by C A Oliver
“Hail to Roquendagor! Hail to our champion!” Curwë yelled frantically, powerfully beating his drums to accompany his cries. “The White Unicorn enters the fight! Hail to Roquendagor! Hail to our commander!” he repeated like one possessed. His drums resounded obsessively.
The archers ceased firing to watch the knight’s coming. Their faces expressed dread but, such was the reverential respect and wonder they felt in that moment, they all cried in awe. The voice of Maetor was heard, shouting orders. The two units of Unicorn guards opened their ranks to let their lord join them in the fray.
A few moments later, Roquendagor was at the centre of the deadly melee. Wherever he sent his blows, the knight was so agile and dangerous that he struck down all his foes with a frequency that few, even among his guards, could match. Soon, he had felled a full line of barbarian warriors.
Although he lacked the Blade of the Unicorn, that Dol Lewin heirloom fashioned in Ystanlewin’s forge and held by his family for hundreds of years before being irremediably lost, Roquendagor was an expert wielder of a myriad of weapons: equally deadly with a lance, spear or sword.
He possessed courage that was second to none, and an unshakable sense of duty towards his elite guards. Much was expected of his coming and, indeed, his charge invigorated his troops and caused considerable damage to the barbarians’ ranks. Roquendagor fought with great sweeps of his blade, the air itself was humming as his weapon weaved a web of death that only the very best barbarian warriors managed to survive. Fighting knee-deep among the corpses of those who had fallen at the gate, the tall knight inflicted grievous wounds upon any man that dared confront him.
After an hour of ceaseless combat, the entrance to the compound had become so choked with the bodies of the dead barbarians that the access was completely denied.
Roquendagor decided to retreat, fatigued with the chaos of the battle. He needed to distance himself from the bloody melee to understand the way the fight for the gate was progressing. He joined Aewöl, safely positioned in the shadows of the stronghold. Dressed in a long, dark green cloak which masked his black chain mail, his councillor could survey the entire battle without being seen.
Breathing deeply, Roquendagor threw away his heavy helmet. Unexpectedly, a strong gust of wind disturbed his movements. The air moved persistently around him, altered by an unnatural force.
“What is this sorcery?” he muttered to himself.
But then his eye was caught by the bright, flamboyant figure of Feïwal, up in the air, perched on the edge of the keep’s highest parapet like an ethereal vision. Roquendagor turned back towards the small air spirit, now attentive to its convulsions. It suddenly vanished in a small explosion, the air penetrating deep into the High Elf’s ears, nose and throat.
Roquendagor heard like a whisper in the wind. “The northern wall is about to fall.”
Looking up towards Feïwal, he noticed that the Irawenti guide was pointing towards the other battlefield, where Luwir was in command.
Standing beside Roquendagor, Aewöl immediately captured the essence of the warning. Indeed, his anxious gaze had often turned towards the north, where the wall had been breached by the initial trebuchet attack, and where the defenders now had to fight among the rubble. Aewöl decided to oversee the situation himself. Calling upon Curwë for assistance, he moved quickly along the compound walls towards the second battlefield.
The fortress walls facing Gloren Bay were strengthened by a vast, round flanking tower which overlooked the defences of the northern part of the compound. It provided additional support to the central keep. Built at the edge of the primitive fortification and at its highest point, the rock at the foot of the round tower had been carved into a slope in order to make scaling difficult. It was now their best defence against an intrusion into the compound’s courtyard now that the wall had been irremediably breached. Aewöl and Curwë could see that the narrow opening in the tower facing the slope was, for the time being, enabling the defenders to repel their enemies. Arrow slits, loopholes and battlements enabled the Irawenti units to halt the progress of the assailants while they remained protected.
From this position, Luwir, who commanded these troops, was well protected behind a large stone overlooking the bulwark. He handled with skill a crossbow made of composite exotic wood, tendon and horn bow. The advantage of the weapon lay in its range and force, as its bolts could be shot at great speed and cause considerable damage. It was much more effective defending a wall than for use on the battlefield, for it was heavy and took time to reload.
But bolts and arrows soon became inefficient, as the assailants finally succeeded in approaching the breach. Aewöl rushed to the Irawenti commander’s hideout.
“Luwir, switch to your heavy, short-range projectiles.”
“Hear me, Elves of Filweni!” Luwir immediately called out with a warlike gesture. “Throw down stones and quicklime, over the ramparts and through the trap-doors!”
“We must prevent them getting through what is left of the walls! They have brought ladders. They will attempt to climb!” shouted Aewöl in the confusion.
Moments later, several battalions of elite barbarian warriors, Ka-Bloozayar’s personal soldiers judging by the cut of their red armour, launched a decisive assault on the weakest point of the fortress’ defences. Overwhelmed, Luwir’s units were inundated by the flow of attackers, and were about to lose the control of the damaged battlements. Quickly, Aewöl could understand the situation with lucidity.
He ran towards the ruined wall, jumped and then climbed up the stones like a spider in its web. As Aewöl clung onto the wall, he cried powerful utterances in a dark tongue.
His hands clutched the dirt and the clay between the stones. His loud incantations began to create a seismic disturbance in the wall; the vibrations were concentrated on a specific point a few feet above where he hung. The vibrations soon became intense tremor, cracking stones apart and forcing the entire wall to shake dangerously. Larger cracks appeared, before a weak part of the wall started to collapse. A huge chunk of it broke away and tumbled towards the assailants, killing a score of them. Some barbarians were crushed directly, while others were buried under the rubble.
The lower part of the wall was completely fractured, but the large central stones still held. The defenders, while completely exhausted, regained some hope.
Aewöl uttered another potent incantation. Thin, wispy flames began to surround his body, shedding a pale light around him. They had soon enveloped him, and an unnatural force emanated from his fiery being. Aewöl unexpectedly leapt from the wall towards the dry moat. He landed safely ten feet below, upon the branches that had been built up by the barbarians into a makeshift bridge. The fire around him had already begun to spread when he ignited an incandescent explosion beneath his feet. The entire improvised structure had now caught fire. The pine branches that it was largely made of were burning fast. The clothes and hair of the men were also set alight in the blaze. The barbarians on the bridge were leaping to their left or right, down to the floor of the dry moat, rolling on the ground in the hope of extinguishing the flames.
Their chiefs, sheltered by their armour, did their best to extinguish the flames that had caught those wearing only leather coats for protection. Bolts and stones hailed down upon them continuously. Flayed, tired and burned, the survivors climbed as best they could to the top of the slope and out of the moat, clinging to every hand held out to them. They fell back amid the shouts, screams and challenges of the Elves. A pile of ashes and charred human carcasses was all that remained of their improvised bridge.
As he walked further along the edge of the moat, Aewöl caught sight of the enemy chief, Ka-Bloozayar, positioned at a safe distance but close enough to have witnessed the destruction of his battalions. Aewöl drew his two black swords. He saw the groups of men who were scurrying around, trying to soothe their burns or wounds. All cursed the Elvin silhouettes dancing on top of the fortress’ ramparts. The victory was complete and, carried
away by the success, and impervious to his magical fire, Aewöl progressed into the burning trench, sowing death with his two dark blades. But, to his astonishment, the Dragon Warrior jumped down to join him, ignoring the danger and burning flames. His formidable blood armour glowed, uninflected by the burning flames.
Caught off-guard, Aewöl quickly made up his mind. He decided to flee to the breach of the fortress’ wall. He quickly passed over the corpses, swift and agile thanks to his light chain mail. He reached the gap. He turned back one last time to check how much distance he had put between him and his opponent. A long, heavy spear hit him on the left of his helmet, knocking it clean off. Incredible pain seared through him; it felt as if half of his head had been blown away. Relying on his ferocious will and the last of his strength, he managed to climb the stones that led out of the burning ditch and into the compound. A hand grabbed him.
“Ah! Your left eye! You need assistance immediately!” screamed Curwë, horrified, as he pulled him aside to find cover.
“I cannot see!” cried Aewöl. As he touched the left side of his face, he realised that his eye was punctured, and the socket had been broken. Aewöl fainted.
“Help! Help! Aewöl is dying! Can we not get some help? Aewöl is dying!” Curwë yelled frantically.
Archers rushed to rescue Aewöl, whose condition looked desperate. Obeying Curwë’s instructions, they carried him back to the keep, where Arwela and the ladies were inside arranging care for the wounded.
Meanwhile, the ocean wind began to rise, blowing from the coast towards the forest, from Mentollà to the barbarian camp. It soon became extraordinarily strong, and, in the whistling of the squall, many men heard incantations in an unknown language. Already some of the burning branches were being swept down the slope which separated the fortress from the forest. The foliage was dry. The heather began to ignite first, and it was soon followed by the ferns. Finally, the fire spread to the huge pine trees, whose cones were soon exploding in the heat.
The men initially reacted feverishly, their leaders still reeling from their defeat at the fortress walls. They sought to extinguish the many fires that had now begun on the edge of the woods. All wondered where this sudden, forceful breeze might have come from. But soon order and discipline gave way, and many fled in panic, for the wind was still coming in hard and was now blowing at different angles, reviving the smouldering blaze in the dry moat. Countless glowing embers were now flying through the air, carried by the breath of the fire that was now unstoppable. The retreat was ordered, as some of the barbarian tents had already caught fire. Horns began to blow as the shamans, with some difficulty, restored order among the ranks and arranged the evacuation of their base camp.
**
12th day, shores of the Gloren peninsula
‘What I am doing here is very, very, very stupid! I cannot believe I am doing it at all. Siw! I was known as the happiest Irawenti in Essawylor because of how carefree and reckless I was. And yet here I am, attempting this desperately dangerous journey to join my clan, who themselves are locked in what promises to be the most hopeless siege in the history of warfare! How have I come to this? I curse my suicidal loyalty to my kin!’
Despite this torment, Nelwiri kept himself busy with intensive preparations. He was making the best of the equipment he had stolen from the Llewenti army during his escape. Still frantic, like an Elf possessed, he continued to mutter in his dialect.
‘The clan Llyvary’s guards were easy to trick. No doubt they underestimated my abilities. I have spent my entire life high up in the masts of Essawylor ships, playing with nodes and pulleys. They should have known I would break free from my bonds, even though I was suspended from the top of a tree, twenty yards above the ground...’
Taking a small axe, he set about carving a rough log. He skilfully cut the pinewood, shaping what appeared to be a wide plank.
He grasped an arrow plumed with green feathers, selecting the longest and most solid he could find in the quiver. He tied a thin rope to the shaft. Using knots of his own invention, he added further ropes and string to extend it. Happy with his achievement, he tested the solidity of his improvised harpoon.
Nelwiri’s features suddenly stiffened when he realised that the cordage was not long enough for his purpose. After pondering for a while, he smiled. He had found an alternative solution.
“Siw! If I’m going to do something mad, there’s no point being half-hearted about it,” he thought.
He pressed the arrowhead against the freshly cut piece of wood and began a long, guttural incantation.
“I have not used this spell for some time, and I’m not quite sure what the last words are. But no matter; the rune I am using on both objects is the most important part of it anyway,” Nelwiri optimistically concluded.
He carefully engraved a complicated inscription onto both the arrow shaft and the plank.
“I suppose this is it,” he concluded before taking several deep breaths. “I will miss the ocean’s scents! If I die today, it’s this I will miss the most. O Gweïwal Uleydon! You are the only witness of this exploit! May you grant me a little more life, if only so I can recount this madness to the next generations of Filweni!”
Nelwiri boldly strode up the cliff’s edge and threw the plank out at the sea below with all his strength. The piece of wood fell from a height of more than sixty feet before hitting the surface of the water. It did not take long for it to surface above the foam. Meanwhile, Nelwiri notched the unusual harpoon he had so carefully prepared. He securely tied the end of the rope to his belt. Though his new bow had a fairly long range, he would rely on the support of the strong sea winds to reach his target. Nelwiri breathed in the wind and began his loud incantations.
He fired his arrow directly upwards, towards the clouds. The rope began to unroll rapidly, as though the arrow were being pulled up by some unnatural force. The arrow continued to climb in the sky until it paused. It did not fall back to where it had come from as one might expect, but rather it was taken by the ocean breeze towards the sea. Nelwiri did not bother to track his arrow’s course; he stepped back, began his run-up and, before the rope had fully unwound, dived into the sea from the top of the cliff.
It was a great plunge that only the most desperate of Elves would have attempted. The Irawenti sailor came crashing down onto the sea like a meteorite hitting solid ground. For a long moment, only the rippling circles of water caused by the impact could be seen on the surface. There was a long silence, disturbed only by the sound of the sea.
Suddenly, the arrow, still being carried through the air by the winds, flew down, and struck the bottom corner of the floating plank, making a loud noise of shattering wood. The cord attached to the arrow began to tighten. Nelwiri emerged violently to the surface of the water, gasping desperately for air, like a prisoner who had escaped a deadly oubliette. It took him some time to realise that he had, in fact, survived.
“Cil, Cim, Cir! No one will believe this. I am sure no one will believe it,” he kept repeating, laughing out loud. He swam and pulled on his rope until he reached the improvised long board a hundred yards away. The current in the bay was strong, and he had already moved a long way from the shore.
“Now, let us see if I can reach Mentollà on this makeshift boat,” he thought. “Gloren Bay must be around twenty leagues across. I cannot even see the outline of the Sognen Tausy coastline to the west. It could take me more than a day, depending on how the currents evolve.”
**
13th day, Mentollà
In the west, one league southeast of Mentollà, a barbarian sentry looked up, his senses alert, like a wild dog sniffing the air. He was worrying about a distant, repetitive echo which was odd considering how early it was. He cautiously approached the old road that connected Mentollà to Tios Halabron, taking care to hide behind the many tree trunks that lined the abandoned path. As the noise got closer, it became more distinct and grew in intensity. The man decided to hide, consumed by fear.
A flock of night birds swept along the trail, twisting and turning through the trees, searching for hiding places. The man lay down, frozen by shock. He did not sound his horn to warn the other barbarian sentinels carefully positioned by Ka-Bloozayar at the rear of the camp.
The man was soon found by a flock of birds that then set upon him. He got up, batting away his attackers with the flat of his axe, trying to reach his horn. Suddenly, a wild animal cry interrupted the ferocious struggle. The man gasped in disbelief while the birds disappeared into the night. Incredulous, he stood still and alert for a moment. He glimpsed an arrow flying into a nearby tree on his right, its pale glow illuminating the undergrowth. An Elvin war cry sounded, and a javelin whistled through the air. The man fell. A warrior of the clan Avrony, resplendent in the clan’s distinctive peacock feathers, emerged from the shadows. He approached the dead body, retrieved his javelin and took care to extinguish the glowing arrow. Behind him on the abandoned trail, other Llewenti fighters passed as swiftly as spectres between the shadows of the tall trees. They too were searching for prey.
Dawn was breaking when the clan Avrony’s scouts gathered within a league of Mentollà. In under an hour, they had managed to dispose of every barbarian sentinel. A few horns had been sounded, but they had been weak and soon muffled, so no general alarm had been triggered. The brave Llewenti fighters were paving the way for the remainder of Llymar’s units to assault the rear guard of the barbarian army.
Suddenly, a great noise was heard at the edge of the forest, south of Mentollà’s walls.
Cries of “Avrony! Avrony! Llymar! Llymar!” resounded on the flanks of the barbarian battalions, and a great shock ran through the entire barbarian army as Gal dyl led the charge.
The cries were those of his fiercest fighters. Ten units of the clan Avrony, some two hundred and fifty Elves, lightly armed with spears and short swords, suddenly set upon the barbarians. Each attacker, overwhelmed by hatred, had the death of a relative or a household to avenge. They did not coordinate their attack, rushing in murderously, choosing their opponents at random, like vultures tearing into their prey.
