by C A Oliver
This eruption differed from previous ones by its size and its eastward direction.
Mount Oryusk’s lava flow had always run westwards towards the sea, through the plain of ashes. But now, for the first time, it was threatening the verdant expanses of Nargrond Valley.
Then something very strange occurred. A purple cloud was slowly invading the limpid sky. In its growing shadow on the ground below, leaves dried on the trees, birds stopped chirping, woodland creatures scattered into the hedges. The shadow then reached Dyoren, whose heart became unbearably heavy. He managed to keep his eyes turned towards the terrifying swarm. He lost himself in prayers, begging for the deities’ protection. His hawk had stopped flying. Everything was silent and motionless, except for the vast advancing ash cloud, rolling in immense waves from the volcano. In the valley, towards the east, Dyoren could still see the summer sky, but coming from the west, the heavy mass was progressing relentlessly. The Seeker was weary, full of despair; he began to wonder if the sun would ever shine again on the Nargrond Valley.
The situation was dreamlike in its all-encompassing power, and yet this was no dream, for there was no waking.
At last, in the west, a sickly sun shone down upon the earth, and Dyoren remembered his errand. He stopped lamenting. Leaving his hideout, the Seeker started retracing his steps towards the hermit’s cave.
*
Dyoren hid himself long behind a large boulder, a few dozen yards from the cave’s entrance. That bare area of white limestone contrasted with the surrounding woodlands, rich with A region with gently undulating countryside where the hills of downy oaks and the boxwood,
hazel trees and juniper bushes.
A strange, high-pitched wail came from a gap in the rocks close to his hideout, which the wind was blowing through. The mournful sound was like the highest note on an ancient organ. Dyoren froze and watched the strange trail that was now curving among the rocks. The Seeker was straining his ears to catch every single whisper in his surroundings when a dull sound, quite different from the volcano, drew his attention. It was almost imperceptible at first, but soon became persistent, more regular, like the faraway echo of soft drums building to an intense, chaotic symphony.
A moment later and he was convinced.
“It must be him!” Dyoren murmured, leaning on a rock to stop himself from falling.
The revelation that his enemy was approaching struck him with incredible force; it immediately dominated his thinking, as all other thoughts aligned themselves to it. The same noise echoed again, seizing Dyoren with excitement, even though the noise was covered by the rumble of the erupting volcano. An irrepressible shiver ran through his whole body. He listened again. Despite all the noise around him, he could hear his heart beating. The eruption on the slopes of Mount Oryusk seemed to have diminished in intensity. A few moments passed. Dyoren expected with all his being for the sorcerer to appear at any instant, but his eyes told him no one was there. His ears finally picked up the approaching footsteps. He could hear them distinctly: footsteps over rocky soil. Suddenly, just as he was putting his hand to the hilt of his long dagger, the Seeker saw an even darker form in the shadowy landscape before him.
“Here he comes,” murmured Dyoren. “He is alone.”
The silhouette of a tall Elf was crossing a small ford, faintly illuminated by the weak evening light. There could be no mistake. A deadly cold descended upon Dyoren’s heart. The shadow walked quickly but carefully. He was wrapped in the long reddish cloak of the High Mages, pulled up to cover his face. And, under this coat, Dyoren could make out the shape of an invisible sheath. It was Lynsing: The Blade of the South, the bringer of wisdom, and the purpose of his life.
Dyoren made himself as small as possible behind the boulder and waited with strained ears for the moment the sorcerer passed him by.
The moment came.
He sprang from his hideout and lurched forwards, his long dagger raised to stab his foe. The blade cut through the air.
He struck the sorcerer in the back, just below his heart, but it failed to pierce his body.
The bracers around the sorcerer’s wrists radiated with a flashing light.
The blade of the Dyoren’s dagger slipped and caught the high mage in the arm, burying deeply into his flesh.
Almost by reflex, Dyoren struck out again, slicing at the Elf’s left wrist. The long blade cut through his forearm. Blood gushed onto the soil. A jewel box inlaid with silver fell to the ground, a severed hand still gripped around it. It rolled away into a small ditch.
Dyoren stared at the fountain of blood erupting from his enemy’s arm. But, despite the wound, the hooded figure quickly reached for an invisible scabbard at his back. A pommel inlaid with sapphires and a shining blade appeared in his remaining hand. But the weakened sorcerer dropped the long scimitar clumsily at his feet.
Seizing the advantage, Dyoren raised his long dagger to deliver the final blow.
The Seeker pierced his opponent’s abdomen. But, almost at the same time, the sorcerer hit him in the ribs with a black knife, before he fell heavily to the ground, his head striking a boulder. In a final, desperate effort, the sorcerer’s remaining hand managed to seize back his scimitar.
Suddenly, out of the cave’s darkness came a thunderous roar. An enormous white bear came charging out into the open. The beast attacked with frenzy, as if protecting its cubs.
Dyoren turned to confront the formidable new opponent. A ferocious close melee began between Elf and beast, between dagger and claw, between proven agility and pure brute force. Having escaped several mortal blows, Dyoren, at last, managed to leap up onto the animal’s back. The blade of his dagger pierced the animal’s throat, pushed in all the way up to its hilt.
The bear made a few staggered steps but did not survive long. The beast looked down in astonishment at the long knife dagger buried in his throat, as though it had been the winged lion carved into the pommel that had killed him.
The bear hit the ground with a loud thud.
The badly injured Dyoren failed to retrieve Terela’s weapon from the cold body of the monstrous animal.
He then looked back to where his first victim lay. But the sorcerer was gone.
Despite his many wounds and the dreadful pain in his ribs, Dyoren managed to limp back to the scene of the first fight. Soon, he was following his victim’s trail; there was blood all over the ground. But the trail did not lead far. The track ended by the same rock he had been hiding behind. The Seeker used his various tracking skills to detect the presence of the wounded sorcerer. A deep anguish overwhelmed him as he was forced to face the latest setback in his quest.
“He has escaped… he used his powers to escape…
Will I only know defeat?
Am I forever cursed?
Deities of the island, I ask you, am I cursed?” the Seeker shouted to the heavens.
Everything seemed so dark. Before him, the only sight he could contemplate was the disastrous aftermath of the eruption.
Feeling dizzy, and suffering greatly from the pain in his ribs, Dyoren retraced his steps, like a blind Elf who has lost his way.
Then he saw it.
A jewel box inlaid with silver was lying at the bottom of a small pit. Dyoren kneeled and took the treasure.
For a moment, his suffering ceased, as if this finding were the sweetest of remedies for his pains.
Dyoren opened the small box. He was immediately struck by the unique beauty of the jewel inside, a marine pearl made of a crystalline substance, glowing with an unnatural light. The hard-glistening jewel was perfectly round and smooth. It was composed of a nacreous and iridescent material, which was deposited in concentric layers.
Dyoren was deeply moved by the purity of the flawless pearl, its deep azure colour represented the perfect metaphor for the ocean’s mystery.
*
A haggard and beaten Dyoren wandered without purpose for almost a league. With the approach of night, the darkness encroached ever further.
And still, the same heavy cloud of dust slid from west to east, as the volcano poured out ashes. The smoke was dense, like a curtain being drawn across the sky. Each time Dyoren raised his head hoping to see a lull, his eyes met the same endless cloud. The air was filled with the stench of burning leaves. It was as if the land were covered with pustules.
The path sloped upwards as he approached a hilltop when his strength began to give out, and his will began to waver.
‘So, all these sacrifices will have been in vain.’
The Seeker tried with all his might to maintain his spiritual balance. But he knew it was in peril. He lurched and stumbled on.
‘It is in my nature to fail, I can’t escape it,’ he deplored.
In his weakened state, he was struggling with the growing doubts that assailed him.
‘What more could I have done? Naldaron is behind everything. How could I fight such power? I am sure he has influenced the Ruby College’s decision to summon this Pact Gathering. Perhaps he plotted with the druid’s circles to organise the Gathering on the slopes of Mount Oryusk. How? How could such a disaster occur? How could the volcano awaken and devastate the valley on the very same day that the Pact Holders are gathering? What mighty forces bring such chaos? It is completely beyond me.’
Still feeling an intense pain in his side, Dyoren looked at the deep wound caused by the sorcerer’s black knife. It had been bleeding continuously despite his efforts to stem it. He inspected it again and re-dressed the bandage on the sore. There was no poison inside, but the Seeker feared a powerful witchcraft was at work, preventing the wound from healing as normal. Dark thoughts swelled in his mind.
‘His blade must have been forged with Shadow Fire. Its bite will prove fatal.’
Despite the rising desperation, Dyoren could not chase his obsessive thoughts from his mind. He examined the jewel box in his hand once again.
‘From the very beginning, Naldaron’s purpose must have been to seize the Lenra Pearl. That most prized of all the king’s treasures has long remained inaccessible, hidden deep into the dungeons of the Ruby College. But why? What could be his motivation? I cannot believe his plan was to sail the Sea of Cyclones and offer the Lenra Pearl to the Winged Prisoner. Regardless, no ship in the Islands would ever survive such perilous journey.’
Dyoren applied balms upon the numerous wounds inflicted by the bear. These plant decoctions were precious gifts from the matriarchs of clan Llorely that would ease pain but, unfortunately, would not sooth the soul. The deep wound in his ribs continued leaking blood. Beyond his physical pain, Dyoren remained somewhat inert. His will had abandoned him. Languor succeeded pain, as though the sorcerer had managed to reach his innermost passions with his blade. Dyoren’s fleeting thoughts and melancholy made images of his memories pass before him, and he painfully relived all his past emotions. His dreams had vanished like light clouds in a dark sky, scattered away by the murderous knife. All the high points of his life were dispelled, his existence changed into a relentless dark journey.
“First, my only companion Rymsing, whom I worshiped as something she could not be. That shining blade, the incarnation of all my hopes, showed me how easily love can be disguised as betrayal, how quickly a luminous glow can disappear into the darkness,” Dyoren murmured aloud.
“What a fool have I been! How different did the Arkys prove from what I had hoped! I can still hear their reassuring words, from back in the early days. I can still see their encouraging expressions, safely guiding my perilous quest from afar,” he remembered with bitter disgust.
His whole body was exhausted, and his spirit was tormented; he could neither speak nor remain silent.
Dyoren came up to a shelter concealed in the hill’s rock wall, and he decided to stop for the night. He would be able to hide there while keeping a panoramic watch over the horizon. This high position commanded a view of the west beyond the volcano, over the green waves of the woods to the distant arid summits of the Arob Far. The great convulsions of that desolate mountain range gave its numerous peaks the appearance of a hound's jaw. It reminded Dyoren that the valley of Nargrond was only a tiny slip in the vast island of Gwa Nyn.
Darkness had almost closed in. The sun was setting, and one last glimmer of reddish light rested upon a rocky peak of the Arob Far.
The beauty of this view eclipsed the desolate spectacle of Mount Oryusk’s eastern slopes after the eruption. But when Dyoren's eye returned to that field of ashes, he was struck with astonishment. His falcon was flying in wide circles over the opposite hill, whirling about to let his master know that it had found something.
On the slope opposite from his temporary dwelling, a group of three Elves were progressing with difficulty, their outlines barely visible in the fading light.
It was a strange sight. A tall Elf, assisted by a hooded character clad in an azure cloak, carried a makeshift stretcher. Inside was a wounded Elf. From his bald hair, impressive size and his dark plate mail, Dyoren recognized the leader of the unlikely little company.
It was Roquendagor, the formidable knight, one of the Elves from Essawylor he had met in Mentollà.
Dyoren could barely believe his eyes. He stood there for a long while with his body bent.
Soon, the vision of the three Elves had gone, and the volcano showed up hard and naked against the faint western glimmer. Then night closed in, and all was black once more.
Despite the surrounding darkness and his growing weakness, the Seeker decided to go after the group. But before departing, Dyoren took a potion from his bag.
‘The wine of the deities, the blood of the Mother of the Islands. It shall give me the strength that I shall need,’ he hoped.
Dyoren slowly drank the precious liquid in long gulps, savouring the full essence of the sweet nectar as if it was his last opportunity to enjoy such pleasure. The wine invigorated him. A strong power flowed through his veins, chasing away, for a moment, the pain harboured in his body.
*
After skirting around the side of a small lake, Dyoren crossed a stream before climbing a long bank and passing through thorny bushes leading up the opposite hill.
Dyoren was cautiously approaching the top when he heard hushed voices. He silently drew closer and discovered a campsite. The Elves of Mentollà were speaking lingua Irawenti to each other, but he managed to roughly understand what they were saying, despite his lack of fluency in that foreign tongue.
A fourth Elf seemed to be back after exploring the surroundings. He was reporting his findings to his companions.
“I could not find him. My birds have fled. There is little more I can do,” announced the first voice with its foreign accent.
“Could this all be a trap?” wondered the second voice, whose words were coloured by exotic notes.
“Alef Bronzewood gave me his word. If he did not make it, it means he could not,” replied the first voice with conviction.
“He won’t have been the only one caught off guard by the eruption,” added a third, deeper voice, with a gloomy tone.
Dyoren decided to signal his presence. And so, he walked towards the campfire, strumming at his lyre. He chose a sad and languorous song from the repertoire of the Dyoreni knights, a well-known ode that he used to play in Llafal.
“When I had lost all which once I held dear,
With heaviest heart, I fled home in fear,
Until, far from home, began my true tale,
Above the mountains in the Secret Vale.
Atop gloomy trees came the creeping dawn,
Still was I broken, and still did I mourn,
Then the deities’ servants my service sought:
I must find the blades Lord Dol Nargrond wrought.
I gave solemn vow as the Arkys bade,
Then one stepped forth, and raised up a blade;
Gleaming with emeralds was the beautiful sword,
I held her in my arms: my life was restored.
As Dyoren, the Seeker, was I thereafter known:
The Secret Vale’s knight who must wander alone.
Yet all across the Islands are a thousand grateful lips
That whisper of my glory, which no one shall eclipse.”
But the linen-haired bard was not in Llymar anymore, and nobody here would applaud his marvellous voice, which rose and fell in perfect counterpoint to his melodious lyre. Instead, a deep commanding voice sounded back from the camp.
“Who goes there? Make yourself known!”
“I am your friend, Roquendagor! I come in peace,” answered Dyoren, and his voice was clear. “Do you not recognize my music when you hear it?” he added maliciously.
Emerging from the darkness, the Seeker stepped into the area around the campfire. He threw back the hood of his cloak to salute the four Elves of Mentollà. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the light of their blazing log fire.
Roquendagor was standing near his companions, talking to the guide of clan Filweni, Feïwal and to Gelros, the scout. It was difficult to make out the wounded Elf lurking in the shadowy outskirts of their camp.
When Dyoren came further into the light, the Elves of Mentollà stared at him with strange expressions. Although their demeanour was not defensive, they were perplexed, and the Seeker realised he would have to offer some explanation as to what he was doing in such a desolate place. He felt far from comfortable under the stare of their keen eyes.
