An Act of Faith

by C A Oliver

  “I am going back to fight,” announced Gelros.

  “What do you mean you are going back? Alone?” Curwë exclaimed in disbelief.

  “We must delay them. I will wound them badly, and so unsettle them. And, let me tell you, the wild Elves will not give up their fight. They have waited too long for this war. Though outnumbered fifty to one, they will plague their enemies and slow their advance. Those outcasts will fiercely defend their territory, believe me.”

  “If this invasion turns on Mentollà, we will be trapped with no means of escape. Someone needs to alert the clans of the Llewenti. They are our only hope.

  Siw! Someone needs to go to the Forest of Llymar,” Nelwiri urged.

  “You are right, my friend. Time is of the essence. You are best placed for this mission. Use our small boat so you may reach the eastern shores of the bay more quickly,” Curwë advised.

  “It is anchored just one league from here. I’ll be there in less than an hour and, if the winds are favourable, I will reach the shores of the Gloren peninsula by nightfall.”

  “No doubt the matriarchs will pay more heed to an Irawenti envoy,” added the bard, trying to convince himself that such a mission was the proper course of action, without reference to Mentollà’s command. “Provided you do not get killed by their distrustful wardens before you get a chance to talk,” Curwë added sarcastically.

  Assessing the situation, he then declared.

  “I will return to Mentollà. We will not regret our toil over the winter months, as we barricaded the ruins of the tower...”

  “I have seen what is coming. I doubt Mentollà will be a safe place for you,” warned Gelros.

  Sensing that the three would soon have to part, Nelwiri grasped his two companions and invited them to join him in celebrating their friendship with an Irawenti ritual. The three Elves formed a triangle; each holding his companion’s left shoulder with his right hand.

  “Mywon tyn,”[71] they repeated three times.

  Suppressing his emotion Curwë added melodramatically, with a smile, “I am not sure we will see each other again… But, rest assured, that if you do not survive what is coming, I will immortalise your glorious deeds in a wonderful song!”

  Gelros had no more time to waste on the bard’s black humour; he was already on his way, quickly disappearing from sight into the green foliage of the trees.

  He was a true fighter but also a talented ranger. The Morawenti scout liked to travel light, dressed in dark green and brown clothes, hidden beneath a long cloak. For his armour, he favoured steel over chain mail. His cuirass, gauntlets and greaves were made of a rare metal that guaranteed protection without impeding movement. His war tactics were based on stealth, agility and intelligence rather than brute force. He owed his reputation to his archery skills. With enough strength to wield a great black yew bow, he could shoot many arrows over a great distance with deadly accuracy. Gelros called it his “Cruel Bow”, and he worshipped it as a faithful companion.

  It did not take long for the scout to decide a strategy.

  “The wild Elves will harass the barbarian army on its flanks, slowing its progress. It would be too dangerous to join them, blinded as they are by their hatred. Instead of holding back, they deliberately choose direct confrontation. Massacring their enemies is their sole obsession. The barbarian chief has probably strengthened his vanguard after the blow our group inflicted. It is at the rear that I will strike now, among the wagons which carry the supplies. I will inflict terror upon the weakest point of our enemy. In doing this, I will strike their morale. And then, I will sneak towards the heart of the great army and… murder its commander.”

  Feeling reassured that he had now decided on a course of action, Gelros concentrated his efforts on finding a safe hideout. He finally chose a tall maritime pine tree. Hidden up in the air among the branches, with a view out over the woods, he would simply have to let the enemy pass by below, until he spied his prey at the tail of the column. Birds and butterflies were aplenty in these woods, so Gelros spent the first few hours of his watch befriending them. They would be useful spies to alert him of imminent dangers. He then dedicated his time to poisoning his arrowheads with great care and caution.

  To his mind, war was not a contest of honour, but rather a hunt, in which there were winners and losers. Life was the stake of that great game and, so far, he had managed to stay alive. Once all his preparations and safety measures had been seen to, Gelros could finally enjoy a moment’s rest. Alone in the wild, he listened to the sounds of the forest: the sweetest melody that no harp or voice could outshine. Above him, the clouds blown along by the ocean’s breath, offered a changing but constantly beautiful spectacle. His senses, alert as ever, concentrated on capturing the beauty of his surroundings. He savoured this happy moment.

  With a joyful heart, he started to hum his favourite tune, “Gelros’ Complaint”. It was a song in lingua Morawenti, which celebrated his numerous victories in a long litany that named the enemies he had killed and the battlefields he had graced. He dedicated it to his trusted companion, the Cruel Bow, which, like a single-stringed harp, emitted its own sweet music in response. Still muttering the lament, he set about carving an additional rune onto the bow at the tip of its lower limb, where many already figured. He endowed his companion with his first feat of arms on the archipelago: eight barbarians from the army of the Dragon Warrior.

  Birds gathered around the tree, expressing their joy with melodious twittering. A squirrel soon joined them. Smiling, Gelros abandoned himself to this moment of communion and peace. He adjusted the leather mask on his face, covered his head with his hood and wrapped himself in his large cloak. The colours of his clothes camouflaged with the surroundings. His mind relaxed and his spirit roamed to the tropical forests of Essawylor, where it belonged. He could see the countless varieties of luxurious plants. He could feel the humidity of the air beneath the lower canopy, where the trees released water vapour from their large leaves. Visions of orchids, bromeliads and lianas filled his dreams.

  But Gelros was not allowed to enjoy his reverie for long. He was soon awake: his senses fully alert. A shadow had crept across the sun. A rumour was running through the woods. The trees shook and made a deep, unknown sound, like some secret whisper of warning. The birds of the forests were suddenly seized with fright. All was chaos. Gelros noticed that some were seeking safe refuge, whereas the birds of prey were regrouping high in the sky in response to the forest’s call. Gelros himself carefully climbed higher up the tree, until he could finally survey the entirety of the Sognen Tausy woods. Dozens, indeed hundreds of great birds were flocking together and moving east, towards the Llewenti cities. A power was summoning to its side the hawks and the falcons, the buzzards and the vultures.

  7th day, Temple of Eïwal Ffeyn, Llafal

  The nine matriarchs of the Forest of Llymar had gathered at the Temple of Eïwal Ffeyn, on top of the hill that overlooked Llafal. It was a place of power: a shrine dedicated to the storm deity. This was the sacred mount from which the high priestesses exerted their control over the Flow of the Islands.

  “Hear me, Matriarch Lyrine! The birds of the forest have responded to our call. They have come in great numbers, such as we have not seen in over a century. They are gathering above the hills of the Arob Salwy and will protect the progress of our army,” declared Matriarch Myryae. Her tone was humble and full of respect.

  “This is good. You have done well, and you have my gratitude,” thanked Lyrine, before she turned towards her daughter.

  Nyriele was standing on the edge of the temple’s terrace, contemplating the green waters of the Halwyfal below. The air was humid. The basin’s banks, which formed the edges of the City of Llafal, were obscured by a mysterious haze. Not a breath of wind disturbed the atmosphere; the world seemed magically suspended. The dancing glimmer of the pale morning sun illuminated Nyriele’s face. Lyrine contemplated her daughter with wonder. For one of the first times in her life, she admired
her majesty, dignity and newfound strength. Knowing that times of trial would soon be upon them, Lyrine realised that Nyriele was indeed the worthy descendant of Queen Llyoriane. The maid’s incredible beauty always made a vivid impression upon whoever beheld her. Her wisdom showed in her furrowed brow. Her chin, though delicately formed, expressed her strong will. A marine pearl tiara sparkled in her light hair. An assortment of colourful peacock feathers fell upon her bare shoulders. Wearing a long white dress of fine silk, she was standing tall, an ethereal being. The young matriarch embodied Eïwele Llyi’s purity. The divinity of love and beauty had granted her high priestess with rare powers of insight; she could judge from afar the heart of any being.

  Aware that her mother wanted information, Nyriele fixed her eyes on the waters of the Halwyfal and spoke slowly, her voice deep and measured, as though the events she described, occurring leagues away to the west, beyond the peninsula hills, were unfolding before her.

  “Descending in great number from the mountains, the barbarians carry heavy equipment. They cross the paths of the Arob Tiude, following into battle the Dragon Warrior that they so idolise. Trails crawl with their convoys.

  The horned heads of the H’Ocas and the red masks of the H'Ores have brought a large troop of archers from the coastal lands. The mountaineers of the H'Orunts lead the march brandishing their axes, and the riders of the H'Ontals protect their convoys at the rear. This army is almost ten thousand strong. We are outnumbered by at least four to one. These tribes form a long stream which becomes increasingly full as it approaches Mentollà. The barbarian power is gathering around the ruined fortress.”

  “We were too weak,” interrupted Lyrine. “The refugees from Essawylor did not take the path I set out for them, which would have kept them away from Llymar Forest. We should never have let these castaways settle on the shores of the wild Elves’ land. We should never have tolerated their presence in Mentollà. We ought to have handed them over to the King of Gwarystan. It would not have been a pledge of our vassalage to that… usurper, but merely a diplomatic gesture. We shall come to regret my lack of discernment, my weakness, in the face of my advisors. Think on this: it was Gal dyl who counselled me to simply keep them at arms’ length.”

  “Do not blame Father! His advice was, to his mind, the best way to keep the peace,” Nyriele protested innocently.

  “How noble an aspiration that was, yet how poor a strategy it proved! Your father has always opted for passivity; he has always left it the future to decide his fate. See now what has happened: his protégés have triggered a war by openly violating the Pact,” the Lady of Llafal countered. “Fortunately, their boldness will not be rewarded, for they will be facing the barbarian onslaught alone. I strongly doubt they will survive it. The black omens that accompanied their arrival were indeed fortuitous. The Halwyfal waters never lie. Eïwele Llyo sees all,” she continued authoritatively.

  “Mother, do you not see that we are on the verge of a global conflict, a conflict whose roots grow far deeper than the coming of one ship from Essawylor?”

  Taken aback by the insolence of this last almost rebellious remark, Lyrine hesitated before answering. She finally whispered threateningly.

  “No one shall tell me what to think. No one, Nyriele, not even you.”

  Regaining her composure, she turned to the seven other matriarchs within the temple, who were awaiting her command.

  “Sisters of the Islands, come to me! The time has now come to address our prayers to the Master of the Ocean and to beg for his assistance!” she proclaimed. This would be a most perilous task.

  Raising her voice, Lyrine commanded.

  “Send the signal to the priests of Gweïwal Uleydon! Bid them take horses out along the pier. Let us sacrifice our steeds to the glory of the Greater God of the Waters.

  O Gweïwal Uleydon, our offerings today shall be seven white stallions, for the matriarchs of the clan Llyvary, and two chestnut horses, for the matriarchs of the clan Ernaly. These are generous gifts, Gweïwal Uleydon, to haul your mighty coral chariot! So, hear what we call for in return! Matriarchs of Llymar, gather around me. All of you!”

  Following Lyrine’s command, the high priestesses joined hands on the edge of the temple’s colonnades, their prayers and chants celebrating the sacrifice being made far below, by the shores of the Halwyfal. In perfect harmony, their melodious voices would rise a note higher each time the priests of Gweïwal Uleydon sent forth a horse, manic with terror, from the pier into the depths of the Halwyfal waters, where it would drown in cruel agony.

  The horror of the scene was overwhelming. No matriarch underestimated the gravity of the sacrifice, for they could feel in their own bodies the energy of life escaping from the stallions’ carcasses with each new loss. They also perceived how, as they deprived each animal of its life, their own powers grew, and their connection to Gweïwal Uleydon’s realm became stronger.

  Moments after the last condemned horse was swallowed by the great basin’s emerald waters. The chant of the nine matriarchs reached an unnatural intensity. Lyrine stepped forward and cried.

  “The flow of Llymar Forest’s streams, torrents and rivers must be reversed; the basin of the Halwyfal must gradually empty itself. The Halwyfal will draw to its heart the power of the ocean. It will absorb its strength, until the waves calm, the currents slow and all tumult ceases. The Lord of the Waters will give us his blessing, and the Austral Ocean will be as calm as a mountain lake.”

  “Hlan nois, Gweïwal Uleydon, Hlan nossa nalniy Gweïwal Uleydon!”[72]

  As Nyriele heard these incantations and felt, as did all the matriarchs around her, her power draining away, she thought.

  ‘This cannot be.’

  The magical energy summoned by her mother was now entirely absorbed by the great spell that had been cast. Phosphorescent streams of azure flowed from the sea towards the temple’s colonnades, circling around the eight lesser matriarchs. Nyriele observed the high priestesses, one after the other, seize the magical streams, hold and shape it in their hands, before offering it to Lyrine. It was Nyriele who stepped forward last, intuitively performing the High Magic ritual in all its detail, before finally kneeling in front of her mother and bestowing the Aquamarine Flow herself. In that moment, she saw Lyrine at the full height of her authority and might, capable of wielding divine power. Nyriele felt overcome.

  The beautiful maid noticed that the nymph statues in the fountain behind her had ceased to pour out water. The flow of waters was gradually reversing. The nymphs were now sucking the pool’s water up through their mouths. The pool was being filled by a small stream, flowing backwards, uphill into the temple. The tide of the Halwyfal had, too, been reversed. The ocean filled the wide basin with all its might.

  **

  7th day, Mentollà

  The evening was mild. The fog was rolling in a dense mass across the Arob Salwy Mountains. On the hilltops, large piles of rocks were gradually disappearing into the clouds. Dominating the ocean from its high position, the tower of Mentollà, a gigantic, mutilated peak of its own, reddened in the last rays of sunshine. The hunters had returned: some drinking beverages around the fires that were lit, others already hard at work. The ground was soggy; the air humid, the camp bristled with frenetic activity and yells rang all around.

  After racing through the woods all day, Curwë had finally reached the walls of Mentollà. His coming had been eagerly anticipated, and there was great tumult in the courtyard as he progressed through the crowd towards the great keep. Gelros’ warning had already reached the fortress compound and, despite the concerned look upon all the faces that Curwë passed, preparations seemed to be coming along well. The focus was now upon whatever might best bolster their defences.

  Walking along the footpath which led down the immense rock to the harbour of Mentollà, Curwë noted that all the Irawenti had painted specific azure tattoos on the left side of their face, denoting each of their specific communities. The bard headed out towards a dangerous
path along which the Irawenti held hands in a long line that led down to the waters of the creek where Arwela stood.

  The seer remained in the water up to her waist, performing a heartfelt ceremony. One by one, the followers of Gweïwal Uleydon immersed themselves in the clear waters of the creek and carried out the ancient ritual that always preceded crucial battles. While underwater, the Irawenti cut their long hair and offered it to the Greater God of the Seas. Once the symbolic offering was complete, the seer of the clan of Filweni blessed them, so that they felt calm. No matter what may happen to their bodies during the coming battle, their souls would join the Almighty Lord of Waters, to dwell in the ocean’s depths for eternity.

  Curwë stopped awhile, touched by the poignant scene.

  ‘Many of them will not survive the bloodshed that is to come,” the weary bard could not help thinking. “The Irawenti are lively Elves, warm-hearted and generous. I greatly admire their passion for the arts. Like me, their favourite pastimes are singing and dancing. I appreciate the way they express their feelings with passion. I love the way they furnish their exotic language with expressive gestures. Indeed, in some ways, I have developed a special bond with their culture. They act so very differently from the High Elves.’

  Curwë shivered when Feïwal came to greet him at the dungeon doors.

  The Irawenti guide’s skin remained tanned, despite the long, sunless winter they had experienced, but his appearance had somewhat changed. Feïwal’s dark, wavy hair was covering the left side of his face, masking his eye and ear. Silvery feathers and natural vine leaves were woven into his dark locks, like a constellation of stars. There was a new tattoo upon his left cheek, the mark of a dolphin. Feïwal was finely dressed. His clothes, so light they were almost floating, gave him a mystical aura. His manners betrayed nothing but serenity and calm, oblivious to the dangerous situation at hand.