Chapter X: EPILOGUE PT 1

The battle was against them.

Enraged, Warleader Moraeulf growled orders to his terror- stricken lieutenants
as he reviewed their weakening lines from the safety of an elm shaded hill;
watched with fury as his forward ranks of pikemen retreated under an
unexpectedly heavy rain of Kingdom longbow fire. In a short while, the combined
mass of Prince Arutha's relief forces and the garrison at Sethanon would be in a
position to push them into the only quarter of the city where they would be
unable to retreat, and then it would only be a matter of hours before they would
be forced to surrender or die in a blaze set to flush them out.
	"Warleader Moraeulf, you must come quickly!" Hearing a commotion to his
left, he muttered a silent curse on Delekhan's head for leading them on this
fool's errand, then snapped his attention to a small group of Moredhel who were
advancing towards him, faces flushed with excitement.
	Their leader, a scar faced whelp of twenty summers, knelt reverently at
his feet before breathlessly delivering his message. "At the Keep! Your father
has taken Prince Arutha! And I believe the marked one is with him! The tide of
the battle turns!"
	Stalking skeptically after his messengers, he progressed through a
ruined avenue and into a cobbled central square filled with conversing Moredhel
warriors. Above them, Delekhan mounted the fire blackened parapet walk of the
keep, preceded by a mysterious robed figure and the Prince of Krondor, the
latter bound hand and foot, unable to do anything but follow where he was led.
	"Brethren!" Silence fell over the square as the robe clad figure stepped
past Arutha and Delekhan and into an archer's turret, a hand placed over his
right breast.
	Ripping open his white garment, he revealed a body made gaunt with
hunger, but bearing an unmistakable curling purple birth mark which resembled a
dragon and was the mark of legend. Instantly, a chant rose among the Moredhel
warriors, many of them falling to their knees in ecstatic reverence.
	"I have returned, O my children!" Murmandamus shouted from the
battlements, revealing a glittering sword of gold, its hilt set with stones of
lapis. "Hidden deep in the chambers of earth below our feet, Prince Arutha
sought to keep this sword from me, from us, the key to our future! For ten years
he imprisoned me in the bowels of this hell against my will, but you have freed
me," he said, sweeping the air with the sword. "Ten years ago I promised you the
dawning of a new age. I was repaid with abandonment. But today I am free,
because you who followed Delekhan believed in our dream. You have demonstrated
your worthiness and loyalty, and as a reward you shall all bear witness to the
death of the Lord of the West and the final fulfillment of the Prophesy!"
	A dark cheer rippled through the crowd as Murmandamus held the sword
aloft and faced Arutha, his lips curled back in a wicked smile as he advanced on
the dazed prince. Considering the things that had been done to him, the crowd
thought it likely their former leader would execute Arutha slowly, and they were
ripe for the spectacle.
	Abruptly Murmandamus halted. Beneath him, the stones of the keep began
to tremble, as if the entirety of the structure were being shaken by an
invisible hand. His look of proud defiance suddenly turned to outrage.
	"What treachery is this?" Murmandamus screamed. "Who meddles with the
Prophesy?"
	As if in answer, thunder pealed overhead, announcing the arrival of a
great dragon and rider, the pair seemingly having formed from the very air
itself. Floating down from dizzying heights, they descended to a point level
with the keep's rooftops, the dragon's wings beating great gales of wind against
the crowd.
	"The Prophesy is false, Murmandamus, as are you!" Pug shouted from the
dragon's back. "You have betrayed the folk of the Kingdom and those of your own
people for a lie! It is time for your terror to come to an end!"
	At Pug's command Arutha ducked, narrowly averting death as the dragon
skimmed low overhead, lashing the battlements with its titanic whip-like tail,
hurling both Murmandamus and Delekhan, screaming like babes, into the horrified
hordes who watched far below. Fanning away from the impact of the two,
bystanders hastened to escape, fearing a possible second attack from the flying
dragon and its equally menacing rider.
	Standing in the midst of the crowd, Moraeulf looked on, void of pain or
fear, his voice calm and clear as he addressed a goblin lieutenant who stood
near him. "Gather your kin and call the retreat."
	"Lord Moraeulf, we may still win! Lead us!"
	Collaring the green skinned creature, Moraeulf lifted him off his feet.
"I now lead the Nations of the North and my first command is that I shall lead
us home.
	"Call the retreat," Moraeulf spat, hurling the goblin backwards. "The
day is theirs, but I must see to something first."
	Disregarding the panicked warriors who sought egress from the square,
Moraeulf picked his way over the burning rubble to where his father lay dead,
his wolfish eyes reflecting only the clouds of smoke which drifted through
Sethanon. For all his father's grand schemes, for all the things he had thought
to accomplish, he was nothing now, nothing but a hulk of dead flesh. He had been
a fool to trust the Tsurani magician.
	Leaning over the dead body, Moraeulf snatched up the golden sword which
Murmandamus had retrieved from the caverns below. Although he knew very little
of the Prophesy which had inspired both his father and Murmandamus to their
deaths, he had no intention of wasting what little they had gained in the
battle. Perhaps when he returned to the Northlands he could still find a way to
harness the power of the artifact, assuming it had any powers at all...
	"Moraeulf!"
	Turning, the Moredhel Warleader had no time to react before the
lightning quick assassin was upon him, driving a knife skillfully through his
left eye and deep into his brain, killing him instantly. Without a sound, he
crumpled to the ground across his dead father, dropping the sword even before he
could raise it.
	Smiling coldly, Narab withdrew his knife and wiped clean the grey flesh
from its bone blade, then snatched Murmandamus' prized sword from where it lay
abandoned on the ground. One by one he had borne witness to the destruction of
his rivals; Gorath of the Ardanien, his own brother Nago, Delekhan and his son
Moraeulf, all destroyed by their own greed or inaction. Now there would be the
matter of dealing with the bitch Liallan who had been Delekhan's mate, and then
he might even claim the throne of Sar-Sargoth for himself, assuming no bastard
get of the former warleader claimed the right. It would be of small consequence,
however, for now he possessed what they had all sought. Assuming he lived, he
would learn to exploit his new found advantage.
	Resheathing his knife in his boot, he spotted a slow moving band of
Moredhel limping towards the Dimwood, and he hurried to join them, blending in
with the crowd in the same manner in which he had come to Sethanon, as an
unrecognizable face in a mob of the beaten and the angry.

	Arutha watched with mild wonder as Pug conjured the Prince's duplicate
into nonexistence, then just as quickly eliminated the remarkably life-like
illusions of Delekhan and Murmandamus who lay crumpled on the ground below the
Keep. The corpse of Delekhan's son would have to be removed later by less arcane
means.
	"A shame we didn't have you with us at Armengar, cousin Pug," Arutha
said. "A performance such as that before Murmandamus' troops might have won us
the battle."
	Pug shook his head. "Spectacle won't win your battles, but at least it
may prevent the Dark Brothers from plotting another attack against Sethanon.
With the dozen or more Moredhel witnesses you've left alive on the battlefield,
most of them should return alive to the Northlands. Having seen their leaders
die and possessing the object Murmandamus sought, they'll have little reason to
return here."
	"Let us hope," Arutha said. I have little desire to do this again."
	"What about the artifact?" Owyn asked.
	"A useless sword," Pug replied with a grin. "The Oracle of Aal indicated
a hidden room where I might find it when I asked for assistance with the plan.
Shortly after that Moredhel gentleman who picked it up returns to Sar-Sargoth,
he will discover it useless and curse the names of both of them for having
spilled so much Moredhel blood on false prophesies."
	Seeing James and Locklear poking about in the ruins near the keep,
Arutha scowled. "I have a feeling those two are going to keep me busy for months
with their questions about this place. Fortunately they're loyal - if I tell
them the subject is closed, they'll both trust me enough to leave the issue
alone."
	"You can always tell them the sword was truly what was buried here,"
Owyn suggested. "The answer is good enough for the Moredhel."
	Arutha shook his head. "Locklear will probably forget the matter once he
sees a pretty young face in Krondor, but Jimmy is different. He won't accept it,
though he will never ask anything more. I don't like that I will have to lie to
him. He's as loyal a subject as I've ever had."
	"What about the Tsurani?" Owyn asked. Nodding, Arutha seemed equally
concerned with Pug's answer.
	"I shall have to talk with them. A well-respected member of the Assembly
of Magicians named Hochopeppa already knows something of the event and he will
help me assuage their fears," Pug said. "Thankfully they have their hands tied
with another bothersome individual at the moment."
	Satisfied, Arutha said his farewells and moved off to be of assistance
in evacuating the remaining soldiers from the area, fearing that some might
become too curious and discover things best left unfound. While watching the
Prince depart, Pug smiled quietly to himself, gaining Owyn's attention.
	"You seem pleased about something," Owyn said." What is it?"