destroyed. Otherwise , the evil in the world would constantly seek it.
One moment the witch was before them, her ash-blond hair
tossing, and then she was gone. In her place were the flicking wings of a hawk
and a fierce cry from its hooked beak. The pale underwings flashed. Feathers
beat the air and swift as an arrow it drove, talons outstretched, at Brand’s
face.
He ducked, but not quick enough. Talons ripped and clawed, seeking for his eyes, yet his head
was now bent low and the shrieking attack struck only the helm of the
Duthenor.
There was a flash of silver light, and then the hawk shot
upward into the air and was gone.
Brand and Kareste looked at each other. They did not speak.
The only sound they heard was the playing of the flute.
They turned to
Bragga Mor. Tears ran down his face, and the music, up close as they were to it
now, filled them with sadness and a sense of longing for something forever beyond reach. It had saved them, but it was heartbreaking,
and Brand felt the outside edges of a sorrow greater than any he had ever known. It was a grief that this stranger endured
every day.
Bragga Mor ceased playing , and he looked at them with eyes sadder even than the
music.
8. What Hope for
Cardoroth?
Aranloth stood still. His hands were raised, and only the
sleeves of his robe moved, fluttering in the northerly breeze. Gilhain felt the
same air on his face.
For a moment, the stench of the serpent was gone. The air
was sweet once more, sweeping down from the north, from the mountains that
Gilhain had never seen nor now ever would. He even fancied that he smelled the
scent of pinewoods and snow – crisp and fresh.
He heard a grinding noise and more
stone popped to dust under the enormous pressure exerted by the serpent ’ s tightening coils. The odor
of stone overpowered whatever else Gilhain smelled, for it was driven into his
face by the north wind which gusted stronger, moment by moment.
With the wind came cold. Either that, or the shadow of death
that fell over the wall blotted out all warmth and drained the air of life.
The wind now blew with genuine force, whistling through the
crenels and moaning along the sides of the merlons. All the while, the lòhrens
stood unmoving.
Gilhain felt something on his cheek. At first, he thought it
was crumbled stone from the battlement, and then he knew that it was sleet.
The wind suddenly died. Yet it remained cold, strangely cold
given how hot it was before. So cold that Gilhain noticed with amazement that
white frost began to settle in patches over the stonework of the
Cardurleth.
He looked about him. The soldiers were shivering, and a
great shudder ran through his own body.
He looked at the blade of his sword. It glittered with ice.
Gilhain whipped his head around in astonishment. Even the serpent was coated by a
layer of rime: the slime that dripped from its belly was now turned to a dirty white crust.
And the serpent did nothing to shake off its icy coat. It
lay, twisted and sluggish, over the Cardurleth. The coils no longer tightened.
The dust of crumbled stone no longer filled the air.
Nothing moved in the icy stillness, not until a sudden sign
from Lornach to a few of the Durlin. They leaped across the rampart and closed the short distance between themselves and the serpent in the
flicker of an eye. They hacked with their swords, but these were still useless.
Then Lornach seized a long spear from a nearby soldier, and Taingern joined
him.
Together the two men positioned the spear beneath the
creature’s pale belly. And then they drove it upward with slow precision. The air from their lungs billowed out in a
silvery mist about them, and the spear, driven with their combined strength, guided by four hands, penetrated the thick
skin.
The serpent moved with a spasm. Cold or no, sluggish or not,
it felt pain for the first time and lifted its body away from it.
A great coil rose. The belly shone pale beneath. Blood
dripped from the spear
One moment the witch was before them, her ash-blond hair
tossing, and then she was gone. In her place were the flicking wings of a hawk
and a fierce cry from its hooked beak. The pale underwings flashed. Feathers
beat the air and swift as an arrow it drove, talons outstretched, at Brand’s
face.
He ducked, but not quick enough. Talons ripped and clawed, seeking for his eyes, yet his head
was now bent low and the shrieking attack struck only the helm of the
Duthenor.
There was a flash of silver light, and then the hawk shot
upward into the air and was gone.
Brand and Kareste looked at each other. They did not speak.
The only sound they heard was the playing of the flute.
They turned to
Bragga Mor. Tears ran down his face, and the music, up close as they were to it
now, filled them with sadness and a sense of longing for something forever beyond reach. It had saved them, but it was heartbreaking,
and Brand felt the outside edges of a sorrow greater than any he had ever known. It was a grief that this stranger endured
every day.
Bragga Mor ceased playing , and he looked at them with eyes sadder even than the
music.
8. What Hope for
Cardoroth?
Aranloth stood still. His hands were raised, and only the
sleeves of his robe moved, fluttering in the northerly breeze. Gilhain felt the
same air on his face.
For a moment, the stench of the serpent was gone. The air
was sweet once more, sweeping down from the north, from the mountains that
Gilhain had never seen nor now ever would. He even fancied that he smelled the
scent of pinewoods and snow – crisp and fresh.
He heard a grinding noise and more
stone popped to dust under the enormous pressure exerted by the serpent ’ s tightening coils. The odor
of stone overpowered whatever else Gilhain smelled, for it was driven into his
face by the north wind which gusted stronger, moment by moment.
With the wind came cold. Either that, or the shadow of death
that fell over the wall blotted out all warmth and drained the air of life.
The wind now blew with genuine force, whistling through the
crenels and moaning along the sides of the merlons. All the while, the lòhrens
stood unmoving.
Gilhain felt something on his cheek. At first, he thought it
was crumbled stone from the battlement, and then he knew that it was sleet.
The wind suddenly died. Yet it remained cold, strangely cold
given how hot it was before. So cold that Gilhain noticed with amazement that
white frost began to settle in patches over the stonework of the
Cardurleth.
He looked about him. The soldiers were shivering, and a
great shudder ran through his own body.
He looked at the blade of his sword. It glittered with ice.
Gilhain whipped his head around in astonishment. Even the serpent was coated by a
layer of rime: the slime that dripped from its belly was now turned to a dirty white crust.
And the serpent did nothing to shake off its icy coat. It
lay, twisted and sluggish, over the Cardurleth. The coils no longer tightened.
The dust of crumbled stone no longer filled the air.
Nothing moved in the icy stillness, not until a sudden sign
from Lornach to a few of the Durlin. They leaped across the rampart and closed the short distance between themselves and the serpent in the
flicker of an eye. They hacked with their swords, but these were still useless.
Then Lornach seized a long spear from a nearby soldier, and Taingern joined
him.
Together the two men positioned the spear beneath the
creature’s pale belly. And then they drove it upward with slow precision. The air from their lungs billowed out in a
silvery mist about them, and the spear, driven with their combined strength, guided by four hands, penetrated the thick
skin.
The serpent moved with a spasm. Cold or no, sluggish or not,
it felt pain for the first time and lifted its body away from it.
A great coil rose. The belly shone pale beneath. Blood
dripped from the spear
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