by C A Oliver
“Everything is sacred to them: the flowers, the rocks and the waters that run the mountain streams. Innumerable spirits live and protect the creatures and creations of Eïwele Llya. If they are harmed, the Mother of the Islands is hurt herself. But Man ...," and here Dyoren took a deep breath, as if trying to control his anger, "Man defiles everything he touches, strips it of its sacredness; nature becomes unprotected, subject to his murderous will. Just look at what Men have done to their homeland in the continent. If they one day become masters of the Archipelago, they will reduce it to an arid waste."
"Nobody given the Man Archipelago to protect,” the druid responded. “But the Man wants to seize Archipelago. Destroy the Mother legacy. Wild beasts, I prefer, much better than Man. But the things will change, the things soon will change. I myself tell you. Every time forest is destroyed by storms, big storms, forest grows again!"
The bearded Man’s eyes were filled with fury. He was now overwhelmed with his hatred for other Men and appeared as if in a trance. It seemed like hidden, unnatural forces were altering his state of consciousness.
‘Something is about to happen!’ Dyoren read in the gaze of the hermit. ‘A mighty disaster will occur today! This raging madman is expecting it with all his soul! That is why he has retreated inside this cave: to avoid being hurt.’
Now deeply worried, Dyoren needed to know more. He decided to pursue his strategy of connivance by agreeing to the hermit’s words of doom.
“Something needs to happen, for sure! But how? How can the Mother of the Islands punish those defilers, like they so rightly deserve? The power of Eïwele Llya is in healing and nurturing. She is a divinity of fertility. Who will rise to destroy them?”
“Greater powers will act. The Seer of Oryusk foretold to me. He look into volcano, saw future,” the druid answered hypnotically.
Dyoren scrutinized the hermit, overpowering his weak human mind, unleashing all his mental might until he had seized the crucial hidden obsession that had so inflamed the Man’s soul.
‘He is waiting for this ‘Seer of Oryusk’ to appear! His mentor will arrive in this very cave, and the promised destruction is about to begin! It explains the state of stasis he is in.’
The Elf froze, terrified by the revelation.
Dyoren then lost all his measured caution, unable to contain the impulse to know everything else immediately.
“Who is coming here? Who is the ‘Seer of Oryusk’? Tell me now, I command you!” he yelled, as if his life depended on it.
But the verbal assault broke the spell, and whatever power the Elf had held over the Man was lost in an instant.
A much more present rage was now in the druid’s eye. Like a wild animal defending its territory, the stout Man rose to his feet and toppled the small lantern, extinguishing what weak light there was.
“Go, Stranger! Go now! “the druid roared, threatening the unwelcome guest with his cudgel.
Despite the sudden darkness, Dyoren saw the hermit’s weapon had changed shape; and he realized that a large serpent was entwined around the wood. He heard the snake’s hissing as it lashed out.
Dyoren panicked and jumped back. The druid attempted to strike him.
“I am leaving! Spare me!” urged Dyoren, retreating hastily towards the mouth of the cave.
A moment later, and the Elf was outside in the daylight, fleeing through the thorny bushes as quickly as possible. Dyoren did not turn back to check if the druid was following him. He managed to escape and fled like one who never intended to come back.
But his real intentions were quite different.
After running for around a hundred yards, certain that he would now be out of sight, the Elf doubled-back and ducked behind a large boulder, covering himself with a pile of leaves. Soon Dyoren was invisible to the eyes of others. His traveller’s clothes blended perfectly with the woodland floor. As he emptied the contents of a small greenish phial on his boots and his hair, he concentrated on his breathing to control its rhythm, so that even the most cunning of animals could not detect his presence. When it came to camouflage, the Elf was as invisible as a spirit of the forest.
The roar of a great bear echoed throughout the surrounded woodland. The powerful animal seemed to be summoning all the beasts of the valley to its side.
Dyoren remained safely hidden. All day, he had found it impossible to step back and think, so focussed had his mind been on the immediate tasks at hand. Now allowing himself a pause, he decided to clarify his thoughts which, until then, had been clouded by the overwhelming odds.
‘The mad hermit is definitely the same druid I have seen several times near the Crimson Tower in Gwarystan. If only I could remember his name! It has something to do with the forest… Well, never mind, the two must have been in contact for some time, plotting this day together.
I can’t know for sure, but there is a chance that this ‘Seer of Oryusk’, who the druid seemed to be waiting for, is the Twelfth Arcane Master himself…
And this is all happening during the Pact Gathering, on the slopes of the volcano…
Perhaps, after his mysterious errand, the sorcerer will meet the druid… Yes! That would make sense!
Perhaps luck has not abandoned me. Maybe there is some hope. I just need to stay within reach of the hermit’s cave and wait patiently until… until the time comes to reclaim Lynsing,’ hoped Dyoren, as his heartbeat accelerated and sweat dripped from his forehead.
After a while, Dyoren heard the heavy steps of a large animal. Without moving an inch from his hideout, Dyoren waited until it walked into his field of vision. It was a large bear, known as a ’Kumol’ by the Elves. This rare specimen was an albino, a chance mutation of the black bear genus, unrelated to the sub-arctic white bears that roamed the icy lands of Nyn Llyandy. Dyoren remembered an old tale his mother had told him, in which a great black bear loses its colour after being bewitched by a sorcerer.
The Elf shivered as the Kumol passed a few yards away and failed to smell the Elf’s presence. It soon disappeared into the bushes. Dyoren remained hidden, thinking.
‘I knew it. I have known it all along, though I failed to see it at the time,’ he said in a murmur, as he bitterly looked back on all the hardship he had undergone. At least he was finally being proven right.
‘Ironic that the quest for Lynsing should end in that way!’ Dyoren deplored, and he had a sad smile. ‘The turning point of my life’s quest came when I destroyed the six-fingered gauntlet of Eno Mowengot, at the battle of Lepsy Peak. How incredible that I should spend decades roaming the Islands, gathering information for my quest, only to stumble across the one crucial detail by chance!’
The Lonely Seeker tried to trace the events of the last four years, making a special effort to remember all the facts with accuracy. He was trying to find a causal link between his early findings about the Twelfth Arcane Master and what was happening now.
Then, a new thought struck him: in case he did not survive, it was crucial that someone else was given the information he had learned. He wondered who he could trust. First, he thought of his bard friend in Llafal.
‘But Curwë is far, there is no way I can reach him… On the other hand, my companions of clan Llorely are close. But I would lay a considerable burden on them. They have already taken so many risks for me…’
Suddenly, he hit upon the solution.
‘It is in the princess of Cumberae that I must place my hope. She has always proven a loyal ally despite the recent upheavals, one of the very few who did not turn me down after my degradation by the Arkys. She was the only one who believed my findings about Moramsing and Saeröl’s survival.
Terela has the power to act. I just need to find a way of getting my message to her… She cannot have gotten far: probably heading now for the southern paths of the Arob Nargrond with her troops…’ he remembered from a discussion with Renlyo. ‘Perhaps my hawk can find her… But what if it doesn’t? What if my message falls into the wrong hands?’
Dyore
n was biting his lip in frustration.
Then, an idea came to him. Looking at the pommel of his long dagger, shaped like a winged lion, his face immediately lit up, in a way that would recall a former self from long ago: the young adventurer who used to explore Nyn Llorely’s wilderness for the sheer thrill of it.
Crawling forwards with great caution, the Seeker seized a medium-sized stone that was lying in a nearby bramble bush. He used his long dagger to engrave markings upon its surface. The blade of his weapon glowed as he murmured words of power in an ancient tongue. A few moments later, and he looked pleased with his handiwork.
‘When Terela offered this enchanted dagger and entrusted me with the secret of her stone runes, I thought she was simply being opportunist. I remember how desperate the princess was for my knowledge about the Blades of Nargrond Valley, especially Aonya, the mightiest of them all.
But whatever her purpose, today I will put her teachings to good use,’ he decided, fully determined to make the best out of the situation.
Dyoren knew what power these stone runes held. Somehow, these markings created a mysterious force that would disrupt the Flow in the very place he had engraved them. This disturbance would remain unnoticeable, but Terela would feel it. Even across a long distance, the princess would perceive that someone in the valley of Nargrond was using her stone runes to call to her.
Now convinced that he had chosen the best course of action, Dyoren drew from his bag a scroll, ink and a pen. His first few words were scribbled, almost illegible, such was his excitement. But, gradually, he managed to calm down. The act of writing it all down enabled him to clarify his thoughts.
2716, Season of Eïwele Llya, day of the Pact Gathering, two leagues south of the grove of Llya.
It all began when I destroyed Eno Mowengot’s gauntlet four years ago, at the battle of Lepsy Peak.
I took the remains of the evil instrument to Curubor in Tios Lluin. The Blue Mage confirmed the gauntlet had been forged using an extremely rare power: Shadow Fire. Curubor told me Naldaron, one of the young Sorcerers of the Ruby College had earned his seat among the high mages’ assembly by crafting dreaded gauntlets such as that one. These devices granted the King’s servants with the extraordinary ability to evaporate into a mist, which could escape through the air, only to reappear again in their physical form when they willed it.
As he wrote these lines, Dyoren remembered the extraordinary spell Naldaron had cast that morning, which had enabled him to leave Ystanargrond unseen and, presumably, attend the Pact Gathering. The Seeker feverishly went back to his writing. Despite the stream of words flowing from his pen, he maintained an acute awareness of his surroundings.
Of all the records and documents, I have studied, only the annals of Yslla make any reference to this unique skill being used. The smiths of Nargrond Valley developed Shadow Fire to forge their legendary blades. My instincts have proven true; Naldaron has used Shadow Fire to make those gauntlets, it must mean he has learnt how the fabled smiths made their swords. I know for a fact they destroyed all records of their craft after their masterpieces were completed.
I therefore concluded the Twelfth Arcane Master of the Ruby College must have acquired this secret knowledge by studying one of the legendary blades himself. Since I realised this, I have been obsessed with the idea that one of the Swords may be hidden within my reach.
I spent many long days tracking this eunuch in Gwarystan. I think I came to know every possible hiding place near the tower of crimson, for Naldaron very seldom left it.
But now, my life of wandering finally seems to have served a purpose. It took many thankless miles walking the paths of the Archipelago for this moment of triumph, that day in the streets of Gwarystan when I saw Lynsing for the first time.
Precisely what happened that day is still not clear in my mind. Was it the closeness of her sister blade Rymsing? Was it her power which finally brought the Sword of the South to light? I still see the moment when Naldaron, getting out of his sedan chair outside the tower of crimson, just a few yards in front of me, stumbled. I can still see the knights of the Ruby rushing forward to help him. But most of all, I remember the blade falling from its invisible scabbard. It was there, out in the open for all to see, and Naldaron looked furious. My heart ceased beating, as if time itself had stopped; the shining scimitar with its sapphire-encrusted pommel was there, so close to me, almost within reach, its bare blade shining in the sun. The moment was over almost before it had begun, but it saved my soul. I am the first knight of the Dyoreni to have found any trace of Lynsing. My efforts were finally rewarded.
Then I discovered Naldaron was making excursions into the valley of Nargrond on his own.
Things would be very different now if I had captured him in the first place… but I failed.
I was running after a high mage of the Ruby College, and I found something very unsettling. There is only one Elvin druid who lives at the bottom of the Nargrond Valley in the inhospitable region of the Oryusk Mines. Only that Elvin druid has found ways of surviving near where the Giants dwell.
I now believe the druid of the Mines and the Twelfth Arcane Master are the same Elf, who is also known to his followers as the ‘Seer of Oryusk’. How extraordinary to think this sorcerer has found a way to enter the Mines and return alive! It may even be that he dwells in the volcano’s depths: the only Elf to know what lurks within!
Today, I am making a decisive effort to recoup the Blade of the South. I am hoping beyond hope I will succeed… but I am afraid… terribly afraid…
This brings me to the present moment. I know my enemy will soon come to one of his followers, a hermit he has most probably enthralled. Their meeting will take place inside a cave on the slopes of Mount Oryusk, near where I will hide this scroll. I need only wait. Today will be a day of reckoning. Lynsing can still be mine. I have the chance to take it back and restore my dignity and honour. For this, I am ready to give my life…
If I fail, it will therefore be your responsibility, my lady, to track down Naldaron. He must be captured and questioned, just as Saeröl must be found as well.
Who is the Twelfth Arcane Master? A sorcerer of doom? A druid of the apocalypse?’
Dyoren finished his account with these questions. He had filled what parchment he had.
“Here lies the last scroll of the Dyoreni,” he declared solemnly, while sealing the parchment with his mark and placing it in a small wooden box.
The Seeker buried it in the soil. He placed the engraved stone on the earth above.
Now that his long quest was about to reach its end, Dyoren was overwhelmed with resentment. A powerful feeling of injustice pervaded his mind. He was the first ever of his order to have identified the wielders of two of the Blades of Nargrond Valley. But, the only reward for his sacrifices had been unjust humiliation. Worse still, the Arkys and the matriarchs had responded to his previous revelations about Saeröl and Moramsing with scorn.
Looking to the heavens, his eyes filled with a deep hunger for revenge, he murmured a secret oath.
“I am the knight of the Secret Vale and will remain so; I am the Seeker who was betrayed but who refuses to submit.
I swear before the deities of the Islands, I will not renounce my vows, even in death! No one shall ever succeed me!”
So strong was his conviction as he made this oath, that Dyoren almost fainted. His body started to shake, as though he had lost all command over it.
It took him some time to recover and, once again, he relied on the chewing leaves in his purse to calm his trembling limbs.
At last, Dyoren emerged from his hideout, flask in hand, to draw fresh water from the nearby spring. It was later than he thought, and the sun was far above the horizon. The woodlands had fallen quiet. Dyoren looked across to the peak of Mount Oryusk. It stood there bare and silent under the blue, cloudless sky.
But something strange suddenly startled him. The flask dropped from his hand.
He stood in total amazement.
The air was throbbing with sound.
It came at once and from all sides: rumbling, constant, very deep but incredibly loud, reverberating around the surrounding rocks.
Dyoren climbed the rocky pinnacle above him and stared out to the towering volcano. In his worst nightmares, the Seeker had never imagined such a fearful sight.
The volcano was erupting. A terrifying stream of fire and smoke was pouring in upon the valley. Boulders were pulverized into dust and blasted upwards. Ash was shooting high into the sky as the lava spurted relentlessly up from the earth’s core.
Volcanic rock shot up from the peak, and poisonous gas was expelled from a fissure in the mountain’s north-eastern slopes. Fragments of fiery earth and rock were shot in all directions in long arcs.
All around the furious mountain, barely a league before him, the air was thick with smoke, ash and cinders. The surrounding air was so hot that these particles were not cooling fast enough, so many had started blazes where they fell.
Dyoren realized that, of all the Elves assembled for the Pact Gathering, he alone was protected from the approach of this dreadful storm of fire, sweeping like a heavy shadow from the unknown depths of Mount Oryusk. He immediately thought of all the participants who would now be in the grove of Llya; those waiting in the ruined walls of Ystanargrond and, beyond them, the scattered, defenceless encampments which stretched down the valley.
