THE EYE
OF TELERION
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part one of
THE TALE OF THE RIM
by
John Cunyus Earle
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The Tale of the Rim, The Eye of Telerion
Copyright 2011 John Cunyus Earle
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Chapter Three. Diverging Paths
Chapter Four. Gabraelroin’s Veil
Chapter One. An Unexpected Frost
Chapter Two. Tidings of Change
Chapter Four. A Ride Through the Night
Chapter Five. Escape to the North
Chapter Eight. A Deep Adventure
Chapter Eleven. The Council of the Wise
Chapter Twelve. A Different Shade of Fear
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PROLOGUE
I, Nennius, have made a heap of all that I saw, for I was the scribe and record keeper of the Teacher. I have not engaged in trimming the edges of this story, as one might perfect a crust. Nor have I added to the filling of the pie. What I have done, with diligence over the better part of a decade, was take in everything given by the miracle and mercy of the Teacher and create a history of what came before. And now it is done. No part has been left out. Later generations will be my judge, but if historical warts and wrinkles are found then may they be counted as evidence to the truth of the whole. And so, if anyone follows who wishes to add to what I have done then let him come…but do so with care! Woe to him who vandalizes this book!!
The chronicles of our land shall reveal how Tiri-dom the Beloved, King of New Logeria, came to power through the defeat of the Shadowfoe, leading our world into this present age of peace, his kingdom unfettered by evil and burgeoning daily to match the grandeur of ancient times. And readers of those same books will learn of how Tiri-dom, still in the summer of his reign, cast aside his armour to declare, “The world today needs no Warrior King!” His enemies which were few and far removed raised some rebellion, but it was mainly prattle and quickly put to rest. For the rule of law was tested and found secure. Tiri-dom had fulfilled his Purpose as it was revealed to him, and laying to rest his sword became our Benevolent King, the beloved fulfillment of prophecy!
When earth and sky are safe and pure
And fear has lost its vicious sting,
The warrior with broken sword
And flame endured shall then be King.
For my part, I began as a student of letters in my home village far away on the Bregalad coast. My father, a cabinet maker, arranged that I should travel to the royal seat of Trinitovantum, the reclaimed City of Ancients, in order to advance my studies in the renewed Halls of Learning. So I made the long journey from my boyhood home and took up residence as apprentice scribe in these hallowed halls. Our principle duty in the beginning was making copies of the few extant books that survived the Dark Years. Most of my fellow pupils completed their work and departed to other lands, whereas I stayed behind and advanced my studies.
I became a transcriber of ancient manuscripts and was given a workbench in the Rectory. It was here that my skills redoubled, for I was now daily at the feet of the Teacher. He was the head of our order, and under his tutelage I began learning the most ancient histories of our world. Happy were those early days among the cheerful clutter of books! Each morning I would gather my things from the library and pass into the Teacher’s chambers, where I would be greeted with his deep and comforting voice, bidding me come and begin my work. Here was a softly lit place, full of old knowledge and remembrance. The very air within these walls is still nourishment to me.
The Teacher’s face I never saw, for he remained veiled from head to foot, and his given name I did not know, at least in the beginning. Some in the city said he was a deformed ogre, a wizard reclaimed from some dark sect. But I never listened to these gossips. Today I understand who and what he was. Indeed these truths are at the heart of this story. At present I divulge only that his veiled countenance, however strange at first, soon became an everyday sort of thing to me. He was my river of wisdom and my friend.
Several years passed and scores of pupils came and went. Our library quickly swelled with books. I was privileged at this time to become Principle Scribe, and I trained other scribes in my turn. But my truly happiest times were those mornings I sat with the Teacher and helped him with the most obscure portions of Ancient History. I earned this private consideration because my interest remained single-minded.
Then a day came deep in his years, when the Teacher declared for us a new undertaking. With this announcement he began a strange new tale: a story I heretofore had not heard. But from the moment he began I was transfixed! It was a different sort of narrative: my mentor’s words came to me as living darts that pierced the shroud covering his face! In the telling of it he seemed to embody the beauties and tragedies therein, as if he had lived the tale himself! And I wrote it all down.
Hours grew into days as the Teacher persevered. Days grew into weeks and still we pressed on. His strength inevitably began to ebb after a time and he quit his treks to the King’s rooms, where his counsel was often requested. At this turn, my master’s bed was brought forth into the anteroom where he insisted we continue our work. I protested, of course, that he needed rest…that he could resume after a holiday. Yet by some miracle my veiled Oracle grew more fluent in the telling of his epic even as his mortal body waned.
Then one day, after our morning Quiet, the Teacher picked up a small red book that he privately studied at times. This beautiful thing of very fine leather was always with him; I fancy he thought that I never saw him slip it into the side pocket of his robe whenever I approached. He was very sly with that crimson volume and shared it with no one, except perhaps the King. I believe he carried it with him on his frequent visits there.
But before we could begin our work that day the King himself entered our Rectory. This was quite unusual, especially considering that he was arrayed in the garb of a common traveler and came without announcement or escort. As Tiri-dom breezed into the chamber I looked to see if the Teacher would put his little red book away. Yet he did not; the Teacher sat clutching the little red treasure in his hands, for me and all our people to see.
The students were amazed that the King had come, and chattered among themselves at his presence in our buildings. But after greetings were bestowed they were all dismissed; and Tiri-dom settled in a chair by the bedside of my Master. From my window seat I watched discreetly as they spoke of things known only to them. This murmuring of souls proceeded for a long while, until after many embraces, the King rose to make his farewell.
Then Tiri-dom turned and spoke to me, saying that the eventide of his reign had come, and that he longed to pass into the realms and visit his people one last time!
I was confused at this remark, and thought surely the King was being overly generous with his words. But before I could gather my thoughts and inquire as to what he meant, the King was gone; and the Teacher beckoned me return to his side. “This is the final leg of our journey,” he now said. “Listen well!”
To my surprise the poor old fellow opened the little red book in my presence and began to share with me the great ending of his astonishing epic. Sensing the urgency of this moment, I toiled as never before to record what he said. And yet a great sadness was born when this labor of ours came to term. For when my Oracle poured forth the ending to his story, he simply breathed his last and died!
His little red book slipped from his gnarled hands and clattered to the floor. I called for my assistant and reached without thinking to pick it up. It may be considered impulsive that I did so, but something about it … a power of some strange kind … compelled me!
With consuming curiosity I looked at its pages. What then happened may not be believed, for I saw in a moment, as if in a vision, the entire, exalted legend that, heretofore, I had so long labored to transcribe. And all of it, from beginning to end, was seen with flawless clarity, burned into my skull, etched forever into my memory!
I do not know how long I remained in this state of ecstasy, but I found myself on the floor clutching the book and trembling throughout my body and limbs. When I recovered my wits I resolved to look again, but this time I found a second strange thing: of all the fine vellum sheets within the book, only the first page had writing upon it. Upon this sheet, and the inner front-piece, were strange inscriptions with devices I did not recognize. I reached for my ink and pen to attempt to copy them, but before I could begin the runes vanished!
Today, dear reader, this little red book, this treasure, may be found in the archives of our City, if Elvodug has not misplaced it…
** ** ** ** **
The dusty grey form on the windswept terrace had not moved in some time and might very well have been carved from the stone upon which it sat, but the seed dropping from his fist was proof otherwise to the pecking birds scattering about. After a while the man’s chest heaved and he took a breath. And deep in his brain he realized he had been sleeping … again. How long this time?
The figure stretched out his hands letting the rest of the grain fall to the grateful birds. Now aware of himself he clenched his gnarled fingers over the smooth stone of his seat-arms and felt the blood returning to them. Pulling another deep breath the old man tried to shake himself back into the waking world and away from his work of digging and building. But his dream had been vivid and complex, and he was exhausted after all he had done. In time, however, his wakeful mind gained dominance over his dream and he opened his eyes and blinked at the sight before him.
Ten thousand feet below his stone seat, and many leagues away, a towering pillar of smoke rose from the earth to reach and mingle with the cumulus clouds in the East. Across the Salinar Plain great flocks of birds raced towards him, flying from the sour red haze that moved westerly across the land. With cobwebbed eyes Baldor peered down from his perch on high in the Encircling Mountains and slowly realized the land-by-the-sea was burning!
The ancient figure proceeded to stand. When his bare feet touched the cool firmness of the terrace he shivered and gasped. But instead of finding his boots, Baldor reached for the object on the table beside him. Lifting the seeing-orbs of clear amber, he pressed the brow-rest to his face and scanned the horizon; the hard-leather case, made ages ago by artisans from the North, bore intricate cuttings of an eye and a symbol of the sun. And as he looked into the device it began to shimmer with soft radiance that manifested the magic of a long-lost time.
Eastward through smoke and swirling ash he peered. To his dismay, three score or more ships sailed the western waters of the great inland sea of Karnassias. Some of the poorly trimmed vessels strayed up and down the coast, but most were standing off the hither shoreline, attacking it with arcing balls of flame. Those closest to the point of attack could not come ashore, for the landings were treacherous and the fire was great; but others like them had dropped anchor south of the area that burned and discharged their crews onto the land.
“Too many! Too many ships on a foul easterly wind!” he exclaimed. “It’s the devilry of Thramadhul … or I have rocks for brains!”
Baldor returned the orbs to their place on the table as carefully as he could manage and collapsed back upon his seat, feeling suddenly crushed by the weight of years. High above the tree line in the rarified air of the Windy Lofts the long forgotten wizard closed his eyes and tried to remember. After these very long naps he was lately finding it increasingly hard to look back on his origins, to wrap an arm of reason about the truth of his existence. And as he sat rubbing his eyes he revisited his dream and remembered once again.
He was of the Unborn! It was no mere dream or delusion. He was sent with great purpose at the world’s beginning! Did he not carve the hills and smooth the plains in those remote seasons? Did not the song of the One beat steady in his heart in the days of newness?
But he was not alone. Across the hazy gulfs of time Baldor recalled the others like him. There was Malchiorre! Closest to him in the beginning, Malchiorre also was an Earth Mover, a shaper of places. His skills were great and he used them well for years uncounted until that strange, unkind spark kindled his heart!
Baldor opened his eyes and scanned the length north and south of the grand arc of mountains upon which he sat. He recalled his days of work. They too were long and arduous, but he had remained faithful: he kept the song of the One always on his lips. And although the memory of it was now diminished, still it was sweet to him. He had completed his principal tasks, and afterwards his mighty strength was reduced in order. At the coming of Man he had retreated into the shadow of the hills as ordained, and in this present age, standing sentry upon his beloved mountains, he knew he was a mere silent presence only … perhaps less than a memory.
All of this Baldor measured in his mind. What was his purpose now? Was he at least an inspiration to the few who lifted their eyes to the hills?
In this moment of lonesomeness the wizard was comforted by the happy memory of his other brothers. There was Maggliore. His domain was Wind and the Airs that blew. And, of course, Gabraelorin of the Waters. They too helped shape the world, forming its seasons and putting forth many needed things. The earliest mortals understood this truth: they knew by name the Powers of the earth and the Elements of weather, wind and rain! Now, Maggliore and Gabraelorin as well, were just legends. But Baldor knew they could be found.
The wizard continued his remembrance of the First Days. In the beginning they all loved Malchiorre, as one loves a brother, even a wayward one. But Gabraelorin existed for Life’s sake and found no pleasure in Malchiorre’s rebellion. Indeed, they had little commerce with one another and quickly grew apart. Maggliore, the wind-master, had been tempted for a time to join arts with his older brother. Yet Malchiorre dug too deeply! He discovered there great Powers of Fire not intended for his use, and against the will of the Maker taught himself their mastery. But it was to the detriment of all living things, for the Malcontent became a Destroyer, a conjuror of rare and dangerous powers, which in his mind reflected his glory, but being not of flesh and blood, counterfeit. He was never truly satisfied!
So Malchiorre continued to rebel, consuming like fire every drab of trust that was left, turning the delicate thing into so much ash and soot. Soon the Maker intervened and banished him to the depths where he could tend his precious fires to his blackened heart’s content. But alas! It was only for a season. For the evil one was doomed to return unto the Living; and what came after was far worse: the Rage of Rages! Then Malchiorre was gone for good … lost in the teeth of his own tragedy, a victim of his own malice!
Gabraelorin was pleased at the apparent loss of their brother, and although saddened by the destruction of this tumult-of-earth, set to work immediately repairing the damage done. But Maggliore was different. The wind-charmer, perhaps sharing a portion of Malchiorre’s guilt, was shamed by the devastation of the Great Shift … as this event was thereafter called … and afterwards became increasingly peculiar, withdrawing even more from their companionship.
Gazing up at the crystalline blue sky high flecked with clouds Baldor pondered where Maggliore could be found. “He always was like the wind himself… never staying in one place for long,” he said softly.
The wizard’s thoughts were stirred by the noise of the birds chirping about his feet. They did not like being ignored. “Of course I could never forget my brothers!” he said aloud. “And I would never forget you either, my little friends!”
Baldor found his boots and slipped them on. Before standing, the wizard emptied his pockets for the grateful birds now strutting about his feet. As he idly watched the little nuthatches scrambling for the seed, he suddenly remembered the burning land far to the East. He grabbed the amber-glass and jerked himself to his feet. Peering again into the firestorm Baldor now recalled with alarm what Gabraelorin had said when last they met: “Pay heed now to the special places my waters have fed and the living things therein. See that no harm comes to the Arneth.”
As the wizard was pulled back into the present he cried aloud, “The Forest of Arneth!” He now realized with great urgency that this forest, the Arneth of legend, was what burned! The thief had come! If what Gabraelorin had said was true, this event would herald the doom of many, particularly he and his brother wizards. “Some watchman am I!” he added with dismay. “Naught but an old man who cannot even blink without giving in to sleep!”
The little birds scattered at the outburst, only to quickly gather again at the hem of his robe, as birds do. “Too far! Much too far!!” Baldor implored. “If I had your wings, I would surely use them now!” But he asked of the ignorant birds, “Who is this new entity, this Thramadhul that Gabraelorin has warned us of?”
Baldor pulled his thick grey cloak about his shoulders and turned in the direction of his dwelling. Now fully awake and in control, the wizard dashed up the shallow steps and gave a loud whistle. The bright sound reverberated across the yawning spaces on either side of the high place and echoed off the sheer mountain walls to the abyss.
The heavy stone-work of this remote mountain keep was indistinguishable at a distance from the craggy grey peaks that kept sentry nearby. Roof slates pitched steeply, like the rocky outcrops, but they were not carved age upon age by wind and weather; nor were they formed by the relentless upheaval of earth. This high sanctuary was built by a craft long lost to the memory of men. Yet Baldor remembered…for he built it.
The wizard passed through an archway and crossed a small courtyard, his heavy boots clacking on the flagstones. Entering his abode through the low doorway he turned to face a wide window that overlooked the burning plain far below. There, waiting patiently on the windowsill, sat a large falcon with rich brown plumage and a russet-specked belly. It chirped briefly in salute as it followed the movements of the old man with its fine head and bright yellow eyes. Baldor took a sheet of paper out of the large desk beside the rear window and settled down to write. And as he wrote he spoke.
“Swiftwing, my fleet-winged herald, deliver this message to Gabraelorin. See that nothing obstructs your passage nor delays your return. We must tell him of this thing that now begins. The Forest of Arneth is under attack and we must help it survive if we can. Brother Maggliore and I have been told it holds within its boughs a promise that is wonderful indeed. Our time here may be drawing to a close ...”
The stone wizard paused for a long moment, trying to remember all that once was clear to him. But the bird chirped loudly, shattering the silence, and Baldor said, “Gabraelorin foresees that our doom is intertwined with the Willowfolk who live there. He claims the men of the Arneth are descended from the ancient Logerians, the far-seers who ruled the world of Man throughout Second Age until the days of Telerion the Last, when Malchiorre broke free from his prison! But I don’t know...I just don’t know…perhaps the Shift darkened my wits most of all!”
The message writer shook the sand off the sheet, and a slight grin creased the corners of his mouth. “You know,” he said to the falcon, “ever since the Shift a fireside story has been told in the homes of men. It is said that long ago, deep in the GreatWood, daughters of ancient kings wandered too far into the forest and were captured by Dryads longing for the freedoms enjoyed by the race of mortals. To these unions were born the fearsome tree-dwellers, the dreaded Willowfolk! Ha!! Gabraelorin says he was the author of this ruse. He intended to keep the truth of this people cloaked in fantasy and fairytale. It is for their safekeeping, I suppose. But for what I know, the people of the Arneth live among the remnant trees of the GreatWood.”
Baldor gently tied a small harness with a little pouch to the leg of the bird. He rolled the message up neatly and slipped it into the pouch. This is what was written.
Our hope to hear the Song again!
The word of truth to end our pain.
Now our claim to mortal lands
Is passing with the shifting sands
Of warring tides and shadowed sight.
I send this plea into the night
With fiery arc our doom awaits!
Oh, find the One.
Oh, seal our Fates!
Baldor fed Swiftwing from the little box of grain that he kept on the window ledge. “For your journey. May you live up to your name in these perilous times! Now go!”
Baldor watched the bird dive away down the cliff wall and out of view. He closed the window, and without delay began searching his table of books and scrolls in the middle of the large room for passages concerning the ancient Logerians, and of clues to their gift of great power. He was of course a lover of knowledge of a kind, and possessed a great mind. But his chief interest had always been with earth: rock and sand, mountain and plain. And as he stood in the silence of the room, demons of doubt stabbed at his heart, and the wizard lamented, “All that I’ve known of and done in this world is so old… so old! I belong in the far ago times. Oh, can I not even help now a little?”
Baldor absentmindedly fingered a few scrolls and reflected on what was happening on the earth far below. This had to be the signal event of the age! His season of watching and waiting would soon be coming to an end as prophesied, and he and his brothers would pass over. This much he knew to be true.
But as the wizard contemplated the end of his sojourn on this Rim of the world he also perceived a struggle within his heart that could not be denied. The old stone-carver rapped his knuckles on his forehead and realized another, stubborn truth: that he was forevermore affected by his age-old battles with Malchiorre. As Baldor’s heart went out to the victims of Evil down in that forest-valley, a righteous anger swept over him, and with growing conviction he knew he could no longer stand idly by and watch. He must do more than sound the alarm! From his mountain he would descend; he would leave the sentry work to the rocks and hills.
The wizard strode swiftly out and onto his terrace. The frigid wind flying over the smoothly fitted stones competed fiercely with the warmth of the sun. Day was drawing old.
Across the Salinar Plain the last remnant of the GreatWood, the Forest of Arneth, was going up in smoke. With the conviction of an old warrior Baldor wrapped his cloak tighter about him and began pacing back and forth along the topmost step, his aged brow heavy with remembrance of Gabraelorin’s warning. “This must be the Call,” he finally said aloud.
The setting sun had passed over the shoulders of the mountain peak on which he stood, casting deepening shadows on the smoky floor of the plain below. Baldor tried to light his pipe as the last trickle of sunshine warmed his back, but with no luck. The whipping wind deprived him of this small comfort. He returned the pipe to his pocket and sighed at the cruel irony: Malchiorre would’ve had no trouble at all.
Swiftwing dropped from the windowsill and careened into the abyss. The thin, frigid air at that altitude did very little to slow his descent, and he cut through the fathoms at breakneck speed. Eventually the warmer air began to exert upward pressure on his wings and the falcon pulled out of his dive. Now level in his flight he veered off to the South, put his noble wings into motion, and was gone.
Away eastward towards the smoke of attack a patch of dark airborne shapes circled high above the burning forest. The giant ravens, each with a wingspan greater than the height of three men, had come when smoke was first sighted. Speeding down from their rookeries high in the northwestern Encircling Mountains, the feathered beasts now watched the grand drama unfold below them. To a man looking down from above the innermost ring of the Forest of Arneth, nothing could be discerned but a sea of immensely large trees. But to the razor-sharp eyes of the ravens, the arboreal settlement of the Willowfolk was clearly seen.
An extensive network of flats and bridges spread out in all directions under the top branches of the gargantuan trees. Dwellings and other structures with roofs were seen; gardens and footpaths were scattered far and wide; and all was far above the forest floor, perched atop the massive, flattened arms of the Iriad trees. This grove of ancient trees, cradling these aerial gardens, was the remnant of the ocean of Great Willows that once spread from the mountains to the sea in the time before the Great Shift. And they were unlike any other trees that ever existed.
At the time of the great tragedy, the Logerian exiles, broken and fleeing with the widowed queen of Telerion the Last, discovered a ring of unusually large specimens in this valley by the seaside. Towering easily two-hundred feet these clusters of fused Willows became their salvation. Each had a dense and substantial outer cambium at least six feet thick, and through concealed folds of ancient bark the exiles found crevasses in which they could shelter. Diving within to escape the wrath of evil that pursued them, they weathered the onslaught of fire, earthquake and flood that was the Shift.
When the long night ended and the clouds parted once again, the huddled refugees ventured out from the sheltering eaves to survey the extent of devastation. What they saw dismayed them, for the destruction was, as far as they could see, complete! Perceiving that danger was still at hand, the Logerians gave thanks for their ark of safety and purposed to stay in their island of trees for awhile.
Gabraelorin appeared to the exiles soon after the embers cooled and encouraged them to establish their dwellings amongst the immense living towers. “So as to live safely apart from the burnt world,” he had said. “Because these trees so saved you, they shall henceforth be known as ‘Iriads’, the Protectors.” Gabraelorin’s knowledge was great. Yet although he knew the children of Logeria must be protected, he knew not the full extent of their doom.
The initial generations of exiles relied on the abundance of the sea for their survival; they became able fishermen, casting nets from the high rocky shoreline nearby. As the land healed some pursued their lives away from the trees; fields and farms to the south of the valley of the Arneth were cultivated. But within a few generations, the children of the trees were drawn back to establish their lives within the Iriad grove. For awhile they built their houses of stone and wood, and nurtured their settlement with the wealth of food from the fertile fields surrounding. But then, within the Iriads, a most wonderful thing was discovered. Deep within and further through the folds than any had yet ventured, the exiles found the inner portions of each tree-cluster hollow! From sky to forest floor, a peaceful sun-dappled world flourished, unknown to man and untouched by the Great Fire. Here the early craftsmen found the substance of the Iriads to be much softer; and they soon began carving rooms and homes, one atop the other, each happy doorway connected by grand staircases spiraling upward from verdant fern-filled atria to the broad, open spaces high above. Here were the beginnings of the gardens and footpaths of the people of the trees. Here would the Willowfolk grow and prosper for nearly a thousand years.
Undaunted, it seemed, the burnt tops of the great Willow-trees, the Iriads, leafed anew the very first spring following the Shift. Then, as if stimulated by the fire’s injury, the newly formed top-branches spread outward, becoming relatively flattened on their top-sides. The new boughs quickly grew and thickened, interlocking with those of the neighboring Iriads. Like arms of giant candelabra, the boughs of each tree then arched back overhead and fused to form a single canopy of great beauty stretching the length and breadth of the Valley and protecting the newly-carved aerial living spaces below. Given enough time the partially deciduous trees bequeathed enough leavings that a rich loam, augmented by soil from the ground, covered the spacious tops of the branches and filled the Willowfolks’ planters. Gabraelorin so taught them as well to tap the generous aquifers in these grandfather-trees. And before 300 years had passed the lost Logerians, the children of the Iriads, had become a tree-dwelling people in all respects.
But over time the Logerians grew complacent in their exile. Their oral traditions, though kept alive by their elders through the Dark Years, lost a measure of their Promise over time. For as truth gives way to legend, legend gives way to myth. And in later years some held that the blood of Kings might well reside among them, but many grew to distrust the Tale of Origins entirely. There was no kingdom to return to, they said.
Yet a few preserved special knowledge of the truth, keeping a great secret close to their hearts. And on the day the flames returned to the Arneth, these secret-holders of the inner circle of the House of Telerion clearly understood one thing: that truth must flee, or be cleverly concealed from the enemy that now assailed them from across the sea.
The giant ravens avoided the heaviest smoke, yet remained intent on the activity far below, in the western part of the valley. The blaze had not yet reached that far inland. The giant birds did not fear the warfare of man below, and flew openly, caring not who saw them. Suddenly one of the ravens caught a glimpse of something shiny, a reflection emanating from the treetops. And this one dropped out of the sky to investigate.
A young woman carrying a sort of case slung across her square shoulders had struggled up the final top-ladder and now continued her climb. Her long arms, free for reaching the branches overhead, glowed with the sweat of her strain. At these heights the tree limbs swayed unpredictably, sometimes breaking even under the best climber. She must be careful. She hoped this was the best chance for her. When she reached the desired place she braced herself against the dwindling trunk and wedged her bundle within a fork in the tree branch. Her face was flush with the speed of ascent. Beads of sweat appeared on her forehead.
“You mustn’t fear, little one. Let the wind blow and rock your cradle…sleep now!” She tried to be soothing, but her voice quavered from the anger and fear that welled up inside her. Rocking rhythmically for a moment the woman tried her best to quiet the whimpering child. Then she reached behind her neck and unclasped a long chain upon which hung a pendant roughly the size of a goose egg, very shiny and intricately woven of the most beautiful gold. The chain she clasped around the waist of her son, covering the pendant with the blankets that lined the basket in which he lay. Even before he closed his eyes she hastily turned to descend.
From her vantage point she looked east towards the sea. Less than two furlongs away the white tips of the beloved waters were crowded with the black ships that assailed the shoreline. Her eyes stung with the acrid smoke of the fire bombs that broke upon the promontory. Ships such as these had been seen before, plying their way along the rocky cliffs of the region; and they had been named Fetterlings because they arose out of the East, out of the Fetterland. She had thought there was no easy way for raiders to enter the Arneth, but then she spotted the smoke coming up from the southern forest early that morning and made the fateful decision to hide the precious child. There had been no time to flee, and her husband was gone defending their people.
Now the woman’s fears grew even more acute, for eastward she saw that the fire throwers had improved their aim, and the woods at the eastern fringe of the Arneth were beginning to burn. There was no avenue of escape. Her people were being pinched from two sides!
She quickly descended to the footway of the Iriads and raced for the step-case of her tree. Looking about, she saw no one in the treetop, yet from down below the clamor of fleeing people rose to meet her ears.
“They’re coming! We must hurry!!” said a hasty boy who appeared on the footpath before her.
“What did you see? What more do you know?” the woman asked urgently.
The boy stood still in deference to the woman. He was out of breath from his climb up the stair, but he also held her in high regard, considering who she was. “I was tending the nets at the shoreline when the boats came out of the morning sun,” he exclaimed. “The land breeze did not slow them at all …!”
The woman interrupted him, asking, “What of the fires down south? The men-folk? Have you seen Dom-re?”
“The fireballs crashed on the sea-cliffs and burned our nets and ropes! Then it flew over our heads … and into the fir trees! The woods at the cliff-edge are burning!"
"Everyone is fleeing their homes, yes! But where is my husband, Cael?" The woman's countenance increased the boy’s fear.
“Please, Jil-ra! I had to come and tell you…”
“Tell me what? There is no time! You still have not answered any of my questions! Everyone knows we are besieged. Say quickly what you must and then satisfy me!”
The boy stammered then said all at once, “I was told to come and tell you that … that the Fetterlings have broken through the southern fences! They have … captured them. They are marching south to their boats. Jil-ra, they are coming!”
A flat note sounded on a strange horn. The boy watched in dismay as the woman then turned and ran with all haste down the step-case toward her dwelling. He regretfully did not get to finish what he had come to say.
The Iriad was now mostly deserted; yet a few of the older folk were vainly making their way down the lower portions of the stair when a loud blast sounded and a band of fell demon-men poured into the sacred tree. They were clad in primitive black leather adorned with dun-shaded feathers.
“Clear the place! We must find the Key! The Key!!” a few of them shouted.
Peering down the boy saw the woman retreat into a hollow place alongside the bulkhead of the Iriad. A Fetterling chieftain barked instructions to his men, who then caught and bound into a cluster the unfortunate few who had not yet escaped. More dark men stormed into the atrium.
With great sadness the boy watched the Fetterling vandals commence the raiding of the homes and possessions of his people. Inexorably they approached Jil-ra’s own doors, thirty feet from where she stood. No longer concerned for her safety, the woman pounced from her concealed spot and ran for her door to protect her only other living child. In a blink she was in the clutches of her enemy.
“Well now, what’s this?” asked a dirty Fetterling.
The young mother stood a head taller than the ogre she faced. More than anything she wanted to break its neck, and knew she had the strength to do so. But she was held fast in the horny claws of many others, and could not break free.
"Our lady-hero is so bold!” said one.
“Teach her a lesson,” said another, raising a dagger towards her throat.
The chief shuffled up behind the others, pushing his way through to where the group stood. “Shut up, dogs! We are to take her back with us alive.” He roughly elbowed several in the neck as he passed. And turning to the lady he hissed, “Show us your perch, birdie.” And in her face he cockeye-glared, “You wouldn’t be the faker queen, eh? I suppose she has twins, she does. Our Lord told us so. Show us your babies and we might not eat them when we are done with you!”
In the grasp of this strange and awful enemy the young woman stood stoically, contemplating her situation. She had carried out her best plan, and despite her grief knew she must soon begin looking for some sort of advantage. That may not be too difficult, she thought, glancing at her captors.
Then a heavy-set, pock-faced Fetterling forced open the doors to her flat, and the unmistakable sound of a child emanated from the deeper recesses of the tree. The chief and two others poured inside and proceeded to search the abode. Very soon they found and dragged a weanling boy to the anteroom, crib and all, and plunged back in to search for more. As the thieves rampaged she took comfort in the tale of how the gift-trees once saved her people in ages past; and thinking of her child in the nap-basket, she hoped this would again be true.
“Where is your other child, drab queen?” asked the chief. “We know you have two. This empty crib tells your tale.” They had found the other child’s crib. The chief took it and appeared to sniff it for a moment, only to throw it suddenly across the room, smashing the artful wooden cradle to pieces.
The young mother stood silent. Startled by the noise the child at her feet began to wail.
“Shut the brat, woman. I’m trying to think!” said the chief.
Another Fetterling flailed her cheek with some sort of whip, and she fell to her knees in the pain of the strike. The young mother immediately tasted blood in her mouth. Probably not the last time for that, she thought.
She reached for her crying son and picked him up, quieting the child while the Fetterlings continued their ransacking. She wondered what the villains might have done to her husband. And of his great possession … what could Dom-re have done with it? Was it safely hidden before his capture?
When they were done the raiders took the baby and blindfolded the woman before leading her down and outside. The greasy rags were reinforced with what appeared to be some kind of half-cured animal hide. The bindings stank, and they hurt her face. Through the din of shouts and crashes the mother tried to follow the squealing cry of her child, while orders to press on with the search were over heard again and again.
The young mother knew what they were after, but she would not reveal its hiding place. Although she anguished for the child she left hidden in the tree-top, she knew she must remain steadfast, for the hope of many was with him.
After what seemed a short while a Presence came up to the young woman where she sat. The noise and chatter of the Fetterlings immediately ceased, and a Voice, both extraordinary and menacing, spoke. “Because you have not cooperated with me I will burn your homes, your nasty squirrel holes, your entire Wood. Nothing will be left! Then I will sift through the ashes of your garbage till I find the Key … the Queen’s Seal, I believe you call it. You know it is mine, from the very beginning mine … until it was stolen! Oh, I will find it. There is no mistaking that!”
The young mother was strong of mind and body, but this powerful, unnatural Voice caused her limbs to feel as if they would melt into the ground. She had hoped the clumsy Fetterlings would never climb so high as to find her child hidden in the boughs and the treasure around his waist. But now all hope seemed lost; there would be no chance for him to survive if the Iriads were set afire! If true, this menace that spoke to her in threats unveiled would find the Key. All hope would be lost, all promises broken.
Suddenly the woman’s arms were unbound and the child was given back to her. Still blindfolded she cried aloud, “Who are you?”
The Voice said, “She will learn soon enough. Bring her along with the rest of the rabble. She may yet have a part to play.”
“Yes!” the Fetterling chief added. “And she can carry the moon child, and suckle the brat along the way to keep it quiet!"
The captives were pushed along, jostling and stumbling as they made their way blindfolded out of the Arneth. Crashes and explosions were heard every few steps. Smoke was in the air, and the mother’s heart quailed for the son she left behind.
Trudging along, the captives at times spoke furtively to each other until they were soon whipped into silence. After a while the chief stopped the procession. But it was not out of kindness; it was from necessity. The fires were gaining on them, and the Fetterlings were nervous over the best way to reach their ships before the flames reached them first. The advance party of Fetterlings and their masters had already retreated to the ships, leaving behind the chief and his wardens to drive the slave-train. It would take the better part of a day to march all of them back to the boats.
After a short quarrel Jil-ra felt her waist bound tightly with some sort of rope. Then her blindfold was removed: through smudgy eyes she saw hundreds of her people tied up in groups of twelve or so. Apparently they intended to drive them like animals to pen. Beating along at double-time the group jogged several furlongs south on the main roadway. Eventually they climbed the final ridge that would carry them forever out of the valley of the Arneth. But before leaving their homeland many turned and looked. Through their tears the Willowfolk saw their village-in-the-trees burning, the smoke climbing thousands of feet into the air, like a sky-rope tethering the enormous clouds high above.
As Jil-ra peered above the tree-tops and into the distance she spotted a handful of very large birds circling near the heaviest smoke. One of the Fetterlings guarding the column of exiles also noticed the airborne shapes and laughed. “Vultures, probably,” he croaked.
At the top of the ridge the group came to a major fork in the road. The fires were chasing them, moving south and west, driven by the early evening sea breezes. The Fetterlings wanted to go leftward and take the low road to their ships, but they would not be meeting their boats that day. The fires had gained control over the plan of Thramadhul, their Overlord, and the group had no choice but to hasten due south on the high road. The Fetterlings did not know where this road would lead them, but it was the only avenue of escape from the inferno. And it made none of the villains any happier to make a detour.
** ** ** ** **
The giant raven swooped down to get a closer look at the shiny thing that had caught his attention. Like most birds, he loved trinkets and keepsakes. The brighter, the better.
The great bird alighted on the branch, which sagged considerably under his weight. Smoke burned his nostrils, and he thought of how much he disliked being this close to fire. He wanted to leave, but the allure of the trinket was strong. Taking a closer look at the prize he found that it was attached to the waist of the sleeping boy-child. The boy had kicked off the blanket that had covered it from view.
As the raven tried to remove the object the child startled and began to fight and cry out, dangerously shaking the perch on which they sat. The raven almost gave up and flew off, but he was so captivated by the golden treasure that he grabbed the bundle, baby and all, and lifted its great wings and rose into the air.
Turning to escape the heat and smoke the huge black bird rose up and out of danger. And following his greedy heart he flew away from his brother ravens, letting the sea-breezes speed him northward along the shoreline of the great Karnassian Sea.
The giant raven quickly sped away from the heat and smoke. He flew with his right leg pulled upward, hiding the catch from prying eyes. After he was well out of range of his brothers he began to relax. Flying more leisurely now the bird went long and far. He eventually passed the moorlands northwest of the sea and approached the foothills of the northern arc of the Encircling Mountains. Below him the setting sun cast a familiar copper glow on the earth. By now the raven had flown a long while and was beginning to tire of his burden. So he decided to set down and have a look at his treasure.
The raven began his descent with an eye toward getting rid of his unintended cargo. He knew it was a human child and wanted nothing to do with it. The raven was not malicious; he just didn’t want the thing. He knew that farms and homesteads were scattered about in these areas, and he desired to find a place to leave it. Soon a cluster of small buildings, a barn and a cottage, came into view and the little boy’s unwitting savior swooped towards it.
Speeding through the vagrant clouds the raven dropped out of the sky. Tendrils of vapor poured over his shiny blackness until he reached the earth-warmed air close to the ground. The child remained quiet in the bundle beneath him. Perhaps it liked to fly.