by C A Oliver
“These are strange circumstances for a reunion,” Dyoren said, watching the Elves of Mentollà’s faces, as if their expressions might tell him how best to deal with the situation.
They returned his gaze with the same questioning intensity but said nothing. Dyoren’s attention fixed on Feïwal, who stood unmoved, giving no sign of his thoughts. To clear the air, the Seeker came forward, closer to the firelight, with open palms.
“You are wondering why I am here… and so am I,” he said, drawing his hand across his brow. “It seems Eïwele Llyo has deigned to wait a little longer before welcoming me to her great hall, for I have been spared today. I was on the other side of Mount Oryusk, away from the grove of Llya. I wonder how many of the participants to the Pact Gathering survived…”
“We were not as fortunate as you,” replied Feïwal, finally breaking his silence. “Curwë was badly hurt. He was struck with some fiery debris ejected from the volcano. It is a miracle he was not burnt alive. We’ve been carrying him ever since.”
Dyoren turned to the fourth Elf who was in a corner of the campsite. He was lying down on a blanket with his feet towards the log-fire. The Seeker could not distinguish the wounded Elf’s face, but he immediately recognized the voice which answered his unuttered question.
“I am fine, Dyoren. You have not heard the last of my Muswab yet. You’ll be covering your ears in agony before you know it.”
Grinning rather than smiling, the Seeker looked at his friend with wonder, as Curwë tried to come into the light.
“You have a stout heart,” Dyoren said, “but it was foolish to come to the Valley.”
There was no further outpouring of emotions between the two friends, for Feïwal interrupted them. His voice was inquisitive and insisting.
“Have you come across any other survivors?” Feïwal asked bluntly.
Dyoren paused. “I did not,” he finally answered, but immediately reversed the roles, looking at the three Elves before him. “What are you doing on the slopes of Mount Oryusk? As far as I knew, Mentollà was being represented at the Pact Gathering by the envoy of Llymar.”
None of them answered. Dyoren understood the two other Elves would not talk, and that whatever their reasons were for being in the Valley, only Feïwal would tell.
“There have been many druids about, dispatched to various places to serve as guides for the factions participating to the Pact. Have you not seen any? One of them was meant to meet us to show us the way out of Nargrond Valley,” insisted the Irawenti guide.
Dyoren thought for a moment, fearing some trap and wondering how this discussion would end. He had known Feïwal during his days in Mentollà. The guide of the clan of Filweni had even provided him with care and advice that had greatly aided his recovery. Yet, he felt in his heart that Feïwal was an Elf more self-regarding than his stern and wise attitude betrayed.
“I cannot help you,” Dyoren said at last.
Roquendagor frowned and looked at Feïwal for guidance. But at last, his impatience got the better of him.
“We need to leave the Valley after this disaster,” burst the knight. “It is said you know paths that are seldom trodden. Will you not help us?”
There was a heavy silence. Still, Dyoren made no answer.
At this, Roquendagor stepped forward, eager to demonstrate that strength and numbers were on their side. But from the shadows, the voice of Curwë rose.
“Easy, friends! It would be terribly rude to start fighting as I lie here at death’s door. I deserve better. Keep your calm! We are allies here. Dyoren is no common Elf, he is the knight of the Secret Vale. I would expect my companions to show him respect…”
Curwë’s intervention helped ease the tension. Dyoren immediately understood how necessary it had been, for what he saw in Feïwal’s eyes was a more than implacable will. No doubt, the Irawenti guide was after something: and something he direly needed.
“If anyone thinks otherwise, he had better deal with me first!” insisted Curwë, and he made an attempt to get up, only to fall back painfully onto his camp bed.
Roquendagor laughed, Dyoren smiled, Gelros grimaced, but Feïwal remained stolid, his concern sharpened by Dyoren’s muted responses.
Seeing he had nothing more to fear, Dyoren made an offer to the company.
“I will soon be on my way. Let me take the watch with Curwë. Take this opportunity to rest. You will need all your strength if you are to return to Mentollà.”
“Thank you, Dyoren,” said Curwë to mark his confidence in his friend. Turning to his companions, he added, “Now rest, you heard me. We will keep watch. If the mountain gets struck by lightning or the valley gets submerged in a tidal wave, you will be the first to know.”
Roquendagor let out a good laugh at this. “Don’t wake me up unless Zenwon, Agadeon, Uleydon and Narkon attack the camp. I am tired after carrying you all day, weakling!”
The three Elves of Mentollà withdrew from the two friends. Then, they all fell silent, and one by one dropped off into much-needed slumber. Curwë and Dyoren found themselves alone in the corner of the campsite. First, the two friends sat quietly, as if waiting to see who would take the initiative to speak first.
Finally, Curwë addressed his mentor gravely, anticipating many inevitable questions to come. He bowed his head as he stirred and whispered softly.
“I cannot answer you, Dyoren, even if I wanted to. I am simply following Feïwal dyn in his errand because he asked me to. My friends and I owe him our allegiance, for he saved our lives. Back in Essawylor, we were banished by Queen Aranaele. Feïwal dyn took us beyond the Austral Ocean and offered us a new existence here.
Now, what reasons he had for coming to Nargrond Valley, I sincerely do not know, nor do I want to know. I am simply repaying my debt…
I can guess what you are thinking, what it is you need to ask.
Rymsing is safe, Dyoren. I did not take your sword with me. You no longer need worry about it.”
Dyoren’s answer came almost immediately. “You are being diplomatic in a delicate situation. But your face is telling me more than your words.”
“I am not lying, Dyoren, and I have told you as much as I can.”
Stepping back a little, the Seeker cast down his piercing eyes.
“I know you would not lie to me, my friend,” he muttered. “Now, listen, all of Llymar knows I have no love for my half-brother, Mynar dyl. I know he has had some grievance with you too.
I did not doubt he would gladly avenge the Arkys’ honour after my refusal to submit. When I left Llafal after our last encounter, the fiercest of his guards were on my heels. One of them had identified me. It was a lack of vigilance on my part.
Thus, as I sailed my small fishing boat out of the Halwyfal’s waters, I wondered if my original mistake might lead Mynar dyl to you. I feared my half-brother would hurt you, and it would all be my fault. That is what concerned me most. As for Rymsing, I did not want to return it to the Arkys after the unjust shame they brought upon me. Nor do I wish to become the first knight of the Secret Vale to lose the Blade of the West. It is a mighty heirloom.
Should that Blade now be the possession of the Arkys, I would consider, just as you have said, that Rymsing is safe, that I no longer need to worry about her.
Have I hit near the mark?”
Curwë did not reply, but his face was filled with relief. To soften the atmosphere and rekindle that precious companionship he had with his mentor, he started playing his own instrument.
The bard from Essawylor did not play one of the cheerful, lively songs his friends so loved, but rather a sweet and plaintive melody that harmonized with the current thoughts of his heart, like the echo of his deepest feelings. It was the strong and unique bond of music which had brought the two Elves together during their time in Llafal.
“I see you have brought your special lyre with you, the famous Ywana,” noted Dyoren.
The Irawenti-designed instrument had been saved from the wreck of the Alwïryan.
Since then, it had hardly left Curwë’s side. Dyoren examined it closely, as if it had the power to recall happier days. He remembered the powerful enchantment that captured his audience when his fingers touched the exotic instrument’s chords.
“You carried my guests to unknown lands the nights you played the Irawenti lyre. It was as if a sea spirit was singing for us,” Curwë said with admiration.
“The harmonious tones produced by its warm strings has always amazed me. Never in my life had I encountered anything else quite like it,” remembered Dyoren. “Do you know, I spent the best days of my life in Llafal, at the House of Essawylor? That too short period of peace, where we would spend all morning writing music and every night dancing, singing and playing at those famous feasts...
The House of Essawylor was open to all. Naturally, I was curious to experience the culture you had brought with you across the ocean. But what I liked most was the diversity of talent hosted there. Every genre of music in Llymar was represented.”
“In a short time, the House of Essawylor became a place for friends of all cultures. I felt a great pride in that,” Curwë concurred. “Somehow, those festive nights forged ties between the shipwrecked and our hosts. Back in Essawylor, we had always lived under the absolute authority of Queen Aranaele. When we arrived in Llafal, my friends and I marvelled at the Llewenti customs. Llymar has long refused the rule of tyrants. The clans have always relied on the authority of their matriarchs to guide the community. We admired that.”
“Curwë, your House of Essawylor will remain dear to my heart… It was as if, through music, I could smell the fragrances of your homeland, see the colours of the tropical trees and birds, and hear the music of the streams. I felt bewitched by the tales the Irawenti would sing so beautifully. For a few stolen hours, I could escape the burden of my solitary life of wandering,” Dyoren confided.
The moon was already beginning its descent when a sudden pain forced him to move from his previously comfortable position.
Curwë noticed how his friend’s hand would keep reaching down to his ribs, as if a hidden wound were troubling him. He felt the need to demonstrate his support and affection.
“You will return, Dyoren. And I will organise a great party to celebrate your homecoming,” he promised, as cheerfully as he could manage.
Dyoren nodded, but in his heart, he knew that joyful reunion would never take place.
After they had eaten and drunk sitting on the grass, the two friends, caught up in their memories, stayed up conversing well into the night. No moonlight bathed the desolate slopes around Mount Oryusk. From time to time, they would blow into the embers of their small fire to keep it from burning out.
At last, the spectacle of the volcano’s continued eruption pulled them from their light-hearted discussion. The night was as dark and as gloomy as the bowels of the earth.
Dyoren stared at a fixed point on the ground to overcome his sudden dizziness. The soothing effect of the matriarchs’ elixir was starting to wane. Cold sweat trickled down his back, contrasting with the campsite’s warm atmosphere. Dyoren suddenly stiffened, as if listening out for nocturnal sounds far away. He knew the time would soon come for him to leave. But first there were important things he wanted to discuss. Changing his attitude, the Seeker turned to his friend, his face grave.
“It is said in ancient songs that Rowë Dol Nargrond was the greatest of the High Elves to set foot on the shores of the Archipelago, surpassing even King Lormelin in his wisdom and lore. According to legends, his father, Nargrond, was one of the fatherless Elves, born from the mind of Ö, the Creator. Rowë had walked alongside the Gods in the early days of the world, benefitting from their teachings, taking advantage of their knowledge. His scholarship and charisma could have allowed him to aspire to the greatest positions among the High Elves. But power was not what he wanted; he preferred to serve others, taking only the title of Dol for himself and his lineage. He became a talented blacksmith and a renowned alchemist, and few among his kin could claim to surpass his talents. For centuries, he served the Hawenti kings and was always at their side. He served them in their conquests, he served them in their wars, he served them in their crimes...
It is written in the annals of those days that Rowë felt deeply troubled by the conditions imposed upon the Llewenti by his liege, King Lormelin, after his conquest of the Archipelago. Many scholars interpreted the Conqueror’s deviant behaviour, his thirst for power at all cost, as a sign of the curse laid upon the High Elves by the Gods; like a damnation which would pursue them across whatever seas and mountains they conquered. This was the source of Rowë’s profound fear of the future.”
“Why are you telling me this? It’s not as though the heroes of these legends will spring back to life out of Mount Oryusk,” interrupted Curwë, worried by the solemnity of his companion’s tone.
“I am telling you this because the hour is late and there is much, I must entrust to you… before we part,” replied Dyoren severely.
The Seeker rose with difficulty from the grass and, taking two cups from a small chest that lay on the blanket, he filled them with the content of a potion which he mixed with fresh water.
“This is the last philtre I have. It was prepared by the matriarchs of clan Llorely,” he said.
Dyoren gave one cup to Curwë. He bade him drink. Standing before his friend, Dyoren suddenly appeared taller. In his eyes gleamed a new light, prophetic and keen.
At last, once he had drunk his own cup, the Seeker spoke again.
“I believe that Rowë made the legendary blades to shape the Islands’ Elves destiny. It became the great work of his life. I believe their forging was a spiritual act, an attempt to fight the curse of the Gods and celebrate the message of the Islands’ deities, which was one of hope and independence.
The Blades of Nargrond Valley were made with metal from the meteorite. They were heat-treated on summer solstice. The rituals performed during the process were based upon the movements of the Sun. And Ö, the Creator, has always been associated with natural light. The link between the Sun and the Swords is omnipresent throughout all the smiths of Yslla’s rituals. The sunrise signifies revival. I believe the Swords can restore life to the Islands when the time of the great disaster will come.”
“So, this is the role you have been playing all along with such blind dedication. It was all because of your everlasting commitment to the Elves of the Islands. What you are saying is that the Swords are not instruments of power, but of salvation.”
"This is what I came to believe, and why it is so important to find them. I see the Blades of Nargrond Valley as relics capable of keeping the destructive power of the Greater Gods at bay.
Lon the Wise predicted that a time of great disasters will one day come. Men will be the dominant cause. As human populations continue to grow, the chaos and havoc they wreak will provoke the Greater Gods’ wrath. The divine powers of Zenwon, Uleydon, Agadeon and Narkon will summon catastrophes which have not been seen since the War of Elements. Sea levels will rise. Deserts will expand in the warmer regions. Glaciers will conquer new territories and change cold waters into seas of ice. Heat waves, droughts, wildfires, heavy snowfall and rainfall will damage the lands of Men… until… even the last refuge of the Elves will be threatened.”
“What we saw today with our own eyes is even more frightening than Lon’s prophecy,” said Curwë. “I understand why the Swords are so eagerly sought by the Arkys. It also explains the unwavering support the Secret Vale receives from the matriarchs. But what power can the Blades of Nargrond Valley hold to resist such catastrophes?”
“I believe the Swords, when united, can control the Islands’ Flow, Curwë. I believe their combined powers could resist the devastation of the Greater Gods.”
Curwë hazarded a guess. “But for this to happen, their wielders would have to renounce the power they draw from their mighty weapons.”
Dyoren nodded in agreement. “Indeed… I think this was Rowë’s purpose fr
om the very beginning; to impose that ultimate test to the Swords’ wielders. But before we get to that stage,” the Seeker added, “the Swords must be gathered first.”
Seeing that his vision and arguments were carrying even more force, Dyoren felt confident to divulge more of what had obsessed him for so long.
“Like some in my clan before me, I chose the path of the Lonely Seekers, although it was the hardest. Neither my strength nor my wisdom has led me far, although hope has never left me… But listen to me attentively, Curwë, and trust my words! These are not the ramblings of a mad Elf.”
Curwë seemed to agree, but doubt was now on his face. In that instant, Dyoren’s fervour looked very much like insanity. For a while, the Seeker stood with unseeing eyes, as if walking through a distant memory.
“When the four smiths of Yslla entered the mines of Oryusk with Lon the Wise, each wielded a Blade of Nargrond Valley. Only Rymsing was left behind, hidden, and entrusted to Rowë’s brother, Rimwë, the future Arkylon.
The smiths of Yslla were killed, Lon never returned and five of the Swords disappeared into the Mines of Oryusk.
After the Valley fell, for centuries, knights of the Secret Vale sought the Swords across the Islands without success. It was therefore commonly believed the Blades of Nargrond Valley were still hidden inside the Mines of Oryusk, guarded by the unknown power that resided there.
