An Act of Faith

by C A Oliver

  “There is another solution,” he declared.

  “We can call upon the Druids. The servants of the Mother of the Islands designed the Pact and convinced all parties to respect it. There are both men and Elves in their assembly. They undoubtedly possess the potential to control the barbarians and eliminate the threat of the Cult of the Three Dragons.

  I say we simply defend our own borders and let the Druids administer justice beyond them. War is altogether a disproportionate reaction, a calamity; it is my duty as the most ancient warrior of the forest to avoid it, for the sake of my kin.”

  The ‘Old Bird’ was finished. As calmly as he had assumed the position of the speaker, he returned to his seat. Tyar dyl’s brief and unexpected speech had once again shifted the tide of opinion. The clan Llyvary’s many noble dyl looked hesitant again. He was the bravest fighter in the forest, famous for countless feats of arms; none would dare accuse him of cowardice or inexperience. Besides, everyone present knew that if the unassuming warlord of Llafal had spoken, he must have been given instructions by Lyrine to do so, as he had always been her faithful servant. Growing apprehension overwhelmed the noble commanders and their troops.

  Now standing alone in the circle, all eyes fixed upon him, Gal dyl’s position could not have been more difficult. The increasing pain in his back disrupted his thinking. The burning sensation in the hand which was holding the Spear of Aonyn reminded him that he had never sought this high position in the first place. In a desperate attempt to find the support of his beloved daughter, his eyes searched for where the matriarchs were sat. But his gaze was captured by Lyrine’s spell, and in the depths of his soul, he could sense her implacable determination. He could see her doubting his abilities and disdainfully looking down upon his weaknesses.

  Hurt by such an insulting judgment, Gal dyl straightened, forgetting the pain in his back and his burning hand. Strong-willed, he pushed the disturbing vision from his mind and focused on the crowd around him. Sounding like a hero of yore and brandishing the Spear of Aonyn, he proclaimed.

  “I have been guided by duty and honour my entire life. I would rather die than beg favours of King Norelin. I cannot look towards the western part of Nyn Llyvary without seeing forests and valleys that were owned by the Llewenti since the dawn of time. Those territories were stolen from us by the shameful compromise accepted by the young King of Gwarystan, self-proclaimed sovereign of the archipelago.

  How many Hawenti noble houses safeguarded their wealth and possessions by selling ours? But we saved the rest of our heritage by refusing to succumb to King Norelin’s rule. So, let the enemy come. And let us confront it with the Spear of Aonyn! What is your response to that?” Gal dyl roared at the crowd.

  Nobody had ever heard him speak with such authority and, if some had doubted their high warlord’s determination, they were now fully convinced that he possessed the strength to wield the Spear of Aonyn. A long pause followed. The crowd became threatening.

  Suddenly, an Elf who until then had been unobserved fought his way down the crater steps through the assembled fighters and commanders. He easily reached the circle, as everyone moved out his way to create a path. His face was hidden by a large, dark green hood, but the bare sword on his back left no doubt about his identity.

  His name was Dyoren, the elder brother of Mynar dyl and Voryn dyl. But he was widely known as the ‘Lonely Seeker’, a solitary traveller whose songs and music had earned him the reputation of the greatest bard that was ever known to have walked the paths of the archipelago. Its shining blade was adorned with the brightest emeralds. He carried it bare upon his back, as no sheath could contain it. This legendary broad sword distinguished him as the envoy of a secret order, to which all owed their respect.

  Without pausing, Dyoren crossed the esplanade, passed Gal dyl without even looking at him, and reached the stone steps of Eïwal Vars Temple. He grasped the broad sword, swinging it round from his back, and brandished the bare blade.

  He suddenly threw the weapon at the dark ancestral doors with incredible strength. The shining glaive flew into the heavy panels with a resounding crash and stuck the wood. A distant, painful groan could be heard, like the rumble of Eïwal Vars himself.

  Turning to the crowd, the Lonely Seeker exclaimed.

  “If the matriarchs decide, the Blade of the West shall go to war, alongside the Spear of Aonyn.”

  “I hear your call, Dyoren, and I will gladly march at your side,” replied Gal dyl, taking up the gauntlet, he, in turn, launched the sacred lance against the temple door.

  More were moving forward. Mynar dyl threw his javelin into the temple doors, and was soon followed by his brother Voryn dyl, and then many other noble dyl of the clan Llyvary, save for a few who were still loyal to the warlords of Llafal and Penlla. The army ignored this small faction of peace seekers and unleashed its fury. Voices crying out for war could be heard everywhere, from all clans and factions. The choice was clear: Llymar Forest demanded war.

  The matriarchs rose, slowly forming a procession behind the eldest as they crossed the circle and entered the Temple of Eïwele Llyo to consult the omens. Once inside the holy shrine, Lyrine isolated herself. Ignoring her peers, who were busy preparing for the ceremony, she crossed the vast underground hall and slipped between two carved pillars, arriving before the imposing altar to the deity. A few yards behind it, a frame of black wood containing an engraving was positioned within one of the numerous alcoves. Candles bathed it in subdued light.

  Hidden from the other high priestesses, the Lady of Llafal knelt in front of the artwork, her heart swollen but her eyes dry. She stared devotedly at the inanimate, inexpressive figure, as if the noble image might come to life and answer her prayer. The artist had represented a fallen clan warlord, half-naked on a bed of leaves, with drops of blood spilling down his side. His right hand was mutilated, hanging limply from his arm, yet it was still holding a spear. His eyes were closed, like those of a dying Elf. Pallor and suffering imbued his countenance with a divine aura that the face of a Llewenti will only express when passing from one life to the next.

  The engraving bared one inscription, written in runes of blood:

  Yluin dyl Llyvary, Protector of the Forest

  The lady extended her arms toward the image and spoke to it, exactly as if she were praying to one of the deities.

  “On your deathbed, father, I begged you to wait, I begged you not to leave me to face the clan Llyvary’s fate alone... Still crying over your bloody corpse, I took an oath, an oath of vengeance and death, to have the human barbarians pay for your blood with theirs. But in doing so, I imposed upon our clan a dreadful burden, even as it submitted to me, and called me its most trusted matriarch. Through the words of some, and through the actions of others, Eïwele Llyo came to remind me of this oath. And as all the dead Llewenti see her influence, you must have observed, Father, as I have, that dark omens are gathering. I have no doubt that your restless soul is still filled with anger and the thirst for revenge. I have no doubt that you expect your heir to impose the only just punishment imaginable. Well rejoice, my father, for I am about to take many of our clan into the care of Eïwele Llyo, to honour the oath sworn upon your body.”

  Lyrine got up onto one knee and kissed the hand that seemed to hang outside the frame. She was crying. Now that the council decision was made, and the entire assembly was calling for war, she had no other choice but to fulfil her oath. Reluctant as ever, she now reckoned that she had no escape.

  “In the early history of the Islands when the Llewenti walked by the deities’ sides, they looked up at the same black sky sparkling with stars, and they shared their divine hope.

  But we shall never see their indulgent dream of an eternal sanctuary, preserved from the world, become a reality. Fear, guilt and remorse: such are the disfigurements that defile our souls, like the burned flesh of a sacrificed warrior of yore. Forgive me, Father, forgive my bitterness. My eyes dried up after weeping for you, those eyes that you lo
ved so much.”

  The Lady of Llafal had made her decision: she would have the clan Llyvary march to war. She would be true to that oath she had once uttered. Though her conscience forbade any other choice, her wisdom allowed her to foresee the dangers of the slippery slope that they had created. She returned to the other matriarchs around the altar, her mind finally clear.

  *

  Since his intervention that morning, Curubor had stood, among the nobles of Llymar, almost motionless, his eyes half-closed, listening with great attention to each speech as though they were barely audible, despite the proximity.

  Observing the matriarchs exiting the temple of the deity of fate, he turned towards the commander of his personal guard, who was standing by his side, and with a smile said.

  “Duluin, you may gather the knights and prepare to depart. I expect we will leave for Llymvranone[53] at the first light of day. I am afraid that the Council of the Matriarchs will ask me to carry news of war to the envoy of King Norelin. It would be wise for a unit of the Golden Arch Guard to accompany us. There will be turbulent times ahead.”

  CHAPTER 6: DOL ETROND

  2709 of the Llewenti Calendar, Season of Eïwele Llyi, 1rst day, Forest of Llymar

  The two Elves had been walking for a few hours when they finally decided to stop at the summit of a steep hill. The sun was gradually warming the air around them and, as its golden rays crept above the peaks of the grey mountains, the dew coating the leaves of the bushes was slowly melting away.

  Without making a sound, the first scout sniffed the air, and turned his gaze towards the towering heights of the Arob Nisty Mountains, to the southwest. Spring was on its way; the snow was retreating further and further up the peaks. He pointed out the northern slopes to his companion. A forest of tall pine trees obscured their route to the pass through the mountains. The forest was dark, dense and full of mystery; it reminded the two Elves of the evil, wild woods described in the ancient songs of their clan.

  Their expressions were grave, as if haunted by faded memories of a troubling dream. The encroaching darkness of the forest reminded them of the challenge they would soon have to face. They exchanged glances; both knew that they could not turn back from the mission that lord Curubor had entrusted to them.

  It took them an hour to reach the edge of the forest. A great wind from the north sent dark clouds in their direction and the leaves upon the thick, shadowy trees shuddered. Then the rain began. For the following two hours it fell heavily as they trekked up the mountain, soaking the clay soil and streaming along the path. It was as if nothing could live under the shade of the trees, like in the evil woods of the fables. The lack of life in their surroundings was increasingly unsettling. The path was completely deserted. No creature ran through the meadows, fluttered from branch to branch nor skittered on the forest floor. It was like the world before the coming of the Elves.

  Uneasy, the two scouts of the House of Dol Etrond questioned this lifelessness, interrogating the threatening trees, the dark clouds, even the very air around them, for answers. They were not alone, as a unit of guards followed a short distance behind them, but the two scouts could not help feeling like they were the only living things for miles around. The sun had not yet set, but already a cold, dark night was making its presence felt. The northwest wind whistled through the air, filling the ears of the isolated Elves with a sound more menacing than silence.

  The smaller Elf, who seemed to be of higher rank, stopped his companion, placing a hand on his shoulder.

  “You know full well that, in battle, I would never step back to save my own life. And yet, tonight, I feel affected by some strange force which overwhelms my senses and forbids me to go any further. Call it what you will: superstition, or even… fear. Yes, maybe it is fear.”

  His companion turned, terrified by these threatening omens. Yet they had spotted nothing, heard nothing, and seen nothing.

  “You believe we’re being followed?” he asked.

  “Oh, no, I’m not thinking of wild Elves or even the prowling Arob Nisty giants. No! The danger that I feel is different. It’s instinctive. Something is approaching us and… threatening us. I cannot tell what it is which is why I am so scared.”

  The smaller Elf’s emphatic and persuasive voice barely contained his emotion and his remarks soon began to affect his companion. For several hours, the taller Elf had walked like a brave ranger in the footsteps of his chief, even though his mind had been constantly tortured by his growing fear. But now, he could no longer control his emotions. His expression was furious and unyielding. He did not have the heart to question his companion anymore. Gathering his equipment and checking his weapons, he examined their surroundings and then turned, retreating down the steep path southwards, towards the protection that the Dol Etrond unit would provide.

  He had just started running down the path when he saw a movement out of the corner of his eye. Three, maybe four figures pursued him along either side of the path, pushing aside foliage and slaloming between the pine trunks. He screamed, calling for help. Running as fast as he could, he could not clearly see where he was going, and fell several times. But suddenly, he stopped his gaze fixed ahead of him. A roar of panic ripped through the air. He saw before him many mutilated corpses, savagely crucified upon the branches of the trees. They were his companions, his friends, the guards and the knights of the Golden Arch. Sensing danger behind him, he turned back to look up the hill; it was then that he saw them approaching. Numerous dark Elves, more than he could count, were progressing slowly down the path, heavily armed, carrying ropes. His gaze went from the crucified corpses before him to the approaching murderers behind him. He darted to the side, off the path, running faster and faster through the trees, only to fall from the top of a ravine into a deep precipice. His body crashed down onto the rocks far below.

  The smaller scout, who so far had not moved an inch from his position further up the path, raised his hands towards the sky in helpless terror. He had not seen what had happened, but the agonised cry of his companion echoed with horrific vividness in his head. He looked around, knowing how hopeless his chances of survival were; he could already see the sinister halls to which Llewenti souls go after death. He let out a shriek: the shriek of an Elf who could see his own death.

  “He’s been murdered. He is dead!” he whispered desperately, leaning on a tree for support.

  His heightened senses perceived the shrill sound of an arrow shooting through the air. A deep shudder ran through his whole body. He forced himself to listen again. Silence, all he could hear was the pounding of his own heart. Suddenly he could hear footsteps rapidly progressing along the path. Then, in the depths of the woods, a dark shape appeared. He let out a terrifying roar and charged through the thicket to meet his enemy. He ran blindly and recklessly. He hit something hard and fell to the ground. Someone was grabbing him, shouting in his ear. Someone was instructing him to… calm himself.

  His body was still shaking violently. His legs were barely able to support him. Yet, around him, the world had suddenly become brighter, less gloomy, and the sky turned a deep, rich blue. His limbs slowly began to relax, more and more with each shaky breath.

  “You no longer have anything to fear. You are now under the protection of my rings,” said a calm, deep voice.

  The scout recognized his liege Curubor Dol Etrond, bending over him with hands wide open, displaying the colourful gems of his four rings.

  “A shadow can be cast from behind or in front of you, but never from above. Therefore, look to the sky; you shall soon escape the murderous spell,” said Curubor mysteriously.

  He explained, reassuringly as ever, “Your mind was obscured by a wicked illusion: the work of ghost killers wishing to push you to your death. Their power comes from underground, from the realm of Gweïwal Agadeon[54],” and, to emphasise what he was saying, the dark amethyst of his fourth ring glowed with a pale radiance. Curubor turned to the unit which escorted him and emphatically ordered.


  “Fall in behind me. Under no circumstances are you to leave the track. Stay close to your companions and let us progress swiftly. We must cross the mountain pass before nightfall. These woods are full of evil. A dark, powerful magic inhabits them. I can hear an insidious music which distorts the Flow of the Islands, like the song of a cursed bard.”

  The guards obeyed without question. They were highly disciplined, with unending confidence in their lord. To ward off evil spirits, they unveiled the House of Dol Etrond banner, the Golden Arch upon an azure field.

  Duluin the Tall, commander of the unit, marched towards the head of the party to join his lord.

  “This is most unexpected. We had anticipated threats from renegades and smugglers in these mountainous parts, but such potent sorcery…”

  Curubor concurred. “It is most unexpected indeed. Tios Lleny and the lands around it looked very different when I last crossed this mountain pass. I remember an isolated city at the end of the road, with very little to distinguish it beyond its vineyards and nectar gardens. Its population was very diverse, with many lowborn Elves, but also artisans and merchants, who were prized for their alchemical skill and considered the best winemakers of the island. The city had also become a haven for petty thieves and smugglers, beyond the reach of the royal stewards. But it was certainly not a place where one could witness the forces of the amethyst. Someone has come here recently, someone whose music must be powerful enough to summon the shadows which pervade these woods so that they might guard the region from the ignorant and the weak.

  Can you not hear that music being carried through the leaves by the breeze?

  Can you not hear those deep voices communing under the ground?

  This evil, powerful chant is the cause of that spell.