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What passed beyond the barrier at Coerl is not known; Rorick knew his own part, but what happened after, and how it so occurred, is a matter on which the Wise can only speculate.
-Book of the Sword
Kerran Berandis
As the magicians, in their circle, took up a low chant, the Old One called Rorick over for his last instructions. “It will need the work of all of us to make the opening. I will nod to you when it is time to go. You will see the entrance, and you must step swiftly. For your life, do not touch the Sword until you are through.”
Rorick nodded and stood waiting. The circled wizards continued their chanting, a low murmur inaudible to most of those standing by. Yet regularly in the chant, their voices would rise, and the words of the refrain would sound clear in the courtyard:
“Cylch iranuoth, tenhielen,
Illotu lynta temhielen,
Tel guallanue helffta!”
And ever, as their voices rose, they seemed to take on a new aspect; those who beheld them saw glimpses as of Elder magicians, magicians such as those who lived and wrought in the old days, ‘ere the world was changed.
Phedron, standing at Conel’s elbow, spoke softly. “So it was the Elder Folk sang, in those far days when first they battled against the darkness.” He looked at Conel, who was regarding him a trifle strangely. “Do not your own singers sing of this, or is this lore found only in the North?”
Before Conel had the opportunity to answer, there was a glowing shimmer in the air before the magicians. As all watched, this grew in size and brightness until it was the size of a man and so brilliant that one could scarce look on it.
It was then that the Old One nodded. Rorick stepped quickly forward; he was not sure how to describe the sensation after, though he felt something which would have hindered him, had he hesitated, and he felt a sudden warmth at his side where the sword hung in its sheath. He was standing at the foot of the stair, looking up at the Hygerian standing there.
The warlock’s smile was cruel and triumphant. “Rorick of Avantir! Welcome! Welcome! I had hoped to take your King, but you will do, both as an object for revenge and an injury to him. I have heard too much of you, and I like it not, yet even should your fortune smile upon you to the extent of your slaying me, still I doubt your ability to return to your own place. So die, fool!”
Rorick had drawn the Sword upon first sighting the magician, so he was prepared when the Dark one raised a shining ebony rod in his right hand, and struck with it as one might swing a whip. Like a whip indeed came a bolt of lightning, but Rorick had flung up Sword into a parrying position, and the lightning disappeared against that gleaming blade.
Rorick began to bound up the steps, with two thoughts in mind; he must guard himself from the wizardries by the Sword, and he must come close enough to strike the Dark one down. Twice more the dread bolts struck at him, and twice more the Sword turned them to naught.
And after the third one, the Sword itself struck back; a bolt of power smote the Hygerian, slaying him where he stood.
Rorick stared down at him, then glanced at the Sword in his hand. “Now, Old One, let us see if you were correct about the power of the Sword drawing me home again.” Turning, he stepped down the stair once more.
At his first step, the world shivered and shook, and ceased to be the world he knew.
Cael of the Versek looked down the valley where the Baca were gathering for their final charge. Of the three hundred who had come with him originally, only twenty remained, and behind them the People were still passing through the Gate. One thing remained to do.
He turned to the twenty. “Go, now, I send you forth. When next they come, we few could in no way halt them, but if I remain alone, I may delay them.”
One of the boldest bowed. “How will you do this?”
“I will give myself to Tralth. Yes, even I who have ceased to give the Bloody One honour these many years. Do you not think that, to gain my soul, he will hide the last of our folk as they pass the gate? Go and think kindly of me hereafter.”
And such was the force of his personality that they turned and went away, leaving him. The Baca began their advance, and Cael spoke the dread words of summons, asking for the aid of Tralth in keeping the Big Men from coming upon the People as they fled, offering in exchange himself.
A thick darkness quickly rolled forward from behind him, and he could no longer see the foemen coming.
Icar, son of Varinden, captive in the Dark Lord’s cavern, considered the sword which he had been caused to forge. In his wrath after the destruction of his father’s farm by the Hunters, he had been taken by the Dark Lord’s servants. Fine and careful words had been put before him, and he had been led to see himself, bearing the blade which he would make by the Dark Lord’s instructions, smiting foes and righting many great wrongs.
He would take the great sword, and with it he would make a kingdom here, a kingdom in which he would rule all things, and see that all was done according to right and justice. The things he had done to forge the blade, even the most dread of them, he had made right for himself by declaring that it would lead to a later and greater good.
But the placing of the dread runes upon the blade had driven all the fair lies into the open, revealing what stood behind them.
The sword itself would ensnare him. Now, it would bind his soul to the purposes of the Dark One, and he would never be free. A King he would very likely be, but a King in thrall to a force of dread intent.
The creatures of the Dark Lord, jubilant for the completion of the sword, capered and sang.
Icar stood, determined to free himself at any cost. The eye of the Dark One turned to him, and he fell to his knees as though pushed down by a hand of great might. With his hands on the hilt of the sword, its point against the cavern floor, he prevented himself from falling to his face.
Almost unthinking, he cried out: “Andrythn Athantirnhucathu, illnha tal!”
Above the door of the cavern, closed by a vast gate of timber, a pinhole of light struck down, gleaning upon the runes on the blade.
The runes writhed and shifted, and were no longer terrible, but rather shone with a light and a glory which brought Icar to his feet, crying in his own tongue, “Andrythn, Bringer of the Stone of Hope, my thanks!”
He knew that the terrible deeds done for the forging of the Sword would have to be repaid, but he knew, too, that the payment would not give joy to the Dark Lord. The sword gleamed as he strode to battle.
Conel the Wild, in the flickering firelight, addressed the men of the assembled clans of Avantir, on the eve of battle against the Hygerians.
“Two days ago, we fought the Dark ones, and you allowed me to lead you very near to victory. Yet we must fight again tomorrow, because each man, each leader of a clan, is jealous of his own rights. Each one who owns a banner and leads men insists he is the wisest of all, and must judge when his men nay follow the orders of anyone else.
“Each of us bears a banner. Each of our clans traces its lineage back to the great Lords of the Old Island, and each insists that his family is greater, is more to be respected for its past deeds, than any other.
“If that be the argument, then let it be said and remembered now that my lineage traces back to Morinden the Fair, last great King on the Old Island.
“Yet there is another and more pressing need, and it camps out there in the night. It wears a black cloak, and it will eat us like a fair red apple, one bite at a time, if we stand not together. Tell me, when you have chosen a war-leader before, have you ever had so much success with so little loss? Lend to me your support, and under this banner,” he swung his Red Dragon up to the skies, “We will face and conquer any host of barbarians. Who will follow me?”
The chieftains rose to their feet, shouting.
Conel of the Gorths, Asbalnian outcast barbarian king, drew the spellsword Worldsdeath from its hiding place. The morning for which Ammerlyn had bid him prepare was upon him, and now the hosts of the Warlock Lord would set forth against them. When the Gorths were conquered, then the hosts of Hotlanders, Nangs, goblins, and other fearful things would be free to descend upon the Second Alliance in the South. Ammerlyn was depending upon the valour of the Gorthic people.
Yet Ammerlyn had said that Worldsdeath was barely equal to the weapons with which the Warlock Lord’s host would come down. Conel, who had used Worldsdeath one time, knew its dread power, and had sworn that it should not be revealed again.
He could not, then, ask his people to so out against such forces; he would go by himself, bearing the dread sword, and seek to find and fight the foremost of the warlocks of Vandethair, so that perhaps they would draw back from the Gorthic lands.
He stood and set out walking.
Rorick of the Iron Hand stood on Mhoranna Field, surveying the Hosts of Darkness leagued against him. Behind and around him were the armies of the Second Alliance.
The enemy advanced. Rorick drew the Sword and waited.
Rorick of Avantir stood on the Palace steps in the City of Coerl, looking at the King for whom he had fought many battles on so many fields, not always against human foes. For a heartbeat’s space, he half-doubted that he was yet home. Then Conel stepped forward, an anxious look on his face.
“Rorick, is it well with you?”
The ground seemed solid under his feet again, and he knew he was back. “Well enough, Conel. The Palace is yours, but do not ask me yet what passed there, for I could not say for sure, and what I could say needs more than a few moments telling. It was as though I were, for a space, both many and one, in several ages. Old One, you have some wisdom and knowledge in these matters; what have you to say?”
“It was a plan of revenge, and it was expected that, even if the barrier could be destroyed, he who did it would not be able to return.
“It was the Sword which saved you, I believe, for it would not let itself be left beyond its own time and place, so it must return. Some powers are not to be denied.”
“But what is important is that you are back,” said Conel, stepping forward to take Rorick’s arm. “You gave me the hospitality of your father’s house, and today I repay that with mine. Let us go in.”