Chapter Ten.

A Gatherment of Allies.

Cirion stood in the Great Council Chamber of Shandalar, and laid forth Royal Edict concerning the standing of Lukas. The Realm, and more specifically, that The Queen was beholden to the young one who had saved her from the Horanaurk in taking the arrow that perhaps, had carried her doom. This thing was manifested with no thought of favour for his reckless, brave act, and no thought of reward. They saw again, the shadow of her grandmother standing plain, in her face, and knew t'was not prudent to gainsay her humour. She commanded the Council stand forth Royal Proclamation with Cypher and Seal, that most bindingly raised The Office of Captain of Bodyguard Royal; and such Office be settled upon Lukas. Further, all privilege due to this Office, and such Standing at Court, be laid forth from this day.

This was a gift… double-edged, and exceedingly subtle. Whilst gifting reward, it kept him from harm's way... at least, 'til he was fully mended. Moyna, she knew, would most surely see that this came to passing. For Moyna had close-lost him... her first, and only love, and would not chance such loss again. Not her Lukas, with whom she had shared her cold, lonely bed, and had for the first time, tasted love's sweetest flame. Now, having plighted troth, each to the other; she had resolved he would remain with her forever.

The second part of the Command was expected. Forthwith, Lorimer would stand as Consort to The Queen, taking title: Prince Consort of Shandalar as she had promised... as ever indeed, had then been her intent since that soft summer night when they plighted their troths, each to the other. That night, when at last, by her tender invite he first shared her great oaken bed, and by soft flickered candlelight... in her arms, had tasted Love's sweet delights.

Twelve moons hence, out on the Shandalar plain; two leagues to the north in the Great Henge thereby, would be performed the Great Royal Bride Bonding Ritual betwixt Cirion and Lorimer. The Ritual would be performed under the skies of Shandalar, which at present, yet smiled blue. But in the smiling, the time might stand thin, and she was resolved such time as yet unspent would be sweet. Such sweetness would be shared before the lengthening shadows closed about them, as surely they would... before spring softly melded with summer.

Perhaps, t'would be the last summer any of them would see. If this were so, then they would live to the full, such time as they were gifted in remain, and no matter if it stood but thin as the casting shadow of a Sundial at zenith. It would be their time.

Mindful of this, as she dismissed the Council, Cirion then repaired to the chambers above, and made gentle tap on the door of the chamber that Moyna shared now with young Lukas. She told of her Command to the High Council, and made offer to share with them the Bonding Ritual. Should Fate plunge all into Darkness; was it not better to plunge then, as true Bonded pair?

Word was sent forth into all of the Kingdoms and Realms of Amriath concerning this, and as the days slipped to the hour of the Ritual, one by the one, came the Guests. Each then, brought with them the hope of their hearts that such Bonding would stand long, and be fruitful. But yet, they most certainly knew that out on the Plain of Malphaers, with each day swift passing, those dread campfires gradually crept closer. But, no matter. This was then, a time of rejoicing… perhaps, the last rejoicing any of them would see.

The Flower of Shandalar, bold and defiant; stood gainsaying the shadow of doom that stood in plain view from the High Watchtower of Ling. The campfires were now scarcely forty leagues distant, out on the Plain of Malphaers to the east, and sometimes on the pale wind, the Mordbrood war-chanting carried faintly; a'sharpening the fears of the watchers. For they could not know when doom might beset them. Were this not enough, there was more... for the southern campfires had now gone from out of their sighting, which could mean but, one thing… the Mordbrood stood close to the City of Rhom.

Knowing full well of this thing, the watchers strained eyes to the south-west through each night, setting their teeth to worry their nether lips. They waited to see the first flaming beacon upon the great watchtower chain blossom orangey-bright, passing the Alarm across and therethrough, from high place to high place; marching up north to the borders of Khallis and Lorenfalu. Or worse, they waited to hear the great deep, booming, bellowing roar of the great brazen trumpet of Rhom in their ears, calling alarm of attack by The Mordbrood.

Many were their duty watch nights filled with fear. Bereft of all sleep, with their nerves standing shredded; their imaginings danced with shadows that crept all about; and always, lurked the wondering if this was their last night. Always, they were besieged by the same icy, lingering fear.

In Shandalar, all stood prepared, and ready for the Bride Bonding Ritual as custom decreed. Or so, t'was thought; for in truth, The Royal Bonding Ritual in Shandalar had been not seen there since the mother of Snow Queen Serissea of Galeth stood, circled about by the Henge of Dromnmhor; and laid forth her vows unto Cirion's Great, Great Grandfather, who gifted his in full and faithful accord. This then, was the last time such Ritual betided in that place. For Serissea made Bond, not at all. True, she made dalliance with The Lord Calamar, but that were a wild passion... no vows there were laid; and t'was all that she needed for her to conceive of a girl-child to carry the line of the Warrior Queens of the Ice Realm of Shandalar, down the long summers.

Now, came the time of a young Queen arising, who chose to take Bondmate. Her same-named grandmother never shared such choice in the matter of gifting such vows to her lover who died shielding her from the death blow out there in The High Pass of Ling. He never knew she carried their child... a girl-child, whom she would name... Chelaine.

Chelaine, in time, would Bond with a Guardian of The Light, and bring forth a girl-child, who would bear the same name as her grandmother. This, her child... Cirion, the new Warrior Ice Queen of Shandalar, and Guardian of The Light from The Shining Land, who stood now, close without The Great Henge of Dromnmhor, with Moyna, her armourer at her side. The Henge was all bedecked with the sweet flowers of summer; young Shandalar maids prepared to bestrew soft Moonflower petals to carpet their progress into the Great Henge, their troths then, to renew. Here they would make Bonding in their vows as they stood with their Bondmates before the Great Pierced Standing Stone, also called The Bridestone which stood in the centre of the Great Henge.

And so, they made entry the Great Henge to fanfare; in petal strewn progress, as in an Age long passed. Waiting within, stood Lorimer and Lukas; and also, Eldamar, Lord Guardian of The Light. There, to his hand, stood a besom of Rowan... a talisman, needful, to this sacred Rite. Laying the besom below the mouth of the piercing in the Bridestone, he made sign for both couples to stand before him; Bond-Bride to the left-most hand and Bondmate to the right; and so elected, each offer their hand. The Bondmate to take the hand of his Bond-Bride, and a binding of cambrick wrapped about their joined hands by Eldamar, who then intoned the Bonding vows, which they repeated. Yet, he caused them not, to say "Unto Death."

Then, with the golden Bonding rings slipped upon each bonding finger, each couple stepped through the Great Piercing of the Bridestone. For, thus stepping over the besom brought luck to their union, or so, t'was thought true. And so it was done, and there was great rejoicing.

Thence, to the Citadel, all made repair unto the Great Hall, where they all took of their ease, partaking of the Great Feast there arrayed for them. The Great Hall rang with laughter and merriment... perhaps, the last merriment that these great walls would hear for many long moons... for The Mordbrood stood close now. Yet still, they caroused as they thrust back their fears.

At last, came the time for the Bond-Brides to take their leave, beset by maidens, to the chambers above. There, to be bathed, and anointed with perfumes, prepared for their Bonding Eve. Their hair was braided with Moonflower blossoms; they were soft-bedded 'midst sweet-smelling cambrick sheets. The chambers were caressed with soft candle-light glowing, where they lay, serenely awaiting their lovers.

Below, in the Great Hall, at a signal from Gwythlyn; Lorimer and Lukas… with the ribald jests ringing in their ears, made progress up the Great Stairs to whence, she greeted them as laid by protocol. She stood without each chamber and drew her dagger, striking with the hilt upon the great oaken door soundly, thrice... seeking for leave of admission to each of the Bondmates. With leave so given, the Bondmate entered, and she softly closed the door behind him, and set upon the latch, a garland of Moonflower blossoms; there laid to show none must seek entry, disturbing the lovers.

She returned to the stair-head, and drawing forth her mighty sword "Gurthelkaa", she smote the balustrade with the flat of the blade, three times. Each blow echoed, clear as a mountain stream. All assembled below hearkened to the ringing her sword made. And in the hushed silence swiftly cloaking the Great Hall, she spoke forth... her voice, standing full in echo about the rafters:

'My Lords... Make Rejoicing, The Queen is Well-Bedded.'

The Great Hall burst forth with a great, rolling cheer, with beating of flagons and tankard-pots upon table. Good health to the lovers, gift them sweet delight. And many were the barrels of Glowfire broached, as the merriment wandered far into the thin hours of morning.

But not so, upon the High Watchtower of Ling; with the winds from off The Plain of Malphaers whimpering around the watch platform as the watchers peered into the night. Strained and alert, they sought out any sound that might be The Mordbrood come lurking and probing. With the campfires so close; flitting shadows were to be seen, and when the wind stood to westward, the dreadful war chanting could be plainly heard. The watchers now held great fret and worry. Would they see again, the dawn of a new day as the sun rose from eastward, and smiled on the pale smoke above Astalan?

Beset, as they were, in the lonesome Watchtower; in truth, they might be slaughtered to the last man before aid accomplished the High Pass of Ling... even and if, such alarm might be raised in the fleet moments before their doom befell them and they felt the kiss of a Horanaurk blade. And thus, they kept singular watch on the shadows that danced round the Watchtower by the light of the moon. And thus, they kept singular watch on the campfires that glowed fat and threatening out in the darkness cloaking The Plain of Malphaers.

Summertime drifted to autumn, and in the west, sunsets blazed forth crimson, gold, and blood-red; and though they were beautiful, somehow, they seemed so much brighter and deeper. Some whisperingly said this were a sign... t'were a portent of doom; for as the sky stood as if blood-soaked, well… soon then, would the land. Even those, who held no truth in foretelling, thought long before they shed this thing out of hand.

From the High Watchtower of Ling, had, but recently, come informations that stood stark, and grim. The Mordbrood made gatherment; for more stood in from eastwards, fattening the Host to above now, six thousand... and such time now stood slim in remain. Upon receipt of these informations; Cirion sent out her war bailiffs throughout the Realm of Shandalar to make assembly of her Army with haste. For there stood small, precious time now, and none of it for the squandering. Eldamar and Gwythlyn rode swiftly north to Yeranoor. There, they hoped to seek out a great advantage indeed. They would seek out the Warriors who would stand firm to the need of The Light, as the old pledges so held.

Far to the west, in the Yeranoor Shadowlands, deep in the Forest of Raventhorn Scar; t'was whispered, still dwelt the Shadaiian Wraith-Hunters. They were an Algethi clan dreaded beyond all the terrors of Darklings' imagining; for there was no defence from them to which the Darklings could repair. Shadaiian Wraith-Hunter could lay doom on the Darkling so swift; the Darkling never knew the hunter was there. And once, their Forebears had stood alliance to Ghlinngar the Seer in company with him as they hunted Wraiths all down through the Wild Woods.

Gwythlyn... perceived as granddaughter to Ghlinngar; held forth a hope that if she could but only find them; it might be that she could rekindle alliance such as had stood before. Thus, she elected to journey to westward, compassing the High Woldings of Yeranoor.

Eldamar rode forth, far beyond the Great Moat-Tower; far out on the Yeranoor plains to find an old friend... a sword-brother from days long now, drifted away to the times far behind. The one he sought was Thallian Beckstrider, Lord of the feared riders who held name, The Brotherhood of FionnMhor. These riders were Algethi assault cavalry, who ranged far; patrolling The High Woldings of Yeranoor, The Wastes of Plenmellar; The Yeranoor Shadowlands, Lankriggen Forest, and even out to The Ragnor Redoubt and the far western borders of Lorenfalu. They were ever, and always alert to the creeping of the Darklings, no matter what breed such Darklings might be.

Each and every Darkling found was smitten with grave imposition, and no hope at all of escaping the bite of the war lance, nor the kiss of the sabre. For those who did flee, gained little in their span. The Brotherhood rode them down in swift pursuance, and horse-trampled them until 'naught, but shreds remained.

Meantime, Gwythlyn had fully accomplished the Shadowlands, and nothing seen there to mar her progress. Now before her, lay the eerie and silent deep greening... The Forest of Raventhorn Scar. Here, no birds sang in the moss-shadowed caverns of trees, all bent and twisted, and starved of the sun. Few creatures prevailed here; none, but those that made slither and creeping, or those who made spin their snaring webs.

As she rode into the thickening forest, she reached down and loosened the scabbard strap compassing the hilt of her great sword, "Gurthelkaa"; for she felt a presence, and needs-must prepare. There was nothing to see, but she knew there was something there. Her sharp Algethi instincts would gift her no lie. Too many were the times she had felt this whilst Wraith-stalking. 'Aye, there was something ... and it was close-by.

Suddenly, she found herself held in surroundment... Shadaiian Wraith-Hunters who compassed her round. A dozen who came as the moon-mist will appear on still water... as from nowhere, and never a sound. They were tall, holding above three, and three-quarter cubits in stature; willow-wand slender, and solemn of countenance. Their eyes were large and lustrous, like owls of the forest ... most needful for Wraith-hunting about this place, and their demeanour stood cold, and unforgiving. Their leader spoke:

'Algethi-Wench, What business have you here, in this place?'

Then, his eyes fell upon her great sword-hilt, and suddenly, in his mind he knew. This great sword, bepommelled with Faience and Sapphires... he knew it as well as he knew the lines upon his hand. This was "Gurthelkaa", also called "Icing Death." She had been forged in the grey, flinty mountains at Hunter Ghlinngar's command; and was renowned from the furthest, lost days of the Wild Woods. Infinite many, were the Wraiths it had slayed. But, what of this Algethi-wench? How came she then, by it? He needs must take great care, in how this need to be held in approach. Gwythlyn looked to him, and spoke, saying:

'Know you then, "Gurthelkaa"... "Icing Death," from the Moat Tower of Ghlinngar the Seer? I am his Granddaughter, by name… Gwythlyn; and I seek you here at this hour to kindle alliance as ever it once was. I stand in Ghlinngar's place, and I charge you, as Ghlinngar once stood with Shadaiians; to stand shoulder to me and hold forth your pledge to renew. For, in Lorenfalu, soon will stand a great need for the Wraith-Hunters' strength, and the Wraith-Hunters' guile.'

Then, she laid tell of the Mordbrood upon them, and watched their eyes glitter, and watched their cold smiles.

The Shadaiians gifted a smile to run blood cold. For slaughter of Darklings, they held as fair sport. Now, the Forest of Raventhorn Scar stood most singular lacking in their prey. Such Wraiths as were thought there to remain in the dank, shadowed gladings, were consummately vexsome to bring to the blade. But notion of Mordbrood stood ripe for the dooming; well, here was bright promise for sport to be relished.

And so, a pledge was laid between the Shadaiians and Gwythlyn that, when danger stood forth, a rider be sent out from Rhom with the warning. The Shadaiian War Host would suddenly appear... as if laid by sorcery. For here lay a secret, fantastical, that Ghlinngar had not thought to tell to Gwythlyn as he gifted the skills of the Wraith-Hunter to her. But it was a secret Ghlinngar indeed knew, full well. Shadaiians held gift of the art of Shape-shifting; a most efficacious deceit to their hand for hunting the Wraiths in the dank, shadowed gladings of Raventhorn Scar in the Grim Shadowlands.

The Shadaiian leader, who held name, Archernan spoke; saying to Gwythlyn, that as she rode out to Shandalar he would emplace such an escort as may then, be needed. For there was small doubt... the odds were fully even, to meeting with the Darklings as she rode the plain of the River Claidell. Such escort that he had a mind of, would certainly un-nerve any Darklings that in lurk, might dwell upon her path to the ford, close by Lankriggen Forest. This said, he walked with her all down and away through the moss-shadowed caverns of trees all bent and twisted, to the Forest edge, where in quiet waiting, lay two great, snow-white wolves. Archernan then bade her fair speed and safe journey, making her gift of as near a smile as a Shadaiian might bring. For they were beset with a solemn demeanour, and yet, Gwythlyn saw there was truth in this thin smile.

And so, she rode out, striking south for the River Claidell... perhaps, three Sundial-shadows in ride. As she made haste, the great, white wolves held station... one to her leftmost, and one to her rightmost hand. Compassing swiftly, the open flooding plain of the River Claidell; soon before her lay Lankriggen Forest... a gloomy, and secretive arbour of menace, all groping the sky. And if, there were Darklings, they wisely kept counsel, with none to her sight on her swift, galloped ride. Perhaps, they decried free gift of them feeling the great, snow-white wolves' teeth, ripping open their throats. And there, at last, lay the ford, hard by the old Algethi trail along which lay the ruined Ragnor Redoubt.

She reined in her fleet Rhola Mare, and turned in the saddle. She saw she was now without the great, snow-white wolves; and in their place, stood two Shadaiian Wraith-Hunters, who, to Gwythlyn made small gift of the thinnest of smiles. They raised a hand in farewell, and mist-bewreathed; transformed into falcons. Then, swiftly, they made lift up into the skies, and flew northwards, back to the Forest of Raventhorn Scar.

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

Gwythlyn, alone now; made broachment the ford, and yet, t'was still a pretty ride to Shandalar. Turning, she watched long. Her eyes filled with wonderment, as they flew on; dark specks in the blue. Whispers were heard of Shapeshifting enchantment, but she had never seen such a thing. But now, Gwythlyn knew the Mordbrood stood no shadow of chance 'gainst such a dread reckoning. They would have not the knowing how, 'nor where, such doom might lie. Shadaiian Wraith-Hunters might shapeshift as anything... grasses, or trees, or the birds in the air.

The old Algethi trail stood overshadowed by Lankriggen Forest, wherein, Darklings severally might lie in the ambush. The trail stood much winding and wending, and often, was as dark as the night. All daylight was sometimes, fully lost, with the greening crouched over the trail as it wove to the Ragnor Redoubt. So, once more, she reached down and loosened the scabbard strap, ready to draw swiftly forth "Gurthelkaa" if the need stood manifest. And, there! A soft movement down in the deep grasses.

A great Sabre-toothed cat slowly rose to her view, and languidly... lithely, accomplished the Algethi trail until it stood there before her. Gwythlyn knew that this then, must be her second escort. The great cat moved to her, with shining eyes of gold looking her in her face, then turning, made progress ahead, loping gracefully along the Algethi trail; and if, there were emplaced such Darklings resolved in the lurking of ambush, then, none showed their faces. Soon; standing out gaunt in the soft evening sun; like the stump of a rotted tooth, crouched the ruinous Ragnor Redoubt. The great Sabre-toothed cat made crouched, and most slinking of progress; compassing about the ruined and tumbledown walls. Ragnor Redoubt lay most eerily silent. It was a becursed and blighted place; this thing stood plain and true.

Gwythlyn moved on through the Scourings of Ragnor, past the great burial pits where nothing ever grew... not one blade of grass, and not even a sturdy weed. The ground was so befouled with the mouldering Darklings that nothing could flourish, not even one vigorous seed. Nothing there moved; so they progressed out from the Scourings of Ragnor, and cresting the heights, there before them spread the Plain of Shandalar. Five leagues eastward, kissed by westering sun, stood the golden spires of the Citadel.

Gwythlyn made turn to the great cat; but, there, in its place stood one more Shadaiian Wraith-Hunter, manifest as before. The Shadaiian made step to Gwythlyn and spoke, his great eyes glistening in the soft light of evening:

'We shall indeed heed your call, Sister, and fall upon them as swift falls the dark of the night. For you are Wraith-Hunter, as we are Wraith-Hunters, and we stand together... for all and for one; and these are the words Archernan charged me gift to you.'

He bowed, mist-bewreathed; and when the mist had cleared...was gone.

Spurring her fleet Rhola Mare in the gathering dusk, she rode the five last leagues, hinderment free; and clattering into the Citadel Courtyard, swiftly made dismount to lay forth all of the strange, and fantastical informations of the Shadaiian Host to Cirion. Gwythlyn spoke of how they held pledge to gift aid to the City of Rhom, for the City of Rhom would need such aid, the most.

Was there then, news of Eldamar? Had he stood prevailment, far out on the Yeranoor Plains? Cirion said no word had yet reached Shandalar as to agreements, or perhaps, disdains... concerning Alliance resolved 'twixt Eldamar and the dread Brotherhood of FionnMhor, and too, Thallian Beckstrider… his old sword-brother, far back in the time of the Suhai War. Thallian Beckstrider who had stood at his shoulder and laid doom with grave imposition, upon those they found without the walls... Darklings, reckless ... or simple foolhardy; in the dreadful assault on the Ragnor Redoubt.

The Ragnor Redoubt... where the Forces of The Light laid such doom upon the Darklings, that never again could they prosecute war. 'Nor would they lay the red dawn of mayhems upon Amriath... for in the Scourings of Ragnor lay four mighty pits, mouldering ten thousand Darklings or more. The Suhai Host was fully stripped of its might and capable of 'naught, but chance raids, or some feeble incursion; or lurking abroad in the dark of the night.

But now, stood a new threat to Amriath, and time for the gatherment stood clear and without issue, for allies of old who would stand to The Light and take up the sword while such Light still remained.

Eldamar rode down across the FionnMhor Moss... the great, gorse-strewn moor above FionnMhor Rift... the deep, wooded valley wherein, dwelt The Brotherhood. Entering in, soon his eyes espied Fionndell, where he would find Thallian Beckstrider; and in the seeing, he made swift, and careful choose of tell. For, if he laid forth informations in manner they found fair, perhaps, then this thing would stand good. For, if he could stand alliance to The Brotherhood, such doom upon the Mordbrood could be laid. Yet, care were the watchword he needs must, take heed of as he now made progress towards Fionndell. The Brotherhood of FionnMhor stood unlettered in orderment and t'was as likely as not, they might lay bow first, and later, make questionment; and it were not then, his wont to be pierced through with an arrow. So, he made loud in voice... calling Beckstrider to stand forth to him, and from out of the greening, a great voice made answer:

'Lord Guardian of The Light, progress now, and repair forwardly.'

And, then... 'Eldamar, you old fool; may you indeed, most unshrivenly die.'

Then, the smallest of movement... like wind upon the water, and, from out of the greening Thallian Beckstrider stood before him. With clasp of hand, they bonded their friendship. T'was long and ago, that they stood shoulder to shoulder; sword-brother to sword-brother... one to the other, and well met, indeed... it could not be denied.

They progressed unto the encampment that lay in seclusion, deep in FionnMhor Rift. Girdled about with a great timbered buttress, t'was, indeed a Fortress... fully cunning; for it made blend with the compassing forest as neat as the morning mists blend with the skies. Thallian Beckstrider had chosen this place; and in the choosing, Beckstrider stood guileful. There was no clear path to broach full approachment by stealth; lacking twig snap, or shuffle of leaf. There was 'naught, but a killing ground round and about, where the Brotherhood archers could lay certain doom upon any attackers. Yet... within the great gate, there stood a fair settlement. Here, there were no rude hutments or bothies. Therein, all stone-built and sturdy, lay the hearths of the Brotherhood, with stables and forge, and a great Gathering Hall to whence Beckstrider strode with Eldamar, to lay forth tell to The Brotherhood of FionnMhor.

Who stood silent, hearkening Eldamar as he laid forth earnest warning of doom in approachment from easterly. He laid tell of The Mordbrood, and their fearsome quest to lay waste all vestige of Light in the Kingdoms and Realms of Amriath, and thus, manifest The Third Age of Darkness and all that it brought... the doom of the Light, and the thrall of the land. He told of the need of the gatherment of the old allies; for the future of all hung now... by, but a strand. The Brotherhood of FionnMhor stood cold-eyed. A muttering crept all about the Great Hall. The shadow of gainsayment prowled all about them. For this endeavour, they cared not at all. For, what was the advantage, beyond slaughtering Darklings? ... And Darklings a'plenty, were hereabouts for their sport. The Mordbrood could never broach Fionndell Fortress, so why barter Fate with no prize to be taken?

And, then... came a voice, clear, that echoed the rafters... fat with contempt, and as sharp as a blade. There stood a maiden; slim, in breeches and jerkin; a sword to her side, and her eyes hard with disdain. She laid forth with grave imposition, her thoughts. Were they a'feared of such odds laid before them? Could they hunt 'naught, but small parcels of Darklings, all creeping and lurking about Yeranoor? And only then, if the advantage of numbers stood full in their favour for them to prevail? Why then, should they wonder why she chose not to take Bondmate among them? Old women all. Faint hearted, and frail of stomach.

Thallian Beckstrider glanced at Eldamar with a shadow of smile, cloaked, before it stood clear upon him. For this was his daughter, Arlanna... as wild as a first yearling vixen; yet... here, Eldamar saw in her, an echo of Cirion... the same presence there that would not stand denial. And she was beautiful. Her hair was pale as the bark of a birch tree, and she was sparkling, deep emerald of eye. She strode across the Hall; her eyes bright with disdain; thrusting aside those who would mire her progress.

She stood with Beckstrider and Eldamar, then, faced the throng, and with consummate ire, laid forth the shame fully upon them, until they dropped eyes from her face and made shuffle of feet. Still, she berated their spineless demeanour until they stood silent, gazing at the floor. Then, she laid forth such a stroke of destruction, to shatter such hopes perhaps, held by some in the Hall.

None of those there, in assembly before her stood worthy as Bondmate... not one, amongst them. There was, but one in the Fionndell Fortress; there was, but one, who stood fair in her measure, and he stood beside her... Eldamar, Lord Guardian of The Light… standing voice-struck; in complete surprise.

He looked to Beckstrider... who nodded and smiled with the knowing. His daughter had chosen, and no more to say. Eldamar had not held such thought since the losing of Mirien Goldenwand; of such a day ever dawning. Long since thrust away was the remembering of soft female touch, and of love's gentle song. But looking into her great, deep, emerald eyes, he knew he had been so alone for too long a time. And, as she stood close to him, he felt a soft, half-remembered, warm whisper that tugged at his heart. He hoped that this stood not, as some deceit... some spur to The Brotherhood, made on her part. Yet, this was foolishness, by any reckoning. She was so young, and he stood deep in summers flown. She looked into his heart, as all Algethi Maidens can, and saw there, the sum of these shadowy fears. Slipping her hand into his, she softly whispered:

'My Lord, such as I spoke, was spoken in full truth. You took my heart from the moment you stood with my Father, and I lay gaze upon you. For, I have waited 'nigh, all of my womanhood for such a man... noble, caring and wise; and all to be found here, but braggarts and ruffians; whispering falsehoods with lust-laden eyes.'

Then... she turned again to the Brotherhood throng, humbled by her sharp, disparaging stare; and in a voice as cold as the Ice fields of Erinthor, laid her last words to those standing there shamed.

'An you would at length, chance upon backbone and stomach; send word forth to Shandalar; for there shall we be. We stand together with our covenant sealed; my Father, my Bond-choice, Eldamar... and I.'

And turned on her heel, and strode out of the Great Hall.

Eldamar and Beckstrider followed in wake, and Beckstrider spoke, his eyes full of regard:

'Wild, like her mother. A Jewel did we make together, sired in honest love, and hot passion; and you have your hands full, Eldamar, old friend. She stands need of taming with gentle persuasion, but she will stand true to you, until the end.'

Eldamar gave a sigh. He remembered her mother, The Princess Alanie of Old Eldanore, beautiful, yes... but as wild as a tempest, and he wondered then what this Bond-in-intent, held in store for him. His lost love, sweet Mirien Goldenwand, held soft compassion and delicate grace. Arlanna had fire, and her spirit shone brightly. His Halls might stand now, devoid of the sleepy calm he had for countless moons, cherished; far off in the Shining Land. Gone, would be the long nights of the book and the pipe-leaf. Arlanna, perhaps, would hold other designs.

As they rode out of the deep forest greening that cloaked Fionndell, deep in FionnMhor Rift, Beckstrider reined in his mount, his eyes solemn, and his countenance stern. In a quiet voice, he gave light to his thoughts, saying:

'I stand in great discontent of the demeanour the Brotherhood laid forth, this day. I shall repair to the Great Gathering Hall, and prosecute cause as to why they made stand in this manner.'

Then, turning; he was lost in the deep forest greening. And so, as they rode on out to FionnMhor Moss, Eldamar held faint hope Beckstrider could turn them; yet stripped of the Brotherhood... then bitter, the losing. For their very name laid the dread on the Darklings, and such whispered dread was a singular advantage. Intelligence laid of The Brotherhood riding, would spread through the Mordbrood war-host with consummate speed.

Beckstrider rode up to the Great Hall of Gatherment, there, to be met by the Captain of Guard who struggled to hold the gaze of his Lord for more than a moment in passing. Beckstrider saw that such struggle stood hard upon this young Captain, renowned for his bright courage; standing there now, his eyes frightened, and full of dismay, saying:

'Lord, we are shamed by the Lady Arlanna concerning these things that have passed here, this day. Indolence gifted, has lost us the Lady... the sweet Flower of Fionndell. The Brotherhood chooses that whence comes the call of The Light, it shall muster and ride out to war.'

Beckstrider stood before the Brotherhood congressed, and spoke:

'This choice laid forth by you, then; so say you all?'

A great roar prevailed him in answer:

'So say we all.'

And made echo about the Great Gathering Hall. And so then, The Light stood alliance in Fionndell, as it held alliance in the Forest of Raventhorn Scar. There was, but one pledge left now for the reckoning; the Sorceress, Shahran of Penvallanar.

The Sorceress, Shahran of Penvallanar held the allegiance of each, and of all Moon maidens and White witches; each Prophetess and Sorceress... all those who wove magic to hold Evil in thrall. And she held a soft flame for Thallian Beckstrider. This was the issue of a sweet trysting when she was yet, but a young Moon maiden, back in their springtimes before he made Bond with Alanie of Old Eldanore. Between them was covenant laid, as lovers have always done, and always will do. Here, there would be no misting forgetfulness as time slipped past… they would always, and ever be there; one for the other. Should the need come, there would be no deny. And, magic a'plenty would soon then, be needed; for still, The Light stood, as if, upon the edge of a blade. If Shahran yet still held but a soft, faintest flicker of that gentle flame; such advantage was there to be taken.

Beckstrider elected to ride for Penvallanar, far to the northerly-west, beyond Yeranoor. A Squadron of Brotherhood stood to his bidding, eager to redeem their shaming. To accomplish Penvallanar, then stood the need of broaching in depth, The Wastes of Plenmellar... and here, crept and lurked about Darkling insurgents, probing the borders of The Shining Land; a blight ever manifest. A stern escort was a most singular need.

Beckstrider rode out in the bright of the morning, and with him, the Brotherhood, riding hard, to accomplish fully, The Wastes of Plenmellar 'ere six Sundial shadows had crept thereabout; with never the sight, 'nor the smell of a Darkling; although t'was odds-even they lurked about here. Soon enough, they espied the soft valley that cradled the Great Hall of Penvallanar shining softly pale, in the after-zenith sun. The ride lay, but half a league on. Beckstrider commanded the Brotherhood stand. He would ride down on Penvallanar alone. For this were a soft pledge betwuixt him, and Shahran, and he would not countenance such to be shared.

And so, he rode in through the great Ironed gateway, and was made conveyance into the Great Hall. There, he laid eyes upon Shahran the Sorceress for the first time in perhaps, a score, and five summers; and to his eyes, she had aged, not at all. For, though she now held close on two-score of summers; her face held no line, and her hair tumbled down soft to her waist, in luxuriant, shining waves of deepest brown... dark as a Nightingale's wing. She still held grace of form as he remembered; slender, and yet, fulsome womanly. Her eyes were the pale, soft, velvety brown of first autumn hazel nuts, shining... as, at their first meet, long ago, as they shared in their springtime together.

They were never lovers; for this could not be. Shahran was pledged as a Moon maiden, and thus, must stand to her calling in full purity. Thus in the parting, then Thallian Beckstrider, heavy of heart, took the warrior path. Now he stood before her, as Lord of The Brotherhood. His love still stood strong, but, t'was late in the day. Shahran smiled softly at her old love, Beckstrider, and gently, spoke:

'Why, Thallian; hold no regret. I hold you close in my heart as it ever has been, and we shall know the days. I know of your quest, and I know of your sadness… your Alanie; and how then, her Charas made to rise, five summers since; in the clutch of the ague, and how, that Alanie was your heart's delight. But, circles are turning. I have looked deep into the Glass of Revealment, and I say to you, when stands the hour of The Mordbrood destruction; we shall once more, stand as one. I speak true. All that was once shall be ours for the keeping. We shall embrace all that we held in deny down the long summers. Your sword shall rest at my hearth as t'was ever meant to be, and there shall be no more nights cloaking my lonesomeness.

To answer your quest; I have communed with my sisters across Amriath to prepare their magics. The Forces of The Light shall prevail in this issue, for we weave a Great enchantment. A Darkling nightmare takes form as we speak; for my sisters are spinning enchantment beyond all that yet, has been seen since The First Age of The Light, and the coming of Elaiana… "She, who is the Wellspring of All Being," when The Great Mother Dreamed her First Dreaming.'

Meantime... far to the south; the City of Rhom sat serene in the late springtime sun. Yet, within the walls there was bustling throng; much as a swan will glide softly on still water... serene on the surface, yet paddling strongly beyond the gaze. Much was to be done in the time they were given. Tristan's defence stood with singular guile. Without the walls, girdled all and about, was fashioned a snare to confound for a while, such Mordbrood attack as they might choose to prosecute. Perhaps, in this; they might snatch a morsel of time from without the jaws of fickle Fate. Perhaps this snare would win time for the Forces of The Light to stand to them... time to lay warning, 'ere it stood too late.

Two great, wide ditches, freshly dug, compassed the City walls. These were filled with such brushwood that hand could be laid upon from around and about the wide plains that beset Rhom. Then, was the Master Rune laid. The City was stripped of oils and tallows... all manner of things that would flame and would burn; and these were soaked to the brushwood, and all was then cloaked in concealment. This would effect a dread catechism to stand tutorment to The Mordbrood. As they laid Assault on the City walls, then, would the ditches be fired in their wake and they would be fully trapped... with no hope of retreat from the killing ground.

Then, could the archers lay such doom to them. And were this, not enough… from out of Khallis, were conveyed such Engines as were never seen in these lands. They bore the form of a dead, hollow tree; being crafted from great Oaken planks beset about with bands of iron. Each engine spanned five cubits in length, with one end closed and shuttered. The other gaped forth... a dark, ominous maw, into which was poured a substance fantastical. This was something that now, would change ever more, the prosecution of War. This substance was a compound devised by the Alchemist Masters of Khallis... a black, pungent powder, melded from three strange, and thought worthless leavings… the dross of the mines, and holding no value.

The first was the pungent and hand-staining yellowness that steamed from the rocks where hot springs were to be found. The second was a curious white, powdery crystal all coating the mine walls in ample store; from where the rain-spill water seeped therethrough. The third was the lowest of low... the soft dustings of charcoal piles, swept from the floor of the forge. When these three held meld as one, and were fired with a taper... there came a great flash and crash, and much flame did disgorge from the maw of the engine. Further; if packed into a vessel... such vessel would shatter, and cast all the shardings, far and wide. If carefully firmed to the depths of the maw of the Engine, and severally, iron scraps tumbled into the maw... the whole, when carefully firmed yet again... and then, the sum fired... such calamity was wrought, should stand be made forwardly of the Engine.

A great, bursting, flaming and crashing, all beset by billowed smokings issued forth… and all before it was hewn down by the iron scraps hurled out of the maw in the manner that rain torrent cuts down standing corn. This would be a terrible doom to lay forth on The Mordbrood, who would have no time to fall back, and no gift of forewarning. And more; from the Khallis smiths came one more device to be used in the maw of the engine. A device, that they gave a curious name... grape-hurl.

These were iron spheres, all joined with chain lengths, taking the form of a cluster of grapes; which, when loosed from the maw of the Engine… spread wide, all glowing hot. For when cast thus, from out the maw of the Engine, they whirled about in the air, in the manner that a tumbling sycamore seed will fall from the bough in autumn; and those so misfortunate as to be chosen, would be cut down and shredded, with consummate swiftness.

Tristan had chosen as Master of Engine, his younger son, Calamar, who held promise of guile in laying the flame-flaying doom upon The Mordbrood. Indeed, Tristan had pondered this for some span of time. Talith had spoken soft to him that Calamar's love, young Eilanna stood fair now, with child… the space of some three-score, and ten moons in passing. Perhaps, concernment for her might defile the bright courage Calamar held without question... a courage that ever, shone bright as the sun. Such caution might garner doom whilst facing The Mordbrood; for gift of caution, they then, possessed none.

Trillian too; with his love, Serena, shared in the sweet taste of love in the soft of the night. But as yet, there was no blossom of issue... though Serena had secretly hoped that there might be.

Back at the throat of the High Pass of Ling, with the thin wind whimpering mournfully about the Watchtower; the watchers now squandered no time in the taking of ease. For in their dooming, now close stood the hour. There, in the daylight, a black horde... as like ants upon a paving, could be seen in scurry and lurk. In the darkness, the campfires glowed fat. Such a guard duty was frightensome work.

The flitting of shadows as the clouds caressed a waning moon; and the war chanting that danced on the pale, and whimpering wind tugged at the watchers' fears, tauntingly tempting their courage to fail. Would there be time enough to broach The High Pass of Ling to bring the warning to the Redoubt of The Low Riggs of Striding Edge? Would there be time enough to carry the alarm in full to the Shandalar Citadel?

Could they hold firm, even for but, a thin span in passing if The Mordbrood fell upon them?... Or would they there, die?

As if, in some mocking answer; in the east over Astalan... fresh smoke all blighted the sky