An Act of Faith

by C A Oliver

  All were adapting to their new climate, not without a certain amount of bewilderment. Some of the High Elves put their masonry skills to use, gradually rebuilding the fortress walls. Loggers provided the carpenters with wood, who in turn made planks and beams for the shipwrights. The Commander of the Unicorn Guard, Maetor, was leading them, and his experience was proving effective. He was in charge of fortifying the compound and installing its defences. The elite fighters under his command gathered stones and heavy wood that could be fired at attackers in the event of a siege. Using their extensive experience of warfare, they developed deadly traps all around the fortress. His troops worked in a kind of frenzy, toiling from sunrise to sunset, always fearing a surprise attack.

  In the meantime, others, commanded by Aewöl, rekindled the new forge. In the shadows of the fortress’s vaults, they made gongs, spindles, axes, locks, and repaired any damaged metal objects that they had brought with them. Aewöl had been master of the Smith’s Guild of Ystanlewin in the days of Essawylor. He was an alchemist of great skill; his natural intelligence and innate gift for handiwork was combined with an insatiable passion for self-improvement. Very few other artisans in the Kingdom of Five Rivers could rival him. Aewöl was taught by his father, a great smith and Enchanter himself. Their skill came from the Gnomes of the north, who were masters of forging deadly weapons. Aewöl knew that now was the time to produce such weapons and many like them. Experimentation and invention would have to wait for better days.

  The Irawenti of the clan of Filweni were not outdone by such intense activity. It was less than two weeks before the sailors to launch their first boat into the peninsula’s waters. It was a narrow, lightweight boat, carved from a tall pine tree. It moved rapidly, propelled by both its sails and a team of rowers equipped with short, flat blades. It could carry up to six Elves.

  Each day they would bring home plenty of supplies for sumptuous meals. The sea was full of shellfish. Oysters, in particular, could be found in abundance around the rocks at the mouth of the creek. They caught pounds and pounds of fish simply by casting their dragnets, so rich were those unspoiled waters. The Irawenti were renowned for their ability to dive to great depths; indeed, they preferred hunting underwater with tridents, as it required both skill and agility. They excelled at catching the abundant bream and bass.

  Others, led by Gelros and Curwë, roamed the trails of the Sognen Tausy forest in search of wild fruit and game. Their hunting trips were very successful, and each new day they would marvel at the novel fauna and flora they were discovering. While pines and cedars were more common, but apple trees, wild vines, and oaks could also be found.

  They set about introducing the plants of Essawylor that had been saved from the shipwreck into their new environment, beginning with nutmeg and cinnamon before planting date palms and mango trees. It only took a few weeks for the first samples to take root, promising a rich harvest when summer arrived.

  Gelros made sure that a team of hunters was permanently on shift, checking on the snares and traps, bringing in whatever had been caught, and replacing the fruit that had served as bait. Before long hares, pheasants, partridges and other wild birds found their way into the meals of the small Mentollà community. The hunters took care, however, not to stray too far from their base, as they were cautious not to trespass into the wild Elves’ hunting territory.

  One day, when the sky was blue, and the sea displayed a beautiful emerald colour; Arwela invited Roquendagor to a walk, a few leagues north of the fortress, where the Alwïryan had run aground.

  The knight was first surprised by the proposal but finally accepted, somehow stiffly.

  *

  When they reached the mouth of the small river, they met with Nelwiri who led a small group of Irawenti artisans busy around the vessel that had once been the glory of Essawylor’s fleet. Its great mast which used to proudly dominate the tropical seas now lay spilled across a foreign shore. Only the hull and keel, deeply buried in the sand, bore any resemblance to its former grandeur.

  The Irawenti had built a raft equipped with a hoist and improved it by adding a rudder, a small mast, a sail and a plank to prevent flooding. This perfunctory boat proved crucial in retrieving the heavier, bulkier objects from the wrecked ship’s bowels. They brought back all kinds of tools and materials, and possessed pieces of fittings, cables and sails aplenty.

  Nelwiri, eager to share his enthusiasm, explained to Roquendagor.

  “I know these materials are invaluable for restoring Mentollà, but the sea is often perilous and prevent us from working as efficiently as I would like. I ordered that we first extract any equipment which might perish in the coming winter storms: halyards, beams, struts, guy wires, pulleys and even some heavier parts. All the elements that are crucial to rebuilding a ship are now safe, dried and ready to be reused.”

  “For what purpose do you do that?” Roquendagor asked, somehow surprised.

  Nelwiri added. “My ambition is to construct a new long ship that would allow us to explore the archipelago more widely. The task is immense, as few remains of the Alwïryan can be recycled, and we lack all the equipment and infrastructure for a project of that magnitude. We would have to build a dock for careening the new ship, construct medium-sized boats to transport materials, and design strong pulley machines to lift loads.”

  “Many months of hard work at the Fortress are required before you can think of setting a new vessel afloat. Even then, the tasks ahead require skills that are well beyond you and your followers,” said Roquendagor drily.

  “I am impatient to return to sea and continue exploring the Islands. We are imprisoned within the walls of Mentollà; it is at sea that we will be safe,” tried to advocate the sailor.

  There was a long, embarrassed silence, as it was clear that the two Elves would not come to a common view.

  Arwela decided to change the subject.

  “I met with the wild Elf Vyrka and dedicated a lot of time to learning the language of the archipelago’s Elves.”

  “I noticed your light was often lit at night,” noted gently Roquendagor.

  “Indeed, I devote my time to creating a complex book of translation and expression. Vyrka contributed greatly to my task, and, to my amazement, we discovered that the roots of our respective Elvin languages are very similar,” explained the Lady of the Filweni.

  Roquendagor added with the tone of a scholar. “The Irawenti developed their spoken and written skills after conquering Essawylor once they had discovered the cultural legacy of the Llewenti. The two languages originate from the same roots.” The knight was not accustomed to entering into this kind of talk.

  Arwela understood that it was a way for him to show respect and consideration towards her. She went on, “I am extremely pleased with my progress, and I now can organize classes for our small community.”

  Roquendagor nodded. “Elves of all origins and abilities should attend your lessons, all should be eager to expand their knowledge.”

  Nelwiri concurred and encouraged his elder sister. “All of us praise your patience, and grace. The exquisite Llewenti words you will teach us will invite us to travel the Islands, meet the inhabitants, and celebrate the beauty of their language and culture,” he insisted with a smile.

  At the end of the day, when Arwela and Roquendagor came back to Mentollà, the knight was feeling better. It was with certain regret that he let Arwela go to her duties. The Seer brought out a soothing presence to all. But she was always very active.

  Arwela also took special care to record the day-to-day life of the community. Sat in front of her makeshift desk with her parchment, pens and ink, beginning to write in cursive Irawenti script, the crudeness of their situation faded somewhat from her mind. It was a ritual for her to take the clan’s book and record, as the night sky resumed its slow rotation, the events of the previous day. In those lands, the constellation of hope, a group of five stars surrounding Cil, the light of the west, gradually disappeared as winter approached. W
hile it would have been fully visible from the northern shores of Nyn Llyvary at summer solstice, each month afterwards one more star would disappear below the western horizon, until the revered western light itself slipped away, marking the beginning of autumn and the coming of long nights. Arwela studied this phenomenon with great interest, eager to understand its implications. She could already sense the effect it had upon the powerful competing deities, and, as the stars shone on, her anxiety only grew.

  One day, her brother Feïwal honoured her with a visit after a class and she shared her worries with him.

  “I’m very concerned. Autumn has come and Cil has abandoned us, disappearing beyond the horizon. The star of hope will not reappear for several months, I believe. Siw! We should be frightened, for we are now at the mercy of Cir’s power, and I can already perceive the dark influence that the star of despair will have upon our destiny. From the depths of the earth, it manipulates the minds of those that despise us. Feïwal, we must follow Nelwiri’s suggestion and devote our energy to building another ship, rather than fortifying this cursed tower.”

  The clan’s guide shared his elder sister’s concerns, but there was no way to reverse the plan that had already been implemented. It was now too late; decisions about the community’s work for the coming months had already been made. It would not be easy to change their course. He attempted to reassure her nonetheless.

  “I understand, and I agree. I too am anxious to reach the shores of Nyn Llorely. I too grow impatient to greet the Llewenti of that island and introduce ourselves to our distant relatives.”

  But this disclosure failed to reassure Arwela. She pressed on.

  “It is in the city of Urmilla that we will find protection. I cannot believe that our brethren would surrender us to an unjust power. We must build the boat as quickly as possible or, in the very worst case, seize one from the ports of Llymar. I sense that our need to depart is urgent.”

  “Arwela, I promise that once Aewöl and Maetor have finished repairing the fortress gates, all of our strength and resources will be dedicated to that objective,” replied Feïwal, unable to commit to anything more.

  Nevertheless, the black omens perceived by his sister had affected him, and only added to his own misgivings. At first, he had been worried that the community might not be able to survive in such a wild and isolated environment. However, as the days passed, he could not deny how quickly progress was being made. Above all, he was heartened by the synergy of the Hawenti and the Irawenti, united by the same objectives and purpose. Feïwal was now revered by all as the true lord of Mentollà. He assumed his new role with serenity and kindness. Feïwal understood that a new destiny was forming before him and his faithful followers. It was an exciting thought, full of promise, but the guide of the clan of Filweni was both wise and shrewd: he knew that such a destiny could not be realised without a cost, and he feared this sacrifice would be a heavy one.

  *

  At night, under the beautiful starry sky, when fragrant aromas emanated from the trees, and a fresh breeze rose gently from the sea, the community would gather around Curwë. From the first joyous sound from his harp, they all acknowledged the talent of the minstrel, and the dancers celebrated their spared lives.

  Curwë regaled his audience with his cheerful talk and merry tales. He was often accompanied by Arwela, who excelled at the flute. Maetor would also take part, marking the beat with drum. Curwë would sometimes drift off from the dance entirely, becoming carried away by his inspiration and improvising a tune that celebrated the beauty of their new life. In those moments their dancing would stop, and the crowd would listen in silence full of renewed hope, returning home once the long melody had finished. For a while, their longing for Essawylor was kept at bay. Such was the infectious nature of the Bard; he always looked to the future and celebrated, with endless merriment and laughter, the beauty, joy and absurdity of life.

  Yet, despite his playfulness, Curwë was also worried. He noticed that his liege, Roquendagor, deliberately staid away from the life of the community. He never attended any of the wild dances so loved by the Irawenti, shunning the musical joy that Curwë could provide. It seemed that Roquendagor deliberately avoided anything that could heal his mind or alleviate his bereavement. Curwë knew that his pride stopped him from sharing this with his retainers, so he respected his lord’s isolation, waiting for the first signs of recovery. Advice from Arwela had strengthened his resolve to remain patient.

  Meanwhile, Roquendagor suffered in silence. That fleeting glimmer of hope that he had glimpsed when he first found refuge in Mentollà had been extinguished.

  The knight took great care to hide his distress from those around him. He was aware that he was not in full control of his faculties and that a sick curse still pervaded his mind. Realising this made progress, as it helped frame in his mind the evil that he so needed to fight. Roquendagor was a warrior, and he needed an enemy for him to work out how to regroup and gather his forces. After some introspection, he soon noticed that there was a pattern to the sick intensity that affected him. Evenings, and above all starless nights, were the most horrible; his mind would become engulfed in grief and anger. He would struggle against madness; it felt like he was drowning, as if his mind were unable to breathe. His thoughts chased around in endless anxious circles, and he felt entirely unable to escape.

  His only alleviation was in extreme exercise, the physical pain he experienced would temporarily dampen his mental agony. Exhausted by his efforts, he could finally find some rest, if only for a few hours. Sunrise would bring him great relief; for the first hours of each day he would enjoy relative peace of mind, a result of his agonizing exertions the night before. During the day, he would summon what little strength he had left after nights of battling his demons and devote himself to designing a siege weapon that could be installed on the remains of the tower’s walkway.

  Roquendagor was a formidable character, he was one of the most praised young Elves for his perseverance and prowess in combat, but he was also uniquely talented at designing new instruments and sketching out construction plans. He excelled in mental disciplines that had a pragmatic purpose, while he despised all abstract academic subjects, which he left to those he regarded as weak, loquacious scholars.

  The task of devising this weapon was no mean feat; the small amount of space available on the remains of the walkway demanded a completely new design that would have to take inspiration from both ballistae and catapults. He had to plan how the weapon could be supplied with ammunition. The challenge was daunting, but its completion could prove crucial, as the main advantage of Mentollà was the platform provided by its tower, which dominated both the sea and the plateau below. Placing a powerful weapon in such a strategic position would make a vital contribution to their defences.

  Aewöl visited him regularly to enquire about his progress, giving him useful advice. He brought the tools and materials necessary to begin making the weapon. But Roquendagor was no fool; he knew Aewöl’s night visits had another purpose. He could see in his companion’s bright eyes the desire to check up on him. Aewöl was closely watching over Roquendagor in his own distant way.

  The work progressed well, and Roquendagor’s idea to combine the various remains of the Alwïryan’s ranged weapons proved fruitful. After a few weeks’ work, they began tests. The ballistic device launched heavy projectiles over great distances. Some missiles could even reach the edge of the Sognen Tausy woods, over four hundred yards away from the tower walls. Aewöl looked relieved; he had been impatient to see the siege weapon built. Turning to Roquendagor, he said with satisfaction.

  “I was eager to finish this work. You deserve our congratulations and gratitude, Roquendagor, for devising such a deadly device. Our community is safer as a result. Anyone approaching our walls, from the bay or the forest, will now be met with powerful retaliation.”

  “We need a name for our new ballista,” Roquendagor declared succinctly.

  “Indeed, and tha
t name should reflect our will to fiercely defend our cause. We should not be naïve. Reaching the archipelago was not the end of our journey. The path before us holds many dangerous pitfalls. There are very few on these islands, be they Elves or men, who will welcome us willingly. Even fewer will extend a hand of friendship in our hour of need.”

  “That is no surprise. A powerful oath stands between us and the Islands,” Roquendagor replied.

  Aewöl’s eyes were now as cold as a blade, as though he had suddenly been reminded of the threats that they would inevitably face.

  “You are right, Roquendagor; we must become strong, powerful and feared. This is the only way we will gain the respect and cooperation of our potential allies. Demonstrating our extraordinary abilities in war is what will gain us influence. Men, like Elves, bow to whoever is strongest, whoever wields the most power. Whatever values they may have learnt in their temples, whatever ethics they may have praised in their songs, they would all, without exception, betray their closest friends to survive, and some will even do so for a taste of more power, glory or influence.

  Blind generosity is a sign of weakness and desperation. Naïve honour often equates to no more than idiotic defencelessness. We may smile and bow to the ambassadors of our neighbours only once we have established our reputation and proven our strength. Only then can we enter into diplomacy: responding to their lies and false promises with machinations of our own. This world is no more honest than a vast fair,” Aewöl murmured, his voice altered by a cold deep-seated hatred.

  “Time will tell… In the meantime, I have thought of a name for our ballista. I have learnt some Llewenti words from that small Elf, Vyrka.”

  “What do you suggest, Roquendagor?”

  “Ganol wallen[48]”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I am not certain, as my proficiency in the local dialect is limited. But, I think it roughly translates as ‘far-reaching death,’ or something similar.”