by C A Oliver
It is not easy to predict how far their devastating madness will go. They are mortal creatures; none of them care about the world that they shall leave behind, for they will eventually be returned to the nothingness from whence they came,” Voryn dyl concluded disdainfully.
With these last words, he just expressed the superiority that the Elves felt over the mutable humans. The lives of the Llewenti did end, one day or another, but they considered themselves to be immortal, like the Hawenti, for Eïwele Llyo granted them eternal life through reincarnation in the forest.
The crowd marked its concurrence with a long, deep murmur.
Voryn dyl’s speech had come late in the day because he had chosen to ignore the less influential speakers of the clan Llyvary, waiting until they had spoken before emphatically putting forward the case for war.
He had immediately seized his audience with the violence of his words and the strength of his argument. He continued, alternating between denunciation and invocation.
“Remember our history! Examine closely the tragic events we went through!
We were not defeated by the barbarians. In truth, a few High Elves deceived our valiant army and betrayed the glory that was earned at the price of its fighters’ blood.
These were the same High Elves who agreed to the Pact with the invaders.”
He then moved to condemn the new collusion between King Norelin and men.
“Our human enemies, whether they are barbarians or Westerners, are visible, vulnerable and mortal. They can be found, they can be attacked, and they can be defeated.
But the Elvin traitors,” he continued with scorn, “Slip by invisible, hiding their wickedness from the eyes of the very Elves that they pretend to protect. They attempt to inspire trust in the depths of our souls with their kind words and peace offerings. They plant their pernicious advice, and even now it spreads its roots ever deeper into our lives, until one day we shall no longer have the power to resist. They ask for another little concession, then a little more, always a little more.”
Voryn dyl let his audience consider these last words by leaving a long pause, during which he looked around to ascertain the reaction that he had provoked. He knew how to play upon the troops’ exasperation; hence he finished by concentrating his attack on King Norelin, who sat upon his Ruby throne in Gwarystan. He denounced in a few scathing sentences.
“This young tyrant has, for over a century, travelled through the archipelago promoting the expansion of his capital city. He has spent his life trading with our enemies.
But he has always cowered from the points of our javelins. Yet does he not still pretend to command these islands? Does he not, even now, chain our hawks to the ground?” Voryn dyl demanded of the crowd, arousing reactions of resentment and hatred.
“No, brave combatants of the forest, no. We do not have to fear his army. It is not in the nature of this King to conquer! He always avoids open conflict. I do not doubt that he shall seek some compromise; he will want an agreement which would allow him to tighten his grip upon us a little more still.”
Voryn dyl’s speech was proving fruitful. Many assembled fighters from all of the clans began to openly express their agreement. With every invective, with every reference to the past, the crowd erupted in cries of hatred and calls for war.
Nerin dyl Llyvary felt the need to intervene. Praised for his empathy and pragmatism, the young captain of Llafal was viewed as the rising hope of his clan; for many, he embodied strength and wisdom. He felt it was his responsibility to stop this great speaker’s momentum before the entirety of Llymar stumbled into war. He stood up and, holding out his hand commandingly, requested the Staff of Emeralds from Gal dyl.
The Protector accepted his request and, with the greatest authority, took the Staff from Voryn dyl’s hands and passed it to the noble young Elf from Llafal.
“We are all aware that Voryn dyl knows the art of rhetoric, but before we allow ourselves to be carried away by his words, let us first draw our attention to what he did not say. Not so long ago, a number of proud warlords ignored signs sent by the deities and chose to fight against the sands of time. The burned bodies of their dead, buried under the ruins of Tios Lluin, are all that we need to remind us of their deeds. If we, too, try to swim against the current, we too will end up drowning,” said Nerin dyl, his hands waving, as if gesturing to the spirits of the victims who had been slaughtered in that very place.
For a moment, Voryn dyl was disconcerted. He heard a murmur of anxiety from the assembled army. But he quickly recovered and, without asking the Protector of the Forest’s permission, mounted a brutal counter attack.
“We are here to decide on our future. Let us not be turned away from our destiny by this unwanted diversion, sprung upon us by a weak, superstitious Elf who claims to be a captain of his clan. His only great deed to date was being delivered by his matriarch mother!”
This arrogant insult went far beyond what was generally allowed within the assembly. Everyone could see the mockery and contempt in Voryn dyl’s malicious eyes. Furthermore, the dyn Ernaly had replied without the Staff of Emeralds in his hand.
On the steps of Eïwal Vars Temple, one of the matriarchs stood up. Lyrine held up her right hand, her palm facing the crowd, signalling both her disagreement and that she wished for him to be removed from the debate. She stood there for some time, alone and in silence. The tension throughout the assembly was palpable. Before long, Nyriele stood up with her, soon followed by the five other dignitaries of the clan Llyvary. They represented a clear majority, and Voryn dyl did not dare argue any further. He left the circle to join the anonymous ranks of his troops. He knew that he had made a strategic error. When he passed Mynar dyl’s seat, his brother refused to look at him, making his profound discontent and justified anger clear. It would now be extremely difficult for the clan Ernaly to win the debate.
“The House of Dol Etrond calls for the Staff of Emeralds,” said Almit, as he rose from his seat.
The elegant High Elf was dressed in a royal blue toga and carried a golden helmet under his left arm. Almit seldom spoke but, when he did, it was purposeful. He was renowned as a smith and alchemist of great skill. Almit was rarely seen in public, instead preferring the discreet company of enchanters and artisans. He was, in fact, a warlord by inheritance only; he left the tasks of conducting the affairs of the city and leading the House of Dol Etrond to his great uncle, Curubor. Still, he wore the helmet of his ancestors, and the ancient relic distinguished his rank as the first of his bloodline.
“I must say: I am surprised. No one has so far addressed the matter of the castaways,” he started, looking around like a guild master addressing his apprentices. “Have we lost all sympathy? Do we not have any concern for these unfortunate refugees?”
A wave of guilt washed through the assembly.
“They deserve our time. They too have risked their lives to reach our shores. They achieved this incredible feat with the very same hope, the very same ambition that our ancestors possessed when they crossed the seas a long time ago. I say they join our community. I say they are to be considered Elves of the archipelago.
Why would we not rescue them? Why not use this opportunity to inflict a severe blow to our enemies and gain new allies? Are we so strong and immutable that we deny that their support would be of help? Are the eighty units of our army strong enough to defend us from our enemies? Would we not benefit from controlling Mentollà and its strategic harbour, by adding a province to the Forest of Llymar, by improving our fleet with ships of unknown capacities, and by inviting an additional clan to join this noble assembly? I say that it is a unique opportunity, and one that we must not waste. Let us march to war. Let us destroy the barbarian invaders. Let us eradicate the priests of that cursed cult. Let us decapitate the Dragon Warrior and put his head on a pike. The enemy is surging blindly straight into the merciless trap that we have spent decades designing. He does not stand a chance, for we shall surround him and slowly put him to
death, like a stag cornered by hounds. We will gain new allies and send a message to the rest of the Islands: the power of Llymar is great. The archipelago does not need the King of Gwarystan to administer justice.”
Almit delivered these terrifying words and bloodthirsty proposals in a calm, monotone voice, its undertones making his suggested course of action seem like the most reasonable and appropriate. Looking almost remorseful that he had needed to speak again, he added.
“What I find even more surprising is that I have not so far heard a single word about our post-conflict plans. This is no longer the time for our armies to march to war for the sake of defending the greater good or avenging their honour. We cannot afford such noble deeds anymore. War is not a guaranteed escape route, nor should it be a stalemate. It is the pursuance of a just policy once diplomacy has exhausted all other options. Our hope for the future is clear in my eyes. No matter how thorough our victory on the battlefield, we cannot kill all the men that live on Nyn Llyvary. We cannot push their women and their children into the sea. I say that our greater goal should be to influence who rules the barbarians in the future. I say we should favour the Druids, for only their influence can thwart the Cult of the Three Dragons’ powerful rule over the men. Let us inflict a historical defeat upon our enemy. Let us decapitate the evil warrior who drives these weak people back along the path of death, so that we can impose new rulers with peaceful beliefs.”
Visibly satisfied with his inspiring oration, the Dol Etrond lord finally sat down, handing the Staff back to the Protector.
Gal dyl was impressed by Almit’s confident argument and concurred with its rational logic. Nevertheless, he felt uncomfortable with his cold reasoning, for he could perceive the obsession for power and domination which lay behind it.
Seeing the disorder that this intervention had provoked among the army’s ranks, another of the four warlords of Llymar Forest decided that the time had come for him to speak. Mynar dyl the Fair stepped forward. There was a moment of hesitation; Gal dyl did not hand the Staff of Emeralds to him straight away. The Protector seemed somehow paralyzed and his tensed facial features showed he was suffering greatly. The restorative effect of the golden wine was waning and the ache in his back was becoming unbearable. The more the warlord of the clan Avrony leaned on his spear to stay upright, the worse the pain became, like a dagger piercing deeper into his flesh. His vision was disturbed from time to time by horrific images of war flashing before his eyes.
Finally, he focussed his mind upon the debate, and Gal dyl realized that the representative of Tios Halabron was standing by his side, waiting to be handed the Staff of Emeralds.
Showing the utmost respect as he received it, Mynar dyl began his speech very softly, as if he were affected by the solemnity of the moment. Much of the crowd was unable to hear and had to lean forward and strain their ears. Silence descended like a rapid gust of wind across the assembly ranks. The crowd’s attention had reached its peak.
“The Llewenti were born under the stars by the banks of the Inner Sea. When they were offered wealth and submission, they chose independence and vulnerability,” he stated quietly, raising his voice gradually as he continued.
“Their resolution was so firm that they inspired the rebellious deities who had challenged the authority of the Gods to devise a refuge at the other end of the world. Our ancestors crossed the ocean and paid the price of many lives to escape tyranny and war before they reached this haven. The archipelago’s deities dedicated their power and influence to protect us for centuries, until the High Elves seized our islands for themselves. But we did not bow when the Hawenti conqueror forged his kingdom. Nor did we bend the knee when the human barbarians and their allies, the Westerners, surged and stole what was left of our domains.
Do you know why? Do you know why we have proven so resistant, so enduring, so brave?
It is because… above all else… we value liberty. It is the most profound part of our nature to identify and overcome anything that threatens to confine us. But this freedom we have earned means that we have the right to choose, the right to decide our own destiny.
Over the centuries, many exercised this right, this gift inherited from the triumphant battles of our ancestors. Tens of thousands of Llewenti decided to leave the matriarchs’ rule and serve the King of Gwarystan. I believe that today there are twice as many Elves living under the protection of the king’s banners than there are living among the six Llewenti clans. We cannot blame them for turning their back on their brethren, for abandoning the old faith, for deciding to lay their share of the magic Flow of the Islands at the feet of the Hawenti sovereign, and in so doing weakening the matriarchs’ power and the influence of the archipelago’s deities. We cannot blame them because they were free to do so.
Indeed, today, we are free to choose to join them. We could choose to ask for King Norelin’s protection. We could decide to kiss the ruby on his royal finger. It would be easy; it might even be wise. We would not have to risk our lives and territories. We would be welcomed as many before us have been welcomed. We would be given coins, stamped with the King’s face and the royal sigil, in exchange for our goods and labour. We would be given parchments decorated with authentic royal seals to prove that we own the lands that we have always possessed. And with that gold and paper, there are many things that we could do. We would be allowed in Gwarystan, that many-towered city of incomparable splendour. We could attend their magnificent spectacles of music and fireworks. We could buy small stone houses in the maze of their streets, and we could finally trade with all the archipelago’s islands. Our merchant ships would have access to the other Hawenti cities and even to the tribes of men. For they too dwell in Gwarystan, haunting its alleyways.
What an opportunity! What a chance before us to accumulate gold!
We would, however, be obliged to abandon our traditions, our laws and our obedience to the matriarchs and warlords. We would have to serve under the command of a Hawenti lord, and above all we would have to respect men and their ever-growing presence across these islands. Do not be deceived. This is the choice that we are being offered today.”
Mynar dyl’s voice had true musicality. The rhythm of his words syncopated like notes on a musical score, captivating and charming his audience. The warlord of Tios Halabron was the master of subjugating the minds of common Elves. Indeed, his cunning argument and crafty rhetoric were proving very convincing, not only to the clear majority of the troops, but also to the numerous noble dyl of the clan Llyvary, who were his real target. As opposed to the other speakers, Mynar dyl did not express his personal opinions or ideas. He was developing a speech specifically to win the support of those who could make the difference.
“As for me,” he concluded, “I choose fidelity and faith. I choose to honour my word to our matriarchs for they are the most precious treasure we here possess… they are the object of my whole-hearted devotion.”
The orator inspired genuine feeling in all who listened. The crowd watched as he walked with dignity towards the stairs of Eïwal Vars Temple and dropped a single white flower at the feet of the youngest matriarch, Nyriele. A sense of heroic poetry was in every sentence he uttered, but also in his manner, his eyes, and his very voice. The assembly, deeply moved by the noble gesture, could not resist applauding, and many rose from their seats in a standing ovation.
Feeling that he just managed to overturn the course of the day’s argument, Mynar dyl moved to exploit his advantage further.
“Gal dyl, I know you well…very well. Do you not concur? Will you not lead us towards certain victory? It is now your turn to give us your thoughts, Protector of the Forest.”
And with this invitation, Mynar dyl obediently returned the Staff of Emeralds. As he did so, he looked at Gal dyl sharply, a last threatening injunction to submit to his proposal. He saw how the Protector of the Forest was unsettled.
Grabbing the Staff, Gal dyl rubbed at his eyes and stared at a fixed point on the ground in an effort
to overcome his disorientation. Cold sweat trickled down his back, contrasting with the day’s warm atmosphere. A voice screamed inside his head like a wild animal. An unfortunate foreboding haunted him. Horrible memories came flooding back to him.
‘A small boat of the clan Avrony was anchored in a wild creek in the high seas of Gwa Nyn. Gal dyl was the last survivor of his family onboard. Alone, he had managed to flee the island of Nyn Avrony, now conquered by the barbarians. He could not sleep; his heart was swollen with remorse, tortured by the calls of others of his kind who had been butchered. But, all of a sudden, the anchor slipped as the ship keeled over in the waves, it drifted rapidly and crashed against the reefs in an apocalyptic howl. There was water everywhere and he could hear that voice, that voice...’
The crowd observed Gal dyl, and a murmur permeated the ranks as he failed to react to Mynar dyl’s invitation.
To everyone’s surprise, Tyar dyl suddenly sprang from his seat. The warlord of Llafal had remained silent and motionless until then. Stepping forward was a great effort for him because he had to struggle against his own nature to do so. Although he was deeply respected by everyone, no one really considered him, for his temperament was quiet and humble, and he seldom spoke or expressed his opinion. As the eldest noble dyl of the clan Llyvary, he did not seek the title of the Protector of the Forest, although his bloodline and experience gave him the right to claim the Spear of Aonyn. Since he had been overlooked as Protector, his influence had waned, and it was clear to all that his time to join the trees was close. Nevertheless, the ‘Old Bird’ was undertaking one last flight.
