Leaving behind him the carcass of Gulgrudur, Lansenet, in the fervour of victory, descended boldly to the cavern of Onskabâ, wearing the fangs of the monster on the helm of the Green Rider. He reached its great doorway and looked in. He could see far off the great throne Fâlagidhron, and a little in front of it, the mighty anvil Nolgon. But there was a strange whispering in the air, and looking aside to see what caused it, his eye beheld what no mortal but Arbros and Thilfri had yet seen: the ghastly glowing shape of the Hand of Glory, gripping the white sword Gantzor, floating in the air. Beneath it were gathered several figures: the largest a great warrior, and round him a small troop of the Falakkazri, the Hawk-headed Ones whom mortals fear. But Lansenet felt no fear. He drew aside into the shadows behind the door, as the troop began to move in step towards the mouth of the cavern, with the glimmering Hand gliding onwards above them.
As the weird procession moved onto the great winding road of Kapgar Kûm, Lansenet darted into the cavern. Something drew him towards the great anvil Nolgon. As he stepped close to it, he noticed on the ground a shape like a handle joined to a crosspiece. He stooped and took it up. A stonemason’s hammer. He weighed it in his hands. Then the good voice spoke again in his ears: ‘This is Drothnir. He is ancient, wrought before the age of the Hyûvandri, old as the Age of Readying, full of shaping power. He might go with thee as well as lie unused in this dark cavern.’
Then Lansenet turned, hastened from the cave Onskabâ, and went as fast as he could to the Eastern Incline. He leapt over the carcase of Gulgrudur and ran up to the Eastern Gate. He came to his horse Damarâw, who greeted him with joyful neighing. Lansenet mounted and rode with all the speed he could in the darkness towards the Great Gate of Kapgar Kûm.
From the high place of meeting next to the Great Gate Lansenet looked down and saw below him the lighted procession whose exit from Onskabâ he had witnessed not long before. Though already dwindling in the distance he could yet see the ghastly glow of the Hand and Sword amid the pale flames of the torches of the Falakkazri. He prepared to spur Damarâw, most fearless of steeds, to pursue them — with no clear aim but vengeance — but the guiding Voice spoke in his ears.
Not now, Lansenet, noble rider
And not yours exaction of the ages’ debt.
Ride now to Nanôr to name your price
With that mighty witch, Murnag ta-Valka.
He felt a gentle pressure on the horse’s bridle, turning him to the backward road, but before he urged Damarâw forward, he looked back at the distant company and cried once more in defiance:
Mazéget Malvân túvat’ Magyerdhet Urlan-fên!
The Fangs of the Sleeper against the Horns of the Bottomless Pit!
Then he rode on his way, and the gentle, masterly Voice guided him by hidden roads into the Valley of the Haldossilu River, the Greywater, that flowed into the dark woods of Nanôr. And after many days, he found himself at a great mound that rose up in the forest near the banks of Haldossilu. And there the Voice bade him stop. And it told him that this was Fef Heigum, a place of great enchantment from the Deep; and therefore he should by no means go upon the slopes of the top of the high place, but instead encamp on the south side of it.
And on the morrow, under instruction from the Voice, he crossed the grey river by an ancient ford of stepping stones. Not far from the river stood Imbrig, the house of Murnag, heart of the witchland. A great palisade was set around it. The gate of gurnal wood was named Thúrbal and its iron latch Sinkarad. Then the Voice taught Lansenet what to say, and as one who knew their names he approached without hesitation. But when his finger touched the string of the latch, Thúrbal cried out:
Tyeder ailé hlafarúyat Imbrig Sinkarad
an daredh gundrollat in-ravinédë Thúrbal?
Who lifts Sinkarad, latch tree of Imbrig,
Or Thúrbal’s threshold thinks of crossing?
For Murnag ta-Valka the aged was sightless, yet a power of seeing was set on the beams and joints, the staves and lintels, the frames and rooftrees of her house Imbrig, that no one might approach secretly.
Then for answer Lansenet took Drothnir, the mighty hammer of Mivgâ the ancient Stonegiant, in his hand, and smote Sinkarad so hard that Thúrbal burst open and the latch hung useless. And he took from his helm Bronkazêg, the Left Fang of Gulgrudur, and smote upon it with Drothnir, less stiffly than he had upon the gate. And at once the poisonous fume of the Sleeper Malvân streamed forth from the point of the tooth and filled the precincts of Imbrig, driving away the perfumed smoke of Murnag, wherewith she was wont to befuddle the wits of her visitors; it entered the sightless eyes of the Angûthéga so that all strength and power of runing and riming left her, and she fell on her face from her low stool beside the smoky fire, with her mighty staff Gonnlar useless in her limp hand; and in their quarters around the yard of Imbrig her attendant beasts all slumped senseless.
Then stoutly Lansenet strode into Imbrig and stood before Murnag.
The Neathworm greets you, Night’s kinswoman,
As it greeted Prámiz, your proud offspring,
When Oigenas, in Onskabâ,
Sank, and was shrunk by a sword’s greeting,
To the Gantzor-grasping ghost-haunted hand, —
Gantzor that froze favoured Groiznath
On southern sands where Slungandi fell!
Gonnlar aids not, grudge how you may.
Starfire I seek, stored in secret,
In your cellar below. Stay not my search!
For Mivgâ’s maul can make wreckage
Of your prized potions and pointed spells.
Then he placed Bronkazêg, the Left Fang of Gulgrudur, before her face to guard her, and quickly descended into the lower chamber. Seizing the crock of naphtha in which the last of the stolen starfire lay he climbed out and put back the Fang upon his helm. He turned from Murnag and hastened from Imbrig.
Murnag summoned the dregs of her strength and lifted up her sightless face. In soundless words of the Deepspeech that cannot be written she framed the grimmest rune of cursing that she knew and gasped it forth after the departing rider. Little by little the fumes of Gulgrudur abated. At length she was able to summon her familiar beasts and send them out in pursuit of Lansenet. But he was already far away in the west.
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