The Valley of Nargrond

by C A Oliver

  Another hound bared its great black teeth and growled wildly. With that, it leapt upon Mynar dyl, who struck him straight between the eyes with the scimitar. The blade pierced the beast’s skull with deadly ease. The beast fell.

  Enraged by this feat, the remaining hellish dogs rode down on Mynar dyl, trying to trample him under their paws. But the Elf made an unexpected leap. He sprang, cat-like, right onto the back of one of the speeding hounds and grasped it about the throat. Both beast and rider fell upon the soil, but Mynar dyl was flung far, and lay dazed for a moment.

  His scimitar was still in his hand and the warlord of Tios Halabron rose, fiercer than ever, brandishing his blade high above. Overwhelmed with fury, he felt none could restrain him. His eyes shone with the light of his sword.

  The hounds of Oryusk attacked again, charging one after the other, breathing fire. But each time, Mynar dyl would leap out of the way, always one step ahead of the furious beasts.

  At last, the three remaining hounds encircled the Elf, denying him any chance of escape. Like a silvery light in a dark sky, Lynsing stabbed and smote, slashed and pierced. The hounds tour into the Elf with their claws and teeth, and several times Mynar dyl cried out in agony.

  Twice was Mynar dyl beaten to his knees by the ruthless beasts, twice did he rise to wield his shining scimitar again, fighting like a cornered cat, dealing great, wild blows in all directions. His mantle was torn to shreds, his leather armour mangled, and his helmet sundered when, at last, the Elf delivered the final blow. His feet stumbled. He was spent. Around him lay the corpses of the three hounds of Oryusk. The blade of his scimitar was soaked in black blood up to its hilt.

  “Eïwal Vars has saved me!” Mynar dyl cried out, repeating it over and over.

  At last, when the last of his fury had left him, he remembered Dyoren, and worried about what had happened to his coffin. The current of the Sian Dorg had pushed it towards the other bank. The raft had become stuck in a swampy area a hundred yards downriver. It was barely visible amid a great entanglement of reeds.

  Before the coffin drifted away any further, Mynar dyl decided to act. With a single word of power, he set an arrow aflame. He then retrieved his bow and, with unsteady arms, shot the burning missile towards the other bank of the river. It missed its target. Another five arrows were required before he finally set the raft alight. Relieved, Mynar dyl looked at his quiver. It was empty.

  ‘It is high time I return to Llymar, or this journey to Gwa Nyn will eventually claim my life. What folly took me here!’ he thought, looking at the shining blade of Lynsing.

  His hands were still shaking.

  *

  2716, Season of Eïwele Llyo, 1st day, Nyn Llyvary, Llafal harbour

  Blood-red clouds dappled the coast in orange light before, slowly, the flaming globe appeared above the trees, setting the emerald waters of the Halwyfal ablaze. The morning sunlight illuminated the many masts of the naves anchored in Llafal.

  The great swanship, like a majestic king among his vassals, towered above the rest of the fleet. It was stripped of its sails and its many oars were lying still, resting quietly in Llafal’s waters.

  On board, Feïwal and Arwela were walking along the railing. Every day at dawn, the guide of the clan of Filweni would closely examine the ship’s deck. But that morning, an unexpected visit had interrupted his routine task. His elder sister was there, wanting to relay in person the long-awaited order from the Council of the Forest. The warships of Llymar would depart for Cumberae the next morning.

  “So, Leyen dyl Llyvary finally shares my views,” noted Feïwal.

  He had difficulty masking his contempt for the warlord of Penlla, the official commander of the fleet. But his mood was unusually good, and his blue gaze filled with excitement and hope. The left half of the navigator’s face was tattooed with a runic pentagram. His long, dark azure hair was strewn with silvery feathers, and a diadem of marine pearls adorned his head.

  “The swanships will set sail tomorrow at dawn,” explained Arwela. “Today we will make all final preparations and load the shipment. The fighters will embark tonight after the feast held in their honour. Orders have been given that they spend the night on board, so that the fleet can depart with the morning tide. This should enable you to cross the passes of the Halwyfal safely.”

  She climbed the stairs which led to the atfcastle of the ship. Dressed in an azure robe, her long dark hair flowed in the wind, enhancing her natural beauty.

  Looking at the dozen Llewenti warships anchored in the harbour, her brother could not resist complaining.

  “We have already waited too long. The journey to Cumberae will be dangerous. We will find more than storms in the southern parts of the Archipelago. It will be several weeks by the time we reach Nyn Llyandy. When winter reaches those latitudes, icebergs are said to be the main danger.”

  Two sailors crossed the deck in silence. The great swanship’s crew was composed exclusively of Llewenti from Penlla. They had volunteered to leave their homes behind to accompany their warlord, Leyen dyl, across the seas. Fair to behold, these young Elves did not look like accomplished sailors. They seemed oblivious to what setting out on this journey might imply, beset as it would be by all manner of dangers.

  Feïwal was considering them with concern while Arwela resumed her explanation.

  “The Council of the Forest wished the fleet to be at full strength before sailing to war. It made sense to have all commanders present,” she argued.

  “Siw! I do not think one ship will make a difference. I find it incredible that a thousand Elves are risking their lives by waiting for one warlord,” Feïwal replied, with the authority of a navigator who has wandered the Sea of Cyclones.

  “The swanship bringing Mynar dyl home was last seen south of Nyn Ernaly by the matriarchs’ sea birds. It was slowed down by headwinds in the strait of Nyn Avrony.”

  “Did Mynar dyl really wish to arrive in time to depart with the fleet?” Feïwal wondered. “I doubt it. See how few troops from clan Ernaly have joined us. Most of our units come from Penlla. They are made up of inexperienced sailors who have seldom left this bay. Lord Camatael told me how little Mynar dyl supported the alliance with Cumberae during the negotiations with Princess Terela. I would not be surprised if he had ‘arranged’ to slow down his journey back. The warlord of Tios Halabron cannot be trusted.”

  “I think Mynar dyl hates us deeply. I do not know what he abhors most; the Irawenti or the refugees,” Arwela agreed.

  “It is miraculous enough he survived the devastation of Nargrond Valley. I was at the council when the matriarchs learnt he was still alive. The Llewenti were impressed by his feats; he was the only ambassador of Llymar who remained behind at the Pact Gathering. He could have been killed like so many others, yet he survived. All are feverishly awaiting his return and the news he will bring.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by an embarkation on the port’s waters. This surprising occurrence drew their attention. A small boat had discreetly left the Alcalinquë, another swanship commanded by their brother Nelwiri, and was heading swiftly towards the shore. Two Elves were aboard, rowing without skill but with conviction. The whole situation looked suspect to Feïwal: the timing of the expedition, the behaviour of the two apprentice sailors. It looked like a half-baked attempt at smuggling.

  Arwela possessed very good eyesight. She identified one of the rowers, despite her hooded marine cloak.

  “What is Fendrya doing on that small boat?” she wondered. “I thought you had commanded Nelwiri to keep an eye on such behaviour. There are passengers on board the Alcalinquë who had better not be seen in Llafal.”

  Feïwal ignored the criticism veiled in his sister’s words. Pretending not to hear was his preferred defence mechanism. Instead, he opted to provide his own interpretation of the situation.

  “This afternoon, the Llewenti will celebrate the Day of Myos, which marks the beginning of Autumn. I suppose our lovely cousin wished to participate i
n the celebrations. I know many departing fighters want to make it a feast to be remembered. Fendrya must have convinced one of the Alcalinquë’s sailors to join her. The Llewenti say it is a day for all kinds of sensual pleasure.”

  “Cil, Cim Cir! Fendrya is definitely a scion of the clan of Feli, always adventurous and often rebellious,” smiled Arwela. Yet she was surprised at this news of the celebration. “Myos? I thought that deity was only worshipped by the Dark Elves.”

  Feïwal concurred with a nod of his head.

  “It is true. Myos is the Patron deity of the clan Myortilys and the alleged forefather of their matriarchs. But old superstitions are difficult to eradicate among the clans of Llymar,” he noted. “The Day of Myos commemorates an old Llewenti legend. It is thought that Myos made love to Llyo on that night. The deity of disillusions had set himself a challenge: to seduce and corrupt the frigid Eïwele. He fell back on his usual treacherous ways to lure the deity of fate into a feast of debauchery and excess. Llyo was abused that night. Ashamed, she fled into the bowels of the Islands.”

  “It is another old legend I did not know. Llewenti mythology is undeniably rich, our hosts certainly have some strange beliefs. Did you know their matriarchs believe that Elves with epilepsy hold prophetic powers?” noted Arwela with a mocking air. “And they choose that over observing the night sky to foretell events.”

  “The matriarchs’ teachings cannot be trusted, I agree. What’s more, their faith is changing, and this is worrying. They have closed the temple of Eïwal Ffeyn and prohibited worship of the deity of freedom. Rumours have spread among the people of Llymar that Eïwal Ffeyn is a threat, that his wrath is the source of all the disasters which have struck the Archipelago recently. This is heresy. The Llewenti are forsaking their true patron deity.”

  Arwela knew how angry her brother had been when the matriarchs had announced their decision, which he interpreted as a direct threat to the community of Mentollà. Wishing to prevent another outburst, she changed subject. It was an opportunity to question his latest decision and point out his own contradictions.

  “And yet you have decided to sail the high seas again with the army of Llymar.

  Siw! Could you not resist commanding the great swanship? Is that it? Or is it rather you could never sit back while another captain takes the helm?” she reproached him with all the spite of someone being left behind.

  Feïwal immediately countered her. “I have my reasons to sail to Cumberae with the army of Llymar. Besides, I need you to stay in Mentollà to watch over our community. Luwir will need your wise council more than ever.”

  “He will not. The only one who needs is you. Yet you no longer listen to me. How many times have I warned you?

  It is not wise being so close to Aewöl and his mysterious servants. It is dangerous to involve your family and clan in the dealings of his guild.

  It was folly going to Nargrond Valley and it is suicidal going to Nyn Llyandy with the fleet of Llymar.

  Cir shines upon your path, Feïwal! The star of degradation watches over you! It is awaiting your fall! And should you continue to approach its deadly light, it will claim your soul,” Arwela warned, spelling out quite deliberately the bad omens she had read in the stars to make her point.

  Her voice possessed a great power to convince, such was the inner strength of the seer of the clan of Filweni. Feïwal listened to her attentively, but he did not bow to her arguments. His gaze, full of serenity, fixed upon his sister. He wanted her to understand why he had come to these decisions. Brother and sister would not meet for a long time. He needed Arwela strong and confident. She would become the leader of their community if he should fail. So, relying on his usual solemn attitude, he tried to convince her.

  “It is true. Recently I have not followed your advice, and on several occasions,” he started, still defensive.

  “Siw! You have systematically done the opposite of what I have advised, Feïwal! Look at what happened with the mad hermit. I warned you that shape-changer was dangerous. He belonged to a faction of extremists among the druid circles, wild Men and Elves who pray for massive disasters to occur. They are obsessed with destruction. You, we, should have nothing to do with them.

  Yet you still met that Alef Bronzewood on several occasions. You believed his tales. And worse, you even crossed a sea and explored the most dangerous valley of the Islands to see if his predictions came true.”

  “Alef Bronzewood was an ally, a friend of Gelros, whether you like it or not. We need allies… do you understand? Sometimes, you do not choose them.”

  “I am sure Alef Bronzewood was serving another powerful druid with greater influence,” Arwela replied severely. “He was most probably being manipulated. Remember it was he who asked you to meet him in the first place.

  You are acting as if this friendship with Gelros aligns him with Mentollà. But that lonely scout is a Morawenti, Feïwal. Night Elves have no friends. That is all there is to say…”

  “When I hear your words, it is like I am listening to Mynar dyl at the Council of the Forest. He has often said, ‘You are an Irawenti, Feïwal dyn, that is all there is to say!’ at the end of his speeches,” countered the guide of the clan of Filweni.

  “Gelros is the faithful servant of a dangerous master, Feïwal. I have said it from the beginning. I have said it many times, and I will continue to say it. If, in the end, one of the shipwrecked prevails in these lands, I predict it will be Aewöl. Only there will be none of us left to applaud his feat,”

  “All I know is: Aewöl brought me Alef Bronzewood, and Alef Bronzewood almost led me to the Lenra Pearl.”

  Unconvinced, Arwela disagreed. “How can you be sure of that? The reality looks very different to me. You crossed a forbidden sea; you entered a valley where Gnomes and Giants dwell. You risked your supposed friends’ lives and your own, just for the sake of meeting with a mad hermit who had promised you the Lenra Pearl. Is that jewel not the most precious in the Islands? Is it not the most guarded treasure?”

  “I saw in Alef Bronzewood’s eye he was telling the truth. He explained me how to read the revelations his master had experienced. He backed up what he said with evidence.

  Siw! The faction of the true druids who supported him, that group of dangerous priests as you called them, wish to free the Mighty Prisoner and clear the Islands of the invaders. They want the Archipelago to be returned to the Free Elves, to become what it was always meant to be, our last refuge. Indirectly these true druids serve our purpose. They pave the way for the migration of our people.

  And history has proven Alef Bronzewood right. Survivors of the Pact Gathering confirmed the mages of the Ruby College brought the Lenra Pearl to the grove of Llya.

  The Lenra Pearl was very close to me at one point, almost within reach. The great disaster, which was foretold did occur, and the army of Gwarystan was indeed destroyed. Alef Bronzewood came to the meeting as agreed, and I cannot imagine why he would have done so without the prize he had promised. I believe he held the Lenra Pearl in his hand. We came so close to freeing the Mighty Prisoner. Only Alef Bronzewood was murdered before we could reach him.”

  “I cannot help but worry, Feïwal! Your imagination has got the better of you. The responsibility you feel for the fate of our nation is mutating into a dangerous obsession which makes you see things where there are none.”

  “Then what about this?” asked Feïwal, challenging as ever.

  His eyes became as bright as stars. The guide of the clan of Filweni drew from his cloak a long dagger with a beautifully adorned hilt in the shape of a winged lion.

  “What is that?” Arwela asked, surprised. “It looks like a fine weapon indeed.”

  “Siw! This is the blade which killed Alef Bronzewood,” Feïwal triumphantly declared. “I found it buried in his throat the day we were meant to meet. It bears the arms of the House of Dol Nos-Loscin from Cumberae. This is the same house that decided to withdraw its forces the day before the eruption. Matriarch Myryae told the
Council of the Forest, for Princess Terela somehow knew what would happen.”

  All of a sudden, Arwela understood what her brother was trying to do. She knew him well. He was always patient and focussed on the details, but nothing could steer him off course once he had set his mind on something. No wonder it was Feïwal who had led them beyond the Austral Ocean.

  “So, you have come to believe the House of Dol Nos-Loscin murdered Alef Bronzewood and took the Lenra Pearl back to Cumberae?” she asked, her voice low, almost defeated.

  Arwela now felt her words of caution would make little impact on her brother, obsessed as he was by his quest.

  “I cannot know for sure. Everything is so complex. I am still in the dark. The only thing I can do now is find out who owned this dagger. And should he hold the Lenra Pearl, I will take it from him. The Mighty Prisoner must be freed. I owe it to our people.

  Think about mother, think about your lover Rogenwë who stayed behind. Would you not prefer to have them safely with us behind the high walls of Mentollà?”

  Arwela remained silent for a while, coolly observing the gorgeous hills of Llafal appear in the morning mist as the sun rose above the shoreline.

  “Siw!” she said at last. “This is why you are secretly taking your companions to Cumberae. I now understand why Aewöl and his minions are hiding in the bowels of the Alcalinquë. You think you will need them.”