning to gallop the southern plains to Ling Beckside. Their escort of Faluan guards were fully hard-pressed to keep station with them as they galloped into the south. All down through the Low Riggs of Striding Edge, shadowed by icy-blue crags, to The High Pass of Ling they rode; the thunder of their gallop most brazenly echoing back from the towering rock ramparts. Onward to Khallis, and no time to squander. Twenty Leagues galloped, and wild was their ride down the High Pass of Ling; accomplished in less than two full Sundial shadows, with all caution thrown to the winds of chance in their race towards Khallis.

There were none seen to confound their wild ride down into the Great Gorge of Khallis; and now, before them stood The Khallis Redoubt. High on the ramparts, the Beacon of Deep Lamentation shone forth, telling all, that one of the Clan Chiefs of Clan Buhrodar was near to the time when their span had fully run its course.

At the Khallis Citadel, Cirion and Gwythlyn came swiftly to Kyla - softly fading, as will morning dew in the sunlight. Kyla lay there, her eyes dulled from the dark drink of mandrake and poppy... her only relief from the clutch and the scrape of the crab sickness deep within her bosom. With her, wrapped about in his grieving sat Filar, fully broken, and aged beyond measure. He looked upon Cirion with unseeing eyes. Cirion shivered; for into her thoughts sprang a notion she would choose not to embrace... a notion of mated swans. For when one swan is lost, t'is not long until the other dies. Cirion saw this, and knew in her heart that when Kyla were gone, then, the time would stand thin until Filar would seek journey to follow his Love, perhaps into Seithynnor; there, to meet his Kyla again.

Seithynnor… the Afterlife of the Thuvian Heroes, where they sat in Halls with their Forebears, and feasted forever, on red meat and Khalmead and strong beer, all boasting their prowess at war. Or, so told the Runes; and she hoped in her heart there was a truth in this thing; for she held them both dear.

Kyla motioned to Cirion to stand forth, and then, she spoke in a thin, whispering voice, concerning succession to Chief of Clan Buhrodar. For between her, and Filar, then issue... there was none, and she too, prevised that Filar would join her in Seithynnor before this summer to autumn had drifted. Thus, because Cirion were next-closest then to the daughter she had not; she wished to proclaim as her last Testament that it be Cirion who should stand Custodian, and who would then name the one who would stand as the New Chief of Clan Buhrodar.

There would be no gainsaying the choice so made by Cirion, for she held the full trust of Kyla; as ever and always, had such trust been laid in this Daughter of The Light from The Shining Land. For they stood as one, with the Covenant sealed on the day of the Khuzud-Mahin Ritual welcome of Cirion, and such trust never would be torn asunder. Kyla raised her hand and pointed to the far chamber wall where a great oaken chest rested. She gave sign that Cirion should lift the chest open and bring forth such that came there to her hand.

Before Cirion's eyes; alone in the chest was most carefully laid on cambrick anointed with almond nut oiling, and safe scabbarded... Kyla's own Dushrakhas blade. But, not the Dushrakhas Cirion remembered… that vicious Tarak-splitter, efficient, and keen-edged. No, this was a wonderment of Thuvian craftsmanship, bedecked and bejewelled; fully fit for a Queen. The scabbard was still as graceful as a curved swallow wing, but now, was embellished with Khallis gold; tooled and inlaid in the form of two Earthcrowns, encompassed by Wyrmsbane. This, the Cypher of Clan Buhrodar so displayed. The blade was beset with fine jewelling of ruby and emerald; gold Runic devices were garlanded round, and inset into the blade; proclaiming the Rank of The Grand Dame of Khallis. To the blade hilting, a plaiting of gold and of leissor wire was bound; each entwining together as cloth, woven finely; that shimmered and glittered in catching the light. Here was such opulent splendour, close beyond compare.

Kyla made issue, if the choice were a Thuvian... then, gift of the sword was to be made to his Bond-mate. If then, her choice be a Thuvian maid... indeed then, on such maid should the Dushrakhas be fully gifted. For, in Khallis, there was no inequality between male and female. Cirion pledged this were how it would stand, and Kyla smiled weakly, and softly closed her eyes; then, with a faint sigh, she departed her span... perhaps, to Seithynnor, in full Grace to ascend.

Then, Filar stood wordless, and turned from the chamber. Cirion moved to him, but he did not see. His eyes gazed beyond her, as if she were formed out of moon-mist, and he walked away in silence. Cirion made to swiftly follow Filar, but Gwythlyn made issue - she need stay her hand, for he was fully wrapped in the shroud of his grief, and there were no words Cirion might speak that he would hear. Gwythlyn had seen this once before; in old Ghlinngar, when grandmother Gwythlyn had flown her span. There was no word, thought, nor deed could be offered; for in his mind, Filar was now fully alone, and none who could counsel the manner whereby he might yet find the pathway now lost to him... if, indeed he had a mind then to find it, bereft as he was now, of his heart's delight.

And, both Cirion and Gwythlyn knew in their hearts, that the last thoughts of Kyla stood plain, and most bleakly true. That Filar would stand lacking hope for the future, and thus, broken-hearted... would indeed, seek out a pathway to Seithynnor.

Cirion proceeded down to the Citadel Chamber where sat the Korin-Throng... The Council of Clan Buhrodar. She lay forth the tell of the passing of Kyla, and of how such grieving fully cloaked The Lord Filar. She laid forth the Testament of The Grand Dame, and how, as Custodian, she was emplaced. Any who would then, take issue with this… now was the time that such issue be laid, open, and plain.

Cirion was known to the Citadel Korin-Throng, and how, such a favourite the Algethi Maiden had been to Kyla and Filar... as if then, a daughter. No issue stood forth there for the Shandalar Queen. And even so; had there been the slightest issue, none of the Korin-Throng would make it plain. Cirion held full supportment of five Legions of Khuzud-Mahin who would ever remain fully loyal to their Algethi sword-sister. For Covenant held, was then, Covenant sealed.

Knowing this thing; any who would hold issue... well then, such issue would swiftly be laid to rest. But this was not the way Cirion would have it. Here, there would not stand the shadow of parsimonious doubt. The Elders of Clan Buhrodar would lay forward their choices by lot. The winnowing of he, or she, who would be gifted Kyla's Dushrakhas as New Chief of Clan Buhrodar would be ordained by the casting of Runes, should Filar be lost, and such need come to passing.

But now, there was much to be done about Khallis. The Great Mourning Beacon need now be full fired, high on the brow of the Great Gorge of Khallis to stand forth the bleak message. And then, there was need to prepare The Pavilion of Silence; the great, white-marble edifice standing out easterly from The Khallis Redoubt, where the Funeral pyre of Kyla Dinush would be set. But now, was the time for the Ritual mourning, and great lamentation beset Khallis.

The Khuzud-Mahin began their Ritual keening and wailing. Indeed then, it was a most eerie sound that drifted and echoed all up through the Great Khallis Gorge, even as far as to the High Watchtower of Ling. T'was like as if some legion of lost souls were passing, eternally condemned to their sad wanderings. This echo mingled in mournful meld with the whimpering winds off The Plain of Malphaers. It was such a sound as to run the blood cold in the watchers, beset as they were, with dire concernment as to what stood out there to the east. Those twinkling campfires… did they stand closer?… or were they still far off?

All through the evening, the echoing keening set teeth on edge, and stood frayed nerves to jangle. And more; as the darkness crept over The High Pass of Ling and The Great Gorge of Khallis, the Great Mourning Beacon shone bright as some infant sun, casting forth shadows that flickeringly fell round and about The High Watchtower of Ling, which severally, gave the watchers dire alarm. Were that a shadow? Or some Mordbrood movement? Indeed then, there was little sleep there, that night.

The next morning broke as a palesome, and rain-scudding greyness, with the sombre clouds riding low in the sky. The Khuzud-Mahin yet, made wailing and keening. For eight moons, such bleak lamentation would remain. Cirion thought then, to seek out old Filar, for she held grave fears as to how he stood. She tapped upon the door of his chamber, and entered. But he was not there. His bed was not slept in, and his favourite long-axe stood not in its place at the hearth... which was cold. The icy touch of fear clutched at her heart, and she ran swiftly to call out the House-carls, to seek out such place as he might be. But, in the searching, he was not for finding. So, to the stables they then made swift repair. His war-horse, Kobalis was not in the stables, and neither then, was his war saddle.

Cirion ran down to the Courtyard, and put the question to guards at the gate. The Lord Filar... did any see him pass here? The guards made reply. Perhaps, one Sundial-shadow since past, the Lord Filar rode out most furiously, saying he progressed into the east. Then all along The Great Gorge of Khallis did his gallop make ringing echo. Beset with his long-axe, they thought then, perhaps, some Ritual gatherment up in The High Pass of Ling? Suddenly… it stood as if writ plain on parchment; compassing Cirion with terrible dread. There was no gatherment... Ritual, 'nor other. Filar was bound for The Plain of Malphaers; there, seeking out, to his mind, a hero's death amid such Darklings that he might encounter. Thus, in this, he might garner more than enough Grace and Favour to stand forth to Seithynnor that very same night; there, to be re-united with Kyla. There, they would span out the Afterlife, safe in the Great Forbearer Halls. 'Aye; this would be his intent... with no thought of odds, and no heed to the consequence. Such things to him, mattered now... not at all. For he would have mayhems... The Red Dawn of Slaughter... a tale to be sung by the minstrels round the hearth fires, until the world ended...The Last Ride of Filar, of Clan Buhrodar.

To horse, then... to horse! And with a great, hollow clatter they rode out with faint hope to intercept Filar, who, standing advantage of one Sundial shadow would now be well beyond the Throat of Ling, had he kept Kobalis at gallop. For Kobalis was a thoroughbred Rhola warcharger, possessing great heart... fearless, and swift as the wind. Such thoughts that they held of prevailment, stood faint in the hoping. But, still, they rode on in their wild, desperate gallop, and soon, they beheld the High Watchtower of Ling. The Master House-carl sounded forth a signal on trumpet, and brightly, the note did then, forwardly echo.

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The trumpet signal brought forth a watcher, laid swift with the question. Was there a rider seen, passing here? The watcher made tell. One indeed, had passed of late... a little beyond a half-Sundial shadow since; and they had attempted to furnish him warning of what stood out to eastwards, but he bade them no heed. He gifted them not even a stare... this Thuvian greybeard riding his warhorse with hooves full of thunder. Across his back in strapment, lay a great fighting long-axe, with blade, fully one cubit across. In this, they knew full well he had mayhems in mind out on the wild, wind-scoured Plain of Malphaers with any such Darklings he chanced upon. 'Aye, and it fitted as neat as a glove of the finest kid leather. Then, this was his intent, as Cirion had feared... the quest for a hero's death out there, or if need be, in far Astalan. Cirion gifted her thanks to the watcher, gave rein to Starshadow and wheeled him about. She whispered softly to him:

'Rimve Tel'sul'… 'Now, run like the wind,'

And with hooves wreathed in thunder, sped upwards and out beyond the Throat of Ling, and made broachment the Plain of Malphaers. Here, the peril stood fat. T'was, but three-hundred leagues from The Mordbrood, and had they the knowing; t'was most certain-sure, they would spare no expend... they would stand any score to take the young Ice Queen of Shandalar. For she were a prize beyond wealth, a prize beyond measure. She was the key to all of the Kingdoms. For, should the Realm of Shandalar fall, all Amriath would lay bare within their grasp. Once through The High Pass of Ling, then, the Downlands would lie soft as a Bride upon her Bonding eve... there for the taking with token resisting, or even, perhaps, no resisting at all. Then, one to the other, the Kingdoms would crumble. The Light would be lost, and The Darkness would prevail.

As Cirion rode hard, none, but Gwythlyn could hold pace; and her Rhola mare was hard pressed in this thing. The Faluan guard and the House-carls of Khallis made hard gallop, yet further then, hindmost did trail. Cirion stood not in heed of such singular dangerment she gathered about herself as she stood further the distance away beyond her escort. She was resolved to seek Filar, no matter such perils that lay, perhaps, in ambush amidst the coarse scrubbings. For yet, to the east, there stood plain… a thing she had hoped against hope, not for seeing... Carrion birds wheeling and circling the sky.

Cirion swiftly laid heel to the flanks of Starshadow and he stood fully to her bidding. Wild then, was her gallop all down through the scrubbings, "Alasse Nenharma" half drawn to her hand. And there, she found slaughter beyond rhyme or reason; for fully, a score of The Mordbrood lay scattered about. The carcasses were all hacked and dismembered. She swiftly cast about her, eyes full of despair. There! T'was Kobalis, who knelt by his master, as a warhorse will guard even when all is forfeit. His muzzle and hooves ran black with the Darkling gore. He had fought well, but then, bitter the cost. For there too, lay Filar, pierced through with black arrows that fully numbered eight. And there, close by, lay his favourite long-axe... shaft broken, edge blunted. 'Aye, he had made Mayhems; t'was not to be denied.

Filar was dying. She knelt to him, her tears full upon her. His face held a smile, calm and serene, as he prepared to step onto the pathway of his final journey... to The Great Halls of Seithynnor, and Kyla, once more. He opened his eyes, and he whispered:

'Weep not for me, little one. I am content, and this... this were a mayhem for minstrel-tale weaving, a' gathered round hearth-fires, forever to sing. I shall stand tall in The Great Halls of Seithynnor with Kyla before comes the goldening western sky of eventide. Fare thee well, little Cirion; Ice Queen of Shandalar.'

His eyes softly closed, and his span was fully run.

The Faluan guard, and Gwythlyn, laid comfort about weeping Cirion, and led her away. The House-carls made sturdy effort to lead off Kobalis, but firm in gainsayment, he fully denied the leaving of Filar. Gwythlyn stood forth, and whispered soft words to him... words, such as mother would make to child full a'feared of the dark; and at length, she led him off. But still, he looked back as if his heart would break. Then gently, they drew forth the arrows from Filar; wrapped him about with Cirion's cloak, and laid him with care, across faithful Kobalis. Turning again to westwards, they made progress back to Khallis, with scarce a word spoken amongst them.

Cirion stood in the Korin-Throng Chamber with tears in her lashes, as she told of the passing of Filar, and even those standing as cynic amongst them, bit lip as they watched the great tears well in her eyes, and softly tumble her cheeks. Truly, they knew here, there was no deceit. For she had known Filar nearly all of her life, and they could see plain, that her grief was clutching and cloaking her all about. And this, it were a newness. An Algethi maid mourning a Thuvian? In Khallis, this was rare indeed, and were that not enough… a thing unheard of in living memory… a Thuvian Lord made gift, the tears of an Algethi Queen. And thus, this Daughter of The Light from the Shining Land; by her gentle compassion, did gather into her heart all those hardened old warriors, in the manner that winter snows melt with the first kiss of spring.

In this; stood a meaning as equal, 'nay, perhaps, far more than the Covenant between Cirion and Kyla. For the next chosen Clan Lord, in all things, took guidance from The Korin-Throng. The future alliance between Shandalar and Khallis was, as of this moment set, as in stone… no matter what thoughts the next chosen Clan Lord might hold. But, that was not for now; that was for future days. Now, The Pavilion of Silence need be made ready for pyring the Lord Filar and Kyla, in the manner of Khallis rituality.

The Pavilion of Silence stood to the east of The Citadel, rising about the Well of Gatherment... a great, deep shaft into the bowels of the earth, where fell down the ashes when the pyre was fully spent. In height, the Pavilion stood eighty cubits of white, Khallis marble; solemnly windowless, and buttressed with a great lifting engine to raise the bier to the Rostrum of Pyring, which stood open to the sky. Within this rostrum was fashioned a grating, through which the ashes would softly fall into the well. But, not then, as squaring of a grid were it fashioned; 'nay, this was indeed, the most subtle crafting. The bars of the grating were fashioned to spell out a soft, Runic lament to be voiced as the pyre burned, in the hope then, to ease the spirit's passing to Seithynnor as all was consumed in the fire.

And so, as the day crept with slowness to evening, with the storm clouds clearing; the Pyring procession proceeded out from the Citadel Gate with Filar and Kyla all biered in full Honour. Cirion, in Place Principal, with such weight of grief full upon her, followed Gwythlyn, who led Kobalis in solemn array. Filar's boots were placed backwardly in the stirrups, 'neath his war saddle. This was true honour to pay one, who was loved by his people, as a Just Lord. The people of Khallis thronged in silence with tears in their eyes, even out to The Pavilion of Silence, where the Khuzud-Mahin stood to make their goodbyes in full Ritual manner.

As the Procession drew close to them, as one, then... five Legions unsheathed their Dushrakhas. With tears in their eyes, each Khuzud maid drew herself to her full stature, and with a swift movement, her palm, she did slash. Then, to the Khuzud-Mahin there beside her, clasped palm to palm in bloody, firm embrace... each to the other, a sister full-bonded; and thus, in bond to the New Lord when he were so chosen.

The Biers were lifted upon the great engine, and carried in reverence far up to the Pyre. Thence, they were borne to the Rostrum to be there laid upon the cordings, arranged by Rune-casting... made ready to fire. The Korin-Throng, The Myethian Clerics, and Cirion ascended the great flight of steps within The Pavilion of Silence to the summit, to stand before the Rostrum of Pyring, whereon the biers lay. Ithrag Trakbeld, the old Korin-Throng Presidor, stood then, to Cirion; a great torch held forth in his hand. He said she should fire the cordings in the Ritual manner. First... The South, then, The East. Then, The West, and, at the last... The North. She looked at him; her great blue eyes all a'shimmer with tears. He smiled softly, and said this was her task, for she was the closest to kin of his Master and Mistress, and Kyla had laid this last request upon him.

Cirion looked to the Korin-Throng, and all sagely nodded assent to this thing. Thus, she laid torch to the cordings in the manner prescribed, and as smoke stood forth in its curling, five Legions of Khuzud-Mahin gave voice, keening and wailing. Bone-chilling lament stood all about The Pavilion of Silence; all out to The Khallis Escarpment, and eerily echoed the Khallis Redoubt. As the flames rose in the sky that stood blood-red as the sun was sinking into the west; a murmur stood fat. Was this an Omen? They soft whispered, as they watched the sky. But to what? And more… to when?

Then, silence, as Cirion fell to her knees, and in soft Charybon-Runic, whispered plaintive greetings in Homage to The High Goddess Elaiana, as taught, when but a child, from the "The Scrolls of the Beginnings" called too, "The Great Dream of Creation." In her soft Homage, she called upon The Great Mother to stand to her now. Then, a gasp from the throng, as pale beams of pure golden sunlight pierced through, and softened the deep, blood-red western sky; glowing fair, and compassing Cirion all about... bathing her golden... shimmering and shining about her blonde hair.

And Cirion looked into the skies, and raised up her arms, softly imploring that the spirits of Filar and Kyla might be carried in safety to The Great Halls of Seithynnor to be there together, throughout Eternity. The words of her Homage had scarcely then, fallen from her soft, trembling lips, when suddenly... Alarm!

The pyre fully ignited with a great, rolling whoosh, and Ithrag Trakbeld swiftly drew Cirion back from chance danger. But, many there, said... as she knelt in her Homage… at the moment the sunbeams shone bright in her hair; they had imagined a pale, golden figure... a beautiful woman, who appeared beside her. And when Cirion asked that the spirits be uplifted, the pale figure raised its hands, as if lifting up on high… and at that same moment, the pyre took full flaming. And never the knowing then, of the reason why. For there was no wind, and such smoke as there was, as it climbed into the sky... then it rose arrow straight. It had to be chance. For anything more, was too far beyond choose to contemplate. Yet, others said there were no figure at all… it were all wild hystericks, or trick of the eye. But even so... there were many who did not snuff candle, 'nor turn then, to restful sleeping that night.

The next morning broke gloomy-dark, with the rain clouds all scudding, and standing well low in the sky. In The Citadel, the Korin-Throng gathered in The Hall of The Earthcrown, resolved then, to try to stand forth elected, a successor to Filar. Such candidates stood with their mentors; arrayed to be winnowed by lot in the manner agreed, by the drawing of straws. The choosers of the shortest straws shown would then choose from out of a small oaken casket, a tablet of leissor graven with a singular Runic symbol, unlike all the others.

Equal then, stood the chance, and for each, the chance lay good. Each of the tablets specific to each of the chosen was to be then dropped into a helm of war to be passed to Cirion. She stood with no favourite amongst them. Placed there, before her upon the Hall floor, would stand a broad-bellied pot, with the neck, as like a trumpet. Cirion would stand, and cast the tablets into the air. As they tumbled; the closest to pot would be the chosen heritor.

When thus, the drawing of lots was fully accomplished, there now stood before Cirion, ten who would make the choose. Five were greybeards, and three were much younger males. There too, were two Thuvian maids; but equal was the chance to win or to lose. Each drew a tablet from out of the oaken chest. Each placed it into the helm that she held, and when all were done, she stood forward and stretched out her arms, and cast them high into the air.

In their turning, as they climbed to zenith, by light of the flaring links, they glittered brightly. Then, they tumbled back down with a shine, and a shimmer... and with a brittle, bright tinkling, they accomplished the stone floor. But, there! A sharp clatter, as a singular tablet made gift of itself to the bowels of the pot. In this it stood clear, with no debate and no issue, that fate had stood firm and made the choice.

Cirion reached into the depths of the pot and drew forth the tablet. Had fate then, foreplanned this thing? For the victor stood plain, as the chosen Rune held naming of "Othila," which held the meaning, "Passing down all things, to hand." The Korin-Throng Presidor, Ithrag Trakbeld made tally to as which of them had chosen this singular Rune, and spoke:

'The One chosen, is Thoris Barandor, House-carl of Khallis. Stand now, to your name.'

And forwardly then, with the greatest surprise upon his face, stepped a young one, both sturdy and tall for a Thuvian; and to Cirion's mind, his name seemed familiar. She cast about to recall from whence came this thing, and then... bright as the sun's early dawning; remembering crept to her at last. Here, was her sword master, who tutored her patiently in her fighting skills, these four summers since past.

Then, soft, she remembered that, as but a girl of scarce ten, and five summers; how he had seemed so handsome. He was quite unlike the rest of the Thuvian folk. But these then, were no more than the sweet dreams that all young girls would dream. And now, as she looked upon him, she remembered that as they took their ease from the swordplay, how she had questioned why he appeared so different in countenance, and in his humour. Quite openly, he told her that he held no kinship to Province 'nor Prefecture about the land where now lay Khallis. His forebears, though true Thuvians, lived once in a land now lost, far away to the north.

Far back, in the Ancient of Days; as swift faded The First Age of The Light, and The Darkness drew closer; t'was seen that the great field of ice, stretching far to the northlands, began moving ominously forward, and grew in measure. With it, came blizzards beyond the imagining. Most of the Thuvian folk, in fearing, made flee into the deep mines for refuge, wherein they were entombed by the Ice as it creakingly beset the land of their forebears, complete. Yet, some made good their escape southwards into Old Eldanore, leaving a great sea of Ice named, the same then, as their lost Realm… Erinthor. Where now, nothing moved… nothing lived... 'naught but softly dancing drapings of light in the bitter night sky; and from where the icing winds that stroked the shoulder of Camas Mhor whimpered soft, like some lost soul's lament.

As those who had fled accomplished the borders of Old Eldanore, they held bright hope that there stood no great store of calamity in this new land to beset them, such as had compassed them in Erinthor. Alas, this were, but a vain hope, for they had scarce-accomplished a league, when suddenly, they found their company surrounded by frightening creatures that slowly closed upon them, all circling around. And never, had they seen the like of these creatures.

They were of countenance foulsome... misshapen and gaunt; with eyes of a palesome yellow hue. They were ragged of tooth, of warty demeanour; and endowed with breath that did daunt any and all who were gifted a nose, swift offended. For such reek, fully gave them wince, and to good reason... t'was much like the stench of mouldering meat, held captive betwixt teeth, ten moons since past. These then, were the Taraks; fully infesting the land all about where future Khallis would be raised at the close of the Second Great Darkness. But countless, would be the passing Moons until such time was spanned. Thus, the misfortunate Erinthoreans were taken by the Taraks, and laid deep into thrall. The males were cast down to tunnel the mines, for Taraks stood, fully lacking in such deem of enterprise.

These Taraks had not the regard to squander their time in the seeking of gold. For when they were not making Mayhems, they meddled in magic and potions. They had a consummate need of a singular physick; for, to the last one; they were a fully blighted breed. Wantonly, they had embraced interbreeding. Their blood stood polluted, and their females were barren. But here, there was new blood a'plenty. The females of Erinthor stood as an untainted well. Or so the Taraks thought. Yet, such seed they imposed by force… nine times, in ten, failed to swell belly. And those few that did, were fully spoiled at the birth; being crooked or sickly, or both in the same.

These misfortunate infants were taken, and laid upon the hillside, abandoned to perish. But some of these sad creatures, t'would seem, were gathered by the Tarak females and hidden away. For though barren; the instinct of motherhood burned deep within them, and this were a small chance to display such feeling of love, and of kindness and gentleness they could not gift to the Tarak males at all. Tarak males possessed not a shred of such virtues, and were such suspected, then great wrath would fall on and about the Tarak females. For this were deemed a weakness, and such show of weakness would kindle in the Tarak males, a venomous ire, greatly embellished by their lack of prowess, and their failure to sire in the breeding harems.

This, t'was thought, was from where the Suhai Race first came forth from their nursery lair. They were journeyed in secret, down through the land which is now Lorenfalu in most swift of conveyment, far into the south. There, they were settled in what arose to become the Suhai Realm. Yet, indeed there were few, and all through The Second Great Darkness, through indigence, they interbred, and the blight stood upon them once more.

Some Erinthoreans... the young and the bold; escaped from their Thraldom to the plains, compassing southwards until they came to a great Gorge all sundering the mountains. In this place they made to begin a settlement; mining great tunnels and chambers, and raising a stronghold... a mighty Redoubt. Here, they laid foundations of the Kingdom of Khallis, to rise whence the next Age of Light shone about.

And, as the Ages of Light, and of Darkness stood each, in their turn, The Kingdom slowly grew. In the fullness of time it would stand as the great Bastion of Thuvian-folk to the north of Lorenfalu... which, itself, stood as yet, 'naught more than a wide, verdant plain, from the Heights of Rhyddu, to the infant Khallis Redoubt. In time, there came a Questor from out of Astalan, who compassed about this place and knew without doubting, that here, in these pastures a great city... 'nay, even a Kingdom, could certainly rise. He progressed homeward to bring forth the settlers; and the name of this Questor was Eilar the Wise.

In the fullness of time, there was raised a great city to west of The Heights of Rhyddu, compassed about by a great curtain wall, stout-buttressed with watchtowers. Within the walls stood an opulent Palace with golden spires gleaming as they held the sun. Slowly, the city was raised up from the pastures where the Great Dream of Eilar the Wise was birthed. At length, it was ordained by the settlers that Eilar the Wise should take Kingship, and choose such a name as he thought fit for the city, and for the Kingdom, be they different, or each in the same.

Eilar the Wise pondered deep. 'Aye, the city was to east of the great greening that stood out on the western plains. Astalanian for "East," that were "Rhun," and "Tree" stood as "Om." Why then… "Rhom" would stand fair as the name of the city. But, what of the Kingdom? He saw, in his questoring; many sweet bay trees flourishing in the red earth about that place, and was not Astalanian for "Red"... "Falu?" Then, why not meld this word with the name-proper of the tree, which were "Loren?" When both of these were melded into the one… Why, there then, stood the name of the New Kingdom... "Lorenfalu."