The great coldsword Gantzor, wielded by the dark hand of Negobith, descended upon the neck of Ingos, Father of Peoples. It made no wound, but at once an icy cold ran through every vein of the body of Ingos, binding his limbs and organs, his brain and senses, in the clutch of fathomless cold; and he dropped to the ground like the graven image of a man.
But at the very same moment a shock wave ran from the hilt of Gantzor up the mighty arm of Negobith, a counterwave to the huge blast of icefire that had engulfed Ingos. It loosed all the sinews and muscles, nerves and bones of the Lord of Ombros; it scattered the atoms of which they were composed. The mighty faceless dark form lost all its shape in an instant. The anya of the Master of Night burst from the gross matter in which it had been confined, and its voice cried out with a deafening roar that stung the ears of all in the Ruined Ring. Dreygan’s curse had taken its effect.
The force of the blast threw the onlookers — Falakkazri, runewives, and Slungandi — to the ground. They remained there, seemingly unable to move. A vast icy cloud enveloped the Ruined Ring. For many minutes the cold glittering mist, full of frost particles, swirled about the ring and mounted high above the mountainside. Then there was silence, apart from the hiss of the wind. And then it seemed to everyone present that another voice could be heard somewhere high above: a clear, majestic voice that cried:
A elpeâ oye-ger dáyetha-bros! Elpeâ oya tyamredh! Awayólte Ruvalme Drothyod! Tekulde Vaduta Dathri! Tekulde Ingos Brotsepaivâni!
O weep all ye peoples of the earth! Weep all creation! The Dolorous Stroke has descended! Fallen is the Father of the Peoples! Fallen is Ingos Earthstepper!
Some say that this voice was heard that night throughout the Southlands.
After that, there was another long silence. Then a wind sprang up from the west and dispelled the icy vapour, bringing instead dark stormclouds. There was a rumble of thunder and at once teeming rain began to fall like the fierce tears of the earth. The Kúmi Netári remained prone on the ground as if pinned down by the force of the rain, but Slungandi raised his head. He looked forth and saw the icebound body of Ingos in the midst of the ruined ring. Then he found that there were tears on his face, not rain. A voice that was not the voice of the Falakkazri spoke in his head:
Pick up that sword, my friend — he’ll not be needing it.
You know a secret place — to hide a sought-for weapon in.
Down the Spiral Stairway — where the Giants’ harbour lies.
There it can rest in peace — until the One who needs it comes.
Slungandi did not hesitate. The rain was still pouring down like the waters of Marípei. Under cover of the downpour, he dashed to the place where Negobith had stood, seized Gantzor, and ran to the edge of the ruined ring. To anyone watching, he would have seemed to jump off the mountain top into mid air, but he merely bounded a few feet down the side of the hill until he met with a narrow track that only he knew, which he followed down the steep side of the mountain to a secret entrance, through which he vanished before anyone missed him.
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