by C A Oliver
Aewöl’s strength probably lay elsewhere… but he always demonstrated a certain weakness when faced with the challenges of living in the wilderness. He is a sensible, fragile character, more skilled with quills and scrolls than with swords and shields. I knew he was in good hands when I learnt that you were at his side. I know him well. His knowledge is vast, and he proved wise on many occasions. But he always showed difficulties controlling his temper. Aewöl exerts so much of his strength hiding his thoughts and planning for the future. I cannot imagine how many times I must have told him, ‘Come out into the light, master alchemist! Come riding with me through the woods to the mountains! There is so much to see. Immortality is ours!’”
Recalling the days of his youth in Essawylor, Roquendagor’s face brightened. He was becoming increasingly vivacious and outspoken. His blue eyes sparkled, and a broad smile creased his friendly features. His hand stroked his shaven head as he reminded his companion of the old stories: the hunting and warfare back in Ystanlewin.
Gelros remained impassive, listening politely to his former lord without showing any emotions. Roquendagor eventually recalled one particular campaign in the Ivory Mountains, when he had killed a great jaguar with his bare hands.
“Only you were there to see it, Gelros! That glorious day!” boasted Roquendagor. “Without you, no one would have believed me. It’s too bad that my only witness was so tight-lipped. My feat against the jaguar would have been known across the whole kingdom of Five Rivers...”
“I died, my lord. I think I died.”
This interruption from Gelros was most unexpected.
The bizarre statement took Roquendagor completely off guard. After a time, he decided to shuffle down the canoe and sit closer to his former hunt master. Mosquitoes were flying around him and causing annoyance.
“What do you mean?” the knight finally asked, with a tone of incredulity.
“I was killed in the woods of Mentolewin in Nyn Ernaly, a few years ago, my lord. I think I was poisoned by an arrow.”
“That cannot be, Gelros; you would not be here with me, being eaten alive by these damned mosquitoes in this stinking swamp. Those herbal concoctions you drink all the time must have saved you from the poison.”
“Perhaps, my lord. Perhaps I only thought I had died. Maybe he managed to save me.”
“Now that you mention it,” Roquendagor recalled, “in one of his many letters to Curwë, Aewöl did refer to some difficult times you went through in Nyn Ernaly, just after we parted. You were severely injured, and a wild Man saved you. He managed to heal your wounds.”
“He was not a wild Man; he was a druid and a shape-shifter, who could transform himself into a brown bear of the forest,” Gelros contested.
“What kind of hallucinatory talk is this? Aewöl described him as a mad hermit. The poison must have affected you. After you’ve looked death in the eye, it is often difficult to get things clear in your head,” suggested Roquendagor.
“Did Alef Bronzewood raise me from the dead, or did he save me from a certain death? I do not know. After all, does it really matter? I am alive and at my master’s service…
Alef Bronzewood dedicated time to me and eventually healed me. I do remember that he asked me a lot of questions. Never did I listen to someone for so long. Alef Bronzewood wanted to know why Aewöl and I had first entered his forest. He wanted to know if, like the Westerners from Tar-Andevar, we were there to cut down the Paubras. He was obsessed with how the Men of the West were destroying the Islands’ forests. He could not understand why anyone would sail their great galleys across the seas and oceans to destroy the Islands’ forests and fell the Paubras trees.
‘Do they not have wood in their own land?’ he would ask again and again. ‘Why would they dedicate their lives to travel the world, only to destroy, cut and seize? Are they not rich enough with their flamboyant metal garments? Why do they need to accumulate more useless things, of which they have no need?’ he continuously wondered. Despite his origins, Alef Bronzewood declared himself a friend of the Elves and an enemy of Men, a loyal servant to the Mother of the Islands. He explained to me at great length how all Men are descended from demons, from the fiery creatures born of Gweïwal Narkon.
‘A fire burns within them that no other element can extinguish. It’s this fire within that compels them to expand and accumulate incessantly. All Men are driven by the fear of their own death. They are obsessed with passing the riches they have gathered on to the next generation.
Did the Mother of the Islands not feed them well? Will she not also take care of their children?’ he asked. He insisted that, ‘Bears also have children of their own. Bears know that after they are dead, the Mother of the Islands will feed their children well with the fruit and honey she makes.’
Alef Bronzewood talked to me over a long period as I gradually recovered. He also explained to me the many secrets of his order and the reasoning behind them. More than once he said:
‘The druids are not waging war because they want to seize land back from Men. The Mother of the Islands provides land for all of us, including for animals, Gnomes, Giants, Elves, and even Men. The true reasons the druids go to war against the evil Men is to take prisoners. This is what drives us,’ he confided. Alef Bronzewood taught me that there was only one way to get rid of Men’s evil souls if we do not want those demons to multiply and finally destroy all there is on Oron.”
“Tell me, what is the fate of the druids’ prisoners?” Roquendagor asked: intrigued, though imperceptibly worried.
“The druids eat their human prisoners alive,” whispered Gelros. “That is how the souls of evil Men are thereafter confined to the inner core of Oron, from whence they came… never to return to the Islands.”
Roquendagor had to restrain himself from gagging at this thought. Looking at Gelros’ fixed gaze, the knight thought that exile had changed the former hunt master of Ystanlewin. He was no longer the same.
For three entire days, the Elves of Mentollà rowed against the current of the Sian Senky across more than fifty leagues. They fought their way upstream to the gravelled beds of the river, where other difficulties awaited them. In this section of the Sian Senky, bordered by rocky hills and covered in dense woodland, a south-easterly current kept nudging the canoe starboard of the range's recommended track.
This current soon became too strong and, without the assistance of the wind that had now waned, it became impossible to row their way upstream.
Defeated by the forces of nature, the Elves of Mentollà abandoned their canoe to continue their journey on foot. They rested for a time along the southern river’s bank to simply marvel at the glorious sight of hundreds of thriving salmon swimming upstream to spawn.
*
Gwa Nyn, East of Nargrond Valley, four days later
The Elves of Mentollà progressed through the woods without talking. Their thoughts were as far away as Oron’s poles.
Gelros was focusing on their immediate needs: sourcing water, managing their supplies and finding hideouts. He alone knew, from his friend the druid Alef Bronzewood, the way into Nargrond Valley, and therefore held the keys to their common destiny.
The scout had chosen to head to the southern range of the Arob Nargrond, being careful to bypass any deep woodland while keeping the banks of the Sian Senky on their right. He knew the river was rich with fish and game, a land of predilection for hunters of all kinds.
Gelros had been impatient to put as much distance as possible between themselves and Ystanoalin. He was convinced that they were still under threat.
Among all who had travelled in the canoe, he alone knew about the four murders back in Llanoalin. Those grave incidents would without doubt have consequences. The scouts of Lord Dol Oalin may well have already picked up their trail. His instincts were telling him that the hunt had already begun. As they walked through the woods, he had been drawing upon all of his talents and experience to hasten their flight and evade their hunters. Gelros would frequentl
y go ahead to clear the way. Whenever Curwë requested that they pause to rest, Gelros busied himself in covering their tracks, skilfully utilizing everything the woods offered him to mislead any pursuers. His zeal for the task was great, but nevertheless his anxiety was growing. Were Gelros' fears exaggerated, or had these precautions already saved them? None of the Elves of Mentollà would ever know.
Curwë wallowed in silence. The bard was apparently deep in thought, and his companions did not dare disturb him.
Roquendagor had tried to discuss exploring the valley of Nargrond but seeing that his companions were paying little attention to his plans, he had finally fallen quiet too.
Feïwal seemed absorbed in matters spiritual. When he was not deeply engaged in prayer, the guide of the clan of Filweni was muttering words to himself.
Gelros was intrigued. He slackened his pace to walk closer to Feïwal. Though he could not capture the full meaning of his monologues, he could hear the navigator talking to himself, like a worshiper overrun with spiritual fever.
“The wind is always whispering in the ear of all Elves. We must accept the message of freedom it carries and reject all other bonds.
'There is no freedom, but the freedom granted by the wind.'
This is the cornerstone, this is the key, and this is the founding principle at the heart of everything. That proclamation is sacred law. It forbids the Elves of the Islands from submitting to laws enacted by tyrants. ‘The seeds of Llyoriane,’ that’s what the deity of storms called the Elves of the Islands: The seeds of Llyoriane. He made them free in relation to one another…”
Gelros remained puzzled by the troubling behaviour of Feïwal. The scout could not pretend that he knew the guide of the clan of Filweni well, but he had never witnessed him in such mental turmoil.
“Are you well, Feïwal dyn? Perhaps we should stop for a time. Dawn will come soon,” suggested Gelros.
The group was progressing into the forest with difficulty, preferring the concealment of the night to the light of the day. Curwë was caught in a languor that became heavier every hour that passed. The bard could not keep up the pace that Gelros was setting.
This was the time to rest, decided the scout. He pointed to a small clearing, through which ran a stream in the shade of ancient chestnut trees. His companions felt relieved to catch their breath and ease their straining muscles.
Curwë quickly lay on the ground without bothering remove his armour, even though the bard was equipped for war. Below his long green cloak, he wore leather armour reinforced by a steel breastplate.
Roquendagor disapproved of this lack of self-discipline and could not resist sharing his views as he proudly began placing his own heavy equipment on the ground.
“This new life in Llafal has not done you any good, Curwë. There was a time you would have offered to take the first watch…”
The bard did not respond to this remonstration from his former lord, so Roquendagor took it as read that the first shift would be his. The commander of Mentollà unburdened himself of his plate mail. Soon, gauntlets, helmet, a gorget and other elements of his heavy armour were piled up by the swollen stream’s bank.
Meanwhile, Feïwal approached Gelros as the scout was checking the contents of his quiver.
“I have been watching you, Gelros,” said the guide of the clan of Filweni. “You are always on your guard. Of course, the valley of Nargrond is a dangerous place….”
“It is a land of treasures,” Gelros quickly replied. “Aewöl says the valley of Nargrond is the heart of the Islands, the place where our predecessors buried all their secrets. Many are those who seek them. It is indeed a perilous territory.”
“This is true… but I would add that, more importantly, it is where the Fallen Star hit Gwa Nyn…” replied the guide of the clan of Filweni in a low voice.
“Do you see this stone?” Feïwal asked after a moment’s pause, picking a pebble out of the stream. “I will drop it.”
Gelros watched the stone fall onto the waterlogged ground of the clearing.
“That stone fell just as deliberately as the meteorite fell upon Gwa Nyn, a long time ago, when the Elves were still young. What this means is that the deity of storms also controls the stars in the heavens. The celestial bodies are within Eïwal Ffeyn’s mighty power, for he alone fully understands the fundamental forces, brought into being by Ö, that power the Flow that surrounds Oron.”
Gelros remained cautiously silent. Feïwal believed that the scout’s attitude demonstrated respect and a thirst for knowledge. The guide of the clan of Filweni resumed.
“The Elves, wherever they were born, are all children of Ö. That is the message delivered by Eïwal Ffeyn when he pulled the Star from the night sky.”
There was a strange light burning in Feïwal’s eyes. Gelros wandered whether it was a sign of madness or an indication of faith. It made him nervous. He grasped his great black yew bow even more tightly. But the scout was intrigued and wished to ask more.
“Do you mean that there are too many Elves who do not respect the message of Eïwal Ffeyn?”
“That is exactly what I mean,” confirmed Feïwal with a foreboding tone. “The clans of Llymar do not submit totally and exclusively to Eïwal Ffeyn. They supposedly worship the deity of freedom as an original member of their pantheon, but they ignore his teachings. The Llewenti clans have replaced the message of Eïwal Ffeyn with the word of their matriarchs and their interpretation of the other Islands deities’ signs.
It is no wonder, therefore, that they would never support a mass Irawenti migration from Essawylor that would save our people from destruction. The Llewenti clans secretly wish to deny all other Elvin nations access to these Promised Islands. Eïwal Ffeyn's fundamental message is the opposite.
I have now come to fully understand it.
Eïwal Ffeyn created the Islands as the Promised Land for all free Elves, so that our relationships could be based upon a common liberty. Since the beginning of time, he has rejected all other powers: be that the Giants or even the Greater Gods themselves. He was against the High Elves coming to the Archipelago because their king brought with him the tyranny of his laws and vows. No Elf, even a simple Wenti, can be the servant or slave of another, even an immortal Hawenti. Do you understand? This is one of the core meanings of his message. Eïwal Ffeyn put an end to the coercive justice enacted by the rulers of the Elves, in order to establish the freedom that Ö wished for his children.”
Gelros did not understand this last statement.
“But Eïwal Ffeyn was defeated by the High Elves,” Gelros wondered aloud. “He was imprisoned forever in the Sea of Cyclones if you believe the scholars.”
“They lie, Gelros, they lie because they fear what the deity of storms will do when he returns. Eïwal Ffeyn is the wind… He is freedom… He will return and be freed of his bonds, believe me… and the day of his return will mark the Day of Judgment for all those Elves who imprisoned him and scorned his teachings. Do you not see? It has already begun…”
Sensing that some form of dangerous exaltation was seizing Feïwal, Gelros became worried. He feared what affect such mental exertion might have upon the guide of the clan of Filweni. There was still a long way to go. The scout believed these spiritual vagaries to be useless. Somewhat embarrassed, he tried to bring the discussion to a close.
“I hear you, Feïwal dyn… These are… matters you should discuss with Aewöl. He too has knowledge about these… things.
I must now look for food if we do not want to starve. It is almost dawn.”
With that, the quiet scout disappeared beneath the canopy, his great yew bow slung at his back. The deadly weapon hardly ever left his side. His dark green and brown clothes faded quickly into the woods.
*
Gwa Nyn, Entrance to Nargrond Valley, two days later
After a few quiet days, Gelros was less worried that they were being followed. He gained enough confidence to allow the group to move by daylight. Their progress was no
netheless extremely slow, as they kept well away from the main tracks and clearings. The dense woodland was a constant challenge to Gelros' tracking abilities.
There were periods of rain, others of sunshine, followed by thunderstorms. These were days of overwhelming heat, where they could only ever find a little coolness at the edge of the streams and in the shade of the trees. Summer was demonstrating its full, brilliant force. The Elves of Mentollà continued their march in silence.
The next morning, a faint sun, no bigger and less bright than the moon, finally appeared amid the dark clouds. Gradually it grew until a yellow halo had spilled across the horizon. Then, a single piercing ray was soon followed by abundant golden light. The power of the sun dispelled the remnants of the shadows. Its soft radiance reflected upon the fresh moss that lined the ground.
Moments later, the Elves of Mentollà crossed a mountain pass and discovered a sun-drenched lowland. At the edge of the woods, in the encroaching heat of dawn, they stood motionless for a moment at the entrance to the valley of Nargrond. They listened to the unseen birds singing somewhere ahead in the wilderness. The gentle breeze murmured through the pines. The beauty of the place was breath-taking.
Feïwal, deeply moved by the sight, took a step forward, his gaze rising towards the sky. He waived his hand like a cleric paying homage to the heavens.
The valley ran from east to west along the Sian Senky for more than sixty leagues. Two mountain ranges bordered its northern and southern flanks; some of their peaks reached heights of over six thousand feet. The mightiest mountain of Gwa Nyn, indeed the highest mountain of the Lost Islands, could be seen upon the horizon towards the sunrise. The top of Mount Oryusk, the volcano created by the fall of the meteorite upon Gwa Nyn, towered over of the surrounding elevations from its ten thousand feet. Its massive silhouette marked the end of the valley to the west.
