The Song Guardian

Sil Artenór: 2

Amaelden took one more look out across the plains, at the clouds turning a dark slate-grey and knew rain was coming. He looked up as the raven pushed off from the parapet, flapping it's wings three times before being borne on the wind rising up the face of the mountain. He followed it as it rose high above him, taken upwards in rush of wind until it was no more than a black speck above him. He looked over his shoulder. 'You go in now. Close the door behind you, or the wind will tear it off its hinges. I'll be along in a moment.'

He waited for the boy to obey and the reassuring thud of wood then turned once again to face the plains. His mind travelled far in that moment, recalling a day when... a drop of rain landed on his forehead, then another. Even the weather had turned fouler.

He took one last long look around, in all the four directions of the compass, turning first to his right, to the ruin of the Hóborg still visile, the stone dark and long turned to rubble. This was where he had fought his first war. Then to Kinsdál and the homelands of those called the Bandatangi, now the Kingdom of Thrand. He turned from right to left, slowly, to the distant huddled forms of Tamerblayne Town, once majestic Ichinion of a time when the Guards rode in pairs, the line taking an hour to pass, their armor glittering in the afternoon sun. A gust of wind blew him backwards, taking a step to stop from falling then moved forward, taking hold of the wooden parapet with both hands to steady himself.

One last look, at all of it before I go.

He turned his gaze to the Kingdom of Athecas, to the hills of Íralin, the battle of the Black Hills. That had been the turning point, the beginning of the end. He found Palomar and tried to find the distant harbour at Luonsór, the sea all but obscured by mist and rain, turning from the Ichinian Basin, to the Battle plains of Palisor, then closer now, almost turned circle, looking past the might of Rhindomách, the pinnacle as they called it, to the greener forested lands of Nórdohl that lead to Lamdis and his hearth.

Finally, he took in the line of the towers of old, still functional but falling into decay. The closest was Mag Nathóc, still standing but all but a ruin. Behind it, in the distance the even taller Mag Minthûr, the slender silhouette so familiar, the inclined but nearly straight-sided walls mighty and still proud. This was the crown of Chlórimphion, tallest of the Inthallian Mountains. Somewhere was Mag Nederdál, and majestic Nestorië, lost to sight, names as familiar to him as if they were his family. And here Tarn Sûn, the last of the line, days all but come to an end. Sil Artenór.

'Bah,' he said with a toss of his head, pushing his nostalgia to the side, finally looking down at the round slate-covered points of the towers below, keeping on turning until he ended on the promontory of the rock that was Rhindomách, the buttress of rock that was rising tall behind him.

'Old fool,' he muttered as he turned for the door, the head rounded, the oak weathered and worn. He struggled with the door, pulling it open as a rush of wind entered to fill the narrow wooden passage on the other side, the boy waiting dutifully at the top of the stair. He let the door shut then turned and bolted it, feeling the wind entering the crack at the bottom so it chilled his shins.

He led his new boy down the familiar stairs and passages, his simple self-spun dark robes brushing the ground, the threads long since worn to frayed edges. The first part of the journey down from the lofty heights of the, as the Keeper's Tower .

Amaelden led him to a door which he had often entered when in need of sustenance. The door was opened by a rusting key on his belt and led to a steep flight of wooden stairs that lead down from the upper wooden turret of the .