by C A Oliver
The castaways of the Austral Ocean now needed to reach the southern end of the Gloren peninsula on foot. They had to cross a wild forest, the Sognen Tausy[47]. Located to the northwest of Nyn Llyvary, between the Austral Ocean and the Mountains of Arob Tiude, these dense, wild pine woods clung to the cliffs. It was a craggy and hostile territory, with a terrain that made journeys difficult and also provided endless hiding places. This land did not belong to any dominion and was left abandoned so as to separate the Elves of Llymar from their barbarian enemies.
They knew the region was closely watched by Elvin sentries, for they always lived in fear of human invasion. They maintained constant vigilance against incursions from the barbarians coming from beyond the Arob Tiude; those bloodthirsty men were always eager to challenge the power of the Elves.
There was an old, abandoned road that meandered through the woods, where the sea breeze carried the smell of resin. Their track traversed the hills of pines and cedars, weaving its way from north to south across vast, uninhabited lands. The soil was poor but not completely dry.
It was their prisoner, Vyrka, who guided them. The wild Elf estimated that Mentollà was located to the south, no more than ten leagues away. It was quickly agreed that a small group of scouts go ahead with Vyrka to prevent any hostile encounter. The rest of the company was heavily armed and would advance slowly behind them.
Roquendagor volunteered to lead the expedition, and would only allow Gelros, to accompany him and Vyrka. He held the scout’s path finding skills in high esteem and could rely upon his enhanced senses and natural alertness. He also felt more confident with his former hunt master’s powerful bow backing him up. Gelros carried two birds with him; it was agreed that he would send only one of them back once they reached the ruined fortress. The crow would signal evil tidings while the gull would indicate that the path was clear.
Before departing, Roquendagor reminded the prisoner.
“Your brother is being held hostage. The unfortunate is still alive though severely wounded. Any treachery would result in a sour end for him. You shall be discreet, and you are not to communicate with any of your kin before we all reach the safe haven of Mentollà.”
Vyrka could not understand the words of the threatening knight, as Roquendagor spoke the Hawenti language of old, but he knew them to be strict instructions of some kind. Bowing respectfully, he murmured in his own mother tongue, obedient and respectful. It was clear that the lordly manners and commanding presence of Roquendagor had impressed him beyond measure. It could be seen from the look in his eyes that he would submit to his authority.
They took their leave of the main group without ceremony and, by the beginning of the afternoon the three Elves were on their way. Before long, the clouds became tinged with a dark, threatening grey. It started to rain heavily. The weather could change quickly in these lands, close as it was to the ocean. Vyrka frequently looked up to the sky, as if fearing an airborne threat. They had intended to make haste, but the elements did not allow for easy passage. The soil was waterlogged. The track was slippery. The old road had not been used for years and was tangled with boughs, bracken and wild deep-rooted trees. They were often forced to skirt around obstacles, and the wild Elf’s assistance was proving vital; even Gelros was surprised by the difficult conditions.
The Sognen Tausy was a wild forest like no other. The streams and rivers which ran through its hills carried a magic of their own. From the cliffs at the edge of the forest to the foothills, where the old trees were small but strong, there existed all around a powerful field of energy. It was a land of pure nature; uninhabited save for those outlaws and refugees who chose to hide in its wild recesses.
They stopped a number of times to catch their breath. Surprisingly, it was always Gelros who requested the breaks. Yet, the scout had his reasons; he knew that his liege would never demand respite, nor wish to admit that he could be outlasted by a mere wild Elf. During these short rests, there was little conversation.
Roquendagor was preoccupied with the desolation that surrounded the ruins of Mentollà. He suddenly asked Vyrka in lingua Irawenti, for its origin was similar to that of the Llewenti tongue.
“Why didn’t the wild Elves choose Mentollà as their stronghold?”
The answer was not clear and the difference in language did not facilitate its understanding.
“We, runeless Elves, shunned the place. We chose to live away from Mentollà, but I do not know for sure,” vaguely explained Vyrka.
Roquendagor guessed that it was no more than superstition that kept them away and he recalled that Aewöl had mentioned the Blue Bards, spirits of the Sognen Tausy woods whose mysterious ways greatly influenced the wild Elves. His curiosity grew.
He was relieved when their path finally led them to a vast clearing. From the glade, the group could glimpse the tall silhouette of Mentollà’s ruins, perched at the top of the coastline’s escarpment. They saw a large, round tower: eroded, scarred and falling away in places. The once impressive fortress, built upon a rocky outcrop, looked out over a wide creek that the archipelago’s deities must have carved to safeguard it from the ocean’s fury.
On the opposite shore, to the southwest, angry waves crashed rhythmically against the cliffs producing a thunderous roar. The rock was hard as marble, yet still along those steep slopes the occasional impressive tree would grow. These trees had been exposed to natural erosion and had weathered many tempests, but their roots still clung desperately to cracks and cavities in the rock. With the beautiful sandy beach below, the spray of the waves and the tempered ocean breeze, the place was a marvel.
To Roquendagor, Mentollà looked like the High Elves might have built it in the early days of the world; it was tall, robust but elegant. Indeed, it was of Hawenti origin, built by King Lormelin’s masons and artisans over twenty centuries ago. Decades of hard work and dedication had been required to raise it. The stone markings which adorned its broken doors showed its age.
Roquendagor exclaimed.
“What a formidable construction!”
Vyrka agreed.
“In their songs, the bards of the Islands sing about the great tower of Mentollà. They relate the ancient Elvin wars which resulted in King Lormelin’s victory over the Llewenti clans. Mentollà was a key part of the High Elves’ triumph. Its powerful armoury, including siege engines and catapults, guarded it against those sea routes to the north that were already made so dangerous by the ocean’s wrath and Eïwal Ffeyn’s fury. It also protected the creek, the only shelter for many miles along that hostile coastline, marked as it was with reefs and steep cliffs.”
“I understand,” replied Roquendagor. “From the port’s well-protected position, a fleet can be prepared. It could pose a serious threat to the shores of Llymar and the cities of the Llewenti clans,” he concluded thoughtful.
“The tower is not as powerful as it used to be. Nowadays, there is no longer any trace of the legendary silver dome, the masterpiece of the Blacksmiths’ Guild of Gwarystan that in the ancient times served as the landmark to ships and was feared by all,” explained Vyrka.
The three scouts cautiously approached the outer walls. Gelros was on high alert, scanning his surroundings at every step. Firstly, he crossed the ditch before climbing the escarpment. Gelros saw a breach in the ramparts and rushed straight for it. He had made it inside. A colossal external wall surrounded him. It was built with granite from the Arob Tiude Mountains. Inside the great outer wall, there were six ruined stone buildings with collapsing arches, crumbling chimneys and no ceilings. Gelros could see gaping holes that had probably been doorways, through which the remains of stairs climbed upwards towards the sky. Ivy, brambles and wild trees decorated the walls. Now the place only served as shelter for reptiles and nocturnal birds.
Above him loomed the keep, a tower of a hundred and fifty feet, its round stone walls broken only by arrow-shaped windows. Its door, an immense iron structure covered in pentacles, lay broken at the foot of a large openi
ng. The top of the keep resembled an open, jagged mouth.
The tower sat atop three huge stone arches, largely intact, that interconnected to form a wide fortified walkway at the base of the tower, where catapults and ballistae could have menaced both the ocean and the forest. From that platform, such heavy projectiles could have comfortably overwhelmed any attackers from land, as well as any vessels seeking refuge in the creek below.
Now convinced that they were safe and alone, Gelros called to his two companions. Roquendagor solemnly entered the fortified compound, demonstrating his respect for such an ancient construction, a place of valour and courage.
The tower had faced many sieges during its long history, and each one had left its mark. Vyrka proved more respectful to his captors than ever and started to provide explanations. He gestured with his hand to the various scars upon the thick walls of the fortress.
“These small marks were caused by Llewenti projectiles during the distant Elvin wars, a very long time ago,” he said. “My forefathers were using light stones and fiery projectiles, which failed to harm the fortress. The deep wounds you see above were caused by the barbarians’ trebuchets. They came here aboard their long ships many times,” Vyrka added with fear in his eye.
The wild Elf continued, “During the Centenary of War, the Westerners’ great galleys delivered the fatal blows which partly destroyed this great tower with boulders and flaming missiles. The Men of the West have mastered the art of sieges. The weapons they use are fearful instruments of death, the likes of which had never been seen before. Many cities and fortresses of the archipelago have fallen facing those great galleys. See how the tower has been ripped open on the north side of its base. This was the work of the Westerners’ siege engines,” stated Vyrka sadly.
Roquendagor could not follow everything the wild Elf was saying, but he added, for Gelros’ benefit.
“No doubt that it was this exposure that the attackers exploited to wreak carnage inside.”
Indeed, even now, a strong breeze hissed and screamed as it possessed a mind of its own. It seemed to lament that although it had once commanded the winds, those winds now commanded it.
“Eïwal Ffeyn’s breath,” Feïwal had mentioned. Only now did Roquendagor understand what the Irawenti captain had been referring to.
“It is not by mere chance,” Roquendagor thought aloud, “that the clan of Filweni chooses to settle in this desolate place. What better shrine to honour their deity of storms?”
“Vyrka, tell us more of Mentollà’s fall,” Roquendagor requested, using elementary words in lingua Irawenti.
“It was a great battle, a century ago. All the Elves present were killed. My father and elder brother were among those who perished. The siege lasted three full months before the great galleys of the Westerners came to bombard the tower with their missiles. The barbarians, whose assaults had until then been repelled, finally broke through the defences, reaching the besieged Elves inside,” explained the wild Elf.
“Do you fear this place?” asked Roquendagor, curious.
“Yes, so many Elves died in such horrible circumstances. But let us say no more of that.”
“I understand. I too have known the trauma of war,” admitted the knight. Something close to compassion could be seen in his gaze.
“It was forbidden to stay in Mentollà, until that night when the Blue Bards gathered in great number within the compound to celebrate the extraordinary arrival of a ship from the Sea of Cyclones,” recalled Vyrka.
“I sense that you and your kin seek protection,” Roquen speculated. “You can trust us. There are not many of us but our strength in battle surpasses all expectations. Tell your wild friends in the woods and the hills that they have nothing to fear. If they seek assistance, they will be welcome in Mentollà. We will offer them our protection. You are weak, but you are brave. Your mind is slow, but your body is nimble. I like you, small Elf.”
“I need to explore the inside of the keep,” declared Gelros, interrupting Roquendagor. He always was on the lookout for potential dangers. “Vyrka, you will lead the way,” the scout added. The heavy rain was returning in force.
The group divided in front of the tower’s broken door. Gelros and Vyrka entered the structure, finding cover from the hail.
Roquendagor, however, chose to remain outside. The rolling clouds were so low they seemed to be rising from the ocean rather than falling from the sky. Rain was streaming from the mountains, drenching the ground, and cascading down between the rocks, but Roquendagor decided to continue his exploration, entering the creek below the fortress. He advanced slowly, using his sword to clear a route through the wild grass. The ocean roared in front of him and thunder bellowed above him. He was walking a dangerous and slippery path, but he did not seem to care. Reaching the creek, even the terrifying spectacle before him failed to distract from his thoughts.
The end of the trail led to the ancient natural port of Mentollà. There was a narrow jetty built between the ocean and the creek. Each time a wave struck, the sea broke furiously against the jetty, engulfing it before falling back with a great crash into the cove. The wind and the ocean battled ferociously. It would have been dangerous to linger there any longer. Roquendagor began the climb back to the tower. He had seen enough. The creek of Mentollà, sheltered by this ancient pier, could harbour up to a dozen Elvin naves.
Approaching the tower, Roquendagor suddenly noticed inscriptions on a large boulder that was beside the path. They were Hawenti scriptures which remained unmarked by erosion.
“All hail Norelin, of the House of Ilorm,
Son of Lormelin,
Liege of Gwa Nyn,
King of Hawenti,
Protector of Llewenti,
And Overlord of the Isles. Hereby does he warn To all:
If ever you enter Mentollà, and choose to here reside,
Not Wall, nor Gate, nor Fort, nor Arms of any kind,
Shall save you from the Fury of those who have the Pact signed.
Let the Haven Tower remain empty. Let the Peace of Norelin preside.”
Roquendagor read these words several times. They struck him as deeply as the insults of Queen Aranaele in the halls of Essawylor, which first incited him to rebel. They conjured in his mind a vision of war and ruin. So great a pain did they inflame in his heart that he chose to erase the king’s inscription.
Roquendagor was known as the strongest Elf in Essawylor, but he also possessed remarkable agility. He positioned his body so as to lever the formidably heavy stone. With a horrible cry of pain, he managed to push it into the void. The stone crashed down upon the rocks thirty feet below, bouncing before sinking into the haven’s waters. The warning of King Norelin sank with it.
Following this prodigious effort, Roquendagor, possessed by the sacred fire of rebellion, turned to the forest and roared, as if appealing to the whole universe.
“All hail Roquendagor, son of Roen,
Hereby do I proclaim:
No warrior, mage or king
Shall stand in my path
As I seize the fort of Mentollà!
To assuage my woeful fate,
I entrust this ancient place
To Feïwal dyn Filweni.
‘Till the winds cease to blow, ‘till these islands’ dying day
I declare the Haven Tower shall be a shrine to Eïwal Ffeyn!”
He was now at peace. The knight sat by the breach in the tower, waiting for his companions to come back from their exploration. The air was heavy with spray. He inhaled deeply, appreciating that place where new life had been granted to him. Mentollà was a place burdened by its past. The fortress had been severely wounded, and its ruins only showed the vestige of their former glory. Yet to him it stood proud and immutable above its surroundings. He wanted to live there and restore the ruined fortress. The care and attention that he would dedicate to this task would help to heal his wounds.
Noises from the tower interrupted his musings. A fleeting sensation of
hope had visited him for the first time since the disaster of Ystanlewin.
“My Lord! The tower is empty and secure,” Gelros announced.
Like most of the castaways of the ocean, Gelros could not help showing uttermost respect to his former liege. Still unsure of exactly how to address him, the Morawenti scout continued.
“I found markings around the upper levels, and also underground. They indicate that a large group has been here recently. Wild Elves would be my guess. They could well have been here yesterday. They were in a hurry and did not attempt to conceal their passage.
Fresh footsteps indicate they carried heavy loads. I even found a small forge recently installed in the tower’s lowest levels. There are also numerous tools, large quantities of metal and various ores stored within.”
The news surprised Roquendagor. He placed his hand on his companion’s shoulder.
“You did well, and the tidings you bring are reassuring! We may have allies. Send your white gull to our companions. Welcome to our new home, Gelros! For it is in Mentollà that we shall dwell hereafter,” he announced.
**
Although it was autumn and heavy fog dominated the mornings, but the afternoons nonetheless brought warm sun. Large coastal trees bathed the ancestral stones of Mentollà in purple shadows, as the light streamed down through their reddening leaves.
Life was swiftly organized within the fortress; such was the nature of all Elves. They were perfectly able to while away their time simply enjoying the beauty of their environment without ever becoming restless. But when adverse times demanded prodigious effort, their resolution and perseverance could not be matched.
The community had prioritized the restoration of Mentollà’s buildings and ramparts. It was first set up as a temporary dwelling. With the sails and wood from the wreck, the settlers constructed large tents to shelter themselves, as the barracks would not be repaired until after winter.
