by C A Oliver
But he was interrupted by a deep, intense noise, like the cry of a great wind spirit. It felt as if the Deity of Storms was breaking free from the invisible bonds that chained him beneath the Sea of Cyclones. The atmosphere became filled with a sudden new heat. Dangerous gases seeped down from the lowly clouds, causing all birds in the vicinity to flee. The air was struggling to contain the power of impending lightning. The sky darkened to the north. A black, unnatural cloud emerged over the peaks of the Chanun Mountains.
“Some time ago,” said Curwë, looking up at the ominous sky, “I heard the priests of Eïwele Llya say, ‘Water is the blood of the Mother of the Islands, the trees its hair, and the clouds its voice.’ When I see that overcast sky, I cannot help but fear the worst.”
“We cannot linger by the river,” advised Gelros. “Quick! Gather the equipment. Please help Master Aewöl while I look for shelter.”
The scout disappeared beneath the canopy; his companions still startled by the suddenly changed vista. Nevertheless, they quickly packed their belongings, like Elves living in the shadow of a volcano trained for evacuation. They prioritised protecting the food they carried from the coming rain.
After a while, Gelros returned. The scout had discovered a shelter. Immediately the group departed. They did not have to go very far. Climbing up a hill heading north, they reached their destination after less than a quarter-league.
It was a rough hut made of wood and stone that stood beneath a few willows: a traditional shelter where hunters would dwell overnight. A small stream, a tributary of the Sian Ningy River, bathed the roots and hanging branches of the willows, and split in two just before the hut, enclosing it amidst the reeds and hedges of its banks. All was empty, lonely and desolate. Gelros pulled out his long dagger, cut a willow branch, whittled it into a spear and lodged it between the door and its frame. He pushed with all his weight. The door opened.
Gelros came in. He went about his actions with a feverous determination. The scout urged his companions to join him, and then proceeded to barricade the door with a table and some seats he found near the hearth. Somewhat reassured by these precautions, Gelros placed himself in front of a half-open shutter and began to look out. It was starting to rain again.
A heavy shower soon tore down upon the roof. The sky was low and dark; it seemed to be bursting, emptying itself upon the ground, dissolving and melting the earth. Gusts of winds swept through with unnatural heat. The flow of the two streams bordering the hut became more intense, and Gelros looked at them with concern. Seeing his companion’s dark mood, Curwë understood that the weather’s sudden turn was now a serious danger to them.
"There is without doubt some unknown threat hanging over these hills,” Curwë thought aloud. “Where have the animals gone? What terror caused them to abandon these woods?”
"Listen!” Gelros interrupted.
A moment later, what the hunter's instinct had perceived, the bard began to hear. A long murmur, as if of the wind, arose from different points of what sounded like a semicircle stretching from east to west. It was interrupted only by what sounded like jets of warm air heavy with water, like the sound of the rising tide on a stony shore.
“What is that?” asked Aewöl. “Could it be the wind?”
“No. It’s the wind that is carrying the noise. The two are distinct,” distinguished Curwë.
“Is that the crackling of some gigantic fire?” wondered Roquendagor before reconsidering his first instinct. “No, the sound is so close that we would see its flames, but darkness is rising all around.”
The noise became louder and more distinct: it was the incessant, all-pervading and rumbling roll of a surging wave.
“I see it!” exclaimed Gelros from his lookout. “Like a deathly rope closing in on the horizon above the trees. It’s coming towards us from the Chanun Mountains. It is heading towards the sea and will soon be upon us!”
Gelros was still uncertain about the gravity of the unnatural phenomenon, for he had never witnessed such a thing before. When he looked down, the scout saw how all around their shelter the grass was growing heavy with water. The stream was overflowing. It began to drown the reeds which had hitherto contained it.
“We must go!” Gelros cried, now overcome with panic. “We must flee, or we will be swept away! Look! Just look! Do you see now?”
Opening the shutter wide, Gelros pointed to the large cloud, which was whitening on the horizon, roaring as it progressed, like the vanguard of a celestial army.Paralysed in awe, as though already defeated by the demonstration of such strange power, Gelros let out one final murmur.
"This is the Mother of the Islands’ wrath.”
Roquendagor reacted immediately. He threw the barricading furniture aside and broke the wooden door down with a single kick. Grasping Aewöl at the waist, the tall knight disappeared into the engulfing darkness outside. After a moment of surprise, Curwë and Gelros were on his heels. The four Elves, supporting one another as they went, attempted to reach a large rocky outcrop uphill, which could offer them better shelter. The elements unleashed their fury around them. Trees bent, and branches were torn in the powerful gusts. Debris flew around in the darkness, like ghostly whispers flying past their ears. Their senses were overloaded by the chaotic spectacle that engulfed them.
Then, they heard a crash, and looked back to see the hut they had just left cascading down the slope, overwhelmed by the weight of the flood. The timber frames had given way and the stone pillars were tumbling downhill. Unmoved by the plunging ruins, the rumbling waters rose up in the thicket below; they could make out the top of the cedar tree trembling. Its branches cracked as if a whole flock of birds were storming through its foliage. The four Elves continued their flight uphill, away from the furious new-born torrent. Every few moments, Gelros stopped to wait for his companions, shouting.
"Move faster! Move faster!" repeatedly.
Roquendagor managed to keep up with him, but Aewöl and Curwë were lagging behind. The rain intensified, and now water was pouring down the slope, making the ground muddy and slippery. As the black sky poured, floods of foaming water on the hill’s slope drowned everything it touched. Suddenly, Curwë uttered a cry of terror. Just beside him, Aewöl had been caught by a torrent of mud and was being helplessly dragged away in its flow.
"Flee!” the one-eyed Elf cried to his companion, before being swallowed by the dark waters.
But Curwë, as if he were determined to risk his life for him, ran down alongside the torrent, watching for the tiniest window of opportunity to help his friend. Aewöl sank into the muddy water, but then resurfaced. He eventually succeeded in clinging to a tree trunk, around which the torrent still rushed. Curwë was soon by him, attempting to extract him from the raging flow. There was a moment of struggle. Aewöl, clinging to Curwë’s, was then struck by a floating chunk of wood. The impact was heavy and, before he knew it, the one-eyed Elf was overcome with intense pain, as now his wounded arm was the only thing Curwë could grasp.
Finally, Aewöl managed to seize a fistful of branches and, in an effort of will procured by sheer desperation, pulled himself up from the muddy water to reach Curwë on the trunk. But the torrent had grown wider and stronger. All across the slopes of the hill, the cascading waters were ripping up vegetation and dislodging rocks. The trunk suddenly shifted and was then being carried away by the current, towards the surging river downhill. The two exhausted Elves just about managed to keep their balance, thanks to their last reserves of agility and strength, upon their unconventional raft.
Just after, the tree trunk collided with a large boulder. The shock was hard. The two Elves were thrown into the dark waves of the Sian Ningy. But, with one last effort, they managed to swim towards the rocks of the riverbank. They found footholds and hauled themselves up. Aewöl and Curwë were saved from the most pressing danger, for the flood, strong as it was, would never reach this new high ground.
Then the sky split in two and the rain fell more mercilessly than e
ver. Crouching on the rocks, Aewöl and Curwë were severely bruised. Their clothes were thick with water darker than blood. The two bedraggled companions could now contemplate the great fury of the elements around them. Aewöl watched the rapid torrent which had almost swallowed him continue its mad course while Curwë, his face hammered by the rain, raised his gaze towards the tormented heavens. The rain’s violence abated as quickly as it had risen. It was soon nothing more than a faint drizzle. The clouds seemed to flee and, suddenly, a broad ray of sunlight struck the devastated hills. The blue backdrop of the heavens soon reappeared: a clear and beautiful azure sky. A fresh breeze drifted around Aewöl and Curwë, like a happy sigh from the earth. The two Elves were safe, but their other companions, Roquendagor and Gelros, were nowhere to be seen.
“We should wait here for them,” suggested Curwë, “they will follow our muddy tracks downslope and come to the river.”
“If they survived,” added Aewöl with his grim tone.
Curwë chose not to answer, but rather focus on his surroundings. He hoped that Roquendagor and Gelros would emerge from their refuge and show some sign of life. He dearly wished to see their faces glow in the warming sun that was now shining on his. A moment later, Curwë caught sight of a bright spot upon the devastated horizon before him: a reddish glow dancing on the river upstream. Despite his aching bruises, the naturally curious bard was transfixed by this phenomenon, separated from them by only a hundred yards.
“Look, Aewöl! There is a wrecked boat upriver. It’s blocked by those tree trunks that have fallen across the river.”
“I see it,” confirmed Aewöl. “But there seems to be someone aboard. No, some kind of creature… a large creature!”
Indeed, an imposing silhouette could be seen above the fallen trees which blocked the river. The figure was wrapped in a red cloak; the being beneath was part man, part beast. Up to his chest, his body was human. But protruding upwards where his neck should have been, was a twisted, interwoven nest of flailing sea serpents, hissing and snapping at the air, as if a normal Man were wearing a mask of living vipers. His great stature meant his monstrous head was colliding with the overhanging branches. A golden gauntlet protected his left hand, in which he wielded, with unnatural strength, a huge war hammer.
The colossus was attempting to destroy a large coffin that had been thrown from the wrecked ship when it collided with the barricade of fallen trees. He brought his massive weapon down upon the casket in a cacophony of enraged cries and frenetic blows. Loud, echoing cracks broke the silence of the forest.
“Stay here!” whispered Curwë, his breath becoming short as he began the perilous journey across the ravaged woodland to reach the river’s eastern bank.
The seriously injured Aewöl had no choice but to watch with concern as his friend progressed upriver as discreetly as possible. Curwë’s long, greenish cloak did well to camouflage him against the wooded landscape. He darted between the snapped branches and felled trees, heading towards a difficult, steep approach to the site of the wreckage. The more ground he covered, the better Curwë could make out the strange creature, still absorbed in its destruction of the coffin. Curwë recognized the tall Man’s order from his blood-red cloak. The bard then noticed the Golden Hand of rare design that the creature bore upon his left hand. The gauntlet had six fingers. These features matched the description Master Aertelyr had given as they had crossed the strait of Tiude. Curwë was facing one of King Norelin’s dreaded servants: A Mowengot.
The knight sorcerer started swinging the weapon high above his head. Curwë was amazed how quickly he could manoeuvre the hammer given its size and weight. The fearsome weapon struck the coffin’s lid one last time. It crushed through metal and wood, splitting the casket’s cover in two pieces. The knight sorcerer immediately reached down into the coffin and grabbed a cylindrical box, the colour of gold, with Elvin runes inscribed across its surface.
“I have my prize!” the knight with the golden hand proclaimed, his gravelly voice rising above the roar of the mountain torrent.
The golden box blazed forth suddenly so that all the shadowy woods was lit with a dazzling radiance like sunlight, but it did not remain steady and passed. It was then that Curwë noticed the shadowy silhouette of an Elf looming in the woods on the other side of the river, as though it had been waiting for that particular moment to make its appearance. The fallen trees, which had blocked the progress of the knight sorcerer’s boat, also formed a natural bridge across the river.
The tall Elf dressed in black was now standing still and resolute at the other side of this bridge, stoically awaiting his moment. He had stopped in his tracks forty yards from the knight with the golden hand; there could be no doubt that he was issuing a challenge. Swirling around the Elf were shadowy, spectral duplicates of himself. The dark apparitions were moving with and around him, constantly shifting their positions, making it impossible to keep track of which image was real. Slowly, without a word, this Elf of many shadows drew a bastard sword from a blanket that hung behind his back. He looked down at the fearsome weapon, delicately caressing its amethyst-encrusted pommel. The powerful, enchanted black blade gleamed like a servant of dark forces.
“Die!” yelled the knight with the golden hand.
In a heartbeat, the war hammer was flying through the air. The deadly projectile hurtled downwards, but it was deflected, diverted from its course, with a swift parry of the Elf’s sword. The dreadful weapon continued along a curved path through the air before landing back in its master’s golden gauntlet.
The Elf of many shadows moved slowly forward, as though utterly impervious to the extreme violence of the onslaught. The knight sorcerer threw his war hammer again, which emitted a horrible screeching noise that tore through the air. The Elf avoided the missile’s fatal blow once again, but one of the shadowy illusions around him disappeared. Now readying himself for attack, the Elf moved quickly onto the bridge, closing the gap that separated him from his opponent.
“Return to me!” ordered the knight sorcerer.
The war hammer once again circled back to its master’s gauntlet just in time for him to parry the Elf’s first blow and strike back. Almost simultaneously, the tall Man counterattacked, neutralising his aggressor before a flurry of new blows. The narrow bridge allowed the Elf to dominate the fight without using undue physical strength. The knight sorcerer therefore chose to retreat. He shook the curls of his snake hair, making them rain their venom down on his opponent. But the poison had no effect. The Elf of many shadows stood strong; he remained valiant and continued his attack upon the tall Man with the serpents' mask, pushing him back with his bastard sword as black as the night.
The fighting was now intense. Several times the Elf charged, responding to any opening with furious thrusts and swipes, but he failed to deliver a decisive blow. The knight sorcerer had so far managed to use his golden gauntlet to parry the dark blade’s murderous dance. His plate mail impeded his movement, making him a slow-moving target for the Elf, but penetrating his armour to inflict real damage was no small task. Nevertheless, the Elf’s speed and precision gave him the upper hand; he was driving his opponent to exhaustion. It was the Elf who controlled this fight, and he did not intend to leave anything to chance.
“You will never get my prize!” cried the knight with the golden hand, but already he was short of breath.
The Elf closed the distance between them, circled his opponent for an opening, feinted, jabbed, blocked a blow from the golden gauntlet, then leapt to one side and finally connected with a decisive hit. The dark blade of his bastard sword pierced the mail between breastplate and gorget. The knight sorcerer fell where he stood on the bridge in agonizing pain.
In a final effort, he tried to reach for a black dagger hidden behind his steel leggings, but the Elf’s sword immediately severed his right hand. Not content with triumphing over his opponent, the Elf flayed the face of the still-living knight sorcerer, to make a trophy of his snake mask, which he stuck
to his black sword. With another swift movement, he brought his weapon down upon his foe’s other arm, and then yanked the golden gauntlet from his enemy’s severed hand.
Finally, the Elf of many shadows seized the cylindrical box engraved with Elvin runes, burying it in an inside pocket of his cloak. Without a word, the Elf left as he had come. He swiftly crossed the bridge and entered the devastated woods. His shadows soon disappeared, flying up through the leaves of the canopy towards the north-west.
*
Still concealed behind a tree trunk, the hood of his long cloak pulled up over his head, Curwë remained absolutely still: almost totally invisible against the wooded surroundings. His breath became short as he tried to process the consequences of what he had just seen. He remained there for some time, unable to come to any decision. There was no sign of Aewöl, or of his other two companions.
After a long, agonizing few minutes, the cries of the knight sorcerer ceased. The servant of King Norelin was dead. Then, only the flow of the mountain stream and the wind through the branches could be heard, as though Eïwele Llya had conquered her dominion anew. Wild animals started returning to the area. The singing of birds and the chattering of squirrels comingled to create a new music in the cool morning air. High in the sky, above the river, hawks were circling.
Curwë spotted a great stag with splendid antlers on the other side of the river, a creature unlike any he had seen before.
“What could this be?” he wondered in awe.