Under the blazing light of the sun lay the peaceful glades of Avelorn, a
vast forest dedicated to the goddess Isha. How Isha would weep that day for
her children, as their mortal enemies moved through the forest.
Clad again in the comfortable garb of a Master Assassin, Vuthil moved with
an unnatural grace through the woods. The ring of blades came from ahead -
his quarry; the Elf-lord and the wench. His long blade made no sound as it
came free from the scabbard on his back. He looked at it. Long, one
sharpened edge, and gently curved, it was the best that Naggaroth's smiths
could make. As it should be; the best equipment for the best warrior. Ah!
His prey could be seen now. He grinned, a fearsome grin without the touch
of humor, and waited for the moment to strike.
Elenia's blade whistled in from the swing, and Tyrion brought his own sword up into a two-handed parry that served as the start of his own attack. He disengaged, and finished the blow, hardly surprised that Elenia had already prepared the perfect parry. He ducked the next blow, which sailed over his head, and then parried, forcing one, two, and then a third blow away from him. Not that any would ever have hurt him, of course. He prepared his own attack, a swipe before three carefully placed blows. Elenia gave ground before him, and Tyrion grinned. "I think I'm winning!" he called out. "That would be a first." Elenia dryly replied, and flung herself forward into a dive, rolling past the startled young man, and sprung to her feet behind him. Tyrion spun and the dance started again.
Vuthil watched with mounting pleasure. The boy was good, very good indeed, but the wench's skill was unequalled amongst those he'd killed. A challenge at last for Naggaroth's greatest assassin. The time had come, he decided, and stepped out of the undergrowth, blade already swinging to kill the woman. He was not disappointed by her reactions, as she turned and flung herself under the blow. He saluted, a mocking look on his face, and attacked.
Tyrion stood, shocked and enthralled. He'd never seen the Dark Elves before, indeed never fought a battle where life was the prize. But at the same time, he could not help but notice the perfection of the two combatants. Elenia, he quickly noticed, was far better than he'd ever given her credit for. But even to his eye, untrained as it was, he could tell that she was doomed. The dark elf was stronger, faster, and more skilled than the captain of the Handmaidens, and the battle could only end one way. He charged, refusing to abandon his friend, but with a grace he'd never equal, the Assassin spun, blade still flickering a torrent of blows on Elenia, and then struck. Tyrion stared in amazement as the curved sword sunk into his side, and then almost fainted with pain as the sword was wrenched out. Weak from the agony, he sunk to the ground, turning the soft grass beneath him an ugly red. Elenia's face contorted with fury. Instantly her blows redoubled in accuracy, and the two combatants rung sword on sword in a continuous ringing sound.
Vuthil laughed inwardly. Yes, the woman was good, very good indeed. He'd never been challenged like this in his life. Alas that he never would be again! Tiring of the game, he stopped playing with her. His first blows drove the woman back, pressing her against a tree. He could smell her anger and fear. It was a most sweet scent. But never mind. He swung again, and with a light 'thump' the woman's hand hit the ground, still clutching the sword. She looked up, holding staunchly in a scream of agony, and shouted out "Tyrion! RUN!" That was all she had time for, as the great curved sword swung in a long arc. Elenia's headless body collapsed on the ground, blood streaming from the neck.
Tyrion was in shock. That easily, his beloved friend had been slaughtered; the tranquil peace of his pool broken into ripples. The assassin turned slowly. "Tyrion?" he snarled. "Shall you be next, or will you warn the slut who rules this worthless land?" Tyrion's blood burned angrily at the insult to the Everqueen. "Hold your foul mouthings, lackey, and address not your betters until addressed yourself!" he spat furiously. The dark elf laughed. "You choose to die!" Tyrion gaped at the spectre of approaching death, Elenia's blood staining the assassin's sword and cloak. Then he turned and ran, the elf's mocking laugh pursuing him.
Chaos. It was the only word that Alarielle's stunned mind to call to mind to describe this. Elenia and the young elf-lord - Tyrion? - had gone out for their typical sparring match. Nothing strange there, nothing out of the ordinary. But then the sounds of battle had rung outside, screams of deathly pain and of blood-stained victory. One of her handmaidens, Hestaire, had burst in to the grand hall, blood running down an open wound on her forehead. "Highness!" she gasped. "Dark elves! They've..." That was as far as she got, as one of the dark elven warriors burst into the hall, sword smeared with the blood of Alarielle's handmaidens and friends. Battle began, the Everqueen growing more and more sickened by the carnage. A figure appeared in the back door, and the young Everqueen turned, holding up the ceremonial Staff of Avelorn for all the meager defense it could offer. It was Tyrion. The young Elf-lord moved up to the throne, and Alarielle could make out the pain in his eyes, the tears that threaded their way down his handsome face. "Tyrion..." she spoke softly, reaching a hand out to touch one of the tears. The Elf-lord started. "Elenia." He rasped, and Alarielle understood, felt pain welling up inside her at the death of her dearest friend. "We've no time for that now." said Tyrion abruptly. "If we stay much longer, we'll all be killed. They'll burn the Great Hall down with us in it. We've got to leave - now." Alarielle nodded confused. What should she do? Leave her handmaidens? Or escape? Why did such a problem have to come when she was so young?! She was only a mere hundred and fifty years of age! Tyrion decided for her. He grasped her hand, and the two fled the battle.
They were not allowed to go unhindered. Vuthil laughed. The foolish young fop had brought the Everqueen to him. Now he could kill them both, and the spiritual heart of Ulthuan would be no more, never to hinder them again.
Tyrion's blade spun in his hands. The mad Witch elf hardly noticed, accepting the stinging hits to be able to launch her devastating counter- attack. The Witch elves appeared as young, beautiful elven women, but they had sold their souls to Khaine, the daemon Lord of Murder, for eternal youth and deadly skill in battle. Some would say they had sold their sanity as well. Those some were right. The witch elves were psychotic killing machines, and woe betide to any who challenged them, as Tyrion was discovering. He sword twirled quickly, and he gave a silent thanks to Hallar and Elenia for training him so well. His sword caught a left, left, and then twisted to the right. Alarielle watched, amazed at this battle between her protector and the frenzied foe. Tyrion struck, flinging one of the cruelly-barbed swords to the side, then caught his blade in two hands and impaled the witch elf. He was at the Everqueen's side in a heartbeat. "Come on," he whispered, and she needed no further encouraging. Then the familiar black cloaked form dropped gently from the trees to the ground before him. "Tyrion - you have brought the Everqueen. How good of you." The Everqueen gasped in shock. With a roar of fury, Tyrion charged, sword scything through the air. Vuthil was waiting for him, and their blades met in a shower of sparks. Using the strength born of pure rage, Tyrion forced Vuthil back, making the dark elf stagger. Tyrion continued, an overhand blow that would have split Vuthil from head to groin if the nimble assassin had not darted to one side, before fleeing into the forest. Grimly, Tyrion stalked after Vuthil, sword held straight before him. He'd made a mistake. Only the instincts of a skilled warrior had alerted him to utterly silent attack of the assassin as Vuthil attacked from hidden shadows. Tyrion flung himself down, the sword flying over his head by a small space. Then Tyrion was on the defensive, twisting his weaving sword in a deadly dance for either him or Vuthil. And he knew the truth. He was good, but he couldn't fight the Assassin for long. Vuthil's sword spun again, aiming for his vulnerable fingers, and Tyrion fell back. Vuthil pressed the advantage, slamming the sword hilt into Tyrion's head. Dazed, Tyrion could not stop the next blow that knocked the blade from his hands. "You are indeed skilled, fop!" sneered Vuthil, and then he backhanded Tyrion across the face. Tyrion's mouth stung with the pain, but he stayed quiet. Then Vuthil drew back his sword, Elenia's blood still gleaming on it. He swung, and Tyrion prepared for oblivion. There came a loud crash. A huge tree fell, moving somehow into the path of the swinging sword. Vuthil's blade sunk deep in to the tree, and the assassin cursed in fury as his blade firmly lodged itself in the firm trunk of the tree. Not waiting to see the cause of the miracle, Tyrion drew his belt knife and moved for Vuthil. The assassin spat at him, the offensive matter landing on his pale cheek. Firmly he wiped it off and swung the knife. Vuthil cried out in pain as Tyrion's dagger raked down his long face, leaving a large scar. Then the assassin turned, abandoning the struggle with the stuck sword, and was gone. Tyrion moved after him. "Do not." It was the melodious voice of Alarielle. She looked haggard - the magic used to topple the tree had taken a lot out of her. She firmly clutched the Staff of Avelorn now. "We must flee. If you pursue him, I can't save you again. Leave him." Already the last sounds of battle were drawing closer. "But he killed Elenia!" Tyrion protested, though already wiping his bloody knife on the grass, before retrieving his sword. They moved on, through the bushes of the forest, until the forest opened up into a broad glade. Several Witch elves stood, twin blades dripping with the blood of the slain. Elenia's headless body was crumpled in one corner of the glade, and more of the maiden guard lay around her. Tyrion's blade came to the fore, and he dove into the melee, sword twirling. Almost immediately the skilled young elf-lord struck down a foe, and then there were two, and his one sword flailed desperately to hold off the four swords of the dark elves. Sweat ran down his forehead, and he retreated slowly, but losing all the same. Then suddenly he changed direction, coming towards them. They were startled, and delayed for a split second - but that was all Tyrion needed. His sword flew, and one of the witch elves fell, head cleanly severed from the body. Then Tyrion screamed, a cry of utter agony as the other elf sunk her sword deep into Tyrion's side. The grievously wounded elf-lord struck again, and the frenzied warrior fell, Tyrion's sword in her head. Tyrion sagged as blood poured out of the wound, and he began to feel faint. It was said that the witch elves poisoned their swords, and that none could survive such a blow. Alarielle was at his side then, her graceful hand soaked in the blood from his side. "Tyrion," she whispered, but he could hardly hear her. She took his cloak, and tore a long strip off it, binding his wound. "Lean on me," she said, and together they staggered into the forest.
By the tremulous light of a ring of candles the old mage watched his young pupil, eyes narrowed in concentration, as the small rock rose between them. High, and higher, and pride as well as effort showed on his protégé's face as the rock rose. The spell wavered and fluttered. In the dim light of candles, the Loremaster Belannaer bent down to his apprentice. "Concentrate! This is an easy spell - you've done it before." He paused, though, seeing the troubled look on Teclis' face. "That's not it, is it? Something is bothering you. What is it, Teclis?" The young mage, powerful beyond his years, said, "Tyrion!" "Your brother?" Teclis nodded. "Very well. I know about your bond with him. I'll get the scrying pool". Teclis was the twin brother of Tyrion, though it could not be told by looking at them. Tyrion's handsome, lordly manner had passed his brother. Teclis was gaunt and weak, but his aptitude for magic was incredible. Belannaer was an old mage, one of the most powerful alive, but he knew with time his pupil would easily outstrip his considerable skills. It balanced out his crippled body and bitter manner. There were only two things that gave Teclis joy - his magic and his brother. Despite the great gulf between the two mentally and physically, they both were very loyal to the other. Perhaps that was due to the fact that after one day in their childhood, when Teclis had nearly drowned and Tyrion risked his life to save his brother, Teclis had unwittingly cast a spell that bound the two together. Tyrion could draw on Teclis' great willpower, and the young wizard his brother's strength. It also linked them in feelings. All this Belannaer had discovered when he took Teclis to Saphery and the White Tower, how the youth who had never studied magic had intuitively already weaved it to his purpose that once, and then the older mage glimpsed his student's power. The old Loremaster broke his musing, and took the silvery bowl from the high shelf where he'd last put it. Unnaturally, the waters in it stayed deathly flat, though it was moving to a small pedestal between their seats. "Do you want to, or shall I?" Belannaer remarked calmly. "I will." The black-haired elf mumbled under his breath, before plunging the tips of his fingers into the bowl. The unnatural water did not move. Still chanting softly, Teclis spun his fingers, before moving them. The waters finally moved, before settling in a different form, a picture. In the bowl, the aged Loremaster saw a tall, handsome elf, worlds apart in appearance to his twin. "So this is young Tyrion," murmured Belannaer. Teclis did not reply to the comment. "Who is the other one, though?" Belannaer frowned. "Other one?" He moved over to the bowl, and peered into it. After a heartbeat he straightened. "That, my young friend, is the new Everqueen, Alarielle. What they're doing, running through the forest like that." He never finished his statement, though, as the waters of the bowl suddenly moved again, erupting upwards between them. The water landed again, mostly in the bowl, though it also doused the two mages. What was in the bowl rippled like normal water. "Unusual," said Belannaer. "The capacity of the scrying waters seems to have been exhausted. I can only think of one explanation." "He's not dead," interjected Teclis. "I still sense him." Belannaer stood up. "Well, something is going on." "He's in pain. Great pain. And sorrow." Belannaer just stood there, thinking. "I have a feeling," he said finally, "that something very strange is going on. Come with me." "Where are we going?" his pupil asked. "To see the Loremasters."
Elenia's blade whistled in from the swing, and Tyrion brought his own sword up into a two-handed parry that served as the start of his own attack. He disengaged, and finished the blow, hardly surprised that Elenia had already prepared the perfect parry. He ducked the next blow, which sailed over his head, and then parried, forcing one, two, and then a third blow away from him. Not that any would ever have hurt him, of course. He prepared his own attack, a swipe before three carefully placed blows. Elenia gave ground before him, and Tyrion grinned. "I think I'm winning!" he called out. "That would be a first." Elenia dryly replied, and flung herself forward into a dive, rolling past the startled young man, and sprung to her feet behind him. Tyrion spun and the dance started again.
Vuthil watched with mounting pleasure. The boy was good, very good indeed, but the wench's skill was unequalled amongst those he'd killed. A challenge at last for Naggaroth's greatest assassin. The time had come, he decided, and stepped out of the undergrowth, blade already swinging to kill the woman. He was not disappointed by her reactions, as she turned and flung herself under the blow. He saluted, a mocking look on his face, and attacked.
Tyrion stood, shocked and enthralled. He'd never seen the Dark Elves before, indeed never fought a battle where life was the prize. But at the same time, he could not help but notice the perfection of the two combatants. Elenia, he quickly noticed, was far better than he'd ever given her credit for. But even to his eye, untrained as it was, he could tell that she was doomed. The dark elf was stronger, faster, and more skilled than the captain of the Handmaidens, and the battle could only end one way. He charged, refusing to abandon his friend, but with a grace he'd never equal, the Assassin spun, blade still flickering a torrent of blows on Elenia, and then struck. Tyrion stared in amazement as the curved sword sunk into his side, and then almost fainted with pain as the sword was wrenched out. Weak from the agony, he sunk to the ground, turning the soft grass beneath him an ugly red. Elenia's face contorted with fury. Instantly her blows redoubled in accuracy, and the two combatants rung sword on sword in a continuous ringing sound.
Vuthil laughed inwardly. Yes, the woman was good, very good indeed. He'd never been challenged like this in his life. Alas that he never would be again! Tiring of the game, he stopped playing with her. His first blows drove the woman back, pressing her against a tree. He could smell her anger and fear. It was a most sweet scent. But never mind. He swung again, and with a light 'thump' the woman's hand hit the ground, still clutching the sword. She looked up, holding staunchly in a scream of agony, and shouted out "Tyrion! RUN!" That was all she had time for, as the great curved sword swung in a long arc. Elenia's headless body collapsed on the ground, blood streaming from the neck.
Tyrion was in shock. That easily, his beloved friend had been slaughtered; the tranquil peace of his pool broken into ripples. The assassin turned slowly. "Tyrion?" he snarled. "Shall you be next, or will you warn the slut who rules this worthless land?" Tyrion's blood burned angrily at the insult to the Everqueen. "Hold your foul mouthings, lackey, and address not your betters until addressed yourself!" he spat furiously. The dark elf laughed. "You choose to die!" Tyrion gaped at the spectre of approaching death, Elenia's blood staining the assassin's sword and cloak. Then he turned and ran, the elf's mocking laugh pursuing him.
Chaos. It was the only word that Alarielle's stunned mind to call to mind to describe this. Elenia and the young elf-lord - Tyrion? - had gone out for their typical sparring match. Nothing strange there, nothing out of the ordinary. But then the sounds of battle had rung outside, screams of deathly pain and of blood-stained victory. One of her handmaidens, Hestaire, had burst in to the grand hall, blood running down an open wound on her forehead. "Highness!" she gasped. "Dark elves! They've..." That was as far as she got, as one of the dark elven warriors burst into the hall, sword smeared with the blood of Alarielle's handmaidens and friends. Battle began, the Everqueen growing more and more sickened by the carnage. A figure appeared in the back door, and the young Everqueen turned, holding up the ceremonial Staff of Avelorn for all the meager defense it could offer. It was Tyrion. The young Elf-lord moved up to the throne, and Alarielle could make out the pain in his eyes, the tears that threaded their way down his handsome face. "Tyrion..." she spoke softly, reaching a hand out to touch one of the tears. The Elf-lord started. "Elenia." He rasped, and Alarielle understood, felt pain welling up inside her at the death of her dearest friend. "We've no time for that now." said Tyrion abruptly. "If we stay much longer, we'll all be killed. They'll burn the Great Hall down with us in it. We've got to leave - now." Alarielle nodded confused. What should she do? Leave her handmaidens? Or escape? Why did such a problem have to come when she was so young?! She was only a mere hundred and fifty years of age! Tyrion decided for her. He grasped her hand, and the two fled the battle.
They were not allowed to go unhindered. Vuthil laughed. The foolish young fop had brought the Everqueen to him. Now he could kill them both, and the spiritual heart of Ulthuan would be no more, never to hinder them again.
Tyrion's blade spun in his hands. The mad Witch elf hardly noticed, accepting the stinging hits to be able to launch her devastating counter- attack. The Witch elves appeared as young, beautiful elven women, but they had sold their souls to Khaine, the daemon Lord of Murder, for eternal youth and deadly skill in battle. Some would say they had sold their sanity as well. Those some were right. The witch elves were psychotic killing machines, and woe betide to any who challenged them, as Tyrion was discovering. He sword twirled quickly, and he gave a silent thanks to Hallar and Elenia for training him so well. His sword caught a left, left, and then twisted to the right. Alarielle watched, amazed at this battle between her protector and the frenzied foe. Tyrion struck, flinging one of the cruelly-barbed swords to the side, then caught his blade in two hands and impaled the witch elf. He was at the Everqueen's side in a heartbeat. "Come on," he whispered, and she needed no further encouraging. Then the familiar black cloaked form dropped gently from the trees to the ground before him. "Tyrion - you have brought the Everqueen. How good of you." The Everqueen gasped in shock. With a roar of fury, Tyrion charged, sword scything through the air. Vuthil was waiting for him, and their blades met in a shower of sparks. Using the strength born of pure rage, Tyrion forced Vuthil back, making the dark elf stagger. Tyrion continued, an overhand blow that would have split Vuthil from head to groin if the nimble assassin had not darted to one side, before fleeing into the forest. Grimly, Tyrion stalked after Vuthil, sword held straight before him. He'd made a mistake. Only the instincts of a skilled warrior had alerted him to utterly silent attack of the assassin as Vuthil attacked from hidden shadows. Tyrion flung himself down, the sword flying over his head by a small space. Then Tyrion was on the defensive, twisting his weaving sword in a deadly dance for either him or Vuthil. And he knew the truth. He was good, but he couldn't fight the Assassin for long. Vuthil's sword spun again, aiming for his vulnerable fingers, and Tyrion fell back. Vuthil pressed the advantage, slamming the sword hilt into Tyrion's head. Dazed, Tyrion could not stop the next blow that knocked the blade from his hands. "You are indeed skilled, fop!" sneered Vuthil, and then he backhanded Tyrion across the face. Tyrion's mouth stung with the pain, but he stayed quiet. Then Vuthil drew back his sword, Elenia's blood still gleaming on it. He swung, and Tyrion prepared for oblivion. There came a loud crash. A huge tree fell, moving somehow into the path of the swinging sword. Vuthil's blade sunk deep in to the tree, and the assassin cursed in fury as his blade firmly lodged itself in the firm trunk of the tree. Not waiting to see the cause of the miracle, Tyrion drew his belt knife and moved for Vuthil. The assassin spat at him, the offensive matter landing on his pale cheek. Firmly he wiped it off and swung the knife. Vuthil cried out in pain as Tyrion's dagger raked down his long face, leaving a large scar. Then the assassin turned, abandoning the struggle with the stuck sword, and was gone. Tyrion moved after him. "Do not." It was the melodious voice of Alarielle. She looked haggard - the magic used to topple the tree had taken a lot out of her. She firmly clutched the Staff of Avelorn now. "We must flee. If you pursue him, I can't save you again. Leave him." Already the last sounds of battle were drawing closer. "But he killed Elenia!" Tyrion protested, though already wiping his bloody knife on the grass, before retrieving his sword. They moved on, through the bushes of the forest, until the forest opened up into a broad glade. Several Witch elves stood, twin blades dripping with the blood of the slain. Elenia's headless body was crumpled in one corner of the glade, and more of the maiden guard lay around her. Tyrion's blade came to the fore, and he dove into the melee, sword twirling. Almost immediately the skilled young elf-lord struck down a foe, and then there were two, and his one sword flailed desperately to hold off the four swords of the dark elves. Sweat ran down his forehead, and he retreated slowly, but losing all the same. Then suddenly he changed direction, coming towards them. They were startled, and delayed for a split second - but that was all Tyrion needed. His sword flew, and one of the witch elves fell, head cleanly severed from the body. Then Tyrion screamed, a cry of utter agony as the other elf sunk her sword deep into Tyrion's side. The grievously wounded elf-lord struck again, and the frenzied warrior fell, Tyrion's sword in her head. Tyrion sagged as blood poured out of the wound, and he began to feel faint. It was said that the witch elves poisoned their swords, and that none could survive such a blow. Alarielle was at his side then, her graceful hand soaked in the blood from his side. "Tyrion," she whispered, but he could hardly hear her. She took his cloak, and tore a long strip off it, binding his wound. "Lean on me," she said, and together they staggered into the forest.
By the tremulous light of a ring of candles the old mage watched his young pupil, eyes narrowed in concentration, as the small rock rose between them. High, and higher, and pride as well as effort showed on his protégé's face as the rock rose. The spell wavered and fluttered. In the dim light of candles, the Loremaster Belannaer bent down to his apprentice. "Concentrate! This is an easy spell - you've done it before." He paused, though, seeing the troubled look on Teclis' face. "That's not it, is it? Something is bothering you. What is it, Teclis?" The young mage, powerful beyond his years, said, "Tyrion!" "Your brother?" Teclis nodded. "Very well. I know about your bond with him. I'll get the scrying pool". Teclis was the twin brother of Tyrion, though it could not be told by looking at them. Tyrion's handsome, lordly manner had passed his brother. Teclis was gaunt and weak, but his aptitude for magic was incredible. Belannaer was an old mage, one of the most powerful alive, but he knew with time his pupil would easily outstrip his considerable skills. It balanced out his crippled body and bitter manner. There were only two things that gave Teclis joy - his magic and his brother. Despite the great gulf between the two mentally and physically, they both were very loyal to the other. Perhaps that was due to the fact that after one day in their childhood, when Teclis had nearly drowned and Tyrion risked his life to save his brother, Teclis had unwittingly cast a spell that bound the two together. Tyrion could draw on Teclis' great willpower, and the young wizard his brother's strength. It also linked them in feelings. All this Belannaer had discovered when he took Teclis to Saphery and the White Tower, how the youth who had never studied magic had intuitively already weaved it to his purpose that once, and then the older mage glimpsed his student's power. The old Loremaster broke his musing, and took the silvery bowl from the high shelf where he'd last put it. Unnaturally, the waters in it stayed deathly flat, though it was moving to a small pedestal between their seats. "Do you want to, or shall I?" Belannaer remarked calmly. "I will." The black-haired elf mumbled under his breath, before plunging the tips of his fingers into the bowl. The unnatural water did not move. Still chanting softly, Teclis spun his fingers, before moving them. The waters finally moved, before settling in a different form, a picture. In the bowl, the aged Loremaster saw a tall, handsome elf, worlds apart in appearance to his twin. "So this is young Tyrion," murmured Belannaer. Teclis did not reply to the comment. "Who is the other one, though?" Belannaer frowned. "Other one?" He moved over to the bowl, and peered into it. After a heartbeat he straightened. "That, my young friend, is the new Everqueen, Alarielle. What they're doing, running through the forest like that." He never finished his statement, though, as the waters of the bowl suddenly moved again, erupting upwards between them. The water landed again, mostly in the bowl, though it also doused the two mages. What was in the bowl rippled like normal water. "Unusual," said Belannaer. "The capacity of the scrying waters seems to have been exhausted. I can only think of one explanation." "He's not dead," interjected Teclis. "I still sense him." Belannaer stood up. "Well, something is going on." "He's in pain. Great pain. And sorrow." Belannaer just stood there, thinking. "I have a feeling," he said finally, "that something very strange is going on. Come with me." "Where are we going?" his pupil asked. "To see the Loremasters."