Chapter 3

The companions finally began to feel the gravity of their situation when they rode out from Pencairn on their way toward Hélethrôn—a most unpleasant feeling it was, and it hit them right in the pit of their stomach. It was their task to ride to distant Tath, to slip undetected into the Deathlord’s fastness at Hélethrôn (where they would then be required to wait in hiding till the day of the eclipse), and then to destroy the Deathlord at the precise moment of the Unsundering. At any point along the way they were likely to meet life-threatening challenges, and even should they survive all of these, a failure to defeat Silgoth himself before he became infused with the power of the Thread would yet spell doom for all of Entira. The prospects were indeed less than rosy.
      It was just after noon when they rode out from the capital of Pilinon following the north road which ran along the great river Korsil. Many small towns and villages they encountered along the way, but as they were in a great hurry they stopped at none of them and even rode clean round a few when it was most expedient to do so.
      In mid-afternoon they passed through the city of Lornasse where they observed several companies of men training for battle, as King Telurin had ordered arming and other preparations to begin in earnest as soon as Raavan and company had departed for Valassea. In the fields Talen saw many young men practising with blades, many for the first time, by all appearances. Indeed, he was rather surprised at how young many of them looked to be. But he reminded himself that he and the other Elflings had taken up the blade only in early summer and that in a short time they had developed proficiency enough to dispatch the unskilled Troells and other beasts which they had encountered in the blackness of Ilimath. Clearly, there were many able-bodied young men in the wide lands who when confronted with the threat of being slaughtered by Silgoth’s invading hordes would do their utmost to prepare themselves for the coming battle.
      That evening they stayed at a hostel in a village next to the river. As they would be following the Korsil and then the Greyspring for much of the way to Merethir Forest, and indeed, as the Greyspring originated in the mountains above that forest, Talen enquired as to whether they could have travelled by boat up the river. But he was reminded that they would have had to sail against the current the entire way, and that a ship large enough to carry their steeds would not have been able to take them but a fraction of the way before it was turned back by rapids and waterfalls.
      In the morning they continued their journey north, soon meeting the confluence of the Korodruin and the Korsil. The former river flowed south-easterly from Koronandor, the wide land bordered on three sides by mountains: the Sildruin on the west, the Vinyanan on the south, and the Greywall on the east.
      During their brief midday rest Berethir explained to the Elflings that in ancient times Koronandor had been under the rule of the kings at Pencairn, for it and Pilinon were one and the same nation at that time. Later, a dispute arose between the underlords of Koronandor and the high king at Pencairn, resulting in a brief civil war and a splitting of the two nations. Now there were no kings remaining in Koronandor, for the country’s population had been virtually decimated during the Ilimathäen War. All that remained were the farmers who tended the exceptionally fertile lands which the Korodruin and its many tributaries effectively irrigated.
      Soon they would pass another large city called Kilburnam and here again they would see signs that preparations were underway for the coming war. As they all had wondered anxiously as to the allies’ ability to quickly mobilize they found such obvious signs encouraging. And yet with every step the party was brought that much closer to Tath and undeniably this knowledge weighed heavily on their minds. It was not long after this that it was brought up by someone in the party that they would be passing along the eastern edge of Tachán in several days, and this brought to the Elflings memories of Dannadar’s encounter with the Nara.
      Thinking back on that episode of their journey it occured to Talen that among Dannadar’s delirious babblings were a veiled prediction of Fifin’s death, which occured only days later during their encounter with the terrible Ghatâl in Ilimath. At this disturbing realisation he felt an unwanted chill race up his spine, and he began to hope fervently that they would neither see nor hear any Nara when they passed by that sad and fateful place.
      That day they travelled mostly north-east as the Korsil wound gently in that direction to cascade over a series of grand waterfalls, but in late afternoon the river turned north again, and they continued that way till nightfall. Though they had ridden hard that day, covering some hundred and forty miles, Raavan insisted that they continue for some time in the dark. Eventually they halted for the night, camping by the river’s edge. It was now November and a stiff chill came into the air that night to remind them of the fact.
      Round the warm campfire they sat drinking hot mugs of lossara while Airi slipped silently into the dark for his nightly hunt. Raavan explained to the new members of the group that the owl was very useful to them as an additional pair of eyes, for once he had filled his gizzard he would return to perch just outside the ring of firelight where he would keep an unweary watch through the night. Nevertheless, they all would take their nightly turns at sentry duty for the duration of their journey, for as the tides of war even now were beginning to sweep across Entira they could expect to encounter considerable danger long before they even reached Tath.
      The following day found them adopting a more easterly path as the winding of the Korsil slowed its northward progression. In the morning they passed the confluence of that river with the Ceredil, the same watercourse which flowed down from Ilimath. Though it had not been six months, it seemed years since they had been in that place, and as with the mention of Tachán the Elflings were reminded of the unpleasantness which they came to know during that period of their prior quest.
      At noon they finally came to the Greyspring, which flowed down from Merethir Forest to join the Korsil not long after turning from its northward course along the westernmost reaches of Arenya. They continued easterly along the Korsil, however, for the river was not safe to ford here. Eventually they were able to cross over the Korsil and then continue northerly on a course roughly parallel to that of the Greyspring. Another fifty miles they rode that day, till both the steeds and their riders were worn out.
      They camped in western Aresse that night and once again they built a warm fire to keep away the November chill. Sitting round the flames they mused that the chill would only deepen as they travelled further north, for now the calendar would conspire with their approach toward higher latitudes to hasten the arrival of winter for the party.
      And so once again Alatar was called upon to brew the tea-like lossara, of which all the party were starting to become rather fond. After downing a thick wafer of Pilian waybread called Oromenna the travellers settled round the fire with a hot mug and proceeded to pass the time in getting to know their new companions.
      One thing which the Elflings were very interested to learn was that Sildin and Valainis, though clearly both Elves, were in fact members of two distinct races. Sildin from the Merethir Forest was an Itarien Elf or what men called the wood Elves or dark Elves , whereas Valainis was one of the Valatir, the sun Elves or sea Elves . Though both races were very fair to look upon with their tanned skin and clear complexion, the Valatir generally had golden locks while their Itarien cousins were most often black-maned.
      From Valainis they learned much Elven sea-lore, for the Valatir had been master sailors and shipbuilders since time immemorial. They heard of long voyages to strange lands where time seemed to stand still and the sun never set, but merely went round the sky in a circle. They heard of voyages to Hellon, where Dragons still ruled and man feared to set foot, and to the ancient landbridge which now was beneath the waves.
      ‘Elves love the sea dearly,’ explained Valainis, ‘for it is our Mother, and when we are on land she calls to us in her ancient, whispering voice. Yet, the sea also harbours great dangers and has been the doom of many an unwary sailor. Even on land one is not always safe from the sea. It is said that in the early days of Entira after men arrived a great rock came flaming from the sky to plunge into the depths of the ocean. So great was the intensity of its impact that a giant tidal wave fell upon the coastal cities, many of which were utterly destroyed.
      ‘The catastrophic wave came to be called the Wave of Tsunamia, for among men it later was said that the falling rock had been sent by the gods to destroy the Island of Tsunamia. It was said that the island was home to a race of wicked men whom the gods wished to punish for their depraved ways, but the gods struck too hard and as a result many innocent Entirans died as well. Later it became a perennial challenge among men to sail out into the ocean in search of the remnants of Tsunamia, but none are reputed ever to have found it, and indeed, many have lost their lives searching.’
      ‘Fascinating,’ mused Berethir. ‘I have never heard of such a legend.’
      ‘It is many lives of men since the Great Wave,’ replied Valainis, ‘and like as not the legend has died among men.
      ‘Another tale now comes to mind involving the very same island of Tsunamia. According to legend, an enormous iceberg washed ashore there in winter near a coastal fishing village. In the morning when the villagers came out they saw that there was a great beast frozen within the gigantic block of ice. For weeks people trekked from nearby villages and towns to view the frozen titan. When spring came they watched day by day as the ice slowly thawed.
      ‘Finally, when the ice was nearly gone and the great body lay lifeless on the beach a scheming sorcerer came and revived the terrible monster to use as his personal guardian. But as soon as the awful beast lifted itself from the sand it fell upon the sorcerer and ate him. Before the day was out it had devoured most of the villagers and was on its way toward the next town. It is not known how the beast finally was put down, but many a strong man was said to have died vainly attempting to slay the fiend. After that, the Tsunamians were ever wary of anything which they found washed up on shore.’
      ‘I can well imagine,’ said Burak.
      Talen nodded in agreement. ‘In Laurelindor though we live far from the sea we have tales of the wide ocean and the monsters that dwell in its depths. My favourite is that of the angler who hooked a fish so immense that when he finally pulled it out of the water it swallowed him and jumped back in.’
      ‘Yes,’ said Raavan with a smile, ‘that is a good one.’
      The others laughed.
      ‘O, but there are even bigger fish in the sea than that,’ said the wizard solemnly, ‘for many a cove and bay are reputed to have come into existence when the most immense fish in the ocean became hungry and took a great bite out of the edge of the land as though it were a vast, floating cookie.’
      This brought even greater laughter.
      ‘Well,’ roared Burak, ‘if Entira is nought but a great cookie, then Raavan would seem to be the wisest of us all, for it will surely take many thousands of years for the greatest fish in the sea to nibble its way as far north as Caer Carnoch!’ Of course, this had the others just howling with laughter, and it was some moments before any could speak again. Raavan himself was nearly in tears.
      ‘Well,’ said Berethir, ‘I hope for the sake of the map-makers that that is all just fable, for otherwise all the maps would soon be inaccurate and in dire need of revision.’
      ‘To be sure,’ agreed Valainis with a smile, ‘though not all map-makers are equally concerned with accuracy. Indeed, there are tales of men who intentionally make false maps to lead travellers astray.’
      ‘Why would they do that?’ asked Talen.
      ‘O, I suppose to have a good laugh,’ answered Valainis.
      ‘I doubt that many of those who’ve followed such a map have found the experience humorous,’ remarked Talen.
      ‘Indeed,’ agreed Valainis, ‘especially considering that many of those false maps are said to have led to Dragons’ lairs, though they label them only with the phrase here be treasure .’
      At this, Raavan seemed to be struck with a sudden thought, though he did not offer to share it.
      ‘Ooo, that’s cruel!’ said Berethir. ‘Being led astray is bad enough, but into a Dragon’s den?’
      ‘Actually,’ said Burak, ‘such a map would likely be correct, as far as it goes: where there be Dragons there is likely also treasure!’
      ‘Yes,’ smiled Valainis, ‘and likely enough the map-maker in question knew that, but simply forgot to mention the Dragon.’
      ‘That’s probably it,’ chuckled Alatar.
      Changing the subject Berethir then commented, ‘Raavan, is it not a wonder that you were able to gather all three Swords of Power, and at precisely the required time, too? I am most impressed.’
      ‘It is the hand of fate at which you marvel, not mine,’ said the wizard. ‘I am as much a pawn in this game as the rest of you.’
      ‘Indeed,’ said the big man, nodding his head in agreement. ‘I am told that when you found Nifredir it was in pieces,’ he continued. ‘I wonder how you were able to reforge the blade without damaging its magic?’
      ‘Actually, Burak deserves all of the credit for the reforging of the sword,’ said Raavan. ‘And as to the rekindling of its flame, Alatar aided me greatly in that task through his wielding of Noromendor. Have you ever seen Noromendor, by the way?’
      ‘I am afraid I have not had that pleasure,’ said Berethir.
      ‘Alatar,’ instructed Raavan, ‘show Berethir the blade. Berethir is quite an expert on sword-craft as I recall.’
      Alatar drew the blade and all were awed once again to see how it glowed in the man’s strong hands. As he passed the sword to Berethir the glow faded away, yet the burly man seemed just as impressed by the workmanship of the weapon as were the others by its magical glow. He inspected every inch, yet found nothing lacking in the ancient weapon.
      ‘A fine blade,’ said Berethir. ‘Surely as fine as the sword Glavron.’
      ‘I’ve not heard of that weapon,’ said Burak, inquisitively.
      ‘It is an ancient sword of legend,’ replied Berethir, ‘made of pure gold, yet forged so as to be as hard as steel, and just as sharp as you could want. It is the sword which Lord Aurea took into battle against the three-headed Dragon, Tyrannaton. The Dragon’s three heads also had their own names: Anwaar, Agarwaith, and Attal-menya. Lord Aurea was able to slay Anwaar and Agarwaith, but not Attal-menya, who was the strongest of the three. Attal-menya ended up eating the lord and keeping Glavron as a trophy and as weregild for his two lost heads which had been cleaved clean from their necks by the golden blade. It is said that much was lost when the blade fell into the possession of Tyrannaton, for it had slain a great many monsters. It has not been seen since, though it is rumoured that Tyrannaton eventually was slain and his hoard taken by another worm. Yet, no one knows for sure.’
      ‘Alas,’ said Burak, ‘but very little that winds up in a Dragon’s hoard ever finds its way out again.’
      ‘How true,’ lamented Berethir. ‘Though, men were well served by one such loss: that of the Sildorbane.’
      ‘What’s that?’ asked Talen.
      ‘The Sildorbane was a cursed sword after which many great men lusted,’ answered Berethir. ‘So beautiful was it that when it fell into the hands of a new owner the unfortunate warrior often would take it out just to gaze at its beauty, as would his comrades who then came to secretly desire it. Yet, when challenged in battle the owner of the sword always found (and too late, I might add) that the weapon refused to be drawn from its scabbard at the onset of hostilities. Many a great warrior lost his life because he was the proud owner of a sword that he could draw at any time except when he most needed it. Fortunately, its final owner sought to use it to slay a Dragon, and failed. Now it is in the possession of some powerful drake—and one which it is to be hoped will never be slain!’
      ‘It could just have been thrown into the sea,’ said Falco.
      ‘Aye, you might think so, but the beauty of the thing always overcame its owner’s reason,’ replied Berethir. ‘The weapon had upon it a spell that befuddled the warrior’s wits, for all he could see was its shimmering beauty and its excellent craftsmanship. Also, none could believe that he himself would fail to draw the blade in time of need—always it was thought that the sword’s victims were weak or unworthy. Yet, what warrior who has won such a splendid prize in battle will consider himself unworthy?’
      ‘I see your point,’ said Falco.
      ‘But, who would go through the trouble to craft such a thing?’ said Talen.
      ‘It probably was not cursed right from the start,’ answered Raavan. ‘I would imagine some sorcerer cast the spell upon it when it was in the possession of someone he wished to eliminate. He was apparently a bit overzealous in giving his incantation, though, because the spell remained on the weapon long after the first victim passed away.’
      ‘I just hope that is not the weapon I am given at Argskelëeragh,’ said Berethir with a laugh. Several of the others laughed along.
      ‘I didn’t get that joke,’ said Talen.
      ‘Argskelëeragh is the final battle, at the end of the world,’ explained Berethir. ‘Actually, it is the name of the place in which the battle will take place, though none know exactly where that is. But it is said that all the gods will be there, as well as the spirits of all the warriors who have ever lived. Our fates will be judged based on how well we fight that day—it will determine whether we spend the rest of eternity in the bliss of Pyredhes or in the fires of Helh.’
      ‘Interesting,’ said Falco.
      ‘As for me,’ continued Berethir, ‘I hope at Argskelëeragh to be able to fight alongside the Swordbrothers, Tavoron and Laiquetil.’
      ‘As do many men,’ said Raavan.
      ‘Indeed,’ said Alatar.
       
       
      The next morning they came to the river Greyspring at the exact place where they had forded it earlier in the year. Crossing the river again they followed their previous route toward the north-west. At noon they passed by the cedar grove where Talen had been attacked by the Gargoyles. Thinking back on the encounter the Elfling was again glad to have Falco along on their quest, for it was the other Elfling’s deadly bow that had saved Talen from the winged beasts. Also, he had little doubt that Falco’s formidable aim would contribute much to the party’s chances of success on their all-important mission.
      In the early afternoon they turned north, diverging from their previous path which soon would have taken them west across the plains of Tachán. Talen was again reminded of the plaintive wailing of the Nara, and though he fervently hoped that they would not hear the sad spirits, he listened intently for hints of the ghostly song. Once or twice he thought he may have heard an echo of it only to find that it was instead a distant bird.
      They soon had a more serious concern, however, for as they rode into the northern reaches of Tachán they several times observed groups of riders in the distance which they rather suspected were Daonrach-mounted Goblyns. Given the recent news that Penyandil Pass was held by the enemy, to see spawn wandering about Tachán was no great surprise, though of course it did not please them. However, they kept up their pace and as the riders were never seen to give chase their concern was somewhat lessened, though they all kept a sharp eye as they rode hard toward the north.
      By nightfall they had left Tachán behind and were now approaching the edge of the southernmost extent of Merethir Forest. Though they had made excellent time over the past three and a half days (travelling some five hundred miles) they soon would be slowing their pace quite a bit as they entered the forest.
      ‘Though the going will be rather slow, I think we will be well-served by conferring with King Ceirdain,’ said Raavan, ‘for Merethir is the northernmost Elf kingdom, and as I’ve said before, the Elves do a good job of keeping their ears to the ground, as it were. I’m concerned about the status of the pass at Foireách, as well as that of the lands to the north and west. If Penyandil is held then we have to at least consider the possibility that Foireách is held as well.’
      ‘And what if it is?’ asked Talen.
      ‘Then we shall have to take a rather longer route through the Wellorn Hills, which I would rather avoid if possible,’ replied the wizard. ‘Not only is it longer, but the mountains in that region have always attracted Oghors and Goblyns.’
      ‘Not to mention several other types of nasties,’ added Sildin.
      ‘No Nara, I hope,’ said Talen.
      ‘It has been some time since anyone has reported seeing a Nara in Wellorn,’ answered Sildin, ‘but they did occur there in times past. Wellorn is much like Tachán in that a great number of souls were lost there in a short period of time. It is in places like these that the Nara tend to be found.’
      ‘Why do you loathe the Nara so?’ asked Valainis.
      Talen recounted the events of their previous journey through Tachán and then shared with the party his interpretation of Dannadar’s hysterical outbursts.
      ‘Hmm,’ said Raavan. ‘I hadn’t thought of that, but you may be right. It is well known that the Nara can foresee death. They are said often to sing of such to the families of the doomed. Fifin was Dannadar’s cousin.’
      ‘Reminds me of the Gravedigger of Robermore,’ said Berethir. Receiving mostly blank looks he went on: ‘The Gravedigger was a man employed at the castle of Robermore. It was said that his fingers would begin to itch whenever he sensed that someone at the castle was about to die. Anytime that happened he would take up his shovel and begin to dig out a grave. They say it was always a black day when the Gravedigger had been spotted out in the cemetery with his spade.’
      ‘I shouldn’t wonder,’ said Talen with a shudder.
      ‘What really gets me, though, is the way he died,’ continued the big man.
      ‘How did he die?’ asked Falco.
      ‘Well,’ said Berethir, ‘one day he was spied digging away in the pouring rain. He was an old man by then, and not as hale as he once had been. After about four hours of slow labour he simply keeled over into the grave. So the next day they just covered him over—figured it was his own grave he was digging.’
      ‘I guess it was!’ said Burak with a chuckle. ‘Though, I wonder if he knew he was digging it for himself.’
      ‘We’ll never know,’ said Raavan.
      ‘So, who dug the graves after he died?’ asked Talen.
      ‘I don’t know,’ shrugged Berethir. ‘Some other lucky fellow, I guess.’
      ‘And did he also get the itchy fingers, I wonder?’ asked Falco.
      ‘I don’t think so,’ said Berethir. ‘But it’s just a tale.’
      ‘Unfortunately, the Nara are not just a tale,’ said Raavan. ‘They are quite real, in their surreal sort of way. And there is little doubt that their omens are substantive. Whether their prophecies can be in any way averted is another question.’
      ‘Like images seen in the Mirror of Itaril,’ said Sildin.
      ‘Quite,’ agreed Raavan.
      ‘What is that?’ asked Berethir.
      ‘There is a small pool in Merethir just at the base of the mountains,’ explained Sildin, ‘which is called the Mirror of Itaril. Many have gazed into its calm waters to be presented with startling images from the future. But just how unalterable that future really is has been debated for many centuries. It may be that the auguries come true only in particular circumstances, though what circumstances those are, no-one knows for sure.’
      ‘Or the whole phenomenon may be no more than a bunch of self-fulfilling nonsense,’ said Raavan puffing at his pipe.
      ‘Indeed,’ agreed Sildin with a self-deprecating smile.
      ‘I have rarely found it to be any more useful than the Talking Tree,’ continued the wizard. Then to satisfy the inquisitive looks from the others he explained, ‘That is a tree in Merethir into which was carved long ago the likeness of a face. Some clever mage later cast a spell onto it allowing it to talk. Of course, the Elves love to talk to all manner of things, including trees. In time they were able to get it to say some things that it made sense for a tree to say, though whether it is really the tree that is communicating with passers-by is still a subject of some debate.’
      ‘Quite true,’ agreed Sildin with a laugh.
      ‘In any event,’ continued Raavan, ‘I have wasted far too much time trying to communicate with it myself. I will admit that on occasion the tree has imparted a few tiny bits of wisdom, though always of uncertain value, as these things go. But mostly I have found its blabberings to be largely unintelligible. You might just as well try reading the future from star constellations.’
      ‘You know, Raavan,’ said Berethir, ‘for a wizard, you seem awfully skeptical of anything that seems even remotely supernatural. Do you think that might be at all contradictory?’
      ‘No,’ was Raavan’s terse answer. The wizard was smoking up a storm and it was clear to the others that his mind was elsewhere. Also, his mood left something to be desired, so they did not press him to talk for the remainder of the evening, though several at least of them wondered what he could be turning over in his busy mind.
      ‘Speaking of constellations,’ said Sildin looking up at the night sky, ‘there is Siriath, the snake.’
      ‘Patron saint of the Snake People,’ said Alatar, now gazing up at the speckled firmament.
      ‘Yes,’ confirmed Sildin.
      ‘Are those the ones that supposedly transform themselves into snakes at night?’ asked Burak.
      ‘Yes,’ answered Sildin, adding with a smile and a nod toward the wizard, ‘if you believe in those sorts of things.’
      ‘O, the Siriathans are quite real,’ said Raavan. ‘Whether they can confer with the dead by writhing upon their barrows on moonlit nights is another question.’
      ‘But do they really change themselves into snakes?’ asked Falco.
      ‘They do,’ confirmed the wizard.
      ‘But only at night,’ added Sildin, ‘and only during a full moon.’
      ‘Fascinating,’ said Falco.
      ‘There is a hill in Tolor that is said to be a giant’s barrow,’ said Sildin, ‘and upon this I once witnessed the Snake People practising their orgiastic séance. It is only the women who can transform themselves. When the moon comes out they writhe and wriggle nakedly in the dirt, rolling around and over one another till their bodies take on the forms of enormous, black snakes. Atop the barrow the ritual continues for several hours till finally they all begin to change back. Afterward they are completely exhausted and they generally spend the remainder of the night sleeping on the mound, the light of the moon illuminating their pale flesh. When they wake in the morning they tell of their communion with the dead upon whose grave they had lain.’
      ‘And?’ said Talen expectantly.
      ‘That’s it,’ said Sildin.
      ‘But can they communicate with the dead?’ pressed the Elfling.
      ‘I don’t know,’ answered the Elf. ‘I would need to communicate with the dead myself in order to be certain. Otherwise, how would I know that the deceased’s “message” wasn’t simply made-up by the snake people?’
      ‘Indeed,’ agreed Raavan.
       
       
      That evening a double watch was kept and all the companions left their weapons within easy reach, for with Penyandil Pass still relatively near there was yet a danger that their fire might be seen by unfriendly eyes. With a whisper Raavan recruited Airi as a third sentinel, and through the night the bird could be seen gliding silently from perch to perch round the periphery of the camp.
      This turned out to be a very wise precaution, for some time after midnight a loud hoot! hoot-hoooo! brought those on watch to their feet, and soon the others were awake and brandishing their assorted weapons as well. As Talen and Falco were unsure whether it was best to fight with the sword or the bow they each knocked an arrow and adjusted their scabbards so their blades could be easily drawn if necessary.
      Soon they heard the shallow clip-clop of Daonrach hooves, and then the enemy was upon them. Talen and Falco immediately dispatched two of the vile steeds with arrows in the throat and then closed with the thrown riders to finish them off. They were quickly reminded, however, that Goblyns fight with considerable proficiency, for it took quite a lot of effort for the Elflings to overcome their much taller opponents. Overcome them they did, however, and soon they found themselves facing fresh enemies on fresh steeds.
      The Goblyns fought with long spears and lightweight axes which they were able to swing most expertly, and while they did so their scaly steeds lashed out with their hooves and snapped at the companions with their pointed, toothy snouts. Berethir, roaring like a bear, swung his great broadsword through the necks of the Daonracht, spilling their black ichor on the ground. Alatar engaged the Goblyns directly, Noromendor’s green flame searing their flesh whenever it bit into them. Raavan wielded his sword Fheoir with a two-handed grip, as did Burak his axe Tuin, and together they clove a number of spawn limbs to litter the ground where they fought.
      Eventually the last Goblyn was cut down and then the companions took stock of their injuries. Only minor cuts and bruises were sustained by the party, though one of the ponies had been mortally wounded and would have to be left behind. They moved their encampment some distance as the horrid smell of spawn blood was too foul for their noses. They did not bother with a second fire, thinking that it would only attract another band of roaming Goblyns, though they were fairly confident they had moved far enough from their original camp site not to be tracked in the dark.
      Nevertheless, they continued with the double watch and all kept their blades unsheathed at their sides as they slept. Of course, not all of them found it easy to sleep after the surprise encounter, but they did their best, for they feared they would come to depend mortally on having all of their energy and alertness in the days ahead.
      The next day they arose early and downed a wafer of Oromenna and a cup of tea and then continued northerly at a goodly pace. The skies were leaden, though as yet they saw no rain. In mid-morning the forest began to appear on their left but then receded just as quickly. This was the southern arm of Merethir, which they would not enter here, for Sildin would show them a faster way. As their purpose in entering the forest was to confer with King Ceirdain the best path was the one which would take them up the valley of the Greyspring where it emerged from the forest, for the king resided in the place where the river came down out of the mountains on the western edge of Merethir.
      In mid-afternoon they finally were greeted by the Greyspring once again as the clouds blackened and a wind began to pick up. Sildin showed them a safe way into the canyon of the Svienya, which was the Elven name for the great river. Here they were afforded some shelter from the blowing winds, though the brooding sky would continue to threaten them with the prospect of rain. Yet, it was not rain drops which fell upon them after travelling roughly a mile along the narrow road at the base of the canyon, but rather giant vampire bats. A large flock of them descended upon the party to assail them with sharp fangs, in many cases drawing blood in areas unprotected by armour.
      So many of the flapping beasts were there that the companions often were blinded by their great, fluttering wings which blotted out the dim sunlight. Swinging their weapons above their heads the companions did their best to injure as many of the assailants as they could, yet their sheer numbers threatened to overcome the party and leave them with no escape. The vermin with their broad wings were draped all over the companions, clinging everywhere to them and searching with sharp fangs for any accessible flesh.
      Suddenly they saw about them a bright light which they observed to form a wide disc several feet above their heads. There was a sizzling sound in the air and the smell of burning flesh as bats dropped lifeless to the ground in great numbers. A panic spread immediately among the flock, and those that had not been dispatched by the burning light abandoned their victims to flap erratically away, some venturing too close to the white disc and being instantly fried as a result. When the last of them were gone the burning light disappeared, leaving the companions with the afterimage of Raavan gazing defiantly into the sky, his staff held aloft in a two-handed grip.
      ‘Is everyone all right?’ queried the wizard. Slowly their vision returned as their eyes adjusted once again to the dim light. All about them were the charred, smoking remains of dead bats. As they took inventory of their wounds they were struck by a puzzling observation: that their steeds were completely untouched.
      ‘Is everyone all right?’ repeated the wizard.
      ‘Yes, I’ve got just a few puncture wounds,’ answered Talen, and the others replied in similar fashion, though some questioned whether the bites which they sustained might be envenomed.
      ‘No, the bite of the vampire bat is not venomous,’ said Alatar, ‘though the wounds will need to be cleaned in order to avoid infection.’
      ‘I’m not sure that would be a good idea right at the moment,’ said Berethir, looking nervously about. ‘How do we know they won’t return when we’re cleaning our wounds?’
      ‘I don’t think the bats will return,’ said Raavan, scanning the upper edge of the canyon, ‘but whoever brought them down upon us will likely try something else as soon as we let down our guard.’
      ‘You think this was the doing of some witch, or sorcerer?’ asked Berethir.
      ‘Look at the horses,’ said Alatar: ‘there’s not a scratch on them. Vampire bats drink blood. Why would they go for armoured warriors when it would be easier to attack unprotected steeds?’
      ‘Yes, of course,’ agreed Berethir.
      ‘Let us move on,’ said Raavan. ‘We need to find a sheltered place to clean these wounds. It would not go in our favour for any of us to be weakened by infection.’
      So on they went. They kept ever a vigilant eye toward the lip of the canyon, though the dimness of the day did not provide for exceptional visibility. They now were travelling north-westerly, heading straight for Merethir, yet they were still some fifty miles out from the edge of the forest and the canyon walls had so far provided no manner of shelter where they could dress their wounds.
      Finally Sildin announced that they soon would have an opportunity to rest. ‘There are some caves ahead which I believe are quite safe, if we can just—’
      He was cut off by the sound of tumbling rock. Glancing up they saw that several large boulders were now rolling down the near side of the canyon toward them, and they were picking up many smaller rocks along the way. In a few short moments they all would be crushed under the weight of a massive avalanche.
      ‘Ride!’ shouted Raavan. ‘Ride for your lives!’
      This they did, spurring their steeds onward with such frantic desperation that the beasts were driven to the greatest extremes of athleticism they had ever known. Only by galloping their hardest were they all able to ride out from beneath the path of the avalanche, and then only just in the nick of time. When the booming had stopped and the cloud of dust had settled they saw that behind them the way was blocked by a great mass of rubble which spanned the road right down to the edge of the river.
      ‘There will be no going back that way,’ said Burak.
      ‘Then we had better hurry forward, lest another rock slide cut off that way as well,’ said Berethir.
      ‘No,’ said Raavan in an ominous tone quite unlike the wizard. Now all the company looked on as the angry conjurer gazed up toward the lip of the canyon, a terrible fit of wrath evident upon his face. Following his gaze they just caught a glimpse of a hooded figure ducking from view.
      ‘There is some business here which must be taken care of,’ said the wizard as he climbed down from Windaris. Taking Airi on his forearm he whispered into the owl’s auriculars once again and then sent the bird flapping silently up toward where the figure had been spotted. As the owl disappeared over the lip of the canyon the wizard held his staff at arm’s length, one end set firmly on the ground and the other tilted up toward the canyon’s edge.
      With great concentration he closed his eyes and uttered several words under his breath which none were quite able to catch. Suddenly there was a disturbance in the sky and then a powerful bolt of lightening shot down and struck the earth just beyond the cliff’s edge. An ear-splitting crack of thunder accompanied the gnarly blue bolt and the ground seemed almost to shake as it struck the earth.
      Then it was gone. They waited, gazing expectantly toward the high ledge.
      After a long moment Airi came gliding rapidly over the lip of the canyon toward them. His feet dangled beneath his body and in his talons he clutched a wooden staff. When he returned to the party he let the stick drop in the road, then he perched on the back of Windaris. They could see that the staff which Airi had brought was severely charred at one end, so that it was rather shorter than one would expect of a tall man’s walking staff.
      Raavan picked up the smoking stick in his green-gloved hands and began to examine the runes set into the unburned portion. Presently he spoke: ‘Nostaite.’
      The companions were shocked to hear the name.
      ‘Are you certain?’ asked Burak, brandishing his axe.
      ‘Yes,’ answered the wizard, ‘I am certain. And just as certain am I that he will trouble us no more. For, as Brother Erieth is fond of saying, dead men cast no spells .’
      With that, he broke the remains of the staff over his knee and discarded the pieces in the river. On they rode then, comforted in the knowledge that one fewer miscreant roamed the troubled world.