Tûric’s company passes along the eastern edge of the castle as he leads them, with his expert knowledge of the city, to a low side garden. It is reached through descending five tall steps to a richly tiled area overshadowed by lattices from which, during the warm months, grow richly interlacing vines, though they are now dry and brown. At the far end of this garden is a narrow doorway through which, once again, they find a set of stairs, this time numerous and cramped, leading steeply down into the darkness below the castle.
With a glance over his shoulder to his men, Tûric steps down the first stair. But before he can take another step a cry sounds behind him. Turning back, he beholds the apparition of numerous eötenga from the darkness surrounding his company, and they fast draw near to engage them in combat.
“Fight!” he cries. “Slay these beasts now and bring peace to our city!” And at the very same moment that the last word is spoken, the blue light shines forth upon the weapons of the combined warriors of Minstead and Onylándun, and the battle begins in earnest. As Tûric makes his way from what has now become the rear of his forces to their vanguard, he is intercepted by an unknown man, elderly, with a long white beard cascading to the middle of his breast, wrinkles lining his gentle and surprisingly youthful face like cataracts upon the earth or a thousand little streamlets carved of sorrow and of laughter.
“While you fight here, commander, allow me to forge ahead to the prisoners. I would not wish them to wait any longer, for fear of what may become of them.”
“And who are you?” Tûric asks, not intending the question to sound disrespectful, though the haste in his voice makes it so.
“I am Cirien Lorjiës, grandmaster of the order of Nirániel,” the man replies kindly, “and a friend and companion of Rórlain.”
“Very well then. If that is your wish, go on your way, and may the goddess go with you. I shall send some soldiers with you, along with a handful of my best warriors, for we know not what you shall encounter ahead of you.”
“Thank you, commander.”
And with that they part, Tûric to the edge of his company where they are engaged in vicious combat with the eötenga who have assailed them from behind, and Cirien to the doorway, through which he steps without delay, fifty men accompanying him, uncertain whether so few shall be enough to face whatever lies before them. But soon he knows that the number was well-chosen, as the stairway is narrow and cramped, and fifty men itself fills up its space for many yards, since only two may walk abreast. Cirien, despite his inability to fight with any skill, stands at their head, a warrior of great experience at his side. He is a man named Hïérin, who has taken upon himself wordlessly the task of defending their newfound leader, regardless of what hesitations he may have regarding his commander’s quick-made decision. And in fact he has few hesitations, for he too believes that they should aim to reach the prisoners as quickly as possible, and though he doubts the old man’s adeptness and fittingness for such a task, he looks upon him with admiration for his generosity and his courage.
Such courage is proved after the small company has progressed only a hundred yards down the long stairway, as they both hear and see all at once the creatures of darkness who appear before them, hindering their progress. Cirien, on seeing this, reaches into his robes and draws out a long knife and immediately thrusts it at the foremost of the eötenga, a vrû’ádach who at that very moment leers before them, a guttural voice vibrating from its throat in meaningless sounds as if in pain or grief or anger or despair. The blade strikes true and the light flashes forth. Before the old man is overwhelmed by the sheer number of the beasts who surge forward in the wake of the fallen vrû’ádach, Hïérin steps ahead and becomes for him a shield, raising the two long blades that he wields in both hands and engaging the enemy head-on. Cirien for his part steps back and allows other warriors too to move forward.
“We do not want to get caught in the corridor,” he says. “How much farther is it until we reach the bottom?”
“Not another thirty yards, I think,” Hïérin replies over his shoulder.
“Can we breach such a distance?”
“Your thought and intent are the same as mine, little commander.” A fondness stirs in Hïérin’s heart toward this mysterious man who has so rashly intruded upon a space that is not his own, and his intrusion is greatly appreciated. For his zeal and his guidance stir the men all around him as if a spark of flame placed among kindling. With cries of ardor they press forward, and the eötenga fall before them or recoil in confusion at the intensity of their foe. In but a matter of minutes the company breaks through into open space, the walls tight to their right and their left giving way to empty air. Looking around in the light of the torches and the holy light blending together in a ceaseless interplay of red and blue, Cirien sees that they have come straight into the prison.
Here Hïérin begins issuing commands to the small group of men, forming them in a semicircular formation, with shield-bearers at the front, their long and sharp blades extending past their shields like teeth from the open mouth of a predator beast. Behind them stand others with weapons of various sorts at the ready; and yet again behind these stand soldiers whose melee weapons are for a moment sheathed, and they instead draw bows to loose arrows into the enemy from afar. In this position, and with the aid of the many arrows that fly forth over their heads and afflict their foe, the company presses forward, looking almost like a wave at sea cresting as it surges and then crashes down upon the beach, spreading sand before it.
Yet even as they gain respite from the conflict and the many eötenga dwindle in number, they realize that the prison is devoid of prisoners. The cells are empty. “Is there yet nowhere else that we might look?” Cirien asks.
“Aye, there is a yet deeper prison,” replies Hïérin without hesitation. “Or rather there is something that may function as such, wherein great numbers may be held. We shall go there now.”
Taking yet another stairway, one that spirals downward in such cramped quarters that they must proceed single-file, they progress yet further into the bowels beneath the castle.
“What lies in a place such as this?” Cirien asks as they walk, seeing that in this narrow space the enemy does not assail them.
“It is an ancient chamber older than the castle itself, though the nature of its original purpose I do not know. We use it not at all, for no light makes it into such a place. But it would be the perfect location to imprison those whom one wishes to conceal.”
They step forth from the narrow stair and a wide chamber opens before them, its low ceiling illumined by the flickering torchlight though its walls are too far removed to receive even a hint of their luminosity. The chamber is bare, with neither furniture nor decoration, an empty space of featureless floor, walls, and ceiling. But it is also for the moment devoid of eötenga, a surprising but fortunate fact.
And yet even as the company moves deeper into the room, figures are revealed before them, their faces and their forms almost grotesque in the light of the torches borne by the rescue party. The company halts in surprise and uncertainty, startled by what they encounter, for it is the opposite of what they would have expected. For before them stands a small group of men, with one who is obviously their leader at the forefront. They are twenty in number, and they do not appear either relieved or startled at the company’s arrival. The looks on their faces, rather, are grim and determined.
“Hail,” Cirien calls out, “we come seeking those who have been imprisoned here.” And though by their appearance he doubts it, he also asks, “Are you those whom we seek? Or do you know their location?”
“Aye, we know their location,” replies the leader, and his voice is not kind. “But what business do you have with our prisoners?”
“Your prisoners?”
“Such is the task entrusted to us: we are to guard the prisoners even with our lives, though I hope you do not press the issue and bring us to such an impasse. Turn back now so no human blood need be spilled.”
“Surely you do not wish to fight,” Hïérin says. “We outnumber you two to one. Let us take back our own people, for, as you and I alike, they are men who have no place in this darkness.”
“We are not outnumbered,” retorts the leader. “A simple gesture and the creatures shall be at our side. But they are restless beings, and they make rational discourse quite difficult. Do not make it come to that. Go now to whence you came, and come not hither again. Count your losses and lick your wounds, and perhaps your lives and the lives of your people shall be spared.”
“What reason have you to speak with such arrogance and self-assurance?” asks Cirien.
“What reason? I fight for the greatest power that there is, do I not?” asks the man, though Cirien and Hïérin both detect a strain in his voice.
And even if they had not detected this strain, it would soon have been revealed, for one of the men standing at his side interjects and says, “But Irilóf, surely you do not truly wish to align any longer with these fell creatures of the dark?”
“Irilóf?” Cirien asks, the realization coming upon him like water trickling swiftly down crevices of stone into an underground pool and filling it up with understanding. “You are Irilóf Vándirel, the deputy lawbringer of the Empire of Vælíria.”
“Aye, that I am. Or rather that I was,” answers Irilóf, though the tone of his voice is unreadable. “The Empire I once served exists no longer, at least not as I once knew it.”
“But you are one of the Telméri, are you not?” Hïérin asks.
“I am,” replies Irilóf, “but long have I served as an officer in the service of his majesty the Emperor. And people such as my men and I were given only two choices.”
“Death or servitude,” Cirien concludes for him, having intuited the situation. “Your ‘ally’ turned upon you and proved to be no ally at all, but an enemy even worse than the one you had chosen for yourself. And now you are forced to fight the people of Telmérion, not in service to an Empire who rewards you, but in bondage to beings of such wickedness and hate that all you can hope for from them is enough time spared of death that you may make your escape.”
At these words the facade projected by Irilóf at last falters, and when he speaks in response his voice quivers, “Y-you are very perceptive, old man. You have named the situation exactly.”
“Then let us aid you in gaining your freedom,” Cirien says without hesitation. “Many more warriors fight above us, and there is yet hope of victory for our people against these beasts. Renounce your pledge to these terrible creatures and accept a hope of freedom, if only you atone for the crimes you have committed against your own people.”
“Hope?” Irilóf asks, and he almost spits out the word, making evident the degree of his despair. “There is no hope. None living can stand up against these monsters.”
“If you believe that, then I pity you greatly indeed,” Hïérin says, “though I would judge you more harshly than does our pious friend.”
Irilóf opens his mouth to speak, but another man behind him steps forward and says, “I will accept your proposal, even if my leader shall not.”
Immediately many others do the same, saying “As would I,” “Please accept me as well,” and other such phrases. The eagerness in their voices is touching, and their fear and desperation are evident.
“Even if you have lost hope of new life in repentance, Irilóf Vándirel,” Cirien says, “I would offer it to you nonetheless, and to all at your side. If you despair of receiving it, at least do not prevent your companions from doing so.”
“I do not…” Irilóf begins, but even as he speaks his voice falters. “I do not know what to expect any more but death.”
“And that is probably what you deserve, if justice manifested itself not also as mercy,” says Cirien. “For a just and merciful king has come, and the order that he inaugurates shall be as he is. This I believe. And thus even if you deserve death, I believe that something far different shall you receive.”
In response to these words a flicker of light, a spark weak yet true, is enkindled in Irilóf’s eyes, long buried and hidden almost to extinction but alive nonetheless, awaiting the revivifying breath of grace. He opens his mouth as if to speak but finds himself at a loss for words. Instead, he simply closes his eyes and bows his head in surrender. Then to Irilóf’s great surprise, Cirien steps forward and places two kindly hands upon his shoulders. Raising his eyes to look into the old man’s countenance, he sees gentleness beyond telling and beyond hope. And the grandmaster says to him, “Your act this day is received, and I shall stand at your side in whatever judgment awaits you, an advocate to plead that justice be expressed with clemency—though if the king I know judges you, I am confident such pleading shall not be necessary.”
“You speak of a king, and yet you speak of him with uncertainty,” says Irilóf. “Why is this?”
“I am not uncertain of his kingship,” explains Cirien, “only of his return from the place to which he goes. For he walks unto danger and death in the desire to unseal light for his people—and for you, too, Irilóf.” When the latter does not immediately reply, Cirien continues, “And I believe that you know him already. Perhaps it would be wise to return the token that you once took from him, and which you have so proudly—if without understanding—worn around your neck. For he alone can wear it truly, being the rightful heir of the one who wore it so many centuries past.”
Now it is upon Irilóf’s face and within his heart that realization dawns, and he simply bows his head again, a mysterious and unexpected transformation coming over him—as if the arrogance and apathy, the violence and audacity, that have so long bound him are broken at their root by this undeserved mercy and this unexpected realization. Silently he brings his hands to his neck and slips the amulet of Séra Galáptes over his head, placing it then in the open palm of Cirien. And with the releasing of the amulet, it is as if a great weight falls from his shoulders, and a path through the darkness of his own heart, as narrow and arduous as it may be, becomes visible before him.
“Well then,” Hïérin now interjects, “shall you do one more thing as well? We are hard-pressed for time and I would see our people liberated. Show us to the captives, and we shall lead them, as well as yourselves, out to freedom. As difficult as it is for me to say, you shall have our protection until you are safe from these beasts once again.”
Looking at his liberators, Irilóf then reaches deep within himself and gives voice to words that he has not said in many years, “Thank you.”
† † †
At the far end of the chamber lies a wide door, strongly fortified, and beyond this a vast company of men, women, and children, captives of the creatures of darkness. They blink with confusion and fear in the torchlight that shines upon them when the door is opened and their liberators step into the room. But soon the fear is changed to exultation as they realize what is happening and who it is that stands before them.
“Oh, praise be…” exclaims one woman, rising to her feet and stumbling forward.
A man also cries out, “We had all but lost hope of ever leaving this place.”
“The path out is not yet clear, my friends, and yet it consoles my heart to see that you still live,” Hïérin says, looking with great emotion upon his people.
“Have your captors harmed you?” Cirien inquires, taking the hands of the woman who has come forward, though his question is directed to all.
The woman, overcome with feeling, is unable to respond, but another behind her speaks and says, “They have not harmed our flesh, but the horror has been enough, I think, to break any man.”
“He has spoken to you, then?”
“He…?” the woman asks, though she knows the answer to her own question and so answers it, “Yes, there is only one. He is terror itself, and he came among us promising us tortures beyond imagining. But please, do not ask us to speak of such things.”
“Yes, yes,” says a woman to her right. “Lead us out of here immediately. I do not want to be in this cage any longer.”
Hearing this, Cirien turns inquiringly to Hïérin and asks, “What do you think we should do? It shall be difficult to protect all of them along the way, for they are much greater in number than we. But it is also not necessarily any safer here.”
“Let us lead them out as they have requested,” replies Hïérin with only a slight moment’s hesitation. “If we can rejoin with our company then the defense shall be much easier. Unless the battle has gone ill, surely more have come into the keep in our wake.”
“Indeed, that is wise,” agrees Cirien.
As they turn to go, suddenly a handful of men step forward from the group of captives, and one of them speaks on their behalf, “Please, we would aid you in the defense. Our weapons were taken from us, but we are warriors and would willingly fight.”
“Malrûn…is that you?” Hïérin asks, turning to look at the man who speaks. His long blonde hair is matted with blood, and a scar runs jagged across his face from brow to mouth, twisting between his eyes and across a badly broken nose. It is recent, though not so recent that it has not closed and begun to heal.
“Surely I do not look so different that you cannot recognize me?” Malrûn asks.
“Aye, you are right. You do not,” replies Hïérin. “I spoke more out of relief than confusion. It is only that I did not expect to see you. I thought you fell in the battle.”
“I nearly did, but my friends here risked their lives to drag me to safety at the last moment,” says Malrûn, gesturing to the men who stand beside him. “I am sorry that they were taken into captivity because of it. But that, too, is being remedied.”
“And I am glad of both, your saving then and your liberation now,” Hïérin concludes. “And weapons you shall have, as much as we can spare them.”
When extra swords, daggers, and axes have been distributed to the men—and to others who come forward, untrained but willing and desirous to aid in their own deliverance—they set off toward the spiral stair and the prisons above and, beyond that, freedom.
But before they have crossed through the upper prison to the stairway that leads outside, the shadows at the edge of torchlight begin to crawl with movement, and eötenga step forth, their bodies in frenzied movement as they attack those at the periphery of the company. The group of liberators and liberated, however, stirred by the proximity of freedom, fight back with equal ardor, refusing with all their might to be felled when the taste of hope again lies frail but real upon their tongues.
Yet few minutes pass and little progress is made by either side before something else happens that changes the nature of the conflict profoundly. It begins as a low rumble, almost like some massive beast growling as it awakens from slumber deep beneath the castle, and then progresses almost to a roar. The earth begins to shake violently, knocking many from their feet and casting them to the ground. Cracks appear immediately in the floor and the ceiling, as the tremors split stone and threaten to collapse the edifice in which they stand.
“Flee now!” cries Hïérin. “Flee up the steps and into open air before the entire castle comes down upon us!”
† † †
Rórlain and Wýgrec cut their way forward through the creatures of darkness, their company following close behind them, as they attempt to clear a passage into the chambers that lie beyond—the chambers wherein, in their most reasonable estimation, would reside the one whom they seek: the Lord of Death. Lusting for power and gloating in every display of such power, where else would a Draía choose to take up residence than in the throne room where the ruler of the supplanted people once had his seat? Rórlain has no time to pay any heed to the uncomfortable fact that he joins with Wýgrec Stûnclad, the leader of the rebellion and the man who desires for himself the title of high king, in taking back his throne. And even if there were time and space for such thoughts, the mere fact of this means little to him. For even if Wýgrec had a thousand thrones, he is not the true and rightful king of Telmérion. Eldárien is, and shall always remain, the king in Rórlain’s heart.
At last they attain entrance to the next chamber, and with all of their strength they push open the heavy doors, which groan as they swing inward, grinding on their hinges as they meet opposition from creatures in the other room who swell against them. But with every inch gained, swords are thrust through the breach and arrows are loosed, striking what little flesh can be seen of the creatures of darkness, and, thanks to the power of the light, in large part dissolving it. And yet the toll taken upon Rórlain by the channeling of light in such great measure is grave, and he feels his strength waning even as they break through into the chamber beyond. Whatever is happening at this moment to Eldárien and Elmáriyë, it seems that they are unable to lend him strength in the outpouring of the light. Or perhaps the great distance that separates them has some effect.
Heedless of this, Rórlain pushes on, summoning reserves of vigor from deep within himself and also taking advantage of the rush of battle to surmount his weakness. But this is not enough. Of course it is not enough. Neither within himself nor in the tenor of battle around him can he find the strength to channel the light, to let his weakness and frailty be amenable to the outpouring of the radiance that is the protection of man and the scourge of the darkness. And so instead he reaches out with his spirit in prayer, in a plea for help from the One who is the author of all light and the very Light itself, uncreated, undimmed, and eternal.
The answer is both encouraging and discouraging at the same time—a summons for faith in the face of fear, anguish, and loss—for rushing in upon his consciousness is a deep awareness of the presence of the two Lightborn. At first he is consoled by this, by a feeling of his dear friends, and of the bonds that always join them, invisible and intangible, becoming in some way for a moment felt and experienced. But in this feeling he soon becomes aware also of their exhaustion and their sorrow, and of a force of incredible evil that at this moment oppresses them even unto breaking. His heart reaches out to them with compassion, but what he feels instead is not his own encouragement and care flowing into them, but rather surging forth from them the light that they bear, the light entrusted to them. It passes into himself as if a gift speaking within him: “The light lives within you now. We have entrusted it to you. Fear not, and yield it in our stead.”
And as quickly as the experience has come, it is gone, a mere flash in the darkness. It leaves in its place a feeling both of fullness and of emptiness: a fullness as a newfound energy awakens within Rórlain’s heart and flesh, and he finds strength to channel the light anew, and an emptiness because he feels a sense of absence that he has never felt before, though he cannot discern its exact contours. It is as though his heart is reaching out, with sinews stretched and dilated, to a beloved presence which he cannot feel or see, but which remains just beyond his reach. It is like a friend who stands behind a curtain or a lover who is just beyond a door; but if he is to pull the curtain or to open the door, the beloved would flee away, unable to be seen and grasped in such a way. But accepting the veiling, listening to the presence beyond the door, he knows the proximity, the closeness, of both vision and of love flowing in upon him; and in this he awaits the moment when the veil itself shall be drawn by the other, and the door opened, leading to vision and encounter.
All of this takes but an instant, as long as the final push that opens completely the door that the company seeks to breach in order to access into the chamber beyond. And then it is done, having achieved its effect even though the conscious resonance in Rórlain’s mind is but a gentle stirring of ripples on water by a whispery breeze, or a leaf falling upon one’s face as one lies upon one’s back, eyes closed, beneath a great tree, or the interplay of sun and shade as its dappled leaves create a landscape of dancing sunlight and cool shadow upon one’s recumbent figure.
The company fights its way into the chamber, though Wýgrec urges them insistently forward to the one beyond, to the throne room itself. Indeed, the haste with which he seeks to lead his men toward the commander of the enemy is both excessive and imprudent, as it leaves many of his fighters exposed further back in the company, opening breaches in the formation by which a man is supposed to be protected from surprise and flanking by his companions.
“Slow your progress, Wýgrec!” Rórlain calls, allowing the warrior to step ahead of him, gripped as he is by the frenzy of battle. “We shall attain the enemy when we attain him. But we cannot stretch the company too thin, or lives shall be lost.”
Glancing back for a moment, Wýgrec growls angrily, “And more lives shall be lost by our delay, if not in our company, then in the others. The only answer is to rush forward and slay our foe with the greatest possible haste.”
“No, Wýgrec, no,” retorts Rórlain, though he that knows his words now fall on deaf ears.
Wýgrec at last comes, with incredible strength hewing down the last remaining eöten who stand before him, to the doorway leading to the throne room. And this places Rórlain in a great dilemma, dragging him in two directions at once: to rush forward with the rebel leader into the chamber wherein awaits the Lord of Death, or to remain behind until the rest of the company has secured the antechamber.
“Wait, Wýgrec!” he calls, but he is too late. The man pushes firmly on the double doors and they swing freely open. As Wýgrec steps through, now seemingly oblivious of his surroundings and with his eyes fixed firmly ahead, Rórlain catches a glimpse of massive black wings extended across the length of the chamber beyond. Crying out in frustration, Rórlain turns back for a moment to the men of their company, and calls to them, “Do not rush ahead. Keep formation and find strength in the men to your right and to your left. Fight hard and fight strong, but remember that protecting your lives and the lives of your companions is worth more than the slaying of these creatures.”
And immediately after these words are spoken, he sprints forward and follows Wýgrec into the throne room. As he steps in, the doors swing closed behind him by some unseen force, though one remains ajar by but a few inches, caught by the person who, unknown to Rórlain, accompanies him from behind.
Even as Rórlain seeks to cross the distance to the Lord of Death, who stands silent at the far end of the room, he is overwhelmed by the sense of evil, of sheer malice, that emanates from him. Wýgrec too seems to feel it, though for him it appears to be nothing but the opposition of one will against another: the will of his nemesis against his own, issuing a challenge to prove who is the greater.
Sensing this, Rórlain calls out, “No, Wýgrec, let us face him together!”
But it is too late. As Wýgrec draws near to the Lord of Death, the latter extends one of his tremendous arms and swings as if swatting away a fly. Wýgrec raises his sword to parry but even as it makes contact it shatters in his hands, and he is sent sprawling through the air until his body crashes into the far wall and slumps broken to the earth.
And thus falls the great Wýgrec Stûnclad, Rórlain thinks in sorrow. May he find mercy hence, and healing light abundant.
There is no time for more than this, as the malicious gaze of the Lord of Death falls upon Rórlain, standing alone now in the chamber, axe and shield in hand. And even as they look upon one another, an immensity of evil gazing with suffocating and crushing force upon a frail and flickering spark of light, which nonetheless seeks to stand against it, the Draía laughs.
“When shall you weak mortals learn that no valor or strength can stand against the power of the darkness?” he says, and the terror of his presence invades Rórlain’s mind even as he tries to take a tentative step forward, though his feet remain immobile.
“I have long learned that lesson, you monster,” Rórlain replies in a voice tenuous with anguish and with fear, and also trembling with anger. “And you should perhaps not be surprised that it was, in part, you and your kind that taught this to me. When the darkness is so great, there comes a point when a man learns that he cannot save himself, cannot gain victory through the strength of his own arm. But he stands nonetheless. And even if you break his body and devour his flesh, he knows—with a seeing that you cannot understand—that you can never break his life.”
Letting out a roar that ripples through the chamber, the Lord of Death’s eyes flash like fire from a blazing inferno, and he replies, “I shall break you, petty one. I shall break you completely, and you shall know the full extent of my power. Then you shall bow down in worship, acknowledging that I alone am deserving. You shall serve me in death!”
In a flash of movement the Lord of Death lunges forward even as Rórlain, finding his legs free again, steps ahead, raising his shield to meet in desperate combat a creature far beyond his capacity to slay. And were it not for what happens next, Rórlain would receive the full brunt of the Draía’s attack and be broken; but in this moment there is a flash of movement and a sword flies through the air from the open doorway behind him, flashing with blue light, and lodges itself deep into the swirling darkness of the Lord of Death’s form. For a few instants the two conflict with one another, the darkness swirling about the light like a suffocating mist seeking to choke out the fire of a torch, and the light sending forth burning rays to dispel the dark and purge it like fog before the rising sun.
Crying out in fury, the Lord of Death grasps the sword lodged within him and wrenches it free, sending it clattering to the ground. Then, raging with hate and with disgust at tasting the vincibility of his bodily form, he attacks Rórlain again, swiping from below with vicious claws. The shield is loosed from Rórlain’s hands in his effort to block the attack and then, before he is able to react, the Draía’s other hand finds its mark: black claws pierce deep into Rórlain’s flesh even as the force of the blow sends him flying helpless through the air until he, too, collapses to the ground where wall and floor meet.
At this moment another voice sounds through the chamber, the voice of Tilliána, crying out in pain and lament as Rórlain is felled. She rushes to him and crouches over him, shielding his body with her own.
The Lord of Death turns to her and to the man she vainly seeks to protect, but even as he takes a step toward them, there is a great rumbling groan throughout the chamber, and the entire castle begins to tremble and to shake in a massive quaking of the earth. Even as he steps forward for the kill, heedless of the sound and the trembling, the ceiling above him buckles and gives way, and comes crashing down.