Toils of the Valiant

By Julius Bailey

The epic conclusion to the widely-loved adventure of Strife of the Mighty!

DOOM COMES. FAITH WAVERS. HOPE HANGS IN THE BALANCE.

The battle for Darfrandor is over, but there is neither time nor mood for celebration. Having received word of the approaching power of the Dread Palace, time is yet again in short supply for Brandegan, Allon, and Merch—and all of Vrandalin with them.

Heeding lessons learned from before and during the battle with the Morkathleam, Brandegan decides to leave Darfrandor without delay. Though he renders a stark warning to the people of the capital that there can be no victory in the fight against Ezirg Haur without the intervention of the Ayestærè, he begins to feel in his heart that the Vellneranians will never again have faith. Urging them to flee south on a desperate journey to Krandarmain Ilse, he leaves them to their choice. Yet the journey south will present Brandegan himself with hard choices to grapple, and force the silver-haired man to confront not only perils of the future, but burdens of the past.

For Allon Bracken, the way forward seems both clear and clouded. His will knows that he is not the same man that fled Varalel, yet his heart will soon discover that some wounds remain tender long. He must come to terms with both shortly, for in this time of final deeds, the hurting and the lost, the fearful and the hopeless, commoner and noble alike, will need someone to lead them.

As for Merch Provender, his difficulties come in many forms. From the worry over his home village, to the increasingly constant necessity to kill or be killed...to the often withheld thoughts and feelings of a new traveling companion. Yet all these difficulties must be overcome, for the clock is counting, and ale won’t last forever.

But for Parma the healer, leagues to the south in the proud city of Mariz, darkness has already arrived. Only newly loosening the grip of cold policies enacted against the southeasterners by Governor Parfidy, she is forced to push back against the malice of mysterious bandits who threaten the lives of those she protects. But in doing so she discovers a sinister plot against Mariz itself, and soon finds herself fighting the ghosts and foes from a past wrought with heartache. It will cost her bitterly.

Sacrifices are made, bonds are broken, and the powers of the realm are shaken in this kingdom-rending conclusion to the tale that began in Strife of the Mighty. Let the faithful keep strong.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Julius Bailey
• Release date: Jun 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463611685

Julius Bailey

Adventurer, wonderer and wanderer, creative thinker, and eccentrically unconventional, Julius Bailey tends to tread the peculiar paths. Between writing novels that delve between the realms, he spends his time engaging with the indie author community, encouraging others on the ever-changing paths of tale-crafting.YouTube channel: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC8iKa6pJZLke6_i9P2T1Xxg?view_as=subscriber

Book preview

In the previous Chronicle of Vrandalin, the tale was told of how a lone stranger named Brandegan appeared one night in the southeastern village of Varalel to warn the inhabitants of a swiftly approaching danger. His word proved true, and Varalel was attacked, and its people were forced to undertake a journey that would ultimately lead them over three hundred miles from their home. However, one villager, Allon Bracken by name, fell behind his neighbors during the early part of their flight, and was separated from Thrinna, his wife. Through chance (as it were) he found himself joined to Brandegan’s road.

Together, the two pursued the villagers and Allon’s wife, catching up at last but coming to grief. For Thrinna was killed, and it was discovered that the same enemy that had done so had been tormenting the villagers since their departure—in Brandegan’s form! It was an old foe from the past, the sorceress called Ezaril. During that time, Brandegan learned that she meant to storm Darfrandor, the capital city, with the army of the Morkathleam—the giants of the east—whom she had managed to sway to her will, and who had already attacked Varalel. Then, knowing that time hung in the balance, Brandegan left for the capital to bring warning to the king. Allon went with him, being urged by the promise he had made on his wife’s deathbed, and the two were joined by Merch Provender, a misunderstood enthusiast of liquor.

They traveled north in haste, and Allon and Merch soon became fast friends. While on that journey, Brandegan told them of the Ayestærè, the ancient powers of justice, who had once watched over the land as guards against evil. Times had changed, however, for men had lost faith in them, thus allowing evil to take root in the land. The form that evil took was Korgog, the Master of Terror, the third of the Three Shadows that had descended from the outer voids when the world was young. A day of doom would soon come, said Brandegan, when men would have to decide whether they would have faith again or perish.

Waylaid at a pass just south of the Eastern Fens, which would have led around that wetland, the trio was forced to travel through the great swamp, and barely escaped from the evil creatures lurking there. Reaching the city of Mariz hungry and weary, they were taken for rogues, and locked up by the governor Charles Parfidy. However, they escaped shortly thereafter, and it came to pass as they made clean their getaway, that Brandegan, by chance as it were, stumbled upon two pieces of the past: The swords Icranur and Faeldirehk—the Black Haft and Shining Bane—two of the five Sacred Blades. Great virtue could be commanded through these swords…if worthy was the wielder. Brandegan gave them into Allon and Merch’s hands.

Meanwhile, the villagers of Varalel and Creath took their journey through the wild in their flight from the Morkathleam, and hardly would they have survived the perils of the road or kept a true course but for the guidance of Parma the healer. With her will and wisdom she led them and held them together, and some said that she governed still more than met the eye. Whispers of a great cat, a black beast that guarded the camp at night and fought off hunting creatures, began to circulate amongst the southeasterners. At length they came to Mariz, shortly after the escape of Brandegan, Allon, and Merch, and were reluctantly granted admittance to a refuge.

But farther north, Brandegan and his companions pressed on, and came to the town of Burford. There they were ambushed by horror—ancient beasts of power and dread from the broken lands in the west: Gragmarr. More terrible still was the revelation that the greatest of these that assailed them was none other than Korgog himself, having taken upon himself the form of a Gragmarr more huge and horrible than any that had been seen since the First Age. And he was called Daugruil, the Devourer.

Taken by surprise, the trio was nearly worsted, but at the last the Devourer was driven off by a company of Krandish warriors who appeared suddenly, striking with deadly skill. These were the Le’arsi, the Chosen, valiant warriors of the Lone Isle who were loyal to the word of the Ayestærè. Long years their people had moved at the bidding of the High Ones, and many were the times that great ruin and death had been averted by their labor. Befriended by Ne’shak, a captain among the Chosen, Brandegan and his companions learned much. They supped with the Krands, who gifted them with bows. The morn following, the Le’arsi left like a wind.

Days later, Brandegan and his companions arrived at the capital, and here wonder fell on Allon and Merch. For there it was revealed that Brandegan was none other than the champion Athranian, hero of the kingdom, whose many great deeds had been put into song and tale long before their years had begun. The champion and the Varalelans took immediate audience with Urgand, King of Vrandalin, but he was reluctant to fully heed Brandegan’s warning concerning the coming threat. His doubt was bolstered by the cunning questions of Burgus Ascarriot, the Lord of Athorn, who had also come to Darfrandor at that time to commune with the king regarding matters to the west. Thus, several days that ought to have been wholly spent in battle preparation were largely wasted in counsel and debate, though at the last, Urgand relented. Then the city was set in array, and those who could not fight were committed to the Houses of Refuge on the height of Baulon. Yet plans still went askew, for on the very eve of battle, Brandegan learned that the Devourer was come again, haunting the passes near the Houses, and he was forced to leave Darfrandor to confront him.

Thus it was that when the torches of the Morkathleam appeared in war-ready ranks before the walls of the capital, the champion was not there. Then began a great siege, and the voices of the horns of the Morkathleam ran like thunder through Darfrandor. Ere the night was old the giants gained the gates, for they were broken by the power of Ezaril. Then Allon and Merch, who had remained to fight for the City of the Vale, were separated, and fought in increasing desperation in a battle of wrath.

Meanwhile, Brandegan and Daugruil looked one another in the face in the dale atop Baulon, and their battle was fierce. In that contest Brandegan was wounded, yet the power of Athranian proved the greater of the two, and he slew the Devourer before the entrance of the Houses of Refuge.

But in the city below, things were ill, for Ezaril had come, and death came with her. In that hour, the treachery of Ascarriot was revealed, for he joined to the witch’s side. And then, too, was his bloodline discovered, for he was a descendant of an old clan of wanderers, whose hatred was given to the men of Vrandalin. Yet even as all turned bleak, help unlooked for arrived, for the Le’arsi came, each one of their thirteen Cobine with a band under his command. Then the tides of battle began to turn, for the Krands rode upon saguthu, great battle-lions, and wielded exploding Black Powder. Ne’shak himself slew Edak-Bazir, the King of the Morkathleam, though his life was the cost of his victory. Yet Ezaril and Ascarriot would have killed Allon and Merch, but at the last, Brandegan returned, thwarting the witch’s killing stroke. Then Allon stabbed her with Icranur, and she perished from the world. But Ascarriot escaped.

Then, with sorceress and king destroyed, the Morkathleam were thrown into confusion, and hemmed between the three gates of Darfrandor, and there defeated. But though the following morn dawned a victorious one, triumph was short-lived. For ere they left the City of the Vale, never again to aid the men of Vrandalin except at the express bidding of the Ayestærè, the Le’arsi went before King Urgand with a message: Korgog had left his keep in the west and was sweeping across the land in the shadow of the Dread Palace with designs of ruin. The fate of the war between the men of Vrandalin and the Third Shadow was near.

The time has come for an end…

Chapter I:

A MORNING TO REMEMBER

Deep within the folds of a dream strange and holding, Allon mumbled in his sleep. Soft sunlight was pouring in through the open window-drapes of his tower bedroom, and a strong wind whipped them about. An abrupt frown distorted the Varalelan’s face, and he turned over as if in discomfort. His gentle snore faltered, and his fists clenched the mattress on which he lay. Suddenly, his eyes shot open and he sat up, just in time to hear the voice of Brandegan rumble from outside his door, Mr. Bracken, if you do not rouse yourself at once I shall come in there, take you by the collar, and cast you into the unpleasantly warm tub of water Yumbè is preparing downstairs.

Allon leapt to his feet. No need! he cried. I’m awake now.

The door opened and the silver-haired man strode in. I am beginning to wonder about you, he remarked. On the one day you cannot afford to sleep in you try to do just that. Even Merch has been up and going since just after sunrise—without anyone coming to call him. Do you know how long I’ve been knocking at your door?

Sorry, said Allon with an apologetic smile, "it’s just that I was having the oddest dream. Merch and me were standing on the deck of this great ship that was being tossed around in a fearsome storm. Parma was there as well. But this storm wasn’t a storm on water, far from it! We seemed to be sailing through a sea of sand, and it was all whipping up into our eyes and hair and teeth. A huge cloud of it swirled around my head, and when it cleared the ship and sand were gone.

I was standing on some sort of rise, overlooking…well, I almost don’t know how to describe it. I saw a huge, dark castle floating across the land. It was jagged and terrible, and whatever it passed over turned grey and withered. I felt it was getting closer and closer to us, and there was nothing that could be done to stop it. A second later I realized that somebody stood in its path. I couldn’t see who they were, but they raised their hand and I saw a sword gleam. Then the door of the castle opened, and…and something came out. It looked like a man, but I knew it wasn’t. The air seemed to fog up around him, and even through my dream his presence sent chills through me.

He shuddered slightly and shook his head. And that’s all. I don’t know what happened after that. I do feel that this is important though.

Brandegan responded with one of his growling sighs, and rubbed his chin. Strange most assuredly, he agreed. I must now consider. Ship and sand sound very much like our newest road, for any who wish to reach Krandarmain will be obliged to travel by ship from Vrandalin, and once there they are quite likely to encounter a great deal of sand if they are going southward. As for the other part—

Wait a minute, Allon interrupted, you’ve been to Krandarmain Isle before?

Brandegan’s large eyebrows lowered ever so slightly. "Don’t ask silly questions; I more or less just gave you your answer. Yes I have, more than once, though my latest trip thither was near seventy years ago or more.

"But as I was saying about your dream, the other part is puzzling. Yet I deem that the castle you saw is none other than the one we all fear, and that the figure that looked like a man but was not a man was its lord. Be thankful that you did not see his face! As for the form bearing the sword, I can only say it may be that there is someone somewhere in this land that will dare to challenge the master of that castle, perhaps head-on or perhaps in some other way. It sounds like you may be being shown an inkling of what is to come, and as such can act for or against it.

But you will be doing nothing lying in your bed all day. I suggest you hurry downstairs and freshen up, and then proceed to Mr. Provender’s room. Breakfast is almost ready, and I prefer my food hot. Then he walked out of the room, leaving the door open.

Allon yawned, shook his hair, and made for the doorway. He paused before the mirror to inspect his face. He nodded slightly in satisfaction when he saw that the swelling about his eye had reduced considerably. The cut he had received from Ezaril’s blade (having been properly tended to the day after the battle) was mending well for a slash as deep as it had been, but Allon knew that he would carry a scar for the rest of his days.

He passed no one on his way to the bathing chambers, but he could hear sounds of activity in the lower level of the Towers of Norod and, though these were fainter, like sounds from the city outside. This did not even cause him to turn his head, for by now he was most accustomed to them. It had been three days since the defeat of the Morkathleam, and the task of purging Darfrandor of the bodies of the giants and mending ought that had been damaged had been unceasing. Most of the corpses were able to be removed by the strength of men, but for some, horses had to be brought and hitched in order to do away with the slain Morkath soldier. On the eastern side of the narrow mountains that stood around Darfrandor the remains of a huge burning smoldered and smoked, and the charred Morkath shield or blackened Morkath helm were many. For well-nigh the entire force with which the Terrible Great ones had marched north had been destroyed, save some few that had managed to either slip or break through the hemming lines before the last stroke to fly madly into the night. The great body of Edak Bazir had been dragged to just without the Gates, stripped of armor, and burned where it lay. His bones were then cast atop the pile of his soldiers’. At the lower tilt of Darfrandor’s incline and within the three rings of the Gates the ruin was heaviest, and the main effort had been laid on cleansing before repair.

By this time the city had been mostly relieved of the desecration of the dead, but other work remained. And it was of this other work that Allon was thinking when he rounded the final corner to the bathroom and ducked inside.

When he emerged from the chamber a short time later, the smell of cooked food was heavy in the air. Allon glanced around quickly to make sure that no one was in sight, and then dashed back the way he had come, up the stairs, and burst into Merch’s room.

There sat Mr. Provender in a little wooden chair, with his legs propped up on the table that stood in his room. He was nibbling on what appeared to be the last bit of what had been a graciously sized loaf of bread, patting his stomach with his eyes half closed.

Allon opened his mouth in disbelief. You ate without me!

Merch’s head whipped towards him. Oi! Mornin’, Allon, he cried, throwing up his hands. Now before you get any thoughts in your head, let me just say it wasn’t me alone. Brandegan wouldn’t wait no more’n two minutes for ya after the food arrived. Would’ve ate it all from me as well.

But you didn’t even think to save me a crumb? Allon asked in deflation.

Merch looked about, seemingly at a loss, then proffered Allon the morsel of bread in his hand. Allon accepted the piece with a sigh. I don’t suppose there’s anything else to eat in another part of the tower, he half asked half stated wistfully.

Perhaps, said a voice. Allon whirled round just as Brandegan entered Merch’s room bearing an enormous tray. It was laden quite amiably with food. Well done, Merch, the silver-haired man said, setting the tray on the table.

Allon looked at Merch with a slight frown.

Merch burst into laughter. Lugs an’ jugs, but you should’ve seen his face, Brandegan, he said as he gripped his sides. You’d a-thought he was staring at a talkin’ toad.

I am, stated Allon crossly, glaring at Mr. Provender. A very greedy toad with an unwholesome taste for unfunny pranks.

I hope that from now on you will take getting up early when required a little more seriously, Mr. Bracken, said Brandegan. Now, to our meal.

It was a very pleasant breakfast. There was a pot of brown stew flavored strongly with onions, with which came a loaf of bread, several boiled eggs, and a large meat pie. The richness of the pie impressed even Brandegan, and it was one of the food items of which nothing remained after the meal. The bread they used to sop in the stew and the eggs they ate by themselves.

When they had finished, Brandegan said, Well, the two of you had best change quickly. The Gathering will begin soon.

Change? Merch repeated.

Brandegan wrinkled his nose. Yes, change, he said. You didn’t honestly think that you were going to appear at such an important event as this dressed in your old clothes?

But we haven’t anything else, said Allon.

O yes you do, Brandegan replied. I took the liberty of picking out two garments especially for the occasion for you. I had to choose their sizes simply by keeping a picture of both of your heights in my head alone. They are over there under Mr. Provender’s bed.

Allon went over to Merch’s bed and drew out from underneath a plain chest. Opening it quickly he discovered two long robes of deep blue. They were hoodless, and embroidered on the chest of each was the image that was branded into the shields of Darfrandor’s soldiers: the visage of the City of the Vale, encircled by a royal diadem.

Robes, said Merch, not at all very heartily. Never was too keen on ‘em.

You’re welcome, said Brandegan, looking sidelong at him. It matters little whether or not you’re ‘keen’ on wearing them. The custom of the capital is to don robes when Gatherings are called, so if you wish to attend, don robes you will. It would not do to have the two of you cause offence during your stay here.

Speaking of which, said Allon, would you mind filling us in a little more on what exactly is going to happen today?

The silver-haired man leaned back in his chair. The Gathering is called today for the purpose of choosing a new king. Though Urgand still lives, law dictates that he is no longer fit to rule by reason of his injuries. Thus the kingdom, and all the responsibilities that come with it, shall be passed on to Oreth. It is a coronation.

What? Allon cried in disbelief. But that’s hard! A broken leg doesn’t make a person any less of a person. How can they say that?

It may not make him any less of a person, said Brandegan, but it will certainly prevent him from fighting in the coming battle. As far as the law of the kingdom and his people are concerned, that makes him unfit to rule. The crown will go to Oreth, and if he is wounded beyond mending or killed before his time, then whichever of the eight lords of Darfrandor is closest to forty years of age will take charge over affairs until the next Conthu a Gogmuil.

Allon and Merch exchanged confused looks. Come through a what?

"Conthu a Gogmuil, Brandegan repeated: Contest of Lords. The succession of the kings of Vrandalin is not chosen strictly by bloodline, but by a show of skill of arms. When the contest is called, the eight lords of the city assemble and spar one with another to determine who among them is most proficient with his blade. The victor earns the kingship for himself and his son, by tradition his firstborn. When he has completed his reign and likewise his firstborn, the Conthu a Gogmuil is held again.

Thus, no king’s name has held the throne for more than two generations. Urgand prevailed in the last Contest of Lords, and so earned the kingship. It passes now to Oreth, who will need to prove himself in both battle and leadership.

Allon frowned. But what if one of the lords of the city is like Burgus? What’s to stop him or another one from cheating?

Witnesses, past confirmed responsibility, and myself, Brandegan replied. "Also, the arena in which the contest takes place is carefully prepared and inspected beforehand, and all the lords are only allowed one sword and shield each to fight. However, there has never been much treachery among the eight lords of Darfrandor. They are each descended from high and valiant men of old (in the time of several of whom this kingdom was in fact established) and understand the need for uncompromised unity. The might of Korgog is greater than them all. The Conthu a Gogmuil is a way of keeping the lords humble, and not allowing the kingship to rest on one house alone.

And speaking of the lords, all eight will undoubtedly be present for the ceremony, and with that known the two of you had best learn their names in order to save yourselves a little embarrassment should any of them greet you. In proper order they are Lord Haboth, Lord Anthur, Lord Liragan, Lord Hafulell, Lord Adarith, Lord Garim, Lord Tularin, and Lord Sathidin. Haboth is the eldest, and as such will be conducting the coronation; you will know him by his long beard. Pale-haired Anthur is somewhat haughty, and will most likely greet the two of you with a stiff nod (if he greets you at all). Liragan you will know by his merry smile. Hafulell carries more weight in his stomach than is good for one who may be called suddenly to a sword duel for the throne. You will notice it puffing his robe out. Adarith is tall and very bony, and enjoys inserting words or phrases from the Olden Tongue in his speech. Garim is built like a bear and is nigh just as furry; you cannot miss him. Tularin is bald, and Sathidin’s beard is braided. Remember these things and you will remember their names.

He stood up. And now that we all have a fuller understanding of all that is going on and the names of those involved, arise and get dressed! One is only late when one needs to be.

* * * *

As Merch followed behind Allon and Brandegan down the road of Darfrandor he tugged at the collar of his robe for the fourth time. It was simply too uncomfortable! What was the point of having a solemn meeting if everyone attending was too stiff and hot to pay attention to anything? And why isn’t Brandegan wearin’ a robe anyway? he thought. He frowned at the silver-haired man’s back, which was garbed in the same hooded cloak that he had worn from Varalel all the way to the capital. He seemed to be holding it somewhat tighter about himself than usual, but that was most likely because his arm had yet to fully heal. Merch knew that Brandegan did not care to show any outward sign of injury.

Though it had sustained an amount of marring and had been the temporary resting place for a number of bodies, the higher part of the city’s incline had been mostly untarnished. The area near the Towers of Norod had been dealt no damage at all, and in a way, this was a small comfort to the two men from Varalel. But they were heading on the downward slope of Darfrandor, and things were quite different in that direction.

Repair and reorder of the city had been in effect for three days. Besides the gates and their courtyards, that area had suffered the most damage. It would require many days more, and the patient labor from many hands, for the lower incline of Darfrandor to be restored to its former glory. Thankfully, the travelers’ destination was not near the destruction of the Three Gates.

As the men neared the courtyard of Balathor and Barahoth the noise of a multitude became apparent. Rounding a corner, they nearly bumped into the hinder part of the crowd that had gathered. Allon and Merch stared in surprise. They were at the mid-section of a lane that led into the great courtyard and yet were blocked out by people. The Gathering must have been immense. The two Varalelans stopped when they saw that there was no way to go any further, but Brandegan shouted, Make way! Make way!

It only took a moment for those who turned to look at him to realize who he was and hastily stand aside; those who did not were shoved from his path by their neighbors. And so the three of them made their way into the courtyard, and once there Merch and Allon could see just how large the assembly was.

The domain of Balathor and Barahoth was filled to its limit with the folk of the city. The fallen Balathor had not been removed from the square, but he had been moved aside somewhat, and though none stood upon him many stood about him. Standing in the lanes that led into the square and settled on the roofs of the buildings that ringed it were all those who could not fit within. Besides the guards that stood here and there adorned in scarlet-black cloaks, all were dressed in fine robes of either blue or white or grey. Standing above the heads of the crowd, upon one of the buildings that encircled the courtyard, were eight men in finer garb than the rest, and before the faces of these was Urgand and Oreth.

The king and his son were both clothed in grey and red. Oreth stood tall with one hand on his sword hilt, but Urgand sat in a chair of dark wood, and his left hand stroked his beard. Other than that movement the ten men upon the roof were quite still. But then Oreth looked down, hearing a voice raised in command, and when his eyes found the three companions he hailed them.

Come up! he called. We have been awaiting you.

A moment later the silver-haired man and the two men of Varalel, escorted by two guards, passed through an open doorway, up a brief flight of stairs, and came out above the courtyard themselves.

Welcome, Athranian, said Oreth as they stepped onto the rooftop. And welcome to you as well, Allon Bracken of the Sapprind Hills and Merch Provender of the Winding Road.

Our thanks, Prince Oreth, Brandegan replied. I trust that we are not very late.

Not very, said one of the eight men who stood by, a short, stout fellow whose ashen beard swayed at his knees. Yet even if you were we would not have begun without you, o Athranian. He turned to Allon and Merch. Nor without you, honored guests. Such was the prince’s request.

Thank you kindly…Lord Haboth, said Allon, taking a moment to fit the man’s beard to his name. And thank you, Prince Oreth. It’s an honor for us to be here.

Perhaps, said Oreth, but it is a heavy day, and I did not expect to come to it so soon. He glanced at his father, but Urgand’s face was unreadable.

Briefly the two men of Varalel were greeted by the other lords, all of whom (save Anthur) inclined their heads in proper, regal fashion. Once finished they went to stand with Brandegan, who had stationed himself somewhat to the left of Urgand and a little behind his seat. As they neared him Allon and Merch could see that attached to the four legs of the king’s chair were two thick wooden rods, one on each side spanning long-ways. It took an instant of confusion for them to realize that it was because of the limitations placed on him by his injury. He was no longer able to walk from his hall to the courtyard of the olden kings; he would have to be carried. Allon and Merch could only imagine how hard such a thing must be for a man so proud and otherwise hale as he. Urgand dipped his head slightly to them, and they bowed as they went by. Oreth stood at his right hand.

Once the men on the roof were situated and still, Lord Haboth stepped forward and raised his hands toward the congregation below. People of the City of the Vale, he cried loudly, hear and witness! Hear and witness! At the authority in Haboth’s voice the noises of the multitude were silenced. The lord of Darfrandor allowed the quiet to settle in for a moment before continuing. We assemble at this Gathering by the decree of fate and by the law of succession. Behold your king! He gestured to Urgand. "Thirty and six years he has sat upon the amber throne of the Hall, and within the span of those years the kingdom has been well governed. Under King Urgand our enemies were kept at bay, and as they were, so too was war…until now.

"The Morkathleam of the east ended our time of seasons without battle. They took the southeast corner of our kingdom. They marched upon our capital and sundered its Three Gates. Ruin was their purpose, and ruin was near us, yet under Urgand’s rule the Giants were overcome. The cost of victory was heavy; heavy to the City of the Vale, heavy to those who defended her, and heavy to your king.

In the heat of the battle that he fought on your behalf his leg was broken. It is beyond mending. He stopped and turned to face Urgand. Do you refute this, o king?

For the first time since Brandegan and the Varalelans had arrived, Urgand stirred in earnest. He rose taller in his chair and, looking out over all the crowd, replied in a loud voice, I do not refute it.

Murmurings began among the assembly below, but Haboth did not allow them to take root. King Urgand does not refute, he yelled, and therefore he is bound by the judgment of the ancient laws. He paused and briefly turned away from the assembly. Only those who stood on the roof heard his soft words: I am sorry, my liege. Raising his hands once more Haboth proclaimed, By the judgment of the ancient laws Urgand is no longer fit to be the King of Vrandalin. He it was who prevailed in the last Conthu a Gogmuil, and thus, as is also the law, the crown must now pass to his son. Step forth, Prince Oreth!

Oreth, his face straight and his jaw set, moved from his place beside his father and stood before Haboth.

The honor that comes with the crown is great, said the lord, but so are the many responsibilities that accompany it. Will you, Oreth son of Urgand, bear these responsibilities for as long as you shall live, even when they become too heavy to bear?

I will! Oreth declared.

And will your foremost labors and commands ever be for the bettering and protection of Vrandalin?

They shall!

And should fate deem that your life be given for the lives of your people, regardless of what form the demand for this sacrifice should take, will you give it?

Oreth crossed his right arm over his chest. I will!

Then I call the eight lords of Darfrandor to witness. Step forth, lords.

One by one, each in his turn, the lords of the city moved forward and gave their witnesses.

I, Anthur, witness.

I, Liragan, witness.

I, Hafulell, witness.

I, Adarith, witness.

I, Garim, witness.

I, Tularin, witness.

I, Sathidin, witness.

Without warning Brandegan stepped forward. With a swift movement he cast back his hood and opened his cloak. Beneath it he was adorned in a robe of silver-blue, the stitching and hue of which was so fine that it bewildered the eyes of those who looked on it. And I, Athranian, witness, he proclaimed. Then just as quickly he moved back.

Likewise I, Haboth, witness, said the lord after the briefest hesitation. Let the witnesses of these eight lords, the witness of Athranian, and the witnesses of the people who look on, stand against you should you ever abandon your word. Then Lord Haboth stepped back, and for a minute silence prevailed.

Then Urgand stretched out his right hand to his son. Come near, he commanded.

Oreth went and knelt before his father’s knees. Urgand leaned forward and kissed his brow. Then the king lifted off the thin crown of beaten gold that adorned his head and placed it upon the head of his son.

Hail Oreth, he declared, turning to face the multitude, King of Vrandalin!

From the four corners of the courtyard of Balathor and Barahoth there erupted a chorus of trumpets, rending the air with a joyous noise. The cheers of the multitude overtook and overbore them however, and the blare of the congregation ran throughout the entire city.

Chapter II:

THE FINAL COUNSEL OF ATHRANIAN

Merch looked on as King Oreth stood without speaking, allowing the clamor of the people to run its course. Mr. Provender shifted in place and tugged yet again at the collar of his robe. He could hardly wait to return to the Towers so that he could be rid of the wretched clothing. Looks like things is pretty much wrapped up here, he thought. Won’t have to stay trussed up for much longer.

He looked out over the cheering crowd, scanning the faces below with an earnestness he did not at first comprehend. The realization that he was searching for a certain face came to him with some surprise. He turned his head slightly to one side and scratched his beard. Well now, he thought, I’m not bein’ wrong or nothing. I’m just looking to see if she’s down there, that’s all. It’s not as though I’ve had much word on her since she left the city. And what’s more, she’s probably forgotten all about Merch Provender, bein’ a well-to-do scribe an’ all. He nodded to himself matter-of-factly, but his eyes continued their search. Still, I wouldn’t mind knowing if she was down there somewhere.

At length Oreth raised his hands for quiet, waited a moment for the assembly to heed him, and then spoke. "People of Darfrandor, I come to the throne early. Not in age, for many younger kings has this city seen, but in my heart. Years more should my father have borne the crown and presided over the responsibilities of it. Few would wish to claim a throne in the midst of war, but duty has chosen its servant. We have much to do, much to mend and restore, and much still to endure. Yet we will mend and we will endure, for such is our strength."

The gathering below rose once more into a hail of shouting cheers, and Merch smiled as Oreth stepped back, thinking that the coronation had at last come to its end. But as the newly crowned king turned from the crowd and inclined his head to the eight lords, and as four guards stepped out onto the roof toward Urgand to grasp the staves of his chair and bear him from the roof, Brandegan suddenly strode forward till he stood almost at the edge of the building.

You do have much to mend, folk of the capital, he called in a booming voice that plowed through the din, and much to restore. Which will you do first, I wonder? At his presence the noise of the people faded so suddenly that Merch was startled. "At the hands of the Morkathleam this city almost foundered. What will you do when a larger might rages against you?

"Little good will the repairing of this city do you when it is soon to be utterly cast down despite all your efforts. The Morkathleam were merely the thunder of the storm; the tempest and the destroying lightning you have yet to face. Nor can you face them, for they will break you to pieces, and what is left will be scattered abroad to perish. The Third Shadow is coming, Korgog himself! The palace of Ezirg Haur has risen and, borne on vapors of death, it hastens east. It will not be long ere you descry its spires from the citadel of Darfrandor, but by then it will be too late. Too late for the cities and villages that will have already met with ruin before it, too late for the land that will lie withered and choked in its wake, and too late for you.

If the Three Gates stood repaired and thrice re-strengthened, if the number of the soldiers of this city were doubled and in the hand of each was an unbreakable sword Korgog would still sweep you aside like chaff before a flood. There will be no help for you this time; the Krands have gone…and tomorrow I am departing as well.

To his left Merch saw Oreth stiffen as suddenly as though he had been struck. Before him he could hear rising murmurs of fear that were leaping from throat to throat amongst the people below. He felt his own surprise at Brandegan’s last statement surge up in him as well, but he held his peace.

Brandegan turned slightly away from the gathering as he took a pause while the murmurs rose in volume, and Merch could see that his face was very hard. You have three choices, the silver-haired man went on. The first is to flee to Krandarmain, where the faith of the people in the Ayestærè is still strong and in which you may seek sanctuary. The second is to restore your own faith, the declaring of which the Ayestærè will not ignore. And the third is to remain here, to fortify yourselves in vain, to trust to your own might, only to meet utter destruction with all but open arms. For too long I have urged the generations of this kingdom to mend their broken faith, and too long have they refused to heed me. I have urged for the last time. The High Ones are your only hope now. And then he cast his hood over his face, drew his cloak back around him, and stepped away from the roof’s edge.

Without a pause, he moved toward the door that led down. He either did not notice or did not care that the eight lords were gazing at him with mixed looks of shock, shame, and even restrained anger. But before he had reached the door, Urgand drew up in his seat.

You go too far, Athranian, he said tensely.

At this Brandegan stopped. He turned his hooded head around slowly, and then replied in a level voice, Not in this matter. You ought to have made a similar speech yourself on the day that those who had taken refuge upon Baulon had come back into the city; if not to cry out to return to the faith of old then at least to have declared the coming of the Third Shadow. I spoke no more than what needed to be spoken, and I did not ask the approval, nor will I ask the forgiveness, of the King of Vrandalin—which you are no longer in any case.

At these words, Merch saw a sudden rage take hold of Urgand’s face. There are certain decisions, said the former king, his voice cold, that are left only to the keeper of this kingdom, no matter what others may advise him. The time in which I was to declare the Third Shadow’s coming was at my discretion. It had to be wisely managed.

Hm, Brandegan all but snorted.

With an audible—yet not disrespectful—planting of his foot, Oreth stepped between them. My father, my lord Athranian; few friends agree on all things, but let us save anger and blame for when undeserved harm is inflicted.

Urgand looked up at him. You do not see harm in what Athranian has done?

Oreth pursed his lips. I see the harm in the riling up of men without cause, and in doing so setting them against one another in fear or anger. But such has not occurred here yet. I am curious however, Athranian, as to why you would desert us now.

Brandegan let loose one of his growling sighs; something that the two men from Varalel had never heard him do in the presence of Urgand or Oreth before. Did you not hear my words, king? he asked. I will not remain among the faithless any longer. He gestured suddenly to Allon and Merch. These men, after having known me for less than a month, were able to accept what I told them concerning the Ayestærè. Far longer have I declared the same thing to the kings of Darfrandor, and not one of them has been so receiving. I am leaving you with solid counsel. The question now is—will you heed it? He passed his gaze over all who stood on the roof, letting it linger the longest on Oreth, before turning away again and heading for the doorway.

Merch exchanged a rather nervous glance with Allon, and then both hurried after the silver-haired man. Mr. Provender could feel the eyes of Urgand, the eight lords, and the newly crowned king on him, but none said a word.

I know that that was somewhat unexpected, the silver-haired man said without turning round, once they had caught up to him, but it is best not to delay any longer. We need to head south.

Will they listen, Brandegan? asked Allon in a low voice.

Brandegan sighed. There may be some few who will out of earnest faith, but most likely the vast majority of them will not. I’m afraid there is nothing we can do about that. A good many of them may flee south however, but more out of the desire to reach a safe haven than from a wish to return to the Ayestærè. He shook his head.

But we have things to attend to. It is time that the two of you returned to your kindred. Under Parma’s guidance, if all went well, they would have reached Mariz some time ago. They are no longer safe there, and will need to be warned of this. Your promise still has a course to run, Allon. Also, it is high time that the ancient history you two have come to accept be accepted of your neighbors as well. He half smiled. And this time, I think they will prove a little more receptive.

The three men came down to the building’s ground level, and Brandegan pushed open the door that led outside. Instantly, the two men from Varalel became very uncomfortable: Every eye was upon them. Innumerable faces putting forth almost just as many emotions stared at them from all directions. Merch felt his face redden, and he tugged at his collar for the sixth time, wishing that the maker of his robe had thought to stitch a hood onto the garment. Brandegan, ignoring the stares and murmurings alike, started off back the way they had come.

As they crossed the courtyard, a woman’s voice called out from nearby. My lords! My lords!

Brandegan paid it no heed, and Allon, seeing the silver-haired man’s reaction, did the same. But Merch whipped his head about, his eyebrows rising in recognition. From amongst the assembly to the left, Lairen the scribe stepped out. She wore a robe of clean grey, and her pale-auburn braids swished almost in unison with its delicate folds as she hurried towards them.

Merch stopped in his tracks, not caring that his two friends continued on their way, leaving him behind. Lady Lairen! he cried, the staring multitude forgotten.

Lairen came to a stop before him and dipped her head. I had wished to speak with you from the day I returned from the Houses of Refuge, she said, but my duties held me. I did not hear until much too late that you and Lord Allon were fighting in the battle.

O, well, Merch replied, I didn’t even know that was how it was goin’ to turn out until the very day myself. He gave her a sort of shrugging smile. Then he began to twiddle his thumbs. I’m…erm…y’know, mighty pleased that you’re alright. What with the monster creepin’ about Baulon and all…

Indeed, said Lairen, and brief fear passed over her face. All have heard of the Gragmarr that sought to take the Houses. In the darkness of the night we heard the roars of the beast tear through the crevices of the mountain, and terror clutched at us. The day after, when some of us began our trek back to the city, we were forced to pass nigh his lifeless shell. His very carcass is a terror, and the ground about it is black and withered. We owe much to Lord Athranian. Then she hesitated, frowning in bewilderment. And yet he means to leave us during a time in which we have never needed him more.

That’s not it, Lairen, Mr. Provender said, shaking his head emphatically. He explained everything while he was up on the roof all nice an’ clear. Folk in the capital just have to do the right thing.

A strange expression came to Lairen’s face and, looking Merch straight in the eye, she asked, Do you believe in the Ayestærè, truly? And if so, do you believe that they will help us now after ignoring our plight for so many centuries?

Merch scratched his beard, opened his mouth, and shut it again. He frowned, opened his mouth, and then shut it again. Finally, he reached into a fold on the inside of the breast of his robe and drew out his copper flask. He pulled the cork, took down a mouthful, replaced the cork in the flask and the flask in his robe in a single movement, and said, "A month and a half ago, back in the sweet Sapprind Hills with no deadly worries to bother about like here, with True Brandy in walkin’ distance and giants bein’ nothing short of legend, I’d probably answer, ‘Why would folk wanna believe in a set of magical people they’ve never seen, and who haven’t done anything for the land for hundreds and hundreds of years?’ Now, after havin’ seen me home overrun with giants out of legend, becoming friends with a hero older than the Second Age of this kingdom, and meetin’ up with so much trouble as to realize some of the most certain things in the world is danger and Athranian’s word, I say, Why won’t folk just listen to the chap who’s never been wrong about what he says?

Even if you don’t believe in the Ayestærè, don’t you believe in Brandegan? Seems to me that that would mean givin’ what he tells you a listen, even if your grandfather an’ his grandfather before him or even the king today himself wouldn’t. That’s what I’ve done. So yes, I do believe in the Ayestærè, an’ I believe that if folk would stop bein’ so uptight we might just have an end of our problems.

Lairen stared at him for a long, silent moment. Her eyes never left his and she did not blink. At last she said softly, I see. Then, inhaling sharply, she clasped her hands together. Your words stir me, Merch Provender of the Winding Road; I would be a fool not to heed such sound reasoning. I will go south, and if that be as far as Krandarmain Isle, then so be it.

Merch broke into a broad smile. That’s the spirit! Now, I know from experience that it’ll be real hard on you at first, but after you’ve set into the walkin’— He stopped abruptly and raised a finger. Say, why don’t you leave with us—Brandegan, Allon, an’ me?

Lairen raised her eyebrows. I… Would the lord Athranian allow me?

Merch made an impatient, dismissive gesture. Don’t you worry about old Brandegan; I’ll see to him. I’d— He cleared his throat. "We’d love to have you along."

The scribe smiled. Then I will join you gladly.

Chapter III:

FAREWELL TO DARFRANDOR

Brandegan stood facing the window that looked out onto the city from Allon’s tower bedroom with his arms crossed and his hood pulled back. The robe of silver-blue that he had been wearing he wore no longer, and a frown of agitation was on his face. Obviously, he said, you did not consider your actions before asking her along.

Behind him Allon sat on the bed, a mischievous smile on his lips, looking at Merch, who sat in the chair by the table.

Course I did, replied Mr. Provender with a wave of his hand.

Oh, really? said Brandegan. Did you consider the fact that she, being a city scribe, will have never gone on any sort of lengthy journey on horseback—let alone on foot—before? Something you should have thought of, seeing as that is how we are going to travel, and at a quick pace no less. Did it ever occur to you that she might have a sister or three? Or six cousins with a husband or wife each and twice as many children who would also like to come along?

Merch began to wring his knuckles. Erm… I might not have thought about all that… But what if she does? It’ll be good if they all wanna come along, right?

"Wrong, grunted Brandegan. One of the last things I need is the nuisance of such a crowd of inexperienced, disbelieving, and most likely haughty persons on our trek south. If she has such ties and they do wish to leave, let them leave with the number of others who will also be departing from the city. She ought to as well."

But I already promised her she could come along, Brandegan! Merch cried. She won’t be no trouble, I know it.

No, you do not, the silver-haired man retorted. He sighed, and turned from the window to face the man of Varalel. He regarded Merch for a moment, and then said, It seems that there may be more to this than I am seeing. Very well. On these conditions I will allow her to accompany us: That she keep up without complaint, that she direct any bothering questions she might have to you and not me, and that it is in fact only she who is coming along.

Merch broke into a broad grin. That’s bein’ a chap, Brandegan! Thanks an’ thanks again! You won’t be sorry about it.

Let us hope not, Brandegan muttered.

Merch clapped his hands. So, when are we movin’ off exactly?

Are you so eager all of a sudden? Brandegan asked, raising an eyebrow.

Merch crossed his arms. No. But I told Lairen to be here at the Towers no later than an hour after sunrise tomorrow.

I see, said Brandegan. In that case, you had better be ready to leave by then yourself. I will look about garnering us some supplies and making sure our horses are ready in just a bit. I suggest that the two of you pack your things (and that includes your new robes) and set your minds in a journeying mood. By this time tomorrow, we should— But he was interrupted as the door to Allon’s bedroom opened suddenly.

Brandegan whirled round, his hand, unseen beneath his cloak, going to Rithlir’s hilt. But an instant later he relaxed his grip, saying as he did so, King Oreth. To what do we owe the honor of this visit?

It brings little honor to you, Athranian, said Oreth as he crossed the threshold and shut the door behind him, and this we both know.

Perhaps, Brandegan replied. Yet respect is due where respect is earned. He gave Oreth a meaningful look as he said this, who responded with a weary laugh.

Your undertone is well noted, the king said. Then he frowned and leant against the wall. He had changed from his earlier attire into a close fitting suit of grey and red with a high collar of silver. But to the two men of Varalel the clothes, while obviously of fair make, did not seem to exude much in the way of majesty. They were more modestly official; vesture that might have been displayed by a lordly scholar or a spokesman of much honor. I have come for two purposes, he stated at length. Time is short for us all, and little point remains in suppressing or curbing words. He paused, then asked in a low voice, How would you have me accomplish that which you urge us to do?

Brandegan turned from him to face the window once more. Are you asking me how, he said in a voice that was almost just as quiet, "or why?"

None in this kingdom know more about our forefathers than the people of the capital, Oreth responded, deviating from an answer. We know of the faith that has gone on before us, and we know of its failing. The failing in our hearts, yes, but also its failing to preserve us.

"So it is the why, then," said Brandegan.

Oreth shook his head. It is the how. How can I turn hearts that have known only to disbelieve? The hearts of the people, the heart of my father, even my own! To desert the capital is, of itself, a hard thing. But to desert it in the hope that the…Ayestærè will reappear at last to deliver us from a scourge we ought never to have been made to face? He pushed himself off the wall and began a violent pacing. It is beyond the people, Athranian, and I feel that it is almost beyond me.

What, then? Brandegan questioned. Would you all remain here and wait for death?

The greatest fool of a king I would be, Oreth replied dryly, to ignore your word of warning yet again. The bodies of the Morkathleam burn just outside of the city. Had my father hesitated but a day longer to accept your warning concerning them, Darfrandor would have fallen. No, we will leave the City of the Vale, Athranian. But I say that we leave in the hope of reaching safety in some way or in some place, rather than out of faith in the High Ones.

For some time Brandegan did not respond, but stood gazing out of the Tower’s third level at the city below. Well do I remember, he said finally, that when I came here warning of the Morkathleam you and you alone first heeded me. Urgand did not mean ill with his reluctance to accept my word, but irreparable harm would have come of his uncertainty. In this respect you excel him already. He turned from the window to look Oreth straight on.

"But the commanding or restoration of faith, King of Darfrandor, is not something that can be accomplished by you or me. It is solely left up to the people themselves. You may try to direct them to the right path, but it rests upon them to walk that path or even accept that it is before them. So to answer your question of how you might turn disbelieving hearts to belief—you cannot. You are, however, in control of your own heart, and you are the King of Vrandalin. How would I have you accomplish that which I urge? I would have you lead by example.

And now, I feel I should properly inform you that my companions and I are departing early on the morrow. I understand that supplies of every sort will be short all around, but I request that an extra horse be given us along with our original two. We will be journeying with speed.

Oreth smiled. You will have your extra horse, Lord Athranian, he said, and though supplies are short, I will see about acquiring some food for your trek.

Some nuts and dried fruits should suffice, Brandegan said, though a loaf or two would not be scoffed at.

Oreth nodded, seeming gratified. He put his back to them and grasped the door.

King, said Brandegan in a blunt voice. You said that you had come here for two purposes, did you not?

Oreth paused. Ah, yes. He turned round slowly, and looked at the two Varalelans. Allon and Merch of Varalel, you carry weapons that by every right ought to have been taken from your custody the moment you set foot behind the Third Wall and returned to the vaults of the city. My father allowed them to remain with you for a limited time and under condition, but I am the king now. A smile abruptly raised his lips. I give them to you. For as long as you live, Icranur and Faeldirehk shall be your blades. May they guard you well in the perilous times that come. Then he inclined his head to them and left.

Well, well, said Brandegan. Perhaps he may turn out to be a fine enough king after all.

He just might, agreed Merch. Imagine, me very own sword! He drew out Faeldirehk and held it before him, as though gazing on it for the first time.

Brandegan looked at him. Yes, Icranur and Faeldirehk are truly yours now, and, if you ask me, you both deserve them. They have been put to good use while in your hands, and no doubt they will be again in times to come. Then letting out a low grumble, he hunched his shoulders. Mr. Bracken, if you do not mind, I will relieve you of that bed. I’ve a better use for it.

As Allon rose and Brandegan lay down, hood, cape and all, the silver-haired man said, If I were the two of you, I would make myself rather scarce in the city. There may be some whose hearts have inclined toward a less than friendly nature toward you. But if you are going to remain in this room, keep quiet. This will be the last time I shall sleep on a mattress in I don’t know how long.

* * * *

In the grey hour before sunrise the next day the two Varalelans were up and doing a last check of their few supplies. As he hefted his large pack over his shoulders Merch