Luthiel's Song: Dreams of the Ringed Vale

by Robert Marston Fannéy

  “It must have been a terrible thing to see.”

  “It was,” Melkion said and then fell into a brooding silence.

  Luthiel kept quiet until they cleared the underbrush.

  “The Widdershae came a long time ago, but you’re still quite small for a dragon. Why haven’t you grown?”

  Melkion swished his tail in irritation.

  “Dragons grow when they sleep. Over all these years I’ve had little time or luxury to have a proper dragon slumber. These little nightly catnaps elves are so fond of are barely enough to sustain a dragon, much less allow him to grow.”

  “But what has kept you from sleeping?”

  “My service to the Vyrl of course! Don’t ask silly questions.”

  Luthiel looked at the dragon who was still swishing his tail irritably and decided against pressing him further.

  They stopped just short of the gate beside the ring of standing stones.

  Oerin’s Eye descended below the horizon and darkness fell over the Vale before they saw any sign of Othalas. Luthiel was beginning to grow restless again when eight shadows emerged from out of the twisted wood.

  Before them jogged Othalas—a great ripple of black streaking across the field. Behind came seven wolves and riders. The wolves, though smaller than Othalas, looked no less fierce. They were grey as old snow and their ice-blue eyes gleamed in the moonlight. As they drew nearer, she could see their riders more clearly. Each wore segmented armor of some dark metal and cloaks of midnight blue fell from their shoulders. They still wore their helms so she couldn’t see their faces. Each bore a great war-board bearing a symbol—a golden crown in a wreath of crimson flame. To Luthiel, the crown seemed a twisted tangle of metal from which crystals protruded like red thorns. It was brutally beautiful, as of something forced into shape by a masterful craftsman whose sole design was the discomfort of the wearer.

  “It is the symbol of Zalos,” Melkion whispered to her. “The golden crown of Ashiroth.”

  “Does he wear it? It looks like an instrument of torture.”

  “Yes, always. But it is only visible by moonlight. It is said that Zalos had it made before he accepted the rule of Ashiroth. He said that a crown should remind the king that rulership is a dangerous, bloody business.”

  Luthiel frowned, staring at the brutal ring of gold and fire.

  “He must be mad.”

  “Mad he might seem, but all his people respect it as a symbol of his sacrifice.”

  “Sacrifice? He is one of the most powerful and respected lords in the land.”

  Melkion only nodded.

  As the riders drew closer, her unease mounted.

  The ice-blue eyes of the wolves seemed hollow, and their smooth movements seemed beyond the grace of a normal living creature. Their mouths were closed and no breath came from their nostrils.

  “Are they alive?” Luthiel whispered to Melkion.

  Melkion swished his tail. “I don’t know.”

  “They don’t breathe,” she said.

  “I know,” Melkion replied.

  Growing frustrated with Melkion’s half answers, she turned her attention once more to the approaching riders. Her unease was growing into fear as they advanced toward her. Finally, Othalas came to a halt before them.

  Lowering his great body, he growled. “Get on. I suppose the Vyrl will want you to hear what they have to say.”

  Grabbing a handful of his hair, she nimbly swung herself across his back. Melkion flared his wings and gripped tight with his claws but still managed to remain perched upon her shoulder.

  “Why are they here?” she whispered.

  “They refused to give me Zalos’ message and insisted on delivering it directly to the Vyrl, You probably know as much as I do about it,” he growled as he walked past Gormtoth and into the open jaws of the gate.

  Luthiel kept her head low and didn’t look behind. The riders behind her were quiet as ghosts, but she could feel their presence by the prickling of skin upon her neck.

  They passed beneath the portcullis and entered the courtyard. Ranks of Grendilo and wights waited for them. Interspersed among them were twelve-foot-tall giants with skin of bark and hair of moss. Each carried a great hammer with a stone head the size of a small table. Their green eyes flickered in the fireless light of Ottomnos. Othalas turned so that his back was to the gathered force as he faced the riders.

  “Leave your wolves here. The Vyrl will receive you in their great hall,” he said.

  The Seven sat upon their wolves, taking in the force assembled before them.

  “Leave the gates open,” their leader said.

  “It is you who decided to come here. While you are here, the Vyrl will open or shut their gates as they please.”

  Silence stretched out across the yard and then, with a screeching of metal, the gates clanged shut.

  The leader of the riders laughed. The sound held no mirth as it echoed hollowly off the walls.

  “Very well, we will warn the Vyrl ourselves what will happen to them if any harm comes to us,” he said in his cold voice. He slid from the back of his great wolf and pulled off his helmet. The other riders followed.

  The elf who looked up at her had brown hair streaked with gold and russet. His eyes were green. At some time, he may have been handsome but his face was pale and the flesh seemed to stretch tight across his bones, accentuating the shape of his skull. It was as though the layer beneath the skin had been stripped away and only thin strands of muscle and sinew lay atop bare bone. His face was pale and bloodless and his eyes sparkled coldly. At first, it seemed he looked only upon Othalas. But for a moment his eyes flashed over her. His hollowed face, for a moment, seemed to register surprise and in that instant some of the chill seemed to melt from his features.

  “Lady,” he said with a stiff bow. “I did not expect to find one who possessed such beauty in a place so terrible. I would swear that I’ve seen your face before, but it was in Arganoth and the lady’s face was marred by grief, while yours is pure. Will you tell me your name? I did not think that the Chosen, Leowin, had come to the Vale.”

  Luthiel found herself unable to speak. It seemed as though some great pain lay behind his eyes, it was the very pain that hollowed out his features. To her, it looked as if the pain was very close to overwhelming him. She did not know how she knew this. But she sensed it as clearly as if she’d seen him in the world of dreams.

  She wondered what he would look like without his suffering, and felt pity for him as someone would feel pity for a person who has lost a limb or who is wasted by some terrible illness.

  These sensations rushed over her as she tried to find her voice. The words of Mithorden came suddenly into her mind:

  A sorcerer’s name has special significance you see. It should not be given freely, nor should it be taken lightly.

  She couldn’t tell him her name. Zalos must never find out who she was. But what could she tell him? She wanted him to know something about her. But why? Perhaps it was because his eyes seemed so hollow only a moment before and that now, as he watched her, a feeble flame seemed to flicker within them.

  “Lord of the Seven,” she found herself saying. The words and the way she said them sounded strange to her ears.

  I don’t talk like this, she thought. Vyrl talk like this.

  “My name is not something I can reveal here,” she said awkwardly. “But I can tell you what I am, if you will hear me.” Her mind snatched upon the first thing she could think of—“I am the singer in dreams!” she sang out with a force that surprised her. At her words, the light in the lord’s eyes seemed to grow brighter and a thin smile seemed to fall upon his lips. She was encouraged by the change in his expression and thought of her struggle with the Widdershae and the wound she’d inflicted.

  “I am the bearer of light in dark places, the web foiler!”

  She paused for a moment.

  What would the sorcerer say?

  “Some have sung that I am graceful as wil
lows and wise as the sea—though I would not claim it. I am a werewolf tamer, a saver of Vyrl and slayer of shadows! I am hope unlooked for by those I hold dear, the Stone wielder, steward of the broken blade, and secret daughter of the moon queen! I am all these things and more but they are both more and less than the name I am called by.” The last words, she knew, were a version of those Mithorden once told her. She looked around, glancing from face to face.

  It couldn’t have worked, she thought.

  The leader of the seven stood before her as one held in reverie. His eyes held the look of a man, who, having woken from a nightmare, has just been confronted by a vision of that which is most good and wonderful in the world.

  “Lady, you have said many things I do not understand, but I know goodness when I see it. If you are Chosen or if the Vyrl hold you against their will, I swear that we will see you safely from this forsaken place.”

  Luthiel almost wept for the life that had risen again in his eyes. She felt as though she’d just witnessed a miracle. The life returned to his face, his cheeks seemed to fill and his eyes came alive with light. For a moment, she thought longingly of leaving the Vale with him. But she couldn’t forsake her promise to the Vyrl and leave her sister at risk. Even if an army was gathering to confront them, she did not wish to risk her sister’s life to the uncertainty of war. A deeper part of her, one she had not yet fully come to terms with, felt an odd sense of loyalty toward the Vyrl and gave them grudging respect for their attempts at restitution. This same part felt pity for the Vyrl akin to the pity she felt for this strange lord. Though she didn’t realize it, these deeper feelings had already taken hold of her.

  “Lord, I am afraid you are mistaken. I am not held here as a prisoner, but came of my own free will. Nonetheless, I appreciate your kind words.”

  As she spoke, one of the other seven, a tall elf with severe features, placed his hand on his leader’s shoulder.

  “Vaelros, I would be careful of this lady—‘saver of Vyrl?’ How can you trust someone who won’t even give you her name?”

  Another rider, this one whip-thin and sickly stepped forward and whispered something in Vaelros’ ear.

  Luthiel could barely hear him.

  “Listen to Balgaer, Vaelros, her fair-seeming may be nothing more than glamer.”

  “Aye,” Vaelros said. But his eyes never left her.

  Luthiel looked on, terrified by the wan, death-mask features the other riders wore. All seemed lost to the same torment that had, only a moment ago, troubled upon Vaelros. It seemed to Luthiel that they had been robbed of all but the most token semblances of a living thing. They didn’t move quite—stiff, yet snake-quick. She had a vision that they were already dead. That by some black art a dark and tortured spirit animated lifeless flesh which had become, to it, little more than a convenient disguise.

  A few of them had turned their lifeless eyes toward her. She shuddered, shrinking from their gaze.

  “Lady, shall we enter?” Othalas said under his breath.

  Luthiel slid off his back and patted his flank with her hand.

  Melkion, somehow, managed to keep hold of her shoulder.

  “They’re worse than before. The last time I saw them was fifteen years ago. Vaelros wasn’t with them then, but the rest had already started to take on that look—like dead men walking. They look much worse now,” Melkion said.

  “What is causing it?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know!” Melkion hissed. “How should I know?”

  Othalas led the way into the fortress. Luthiel was glad to see that Vaelros followed directly behind her with the other riders after him. They followed Othalas through Ottomnos’ twisting passages until they finally came to the great hall. Luthiel, shuddering at the long, bloodstained table with its body-shaped recesses, realized she’d never get used to this place so long as she stayed here.

  Perhaps, they will, one day, remove the table.

  As she walked down the table’s length, she noticed that her chair was now placed to the right of the Vyrl’s three chairs where the Vyrl were now sitting, watching them with their swirling eyes.

  Luthiel, took her seat. Othalas sat down beside her turning around so he could keep close watch on the Seven. As no seats were left, they were forced to stand. Looking at them, Luthiel wondered if they cared anything for comfort.

  Faced with the Vyrl, Vaelros turned his attention away from Luthiel. Sitting in their chairs, the Vyrl gave no indication that they had recognized the Seven. There was a long silence in the hall. One of the seven whispered something in Vaelros’ ear. Vaelros nodded and clenched his jaw.

  “Vyrl of the Vale,” he said. His eyes glided over her before returning to the Vyrl. “We have come to you to present the terms of Zalos, Lord of Ashiroth and of Tuorlin, High Lord of Ithilden and warden of the Faelands. These terms are representative of the will of all lords within the Faelands—of Rimwold, Minonowe, and Himlolth. Do you understand this?”

  Ahmberen spoke.

  “We do,” he said, his chanting tone filling the hall.

  “Then here are the terms of the elf lords,” Vaelros pulled a scroll from his belt and broke the seals. Luthiel noticed there were five seals on the scroll, one for each of the elflands. When he was finished, Vaelros began to read.

  “We, the lords of the elves, charge the Vyrl with breaking the compact of Valkire and of abusing those laws meant to protect elves sent to the Vale as Chosen. Chosen have died where they were meant to be spared,” Vaelros glanced meaningfully at the table with its bloodstains and straps. “And the Vyrl have demanded more Chosen than the agreed to number—one a year—under the implied threat of war. Further, the Vyrl have gathered a host of Widdershae—the treacherous spiders of the Drakken Spurr about the Vale. In recent days, these spiders raided the community of Deldrannor, carrying off twenty of its inhabitants. The bodies of the abducted have since been found—desiccated husks every one.”

  Luthiel shuddered at this.

  I could have been one of them.

  “In response to these tyrannical and evil acts, the lords have decided to meet the Vyrl’s threats in kind. Upon the reading of this decree, the armies of Ashiroth, Ithilden, Rimwold, Minonowe, and Himlolth march upon the borders of the Vale. The Vyrl will have the war they threatened for so long unless our demands are met. First, the Vyrl will surrender unconditionally to lord Zalos of Ashiroth. Second, the Vyrl will remove all Widdershae from the elflands immediately. Third, the Vyrl will never again take an elf for Chosen and will be forced to subsist on what blood they may take from creatures of forest and field. Fourth, the Vyrl will be held captive by Ashiroth for a time not less than one hundred years in recompense for the crimes they have committed against elves. During this time, the Vyrl will be subject to all the laws of Ashiroth and to the will of its lord Zalos. Fifth and finally, the Vyrl will stand trial for their wrongs before a court of lords and agree that any punishment, even death, is fair and just as dictated under the laws of the elflands. If any of these demands are not met, the Vyrl will face total war with the elflands and will be subject to destruction at the hands of the elflords if defeated in battle.”

  When Vaelros finished reading the edict, he turned it around so that the Vyrl could see the elf lords seals stamped at the bottom.

  “I am instructed to give you two days to consider these demands. If, upon the morning of the third day, you are still undecided, we will consider it a refusal and act accordingly. If you wish to decide now, then we can begin the process of bringing you into the custody of Lord Zalos or return with news of war.”

  The Vyrl sat still and silent as Vaelros’ voice faded from the chamber. Silence stretched out for long moments. The Seven fingered their weapons and their bodies tensed—anticipating attack. But the Vyrl only sat still in their thrones, staring with those maddening eyes.

  “You must understand,” Elshael said finally. “That the terms you have given us are terms we cannot accept. There is no elf who would not have us ki
lled if we fell under the mercy of your laws. There must be some other way.”

  Luthiel could tell by the looks the Seven gave one another that this was not the response they expected.

  They expected the Vyrl to attack them, she thought.

  “These are the terms of Lord Zalos and the High Lord Tuorlin. There is no other way,” said one of the Seven.

  “This charge, that we have brought the Widdershae to the borders of the Vale, is without cause. We have never had dealings with them. The only creatures we associate with are those that are of the Vale of Mists itself. But this is our right, for we have ruled here for thousands of years. How dare you blame us for what the Widdershae have done!” said Ecthellien.

  The seven tensed again. Hands drifted toward weapons. Legs flexed slightly, bodies lowered into a predatory crouch.

  “Lord Zalos has evidence that you were the ones who brought the spiders here. Are you saying that Zalos is a liar?”

  “When lies have served him, yes,” said Ecthellien.

  An angry silence fell over the hall. The Seven fingered their weapons as they eyed the Vyrl. Ecthellien grasped the hilt of his own sword—by itself as long as Luthiel was tall. Othalas growled and his hackles rose. Luthiel found her fingers tightly encircled around the hilt of her Cauthrim knife.

  “Enough! Enough!” cried Ahmberen.

  “As the demands call for our unconditional surrender,” he continued, “and you are little more than emissaries, then there is nothing we can resolve tonight. We will accept your offer of two days to consider these demands and then send our answer to the lords of the elves. Until that time, you are free to stay here. We will have rooms made ready for you presently.”

  The tension in the room seemed to bleed away.

  “Now, if you will allow, we would like to talk this matter over in private,” Ahmberen said. “If you will follow Rendillo, he will show you to your rooms.”

  The grendilo hopped gracefully from the corner of the room where he stood and bowed to the Seven.

  “Lords, if you will please follow me,” he said.

  Luthiel watched as the Seven left the room. Vaelros met her gaze and nodded once before stepping out into the hall. Not knowing what else to do, she nodded back to him.