by C A Oliver
“Good day to you, and welcome to Eïwal Ffeyn’s masterpiece,” the Elf said with a warm smile, before disappearing behind a corner of the labyrinth.
Llewenti legends told how, long before any Elf set foot upon the lost islands; Eïwal Ffeyn himself had found refuge on the archipelago. The deity of the wind had fled the wrath of the Gods to join his consort, Eïwele Llya, and their many offspring, including firebirds, hippogriffs and griffons. When he discovered that a storm giant had captured his beloved spouse and held her prisoner, abusing her at will, his fury knew no bounds. A great battle commenced across the Islands, and the struggle lasted for decades. Eïwal Ffeyn finally prevailed against the storm giant and his sons: sons whom the storm giant had forced Eïwele Llya to provide for him. It is said that, to punish his enemy, Eïwal Ffeyn condemned him and his descendants, the giants of the Arob Nisty, to build Tios Lluin’s Temple of Stones, and that he cemented the great construction work with their blood and their bones.
Several thousand years had now passed, but the legend, however fantastical, could not have seemed more real to Gal dyl and his beloved daughter, as they walked towards the still-majestic ruins of the ancient shrine.
The father and daughter were united by a deep bond. A relationship as strong as theirs was highly unusual among Llewenti of noble blood, for it was the custom that young children were taken from their parents at a very young age. Gal dyl had been honoured with Lyrine’s love until he had fathered her successor. Llewenti custom allowed noble females to choose their companions, and the Lady of Llafal had soon selected other, more obedient lovers. Unexpectedly, Gal dyl’s sudden fall from her mother’s favour had only increased Nyriele’s love for him, and since then he had been her favourite parent and most trusted confidant. The two shared an adoration of beauty, a thirst for freedom, and a love of uncomplicated relationships. Joy and empathy were their most cherished values. And it was not a rare event for the warlord of clan Avrony to entertain his only daughter with stories worthy of the humblest bard, just for the sake of a smile or giggle from her.
A magical mist drifting up from the earth gently enveloped the streets that they walked through, along with the trees, houses and ancient stones they passed. The humid smell of wet grass and leaves dominated scents of the surrounding flowers.
Almost six thousand Elves lived in Tios Lluin, although it could host ten times as many. The city had been gradually constructed within the perimeter of the Temple of Stones. Large buildings and small wooden constructions completed the map of streets within the gigantic stones. The inhabitants were mostly Llewenti, but there were also many High Elves of the House of Dol Etrond who had settled in Llymar with their lords, Curubor and his nephew Almit. They governed the city, but Llewenti customs were supported by the force of the law and two matriarchs of the clan Llyvary.
Gal dyl had always wondered why the Dol Etrond lords had settled in Tios Lluin. Some Elves in his entourage who disliked the High Elves believed the only reason they dwelt there was so that they could own the Temple of Stones, along with all its ancient secrets. The matriarchs of the Llewenti could only marvel at the power of the Flow of the Islands inside the temple of Tios Lluin. Some believed that Eïwal Ffeyn had used the High Magic there to tear a Star down from heaven, hitting the centre of the main island, Gwa Nyn. The impact had levelled mountains, reshaped rivers, carved out valleys and had even awoken a volcano. Eïwal Ffeyn’s incredible feat had confirmed the wind deity’s dominion over the archipelago, and his insolent opposition to the Gods.
‘If that legend is true,’ Gal dyl thought as he approached the ancient shrine, ‘then the idea of an Elf attempting to control such immense power is frightening.’
The warlord of the clan Avrony despised the place; it filled him with dread and stirred up painful memories within him. Ninety-nine years had passed since Gal dyl had last set foot in Tios Lluin, when the city had been the bloody setting for the deadliest battle in thirty centuries of Llewenti history. Thousands of Elves, among them dozens of noble dyl and matriarchs, perished in the darkest disaster that the Llewenti of Nyn Llyvary had ever experienced.
Witnessing her father’s growing unease, Nyriele gently broached the subject.
“Father, I can see that you are thinking of the battle and that it fills you with dread.”
“It was almost a century ago, but I still hear them dying in agony. Even now, I smell their burning flesh and feel the heat of the great fire. I can see them crawling, begging for help. I can still see the flames dancing hypnotically. I cannot stand this horrible feeling.”
“But the ultimate victory was yours, Father.”
“I arrived late, and none of those besieged in the Temple of Stones were saved. That is the bitter truth of my supposed victory. All those Elves burned to the death, they might as well have been consumed by the fire of an ancient red dragon. Elders of your clan died in that battle too, fighting desperately,” Gal dyl replied, regretfully.
“But it was you who ended the siege of Tios Lluin and repelled the enemy. You became the greatest hero in our recent history,” Nyriele added in an effort to comfort her father.
“So, stories say…and people were made to believe. But it was the House of Dol Etrond’s knights who hunted down the barbarians, and it was your grandfather’s desperate charge from within the siege that first broke the deadly circle of enemy warriors. He was the true Protector of the Forest and High Warlord of the Llewenti clans; he was the true wielder of the Spear of Aonyn. Surely Yluin dyl Llyvary was a hateful Elf, and one who I greatly despised for his scorn towards my clan. But he also was the greatest hero of our time. No wonder his daughter, Lyrine, possesses such might and pride. Do not overestimate me, Nyriele! The strength in your veins comes from your mother’s side, not mine. You descend from the white swan far more than from the green peacock.”
“It is you who I love, Father, and I always will. My prayers go with you, and the rising power of my rune protects you. So be comforted, and do not let the past get the better of the present. Look at the flowers that adorn this garden. Tios Lluin is beginning to breathe again.”
Indeed, spring was returning; the trees were budding, grain was sprouting from the earth, and life was beginning again. Llewenti legends told how the cycle of the seasons was originally brought about the deity Eïwele Llya herself.
The tales described her deep love for her sister, Eïwele Llyo, the deity of dreams, who resided deep below the earth at the heart of the island of Nyn Llyvary. Llewenti myths conveyed how, for a few months at the end of each year, Eïwele Llya, or the Mother of the Islands, would visit her sister’s great underground halls from which she commanded the dreams and fate of the Llewenti. During the winter, therefore, the Mother of the Islands’ power would retreat from the archipelago; life and fertility drained away from the land and the forest alike, and the further away one was from Nyn Llyvary, the harsher and colder the air would become. It was during this period of decay that the two deities would combine their mighty powers to renew the cycle of life upon the Islands. They breathed new vitality into the trees and the plants, and also into the souls of their followers who had fallen. Nothing and no one were overlooked.
And so that cycle of life resumed once again. The generous Flow conjured the fecundity of nature upon the Islands again and again.
*
Gal dyl and Nyriele continued towards the heart of the great city of stones, walking in silence along the streets. Gradually, they saw lights being lit; torches set ablaze and smoke beginning to rise from the rooftops as they passed by. The homely smell of hearths began to flood the streets they navigated. Before long, here and there windows and doors of the city’s stone houses were opening. The Elves they met saluted them with the greatest respect. Gal dyl was loved by the city’s inhabitants; his hunting feats, festival triumphs and joyful demeanour had earned him a glorious reputation.
The young Nyriele was worshipped like a muse who embodies the hope of the Llewenti clans. Her timeless beauty, beni
gn nature and forgiveness delighted her followers, who in turn rewarded her generously with their unceasing love and affection. Nyriele represented art, beauty and joy. She often acted in secret to protect young miscreants from the harsh justice of the matriarchs.
All of a sudden, the two heard a low rumble, ringing out around them like a muffled groan from the forest. The priests of Eïwele Llya’s cult were summoning the power of the Eïwaloni, the sacred trees. The forest was calling, relaying a message to the other cities of the Llewenti: to Tios Halabron in the west, Penlla in the east, Llafal in the north, and even to the most remote settlements of Llymar. The Council of the Forest was about to begin.
This news was relayed by the clans’ war horns, sounded to accompany the call of the Eïwaloni. It spread throughout the woods which surrounded Tios Lluin, inviting all to gather around the sacred circle of stones.
The circle was in fact a vast, hexagonal crater, very deep and wide, and was surrounded by eight gigantic blue stones. Steps had been carved into its sides, and the sacred area could host thousands. Nature had escaped the wild gardens of the city and had encroached upon the structure. Trees, plants and roots covered the ancient stones, cobbles and slabs. Within the antique pit, each of the six sides led to a separate underground temple, the doors to which were surrounded by beautiful mural architecture, as if they were gateways to the domains of the Islands’ deities. Their creation was more recent; the stone used for their fluted colonnades, steps and reliefs came from the white cliffs of Penlla. The six strong doors had been whittled from the wood of the Eïwaloni, and they were all intricately carved with powerful glyphs and runes.
“It is strange that the matriarchs would choose the southern side of the esplanade to erect this shrine to our three sister deities, while the temples of Eïwal Vars, Eïwal Ffeyn and Eïwal Lon were left with the northern part,” said Gal dyl, his eyes marvelling at the splendour of the place.
“Towards the south lies the heart of the archipelago, the source of all life, fertility, beauty and dreams, but also doom. The northern boundaries of the Islands have always been Eïwal Vars and Eïwal Ffeyn’ s domain, for it was where their protection was most required,” explained Nyriele.
“Look how Eïwele Llya’s temple occupies the preeminent position; the Mother of the Islands is surrounded by her two sisters. Eïwele Llyi’s shrine is to her right, for it is beauty and love that first gives life, while Eïwele Llyo’s sits to her left, as is fitting for the deity of fate, transcendence and doom, which all mark the end of the cycle of life. The other temples were also arranged very deliberately: that of Eïwal Vars, the Father, occupies the centre, and he is surrounded and supported by the chaotic power of Eïwal Ffeyn to his left and the harmonious strength of Eïwal Lon to his right. For, just as death will always follow life, chaos will always prevail over harmony, until a balance is found, and the cycle begins again,” continued Nyriele.
“I had never considered it that way before,” said Gal dyl, somewhat naively with awe in his eyes at his daughter’s wisdom.
Indeed, she had now become a true matriarch and a great scholar.
They looked towards the south-eastern part of the great circle. Hundreds of Elves were already seated, silent and still, waiting for the day to commence. Seeing the gathering crowd reminded them of what important matters would be discussed as the day progressed. Nyriele seized her father’s hand.
“Today, there are some who will attempt to lead us into a trap. They will force us into a corner, where our only choice will be between submitting to King Norelin or opting for secession, and therefore ultimately our complete isolation.”
“Is this painful dilemma not inevitable? Could the current precarious balance really be maintained for much longer? Has the time not come for us to reclaim our destiny?”
“Reclaim our destiny?” inquired the young lady, surprised and anxious.
Nyriele paused before continuing with a feeble voice.
“Reclaim our destiny? Do you not see how much suffering and destruction lies beyond those noble words?”
*
The clan Ernaly’s army was the first to gather on the steps of the sacred circle, occupying the south-eastern part of the ruins. The day before the council, they had taken the road to Tios Lluin. They came from Tios Halabron, and from the hamlets which surrounded the city of sacred trees. At the sound of the war horns, five hundred fighters, organized into twenty units, had assembled and set out on an orderly march into the depths of the forest.
Mynar dyl the Fair, their charismatic warlord, had led them, with his younger brother, Voryn dyl the Ugly, walking by his side.
The Elves of Tios Halabron had brought with them the falcons and hawks of the woods; hundreds of birds which were now perched amongst them in ominous silence.
The clan Ernaly’s fighters had been waiting for this moment for a long time. They had arrived in their dark green war clothes proudly displaying their weapons and armour: helmets, breastplates, long brazen shields, short swords, javelins carried in pairs and short bows on their backs. They each wore a certain number of feathers according to their rank: one for the common fighter, two for the captains and three for the noble dyl, whose bloodline could be traced back to Eïwal Vars. The warriors’ feathers were plucked from the hawks of the clan, and one could guess which unit a fighter belonged to according to the colours of their feathers.
Mynar dyl saw Gal dyl and Nyriele as they approached the circle and walked over to greet them as they descended the steps. The fair warlord of Tios Halabron was dressed in his resplendent war attire, fitting for an Elf of his reputation and position.
His long cloak, robes and boots, a mixture of brown and green hues embellished with silver markings, all came from the finest workshop of Tios Halabron. A rich ermine fur was wrapped around his neck.
For armour, he wore a leather coat with interweaving straps. Gaiters and gauntlets, covered with runes and markings, supplemented his protective clothing.
He was fully armed, with two fine shining long swords, a pair of daggers, a short bow with a quiver full of lethal arrows on his back and his famous javelin.
Mynar dyl’s pace and his striking appearance made his determination to march to war very clear.
“Noble Matriarch, good day. Protector of the Forest, good day to you too,” he began. His voice was calm, a faint smile on his lips.
“Good day to you, Mynar dyl,” the father and daughter replied somewhat coolly.
“This is a glorious day indeed, and the beauty of the fairest Elves shall illuminate it further,” he added, his charismatic gaze fixed upon the young matriarch.
He continued. “The meeting has been organized according to ancient tradition. The people of Tios Lluin will sit on the upper steps, while the fighters of the army will occupy the lower ones. captains and priests will sit on the front row. Only the noble dyl of the clans, and the Dol of the House of Dol Etrond, will be allowed inside the circle to address the crowd. As for the warlords of the cities, their seats are arranged in an arc at the heart of the esplanade, facing the Temple of Eïwal Vars and the Council of the Matriarchs who shall sit below it. You shall stand in the centre, Gal dyl, as befits the Protector of the Forest. You shall hold the Staff of Emeralds and use it to signal whose turn it is to speak. Therefore, you shall command the discussions. This is a great responsibility; you will undoubtedly influence the outcome of today’s council.”
“Thank you, Mynar dyl. We ought to start now. The day will be long and there is much to be discussed,” replied Gal dyl simply, eager to bring this exchange to a close and wishing to release his daughter from Mynar dyl’s insistent gaze.
The Elves exchanged ritual salutations. Nyriele whispered a few words to Gal dyl before hurrying to the Temple of Eïwal Vars.
“Father, remember Matriarch Lyrine’s advice. Our very existence is at stake. Do not let them push us into an impasse.”
Gal dyl did not reply. Mynar dyl was still lingering close by. Apparently, he had not
finished what he wanted to say. Waiting until the young matriarch was away, he turned again to her father.
“I have been watching you, Gal dyl,” he said, friendly and compassionate. “I see your confusion and doubt growing every day. I understand how you feel. My brother Dyoren once described to me what it is like to wield an ancient relic like the one which will be yours.”
Feeling doubtful, Gal dyl replied: “Have you ever observed geese migrating south in spring? They always follow a guide who knows the secret of the winds. I am no such guide, regardless of the Spear that I will wield. I cannot lead the three clans into an abyss when I have not fathomed its depth. Until now the Islands’ deities have protected us, but their favour is as fickle and changeable as the wind.”
“But think of it this way, Gal dyl: we do not have a choice. The souls of the dead, which haunt the shores of Nyn Ernaly, talk to me, whispering of their pain. Day by day, little by little, the destructive hand of man weakens the power of Eïwele Llya. With each tree that falls, the Mother of the Islands is slowly dying. Time cannot fix everything, for some damage is irreparable. But time will reveal all: the good and the bad...
The Oracle of Llafal shall indeed be proven true. When we go to war, Llewenti blood will be spilled and Eïwele Llyo will no doubt come knocking at the door of many of our homes, but the reclamation of our rightful home will have begun. Once again, the Llewenti heroes will be celebrated in the songs of the bards. Once again, the warlords of our clans shall write the legend of our holy weapons in letters of blood. If we want to triumph, we must strike fear into the hearts of all. This can only be achieved with the roar of war. Believe me, my friend; our destiny is set in stone. You do not have a choice.”
The threatening note of this line concluded Mynar dyl’s speech and the warlord of Tios Halabron returned to his seat.
Gal dyl took a moment to reflect, surveying the scene before him. Standing in the middle of the circle, he inhaled deeply, sensing the growing agitation around the place of worship. The steps were filled with fighters from all the clans, all eager to find their place, creating tension. All were fully armed, ready to march at the council’s bidding.
