Chapter 10

They descended from the hills at a brisk pace. The Dwarf Burak was mounted on a stout, jet black pony which appeared quite capable of carrying the heavy Dwarf and his large axe for many miles without tiring. At first Burak rode in the fore of the column with Raavan and Alatar as the three discussed the details of their route, but by mid-morn he had fallen to the rear and in time the Elflings found the courage to venture speaking with this most intimidating warrior who had joined their ranks.
      ‘Why do Dwarves live underground?’ Dannadar asked the Dwarf.
      ‘Delving into the earth has ever been the way of my people,’ explained Burak. ‘We are born diggers, perfectly adapted to the practise both in body and in mind. Men have not the strength nor the endurance to labour as hard and as long as can a Dwarf, neither have they the engineering skills necessary to move massive quantities of earth and rock, or the cleverness to build the way Dwarves can build.
      ‘But the main reason we live in the earth is that it is within the earth that we find our livelihood: our ores and minerals, crystals and rocks; the materials that go into all that we fashion. Dwarves are builders and craftsmen, first and foremost, and we are constantly in search of the raw materials to fuel our industry. I believe this is why Dwarves began to dig, and why we have become so well adapted to it. It is not in the Dwarven character to depend too greatly on outsiders for the acquisition of the most basic elements of our trade, and since we are constantly mining in the earth for our needed materials, that is where we feel most at home. Dwarves are truly people of the earth.’
      ‘Very interesting,’ said Dannadar.
      ‘Burak,’ said Talen, ‘your king referred to Ilimath as an ancient Kâlandelf. What does that mean?’
      ‘The Kalär are the Dwarves,’ explained Burak, ‘what we call ourselves. Kâlandelf is our word for a Dwarven stronghold. Ilimath was once the greatest Kâlandelf in Entira. My people were conquered in the century preceding the Great War by the Dark One whom we do not name, and we have been in exile ever since.’
      ‘But the Deathlord was overthrown, was he not? Why have Dwarves not returned to Ilimath?’ asked Falco.
      ‘For many years following the Great War my people were sorely ashamed,’ replied the Dwarf, ‘for it was our loss of that great place which provided the enemy with a nearly impenetrable stronghold from which to wage war on all of Entira. Too, significant effort had gone into the building of a new realm in the Belling Hills by our much reduced population. After the war too few of us remained to occupy both the new and the old kingdoms, and for the time being, the reclaiming of Ilimath, symbol of both our greatest achievement and our greatest loss, was left to the future.
      ‘During that time many foul things came to live in the deep places beneath Ilimath—hordes of spawn, even demons from the netherworld—and the task of reclaiming the Kâlandelf grew more difficult even as our own numbers began slowly to recover.
      ‘Two centuries ago an attempt was made by a small group of Dwarves from the Belling Hills to enter the ancient stronghold and make it a Dwarvenholt as of old. But the entire group was wiped out. It was said that a horror lurked in the deep halls of Ilimath, some demon or other that did not reveal itself openly but preyed on the colony till nearly all had been devoured and the colony abandoned.’
      ‘That is terrible!’ exclaimed Fifin. ‘And this is where we are now headed?’
      ‘Yes, but we are not going with the intention of reconquering Ilimath,’ said Raavan, who had fallen back to listen in on the conversation. ‘We seek only to enter that dark hole quietly, to locate the artefact, and then to slip out again before anyone (or anything) is the wiser.’
      ‘But what if some of the new inhabitants do take an interest in us?’ asked Talen. ‘What then?’
      Hefting his weighty axe Burak replied, ‘Then we collect our overdue rent from the squatters.’
      ‘There may be some fighting, yes, but at most we are likely to run into a few small bands of Troells, and possibly a Goblyn or two,’ Raavan reassured them. ‘If that happens then Alatar’s blade and Burak’s axe should do enough damage to their ranks to discourage them from making any concerted attack on the party. But even if we are drawn into an engagement with the spawn, I am sure your arrows will more than shift the balance in our favour. Remember: Troells are very inept warriors, and they are what we are most likely to encounter, if we encounter any spawn at all.’
      The Elflings with the possible exception of Falco were not entirely convinced, though Raavan’s reassurances did much to reduce their anxiety for the time being.
      ‘So, what is this Ilimath place like?’ asked Dannadar. ‘Is it going to be just like your halls back in the Belling Hills?’
      ‘No,’ replied the Dwarf. ‘Ilimath is very different, for it was constructed thousands of years ago and with far older technologies. But it is also much grander, for it was built over a much longer period of time and by a succession of very ambitious kings. Also, it goes much deeper than does our newer Kâlandelf, for the Belling Hills are much richer in the ores that we seek, and so we have had to dig less deep than at Ilimath.’
      Their curiosity momentarily sated, the Elflings asked no more questions for a time and the Dwarf spoke no more. This was just as well, for as they came again out of the hills to the level ground beyond, Raavan had them pick up the pace a bit and it became then more difficult to converse.
      They stayed on the road till noon, by which time the highway had once again degraded into a mere dirt road, and there was then little incentive for them to stay on that path. Turning toward the north-west they began to follow a more direct route toward their distant goal. They were surrounded once again by grasslands, for they were travelling still in Aresse, but the land appeared somewhat dryer than before and the grass had become uniformly brown for as far as the eye could see.
      They camped that night beneath a lone oak tree. After taking their meal Alatar cut two small, low-hanging branches from the large trunk and fashioned wooden swords from them. These he then used to begin instructing the Elflings in the art of fencing. He was much surprised to observe how quickly the Elflings learned, and because they were smaller and quicker than the man, he sometimes found himself struggling to fend off their attacks. Nevertheless, much training was yet in store for the young warriors, for Alatar was a highly experienced swordsman and he also was a fine teacher. The Elflings greatly appreciated his help, and they began to see this grim man as more than a comrade-at-arms, for they could see that he also was a good and worthy friend.
      For three days they travelled north and west, keeping a pace that was chosen to cover as many miles as possible while also conserving the strength of their steeds. They broke for lunch and dinner and spent each evening in mock battle. Burak had fashioned himself a wooden axe and now joined in the melee with great enthusiasm, for to fend off four energetic Elflings was proving rather difficult even for such an experienced warrior as he, yet he had much to show them to improve their defences against axe-wielding spawn.
      By the third evening even Raavan had joined in the fray, wielding his staff as it were a spear, and a pitched battle ensued between Elflings on the one hand and man, wizard, and Dwarf on the other. Unlike in a real battle, however, this one predictably ended in the collapse of all its combatants into a great, laughing heap. The experienced warriors among them found striving with quick-moving Elflings great sport, and the Elflings being the good-natured beings that they were found great pleasure at joining in the mirth of their trainers. Of course, the Elflings further promoted the enjoyment of the sport by cheating in various ways whenever they found themselves hopelessly overpowered by their larger and stronger adversaries.
      Around noon on the fourth day the land became much less dry, the grass became a verdant green once more, and they espied a line of broad-leafed trees ahead.
      ‘We have reached the river,’ Raavan informed the party.
      ‘Which river is that?’ asked Falco.
      ‘The Greyspring,’ replied Alatar, ‘which the Elves call Svienya. It begins in the Merethir Forest, where dwell the Elves far to the north, and runs south to join the River Korsil and to flow eventually into the sea at Pencairn.’
      ‘Have you ever seen the sea, Alatar?’ asked Fifin.
      ‘Yes, I have,’ replied the man. ‘Many times. It is more beautiful than I have words to describe. I hope you will get a chance to see it someday.’
      ‘I hope so, too,’ said Fifin.
      They decided to take lunch on the banks of the great river, for the day was fine, with a bright sun overhead. A pleasant breeze blew off the water, wafting a fresh scent in their direction.
      ‘You said this river begins in the land of the Elves, Alatar,’ said Talen.
      ‘One of the lands of the Elves,’ replied Alatar. ‘There are several places in Entira where still dwell the Elves, though fewer than there once were. They still can be found in Avalesse and Avonside on the coast of Arenya, and in the Great Forest of Arvalla south and west of Pilinon.’
      ‘I have never seen an Elf,’ said Talen. ‘My great-grandfather met a few of them long ago.’
      ‘Have none of you seen an Elf, then?’ asked Burak of the Elflings. Four heads shook in the negative. ‘This I am surprised to hear—you are clearly related to them. Indeed, I would myself have sworn on my axe that you all were young Elves had I not already known of your people, for I myself have been to Laurelindor, though it is many years now.’
      ‘You have been to Laurelindor?’ exclaimed Fifin.
      ‘That I have, lad,’ answered Burak.
      ‘To which part?’ queried Falco.
      ‘Ah, if memory serves, we passed close inside the southern border, for the land of the Greylings was not our intended destination; we were merely passing through on some errand or other,’ answered the Dwarf, leaning back on his elbows to watch the clouds roll slowly past. ‘Now I recall that our wain had broke down and we sought materials for its repair in a nearby village. Beewick it was called. I remember only because upon entering the town we saw on a large embankment the town’s name spelt out in flowers.’
      ‘Yes, Beewick would be very far south,’ confirmed Talen. ‘I’ve rarely been to Beewick myself. Once, I think, or twice at most.’
      ‘Well, that was the first village we tried,’ continued the Dwarf. ‘Unfortunately, there was no blacksmith in the place, so we were directed to another town to the north-east—’
      ‘Probably Brechinleck,’ interjected Falco.
      ‘I do not remember the name of that place,’ answered Burak, ‘but the blacksmith was a right good one, and we paid him handsomely for his work. On our way eastward out of your land we passed through yet another village which I remember quite well because there was a great celebration there that evening in which the Graylings—sorry, Elflings —rode their ponies at mock giants to harry them with long poles and fling large missiles at them with the ballista.’
      ‘The Harrowdale Jubilee!’ exclaimed Dannadar. ‘I’ve a cousin from Duirnis Hall who has seen that. It’s quite the thing!’
      ‘Yes, in Harrowdale they still celebrate the killing of several Oghors during the last Great War,’ said Raavan.
      ‘An Oghor is a very formidable enemy,’ said Burak, shaking his head knowingly. ‘I encountered a few of their kind in the Greywall mountains during an expedition in my youth. It takes quite a large crew of Dwarves to overpower such a beast.’
      ‘Well, Elflings can be formidable opponents themselves when they’ve a need,’ said Raavan as he stood up to rid himself of crumbs.
      ‘We’re good with the bow, yes,’ replied Talen, ‘but the four of us are not equipped with the heavy engines that the Harrowdale Harriers wielded in that ancient war. I should certainly not like to meet any Oghors on this quest.’
      ‘I do not think we will have to worry about encountering any Oghors—not inside Ilimath, anyway,’ Raavan assured him. ‘And if we come across any in the mountains on our approach to the Dwarvenholt we will simply steer clear of them. Wild Oghors do not go looking for trouble—not unless they are provoked. Anyway, it’s not the beasties inside Ilimath that I fear at this point.’
      ‘What is it that you fear?’ asked Burak.
      ‘Lost time,’ answered the wizard, and then he motioned for them all to rise and mount up for the fording of the river and the continuation of their journey.
      ‘What is the danger in lost time on this quest?’ asked the Dwarf as he stowed his pipe and mug and fastened the straps on his pony’s harness.
      ‘The danger is that we will arrive too late and that an agent of the enemy will steal away with the codex before we are able to stop him,’ answered the wizard, now mounting Windaris.
      ‘But why should anyone go looking for the codex now?’ asked Dannadar, ‘It’s been sitting on some shelf in Ilimath collecting dust for millennia. Nobody has bothered to snatch it up so far.’
      ‘Yes, well, there is a possibility which has been growing on my mind over the past week which I have been unable, try as I might, to rule out,’ said the wizard.
      ‘Which is what?’ asked Burak.
      ‘Well,’ said Raavan, ‘Talen here informed me as we were leaving for Rosemarket that he and his mates observed a bit of strange behaviour by one of the servants at Aberlaven.’
      ‘Go on,’ said Burak. They were now all ready to ride, but it was clear that Raavan had something important on his mind and they were all anxious to discover what it was.
      Raavan continued: ‘It appears that someone may be secretly observing the activities of the Kastairi. The person in question appears to have recruited my half-wit servant Cilukar to aid him in this operation. Who it is and exactly what are his motives I cannot be sure, but obviously it is a bit disturbing for something like this to happen at this particular point in time.’
      ‘You think it is a spy of the enemy?’ asked Alatar.
      ‘I think we have to allow for that possibility,’ answered the wizard. ‘And that means assuming that perhaps even now he is racing toward Ilimath with hopes of arriving there before we do and snatching , as Dannadar put it, the very thing which we most want to keep from falling into the hands of our enemy in Tath.’
      ‘In that case, we had better ride hard,’ said Alatar, and so they did.
       
       
      They quickly forded the River Greyspring and continued on their way. They made very good time, for the urgency of their quest was now clear to them all. At Alatar’s bidding they angled a bit further to the west in order to strike more directly for Mount Ceredh where lay their destination. When nightfall came they continued on at a slower pace till it was quite dark, and then they set up camp on the edge of a cedar grove which would provide ample firewood.
      The ponies were tethered at the edge of the grove and then some of the party ventured into the trees to collect fuel. Meanwhile, the others set about arranging a fire ring, lighting the kindling, and preparing to cook the venison cubes which they had brought from the Belling Hills.
      Into the grove Talen and Falco ventured in search of firewood, for much of what they found nearer the edge of the wood was wet. No torch had they with them, for their eyes had adjusted to the moonlit night. Talen went somewhat ahead of Falco, though he could hear Falco’s movements only a short way behind him.
      As he stood up with arms full Talen listened intently, for he thought he could just hear a curious chatter in the trees, up in the higher branches. He looked up. At first he saw nothing peculiar, and as the chatter seemed to be gone or to have faded into the rustle of light wind through the branches he turned back toward the camp. Yet, as he was turning round he noticed a pair of tiny, gleaming points of light in the trees to his right. He looked there, and above these he saw another pair much like the first. Then to the right of those were three more pairs, and now four, five, even six more pairs below these. They were of course eyes.
      Are they birds? thought Talen to himself, and he was sure that it must be so, for these animals were obviously perched way up in the trees. He had often heard of birds roosting in secluded groves, but these were obviously very large birds, for the eyes, small though they were, were spaced too far apart to be those of mere robins or jays. Perhaps these were vultures, thought he, for vultures are known to use communal roosts, yet even vultures could not have been quite that large.
      Just then the moon sailed out from behind a cloud, and beneath the many eyes Talen now saw rows of leering, toothy jaws, with long tongues lolling out over slavering fangs. He could even discern the flattened noses with their gaping nostrils, the hawk-like brow ridges that imparted to those eyes an unambiguously sinister look, and the long, pointy ears that left little doubt in Talen’s mind what manner of beast this was. The recognition was near instantaneous. He had seen them in the ruins at Imrë Aithiúil and thought them but statues. Yet, these were not made of stone: they were live Gargoyles.
      He drew a sharp breath, and dropping the firewood he ran back toward Falco, back toward the camp where his companions milled about. The beasts wasted little time falling upon their victim. A pair of teeth sank into his left arm and a sharp scream escaped his lips. A set of limbs wrapped about his legs causing him to fall to the ground while a second mouth tried in vain to bite through the armour that protected his torso. Though he tried to call out again he was out of breath from the fall.
      In no time Falco was there, drawing a second arrow from his quiver as the first sped toward its target with deadly accuracy. The first Gargoyle shrieked and then fell dead with an arrow protruding from its narrow chest. The second beast could not scream, for there was an arrow lodged in its throat. A third monster that had alighted on the ground behind Talen turned to flee and was just leaping into the air as Falco loosed his third arrow. The foe crashed into a tree and then fell dead to the ground: slain, as were the others, by Elfling arrow.
      Though the rest of the flock had waited in quiet anticipation while the first three made their attack they quickly took to the night sky during the violence that followed, for they had not expected these prey to fight back with such deadly efficacy. By the time the rest of the party arrived at the scene the beating of Gargoyle wings had faded from hearing.
      ‘Gargoyles!’ spat Raavan as Alatar helped Talen to his feet and saw that he was not mortally wounded.
      ‘I am fine, it is just a scratch,’ said Talen.
      ‘Come back to the fire, and I will see to it,’ said Alatar.
      ‘The rest of you can bring back the wood he was collecting,’ instructed Raavan. ‘Hold your torches aloft—I think if there were any more of the brutes nearby they would have flown by now, but the fire should keep them away just in case.’
      Soon the campfire was roaring and Talen was donning his garments over a bandaged arm. ‘Only a nick’ had been the man’s assessment, and a thorough washing of the wound was all that was needed. Still, Talen’s upper arm started to become sore almost immediately, and was to stay that way for several days. In the meantime the party kept the fire well stoked and Raavan assured them that with such a strong blaze going they had nothing to fear from the winged brutes, so long as they all stayed close to camp.
      After a quick meal they all bedded down and most of them fell quickly to sleep, for they had pushed hard that day and were all very tired, their steeds especially so. Alatar and Burak brought the beasts closer to the fire and tethered them within the ring of firelight, for Gargoyles were known to relish the taste of horse flesh. A vigilant watch was kept that night and no more was seen of the winged monsters. In the morning Raavan went into the grove to examine the three which Falco had so expertly feathered. If he was able to infer anything useful regarding the corpses he did not share it however, and when he returned he bade them break camp and prepare to get underway.
      That day they did not travel near as fast as they had the previous afternoon; nevertheless, they made good time during the morning, so that when it began to rain in the afternoon they felt justified in slowing to a leisurely walk. The drizzle became a downpour during mid-afternoon and a few rolls of thunder were heard off in the distance. The precipitation slackened quite a bit by evening however and had completely ceased by the time they were dropping off to sleep. This time they camped in the middle of a field, where the lack of firewood made little difference as it would have been soaked through anyway.
      The next day dawned bright and clear and there was a refreshing scent in the air which a rain storm often will leave in its wake. It was not as hot as it had been in recent days, and the party went at a comfortable gait, only occasionally breaking into a brief canter in an attempt to make up somewhat for their lax pace. In this way they varied their speed and so conserved the strength of their steeds while still covering a respectable distance by nightfall. They were now only two days from Ilimath by Alatar’s reckoning, which meant that their race would soon be at an end, though whether this boded well for the party they could not yet say.
      That evening as they sat about the campfire and took their supper Talen gazed round at the faces in the firelight, and he saw by the way they chatted and smiled one to another that this was fast becoming a tightly knit circle of friends. He felt both proud and happy to be a part of this group, for not only were some of his new fellows renowned warriors of great strength and gallantry but they also were kind and loyal companions. He decided that when they entered Ilimath he would do his best to fulfil his duty to the quest and to his companions, no matter what unexpected happenstance might befall them before it was complete.
      Presently some of the others began calling for a story.
      ‘I’ve a story for you lads,’ offered Burak. ‘Have any of you heard the tale of the Dwarf Azath-Amul-Kulri-Kori, who is called Azath Longfingers?’
      ‘They should have called him Azath Longname instead,’ said Dannadar.
      ‘No, we have not heard that one—please share it with us,’ said Falco, who was beating Dannadar over the head with a thin wooden stick in mock chastisement for his derisive comment. Dannadar found the treatment quite painful, but he laughed just the same.
      ‘Very well,’ said Burak, paying little heed to the playful scuffle. ‘I will tell you of Azath and his seven week climb to heaven. Long ago in the land of Gargunnoch, which is no more—’
      ‘It never is, in these types of stories,’ interjected Dannadar, only to provoke an energetic renewal of the thrashing by Falco.
      Burak continued unphased, ‘—there dwelt a simple Dwarf, and a pious one, who gave sacrifice to the gods every fortnight, and thrice during Hebi, and who held himself always in awe of the four chief-gods of the Upper Pantheon: Etta, Noeg, Eiyr, and Uuma. He was called Azath-Amul-Kulri-Kori because he was well known for his persistence and dedication to hard, honest work.
      ‘One day Azath-Amul was walking over the cool ground under a sunlit sky when he came upon a cliff that went nearly straight up to infinity. As he bent his neck looking up the sheer face of the bluff he said to himself, Surely this mount must be the pedestal of the gods, and were I to climb it I would look upon the face of Uuma herself . And so he resolved to climb the cliff all the way to the top, for he saw that trailing down the mountainside was a rope ladder that ascended up toward the unseen summit.
      ‘And so, up Azath-Amul began to climb, and the work was difficult, the effort strenuous, for strong though he was, his muscular person was a heavy one and was not an easy haul on a swinging rope ladder.
      ‘Quite some time he had been at this task, and though he had climbed but a short way, much astounded was he to see as he gazed beneath him that the cliff extended down into the uttermost bowels of the earth, unseen and unimaginable even to such as a Dwarf, so that he became frightened lest he should lose his grip and fall down into the very fires of Amgamman, which men call Helh.
      ‘Yet Azath-Amul did not despair, for he was of hardy stock and was made of the strongest stuff that goes into Dwarves. And that is strong indeed, my friends!
      ‘So up and up he climbed. For days he struggled, and on every fourth night he slept while still holding fast the rope with both hands, and it is said that his fingers became stretched long from the strain, and this is why he is now Azath Longfingers.
      ‘For seven full weeks did he climb that rope, up through the clouds higher than even the birds dare fly till at last he wearily pulled himself over the edge of the highest cliff in the world; for he had arrived at Valinor, place of the gods, what the ancient men called Pyredhes.
      ‘For a full week did he sleep on that ledge, so weary was he from the climb, and when he awoke he was in the company of the gods. Around him they had gathered, for they had been observing his progress from above and were much impressed at his perseverance.
      ‘Sweet wine he took with them, and then Etta showed him a part of Valinor where he and his people would in time dwell if their character remained true. Then Noeg took him to the edge of the mount and showed him a view of the world as the gods have it, and this gave him great understanding, for often it is perspective that gives a person the wisdom to see through to the truth of a matter. Eiyr commanded her servants then to massage his back and his arms, for they were still much strained from the task of climbing the mighty cliff. Finally, Uuma presented Azath-Amul with a gift from all the gods: a golden crown, for he was to be king and rule over a large part of Gargunnoch.
      ‘And so it came to pass that he became a mighty king, and a wise one, and he lived to be very old indeed. Many great things did he achieve after that, and much of his newfound wisdom did he impart to his loyal subjects. And they all lived happily ever after.’
      ‘I have heard that story told differently,’ said Alatar.
      ‘There are several different versions,’ acknowledged Burak. ‘Which have you heard?’
      ‘In the tale I know, Azath Longfingers offended the gods by suggesting that he would gladly exchange the crown for one kiss from Uuma,’ replied the man. ‘The gods then sent him back down the cliff without the crown, and he ever after regretted his foolish words.’
      ‘That version is told by some of the younger Dwarves, who quite honestly would not know the which of it,’ said Burak. ‘Besides, there are other tales of Azath-Amul which recount his days as king over Gargunnoch, and so it would appear that he did receive the crown after all.’
      Now Raavan spoke up. ‘In the version I have heard, which is told by the Baradrim, the heavy crown weighed him down so, that during his descent back down the cliff he lost his strength and fell into the fires of Amgamman.’
      ‘I have not heard that one,’ said Burak.
      ‘Yet Raavan, if he did fall,’ said Alatar removing the long pipe stem from his mouth and pointing it at the wizard, ‘and if he perished in the flames of Helh, then who relayed his tale to those mortals left behind?’ The man grinned broadly at the wizard.
      ‘You have got me there, Alatar,’ admitted the wizard as loud rolls of laughter bellowed forth from Burak.
      ‘He has indeed, wizard! He has indeed,’ said the Dwarf, now gazing across the campfire at the Elflings. They appeared to be enjoying the mirth at Raavan’s expense as much as they had hearing Burak’s story. ‘And now I think we should have a story of the Little People of Laurelindor.’
      ‘O, you mean Leprechauns?’ replied Dannadar with a clever smile.
      ‘I meant Elflings,’ said the Dwarf, ‘but I’ll settle for Leprechauns if you’ve a tale of them on the tip of your tongue.’
      ‘You mean pixies?’ said Alatar.
      ‘No,’ replied Dannadar, ‘in Laurelindor we tell stories of the Little Men, the Leprechauns, who go about in bands and cause a ruckus wherever they turn up.’
      ‘And throw little pies at people,’ added Raavan.
      ‘Yes, and they throw little pies at people,’ confirmed Dannadar.
      ‘Well, tell us the tale of your Little Pie People then,’ said the Dwarf, moving closer to the fire to light his own pipe.
      ‘Better yet, we shall sing to you of the Little Men,’ said Dannadar, and the other Elflings grudgingly agreed to join him when he took up the refrain:
       
      O! In the hills past Brechinairn
      There dwell the Little Men
      Who with the merry coterie
      Do frolic now and then
       
      ’Tis quite the thing to see their train
      As marching off they go
      With raucous shouts of merriment
      And pies galore to throw
       
      But to their hapless victims
      Blindly caught up in the rush
      ’Tis quite a fright to see their heads
      Come bobbing through the brush
       
      With faces plastered sticky-sweet
      And tempers all aflare
      The best the cream-faced marks can do
      Is damn their pie warfare
       
      For too slow are us bigger folk
      To catch the Leprechaun
      Who runs so fast he’s been and went
      Before you’ve time to yawn
       
      So if you’ve got a mind
      To bag yourself a Li’l Green Man,
      Unless you fancy pastry-face
      You’d better think again!
       
      With face aplastered sticky-sweet
      And temper in a huff
      The last you’ll see o’ Leprechaun’s
      His backside, sure enough!
       
      This had Burak roaring with laughter, and the Dwarf insisted that the Elflings perform the entire song again from start to finish. And so, standing together now before the fire they ran through the carol a second time, and when they finished they were all laughing as hard as they had the first time around. But Burak laughed the hardest, and for the remainder of the evening whenever his gaze would alight on any one of the Elflings he would fall again into a fit of nearly uncontrollable laughter. It was clear that he had taken quite a liking to the Elflings, and they likewise began to become very fond of the broad-shouldered warrior.
       
       
      In the morning Alatar announced that they had arrived at the eastern edge of Tachán and that this meant they were no more than two days from Ilimath at their current pace. At this news Talen began to feel very ill at ease, for he had a premonition that some fatal mishap or other lay in wait for them in that dark place, though he could not say why he felt so sure of this, and he spoke of it to no one.
      When they were ready they mounted up and continued their journey. Across the plains of Tachán they went, and they saw that the land was very dry indeed, for the grass was quite brown and grew only sparsely over the split and crumbling earth.
      ‘Why does this land appear so dead?’ asked Fifin when they stopped for their noontime break.
      ‘Because it is dead, Fifin,’ replied Raavan. ‘Tachán was the scene of the bloodiest battle in the Ilimathäen War. More lives were lost here than at any other place during that long struggle. So much blood was spilt on this ground—by both sides, and by all races—that the land was tinged with crimson for many years, and nothing would grow in the soil. Slowly the grasses have again taken root, but even now they struggle to maintain a precarious foothold. There is yet a stain upon the spirit of this land.’
      ‘And not all of the spirits have gone to their rightful resting places, either,’ added Burak.
      ‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Fifin.
      ‘I mean that there are spirits who walk yet upon this land in the dead of night, as if they were men, but with no bodies,’ answered the Dwarf.
      ‘Yes, the Nara,’ said Alatar. ‘I have heard their sweet song, though I have never actually seen one. It is said that in other lands their appearance foreshadows an unexpected death, but here they seem to be caught up in their lamentation for the many souls who were lost in this place, and in such a short space of time. So, it is perhaps the case that they no longer augur death for the living. That much at least is a comfort.’
      ‘Aye, yet I have heard tell of those who’ve rode through an entire chorus of the ghosts to be driven stark staring mad by their sweet wailing,’ said Burak.
      ‘We’ve nothing to fear from the Nara, so long as we leave them be,’ insisted Raavan. And with that the conversation was at an end, and so was their rest.
      They rode for many miles that day, travelling all the while due west, for Alatar judged that they now were in line with the ford that must take them over the Ceredil River. From there they would make for the vale that would lead them north to Ilimath.
      The day was overcast. A modest wind had sprung up out of the south to blow the occasional crow or vulture quietly overhead. Their ride was relatively uneventful that day and there was little talk among the travellers. Talen gazed around at the barren land and tried to imagine a war raging all about him: tall men with bright eyes and fair faces locked in deadly embrace with hideous monsters come from the depths of Ilimath—the very place toward which the companions now rode. Now he imagined the scene following the war, the vast fields stretching to the limit of vision strewn thick with the dead and dying.
      Now he saw women and children back in their homes crying over loved ones who had fought for their safety and perished in the act. A sadness came over him then, a deep melancholy that was accentuated by the bleakness of the lands surrounding him. Above him the leaden sky threatened to shed its own tears, as he imagined it must have done for long centuries in grievance for the atrocities it had seen acted out below. Yet, a thousand years of rain had clearly not washed the stain from these accursed lands.
      When they stopped to camp that evening they had not yet reached the ford over the River Ceredil, and Alatar judged that it was yet some miles before they would do so. So they camped near the western margin of Tachán, and the mood of the party was quite sombre. There were to be no merry tales, no lively songs that evening to brighten their thoughts. It seemed all the party was preparing itself for the dark incursion that lay little more than a day or so ahead.
      Talen ventured to break the silence as they sat around the campfire chewing the remains of their supper. ‘Raavan, will you recount for us the events of the Great War? For, it is a chapter of Entira’s history that some of us at least are not familiar with, and yet I feel so near to it—to the very source of it here, if you know what I mean.’
      Raavan looked gravely at the Elfling and slowly nodded his head. When he had swallowed the last morsels of his meal he began: ‘There have been more than a few Great Wars that have scarred Entira, and they all were terrible. I have witnessed two of them in my time on this side of the world. The first was the Hélethrônium War against Omenaton which occurred in the Fourth Age and which was among the very worst trials that this great land has ever seen. The other was the Ilimathäen, in which our adversary was Mythron.
      ‘I was not yet head of the Kastairi then, for my old master Fangren was still here in Entira. We watched Mythron as he grew in strength, but we did nothing. We were fools! Yet, it has ever been difficult to rouse the kingdoms to war when the enemy is yet far off and no crops have been burned, no villages raided. When the raids finally began Mythron had already been breeding his horde in Ilimath for many years, and it became difficult then to convince the leaders of the free world to engage what now appeared to them to be a most formidable opponent. My master deserves much credit for reforming the old Alliance of men, Elves, and Dwarves and laying the plans for a solid opposition to the new Deathlord.
      ‘As we were contemplating a preemptive strike against the enemy in Ilimath a vast horde, practically numberless, poured forth from Mount Ceredh under which lies the black pit of Ilimath. The horde split into ten armies, each an immense horde unto itself, and these marched out upon all the lands to slay every living creature in their path.
      ‘To the west of the Greywall Mountains went two armies to nearly obliterate the peaceful peoples of Koronandor. West of Koronandor a prodigious force descended on the distant communities of southern Telesse and northern Arnedia, which were well engaged for the remainder of the war to keep this enemy at bay. To the north Mythron sent two armies into Tolor, where they were met by fierce Dwarf armies from Druindor, Dalathrôn, and Thorwald. The spawn were checked in Tolor and were forced to retreat back to Ilimath with the Dwarven armies close on their tail.
      ‘The other five spawn armies marched on the lands east of the Greywall Mountains—one to the north to claim the Foireách Pass and then north-east through the Wellorn Hills to engage the Dwarves of Mornaru; one north of the Nierwendil through Anyar and on to the Strathen Hills, which were entirely depeopled; one south into Pilinon to join the force which had moved south after ravaging Koronandor; and two very great armies assaulted the wide lands of the east: Arenya and Aresse.
      ‘In Pilinon the mighty armies of the south kept the horde in check and ultimately defeated that enemy, which retreated north through Tachán, probably near to this very spot, and then back to Mount Ceredh to regroup with the other forces that had returned. There they prepared for another concerted assault.
      ‘In the north a force of Dwarves from Thorwald strove to retake the Foireách Pass from the spawn, which they were able to do once their brethren from Mornaru had overcome their own invaders and marched down to trap the spawn inside the pass from the south.
      ‘In the east the Men took a very heavy toll, though they ultimately repulsed the immense force which they had found arrayed against them.’ Here, all eyes drifted to the fierce Eastman, Alatar, who did not meet their gaze, for he was peering intently into the fire in grim reflection.
      ‘In Arenya they fared somewhat better, for Burak’s folk from the Belling Hills had joined with the men of Arenya and the Elves of Avalesse and Avonside to present an unyielding opposition to the enemy which had marched on their lands. That horde, massive though it was, was nearly decimated though many men, Elves, and Dwarves lost their lives as well.’ Here, Burak took up his axe and gripped it tightly as if ready to enter battle right then and there.
      ‘In the north-east the Men of Anyar were entirely overcome by the superior force which had been set against them, and virtually all of them perished. That horde then returned to Ilimath as did the force which had been repulsed in Aresse, so that quite a formidable army yet remained to defend Mount Ceredh or possibly even to launch a new assault.
      ‘It was then that the remaining Allied armies joined forces at Tachán to prepare for the final contest with Mythron’s vile reavers. From the north through the Penyandil Pass came the Dwarven armies of Tolor, from the east came the remaining Eastmen of Aresse and Arenya and the few Dwarves of the Belling Hills force that yet lived, and from the south came the mighty army of Pilinon and the Elven archers from the great forest Arvalla beyond to join their brethren from Avonside and Avalesse.
      ‘As the Allies planned their assault on Ilimath a vast horde again poured forth from the mount, the remnants of the forces which had retreated to that place as well as additional forces that Mythron had kept in reserve. The Allies blenched to see that they were well outnumbered as the black armies arrayed themselves on the western margins of Tachán to oppose the Allied assault.
      ‘It was then that my master proposed that a small force consisting of a few wizards and but a handful of warriors might attempt to steal in secret into the black pit under Mount Ceredh and make an attempt on Mythron’s life from within, for it was Mythron’s sorcery that controlled the varied spawn and drove them to fight in concert against us. The plan was adopted and I joined my master in forming this small band of infiltrators.
      ‘From the ranks of men and Dwarves, Elves and even a few Elflings did we choose our party, and then we departed, making in secret for the black mount by little known ways through the mountains and yet riding hard all the while, for the impending battle promised to bring grave results and ours was the only gambit which could possibly avert such a disaster.
      ‘Meanwhile the engagement in Tachán began, and such a grand and bloody contest this world has rarely seen. For six days the battle raged. Many arrows were spent, many swords broken, and countless lives were lost to the spectacle of war. Yet, the Allies unaccountably gained what appeared to be the upper hand in the contest, and it seemed that they just might prevail though the loss of life to their side would be appalling even were triumph to be within their grasp.
      ‘But on the seventh day the sun shone not, for the moon moved to obscure its light and tracked it across the sky in a daylong eclipse which so far as I know has never occurred in the history of the world. This was some devilry of Mythron, to be sure, and my party of assassins knew then that our mission must not fail or the fate of Entira would be forfeit. Upon the fields of Tachán the Allied warriors quailed at the sight of the blackened sun, yet the spawn fought with renewed vigour, for this was the Day of Darkness which their master had promised he would bring and victory now seemed easily within their reach.
      ‘The battle which ensued was too terrible to describe, for the spawn fought on without regard for their own lives, a religious ecstasy now come upon them, and the Allies were relentlessly beaten into the ground.
      ‘As the darkened sun prepared to set, the moon slipped aside and a few rays of sunlight shone down upon the tortured armies below, for my master Fangren and my colleague Hyastasan had won through to Mythron’s chamber and had overcome him in a contest which cost Hyastasan his life. It had taken the combined strength of the two greatest wizards in Entira to overcome the Deathlord, but in the end he was broken, as was his spell upon the sun and moon and upon the remnants of his horde. The spawn dispersed and the surviving Allies came together to raid Ilimath in a week-long Purging that left them weary beyond belief. Perhaps it is no wonder, then, that the matter of the codex was left to neglect.’
      The listeners quietly considered the wizard’s words.
      ‘So this is what we face if this new Deathlord, Silgoth, is not stopped in time,’ said Talen pensively, ‘a terrible war at the gates of some other dark fortress.’
      ‘But how will retrieving this codex from the abandoned halls of Ilimath help the Allies more effectively oppose Silgoth?’ asked Burak.
      ‘Retrieving the original codex will not give us any advantage over Silgoth per se , for we’ve already a copy of the tome back in Aberlaven,’ answered Raavan. ‘But it is essential that no copy of the codex fall into Silgoth’s hands, for that could allow him to increase his power manyfold over that which he has already achieved, and were that to happen we would end up facing an adversary more powerful than even Mythron. We believe the incantations contained within that tome would enable Silgoth to add to his own abilities the black arts which Mythron had been developing though his researches at Ilimath. And there is something more.’ Here the wizard fell silent, and all waited expectantly for him to continue.
      ‘Well, what is it?’ asked Alatar.
      ‘It is the matter of the Thread,’ answered Raavan.
      ‘The what?’ said Falco.
      The wizard continued: ‘I said before that there have been more than a few Great Wars in Entira during the long years that free folk have inhabited it. Each Great War defines an Age, or rather ends it, for we reckon dates by the years since the last such event. Hence, it is now the year 1221 of the Sixth Age, for that many years have passed since the overthrow of Mythron. Nearly two thousand years before that we were embroiled in another war, the Hélethrônium, with a Deathlord even more powerful than Mythron—namely, Omenaton. This is as far back as my memory goes, for before that I was in Sulunerea, but the lore of the Kastairi goes back even further. We know that the Third Age ended with the defeat of Rúlatár during the Simorde War, which lasted six years and was the reason many Elves decided to return permanently to Sulunerea. And a thousand years before that, in the very deeps of time, it is written that a dark sorcerer named Sacrevon, whom the Elves call Rastarm, brought mass destruction down upon the land, which the old books call the Itere War.
      ‘Before that there are no living records, but they are hardly necessary, for a pattern emerges which the wise have often pondered in vain: namely, the rise every thousand years or so of a new Deathlord with the power to hold sway over the foul beasts of the land, and even to spawn his own creatures from nonliving matter. I am talking about truly dark sorcery here, and power unimaginable.
      ‘Why it is that we are able to rid ourselves of such a terrible foe only to find ourselves facing yet another after some measure of time is the conundrum that has puzzled the Kastairi for many lives of men and which now appears to be within the realm of the explicable. Somewhat ironically, it was Mythron himself who made the discovery, and only through painstaking translation of his book has Alarus been able at last to provide an explanation to the rest of us.
      ‘Within the Nurune Codex are references to a phenomenon which Mythron called minen Ulitur or mutigus Ulitur , which Alarus has translated as The Thread . According to the codex the Thread is the common strand which connects all the Deathlords across the vast expanse of time and apparently serves as the underlying source for their unspeakable power. In some strange way which still is not clear to us the Thread allows the power and pure malice of one Deathlord to live on in latent form until another arises to claim it.’
      ‘It sounds almost like reincarnation,’ said Burak.
      ‘Alarus and I do not believe it is reincarnation precisely,’ said the wizard, ‘because each new Deathlord that has arisen has been different in notable ways from his predecessors, though Alarus has suggested that the Thread may actively seek out a new body, perhaps that of a newborn child, the instant the old body is killed. This body would perhaps act as a vessel of sorts for the Thread to live within until another Deathlord arises into which it can jump. Or maybe it guides the body it has taken to become the new Deathlord itself.
      ‘Either way, a Deathlord does not automatically inherit all of the power and knowledge of his predecessor, though Mythron believed there was a way for him to do so: namely, the ridislasteriliven , or Unsundering, by which mutigus Ulitur , the broken thread, is transformed into minen Ulitur , the unbroken thread, or fanosterang— the flowing stream.
      ‘Apparently, each Deathlord has been able to draw on the power of the Thread to varying degrees, explaining why, for example, Omenaton was much more powerful than Mythron. Yet, if Mythron had been able to achieve this Unsundering the floodgates would have been opened; the fanosterang would have flowed freely into him, allowing a full inheritance of the black power: a complete incarnation of the Thread, with unopposable strength.
      ‘That was Mythron’s hypothesis and the purpose of his dark researches at Ilimath. He clearly did not achieve his goal of the Unsundering, for we were in the end able to overcome him, as I think we otherwise would not have been able to do. But he appears based on the account contained in the codex to have been very close, and there is no saying how little time he would have needed to reach his goal.
      ‘This is why the codex must not fall into the hands of our new enemy in Tath, for were Silgoth to continue the work of Mythron it seems very likely that he would in time achieve that which eluded Mythron, to the utter woe of us all.’
      ‘This is terrible!’ said Burak, rising up as if to mount his pony and ride straight to Ilimath that very instant.
      ‘Yes, Burak, it is a terrible possibility,’ agreed Raavan, ‘but hopefully one that we will be able to largely preclude in the next few days by retrieving the only known copy of the codex outside of Aberlaven.’
      ‘Yet, did you not say that there was a spy in Aberlaven who may be riding at this very moment toward Ilimath?’ insisted the Dwarf. ‘Hadn’t we better worry about that?’
      ‘No, Burak,’ answered Raavan, ‘worrying will avail us nothing, for we are travelling nearly as quickly as our steeds will permit, and when we arrive at Ilimath in due course we will be better prepared to retrieve the codex from that black pit than any such adversary is likely to be. And regarding the supposed spy, I said only that I was convinced there had been a spy at Aberlaven and that I feared he may know of our plans to retrieve the codex. I have no intelligences to suggest that this person is on his way to Ilimath, nor that he would be able to secure the desired artefact and make away with it. Besides, I have an idea who the sneak may be, and the individual I have in mind is as far as I know neither a formidable opponent in this race nor particularly aligned with the enemy in Tath.’
      ‘Who do you think it is?’ asked Alatar.
      ‘There are actually several possibilities that spring to mind, but I think the most likely would be a lesser sorcerer named Nostaite,’ answered Raavan. ‘Some years ago I caught him slinking around in the library at Pencairn, and I gave him a stern warning to stay away from the premises, which to my knowledge he has. I never suspected he would be so bold as to try to infiltrate Aberlaven.
      ‘Yet, the others that come to mind are even less likely candidates for such mischief. In any event, it makes little difference, for even were Nostaite to show his face at Ilimath, he should be little more than an inconvenience, for his powers of sorcery have always been very limited. But I really don’t expect him to show, so it is not an issue that should concern us at present.’
      With that, Raavan fell silent. The others stared thoughtfully into the fire for some time without speaking, for they all had much to consider, each of them hearing at least something new in Raavan’s account that they had not known before.
      After some minutes of silence a thin tone was heard drifting on the wind, a sweet voice that sang in a high pitch and fell in a lamenting tune, now growing louder though still indistinct and obviously originating some distance away. They all listened without speaking, for they knew it was the Nara of which Burak had earlier spoke, and they recalled Raavan’s assurance that they had nothing to fear from the unseen spirits so long as they left them be.
      ‘Very pretty, it is,’ said Dannadar, ‘yet very sad. I don’t think I could listen to that for very long without becoming very glum indeed.’
      ‘Me neither,’ agreed Fifin, ‘for they seem almost to be singing to me . It gives me the chills.’ Talen looked at Fifin and saw that indeed he was shivering and appeared to have gone almost white.
      ‘Never fear, Fifin,’ said Talen as he took out his fife. ‘There is no need to listen to that sad wailing when I’ve the bright cheer of my fife to offer you.’ And with that he began to play, and for some time the sombre mood was cast off of the party as they listened with joy to Talen’s bright melodies. Fifin had so regained his nerve that he even sang along with one or two of the tunes, though the other Elflings did not join in and most of the songs were left unaccompanied.
      After many a spirited strain it had become late and Talen stopped to stretch his cramped fingers and give the silence back to the night. Raavan, who had been resting his eyes, suddenly opened them and noticed that one of their party was missing. ‘Where is Dannadar?’ he asked.
      Fifin looked around and answered, ‘I don’t know—he stepped away some time ago. I assumed he was going for a drink or to stretch his legs.’
      Raavan immediately took up a burning brand and strode past Fifin out of the firelight. He was joined by the others, some with flares of their own, and Talen with his glowing orb. They began to call for the missing Elfling.
      ‘Burak and the Elflings, go that way,’ said Raavan, pointing to the left, and ‘Alatar, you go that way,’ pointing to the right, as he himself strode forward into the night. They continued to call the Elfling’s name, but all they heard in reply was the faint wail of the singing spirits.
      ‘This is just like that fool, to go running off into the night with those things out there,’ said Falco heatedly as the Dwarf and the Elflings rushed forward into the dark. Away to their right they could hear Raavan’s booming voice call the Elfling’s name. Presently they began to notice a set of strange lights, blue and silver and spectral in appearance, all swishing in a slow pattern some distance ahead.
      ‘What in Etta’s name is that?’ said the Dwarf, though none of the Elflings replied and he feared he already knew the answer. As they approached the dreamy spectre the wailing voices became louder and soon there could be no doubt that these were the spirits of Tachán, the ethereal remains of wayward souls that had here lost their mortal coils in the distant past, but who had not yet abandoned this earthly stage.
      ‘The Banshees!’ said the Dwarf, his voice all aquiver.
      ‘Dire ghosts,’ said Falco under his breath, ‘sing not your enchanting song to us!’ No longer did they call Dannadar’s name, for they now looked upon the Nara and they were stunned by the beauty and the horror of it. They knew with certainty that what they looked upon was truly not of this earth, though they were drawn ever toward it. Yet, a small voice nearby caught the attention of Falco and it was his sudden movement off in that direction that broke the others’ daze.
      ‘Dannadar!’ said Falco when he came upon the youth sitting calmly before the spectres. He was rocking side to side, incoherent mumblings streaming from his slack-lipped mouth. ‘Come, Dann—we must get you away from here.’
      The party lifted the Elfling to his feet and led him quickly away back toward the distant glow of the campfire.
      Suddenly Dannadar turned and struggled to break free of their grip, but Falco and Burak speedily pulled him back and held him tightly in their grasp as the youth cried out, ‘You cannot have him! You must not! O, Mother, he is going to die!’ Falling then into a fit of uncontrollable sobbing his body went limp and the others carried him back to camp where Raavan quickly returned, followed some minutes later by Alatar.
      ‘You have found him!’ said Raavan upon seeing the weeping youth. ‘What has befallen the lad?’
      ‘I know not,’ said Burak, ‘though I fear he has been driven mad by the Wailing Spirits.’