The news was brought to Nagbith, Prince of Fíbor, that the wingworm’s fiery breath had burnt a swath through the Berufarána, from south to north, and that the Yamurúya had been destroyed.
‘The petty ûthéga has done well! The young prince has — been lucky. At all events, our moment has come!’
The army that had long awaited this moment was speedily assembled outside Magéraz Urlan-fên. Very soon, it began to move south. Under the command of the Falakkazri, bearing the staves of the Yoke, there marched battalions of Ongulaskári, those Hyûvandri who had been admitted to the innermost fellowship of Yokeservants. It was not a very great army. Nor were they heavily armed. They were arrayed almost in festal gear. The soldiers were all in purple, with black belts and helmets. Their spears bore purple and black pennants. They aimed not to terrify, but to impress the people of Dúmiel with the greatness of their lord. They came not to kill and plunder, but to bring all folk under the Yoke of Negobith.
Nevertheless for those who would not submit, Prince Nagbith, riding in the midst of the host, had in company with him the Coldsword Gantzor, grasped by the livid white Hand of Glory. That Hand was joined to no visible arm or body, yet it could turn the Sword in any direction as fast as an eye could blink, and bring the Icedeath on anyone to whom the Prince directed it. The Ongulaskári, and even the Falakkazri, acclaimed the floating Hand in their marching songs; but they went in dread of it.
And one more privy armament they had, of the making of the angûthégri by long labour: Vannàgumen, the Dome of Grey Mist. All that host, to the onlooker, appeared to be wrapped in a pale grey haze, visible yet not fully so, as if a mist were rising from the ground as they stepped forward. It was wrought of the vapours of the Sheefra, mingled with an element, never seen in the Midworld before, that repelled metal. Men and women and animals might step through that haze, but no steel-tipped arrow or spear, nor bright sword nor hefty axe, could penetrate.
The army came on at a steady pace over the empty lands of Arkallumis, and at a few days’ end they reached the the Berufarána. As they approached, smoke was still rising from the wreck of the woods, and when they reached the margin of the forest, they laughed aloud to see the blackened swathe, many yards wide, that Kervandwáfi’s fiery breath had driven clean through the forest from one side to the other. Up hill and down hill it went, and not a tree, nor even a bush, still stood in the midst of it. With a great shout the host began to march through. Fíbor had waited for this moment for the length of five hundred years.
They reached the Mother Hill, Yamunôth, in the midst, where the Queen Tree had stood in all her splendour and loveliness. Prince Nagbith rode up on to its summit, and there he planted the Banner of Negobith. The black and purple pennant streamed in the breeze. The Fîborian host shouted acclaim, but their cries were suddenly drowned by a deep, angry roar from the depths of the forest, which was followed by a rain of arrows and spears. The Fâdhéri, issuing from the surrounding woods, began to attack the army of Fíbor from all sides. But every missile that they shot forth stopped suddenly in mid-air, repelled by the misty shield, and fell back harmlessly to the ground. The soldiers of Fíbor laughed scornfully. Then the harsh commands of the Falakazri summoned them to the defence. Bold warriors of the Fâdhéri were now advancing with wooden clubs and staves: they rushed on their foes with ferocity. And then suddenly they stumbled back, and many fell: for a flying sword passed among them, wielded by no visible arm, and whoever it touched was instantly struck cold, and white, and rigid, and fell to the ground in the clutches of the icedeath.
The horns of the Fâdhéri heralds were blowing urgently. Their King was summoning the warriors to withdraw, for he saw that they could not prevail in the face of this new, unknown menace. Paying the forest guardians no further heed, the host of Fíbor marched away. But the Fâdhéri stood, or sat, or knelt, in sorrow once again. Fifteen of their champions lay in frozen sleep — or frozen death — on the charred forest floor. There was no ûthéa known to them that could bring these unfortunate ones back to life. The Fâdhéri could only carry the icebound bodies reverently back to Lâfallon and lay them to rest in a vault there, against a day when the evil spell should be undone.
The host marched on. They did not trouble themselves about the settlements that lay in the hill country of Dúmiel. They took a path that led westwards, to the great north–south Giants’ Road, and on reaching it, they went south, straight towards Tídris.
They passed through villages, but neither stopped nor spoke as they went. They trusted that there would be no true resistance to them till they reached Tídris, and in this they were right. For only in one place, later called Glingat Thorgri, a small force of countryfolk assembled against them. Somehow word had reached them of the Fíbor folks’ advance and their valour prevailed over their prudence. It was a sorry encounter: five Dûmieldári were left in icedeath upon the roadside, others scattered in panic, while a few fighters fled to Tídris to tell of the terror of the flying sword.
Even as the host of Fíbor had passed into the Greenmarch, there was consternation in Tídris, from the Queen’s House to the least important dwelling in the meanest street. For many had seen the wingworm as he sped over the rooftops, and everyone, coming to the place of assembly, knew that the Kapatingos, the sacred stone of Dúmiel, was lost, carried off by the fearsome beast. All knew that Dúmiel could not be overrun while the Stone stood there. And the community had long harboured a concealed rift between those loyal to the Queen and those who believed her to be the agent, or carrier, of some evil magic that would bring disaster on the country. Now there was murmuring against her. Dayamuna tried vainly to assuage it by going out among the people, for many called out against her and gave her evil names.
And as hundreds of citizens stood assembled in the place where the Stone of Ingos had once been set, a dusty, dishevelled figure, who had evidently been running a long way, came stumbling through the crowd, and cast himself down before the Queen. He called out, so that all in the front ranks of the multitude heard his words:
‘Noble Aunt, and sovereign lady, the fiery wingworm that of late passed over this city has set fire in the Greenmarch — it has burnt a portion of the forest right through, from south to north — a pathway through the trees has been cleared — there is now no barrier to our enemies in Fíbor — I fear that Prince Nagbith and his host are even now on their way to enter our land — to capture Tídris and enslave Dúmiel — I, who was wandering carefree in the northern woods, chanced to witness this disaster — I have hastened night and day to warn the city —’
As the message was passed through the crowd, cries of lamentation, curses, and shouts of anger arose. Scuffles broke out. Folk hostile to the Queen, their worst fears confirmed, called for immediate flight, and grappled with others determined to defend the city. Prince Emilak hastened Dayamuna away to the Queen’s House. But Hirgul, seizing the opportunity, leapt up on to the ruined plinth of Kapatingos and called for calm.
‘My friends, this is no time to turn upon one another! Tídris is in peril. Let all those unwilling to defend her depart to the country districts as soon as may be. But let us who will not readily give her up now prepare to defend her. Let all who have skills prepare the defences, and let supplies of all kinds be brought inside and set in store.’
Then both parties hailed Hirgul for his prudence, and all departed to do as he counselled. The staunchest citizens came to him and entreated him to be their commander.
‘I thank you, sires, but nay, you have your commanders already. The Queen and Prince Emilak will lead the defence, and I shall take my place at the gates or upon the walls, wherever I can assist.’
Nevertheless, many of them decided to listen to his words rather than those of the Queen and Prince. And that proved useful to him.
It was at once decreed that those who could not bear arms should depart from the city.
At this hour arose an ancient white-haired man of wisdom, Obrámus by name. He had been the teacher of the three children of the Queen, Díamun, Beinun, and Dóna, and now he foresaw the ruin of Tídris. He counselled that all who left the city should flee to the western highlands.
‘For that is both a land favoured of old by the Entellári, and not wholesome for these Kúmi Netári, and moreover it is more defensible than Yivanówa, and it is the home of the doughty Lorúna, the people of our Prince.’
But Hirgul, privily, not openly in the face of Obrámus the Wise, opposed this, saying,
‘Nay, it were better that as many as may be should take ship down the Berusilwa and lodge among the people of Yivanówa.’
Thus he subtly sowed confusion and division among the people. So some took ship southward, while others travelled westward on foot or on horseback or in wains. And while hundreds tried to flee, wains loaded with supplies for a siege rolled in from the nearby villages, blocking their path.
Queen Dayamuna was distraught with grief at what had befallen her city. She went about among the people, trying to assist them, but they were all intent on their safety, and heeded her not.
On the next day, while those who had stayed to defend the city made everything ready to withstand the assault of the Folk of Fíbor, another fugitive came stumbling through the gates of Tídris, with terror written in his face as genuine as that of Hirgul had been carefuly feigned. His name was Keldimar; he was the only one of the survivors of Glingat Thorgri who had been able to run the whole way to the city; and when he reached the Place of the Kapatingos he collapsed, unable to speak until the bystanders gave him water.
And when he had somewhat recovered himself, he cried out wildly:
‘Alas! The host of Fíbor comes armed with terrible weapons! A misty shield that wards off every point or blade — no weapon can come near them. And worse still, a sword, wielded by an arm invisible, that turns every way at the blink of an eye! And it does not slay, but turns the one it touches to ice!’
And to those who questioned him, he insisted.
‘Aye! With my own eyes I saw it. Five good lads of our village — Menrar, Telvorth, Kelenil, Paskar, and my own cousin, Gelyadar! Lying like blocks of ice carved into the form of men. Alas!’
When they heard this, consternation spread among the defenders, so that the hearts even of the hardiest quailed. And away at the edge of the throng, Hirgul was hard at work, counselling anyone who trembled to take to flight, southwards downriver, while there were still boats at Segnet Ravinnigos, the island quay.
But Old Obrámus the Wise stood forth and said to them all:
‘Let us not despair yet. For Tídris was founded by the Entellári and built by the Kabdath. There is astûthéa in this place and its people. And I trow we have somewhat to combat the evil weapons of Ombros!’
Such was the reverence they had for him that many took courage again, even though they knew not what Dúmiel could put forth against Fíbor’s might.
Then Obrámus went in to the Queen’s House and spoke privily with Queen Dayamuna and Prince Emilak.
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