Chapter Thirteen.

The Queen's Guard Captain, Laurre Aldaval.

Rhynam rode down to join the Black riders, who stood cloaked in the mist at the edge of The Mere. Calelindi stood forth, softly weaving Enchantment; and to those watching, there appeared slowly to their gaze, a threatening, sombre darkness that crept through the mist, turning all, close, as dim as the night. It surrounded the riders with the rumble of thunder and summer sheet lightning flashing and piercing the darkness. As The Riders lay heel to their mounts and galloped away, the dark mist besetting them round, cloaked all about them and moved out across the plain, drifting and swirling. To the watchers, it appeared as if it were indeed, some strange summer storm from off the grey, flinty mountains far to the west. Such thought that The Nemesis of Lothluthil rode concealed therein, might never be imagined.

Chelaine and Marcus, Elshore, and Calelindi prepared to decamp to Calverstock. Now that Torbair of Aiuthal stood firm in his Stewardship, there was indeed, small cause to tarry here. The four then proceeded down to the stables, where waited, not horses... but gryphons, numbering four. Old Baelvane and Gildrim, and two of the younglings were saddled and waiting to fly out. And so, they moved out from the Great Crystal Castle with the Cornflower-Blue Mere shrinking into the distance as they climbed high into the bright summer sky. Here, it was infinitely safer than progression by ponderous wagon... and swifter; for within the passing in span of a Sundial half-shadow, they spied below them, a darkness that swept easterly... as if then, a storm sweeping out across the plain... a summer storm, or least, as a watcher might think to see.

There was no clue that therein lay the key to the dooming of Darkling mayhems; and no clue to suggest that therein, all cloaked about by Calelindi's most subtle Enchantment, rode The Nemesis of Lothluthil... the dreaded Night Fighters of Elisriendell... the nightmare of Darklings; a gut-wrenching sight. Such a sight would cause Darklings to fill their breeches in terror… Assassin Algethi who could see plain, in the dark of the night.

Soon enough, The Delvlings came into their view. Like a Wraith in the night, suddenly, out of the sky came Calelindi's great eagle on whispering wings, and drifted down before them. It had made sentinel flight far up above them, ever since they had flown out from The Great Crystal Castle on the Cornflower-Blue Mere. It had soared high above, with sharp gaze; ranging and quartering about. The eagle's demeanour told that their swift journey stood not in revealment, and stood well in this subterfuge.

Calverstock bustled in the manner of a Garrison making preparations for the coming affray. The gryphons and unicorns were all quartered in stable; the troops were quartered away, awaiting instruction in tactics specific. Fletchers toiled crafting arrows; Armourer smiths forged bolts and quarrels for the crossbows, with the forge glowing whitely. Each and all made haste with the toil of preparation for conflict. Callam came forth in the welcome. They saw a full, anxious look set his face all about. Where then, was Staisha? His eyes held concernment.

Marcus spoke. He told that she had elected that she would ride out with her brother, in company of The Black riders, cloaked in the Enchantment. As she rode, they would be discussing how The Riders of Lothleitha and The Nemesis of Lothluthil might stand together in support of each other. For they had not ridden as one until now, and perhaps, would not again; but needs must then, some tactic be planned in the standing of where, and of how if the occasion arose. Thus, Callam should not fret. She was as safe upon her ride as she ever might be, beset by four Cohorts; cloaked round by a misting storm, and shielded in depth by this Dark Company.

They gazed into the west, where the sky was darkening. A storm was approaching, and Calelindi gave a slender smile. Here stood the sum of her Enchantment complete. It stood, a perfect storm. They watched its progress for a while; for soon it would fade, as a rainbow will fade as it closed on The Delvlings and Rhynam laid the uncloaking word thrice in the speaking. There in the Delvlings they would be safe from the sight of the Darklings; and not a sound heard in their passing. The subterfuge would stand complete. The Mordbrood would remain content; not knowing the Forces of The Light were now quartered in Calverstock, but two Leagues west out of Rhom, and prepared to confound The Darklings self-perceived might.

The Mordbrood would imagine that Rhom stood ripe for the plucking; like some homestead maid to be despoiled in the pillage... as it had been in the rampage of Astalan, two summers since past. They would never imagine that they might yet, stand thwarted in their endeavour. But, there was something amiss. The storm darkness was moving to northwards, skirting The Delvlings. This was not the plan. As they watched; suddenly, a glitter stood forth, as the sun kissed Mail shirt; and from the edge of the tree line, a pale rider came at the gallop. As all eyes watched; they saw it was Staisha The Huntress upon her fleet Unicorn, riding down to Calverstock in utmost haste.

Clattering into the common enclosure, and swinging down from her saddle, she swiftly lay the tell to Callam of how Rhynam had elected to ride The Nemesis of Lothluthil on to Rhom in cloak of the storm. Calelindi stood close to his side. Her soft, brown eyes were filled with concern and worry. Would her Enchantment prevail? For she had enchanted the distance only as far as The Delvlings, and beyond here, perhaps, such enchantment might fade.

Further then; Rhom had no knowledge that The Nemesis of Lothluthil were for The Light, and thus, they might be thought of as some Darkling incursion. For when the sentries of Rhom laid first sight upon them, Alarm would be called. This would lay them open to the mayhems spewed from the Great Engines of War out of Khallis that were set about the walls. In this, t'was certain-sure that even their armour would never prevail in the flame and the flay of the red-hot iron, scything and shredding; cutting them down as rain torrent cuts down standing corn. This would be a terrible doom to lay forth on The Riders. They would have no time to fall back, and no gift of forewarning.

Rhom need swiftly be apprised of this matter. Calelindi called for quill and parchment, and then, wrote in plain, Common Tongue of what approached from out of the west. She called down her eagle, which alighted on her shoulder. Calelindi whispered in some unknown tongue, and laid forth the parchment to safe, taloned sight. Her eagle spread wing, rose into the skies, and swiftly flew away into the east.

In Rhom, the sentries watched the storm approaching, apprehensively. Indeed then, it stood most curious, 'nay, ominous; quite unlike any storm that they held in their knowing. Was this some Darkling foray? The sombre cloud stood close to the ground... but ten or so cubits in Deeping; whereas, to the skies it should stand, if indeed, it were a true storm. All who gazed upon it knew this was an enchantment; but what then, the purpose?... And woven by whom? Calamar called out Alarm to his War Engine Captains, and they stood fully prepared to lay forth the Flailing doom into the storm-cloud; to shred and cut down such as might lurk within. The flaring links were held poised to set off the charges, when suddenly, a great Eagle landed at Calamar's feet, laying a parchment before him. He reached out and lifted it, reading it swiftly. Then, he cried:

'Hold hard! Stand off your links, Immediate!'

As they looked to him; their eyes beset with questioning, he gazed at the storm-cloud, which moved not a hand-span. Then, to them all came complete and swift surprise. For Rhynam had thrice spoken the word of uncloaking… "Miqulaure"... meaning, "Kiss of The Sun;" and upon the third speak, the darkened mists faded, and sight of the Cohorts appeared to their gaze as they peered from the walls of Rhom in the seeking of what manner of form these Black riders took. Then came the knowing; these were the dreadful Black riders, whose name was quietly whispered in rumour... in huddled accord. These were the dreaded, feared Nemesis of Lothluthil standing before their walls, and therein the City, was dropped not a word.

Calamar came hurriedly to the great gates of Rhom as the Black riders made forward progress into view; all shining Black Armour and closed-face of Helm. He watched them, and felt perhaps, he should fall upon his knees and make Homage to whichever Deities in whom his Faith did lie; thanking them that he was not birthed as a Darkling; for here rode their certain doom. This was plain to see.

Rhynam made dismount his mighty Black charger, raised helm, and stood forward in greetings, well met. Yet, none of the other Black riders raised helm; but sat astride their mounts, silent; gathering glances most sidelong, as anxiousness crept like a thief in the night about the folk of Rhom. The riders sat quiet... unmoving... not even their eyes. But then, through their helms could be seen not even a glitter; and those standing there watching, felt fear slowly rise in their throats. Were they living creatures?... Or were they some Wraith-like, dread terror? Swiftly; the curious turned away, pale of countenance; sensing that, into their midst now came the Shadow of Death manifest in these sombre Black riders who stood in this place.

Tristan joined his brother and made singular welcome to Rhynam. Indeed then, he fully understood the needs of the Riders, and had arranged that they might quarter the old Questors' stables that distantly stood remote and unwatched from the rest of the City. For there, they would be safe from the curious eyes; and fewer that knew of their presence in Rhom, more chance to gift Mordbrood a dreadful tutorage.

A tutorage that lay waiting, some dark, moonless night when The Mordbrood in campment, stood off-guard and grown indolent by their self-perceived prowess against the undefended farms and homesteads they had pillaged in Astalan. Threatened with no more than pitchforks and billhooks wielded by farmers and woodsmen unschooled in affray, The Mordbrood had lacked the need to draw too sturdy a breath to best them. But now, a dread reckoning here manifested itself; impatient to embrace them in their dooming, even to the last one.

A dread reckoning indeed; when The Nemesis of Lothluthil fell upon them, unseen and unheard; by the reason thereto, The Black riders would have bound up the hooves of their steeds with soft fabric, in muffle. The first that The Mordbrood would know of their approach would be the whistle, and sharp kiss of Leissor-bladed sabres, shredding them complete; and small chance to even take hold of Kelek-Bersker... and no chance at all to barter fate, and thus, cheat the death-blow. Or, so stood the plan; wild and bold in the conceiving. Yet, Tristan held fret. If, but one word of this prevailed to the ears of The Mordbrood concerning this matter; they would stand alert, and the Foray would fail.

So, a cordon was laid round the old Questors' quarter. None were to pass, 'nor to even gaze in; and a curfew was posted the span of one Sundial shadow-span before the sun sank in the west. The Nemesis of Lothluthil was quartered then, as in Calverstock; beyond the eyes that would pry; and those who had seen were advised to keep word behind teeth, or most swiftly would the banishment be laid upon them. They would be condemned out of hand, and cast away from the safety of Rhom and its great curtain wall. Then, they could barter with Fate that The Mordbrood would not find them; and in such bartering, stood small chance to prevail.

Away to the east, on The Plain of Malphaers; at the ruined fort of Windlemoss Crag, The Brotherhood of FionnMhor and Beckstrider were laying a plan which, t'was hoped might well thwart the march of the second War-Host of The Mordbrood; thus confounding their intent of joining with the first War-Host that stood from them now, but some ten, and five Leagues to the west, and close to Ling. The War-Host lay now within striking distance of the throat of The High Pass of Ling where their intent would be to burst full mayhems upon the brave Forces of The Light arrayed there before them. Here, they would drive down The Light, for The Darkness to then prevail. Beckstrider knew full-well that if the second War-Host bolstered fat, their intention; then all was lost. Upon him, and the Brotherhood of FionnMhor much now stood.

Beckstrider dare not fail; for though Windlemoss Crag stood slighted and spoiled, it held a tactical importance far beyond its ruinous, buttressed walls. It fully foiled incursion in width and depth of more than six shoulder-spans; being built on a causeway little more than twelve cubits wide. To northwards, towered a high cliff that rose sheer and looming; to the side facing south yawned a great chasm... a great scar, three-score cubits wide; an the same again in deeping, that clove the Great Plain almost to Astalan.

The Mordbrood Host had broached the plain to the north of this chasm, and could not cross over; and herein, lay the plan. They could not lay out their ranks for a broad attack. They needs must foray most thinly arrayed; and thus, could be held for some span... perhaps lengthy. They would need to clear the causeway of those slain at the first, and this could be fully repeated for as long as the Brotherhood held firm, or until all their arrows were spent.

Then, The Brotherhood would fall back towards the west in retirement, and would permit The Mordbrood to take the fort. Now, came the part of the plan, which was the most impudent. When The Mordbrood swarmed in, and around the fort; then Beckstrider hoped to bring down the sagging crumble of Windlemoss Crag, crushing them into the ground. Those Darklings who were not in the fort would be swept off the causeway by the tumble-spill of rocks, down into the chasm to embrace their doom... or be crushed against the walls of the great northern rock face. Between buttress wall and cliff, there stood but, a thin space to escape from the tumble of Windlemoss Crag. Yet, in this, there stood conundrum complete. How then, to bring down the Crag on the heads of these Horanaurk vermin?... They, who thought not to meet resistance so far from the border. This assumption might well gift a morsel of time to accomplish the plan; yet, dropping the Crag was the key to prevailment.

But how then, might such doom be laid upon them? Remembrance then, made a presentment to Beckstrider in the tell of Eldamar before they had ridden out, concerning this substance fantastical from out of Khallis... this powder that crashed, and made gout of flame. T'was concocted from three substances; two of which, were mere dross-spoil of the mine. The third... t'was the dustings of charcoaling hearths; and back up the Vale, had they not perceived signs of minings long since worked out, but perhaps, still bearing these things? It stood then, most needful to prospect the same.

Beckstrider made ponder and muse, with much fretting, and then… came the remembering, quite suddenly. Substance, the first, was the pungent and hand-staining yellowness seamed in the rock from where hot springs trickled forth. The second was a curious white, powdery crystal that coated the cavern walls in much abound, from where rainwater spill seeped. The beams of the fort were black with the charring, where Darklings had burnt the Garrison out in The Suhai Wars. So, the substances may well be to hand for the finding. But, there stood one more conundrum. Beckstrider had learnt not of the sum of the measure of each of these parts, for Eldamar had not gifted such Tell. No matter if it stood most fraught in the crashing... if it brought the Crag down, and then that was all that mattered.

Two troopers were swiftly despatched to ride back into Windlemoss Vale to the mines, to seek out these two things... the white, powdery crystal that coated the mine walls, and the hand-staining yellowness, that gave forth much reek. Meantime, they would scrape, and lift off the deep charrings from the old fort beam timbers the Darklings had fired. This was the third of the parts for the meld of the powder of Dooming, by which, t'was hoped The Mordbrood would be mired, as if, cairned complete.

Here then, stood the plan for the tumbling of Windlemoss Crag down onto The Mordbrood in crashing affray. But, how then, to lay the Black powder far up on the Cliff-face? There seemed no singular way, other than clamber. Yet, this stood fraught with endangerment, by cause of the crumbling face of rock sagging ominously above the old fort, and thus, manifesting conundrum indeed as to how emplace this plotted doom. So, they made fret and ponder, until the young Captain, mayhap beset with a wiseness far beyond his span of summers; with intuitiveness standing boldly upon and about him, spoke forth in the manner of his thinking.

If the Dark powder was cased in a roll of thick parchment closed firm, and with the powder packed tight… and perhaps, if some channel by which a spark might progress towards the powder be then laid into one end... this channel perhaps, being a stalk of straw, tightly firmed full of powder the same; could it not be tied about an arrow and flown up onto the Crag by a singular, timely, bow shot as the channel gifted progress of the flame to the main sum of the powder roll?

Beckstrider regarded him with a slow smile. Indeed, the young Captain had plotted an impudent ploy. Swiftly, he repaired to the bowmen to lay forth the question. Could this be done? Would such bow-shots destroy the strength of the Crag in such a manner that the whole would come tumbling down to The Mordbrood's' demise? The bowmen spoke; it held depend upon the size and the weight of the parcel. Such choosing needs-must be wise. The bows had a draw, most specific for flying the arrows; so the parcels, in weighting, need stand true in much the same weighting as the sturdiest arrow... which was the Bodkin-head killer that punched through armour... which in its weighing was one clove in exactness, when the bodkin-head was crafted of finest leissor.

There was no knowing how much of the powder was needed, and even less chance to reveal the same. The crash of the powder laid torch to in scrutiny, would echo far away; and any such notion The Mordbrood might garner from such echo might then, the plan fully betray.

The troopers returned at length with the substances gathered from out of the mines, and laid them closely by. The young Captain pondered; perhaps, t'would be prudent to keep them apart, and yet not knowing the reason why. T'was, but an intuition; and so it was done. Then, the substances were pounded and ground separately, then carefully mixed in equal parts to await the parchments. The Parchments were rolled up, much the size of a carrot. The mixed powder was firmed in, and then all tied about with portions of spare bowstring. A powder-filled straw-stalk was then laid into the end of the parcel, and firm-tied, so as not to fall free.

Powder and parchment roll enough was crafted to provide ten of these parcels of doom, carefully laid to the side. The bowmen spoke of their contentment with the weight of such parcels if new fletchings were applied to the arrows. These stood need of being deeper and broader, to stand true the arrow in flying. Then, fresh parchment rolls were made, and firm-filled with sand for the bowmen to practise whereto they would lay those arrows high up on the Crag. In this, they would see where was the best place they might land; thus, to furnish the soundest calamity upon that crumbling sag to bring the sum down upon the heads of the Horanaurk vermin.

Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

The shot was not easy. The bowmen gave frown and mutter. The only place prudent to loose bow was close, a tenth of a league within The Vale of Windlemoss; and, when the Crag dropped; their comrades would be fully sundered from them. Thus separated, how might they prevail? Beckstrider stood, and he made Command Judgement. When they fell back... as if weakened, and in rout; all would retreat up the Windlemoss Vale, and thence ride the north passage back to Old Eldanore.

In Shandalar; Cirion, apprised by Eldamar, concerning The Brotherhood of FionnMhor; knew full well that if they prevailed in laying mayhems on The Mordbrood, they needs must make return through far Erinthor by reason, such prospect to west was denied to them. With The Mordbrood alarmed and laying full intercept; time indeed stood thin for a ride of such hardship; for southwardly, the Autumn Ice gatheringly crept. The Brotherhood of FionnMhor were sorely needed to bolster the defence at The High Pass of Ling, and they could not ride west in broach of The Mordbrood intercept. Foolish, was such a thought… even in the visioning.

Yet, there was one place they might breach the Ice Mountains. There was one place alone, where good fortune might prevail. This was an old pack-horse pathway, long since forgotten, that wove through the Blue Ice Peaks above Windlemoss Vale. Such prospect, laid to eyes unschooled in the knowing, appeared as no more than a goat track, precarious and steep. It wended and wove to the east through the Blue Ice Peaks. But, t'was passable by those who held firm in their courage. Cirion elected that a ride of the Faluan Guard be despatched to make intercept of Beckstrider and the Brotherhood of FionnMhor at the northern throat of Windlemoss Vale, and thence to guide them through the Ice Mountains in return to the Shandalar plains.

She called out her Standing Guard Captain, Laurre Aldaval, who now held Command of The Faluan guard by reason that Karina and her Second Command... Nindelen, were both at Rhom to fortify Calamar's cavalry. So needs must, emplacement of the task of leading a Faluan patrol east to probe the Ice Mountains and trace the old pack-horse pathway; by default, was now laid upon the slender shoulders of Laurre Aldaval.

Laurre Aldaval held twenty-two summers. She was a beautiful Shah'Algethi maid, out of the soft plains of Lorenfalu. Her Sires, long ago, stood in full harmony at Rhom, before the Sack of The Suhai. When the sacking came, they had fled swiftly northwards into Shandalar. Her grandmother, heavy with child, made journey, bartering with fate as to what lay before them. Her grandfather had been emplaced as Captain of Guard to Cirion's grandmother, and t'was plain to see that he was favourite of The Great Ice Queen and though, fully bonded; became her lover.

Thus then, The Circle of Amriath now turned, and turned once again, standing in full reveal. Laurre Aldaval's Grandfather had died in The High Pass of Ling by the sharp kiss of steel from the Suhai Kelek-Bersker death blow aimed at his Queen. He had sacrificed himself with no thought, nor regret held; not knowing she carried his child… Cirion's Mother, Chelaine. For, the Ice Queen had gifted him not, of the knowing. She knew he already had an infant daughter, from his Bond-mate.

The Great Ice Queen Cirion had chosen to not yet, make the tell; for in telling, there stood not the need. And there, in such choice lay the doom of contentment. Ten Moons in the passing, and her lover was dead. Sad, that he never knew of her conceiving; sad, for the words between them, never whispered. But now, Laurre Aldaval stood before Cirion; half-cousin in kind, but this… neither then knew. Yet, plain stood the truth to those who had eyes for the seeing. The same Golden hair, the same eyes... a soft, summer-sky Agate-blue.

The patrol of The Faluan guard would stand ten troopers, all chosen for guile in the riding of steed. There stood some small dangerment in this bold foray. By reason of the bitter, icing gusts they would ride against, there was the need to wrap themselves about in thick furs for protection, and thus, their armour needs must be gainsaid; 'else, fulsomely encumbered, they would ride ungainly... and narrow were the paths they would certainly ride. Ungainly was not a prudent gift given; for ungainly might cause their balance to mar... and marring in balance might lead to a tumble, and tumbling up there gave fair cause to turn pale. For some of the pathways clung hard to the mountainsides; narrow and icy, and beset with thick snow; and such a tumble would most certainly be their dooming, whirling down into the chasm beneath.

Lacking the safety of armour laid all of them open to peril if Darklings were encountered. Furs would not gainsay the bite of the Black arrows; but none stood demurral of this. For they knew the perils, and they held full trust in Laurre Aldaval. For it seemed she was graced always and ever, with a charmed destiny. Good fortune beset her as if there were placed some enchantment about her. She ever prevailed, and no hurt befell her, 'nor those who rode with her; and this endeavour, although hard, would stand fully accomplished, and no shadow of doubt could they see.

And so it was; Laurre Aldaval and her ten young Faluans rode out on a late summer's day, northwards to travel the Shandalar plain to The Henge of Dromnmhor. Thence, they would turn to easterly, away into the foothills. Then they would begin to climb the narrowing pathway with the Mighty Ice Mountains before them, all glittering blue. At the first; the old pack-horse track would stand open before them, all singularly easy. Yet, they knew full well that the track, as it clambered up into the Ice Peaks, stood fully untruthful to those unaware... deceiving, beguiling, and ever then, deadly to those holding scant respect for the Mountain reaches.

As they rode higher, it swiftly became colder. Icing made crackle beneath their horses' tread. Fine snow began to fall, wind-whipped and freezing. Indeed, t'was a toilsome patrol that Laurre was made gift of. As they progressed, the track deepened with snow, besetting their mounts' gaskins, cloysome, and bleak. The wind howled bitterly from between the Blue Ice Peaks, and t'would be, but a matter of time until they need seek shelter. But time, they had not. They need accomplish close on twenty-five leagues of this toil to broach The Vale of Windlemoss; and with snow drifting deeper, and icing winds biting, such wonderment stood as to whether they could then, prevail.

Laurre Aldaval, though chilled to the bone; held their confidence firm, like a bird in her hand. She spurred them on with placid words of emboldenment. They would prevail in this bleak, frozen place. And so, they struck on, ever higher and higher; their cheeks stinging pale, from the whipping snow. Crystals of Ice clung bright to their lashes; and then, such calamity... one rider slipped. There, on the narrow path bound strait to the Mountainside, all choked with the snow and beset with ice that mantled the rock hidden under the deep snows; a rider's horse slipped, and she paid in full, the sum of her misfortune. Tumbling down from her mount... her fall seemed cushioned by snow, which suddenly gave crumble and slide, slipping her over the edge of the chasm. Her fingertips clawed and clutched at the icy rock face, where she clung; her eyes wide with terror, as she looked her dreadful doom full in the face. Then, she was gone; whirling down, far beyond sighting; her diminishing scream echoing about that bleak place.

As they peered down into the chasm; their eyes wide with the horror... from out of the depths, floated a pale Golden Orb. So, she was lost beyond hope. This was her Charas being called homewards to Sathulinan. The soft, whispered Song of the Holy Ones was lost in the bleak, howling winds which beset them with an icy fury. Laurre Aldaval bit her lip, but forced composure upon herself, ordering the dismount. They would make good their feet. The path was too narrow to barter fate further, by riding; though such choice would certainly blight their prospect. Though it became now, much harder, she would not hazard more loss... not this day.

So, they made huddle, deep down in their thick furs, leading their mounts through the blizzarding snow; trudgingly sinking up to their knees in the drifts and glancing not into the chasm... the chasm that stood to embrace them if they made, but one careless step. For the pathway now grew steeper, and narrowed… now, no more than perhaps, three cubits in places; and they fully knew even this might be beyond the bounds of truth. The snow lay in pouting beyond the rock edge, and no way to tell which was path, and which was illusion. So, they stayed close to the wall of the ledge, keeping their steps in the foot-tracks of Laurre Aldaval, who led on with singular care.

Onwards, they struggled; a league of full, frightening hardship, until the path widened, and before them stood a bridge of Ice and snow spanning the chasm. But, would it hold burden? One of her riders decried Laurre's warning concern, and headstrong, foolhardy… mounted, and rode forward... Too Late!

Compassing half distance over the Ice span, suddenly, a great cracking sprang forth... sharp and bright. The Ice span gave way 'neath rider and horse, and all tumbled down to be lost beyond sight. And, up from the depths came soft-floating, yet one more pale Golden Orb, as her Charas rose out from below. Two of them lost in as many Sundial shadow-spans, yet, they dare not mourn, less their tears froze in their eyes. All was now forfeit; they could progress no farther and nothing left now, but to return.

They made turn about, and there, standing before them, they beheld a small creature clad in a great Leathern cloak; who watched them, then spoke in some manner of Algethi. The words were all mixed and tumbled, as if t'were not his Mother tongue. Peering at them; he asked:

'Why… be here, You in the wander? T'is not here, for Algethi-kind, these places… the Blue Juts, among.'

Laurre Aldaval stepped to this small Being who stood, but two cubits in stature. He was scarcely the size of an Algethi youngling. He had great, soft black eyes and an open, round face. His humour seemed mild. She spoke, saying:

'Who are you? What do you, here?'

The Creature gazed at her, and a smile creased its mouth,

T'is might... I lay the like questionment upon you, O' Yellow-maned warrior... I am Minauth.'

Laurre Aldaval looked hard at this creature. For long ago, she had heard of this name. The Minauth, t'was said; were once Thuvians who mined too deep, and fully breached the Underdark, wherefrom then, came a terrible being, by name, called "Barakul." Spawn-dross, t'was said, of "The Lord of The Underdark." The Barakul laid every Thuvian it could scour from the mines into thraldom, far from the lands of The Algethi and The Thuvian; deep into the bowels of the Abyss. Here they slaved in the light that stood thin. Those who perished were fed fresh to the Shadow-Wraiths. Those who did not perish were force-bred with female Baelar'enin, who held female form for the span that such seed was upon them. Twelve moons, and they brought Issue forth... an infant of sorts, who held not caste 'nor creed and was unformed in demeanour. Who was then journeyed to east through the Underdark labyrinths, gathered with a parcel of its kind upon some fresh Thuvian corpse in brood... as are fleas upon a wolfhound, and sucking at his marrow... as infant will to teat; whilst their journey pursued its path to the Horanaurk lands.

Here at length, they would stand to fully fatten the Black, Darkling Horde. And this then, the manner in which the Horanaurks rose in their strength, or so spoke the ancient word. This prevailed until Questor-skirmishers, from out of distant Astalan, chanced upon the labyrinth portal there concealed; and by the light of bright flaring links, laid doom upon all such Darklings they chanced to find there. Blinded by the flaring links, the Barakul stumbled back into the Abyss, and the Questors swiftly lay rock upon rock down the fissure into which it had stumbled. And the Barakul had not been spied again, to this day.

But, what of The Minauth? They were the descendants of the Thuvians liberated from labyrinth toil... those Thuvians held in thrall for so long. They could not abide light, for all their balance and sight, did it spoil. And so, they remained in the labyrinth, and as the summers spun endlessly, they changed gradually, until they became like the creature that Laurre Aldaval communed with now, in harmony.

The Minauth she spoke with, held name, Gherlan Gimsten... being an elder; who made offer they should repair off this bleak mountain, down into the labyrinth. There was no purpose to them being there, now that the Ice span had breached to the chasm... and t'was not their doing... t'was slighted in haste. T'was a trapment for Darklings who might probe the Blue Ice Peaks. T'was a pity, her rider had been so emplaced, foolhardy, upon it; for t'was so slighted, that the bulk of a snow-hare would have breached it; and no thought at all, that Algethi riders would progress this far; Gimsten said, with a sad, worried frown.

He led them up to a blind, Icy rock face; laid hand in a crevice, and manipulated some latch. A rumbling stood forth as a great segment of rock face moved inwards, and smoothly then, slid to one side. They entered therein, to a great rock-hewn passage lit dimly by oil lamps that weakly glowed. Minauth could not abide more than a pale glim; but Oh, such a welcome, out of the icing gales!

Downwards he led them, their furs all a'dripping, into a great chamber, where other Minauth stood round. They gazed, curiously at the sight of these shivering Algethi maids and horses, be-iced and snowbound. But, they were made welcome. The Minauth remembered how The Light had stood to them when their need was dire; and though, bothersomely troubled with its brightness and flicker; they kindled a fire swiftly in one corner, for the Algethi maids to warm themselves. Chilled as they were, to the bone; with Ice crystals still clinging in their hair, they were given a warm beverage. T'was some mossy infusion, but indeed then, a beverage n'ere tasted so fair!

When, at length, they were warmed; Gherlan Gimsten sat before them, his eyes turned away from the glow, and put forth the question. What did Algethi maids up here, besetting themselves with the Blizzardy blow? For even The Minauth stood twice in the ponder before they elected to venture thereout when such a sturdy galeing howled from out of the Blue Juts. Laurre Aldaval made tell. Standing caution in reason, she spoke of their need to prevail in guiding a band of the Warriors of The Light away from Windlemoss Vale, by reason that the Darkling Horde stood interception to west, and thus, they needed to progress through The Ice Peaks. But now, with the Ice span all tumbled to ruin, the way stood closed, and 'naught else then to do.

Gherlan Gimsten gifted Laurre a smile,

'Not so, O' Yellow-maned warrior. Pathway here, stands yet... still. Labyrinth wendings make step out to morning Sun-birth, and guiding you all down and away, we shall.'

Summoning two young Minauth there, before him, he spoke:

'Here, stands named one of Gilurt Barnore, and there... the call of the other, be Thrain Naltek. These will hold guide; making step you before all labyrinth wendsome, deep glim to your sighting. All out, and your prospect make Windlemoss Vale thereto, into the Overlight. There to gather your warriors, then sheltered beyond the howl of Blizzardy-blow, re-stepping the tunnelsome trail.'

His curious garbling of the Algethi tongue gave one or two of her Faluans much puzzle, but Laurre Aldaval held his meaning fair. These two young Minauth would show them the path through the labyrinth in the most swift of repair, to emerge at some secret portal on the far reach of the pack-horse trail, within striking distance of Windlemoss Vale. There, they could lead Beckstrider's Brotherhood fully out of harms way to where the Darklings could never prevail.

Meantime; as Laurre Aldaval, together, with Gherlan Gimsten, laid out plot of this thing; at the Windlemoss Crag fort, the Brotherhood lay entrenched, awaiting that, which Fate would soon lay upon them. The Mordbrood were now, but a handful of leagues to the east and soon, would come swarming down the causeway. With such time stood thin, t'was then that Beckstrider made muster, and called for his bowmen to form two lines. Thus, to gift The Mordbrood volley in weighty flight of the arrows... grave piercings to lay upon them.

The tactic was this: The hindmost line would notch their arrows to bowstring as, having made loose; the first line would kneel. The hindmost line then would lay their arrows to flighting as the first line knelt, notching bowstring to arrow once more. Then, the first line would stand again, to loose one fresh volley, as the hindmost line knelt to notch bow as before. Such flighting would gift The Mordbrood pierce-weighting in doubleness... unending doom, with small chance of respite... thus, choking the causeway with those Mordbrood fallen; denying advancement, and confounding their strength.

Beckstrider had one more gift for The Mordbrood. To rearward, there lay the fort's old latrine trench. Though countless summers had flown since it stood fresh spoil of easement, it still held forth a most foulsome stench... stinking and putrid; offending the noses for a quarter-league all about. Beckstrider, here, saw a tactic, full plain. T'was grievous indeed, but, t'would impede The Mordbrood, and even, mayhap, cull those in remain. Thus, he laid a dreadful order. The arrowheads were to be dipped into the trench, and fully smeared with the festering, rotting slurry, then loosed in high flight into the close packed, rear ranks of The Mordbrood... gifting them such dire, feculent rain, and with fair chance, laying pollution deep into such wounds that the arrows might tear.

This would be a gift of death, lingering and gruesome. For thus, as they sowed… then, so would the Mordbrood reap. Beckstrider knew the Black arrows facing his Brotherhood would be polluted with noxiousness. This ever, had been a Darkling deceit; but now, with the riding boot firm upon the other foot, how would The Mordbrood stand in gatherment of this foul harvest? Soon came the time for the telling of this; for The Mordbrood had spied them, and a chilling war-cry sprang from the Horde, now in bowshot of Windlemoss Crag, as they laid forth the first volley of their Black arrows in flight.

Beckstrider's first line stood, and let fly their first volley as The Mordbrood advanced along the causeway. The Brotherhood's first volley of polluted arrows cut down close on five ranks of Mordbrood with their plunging, piercing flight. This made thwart the Darklings' progress in the manner the same as Beckstrider had visioned, most faithfully. But, so intent were they on the storming of Windlemoss Crag, The Mordbrood swept both living and dead down into the chasm in clearing a pathway, as Beckstrider's second line let volley fly, scything down yet more as the arrowheads bit deep, and Windlemoss Crag echoed with screaming and cries.

This dreadful attrition progressed beyond the span of one half of a Sundial shadow, slowly enfeebling the Mordbrood strength, but, many a Brotherhood bowman was struck with the return volley, and as his lines thinned, Fate showed her face to Beckstrider. The Mordbrood were too many for bowshot alone, and the Brotherhoods' store of arrows was diminishing swiftly.

Beckstrider chose now to prosecute his gambit. Knowing the time of their stand now stood wanting; and soon enough, from this place they need decamp, Beckstrider called to his side his three Master bowmen. They gathered the black-powdered arrows, and moved out into the Vale. There, they took up their specific positions, for fine shots to bring down the crumbling sag as The Mordbrood over-swarmed the fort, fully complacent in their self-perceived victory on their storming of Windlemoss Crag.

Beckstrider laid order. The last flights of polluted arrows were to be loosed, and then, fully into the retreat up the Windlemoss Vale, drawing The Mordbrood under the crumbling sag; there to meet a tumbling, crushing doom. Or so, t'was his hope; for if this wild plot should come undone, The Brotherhood of FionnMhor might well embrace their Destiny as bones scattered, all white, up and along the Vale. Beckstrider withdrew, dragging his wounded with him. Not for the leaving, were his Brothers-in-Arms, 'though with no Alfirin there to aid woundings; still better this way than to make them gift of The Mordbrood's charity.

So, they withdrew... as would fleet ghosts in the night. The Mordbrood at last, over-ran Windlemoss fort, leaving their dead and their dying, and their wounded all up the causeway, with never a thought of succour. If they could not fight, they were worthless; and turning away, they made ready to make assemblage and move on down to The High Pass of Ling to join the Main Host. They did not see the thin wreathings of six trails of smoke up above, as the arrows sped up to the crumbling sag. Then, came a great flashing and crashing. Swiftly came four more trails, and more flashing and crashing.

The Mordbrood looked up at the great, yawning gash in the rock face that opened above them, as the greater part of The Windlemoss Crag tumbled down upon their heads, burying them complete. The rock tumble swept those without the fort down into the chasm, just as Beckstrider had fancied. The great War-Host, in one brief moment in time, was culled to 'naught but thin shreds of that which marched out from Astalan, and were now, no more, the fearful fattening of Host to fully menace the west.

More than half-strength of the second Mordbrood Host was destroyed at Windlemoss Crag. Beckstrider had succeeded beyond his wildest imaginings. But, they had taken the most grievous of losses. The Brotherhood stood now, less one full score perished and buried with The Mordbrood, and half as many again, sorely wounded… and still then in store, the hardest of rides through the Erinthor Ice-fields. Many would certain not prevail in this thing.

Beckstrider gazed sadly; no Alfirin to ease them their pain... but, then, came the drumming of hooves far up the Vale, and to sight came nine riders, fur-beclad, and riding as fast as the wind. The Faluan patrol, led on by Laurre Aldaval; eleven in starting, now nine, by Fate so winnowed; galloped down to Beckstrider's aid; and carried with them, Alfirin in abundance. They held now, the way home to Shandalar. The wounded were swiftly tended, and all rode to the secret path. Hard, it might be; but here stood the only way home. Half-a-League in, they halted at a rock face. Laurre laid hand to a fissure and moved some latch. A rumbling stood forth, and the rock face moved open; and thence, through the portal, they descended into the labyrinth.