Chapter Five.
The Dragons of Storien-Rhudd.
Springtime slipped softly into Lorenfalu. The Moonflowers bloomed sweet, in the deep Delvling green. The City of Rhom stood in peace and in harmony as it ever had been since the day of resettlement. After the sacking, t'was said that the Leissor that sweetened the wells, sweetened the humour of those who would drink of the water therein, or so then, lay the tell. With The Third Age of The Light fully upon them, they flourished, and slowly came back to the times that had been enjoyed before the Suhai sacking... the time when peace had beset Rhom.
Compassed, as Rhom was; to the west, and to the south by the great, deep green Delvlings protecting them; and with the easterly prospect guarded by The Heights of Rhyddu, they felt fully secure. The wide open plain across which The Mordbrood needs must venture, lay out to the north... and to the north, lay the Khallis Redoubt. Beyond Khallis lay The High Pass of Ling, which was carefully watched. Thus, surprise attack was thought to be unlikely.
Yet, Tristan was not fully convinced of this thinking. The Mordbrood were cunning, and organised. They were not like the Suhai hosts, who were guileless... marauding in mass to wherever their Masters decreed. Thus, he elected to throw a great girdle of Beacons and Strongholds; Redoubts, and Watchtowers all about Rhom, to confound and discomfit The Mordbrood, should they plot to unleash their might in Lorenfalu.
The chain of defences beset the great plain to the very frontiers of Khallis; so that the alarm could be raised across the entire Kingdom should The Mordbrood draw near. The Watchtowers were sprinkled about the high places; each one in plain sight of its kin at further distance, and thus, the defences would stride up from the Outlands making plain presentment of their warning to the sentries at Rhom.
This presentment was equal in either the bright of the day, or the dark of the night. Each watchtower was equipped with a great brazen trumpet to send forth the warning from one to another, onwards to Rhom, should the menacing hour come to pass. If it were night-time, each Watchtower possessed a brazier... a beacon on high to shine out grim warning as it blazed the message from hilltop to hilltop, glowing bright in the blackness of the night.
Yet, there was a singular flaw in this chain of defences beset about Rhom. A flaw that stood plain and clear to those with wit enough to see it, but ignored by the Masters of Purse as extravagance. They imagined that there would be no danger from this place. And so, in the face of the warnings of Tristan, no watchtower was raised on The Heights of Rhyddu. The Masters of Purse thought t'was too steep for The Mordbrood to bring forth their Engines of War to bear upon The City, but, how little they knew. Rhom sat fully assuaged and complacent... contented, as like a cat will doze in the Sun; lulled by the peacefulness set upon Lorenfalu since The Third Age of The Light had dawned upon them.
Trillian and Calamar grew into Manhood, and each took high rank in the Army of Rhom. Each became skilled in the strategy of war, and fully ready; but knowing not from whence the threat would yet come. They knew for certain, that come then, it would; and like their Father... with wary, jaundiced eye; watched The Heights of Rhyddu with suspicion. Both brothers sensed that it would be here that The Mordbrood would make a stern effort to confound the defences. Here, they might seek to outflank the high watchtowers and fall upon Rhom as she slumbered content. Beset, as she was, by her vision of peace and tranquility; she had turned her face from The Mordbrood's intent.
As the Masters of Purse squandered wealth on the Artisans, with fripperies to beguile the Elitists of Rhom; never a thought was squandered in the matter of The Heights of Rhyddu from whence their nemesis might well fall upon them. Yet, this was naught but a shadow of times yet to come. The smoke still hung, hazing the Astalan blue skies to the east, and was looked upon by the Elitists as scarcely more than a grim warning. It was, for now, a far distant echo of what they all knew one day, would come to pass. As surely as spring follows winter, and day softly fades into night, the Shadow of Valderthost would fall upon them. But that time was not now... for now, they were fully in The Light.
Trillian and Calamar were young men... and young men have tastes other than that of war. There were maidens aplenty in Rhom. So, they disported as young men ever have done... and always will do; with the sport of the chase, and the sweet, stolen kisses, and the whispering promises of what might come to pass; as always happens when young lovers tryst. Yet, soon enough; each found a maiden who captured their heart, as surely as a moth is swiftly drawn to a flame. Soon enough, they forsook all the others with whom they had fleetly played this sweetest of games.
Trillian's love was an Algethi maid; Serena. She was the daughter of Gerrell, the Chief Court Physician. Serena was slender and graceful; of just ten and six summers; and all who looked upon her most certainly thought she bore such a likeness to Talith, his mother. Her eyes though, were not green, but a soft hazel brown. Her hair was not russet, but a dark chestnut that fell to her waist in soft tumbling tresses.
Serena held stature of one quarter and three cubits. She was of sweet demeanour... demure, which was not a pretence. But then, she possessed a thing Trillian found hopelessly enchanting... the long, steady gaze from her bedchamber eyes. Eyes that promised everything, yet, revealed nothing. Eyes that were carnally knowing, yet, pure as fresh snow and Trillian was lost... as are teardrops in rainstorm; the first time Serena looked at him thus.
Calamar too, was fully smitten in his turn, with a Faluan maid from the plains to the west. Her name was Eilanna... her father bred horses for Calamar's Cavalry, and they were the finest in all Amriath. Eilanna helped in the breaking, and making of horses of war, and rode a war charger far better than most troopers; engaged thus, as she had been since before the dawn of her tenth summer.
In her stature she was, but a little above three cubits; being broad in her hips, and full in the bosom. She was indeed, a vision of feminine fecundity. Her hair was the paleness of the bark of a birch tree. Her eyes were a steady and serious grey. Her skin held the pale, blushing bloom of a dog-rose... luminous, like the first dewy kiss of the morning. She was as different then, to Serena, as water is to wine.
In her humour she was a child of the plains. She held little patience for Courtly distractions... the odd protocols she could not understand; nor, had any desire so to do. How foolishly then, the women of Court wove their webs with the posturing chasteness, the carnal intriguing... the promising whisper, the glance that makes offer, and then... denies.
All through her life, Eilanna had been fully familiar with leading the stallion to the mare, and watching the covering in its full naturalness. Why then, was there such coyness besetting the women of Court? Why then, should they barter their virtue for a Golden band upon their Bonding finger? Why then, such recourse? Why then, such false modesty with which they cloaked their wantonness? Why then, the need to lure their paramours into a soft, honeyed trap... preying on weaknesses all males possess?
All this, to Eilanna, was beyond her knowing. Whatever it lay name to... t'was not love. For love, to Eilanna, was this... the love she shared with her Calamar; honest and lacking in guile. Here, there was no need for the soft, whispered words of seduction. Here, there was no need for the cozening words that would defile such love. She made no barter of passion for promise of a golden Bonding band. Such a thing would sleight her dignity. No matter if such a thing came to pass... or did not. She was content. What would be... would be. And so, she trysted with Calamar; sharing their love in truthfulness and honesty. They would live their lives to the full in the time they were given. And in this, their living was sweet.
Meantime, in the west; at the Great Crystal Castle beset by the Cornflower-Blue Mere, was manifested such a thing as never had been seen in all Amriath. It was a boldness about which, the Minstrels would sing around hearths and camp-fires, until the world ended... an impudence of thought, shining brightly. An impudence, of which Darklings would never imagine... for fully beyond their wit or knowing, would be such a thing.
The gryphons that guarded the Great Crystal Castle had multiplied greatly down through the summers. Callam had frolicked and played with the younglings, riding upon them... bereft of all fright. He grew up, wondering if it was only to him they permitted such great privilege. He played with these thoughts with a bright, open mind. Then... came a notion so bold. One day, he would see.
Thus, he elected to ask of his friend, Lokari... his comrade from their youngling days, to winnow the reaches of Elisriendell for those who would join with this bold endeavour that he held in notion. They would form a brave band who would ride out the gryphons... if such a thing could be done; in that they could fall on the Darklings from out of the Heavens in manner the same as Algethi horse cavalry... except that their mounts would possess wings, and sharp beaks and dreadful talons. And more... the gryphons held toward Darklings, a lust to shred each, and all of them with malice unwavering, until the very last Darkling was destroyed.
Each rider would bear a crossbow - an engine the Taraks had used in ancient times to fullest advantage. A crossbow was better by far than the full Algethi double-curved bow; for when riding high, then there would be no imposition in the drawing of bowstring. And further; the bolts, if tipped with Leissor, would fully overcome any lack of sound aim; for any striking of any part of a Darkling carcass with bolts such as these, would cause swift death for each and all so struck.
Eight moons in the passing, and, from out of the west came Lokari, beset by a band of Algethi out of Elisriendell. Twenty and five, were the number among them; all fully eager for this thing to begin. But, upon seeing the gryphons; perhaps, trepidation softly tip-toed amongst them, spurred by their astonishment. How very big then, were these gryphons; who carefully watched them with great, unblinking, Ruby eyes.
Lokari had gathered amongst his number, six gentle Argen'Algethi, who approached the gryphons in wonderment, with no timid circling and no shadow of concern. These were the Algethi who stood closest of all to the heart of the land. They stood far distant from the ways of the sword, and swiftly, they bonded with the gryphons who purred their contentment in mutual harmony. Callam then spoke. If the six would not gainsay his thought, then perhaps, they should not think to ride the gryphons to battle, but become their keepers... as a groom would to horse... tending them well, as would parent to youngling.
They could instruct the gryphons of saddle and rein, and so, when the time to ride came to pass; they would remain at the castle to tend the youngling gryphons. The six Argen'Algethi fully agreed; being unschooled in warfare.
From their Algethi comrades, no dispute was made of this thinking; for Callam spoke true, when he said that, in his eyes, these Argen'Algethi were perhaps, the bravest of all. For, knowing full well then, the stand of this endeavour... knowing full well the score; they had stood firm to Lokari's entreatments, and in good heart, had elected to come, in covenant sealed, with their brothers. It mattered not at all to them, that they had no knowing, or skill of the sword. With hearts such as this, how then, could The Light be ever vanquished?
So then, began the formation of Squadron, beset with vexation and much merriment. The gryphons, though fully familiar with saddle; made sport with the Algethi as they sought the consent of the gryphons to permit saddle and mounting; and many an Algethi met the ground with his rump; and many an Algethi, making boast of his flying skill over the Mere, was unsaddled, and plunged into the water. But, soon enough, they had the measure of riding the gryphons. So then, now they were faced with the crossbows.
Callam had fashioned several brightly tinted, large, circular mats from woven straw that stood upon three wooden legs. These were so placed to offer a fair target as the riders flew down upon them to loose their bolts as the circles sped beneath them. Each circular mat was painted in its centre with the head of a bull. Hitting this painted head with a crossbow bolt Callam called... a Bull's eye.
There was much contest in besting one another, and soon the mats were fully bereft of centres from so many strikings of bolts into the straw bodies. Yet, still then, they needed the practice of flying together. T'was practice, and practice, and practice the more. Callam would not let them rest on their sureness... certainly, not until he held conviction that they were fully prepared in this unwritten war art... this art, which he hoped would confound The Mordbrood.
The Darklings had never encountered this thing, and there was no defence to things, not understood. If they prevailed, the Darklings were finished. They would never again be the dark shadow to blight and infest the Kingdoms and Realms of Amriath that at last, could rest in their comfort, and not fear the night.
One spring morning, as Callam was watching the saddling of gryphons; there came the pale, clear call of a sweet horn from out of the depths of the Greening. Callam looked westwards, as so did they all. Galloping down through the bright golden meadows, a ride of Unicorns came into sight; each mounted with a young Algethi maiden. Each maiden was clad in glittering Leissor mail. Lokari smiled a bright, knowing smile; for this was his gift of the covenant sealed. This was his Sister... Staisha The Huntress; and now, all would be revealed to Callam. This was the sum of the covenant sealed between Eldamar and Laumil of Elisriendell, in friendship, long held. These were the Riders of Lothleitha; long since thought of as no more than a soft-whispered fable.
The Riders of Lothleitha ranged far and wide through the deep Forest Greenings, and compassed the borders of Elisriendell. Through their riding, no Darkling had ever laid foot in the Kingdom... or so, t'was said. Each of the maids was Aure'Algethi; the Golden, or Sunrise Algethi, high born and noble. Each maid could commune with her Unicorn steed. This was an advantage, most singular, in affray; for each could change battle plan in the span of a heartbeat, and always, with full trust in her mount. Her Unicorn would not gainsay her entreatments one instant, and this was advantage indeed. Each then, could seize any opportunity gifted, should her foe not fully prosecute his hand. She could ride him down, and sabre him with impunity. Such was the bond each rider and Unicorn possessed. A bond like, as sister to sister... or sister to brother... for both mare and stallion were mounts of the riders. Both were equal in heart, and both were equal in fleetness.
Accession to Rider of Lothleitha passed down to a daughter from her mother's hand; and from the birthing of such a daughter, her pathway was fully laid forth. As rider, she could not take a lover. She need remain chaste and pure... to lie with a male would bring a swift imposition... for once her maidenhood was breached, she could no longer commune with her Unicorn; and thus, not one of the riders of Lothleitha carried more than ten and six summers. All were filled with the boldness the young carry easily; yet, all held dreams that all young maids would dream.
This simple truth made them yet; the more deadly to Darklings who dared plot such dreams to undo. For thus, vexing such females... like vexing a wolf mother protecting her cubs; was a sure and certain way to die. They made a brave sight as they sat tall in saddle, gathered before the Cornflower-Blue Mere with the bright morning sunlight glittering about their Leissor mail. They numbered two score and ten, thereabouts.
Staisha dismounted, approached Callam, and captured his gaze with a firm, steady eye. She stood tall to him; above one-half and three cubits. She was a beauty indeed. Callam could not dispute this. Indeed, she was almost equal in beauty to his sister, Cirion. Staisha was gifted with pale, golden hair, forget-me-not blue eyes; and a figure that Callam knew he should not let his thoughts linger upon for too sturdy a passing... least ways, not whilst her brother Lokari stood in company with him.
In Charybon-Runic tongue, as was always the custom; she made formal greeting in a voice, soft and low... as soft as the bright, golden meadow grass shimmer, when stroked by the west breeze's faint, evening breath. Then, as was the custom; as Callam responded in Charybon-Runic; each of the riders drew sword, and beat upon their scabbards with flat of their sabre blades in the acceptance of greetings.
It may have well been, but a trick of the light, but to Callam, on seeing the sabres, it appeared they were not the common Algethi sabres he knew. They were somehow... different, in the way that they gleamed. As they took the light, they were more like Dushrakhas; seemingly edged to both sides of the blade. He put forth his thinking to Staisha, who smiled, and answered the truth of this question.
Indeed, they were not Algethi sabres as such; for an Algethi sabre could not smite down The Mordbrood. These had been forged with much guile for their purpose. These weapons had been fashioned with care, and beset with Enchantment. And, here to be seen was the hand of Eldamar, in counsel with Filar. A covenant had been made in the sharing of the Olistalix-Bane secret with Elisriendell to give Staisha's young riders new blades... blades in the fashion of the dreadful Dushrakhas with which they could fully impede The Mordbrood. These blades had been born in the Corbis wood heat of the forge of old Elshore the Master.
This was a most singular advantage indeed! About their edges, there glittered a blueness... a blueness that Callam had seen only once before. The blueness that shimmered about Shining Slaughter; the blade of his sister, Cirion... The New, Young Ice Queen of Shandalar. These then, were the Riders of Lothleitha... the bright hope now gifted by Elisriendell to stand with the Guardians for Amriath... a thing of which forever, the Minstrels would weave their tales.
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Staisha took counsel with Callam and Marcus concerning deployment, carefully thought out; concerning the use of her riders in concert with Lokari's gryphon squadron. The plan thus laid, was this...
With The Mordbrood first sighted; the gryphons would fall upon them out of the blue, and whilst the Darklings were so engaged; the Riders of Lothleitha would sweep in to impose a dreadful slaughtering upon The Mordbrood, who would be beset with distraction from above.
The tactics decided, then the Unicorns were loosed out into to the bright, golden meadows, and The Riders of Lothleitha made consortment with Lokari's Algethi in alliance; and chose amongst one another... by mutual attraction, the one they could rely upon to stand to them in mellay of battle... choosing which one would risk all, for the other. And so too; with Staisha and Callam... for there was an attraction from the very first sight each took of the other. They were fully smitten; the dawning of which, filled them both with delight. But such things, needs must now be held for another time... a time when smoke no longer tainted the skies to the east over Astalan, dark and foreboding.
This portent of Doom, that each day, seemed to rise ever then, gradually nearer, as homesteads were fired by The Mordbrood advancing to the northerly-west required little wit to perceive the dreadful truth that it told... that The Mordbrood were preparing to broach the Frontier and swarm the Plain of Malphaers, intent on this thing they did best do... subjugation to the thrall of The Darkness... intent on putting the easterly Kingdoms and Realms of Amriath to the torch, and to the sword; spurred by greed for the riches of Khallis and Shandalar. Thence, it would be on to Lorenfalu... for these were easy pickings indeed!
Or so then, they thought; for their spies had been lost to them. No informations came swiftly to their ears. They were denied any knowledge of the plans of Eldamar, and what awaited them in the Shining Land.
Springtime slipped softly into summer, and in the Great Citadel Palace of far Shandalar, Cirion ruled with a hand firm, yet gentle, with her promise fully kept, and her word untainted by deception. She was well loved by the Shandalar people; this Daughter of The Light from the Shining Land. And she was well loved by her young, handsome Guard Captain, whose heart she held soft in the palm of her hand... as did her Grandmother before her, hold the heart of another young Captain of Guard, who had sacrificed all in The High Pass of Ling in the face of the Suhai hosts; when he stood and thwarted with his own body, the sweep of the great Kelek-Bersker that held the death blow for her Grandmother. Her young Captain of Guard had stood firm and taken the bite of the dreadful Darkling blade. This was his last gift to his lover... The Warrior Queen Cirion.
But, Cirion the younger had mind of a much sweeter fate for her Captain. T'was time to make him gift of her bed, and her favours that she had so far held from him. She loved him dearly, and what would be... would be. And, it would be their time, no matter how fleeting was their moment. For should The Darkness cloak all; compassing swiftly about the borders of Shandalar... should this thing come soon to the passing... this then, would be Cirion's gift of love to her Captain... the brave and bold Lorimer who, against all, had stood firmly at her side. This most precious of gifts, beyond price... beyond measure... her love, freely given.
And so, on a soft summer night, she took Lorimer by the hand and led him up the Great Stair into her chamber, all bathed in warm candlelight, towards the great oaken bed waiting there. With her eyes bright, she divested her gown before him, and slipped between the white cambrick sheets. Her hair bloomed a pale, golden cloud on the pillow. She raised her open arms to him, in tender invitation. And so, by the soft, flickered light of the candles; with the chamber softly lit by the high summer moon... they bonded together, one to the other, in the sweetest of dances, to love's softest song.
So, yet again; the Circle of Amriath softly turned, but what would the future now hold? Two Queens had been precedently conceived in that great oaken bed... would Cirion's gift to her Lorimer, at length then, make three? And if so; would Cirion too, bring forth a daughter... a "Melahin Saesakarne"... a bright, shining child? An echo indeed, of Cirion's Grandmother... "A love-child, conceived in a passion so wild." But, this was no more than sweet imagination and whimsy; a soft hope for the future... if future indeed, was there for the taking. For dark informations concerning The Mordbrood, were lately received.
Two short moons ago; from the High Watchtower that guarded the throat of the High Pass of Ling; a keen-eyed young watcher had gazed out to eastwards, and in the far distance, had perceived a thing he had not seen before as he had gazed into the night across the desolate Plain of Malphaers. He now saw a thing that filled him with trepidation... something that awakened his long-concealed dread. He was familiar with the pall of smoke over Astalan. He was familiar with the glow in the night, like the breath of a Demon, as some farm or homestead was fired by The Mordbrood. This, that he now spied was differentness; standing far out to the east.
Faintly... away on the borders of Astalan was a twinkle... a glimmer. He made out a rash of tiny, bright pin-points of faint orange, flickering light. Straining his eyes, he peered into the darkness... campfires! And now, he most certainly knew this was no weary imagining. This was no trick of the light on his young, but tired eyes. This was a sign that the Mordbrood were moving out onto the Plain. But, he must be certain. He strained his eyes into the darkness; his senses fully sharpened, alert, and keen. Far off to eastwards, like stars in the night sky, the small orange twinkles were still plain to his view. Now he sprang forwards... hurled himself down the staircase, and threw wide the door to the Watch Captain's abode. Swiftly and truly, he laid out his forewarning. The Captain rose sharply, and strode up the winding stone stairs to the heights of the watchtower to see what was out there, far away on the borderlands of Malphaers and Astalan.
He too, saw the glimmers that whispered the warning, and this was indeed then, the sum of all his fears. No longer could he hold the faint hope the Mordbrood would stay, making mayhems in Astalan, and not strike out westward towards the Shining Land. Forlorn now, was this hope that he had wrapped about himself to soothe his creeping forebodings.
The Watch Captain laid swift command to send forth riders to carry this grave intelligence down through the High Pass of Ling into Shandalar, Khallis, and onward to far Lorenfalu. Thus, they rode as swift as the winds off the grey, flinty mountains; resolved to fully raise the alarm all through the Kingdoms and Realms of Amriath, even as far as to Elisriendell. For though now, the danger was perfectly clear; it was not as yet, upon them. The Mordbrood were still far off. It would take 'nigh on eighty moons for The Mordbrood to accomplish the Plain of Malphaers. Yet, there was scant time for delay. Such time was now past and abandoned, and Amriath needs must now look fully into the east, and strengthen and fortify all of her borders against the threat that now loomed to befall her.
The first rider accomplished the mountains of Shandalar's reaches by dawn's early light. At length; standing in the Hall of the Citadel Palace, he laid informations concerning the sighting of the campfires to Cirion herself, who called immediately for Karina, and ordered that she take full command of Shandalar business. Cirion would ride to the Watchtower of Ling to see this distant threat at first hand.
Lorimer was away to the north of the Realm, tutoring the Dragons of Storien-Rhudd. This endeavour was to hopefully bolster support for the gryphons of Marcus when the war came, as they now feared that it most certainly would. The Dragons of Storien-Rhudd were not the snow-breathing dragons of the Old Storyteller Tales, spun to enthrall the younglings. No; these were the Fire-breathing terrors of Darkling nightmares. These Dragons bore a malice almost as unwavering as that, of the gryphons, for all Darkling kind. The cause of this malice was lost in the mists of the Ancient of Days, and then, no clue as to why, for the finding. And no clue then needed; for it was enough that the malice stood bright in their Amber-red eyes. If Lorimer could succeed with the tutoring, The Mordbrood could be made gift of a dreadful surprise.
In the Corries of Thar, as a youngling; Lorimer had seen a Darkling trapped and confronted by a Dragon with his doom staring him in the face. A great flume of flame forwardly had then billowed, curling around the misfortunate Darkling, and enveloping him with a great roaring and hissing. The flame had boiled his blood in a heartbeat; as the pinkish steam burst forth out of ear, mouth, and eye under the kiss of flame. Even though there were fully fifty cubits between Dragon and Darkling; his flesh fell away from his bones in an instant... very much like a well-overdone roast.
As Lorimer watched; the very bone-marrow bubbled and boiled, and the bones shattered and crumbled to ash. In one brief moment of time nothing at all remained of this Darkling, save a small pile of smouldering ash, and the smell of a cooking hearth that clung to the air. Had he not seen it with his own eyes, Lorimer would have questioned the truthing of this thing; for no hint of the Darkling remained.
But suddenly, the Dragon had turned, and was watching him... watching him with those great Amber-red eyes. The Dragon made Lorimer gift of a soft, and disdainful small huffing, then spread its wings, and climbed into the azure-blue skies to fly out over the mountains, away from the Corries of Thar, and back to its Eyrie at Storien-Rhudd. It had shown no sign of malice... more total disinterest in Lorimer, who had bravely stood his ground. He watched the great beast far into the distance, awed by the Darkling's swift, despatched demise and the singular power of destruction.
Lorimer had pondered deep on this vision... a vision that would remain long in his thoughts. As the summers passed, he remembered the sight in the Corries of Thar... of the Darkling's dreadful fate. Hearing the words of the Shandalar Warriors concerning The Mordbrood... this worrysome tell of how a blow from a sword blade... unless it be forged of Leissor; could be shrugged off... as might be a blow from a bough of a sapling; he mused as to whether the Dragons might one day, be used to advantage as weapons. But how might this be brought to passing? Then, came the rumours... fantastical in their boldness, of Marcus, of Lokari... of such things in the west. The tales of a Squadron of gryphons... of Staisha and The Riders of Lothleitha. T'was first thought of as tavern rumour, fattened by beer. But, then came the truth of it. Such things stood firm in the Shining Land; t'were no jest at all.
Lorimer thought then, to seek out Eldamar, to see if his notion would stand. Eldamar, though Lord Guardian of The Light, was also a Seer. He held the Old Magic firm and safe in his hands. Of those who would know if the Dragons could be tamed, Eldamar himself, stood alone. Word was thus sent to the Halls of Eldamar; cloaked in secrecy and cyphered with guile, less word might escape to the ears of the Darklings, and lend them the means to confound this bold plan.
Eldamar came swiftly to the Citadel Palace of Shandalar; as did Marcus and Lokari, in his company. Lorimer laid out his plan there before them, intriguing them all with the boldness of this thing. When he had told the sum of his impudent plan in completeness; Eldamar stood deep in his ponderment, sifting in his remembrance the charms and the spells of the Old, Ancient ways. Indeed, there were several that fitted such an endeavour, 'though all held stern risk. Dragon spellbinding had not been accomplished since ages long past, in the First Age of The Light.
There was, but one Seer who held the knowing... if he yet lived; and the odds of this stood not sturdy in the balance of chance. The First Age of The Light was far back in the mists of forgetfulness; above four hundred summers in passing. Whether the Seer of Yeranoor yet lived... well; fully then even, were odds of the guess.
Yeranoor lay to the far north of Old Eldanore, under the shadow of high Camas Mhor, the great mountain range that ringed Storien-Rhudd... the high, Dragon Eyrie. Camas Mhor bounded the reaches of Shandalar; a mighty Redoubt of the northern borderlands. There was, but one pathway over the Mountains, and never from here, would the Darklings appear. Hereabouts, it was thought; the Moat-Tower of Ghlinngar the Seer... the one whom Eldamar would seek; still stood. Ghlinngar was one of the last of the Questors from Astalan, revered by all who spoke his name.
Ghlinngar, the famed Seer of Yeranoor, scribed the Great Scrolls of Vardabeik, long ago. Ghlinngar was the Master of Dragon spellbinding, who perhaps, would share his knowledge with Eldamar. It was whispered that Ghlinngar had laid down such knowledge in three great volumes, called by name, the Tarsius of Yeranoor; which needed to be guarded and saved for posterity, far from the Darklings' clutches. In these great volumes lay the sum of all knowledge gathered by all of the Seers far back to the bright dawn of Amriath... the first shining morn of The First Age of The Light. If the whispers should drift to the Outlands and fall upon the ears of the Darklings... should the Tarsius fall into their hands; why then... Amriath would lay naked for the plundering. What would they not give for such a prize?
Eldamar elected to ride forth to Yeranoor, seeking out The Seer; questing all of the lands about Camas Mhor in seeking out the Moat-Tower. Should it be found that the Charas of Ghlinngar had indeed flown... as was most likely; then the questing needs must become most pressing. He must winnow Yeranoor in earnest to seek informations with all haste, as to whether the Tarsius of Yeranoor ever existed, and if so; was yet still in The Light.
Eldamar elected not to ride out this day. The hour was late, and dusk was swiftly drawing in. And so, the next morning, he rode out Starshadow to northwards, across the wide Shandalar plain. He rode on through the uplands that bordered the Corries of Thar, now deserted; where none tarried since Cirion brought forth the banished of Shandalar. The Corries of Thar stood fully abandoned, and silent as the tomb. The Corries were overseen only by Gilmar's bleached carcass that swung in its chains in the gathering dusk. Wind-withered, it stirred in its chains in the evening breeze. It hung there as a terrible warning to those who would stray through the Corries of Thar. But, these days no-one ventured therein, and the memory was swiftly fading. Undone by vain-glorious ambition, Gilmar hung forgotten, as though he had never been born. But night was a'creeping and the moon was rising above Camas Mhor, looming darkly, twenty leagues on. Eldamar decided he would not make campment in this sorry, blighted place. As he rode out, a gusting wind from off Camas Mhor tinkled the corpse chains, as if, in farewell.
Eldamar galloped on through the night; his path lit only by the stars, as he skirted the High Upland Plain. Under the shadow of Camas Mhor he spied a bothy. There, he would rest, and remain until morning.
Early the next morning, as the sun crept up over the shoulder of Camas Mhor, Eldamar journeyed on through the high mountain reaches, until he came down into Yeranoor, spread there before him, almost as if it were a map scribed upon parchment. Now, he could begin the questing and searching. There! Distantly to the west, stood a shadowy edifice against the pale, Mother-of-pearl morning sky. Could this then, be the Moat-Tower of Ghlinngar, High Seer of Yeranoor? He urged Starshadow swiftly onwards. Was this the place?
As he drew closer, such hope that he held, flew from him as swiftly as dew in the sunrise. The moat was all choked with brambling; the causeway was thickly weeded, and the great door was be-clung with Ivy. Indeed then; the Moat-Tower gave tale of abandonment, many moons since past, with no sign as to why. But yet, the Tarsius of Yeranoor... should it exist, perhaps, may still lie somewhere within. Eldamar stood forth in preparedness to offer stern broachment to the Ivy, and to the Oaken panelling of the door. As he prepared to set the first blow, a soft voice behind him, spoke...
'My Lord Eldamar; the thing that you seek is not there in that sombre Dark Tower. I am Granddaughter to Ghlinngar the Seer, and I have long awaited your coming. My Grandfather Ghlinngar cast off his Charas some forty moons since past, and he tasked unto me the bringing of this thing you seek to your hand. For then, The Light may guard it to Eternity and beyond.
You, my Lord Eldamar, Guardian of The Light, are the only one remaining who can take into charge, the Tarsius of Yeranoor. There are no others to master this Magic, so ancient, and old.'
Eldamar turned; and there stood a maiden of some twenty or so summers. She stood a little above three, and three-quarter cubits, and she was most pleasing of frame. Her hair was a pale golden, but it was her eyes... beautiful eyes, of softest, moonbeam-washed Amethyst hue, that gave Eldamar cause to ponder the faintest whisper of memory that crept into his mind. He entreated her of her name. She replied, it was Gwythlyn; thus named, as was her mother. The name cast yet another echo in Eldamar's memory. An echo that whispered softly, from beyond and before the Great Suhai War.
But, that time was long past; and for now... was the Tarsius of Yeranoor safe in the Farmstead below? He swiftly entreated the Maid to conduct him to where then, she might reveal the Tarsius to him. She led Eldamar down through a small stand of Wychwithy trees casting soft, dappled shade; and here, grew the Alfirin flowers in abundance. A bright golden carpet spanned the hollow that stood without the Farmstead. This was a sight well worth the remembering. For soon, when the War broke upon Amriath; then Alfirin healing powers would be sorely needed. The Alfirin flower held a wondrous infusion, specific for curing the ills of Algethi-kind. It banished distempers, and fully closed grave woundings. Such treasure as this was a rare and precious discovery.
Eldamar spoke forth, to elicit from Gwythlyn, her assent for the gathering of Alfirin blossom when need stood fully upon the Forces of The Light, as it most surely would. Gwythlyn made free with a wry smile of knowing, and showed him a bothy that stood close to hand. Within, lay five barrels of Alfirin Tincture; each barrel contained five firkins, and was fully matured. She had foreseen how the shadows were creeping, and how then, of this balm there would be the direst need. And so, through her waiting for him to come, she had made preparation of a store of the Tincture, swiftly, but with great care. She had the gift of the seeing; as had then, her Mother, and all her forebears of the past. She drew forth a dagger to bung-broach a barrel. Eldamar gave a start, and his memory cleared... as the mist of the morning will rise, warmed and caressed by the smile of the early sunshine.
The dagger she held was the twin of Moonwinnow, the slim Algethi blade of his own Mirien Goldenwand... Moonwinnow; as slim as a bodkin, but sharper by far, than the sting of a bee. He looked to the hilting, and there... the Star Sapphire, that glowed like a star in the firmament. And rushing back came the memory. T'was Shadowglean... sister blade to Moonwinnow. It had been last seen by Eldamar when he was a youngling, long ago. And now, his remembrance was freed.
Both Shadowglean and Moonwinnow were once the matched Stylet Blades of "Shadowcleaver"... "The Shredder of Taraks"... the Great Sword of the Lord Calamar. How it was here, he no longer need guess. For, to his remembering, there sprang a sweet memory of a pretty young Algethi maid with whom he was bewitched, in those bright springtime days in the golden meadows bordering Elisriendell. It had been all frolic and laughter, until inevitably, one soft summer day, deep in the forest where the Moonflowers blossomed, they bonded together in gentle, sweet passion, with no thought of the future... but only, for now. And, as a love token, he gave to her... Shadowglean, one of two Stylets that were gifted to him by his father, The Lord Calamar, Hammer of Astalan. 'Aye; it was a sweet and faded memory from far away, and long ago, in the Shining Land.
They had soon parted, as love ran its course... as ever, with younglings, it is wont to do. There was no sorrow; there was no rancour as each journeyed onwards upon their separate pathways. He had then met Mirien Goldenwand. Memories of Gwythlyn... for that was her name; slipped away from him to slumber soft, as will a squirrel in winter; and not show its face again, until this day.
How then, had come this Stylet blade to her hand? The question need be soft, and put with care. What of The Algethi blade, Shadowglean? She said it had come to her from the hand of her Mother; as did it to her, from her Mother before. It was a love token from the bright, soft, youngling days of her Grandmother, and yet there was more tale for the telling.
Her Grandmother's kin had departed the Shining Land for Yeranoor, far distantly beyond Old Eldanore. Her Father was positioned as 'Pothick Herb-master to Ghlinngar, the High Seer of Yeranoor. Ghlinngar held shine to Gwythlyn, and took her to wife... not so much for love... t'was more as a companion, for he was beset in his dotage. Rarely now, did his passion stir. But, there was a thing that was known not to any... save Gwythlyn, who certainly, would not make tell of it. She was already with child, from her sweet tryst with the handsome young Algethi in the sun-dappled Moonflower byre.
So, she elected to keep close, her counsel. Ghlinngar the Seer was gentle and kind. She would let him think the child was his own, and then, there would be no hurting to lay shadows to prey about his mind. And, so it was done, and the joy in his face when she apprised him that she was with child, told Gwythlyn this was the true pathway. His countenance softened, his dotage stood hindmost. He took on new life, with the meaning anew.
When her time stood fully upon her, she brought forth a beautiful daughter, and Ghlinngar seemed not to notice that his eyes, and those of her Mother were grey, but the babe's eyes were bright violet... a pure Amethyst.