Aravan sighed. “ ’Twas in the days of the Great War of the Ban.”
They lay without speaking for long moments, but at last Aylis asked, “If it does not yet pain you, can you tell me how it happened?”
“It will always pain me, Chier, but I will tell thee regardless.
“We were on our way back from Black Mountain in faraway Xian, where the Mages had given Galarun the Silver Sword to bear back to Darda Galion. Our small band had come a long way, and finally reached the Dalgor March, there on the wold east of the Grimwall and west of the Argon some sixty leagues north of the Larkenwald. There we were joined by a company of Lian patrolling that part of Riamon, Riatha and her jarin Talar among them. As we made our way across the fen where the outflow of the Dalgor River widens into a wetland of many streams to spill into the Great Argon, a strange fog enveloped us-spell-cast, I ween. It was then that. .”
In the silver light of dawn, into the delta marshlands they rode, horses plashing through reeds and water, mire sucking at hooves, the way slow and shallow, arduous but fordable, unlike the raging upstream waters of the Dalgor, hurtling down from the high Grimwalls to the west. Deep into the watery lowland they fared, at times dismounting and wading, giving the horses respite.
It was near the noontide, that late fall day, when the blue stone on the thong about Aravan’s neck grew chill. He alerted Galarun that danger was nigh, and the warning went out to all. On they rode and a pale sun shone overhead, and one of the outriders called unto the main body. At a nod from Galarun, Aravan rode forth among the tall reeds to see what was amiss. He came unto the rider, Eryndar, and the Elf pointed eastward. From the direction of the Argon, rolling through the fen like a grey wall rushing came fog, flowing over them in a thick wave, obscuring all in its wake, for Aravan and Eryndar could but barely see each other less than an arm’s span away. And from behind there sounded the clash and clangor and shout of combat.
“To me! To me!” came Galarun’s call, muffled and distant in the mist there in the Dalgor Fen, confusing to mind and ear.
Though he could not see, Aravan spurred his horse to come to his comrades’ aid, riding to the sounds of steel on steel, though they too were muted and remote and seemed to echo where no echoes should have been. He charged into a deep slough, the horse foundering, Aravan nearly losing his seat. And up from out of the water rose an enormous dark shape, and a webbed hand struck at him, claws sweeping past Aravan’s face as the horse screamed and reared, the Elf ducking aside from the blow. “Krystallopyr,” whispered Aravan, Truenaming the spear. He thrust the weapon into the half-seen thing looming above him, and a hideous yowl split the air as the blade burned and sizzled in cold flesh. With a huge splash, the creature was gone, back into the mire.
Still, somewhere in the murk a battle raged-clang and clatter and outcries. Again Aravan rode toward the sound, trusting the horse in treacherous footing. Shapes rose up from the reeds and attacked-they were Rucha and Loka alike-but the crystal spear pierced them and burned them, and they fled screaming, or fell dead.
Of a sudden the battle ended, the foe fading back into the cloaking fog, vanishing in the grey murk. And it seemed as if the strange echoing disappeared as well, the muffling gone. And the blue stone at Aravan’s neck grew warm.
“Galarun!” called Aravan. “Galarun!. .” Other voices, too, took up the cry.
Slowly they came together, did the scattered survivors, riding to one another’s calls, and Galarun was not among them.
The wan sun gradually burned away the fog, and the company searched for their captain. They found him at last, pierced by crossbow quarrel and cruel barbed spear, lying in the water among the reeds, he and his horse slain. . the Silver Sword gone.
Three days they searched for that token of power, there in the Dalgor Fen, as well as for sign of the ones who did this dreadful deed. Yet in the end they found nought but an abandoned Ruchen campsite, a campsite used less than a full day, and no trail leading outward. “Perhaps there is an in-between somewhere nigh, and they went back to Neddra,” suggested Eryndar.
At last, hearts filled with rage and grief, they took up slain Galarun and the five others who had fallen and rode for Darda Galion across the wide wold. Two days passed and part of another ere they forded the River Rothro on the edge of the Eldwood forest. Travelling among the massive boles of the great trees, they forded the Quadrill the following day and later the River Cellener to come at last unto the Coron-hall in Wood’s-heart, the Elvenholt central to the great forest of Darda Galion.
Aravan bore Galarun’s blanket-wrapped body into the hall, where were gathered Lian waiting, mourning. Through a corridor of Elvenkind strode Aravan, toward the High Coron, and nought but silence greeted him. Eiron stepped down from the throne at this homecoming of his son, moving forward and holding out his arms to receive the body. Desolation stood in Aravan’s eyes as he gave over the lifeless Elf. Eiron tenderly cradled Galarun unto himself and turned and slowly walked the last few steps unto the dais, where he laid his slain child down.
Aravan’s voice was choked with emotion. “I failed him, my Coron, for I was not at Galarun’s side when he most needed me. I have failed thee and Adon as well, for thy son is dead and the Silver Sword is lost.”
Bleakly, Coron Eiron looked up from the shrouded corpse, his own eyes brimming, his voice whispering. “Take no blame unto thyself, Aravan, for the death of Galarun was foretold-”
“Foretold!” exclaimed Aravan.
“-by the Mages of Black Mountain.”
“If thou didst know this, then why didst thou send thy son?”
“I did not know.”
“Then how-”
“Galarun’s death rede,” explained Eiron. “The Mages told him that he who first bore the weapon would die within the year.”
Aravan remembered the grim look on Galarun’s face when he had emerged from the Wizardholt of Black Mountain.
Kneeling, slowly the Coron undid the bindings on the blankets, folding back the edges, revealing Galarun’s visage, the features pale and bloodless. From behind, Aravan’s voice came softly. “He let none else touch the sword, and now I know why.”
Coron Eiron stood, motioning to attendants, and they came and took up Galarun’s body, bearing it out from the Coron-hall.
When they had gone, Aravan turned once again unto Eiron. “His death rede: was there. . more?”
The Coron sat on the edge of the dais. “Aye: a vision of the one responsible. It was a pale white fiend who slew my Galarun; like Man he looked, but no mortal was he. Mayhap a Mage instead. Mayhap a Demon. More, I cannot say. Pallid he was, and tall, with black hair and hands lengthy and slender and wild, yellow eyes. His face was long and narrow, his nose straight and thin, his white cheeks unbearded.”
“And the sword. Did Galarun-”
Aravan’s words were cut off by a negative shake of Eiron’s head. “The blade was yet with my son when he died.”
Frustration and anger colored Aravan’s voice. “But now it is missing. Long we searched, finding nought.”
After a moment Eiron spoke: “If not lost in the fen, then it is stolen. And if any has the Dawn Sword, it is he: the pallid one with yellow eyes. Find him and thou mayest find the blade.”
Aravan stepped back and unslung his spear from its shoulder harness; he planted the butt of the weapon to the wooden floor and knelt on one knee. “My Coron, I will search for the killer and for the sword. If he or it is to be found-”
Aravan’s words were cut short, for the Coron wept. And so the Elf put aside the crystal blade and sat next to his liege lord, and with tears in his own eyes, spoke to him of the last days of his valiant son.
Aravan took a deep, shuddering breath. “That was some five millennia agone. . and it was but a year past that Bair and I together finally fulfilled that pledge.”
Aylis nodded. “You recovered the Silver Sword and slew Galarun’s killer, to say nought of slaying Gyphon.”