Glaeken's mount, a stallion called Stoffral, took him eastward from Kashela at an easy walk. Cragjaw ambled beside him on a chestnut mare.
"You're a Northerner, aren't you?" the shorter man observed.
"In a way, yes."
"You never told me your name."
"It is Glaeken."
Glaeken…” Cragjaw paused before continuing. "Stories circulate among the wine cups in the back rooms of the court of Prince Iolon – in whose service I am presently employed as a musician – and in the taverns about a man named Glaeken. He's said to live in the Western Isles and is supposedly young and flame-haired like yourself."
"Interesting," Glaeken remarked. "And what are these tales?"
"Well, he is called Glaeken-the-Laugher by some and it is said that he once led the dreaded Nightriders who pillage vast areas of the Western Isles."
Glaeken nodded for his companion to continue.
"I know only what I've heard, but 'tis said that each of these raiders rides a monstrous bat with a body the size of a horse and wings like ketch sails that sweep the night. The tales tell of an evil king named Marag who was the favorite target of the Nightriders and who sent many champions against them with the quest to bring back the head of the Nightrider lord. But shortly after each set out, a monster bat would fly over Marag's hold and drop the latest champion's body into the courtyard.
"Finally, a man named Glaeken, who had refused to be the king's champion for many years, was called into Marag's court. And there in a steel cage suspended from the ceiling sat the damsel in whose company this Glaeken had been often seen. Now, they say that Glaeken had no serious future plans for the young lady but felt somewhat responsible for her present predicament. So he traveled to the pinnacle fortress of the Nightriders where he challenged and beat their lord in a contest of swords."
"And did he bring the head to Marag?" Glaeken asked.
"That and more, for it seems that by tradition the Nightriders must claim as leader the man who fairly defeats the reigning lord. This Glaeken returned with his new followers and taught Marag a grisly lesson." Cragjaw glanced at his companion. "Could you be that Glaeken?"
"A good tale, my friend, but how could I and this bat-rider be one and the same? How could I be pillaging the Western Isles at night and ride the East Road in Prince Iolon's domain with you today? Quite impossible."
"Not so," said Cragjaw with a sly grin. "For it is also said that after a year or two with the Nightriders, the man named Glaeken grew restless and dissatisfied. He left them to their own devices and no one knows where he travels now." The squat little man made a point of clearing his throat. "Where travel you now, Glaeken?"
"To Elder Cavern in the eastern farmlands."
"Elder Cavern! Why, that's in the very center of the plague area. Nothing out there but dying farms and..." Cragjaw's voice faded as he seemed to remember something. "Oh, I see. You must have answered the Prince's notice."
Glaeken nodded. "It seems that the mystery of the region's woes has been cleared up. They've discovered that a sorcerer named Rasalom – a giant of a man, I'm told – entered the cavern nearly two years ago. Not too long thereafter the crops, the cattle, and the farmers in the area began to sicken. Rasalom has been neither seen nor heard from since, and the Prince's advisors seem certain that he's still in the cavern."
"So the infamous Rasalom is behind it all," Cragjaw muttered. "We've long thought it to be a plague of some sort, released from the cavern after eons of sleep."
"The prince's advisors were rather vague about the plague," Glaeken said. "Do you know what it's like?"
"Stories vary, but most agree that the victims complain of a throbbing in the head and ears and slowly begin to lose their strength, becoming very lethargic. Soon they cannot get out of bed and eventually they waste away and die. But what puzzled the court physicians was the curious fact that all victims seem to improve and recover when moved out of the area. No one could give a reason for this...but sorcery explains it well: Rasalom has laid a curse of some sort on the region."
"So it would seem," Glaeken agreed.
"But what purpose could he have? Why would he want to lay waste the eastern farmlands – for not only do people sicken and die out there, but cattle and crops as well."
Glaeken shrugged. "Why is not my concern. I admit that I'm somewhat curious, but my task is merely to bring back Rasalom himself, or some proof of his demise, such as his Ring of Chaos, whatever that may be."
"'Tis rumored to be the most potent focus of power for black sorcery this side of the Netherworld. You will have to slay Rasalom to gain it, and that will not be easy." He shuddered. "Not only does that wizard have the black arts at his command, but he is said to stand half again as tall as a tall man, and be three times as broad in the shoulders. No wonder Iolon has to send an outlander! No local man would set foot in Elder Cavern! I hope the prince is paying you well."
"I seldom take on a gainless task." Glaeken replied.
"If that's true, then why did you aid me against those street thugs?"
Glaeken smiled. "I was quite willing to let them have their fun with you until I saw the harmohorn. I have a weakness for music and consequently a respect for musicians."
They came to a crossroads when and Cragjaw turned his horse to the north.
"We part here, Glaeken," he said. "I go to the prince's summer quarters to prepare entertainment for the arrival of his entourage tomorrow. I would bid you ride south and have no further thought of Elder Cavern, but I know you'll not heed me. So instead I bid you luck and hope to see you at the summer palace soon with either Rasalom or his ring. One word of warning though: travel quickly. Few who venture into that land nowadays are ever seen again."
Glaeken waved and headed east. He did not quicken his pace.