Luthiel's Song: Dreams of the Ringed Vale

by Robert Marston Fannéy

  In desperation, she tore the Stone from its bag around her neck. It was the only thing she could think to do. She knew it was hopeless. She couldn’t sing. The breath was trapped within her. Nevertheless she swung the Stone around her and then held it high.

  Within the Stone, there was a small spark and in the dark among the shadows it made a light like a candle. Seeing this light, she struggled harder, making one final, desperate, attempt before she fell into darkness.

  Methar Anduel, that great Stone of old, held in it more magic than any of the other Wyrd Stones. It bore the songs of Valkire, and of Merrin his wife, and of the Vyrl he bent to his will and it had rested in the pommel of Valkire’s sword—Aeowinar. As any Wyrd Stone, it held within it some of the spirit of those who bore it. Those spirits slumbered, only to awake in times of great need.

  By Luthiel’s desperate act, the spirits within Methar Anduel—of Valkire, Vyrl, Merrin, and of Luthiel herself, awakened. And when the Stone touched a shadow it burst in a flash of white flame.

  Luthiel felt hope rise again within her and she swung the Stone around her, catching the Dimlock unaware. With three swings and with three brilliant flashes the stranglers crouched upon her chest were gone. She drew a long rattling breath and blinked her eyes to clear them of tears. Her chest burned, and even though the cold hands were no longer about her throat, she labored to breathe. But she didn’t let her guard down and as the spirits gathered to rush her, she brandished the light above her head. Looking at the light with their pinprick eyes, the shadows came to a stop just outside the ring of light. Beyond the light, their numbers grew and to Luthiel it seemed as if a vast black cloud full of cold white lights was gathering to smother her once more. In the few moments it took for the Dimlock to gather, her breaths came more easily. Then swinging Methar Anduel in a circle above her head, she sang out.

  Nani! Nani! Lumen eni Methar Anduel! Lumen eni Luthiel!

  Which in the elder tongue means, “Here! Here! Is the light of Methar Anduel! The light of Luthiel!” And upon singing the word Luthiel! the small light within the Stone grew into a radiance like a sunrise. Luthiel felt that lightening sensation that she associated with crossing over into the World of Dreams and the lines of the cave seemed to waver. But the shadows remained as they were. Except where the light touched them, they seemed to diminish. They fled from the light, seeking refuge among the shadows in the corners, deeper within the cave, or cast by the jagged walls. Those that didn’t find the shelter of shadow diminished into small points of black and then vanished.

  Now Luthiel stood alone beside the body of Othalas. She strode around him, driving off those Dimlock that were still cowering in the lee of his body. Bending over, she laid her free hand over his chest. When her fingers brushed his flesh she was suddenly overcome by a powerful sense of rage. She heard a ‘twang’ as though a string was snapping and the sleep spell that was laid upon him broke. The great werewolf sprang suddenly to his feet with a hoarse howl. She snatched her hand back and it came away tingling.

  Even though she stood beside him, his howl came to her as if from a great distance. The sound of her singing also came to her as though it was carried on the wind and not coming from her moving lips. There was a third sound as well. Though it was less distinct, after a few moments of listening, Luthiel was able to make out a sound like the tinkling of broken glass upon stone. As far as Luthiel could tell, that sound was coming from deep within the cave.

  “The storm still rages,” Othalas said.

  “I can keep this up for a little while yet,” she sang in reply.

  Though the shadows cowered at the edge of Methar Anduel’s light, they were gathering again, pressing in where they could, attempting to make their way along tiny paths of shadow cast by the large stones scattered throughout the cave. She strode to a tall rock beside them and the shadows cast by the stones diminished even more. Touched again by her light, the Dimlock fled to the deeper shadows. A few didn’t make it and diminished into nothing. She stood for a few moments longer thinking about what she was watching.

  “Does the cave grow larger as it goes deeper?” she asked.

  “No, it narrows steadily the further in you go.”

  “Stay with me,” she sang. Holding Methar Anduel high she advanced upon the Dimlock, driving them into the ever-narrowing space of the cave. Now and then, she’d trap one within the glow of her light and it would dwindle into nothing. Beside her, Othalas walked. His yellow eyes glowed like twin flames in the brilliance cast by her Stone taking in everything. Occasionally, he would point out the hiding place of a Dimlock and Luthiel would bath it with blinding radiance. They continued in this way for some time and as the cave grew narrower, and the hiding places fewer, the shadows dwindled.

  Finally, they came to a place where the cavern was no wider than about fifteen feet. It continued on in a narrow shaft for some hundred feet or more before disappearing into darkness. At the edge of the darkness, Luthiel could see a raised mound. As she approached, she noticed that the mound was made of expertly cut and polished stones. The stones were silvery but upon them were sigils and swirls of some strange black metal. At the place where the mound rose, the walls of the cavern bowed out forming a chamber. In the walls, Luthiel could see empty sconces set for flir bug bulbs or some other light.

  Luthiel and Othalas stopped before the mound. On top was a stone sarcophagus that was intricately carved in the form of a noble elf. A crown of flame burned at his brow and a light like a star was depicted to shine at his breast. He was arrayed all in leaf mail. At his feet there was a stone basin. Within the basin lay the crystalline shards of a shattered sword. Beneath the basin, inlays of black metal formed a jagged script set within the stone.

  The sound of breaking glass was louder here. Her eyes fell to the splintered shards of crystal. In the light of Methar Anduel, they seemed to ignite with the fires of a hundred small stars. She picked up the white and silver hilt in her left hand and the fires blazing in the crystal shards brightened even as the sound grew louder. Beneath the sound of breaking crystal, she could hear an undertone like a joyful song in harmony with the one she was singing. But the new sound was very faint and the sound of breaking crystal was giving her a headache. She put the shard back into the basin and turned her eyes to the inscription beneath.

  “What does it say?” she asked Othalas.

  “It is in the tongue of the Vyrl. What it says is. Here lies Vlad Valkire. I, Lord of the Dark Forest, slew him. His bones I took for my own device. But his likeness is here—a reminder that I will bear no slight to my lady, no matter how noble or well intended. The shards of his sword—Aeowinar—are at his feet.”

  “So that is Aeowinar—Cutter’s Shear?” she said, looking once more at the fragments that lay before her. “And here lies the likeness of Valkire, alone among the shadows where the Dark Lord left him. I wonder what the Lord of the Dark Forest did with his bones?”

  “Rendered them into a powder which he sowed into a blade of Darksilver. The blade, it is said, holds the spirit of Valkire even in death. Mgaurhauth, the blade is called—Oblivion’s Edge. It serves the Dark Lord now and is said never to leave his side.”

  “But why did the Dark Lord attack Valkire? He stayed out of Valkire’s wars with the Vyrl and even gave aid to the side of elves from time to time.”

  “Long ago, Valkire made Wyrd Stones as gifts for the Lady and Lord of the Dark Forest. These were taken to the heart of the great wood where they were received with gladness. And the Lord placed his about his neck and it gleamed like sunlight. But when the Lady touched her Stone, it gleamed like the light of Silva and she immediately fell into a deep sleep. Nothing the great Lord could do would wake her. Thinking Valkire had cursed his love, the Lord led his armies out into the land. Riding at their head, he made ready to do war with Valkire. But Valkire ordered all who followed him to surrender. So the great Lord made his way to Valkire unopposed. When he came to Valkire and demanded that he break the spell, Valkire sh
ook his head saying—‘She has chosen this course for the good of all, for in dreams she saw the black moon rising and to dreams she has gone to face it so that the world will be saved from eternal winter.’ But the black moon hadn’t yet risen, and the great lord thought it was deceit and that Valkire attempted to usurp him, as was foretold. So he had Valkire put in chains, but Valkire gave no resistance saying ‘do as you will, my father.’ Then the great lord was enraged for he thought Valkire mocked him and he beat him into the ground with his fists. So passed Vlad Valkire, the greatest hero of an age and the son of the Lord of the Dark Forest who slew him. It is said his rage will not be eased until the Lady of the dark wood returns. To this day, the great Lord still hunts all who were dear to Valkire, seeking to do vengeance for his loss.”

  “Valkire’s family?”

  “Yes, and his friends as well—Merrin, Zalos, Mithorden. The Dark Lord’s fey have hunted them for thousands of years.”

  “What happened to them? I know Mithorden and Zalos still live. But what of Merrin?” Leowin would have known and Luthiel had heard this part of the story before, but she wanted to hear what the wolf would say. He seemed to know a great deal.

  “It is said that Merrin fell into a torpor brought on by her grief for the death of her husband. It is also said that she sleeps still—carrying an unborn child in her womb. The only child of Vlad Valkire. Others say that Merrin awoke recently and is living in secret with Zalos in Ashiroth. These tell of a child who was born of Merrin only to be lost once more.”

  “I’ve never heard of that rumor. How do you know such things?”

  “I’ve heard whispers in high places and, for a time, I hunted Merrin for the Vyrl. They were curious and they have ever lusted after the blood of Valkire. But I was unable to confirm any of the rumors and my way in Ashiroth was harried. Zalos makes no secret of his hatred for Vyrl. I was lucky enough to escape with my pelt.” The werewolf’s eyes bored into her. She saw both mocking and curiosity in them. He looked as though he would say something else but then stopped himself.

  “So we are the first to come here since the Dark Lord made this tomb?”

  “The first I know of.”

  “Not even the other Vyrl?”

  “No, even they fear the shadows that live here.”

  That gave Luthiel pause. “Even the Vyrl fear them,” she whispered to herself. And well they should. But she still couldn’t grasp that she’d entered a place where even Vyrl feared to walk. She stood there for an indefinite time musing on everything the werewolf said.

  Othalas waited, sitting patiently on his haunches. A part of him wondered at everything that was happening but he kept that part tucked away and watched on.

  Who is this Luthiel who holds Methar Anduel? he thought to himself.

  Luthiel stood for a long time looking at the shards of Aeowinar and finally made her decision. Kneeling before the likeness of Valkire, she held the Stone high over her head and sang out into the cavern.

  “Ghost of Valkire, if any of your spirit remains in this foul place, I beg your forgiveness for what I am about to do. There are others in the world who were your friends that may still have need of what you left. So I ask your permission to take the shards of Aeowinar. I don’t have the art or skill to know if they can ever be used again. But I know one who does. So please forgive me for taking them and before I do, hear me! I am taking them to Mithorden who knew you well!”

  As she said this, a great wind rose in the cave and it carried upon it the scent of roses and incense. The wind rushed through the chamber and swirled around her. In the world of dreams there was no other sound but the wind. Even her singing was momentarily hushed. Then, on the wind she heard a voice. Othalas must have heard it too, for his hackles were raised and his teeth bared.

  As was my dying wish, so shall it be!

  The wind about her felt as warm as sunlight and she almost laughed from the joy that welled up within her. For a moment, she forgot she was in a dark, cold cave, surrounded by shadows of the dead and fancied that she was sitting in a warm glade at the height of summer. But as the wind ebbed from the cavern, so too did her joy. Soon, she was alone again with the werewolf in that chill cavern. Yet it was a sensation she would never forget. For an instant, for perhaps the first time in her life, she had felt as though she belonged.

  Luthiel stooped and picked up the shards of Aeowinar, gathering them carefully into the folds of a leather wrap, which she tucked into one of her pouches. As she did so, she became aware of the growing cold. She lifted her eyes and noticed that the darkness at the edge of her Wyrd Stone’s light was deepening. Othalas growled again.

  Then, like a great wave, the shadows rushed into the light. Luthiel held it aloft in her trembling hand like a great beacon and Othalas stood beside her. Many of the shadows diminished to nothing before they reached her. Others, sheltering in their self-made darkness, clawed at her with their black talons. The chill in the air had grown unbearable and the skin on her forehead pinched as if her sweat had frozen.

  She touched the first shadow with her Stone and it erupted into fire. But where there was one, two sprang up and she danced round trying to avoid the one while striking the other. Beside her, Othalas was a blur of tooth and claw. Shadow or not, his fangs found them. His eyes blazed with fury. Soon, a dozen lay fading and motionless beside him.

  Luthiel, though nowhere near as fast or violent, was armed with a light deadly to shadows. She flicked it from side to side and spun it around even as the shadows tried to bear her down. One grabbed her leg and three others piled on top of her. She fell, but as she did so, she touched all three with her Stone. These disappeared. But another grabbed her arm. She switched her Stone from one hand to the other and swung it through what must have been its face. Then, a wave of ten or twenty rushed over her, pushing her to the floor. Still she clutched the Stone and still she sang until one managed to get its hands around her throat. For a moment, her song grew still and the light within the Stone faded.

  Then, Othalas was upon her and one by one the shadows fell. She sang once more and the light grew again. All at once, the shadows took to flight. The wave had broken over them, tried to pull them under, but now the tide of darkness was ebbing away from the light she bore. In the back of the cavern, the darkness swelled again and with a cry to Othalas, Luthiel turned and fled.

  She did not need to look over her shoulder to know the shadows were right behind her. She could feel the cold and the dark pressing in upon her, grasping at her legs. She ran and sang and then she was out, running among the mists upon the hail battered earth. Othalas stood beside her. His tongue hung over his jowls but he wasn’t panting. As usual, in the world of dreams, she felt no fatigue. But she knew she must stop singing. She’d stayed in the world of dreams for longer than she cared to. So she concentrated and after three tries, she slipped from it. She felt her bruises again and the places where the Dimlock had scratched her with their claws. Raindrops fell all about her. Far away the lightning flashed. At least the hail had stopped.

  Before she could stop herself, before she could even think, she turned to Othalas, threw her arms around his neck, and gave him a big hug.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Taken aback, the wolf stumbled away from her, and then shook himself.

  “It is I who should thank you,” he said grudgingly.

  A Castle in the Mists

  In a moment, she was on his back again and he padded silently through the misty wood. By the green firelight, Luthiel was able to see much of her surroundings. She noticed that the mists seemed to come from holes in the ground, or from the lake, or the pools of standing water that seemed to speckle the Vale. Once, when they stopped, she plunged her hand into the water and found that it was warm, almost hot, to the touch. As she rode, she noticed that the trees were all twisted into flowing shapes that wound up and about in spirals or threw their branches out in bows and swirls. The trees reminded her of so many wooden snakes. Their leaves wer
e of every color. Some were black; others red, silver, or green, and the moss that hung from their branches looked like blue smoke. After a time, they came to a large expanse of water.

  “This must be the Miruvoir,” she said.

  Othalas nodded in silent reply as he padded along around its edge. She was growing drowsy and when they finally came to a halt, her head was nodding. They stopped in a ring of standing stones beneath a castle that looked as though it were carved from gray glass. Its many towers mounted up through the mists, their tops crenellated with glistening spikes. Smog rose continuously through the many holes and vents that crowned the keep. A hot wind seemed to issue from it and the smell of ash was heavy about the place. An iron statue stood silent watch before gates that looked like interlocking teeth. The statue was in the shape of a giant, his helm in the shape of a dragon’s skull—the eyes of which were a pair of diamonds, each with a coldly glowing star at its heart.

  “Gormtoth will let none enter or depart by night. We must rest in the ring of standing stones. Do not worry, for they will shelter you from the mists while you sleep.”

  When Luthiel looked again at the ring of standing stones, she noticed that, indeed, the mists did not pass the borders of the circle. Exhausted, she clambered down from Othalas’ back, laid her bedroll on the soft grass and was soon fast asleep.

  Othalas moved into the standing stones with her. By now, all his wounds were healed and the ache was rapidly fading from them. For a time, he sat there, watching the elf as she slept.