An Act of Faith

by C A Oliver

  Time is of the essence; our army will soon meet the enemy in the west. We cannot turn back now, but I do find myself wondering if crossing the Arob Nisty was a judicious decision.”

  After leaving Tios Lluin, Curubor had chosen to head south of Nyn Llyvary through one of the few paths which crossed the Arob Nisty Mountains. He had judged that the pass, though harsher, would be much shorter and faster than the sea route. The Blue Mage had only resorted to this radical option because the first battalions of the barbarians were already marching eastwards.

  Soon after the Council of the Forest had ended, Curubor had decided to send an albatross to the Royal Court in Gwarystan. The great sea bird carried news of the impending threat of war and brought a request for an immediate conference with a royal envoy in Llymvranone. He calculated that his unit would take six days to reach the main port of the west coast of Nyn Llyvary. This plan assumed many long, forced marches, with very short nights of rest. They had indeed made quick progress south of Tios Lluin and into the deep forest of Llymar. But their momentum had slowed as they followed the banks of the Sian Llewa[55], the green river, a difficult terrain, and the stamping ground of hunters. The heart of Nyn Llyvary was particularly wild; few Elves dared to venture into those parts, fearing the smugglers and the renegades banished by the King.

  Now a few leagues from the border of the royal domain, the Blue Mage of Tios Lluin was drawing upon all his talent and experience to hasten his unit and encourage its passage. He could frequently be seen at the front of the band, boosting the moral of his troops with his commanding voice, devoting all his energy to the success of their mission.

  *

  A few hours later, just after nightfall, the group finally emerged from the woods on the southern slopes of the Arob Nisty. It was weak moon, smaller and dimmer than Cil, the Star of the West, which had finally pierced the clouds. As they walked on, the moon gradually grew in size and strength. Its mystical halo expanded, flooding the southern stretches of Nyn Llyvary in vivid silver light. In the dissolving heat of the spring night, Curubor and his armed entourage stood for a moment, motionless, at the entrance to the valley of the Sian Kanny[56]. They rested on the edge of the woods, enjoying the gentle breeze of the pines. Hidden night birds sang out. The very heartbeat of Eïwele Llya seemed suspended in the night. The rays of the setting moon contrasted with the shadows of the wild branches. Far away, towards the east and along the horizon, they saw the shimmering blue of the Llyoriane Sea: the heart of the archipelago. The path leading down from the Arob Nisty heights was a tortuous track which meandered through the hills. In this part of the island, with its high altitude, chestnut, walnut and birch trees had replaced the pines and cypresses of the coastline.

  For the next few hours they progressed south through the foothills of the mountain range, unsure of their exact location or where precisely they were heading, distantly hoping to avoid the Valley of Giants, a landlocked territory hallowed by the Llewenti. Elves never ventured into that place, for it was feared that Eïwele Llya’s bastard sons, the giants of the Arob Nisty, still resided there, and none would dare provoke their wrath.

  Morning came. Their exhausting journey had almost ended. To the north, a huge black cloud was rising, overwhelming the sky. Soon a heavy shower was pattering down upon the leaves of the trees. Two knights of the Golden Arch were sent to search for shelter, while Curubor remained with the rest of his unit, progressing more slowly. After another full day of walking, when the two pathfinders returned with their good tidings, the moon had already appeared between the streaks of clouds. After a long and tiring march, Curubor and his small entourage eventually reached the shelter of a refuge.

  The wooden building was rectangular, low and wide, built between three pine trees. On either side of the door, two torches were lit to welcome travellers. Light from the main room was shining through the gaps between the ill-joined beams of the front wall. It was likely that wardens of the frontier were inside. Curubor hesitated. Perhaps this was not the wisest time to seek refuge in a remote frontier shelter. If cautious, he would suggest they continue further along the track, finding some wild area suitable for a camp. But his hungry and exhausted troops were already making their way towards the entrance of the building, eager for a hard-earned rest.

  Curubor did not dare stop them; instead, he cautiously lingered behind. As the door opened, he heard the newcomers greeted with loud cheers, merry laughter and warm invitations and Curubor soon reproached himself for faltering. He realised with a smile that the gold and blue colours of the House of Dol Etrond were still held dear on this side of the Arob Nisty. Inside, the room looked like a stable. Its low ceiling, blackened by smoke, was pierced by several windows. There were no fittings beyond a long shelf which held up some old pottery, and a few chairs, with legs which sunk into the soft clay floor. Torches provided a weak, flickering light and filled the room with the thick smell of resin. There were two Llewenti inside, wardens of the frontier bearing the emblem of Tios Lleny: a red grape upon a field of grass. Their faces were sunburnt, and their helmets were adorned with the red feather of the King’s Hunters. Their keen eyes and their quick movements mimicked the wild beasts that lived alongside them. But they were not alone; a third character joined them in their drinking. Despite his modest attire and average size, all that were present could tell he was a High Elf. But his skin was a bluish grey, his hair was jet black, and his small eyes seemed more accustomed to shadows than to sunlight. He was a Night Elf.

  Once Curubor had entered the room, he cut short the usual ceremonial greetings and ordered that the refuge be guarded for the rest of the night. Visibly tired and worried, he did not linger in the main room for long but claimed the upper level of the building for himself, the most protected area of the refuge. Curubor was weary; the journey had been long and eventful. His mind was still haunted by unsolved riddles. An unknown power had worked some fearsome witchcraft, Amethyst High Magic, to distort the Flow of the Islands and block access to the mountain pass. Bringing his attention back to the tasks to come, he abruptly turned to the two wardens of the frontier.

  “You are to immediately depart for Tios Lleny and inform its steward of the arrival of Curubor, of the House of Dol Etrond, along with his cortege. Tell him to ready a boat for us. King Norelin is gathering the royal army in Llymvranone. We will have to move off quickly, for we plan to descend the Sian Kanny tomorrow. Be gone and make haste. We shall keep your Morawenti friend with us.” He then asked the third drinker in the outpost.

  “What is your name?”

  “Nuriol is how I am known. I come from Menstoro[57] in the hills.”

  “Well, Nuriol of Menstoro. Come and talk upstairs with me.”

  Curubor’s commanding tone forbid the Night Elf’s protest. He followed the Blue Mage obediently. On entering the upper room, Curubor began methodically inspecting it. He looked up towards the small window in the ceiling, suddenly beholding the night-blue sky beyond, which seemed studded with diamonds. He was struck by the beauty of the vision, in all its ephemeral intensity. It comforted him and gave him strength.

  Now fully focused on the task at hand, he turned to his guest.

  The Morawenti, despite being an offshoot of the High Elves, had never truly been considered to be Hawenti, for they did not mingle with Gold or Silver Elves. Curubor had always felt that they had an enigmatic, dark quality to them. Spite, revenge and betrayal were to be expected from them. Nuriol appeared a primitive character, a creature, guided only by his own base appetite, not by reason.

  “Whom do you serve, Nuriol?” suddenly interrogated Curubor.

  The attack came as a surprise. “What do you mean, my Lord?” Nuriol responded nervously, his face tense, realising that he was trapped.

  “Who is your master? Which rune protects you?”

  “I serve no one, my lord. I belong to the wine guild of Tios Lleny.”

  “That is a lie, winemaker. I can read it in your mind! Do not provoke me to unnecessary viole
nce… I see in your eyes that you are from the bloodline of the Night Elves. I see that you swore the oath of shadows, and it is this that makes you so grim and weary. You are now bound to a long, bitter duty. I see it in the pallor of your face,” said Curubor.

  Nuriol defensively responded, sensing that the Blue Mage had intrusively read his mind.

  “I was indeed in the valley of Nargrond when it was invaded by the clan Myortilys. I did swear the Oath of Shadows to take revenge against those evil Elves. But you ought to have seen how they sank our city beneath the lake, how they slaughtered our kin and massacred our children. Such malice cannot be forgiven, even after centuries.”

  Curubor replied softly, with empathy. “I know what you have been through. You belong to those ill-fated Elves who fought in the blood-soaked wars. In those battles, no mercy was ever sought nor offered. There are scholars who say that your quest for revenge continues unabated to this day. Some even say it is still secretly commanded from the shadows. What do you say of this?”

  “I cannot answer you.” Nuriol was determined not to yield to any trick or threat.

  Curubor grew angry. “This is most unfortunate for you, miserable insect. Do you think you can resist the will of Curubor Dol Etrond?” The Blue Mage approached Nuriol, his powerful gaze fixed upon him.

  Already an imposing Elf, he seemed to grow taller. He put forward his right hand and opened up his palm, displaying the gems which adorned his four rings: the red ruby, the blue aquamarine, the dark amethyst and the azure sapphire. Nuriol, speechless and stunned, was suddenly thrust to the wall by an invisible, overwhelming force, his body two feet above the floor. His expression was panic-stricken; he tried to cry, but no sound could be heard. He remained desperately mute while the psychic claws of his aggressor penetrated his mind: searching, investigating, and tormenting him. Finally, Curubor ceased, and the Night Elf fell heavily onto the ground. Nuriol remained motionless, his body curled up, as though completely broken.

  “It is as I suspected, Nuriol of Menstoro. You are a liar, a stubborn liar who will not yield. You know that you are protected by a powerful rune and that failing to keep your oath would cost your soul.”

  Curubor violently tore off Nuriol’s coat and ripped at his clothes until he could grasp his exposed shoulder. Nuriol could not fight back, as if he were a puppet cut loose from its strings.

  Curubor covered the bare flesh with a silver powder, pressing it down into the skin as he murmured incantations. After a few moments, a triangular rune appeared on Nuriol’s shoulder.

  “So, this is it… most unexpected. The Guild of Sana has survived…”

  For a moment the Blue Mage was lost in his thoughts, contemplating what his discovery meant. Nuriol used this time to regain his composure. He tried to stand, but only managed to sit up with considerable difficulty.

  “You may go, Nuriol. Leave this place and go back to where you belong. I have a message for your new master, for I know that he is not far away. Tell him Curubor of the House of Dol Etrond sends his regards and expresses his sympathy. I felt such pity and sorrow for the previous guild master’s misfortune. Tell him that a new age is upon us. Everywhere, Elves are rising, renouncing King Norelin’s protection, denying his sovereignty. There are opportunities for everyone in the new world just beyond the horizon. Now, be on your way. Go!”

  Nuriol had been sure that he was about to meet his end. Surprised and relieved at his chance to escape, he summoned his strength and descended the stairs, before leaving the refuge and disappearing into the night. None of the guards made a move to stop him. The domineering voice of their lord had intimated that the prisoner was to be let go, and his commands were always promptly obeyed.

  The next day, the unit departed very early, as soon as the sun rose. They had benefited from a restorative night’s sleep after the previous day’s exertions. The worst part of the journey was behind them, and their plan now was to swiftly raft down the Sian Kanny River for Llymvranone. Before their departure, Duluin brought a cage containing five blackbirds to his lord. Curubor affixed to each of them a small scroll, bearing the royal seal that he had prepared overnight. Having performed a ritual, humming an exotic warble and making twittering sounds, he released them into the air. The birds took flight towards the west, their powerful, beating wings transporting them swiftly into the distance. Curubor turned to his loyal knight commander and said, with a wry smile.

  “After this, I doubt we shall ever again enjoy the sympathy of King Norelin. It is a serious offence to misappropriate the royal seal and forge the stewards of Llymvranone’s rune.”

  “The blackbirds shall deliver their messages to the cities of the Sian Kanny valley by nightfall. The gathering of the royal army will start tomorrow and, most probably, the first units will reach the battlements of Llymvranone in three days, shortly after us. The timing is perfect,” Duluin assessed.

  “As is the execution of our plan, so far,” concluded Curubor, happy with how events had unfolded.

  The clear voice of Duluin the Tall rolled like thunder across a clear sky.

  “Hear me, guards of the Golden Arch! Fall in! We march southwards in haste!”

  The unit set off immediately, maintaining a fast pace despite carrying their heavy equipment. The jangle of weapons, shields and steel reverberated across the landscape as they passed. They marched down a slight slope towards the south, towards Tios Lleny and the Sian Kanny River. The day was bright, the air pure and their mood joyous. They chanted songs, each melody succeeded by another rousing, rhythmic tune.

  However, the unit did not get far. Their march was interrupted by the sudden presence of three Elves blocking their path. They were dressed like hunters, in green and brown garments. They did not carry weapons, not seeming to pose a threat. They were Morawenti; Nuriol led them. Waving his hand as a sign of welcome, he addressed the foremost guards of the column.

  “I come in peace. Your master, lord Curubor, is invited to Menstoro.”

  No immediate response came, and no command was heard. During this brief hiatus, some of the guards encircled the three Night Elves, while others were sent to explore the surrounding area. The unit adopted a defensive formation, the form of a sun with long rays, expecting an imminent attack or treacherous ambush. For some time, Curubor was nowhere to be seen. Some thought he was giving instructions to his trusted lieutenant. Finally, he appeared, though the image of him seemed somewhat changed. His blue robes seemed gloomier, even fainter.

  “I graciously accept your generous invitation, Nuriol,” he announced, before turning to his unit.

  “Guards of the Golden Arch, I shall not require your protection. You are to follow your Commander to the boat on the Sian Kanny and wait for me there, before we depart together. I shall most likely join you along the road. Duluin, I bid you farewell. We shall meet at nightfall. Remember my orders.”

  Curubor then turned to the Night Elves. “Nuriol, I am at your service. Let us make haste.”

  The two groups parted without another word. The smaller squad headed north-west to the hillsides of the Arob Nisty range, making swift progress through wild and difficult terrain. Curubor showed extraordinary endurance and agility, his thin silhouette moving swiftly in step with his companions. After a couple of hours, the small group came to an impassable tangle of bushes and brambles. The Night Elves quickly used long poles to remove the branches revealing a path through the area. Even a skilled ranger would never have detected such a hidden track. The path evolved to form steps which led down a long way through the scrubland, eventually arriving at a grove of trees that surrounded a naturally formed pit.

  The chasm, about thirty feet in diameter, seemed bottomless. Curubor noticed that they were now at the lowest point of the plateau. The limestone earth, particularly crumbly in this area, had been carved into channels by the cascading run-off of heavy rains. The grove of trees had been planted to deliberately conceal the opening in the ground.

  The Night Elves quickly reeled out l
ong ropes that had been hidden in the foliage of the trees. Securely fastened to the trunks, the ropes were primed for a quick escape into the pit in the event of imminent danger. They prepared for their descent. One scout would remain stationed above ground to manage the ropes.

  Curubor speculated to himself. ‘It is an ancient cave. Long ago, the giants of Arob Nisty found shelter in these underground caverns to escape the Llewenti armies. These were true labyrinths, impregnable refuges.’

  To the astonishment of his companions, Curubor refused the rope that he was offered, and instead uttered a quick incantation before jumping into the chasm. The Blue Mage landed softly forty feet below, after a slow, feather-like fall.

  “So, this is Menstoro, the hidden refuge,” he murmured as he looked around.

  Fifty feet below, an underground river snaked through the abyss, disappearing into the darkness of two large galleries. The Night Elves retrieved torches, carefully stored in crevices in the cave walls. They formed a line with Curubor at its centre. In silence, they began to descend further underground. Only the rush of the river and the crackling of the torches could be heard, until the flow of a waterfall resounded and gradually became deafening. The river in front of them plunged into a large cavern, into a tumult of bubbling water beneath. The gallery’s ceiling was particularly high in this stretch of the labyrinth.

  The Morawenti directed their torches towards a hole in the wall high above them. They uttered a password in a strange, rasping language. Moments later, an Elf emerged from the hole in the half-light of their torches and threw down a rope ladder. The small party began climbing. At the top, Curubor found that the hole became a narrow tunnel, carved in stone and covered with soot, which they proceeded to crawl along in single file.

  They eventually began to smell smoke, the air becoming warmer. They crawled for a long while until the passage widened and led into a huge cavern. Curubor could not help but exclaim in surprise. A vast underground room appeared before him, more than four hundred feet high and a hundred feet wide, its roof reached the height of a great oak tree. Fires were burning brightly around the edges of the cave, their light reflecting on the ceiling, illuminating the entire space.