The Prologue.
“This riddle, carved fair, in the Charyanthe tongue upon the Mighty Stone Tablet in the Dragon Eyrie of Storien-Rhudd, on the shoulder of Great Camas Mhor, had been carved by Lokari… The First Dragon Lord. He had laid here the sum of the key to The Dread Imposition in the hope, that one day, this thing might be undone.”
The Old Storyteller closed the first great volume of The Tarsius of Amriath; settled himself deeper into his oaken chair, and took a sip of the amber Algethimeade from the ancient silver tankard by his side. The wind howled mournfully around the eaves of the Great Hall, as a deep-midwinter storm off the grey, flinty mountains prowled the land. He gazed about the Hall. His audience sat enthralled by his tales, but they were young... they knew not of war. Amriath had known peace for close on two score years. There was slender call for Heroes these days; yet he knew that deep inside each of the listeners, there was the yearning. This was ever the nature of the young.
The maids all imagined themselves to be Cirion, Ice Queen of Shandalar; making her stand in The High Pass of Ling. The youngling males imagined that they were the Guardians…Tristan, or Marcus; riding down the slopes of Rhyddu to lay bloody mayhems upon the Darkling War Host. He saw how their eyes shone with imagination as he told of the laying to waste of The Mordbrood of Valdarthost; of the riding to battle with naked sword in hand. There was nothing to compare with a bold tale of romance and derring-do to pass away a cold, late-winter’s night. He smiled softly. He knew what it was like. He had been there; riding with Eldamar, The Lord Guardian of The Light; and with Tristan; and with Marcus.
Such days! But, they were long past, and perhaps, t'was just as well. For the cold of winter still caused him some small discomfort in his shoulder. This was a memento from a Horanaurk Kelek-Bersker spike out on The Plain of Malphaers, at the Siege of Rhom.
His audience was addressing him.
‘More Rhynam; tell us more!’
The Old Storyteller was, indeed, Rhynam; once, Master of The Nemesis of Lothluthil... the dreaded night fighters from out of Elisriendell. He smiled;
‘Faugh! Will you never have enough?’
But still; he drew forth another great, leather-bound volume, tooled about… as of the first; with leaf of gold; by age, now fading dim. This then, was Volume, the Second, of The Tarsius of Amriath; laying forth upon the rustling vellum pages all that had come to pass since The Mordbrood of Valdarthost had embraced their destruction complete, upon The Plain of Malphaers... their destruction wrought by the hand of The High Goddess Elaiana… “She, who is the Wellspring of All Being.”
There could be no doubting that, although The Dreadful, Dark Entity: “Baelar”... called too, “The Lord of The Underdark” had been confounded at this time; then, as certain as autumn fades into winter, he would not rest lightly upon this defeat. So, it was decided that a second great volume be scribed, in manner of the first; in the matter of distant remembrance; telling of what bloomed here in defiance of The Forces of The Darkness.
As an emboldened gust of swooping wind pattered sleet against the casement panes; the Old Storyteller, Rhynam, took another sip of the amber Algethimeade from the ancient silver tankard by his side; moved closer to the hearth, and warming in the fire glow, raised his reading stone above the first vellum page, and began to lay The Tell.
