by C A Oliver
CHAPTER 6: Aewöl
2712, Season of Eïwele Llya, 112th day, the forest of Tios Lly, Nyn Ernaly
When he opened his eyes, Curwë was hit with an intense pain. His body felt extremely heavy; an unnatural gravity was drawing him downwards, beneath the ground, as if Gweïwal Agadeon, Lord of the Halls of the Dead, had judged that his time to pass had come. For a brief time, Curwë thought he had already made that journey from which there can be no return; that he had gone beyond the mirror, after his body had hurtled down the ravine in a deluge of fire. His eyes widened as a stable image of the world formed itself around him. Curwë could scarcely believe what he was witnessing. He was still alive, lying broken in a grove of pines that had saved his life. Curwë saw the distant light of Cil, the Star of the West, piercing the forest canopy, before other stars, less bright, emerged out of the darkness to be admired.
A gust of wind drew his attention to the immediate surroundings to his right. He made out another glimmering ray somewhere in the bushes. This new glow, much closer to the ground, appeared to be dancing in the night. It became more distinct as it approached him. Instinctively, Curwë cried for help. The light moved quickly towards him until it was so close to his face that he felt the burning iron of an enchanted blade. Curwë, utterly helpless, was blinded by the flash, but before his eyes closed out of fright, he recognized the sword bearer’s traits. The face of the Elf was painted with many tones of dark green. The clothes he wore blended seamlessly with the forest. His gaze was hard, though his eyes were clear. Reaching for Curwë, the newcomer drew from his pocket a small container of sweet-smelling balm. He murmured mysterious incantations. His voice sounded familiar.
“Dyoren, it is you!” Curwë exclaimed.
And, too weak to talk any further, he fainted, abandoning himself to Eïwele Llyo, the Deity of Fate who, it was said, haunts the dreams of the gravely wounded when their life hangs only by a thread.
*
Two days later, Curwë woke up from a deep slumber. The blood pumping through his veins still carried the residue of powerful drugs, though the medicine’s effects were starting to wane. Now he could fully feel the pain that seared through his body. He attempted to bring his hands to his face, to remove the wet cloth that covered it, but he could not manage even this. Curwë felt, beneath his suffering flesh, the agonizing throbbing of his shattered bones and crushed tendons. He shook his head from side to side, wincing all the while, until the cloth slid from his eyes. He could barely make out the room he was lying in.
It seemed to be a small log cabin, constructed with the lopped branches of chestnut trees. There were no windows and the door, a thick wooden board bound with a chain, barred the only exit. Weak sunlight filtered through the gaps of the improvised refuge. The small room was empty but for a leather bag, a hammock of coarse fabric, a few tunics of badly combed wool, and several jugs of water. After a while, Curwë became sure that he was in fact alive, and not surrounded by the hallucinations of some strange dream. He remembered that Dyoren had saved him from certain death. Feeling relieved at last, Curwë let himself be carried away by his emotions. Soon he was asleep again.
*
Several hours later, Curwë awoke to the sound of hail, which kept breaching the leafy roof of the hut. Trenches dug around the cabin were meant to serve as drains, but the rain was so heavy that it was not much help. The site had become a little pool of mud. Curwë could now see much clearer. He discovered he was not alone. Dyoren was changing the dressings on his legs.
“Now I know without doubt that the Deities of the Islands sent their messenger and rescued me from a cruel end,” said Curwë, barely audibly.
Dyoren’s reply was harsh. “You have not been able to stand, sit, or even feed yourself for three days. Don’t think you can just get up and walk out. It will take time for your strength to return.”
Nevertheless, Curwë tried to raise his head to look down at Dyoren.
“How can I ever thank you,” he muttered with some difficulty, “for what you have done?”
“Drink this beverage,” was the only response the Lonely Seeker would give. “It will help more than you can imagine. It will rid your fatty tissues of the drug residues they have absorbed,” Dyoren said as he held Curwë’s neck, so that the bard could swallow the contents of the wooden bowl. “The constitution of the High Elves is extraordinary,” he added. “Your bodies can recover from injuries, even from the most severe. If you do as I say, you will soon be on your feet.”
Once he had finished the hot elixir, Curwë watched Dyoren with great attention. He noticed his great stature, broad shoulders and long blond hair, which appeared almost silver in the darkness of the hut. It was difficult to estimate his age, but he clearly appeared to have grown to his full strength. Though his figure was thin, his body was muscular and hard, moulded over many years’ worth of difficult workouts and strict diets. The wrinkles around his eyes ran deep. His face told the story of a tough life, spent outdoors in unforgiving environments. Each of his meticulous movements and precise gestures demonstrated his firm will. That day, Dyoren had abandoned his war clothes and was dressed very simply in a brown tunic. He walked barefooted; his toes were marked with the ochre of the earth.
“Take this. You have not eaten for days. You need food to regain your strength,” Dyoren advised as he handed over some rye bread. “The air of these woods can heal the pain that life procures. Nyn Ernaly’s wine is light and brings joy, while my music will allow your soul to rest and help fight the chimeras of fear.”
Curwë managed to shuffle into a more comfortable position, while Dyoren adjusted the tightly packed leaves which formed his bedding. He began to eat slowly, chewing with great care and intense pleasure, as though that brown loaf was the food of the Gods. Once Curwë had finished, his natural curiosity prevailed, and he could not resist asking what had been on his mind.
“Had you been following us all that time? How did you cross the strait of Tiude? Did you stow yourself aboard Master Aertelyr’s ship too?”
“I see from all these questions that life has not completely given up on you yet. No wonder the Elf with green eyes is so difficult to kill,” answered Dyoren, a wry smile on his face.
“This is just so unexpected. Even Gelros could not sense your presence on our heels,” continued Curwë along the same line of questioning.
“I do not know your scout companion, but one thing is sure. Whatever his tracking skills were worth back in Essawylor, he cannot rival me here. This was my home. I know every one of its paths and hideouts,” replied the Lonely Seeker.
“But why did you not simply join us on Nyn Ernaly?”
“Hear me, Green Eyes! I walk alone… as I always have. I chose to cover your backs. What happened to you proved me right.”
“Indeed, and for that I must thank you,” admitted Curwë once more.
His gaze was filled with genuine gratitude. Curwë asked no further questions. He understood Dyoren would answer only what he wished. There was a lot more he desired to know, but he felt that interrogating the Lonely Seeker further would only provoke his silence. Soon, Curwë was resting again, bathing his spirit in deepest slumber.
*
The next morning, Curwë realized that he had slept in very late. A pleasant dream still hovered at the edges of his memory. White butterflies were greeting him, dancing around patches of sunlight. The sound of a distant waterfall attracted his attention, and he stayed quiet for a while, enjoying this blessed moment of peace. Seeing Dyoren’s silhouette wandering through the campsite, he tried to bring his memory into focus. After a while, images of the battle returned to him. Curwë called out so Dyoren could hear.
“Where are we?”
“You are safe, beyond the grasp of those who seek you,” replied Dyoren enigmatically.
“That does not tell me a lot, does it?”
“We are in the forest of Tios Lly, on the eastern coast of Nyn Ernaly. It is the morning of the 115th day of Eïwele Llya’s
season, the year 2712 of the Llewenti calendar. Is that detailed enough?” asked Dyoren with irony.
“What happened to my companions? How did the battle of Lepsy Gorge end?”
Questions were now piling up in Curwë’s head as he fully regained his awareness.
“I believe your friends survived. They even managed to free the two lords, Curubor and Camatael,” said Dyoren, his voice somewhat neutral.
“How do you know? They probably think me dead by now. They saw me disappear in a shower of flames. They must have fled into the Chanun Mountains. That was our initial plan, I recall.”
“Your friends are not alone, Green Eyes.”
“What do you mean?” asked Curwë, now impatient.
Finally, Dyoren relented, and told Curwë what had occurred after his fall, though Dyoren’s summary of events was somewhat brief.
“Your attacks send the army of Nellos into complete disarray. It enabled Gal dyl and his troops to flee, breaking the deadly trap that was closing around them. After nightfall, I believe the Elves of Llymar withdrew to an entrenched camp they had built on Asto Salassy beach, north of Nyn Ernaly, where their fleet is anchored. Your friends and the prisoners they freed must have joined them by now. It looks as though your act of heroism saved the army of Llymar.”
Curwë, ignoring this last comment, focused on understanding precisely what had happened.
“Do you mean the Nellos troops abandoned their chase?”
“Only three of the kings’ servants seemed to have survived the campaign. The remaining knight sorcerers led the Western troops back to Tar-Andevar. I cannot imagine that the sea hierarchs would want to leave their city vulnerable to attack any longer. They have already honoured their alliance with King Norelin beyond what anyone expected, by providing numerous troops to support his servants during their errand here… Remember, there are many barbarian tribes in the north of the island, and their loyalty to Nellos is uncertain. It’s the druids who rule those wild Men… But the knights of the Golden Hand have not been left idle. They have sent scouts into the wilderness in order to find… you,” said Dyoren, staring at Curwë.
“Find me?”
“Many are they,” Dyoren resumed, “who are seeking you at this very moment: your friends, Gal dyl’s fighters, the clan Ernaly, and also agents of the Golden Hand knights… When each of these factions reached the bottom of the cliff and looked amid the undergrowth, they found only one burnt corpse… with its left-hand cut. All will be wondering what has happened to the hero who defeated Eno Mowengot…”
“I remember we fell off the cliff together, surrounded in flames, spreading the fire as we crashed down through the branches.”
“With your heroic intervention, Green Eyes, you defeated the commander of the knight sorcerers, pushing him into the void, to his doom. That was no small feat, for that Elf was a master of unnatural fire.”
A long silence followed. Curwë shuddered, remembering how he had struck Eno Mowengot with his dagger. He could still feel it in his arm, the sensation of stabbing the short blade into the golden gauntlet. After some hesitation, Dyoren spoke on.
“Perhaps I should also mention that all of them want what you now have in your possession. They will not stop until they find you and seize it.”
“What do you mean? What do I possess? I see nothing.”
“I have put the testament of Rowë by your feet. As you will see, it is still intact, despite what it has been through. As long as the powerful glyphs which protect it hold, it will remain unspoiled. You know who designed those complex runes. That should be guarantee enough.”
“You mean… you managed to save the testament of Rowë from the fight?”
“When I found you in the undergrowth, at the bottom of that ravine, you were still holding the sacred box, though your body was broken. In your other hand, you still grasped the dagger which had cut the gauntlet from the knight sorcerer’s arm… I destroyed his golden glove. That was no small task, for even Rymsing’s enchanted blade had to strike it many times before it was ruined for good. I leave you the precious dagger and the sacred box. These relics are now yours.”
Dyoren gestured to the two items, carefully wrapped in a blanket of fine cotton, at the foot of Curwë’s bed of leaves. Then, he left the small camp, muttering something about patrolling the surroundings. Curwë now felt safely hidden, deep in the forest of Tios Lly. Being there, under Dyoren’s protection, was the perfect cure for his wounds and his weariness. As the evening drew on, Curwë attempted to get up, and he found that he no longer needed to stay completely still.
Now well fed, he turned his mind to the sweet mixture of aromas which his nose had picked up some time ago: a glass of Tar Andevar white wine that Dyoren had left out for him. He brought the glass to his lips, and the refreshing liquid swelled in his mouth with a burst of deliciously balanced flavour. Soon, the bard had a mind for storytelling. He waited for what seemed like hours before Dyoren returned.
*
At their small campsite, there were no tables laden with food, no welcoming fires burning in a great hearth, nor any monumental carved wooden pillars, as there had been inside the Halls of Essawylor in Llafal. Nevertheless, that small glade, with its many tree branches arching like a vaulted stone ceiling, gave them a taste for songs and tales. Dyoren’s face was serene, neither weary nor sad, though his gaze belied the memory of the many events he had witnessed, most of them dark and sorrowful. Like an Elf who had celebrated many a festival, inspiration and joy came easily to the Lonely Seeker.
When Dyoren finally decided to sit down and rest, he started humming a simple tune, which Curwë began adding to. A few moments later, the voices of both Elves opened out, their sweet music resonating beautifully with the wood of the glade. The two minstrels sang like their powerful harmonies could reconcile their different cultures. After some time, their singing found a natural end, and the discussion began. Curwë carefully explained everything that had happened to him since they had parted ways in Llafal. Dyoren’s interest reached its peak when Curwë described, in detail, the fight at the natural dam, between the knight sorcerer with his war hammer and the mysterious Elf of many shadows. Dyoren suddenly rose from his seat, like a predator ready to catch its prey.
“There is only one way to interpret what you saw. The sword Moramsing has found a new wielder...”
Curwë pressed him in an effort to understand. “You mean that the Elf of many shadows who killed the knight sorcerer with the war hammer is carrying one of the blades of Nargrond Valley?”
Dyoren now sat silent, deep in thought. After a while, he confided in Curwë.
“For all these years, I have been travelling the Islands seeking the other lost swords. But I had no hope of ever finding where Moramsing disappeared to, that dark blade of the East which draws its power from the Amethyst.”
“Why is that? What is so particular about that sword?” Curwë asked feverishly.
“Moramsing was last seen in the hands of Saeröl, the guild of Sana master,” recalled Dyoren.
Curwë immediately made a connection to ancient tales he had heard.
“Are you referring to Saeröl the Regicide, murderer of King Lormelin the Conqueror? I remember songs in Llafal about his tragic destiny. He was a legendary character, one of the renowned bards of the Lost Islands.”
Dyoren nodded. “Saeröl lived in the Nargrond Valley with other Night Elves long ago, in their golden age, before any Men set foot on the Archipelago. The valley leading to the volcano of Oryusk was then ruled by Rowë Dol Nargrond, and his fief remained under the protection of King Lormelin. At that time, war was raging between the clan Myortilys and the kingdom of Gwarystan. After his father was slaughtered by the Dark Elves, as the new guild of Sana master, Saeröl became the natural leader of all the Night Elves on the Lost Islands. He commanded his people to swear the Oath of Shadows, a deadly promise that they would exact cruel revenge against his most-hated enemies, the clan Myortilys. The atrocities and war crim
es perpetrated by both sides were too numerous to count, and the upheavals their conflict caused throughout the centuries would become the darkest pages of our history…”
Dyoren stopped at this point, as if focusing on something else than the dark tale he was counting. But eventually, he went on.
“Only a long time after the war of shadows started did the clan Myortilys eventually prevail. The Night Elves who had survived it were now scarce, and they preferred to hide under the protection of the noble houses of the High Elves. Saeröl was consumed by a cold fury against his sovereign, Lormelin the Conqueror, the king who had done very little to protect his subjects against the clan Myortilys.”
Dyoren shivered.
“It is said that none can escape the vengeance of a Night Elf. Saeröl eventually had his revenge.Lormelin was found one morning dead in his chambers, his throat cut savagely. The mages of the Ruby College soon accused Saeröl of the murder. A formidable hunt was launched across the Lost Islands until Saeröl was captured and taken to Gwarystan. But the guild of Sana master did not utter a single word in his own defence. His sword, Moramsing, was never found. He was sentenced to death ignominiously but remained stoical throughout. The new king, Norelin, only son of Lormelin the Conqueror, had him tortured in vain. His cheek was branded with red-hot iron and, as the Night Elf still would not confess, he was thrown from the top of Gwarystan rock. It is said his corpse was burnt to ashes with magic fire by the mages of the Ruby College, so that his soul could never find its way to the Halls of the Dead where the High Elves dwell after death.”