The Valley of Nargrond

by C A Oliver

  ‘If I exit through there, I can avoid the main gates,’ he thought, hopeful.

  But he was soon disenchanted upon discovering the invaders had set up a camp to guard the breach. The monstrous creatures were busy constructing their accommodation.

  Mynar dyl knew that, of all the many races of Giants, the Oryusk kin were the greatest crafters. They were famous for being excellent blacksmiths and stonemasons. The quality of their work was evident in the weapons and instruments they were carrying.

  Silently, Mynar dyl waited in the shadows until the moon sank again behind the dark clouds.

  Then, without warning, a hound, released to sniff out survivors in the surrounding ruins, caught onto the Elf’s scent. The watchdog howled. There was suddenly a lot of noise around Mynar dyl: more hounds barking wildly, Giants shouting to each other, and even the neigh of a horse.

  Mynar dyl dashed into the maze of ruins behind him, but after turning the first corner he found himself facing two Oryusk Giants armed with huge two-handed swords. They were hauling a freshly captured white stallion back to their camp.

  Their shoulders were broad, their skin black as coal and their eyes bright orange. Red flames spurted from their blond hair. They towered over the Elf from a height of twenty feet.

  One of the Giants uttered what sounded like a curse in his unintelligible dialect. In a flash, he picked up a rock and hurled it with great strength. The missile came flying towards the Elf as if shot from a catapult.

  Mynar dyl dodged the fatal projectile by rolling onto his side. Quickly back on his feet, he launched his javelin at his foe. The spear flew straight into the Giant’s head, piercing his left eye. Mynar dyl pulled on the thin, taught rope attached to the javelin; a moment later, he had recovered his precious weapon.

  Almost simultaneously, his hawk attacked the wounded Giant who was crying out in pain. As the bird of prey spread its wings, it ripped the monster’s ear with its beak.

  The second Giant rushed forward. In his haste, he let go the reigns holding the horse.

  Without thinking, Mynar dyl charged, spear in hand. The Giant swung his great sword, but the heavy weapon was too slow and missed its target. Mynar dyl dived to one side of the monster, rolled, and pierced the Giant’s foot with the tip of his javelin. The pain was so bad that his opponent hopped and stumbled backwards.

  The hawk attacked again, aiming this time to pierce the monster’s eyes. But with a powerful flick of his head, the great Oryusk warrior struck one of the hawk’s wings with his helmet. A bloody melee ensued. Yelling and striking, the Giant finally overpowered his aggressor. The hawk fell to the ground at his feet.

  Ignoring the fate of his bird, Mynar dyl flung himself upon the horse, getting hold of the reigns. He steered it out of the narrow street and set off at a gallop across the Giants’ campsite.

  There were fires burning everywhere, but the horse managed to dodge and jump clean over them. The Elvin rider could see, as he passed, groups of astonished Giants along the lines of their pickets. Their encampment stretched for more than a hundred yards. But such was the fear in his horse that it crossed the camp as quickly as an arrow.

  Mynar dyl stormed the breach in the wall and reached the open slopes which stretched down to the Sian Senky.

  Swift and rugged, his new stallion also had impressive stamina. Soon, the fires of the Oryusk Giants were but a dull smoulder against the black western sky. Heading southeast, ever faster, Mynar dyl sped across the valley, like a fluttering leaf stirred before a storm.

  But the warlord of Tios Halabron knew he would not be safe until he had crossed the Sian Senky. There were no bridges over the torrent descending from Mount Oryusk’s slopes in these parts.

  A league further east, the riverbed widened, and the flow became calmer. There, Mynar dyl found a ford, and led his mount into the Sian Senky. After crossing without difficulty, he turned south and galloped under the light of the moon. He hoped to find cover in the Arob Nargrond southern range.

  As the dawn whitened the sky before him, it gleamed upon the waters of the Sian Dorg in the distance.

  As morning was coming, Mynar dyl decided to hide for the day. He spotted a thick grove of elms by the riverbank, which would provide shelter for both cavalier and mount. He entered the wood, saw to his horse, and made himself invisible.

  *

  Late in the afternoon, as he was still resting safely out of sight, Mynar dyl noticed a carrion-bird perched upon a bare tree close to the thicket. He watched with interest as the vulture took flight and headed west towards the volcano.

  Upriver, in the direction of the mines of Oryusk, the evening sky was filled with vultures. Flocking in such numbers was unusual; while these scavengers were numerous in the high mountainous parts of Nargrond Valley, they were seldom seen in the lower hills, the realm of falcons and kestrels. Despite the danger, Mynar dyl’s curiosity prevailed. He left his horse safely hidden in the thicket and carefully started walking upriver along the Sian Dorg. Doing his best to remain invisible, he progressed swiftly, keeping a keen eye on the scene above him.

  As if responding to a mysterious call, a dozen vultures had descended, darting wildly about the area, all engaged in a violent fight against a lone kestrel flying just above the trees. Undetectable and undetected, Mynar dyl remained seated for a moment in the shade of a tall oak tree, examining the birds’ ferocious dance through the air.

  Then, as the whirlwind of carrion-birds moved down to the riverbank, Mynar dyl suddenly realized it was no common falcon they were fighting.

  “This is Dyoren’s kestrel!” Mynar dyl realized, recognizing the bird from its rare plumage.

  Now more intrigued than ever, the warlord of Tios Halabron pressed on, sneaking through the reeds with the sun's blinding rays on his back.

  After a few hundred yards more, Mynar dyl finally reached a green hollow, where the Sian Dorg river ran. He discovered the vultures’ real target, who had been so desperately defended by the great hawk.

  An Elf was kneeling on the grass peacefully, his mouth open, his head bare. He seemed to be praying. His eyes were closed, and a sick smile was outlined on his lips. His face was as pale as the white pebbles of the riverbed. He looked cold, despite the ambient morning warmth. His right hand was holding the pommel of a scimitar, its blade thrust into the humid soil, supporting him like a cane. His left hand was pressed into his ribs, in a desperate effort to stop the bleeding from a dark hole in his side.

  “Dyoren!” murmured Mynar dyl as he walked up in haste.

  From the way he was kneeling, Mynar dyl initially thought his brother was praying to the deities. But something was wrong: the paleness of his face, the utter stillness of his body.

  Mynar dyl now rushed forward.

  “Dyoren?” he called.

  Then he saw the sapphires encrusted in the scimitar’s pommel, the markings of the smiths of Nargrond Valley on the blade, and the runes of power carved into the sword’s hilt. Mynar dyl stood there, amazed.

  “This is Lynsing. This is the Sword of the South… How is this possible?” he wondered.

  Mynar dyl was in shock. He could not deny the staggering evidence before him.

  “Dyoren, you have recovered what was thought lost forever. You have fulfilled your vow,” he muttered beneath his breath.

  Seeing no reaction, he reached out and shook his brother by the shoulder. Losing the support of the sword, Dyoren collapsed onto the soil, inert. Startled, Mynar dyl tried to wake his brother. He took his pulse, checked his breathing and examined his skull, but found no signs of life.

  At last, he saw the deep wounds in the wrists, and he understood. Dyoren’s blood had been completely drained from his body.

  Mynar dyl became certain his brother was dead. He could not control the powerful emotion which seized him. However strong and insensitive he thought himself, Mynar dyl was now subjected to the full, infinite, irreparable pain that the death of a close relative will cause.

  Mynar dyl took the l
egendary sword in his hands, as if holding a witness that might tell him what had happened. The shining blade glittered like a brilliant ray of sunshine.

  Just the day before, Mynar dyl had been going to extraordinary lengths to bring Dyoren, the half-brother he called the ‘Renegade’, to justice.

  All was now changed: after the eruption, the discussion with Felrian, and the countless lives that had been lost all around him. His own life had hung only by a thread. Like the pillars of a weak edifice, the foundations of all his convictions had been shaken.

  ‘If Dyoren recovered Lynsing, if he completed such a deed, it could mean he has been telling the truth from the very beginning. Perhaps his mania was not a symptom of a spirit unbalanced by rebellion,’ realised Mynar dyl.

  ‘What if his warnings in the scrolls of the Dyoreni were not insane? What if the Arkys missed what he was doing, and unfairly dismissed him at a crucial moment of his quest?’ A multitude of questions were rushing through his mind.

  Felrian’s faithful defence of Dyoren resonated even louder than before. Memories of his conversation with Camatael on the day of the Gnome’s attack also flooded back to him.

  ‘Moramsing and Saeröl; the Twelfth Arcane Master and Lynsing; Mount Oryusk and the threat that lay inside its bowels… we thought these warnings were the last-ditch attempts of a desperate knight to keep his position. The Arkys made me believe it, and the matriarchs of Llymar thought the same.’

  After some further thinking, Mynar dyl reached a conclusion.

  ‘Camatael told me of another bard in Mentolewin, of a duel, of mysterious events which had been reported around the pilgrimage. Lord Dol Lewin, too, had never believed in the Renegade’s guilt.

  If the last entries in the scrolls of the Seekers are now proven true, Dyoren most likely had nothing to do with Voryn dyl’s disappearance.’

  Mynar dyl needed to express his dismay and his grief. He looked at his brother’s cold features. Dyoren’s face had been spared and remained shining to the end.

  “Truth hurts,” Mynar dyl said aloud as he started to understand Dyoren had simply been telling the world what only he could see.

  The warlord of Tios Halabron suddenly remembered how he had been deaf to all those around him who had urged measure and caution, so obsessed had he been to capture his elder brother.

  A sense of guilt and bitterness now overshadowed the pain of losing another family member. Mynar dyl had behaved disgracefully since Dyoren’s degradation. He felt his life tarnished with shame, all the worse because he had not lived up to his high ranking. He did not have the noble spirit to match.

  Kneeling before his brother, Lynsing in his hand, he murmured a few words to pay tribute and beg forgiveness.

  “Few people have the courage to dedicate their lives to the pursuit of knowledge: because it is painful; because leaving the protection of the forest means danger and misery.

  I did not choose that path, you did. You chose the way out of the woods, taking the rocky mountain path. I finally realize your place in our history… But the hour is late… too late… Today, I feel very, very small… I sincerely ask for your forgiveness.”

  Mynar dyl’s hesitating and weak voice had lost its innate self-confidence. Feeling the ground shirking beneath his feet, he tried to find refuge in the teachings of Eïwele Llyo.

  “Death is merely a step, a passage. Eïwele Llyo grants us reincarnation within the forest. We return to our origins in nature,” he recited, as Llewenti beliefs dictated.

  But doubt beset his spirit. The dramatic events of the day sent him back abruptly to his own anguish. His selfishness regained the upper hand.

  ‘What if the High Elves are right, and death is but a single journey after all? If death means entering the Halls of Gweïwal Agadeon, never to return?’

  The livid corpse of his brother lying on the ground was the incarnation of this unanswered question. A cold shiver ran through him to find his worst fears thus confirmed.

  Dyoren and Voryn dyl had left no heirs. Few survived of all clan Ernaly’s noble dyn, born from the blood of Eïwal Vars and Queen Llyoriane. There were only two old matriarchs, dry as dead wood, and him... him alone, without descent.

  ‘It is in the order of things that Elves should die, and no one can escape this fate without threatening the harmony of the world. The tragic history of the immortal High Elves is the perfect illustration of the Gods’ irrevocable law. I must therefore accept it. But I desperately need children of my own, otherwise my existence will have had no meaning,’ he understood.

  Fighting the dizziness which had started to overwhelm him, Mynar dyl set about performing sacred funeral rites. He would not leave his brother’s body to the vultures.

  “You will find your way to the Hall of Eïwele Llyo, Dyoren. At least I will not fail you now.”

  Mynar dyl shot arrows at the carrion-birds above him until he had broken up their wretched dance. He then dropped his bow onto the soil and started gathering pieces of wood carried by the river. Using the abundant reeds of the Sian Dorg as ropes, Mynar dyl fashioned a little wooden raft. With his javelin he carved the image of the deity of fate on its surface, before carefully placing Dyoren’s body on top.

  At last, the warlord put Lynsing in his brother’s hand. The idea of doing this had come naturally to him, as it was traditional to leave the deceased Elf’s favourite weapon with him on his floating sepulchre. Yet he hesitated for a moment before completing the ritual.

  “I suppose Lynsing should now be yours, after all you suffered to seek the Swords of Nargrond Valley. With the Blade of the South in hand, you can present yourself before Eïwele Llyo with dignity,” Mynar dyl declared aloud, as if Dyoren could hear him.

  But other bitter thoughts came to him, and these, he kept to himself.

  ‘Anyway, I will certainly not be taking Lynsing back to the Arkys, as I did with Rymsing. Let me first find out how deep their hypocrisy and manipulations run. Perhaps these guardians of the Secret Vale are just the blind servants of the ambitious Arkylon. What else can you expect from a High Elf lord? I have been naïve, like so many other Llewenti. It is high time I write my own story. I too can produce myths of my own to make the weak and the stupid bow before me.’

  Finally, Mynar dyl lay a traditional necklace across the body, which he fashioned out of a thin rope, oak leaves and the fletching from his arrows. He marked it with Dyoren’s personal rune. Then came the most poignant detail of the rite. The warlord of Tios Halabron poured the contents of an oil flask on the body. Tradition required that the body be cremated, so that the soul is released to find its way to Eïwele Llyo’s hall.

  Then, before setting the improvised coffin alight, Mynar dyl kneeled to pronounce the ritual prayers to the deity of fate. For a long time, he remained immobile, deep in prayer, as if the sincerity of his appeal to Eïwele Llyo might also redeem himself. He had difficulty chasing away the guilt he felt in that moment.

  Suddenly, as Mynar dyl was completing his prayer, a terrifying sound rang out from the nearby woodlands, like the howling of ferocious wolves. From the noise they were making, these beasts were drawing near. Listening to the snapping brushwood, Mynar dyl knew they would soon be upon him. Time was scarce; he had only just reached for his javelin when the beasts appeared in sight. Only then did Mynar dyl realise the peril he was confronting.

  “Eïwal Vars, help me! These are the watchdogs of the Oryusk Giants!” he cried.

  The five approaching hounds looked fearsome. Despite their great size, as large as adult bears, they were moving stealthily, like hunting dogs with keen hearing and sight. Their colour varied from crimson to fiery-brown, while their eyes were glowing red. Small flames covered their sooty black tongues, and fiery spittle was dripping from their jaws.

  The ferocious beasts howled, as if seized by a terrible anger. The ghastly, shrill sound echoed throughout the rocky surroundings.

  Mynar dyl’s face was twisted in sheer terror, and the pale light of despair shone from his ey
es. No sooner had he left his position by his brother’s corpse; a hound rushed upon him. With a great leap, it sprang with fury against the Elf.

  Mynar dyl quickly thrust his javelin upwards at the hound’s throat. The tip of the spear pierced the fur and the beast fell like a stone, almost crushing him with its weight. So deep had the Elvin warlord driven his weapon into the creature that he failed to retrieve it.

  Now disarmed, Mynar dyl tried to flee, but one of the hounds raced after him, raging like a demon pursued by Gweïwal Narkon.

  It released its blazing fire breath. So powerful were the flames that all nearby vegetation became blackened and scorched. But Mynar dyl escaped by diving into the water. He leapt towards the raft on which his brother floated and had just enough time to push the floating coffin into the fast-flowing current of the river.

  Scared to death and acting by reflex, he picked up the precious scimitar which lay invisible on Dyoren’s chest.

  Mynar dyl drew Lynsing from its scabbard and the blade, suddenly revealed, gleamed cold and white like the ice of the Yl Rocks. Grasping the scimitar’s hilt even more firmly, he could feel its power surging through his limbs. He became inhabited by a feeling of extreme lucidity, as if the movements of his attackers had become predictable.