When the great icy cloud exploded in the Ruined Ring, the Entelláka maidens dropped to their knees, holding before them the stout holly boughs that they had carried all the way from the Eastlands. They heard the terrible cry of the anya of Negobith as its house of flesh was dissolved. They heard the beautiful voice that called on all to weep. They looked up as the fierce rain began to fall, but for a long time they could see nothing. And then the sound of voices was heard again — no longer threatening or mocking voices, but voices wailing with dismay and cursing; and a confused shuffling and clattering.
At long last the rain ceased and the clouds began to blow away. After several minutes the Entelláka maidens looked up again. There was moonlight. By it they could see that their holly boughs were blasted and withered as if by a frosty wind, the berries blackened, the stems dripping wet. But the ruined ring was empty. The towering figure and the throne, gone. The Kúmi Netári, hawk-headed ones and runewives, gone. Slungandi and his drum, gone. Gantzor the coldsword, gone. But then they beheld before them what seemed to be a fallen stone statue, a white figure lying on the ground. They knew what it was before they went to it: Ingos in the unbreakable grip of frost-death, his hands folded on his breast, and even the battered straw hat transformed into ice.
They did not heed their wet hair and clothing. Quickly they scoured the mountainside for a spring of water. Hastily they filled the golden bowl Kúveronda with water and steeped the Mánagil ta-Hyúvas in it. Desperately they laved the frozen form. But the power that was in Gantzor was a thousand times the strength of a single breath of Firungwáfi. The virtue that worked swiftly to heal Hannartikhoth had no effect on Ingos.
Then the four Entellári sat about the body and watched over it, and as they watched, they wept.
When morning came to the Ruined Ring on Hogunoth the Entellári broke their vigil. Even as they took some refreshment, a great shadow fell upon them; but it was cast by the wings of Rákarei Zorthinen, returning, as he had promised, to seek Ingos, and coming too late.
Good news bearing but grief finding
Rákarei greets greathearted friends.
Kerorkîn has woken and though wounded sore
Has told his tale. But what terrible curse
Has befallen Ingos, how fell a scourge!
Then Mirutháli recounted all the events that had occurred since the eight Entellári had met the exiled Kabadri.
But the latest mystery ~ that we cannot fathom
Is how Oigenas the accursed ~ vanished from his victory;
How he did us no harm. ~ And how runewives were wailing
And Netári were scattered ~ and fled from their triumph.
A low voice spoke behind them:
It was the curse of Dreygan, cast on Gantzor
That none shall wield that weapon scatheless,
But himself suffer the self-same doom,
Save him, maker of that mighty sword.
There stood Slungandi, Drumster of the Deep, smiling, bearing on his back the great drum Brandubur, which had been remade , in token of his delivery of the great sword Gantzor. He continued:
That dreaded Lord has doomed himself
To a harder fate than frostbinding:
His base bane-hate has burst his frame,
And his anya houseless must hunt a home,
Rebuild his body, then back return
That the Yoke may conquer yonder world.
Off their guard taken, Netári for now
Are left mightless, save to make terror.
Ingos Earthstepper’s honoured body
They durst not drag to the deep places.
The sword Gantzor has slipped their grasp
Hid neath Hogunoth from harm’s handgrip.
Mirutháli advanced on him angrily, saying:
So, Master Drumster ~ you knew the sword’s curse
And tempted Father Ingos ~ to make it his weapon?
Slungandi continued to smile unmoved.
Time is lacking to trade reproach!
I humbly ask, O Entellári,
Ere nightfall next, fare far away.
Netári yet can terror wield;
They still have might in mischief-making
In rocks’ falling, and awry leading.
Turning their backs on Slungandi, the four Entelláka maidens took their cloaks, and being careful of frostburn, respectfully wrapped the frozen body of Ingos in them. Then they hoisted him upon their shoulders, two on one side, two on the other. He was a considerable burden, but the strength of the dwellers in Féor Êlesti is many times that of the Hyûvandri. Then they began a solemn march from the Ruined Ring, through the accursed kâdrollad, and down the perilous mountain path, where a misstep might send all of them headlong down the steep cliffs on to the rocks below.
Rákarei Zorthinen flew above them, looking out with keenest eyes for the movement of any living thing in the mountains all around, and ready to warn them of pitfalls in their path. When they reached the meeting of the path with the giants’ road to Kapgar Kûm, they rested briefly. But the voice of Slungandi, whom they thought had remained behind on the top of Hogunoth, called from behind them.
No resting-place! The road is watched
Sharp-eyed Sheefra in shape shifted
Mark all walkers, and waylay stragglers.
Farewell, free folk. May you find harbour.
As they took up their burden again, they looked back, but Slungandi had gone.
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