by C A Oliver
“Egalmöl was your grandfather. Your mother was his only daughter, though this was known only to the Morawenti community. For reasons unknown, he did not follow his elder brother, Elriöl, the master of the guild of Sana, across the ocean. But what I do know is that you are Aewöl Dir Sana, son of Espa, grandson of Egalmöl and direct descendant of Princess Sana,” pronounced Gelros. “That is why you are my master.”
Aewöl remained silent for a while, lost in his own thoughts, as though he were gazing, for the first time, into the deep void of his soul.
Gelros decided not to disturb him. The scout watched the sky with attention, preoccupied by the hawk which still drew circles above them. The two outcasts sat under the cover of the thorny bush, while the light of the sun faded slowly behind dark clouds. There were only a few hours of daylight left.
Meanwhile, in the cool dimness of the late afternoon, the one-eyed Elf sat absorbed, still enthralled by this tale of ancient Night Elves: of Princes Sana, her two sons Elrïol, the master of the guild of Sana in the Lost Islands, and Egalmöl, the founder of the Crystal College in Essawylor. And Egalmöl had been his grandfather, whose only daughter was Espa, the mother he had disliked so much, if not abhorred.
“And only you know of this?” Aewöl asked abruptly.
Gelros took some time to answer, pondering long before sharing his thoughts.
“I have never discussed your origins with anyone, nor has anyone ever questioned me about it.”
“But…”
“But I believe that Lord Roquen knows. All his family knew, when they were alive,” Gelros admitted.
“That would make sense,” agreed Aewöl. “The Dol Lewin family agreed to welcome my mother and myself. Despite her undeniable ability to manipulate, even Espa would have had difficulty hiding her parentage from the third most powerful house of Essawylor. They must have known that she was the secret daughter of the mage Egalmöl.”
Eager to reassure his master, Gelros added.
“Lord Roquen has never talked. I trust him. He can be as silent as a Night Elf when he wants.”
“What makes you think so? No one is to be trusted,” replied Aewöl bitterly.
“The secret of your bloodline has been kept strictly confidential, I am sure,” Gelros said. “Not so long ago, on one of his numerous visits to Mentollà, Lord Curubor made many enquiries about our community’s past, and the latest events that had occurred in Essawylor. I remember that he spoke for a long time with Lord Roquen about the northern province, Ystanlewin, and the Dol Lewin family. More generally, the Blue Mage asked many questions about the origins of the High Elves who had come to the Lost Islands; the Unicorn Guards, Curwë and also… the two of us.”
Aewöl remembered. “I attended that meeting. Roquendagor proved very evasive and did not give anything away, unreadable as a stone. But you are right to mention that encounter, for Curubor did ask me about your Morawenti roots. The Blue Mage knew that our community considered you part of the Night Elves, and that you were my devoted servant. I can still picture that scene when I answered him. Lord Curubor’s inquisitive look kept leaping from me to Roquendagor, as if he wanted to check the truth of my words in our lord’s eyes.”
The One-eyed Elf could see the scene unfolding before him. But Gelros had stopped listening to his master. His attention was distracted by the hawk’s flight, which seemed to be coming closer and closer to their hideout amid the boulders on the hill.
“Come closer, evil bird of prey!” the scout whispered. “Let me show you what a true hunter is.”
Aewöl looked up in the sky. In a flash, Gelros notched an arrow and flexed his Cruel Bow. His arrow flew, whistling through the wind.
“You pierced one of its wings!” Aewöl cried.
But the damage was limited. The bird of prey had barely lost a few feathers. Immediately, it dove at full speed, seeking shelter behind the hills to the east.
“That evil beast must have returned to its master. He must be just behind us, probably on the other side of the hill. We must run… we have already waited too long.”
Gelros covered his head with his hood and leapt out of their hideout. He rushed down the hill as if he were fleeing a demon. Aewöl seized the supply bag Duluin had given them and ran after his companion.
The two outcasts set out on the most dangerous stage of their journey yet. Abandoning all caution, first they tore down the hill, completely exposed. They ran around rocks and boulders towards what they thought were an ancient path, curving west towards Mentolewin Forest, which now only lay a couple of miles away. It was not a wide trail, and thorns and ferns spilled out from either side. The two Elves could still not hear any indication that they were being chased, and after listening carefully for a while, they set off westward at a quick, though more measured, pace.
After a couple of miles, they halted. A short way in front of them, the track bent a little southward, and beyond that the path became lost as it met the edge of Mentolewin Forest. At last, they could catch their breath and rest a little. In the stillness of dusk, they could hear the many noises of the woods, sounds they had been secretly hoping for all this time. They had only taken a few steps when Gelros realized that it would be difficult to make their way into this northern stretch of Mentolewin Forest, for there were no paths in sight. In the end, they were forced to walk along its edge, looking for a way in. After half a mile, they saw a glade, hidden deep within the woods. A dozen blue jays were circling in the air. These birds were most active at nightfall and were found in mixed forests dominated by poplar and birch trees. They usually liked to nest near clearings or logging areas.
“We might find a way there. Birch trees often line paths that break into the forest,” Gelros declared as he picked a fresh walnut from a branch. “Eat it, for it brings joy to the spirit. It is also a good antidote for many types of poison.”
Gelros also discovered a colourful plant with purple and azure leaves.
“This is purslane. We can use this plant for ointments. It will be good for your wounds.”
Finding no sign of any other movements, the two outcasts crept into the woods cautiously, avoiding as best they could the thorns that seemed to reach out from all angles. They had hardly gone two hundred yards when they heard the voice of a Man, harsh and loud. The two Elves quickly reached for their bow and crossbow. They hid behind a large, strong oak tree. The voice drew near.
A Man with a grey beard came into view. He was clad in brown and green robes and used a stick to walk. His appearance was unkempt and filthy. Aewöl guessed that he was of barbarian breed given his large size, dark hair and tanned skin. His big nose and wide, sniffing nostrils made him look like a bear. He carried a short lance at his back. It appeared he was a hunter of some kind. The barbarian tracker stopped ten paces from the two Elves. To their utter amazement, he used a form of Llewenti language when he called out.
“Leave, trespassers! Sacred is this grove! This is the territory of the bear wild, of the wolf ferocious!”
Aewöl was unwilling to wait and learn more about this new threat. Reaching to his belt for a bolt, he immediately cried a powerful incantation.
“Yego co Narkon!”
The missile’s tip turned red, like molten iron from a forge’s fire. The smell of steel and metallic dust filled the air. But before Aewöl could lift his crossbow and impale the tracker, Gelros shoved him to one side, nearly knocking him down. The bearded Man took advantage of this unexpected diversion to flee. He leapt from a boulder and scrambled up a hill. The barbarian disappeared into the woods as mysteriously as he had come.
“What have you done? Have you lost your mind? I could have dispatched the savage with a single bolt! That wild Man will now raise the alarm,” shouted Aewöl, furious.
Gelros was distraught. “I apologize, master.”
Aewöl could not control his wrath. Now moving into the open, towards the centre of the glade where the barbarian tracker had stood, the one-eyed Elf continued admonishing his com
panion.
“You made a mistake, Gelros. We will soon have dozens of barbarians hunting us down. Don’t you think we have enough challenges already?”
The scout tried to explain his reaction.
“I apologize, master, but that wild Man was a druid, one of the Mother of the Islands’ servants. He’s a holy figure in these woods. The Green Elves always showed great respect to the human Druids. They saw them as priests of Eïwele Llya.”
“And so, what? Does that make him any less dangerous to us? Why should I care?”
“Master, the druids control unnatural forces within the forest. Attacking one of them could put us in serious danger. Woe to us if we persecute them!”
“I just see this latest encounter as an illustration of the misery to which we are condemned…”
But Aewöl was interrupted. Out of the cloudy sky, a winged shape tore down like a thunderbolt, sundering the air with a ferocious shriek. The bird of prey burst through the dark foliage and attacked Aewöl, its sharp talons drawn.
Gelros leapt at his master, knocking him to the ground. The scout protected his master from the ferocious bird but received a devastating wound himself. The hawk ripped Gelros’ ear from his head with its beak. A silver powder was suddenly all over him: his clothes, cloak and hair. Gelros screamed in pain as the bird of prey spread its wings. But the scout reacted before it could take flight. With a quick strike of his dark blade, he cut through one of its wings.
A bloody melee ensued between the Elf and the hawk. Struggling, yelling, striking, cutting, Gelros could not overpower his aggressor. Aewöl, as soon as he could get a clear shot, ended the combat by shooting a fiery bolt from his crossbow straight into the bird’s head. The hawk was killed instantly. It fell to the ground at Gelros’ feet.
The scout had barely survived the fight. His wounds were devastating: an injured leg, a nose broken, a severed ear and bloody scars that covered most of his face. Unable to stand any longer, Gelros collapsed at the foot of a large plane tree.
“What is that on your clothes? Some silvery powder… it covers your hair too!” warned Aewöl.
Gelros did not have enough strength to answer him. Aewöl turned to the bird of prey’s carcass, immediately recognizing it from its unusual size and the characteristic white feathers at the tips of its wings.
“This is Voryn dyl’s hawk,” Aewöl cried in disarray.
The sound of an arrow whistled in the wind. Dropping from the sky like hail, it hit Gelros straight in the shoulder, piercing through his light chain mail. Gelros screamed out in pain. The shaft of the war arrow was brushed with the same metallic powder that covered the scout’s clothes and hair.
“Gelros, remove your cloak! Discard your clothes, quickly!”
Translating words into action, Aewöl cast his companion’s dark mantle away from him. A second arrow came down from the sky, flying between the branches. It buried itself in Gelros’ abdomen, just as he was trying to remove his clothes. The scout cried out in pain again. Aewöl managed to get him out of his tunic, stained with the silver powder. But his hair remained covered in the magical dust.
A third arrow flew towards them. It seemed to weave around the natural obstacles of the forest, drawn as it was towards Gelros. It struck the scout in the top of his back, just shy of his neck, where his hair ended. Screams of pain sounded out through the forest. Aewöl saw no other option than to destroy the magical dust that was calling the deadly arrows. He quickly incanted some strange words.
“Narkon Forya hryd!”
A sudden fiery explosion blinded Gelros for a moment. The flash came into contact with the silver powder and negated its unnatural twinkling. A fourth war arrow pierced the canopy above but was deflected by one of the lower tree branches. Aewöl understood he had put an end to that dreadful spell. He bent down towards Gelros to examine his wounds. The scout was bleeding severely, his condition critical. Gelros could not resist yelling out in pain, such was his suffering.
“These arrows are poisoned... This is why you suffer so much…”Aewöl said.
“Flee, Master! Flee!” Gelros managed to shout through the agony.
“I cannot leave you here,” Aewöl refused.
“Flee! He is coming for you!” insisted Gelros, sinking slowly to the ground before rolling over and curling up such was the pain the poison caused.
Aewöl hesitated for a moment, seeing that Gelros was now shaking violently. He threw down his two scabbards and crossbow and ran away, towards the depths of the woods, without turning back. He was torn apart by Gelros’ cries. Aewöl was heading in the direction the barbarian druid had fled. He was going deeper into the forest, rushing through the branches. He came up to a small stream, barring his passage. He took a moment to stop and reflect, working out how to cross losing as little time as possible.
But finally, Aewöl waded through the small river on foot before rushing on. A trail of mud marked his path through the trees. After a few dozen yards, the ground rose sharply before it met large rocks blocking the way. Before him were innumerable dramatically scattered boulders, surrounded by steep slopes with colourful patches of heather. The tight passages between the large stones formed a maze. Aewöl stopped to catch his breath. He could still hear his companion’s cries of pain behind him in the woods.
“I cannot leave him behind! I just can’t!” Aewöl realized.
It was not yet quite dark. Aewöl fell to one knee. He drew from the inside pocket of his cloak a piece of coal. Murmuring words of sorcery, he pressed the dark carbon to his eye patch. A mist spread out from his face. Darkness grew around him, consuming the feeble light of the stars. Even with his night vision, he was barely able to see through the obscurity he had just created.
Aewöl set out on a long detour, hoping to find his way back to his fallen companion. The darkness emanating from his eye patch seemed to move with him. The one-eyed Elf now hastened towards Gelros’ continuing cries, which covered the rustle of his passage. Speed, not silence, was his priority. It was difficult and dangerous, moving through the darkness of those pathless woods but, as quickly as he could, Aewöl found his way to the northern edge of the trail they just walked to enter Mentolewin forest. He covered several hundred yards, making sure to avoid the clearing where his companion had been wounded. At last, Aewöl caught the first hint of a presence under the canopy of shadows.
“There he is! I will make that murderer pay for his felony,” he whispered, overwhelmed by a cold hatred.
Aewöl hid himself behind an overhanging stone. He sank to the ground beneath the wall of rocks and bowed his head. Gelros’ cries of distress were still filling the night with despair. Slowly, cautiously, he looked in the direction of the glade where Gelros lay dying. A strong breeze from the north was driving away the shadowy fumes the one-eyed Elf had conjured.A moment later, Aewöl identified the source of that unnatural gust. He made out the shape of an Elf a dozen yards before him. Wrapped in his cloak, a javelin in his hand, the hooded figure progressed carefully through the night mist, keeping low, like a hunter fearing a deadly trap.
It had been hard for Aewöl until this moment, exhausted as he was. But now, finally confronted with his enemy while his companion was dying a few yards away, his struggle became a torment, worse than a nightmare. Aewöl tried to stop his mind from racing. He could feel the sweat on his neck. He suddenly realized how thirsty he was and began to gasp for air. Aewöl bent his will to control his breathing.
‘I need to perform a single decisive rush. There is no hope of approaching this Elf unseen. If I…’ Aewöl did not dare consider further the consequence of a failure.
He drew his two daggers, their dark blades not even reflecting the light of the rising moon. Only a dozen steps separated him from his target. The distance was short but, at the same time, seemed impossibly far.
Swift as the wind, silent as a ghost, Aewöl rushed forward. He closed the gap in the blink of an eye.
Aewöl stabbed the Elf with his two short blades. Hi
t twice in his spine, the hooded Elf fell to his knees. With a quick thrust of his daggers, Aewöl slashed at the back of his victim’s feet, aiming for the junction of the tendon and heel muscle.
The Elf dropped his javelin and swayed helplessly, like a dislocated puppet. Aewöl removed the Elf’s hood to unmask his face. The mad eyes of Voryn dyl glittered with terror. Aewöl drew a small metallic flask from his cloak pocket.
“The… only… just… punishment… can… be… death!”
Aewöl mouthed each syllable slowly, deliberately drawing out this moment between them. These were the exact words Voryn dyl had uttered in front of the entire assembly in the great hall of sails. As he sentenced his enemy to death, the one-eyed Elf tipped his flask and let a tiny drop of its translucent pearly potion into the eyes of the treacherous archer.
Aewöl began pronouncing incantations. The evil poison seared in the dyl Ernaly’s eyes, before passing into his bloodstream. For as long as he could, Voryn dyl contained his groaning, thanks to his formidable courage. But when the excruciating pain triumphed over his resolution, he filled the forest of Mentolewin with appalling cries. The acidic poison devoured his face, and his cranial bones began to show through his skin. At the same time, a fire erupted in his internal organs, and a black sweat poured out from his whole body.
