Book 1 CHAPTER EIGHT THE TOURMALINE

The next morning Warga and Morodán stood in front of the cave, ready to go, and left the giants without greeting. They headed in the direction of Dol Riada, happy not to have to bear the horrible giants any longer, they disappeared into the thicket of the forest. At first they were following a well-trodden path that animals had formed on their way to the watering-place. Morodán filled up his water skin at the well they reached after a short while.
They walked through the Merscvír forest, until they reached its end. There was the Ruàdiuná. Here the river flowed quickly, but it was shallow enough to stand in. Nevertheless it was dangerous to cross the river. The current was raging and difficult to judge. Further to the North there was a large ford. When they reached it, they observed the opposite side. This was the beginning of the realm of the Riamirdain, the elves of Dol Riada. Those wanting to set foot on their land had to do so with a clear conscience and in peace.
 "Do we not have a clear conscience?", Morodán asked his wolf, shaking in mad convulsions. "Surely you cannot deny me having a good heart? Was I not kind, when I chose you as my companion?
 Warga looked at his master. No muscle moving in his body.
Morodán looked over to the East bank.
 "I wonder if all of those mangy pointed ears really left the country? Warga, go and have a look!"
The wolf jumped into the flood immediately and crossed the river. Nothing happened. If there had been any elves left, the river would have devoured him. Morodán carefully put his foot into the ford. He listened. His ears did not hear a raging rush, only the delicate song of the Ruàdiuná. He crossed quickly. Warga waited on the other bank. He had  broken the guardian shield of the elves without peril. Either the dark energies had gained power or the power of the elves had vanished, which seemed unlikely to him.
From now on he only walked during the nights. Nowhere could he sense the presence of elven scouts or hunters. Morodan could not imagine that all of them had left the country.
Had he lost his extraordinary instinct? No, that was impossible. Maybe the elves had found a new, a different type of disguise. Maybe this was because of the land around here being damned, surrounded by secret magic. That was what must have happened. He had to stay alert. Morodán watched Warga. However, even his wolf did not sense any threat by the Riamirdain. Morodán waved the wolf to his side. An animal would be less suspicious and he wanted to send it ahead. Warga was going to approach Dol Riada and gather intelligence about the elven town.
"Go ahead!", he whispered. "See if we really are on our own in this deserted area, as it seems at first." Warga obeyed his master and disappeared into the elven forests. Night had fallen. He was sneaking through the darkness without a sound, always ready to jump. In the morning the wolf had reached Dol Riada. He camouflaged himself in the rocks and observed the town. At first he could not see any elves still living here. He spent all day and all night in his outpost, which allowed him a good view. The night after that Warga hurried back to his master. He sensed immediately that the master had already been waiting for him impatiently.  "So, what did you learn?", asked Morodán.  "The town lies almost abandoned, master", answered the wolf in the tongue of the Warg.  "Abandoned? The elves have gone?" Morodán rejoiced. It was easy game for him. "There are only few elves left in town", Warga let him know.  "How many?" "No more than ten, but I was only able to count seven", answered Warga. "You have served me well, now go!" Warga took off. Since Morodán had sent him to gather information, he had not rested or slept. The wolf lay down in a hollow, sheltered from wind and rain, and closed his eyes.  Morodán was thinking. A handful of elves were left of the great people of Dol Riada. They would be easy prey. As soon as Warga had rested enough, he would start. He leant against a tree and looked at the wolf. He had become an important servant for him, reliable and faithful.  Morodán relaxed while watching the animal in its sleep und listening to the sounds of the forest. Finally he got hungry. Warga had not been able to hunt for him and he did not dare use Tordas in order to get food in the elven land. Having gathered a few worms, beetles and maggots from an old tree, he pushed them into his mouth. He pulled a disgusted face, but the meal was wholesome and filled him up. The time to go came as darkness set in. The sky was overcast and there was a thin drizzle in the air. The vision was poor, but if he was not able to see much, the elves would not be able to see him either. Furthermore, the quiet murmur of the rain prevented the elves from sensing him or hearing his steps. The following evening he reached Warga’s lookout. As the wolf had done before, he looked down the rocks at Dol Riada, which lay hidden in a steep valley. In the elven tongue, this last refuge of the noble people was called >Valley of the Morning Star<. A long time ago, Torendán and his followers had built this place at the upper reaches of the Ruàdiuná and surrounded it with elven magic. The Gods blessed this place. In former times they had come down here often to tell their close friends, the elves, of their intents and to keep in touch with them. The Riamirdain, as were called the elves of Torendán, were a great people. They mastered the art of making filigreed jewels. They manufactured godly weapons and jewellery for the A sen. In the years of Loki’s rising, they fled their old homeland in the South and went northwards. As opposed to Aéjas Irida, Loki did not succeed in conquering the elven town of Dol Riada. It was protected by the high peaks of the Grey Snow Mountains in the North, East and West. The attacks always came from the South and could be successfully fought off again and again. When the number of Loki’s followers rose and the danger of Dol Riada falling increased daily, the Asen came down one last time and surrounded the holy place with a magic circle of protection. With time, it got more and more permeable. Nevertheless, the power of the elves prevented the capturing of the town. Their resistance remained unbroken. Up to the end of the last age, the elves living in Dol Riada were mainly Riamirdain, led by the high dukes Torendán and Aroquivir.
Dol Riada was the centre of wisdom and the place of the great council of the peoples of the earth. Until the last voyage of the elves to Walhall, it remained the sanctuary of the leaders of the Etrikán. It was considered the safest place on earth, and now it was deserted. The former blossom of the Snow Mountains had been left by its inhabitants. Warga had been right. At the entrance of the elven refuge a small path led up to the centre of Dol Riada. Morodán pinched his eyes together. Yes, two elves were standing there in battle gear. As was customary for the Riamirdain, they wore white trousers and shirts which were nearly fully covered by the shiny elven armour. He saw that they were equipped with good elven bows and extraordinary swords. They were guarding the path and the upper reaches of the river, which was ten strides wide at that point. It was shooting across the shallow stones next to them. Here the Ruadiuna was still crystal clear and followed its winding path out of the town which had been erected along its shore. The houses stood flat on the ground or were hewn into the rocks. An uncountable number of bridges connected the huge living quarters of the valley across the water. Vast columns supported the buildings, and everywhere statues of bronze, stone and other materials decorated the town. The bizarre forms of the houses let Dol Riada stand in unmatched splendour and beauty. Further above the town, Morodán spotted two more elves, dressed similar to the other two. They were guarding Torendán’s house. It was one of the biggest and most beautiful buildings in town. Morodán knew that the valuable scripts and many elven treasures were hidden in the cellars underneath it. This was where he wanted to go. Cautiously he withdrew from his lookout post. If he wanted to reach the centre of Dol Riada unseen, he had to take the path that led to the entrance to the elven valley above it. The wide and winding path that led to town along the river bank was the only entrance. He could see it many feet below him. There was no other way in for him. He did not have the equipment to abseil down the bare rock, nor would it be very clever to do so. It was likely that the elves would spot him immediately and shoot him with arrows. There was no alternative to trying the path at night. He waited with Warga, hidden in a sheltered hiding place until the night had fallen. Then they went down. When they reached the path, they climbed down to the river bank and dived into the icy water of the Ruàdiuná, rushing next to the path. The water was extremely cold and tugged at Morodáns robe. The sky was still overcast, the night was black. The darkness rendered them invisible. Only the lights of Dol Riada could scarcely be seen here. He was listening. The two elves were still standing guard higher above. He heard no sound from their direction. Nevertheless, Morodán could sense their presence. Slowly he pushed his body against the current. The rain finally had stopped, and he could only just make out the elven warriors appearing in front of him. His sharp eyes watched them carefully. Warga trod next to him without a sound. They looked at each other quickly, and then cast their eyes down so the light in their eyes would not give them away. They got closer. The elves did not notice him and the wolf. Then they quickly attacked, surprising the elves. Morodán shot out of the water and threw his dagger. At the same time Warga jumped up above the other elf and bit his throat. Not a sound left their mouths as they collapsed in perfect silence. It was accomplished. Morodán pulled his bloodstained dagger from the elf’s heart. His breath rattled. Morodán looked at him full of hate and thrust the dagger in one more time. The dagger dug into the noble warrior’s carotid artery and he was dead.Morodán looked at Warga’s victim. The wolf’s bite had killed the adversary immediately. Now the corpses of the elves were lying in front of them. Morodán heedlessly pulled them to the river bank and pushed them in. The Ruadiuna got hold of the dead bodies and pulled them along. For a short while they stayed at the water surface, as if the river was going to bury them. Then they disappeared into the depths of the river. Morodáns sharp eyes followed the dead until darkness encompassed them and they were out of his vision. After that, he lay down on the floor and listened. He did not hear any sounds. Everything was quiet. The elves in the town above had not noticed the attack. They crawled towards the town, camouflaged by the net of darkness. Neither the moon nor the stars could reveal them. In the end, they reached a couple of large trees on the outskirts of the town. First Morodán climbed up into the top of a huge Silver Maple and tried to look into the centre of the scarcely lit Dol Riada. In front of Torendán’s house he spotted the shadows of two elves, standing guard in the night. Further in the distance he heard elven song. They sang melodious songs, their clear and pure voices reaching out to him. No, this music did not please him any more. He shivered. It was a long time ago that he had liked the elven song. So long that he could barely remember it. In disgust he asked himself what he had ever liked about them? Now, the howling of the wolves and the grumble of misfortune about to strike, but mainly the screaming of the tortured and dying excited him. He felt shivers up and down his spine. Yes, that was music in his ears.Morodán climbed down the tree again without making a sound. In the darkness he snuck along the path with Warga, into the heart of Dol Riada. They avoided the light of the lamps and went around houses in big circles. Soon they were very close to Torendán’s house. Carefully they approached the two guards and on Morodáns sign they attacked the elves from behind. Morodán jumped at the first warrior’s throat and cut it. He fell to the floor lifelessly. This time Warga missed his target by an inch. He tried biting the other guard’s throat, but the wolf’s bite merely injured him severely. Bent over, the elf turned to his side and reached for his sword. He kept Warga at bay with the sword. The other hand he used to find his horn and blew it. A terrified sound cut through the air, before Morodán’s dagger took him down. The weapon of the Shiomani whirled through the air and dug deep into the elf’s forehead. Morodán looked at Warga in rage. The pain of this glance hit Warga and he started howling.
The whirr of arrows alerted Morodán of the approaching elves. He quickly remembered the danger they both were in. Morodán barely dodged a deadly arrow aimed at him. Only a jump into the shadows saved him. Warga stayed close to him, even though he was limping. The Shiomani took a closer look. The hind leg of the wolf was bleeding. One of the arrows had hit him. The Shiomani looked at him scornfully. They could not flee. The blood coming from the wound would tell the elves where they were, for it left a trail.
 "I will have to kill you for this foolishness!", snarled Morodán and drew his knife. Warga saw the blade above him and jumped back, his eyes wide open and filled with fear. Morodán forced him back to him with his glances. However, he let the knife sink down. He ripped a piece of fabric from his gown. Then he carefully pulled out the arrow and slung the cloth around the injured leg of the wolf.
 "I still need you!", Morodán murmured ruefully. "Do as much as you can!", he angrily spat out the words at the wolf who still looked at him full of fear. Warga, having only just escaped death, crawled away through the shadows of the night.
Morodán also retreated and hid behind a house full of nooks and crannies where he did not run the risk of being easily spotted. In front of him was a bigger square, illuminated by lamps thus improving his vision. He held one ear to the ground. Three or four elves were approaching. They were looking for him.
Suddenly Morodán heard the scream of a dying elf. Well done, Warga, well done, he was satisfied.
Then he saw the shadow of an elf behind a tree. Carefully he went along the house, towards the tree. The warrior was looking at the square. Slowly Morodán unsheathed his sword. The quiet, metallic sound made the elf spin around. Morodán attacked him. As fast as lightning, the elf shot an arrow at him, but Morodán could dodge it skilfully. The elf drew his blade too. It shone in the dark night. They crossed their swords and with an agile half turn Morodán gained an advantage. The elf’s sword hit void. Morodán’s weapon forcefully flew at the elf and the sharp blade decapitated him. The head flew through the air and hit the ground not far from the body. "Die, you rotten worm!", murmured Morodán and enjoyed the last twitches of the young man. He looked around and saw two more elves, approaching with grim faces and their swords drawn. He recognized one of them. It was Ephelion, Torendan’s son. He panted, full of contempt. Then they ran at Morodán and tried to skewer or strike him dead with their swords. Skilfully Morodán dodged their thrusts and jumped to the side. He swirled his sword around himself and rammed it into the body of one of the elves. The elf silently went to the ground, his face in a grimace of pain. Ephelion took the chance and tried to hit Morodán in the chest, but he only injured him in the shoulder. A sharp, piercing pain shot through Morodán’s body. He was hurt. His left arm hung useless at his side, it was impossible to move it. A deadly danger. His sword hand kept the elf at bay, but the elf kept attacking. This elf was damn quick and a master of swordsmanship. Several times they crossed their blades and the elven warrior fought ready to die.  Again and again Ephelion used Morodán’s weakness to his advantage and attacked him with quick and cleanly executed movements. The Shiomani’s ability to dodge the thrusts vanished slowly. In the end, the elf had a clear advantage and his attacks came fast as lightning and in very short succession. Each of his thrusts could be deadly if it hit the target. Morodán continues to parry the attacks with his sword and averted the blade, but his sword was no danger for the elf any more, it could not get near him. Morodán cursed at having left his staff at the river bank, although it would only have been a hindrance at sneaking through the town. So he took his last chance at killing Ephelion. He quickly drew his dagger from his belt and aimed at the elven warrior. The blade raced at his opponent’s head. However, Ephelion ducked in time and the dagger slightly missed his hair. Morodán pulled an angry face. Then, with the last of his energy, he charged at the elf. He effortlessly met the blow that was aimed at his heart and hit the sword out of Morodán’s hand. It was over.
The Shiománi stared grimly at the elf. He had no weapon left and the elf was approaching to finish him off. Morodán looked around in search for any means of defence but he could not find anything to keep Ephelion at bay or even attack him. His sword was lying a couple of steps away on the square, too far to reach for it. Morodán stared at the elf’s sword, looming above him. The warrior raised his arms for his lethal blow. The blade was approaching with an incredible speed. But before the sword could kill him, the movement suddenly stopped. The weapon started shaking and fell out of Ephelion’s hand. Then Morodán saw it, too. Warga had approached the elf from behind and attacked him. His canines mutilated the elf’s throat. The elf tried desperately to rid himself of the wolf, but he was hurt too severely. Morodán struggled up and leant on the elf’s sword. It stung his hands terribly, but he did not care. Full of hate, he lifted the sword and sunk it into Ephelion’s chest. The elf writhed in death. Deeply satisfied, Morodán withdrew the sword. He thrust again, sinking it into the elven warrior’s chest again. Ephelion’s limbs lost all life. Finally he lay motionless in the light of the lamps on the square in the heart of Dol Riada. Morodán stretched himself. His gaze went over to Warga, who had saved his life. He waved him to his side. Warga came and looked at him attentively. Morodán looked him straight in the eye, then patted his trembling flanks and crawled his shaggy head. Warga licked the Shiomani’s hand on the injured arm. There were no elves left to see. They had finished them all off. Morodán struggled to his feet and carried himself into Torendán’s house. He examined his wound. It was deep, but the bone did not seem damaged. Nevertheless, the bleeding had to be stopped, so he slung a white cloth around his wound. He was able to move his arm gently from side to side. That was a good sign. The muscles were not completely cut through, and the ligaments and tendons were still functioning. Still, every move of the arm hurt, he had to immobilize it. Morodán made a sling to put the arm into. Then he lay down. The fight had been tiring, and sleep was overpowering him. Warga watched the Shiomani. When he glanced at him, he trotted over and lay down at his feet. He attentively listened to every sound and stood guard at his master’s bed. Morodán gave him a sign that he now was responsible for his master’s well-being.
Morodán closed his eyes and fell asleep.
When he woke up, Warga was still lying at his feet. But the condition of the wolf had deteriorated visibly. His eyes looked feverish. Nevertheless he was fulfilling his duty and guarded his master. Morodán got up. The blood in his veins was pulsating heavily and his arm felt heavy. Despite this, he looked after Warga first. He loosened the bloodstained bandage from his hind leg. The wound had become inflamed and Warga seemed to suffer from great pain. Morodán drew his knife and Warga started shaking violently. "Quiet!", he said softly. Carefully he opened the wound and removed the remains of the elven arrow. After that he cleaned the wound and bandaged it anew. Soon Warga was breathing calmer. Morodán stroked the wolf’s body. He had been ready to give his life for him. It was good that he had not killed him.
 "That one day I would have to thank you for preserving this wretched human shell", Morodán said quietly and stroked the wolf’s shaggy fur. These were the last remains of compassion in him, before he turned around abruptly. Warga lay down in a corner to sleep, and Morodán left the desecrated building of Torendán. He wanted to get his staff as quickly as possible. Furthermore, he needed healing herbs which he was going to pick on the way. He stepped through the entrance portal, climbed down the steep stone stairs and quickly crossed the square. Suddenly he stopped and looked around. Something strange had happened. He looked around again. The dead elves were gone, all of them! Morodán hurried back to the place of the fight in front of Torendán’s house. He could not find a corpse there, either. A little blood and greenish stains on the stones were the only signs left of last night’s fight. As if he had gone out of his mind Morodán spun around in circles and looked at his surroundings. There was a deadly silence in Dol Riada. "Nothing!", he growled grimly and pinched his eyes together. He started to panic and rushed to the path that would lead him down to the stony entrance to Dol Riada. He needed his staff. Only with Tordas would he feel safe in this place."Maybe he was not the only black soul haunting this place?", he asked himself, full of worries. Morodán sped up and stumbled along the path. Driven by dark forebodings he ran the last bit. The Ruàdiuná rushed loudly in his ears and he felt nauseous. He began to sway. He shivered, felt weak. A silvery sun shone through the rising fields of fog. As he reached the entrance, he carefully examined the rocky ground and the earth. Had he not killed the elves himself, the idea that this was a battlefield would never have crossed his mind.  "Who on earth had removed the dead elves this carefully?"  Morodán had no explanation for all of this. He inspected the ground. Again he found the greenish stains that had eaten their way deep into the rock. Hunted and tense he crept to the hiding place where he had hidden his staff. When he got there, he ripped the bushes apart and sank to the ground. His heart stopped beating. He looked down to the place where he had put Tordas down. He finally recognized fragments of it. Tordas was still there. Morodán quickly grabbed the staff and held it in front of his chest protectively. His quick breathing calmed down again. Nobody had found his hiding place and robbed it. He clung to the stick and felt an icy cold take him over. Master and staff were reunited. He would never make the mistake of leaving it behind again. Without rest he brooded and asked himself if there would be more elves waiting for him at his return to town? If that was the case, why had they not killed him in Torendán’s house? Questions over questions, looking for an answer that he was willing to find. His strength restored, now that Tordas rested in his hands again, he went back to town. He tried hiding behind rocks as much as possible. There were a lot along the way, but they only provided scarce shelter from his enemies. His eyes lighted up as he spotted wolf herb next to the path. The orange blooms gave off a strong and sweet odour. It was a special poisonous plant that grew here in abundance. In low doses, it strengthened the heart and worked wonders in healing damaged tissue. It was also helpful in treating broken bones. With his dagger he cut some young plants and hid them under his black cloak.Morodán neared the first houses. When he reached the city centre he took all the necessary precautions and went to the places where he and Warga had killed the elves. Without any hope of finding the dead, he looked around anyway. All of a sudden he felt as if he was being watched. He was under the impression that someone or something was looking at him from all sides. He quickly looked around, but everywhere he was looking he could not see anybody, not even the slightest shade. Morodán knelt down and brought his ear to the ground. There was no audible sound. It seemed that there was nobody, but he could not get rid of the feeling of being observed. His gaze hastened around. He was sure that he and Warga were not alone in Dol Riada any more. The worry of impending danger overwhelmed him and grew steadily. He ran back to Torendán’s house cautiously. He kept looking around. With his sharp, piercing eyes he scanned the nearby streets and houses. There was nobody to be seen, nobody followed him. It was scary. When he finally reached Torendan’s stately home, he looked inside cautiously. Warga was sleeping in one corner of the house. When he entered the room, the wolf looked up. The Shiomani quickly went towards him and stroked his shaggy fur. "There is something wrong here!", he murmured quietly and looked around restlessly. "We are not the only ones in this town. Other creatures are lurking here." Warga tried to get up, but Morodán softly pushed him back to the ground. "No, stay here! For now we are safe here from any attacks. If these creatures had wanted us dead, they would have already entered the building. Something had stopped them. It seems that they avoid elven houses, otherwise they would already have killed us in our sleep!"
Morodán got up and walked away. Warga looked after him questioningly. The Shiomani stepped through the many rooms and entered a kind of kitchen. A fireplace had been hewn into the rock. Several containers of all sorts hung above it and the numerous shelves were stacked with many differently shaped vessels. He lifted their dusty lids and smelled their contents. Herbs and spices were stored in them. On a table at the back wall there were various pots and pans. He was looking for something and scanned the whole room. Then finally he found what he was looking for. On one of the shelves there were pestles and mortars, big and small and made of all different materials. Morodán took a stone mortar that was finely cut. The stone shone splendidly and was streaked with both green and brown lines. Quickly he fetched the wolf herb from his pocket and grated it to a fine, green paste. Then he filled the concoction into a silver beaker and hurried back to Warga. Morodán spread the wolf herb paste on the animal’s wound and changed the bandage. Warga relaxed visibly as the medicine started working and he stretched his hind leg. Then Morodán tore the bandage from his arm and left shoulder and applied the concoction on his wound, too. It had reopened and black blood was running down his arm in thin streaks. His flesh twitched in pain. He had difficulty wrapping a clean cloth around the shoulder and kept whispering words in a beseeching tone. Little by little the pain in his arm became bearable. He tied a makeshift knot in the cloth. The healing process had to be quick, he did not want to lose sight of his goal because of these injuries. At least eight of the filthy elves had given their lives, he thought spitefully. Even though they had now vanished without a trace. Here, in the anteroom to the many chambers in Torendán’s house, he did not feel observed any more. The question as to the remains of the elves was still on his mind. He would have to take care of that mystery later. Once again he looked around and waved Warga to his side. Together they stepped through the numerous corridors, looking for the entrance to the cellars. While they were searching the house, Morodán thought that he had last stayed in Dol Riada over two hundred years ago. At that time, he and the elves had talked about a lot of things. Nevertheless, they would not give away more secrets. His eloquence had only limited influence on the elves. Not as much as he had hoped. He shuddered. He had then left in a quarrel. Aroquivir had not been willing to tell him more details about the elven blacksmith’s craft. Therefore Morodán never got to know the secret of the living rings. Aroquivir had been annoyed at Morodán’s many questions. At the same time he had also been impressed by the magnificent knowledge he had acquired over the years. Morodán did not reveal to the elven duke that he had forged his own ring already a long time ago. He had named it >Enya<. The elves never suspected its existence. This ring was wide and made of the finest Aramand. Fine, embossed lines and leaves swung around two blood red stones, the Rotates. They were scarce, and their effect was controversial. The elves themselves never used these stones as they had the ability to unnaturally increase the holder’s properties, both good and bad. Morodán had also noticed something else when he was wearing the ring. The smaller, round one of the Rotates glowed in a light and the bigger, tear-shaped in a dark red when visitors meant him harm or good. This was very helpful, for he could now easily detect his servants’ and tools’ loyalty. Although Morodán had always been able to read human thoughts, it was not impossible, even for a Shiománi, to be wrong if an opponent disguised his thoughts skilfully. The Rotates worked reliably, without fault. They scanned each and everybody and never failed. Even within a radius of several miles they showed the newcomers' and visitors’ intentions. It was annoying that the ring had stayed in the Slope lands with his mortal remains. He was sure that the Tobbies had no idea of its value. They had probably buried it along with his mortal remains. Similar things had happened to his old magic staff which he no longer needed. His hands closed tighter around Tordas. He had made a much more powerful staff. However, he wanted the ring back. He did not know how yet. But there was still time. Warga and Morodán went through the many big and small rooms of the house. Finally they discovered a small room that had been scarcely furnished. There was a big flight of stairs leading downwards. So this was the entrance to the cellars. The wide and winding stairs coiled down. They were decorated with mosaics which shone in bright colours. The handrail was hewn from white marble. Spiralling, slim columns stood side by side and reached up to the ceiling. They were decorated with animal heads. Dragons, wolves, stags with antlers, eagles stretching their wings and other earthly creatures looked down on him. They all fixed their eyes on Morodán and the wolf and watched every step and every movement as if there was life in their rigid eyes.
The Shiomani went down the steps slowly. Warga limped after him. The big stairs widened at the bottom and he was under the impression that he went under ground for several stories. At the end of the stone steps, a massive wooden door that was arched at the top blocked his way. All around it, entwined elven letters were glowing mildly. In the middle of the door, a tree had been carved into the wood. It was of a creamy colour, its leaves shining in matte silver. Morodán’s eyes wandered along the door, but he could not see anything like a lock on it. He read the elven words loud and clearly. It was a riddle, that much he could make out.Tiro i thalaf. I nahur ´wanatha. Tiro nadh galladh, sidhron! The words meant: "Watch the ground. The fire will pass. Knock on the tree, trusted!" Morodán hit the door with his staff, knocking on the tree. A circle of fire with light, blue flames surrounded them immediately. They were licking at his black coat. He felt hot and started to get restless. Still, the scripture had said that the fire would pass. Morodán forced himself to be calm. He was supposed to watch the ground. His eyes slid down. In the light of the fire he saw other elven letters that had not been on the rocks just a few moments ago.
Nadhur, nienh, caeh, ghwilith! Le tihriel!
Morodán spread his arms and called the elven words he had read on the ground:
Fire, water, earth, air!
As quickly as the fire had come it vanished. Now the wooden door was on fire. Warga hid behind his master. Pure, clear water was running down the sides of the portal. Thick fumes billowed from the ground and everything around them was surrounded by a thick fog. Morodán panted, the air seemed to be poisoned.  Le tihriel! Beware!
What did that mean? He was neither the trusted who seeked entrance nor the one who could hope to be let into the secret chambers. He felt as if the fog was trying to penetrate him and his intentions. He slowly stepped back from the door. The fire grew weaker and the fumes disappeared. A cool  draught caressed him and Warga. He focussed on the wooden door, but it did not move. Morodán was overwhelmed by a boundless anger. "Trusted or not!", he spat out. This door would not withstand the most powerful wizard on earth, for the dark power was with him. Morodán lifted Tordas and pointed him at the tree. The dark language he shouted at the door echoed loudly. It built up to a roaring wave, went up and down the walls and only a moment later it was heard everywhere in Torendán’s house. The echo bounced from wall to wall and increased to a dangerous tremble. The floor started shaking.
Ghiash! annoro, ghiash!, screamed Morodán and a black, dark great fire rose from the depths of the earth, found its way through the cracks in the stones and licked at the wood of the door. It cracked and rustled. Morodán murmured the evil words without stopping and kept pointing his staff, Tordas, at the door. With a big noise the wood splintered. The white tree turned red and purple. It seemed as if it was wilting at a very quick rate. The silvery leaves fell to the ground and glistened for a last time before their light finally died. The black fire raged at the door and burned it painfully. A yawning black hole was left, and Morodán went through it with his head held up high, Warga at his side. In the dark corridor he lighted the torches with the help of Tordas. The fiery light flickered eerily and lighted up the rocks. On the walls of the corridor, hundreds of elves were depicted. They stared at him from their angry, grim faces. All of a sudden Morodán stopped and stood still. Ephelion, the elf he had killed the night before, menacingly pointed his sword at him. Young and of a manly beauty he was depicted on the wall in his shiny armour. Morodán looked at him for a long time. It was Dol Riada’s magic. His life had been captured in the picture forever in this old cellar. He went off and saw many other elves, following him with their hating gazes. Later he also saw the other elves he had killed together with Warga. An image of them in Torendan’s house was all that was left of their former earthly existence. "So that was eternal life!" Morodán laughed maliciously. Then he went on through the corridor which seemed to go on without end. After walking endlessly he reached a round stone arch and, hesitating, stepped through. He was now in a high, circular room. He could barely see the ceiling from below. All around him stood wooden shelves, reaching so high up that enormous ladders were necessary to reach the higher rows that could barely be seen from below. Countless books filled the shelves. It was the biggest collection of scriptures he had ever seen. In the middle shelves there were rolls of Papyrus and maps, too. It was tremendous. Three corridors exited this room. The one he had just come in and two others. Morodán slowly paced around and finally climbed one of the ladders leaning on the shelves. He took out several books and leafed through them. He got lost in some scriptures and lost all feeling of time. Warga was lying on the ground, watching his master. After many hours he growled, which made Morodán jump up from his books. He quickly returned them and climbed down the ladder. His wolf was right. He had already wasted too much time. They had to leave and start looking for what they had come for. He purposefully approached one of the exiting corridors, the one on the left. Warga got up and joined Morodán. A yawning blackness surrounded them before Morodán lit the torches here, too.
The corridor spiralled along deep under Dol Riada and it seemed to Morodán that it would never end. Here, too, the menacing, angry elves stared at him from the walls. Morodán looked at them in passing. He mocked and ridiculed them because of their inability to stop him from entering their secret chambers. After a seemingly endless while they reached another arch which led to a bigger room. This one was not as high, but stretching like a hall. Many golden columns with abundant decoration held the heavy stone ceiling. Silvery ivy reached up. In each of the four corners stood the statue of a famous elf. Lucie, the daughter of Vingiriad stood in the South; Ceriana, the mother of Dilferon, in the North. They embodied the female statues. Aroquivir and Ribolfin were the male ones. Their facial expressions were finely crafted. Their flawless faces glowed with kindness. Their eyes were clear and saw deep into his dark heart. From their shoulders long elven cloaks fell to the floor. They caressed their well-formed bodies in waves. The statues almost seemed to be alive, such was the craftsmanship of their creators. The hands of the elven duchesses were folded in front of their chests. With their delicate fingers each of them held a precious stone. Morodán passed all of them and looked at the stones closely. 
None of the elves held the Tourmaline he was looking for. He looked around in the room. At the side walls there were different boxes and trunks. Big and small, simple and precious, carved and decorated, smooth and embossed, round and square. He opened some of the boxes and searched them. He emptied their contents on the floor carelessly. Morodán also searched the big trunks. The enormous riches of the elves had been accumulated here, a treasure of unimaginable value. Countless precious stones glistened in the boxes; golden and silver armours; shields and swords, embroidered daggers and throwing knifes; hair bands with diamonds and crowns; rings with sapphires, emeralds, topaz and other stones; finely curving necklaces in different lengths; earrings and foot rings. However, he did not pay them much attention. He looked around for an eternity and grew impatient when he could not find the stone he was looking for. Finally he found a small, ugly black box in a recess in the rock.
Full of suspense, Morodán opened the simple container. The box was lined with red velvet. And there in the middle it was: a big, black stone, cut in the shape of an egg. The biggest black stone that had ever been found. The Tourmaline. Finally, he had found it. Without hesitating Morodán pulled it out and pressed it to his heart. The jewel was heavy and quickly glowed in dark shades when his fingers touched it. The Tourmaline shimmered in a pale, black light from the inside, as if a star had been captured inside of it. Morodán looked down into the deep abyss of the stone. Weak humans would certainly lose their minds even looking at it. With his shiny, cold eyes Morodán greedily stared at the Tourmaline and slowly moved it towards Tordas. The stone was lighted by an icy glow as it touched the staff. It was as if it had been given a new life. Tordas’ runes lighted up. Both matched perfectly, as if they had always belonged together and reunited after a long separation. The black soul living in them made them a perfectly matching couple. Morodán sat down on the floor and grabbed an elven knife that was lying around. It stung his hands again. The purity of the elven tools burnt his clever fingers. He threw the blade to the side and drew his own knife, for now he wanted to finish his work. He carefully carved the tip of the staff and hollowed it out. He left only four corners that spiked upwards. In the middle he left a space for the stone. He admired his work critically. Finally he was satisfied and he reached out for the Tourmaline. He carefully inserted it. Again the stone was lighted by an icy fire and radiated a merciless cold. His staff Tordas and the Tourmaline pressed together and united. The runes reflected in a cold shine. It was accomplished. Morodán used his staff to try creating a storm that filled the room with fresh air and lifted things lying on the floor. With an enormous power the storm picked them up, turned them and let them fall back to the floor, rattling and crashing, only to pick them up again. Morodán laughed out loud and put his knife back in its sheath. His mad, feverish eyes glowed animal-like as he looked at his lethal weapon. In the black language that he spoke fluently he started the fire in the staff and stretched comfortably in the icy cold. His head was swinging to and fro. With unnatural movements his body twitched while he was spitting out the dark, poisonous words. The tempest raged stronger and stronger, through his long hair and beard and made Warga’s fur stand on edge. A loud cracking pulled Morodán back from his delirium, away from his swearing. He looked around furtively. The columns holding the ceiling grunted with dark foreboding. The cracking got louder and became thunderous. The earth shook and the columns trembled. The stones from the wall began crumbling and big cracks started appearing at a mad pace. "The cellars are going to collapse ", shouted Morodán, horrified. The black words had created bad vibrations that now raged in the cellars. They echoed from wall to wall and were amplified unnaturally. Without pause the echoes were thrown from one wall to the other. The tempest did the rest. Morodán and Warga rushed to the exit of the long hall. Rocks already started falling from the ceiling, thundering to the ground. The elven figures wavered and fell. They disintegrated into thousands of little pieces and remained on the floor in a pile of loose stones. Some columns were bending under the tremendous pressure before collapsing. Morodán and Warga ran through the stone arch and hurried down the corridor. They skilfully jumped over the rocks that had fallen down from the ceiling. The elves laughed down at the Shiomani maliciously now, he cursed them angrily. More and more stones fell down and started to block their way. They had to fight their way to the end of the corridor, until they reached the circular room. There they saw complete devastation. The shelves had already collapsed and lay on the ground in a huge pile of wood. Countless book pages swirled around in the tempest in a mad rush. They carefully made their way through the splintered wood and the piles of books, towards the exit. The earth was still shaking and the walls were trembling. Big and small rocks fell down on them. Not before long everything would collapse. The tempest raged on like an elemental force and suddenly got hold of some of the thousands of books and made them dance above their heads. The air was filled with roaring and thundered in their ears. But the unleashed wind had been called from the dark side. It was their friend. On his wings they passed the tremendous expanse of rubble safely. Its power was directed at destroying the elven place and it seemed as if it took care to let Morodán and Warga leave safely. When they reached the corridor that led them out, they hurried into it. The cellars could collapse every minute and bury them alive. They could waste no more time. Warga led the way and made sure his master got out safely. Quickly and nimbly he moved among the fallen stones and led him out of the corridor. The torches were ablaze. The twitching flames let the elves appear menacing and powerful. They swung their swords and pointed their bows at him. But they could not stop him, as they were captured on the walls. Morodán and Warga reached the exit. They jumped over the burnt, sticky mass that had once been the wooden entrance door. Here they saw complete destruction as well. The sloping stairs were covered in fallen rocks, broken marble, mountains of rubble and ash. The animal heads had come off the columns and had fallen to pieces. A horrible image of devastation. Morodán looked at the animals’ stone eyes. They were all undamaged and still stared at him piercingly. He turned away and hurried up the stairs with Warga. At the top, they ran through the many rooms of the house. As they were about to cross the threshold of the entrance to Torendán’s house and to run down the stairs in front of it, they suddenly came to an abrupt halt. Red eyes glowed at them menacingly.
At the bottom of the stairs huge, horrible wolves the size of ponies were standing. They were the biggest he had ever seen. Their fur was shaggy and of a black and brown colour. They had big, dark eyes. Their pupils sent out a glowing red beam of light, magically fixed on Morodán and Warga. They had drwn back their lips and exposed yellow-brownish teeth that were protruding sharp and pointed from their mouths. Green slimy saliva dropped off their tips and burnt the ground like poison. Now Morodán knew who had disposed of the dead elves. These wolves had eaten them and left nothing. He looked at them closely and without fear. They were gorgeous animals, growling and waiting for him.
Warga looked down on them with his head held high and showed them his teeth. The wolves, however, did not take notice of him. The giant wolves’ eyes were fixed on the human. Morodán lifted Tordas and pointed him at the evil giants. Amro, ´wargothas amro, aslech´th whára, ghash, ´se Morodán!
The wolves’ muscular legs bent and they fell to their knees. They tried to get up and started howling. Their howling filled Dol Riada. When they realised that they could not move any more, they got extremely scared and looked at their alpha male for help. His eyes were protruding from their sockets. Again Morodán stabbed the air with Tordas. The wolves started rolling around in excruciating pain and they abandoned their aggressive attitude. They howled and whined demurely. Warga was impressed by the power with which his master seemed to make every creature obey him, even those scary, huge wolves that were now crawling on the floor miserably. Morodán let Tordas sink and spoke to the wolves in the language of the Warg, hoping they would understand him. He ordered them to follow him and promised to relieve them from their pain if they obeyed. Then he fearlessly walked through them. The wolves demurely let him pass. Without looking at the animals again, Morodán left Torendán’s house behind, its walls still shaking. Keeping a distance, but without hesitation, thirteen horrible giant wolves now followed him.
The biggest one of them, an enormous alpha wolf, led their way and drove his pack after the Shiomani. When Morodán stopped, they lay down on the ground in front of him and waited demurely. The alpha wolf kept staring at the Tourmaline. Morodán approached them and walked past each one of them, looked them in the eyes and burnt the Black Hand into everyone’s hind leg with his staff Tordas. Apart from the twitching of the burnt flesh the wolves did not move. As if made of stone they endured the procedure. Morodán was deeply satisfied. Now he had a whole group of strong, cruel wolves who would not hesitate to obey his orders. It was long after midnight and a warm rain was falling from the thick clouds, pouring over Dol Riada. After the desecration it looked hopeless and had lost all of its radiance. A faint murmur and noise could still be heard from the cellars. The black language was silently swinging in the air. Morodán looked into the wolves’ eyes and had a mute conversation with them. Finally they got up and disappeared in all directions. Warga stayed with his master. Morodán lifted Tordas up in the air and pointed him at the town centre. He loudly shouted spooky words into the rainy night and a loud grumble answered him. A hail of blinding, powerful lightning shot down on to Dol Riada from the clouds.
House after house was hit and collapsed to the ground. The Ruàdiuná rushed deafeningly. The wolves darted through the ruins and destroyed what the lightning had not detonated. They tore down the statues and ripped the interior of the houses to pieces. The river swelled and began flowing over the fallen houses. Morodán stood motionless and watched the scenario, and then he started towards the exit of the valley. On his way, he poisoned every tree with the help of his staff. His mad, hoarse laugher echoed in the Valley of the Morning Star. He had left the place destroyed. Deeply satisfied, he overlooked the expanse of rubble and pleasant shivers were running down his spine. In the language of the Warg he summoned the leader of the giant wolves. "Blackwolf!", he said darkly. "I have a task for you and your pack." The wolf looked at him attentively. "I have left something of great value in the Slope lands. Bring it back to me!" After that Warga could not understand any more of what Morodán whispered to the wolf. After having given him his orders, the beasts gave loud howls into the night. Their eyes glowed menacingly and they uncovered their sharp carnassials. The pack started moving and trotted to the exit of the valley. Then the wolves turned westwards and disappeared.

   Morodán turned his back to Dol Riada and slowly stepped towards the Big Trade Route. Warga followed him.

   "And this is only the beginning!", Morodán said, deeply satisfied.