Chapter Four.

A New Queen of Shandalar Arising.

After the naming of swords, came the time of the leave-taking. Filar and Kyla rode out to Khallis, and Cirion travelled with them for the fitting of armour. For now, there was small doubt that the smoke in the sky to the east over Astalan gave a grim portent of what lay in the future. Cirion should now be furnished with the finest protection the Thuvians could craft before the War broke upon them. They travelled across the reaches of Lorenfalu, making full haste; and at the borders of Khallis, they joined with their escorting Cohort of Khuzud-Mahin.

The Khuzud Captain brought word to Filar that Chelaine had safely accomplished her journey and was now secure in the Great Citadel of Shandalar... the true name of The Ice Realm. But even as they spoke, there was mischief abroad. Two moons past, as they progressed up through the High Pass of Ling, a parcel of Darkling Spies had been encountered. Three had been taken, but the fourth was still at large.

The three had been cast into the Dungeons of Khallis and put to the question, concerning their plot; by loosening their tongues with the Rack and the Thumbscrew; the Pincers, the Turcas, and the laying on of red-hot Irons. Babblingly, in their confessions, they revealed the base Mordbrood plotting to abduct Chelaine, and use her as a pawn to confound the High Council... toppling them swiftly, for tactical advantage.

When no more could be torn from the Darklings, they were swiftly despatched, and their carcasses dragged up to the High Watchtower of Ling. There... they were hung in chains all about the walls, to grimly forewarn The Mordbrood of what awaited them in Amriath, should they think to prosecute their Mayhems. The three Darklings now swung in the breeze, despoiling and bloating while Carrion Crows worried them, peckingly.

Filar, on hearing the sum of the Mordbrood plot, bristled with vexation, and ordered his Khuzud-Mahin to make all haste to ride down the fugitive Darkling. They were to winnow all the hidings. He then most solemnly decreed that the Darkling should be brought back unspoiled for the questioning. There was more to this, than at first met the eye. Filar, himself, would question the Darkling. The Darkling would speak, long before he would escape by dying.

Yet, there was more... there was mischief in Shandalar. Word had passed out that all there was not well. Chelaine was beset with apprehension and doubt, for she was not of the Warrior kind... or so spoke the Tell. She could not become a Warrior Ice Queen, t'was simply not in her nature. This thing was plain for all to see. All she desired were the bright Golden meadows, and the Great Crystal Castle on the Cornflower-Blue Mere.

And so, she elected to summon to hand, the High Council to tell them of her resolve. She could not protect Shandalar in the manner her Mother had so done... she wished to absolve herself of such Duty. T'was far too important a task for one so unschooled in War. Could they not understand? The High Pass of Ling was the Gate to Amriath, and those who held Shandalar held the key to the Kingdoms and Realms. Chelaine decreed that by her command, in her stead, the New Ice Queen would indeed, be her daughter Cirion. But a parcel of arrogant Lordlings, beset by ambition, demurred, and disputed. What use was a wench barely yet holding eighteen summers? And more; one who came from the distant western lands?

Chelaine stood, and rebuked them with vigour. They questioned her choice? Could they not see how closely they danced with a charge of High Treason? They wavered before her, outflanked and nervous. Beguiled by her appearance, they had thought her compliant and meek, but Chelaine was not made of such stuff. They had forgotten that although she was blonde... with her tresses a'tumbling and eyes of sky-blue... that in her veins ran the blood of her Grandmother... Serissea of Galeth, The Snow Queen; and too, the blood of her Grandfather... The Lord Calamar, Hammer of Astalan.

As their arrogance drained fully away, they heard Chelaine make a proclamation of such words that destroyed what ambition they still clung to. Any of those, now assembled, so foolish to decry Chelaine, would be banished far out of Shandalar into the Outlands, and never more, would they be permitted to return. They would be forever disgraced. And further; The High Pass of Ling would be closed to them. They would be exiled to wander the Plain of Malphaers, there to take issue, perhaps, with The Mordbrood; and stand barter with fate that their heads would not soon crown Darkling spears.

Thus, Chelaine stared them all down. Her beautiful sky-blue eyes were as cold as the Blue Ice Peaks of Shandalar, and they all crumbled before her, their bowels full of fear. Perhaps, they had pressed their hand far beyond where it was prudent so to do. Thus, in most uncommon haste, their full assent was forthcoming. How swiftly then, the High Council surrendered their lofty stand. Cirion, indeed, would be New Warrior Ice Queen. How wisely Chelaine had chosen, they lisped... fawningly.

A young Captain of Guard of the Great Citadel was not fully convinced that the High Council of Shandalar had fully bent to Chelaine's will. So he elected to gather his finest men to him. Thence, he formed up in great secrecy, a Bodyguard that would be loyal to Cirion, as indeed... had another young Captain in times past… to her Grandmother, the Warrior Ice Queen. The Circle of Amriath was turning, and turning, once again.

Back in Khallis, the plot of the Mordbrood concerning Chelaine was spread fully to the light. The Khuzud-Mahin had ensnared the fourth Darkling, but he had most desperately taken to resisting, and he was well-spoiled by the time they subdued him. Filar would not put the question to him, that day. The Khuzud-Mahin maids had dragged the tale of plot from him by means of gruesome tortures upon his wounds and privities, 'ere he broke away from them, in dying. They brought back his head wrapped in a water pouch to Filar's Hall, and laid forth detail of the plot in its cunning contrivance; and Filar took rage, as he listened.

Knowing the first part... the using of Chelaine as pawn; was a tactic of War, simple-plain. Filar would, in such a circumstance, take the same path were the prize of such tactical value. But, it was the next part that brought forth the red mist. Should the High Council choose not to comply, and throw wide the gates to the Realm of Shandalar, then her fate would be terrible... worse than death. She would be carried away to the Plain of Malphaers, where the Mordbrood would defile Chelaine severally, with much brute carnal amusement... thus, to impregnate her. It was much the same in the end... they could swiftly overrun Shandalar, with no great loss, but t'would be a vexsome affair. Perhaps then, better to send her back; where at length, Chelaine would bring forth a half-Horanaurk Heir.

The Lord Filar strode forth to the door of the Khallis Citadel barracks and called out his House-Carls. He called out two Cohorts of his Khuzud-Mahin maids in full Battle order. They would ride to Shandalar in all haste. The Shandalar High Council's backbone, it seemed, required strengthening.

Later that day, he stood in the Shandalar Citadel before the Council, and laid forth the reckoning of what would befall them if they should fail to support Cirion's accession in manner befitting to a Guardian of The Light. Their faces grew pale at the thought of what Filar could lay forth upon them. Sedition flew swift as the morning dew in the sun. Lacking stomach for Martial Law laid forth by Khallis, they almost fell over themselves to agree to Filar's edict... even to the last one.

Cirion would take succession in harmony; for with Khallis allied with Cirion, they dare not dispute this thing. Filar stood firm, and they read their fate in his face... and like all Thuvian-kind, Filar did not lie.

Even as Filar faced down the High Council, Cirion came to the Armourer's Hall in Khallis, for fitting the armour of Leather and Leissor. As Kyla had promised, it would be of Thuvian design, and the finest in all Amriath. The Armourers flustered and fussed around Cirion, taking her measure. Kyla had ordained this armour be perfect, with no negligent cut, and no stitch out of place. The Armour would be crafted from Bull Mammoth Hide tanned to a softness t'was hard to believe. The hides were fully half a finger-span in thickness, and cut on the cross-graining. The leather of the armour was cunningly fashioned to deny any sword-stroke with its fortitude. Each piece was designed for its purpose with skill, and with guile. Each piece was designed for fullness of protection, and yet, not gainsaying full movement and grace.

The Gorget and Pauldrons protecting her throat and her shoulders were laid over with Leissor chain mail of delicate crafting so fine, t'would be thought that the merest sword blow would cause such links to burst. But, so great then, was the skill of the Armourers... so cunning then, was their craft; that this chain mail would fully confound the gravest sword stroke, and, as like, would fully shard the blade. The Pauldron plates were linked... in the manner of the tail of a Crayfish and protected the straps of the Bustier; low-cut in the manner that Kyla had specified; to show Cirion's bosom to fullest advantage. The Bustier cut thus; revealed her full, rounded softness, deeply valleyed. This, as Kyla had explained; was conceived to bring forth in the Darklings, their leering lust; and thus, perhaps, give an opportunity, in their fleeting moment of carnal distraction, to spill their lives into the dust.

Her hips were beset with a short War-skirt, all garlanded round with broad Tassets, beset with Leissor studs. These studs were specifically crafted to turn aside any blow from a sword... much in the manner that a foot slips from wet river rock, or strikes forth upon damp autumn leaves. Beneath the Tassets were the full leathern, Polyn-set Greaves girding her slender thighs. Between Skirt and Bustier, there spanned a Corselet of delicate chain mail, of the same crafting as before. It clung to her slim waist, as mist clings to the hollow on soft autumn mornings with promise of rain.

Her tall boots, beset by the Greaves, were fortified with slim Leissor plates, both to calf, and to shin; thus, to confound the dread sweep of the War-Scythe... cunningly fashioned to gainsay its vicious bite. The Gauntlets were of leather, reaching from Vambrace to Knuckle. The knuckles were studded with spiked Leissor studs. The gauntlets lacked encasements to thumb and to fingers... better by far, to retain a firm grip to sword-hilt.

Cirion was fitted with a broad belt, thrice buckled in gold, and tooled about with outlines of the Alfirin flower. Woven gold wire was braided into the tooling, to stand out the blossoms. On the side sinister, hung a golden sword-frog with attachment straps hanging below... impatient to embrace the sword and the scabbard... impatient to lay mayhems amongst The Darklings. The whole of the body of armour was silken lined with web-spin of the spiders of Lorienlief. This lining was sensuously smooth and soft, and protected her skin from the chafe of the leather. Thus, was the fitment of Armour for Cirion. With all the skills of the Thuvian Armourers spent; the planning of Kyla stood complete. Each detail was perfected. Kyla was content and satisfied with their toil.

Then, it was the time for the Ritual welcome of Cirion, as if she were a true Khuzud-Mahin. Cirion came forth from the Chamber of fitment, fully armoured, to begin the Ritual. A great gasp leapt from the assembled throng as she stood before them, imperious and bold. She stood above one-half, and three cubits in stature; with pale, summer-sky blue Agate eyes, and her golden tresses plaited up in War braids.

Here before the assembled Khuzud-Mahin stood The Princess of Shandalar who had bested them all with her prowess of sword. This then, was the bright hope of Amriath, who knelt to the Sacred Cantations welcoming her to the Sisterhood of the feared Khuzud-Mahin. For her worth had been weighed, and was not found wanting. Kyla, as Grand Dame of Khallis; stood forth to make presentment of the token Dushrakhas. But, in its stead, Kyla brought forth "Shining Slaughter"... The Guardian Sword, slumbering within Torbair's scabbard; which she held forth to Cirion.

Then, Kyla spoke to the Assembly. By her command as the Grand Dame of Khallis; The Princess of Shandalar, soon to be Queen Cirion, Guardian of The Light from the Shining Land; would take entourage numbered two score of Kyla's best Khuzud-Mahin as protection. These would be the tall and the fair; the bold, and the fearless. These would be the daughters of those few Faluans who found Khallis sanctuary after the Sacking of Rhom. And further... to Cirion was given full privilege in Khallis, as if she were indeed, Kyla, herself. Never then, had such a gifting been given from one of the Thuvian-folk, to one who was Algethi. There was no dissent amid the assembly of Khuzud-Mahin at this thing laid before them in the telling; for Cirion was held by them in full rapport as a sword-sister.

Kyla handed the Guardian Sword to Cirion, and raised her up from the floor where she knelt; embracing her as would a Mother, her Daughter. And so it was done, and the Covenant sealed. The meaning of this was far reaching. The Covenant held that, should Cirion deem the need pressing, she could call to her side the Legions of Khuzud-Mahin who would ride to her at stern gallop, to fatten what Army there already was in Shandalar. There, they would stand ready at her full command.

This was such a gift as a Mother would make to her Daughter; but Kyla was wise, and was fully aware that any attack by The Mordbrood of Valdarthost would come at first, through the High Pass of Ling, and break, as like a wave upon Shandalar's borders. The Shandalar Army was small, and the trite bickering of the High Council concerning succession of Cirion, had fully split their resolve. The Khuzud-Mahin would put strength in their backbones... for male pride, thus vexed, was a spur to prevail!

And prevail, they needs must, when the watchers upon the High Watchtower of Ling first made sight of The Mordbrood far out on the Plain of Malphaers. For when such sighting manifested itself, The Light would stand, as if upon the edge of a knife. One slip; and then 'naught but The Darkness would remain to overwhelm all of the Kingdoms and Realms. But, that was for future days; and for now, was the time of rejoicing. The Khalmead flowed freely in the Great Citadel and much was the merriment, and much the rejoicing as Cirion was honoured.

Kyla called Cirion to sit at her right hand; aside at High Table, away from the throng. She had a gift from Talith for this hour... a gift possessed of a great enchantment. From out of a pocket, she brought to the light... a slim, shining Dagger to Cirion's gaze. It was the Algethi blade, Moonwinnow... The Algethi-blade of Mirien Goldenwand; slim as a bodkin, and sharper by far, than the sting of a bee. The little Star Sapphire shone bright in its hilting, as it ever did when held by womankind.

Cirion, wide-eyed... cast about for some word she might find... for the tale of Moonwinnow had always been with her. It had been told, and retold, as a sleeping time tale; and she had never tired of hearing the story of how, over Darkness, The Light had prevailed. Resting there now, in the palm of her hand, the little Star Sapphire shone bright as the sun. Her Grandmother's blade was bonding with her in kinship. The Circle of Amriath had turned about once again, and her eyes became tearful, remembering Mirien Goldenwand's last stand, denying the Darklings, alone in the greening. Could she show such stomach, faced with such mischance?

Kyla had watched her, beset with tearfulness, and knew full well of the doubting cloaking itself about Cirion. Kyla spoke comfortingly. Cirion's path was forespoken far back, beyond, and before the day of her birth, and she would outshine even Mirien Goldenwand in her grace and courage. She should now take up Moonwinnow, and slip the slim Algethi blade into the sheathing prepared in the Dexter Greave to her thigh. This was where Moonwinnow should sleep. Moonwinnow was Cirion's true guardian; for if all else be lost, Moonwinnow would, even to the end, hold true to her Covenant.

Soon, came the dawning; and time for the leave-taking. Cirion now, was bound away to Shandalar. Without the gate of the Great Khallis Citadel, she talked with Kyla of what; perhaps, lay before her in The Ice Realm. Kyla gave counsel. All would be well. Cirion should take resolve in her word. Filar was presently laying the fear of the Gods upon those Lordlings who yet opposed Cirion's accession to The Throne. And further; she had her Faluan warriors... her Sisters-in-Arms, should the point need be made. For there was faint chance indeed, that some belligerent Lordling would seek to take issue with two score Dushrakhas.

Cirion and her Faluans rode out in the bright of the morning. T'was, but twenty-leagues northerly-east to reach The Ice Realm. Kyla watched them until they passed from her sight, and brushed back a tear that stood to overwhelm the firm countenance of the Grand Dame of Khallis. Thuvians did not weep over lingering goodbyes; and not at all, for an Algethi. But Cirion was different. She was much more like a daughter to Kyla.

In the late of the afternoon sunlight, all glittering golden upon the Ice peaks; Cirion came upon Shandalar's border, to seek safe passage through the Ice Mountains. There, at the throat of the High Pass of Ling, stood waiting a handsome young Guard Captain with twenty-five Troopers, hand-picked in their Loyalty; and in the picking, the choice was not hard. For these were the sons of the sons of the Heroes who had stood with her Grandmother, Queen Cirion in the High Pass of Ling, and brought down the doom on the Suhai War-Host... a thing of which Minstrels would forever sing as they gathered around the hearth-fires. Now, they stood ready to take up the Mantle of Grace of their forebears; for Honour and Loyalty still stood firm in the hearts of the Shandalar Troopers.

Cirion saw this, and knew it was good. She also felt some thing pass between her and the handsome young Guard Captain. What it might be was not for the knowing; for nothing was said... but, there was something. She elected that her Sword-sisters would join with the Troopers... melding into one, as The Queen's Guard. All would be equal in standing, with each one her favourite, and none denied grace. The Captain of Guard and her Elder Sword-sister, Karina, would share the Command, and they would answer to none but The Queen herself. The High Council would swiftly perceive that no broachment of this would be countenanced. For now, the stakes were too high for fey politicking. Bewitched as they were; with her luminous beauty; the Shandalar Troopers heard how her soft-spoken words rang with Iron. Indeed, she was her Mother's Daughter, and The High Council would not easily face-down Cirion. Elated, they rode for the Great Citadel. A new dawn for Shandalar was now rising.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Later that evening, in The High Council Chamber; Cirion faced the Assembly; standing alone, wearing a gown of blue taffeta. As they surveyed her... all tumbling golden hair, and great, pale blue eyes; she read in their faces, the shadows of dark, parsimonious doubting. Her Guard stirred in anger. She bade them be silent. She turned on her heel, and quietly walked away from the High Council, back to her chamber... where swiftly, she divested her gown of blue taffeta.

Her Armourer, Moyna, bedecked her out, full buckled and girded into her Khallis Armour, to face the ancient fools down. Her golden hair was plaited up in War braids; her Unicorn Torc glittered brazen about her gorget, and from her belt frog hung Alasse Nenharma... Shining Slaughter... in the shimmering black Adamaunte scabbard twined about with golden Alfirin blossoms. She strode forth to the Council Chamber... a sight they would not soon forget.

Cirion entered the Chamber to the gasp of the Council. She stood before them with her hands upon her hips, daring them then, to gainsay her one more time; daring them to put the words upon their lips... the words they had thrown into the face of her mother, Chelaine. The words "From out of the West," and then, "Wench," and "Too Young." The Elder ones trembled, for they saw in Cirion, her Grandmother, and feared what they might have brought down upon themselves. Cirion bade them be silent, and drew Alasse Nenharma fully into the light. The soft curving blade gave a blue, wicked smile, and Filar and Chelaine smiled softly. For they knew the pathway that Cirion had stepped upon, and they knew full well, who would be the Victor.

Cirion stepped forwards to the Council, and let their eyes drift to the blade, so that all there could see, with fear-widened eyes, the shadowy illusion of the Dread Shamel of Lorienlief gravened thereon with a glitter of blue. With guile, far beyond her young summers; Cirion knew full well, what now, needed to be done. Pointing the sword tip at each one in turn; she put forth the question of how he did stand? For, or against her? A Yea or a Nay? Their eyes slid from her cold gaze to their trembling hands... then, back again; seeking some sign of compassion. But, all that they found in those pale, Agate blue eyes was a belly-wrenching coldness... as cold as the frozen Blue Ice Peaks of Shandalar.

One by the one, the High Council crumbled before her. Yet, there was one who would not bend to her will. Gilmar the Meditor turned his face from her, and strode from her presence, in black enmity.

The young Captain of Guard made to bar his decampment; his sword naked in his hand, and the challenge standing upon his lips concerning the insult that Gilmar the Meditor had made to his Queen. But swiftly, she said No... that was the way that her Grandmother had ruled when the danger and the darkness beset Shandalar. This was The Third Age of The Light, and the pathway that she proposed would be fair to all, with full freedom of conscience. She need unite fully, the Realm, to stand without fear 'nor favour 'gainst that which lurked beneath hazy, smoked Astalan skies... the peril that was now becoming frighteningly clear.

The young Captain guarded his sword to its scabbard; but worried concernment stood firm in his eyes, and something more. She looked deep into his heart, in the way of the Algethi maids; and with surprise, or perhaps... not surprise; perhaps, with knowing... she found his bright love for her, as yet, hiding timidly. This was the thing she had felt swiftly pass between them in the High Pass of Ling on the day they first met.

Back in her chamber, divesting of armour, Cirion mused on this thing she had seen nestling deep in the heart of young Lorimer... for that was his name. It could not be denied that he was so handsome and brave; but such feelings she now had, she had never yet known. Feelings of love and concernment, indeed... but so different than, as for Father, or for Brother. Her Armourer, Moyna had noticed the far, distant gaze into nothingness Cirion held, and watched, as she wandered alone in her thoughts; and watched, as the soft, pinking blush gently crept from throat into cheek. Moyna saw plain, these feelings that Cirion found sweet, but vexing. For, Moyna had seen, as if, writ plain upon parchment, this thing they had shared in the High Pass of Ling. Then, of a sudden, Cirion's countenance changed.

The will of her Grandmother stood plain in her face. Knowing that Moyna had read in her face, her feelings for Lorimer, Cirion spoke softly. There would be time enough, presently, for the whispers of love, and the bondings as well; but this, was not that time for Cirion and Lorimer. Things Moyna saw were not then, for the telling. Moyna promised this thing would be secret between them; for in all the bondings Moyna ever had known, this was the one that was truly meant to be. Cirion smiled at Moyna's sweet counsel, and bid her goodnight.

Alone in her bedchamber, she sat at the casement and gazed at the stars shining gentle and bright, and wondered awhile, of what stood in the future. She sat, wishing tonight, he were here in her bed, yet, knowing she could not give light to her longings. Much safer then, were thoughts embraced than the words, plain spoken. Soft, in her slumbering, then, came the dreaming of Lorimer, and all the sweetness of love.

Warm, in the great bed, the dreaming came so vividly. T'was almost as though she could feel him softly move, both with, and against her. So real was the dreaming of his smell, and his taste; she almost believed he had come to her in the dead of night. In this same great oaken bed was her Grandmother conceived. Could it then, be some enchantment... some memory; some echo of such raging passion once spent in this great wide bed, bewitched the Female line down through each descent? For here, was her lineage brought forth to blossom. A blossom that set, and through the drifting summers had spread wide, from the passion of Snow Queen Serissea of Galeth, and the Hammer of Astalan, The Lord Calamar.

Her Grandmother, Cirion, came forth from their passion. She was indeed "Melahin Saesakarne"... "A love-child, conceived in a passion so wild." But then, it was here too... that Cirion, the Warrior Ice Queen took to her, her young Captain. And here too, was Cirion's mother, Chelaine conceived in a love that, sadly, barely took flight. Scarcely ten moons since they lay in each others arms, her Captain fell in The High Pass of Ling protecting his Queen as they threw back the Darkling Hordes, and with his losing, her Great Victory tasted as wormwood and ashes upon her lips.

Cloaked about in her grieving, they saw a change in the Ice Queen Cirion's temperament and humour. She grew hard and cold... cold as the blue ice that beset Shandalar's mountain reaches; with Iron in her words, and her trust left in few. There, in her chamber, she grieved for her lover, and set her resolve to make reckoning with those who they said, had failed in their duty the day her lover died in The High Pass of Ling. And so, they were brought in chains to a Martial Tribunal, where Cirion, eyes cold as ice, watched their destiny unfold. Trooper or General... the trespass was equal. There was no excuse, and no cause for debate. Several then, were the Banishments far away to the Great Northern Outlands that touched Old Eldanore. Several then, were the Sequesterings; and then, not least... Execution for two, or for three.

Thus, was the Justice of Cirion laid fully upon Shandalar, and her people felt the grip of her Iron hand. Freedoms and privilege, for so long, freely given; were the first things to swiftly disappear. The Iron hand of Cirion now touched every facet of Shandalar life from the cradle to the grave; and this then, was the price of her grief for her lost love... her first, last, and only love.

All through her life, Cirion remained faithful to her young Captain she loved so fleetingly; remembering how anxious and gentle he had been when she made him gift of her maidenhood, and the soft passion and wonderment of their first lovemaking in that same, great oaken bed. Sad, that he never knew of her conceiving. Sad, for the sweet whispers that between them, were never shared. Yet, in her Daughter, Chelaine, she could see her young Captain. The same eyes... a deep, summer blue, and that was enough. She took no more lovers, for with each sight of Chelaine, he would wander with her in her memories.

Cirion awoke from her dreaming of Lorimer, wistful, that she had been alone in her slumber. But, dreams in the night, even though they be sweet, are not truths of the morning with daylight a'creeping. And so, she resolved that, when fair stood the time, she would take Lorimer into her bed. But, that time was not for now. It would yet, come to pass... thus, of her resolve, no word would be spoken. Lorimer would, indeed, make her a fine Consort; but yet, there was much amiss throughout the land.

She must unite them as one, with remits and with pardons. The High Council must now see the time, and the Iron grip of her Grandmother was passed, and in Shandalar, a new day had dawned. United, the Kingdoms and Realms could destroy The Mordbrood; but if not united, then like the autumn leaves; they would swiftly be blown away. And, so, later that morning; she stood forth, once again in the Chamber of the High Council to lay her thoughts before them. She wore an Emerald gown of shot silk, with her hair braided up. This time, to a man... they were bewitched by her great, pale-blue eyes, a'sparkle, and full of resolve, as she laid forth without rancour, without overbearingness, how then, such Unity might be displayed.

Oh, how they saw the fire of her Grandmother; the passion she held for this thing in which she believed. They were awed by her bright, shining vision, so clear in her youthfulness, such as they once had held... but by their sum of summers, now faded. And now, they knew this young Cirion was truly, a Queen for the Crowning, a shining Jewel... this beautiful young Guardian of The Light. Her grace and compassion had not been seen since Serissea of Galeth.

Stannard, the Chancellor of Shandalar, and Proctor of all the High Council, stood now, and drew from his robes a circlet of gold which he placed with great reverence upon her brow. In the Circlet was set a Great Sapphire; the prize of The Jewel-Hoard of Laurelindor. A Gem of perfect, pale blueness that close-matched her eyes in their colour, and in their bright sparkling.

The circlet of gold sat quite perfectly upon her brow... indeed, as it should; for thus, had it been crafted by the goldsmiths of Khallis... and Filar, in secrecy, had most recently brought this emblem of Queenship to Stannard's hand... indeed, but three moons since passed. With a smile, Stannard took Cirion's hand, and softly apprised her that all that had gone before was, but a test. The High Council had the need to know whether Chelaine had spoken truthfully of Cirion. That was why they demurred and showed doubting, and none of it meant, and as of now, it was done. All the High Council of Shandalar then bent the knee in due homage to their New-Crowned Queen, but there was an empty space, naked before her, where Gilmar the Meditor once had stood.

Thus, the prophecy, long held in vision, came to pass in the matter of far Shandalar. Cirion ruled in her Eighteenth summer. The Peace of the Guardians shone all about Shandalar, until there was but, one thing left unattended... The Corries of Thar, where The Light was not seen at all.

The Corries of Thar were a series of barren, worked out, mining defiles in the far Northern Outlands; honeycombed with caves; mine-shafts, and drifts, where all of the banished ones dwelt. These were the miscreants, malcontents; critics and gainsayers... all those who had dared to question the Iron hand of Cirion, her Grandmother. And there were many... the stubborn, the bold, and the proud.

Cirion elected to ride to the Corries of Thar on a progress of Diplomacy. The Council, and Lorimer begged her to ponder this; they were a'feared for Cirion's well-being. At length, she demurred. Lorimer and Karina, together with six of her Faluan Guard would ride forth to parley resolvement of issues; though they knew full well, that this thing would be hard to accomplish. Lorimer held much mistrust of Gilmar the Meditor, who, t'was said, held sway there.

Gilmar had two blades to whet over Cirion. The First... that she had faced him down in Council lay ranklingly upon him. The Second concerned Karina, for whom he hot-lusted. She had gainsaid him... slighted his very prowess; preferring a pretty, young stable-groom maiden to share her bed, which insulted his pride. He loudly decried her for having what he called, "Unnatural Passions," and made hard demand that she should be stripped of her Standing in Shandalar; condemned out of hand, and banished away.

But Cirion refused to countenance such a thing. Such thinking would not make Shandalar free. Whom one could fall into love with, was not the business of The Queen, The High Council, and most certainly, not a gainsaid seducer, intent on revenging himself, with the eyes that shone green, and who had been fully slighted in his self-perceived irresistibleness... one who was all vexation and simmering animosity.

Six moons in the passing, and one of the Faluan Guards reached the Citadel in sore distress. The party had been taken by Gilmar the Meditor. Their fate then, she dared only to imagine. Karina and Lorimer had been thrown into a deep dungeon cavern in the Corries of Thar. The Faluan Guards had been shared round the hutments to pleasure Gilmar's followers. She had escaped by seducing her watcher... decamping away, as he snored in his sate. She had almost killed her horse in her wild gallop to bring forth the alarm to the ears of The Queen. Cirion stood; her eyes blazing with anger. The Council saw the shadow of her Grandmother plain in her face, and they trembled.

She strode from the chamber, swiftly calling for Moyna to come to attend strapping Armour in place, and sent word to call out the Cohort of Khuzud-Mahin who prepared for their homeward return. The Corries of Thar and Gilmar the Meditor would now know what such treachery would bring them.

As they rode north, through the great plains of Shandalar; all whom they passed were struck deeply with awe. Long, were the summers flown since a band such as this had ridden out... not since the Suhai War. Seeing their new Warrior Queen for the first time, they knew she was one in whom they could lay trust, and whispered that Gilmar the Meditor and all his henchmen were surely then, condemned.

Approaching the throat of the Corries of Thar, they formed Battle line, shoulder to shoulder, drawing their Dushrakhas bare and glittering, under the bright morning sun. Cirion rode forward, demanding who dare imprison and misuse her Faluan Guard. They were to release them at once, and surrender... or die. She was besieged by the outcasts, prostrating themselves before her; imploring with begging plea, of her mercy. It was not with them, to take issue of this thing; but with Gilmar, who dwelt in yonder cavern below, tormenting Karina and Lorimer for his amusement, in company with two of his more brutish henchmen.

Cirion called forth three of her Sword-sisters. They strode to the dark, yawning cavern. Cirion drew sword. Alasse Nenharma hissed softly from her slumber. Her blade glittered wickedly; and smiled, cold and bright. They cautiously moved down the long drift into the grim cavern. The flaring links danced shadows on the walls, and there, they beheld such a sight in the cavern. With this, there would be no mercy at all.

Karina, stripped of all clothing, and naked; was lashed to a poled frame which hung from roof to floor. Round this frame, her tormentors could circle and prowl, and she could have no knowing what next would be their intention. She could not know whether it would be the bite of the whip, or mauling and pawing, or the rude thrust of finger; or slobbering lips and carnal defilement. Karina was fully stretched in arm and leg, and her body glistened with the sweat of pain. Her soft flesh was torn by bloody weals from her whippings. Chained to the wall, and forced to watch her defilement, lay young Lorimer, with the tears streaming down his face; being unable to defend her... alone and ashamed; beset with the dreadful burden of his imagined dishonour. The two henchmen froze as they saw the blades glitter, and each read his dooming in their shining smile.

As these two vermin were disarmed, and pinioned by Cirion's sword-sisters, Lorimer spoke swiftly of what he had been forced to witness in this place. He told how they had savoured his torment as he was forced to watch them each take their turn to debauch Karina. Gilmar the Meditor had given them leave to "Cure" her of her "Unnatural Passions." Then he, and his henchmen, one after the other, had used and abused, and defiled and debauched her. And, between turns, they had used the whip to sharpen their lust, and then had continued their defilement.

Cirion saw the traces of blood upon Karina's thighs, and her eyes froze, hard, and cold as blue ice. Cutting Karina down, Cirion looked into her Sword-sister's eyes, which, though dark with pain, were still defiant and proud. Unspoken words passed between their gaze, as one of Cirion's Sword-sisters led Karina out of that grim place.

Lorimer, freed from his chains, made to pick up his sword. Cirion stayed his hand, and spoke in a cold, soft voice... ordering her Sword-sisters to attend to the two henchmen in the manner of the Khuzud-Mahin. Never again, would they defile a maid; and so very slowly would they now embrace their deaths.

Cirion now knew a rage she had not known before. A rage as clear as ice... hard, decisive, and cold. Her Grandmother's ghostly hand clasped about her heart, and all trace of compassion was swiftly cast aside. The Circle of Amriath was turning again, and who knew now where the turning would end? Cirion now knew the taste of revenge, to settle the score for this evil thing done here, this day. Alasse Nenharma, her sword, Shining Slaughter wickedly glittered in the sunlight, as she strode forth from the cavern to hunt for Gilmar. Her cold, blue eyes searched the Corries to left, and to right.

An old, outcast warrior who had fought for her Grandmother, and still held his honour and loyalty, stood before Cirion, saying mayhap, she should search in the bothy upon yonder hill. For though he had been wrongly banished by her Grandmother, he had not the stomach for ill-treating females, as did Gilmar The Meditor. She told him to gather together such outcasts who still held allegiance to Shandalar, and assemble them in attendance of The Queen's Justice which would be seen to be done here, this day.

Cirion strode to the bothy, and found Gilmar lurking in the gloom... who cowered before her, now stripped of his power. He stared at her with his eyes full of dread at his realisation that his death now looked him in the face... his death in her sword as it shimmered cold, in the half light. He knew that his time was upon him. His ears were filled with the hideous screams of his henchmen echoing across the Corries as the Khuzud-Mahin slowly cut them to shreds in Berserker fashion... a terrible, dread reckoning that inflicted upon them a long, drawn-out death.

The venomous Gilmar would fare even worse. Such was his treachery, and wanton cruelty, that Cirion decided to make an example of him. Such degeneration would not be countenanced in Shandalar. She would not kill him; his end would be slow... exceedingly slow. She would give him to Karina. She could elect what his fate would be; for, as he so sowed; then now, followed his reaping; and he would, most assuredly, not lust for her touch any longer.

Thus, he was dragged to the great dungeon cavern to witness the doom of his two fellow despoilers. Their red, reeking carcasses hung in chains from the walls. They chained him closely between the two dripping and twitching corpses, and left him to contemplate their shredded carcasses; musing in silence of what was to be his fate.

Meantime; the Faluan Guard drove two great Iron rings into the rock face that guarded the throat of the Corries of Thar. There, Gilmar would be chained to serve as a dreadful warning of Cirion's Justice, to all who might pass that way. The Faluans dragged him from the cavern and chained him to the rock wall with his feet, two full hand-spans above the ground. The outcasts surrounded him to watch his destruction. All those he had misused and cozened, gathered about him in a silent throng.

Then, came Karina, supported by Lorimer. The throng parted to enable her progress to where Gilmar hung. She limped painfully; scarce-able to lay one foot before the other. She looked into Gilmar's eyes with a stare of cold hatred, holding a wicked paunching knife firmly in her hand. She limped forward, and reached down towards him. He read in her face, her Justice, complete. She spoke not a word; holding his eyes with her cold, unblinking stare as she tore away his breeches, then grasped, and so very slowly cut out his Privities... and as he shrieked and writhed, she twisted the blade in his flesh, then cast the reeking things down into the dust at his feet.

Cirion came forward, and laid grave proclamation. This then, was the sum of the score to be paid by any, who despoiled a Shandalar female by force, and this word should be spread and relayed across the entire Realm, so none could dispute the knowing of this. For in this, there would be no appeal. Shandalar would come fully into The Light. Justice and peace would stand fairly for all.

And, all those gathered about that place did not voice any disputation. Venomous Gilmar, they thought, had embraced from Karina, his just reward for so defiling her as they watched him writhe, and most spurtingly bleed his life away into the dust at his feet. His strangled shriekings were to no avail, for they stood to gain acceptance in Shandalar. Thus, their compassion most swiftly departed them.

Relieved of their banishment, they abandoned the Corries of Thar as they prepared to journey back into the Citizenry of Shandalar. But, as they departed the Corries of Thar... now silent; save for the echoing shrieks of Gilmar... no-one thought to gaze eastwards, to see smoke, much closer now, tainting the skies above Astalan.