Follow the path marked on the scroll, and you may have a chance.”
Elowen unrolled the scroll and studied the map inked upon it. She asked, “Haven’t you always warned us away from these buried Nar ruins? Wouldn’t we fare better taking an overland route?”
The Nentyarch did something Marrec thought was out of character for such an esteemed and elder elf; he shrugged, saying, “Better to sneak past the slumbering evil of toppled empires than attempt to penetrate the watchful guard of a vigilant malevolence. I call the Rotting Man the Talontyr because his power has waxed with an influx of divine energy sent by his goddess, Talona. All who penetrate too deeply into the Rawlinswood are known to him. The heart of that forest is truly corrupted, and its trees owe their allegiance to him, and me no longer. As his power grows, mine wanes.”
Without further comment, Elowen stowed the map.
“We appreciate the help you can offer. With the map, and with the aid of your hunters, we will pierce the Rotting Man’s guard and reunite Ash with her greater self.”
“I have not finished with my gifts,” said the Lord of Yeshelmaar, who came perilously close to a grin. He clapped.
A few of those Marrec had taken for simple Dalesfolk petitioners in the rear of the hall came forward. Each carried a chest, a garment, or some other oddment.
The first walked to stand next to the Nentyarch, who said, “Marrec, your coming was hot unlooked for; our dream auguries and moon guides pointed to your arrival, or at least the arrival of someone like you in service to Lurue. That you would come with hope for finding and reviving the Child of Light is more even than we could perceive or hope for. In any event, we have prepared suitable gifts for the one we hoped would come. These gifts will help you in what lies ahead.”
The first of the Dalesfolk produced a pair of matched gauntlets. The gauntlets were quite thin and sewn of smooth grain deerskin and lined with white linen. Emerald threads picked out the design of an oak leaf in the palm of each hand.
The Nentyarch said, “Marrec, please accept these enchanted gloves. While you wear them, a strength like that of the oak tree will be yours.”
Marrec accepted the gauntlets and bowed low. Mere handling of the gloves was enough for him to feel their vitality. He carefully stowed them at his belt.
Next was produced a leather scabbard on which many elegant designs were inlaid. A hilt of darkly oiled and gleaming wood was visible. The Nentyarch grasped the hilt and pulled forth a long blade. It was a blade unlike any Marrec had before seen; the hilt, crosspiece, and even blade itself were carved from one continuous block of wood. The grain ran with the length of the blade, and like the hilt, the entire weapon shone as if recently polished with wood oil. The Nentyarch took a few hearty swings. The air whistled as it parted before the sharpened edge.
The Nentyarch said, “This is Dymondheart, the blade I carried when I was much younger. You’ll find its edge sharper than dead steel; it’s hard to dull the edge of a living weapon. I’d like you to carry-it for me, Elowen. If Dymondheart ends its career buried in the flesh of Rotting Man, I will not be disappointed.” He sheathed the wooden blade and presented it to Elowen.
The hunter stammered a thank you, overwhelmed with the magnificence of the gift. She said, “Then… count on me to arrange that ending, Nentyarch.”
Other gifts were brought forwardthree quivers of stiff black cloth inlaid with golden thread. Brighter than the thread were the f letched arrows contained in eachthe feathers were mirror-bright gold, flashing and twinkling in the torchlight. The Nentyarch drew out one of the arrows. The shaft was dark, like a line of darkness, even its tip, which narrowed down to an invisible point.
“These arrows are fletched with feathers collected from the phoenix’s nest on the highest spire of Yeshelmaar, collected only with her permission. The shafts are carved of lyrwood, harvested in the Shadow Wood of the mystic’s dreams. Nothing can evade their flights. Conserve them. Once they are gone, no more can easily be made.”
The Nentyarch presented a quiver each to Fallon, Anom, and Cirid. Each was accepted gracefully, though Marrec was sure he saw Fallon cast a quick, envious glance at the new sword gracing Elowen’s hip.
From his lips, Fallon was all poise and polish, saying, “We thank you, Nentyarch, for our gifts. They will be a great help against the Talontyr’s forces.”
“Now, let me think. I did not have anything prepared for the southern wayfarer, Gunggari; our presentiments were not so accurate.”
The Oslander shrugged. He said, “I need no gifts.”
“Gifts are not for those who need, but those who appreciate,” responded the Nentyarch. “Elowen has told me something of your abilities. I believe I have just the thing, a gift anyone might find useful.”
A Dalesman brought forward an open chest. The Nentyarch pulled out a plain leather haversack. Opening it, he revealed several small vials, each filled with an iridescent liquid: purple, sky blue, forest green, and shimmering yellow. Each vial was held in place with a cunning leather strap so that all were side by side and easily accessible when the haversack flap was open.
“Each of these vials is filled with an elixir of potent magic. When you have need, unstop a vial and drink. The contents of each vial are displayed by each little figure stitched into the leather of the haversack. When you have used up all the vials, return the haversack to me, and I shall refill them.”
Gunggari accepted the haversack of potions. He scanned the labels, reading aloud, “Heroic Surge, Bead of Flame, Strength of the Bull… truly you do me a great honor, Nentyarch. I will use these in thankfulness.”
“And last, Ash.”
All eyes turned to the girl. Ash stood, unconcerned and apparently uncaring of the heritage the Nentyarch claimed for her.
“What gifts will avail you, eh, little one?” asked the Nentyarch. “What about this, then?”
A final chest was brought forward. The Nentyarch produced a set of leather straps, chased with green thread, fitted with a bit and reins. It was a bridle, meant to be fitted to a horse’s head.
“This is not exactly for you, Ash, but for your mount, Henri. Wearing this, he shall always know his way, and even should he stray in dark places, he will always be able to bear you back here to me and to safety.”
Ash made no move, nor did anyone expect a reaction. Marrec accepted the bridle, thanking the Nentyarch for his thoughtfulness.
“Wait, I’m going, too,” yelled Ususi. “If the Rotting Man threatens Lethyr, then he threatens the Mucklestones. I can’t have that. I will help you end his threat, if I can.”
“I wondered,” smiled the Nentyarch. “I suppose we can’t let you go without a gift of your own to aid you in this fight. Let me think… ah yes, I have the perfect thing.”
He gestured to the hunter who still held the chest containing the Keystone. Ususi’s eyes widened. The Lord of Yeshelmaar opened the chest, retrieved the Keystone once more and bestowed it on Ususi. The glowing stone lit up her face like the light of the sun reflected off water.
The Nentyarch said, “The Keystone needs a keeper. I know of no one more knowledgeable about those mystic stones. 1 charge you with the protection of the stones and with the keeping of the Keystone. Use their power well, Ususi Keywarden.”
Ususi swallowed, then simply nodded her head. Marrec enjoyed seeing the mage at a loss for words. Ususi solemnly placed the Keystone back into the chest. She finally said, “I am grateful.” A thought struck Marrec then.
“Nentyarch,” said Marrec, “with the Keystone, perhaps we may shortcut the ruined passages below the Rawlinswood entirely?”
The elder elf looked to the mage. Ususi considered and said, “That may be. We can perhaps pick up the path through the Celestial Nadir where we left it yesterday. I left the exit open. I might be able to forge a detour into the center of Dun-Tharos instead of back to the Mucklestones themselves.”
The Nentyarch added, “If you choose such a route, be careful. My dreams hint that the Rotting Man influences all realms contingent and coexistent with his own. It could be that you’ll find defenses even in your ancient space.”
Ususi looked doubtful and said nothing. Marrec said, “We will take counsel and decide our path by this afternoon.”
“Then the Court is concluded,” intoned the Nentyarch.
