"To me! To me!" came Galarun's call, muffled and distant in the fog there in the Dalgor Fens, confusing to mind and ear.

Though Aravan could not see more than two strides ahead, he spurred his horse to come to his comrades' aid, riding to the sounds of steel on steel, though they too were muted and remote and seemed to echo where no echoes should have been. He charged into a deep slough, the horse foundering, Aravan nearly losing his seat. And up from out of the water rose an enormous dark shape, and a webbed hand struck at him, claws raking past his face as the horse screamed and reared, the Elf ducking aside from the deadly blow. "Krystallopyr," whispered Aravan, truenaming the spear, thrusting the weapon into the half-seen thing looming above him; and a hideous yawl split the air as the blade burned and sizzled in cold flesh. With a huge splash the creature was gone, back into the mire.

Still, somewhere in the murk a battle raged-clang and clangor and shouts. Again Aravan rode toward the sound, trusting to his horse in the treacherous footing. Shapes rose up from the reeds and attacked-Rupt, they were, Rucha and Loka alike-but the crystal spear pierced them and burned them, and they fell dead or fled screaming.

Of a sudden the battle ended, the foe fading back into the cloaking fog, vanishing in the grey murk. And it seemed as if the strange echoing disappeared as well, the muffling gone. And the blue stone at Aravan's neck grew warm.

"Galarun!" called Aravan. "Galarun…!" Other voices, too, took up the cry.

Slowly they came together, did the scattered survivors, riding to one another's calls, and Galarun was not among them.

The wan sun gradually burned away the fog, and the company searched for their captain. They found him at last, pierced by crossbow quarrel and cruel barbed spear, lying in the water among the reeds, he and his horse slain-the silver sword gone.

Three days they searched for that token of power, there in the Dalgor Fen. Yet in the end they found nought but an abandoned Ruchen campsite, a campsite used less than a full day. "… Perhaps they went back to Neddra," suggested Eryndar, as cold rain fell down and down.

At last, hearts filled with rage and grief, they took up slain Galarun and the five others who had fallen, and they rode for Darda Galion across the wide wold. Two days passed and part of another ere they forded the River Rothro on the edge of the Eldwood forest, snow lying on the ground. Travelling among the massive boles of the great trees, the following day they forded the Quadrill and later the River Cellener to come at last unto Wood's-heart, the Elvenholt central to the great forest of Darda Galion.

Aravan bore Galarun's blanket-wrapped body into the coron-hall, where were gathered Lian waiting, mourning. Through a corridor of Elvenkind strode Aravan, toward the Elvenking, and nought but silence greeted him. Eiron stepped down from the throne at this homecoming of his son, moving forward and holding out his arms to receive the body. Tears stood in Aravan's eyes as he gave over the lifeless Elf. Eiron tenderly cradled Galanin unto himself and turned and slowly walked the last few steps unto the dais, where he laid his slain child down.

Aravan's voice was choked with emotion. "I failed him, my coron, for I was not at Galarun's side when he most needed me. I have failed thee and Adon as well, for thy son is dead and the silver sword lost."

Coron Eiron looked up from the blanket-wrapped corpse, his eyes brimming, his voice a whisper. "Take no blame unto thyself, Aravan, for the death of Galanin was foretokl-"

"Foretold!" exclaimed Aravan.

"-by the Mages of Black Mountain."

"If thou didst know this, then why didst thou send thy son?"

"I did not know."

"Then how-?"

"Galarun's Death Rede," explained Eiron. "The Mages told Galanin that he who first bore the weapon would die within the year."

Aravan remembered the grim look on Galarun's face when he had emerged from the Wizardholt of Black Mountain.

Kneeling, slowly the coron undid the bindings on the blankets, folding back the edge, revealing Galarun's visage, the features pale and bloodless. From behind, Aravan's voice came softly. "He let none else touch the sword, and now I know why."

Coron Eiron stood, motioning to attendants, and they came and took up Galarun's body, bearing it out from the coron-hall.

When they had gone, Aravan turned once again unto Eiron. "His Death Rede: was there… more?"

The coron sat on the edge of the dais. "Aye: a vision of the one responsible. It was a pale white one who slew my Galanin; like a Human he looked, but no mortal was he. Mayhap a Mage instead. Mayhap a Demon. Pallid he was and tall, with black hair and hands long and slender… and wild, yellow eyes. His face was long and narrow, his nose straight and thin, his white cheeks unbearded. More I cannot say."

"And the sword. Did Galarun-?"

Aravan's words were cut short by a negative shake of Eiron's head. "The blade was yet with my son when he died."

Frustration and anger colored Aravan's voice. "But now it is missing, is the Dawn Sword. Long we searched, finding nought."

After a moment Eiron spoke: "If not lost in the fen, then it is stolen. And if any has the Dawn Sword, it is he, the pallid one with yellow eyes. Find him and thou mayest find the blade."

Aravan stepped back and unslung his spear from its shoulder harness; he planted the butt of the weapon to the wooden floor and knelt on one knee. "My coron, I will search for the killer and for the sword. If he or it is to be found-"

Aravan never finished, for the coron began to weep. And so Aravan put aside the crystal blade and sat next to his liege, and with tears in his own eyes, spoke to him of the last days of his valiant son.

"After the funeral, I rode back unto the fen, and long did I search, aided by Dara Riatha's company, but to no avail, for no blade did I find. At last I gave up the hunt, for war yet burns across Mithgar, and my spear is needed." Aravan fell silent.

After a moment, Tipperton said, "But with no silver sword to take to Adon…"

Aravan sighed, then said, "We can only trust that the Lian and others who are upon Adonar can carry the day."

"Carry the day?" asked Linnet.

"Win the war upon the High Plane," clarified Aravan.

"As we must win the war here," said Rynna, her voice resolute, her face grim.

'Twas grievous news, the loss of Galarun and the silver sword, and though it had happened some five weeks past, still it was new to the Warrows, and they wept for slain Galarun and those who had died with him.

Nevertheless, as Beau had remarked, in spite of war, life goes on. And so, two days after arriving, Rynna and Tipperton, Beau and Linnet, they took their vows on Winterday eve, Year's Long Night, First Yule, Coron Eiron presiding. And Nix and Melli and Lark and Alor Aravan and other Alori and Darai attended the wedding as well, though most Lian were yet warding the marges of Darda Gallon, or were fighting alongside the Chakka of Kraggen-cor and rooting out pockets of Rupt left over from the siege of that Dwarvenholt.

And so they gathered in the coron-hall, Elves and War-rows alike, with Nix standing at Melli's side, Lark in Melli's arms, Darai casting delighted glances at the wee tot, now some twenty months old. And Coron Eiron stood before them all, Tip and Rynna, Beau and Linnet, facing the Elven lord, Aravan and Velera and Riatha and Talar standing to the sides and behind. And all fell quiet as Coron Eiron raised his hands, but for Lark, and she giggled at a wink from an admiring Dara.

Yet ere the coron uttered the formal vows, he spoke long on the sharing not only of love but on the sharing of work as well. Too, he spoke of the common ground they needs must nourish to keep their love alive, and among his words were these: