“A fate awaits you all, which I see in the moment of my death…
And you, Vlad, shall be destroyed by the runic sword you carry with such pride!”

— Last words of Liriana de Sombra
Mantrin: Stories, Vol. VI

Saimún stood beside Auragon. His fear for his sister grew by the moment. He himself had taken only one rune, and it had cost him no small effort to wake from the unconsciousness into which the rune’s power had cast him. He no longer doubted that Askra certainly had not stopped at just one.

Vathila, Taihun, and Khóruin were already back. Alphia was just returning from her rescue mission—bringing Riva, who looked somewhat confused and yet guilty.

Suddenly, a strange change occurred.

The moonlight seemed to soften. Everyone realized that only now could they hear their own breath and the breath of all those standing around; all sounds seemed to float to the surface.

A strange procession appeared among the pillars and approached. A multitude of people dressed in white robes. As far as the Hwarnij could see, there were surely over a hundred newcomers. Auragon stepped forward and signaled the others to draw back behind him.

At the head of the procession walked a graceful young woman.

“That is the Queen of the Silver Beech,” Taihun whispered. The Queen stopped and, with caution in her eyes, looked at the High Druvid, who returned her wary gaze. Her people remained standing behind her, just as the Hwarnij stood behind Plantain.

“Kira entuleva,” Master Auragon said. The ruler of the Silver Beech smiled with relief:

“Utulië-n, Arminas… suilanna-te stalgondo anyáro, cenië-te gela!”

Both were clearly relieved that the other was no illusion of the Lunar Hall.

They quickly exchanged a few more words in the unknown language, which sounded very sweet and euphonious; there were very few “r” or “h” sounds common to the Hwarnij, and if any harder-sounding consonants occurred, they were pronounced softened and smoothed. Soon, however, both speakers realized that other people stood behind them.

“I am glad that I finally set out on this path with my people,” the woman said.

“I will go with you to Arka, Kira, so you have no trouble. But we are still missing one girl whom I led to initiation in the Antechamber today. Could you join your rune with mine so we may find her?” Plantain asked. Kira nodded.

“That was the language! That speech the King, Plantain, and Ghar the Elder spoke together in Arka!” Riva whispered hurriedly to Khóruin. Kira and Auragon concentrated. The aura created by their Lunar runes around them brightened as the flickering energies touched.

“She is already in the Lunar Hall proper,” the Queen of the Silver Beech said sadly. For a moment, a dead silence reigned.

“Hagias would command a retreat now… But I will not do so. If some of you are willing to go there for her, then go. But from the Lunar Hall, no one has yet returned… Askra has been captured by the servants of Dead Ulad; much depends on your speed. For those of you willing to go, Kira and I will create a runic path. But at least some of you should go back with me,” the High Druvid turned to his charges.

“At the very least, these two should not go there,” Kira declared, pointing to Vathila and Riva. Riva turned somewhat red and cleared his throat.

“I feel strong enough,” he said defiantly.

“I am going. Askra is my sister,” Saimún declared. Taihun and Khóruin exchanged a quick look. Time was too precious. Khóruin stood by Plantain’s side, and Taihun joined Saimún, as did Alphia and Riva, who looked unyielding and stubborn. Khóruin knew at that moment that he would get nowhere with Riva this time and the wizard apprentice would simply go. Unlike with Alphia, however, in Riva’s case, Khóruin was not at all sure of his reason or the wisdom of such a decision.

Vathila bowed her head and, with no small effort, suppressed her emotions. She obediently stepped toward Khóruin. She cannot go… She cannot go, and her personal feelings change absolutely nothing about her duties to Khóruin and to Arka. She will return and send the kestrel to the Bridge Keeper for the scroll that was essentially a last will of all those who were to be initiated. She must go back…

Plantain reached out his hands: “Go upon the runic path!”

They ran along the silver strip that led them between the pillars. The Antechamber washed away any notion of time. Taihun first, followed by Saimún and Riva, and Alphia last. The runic path created for them by Plantain with Kira’s help sped beneath their feet. The Hall immediately swallowed the sound of footsteps and labored breath.

The colonnade stretched upward and ended at a set of stairs. They were long marble stairs, like the steps of an ancient temple standing under a different sun. The company threw themselves upward, without thought, without hesitation. The staircase created a strange perspective, as if forming a vast circle.

Something moved before them. Through their runes, all except Riva—who had imprudently taken two runes—saw the flicker of lunar magic. It was approaching.

A white oval of a face, in a fish-like mouth a row of fine sharp teeth, between them a flickering forked tongue, a flowing tattered robe hiding no body, and two deathly white hands with long claws.

The string of Alphia’s bow twanged… and the arrow passed harmlessly through the head of the lunar being. Riva narrowed his eyes and reached out his hands. His face, however, immediately contorted in pain and a futile internal struggle. He let out a muffled cry.

Taihun saw the pale aura of lunar magic surrounding the monster intensify. He leaped forward, his sword swirling through the air. Although the blade was not forged in the Aderan, something happened… The creature winced back; a severed piece of its robe fell to the ground.

The monster hissed terrifyingly. Another of Alphia’s arrows flew through it without harming it. Taihun concentrated. The moment the opponent lunged at him, the warrior half-stepped back with ease. A flash of the sword flickered like a moonbeam. No unarmed man would have survived the lightning-fast combination of strikes that descended upon the lunar being. The creature shrieked in pain and jumped back. Immediately, it lunged directly at Taihun and bit into his neck.

Alphia cursed and reached for her falchion. Riva writhed on the ground.

Saimún, who had stood all the while in motionless concentration with narrowed eyes, suddenly thrust out the hand in which he held his staff. The vampire from the Lunar Hall hissed, released the bitten and mangled Taihun, and lunged at the young Druvid.

The tendrils of ivy growing over Saimún’s body, protecting him like scale armor, trembled. On his arms, near the wrists, the leaves bent with tension. The vines shot forward, glowing with the Aderan rune… the rune of Growth, which illuminated them with a faint greenish light. The vines themselves twisted in curves resembling the shapes of this rune. The vampire sank its claws into the Druvid and bit into his throat. Instantly, the monster was ruthlessly embraced by the ivy. Aderan magic wounded the creature; the tendrils crushed and tore it with incredible force.

Taihun, as if he had suffered no injuries at all, moved to Saimún in a few quick steps and stabbed the lunar vampire in the back. The creature screamed hideously, tore itself from the deadly grip of the ivy vines, and fled with inhuman speed into the depths of the Lunar Hall.

“We must go on!” Saimún gasped, quite unnecessarily. Riva pulled himself together, his face haggard with some internal struggle, a look of apology in his eyes.

The warrior hurriedly bandaged his worst wounds with strips of cloth he tore from his shirt. The Druvid examined his wounds, which were filled with healing ivy sap instead of blood. The tendrils wrapped around the wounds and began to heal them. He smiled gratefully. The group set off further along the runic path.

Before the eyes of the Hwarnij, a stone portal suddenly swung into view, and behind it, a staircase leading down. The strange perspective of the Hall perhaps caused them not to see the immense gate until they were right upon it. Above the entrance, an inscription was carved.

“Dead Ulad,” Riva read breathlessly. “Or perhaps,” he paused suddenly, “perhaps the name can be read differently—the vowel turns into a consonant…”

“We will analyze ancient languages some other time. What matters is that we are in the right place,” Taihun interrupted him dryly and stepped into the portal. The others followed him hurriedly.

The stairs led into a depth that seemed infinite. Like in a dream where one runs desperately down a staircase and still cannot reach its end…

Finally, they tumbled into a circular room whose floor was made of decorative tiles. In the center stood a stone altar, and upon it lay a body… much larger than human. Two lunar vampires were just lifting the lifeless Askra to hand her to the motionless figure on the altar. The sorceress had her sightless eyes wide open and her throat mangled.

“Askra!” Saimún roared, but the room immediately swallowed his shout. Nevertheless, both monsters looked back. Instantly, they dropped the sorceress to the ground and fled. Taihun, with Saimún at his heels, raced across the hall.

And at that moment, the body on the altar moved.

A massive figure dressed in silvery scale armor rose and stretched the enormous bat-like wings growing from its back. Taihun saw that on the smooth surface, he would not be able to stop in time. He drew his sword in mid-run; Saimún raised the Druvid staff. Dead Ulad took flight with a single beat of his wings…

And then the floor collapsed. As if something had suddenly given way, the individual tiles separated from each other and plummeted into the depth in a cascading mosaic. And with them fell Taihun, Saimún, Alphia, Riva, and Askra.

The midday sun beat down upon the grassy hillside. Saimún groaned and opened his eyes. What was that… I was dreaming something… What… This… Subconsciously, he touched his neck, which pained him. He felt the leafy growth. The ivy had covered the injury and was healing it with its sap, but it could not remove the pain. The Druvid also examined his injured hands and saw the three-lobed leaves mending.

He sat up as quickly as he dared. Askra lay beside him. Her body was unnaturally emaciated, her cheeks hollow and deathly pale; a blank, extinguished look had settled in her eyes.

“Askra!” Saimún cried out. He pulled his sister into his arms and began to tend to her as best he could.

Nearby, Taihun rose from the tall grass, as did Alphia, who was helping Riva to his feet. The sunlight slowly drove the cold and rigidity of the Lunar Hall from them. Only Askra still did not move.

When they set the sorceress on her feet, she was able to stand on her own. But her expression remained just as dead.

“Saimún,” Alphia dared to voice what everyone else was thinking, “what exactly did we drag back here from that Hall?” All the Hwarnij knew that night demons could take many forms…

“Until proven otherwise, she is my sister,” the Druvid apprentice replied stubbornly. This was the exact opposite of the Hwarnij approach favored by most of the company.

Alphia discovered she knew the place where they were well. She took the lead, and the entire company slowly set out toward Arka.

Riva put on a heroic face and walked on his own, though from time to time he staggered and Taihun or Alphia had to catch him. Eventually, Alphia supported her half-brother anyway, though he weakly protested. Saimún led Askra, who walked, but exactly where she was led, without otherwise—aside from unnaturally shallow breath—showing any signs of life. Even the injured Taihun did not find walking easy, but the will that had driven him in battle had far from left him.

The joyless procession approached Arka.

The Hwarnij stopped for a moment to stare at the people who had camped on the shore of the lake. They were the people of the Queen of the Silver Beech… and there must have been about eight hundred of them. They were not dressed in white robes, but mostly in green, gray, and brown clothing, such as would be expected of a people who had lived long in the forest. They did not look like demons of the night, but like handsome, soulful people who had traveled through the woods for a long time without any hardship breaking or stooping them. Only… they were not Hwarnij. They were foreigners.

On the bridge connecting the lakeshore and the island where Arka stood, they saw Hagias, Plantain, and the Queen of the Silver Beech. Around them stood a group of fire-bearers; further off, Alphia’s sharp eyes recognized the mage Vismian and the group that usually stayed around him. The huntress clearly saw the crowd of curious Hwarnij and Darins and Hagias’s soldiers… and Khóruin with Vathila, Ghar the Younger, and Ivain with a nightingale perched gravely and importantly on his shoulder.

It seemed the negotiation had just ended. Kira headed back to her people; the crowd was slowly dispersing.

Alphia, Riva, Taihun, and Saimún with Askra reached the bridge. The guards stopped them.

Hagias Whitehead took an Aderan torch from the nearest fire-bearer. Vathila trembled at the sight of his wicked expression. The joy that her friends had achieved the impossible and returned from the Lunar Hall mixed with fear. What if it’s not them…? What if those faces pale as death belong to lunar demons…?

The King raised his hand and pointed to Taihun. The warrior bowed his head and set out across the bridge. In the eyes of the watching Hwarnij, a cruel eagerness appeared—the way people love to watch an execution.

Taihun walked. His step was uncertain, but Taihun walked. When he stood before the King, he straightened and remained motionless, like a statue of a soldier. Hagias brought the torch close to the warrior’s face. Taihun did not move, although beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.

“Take him to the temple; let him walk around the Aderan three times, and then let him cleanse himself at the sacred spring,” Whitehead commanded two of his men. Ivain and Vathila audibly sighed with relief.

Alphia went next. It seemed she moved perhaps too slowly, but that could be attributed to exhaustion. She, too, did not flinch before the sacred fire and, with a relieved exhale, followed Taihun into the temple with two soldiers.

Riva’s knees were visibly buckling. Two Lunar runes burned in his body as he approached the influence of the Aderan. The young wizard staggered from edge to edge on the bridge, nearly falling into the lake, for the bridge naturally had no railing. Sweaty, almost broken by exhaustion, Riva finally stopped before the King. Hagias brought the torch close to his face. The wizard hissed in pain and jerked back. On his handsome face, he had a small red mark from a burn, even though the fire was clearly too far away to harm him. An eager hiss and whisper rose from the crowd. Vathila could not control herself and let out a faint cry. At that moment, Riva pulled himself together. He straightened and stepped back with narrowed eyes. There was something familiar in his movements. The strength of will with which he returned to the place of the unpleasant trial, the stubborn expression on his face expressing the victory of will over weakness—these were traits attributed to Hagias. From him, it seemed, all the Hwarnij had inherited them.

Most striking, however, was that those two faces in profile, as they stood against each other—the face of the young wizard and the old King—were very similar. Almost as if some kinship lay within them. At first glance, complete opposites: the beautiful youthful Riva and the fierce old man, who certainly could not be called handsome. At second glance, however, they looked like grandfather and grandson.

Hagias subjected Riva to the trial again. For a torturously long time, he passed the torch around Riva, around his body and head. The young magician did not move. With a wave of his hand, Hagias sent him to the temple. The onlookers grumbled with dissatisfaction.

Saimún hesitated. He was loath to obey Hagias’s summons and leave Askra behind. But the situation was so balanced, so tense, that he did not dare disobey the command of his ruler. He moved forward. The Aderan and Lunar runes immediately clashed; the injuries echoed with almost unbearable pain. Saimún walked on. It seemed he was struggling with an insane gale blowing against him, trying to knock him off the bridge. The Druvid stubbornly bowed his head and fought his way on, step by step. He thought of Askra and of the other Druvids and of the hours spent in the forest listening to the trees… and of how terribly, how terrifyingly he did not want to die… Finally, he stood before Whitehead. The ruler with the raptor-like face raised the torch. Saimún did not flinch, though he felt as if the heat would char all his skin to a coal. The ivy writhed in natural resistance to the flame.

“Go!” the King finally invited Saimún. The young Druvid staggeringly headed for the temple. To his astonishment, he realized he had not the slightest burn on his body.

Askra did not move. The bowstrings of Hagias’s archers creaked as they were drawn.

At that moment, Master Auragon approached the King. Vathila, with her extraordinarily good hearing, caught fragments of the Druvid’s words: “…also my fault… to try… hope…”

“Fine. But if it fails, then she falls to the flames,” Hagias said a little louder.

“To the flames she falls either way,” Plantain muttered.

The King handed the torch to one of the fire-bearers. From the folds of his heavy black cloak, he then took a glove made of metal plates and pulled it onto his right hand. He set out across the bridge.

Askra stared even more with her extinguished eyes; a thin stream of saliva began to flow from the corner of her mouth. With the clumsy movements of a sleepwalker, she began to retreat.

At that moment, Hagias was upon her. He grabbed Askra by her clothing and lifted her into the air. The sorceress thrashed, trying to bite and scratch. But Whitehead carried her across the bridge, no matter how she resisted. Surrounded by fire-bearers, he dragged her into Arka. Followed by an eager crowd that thickened as they went through the city, he entered the temple.

The King dragged the maddened girl down the steps. And he hurled her into the flames of the Aderan.

A terrifying howl and shrieks of pain echoed through the temple.

Vathila stared with horror-widened eyes; Khóruin held her firmly in his arms. Ghar Karian stood motionless on one of the steps of the temple. He was crying. Tears flowed down his cheeks, and faint sobs shook his massive shoulders.

Askra’s insane cry suddenly broke, changed. At that moment, Hagias threw himself into the Aderan. Immediately he leaped out with Askra. Although his clothing caught fire in several places, he seemed otherwise entirely uninjured.

The priests, waiting only for the King’s signal, splashed buckets of water from the sacred spring on him and on the burned sorceress, whose clothes were ablaze.

The King let the girl lie on the ground. He looked at her intently for a moment, as if examining something no one else could see. Only then did he signal to the High Healer.

Lady Tiriaka immediately set to work. Vathila let go of her husband, to whom she had been convulsively clinging until then, and ran down to be of assistance to her teacher.

Askra lived. But no one knew if she would ever be as she was before.