The Valley of Nargrond

by C A Oliver

  “Is that so? How could this escape my attention?”

  “You were not told, nor was Mynar dyl, whereas Matriarch Myryae and Lord Camatael took part in the ceremony alongside Terela.”

  “How disappointing!”

  “I have discovered that the Arkys wield considerable power. If they do not wish someone to attend their secret meetings, they can ensure his absence.”

  “Your star must have risen high in the sky! Why would you be invited to such a holy moment when I was not?”

  Alton’s gaze showed pride. He was an arrogant character with high self-esteem, and haughtily viewed all others as being beneath him.

  “No winged horse has ever paid me a visit, noble Dol. I attended without invitation, without being detected.”

  “I am impressed you managed to elude these mighty guests at their special celebration. You are no ordinary Elf, Master Aertelyr!”

  “You pay generously for my skills, noble Dol.”

  “Now tell me precisely what you saw!”

  The guild master of the Breymounarty began to relate what he had witnessed. Of the hundred Elves in the camp that night, only he had been unaffected by the spell that impaired all others. His story was short but detailed. He recounted the events in his usual concise style, sticking to the facts and avoiding dramatic embellishment.

  After detailing the number and identity of all the ceremony’s participants, Aertelyr’s factual account ended with the Arkys and their guests disappearing into the tunnel to Rowë’s vault. What Aertelyr said next was pure conjecture: he had felt the passage to the Secret Vault trembling and guessed that the princess and the matriarch had handed over their control of the Flow to the Arkys.

  Alton felt the need to sit down, such was his emotion at this revelation.

  “So, the commitment has been sealed: both Cumberae and Llymar acknowledge the Secret Vale as their liege!

  At last, the Arkys have understood how seriously the world of Elves is under threat: from the factions of Men but also from the king of Gwarystan. It is the first time in history that the Secret Vale has taken a side. Our future suddenly looks less gloomy.”

  Alton was evidently relieved at the news. It was to his surprise, therefore, when Aertelyr contradicted him with a severe tone.

  “The events I witnessed mean nothing of the sort. Can you not see the true purpose of this secret meeting? Your naivety surprises me.”

  “Is it naïve to watch with delight as a flower bud begins to open?” Alton replied with false candour, and with a quick gesture of the hand the elegant Elf picked a snow-white rose from the wild hedges lining the path.

  “You should take these developments seriously, noble Dol,” insisted Aertelyr. “That night marked the rise of a new elite class of priests. They have always considered themselves to be wiser than the noblest Elves. The Arkys are merely pretending to protect us from the threat of Men. Their true ambition is to rule the Islands themselves, and it is not hard to imagine how. Llymar and Cumberae will now be required to support the Secret Vale with tributes. For the time being, it is limited to our share of the Islands’ Flow, but it will quickly extend to other types of taxes: gold, jewels...”

  “Ah, ah!” Alton exclaimed. “You always pay the keenest attention when gold is brought into the equation.”

  “Gold is everything!” the guild master of the Breymounarty cried, as if he were making a heartfelt appeal.

  Alton raised an eyebrow in disgust. “I thought that Ice Elves had cold hearts,” he said, “and now I know they do.”

  The expression on his delicate face suggested he could not disagree more with his master spy.

  “Your obsession with riches, Master Aertelyr, is unhealthy. Why not cure yourself of this disease, and donate to the poor Elves of Cumberae after the devastation they have suffered?”

  Aertelyr laughed at that. “I did not know you shared your noble cousin’s generosity!”

  Alton looked offended. “Do not question my commitment to Terela! May the Gods strike me down if I am not her loyal servant and fervent admirer. So beautiful is the princess, I would kiss her feet if only to make her smile…” and to illustrate his lewder meaning, Alton stuck out his tongue obscenely.

  Aertelyr smiled a sly grin at this. He came to his point.

  “I know Terela did not support this diplomatic initiative in the first place. It must have been the prince, her father, who convinced her to kneel before the Arkys in the end.”

  “Well, what other choice did he have after this summer’s upheavals? A wise daughter always listens to her father,” said Alton with a moralizing tone.

  “The princess’ first instinct was very different, and I agreed with her then. Let me warn you against this Arkylon and his ‘holy’ companions. Their power is considerable, for they influence the faith of many Elves across the Islands.

  My own belief is that they created the cult of Lon out of thin air. They themselves dreamt up this would-be demigod… this so-called ‘deity of wisdom’. How convenient it was all his sayings were collected in that supposedly sacred book! They are the only conduits, the only interpreters, the only gatekeepers of those divine teachings. The truth is this: Lon is nothing more than a dead Elf.”

  Alton brought his hands to his head, as if in peril.

  “Oh! My ears are ringing… These are blasphemous words. Your unholy fables remind me of those propagated by the Morawenti when they were led by their chief, the fondly remembered Saeröl. If memory serves, that great artist ended his career at the bottom of Gwarystan Rock…

  Beware, Master Aertelyr, of what you are saying! The legacy of Lon the Wise deserves better. I suggest you take up the ‘Lonyawelye’ again. It is full of good advice. One passage springs to mind at this moment;

  ‘The original source of all vices is greed. It has an inordinate appetite for suffering.’

  You should think upon those words. Who knows? It might benefit you.”

  Aertelyr was unimpressed by this warning. He pursued his rhetoric with the same conviction.

  “The Arkys developed a mythology that differs from the old Llewenti clans, and they claim to enlighten their followers with new truths. The Elves of the Islands were relieved of the ‘unworthy’ Myos and Ffeyn, vile deities of chaos, incompatible with the Hawenti values. They were given the wise Lon in exchange.

  I wonder if the real Lon, who walked alongside Rowë in the valley of Nargrond, even vaguely resembled the divine Eïwal Lon invented by the Arkys. I wonder if he would even recognize his ‘teachings’ we now live by. I sincerely doubt it.

  His sayings were only gathered long after he disappeared. Any witnesses who could have verified them were already buried beneath the ruins of Yslla and Ystanargrond.

  If these witnesses could speak, their story would be quite different. The smiths of Yslla never considered their young companion Lon to be a Demigod. They simply called him Lon Dol Valra, took him under their wing and taught him most of what he knew. Why?

  Because Lon was simply the son of Meoryne Dol Valra. The fact that his father was unknown is not proof of his own divine essence.

  Stitching together disparate fragments of Llewenti superstition, the Arkys invented a new doctrine with its own canon of myths. Its message was unique: that all of us, High and Free Elves alike, are the seeds of Llyoriane, and the promised Islands are our refuge… this is a belief that was deliberately designed to resonate with the greatest possible number of the Archipelago’s Elves.

  The Arkys’ triumph was simply to adapt the old Llewenti beliefs and make them compatible with Hawenti morality. They created a religion for all Elves, regardless of their origin. Their Secret Vale is the imaginary temple towards which all weak, gullible Elves can turn to address their prayers.”

  For the most part, Aertelyr would only ever discuss business with Alton; indeed, this was the first time Alton had heard him even mention religious matters. The firm conviction Aertelyr was now demonstrating proved that there was more to the guild master
of the Breymounarty than first met the eye.

  All the same, Alton was growing impatient. The truth was that this conversation, if overheard, could seriously damage him. When he next spoke, it was no longer the habitual babbling of a disillusioned high-born Elf, but the commanding tone of a Dol Nos-Loscin scion.

  “I will not hear one word more of these theories. Is that clear?” Aertelyr nodded, but Alton’s irritation got the better of him. “In any case, why should we care?” he snapped.

  “The answer to that seems obvious to me,” replied Aertelyr, unmoved.

  “Continue.”

  “The Arkys’ motive is power… Their means are the spiritual force of the Islands’ cults…

  Noble Dol, the only thing Terela has secured by kneeling before the Secret Vale is more power for the Arkys themselves. Hidden out of harm’s way, the Arkys devote all their time to spiritual pursuits and other useless activities. That is all they do. That is all they have ever done. I once read the logbook of a famed navigator from clan Myortilys. This sailor claimed to have entered the Secret Vale and escaped alive.”

  Alton raised his eyebrows and blinked. “The delirious scribblings of a pathological liar! No common Elf has ever penetrated the Secret Vale and returned. Only the Dyoreni knights have ever been granted that privilege, and they say their memory is altered thereafter. I remember Dyoren the Seventh telling me how, once he had left the Vale, he had been overwhelmed with a strange amnesia and disorientation, so that he could never have found his way back if he tried.”

  “I do not wish to challenge your core beliefs, noble Dol,” conceded Aertelyr, his words like honey. “I know how important it is for you to believe in a higher power.”

  “I appreciate your sensitivity, master navigator! If only you were this sensitive more often. How painful it is, to be forever bowing before the prince and my cousin! The least I expect by way of compensation is for my subordinates to flatter me in turn. I am, after all, a Dol Nos-Loscin, am I not? Now get to the end of your entertaining story.”

  “I happen to know this clan Myortilys navigator quite well. I can assure you, he is not one to take accusations of falsehood lightly.”

  “Oh dear, Master Aertelyr, your Dark Elf fishmonger will have me quaking in my boots…”

  The guild master of the Breymounarty remained stolid despite Alton’s mockery.

  “This sailor,” he asserted, “gives us an account quite different from the legends we have come to believe. He reported how the Arkylon rules despotically over the Secret Vale. In his magnificent hall that was built to shelter the tomb of Queen Llyoriane, he feasts without respite. The sixty-six knights of the Secret Vale are his sons and daughters by his couplings with the high priestesses. He chose three concubines, so that there would always be one left over to satisfy him.”

  Alton stifled a laugh. “I must stop you here, Master Aertelyr. I will no longer take you seriously if you continue to credit such nonsense.”

  Undeterred by Alton’s warning, Aertelyr went on. “Who can tell whether these stories are true or false? Either way, I sense the Arkylon’s growing ambition: to be a great lord of Elves, ruling with an iron fist; to be a priest-king, maintaining the supremacy of his order in the name of righteousness; and to be a warlord, willing to sacrifice the lives of his followers in their thousands to defend what he calls truth, and what I call fanaticism.”

  “Frightening indeed! I think I understand what you are getting at… that our new alliance with the Secret Vale will not be good for the Breymounarty’s business,” concluded Alton.

  This conversation was proving tiring. Alton turned away from Aertelyr, and the sounds of the outside world once again flooded his consciousness.

  More than ever, Alton felt his sedan chair calling to him.

  He waited for the four knights carrying his personal litter to catch up with him. This sedan chair was more of a portable room, containing a large couch upon which the elegant ambassador could stretch out and rest. It was enclosed by curtains, protecting him from the elements and from the unwanted view of passers-by.

  Alton enjoyed the privileges his higher rank procured. Admittedly, he could not claim to belong to a royal Dor household, but nevertheless he felt proud to be a member of the most influential of all Hawenti noble houses: the Dol Nos-Loscin. As the four strongest Elves of his retinue lowered his sedan chair to the ground, Alton issued a stern warning.

  “You must be wary, my valiant knights of the Two-Winged Lions. We are walking the paths of the Nargrond Valley at night… a most dangerous place, haunted by the phantoms of our bloody history. Be mindful of your surroundings while I rest,” the elegant Elf demanded with his natural authority, knowing his commands would be strictly obeyed.

  *

  Same day, Nargrond Valley, Ystanargrond, dawn

  It was just before sunrise in Ystanargrond. The moon still shone with a splendid glow over the ruins of the Nargrond Valley’s once-great fortress.

  The former capital city of Lord Rowë had been built in the westernmost part of the valley, near the slopes of Mount Oryusk. It stood on a spur formed by a lava flow, facing north to the mouth of the Sian Senky. These ruins had suffered from further seismic events after being devastated during the battles between Elvin factions. Various layers of sediment now topped the lava which lay below the city. These layers had been created over the years by large landslides triggered by extended rainfall.

  Along with many Elvin settlements in the surrounding area, the ancient city was buried under a dozen feet of volcanic ash, carried from the erupting Mount Oryusk by wind from the Sea of Isyl. This land used to be home to sweet-smelling gardens and bounteous orchards, fair houses and tall towers, suspension bridges and paved streets, all the makings of the High Elves who lived there. All that remained now, however, was a faint echo of this past magnificence, like a dream one struggles to remember upon waking. The Elves had long abandoned this place, and the city had been conquered by ashes.

  But on that summer’s night, a new atmosphere reigned in this usually desolate place. An army of Elves and Men had entered the ruins of Ystanargrond. For a few days now, they had occupied its devastated walls. Servants had toiled tirelessly to erect tents for the troops. Flamboyant banners were billowing out from the top of high poles, as if to pay tribute to the beauty of the starry sky. The soldiers of the king’s army were resting, and all was quiet.

  Most were Hawenti. There were also some Llewenti, and fewer still Men of the West. All were on their last legs. After the long, forced marches they had endured, their bodies ached with exhaustion and they could barely keep their eyes open.

  Every province of the kingdom had sent its representatives. The Dor royal households and the Dol noble houses had come from the farthest corners of the Islands. All, without exception, had been conveyed to the Pact Gathering. Each city had sent its own units. But the druids had restricted each group to fifty guards, the same rule that had been applied to all other participants.

  The camp also sheltered the high mages of the Ruby College.

  In total, more than seven hundred Elves and Men formed the royal contingent. It could have almost been an invading army; such was its might.

  It was organised into elite units constituting the core force of each household. High-Elf forces were made up of cavalry commanded by knights and heavy infantry. Long swords and heavy spears were their favoured weapons, and scale armour or plate mail protected the tall, robust Hawenti fighters. The smaller-sized Llewenti filled the ranks of the lighter archers’ units.

  There were no priests of the Islands’ Cults in the royal army. Most of these Elves worshipped neither Gods nor deities, spurning the teachings of all cults, leaving such exaltation to others. The High Elves of Norelin’s kingdom only trusted in their own wisdom and generally abhorred the tyrannous side of the Gods’ teachings.

  Sentries had been positioned at regular interval on the parapet walls. They were surveying their surroundings with constant scrutiny. The tension was p
alpable. Though this army concentrated many battle-hardened units, it had established its camp behind the walls of Ystanargrond, as though it feared any proximity to the slopes of Mount Oryusk. Dark stories circulated among the soldiers, rumours of mysterious disappearances, of unknown witchcraft and of hidden threats.

  *

  Outside the royal camp’s boundaries, the silhouette of a Llewenti maid was slowly progressing along the edge of a stream. She was looking for rock fish, knowing that, in the early morning, they would be seeking the shelter of stones. The type of fish she was after was called Tyaying because of their small size. They were prized by Elves for their energising properties. To be successful catching these elusive creatures, a spear-fisher had to be quick and agile. The early dawn was the perfect time to fish for Tyaying; any later, and the fisher’s shadow would scare them away.

  That morning, the maid was finding it impossible to catch them, so great was their speed and vigilance.

  “Damn you!” she cursed. “Cirlaene will not be pleased if I come back empty-handed.”

  Disappointed and anxious, she turned her attention towards the plants growing in the wet soil nearby. Her mentor had taught her all about medicinal herbs and the art of healing, thanks to which she now earned her living, preparing remedies for her master, a powerful high mage of the Ruby College.

  Beneath the trees along the small riverbank, she noticed footprints. Even though they were partly covered by the long, fragrant grass, she could tell these tracks were unusual.

  ‘How strange!’ the maid thought as she looked to the heavens. ‘What animal these belonged to, I cannot tell.’