Chapter Seventeen.

The Old Quarry of Senghenn.

The field of engagement that clung to the edge of the nether slopes of The Heights of Rhyddu lay empty and barren as the cairning detachment moved about, gathering the fallen. Their toil stood not so sternly as it might have done. In sum, they gathered no more than six score of fallen defenders of The Light. Amongst these were Nemesis riders, Faluans; Calverstock Companions, and those fallen of Tristan's Cavalry.

Of the Great Mordbrood Host; beyond those prosecuted at the first by sword and crossbow, there were none. All that stood there to lay the tale, were the two great catapults, and countless Kelek-Berskers scattered thereabouts. The western reaches of The Plain of Malphaers where they had embraced their destruction lay now, choked with ashes that swirled and spiralled in the embrace of the whimpering winds out of Astalan. This ash was all that remained of something beyond ten thousand Mordbrood vermin laid to waste by a slender young Algethi maiden who stood, for a brief moment in time, encircled in The Dreaming of The High Goddess Elaiana… "She, who is the Wellspring of All Being," and brought down the wrath of The High Goddess upon their venomous heads.

The fallen were all gathered by the cairning detachment, and laid to rest in a great cairn raised on the Knoll of Rhyddu where the morning sun first stroked the Kingdom of Lorenfalu.

In the Dispensary at Rhom, Cuchulain and his 'pothicks made stern toil with the salvings and the stitchings. The Horanaurk Kelek-Berskers caused grave woundings to those so misfortunate to be afflicted, and much use was made of the dark drink of mandrake and poppy. Of The Guardians; Gwythlyn alone was unhurt... and this was more by chance, than by her prowess with blade. All the rest had some manner of wounding, although most were of thin consequence. Of the Companions… Staisha, and her brother, Rhynam were the most sorely hurt. Staisha was made gift of a sword-arm broken by parry of a vicious Kelek-Bersker blow which had not breached her leissor-mail, yet had shattered the bone beneath. Rhynam stood with his Adamaunte armour thrice breached by Kelek-Bersker spikes.

A pair of these breachings to his side were, he said, of trivial consequence; 'though his blood seeped freely through the piercings. The third was of sterner issue. The spike had cloven through the pauldron plates of his armour, bedding deeply into the shoulder of his sword-arm. Cuchulain held great concernment of this wound, for Rhynam could gift no movement to his arm, nor feel his fingers. At length, Cuchulain gathered them both together, and laid his thoughts plain. It was, as like; Cuchulain said; that Rhynam might never again wield blade, and Staisha most certainly would not, for at least the span of ten moons in passing. Were this not enough, Cuchulain held notion that Staisha might never again embrace the prowess with Algethi-sabre that once, had been her gift. Staisha looked to her brother, and bestowed upon him a rueful smile,

'Are we not then, a pretty pair, brother? T'would seem our days of laying mayhems upon Darklings are fully run.'

Rhynam gave a wincing smile through his pain,

'Aye, sister; time to pass on the cloak of command. No more, the riding of the Forests of Elisriendell for us, methinks.'

As they communed, consoling each to the other; suddenly, the door of the Dispensary was thrust open, and there stood a Black rider. Paying no heed to Cuchulain's require that he hold hard without, he strode to where Rhynam lay and did a thing, none there would ever gaze upon, nor hearken to, again.

The Black rider divested his closed face helm, and to the shocked surprise of all, they saw that in his face... as black as coal; his eyes were the brightest blue… as blue as the Cornflower-Blue Mere. He spoke; in soft, and beautiful Charybon-Runic:

'Master; they say you are sorely hurt. What is your Command for the Companions of Lothluthil?'

A silence, thick in completeness, stood in the Dispensary. None had ever heard a Black rider speak, and they imagined, as Shalodea, his speech would be some manner of mongrel Algethi, and not the beautiful Shah'Algethi tongue of The Golden, or Sunrise Algethi of Elisriendell. Rhynam gave a wry, thin smile, saying,

'Khaartur; our deception stands about us now, something less than a wind-tugged cloak. Needs must, we now lay the truth to our Companions at Arms.'

He then laid before them the tell of The Nemesis of Lothluthil. The Black riders were indeed, held deeply in The Dreaming of Elaiana. They were the lineage of The Guardians of The High Goddess… the first dream-formed Algethi who had watched over Her as She embraced her dreaming of "The Great Dream." The Guardians had confounded the plotting of The Dreadful, Dark Entity, Baelar… called too, "The Lord of The Underdark," many times as he strove to undo "The Great Dream," and for their part in this impudence, were transformed into embracing the countenance of Shalodea, who were the Cavern Algethi.

The Shalodea stood, lacking such Grace, as did other Algethi. For t'was whispered they stood not fully in The Light. But this was not the truth concerning The Guardians; for though they held the countenance, and demeanour of Shalodea, they were fully embraced in The Dreaming of Elaiana. Thus, they became the dread-feared Nemesis of Lothluthil; passing down from generation to generation, the wrath of The High Goddess, silent and covert. This then, was why none had ever heard them speak and had never seen their faces. For they yet held the pale hue of eye of Shah'Algethi, and not the black eye of the Shalodea. It was a masterly subterfuge that had spanned the Ages, since the time of The Age of The Beginnings.

Rhynam then spoke to The Black rider, Khaartur; saying:

'Old friend, I am fully undone. My sword arm is of less consequence than a pierced water pouch. Take you up the Sword of The Master, and gather the Companions. Choose by lot who shall be the New Master, for my time with you has fully run its span.'

Khaartur nodded assent, and took up Rhynam's sword, saying:

'It shall be done as you command. Fare thee well, Master.'

And turned to repair from the Dispensary. Rhynam spoke once more,

'As you pass; ask you, the Rider of Lothleitha... Mahriel... she who brought you out of Elisriendell... to come stand to my sister, an' you would.'

Khaartur nodded,

'Aye, Master, it shall be done.'

Then he stepped out of the Dispensary. In some small measure of time, then came Mahriel. Her eyes were wide with surprise. She spoke,

'Sister, the strangest thing. A Black rider bid me here, and he spoke in the most beautiful Shah'Algethi tongue!'

Staisha made respond,

'Aye, that is as maybe, but that is not why I summoned you. My sword-arm is as weak as a foundling kitten beset by deep, midwinter snows. I shall not ride with you for many moons... if indeed, ever again. So it is my wish that you become Lead Rider of The Sisterhood of Lothleitha.'

Staisha then instructed Mahriel that she should seek out the new chosen Master of The Nemesis of Lothluthil; and in concert, they should ride for Ling in all haste, to bolster the forces of Queen Cirion of Shandalar.

Half-a-league to the north of the City, two cairns were raised. Karina and her warcharger were laid into the first. She was laid with an unsharded sword placed upon her; the point between her feet, and her hands about the hilt. She was laid with her feet to the west, and her head to the east, and her brow was circled about by a garland of Moonflowers, as was custom for fallen sword-maids in the Shining Land. The sad, ruined remains of her patrol... those who were hurled into the streets of Rhom, and those who had not yet embraced this fate; were each wrapped about in a fresh cambrick winding sheet and laid together in like manner. Each was laid with a sword and a garland of Moonflowers, in the secondmost great cairn, hard by the cairn of Karina.

Yet, in all of this… there stood conundrum complete. As they repaired to Rhom, it was seen that the Unicorn upon which Caron had progressed, was nowhere to be seen… as if it had never been there. Little was thought of this, but the question still lay lacking an answer. Caron had mourned Karina; but not so deeply as t'was thought she would. And too... there was still a faint goldening of her pretty green eyes, and more… she stood beset of a differentness in her demeanour.

Tristan had elected that the marble image in the concealed chamber in the bowels of the Palace be brought forth and placed in the Throne-room. In due accord, Caron had traced the progress to the hidden chamber to lay it in reveal; and as she progressed the dim passages; again, was seen the pale golden aura yet compassing her about. She was, indeed held close in the Grace of The High Goddess, Elaiana. Of this, there could be no denial.

The Image was removed to the Throne-room and placed betwixt the great thrones of Tristan and Talith. Eldamar then brought forth the great golden sword... the Great Defender of The Light, "Runya en Numen," called too, "Citadel of The Eternal Truth," and laid it upon the charger from whence it had been taken. Tristan stood before the Image and asked Eldamar if he might take up the sword. Eldamar held no issue over this, so Tristan made to lift the sword from the charger. He could not move it a hair's span. It clung to the charger in the manner of a 'pothick's leech clinging to one who is being bled. Here then, was a riddle not for the solving. Eldamar smiled; he held notion this might be the sum of this thing. One to the other, all there tried with stern resolve, to lift the sword. None could do so.

Eldamar motioned then, to Caron. She stood forth, and raised up the great sword as if t'were a feather. She made hand of it to Tristan, who almost let it fall to the floor, for so heavy was its measure. Yet, this slender young Algethi maiden would lift it as though it possessed no weighting at all. This then, was the truth of it. Caron was "The Chosen One," and here stood no shadow of dispute. Eldamar saw that in this; lay the utter destruction of all the remainder of those who would be called The Mordbrood of Valdarthost. There would be no tearing down the walls of Rhom, and putting all to the sword this day, 'nor any other.

Yet, even as he held this thought, Eldamar was troubled. He saw that the Topaz in Tristan's great sword, Dagnorath, still blazed brightly. Why then, was this? The Mordbrood Host were, but wind-stirred ashes out on the Plain of Malphaers. What manner of warning could this be? One thing he knew, for certain-sure... Dagnorath was not to be cozened in this. Dagnorath would lay the truth of it.

What Eldamar did not know; indeed, what he could not know, was this: The Horde-Masters; knowing they could not breach the east curtain wall of Rhom, had gathered a parcel of Horanaurks distantly together to prosecute an intrusion into Rhom by such means as they might elicit. These Horanaurks had prowled the field of engagement, stripping the Armour from those fallen Black riders they chanced upon. They had then donned this armour with intent to enter Rhom, so cloaked. In this subterfuge they were gifted with consummate good fortune. For no sooner had they donned the Adamaunte armour, than the wench appeared... the wench upon the great Unicorn, who raised the golden sword, and smote down the Host, complete. The armoured Darklings had prevailed as the dreadful lance of blinding light had been cast off the shining black armour, in the manner that the beams of the sun are cast from off a looking glass. T'was uncommonly hot 'neath the black armour, but they had prevailed as the spear of lancing light was cast from off the shining metal.

The cloaked Horanaurks had progressed The Heights of Rhyddu into Rhom; appearing to the idle gaze as a parcel of Black riders nursing their woundings, and returning to the refuge of the City. The gates of Rhom were opened to them, and they progressed within, without let 'nor hindrance; for they were cloaked complete by their full-faced helms. They had resolved to seek out this great golden sword, and the young Algethi-wench... either or both; it mattered not... for either lost, would stand as great advantage to The Darkness.

In a deserted courtyard, they divested themselves of their cumbersome armour… such was their arrogant demeanour. They then prowled the empty, cobbled streets seeking their prize. Accomplishing the far reach of a building... there!... Was that not the young wench encumbered by a great mortar and pestle? She turned, and spied them; her eyes widened in fear. They made slinking approach; as, dropping the great mortar and pestle, she backed away from them. Take this one, and she would reveal where the great golden sword was secreted, and... she was a pretty morsel to despoil, to boot. Still she backed away; still they closed on her. She slipped around the corner of the building, and they rushed to capture her.

Turning the corner, they froze. For there, gazing at them with cold, deadly, amber eyes, sat a shining Silver Dragon. The wench had taken refuge 'neath its wing. The Dragon slowly drew breath, and laid a flume that was not a flume... more a huffing snort. Tahkaiia could not lay flume complete, by reason of her breached flame bladder, but it was enough. It was more than enough.

The Horanaurks were not gifted with the shrivelling doom in measure which would cinder them where they stood, and in this, they embraced a doom, more dreadful yet. The thin flume transformed them into blazing torches; sending them hurtling and whirling through the streets, shrieking and squealing as their carcasses blistered and charred. Such a doom was not swift; for even when they fell, they writhed and thrashed as their carcasses slowly shrank to the size of half-grown younglings. When, at length, the ruined carcasses ceased sputter and smoulder, they were hauled away to the City wall, where they were cast down onto the City midden.

Though this was not for the knowing at this time; this would be the last occasion that true Darklings would ever set foot within the City walls of Rhom.

This however, was not as it would be in The High Pass of Ling. The Mordbrood Horde-Masters were gathering regiment to lay forth stern assault on The Forces of The Light. In the time passing; whilst the throat of The High Pass of Ling was denied them by reason of the great pyre of Darkling carcasses burning steadily; spies had been despatched, and such intelligence gleaned, told of the remaining Forces of Light standing in sum, not above fifteen hundred. The Horde-Masters hatched a plan how by, they might rid themselves of these contumelious Algethi once, and for all. When the pyre was spent, they would engage these Algethi with some three thousand Taraks and Suhai; the sum in remain of those who had marched up from the south. It mattered not, such losses as might be laid upon them; for they were, but sword fodder.

The seasoned Horanaurks of The Mordbrood, who stood in number, a little above nine thousand, would be held until these Algethi were fully beset with affray and their Dragons spent of flume. Then, the full force of The Mordbrood would be unleashed to crush these insolent Algethi who held not a shred of acceptance for the Dominion of The Dreadful, Dark Entity, Baelar… "The Lord of The Underdark."

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Within the span of two moon-shadows, the first attack was onset. The Taraks and Suhai came screaming down through the throat of The High Pass of Ling, trampling the still smouldering remains of their companions underfoot. They were engaged by two double- Cohorts of Khuzud-Mahin, and the carnage was terrible to behold. The Khuzud-Mahin had supped deeply of the Dark drink and were fighting on foot, full in the Berserk. Most used their Dushrakhas, but there were some… the more seasoned, who prevailed with the terrible, short-hafted blood-axe designed for use in close slaughter, and hand-to-hand mayhems. Those Darklings so misfortunate to be assailed with this dreadful weapon; were they not despatched with the first blow; staggered about shrieking, as their gore sprayed out from great gaping wounds.

Yet, four hundred could not prevail but for a slender span against three thousand, and the Khuzud-Mahin took losses. In the main, t'were the younger ones, who had supped too deeply of the Dark drink. For though it gifted them raw courage, it also befuddled reason. They held imagine that their spirits were cloaked beyond the whisper of Seithynnor; they cast all caution to the winds of chance, and many stood the score of their reckless demeanour. Close, half of the double-Cohort was lost in this manner.

Suddenly, above the din of battle came the blare of a Khallis war-trumpet. T'was the signal to retire. The Khuzud-Mahin disengaged and made defensive retreat, as over the shoulder of Striding Edge came the flight of Dragons, swooping down into the Pass to lay their roaring flumes over the heads of the retiring Khuzud-Mahin into the packed ranks of advancing Darklings. Once more, the blue skies of Amriath were tainted with the dark, billowing, foetid smoke that stung the eyes and offended the nose, as countless Suhai and Taraks were engulfed in the rolling blossoms of yellow-red flames; shrieking and writhing in their shrivelsome dooming.

The Dragon riders loosed a rain of crossbow bolts into the packed ranks, laying rout to the advance. The Dragons prosecuted this dreadful terror for close on one-half of a Sundial shadow-span, until bereft of flume, they made retire. As the last Dragon lifted into the skies, The Forces of The Light made charge up The High Pass of Ling. This was what the Horde-Masters had waited for.

As the routed Suhai and Taraks fell back into The Plain of Malphaers, The Horde-Masters waited until The Forces of The Light came up through the throat of The High Pass of Ling onto the widening plain. Now, they unleashed the body of The Mordbrood Horanaurks, nine-thousand-strong. The Thuvian axe-men were surrounded... as were the remaining Faluans; and though they held firm; in the end, most were hewn down. A Cohort of Khuzud-Mahin laid full Berserk to their aid, but soon and enough were obliged to form a circle defence. Their Horanaurk victims piled high about them, but t'was plain they would not prevail in this endeavour. There were just too many Horanaurks, who now laid swarming black arrows into the Khuzud Maids. Their tough bull-mammoth hide armour turned aside most, but, many arms and legs were pierced through.

It seemed all was lost. The Khuzud Maids were certain to be overwhelmed; then… up through The High Pass of Ling came Thallian Beckstrider, beset by the remain of The Brotherhood of FionnMhor; the war song of Old Yeranoor echoing the rampart cliffs, as they galloped to affray; their swords bright in the sunlight. They fell upon the Horanaurk flank, as will a great wave scour some pebbled shore; hacking a pathway through to the circle defence of The Khuzud-Mahin; laying bloody mayhems upon the Horanaurks, with sword and trample of hooves. There were now, but two-score and nine of The Brotherhood of FionnMhor riding with Beckstrider, but these were the bold riders of Fionndell who had prosecuted bloody destruction upon the Darklings for countless summers past, across the Yeranoor Shadowlands; and they possessed a mastery for laying carnage.

Two of the Brotherhood fell, but Beckstrider delivered a full three, and one half score of the wounded and battle-weary Khuzud Maids from out of the clutches of The Mordbrood Horde. They rode the maids back down The High Pass of Ling to the safety of The Striding Edge Redoubt, whilst behind them; The Mordbrood scrambled over the hacked carcasses of their brethren, intent on pursuit.

Beckstrider reined in. Where was Cirion? Where was the Shandalar Queen? The tell was laid that she had ridden out with her bodyguard and Lorimer, in trail of Beckstrider and The Brotherhood. Beckstrider's countenance paled. Cirion was in The High Pass of Ling lacking stern support, and facing above eight thousand Horanaurks. He was beset by grave foreboding. This sat not well... this sat not well at all. The Shandalar Queen would be encircled and trapped by The Mordbrood Horde.

Beckstrider wheeled his mount about, and called The Brotherhood of FionnMhor in gather. They would ride The High Pass of Ling once again, to lay a bold, and reckless deceit upon The Mordbrood. This deceit... to cozen the Horanaurks into imagining that they were assailed afresh. Such imagine, perhaps, would off guard their flank for even a slender span of time; time enough for Cirion, and the Queen's guard to disengage, and ride to safety.

As they rode; Beckstrider knew this was, but a forlorn hope. See! The sky was darkening. The sun was now, no more than a blood-red disc in the eastern skies. Lowering gloom was besetting the throat of The High Pass of Ling. The Dominion of Baelar was beginning to manifest itself. When the young Queen; this impudent, golden-haired, Algethi-wench warrior... this so-called Guardian of The Light, was at last, put to the sword, then the Dominion of The Dreadful, Dark Entity, Baelar... "The Lord of The Underdark." would be laid upon the land. All who stood for The Light would be smitten with the dreadful "Sath-Ninduru"… the terrible, creeping "Night of the Shadows Rising." All would be plunged in back into Chaos, as it had been, long and ago, in The Age of The Beginnings.

Even as Beckstrider and The Brotherhood of FionnMhor rode, The Mordbrood Horde-Masters were preening themselves with much gloat and savour at the success of their strategy. The Forces of The Light were smitten, and at small cost. Mongrel Suhai and Taraks had been squandered to the sword in plenty, but there was meagre loss of seasoned Horanaurks... some two thousand... a trifling sum.

Word had passed to them that the Horde had entrapped this upstart golden-haired, Algethi-wench warrior, and her puny force in the old quarry of Senghenn that lay at the very mouth of Ling. Even now, the Horde was closing about them. There were, but ten, and four of them. These insolent Algethi could be laid by the heels with less imposition than the breaking of wind, trailing a hearty gluttoning. See! The skies were darkening swiftly. Soon enough, would the Abyss yawn open, to lay forth the thrall of The Next Age of Darkness.

Cirion had ridden out with Lorimer, her armourer Moyna; Lukas, and the troopers in remain of The Queen's bodyguard, to lay support to Beckstrider and The Brotherhood of FionnMhor as they rode to lay bloody mayhems, so that the encircled, and smitten Khuzud-Mahin might grasp their chance to disengage.

Being so slim in number, Cirion knew that there was small prospect for her to prevail. But, then… Her grandmother had known the same... and in this same place; and she had prevailed. Beckstrider and The Brotherhood were close-engaged, and no chance there, to gift support to Cirion. She and her companions would be alone in this endeavour. But then, Who wants to live forever?

The Horanaurks flanked Cirion and her companions into the old quarry of Senghenn, with intent to prosecute a gruesome doom upon these impudent Algethi. First, they would despatch the troopers, then the two males; and, at the last, the two Algethi-wenches who would provide a tasty diversion for a while, before they too, were despatched. The spoils of war were sweet indeed! Or, so they thought. But now, Cirion and her companions turned at bay.

Her bodyguard fought gallantly, but ten against thousands could never prevail. One by the one, her guard was hacked down until only the four remained. Cirion, Lorimer, Moyna, and Lukas formed square; their backs to one another, as the Horanaurks crept upon them, Kelek-Berskers at the ready. From the advancing press of Horanaurks, suddenly, came two black arrows. Both bit home... one to Lorimer, the other to Lukas. Neither arrow gifted them their doom, but were enough to bring them to their knees.

Cirion and Moyna, both swiftly stepped forward, shielding their Bond-mates; their swords naked, and raised. Their eyes met, and Cirion took Moyna's hand and gave gentle squeeze. There was now, no chance of escape - no chance of rescue; but they held common resolve they would take a sturdy sum of these vermin with them.

The Horanaurks came on, their blood-red eyes gleaming at the sight of these two Algethi-wenches; all heaving bosom, and defiant of eye. 'Aye, this would be sweet sport, indeed. Then, the two Algethi-wenches struck, and the first two Horanaurk heads tumbled to the ground.

Screaming their fury, the Horanaurks rushed forward, and bloody mayhem burst forth. As the carcasses piled before them, the ground became slippery with the Darkling gore. As Moyna parried a vicious, swinging blow from a Kelek-Bersker, her footing slipped in the stinking, slimy blackness and, for the span of a heartbeat, her guard was confounded. The Kelek-Bersker blade glanced from off her parry, and smote her cruelly upon the shoulder. The blow was confounded by her leissor-mail from hacking into her flesh, but Cirion heard Moyna's collar bone snap, even above the din of affray. Moyna gave a cry of pain, and her sword fell from the grip of her useless sword-arm.

It seemed that all was now lost. Here, they would embrace their doom. But, they would at least die on their own terms. Suddenly… Eldamar's words stood plain in Cirion's mind:

"The Shamel of Lorienlief. Never then, to be spoken, until all else is lost, and only then, in the blackest despair."

Cirion now chose to embrace her Destiny. All that had ever been spoken of this, and of her, now stood on this last, defiant act; no matter what might now prevail in the consequence. She raised up her mighty sword, "Alasse Nenharma", also called "Shining Slaughter," and reading from the blue, glittering blade, spoke out the words boldly graven there, as if, by a Jewel-smith... the sum of the Dread Cantation:

"Jhaersi Si Shylaer Os Thyre si Kaer."

The words upon her lips were spoken plain, in the ancient Charybon-Runic tongue of which she held no knowing. For the span of a handful of heartbeats, there was nothing. Then the skies began to swirl and writhe with darkening, burgeoning, saffron-hued clouds. A howling, shrieking wind came tearing across the plain, swirling the dust and ash into the faces of the Mordbrood Horde. Suddenly, there came a mighty crash of thunder that shook the very ground they stood upon. Blinding tongues of violet-white lightning stabbed about the companions' heads; and slowly... so faintly as to be imagined; two tiny points of golden light began to appear before the Algethi maids; two tiny points of golden light that swelled and brightened, until they were blinding Golden Orbs besetting and cloaking the Algethi, to the panic and dread of the surrounding Horanaurks.

Then, one Orb moved out over the heads of the Mordbrood Horde... out to the east... out to The Plain of Malphaers. The other, now slowly... imperceptibly, began to gather form. The form became clearer, and gathered substance. It slowly manifested into the shape of a woman... a beautiful woman with her eyes closed, as if in dreaming.

The Horanaurks, beset with panic and fear of this vision, began to make backwards step, as, to their disbelieving eyes; the brilliant, golden figure slowly rose into the air. The four companions stared slack-jawed at this thing. Cirion knew without a shadow of doubt, that this was the manifestation of The High Goddess Elaiana..." She, who is the Wellspring of All Being." She had come to them in their moment of darkest need.

The vision rose higher. She opened her arms, as if, in embrace. A soft golden glow crept about the Mordbrood Horde; wreathing about them, softly… gently, until it compassed them complete. They hesitated; un-nerved and confused by this tender, warm caress that they could feel. This was newness, not known to Horanaurks. Lulled by this golden glow, they gazed, as if mesmerised, upon this shining, golden figure.

Then… the golden figure opened her eyes.

From out of her eyes, two blinding golden-white spears of light swept forth, embracing complete, the Mordbrood Horde. A terrible screaming and screeching burst forth as the blood-red eyes of each Horanaurk bubbled and melted, and coursed down his cheeks; the pink steam bursting forth, and leaving 'naught, but two black, steaming, sightless holes in his head. Then they ran. As a stumbling, screeching mass, the Mordbrood turned and ran. Blinded, they surged out of The High Pass of Ling, careening from off the cliff walls. Those who fell were trampled by their companions. Yet, there was more lying in wait for them.

The second Golden Orb floated out on The Plain of Malphaers attending their progress. This Orb softly swelled, and assumed form of a slender maiden upon a mighty Unicorn; holding a great, golden sword in her hand. As the crippled Mordbrood Horde whirled out of the throat of Ling onto the plain in stumbling and staggering, sightless approach, the vision reached down and touched the ground with the great sword-point. The Plain of Malphaers trembled as a great swathe of brilliant, golden-white light raced across the plain from the tip of the sword; rushing eastwardly to the great Chasm of Windlemoss... the great scar, three-score cubits in yawning, that clove the plain almost to Astalan. Then, there came the most terrible cracking and shuddery rumble, and the ground heaved and yawned beneath the feet of the scrambling, floundering, sightless Horanaurks. With a terrible rending and scraping filling the air, the great chasm began to open; tearing asunder, as it rushed across The Plain of Malphaers tracing the great swathe of light, remorselessly advancing into the west from Windlemoss to the very throat of Ling.

A great, yawning abyss now lay in the path of the blindly stumbling, fleeing, Horanaurk Horde who surged, clinging to each other, in the forlorn hope that yet, but one still might have some shred of sight to lead them away from the terrible, burning golden-white light that had blinded them, even to the last one. In their sightless terror, they rushed headlong in panic, towards where they thought the open plains lay. They found no open plain; they found only the great, yawning chasm.

A terrible screaming arose from the forwardmost Horanaurks, as their feet suddenly met nothingness, and they plunged into the abyss. Such was the panic-stricken crush, that the main body of the Horde were swept over the edge of the gaping chasm by the press of those behind, who were then pulled to their own dooming as they clutched at those ahead of them… those, whom they imagined would lead them to safety. For the Horanaurks, there would be no escape.

Here and there, along the edge of the great chasm, one or two clung to the crumbling edge, shrieking for some companion to gift them aid; though, had the boot been upon the other foot, they would have gifted none. Most lost their grip and plunged into the abyss, and perhaps, they were the most fortunate. For now, the vision on The Plain of Malphaers raised the sword tip from the ground. The great swathe of light faded, and the chasm began to close. Again, the terrible rending and scraping filled the air, and, as the heaving edges of the chasm embraced each other, there came terrible shrieks and a dreadful, slimy, wet, crunching noise. This sound was very much like that which is made when a cockroach is trodden upon, as the Horanaurks still clinging to the chasm edge were slowly crushed to the thickness of parchment.

The shuddering of the ground faded as the chasm closed tightly along all its length, even out to Windlemoss. The Plain of Malphaers stood again unblemished... as if the abyss had never been there. The vision of the young maid upon the Unicorn faded, and became, once more, a golden glowing Orb that floated back to the Throat of Ling. The beautiful golden woman softly closed her eyes. and slowly wreathed into one more Golden Orb that gently merged with the first, until they were mingled and melded, as one. Then slowly the Orb faded to a bright pin-point of light, and was gone.

Cirion stood in the quarry of Senghenn with her companions, scarce able to believe what they had just beheld. Of The Mordbrood Horde, there remained nothing, save the piles of dead about their feet. The darkening, swirling clouds that had beset this place were fading swift, and the sun was peering therethrough. No more, was it the blood-red disc; but sweet, and brightly shining. It was going to be a beautiful day. Cirion gazed at the blade of "Alasse Nenharma", also called "Shining Slaughter." The gravings were still there, but now, she could not read them. It seemed they had smudged, and were now faint, and indistinct.

As she pondered this thing; there came the thunder of gallop up The High Pass of Ling. Here, rode now, Mahriel and the Riders of Lothleitha, in company with The Nemesis of Lothluthil. They had ridden hard from Rhom in the space of four, and one-half Sundial shadow spans to gift sturdy support; but all they had seen of the Darklings were carcasses bestrewing The High Pass of Ling. Meeting Cirion and her companions, they made plain their confusion at this thing. Where was The Mordbrood?

Cirion lay simple tell of what had happened here, but stood more in concern of her wounded companions. The sum of tell was for another time. Mahriel had about her, a fair store of the Tincture of Alfirin, so they elected to draw the arrows from Lorimer and Lukas. This was done with much bite of lip and wince; yet, the Alfirin, soon enough, sated their discomfort. Moyna's arm was strapped about with care, and then, they rode down to The Redoubt of Striding Edge where her broken bone might be set by those with more skill than was possessed here.

At the Redoubt, tally was taken of the losses of The Forces of The Light. It had indeed, been a close-run thing. Cirion's Royal Bodyguard and the Faluans no longer existed. All were lost. Something less than one, and one-half of a Cohort of Khuzud-Mahin yet survived, and most all of these had some manner of wounding. Beckstrider's Brotherhood had fared little better. Out of the five- score who had ridden out of Fionndell that bright summer morning; now, but a score and ten remained. Of Thoris Barandor's Thuvian long-axemen and sword masters, there stood but a score and eight. Of Cirion's Shandalar Army, there were now scarcely one hundred still standing out of the five hundred that had mustered from out of the plains of Shandalar.

Cirion's sword-sister, Karina, was lost. Staisha and Rhynam perhaps, would never ride to battle again; and the losses from the Elisriendell companions were grievous. Yet, against all of this; twenty thousand Horanaurks, Suhai, and Taraks were utterly destroyed. The Mordbrood of Valdarthost and their auxiliaries existed no more. It was not this Day that The Light would go down into The Darkness. It was not this Day, that the dreadful "Sath-Ninduru"... the terrible, creeping "Night of the Shadows Rising" would be laid upon Amriath, with all plunged in back into Chaos, as it had been long and ago in The Age of The Beginnings.

The path to the east now lay open for Eldamar to quest the Riddle of The Charyanthe Tablet. For now, the Covenant between Eldamar and the Council of Storien-Rhudd could be prosecuted.

'But that, be another Tale for the telling on another night such as this.'

Said the old storyteller; closing the great leathern volume with a soft thud.