by C A Oliver
“Hear me, Elves of Mentolewin! My talent as a musician surpasses that of any other artist who has trampled the soil of the Lost Islands!”
Screaming towards heaven, he went as far as to call upon Eïwele Llyi herself.
“O Lady of beauty, I pray for your apparition. I feel more inspired than ever before, and I wish to pay homage to your benevolent presence.”
But another Elf was angry to hear that pretentious bard of chaos command the Deity of Arts. He descended through the amphitheatre, breaking the crowd’s ranks.
Until then he had remained unobserved, so he fought his way down the amphitheatre steps through the assembled pilgrims and priests. He reached the stage with difficulty, for in the confusion no one moved out his way to create a path. His face was not hidden by any mask, nor did he wear the white garments of Eïwele Llyi’s followers. The bare sword on his back left no doubt as to his identity.
His name was Dyoren. All in the assembly knew him from the many music festivals he had participated in. All acknowledged his reputation as the greatest living bard in the Lost Islands. He carried in his hand a small harp, which seemed to be made of a tortoise shell, inside which strings had been stretched. It was a sophisticated music instrument with a delicate and soft design.
Without pausing, Dyoren crossed the esplanade, coming to stand before the masked bard of chaos, the hero of the crowd. He brandished his stringed instrument forward.
“I will put you in your rightful place!” Dyoren defied the bard of chaos in his turn.
The pilgrims hushed for the newcomer, knowing they would soon hear his music. This celebration of Eïwele Llyi was turning into an unexpected battle between two great artists. From the very first notes, true and clear, Dyoren’s music proved to be the opposite of what the audience had just heard. His harp sent forth a harmonious succession of beautiful melodies. The listeners immediately understood that his marvellous instrument allowed him to perform harmonic structures from chord grids with a highly sophisticated technique.
With his quasi-divine music, in which righteous sounds blended with luminous lyrics, Dyoren brought gentleness, peace and serenity to all those who listened. His melodies and chanting fascinated the pilgrims. He delighted their minds by letting them glimpse the endless possibilities born of their musical heritage.
What Dyoren proposed was a penetrating and extremely personal interpretation of the spirit of Llewenti music. It drew its inspiration from the full diversity of the different clans’ heritages. Dyoren succeeded in inventing a technically complex tempo, which endowed his music with an extreme sophistication. His harp let the listener believe it was capable of an infinite variety of harmonies and balanced chords. His musical style consisted of excellence through simplicity. All his artistic power was focused towards this aesthetic and technical goal.The harmony of his music seemed to respond to the calm and serene faces of the many statues that adorned the amphitheatre of Mentolewin. The gestures of his fingers on the strings of the harp were incomparable, both elegant and simple but also inspired and powerful. The flow of his music reflected an innate greatness.
When Dyoren finished, there were no wild cries, nor any savage dancing. The unanimous audience simply stood and applauded for several minutes. There was not one voice in the amphitheatre that did not salute his harmonious performance.
However, the masked bard of chaos remained seated, motionless. He murmured something to the lady that was by his side. She handed him a blanket which seemed to hold a heavy object over four feet long. The bard of chaos began to remove his white toga, revealing his fine tunic of dark and grey beneath. He kept the mask on his face.
Dyoren had not missed any of these movements. Indifferent to the applause of the crowd, his gaze was fixed upon the bard of chaos. When the Lonely Seeker saw him leaving the amphitheatre prematurely, he was on the move. Ignoring the supplications and congratulations of the Elves who surrounded him, Dyoren moved through the crowd with authority, pushing aside admirers and pilgrims without a second thought.
“Let me pass!” he repeated harshly several times.
Soon, he had left the amphitheatre and entered a long hallway. The bard of chaos was in sight, moving quickly, though not quite fleeing.
Walking at a good pace, the two Elves passed through a collection of old galleries, ruined gatehouses and obscured passageways. The ruins of Mentolewin were vast. A constant distance of a dozen yards was maintained between them. As the two Elves walked away from the shore, they came across fewer and fewer pilgrims. Before long, they were alone.
At last, the bard of chaos entered a ruined temple. Ravens soared from the edifice into the sky. This ancient shrine had been plundered by armed bands of barbarians and had lost its original splendour. It had been left since then in a state of abandon. That round structure was eroded and falling away in places. The once holy edifice, built upon a rocky outcrop of the Cun Kangna, looked out over the Mentolewin gardens.
Dyoren followed the bard of chaos inside. As he crossed the threshold, he noticed a large iron structure covered in pentacles, which lay broken at the foot of the large opening. The round stone walls were broken by windows shaped like orchids. The roof of the ruined temple resembled an open, jagged mouth. Only one arch remained intact. Its stones were carved with lava markings. The north-facing edifice was shaded, protected from the sun. The two Elves faced each other. Ten yards separated them. Dyoren’ voice was deep as he started.
“What type of necromancy made that possible? You can take off your mask, bard of the curse. I know who you are. There is only one artist in the whole Islands’ history who has ever been capable of such music, and he never passed on his heritage. Isn’t that right, Saeröl?”
The bard of chaos did comply, and his face remained hidden under the white mask. He responded in a cold, haughty voice.
“It is a surprise to see you here, Dyoren the Seventh. It is a dangerous thing to walk in the steps of your predecessor. I believe I was the last to see that reckless Dyoren the Sixth alive.”
“How dare you?” challenged Dyoren.
But Saeröl interrupted him, “The scrolls of the Seekers seem to lack some rather important knowledge about my sword. Moramsing wields… considerable power. Rowë Dol Nargrond forged it, and my father Elriöl enchanted its blade with the power of the Amethyst, that dark Flow which Gweïwal Agadeon controls. Moramsing is a keeper of souls and a trusted companion. You should know better, Dyoren the Seventh…”
“For all those years, as the history of Elves has unfolded across the Islands, you had utterly disappeared, remembered only as a regicidal criminal sentenced to death for his wrongs. How have you remained hidden? What dark magic does Moramsing hold?” asked Dyoren.
“For a long time, my soul remained with Moramsing as its only companion… But, slowly, life flourished within me once more, and I gradually awoke, surreptitiously sapping power from the Flow of the Amethyst through its numerous wells. When I was ready, my corpse was given back to me, and I walked again upon the land, though my cheek remained degraded by that infamous mark, as if my soul itself had been soiled by the king of Gwarystan.”
“You walked again the paths of the Islands, but death was your only purpose. I imagine it was you who has been relentlessly, almost indiscriminately slaying all those who to some degree had taken part in the fall of the guild of Sana.”
“This is true, Dyoren. Forgiveness does not come easily to me. The might of Moramsing and my thirst for vengeance drove many of my enemies to their funeral pyres,” admitted Saeröl.
“I sincerely pity you. After all, your fate has been worse than mine, though surely as lonely,” Dyoren confided. “The completion of my quest has always guided my actions. It has given my life a purpose. My goal will always remain within reach, no matter the difficulties. Success depends upon me alone, upon the hope I keep in my heart, upon my own abilities. My courage is the only thing I question.”
Saeröl laughed aloud. “The Seventh Seeker seems as naïve as
his predecessors… You are doomed to spend your life chasing an illusion created by your mind. When you dream of glory, it’s because you feel undervalued. When you hope for gratitude, it betrays your guilt. Whatever you wish to accomplish, Dyoren, you are the living proof that hope is a lie. It is evil, for it creates need and loss. Worse, it arouses lust. You will soon see the signs of new and serious disillusions,” he promised.
But Saeröl was not finished. For once, he had an opportunity to dump his anger on an opponent worthy of him.
“We all seek to pursue our dreams, Dyoren. We all seek to find harmony, forget about guilt and be released from our duties. But these noble goals are unreachable. You are the Seeker, but what should we seek? Power, gold, love, pleasure? I wonder. All these temptations were created by the Gods to divide us, to play us off against one another. And even if we succeed for a time to form ideals, they will never be fully realised, for our deepest aspirations will always interfere with the state of the present world as it evolves. Yearning for peace is a losing battle, for it will always be temporary. It is an inaccessible gift in and of itself. One is much better off focussing on drinking the best of the Nargrond Valley’s wines.”
Dyoren was unimpressed by this sarcasm.
“You have possessed the sword of Amethyst for too long, Saeröl. It is written in the scrolls of the Dyoreni that the wielder of Moramsing will know neither peace nor harmony, still less happiness, beset as he shall always be by the pernicious influence of his dark blade. That is your curse, is it not? To fight, day after day, against the despair that Moramsing instils in your heart, to renounce the infinite facets of desire that pervade your twisted mind. Am I not right?” asked Dyoren.
Saeröl remained silent so the Lonely Seeker carried on with his reasoning.
“I have chosen a different path, though recently it risked becoming as harsh as the one you were forced to take. I no longer expect the world to adapt to my expectations. Instead, I have changed my view on others: on every other being. I chose loneliness and I chose to love the life I have been offered, despite its upheavals.”
Saeröl smiled at this.
“I am glad we have met after all, Dyoren the Seventh. You appear to be worthier of my esteem than that other Seeker I regretfully had to slay…”
Saeröl voluntarily insisted on that last word before unexpectedly changing his tone.
“Are we not the two most fabled artists of these times? Our performances today proved it again, if such a test was necessary. It is a comforting thought indeed that a privileged audience has borne witness to our battle in music. Unfortunately, however, your teachings reach their limit when applied to my own destiny. Perhaps, as you suggest, I have walked with Moramsing for too long. Nevertheless, I will never believe that one who became an orphan at a young age, who was raised without the example of his father, who inherited the responsibility to lead his people in a dreadful war against the Dark Elves, who witnessed the genocide of the very household he was meant to protect with his own eyes, I cannot believe that this character could possibly ‘love the life he was offered despite the upheavals,’ as you so elegantly put it. I prefer to leave you to your blindness. If the Gods had wished to grant us peace of mind, Elves would not have been given brains.”
Dyoren nodded, almost defeated, but in a final effort he tried to avoid the inevitable duel which he could now feel looming.
“Saeröl, I know your life has been an unceasing river of despair. I am giving you a chance, one final opportunity to surrender your sword. Let me return it to the Secret Vale where it belongs. Choose to kneel and give away the pain that Moramsing has imposed upon you for so long. Abandon your folly and try to redeem your soul before it is taken to the Halls of Gweïwal Agadeon. I am begging you.”
Saeröl said nothing. In response, he took a few steps back and unfurled the blade of Moramsing from the blanket that hid it. Saeröl seized the dark weapon, four feet long, at the hilt with both hands. He delicately kissed its amethyst-encrusted pommel as though it were the gentle skin of a lover. The enchanted bastard sword would gleam like an agent of pure chaos when Saeröl wielded it, thrusting and cutting through the air. Finally, he rested the long blade nonchalantly on his shoulder, like a weary worker might do with a heavy tool. He raised his left hand towards his opponent and started to sing verses, his voice guttural.
A dozen yards across the esplanade, Dyoren grasped his broad sword with his right hand. The shining blade of his glaive was much shorter, barely thirty inches long, but it looked quicker and sharper. Rymsing was double-edged for cutting and had a tapered point for stabbing and thrusting. A solid grip was provided by its knobbed hilt, which was decorated with a green rune and many precious emeralds.
The Lonely Seeker knew how to use his legendary glaive for cutting or slashing; his deeds had been told of many a time in accounts of the Centenary of War, when barbarian warriors had looked on in horror at the dismembered bodies of their comrades strewn across the battlefield. Dyoren began a sidestepping movement, his left hand raised, as though it possessed the power to oppose Saeröl’s sorcery. Neither of the duellists was protected by any armour. The first hit would prove deadly. Dyoren’s voice rose, high and clear.
The two Elves circled round each other, their backs against the walls, keeping the same distance between them. Dyoren’s azure gaze was fixed on his opponent’s dark eyes, which were challenging him, threatening him. Flowing through these two Elves was a battle between two formidable powers: the verdant forces of the Emerald against the purple Amethyst. Behind them, the energy of the Islands’ Flow unleashed its power.
Leaves were flying, blown all over in a nameless wind, wild vines were uprooted by an invisible hand, and the stones of the building were shaken, some falling to the ground. The ruined walls of the edifice shook violently in the power struggle; the temple threatened to collapse.
Suddenly, Dyoren rushed forward, his glaive raised high. Saeröl immediately charged, unleashing his bastard sword. Rymsing met Moramsing. The two blades collided but were then deflected from their course. Both pierced through flesh. Saeröl screamed, bringing hand to hip.
Dyoren made a few steps back and fell on the ground, his right leg severely wounded. He was bleeding profusely.He could not stand up, despite his desperate efforts.
Limping badly, Saeröl approached the Lonely Seeker. With a swipe of his sword, he eliminated the threat of Rymsing, which was thrown against the wall out of Dyoren’s reach.
“How did you find me, Lonely Seeker?” Saeröl asked with a threatening tone. “There must be a reason for your presence in Mentolewin. Tell me who betrayed me! Tell me now or die!”
Dyoren did not utter a word, his eyes expressionless. Defeated, without any hope left, he seemed to accept his fate, ready to die with honour.
“Give me that name, fool! Or I will feed you to my sword. Do you want your soul to be confined to the metallic hilt of my blade for eternity? You know what I am talking about… Don’t you?” Saeröl shouted, losing all control.
The sharp blade of Moramsing slowly sliced Dyoren’s tendons above his two ankles. The Lonely Seeker cried out, overwhelmed by pain. Terror was stretched across his face, as though the voice of the Morawenti bard had opened the gates to Gweïwal Agadeon’s Halls before him.
“Give me that name! I ask you again,” yelled Saeröl, like one possessed by the fury of a demon.
Dyoren closed his eyes, waiting for the deadly blow that would end his life.
“Lord Dol Lewin,” he whispered with a last breath.
There was a long silence. At last, Saeröl left the ruined temple with a heavy limp, leaving his opponent helpless, bathing in his blood.
*
2712, Season of Eïwele Llyo, 6th day, Nyn Ernaly, Mentolewin
Aewöl had been climbing a long, rocky plateau ever since dawn, amid wild vegetation and thick bushes. The forest comprised of deciduous trees that shed their leaves during Autumn, and thorny woods with strange tentacle plants, adapted to the d
ry conditions of Nyn Ernaly hot summers. Aewöl had progressed with difficulty up a steep and treacherous footpath before eventually reaching the edge of a rocky plateau overlooking the strait of Oymal cliffs.
From this high viewpoint, he spotted the ruined fortifications, winding alleyways, the remains of barracks, and an upper fortress with the remnants of a keep perched at the edge of a rocky plateau. In the light of midday, the waters of the forest’s streams comingled in a great waterfall, emptying themselves into the sea over a rocky shelf.
“This scenery is breath-taking,” Aewöl reckoned.
In front of him stood the ruins of Mentolewin, the ancient home of House Dol Lewin, and the great fortress of the West where the flag of the White Unicorn had flown in the wind for so long.
Aewöl came out of the woods and entered Mentolewin's garden. The ancient yard, of magnificent design, had been based on eight grass triangles. In its centre stood an ornamental fountain representing Gweïwal Uleydon, God of all Waters. The majestic bronze statue had been defiled by human invaders, its arms and head cut off.
However, to restore beauty to this marvellous place, the white pilgrims, after their arrival, had planted flowers to honour Eïwele Llyi; bulbs, violas and daisies were scattered across the gardens’ alleys, while a bed of petunias and dahlias complemented the decoration. Further away, towards the fortress, the garden featured an avenue of orange trees, climbing rose trees and more flowers bordering the edge of the moat.
