An Act of Faith

by C A Oliver

  “Miserable worm: may your soul return to your dragons’ lair and burn there for eternity!” Voryn dyl screamed, overwhelmed with hatred.

  For a long while still, Elvin projectiles continued to rain on the slopes of the Hadon. Of the three hundred barbarian warriors who had advanced into the pass, most were now lying on the rocks of the ravine, drenched in their own blood. Survivors had managed to flee and return to the shelter of their camp, under the protection of their rear guard. But, among the fleeing barbarians, many were terribly injured, and would pass from life to death before the day had ended. The victims of the Elvin arrows were now harassed by the hawks, which inflicted their own cruel wounds, piercing eyes and cutting ears. Few of those men would survive the dreadful pain their wounds would cause. The Elves of the clan Ernaly, now masters of the battlefield and galvanised by the magnitude of their victory, capped their success by finishing off the casualties who had been left behind, savagely mutilating them by removing their tongues. They also seized from the corpses everything that might have some value in the fights to come: weapons, armour, and most of all arrows.

  Mynar dyl could not help regretting that the fame of this victory would be tarnished by such useless slaughter and mutilation. Voryn dyl answered him with a cold, sinister tone.

  “I ordered this. These practices are the customs of the wild Elves. It is a way to strike fear into the hearts of our foes. These gullible barbarians have been made to believe by their evil shamans that a man without a tongue will not be allowed to enter the Dragons’ lair after his death, and thus that his soul will be doomed to endlessly wander the underworld.”

  Mynar dyl was not convinced by this explanation, but he did not insist. His brother was a reliable servant and, just like a faithful hawk, he deserved to be rewarded from time to time with savage pleasures, which his complex nature sometimes demanded. There was no harm in that.

  The warlord of Tios Halabron observed that the commanders of his units were giving instructions to regroup; everywhere his Elves were leaving their shelters on the slopes of the Hadon and heading to the edge of the Sognen Tausy woods. Arrow reserves had been replenished and, now that their position was revealed, they would no longer have the same advantage, were they to stay put. Mynar dyl thought it wise to use the opportunity that the quick victory had given them to disperse his archers around the foothills in the woods. His strategy was shrewd and unexpected. Speed, stealth and surprise: these were the clan Ernaly’s best assets, and the warlord would use them to lead his army to victory. His strategy was always to be one step ahead. He felt confident, as he always did.

  Before entering into the thickness of the woods, Mynar dyl looked up at the sky. High in the air, beyond the white clouds, flew three great eagles, moving east towards Mentollà and Llymar. They came from beyond the Strait of Tiude, from another island of the archipelago, probably from the peaks of Nyn Ernaly’s mountains. The Llewenti considered these birds to be Eïwal Ffeyn’s most trusted servants.

  ‘The powers that the storm deity confers to the matriarchs are even greater than I expected. Omens are certainly favourable,’ the warlord of Tios Halabron thought.

  **

  11th day, Mentollà

  Warm gusts were colliding with the cooler air, leaving the atmosphere polarised and volatile. The weather around Mentollà was stormy, though there was no rain. Dark clouds were racing towards the tower high above, as though in a hurry to watch the grim spectacle of the siege.

  Feïwal was standing alone at the top of Mentollà’s keep. From this high point, the Irawenti guide could see the barbarian army gathering around the fortress. Its number seemed to endlessly grow, as if that big trebuchet threatening their defences were some rallying point of for the immense masses of men. Lost in his thoughts, Feïwal obsessively replayed what Curwë had told him of Gelros’ report.

  “Our best scout is not one to exaggerate perils. The magnitude of this threat is indeed frightening. There are thousands of them. If we let them put their powerful trebuchet to work, our frail ramparts will not last long.”

  Turning towards the ocean, Feïwal addressed his prayers to the almighty deity of storms, who he knew would be their only salvation.

  “Ô Eïwal Ffeyn, Ô mighty storm-bringer,

  We are ever your faithful servants.

  In your hands, I place our destiny,

  To your will, I submit our lives.

  May your wrath punish the defilers

  Who have come to profane your shrine!

  May your wrath bring about their ruin!”

  The potential for High Magic was extremely high in the region of Mentollà, rich as it was in natural sources of energy: the ocean tide, the strong winds, the plentiful streams and the whispering woods. Unlike the western part of Nyn Llyvary, which was weakened by the desecrating presence of men, Mentollà was a wild region; its inherent strength was unspoiled, and its air was filled with the invisible influence of the deities, just as in the days of old.

  The Flow of the Islands flooded through Feïwal and into his soul; his faith was growing stronger. It was a raw, chaotic magic that was difficult to control. He could sense the energy which emanated from the winds. Day by day, he had been forming a mystical connection with the land, weaving his own soul into that unseen web of living energy. His abilities now far surpassed the powers of other priests or wizards, who lacked the inherent skill necessary to command genuine High Magic.

  Now, closing his eyes and calling upon Eïwal Ffeyn’s support, Feïwal could see how the Islands’ Flow was permeating the land before him, interacting with the elements and influencing all beings. He started performing rituals of immersion, channelling the gusts of wind to harness its energy. Bound to the sky was a mystical energy, the unsteady winds of the Islands’ Flow, which was drifting towards Mentollà. From the top of the ruined tower, Feïwal acted as a focal point for those powerful gusts of magic that blew across the peninsula from the Austral Ocean. The drifting energies were being drawn to him, like water in a whirlpool: a vortex of High Magic. The Irawenti guide was draining the Islands’ Flow: chaotic and inexperienced though his control over it was.

  “Ô Eïwal Ffeyn, Ô mighty storm-bringer,

  You do your servant much honour,

  You bestow your follower with such trust,

  Ô Eïwal Ffeyn! I praise you from the depths of my soul!”

  Far to the west, flashes of lightning illuminated the silhouettes of three great birds, progressing high across the dark blue sky.

  Feïwal was standing still on the edge of the parapet, as if frozen by the favour he had been blessed with. Storm Eagles were unknown in Essawylor, thought to exist only in tales, as the legendary birds praised by Llewenti priests. The Irawenti guide knew that the pact binding Storm Eagles to Eïwal Ffeyn was ancient, originating in the time of deities, when even the Elves had yet not appeared. Legends told that the mighty birds were known to be proud, haughty creatures that did not willingly obey command. The deity of winds showed extraordinary favour by letting his prized children come forth and rescue Feïwal and his community.

  The three Storm Eagles were closing the distance that separated them from Mentollà with phenomenal speed. Soon they were circling around the tower. Raising his arms as though imploring the heavens, Feïwal saluted them, calling upon Eïwal Ffeyn to protect their coming.

  The winged creatures whirled around the top of the keep, cautiously approaching it ever closer. Feïwal could now appreciate them in all their might, for their size was prodigious. The Irawenti guide and the legendary birds beheld each other in palpable mutual wonder. A form of communication was being initiated by the Storm Eagles; fragments of an unknown language reached Feïwal’s mind without a single word being uttered.

  “I am Feïwal dyn Filweni, Lord of Mentollà” he responded, caught off guard.

  “You are not... You are Eïwal Ffeyn’s servant, his envoy,” the Irawenti guide understood, as the eagles responded in their telepathic tongue.

&nb
sp; The great birds beat their wings, and their cry was heard from afar.

  “IIIRWAA!”

  And Feïwal echoed.

  “IIIRWAA!”

  His voice was altered and amplified, in the solemnity of that moment in which his destiny was being revealed to him.

  The Storm Eagles spiralled upwards, high into the sky.

  Feïwal breathed in deeply, his mind communing with the elements, avid to master the new force with which he had been bestowed. He began to mutter incantations, and the winds began to circle violently around him. In response, the rumbling thunder was heard from afar. Like one possessed, Feïwal began a frenzied dance.

  The battle for control of the fortress walls was raging below. Elves were dying as they held their ground, while hundreds of barbarians were assembling on the field to maintain the assault. Feïwal continued his wild dance along the keep’s highest parapet. He diced with death as his feet kicked out chaotically into the void. Light began to flash across the stormy clouds. A bolt of lightning suddenly came crashing down from the sky, striking the ground in front of the fortress walls. A roar of thunder tore through the air. The bolt killed many men, set fire to the clothes of others, and damaged barbarian equipment, provoking panic and chaos. The momentum of their attack seemed to falter for a moment, disrupted by this heavenly intervention.

  Feïwal’s face was illuminated by the lightning. His wild eyes betrayed the formidable wrath that now consumed him.

  *

  Roquendagor had not yet been seen among his troops at the heart of the battle. He had delegated command of his units to Maetor, who he trusted as his faithful lieutenant.

  The knight stood high above the battle, on the upper platform of the keep, with his councillor Aewöl, behind a large, grey canvas, the colour of stone, which was concealing the war machine that the two Elves had designed and built. They were not hiding; they were calculating. And they were also arguing, apparently not in complete agreement about which firing angle they ought to begin with. The numerous tests they had run during the winter firing Ganol wallen, their ingenious war machine, had enabled them to set out a specific compass. They knew that their instrument should be able to hit any target within range with a high degree of accuracy.

  “We should not allow the wind to affect our calculations, Aewöl. This is my final plea. The weight and speed of the projectiles are such that nothing will alter their trajectory.”

  “Very well, I concede; you have always showed prowess operating ranged weapons such as this. But you ought to have listened to me. My opinion is that we will be a few yards short our target. But time is of the essence. The enemy trebuchet will come into action any moment now; we need to stop it,” urged Aewöl.

  Made out of composite layers of wood from the Alwïryan, and from the remains of the ship’s catapults and ballistae, Ganol wallen, or ‘far-reaching death’ as Roquendagor had named it, worked with a torsion spring and counterweight system. It could hurl large boulders with incredible force and precision: targeting from afar charging enemy soldiers, large ships, or, indeed, big siege engines.

  Ganol wallen was clinging onto the keep’s battlement in waiting, like an eagle with its claw dug into a high-up branch. It was manned by guards of the Unicorn. The crew was responsible for reloading the deadly war machine with boulders as well as specially made bolts, for it could also fire clutches of four missiles, the length of spears, at almost the same time.

  Four hundred yards away, at the edge of the woods, the barbarian’s gigantic trebuchet, the most dreaded war machine of the besiegers, was itself being loaded with heavy boulders by a large crew of men.

  “Unveil Ganol wallen,” ordered Roquendagor. His voice was strong, and his eye was proud. The four guards pulled back the large protective canvas, and ‘far-reaching death’ was revealed to all. “Prepare to fire,” he instructed.

  As Aewöl muttered powerful incantations, the large boulder loaded into the machine rapidly acquired a reddish colour, as if some hellish lava consumed it from the inside.

  “Fire!” shouted Roquendagor.

  His cry was so loud that it was heard all along the walls of Mentollà, and many were those who could not help but watch the fiery projectile as it completed its course: climbing high into the heavens before falling back down towards the ground. The red boulder came crashing down a few yards in front of its target, crushing several men who were standing in ranks operating their gigantic siege weapon. The boulder then bounced, severely wounding other barbarians, before finally striking the base of the trebuchet and coming to a halt. The big structure shook violently with the impact, and its component parts rattled together loudly. It swayed but did not go down.

  “Fire the bolts,” Roquendagor shouted anew.

  Ganol wallen spat out bolts of fire at the enemy. Four spears, glowing red with Aewöl’s magic, were released in rapid succession, crossing the battlefield with speed. With tremendous force, the long projectiles struck the barbarian crew manning the trebuchet. More warriors fell, impaled, their armour torn to shreds by the missiles.

  “Reload! Reload while we adjust the angle,” cried Aewöl. The crew, swiftly and skilfully, set about reloading another deadly volley.

  Meanwhile, a wild cry resounded throughout the barbarian camp. The trebuchet was fired in response. The counterweight was released, and, as it fell, force of gravity pulled the attached throwing arm around the axle with significant rotational acceleration. But when the sling sent forth the projectiles with all the force of the swinging throwing arm, the boulders’ trajectory was not as intended. The impact of the Elvin missile had set the siege engine off balance. Once released from the sling, the boulders did not travel at the angle required to crush Mentollà’s gate, but rather they flew straight into the walls on the northern side of the fortress. With a loud noise, a section of the outer wall, recently mended rather hastily, now completely collapsed, opening up a large breach in Elvin defences.

  From the top of the keep, a wild cry was heard.

  “IIIRWA!”

  The three Storm Eagles, who until now had been circling high above, watching as the battle developed and steering clear of the lightning strikes, now suddenly plunged down from the sky. As the barbarians approached the breach in the wall, the noble birds joined the throng. With their powerful talons, the great eagles swept down upon the attackers and tore them apart. Some who resisted were swiftly carried away with the power of the eagles’ wings before being cast down upon rocks at the bottom of the cliffs. The winged creatures’ destructive power was unleashed upon the enemy with great savagery, but the men were numerous. Hurling spears and firing arrows, the barbarians managed to chase the great eagles away. Yet, the Elves had gained some crucial respite, during which Luwir had rushed to the breached wall with a full unit of archers. Once his fighters had taken their positions, he ran to the northern flanking tower of the fortress wall in order to command their defence of the breach.

  Roquendagor’s cry was heard once more from the top of the keep’s battlements.

  “Fire again!”

  Another fiery boulder flew high into the air above the heads of the barbarian warriors, who collectively flinched at its approach. This time, the heavy missile came crashing straight into the heart of the trebuchet. The gigantic construction shook, tilted and finally fell to the ground, utterly destroyed. Its fall whipped up a large cloud of dust, which added to the confusion among the ranks of the barbarian army; none could tell how many more had been killed. Some did not have time to ponder this question for long, for a volley of fiery spears soon shot out at them through the billowing dust to take their lives too.

  Hope soon returned to the defending Elves; for hours, Ganol wallen, now sole master of the battlefield, continued its reign of terror with regular devastating bombardments. From time to time, lightning would also strike the battlefield, causing ever more barbarian casualties. The waves of the assault had soon retreated back into the protection of the woods, like an afternoon tide withdr
awing into the ocean.

  “Black arrow!” suddenly cried one of the Unicorn guards operating the siege engine, as he loaded more long spears into the war machine. “Look! A black arrow is shooting straight up, extremely high into the sky. Oh! See it bursts into a shadowy rain!”

  “It is Gelros,” exclaimed Aewöl. He could not see the spectacle, positioned as he was in the machine’s innards, adjusting its angle.

  “A second black arrow has just been shot from the woods.”

  “Gelros warns us of immediate danger,” said Roquendagor.

  “From the sea,” Aewöl added. “A second arrow signifies the danger is coming from the sea,” he insisted; all turned towards the azure surface of the Bay of Gloren.

  “A third!” the Unicorn guard suddenly exclaimed.

  All stood motionless for a moment, watching the third dark arrow climb in the air to an impossible altitude, before bursting into shards of black pieces. ‘What can this mean?’ all wondered, without uttering a single word.

  “The threat will come from the air,” was Aewöl’s answer to the unspoken question.

  Indeed, a moment later, all watched in horror as dark form emerged from the barbarian army’s camp. It was heading straight for Mentollà. A reptilian monster with large wings, two legs and a very long tail was now flying above the treetops. It gained speed as it approached the keep from the west. The creature, the colour of red fire, was twenty feet long. It had the head of a dragon.

  “How is this possible...” exclaimed one of the Unicorn guards, struck with incredulity.

  “Run! It is a wyvern! Run for cover!” yelled Aewöl and he rushed into the keep’s stairs to find protection.

  Two of the elite fighters found shelter behind their war machine, holding their spears firm. But Roquendagor had other instructions for the two guards that stood by his side. Grasping a heavy lance, and moving along the parapet to meet his opponent, the tall knight cried out his order.