The great Valley of Ice, Kedilyónë, high in the northern mountains of Dúmiel, was ice no more. The Kapatingos, heated almost to melting by the innards of Kervandwáfi, had fallen upon it. Rapidly the whole icefield turned to water. Before long, this great upland ocean broke from the high valleys where it could no longer be confined and cascaded down the course of the Berusilwa River. Then the great storm broke, and water fell in quantities never known before on the mountains and hills, swelling all the great river’s tributaries. This great wall of water came thundering on into the lowlands, losing none of its force, not spreading to right or left, but carrying all before it: trees, bushes, and houses on the banks, bridges, boats, all borne on a great grey tide. It came with a roaring that was heard all around the surrounding countryside, and folk, already in fear of the host of Fíbor, now ran in terror to the nearest high ground.
Even as the warriors of Fíbor clashed arms with the Queen’s defenders on the parapets of Tídris, the roar was heard by the routed soldiers before the Eastgate as they fled before the Hounds. Looking behind them, they beheld a glistening grey wall, ever shifting, looming above them and drawing rapidly closer. In seconds the great flood had engulfed the camp. Tents, standards, weapons were swept away. Horses and skulldeer were swimming. Those who had not fled the Hounds ran as fast as they could to escape from the riverside and reach higher ground.
Above the Eastgate, the clash was fierce. Queen Dayamuna had not lost the skills which she was taught in her youth when she had been Prince Dabros. Arrayed in armour, she and Prince Emilak cast down one warrior of Fíbor after another. At their rear the three royal children and the two spouses battled against Fîboramê trying to ascend the walls by stairs on the other side of the gate. The warriors of Dúmiel were holding out. But suddenly, one of those in the fight on the Eastgate looked round and caught sight of the oncoming flood. He cried out, ‘A wave, a mighty wave is coming over the land and has swept away Prince Nagbith!’ Unluckily, the Queen and the Prince glanced aside. And as their attention was withdrawn, a mighty champion of Magéraz strode forth, drew back his huge club, and with one swing smote the Queen and Prince together; they both fell senseless to the pavement below.
A cry of anguish and horror went up from the lips of Díamun, Dóna, Tairis, Beinun, and Tháli, for even as they thrust back their adversaries from the battlements they saw the Queen and Prince falling from the walls. Their hands lost all power and the weapons slipped from them; grief overcame them. The enemy came on with renewed vigour. And that would have been their end. But at that very moment the mighty wave struck the gatehouse, not broken by the walls but smashing even the heavy stones of the battlements, sweeping everyone down.
A torrent the size of a small hill poured through the gates and through breaches in the walls and gushed along the streets of the city, carrying everything before it. Fighters on both sides struggled in the waters, weighed down by armour. The war was forgotten; everyone did their best to keep head above water and stay afloat, as the glistening spout poured forth like the thick tongue of a sea monster licking up everything in the city.
The Ilguratanya, weeping with grief, had one moment to cast aside their heaviest pieces of armour before they were swept up by the water. But as they struck out to swim they were astonished to find that the water was warm, and, moreover, that it bore them up. They needed not to struggle to stay afloat. And many a person of Dúmiel found the same that day. The water had them in its grip but it did not drown them. But every person marked with the Yoke of Negobith was hard put either to float or to swim.
The five Ilguratanya clung together as the flood swept them through the ruins of Tídris, past drowned or roofless buildings, broken trees, floating tables, chairs, and beds. They reached the quays at the lower end of the city. Most of the vessels there had been either swept away or swamped, but by good fortune one or two small battered boats somehow remained, tethered to their submerged landing stages by long cables. The three children of the Queen and their two spouses swam to a large rowing boat and climbed into it, casting off the cable. Four of them took the oars, but there was only one way to row, with the flood, which now stretched almost as far as the eye could see on either side. And as they were borne towards the river mouth they saw what seemed to be an old man’s body, white-haired, floating nearby. Then they saw that he was stretching forth his hand to them. He lived! They drew him into the boat, and behold! it was Obrámus the Wise.
The six survivors were driven far beyond Yivanówa, out into the southern sea, and underwent many trials. They were swept on to a barren isle and lost their boat, they fashioned a raft from scant materials on the isle, and put to sea again, and drifted on the waves until they made landfall on the beach of a fair unearthly land unknown to them. And what befell them there is told in the tale of Ingos in Aphelos.
The power of the flood slackened not at all as it roared on its way down the valley of the Berusilwa, mile after mile, until it reached Yivanówa, and there it spread out over the bay like a tidal wave. The great wave bore down on Otset Ingos and overtopped the island. The wooden bed where Ingos lay peacefully in icesleep was torn from the summit of the island and the body of Ingos was carried out into the twilit sea.
Then took place a great wonder, though none beheld it. For the great stone Kapatingos had been dissolved and its hidden virtues were mingled with the warm floodwaters. And when these waters were cast by the winds over the frozen body of the Lord Ingos, the virtues of the Kapatingos unlocked the bonds of icesleep that had bound the Father of peoples for half a thousand years, and warmth and life returned to him, though he was like one who slept. He clung to the log of Landorúya wood in a waking dream, knowing not who he was or whence he came, and in this condition floated onwards in the moonlight until he came to a rock that stood out above the waters. What befell him there is told in the tale of Ingos in Aphelos. And it is said that all those smitten with Gantzor by the Hand of Glory in the downfall of Tídris were likewise loosed of the firungamlas when the floodwater touched them. But the Fâdhéri knew not of this remedy, to bring it to their icesleepers.
After the flood had passed, Hirgul himself found the drowned body of his father Prince Nagbith on the bank of the river Berusilwa, near the ruins of the Fîborka camp. He bid the surviving Falakkazri to bear it back ceremoniously to Magéraz Urlan-fen. Hirgul knew at once that he was now Prince of Fíbor, and yet that there was no one living who could testify to his claim. He at once set off to take counsel with Sûwikka. And behold, as he laboured up the devastated valley through mud and mire, he met with a horse, a mare, standing as if awaiting him. It was Gragadam, all wet as if she had swum through the flood, but not swept away. On her back he rode to Tarûig, which stood high above the valley of the Berusilwa.
Sûwikka seemed even older and weaker as she lay in her bed. She said merely:
‘Take the axe Ganting. Take Brandubur. Summon Hugturágis — not the wingworm! — and fly to Nanôr. Tether the monster at Fef Heigum. Cross the river. Go to your father’s grandame Murnag ta-Valka. Beg her counsel, and whither she tells you to go, bid Hugturágis take you. Get the bough of Dóyë Theredus, of Life Unending, from the Tree Engworrúya. Return hither and by the Bough’s power, raise up your father, that he may rule forever. May the Anyat-Ungubith speed you!’
Then she closed her eyes and seemed to sleep.
Here ends the tale of the Fall of Tídris.
