Chapter Five.

The Supposed Algethi... Ciroth Pendrian.

Though it would not stand plain in the knowing for some sturdy span in passing; the tremor in The Light which Eldamar had discerned was no imagine nor hyperbole. Far to the northerly-west; beyond the reach of the Enchanted Girdle that compassed the distant borders of Shandalar; the fancy he held that The Dreadful, Dark Entity: "Baelar," called too, "The Lord of The Underdark" was contriving an intrigue born out of reckless enmity, was not to be found wanting. The sum of this intrigue was this:

The Female "Baelar'enin" that Baelar had emplaced, cloaked as the comely Faerie maiden before the Malcontent Lordling, Rinil Farondar... she, who had enticed him into the Underdark with music of the Silver branch, and allusion of carnal delights; now held him enslaved in concupiscent thrall. With Darkling Spellbinding in feign of Faerie Magic; she had salved the mark of the Sigil of The Abyss that they had seared upon him with a hot iron, and cozened his sentiment with soft elicitations, that he might now return into Shandalar; breaching the Enchanted Girdle secure from imperilment.

The "Baelar'enin" had need of him to be gone, for his seed was well settled within her... as had been the design of The Dark Lord. As previously told; commonly… "Baelar'enin" held true female form for the span that such seed was upon them. Twelve moons in passing, and they brought forth Issue... an infant of sorts, who held no caste, nor creed, and was unformed in demeanour. T'would be needful for him to begone from her presence when she came to full span of carry; 'else he might reflect in qualm as to why she presented her infant so far beforehand the supposed fullness of reach of her gravidity.

This "Baelar'enin" though, would not cast off her female form as was commonly manifested. When the youngling; who would become the harbinger of doom to the Matter of The Light, was birthed, she would remove it, and herself from her lair beneath the Weens of White Prestor to the place in the Overlight chosen by The Dark Lord. This place would be the farmstead hard by the crumbling Moat-Tower of the long-since passed, old fool Ghlinngar the Seer; distantly west on the Great Plains of Yeranoor.

Here, she could raise the infant in the ways of The Darkness, secure and unfound. Here; the youngling, as yet, unformed in demeanour, could be fashioned in mien of image of some trustworthy personage who dwelt in the lands of Amriath. No peril would beset her… 'nor the infant in this place. Such Chutaks as prowled these Yeranoor plains in search of prey were charged, upon pain of swift extermination by The Dark Lord; to let be, the female and the infant who dwelled in the distant farmstead; and not maraud their settle.

So it was; when she first felt the stirrings of the infant; she slyly allured Rinil Farondar into setting forth to prosecute his breach of the Enchanted Girdle. She lay moot of this issue with seductive guile as he lay sated and spent betwixt her contenting thighs in trail of a lengthy, and beguiling interlude of wanton swiving; where she had bestowed upon him the full sum of her singular artistry in the diverse distractions and amusements of abandoned carnality.

In receipt of this, she had laid the notion of his decamp from her presence with like ease of taking honey from the comb. She had soothed his unease, and cozened his prudence with little wilful stirrings of her hips as he yet lay aboard her. She had pledged him that no peril would be encountered… was not the mark of the Sigil of The Abyss effaced in sum from his shoulder by her Faerie Magic? All would stand well in his endeavour.

This; she knew to be a patent falsehood. Nothing could negate the Sigil of The Abyss once it was laid. It could be cloaked, in manner as she had so done; so as not to be perceived by the gaze… but yet, it prevailed. This witless oaf, Farondar would, most certainly, embrace his doom as he breached the Enchanted Girdle… but no matter; he had effected that, for which he had been snared. Now he was held fully in the expend.

The sweet, and wanton Faerie maid beneath him accorded Farondar a soft and secretive smile. He fancied it was in receipt of the pleasuring he had bestowed upon her. Had he but known; his blood would have run cold. For the secretive smile beheld the relish of her knowing that the intrigue woven by The Dreadful, Dark Entity: Baelar had now come to full blossom and had set fair. All that was now left to do was to despatch this witless Algethi to his fiery doom.

In the morn that followed; Rinil Farondar, Malcontent Lordling of the Shandalar Court, stepped forth into the sunlight from out of the dark threshold of the greater of the Weens of White Prestor. He tarried, whilst his gaze became content with the light. He had bidden farewell to his Faerie maiden, saying he would journey back across the border and raise a body of his fellow malcontents to plot sedition. He would redeem his sequestered lands for the comfort of his Faerie paramour and her youngling. Girding himself with resolute, and baneful bent, he strode forth.

He spied a knot of riders coming up from the south. They would be a patrol from out of the Citadel. No matter; they would see that he was no Darkling. As he now stood, they would not know him. They would only know that here, came an Algethi from out of Yeranoor, as like, seeking sanctuary. He smiled at this cunning deceit; 'Aye, he was nimbler in wit than these common troopers who would never imagine he was now laying requite of his banishing. They would know that those such as he, could never make ingress of the Girdle; so marked as they were, with the Sigil of The Abyss; and thus, would embrace no dubiety as they espied him.

He granted himself a smug grin… the last grin he would ever effect. As his striding foot touched the turf beyond the border of Yeranoor; there came a blinding, blue flash of light that smote away everything in his sight. The Cold Fire-Shield lifted him from off his feet and hurled him... as if he were a half-grown youngling; back into the embrace of The Burning Fire-Shield. Ensnared in its fiery caress, he shrieked and writhed; his garments bursting into flames upon him as he was hurled forth beyond the Enchanted Girdle out onto the plain of Shandalar.

The riders on the plain gazed in horror at the shrieking, screeching torch that came whirling towards them with great sloughs of seared skin and flesh a'flapping from the glistening white of its finger bones as it beat at itself in vain strive to smother the fiery devour of flesh, which fell away in steaming gobbets from its charring frame. As they stared at this hideousness with appalled gaze, they saw the pink steam gouting from mouth and nostrils, and bursting from ears and eyes as its tripes and vitals boiled within its thrashing and writhing carcass.

Even now; this ruined creature hurtled in circles about the plain… even now it screamed; but the scream was, by now, not a scream. T'was more the sound that a blade makes when laid to a dry whetstone… a high, keening shriek that set teeth on edge.

One of the maids raised bow, and swiftly laid three arrows into this dreadfulness. It fell at last, and lay there… and moved no more. Even though they were certain-sure that this wretched creature had been of Algethi-kind; the troopers saw no Charas rise out from the sputtering and smoking carcass as the remains of the charred flesh slowly fell from the bones, and the sinews made pop and crackle.

Thus passed Rinil Farondar, Malcontent Lordling of the Shandalar Court; Braggart, Bullyrag, and Recusant; brought to his ruin by concupiscence and greed. His wastrel span cast aside and his worth to The Darkness spent in full sum now that his seed was securely harvested by the covert-cloaked "Baelar'enin" that he had thought a comely Faerie maiden. He had never imagined... and now, would never know that his thoughtless prurience would bring forth the last, reckless confrontation of the ongoing Punitive wars called by name: "The Eternal Watchtower." But then; it has ever been thus. T'is ever simpler in wont, for the male to adjudge issue of concupiscence with his privities rather than with his wits.

Far to the west; Torbair of Aiuthal sat within his worksteading laying fettle to the measures of shining, black Adamaunte that would, at length, be crafted as scabbard for the sword of Beshlie of Calverstock. As he toiled with file and shears; of a sudden, his sharp Algethi instincts laid sturdy demand upon his ponder of crafting. Laying down his file, he sat, unmoving, and listened. There was naught as might have laid cause for his nerves to embrace the tautness of a double-curved bow, full-drawn. Nonetheless, they were so strained. All that could be discerned was the common birdcall, and rustle of leaf. But Torbair knew... he did not know how; but there was something coming out of the north... something that bode them ill.

Laying aside the half-crafted scabbard, he stepped without his worksteading. Here he could feel a curiousness... as if, a tremble of wind upon the air. But there was no wind this day. All was calm and serene. Might this be the same tremor in The Light that Eldamar had felt at Calverstock? 'Nay; t'was too far distantly passed for it to be that. Then he heard the sound. T'was far distant, but swelling in sum. T'was a sound he had hearkened to, once before... a wailing, wordless cry of hatred that he had heard in the nebulous gloom of the Pass of Hestrus; when he and Eldamar had entered therein to seal the Portal to The Underdark. Shadow-Wraiths!... but how?

Torbair squandered no span in passing ponder on this conundrum. He ran for the homesteading, calling loud to Ithilwen to roust the Storm Linnets from their roostings. Ithilwen came swiftly from out of the homesteading, her face pale in concernment at hearkening to Torbair's loud call.

'What is it, my Dearling that besets you with such sturdy and urgent bellow?'

Torbair shouted at her as he ran across the courtyard.

'Hearken you that wailing! T'is the call of Shadow-Wraiths. They have breached the Girdle. Come... fly out the Storm Linnets while there is yet time. Thence, get you behind closed doors; for where there are Shadow-Wraiths; t'is certain-sure there shall be Chutaks in trail.'

Ithilwen Silverleaf stood into the courtyard and raised her arms, reaching out to either side. She began to sing a soft and gentle melody. One by the one, small birds of a beautiful plumage flew to her from out the birdhouse, and perched upon her outstretched arms. In a slender span in passing, there were some dozen or more settled upon her. She murmured something that Torbair could not understand, and the birds began to sing. And here; the pure, unbridled truth; for, one moment… the skies were blue; and the next… they were not. As if, from nowhere, there came a sombre, and darkening cloud; the like, as sometimes gusts in from the grey, flinty mountains portending a violent, and ruinous storm.

'Gainst the dim of the forest, all fading into the overgloom, they beheld the flit and dart of the seething dark shadows of a covey of Shadow-Wraiths closing upon the homesteading. Torbair beseeched Ithilwen to gain shelter of their abode, but she decried, standing firm in the courtyard. Closer came the Shadow-Wraiths; their wailing, wordless cry of triumph swelling in measure. Ithilwen stood her ground. The birds sang as one. When all seemed lost... when Ithilwen must be taken… then, came the wind.

A howling, shrieking, raging wind came from out of nowhere; all whipping at the branches of the forest; lifting and tearing asunder the Shadow-Wraiths; spinning and sundering them into billowing tendrils of brume... sharding and splintering the very air with the dreadful shriekings of their doom. And swifter than it might be told… they were gone... as was that terrible wind. Only now, did she turn towards the Homesteading as the Storm Linnets took wing in recurse to their roosting place.

The skies were clearing; the sombre overcast was softening to blue. Torbair hastened from the doorway and pulled her within; slamming the sturdy oaken door and dropping the great oaken crossbeam into the wall staples, thus barring the door. Swiftly, he pulled the thick shutters across the casements, leaving only the arrow loops cut therein, open to the light. Ithilwen stood affrighted by this swift and resolute closure. She had not perceived the thing that Torbair had hearkened to; her Storm Linnets' song had stifled the sound from out the forest... the sound of gallop of many mounts, and the thin, coarse cries in some vile rasping tongue that echoed the forest reaches. Even as she stood there... her eyes wide in alarm; Torbair was gathering up the arrow chest and proving the tautness of bowstring to the two powerful, double-curved, Algethi War bows that he had snatched from the great oaken coffer hard by the hearth. Ithilwen yet stared. Torbair spoke sharply to her…

'Come now; stand not with mouth agape, 'an you be snaring flies. Chutaks are riding down upon us. Fly out your Kaarenoks to waylay them a little while; for we have not a sturdy sum of arrows to make gift to these vermin.'

The keen edge to his voice brought Ithilwen from out her transfixed study. Gathering her acuity about herself; she stood at the nether arrow loop and pursed her lips, laying forth her call... of sorts to raise hairs on nape of neck. T'was a call as one sometimes hears from out of the deepings of the forest on a misty, moonless night. A wild call; whose echo through the eerie, darkened glades would lay apt cause for bed mantles to be pulled up about the ears. The call gave Torbair shiver. There came from without, a cry in respond… a chilling, rasping caw… and a cumbersome flapping. From his gaze through the arrow loop, Torbair watched, as the five great Kaarenoks came forth and took to the wing, turning into the north.

There was little to do, but to wait. There was no knowing how many of these Darkling vermin had breached the Enchanted Girdle. There was, but one thing to advantage. The Girdle had been raised as if, linkings to a chain. Each stood secure in its oneness. If the Darklings had breached a single linking, the remain would stand firm. The whole would not tumble to ruin as had the Enchanted Girdle of Arfeiniel when those who had raised it were slain… as was the gruesome fate of the maidens of the Cabal of Bradda. If Torbair and Ithilwen were lost, the Enchanted Girdle would prevail. Their fate would, though, be another thing.

Torbair knew it stood no matter that he was "Kurwa'Tur-selu En'Ithil' Algethi"… "Craftmaster of High Moon-Magick." There was no Moon Magick that he might employ to confound what was now sweeping down upon them. This would be a stand in the manner of the old ways. This would be a welter of blood and ruin. He had resolved that if he, and Ithilwen were destined to listen to the whisper of Sathulinan this day, then they would not perish in manner the same, as had Thallian Beckstrider and his bond-mate, the Sorceress Shahran in the Slaughter at Penvallanar. 'Nay; when it stood plain that all was lost, he would despatch Ithilwen with a swift thrust of his dagger up under her chin, and then, effect the same doom upon himself. Then; it mattered not that these vermin might breach the homesteading and collop their perished bodies.

Torbair and Ithilwen would be far distantly beyond their clutches; rising to Carmanthyr … The Tranquil Island; borne away by the Song of Sathulinan. Not for them the dread of becoming "Shadows" of the Algethi dead, wandering the Dying Realms until the world ended. Not for them; their Charas denied the return to the nature of all things; melding with all living things in the forest, all things in the air, and the cool, crystal Meres. This would be their fate were they to fall into the grasp of the Chutaks; 'an they were yet, alive. For in this; their Charas would never rise free 'till the ones who had taken them were slain in their turn.

All of this was thrust from his thoughts, as from out of the forest burst the ride of Chutaks. In sum of tally, there must have been two- score and ten. They swept down upon the homesteading, harried and torn at by the swooping Kaarenoks. And in that moment, Torbair knew that their balance of prevailment stood something less than the aspire of weaving a cloak out of Moon-mist.

As the Chutaks rode down on the homesteading, the ride sundered. Their device of attack stood plain. They rode to rive the defence. Torbair and Ithilwen loosed arrow after arrow; Chutaks tumbled one after the other. The Kaarenoks swooped and harried; their dreadful snapping beaks skiving heads from shoulders with the consummate ease of dead-heading wilted blooms in the Autumn.

The homesteading echoed with the thudding of spears into the sturdy oaken shutters. Black Karuk spears! The merest grazing with such as those, and they were lost forever to The Darkness. Flaming arrows were loosed by the Chutaks, but the homesteading was roofed in stone, and none prevailed. Still the Chutaks tumbled, arrow-struck, as they careered round and about the homesteading. Two Kaarenoks were seen cut down, and then came the crashing of axes against the oaken door.

Ithilwen lay a frightened glance to Torbair; she had, but two arrows in remain. Torbair had, but three. Softly, he reached for his dagger… then Ithilwen was hastening to a cabinet in the far wall, ducking aside as a Karuk spear sheared through the arrow loop where she had stood, but a heartbeat precedently. Flinging open the cabinet, she brought forth a splendid golden horn, casting it across the room to Torbair. He seized the same and threw a curious glance to her.

The horn was fashioned in pure gold. It embraced two trumpets rearing from a common mouthpiece. Each trumpet was overlaid with a greenish hued gold, graven back to the base gold in image of signets of the Lothluthil Rowan leaf standing proud upon the whole. Ithilwen cried,

'T'is the Horn of Lorien. She has not laid voice since ages past. Give blow!'

Torbair did not pause in ponder. Raising the great horn, he blew long and sturdy. The Horn of Lorien sang out. One note sang high… the other sang low, each melding into the one. Then it was done. Casting down the Horn, he dragged Ithilwen into a corner as splinters began to whirl from the nether face of the door. His hand was firm about his dagger hilt. All must now be lost… he softly began to draw forth the dagger; holding her head 'gainst his shoulder, with her face upturned… her throat offered. His dagger was in his hand, full-drawn… he looked into her frightened eyes and thought sadly; this slender span of time that they had shared together had been good.

Then; so softly, it might be imagined; there came a sound as like the distant rumbling of fair-weather thunder that slowly swelled louder. The very ground began to tremble. The Chutaks gave pause to their assail, as of a sudden, they ranged about the greening with unease in their pale yellow gaze. Then… from out of the forest tree-line burst; at the first… a wave of white Unicorns, each with a silver-clad maid there mounted; sabres shimmering in the sunlight. In close accord, from the nether reaches of the greening, behind the milling Chutaks, there burst four full cohorts of Black riders.

The Riders of Lothleitha and the Nemesis of Lothluthil rode down upon the swirling Chutaks, and mercilessly laid them to waste. Not one Chutak escaped the hack and splatter; the hewing of flesh, and the spray of Darkling gore. Neither rider 'nor gruesome mount were gifted a shred of charity. Within the passing of perhaps, a quarter-span of a Sundial-shadow, 'naught, but carcasses lay weltering in their black blood.

Torbair lifted Ithilwen from out the corner of the homesteading that might well have been their tomb, and unbarred the splintered door. Stepping without, betwixt the sprawled Chutak carcasses, he spied the Black riders passing from his sight; their blackly dripping, Leissor-bladed sabres raised in salutation as they rode back into the depths of the greening. These dreaded Night-Fighters of Lothluthil had no taste for the sunlight, and decamped away into the overgloom of the forest canopy. The Riders of Lothleitha remained. Mahriel; their lead rider, made dismount. She stood before Torbair and Ithilwen, and raised her War-helm. She smiled... a wry smile.

'Fair morrow, My Lord Torbair; fair morrow, Mistress Ithilwen. In truth, we imagined we were beset by wondrous dream and reverie when the song of the Horn of Lorien rang through our glades; as too, methinks, did Khaartur, Master of the Nemesis of Lothluthil. Her song is close forgotten in the misting of ages passed; but when we hearkened to her summons, we needs-must swiftly ride forth to lay bare the truth of this thing.'

She gazed about the carnage of the sprawling carcasses.

'And t'would seem t'was as well that we did.'

Torbair laid forth a heartsome sigh; and with wry grin, spoke forth;

'Aye, Mistress Mahriel, there be the truth of it; 'an no cavil there for the finding. Yet, how came you to our comfort and aid in such swift array? 'An more; how knew you wherefrom the call of the Horn sprang?'

Mahriel smiled;

'T'is plain to see that Mistress Ithilwen has not laid tell of the Matter of the Horn of Lorien upon you, My Lord; but, I shall lay that to rights forthwith. The song of The Horn of Lorien is a Call to Arms for the Guardians of The Forest of Elisriendell... being my Riders of Lothleitha, and too, the Nemesis of Lothluthil. For when The Darkness gathers and all would seem to be lost; her call is the last, best hope in the Matter of Elisriendell. It has ever been thus, since the day she was crafted in the forge of the fabled Arms-Mistress, Lorien.'

Seeing that Torbair knew 'naught of this Horn; Mahriel laid upon him the sum of the Tell in this matter. She told of the beautiful Moon-Algethi, Lorien; Forge-Mistress of Lothluthil, who, t'was whispered in legend; crafted the swords of the First Guardians, deep in the Singing Woods of Lothluthil. This; Torbair knew... for was not his mighty sword of the Old Moon Magic, by name "Lossehelin Ruthuviel"… or as would be said in the common tongue, "The Shadow of The Unicorn Horn," then forged by the hand of Lorien? The knowing of The Horn was another thing.

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Mahriel told that the lore besetting the Horn was this: Lorien crafted the Horn at the behest of the first Guardian Lord: Jalan; and the Horn first sang her song of gatherment at the onset of the Rout of the Vale of Lothluthil. Here; the Guardian Lord Jalan and his Guardian Rangers laid waste to the Northern Tarak Horde that came screaming down from off the open shoulder of the rolling Yeranoor Dales; engaging them in the water meadows round, and about the little Luthil beck. Above eight thousand of these Darkling vermin were held by scarcely beyond two thousand Guardian Rangers; who cut them to shreds. T'was said that the little Luthil beck was so polluted with Darkling gore and carcasses, that t'was beyond a pair of moon-span passings, 'ere it flowed clear once more.

This then, was the dawning of the first engagement of the Punitive Wars, now called by name: "The Eternal Watchtower." After this first slaughter; the Horn was taken into Lothluthil and laid in wardship to the Clan of the most trusted of Elisriendell's Sorceresses; to be brought forth when call to gatherment need be laid upon the air. The ward had passed in kind, from mother to daughter down the Ages. Mahriel gave pause, in study of Torbair; then said;

'And now, we stand at this span in passing. Ithilwen Silverleaf is, in her turn…Ward of The Horn of Lorien; and so, we knew whereto we must ride. The knowing is passed from Mistress to Mistress of The Riders of Lothleitha, as it is too, from Master to Master of the Nemesis of Lothluthil. When The Horn of Lorien calls; then, all in hand at that time is cast aside and we ride as one. It has ever been thus, and ever shall it be so.

There is no Horn in all of the Realms that has voice in kind as does The Horn of Lorien; so guilefully was she crafted. Her call cannot be misdeemed for another. Her song carries the reach of the greening but has not been hearkened for countless summers. When she sang forth, we knew we needs-must ride in swift accord to engage with the gravest imposition, such peril to the Matter of Elisriendell as we found in, and about this place. T'would seem we were not indolent in our purpose. But, what then, are these gruesome creatures all sprawling about this place; and more... how came they thus here, My Lord?'

Torbair cast gaze about at the hacked, and spraddled carcasses scattered about his, and Ithilwen's homesteading courtyard. Turning again to Mahriel, he spoke softly;

'They are the spawn of the very bowels of The Abyss that are called by name, Chutaks; being merciless and frenzied flesh-eaters… as are those gruesome creatures they ride upon. How they be here can mean, but one thing; The Enchanted Girdle is breached; perhaps, in manner the same as was the Girdle of Bradda… by tearing down one or another of the settling places. I needs must ride out in seek of this calamity, and raise the Girdle a'new in the spanning of the breach.'

Mahriel studied him; her bright blue eyes pensive at this reveal. Then she spoke; and Torbair saw there… in her gaze, that no dispute to what she would say next would be countenanced.

'An that be your design; then we shall stand you escort, My Lord. I shall sunder the Ride in twain. One partage shall hold here for the comfort of Mistress Ithilwen; the other shall ride with you.'

Mahriel and Torbair; in company with one score, and five Riders of Lothleitha progressed the forest deepings of Elisriendell northwardly, seeking out the place where the Enchanted Girdle had been breached. Torbair held intuition that such a breach would be at the Cove of Poulna at the far reach of the Forest of Raventhorn Scar. This was the weakest settle in the Girdle; being on the shoulder of the rolling Yeranoor Dales above the Vale of Lothluthil.

The Cove of Poulna was, but a wind-swept clutch of three slender standing stones, standing, as like, a narrow, unroofed privy; having a back and two side walls in sum. A sturdy tether, thrown about the same and heaved upon in resolute accord, would as like, tumble the whole with no great imposition. This was how the Chutaks had assailed the settlement of Bradda… by tumbling a pair of the guardian pole braziers that circled the whole. 'Aye; it fitted neater than a glove of finest kid leather.

At length, they came from out of the underwood of the great Forest of Lothluthil and rode across the span of meadow that disjoined Lothluthil from the Singing Woods. Herein, they would be safe. No Darkling would venture here, for the Old Magick walked abroad in these woods. They rode unwatchful, and at ease; progressing towards the White stones of Foxcote above the deep and silent Meres of Lothluthil. Here; Torbair had settled a linking, and it was as like, it yet prevailed. This linking stretched to the Mark-Stone of Elisriendell. Here, there would be no breach. Of this, Torbair was certain-sure.

And so it was; there was no breaching of the Enchanted Girdle betwixt the White stones of Foxcote and the Mark-Stone of Elisriendell. Torbair had outstretched his arms and intoned the Spellbind. No burstings of blinding, violet-white light had sprung from his fingertips. The link was secure.

A clutch of the younger Riders of Lothleitha had laid ill-cloaked giggle and snigger at this singularly impotent spellbind, but had been swiftly, and sturdily scolded by Mahriel. Torbair had turned about with wry smile, and had laughed with them at this singular founder of his endeavour; for such was his graciousness. But, the younglings had blushed crimson and begged his forbearance at their foolishness. He had waved it aside as trifling, and the issue… were there any; had passed.

As they came to the thinning of the Singing Woods, they embraced full caution. Before them lay the Vale of Lothluthil; and beyond the ancient Tythe barn, the flank of the vale clambered up to the shoulder of the Yeranoor Dales. The Cove of Poulna was not to be seen. So; Torbair's intuition was proven; here was the breaching place. But how?

The resolve of this conundrum was not for abiding a sturdy span in passing 'ere the reveal stood to their gaze. The stones of the Cove of Poulna had been tumbled. The ashes and charred bones lay thick about the ruin. The Chutaks had pulled down the stones, and many had perished in the embrace of the waning and wasting Girdle as its vigour had faded. By patent force in squander of tally, the breach had been effected. The Girdle needs must be raised once more in swift accord; but with the Cove of Poulna tumbled to ruin, this was not the place that this link in the Girdle might be raised again.

This fresh-raised link would need to stretch from the Mark-Stone of Elisriendell even unto the Mark-stone of Raventhorn Scar. The reach of this linking would be close on ten, and seven leagues. This was far beyond any link laid, thus far. Would the Spellbind prevail? Was the Old Magick yet ample in sum of thew?

Torbair knew he might stand and ponder the day away on this matter. There was, but one manner of proving the same. He stretched out his arms and intoned the Spellbinding. For the passing of a pair of heartbeats, there was 'naught. Then; from each of his outstretched hands sprang the bursting of blinding, violet-white light. From his left-most hand, a great gouting of light flashed away into the west… towards the Mark-Stone of Elisriendell; from his right-most hand, the same great gouting hurtled away across the Yeranoor Dales towards the Mark-stone of Raventhorn Scar.

With the blinding, violet-white light yet bursting from his hands, Torbair strove to bring his hands together. The rend betwixt each gout of light was sturdy; but he prevailed, and as his hands touched; so then the blinding, violet-white light melded into a oneness and faded to a nothingness. The link was settled. Torbair made wander to the tumbled stones and sat in weary jade. He mused that his store of summers were overmuch for this witless, yet needful folly.

The Riders of Lothleitha sat wide of eye and slack of jaw at this manifestation of the power of The Old Magic that Torbair had loosed before their aforesaid doubting gaze. They held Torbair with fresh regard. One or two held him in regard of another thing; as betrayed by their coyly sidelong glances from beneath lowered lashes…but then, that is the nature of the young. The Mantle of Power was ever a singularly efficacious seducer.

Torbair though, bade them no heed. The Enchanted Girdle was secure, and that was enough. The day marched on, and t'was a distant ride to his Ithilwen. The peril had passed. He wheeled about his mount, and compassed about by the Riders of Lothleitha, galloped into the southerly west. What Torbair did not know… for in truth, there was no way that he might know; was this…

Whilst the link settling of the Enchanted Girdle on, and about the Cove of Poulna lay ruined and tumbled, a minion of The Darkness had slunk with significant slyness therethrough. So meticulous was its passing; that it mislaid not even a single press of footprint into the mantle of Chutak ashes laying thickly about that place.

Despatched on the particular command of The Dreadful, Dark Entity: "Baelar," called too, "The Lord of The Underdark"; its precept laid that it should not lay assail, nor maraud in kind. The minion was; as is to be supposed... yet one more "Baelar'enin"... but, of a different ilk. This "Baelar'enin" embraced demeanour and likeness of Algethi kind; settled upon it immutably by The Dark Lord. It beheld as a young and sturdy Algethi male, some three, and three-quarter cubits in standing; flaxen pale of hair, and summer-skies blue in hue of eye. It was bestowed with an Algethi naming, as it would employ as it roamed Amriath. It was named Ciroth Pendrian; its calling being a Journeyman saddler from out of Elisriendell.

The charge of this supposed Algethi was to prospect the land in gather of intelligences in the matter of winnow of a fitting, and trustworthy personage upon whom the youngling; soon to be birthed by the "Baelar'enin" in cloak as Faerie maid settled in the farmstead distantly north on the Great Plains of Yeranoor; might be fashioned in mien of image. For, as previously told in the Tarsius; such infant would be birthed holding no caste, nor creed, and being unformed in demeanour. In this deceit, then, could the viper be softly settled into the bosom of The Light.

The supposed Algethi... Ciroth Pendrian, made compass the farmsteads of northerly Amriath in seek of employ. Time and again, he was counselled by the well-meaning farmers that he should seek employ in Rhom. There, he would find Cavalry stables. So it was; he turned to southerly east and progressed into Lorenfalu. As he journeyed, he appraised all that he passed, but found none that measured to his require. At length, he came down upon Rhom and entered therein. Here; there would be more worthy pickings than he had beheld, thus far.

As he walked the broad, cobbled streets, he came upon one who would suit his purpose in consummate accord. He beheld a pretty Algethi maid who held span in sum of summers of perhaps, ten, and four. Her hair; uncommonly, for one of Algethi-kind; was the darkness of a blackbird's wing. She wore it in lack of tumbling tresses... much as would an Algethii from out of the Singing Woods of Lothluthil; and she moved with Algethii grace.

The Algethii were akin to the Algethi of Amriath, save for this: they were more alike in stature to the Little People of The Hollow Hills; being in receipt of little more than three cubits in standing. They were delicate and graceful; fine boned, and of exquisite countenance. They were dancers and minstrels; being gentle and subtle.

The Algethi maid's naming; which, at first sight, he resolved to discern, was… Beshlie of Calverstock.

Thus; as the summer days drifted into autumn; the false Algethi: Ciroth Pendrian, guilefully insinuated himself into the company of Beshlie of Calverstock. As it is, with all youngling females; She was beguiled by the attentions of this handsome young fellow, even to embracing imagine of a future bond-trothing as she lay a'bed in the soft of the night. Ciroth Pendrian beheld that his deceit had prevailed beyond his wildest hopings. This youngling Algethi maid was besotted. And so, at the first; they began a gentle dalliance; with sweet kisses, gentle fondles, and delicious caresses bestowed; Pendrian might have plundered with ease, her firm, young body as would be his wont... yet he did not. Had he so chosen to press his suit, it is certain-sure she would not have decried him.

Perhaps, he was aware of the certain stern, binding precepts laid down by the Law-givers of Amriath in regard of embrace of demeanour in such matters; the foremost of these being, that no female holding span of less than ten, and six summers would to be laid siege to, with carnal intent; even though she might lay wishful bidding of the same. Such precept would be held in scant regard by one, being of Darkling kind; 'less he were a'feared of being unmasked by his turpitude. But this pillage would not have been prosecuted by force 'nor cozen. Here, there would be no hue and cry raised by the maiden. This then, would not be the cause of his stay of hand.

Might it be that he was smitten with this youngling maid? For, in truth, she was very beautiful; even though she was in receipt of such a tender span in summers. Might it be, that knowing this was her first taste of the blossom of love, he chose not to blight too soon, the bright hope that she embraced? 'Nay; this could not be the issue, for Darklings held not a shred of compassion.

Might it then be, that this concord was 'naught more than a subtle deceit; howby he might gather such informations as were imposed by his precept? Perhaps, he chose to avail himself of the diverse carnal artistry of the sluts in the taverns, stews, and bawdy houses of Rhom; more so than with an unsullied maiden; in full awareness of the debauched, and licentious pleasures he might seek to garner in these places.

It mattered not, which, if any of these might be the truthing; for had Pendrian pressed his suit in seduction, then Beshlie of Calverstock would certainly stand forfeit of her birthright to assume the mantle of Mistress of The Riders of Lothleitha. Plundered of her Maidenhood, she would lack bestowal to commune with her Unicorn, and this would lay the blight upon her accession. For, as it has been previously told; none, but maids, full-found, held this singular advantage.

But, on the face of it… with incogitable paucity of wit; Pendrian's choosing not to prosecute his advantage in plundering the maid caused him to seal for himself, a dreadful fate. More; here, he laid beginnings of the pathway that would, at length; enkindle the ruination of Baelar's intent concerning that, which The Lord Laumil; Council-Master of Elisriendell, had laid name to, in ominous accord as "The Advent of the End of the Shining Days;" close upon ten, and five summers since passed.

As the tutelage of the youngling Guardians was pursued, Tristan beheld that Beshlie was turning more and more amiss in her grasp of heedfulness. He was troubled. She had, at the first; embraced such promise. Her thoughts were in another place. He resolved to quest the whyfor of this variance of demeanour.

Such a reveal would only be secured with subtle watchfulness. Tristan knew well, the sulk and pout; the flare, and the pique of youngling females beset by the early embrace of their womanhood. Any perceived pry, and Beshlie of Calverstock would, as like, betake herself into some secret place within herself as he might never breach.

He chose a body of Guard to shadow her in seek of the truth of this thing. They would attire as commonage of Rhom and lay muted and distant trail to her person about such places as she wandered when she was not pursuing her sword-skills. Soon enough, her dalliance with Ciroth Pendrian was unmasked. So guileful was the reveal that the couple knew not that they were discovered. Tristan was apprised of this dalliance and pondered what course of action he should settle upon. His intelligencer had told that; to his scrutiny, t'was seemingly 'naught but simple cosset. The Algethi had betrayed no wont 'nor design to board her. Nonetheless, she was lacking in sum of summers, and it might be he was shepherding her to accede to his licentious designs.

Here then, lay the perplexity. Were Tristan to have the Algethi taken; t'was as like, that Beshlie would turn away from her tutelage and be lost forever to her destiny as Chosen Daughter of The Light. Were he to disregard this dalliance; t'was as like, that the Algethi… sooner or later, would plunder her Maidenhood, and here too; she would be forever lost to her aforesaid destiny.

Tristan fretted and pondered. At length, he made resolve of the issue. He would despatch the youngling Guardians in full sum forthwith, into the custody of Thoris Barandor at Khallis, with forewarning of the Algethi who pursued Beshlie of Calverstock. There, in the safe haven of Khallis they would learn the skills of the Thuvian swordsmen which would stand them all in masterly fettle for what they might face... the same masterly fettle that Khallis had bestowed upon his brother Marcus's daughter... Cirion; Warrior Ice Queen of Shandalar.

In resolve of Tristan's concern in the matter of Beshlie; on the morrow, the youngling Guardians; beset by a sturdy ride of Trillian's cavalry, rode out through the gates of Rhom, bound away for Khallis. All up through the soft pastures of Lorenfalu they rode; the Heights of Rhyddu marching beside them. Tristan rode with them, keeping wary eye upon the aforesaid heights. The ride held in lack of issue until they came down upon the Badger Grove below the watchtower of Firgen Pike.

Here; they were at the very borders of Lorenfalu, and before them stretched a desolation of yellow and ochre, of brown and of grey... the wastelands of Khallis; a great, silent span of hollows and ash piles; mounds of ancient mining spoil, and great heaps of rusting slag from the furnaces of Khallis. The wastelands of Khallis stretched above thirty leagues north to the Khallis Redoubt and were a desolate wilderness, as silent as the grave. Tristan cast ceaseless, watchful gaze all about for Shadow-Wraiths. All seemed quiet.

A little later; to the east, beyond the line of the Enchanted Girdle; at first, he beheld, but the one. A Shadow-Wraith prowled with baneful slink and wreathe; holding pace with their progress. There came another to join its kin... and another; and yet one more. Others gathered; as do rooks about the treetops of a summer's eve. Soon enough, there were close, half-a-score flitting and skimming Rhyddu; their wailing, wordless cries of seething hatred sundering the air at their denial, by cause of the Girdle; to fall upon their prey.

Tristan was beset with trepidation. Here, in midst of a score of Cavalry troopers; he counted, but one sword that would lay telling assail upon these abominations; his own Sword of The Light… "Dagnorath"… "Bane of Black Terror"; her pommelled Topaz flaring as bright as the Evening Star. And too; he need fret over the six youngling Guardians in his charge. T'was true; Kathalyn and Beshlie could hold issue with sword… were they in receipt of such blades that were of The Light; but they were not. All that lay betwixt his charges and those dreadful prowling monstrosities were the Enchanted Girdle and his companionless sword.

The Cavalry troopers would be of no advantage if the Enchanted Girdle were to fail. The younglings were embracing disquiet, and they were yet, close on a league away from the cairn of Donella. T'was Tristan's best hope that the Girdle stood sturdy. He held small relish of galloping the thirty or so leagues to Khallis beset with a gathering of affrighted younglings.

As they rode on into the Khallis wastelands in chary regard of the trailing spectres of the gruesome doom that would surely engulf them, were their fortune to abandon them; Elshore was plying a masterly fettling to the spoiled Great Sword of The Custodians of Asteth Tarsi; The Guardians of The Star of The East. He had spent the span of many Sundial shadows laying on hammer and heat; whetstone and file, to bring the blade to edging. T'was so sorely spoiled about the blade edges when it came from out of Astalan, that he needs must bray it back a full finger-span about both edges to unburden the blade of chippings, of gougings, and flaws. Even then, there was a deep rift across the spine of the blade. There was no skill he might impart to fill the rift of a blade that was so blighted, with new steel... short of forge welding; and a forge-weld in the spine of a blade would, as like, abate its strength in sturdy sum.

When Elshore had remedied the lesser spoil, as best he might; the blade was in lack of close, one-quarter of its span. It was no more, a sound blade; it was, but a frail shadow of what it had once been in the time before the Darkling had ruined it. How then; to rekindle this forlorn echo of that which once it had been? The notion that sprang to his imagine was brazen; even beyond the impudence of artistry he bore as Master Sword-smith to The Lord Guardian of The Light.

He would unburden her of hilt, and lay the bare-tined blade to forge-bed once more. He would meld a quantity of Leissoreum in his furnace pots, and mould billets as he had done for the first Guardian Swords. Into this meld would be emplaced a golden Rowan-leaf charm that Calelindi was crafting, even now. This charm; being the signet of Elaiana, "The One"... "She, Who Dreameth Forth All Things," would lay a fidelity to this sword, 'gainst which, no Abyss-forged Darkling blade could ever hope to prevail.

The Leissoreum billets would be double hammer-struck upon the anvil 'till they were, but parchment-thin leaves to be laid and forged upon the remain of the blade. This remain would become the spine of the blade all fettled about with cutting edges of Leissoreum. In this, would be reborn such a sword; the like of which, had not been seen ever to come from out of the forge of Calverstock.

Now, t'is a well-embraced notion that Algethi Craft-Masters are wont to preen in issue of their craft. Here, there would be no preen. For here, t'would be as if the High Goddess Elaiana stood at Elshore's shoulder and mentored his craft. From out of the forge of Calverstock would come a sword that was close, the equal of the great Sword of The Old Magick... "Runya en Numen"... "Citadel of The Eternal Truth," dreamed forth in The Age of Beginnings by The High Goddess Elaiana; that had ever stood as a bright, shining Bastion against the Forces of The Abyss.

Elshore would never embrace imagine that he was crafting such a sword as would be kin to the great, golden, Amber-pommelled sword that now lay upon the great charger borne by the wondrous image of the beautiful woman carven in purest white marble; that had been brought from the concealed chamber in the bowels of the Palace and placed in The Throne-room of Rhom betwixt the thrones of Tristan and Talith.

This was the golden sword that was ordained to be carried by The Golden Child… Kathalyn Seregon; as she rode out to prosecute that which was now called... since the Lord Laumil had worded the same: "The Advent of the End of the Shining Days" for one, or the other… the final and determinant battle of "The Eternal Watchtower," where The Forces of The Light would engage The Forces of The Darkness, for the sum of the whole.

The sword that he now re-fettled, would be Amber-pommelled by Torbair of Aiuthal with the rare, and precious, dark Amber stone from far to the north, on the shores of the frozen seas of Erinthor; the Eye-stone chosen in the manner of "Cilme vell Kiira"… Choosing the Gems; with each gem chosen, being the colour of each choosers' eyes. This Amber 'nigh-perfectly matched the eye hue of Beshlie of Calverstock. There was betoken in this issue; for, as Torbair had declared, almost as a digress, to Elshore at the gatherment of the Council of The Light at the Great Crystal Castle on the Cornflower-Blue Mere;

"Ponder upon you this: Two maidens... two Amber-pommelled swords."

What Elshore did know, was this… though he knew not by how he knew it. When The Golden Child rode out; in her company would ride Beshlie of Calverstock. They would engage The Dreadful, Dark Entity: "Baelar," called too, "The Lord of The Underdark," and they would, at length; drive The Dark Lord back into The Abyss. Elshore had foreseen this; much in the manner as he had made presage of the Destiny of The Warrior Ice Queen, Cirion of Shandalar long before she became Queen.

He saw too, that t'would not be The Golden Child who would tumble The Dark Lord to ruin. 'Nay; t'would be Beshlie of Calverstock; though, by how and by when, was not for the knowing. This was not the foretoken as commonly laid in this matter; but he was certain sure this was how it would come to passing.

Far to the north, on the Great Plains of Yeranoor; in the farmstead hard by the crumbling Moat-Tower of the long-since dead Ghlinngar the Seer; the first whisper of portend in the passing of the time of the Algethi had befallen. The "Baelar'enin" slyly cloaked in image of the Faerie maid; who had enticed, and beguiled the Malcontent Lordling of The Court of Shandalar: Rinil Farondar, and wilfully forsaken him to his dreadful doom, when she had plundered his seed; brought forth the issue of that seed... a half-blood infant of sorts, who held not caste, nor creed, and was unformed in demeanour; save this… the infant was female.

In this; the intrigue woven by The Dreadful, Dark Entity: Baelar, had now come to full blossom. Here, the pathways of this infant, and that of Beshlie of Calverstock, would begin to conjoin. Ciroth Pendrian; he, who had beguiled Beshlie, and was supposed Algethi…. yet in truth, was "Baelar'enin" embracing demeanour and likeness of Algethi kind; and too, intelligencer of The Dark Lord, had laid such informations as he gathered whilst making dalliance with her. Such informations concerning her likeness and demeanour had been imparted by way of black sorcery to the ears of Baelar.

In the farmstead, the Faerie maid was tending the infant, when Baelar manifested before her, in guise of a wandering Sage. He laid hands upon the infant, and cast the changeling spellbind of The Abyss. The infant, little by little; drew about itself a difference in image. Where there was blandness of feature; now there was sweet countenance… her face; the perfect image in shape of a lilac leaf. Where there was hair of a pallid hue… Now it shone black as a raven's wing. Where her eyes were a murky darkness… now, she was hazel-nut hued of eye, which, in certain light; held a subtle and delicate flecking of pure amber.

Here then, was devised the mein of the half-blood changeling who was begotten by ruthless connivance for one purpose, and one purpose only. That purpose was to insinuate herself as a viper into the bosom of The Light and confound the destiny of The Golden Child. Here, she would be beyond notion of mistrust, so she might weave her subterfuge in cloak. Here then, stood the flowering of The Dark Lord's baneful plotting and intrigue 'gainst The Light...

Here stood The False Beshlie.