An Act of Faith

by C A Oliver

  The two Elves were soon joined by Roquendagor and Aewöl. The small group decided to fall back to the tower chambers, which would offer greater privacy. Curwë soon spoke up.

  “You already know that a strong detachment of several hundred barbarians was reported south of Mentollà. They must be experienced mountaineers to have crossed the Arob Tiude peaks. Until now, they have tried to keep their presence secret, but all the while they have been barring our exit towards the south: to Llymar Forest. Unfortunately, we have also received information from the Arob Tiude pass to the north, known by the Llewenti as the “Neck of the Hadon”. Barbarian scouts have crossed the Arob Tiude and entered into the woods of Sognen Tausy. The wild Elves reacted, eventually engaging them in battle. Gelros had decided to escort them. He reported that the battle was brief. The fate of the human survivors was savage. Brutally mutilated, they were exposed to the wind, a bloody warning to other men. The wild Elves are ruthless; they are accustomed to torturing their victims according to their ancient rites. The magic they use during these cruel ceremonies enable them to extract their enemies’ best kept secrets... This is how they came to know of the imminent, large-scale invasion.”

  There was a frozen silence as all considered the implication of these last words. Curwë continued.

  “The signal for all wild Elves to gather was sent through the Sognen Tausy woods to the farthest corners of the Gloren peninsula. Vyrka decided to lead his own small unit and join his brethren on the path to war. Gelros accompanied him.”

  “Where are they now? Have they not returned with you?” asked Roquendagor.

  “I will come to it soon enough, for I bear sad news and dark tidings.”

  “Ah!”

  “I understand that Vyrka’s unit, as it was travelling to join the rest of the wild Elves, encountered a strong vanguard of the barbarian army. They were most likely a group of scouts, sent ahead of the column to explore the field. Identifying well-worn paths is an important task for the invaders, as they carry considerable equipment: from siege weapons to chariots full of supplies. Vyrka decided to attack this party, even though he and the other wild Elves were clearly outnumbered. It is perilous to engage men in close combat, for they are tall and strong. Once cornered into a melee, it is difficult to escape the frenzy of their wrath.”

  “What are you saying?” Roquendagor asked impatiently.

  “All were killed. The entire unit… Vyrka was among the dead. But Gelros escaped… He managed to report back to Nelwiri and me. The invading troops are several thousand strong. They are progressing extremely slowly and cautiously, hampered as they are by the inhospitable terrain and the constant attacks from wild Elves. They have enough arms and equipment to conduct a war campaign and are determined to besiege Mentollà. Given the hopeless situation we are now faced with, Nelwiri volunteered to alert the Llewenti clans and beg for their protection. He took our boat, anchored by the shores of the Sognen Tausy woods, to cross the bay of Gloren and reach the hills of the Arob Salwy,” Curwë explained.

  “This was most unwise. Nelwiri may well pay dearly for his thoughtless initiative. The matriarchs’ minions will not hesitate in capturing him…or worse,” said Feïwal, now worried.

  “I have not yet received any news from him since,” Curwë admitted before continuing. “Once Nelwiri departed, Gelros refused to safely retreat to Mentollà with me. He wished to return to the enemy. I trust by now he lurks close behind them, silent and alone, striking at them mercilessly in the dark, killing them one by one.”

  “Gelros will not return until he has spilled his ration of blood. He will make those men pay a dear price for the death of Vyrka,” Roquendagor predicted, imagining his former hunt master as a jaguar on a savage hunt in the wilderness.

  “That little Llewenti was our friend. Gelros will kill many men to avenge him. He will use arrows and… poison. He will strike terror into their ranks. They will never catch him. And, eventually, he shall make an attempt on the life of their leader,” concluded Aewöl. There was a cruel inevitability in his words, for he was Gelros’ true master, and knew that his orders would be blindly obeyed. The others could not help but shiver, looking at the pale Elf’s cold, unfeeling eyes.

  Moments later, after Luwir’s horn had sounded, all the Elves of the community gathered in the main courtyard. Feïwal dyn Filweni soon appeared at the top of the tower steps. Arwela, the seer, and Luwir, commander of the clan of Filweni, were at his side. The Irawenti were joined by representatives of the High Elves: the defiant Roquendagor, the dreamer Aewöl, the flamboyant Curwë, and the fearless Maetor. Looking severe, Feïwal ordered the crowd to form a circle. This done, he stood in its centre, with a composure which announced the coming of a storm.

  “Elves of Essawylor, you volunteered to serve under my command as sailors of the most perilous ocean voyage ever attempted. Furthermore, you swore your allegiance as soldiers of the clan of Filweni. The dyn of my family placed their lives into your hands.

  Siw! These are profound and honourable pledges that you made.”

  Feïwal paused; the brief interval was filled by a soft murmur of assent.

  “However, some of you, though you have survived the crossing of the Austral Ocean, may still not comprehend the full extent of the sacrifice demanded of you. Allow me to enlighten you.”

  Everyone became more attentive; it was clear that all were eager to know what would be expected of them.

  “This tower or, I should say, these ruins, were called Mentollà by the Llewenti. At its summit now fly the azure colours of the clan of Filweni. This is now our land, for this is the shelter that Eïwal Ffeyn has granted us, in recompense for our faith.

  A few leagues north of our border, beyond the Sian Tiude River, men are gathering in great number. What we will face is a multitude of bloodthirsty barbarians, determined to expel us from our new home. We could attempt to flee; we could try to escape the trap that is closing in around us. But, were we to run, where would we go?

  What assistance would we seek?

  For whose protection would we beg?

  No, my companions, we are alone, and we shall remain alone.”

  Feïwal’s body seemed somehow higher than before, as though he were rising above the ground. The wind swirled around him, sweeping up his long azure robes. With a tempestuous voice like prophetic thunder, Feïwal declared.

  “Do you feel the gust flying through your hair? Do you feel the wind surrounding you? This is nothing less than the breeze of history; it is the ocean’s breath, marking the first time we shall affect the fate of the Islands, on this storm-filled night of resistance.”

  Arwela stepped forward. With her clear voice that dominated the tumult of the elements, she proclaimed.

  “I have looked up into the celestial vaults; Cil, Cim and Cir have set the stars of the heavens so that the future can be perceived in the night sky. Those three sacred lights know whether the arrows you shall loose will find their mark… or not. Such knowledge grants a power that should not be abused.”

  The seer of the clan of Filweni took her short bow and, with all her strength, drew back an arrow she had personally fletched, carved with intricate patterns and adorned with silver feathers. Aiming upwards towards the sky, she released the sacred arrow into the air. It flew upwards, and then seemed to hesitate as it lost momentum; in the next moment, it was carried forward by a sudden gust of wind, before plunging downward to immerse itself in the clear waters of the creek.

  “We shall prevail!” she announced, her clear voice endowed with a mystic power, that resounded far beyond the compound.

  Curwë began to chant, “dyn! dyn! dyn!... dyn Filweni!!!”

  And the assembled units cried back in unison, “dyn! dyn! dyn! dyn Filweni!!!”

  The Irawenti rattled their weapons against their chainmail in ferocious challenge, as their battle cries echoed for miles around.

  “We march to war! We march to war!”

  Mentollà was ready to withstand a siege.


  The two units of Unicorn guards began readying themselves for battle. Once fully equipped, they assembled in lines of six in the fortress compound, standing still as ancient statues covered in purple cloth and dark steel. Their commander, Maetor, inspected the ranks, examining every single detail of each of the soldiers’ garb. The Unicorn Guard, now just fifty fighters strong, was still a formidable, ruthless force. Maetor checked that their weaponry and accoutrements were meticulously equipped and displayed. Their armour was beautifully fashioned from tiny plates of light metal, making it both flexible and extremely resistant, enabling the fighters to remain swift and agile. Their plate mail and weapons were decorated with interlaced runes, though the white unicorn was no longer anywhere to be seen. Each of their helmets was a work of art, intricately carved and encrusted with precious gems that glittered in the sunlight. The commander of the Unicorn Guard could be proud of his two remaining units. Resplendent in their purple robes and shining armour, he considered them peerless in their ability to crash through enemy walls with their sharp lances.

  Meanwhile, Arwela was studying the movement of the waves at the bottom of the hill, beyond the cliffs which surrounded the fortress. She turned to Feïwal.

  “Have you noticed? The sea has become as calm as a mountain lake. This is most unusual. How can it be possible?”

  Her brother replied, “I have indeed noticed. A great power is at work, bending the Islands’ Flow to its will, even gaining control over Gweïwal Uleydon’s domain.”

  8th day, Strait of Tiude

  The Elves of Mentollà were not the only ones to notice that change in the ocean. At the same time, thirty leagues west of the ruined fortress, on the northern shore of Nyn Llyvary, the fleet of Llymar progressed cautiously along the rugged coastline. They were opening the way for the great vessel of Cumberae, its mainmast dominating the rest of the fleet with its incomparable height.

  Most of the fleet’s swanships came from Penlla. While other Llewenti cities had mustered units of archers, scouts and sentinels to join the combined army of the clans, it had been Penlla, the ‘cliff port’, which had provided most sailors. Their role in Llymar’s overall campaign was to crew its many warships before securing strategic beaches, enabling the rest of the units to come ashore. To pursue this perilous mission, for which they had to debark, swim and then reach land, they needed to be able to move as quickly as possible. They were therefore poorly protected, clad only in leather armour and wielding light weapons, mainly short swords and bows.

  The sailors of Penlla and their captain, Leyen dyl Llyvary, had been entrusted with a task of the utmost importance by the Council of the Forest. Their ships were responsible for transporting the entire army of the clan Ernaly to enemy shores. They were a fierce force, comprised of twenty units, whose mission was to breach the barbarian rear guard and cut off its supply line. Mynar dyl was the commander of the clan Ernaly’s dangerous expedition.

  The warlord of Tios Halabron, who was standing vigilant on the aftcastle of the main swanship, suddenly grasped the arm of his brother, Voryn dyl.

  “Call upon Leyen dyl! It has begun! This is the moment we’ve been waiting for. Gweïwal Uleydon is abandoning his power over these waters. It is time to enter the Strait.”

  A few moments later, the swanships were alive with frantic activity. Sailors and oarsmen were busy coordinating instructions from their captains. All the warships now headed at full speed towards the Strait of Tiude, the most treacherous sea of the archipelago, where the Austral Ocean’s powerful currents rushed towards the Sea of Isyl. It was known as a highly difficult route to navigate, owing to the unpredictable winds and currents that prevailed along the narrow passage.

  Joining the two dyl of the clan Ernaly, Leyen, captain of the fleet, confided.

  “I never thought such a thing as this would be possible: sailing along the Strait of Tiude as if we were gently fishing upon the Halwyfal. Gweïwal Uleydon honours us greatly indeed. We will reach our destination in only a few hours. I must say, I am curious to see how our allies from Cumberae will manage.”

  Mynar dyl concurred. “I have crossed this strait once before, when I had to flee Nyn Ernaly. I had never seen anything as wild and desolate as those dark rocks jutting forth from the raging waves. Those craggy cliffs were a frightening sight indeed. By the dim light of the horizon, we could see gigantic waves crashing down with such force. And yet today... all is so quiet.”

  Forming a long line, the fleet progressed swiftly along the western coast of Nyn Llyvary. The power of the swanships’ oars compensated for the lack of wind. After hours of effort, they finally reached their destination, at the narrowest point of the strait, where the ocean tides connected with other sheltered waterways. It was in this area that a breeding ground for whales could be found. The fleet regrouped in an orderly manner, indifferent to the groans and grunts of the leviathans.

  One by one, the swanships transferred their soldiers to the merchant vessel from Nyn Llyandy, solidly anchored at a safe distance from the rugged coastline. The large cog was built of oak, an abundant timber in the southern regions of the archipelago. The vessel was fitted with a single towering mast and one square-rigged sail. The Principality of Cumberae would use these heavy boats for trading across the Sea of Isyl, mostly along the shores of Nyn Llyandy. It stretched fifty feet in length with a beam of sixteen feet. It could carry up to some two hundred tons.

  The clan Ernaly’s troops were the first to be transferred, along with their equipment and supplies. It took more than an hour for each of the swanships to complete the operation. Then, with absolute discipline, the fighters queued aboard the great deck, awaiting their turn to climb the mast. Once they reached its top, they were securely harnessed to a long rope and, one by one, they slid down and along the cord for a hundred yards until they reached the cliffs of the coastline. Like pearls sliding along a silver thread, the clan Ernaly’s fighters, each in turn, stole towards the wild shores.

  Leyen dyl and Mynar dyl joined Aertelyr, captain of the cog, on the main deck, watching the fighters disembark. The southern navigator looked relaxed, sitting nonchalantly in a large armchair. Until now, he had not been particularly involved in the steering of the vessel, relying on his officers to perform the manoeuvres. He spent most of the time contemplating with relish.

  “Your assistance, Master Aertelyr, is of great value to our cause. I would never have believed that it could be possible to land an entire army in waters such as the Strait of Tiude,” Leyen dyl thanked the captain.

  “We have gained at least two days. Our attack will be totally unexpected by the barbarians,” Mynar dyl added.

  “These are the kind of stratagems,” Master Aertelyr replied, “that one develops when one wishes to continue trading despite King Norelin’s blockade. When ports and harbours are no longer safe, alternatives must be found. The clans of Llymar are not alone in their struggle against such tyranny. To the south of the Islands, the Principality of Cumberae also suffer. We are allies, Leyen dyl, and allies freely aid one another.”

  “This will be remembered. Let it be known that Master Aertelyr is a trusted friend of the clans of Llymar.”

  The southern Elf nodded distantly, unemotionally accepting the offer of friendship. His conspicuous attitude marked a kind of disdain towards others. Mynar dyl preferred to ignore him.

  “I wonder how far the enemy has progressed into the woods of Sognen Tausy,” said the warlord of Tios Halabron. “I trust they are now a mere few days from Mentollà’s walls.”

  **

  10th day, Mentollà

  The morning was clear, and the ocean breeze was fierce, sweeping away the storm clouds above the tower of Mentollà. Thunder rumbled tempestuously. Multiple ranks of barbarian archers stepped out from the edge of the forest and mustered down the hill, three hundred yards from the fortress walls. The compound and keep had been erected at the foot of a cliff on a small rocky peninsula. The natural formation of the site provided a significant
defensive advantage against attackers from the forest, as well as strategic control of any passage between the bay and the creek. The silhouette of the ancient tower seemed to look out upon the threatening progression of the many men as if they were mere ants, encircling some giant tree.

  Without a single war cry, without the sound of a single horn, the battle for Mentollà was beginning.

  “Siw! The wild Elves claim that there are no barbarian archers on the entire archipelago who could compare to the ones in the service of the Dragon Warrior Ka-Bloozayar. It would be wise to raise the canopy and bulwarks to protect us from their arrows,” Luwir advised.

  “Let them come,” came the calm reply of Maetor, commander of the Unicorn Guard. “And do not doubt Roquendagor, Oars Master. He saw his fighters through many sieges as a Dol, and always put the safety of his troops first before any glory of his own. He knows full well that it shall not be his sword that will decide the outcome of this battle; only a rational strategy will get us out of our desperate situation.

  We must concentrate on managing your light archers and my heavy spear fighters so that each group can support the other. Roquendagor will keep our reserves safe and order them to engage when he knows they might tip the balance of the day. He has keen eyes that can see how best to use the arrangement of the fortress. Doubt it not: he will choose the perfect moment to order the charge and break the siege.”

  ‘Cil, Cim, Cir! Break the siege?’ the oars master could not help thinking. ‘These Dol Lewin guards are either arrogant or mad. Reports are telling us that there are thousands of barbarians roaming the woods of Sognen Tausy. There are barely two hundred of us to defend these ruins... and they intend to break the siege!’

  Luwir looked out at his troops. He had organized his small army into six units of archers. There was a total of around a hundred and fifty fighters. As the potential defenders of Essawylor, their armour was fine, and their appearance was most noble. They wore silver feathers on their small helmets, and their chainmail was covered in a fine azure cloth. They had been expertly built as fighters; under Queen Aranaele, there was a conscription whereby all Elves of the Kingdom of Five Rivers had to be given specialised training. They had been educated in the rudiments of warfare, and were skilled at the broad sword, but most of all they were renowned as deadly archers. The short bows of the Irawenti sailors were made from overlapping layers of exotic wood, taken from the tropical forests of Essawylor, which endowed them with great flexibility and speed. Although the range of these weapons was limited, the archers could unleash accurate volleys of arrows down upon their foes with remarkable frequency.