by C A Oliver
“I know there can only be a second life once the first has ended. I believe that you cannot see this yet, for it will take you years, decades or maybe even longer for you to free yourself from this foolish pride and your debilitating sense of duty. I fear that, no matter how many times I say this, you will never understand but the day will come when this great opportunity presents itself. But if you believe nothing else, know this: fallen bloodlines can regain their promise through the exceptional deeds of surviving members.”
Aewöl emphasised these last words with a fierce brightness in his eyes. It was hard to say whether he was speaking for his lord or for himself.
Roquen replied. “Words, these are the words of a councillor. However wise they may be, they are only words, they cannot fill my sense of emptiness, nor redress my lack of purpose. They cannot extinguish my anger. Think of what I used to be!
I was Roquen, son of Roen, heir to the House of Dol Lewin. Considered the strongest and bravest fighter in the northern province, I commanded an entire army. Do you not recall the banners of all those units of fighters that came to honour me before the battles in the north? All the knights in the host came to bow before me! None would dare defy my authority. Remember the splendour of the Ystanlewin balls and contests, where the females would compete to entrust me with their colours. You were there, Aewöl. Even from your dwellings in the dark forges of Ystanlewin, you would have known who I was at that time. I was the very embodiment of glory, of magnificence, of grandeur. Now, after such a heart-breaking demise, how can you say there will be another Roquen?”
“For the time being, the only comfort that you shall find is in the prospect of revenge.”
“But I am changed,” the defeated lord exclaimed. “Now I am as helpless as any other Elf. I cannot carry out just retribution for the evil done to my kin; it feels as if an unending sea now lies between me and my revenge.”
Aewöl pressed on. “Have we not proven to the world that no ocean is endless? Believe me, our immortality means that the chance to wreak vengeance is never lost forever. We are High Elves: eternal as long as we have purpose. Thirst for revenge will give energy and motivation if the powerful urge can be properly controlled. It will ignite your imagination and feed your desire!”
“I have no such patience; I wish that I could kill that despicable queen with my bare hands! I want to watch her die, slowly, in the worst possible agony.”
“Beware, Roquen! Your sorrow is changing into a sickness of spirit, a madness which will be difficult to cure. We can all see it in your eyes. Murderous, unshackled thoughts charge wildly round and round your mind, torturing you. Neither your education nor your experience could help you to master such powerful and pernicious impulses. There will be irreparable damage unless you bring it under control, there can be no doubt. Be careful not to follow the path of some of your kin. You must find a way to take away those self-destructive thoughts. The time shall soon come when important decisions will have to be made. Your own fate is at stake, but so is the fate of others. Do you care nothing for those who have faithfully served you?”
This final piece of advice seemed to affect Roquen deeply. He relented at last, turning to his councillor and saying,
“You speak wisely, Aewöl. I will remember your advice. Now you should rest and leave me to finish this night’s watch.”
“May the coming dawn bring you wisdom and peace, my Lord. I will have Gelros assist you in your task.”
“Yes, send for Gelros. At least he will not trouble my thoughts with idle chatter,” concluded Roquen as Aewöl took his leave.
Calm was restored. The only noise that could be heard was the sound of two dolphins skimming the waves as they circled the ship curiously. The moonlight illuminated their gleaming fins.
Quietly Aewöl’s servant, Gelros, took up a high vantage point so he could watch over the ship’s deck. He was a Morawenti[44], one of these few High Elves who favoured living in the dark shadows of the forests, preferring night to daylight. Gelros was a quiet but formidable character, and fierce with bow in hand.
Calm had indeed restored but, with that calm, the dark thoughts had returned too, laying siege to Roquen’s mind just as they had done every night and day since the fall of Ystanlewin and the death of his family. Once again, Roquen was seized by that great feeling of emptiness. The affliction, the sorrow, the grief, and the pain were all proving overwhelming. His mind, tortured by lament, could not summon the strength to think clearly anymore. He gradually sank into an inescapable madness as dark, tortured thoughts circling round his head. His expression was of a deep, intense despair. When he looked at his hands, panic struck him.
They were cut. He remembered that he had cut his hands in a moment of insanity.
“Wash your hands in water, dear son,” his mother had instructed.
“I cannot. I have cut them. My hands do not work anymore,” he replied, helpless.
“But your hands are your freedom, my son. What are you to do without your hands? You shall have no power and shall soon fall into darkness. You shall abandon yourself to the worst in you,” she proclaimed.
A sudden movement in the water brought Roquen back to consciousness. The two dolphins were still frolicking in the waves. Inhaling deeply, the Dol Lewin lord watched them, in a rare moment of innocent tranquillity.
From the depths of his soul, a voice urged him to break free from his rage and reclaim his destiny. That was until he thought back to those palace halls, to his humiliation at the hands of the queen, at which point anger seared through him once again. The painful betrayal was still overwhelming. For centuries, the House of Dol Lewin had served the monarchs of the royal House of Tircanil without question. Dol Lewin Elves had given their lives during great battles. Members of the House of Dol Lewin had suffered death, exile and eventually ruin, all in the name of an oath sworn to a cruel king and his evil daughter, even more abusive and quick-tempered than her father. His parents, blinded by their utter deference for feudality, had raised him in the strict respect of the House of Dol Lewin’s traditions. Roquen now realized his education, beliefs, values, and even his own identity had all been lies. Pure rage streamed through his veins.
Standing still in the shadow of the mainmast’s remains, paralyzed by his mental agony, Roquen suddenly noticed that two shadows had slipped over the railing and climbed onto the aftcastle before climbing swiftly down. After a pause, the silhouettes progressed along the edge of the deck. Their bare, wet feet slipped as they crept across the wooden surface. Their torsos, coated in dark oil, did not reflect the pale light of the white moon that shone down between the shrouds and the yards. Smooth and quiet, like two wild cats on the prowl, the two furtive intruders crossed the deck without attracting attention. Still, without hurrying, they headed silently towards the remains of the mainmast.
In a single, lightning-fast movement, Roquen leapt from the shadows and violently seized the first scout with one hand, whilst his head was crushed by a powerful blow from the other. Grabbing him with both hands, Roquen threw the intruder against the ship’s railing several yards away. The propelled body landed with a heavy crash. The spy then struggled to his feet, finally managing to take a few steps forward, before falling headfirst onto the floor. He remained motionless.
Gelros, from his vantage point raised the alarm from above.
“Guards! Guards! Intruders on deck!” he shouted.
The Night Elf shot two arrows, almost simultaneously, at the dolphins, which set them swimming off away from the ship. A brazier was lit on the aftcastle, illuminating the hasty silhouettes of sailors gathering in the dark.
“Siw! Alarm! Alarm!” cried the crew as they arrived.
The second spy, now isolated, was for a split second stunned by the fate of his companion. He then bolted away from Roquen in panic and, before the Dol Lewin lord could seize him, he dived overboard into the sea. His only hope now was to reach the island’s shore.
“Gelros! Catch the other one! Get him! D
on’t let him escape!” Roquen yelled frantically.
Gelros dived into the water from the deck. He swam forcefully towards the shore in pursuit of the spy, before disappearing into the dark of the night. The Alwïryan was shaken awake by a clatter of armour and weapons. Guards assembled on the deck and sailors rallied to their battle stations, armed with bows and crossbows. Orders pierced the silence of the night.
The dyn of the clan Filweni gathered around Roquen who ignored their pleas for wisdom. He also refrained from asking his own household for advice. This intrusion was an opportunity to prove his authority as commander in times of peril. He was determined to track down the fleeing spy and make him talk.
An hour passed before Gelros returned with his prey. Roquen’s most trusted scout had not failed him. He returned with a small Elf, tied in ropes, like freshly captured game. But Gelros’ prize was very much alive and struggling against his entrapment. The Night Elf presented the prisoner to his lord. Despite his savage appearance, his Llewenti origins were undeniable. Slender, almost frail, with narrow shoulders and an emaciated chest, his face was illuminated by two bright eyes which shone with fear.
“You took a long time, Gelros! Too long! It is now morning and we do not know who may be watching us. No doubt there are spies of the matriarchs all over this isle,” Roquen spat harshly.
“I was delayed, my Lord,” replied Gelros, calmly. “I had to track him across the bushes. He is skilled in the ways of the wilderness.”
“Is he an Elf of the clan Llyvary?”
“No. There are no rune markings about him.”
“Who might he be then? Is he friend or foe?” Roquen asked with impatience.
“I do not know, my Lord.”
“A dolphin-rider, operating slyly under the darkness of night; he concealed his passage from all of us. He did not escape you however,” Roquen noted with admiration. “You did well, Gelros, like in the old days of Essawylor! You were the best tracker in my army, as stealthy as a jaguar.”
“I also have this. I took it from him,” the scout replied simply.
Gelros took from his cloak a tattered scroll, apparently without a seal, and handed it to Roquen. The lord opened it with great care.
“A map of the bay, with our ship’s position and the movements of the Llewenti patrol ships. It is not sealed by any glyph or rune, unmarked so that no one can trace it back to the author. Now, what would this wild Elf want to learn about us that the matriarchs do not already know? And why would he seek to avoid the patrols of the clan Llyvary? Gelros, let us take him to your master. We shall learn more,” declared Roquen.
Gelros and his prisoner split the crowd of sailors that had gathered on the deck and moved towards what remained of the cabins. They reached the main one, where the captive could be isolated from the rest of the crew. Roquen followed close behind, explaining what they had discovered to Feïwal, as he walked.
The councillor, Aewöl, was already waiting for them to join him. As they entered the cabin, he stood up to his full height in front of the prisoner, who was on his knees. Aewöl’s silky black hair blew lightly in the wind which was whistling through walls. His dark eyes became more intense. Gelros and Roquen turned and left the room. They knew that their presence was no longer required.
Outside, all was quiet. The swanships were nowhere to be seen, even though the matriarchs’ deadline was only a day away. Murmurs rippled through the crew; their nervousness was palpable. The dyn Filweni had to shout their orders to restore discipline among the ranks. Their minds were also distracted by what was going on in the main cabin, but they did all they could to hide it.
*
At last, Gelros approached Roquen and Feïwal. Aewöl had finished questioning the prisoner and wanted to share what he had found. The pale Elf still stood in the shadows of the cabin, deep in thought, considering the implications of what he had just learnt. His voice was deep and sounded distant.
“I did not want to break him, for he could still be useful to us. His own resistance did not last long but, when his mind was revealed to me, I felt a power attempting to stop my progress. Someone powerful protects him even though he bears no rune. I first thought of the high priestesses of Llafal, but I would have recognized their magic. The matriarchs draw their power from the deities of the archipelago; they can influence all of nature even Elves, but the resistance I felt was something different. I believe I may have confronted a powerful mage…”
“What did he tell you, Aewöl?” Roquen interrupted in a threatening tone. “Did he talk? There are other methods we can try if need be. Does he want to suffer the same fate as his companion, who even now lies between life and death?”
“He did talk, my Lord; rest assured that my own talents proved useful. Our immediate prospects now look unfavourable in light of his remarks.
If we sail east, following the shores of Llymar, we shall be at the mercy of the three inhospitable Llewenti clans that dwell in the forest under the rule of the matriarchs. The clan Llyvary is the largest and most powerful. It controls most of the forest settlements and the three cities of Llafal, Penlla and Tios Lluin. The other two clans are the Ernaly, who dwell in Tios Halabron, and the remains of the Avrony. Both are allies to the clan Llyvary.
Beyond the strait, at the boundary of Nyn Llyvary’s territorial waters, lies the island of Nyn Llorely. It is home to another Llewenti clan, but they live under royal rule. While we could expect some assistance from the clan Llorely, as they have ancient ties with the Irawenti, a prince of the royal House rules the island in the name of King Norelin. There is little chance we could escape his reach. Further away, the infinite vastness of the Austral Ocean awaits and that could only lead to our doom.
If we sail west, beyond the Gloren peninsula and the mountains of the Arob Tiude, we shall reach the dominion of the human tribes. Their territory extends from the western part of Nyn Llyvary and beyond to the southern shores of the Mainland. The two islands of Nyn Ernaly and Nyn Avrony, the “jewels of the sunset” as they are called by the Llewenti, are surrounded to the west, south and north by the Sea of Isyl which separates the archipelago from the Mainland. Nyn Ernaly and Nyn Avrony were taken from the Llewenti during the last barbarian invasion, and they now lie under the dominion of the human tribes.”
“Siw! But who is this Elf? And where does he come from?” interrupted Feïwal suspiciously.
“His name is Vyrka. Llewenti blood flows in his veins but he claims to be a wild Elf, unprotected by any rune. He, along with his companions, turned away from their clan, defying the authority of their matriarchs and noble dyl. These wild Elves have been cast out by the Llewenti for refusing to accept the King Norelin’s peace treaty. They killed their high priestess after she submitted, which he claims sealed the fate of their homeland. They have been banished by their communities. All are forbidden from giving them food or shelter on pain of death. He says that many of his fellow rebels live on the Gloren peninsula, that strip of land stretching across the horizon to the west. They operate in small bands of fighters. Unlike those living under the protection of King Norelin, they are still in rebellion; they have never accepted that end of the last war. Driven from their land west of Nyn Llyvary, they live miserably along the rivers of the peninsula, concealed by the forest from their enemies. They are regularly devastated by the bloody incursions of barbarians seeking Elvin slaves. Nevertheless, they continue their struggle with courage and faith, convinced that the fires of war shall be lit across these lands once again.”
“What do they want from us?” asked Roquen, growing impatient.
“News of our arrival has reached them,” Aewöl revealed.
“How?” insisted Roquen, asking what Gelros and Feïwal both wanted to know.
“Vyrka says the wild Elves have protectors, spirits that roam the peninsula of Gloren at dawn. They call them ‘Blue Bards’. Though they fear to approach them, the wild Elves listen eagerly to their songs, for they carry news from the Islands, warnings of potenti
al threats and even prophecies.”
“What is this fable, Aewöl?” interrupted Roquen, more doubtful than ever.
“Vyrka speaks the truth, or at least what he believes to be the truth. Of that I am sure. But there is more.”
“What?”
“The ruins of a great tower lie by the sea, at the heart of their territory. It is called Mentollà[45]. Over the last few days, the ‘Blue Bards’ have gathered in great numbers beneath the ruins of the ancient fortress, to celebrate the coming of new winds from beyond the Austral Ocean,” explained Aewöl.
“We are the messengers of Eïwal Ffeyn’s winds!” Feïwal interpreted.
“This wild Elf and his brother were sent on an errand by their companions to find us. Word has spread of our coming to the archipelago. Something is at work beyond our control,” warned Aewöl.
“It was Eïwal Ffeyn who granted us our passage. Rumours of our coming precede us,” Feïwal reminded them. All could see in his gaze the formidable faith that possessed him.
*
With the prospect of an imminent departure, the castaways now hurriedly repaired what they could. Sailors were busy on the deck. Even while working hard, they were passionately engaged in conversation. It was in their open nature to share their feelings, hopes and fears with one another. Most of the High Elves considered such effusive behaviour to be excessive, but it lay at the heart of the Irawenti identity. They spoke mainly of the forest clans. They were eager to familiarize themselves with their erudite language and refined customs. The Llewenti were a myth for the numerous free Elves nations who lived on the Mainland. They were the living descendants of those who had first followed the Falling Star to build their future far away from the turmoil of the world. Art, books and other artefacts that they left behind in Essawylor, had inspired the Irawenti’s fascination with the Llewenti culture. There was much impatience to meet them; even the rather cold reception their captain had experienced could not wane their enthusiasm.
These Irawenti had been raised and educated according to the clan Filweni’s customs and beliefs. They believed in the legend of the Falling Star, that meteor which struck the archipelago, illuminating their passage to it. For centuries, they sang the same verses and muttered the same prayers during clan ceremonies, celebrating the great meteor’s vital importance to their fate. For centuries, this noble aspiration, to elevate the soul and broaden the horizons, had been little more than an eccentric dream. None imagined that the Austral Ocean could be defeated.
