Chapter 8

By the time the sun was beginning to glow over the eastern peaks they had already travelled nearly fifteen miles. This was due mainly to their having gotten an early start, however, rather than to their pace, as Raavan had sent Thobb back to Aggley’s farm to return the borrowed pony and the wizard was now forced to ride Alarus’ palfrey. Ernest was his name, and he was not much used to travel.
      ‘He is very pretty,’ commented Fifin, ‘though, I rather expected a real horse to be much larger than a pony. He is only a slight bit larger than Yenie here.’
      ‘Yes, well, Alarus chooses his horses the way he chooses his clothes,’ Raavan replied. ‘But you shall see some of the finest breeds of horse available when we pass through Rosemarket.’
      ‘Rosemarket?’ asked Talen.
      ‘Yes—it is a small town on the northern edge of Arenya, not far from where the River Eyebright begins,’ answered Raavan. ‘The best horse breeders of Aresse gather there in summer to trade their stock. Much of the year it is a ghost town with few or no visitors to speak of, but in early summer its population swells with the arrival of buyers and sellers of horses and also merchants of other sorts, as you can probably imagine. Quite a few men come from Pilinon and Koronandor, and on a rare occasion even a breeder or two from Arnedia will make the journey in order to incorporate a bit of eastern blood into their herds. It seems the legend of the horsemen of the East lives on in other lands, even if the Aressians themselves have nearly disappeared.’
      ‘But the breeders that come to Rosemarket are Aressian, are they not?’ asked Falco.
      ‘Yes,’ replied the wizard, ‘the breeders are Aressian, as are their horses, but they are virtually the only inhabitants of that wide land that remain. And they are generally nomads, following their herds on their natural peregrinations across the grassy plains. Man and horse have wandered that land since time immemorial. Of course, the horses were there long before men arrived, and in time the horse may find itself alone again in its timeless journeys. Naturally, it would be no loss for the horse, for he needs no master to show him how to eke out a living on the grasslands. But it is always sad when such an illustrious chapter of history comes to a close. The lesson of the horsemen shows what a close bonding with the remarkable beasts of the Earth can achieve. In their day the Eastmen were a formidable opponent. It took unimaginable strength to overcome them.’
      ‘How were they defeated?’ asked Fifin. ‘And by whom?’
      ‘During the Great War against Mythron the horsemen of the East mounted a truly astounding offensive against the dark lord at Ilimath. Well do I remember their gallant charge at Tachán on the Day of Darkness, and the sound of their brilliant trumps mingled with the thunderous falling of hoofs.
      ‘Mythron had arrayed against them a most vile horde, but the mounted warriors were not to be overcome by any invaders on their home soil. Grimly they chopped and hacked their way through whole fields of vile reavers, freeing most of Aresse from Mythron’s spreading clutches, all the way to the Greyspring and beyond. While much of the rest of Entira was beset under the tide of Mythron’s conquest the Aressian warriors drove a wedge into the invading horde that allowed the army of Pencairn to penetrate through to the centre of the horde, even unto Ilimath itself.
      ‘But many of the horsemen lost their lives during the charge at Tachán, and in the immediate aftermath they were singled out by Mythron’s Daonrach-mounted Goblyns, and many were also destroyed by the horrible Dredgion. Those were desperate times. But they are the stuff of legend, and now the minstrels sing of the glory of the horsemen, and of the proud beasts that bore them:
       
      ‘Whither goest thou,
      Thou with the flowing mane?
      To Tachán I go,
      And my rider with me.
      For what goest thou there,
      Where the arrows rain?
      For the glory of our herd,
      And the pride of Halyenthre.’
       
      ‘Who was Halyenthre?’ asked Fifin when it was apparent that Raavan would recite no more of the ancient song.
      The wizard answered, ‘In the time of Mythron there was an Aressian king, Hal-tariel, who himself took horse and led the Eastmen into battle. Halyenthre it was who bore him onto the fateful plains of Tachán and thence unto Ilimath itself, where alas, both horse and rider were killed by the colossal Dredgion. It is said by some that Halyenthre was the bane of his master, having steadfastly refused to back down from the enemy even when Hal-tariel would retreat, yet there is no Aressian alive who would not gladly ride that great stallion, or indeed any horse of his line, so great was his courage and so renowned his speed and strength.’
      Raavan took his pipe then from out of his cloak (as he was wont to do during the telling of any longish tale), loaded it with tobacco, and juggling the flint and Ernest’s reigns he proceeded to light it as they rode slowly on. Blowing great puffs of smoke, he continued.
      ‘It occurs to me now that we shall be retracing in part the very path of Hal-tariel himself, who was in his time the wielder of Noromendor which I have here at my side. Over the River Greyspring to the Greywall Mountains and unto the very doorstep of Ilimath shall we again be bearing the Green Flame.’ Raavan laid a hand then on the hilt of Noromendor, for which he had found a scabbard while at Aberlaven.
      ‘If Hal-tariel was killed while carrying the sword, then who bore it back to Aresse?’ asked Falco.
      ‘That is a very good question,’ Raavan replied, ‘for on the Day of Darkness the Sword of the East disappeared. After the war some of the Kastairi searched for a time, but to my knowledge they were unable to recover it.’
      ‘Yet we ourselves found it in the tomb at Imrë Aithiúil, so it must have been brought back by somebody,’ said Dannadar.
      ‘Perhaps it was that King Folláineádlan,’ suggested Fifin.
      ‘Perhaps,’ answered Raavan, ‘but after the war it would have been several lives of men at least before Folláineádlan was even born. And I do not remember Folláineádlan being very adventurous. I rather expect that the sword was brought back by someone before Folláineádlan’s time, perhaps by his sire, but in all probability we shall never know the truth of it. So many stories are swallowed up by the swift currents of time before they even have a chance to be written down.
      ‘And now I think perhaps we have had enough storytelling for today. Time is of the essence—more so than it was on the first leg of our journey, anyway, so let us pick up the pace a bit before the day catches up with us.’
      ‘Just one more thing, Raavan,’ Talen begged. ‘You still have not told us why we are travelling to this Ilimath in the first place.’
      ‘Very well,’ agreed the wizard, ‘but I shall have to be brief. When there is more time I will gladly share with you all the details—those that I know, anyway.’
      ‘Of course,’ Talen agreed.
      Raavan went on: ‘We go to retrieve an artefact that until now has seemed of only minor importance. To wit, a book—a codex, to be more precise.’
      ‘What’s the difference?’ asked Dannadar, ‘—between a book and a codex, I mean.’
      ‘That is not important at the moment,’ answered Raavan. ‘What is important is that we must retrieve it before the wrong parties discover that it exists and begin to take an interest in it. I just hope we are not too late. There is reason for hope, I think.’
      ‘Is this book—I mean, codex—at all related to that great tome in Alarus’ study?’ asked Dannadar.
      ‘It is,’ answered the wizard. ‘What Alarus has been poring over in his study for the last year is an exact copy of what is called the Nurune Codex—why it is called that is a long and somewhat tedious story, but until now the codex was not thought to be of any real importance. The problem is that no one had ever bothered to translate it till now. Unfortunately, it is written in a vile language called Orogath, which none of the Kastairi know. Even Alarus who is a master of languages has rarely encountered it before. It is a truly foul sounding tongue. You may have heard a bit of it when Alarus and I were conferring at Aberlaven. It is almost painful to the ears to hear it read aloud.’
      ‘Like those books in the cave,’ said Falco.
      ‘What cave?’ asked Raavan.
      ‘O, yes!’ said Talen smiting his forehead. ‘We never got around to telling you about our little adventure at Aberlaven. In truth, there has been little time for it till now.’
      ‘Well, then, out with it, lad,’ said the wizard, ‘for we really must pick up our pace now.’
      ‘Right, then,’ said Talen. ‘Well, last night at just about sunset we spied Cilukar trotting down a dirt path encircling the lake below Aberlaven.’
      ‘It does not go clear round the lake,’ interrupted Falco.
      ‘Whatever,’ Talen replied.
      ‘Yes, please do go on,’ said Raavan, more impatient now.
      ‘Well, we followed him to a cave,’ Talen continued, ‘and after he came out again we went inside and had a look around. Just about all we found were books.’
      ‘Quite a few of them,’ interjected Dannadar.
      ‘Yes,’ continued Talen. ‘But they were all written in some strange language. We tried to read bits of them out loud, but the words sounded vulgar to our ears.’
      ‘Very interesting,’ said Raavan.
      ‘We supposed they were taken from the library, for he carried one of them back to Aberlaven,’ said Talen.
      ‘Do you remember any of the titles?’ asked the wizard.
      Talen thought for a moment. ‘I can remember only one—I think it was Huulf Úvar . At least, that is how I would pronounce it.’
      ‘You have pronounced it correctly,’ said Raavan, ‘though it would be best if you used those words sparingly.’
      ‘Then you know what they mean?’ asked Talen.
      ‘I do,’ said the wizard. ‘Úvar is the dark god of the netherworld—a deity to the likes of Mythron and his predecessors.’
      ‘And Huulf?’ asked Talen.
      ‘Holy,’ said the wizard. ‘Let us ride.’
       
       
      Long they rode, and faster than they had yet done on this or the previous leg of their now lengthened journey. The ponies were by now more used to the rigours of travel, but poor Ernest was having a hard time of it even though the party kept their pace to a modest canter. Their way now followed a well-travelled road that leaving the Seawall Mountains cut a fairly straight path toward the north-west across the bushy savannas and occasional groves of central Arenya.
      When night finally crept down upon them they all looked eagerly toward the promise of supper and a good night’s rest. They enjoyed the solid fare that had been brought from Aberlaven: no travel biscuits this time, but real meat with buttered bread and even a salad of lettuce, carrots, and tiny spring onions that were grown in the vegetable garden behind the stables at Aberlaven. Raavan had even brought along a quantity of Erieth’s beer in one of the water skins and this they found much to their liking, for Elflings take great interest in sampling a new and exotic brew.
      With stomachs full and their thirst well quenched they were soon fast asleep before the camp fire. Only Raavan remained awake a while longer for a few pulls on his pipe, but soon even he decided to call it a night, pull his hood down over his eyes, and let sleep take him to the further realms of the night.
      The next morning they all woke feeling more or less refreshed, and they were ready to get underway. Soon after striking camp, however, a fine drizzle began to fall and it continued on and off throughout the morning. With hoods drawn they pushed on at a modest pace. By noon the drizzle had turned into a heavy downpour and before long they began to hear the rumble of distant thunder. They were by then soaked to the bone and starting to feel truly wretched.
      ‘Surely we aren’t going to go on in this mess,’ said Fifin. ‘It is getting difficult even to see the road.’
      ‘I am afraid we haven’t much choice,’ answered Raavan. ‘There really is little chance of our finding dry shelter in these parts, and quite honestly I don’t see how just standing in the rain would be any better than riding in it, even with a canvas. We might as well get some mileage out of our misery, if miserable we must be.’
      ‘Well, you’re supposed to be a wizard,’ said Falco. ‘Can’t you just wiggle your fingers and make it stop?’
      ‘No, I can’t just wiggle my fingers and make it stop ,’ Raavan replied with more than slight irritation. ‘Anyway, Mr. Whiteleaf, even were I able to do so, you can be sure that I would see to it that the rain ceased to fall everywhere except directly over your head!’
      ‘That would be fine with me,’ said Dannadar with a wicked smile.
      ‘Raavan, do you know of any farms or homesteads in this area where we might dry off for a while, at least till the main storm passes?’ asked Talen.
      ‘Not in our immediate vicinity, though further along there are a few that come to mind,’ answered Raavan. ‘I suggest we keep riding. Either we will come in time to some dwelling or other where we can wait out the storm, or with any luck the rain may just let up on its own. But either way, we are getting nowhere fast just sitting here.’
      And so on they went. The rain did not in fact let up, and they became miserabler and miserabler with every passing mile. If the thought of eating a cold supper did little to inspire them the prospect of sleeping in their soggy clothes was little better, for even if they could find a dry spot over which to set the tarpaulin the driving rain had long ago soaked clean into their packs so that they no longer had even a dry change of clothes.
      Shortly before nightfall their luck finally began to change, for not only did the rain begin to slacken somewhat, but it was then that they espied a modest farmhouse set back a short distance from the road. Soon they were rapping on the door.
      To that door came Leochar Bustlewhip, a funny-looking man with a very large nose. In a jiffy he had the dripping wretches inside where it was warm and dry and the aroma of hot food was in the air. One of his sons, Lechil, showed the visitors to a bedroom where they could change into dry clothes while the other, Imman, set additional places at the table and arranged some makeshift seats.
      Mrs. Bustlewhip was not present, for she had died some years back. Nevertheless, the house was clean and the meal entirely palatable. The stew was piping hot and the bread only one day old. Needless to say, the visitors were very grateful and they thanked old Leochar many times.
      ‘O, don’t mention it,’ said the man with the enormous nose. So large was that nose and so funny-looking the face to which it was attached that the Elflings found it very difficult not to laugh every time they looked at him. Despite the loss of his wife he had maintained a very healthy sense of humour, and indeed most of the time he had plastered on his face a ridiculous smile that made the Elflings wonder if perhaps he too was perpetually laughing at his gigantic beak.
      ‘We always enjoy having visitors,’ Leochar went on, ‘especially with the missus gone. Gets quiet round here, you know what I mean? Ah, but that’s the way of it. Say, how’s your stew? You want some more?’
      ‘Fabulous,’ came one answer. ‘Delicious—really hits the spot,’ came another. Soon they all were on their second bowl. In truth, they enjoyed the tasty stew so much that only Leochar spoke throughout most of the meal. From his ramblings they soon gathered that his farm was in fact a vineyard, for Leochar was a brewer of wine.
      ‘Lot of work, making wine,’ their host went on. ‘Picking the grapes, hauling ’em into the pressroom, cleaning out the presses. And then comes the squashing—now there’s a job for you! Some of these other brewers, they got implements to do it, but we here use our feet.’
      ‘Your feet?’ asked Fifin.
      ‘That’s right,’ the man replied. ‘Look here!’ And then he removed his shoes and showed them his feet, which were stained a dark purple, presumably from the grapes. The two sons, following the example of their father, raised their feet up onto the table as well and offered them as further evidence. Of course, there could no longer be any doubt: the Bustlewhip grapes that went into Bustlewhip wine were squashed with genuine Bustlewhip feet.
      ‘We don’t cut any corners, here—that’s why my wine is still the best this side of the Eyebright,’ explained the purple-toed host. ‘You wanna try some? Imman, bring us up some 1218.’ Imman quickly complied as Lechil promptly found wine glasses for them all. A common enough routine it must have been in that house, for the young men moved in an almost businesslike manner.
      ‘Ah, 1218,’ said Leochar as he removed the cork and poured them all a modest portion of the dark red wine. ‘A fine year. ’Course, every year is different. That’s what makes brewing so much fun. You never know how each year is gonna turn out.’
      ‘It’s very good,’ said Fifin.
      ‘One of my favourites,’ Leochar went on. ‘When you’re done with that I’ll give you a bit of 1204. It’s got a warm, earthy flavour to it. I personally like the 1208 a little better myself, but everybody’s got his own tastes. Imman, bring up the 1204 and 1208. You know, wait a minute—bring up an 1178 while you’re at it. We haven’t cracked one of those in a while.’
      Quite a lot of wine-tasting went on that night, and before long they all were rather inebriated (except for Airi, who did not drink wine). It seemed to the Elflings that the more they all drank the bigger Leochar’s proboscis became, so that before long they were laughing at him continuously whether his stories were funny or not. Most of them were quite hilarious, however, so it was a very merry night indeed.
      The next morning, their clothes having dried by the fire, they returned their borrowed raiments and once again donned their own familiar garments. Lechil fixed them a big pot of porridge, to which they liberally added raisins and also a touch of honey. They stayed long enough to help with the cleanup, and then after many thank-yous they were off, for Raavan had not allowed their pleasant stay to push from his mind the urgency of his task.
      By mid-morn they had travelled some ten miles. Another sixty or seventy they had yet to go before reaching Rosemarket, where Raavan hoped to find a more vigorous steed. Ernest would be sent back to Aberlaven in the care of a trusted rider if one could be found, or left in the stables at the inn until Alarus sent for him. The Elflings were sad that he soon would be parting company with them.
      ‘Poor Ernest,’ said Fifin. ‘He is already looking rather dejected.’
      ‘He will be much happier in a stable than he would be travelling with us,’ Raavan assured them. ‘Sweet hay and a nice dry stall—he is the lucky one, if you ask me. I would not be surprised if Ernest here ends up being a great deal more comfortable than we in the weeks ahead.’
      The rest of the day was uneventful, for they took very few rests and kept strictly to the road, which was straight and level. Several more farms they passed, but when evening came on none of them were nearby and so they camped out in the open on the side of the road.
      They set off early the next morning and by mid-morn they had started the gentle descent into the valley of the Eyebright. Soon they began to see more trees, mostly sycamore and walnut, though these occurred largely in isolated groves between large, open fields. Some of these fields obviously belonged to farms and provided pasturage for cattle and sheep, while others were still wild and variously overrun with brambly bushes and the occasional sapling.
      They knew they had finally arrived in Rosemarket when they saw the horses. Great fenced-in fields stretched in every direction from the little town, and teaming with horses of every colour they were. There were whites and blacks, silvers and chestnuts, piebalds, mottleds, roans, and greys. There were runners sleek and lithe, and haulers brawny and vigorous. There were palfreys, chargers, racers, and padnags; coursers, roadsters, hunters, and cobs. So much variety was there that the visitors felt almost that they were at a zoo, yet these were all horses, and merely different breeds of that one animal.
      The herds were largely kept separated by temporary fences, but some were kept apart through the diligent work of superbly trained dogs which enforced the precise boundaries set by each herd’s owner.
      The main road went on into the town, but Raavan had them turn off to follow a narrow lane that ran between the fields. This muddy track wound its way haphazardly through the environs of the burgh, and along the way they saw not only many horses, but a fair number of other visitors as well. Most of these appeared to be farmers and ordinary townsfolk and such, but here and there they caught a glimpse of tall men in white livery with decorative iron helms and fancy swords sheathed at their sides. These, it was guessed, were the royal servants of some king or other, come from afar for the purchase of fine new steeds to grace the stables of their liege.
      At a fair distance from the town they stopped and Raavan dismounted. Up to the wooden fence he strode and for a time they all just stood there, the Elflings still on their ponies, all of them watching the hustle and bustle of the horse trade at Rosemarket.
      To the other side of the lane Talen gazed. There in the corner of that pasture grew a tiny stand of old apple trees. Several horses were there searching in vain for fallen fruits, or perhaps taking advantage of the uncropped grass that grew beneath the spreading boughs. Golden bees and many horseflies buzzed about, and the smell of manure hung heavy on the air. It was a peaceful day, very sunny, and the growing heat made Talen think that late spring had perhaps now turned into early summer. His mind wandered back to Laurelindor, to his home in Dunnoch, and he wondered idly what local goings-on he would miss as he and his friends trudged slowly across the wide lands of the larger world.
      Presently, he was jarred from his thoughts by a voice that sounded nearby. It was Raavan’s.
      ‘How much for the stallion, horse-boy?’ the old wizard had called to a man that rode astride a great white horse. When the rider turned squinting in their direction they saw that no horse-boy was he, for he was a grown man with hair on his face and black paint on his sinewy arms. On his face he wore a well-trimmed goatee that neatly surrounded his mouth and chin, but his cheeks and jaw were shaven clean, and a wide, stern jaw it was. Set in his face were fierce green eyes and it was the look of these that set the Elflings on edge, for he now rode toward them as if with the intention of rebuking their leader for poorly chosen words. When he had come closer to the corner he reined in the majestic steed. For a moment he sat gazing at the Elflings and the old man. Then apparently having made up his mind he quickly jumped off of the great stallion and bowed in a slow and stately manner.
      ‘Were he mine to give, old man, he would be yours,’ said the stranger, now looking at the fair beast that stood beside him. ‘But alas, Windaris is the property of one Eneclein Folger—and property he is not likely to part with cheaply, more’s the pity.’
      Raavan then took out a small red pouch which was heavy with coin. ‘Then persuade him, if you can, for I have need of great haste and the strength of will to go with me into dark places that even I would rather not.’ He held out the pouch to the stranger, who taking it took on a slight look of concern. ‘I will wait here for his reply,’ continued Raavan.
      The stranger took the pouch and the horse and rode off some distance across the field. Reaching the far side he appeared to confer with another man—or perhaps it was several men, for the haze that lay on the stony pasture made clear sight at that distance very difficult.
      ‘Rather a fierce-looking fellow, isn’t he?’ said Dannadar.
      ‘Fierce indeed,’ said Raavan with a cryptic, knowing smile.
      Soon the stranger was back, minus the pouch, but this time when he dismounted he strode directly over to Raavan and embraced him across the fence as a brother. The two smiled and there were strong pats on the shoulders.
      ‘You are looking good, Raavan,’ said the stranger, ‘though certainly no younger.’
      ‘Young is something I have not been for a long time, my good friend,’ replied the wizard. ‘A long time, indeed. Now allow me to introduce my friends.’
      ‘Elflings, the little people of Laurelindor,’ said the stranger with a smile. Then he extended a hand and gave them each a rather firm handshake. ‘I am Alatar—and it is a pleasure to meet you.’
      ‘The pleasure is all ours, I am sure,’ said Talen, immediately warming to this fierce but courteous warrior, as did all of the other Elflings once they had shaken his hand and taken in his friendly smile.
      Raavan went on: ‘This is Talen Featherby, our expert piper and chief songster; this here is the honourable Falco Whiteleaf, a truly formidable archer, I have begun to gather (though we have fortunately not had much use for such skills—not yet, at any rate); over here we have little Fifin Frothmaster, who is our official beer taster (though he often doubles as tour guide), and the young lad behind you over there—yes, there he is!—that is Dannadar Hawksbill, who apart from being a rather talented court fool is really quite an enjoyable travelling companion and an all-around excellent fellow.
      ‘There, now. We’ve all been introduced. Right, then. How about some lunch?’ To this there was of course agreement all around. Then to Alatar he said: ‘I dare say that we’ve a bit of catching up to do, you and I.’
      ‘We do,’ agreed the man with a slow and deliberate nod as he met the wizard’s eyes. From the look that the two exchanged the Elflings concluded that there was some business between them that weighed heavily on them both, but which they were reluctant to discuss in the open.
      ‘The High Horse, then?’ suggested Raavan.
      ‘The High Horse,’ agreed the man.
       
       
      Further in toward the town there was a market with a number of merchants of various sorts. Produce, livestock, and farm tools accounted for most of the wares, though there also were stalls of other types, most notably those which sold wine and other spirits.
      ‘I wonder if Leochar’s excellent wine can be bought at any of these,’ mused Dannadar.
      ‘Possibly,’ said Raavan. ‘Of course, he did say that he deals primarily with a merchant at Culrossan. That’s a bit south of here.’
      ‘Did he?’ Dannadar replied. ‘I don’t remember that.’
      ‘Yes,’ Fifin recalled, ‘and he said it sells under the name of Bustlemaster’s Finest.’
      ‘I definitely don’t remember that,’ said Dannadar.
      ‘Perhaps you had too much of Bustlemaster’s Finest in you by then,’ said Fifin with a sly laugh.
      ‘O, that’s possible,’ Dannadar agreed.
      They passed through the marketplace and went on into the village. Near the edge of town Talen noticed a very old, dilapidated house with windows boarded up and the shutters all falling off. He wondered to himself how anyone could possibly live in such a place, but then he decided that it must certainly be vacant, for it appeared entirely unlivable.
      They had just about left the house behind when in the crack between two boards over a corner window he saw a pair of large eyes staring out. At first he could not say why the glaring eyes disturbed him so, but he realised much later when he ran over the scene in his mind that the strange eyes had a tilt to them unlike that which he had seen in any man, and so they must certainly be the eyes of some monster or other beast. But this all came to him later, and at the time he was only able to say ‘Look!’ and ‘Did anyone see that?’ Yet, when he looked again the eyes were gone and none of the others had spied them.
      The High Horse Inn was a large, brick building set beside a comparably large stable. A boy came out to take their steeds and a small coin from Alatar, and then the party entered the establishment by ascending the narrowing steps which led to the paired, swinging doors.
      In the large common room were quite a number of men, some of them eating, drinking, or smoking, but all of them talking amongst themselves within their little groups and none of them paying the slightest attention to those who had just entered.
      The party took a table next to the wall and were soon welcomed by a lusty barmaid. She returned in short order with tall mugs of frothy ale and a large platter with a pile of cold meat strips and a long loaf of crusty bread.
      ‘The food here is passable at best, but it’s the drink that draws the customers,’ explained Alatar when the serving girl had gone. ‘In fact, this is probably the best ale in Arenya,’ he continued, sipping from his dark mug. Then he looked round at the other customers, and at the room itself. ‘I think it’s that and the atmosphere. The horsemen are especially fond of the place: it has a certain charm for those of us who hail from further north.’
      ‘Yes, the atmosphere in here has certainly got a quality to it—thick , I think, is the word,’ said Fifin, waving his hand in front of his face.
      ‘O, but it’s half empty,’ said Raavan. ‘You should see it in here at night when the hands and merchants come in after a long day’s toil to relax with a mug and a pinch of tobacco.’
      ‘Well, if they all lit up a pipe I doubt you could see it through all the smoke,’ Fifin replied.
      ‘It can get difficult,’ said Alatar with a smile. Then taking another sip from his mug he said to Raavan: ‘I think you got the better part of that deal with old Folger. That’s one of the finest beasts I’ve ever had the pleasure to ride, Raavan—and you know how many I’ve ridden.’
      ‘Yes, I do, and I meant to thank you for your effort in convincing Mr. Folger to part with the proud animal,’ said Raavan.
      ‘The jingling of coins is a powerful inducement to some men,’ replied Alatar.
      After their repast they retired to a private room on the second floor of the building, in the back. Out the single window Talen could see the stable-boy toiling about in the yard, drawing up water out of the well, hauling bales of hay out of a storage shed. The window was open and a nice breeze blew through the room till Raavan, who was last to enter, closed the door behind him. They made themselves comfortable on the chairs and beds that were spread about the room. Then Raavan spoke, and at first he spoke mainly to the Elflings.
      ‘Friends, a situation of the utmost gravity has been developing in the West which, if history is any guide (and it often is) has the potential to affect all of Entira with the direst consequences.’ This was serious talk, and so the Elflings sat up and did their best to be serious listeners. ‘As I think you all have gathered by now through the bits and pieces of information that I have let slip—and if I’ve intentionally withheld much of what I am about to tell you till now, it has only been in the interest of saving you the undue distress that such knowledge must inevitably bring to good, simple folk—there is a new power in the world, a preeminent sorcerer who seeks domination over all living things: a true Deathlord, as of old.
      ‘Though he has not yet achieved the same level of ascendancy and towering strength as his terrible predecessors, left unchecked I believe it is all but certain that he would do so, given enough time.
      ‘Yet, while there is time, and while there is room for doubt, the powers of good that are still at work in the world tend to move slowly, if they move at all, for it is difficult to rouse common folk against an unseen and distant enemy, especially one that the complacency of conventional wisdom tells them has been relegated entirely to ancient history.
      ‘Now, unfortunately, a new element has been added into this increasingly precarious situation which threatens to quicken the pace of our enemy’s rise to mastery, and this is where I must ask you for your help, if you still have the courage to offer it.’
      ‘But what help could we possibly be in a fight against so terrible an adversary?’ asked Dannadar.
      ‘My dear Elfling,’ replied the wizard, ‘if you allow me to continue, I will tell you!’
      ‘I am sorry,’ said the flustered Elfling. ‘Please, go on.’
      Raavan continued: ‘When the Deathlord Mythron was cast down at Ilimath many of his writings were found there, and it was the opinion of my old master, Fangren, that these should be taken back to Aberlaven and studied. His reasoning was that in order to better resist any usurpers that may arise in the future we should study the ways of our dark counterparts—the black arts of sorcery and necromancy, that is.’
      ‘That makes sense,’ commented Falco.
      ‘Of course it does!’ Raavan went on. ‘My master was no fool. Unfortunately, some of the others on the victorious side that day were not as wise, or at least not as reliable. The Three Kings considered the matter and decided that the originals should reside at Pencairn under lock and key and the watchful eye of the Loremaster in residence there. Scribes were immediately brought in to copy the major works and the copies were taken back to Aberlaven when the excavations at Ilimath were complete. It was all very thorough, at least on our end, as could be expected with Fangren in charge. Unfortunately, the kingsmen forgot to take the originals back with them to Pencairn.’
      ‘Then where are they?’ asked Talen, ‘—the originals, I mean.’
      ‘Well,’ said the wizard, ‘we presume they are still sitting where the kingsmen left them: collecting dust somewhere on a bookshelf in Ilimath. Precisely where they are within that dark hole, I do not know.’
      ‘But why is any of this even relevant?’ asked Alatar.
      ‘Good question,’ replied the wizard. ‘I was just coming to that. One of the works found at Ilimath, a book which has come to be called the Nurune Codex, was evidently quite different from the others. Rather than having been thrown on a shelf with all of his other ramblings, this particular tome was kept in a prominent place in Mythron’s laboratory. Judging by the way the book was left open with quill and ink nearby it appeared that this contained his most recent writings and was in fact a work-in-progress.
      ‘What was most peculiar about this book, however, was the language in which it was written: Orogath, a very foul and ancient tongue that virtually no-one knew how to translate. Based on comparisons with the few other surviving texts written in the same language it could be seen that the book was even written in a strange and highly archaic mode of Orogath, so that comparison with partial translations of other texts was of relatively little help.
      ‘Thus, the tome sat untranslated and unstudied for long years in Alarus’ private library at Aberlaven, till just last spring, when at a meeting of the Kastairi to discuss the sorcerer we had driven from Mâg Tuor I urged Alarus to undertake the translation of this enigmatic codex. And none too soon it was, for it has taken him a year to get this far, and he still has fully translated only portions of the text, albeit large portions, and he is now rapidly approaching completion of the task I set him.
      ‘A little over a month ago Alarus began to arrive at some very disturbing conclusions regarding the contents of the codex. With every newly deciphered paragraph he became increasingly alarmed. He quickly realised that there were some dangerous implications for the mere existence of such a book: in particular, that it might fall into the wrong hands and be used for evil purposes. That is when he sent for me and decided to convene a general meeting of the Kastairi to decide what should be done. This was the purpose of my trip to Aberlaven.’
      ‘What did he find in the codex that was so disturbing?’ asked Alatar.
      Raavan answered, ‘It appears that Mythron, not long before his fall, had been carrying out some very dark work which, had he been able to complete his researches, might very well have increased his power manyfold. Though he did not have a chance to finish his work he did document every step in full detail within the codex. The Kastairi have reviewed the procedure and now believe that the phenomenon he was trying to exploit is genuine.’
      Alatar sat up. ‘And so, you are concerned that should Silgoth obtain a copy of the codex he might succeed in completing Mythron’s research.’
      ‘That is precisely what we must prevent,’ confirmed Raavan.
      ‘And since the original lies unguarded at Ilimath you propose to retrieve it and take it back to Aberlaven so that it can be more carefully guarded,’ said Talen.
      ‘Exactly!’ said Raavan.
      ‘Well, that doesn’t sound too difficult,’ said Dannadar. ‘We just need to grab the book and cart it back to Aberlaven. What could be simpler?’
      ‘Let us hope there is little more to it than that,’ said Raavan. ‘Of course, simple tasks often have a way of becoming more complicated, as I think we’ve all learned by now.’
      ‘What could possibly go wrong?’ asked Dannadar, and he was serious.
      ‘Well,’ replied Raavan, ‘for one thing, we really don’t know for sure what sort of nasties have slinked their way into Ilimath in the long years since Mythron’s demise. I don’t think we can expect it to be entirely abandoned. Dark holes like that always attract loathsome creatures that are trying to escape the sun.’
      ‘What if this Silgoth fellow has taken up residence there, you know, trying to follow in the footsteps of Mythron?’ asked Fifin.
      ‘He hasn’t,’ replied Alatar. ‘He is in Tath, many miles to the north-west. That at least we know for certain.’
      ‘And now what other news can you bring us from those far reaches?’ asked Raavan of the man.
      ‘His horde grows,’ Alatar replied. ‘And it is swelled not only by Ghakhen and Troells: many Goblyns also I have seen, and there is word that he is breeding the Naegrim.’
      ‘I am not surprised,’ said Raavan. ‘Things will only get worse from this point. And what about your other journeys?’
      ‘There is little to tell of Mornea—except that I did see your brother,’ replied the man.
      ‘Telion is in Mornea?’ said Raavan. ‘What is he doing there?’
      ‘In the south there is some to-do about a boulder that fell from the sky in early winter,’ said the man. ‘It has been accompanied by some strange goings-on, it seems.’
      ‘Such as what?’ asked Raavan.
      ‘I did not stay to find out,’ said Alatar. ‘But Telion seemed very engrossed in it all. I don’t know whether he had just been passing through and decided to investigate or if he went in search of it. Apparently, it could be seen as a comet in the night sky for several weeks before it actually fell. Anyway, it was out of my league, so I didn’t ask too many questions.’
      ‘Yes, and I think it is quite out of Telion’s, too,’ said Raavan.
      ‘So, what is your plan for Ilimath?’ asked Alatar.
      ‘Well,’ said Raavan, ‘I would like to gather a few more hardy souls to take along—just in case.’
      ‘You can count me among them,’ said Alatar.
      ‘Excellent,’ said the wizard. ‘I was hoping you would come along. It is very fortunate, then, that we happened to meet here.’
      ‘And who else?’ asked the horseman.
      ‘I was thinking of paying a visit to Khazâl’s people,’ said Raavan.
      ‘The Belling Hills?’
      ‘Yes.’