Chapter Fourteen.
The Mordbrood Assault on Ling.
In The High Watchtower of Ling; nerves stood shredded as watchers peered out onto The Plain of Malphaers. The Mordbrood now sat in encampment, but a pair of leagues distant. Their chanting bestowed such fear… gut-wrenching, in sum; little helped by black arrows on occasion, whistling by; as some Mordbrood archer made gift of reminding that soon enough, all the watchers would embrace their doom. The Mordbrood toyed with them, as cat will to mouse, whilst awaiting the Host standing in from the east; not knowing that Beckstrider had laid a sturdy winnowing upon them. When, at length, came the knowing, this sport would most certainly end.
The very next morning, a young watcher spied, coming in from the east, a most raggedy band of Mordbrood; progressing, not in rank and file... more dragging themselves. He did not understand their demeanour. The Mordbrood Host in encampment became most enraged, and the blood-lust ran high on hearing the tell of the rout of their forces at Windlemoss Crag. Now, all Algethi-kind would perish. Thus, eight thousand Mordbrood, all screaming their hatred; laid full assault on the High Watchtower of Ling.
The garrison stood there, but thirty in number; and of these... but twelve bowmen to bring arrows down onto The Mordbrood. Full doom stood upon them for they could not ever prevail. So, t'was then, at the last; when all stood lost, one rider was sent away down The High Pass of Ling; as now, The Mordbrood amassed with a great battering ram, intent on bringing down the Watchtower itself, about the heads of those still within as they scrambled over the carcasses of their Black brothers to begin the dread slighting. And, so it was, the High Watchtower of Ling was razed, stone by stone, and all therein, were slaughtered. All were butchered and hacked by the dread Kelek-Berskers, until, not one corpse did remain unspoiled.
The Mordbrood then moved down into The High Pass of Ling, forsaking their dead and their dying yet again. The Shining Land now stood close to their sight, and chance of discovery stood fulsomely poor by reason there now would be no Beacon of Warning from off the High Watchtower to stand the alarm. The watchers of Shandalar, and those of Khallis; with nothing to warn them; held no thought of the peril now looming upon them. They awaited the glow that would never be coming, until they spied the young watcher galloping wildly all down from The High Pass of Ling on his desperate ride. A black arrow was lodged firmly in his shoulder; he slumped in his saddle, and faint, he gasped his warning out and then fell into the arms of the watchers who swiftly, gathered him up, and bore him to the churgeons in the Mighty Redoubt of The Low Riggs of Striding Edge.
As they laid him therein, they fully thought he must die from the noxious black arrow. But, soon enough, the Tincture of Alfirin swiftly laid into his wounding, fully banished the noxiousness. With him then safe, t'was thought to swiftly prosecute ride down to Khallis to furnish the warning. Too late though, for Thoris Barandor's design for entrapping The Mordbrood with his Thuvian long-axemen and sword masters springing from out of the mineshafts in The High Pass of Ling. So, a rider was despatched in swift accord to the Shandalar Citadel, calling out Cirion, and her full Guard and Army. Then swiftly t'would be on to Storien-Rhudd, to the Dragon Lair. The time was standing thin, and such riding would be hard.
Meantime; back at Rhom... such a dreadful calamity. Lieutenant Nindelen and her patrol had stumbled upon Horanaurks massing behind The Heights of Rhyddu. It stood plain, that their goal was a full-out Assault from advantage of height, where their Engines of War could hurl rocks down upon the great curtain wall, breaching it with impunity. Lieutenant Nindelen and her young Faluans had wheeled their mounts swiftly about, to bring warning back down to Rhom, but were cut down by arrow flights; being flanked on both sides by the Horanaurks bursting upon them from lurkment.
All the Faluan maids met their doom. Those not killed outright, embraced a lingering fate, as the Horanaurks slowly despoiled them at leisure. For them, no hint of mercy was offered. Their dying, however, was not without wanting; for the Rhom sentries had spied movement out on the heights, and laid informations to Tristan that there was something afoot, and such thing might stand ominously ill. Full call to readiness was then commanded, and impending attack warned to all.
The waiting was not lengthy. Within scarcely one half of a Sundial shadow span; from The Heights of Rhyddu, flew the first great rocks, with mighty crash and thud against Rhom's curtain wall. Over the crest of The Heights of Rhyddu, came five hundred Mordbrood in ragged battle formation. Screaming and howling, they made charge down the slope, resolved to slaughter all Algethi-kind, this day. Tristan's War Engines crashed out flailing fire and iron, shredding the Darklings, who headlong, came on. The flailing iron cut great swathes through the ranks of The Mordbrood as they lay assault upon the great walls of Rhom. Still, they came on, and were cut down in numbers, most grievous… as corn is cut down in the first summer mow. Elation stood bold in Rhom, but Tristan puzzled. This was, most certainly, 'naught but a distraction.
These vermin; unlettered in tactics of siege and assault were 'naught, but dross of the great Mordbrood Horde; fully expendable and thrown as a sacrifice to probe defences. It was, to the Horanaurk mind, a trifling sum to afford when laid to intelligence gained by those Horanaurks watching, out of harm's way on The Heights of Rhyddu. Stopped in their tracks, with their shredded and slaughtered companions abandoned without thought, The Mordbrood withdrew in full rout.
Karina flew out her Merlin to Calverstock, carrying message of what now happened this day, and in the space of a half-Sundial shadow was seen a great eagle, far up and away in the skies; wheeling and drifting as eagles are wont to do. It ranged at leisure across The Heights of Rhyddu, and then drifted off into The Plain of Malphaers. Tristan stood watching, and knew this was no eagle that compassed the skies seeking prey. This was ever, a subtle deceit. This was Calelindi's great eagle from out of Calverstock, spying out The Mordbrood deployment of their Host.
The slopes of The Heights of Rhyddu stood abandoned, save for shredded and shrieking Mordbrood. They decried further incursion this day. Even so, more great rocks still rained down as they yet prevailed in trying to breach the great curtain wall. But, it stood sturdy, for it had been singularly well built by Eilar the Wise. As the sun settled, with dusk slowly creeping; the shriekings of the stricken Mordbrood upon the hillside slowly faded and waned as they embraced their lingering doom, until there was silence.
In the goldening, sunset skies, a speck was spied, moving swiftly from the west. T'was Karina's Merlin, with message from Calverstock. A message that held solemn tell. The message told that eight Engines of War, and close to nine thousand Mordbrood were gathered behind The Heights of Rhyddu. Were that not enough; to the south stood a Great Host... Mordbrood and Suhai, and Darklings diverse... perhaps, even Taraks. All had crossed The Plain of Malphaers in full secrecy; and standing worse in the tell, was their number. Calelindi's great eagle, unlettered in tally; could but then, the score imagine. Even so; it stood seeming beyond fifteen thousand... perhaps, even more; and all marching towards Rhom in depth; a Black shadow marching from the north; besmirching and fouling the southerly plain; resolved to lay full upon Rhom the Red Dawn of Mayhems.
Now, such time as remained, stood thin indeed... perhaps, as thin as two Moons in passing, and Calverstock Garrison must now be prepared to ride in prosecution of war. For they had told that they could stand forth to lay doom on The Mordbrood in one and one-half Sundial shadow spans. Tristan called swiftly for a galloper to carry word to The Forest of Raventhorn Scar. It was a pretty ride... standing close on two Moons in span; for the Yeranoor Shadowlands stood far distant. There, the call to arms of the Shadaiian Wraith-Hunters need be made in accordance with the pledge laid between Archernan and Gwythlyn. Thus, in a short span, the young Rider of Lothleitha, Mahriel, galloped out to northerly-west. Soon enough; her ride was 'naught, but a dust cloud, that slowly made fade in the swiftly diminishing light.
Mahriel, who had brought The Nemesis of Lothluthil out of Elisriendell, rode the night by light of a pale, callow moon. She galloped her fleet Unicorn mare, reckless in pace; and, at the breaking of dawn's early light, Mahriel saw she stood close to the place called by name, Lankriggen Forest. Here, there be Darklings, t'was certain sure. She smelled them; but, she needs-must compass Lankriggen to accomplish the River Claidell and the ford thereabouts.
Lankriggen Forest... a gloomy, and secretive arbour of menace, all groping the sky; most singularly perfect for Darklings to lie concealed in lurk amongst the deep greenings. Yet, caution needs-must be cast to the winds. The message must stand swiftly from Lorenfalu, but, within a half-league... no more... and lacking all warning; from out of the greening, a black arrow flew; taking her Unicorn from out beneath her and tumbling her cruelly down to the ground.
Bereft of breath… laying bedazed for a short span, and then raising herself, Mahriel glanced swiftly around. There! And yet, There again! Swiftly creeping out of the greening, the Darklings beset her about. They were singularly loathsome in countenance; warty and gaunt... and in her mind there stood little doubt these were some manner of Taraks, with the lust plain in their eyes, and black, wet tongues that licked warty lips.
She stood against a Great Oak, her back fully protected, and slipped her hand down to the sword at her side. For plain in their faces, she read their intent. 'Aye, they would despatch her at length; but at the first, severally then, to defile and despoil her young body in manner, carnally diverse. With no-where to run, Mahriel stood to face her odious doom. The Darklings encircled her, all slaver and drool; slobbering at thoughts of the lewdest defilements, perverse and cruel, to force upon this young Algethi-Wench. Mahriel drew sword, the Darklings smiled evilly… resistance would do 'naught, but sharpen their lust.
They approached; circling closer, with dribble and leer, and then... they froze, as a great shadow rushed upon them from out of the sky, and they screamed in dread terror. Then, they were lost in the bloom of a great rolling blossom of whooshing red-yellow flame; screaming and writhing in their shrivelling doom. Mahriel looked up, and spied a glimpse of a silvery form, swift lost to sight above the greening. She gazed to the smoking charrings of what were once Darklings, and held forth her fate, fully in the despond. Was then, her turn next? For, it was a Dragon. Of this, she was certain-sure; and, from her Mother's knee she was always taught that Dragons killed all those who crossed their paths, and so dreadful the manner of their dooming.
Then, once more, the shadow fell. But this time it loomed as the Dragon flew down and landed before her, and made study of her. It gazed at her with great amber eyes, as if taking her measure; then moved towards her, languid and slow. And... spoke haltingly in Algethi of sorts... in the manner of a maid with a pretty lisp; with a soft hiss, yet, fully plain, and fully clear:
'You stand here, most foolhardy in your endeavour, Algethi maid. Did you not know the Darklings lurk here? What do you, in Lankriggen Forest, alone?... You are of "The Light," this is plain to see; yet, t'is by fair fortune alone that I did pass by, and you stand here yet with me in this place.'
Mahriel stood in amaze at this beautiful Silvery Dragon, who spoke in this way, and yet, held no trace of menace towards her. So, she elected to outlay fully the tale of her quest to The Forest of Raventhorn Scar, and the message she needs must, lay plain to The Shadaiian Wraith-Hunters... the tell of the threat looming about Rhom... and thin time, t'was thought, in the remain. Tahkaiia... for that, was indeed, who she was; changed demeanour in completeness on hearing Rhom named, and ordered Mahriel to swiftly climb upon her back. For in flying her to The Forest of Raventhorn; such lost time then, might be reclaimed. The maid would be fully safe in the company of a swift Celeb-Loki, and Raventhorn Scar would be progressed before the sun reached the zenith, even though, it stood far-distantly.
As they made distance from Lankriggen, Tahkaiia communed with Mahriel in the manner as maid will to maid. What news of Lokari? Did all stand well with him? And, was he at Rhom? Mahriel… cautious, said he stood to Rhom; not mentioning Calverstock in the respond. The fewer who knew of this subtle deceit... perhaps, then, the fewer who needs must die.
The Forest of Raventhorn Scar loomed below them. Tahkaiia made soft turning, and landed without the edge of The Forest. She spoke:
'I shall await your return to fly you to Rhom. For small doubt, the Darklings will lie in the lurk in the Forest of Lankriggen, and lacking mount, you would most certainly die. I have a humour to stand down to gaze upon Rhom and see how fattened would lie the peril, this day.'
Mahriel stood at the edge of the Forest, and on a small horn, blew a note, sweet and clear. In a slender span of time, two Shadaiian Wraith-Hunters came, as if, from out of nowhere. They gazed in awe at Tahkaiia standing there, as she watched them carefully, with her great amber stare. Hearing the tell swiftly laid forth by Mahriel, they laid pledge that their watchers would stand to Rhom within one sunrise. Message thus gifted, they stood, gazing overawed, as Mahriel climbed upon Tahkaiia, and the sleek Celeb-Loki climbed into the skies; turning into the south on her great wings, swift and sure.
At Rhom, consternation beset a young sentry, who spied a speck approaching from northerly-west... a speck that flashed silver, and came on most swiftly. What it might be, he could but wildly guess. He called out the Captain of Watch, who gazed wide-eyed... 'aye, t'were a Dragon, as closer it flew, and there! T'was a rider, who also flashed silver. Then, came the knowing. The Watch Captain notioned that this would be the Rider of Lothleitha, young Mahriel, in recourse from Raventhorn Scar. But, what of this Loki? And where was her Unicorn mare? This thing stood most strange, and singularly queer.
The sleek Celeb-Loki flew down to the plain, close to the great City gates, and the rider made dismount, exchanging, it seemed, some swift words with the Loki; which then, lifted up into the skies, circling around, and rising far over The Heights of Rhyddu; compassing in its sight, all there, standing. Then, it returned; sweeping low, o'er The City of Rhom, and lifted away, flying off into the north.
Mahriel came swiftly to Tristan, to lay the tell of The Shadaiian Wraith-Hunters' pledge, and how, on the morrow, the watchers would join them. This would give Rhom an edge over The Darklings, for shape-shifting foe were a nightmare beyond any nightmare that lay in the darkest imaginings of any of these vermin, or indeed, any night terrors their minds might play with as they listened at night in their campment to the whimpering winds off The Plain of Malphaers; knowing the morning perhaps, held their dooming... for even the Darklings were compassed with some fears.
In the small hours of morning, as the waxing, gibbous moon drifted over The Heights of Rhyddu; Rhom's gates were opened wide; and silent as ghosts, with their horses' hooves muffled, The Nemesis of Lothluthil rode out in covert array to lay mayhems upon The Mordbrood. They accomplished The Heights of Rhyddu, unseen and unheard; this, the stuff of Darkling nightmares. For certain- sure, the first that The Horanaurks knew, was the whistling bite of the dreadful leissor sabres, as, by light of a moon standing pale and waning; The Nemesis of Lothluthil laid a most dreadful carnage upon the Horanaurks, who could not spring to defence of encampment, by reason, they saw and heard 'naught but vague shadows that flitted about in the darkness. Thus, in the span taken, to fully raise the alarm; The Nemesis of Lothluthil laid such rout in the midst of the Horanaurks, beset with the drowsiness gifted by sleep, and from Glowfire, swilled in excess.
When they rode in, there stood some nine thousand Darklings; but as they rode out, indeed, there now stood many less. The sum of the tally of Horanaurks slaughtered never would be laid true to the page. Four Cohorts of Black riders lay forth the mayhems, and lost only ten of their number, which did much to assuage the tally presumptive, of Horanaurks slaughtered... a tally that certainly stood beyond eighty score... and this was, but the first foray of The Black riders. Before they were done, there would certainly be many more.
The next morning dawned bright, and Rhom prepared for The Mordbrood assault on the great curtain wall. As the shadows of Sundial soft crept; from The Heights of Rhyddu, there came nothing at all. The sentries fidgeted, all nervous, and peering about; and then, from the north-west, they spied two specks in the sky that flew arrow straight, at great speed towards Rhom. They saw it was a fleet pair of Merlins, that flew swiftly by... then turning, as only a Merlin can turn; stood down to the battlements reach. Before the startled eyes of the sentries, they shape-shifted, and there stood a Shadaiian Wraith-Hunter where each of the Merlins had been. They laid greetings from Archernan, Lord of The Shadaiian Wraith-Hunter Host.
They were the watchers from The Forest of Raventhorn Scar, and the Merlin was chosen as the swiftest of all creatures into which they might shape-shift. For when Alarm stood on Rhom, present and clear, they would return home in the span of less than one Sundial shadow to call out The Host. The Mordbrood stood no chance against such dread reckoning; knowing not how, nor where, such doom might lurk. For Shadaiian Wraith-Hunters might shapeshift as anything... rocks, perhaps… grasses, or the birds in the sky.
In the span in passing that the watchers had taken to fly from out of Raventhorn, Tahkaiia had stood down on Shandalar to lay the tell of The Mordbrood intent on Rhom; but in finding the garrison standing, and prepared to march on Ling, had swiftly been sent homeward to Storien-Rhudd... there, to call out all the Dragons to make flight swiftly down to Shandalar for fitting of harness and saddles allotted. Thence, she need fly southwards to the gathering of the Faluan riders of Cirion's Guard, chosen for this endeavour.
All through the night The Shandalar Citadel tinkled and rang with the sounds of harness fitting. Preparations were made for the morning when the Dragons would take flight and progress beyond Ling Beckside to the south, down to The Low Riggs of Striding Edge. Here, they would lie in wait behind the Mighty Redoubt at the mouth of the ravine leading down to The Great Gorge of Khallis, for The Mordbrood to progress their march into trapment, beset by the towering escarpments both sides of The High Pass of Ling.
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Here, t'was hoped, doom would fall upon The Mordbrood, all compassed about by the high cliffs, with no chance to deploy themselves into War-Host. They would have no chance to envelop, or lay flanking march on The Forces of The Light, thus, destroying Cirion's main strength rearward of her Faluan guard. For The High Pass of Ling held them thin. They could foray no more than two-score span of shoulders broad, and thus, were ripe for the fluming when this began to be laid upon them.
Deep in the labyrinth under the Blue Ice Peaks; led by Thrain Naltek and Gilurt Barnore, their two Minauth guides; came Laurre Aldaval and Beckstrider, and their brave band in return; all down the faint, glim tunnellings, lit dimly by oil lamps that weakly glowed, shadowy pale. As they progressed, Thrain Naltek spun the tale of the Barakul, and stood to where the fissure prevailed... a fissure of great wideness, spanning five cubits... a mighty rock cleave to great deeping, recoursed in the wall of the tunnel. It was crammed with great rocks, laying tell of how The Skirmisher-Questors had forced the Barakul into hiding, from out of the light of their bright, flaring links. He told of how the fissure, thus sealed, had… to this day, held back the Barakul; but then, no knowing, if in times to come, t'would once more return.
Laurre Aldaval stepped forward and anointed Alfirin Tincture about the fissure, fully compassing all with the soft golden liquid. Alfirin stood infinitely more in noxiousness than leissor to the Darklings, and would then, remain ever so. Thus, this place would stand as rock, fully unblemished... indeed then, the Barakul's tomb. Never again, would it prowl the labyrinth, 'less more paths stood from The Abyss. This done, they made progress through the labyrinth until they stood again in the great Middle chamber, recounting to Gherlan Gimsten of their Tale.
Gherlan Gimsten, in his curious Algethi tongue, lay forth in the tell to Laurre Aldaval, of how the Minauth had made prospect into the chasm to bring forth the Faluan riders who had fallen. This was a token, respectful, for those two young Algethi maids. Not for them, a fate to be left all mouldering and forgotten in deep of the chasm, beset by the carrion birds, and picked to the bone. The two had been borne down from the bitter Blue Ice Peaks in solemn array.
The Minauth knew they need be cairned, for the pyring was not for the Algethi... t'was the true Thuvian way. But, words of protection to speak over the cairning were not known. Yet, there was one thing the Minauth knew well. Far down to the foothills there lay a small coomb wherein, a spinney of Rowan trees grew... and Rowan was ever a bane to all Darklings. The merest sight of it would gift them dread. Here, the two Algethi maids would lie unmolested, fully safe in their slumber, fully safe from all harm.
Thus, were they laid, with their heads to the rise of the sun, and their feet pointing out to the west; with naked sword laid upon them... the point between their feet, and the hilt, 'neath crossed hands, upon their bosoms. Upon each brow, a garland of Snow Lilies was laid. Then, was the cairn of stones raised all about, and here, they would sleep the Great Sleep of Eternity, and none disturbing them.
Laurre Aldaval gave thanks to Gherlan Gimsten; full beholding to him in his Grace. But, they needs must away into Shandalar swiftly. Gimsten made tell that there was such a place at edge of the labyrinth, leading out onto the old packhorse trackway which fully denied need to stand out into the snowy-blown blizzarding. It would hold them in fair stead for their ride. And so, yet again, they made prospect the tunnellings, and soon and enough, they stood on the old trackway.
Laurre Aldaval resolved to avail herself of a last, soft farewell to her sword-sisters. She rode up the small coomb, and there, in the little Rowan spinney stood the cairn. She looked at it silently, a tear to her eye. Such waste, gifted careless by fickle Fate. Neither of them beyond ten and six summers, and no sense here to find. She brushed away a tear that soft tumbled her cheek.
Then came the tinkle of harness, closely behind her. Swiftly, turning about... her hand firm to her sword… there, to her gaze, sat Beckstrider's young Captain of Guard upon his warcharger; his eyes steady with worry. She gifted him a brave smile, though, to find smile was not an easy thing. And looking at her, with the sun, pale and serene in her golden hair; then, he most certainly knew that if this were another time, and another place... and all stood different... but, it was not that time. They were both warriors and such span as they were gifted stood forfeit beyond gentle whim of what perhaps, might be, if they both prevailed in the days yet to come. For the portents stood not hopeful.
And so, he kept counsel, though it stood hard upon him; bewitched as he was with this fair Algethi maiden. But, such bewitching laid snare of the boldness most needful in battle, and with boldness laid by the heels, then, such flaw stood malignant and staring. It was a barter with doom... 'aye, a swift wager with fate. The Mordbrood would not absolve falter, but the span of a heartbeat, and such span of falter might stand him too late in prevailment. Thrusting these thoughts from his mind, he turned again and bore company with her down the little coomb to prospect the trackway down to Shandalar.
In Khallis; tale came swift to Thoris Barandor, concerning the breach of The High Pass of Ling by The Mordbrood, and swifter yet, he laid full muster of his Thuvian long axemen, and Khuzud-Mahin. In The Citadel, barrels were bung-broached in plenty. These barrels held the most singular brew which gave them raw courage… the Khuzud-Mahin dark drink of The Berserkers. For this day, courage in plenty would be the require. Fortified with this dark brew, eight Cohorts rode out eastwards in haste, in full battle order. All up The Great Gorge of Khallis they rode, to meet with The Shandalar Force at the Mighty Redoubt of The Low Riggs of Striding Edge. Here they would join with Queen Cirion, who, by now, would stand without the ramparts in company with her brave Faluans and the small force from off the Shandalar plains. It was a ride of twenty leagues from The Khallis Redoubt up to Ling, and thin was the span of time they held yet, in their hands.
Cirion stood, fully armoured with, but five hundred warriors from Shandalar, and too, her Faluan guard. With her, were Lorimer and The Queen's bodyguard... in sum, twenty and five troopers compassing close about her. There too, was her armourer, Moyna… and Lukas, who sat proudly at Cirion's left hand; having Office of Captain of Bodyguard Royal. In the sunrise, they stood a brave sight... but, woefully small; little more than beyond seven hundred in sum, and appearing but a mere irritation to the sight of lurking Darkling spies.
But... behind the Great Redoubt, there stood a thing, to lay such wild affright on the Darkling Horde. The Dragon Flight of Storien-Rhudd lay in waiting, harnessed and saddled with their riders in seat, in abide of the signal to rise over Striding Edge down into Ling; there, to engage The Mordbrood with gift of the flume of the shrivelling doom. The Mordbrood would be entrapped; full in the deny of scatterment and snared by the towering cliffs of The High Pass of Ling. They would be ripe for slaughter; in this place, they would perish horribly... or, so stood the plan.
Cirion knew; as her grandmother had known, in those times far distant, in the past... the Last Shining Flower of The West might indeed, one day, be plunged into Darkness and Doom, but… it would not be This Day.
And no more to do but to wait for The Mordbrood, and hold, until Khallis made good their appearance. Thoris Barandor was at least one-half of a Sundial shadow-span distant, yet, she saw little fear in these faces who held fully, their faith in this beautiful young Guardian of The Light from the Shining Land. And if, perhaps, they were doomed now to plunge into The Darkness, then, such mayhems they would lay upon the heads of The Mordbrood, that for ever and more, around the hearth fires, the minstrels would sing the Idyll of Cirion, Ice Queen of Shandalar; Guardian of The Light from The Shining Land... She, who was fully embraced in the Circle of Amriath turning, with her Destiny foreplanned, to find lasting fame in The High Pass of Ling, as had her grandmother so found in the times, distant past.
'Aye; songs would be forever sung of this brave, reckless stand against the Forces of Darkness who stood resolved to lay waste all that held to the Oneness of The Light.
Echoing all down The High Pass of Ling came the clamour of The Mordbrood advancing. Cirion made swift deployment of her forces. Thin now, stood the time that they might be emplaced out of harm's way from the flume of the Dragon flights; yet, be close enough to lay mayhems about The Mordbrood as they fled the shrivelling doom. In this, the peril stood fat. Too close, and her forces would be made gift of the fluming; too far distant, and The Mordbrood would rally, and breach the defence. With Thoris Barandor yet, far out of sighting; a prudent deployment stood the soundest.
There! On the brow of the rise of The High Pass of Ling, a black, swelling Horde distantly surged. The Faluan horn-maid lay forth with her warning that echoed the pass, and as one, they drew sword. Half-a-league forward, the Horanaurks made scrambled charge; for their ranks arrayed, but two-score wide. Penned, as they were by the high cliffs about them; their intent of the flanking march was now fully confounded. Onwards, they came, screaming and howling; their Kelek-Berskers glinting cruelly in the sun.
Then, from the Redoubt, came the answering horn-note. Soon, would these Horanaurk vermin see the doom they had elected to embrace. And over the Striding Edge Scarp came the flight of Dragons, skeined, as the wild geese fly in autumn time; in arrowhead battle array; each diving down to lay flume of the shrivelling doom, and then, turning, and climbing away into the sky whilst their riders laid crossbow bolts into the Black horde as they embraced their gruesome fate. There was nowhere to flee as the smitten Horanaurks shrieked in their dooming, beset by the blossoms of yellow-red fire, 'nigh as hot as the sun. One full half shadow span of Sundial, this lasted; the foetid smoke stinging the eyes, and offending the nose. Then, the Faluans charged, and laid sword to the Horanaurks.
Suddenly, from the Darkling ranks rose a dreadful howl. A howl that perhaps, might have been fear in another... were they not Horanaurk who held no shred of fear in battle. Cirion turned, and saw, there... out of Khallis, the Khuzud-Mahin Cohorts suddenly appear in wild, charging gallop up The High Pass of Ling with their Dushrakhas flashing, and their eyes bright with the Dark drink… full in the Berserk.
These were her sword-sisters, and Cirion joined their ride. "Shining Slaughter" could now embrace her destiny... could now embrace that, for which she was birthed. Cirion's bodyguard troopers, and Moyna and Lukas, and Lorimer followed, to lay full, grave imposition upon the Horanaurks, protecting their Queen in the jumbled, seething affray... in manner as best that they might. But, t'was soon that her golden-haired figure was lost from their view as the Khuzud-Mahin cut a swathe through The Horanaurks. Then… from down the Pass, echoed the call of another bright Signal horn.
Laurre Aldaval and Thallian Beckstrider, beset by The Brotherhood of FionnMhor and Laurre's Faluans, rode now, into battle to the sound of the War song of Old Yeranoor sturdy upon the lips of The Brotherhood of FionnMhor as they swept in to bestow dread, bloody carnage upon the Horanaurks.
The Last, Bright, Shining Flower of The West indeed might one day, be plucked, and lost to The Darkness, but, in certain truth, it would not be This Day.
Cirion, compassed by Khuzud-Mahin, laid waste to The Horanaurk ranks, in surround. Shimmering brightly, Alasse Nenharma shredded them piecemeal about on the ground, and seeing such carnage, the Horanaurks quavered. To stand against this golden-haired one, they held no stomach at all… calling on their bowmen to bring down this insolent Algethi-wench who befouled the pass with their blood, running black.
But, such was the crush... there was no reach to draw bow, and Cirion prevailed, laying mayhems, most grave. Such were the losses The Mordbrood suffered in four Sundial shadow-spans, they stood into the retreat. As they withdrew, they scrambled over the carcasses of their dead. But, this was not Victory, this was containment. They would return, of that, there was small doubt. Then, all about, a sombre tally was taken. How stood then, the loss for The Forces of The Light?
The fallen were all gathered, and carried down to the Redoubt, and in truth then, the loss was not modest. They gathered together close on one Cohort of Khuzud-Mahin; of Cirion's Faluan guard... three full score. Of the Thuvian long axemen and sword masters... two score and five, and in the tally - there were more. Ten, out of twenty and five of The Queen's bodyguard; and riders of Dragons, too. Five were tumbled down by the flight of black arrows.
Of Beckstrider's brave Brotherhood, ten and four had fallen. Of the Forces of Shandalar standing, less than one-half of the five hundred warriors stood upon their feet now, in The High Pass of Ling. All these were laid to a great cairn, raised to the north of The Low Riggs of Striding Edge in The Plain of Shandalar. Grievous as this loss stood, there was small comfort. The Horanaurk Horde loss was far greater in sum.
A great pyre of Horanaurk carcasses was then raised and fired in the throat of The High Pass of Ling. Fully two thousand carcasses foetidly smouldered, blighting the sunset with black smoke that curled out over the tumbled, and ruined High Watchtower; tugged by the winds off The Plain of Malphaers. The smoke drifted out over The Mordbrood encampment, adding its stench to such slow, creeping fears as they might hold, full in the knowledge that here now, stood a differentness in extreme from the firing of homesteads and farms back in Astalan. Thin now, stood their resolve that their foray might seem as a trifling incursion, bereft of imperilment... with token resistance from Algethi-kind, if at all... with Algethi-kind unlettered in mayhems and pillage. But now, they knew full-well what lay before them in the west.
Now, they stood mired, as like, a horseman in quicksand. The Horanaurk Horde-Masters ranted with spleen, and six Cadre Leaders made forfeit their heads as reprisal for calling their forces to retire from the shrivelling doom of the flume of the Dragons. This, was a lesson, most singular in its intent... to lay forth more dread of the Horde-Masters, than of such doom as lay waiting when next, they incursed into The High Pass of Ling to prosecute their assault. Now they would bear no mind of what happened here, this day. For they were told, should they falter or fail, they would answer to The Lord of The Underdark... 'Aye, The Dreadful, Dark Entity: "Baelar," himself.
Twice smitten... now here; and before, by Beckstrider; they made choose to tarry to regain their strength. And this, were a choice that laid grave imposition upon them. For had they known that the remain of flume of the Dragons was 'nigh close on spent, and they needs-must retire; The Horanaurk Host might well have stood this to advantage; safe for the moment, from the withering doom. Alas, they had not the gift of such knowing, and so, on The Plain of Malphaers did remain for the space of two moons as they licked at their wounds. In this span of time, Dragon flume stood fully, once more. And, yet one more moon they tarried, as the pyre of their dead denied to them the throat of The High Pass of Ling.
But, in that span, a Horanaurk rider from out of the south brought most welcome news to the Horde-Masters. The Host, standing close to the City of Rhom had portioned fresh forces to them, lacking delay. Four thousand swords stood forced march northwards towards them, standing in sight by eventide. More grist to the mill in the minds of the Horanaurk Horde-Masters, caring not for losses taken; for these were, but cattle thrown in for the slaughter. Prevailment by numbers was now their watchword. Any score would be stood, to lay doom upon these impudent Algethi who dared to decry them of their prize. And further, specific, there was the matter of this golden-haired, Algethi-wench warrior who laid disdain upon the Might, and the Majesty of The Dreadful, Dark Entity: "Baelar," whose wont, she would decry.
So, they laid plot to bring forth her undoing. A trapment most subtle, wherein she would be certainly despatched. For Intelligence was laid that now, standing from south in the Horde marching forward to join with their force, was a Suhai Abduction Cadre impressed as mere sword-fodder. But, they might then, be recoursed in the matter of what they did best... the taking of Algethi maids. This, they still did; for their need still stood as stern as it ever had, when they had tried to take Mirien Goldenwand in the deep forest greening, as previously told in The Chapters of The Tarsius.
The Body of Plot stood not vexsome in issue. They would abduct perhaps, two, or three Algethi-wenches, cloaked by the dark of the night; to be chained to the cliff-face in the throat of The High Pass of Ling. T'was reasoned that the sight and the sound of her sisters despoiled and tormented, would draw forth this golden-haired Algethi-wench in haste, and there, they would cut her down with singular impunity; piercing her through with black arrows from bowmen emplaced round and about in the lurk of ambush.
This, they fancied, was a subtle deceit that would bode them well. For seeing the doom of this golden-haired Algethi maid would gift her forces disheartenment as she perished. Disheartenment was a goad to abandonment; and, with four thousand swords swiftly in the advance, The Horanaurk Horde-Masters foolishly imagined the Algethi force would flee from The High Pass of Ling.
So, it was done, in the dark of the night. Three Algethi maids were taken and carried away to the throat of The High Pass of Ling. There, some two-score cubits beyond the tumble of the Watchtower, they were chained to the cliff-face wherefrom their doom would stand full in the reveal down the reaches of the pass. The maids, knowing their doom stood fully upon them; resolved not to cry out, no matter what was to be their fate. For one death was much like another. And so, they held silent as Horanaurks mauled at them, sating their lust in a drawn out defilement of carnal perversion that lasted the span of the night. Not a sound was forced from the crushed, bleeding lips of the Algethi maids. Their courage stood firm.
The Horanaurk Horde-Masters stood, beset with seething vexation. Needs-must, sterner measure be brought now to bear. Let their soft skin feel the sear of the hot irons, laid on with skill, by the torturers. And so... the first plaintive screams rang down The High Pass; and soon enough, the plot stood in prevailment.
From out of the west came a galloping rider, with sword naked-drawn. Her golden hair streamed pale in the soft of the young morning sunlight. To rearward, a parcel of riders came on in trailment to her. No matter; the Suhai Cadre was forfeit; with their task now fulfilled, and their usefulness fully run. At the rock face; watching the galloped approach of this upstart, golden-haired Algethi-wench; the torturers grasped the captive maids by their hair and brutally pulled back their heads, turning the maids' faces towards the oncoming rider. This, to gift them some faint, taunting hope, perhaps, that rescue might be at hand. Then, within plain view of the wildly galloping rider, they slashed each maid's throat across with their daggers, so as to goad the rider into greater recklessness as she saw her comrades executed before her eyes.
The Horanaurk Horde-Masters gloated as this consummately vexsome Algethi-wench now galloped into trapment. They watched her approach. T'was a thing to be savoured, for soon and enough, this Algethi-wench would lie dead. And, with her dying, they visioned that resistance would crumble, as hearth embers fall from the flame. The bowmen notched black arrows to bows, and took aim with singular care, as swiftly onwards she progressed. The first flight of black arrows whined all about her. Thrice, she was struck, but, she held saddle… and rode down the torturers, shredding their carcasses... each and all slaughtered. Then she turned her sword on the Horanaurks thereabouts.
She had slaughtered ten, when at last, she was unhorsed as yet more arrows bit into her. Cautiously, the Suhai came out of hiding; creeping about her, to lay in more arrows. But then, one looked up, and burst forth a wail of fright. The last thing he saw was the flash of a sword blade that clove him in twain... as a dagger slices through whey; hacked down by the young FionnMhor Captain of Guard who wildly, had galloped to lay full affray on the Darklings.
For it was not The Ice Queen Cirion of Shandalar lying there, grievously arrow-shot through, 'Nay, it was Laurre Aldaval... the brave, reckless Laurre; the maid that the Captain loved. For it had been three of her Faluan troopers abducted as bait for the Horanaurk plot, and upon hearing the first scream, then Laurre had ridden. They had begged her to tarry, but Laurre paid them no heed… no heed at all.
The Captain of Guard and her Faluan sword-sisters had ridden hard, striving to gift her support, but Laurre was riding as wild as the wind, and plain stood the knowing she could not be held in intercept. From a distance they watched, as she laid forth her mayhems, and they watched her fall to the swarmed arrow flight. Then, they were upon the Suhai assassins, all hacking at the Darklings, spattering their blood, all black as the night.
The Captain of Guard swiftly dismounted, kneeling to Laurre... stroking her hair, all soft golden pale, from her face; gazing into her unseeing, summer-sky Agate-blue eyes in desolate despair… seeing her Charas make ready to rise out to Sathulinan. In his grieving, he failed to see a lurking Mordbrood archer notch arrow to bow, and loose it, to strike between his shoulders, full square. As he fell beside her; his sight swift dimming; he reached out, and softly clasped her hand laying there, into his. Then, gently... so very gently, their Charas rose out... two pale, shining Golden Orbs that, as they rose, softly mingled and blended until they were one, rising far out of sight into the pale morning sky.
The Young Captain of Guard, and his Laurre Aldaval. A kiss never shared, though such promise was sweet. And now, with the soft Song of Sathulinan calling them home, they were at last bonded, one to the other... as they were always meant to be.