Chapter Six.
The Ride of Caron, Mistress of Horse to Queen Cirion.
Ghlinngar the Seer was fully smitten with Gwythlyn's new babe and laid no question as to why her eyes were Amethyst-violet, instead of grey, as would be expected. For he was wise, and though he perceived this, he chose to say nothing, and never yet would, in the time they would share together. The babe was named after her mother; for in Yeranoor, so stood the Custom there. In the fullness of time, she grew to womanhood, and wedded a young farmer's son she loved well. Made gift of the Farmstead hard by the Moat-Tower, they thrived, and 'ere long, her young belly did swell with child.
Gwythlyn smiled.
'And, that child, it were me... and now, we are full circle I think, concerning this tale'
'Far more than you know,'
said Eldamar,
'For I was that young Algethi, your Grandmother loved for a while.'
Gwythlyn smiled softly with a smile of the knowing; for she had sensed this thing at the first sight she had made of Eldamar The Lord Guardian, when riding Starshadow, her fields he traversed. And, seeing him now, with his eyes of deep Amethyst-violet... she knew that he was no less, than her true Grandfather, who knew nothing of her, 'nor she of him. Not a hint 'nor a guess... until, her Grandmother, serenely awaiting her Charas to fly, called her daughter and granddaughter to hand, so they should both hear the Legate of Kinship, as the Custom of Yeranoor demanded.
The old Gwythlyn told of her gentle subterfuge laid upon Ghlinngar, concerning her daughter's true father... the handsome young Algethi; and of their sweet trysting on a soft summer day, deep in the cool forest in the Moonflower byre. And then, she told of the slim Algethi dagger... the token of love which she now laid into her daughter's hand; passing it safely down from mother to daughter.
It was indeed, a sweet memory of a far distant land... of an innocent love freely offered and embraced, untainted by guilt or guile; soft, and warm as the sun. Her eyes sparkled briefly, at this last, soft sweet memory, and her Charas rose gently out, as she embraced the passing of her span.
Her tale at the ending; Gwythlyn then took Eldamar by his hand, for she saw the tear trace in his wise violet eyes, as in his memories, he stepped back to his youth. There, to lay an old love to rest, without disguise... or guile. For indeed, that young Gwythlyn had been his first true love... the first sweet taste of honey. The Circle of Amriath had turned softly, and in the turning, all was now complete.
Within the farmstead, she lifted from out of a great oaken chest, the three great volumes of The Tarsius of Yeranoor. There for Eldamar, lay the sum of all knowledge from Antiquity.
Back in Shandalar; Cirion called Moyna her Armourer to her, and said they would ride to the High Watchtower of Ling. Moyna said they should don garb of the Faluan troopers, to confound such watchers as might be creeping around and about the borders of Shandalar. Cirion was too fine a target, and so... as the dusk crept over the mountains, they rode out from the Citadel Palace. Cirion, rode fully cuirassed, with her golden hair piled 'neath a war-helm, and Moyna was fully garbed in manner the same. The two riders presented the sight of a trooper patrol riding out on some business, and 'naught to proclaim the fact that the Queen of the Ice Realm was riding out, stripped of an escort, and a fine, easy prey. Yet, if they were watched, there were none who took issue, and Cirion and Moyna sped swiftly onwards, up through the High Pass of Ling as the shadows lengthened, and stars faintly sprinkled the sky.
There, before them, stood the Watchtower; four-square and high looming. So, now they would see how the threat lay. They strode in through the great door to the chamber of the Watch Captain who looked up with a glare. Filled with vexation at such rude disturbance by two common troopers who boldly stood there uninvited before him, he rose to berate them. But Cirion divested her helm, and her golden hair cascaded down about her shoulders. Upon him dawned the awfulness of recognition. His breath left his throat, as if he was a man who was drowning. His ire sped swiftly from him... as swift as a sparrow, pursued by a hawk will fly... and he made full bend of the knee before her.
Cirion studied him at length. She saw sloth and indolence standing plainly upon him. She spoke, and commanded he brought the young watcher to her presence. As he decamped in great haste to her bidding, she pondered upon the Captain, and how he might resist full onslaught by The Mordbrood in this place. Had he the stomach to gainsay such adversity? For, holding this Watchtower was the key to confounding and breaking The Mordbrood's stride; and Cirion knew he most certainly held no such grasp.
Then, came the young watcher in haste. His eyes were red with tiredness. He knelt before Cirion. She lifted his head, and she smiled into his eyes, then ordered the Captain away, and be gone. Moyna firmly closed the great door on the Captain, and Cirion reached for the young watcher's hand, raising him up from his knees before her. She spoke softly. How long had he manned the watchtower platform? What span was his Duty-watch? Was he alone, or did others share in his vigil? He looked into her eyes, and he saw her concernment, but said all was well; and contentment sat fair upon him. Although in truth, he had stood up on the watchtower platform scouring the Plain of Malphaers from dusk until dawn, each night now, for close on eight moons in passing.
He was the youngest in the midst of his companions, and it stood fully clear that such imposition, by custom fell thus, to the youngest. The others spent their time fully borne in cups in the company of the Captain, then fell into snoring far beyond the dawn. Could this Captain be the same one who sent out the riders so swiftly, but a few moons ago? She put forth the question to the young watcher, who tarried awhile. Then softly, he said No... The Captain in question had struck forth on a foray far into the Plains to glean informations. This was a most dangerous endeavour, with only two troopers as escort. Fair, stood some doubt that they would ever be seen again. The Captain she now saw was nothing more than a Quartermaster... a merchant, no less. He was a braggart with scant taste for affray, who blustered and bullied, and rarely stepped forth from his chamber, and never looked out into the darkness of the night.
Cirion asked of the young watcher... could he point the campfires out to her? She followed him up the steep, dark winding stairs and watched, as he paused as they wound their way upwards, fleetly masking his tiredness. No... he did not care that he was exhausted from nights of watching, nor of how heavy was the burden with which they shackled him. Cirion gently smiled at his bravado and formed in her thinking what next, she would do.
At the topmost reach of the tower, the wind whimpered winsome and bitterly from off the Plain of Malphaers. The young watcher set forth a finger to point far out to eastwards, and there, in her sight, the small pin-pricks stood clear and flickering orangey. But now, there were two clusters. One stood due east; the other stood further south to where they had been when the watcher had first spied them. The Mordbrood Host had split... Darkling brother from Darkling brother.
Cirion softly asked of the watcher, what was his name? He started. Why then, would The Queen want to know? Glancing sideways, he softly mumbled:
'Lukas, Majesty.'
She smiled, and said:
'Lukas, now look at me. I have need of those such as you, who stand firm against all odds cast against them. And so shall it be. Your duty here as a mere watcher is ended. Tonight, you shall ride with me to Shandalar.'
And so, she came back down to the chamber where she laid the fear of the Gods into the Captain's pale, podgy hands... hands that had never gripped anything more than the stem of a drinking goblet, much less, a sword hilt. She heaped upon him now, the full imposition of watching the Plain. So now... did her words stand fully within the grasp of his senses?
This done, they rode off down the High Pass of Ling with Moyna sharing her mount with Lukas. Within a league, he was sound asleep; his head resting on her cold cuirass. As they rode out onto Shandalar's wide plain, their concernment for danger faded away. Moyna gazed down at the softly sleeping Lukas, and long-ignored thoughts played about her mind. Oh, but, he was young, he was handsome. She gazed at him, and softly smiled. The secret thoughts tip-toed in. How much more comfortable would his head be if it was pillowed soft between her warm breasts, and not upon this cold cuirass!
Moyna was a sturdy-built maid. She was pleasing to look upon, but held not the delicate features of most Algethi maids. She was what might be best called "Earth Mother" in her countenance and stature. She was honey-skinned and fecund. She had never dallied with males... none had ever entreated her so to do. At the Court of Shandalar she was not a favourite. The Guards and Petty Courtiers had a taste for slenderer maids.
Moyna stood close to four cubits. Her hair was the hue of ripe chestnuts. Her eyes were a pale hazel-nut brown. In truth, 'though she held the appearance of one who should be surrounded by a brood of golden younglings; she had long since abandoned hope of such a thing ever manifesting itself. So, she had chosen to become an Armourer. And in this, she had excelled.
Cirion now read as plain, as if it was writ upon parchment, this thing softly blossoming in the heart of Moyna, who never had looked at a male, much less then, desired one. Would she now depart the lonesome path she had chosen for herself? Her passion, until now, had been the weapons and the armour she tended so well. Cirion hoped it would truly be so, in the time that was left before The Darkness fell, and broke over Shandalar. For then... the time for loving would be thrust most rudely away, and Cirion stood firm in her assumption, from what she had seen from the Watchtower, that such doom-laden days were not so very far into the future.
She gazed upon Lukas; his head on Moyna's shoulder and his body trembling now with the bitter cold, bone-numbing kiss of great tiredness. Cirion said perhaps, when the Citadel was accomplished, Moyna should take the young Lukas up into her chamber, and lay him down in her soft lonely bed, and tend to him there, in such a manner as Moyna deemed befitting. Their eyes met in unspoken words... plainly spoken.
Upon their arrival at the Citadel, Cirion called for her Guard Captain, Karina and furnished her with informations of what she had seen from the Watchtower of Ling. She told of the cleaving of the campfires, the southwardly decampment; and what it might mean. Perhaps it was a flanking march down into Lorenfalu, which lay to the south-west from Ling. Perhaps, The Mordbrood intended to slip past and thus, fully confound Tristan's watchtower chain. So then, it would be prudent to send Shandalar's swiftest rider to carry the alarm into Lorenfalu; and swiftest of all was Karina's paramour, Caron... the young stable-maid.
Young Caron had risen to Mistress of Horse under Karina's soft mentoring. Their Bonding was sweet, and accepted in Shandalar, protected fully by Cirion's hand. Caron rode a Bay mare of half-Rhola descent; 'nigh as swift as Starshadow, and brave of heart. Within the space of a Sundial half-shadow, she was bridled and saddled, and brought from the stable ready for Caron to make her ride.
Caron came forwards from the Citadel, fully armoured in leather in the manner of the Faluan Warrior Guard. Karina walked with her; her eyes full of concernment. Caron was young, and the ride would not be easy. They shared one last, gentle embrace, and a lingering kiss upon the lips; then Caron accomplished boot to saddle with a lithe, practised swing and clattered out of the Citadel courtyard; her mare's hooves striking sparks from the cobbles.
Karina turned back, with a soft glistening to her eyelashes betraying her so. A Faluan Captain of Guard should not show emotions and weaknesses, thus. But, she stood at the sally port and watched her young lover go all down through the southerly Shandalar plain; the pale dust of her passing lit soft, by the light of the gibbous moon. She watched, until the very dust passed from her sighting; her tears now safely cloaked by the night.
Meantime; Cirion accomplished the stair to her chambers, and hesitantly paused without the door of Moyna's chamber. She held great concernment for Lukas, so cold and so weary. Perhaps, just to make sure...
She called softly to Moyna, who bid her enter, and there in her bed, Lukas lay in her arms. His head was pillowed soft on her shoulder and bosom, enveloped in her warm, perfumed, feminine charms. His hand was gently cupping a soft, warm breast... as a babe will its Mother. There was no carnal intent here. Much deeper, was this instinct for comfort and safeness. This was an echo so deep, it can never be sent fully away from the male, be he in receipt of five, or fifty-five full summers; and all womankind know the sight and touch of a soft bosom may yet be a weapon... or a gift, or an inducement... for men are fully blind.
But this was not what Cirion saw in the chamber. No, this was a most sweet, and gentle journey. Lukas slept as soft as a babe in Moyna's arms, cradled warm by her gentle heartbeat. And Moyna smiled softly at the slumbering Lukas, his sleeping hand gently cupping her breast. For this was the first time a man had so touched her, and here, was a sweetness not soon to forget.
Cirion felt the soft rise of emotion at this serene picture, remembering her first night with her Lorimer. Softly closing the door, she whispered Goodnight. It was the hope of her heart that a love would fully blossom for Moyna and for Lukas, and in her bed, she dreamed sweetly of Lorimer, as darkness gently crept to a morn, bright and new.
Moyna awoke to the sun softly streaming in through the casement, and washing her bed in bright, golden glory. She gazed at Lukas, still slumbering gently, and softly stroked his hair. He stirred in his slumber, and swam slowly to waking. And slowly swam the knowing that she too, lay beside him. He looked into her face, and he looked at his hand still cupping her breast, and he made to draw it swiftly away. But she laid her hand over his and pressed it back to her, feeling it softly trembling, and with the tremble, then slowly, grew firmness, and nuzzled in his palm in a delightful way. And in the feeling of this, then the blushing sprang into his face, and he looked into her eyes. A look that was lost and bewildered, and perhaps, a little frightened.
She smiled softly at him, cloaking her surprise that he should look so, when a'bed with a maid; but, then ... perhaps, he had not been thus, until now. Gently musing this thought, she cradled him closer, and kissed him gently... then kissed him again. As she gazed at him, with his cheeks full of blushing and his eyes full of wonderment, then, Moyna fell hopelessly, deeply, and fully in love with him. Love at first sight, indeed? 'Aye, it fitted well.
And so, gently bathed by the soft, morning sunlight, they both took their timid first taste of the sweetness of love; shyly exploring one another with touch, yet uncertain. Where then, to caress? And how then, to softly move, each to the other? But, soon and enough, they made their bonding together, sharing the sweet, age-old dance. Then, they lay in each other's arms in that soft place somewhere between waking and slumber... the sweet afterglow, as the hour-glass sands whispered and ran.
Meantime... Caron galloped the reaches of Khallis, clear of the threatening High Pass of Ling, and none to be seen who might confound her passing. The sound of her galloping rang more softly, now she was beyond The Great Gorge of Khallis and the echoing cliffs of the Khallis Redoubt. She would strike Lorenfalu in the space of some four Sundial shadows, should fortune hold fair.
She never heard the shrill shriek of the arrow that struck her 'neath her left shoulder, lifting her out of her stirrups and saddle, and tumbling her from her faithful bay mare. Consciousness left her as she met the hard ground. The arrow shaft snapped like a twig in a storm, and a bright, shining pain plunged her into oblivion's velvety black pool, so deep... so warm.
Much later, it seemed; as she swam to the surface, the first thing she saw was the soft azure of the summer sky, and then, a ring of coarse, loathsome faces leering at her out of bright, blood-red eyes that held not the common black centre as most eyes will do; but, were much more like the eyes that a cat will show in the sunshine... a narrow black slitting. Dreadfully then, came the swift knowing that she was beset now by Mordbrood Horanaurks. Karina had told of them once, as she lay, sweetly spent in her lover's arms, safe in the Shandalar Citadel, seeming now, so far away.
They watched her; their blood-red eyes glistening, and then, they fell upon her. Swiftly, they clawed her armour aside. Through her bright pain, she bravely struggled to thwart them, for now, their purpose stood open and plain. Severally then, they would defile and despoil her firm, ripe young body in manner diverse, then... they would despatch her in some fearful manner. When they were thus, sated; then they would fall to their main purpose, which was even more terrible. They would bone her, as would a hunter bone a rabbit. They would carry away her long bones to feed upon. For the Horanaurks sucked on the marrow of bones of the dead.
As they drooled and slobbered at the sight of her nakedness, their leader loomed above Caron. They held her firm, and full-spread before him. Leering, he let drop his breeches, accomplishing his knees and moving upon her, intent on the lewdest defilement his lust held. As he laid his warty hands upon her, there came the air-shredding whine of a broad-headed arrow that took him full-square in the small of his back. The tine of the arrowhead burst from out of his belly as his black blood sprayed about from the great rent, wherethrough the arrowhead had ripped; having shattered his spine. The arrowhead glittered, bearing glistening bone-shards to plain view. As he fell, writhing, and screaming beside Caron, she painfully raised her head to see what beset the Horanaurks so... as they scattered; wailing in their deepest dread terror. There! Riding down on them, a Frontier patrol of the Khuzud-Mahin with their Dushrakhas drawn, wickedly glittering in the bright sunlight. For these Horanaurks, there would be no sight of the setting of the sun this day, or any other.
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The Khuzud-Mahin fell upon them in the slaughter, and in a short time, every Dushrakhas dripped blackly from blade tip to hilting. Shreds and tatters of the Horanaurks reekingly lay, all scattered and strewn about that barren, killing ground.
'So...'
said the Khuzud Captain,
'There is 'naught more to fear. These vermin were an Assassin Cadre, sent far ahead of the main Host. We watched them shadow you down through the Khallis Gorge; but now, they are smitten, and no more lurk hereabouts.'
Except, for the vermin who at the first, was arrow-shot. He still sprawled, screaming and writhing at her feet. She signalled to three of her Khuzud-Mahin to join her, and gazing at Caron, made her gift of a smile... of sort then, to freeze blood, were Caron of Darkling kind. They wrapped her about in a cloak, to cover her nakedness, and put her upon a horse to ride gently down into Lorenfalu. For t'was there, could be found 'pothicks and salves. The arrowhead was still deep within her, and they had not the time 'nor the skills to relieve her of it. It needed to be removed in haste, for any delay would surely bode ill.
As they rode out to the south, the Captain, and her chosen Khuzud-Mahin turned to where the arrow-shot Horanaurk lay, spurting gore, and screaming and writhing. Though, at a distance, Caron saw them bend down to the Horanaurk, and then came the flash of knife blades in the sunlight. Echoing out through the Wastelands of Khallis, a terrible choking screaming suddenly began. With fear in her eyes, Caron asked of the young Khuzud-Mahin who rode with her, what then, was this thing they did to the Horanaurk to broach such a terrible sound?
The Khuzud-Mahin answered, smiling coldly. He was reaping what he had elected to sow upon Caron. For now, they were slow-boning him, in the manner that a fishwife will bone a fresh Salmon for table. This were a thing most gruesome to behold. Yet, if this Horanaurk vermin so chose to suck out the marrow of bones of the dead, let him see if he relished the taste, when the bones that he sucked, were his own. Caron shuddered at the thought of such horror, and hunched into her cloak, seeking to drown the sound of the Horanaurk screams as his long-bones were slowly stripped out of him. But, his screams echoed around and around; continuing for close on half of a Sundial shadow; until of screams, he lacked further store.
A league to the south; young Caron was fading, and Lorenfalu was nine, and twenty leagues still in the ride. The Khuzud-Mahin maids held heavy concernment for Caron. Her wound was oozing blood; soaking through her cloak. She shivered, as if she was a newly-born fawn. The sweat stood upon her like meadow-morn dew. The wound 'neath her shoulder was small; so... the arrow head was a common bodkin, and not barbed. So, why then, her ague? It must be that the arrow was noxious-polluted... this was a common Darkling deceit. Were that the way that it stood; the need of a 'pothicking Physick was now of the utmost urgency.
Caron, though holding herself with great fortitude, was fully unlettered in mettle to withstand such a hurt. Her pretty green eyes were now deep pools of paining, and her skin held a palloring hue that was ghostly pale. The Algethi maid was sinking as surely as the evening sun sinks into the western sky. This... they all could plainly see. But they were fully smitten with this pretty Algethi maid, and the bright, stubborn courage to which she clung. They had watched her denying the pain from the arrowhead deep in her flesh, as she stubbornly resolved to reach Lorenfalu. She was entrusted by Queen Cirion to carry the alarm into Lorenfalu, and she was resolved not to fail. They saw her set her little white teeth to her nether lip, willing her pain to swift dis-avail itself of her. She rode on, though the pain of the arrow cut as sharp as a blade, but, she would not fail, should it cost her, her life. If that were the sum of the score, then the sum would be met.
As they rode on, the Khuzud-Mahin watched her stubborn, gainsaying of the clutch of the pain slowly fade, and then, wane. Yet still, Caron gave not a whimper, nor cried out, but tears clung to her lashes, and glistened for all to see. They needs must do something to ease her burden. Perhaps, the Dark Brew of the Khuzud Berserk. But, Caron, they opined, was Shah'Algethi; and there was faint hope that the potion would prevail. For Shah'Algethi were The Golden, or Sunlight Algethi from out of the west, and the kiss of The Dark Brew might kill her as surely as the arrow head she carried. They knew this full well, but they knew also what they must now do.
They reined in and made dismount. They cradled her gently, fully racked with the shivering; her sweat beading proud, and her skin, pale and ghostly. They raised the silver flask to her faintly blueing lips. She must drink of it, and she must drink of it now.
But then, of a sudden, came the thunder of a horse wildly galloped; and out of the south raced a young Khuzud scout. She swiftly reined in her mount and leapt out of her saddle, accomplished her feet; and ran to the place where Caron lay shivering, beset by her helpers. The scout held out her hand. There, in her palm, lay three bright, shining Golden Stars, ever thought then, not to grow in this place... three fresh-picked Alfirin Blossoms; but were they enough? And more; were they too late, in the finding?
They needs must try. They gently opened her cloak, and not soon would be the forgetting of the sight their eyes met. Now... they saw why the sweat stood upon her countenance. Now... they saw why her teeth worried her nether lip. The purpling blueness had spread completely down her left flank, from the under-curving of her breast to the jut of her hip; and, compassed about the small, blood-crusted puncture where the arrow had pierced her, was a livid swelling, as would a bee sting swell. It was angrily red, with the centre deeping to purple; and each time she drew breath, it frothed, pinkishly.
They gazed in despair at this wound Caron bore; for in use of the Alfirin, they had no knowing, and Caron was fading as surely as mist in the morning swiftly fades. Her eyes were losing their lustre, her lips were icy-blue. And then, from between her cold, trembling lips, appeared the thing they had dreaded. A pale glow slowly blossomed in its soft, golden brightness.
This was Caron's Charas making ready to depart... awaiting the whisper of Sathulinan, the Song of the Holy Ones calling her home. Then, so soft, perhaps... t'was imagined; so faintly then, mingled in the wind that mournfully roamed about that place, came a faint whisper, softly drifting... Sathulinan! Fearsomely swift; the scout rushed to Caron and clasped her hand over her cold, blue lips... denying her Charas from floating thereout. She snatched the Alfirin... crushing the blossoms between finger and thumb, and thrust them deep into the piercing the arrow had torn.
Caron gave a tiny, soft whimper, as gradually... so softly... stole a tiny, faint glow all around the wound centre, creeping out all about the discolouring. The scout gently lifted her hand away. There was now no glow between her lips, which were no more, the dreadful, icy blue. And slowly, all down her left flank, from the under-curving of her breast to the jut of her hip, the purpling blue slowly waned, and gently faded, in the manner that winter fades softly into springtime.
Caron stirred slowly, with another soft whimper. The arrow pierce glowed with a bright, golden light. As they stared at her with eyes disbelieving; then slowly, the arrow shaft slipped into their view until it was fully, a finger span out of her wound. The young scout carefully, eased it out. The bodkin head glittered with evil black noxiousness. She swiftly cast it down, where it smeared the grass. The grass that the bodkin head smeared, swiftly wilted, and each blade it touched, brownly shrivelled.
Caron slowly opened her eyes to the sunlight, like an infant freshly waking. There, to her flank, all trace of the purpling blueness was lost, and in its place, they saw the rose-petal sheen of her flawless, young skin. The wound was pinkly clean; still deep, and still open, but now ready to take binding. Her pretty green eyes once again, held a lustre, and her nether lip was once more as pink as a dog-rose in spring. She raised herself up, gazing about in bewilderment, and was beset by a fleeting shiver. But not then, the shiver of sort that manifested before, when her young life they feared was forfeit. No... this was the shiver of sort that creeps of a sudden, with the feeling that the grey geese have, at this moment, flown over your grave.
Taeana, the young scout - for that was her name; knelt down, and softly gathered Caron in her arms; as might a sister give comfort to sister. She whispered to Caron that she was safe; all would be well.
Caron was now beset by shadows of remembrance of horrible dreams. She told of herself, fully lost, in some pestilential labyrinth, cloaked in black, creeping fear. She told of shape-shifting Darklings; of Wraiths without substance, and the swirling about her of shadowy things clutching at her with be-slimed, boneless fingers; all gibbering blackly, and molesting her last hopes. They taunted her that her Charas was forfeit, and now she would never hear Sathulinan softly calling her home. The Song of The Holy Ones held no sway in this dark shadowy place, and she was now, fully abandoned.
She beheld at a distance, a Blackness, blacker by far, than the blackest of nights; that moved through the darkness, and seemed to suck out of the darkness It moved through, all traces of light. And It was moving towards her, 'nay, It was stalking her. Blacker It grew, as the darkness It consumed. Fearful, she turned and fled swiftly down a passageway by the faint glim of such light as remained. But then, the passageway ended. She turned in the pitch black, and faced this Thing stalking her. It stood before her; blacker than even the pitch black It stood in, and crept ever nearer.
The walls seemingly were closing in; her temples were full of throbbing. She stretched out her hands, as if warding away this Thing, then, she beheld a shimmer between both first fingers; all swelling and blossoming, until there floated a perfect Golden Orb, shining bright as the Zenith between her outstretched hands. The glow softly crept over her arms until it fully cloaked her body, and then, from the Golden Orb, spears of bright, Golden light stabbed blindingly,... piercing the Blackness, again and again. Suddenly, she felt she was falling on and on downwards, wrapped cloakingly in the soft, Golden light. It seemed as though she fell forever; and then she opened her eyes, and there was the anxious face of young Taeana, and all about her, the soft azure of the summer sky.
Taeana stood pale in the face at the telling. She knew something of these things from her father, once... Seer of Rhom, who had died in the Sacking. She needs must now make tell of this, she was sure. For if she had read this true... this tale of the dreaming; things stood not well for the Forces of The Light. Something much darker than this Mordbrood vermin was plotting here, secretly. So, they sat counsel, and she told of her thinking... softly, so Caron would not take to fearing.
From what Caron told, it would seem then, that Caron had stood in the Underdark, being so near to death. The shape-shifters, wraiths, and the shadowy things, Taeana thought; were "Baelar'enin" meaning "The Many" or "Those who are being dark." These were the Ancient Spirits cast out by The High Goddess Elaiana... The Blackness that stalked her, she thought, was their Master; the opposite of Elaiana... He, who is The Dreadful, Dark Entity: "Baelar," called too, "The Lord of The Underdark."
If this were so; why then... Caron must be a "Chosen One"... for The Dark Entity, Baelar could swiftly despatch an Algethi. Yet, if Baelar stirred in the Underdark, perhaps, the prophecy would soon stand true. It was said that Baelar would descend upon the earth in the so-called "Sath-Ninduru," and dreadful, were such deeds he would lay forth from out the depths of the Abyss, to strike all of the lands that lay fully in the sun. The Night of Shadows Rising would be upon them. The time of The Algethi, and of Man, would be fully spent.
Caron hunched deep into Taeana's shoulder; her eyes wide and frightened, as she heard the Tell. What then, was this "Chosen One?" Did any know of this thing? Taeana looked in her eyes with a softness... a look she knew well. It was the same look Karina gave to Caron, that first time she took Caron into her bed... but then, it was gone; and the moment, if it had manifested, was lost... and better that time be not squandered in the thought.
Taeana said the Golden Orb, she thought, represented the Alfirin Flowers. They were a bright talisman confounding the noxious pollution the arrow was dipped in. That was the simple answer. But, then... The Alfirin bloom was the tiny flower favoured by The High Goddess Elaiana... counterpart to The Dreadful, Dark Entity, Baelar, who sought to turn her creation from Good into Evil, and thus, undo once, and for all, the Order that Elaiana had dreamed in Her Great Dreaming. This would plunge the world into Chaos once more; and extinguish Himself, and the Goddess, and her every creation; back to the nature of how it had been before She brought forth The Oneness of Light and banished The Dark Ones back to The Abyss, far from her creation.
But, for every equal, there then, is an opposite. Thus, was Baelar uncloaked. He was ever resolved to fully invoke the dreadful Night of the Shadows Rising. Taeana supposed that the bright, golden glowing that cloaked Caron in that terrible darkness, perhaps, was the hand of The High Goddess Elaiana protecting her Chosen One, fully in Her Grace.
The Company of the Khuzud-Mahin sat wide in the eyes, at Taeana's Tell. For this was a newness... of things never heard of in Khallis; and they would remember this thing. There moved, it seemed, Darkness un-imagined; against which, Dushrakhas could never prevail. Thus, it was deemed they should ride back to Khallis to lay before Lord Filar, the tale of this ominous thing. It was decided Taeana would ride as the escort of Caron to Lorenfalu, thus making swift traverse to Rhom, where Caron could lay forth such things as she knew. They would take one more Khuzud scout: Donella, a youngling out on her first Frontier Patrol. Two were enough for safe passage to Rhom, for there were scarcely thirty Leagues they need now progress.
So they rode south, and encountered the first watchtower of the great chain that marched sturdy and strong, all down the heights of the wide northern plains; which gave them fresh heart as they galloped on towards Rhom. Relief crept about them, and cozened their wariness; for in a pair of leagues or so, suddenly, came the sound of a shrieking black arrow that struck young Donella full square in the throat and spun her round, out of her saddle. Not even a cry escaped her lips as she died in the soft, green grass of Lorenfalu.
Taeana cried that Caron should ride like the wind, and wheeled round her mount; drawing from her pannier, not her Dushrakhas, but something more terrible yet. She held a short hafted Blood-Axe, so designed for use in close slaughter and hand to hand mayhems. She galloped hard to where a helmet briefly shone; for here, was a stray Horanaurk who had slipped away from the slaughter. But, such time that he had obtained bartering fate, was fully now forfeit, as she rode him down, and rained blow after blow upon him from that dreadful Thuvian Blood-Axe; hacking him asunder as he sprawled before her. It was not for nothing, the Khuzud-Mahin were dread feared; as her tutoring taught him, this day.
Her carnage complete, she swiftly repaired to the place young Donella lay, like a rag doll, cast away by a wilful youngling. Donella lay crumpled, face down into the soft grass of Lorenfalu. Taeana turned her about, and despair clutched at her heart as she spied, all about the smooth throat of Donella, the purpling blueness spreading about the black shaft of the arrow. Polluted with noxiousness then, this arrow too... and none of the Alfirin to confound the slow creep of the poison. For 'though Donella was dead, she stood now, beset by the gravest of horror.
To near and far, it had always been said that those who died thus, would not sleep in their graves, should the noxiousness fully spread with no salve to hand. They would transform into Ranulug Gomraiths... Darkling Undead, who would prowl in the night when the pale moon lit the place of their dying, to prey on the unwary, and the un-warned; despatching them, as would fox, a rabbit; then sucking their bone marrow whilst t'was still warm.
Taeana was resolved that such a fate would not beset Donella, for she was so young. She had known scarcely sixteen full summers. Taeana knew of only one thing that could be done. Tugging the arrow out of her throat, she swiftly cast it away. There, where it fell down; as before... the grass it touched all curlingly withered, and died; shrivelled brown. From her pannier, she drew forth a spindle of Rowan... a wood that the Khuzud-Mahin carried to battle for just such purpose. Rowan was sacred. It would confound any Darkling device or black witchery, and would, certain-sure prevent Donella from walking abroad. She laid the spindle tip gently on Donella's bosom, and hammered it firmly with the blade-flat of her Dushrakhas. It pierced Donella's still heart in a moment. As it did so, then the purpling blueness began to draw back and fade slowly from her throat. Donella was now safe; this, Taeana knew.
There was no time for the raising of Pyre as was the custom of Khuzud-Mahin. Needs-must then, Donella be buried and cairned to confound such wild things thereabouts, in their digging Donella from out of her sleeping place. Taeana resolved it would be a hollow, not less than a cubit, and one-half, in deeping; and she began digging most singularly, with only her dagger. The ground was not helpful; being littered with stones, and dark, sharp, flinty shards. Yet, in the passing of half of a Sundial shadow t'was done, and in her sorrowing, the toil was not hard.
Donella was carefully laid into the hollow with her head to the east and her feet to the west. Her Dushrakhas was not for the finding, to lay upon her body; 'nor were there Moonflower blossoms in that desolate place to weave a garland to place upon her brow. She would have to sleep the last Great Sleep unadorned for now.
Perhaps, Taeana might return with such adornments. But, that was not for now... there was no time, with Caron riding onwards alone. Taeana bent to the gathering of stones to raise a cairn... swiftly laid, but still laid with patience and care, wherein young Donella would sleep safe from all harm.
With one last look of sorrow, Taeana laid spur to her mount and made furious gallop away through the wide plains of Lorenfalu, seeking Caron in haste. For, if there was but one Horanaurk here a'lurking, perhaps, then, more might be abroad in the prowl. Caron was divested of Armour and fully stripped by the Horanaurks; with her garments shredded. She was wrapped about only with binding and riding cloak and was ripe for the picking by even a thorn.
Taeana rode hard; her mount's hooves full of thunder. A plume of dust stood soon to her sight, and there she saw a rider who flew like the wild wind. T'was Caron, wildly galloping Lorenfalu onwards to Rhom.
As Taeana drew closer, she saw that with Caron... something was very amiss. Her demeanour as she crouched in saddle, proclaimed her beset once again, by pain's brightly sharp clutch. And there to her shoulder, a blossom of redness that soaked through her cloak and stood true to the tale that, in her wild ride, she had opened her wound again. But even now, Caron would not avail herself of some easement. Taeana laid intercept, calling upon Caron to ease her pace, seeing the blood dripping from her saddle. But Caron bade her no heed... no heed at all.
She spurred her mount forward, and so then, continued that desperate, wild ride onwards to Rhom to pass the alarm; not heeding the warm blood that wove a pathway down her flank, dripping from her hip, and staining her saddle red. Yet Caron would pay it no regard, for she was the Mistress of Horse to Queen Cirion, and not some soft, foolish maiden, indeed! Thus, she set teeth once again to her nether lip, spurring her Bay mare for one last, fearsome gallop down the few leagues in remain of the wide, open plain; and at last, there stood Rhom in the softly dying sun. Echoing out over the darkening plains came the welcoming blare of a Watchtower trumpet. The sentries had spied them.
The Great Gates stood wide-thrown, and they entered therein. Tristan came forth as Caron slipped from her saddle, and stood swaying upon her feet. She gifted him the alarm complete. He looked down to her feet where the blood drops softly sprinkled. She swayed, and swooned away, safely caught in his arms. Swift motioning then, for Taeana to follow; he carried her into the Palace of Rhom, making loud, his command. He called for the immediate attendance of 'pothicking Physicks to him. They were to attend with all haste, the brave equerry of Cirion, Ice Queen of Shandalar... this maid in his arms.
They bore her away to a chamber close by, and laid her to bed, safely from all harm. They gently uncloaked her; softly lifting away the red-sodden binding, and before their eyes stood the arrow wound, redly seeping. Seeing this, the Physicks all made their surprise known. How then, had this young slip of a maid accomplished the ride across Lorenfalu? A wound such as this would have brought down a trooper. Taeana stood silent, but Taeana knew full well. For Caron, she saw, had the spirit and heart of a Khuzud-Mahin... 'nay, perhaps, even more. This maid from the Shandalar Plains bewitched her. If only... and then, the door was rudely thrust open.
Into the chamber strode a great, bearded giant of a man, fully four, and three-quarters cubits in stature and shouldered as wide as the western skies. This then, was Cuchulain; Tristan's own churgeon, who came to Caron and laid his great hands so gently upon her... as soft as a mother would lay hands upon her infant. His great, bear-like hands traced a delicate track about the arrow wound, about her shoulder, across her flank. His hands searched, appraised, gently probed. Pronouncing contentment that all noxiousness was banished, he brought forth a needle and delicate thread spun from pure spider silk out of Lothloriel. He quietly laid instruction, specific. Alfirin Tincture was to be set to her wounding with delicate care, as he laid the stitches. He thought, perhaps... three stitches would be the score to heal without scarring... for a back as sweet as this, should remain blemish-free.
He set the stitches as delicately as the finest seamstress, and when he was done, there was scarce a sign of where the arrow had pierced her. He mended her with the most subtle finesse. He then ordered that she remain warmly bedded for two moons at least; for she was grievously weakened. He instructed that they must bring her spiced, mulled wine a'plenty, to bring back her vigour.