Chapter Eleven.

The Mullock Flats.

Meantime; the False Beshlie had shadowed the Corpse-Host from the lowering downs that lay across the ambit of hills that strode the westerly reaches of the Gorge of Khallis. She perceived them turn into the northern boundings of the Mullock Flats, and elected that she would now ride hard for the scurvy Inn they called "The Raven." Here; she could oversee the engagement out on the broad Mullock Flats, and perhaps, entice this "Golden Child" from out of the mellay to the advantage of her malignant design.

Within a half-span of a Sundial-shadow in passing, she came down upon the miserable Hostelry. The rude painted, dust-scoured sign yet swung creakingly in the ceaseless wind that whimpered across the wastelands, but there was no sign of life thereabouts. Heedful; the False Beshlie turned her mount into the yard of the Inn. The clatter of hoof upon the cobbles raised no ostler. Making dismount, she strode to the door of the Inn. Entering therein, she cast gaze about the taproom. There, as before, by the hearth were the same pair of shifty coves with their doxies. But, this time they did not amuse themselves in noisome frolic... 'nay; this time, their sightless eyes stared at the grimy timber lathes that served as ceiling in this place. The Innkeeper sprawled; torn asunder, at the tap. All there had been slaughtered, and their corpses colloped. Strewn, all mouldering, about the slimy flags of the floor, lay the lesser-choice morsels of their flesh.

The False Beshlie stared at this gruesomeness... Chutaks!... it could be no other. But how did they come to this place; and whence? "The Raven" was within the bedamned Enchanted Girdle. How then, had they breached the same with impunity? Stepping across the ruined carcasses and in receipt of great care not to strike foot away by stepping upon some shred of putrid flesh; the False Beshlie made cautious scrutiny of the remainder of the shabby Hostelry in seek of such tell-tale as might furnish her with the wherewithal of the Chutak incurse beyond the Enchanted Girdle.

In the squalid undercroft, amidst the splintered casks of ale and wine, she beheld the reveal of her notion. A great rift yawned in the flags of the greasy floor. Splintered stone had burst forth, as some entity had thrust up from out of the bowels of the earth... some entity that could be none other than Shanik; the mighty, leprous-hued worms of the Abyss that gnawed their progress, unseen and unheard.

So then; that was how the Chutaks had insinuated themselves within the Girdle. Where might they now be? She needs-must seek them out for they would stand perilous to her envisaged intrigue. She found them in the stables; sprawled in the hay. They lay all spraddled in sate from glut of flesh and plundered ale; snoring and snuffling in their stewed torpor. Drawing her dagger; she coldly despatched them, one, by the one; and none grasped the slenderest notion of his wasting. It mattered not to the False Beshlie that these she had slain stood against a common foe. They were Chutak, and worthless.

Now; with no peril manifest; she embraced a sly imagine as to how she might despatch the Golden Child. She would entice the wench to this place on some pretence and lure her down into the Shanik burrow in the undercroft. Deep in the darkness; perhaps, even unto the Abyss, itself... the Golden Child would be led to her richly-deserved doom, far beyond all hope of reclaim by her companions. 'Aye; Baelar would be munificent in his bounty to his hand-maiden for her endeavour. As she came forth from the stables, the False Beshlie favoured herself a smile… a smug, and malicious smile.

Out on the Mullock Flats, all stood prepared. Calamar needs must ride to join the Guardians; and so, upon his Engine-Master: Galbar Narabran; he lay command. Narabran had tended the Engines of War at the Siege of Rhyddu. It was not for nothing that he was Engine-Master. Narabran had an eye for inflicting the most dreadful, and ruinous carnage with his charges; and Calamar knew full-well that Narabran's culling of the looming Chutak Horde would be terrible to behold.

Narabran would progress in order, the loose of hurl of his engines, where another might loose all in one withering, flailing scythe. In this; as one portion gave hurl, the other would be made ready. Then, they would loose whilst the firstmost were re-charged once again. Here, could be bestowed an unceasing storm of shrieking, red-hot iron into the body of the Horde. The tactic settled; Calamar bid his Engine troops farewell and good fortune, and rode out into the northerly east to meet with his fellow Guardians.

Galbar Narabran peered at the overcast, cold sky. The wind, that had been in the north, had backed into the west during the morning, and now backed further to the south, so that it blew from off the shoulders of the throat of the Mullock Flats hard into the faces of the oncoming Chutaks. Fitful snow showers fell from a leaden sky onto the heads of his troopers as each cleaned and checked his Engine according to his tasking, tended his link or lading; ate what little provender he had about his person, and commended his Charas to Elaiana… "She, who is the Wellspring of All Being." Each had then taken his allotted place at his Engine of War.

In the middle span of the morning, sometime before the passing of the tenth Sundial shadow, the snowstorm broke; with a strong driving wind from out of the southeast, which blew the snow violently up the Mullock Flats into the teeth of the Chutak Horde.

Galbar Narabran was a wily old fox, and here, saw his chance. He ordered the Lorenfalu archers forward along the eastern flank of the Mullock Flats, and bade them lay some arrows into the Chutak left-most flank. Then they were to retire in sturdy accord into the east. This was a risky, and perilous endeavour in the blinding white shroud of the storm. The archers could easily have become confused and lost; and six-hundred cubits was the outmost range for their bows. Yet; aided by the following wind, their arrows fell hard among the Chutak left. T'was, as like, they wreaked slender sum of havoc; but the Chutaks supposed... as Narabran intended they so should do; that they were about to be assailed by the Algethi warriors under the cover of the storm.

Much galled by the arrows, the Chutak Horde veered to east, and surged forward to the attack; manifesting their swarming leftmost flank. This was what Galbar Narabran had waited for. He laid his command, and six of the Engines of War belched forth their hurl of iron scraps into the leftmost flank of the charging Chutaks. The carnage was dreadful to behold. The flailing, red-hot iron hewed down the lead riders and their mounts; tearing and slicing flesh and sinew, splintering bone and armour. Torn-off limbs whirled into the air; shrieks and screams arose in a hideous roar, as though the very mouth of the Abyss itself had yawned open.

Then, the remaining four Engines belched forth their fiery billow. Now, into the seethe of milling Chutaks came the terrible grape-hurl... the iron spheres, all joined with chain lengths; which, when loosed from the maw of the Engine… spread wide, glowing hot; howling and whirling about in the air... as like, a tumbling sycamore seed will fall from the bough in Autumn; and those so misfortunate as to be chosen were cut down and shredded in consummate swiftness.

Again, the first six Engines belched; again, the shrieking iron scraps hacked yet one more great rent in the Chutaks. Then again; the howling iron spheres, all joined with chain lengths, slashed into the next parcel of the Horde to be taken. Galbar Narabran laid this butchery upon the Chutak Horde for the passing of three Sundial shadow-spans. His withering, flailing carnage held the milling Chutaks dead in their tracks, some half-of-a-league from the steaming, and charred maws of his Engines. The throat of the Mullock Flats ran black with the gore of countless Chutaks hewn down in manner of the summer mow. Then, at last, his store of black powder was spent. A signal horn blew thin in the teeth of the storm; and slowly, and with measured pace; the Lorenfalu foot warriors advanced to meet their foe.

With mighty roars from thousand throats, both Forces met; and soon all was wild confusion. T'was elected that the youngling Guardians would prosecute their charge on the left flank of the milling swirl of Chutaks in common accord; bolstered by the Shandalar Cavalry who had ridden hard across the wastelands, and now assembled to engage the lead of the Chutak left flank. Now; would come the blossoming of the youngling Guardians' tutelage; now would come the legacy of The Light.

As they had ridden to engage the vermin Horde, Tharlan had passed his mighty Star-Sword "Asteth Celeb'runya"… "Silver Flame of The East," into the hands of Staisha; as had been ordained by Ethiriel; Goddess of The Moon, and Mistress of the Old Moon-Magic; at the gathering of the Council of The Light. Tharlan would lay mayhems with his "Baelnyr"… the Thuvian Blood-axe he had named "Arlannafeide"… "The Vengeance of Arlanna"... named thus, in memory of his mother. This; the harbinger of a dreadful hewing, shrieking, doom to those she embraced... and Tharlan embraced a peerless mastery in prosecuting bloody slaughter.

Staisha gathered the youngling Guardians about her. She laid her tactics, plain. They would ride as Skirmishing Assault Cavalry... as had the Riders of Lothleitha when she was their Mistress. They would sweep in from the Chutak left flank and sunder the Horde in twain. Drawing blade; pommel stones flaring; they urged their mounts to canter. As they so did; Staisha drew the mighty Star-Sword "Asteth Celeb'runya." The great, pommelled moonstone flared; and they beheld Staisha's forget-me-not blue eyes grow pale, until they shone with the same light as did the moonstone; which cast out and about... a pale, and brilliant light; like, as that, of a Hunter's Moon.

As they rode; a faint aura of a silvery hue... much as the Moon is sometimes perceived whence beset by a pale circling of light on nights of icing frost; gathered about their company. Though not for the knowing of the vermin before them; here arrayed against them were two blades that were "Everanthil"… "Blades of The Watchful Bastion," watched over by Ethiriel; Goddess of The Moon, and Mistress of the Old Moon-Magick; who sat at the Right hand of Elaiana… "She, who is the Wellspring of All Being"; and in this... was the doom of the Chutaks assured.

The driving snow cloaked them as they advanced to the shoulder of the Mullock Flats. Staisha held the younglings on the slope as the Chutaks milled about, seeking to form regiment. Of a sudden, from distantly behind them, there came a faint cry, borne upon the wind. Prince Calahmir and Kerrall peered behindwards through the billowing snow; and there! a singleton rider coming on at sturdy pace. Closer came the rider, and t'was seen that it was the Princess Serissea galloping on from out of the refuge of Rhom.

Joining their company, she drew her Guardian sword, and they beheld the soft flare of the delicate sky-blue Agate, with the cypher of the garlanded Snow Lilies of Old Shandalar carved thereon. It was the twin of the pommel-stone of her brother's Long-sword. This was one more masterpiece of Torbair of Aiuthal; famed Goldsmith of Elisriendell. The Agate had been chosen by him, in the manner of "Cilme vell Kiira," to match Serissea's pale, Agate-blue eyes.

This sword she had elicited from Elshore's keeping by cajole and beguiling word; and when he decried the same; by petulance and tantrum. Staisha beheld her with stern gaze.

'What do you here, child? You were settled safe in Rhom whilst your hurt mended.'

Serissea snorted, and her eyes were hard.

'Call me not child, Lady; for I have embraced my womanhood since last we met, and am a child, no longer. Thought you all, that I would not ride out with my comrade Guardians when came the time to engage these vermin? Then, My Lady; your presumption was ill-found; for I am my mother's daughter, and you would be well advised to hold this issue in sturdy remembrance.'

And no more to be said. Spurring to gallop; Staisha and the youngling Guardians prosecuted their wild, hurling charge down onto the flank of the confused mass of milling Chutaks; who, in turning to face the wild charge, were hewn and hacked aside. The howl of the wind-lashed snow was pierced with the shrill shriek of Leissor-bladed Guardian swords sundering armour and Karuk blades; and the sickening, wet crunch of Tharlan's viciously wielded Blood-axe as it split Chutak skulls and rent asunder limbs. And here; was to be seen a differentness in the prosecution of affray.

At Rhyddu, and at Ling; the Elder Guardians had found that the Mordbrood Horanaurks were most consummately vexsome to separate from their loathsome spans, and had laid stern counsel to the younglings concerning this issue. Here and now; the youngling Guardians perceived that the Chutak could be hacked down with impunity; their Guardian blades sundering limb, and belly, and neck with less imposition than drawing a dagger through whey; albeit, there was a further peril manifest.

The Chutak mounts were flesh-eaters, as were their riders; and many fallen warriors of The Light were torn asunder where they lay, by these gruesome creatures. Nonetheless; the mighty swords of The Light bestowed manifest shatter of Karuk blades, and dreadful hewing of Chutak flesh. Soon enough, the youngling Guardians were drenched in Chutak blood. Tharlan laid bloody mayhems with "Arlannafeide." He rode the Mullock Flats bespattered with Chutak brains; his ears filled with the shrieks of those upon whom he imposed a dreadful, hacking doom as he prosecuted his vengeance in the name of his mother.

Terrible as this slaughter was; the Guardian swords of Kerrall and Serissea; Tarelena and Calahmir were, as nothing; when laid against the three mighty Defenders of The Light, wielded by Kathalyn, Beshlie, and Staisha.

Kathalyn Seregon rode to affray; her mighty Sword of The Light: "Runya en Numen," called too, "Citadel of The Eternal Truth," shimmering bright in the storm-gloom; its great, pommelled Amber flaring as if t'were some infant sun. Beshlie of Calverstock and her mother, Staisha, rode together. Beshlie bore the mighty Star-Sword of The Custodians of Asteth Tarsi; now bearing naming of "Amrun Tarsi"… "Star of the Morning"; and Staisha wielded its kin: "Asteth Celeb'runya"… "Silver Flame of The East." Each blade was raised far beyond Star-sword in the Dreaming of Elaiana… "She, who is the Wellspring of All Being"; for now, they were "Everanthil"… "A Blade of The Watchful Bastion." They rode, beset by the pale, silver aura of Ethiriel; Goddess of The Moon; and their tally of slaughter was terrible to behold.

See there!... one sweeping blow from the hand of Staisha, and the Chutak rider severed at his waist; the upper portion of his carcass thudding to the ground as his lower parts galloped past, yet astride his gruesome mount. And again... One vicious, downward cavalry stroke from the hand of Beshlie that split a Chutak temple to saddle; each part of his sundered carcass tumbling to either side of his hurtling mount. Turning again; she smote the next charging Chutak; taking half of his head from off his shoulders... flinching with disrelish as she was spattered with his spurting black blood and stringy slivers of brain. Out on the right-most flank, Kathalyn was laying her own style of mayhems and slaughter.

She lay a sweeping cut with "Runya en Numen," as taught by her mother Artanis; at an onrushing Chutak who waved his Karuk blade wildly as he rode; intent on killing this singleton Algethi-maiden. Here, was the Wiccen Rede Death blow; whistling above the ugly head of his mount... chopping through his saddle pommel, and biting through his leather armour, deep into his belly, grating off his backbone. His hurtling, jouncing charge tore his belly asunder; tumbling his tripes from out of him; dashing them, all flailing wildly about his knees as he shrieked and squealed in his dooming. Somehow; he held seat and was carried distantly beyond her sight; lost in the swirl and tumble of mellay.

Then, they were through; and the Chutak Horde was breached. But, where was Kerrall? He rode the charge with Beshlie's younger sister: Tarelena, but he was not with them. Beshlie squandered small space in passing, but turned again into the fray. She feared for Kerrall; she knew that, he alone of the youngling Guardians embraced a demeanour of Martial valour... the true way of the Guardians of The Light. Martial valour was not a notion the vermin of the Abyss embraced. She had ever been fretful that such valour might well be Kerrall's undoing; even though he was beset with a cold and wily humour, made yet the more deadly by his embrace of the ways of The Light. And too, she knew that her younger sister held a secret flame for him.

She found him afoot; his steed having been brought down. The Chutak carcasses lay all about him where he stood at bay. With pommel-stone flaring a blinding amber; she laid about her with her great Star-sword, "Amrun Tarsi"… "Star of the Morning." The great double-edged blade, of measure, a full two, and one-half cubits, flayed, and clove asunder those Chutaks within its reach. She hewed them down in manner that summer storm will beat down standing corn; and as they cowered back from the glittering, shrilling blade; Kerrall grasped Cephus' saddle pommel and hauled himself up, behind her as she pulled Cephus around to disengage.

Suddenly, a Chutak leapt forward... his black Karuk blade sweeping up at Beshlie. Cephus twisted his head, and struck; tearing away a greater portion of the screaming Chutak's countenance with his teeth. Beshlie struck down with her great Star-sword... the dreadful downsweeping hew… the same cavalry trait, as taught by her mother; and lopped the shrieking Chutak head from off its shoulders. Urging Cephus on, they rode out of mellay; hacking down such vermin as mired their passing.

With the ride of the Chutak Horde most satisfactorily breached asunder into two clusters; now, came the charge of the Shandalar Cavalry against the reeling Chutak left-most flank. It was thrust and parry, slash and cut; hack and hammer, with swords, bills, war-hammers, and axes; whilst the archers, withdrawn to the sides and the rear; loosed at whatever target they could bring to sighting. Soon there were Algethi warriors and Chutaks with slashed armour and slashed flesh. The corpses lay in piles and t'was needful to clamber over them to reach their foes. The bitter air was full of shouting from the ecstasy of the fight, or shriekings from the pain of wounds, or groanings in the agony of death.

To the north; the massed ride of The Nemesis of Lothluthil and the Riders of Lothleitha drove deep into the right-most flank of the Corpse Host. But how does one slaughter those who are already dead? This too, was the riddle besetting the archers and the Shandalar foot warriors. The arrows pierced them through... but the gruesome foe bid them no heed. The sword-strokes lopped great carvings out of their festering frames, but still, they came on. The Forces of The Light began to take losses; Charas began to rise into the leaden skies.

Then came the nine foremost Guardians down onto that killing ground. At Eldamar's command they disjoined; each to seek out one of these dreadful abominations of The Abyss... the Necromancers… the "Haldrig en'Seregnir." As they rode into the midst of this gruesome, Legion of the Damned, each Guardian cast gaze about in seek of the black-cowled abominations that were the Necromancers. Beset, as they were, in the midst of this host of witless corpses, t'was most singularly fortuitous that these dreadful creatures moved ponderously. In this, the swing and thrusting of their swords was not vexsome to avoid. The Necromancers flitted in and out of the midst of their blundering charnel and were not simple to perceive, and more... were most singularly vexsome to assail. 'An they were entrapped; they set before them, one of the festeringly noisome carcasses to embrace such sword-blow as was bestowed. T'was as if the Guardians were assailing shadows.

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As Eldamar hacked down with his mighty Guardian sword, "Eithelhwen," at one more Necromancer, he happened to glance into the west. There, on the shoulder of the flank of the Mullock Flats he beheld, through the driving snow; two riders who came on in sturdy accord into the mellay. He saw the flash of blade; he saw another of the Corpse host fall; devoid of its head. Then; the riders were beside him... riders who were beset with a faint, Silver Aura, against the driving whiteness of the snow.

He saw it was Torbair; his Great sword of the Old Moon Magick… "Lossehelin Ruthuviel" naked in his hand... her mighty Moonstone flaring; and Artanis; clad in the mail bustier and war-skirt of the Avalquare... the Mounted Incursion Raiders of Seuna, which she had worn at the Massacre of Sennragen. Her Wiccen Rede sword held ready; flared a piercing greenness at its pommel as they engaged the affray. This was a newness... the Wiccan Rede sword was somehow different.

Torbair shouted its tell above the din of battle. Artanis's sword was raised to "Everanthil"… "A Blade of The Watchful Bastion," by the maiden Menelwen… "Varyon en'Tarsi"… Keeper of The Stars; in the forge at Rhom, but three Sundial shadow-spans since passed. Set in its pommel was a magnificent emerald, chosen by Torbair from his jewel cache, and settled by "Cilme vell Kiira"… Choosing the Gems. Artanis could never be a true Guardian of The Light, 'though she truly deserved so to be; being mother of "The Golden Child." She held not the true lineage of Guardian; save, by bond to Eldamar. Thus; Torbair... being Knight of The Eternal Watchtower, had instated her as Imperatrix of the Companionship of The Eternal Watchtower.

With a bright laugh, and blowing Eldamar a kiss; Artanis wheeled into the fray, slicing and hacking at the grisly, blundering bodies; spraying and spattering their drooling corruption all about. At length; as the Guardians withdrew to draw breath; not one of the nine Necromancers had been put to the sword, for they were singularly elusive and sly in their eschewal of engagement.

The battle lasted the reach of the day, and on into the following dusk. None could keep up the furious pace of such vicious, and bloody hand-to-hand fighting for long, and severally; parties were seen to withdraw for a time to recover their breath before charging into the fray once again. All save the shambling Corpse-Host. When they were not engaged, they did not retire; but blundered about on the Mullock Flats in seek of prey.

To the south; at the close of the engagement, the Range-Masters of Elisriendell fell once more upon the Chutak right flank like a thunderbolt. These Chutaks were brushed aside by the fury of the onslaught, which was beginning to break up the Chutak regiment. They fought desperately in ones or twos, or in small knots; but now for the first time, defeat was staring them in the face. They were on the point of breaking. Soon, dismounted Chutaks were running from the field in ones and twos; then in small groups, and finally in a flood, making for the supposed safety of the Khallis wastelands.

When the sun finally sank into a watery glim and night fell; to the north, the battle had simply raged on under the cold moon’s heartless gaze. The warriors fought on foot with sword and axe; hacking, stabbing, thrusting at their gruesome opponents. Towards the small of the morrow though; the battle finally slowed and stopped, due to the sheer prostration of those so engaged. The moon had settled; the warriors of Shandalar on the southern killing ground knew not where they were as they groped and stumbled through the endless blackness.

Calamar had given the order that no quarter was to be given, and that none of this vermin Horde were to be spared. Galbar Narabran chose to embrace his Lord's command in full sum. Forsaking their spent Engines of War, Engine-Master Galbar Narabran and his Engine troopers, surrounding the southerly Chutaks on three sides; penned them into that part of the killing field of the Mullock Flats where it dipped down to the Mullock beck that wended the western flank of the field of engagement. There, the mass of Chutaks in remain were put to the sword.

Many tried to cross the swollen stream, only to be drowned in its freezing waters. Some, by treading upon the backs of their dead or dying comrades, did manage to reach the opposite bank, and may have perished in the marshy wastelands beyond. The killing went on until after darkness had fallen and there were none left to slay. Only then, did the hideous sounds of battle die away, and silence fall upon a dreadful field, broken only by the moaning of the wind and the even more discomfiting moaning of the maimed.

The debris of battle... the dead and wounded; made a terrible hindrance for the weary warriors feeling their way in the dark. The Shandalar and Lorenfalu warriors wandered the field, despatching with their daggers, or cutting down with their swords, such of the wounded of the defeated Chutaks as they bechanced to find sprawling before them. This was done as much in sport as in wrath; and, as this diversion was pursued; the warriors began to amuse themselves by splashing each other with Chutak blood.

At length; t'would be thought that these were so many butchers, more so than an army of The Oneness of The Light. Needs must, in the end; even though Calamar had given the order that no quarter was to be given, and that none of this vermin Horde were to be spared; their Captains were obliged to drag them off... as like, so many war-hounds; by menacing tell of stern impositions to be heaped upon them, 'an they continued with this shabby demeanour.

In sum; on that dreadful field; close on some eleven-thousand Chutaks perished on the southern Mullock Flats or crawled away to die in the wastelands. The Forces of The Light lost a little above three, and one-half thousand. It would not be this day that The Darkness would assail the Shining Lands; it would not be this day that this last, bright Flower of The West would be plucked, and crushed under heel.

The Guardians gathered together. All carried woundings of diverse consequence. T'was provident that the Corpse-Host carried common weapons. There were no Karuk blades here; save those borne by the Necromancers; and they had decried engagement in full sum. For; had any such woundings that the Guardians had gathered been inflicted by Karuk blade; then that Guardian would be forever lost to The Darkness... or so had it been... until now.

The sternest hurt at this time, was abided by the Princess Serissea. As she had ridden; slashing down upon her prey from saddle; she had opened again the wound about the right-most flank of her waist. She favoured her left-most; also called the "Sinister" hand for grasping sword; and the stretch and bend of her slender waist in mellay had sundered the wounding that Cuchulain had so carefully closed with a pair of delicate stitches so that she would mend blemish-free. He would not be pleased! In truth; since the morn she had discharged herself from his keeping and commanded him into her bed; there had been a concord of bond betwixt them. T'was not as yet, full troth, but would become so. He would, most certain-sure; not be amused that she had elected to put herself into harm's way.

Eldamar adjudged that she be ridden back to Rhom. Torbair would escort her there. Care was the watchword; for even now... in the thin time of the morning, the Corpse-Host yet blundered and milled about on the northern Mullock Flats in unseeing seek of their prey. This fresh day, the shrinking Forces of The Light needs must engage them again.

T'was an endeavour beset with peril; for many, were the Charas that had arisen into that driving snowstorm that day since passed. The Assault squadron of Lothluthil and Lothleitha were sound; but all they might accomplish was the thinning of the Corpse-Host's rightmost flank. The pale dawn was rising in the east; soon enough, they needs-must barter fate in seek of these vexsome, elusive Necromancers who moved like shadows on the Moon.

In the midst of the foregoing slaughter to the south; as night was gathering across the leaden skies, and the snow whipped hard into her face; Kathalyn Seregon had sensed an approach from her back. Wheeling her mount about; her Great, Golden, Amber pommelled Sword; "Runya en Numen," called too, "Citadel of The Eternal Truth," poised to strike; she beheld Beshlie of Calverstock riding down upon her; who cried;

'Come sister, I have espied the War-Master of these vermin detach from the fray and ride for yonder scurvy hostelry. Mayhap he is in receipt of some wounding, and seeks shelter for a while. Let us ride to seek him out and put him to the sword. Lacking a leader; methinks these scum shall lose regiment, and our comrades may then, take the day.'

Kathalyn nodded assent to this aspire; and broke engagement; having hacked down yet one more Chutak who had loomed upon her as she had glanced behindwards at Beshlie's approach. She was not to know that this was the False Beshlie, who had chosen now to manifest her intrigue. As the two maids disengaged themselves from the mellay and rode towards the Inn they called "The Raven"... another watched them distance themselves into the west.

Beshlie of Calverstock; Chosen Daughter of The Light, and Mistress of The Riders of Lothleitha knew there was some thing manifestly amiss here. Who rode out with Kathalyn Seregon; the "Golden Child"; her sister Chosen Daughter of The Light? Whoever it might be; they were curiously familiar to her gaze. The true Beshlie swung her Unicorn mount, Cephus, out of the engagement and galloped in trail of the two riders.

Kathalyn and the False Beshlie entered into the taproom of "The Raven." All was still; the lamps were burned out; and the tattered carcasses lay cold upon the flagstones. The great amber pommel-stone of Kathalyn's sword "Runya en Numen" flared, as like some infant sun. Whereto would this Chutak scum lurk? In prosecution of her sly advantage; the False Beshlie elected that they each prospect a part of this shabby hovel in seek of their prey. Cunningly, she made choose to compass the upper reaches; saying, t'was as like; that the odds were fully even they might be above or below. Kathalyn could seek belowstairs. In this; t'was certain-sure that she would espy the breaching of the flagstones in the undercroft. Thence, there would be small imposition to entice her into the Underdark, where she would at last, embrace her doom.

Indeed; t'was but a slender span in passing, 'ere Kathalyn called her to the undercroft; saying...

'See here, this great breaching. Think you, our quarry has effected his decamp herein?'

The False Beshlie cloaked a smirk, saying,

'Aye; t'is, as like. Had we a link or candle to hand, we might pursue him therein; but, alas... we have none, and the vermin might lie in wait for us in the darkness.'

Kathalyn snorted;

'I had not thought you timid; sister. The flaring pommel amber of "Runya en Numen" shall serve well enough to light our pathway. Come now; and tarry not; 'less this scum escape us.'

She loosed the scabbarded sword from her belt frog, and holding it before her; clambered down into the darkness. As the False Beshlie followed, she could, no more, cloak her malignant smirk. This was better than her best-held hopings. This "Golden Child"... this insolent Algethi wench, would now be hard-pressed to turn aside even a slovenly sword stroke with a scabbarded and un-frogged blade; and any manner of sword-stroke was of trifling issue in this place when laid 'gainst what the False Beshlie knew full- well lurked in the nether reaches of this grim burrow.

From out of the blackness came a foul reek, and within a few steps they were in utter darkness. The great amber pommel-stone flared; casting a light that was both fiery and blood-tinged; that danced and shimmered upon the walls, which were beslimed and glistening. Here the air was still, stagnant, heavy; and sound did not carry, but fell dead at their feet. They crept forward as if beset by a black fog.

The darkness crept about them; a darkness that, as they strained for distant sight, brought blindness not only to the eyes but also to the imaginations. The walls were smooth and slimy; their feet slipped on the smooth floor, but still, the flaring pommel amber of "Runya en Numen" guided their path. T'was as if, they trod some burrow scoured by some great worm... the tunnel was high and wide; so wide that they could scarce-touch both sides with outstretched arms.

Not a word was dropped as they crept onwards, until, of a sudden; they almost tumbled into some great widening of the burrow. The pommel amber of "Runya en Numen" flared brighter yet; and in its glare, they beheld a cavern. Herein, was a sense of lurking malice so overwhelming that it shivered the blood.

By the bright, amber flare, they beheld before them a blackness blacker by far than the blackest of nights; that stood before them and seemed to suck out of the darkness it stood in, all traces of light. Blacker It grew, as the darkness It consumed. As they watched in fear and dreading; they beheld, deep in the blackness; red, evil eyes that held them pinioned in a malevolent glare. Then; as Kathalyn strove to draw blade, the cavern rang with a terrible laughter.

The blackness made fold in upon itself and a figure began to manifest. As it drew form about itself; with unbelieving stare, Kathalyn strove to grasp wit of what she saw before her. The figure grew in her knowing. Here before her, stood the Lord Laumil, Council Master of Elisriendell; friend of Eldamar... save this: his eyes were not the eyes of an Algethi; they shone, blood-red and baleful. She beheld the figure before her; her alarm and confusion plain in her face. She had though; perceived that Beshlie had softly slipped from her side, and moved behind her. Swiftly effecting a demeanour of anxious consternation, Kathalyn cried out...

'My Lord Laumil; what means this thing?'

Once more, the chilling laughter echoed the cavern, and again, came the hissing snarl of malignant hatred that she remembered from the manifestation of dreadfulness that had beset the pure white, serene countenance of the statue in the Throne-room of the Palace of Rhom. The hissing, snarling words seemed to curl and wreathe about her; assailing her senses...

'Foolish wench that you should not... even now; know me for whom I am. You are blinded by your arrogant insolence to imagine you might prevail against me. I am not Laumil; I destroyed him long before you were ever conceived, with the ease of sweeping fly-droppings from off some scurvy casement ledge. He perished as your insolent father engaged my Mordbrood at Rhyddu. T'was no great imposition to quench his pompous span as he strutted and swaggered as steward to your father's Halls. I am Baelar, called too, "The Lord of The Underdark." Since Laumil's doom, I have walked amongst you cloaked in his husk; and none imagined he was any more than that which they perceived him to be. The servants of this "Oneness of the Light" are thus proven singularly wanting in perspicacity, and thus, shall not prevail.'

As Kathalyn hearkened to this deceit, she feigned a plain demeanour of disbelief... but her grip tightened upon the hilt of "Runya en Numen," called too, "Citadel of The Eternal Truth." Baelar beheld this trivial shift, and effected; almost as an aside... an indolent wave of his hand... as if brushing away a fly. "Runya en Numen" was torn from Kathalyn's grasp; whirling impotently away, to clatter into the darkness gather; far beyond her reach. Again, came the chilling laughter...

'Thought you that this plaything could stand against my prepotence in this, my Dominion? You have much to learn in the matter of The Darkness, wench. But, you are a feisty one. Come, join with me. There is a place for one such as you in my retinue.'

Kathalyn stared at this Dreadful, Dark Entity with loathing in her eyes, and spoke softly; her voice steady, and sharp with contempt;

'Never! I am Guardian; and too, Chosen Daughter of The Light within the Fellowship of The Knights of The Eternal Watchtower. I would choose to embrace death, 'ere I would demean myself thus. I shall yet see you brought to your doom, my Lord Baelar.'

No more did he lay the chilling laughter. Now, he shrugged; and casting his malefic gaze to the False Beshlie, spoke; his voice soft and portentous;

'So be it. You shall not perish as others of your kind, perish. There shall be no swift release. You shall know the terrors of the Underdark. You shall become the plaything of my Baelar'enin minions. There, you shall be plundered and sundered, and pillaged and defiled until time itself has run its course. 'Aye, you shall beg for the release of death, but it shall not be yours to embrace. Handmaiden mine... despatch this contumelious slut forthwith, to the Abyss.'

Kathalyn swiftly turned to face the false Beshlie; whom, as she so did; lunged at her heart with her wicked Karuk dagger. The blow did not pierce Kathalyn's heart... the dagger struck the golden leaf, bejewelled pendant that lay betwixt her breasts upon the exquisite golden chain. As the dagger point struck; the flawless Amber, cut to a perfect roundness; being in measure, close to a Wren's egg and set uppermost therein to the leaf, flared brightly. Beneath this gem; the Moonstone, cut in manner the same as the Amber, yet slighter in measure; glowed, as does a pale, and frosting moon. Beneath this; the flawless blue Topaz, in measure the same as the Moonstone; but cut as if, a delicate Lozenge; blazed, as does summer lightning.

These three jewels were settled in a path of placement as was imagined to be the belt of the star cluster they called "The Hunter." And "The Hunter" had snared its quarry in full sum; for the flaring colours washed up the blade of the Karuk dagger and compassed the False Beshlie about; even as if they were a winding sheet furling about her.

A terrible shriek sundered the cavern gloom as this golden jewel... the Cypher of The Light exacted a terrible vengeance upon the half-blood... the False Beshlie. Writhingly, she began to cast off her Algethi mien. Her countenance withered and melted, does a candle emplaced too close to a hearth. Her pretty face became blurred and shadowy; her form became coarse and shapeless. She crumpled; lifeless to the floor of the cavern where she twitchingly remained... that; which she had ever been... a female of sorts, who held not caste, nor creed, and was unformed in demeanour.

With a bone-chilling snarl of malignant fury; Baelar drew his great Long-sword, pommelled with the mighty, deep-red Garnet; and raised the same to smite down this insolent wench. Kathalyn girded herself; her sword was too far distantly in the far corner whence it had fallen... she needs-must be nimble-footed, and fleet in wit. Then, suddenly... she was thrust sprawlingly aside... and there stood Beshlie of Calverstock... the true Beshlie; and naked in her hand, she grasped her great Star-sword, "Amrun Tarsi"… "Star of the Morning;" the sword of The Custodians of Asteth Tarsi, now raised in the Dreaming of Elaiana… "She, who is the Wellspring of All Being"; as "Everanthil"… "A Blade of The Watchful Bastion." The great Star-sword; whose pommelled amber flared; blinding to the eyes.

Baelar smote down with his mighty Long-sword; a terrible blow that would have cloven Kathalyn in twain, had it, but struck her. But, it did not strike her; 'nay, it struck the parry of "Amrun Tarsi"… "Star of the Morning"; and, with a dreadful, jarring clang; Baelar's Long-sword blade splintered to sharding; even to within a pair of finger-spans of its hilting crosspiece. Beshlie swift recovered her stance and hacked down upon Baelar's sword-arm, sundering his hand above the wrist, which fell to the floor still clutching the sword hilt. Then, sweeping back in assail, she spitted him upon the blade-point of "Amrun Tarsi" deep into his chest.

A golden glow swelled about the blade-point buried in his chest; swirling and lancing about his writhing carcass... and, as the baleful red faded from his eyes, he dragged out, at the last, that terrible chilling laugh; wheezing through the black blood welling into his throat...

'Too late; too late... I have bidden the Black Star to fall. Soon enough, shall you, and all of your kind be wiped from off the face of this land, and all shall return to Chaos, as it was in the beginning.'

As they stared, with not a little flinch, at the great gobbets of black blood spewing from his twisted lips; they beheld the baleful redness of his gaze fade into the pale, grey-blueness that had once been the hue of eye of Laumil of Elisriendell; and then; his eyes became empty, and he was no more. From betwixt his bloody lips there swelled a soft, golden glow that manifested into a perfect Golden Orb. The Charas of Laumil; Council Master of Elisriendell; freed at last from the clutches of its dreadful prisoning. As it rose, and passed out along the passageway of that grim burrow; even in that repellent cavern could be heard the soft whisper of Sathulinan calling it home to Carmanthyr… The Tranquil Island.

The husk of the lifeless carcass slowly became a cloud of cloying mist, melting into nebulous tendrils of gathering blackness; blacker by far, than the blackest of nights; that swirled in the darkness, and seemed to suck out of the darkness, all traces of light. Closer and tighter they became, diminishing blacker and blacker yet; 'till 'naught could be perceived but a tiny, black speck that was, at length, lost from their sight in the flare of the swords' pommel stones.

Beshlie reached out her hand to Kathalyn raising her from her sprawl upon the floor of the sinister cavern that had been the sometime lair of The Lord of The Underdark. Kathalyn shivered;

'How came you to me, Beshlie? And what was that "Thing" laying in spraddle before us that led me into this terrible place? For certain-sure, I fancied I came into this dark clime in your company.'

Beshlie shook her head.

'I know not what this abomination might have been; all I know is this: I beheld you taken out of mellay by a rider who stood akin in image to that which I might have held in regard as myself; as if seen in a looking glass. This deceitful vision could be none other than an emissary of The Darkness. So; I rode hard in trail, and beheld you taken within this scurvy Inn by this creature. My presentiment lay tale that this was some manner of ensnarement to the advantage of The Darkness; and the creep of imperilment lay fat upon the air. I shadowed you into the Underdark of this grim delve; and beheld all that passed in this place.

In beholding the singular destruction of this "Thing," and the raising of sword by this dark monstrosity; I knew I needs must venture all upon a single sword-stroke to meddle his resolve to cut you... "The Golden Child," down, where you stood.'

Kathalyn drew sturdy breath in relief;

'And I am beholden to you that you did so bechance the same, sister. I owe you my life, for I could not have gathered my sword up from yonder distance. T'would seem they were amiss in their prevision of which Chosen Daughter of The Light would bring this dreadful being to his richly deserved doom.'

Reaching down, she gathered up the sundered hand, which yet grasped the sharded sword. Glancing at Beshlie; she shivered, and spoke;

'This thing cannot be left in this place. We must carry it swiftly to my grandfather, The Lord Guardian. He shall know how it may be cast beyond harm's way.'

She gathered up her great sword, and turning again; they made grope and stumble back along the blackness of the slimy burrow towards the thin, paleness that was the light besetting the breaching in the flags of the undercroft of the scurvy Inn they called "The Raven."