The Valley of Nargrond

by C A Oliver

  With the dexterity of habit, Dyoren removed the bird’s hood and placed it upon his leather gauntlet.

  Exiting the tent, he whispered guttural instructions into the falcon’s ear. The Seeker pointed southwest before releasing the bird into the air.

  He dropped his helmet, javelin and long azure cloak on the tent’s threshold, only keeping hold of his short bow, a quiver full of arrows, his long dagger and his satchel. Dyoren was thus abandoning everything that would connect him to clan Llorely.

  A few moments later, the Seeker was running through camp, in the direction just taken by the sorcerer.

  “Have you just seen one of the Ruby College high mages pass by?” asked Dyoren to an Elf who was walking across a street of the old warehouse district. “He would have gone through this passage a few moments ago. I bear an urgent message for him,” the Seeker added, while displaying the rune of House Dol Urmil upon his hand’s palm.

  “One of those Eunuchs in red robes?” the knight of House Dol Braglin replied, indifferent. “I saw him, walking around like he was in a dream. Head in the clouds!” he added with a malicious look in the eye, as though the sorcerer’s mood might have something to do with his castration. “He made no answer to my greeting and headed to the ruins of the amphitheatre.”

  Dyoren thanked the knight with a sign of the hand and rushed northwards in the direction the Elf with the Azure Harp emblem had pointed. This area of Ystanargrond was completely desolate and had not been settled by the army of Gwarystan.

  In this part of the city, the collapsed warehouses, much larger than many of the city’s other former structures, corresponded to far greater piles of rubbles and stones than anywhere else he had so far seen.

  After a while, Dyoren entered a network of great standing stones with ancient markings. He eventually came to the remains of a small square. Statues of Lord Rowë and Lon the Wise loomed over the courtyard like ancient marble giants, filigreed with bronze and set with glittering stones. They towered over these ruins, just as their deeds eclipsed those of their followers.

  Dyoren could not sense the presence of anyone within range nor within his line of sight. He was convinced, however, that there could be dangerous traps nearby. Just from where he was standing, the Seeker could see several sinkholes, and he did not have much faith in the unstable ceilings of the half-standing buildings that remained.

  Dyoren decided to progress more slowly and with great caution, his senses on high alert, straining to detect any glyph of warding or a mechanical pit trap that may be lurking in his way. From inside his satchel, he retrieved a small purse containing powdery gravel. He scattered some of the contents all around him.

  Soon, traces of recent footsteps appeared before him.

  ‘He must have been in a hurry!’ thought Dyoren, surprised at the finding. ‘I would have expected Naldaron to cover his tracks with his powers.’

  Casting the sandy gravel before him as if he were offering gifts to Eïwal Vars, the deity of hunting, Dyoren followed the trail for more than a hundred yards amid the remnants of the old warehouse district. The trail led him to a small building which, from the solidity of its foundations, looked like an old sentry post. The structure was almost entirely intact, even boasting most of its roof.

  Dyoren noticed the doorway was engraved with powerful runes. He understood these markings were channelling the raw power of the Flow, converting it into an elemental, violent kind of explosion. Anyone approaching the entrance would be torn limb from limb, riven by a force powerful enough to pulverise everything in the area.

  ‘He is protecting himself with potent warding spells. He must be inside, designing some new mischief.’

  Dyoren did not dare approach any further. Once again, he reached into his satchel and this time extracted a thin rope. He made a quick looping knot at one end.

  Dyoren was able to get close enough to throw the rope up to the roof, where it caught on a corner stone. He pulled the rope until it was taut.

  The climb began.

  More than ever, the Seeker progressed with the utmost caution, knowing all too well that a single dull thud could cost him his life.

  After what seemed like an hour, Dyoren reached the roof of the guard post. He noticed the tiling was severely damaged. Some tiles were broken, others had fallen away.

  The sound of a loud voice came from within.

  Dyoren looked down inside the building through one of the gaps.

  The Arcane Master was hovering in the air above a triangular pentacle, while incanting words of power.

  Then, all of a sudden, the sorcerer evaporated into a misty cloud, along with everything he was wearing and carrying. The strange mist floated upwards, towards the roof, before passing through a narrow opening. It all happened very quickly.

  Dyoren stood still, in awe of the high mage’s feat. He watched as the misty cloud drifted away slowly, towards the slopes of Mount Oryusk.

  ‘He is heading to the grove of Llya where the Pact Gathering is held,’ understood Dyoren, feeling utterly helpless.

  Out of pure rage, the Seeker shot an arrow at the moving target before it disappeared into the woods. To his utter bewilderment, his arrow passed through the incorporeal creature without causing the slightest damage. The cloudy form disappeared into the canopy.

  *

  Nargrond Valley, South of Ystanargrond, a few hours later

  From his high vantage point, Dyoren caught a glimpse of the bent figure of the druid. Dressed in brown robes, his appearance was unkempt and filthy. Hobbling around, the bearded Man examined the traps he had set, before finally retreating inside a cave.

  Dyoren made a high-pitched whistle, which sounded like the squeak of a forest animal sensing danger approaching. His kestrel came flying through the trees’ branches, before perching on the Seeker’s gloved hand. Like two hunters readying for a charge, bird and Elf turned towards the druid’s lair, barely a hundred yards downhill.

  “You did well, my friend!” murmured Dyoren in the falcon’s ear. “You deserve a reward, one that no bird of clan Ernaly has ever received.”

  The disappointment of letting the nebulous high mage escape had not been easily put aside, for it had been the closest Dyoren had ever got to his target. But after a moment of furious exasperation, he had remembered the mysterious druid he had seen receive a signal from the sorcerer.

  ‘There is still a way to find his trail,’ he had hoped.

  Praying that his hawk had been luckier than he, Dyoren had discreetly left the army’s encampment by a breach in the southern walls of the ruined city. Lord Rowë’s architects had built such imposing ramparts that, to his Llewenti eyes, even the ruins seemed like a formidable barrier.

  It had not taken him long to spot his kestrel flying high through the sky above the surrounding woodlands. Following his bird’s flight, Dyoren had headed into the wilderness southwest from Ystanargrond, thus moving further away from the location of the Pact Gathering and the army of Gwarystan, but much closer to the volcano’s south-eastern slopes and the Mines of Oryusk.

  After a couple of hours of intense effort, the Seeker had come within sight of his new prey and could congratulate his hawk companion.

  Dyoren now stole down the side of the hill and made his way toward the druid’s lair.

  ‘It could be dangerous to approach this wild Man! But do I have a choice? I need to obtain indication of Naldaron’s whereabouts by posing as a follower of Eïwele Llya,’ Dyoren planned.

  There was a heavy silence as he approached the cave’s entrance. He had to pass through thorny thickets. His heartbeat accelerated at this deadly stillness. No glimmer of light came from the cleft in the rocks.

  Dyoren called. No response came.

  So, the Elf decided to enter the cavern. Crossing the opening, he lurked in the shadows within, waiting for his vision to adapt to the surrounding darkness.

  The hermit, his uncombed hair dabbled with crimson, was sitting cross-legged on the ground. He was a thick Ma
n, with a grey bearded face and tanned skin, which was gashed with two cuts. His small eyes were sunk deep in his head, like black holes. His legs were strong, giving him the aura of a powerful animal waiting to spring forward.

  Crouched in the darkest corner, the druid stood up, revealing a knotted cudgel he gripped in his hand. He moved forward with ferocity, bringing the staff down with all his strength upon the intruder.

  Dyoren’s dagger deviated the blow.

  The druid continued striking madly again and again, like a bear that attacks its prey until it lies limp and still.

  But Dyoren’s energy came in a flood at this moment of need. He ducked, dived and jumped out of the way, barely managing to avoid the blows. The fight was fierce.

  The Elf begged his aggressor to stop, insisting he was there as a friend. Though he was only just avoiding the ferocious blows, Dyoren refused to fight back.

  At last, seeing his opponent had no malicious intentions, the druid ceased his attack. He lit a bamboo paper lantern and the shadows of the small cave receded.

  “I am sorry, son of the Mother of the Islands,” Dyoren apologised. “I come to you in peace. I am a scout from Llymar. My errand is to find our way out of the valley. I thought you could help me.”

  “I will not do,” replied the bearded Man with a harsh tone. He understood the Llewenti language but could not speak it properly. “What tell you are Elf of Llymar?” he asked accusingly.

  Dyoren showed his small lyre struck with the clan Ernaly's emblem, and he began to sing. His chant told of the forest of Llymar, the beloved woods of Eïwele Llya, of the swift shadows of the Austral Ocean’s clouds, the winding blue rivers and the beauty of the pines. It was all simple and melodious, and it seemed to reach the druid’s heart, for it spoke of the Archipelago which he loved.

  While gently caressing the strings of the musical instrument, Dyoren had time to examine his reluctant host further.

  Everything about the Man was strong: his muscular body, thick-set neck and large, powerful hands. Like a wild beast that can withstand the arrows of its hunters, the druid looked capable of holding death at bay. Years of strife had worn his life to the point that his heart and mind were painted clearly upon his wrinkled face. Bitterness and rebuke could be read in his eye now.

  The Elf continued playing his instrument. He was a virtuosic player, renowned far and wide for his skills with the lyre. Dyoren preferred sweet and plaintive melodies that rang in harmony with what lay deepest in his heart. His lyricism was beautiful, masterful. The subtle play of his hands upon the airy chords created a melodious language, which echoed memories of the Islands’ first days.

  Once the music had worked its soothing effect on the druid’s aggressive disposition, Dyoren explained the genesis of the lyrics.

  “There is great potential in the Mother of the Islands’ teachings. Her wisdom is as boundless as heaven and earth, as inexhaustible as rivers and streams, only ending to begin again, like the sun and the moon, dying only to live again like the three seasons of the Islands.”

  Dyoren understood the human priests of Eïwele Llya, having dealt with them on countless occasions during his journeys across the Archipelago. At first glance, he noticed the druid possessed uncompromising intelligence. It could be seen in the sparkling of his eyes; his mind had been pervaded by the beliefs of an extremist.

  ‘This is a dangerous character: perhaps a visionary or, worse, some kind of fanatic.’ Dyoren thought.

  The Seeker felt his sudden arrival badly disturbed the hermit’s plans. The druid wanted to throw him out of the cave. He knew he had but a few moments to coax his blunt interlocutor into revealing precious information. Like a snake charmer in a taming performance, Dyoren spoke up, with as cheerful a manner as the situation allowed.

  “I am no common Elf. I am one of the Llewenti, the kin that discovered the Lost Islands. We are friends of the druids.”

  “I not do care,” replied the Man bitterly, “only the creatures vile believe the Archipelago not exist before they come.”

  Dyoren lowered his gaze, angry at himself for having expressed such an arcing assertion. Naturally, this druid would consider the Gnomes and Giants, or perhaps even animals, as the first inhabitants of the Islands. He needed to do better to earn the hermit’s trust.

  With a strange look in the eye, almost mystic, the druid declaimed the verses of his cult.

  “There are only six colours, but they combine into more variations than could ever be seen. There are only six tastes, but they combine into more flavours than could ever be tasted. Who could ever exhaust the boundless bounty that the Mother of the Islands has laid out for us?”

  It was apparent the druid recited those words as a prayer to Eïwele Llya, learnt by heart. Nevertheless, his erratic behaviour betrayed the confusion of his mind.

  ‘This hermit must belong to this faction of dangerous priests who call themselves the ‘true druids’, extremists who work to restore the Archipelago’s original purity. He is visibly mad,’ thought Dyoren. ‘His anxiety is so intense, someone must have put a spell on him.’

  The Elf chose to chant an appeal to Eïwele Llya to calm the Man of the cave.

  “And among the four elements none is dominant. Among the three seasons none is ever present. Days can be short and long. The moon waxes and wanes…”

  His mother had passed much knowledge about the Islands’ deities on to him. Above all else, Eïwele Llya’s teachings formed the core of the instruction he had received, for the Mother of the Islands was the main protective divinity of the clan Ernaly matriarchs.

  Following this demonstration of faith and gratitude to Eïwele Llya’s creations, the druid showed less hostility. It was as if Dyoren's soft music had the ability to appease him.

  Then, the hermit spoke with a more serene tone, no longer threatening, but almost confessional.

  “I discover the Man is destruction,” he confided. “Me. I find this. My experience. Nobody tell me this. My big mistake? Hope that Man is good. Waste my time, waste my life, to preach to the tribes barbarian.”

  The druid was looking at a small pendant, representing his deity, Eïwele Llya, which the artist had portrayed as the embodiment of life and fertility.

  ‘Why is he now sharing his opinion about Men? I did not mention them. This mad hermit acts as if he is expecting imminent divine punishment for all those he cursed,’ Dyoren realized.

  ‘To gain his trust, I need to cling on to his crepuscular ode,’ he figured out.

  Thus, Dyoren immediately agreed with his interlocutor. The Elf’s attitude and alertness of expression were striking in that moment. His gentle manners now perfectly masked his intent.

  “The truth is Man is defiled and fallen. Few are worth saving; the vast majority are beyond redemption. Man embodies chaos! To submit to Eïwele Llya is to respect her creations. The Llewenti understood that. They do not seek to compete with the Mother of the Islands, they bow before her creations, quite the opposite of Man.”

  The druid rejoiced at these words and, feeling excited, he added with a vengeful tone:

  “To protect Eïwele Llya creations, I myself teach some Men and I kill all others. I must. If the Man so destructive, let the Man feast on its own blood, destroy itself.”

  The druid had finished his morbid reasoning in a whisper. A silence followed his deadly words.

  Throughout his life, Dyoren had defended the causes that were dear to him sincerely, but also with moderation. He had always sought appeasement and compromise over extremism. What he had just heard affected his innermost values. The Seeker had dedicated his life to his quest for these same reasons, as he believed in the importance of his role for the benefit of his kin.

  Dyoren straightened up and looked at his interlocutor with more intensity. He could feel a deep resentment in his interlocutor’s heart.

  ‘It’s no coincidence that Mankind has produced an evil such as the Three Dragons Cult,’ Dyoren thought. ‘Men hate each other deeply.’


  The Elf remained quiet, but his irritation made his chin tremble. He wanted nothing more than to leave the cave, suddenly feeling dizzy in the confined, airless space. But he came back to his senses and pursued his strategy. Pretending to agree with the druid was gaining the Man’s trust. The hermit would let his guard down and expose himself to Dyoren’s scrutiny. Already the Elf could catch the Man’s more superficial thoughts. Soon he would learn the purpose of his actions without his interlocutor even knowing it.

  “I understand your anger, and I agree with you,’ Dyoren continued with a friendly tone. “I feel the same, and my bitterness has only worsened over the years. Living in the forest for the most part, I have learnt a lot; all living things comingled to become fertile, everything that is not devoured… devours.”

  Dyoren leaned forward and took the druid’s hand. The hermit calmed at the contact. Dyoren resumed, his voice as serene as ever.

  “When I met the Elves of Eïwele Llya’s cult, I finally entered a world delivered from folly, a world founded on respect.”

  The Elf held his eyes wide open in the shadows, almost as if wanting to enthral his interlocutor with his gaze.