by C A Oliver
‘E ow tumat sur ywlo !’
The nightmare continued. The prisoner left the great tent under the watchful protection of his guards, passed by the ranks of fighters who were all eager to understand what had happened.Through the maze of colourful tents, he walked like a blind Elf, and was soon guided to the gate of the camp. The silence was deafening.
Finally, Aewöl regained some awareness when he was called by a tall warrior clad in plate mail, offering him a bag of provisions. He recognized Duluin, one of the knights of the Golden Arch, the most trusted emissary of Curubor. The High Elf approached Aewöl to give him a sack and managed to mutter a few words without drawing attention.
“Follow these shores and look to the west. There lie the ruins of the great tower of Mentolewin. The pilgrims of Eïwele Llyi are gathering in that deserted place to honour the Deity of Beauty. There, you will find assistance. Now go, and do not come back.”
Without turning back, Aewöl started to walk in the direction he had been given; placing one foot in front of the other was all he could think to do. His feet sank into the beach’s soft sand, leaving a clear trail behind him. His gaze travelled across the boundless horizon of the sea.Finally, he broke down, overwhelmed by his emotions, tears streaming from his eye. He continued to walk all day, without taking care to rest, eat or to drink, driven simply by the necessity to flee the place of his degradation. When the sun disappeared on the western horizon, Aewöl collapsed onto the sandy ground, unable to go any further. Just before he fainted, Aewöl almost thought he had heard a familiar voice nearby.
“Master! It is Gelros. I have come to help you.”
CHAPTER 7: Moramsing
2712, Season of Eïwele Llyo, 3rd day, the beach of Asto Salassy, Nyn Ernaly
The ‘two winds’ of the strait of Tuide, one blowing north, the other northwest, were coming in from the ocean. The breeze carried the briny scents of the sea, which mingled on the shore with the sweet-smelling pines. In the first light of morning, just as the first sliver of sun was coming into view, the Elves of Llymar anxiously watched the marine skyline to the south-east.
The mast of a clan Ernaly’s hawkship had appeared on the horizon at sunrise. That morning, its single sail was black, the signal that had been established to mean that enemies were near. The hearts of the Llymar troops were troubled, for the hawkship was positioned to watch the strategic channels of the strait of Tiude; its dark sail must have meant a large fleet of Nellos galleys coming from the south. The sea hierarchs of Tar-Andevar had taken steps after the defeat of their army at Lepsy Gorge. The lords of Westerners were now resorting to the power of their navy to exact revenge.
Gal dyl Avrony, in dismay, ordered his guards to call an urgent council meeting in the hall of sails, summoning the noble dyn of the clans, the priests of the cults, the commanders and the captains. Fear, the sister of panic, was fast taking hold of the Llewenti chiefs. They all gathered with haste, eager to listen to their commander. After a brief talk, Gal dyl concluded his short address thus.
“Warlords, noble dyn, and wise counsellors, we are protected by the mighty hand of the ocean. Gweïwal Uleydon gave his solemn promise to our matriarchs that we could sail safely until we return home. He has been true to his word, and now bids us to go back to Llymar.”
Tyar dyl Llyvary, the warlord of Llafal, approved. “Eïwal Ffeyn is with us. The winds are favourable.”
“Our swanships are hardy, able to take the worst the sea can throw at them, so long as they have my capable crews,” claimed Leyen dyl Llyvary, captain of the fleet and warlord of Penlla.
Mynar dyl Ernaly also tried to reassure the assembly.
“The great galleys of the sea hierarchs cannot match the speed of a swanship over long distances,” the fair warlord of Tios Halabron declared.
“Unless the winds change, or the tide turns,” Nerin dyl Llyvary contradicted. “We should make haste,” he insisted, “for if the war galleys of the Westerners get near our swanships, we will not have the power to fight back against their crews. The great galleys are equipped with rams. When the Nellos warships are moving at speed, those rams can split a vessel in two.”
Seeing disorder growing into the ranks of the assembly, Gal dyl finally gave his command.
“We will do as I say and sail back with all possible speed to the forest of Llymar, for we have not the strength to confront the fleet of the sea hierarchs.”
The chiefs of the army shouted applause at the words of Gal dyl. The army of Llymar was returning home. The Protector of the Forest ordered the captains to dig out the swanships that were on the beach of Asto Salassy and draw them into the water. The Elves of Llymar had believed the moat and wall around their camp would serve them well. They had counted on their entrenched camp as an impregnable bulwark against a ground attack, a base that could protect their troops and their ships. But an attack from the sea was a different matter entirely.
In the middle of the hall of sails, surrounded by the chiefs of his army, Gal dyl rose from his imposing oaken chair. His abundance of blonde hair had been combed with great care that morning. His shining eyes were burning with strain. He abruptly dismissed the assembly; all could see how much he desperately wanted to leave Nyn Ernaly. While he was speaking to Leyen dyl, Gal dyl took up the Spear of Aonyn that was placed beside him. It was gleaming with the light of sunrise. Gripping the fearsome silver-shod lance in his hand, Gal dyl stepped outside the tent and saw intense activity around the camp. His troops were readying their vessels for sea. Gal dyl kept his eyes on the weathervane.
‘The marine breeze is sweeping down in the direction of the south-east. May Eïwal Ffeyn prove merciful,’ he prayed.
But deep within him, Gal dyl feared that the fierce winds of the Austral Ocean might suddenly spring upon them. So far, there was a heavy swell upon the sea, but the waves remained unbroken. A quick crossing seemed likely, with the wind coming as it was from the left side. The swanships would be able to make headway against the stiff breeze without flapping their wings of many oars.
Gal dyl’s attention was drawn some way up the beach, away from the intensive work of his troops, to the section of shore where they had first landed. The pier that the Elves had built, long though it was, could not accommodate all the swanships. The fleet looked somewhat cramped: in rows, with each nave placed behind another.
‘It will take the full morning to prepare the fleet for departure,’ he thought.
One of Gal dyl’s personal guards approached. His bronze helmet masked his face. Many were those who thought that the Protector’s guards were merely a ceremonial troop, mustered only to be paraded on special occasions. In truth, since Gal dyl had inherited the Spear of Aonyn, they had become a hard unit of dedicated fighters. At all times, four were assigned to defend the Protector while the others rested. They escorted him wherever he went, sometimes standing guard as sentinels if he needed privacy.
“Protector of the Forest,” announced the guard, “Curubor has decided to embark on the first swanship to depart, the one commanded by Nerin dyl. The Elves of Mentollà will escort him. Curubor insisted that it would be wise to keep them separate from the dyl of clan Ernaly.”
Gal dyl, sounding thoughtful, murmured his consent.
“This is sensible indeed, for they have provoked serious discord. Some members of clan Ernaly consider them to be heartless outlaws. Let us hope that this crossing has the effect of cooling their heated tempers. The Deities endowed Mynar dyl and Voryn dyl with valour but not much temperance.”
The sentinel nodded. “The warlord of Tios Halabron and his brother confirmed they will be the last to depart. They said that the clan Ernaly’s hawkship will form the rear-guard of the fleet. They volunteered to protect the rest of the swanships if the Westerners were to fill the gap.”
The guard of the Protector bowed, eager to be on his way, as there was a lot of work to do before they could depart. Gal dyl held him for a moment.
“I will sail with Camatael. He deserves
to be praised. Inviting him on board Leyen dyl’s swanship, which carries the four tombs of Nargrond Valley, will do him honour. Camatael has demonstrated his loyalty to our cause. In war, his prowess is beyond question and, in counsel; he surpasses many, despite his young years. He spoke wisely during the assembly. His advice is not to be disregarded.”
Satisfied with this initiative, Gal dyl smiled and started to think ahead.
‘Once we reach the shores of Llymar, I will prepare a feast for the army to celebrate those heroes we had to leave to Eïwele Llyo’s care. It is right that I should do so. There will be an abundance of wine and plenty of music to entertain our brave troops.’
The sentinel, clad in his light armour, went out, bidding the other fighters of the Protector’s guard to join him. They formed two ranks of three, equally distanced from their commander, and escorted Gal dyl to the tent of the high priest. They wound their way around the many alleys of the camp, like as many forest pathways, bordered with small tents made of sails with single poles for support. These were fragile constructions for the common fighters. A few pits, ten feet deep, had been dug into the sand and covered with fish nets. In them were live fish being saved for meals.
Soon, the group reached Camatael’s shelter. A picket of spears with feathers of various birds stood by the entrance. The high priest lived in a kind of hut: a series of oars and poles, standing together to form tent twenty feet wide. The structure was strung with fish nets and was covered in white sails that had been taken from the swanships.
When they entered the tent, they found Camatael playing on a silver harp of exquisite design. He was playing soft music and praying to Eïwal Lon. The high priest sung a beautiful chant, which filled the tent. The air was thick with the smell of incense. Camatael was alone but for one servant, who was sitting opposite him and saying nothing, absorbed as he was by the melody. Camatael was dressed simply, wearing only a purple gown and sandals the colour of gold. His austere expression, together with his icy-blue gaze fixed on his instrument, revealed his unwavering devotion to the Demigod of Wisdom.
The newcomers waited until Camatael had finished singing. The calm of his dwelling contrasted with the turmoil in the camp. It was as though outside events could not affect the high priest of Eïwal Lon. Camatael sprang from his seat with his harp still in his hand. He greeted Gal dyl and his guards, stating.
“Welcome, Protector of the Forest! It is an honour to have you here.”
With this, he led his guests further inside the tent, inviting Gal dyl to a chair covered with purple rugs. He then asked his servant to give every Elf a drink, as was the custom when welcoming visitor under one’s roof. Soon, a large bowl was set upon the table. Elixirs of flowers were mixed with wine.
Gal dyl took his seat facing Camatael, the entrance to the tent in front of him. The two Elves laid their hands upon the exquisite delicacies which remained before them. When he had made sure that both Elvin Lords had drunk as he was minded, the servant left the tent. Gal dyl made a sign to his guards. The sentinels took their watch outside. There was plenty to eat and drink, but the thoughts of the two Elves were elsewhere. Gal dyl started.
“I would like to invite you to join me aboard Leyen dyl’s swanship. It is the largest of the fleet. It carries the tombs of Nargrond Valley and will enter the bay of Llafal first. I want you at my side as a token of appreciation. When the crowds in Llafal cheer you for your words and deeds, I want you to feel rightfully proud.”
Gal dyl had spoken unusual words of gratitude and honour. This pleased Camatael, who appreciated the trust that had been placed in him.
“I am anxious to thank you,” the high priest started, “for the confidence that you have always showed me. You have my allegiance.”
After these words of thanks, however, Camatael, though grateful, could not resist laying his mind before Gal dyl. He responded with complete sincerity and goodwill, though he chose his words carefully.
“Most noble descendant of Avrony, I speak with all due respect, for I know you are the ruler of many Elves. The council of the forest has entrusted you to wield the Spear of Aonyn. Everything hinges on what you decide, therefore I will say what I think is best. You did mention that my words of council have been of some use to you…”
Camatael stopped for a moment to catch his breath and clear his thoughts.
“Earlier today, in the hall of sails, no ruler could have come to a wiser decision than yours when confronted with Aewöl’s sacrilege. Now that your judgment has been rendered, however, as high priest of Eïwal Lon, I urge you to reconsider the decision and to find forgiveness for Aewöl’s crime.”
Camatael paused at that, and looked intensely at Gal dyl as if he wanted to see through his guest’s mind. Encouraged by the passivity of the Protector, he carried on.
“In the absence of a fair trial, the sentence you passed has angered Roquendagor. You have banished his companion and friend from our army. That knight without banner yielded to his own pride and felt humiliated. It is dangerous to offend a hero whom the Deities themselves have honoured with great victories… Yet you still hold the power to appease him. When the time comes, you should show your mercy to Aewöl and recall him to Llymar. Thus, by your first strict judgement, you have fulfilled your duties towards the most intransigent of warlords. But in the days to come, in a fair speech before the matriarchs, you can also placate the community of Mentollà by pleading for leniency.”
Gal dyl stepped back, surprised by the proposal. The expression of sympathy on his face disappeared. His response was abrupt.
“I was right in my decision, and I am glad you understand why. You rightly condemn Roquendagor’s folly. The knight without banner was blinded with passion and gave in to the basest part of himself. I might reconsider my opinion of Roquendagor if he makes amends, in public before me. If he forgets his anger, I can forgive him. I want him to yield before the matriarchs, who he implicitly insulted with his rashness. He should know that our high priestesses can prove ruthless.”
Gal dyl’s features in that moment betrayed his fear of the matriarchs’ power.
“As for his companion Aewöl,” the Protector resumed, “it is beyond my power to forgive him for his sacrilegious act. That dark figure should be thanking the Deities for their mercy. His fate would have been tragic, had he been taken to Llafal.”
Gal dyl stood still, clearly pleased with his resolution. Camatael understood that the Protector of the Forest was concluding the debate. Surprised by this sudden stubbornness, Camatael felt that the Protector was making a great mistake by not taking this opportunity to ease tensions between the forest’s communities. Aewöl’s banishment would undeniably create a divide between the migrants and the old clans of the forest, thus adding to the existing rivalry between the High Elves and the Green Elves of Llymar. Nevertheless, eager not to lose the influence he had recently acquired, Camatael decided to completely change the topic and cease any escalation in tension.
“When you came in, Protector of the Forest, you saw me praying to Eïwal Lon. We were faced with great disaster and, with his help; we will finally save both our army and our fleet.”
“The sea hierarchs will not catch up with our fleet. They might roar commands like maniacs, drive their slave rowers with endless lashes of the whip, but they won’t reach us before the approach of night. By then, we will be far away,” Gal dyl agreed, sure of his case.
Camatael shared what was troubling him.
“I know the Westerners’ allies, the knights of the Golden Hand, have vowed to hew the high sterns of our swanships into pieces, and wreak havoc among our troops. Once our fleet is out of reach, I fear they will only seek new opportunities for vengeance.”
Now somewhat concerned, Gal dyl responded.
“Who do you think should fear retaliation from the knights of the Golden Hand?”
“I worry for the safety of those Elves who are making the pilgrimage of Eïwele Llyi. I saw many of them in the harbour of Tar-Andevar. Th
e worshippers of the white Deity have come to Nyn Ernaly in great numbers this season, sailing in from different parts of the kingdom of Gwarystan to look upon her divine apparition. Lord Curubor advised me yesterday that, as we speak, they are gathering in Mentolewin, on the western shores of the island. The ruins of the great fortress lay barely sixty leagues from here. The pilgrims would make easy prey for the surviving knights of the Golden Hand and their allies. If we do not help them in time, we will regret it bitterly thereafter. Once the damage has been done, there can be no cure. I would hate for us to be too late to save the pilgrims of Eïwele Llyi from retaliation.”
“My good friend Camatael, when Curubor spoke to you of the pilgrims in the ruins of Mentolewin, did he not entrust with you what he was planning?” wondered Gal dyl, visibly satisfied to see that Camatael had not been informed of all of the Blue Mage’s scheming.
“Lord Curubor only said that he was confident the pilgrims would be safe,” the young Dol Lewin responded. “He was being rather evasive. He made some reference to history: ‘Never, even in the kin-slaying wars of old, did an enemy, be they Men or Elf, succeeded in attacking the pilgrims of Eïwele Llyi.”
Gal dyl nodded in agreement.
“I may not be as erudite as the Blue Mage, but I do know the legends about the Deity of Arts and Love. My daughter Nyriele made sure of it... To protect her followers from strife, Eïwele Llyi can send forth ‘The Veil’, a vast congregation of butterflies. Its flurry of intense colour can instil fear into the hearts of those who would do her worshippers harm. Several times in the past, its enveloping cloud has protected her helpless pilgrims by suffocating those who hunt them with its own unfathomable mass. Barbarians and Westerners alike fear this phenomenon; it fills them with dread, even more so than the cyclones of Eïwal Ffeyn.”