Opening his eyes with difficulty, Nimtha glances at the shimmering eyes and answers, “To pay an old friend one last visit.”
***
“Do you regret it?” Asked A’rak.
He sat beside me on the roof of his house in Tamos, across the Eredian Gulf. Defeated by more than the passing of a century, the ancient Ekran was stuffed in some crude nest, which he made atop his house. With feathers as gray as burnt ash, he appeared more of a vulnerable hatchling than a six hundred-years-old Eagle-man. Both of us gazed upon the orange-painted horizon in the far west, knowing that it was not sunset lights. I watched as massive fires ate through the kingdom of Tamos. In my mind, I could hear the screams of pain and hopelessness rippling across the region.
“Do you regret the time you spent searching?” he asked again.
“Do you regret leaving your family behind and following Enigmus the Unbroken?” I replied. “What I regret is that I came too late. Maybe we are both fools.”
A Few minutes passed then he pointed to the scene we were looking at. “Tamos is burning. The Cardia Ferra is ripping it apart.”
We both stared at the lights in the distance. “The Cardia Ferra is ripping Tamos apart,” he said. “With no allies, it will not be over till every Tamosian falls to the merciless fires of the Men of Iron Hearts.” He continued “Stegia is doing its part, like a faithful dog, and Tamos is being punished.”
“It is a one-sided war” I concluded. “This is why I am leaving this world. I am part of something doomed to failure.” I added as I stood up and jumped down from the roof of the one-story house.
“Have you found the answer to your ultimate question yet?” called the Ekran. “Do you still prefer oblivion? Do you still fear purpose?”
“Purpose?” I repeated, staring at the ground. “I confess. It terrifies me. It terrifies all Genn, even those who complain about not having one. Doesn’t it terrify you?”
“Of course it does. Having a purpose means that you can fail, that you can lose what you hold dear. Yet it is better than being nothing, is it not? That’s what mortality is all about.”
“And I have been described before as an ‘immortal.’”
“So, ‘immortal’, why did you come here then?” he asked with that pitchy tone, apparently vexed by my aloofness.
“I came to tell you that what you are waiting for will never happen. I owe you this at least. Justice, peace … they are all empty words now.”
“What about hope?” the Ekran countered.
The shadowy fumes outlining my form swirled with sudden anger. It was I who screeched this time. “HOPE? I saw with my own eyes the fall of the last beacon of hope. If Trador’s son abandons his house’s honor, what hope is left?”
“That is not the first time man betrays his kin, and it won’t be the last,” he said, still watching the fires.
I stood below the cottage, gazing at him. My raging fumes faded to the wind of the valley. “What can possibly surpass what I saw in Eredia? What can be more shameful?”
His crystal eagle eyes blinked, and his head gave a bird-like twitch as he stared to the southeast.
“Yesterday I received a message. It came from Eastern Wind. The Oaken Ring was summoned.” Then with even a heavier tone, he added, “This may be it.”
“May be what, exactly?” I craned my neck back to see him. His eyes closed shut with pain and a low crackling sound issued from his worn joints as he shifted his position inside the three feet wide nest for a better angle of vision to me below.
“Is there anything that can make things worse?” I asked.
“There is.” He replied, and he was right.
Chapter One
Answer her call
Karelya, the Eastern Wind
A’rak told me what had happened during the Fall of Bayland, nearly two weeks before my arrival in Borg. His story began beyond the eastern borders of Eredia and across the mighty river Gloor in the world’s oldest and largest forest, Karelya. Of the Eastern Elves who dwelled there, only the Galad’Era endured the many calamities of the ages. In the years of my story, they were among the few elves in all of Talor who remained.
The details of Karelya’s calamity were conveyed to my Ekran friend through the elf who brought to him the message summoning him to the Oaken Ring.
***
A group of initiates, a mix of humanoids of various human sub-races who were selected to study elven knowledge, stood at the edge of the Spring of Igna, the holiest shrine of the Druids of Igna. Half a dozen or so students stood near an ancient oak tree half-buried in the mountain which rose from the forest. They watched a middle-aged elf in his early four-hundreds as he walked on the surface of the Iganera’s water. The water of the spring seemed to be pulled by a weak force in his hands, creating a small wave behind him and emitting something akin to the sound of the ocean.
On the other side of the spring, twenty feet or so from the gathering of the initiates, an old elf sat, eyes closed and a wide smile on his face, conversing with Iganera. He was aged even by elven standards, but he was sturdily-built. He had pure silver hair, delicate features, and hypnotic gray eyes. The magnificent oaken staff in his hands produced swirling vapor as he held it erect beside him. A birthmark of a black phoenix was on both sides of his forehead just above his eyes, one on each side. It was said the famous Masks of Thar, was crafted to mimic this natural mark of his.
“I still can’t believe that you allowed more humans, dwarves and other races to our sacred grove, uncle,” said a middle-aged elf in his early six hundreds, as he came up from behind a tree at one side of the spring beside the elder. He had a dark top-knot of hair and piercing dusk-orange eyes. “I still don’t trust them around the Iganera,” he said, looking at the sacred spring.
“It is not about our trust now, Aeron. It is about theirs,” Replied the older elf.
“Their trust…? Can they even doubt us?” asked Aeron, turning his eyes to his uncle.
“They won’t doubt us, but they may doubt the legacy which we will pass to them; it is too much for most humans and other short-lived races, even the longer-lived dwarves. They are too close to the picture to see it. We have so much to pass to them, so much knowledge, and we are running out of time. We will not make the same mistake man did throughout his history. We shall not deny him knowledge."
Then came another firm voice. “Don’t you worry, Aeron, they are carefully picked from the noblest and most honorable houses in the lands.”
The younger elf turned to the elderly elven druid with long gray hair and a broad clear face. He approached them from a winding path that led down the mountain’s curved side, bowing his head to step under a thick branch. The elder was adorned with the highest ranking sigils of the temple of Igna: a drawing of the half oak tree buried into the mountain overlooking the Iganera.
He continued, “They will protect the teachings and use them wisely. Besides, we need their contribution to gather information and observations from various parts of Talor.”
“Yes, Father.” Aeron bowed his head in respect. “It is just that there are too many new faces these days; I can feel the Iganera’s irritation.”
His uncle was still sitting facing the stream that flowed from the spring on the mountainside. Aeron watched the schools of fish gathered close to the rock his uncle was sitting on, much like a silent audience around him. Seeing that the elders remained reticent with their eyes fixed on him and a gentle smile on their face, Aeron realized that he needed to take his leave.
“I am going to see how the preparations of the Galadus are going,” he said, “and I will bring the report to you as soon as I have it, Father.” He left as quickly as he had arrived, and the two brothers were left together.
A long silence followed as Aeron’s father walked toward the older elf and put his hands on his shoulders as he stood beside him.
“He is right, Agathorn,” he said, “I also can feel the restlessness of the Iganera.”
Agathorn smiled
and patted his brother’s hands. “So do I, Lenar, but it is not the newcomers that agitate the Iganerian spirits.”
Agathorn stood up, took his brother’s arm, and started walking side by side. “It is something else,” he added. “Our numbers have greatly diminished, and that small number left behind that still has some faith in this world is just not enough for what lies ahead.”
“What do you see, brother? What lies ahead? What news have you brought from Icyndica?” asked Lenar, the lust for knowledge screamed in his eyes.
They reached a busy spot in a beautiful creamy-lit meadow. As they walked through the forest, they approached the training clearing, where numerous elven warriors were gearing up and sharpening their weapons in silence. They neither trampled the grass nor disrupted the trees. When Agathorn and Lenar entered the training ground, the elven warriors were in different shades; colors of fiery red, heavy tan, deep blue, and wild, windy white. The whole place froze like a picture when the elders approached. The elven warriors gradually abandoned their fierce colors for a more translucent, serene ones. They all turned to the two elders, bowing with respect.
As they shot arrows, their complexions were tinged purple; when they rested, it seemed translucent. Agathorn moved in, smiling to each of them. He touched the chest of many of them with his ancient stick, saying in a low but audible voice, “Anam Cara.” Answer her call.
Finally, Agathorn stopped in front of an elf in his early manhood, with dark hair and gentle, kind eyes. He wore a green ribbon around his arm. The young elf bowed to Agathorn and didn’t raise his eyes for quite a long moment. Agathorn held the younger elf’s head in his hands and raised it to meet his gaze. His grin broadened.
“Father,” the young elf said to him in great respect and bowed his head again.
Agathorn patted his head. “Anam Cara, Gabriel.”
Lenar joined Agathorn as the latter sat down beside his son on a tree branch. They exchanged a few laughs, the two elders and Gabriel, and discussed the preparations. Gabriel raised his bow and was about to shoot an arrow toward his training dummy, showing his father his current marksmanship skills.
He stopped what he was doing when a red-haired young maiden enter the training ground and strode purposefully towards Gabriel. As if isolated from everything around them, Gabriel stretched his hands out to her. She took both hands in hers and stepped closer until their noses touched. They embraced tightly, and then she parted for her training, and Gabriel went back to his father.
“As I said, soldier, nothing changed…” came a loud voice from a path behind the bush. Then an elf in his late eight-hundreds with short dark gray hair stormed the clearing, three Galad’Era soldiers following behind him. The elf had narrow, hunched shoulders giving him the look of a burdened aged tree.
“We will not take any refugees; we will not become another Eredia. And that is final. Those rescued by your Galadus can stay in the border villages along River Gloor, not an inch closer.”
“Aidus,” Agathorn said, drawing his brother’s attention. “Quite a fearless unit you have here, my brother.”
Aidus turned to Agathorn, slowly forcing a smirk, and said, “Agathorn, you are…here,” he finished lamely, failing to find a more friendly word.
Agathorn smiled and leaned on Gabriel’s shoulder to stand. “We used to train and play here, didn’t we, brother?” Agathorn said, smiling.
“Centuries ago,” Aidus replied with impatience.
“I can hear our laughs still… can see our hopes and dreams floating in the air,” Agathorn reminisced. “Can you still see the promises we made to Talor?”
Aidus forced a smile in an effort to hide his obvious boredom.
“I hope you are still following those dreams, Aidus,” Agathorn said, while moving away from his brother toward their youngest sibling, Lenar, who still stood silently.
“The world has changed, Agathorn,” retorted Aidus, dropping his charade. “They don’t need us anymore. In fact, they don’t even need each other.”
He continued after a studied halt. “Man has become the very monster we have helped to defend him against in your time. Trust me, I have searched all the great kingdoms of man and haven’t found one place – not even a village – with a majority worth saving. We need to call our people home and let them fend for themselves; enough has been lost already. Look around you. Even Karelya, the world’s oldest form of life, is giving up.”
Agathorn turned to him, smiling dismally. But when he was about to reply, Gabriel stepped in. “It is not the majority I want to save, uncle; it is those precious few worth dying for.”
Everyone turned their attention to Gabriel as he continued with certainty, “It is as much the fault of the few good men as it is the fault of the oblivious mobs when a race falls. We are the good in man, and we shouldn’t abandon him.”
All of those gathered there bowed their heads as they thought of the wise words coming from their youngest. The red-haired maiden smiled, but no one was prouder than Gabriel’s father.
Agathorn turned back to Aidus. “We continue to learn, my brother, even from our children.” He gazed deeply into Aidus’s eyes, searching for the brother he once knew. When Aidus looked away, Agathorn nodded in understanding. He and Lenar walked from the clearing together.
As the brothers left, they passed a strong, proud elf with hair resembling a storm. He stood with his shoulders held high, taller than the rest. Azurus was standing just outside the training ground and bowed to the elders.
When they passed Azurus, a light breeze carried Agathorn’s words, “Watch over him, Azurus.”
The great warrior nodded and whispered, “With my life, Father.”
As he watched the elders leave, Aidus noticed Azurus and hastily walked out of the training ground.
When Agathorn and Lenar left the meadow, the latter said lightly, “Gabriel will make a great Ignar one day. He excelled in both trainings; war and faith”
“Even better than me,” replied Agathorn, his mind seemingly elsewhere.
Lenar continued the conversation they’d begun before entering the training grove. “Forgive my question, but you were the Ignar before you took your journey south. You were the only one truly linked to the Iganera. I need to know. What did you mean when you spoke of preparing?”
“Lord Lenar,” called a middle-aged Druid of Igna, “the Serador is here.”
Lenar turned to his brother as they waited for the guest and asked again, “Preparing for what?”
“A storm, Lenar, the last storm.”
Lenar stared at his brother for a moment but he noticed that someone entered the clearing.
The greetings of the Serador flowed to his ears: “Hail to Eben, the Mountain that bore witness to the White Wing who soared over the Valley of Dust. A thousand souls made one. A single blow echoes a thousand.”
He raised his eyes to welcome the guest.
By the Shores of Vadia
Late that afternoon, Azurus and Aeron gazed toward the Vadian Shore, near the Goshean Bracelet at the far northern corner of Karelya. When A’rak reached this part in his tale, my gratitude towards them was again renewed.
Aeron sat on the cold sand beside his cousin, who stood tall on the rocks protruding out of the hill. They stared at the ocean which seemed darker than ever under a moon thinly veiled by clouds. Azurus glared upon the bleak clouds that were approaching from the eastern endlessness, permitting only rare moonbeams to lance toward the shore. Even there, in the ever-green lands of the elves, it felt like the departure of summer.
The elven heroes needed no light to mark the lands, but the gloomy surroundings leaned heavily on their shoulders. Those clouds hid something, Azurus thought. He kept hearing things, baneful things, on the border of shadows surrounding the world of Talor. Another thing we had in common; my world touched the border of shadows from the dark side and Azurus’s touched it from the light side.
The elves knew deep inside which part of the tale it was. They heard its fina
l tunes and understood its harsh words. They were always that part of the universe where nature with all its purity and wrath caressed the world of men. And to that part of the world of mortals, Igna whispered… only to them.
Azurus and Aeron were cousins, friends, and comrades in arms for more than six hundred years. Those two were legends. They, like me, had seen much of the Talorian history, with Azurus being older than his cousin by a century or so.
Though they were not First Born, their memories held much of Talor’s history. Together they saw the glorious days of the Eastern Elves –the common elves of Talor –and they saw their downfall in Gingia. They saw their cities burnt and men slaughtered by the legions of Vile Born. Then, together they saw the remnants of the common elves fade back into Igna.
Only the Galad'Era remained behind, only the greatest elven race stayed.
Azurus, leading the secretive Galad'Vemast, the Brave Elders, watched the Goshean Bracelet for more than half the millennia. His men, the Brave Elders, and his peers, the others of the Seven Captains, roamed the Goshean labyrinth. Deep within, they helped contain the Eyes of Gosh for countless years.
"Things have gone quieter ever since your father returned,” said Aeron. "The sea is easier, the wind is kind, and both beast and tree are calmer."
"They are waiting and they are watching,” Azurus said. “My father has a lot to do, and Gabriel must take his rightful place.”
“Do you think our uncle will just hand his spot to him?” asked Aeron.
Azurus paused again, thinking. “No. Not Aidus.”
Both gazed back to the ocean, and then they turned their attention to the shore some hundred feet or so below. An inky, freezing, giant wave slumped, withdrawing back into its dark domain. Two figures emerged from beneath its folds, holding hands and struggling to reach the shore. They were laughing and occasionally hugging each other as they tumbled in the water. It drew a smile to Aeron’s face and even stirred some merriness into Azurus’s stern features.
The Dark Season Saga- the Final Harvest Page 19