Luthiel's Song: Dreams of the Ringed Vale

by Robert Marston Fannéy

  With the Seven finally gone, the tension of a few moments before evaporated. Luthiel let out a sigh. She looked over at the Vyrl questioningly.

  “What now?” she asked.

  “We were to ask you the same thing,” Ahmberen said.

  “Me? How could I know what to do?”

  “Does this change your decision to help us?” It was Elshael who asked this time.

  Luthiel stared at the ground blankly. She felt as though she’d been struck over the head again by Ahmberen’s blade. She didn’t know. Could she just leave now and abandon the Vyrl to their problems? If all the elves were joined against them, what choice did they have but to surrender?

  Or could the Vyrl defeat all the elflands together?

  Even as she thought these things she realized that she’d already made her decision. Perhaps it was this morning, perhaps while she was napping. But at some time, recently, she had resolved herself to help the Vyrl.

  “Our bargain still stands,” she said.

  “Then there may be some way out of this trap the Lord Zalos has set for us, after all,” said Ecthellien.

  “Trap?” Luthiel asked.

  “Oh yes,” Ecthellien said. “A very clever trap to catch three Vyrl in. But I don’t think he realized you were a consideration. Perhaps he even expected us to attack his Seven. But now that we are not overwhelmed by the madness we can act in ways that he does not expect. There is even a chance we might avoid this war.”

  “How?” Luthiel asked. “You heard their offer, if you can call it an offer at all. They want unconditional surrender.”

  “Yes, that’s what they said. But what if we sent you back with a message from us saying that we pledge to never take a Chosen again, so long as you or your children live and that we agree to pay each land and family restitution for their losses?” asked Elshael. “Then, some of the lords might not think this war is worthwhile.”

  “True!” said Ahmberen. “The only reason they are all coming to fight us is that Zalos has them believing they have no other choice. If we give them a way out, some of the realms will want to take it. Luthiel, if you give them this message, they might listen. Would you be willing?”

  “Well I suppose I would,” she said, trying to keep the apprehension out of her voice. “But I don’t know how to find Tuorlin, or even what he looks like.”

  “We were thinking of sending Othalas and Melkion with you,” Ahmberen said.

  “What about Miruvoir? The night after tomorrow?” She felt a little ashamed about asking this question. But she’d been dreading what might happen at Miruvoir. She kept imagining the Vyrl biting her, reliving the pain when the blood was drawn out of her.

  “We still intend to meet you at the lake. Would you be willing to come tomorrow night?” Ecthellien asked.

  “I admit I am terrified of what may happen there. But I promised to help you didn’t I? Sooner would be better.”

  “Very well, then.” Ahmberen said. “Now why don’t you retire to your room and have supper. There are many long days ahead and though you’ve rested, your wounds still need more time to heal. We will talk about the finer points of our plan after our meeting at the lake. Until then, save your strength.”

  A Darkness in Dreams

  Luthiel thought about what had happened as she returned to her room. It seemed that, with each passing day, her life and those of the Vyrl were becoming more deeply intertwined.

  Now they want me to bargain with the lords. To defend them against the families of those they devoured. Am I doing the right thing? Trying to save Vyrl?

  For some reason her gut kept telling her yes. She shook her head.

  Maybe I’m the one falling into madness.

  The macabre wights and alien grendilo passed by on this errand or that; but, otherwise, she was undisturbed. Othalas walked with her and Melkion kept his perch on her shoulder. Melkion’s head swung back and forth, his violet eyes peering into every shadow. She realized they were there to protect her as much as to ensure she didn’t run away. It gave her an odd sense of comfort.

  The Seven disturbed her—more than the Vyrl and, perhaps, more than the wights. She didn’t understand what was wrong with them. But looking at them, they appeared wasted as though by some disease that left their faces cold and hollow masks. Vaelros, their leader, was also affected, though somewhat less so. When she spoke to him, his face recovered some of its life. But it still seemed to her as if he struggled with some great pain that was slowly wearing him down.

  “What could cause it?” she whispered.

  “What was that?” Melkion asked.

  “I was just thinking about the Seven. About the way they looked as if they were—how did you describe it?”

  “Dead men walking,” Melkion said.

  “Yes, that’s what you said. About how they looked like walking dead men and about how Vaelros seemed in pain. Do you know anything about this?”

  Melkion shook his head.

  “I do,” Othalas said. “But only in hints and rumors.”

  “Could you tell me?” Luthiel asked.

  “I’ll tell what I know, but I’m afraid it isn’t much.” He growled.

  “Long ago, the first of the Seven—he is called Evaldris—became Zalos’ lieutenant. He is the oldest and, perhaps, mightiest of the Seven. Though Vaelros is their lord, Evaldris is the one who is closest to Zalos. It is said that Zalos shares all his devices with the Dread Lord as Evaldris has become known. The others followed, chosen by Zalos once every twenty or so years. They are named—Balgaer of swords, Gharam the hunter, Kharik the killer, Torlith the warlock, Eldrik of shadows, and Vaelros the mad. As the captains and lieutenants of Zalos, they have fought and won many victories for their Lord. And if the victories were bloody, the savage people of Ashiroth revered them more. The Seven are from many lands. Evaldris is Sith and only two—Vaelros and Balgaer—are from Ashiroth.”

  “But what has happened to them? Can so many years of warfare cause them to look like the dead?” she asked.

  “Zalos has always been a master sorcerer. To achieve his devices, he will use any lore, art or object—no matter how terrible. It is rumored that the Seven are under some black spell that Zalos wove over them—a spell that consumes them as it continues. It has made them mighty and fearless in battle. For wounds that would kill a normal elf are only minor hurts to them and they are tireless—continuing to fight long after others succumb to exhaustion.”

  “How do you know this?” she asked.

  “For many years, my kin—the werewolves of the Vale—spied on the land of Ashiroth. Zalos has never loved the Vyrl and I thought it best to keep a watch. They brought me news of the Seven now and again. What I have told you was pieced together from their accounts.”

  They came again to her room.

  She walked over to the slit window and peered out into the night. In the courtyard below, the grey wolves prowled. She turned back and found that her dinner was waiting for her. She picked up the tray, brought it over to the bone chair and sat down.

  “Why do they call him the mad?” she asked after having a bite of the delicious bird they’d cooked for her.

  Othalas, who’d settled to the floor next to the door, raised his massive head to look at her.

  “He is the grandson of Zalos and it is said that he is prone to fits of rage. His father, Zalos’ first son, was sent into exile many years before. There he died under mysterious circumstances. Some say that his anger is for his grandfather and for the injustice of Ashiroth and its lord. Others say that his anger is for the treatment of Merrin, whom he is fond of. He has been heard saying that there is none more beautiful than Merrin and that all other stars pale before her as the dim lights of night pale at sunrise.”

  “You know much about him,” she said between mouthfuls.

  “He is a hero to the elves of Ashiroth and they are free with their rumors and storytelling.”

  “He doesn’t seem like the others among the Seven. He is brighter—
more alive. It doesn’t look to me like madness at all. Only anger at wrongdoing. It is sad what is happening to him. This curse or whatever it is—there must be some way to break it.”

  “Why are you so concerned about him?” Melkion asked.

  “The others, to me, seem lost. Yet Vaelros still has some life left in him. But I don’t think he has much longer. I fear that soon the spark will fade from him and he will become like the rest—a walking dead man. I wonder what horrors visit him and if he can feel the life slowly ebbing from him.”

  Melkion blinked and Othalas let out a low, gravely chuckle.

  “I told you she was a sorcerer,” he said to the little dragon.

  “I never said I didn’t agree with you,” the dragon replied.

  “What are you talking about?” Luthiel said.

  “Well, you are a sorcerer aren’t you?” Melkion asked.

  She considered his question.

  “Someone else said the same thing once,” she said, thinking of Mithorden. “But I don’t see how it could be true.”

  “You sensed something about Vaelros that we could not,” Othalas said. “Before he spoke to you, he appeared, to me, as dead as the others. But after, I could see that there was some life still in him. Something about you—in your voice or your presence—brought that out. Sometimes magic is so subtle that the sorcerer doesn’t realize she is using it. That is the best kind of magic.”

  “I don’t see how it could happen.”

  “That’s what makes it magical.”

  Luthiel finished the rest of her dinner in silence. It was growing late, so she made ready for bed. But she had difficulty falling asleep. Every time she closed her eyes she kept having visions of the dead faces. The more she thought about them, the more they reminded her of wights, except that their faces were forever etched in masks of pain—windows to the unseen tortures they suffered. When she thought of Vaelros, she felt afraid for him.

  Without knowing, she slipped into sleep.

  She saw him standing on the beach in the place where water laps the sand. Far out over the ocean she saw a small smudge of black in the sky. Slowly, the darkness grew until it covered the entire ocean. Beneath its shadow the ocean became inky black. Still the darkness grew until the only light came from behind the sand dunes in the west. It was a wan, white shaft against the colorless sky. The ocean receded, until only a thin strip of sea was visible in the distance. Above her, she could see a black hole in the inky sky. Its surface was fissured with cracks the color of old blood.

  “Gorothoth,” she whispered.

  Then, the ribbon of black water on the horizon rippled, growing as the sea came rushing back in a vast wave. She ran toward him; grabbed his arm.

  “Run!” she cried.

  But his face, half-dead, only stared into the onrushing sea.

  She grabbed his arm and tugged it. He wouldn’t budge.

  Now the wave was fast approaching—an oily mountain rising high above them.

  She tried to lift him. He was too heavy. She stumbled under his weight and they both fell into the sand. The wave towered over them, uncanny in its silence. She draped his arm over her shoulder and made one last attempt to lift him.

  Then the inky waters were upon them. He was torn from her. She was lifted high, higher and then she fell, spinning deeper and deeper. All she could see was darkness. It crushed in on her, filled her nose, forced its way down her throat invaded her lungs. She tried to breathe. But it was strangling her—like a thousand tiny hands crushing her neck, her chest.

  She awoke with a start, sitting bolt upright in her bed. The sheets were damp with her sweat. Her breath came out in short gasps as she hungrily breathed in the air.

  There was a flapping beside her as Melkion alighted upon the bed.

  “Luthiel what’s the matter?” Melkion said.

  “They’re strangling him!” she cried.

  “Who is strangling him?”

  She didn’t understand the question.

  “They tried to strangle me!”

  She could still see the dream, but slowly the nightmare melted and the black charred walls of Ottomnos came into focus. They were too much like the inky waters. She could feel them closing in on her.

  “Luthiel what happened? What’s wrong?”

  Luthiel shook her head and blinked her eyes.

  “I had a nightmare,” she said.

  The dragon spread his rainbow wings and fanned her with them.

  “It’s over now. It’s alright. It’s only a dream.”

  “Is it?” she said, trying to calm her breathing. “It seemed so real.”

  “Shhh, it will be alright, you’re not alone.”

  Luthiel looked around the room. The werewolf was gone.

  “Where is Othalas?”

  “Gone out to hunt. He gets hungry in the late night. Don’t worry, he’ll be back soon,” the tiny dragon said. “Just lie down, breathe easy and try to forget.”

  She didn’t think she could ever forget. She could feel the hands on her neck, her chest, even now. Suddenly cold, she pulled her sheets, damp with sweat, back over her. After a while, she calmed down and the memory of the dream faded. But she would never forget the color of that inky sea and how she failed to save him from it.

  “Melkion, do you think he can be saved?” she asked.

  “Vaelros?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “There has to be some way.”

  “Luthiel, you should sleep.”

  She nodded.

  “Alright, I’ll try.”

  “I’ll stay here with you.”

  “I’d like that.”

  It took Luthiel a long time before she could gather the courage to close her eyes again.

  A Black Curse

  Luthiel was awakened by bright light shining in through the slit window. She sat up in her bed. Melkion was curled up in a ball, fast asleep on the window ledge. Thin wisps of smoke rose from his nostrils. Othalas had returned sometime in the night and was now sleeping beside the door.

  She slid off the bed and picked out a clean change of clothes.

  When she was finished dressing, she spent some time with her hair and then sat back down on her bed.

  Othalas and Melkion didn’t look like they were about to wake up anytime soon.

  Luthiel stared about the room. But there was nothing there that captivated her.

  “Perhaps I should just go back to sleep,” she whispered.

  But for some reason, a restlessness had fallen over her. She slid off the bed and rummaged through her pack. There were a few odds and ends—the map she’d taken from her loft was still there, the length of rope, the flask Lorethain gave her, a couple of wind charms, food and provisions from home and from Lenidras. On a whim she picked up the flask, undid the cap and took a whiff. The sweet aroma of honeywine filled her nostrils.

  Redoing the cap, she looked at the door.

  In a moment, she’d slipped past the sleeping Othalas and out the door. Once in the hall, she stopped the first grendilo she saw.

  “Where is the chamber of Lord Vaelros?” she asked.

  The grendilo blinked in surprise.

  “His is over on the east wing. But he’s not there right now if you’re looking for him. He and the others are sparring in the yard,” he said.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  The grendilo nodded. “My pleasure,” he said before hopping off down the hall.

  She made her way down the winding corridors for some time before finding a way out to the courtyard. Outside, a bank of clouds had covered the sky, blocking the suns from view.

  In the yard, the wolves had formed a rough ring. Facing inward, they watched as the seven practiced swordplay. To Luthiel, they seemed swift and tireless. Standing in the doorway, she watched for a few minutes as blow after blow fell. It was obvious, even to her untrained eye, that they were all masters. Their speed and power were difficult to follow. But what made her
feel a chill ascend her spine, was that though they practiced furiously none had broken a sweat or were even breathing hard. The only one that seemed to breathe at all was Vaelros. They were fighting in turns, so she waited until Vaelros stepped aside before walking toward the ring of wolves.

  “Lord Vaelros,” she said, waving at him. “Could I talk to you?”

  One of the grey wolves turned its head and growled at her—flashing his teeth.

  Stopping in her tracks, she raised her hands and backed away.

  She didn’t really know what she was doing or why. She just felt an unexplained urge to go to him. She was curious. There were questions she wanted to ask him. But she was also afraid. There was something terribly wrong about these men—who spoke and moved with the quickness of the living but who, in every other way, looked like dead men.

  When Vaelros saw her, his hollow-eyed face seemed to brighten.

  “Lady!” He said as he strode toward her. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to talk, I wanted to ask you about—about things,” she said the last in a lower voice.

  When he looked at her, she noticed his eyes. The pupils were so large that they seemed to swallow up all the color. Looking into them was like looking into a black pit. She was reminded of her dream. Her breath caught in her throat. But as he watched her, the pupils seemed to shrink some and she could see the color—grey green—like a sea in a storm. His bloodless lips formed a wan smile.

  “Lady, I will talk to you about anything.”

  His voice seemed to come from some far away place.

  “Well, could we walk away from—?” she glanced at the deadmen in their swordplay.

  His black pit eyes scanned the battlements.

  “We could sit upon the wall.”

  “I’d like that,” she said.

  So they made their way up to the battlements of Ottomnos. The charred glass glistened in the morning sun—darkness and light played together in those dim, reflective facets.