by C A Oliver
Turning her attention back to the task at hand, she wandered further from the camp along a small stream that ran down the nearby vale.
A screeching noise suddenly filled her ears. Some kind of flying creature had brushed past the back of her head. The sheer shock knocked her off-balance and sent her toppling into the stream.
When she stood up in the water moments later, she found herself facing a Dryad. The tree nymph was standing on the bank beneath the green willows.
The unsettling creature was shaped not unlike an Elvin female, but with tiny wings dancing like shadows at her back. Her face seemed to be constantly changing: one moment she would appear young, the next very old, her features apparently morphing at will.
The Dryad offered to help the Elf. When the maid heard her voice, she felt more confident. The Llewenti considered forest spirits to be friendly creatures, protégées of the Mother of the Islands.
After the shock had worn off, the maid allowed the Dryad to join her herb-picking, and they both set off swimming slowly down the stream. In truth, more time was spent splashing each other and playing silly games than collecting medicinal herbs.
The sun, at that early hour of morning, began to peer through the Nargrond Valley from the east, skimming its beam along the plane of the horizon.
The first rays now pierced the trees’ canopy. The sky became red. The maid looked at the stones in the stream which had become red too. A strange light seemed to be emanating from the surface of the water around her. She glanced back at her playmate. The vivid sunlight dispelled the Dryad’s shape-shifting magic.
‘Aye! It’s an uncanny place’ the maid thought, looking around with an almost fearful expression in her usually bold grey eyes.
The Dryad’s true nature was soon revealed as the illusions it had woven began to subside.
The creature now appeared like a grotesque, hellish variant of an Elf, with wings, claws and fangs that left no doubt as to its fiendish origin. Its demonic gaze expressed power and cunning.
The maid was struck with panic. She stood still in the water, frozen by terror. Her mind was racing. Like a waking nightmare, she was facing a malicious, otherworldly creature, a demon that surged from the most terrorizing tales of her childhood. Legend had it these Fiends were depraved beings who, after seducing their victims, shape-shifted, and raped them.
She was suddenly blinded by an unnatural darkness. She scrambled up the bank and prepared to defend herself, but an injunction uttered by the creature impeded any further movement.
"Voz razkodur! "
The maid hesitated for a moment, not knowing what she could do, but already the winged creature was on her. It knocked her down, then tied her hands with a thin rope. Overwhelmed with terror, the maid struggled valiantly, but the superior strength of her attacker deprived her of any hope. She was dragged unceremoniously along the banks of the stream. Her terrorized face, dripping and swollen, looked up at her aggressor in horror.
The two reached a thick bush, a tangle of thickets and brambles, forming what looked like an impassable barrier. But soon the winged creature had removed the branches that masked the beginning of a path. Even an Elf skilled in the ways of the woods could not have detected this hidden opening. The narrow track went down a hundred feet through the woods before reaching a grove of trees which surrounded a deep chasm.
The Fiend quickly pulled out long ropes that had been hidden in the foliage of the trees, binding its victim further. Firmly tied to the trunks, the ropes facilitated a quick retreat into the chasm. Their descent began, the creature hauling her down like captured prey. Fifty feet below, an underground river bathed the bottom of the chasm, beyond which was only darkness. The Fiend took out a torch, carefully stored in the folds of the rock wall and well protected from the water. It uttered a single incantation and the wooden stick was lit. The sound of the river drowned out the crackling of the torch.
The underground torrent plunged before them towards a large cave in a tumult of bubbling waters. The creature turned its torch towards an opening in the wall a few feet above them. They continued through a narrow tunnel, carved in stone and covered with soot. Smells of smoke reached them. The heat became more intense. More than three hundred paces were thus covered, then the passage widened and led to a vast cavern. The maid could not help but utter an exclamation of terror.
“Eïwal Vars! Save me!” she implored.
In front of them lay a vast hall, more than four hundred feet deep, a hundred feet wide, and whose roof rose in places to the height of a pine tree. The young Elf’s eye was drawn by the construction at its centre, an inverted pyramid facing the bowels of the earth. Its tip pointed downwards into a large well of molten lava. Large braziers were arranged at regular intervals on the steps of the pyramid. The light they provided was reflected upon the cave’s roof and illuminated the whole cavern.
The desperate Elf understood she was inside an unholy place of worship dedicated to the cult of Gweïwal Narkon, the Greater God of Fire, Father of Dragons and Demons.
The winged creature dragged her down the stairs by her hair. Once at the bottom, it tore the beautiful silk of her robes to shreds. Like an evil spirit of lust, the Fiend seized the maid, its own aggressive nakedness now openly displayed.
It attacked her with brutal force, overpowering her futile defences. Soon it raped the young Elf before howling a hellish cry.
In an instant, the Fiend’s carnal body disappeared. A fiery dark smoke dissipated gradually into the victim, penetrating her mouth and nostrils.
After a time, the maid realized she was still alive. Though her body had been severely bruised and the pain in her belly was almost unbearable, she managed to stand up and started retracing her steps. A moment later, she fainted and fell to the ground.
*
When the maid awoke, she felt powerless to speak, like an Elf who awakes from an indescribable dream. She knew what had happened but could not speak it.
Around her, the lively, cold waters of the stream surged along the stones of its bed, and the willows swayed above. Everything was the same as before.
But she sensed something changing within her. Her sense of self had somehow expanded, strengthened; she felt capable of shaking the heavens and moving the earth, like a great warrior with a mystic sword. The maid had always been told to keep quiet. She was forever cooking for her master, washing the dishes, making his bed, cleaning his quarters, tending to his garden, all without a word of gratitude. She had not even begun to learn the art of dancing, to which she wanted to dedicate her life. The years passed, and she felt angry about her lot.
“If Cirlaene stands in my way, I’ll cut her down. She has never rewarded my efforts!
If the master tries to impede me, I’ll get rid of him too. I hate the filthy looks that eunuch gives me!” she proclaimed.
The young Elf glanced keenly ahead to the distant point which marked the entrance to the army camp. Already, in the first rays of sun, a low hill could be seen, dotted with the ancient ruins of House Dol Nargrond’s mansions. Above them shone the brazen roof of the Ruby College’s great tent, which capped the entrenched camp, a gleaming dot against the pale morning sky.
The maid walked back towards the fortress’ ruins and went directly to the two guards who were positioned at the west gate. Their long lances and the swooping griffon on their shields denoted their allegiance to the House of Dol Ogalen. The taller sentry asked her where she was coming from.
“From the small vale where the river runs,” she replied.
“Your robes are wet and dirty,” the smaller sentry noted.
“I had to swim in the stream.”
“You know it is prohibited to go that far?” asked the taller sentry.
“I do,” she admitted bluntly, without any sense of guilt.
Neither of the two guards could shake off the strange impression this early encounter left upon them. It was as if some miasma had risen from the dank trenches of the vale and passed into their
blood. Finally, the taller sentry recovered and addressed the maid again.
“When did you leave camp?” He was wondering if the young Elf would continue with her brusque answers.
“An hour before dawn. I had tasks to complete for my master. He is one of the high mages,” and the maid looked the guard in the eye.
The smaller sentry tried to intervene but was rebuked by his companion, who was visibly unhappy with the maid’s discourteous responses.
“Do not wander outside of the camp again or I shall give you three blows with a stick!” he threatened.
“But for now, you are forgiven. Get moving,” concluded the smaller sentry.
Since the maid had referred to a member of the Ruby College, he thought it best to err on the side of caution.
For a moment, it seemed as if the sound of the sentry’s voice had not reached the maid’s ear. She tipped her head forwards, like moving her ear closer to the source of the sound. The two sentries did not understand this odd movement but chose to let her go.
They remained silent and contemplative. They were both preoccupied with the same thought.
A moment later, the young Llewenti was walking through the camp’s alleys. Entering this maze was easy enough but finding her way among the many tents and carts required a keen eye. With what looked like sheer indolence, the maid ignored the strange glances of the waking soldiers as she passed them by. She was barely covered by her torn, filthy dress, and this deliberate negligence shocked their sensibilities.
The High Elves sought order and design in all facets of life. The rule of all Hawenti organisations, from the greatest realm to the smallest guild, was extremely hierarchical. The College of the Ruby was no exception. Their need for the strictest order was evidenced by the way they had organised their encampment. Four larger red tents framed the main edifice. Eight other smaller ones formed a second square around it.
The maid was moving towards the far western corner of that symmetrical layout when a Man with dark hair and blue eyes caught her by the arm.
“Why are you not wearing your ceremonial robes? The sun is already high in the sky. You are late, marauding Elf,” questioned the Westerner.
“I answer to my master alone,” the maid responded defiantly, and she glanced away towards the red tent standing but a dozen yards away.
The young Elf did not so much as shudder, even though she was confronting Turang Mowengot, one of the knights of the Golden Hand, a well-known servant of the king, dreaded for his murderous ways.
A Hawenti lady with a severe-looking face and impeccable dress came out on the steps of the red tent. She called for her attendant to come at once.
“I am here, Cirlaene. I would come if this Man were not delaying me,” the maid responded vehemently.
The Westerner hesitated for a moment. He started opening his mouth but thought better of it.
‘If she has the nerve to talk to me in that way, this girl cannot present a risk,’ thought the knight of the Golden Hand. And he moved away, though his keen eye ogled the young Elf for a good few moments more.
Meanwhile, Cirlaene was looking furious, her eyes bulging and her chest heaving, so enraged was she at her maid’s delay. She had always insisted upon impeccable behaviour and rigorous discipline from all her staff. They were both servants of one of the most powerful Elves in the kingdom.
“You have completely disgraced me this morning. The master has been waiting for his rockfish. He told me how disappointed he was. I hope you have a good excuse for this lateness. You owe me an apology.”
“Why should I apologise?” the maid asked aggressively, no longer controlling her inner fury.
She looked at Cirlaene with a murderous gaze. This shocked and frightened the lady to such a degree that she fainted, lost her balance and fell from the tent’s porch.
She hadn’t fallen from so great a height, barely two feet in fact, but Cirlaene was unlucky, striking her head on the cold ground.
When the Hawenti lady returned to her senses, the first thing she focussed on was the unpainted wood of the steps she had fallen from. The timber boards were gleaming a fiery yellow where the sun was striking them. Cirlaene soon realized her knee was badly grazed. Both her left shoulder and wrist were sprained. There was no way she could get herself up, so sharp was the pain in her joints. Then, just as would happen in her most worrisome dreams, she heard her master call out from inside the red tent.
“I am ready to be dressed!”
Cirlaene’s heart started to beat faster, its rhythm becoming irregular. She was panicking; it felt as if she were trying to straighten a picture frame in a house that was collapsing. Desperate, she called out to her maid.
“Acyle!”
Unexpectedly, however, the young Elf put her fingers to the lips of her mistress, urging her to keep quiet.
“No words are necessary,” the maid said. “I know the path I must take. I know the duty I owe the master.”
Her eyes blazed with a mysterious fire as she pressed her fingers more firmly and whispered mysterious words.
“Cirlaene! You do not belong to the world of perception, nor do you belong to the invisible world. Cirlaene! Place yourself in the senseless world of dark fires.”
The lady fainted again and, before she completely lost consciousness, she felt a hand seizing a paper fan from her silk belt, and heard her attendant calling for aid.
“Guards! Come at once! Come! My mistress is not answering me!”
*
“Are you sure Cirlaene cannot attend to her duties? You know how highly I value her, an excellent servant. We are very few who can enjoy being served by a Hawenti lady,” said the high mage as he looked at his novice attendant with regret.
“I am afraid, master, that she is badly injured. The herbs master confirmed she needs rest. It was an unfortunate accident, but be assured I will serve you well,” said the Llewenti maid.
“Do not disappoint me, Acyle.”
Each day, the high mage had to be dressed. It was an important duty generally reserved for the first maid. It was well known in Gwarystan that ‘if a master dressed well, he would act well.’
Acyle set about performing the most delicate part of the dressing process: fitting her master’s undergarments and ensuring they were easy to remove. Acyle had seldom enjoyed this privilege whenever it had fallen to her in the past, but she knew how to do it well. She selected the best quality undergarments to ensure his skin would not be irritated.
‘The master must have been castrated early in his life,’ thought the young Elf as she delicately positioned his undergarments beneath the toga. ‘I can only imagine the ambition that must consume those young apprentices of the Ruby College if they are willing to accept this cruel ritual. How could an Elf mutilate himself like this? Is it merely to be close to the king and wield influence?’
It was common knowledge that all members of the Ruby College, whatever their rank or caste, had to be castrated. This was to ensure their fidelity to the royal court; it was thought only eunuchs could live without loyalties to noble houses, guilds and families of their own. With no offspring, they were less interested in building up a legacy, so were seen as more trustworthy.
Despite this unusual condition, Acyle’s master was no joyless monk. She knew him to be an insatiable lover of fine food; all his life he had eaten lavishly and at leisure. Indeed, as the maid was making the finishing touches to his official outfit, he was relishing an exquisite dish of trout and honey.
“You were far more prudish whenever you went near my private parts in the past. Today you showed no such confusion,” the high mage said unexpectedly, as if reading his servant’s superficial thoughts.
Her face showed a mischievous grin. He went on.
“King Lormelin established this tradition within the College just after setting foot on the Archipelago’s shores. The Conqueror claimed, ‘this bodily impairment will enhance the mind.’
What he really wanted was to deprive us of carnal
relationships, what the ancients used to call ‘mindless indulgence’. Since the tradition began, members of the College have had a reputation as trustworthy guardian of the royal household.
King Lormelin always insisted that, because we were so close to the supreme power, our minds must be balanced and controlled. He also pretended only this demonstration of loyalty would earn his trust.”
Feeling comfortable and relaxed, enjoying this moment of respite before the day began, the high mage began to reflect upon his life in Gwarystan.
“I always was something of a familiar figure at the royal court. I occupied various powerful positions behind the throne during King Lormelin’s long reign. The Conqueror even appointed me as regent of his heir’s estates when Norelin was underage. But, of course, you were not born at that time. Even most of your forefathers were not.
Times have somewhat changed…” regretted the ancient high mage.
Acyle, now filing her master’s nails, ventured something quite out of character for her. She asked him a question.
“Is it true that King Lormelin would be surrounded by members of the College whenever he was bathing or dressing?”
“Indeed, he was. Apprentices would act as a physical shield between the king and his Dol lords, who did not always have his best interests at heart.
