~
The next daybreak found them bearing southeastward, once more riding double on borrowed horses. This time they had no guide, for Gildor knew the way to Wood’s-heart, some twenty miles distant.
Swift were the steeds, and in midmorn the four comrades were passed through a picket of Lian warders and came at last to dwellings nestled among the giant Eld Trees: they were come to Wood’s-heart, the Elvenholt central to the great forest of Darda Galion.
Gildor led them toward a large low building in the midst of the others; and as the four approached, Elves stopped to watch this strange assortment of Man, Drimm, Waerling, and Lian ride by. At last the comrades came to the Coron-hall, and warders asked their names while others took their steeds.
“Vio Gildor,” replied Lord Gildor. “Vio ivon Arden. (I am come from Arden.) My companions I will name to Coron Eiron, and to his consort Faeon.”
At mention of the Elfess Faeon, troubled looks passed across the faces of the warders. “Alor Gildor,” said the Captain of the Door-ward, “you may pass and speak to the Coron; yet you will find his spirits low, but it is for him to tell you why. I can only hope that you bear news that will lift him from his doldrums.”
“Hai!” cried Gildor. “That I can guarantee, for we bear the best of tidings: Delay us no longer; let us pass!”
And into the great hall they strode, yet it was glum and but barely lighted. And at the far end of the long floor, sitting upon a throne among the shadows was a weary Elf: Eiron, the High Coron of all the Lian in Mithgar.
Across the floor strode the comrades, to come to the steps at the foot of the dais. Eiron lifted his hand from his brow and gazed at the four, his eyes widening in surprise at sight of Man, Drimm, and Waerling. “Alor Gildor,” he said at last, turning to the Elf, his quiet voice filled with sadness.
“Coron Eiron,” spake Gildor, bowing slightly, “these are my comrades: Drimm Brega of the Red Hills, mighty warrior, Rûpt killer, arch breaker, axe thrower; Waerling Tuckerby Underbank, Thornwalker of the Boskydells, arrow caster, Spaunen slayer, Bane wielder.” Gildor paused, and both Tuck and Brega bowed to the Elven King, who inclined his head in return. Then Gildor spoke on: “And Coron, though I present him last, this Man, too, is a warrior without peer: Horde harrier, Ghûlk slayer, sword shatterer, son of Aurion King now dead . . . Coron Eiron, this is Galen King, now High King of Mithgar.”
These last words brought Eiron to his feet, and he bowed low to Galen, who bowed in turn to the Elven Coron.
“Ah, but this is woeful news you bring me, for Aurion and I had nought but good will toward one another and I am saddened to learn of his death,” said Eiron. “Let us all sit and talk and break bread together, and tell me your tale, for I glean among Alor Gildor’s words that you bear tidings of import, yet I hope that some of your news is good, for I am grieved in my heart and would cherish fair word.”
Gildor’s face broke out in a great smile and he flashed Red Bale from its scabbard and thrust it toward the sky and cried, “Coron Eiron, va Draedan sa nond: (King Eiron, the Gargon is dead!)”
Coron Eiron staggered backward, the hind of his knees striking the throne, and he abruptly dropped to the seat. “Nond: Va Draedan sa nond?” Eiron could not believe his ears.
“Ai: It is so!” crowed Gildor, slamming Bale home in its scabbard. “We four slew it five days past in the dark halls of Drimmen-deeve: Tuck slashed it with Bane, thus breaking its dread gaze; Galen King shattered a sword deep within its gut, freeing Drimm Brega; Brega hurled the axe that clove into its skull, setting me loose; and I cast the torch that engulfed it in an inferno; and the flames at last slew it. And it was dead ere the pyre in the end collapsed and fell into the Great Deep of Drimmen-deeve, carrying the charred corpse of the Gargon unto the bottomless depths.”
Eiron’s face flushed with gladness, and the Elven King leapt to his feet and called a page unto him. “Light the lamps: Kindle the fires: Prepare for a feast: And send me Havor!” And no sooner had the attendant scurried from them than a Lian warrior—Havor, Captain of the Door-ward—strode to the summons of his Coron. And Eiron commanded, “Let the word go forth unto all corners of Darda Galion and to the Lands beyond: to the Greatwood and Darda Erynian, to Riamon and Valon, to the Lian now in the north, and to the Host in the south: Va Draedan sa nond: Slain by these four: Drimm Brega of the Red Hills; Tuckerby Underbank, Waerling of the Land of the Thorns; Alor Gildor, Lian of Arden; and Galen King, High King of Mithgar!”
Havor’s eyes flew wide, for the Horror in Drimmen-deeve had long ruled the Quadran, and fear of its dread power had caused Dwarf and Man and even Elf to flee from these regions. Yet though many Elves took flight to Adonar, others of the Lian remained behind in Darda Galion, vowing to stay in Mithgar and continue their guardianship. Even so, the faint pulse of the Fear to the North ran like a thread through their lives; and only the Sun held the Horror at bay, for at night it stalked the sloping valley known to the Elves as Falanith and to Man as the Pitch; but at dawn the Gargon would return to the Black Deeves, for Adon’s Ban ruled its kind. And none but Braggi and his raiders had e’er challenged the Dread, and they had not succeeded: for never had a Gargon been slain without the aid of a Wizard, and these mages were gone from the sight of all, though where they went none knew. Yet here were four who had killed with their own hands one of the terrible Gargoni—perhaps the last of its kind. The Dread of Drimmen-deeve was dead: Havor raised a clenched fist and cried, “Hál, valagalana: (Hail, valiant warriors!)” and the Captain rushed from the hall to start the remarkable news to spreading, while Eiron led his guests to warm hearths and baths and restful quarters where he could hear their tale in full.
~
Great joy spread throughout the Elvenholt, and heralds on swift horses raced forth across the Land. And everywhere the word went, celebrating began, for long had the yoke of dread fettered their hearts; and when they heard the glad tidings, all knew the tale to be true, for they listened to their inner beings, and the exhalation of fear no longer whispered forth from Black Drimmen-deeve: the Horror was dead.
And in the guest quarters the four heroes rested and spoke quietly with Eiron. Yet not only did they tell him their tale, they learned much from the Coron in return:
“Aye, Galen King,” said Eiron, “there is see-saw strife to the south, for the Lakh of Hyree and the Rovers of Kistan muster in endless numbers, and all the Hosts of Hoven and Jugo, and of Pellar and Valon are hard pressed. The Drimma of the Red Hills join the strife, yet the Alliance is woefully outnumbered.”
“What of the Lian?” asked Galen. “What of the Men of Riamon?”
“We fight in the north,” answered Eiron. “The Evil in Gron sends his Hordes through Jallor Pass and the Crestan, and they come down from secret doors hidden high in the flanks of the Grimwall. My Lian join with the Dylvana—Elves of Darda Erynian and the Greatwood—as well as with the Drimma of Mineholt North, the Men of Riamon, and the Baeron Men. We fight in the fastness above Delon and in the Rimmen Mountains and in the Land of Aven. Yet we have battled as far south as Eryn Ford and the ruins of Caer Lindor. And everywhere we are hard pressed, for Modru’s Swarms are mighty and they assail in great strength.
“Hearken, Galen King: I do not wish to cast doubt upon your mission, but surely you now see that your plan to gather the Host and march north to battle Rûpt must be abandoned; you cannot come unto the north with your Legions and leave the south undefended, for the Evil One’s clutch is everywhere.
“Aye. North, south, east, west—all around—like the coils of a great serpent, Modru’s minions seek to crush us. And now you bring me news of a Horde teeming in the Quadran. Yet the force of Lian Guardians presently husbanded in Darda Galion is but a remnant which I had come to gather to lead back to join their brethren in the northern battles. But now I will not do so, for I would not leave this Land undefended in the face of the threat of the Swarm in Drimmen-deeve, even though alone the remaining March-ward could not press back the foe should the D
immendark sweep south and the Spaunen come.
“I curse the day that the Evil in Gron became master of this foul darkness that blots the land, for with it he defies Adon’s Ban and looses holocaust down upon us.
“Yet even where the darkness falls not, still Modru works his evil, for the Hyrania and Kistania assail the south, believing that this War is but a prelude to Gyphon’s coming. Yet, that cannot be, for the Vani-lêrihha have not yet returned and the Dawn Sword remains lost.”
“Vani-lêrihha: Dawn Sword?” Tuck’s Warrowish curiosity was piqued. “What do you mean, Coron Eiron?”
“The Vani-lêrihha are the Silverlarks, Tuck,” answered the Elven King. “Ere the Sundering, these argent songbirds dwelled in Darda Galion high among the Eld Trees, and their melodies of the twilight caroled beauty throughout the Land. Yet after the Sundering, the Vani-lêrihha disappeared, and we knew not where they went. A thousand years passed, and the forest stood empty of their song and was the poorer for it. And we had come to believe that they were gone forever; but then the Lady Rael in Arden divined a sooth of baleful portent:
‘Bright Silverlarks and Silver Sword,
Borne hence upon the Dawn,
Return to earth; Elves girt thyselves
To struggle for the One.
Death’s wind shall blow, and crushing Woe
Will hammer down the Land.
Not grief, not tears, not High Adon
Shall stay Great Evil’s hand.’
“The Silverlarks of her words we know, and we think that the Silver Sword of the rede is the Dawn Sword—the great weapon said to have the power to slay the High Vûlk, Gyphon Himself. But the Dawn Sword disappeared in the region of Dalgor March during the Great War, and until Rael’s portent we thought that it was lost or that Gyphon had contrived to take it, for He fears it. Yet now we think it to be in Adonar, for how else could it be ‘Borne hence upon the Dawn’: For the same reason, we think the Vani-lêrihha to be in Adonar, too, though we still are not certain. And both Silverlarks and Silver Sword will return to Mithgar some direful dawn yet to come, to the woe of the world.” Eiron fell silent.
After a moment Brega grunted. “The Châkka, too, have baleful sooths as yet unfulfilled, and we dread the day their words fall true. Yet, come, think you not that this prophecy of yours is being fulfilled even now: For we struggle; Death’s wind blows; Woe hammers the Land. Many of the portents fit.”
“Nay, Drimm Brega,” answered Eiron. “This prophecy looks yet to come, for there are no Silverlarks in the Land, and the Dawn Sword—the token of power—has not returned to fulfill its destiny.”
“Token of power?” asked Tuck. “Just what is a ‘token of power,’ and what do you mean, ‘fulfill its destiny?’”
Again Eiron turned to the Waerling. “As to what is a token of power, they are at times hard to recognize, while at other times known to all. And they can be for Good or Ill: Whelmram is a token of power for Evil—a feartoken—for it has crashed through many a gate for the Spaunen. So, too, was Gelvin’s Doom, an evil device in the end. Those for Good are sometimes known: one was the Kammerling; too, there is Bale, and Bane, and perhaps Black Galgor: these would appear to fit the mold. Others are unknown until they fulfill their destiny, and beforehand seem to hold no power at all: jewels, poniards, rings, a trinket. Not all are as blatant as Galen King’s rune-marked Atalar Blade that hewed the Hèlarms as foretold.”
“Foretold?” burst out Tuck in surprise.
“Aye, foretold,” answered Eiron, “for it was I who long ago translated the writing on Othran’s tomb:
‘Loose not the Red Quarrel
Ere appointed dark time.
Blade shall brave vile Warder
From the deep, black slime.’
“I knew not what the words meant when I deciphered them, yet it seems certain that the blade Galen King bears is a token of power meant to strike the Warder from the deep, black slime, for that was its foretold destiny. Just as Bane, Jarriel’s sword, and Brega’s axe, along with a Ruchen torch, were meant to combine to slay the Draedan.”
“But what if we had not succeeded?” asked Tuck. “What then of the destiny?”
Eiron signed for Alor Gildor to answer the Waerling.
“Tokens of power seem to have ways of fulfilling their own destiny,” answered Gildor. “Had we been felled ere reaching Drimmen-deeve, still would the Atalar Blade have sought out the Hèlarms; still would Bane have come against the Gargon: but it would have been by other hands, not ours. Some tokens would seem to have more than one destiny: Gelvin’s Doom, the Green Stone of Xian. Perhaps Bane or the Atalar Blade are not yet done with their ordained work; heed me, it may be that their greatest deeds lie ahead, as I think Red Bale’s work is yet to be done.
“Aye, Tuck, tokens of power are mysterious things, perhaps guided by Adon from afar. Yet none can say for certain which things are tokens, and we can only guess at best: if a thing was made in Xian, or forged in Lost Duellin, then it would seem to have a better chance of bearing a destiny; yet many have come from elsewhere, and none can say which are the tokens until their destinies come to pass.”
At this moment, a page came to Eiron, and the Coron announced that the feast was ready. And as they strode to the Coron-hall, Tuck was lost in deep thought:
If the Lian are right, then it would seem that we all are driven to fulfill the destinies of these ‘tokens of power.’ What then does it matter that we strive to reach our own ends: For whether or no we wish it, we are compelled by hidden sway . . . Or is it that the paths of the tokens and their bearers happen to be going in the same direction: Perhaps I choose the token for it suits my aims, and the token chooses me for the selfsame reason.
They came into the Coron-hall, and it was full of brightness, for Elven lamps glowed fulgently, and fires were in the hearths, and bright Lian filled the hall. And Eiron led them to the throne dais and they mounted up the steps: Brega clad in black-iron mail, Tuck in silveron, Galen in scarlet, and Gildor without any armor at all. Eiron raised his voice so that all could hear: “Ealle Hál va Deevestrîdena, slêanra a va Draedan: (All hail the Deevewalkers, slayers of the Gargon!)”
And thrice a great glad shout burst forth from the gathered Lian: Hál! . . . Hál! . . . Hál!
And then the guests were led to a full board, and the feast of thanksgiving began.
Yet Gildor’s eyes swept the assembly, as if seeking a face not there. At last he turned to Eiron. “Coron Eiron, I see not my sister Faeon, bright Mistress of Darda Galion.”
Now anguish filled Eiron’s features. “Faeon has ridden the Twilight Ride,” said the Coron, “seven days past.”
Gildor fell back stricken, disbelief upon his face. “But the Sundering: None has made the Dawn Ride since.”
“Alor Gildor, just as you did, Faeon, too, felt Vanidor’s death cry, and she was distraught. She has ridden the Twilight Ride to Adonar, to ask the High One Himself to intercede and stop the Evil in Gron.” Eiron’s hands were trembling in distress.
“But Adon has said—nay, pledged—that He will not directly act in Mithgar.” Gildor’s voice was filled with woe. “Yet still she went to plead with Him: Did Faeon not consider that the way back is closed: sundered?”
“She knew it all too well, Gildor . . . all too well,” answered Eiron. “She knew that not until the time of the Silverlarks and the Silver Sword will the Dawn Ride be made again, and then perhaps but by His messenger. Yet she thought perhaps this once . . . “ Eiron drew a long, shuddering breath. “Vanidor’s death drove her thus.”
Gildor rose and walked to a fireplace and stood long gazing into the flames. Eiron, too, left the table, and his footsteps carried him to a window where he looked out into the Eld Trees and spoke to no one.
“Now we know what grieves Eiron,” said Galen after a moment. “His consort Faeon is gone from Mithgar, never to return.”
“I do not understand, Galen King,” said Tuck. “Where has she gone: And why can she not return?”
“She has ridden the Twilight Ride to Adonar, Wee One,” answered Galen, and at the buccan’s puzzled look, Galen spoke on: “Tuck, this is the way it was told to me long ago:
“In the First Days, when the Spheres were made, among the three Planes were divided the worlds: the Hôhgarda, the Mittegarda, and the Untargarda. And days without number passed. And it came to pass that Adon and others of the High Ones began to dwell in Adonar in the Upper Plane, but whence came the High Ones, it is not told. Again, days beyond reckoning fled by, but then, in the Lower Plane, in the bleak underland of Neddra, Yrm sprang forth from the sere land—some say by Gyphon’s hand. And then only the Mittegarda lay fallow, empty of Folk. But at last, Man, Dwarf, Warrow, and others moved across the face of the world, but how we, the youngest, came to be—by whose hand—it is not known, though some say Adon set us here, while others claim it was His daughter, Elwydd, and yet others say that each of the Folk was made by a different hand. Regardless, now the three Planes each held dwellers.
“In those ancient days, the ways between the Planes were open, and those who knew how could pass from one Plane to the other.
“And in that dim time, Gyphon—the High Vûlk—ruled in the Untargarda; but His rule was by the sufferance of Adon, and Gyphon was greatly galled, for He coveted power over all things.
“And Gyphon thought to rule the whole of creation, and so He sent His emissaries to Mithgar to sway those living here away from Adon and unto Him; for if Gyphon could gain control of the Middle Plane, the fulcrum, then like the balance of a great teeter-totter, the Forces of Power would shift to Him, and Adon would be cast down.
“And many of the Middle Plane came to believe in Gyphon’s vile promises, and thus followed His ways. But others had clearer sight and saw him as the Great Deceiver, and rejected His rule.
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