Tukko's face seemed to twitch peculiarly, and he intoned slowly, "From the east shall he come, strong in ignorance, short in patience, hiding his wit beneath arrogance—"
Morrolan felt his eyes narrow, and he said in a low voice, "If this is to refer to me, sir, I must insist—"
Tukko continued, "And he shall be searching for blood, yet he shall find a black wand, and this wand in his hand will preserve a world."
Sethra stared at Tukko. "He—?"
Morrolan said, "Black wand?"
Tukko nodded to Sethra, turned on his heel, and left.
Sethra stared at Morrolan, who said, "Madam—"
Sethra shook her head and made a quick motion of her hand, and Morrolan's sword suddenly split lengthwise, from point to pommel, and fell to the floor with more of a tinkle than a crash.
Morrolan stared at the Enchantress. "Madam—"
Sethra seated herself once more, a singular expression on her countenance, as one who has just experienced an epiphany.
Morrolan said, "My sword—"
"We will attend to that by and by, my lord Morrolan."
"And yet, I insist—"
"Please," said Sethra. "Let us not fight. I promise you, I had not the least intention in the world of giving offense. Moreover, I believe I shall come to like you. As for a sword, it will be replaced. And, as for tribute, well, I shall, no doubt, find something suitable."
Morrolan stared at her, unable to decide precisely how to respond to these astonishing words. Before he was able to make a decision, Sethra was continuing as if nothing had happened.
"Please sit down," she said. "Tell me about yourself. From the way you attack your consonants as if they were an enemy swordsman and swallow your vowels as if they were a light snack, I would judge that you were raised in the East. Is it not so?"
Morrolan still hesitated, as if uncertain if he were being mocked, but at length he relented and sat down once more. "Yes, I was raised in the East."
"Should you meet my apprentice, she will, no doubt have many questions for you, as she has no small interest in the East."
"You have an apprentice?"
"Over the years, I have had several."
"But, what are they apprenticed to? That is, what do they learn?"
"Well, sorcery, for one thing."
"Sorcery?"
"Magic."
"I know of the Eastern magical arts. Is it, perhaps, another word for the same thing?"
"I do not believe so. Perhaps, now that the Orb has returned, I could show you something of sorcery, if you become a citizen."
"Citizen?"
"Of the Empire."
"You perceive, I know nothing about this."
"You will come to understand, I have no doubt. Where you lived in the East, was there not a kingdom?"
"There was a small principality where I lived, but then, in Blackchapel—"
"Blackchapel?"
"A village I came to. There was nothing in Blackchapel except Blackchapel."
Sethra frowned, as if there were something about the name, Blackchapel, that engaged her interest.
"You came to a village where they worshiped black?"
"Well, yes, you could say that."
"On foot?"
"I was, in fact, walking, yes."
"And you met there a fool?"
"How could you have known that?"
"And the fool led you to your name?"
"I… that is to say, well, that is one way to look at it."
"And then the fool brought you to a lady who rode in a coach?"
Morrolan frowned. "It was more complicated than that. There was one lady, and then the coach brought another, but that was a hundred years—"
"And the lady brought you to three sisters?"
"I—well, yes, but really only one of them. You see—"
"And you dreamed of a black staff?"
"That much is true."
"And of water that had never seen the light of day?"
"How do you know all of this?"
Sethra continued staring intently at Morrolan. "It is an old prophecy," she said. "Very old."
Morrolan shifted in his chair. "I am not," he said, "entirely certain I enjoy being in a prophecy."
"Well, but this will happen, if your soul-mate is a goddess."
Morrolan was now, without doubt, truly amazed. "How could you know—?"
"I am," she said, "the Enchantress of Dzur Mountain."
"But, madam, how is it that being the Enchantress of Dzur Mountain gives you this knowledge?"
"I read a great deal," said Sethra. "But come, tell me about this village of Blackchapel, for you perceive it interests me greatly."
Soon, without being entirely aware of how it happened, Morrolan was answering the Enchantress's questions as if it were the most natural thing in the world that he do so. Indeed, as the evening wore on, he found that he was answering questions about himself more fully than he had ever done before, and even that he was often required to stop and consider carefully in an effort to give his host the most truthful and complete answer he could to questions that from another he should have considered an impertinence at best, and a deadly insult at worst. And if she rarely said a word of herself, and then only in the most general terms, well, it did not occur to Morrolan to question this until much later when he was reviewing in his mind the remarkable events of the day.
Presently he found that he had accepted an invitation to stay for a meal; no small matter—for in the Eastern culture in which he had been raised, it was considered dishonorable to share food with an enemy. While he was never afterward able to recall exactly what was served, he did remember enjoying it at the time, although his attention was mostly on the conversation, in which Sethra continued to ask probing and personal questions which Morrolan answered fully and forthrightly. The conversation, we should add, continued for some hours.
It was early the next morning that Morrolan rode away from Dzur Mountain, on a horse which was no little refreshed, and with Sethra Lavode's "tribute" hanging from the scabbard at his side. We should say that at this time he was aware that there were unusual properties about this weapon, but he was not aware of what they were—the Enchantress had told him little, merely handing it to him with a wry remark as he prepared for his departure. He had, we should say, entirely forgotten the matter of the tribute he was supposed to have collected, and so accepted the offering with silent astonishment. "We shall meet again, I am certain" had been Sethra's final remark, to which Morrolan had replied with a bow.
During the return journey, Morrolan often let his hand come to rest on the pommel of the weapon while he considered the peculiar feelings that came over him when he touched it, yet he denied himself the pleasure of actually drawing it from its scabbard, which was of wood and iron, covered in leather, and decorated with a peculiar symbol. He slept under the open sky, and arrived the next day back at his encampment, where he was at once pleased by the visible progress that had been made in the temple during his absence. Moreover, it seemed that his small army had noticeably grown, and this could not help but delight him.
As he gave his horse into the care of a groom, he observed the Warlock standing near the temple, speaking with Lady Teldra. The dog and the cat lay near their feet, both looking about as if uncertain the area could yet be considered safe. Teldra and the Warlock both looked up and bowed, which salute Morrolan returned politely.
"Welcome back," said Teldra. "I hope your journey was pleasant."
"And," added the Warlock, "I hope that it was productive."
"Both," said Morrolan laconically. "But tell me, what has happened here while I was gone? Is there news?"
"In a sense," said the Warlock.
"In a sense?"
"That is to say, after a fashion."
"Come, I am certain you can speak more clearly than that."
"I mean only this: There is news of some kind, but I do not know it. I have observed scouts arriving, and consult
ing with your commander, Fentor, and being sent out again. But I do not know what they have reported."
"Ah, well, I understand perfectly, and I will speak with Fentor."
"An admirable plan, if I may be permitted an opinion," observed the Warlock.
"My lord," said the Issola, "would you permit me to bring you refreshment?"
"Why, yes, Teldra. That would be splendid."
"I shall do so at once."
"Inside, near the altar. And have Fentor and Arra sent to me, and we will consult."
"At once, my lord."
"And," added the Warlock, "please accept my compliments on your new weapon. Is there a story that comes with it?"
"There is, indeed, and once the others have arrived, I should be glad to tell you of it."
"And I shall be glad to listen. What of that Necromancer?"
Morrolan frowned. "Yes, let her come as well. It will be a full council of war. There may be much to consider."
Soon they had gathered together, and Morrolan studied his friends and companions. Fentor spoke first, however, saying, "I perceive you are armed differently than when you left. You had, then, a gift of the Enchantress?"
"A gift?" said Morrolan. "Well—" He paused. It had been on his mind to say that it was tribute, yet, in the event, he merely shrugged.
"Well," said the commander, "may I see it? Because, unless I am deceived, it is a Morganti weapon."
"A what?"
"It has certain properties."
"What kind of properties?"
"It will destroy the soul of anyone it kills."
Morrolan frowned. "I see. Are there many of these around?"
"Too many. But few, I think, as powerful as yours appears to be. Once it is clear of its sheath, we shall know for certain."
"Very well," said Morrolan, and drew the weapon for the first time—an event as monumental, in its own way, as the restoration of the Empire itself, not the least because it had no little to do with the preservation of that Empire; a fact which is not widely known, but which the author will demonstrate as our history unfolds.
In appearance, the sword was not unusual—of a good size for a Dragon warrior, of black metal that seemed not to reflect the light, with a simple crosspiece and a smooth black hilt.
The effect on those present of this apparently simple longsword was nothing less than profound. Teldra and Fentor, who had, perhaps, less sensitivity to psychic phenomena than the others, found themselves on their feet, back several paces, and were unaware of making the decision to move. It was, as Teldra described later, "as if Death itself had loomed over us all, holding out his arms in an invitation at once terrifying and nearly irresistible." Fentor, for his part, became aware that it was taking all of his strength to avoid trembling visibly, and he was utterly unable to keep the look of fear and horror from his countenance.
The Warlock gave a cry, almost a screech, and his familiars at once took their alternate forms, turning into a snarling dzur and a bristling wolf—the first time anyone had seen this transformation, and yet this went unnoticed in the turmoil of the moment. He spoke very rapidly in an Eastern language that not even Morrolan had ever heard pronounced, and made various gestures with the fingers of his right hand.
Arra also made gestures, although different ones, and those with both hand and arms—she seemed to be warding things from her, or putting a barrier between herself and Morrolan. And, while it is not possible to move from one place to another without traveling through the intervening space—at least, it is not possible using the arts of Eastern witchcraft—nevertheless it might have appeared that Arra had done so, so rapidly did she put a distance of several yards between herself and the naked weapon.
Even the Necromancer was visibly startled, and, with a couple of passes of her hands, built a sort of wavering, prismatic barrier between herself and Morrolan—a barrier which, after a few moments, she allowed to fade into the nothingness from which it had grown, but which left a certain impression in the minds of those who had seen it. As for how she felt, beyond her actions, we have no way of ascertaining this, but it seems clear that, like the others, she was startled and not a little frightened by the power emanating from Southmoor's hand.
To Morrolan, however, the result of his action was not only more profound, as the reader might expect, but was also entirely different, as we will detail at once: He felt, then, as if he had suddenly met again an old friend whom he had not seen in many years; simultaneously, it was as if seeing for the first time the person one knows will become one's lover. More than this, he felt flooded with well-being, as if, after a good night's sleep, one awoke to find klava ready and a day stretching out filled with only those things one wishes to do.
And above all of this, Morrolan was aware that, more than ever before, he would very much like to find something to kill. By preference, many things, all of them eager to fight back. How long they stood there, none of them was able afterward to say, but, after what seemed like hours, Morrolan at least pronounced the words, "My dream."
"Your dream?" said the Warlock.
"Ah," said Arra. "Yes, my lord. I remember it. I believe you must have been foresighted then; it was certainly a dream sent by the Goddess."
"A dream?" said the Warlock, in a tone indicating that he was only barely able to speak.
Morrolan turned to him and nodded. "Yes, I had a dream of holding a black wand."
"And this is your black wand?" said the Warlock.
"Yes," said Morrolan. "Yes, it is."
There seemed to be nothing to say to this, so the Warlock said nothing. Fentor was the next to catch his breath, as we might say, and he said, "My lord—"
"Well?"
"Give me ten weapons like that, and I shall fear no one."
"As for ten of them, I'm afraid that would be difficult. But, at any rate, we have one."
Gradually, hesitantly, they seated themselves, all of them looking warily at Morrolan's "black wand" as if it were a greensnake. After a moment, with some hesitation, he sheathed it, and found to his surprise—and pleasure—that he still maintained a certain sense of contact with it; the others were equally pleased that they were no longer aware of its presence, except in the dimmest, most distant way, feeling only a vague unease such as one feels on a journey when convinced one has failed to bring everything needed, but cannot remember what has been left behind.
"Well, then," said Morrolan, just as if nothing out of the ordinary course of events had occurred, "I gather, Fentor, that there were developments while I was away."
Fentor blinked twice, deliberately, as if doing so required concentration, then said, "Your pardon, my lord?"
"Developments. What has happened while I was gone?"
"Ah! Yes! The war!"
"Yes, the impending invasion of our home by a large army. I trust you have not forgotten about it?"
"In fact, for just a moment, I had."
"Well, but do you recall it now?"
"Oh, without doubt, my lord."
"Good, then. And, have there been developments concerning it?"
"Yes, my lord."
"And will you tell me what they are?"
"Whenever Your Lordship wishes."
"Whenever I wish? I think I have been wishing for nothing else for an hour!"
"Then, my lord, this is it: We have reports that the large army is moving more quickly, the still larger army more slowly, and the small troop is being pursued by a smaller troop. Moreover—"
"Yes, moreover?"
"I have calculated their destination more precisely."
"Well, and?"
"Yes, my lord?"
Morrolan groaned softly, clenched and unclenched his fist, then said, very carefully, "According to your calculation, what is their destination?"
"Dzur Mountain, my lord."
"Dzur Mountain," repeated Morrolan.
"Yes, my lord."
Morrolan looked at the others in the room, and met each of their eyes. "Well," he sai
d after a moment. "They must certainly be stopped, then."
"Is Dzur Mountain important?" asked Arra. "That is, must it be defended."
"Yes," said Morrolan.
"Very well," said Fentor.
"How long until they reach us?"
"Three days, maybe four, certainly not more than a week unless they suddenly stop or change their destination."
"And our preparations?"
"As complete as we can make them."
Morrolan turned to the Necromancer. "Can you help?"
"My lord?"
"Sorcery. I have learned something of sorcery. I am told it can do amazing things. I don't know. Blast them with fire, or make stones fall on their heads, or create an illusion of giant butterflies with nine-inch teeth. Something."
"I know little of this sorcery, but—"
"Yes?"
"I can do something."
He nodded, and turned to Arra. "My witches?"
"There is little we can do, but what there is, we will. We will make the enemy afraid, and make our friends confident and strong."
"That is not so little," added Fentor.
Morrolan nodded and turned to the Warlock, who said, "I will be there, but I don't know what I can do—"
"Perhaps I do," said Morrolan. "I must give this matter more thought. Come back tonight, all of you, around the seventh hour, after I have had time to consider matters, and we will see what sort of plans we can make."
"Very well," said the others, and, with a last glance at the weapon hanging at Morrolan's side, they left him alone with his thoughts and certain maps which Fentor had caused to be prepared, in order to permit him to contemplate the forthcoming battle.
Having brought up this battle, before closing this chapter of our history, we should like to take the opportunity to say two words about this conflict in general.
The Ninth Battle of Dzur Mountain (or the Tenth, if the reader prefers) was not fought in the immediate environs of Dzur Mountain—on the contrary, the battlefield was some forty or forty-five miles south of it, fought for the most part along a small stream called Lostoar Brook, which ran generally east to west near to the southern border of the Southmoor County—indeed, it had at one time been the boundary, until it was observed that, over the centuries, the stream was creeping generally southward for reasons best known to itself, and this migration, though entirely approved of by the various Counts of Southmoor, was seen differently by the Counts of Iadim, and so, after the Fifteenth Issola Reign, the boundary was determined by certain hills and valleys which promised to hold their positions. But then, it should be remembered that, of the many battles called "the Battle of Dzur Mountain," at least three of them were fought at least twenty miles from the foot of the mountain, so to give it this name is merely to continue a tradition, as it were.