by C A Oliver
And so, the Dyoreni went on their lonely quest; decades and centuries passed until… until I discovered that two of the Swords had been returned to the Elves, to become a great source of chaos and destruction.
Saeröl inherited Moramsing. He used it to murder King Lormelin and to start the long Shadow War against clan Myortilys, the enemies of his people. He changed his guild into a sect for assassins and murderers, leaving a long trail of bloodshed in his wake. Saeröl lives, whatever the learned Elves may believe, and Moramsing still lurks in the dark corners of the Islands.”
Curwë interrupted this flow of words, worried about the growing exaltation his friend was showing.
“Dyoren, please calm yourself, you have already told me about Moramsing and Saeröl. You need to rest. I can see you are not well. You are not yourself anymore.”
“I will rest when I am dead,” countered the Seeker. “You must listen to me now, Curwë. I insist.
The Sword of Despair is not the only one to have been returned to the Elves. There is another Blade that reappeared. The Twelfth Arcane Master of the Ruby College, the ‘Seer of Oryusk’ as some among the druids call him, possesses Lynsing, the legendary sword which Elrian Dol Urmil wielded in the days of Rowë. I saw his blade. I almost had it by the hilt.”
“What do you mean? You are scaring me, Dyoren. You have a fever,” warned Curwë once more.
He noticed something strange in Dyoren’s gaze. Plainly the Seeker’s words did not encompass all he had in mind.
“What I mean is that I am about to make one final attempt to recover Lynsing. Its wielder is close, closer than you could ever imagine. He is gravely wounded. I doubt he will survive long. I will find him, even if I need enter the mines of Oryusk to do so.”
“You would deliberately go to your doom?” cut in Curwë.
“It is the doom I choose,” replied Dyoren solemnly. “A cruel dilemma lies before me: honour my vows or renounce my life’s purpose. I cannot ignore what I have discovered.
Just as I swore, I have kept the secret. Such was the duty of the Seekers as the centuries passed and the rivers poured their streams into the sea. But today the world is changing once more. The volcano has awoken. Unprecedented disasters have followed one another over the past few years, a sign of the ever-growing ire of the Greater Gods.
The new age foretold by Lon the Wise might be coming sooner than we expected. The Swords must be gathered. I must resume my quest. But of these grave matters I will speak no more…
Now, I am in great need, and I ask for your help, or at least your trust.”
Dyoren took from his pocket the small box inlaid with gemstones.
Curwë examined it closely.
“It is beautiful,” he said. “A masterpiece of ancient craft,” he added softly, looking at Dyoren with a new wonder in his eyes.
“No more will I say,” answered the Seeker. “My heart is filled with deep concern for what this precious box contains. I will not decide in haste what is to be done with what it holds. In fact, I will not decide at all, and neither should you. Do you hear me? Neither should you. Such decisions are beyond our responsibility.”
“Can you not tell me more?” Curwë questioned, feeling disappointed and completely in the dark.
“Listen to me, Green Eyes.” It was the first time Dyoren called his friend by the nickname he had chosen for him. “You will do as I say. Take this box, take it out of the Valley and bring it to the purest heart in the Islands: bring it to the princess Terela of Cumberae on my behalf. She will know what to do. As for me, I must be on my way. My time is precious, and I have already rested for far too long.”
“You cannot simply leave us in the middle of the night if that’s what you mean. You will not make it far alone. I know you are wounded. Your hand keeps clutching at your ribs. You are weary, and so are we. The Valley is unsafe, and its paths are watched by more than ordinary spies. On our way, we saw Giants coming down the volcano, monstrous creatures with fiery hair, walking in the burning ashes,” warned Curwë.
Though it seemed wise for Dyoren to fall in with his friend, the Seeker bluntly refused.
“Leave the Valley and find Terela. Entrust her with the box. Let me go where my fate takes me. This is what I am asking you.
Curwë, you are the son I never had, you are the heir I have entrusted with all the secrets life has taught me. Please do as I say!”
“So, once more, you set off to seek one of the Swords,” deplored Curwë.
“I could not be nearer to my goal. I will enter the Oryusk Mines. That is where the answer to all my questions lies.”
Curwë’s voice now sank to a whisper. “What strength have you left to go into the bowels of Oryusk and confront what lies inside? That is the path of despair…”.
“It might be folly, but not despair. I always have hope, even if at this late hour it is a false hope veiling my eyes. Light and shadow are inseparable. They coexist within me, tearing each other apart. So, goes my destiny. Since I uttered my vows, this cursed quest has haunted me every day of my existence.
Whatever happens, I will be free from birth and death. Even when I shut the light from my eyes and become a corpse, I will be free,” Dyoren confided.
With no more delay, the Seeker sprang to his feet and bade farewell to his friend, though he was ill at ease. He could not look Curwë in the eye.
Dyoren made a few steps in silence on the floor of dark leaves. Soon he vanished into the shadows of the rocks and trees.
*
And so, the Seeker went his way into the night, until the woodlands grew thinner and the landscape became scattered with rocks. The slopes of the volcano to the north were dim and smoky.
It was hard, dangerous work, moving in the darkness through this pathless land. Though he stumbled and hesitated, Dyoren managed to progress along the western edge of a stony gorge.
The huge cone of Mount Oryusk rose above him to a great height. Its reddish head stood below a shadowy cloud, suffocated in poisonous fumes.
The ground was becoming steeper. Sweating and suffering, Dyoren needed to turn aside several times before finally reaching a small river in a narrow vale. This stream, which trickled from a larger pool up the volcano’s side, was the source of the Sian Dorg, the swift torrent that ran down to the lowlands of Nargrond Valley and ended up in the calm waters of Lake Yslla.
After a while, the steep path he was walking up became so narrow that he started to think he had lost his way. He pushed on, however, and the faint murmur of running water on his left became louder and louder, until he could distinctly hear the stream rushing and splashing between the rocks.
At last, Dyoren reached a wet floor of polished stone. In front of him was the pool of Dorg. It was fed by water cascading from far above. Long ago, the stream had flowed down through the mountain caves and out of the mines’ gates. The Elves of House Dol Nargrond had changed its course by creating a fall further up, creating this majestic entrance into the volcano’s insides.
The Seeker stood for a moment on the steps of that great gate of rock, which opened into nothing but darkness: the threshold of another life.
His gaze focused on the runes engraved on the gateway. They were badly degraded, as if some wicked spirit had desired to corrupt their power. Still, Dyoren recognized the Swords of Nargrond Valley’s symbols. The artist had etched their names using gemstones and metal, diamond for Aonya, black iron for Aksinya, ruby for Orsing, amethyst for Moramsing, sapphire for Lynsing and emerald for Rymsing.
The rising sun appeared above the crest of the mountain, and a faint light broke into flickering beams of gold. The many jewels inlaid into the gates sparkled with a steely glimmer.
A great dread came over Dyoren as he stood before the gates of the mines. A strange thought came upon him: that doom he had long foreseen, he was now imposing upon himself.
An overwhelming sadness filled his heart as images of his long life ran by, accompanied by the music of his songs.
; Then, finally, he made a step forward into the mines of Oryusk. It took him no effort to walk towards the darkness; rather, he gave in to it, as if he had no choice.
“I will seek the Swords of Nargrond Valley,” he heard himself say. “Such is my vow.”
CHAPTER 7: Lynsing
2716, Season of Eïwele Llya, 68th day, Gwa Nyn, Ystanargrond
The night sky turned black as the weak moon succumbed to the grip of a dark, sweeping cloud. Mynar dyl, who had barely moved since the disaster, decided it was finally time to attempt leaving his hideout, the covered terrace of an imposing stone building. He staggered towards its edge, supporting himself on one of the roof’s supporting columns. His eyes were still dazed, his ears still ringing.
The warlord of Tios Halabron raised an arm towards the starless sky above to thank the heavens. He looked around himself, weak and aching. It was like he was emerging from the sinister hall where the souls of the Llewenti go after death.
As if struck by the mystery that haunted his life, Mynar dyl let out a loud cry which made his frightened hawk shudder.
“Eïwal Vars has saved me!”
With this effort, he staggered to his feet and climbed down from the stony roof that had protected him during the eruption.
At that very moment, by strange coincidence, the moon reappeared from behind Mount Oryusk’s fumes and illuminated the jewel of his diadem. The emerald, impossibly dark only a moment ago, became bright as a star.
All around Mynar dyl were the smoking remains of what had once been the great, ancient ruins of Ystanargrond. It was a spectacular sight: the camp of a vast army transformed into a kingdom of fire.
The extent of the devastation only truly began to sink in when Mynar dyl recognised what had been the greatest edifice in Nargrond Valley’s history. Long since abandoned to dust and wild vegetation, the Halls of Rowë were now nothing but a carcass. The blackened columns had toppled into the ash. Its shattered silhouette was barely visible through the fumes and smoke. The structure of the great building was damaged beyond repair. The fires of Mount Oryusk had consumed Lord Dol Nargrond’s palace and all the ancient statues that had long embellished its peristyle. Incandescent shards of rock ejected by the volcano were still glowing on the marble steps, like burning salamanders celebrating their conquest.
Life in Ystanargrond had been wiped out with terrible suddenness on the afternoon of the Pact Gathering. Mount Oryusk had released rivers of fire running down from its north-eastern slopes. The grassy land around the grove of Llya had been transformed into an arid waste. But the torrents of lava had stopped at the bottom of the vale. They had been blocked by the Sian Senky; the burning flow had not conquered the slopes of Ystanargrond hill.
Mynar dyl remembered the cry that had come from the western wall.
“Dragons!”
A sentry sounded the alarm, blowing his horn as if the sky was falling around him. The army was alerted as soon as the risk had emerged on the horizon. Terrorized Elves realised that it was not dragons descending upon them, but the wrath of Mount Oryusk.
Fiery debris had shot out from the volcano in all directions, and the extreme heat of the projectiles had created a deadly bombardment upon the army’s camp. The loss of life had been appalling. The bombing had devastated a timber warehouse close to where Mynar dyl stood, causing great fires to break out all around.
Before the eruption, the warlord of Tios Halabron had been hiding near Rowë’s Halls to watch events unfold from afar. He had avoided drawing attention to himself after exploring the clan Llorely’s camp. Although the rune of the druids protected him as a Pact envoy, his isolated position within the army of Gwarystan demanded extreme caution. That caution had saved his life.
From his isolated position, Mynar dyl had witnessed the pandemonium spread among the Gwarystan units. Panic set in as soldiers attempted to evacuate through the eastern gate. The surviving foot soldiers and archers frantically scrambled over the burning corpses of their comrades towards the Sian Senky, seeking the protection of the river’s waters.
The mounted Elves had been able to escape much more quickly. Mynar dyl had seen knights riding their horses at full gallop along the streets of Ystanargrond. The cavaliers had not hesitated in knocking their own troops down to save their own skin.
There had then followed a long period of intense fear for Mynar dyl. As the volcanic devastation continued around him, the warlord sat tight in the stone building, singing his prayers to the deities of the Islands and entrusting them with his fate.
In the many hours of surreal chaos which followed, his sense of time and space was distorted. Night seemed to follow day without warning, but still Mount Oryusk was releasing its poisonous fumes and burning missiles, bursting out like dark thoughts of vengeance suppressed for too long.
Eventually, the rain of fire had ceased. His stone hideout had held fast, as if Mynar dyl’s prayers had reinforced the roof of the terrace.
But for a long time after, the survivor had remained hidden in his shelter, unable to make the slightest move until it was very late at night.
Mynar dyl decided to survey the deserted Ystanargrond. He felt more confident as calm had now been restored. Moonlight flooded the vast square he crossed, illuminating the many cremated bodies which lay there with a silvery glow. The camp was completely devoid of life. Among the equipment destroyed in the inferno was the great tent of the Ruby College.
Beyond, the ruins of Ystanargrond were a series of blacked, blasted streets, covered with dust, smoke and the foul stench of building materials reduced to ashes.
Mynar dyl had just about concluded he was the only Elf left behind when he saw a single cavalier riding down the river towards the city walls. Weary and haggard, drenched in water and caked in mud, both horse and rider were at the last stages of their endurance. Mynar dyl watched their progress up the hill of Ystanargrond with amazement. He finally recognised the ragged, swaying figure with unkempt hair and wild eyes as Felrian, the lord of Urmilla.
Mynar dyl ran to meet him at the city gates and helped him reel from the saddle. But Felrian Dol Urmil could only point to the volcano.
“The day of wrath has come!” he croaked; his expression filled with terror.
And as Mynar dyl followed his gaze far across the river, he suddenly caught sight of several large silhouettes moving slowly down the vale.
“The Giants of Oryusk!” Felrian cried.
The monstrous creatures, with their stovepipe helms and dragonhide cloaks, were unmistakable even at this distance and under the cover of night. They stood at three times the size of an Elf.
“They have left their caverns inside the volcano.”
“We must flee their fury!” Mynar dyl cried.
“Beware! Do not underestimate them like the others did. Giants can be shrewd. It is no accident they are coming from the river. They are expecting survivors to flee that way. We must stay hidden inside the ruins,” advised Felrian.
“Do as you wish! I have no intention of confronting them,” warned Mynar dyl, almost in panic.
Felrian held the Llewenti warlord by the sleeves of his clothing.
“Don’t be a fool! And do as I say if you want to live. We need to hide this horse. It might be our only chance to escape this valley.”
Lord Dol Urmil’s command did leave an impression on Mynar dyl, and he managed to calm down.
“I will help you,” he finally agreed.
Soon, the two Elves were running into the devastated streets of Ystanargrond, the stallion on their heels and Mynar dyl’s hawk flying above them. They had to avoid the burning debris and treacherous smoking craters.
As they approached the northern moat and started up the road, they passed a long, rocky wall. There were cracks in the granite from which water vapour sprayed out in misty clouds.
Felrian seemed to know the place. He stepped into a wide crevice in the wall and shouted a word of power. The echo returned from afar. The lord of Urmilla then stepped through a
hidden door, looking relieved when his horse also managed to creep into the narrow passage. Mynar dyl, his bird of prey on his arm, followed closely.
Inside, a twinkling colony of golf worms provided a flickering light, which danced upon a pool of glittering water. A natural bridge crossed the room, which had been carved into the rocky hill. Water cascaded from its basalt roof.
‘This cavern must have been a shrine long ago,’ thought Mynar dyl.
A fresh water spring was gushing further in, almost reaching the heights of the cave’s high, domed ceiling.
“I came to pray in this secret temple two days ago. I made offerings to the Lord of all Waters,” confided Felrian.
Mynar dyl was astonished by the beauty of the place. “May the deities of the Islands bless you, Lord Dol Urmil,” was all he could mutter.
That such a haven of tranquillity could be hidden but a few yards from the chaos outside left him speechless.
The lord of Urmilla sat on a boulder near the pool, wondering aloud.
“When my ancestor transformed this cavern into a shrine dedicated to Gweïwal Uleydon, I doubt he realized what a lifeline it would one day be to his distant heir.
May his faith in the Greater God of all Waters be praised. He was the son of the lady who ruled Urmilla at the time, but his father was an Irawenti shipwright, the second son of Filwen, the navigator. Hence his dedication to Gweïwal Uleydon.”
