The Lonely Seeker

by C A Oliver

  “Flee the wood of Silver Leaves. Find pilgrims of Eïwele Llyi and follow them. We will meet again where they gather to celebrate the Deity of Beauty’s gift.”

  Drismile, paralyzed by the events before her, only just summoned the strength to respond. “As you order, my prince.”

  Saeröl ignored her. Dropping to his knees, he planted his bastard sword down into the soil and started to incant powerful words of sorcery. His voice rose to what felt like an impossible volume, its force and depth like an entire choir chanting a majestic hymn in a vast temple. Before Drismile’s amazed eyes, his silhouette began to fade, his body taking on a ghostly form.

  CHAPTER 5: Curwë

  2712, Season of Eïwele Llya, 100th day, Wood of Silver Leaves, Nyn Ernaly

  “We must carry on. I have no more arrows, Master! This is dangerous!” warned Gelros.

  “The state of your quiver will be of no consequence whatsoever if I cannot rest this second,” uttered Aewöl, before he collapsed onto the ground.

  The path along the Sian Ningy had slightly widened; the injured Elf had managed land on a patch of grass away from the thorny bushes. Aewöl let the dark green cloak that covered him slip to the ground. The one-eyed Elf, with dark hair and lunar-white skin, was protected now only by his thin black chain mail. The sun was already up in the eastern sky. Thunder had been roaring all night; a heavy storm had torn through the wood of Silver Leaves. Torrential rain had caused the Sian Ningy to burst its banks. The forest was now severely waterlogged.

  The lack of adequate supplies made it impossible to tend properly to Aewöl’s injured arm. So as not to aggravate the wound, Gelros removed the light chain mail that had been protecting his master. He then made an improvised sling from the cloth of his own cloak: carefully balanced to support Aewöl’s wrist and elbow without covering the wound or applying any pressure to the injured side. This done, the scout set about preparing a concoction of magic herbs. Gelros was still standing by the riverside, carefully watching its flow, when their two other companions joined them.

  Roquendagor and Curwë were marching towards the improvised camp with determination. Despite wearing his full plate armour and his helm, Roquendagor moved gracefully and swiftly. The tall knight spoke in lingua Llewenti, the common tongue of the Lost Islands, which he now practised fluently, as did the rest of the Elves who had come from Essawylor.

  “You fought like a lion, Curwë! I am proud of you,” praised Roquendagor as he dropped his heavy equipment to the ground.

  There was soon quite a pile by the swollen riverbank, as he unburdened himself of his two-handed sword and started removing the many parts of his plate mail. He shook off his gauntlets, before unfastening the helmet which also protected the back of his neck, then the gorget that covered his throat, the pauldrons for his shoulders, the besagews for his underarms, the couters for his elbows, the vambraces for his forearms and, finally, his large breastplate. Curwë returned the compliment, his green eyes still sparkling with excitement after their intoxicating battle.

  “Without your bravery, we would now be lost. A just cause are not enough to win a battle. Force is the key.”

  The bard was equipped for war. He carried a light crossbow and a finely crafted long sword. The leather armour he wore was reinforced by a steel breastplate of exquisite design. Beneath his battledress, Curwë had not been able to resist donning his usual flamboyant clothes of multi-coloured silks that had brought him so much fame and admiration in Llymar. But a long green cloak, the colour of leaves, hung about his shoulders, allowing him to blend into the woody surroundings if need be.

  Roquendagor was now almost naked as he stepped into the river, indifferent to the cold. His back was covered by a large tattoo. The tall knight felt desperate to refresh himself after the long, exacting pursuit through the woods.

  Since their secret landing on Nyn Ernaly’s shores a few nights before, their group had spared no effort to reach the border of the wood of Silver Leaves. Their mission had been somewhat complicated when they were attacked by a full unit of cavaliers bearing the arms of Nellos. Aewöl and Curwë’s bolts and Gelros’ arrows had begun to turn the tide of the skirmish.

  But, above all, it was Roquendagor’s heroism that had saved the group from a bloody end. The knight had caused great confusion in the enemy ranks by knocking several cavaliers from their mounts. Like any experienced fighter, his tactics were swift and efficient: injuring his enemies quickly to incapacitate or hinder them. It enabled him to move on rapidly to the next opponent. Since the violent encounter, they had run through the night, anxious to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the inevitable reinforcements that would follow their fresh trail.

  “The river carries peat,” Gelros said unexpectedly, looking preoccupied.

  “In last night’s storm, the Sian Ningy flooded and ripped up most of the vegetation along its banks, taking up much of the soil with it,” advised Roquendagor as he waded further into the river to wash up. “During our flight, Curwë and I remained behind for a while,” the tall knight added. “I wanted to check if there was any sign of pursuit. But none of those Men dared to follow us into the wood of Silver Leaves. This is not surprising. The riders are not equipped appropriately, and they will fear us after the routing of their cavalry.”

  But Gelros contradicted him.

  “I believe a spy is after us.”

  Roquendagor was surprised. “How do you know?”

  “He is no common scout, for I have failed to track him down. He is most probably a Green Elf familiar with Nyn Ernaly. I doubt I can catch him,” advised Gelros simply.

  Roquendagor was not impressed. “Well, good luck to him if his plan is to stop us. His chances of success are low, alone against the four of us.”

  Curwë noticed that their other companion had remained silent and prostrate.

  “Are you severely wounded, Aewöl?”

  The one-eyed Elf muttered a few words to reassure his companion. Sitting down beside him on the wet grass, Curwë inspected the bandage that Gelros had made. Aewöl went on slowly. His breath was short, and his body was bruised with many injuries.

  “It will never stop. Since we escaped our city in flames, we have not known peace. We were thrust into a devastating series of events that day. When will this journey end? What is the purpose of it all? We only wished to stay at home, back there, in Essawylor.”

  Curwë tried to comfort his friend.

  “Do you remember the life we had? Nothing gave me more joy than to see the Elves of Ystanlewin forming those long queues in front of our lord’s hall in the hope of being allowed in to listen to the minstrels’ songs. I remember how, inside, drinks abounded on the numerous tables. Guests would sit together in good cheer, enjoying the confusion of the feast. These are the moments in my life I cherish the most. Nothing will ever compare to that blessed time: at home and with friends.”

  Aewöl winced as the pain in his wounded arm flared up before he turned again to Curwë.

  “We are now exiles, far from home.”

  Curwë, suddenly inhabited with renewed strength, replied, “Like the heroes in the tales of old, Aewöl, we did not choose our fate. Many misfortunes have befallen us, toppling our once peaceful lives into chaos. We must face these challenges if we wish to find peace again. I see this all as our trial. I understand this ordeal as a message sent to us, asking us to renounce our unshakable arrogance and fight for our survival. This trial is not easy, for we must flee both those dark memories of Essawylor in flames and the false hopes we once nourished about the Lost Islands. But, when we step back, there is one salient fact which remains: we are still alive; we have been given the chance to go on.”

  Surprisingly, Roquendagor intervened. He had taken up his sword once again, washing off the human blood that dirtied it in the river’s flow.

  “Aewöl is right. Let us face it: we are exiles. Never again will we see those Elves who we loved, for now they haunt the Halls of the Dead. We are far
from home…”

  Roquendagor bowed his bald head gravely. But soon he raised his strong shoulders again.

  “But we must not abandon ourselves to weakness.”

  The former lord of House Dol Lewin then turned towards his companions. He wished to share his thoughts. This was unusual, so all three paid attention.

  “I like walking in the mountains alone. It procures time to think, to seek wisdom, so to speak… My former self died in Essawylor when Ystanlewin fell, when those I loved perished. Once, Aewöl, you told me that I would be reborn into a second life and, when that day came, my destiny would be clear…”

  The tall knight took a deep breath.

  “Well, now that Roquen Dol Lewin has renounced his legacy, I believe the time for Roquendagor to write his own story has come. I know how eternal glory can be earned: through heroic acts of bravery. By my deeds, I seek to carve my name into an eternity that will survive my own ephemeral life, to become legend, a myth that will be told by scholars in the centuries to come. The name of Roquendagor will either survive the ages or fall into oblivion. This is my purpose, no less... now that I realize that life has an end, even for us immortal High Elves.”

  Roquendagor was standing straight, his gaze fixed upon the horizon. There was something in the firmness of his voice which demonstrated his inalienable resolution. His friends remembered the fury that had inhabited him in the battle they had just escaped, when confronted with a full unit of Nellos cavaliers who had tried to prevent them from entering the wood of Silver Leaves. Roquendagor had fought like a Dragon, almost claiming victory alone: beheading opponents, toppling horses, ruthlessly slaying his enemies. Somehow, in his macabre dance upon the battlefield, in the countless deadly risks that he had taken, Roquendagor seemed both invincible and possessed by a suicidal madness. Somewhat afraid of these words and what they might imply for the future, Curwë tried to soften their meaning.

  “Victory is of little significance if it does not serve a purpose. Glory is all the greater for any hero when it is acquired in the name of a righteous cause or to preserve the world’s harmony. Noble deeds such as these are woven into all those songs and poetry of the Green Elves that celebrate their heroes.”

  Roquendagor was surprised at that, and he could not help showing his frustration at his former herald’s words, which sounded too much like a lecture for his liking.

  “You are no simple Elf, Curwë, despite your strange emerald eyes. You are an immortal High Elf whether you like it or not. You will not reincarnate into a spirit of the ocean like the Blue Elves think they will, still less as a wood sprite or a tree like the naive Green Elves believe. When your life is cut short by the thrust of a sword or the blow of an arrow, you will join with your anonymous brethren in the Halls of the Dead. The Greater God of the Underworld fashioned that invisible realm within the entrails of world, to which the souls of all High Elves killed in battle must go.”

  Roquendagor had a lump in his throat and spoke with a more toneless voice.

  “One day or another, you will encounter his stately figure. Gweïwal Agadeon will be standing before the great iron door of his underground fortress. In his hands will be his formidable flail, his great globe and his black key. Once you have been ushered in, you will be locked within the Halls of the Dead forever so that you have time to understand what it means to break an oath once sworn to the Gods. You will become faceless, lose your name and become a servant to the stern and unpitying Greater God of the Underworld. Believe me, all that will remain of you will be your deeds celebrated by bards in their songs... or perhaps not.”

  Aewöl made an effort to turn away, despite the pain in his arm, trying to hide from his companions how distressed he had become at this reminder of their cruel destiny after death. The one-eyed Elf shivered like a leaf in the wind. His silver diadem reflected the pale light of the morning sun. Due to his restless nature, he often appeared ill at ease but, in that instant especially, dark thoughts were torturing his soul. His clear-sightedness defined him, and it often proved a burden too heavy to bear.

  Curwë caught his eye. It looked as though Aewöl was drowning in a dull anguish, like he was looking out upon the hundreds of thousands of dead High Elves locked within the Halls of the Dead: a multitude of shadowy forms groaning in confused discord, in which no individual voice could be distinguished.

  Curwë, disturbed by the suffering that Roquendagor’s harsh words had provoked in his friend, decided to answer his former lord. For once, the bard spoke without the full consideration due to Roquendagor’s former rank.

  “As for me, I see it differently. Even if things are meant to end the way you describe, I say we can choose a different path. I want to understand what has drawn so many Elves from such different origins to the Lost Islands… Think about it, since the world’s beginning, Elves have risked everything they own to reach its shores. They did so to seek safe refuge, yes, but also to embark upon a spiritual quest…”

  Curwë’s tone changed as he came to focus on his own destiny.

  “Believe me, I will explore this fabled archipelago to find answers to my questions; I will take the time to meet with its inhabitants, to learn their customs and to understand their beliefs. Some, I will most probably hate, but others I will love. I do not expect this journey to be without challenges; indeed, I foresee many trials that will push me to my limits. But, in the end, whatever the hardships, I will accept my fate.”

  There was a long silence, only interrupted from time to time by the sound of the wind through the trees. The four Elves, who had only just escaped death, now found themselves confronting afresh their visions of the afterlife and, with that, their deeply held spiritual beliefs.

  *

  Events had unfolded quickly once Aewöl and Curwë had met with Dyoren in Llafal under the watchful eye of Nyriele. Ever since, the days had flown by like a sudden gale in the bay of Penlla. Gelros had gathered their horses and the three riders had travelled for several days through the forest of Llymar and the hills of Arob Salwy before finally reaching Mentollà, their community’s stronghold. At this time of year, the Elves of the tower had been busy. Master Aertelyr’s vessel had been anchored in the bay, and his sailors were loading the summer’s harvest into their large ship.

  The Breymounarty had a monopoly over trade between the forest of Llymar and the principality of Cumberae, the dominion of House Dol Nos-Loscin, which lay far away to the south of the Lost Islands. Sailors of that merchant guild were famed for their ability to navigate the waters of the Archipelago. Indeed, their navigation skills had earned them an almost exclusive dominance of all sea trade outside of the kingdom of Gwarystan’s routes.

  The produce that the community of Mentollà sold to the Breymounarty was unique, owing to its tropical origin. The bulk of their exports were made up of fruits, spices and exotic plants: high-value goods for Master Aertelyr. For decades, he had defied the dangers that the royal warships of Gwarystan could pose to his illegal trading activities. That guild master was a smuggler as much as a trader. He had quickly come to an arrangement with Aewöl and Curwë. Against a higher percentage margin of the shipment to compensate him from the risk taken, Master Aertelyr had agreed to take the four Elves from Mentollà aboard, before quietly dropping them off on a remote beach of Nyn Ernaly.

  Curwë had been the mastermind behind the expedition, and his two companions, Aewöl and Gelros, had agreed to accompany him. The fourth passenger was none other than Roquendagor. The tall knight, who usually favoured solitude and preferred to cross the pass along the Arob Tuide range, had not been able to resist the petitions of his former herald Curwë. The smell of battle had proven too tempting for him; Roquendagor was eager to prove himself once again.

  *

  Now they could take a few moments’ rest. Certain calm had returned to them and, with that calm, the memory of the deadly fight they had just escaped. It now felt as though Gweïwal Agadeon himself had, for a moment, slightly opened the heavy doors to the Hall
s of the Dead, inviting them to join their fallen brethren for all eternity. Gelros suddenly broke the silence.

  “My lord, get out of the water... now.”

  Roquendagor immediately stopped bathing, hearing the urgency in Gelros’ voice. He knew from experience that the former hunt master of House Dol Lewin was not one to give warnings without reason. All looked to the river, upstream, to where Gelros was pointing. Soon, they saw the remains of a huge wooden structure surfacing along the rapid current. Chunks of broken wood, tied together like the snapped branches of a giant tree, surged down the river before their eyes.

  “Look!” exclaimed Gelros, “There are corpses too.”

  Curwë immediately recognized the many bodies being carried by the current.

  “These are Green Elves. They belong to the clan Ernaly. See how their hair is adorned with hawks’ feathers.”

  “It would seem that the fight for the testament of Rowë has already begun,” said Aewöl, his tone grim.

  “Mynar dyl and his elite units must have been attacked upriver. We must hurry!” Curwë pressed.