“And Gyphon ranted, and sent Hordes of his Spawn from Neddra into Mithgar, for if He could not persuade those who dwelt here to follow Him, He would use force.
“Adon was enraged, and He sundered the way between the Untargarda and the Mittegarda, so that no more Spaunen could pass through. And Adon called Gyphon to task, and humbled Him. And Gyphon groveled before the High One and foreswore His ambitions.
“Hence there was at that time no War, but myriads of the Foul Folk now dwelt in Mithgar, and much grievous harm has come of that.
“Yet although Gyphon had sworn loyalty to Adon, still He harbored a lust for power in His black heart. And He yet ruled the Untargarda: could He gain control in but one other Plane—the Hôhgarda or the Mittegarda—then He would rule all.
“His lust seethed long Eras, and at last He set a plan in motion, for in Mithgar He had a mighty servant: Modru!
“Gyphon launched an attack upon Adonar, and at the same time, Modru struck at all of Mithgar; thus the Great War of the Ban began.
“But Gyphon’s true plan was to thrust across the High World and come unto the Middle Plane Himself, to conquer the lesser beings at struggle here, for none here could withstand the power of the High Vûlk. But ere He could do so, Adon sundered the High and Middle Planes one from the other, just as He had sundered the ways to the Low Plane Eras before. By cutting Adonar off from Mithgar, Adon barred Gyphon from coming to conquer.
“Still, the War was fought upon all three Planes, but the crucial outcome was to be in the Middle Plane where the struggle here in Mithgar raged between the Grand Alliance and Modru and his minions. And, as you know, Modru lost. Hence, the Great Evil did not conquer here. But had the way not been sundered by Adon, the outcome would have been different.
“Yet even in the Sundering, Adon was merciful: for though none can now come from Adonar to Mithgar, still the opposite way—the way from Mithgar to Adonar—remains open.
“You see, for Eras the Elven Folk of Adonar had been passing back and forth between the Hôhgarda and the Mittegarda, for though they love Mithgar well, Elves are a Folk of the High Plane: Starsholm in Adonar is their true home. Yet many would dwell here, for in the Mittegarda they find their skills are much needed. But the Hôhgarda—the High Worlds—call to them, too, for there they can rest and be at peace and build new skills. And though I do not know it for certain, still I think that only in Adonar can they have children, for legend says that no Elven child has ever been born on Mithgar, yet in past Eras striplings were known to come to the Mittegarda with other Elves on the Dawn Ride. But though they dwell here, still they are of the High Plane, and Adon would have His Elves come home; thus they can yet take the Twilight Ride.”
“Twilight Ride . . . Dawn Ride,” interrupted Tuck. “These things I know nought of. What are they?”
“They were the ways between Adonar and Mithgar, Tuck, but only Elves could follow the paths, and not Man, Warrow, Dwarf, or for that matter any other Folk.” Galen took a drink of wela, a heady Elven mead, and then continued. “Somehow, at twilight, the way between the Planes is open, and an Elf astride a horse can ride from here to Adonar. And, ere the Sundering, the way from Adonar to Mithgar could be ridden at dawn: ‘Go upon the twilight, return upon the dawn’: it is an ancient Elven benediction. But now only the Twilight Ride can be made, and then only by the Elven Folk.”
Brega, who had been listening as intently as Tuck, made a rumbling sound deep in his throat. “Eerie is this Twilight Ride, for in my youth I saw it from afar: Elf astride a horse, riding in the woods below, the steed walking through the forest as if guided in a pattern. My ears may have played me tricks, yet I think I heard singing, or perhaps it was chanting, I cannot say. Dusk seemed to gather around them as they flickered among the trees, Elf and horse going from one to another. They passed behind an oak, and did not come out the other side. I rubbed my eyes, but it was no trick of vision. Quickly I ran down the slope, for darkness was falling swiftly. I found the steed’s tracks there by the tree, and they faded away as if the horse and Elf had turned into smoke. I cast about for other sign, but night fell, and starlight is too dim to track by. I hurried on my way and said nought to any, for I would not have had others sneer at me behind my back.” Brega quaffed his wela. “This is the first I’ve told of it.”
Tuck was silent for a long moment, lost in Galen’s and Brega’s words. At last he said, “Well, then, if I understand it correctly, the Twilight Ride is a one-way ride, and Elves who go to Adonar can never come back, for the path from there to here has been sundered and none have ridden the Dawn Ride since.” At Galen’s nod, Tuck looked with sad eyes upon Eiron and Gildor, for Eiron’s consort, Gildor’s sister, Faeon, had ridden the Twilight Ride to plead with Adon for succor. Yet Adon had never directly intervened in Mithgar in all the Eras past, and He had pledged never to do so. Even so, Rael’s rede about the Silverlarks and the Silver Sword ‘Borne hence upon the Dawn’ would seem to say that the way would be opened again; but when . . . no one could say. And Tuck’s mind conjured up a vision of an Elven warrior astride a horse appearing like a wraith from the early morning mist bearing a silver sword to be given to another to wield against the Great Evil. The Warrow shook his head to clear it of this image.
“Perhaps that’s why the Silverlarks are gone,” mused Tuck; and at Galen’s and Brega’s puzzled looks, the buccan elaborated: “If the Silverlarks could fly the Twilight Path, then they’ve gotten to Adonar and can’t get back.” Both Brega and Galen nodded in surprise at the Warrow’s canny remark and wondered why they had not thought of it that way.
Soon Lord Gildor and then Eiron returned to the feast board, but the conversation at the table of honor all but dwindled to nought. And even though they sat at a great banquet of thanksgiving, and smiled when toasted by the gay revelers, the hearts of the Deevewalkers were heavy, for a pall of sadness weighed them down.
~
Tuck yawned deeply, his eyes owlish, for he was weary. Even so, he paid close heed to what was being said, for he and Galen and Brega now sat in council with Eiron. In the distance, strains of music sounded as the feast continued, but the comrades had retired to discuss the ways before them, and Eiron had joined them to yield up his advice.
Long had they talked, and now Galen set forth their choices: “These, then are the two courses deemed best: To bear south on horseback across the plains of Valon toward Pellar; and along that path in the Land of Valon is the city of Vanar, some eighty to ninety leagues hence, and it would be our first goal, for there would we find Vanadurin to lead us to the Legions; but if the Host fights in Pellar then we need must ride ninety leagues beyond Vanar just to come to the crossing into that southern Land.
“Our other choice is to continue by boat, going down the River Nith to the Argon, and thence southward to Pellar; this way is more uncertain, and perhaps more dangerous, for we may not come unto those who will aid us until we reach the Argon Ferry along the Pendwyr Road, and then it may not be aid we find, for that crossing perhaps is held by the enemy. But even if it is in friendly hands, still it lies some three-hundred leagues distant by the great eastward arc of the river route.”
Galen paused in long thought, then said, “We will go by river, for although it is longer and more uncertain, still it is swifter, for the Nith and the Argon need no rest and run their courses day and night. And if we eat and sleep in the boat, stopping only as needs dictate, then we can reach the Argon Ferry in a sevenday or less; whereas by horseback across Valon, unless we press the steeds unmercifully, we cannot arrive at the Ferry in less than a tenday—more likely it will take a fortnight if we rest the mounts. Nay, the river is best for those who must fly south in haste.”
And so it was decided: by Elven boat to Argon Ferry would the comrades go, for horses tire, but the river does not.
~
The next morning, a great retinue set out from Woods-heart bearing south: Coron Eiron and an escort of Lian Guardians accompanied Galen, Gildor, Brega, and Tuck a
s they headed for a cache of boats upon the River Nith.
Once more Tuck was mounted behind Galen astride a cantering horse, and the buccan gazed with weary eyes at the passing Eld-Tree forest. The Warrow had not slept out all the sleep that was in him, for the discussion as to how to proceed had lasted long into the night, and they had risen early to be on their way. And among the great boles they went swiftly, for a feeling of dire urgency pressed upon them all, especially upon Lord Gildor, who still sensed a doom lying in the days ahead, but what it was he could not say.
At the fleet pace they rode, in an hour or so they came to a glade upon the banks of the River Nith, and the purl of its swift-flowing waters murmured through the twilit wood.
The horses were reined to a halt, and all the company dismounted. One Elf leapt down the bank and drew forth an Elven boat from another hidden cache.
Eiron looked upon the craft, then said, “This boat will bear you to the turn above Vanil Falls. On the south shore beneath the Leaning Stone you will secrete it. Down the Great Escarpment by the Long Stair you will come to the Cauldron, and in the willow roots you will find another craft. Stay along the south shore until you pass mighty Bellon and are upon the Argon proper.”
The four nodded at Eiron’s words, for he but repeated what he had said the night before as they had planned the journey south.
Their replenished knapsacks were laded in the craft, and now the comrades prepared to embark. Yet, ere the four stepped into the Elven boat, Eiron bade them stay but a moment more, and he summoned a Lian unto him. And the warrior came bearing a long tray, and it was covered by a golden cloth. The Coron turned to the Deevewalkers, and though his voice was soft, all in the glade could hear him: “Va Draedan sa nond, slain by you four heroes. It was a deed beyond our wildest hopes, for the Horror was an evil Vûlk whose dread power drove even the bravest mad with fear. Yet in the end you prevailed where none else had succeeded. But, although Modru’s Dread has been felled, the vast power of the Evil in Gron still assails the Land, and so your mission must go forth, and on the waters of the Nith you will leave us; for though we would have you stay, we know that now is not the time for you to rest from your labors. Yet we would not have you depart without being fully armed. Drimm Brega, you lost your axe, and Galen King, your sword: the one clove into the skull of the Dread, the other shivered asunder in his gut: both now lie in the unplumbed depths of the Great Deep. But from the armories of Darda Galion, by mine own hand I have chosen these blades for you to bear as your own.” Eiron folded back the golden cloth and there upon the tray were two gleaming weapons: an Elven sword of silvery brightness and a black-helved axe of steel. Runes of power were etched in each blade, their messages wrought in ebon glyphs. Eiron gave the sword over to Galen, and the axe to Brega.
The Dwarf examined the weapon with a keen eye as if appraising its workmanship. And then with a cry—“Hai!”—he leapt out into the open glade and clove the air with the double-bitted blade; and driven by his broad Dwarven shoulders, the weapon whooshed, and glittered in the twilight. Then, laughing, he threw it up flashing, and caught it again by its black helve. And the assembled Elves oohed and ahhed to see the Drimm’s power and skill. “Hai!” cried Brega again; then: “Squam beware, for this axe fits my hand as if made for it!”
Galen, too hefted his gleaming blade, feeling the balance of the weapon and noting the trueness of its edge. “I have shattered two swords in the War: one at the gates of Challerain Keep, the other at the bridge in Drimmen-deeve. Yet I deem this blade I now hold shall never be broken in combat.”
Eiron smiled, then said, “They were forged long ago in Lost Duellin. The runes speak in ancient tongue and whisper deeply to the metal, telling of the keenness of edge, of the strength of blade, of the firmness of grip of hilt and haft, and of the power to smite. And each weapon is named by its runes: your axe, Drimm Brega, in the Sylva tongue is called Eborane, which means Dark Reaver; and your blade, Galen King, is named Talarn, which means Steel-heart.”
Brega held up his axe. “Elves may call this axe Eborane, and Man, Dark Reaver, but its true name—its Châkka name—is Drakkalan: (Dark Shedder!)”
Eiron turned back to the tray and took up a black scabbard and belt, each scribed with scarlet and gold tracery, and he gave them over to King Galen. And Galen slid Steel-heart into the sheath and girted the weapon to his waist. Then he stepped to the boat and untied his old scabbard from his pack, giving the empty sheath over to the Coron, saying, “Perhaps, Eiron, you can find a suitable weapon for this sword holder; it has served Mithgar well, for it bore the blade that shattered deep within the bowels of the Gargon.”
With honor, the Lian Coron received the scabbard and carefully laid it on the tray. Then he took up four Elven-wrought cloak clasps: gold they were, and sunburst shaped, and set with a jet stone. And one by one he fastened the jewelled clasps to the collars of the four. “By these tokens all will come to know you as the Four Who Strode the Deeves—the Dread Slayers—and they will welcome you to their hearths and sing of your deeds ’round the fires.”
Now the Coron stepped back from the four and bowed deeply, and so, too, did all the Elven warriors of the retinue. And the Deevewalkers bowed in return, and Galen spoke for the four of them: “Coron, in haste we came and in haste we go, for our mission is urgent. Yet a day will come when we can linger awhile, and then would I stride long in the twilight vaults of the Larkenwald. But now we fare south to find mine Host; yet what else we shall discover, it is not known, though this I say: when Modru is at last cast down—his foul darkness to yield to the light—long will it be remembered that Elf, Dwarf, Waerling, and Man joined axes and swords, arrows and spears, and hands, to throw down Evil. And long will the bond between our Folk endure.” Galen flashed Steel-heart unto the air. “Hál ûre allience: Hál ûre bônd: (Hail our alliance: Hail our bond!)”
A great shout rose up from the Lian warriors, and they brandished gleaming swords and spears as the four comrades stepped into the boat and cast away from shore. And as Brega, Galen, and Gildor took up the paddles to prepare for swift journey, the retinue of Elven Guardians mounted their steeds and lined the bank. And as with one voice they cried, Hál, valagalana: and wheeled as a company and rode swiftly away to the north to disappear among the great boles of the soaring Eld Trees.
And the Elven boat was plied to midstream where the fleet current of the River Nith rapidly bore the four comrades easterly, toward the distant waters of the mighty Argon, along the road of their destiny.
~
Hastily the River Nith hurried apace toward its ending, and the boat rushed down its course. Still, it was some ninety miles whence they had embarked down to Vanil Falls, and the Sun would set ere the four could come to their landing. Hence, they would make camp at sunset, for to approach the high cataract in the dark of a new Moon was too dangerous a thing to do; this last fact Tuck recorded in his diary, along with the statement that Gildor greatly begrudged the delay, for the unknown pressing doom felt by the Elf had grown stronger with each passing day. Yet, delay or not, still they would make camp when the light failed, else they chanced being carried over the falls if they missed their landing at the Leaning Stone.
And so, all day the nimble craft coursed through the leaping water, and in turn Brega, Gildor, and Galen sat in the stern and guided the boat, while Tuck sat gazing at the shoreline and into the great woods marching off into dusky dimness, or watching the clear water churn. At times the Warrow would scribe in his diary, and at other times he would doze—such was the case when they made their final landing, for the grounding of the bow jarred the napping buccan awake.
Stiffly they stumped along the shoreline, Brega gathering scrub for a campblaze, Tuck setting a fire-ring of stone, Gildor and Galen beaching the boat. Soon the fire was kindled by Tuck’s flint and steel, and they took a short meal. Little was said ere they bedded down, for they were made weary by the long boat ride. And, as Tuck took his turn at watch, he wondered how they would fare when
they reached the Argon, for then they would stay in the boat—except for brief stops—until they reached the Argon Ferry at Pendwyr Road, making no camps for nearly a week; the thought of the confinement made the Warrow’s legs ache.
~
Tuck was awakened just ere dawn by Lord Gildor, who paced restlessly, anxious to set forth. “If we leave now, we’ll reach the Leaning Stone just after daybreak,” said the Lian. And so they took a quick breakfast as they broke camp, and embarked downriver just as the eastern sky began to pale.
Now the Elven boat sliced swiftly through the plashy tumble as the River Nith drew narrower and ran more quickly down toward the eastern dawnlight. Two miles they went, then two more, and the river swung northeasterly; and through the dusky Eld-Tree leaves where the dawn could be seen, Tuck watched the sky change from grey to pearl to pink to blue; and low through the massive boles now and then the Warrow could glimpse the flaming orange rim of the Sun as it brightly limned the horizon. In the distance Tuck could hear growing the faintest of rumbles grumbling above the splash of rushing water.
“Yon is the Leaning Stone!” cried Gildor, pointing. “Strike for the south shore!” And Galen stroked strongly, following Gildor’s lead; but at the stern it was Brega whose massive shoulders swiftly impelled the craft into a safe eddy, bringing the boat into the shadow of a great rock shaped like a huge monolithic column that stood atilt in the water, leaning against the high stone bank. At Gildor’s instruction Brega guided the boat into the cavity between the huge stone and the high bank. And in the dimness their craft slid to berth alongside one other slender Elven wherry at tether. Disembarking and tying up their own craft, the four girted their weapons and shouldered their packs and followed a rocky path up out of the shadow and onto the high bank.
A mile or so eastward they marched, alongside the river, to come at last to the Great Escarpment, a sheer thousand-foot-high cliff over which the River Nith leapt wildly at Vanil Falls to plunge without hindrance straight down into a vast churn of water named the Cauldron.
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