The Valley of Nargrond

by C A Oliver

  In a frantic effort to survive, Mynar dyl, half-conscious, threw his javelin against the rock wall of the cliff. The spear buried deep into limestone. He continued to fall, but the strap soon tightened around his wrist. Mynar dyl swung violently into the rock wall, bouncing twice before finally stabilizing. He was now unconscious, suspended from his javelin's rope above the void.

  A cry was heard.

  “Look! A small creature is fleeing into the gorge!” alerted one of the Llyvary fighters.

  “It is a Gnome!” shouted an archer, as he released a first arrow.

  Watching the missile as it flew into the chasm, Camatael suddenly saw the aggressor below him, on his side of the river. The short silhouette was hastening alongside the torrent. He was fleeing with difficulty, struggling over boulders and jumping between rocks. The young lord called upon the protection of his deity.

  “Cund o Lon!” he shouted, while tracing a circle of silvery powder around himself.

  On the other side of the gorge, Matriarch Myryae came forth and watched the situation from the edge of the precipice. She ordered her fighters to cross the narrow bridge and pursue the attacker. Camatael immediately knew what was expected of him.

  Matriarch Myryae’s voice was heard, loud and clear. Uttering words in an unknown language, she was summoning to her command the many roots and branches which curved back and forth along the gorge’s cliff. The creepers that covered the gorge were responding to her will. The once-motionless plants suddenly animated, and the leafy creatures grasped the suspended Mynar dyl, pulling him back up to the ravine’s edge.

  Meanwhile, Camatael secured his bronze helmet on his head. The horsehair plume shone in the sunlight. Looking fearlessly at the void before him, he jumped from the cliff’s edge without the slightest hesitation, his purple cloak flying in the wind. Crying a word of power, the young lord landed upon a large boulder below, light as a feather. After two more heroic leaps downwards, he had almost reached the torrent’s shoreline at the bottom of the chasm. It had taken him but an instant. The Gnome stood merely a dozen yards before him, climbing large boulders which gave access to a wooden walkway that ran along the furious stream.

  Camatael drew his long sword and rushed forward. Quick as a snake, the Gnome was already on the footbridge.

  The pursuit began, to the deafening noise of the tumultuous waters which reverberated along the rock walls.

  The gap between the cliff walls narrowed significantly in this stretch of the gorge, and Camatael found himself enveloped in almost total darkness. He struggled to breathe in the heavy air, as if the humid vapours around him were poisonous fumes released by the rocks. He was seized by a strange kind of dizziness.

  The Gnome was about to flee underground through a crack in the rock wall when he chose to turn around and confront his pursuer. He was of small stature, barely three feet high, round-bodied with spindly arms and legs. His face looked ugly, despite the long beard and wild hair that masked his features.

  Camatael met his gaze and immediately perceived the anger in this earth-dwelling spirit. It was the first time the young lord had encountered a Gnome, though he had read about them.

  The humanoid creature put his hand into a bag and took out a stone. He slung it, aiming at the young lord’s forehead.

  An Elvin word of power was heard.

  The missile flew. It crossed the ten yards that separated the two opponents like lighting. But suddenly, it slowed and finally sank into Camatael’s hand. He then let the stone fall to the ground. Its surface was covered in glittering hieroglyphs.

  By the time Camatael looked back up to the Gnome, he had disappeared inside a small opening in the bedrock. The young lord approached to check that the gap was too small for him to follow. Soil and vegetation had built-up in the network of fissures across the fragmented bedrock. Cold currents were flowing out of the fissure. There was no way he could continue the chase.

  A terrifying underground sound was then heard, like that of an earthquake. Camatael suddenly feared tons of boulders would slide down on top of him. The rock was shaking from the pressure within. The gap widened, and the silhouette of a hulking mass of rock began to emerge from the stone.

  Bearing a humanoid torso, a flat head with glowing eyes and two muscular stone arms, the earthy creature finally freed himself from the ancient rock, and immediately used his tremendous strength to batter the Elf lord.

  It made several grappling attacks, its monumental strength and size giving it a significant advantage. The creature, however, could not secure a good hold of its far smaller opponent.

  A volley of arrows issued from all sides surrounding the gorge. Despite the hardness of Elvin steel, the arrows ricocheted off its stony skin.

  At last, the creature tried to bull rush the Elf into a wall. Camatael avoided this attack by leaping to one side while screaming a word of power. There was a flash of dazzling light.

  The stone creature lost its balance, tumbled, and came crashing down into the bottom of the chasm, into the tumultuous waters of the torrent. It was smashed into pieces.

  Camatael rose and secured a hold on the broken gateway. Elves of clan Llyvary were only just reaching the scene of the battle.

  “Are you well, Lord Dol Lewin?” their captain enquired with a voice full of fear. He was amazed by what he had just witnessed.

  *

  Mynar dyl was sat against a tree truck. Though his forehead displayed a fresh scar, he seemed to be recovering well from his fall into the gorge. From time to time, he brought a crystal vial to his mouth and swallowed a sip of a greenish liquor which Myryae had given him.

  “Do not take me for a fool. This sordid creature was waiting for me. It was a deliberate attempt at murder. How else do you explain that wretched Gnome waiting for more than twenty of us to be safely across, before he used his sling against me?” questioned Mynar dyl, enraged by the attack.

  The fair warlord’s finely drawn mouth and hawk-like eyes expressed hatred. His malevolent gaze hardened his facial expression. The afternoon light illuminated his features in striking detail; a temporary, arresting portrait that seemed to capture his personality.

  As soon as Mynar dyl had been lifted onto solid ground, the matriarch had immediately come to his side and provided him with care. Her long, shimmering hair seemed to create a mysterious aura around her. She wore a long green gown with the hood thrown back. A silver necklace, from which hung her emerald rune, adorned her simple and rather severe garb.

  With her eyes half-closed; Myryae thought to herself.

  “It is said that no movement can escape a Gnome’s eyes, and that his slingshot never misses its target.”

  Camatael was also present by the wounded’s side. After returning from the depths of the gorge, he had reported his fight with the Gnome to the two other Llymar ambassadors. The young lord did not sustain serious injuries, but he had still not fully recovered from the encounter. Nevertheless, he felt compelled to react. Somehow, Mynar dyl’s complaining irritated him.

  “I understand you are angry; I think that is justified… but I fail to see how this attempt on your life could have been premeditated. How could anyone know you would be among this retinue from Llymar? Indeed, Neryn dyl Llyvary was meant to be the captain commanding our units, until the very last moment when you decided to join us.”

  This last remark drew Myryae’s attention. Curious, she asked. “Why did you come with us in the end, Mynar dyl? You came aboard our ship just before we set sail. The hour was growing late.”

  Sweat still dripping from his brow, the warlord, breathless, hesitated before responding. “I had my reasons…”

  The answer proved too vague. “Well, I ask you to share those reasons with us!” urged Myryae with a palpable impatience.

  She looked him square in the face, as though the intensity of her gaze could force him to reveal what he was hiding. The secretive Myryae seemed, at first sight, a compassionate priestess, staying silent whenever she could, only ever reveal
ing her thoughts after lengthy observation. Nevertheless, Camatael considered her a powerful, noble lady, whose true nature was concealed behind a tranquil façade.

  The silent confrontation lasted a while. Mynar dyl adjusted the three white feathers hanging from a dark green cloth tied around his brown hair.

  “I did not want anyone to know in advance that I was heading to the Nargrond Valley,” he confided at last. “I wanted my involvement in the Pact Gathering to be kept secret until the very end...

  I feared the druids in particular. The Daughter of the Islands warned me against them. Though she is meant to have authority upon them, the Arkylla does not trust most of them, especially those shape-changers coming from the ranks of Men. The cult of Eïwele Llya is organized unlike any other temple. Freedom and independence are the base principles of that faith. Druids do not easily bow before authority.”

  “That is most true,” Myryae agreed. “The cult of Eïwele Llya is home to both Elves and Men of all origins. No one could say for sure that all druids are reliable. They have dealings with almost all of the factions on the Islands, even the Dark Elves…”

  Seeing that this line of excuse was working, Mynar dyl added insidiously, “They also have dealings with the Gnomes… Oron is filled almost to its centre with the children of Gweïwal Agadeon, the guardians of mines, and of precious stones…

  I am sure that druid spies knew of my coming as soon as we penetrated Nargrond Valley. Swarming swallows were flying several days above our trail.”

  Once again, Myryae seemed convinced. “Indeed. I came to the same conclusions at the time.”

  Camatael looked around. The Elves of clan Llyvary had been positioned by their captain in a defensive formation around the three ambassadors. Some were hiding in tree branches, bows in hand, while a line of spears and shields had been positioned in a circle close around them. Green cloaks and hoods comingled in the canopy, making their group almost invisible. Tension had eased, and the situation now looked under control.

  “This is all nonsense. I believe you give yourself too much importance, Mynar dyl. You are creating this fabulous tale out of fear,” Camatael suggested.

  ‘That lonely Gnome was acting on his own,’ the young lord thought.

  Irritated by what he judged to be an insulting comment, Mynar dyl countered, “I have reason to fear. I have come to the Nargrond Valley for a specific purpose. I wanted my presence to remain secret for that same purpose.”

  The matriarch rose from her seat; Camatael admired her tall, thin and gracious stature. Myryae was now determined to clear up the concerns and ambiguities which were arising from Mynar dyl’s babbling.

  “Your words are full of riddles. Don’t you think that now is the time to let us know the truth?”

  Camatael added insistently, with a clear intent to place the burden of responsibility upon the warlord, “Your secrecy, Mynar dyl, is placing the entire delegation of Llymar and its envoy in danger.”

  Mynar dyl looked like prey cornered by hounds. He had lost most of his beautiful, steely veneer; his body, covered with bruises and scars, looked weak and vulnerable.

  “I have come to Nargrond Valley to see justice done,” he admitted at last.

  “What do you mean?” questioned Myryae, utterly surprised.

  “The Renegade is hiding near us,” Mynar dyl explained. “I know from Curwë, who he took as prisoner in Llafal, that his purpose is to interfere with the Pact Gathering. The Renegade might well be within the Nargrond Valley as we speak. Indeed, he could be lurking very close…”

  “Surely you have made this all up. It is simply too difficult to believe. Why would Dyoren come to the very place where all those who seek him are gathering? He must have found a much safer hideout.”

  The matriarch was not convinced.

  Mynar dyl sat up, leaning on the tree trunk. Feeling on the defensive, he wanted to reply. The warlord was never as fierce an opponent as when he was under attack.

  “He is not hiding at all. Instead, he has come to fulfil his knight’s vows: to capture one of the legendary swords, Lynsing. The Renegade believes the bearer of the Blade of the South will be there, at the Pact Gathering. In his troubled mind, he believes that he can seize this moment of vulnerability and recover the sword.”

  Myryae doubted the rationality of this reasoning. “Assaulting one of the participants during the Pact Gathering, I cannot see anything more dangerous. One might as well sail the Sea of Cyclones in the middle of Eïwele Llyo’s season. The circles of druids will guarantee the security of all participants.”

  Mynar dyl was not short of arguments. “The task looks impossible, I agree. But I have spent a good deal of time thinking like the Renegade does. If he wanted to get close to one of the participants, he would need to infiltrate a delegation. The Renegade has forged many alliances over time, and has bonds with more factions than you would think: wild druids, Elvin outcasts and perhaps also… Gnomes…”

  Myryae possessed a deep knowledge of the Islands and its people. Again, she failed to concur.

  “It would be unreasonable to assume that Dyoren has enough influence to order the Gnomes of Nargrond Valley to murder you! History has proven, time and again, that they are always reluctant to interact with Elves. The Gnomes are known as crafty and intelligent creatures who do not meddle with the habits of others. The children of Gweïwal Agadeon are reclusive beings, obsessed by their own considerations.”

  “It is written in the Lonyawelye that Gnomes are not interested in the affairs of Elves,” Camatael added, echoing the matriarch’s statement.

  But Mynar dyl would not relent. “I did not mean to accuse the Gnomes… I rather thought of an assassin, acting on his own… why not? The Renegade knows I am after him, and he will stop at nothing to complete his quest. This is his last opportunity to redeem his honour.”

  Myryae and Camatael remained silent. Though their doubts still lingered, Mynar dyl’s cohesive and sustained arguments concerned them deeply. The warlord observed their silence with keen eyes. The discussion had reinvigorated him. He felt encouraged to say more.

  “I have thought hard about this riddle. I have accumulated considerable evidence. And, over the course of researching the numerous manuscripts the Renegade wrote about his quest, I found his writings threw a great deal of light on questions we were originally forced to leave unanswered… And I have reached a conclusion.”

  At this point, he lowered his voice, forcing his two listeners to lean in closer.

  “I believe the Renegade will hide himself among the clan Llorely. Remember, his father was from that bloodline. The Renegade has always enjoyed the support and guidance from the azure seagull of Llorely. Growing up, his father was his only role model, and I do not doubt he has inherited a very similar disposition. Unlike Voryn dyl and me, he never demonstrated the respect he owed to our mother, and to the Ernaly. Personally, I have always considered him a seagull, far more than a hawk of our own.”

  From the moment that Mynar dyl had evoked Dyoren’s name as a potential suspect in the attack they had just endured, Myryae was troubled by a pernicious question looming in her mind.

  “You said you were seeking justice, Mynar dyl. Why would that be? Dyoren has not rebelled against you. What he did was deny the authority of the Secret Vale, by keeping hold of the precious blade. He refused to return Rymsing and be stripped of his rank and duties. Though it is a crime according to the laws of the Dyoreni, it has nothing to do with you. I cannot understand why you are so fixated on your half-brother’s fate.”

  With a most stubborn air, Mynar dyl replied. “I have my reasons,” and his cold tone implied the worse.

  Again, Myryae pressed him. “If you want our support, you must tell us what those reasons are.”

  “The Renegade killed Voryn dyl,” Mynar dyl accused.

  “How could that be?” asked Myryae in complete surprise.

  Fully releasing the hatred inside him, the warlord poured out a stream of recycled theories,
“He killed my brother... and worse still, after cutting the life of his own kin, the Renegade refused to carry out the ritual tributes owed to Eïwele Llyo. Voryn dyl’s body was never found in Nyn Ernaly. The matriarchs of my clan looked far and wide for it. Even the Daughter of the Islands became involved. They used their extraordinary divinatory powers to find Voryn dyl’s body. And they failed.

  There can only be one force powerful enough to conceal the fate of a dead Llewenti from those great weavers of the Islands’ Flow…

  The Swords of Nargrond Valley have this power…

  The legendary blades cannot be found, they cannot be detected by any craft that the high mages, the matriarchs or even the Arkys control. The deeds of their wielders remain unknown, protected by the secrecy surrounding the blades and their location.

  I owe that knowledge to the Daughter of the Islands herself.

  Only one such blade was ever found after the fall of Nargrond Valley; Rymsing, the Blade of the West, and the glaive of the Renegade.”

  The arguments he just laid out were proving convincing, given the dismay that could be read on his interlocutors’ faces. Mynar dyl pushed his advantage further, now using a tone full of sadness and regret.

  “Voryn dyl’s soul now wanders into the dark tunnels of the underworld and cannot find its way to the halls of Eïwele Llyo. He has been denied any chance of reincarnation. This thought obsesses me… Now, I am the last dyl of clan Ernaly, the last hawk of the forest.”