The Lonely Seeker

by C A Oliver

  The weapon’s handle, as long as a halberd’s, was of a hard, dark wood, and the weight of its fearsome head could be sensed from a distance. Wielding it with his covered left hand, the knight started swinging the fearsome weapon high above his head. Dyoren was amazed at the quickness of the movement given the hammer’s size and weight.

  Seeing that the end was near, Big Bota charged. For the final time, he dragged forward the chained corpses of his two companions. But the Giant of Chanun did not get far, and his attack was soon thwarted. The terrifying war hammer flew through the air. It hit him directly in his head, tearing off the left side of his skull. The Giant faltered, his hands reaching for his forehead. Blood and brain matter covered his gnarled fingers. As he let out one last cry of pain, the war hammer began circling back towards its master’s outstretched gauntlet. The knight spurred his dark stallion forward, before releasing his weapon again. The full force of the hammer hit the Giant straight in the chest. Big Bota fell backwards, defeated.

  ‘The Golden Hand is looking for me,’ Dyoren suddenly realized.

  Still in shock after the demonstration of power he had just witnessed, the Lonely Seeker knew he had to move. Reaching out to a nearby branch, he then slid down the pine’s trunk to ground level, concealing himself with the thick lower branches. Without looking back, Dyoren started to run, his broadsword Rymsing dangling on his back with its blade bare. Multiple thoughts rushed through his head.

  ‘If this is a trap, if that fallen oak was the bait, then other knights of the Golden Hand with their own units will be positioned in the woods all around here. I must withdraw quickly to the falls. I can make it to the Hageyu River and escape.’

  But soon, with the steepening slope, his breath grew short. The dense vegetation was slowing his progress. So, he started to sing. Dyoren intoned the war chant of the trees that he knew so well. His mother, a powerful matriarch of the clan Ernaly had taught him those sacred lyrics long ago. As he sang louder and louder, he ran faster and faster. A path was continuously opening before him as he fled, as though the small trees, wild plants and thick shrubs wanted him to escape and survive.

  “Find the Elf! Find the Elf!” the knight’s orders rang out throughout the forest.

  The hunt had commenced and, this time, Dyoren was the prey. Dyoren kept running through the forest. He was concentrated intensely on which route to take. His objective was to reach the Hageyu River, which flowed down in waterfalls from a large lake up in the hills. Once he reached this haven, he would be safe, for no man knew the old paths of the Elves beyond the Hageyu Falls. Obsessed with maintaining speed and afraid to find his route blocked, the Lonely Seeker opted for short cuts, meaning ever rougher terrain and even steeper slopes.

  ‘This is getting too dangerous,” thought Dyoren. “This errand has become ineffective! I will have us leave this dreaded place and return to Nargrond Valley. Our quest calls us there, not to these old woods. The island of Nyn Ernaly is lost.’

  A few hundred yards downhill, a group of Men were pushing though the wild vegetation and ancestral trees with difficulty. Their skin was dark and shone with sweat. Wearing rough brown tunics and walking in tired mountain boots, they carried with them scythes of gleaming iron. With them were a pack of ferocious hounds, barking and grunting, straining to be unleashed to follow his scent.

  Dyoren moved forward up the hill, putting as much distance as possible between him and the hunting dogs. He drew from his pocket a small vial and, still running, sprinkled its powder onto his clothes, shoes and hair. Its powerful scent would confuse the hounds. The matriarchs of the ancient clans had been preparing such potions for centuries, and no animal in the Lost Islands had ever been known to elude its effects. Dyoren accelerated his pace, controlling his breath, his blade beating reassuringly upon his back. The colour of his cloak blended into the woodland, making his progress almost undetectable.

  “I must be less than one league away. I am almost there,” he murmured.

  The thick bushes before him finally opened out into a small glade, bathed in sunlight. A rapid, furious torrent cut through the clearing.

  “Finally, I have reached the Hageyu River!” the relieved Dyoren exclaimed. “Though I must be way downhill, I am not safe yet.”

  He saw a movement in the bushes beyond the river. It was a Man on foot, an axe in his hand, hacking his way through the foliage of the forest. The short barbarian, bearded and filthy, was attired in rough leather clothes. The Man was thrashing at the vegetation as if possessed by rage. Each blow swept away entire sections of wild vines. Dyoren recognized him immediately as a scout: an H’ontark, one of the barbarian woodmen that the sea hierarchs employed to track Elvin outlaws in the wildest parts of Nyn Ernaly.

  Dyoren hesitated and eventually decided to hide. His anxiety grew when he discovered that the man was not alone. He was leading a full pack of barbarians; whose purpose was to open a path into the thick woods that surrounded the Hageyu River. Soon, some of the woodmen were on the near side of the stream. Dyoren had no choice. If he wanted to reach Hageyu Lake, it was essential that he crossed the water and made it to the woods on the northern bank. Sweat pearled on his forehead. Twisting his head and snorting like a fierce wolf about to attack, he reached for his shining broadsword.

  “I need you now,” he muttered.

  Now that he held Rymsing in his hand, Dyoren began his war chant, his voice clear and loud. Despite the perilous fight to come, his heart was filled with hope, and he leapt forward to meet those who dared challenge him in his own land. Immediately, a dozen raised axes glittered in the rays of the midday sun. The combat began with all the ferocity of opponents who are enemies twice over: Man versus Elf, and bounty hunter versus outlaw.

  Dyoren fought with calmness and strict technique. He quickly dispatched his first adversary, the broadsword piercing his enemy’s heart. Then, with a swinging blow as fast as lightning, Dyoren stretched out a second opponent upon the grass with a wound through his thigh. This scout put up no further resistance, so he moved forward. Dyoren forced his third adversary back so vigorously that, after retreating several paces, the woodman soon took to his heels. Against the fourth, he fought purely on the defensive; when Dyoren saw his adversary tiring, the Elf sent his axe flying with a vigorous side thrust. The disarmed barbarian stepped back in retreat, but in so doing slipped backward into a crevasse. Dyoren was over his fifth opponent in a bound, surprising him by jumping over the tumultuous stream before pushing him to the ground. He screamed at the scout to yield, his sword at the man’s throat.

  “Miserable barbarian, you should have never come to this place…!”

  But Rymsing, as if acting out of its own rage, wrested itself from Dyoren’s control. The shining blade ripped open the barbarian’s stomach, thus sentencing him to a slow and painful death.

  Five of his dozen enemies had died in the blink of an eye, taken aback by the quickness of Dyoren’s movements and the power of his shining glaive, which he wielded as lightly as a mere dagger. The morale of the remaining troops started to wane. These Men were barbarian scouts; though sworn to the service of the sea hierarchs, they were not defending a cause, still less their own self-interest. Abandoning the glade to the victorious Elf, they began to regroup beyond the wild stream, clearly intending to run away. But they were stopped by the arrival of a second group of woodmen as the sky suddenly darkened, as if clouded by a swarm of locusts.

  “Find the Elf! Find the Elf!” Dyoren could hear throughout the forest.

  Drawn by the cries of war and the clashing of swords, another unit of barbarian scouts was joining the melee, rushing out from the depths of the woods. Flocks of birds were plummeting from the sky into the forest, darting downwards between the branches.Horns were blaring, and no doubt other units would soon converge upon the glade. If any of the surviving members of the first group were still tempted to flee, they soon thought better of it; a formidable knight rode forward, holding in his golden gauntlet the severed head of their u
nfortunate fleeing companion. This knight was unnaturally tall and strong for a man, towering above his soldiers from a height of over seven feet. His muscular body was naked but for his tanned leather breeches, boots, and a red headdress that masked his features. As for his torso, his scars seemed to be the only protection he required.

  “Kill the Elf!” he roared and, like a wild cat pouncing on its prey, the fierce warrior ran towards Dyoren, marshalling his Men as he did.

  He drew a long scimitar from his scabbard and launched the severed head through the air, throwing it with incredible force towards Dyoren, twenty yards away. The Lonely Seeker swiftly sidestepped the improvised missile.

  “Another knight of the Golden Hand!” he deplored. “Now is the time to flee.”

  The multitude of birds cried out in support, as they simultaneously took flight from the lower branches of the forest around the glade. Dyoren looked around; attempting to deduce the quickest way to the river.

  “To the north! Up the hill!” Dyoren decided.

  Then, just as he was leaping from a large boulder, flocks of vicious birds of prey lashed down upon his enemies like torrents of hail pouring from a stormy sky. Their impact was as deadly as it was sudden. The air was filled with a blizzard of darting birds, a swarm of hawks and falcons swooping down onto the Men: tearing and piercing flesh, pecking at eyes and ears with sharp beaks, slashing skin and armour with their knifelike claws. Men screamed out in pain, struggling vainly against the onslaught. They floundered through the bushes, striking out with their axes at random, and before long the barbarians were scattered far and wide.

  Dyoren looked back. He saw briefly the knight of the Golden Hand emerging from the whirlwind of birds. His body was dripping in blood, with fresh wounds adding to the myriad scars that already covered his exposed skin. He had lost his headdress in the fray. His head was bald, his eyes small and mean; everything in his face betrayed his unthinking violence and base desires. Now, the knight of the Golden Hand was on Dyoren’s heels, a mere twenty yards behind.

  “He won’t let me go!” Dyoren feared.

  The chase began. They ran for a long time, each of them failing to gain much advantage over the other. The wood of Silver Leaves echoed with the sounds of their passage. Leaves rustled, dry branches cracked, water splashed, and small animals hissed, all to accompany the great battle of wills that was playing out between Elf and Man.

  Dyoren, who had been cutting a path through the branches and vines with his enchanted blade, now ran out of ground to cover. He found himself rushing towards a steep cliff overlooking a large pool of clear water, fed by roaring waterfalls. Without hesitation, without even slowing his momentum, he leapt head-first from the precipice. He dove into the water thirty feet below like a meteorite striking the ocean. When the knight of the Golden Hand reached the cliff edge a moment later, all he could see of Dyoren was the centre of the impact and the rippling waves across the surface of the water.

  Dyoren had to swim underneath water for some time. He finally managed to cross the width of the pool, remaining invisible in the basin’s depths. When he found enough strength to get out of the water, Dyoren could no longer see where his pursuer was. He then passed through the dangerous passage where the falls cascaded onto rocks, before finally reappearing behind the cover of the waterfall. Dyoren could now pull himself out of the water. Still breathing heavily, Dyoren first made sure that Rymsing was still securely fastened to its rope.

  “You are still here!” he exclaimed “Always with me!” and the Lonely Seeker kissed the silvery blade.

  Bruises and flesh wounds covered his body, but he did not linger to tend to them. A dangerous climb now awaited him. In the cave behind the waterfall, there was a narrow passage, known only to Elves, which led to a higher plateau of the wood of Silver Leaves, near the Hageyu Falls. The way up was slippery, treacherous and unpredictable, for the structure of the near-vertical tunnel was constantly changing with erosion.

  Dyoren approached the tunnel, scrambling over the rough terrain of the cave and pushing aside rocks as he went. He then began his ascent. The Lonely Seeker climbed the first few feet very slowly but then, curiously, as his pace accelerated, he closed his eyes, relying on the touch of his hands and his feet. Dyoren felt a kind of lightness, as though a higher power were drawing him upward. He once again felt hope. In his mind, he was no longer climbing, but rather gently flying towards his sanctuary ninety feet above. Dyoren felt so light that he decided to try another path, this one steeper and more direct. When he finally reached level ground without further injury, Dyoren rolled with relief onto his back. Suddenly he was laughing. It was a genuine kind of joyous laughter, as clear and honest as the mountain water he could now see cascading down into the pool below. Dyoren marvelled at the broadsword in his arms kept laughing aloud.

  “Rymsing, Rymsing! With you I feel invulnerable!” he exclaimed through his laughter.

  Looking down at the wall he had just climbed, Dyoren shivered, only now comprehending the feat he had achieved. Finally processing the reality of the peril he had just escaped; he was seized with severe vertigo. At that very moment, Dyoren knew, he could easily be lying crushed upon the ragged rocks a hundred feet below, his body reduced to broken bones and seeping flesh. But he was still alive. To make sure of it, he feverously ran his hands over his whole body.

  ‘I am alive. For that I must be thankful,’ he thought, smiling now at his broadsword as if it were a Deity he wished to honour.

  Dyoren decided to rest a while, unburdening himself of his cloak and satchel. He stood just a few yards from the dangerous cliff that looked out over the pool. The day was hot, and the few pine trees dotted around him did little to protect him from the sun. As he dug into his satchel to retrieve some food, Dyoren suddenly heard heavy breathing, the sounds of someone straining in extreme physical exertion.

  “What is this?” he cried.

  Dyoren then looked in horror as a clawed human hand reached up over the cliff’s edge, clinging onto the rocks. A second hand, wearing that same gauntlet with six fingers, found another hold on a nearby outcrop. Dyoren shivered, so stunned he could not move.

  The bald Man let out a strange battle cry before hauling himself up and leaping to his feet. He hesitated only for a moment, judging how best to reach his prey across the boulder-strewn ground. Then, the bald Man started running. His big size did nothing to impede his agility across that rocky terrain. He was upon Dyoren in an instant. But that precious moment of hesitation had spared the Lonely Seeker. Dyoren had reached for his enchanted blade. Or was it Rymsing who had flown to him?

  The broadsword slashed through the air quick as lightning, reaching for the Westerner’s head. The bald Man avoided the deadly swipe, but his right ear was cut clean from his skull. He cried out in agony and withdrew a couple of paces. Rymsing sprung forth once again and disarmed the knight of the Golden Hand as he was reaching for his scimitar. The shining blade then danced through the air, driving the Man closer and closer to the cliff’s edge. Seeing that his end was near, the knight suddenly ducked and rushed forward, with the strength of will that only fear of imminent death can procure.

  “Die! Miserable Elf!” the bald Man yelled.

  With savage ferocity, he head-butted Dyoren, elbowed him in the face, and bit his shoulder like a rabid animal. He then tried to grab hold Dyoren in the hope of pulling him to the ground, but then suddenly stopped. He had been impaled by the sharp blade of his enemy. The knight staggered back and looked with disbelief at the blood spurting from his stomach. Even then, the bald Man bent down to draw a vicious-looking black dagger from his leather boot. He took a few more steps back, but before he made any use of his weapon, the knight slipped backwards off the cliff.

  In shock after the sudden violence, and bleeding from several new wounds, Dyoren kneeled down, to catch his breath and recover his strength. Then, with some hesitation, he peered down over the cliff’s edge. His enemy was nowhere to be seen: disappeared into the haze
of the crashing waterfall below. Still kneeling by the cliff edge, both hands clutching his sword; Dyoren became lost in his thoughts, looking out at the landscape before him. The Lonely Seeker looked at his enchanted blade with renewed awe.

  ‘Once again you have saved my life. Without you, I am nothing.’

  At last, Dyoren could continue his journey. He turned away, inland, towards the Hageyu Falls and the Arob Chanun Mountains beyond, but with a profound sense of loss. In those enchanting surroundings, the rocks and waterfalls could have been the converging essences of the heavens and the earth. The cascading currents had carved the stone and soil, leaving countless curious and fantastical shapes. Long ago, secret walkways had been built by the Elves along its canyons. Dyoren knew them well, so he could now walk freely around that place of natural beauty and power. He wandered without fear, finally reaching a natural pool that the wild waters of the torrents had carved into a most unexpected location; between a thicket of trees and an abrupt cliff.

  Dyoren looked down at the northern trail he had taken the day before, which climbed steeply across a wide, rocky slope before disappearing into lush woods of aspen and pine. Then, in places, large meadows, speckled with vivid flowers, interrupted the green canopy of the forest. Glistening waterfalls too numerous to count spilled from the grey mountains above into green highlands, feeding the many brooks that formed a silvery network of waterways connecting the many lakes.