Tales of the Wyrm, Volume 1

by D. Alexander Neill

  Sixteenth Rune: Arma Alferus

  (The Arms of the Elf-Lord)

  ♦

  (from the Victoria Alferae, by Amalux Cantor, Versificator Regalis Elvorum)

  Fallen the Elfrealm, and fallen the Darkness;

  Gone are the Powers, and Braea’s kind hand.

  Scattered the Kindred, and sundered the Houses;

  Dimmed are the night skies, across our fair land.

  Forth stands Ekhalra, in darkness triumphant;

  The Keepers and Lictors our kinfolk enslave;

  Renewer is fallen, his standard in tatters;

  The peace we have gained is the peace of the grave.

  Forth from disaster, a sprite of the woodlands

  A force of the forests arises in wrath;

  A Second House stripling, a Half-Blood of Esu

  Fell, fearsome and fearless bestrides the green path.

  A son of Nîallan, Grey Elf of Two Rivers,

  And Brenna Ashwarden, to Tioreth bound:

  Arngrím the Elflord stands forth in defiance

  The foes of the Fair Folk to kill and confound.

  Through vic’tries uncounted, he led his folk onward,

  The greenwood they mastered, and made it the tomb

  Of the Keepers and Lictors who sought them unwisely,

  And fell to the shafts of those wraiths of the gloom.

  But skill naught avails when numbers are wanting,

  And the war-wrights of Arngrím in numbers were few;

  So counsel was taken among the Anari,

  And the Wood-Gods conspired, his might to renew.

  The Protector, the Wood-Spider, runner and leaper,

  New caligae wrought, for the silent and fleet;

  The Wood-Maid, the wood-maidens gathered together,

  And of leaves, light and mithral, wove hauberk complete.

  The Blue-Rod, the Wolf-Lord, of wood-beasts the master,

  A horn-crown devised for all nature’s command,

  And from bright Fire-Stalker, the Spirit of Nature -

  A weapon well apt to a wood-warden’s hand.

  When they brought these to Hara, the Elf-God eternal,

  He mourned that his manu could not cross the Dome;

  So he blessed the panoply with power enduring,

  And sent them with Arngrím the woodlands to roam.

  Thus by Arngrím the Elflord, all armed by the Powers,

  The Keepers and Lictors the woods were denied;

  And his lordship endured through the Eon of Darkness,

  Until, when that Darkness retreated, he died.

  His panoply, Arngrím bequeathed to the Wardens

  For these comrades outlived him; some outlive him still;

  His solemn bequest they have guarded for eons,

  Their oath to the Elflord to keep and fulfill.

  Yet time all devours; the Wardens grow weary,

  And darkness returns to the Dark Queen’s domain;

  When that fell darkness threatens the wolds and the woodlands,

  Will the Arms of the Elford defend them again?

  ♦♦♦

  Gwen’s Notes

  This one interested me, because I happened to be close by when it suddenly became relevant. You see, me and Breygon and Joraz and Qaramyn and a couple of guys from Ekhan and another burglar they hired in...sorry, “a” burglar they hired in Vejborg (I’m just a humble innkeeper, ha ha), were poking about this wizard’s tower and one of the things we found was this pair of boots marked with what Breygon told us was the sigil of Larranel Sylvanus, right? The elves’ god, the one they call “the Protector”. Anyhow, Breygon lugged them around for awhile because he was scared of trying them on, but then he did, and he passed out and had a vision and got all weird. And then later (so I heard from Qaramyn), Breygon ended up with another piece of the Panoply, and assumed the mantle of...

  ...oh for crying out loud, go read it yourself. The Wizard’s Tower part is in The Tower by the Sea, and the rest of it’s in The Last Warden. The author probably hasn’t written those ones yet either, the lazy git.

  Seventeenth Rune: Nenía Proditiora

  (The Dirge of the Betrayer)

  ♦

  (by Shannyra Draugasvíkja, Counsellor and Mate to Biardath the Sorcerer-King)

  Trans. by Ildran Gasterbarn, Countess of Whitefields, and Disciple of the Maiden

  From ashes infernal, of beauty a vision

  The daughter of darkness eternal arisen

  Consumed in the fires of death and damnation

  Reborn of desire and hate’s satiation

  Formed of corruption and chaos innate

  Fiend of seduction and mistress of fate

  A demon of lust to hold mortals beguiled;

  Alluring, enticing, the Ender’s dark child.

  Birthed of the shadows, of spirits betrayed;

  Espoused by Miyaga, the beauteous maid

  Schooled in the mysteries of heart and of hand

  Gifted of wiles to beg and command

  Desired by many of rank and of name

  Wooed by the general of shadow and flame

  Loved by Baulfekna, the Ender’s right hand

  And marked o’er the heart with his black-fisted brand.

  Summoned at last to his adamant throne

  She stands ‘fore the Ender, afraid and alone.

  Erect and a-tremble, she waits for his word;

  A heartstone is given, a stratagem heard.

  A bellow of outrage; a lover betrayed;

  Baulfekna revolts at the plans that are laid.

  A union is sundered, a general cast out,

  And the mistress departs from the Master’s redoubt.

  With stone and with purpose where northland storms thunder

  She rouses the White Lord with wisdom and wonder

  But one of three counsels to aid the contender,

  She rouses his armies in shadow and splendour

  She holds him to purpose and sets his feet thither,

  His folk to betray, and his homeland to wither

  She stands at his side, a dark dream of desire

  And she laughs as he casts them all into the fire.

  The father defeated, the victory won –

  But the dark daughter’s counsel in no wise is done;

  From the bones of his father, who perished in fire,

  And the blood of the dragon that slaughtered his sire;

  From the sword of Urgalka, that demon-wrought blade

  A fell-fisted sceptre together they made.

  Then the heartstone she gave him, to seal its might

  And the Wand of the White Lord tore open the night.

  But her dark heart betrayed her; she longed to remain

  At his side, and his mortal heart’s love to attain.

  To anneal the sceptre, and augment its power

  The blood of a mortal it must needs devour

  And to seal its might to the might of her lord

  His own kin must fall to the demon-wrought sword

  So the dark daughter told him, and sold him the life

  Of the fair-haired Fanduiline, his ill-fated wife.

  The sacrifice finished; the fell deed complete

  Her rival lies slain in dark daughter’s deceit

  The White Lord exultant holds forth his fell wand

  Having sent his beloved to the Long Halls beyond.

  Dark Daughter in triumph the White Lord implores

  For the touch of the traitorous son she adores;

  But the White Lord reviles her as outcast unclean

  And swears that he never will have her as queen.

  Thus her love turns to hatred, a venomous ire

  As potent as was her unbounded desire

  Yet she cleaves to him coldly, as concubine bound

  And plots his ascension at last to confound.

  Of two sons delivered, one banished beyond

  And one of the father abnormally fond;


  But at last comes a daughter of beauty divine

  And her mother’s fell spirit, corrupt and malign.

  “Amplexo, my daughter, this greeting I share:

  Thou’rt come to deliver dread, death, and despair;

  With fair face of thy father, his confidence gain

  And in time shall we sunder his ill-gotten reign.

  Take thou blood from my breast, that thy power may grow

  And my traitorous lover we’ll usher below

  Then with strength of thy father’s omnipotent rod

  Shall we plunge into darkness the whole of Harad!”

  Thus the Daughter of Darkness her stratagems laid

  As her own darkling daughter grew into a maid

  So the end of the Elfrealm, in thunder and flame

  With the rise of these daughters of treason, it came.

  Thus Shannyra, the fiend; of darkness the dame

  And her own daughter, Mærglyn, immortal black name

  By their treason was Harad betrayed and undone –

  And so, gentle patrons, my tale is done.

  ♦♦♦

  Gwen’s Notes

  Another gruesome Shadelven story, although this one was allegedly written by a demon. There’s an interesting codicil to it. The demon – Shannyra Draugasvíkja – was allegedly a pleasure-fiend sent by Bardan to serve Biardath, the Sorcerer-King of the Elves in the Age of Wisdom, as both counsel and consort. She convinced him to slaughter his own lifemate to enhance the power of his magic when he was creating his dreaded Wand. Oddly for one of her infernal race, Shannyra was supposed to have fallen in love with him; but he refused to wed her, as doing so would have been an affront to elven law and would prevented his descendents (he had a true-born daughter by the lifemate he had murdered) from extending his dynasty.

  Biardath also had a daughter by Shannyra – Mærglyn Kinslayer, fiend-blooded and insane, who overthrew her father and ruled the elf-realm briefly, until the Holy Mother, Bræa, led the Sarvaloka (the divine host) to overthrow her. Mærglyn fled into the Deepdark and founded the Hidden Realm of the Shadelves, with its capital at Silent Waters. Shannyra was captured, and in punishment for the part she had played, and because slain fiends return to the infernal realms to be reborn in time, she was sealed in solid stone beneath the earth by fiat of the dwarven gods.

  See, Qaramyn? All that time you were yapping, I was too listening!

  Eighteenth Rune: Treléodscearula Dwéorga

  (The Three Tribes of the Dwarves)

  ♦

  (Original by Gálmodn of Carrlár; translated by Harwéac Hargóin)

  (from the Æfenléoð Hargóinna, the “Evensongs of Hargóin”, by Harwéac Hargóin, Gamolfeax-láreow Dweorga, Master Chanter of the Dwarves)

  In depths of the Deeprealm, the Mountain-King Mighty

  Sits fast on his treasures hid far from the Sun;

  From high throne of gemstone he rules the Dweorga,

  And yellow-gold rivers his fists overrun.

  Thus wrought the Powers in times long forgotten;

  Thus spake the Powers, and thus was it done.

  The dame of the Kindred, the Mother of Morning

  Created her sons from Anuru’s fair form;

  From fire she brought forth the curious Men-folk,

  And Elvii she wrought from the clouds of the storm.

  The happy Halpinya she formed from the waters

  The rippling rivers, the fast-falling rain;

  And Dweorga she made from the bones of the mountains,

  And gave them the Deepdark to be their domain.

  Thus made the Mother the breeds of the Kindred;

  Thus wrought the Powers in Bræa’s bright reign.

  The Kindred were given the Choice Everlasting:

  To serve the Anari, or Darkness embrace;

  So wroth was the Mother when many denied her,

  And turned them away from her fair golden face.

  In her rage, Bræa summoned her lightnings and fires

  To end their rebellion, her grief, and her pain;

  But Ana stayed her hand, and reprieved the lost children:

  Nevermore would she threaten them – never again.

  So fell the Lightbringer, Mother no longer;

  So fell fair Bræa, her progeny’s bane.

  When Bræa her anger unleashed ‘gainst her children,

  The dwarven folk fled, hiding far under Earth.

  In the Deepdark they trembled, afraid of fair Bræa;

  Condemned by their Mother, and doubting their worth.

  When the Brothers of Bræa were given the Kindred

  To safeguard from darkness, and rear as their own,

  The Dweorga refused to abandon their refuge,

  And stayed in their tunnels of sheltering stone.

  So chose the Dwarves when the Powers came calling;

  So chose the Dwarves – to remain all alone.

  This choice angered Lagu, new father of Dwarfdom;

  He swore their obedience swift to obtain.

  So to Deepdark he went, with his adamant hammer,

  Where the Dwarf-folk had opted in fear to remain.

  He smote the stone doors in his stern, righteous fury

  And ordered the Dwarves to come forth and obey;

  But the Dweorga-wrought portal resisted his anger;

  His hammer-blows thundered; yet all glanced away.

  And thus failed Lagu to force their submission;

  And thus failed Lagu their spirits to sway.

  And so Lagu stayed by the Doors of the Deeprealm

  His entry denied by the sons of the stone;

  ‘Till at last he relented, and begged the Dweorga

  To unlock their gates, and accord him the throne.

  But still they refused to allow him to enter,

  Their gates to unlock, and his lordship accept;

  ‘Till he swore in return he would teach them the stone-craft

  And in metalwork, render them skilled and adept.

  This promise Dweorga exacted from Lagu;

  This promise he made, and this promise he kept.

  Thus Lagu established three tribes of Dweorga

  To safeguard the knowledge he vouchsafed them all.

  The Hill Dwarves, in stone-craft he soundly instructed;

  Dehorda, the rockwrights of pillar and wall,

  And above them set Khallach, the Master of Stonelore

  To uphold the welfare of hill and of hall.

  The Mountain Dwarves metalwork readily mastered –

  Burarda, the Forge-Lords, their skills did display;

  To Barraj, the master of smiths and of forge-lore

  The priests and the folk of the Mountain-Dwarves pray.

  And last came the tribe of the artisans craft-wise

  Who to Zoraz the Patient directed their prayers:

  Dethekda, the Deep Dwarves, the hidden, the cunning,

  The sons of the stone-kin; Dwéorga true heirs.

  But above all, to Lagu the dwarven folk pray,

  All ill to prohibit, all fears to allay;

  And thus did Dweorga come back to the Powers,

  And thus do the dwarven folk prosper today.

  ♦♦♦

  Gwen’s Notes

  This one translates a whole lot better from the original than most of the other dwarven ditties. It explains a lot, actually. They’re boring because their gods taught them to be boring.

  Nineteenth Rune: Paramátmaa Patitám

  (“The Supreme Soul Has Fallen”)

  ♦

  (from the Charitráni Sarvaloka)

  In the days before days, when the Earth was still new, and the Children of Bræa walked without fear beneath the stars of Heaven, the Law and the Splendour were upheld by the Host of the Anari – the minions of light, the Sarvalóka. And foremost among these, Vibhúh of the Sarvalóka, was Cielagan, Archon of the Svargási Nhaasanáma – the Throne of Heaven.

  Cielagan stood high
in the councils of the light, at the right hand of mighty Bræa; and in the endless war against the fell hosts of Bardan, led the armies of righteousness, bearing before all the Karválanyaya, the Sword of Justice forged by the hand of Lagu himself, and bearing within it all of the radiant might of the Lightbringer.

  Such was the power of his faith that none could stand before him. The light of Bræa shone forth from his very flesh, banishing all darkness, and laying bare the designs of the Enemy; and the Sword of Justice was anathema and hatred to them, and they fell away before it, and the divine wrath of him who wielded it, like leaves before the autumn wind. Where Cielagan led, the Sarvalóka emerged triumphant, for no foe could withstand his might; and they praised his name, and called him General, and Master, and Lord Most High.

  The Vibhúh gloried in his estate, and strove ever to be worthy of the love and indulgence of Bræa, his mistress. And there were many who loved him as well; for although he was stern and unyielding in his faith, yet he was a skilled commander, and generous with praise for those who strove in his service. Yet some there were who went beyond the love of righteousness that alone is seemly between those of the Host. Two of these were Eliastralee and Lööspelian, Archons of the Horn, minions of Tîan whom the Imprisoned Goddess had sent to Cielagan to serve as his heralds; and who, in the vanguard of the Sarvalóka, stood alongside Cielagan and, with silver blasts, hurled his challenge into the teeth of the Darkness.

  Through the long war they stood at his side; and they saw through the stern façade of the General, Master and Lord Most High, to the heart that beat beneath the cuirass of fiery gold. And they perceived that Cielagan was dismayed, for the price of command, to one of the Host, was to remain aloof and alone; one with the great army of light, yet forever apart. This was the curse to be borne by the Vibhúh; a terrible price, but one that Cielagan was content to pay. For such was the strength of his service and his faith.

  The two sisters of the Horn were dismayed by their newfound knowledge, for each adored the General, and honoured him above all others, save only the Powers themselves. Eliastralee, the elder, loved Cielagan, and longed for his heart to turn to her; but also did she respect his decision, and in honour of his sacrifice, declined to make her own fondness known to him, lest it distract him from his duty in time of war. But Lööspelian, the younger, was less moderate in her affections; for she had ever been the more passionate of the two. Such was her love for the General that it overwhelmed her reason. She feared for his safety when the swords clashed, and the fires of the Uruqua scorched the skies; and in the calm between battles, she struggled with the unseemly fervor of her passion, weeping alone in the cold comfort of her bower.

  Such a circumstance could not endure; for Lööspelian knew that her sister, Eliastralee, cherished a similar, if loftier, passion for their leader; and she knew that if she did not strike first, her heart’s love could be lost. For although Lööspelian was the better fighter, standing always in the forefront of battle, plying her bow and her sword with skill and ferocity almost unmatched within the Host, of the two, Eliastralee was the wiser, and also more beautiful; and more temperate in spirit. Lööspelian feared that if Cielagan ever permitted his heart to love, he would choose Eliastralee over her.

  And so, in the endless twilight of the time before time, on the eve of a great battle against the Firstborn – the Dragons and the Giants, led by the most fearsome of the Servants of Bardan: Gargarik on the ground, and in the air, Achamkriss – Lööspelian entered the pavilion of Cielagan, on the pretext of bearing a message for the Commander of the Host. The General was arming himself for battle; his gilt breastplate shimmered, the plumes of his helmet swayed in the chill air flowing from the mountain heights, and the great sword Karválanyaya sparkled in the torchlight. There, in the peaceful, shadowed silence, Lööspelian confessed her love for the leader of the Host. And she wept in his arms, broken-hearted, when he told her that, although he loved her as a sister, as a soldier, and as a servant of the light, he could not love her as she wished.

  And then he compounded her hurt. Lööspelian begged him to ease her suffering by promising, should the Host ever emerge victorious from the war, to lay down his mantle, and take her as his own. It would have been a facile promise, and she knew it; for the war was eternal, and could never end, until the darkness emerged triumphant, or the light, or the world broke; but she needed to hear his promise, even though she knew it to be empty. But Cielagan was a true servant of justice and the light, and could not make a false promise, even an empty one; and so he told her the truth: that, if ever he could lay down the burden of command, and forsake his duty, and take a mate of his heart, that he would choose her sister, Eliastralee; for he loved her above all others. And he told the weeping Lööspelian that he was grateful for her sister’s restraint; for, had Eliastralee ever reciprocated his love, he would have been unable to resist; and he would have spurned the helm and cuirass of Heaven, and laid down the Sword of Justice; and turned his back on the Host, and the Light, and even the face of Bræa herself, to be with his love.

  His words cut Lööspelian like knives; for, coming from his lips, she knew them to be true. And she fled, weeping, from his pavilion, and from the battlefield, and sought solace in the company of Dharmachárin, the Shrine-Keeper; a lesser sister of the Host, whose name meant “Eternal Duty”, and who tended the holy place of the Lightbringer. Dharmachárin was much beloved of the servants of the Horn; for she was gentle, and wise, and had a ready ear, and readier sympathy for those who had suffered misfortune. Thus to the great, alabaster shrine did Lööspelian flee; and in Dharmachárin’s arms, she sobbed out her woes, and her unrequited love for the General; and she told the Shrine-Keeper of his desperate passion for her sister, Eliastralee. And Dharmachárin dried her tears, and soothed her despair with comforting words; and she counseled Lööspelian to curb her passion, and let reason guide her actions. And she promised to speak with Cielagan, and plead Lööspelian’s case with the Vibhúh, and to use all of her skill to entreat him to unlock his heart. Lööspelian thanked Dharmachárin and, with glad tears, betook herself to her own pavilion, there to pass a long, sleepless night, awaiting the outcome of the Shrine-Keeper’s mission.

  ♦

  When Lööspelian was gone to her restless rest, Dharmachárin laughed aloud; for she was not one of the Anari, but rather a minion of the dark: her true name was Kënaqësi, and she was one of the kurvëdjalle; a fiend of pleasure and corruption, sent by Bardan in ages long past to espy upon Cielagan, and to uncover, if she could, some means of bringing about his downfall. Thus did she chortle foully in the darkness; for now, she knew how to work the great General’s ruin. She transformed herself into the likeness of Eliastralee; and, wrapped in the snow-white altar cloth from the Lightbringer’s shrine, she flitted, silently and in shadow, to Cielagan’s pavilion.

  When she entered, the General was bent over his silver table, regarding a map of the battlefield; but she could see that his mind was elsewhere, and that he was still distracted by his interview with Lööspelian. Kënaqësi, in the guise of his beloved herald, spoke to him; and in honeyed words, told him that she, Eliastralee, had for eons ached for his touch; and that now, thanks to Lööspelian’s intervention, she knew that he desired the same thing. “Thus have I come,” quoth she, “to beseech you to grant me what you have never deigned to grant any other: to give me your heart, and I will give you mine.”

  Kënaqësi was adept at her trade, and an accomplished hand at twisting the souls of the righteous; and she bent all of her wiles to her task. But she need not have bothered; for she wore the face and form of Eliastralee, and this was sufficient. Cielagan’s heart was torn; for he knew that to give in would cost him his station, and deny him the foremost place in battle. And so he made one last attempt, saying, “Thou knowest already that my heart is thine, fairest of the fair; for I have loved thee since mine eyes first beheld thy visage. But thou knowest too that we cannot be together;
for always must the servants of the light remain pure. Should we surrender to our passion, and take what we desire, then would the Host be broken; and the Light would fail, and the world would fall into Darkness.”

  “Then let it fall,” Kënaqësi replied; and her voice was Eliastralee’s voice, and it throbbed with feigned passion. And so were the walls of duty, virtue and restraint oe’erwhelmed; and Cielagan groaned, knowing full well what the cost would be, to his soul, and to the Host, and to Bræa; and to the world. But such was his love for Eliastralee that still he abandoned his maps, and his armour, and his robes; and they were joined; and the altar cloth of the shrine of the Lightbringer was stained with the issue of their passion. As were their souls.

  When it was done, they lay entwined, still and silent; and though Cielagan’s heart rejoiced at the consummation of his ages-old passion for Eliastralee, yet he wept at his failure, and what it portended for the Host. But Kënaqësi smiled in triumph, and her fair, white shoulders shook with ill-concealed joy. “Dost laugh, my heart, at the fulfillment of our love?” Cielagan murmured.

  “I laugh at the splendor and folly of thy gift,” Kënaqësi replied, her tone dark and mocking, “for thou, fool, hast given me that which none other of thy kind hast ever willingly given unto one of the Uruqua.”

  “What sayest thou, my love?” Cielagan demanded, looking full into her fair face, and deep into her eyes; and he cried out in horror as they changed, and became as red as blood, and full of flame. Her hair turned to black, and ebon horns sprouted from her brow, and broad, leathery wings from her shoulders; and when, in her true shape, she laid a taloned hand on his breast, his heart quailed; for though her breath was hot and sweet, her touch was cold.

  “‘Thy love’,” quoth she, whispering between glinting fangs, triumph and scorn thrilling in the liquid lilt of her voice. “Thou hast sullied thyself, Cielagan, General and Master and Lord Most High. Thou hast given up, all willingly, thy heart to thine enemy, and art no longer fit to bear the standard or the panoply of thy benighted mistress, or lead the Sarvalóka to war.” Then she smiled her fell, mocking smile, and caressed him, and enfolded her arms about him again. “But be comforted, sweet; for thou’rt now, like me, soiled and accursed; and thus are we well fitted to give each other pleasure.

  “My prince of heaven; my shining one! Let us dally here, and sate each other in uttermost depravity. Allow thy blameless friends, who have no stain upon their souls, to bear thy mistress’ banner in thy place. For only the truly worthy will decide the issue of this battle.”

  Cielagan wrenched himself away from her grasp, and fumbled for the hilt of Karválanyaya; but when he grasped it, he cried out again; for at its touch, a shock like flame and thunder blazed up his arm. And a cold wind blew through the empty corridors of his heart; and his hand was burned. Kënaqësi laughed. “Oh, my love; art thou now so unclean?”

  Enraged and on the brink of madness, Cielagan stood over her, and raised his mighty fist; and she laughed again. “Faithless!” she hissed. “Truly thou’rt a fiend, for only one with darkness in his heart would smite his late lover!” And at that, Cielagan fell to his knees, and howled in rage, and grief, and pain; and he wept with the horror of what he had done.

  Kënaqësi stood over him in dark triumph, mocking him in all her lush, fecund glory; but at that moment, a glint of pity crept into the empty void of her heart. For even in defeat and despair, Cielagan had a mighty soul; and not even a fiend of Bardan could look on his dismay without feeling a shred of mercy. And so she said softly, “Thou mayest yet flee. Yield thy place to another. Cede thy panoply and thy glaive, and give o’er thy station, and thy Host may yet triumph on the field. But know that if thou stand’st before them, accursèd and foresworn, a plaything of fiends, stained in heart and in soul – then the Sarvalóka will surely fail. And thou wilt surely fall.” She laid a taloned hand gently upon his hair; and such was the power of his despair and remorse at her touch, that it turned from shining gold to dead, lank, lifeless white. “Methinks thou wouldst welcome oblivion now,” she whispered.

  Then the moment was over; she stooped, and wrapped herself in Bræa’s defiled altar cloth again; and from it, inhaled deeply of his scent. The brief moment of compassion in her voice was gone, and the mockery returned. “How say you, lover mine?” she sneered.

  Cielagan sat crumpled on the bare earth. “Begone, demon,” he said dully. “The command of the Sarvalóka is mine, now and forevermore. I yield to no one, and will expiate my guilt in battle, and in blood. My blood; and, if thou stay’st, thine.”

  “Thy blood and mine are the same now,” Kënaqësi laughed. The instant of pity was gone; and though her black heart ached still for his touch, she could not deny her nature, and venomous ice dripped from her words. “Right glad I am that thou wilt not yield. For though it is not of my making, thy pride mocks the Powers. It is a stench that will rise to Heaven, and choke even the feckless Lightbringer herself.” She blew him a mocking kiss. “We will meet again, my love,” she said, and her voice was full of poison. And then she was gone.

  ♦

  It was as the fiend foretold. The Sarvalóka met the hordes of Bardan in the starlit twilight; and Cielagan, resplendent in the gleaming golden armour gifted him by the Lightbringer, stood at their head. His great wings glittered in the countless glimmering shafts of the night sky, and fire shone from his face; but it was a fitful fire, and troubled. His plumed helm concealed the limp, white strands of his hair.

  The armies met upon the field below. The footmen of the Anari, led by the great hound-headed champions, thrust against the Giants, showering iron and fire upon them, sundering their ranks, while their winged comrades and commanders met in the heavens above. The servants of the Horn and the Sword, the Law and the Word, the Wardens and the Hammerers, clashed with the shadowed foe upon the broad, blighted Earth; and the splendour of the skies was rent and torn by their lightnings. But before them all soared Cielagan: their General, their Master, and their Lord Most High. Only he knew the full extent of his deceit; only he knew the depth of his depravity. He locked his terror and his tears within his breast; and he flew on. But the Sword of Justice remained undrawn; and so the battle stood in doubt.

  At the height of the fray, when the forces of the Host were all arrayed, and even Cielagan’s reserve, carefully hoarded, was at last engaged, a great shout arose from the throats of a thousand-score Giants; and a hideous roar issued from the throats of a thousand-score Dragons. A soaring black cloud mounted from behind the enemy’s ranks; and from that cloud, a dark and deadly shape of wings and fear and fire emerged. It was Achamkriss; first among the Servants of Bardan, Zotëri of his host, and Lord of the Firstborn. His wings beat like thunder wrought of shadow and darkness, and from his gaping maw, hungry flames billowed. And when he espied Cielagan against the glittering vault of the sky, he shrieked a challenge; and at that shriek, hundreds of the Host cried out, and fell from the heavens, their wings burned and broken, and their hearts turned to bile and ice within their breasts.

  Cielagan heard that challenge, and in it, heard death; for his heart, broken and poisoned by the deceit of the kurvëdjalle, and by his own failure, quailed within him. But in the desolation of his heart, the cry of Achamkriss stirred something; for he despaired now of life, and love, and knew that he merited no more the leadership of the Host. Naught was left to him but happy oblivion, for it would be welcome, and a mercy. And so he called his heralds, Eliastralee and Lööspelian, to his side, clad both in the silvery array of battle, and bearing their argent trumpets; and at his word, with sundering blasts, they threw the great dragon’s challenge back in his teeth.

  And so sore-wrought was Cielagan’s heart that he did not hear that the peals of Lööspelian’s celestial horn sounded like weeping. But Eliastralee heard; and she wondered what sorrow had afflicted her sister.

  Achamkriss rose to meet his challenge, with wing-beats like thunder; and the fi
res of their battle raged over the field, lighting the sky for miles, and dropping flames and thunderbolts upon the myrmidons struggling below. The great dragon flinched when the shadow of the Sword of Justice passed over his heart, and he shrieked in anger when its keen edge (thrice-forged by He who would one day teach the Dweorga their craft) bit into his armoured flesh. But even as the Dragon-God quailed, so too did Cielagan. For the merest touch of Karválanyaya was agony to him now; for Lagu and Bræa had enchanted it to unleash its fire against the law-breakers, and thus its divine wrath scourged his flesh and his soul no less fiercely than its bitter blade clove the hide of his foe.

  And that, in the end, was his undoing; for, tainted as he was by the consummation of his lust with a minion of darkness, Cielagan, loyal servant of the Lightbringer, was at last overcome. The Sword of Justice denied him its full power; and without its fell, holy fire, Achamkriss proved his master. At length, wounded by fang, claw, and the fiery blast of the enemy’s breath, Cielagan fell. And at his fall, the Earth shook, and the Heavens wept; and the Giants and the Dragons were heartened, and redoubled their attack. And the hearts of the Sarvalóka faltered as their general plummeted from the skies, and then failed; and they fled. And great was the slaughter in their rout.

  As the armies of darkness ranged freely over the battlefield, the last to flee were the heralds, Eliastralee and Lööspelian; their silver clarions became mighty swords in their hands, and they searched long and long for his body, striving with black-skinned fiends and wraiths of fire. Eliastralee was stern and sad, but always cautious; but Lööspelian was intemperate and disconsolate, winging hither and yon without care for the enemy, and sobbing uncontrollably. And when, together, they found the great sword Karválanyaya lying dim, lightless, and abandoned upon the field, Lööspelian shrieked out the pain of her sorrow and remorse. And Eliastralee wondered again what had so wounded her younger sister’s indomitable spirit.

  Their search was in vain; for another had marked the Vibhúh’s fall, and had hastened to gather up his wounded flesh; and he had been spirited away. Thus did Cielagan not even witness the final destruction of his army.

  ♦

  The minions of Bardan bore him away from the battle; and they bound his wounds with rough, bloodstained cloth, for the fangs and talons of Achamkriss had done grievous harm upon his alabaster flesh. To a deep, dark place, full of shadows and despair, they carried him; and at the last, placed him upon his knees on sharp, ebon stones, before a great doorway of iron; and they withdrew.

  Cielagan waited; his wounds ached, and his blood dripped and froze upon the flagstones, and his breath smoked in the frigid air. At last, the iron doorway blazed with light, and ravening flame scoured the air of the chamber. Something dark entered the gloom of the grotto; and a Presence, heavy as a thousand, thousand stones, weighed down upon his soul. Cielagan knew who it was, that had come to mock him in his misery and defeat.

  Svarúpa sevaka, the presence intoned solemnly; which, in the tongue of Heaven, means, “true servant”. The words dripped like blood and bile from the dark apparition’s tongue. I thank thee, Cielagan, son of light. Thou hast given me the victory.

  Though it was endless torture to even draw breath in that dark place and before that dark being, Cielagan struggled to his feet. Blood like starlight poured from his wounds, sinking into the hungry stones. “Ender-in-Shadow,” he gasped. “What thou hast won was won through craft, and through mine own failing. Thou canst not lay a heavier curse upon me than that which I have already in shame taken upon myself. Therefore, taunt me no more, but slay me, and have done.”

  Slay you? the fiend said, in feigned surprise. And be forever thought a mean and niggardly master? Nay, General of the Skies. Thou hast rendered great assistance unto the Lord of Shadow. My generosity is beyond measure, and even the least of my minions praise it. Thy service has been great, and so thy reward must be equally great. Thou hast but to name it, and it will be thine. A low, grating laugh shook the chamber, like stones grinding together deep under the Earth, as though the fiend knew already what boon Cielagan would demand.

  A welter of hatred and lust for vengeance rose up in the breast of Cielagan. These were, to him, new sensations, never before experienced; and he welcomed them, for they bit through the cold numbness of despair, and warmed him in his sorrow. He looked up; and before him, saw a vast, roiling cloud of darkness, shot through with streaks of orange flame; and he knew that he who stood before him was the Ender himself – Bardan, Lord of Death and Darkness. And, too, he knew what benison, what gift, he desired above all others.

  “Lord of Darkness,” he grated through clenched teeth, “thou hast destroyed me; and did I for a moment believe that thou wouldst give it to me, I would demand thy black and bloodless heart. Instead, in its place –” he paused, smiling “– I name, as my blood-gift, the heart of the treacherous minion who was thy tool. Dharmachárin; Eternal Duty; the false face of my beloved Eliastralee – she it was, who defiled and destroyed me. Give me her heart, Bardan Eyðar, and I will consider myself well repaid.”

  So be it, quoth the shadow.

  The stones of the cavern rumbled and rolled; and Kënaqësi appeared in burst of smoke and red light, just as Cielagan had last seen her; unclad, save for the gilt-embroidered and guilt-stained cloth she had torn from the Lightbringer’s altar. When she beheld who it was that stood in the iron doorway, wreathed in shadow and flame, she shrieked, and fell upon her face, moaning in terror.

  Arise, daughter of darkness, the shadow intoned. No prostration; for thou hast performed thy task admirably, and I am well pleased with thee.

  Kënaqësi struggled to her feet, and stood before her master, knees trembling and eyes downcast. “Rrofshi, Zotëri,” she whispered, her voice quaking.

  Entranced thou this servant of the Light with the power of thy charms? the shadow asked.

  “Yes, Master.”

  That was well done. Know you that I have asked him to name his prize for granting us this day’s victory.

  The fiend-whore glanced sidelong at Cielagan, who stood, silent and still, on the razor-sharp stones; and, as had happened in his pavilion, she was struck once again by the remnants of beauty still clinging to him. And the black and bloodless heart within her warmed at the thought of what they had shared. She dared to hope that he felt as she did; for already, she had fallen enamored of the mighty general. “He should have whatever he desires, Master,” she agreed, blushing, her eyes downcast.

  He hath asked for thy heart, the shadow whispered.

  “It is his,” Kënaqësi replied, elated.

  The yellow blaze of eyes within the shadow narrowed. Thou should’st have striven for his love with greater fervor, daughter, the shadow rumbled hungrily. He hath asked for thy heart, but not thy hand. A twisting limb of roiling, fiery smoke undulated towards her.

  “Master, I do not understand,” she said, uncertain. Then comprehension at last flooded into her, and she raised her hands raised, and stumbled backwards. But a limb of shadow caught her, and steadied her, and held her motionless.

  Here is thy prize, servant of the light, the shadow sighed, throbbing with dreadful anticipation. Take it.

  Cielagan rose slowly to his feet and he approached the struggling demon. He plucked the altar cloth from her, exposing her white, flawless bosom; and leaned down, and put his lips to her ear. “My soul is lost,” quoth he, “and I am damned, and for the pit.” He spoke in a whisper, and his voice quivered with hints of suppressed rage. “But so too art thou, traitress; and for thy treason and thy depravity, it is fit that thou should’st precede me there.” And, so saying, he caught her throat in his left hand; and plunged his mighty right hand into her chest.

  Bones splintered and cracked beneath his blow, and a gout of black ichor burst from her lips. Ebon gore splashed and smoked upon the stones; and it seemed as though the dark cloud of Bardan laughed, and a chorus of shadows capered and howled in furi
ous delight. Cielagan felt the fiend’s heart squirming and struggling beneath his fingers; and when he clenched his fist, and wrenched the shriveled, black and shrunken thing out of her chest, her eyes widened, and she gasped; but she said nothing. She only kept her gaze fixed firmly on his face.

  He held the dripping, limply pulsing organ up before her eyes, which were already growing dim. “I thank you for giving me your heart, demon,” he grated, smiling cruelly at her pain. And it seemed to Kënaqësi that the harsh, bloody light emanating from the eyes of the Master of Shadow glinted afresh from the Angel’s eyes.

  She turned her gaze to the flame-shot cloud that roiled and hovered before the iron door, holding her rigid in its grasp. “Master…I claim...my right…” she whispered. With each word, her voice sunk further, and droplets of gore spattered from her lips.

  What right do you claim, daughter? the shadow asked. Speak swiftly, for your time is nearly done.

  “My right… a bargain…duly sealed…” she gasped. Only the force of her will kept her alive; but she was weakening with every breath. “Sealed flesh…to flesh…I promised…this one…my heart…and he promised…me…his…” And then she crumpled to the flagstones, and moved no more.

  A just claim, the shadow mused. My apologies, Servant of Bræa. But accounts must be balanced. My daughter’s claim is fair. All debts must be paid. A limb of shadow flicked toward him; and, in a welter of blood, fire and agony, Cielagan’s chest burst open. The shadow reached through shattered iron, flesh and bone, and tore out his heart. As he watched, Bardan held the heaving, pumping organ up before him; and then a lick of shadow and flame surged out, and caressed it; and the heart was turned to white, flawless stone, like an egg formed of purest marble.

  Cielagan cried out as the shadow laid the gleaming thing beside Kënaqësi’s recumbent form. Thus is thy debt to my daughter repaid. A pity, the master of shadow rumbled softly, but I fear it will do her no good now. And in any case, a heart of stone serves no purpose.

  The general felt the eyes of flame and shadow upon him. One cannot live without a heart, Cielagan, the shadow added in a ghost of a whisper.

  Cielagan felt his life ebbing, and looked down at the black, gore-encrusted thing squirming in his hand, throbbing with loathing and hatred. He felt a great fear of the unknown; and an even greater fear of the judgement that awaited him before the Throne. He felt his breath shallowing, his vision fading, and his limbs growing chill. And then, once again, he felt his late lover’s black, shrunken heart writhing feebly in his fist.

  He turned his gaze full on the shadow that undulated expectantly in the darkness. The unseen eyes regarded him dispassionately, as if waiting to see what he would do. With his eyes locked on that empty, taunting shadow, he took one last, halting breath; and then he carefully placed Kënaqësi’s black, twitching heart in the vast, gaping hole in his chest.

  His flesh closed eagerly about it, and he gasped. It was cold.

  Hail Cielagan, my son, the shadow whispered. Welcome, thou true servant of Darkness. And behind that whisper, the General, Master, and Lord Most High heard the discordant, howling shrieks of a thousand, thousand fiends, clamouring for the rulership and destruction of all Anuru, and for the blood of the Anari, and of the Host. And his new heart – the heart of the fiendish lover that lay slain at his feet – rejoiced within his breast.

  And then Cielagan realized what he had done; that he had, in a moment of weakness, chosen the Dark over the Light; chosen his own desire over pure service; chosen eternal pain, torment and suffering over the sweet repose of oblivion. He wept; and because they came from his new heart, the tears he shed were viscid, stinking, and black, and scorched the stone where they fell. “Demon, release me,” he begged. “Slay me; grant me peace.”

  And waste thy talents and my gift? Bardan replied. Never. Never! Thou’rt mine utterly, now, General and Master and Lord Most High. Thou shalt stand at the forefront of my legions, and by my grace, and by thy skill, the grip of the puling Anari upon this world and all within it shall be broken forever. And the Shadow and Darkness shall reign.

  “Thou mayest command my flesh, for now it is truly thine,” Cielagan spat, “but the soul within me remains mine own. And I reject thy poisoned gift, and deny it dominion over me; and so shall I, as long as I live.” And the force of his will was such that Cielagan severed within himself all but the most tenuous links between the heart of the fiend Kënaqësi and his own flesh; and so, although he lived, his strength, which had at one time been great enough to shatter mountains, failed; and he fell to the stone floor: breathing, awake, and aware, and yet unmoving.

  So mighty a minion, the Shadow rejoiced. Time is my slave, as thou art, and therefore can I afford to wait. In time, thou wilt come to accept my gift, and glory in thy newfound strength and purpose, and take thy deservèd place at my right hand.

  Then Bardan took from Cielagan his name, and dubbed him Zemërdreq, that in the Dark Speech means “Fiendheart.” And the minions of Bardan seized the motionless body of Cielagan, and took it to a deep cavern under the earth; and there they placed him upon a stone chair before a vast pool of blood. In that pool, Bardan caused to be reflected all of the suffering, hurt and horror, in Heaven and upon Earth, that thereafter flowed from Cielagan’s failure. And these were legion; for the Master of Shadow hoped that, in time, despair would force the fallen General to accept his bloody gift, and embrace his fiendish lover’s heart; and, growing strong again, that Cielagan would willingly serve the Master of Shadow in the vanguard of the armies of darkness.

  In time, Cielagan’s flesh sealed around Kënaqësi’s heart, but never wholly; for Cielagan thoughs eons of torment passed and bowed him down, he refused to wholly accept the accursèd gift. Thus ever after Cielagan bled blood, red and vital, and poisoned and black, from the great rent in his breast; and this venomous blood kept the enchanted pool filled, and it cursed all that he saw therein. And as he pondered the horror and suffering that he witnessed – that he had caused – Cielagan wondered whether he should end his long suffering and vigil; whether he should accept his failure, give up any hope of returning to the service of the Light, and embrace the fiendish heart within him. But he never did.

  ♦

  After the defeat of the Sarvalóka, the heralds of Cielagan, Lööspelian and Eliastralee, flew to the Asurashikara, the Devilpeak, to deliver the ill news to their mistress Tîan, the Imprisoned Goddess. And Lööspelian bore with her the Sword of Justice, wrapped carefully in her cloak; for in her secret heart, she feared that she had been the cause of all that had happened, and she dreaded what its touch would do to her, lawbreaker that she was. They found the mountain peak of imprisoned Tîan shrouded in storms and showers of lightning; and it seemed to Eliastralee that all the heavens were weeping at the loss that the Host had suffered that day. But to Lööspelian, the thunder and fire were a mark of her mistress’ rage and condemnation, and she trembled in fear.

  Tîan knelt on the cold, gray stone, as she had done since that dread day, ages past, when treacherous Zaman, Tîan’s own sister, had struck her between the wing roots with Tîan’s own sword, great Vasatri, forged from of the Light of Creation; and the blade, passing through her breast, had struck and slain Zaman’s servant Balcocheth - who, in the manner of his fiendish folk, had become one of the stones of the Earth, to remain, unmoving and immovable, until the Breaking of the World. No blood flowed from the terrible wounds; for the sword was truly hers, and though it transfixed her to the stone, it refused to harm her. And because it rejected any hand but hers, and she could not reach it to wield it, Tîan was condemned to lie upon the stone of the Devilpeak forever, until the End.

  Tîan’s long imprisonment meant that justice lay stilled and quiescent, while injustice roamed free throughout the Universe. Yet through the stone upon which she lay, she could feel the pulse of all the World, and knew when injustice struck, and where, and so could better direct her minions. And
thus was Tîan was content with her lot, and did what she could to bring justice to the Kindred, and to all who struggled for life within the scope of her sister Bræa’s creation.

  When Lööspelian laid the great sword Karválanyaya before her, Tîan was silent. She did not weep for the fallen, for Justice knows neither sorrow nor remorse, but only the law and its breaking. It knows that there are no true accidents in the Universe; that all things flow, for weal or woe, from the decisions of those who act. Nor did Eliastralee weep; for to her, the day’s disaster was but one setback in a long struggle, that would see both sides revel in victory and wallow in defeat many times before the End. But Lööspelian wept. She wept enough for all three.

  Why weepest thou, daughter? Tîan asked. Gather the threads of thy courage together, and take up thy shield and sword; for there are many, that thou called brother and sister, to be avenged. Nodding at the Karválanyaya, she said, Remember thy friend and master, mighty Cielagan; and if thou wilt, bear the Sword of Justice into battle. Thou canst do no greater honour to his memory than to avenge his fall with his own glaive.

  “I am not worthy to bear his blade, nor even to speak his name,” Lööspelian replied through her tears. “For the fault is mine that he is fallen.” And she poured out her tale to her mistress, and to her sister Eliastralee, who stood, shocked and silent, as the sad story unfolded in all its terrible fullness.

  When the weeping Angel of the Horn was done, Tîan smiled sadly. Though knowest that through the medium of the air and the murmurs of the earth, said she, all of the tales of justice and injustice come to me. And thus would I have known this even if I did not already know thy heart, daughter, and the General’s as well. The Goddess of Justice put her hand on Lööspelian’s, and continued, Thy heart is thine own, Lööspelian. It was Cielagan’s heart that failed; for he lusted after thy sister, Eliastralee, as he should not have done; and gave in to his lust; and thus was he ensnared. It was his failing, not thine, that led to his fall.

  But Lööspelian would not be comforted. “He is dead, and we are lost, and it was my doing,” she wailed.

  It was not your doing, Tîan replied, nor are we lost. The Powers of the Light have suffered a defeat, and it was a just and deserved defeat. Cielagan stood at the head of our Host, tainted by his crime; and that taint marred the purity of all our folk, and so they failed.

  It was no accident; it was Justice.

  The goddess paused, then added reluctantly, Nor is he dead. He languishes in the stronghold of the Ender, his own heart torn from him, and that of the fiend that broke him bound within his breast by his own hand. He suffers all the torments of the damned, without hope of an ending, and will so suffer, for as long as the world endures. Such is the manner in which the Lord of the Uruqua pays those he tempts into treason.

  At this sad news, Eliastralee bowed her head, and wept her first tears since the defeat; for she had loved the strength and mastery and purity of Cielagan, and his dreadful fate broke the heart within her. But Lööspelian was elated. “If he lives,” she cried, “then we may yet save him!” And from the empty air she plucked her argent horn; and with a word, it became a glimmering sword, flaming hot and white, a tongue of Heaven’s own fire.

  But Tîan frowned. Hast thou not heard my decree? she asked sternly. Cielagan’s fate is a just punishment for his sins. Though he may still be redeemed, it will be as he was cursed; not be by thy hand, but by his own. Should he bend to Bardan’s will; or, damned as he now is, expire and face Oblivion; then will his name be written into the history of the Universe as traitor to the Light.

  His only hope for salvation is to remain steadfast; to resist Bardan’s blandishments and gifts; to reject forever the fiendish heart to which he hath been bound, and to forever deny himself the bleak semblance of strength and life that it would grant him. His fate is to suffer the agonies of his failure; to bear his doom, until the world breaks. Only then may he be redeemed, and rejoin the Host in the endless time after time.

  “That is not justice!” Lööspelian cried, appalled. “It is harsh and cruel, a penance too heavy for even the mightiest of hearts to bear!”

  And yet he must bear it, Tîan replied, her voice was as cold as the winds that scoured the mountain peak, and he knows that he must. He hath seen more clearly than thou, daughter, the fate that awaits him; one that is like unto mine: to accept the consequences of his failure, and to endure, until all bonds are sundered at the Breaking of the World.

  The eyes of the imprisoned goddess flashed with angry light, and even chained, the might of the Anari shone through. Thou wilt respect his courage and his penance, Lööspelian, Minion of Light, and leave him to bear this penance – and perhaps, in the fullness of time, emerge victorious. If thou gainsayest my judgment in this, then shalt thou be truly lost. Bend thou, therefore, to my will, and to Justice.

  “I will not!” Lööspelian cried. “This is not justice! He would not have come to this fate were it not for my words, my deeds! The first betrayal was mine, not his, and it is wrong that he should suffer for my weakness!” She was shaking with terror at speaking so to her divine mistress; but also with rage. “If it lies within my strength to save him, then save him I shall!” And she quaked in fear at her temerity; but she held her ground, and raised her shining sword before her.

  Tîan looked upon her, sad but stern; and when she spoke, her voice was unyielding stone. As it was for Cielagan, so it is for thee, she intoned severely. There art but three choices for thy kind: to serve the Light; to serve the Dark; or to face oblivion. The Gift of Bræa is not thine, minion, to come and go as thou wilt, or to serve whomsoever thou choosest. Should’st thou leave my side and not perish, then thou shalt become an agent of the shadows, a minion of the Uruqua. Thou art with the Light, or against it; no other choice exists for the Sarvalóka.

  Cast not thy lot with Cielagan, daughter, for he is lost. If thou throwest thyself into the maelstrom after one who has already drowned, then thou canst do naught but drown thyself.

  “Is there no right, no glory, in making the attempt nonetheless?” the herald demanded.

  There can be no glory, and no right, Tîan replied firmly, when the Law is flouted.

  “That, too, is unjust,” Lööspelian said defiantly, “to demand that we who stand for all that is good and glorious in the world must eschew right action in obedience to thy principle. Cielagan would have snatched me” – and she turned to face Eliastralee – “or thee, sister, from the uttermost depths of the Pit. Whatever his sin, we who love him owe him no less loyalty.”

  And with those words, she drew herself up to her full height, and fire like the glory of heaven blazed from her eyes. “I reject thy ruling, Mistress. I shall do what I know to be right; and if, in so doing, I must defy thy edicts, then defy them I shall. I may perish in the attempt; but I shall try!”

  It is not thy life I fear for, daughter, but thy soul, Tîan said, genuine sorrow replacing the outrage in her tone. The edicts thou despisest are not mine. They are those of Bræa and Bardan, from whom the Minions sprang; and of Anā and Ūru themselves, who made the Universe, and who together, at the dawn of time, forged the Law that governs all. That Law may not be debated, by those who dwell above or below. It may only be flouted, or obeyed.

  She raised her hand in a gesture not of benediction, but of aversion and condemnation. Thy choice is made. Farewell, Lööspelian.

  “No!” cried Eliastralee. But it was too late. The sword that Lööspelian held aloft glinted once, twice, and thrice; and then it dissolved into shadow. That shadow wound around the startled herald, binding her tightly, and then bled into her. Lööspelian screamed in agony as her gleaming armour burst asunder; her flesh turned from the purest white to a dark, sickly, verdant hue; the heavenly pallor of her wings darkened to the red of congealing blood; talons sprouted from her hands and feet, fangs from betwixt her lips, and horns from her head; and her eyes, when she opened them at
last, burned with all the fires of the infernal realms. Then her eyes closed again, and she tottered, as if to fall.

  “Sister!” Eliastralee shrieked again. Reaching out, she grasped Lööspelian by the arm; but she withdrew her hand again, when Lööspelian gasped as though burned by her sister’s touch.

  So begins thy long exile, Lööspelian, Daughter of Darkness, Tîan intoned sadly. Like Cielagan, though art fallen from grace. Get thee hence from my sight, fiend. Go whither thou wilt, excepting only the realms of the Anari; for these are now, and forever more, denied thee, on pain of thine instant destruction.

  “This…is not…justice!” Lööspelian gasped, regarding her new diabolical form with utter horror. “I shall atone for my misdeeds in mine own time, and in mine own way! I shall save Cielagan, whom thou also wouldst abandon to the Enemy! And if that deed doth not merit my redemption, then the Anari deserve neither my fealty nor my faith!”

  Do as thou wilt, Tîan said sternly, but look not for forgiveness. There is neither atonement, nor a road back for thee now. Thy choice has been made, Lööspelian, and I weep at it; but it was thine, not mine. And thou must now accept all that comes with it. And the great blade between her shoulders, and protruding from her breast, glowed with a blinding, holy light, that fell upon Lööspelian’s new, fiendish flesh, searing her like the heat of a forge.

  Lööspelian turned to her sister, who glowed with a similar heat and light; and though she felt shrunken and foul beside Eliastralee, she did not feel weak; for a hot fire of purpose swept through her, and warmed her heart, which wept still for Cielagan. “Say farewell, Sister,” she said with a sad smile. “For we shall not meet again on this side of the Breaking.”

  “I will never say thee farewell,” Eliastralee replied, her voice breaking; and tears that she had not shed for the fallen of the Sarvalóka at last fell fast and free for her beloved sister, and the grim fate that she had chosen. “Instead, I shall pray that thou wilt succeed in thy task. I know thy heart, Sister; and if anyone could fulfill such a reckless vow, and rescue thy love and mine from eternal damnation, it is thee.”

  She took the fiend’s hand, and though both winced at the pain of that touch, they endured it; and she said, “Should’st thou return with Cielagan in triumph, I shall kneel at thy feet, and kiss them, whatever colour they may be.” And so saying, she did kiss her sister’s forehead; and at even so brief a contact, both cried out; for Eliastralee’s lips, and Lööspelian’s flesh, were alike burned and blistered. And Eliastralee said, “Know that, however long thy exile may endure, always will I love and cherish thee.”

  Enough, Tîan commanded. Her voice was harsh, but Eliastralee heard in it sorrow and regret. Go now, Lööspelian, daughter of the shadow, and never return.

  And as the imprisoned goddess and her herald watched in sorrowful silence, the horned angel of darkness strode to the edge of the cliff. “This is not justice,” Lööspelian said one final time; and, wrapping her dusky, blood-hued wings about her, she stepped off into the night.

  She fell; and falling, she smote the earth below like a bolt of fire from the heavens, and was forever lost to the Light.

  ♦♦♦

  Gwen’s Notes

  I like a good love story as much as the next girl, but I prefer it when they have a happy ending. This one means something to me, though, as I helped to free Eliastralee from the servants of the Lover-in-the-Darkness, and I later met Lööspelian aboard a ship on the way to Vejborg.

  I feel bad for what Eliastralee went through. Lööspelian has endured much worse over the long ages, but my sympathy for her is somewhat attenuated by the fact that she once brought a bunch of devils to try to kill us.

  ...yeah, I know. It’s a long story. In fact, “It’s a long story” would be a good subtitle for this book.

  Twentieth Rune: Minne lohikäärmalta?

  (Where are the Dragons?)

  ♦

  (from the Tarusta Lehtori Kultainen, by Ryskankanakis)

 

  Where are the Dragons?

  When morning is calling, and Bræadan dawning,

  The great wyrms, a-yawning, from stony beds creep;

  When night’s shade is falling, and starlight is shining,

  On gilt beds reclining, they hie them to sleep.

  When hart in the valley or hind in the clearing

  Their yearlings are rearing, they plunge from the skies;

  Nor linger, nor dally, they fall like the thundering;

  Flock and herd sundering, skyward they rise.

  When war’s in the offing, and bright armour glistening,

  Talon-spurs christening, battleward-bound;

  Their treasure-troves doffing, and trumpet-calls shattering,

  War machines battering, down on the ground;

  Where arrows are whistling, war-horns are blowing,

  And hot blood is flowing, and helms shining bright;

  Where spear-points are bristling, never despair;

  For you’ll find they are there, in the thick of the fight.

  Where are the Dragons?

  When silver is gleaming, and gemstones are glinting

  Exertion unstinting, amassing their hoards;

  Of treasure-troves dreaming, their wealth is a wonder

  Of pillage and plunder from peasants and lords;

  A king’s ransom hoarded, o’er ages laborious

  Bright gold and glorious, ever to shine!

  His toil rewarded, the vigilant miser

  Grows richer and wiser by deed and design.

  When rising blood kindles, the ready wyrm reckons –

  The mating urge beckons, and all heed its call;

  The treasure-lust dwindles, and hearts fill with wonder,

  All other ties sunder, when passions enthral.

  The ready wyrm rises in splendour victorious;

  Majesty glorious outshines the sun;

  The new lovers’ guises a-gleam in the shimmering,

  Sunbeams a-glimmering, ‘till they are one.

  Where are the Dragons?

  When wyrmlings are hatching, the weyr-master guarding,

  The weyr-mistress warding her children from woe.

  With weyr-leader watching, as seasons are turning;

  The wyrmlings are learning the things they must know.

  With first steps they stumble, until they grow stronger,

  Then stumble no longer; the Earth they defy,

  From weyr’s-edge they tumble, proud parents beholding,

  And new wings unfolding, strike out for the sky.

  When age dims the scales, the mighty heart falters –

  For time all things alters, and wyrms know it, too –

  When limbs are grown frail, and bright fangs are blunted,

  The hunters are hunted; the skies they eschew.

  Bid farewell to leisure, to harts and to cattle,

  To mates and to battle; to new needs succumb;

  Bid farewell to treasure; their offspring they chasten;

  To the Vale they hasten, for twilight has come.

  Where are the Dragons?

  At the end of long living, they seek out the stones

  Where the bare, weathered bones mark an ancient wyrm’s heart;

  Life’s legend reliving, and offspring attending

  All bitter pain ending – in glory, depart!

  In bright Dracosedes, the Mountains of Miros,

  Above fair Fulgoris, where all sorrows cease,

  They fly there eternally, fairest and First-Born,

  Awaiting the last horn, forever at peace.

  ♦♦♦

  Gwen’s Notes

  This is one of my favourites. I’d love to be a dragon – to be able to fly, to do magic, to live for thousands of years, to breathe fire on people that annoy you, to be able to swat them with your gigantic tail...

  Plus, you know – sleeping on a giant pile of money. Who wouldn’t love that?