The Valley of Nargrond

by C A Oliver

  “You are his most trusted companion! That is for sure,” Curwë claimed.

  Gelros ignored the praise and chose to finish explaining how the Guild’s was organized.

  “Finally come the numerous S’in, who are the lowest members in the organisation. They were recruited from Elves of all origins, and they can be found everywhere: inside the Llewenti clans, among the circles of the druids, in the entourage of the Dol households and even at the royal court in Gwarystan. Most of them are manipulated and unaware of their role in the Guild. The steward of Llanoalin port… was an example. We bought his services with gems. He had earned a good portion of the gold we were making out of the smuggling."

  “He was an example, was he?”

  Gelros was not as smart with his words as Curwë was. He realized he had said too much. After giving it some additional thought, he continued.

  “I don’t think he will wish to do any further trade with Alqualinquë in future. Smuggling goods into the kingdom of Gwarystan is already a dangerous activity. But allowing unknown Elves from Llymar Forest into the realm is an altogether different matter. I believe he frightened himself to death with his own transgression. There is nothing more to be gained from him.”

  *

  The next day, the Elves of Mentollà had already walked for a couple of hours when they decided to stop at the top of a steep hill. The sun was warming the atmosphere, throwing its golden rays over the rocky mountain peaks, and the dew on the bushes was gradually disappearing. Gelros, silent, sniffed the air and turned his gaze frequently towards the great elevations of the Arob Nargrond’s southern range. Summer was well advanced, but snow still whitened their tops. Addressing Feïwal, he pointed to the distant slopes of the mountain range. The hillsides could barely be seen in the shadows of the great mountain’s silhouette. They resembled the mysterious, abandoned lands of Nyn Llyvary’s East, which the Islands’ minstrels often evoked in their songs.

  But those darkest places of Nargrond Valley, so imposing to the Irawenti guide for whom the light of the day and the heat of the sun were so important, seemed to mean nothing to Gelros. The scout was accustomed to the density of deep forests and did not fear the shadows.

  "We are close!" Gelros said with a steely resolve, pointing to their destination.

  It took them a few more hours to reach the lands of O Wiony. The day was in decline when they finally entered the ancient Morawenti estate. A wind from the south swirled the leaves and moved them towards a pond. Lost in the deep gold of the trees, the body of water looked like a dead sea along which the Elves of Mentollà traced their path. Rain had been falling heavily for hours, water-logging the clay soil. No creatures appeared under the dark arches of greenery along the curves of the road.

  The plateau where the legendary vineyards of O Wiony could be found stretched along the Sian Dorg, half a dozen leagues south-west of the ruins of Yslla. But the distance through the winding paths of the hills seemed much greater. The road, blooming with yellow, white and mauve, was lined with golden lemon trees, silvery olive trees, and above all with clusters of purple vines, damp with dew. The former estate of Elriöl Dir Sana, one of the legendary smith of Nargrond Valley, was relatively small and seemed to cling to the weight of time as much as to the rocky hills, where its foundations had been established centuries ago.

  On the dusty road in front of the ramparts, there were Night Elves, guards clad in dark green cloaks and lightly armoured with silver chain mail. The Morawenti were feared across the Archipelago for they were known to poison their javelins and arrowheads. Harassing their enemies’ ranks with harsh attacks followed by quick withdrawals was their favourite tactic, as only few foes could rival the speed of their units.

  The guards bowed solemnly when Gelros walked by. They did indeed greet him with the title of ‘Nol Gelros’ and showed great respect to the scout.

  “Loyalty to the community is the most important Morawenti principle,” Gelros reminded his companions.

  The Elves of Mentollà noted the Night Elves’ unusual helmets, shaped in triangles and wrapped in black cloth. It was difficult to see the faces of these guards and it gave them a sinister look. Their tan leather coats, weapons and helmets were all adorned with leaves. They were armed with long swords and javelins of a curved design.

  The Morawenti scouts seemed to have been expecting their arrival, and they escorted the newcomers into the ancient compound, past the ruins of the ramparts. The group then continued up a steep street, passing from a faint daylight into shade.

  The domain consisted of a main tower, an entrance courtyard, a winery, a cellar, a garden and a large building with six floors. The compound had been left abandoned for centuries, and nature had taken its course. Ivy had overrun the alleyways and scaled the buildings. A heavy, almost frightening silence weighted on these ancient ruins, now home only to shadows. The crumbling walls and broken, mossy stones were covered in wild vegetation. The greenery was so dense that it had even formed a canopy above the courtyard, through which no sunlight could penetrate. The surrounding atmosphere gradually gripped the newcomers’ hearts. They were seized with a certain melancholy, a form of sadness, as if they could suddenly trace the sense of all those Elves who had so ignominiously been massacred there. An infinite poetry lay behind it all.

  Finally, the Elves of Mentollà reached a small square between the winery and the entrance to the great cellar. In the muted sunset of early evening, just before the sun disappeared over Mount Oryusk, the walls of O Wiony flushed with crimson.

  “Wait here,” Gelros told them, before disappearing into another narrow passage.

  A fountain was flowing in the middle of the square, from a statue made of wood. The sculpture, blackened by time, represented an Elf with his back hunched, wrapped in a black cloak. The artist had given him a threatening countenance, had frozen him in an archetypal gesture of vengeful anger. His right hand wielded a blacksmith's hammer, on which a snake had coiled, and his left hand held a book. Curwë, unconsciously attracted by the statue, came closer to examine it. He could distinguish on the cover of the manuscript a black rune. The bard could not resist shuddering when he saw it. Now on his guard, he decided not to drink from the fountain’s water.

  The three Elves of Mentollà remained alone for a time, and Gelros’ departure filled the courtyard with what seemed like a great silence. Initially, they could not understand the reason for this strange calm. At last, they perceived it. The handful of Morawenti guards and servants around them moved without any noise; like the silence caused by the total absence of birds and animals in that mysterious site.

  The Night Elves tended to be thinner and taller in size to any other Elves. Their very pale skin, almost livid, characterised them while their gaze was deep and mysterious. They all had black hair, while their eye colour varied between dark grey and black. Like other High Elves, they had long and pointed ears. They favoured wearing dark coloured tunics with grey or green shades, and robes of fine linens, cottons or silks.

  The Night Elves looked distant and uncaring. It was common knowledge in the Islands that Morawenti considered themselves being part of the most unique civilization of all. They viewed with arrogance all others.

  Feïwal noted there was no temple, nor any statues of the deities in O Wiony, nothing that signalled any religious allegiance. Curwë explained.

  “The Morawenti do not worship any deity. They trust only in their own wisdom and powers and abhor the Gods. Cults and faith are signs of weakness and naivety in their eyes.”

  The bard knew much about the Night Elves from his discussions with Aewöl.

  Meanwhile, Gelros was crossing the estate’s cellar, a great underground hall made of stone arches. It used to be a storage room for wines in bottles, barrels and amphorae. It had been built underground to protect the precious nectar of O Wiony. Marks of its former use were still visible.

  The ancient wine cellar was made from limestone, a prevalent mineral in the Sian Dorg area. Its columns
were monolithic, cut from a single stone from the base to the ceiling. The rounded vaults stood near, with additional pointed arches in the background.

  The scout finally reached the innermost area of the cavern, which was located where the great cellar ended. This room must have been the keeper of wines’ quarters.

  Gelros caught hold of a shrub that grew near, which, not to his surprise, came easily out of the ground. On closer examination of the exposed limestone beneath, he found the hidden locks set into the rock, and quickly succeeded in opening a secret passage. Gelros walked a few steps into the dark hallway that revealed itself before him, and soon reached a door made of worm-eaten wood. That partially destroyed gate opened into a vast underground hall. A glyph, the form of the Morawenti triangle encompassing the rune of Sana, was suspended in the air like a shadowy ray of sun.

  Gelros spoke the words, “Curos e Dir Sana.”

  The glyph momentarily dispelled, and the scout presented himself before his master under the canopy of diverse colours that gleamed in the many gems of the cave’s ceilings. Gelros adopted a humble posture, with uplifted palms and a bowed head, betokening at once his humility and dependence. Such was the expressive and contrite form the Morawenti had always shown when presenting to their liege lord. Finally placing his hand on his heart, Gelros completed the ritual salute with this token of submission and obedience.

  Aewöl’s was seated in the depths of the vast room, facing the entrance. The one-eyed Elf was clothed in a saffron-coloured robe and his head was partly covered by his metal mask, shadowy green in colour. In his right hand he held a rod, its handle gilded, and on the top a globe made of Amethysts. His jewel represented a smith’s hammer, suspended by a chain of silver. His banner of dark green silk, bearing the rune of Sana surrounded by the black Morawenti triangle, was on his right. In his left hand was an ancient book.

  Aewöl was on a long couch, which was surrounded with other marvellous and unique pieces of furniture. The subterranean room had the atmosphere of a rich palace. It was both sumptuous and grand, with damask, velvet, and silk drapery and curtains, and a beautifully carved bed with statues from the Islands’ mythology. Mirrors were hanging from two of the walls, giving even more depth to the cavern. There was a strange vibrancy to the place, despite the prevailing shadows. Candlelight emanated from a colourful chandelier made with translucid glass. Precious stones and rare materials adorned many items of the furniture, though silver was the most dominant. The wardrobes were painted with allegories and images of life along the streets of Yslla.

  Gelros entered the vast room like a humble fighter reporting in front of his commander. But Aewöl addressed him with passion in his voice.

  “Did you know that this cavern’s inspired architect was Elriöl, the first master of the Guild of Sana? He took the design from the blacksmiths’ guild in Yslla and replicated it here, below O Wiony. This is extraordinary!”

  “No, master, I did not know that,” Gelros replied laconically, also in the tongue of the Night Elves.

  It was considered by all in the Islands as a dead language but nevertheless Gelros and Aewöl, when alone, always exchanged in their mother tongue. Due to the Morawenti isolation during their early history and their frequent dealings with the Gnomes, it had very few similarities with other Elvin languages.

  Gelros did not seem surprised by the indifferent way Aewöl had welcomed him, despite how long his dangerous endeavour away had been. Government among the Morawenti had always been dynastic and based upon absolutism. Its principles had been founded long before the Guild of Sana was created, at the time of their first prince when the Night Elves dwelled in the dark forest of Nel Anmöl. Gelros was not one to question usages several millennia old.

  Aewöl resumed, clearly excited to have finally found someone to share his findings with.

  “In fact, I have come to believe that Elriöl built other secret vaults, here at O Wiony, near the city of Yslla where he dwelled. He must have wanted a location that would not arouse suspicion. You can imagine how many masons there would have been ferrying between the different sites …

  Elriöl must have feared greatly his enemies, that some would slaughter the makers of the Swords of Nargrond Valley, sack their city and its guilds. He must have feared that the treasures of Yslla’s library would be lost forever…

  To prevent this evil, I believe that Elriöl vowed to construct a secret underground vault, leading out from O Wiony’s great cellar and ending deep under the hill…

  Now, assuming he did not die before his goal was completed, Elriöl must have protected the passage from the O Wiony cellar to the inner sanctum with other secret vaults, each more difficult to penetrate than the last. My guess is that he created three of these secret vaults, and that this cave is the first of them.

  The Gnomes showed me the way into this place after they acknowledged me as the new master of the Sana Guild. Without their ancient knowledge, I would never have found it. Not even the manuscript Saeröl left me gives any hints as to its existence.

  I have come to believe that this is the first vault, the one which is most easily accessible from the cellar, where the wise Ol would have gathered around Elriöl, and where they deposited some of their treasures…”

  Gelros congratulated his master. “This is very much consistent with some of your earlier findings.”

  Aewöl ignored this comment. He was operating quite independently of everything around him; only what came into his head dictated the direction of his thoughts.

  “I can understand what my forefather Elriöl was thinking. He was fortunate to live in a period of relative peace and prosperity, but he knew that storm clouds were gathering on the horizon. Thus far, the first king of Gwarystan had behaved in a manner that befitted him. Lormelin the Conqueror had submitted almost all the Llewenti clans to his royal authority. He had become the undisputed sovereign of the Islands.

  As the centuries passed by, however, Lormelin’s judgement became impaired. He grew deaf to the voices of wisdom, and his conduct became irrational and unpredictable. Was it the vengeful Islands’ deities who had caused this gradual change? It was the High Elf king, after all, who had discarded those divinities from the very Archipelago they protected. Was his mental decline their divine retribution?

  Triumphant after having conquered a realm worthy of his royal lineage, the Conqueror became overly proud after having erected the great city of Gwarystan to the glory of his forefathers. Lormelin became intoxicated with his power. He plunged into all manner of abuse and excess to the point of profaning the old temples of the Llewenti deities, even persecuting their followers...

  Elriöl must have seen this coming. Fearful that King Lormelin’s apostasy would result in some dreadful consequence, he must have anticipated that it would bring upon them those enemies whom the Islands’ deities had constantly kept away.

  This dark premonition would explain the genesis of his project… and the existence of this first vault. Look at this achievement!

  The Morawenti of that time had acquired a greater depth of knowledge than any other Elves, due to their mastery over the Amethyst Flow. Their knowledge of crafts knew no comparison.”

  Aewöl rose from his long couch. He stood stolid in the middle of the cave; the new guardian of this sanctorum dedicated to the Guild of Sana. The one-eyed Elf proceeded further with his reasoning.

  “I did come across something interesting in the Book of Sana, among the old records written by Saeröl during his youth in the valley of Nargrond. After the sack of Ystanargrond by clan Myortilys, Saeröl gathered a council of the surviving Ol. The Morawenti blacksmiths met in a secret underground place of his choosing. His purpose was to form a plan after Elriöl disappeared in the mines of Oryusk. The valley of Nargrond was about to fall. It is my belief that this historic meeting occurred here, in this cave. The council of the remaining Ol feared that the location of the Swords of Nargrond Valley had been lost with the death of Elriöl. What they did not know was that
the best-kept secrets of the Guild were lying in other vaults, beneath the very council chamber in which they sat, and over which the young Saeröl, the freshly appointed master, was presiding. And so, did those secrets remain, lost to living memory after O Wiony was plundered by the Dark Elves...

  I now believe that only Saeröl knew about the Guild of Sana’s inner sanctum. That is where he found Moramsing, which had been safely hidden by the farsighted Elriöl. It proves that the first master of the Guild of Sana was fully awake to the danger he was facing before joining Lon and the smiths of Yslla into the mines of Oryusk.

  He knew he might not come back.

  If Elriöl was given the task to conceal Moramsing, then it is likely that the other smiths of Yslla would have each been responsible for concealing the other fabled swords.

  This is at least true for Rymsing, the Blade of the West. That is surely how it was then passed down to the lines of Dyoreni…”

  Aewöl remained thoughtful for some time, as though he had completely forgotten that Gelros was there. At last, his only eye, lost in the dream of unveiling the secrets of his predecessors, fixed upon the scout’s silhouette. Only then did Aewöl realize what Gelros’ presence’s implied.

  “Oh, Gelros! If you have returned, our companions must have reached O Wiony…”

  “Master, Lord Roquen, Feïwal dyn and Curwë are awaiting you below the great oak,” confirmed Gelros. “A meal is ready to be served, and a phial of the finest vintage has been opened. It awaits your approval before it is offered to your guests.”