by C A Oliver
Gal dyl was speaking with a reassuring tone.
“I am sure none of them would dare approach the worshippers of the white temple as they undertake their pilgrimage. Besides, most of the pilgrims come from the kingdom of Gwarystan. They are subjects of Norelin and travel under his royal protection. The king might despise the old faiths of the Lost Islands and hinder their worship, but he cannot afford to openly attack their followers. Rest assured: the white pilgrims will be safe.”
Camatael seemed appeased by this.
“Curubor has organized the white priestesses of Llafal to join the pilgrims of Eïwele Llyi. During the gathering to honour the Deity’s apparition, they will circulate the rumour about the knights of the Golden Hand’s sacrilegious acts against the tombs of Nargrond Valley,” explained Gal dyl.
“I see. The white priestesses of Llafal will condemn the servants of Norelin… they will declare that this desecration of tombstones was overseen by the king himself. Many of those pilgrims might be tempted to flee the kingdom and seek a place of refuge with the ancient clans of Llymar,” Camatael guessed.
“We hope so. The forest will need many more Elves if we are to confront the challenges to come,” confirmed Gal dyl, still embarrassed by the naïve way in which he had let slip his primary counsellor’s plans.
Outside, the troops were still busy packing their gear and dismantling their tents, retrieving masts, poles, oars and sails that were required to equip their swanships. The noise made in the camp by their work contrasted sharply with the calm atmosphere inside the Dol Lewin’s tent. Gal dyl showed some signs of impatience. Cries announced that the first of the swanships was setting sail. Soon, their turn would come. Camatael perceived the distress in his interlocutor’s mind.
Suddenly, there was a noise outside, and the guards of the Protector appeared at the tent’s entrance. They advised their commander that it was time to go. Leyen dyl’s swanship would be among the next naves to leave. Gal dyl rose and saluted Camatael. He thanked him for the kind reception. The Protector was soon on his way.
Camatael remained alone, thinking. It did not take him long to gather his few possessions: the silver harp; two books; a few scrolls that he folded into his purple cloak’s inside pocket; his long sword; and, finally, his golden rod, the symbol of his power as high priest of Eïwal Lon.
At the tent’s entrance, an Elf asked to enter in order to start dismantling the shelter. His tan-leather coat, weapons and helmet were all adorned with the yellow flower of Nyn Avrony. Camatael admitted the guard of the Protector inside his modest dwelling, declaring that he was now ready to leave.
To his astonishment, the guard shoved him bluntly to the back of the tent. He stood tall and straight at the entrance, blocking any possibility of escape. His naked broad sword was in his hand. Slowly, he removed his bronze helmet that had been masking his face.
“Dyoren!” Camatael exclaimed, his breath short. “I do not know what you have in mind but your presence here is…”
“Unwanted,” the Lonely Seeker cut in.
Dyoren seemed to be even more tanned than before. His stolid face expressed fierce resolution. Dyoren had not lost his mind. He knew what he was doing. Camatael remained silent, on the defensive, waiting to learn more before deciding how to act.
“I will not bother you long; you will soon be able to join your new friends aboard the great swanship. I have come to ask you a few questions. The quicker you answer, your lordship, the sooner you will leave this soil.”
Camatael felt furious. Never before had anyone showed him such disrespect. He was determined to show this unsolicited intruder what it cost to insult a lord of House Dol Lewin. Holding his golden rod firmly, he started drawing strength from his inner self.
To his surprise, the area was deprived of any source of the Flow. He soon realized that he was powerless. Camatael’s eye fixed the bare blade of his opponent’s broad sword. He recognized Rymsing, the famed sword of Nargrond Valley, which the Lonely Seeker always carried with him. Indifferent to his prisoner’s anger, Dyoren proceeded with his questions, with all the authority of one who has nothing to lose.
“What have you done, your lordship? What strange course of action did you and Lord Curubor embark upon?”
Camatael hesitated for a while. He needed to clarify Dyoren’s question.
“Do you mean you would like to understand what happened before Lord Curubor and I were captured by the knights of the Golden Hand?”
“Yes. That is exactly what I mean,” said Dyoren, unwavering.
Camatael nodded his head before responding.
“You step into my living quarters without being invited. You ask questions with the authority of one acting within his right. This is a surprising course of action… for a fugitive.”
Unmoved, Dyoren did not react to this hidden threat, but the bare blade of Rymsing seemed to oscillate with the sea breeze in his hand. Camatael noticed the sword’s odd vibrations and looked into Dyoren’s eyes without any fear. A cold resolution emanated from the Lonely Seeker’s gaze. The young lord raised his voice, now determined to show his authority.
“It is no small offense to threaten a high priest of Eïwal Lon. Furthermore, I would add it is bold to show such disrespect in the middle of Llymar’s army camp. I understand that you are upset after your degradation, but that gives you no recourse to insult the very basis of our laws. I believe you leave me no alternative but to punish you. I could call my guards. They stand but a few yards from the tent’s entrance.”
Dyoren, still stolid, replied. “You could, but you have not yet. And I know why. Of course, you have already calculated that, by the time your guards, as you call them, could be of any assistance, you would have had to parry half a dozen of my attacks with your rod. You will know from legends celebrated by the clerics of your own cult that Rymsing was forged to harm the Gods themselves. Nevertheless, I do not believe that it is fear that prevented you from defending yourself. It is most probably curiosity. The questions raised by my presence at your side are numerous. You are intrigued. It frustrates you that you cannot control the situation, does it not?”
Camatael remained motionless. Nothing in his face or stance revealed his thoughts.
“Allow me to clarify how the sacred box ended up with Eno Mowengot, the commander of the knights of the Golden Hand,” offered Dyoren.
He continued without waiting for a response.
“You know as well as I that, before Eno Mowengot recovered the testament of Rowë, another knight sorcerer, the one bearing a serpent’s mask and wielding a war hammer, seized it from the tomb of the Dol Nargrond lord. Clan Ernaly’s units were attacked as they tried to pass the last of the Hageyu Falls. They lost the coffin. All were made to believe that the knight sorcerer with the war hammer, who had led this attack at the Ningy Pool, took the precious reliquary and then remitted it to the commander of the knights of the Golden Hand before the battle of Lepsy Gorge.”
“That is what I heard the noble dyn of clan Ernaly recount,” confirmed Camatael, without going into too much detail.
“Oh, you simply heard, did you? It just so happens that I have come to learn that the knight sorcerer with the war hammer, that master of the draconic turtle who attacked Mynar dyl’s fighters at the Ningy Pool, was killed just after he broke into the tomb, and that he lost the sacred box to his victor.”
“Who told you that? How do you know this is true?” Camatael asked.
For the first time, the young Dol Lewin showed difficulty concealing his surprise. Dyoren did not answer these questions, but rather continued his story.
“The knight sorcerer with the war hammer had fled down the Sian Ningy on board the small boat which carried the coffin of Rowë, but a sudden storm hit the wood of Silver Leaves. The river flooded. It caused landslides and many trees fell. Eventually, the Sian Ningy was obstructed by a natural dam, and the boat was blocked. A mysterious Elf used this opportunity to attack the knight sorcerer with the war hammer. He wielde
d a great sword: a dark blade of shadows. He eventually prevailed and defeated the knight of the Golden Hand, claiming the sacred box. Based on the account I heard, I concluded that this mysterious Elf with great powers must have wielded one of the swords of Nargrond Valley. I believe he carries Moramsing, the dark blade of the East that holds the power of the Amethyst. I seek that sword. Indeed, I have spent my life seeking it. Tell me that I am right.”
“This is a bard’s tale. Why should I believe such a ridiculous story?” immediately mocked Camatael.
Dyoren ignored his sarcasm, and continued his narrative, increasingly convinced by his theory as he formulated it aloud.
“I believe that this mysterious Elf of Shadows was an envoy sent to protect the expedition. He intervened only when clan Ernaly lost control of Rowë’s coffin. Someone must have feared that the convoy carrying the tombs, led by clan Ernaly, would be attacked in the forest. The six knights of the Golden Hand were watching the surroundings of the wood of Silver Leaves. They benefited from considerable assistance from the sea hierarchs of Tar-Andevar. Dozens of units of Westerners, scouts and cavaliers were patrolling the region, ready to obey their orders.”
Dyoren was becoming excited, talking almost frantically.
“Someone must have anticipated the attack. Someone sent a secret envoy, not only powerful enough to defeat the knight sorcerers, but also capable of escaping any pursuit. And this is exactly what happened. Mynar dyl’s fighters were eventually deprived of their precious shipment, and this Elf with rare talents succeeded in saving that which is essential for the Islands Deities’ cult. That secret envoy managed to preserve the sacred box and, eventually, deliver it to his backer and primary instigator of the plan.”
Camatael frowned at this. He now understood what the Lonely Seeker was trying to get at. Dyoren finished his reasoning.
“I believe that the mysterious Elf of many shadows answered to two lords: two allies of the Llymar clans, but who had not been involved in the matriarchs’ plan to recover the tombs. Unfortunately, the two lords’ hideout in Nyn Ernaly was being watched by the knights of the Golden Hand. After their secret envoy delivered them the sacred box, they tried to leave, but the two lords got captured, and Eno Mowengot reclaimed the prize and took them prisoner...”
Camatael interrupted him, “Your reputation as a storyteller is not undeserved, Dyoren. Your fairy tale ends well, just like the very best stories of the late-night taverns...”
Dyoren was quick to note the irony but remained impervious. He concluded by approaching the matter he was really interested in.
“Still, we are neglecting what has become of the mysterious Elf of shadows... and his dark sword. But I now have a starting point for my quest.”
“This very tent, I presume?” guessed Camatael. “You thought that I knew much more than I had been letting on. And you anticipated that I would be more talkative than my mentor, the Blue Mage, when confronted with Rymsing.”
“Ever since I worked it all out, I have been tracking you down, for I know Curubor lets you in on his little schemes. I have been waiting for the perfect moment. It was looking likely that you would not sail back to Nyn Llyvary without finding out what happened to the sacred box, which had been thrown down the precipice in a deluge of fire,” said Dyoren.
A silence followed between the two Elves. At last, Camatael responded.
“Well, Dyoren, I thank you for explaining to me in such detail the reason for your presence in my tent. But this does not change our situation. Those I do indeed call ‘my guards’ are still standing a few yards from us, behind the thin fabric of that tent, ready to intervene at my first call. The sharp blade you call Rymsing is still in your hand, beautifully bare, ready to pierce my flank. We still do not know what your next move will be.”
Dyoren was puzzled at that, somehow surprised by how calm the young Dol Lewin was proving. He decided to change his angle of attack.
“Let me tell you the story of Dyoren the Third,” he said unexpectedly. “He was born a noble dyl, for his bloodline could be traced back to Eïwal Vars. He came from clan Llorely. I remember he earned his reputation during the first barbarian invasion, thanks to his prowess with the sling. It does not really matter, though.”
Feverish, Dyoren paused as if he needed to collect his thoughts.
“This brave fighter was one day summoned by the Arkys to their retreat in the Secret Vale. The quest to find the lost swords of Nargrond Valley was entrusted to him, and he started travelling the Islands with Rymsing hanging at his back. Years passed, and Dyoren the Third went missing, before the Secret Vale’s envoy, the Daughter of the Islands, found that Lonely Seeker at last…”
Dyoren shook his head sadly with a look of poignant regret on his face.
“The unfortunate knight was hiding inside a deep cave, somewhere in the southern mountains of Nyn Llyandy.Alone, confronted with the perils of the wild, that former wielder of Rymsing had lost all faith; without any more confidence and hope, he simply had ceased his quest. Fear was in his eyes when the Daughter of the Islands found him. The coward thought he could escape the just ire of the Secret Vale when he revealed that Rymsing was safe. This Lonely Seeker had been terribly afraid of losing the Nargrond blade to the enemy; he had buried it deep in that very cave. He now gave it back intact. The Daughter of the Islands took the magic glaive... The poor Elf was then fed to her wild hounds.”
Camatael marked his disgust, “That punishment was surely disproportionate.”
“I have retold this tragic tale for one reason. Disobeying the Arkys has consequences...
I chose to rebel against their decision to strip me of my duties. I know the risks I am taking. Nevertheless, I have faith in my destiny. I could become the first Seeker in history to ever recover one of the lost blades of Nargrond Valley. Camatael, you know who that Elf of many shadows is, and you know where I can find him. This is why I insist you answer me without delay.”
Heavy footsteps were heard outside. The loud cries of nearby Elves, busy preparing for their departure, filled the small shelter. Then, guards entered the tent without warning. They looked eager to dismantle the small hut quickly and started examining its structure made of poles, oars and sails.
“You should be gone by now, my lord Dol Lewin,” muttered one of the workers as they set about their task, otherwise ignoring the two Elves who stood frozen in the middle of the tent.
There was a long moment of hesitation as the two Elves stared fixedly at one another. Finally, Dyoren broke the silence.
“Accept my sincere apologies for this unexpected visit! I wish you a safe journey back to Llymar.”
With this excuse, Dyoren put his bronze helmet back on his head. He was on the move, about to disappear out of the tent, when Camatael spoke back.
“You are already pardoned for your intrusion, valorous Elf. May the grace of Eïwal Lon be upon you and may the lord of wisdom enlighten your path and favour your actions.”
Camatael hesitated, but finally went on.
“If you seek further assistance, it is to the grace of Eïwele Llyi you must now turn. I am helpless in these matters that trouble you... But I hear the followers of the white temple are gathering in the ruins of Mentolewin, praying that their Deity appears to them.”
Dyoren heard these last words, but he did not turn. He was already on the move.
*
2712, Season of Eïwele Llyo, 4th day, forest of Mentolewin, Nyn Ernaly
“Hurry! We have to reach the cover of Mentolewin forest!” urged Gelros almost begging his master, Aewöl. “I feel uneasy. That hawk has been following us since dawn. It’s killed several of my birds, and the others have fled.”
The two outcasts were progressing along the foothills from the beach of Asto Salassy. They ran as fast as they could, through the thick, wild vegetation and tangled thorny bushes. The terrain was rugged, but the path they had chosen eventually took them out of sight, away from the open spaces of the lowland. The cliffs around th
em echoed with the deadly cries of scavengers. The wind, which had been blowing from the sea ever since they left the beach of Asto Salassy, now seemed dead. The rugged tops of Nyn Ernaly’s northern hills protected them from the breath of the Austral Ocean.
Their progress had been difficult. For two days, they had been stumbling and scrambling among rocks and bushes, moving slowly westward. The sky was pale. They could see the ridges and chasms of Nyn Ernaly’s northern ranges turn a fiery orange in the midday sun.
The two Elves were constantly checking over their shoulders, to see if they had been traced by enemies. If they were spotted by a sentry or a scout, a hunt could begin at any moment. Earlier in the day, they had already heard the tramp of iron-clad feet and the swift clatter of hoofs. Horns had sounded out as they were crossing an old abandoned road, and a chorus of cries had answered from the thickets of the foothills. They had not seen anyone or anything, but they had heard the rush of horsemen sweeping over a small wooden bridge, and the rattle of barbarian warriors running up behind them.