by C A Oliver
The stag was as big as a war horse, and indeed it was galloping like a loyal stallion returning to its master. The ground was strewn with dampened undergrowth and snapped branches, but the majestic animal was unimpeded as it moved gracefully across that difficult terrain.The great stag neared the shipwreck. Ignoring the flooding caused by the fallen trees that were partially damming the river, it jumped with unnatural agility onto the bridge to reach the wreck.
A moment later, the noble animal’s cry reverberated throughout the woods. The majestic animal seemed to be expressing a most profound distress. It was feverishly searching the area, seeking out marks and sniffing for traces, but there was no trail to follow, no clues left by the mysterious intruder for the great stag to follow. It then looked high in the sky at the hawks circling above him, as though they could ease its pain. A moment more and it was gone, towards the north from whence it came. With the straight-legged, bouncing gait of a fawn, it quickly disappeared into the forest.
Curwë could no longer contain his curiosity. He leapt out of his hideout and rushed towards the wreck. Moving upriver along the bank, he quickly covered the forty yards’ distance. When Curwë looked down at the macabre scene, his eyes became wide and his face deathly pale. Turning his gaze from the mutilated corpse of the knight sorcerer, he focused on the pillaged coffin.
Curwë saw the elaborate carvings upon the rich woods and precious metals that had made up its lid, but which now lay scattered and broken in pieces. The outside of the broad, rectangular frame was painted on three of its sides, and its inside was covered with white quilted cloth. The structure itself was made of coarse clay, dyed in colours that ranged from emerald to aquamarine. Such luxurious decorations indicated the high status of the deceased Elf. Inside lay a corpse that had been preserved from decay with most sophisticated methods of embalming. Decomposition had been halted by washing out the body with essential oils. The only organ that appeared to have been removed was the heart.
‘Elfin tradition holds that the heart is the cradle of the soul,’ remembered Curwë.
The corpse still held a broad dagger in his right hand. Its hilt was made of gold and encrusted with diamonds. It was marked with the image of a blacksmith’s anvil. When Curwë leant down to seize it, the blade started glowing brightly. Unafraid of its reaction to his presence, and somewhat carried away by the magnificence of the weapon’s design, the bard could not suppress his want. He seized the precious weapon, which he found to be unexpectedly light and handy, despite the broad blade. It was balanced perfectly. Trying the tip of the blade on a piece of the coffin’s lid, Curwë noticed that it cut through the wood as if it were a much softer material. The bard heard twigs snapping somewhere behind him. By reflex, he hid the dagger behind his back and hooked the hilt to his leather belt. Only then did he turn to face the newcomers.
“Come Curwë! Come fast!” urged Gelros, from his position thirty yards downstream, just at the edge of the woods.
Aewöl and Roquendagor were just behind the scout. Sensing that danger was close at hand, Curwë immediately gave up his search. Jumping nimbly around the debris across the natural dam, he soon reached the western bank of the river. His companions had not waited for him. They were already entering the woods, heading north-west. It took Curwë some time to catch up with them. Finally, he managed to convince them to halt. They all stopped to rest. Barely visible against the forest, the four Elves, clad in their long green cloaks, sat amongst the aspen trees at the edge of a clearing.
“We need to move on,” urged Gelros. “Soon this area will be invaded by clan Ernaly troops. Dozens of fighters are coming from the Ningy Pool. Their hawks are already covering this territory,”
“Gelros’ birds have spotted them,” confirmed Roquendagor. “No doubt they will soon be on our trail.”
“But why should we fear them?” asked Curwë. “Have we not come to these dreaded woods to assist them? This is the very mission Matriarch Nyriele gave us.”
Aewöl intervened, his face still strained with pain and exhaustion, “The clan Ernaly’s fighters will have questions for us after what happened at the dam. I too saw this fight. We do not want to be scapegoats. It will hopefully require from them many efforts to retrieve the coffin. They will need to secure it as quickly as possible. That will delay them and buy us time.”
Curwë disagreed. “But what should we do now? Roquendagor, I am surprised. Do you agree with Aewöl? Shouldn’t we rally the units of clan Ernaly and join them in their quest?”
The tall knight hesitated for a moment. Two opposing urges wrestled within his soul.
“Aewöl is right,” he finally declared. “The Elf of shadows you both saw at the dam is beyond our power to capture, still less to coerce. Let us leave his fate to that which hunts him, whatever that great stag might be… We must think and act carefully. Our survival may depend on what we decide to do now. I do not trust the clan Ernaly, and I trust its intriguing warlord even less. My orders are that we make for the north of the island, to the barbarian territories. That way, we will escape the wood of Silver Leaves and circumvent the Chanun Mountains on their western side. Our aim is to join the fleet of Llymar. We know that Gal dyl’s ships are somewhere up north, sailing off the coast of Nyn Ernaly, waiting for the time to land on the northern beach of the Island to pick up the clan Ernaly’s troops.”
“We do not even have a reliable map,” protested Curwë with a final effort.
But Aewöl concluded the debate.
“Gelros will lead us.”
Curwë realised he would never convince his companions. The decision had been made; nevertheless, he had difficulty hiding his disappointment. In an attempt to regain his self-control, he discreetly gripped the hilt of his new dagger. A blast of intense energy swept through his arm, but none of his companions saw the brightness in his gaze that flashed up in that instant.
The four Elves gathered their few remaining belongings and headed north-west into the woods. Gelros led the way, Aewöl and Curwë on his heels with Roquendagor covering the rear. Progress was difficult through the thick vegetation of the Silver Leaves’ wood, damaged as it was after the storm. Despite Gelros’ tracking skills and the assistance of his birds, the four Elves had to retrace their steps several times after coming across dead ends where steep cliffs stopped them progressing further. Aewöl was slowing down the group. The one-eyed Elf needed regular care, though his condition showed steady improvement. He had already drunk their full reserve of healing plant decoctions prepared by Arwela, the seer of the clan Filweni.
*
Their long day was drawing to an end when Gelros asked the group to stop. He kneeled under the cover of a tall oak tree, taking care to pull up the hood of his cloak. His companions copied him without a word, their gazes fixed on Gelros’ next move. When he spoke, his voice was heavy with concern.
“My birds have not come back in time,” warned the scout.
All was quiet. The site they eventually reached was sheltered from the elements and, although it had been overcast and windy to the northwest throughout their journey, the group knew that the wind usually died down before sunset in the Lost Islands. On this occasion, however, all was too quiet. Most birds had deserted the area, as if tipped off about some secret threat. Only birds of prey could be seen gliding high above. An eagle stretched its wings against the red sky of sunset as it passed overhead.
“I see a walkway,” said Gelros, indicating its direction with a nod of his head, “forty yards west of us downhill, but high up in the trees. See wood hanging from those ropes? It looks like the suspended walkways the Green Elves use in the forest to travel between their settlements.”
“I see it too,” confirmed Curwë, “swinging slowly in the wind... or perhaps...”
“There are Elves walking that footbridge,” added Aewöl, suddenly tense.
A silence followed. Gelros scrutinized their surroundings in every direction. Then, he realized.
“There are Green Elves all a
round us. We are surrounded.”
Gelros revealed himself, stepping up and out of his hideout, throwing his bow and short swords to his feet. Curwë soon followed him, as did Aewöl. Only Roquendagor remained hidden. His long green hooded cloak was wrapped around his entire body, completely concealing his presence. From somewhere in the dense undergrowth, an Elvin voice called out.
“Night is upon us. I love this time of day when the leaves spread out across the expanse of glowing orange in the warmth of summer... You must have travelled to Nyn Ernaly to admire its beauty, foreigners from distant Essawylor.”
Voryn dyl stepped forward. His silhouette was long and emaciated. The captain of the clan Ernaly’s severe features left no doubt about his fierce nature. An aggressive-looking hawk was perched restlessly on his dark leather glove. The brother of Mynar dyl was trying his best to speak in a friendly, melodious manner, but it sounded forced. Nevertheless, he continued with the same tone.
“The Daughter of the Islands say that summer is getting longer every year. Apparently, warm gusts of wind are coming from far away in Essawylor, causing the land to dry up and the trees to grow weak. I believe they are right. I believe that what comes from across the Austral Ocean is never good.”
Voryn dyl ‘the Ugly’ was progressing slowly through the trees. The dreaded archer held his bow in his left hand. There was menacing intent in his posture and gait. Many other Elves of the clan Ernaly now appeared amidst the vegetation of the woods, creeping between trees and hiding behind trunks. The clan Ernaly’s insignia, a grey falcon stalking its prey, was woven into their hair along with their hawk feathers. They gradually positioned themselves at regular intervals in a circle around the four Elves. A dozen fighters, heavily armed with javelins and short swords, were now standing close, ready if a melee broke out.
The Elves of Mentollà were also within range of the dozen archers on the walkway. Their bows were raised and loaded, and their quivers, slung over their fine chainmail, were heavy with arrows. Curwë stepped forward, holding up a silver necklace so that all could see. The ivory-white pearls that adorned it were shining vividly the ambient light of early evening.
“We mean you no harm, Voryn dyl. We come in peace; we come to help. Matriarch Nyriele has entrusted us with a mission. We are here to alert you of the dangers you face.”
For several moments, Voryn dyl hesitated. He looked tempted to fire his bow at the bard. Disgust was stretched across his face. The Ugly could not stand the idea that the noblest of Llewenti maidens might willingly give her sacred necklace, the symbol of her rank as Eïwele Llyi’s high priestess, to a mere foreigner, a refugee from across the ocean. Blinded by hatred, he raised his bow at Curwë, which sent the hawk on his arm flying away. This treacherous move provoked something that none could foresee.
Roquendagor leapt up from his hideout and stood before all. He was furious to see his friend threatened by one of their own allies. He felt the dishonour as if it were his own. The tall knight was preparing to lead his small retinue into battle against the clan Ernaly’s forces.
“This day shall not end until my honour is regained,” Roquendagor shouted out.
Burning with rage over Voryn dyl's actions, he was swinging his two-handed sword above his bald head. Taken aback to see the hero of the battle of Mentollà, Voryn dyl lowered his bow. For a moment, it seemed as if he were weighing his odds of winning the fight. His gaze went from the four High Elves, now regrouped in a defensive formation, to the two dozen fighters awaiting his instructions. No doubt his unit would have the upper hand, but at what cost? It was the sudden cry of his great hawk now flying above that seemed to change his mind. Voryn dyl took a further step back, behind the cover of an elm tree trunk.
“You have come to help…” he declared, his tone now full of disdain, “You are naive fools... You do not know the enemy we face. It is beyond your imagination. Go back to your high tower by the creek. You do not belong on this island.”
In an instant, the clan Ernaly troops withdrew, darting back through the trees, like as many deer springing away into the depths of the woods. They quickly clambered up the ropes and ladders amid the trees to reach the forest footbridge. Soon, they were gone, running along their passageway hanging high in the trees’ foliage, as if they were speeding down any well-maintained track on the ground. Finally, one last instruction could be heard.
“Cut the ropes behind you! I do not want these fools to follow us.”
And then, as darkness set in, the forest fell silent again.
“That was a long day,” concluded Roquendagor. “We should stay here. Now, we are nothing more than simple travellers under the night’s sky, looking for a place to pitch camp and prepare food.”
There was nothing more to say.
*
The next day, when the sky was red with sunset, the four Elves left the wood of Silver Leaves behind. Heading north-west still, they traipsed up long slopes, keeping close to the cover of the craggy foothills of the Arob Chanun. They moved slowly and stealthily, like green shadows through a forest, constantly wary of taking wrong turns, for the clan Ernaly’s trail was no longer easy to follow.
When dusk deepened, and stars emerged, their progress was slowed when they came across an area strewn with sharp rocks. The western sides of the Arob Chanun were steep and harsh, with many gullies and narrow ravines. Now that his birds were no longer returning to confirm the presence of the clan Ernaly fighters, Gelros was at a loss. The Green Elves seemed to have vanished into the ridge. Bent to the ground, the scout looked out, searching across the nearby hills. Curwë was some way ahead, eager to find the trail. Finally, he reached the crest of a rocky hill, and a sudden breeze blew through his hair and stirred his green cloak.
“Not even my eyes can make anything out at this late hour,” Curwë called back.
“Their disappearance is a riddle… to answer it we need the light of day,” said Roquendagor. “We’re staying here for the night.”
“I do not like this place,” warned Aewöl. “I don’t doubt that barbarians often pass through. We’re not far here from the human tribes’ seat of power in this region. We may well wake up tomorrow to the company of Men out on a hunt.”
But Roquendagor quickly ended the debate: “We have no choice.”
A little further downhill, they came across a gorge, through which a tiny stream cut a path down into the foothills. Bushes and patches of grass lined its banks. The four Elves agreed it was a suitable place to camp. Curwë offered to take the first watch. The moon was full, and stars glittered in the sky. While his companions settled down to rest, the Elf with green eyes tried to stay cool by dipping his hands into a small pond near their camp and wetting the back of his neck. When the surface of the pond settled, his face shone back at him in the water. He could not help but smile, proud of how he looked. In his eyes was a very specific form of intelligence; he could look at the world in a way that was both hopeful and realistic.
Curwë was known for being cunning, lively and courageous. His inherent attractiveness, fabled among females of all Elvin origin, he owed to his sharp mind and curious nature.
‘Mother used to say I am different, I am an exception,’ Curwë remembered as he smiled again at the reflection of his image in the water.
And indeed, he had always felt like it. His rare talents must have come from his bloodline; he was one of the few Silver Elves who had lived in Essawylor. Perhaps because they were called ‘Hawenti’ in their language, the Green Elves often forgot that, historically, High Elves were divided into two main groups, each ruled by their own kings: the more prominent Gold Elves, and then the Silver Elves. Almost every High Elf living in Essawylor and in the Lost Islands was of Gold Elf ancestry. Only very few Silver Elves had joined them in their exile at the end of the First Age. Curwë’s late mother was one of them.
Since setting foot on Nyn Ernaly, Curwë had felt an indomitable force within him. After the many challenges he and his companions had confronted since
crossing the Austral Ocean, he had finally found a new beginning. Over these past few years, Curwë had faced death many times; he had looked it in the eye.
‘I am not afraid. I will confront my fate with open arms, however dangerous it might prove,’ Curwë deeply believed.
The past few days had been a succession of extreme trials; any one of them could have claimed his life. Even now, his heart rate was too high, his blood vessels too narrow, to release him from the tension that still gripped his body. Looking at his companions who were lying still, quietly concealed in their great cloaks and fully absorbed in their dreams, Curwë began to think aloud.
‘This all goes to show that life often hangs by a thin thread, and that sometimes only the help of others can save you. I often wonder if I am protected by the star of the Blue Elves, this heavenly body they call Cil. Thirty years ago, in the jungle of Essawylor, I looked to the Star of the West and prayed that my eyes would one day be able to see the secret of life. Well, it looks as though Cil has fulfilled my wish.’
Curwë smiled happily; he was starting to feel what he called the gift of Eïwele Llyi flooding his heart and soul. This sensation was thrilling, unlike any other. It visited him every night in the moments before he fell into deep sleep. Since his last day in Llafal, the day he spoke with Nyriele, the bard had been swept up in a wave of intense emotion. Curwë loved poetry, and many of his favourite poems had described how, in those unforgettable moments of great love, one can feel immortal.