

# Wrought of Light and Darkness;

Awake a Sleeping God

### By

### Alexander Brown

#

## 

## Prologue

They met on holy ground.

The _Ui_ had gathered here upon the Duncathair, to worship their gods since the dawn of time. They met upon this plateau because it was where the _Ui_ had always chosen to hold their greatest councils, eternally, an unbroken line of custom and heritage, stretching back millennia from the time when the first of the _Ui_ emerged innocent from the jungle. They met as Suthien, their sun and their god, began to fall below the western horizon, bathing their world in blessed twilight. This was the only time they truly felt comfortable now, those brief moments that gave respite from Suthien's fiery countenance but before the inky darkness of nightfall consumed everything. They met without bow and spear in hand, bringing only their _enaidi_ and minds to council. To bring weapons of death upon the holy soils of the Duncathair stood in anathema to everything they believed and yet only a year ago a great battle, the greatest of all battles, had been fought here.

The ancient plateau was immense, towering above the canopy of the jungle, dominating and eternal _._ It had been wrought over countless generations so that the _Ui_ might gaze upon the stars in the eternal twilight of their world. Thick grasses had once covered it making it twin to another plateau that lay half a world away. It stood high enough to offer a clear view of all of the _lar riocht_ the ancestral jungle homeland of the _Ui_. Now, for as far as one could see much of the jungle had been stripped down to nothing. After the battle a great deal of wood had been needed to burn the dead. Those fires had burned for many days afterwards, each gigantic balefire consuming thousands of the fallen. No one would ever know how many had perished upon the Duncathair just as no one would ever know how many had died in the waves of sickness in the months that followed. Better to ask how many types of blossoms and trees flourished within the jungle, better to count the stars in the heavens above. Entire peoples had perished here.

Now the plateau was a mound of blackened ash, its grasses trodden and burnt away. A year had passed and yet still nothing lived, as if the taint of what had happened lived on. Here and there among the swirling ash, blackened bones and skulls lay, the living beings they had once been long given to the fires of _tine._ Would those that had fallen here ever know the last embrace of the earth as the _Ui_ buried their dead? Perhaps in time all the bones would be collected and buried, a work to occupy the _Ui_ for generations to come. That was a matter for another time however. On this day they met upon the Duncathair with far greater concerns.

Luithuil of the _Ui Ulaid_ regarded the Elves that stood with him.

There were only five of them now including himself, the last chieftains of the surviving _Ui_. The _Ui_ of the other races were not represented here. While only one in five of the Elves yet lived the toll on the other peoples had been even greater. How was it that they would never again hear the soft soothing sounds of one of the Murdmui playing their harp, the thunder of the hooves of the Imjalla? How could the world that once boasted fifty different peoples, of which the Elves were but one, be now reduced to so few? Those _Ui_ of the other races that survived the holocaust had abandoned the heartland of _lar riocht_ and had refused to meet in this council. Only the Elven _Ui_ refused to abandon their sacred earth.

Most of the rulers that stood here were newly risen and ruled but a fraction of the people that had once lived. How could so much have happened in such a small time? Before they had lived in an eternal paradise, innocent of the evil that lurked outside their world. Then that doom had revealed itself upon the Duncathair and their paradise had Fallen. Not for the first time a tide of helplessness flooded across Luithuil, threatening to drown his _enaid_ and consume his mind. As a youngling he could not have comprehended such a genocide if someone had explained such to him and yet now, before him stood the reality of what the Fall had wrought.

Aluinil still smelt slightly of sea and salt.

His people, the _Ui Aithin_ had departed these lands millennia before in search of the three gods somewhere to the west. They had built great vessels and sailed the oceans, their search eternal for the gods had never appeared to them. Like Luthuil's _Ui_ the _Ui Aithin_ were beloved of Suthien but He had yet to reveal Himself to them on their travels. With the Fall they had begun to return to the _lar riocht_ , their quest forgotten. Many of them had returned to the jungle only a few months and were still uncomfortable to have feet on land instead aboard ship.

Cuihuil of the _Ui Si_ , the people of the endless plains, looked similarly uncomfortable. He was not used to standing upon the earth either, but unlike the _Ui Aithin_ his people rode upon their jenja, the great steeds of the eastern grasslands. From birth to death the _Ui Si_ rode the jenja, hunting and exploring, proud and free to roam the earth at their will. Today Cuihuil was painted for war, his entire body coloured blood red by the Dye of the Last Blossom. He had left his weapons aside before ascending the Duncathair as custom dictated, yet his right hand opened and closely reflexively as if pining for the presence of spear or bow.

Thuill of the _Ui Nin_ was shorter than the other Elves with pale white skin anointed with intricate patterns of blue tattoos. He was counted wise among his people, the wisest perhaps of all who stood here. Before the Fall he had led his people and was the only ruler to continue to do so. All the other chieftains had perished. Beside him stood Cunuillin of the _Ui Yi._ She was known as one of the most beautiful maidens in her _Ui_ and had been chosen to lead her people accordingly. The _Ui Yi_ revered beauty above all other attributes and elevated those they counted as blessed with Yimir and Mir's benevolence. Today however her grey eyes were dull and heavy, lost in thought and memory. Her face, as beautiful as any Luithiul had seen, was marred by worry and exhaustion. Her brief rule had worn her body and _enaid_ to exhaustion.

The other maiden of their council was the Druidess. Once she had been of the _Ui Ulaid_ but like all those who held _driachta_ she had renounced any such kinship. The Druids served only the gods. She was young for her calling, much too young in the eyes of those present, yet it was she who led this council above all of them. Too few of the Druids lived now for it was they who had led the _Ui_ in the first assaults of the battle and paid for such valour with their lives. Now the younger ones, the apprentices and those newly risen to wield _driachta_ , took up the burden of guiding the _Ui._

"Welcome brothers and sister, Suthien, Yimir and Mir guide our _enaidi_ and hands on this day"

Her intonation was ancient, uttered ten thousand times at this very place by a countless number of her kind. They bowed their heads in prayer willing their gods to give them wisdom and guidance. All of them knew the weight of such responsibility was placed upon their shoulders alone. Such a burden could never be borne comfortably.

"Tell us of the beginning Druidess. Tell us of the Mother and the Son and the ordering of the world" Luithuil ordered her curtly.

"Aye Druidess, and tell us the new lore, of our Fall, it is appropriate that we hear it also" Thuill added.

The Druidess paled a little, embarrassment at forgetting the ancient forms, but when she spoke, she spoke well.

"When Eul the Mother, the universe was young, her son Ba'al the Creator and his enemies, the Tainted of the Other, cleft the heavens in battle and war. The Other forever hated Ba'al and the light he had wrought for he had consigned it to one half of the universe, ending its ancient dominion of darkness. The Tainted were wrath and a thousand stars were extinguished as Eul wept with such a loss. Ba'al gave life to his Children and they aided him in his war upon the Tainted.

In the end Ba'al was victorious over the Tainted and Eul was divided into our world and the Other forever. The Tainted were cast back into the Other and Ba'al and his Children reigned high and unchallenged. In time Ba'al departed, his great Labours done, and left the world in the keeping of his Children. Three of their number came to our world and they were named Suthien, Yimir and Mir. They spoke and the first of the _Ui_ emerged from the trees, minds innocent and _enaidi_ free. They gathered the _Ui_ together and we worshiped them and basked in their eternal twilight, free of death and pain"

The Elves nodded at her words for they were well known. Since the dawn of the _Ui_ the tale had been told so and all Elves from birth to death knew it to be. The second part of her tale, however recently appended to the first, was also well known, such was its import.

"Yet wherever light flourishes, darkness endures. One night long ago a band of _Ui Ulaid_ hunters came across a wounded beast, it's like never seen before. They slayed it and ate of its flesh and were joyous for such bounty. Little did they know that this animal was a tainted being of the Other, wounded in the heavenly battles with the Creator, yet survived to fall upon this land, weakened and dying. Despite being a lesser creature compared to its masters, the Tainted, it's very flesh was tainted with the corruption of the Other. At that moment hunters' enaidi were corrupted from eating its flesh and forever afterwards that taint would live on in the hearts of Elves. They were known as the _draimain sidh_ , the unclean ones. They found no comfort in the sun and moons, no sustenance in the beauty of the rainforest. All their thoughts are driven towards power and subservience to the Other

"Yet wherever light flourishes, darkness endures. One of the Tainted, being the cruellest and most fell of their number that he was named the Accursed, had not been cast into the Other along with his brethren. He remained abroad the world to bring death and terror to Eul our Mother. World after world he came to and left nothing behind but death and desolation. The _draimain sidh_ upon our world sensed his presence and they gathered their strength at the Duncathair so that they might greet he who they saw as their god. They lit great beacons of fire upon the Duncathair beckoning him to them, bringing a great doom upon the _Ui._ The Druids sensed the taint of the _draimain sidh_ and gathered the _Ui_ together to meet the Accursed at the Duncathair...."

Luithuil closed his eyes briefly, fighting the urge to shiver, to vomit, to cry out. In his mind he saw the monolithic figure rise from the ashes of the burning Duncathair that day one year ago. A body so immense it cast a shadow across the jungle and a face, cold and black, with eyes that burned hotter than Suthien. Its mouth opened and cried out, heralding its dominion of their world, and the _Ui_ screamed as they bled from their ears.....

".....Death came to us, death in numbers uncountable. The Accursed smited the tribes and nations with fire and power and not even the mightiest of the Druids could stand against his wrath. The spears and arrows of the Elven _Ui_ broke against this living mountain and the bravest of us were consumed. The _Ui_ began to perish and we cried out to our gods for salvation..."

Luithuil remembered the sounds most of all. The earth was shaking from the onslaught of _driachta_ , fires raging everywhere, and then the screaming, the screaming, as thousands of his people burned. Thousands, and then tens of thousands and then who could know how many? The end of everything. He had led his small band of warriors into the fires of the battle only to see all fall save him. He fell to the ground, alone, as the _Ui_ burned all around him.....

"Yet where darkness flourishes, light endures. In our time of despair the gods heard our dying screams and they aided us, opening the portals and bringing about the Accursed's destruction! The suffering he had wrought upon other worlds was his undoing. Our gods opened the rifts to those worlds and their gods and peoples came through, a flood of living vengeance. Upon the Duncathair our world was joined by three others and together they fell upon the Accursed with their combined might!"

Great fissures ripped the sky around the Duncathair, reaching from the ground to high into the heavens. These rifts widened and suddenly figures began to spill through. At first it was just a few but soon they came in their thousands, the peoples from the other worlds, all intent to have their vengeance upon the Accursed.

"The Accursed was cast down, his might and wrath nothing compared to the vengeance of four worlds and their peoples. His great body was broken under the blows of millions and ripped asunder so that not even a morsel of him survived the battle. Thus was the Accursed defeated!"

Those were the words that would be passed down to each generation after the next. Those were the words that would always be known to the _Ui._ Words just words. Only Luithuil and those who stood with him today would truly know what had happened upon the Duncathair that day. A monster that had burned half their world and in turn had been destroyed by an host of millions. The first day of their Fall.

"Is the Accursed truly dead?"

Aluinil asked the question, the first of three such that all of them were now considering, had been considering for a year now.

The Druidess looked troubled.

"My brothers and sisters have laboured long since the defeat of the Accursed upon this holy mound. His physical body was destroyed but the question must be asked if his evil lives on? The minds of the gods have been closed to us however. We believe that the battle with the Accursed and the opening of the Rifts to the alien worlds have exhausted their _enaid_ – we believe that they slumber now and no longer offer the protection to us as they once did"

"In plain language, the Druids do not know" Aluinil said "the Accursed may yet live to trouble us again!"

Luithiul willed himself to let his mind return to the present. His _enaid_ would be consumed if he remembered too much. He pushed the thoughts away, replacing them with lesser terrors. They were assembled here for a purpose. If the Druids did not know the fate of the Accursed perhaps they would know an answer to the second question

"Will the world we knew return?"

He asked the question, knowing the foolishness and desperate hope of such. The Druidess' face told them the answer. The deaths that the Accursed had wrought was not the only disaster of the Fall. All of them could feel it.

The world was growing colder.

Here in the heartland _lar riocht_ , deep in the jungle _tir_ , one could barely feel it, but further out, in the northern plains and the eastern grasslands, the increasing coolness could be felt. The battle of gods and mortals fought upon this very place, had altered something utterly, damaged the natural order of things, and placed the _Ui_ on a new treacherous path. They had been victorious yes, they had survived, but the cost of that victory was only now being counted.

"We have communed with our brothers and sisters, those that yet live, and they bring ill tidings indeed. We have heard that in the east, the grasslands are dying. Where there was an endless cloak of green now everything is turning black and dead, high winds destroying anything that stands and bringing sands that consume everything.

Cuihuil nodded coldly.

"It is so, our _tir_ is failing, if it continues there will be no fodder for our mounts and our _Ui_ will be destroyed!"

The Druidess continued.

"In the north lies the greatest calamity, the coldness has been felt there the most. The entire roof of the world is freezing"

Shocked gasps erupted among the Elves. Few had seen such a thing as snow or ice. Only the greatest of warriors, who dared climb the Mountains of the Clouds, could hope to see such a thing upon their high peaks.

"What of Yuithiuln and his people?"

"He is wrath and marshals his people to war – he has declared that the ice and snow have been born from the Accursed's taint upon the world and must be defeated. He marches north into the ice!"

Luithuil shuddered.

Yuithiuln and his people, the _Ui Nuill_ were the greatest of the Elven _Ui_. What madness consumed them to make war on ice and snow?

"Yuithiuln is no fool yet this act is reckless beyond imagining. My brothers and sisters who dwell with the _Ui Nuill_ have tried to council the king but he shall see no reason! He and his people march into this new white horror, their backs have been turned to this council!"

"Would it be that I and my people marched with the _Ui Nuill._ Better to paint oneself in red and make war and death than a slow failing of the race that we now face!"

Cuihuil's words were a bold statement though wrapped in pity and despair and not a small amount of helpless anger.

"Yuithiuln has made his choice" Luithiul stated firmly "Our concern, the concern of this council, goes beyond such things!"

"The _Ui Ulaid_ speaks truly. We must concern ourselves solely with the survival of the _Ui_ as a whole. Our world is changing beyond all imagining and we must adapt to this new world or be destroyed!"

Aluinil's words countered the despair and anger emanating from his brother.

"But the choice we have been given....." the _Ui Si_ proclaimed.

"It is the hard choice" the Druidess admitted, eyeing Cuihuil evenly "as hard as any the _Ui_ have had to make before, but it will be made nevertheless".

"My people will never accept it, they would prefer death than this!"

"Then they shall have death" the Druidess told him. She looked no longer young now, her eyes filled with the power of _driachta_.

"You all know this, the Fall has ended our paradise. Your lands, your _tir_ are dying and your _Ui_ are dying with it. Only the _lar Riocht_ can sustain us now. All of the _Ui_ must return!"

"To abandon our _tir_ , how could the gods ask such a thing of us?"

"The _tir_ is dying, not even the gods can prevent that, the battle with the Accursed has crushed their _enaidi_ preventing any aid to us their people. The _tir_ will be inherited by the new peoples, more suited to survive in these changing lands. That is our fate, the fate of this world!"

Cuihuil seethed with anger but did not speak.

"It is a hard fate the gods have left us with, this is true" Luithiul spoke to all of them "the _Ui_ will return to the _lar riocht_ and the alien races will depart from here and spread out across the world!"

"Can the Rifts not be opened once more? Return these aliens to their homeworlds?"

Cunuillin spoke for the first time. Her voice was shrill and desperate.

The Druidess shook her head.

"The Rifts were the power of the gods, a use of _driachta_ beyond anything we are able to summon. The aliens will never be able to return home".

They had known it, they had all known it. The three rifts had only opened for that brief time of battle but with the Accursed's destruction they had collapsed, trapping the aliens in this world. The surviving Druids had spent the last year attempting to re-open the rifts but had failed every time. The aliens that survived this last year would be with them forever.

"It is time that they join this council. They stand below the Duncathair, awaiting our summons" Luithiul said.

"They have no place at this council, only one of the _Ui_ may stand upon the sacred ground!"

Luithiul was not surprised by Cuihuil's ire, the _Ui Si_ would always hate the aliens.

Thuill turned on Cuihuil.

"They have a place _Ui Si_! They died just like us upon the Duncathair and have continued to die in the time afterwards. They will never return home so this will be their _tir_ now! They deserve a say in their own fate!"

"The gods will not look kindly on us allowing such a desecration" Cuihuil declared, Cunuillin nodding in agreement.

"The aliens have chosen those that speak for them, they will be admitted to this council"

The Druidess' words brooked no argument.

Luithuil motioned to one of his warriors who stood behind them waiting. The Elf nodded and trotted off. The aliens would be brought here to speak their piece before the _Ui_ made their choice.

A fragile peace had endured around the Duncathair for the last year.

It was only a matter of time however before the many peoples grew too restless and embroiled themselves in strife. Already there were rumours of small battles being fought between the Sakhm'Yvar and the Goshaen in the deeper jungle. Further stories spoke of the rising hostility among the tribes of mankind. How long would it be before the violence spread and consumed them all? The _lar riocht_ could not contain such multitudes any more.

The alien representatives made their way up the side of the Duncathair escorted by _Ui Ulaid_ warriors giving Luithiul a little time to study them.

The Ankhamunite was a short and dark man with a long braided beard. His deep set dark eyes were painted under the eyebrows in the manner of his race. A large nose protruded above pursed lips. Of the human races the Ankhamunites were the most proud and showed little interest in understanding _driachta_. They worshiped the sun as the _Ui_ did but named him Akhenaten and burned living things in sacrifice. They boasted how their civilization had been far greater than anything _Ui_ could offer and yet they came to this land with only the clothes on their back and a few small possessions. He spoke the tongue of the _Ui_ perfectly showing a deep intellect and yet his tone was one of loathing, his resentment of having to speak the alien tongue buried deep in his heart.

The Yurathian _Ri_ was tall and muscular with long blonde hair and beard. His skin was fair and his eyes a light blue. He had long ago discarded his heavy clothing that kept him warm upon his cold homeland and now wore the softer garb of the _Ui_. His people had suffered the most of the four human races. They had come through the rift the greatest in numbers but a year of the Shivering Sickness had ended nearly two in three of their people. He had only buried his wife a moon ago, another victim of the normally mild sickness it seemed that no human could weather. Like all humans the man wore his sadness on his face for all to see. He took his place beside Thuill, nodding friendly greeting. Luithuil could smell the stink of cooked flesh upon him. Involuntarily his stomach grumbled. It had been a year since he or any of the Glenduir had last tasted the meat of a living thing and knew he would never do so again. Such was the Druids' command though it had come too late to save the _Ui_ from this fate before them.

Next came the Kushum and Sian. The Kushum was as tall as any Elf and wisp thin. His skin was a deep ebony and he wore flowing orange robes around his thin frame. His ears and lip were elongated with wood jewellery and he carried a long staff, a symbol of authority among his people. He alone of the humans seemed comfortable in the heat of the jungle though when he spoke of his homeland he talked of an endless desert that had consumed his people's lands before coming through the rift. The Sian stood by the Kushum. He was a small man, golden skinned with curved eyes and short black hair. His beard was oiled and pointed which he continually stroked with his hand. They stood together, minorities among the greater numbers of the Ankhamunites and Yurathians.

The Dwarf of the Goshaen world seemed too young to represent his people here but Luithuil knew he spoke their tongue better than the other Thegns. He spoke in the Dwarven tribes interests though only the gods could understand what common interest the Dwarven Thegns could hope to forge such was their division. He was short and wide like all of his race with a powerful upper body and arms. His face was deep set with large black eyes and a ruddy complexion. Luithuil knew that this young Dwarf had sat with the Druids every day for seven moons learning the lore and tongue of the _Ui._

"I am Roald, son of Imyrr" he announced to the others in the manner of his people.

Behind him came his companion, young in years like his master.

"I am Rhirid Cadaern, son of fire and stone" the young warrior proclaimed.

The Dwarves had brought armour and weapons of iron with them, far stronger than anything the humans possessed and unlike anything the Elves and Sakhm'Yvar had ever encountered. Despite this strength they were a deeply divided people, prone to fighting amongst themselves and engaging in cruel passions.

The Sakhm'Yvar representative was one of the larger beings of his race, taller and more intelligent than his smaller brethren who were little more than the beasts that roamed the jungle. Like the humans he had been chosen for his ability to speak the Elven tongue rather than having any real power among his people. Many of the Sakhm'Yvar races had chosen not to attend this meeting. Many of them had already departed the _lar riocht_ , seeking out new lands to the north without the guidance of the _Ui_. Luithuil doubted that many would survive the journey – only the Elves could navigate the depths of their jungle and hope to live. He wore no clothes at all and his green scaled skin glistening gently under the twilight.

"You are all welcome to this council my friends" Luithiul addressed them.

They were not mollified my his warm greeting he could see. They returned the greeting as they always did, echoing the same demand they had since the first months after the Fall.

"Let us go" the Sakhm'Yvar told the Elves firmly.

"Let us go" said the Ankhamunite, threat heavy in his voice.

"Let us go". There was a deep regret in the Dwarf's words but was nonetheless resolute.

The Yurathian nodded sadly. Of all the humans he stood closest to the Elves yet he too longed for somewhere far from the _lar riocht_ for his people to settle. He spoke the tongue of the _Ui_ haltingly but with a great passion nonetheless.

"A hundred years or more have passed since our own Fall, when the Accursed wrought destruction on our world. Our land and gods were broken and for a century we withered and died, until but a shadow of a shadow yet lived".

"Our world was already dying when the Accursed came" the Sian lamented "our ancient ancestors brought ruin to it, forgetting to love nature, to revere the gods..."

The other humans nodded in agreement.

"..then the portals opened and we the people and our gods , both nearly lost to death, abandoned our beloved home and came to this world!"

"Aye, such is our story" the Dwarven Thegn agreed "the Accursed, as you call him, subverted the hearts and minds of our peoples and even the gods themselves. He tainted the soul of our world and in the end left it in death and ruin. On such a wasteland but a handful of my people survived and would not have lived much longer had not the portals opened to this fair land!"

"Our sorrow is greater" spoke the goblin "the Accursed took the lives of all our gods and tainted the very soil and trees of our land so that nothing would grow and give sustenance to those that yet lived. For five centuries my people eked out an existence, growing fewer and fewer, godless and alone. Only the portals allowed us to survive and bring vengeance upon the Accursed!".

Luithuil nodded.

"Your sorrow, all of your sorrows, are well known to the _Ui_. Our gods heard your cries in the darkness and opened the rifts so that all of us might join and defeat the Accursed, who has blighted our worlds. Thus, on this holy ground, revered by my people since the dawn of time, we defeated him and freed the world from such an evil!"

"Our sorrow continues" the Yurathian spoke again "as does yours Elvenfriend. How many have died in the last year to sicknesses we have never seen before. How many of the _Ui_ have fallen to the Black Sickness of my world, how many of my people have perished to the Shivering Sickness of yours? The stories say that once my world was like yours, covered in the thick jungle and beautiful. Mankind lived in peace there but now we have changed. We can never live in a place such as this!"

"Nor can the Dwarves" the Thegn spoke with regret and a little sadness. "The Dragons have already departed, taking with them our lore and wisdom, we must follow them or be lost forever!"

The Sakhm'Yvar nodded.

"The Sakhm'Yvar cannot dwell here any longer. Our peoples need the wind and ice to flourish. The heat and wetness of this land will end all of us if we tarry here much longer. We must search out new lands, new gods, if we are to have any hope of salvation!"

"We have decided that we will go with the _Ui Nin_ " declared the Yurathian "we would continue to learn of _driachta_ and the lore of the _Ui_ "

The Ankhamunite sneered at the mention of the power. His people refused to recognise the _driachta_ as the Yurathians did. The Kushum and Sian, as always, kept their own council at the mention of it.

"Our world was destroyed by the Accursed because we lost the old ways. We forgot the gods and wallowed in lust and greed. We must regain what we have lost or truly face our end!"

Thuill smiled at the Yurathian king.

"Your people's company will be most welcome brother. The time of dying is over I think, the Black and Shivering Sicknesses have done their worst upon us. We shall go together to the northern forests where the air is not so thick and the water runs purer. There we shall ride the eagles together and build strong halls to keep out the night!"

The two kings, human and Elf, clasped hands. They had fought together on the Duncathair as strangers, now they were as brothers, a rare occurrence upon their changed world.

The Ankhamunite spoke.

"We shall leave these lands and journey east. We are weary of the jungles and have no desire for further company with the _Ui_. We will forge our own destiny now and worship Akhenaten the Living Sun under open skies!"

The Kushum and Sian kings nodded silently in mute agreement. Whatever the Ankhamunites plotted they were not alone in their planning.

Cuihuil's face was like thunder.

"Be warned human, the lands to the east are the _tir_ of my people. The _Ui Si_ will never relinquish them easily. We will come for you I promise that!"

The Ankhamunite sneered at the _Ui Si_.

"You are welcome to try Elf. In this jungle with its fell beasts and dark vapours we have been weakened, but on the open lands to the east we will thrive and gain in strength and numbers. There you will find us no easy meat!"

"You show little gratitude to us human. Were it not for our hunters your people would have starved long ago. Remember that!"

Thuill was not given to anger but he truly hated the arrogance of the Ankhamunites. It had taken the power of all the assembled _Ui_ to feed the alien races. The jungle had been exhausted to near depletion as the Elven hunters ranged further and further to find ever scarce prey. Yet another reason for the aliens to depart these lands. It would not be long before there was nothing left to hunt and then they would all starve. The aliens could not eat the fruit and nuts of the forest, it made them sick. Only the flesh of wild beasts could sustain them and soon there would none left.

Luithuil sighed. The _Ui Si_ and the Ankhamunites would never know peace. The Elves burned with the despair of their dying _tir_ and the humans held a similar fire in their hearts, believing themselves a chosen people, beloved by their sun-god Akhenaten. If there was to be war however, it would not happen here, in the heartland of _lar riocht_ , where such strife might embroil all the other races and result in catastrophe. No, it would occur upon the dying grasses of the eastern plains, away from such dangers.

The Druidess addressed the aliens

"When Suthien rises once more you will all leave this place. Your old homeworlds are forever lost to you and I pray that you and your gods will find happiness and contentment upon this new world. The warriors of the _Ui_ shall lead you out of the _lar riocht_ to the jungle borders. You will depart as our friends but know this."

She paused for a moment, her face hardening.

"The _lar riocht_ is closed to you now, it's _tir_ inviolate to all but the _Ui._ If you enter it unbidden you will die. Find new lands, new destinies, live well and prosper but do not return here for you will only find death waiting".

The aliens departed. Some left as friends, others as enemies and some, only the gods knew what intentions they held within their inscrutable hearts. Again the Elves were left to their own council.

"We err here brothers and sisters" Cuihuil spoke bristling "we should slay them all now while they are weak and close to spear and shaft. Let them flee, to seek out new lands and they will settle and grow. In a few generations their numbers will grow to dwarf us and we will be destroyed!"

Some of the others murmured agreement though Thuill looked troubled. Luithuil understood their worries for he shared them. Many of the _Ui_ wondered what the future would hold with the coming of these aliens. They were but one, the aliens three, and eventually these new races could grow to devour the original inhabitants of this land. Some spoke that they had only survived the Fall to be destroyed by an even greater evil lurking in the hearts and ambitions of these aliens.

The Druidess stepped forward once more.

"I have spoken!" she answered firmly. "The Druids have spoken and all must heed their words, even the _Ui Si_!"

Cuihuil bowed his head to her but his face still held anger.

"Why do the gods place this burden upon us we do not know. Perhaps it is the price we must pay to have defeated the Accursed. The aliens have brought us nothing but death, that is true, but it is not their doing and they have suffered as we have suffered. For good or ill we are no longer alone in this world. We must share it though whether we will share it in peace or strife I do not know..."

"It will be in strife, of that I am certain" Cuihuil answered darkly.

"Perhaps" the Druidess replied. "but it shall not be the _Ui_ who darken their hands in blood first. If the alien races are too given to greed and violence let them slay one another but let them do it far from the _lar riocht_. This is our new homeland now, peaceful and inviolate. This _tir_ shall sustain us and keep us strong and if the Accursed were to return we will stand as we have always stood, with spear and bow in hand. The _Ui_ will stand guard over this world, eternally prepared!"

Despite her youth the Druidess had much wisdom Luithuil observed. She was wise enough to know that no one, not even those close to the gods, could fathom what was to occur now. Their world was gone, irrevocably destroyed by the Accursed and the Fall he had wrought. A new world was rising from the ashes. Where there had been one people now there were four and only the gods could know what future held for any of them.

"Brothers and sisters, the Druidess speaks the truth. We do not know what fate will echo from the deeds of this council. Our world has Fallen, our _tiriu_ lost to the strong dark winds of this doom. All that we have left now is our obedience to the gods and our duty to the _tiriu_ , the land and people. The _Ui_ will stand ready, eternal sentinels of this world, awaiting for the day if the Accursed must be faced again!"

On that day they spoke of much more. They spoke of past times of innocence, of those loved ones they had lost, of the sickness and madness that had consumed their world. They despaired at their fate, was this the end of their world or was it the beginning of a new one? They spoke even as night fully took them, holding council until Suthien arose once more.

Luithuil of the Ui Ulaid lived for many years after that day. He sired children and ruled wisely and was loved among his people. Before passing he had instructed his son and heir to carry on his burden, to rule the _Ui-Ulaid_ and protect the _tirui_ from the return of the Accursed. His son was a loyal and wise boy who became a good king and ruled wisely for many years, always preparing himself and his people for the day when the Accursed might return. Other rulers came after him, century after century, and yet the _Ui_ never forgot their eternal duty. They stood ready, spears sharpened, keen eyes set upon the far horizon. The world outside the _lar riocht_ boiled in chaos and death as the new peoples strode across its boundless vastness inheriting it for themselves. Tribes, kingdoms and empires rose and fell, cities endured for centuries only to be torn down by envious hands, people forgot their ancient gods and worshipped newer, darker gods, and always they rose and multiplied. The world of the _Ui_ became the world of the Goshaen, Sakhm'Yvar and Mankind and they forgot the Accursed and the Fall that he had wrought. As centuries gave way to new millennia, only the _Ui_ truly remembered, only they kept spear to hand.

## The Watcher

The child cried as the city burned.

On the mountainside, above the dying city, a warrior sat upon his war-mount, keeping a lonesome death-watch. In his arms he held the newborn, its skin pink and flushed in the cold night air. The warrior considered the infant, born just a few hours before and ripped from his mother's breast a few hours after that. The cold dark metal of his armour stood in stark contrast to it's swaddling gown and the child's face was illuminated by the maelstorm of fire that raged in the city below. The warrior could detect a resemblence in the newborn's face – of the man he had sworn to protect until death, of the man who now faced his doom in the city below. Even from this distance he could feel the heat of the inferno raging below beginning to wash against his face. Soon he must leave here, the place he had called home for so long. But first, first, he must wait...and watch. He owed the city and its king at least that much.

The great walls of the city were awash with fire. Once white and majestic, these bastions burned slowly to blackened ash. Massive breaches had been wrought in several places along the western wall – each fissure representing a titanic undertaking in time and lives. The warrior knew from old that the enemy cared little for the expended lives of their own host such was their hatred of the city below. Somewhere deep inside the city's bowels a massive fireball erupted into the heavens, belching flame and debris high into the air and even overshadowing the holocaust raging below along the walls.

From his vantage point he watched the next phase of the assault intently. Already he could see the shattered first wave of attackers falling back from the crumbling walls, to be replaced by newer fresher companies who would carry out the assault on the Inner Citadel. The enemy were now flooding through Tahrmen, the Eastern Gate, moving inexorably into the heart of the city, killing and burning as they went. The fighting for the gate in the hours before nightfall had been desperate and the enemy had paid an enormous price to take it. The moat around Tahrmen was now bridged my a mass of slain warriors, the first of the enemy companies of the attack being fed to the city's defenders so that the warriors of the second and third waves could use the bodies of their brethren to gain purchase along the walls. Now the Gatehouse was cleaved and broken, its defenders slain and scattered. Oiseaan, the Gatekeeper, had died with his men, trying in vain to hold back the endless horde. No bards would compose songs of his heroic deeds on this night – the kingdom was dying and its people were dying too. In a few generations the world would forget the land that man had named Tyr-Tanindul.

The enemy had not come here on this night to conquer nor even to enslave. They were bent on destruction, on extermination. They would kill all living things, tear down walls and towers, and sow the earth with salt so that nothing would ever grow and live there. They had lusted for this night for centuries and now their dark gods cried out for this ultimate blood sacrifice. For countless generations the enemy had looked upon this proud and mighty city with cold envious eyes and at last, on this night, their plans and plots had come to fruition.

"Damn you Jedennah, you fool, you utter fool.." the warrior cursed "damn you Eldessa, and damn you Oathbreaker, damn all of you!"

Silently he began to weep, the faces of a thousand dead men and women passing before his eyes. The child continued to cry, a fitting tune to the death of everything.

\--------------------------------

Who knew how long he was there for, how long he wept for the dead and the dying but eventually his reverie was interrupted by the sound of horses. He tensed briefly – although the enemy did not have cavalry, on this night, of all nights, he could ill afford to make hasty assumptions. His fears were unwarranted however as two riders came into view. Behind them came more riders, a ragged company of warriors, bloody and exhausted. They had fought for their lives to clear the city and most of their number had probably perished upon the road.

The first man was as broad as the other man thin. He had a powerful frame accentuated by his heavy plate armour. He wore his hair long and braided and the warrior noticed for the first time that the man had the first hint of greyness in his beard and moustaches. A broad war-hammer, and its twin, a battle-axe, was tied to the man's saddle. Sitting against his front was a small boy, at most five summers old, with light brown hair and eyes swollen from tears. The child's lips quivered and black soot covered his cheeks, his tears creating crazy patterns in the blackness of his face.

The second man, in his middle years, was razor thin with a gaunt worried face and long bony fingers. The leather armour he wore was faded and pitted, evidence of a thousand battles and trials. Usually he would have his two longswords secured to his back for easy reach while a-horse but not tonight. Instead of weaponry the man carried a small bundle of swaddling, holding a small boy, barely two summers old. Blessedly the child slept soundly, perhaps the only soul in all this kingdom that slept untroubled on this night. The child had survived an assassin's blade only the previous winter, a small scar on the shoulder its only reminder. Akhenaten's blessing the child and their fortune would hold out for just a little longer and deliver them from this place.

"Brothers.." he greeted them " it is good to see you again. Despite the circumstances we find ourselves in".

The first man nodded curtly, his eyes steel despite a night of horror and a road behind him shrouded in death. The second man was not as strong, something the warrior knew of old, and yet he was stronger than most men.

"What of Jedennah and the Queen?"

He asked the question, already knowing its answer and steeling his heart for it. The first man shook his head sadly. A slight look of anger, of despair, crossed his features momentarily – something that would be missed by most people but painfully obvious to someone that had known him so many years.

"You know the King's wishes brother, he and the Heart Guard will stay to defend the city while those that can will flee south to King's Rage. We are to go separately with the children and make for the Bastionlands.."

"And the Queen..." the warrior prompted

The second man shrugged.

"Eldessa will not leave the King's side.........a madness grips her, she grieves for the kingdom, for the city. She calls on all the gods to bring down vengeance on the head of the Oathbreaker.....the King tried to make her go with us but she will see no reason, no hope..."

The warrior's head bowed with this news. He regarded the swaddled babe in his arms, now blessedly sleeping.

"Broderic will give us cold welcome in Norecraalia if we go there without his sister" the second man continued "but what could be have done? We must obey her as we obey the king!".

"She is lost Jherun" the first man told the second "she has been lost a long time. Since the night of Elessa, the Night of Shadows, she has never been the same. We all thought this third child might return her wits but it is not so. Better she is with Jedennah now, this world was too hard for her".

"What of this child........and his two brothers" he nodded to the two other warriors' charges ".....are they to be orphans, never to know the touch of their mother, the smile of their father?"

The first man met his eyes, willing him to be strong, not to surrender to the despair gnawing at all of them. The second man looked away, lost in his own thoughts after his outburst about the Queen.

"We will keep our oaths brother" the first man's eyes continued to bore into him "..that is all we can do now. We must forget that dying city below and obey our King's last order, that is who we are, that is what we must do!"

The warrior sighed heavily, knowing that his brother, as always, spoke truth. He was always the wisest of the three, and the bravest.

"What must we do then Patrichus?" he addressed the first man by name.

"I will go south with the people and make for King's Rage" the man answered. He nodded to the other man "Jherun will take the western road and head for Nestoria, and you my brother will take the eastern. Make for the coast and take ship to Mannessah of the Oceans. The gods willing we will see each other all again in Norecraalia..."

The warrior nodded. It was the best course of action. These three children were the last of their blood. If they perished any hope of recovering this kingdom from the Skal died with them. And so, he and his brothers would go their separate ways, hoping that at least one of them would make it to the safety of the Bastionlands and preserve the bloodline of Jedennah.

Each had served the city and its king for most of their adult lives. They had fought a thousand bloody, hopeless, engagements to keep her free – seen the deaths of a lifetime's worth of friends. They were old men now, their generation cut down on the fields of Peilingor and Elessa. Thus they kept their lonely vigil over the death throes of the kingdom they had sworn to never abandon.

They clasped hands, offering each other farewell, all knowing that this might be the last moment to ever saw of each other. The road ahead was uncertain but then it always had been. How many times had they faced death and yet here they were, alive when so many others had fallen?

Once more he was alone, maintaining the city's deathwatch. He must leave soon. When the enemy had sated their rage and hatred on the city they would spread out into the rest of the kingdom and bring an end to any they found. By then he and the child should be well on their way to safety. Despite this knowledge something held him here, as if he needed to wait for something......

There was guilt in his heart. While they shared no blood those men were his brothers and to lie to them now hurt him as much as to watch the city burn. He thought of his secret love, waiting for him in the south and it gave him a glimmer of contentment in this night of horror. He would go to her now, not to Mannessah-of-the-Oceans, nor Norecraalia, not anywhere in the Bastionlands. He could not have told his brothers this, for they could never have understood. Their first loyalty, their only love, was to the steel, the warrior's bride, and not to wife.

To his left a hooded figure materialized from the shadows. His mount spooked for a moment but a soft touch and spoken murmur quietened the beast as the figure approached him silently. The child in his arms began to cry once more. The person pushed back the cowl and he gazed upon that familiar face. He had known her a long time, nearly all his life. He remembered the first time he had met her - he had been just a boy really, living an easy carefree life half a world away from here. Despite her absence of years, her face, as always, was unchanged, unlined by age although he knew she carried the worries of the world upon her slender frame. Dark, beautiful eyes regarded him, unblinking, looking deep into his soul, seeing what man he was. She dressed simply now, a dark blue cowl covering her hair, so different to the elegance and fineries he was accustomed to seeing her in. This was a different place however, a different time, and Akhenaten knew it, a different world. She smiled slightly but her smile held little warmth. How could there be any happiness on a night such as this?

"I knew you would remain, even as the others flee to safety" she told him "were you ever Jedennah's most loyal and trusted captain"

The man's eyes closed for just a moment.

"What good did that loyalty serve?" he replied, his voice full of the bitterness raging inside him "other great men served him, and in the end they all failed him, at Dsjeille, and Peilingor and Elessa...until it brought us to here, to this place , to this horror.."

He gestured towards the burning city. Already he could see that the enemy had begun their assault on the Inner Citadel. The Heart Guard would fight well on this night, defending the King and Queen with their last breaths, but even they would not prevail against such numbers of foe. They had been his men once. He had led them at Dsjeille, saving the King from sure death upon that bloody field and earning himself a high position among Jedennah's councillors. He knew all of them, every man and woman, all sworn to the King's life, and knew all of them would die there, defending what could not be defended.

The woman sighed.

"Jedennah trusted too much in the good of men. He thought courage and honour would deliver his kingdom from this host but that was not to be his fate. His fate is tied with his kingdom and with Eldessa and tonight, all three will perish"

"You talk of him as if he is dead already"

Despite the years he had known her, the inhuman coldness she displayed at times still dismayed him. He had given up his life for her, a sister he would never see again, a world he could never return to and yet he did not truly know her. He felt the doom pulling at him, the weight of a hundred battles and defeats crashing down upon his head.

She moved closer to him and the child, gliding silently across the rough ground

"Be at peace my brave captain. Jedennah has made his decision and I cannot alter that. He does what he thinks is right. What King can suffer life without a kingdom to rule?"

"Is there nothing you can do?" he asked her desperately

She shook her head sadly

"I am a thousand leagues away, at Lar Riocht. You see before you only my shadow. If I had had time the Druids could have cast me here and I could aid in the defence of the city. Now it is too late."

For a moment her form flickered, confirming her words. Her physical form was far away and despite her powers there was little she could do now. Her hand reached up and gently touched the crying child's cheek. Her touch was insubstantial but the child gave a slight shiver at the contact and ceased crying. Both of them watched the quietened child for a moment..

"Gar-Lyocksaar stirs with new purpose. This horror is but one facet of it. The Orlockan nations are tearing at each other. The Mountain and River have joined under the Great Devourer once more and make war upon the Plains. As it was before the Entombment they seek to bring all of the Sakhm'Yvar under His dominion. Tyr-Tanindul is but an opening play, a brief skirmish at the beginning of battle. Even here, in Lar Riocht His minions have been busy. Blood has been spilled among the Isleborn. Cruchoch has murdered the Queen and has been executed".

The warrior shuddered. He had known Cruchoch, had fought with him when the Elves had given Tyr-Tanindul aid at Peilingor. He had been a great warrior, an honourable one. How could be had been given to such evil?

"Our enemy is stirring from His sleep. His Entombment was only a temporary measure. The true battle has yet to begin. I will have need for you now, more than ever – armies must be raised and led, kings gathered in council, ancient Orders readied. You will rise my captain. The world will know your name!"

He shook his head.

"Old words lady. Uttered by you to other great men. The Oathbreaker, Sewn Lhar Dashyll. They have all fallen".

He could see the anger in her eyes from hearing such words. Few men would dare speak to her of such things. Perhaps she could feel the deceit that lay within his heart. The world knew her powers, how she could see deep into the hearts of men and know their greatest horrors and their deepest lusts and ambitions. If she could see into him now she would kill him. He had served her faithfully for many years and yet he knew with absolute clarity that she would kill him here and now if she could. He looked back down at the child, avoiding her eyes.

"Is he the one you have been waiting for?"

"Perhaps"

As always she gave little away. Her mind would always be a mystery to him as it had been to countless others.

"It is time. The balefire below holds me but the road is long and treacherous. I must go lady.."

She nodded gravely.

"Ride fast my captain, ride true. I shall find you and your brothers in Norecraalia by spring". Keep the locket I gave you safe, it will help me find you should events demand it".

He grasped the small silver locket around his neck in confirmation. She had given it to him on their first meeting in Crandoria so long ago. The first of many subsequent strings she would tie to him in his years of service that followed. He bowed to her in the saddle and spared one last took at the dying city, feeling strangly empty now.

"In the spring lady..."

A new fire rose up from the heart of the city and a wave of screaming carried through the night air, the sound of many people dying within the flames. The war chants of the enemy, muted until now, rose in a new crescendo, a dread confluence created with the cries of the dying.

"the Inner Citadel is falling lady, this is the end" he told her sadly as he finally turned his horse away.Now, he wanted nothing more than to get away. To flee this horror, the woman beside him and the dark dreams that threatened to consume him. As he departed the woman's final words followed him.

"..........this is not the end, this is the beginning of everything"

He rode south, death upon his shoulder.

## Part 1- Illrycharra

### The Boy

The village of Brijian's Wells had stood for nearly a hundred years though few people outside of the village would know such a thing. There was little remarkable about this small place which was practically indistinguishable from any other village or hamlet in the great kingdom of Illrycharra. In fact, of all the seven Darran villages, as they were known, Brijian's Wells did not shine brighter than any of the rest. Its people, of which there were some forty families who were proud to name themselves of Brijian's Wells, and not of Darra, the walled town that lay five leagues east, faithfully tilled their fields year in year out. They sowed, ploughed and harvested, raised chickens and pigs, and paid their annual tithe to their lord, the Erudel of Darra.

Men had only dwelled in these lands three hundred years, the last of a long series of invaders and settlers. Before man Illrycharra had been ruled by the savage Sakhm'Yvar race, the Tuath'ai and before even them the Dwarven kingdom of Glyndwr had flourished here before its doom. Before the Dwarves who knew? Perhaps even the Elves and other Glenduirian races had once made their home here among the forests and hills.

The great pasturelands lay to the north of Illrycharra where the great lords raised their cattle in their tens of thousands, fattening them on the rich green grasses that grew there, before driving them south, down the length of the kingdom, to the lucrative southern markets. Beyond the pasturelands lay Illrycharra's world-famous bone-pits, hundreds of leagues of endless bones and skeletons of fearsome beasts from some calamitous battle a thousand years ago. The stories spoke of a great battle between Dwarves and Giants here, when Glyndwr was forged and the bones were all that remained of the Dwarves' vanquished enemies...

Beyond the endless snow-capped mountains lay the northlands of Sakhm'Yvar. There dwelled the barbaric Orlockan Nations, their lands stretching across the entire roof of the world such was their dominion. They did not trouble Illrycharra or the other lands of the south though they were the greatest and most savage of all the Sakhm'Yvar. The mountains that sealed the northern reaches from the rest of the world were too high, their paths too treacherous, to allow for any casual war to be prosecuted across their vastness. Also, the Orlockans themselves, though strong and martial, were a divided people, their races sundered into five great nations, and of those nations each one was further rendered into so many tribes and septs. Thus, Illrycharra, endured with this shadow to the north, watchful of the northern mountains and their passes yet holding its strength to the west, where the loathsome Tuath'ai, their ancient foe, lay.

Like all of the Illrycharran people the folk of Brijian's Wells were descended from settlers from the Bastionlands kingdoms, who in turn were descended from the High-Ankhamunite peoples of the Mikidemian lands and the proud Yurathians of the deep north. Therefore, though Illrycharra had only been founded three centuries ago, and ruled by a king of less than a hundred, the blood of its people was ancient and proud. Despite such renowned heritage the common folk of the village were neither remarkable nor well-known, they did no great deeds, no songs were composed recounting their lives, no traveller passing through the village along the old Dwarven road, rarely spared the village a second glance....

And yet it was at Brijian's Wells that the story of Saul began, and in time, and not such a long time, everyone in the north, and indeed the world, would come to know of the village of Brijian's Wells and the boy who grew to me a man there.

\----------------

It was a day like any other.

It was early spring and the last vestiges of winter could still be felt in the crisp morning air and in the ice-hardened soil that still stubbornly refused to be ploughed. The village of Brijian's Wells had endured a long winter, a season of belt tightening where the old folk and young ones alike kept close to their fires. Now the warmth of the sun had returned and the farmers of the village were busy in their fields, tilling the earth in preparation for the planting and the nourishing spring rains that, gods' willing, would come after. Some of them would join the Erudel's warband this spring and march west to join the endless campaigns against the hated enemy, the Tuath'ai. The peace and tranquillity of the east was always maintained by the battle and blood of the western frontier. The men of Brijian's Wells knew this better than most for they and many of the men from the Darran villages, had spent their youth fighting on the western marches during those dark times some years before.

Two men, father and son, worked hard in the chill morning air, preparing their meagre farm for the planting. The work has hard and the absence of a third pair of hands, a second son and younger brother, was sorely felt. As they worked the older son muttered curses under his breath, his ire building towards his absent brother. His father however, was more forgiving of his errant son. He could remember when he too had been but a boy and the responsibilities and duties of adulthood had seemed mere distractions to a life filled with joy and adventure. That had been a lifetime ago, half a world away where men worshipped the sun as a living god and the cold of winter was only known in stories. In the years after that childhood spent under the sun he had learned what true winter was. Winters of cold winds and ice that could end a man's life as surely a blade could and snow storms that could devour entire armies. Yes, he had seen true winters, filled with blood and ice, and hoped never to see them again. Because of those times he could forgive his youngest son's transgressions on this day. His son would soon be a man and the gods only knew what cold darkness lay ahead for him. Better to find a few brief hours of happiness while the sun still shined....

\-----------------

The boy dreamt.

He was in that place once again, that realm between wake and sleep. His misty dreams mingled with the brightness of a sun that warmly caressed his closed eyes. As always when her entered this strange kingdom he dreamt of his mother. She moved through the trees, almost floating, calling to him and he drifted towards her. Everything was bright and golden and out of focus in an overpoweingly strong light. The leaves on the trees shone like gold ingots, the sky a shimmering silver. It almost blinded him yet he carried on, reaching for her. He could see her, and yet her features were obscured, his memory failing to realize his dream to completion. Her hair was gold like the sun but her eyes, he could not see her eyes. Once he might have remembered their colour, once he might have remembered every detail of her face. Now though, he had forgotten, and his dreams of her diminished in detail with every passing year....

He ran through the trees, chasing her, but not matter how hard he ran, how hard he pushed himself she always just lay ahead of him, forever out of reach. As he ran something in the ephemeral forest began to change, to shift. Something dark and alien had entered the forest, unbidden. The intense light slowly began to give way to a growing darkness, a shadow that grew from nowhere and spread across his consciousness. It covered the shimmering forest and his mother was consumed within its inky cloak.

Before him the darkness coalesced into a towering person, their form indistinct apart from red balefull eyes that bore into him. The heat of the sun died and suddenly the world grew dark and cold, an endless twilight. The apparition breathed his name though it had no mouth..

"Saul............"

A fear gripped him, a primal fear, unnamed and terrible, ripping at the very centre of him. The world shook and the demon reached towards him, red eyes burning with a hatred matched equally with a covetous longing. The boy moaned.

"Saul!"

He opened his eyes, blinking. His friend Krishan stood over him, blocking out the sunshine and shaking him awake. He sat up, the dream dissipating from his consciousness, his mother and the demon equally forgotten. He had fallen asleep in the warmth of the morning sun, his fishing pole and a knapsack lying beside him. Krishan grinned at him.

"Your father will be angry as the three hells with you!"

Saul grinned faintly back, a whisp of the dream still floating around in the back of his mind. He had been waiting for Krishan at the edge of the forest after sneaking out of the cottage in early morning. As usual Krishan had been late and Saul had fallen asleep waiting for him to turn up.

He allowed his friend to help him up.

"My father never stays angry for long, Garan on the other hand...."

Krishan laughed and slapped Saul on the back.

"Well, best not to think of it and enjoy the day!"

Saul's features clouded a little for just a moment as he thought of his father and brother. The springtime had brought the usual labours of farmwork – day after day of planting the fields alongside his father and older brother. Each day the same as the next and every night the bone tiredness of the farmer's life. Today however was going to be different – today he and Krishan were going to sneak off and go fishing – Krishan escaping his job as kitchen boy at the Elders' Hall and Saul the family farm.

"Come on, the day is wasting"

Saul took the lead and the two boys headed into the forest.

They had come across the fishing spot two summers before on a similar day when they were exploring in the sparse forests surrounding the village. That day had been much like this one, a day for escape, an escape for one boy from the heat of the kitchen ovens and for another the stony soil of the farm. The small river, little more than a stream, contained little fish but was located just far enough away from the village that no casual observer would see them. Their spot lay on a slight bend in the river where some of the trees overhung offering a little shade from the rising sun. This was their special place, unknown to the other children of the village or even the adults. Little did they know but every few years for perhaps a century, this little stream had been 'discovered' by yet another generation of the village's children. If they had cared to ask Simann, the Huntmaster, he would have told him of his own childhood, much of it spent around their special place.

As they walked and chatted Saul regarded his friend. Krishan was a little older than him but was a head shorter. His skin was dark brown, a gift of his father, a Valeman who had died when Krishan was just a small child. His eyes were slightly curved with a broad flat nose that gave way to a small mouth that seemed constantly set just so to show that Krishan was privy to some jest that no one else knew. It was little wonder that the two of them, one missing a father, the other missing a mother, would be thrown together. That and the fact that neither of them were the blood of Illrycharra – while Krishan's late father had been a Valeman, Saul's father was a Crandorian, originally from that great empire that lay so many thousands of leagues to the south. All northerners, Illrycharrans included, had a deep contempt for the soft southern peoples, especially the Crandorians, and people here cared little for the Empire of the Vale either. Saul well remembered the childhood taunts of 'Black Valeman!' directed at Krishan and the obligatory 'puny little Crandorian' directed at him. The curious thing was he had grown up big and tall, much taller than his father in fact.

Both of them dreamed of leaving Brijian's Wells the same ambition of every young man who had ever grown up in such a small and unimportant farming hamlet. He and Krishan constantly talked of the great cities to the south, the Emerald Hill of Lhuasa, the fabled walls of Tiokan-an-Thana, the battlements and temples of Crandor and Norecraalia, the sacred groves of H-Faunia. They wanted to see them all, one day. There were few days when they did not discuss their plan to go prospecting in the great Meirionnydd mountains to the west, to search out ancient Dwarven cities and their lost treasure hoards. Sometimes he dreamed that he would find his mother up there, lost beneath the snowy peaks and jagged green valleys of some ancient Dwarven kingdom and not buried in the cemetery just outside of the village, taken by the Heart Fever four winters before like so many others.

Whether driven my the fact that both of them were outsiders, or that both had lost a parent, one remembered and one not, the two boys always wanted to leave Brijian's Wells and find their fortune. Their ambition was an idle fancy however, a dream of children rather than any planned or considered action. For the most part, they were content, happy in the quiet familiarity of their home, with little real desire to put actions to their daydreams. For now they were happy to spend a day fishing near the village, talking of great ambitions, yet returning to their respective homes when the sun began to falter in the sky....

\--------

By the small river the two boys idly fished.

Neither of the boys had caught anything so far and neither was trying very hard. His fishing pole held negligently in his left hand, Krishan stifled a yawn with the other.

"That Lord Ruadan..."

Saul grinned as Krishan launched into another lengthy diatribe about Lord Ruadan, the bane of the other boy's life. The Lordling was the eldest son of Niam who was Erudel of Darra and much of the lands around it including Brijian's Wells. The Lord and his family usually resided at Darra, a walled town an hour's ride from Brijian's Wells. Three months ago however, the father and son had quarrelled and the Lordling had left Darra to take up residence in Brijian's Wells, or as some of the village elders called it 'sulking' in Brijian's Wells. On arriving at the village the Lordling had demanded use of the Elder's Hall, normally the residence of the village elders, and for the last three months, Ruadan and his companions, of which he had many, as ever a young lord always did have, proceeded to drink and feast themselves into epic proportions of debauchery, watched on by the bewildered and somewhat disapproving farming folk of the village. The Lordling already had an ill reputation. People spoke of trouble in Darra around Ruadan's brutal nature and worried for the day he might succeed Niam as lord of these lands. Ruadan had ignored all summonses from his father since then and Krishan had found his employment changed from serving the kindly old village elders to being cupbearer to the young Lord. This 'promotion', as his mother insisted upon calling it, meant that Krishan had gone from a relatively easy, if boring, employment, to dealing with a rancorous and drunken crowd of lordings and hangers-on, some of whom were want to strike him around the ears if wine was not poured promptly and generously.....

Saul laughed

"I will trade you a day serving wine to those undesirables for a day of planting potatoes!"

"No trade" Krishan groused, then his features suddenly changed to one of excitement " I forgot to tell you, a merchant caravan arrived this morning, it came all the way from Nestoria!"

Saul shrugged. Merchant caravans stopped at Brijian's Wells all the time on their way to the city, sometimes from the Nestorian kingdoms to the south bringing gold and foodstuffs or the Dwarven Lowlands bringing steel and trade goods.

Krishan continued.

"Wilurn Hunna told me there is a Cataphractian escorting the caravan this time, not just the usual sellswords. He told me the knight has armour finer than the King's Guard and......"

Saul scoffed. Cataphractians never came to Illrycharra and if they did they would not come to the Brijian's Wells, least of all escorting some trade caravan from Nestoria. All the Cataphractians served in the Bastionlands under their liege-lord King Broderic holding back the Skald hordes from engulfing the southern realms..

Krishan saw Saul's expression

"Well I am only repeating what Wilurn told me. I didn't see him myself but one of Ruadan's guards said that the stranger could not be a Cataphractian – that he was more likely some sellsword from the Bastionlands – although he said he had the look of a Crandorian about him".

"Why would this Crandorian sellsword Cataphractian be guarding a merchant caravan in the back end of nowhere then?" Saul asked jokingly "....things must be very quiet in the Bastionlands if Broderic is sending off his warriors to guard wagons of turnips!"

Krishan's expression changed to one of calculated pleasure. Saul knew that look of old.

"What Krishan..."

Krishan smiled evilly

"Oh nothing, just talking about Lord Ruadan earlier reminds me of something I meant to tell you......but I don't think you would be that interested anyways..."

Saul threw a small stone at his friend who deftly dodged it. With a small plop it went into the river.

"Come on Valeman!"

"Well remember you asked me to keep my ears open if the Lordling mentioned any hunting parties being organized in the near future..."

Saul sat up, suddenly alert now. For the last three years Tain had been teaching him how to use the shortbow just like his brother before him. Both Tain and Garan were experts with it and well known around the village as two of the village's best hunters, only bested by the local Huntmaster, Simann. Three years Tain had been patiently teaching Saul, between the end of his chores on the farm and what little sunlight remained in the day. Three years Saul had been waiting to be taken on a hunt, three long years where Simann and his hunters had been most proficient in bringing back fresh meat and therefore not necessitating the village men organising a hunt. Saul had made do, hunting rabbits in the woods around the village, honing his skill and waiting for the day he would be allowed to go on a real hunt, to hunt deer and wild pig in the deeper forests along the Meirionnydd mountains. Three years was a long time to be hunting just rabbits.

The arrival of Lord Ruadan had changed that, raising Saul's hopes. The Lordling was known for his love of hunting and Saul hoped that a village hunt would be organised soon. Just the thought of a hunt being organised filled him full of excitement. Illrycharran custom was borne from the frontier life – a man was not a man until he had been on his first hunt and killed his first deer. Garan had already been on his first hunt many years before and had accompanied Simann's hunters on a few hunts besides that since then. Saul longed to follow his brother and indeed his father on this passage to manhood.....

Krishan continued.

"....Simann came into the kitchens this morning. He was organising some rations for the Lordling's hunting party tomorrow. Looked like the kitchens were preparing a lot of food, must be a goodly amount of people going on it..."

Saul jumped to his feet, dropping his fishing rod to the ground.

"I have to go back to the farm and ask father!"

"What about fishing?" his friend asked, dutifully holding unto his rod

"Sorry Krishan, I have to get back. This could be my only chance to go, who knows how long Ruadan will be here!"

"You will probably manage to shoot yourself in the foot with your own arrow!" Krishan groused but Saul was already gone. With a sigh Krishan cast his line back into the murky river.

### The Surlord

The Surlord watched intently.

Before him fought the Elflings of his Shield Companies, some fighting with sword and shield, others with pike and spear. Today, on _chomortas,_ the Elflings competed against one another until just one of their number survived to be victorious and named _teoir curadh_ , with all the honour and privileges that entailed. Tonight the _teoir curadh_ would eat at with him at his High Table whether he or she be Lowborn, Highborn or First Servant.

Across the Sands hundreds of Elflings, armoured and carrying weapons with blades and points dulled, fought one another. When a Elf was struck down or their blood was spilled, then they were considered defeated and their part in the contest finished. The defeated quit the field and the survivors continued on fighting one another. As the morning would progress there would be fewer and fewer combatants on the field until the War-drum sounded, signalling the Final Twenty. Those twenty would continue to battle until their numbers became less and less and only two survivors faced each other for the ultimate prize.

The War Sands lay at the very bottom of the Low City, nestled behind the Ishaldun Gate of the Outer Walls. It stood, a rough circle, seven hides in diameter, its ground packed with sand and loose stones that gave it its ancient name. Along its circumference the War Sands were ringed with stone benches that rose up to thirty layers in height. Their capacity was such that all the populace of Elrurith, both High and Low, might witness the marital might of their War and Shield Companies. Yet even here, the social order of the city was observed. While the Lowborn made themselves comfortable was best they could on the hard stone benches of the masses, the elite minority of the Highborn and their First Servants were sequestered on the High Diadem, a most elaborate and comfortable viewing platform with soft-cushioned seats on which to recline on and Nyr-Drasgulian wines only a gesture away to be poured by a pliable Lowborn servant. It was here the Surlord reclined, watching the action unfold below....

The Surlord remembered his first _chomortas_ keenly. A young scared Elfling, small for his age of fifteen summers and yet proud to wear the armour and tabard of his city, Elrurith the Valiant, Fifth City of Ninmuiria of the Mountains. He had not become _teoir curadh_ that day but reached the Final Twenty. It was Ithien ni Huithilian who had bested him with spear against his sword and had gone on to become _teoir curadh_ that year. Ithien ni Huithilian who had died eighteen years later on the field of Ishaldun, held in his final moments by his captain, the Elf he had defeated on their _chomortas_.

Of the Final Twenty Elflings, many now sat with him today, the Captains of his Shield and War Companies, the most esteemed and powerful of the Highborn of Elrurith. Yet not all sat with him. Some of their number, like Ithien, had perished over the years, their lives sacrificed for the preservation of the city, the glory of Ninmuiria, the pride of a Surlord..

The competition had reached a frenzy – as always occurred at some point, fighters joined together to face loose groupings of opponents. These temporary alliances, sometimes built on family or Company ties, or simply born out of the practical necessities of the battlefield, would usually last only a few scant minutes at most until a common enemy was vanquished. The allies would be forced to turn on one another, it was an inevitably – there could only be one _teoir curadh_

The young Elfling maiden was a stranger to him. She was wearing black-plate armour with a helm that covered her face entirely, a peculiarity as Ninmuirian warriors traditionally wore helms that covered their cheeks and foreheads. Her size and shape proclaimed her to be female and perhaps not much older than fifteen or sixteen summers. For weaponry she carried a Ninmuirian longsword, clothed for this non-lethal contest, and instead of the standard Ninmuirian Longshield, she held a long dagger, its edge dulled, with which to parry her opponent's strokes.

The diminutive Elfling fought like a demon. Her sword strokes were relentless, battering down opponent after opponent, many of them much larger and stronger than her. Who was she? The quality of her armour proclaimed her to be one of the Highborn and yet had no obvious markings of her house or Company. Whoever she was, her skill stood out among the other combatants, drawing appreciative murmurs from among the assembled Highborn.

As the morning drew on the combatants upon the War Sands began to thin out until with a rumbling of the ceremonial war-drum the contest was paused. The Final Twenty stood upon the field.

The Surlord beckoned to Cirda.

The warrior maiden was captain of his guard and one of his most trusted officers. She was a large woman more comfortable on the march or the battlefield than any other feminine pursuits. She had served him since before he had been elevated and her loyalty was beyond question. As always she stood slightly to his rear, awaiting his commands, and if necessary, guarding his back from the dagger of any would-be assassin. Elrurith was not like Urithrarith, with its politics and power-struggles that oft ended in death, but it had not been unknown for a Elrurithian Surlord to fall to an assassin's blade. Not all the Highborn who sat with him today loved him and many were all too prepared to spill his blood if they thought his fall might further the position of their Houses. Such was the lot of any Surlord. Cirda bent slightly to hear his words.

"Tell me....who is the maiden. A Highborn beyond doubt but she bears no mark of House or Company".

Cirda frowned at his question a faint tightness around her eyes.

"My Lord..." she hesitated ".....I do not know my Lord, she is not known to me. The warriors, they are saying she is one of them, a Lowborn, but....."

The Surlord nodded "yes....her armour is too fine for one of the Lowborn to possess....and the way she dances with the blades, she has been tutored by the best...."

"Yes my Lord, I agree"

The warrior maiden looked unhappy for some reason but the Surlord could see that she did her best to keep her face impassive.

"When the competition is done I would have words with her, whether she wins or looses. I would not have it in my city that a stranger, Lowborn or no, can enter our ancient rite and bring such ruin to our younglings without even giving us the honour of her name and House".

"Your will my Lord, it shall be as you say".

He dismissed his captain with a brief gesture. She retreated to retake her place behind him. Her eyes were already searching the field for the Stranger. On catching sight of her she began to grumble softly to herself but not so loudly as to let the Surlord hear.

The final contest commenced, ten pairs struggling against one another. Among them the Surlord recognised several sons and daughters of the Highborn around him. Today they would gain much honour for their house and parents and their performances would be noted and evaluated, even for years to come, when these Elflings were elevated to command in far Nestoria or on the Hfaunian marches.

To the rear of the field, the Surlord noted that Authien of Isaldur continued to compete. In Elrurith the young warrior was known as the Prince Exile among the Lowborn but of course Ninmuiria had no princes, nor Kings for that matter, not since the departure of the High-King and the Rise of the Surlords so many centuries ago. In truth the Prince Exile was the son of Vvieine, Surlady of Isaldur, entitled to no real position, power or title. The city of Isaldur the Mighty was only ruled by Surladies and since the Dark Ages of Ninmuiria all Surladies who had begat sons in Isaldur had sent them abroad in exile once they had reached their maturity. No son of a Surlady would ever rest untroubled while his mother ruled and he had no hope to inherit her power. The history of Isaldur, and indeed her sister-city Caldur that was also always ruled by a Surlady, was littered with troublesome rebellious sons that had brought strife and ruin to their mother's reigns. Thus, was Authien sent to live in Elrurith, a permanent guest, who would never hope to return to his birthplace until his mother's body lay buried in the ground. To be born a son of a Surlady of Isaldur or Caldur, was to be born into a life of exile and unhappiness. All that Authien could hope for was to gain position among the Highborn of this city and today he showed that ambition, fighting with a fury that matched the Elfling stranger in the black armour, stroke for stroke.

The _chomortas_ had been a tradition in Ninmuiria since the rise of the Seven cities more than a millennia before. All of the five surviving cities held a chomortas each year at the beginning of spring although the exact traditions varied from city to city. In Elrurith the Valiant, the Day of War was held to determine a _Teoir curadh_ that would be immediately elevated from the un-blooded warriors of the city into the officer-elite regardless of their standing before, whether they be Highborn, Lowborn or First Servant.

Two of the Elflings from House Huthieniul had joined together to defeat the Stranger. Although their helms obscured their faces, the Surlord knew them to be Hiumath and Luithien, brothers to each other, and sons to the man who sat three places from the Surlord's left. Puithylan, scion of House Huthieniul and Lord of the Inner Walls. The Elf drank deeply from his goblet, nervous that his sons courted with dishonour by joining against a single opponent and yet even more nervous that they still might be bested.

The brothers split apart and came at the Stranger from both sides simultaneously, hoping to press their advantage before she could counter. They were not fast enough however – the Stranger rolled avoiding a spear thrust from Hiumath and came to her feet to sweep the legs from under Luithien with one precise stroke of her blade. His brother down, Hiumath retreated, nervously clutching his spear and shield. The Stranger gave him no respite, pressing him with quick sword thrusts above and below his shield rim. She avoided his spear thrusts easily as they became increasingly clumsy as the Elfling grew ever panicked and weary from a morning of battle, unsure how to counter the opponent that showed no sign of fatigue, that showed no sign that her assault would ever lessen.

The Surlord had seen this a thousand times before in the heat of battle. Many a good warrior had entered into a desperate panic when pressed upon the battlefield, paying in their blood and their life for such a weakness. He remembered well, eighteen years before, when the Elrurithian armies had quailed before the Urithrarithian assault in the Battle of Ishaldun, the ninth of its name in the nearly continuous warfare between the two great Ninmuirian cities. On that day the warrior companies of Elrurith had nearly given in to the battle madness, the panic of sheer fear, with their centre routed and their Surlord bleeding and dying upon the battlefield. It had taken a young captain, who's mind had not been broken by the battle fear, to use all the power in his voice to strengthen the backs of the older but wavering officers and rally the warrior companies around the Elrurithian banner. It was on that day, the Ninth Battle of the Pass of Ishaldun, that Elrurith the Valiant was victorious over its hated rival, Urithrarith the Unmerciful, and a young captain, still bleeding from his battle wounds, was elevated by his brother officers, to become Surlord. The same Surlord who sat now watching the spectacle below.

Hiumath had lost his shield now and was vainly trying to keep the Strangers assault at bay with broad sweeps of his spear. On the High Diadem the Surlord noted that the father was no longer drinking. The Elf clenched the arms of his seat tightly, the back of his hands whitening, almost translucent, with the effort. The Lord of the Inner Walls was an experienced warrior, blooded sixty years before among the Hal'runnan Elves against their Crandorian enemies. He knew that his remaining son faced defeat no matter how much he willed it otherwise.

And there it was! The Stranger's blade turned the Elfling's spear-point and its bite took him across the chest armour, knocking him solidly to the ground and ending any further hope of furthering House Huthieniul's glory on this day.

On the other side of the sands the Prince Exile continued his relentless onslaught, battering down opponent after opponent.

As the Surlord had hoped, it was the Prince Exile and the Stranger left upon the field to face one another. He rubbed his hands relishing the contest to come – it had been many years since Elrurith had witnessed such a fight between such skilled combatants.

The Stranger and the Prince Exile circled each other warily, their movements articulated to an excessive carefulness that only the very weary possess. Among the crowds, the Lowborn cried out, anointing the Stranger with praise, cursing the chances of Authien, for they still believed that she was one of them. It had been many years since one of the Lowborn had risen to become _teoir curadh_. The Surlord had been but a youngster himself when the last Lowborn _teoir curadh_ had been elevated. He remembered it well. His father had taken him to watch the _chomortas_ and how they had cheered to see one of their own, a Lowborn, to be elevated to _teoir curadh_. Not long after that his father had paid the great endowment necessary to have his son elevated to First Servant and join the War Companies soon after that...

The two seemed evenly matched. The Stranger was fast and agile and seemed to possess an almost inexhaustible supply of energy and stamina. Even with these attributes however she could not hope to match Authien's raw power and strength. He was twenty summers old, perhaps a little older than she, a little more experienced. Perhaps he had held a little something back through the course of the competition, a small reserve of energy to unleash in the final hurdle, a move or swordplay he had yet to reveal. An experienced warrior would do just that. The Surlord suspected that the Stranger had held nothing back. From the way she fought there was nothing left inside her, she had given everything to the fight but now would she have enough to counter the more experienced, stronger opponent? Among the Highborn on the High Diadem the wagers began to fly. The Surlord suspected that the Lowborn too were betting heavily on this match, albeit for much more conservative sums than those of the Highborn.

A cry came up from the crowd as the Stranger attacked, driving Authien back. For a moment he faltered under her assault, his foot slipping on the sand his sword dipping slightly, but it was only for a moment. He quickly recovered, his training rising to the fore as he studied his attacker's pattern, found it, then matched her blade stroke for stroke. With a grimace he began to counter and soon it was the Stranger who was in retreat. The Prince Exile's attack was relentless, his great strength showing now as he reigned blow after blow down upon his smaller opponent's blade. She turned his weapon again and again, parrying desperately, seeking a weakness in his technique and finding nothing. Before his exile, Authien had been trained by the finest swordmasters in Isaldur – his technique was flawless almost perfect – the only opening would be if he made some slight error from weariness

They pause for water – she refuses to open her visor to drink

Sweat from his brow dripped into his eyes and he paused for a moment to wipe it away. That was all the Stranger needed – she attacked with all the might she could muster, she knew this would be the last attack, after this she had nothing left to give, it was now or never. Her blade came down hard on Authien's sword, one, twice, thrice – the effort of each blow evidenced by her muffled cries of excretion. Throughout the competition she had remained eerily quiet, inscrutable to her opponents. Now she cried out with each movement of her body, each bladestroke a torrent of pain to a body that sat on the edge of breaking down, giving in to the crushing fatigue. Across the stadium the crowd had gone quiet, thousands of eyes locked on the contest below. All that could be heard was the clash of blades, the Stranger's cries and the muffled grunts of Authien as he beat back attack after attack.

The combatants danced around each other in a whirlwind, their blades making crazy patterns in the air. Had Elrurith ever seen a contest such as this?

Seeing an opening at last Authien lunged. His battered shield took her dagger thrust square on and it skittered away uselessly from her hand. Their blades clashed once more but without her dagger to parry the Stranger was vulnerable. He hit her hard with his shield top sending her crashing backwards. She fell and barely managed to regain her feet before he was on her again, bashing her with his shield, bringing his blade down again and again. Her strength failing, the Stranger tried one last, desperate attack – she sidestepped his shield thrust hoping to get in under his guard. An hour ago perhaps she might have succeeded but not now. Now her body was too fatigued to do all that she commanded of it – she was simply not fast enough. The side of his shield took her on the shoulder spinning her body about, opening her up fatally to his sword. His blade took her across the chest and for an instant she was airborne until she came crashing down into the sand, defeated and broken.

For a moment the Prince Exile stood over the still form of his opponent, panting deeply, his blade and shield held in readiness as if he had not realized that he was victorious, that the contest was at last over. The crowd had remained silent but with the drum roll announcing contest's end, the cheers and cries rang out across the stadium. True, the Lowborn had supported the defeated Stranger but they loved the Prince Exile too and what a contest they had just witnessed..

Authien raised his sword in salute to the cheering crowd. He cried out.

"Elrurith the Valiant! Elrurith the Valiant!"

The crowd took up the cry and it carried across the stadium. The Surlord smiled slightly. Yes, Authien would make a good _teoir curadh_ – he understood the crowd, the people. Command was about people and the Surlord had plans for this Elfling. He nodded to Cirda. In her booming voice she quietened the crowd.

"Honour has been satisfied, our ancient rite has been observed and a _teoir curadh_ stands before us!"

Again the masses cheered.

"Approach Authien of Isaldur. Claim your rights and privileges as _teoir curadh_ ".

The young Isaldurian approached the High Diadem and bowed deeply to the assembled Highborn. The Surlord rose from his chair. The crowd quietened once more as he began to speak.

"Authien, son of Vvieine, Elfling of Isaldur. Elrurith grants you its favour. Tonight you eat at my table as you shall as long as I reign and as long as you serve this city loyally and faithfully".

The Prince Exile's young features hardened a little at the mention of his mother's name. What Exile would ever want to hear that name uttered and yet the ancient forms had to be followed, the _teoir curadh_ 's lineage, however darkened by pain and rejection, had to be uttered. Despite the ill-fated words Authien bowed again.

"You do me great honour my Lord. I am not of this city yet Elrurith the Valiant has taken me into her bosom, put sword in hand and gave me privilege and position. This boon I shall repay, in blood and if necessary with my life!"

Again the crowd cheered at the young Elf's words and the assembled Highborn nodded their heads in mute acknowledgement, some evaluating the Elfling, perhaps seeing him truly for the first time as to what he really was, a potential rival or ally in the future, a developing threat to their own position.

The Surlord's attention shifted towards the Stranger. Gingerly she had regained her footing, her hand running across her chest-plate where Authien's blow had taken her. She set about looking for her sword and dagger on the sands, largely ignored by the masses that now heaped their adoration on the Prince Exile. Her star had burned bright this day but like all things it had been eclipsed. The Surlord caught Cirda's eye and nodded towards the Stranger. His captain's face wrinkled slightly as if she had swallowed some bitter medicine. What was happening with her today he wondered, usually Cirda was so taciturn and solid. The worried expression still etched across her feature, the captain addressed the Sands once more.

"Maiden of Elrurith, approach the Diadem. Your Surlord would have words with you"

The Elfling hesitated slightly her head shifting left and right as if looking for some route of escape. Finding none the young warrior shrugged resignedly and approached the High Diadem, taking her place beside Authien. The Surlord stood once more as he addressed her.

"You fought well today stranger, Elrurith is well protected with younglings such as you to guard her walls. Remove you helm and proclaim your name and House. Elrurith honours you"

The Stranger bowed deeply at his words but did not move to remove her helm. Nor did she offer any words in return to his. The silence lengthened as all around the stadium waited expectantly. Soon whisperings among the crowd could be heard – who would dare to keep their face hidden and speak no words in the presence of their Surlord? Authien began to stare at his defeated opponent, a worried expression on his face.

The silence continued to lengthen and still there was no sign of movement from the Stranger. The Surlord felt the anger rise in his chest. He was by nature, thoughtful and calm but for a youngling to so publicly show him disrespect could not be countenanced. He glanced, bristling, at Cirda. No word of command was necessary. His captain closed her eyes briefly, as if in pain, before she spoke.

"Stranger, do you have no honour? You cover your face to your liege lord. He has honoured you with his voice yet you do not return it. What discourtesy is this?"

The young warrior showed no sign that she had heard Cirda's words save to glance at Authien. The Prince Exile, looking deeply troubled, spoke, his voice faltering.

"My lord.....my lord, I believe my opponent does not wish to dishonour you. I believe she has taken a vow of silence and covers her face so that she might honour the gods with her performance in the contest. To reveal her name and House would be to take honour from the gods!"

"An admirable ambition!" Cirda interjected, speaking out of turn. She had begun to sweat. The Surlord spared her the briefest of glances and returned his attention to the maiden upon the Sands.

"Yes admirable Elfling......but I am no longer young and my patience grows less and less with each passing year. Your Surlord has given you a command Elfling. Remove your helm and speak your name. I would know you!"

The Stranger's shoulders slumped slightly under her armour. Both Authien and Cirda looked deeply pained. What plot or trickery was this? Who was this girl who defied him?

Finally the maiden removed her helm and bowed deeply once more to her Surlord.

"You......."

Around him the assembled Highborn and First Servants gasped. The maid looked up at him, her face all too familiar. She smiled slightly though her eyes held no warmth, though perhaps a small measure of fear.

"Forgive me my discourtesy father. I am Cuhullin, of House Buiuthiun"

Across the stadium the crowd began to chatter excitedly. The Surlord leaned forward to rest his hands on the railings of the High Diadem. How could she have done this? How could she have defied him so publicly? A helplessness burned deep within him, oh to be a father of daughters! He closed his eyes for a moment, searching for his _enaid_ , his centre. He must discard the _tine_ of deep emotion now. Many eyes were upon him, not all friendly. This would have to be dealt with later, in private, away from all eyes, both High and Low.

He continued to stare at his daughter Cuhullin. She was trembling slightly under her armour. Her eyes held no tears but nor were they completely dry. Beside her Authien was speaking softly to her but she ignored him. Her eyes never left her father. Despite everything he could not help but feel proud. She had fought well today. Reluctantly he tore his eyes away from his only child and turned his back on her. He motioned to Cirda.

"Escort her to the Sur. I will have words with her in my private quarters".

The captain held her closed first to her chest in acknowledgement.

"Your will my lor........"

Her Surlord had already turned away from her. Ignoring the chattering Highborn the Surlord left the High Diadem with his bodyguards, lost in his own thoughts.

On the Sands below, Cuhullin, Daughter of Hormith, Surlord of Elrurith the Valiant, felt the first tears fall unto her cheeks.

###

### Owain

He was returning home.

Owain ap Ghyedd, Yarl of the Cadaern and Penteulu of Rhydderch, High-King of Ystwryth, sighed. He was not so young anymore that the crisp air of early spring did not chill his bones but he reflected he was not too old to allow such discomfort to show to his warriors.

For a Dwarf of such station and rank his retinue was a modest affair. With him there were only three other people ahorse, two of them his sons. With them came a guard of ten warriors, hand-picked from his Teulu. These ten marched on their own two feet that was generally the Dwarven way. He did not feel any embarrassment at riding a horse while his men marched. He was in truth an old man now and glad of the comfort. Anyways he told himself, he had spent enough Cycles afoot, serving in the _fyrds_ and warbands of his youth.

The journey from Syndryn, the City of the Cthul had been long and difficult, the mountain roads and paths still stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the birth of spring. He had been gone from Ystwryth and its High-King since the previous autumn, just after the Month of Slaughter, an entire winter of self-imposed exile among the Cthul. Still it could not be helped, he had needed aid and their was little to be found in Ystwryth. Now, with spring and the melting of the passes, he was free to return to his city, his wife and his youngest son. His heart was heavy however. He wondered what mischief Manawydan had been up to since his departure?

The path to the Southern Wards accompanied the small river Odwyanin that ran from the north. The Odwyanin was a young river that was born in the High-Mountains of Ullwydellan and passed through the Ystwrythian plateau to issue out between the twin fortresses of the Southern Wards. From there it carried on southwards, small and fast, to Syndryn and beyond. They would soon be at the falls where the river trickled down from the Wards and then finally home.

The mountains of the Dwarven Highlands were beautiful this time of year. Some said that the Highlands of the Nuerryth, the Dwarven homeland, was the roof of the world, though stories and legends spoke of even greater mountain ranges in the far northlands where the Sakhm'Yvar dwelled. Whatever the truth, the mountains of the Nuerryth, had been home and protection to the Goshaen races since the time of Roald Overking, the first Brethwalda, and would ever be so. Without the mountains, the Dwarven Nations, both Highlander and Lowlander, would not be what they were. The mountains were where they dug mines, raised cities and fortresses and smelted iron for tools and weapons, where they delved deep for gold, silver and precious stones and wrought the world's finest armour and weapons. The legends spoke of how Tuirill, in defiance of the All-Father, had wrought the first Dwarf from the fire of _tine_ and the stone of _ithir_. The fire that lived in their _enaid_ made the Dwarves susceptible to greed and violence but the _tine_ also made them hospitable and passionate. The stone made them stubborn and intractable and yet _ithir_ also made them resilient and strong. Thus was the glory and doom of the Dwarven races. Prone to war amongst one another, for the nations of the Highlands and Lowlands had never really known peace, and yet to be masters of building and smiting among all the races of the world except maybe closely followed by the Ninmuirian Elves.

The High-King, sick with grief and a nameless fear, had ordered him to stay, to not leave his side in these dark times. Owain, who had served him all his adult life and for the past ten years as Penteulu, had defied his order and departed Ystwryth by the Southern Wards. Rhydderch had threatened him with death for the betrayal. In front of the assembled Yarls of the Cadaern, Rhuddlan and Dolwyddelan, the three tribes of Ystwryth, he had sworn that his Penteulu would see death before he would see Syndryn. Both men knew however, that the High-King would not make good on his word. All knew of Owain's loyalty to Rhydderch since those first few years as a young warrior of the fyrd, then War-Chief of the Dragonshields and finally as Penteulu, commander of the High-King's bodyguard, the Teulu. Throughout those years Owain had served Rhydderch faithfully and he prayed to the All-Mother and All-Father that he might continue to do so.

As Penteulu he was one of Rhydderch's closest advisors, loved and respected by the man who had raised him high, above Cheryl, Yarl or Thane. His house had risen with him and his three sons would hold lands, title and position long after he left this world to enter the embrace of the All-Mother. His years as Penteulu should have been happy if busy ones. The wars each spring and summer against the Walwyn and Bodrochwyn, had restored Ystwrythian power over those tribes in many centuries. To the north the great Dwarven cities of Llanllyr and Creuddyn warred against one another once again, as they had done intermittingly, since their foundation millennia before. This had given Ystwryth and its three peoples, united under one High-King, a free-hand to restore its long-lost hegemony over the other Highland nations. Throughout the Neurryth, both among the Highlander and Lowlander, Dwarves spoke of the rise of Ystwryth once more with its great and wise king Rhydderch and his faithful Penteulu Owain. The warbands and fyrds of the Cadaern, Rhuddlan and Dolwyddelan were united once more and even Syndryn, the city of the Cthul, which had held dominion over the Neurryth for some four hundred years, looked northwards warily and spend much gold on warriors and spears....

At heart of his nation's resurgence all was not well however.

He and Manawydan would never call each other friends but Owain had done his best, despite his dislike of the prince, to keep peace with the younger son of the man he served. He had known Manawydan since the prince was a boy and while Dwarven belief held that all children were innocent until the evils and temptations of adulthood were thrust upon them, he looked into that child's soul, and only saw darkness. From when he was only a child, the people of Ystwryth and the High-King's Neudd spoke of how young Manawydan was filled too much with the fire and desire of _tine_. Among the children of the nobility he was unrivalled in strength and martial skill being only fourteen years when he took up armour and warhammer to follow his father and older brother into war against the Walwyn. By the age of twenty he had been initiated into the Blackshields, the oldest and most respected of the Cadaern's warbands, and soon rose to become their Warchief. A great warrior to be sure and yet all of the fyrd knew of his cruelty to the enemy – the hundreds, if not thousands who had perished when he had burnt Bodrochwyn villages without mercy, the women he had taken without consent when they were brought before him, their fathers, brothers, and husbands slain in battle. Many of the Ystwrythians spoke in admiration of him – was it not Manawydan who led them to victory time after time and finally subdued the Bodrochwyn and forced their Thane to marry his daughter to him. Yet others spoke of his cruelties and his crimes against the innocent. Over the years Owain had heard these battlefield tales and was sure the High-King knew of them too. Yet his uneasiness was allayed somewhat by the fact that Manawydan was a second son. On his father's death, the All-Father will it a distant day hence, it would be Manawydan's older brother, Marcdudd, who, with the other eldest sons of the Cadaern, would travel into the High-Mountains of Ullwydellan, on Dragonquest, with the hope of the High-Kingship. However much Manawydan might lust after power he could never be High-King and Owain slept more soundly at nights knowing this....

All that had changed three years ago when Marcdudd had died suddenly and Owain's world has turned on it's head. All his fears were realized. Now Manawydan was only two heartbeats, that of Dwarf and Dragon, away from the High-Kingship.

Eddwyn was what had brought him to Syndryn though none knew save himself, not even his sons. He needed the boy back in Ystwryth if he were ever to face Manawydan. On Marcdudd's death he had sworn that Manawydan would never be High-King. Owain knew in his heart that the man would bring ruin to the kingdom and he would never allow that. He loved Rhydderch and would serve him until the embrace of the All-Mother but he would not see his son on the throne. A wave of sadness passed through Owain as he thought of the High-King. Marcdudd's death had taken his king so hard. In the three years since he had declined in body and mind, fading away before the court's eyes. Marcdudd's death had been ill enough but it was the son's funeral rites that had caused the High-King such misery, and some said, driven him to the edge of madness and despair...

The road they travelled on had been built during the Wars of Unification, begun by the Third Brethwalda of Goshaen, Breteuil Bloodshield and continued on by his successors Talylln Stoneking and Hywdrc Stonefist. Those High-Kings had bound the Highlands together in the wake of the Dark Ages of Goshaen and had built great roads through the mountains to ensure the swift movement of their warbands. Few knew of the cost in lives such an undertaking had taken for most of those lives had been Skald slaves, reviled by the Dwarven peoples and worked to death in thraldom, vengeance for centuries of misery they had inflicted on the Neurryth. Since those times and the collapse of the Ystwrythian hegemony much later, the mountain roads had fallen into disrepair and ruin.

This road twisted through the valleys below the mountainside and where the stone proved unavoidable it had been hewn and cut along its face, so that the road might continue onwards. In places landslides had fallen down upon the road, cutting it off, but in time they had been cleared and the road survived. Every league along its course was marked with a Waystone, etched in the Cthul ruins, marking a traveller's progress. Over the centuries many these Waystones had disappeared, some stolen, others destroyed by landslides or perhaps, by the eternal rainfall and wind of the passing centuries. Enough remained however, for one to mark their progress. As they passed one, Owain bent down in his saddle to read its runes. He knew this particular Waystone well, having passed it a hundred times in his lifetime, yet he wanted the pleasure of seeing it once more, deciphering its ancient symbols. Five leagues to the Southern Ward, then home!

Marcdudd's death was what had brought him to Syndryn. He glanced to his left. Beside him rode Eddwyn. The boy had changed little since his exile from Ystwryth. Perhaps a little taller and a little wiser and more sure of himself after three years living among the Cthul. He rode with Owain's two sons, Aedin and Llan, the three of them in deep discussion. Over the winter the three boys had become friends. Owain laughed a little to himself. He called them boys and yet all three were men fully grown. He was an old man now, the ithir in his bones and flesh growing softer and weaker as the days passed while the tine of their ambitions and hopes flourished with youthful purpose ever brighter. Eddwyn stood taller than his two sons, he stood taller than most in Ystwryth or Syndryn, a peculiarity among the Dwarves. If one did not see his face one might mistake him for a human but his features were typically Dwarven, deep and angular stretched over dark brown skin. His eyes looked older and wiser than for one of his few years, perhaps due to the power the Cthul had discovered in him, perhaps due to the parents he had lost, one to the fires and one to the mountain and a sister he had been forced to abandon. He had been away from the city and his sister nearly three years but if he had any feelings on the matter he hid them well as he chatted with Aedin and Llan. That was good, the boy need to be strong in the days ahead. Who knew what awaited them in Ystwryth?

The progress was slow here. The road began to incline upwards once more, a increasingly steep path upwards to the southern mouth of the Ystwrythian plateau. The plateau itself was but a brief respite before the High-Mountains of Ullwydellan that lay to its north. They were the true mountains of the Neurryth, the very core of this world, their peaks so high that much of them were lost in the eternal clouds. Few Dwarves ventured high into those mountains – that was where the Dragons dwelled and no one entered their realm without good reason lest on Dragonquest or taken my some madness. The Dragons guarded their realm and its secrets jealously and most of the Dwarves only found death there.

Owain remembered well the day of the funeral. The large plaza in front of the Neudd had been cleared of the market for that day and a great funeral pyre had been built. Marcdudd's body would be given to the fires of tine then his blackened bones buried in the earth of ithir to receive the embrace of the All-Mother.

Rain

All of Ystwryth had come to mourn Marcdudd, taken by a sudden illness that not even Cthul could fathom. They came to mourn him and pay respect to their grief-stricken king who had lost his only the winter before. They all came, the Thanes of the Rhuddlan and Dolwyddelan, and their Yarls and Cheryls, the common folk of the three tribes and the warriors of the warbands and tribal fyrds.

Beside his king Owain stood prepared to steady the man with his arm if his body failed him. The king would utter prayers and then light the pyre. On Rhydderch's other side stood Manawydan, his face with little grief for his departed brother, his heart perhaps, bursting with a joy of realization of just how high he now stood.

Deathwatch warriors

Around the plaza the rhythmic wailing of the old crones echoed, their dirge biting into the souls of the assembled men. The old women, clad in the black of their widow's weeds, wailed for their lost prince but also for all the mothers and fathers, husbands and children they had lost over the course of their lifetimes. Their wailing was their only duty in this world, their bodies and minds to aged for toil.

In front of the pyre stood the Cthul, cloaked and cowled in their thick robes. Led by their master Gruffydd, they anointed the pyre with their potions and herbs, ensuring that it would be a great balefire, worthy of a prince and the son of Rhydderch ap Iorwain. As they worked they sang, calling out to the All-Father to guard Marcdudd's passing to the afterlife, competing with the wailing of the old crones. Among them was Eddwyn, newly chosen to join their ancient order. Despite his parentage the boy was known around the city to show great promise and have a massive strength in tine and ithir. In time he would go to Syndryn to study, something only the most accomplished of the Cthul would ever hope to do. Now the boy, carrying to large urns of herbs in either arm and looking uncomfortable in his new robes, followed the other Cthul around as they sang and worked.

Owain could not remember what words the king had spoken to the crowd, what prayers he had offered to the All-Mother and All-Father for the soul of his son. All that he could remember was that as Rhydderch moved forward to light the pyre his footing had given out and he had stumbled. Thirty years he had known the man, serving together in the fyrd when they were barely men against the Skalds, and he had never seen weakness in him. He hurried to the High-King's side and took his arm to steady him. Rhydderch looked at him gratefully for his Penteulu had saved him from public disgrace.

"Owain I cannot do it......." he had whispered to him. His eyes darted to the firebrand, burning brightly in his shaking hand.

"I will take it lord, there is no dishonour"

He had reached for the firebrand only to have his hand knocked away. Manawydan had come to his father's side as well. His eyes burned brightly as he seized the brand from Rhydderch's grasp.

"It is my duty Penteulu, not yours. You are not needed anymore!"

Without further words he left the two older men and mounted the steps to the funeral pyre, his movements full of purpose. The assembled crowd watched closely – the weakened and grief-stricken High- King and his strong and vital son. Silently Owain despaired, wandering what fate awaited him. Manawydan's words were brutally direct and with clear purpose, he was not needed anymore. A new order was coming to Ystwryth. The weak and power-hungry would flock to Manawydan now as his star soared and Owain would be forgotten. What fate would befall him and his family if Manawydan was successful in Dragonquest and became High-King?

Above them his enemy put fire to his brother's pyre. The flames leapt and despite the rain the balefire was soon burning brightly. The singing of the Cthul and the wailing of the crones had reached a crescendo. The women called to the Nehemiah, the All-Mother in their wailing, entreating her to take the soul of Marcdudd to her bosom, the Cthul sang to Yurlungur, the All-Father, seeking his protection of the departed soul on its passage into the afterlife. The assembled warriors around the pyre, who had stood deathwatch over Marcdudd's body throughout the night, began to beat their spear-points against their oak shields in a rhythmic thunder. The combined noise was deafening but necessary. Only such a tumult would gain the attention of the gods and gain their favour to ensure the passing of the soul into the halls of the afterlife. Owain still holding the High-King's arm felt the man quall under the noise, each crash of spear and shield sending shiver's through Rhydderch's body. The balefire raged now, its heat washing over the crowd's faces.

"My son, my son..." Rhydderch called out in anguish, though only Owain could hear his words amid the noise.

To their right came a loud crash. Owain turned to see young Eddwyn lying on the ground beside the fire, the urns smashed in pieces, their contents scattered around his limp form. It seemed the boy had been overcome by the flames. Two Cthul were lifting the boy to his feet as Owain returned his attention to the flames and Manawydan. The prince had remained beside the pyre seemingly oblivious to its searing heat.

His attention was drawn back to Eddwyn by shouting. The boy was being held by his two brothers but his body had gone rigid and his eyes were wide open yet rolled back in his head with only the whites showing. Gruffydd, was shouting something to the two brothers holding the boy but his words were lost in the noise. Suddenly, without any warning, a shrill keening erupted from the boy's lips, a sound so unnatural that it made the small hairs stand straight up on the back of Owain's neck. Others in the crowd heard it too as a thousand pairs of eyes shifted from the fires to Eddwyn.

The two brothers who had been holding him stepped back verily. The boy remained on his feet as the shrill cry continued, unnaturally, without pause for breath. There was something wrong in the way he stood, his body shivering and spasming under the control of some otherworldly force. The other Cthul began to back away from him and even the warriors of the deathwatch no longer watched the pyre their eyes lingering on such a sight. At the pyre Manawydan turned towards the young Cthul, a look of deep annoyance across his features...

The shrill keening stopped suddenly as it began Eddwyn began to speak to the hushed crowd. It was not his own voice that issued from his mouth. Instead the voice was impossibly deep and loud, its strength carrying across the entire plaza. Like the keening cry that had proceeded it, the voice made the crowd shudder and tremble such was its force.

"He who lies on the fire is restless. He does not enter the embrace of the mother, His soul is lost and weeping!"

Among the crowd people gasped. A strangled cry erupted from Rhydderch's quaking lips. The voice within Eddwyn continued.

"He has been ripped from this world by murder. One of his own blood has betrayed him, has betrayed his father, betrayed the people!"

Many eyes among the crows flickered towards Manawydan still standing beside the burning pyre.

"A doom upon he who sheds the blood of his kin. No bed shall give him rest, no food shall fill his stomach, no ale shall quench his thirst! His very body will reject his soul and fester and in the end, all will abandon him and he shall die alone without the embrace of the mother!".

With that Eddwyn slumped and seemed to fall to ground once more, unconscious. His brothers, forgetting their fear, rushed forward to catch his limp body.

More gasps and cries were rising up from the crowd. Owain felt the king weaken and he put his arm around him to keep him on his feet. Tears were rolling down his face. Owain looked up at Manawydan once more. The prince's eyes were like black pits, his mouth twisted in anger. He stared back at Owain, both of them knowing each others thoughts.

Everyone in the crowd knew what had occurred. Eddwyn had the gift of thought and memory, the 'mouth of the gods', something only a handful of Cthul were thought to possess through the centuries. Some called it a gift, others a curse, but all knew that when such words were uttered it was the voice of the gods that spoke and the gods always spoke truth. Marcdudd's words had been murdered by someone of his own blood. Owain's thoughts much have been matched by many in the crowd. Manawydan's cruelty and lust for power were known to all and yet Eddwyn's words, god given or not, had not explicitly named him....

The funeral had ended then. Manawydan had departed, smouldering scowling, surrounded by his Blackshields, while Owain had escorted his king back to the Neudd. Rhydderch was barely in control of himself by then. On returning to the Neudd the High-King had barred the doors of his quarters and taken to his bed. In the days that followed he did not emerge from his quarters as the nobility and commoners of Ystwryth alike, gossiped about the ill-omened words of Eddwyn. Some uttered Manawydan's name though they were few in number for many feared the young prince with good reason. For his part Manawydan remained at the War Neudd with his Blackshields, publicly issuing threats to Eddwyn for the lies the young Cthul had spoken.

It was Owain who had gone to Gruffydd, the master of the Ystwrythian Cthul, and arranged for the boy's exile to Syndryn. If he had not a dagger would have found the boy's neck some dark night or perhaps some poison would find its way into his meal some day. Eddwyn, who had ever had a dark cloud around him because of who is parents were, and now doubly so, was soon gone from the city, thus preserving his life.

In the years that had followed Rhydderch fell ever into an deeper and darker pit of sadness and despair. He never openly spoke of Eddwyn's words not allowed any to speak of it in front of him, but all could see that those words weighed heavily on his mind. As the seasons passed, he aged, at a speed far too quickly to be nature's command. Manawydan was seldom at court, perhaps knowing that his father knew of his guilt and would not suffer his presence. So he stayed away while Rhydderch declined and made his plans. Time and time again Owain had tried to talk to his king but his words held little weight now, especially when mention of either of his sons, one dead and loved, one living and not, was made. Nothing could dissuade the High-King from his decline into despair and all of the court spoke of his growing madness and imminent death. Amid this Manawydan had not been idle. Many Ystwrythians, those with power such as Rhirid, Thane of the Rhuddlan and Iorwerth, fyrdchief of Ystwryth and Gruffydd of the Cthul, now openly supported him. When the time came he would go on Dragonquest and if he returned successfully he would rise to take his father's throne. Owain and his family's deaths would soon follow.

This was why he had gone to Syndryn. He needed Eddwyn back in Ystwryth. All knew that the boy had the mouth of the gods and that his words had been true that faithful morning. Owain would never see Manawydan sit on the throne and Eddwyn would be needed at his side when he brought the prince low.

The Southern Wards of Caern Clawdd and Caern Bleddyn loomed above them in the distance. The two fortresses marked the southern boundary of the Ystwrythian plateau and had stood guard over its pass for millennia. Caern Bleddyn had been raised by Culhwch the Kinslayer, named for his brother whom he slayed in open contest to become High-King. Caern Clawdd had been raised a century later by Llyewrc Morningflower, who had died upon Baddon Myrn, the Mountain of the Blood, in battle against the might of the Highland nations. Each fortress stood many stories high, their foundations built deep into the roots of the mountains that ringed the plateau. Both their bastions were thick and high with battlements sprouting a lethal assortment of bastilae and catapults. Any enemy that managed to fight their way up the cliff-face and waterfalls would then face this fortressed pass, passing between the two Caerns and their battery of weapons. In addition each fortress contained a garrison of warriors from the city fyrd, ready to spew forth from their fortified gates and smash any invader. Despite Ystwryth's decline over the last four centuries, no enemy had ever been able to pierce their defences and live to tell the tale.

"Are you glad to be home boy?"

Eddwyn stared up at the Southern Ward, looming ever closer as their mounts negotiated the path upward.

"Ask me in a few days Penteulu, then I shall give you my answer".

Owain laughed hoarsely, the boy was no fool.

"In a few days who knows what the Gods will bring us, perhaps by then we will both have entered the embrace of the All-Mother!"

Eddwyn shivered slightly under his heavy robes.

"Perhaps my lord, but I trust in you to keep my neck free of Manawydan's axe. For that reason I have agreed to come with you!"

"Just so" Owain answered though in truth the boy had had little choice. He had been ordered by his new master to return with Owain and there were few Dwarves who would ever refuse the command of one such as the Cthulwalda.

"My family....?" Eddwyn asked him again, a question oft repeated on their journey north.

"Whatever is to happen, they will be cared for. My Teulu will see them escorted to Syndryn if anything should befall us, with enough gold in their pockets to live their lives in comfort" he told Eddwyn soothingly "do not fear, even now they are guarded well".

"The winter had been long" the young Cthul observed in way of reply "who knows what plans and plots Manawydan has put his mind and hands to since then".

The boy's words mirrored Owain's earlier thoughts but the Penteulu kept such an observation to himself.

"The spring is here now my young friend, a new Cycle blossoming, full of promise. Manawydan has too long brought darkness to our land, too long gathered followers and spears to his name. This year I will confront him, with words and iron, with Rhydderch's blessing or no, and I will finish him!" Owain's words were like stone "...and you Eddwyn will stand at my side".

The boy nodded resignedly.

"We must consider Gruffydd. When I left Ystwryth he and Manawydan were close, is that the case now?"

"It is" Owain confirmed "if anything your old master is even closer to Manawydan now. When the time comes he and the Cthul will support him I fear".

Eddwyn nodded slowly, considering.

"This presents me with some difficulty – I wish to aid you against Manawydan but I cannot oppose Gruffydd's wishes publicly nor fight with my brothers openly".

Owain shrugged, that was a mountain to be cross when the time came.

"I know the restrictions you live under Cthul" he told Eddwyn, perhaps using his title for the first time. "I trust that you will use your powers to aid me as much as is permitted. I have no wish to meddle in the affairs of the ancient brotherhood. Your simple presence at my side will make many remember your words at Marcdudd's funeral and sway them to my side!".

"Father!"

His eldest son Llan called to him in alarm. The boy's face had gone pale under his black beard. He stared up intently at Caern Clawdd.

"What is it my son?" Owain followed the boy's gaze to the ancient fortress but saw nothing. His aged eyes were not what they had been in his youth.

"Gods...I see it now..." Eddwyn's face grew pale.

"What is it Llan, the All-Father take you!" he growled at his son, a rising fear clawing at his chest.

"The banner father.....the Ystwrythian banner on the Caern's battlements. It flies at half mast!"

Then Owain saw it. The Dragon banner of Ystwryth flew from the middle of the flagpole atop the fortress. It would only be placed like that for one reason. When a High-King of Ystwryth entered the embrace of the All-Mother.

Rhydderch ap Iorwain, High-King of Ystwryth was dead.

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