The Valley of Nargrond

by C A Oliver

  Mount Oryusk was the most active volcano in the Islands, indeed it appeared to be in an almost constant state of eruption. Its three central craters were spewing forth great plumes of different coloured smoke; sometimes white as ice, then dark as shadows, now red as lava. The mountain’s lower slopes spread out across the valley of Nargrond, its fertile soils rich with woods, vineyards and orchards.

  Curwë pointed to three giant columns that were positioned at the valley’s entrance, where the southern and northern ranges of the Arob Nargrond joined together in what looked like a last attempt to imprison the wild waters of the Sian Senky. The three great pilasters were still hundreds of feet high, though a major disaster had caused their ruin. Damaged elements of the gigantic fluted columns lay half-buried besides their ancient foundations.

  With a weak voice, Curwë made a special effort to share his knowledge with his companions. During his time in Llafal, the bard had learnt many legends from Matriarch Nyriele.

  “These are the great columns of the Gnomes, the first inhabitants of the Islands who settled in the archipelago long before the coming of the deities, Giants and Elves. They chose to build three monuments, for that number is associated with the triangle.

  The triangle is the emblem of Gweïwal Agadeon, the Gnomes’ Protective God that, according to their legends, fathered their race.

  It is said they received a warning from their divine father of an impending catastrophe. Then, fearing that all knowledge of their arts and crafts would be lost in a gigantic flood, the result of Gweïwal Uleydon’s wrath, they built these three great columns upon a high hill. The pilasters were made of brass and granite to resist water. Writing in their indecipherable hieroglyphics, the Gnomes engraved the fundamentals of their arts and crafts upon the pillars. In the end, however, what threatened their civilization was not the tidal wave they had expected.

  When the meteorite fell upon Gwa Nyn, the hill of the pillars was destroyed, but ruins of the three great columns endured, though they have lost their initial magnificence. The few surviving Gnomes interpreted this catastrophe as a sign of the coming of the Elves to the Islands.”

  Curwë’s companions remained silent, as if petrified by the grandeur of the spectacle in front of them. Their eyes could not fully capture the vast spectrum of colour or the myriad of beautiful markings. All they could take in was the Sian Senky meandering at the bottom of a strangely shaped vale that extended westward and then south-westward from the high path on which they were standing. The Arob Nargrond was one of the deepest ranges they had ever contemplated. Its peaks would tower above the mountains that rose in Nyn Llyvary or even in distant Essawylor. Nargrond Valley was a geological cleft, rarely more than two leagues in width, boarded by steep limestone precipices. Because the valley was so narrow, numerous waterfalls could be seen above the trees. The streams descending from the adjoining mountains spilled downwards in roaring cascades as they reached the verges of the valley’s rocky walls. They fell from such a height that they would almost totally disappear into spray before they reached the level of the river, where the land was heavily forested and covered in clusters of trees and large open meadows.

  The view from the eastern end of the valley, where the Elves of Mentollà stood, contained a great granite monolith on the left and rocks as high as Gwarystan’s towers on the right. Just past this point, the valley suddenly widened with spires, then with a pointed obelisk that looked like a sentinel’s tower to the south. On the northern side were ‘the four Greater Gods’, rising one above the other like gables built along the same angle. The highest crest was Zenwon; the one below was Narkon, ‘the Lower Brother’.

  From these towering heights, melting snow became torrents and pools, which then surged downwards into cataracts and waterfalls. Creeks and forks of the different streams took drainage from the Arob Nargrond’s crest, eventually disappearing into the canyons.

  Gelros pointed westward to rapids that were falling from the valley’s rim. They combined at the base of the gorges which contained each stream, and then surged around small isles to meet the Sian Senky at the centre of Nargrond Valley, where it spread into a majestic lake.

  “That is where we are going,” he indicated.

  *

  The vale that led to the wider valley of Nargrond started with a dense wood. In this higher part of Gwa Nyn, the chestnut, walnut, and birch trees replaced the pines and cypresses that dominated further down on the plains around Ystanoalin.

  At sunset, the Elves of Mentollà climbed a large rock to enjoy the magnificent summer evening. From up there, they could glimpse once again that same shimmer of azure many leagues away: it was the lake of Yslla where the Sian Senky met the Sian Dorg.

  “The famed city of Yslla, the centre of Elvin lore on the Islands, was built by Rowë Dol Nargrond on the shores of that lake,” advised Feïwal.

  “Nowadays the place is in ruins,” replied Curwë. “The city was never rebuilt after the clan Myortilys raided it and committed genocide against its inhabitants.”

  Curwë had seldom talked throughout the journey. This gloomy historical reference subdued his companions into quiet reflection.

  The next day, they moved closer to the foothills of the southern mountain range, heading west. They hoped to find the hillsides of O Wiony, a landlocked territory formerly owned by the Morawenti. Gelros had told his companions they would meet with Aewöl in the ruins of that ancient estate. Curwë, in Llafal, had heard of this territory, and he shuddered when Gelros confirmed it was their destination. No one ever ventured to O Wiony. Legend had it that the Gnomes still resided there, and only those possessed by madness would dare provoke their wrath. To reassure himself, the bard thought that they would at least be safe from enemy Elves and Men.

  Night was coming. Their long day's walk had ended. It had been exhausting. A huge black cloud, coming from the north, was rising in the sky. A few drops of rain fell to the ground, preceding a heavy downpour that soon came to soak the soil and drench the woods. Gelros started to search for shelter. Once again, Curwë remained behind. For several hours, he had been walking in the footsteps of his companions with difficulty. It was obvious that his mind was torturing him. He had difficulty focusing on the tasks that were required of him, and barely said a word of apology when he was caught.

  By now, however, the bard could no longer control himself. A pain in his cheek was proving overwhelming.

  Suddenly, Curwë collapsed onto the ground. He fell heavily, without even a cry.

  Gelros, alerted by the sound, hastened back to him. He turned Curwë onto his back to examine his wounds. The scout could only see minor scratches and bruises. But Curwë’s eyes, and the drool that flowed from his mouth, worried him greatly. Caught unprepared, Gelros began to lay down his companion on an improvised stretcher that he surrounded with protective runes. Gelros set about burning the magic herbs Drismile had given him in Llanoalin. He was a healer as well as a hunter, well versed in the knowledge of plants and flowers.

  Feeling powerless, Roquendagor stood close by, visibly worried and eager to assist.

  Meanwhile, Feïwal approached the dying Curwë. He immediately extinguished the small candles that the scout had lit to form a triangle around the bard. Addressing his two valid companions, he ordered.

  “Help me! Let us immerse Curwë fully in the water of a mountain stream and pray that Gweïwal Uleydon will restore his vitality.”

  The three Elves removed Curwë’s clothes and armour. They could feel the fever was consuming him. Despite his efforts, Feïwal could not explain his unnaturally high temperature.

  They decided to drag Curwë to a small stream which ran down the slope of the hill. There, they immersed his body in the cold water of the mountain. Curwë shivered and his friends began to fear for his survival. But there was such a thirst for life in the bard that, after a time, it looked as if Feïwal’s incessant incantations might be having an effect. He regained consciousness, and they decided to pull him out of the st
ream’s cold water.

  Feïwal watched over his companion for most of the night but, exhausted from the days of travelling and weakened by their lack of food, he finally sank into a restless reverie.

  His surprise was great when Curwë pulled him out of sleep just as dawn appeared. The bard's face was closed and very pale, but he nevertheless made a friendly gesture to each of his companions to thank them for their vital assistance. Curwë still looked weak, but something in his gaze had changed, as if a curse that had been impairing his mind since the beginning of their journey was broken. He kept touching his cheek as if a deadly tumour was gone.

  None of them had the heart to question him further. They gathered their belongings, checked their weapons, examined the surrounding country, and then set off on the steep path towards the southwest.

  “This stretch will be difficult,” warned Gelros.

  *

  As the day drew on and the Elves of Mentollà made steady progress, they sensed a change in the landscape around them. The further they walked, the more the surrounding wildlife disappeared. No longer was there the unconscious comfort of hares dashing through the meadows, goats chewing on the green buds of virgin vines, or birds fluttering from branch to branch.

  They strained their ears, but in the fields and at the edges of the woods around them, there was nothing: no squawking, calling or even rustling.

  Feïwal was overcome with an imprecise anxiety. The guide of the clan of Filweni seemed to question the air, the trees, the distant horizons, even the clouds themselves, for an explanation of this sinister phenomenon. They were alone, the only characters animating that magnificent backdrop, their silhouettes standing out against the purple hue of the setting sun. The night went dark and unnaturally warm, and the south wind whistled in the air, filling the lifeless solitudes with a noise even more threatening than silence.

  The Elves of Mentollà came across a gorge, through which a tiny stream cut a path down into the foothills. Reeds lined its banks. Despite the early hour of night, they agreed it would be a suitable place to camp. Neither moon, nor any glittering stars, could be seen in the sky.

  None of them had the heart to continue their journey in such darkness.

  For the first time since setting foot on Gwa Nyn, Curwë offered to take the watch. He seemed to have recouped some of his usual vitality.

  While Roquendagor and Feïwal settled down to rest, Gelros joined him by the stream’s bank. Without removing his leather gloves, the scout dipped his hands into the cold water and wetted the back of his neck. Though Gelros was undoubtedly suffering from the heat, his face betrayed no signs of tiredness.

  But in his eye was a form of languor, a sadness in the cautious way he looked at the world around him. Gelros was known for being a solitary and unaffectionate figure. Any rare demonstrations of empathy were strictly reserved for the one he reverently called his master.

  On this occasion, however, he could not help but smile at Curwë, visibly proud of what he had accomplished.

  “Tomorrow, we will reach O Wiony, where Aewöl is awaiting you. My mission is almost complete. He will be very pleased to see you, though he might not show it. His degradation in Nyn Ernaly has changed him…

  But he often talks about you, Curwë, and of the great goals you have both set yourselves…”

  “What goals?”

  “Why, the Alqualinquë of course!” cried Gelros. “Its growth and prosperity! Though his mind is always busy with many other high preoccupations, that company is always his priority.”

  The same was not strictly true for Curwë.

  “Is it indeed?” the bard replied. “I get regular trade reports from Nelwiri. I can see the pains that Aewöl takes ensuring their accuracy. Though I find it all rather boring, I do sometimes glance at the figures. It’s Laeros, of course, the steward I appointed to administer the company, who takes care of those tasks. I am told our profits are growing quickly. We have a monopoly on distribution of those exclusive Irawenti goods, so we accumulate lots of gold. I hear we could even buy a second swanship to increase the volume of transactions. Even I could not fail to be struck by such success!”

  This came as no surprise for Gelros. “Aewöl will want to discuss future developments with you,” he advised. “He nourishes great ambition for Alqualinquë and will be counting on you more than ever. He has already made new plans.” Looking at Feïwal and Roquendagor who rested a dozen yards away, Gelros added, “But what he asked me to tell you is of a different nature. You must keep it secret. It is important you do…”

  Curwë looked at his companion, intrigued. Gelros began with a confident tone.

  “Aewöl has asked me to inform you of certain secrets before you meet him… Alqualinquë has proven very successful in a relatively short period of time. There are reasons behind our good fortune.”

  Curwë smiled, but there was still sadness in his eyes. “I thought as much. I noticed we were very quick to establish contacts in many different locations across the Islands. Despite the dangers, dozens of Elves eager to collaborate with us seemed to appear out of nowhere…”

  “That is true,” confirmed Gelros. “What Aewöl wanted me to reveal you is the existence of a secret guild he controls. Alqualinquë is only the visible part of the edifice, but it is supported by many other Elves across the Islands.”

  Curwë was surprised. His interest in this discussion suddenly grew.

  “How could Aewöl build such an efficient organisation in so little time?”

  With a low tone full of deference and respect, Gelros explained. “Aewöl is no common Elf, Curwë. Though coming from far away in Essawylor, his rank is high among the Morawenti.”

  “I always suspected it back in Ystanlewin, from the haughty manners of his arrogant mother. Aewöl always looked like an over-protected child. But that does not explain how he came to control a secret guild.” There was a certain irony in the bard’s words.

  “The Morawenti were once numerous and influential within the kingdom of Gwarystan,” Gelros began.

  “I know. It was the genocide committed against them in Yslla, by clan Myortilys, which caused their decline. It started the endless War of Shadows. The history of the Morawenti on the Islands ended abruptly with the murder of King Lormelin by the famed bard, Saeröl. The alleged chief of the Morawenti was then sentenced to death. I read they faced utter ruin after his condemnation,” explained Curwë.

  “They became leaderless. There are very few of them left, and those who survived have mingled with other Elvin communities and forged new loyalties,” Gelros confirmed.

  “From what I heard in Llafal, evoking their name is like summoning a ghostly shadow from the past,” added Curwë gloomily.

  Gelros decided it was time to divulge the facts behind his master’s ascent. “A few years ago, in Nyn Ernaly, Aewöl met with Drismile, the Elvin lady you briefly saw on board the swanship in Llanoalin.”

  Curwë remembered the beautiful lady. “I did notice her; she possessed a certain authority among the community of that small port. She gave the captain of Llanoalin the scroll that allowed us to enter the kingdom of Gwarystan.”

  “She did. Drismile is an influential Morawenti on the Islands. She met Aewöl in the ruins of Mentolewin when we were still in Nyn Ernaly. They decided to join forces and it has proven very fruitful so far,” concluded Gelros.

  Curwë frowned. “Indeed, it has... Now tell me, what does Aewöl want me to know?”

  Gelros marked another pause, like one readying himself to start a lengthy explanation. He lowered his tone even further so that their companions would not overhear them. Curwë struggled to catch everything Gelros was saying.

  “Just beneath Master Aewöl are several Morawenti Alchemists who call themselves the Ol. They are famed blacksmiths who dwelled in Yslla long ago, the depositories of principles that every guild member must respect. After undergoing the initiation rites, important powers have been delegated to them. Their unique heritage gives them the
right to grant life or death upon any of the lower members.

  Then come the N’ol. They are also all Morawenti. They are initiated into the Guild, but their knowledge is limited. The N’ol were offered a chance to know the truth, and by doing so Aewöl established their loyalty. They coordinate operations and serve as envoys across the Archipelago. They organize and develop trade. Drismile, but also Nuriol, the messenger who frequently has dealings with Nelwiri in the ports of Nyn Llorely, are members of that caste.”

  Gelros hesitated for a moment, like someone reluctant to say more.

  “I also have the honour to be counted among them, so do not be surprised when we reach O Wiony and you hear other Morawenti call me N’ol Gelros.”

  “On the contrary, I am surprised,” Curwë reacted vehemently. “I specifically asked Aewöl to name you as one of the captains of Alqualinquë. We owe you so much, Gelros! You deserve a higher honour!”

  “Aewöl was true to his word to you but… I refused.”

  “You declined our offer? We did it as a mark of friendship. Why would you not accept that position?”

  “I know my place. Believe me, Curwë, being counted among the N’ol is already a great honour for me. In truth, I am simply Gelros, servant of my master.”