The Valley of Nargrond

by C A Oliver

  So, by his great power, with a single word and a wave of his hand, he transported her through the air and into the great tent. Falling onto the soil, she laid still in the middle of the pentacles. He tried calling to her but in vain.

  “If every bell in Gwarystan rang at once it could not disturb this young Llewenti! Her force comes from below this place, from deep underground, where the seeds of delusion dwell. If I cut her bond to them, she will wake and be vulnerable.”

  The Third Arcane Master approached.

  “This maid has two souls inside her, and one is very sick, for it was hurt by the wicked other. I will teach the intruder it is forbidden to come out from one shell and enter another. The time has come for the two elements to separate. Vile demon, I will make you loosen your claws.”

  No sooner had he spoken, the First mage went in front of the young Elf and sprang her up from the earth and made her bow in front of the northern pentacle, the rune of Water. In that instant, the maid came out of her deep meditation.

  Holding out a short staff of gold, the Third Arcane Master gave an order of life and death, positive and negative interwoven. The maid could not escape this attack.

  First, the three fingers of the maid’s gracious hand were struck off. They fell upon the pedestal beside her. Above her delicate breast, a dark mark showed. A blast of energy disfigured her lovely face.

  Most servants fled at the scene. The maid of the Twelfth Arcane Master stood paralyzed by horror. Gasping and croaking, her hand covered her mouth as she gazed fixedly on the disfigured face of her fellow servant.

  The invisible forces circling around the demoniac maid brutally contorted her body. Now naked, she was fully exposed to the power of the high mages.

  The Fourth Arcane Master walked in front of the mutilated young Elf. In a single, sudden movement, he waived his golden staff in the air, leapt upon a nearby pedestal and showered his blows upon her. With a crack and a dull thud, her right leg dropped to the ground. Another fierce blow, and the left followed. Her corpse fell.

  But the demoniac maid’s brutal laughter echoed through the great tent.

  “Take heed while you have time! For the end of your world is at hand!

  And when that day comes, there will be no mercy for those who tried to rise to the level of Gweïwal Narkon!”

  The Fourth Arcane Master then wiped the sweat from his brow. “She is yours, Anaron. Do with her as you will,” he said.

  As the most high-ranking mage of the College moved forward, a smear of blood across his chin showed how hard he had bitten his lip to summon the power he was ready to unleash. He cried a formidable word of power and shouted.

  “Hella Gweïwal tur, Orgo!”

  The soil beneath the maid’s corpse opened and her remains were propelled by a mighty force into a dark chasm.

  A moment later, all signs of what had happened in the great tent of the Ruby College had disappeared. No blood marks, no severed limbs: it was as if the presence of the demoniac Elf had simply been an illusion.

  “The demon’s spirit was sent back to the realm of Narkon,” proclaimed the First Arcane Master. “We are now in peace and will be able to resume our talks. More than ever, we have a lot to discuss.”

  *

  Same day, Nargrond Valley, South of Eïwele Llya grove, sunset

  It was nightfall in the camp of the Cumberae and Llymar units. Across the moonlit water of the Sian Senky river, amid the thick woods which stretched between the mountains’ slopes, lay hidden the encampments of the other factions that would attend the Pact Gathering the next morning.

  The air was clear, now fully rid of the clouds and fumes which usually obscured this western part of Nargrond Valley. It was only now, the evening before the Pact Gathering, that Mount Oryusk, like a welcoming host reassuring his guests, had stopped emitting its poisonous smoke and harmful particles into the valley.

  The volcano’s eastern side, with its greyish soil, its green belt of feathery trees and its background of barren, reddish slopes, shimmered in the dying sun like a dreamscape in the fading light. The occasional buzzard excepted, the sky was empty, stretching out in serene dark blue as far the eye could see. In all its infinite expanse, there was no star but one, Cil, the light of hope, which was slowly making its way across the celestial vault.

  The column formed by the troops of Llymar and Cumberae had reached its destination. After journeying southwest, they had crossed the Sian Senky river, and finding there a rocky hill rising from a deep vale, they had settled near its summit.

  The fighters were setting up camp for the night, barely two leagues away from the grove of Llya where the Pact Gathering would take place the next day.

  There were fish in the stream, the area teemed with game and there was an abundance of wild fruits. The defensive preparations they were carrying out were not unduly interrupted by the search for sustenance.

  Seen from afar, the princess of Cumberae’s tent appeared like a beautiful vessel, deep green in colour, its broad flapping canvas stained with golden decorative motifs. Its poles were gleaming with brass work. From the single high mast above the large tent streamed the rose-striped flag of Cumberae. That banner, a symbol of purity and of beauty, united House Dol Nos-Loscin and the Ice Elves of the great southern forest.

  Inside the command tent, the princess’ guards had replaced their weapons with cooking utensils. The delicious smell of dinner being prepared awakened their senses.

  Elves subsisted on various fruits and vegetables and their taste was generally extremely discerning. They had strong preferences for delicate dishes, particularly those that possessed a great degree of subtlety when combining sweet and sour flavours.

  As for drink, the princess’ guards drew water from the cold mountain springs. The woodlands where grapevines grew were now very far away, so they would have to wait for better days to enjoy their most savoured refreshments.

  Terela remained alone after Camatael had paid his respects and left for the night. She was praying in the corner of her tent where a little shrine, curtained off by silken drapery, held a precious statue of Eïwal Lon. The beautiful work of art was the greatest treasure of her personal collection. To finish her evening ritual, Terela kissed the beautiful body of glistening marble. The material was as white and fair as sunlight itself, which undoubtedly had been the source of the artist’s inspiration.

  At the command tent’s entrance, a light gleamed upon the knights of the Rose’s helmets as they stood guard outside. A red point rose and fell in the darkness. Outside the tent, Alton was approaching, a magical light glittering from his long ivory staff. His six personal knights were marching on his heels.

  The elegant Elf had changed much since the early morning when he had retired into his sedan chair. His fresh young face was now hardened with tensed lines, wrought by trouble and anguish. But his eyes were more cunning than ever.

  At the entrance, the two knights raised their lances. After a brief hesitation, they let him enter the princess’ quarters.

  Terela rose, and her fair cheeks flushed with resentment. She looked at her cousin with contempt as he walked in. Though the distance that separated the command tent from his sedan chair was short, he seemed to have been running several leagues. His awkward steps betrayed his weak muscles and low endurance.

  “We’ve not seen you all day, Alton! Your knights protected your litter as if you were at death’s door inside. For a while, I thought you had left us forever. Did you think I would not require your services?”

  Ignoring both Terela’s concerns and her blameful tone, Alton looked at his cousin as though she were the first Elvin face, he had seen in a whole year. His expression demonstrated that his heart was yearning for her.

  “Unimaginable, unthinkable, …” he blurted, his flushed face almost level with that of Terela.

  “If you wish to address your princess, it would be well to choose words your lips can frame,” she reminded him.

  Alton paused for a moment, thi
nking to himself, totally oblivious to his noble cousin’s reactions. It was plain that the elegant Elf was not acting himself in that moment, such was the powerful emotion obscuring his mind. Although he was known as a solitary and peculiar Elf, never before had the princess seen him behave this strangely.

  "Have you ever thought, Terela, how that clan Llorely sentry must have felt when he first saw Lormelin the Conqueror’s fleet sailing the barren ocean?"

  “No,” the princess replied simply, though she could not help smiling, so unexpected was her cousin’s question.

  “Well, I have,” Alton answered, deadly earnest. “This question has always remained unasked and unanswered. You will think me foolish, but I have obsessed over it for a long time. I wonder: what would I have done in his position?

  Can you imagine that lonely Elf, at his post, at the top of an isolated beacon overlooking the vast expanses of the Austral Ocean? For centuries, that Llewenti and probably his predecessors had remained in that watchtower, exposed to the elements and dying of ennui… until that morning came. The vast sea was filled with the coloured sails of dozens of Irawenti ships, carrying in their bowels the formidable army of the High Elf king. After centuries of performing this duty for nothing, the time had come for that lonely Elf to sound the alarm. What a tragic fate for an insignificant guard!”

  “Alton, your story is certainly interesting, but time is of the essence. What are you trying to tell me?” Terela pressed, looking at her cousin with impatience.

  “What’s important is what I want to confess to you,” corrected the elegant Elf.

  “I am listening,”

  The princess’s first impulse was to be severe, to demonstrate her authority, but reflection and doubts followed close upon its heels.

  “If I were in that sentry’s place, I think I would have fled right away. Perhaps I would have taken the time to raise the alarm and alert my clan companions, but I would have definitely fled to the most remote isle of the Archipelago to hide from the devastation that was approaching the Islands’ shores.”

  “How courageous!” exclaimed Terela. “But that still does not explain what you are trying to convey.”

  “On the contrary, it does,” opposed Alton. “In this very moment, I am deciding to flee this valley. I will not stand by your side one hour longer if you should decide to pursue this path.”

  “How could you?” Terela asked, astonished by this admission of such weakness.

  “I can see it, just as that lonely sentry saw Lormelin’s fleet coming 2185 years ago: it is time to flee.”

  Terela chose to remain silent and stolid. She knew her cousin’s taste for theatrics well. Nothing could dissuade him from his drama once he had begun; the best strategy was to let him get to the final act of whatever little play he was performing. The princess folded her arms, looking severe.

  Indifferent to the lack of enthusiasm in his audience of one, Alton quickly moved to the conclusion of his tale.

  “I have come to know the true purpose of this Pact Gathering.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “As sure as the Two-Winged Lions are the arms of the House of Dol Nos-Loscin,” confirmed Alton, now grave.

  None in Cumberae had ever doubted his ability to foretell events. It was indisputable that Alton often knew things before others. The young Dol’s master in the art of divination was none other than Miglor Dol Nos Loscin, the most ancient Elf living in the Islands, and who many thought to be the wisest in the lore of sorcery.

  Seeing how certain her cousin was, Terela immediately guessed.

  “Is it all a trap? Is that why the Nargrond Valley was chosen as the location for this Pact Gathering?”

  Since the beginning of their expedition, the princess had sensed an unknown danger looming above their heads. She now needed her cousin to use his extraordinary augury powers to prove her intuition true.

  “It is. The high mages of the Ruby College are plotting a conspiracy. It will happen tomorrow as the Pact Gathering begins, when all its members are present.”

  “So, the king is seizing his chance to capture me…” Terela murmured.

  The last trace of any smile had disappeared from the face of the princess. The immediate future was suddenly very clear before her, and the prospect made her shrink.

  Alton noted how his cousin would always reduce matters of great importance to how they would affect her precious self. It was true that, unlike him, Terela descended from the elder branch of the Nos-Loscin family. Her father was a ruling prince, her mother the direct kin of an alleged Demi-god. Her own aunt had been no less than the queen of the Islands, the consort of Lormelin the Conqueror and the mother of Norelin.

  Nevertheless, Alton could not resist thinking.

  ‘I did not say her personal safety was at risk. This threat is not only about Terela. The other envoys of the Islands’ factions could also be in danger. I am at risk too.’

  But seeing he was making good progress with his strategy, he decided to encourage her in this same line of thinking: something his vivid imagination could do only too well.

  “Only this afternoon, I looked into the Flow and saw a dozen demonstrations of their sorcerous powers,” Alton began with a knowing tone. “This I do not doubt: they will be on us like ravens on a dying horse. It would be futile even for you to resist them. They might try to capture you, or worse. Who knows what fate an heirless king has in mind for a princess next in the line to the throne? He has already refused to marry you, but he may want you close to him still. Perhaps he would prefer to house you in his deepest dungeon, rather than at the top of the high tower of Melindro.

  I know many an Elf who would sell his soul just for the pleasure of putting his lips on your delicate skin. The fact that Norelin is your cousin will hardly have stopped his obsessive attraction for the curves of your thin body. It is said the king has developed unusual vices: some even say condemnable practises. With his twisted spirit, perhaps he will try to possess you against your will. The Dark Elves have it that there is no better ecstasy…”

  Ignoring her cousin’s insinuations, Terela acknowledged, “I’ve been so naïve… Clearer still grows the future. I can read the fear in your eyes after what you have foreseen.”

  “We must not take one step further towards that cursed mountain of smoke,” insisted Alton.

  Like one thinking aloud, Terela carried on, “If Norelin decided to forsake his pledge to the other sworn members of the Pact, no Elf in the Islands will feel safe anymore. Dishonour and shame will be upon the king, and all the High Elves will be disgraced with him.”

  Alton did not seem so sure of his kin’s sense of honour.

  “For all the High Elves have achieved since their coming, you cannot deny that the Archipelago is no land of ours, and that we hold it as we won it… by the sword. We have been winning wars though treachery and perjury since time immemorial…” he noted.

  But the elegant Elf feared that these wider considerations might steer the princess away from the issue at hand.

  “We cannot hesitate to give the necessary instructions,” he insisted with all his persuasive power. “Every fighter of ours must come with us at once. Our galleys are awaiting us at Ankalla. Get the order out, your highness. As our units fall back from Nargrond Valley, we can use the scouts we dispatched into the mountains to protect the southern path. Units of sailors can be sent from the galleys to escort us back to the coast. I can see to it all.”

  “What will be the fate of those Elves who stay? From the Three Columns to Mount Oryusk, old enemies will be at each other’s throats, as soon as the factions discover the Pact no longer holds.”

  “The hounds will tear at each other until the most powerful wins! None will escape save ourselves,” said Alton with gloom in his voice and bearing.

  As they talked, the two Dol Nos-Loscin cousins kept glancing, with earnest anxious faces, towards the imposing Mount Oryusk. The volcano appeared exceptionally calm, as if it had become totally inoffensive
.

  “The fallout from this next battle, however, will be much more dramatic,” she continued. “After the Elves have drenched themselves in blood, it will be the tribes of fanatic human barbarians from overseas, the savages and the pirates who will succeed the High Elves as rulers. Where we built, they will burn; where we nurtured, they will ravage; where we guaranteed peace, they will wage war.”

  Seeing Terela still hesitate, Alton pressed her again. “The king is about to break the Pact. Our fate is sealed. We have no choice. Give your instructions, my liege! Please do it, for the sake of Cumberae!”

  “I would not dream of running from what is to come if there was a single Elf amongst them worthy of being saved,” she said solemnly. “We will warn Llymar and would have alerted others had they helped us in our war against the barbarians. But since they did not so much as raise a fist in solidarity, I will not rescue them now.

  You will carry my orders, Alton. We are going back to Cumberae. We shall return home and return at once!

  I will personally inform Lord Dol Lewin and Matriarch Myryae of my decision and strongly recommend they do the same.”

  The princess of Cumberae rose from her chair and motioned that the audience was at an end. Alton shrugged his shoulders and a satisfied smile broke upon his delicate face.

  “I will do as you bid, my liege. Messengers will be sent within an hour. By then, we will be ready to leave, and whatever happens in this cursed valley will concern us no longer.”