An Act of Faith

by C A Oliver

  “We fight!”

  The red wyvern narrowly skimmed the tops of the fortress walls, impervious to the flimsy arrows being shot up from the battlements. It beat its huge wings, rapidly gaining altitude, and soon it was by the walkway at the top of a tower, flying straight at the small group of three Elves. The impact was extremely violent. The spears of the High Elves broke against the creature’s skin, failing to pierce its scales, which proved as resistant as steel armour. One of the two guards was immediately knocked off the parapet, silently falling to his death a hundred feet below. His armour, along with his body, was torn into pieces.

  The second fighter was caught by the Wyvern’s tail. The long reptilian limb wrapped around him; a moment later, he could only utter a horrible, muffled cry of pain as the deadly sting at the end of the tail drilled itself into his mouth, injecting its poisonous liquid. Soon afterwards, he was being burnt from the inside out, his entrails consumed by fire. Dying in horrendous pain, he turned back to his lord, imploring assistance that could never be given.

  Roquendagor was trying to get back to his feet. The impact had propelled him against the wall of the tower. He watched the wyvern leap out into the void before it regained altitude and turned back to attack once more.

  Suddenly, a bolt of lightning tore through the sky with a deafening crack, its flash illuminating the stormy landscape. The lightning almost struck the monstrous creature as if flew, causing it to divert its course away from the danger.

  Roquendagor, emboldened by this heavenly intervention, ran to grab his two-handed sword that he had left close to the war machine.

  The wyvern was coming back. Its attack was aimed directly at Ganol wallen, which appeared to be its real target. Roquendagor rushed forward, his sword high in the air, yelling his war cry.

  “Roq Laorn!”[78]

  The tall knight brought down his long blade with unbelievable strength. The impact was tremendous. The metal cut through scale, flesh and bone. The creature’s right leg was severed. The wyvern landed heavily on the tower’s walkway, its formidable momentum sending it crashing straight into the war machine. The catapult was knocked clean off the battlements; it came crashing to the ground at the foot of the tower, taking its two unfortunate operators down with it. With a shrill howl, the wyvern managed to take off again. The wounded creature was flying with difficulty over Mentollà’s creek in an effort to escape, when suddenly a second bolt of lightning struck it: this time directly. The wyvern fell from the sky onto the rocks of the shore.

  Roquendagor was gradually catching his breath. Stolid as ever, he looked up the wall of the keep and saw, on the highest platform, the azure silhouette of Feïwal. The Irawenti guide, dancing dangerously close to the void, was paying tribute to the elements.

  Relieved but still shocked by the confrontation, Roquendagor looked towards the Bay of Gloren with scrutiny. There was neither sail nor boat on the horizon.

  “Where are you, Nelwiri?” he grumbled.

  **

  12th day, Hills of the Arob Salwy

  The army of Llymar had set up camp on the tops of the Arob Salwy hills. It was a great force, almost two thousand strong, made up of sixty units of light infantry from the clans Llyvary and Avrony. All were entrenched behind a line of wooden fortifications and natural trenches. Six days had passed since it had reached its position, and so far, the Elvin army had not left the protection of its base, even though the siege of Mentollà was now well under way. The lethargy which reigned in the camp cruelly contrasted with the savage fighting taking place at the same time below the walls of the fortress.

  Standing boulders, carved with runes, marked the borders of the army’s camp. Wardens marched along the perimeter upon great stilts, which provided them with unnatural agility. They evolved like living trees. The vegetation around them, with its leaves and branches moving slowly in the wind, seemed to be assisting the sentries and watch stones as they guarded the camp. Loam and mist spread throughout the forest’s hollows and glades. The place was filled with an ethereal music. It was as though the macabre events taking place a dozen leagues away had no bearing whatsoever upon the army and its commanders here.

  The war council had been called. Sixteen noble dyl of the clan Llyvary were gathered around their natural leader, the ‘Old Bird’ Tyar dyl, warlord of Llafal. As discussions were being held in the command tent, it was clear that Gal dyl and Dyoren, the two dignitaries of the lesser clans, were being paid little attention, despite their reputation and status.

  These handfuls of dyl were the commanders of the clan Llyvary’s army. Their authority came from their bloodline, as their mothers were matriarchs and the blood of Eïwal Vars, the deity of war, flowed in their veins. Each dyl had inherited a rank, along with the command of a certain number of units, according to the station of his birth. A dyl answered to the warlord of his city and ultimately to the Protector of the Forest, but his true allegiance always lay with his clan. Thus, the highborn of the principal Llewenti clan favoured their most seasoned warrior to defend them against the enemy.

  Tyar dyl, the ‘Old Bird’, appeared as serene as a peaceful lake, as he reminded the dyl of their instructions.

  “The Council of the Matriarchs has entrusted us to guard the western glades of Llymar. We must be vigilant and ensure that all who try to cross the Arob Salwy shall meet their end. The plight of others is not our concern. Our duty is to protect our cities from those who seek to invade them. We must wage battle against any despoilers trying to corrupt the Forest of Llymar.”

  In the defence of their woodland realm, the Llewenti were known to be deadly and unforgiving. They were wilfully cruel in their efforts to preserve the borders of their territories. During their long history on the archipelago, they had been forced to surrender two whole islands, and countless territories, forests and grasslands to their enemies. Llymar Forest was their most sacred realm. Anyone threatening its sanctity provoked the Llewenti clans’ wrath. Over time, they had developed an intrinsic bond with the legendary forest, and they believed that their fates were entwined.

  “And what if, this time, we ought to join a fight beyond our borders to save us from a future threat?” questioned Dyoren, the Lonely Seeker. His tone was respectful; He was mindful that eighteen of the twenty commanders present were dyl of the clan Llyvary.

  “We should not interfere with events taking place beyond our own land,” Tyar dyl firmly replied. “We must only ever engage in combat at home, where the powerful High Magic of our matriarchs protects us, and where the spirits of the Forest can be awakened to confront the invaders.”

  The old warlord spoke with assurance, for Lyrine herself had entrusted him with this mission.

  “Let us pursue the strategy we have agreed upon,” Nerin dyl Llyvary concurred. “So far it has proven deadly to those who wish us harm. Those men we killed barely even saw us before they were struck down. I did not lose a single archer from my units. From here, we can leap from the trees to cut down the barbarians with stealth and speed, before vanishing back into the woods.”

  All Llewenti were highly skilled archers, and masters of the sudden ambush in woodland surroundings. The clan Llyvary’s fighters were determined combatants with unparalleled stealth.

  “And how many have you killed, Nerin dyl, in the past three days? Twenty, perhaps thirty? Can you not see that there are thousands of barbarians surrounding Mentollà? I do not doubt your courage, my young companion, I simply question our strategy,” insisted Dyoren.

  As he spoke, his hand caressed the blade of his fabled broad sword, Rymsing, reminding all these young Elves who he was. The Lonely Seeker continued.

  “What I saw yesterday deserves your attention. Almit Dol Etrond has achieved what we do not dare even attempt. He has fulfilled his vow and completed his part of Curubor’s plan.”

  “Tell us what has happened!” demanded Nerin dyl, suddenly curious.

  “I joined the troops of House Dol Etrond when they positioned themselves on the wes
tern flank of the barbarian army,” explained Dyoren. “They were relatively few, only a dozen units, but all were prepared to fight from horseback. The high helm of Etrond was their rallying point. Despite his usual reluctance to wear the great helm, Almit Dol Etrond had decided to make an exception. The warlord of Tios Lluin positioned his knights close to the banks of the river Sian Tiude, where a vast clearing allowed for a promising charge. They circled the human army and found a ford upstream to gain access to their final position. Once hidden by the foliage of the trees at the edge of the glade, they waited calmly, letting the barbarian army pass by.”

  “I imagine they were waiting patiently for the most promising opportunity to earn glory. Those arrogant High Elves always believe they will prevail in the end, whoever the opponents,” one of the youngest dyl Llyvary sarcastically commented.

  But Dyoren disagreed, “Almit knows the character of his proud cavaliers; his role was to protect them from their own folly. He waited, for a long time, holding his magnificent stallion with a firm hand, until his prey was finally within range. In the late afternoon, battalions of barbarian warriors protecting the shamans of the Dragons’ Cult reached the main ford on the Sian Tiude River. These elite troops were looking after the most important dignitaries of that accursed religion. Their mules carried precious supplies.

  Without so much as a spoken command, Almit moved his steed forward. Immediately, House Dol Etrond units followed, ready to finally unleash themselves upon their foes.

  The barbarian battalions were still struggling through the deep waters of the ford when a rain of fire started to pour down upon the men, setting their clothes aflame, burning their flesh and terrifying their mules. Flaming arrows unerringly found their targets. Enormous confusion already reigned among the barbarian ranks when the cavalry charge hit them.

  No man can equal the prowess of the knights of the Blue Helm, nor their incredible horsemanship. They rode unflinchingly into the heart of the battle. They threw themselves against the disordered human ranks, reckless and unforgiving. They tore through the enemy, driving deep into their lines: trampling scores of barbarians beneath their horses’ hooves and pushing others off the ford and into the river… Let it be recognised that, yesterday, Almit Dol Etrond won an important victory.”

  “Then we must rejoice, and honour those victorious knights,” concluded Tyar dyl, but his tone was ironic, and he did not hesitate to make his position clear. “But we are not High Elves. How many defeats during the kin-slaying wars of old taught us this lesson? We do not possess their might in battle, and we never will …Furthermore…”

  But Gal dyl, unable to contain his impatience and disagreement with the current strategy, suddenly interrupted this litany of well-rehearsed arguments. Until then, he had remained in the shadows within the tent, like one waiting for an opportunity to spring. The warlord of the clan Avrony turned towards Tyar dyl and violently addressed him.

  “How can you think that the Protector of the Forest will remain at the rear and watch, while other Elves fight and give their blood for our cause?” he intervened. “No, the rear guard is no place for one who wields the Spear of Aonyn. I will lead the clan Avrony to the walls of Mentollà. I will lead the assault. The time has come.”

  “Your clan’s fighters are barely three hundred, Gal dyl. What do you think you can achieve?” Tyar dyl replied coolly, with all the confidence of a commander who had direct authority over fifty units.

  The clan Avrony’s fighters were brave, relentless hunters, experts at harassing their enemies from the trees, and they could also call upon the help of the spirits and creatures of the woods. But charging an enemy head-on during a pitched battle was an altogether different matter.

  Nevertheless, Dyoren, who until now had remained calm, now spoke up. “These are noble words, worthy of a High Warlord of the Llewenti, Gal dyl. Rymsing, the Blade of the West will march at your side. Let our enemies confront the Protector and the Seeker… together,” he added. The legendary bard stepped forward, his noble face appearing in the light.

  This resounding support had come at the right time for Gal dyl, who now decided to pursue his advantage.

  “We are not fighting an army of thousands… Our enemy is much weaker than you think Tyar dyl. Its power is in fact very limited. What we are facing is a small group of fanatics: a Dragon Warrior, a dozen shamans of his cursed Cult, and a few battalions of elite warriors who serve them. The rest of their army is composed of peasants, farmers, and craftsmen, terrorized and driven into war by tyranny and fear. Those people would much prefer to bow before the Druids, their former rulers. I can affirm that with certainty.”

  The Protector of the Forest looked around to observe the impact of his words before continuing.

  “The tactics we have pursued until now have been inefficient and counterproductive. By harassing them but keeping our distance, we have only been hitting the weakest and most useless men of the barbarian army. We are not inflicting any damage whatsoever upon the core troops who reside at the heart of the army, well protected by their slave companions. We are letting them preserve their genuine soldiers for their attack on the walls of Mentollà: their real objective. The castaways have already successfully fought off two assaults, displaying extraordinary courage. But their capacity to resist is not infinite; if they at all falter, they will be immediately destroyed. Mentollà will eventually fall. Do you understand?”

  “Then what are we to do?” asked Nerin dyl dubiously. The young captain of Llafal was showing more agitation than he wanted to demonstrate.

  Suddenly the council was interrupted by the unexpected arrival of a sentry. Admitted by the Protector of the Forest’s guards, he immediately regretted his interruption.

  “Noble Tyar dyl, I apologise for disturbing your debates.”

  “What is it? Why are you so agitated?”

  “It is the prisoner… He is gone,” announced the sentry.

  “What do you mean he is gone?” asked the ‘Old bird’, angry and surprised.

  “He has fled. He broke free from his bonds. Somehow, he untangled the ropes that we tied and must have climbed down the pine tree… he has gone,” admitted the sentry, helpless.

  “No one saw him escape?” questioned Nerin dyl furiously.

  “Yes and no... He stole some equipment: a bow, daggers, arrows, rope and some clothes. He was seen heading towards the sea, to the cliffs.”

  “You shall pay for this!” threatened Nerin dyl with the contempt of a Llewenti high-born towards an Elf of lesser lineage.

  Gal dyl intervened once again, anxious to show his authority. “It was stupid enough to imprison the Irawenti messenger in the first place. To have let him escape is idiocy. You are a fool… Now return to your duties.”

  “The fate of this acrobat is the least of our concerns. I fear he will have difficulty reaching his brethren in Mentollà, for several battalions of barbarian warriors lie in his way. Let him roam the coastline freely; we have other priorities,” concluded Tyar dyl calmly.

  **

  12th day, Mentollà

  The Elves in the fortress compound were anxious, for they feared that they could not hold out much longer. Thick clouds were obscuring the moon intermittently, and the trees of the forest were creaking in the wind, providing an ominous underscore to the prevailing darkness. They had been watching the glade in front of Mentollà’s walls all night, until the golden rays of dawn began to shine through the foliage. All could see no sign of their enemies’ preparations; their vigilance soon waned as their thoughts became suffused with concern.

  As morning broke, the barbarians started building great pyres to burn their dead. Pillars of smoke stained the sky with the mingled ashes of human corpses and wood. As the army of men prepared for a third day of battle, none could ignore the signs that the forest was suffering.

  There came the haunting sound of a horn, accompanied by the baying of hounds and the war cries of the Dragon Cult’s followers. Tall and strong in his blood
-red armour, Ka-Bloozayar brandished his powerful lance before his assembled battalions and bellowed his challenges to the Elves of Mentollà. A fierce, evil energy swelled from the Dragon Warrior, and all the barbarian soldiers who looked upon him were filled with a burning hatred and a furious temerity.

  The smoke from the smouldering dead flooded the battlefield.

  The barbarians charged forward, their eyes afire with their Dragon Gods’ furious power, like rabid hounds ready to tear their enemy apart with fang and claw. Hundreds upon hundreds of men ran forward, determined to storm the walls of Mentollà. The violence of the assault was such that all Elves within the compound were summoned to answer the challenge. Soon, the weak gates were once again broken down, and the bloody melee began.

  Roquendagor had led armies through conflict many times. He prided himself on his mastery of the art of war. He could demonstrate prowess while commanding large numbers of units from a distance, and he was also capable of fighting blade to blade in the heat of combat. His sharp, incisive mind enabled him to read the ebb and flow of any battle before it unfolded.

  Roquendagor stood on top of the tower’s steps. From this high position, he saw that the flow of the barbarians would soon overwhelm the troops holding the gate.

  “The time for me to join the battle has come. Let them face the knight of the Unicorn,” he decided.

  Roquendagor felt no fear. He was inhabited only by certainty. He had studied and practised warfare and personal combat for such a long time that he believed his skill was unmatched. The knight felt that he could wield his weapon with such speed and precision that opponents did not stand a chance.

  Roquendagor moved towards the gate with determination. Despite being clad in his black full plate armour and hindered by a tall purple helm, he moved gracefully and swiftly. His closest companions were on his heels, fully armed for battle. Reaching the walls, they proclaimed loudly the coming of their lord.