by C A Oliver
These last words sounded like a conclusion, but Saeröl was not quite finished.
“But Gweïwal Zenwon also set up a cruel punishment for the Elves of the Islands so that, once and for all, they would renounce pride. I believe in his mind, their crimes deserved twice the divine retribution: first, executing the offenders and, second, defiling their creations. I believe his son, Lon, cursed the swords of Nargrond Valley with malicious enchantments. I believe the legendary blades will cause the utter destruction of the last realm of the Elves.”
Once again, though taken aback by this apocalyptical vision, Curubor managed to remain calm.
“I thank you for sharing your beliefs. Nevertheless, we must be cautious. Most things that are still to come cannot be foretold. Events do not spring so directly from the past. One must always maintain a certain distance when it comes to these visions, though we should undoubtedly pay them heed,” Curubor argued enigmatically, careful not to offend their guest.
Camatael had finally regained his self-control, having used Curubor’s digression to return to his senses. The young high priest realized that he had almost succumbed to the words of the doom-monger. Camatael now understood that Saeröl was a master of deceit, like one possessed by a demon of the dark. He was a powerful bard whose curses could cause an Elf to renounce his ideals, fall into despair and abandon all strength. Camatael suddenly stood up. A bright light illuminated his face, as if he were attempting to push back the growing shadows that were continually invading the cellar. When he spoke, his voice sounded loud and clear.
“I remember the last prophecy of Eïwal Lon, when he told his followers that a day would come when the threat will be so great that all will look to the wielders of the swords of Nargrond Valley. If the blades can unite, then the Elves will survive.”
Saeröl sniggered, unaffected by the genuine faith in Camatael’s plea. Nevertheless, Curubor spoke up after his companion’s intervention to further their case.
“Camatael is right. Our strength lies in our faith. We must take courage in the belief, which has been passed down through the generations, that the Lost Islands are our promised realm. The Elves have survived many disasters to conquer it… The Green Elves risked their lives to cross the Austral Ocean aboard their small ships. For centuries, the Blue Elves attempted to circumnavigate the Sea of Cyclones. Lastly, the High Elves incurred the curse of the Gods, to fight for their freedom and make the Archipelago their home… These Islands were conquered only after many noble feats. It’s now up to us to keep them safe… Today, the legacy of our glorious elders is being threatened. Our worst enemy, that king who is destroying all we have ever built and letting himself fall into the hands of Men, now intends to defile the tombs of the four bladesmiths, our heroes. He wants to seize our scriptures, the foundations of our common heritage… I will not let that happen. Lord Dol Lewin will not let that happen either… I am imploring you, Saeröl, the legendary bard whose passion for music brought all who witnessed his art to tears. I am imploring the son of the bladesmith Elriöl. The Elves of the Lost Islands need you. The powers you wield are unique…”
Curubor rose from his seat, so as to make his plea even more poignant.
“The clan Ernaly’s expedition is doomed to failure. The knights of the Golden Hand will close their deadly trap within the wood of Silver Leaves. They command dozens of units of Men. They will seize the tombs and take the testament… Only you can escape their grasp. Only you can save the will of Rowë. You know what I speak is true.”
Saeröl looked at Curubor, wondering if the ancient mage had lost his mind. He answered quickly and said more than he had intended for, once again, a surge of pride had lessened his cunning.
“A master of the guild of Sana does not utter empty words. What he says he will do, he does… However, he never takes unnecessary risks and always demands a reward. What makes you think you can convince me to undertake such a dangerous endeavour?”
Curubor nodded. He could not help but feel pleased at the finesse of his last push, which had set the dangerous Night Elf upon a slight headwind towards the intended goal. Curubor did not remove his eyes from Saeröl’s, trying to overpower him with his piercing gaze. The candlelight danced upon his glowing skin. In that moment, the strength and resolution emanating from the Blue Mage was overwhelming.
“I know you, Master Saeröl, more profoundly than you might expect. I have eagerly read all your poems; I have passionately listened to all of your songs. How could I forget a single one of them? I think I even understand a little of your process: how that lightning-flash of inspiration then gives way to inwardness as you compose the subtle movements of your art. The result is magnificent; your audience feels as if they are hurtling through the impossible logic of a night dream… You, Master Saeröl, were an exceptional phenomenon, unique in the history of music. The great artist I know you to be cannot have lost his soul entirely. You will help us in this task because you must.”
After a while, Saeröl smiled.
“Is this all you have in your arsenal? Do you think I will partake in such folly, merely for the sake of protecting my father’s tomb? In truth, I could not care less for what happens to his remains. My concern is no greater than the love he had for me.”
“If that is so,” Curubor replied, “I feel sad for you.”
“Feel as sad as you wish; it will not change my mind,” Saeröl aggressively concluded. Somewhat disappointed, almost ready to take his leave, he added, “Was this all you had to offer?”
A silence followed. Saeröl then moved to rise from his seat when he was suddenly interrupted.
“I will bring you a gift,” declared Curubor finally.
“Ha!” laughed Saeröl. “You will bring me a gift? I wonder what present could be generous enough to justify this favour you are asking of me.”
“A most unexpected one, I daresay… and probably the greatest gift that the guild of Sana’s master, the last of his lineage, could possibly desire,” declared Curubor enigmatically.
“Then you must mean the head of King Norelin on a plate… Is that a gift you can offer? Are you suggesting that you could put an end to that traitor’s reign, he who brought about the ruin of my guild, who condemned me to an ignominious death, who watched with relish as my lifeless corpse fell from the top of Gwarystan Rock?”
“That is not within my power,” admitted Curubor.
“I am not surprised. You also have your limits…” Saeröl said, a sardonic smile creeping across his face. “But, as it turns out, I have already arranged the king of Gwarystan’s journey from life into death,” he declared, a mad look in his eye.
Both Curubor and Camatael were startled at such an unexpected claim. They could not avoid catching each other’s eye to confirm what they had heard. But, like artist under curse, Saeröl spoke on, as though he were alone.
“Great calamities are often brought about by the smallest of causes. Move a grain of sand to just the wrong place, and an ancient dune collapses.”
Looking very pleased with himself, Saeröl added.
“I happened to shift that grain of sand to just the wrong place… in fact, to the worst place possible. The end of King Norelin will be the most spectacular conclusion of any reign in history. In ten thousand years, Elves and Men will still allude to that grim day. After it comes, none will dare to wander into Gwarystan again.”
Camatael shivered, unable to hide his malaise. He had difficulty coming to his senses. Almost paralyzed, he turned to Curubor, desperate for his mentor to intervene. To his surprise, however, the Blue Mage chose to ignore Saeröl’s extraordinary threat, as if they were the words of a harmless lunatic.
“I have offered you a precious gift, and I meant it,” Curubor’s voice was as calm as a mountain lake; his words were nothing more than the clear expression of a truth.
Saeröl stopped swirling his wine glass. The droplets that had been circling up towards the rim now dropped back down to the bottom… For a long time, Saeröl fix
ed his gaze upon Curubor without saying a word. An unbearable tension reigned. Finally, the Night Elf broke the spell. His habitual arrogant and uninterested composure had radically changed. He sat forward on his seat.
“How can this be true?” he muttered, now fully convinced that Curubor possessed what he claimed.
“I never pose such questions,” responded the ancient mage simply. “Might we say that we have an agreement, Master Saeröl?” Curubor asked.
“In the end,” the Night Elf concluded thoughtfully, “there remains only one thing, just one: the legacy one passes on to his bloodline. Lord Dol Lewin, Lord Dol Etrond, you can indeed say that we have reached an agreement. The guild of Sana thanks you for your trust.”
Curubor stood up. “You are to watch the progress of the sacred tombs’ repatriation once the expedition has crossed the Ningy Pool,” he ordered. “If, as we fear, the clan Ernaly’s units are ambushed by the knights of the Golden Hand and are defeated, you are to seize the testament of Rowë and bring it to me, unspoiled.”
“Such is my errand, and I accept it willingly in exchange for the prize you have promised,” confirmed Saeröl.
Curubor drew from his pocket two small copper rings, encrusted with jewels.
“This first enchanted ring will lead you to the secret place in Nyn Ernaly where Lord Dol Lewin and I will be waiting for you. This second ring will direct you to the place where you will receive your just reward. You are not mistaken concerning what it is... though it will take some time for me to complete my side of the bargain. Rest assured, however, that you have my word.”
“I never doubted you, my lord Curubor, and I can prove very patient,” Saeröl concluded.
He approached the Blue Mage and looked at the two precious objects for a long time before taking them. Saeröl smiled when he saw that there were two small rubies incrusted within each ring.
“I see your purpose, Lord Curubor; you want me to keep your magic gemstones with me, so that I remain devoted to your endeavour. Well, I accept them, Blue Mage, and bringer of the unexpected gift.”
Placing the copper rings in his pocket, Saeröl seized his flute and began playing notes increasing to what felt like an impossible frequency. Shadows began to seep out from underneath the blanket masking his sword, which Saeröl had always kept close at hand. Soon, those ghostly animal forms were gathering around him. Three black cats took shape. A grey owl, with eyes as dark as night, suddenly flew out of one of the cave’s galleries before perching on its master’s shoulders.
“I bid you farewell, my lords,” were the last words Saeröl uttered.
A moment later, he was on his way, surrounded by his ghostly animals.
*
Two days after the secret meeting in the cellar of Mentobraglin, Saeröl reached his destination. Curubor had described how the only possible way out of the region of the Hageyu Falls was at the Ningy Pool, where their chaotic, cascading waters clash with the flow of the Sian Ningy River. This place lay deep within the wood of Silver Leaves. It was very difficult to access through the thick underbrush and dense tree cover.
After considerable effort, Saeröl had finally reached the top of a ravine which overlooked both the final cascade of the Hageyu Falls and the Ningy Pool below. This position provided a superb outlook over the surrounding area and the meandering Sian Ningy River. Saeröl was not alone. He was enjoying the company of the charming Drismile, who had joined him in Tar-Andevar. Indeed, it was this lady who had facilitated his exit from the town of the sea hierarchs. She knew how to leave the city unnoticed; corrupting the city guards was only one of her numerous abilities. The two Night Elves had discreetly left Tar Andevar on a moonless evening, taking advantage of the darkness to avoid the numerous mounted patrols of the sea hierarchs’ units. Their night vision enabled them to progress swiftly and unnoticed during the darkest hours. The two Night Elves had now been hiding in the vegetation atop the Ningy Pool for hours, enjoying the murmur of the forest. They had listened with pleasure to the rustling leaves and tumbling waters below, whilst lying back and taking in the vibrant flowers and wild plants that surrounded them.
Now Drismile and Saeröl quietly sat on the edge of the escarpment, which gave dramatic views over the surrounding landscape. The darkness of the starless night reigned. They did not mind staying on this rocky promontory, despite its slippery surfaces and close proximity to the cliff edge. Their small campsite was invisible from the wild meadows that bordered the Sian Ningy to the south of it. The pool was surrounded by either tall pine trees or vertical rocks faces, and its shallow banks consisted mainly of loose stones and forest debris, constantly wet from the waterfall’s spray. The Ningy Pool seemed to be alive with moving sandbanks beneath its surface, as sunken vegetation moved and mixed indistinguishably with the boulders at the base of the fall. The humid air, warm temperature and mist from the waterfall all made it difficult for the two Elves to get an exact picture of the landscape around the pool.
“I almost did not recognize this place,” confided Saeröl. “Last time I was here, I remember being struck by the pool’s pristine waters. A clear moon had added its own touch of silvery light, which twinkled along the ripples of the surface. Tonight, however, the water seems thick with mud, as if the small lake has slipped into a jet-black cloak.”
Drismile nodded in agreement. She was busy sewing runes of dark silk onto canvas, handling a long needle with dexterity. Saeröl also contributed to the work’s progress. Sitting beside Drismile, he worked at the black material with a needle of his own. Despite the darkness of night, Drismile was looking at him with passion as she worked, admiring the rare beauty of his delicate features and intelligence in his eyes. An owl came to perch on his shoulder. The night bird’s head darted around, as if it were consulting the winds before pronouncing an omen.
“My prince, the cats have returned,” advised Drismile, as she noticed the shadowy silhouettes of several lynxes lurking around them, staying nonetheless well away from their camp.
Saeröl, who had spoken little for several hours, decided to share his thoughts.
“I summoned them. My lynxes will be more useful if I keep them close by. We might need their protection. I am surprised that they have found no trace of the ambushers nearby. The closest Nellos units we have noticed are several leagues away, to the south of the wood of Silver Leaves. I do not believe they can stop the Green Elves now. The clan Ernaly reached the plateau above the final Hageyu Fall earlier in the night. As we speak, they are busy carrying timber for scaffolds, a few hundred yards upstream from us. Mynar dyl’s troops will commence their work at dawn. They will build a lifting platform in order to cautiously dismount the four small boats that are transporting the tombs. We must be ready. Let us now unfurl our dark sail. The clan Ernaly’s birds of prey will soon spread out across the area to search for spies and other threats,” said Saeröl.
As if echoing his words, a clap of thunder rang out.
“So, it will happen this coming morning,” Drismile understood, suddenly concerned. “This is strange; all is so quiet. Why would Lord Curubor expect an attack in this desolate, inaccessible place? Everything we have undertaken may well have been in vain.”
The rain began to fall. Finished with his work, Saeröl stood up and started to unfurl the great sail.
“Hurry, we have already taken too long. We must proceed without delay!” he ordered.
Drismile reacted immediately. She intoned a soft chant. The sail began to lift up into the air, its dark colours comingling with the night. Soon afterwards, Saeröl started playing his flute, the notes piercing and shrill. Suddenly, like a shadowy firework exploding in the sky, the sail disintegrated. Fragments of the silver runes, which had been embroidered with so much care, began to fall across the camp. The rain, indifferent to the witchcraft of the two Night Elves, intensified. What had started just a moment ago as a gentle shower was now becoming torrential.
“It begins,” Saeröl warned. “The Elves of Mynar dyl have not
come alone. The power of Eïwele Llya protects them.”
Drismile, now anxious, hid behind a large rock, which also offered some shelter from the elements. She called out to her liege.
“My prince, what are we to do with him?” she asked, looking over to the other side of their little camp, where a Man, fully bound from head to toe, was suspended upside down from the lowest branch of a chestnut tree.
Without moving, Saeröl considered the prisoner for some time, an evil look in his eye. The Man was a scout, who belonged to a barbarian tribe that had settled on the island recently. They called themselves the H’ibans. They were foreigners from distant lands, known for migrating in the wake of the powerful Westerners, to seek riches and establish trade. Their reputation was not good; they were widely considered, even among Men, as disloyal, opportunistic and treacherous, thieves who were easily manipulated with a little gold. Their greed made them useful followers for the Westerners.
Drismile had identified the Man for his tracking abilities inside the wood of Silver Leaves. Saeröl had captured him in the middle of the night and offered him a deal. The scout had honoured his side of the bargain but had not been rewarded as he expected by the two Elves. The serpents hindering his movement reminded him cruelly of the danger he now faced. After a while, Saeröl laughed.