The Valley of Nargrond

by C A Oliver

  The elegant Elf saluted with deep respect before turning upon his heels.

  ‘I probably said more than was required to push Terela to that decision. How interesting! It is easier than I thought to play on her fears,’ he found.

  *

  Mynar dyl was sitting quietly at the entrance to his tent when the shout of a frenzied knight of the Rose rung through the darkness. He sprang to his feet and looked about himself. From the tents, from the watch fires, from the sentries, the same order was sounding out:

  “We are leaving! We are leaving!”

  From all sides, Elves came rushing, half clad, their eyes staring, their mouths agape.

  “To Cumberae! To Cumberae!” they yelled.

  An archer, with flashing teeth and gleaming eyes, rushed past him, his long arm pointing to the South.

  “We leave!” He cried aloud to his companions in arms, who had been looking forward to a restorative night’s sleep.

  Mynar dyl looked at the rushing Cumberae troops with perplexity. Before him, the same Ice Elves who had finished preparing the camp for the night were now hurrying to ready themselves for another long march, packing and loading, storing and wrapping.

  Alton happened to walk by the warlord of Tios Halabron.

  “We are leaving!” he urged without stopping. “We are returning home and you should do the same at once!”

  Mynar dyl looked at him fixedly, yet he saw him not, so full was his mind of this sudden and unexpected order. It felt as if the solid ground beneath him had given way, as though the work of his life was coming to irremediable ruin. His sharp features were shadowed by anxiety as he looked with questioning eyes at the haggard face of Alton.

  “Have you received ill news?” Mynar dyl enquired, barely audibly.

  “The worst, it is a question of whether we will be able to escape.”

  “What are the orders of princess Terela?” asked the warlord of Tios Halabron.

  “To withdraw immediately!”

  “But why? I heard in Llafal that omens were not favourable, but it was too incredible to believe.”

  “I heard the same in Ystanloscin. Unfortunately, it was all true!

  Here are the princess’ orders, as clear as words can be: ‘Leave not a scout behind,’” related Alton.

  “But what is the cause of this sudden change?”

  “It is trap. This Pact Gathering is a vast set-up designed by the Ruby College to capture key hostages from all the Islands’ factions. Cumberae cannot afford to lose its princess and heir,” Alton confided.

  “So you have decided to flee?”

  “We have to withdraw, Mynar dyl. Cumberae is letting the limbs wither to make the heart stronger. The horde of Ka-Blowna is about to swarm once more. There are fresh crowds of barbarians from the Mainland approaching our shores as we speak. Every sword is needed to hold the southern forest borders. The two units of Ice Elves you see in this camp are the elite scouts of our army. They will be desperately needed soon.”

  “Well, I expected better of Hawenti courage. As for me, I am the true representative of the Llewenti clans at the Pact Gathering. I am here to defend the government of our realm after our ancient fashion, and I will not succumb to panic. There are higher powers that protect us,” said Mynar dyl boldly.

  “Your lack of vision leaves me puzzled. You always reduce everything to the old Llewenti-Hawenti rivalry. But with us, you are confusing sugar with salt.”

  Alton shook his head to express his disappointment. He understood Mynar dyl could not be convinced. ‘An obtuse mind and a stubborn character,’ Alton deplored. He felt now was the time to conclude this useless discussion. The knights of the Two-Winged Lions were waiting for him to enter his sedan chair once again.

  “If all the Elves in the Islands were of the same mind, our civilization would be lost, much like that of the Gnomes and the Giants. How would the Llewenti fare without their Hawenti allies when confronted with the savage Men who worship the Three Dragons? What would you do against the king, the Ruby College and their Westerners’ allies? What would you do against the Dark Elves?

  Let me tell you, Mynar dyl; the houses of the Dol Nos-Loscin, Dol Etrond and Dol Lewin are your defenders. You should know better. We, the High Elves, were ever distinguished, both by our knowledge of things and by our desire to know more.

  Discipline, the power to command, the quality of our equipment and our knowledge of war: in all these things you fall short. For too long have you depended upon the protection of the High Elves, leaning upon us like a crutch.”

  Pressed to react after this long diatribe, Mynar dyl showed his unshakable faith.

  “Times will be hard, but we Llewenti have deities to protect us. The Islands will be ours once again.”

  “How touching it is to behold such an idealist who believes in Dryad’s tales! Not only are you deaf to the voice of reason but also blind to your own fate. I see the day when the Archipelago may indeed be Elvin again, but only because you and your companions will have been driven into the craters of volcanoes. History is like alchemy; all goes into the melting pot, and if a new Elvin realm should come forth, it will be after eons of strife and war. I fear there will not be any part of that future left for you. You will be long dead.

  Do you know the barbarians of Ka-Blowna flail their prisoners alive before nailing their skin upon the doors of our homes? Have you ever seen the Dark Elves tie their captives to a tree and shoot them with their poisoned bolts?”

  These were vivid images that Alton was evoking. Mynar dyl’s face was shadowed and grave, as if he could see the burnt trees of Tios Halabron and the ashes covering the ruined forest of Llymar. But his resolution remained unaltered. Alton knew this; he could tell from the indefatigable will that was emanating from the warlord’s gaze. Mynar dyl did not intend to leave. With an ironic tone, Alton ended their conversation before disappearing into his sedan chair.

  “Farewell, Mynar dyl. There are dark days ahead if you choose to stay in Nargrond Valley!”

  CHAPTER 6: Dyoren

  2716, Season of Eïwele Llya, 67th day, Gwa Nyn, Ystanargrond

  “Dyoren, wake up! It is time. The sun is rising!”

  There was no response. In the darkness of the tent, an inert body was lying still, impervious to the noise. The clan Llorely guard approached, now worried.

  “This is no time for morning reveries. The houses are mustering to pay homage to the envoys before their departure to the Pact Gathering,” he said, his voice becoming more insistent.

  There was still no reaction.

  The guard drew near, peering at the pale face of his companion who, he was horrified to discover, had stopped breathing. For an instant, he thought his friend was dead.

  He shook the immobile body. To his relief, Dyoren’s breathing resumed, though short and shallow.

  Dyoren finally woke up, his eyes haggard.

  He was then overwhelmed with a wave of intense fear, and began looking around himself for something he could not find.

  “Where are you, Rymsing?” he repeated several times. “Have you forsaken me?”

  Pain gripped his chest. The Seeker’s breathing became frantic, and his whole body began shaking and sweating. The panic attack lasted but a few moments.

  Dyoren managed to extract a few leaves from his purse, which he started to chew feverishly. After a time, he calmed.

  His face was anxious, worn down by the weight of responsibility. His eyes betrayed the existential despair and spiritual dread that were tormenting him, as if he had just realised, he was doomed to fall short of the deities’ expectations. Dyoren’s face was marked by hardship, though his appearance remained fair.

  He had fallen asleep dressed in his dark green clothes. The Seeker had even slept with his traveling satchel and he gripped a long dagger in his hand. Its pommel was shaped in the form of a winged lion. A small lyre struck with the clan Ernaly's emblem lay close.

  Despite his efforts to bring himself under control, Dyor
en's body began shaking again. Even the muscles in his face were twitching violently. He had trouble standing on his failing legs. A scream of agony seemed to resonate in his mind.

  Yet around him, all remained quiet. His companion opened the curtains at the tent’s entrance, letting in the fresh morning breeze and revealing a deep blue sky beyond.

  Even the clouds that usually hung above Mount Oryusk had vanished. There was no trace of the usual plume of steam rising from its summit. The air was clean, finally free of the volcano’s noxious stench.

  Dyoren kept chewing on the fresh vine leaves. He concentrated on breathing.

  After a while, his limbs started to relax, with each of his trembling inspirations. A gust of wind dried the sweat upon his forehead.

  Outside, it was dawn. The ruins of Ystanargrond were emerging gradually from darkness.

  “You frightened me! For a moment, I thought you…”

  “… had found the way to the hall of Eïwele Llyo,” finished Dyoren, his tone grim.

  “That is not what I was about to say…” the guard denied, before adding, “The envoys will participate to a ceremony before they leave for the grove of Llya.” And he tried his best to cheer his ailing friend. “The weather is beautiful for the coming of the new moon.”

  Through his grief, Dyoren smiled as best he could. He had been touched so far by the kindness shown by the Elves of clan Llorely and wished to show his gratitude.

  “You are more gracious than I deserve, Renlyo. I thank you. I know how dangerous it is for you to harbour me in your ranks. There are many Elves after me.”

  “Do not be concerned! As long as you are staying with us, you are Aeryos, the greatest artist who ever performed in Urmilla, our true friend like in the days of old. You have nothing to fear under our protection,” pledged Renlyo.

  Dyoren had to look away. He was deeply moved by this demonstration of true friendship and loyalty.

  “I remember those days in Nyn Llorely with great pleasure, when I would walk by my father’s side...”

  “Aeryos, the fierce hawk, we called you! The bird of prey flying among the gulls. You won all the contests and drew some serious attention…”

  But Renlyo’s memories were interrupted.

  Outside, a trumpet rang as clear as a bell to announce the start of the parade. Its sound grew louder and louder until Dyoren’ ear was ringing: the bugle call for his own personal war of truth. The Seeker suddenly stiffened and turned to his friend.

  “You called me Aeryos,” he said, his voice trembling, “but that Elf is long gone, as is Neyrod, and all the other false names I have used…

  I am Dyoren, and I will remain Dyoren until my very last breath.

  I may have put my sword aside for safekeeping, but there will not be a new Seeker until I renounce my vows...”

  There was a long silence. Dyoren’s sensitive, passionate soul had retreated far from the pleasures of the world he once loved.

  The Seeker focused on the task of painting his face. This was one of the many skills that had so far kept him safe and anonymous during his errands across the Lost Islands.

  At last, Dyoren was ready. He looked grave. Renlyo thought now was the time to mention the other reason for his visit.

  “Someone came looking for you. It was before dawn, when I was on duty,” he said, bearing a serious expression.

  “Who was this someone?”

  “A Llewenti with a fair face,” replied Renlyo. “His hand bore the royal rune that protects foreign ambassadors.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He was asking for information about a fighter who might have joined our clan recently. No one answered him. In the end, Lord Dol Urmil himself sent him away.”

  “Good! He did well. I am grateful.”

  Renlyo nodded in agreement. He believed his liege, the lord of Urmilla, had always taken sides with the clan Llorely.

  “There is one other thing,” he added.

  “What?”

  “Before he left, that fair Elf said something to Lord Dol Urmil: ‘Let it be known, I have found where the Renegade is hiding.’ Those were his exact words.”

  Dyoren turned away, his gaze becoming lost above the decimated rooftops of Ystanargrond, as if his vision were clouded by some insidious mist. His eye scanned the horizon, passing over the profiles of the surrounding hills and mountains, before finally fixing upon the dreaded silhouette of Mount Oryusk.

  “I knew I could count on my half-brother to track me down eventually. His hatred for me is profound, far-reaching, unblinking. It isn’t just personal rivalry or clan loyalty; this is no mere earthly conflict. Mynar dyl and I are ranged against each other by higher powers: the personal instruments of the quarrelling deities above.

  You said this exquisite summer’s day would mark the coming of the new moon. Let us enjoy the view before us… while we can,” Dyoren concluded as he put on his traditional clan Llorely armour: a flanged cuirass and leg greaves.

  He then seized his weapons and put on his bronze helmet, which covered his entire head and neck, with only thin slits for his eyes and mouth. A transverse horsehair crest marked his high rank. Wrapped in his long azure cloak, the unrecognizable Dyoren exited the tent.

  *

  The army of Gwarystan was gathering on the central square of Ystanargrond, in front of the ruins of Lord Rowë’s ancient Halls.

  Each unit was marching solemnly. Before the envoys proceeded to the Pact Gathering, a parade of their troops was taking place. The fighters, in full ceremonial garb and with precisely rehearsed movements, were marching to display their commitment to protect their ambassadors.

  The soldiers wore weaponry and accoutrements of war. The High Elves’ gear was aesthetic as well as functional; their armour was beautifully fashioned from tiny silvery chain mail, making it flexible and light, and each of their weapons was a work of art, finely crafted. The encrusted gems and carved runes of their tall helms glistened in the weak morning sunlight.

  Among the oldest of all civilizations, the High Elves were once the greatest and most powerful race in the Islands. Their actions had shaped history. The current reign of Norelin, however, marked the twilight of their kin. Long and bloody wars had ravaged their once-great kingdom, which used to encompass all the Archipelago’s isles. Since the Century of War, Hawenti influence had been dwindling. The beautiful cities surrounding the Sea of Llyoriane were becoming quieter each year. Only Gwarystan had not lost its former glory; the capital city still bustled with life, attracting many other Elves and a great number of Men.

  As Dyoren passed by the ranks of the soldiers, he saw in their proud gazes that they remained resolute and unbowed. Tall and of slim build, the knights and guards of the noble households were fair to behold in their war dress. They stood a whole head higher than the Seeker and he knew that, in a fight, his own unmatched agility would not keep him safe for long against their strength and valour.

  Then, Dyoren joined his fellow guards among the ranks of the House of Dol Urmil. The Elves from Urmilla were unique among the other Households. Half of the troops were composed of Hawenti knights while Llewenti fighters from clan Llorely formed the remaining part. Their home in north-west Nyn Llorely was a land where all Elves lived together under the same basic conditions and rights.

  Their lord, Felrian, and his family were themselves characters of note, given their mixed origins. The blood of the Dol Urmil had comingled with that of the first Filweni navigators, the earliest example of the High and Blue Elf races mixing together.

  Dyoren had always been welcome in their land, which most Elves called the Irawenti Coast owing to its history. Long ago, the clan of Filweni fleet that transported the High Elves had reached the Archipelago on the shingle beaches of these coastlines. The Seeker had spent his youth in that remote region of Nyn Llorely, along with his father. He returned to Tios Aelie, his home, whenever he had the opportunity.

  On that decisive day, Dyoren felt proud to be clad in the azure garme
nts and seagull feathers of his father’s clan, the only true family he acknowledged.

  Approaching the ancient Halls with his unit, Dyoren could not help but marvel at the beauty of the scene: the colourful garments, the splendid plate mails, the swords set with jewels, and the plumed helmets of the High Elf knights. It seemed the ambassadors of the kingdom had emerged out of the dusty ruined city of Ystanargrond, like lordly apparitions from the greatest Elvin kingdom ever known.

  In front walked the heralds with their banners: the three stars of the Dor Inrod and Dor Inras, the two bronze dragons of the Dol Oalin, the white wings of the Dol Urmil, the azure harp of the Dol Braglin and many other proud standards.

  ‘This takes me back to the ceremony at Gwarystan when the Century of War was finally ended. Great lords and knights were assembled that day,’ Dyoren recalled.

  The accompanying ritual songs drifted along the currents of air that whipped in all directions through the Halls’ ruins. The splendidly dressed envoys were crossing the central square, while saluting their assembled troops with fervour. They marched with dignity past the ancient, pink marble seats which decorated the Halls’ peristyle. In keeping with tradition, the ambassadors were part of the parade according to the noble houses’ ranks; first came the representatives of the Dor households, followed by the Dol houses’ delegates.