"Dead? Galarun's dead?" Tipperton's eyes filled with tears.
"Aye," said Aravan, his own gaze brimming. "Slain by a man with yellow eyes, the silver sword lost."
"This man-?" said Beau.
"What hap-?" asked Rynna.
"Where-?" asked Linnet.
Aravan held forth a hand, palm out. He wiped the tears from his cheeks and said, "As ye know, a day we spent resting in Darda Erynian…"
A day they spent resting, but no more, for their mission was urgent, and they rode away the following morn, did Galarun and his company. West they fared, crossing the mighty River Argon to come into the wide wold 'tween river and mountain, where they turned south for Darda Galion, the Grimwalls on their right, the Argon to their left.
Three days they rode down the wold, coming unto the Dalgor Marches, where they were joined by a company of Lian warriors patrolling the fens. Here it was that Aravan first met Riatha and Talar, riding among that company.
The next dawn, into the fens they rode, horses splashing through reeds and water, mire sucking at hooves, the way slow and shallow, arduous but fordable, unlike the swift deep waters of the Dalgor River upstream flowing 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 November day, when Aravan warned Galarun that the blue stone on the thong grew chill, and so the warning went out to all that peril was nigh. 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 out 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 one another 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 fog there in the Dalgor Fens, confusing to mind and ear.
Though Aravan could not see more than two strides ahead, he 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 raking past his face as the horse screamed and reared, the Elf ducking aside from the deadly blow. "Krystallopyr," whispered Aravan, truenaming the spear, thrusting the weapon into the half-seen thing looming above him; and a hideous yawl 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 clangor and shouts. Again Aravan rode toward the sound, trusting to his horse in the treacherous footing. Shapes rose up from the reeds and attacked-Rupt, they were, Rucha and Loka alike-but the crystal spear pierced them and burned them, and they fell dead or fled screaming.
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. Yet in the end they found nought but an abandoned Ruchen campsite, a campsite used less than a full day. "… Perhaps they went back to Neddra," suggested Eryndar, as cold rain fell down and down.
At last, hearts filled with rage and grief, they took up slain Galarun and the five others who had fallen, and they 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, snow lying on the ground. Travelling among the massive boles of the great trees, the following day they forded the Quadrill and later the River Cellener to come at last unto Wood's-heart, the Elvenholt central to the great forest of Darda Galion.
Aravan bore Galarun's blanket-wrapped body into the coron-hall, where were gathered Lian waiting, mourning. Through a corridor of Elvenkind strode Aravan, toward the Elvenking, 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. Tears stood in Aravan's eyes as he gave over the lifeless Elf. Eiron tenderly cradled Galanin 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 lost."
Coron Eiron looked up from the blanket-wrapped corpse, his eyes brimming, his voice a whisper. "Take no blame unto thyself, Aravan, for the death of Galanin was foretokl-"
"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 Galanin 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 edge, 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 one who slew my Galanin; like a Human he looked, but no mortal was he. Mayhap a Mage instead. Mayhap a Demon. Pallid he was and tall, with black hair and hands long and slender… and wild, yellow eyes. His face was long and narrow, his nose straight and thin, his white cheeks unbearded. More I cannot say."
"And the sword. Did Galarun-?"
Aravan's words were cut short 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, is the Dawn Sword. 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 never finished, for the coron began to weep. And so Aravan put aside the crystal blade and sat next to his liege, and with tears in his own eyes, spoke to him of the last days of his valiant son.
"After the funeral, I rode back unto the fen, and long did I search, aided by Dara Riatha's company, but to no avail, for no blade did I find. At last I gave up the hunt, for war yet burns across Mithgar, and my spear is needed." Aravan fell silent.