by C A Oliver
Despite his agility and caution, his movements did not escape the notice of everyone. A shaman of the Cult of Dragons, who was leading a battalion of barbarians back to battle, noticed him running in the same direction as them. The cold grey eyes of this barbarian cleric and the way that he harangued his warriors frightened Curwë. The man was small and stocky with a powerful chest. He pushed his way through the foliage. Dressed in coarse wool, he wore a piece of scarlet cloth through his black curly hair. He wielded a double-edged axe, and his brown arms were stained with blood, like two large branches of gnarled oak. His tanned face was wild, proud and sullen, and split by a long white scar from his chin to his temple. In an instant, the shaman and his retainers were upon Curwë, surrounding him.
“Help! Help!” the bard yelled frantically, trying to attract the attention of the Llewenti fighters who he knew must have been nearby.
The fight began. Like wild game cornered by a pack of hounds, Curwë was facing six opponents.
“I cannot die like this! This destiny is not worthy of me!” laughed the bard.
Seized by a surge of panic, he unleashed a formidable tempest of blows. His movements were quick, and his strikes came fast. The magical blade in his hand was so light that he wielded it like a mere dagger. Swinging at his enemies, he attacked them one by one with a speed and skill they hardly expected from one in such a desperate situation. Two opponents quickly fell; a third was dangerously wounded, his eye incurably split. A kind of frenzy obscured Curwë’s mind. He jumped, swirled and lashed out, in a wild uncontrollable dance. A fourth opponent fell, but still more enemies surrounded him. Blinded by his wrath, Curwë plunged his sword into the heart of the wounded man. Blood spurted forth from the dead body.
But all of a sudden, without warning, a hammer struck Curwë on the back of his neck. Severely wounded, he fell to the ground. The barbarian shaman came closer, lit a torch and drank a potion. He looked around, feeling at ease as the glade was still controlled by a dozen of his warriors. All of a sudden, he spat out the red liquid, which immediately ignited into long, vicious flames. Trying to regain control of his senses, Curwë was finding it difficult to stand. He did not see what was coming. The evil cleric, like a terrifying red dragon, unleashed a powerful jet of fire.
The bard was set alight as quickly as a primed torch. His cloak ignited and became an inferno. His body fell and convulsed terribly before it finally lay still.
Above the men’s cruel cries of victory, a loud whistle resounded through the glade.
A long arrow pierced the shaman’s throat, and blood spurted from it. A second deadly missile hit his head, bursting his right eye. The evil cleric fell, dying in horrible pain.
The silhouette of a tall dark Elf emerged from the thick bushes.
It was Gelros. The Morawenti scout had a tremendous rate of fire with his ‘Cruel Bow’. Standing on the edge of the glade, he unleashed an unceasing and unerring stream of black-shafted arrows. Four barbarians were cut down. By the time Gelros had emptied his quiver, there were no more men to be seen in the glade. All the survivors had fled.
Like a silent sentinel, the master of concealment had remained unnoticed for several days in the heart of the barbarian camp, waiting for the moment to murder the enemy’s commander. Knowing that the end was near, he had sprung into action when he heard Curwë’s calls for help.
Gelros rushed towards the corpse of his companion, which was still burning, face-down. Already anticipating the horror that he was about to witness, he overturned the body. To his astonishment, Curwë’s face was unscathed, as was the rest of his body. The bard still held his new sword in both hands, like a priest in solemn prayer to the gods. The fire that had fully consumed his cloak had not burned him at all. Gelros felt Curwë’s heart beating and realised that his companion was still alive, albeit shocked and terribly wounded.
Birds of prey circled above the surrounding trees. Fighters from the clan Avrony marched past the two Elves in the glade. The Llewenti seemed to be regrouping in small units. Llymar’s horns blasted out a poignant call. There was some sad event to which all Llewenti were rushing, eager to perform their duty. No Elf stopped as they passed through the glade, ignoring Gelros, who remained alone in his attempts to save Curwë.
Gelros set about carrying his wounded companion back to Mentollà, when the most unlikely newcomer suddenly stepped out from the trees. Such was his surprise that he remained stock still.
It was Nelwiri. Half-naked and soaking wet, the Irawenti sailor was armed with a barbarian axe and a small wooden shield, bearing the arms of the green peacock. Seeing Gelros struggling, Nelwiri threw down his equipment and immediately came to his aid.
“Oh, Gelros! You will never imagine what has happened to me. You will never...” he started, as he helped to move Curwë into the cloak they would use as a makeshift stretch.
“I know,” Gelros replied sharply. It was clear he would not hear a word of Nelwiri’s tale.
**
14th day, Mentollà
The following day, the war ships from Penlla sailed into the creek of Mentollà at dawn. News of the victory had been sent, and the fleet had rallied the rest of the army to bring them support and food supplies. The sailors disembarked from their swanships as the keel brushed against the creek’s shore. They progressed through the churning foam, bows at the ready.
The captain of the fleet, Leyen dyl Llyvary, was enthusiastically carrying out his duties, and even a certain air of self-satisfaction. Determined to prevent the barbarian raiders from returning to Mentollà, the warlord of Penlla oversaw violent, punitive work on the creek’s shores. His sailors were obliterating the entire barbarian settlement, killing the helpless and the wounded, finishing off all those who could not flee. As the battle continued deep into the Sognen Tausy woods, the Penlla units culled those that tried to flee with volleys of arrows and shots of bolts. Any barbarian who had survived the clan Avrony’s charge the day before now had to battle the grim-faced sailors in their scattered ranks, with their short swords lowered. The onslaught continued and, as the defeated men fled, their settlement was razed to the ground.
In complete disorder, the battalions of men retreated to the north and to the west, towards what they thought was their escape route: the path of the Hadon. They were unaware of the threatening presence of Mynar dyl and his army. This mass of men, still several thousand strong, much bigger in size than its aggressors, had only one thing in mind: to return to Kaar Corkel and to the protection of its high walls. The human army had failed, they had been defeated, and, in the absence of its tyrannous chief, its very unity was at stake, for each tribe now cared only for its own survival. The initial doubt that had filled their minds after multiple failed assaults on Mentollà had now become fear, and this fear was close to panic. Escape was now their only objective. But the fatal trap was set. Victory belonged to the Elves.
*
Meanwhile, within the fortress compound, a very different spectacle was underway. The courtyard of Mentollà had become a camp for the wounded and the mutilated, the ill-fated. Many Elves had died during the battle for the control of the fortress, but many more were still grievously wounded. Irawenti of the Filweni, Hawenti of the Unicorn Guard and Llewenti of Llymar clans had all found refuge within the compound, seeking assistance and care from priests and healers. Neither discussion between leaders nor diplomacy between envoys had been necessary to organise this spontaneous act of solidarity. After their collective trauma, all the Elves felt deeply wounded, in their flesh and in their souls, and it was natural for them to help each other and share whatever they had left.
Arwela was in the midst of the dreadful scene, incessantly coming and going, bringing assistance and providing comfort. Her eyes were streaming, the tears rolling down her cheeks. Her body was shaking, unable to contain her pain. She was not ashamed, for the Irawenti did not hide their emotions but she was on the brink of exhaustion after several days without rest. Nevertheless, her frail silhouette cont
inued to roam the courtyard, running from one building to the next. Hundreds of Elves suffered around her. She tended to all, regardless of their origin or allegiance.
As she headed towards the keep’s steps, her attention was caught by a peculiar character. That Elf was of Llewenti origin, and from the cut of his light armour and his fine cloth, she knew immediately that he was of noble blood. Walking with the assistance of a crutch, he progressed slowly, like a spectre among the living. His gaze was frightening and incommensurably pained. Ignoring her suspicions, the seer of the Filweni approached him and addressed him with benignity.
“What is your name, noble Elf? How can I help you?”
The Llewenti looked at her strangely but was unable to reply. Arwela could see that his grievance was not caused by his wounds. This Elf had been struck by an awful loss.
“Come with me. You need immediate assistance. I will take you to my brother... he will know what to do,” she decided.
“This loss will have consequences, unimaginable consequences...” the Elf muttered, and Arwela could see his grief was making him mad, penetrating his mind like poison flooding through his veins.
Their tentative conversation was interrupted by a group of fighters surrounding a stretcher. They had just entered the courtyard and looked around at the desolation that they found with sadness. They carried Gal dyl Avrony back from the battlefield. The Protector of the Forest’s legs had been wounded during a particularly bloody assault upon fleeing barbarians. Many of the Llewenti who were still able to walk gathered around their leader as he was brought into the halls of the keep. All wanted to pay homage to his bravery and honour him for their historic victory.
But there were also voices of discord because, in truth, Gal dyl had only escaped death at the cost of many other Elvin lives. Isolated deep within the enemy ranks, his rage had led many of his fighters to a frightful end. Gal dyl had behaved bravely, his legendary spear had caused terror among his opponents, but when his arm had become weak and his breath short, he had found himself in great danger, besieged by many barbarians, eager for revenge. The heroic intervention of his guards had saved him. More than one had fallen to save his life.
Entering the halls, Arwela asked a wounded archer where she might find Feïwal. But the clan Llyvary fighter did not completely understand her question and instead addressed the wounded Elf that she was supporting.
“Even you, the Lonely Seeker, fell in battle. I was there. I was one of those who pulled you from the conflict. We saved you from the clutches of the barbarians...”
But Dyoren could not even find the strength to thank the brave Elf. The Lonely Seeker had failed to keep his oath. He had lost his legendary blade during the fight; it had been taken by the enemy. For him, no Elvin victory could compensate for that loss.
Arwela, still holding Dyoren’s arm, continued to climb the tower’s steps until she reached the room that had been dedicated to the most seriously wounded. They were told that Feïwal was at the bedside of one of his companions, who had been miraculously saved from fire.
A beautiful Irawenti lady, named Fendrya, showed them to Feïwal. The guide of the clan Filweni was tending the wounds of his friend, Curwë, worry set into his face.
Dyoren froze in front of the wounded Elf who rested on a makeshift bed. The Lonely Seeker’s gaze turned from the sword that Curwë still held to his exceptionally glowing eyes. Dyoren muttered to himself several times, as if experiencing a revelation.
“You have green eyes.”
Curwë, who was struggling between life and death, could not find the strength to reply, but he did notice that the noble Llewenti fighter was crying. With a simple look, he indicated that Dyoren could come closer.
To the surprise of the two Filweni, the Lonely Seeker took in his hand the fabled sword and caressed its shining blade. His lips trembled into a smile of relief and new-found faith.
“It is like in the manuscript given to me by Vyrka,” Curwë muttered, finding new strength. “One of the Nargrond blades...” He pointed with his finger towards the end of the bed. The effort was too great, and the bard fainted.
Dyoren looked to where an old book was lying open. It included a collection of poems. The poetry celebrated the ancient deeds of the Elves from Nargrond valley. The book’s binding was threadbare, but its illustrious cover indicated its value and origins.
Looking at Curwë, who now lay still, Dyoren expressed his immense gratitude, his voice trembling with emotion.
“You have brought Rymsing back to me.
May you be blessed and protected by the deities of the Islands, for it is a blade of great worth, so named because it was made of the iron that fell with the Star.
There are very few swords on the archipelago like it. It is the most precious relic that we possess.”
**
EPILOGUE
2709, Season of Eïwele Llyi, 35th day, two leagues west of the Pass of the Hadon
“It is time, my Lord. The banners of the House of Dol Etrond have been spotted south of the Hadon. Lord Curubor and his knights are approaching,” Aplor advised.
“We certainly cannot let Lord Curubor wait. He deserves better,” Camatael replied in typically laconic fashion.
The young lord of the House of Dol Lewin remained very still and calm, breathing in deeply the fresh air coming from the mountains. Their snowy peaks were melting away in the morning mist. He was enjoying this moment. The landscape that surrounded him was magnificent. He was standing at the centre of the remains of what had once been a temple to Eïwal Lon. Located on the top of a steep hill, these ruins dedicated to the deity of knowledge and wisdom looked out over a vast, arid region west of the Arob Tiude. The place was peaceful and had a meditative effect.
Around Camatael, three units of Elvin fighters, their purple shields emblazoned with racing unicorns had gathered to pray and make offerings. All came from Llymvranone, and all had demonstrated extraordinary devotion during the celebration that had been overseen by the Dol Lewin lord.
“Eïwal Lon is proud of us, Aplor. We have done well,” Camatael acknowledged simply.
“My Lord, all credit goes to you. You proved your worth at the battle of Kaar Corkel. Your triumph was complete; the capture of that port will be remembered. There are many who owe a lot to you; the Druids’ circles and even the people they will rule. You have freed them from the grip of the Cult of the Three Dragons. You gave them their freedom, along with a chance to build a peaceful future for the province of Kaar Corkel,” Aplor lauded.
Content, Camatael concluded, “And that they will build. We have renounced the favour of King Norelin and chosen the path of exile. But this sacrifice is small compared to the glory of following Eïwal Lon’s teachings.”
Turning to his followers, Camatael examined them with pride and fondness. For the first time in his life, his personal guards were serving him freely, with infallible devotion and loyalty because of who he was and what he had achieved. Only very few royal soldiers volunteered to follow him once they understood he had led them into battle without King Norelin’s leave. But those Elves around him had a pure heart, and this was a comforting thought. They had willingly chosen to embrace the teachings of Eïwal Lon and abandon their past existence without fear.
Camatael took the gold coin from his pocket. He looked at its engraving one last time: a white war unicorn, the unicorn from Essawylor. For a moment he rubbed it between his fingers, weighing it in his hand, feeling its edges and appreciating its softness. Eventually, he threw it down onto the surface of the ancient temple’s altar, like dice in a childish game. Satisfied, Camatael turned towards his troops.
“Follow me, servants of Eïwal Lon! Unfurl the banner of the House of Dol Lewin! The White Unicorn rides east. It rides towards the dawn.”
ANNEXES
The Llewenti
One of the seven nations of ‘free’ Elves, they are called ‘Llewenti’ in their language, ‘Llew’ meaning ‘Green’ and ‘Wenti’ meaning ‘Elves�
��. They were so named, because their first Patriarch’s attire was green. They are counted among the nations of Elves who refused the gift of immortality offered by the Gods. Llewenti enjoy much longer life than Men, living for five to six centuries depending on their bloodline. Their race is similar in appearance to humans, but they are fairer and wiser, with greater spiritual powers, keener senses, and a deeper empathy with nature. They are for the most part a simple, peaceful, and reclusive people, famous for their singing skills. With sharper senses, they are highly skilled at crafts especially when using natural resources. The Green Elves are wise in the ways of the forest and the natural world.
The Irawenti
One of the seven nations of the ‘free’ Elves, they are called ‘Irawenti’ in the language of the Llewenti, ‘Ira’ meaning ‘Blue’ and ‘Wenti’ meaning ‘Elves’. They were so named, because their first Guide’s eyes had the colour of the tropical seas and azure reflections emanated from his black hair. They are counted among the nations of Elves who refused the gift of immortality offered by the Gods. Irawenti enjoy much longer life than men, living for four to five centuries depending on their bloodline. Their race is similar in appearance to the Green Elves but darker and wilder, with greater physical powers and a closer empathy with water. They are for the most part a free, joyful and adventurous people, famous for their navigation skills.
Having sharper connection with rivers and oceans, they are at their strongest and most knowledgeable when aboard their ships. The Blue Elves are wise in the ways of the sea.
The Hawenti
The High Elves are called ‘Hawenti’ in the language of the Llewenti, as opposed to the ‘Wenti’ who identify as ‘free’ Elves. The Hawenti accepted the gift of immortality offered by the Gods. They are immortal in the sense that they are not vulnerable to disease or the effects of old age although they can be killed in battle. They are divided into two main nations: The Gold Elves (the most prominent) and the Silver Elves. The Hawenti have a greater depth of knowledge than other Elvin nations, due to their natural inclination for learning as well as their extreme age. Their power and wisdom know no comparison and within their eyes the fire of eternity can be seen. This kindred of the Elves were ever distinguished both by their knowledge of things and by their desire to know more.
