by C A Oliver
He then noticed the arrival of an unexpected group. A unit of sailors from Cumberae, with pale features and snow-white hair, were making their way towards the circle. Their master, wrapped in a cloak of white lion skin, led them. His name was Aertelyr, a renowned merchant. Gal dyl recalled that a large vessel had sailed into Penlla several days ago. Each spring, it brought goods from the distant south; steel, raw materials and furs were exchanged for wine, fruits and cloth.
The Prince of Cumberae ruled the southern regions of the archipelago on his own, and therefore he did not respect the trade blockade that King Norelin had imposed upon the three clans of Llymar. Its representative was an important presence at the meeting. The appearance of the prince’s master of trade, and the permission to use a large merchant ship, meant that Cumberae could well become an active ally. A gathering such as this had not taken place in a century; it was therefore unsurprising that it was provoking such excitement and enthusiasm even amongst those who lived beyond the borders of the Forest of Llymar.
Finally, calm was restored amid the apparent chaos, a certain harmony emerged, and Gal dyl could survey the entire army that he commanded, now gathered on the steps of the stone circle in front of him. It was a large force, organised into units and cities, proudly displaying their pennants and banners.
Llymar’s army was made up of more than two thousand fighters. They were mobile troops: equipped sparingly with leather or brass plates, their faces protected by helmets, their arms by long shields. They were a formidable force in the face of an enemy in wooded terrain.
The deadly arrows of the clan Llyvary’s archers, the lethal javelins of the clan Ernaly’s warriors, and the ferocious slings of the clan Avrony’s scouts were powerful instruments for that type of warfare. Widely dispersed across the battlefield, Llewenti combatants could also rely on the strength of their fearsome Hawenti rear guard.
The House of Dol Etrond’s cavaliers and knights wielded weapons and wore armour of the most elaborate Elvin steel, forged in Tios Lluin by the renowned Smiths’ Guild which was led by Almit Dol Etrond. The ‘Golden Arch Guard’ was a devastating adversary in close combat. They were known to never turn their backs on a battlefield; such was their discipline and morale.
Llymar’s army was commanded by the nobility of the forest. All of them were present at the council. Gal dyl counted them carefully, recalling their names. They would be allowed into the circle to have their say in the debates, and he would have to introduce them to the crowd as he passed them the Staff of Emeralds.
He was the last and only scion of the dyl Avrony bloodline and only representant of that clan.
Almit and Curubor would represent the House of Dol Etrond. As warlord of Tios Lluin, Almit would be one of the last orators.
Mynar dyl and Voryn dyl would debate on behalf of the clan Ernaly; Mynar dyl the Fair would sit beside Gal dyl as warlord of Tios Halabron. All of this was simple enough.
It would become more complicated when dealing with the clan Llyvary. There were nineteen dyl, most of them young, who had never participated in the affairs of the forest before. He did not know them personally, except for the dubious Leyen dyl, warlord of Penlla, and Nerin dyl, his impulsive grandson, who was second to the warlord of Llafal, the ‘Old Bird’ Tyar dyl. The most ancient warrior of the forest would sit on his other side. He was the only Elf of any importance from the clan Llyvary, as Gal dyl knew that he would be the spokesperson for Lyrine, and her words were not to be taken lightly.
Gal dyl expected that the Lady of Llafal would reign unchallenged over the council of the Matriarchs; there were nine of them in total, and the clan Llyvary’s seven dignitaries clearly outnumbered the two high priestesses from the clan Ernaly.
Nevertheless, none of the nine holy clerics would be entitled to speak at the Council of the Forest, for tradition dictated that the forum was exclusively reserved for those who fight and command in war. The role of the matriarchs was to consult the Islands’ deities and eventually approve whatever decision had been proposed by the Council of the Forest. Only once, a very long time ago, had the matriarchs chosen to reject the assembly’s verdict but this was still a sore memory for some present that day.
Gal dyl was still lost in his thoughts when the drums of Eïwal Vars’ temple suddenly sounded, drowning out the murmur of conversation and the whisperings of the trees.
“The time has come,” Gal dyl thought. He could not suppress a shiver.
Eïwal Vars was the Llewenti deity of war, hunting and strength. In the Islands’ legend, he was revered as the ‘Father’ as he had saved Queen Llyoriane from the grasp of the dubious deity Eïwal Myos[51]. In turn, she granted him her love and gave birth to the matriarchs, who went on to bear the dyl of the clans. Eïwal Vars was worshipped as Lord of both forests and beasts. All Llewenti hunters venerated him deeply, for it was he who was meant to watch and protect them in the wild. No one worshipped him more devotedly than Gal dyl, who had always taken care not to offend him, for he knew that the deity’s retaliation could be swift and brutal. Eïwal Vars had taught the Llewenti that, in order for there to be life, there must also be death; in order for some to feed, there must be others who are hunted; and, in order to have peace, there must also be war. These teachings dictated Gal dyl’s conduct in the wild; while he was accustomed to slaying ferocious beasts, he only ever hunted just enough game to eat. Eïwal Vars message was now at the forefront of Gal dyl’s mind; unlike certain other warlords, Gal dyl had always attempted to balance the deity’s destructive side with the other values that he represented.
Inhaling the fresh morning air, fragrant with the odours of the forest, Gal dyl walked slowly towards the Temple of War, his mind focused on controlling his emotions. He felt the gaze of thousands of Elves, and it weighed upon his shoulders more heavily than any chainmail. He climbed the six majestic steps up to the empty seats of the matriarchs, and then knocked heavily on the temple door. The noise of his knuckles pounding against the hard wood echoed for some time.
“Who comes here?” nine female voices solemnly asked in unison.
“Gal dyl Avrony, son of Matriarch Vyre,” he replied loudly so that the full assembly could hear. After a pause, he continued:
“I am Gal dyl Avrony, last warlord of his bloodline and Protector of the Forest.”
“And what is your purpose, Gal dyl Avrony?”
“I come to retrieve the Spear of Aonyn and the Staff of Emeralds, for the Council of the Forest has gathered.”
The heavy doors opened slowly. The nine matriarchs of Llymar appeared on the threshold. All of them were shrouded in long green gowns. On top of their traditional ceremonial garb, they each wore a single piece of jewellery: a silver necklace from which hung their respective rune. Their faces were shadowed by large hoods, so that each could not be distinguished from the other.
Bowing his head respectfully, Gal dyl entered the underground temple. He followed the matriarchs down one staircase, then a second, before finally pausing at the top of a third and looking out into the heart of the temple.
Motionless, with bowed head, Gal dyl looked down upon the priest of Eïwal Vars.
The cleric was kneeling in the crypt, his burning eyes fixed upon the approaching procession. Long beaded braids fell from his temples down onto a brown hood that protected his neck. Bright green stones were woven into the material across his chest. His sleeveless tunic of brown cloth left his arms exposed. They were adorned with silver bracelets. A large cloak, the colour of chestnut and cut from the finest fabric, dragged along the ground behind him, rippling forward with reluctance with each step that he took.
Flanking him on either side stood two apprentices, servants of the deity of war and hunting. They were tall, strong Elves, dressed in brown robes with copper trim. Their long hair was dyed green and mystical runes covered their faces. In their hands, glittering with silver rings beset with emeralds, they held two ornate lyres. They played as they sang a warlike hymn to their divinity in deep and solem
n voice.
After a silent prayer, the matriarchs moved into the heart of the temple, Gal dyl following close behind. They stepped down into an aisle and progressed along it slowly, between the lines of sacrificial altars on either side. The darkness lifted as they walked, as if the shadowy spirits who inhabited the temple were withdrawing to watch them as they passed. The matriarchs looked tall with their large hoods draped over their heads.
Reaching the main altar at the centre of the temple, one of them stepped forward. As she lifted her hood, Gal dyl recognized his daughter, Nyriele. She was as pale as moonlight. Her gaze was fixed on some faraway point. She began murmuring ritual prayers to the deity of war. Her narrow nostrils quivered, and her eyes welled up with tears. Managing the oppressive force which was trying to overcome her, she began to sing hymns dedicated to the bloodthirsty divinity that she so despised. Nyriele was a matriarch, and all matriarchs had to devote themselves completely to the six of the archipelago’s deities. She sang of the tales of Eïwal Vars: a long litany of victories and heroic feats that floated through her imagination like clouds in the sky.
The priests behind her trembled and from time to time they plucked a mournful chord from their lyres. They were all experiencing an overwhelmingly powerful, mystical fear and they knew that their deity was close by.
Gal dyl approached the central altar; a resplendent masterpiece carved from the marble of the Arob Nisty Mountains. He stopped just a few yards away from it. As the priests’ chanting grew more intense, reaching notes of unnatural pitch and timbre, Gal dyl knelt in front of the altar.
Six banners were illuminated by candlelight around him. He briefly glimpsed at the emblems of the archipelago’s clans: the dark buzzard of the Myortilys, the white swan of the Llyvary, the snowy owl of the Llyandy, the grey hawk of the Ernaly, the azure seagull of the Llorely, and the green peacock of the Avrony.
Dried flowers smouldered nearby, releasing a thick perfume. Names of former masters of the Spear were glorified: Aonyn, Bane of Giants; Adarsy, the Owl Slayer; Aecaly, the Hound Hunter and several others. Yluin the Tall’s name concluded the list of legendary heroes. This initiation ritual was being followed with great precision, in all its detail, according to ancient tradition that had begun with the offering of the relics by Eïwal Vars himself. The priests, still chanting, celebrated those gifts bestowed by the deity of war. And so, their song said.
“For the Protector of the Islands, he did make
A shield that was broad and strong
Armour brighter than fire which shone
A helmet beset with an emerald crest
A spear which obeyed its master best.”
The first three of those artefacts were now lost, with the many heroes who had fallen in battle. But the legendary weapon had proven to be as loyal as the deity had promised. The Llewenti clans still possessed the powerful spear.
Gal dyl, kneeling in the crypt, raised his hands up and laid them down in front of him on the cold marble of the sacred altar. In his deep and fervent meditation, he began to glean the final sacraments that would make him the High Warlord of the army and the bearer of the holy weapon. His unease grew stronger and stronger as the ceremony progressed. Becoming overwhelmed by doubt, vulnerability and guilt; his anxiety became uncontrollable and obvious to those around him. The chanting culminated to a violent climax, he felt the force of an explosion before him and he could not help falling onto his back and crying in shock and pain.
Soon, he stood and tried to regain control of his senses. He turned to see the holy weapon, the gift of Eïwal Vars, the Spear of Aonyn, in front of him on the sacred altar.
Gal dyl was stunned. For a moment, he did not move at all, frozen by the apparition of the relic and astonished at the demonstration of the clerics’ powers. His anxiety became fear; his guilt became torturous. Standing shivering, he did not say a word.
“Speak the words of requisition, Protector of the Forest, speak the words of requisition and seize the power you seek,” the overbearing voice of Lyrine commanded impatience and anger in her voice.
Gal dyl returned to his senses, his pride hurt by Lyrine’s order. He felt like a child, frozen by fear, diving into the ocean for the first time. Opening his left hand, he finally pronounced the incantation, shouting it hastily in an effort to overcome his fright.
“Aonyn ekméo na miha cami!”[52]
Suddenly, the spear was in his hand. He was struck by a powerful blast which sent a sharp pain from the tips of his fingers right up to his shoulder. His sight was obscured by a sudden bright light and then, horrible visions appeared before him: screams, battles and fire, which grew in intensity and violence until he felt a severe and sudden pain in his back. Gal dyl almost fell back to his knees. Drowning, he struggled to escape the power that had engulfed him but was unable to surface. He feebly stumbled around the crypt, wandering without purpose.
“Please hand me the Spear of Aonyn, Protector of the Forest,” Nyriele gently intervened. “It is time to fit your armour,” she added, her comforting hand gripping his forearm.
He released the weapon and the visions ceased. The priests had already gathered around him with the rest of his trappings. Although not the original gifts from the deity of war, which had been lost long ago, they were nonetheless of fine craftsmanship, and they were imbued with the powerful protective magic of the forest. A cuirass, leggings, a helmet and shield were layered on top of his precious silk tunic, while the nine matriarchs came to surround him chanting prayers of blessing and protection.
Once this was over, Nyriele approached him again, the Spear of Aonyn in her left hand and a fine silver goblet in her right.
“Protector of the Forest! Drink the wine of the deities, the blood of the Mother of the Islands. It shall give you the strength and vigour that you shall undoubtedly need for the tasks ahead.”
Accepting the ceremonial chalice with both hands, Gal dyl slowly drank the precious liquid in long gulps, savouring the full essence of the sweet nectar. The wine refreshed and invigorated him. A strong power flowed through his veins, chasing away all traces of doubt.
The short ceremony was now over and Gal dyl reclaimed the Spear of Aonyn from the young matriarch. The coveted object was lighter than he had anticipated, given its tremendous size.
Nyriele wrapped a voile of rare silk around his neck, embroidered with her own magical rune.
He stood there proud and tall. His blazing eyes met his daughter’s gaze, and for a moment he remained motionless and silent, looking at her but with glazed eyes.
She could see in his soul that the fire of war now consumed him from within. She could not help but step back.
Gal dyl heard the creaking of the temple doors being opened by the priests. He buried his face into the immaculate silk voile and decided to attach it to his brass breastplate. He rushed towards the opening, escaping the confinement of the temple and the site of his momentary weakness.
Outside the temple, sunlight had pierced the early morning darkness. A warm, humid wind from the north was pushing the low clouds across the sky. The entire population of Tios Lluin had gathered around the circle to hear the debate of the council and behold its army.
The soldiers were still gathered on the steps of the holy crater, organized into orderly units, each with their own pennant and sigil. The army sat in wait around the temples, watching intently for the spear-bearer to appear. When the doors of Eïwal Vars’ shrine opened, and the blade of the holy lance was revealed to all, a shiver ran through the assembled crowd. Then, a moment later, they greeted their lord with a loud cheer as he stepped back out onto the stone steps.
A group of six fighters hastened towards Gal dyl. When they heard the Protector of the Forest’s first commands, snapping like the rapid strikes of a whip, they quickly formed two orderly lines around him. The army roared three times, celebrating the esteemed combatants who would form the Protector’s Guard. The six elite warriors surrounding Gal dyl answered the crowd in unison, with
three loud cries. The force of their cheers revealed their determination.
Then, the band began their ceremonial descent down the steps from the temple door. Their footsteps echoed around the carved crater while the nine matriarchs, their faces now exposed, emerged from the temple and gathered around Gal dyl.
Lyrine stepped forward. With silver lace she attached the green flag of Llymar to the holy lance: a golden arch with an Eïwaloni tree beneath it, surrounded by a white swan, a grey hawk and a green peacock. The ultimate symbol of the Protector’s authority over the forest was now in Gal dyl’s hands. Boosted by the crowd’s cheering and the flag’s radiance, the warlord continued forward proud and tall, towards the circle’s centre.
The oldest matriarch, Yere dyl Ernaly, daughter, lover and mother of fighters who were killed in the wars with the barbarians, walked towards the centre. She was a noble figure, short and thin, with hard features and haughty black eyes.
Her snow-white hair and her back, bent over with years, marked her seniority. She inspired fear in those around her, for she was born a very long time ago. While the decline of her body showed her unnatural age, her spirit had not yet resigned to join the trees. The Llewenti almost always entrusted their soul to Eïwele Llyo’s care before the signs of age spoiled their appearance and diminished their ability to enjoy life; beauty was their obsession; such was the curse Eïwele Llyi had bestowed upon them.
Yet, Yere was different and drew an unnaturally strong life force from her determination to seek revenge. Her purpose on the archipelago was not yet fulfilled.
Her thoughts and memories went back as far as the toughest and bloodiest time in Nyn Ernaly’s history when the barbarian hordes had conquered her homeland over a thousand years earlier. She viewed the Forest of Llymar as a declining realm, where the pains of the past were forgotten, and the threats of the future overlooked.
