Session 7: Return to Karet Cheykor

Wounded, weary, and haggard from the dangers of the road, the company arrived at long last at Hural Yalir, where they found the fort recovering from the aftermath of a Nalshbori assault some two days prior. The gates of the fort were still heavily scarred from the battering of a heavy stone ram, and a mound of charred Nalshbori corpses was heaped up beside the road on the far side of the causeway leading up to the fort. The company was greeted by a short, burly sergeant named Gamlonhal and his detachment of spearmen, who escorted the company--and the supply wagons--into the fort. 

That night the company was entertained by the hospitality of Commander Setela, a late middle-aged man with a hawkish face and the reserved, refined manners of a loyalist of the old Orrinuan faction. The company told them all their tale, minus the existence of the sword of Mawish and the specifics of some of their more unusual experiences in the Serth Hatama (specifically the Swan-Woman's lake and the tusked lion Teithbor encountered). Setela spoke bitterly and--perhaps--a little too freely of the troubles they had experienced as the strange corruption of the Serth Hatama crept ever closer to the River, and the Nalshbori marched ever more boldly against them. "And such things will continue until the Sword of Kings is wielded again by one who sits upon the throne in Sencankarr." Then he fell silent.

Sitting quietly at the table, a few places down from Commander Setela, was Vanera, a young scholar from Sencankarr [and Hope's new character, replacing the fallen Hasanyah] who had come North hoping to compile a book of lore on the Serth Hatama. But, not knowing well the land or the weather, he had timed his trip poorly, and was forced to winter with the legionnaires of Hural Yalir as the cold nights stretched on and the supplies grew ever more scarce. He proved of little use in the defense of the fort during the Nalshbori assault a couple of days prior, and by now the men of the fort had grown tired of the useless scholar consuming their rations and contributing little to their aid. But as the commander's guest Vanera still sat at the table, and as he listened to the company's story he recognized several elements from his own studies:

1) Mawish, the name of the Nalshbori commander with whom Tanurendal evidently has some experience, was also the name of the Nalshbori commander at the Siege of the Red Isle. Vanera particularly recalled a few verses which told of the slaying and capture of the two paladins Neras and Neralu by the monsters under Mawish's command:

A double sorrow even once to tellOf how the sons of Orufal their swordsQuenched, as 'round their feet the foemen fell,And spent their strength their monarch's flight to guard.Their eyes were shining as the Western stars,Which green as em'ralds blaze at break of day,And at their wrath the Nalshbori gave way.
Then Mawish, who with coldly burning hateTheir valor watched amid his black-helmed guard,Commanded that the brothers should be chainedAnd taken down to torment in the dark.But the Nalshbo captains feared those flashing swordsWhich helm and sark alike did bite and hew.But Fanhal's forces fled as the brothers slew.
Then round them monsters ranged, their eyes as coals--Those horny-headed creatures of the NorthWho raged among the wastes of winter cold--And fell upon those mighty men of worth.How great the battle when they sallied forth,The sons of Orufal in shining wrath,To cleave their way as ship's prow cleaves a path.
Then one beast leapt on high; his gaping mawWas full of bristling teeth in many rows.He clutched at Neras with long and poisoned clawsAnd pulled him down amid his own death throes.For Neras' sword had pierced that savage foe,As hunter's spear the charging leopard slays;But burning poison coursed through Neras' veins.
Then, high and piercing Neralu cried outAs thrice his flashing blade that awful hostDismayed, until a rushing scarlet goutOf blood from neck a gory wound disclosed.He falls, but shouts drive back the fearful foesAs Fanhal's rear-guard rally to their aidAnd scatter beasts with spears and flashing blades.
Then up they bore the bodies of those twainWho spilled their blood to guard the holy king.And from the precious life-blood of that swainA crimson stream had run down to the sea.And issuing from the rock a crystal springJoined the blood, and cleansed the purple stone,And made a certain wall against the foe.
For none who were by Orkon's pow'r corruptWould dare that crystal barrier essay,Nor would the hallowed waters dare to touch,So Fanhal won the passage of the gate.And still the Ambori revere that placeWhere long ago the brothers stood and died,And by their blood all Orkon's host defied.

2) Concerning the vulture cult and the altar in the Bent Grove, Vanera recognized clear elements of the ancient cult of Tauran-Tauror, Devourer of the Slain, an ancient deity or demon who has cropped up numerous times in the history of the Ambori. The worship of the Bloody Vulture is said to have originated in Feihoth of old, where it was taught to the apostate Treianraal by Vishnarr himself. It was brought to the North during the Dark Years, when Orkon subjugated the young Ambori nation, and elements of the cult still linger in the North today, in the form of the great vultures which the Cheybori often train as hunting birds. The rise of the vulture cult is always a sign of ill-omen, a presage of more dire things to come, as is told in the lay which is called The Siege of the Red Isle:

Great and globe-eyed monsters, long of tooth,

Scrape the slimy depths and curse the Day.

They pull down mighty forests for their food,

And breed and feed in ecstasies of hate.

The poisoned tides, like crooked fingers shaped,

Retract and grasp with the waning of the Moon

And trace the cancerous litany of doom.

And on the moor a Vulture circles high

And croaks a song of dead men's bones and spleens.

He laughs to watch the hapless mortals fight,

And sacrifices to his altar bring. 

There the blood runs down like ragged wings

On stones no song of love can ever cleanse

Until the Making Song is sung again.

...

"Then too, a bloody vulture darkly flies

Above our towns, and calls to desperate men.

They, hearing Death's own promise in his cries,

Have followed him into the withered fens.

From thence, when drums are heard, with fell intent

They come to carry off again some wight

To sacrifice amid the grove at night.

"Nine of birds and beasts and sons of men

They hang about their groves which drip with gore;

Nine of birds and beasts and fish that swim

They gut, and paint their blood upon our doors.

And in the stony forest sound the horns

Of Orkon's host, the Nalshbori in arms

Who yielded long ago to Orkon's charms."

The party rested four days at Hural Yalir, during which time Reiana approached Commander Setela, trying to intimate that she too was a loyalist and of his party. The commander remained standoffish, perhaps because of Reiana's clumsy approach. Tengelbur questioned Vanera to see if he knew anything about the Swan-Woman they encountered, or what Orusen's fate might have been, seemingly determined to rescue his friend if possible. But Vanera had never heard of anything like the Swan-Woman, and could only draw vague parallels to enchantresses in other stories he had read. But the scholar offered to accompany Tengelbur should he return to the Serth Hatama, as his own research would lead him there sooner or later.

At last, their wounds healed and their weariness somewhat abated, the party returned without incident to Karet Cheykor, which after everything they've been through over the last two weeks is beginning to feel like home. There we had the Spring Fellowship Phase:

• Reiana used her newfound treasure to raise her Standing to 2.
• Tanurendal spent time in the smithy, forging a new coat of mail for himself lighter than his old hauberk. [Took the Crafting undertaking, rolled well, added Cunning Make to his armor]
• Vanera spent time in the norinlakor of the town, in the company of the scholar Palfeinan, copying down old texts about the Serth Hatama, hoping the lore would be useful in the days to come. [Took the Copy a Text undertaking, gained the benefit of Serth Hatama-lore for the next Adventuring phase]
• Tengelbur spent time talking to the locals and reading in the norinlakor, straining the little he had learned before he abandoned the scriptorium at Sencankarr, trying to figure out what might have happened to Orusen. [Took the undertaking Search for Answers]

Session 6: The Grey King

Teithbor, meanwhile, had been separated from the party by one of the strange mists which frequently rose up in the forest, obscuring his view of his companions. It turns out that Teithbor (perhaps because he was raised on an island largely without trees) has about as much a chance of finding his way in a forest as a fly out of a spider's web. Wandering blindly through the trees, he came at last upon a level, sandy clearing, in the midst of which was a pool. The pool, some ten or twelve feet deep, was perfectly clear, and in the gravel bed of the pool Teithbor could see dozens of bright gems shining. 

More immediate to Teithbor's concerns, however, was the lion. Teithbor had never seen a lion, except in pictures--in heraldry, or in friezes and mosaics on the Red Isle--but there was no mistaking this creature. Huge and tawny, big as a horse, big as a house, the lion stood there, watching him, long fang-like tusks gleaming white in the refracted light of the pool. Teithbor hesitated, then took a step forward, trying to placate the lion with soft words. It made no response, nor movement, only watching him with his huge green eyes. 

Carefully, Teithbor circled around the outer edge of the pool. And though the lion turned to watch him, it made no attempt to bar Teithbor's approach. Studying the pool, Teithbor saw that the basin was indeed studded with bright gems--diamonds, emeralds, rubies, and pearls. Again Teithbor made an attempt to approach the lion.

This time he was greeted with a low growl. "What do you desire, O Man?"

"It talks," Teithbor said to himself. "Who are you, lord?"

"I am the guardian of this pool. Tell me, what is your business here?"

"I am Teithbor of the Red Isle. I am seeking my friends, who I have lost in these woods."

"You will not find them here."

"And what will I find here? What is this pool which you guard?"

"This pool is the desire of all men."

"And what is it that all men desire?"

"Do you not know? Men desire wealth. Security. Power. All of these things the pool will grant you."

Teithbor hesitated. "But I do not desire any of those things."

The lion's head tilted, slowly, as if in curiosity. "Then what do you desire?"

"I desire that the kingdom should be restored... that the true king should sit again upon the throne of Sencan."

The lion gave out a low rumble, which might have been a growl, or a laugh. "Then this pool is not for you."

Taking the beast at his word, Teithbor turned and left the clearing behind him. Only once he looked back over his shoulder, and saw the pool, twinkling with gems, and no sign of the lion. But he left its promise of wealth behind and went to find his friends.

---

Orusen's time with the Swan-Woman passed in a haze of beauty, a simple life of sweet waters, of Alyeitalya's beauty, of the honking of geese and the fair sun shining above him, so that at last he had almost forgotten even that he had promised to render her a service. Every morning Alyeitalya offered him a drink of the waters, and every day she left him in the cottage to lead the geese across the glass-smooth waters of the lake. Every evening she returned again to offer him a second drink from the pitcher, which is always full when her hands touch it, and in the deep cold draughts of that pitcher he found forgetfulness, even healing--if indeed loss can heal. 

But there came at last a day when he knew he could not remain at the cottage. And though Alyeitalya did not tell him he must leave, instead of giving him a drink that morning, she led him to the edge of the lake. 

"And now," she says, "the time has come for you to go where I cannot follow. Others have sworn the things which you have sworn, and they have crossed the lake, and they have never left. But whether you win or no, and whether or no you lay my love to rest upon the Island of the Dead, yet I will love you as I have loved the others, and I will not cease to care for you while my bond to this place lasts. Now, that you may speed upon your way, and so that your feet may not stray from the path your tongue has set for them, I lay upon you these bans: 

"First, you must not speak aloud the thing that you desire. Second, that you must not look upon the thing which you fear. Third, that you must not refuse a gift, whatever gift is offered. If you do not do these three things, then you may win at last where others have failed. And now, farewell. We may meet again when the sun rises over the lake; but I will pray it is not so."

With these instructions ringing in his ears, Orusen began to swim across the lake towards the dark island.

There is no boat to carry you across the water to the Isle of the Dead, but for a Deep Man that is no great difficulty. It is not an over-long swim, and the waters here are still and clear. The bottom of the lake is deep, a bed of black sand streaked with veins of silver. Now and then large rocks or small groves of waterweed add some variety to the lake bed, while here and there a shoal of small, bright silver fish dart in and out among them. But this lake is not like the Sea of your native home. There are no murky depths, no hungry eyes peering up at you out of the darkness. Gone too are the fantastic hulks of ancient wrecks or the multicolored reefs of coral and anemones which stud the deep as with a hidden treasure. If this lake is peaceful, that peace may have come at the price of not only great danger, but great beauty.

It is only as you near the further shore, and the dark island on the horizon, that the water becomes darker, as though the sky had grown gray and overcast above you. Thick mists and shadow envelop you, so that it is with some surprise that your feet strike sand again, and you find yourself stepping onto the dark and rocky shore of a craggy island. All around you, geese are honking, many of them too concealed by the mist for you to actually see, and you realize that whatever stealth you may have intended, your coming has not been unnoticed by the denizens of the island.

As he stood there in the mist, he thought he saw a warm yellow light -- like a candle or a lantern winking in the distance. Picking his way through the stones and mist, he found a small grey cottage--not unlike the Swan-Woman's, but more ramshackle and broken down. But for all that there was a warm yellow light streaming out of the window, and a trace of smoke curling upwards from the chimney, and Orusen realized that, deep man though he was, he was cold. Approaching, he knocked at the cottage door.

The door was opened by four ancient crones, their skin sagging and stretched over ancient bones, their chins twisted and gnarled, their fingers like twisted roots, their teeth yellow and chipped. They pulled him inside with leathery hands as they greeted him. 

Crone 1:

Who is this traveler out of the depths?

What brings him questing with trembling steps?

Crone 2:

Madness and gladness and surfeit of hope,

A dainty so sweet as to stick in his throat.

Inside the cottage, Orusen saw that nearly the entire space of the ramshackle building was taken up with a huge and ancient loom, upon which the four crones had been weaving. There were two curious things which he noticed about the loom: the first was that the yarn with which the crones were spinning seemed to be made of grey goosefeathers strung along. This seemed strange, but he had little time to question it, for the more immediately concerning thing about the loom was that into the tapestry was woven a perfect picture of himself. It was Orusen, frozen in fear, gazing in terror upon something--but upon what, Orusen could not quite make out, for the tapestry was yet unfinished. But the Crones gave him no time to consider the implications of this, dancing about him, fingering his clothes, his hair.

Crone 3:

He comes here to lay the Gray King to rest.

He comes here to try the Swan-Woman's quest.

Crone 4: 

Bring him before the Gray Monarch's throne.

Drag him within the Circle of Bones.

Crone 1:

Her waters are deep.

Crone 2: 

Her waters are sweet.

Crone 3: 

Long have their bodies lain in a heap.

Crone 4:

The Gray Goose sits on a nest of dead things.

The Gray Goose sits on the corpses of kings.

"Tell us, traveler," said one of them at last. "Tell us what is your name, and why have you come to the Island of the Dead?"

Orusen cleared his throat. "I am Orusen, Child of the Water and the Sky, and I have come to lay the Swan-Woman's lover to rest, and so free her from her bond."

In that moment, the moment that Orusen stated the thing he desired to do, he felt a strange prickling and itching on his neck. Raising his hand to scratch it, his nails came away bloodied and covered in small grey feathers. The Crones only cackled, answering,

Follow the trickle of Red Imram's tears

Up to its source in the dew of the hills.

Pass through the valley of pitiless winds,

Stand on the mountain gibbering men.

River and mountain, valley and gale;

These bar the spirits of the men on the hill.

The Gray King sits on a circle of bones.

The Gray King broods on a rotting corpse-throne.

Up the dead man's mount and stop your tender ears,

For naught in the darkness whispers, save fear.

Leaving the cottage, Orusen stopped at the window, watching the crones as they returned to their weaving. He stood there a long time in the cold and the mist, watching as they wove each strand of grey yarn and the monstrous figure on the tapestry slowly began to take shape. That was when the memory came back to him for the first time since he had come to the Swan-Woman's lake--

Suddenly, as though the Waters of Forgetfulness have no efficacy in this place, you remember your theft, the cause of your exile from your people--the day that, in the darkness of the deep places of the sea, you put your hand to the Thing Forbidden. There were eyes watching you that day, something dark and sun-hating with huge luminescent globes peering down at you out of an inky black crevasse. You had fled that day with your ill-gotten gains, but you have always felt as though something was hunting you...

Recoiling in horror from the monster on the loom, Orusen reached up to his neck and cheek, where he felt soft, downy feathers beginning to sprout, and he remembered the second ban that had been placed upon him:

"Do not look upon the thing which you fear."

Eager to put as much space as he could between himself and the baleful cottage, Orusen began to follow a small, swiftly flowing rivulet ("Red Imram's tears") up towards the craggy summit of the mountains. 

Following the river slowly upwards into the craggy foothills of the dark island, you are forced to stop several times to pick out a path through the sharp black rocks, which seem to rise up to meet you like jagged sentinels to bar your passage. Looking back over your shoulder, you no longer see any sign of the blue crystal lake, the cottage, or the alpine valley which you left, and you begin to wonder if they may have been an illusion all along. Still you soldier on, until at last you pick out what you believe to be some sort of path of rough-hewn stone, running more or less parallel to the river. This you follow, ever conscious of the fact that the world around you seems to be growing colder. A wind is picking up. Ahead of you, both the river and the path you are following seem to enter a narrow cleft in the rock, out of which a cold wind is whistling. 

With a great effort, Orusen forced his way through the Cleft of the Winds, nearly crushed by boulders which came crashing down as he passed. Many times he was tempted to turn back from his quest, but each time he resisted the urge, pressing onward up through the sharp stones and darkness, until at last he reached the summit.

You're weary. You've been walking for hours, as far as you can tell. But finally, just when you thought you had no more strength left, the path crests the top of the mountain. Instead of the craggy peak you'd expected to reach, you find yourself standing within a flat ring of standing stones, some thirty feet in diameter. At the base of each great standing stone there is a nest, made of the bones and armor of a corpse long-decayed, and over each nest hovers a gray spirit, feathery somehow, but definitely in the form of a man. 

And in the center of the ring you see a gray spirit, tall and dreadful, and on his head is a crown of bones. There is a naked sword in his hand, and he stands above his nest to greet you, his skeletal jaw cracking as it expands wide. The other spirits in the bone ring begin to chant:

The Gray Goose sits on a nest of dead things.

The Gray Goose sits on the corpses of kings.

And the Grey King stepped forward and greeted Orusen, demanding, "Who are you, and why do you come as a living man unto the court of the Grey King?"

And once again, Orusen answered the question plainly. "I am Orusen, child of the water and sky, and I have come to lay you to rest and free the Swan-woman from her bond."

And in that moment, Orusen's left arm became the grey wing of a goose. And the Grey King said,

"I greet you, weary traveler, who have come so far to the Court of the Gray King. Drink now deeply of the cup of forgetfulness I will give you. Drink now deeply... of death. This is the gift I offer. For the spirits of the dead do not remember their sorrow when they sit in the court of the Gray King."

Then Orusen stepped forward, and bared his neck to the Grey King, and said, "I accept the gift."

Then the sword of the Grey King descended, and cleaved Orusen's head from his shoulders. His head fell to the ground with a heavy, wet thump, and as Orusen stood the spirits began to laugh. Then the Grey King laughed, and Orusen laughed, and as two of the grey spirits came forward to drag Orusen's corpse to the empty base of one of the great standing stones, Orusen danced and capered madly about the Grey King's throne, and thought never again of the Swan-woman, or of his curse, or of the sky and sea which birthed him.

---

Wounded and weary from the Battle of the Bent Grove, the companions gathered around the dying body of Hasanyah. Tengelbur covered her with his cloak as she breathed her last. "Tell my brother... tell him not to waste his life. Tell him I am sorry for how we parted." Those were her last words. Wounded and weary and heavy with sorrow, the three remaining members of the company slowly began the cold and bloody work of burying the bodies of the slain. They cut down the sacrificial victims, both man and beast, for the men intending graves, and for the beasts and slain cultists a single great grave. And Tanurendal, leaning over the sword which Mawish had let fall at his defeat, recognized in the scarred and pitted blade the weapon which had greedily slit the throats of his sister, his mother, and then at last even his traitorous father. Tengelbur harvested some of the red amber, cutting a sizable chunk of it which he then realized might be used either to make himself wealthy, or to forge a weapon of great power.

It was about this time that Tanurendal and Tengelbur saw Reiana stagger and realized she had been wounded in the fight. Neither of them had the leechcraft necessary to see to her wounds, however it was at that moment that Teithbor found the rest of the company. As before, and with the timely application of the herbs he had gathered the previous day, he was able to staunch the deadly wound. Searching the surrounding wood for stones to use in the burial cairn, Teithbor managed to find both the mule teams they had lost the previous day--with most of the stores still in tact--as well as a cache of supplies and treasure evidently kept by the cult. Most of this treasure the party chose to bury with their fallen comrades, Reiana keeping only an intricate golden chain, like a growing vine of pure gold, evidently the work of the Kothorlas. The others placed their share of the treasure in the wagons, and then used shovels from the supply wagons to complete the construction of the burial mounds.

When at last all was made ready, but two things remained: first, to dispose of the sword of Mawish. Tengelbur picked it up first, intending first to break and then to bury it. But when he felt it in his hands he realized that here was a weapon of great worth, the likes of which he might never see again, and it was only with a great act of the will that he could endeavor to break it. But the blade was too ancient and too strong to be broken by mere force. Then Tengelbur attempted to bury it, but again he could not bring himself to lay it aside. 

Then Tanurendal snatched it from his hands, intending himself to dispose of it. But the malice of the blade reached out to the vengeance in Tanurendal's heart, and he realized that with this weapon he could give him the revenge against the servants of Orkon which he so greatly desired. Only with a great act of the will did Tanurendal fling the weapon aside, and there it still lies--as far as anyone knows--amid the twisted and petrified trees of the Bent Glade. 

The second and final task was the funeral itself. Since there was no Well Priestess among the group, Reiana sang the part of the Well Priestess while her three companions were mourners, and they sang the lament of Sanur for his brothers after they had been slain by the servants of Orkon.

And Reiana sang,

Sanur mighty, famed for warfare

Laid his brothers in a barrow,

Laid them there amid the Stone-kings,

Laid them there on heaps of treasure

Long ago, with many sorrows.

Sanur lay them clad in mail-shirts,

Set bright rings upon their fingers.

There the treasures of the barrow

Sanur gave into their keeping

In the hall of ancient Stone-kings.

There beneath the ancient shining

Stars which long ago did glimmer

Sanur lay his mighty brothers:

Bold Setela, famed for hunting;

Teithbor, hardy battle-lion.

Sanur sang this song above them:

And Tengelbur sang,

“Heark ye winds, blowing coldly,

Hear this Son of Sky and Water:

Do not harm, if you should meet them,

Mighty sons of Sad Nanalon.

“Let them pass through howling wastelands—

Let them find the endless stairway

Leading down to where, forgotten,

Ancient heroes wait for judgment.

Do not drive their spirits cruelly.

“Not forgotten are these heroes.

Ever we their names remember

Who this world of tears and sorrow

Fill with songs of mighty conquests.

Spread their fame, ye ancient storm-gales.

And Tanurendal sang,

“Hark ye mountains, proud and ancient!

Stand as witness to their valor,

Who in constancy and friendship

Well upheld the name of Sencan,

Well deserved a hero’s burial.

“Do not hinder, mighty mountains,

Do not bar the way their spirits

Take to find the endless Chasm

Where the souls of dead men wander

Waiting for the Day of Judgment.

“Stand as monument, O mountains,

To the might of Sencan’s offspring:

These two sons of Old Nanalon

Bitter Fate has claimed unbidden.

Let their names be long remembered.

And Teithbor sang,

“Hark ye rivers, wide and flowing,

Do not bar their passage o’er you.

These great-hearted men of valor

Bear the friendship of all waters.

Rather bear their fame undying.

“Bear to Southlands, hot and sun-scorched,

Where the high and craggy mountains

Darkly loom o’er ancient monarchs

Lying silent under granite.

Tell the ancient kings their valor.

“Bear it Westward, mighty rivers,

To the lands of ancient giants

Tall and lovely, proud and cruel,

Tell them of the might of mankind,

Of these sons of sky and water.

And Tanurendal sang again,

“Hark, ye dead! For now among you

Great souls dwell and bring you honor,

Great souls swell the waiting legions,

Waiting for the day of judgment:

Mighty Teithbor, Bold Setela.

“May the One who all things judges

Find them worthy, rest to enter:

They who never slew a kinsman,

Never struck in needless anger,

Always honored ancient fathers.

“Testify, O ancient fathers

How these sons of sad Nanalon

For the honor of their father—

For the throne of Holy Sencan—

Went to war, and fell in darkness.

“Long they languished under mountains.

Long they suffered wordless torments.

Testify, O ancient fathers,

Witness bear to what they suffered.

Let them find in death a solace.

And Tengelbur sang,

“Hark! Ye mighty gates of silver!

Ye who stand and bar the stairway

Which from gloom and twilight leads up—

Up to where the righteous heroes

Dwell beside the holy poets.

“Open wide and let them enter,

Those who now lay with the Stone-kings.

They have kept the ancient promise,

They fulfilled the oaths completely,

Never turned from death or duty.

“Open wide and let them enter

So that in the World of Starlight

Men may rightly speak of justice,

Rightly praise the blood of heroes

Shed for love of kin and country.

And all together the three mourners sang,

“Now ye storm-gales, coldly blowing,

Now ye mountains, proud and ancient,

Now ye rivers, widely flowing,

Now ye dead and ancient fathers,

Now ye gates of shining silver,

“All ye hear my song of sorrow.

Do not let these mighty warriors,

Sons of kings and sky and water,

Ever go down into darkness.

Let their names endure forever.

And Reiana sang,

“Nankeinala, Mighty Maker,

You who gave unto our fathers

Land and lordship, sky and water,

Evermore their names remember,

Though this world of tears shall end.”

So sang Sanur, mighty-hearted,

Then they closed the Hall of Stone-kings;

Then they sealed the ancient barrow,

Laid those princes down in splendor.

Sanur wept, and sang no longer.

So the grave was closed, and the rite ended, and with weary hearts the four companions led the mule teams away, and after long wandering came at last again out of the Serth Hatama, to the open road, and with heavy hearts and weary bodies arrived at the gates of Hural-i-Yalir.