Contents
Prolog: PROMYTHION, OR THE SONG OF AGES
Chapter I: THE SEA SHADOW
Chapter II: FALL OF THE FIGHTER
Chapter III: WHITE PEAK
Chapter IV: A TALE FROM AGES PAST
Chapter V: THE TORCH
Chapter VI: CHOIR OF SAILORS
Chapter VII: THE BADGER’S CAVE
Chapter VIII: MARVELS OF THE DAWN
Chapter IX: FLAME OF THE EAST

Prolog
PROMYTHION, OR THE SONG OF AGES

It was a beautiful bright day with the breath of spring in the air. Sunlight poured
across the entire land, reaching even into the darkest hollows of the barren earth.
The southern wind, whistling softly, sped forward like a warlord; it crawled
across the fields and glided over the plains, here growing gentle and whispering
to the desolate earth in loftier tones, there suddenly veering aside to race ahead
with fervor, cooling the heat-weary lands with its gusts, consoling the parched
plants with whispers of solace and carrying their laments through the hazy mist.
When it encountered more fertile soil, it began to drift lazily, and under the sun’s
watchful eye, with delicate brushes of its cool lips, it stirred everything to life.
Then it reached the ancient river called Emnur, its malachite surface shimmering
briskly as it slowly wound its way south.
Meanwhile, vast stretches of this harsh, untamed yet astonishing land,
shrouded in an aura of wildness, sank into quiet brooding. Despite the signs of
spring, the sunrays, and the pleasant atmosphere of the day, no life-giving
warmth glowed within it. Instead, some mysterious apparition wailed beneath
the obsidian sky, frightening away the wild game and drawing strangers from
afar.
It was a strange being. Grim and ominous, it would settle at dusk in the
gray vapors, only to multiply the echo of its power in the dark of night. Then, as
the gloom deepened and the moon waned behind swollen clouds, it would
overpower everything. Into hearts where passion and eagerness still glowed
crept discouragement; clarity of mind dimmed and faded, slowly transforming
into darkness; beauty became steeped in anguish; human thoughts grew
confused; courage gave in to fear; hope yielded to despair, joy to bitterness.
People felt a weakness in their souls, fear swelling in their hearts. No one could
resist that enigmatic force.
For the enemy that attacked was not of flesh and blood but a shadowy
entity, formless, originating from the abyssal depths of the earth where it had lain
for ages. It plagued the peoples of the lands with its deathly breath, luring souls
astray and leading them to their doom. The echo of its cruel laughter
reverberated against the subterranean rocks, but no one could hear it, as it
quieted upon reaching the earth’s surface.
Those wild lands left to the mercy of its evil power were not the only things
it affected. They were but a fraction of the eastern world. More beautiful lands
adorned with greater fame might have drawn one’s eye. Who would despise the
plains of Emad Aran or the charming hills of Erandea, rustling like an aulos
player’s song? Also the gruff yet friendly Munanin, a country carpeted with
thistles, accented by bristling forests that stood proudly above glimmering rivers
like ancient sentinels, that smelled of beauty and boasted a host of heroes
renowned in many battles and skirmishes. And lofty Erin? Now a great empire
reaching to the northernmost edge of the Snowy Mountains, encompassing
nearly a quarter of the eastern continent. And did not austere Azirman also
deserve notice—a land admittedly dry, vast, and wild, but magnificent thanks to
famous poets whom the desert had raised and who had reached old age with lute
in hand and glory around them? Even Alidris, the ancient kingdom, would envy
the padishah’s country its glory, though it itself boasted numerous victories won
on fields of clamor. And a whole multitude of other lands of the eastern world
reveled in their riches, priding themselves on their distinctiveness.
But the splendor of these lands has passed, remaining now a fragile
memory. Just as a timid shadow flees before the sunrays, hides in crevices and
pits, trembling at the sight of any light, seeking darker places where neither
human nor sun’s gaze will reach it, doomed to oblivion, aware of defeat, it fades
away—so do the most glorious days of victory and prosperity flee before the
specters of harsh times, blindness, and lifelessness—the forces of the world’s
eternal enemy.
A strange power hangs like a burning odor over these lands, growing ever
mightier, while man, alas, holds no sword at the ready, nor does he keenly
examine the symbols and signs visible in the sky, on the earth, and in phenomena
seemingly imperceptible.
Was it not different in days gone by? Did this land not shine brightly in the
past? Did the world not flourish once, embraced by the gentle gaze of the King
of Light?
FAELIRS IN THE EASTERN MAINLAND
At the Dawn of Ages, on the Shoreland of the Great Mountain, beyond Time and
the spheres of the world, lived the Faelirs, a folk most unique. They were not
human in the truest sense, because they were born from flowers, so they did not
dwell on Earth. From time to time, however, they journeyed there as emissaries,
their purpose being to offer advice to people or aid them in their labors.
Elnarin, the King of Light, settled the Faelirs on the Shoreland of His realm,
where wondrous meadows and glades mingled with the sandy reaches in a multihued
expanse, tickled by the gentle sighs of the Four Winds.
Both they and the mortals were to be brought, in time, to the Great
Mountain of Elnarin, Emad Aran, where lay His kingdom, known as the Eternal
Nest. For the Shoreland, though within Elnarin’s dominion, was only a glimmer
of the splendor that hid its wonders afar on the Great Mountain.
Now and again, Elnarin would choose one from among the Faelirs and lead
them to His seat, but only to reveal its beauty and the glories that waited for
those who would soon come into its halls. The chosen one, returning to the
Shoreland, would for days be lost in a daze, their spirit torn. They would see
evermore the boundless bliss in which they had bathed in the Eternal Nest and
the immeasurably lesser depth of the place where they lived. After a week, the
persistent ache would fade, yet it would leave a scar, nestled deep within the
heart, that for the rest of their days in the Shoreland would not give them peace.
Though the realm of Elnarin was home to a multitude of wondrous beings
whose names were never recorded in any book of Earth, the Earadrins deserve
particular mention. For they were the only beings who did not breathe the air of
the Earth or tread the sands of the Shoreland. From the very beginning, they
lived on the Great Mountain. The Great King made them His messengers. While
the Faelirs toiled as intermediaries between Earth and His Realm, the Earadrins
formed a host of envoys capable of great deeds. Elnarin bestowed on them a
power that made them mightier than the demonic entities of the Mysterious
World.
GREAT KING OF LIGHT
Both the people and the Faelirs would see Elnarin from time to time. He was not
an aloof and stern monarch. The depths of His love for all creatures remained
veiled; no one knew Him fully. It was whispered that He had “a face eternally
young, gentle as a lamb, wise as an elder, loving as a father, caring as a mother,
powerful as a storm in the sky, quiet as a breeze brushing the surface of water—a
countenance so wondrous that every knee would bend at its sight: be it of Man,
Faelir, or the elusive Earadrin. There was no one who did not yearn to see
Elnarin. Mortal men sighed at the thought of reaching the Eternal Nest, the
Faelirs gazed with wistful eyes from the Shoreland toward the Great Mountain,
and the Earadrins drank of His magnificence with each and every dawn.”
Elnarin cared for His people like a shepherd. He planted the beautiful
Morning Dawn Flower, in which He hid a sliver of His might to ward Earth
against the wicked creatures of the Mysterious World that prowled the Northern
Frontiers, and warned all beings to never stray into those abyssal shadowed
wilds. He would often stroll through the lands, appearing among people who
least expected His visit. The hour of His arrival at a chosen home was never
known.
Once a rumor spread among the people of Nimelida, a whisper of the Great
King’s supposed arrival. In every home, preparations were made with haste:
chambers and hearths were swept clean, and dishes of herbs were lovingly
prepared. Many imagined a grand procession of Earadrins, with aulete players
leading the way and Elnarin Himself among them, clad in cloths of gold.
And the king arrived in the eastern land. It was said that a host of beings
from the Great Mountain accompanied Him. However, when He appeared in a
certain village, no one noticed His coming.
A child stood nearby, keenly observing the people gathered by the roadside.
“Who are you waiting for?” the small one asked.
“For the Great King,” the assembled replied in unison. “He is to arrive here
this very day.”
“He is among you.”
Suddenly the throng scattered like startled birds, casting bewildered glances
at one another, their eyes darting about in a feverish search for Elnarin. A great
clamor filled the air, rising and falling, fueled by the cries of individuals.
However, they found no one. Deep disappointment appeared on their faces.
“You have no eyes; you’re blind!” cried the child.
The people froze in fright. After a while, they began to touch their eyelids,
dreading the worst, but, finding their sight intact, they turned to the child in
bewildered confusion. “But we have eyes!”
“Aye, you have them, yet you see nothing. You don’t see Elnarin.”
“Tell us where He is. Where did you see Him?”
“He stands in your midst.”
The people looked around in confusion. “We can’t see Him,” they replied
with a hint of reproach.
“Then close your eyes,” the child instructed.
As one, they obeyed. After a long moment of stillness, one man finally
spoke. “Nothing is visible.”
“Only darkness,” added another.
Almost without thought, they opened their eyes. The only thing they noted
was the absence of the child who had been sitting before them moments before.
“Ho there! Where have you gone?” they called after him, but to no avail.
And again they busied themselves with the search for the Great King. They
sought until nightfall but did not find Him. Embittered, they went to their homes,
where a good supper and warm bedding waited for them.
At dawn’s first light, they returned to their tasks. Bright rays of sunlight fell
from the sky, caressing the slumbering earth. The trees rustled their leaves, the
verdure of the fields and meadows shimmered with a thousand dewdrops, and
nearby a stream murmured softly. Just then, a man from a neighboring village
appeared on the road. Those who had emerged from their homes to see the dawn
overheard his conversation with another, likely one whose household was close
by.
“You see, good host,” said the newcomer, “He was with us yesterday.
Scarcely had we returned from beyond the ford when He stood before our very
door. He helped us tidy everything into the granary. Never have I known such
joy! Happiness incarnate visited me! He even shared our supper.”
“How did He appear? What raiment did He wear?” the other pressed
inquisitively, his curiosity piqued. “Was He clad in golden garments, draped in
shawls of the most precious gems? Did He bear on His brow a crown of pallard,
gleaming like the sun itself?”
The newcomer waved his hand dismissively. “A crown? Golden raiment?
You speak fancifully, friend!”
“Not for all the world, I swear it!”
“I will tell you how He looked.”
His companion strained his ears and leaned in slightly. “Speak, then,
speak!” he urged impatiently.
The newcomer pondered for a moment. After a while, he clicked his tongue
and spoke with conviction. “He was but a lad, a small boy; He wore a simple,
well-worn tunic. How did I know it was Him? Well, I had no need to know at all.
I simply looked, and at once I knew it was Him. Something stirred within me,
deep inside, and I would not have needed eyes to recognize Him.”
His listener paled suddenly.
“A boy,” he whispered, a note of sorrow in his voice.
“And was He not at your dwelling?” the visitor inquired.
“He was, He was,” the other murmured in reply.
Those who overheard this exchange were struck with wonder and said not a
word to one another until the day’s end. Their grand visions of Elnarin shattered
in that single moment. For it had not occurred to anyone that the Great King
would appear as a child, without a mighty retinue and the blare of bronze
trumpets.
In the years that followed, a wandering minstrel chronicled this tale in the
pages of his book. And the whole world came to know it.
MERNAVEL ON THE FRONTIERS
The time had come when the Feast of Spring began, a celebration that would
forever be known as the Last Spring. For spring was ever the harbinger of the
new year. People and Faelirs alike formed a grand procession, one that all
creatures of the woodlands still keep on the first day of each new year and which
was named the Great Gomon. There were to be dances and songs, all in praise of
the Great King. It was whispered that Elnarin Himself would come to the
festivities.
These were the final joyous days of the world. Innocence, oblivious to the
lurking enemy, roamed the lands, rousing all slumbering creatures with sweet
whispers. And they, in turn, hastened with speed to the place of celebration—the
Gardos Forest, which rose between the Snowy Mountains and the Great Lake,
spanning a vast swath of the entire eastern land.
When the festivities began, the Great King chose the first leader of the
Faelirs and named him Mernavel. From that day on, the young dweller of the
Shoreland became the Prince of the Earth.
It was the task of every newly chosen prince to traverse the whole of the
eastern land. And though Elnarin had never before appointed a ruler of this
realm, folk and Faelirs knew this to be the right undertaking of any chosen as the
steward of the Earth. Elnarin Himself had set the example, for the very first thing
He did after the creation of the world was to journey across its expanse.
Mernavel wished to do the same. So fervent was his desire to follow
Elnarin that he set aside all other longings and plans. A few days after the dawn
of the new year on Earth, he announced to all that he would embark on a journey
along the western border, then turn northward, and once the Abyssal Mountains
lay behind him, he would head toward the eastern coast.
Before his departure, he set all his affairs in order, bid farewell to his
companions of the Shore, and set out into the eastern world. There, in a small
glade, he met Elnarin. The Great King offered him certain advice by which he
should guide himself while traversing the far-off lands of the north.
“Remember this,” said Elnarin softly, “a prince is but a subject of his
people, a servant. To rule as king is to serve. If love guides your heart, you will
forget all that is needless. A king should be close to his subjects. He should offer
his very life for them. Go and do as you desire, but I caution you against
venturing into the Northern Frontiers of the Earth. That is a desolate domain.”
“What is there that you forbid me from seeing, Lord?” asked Mernavel.
“In truth, there is nothing there worthy of your notice.”
The young Faelir nodded in understanding.
“I enfold you with my protection, son of the Shoreland. You may go. But
remember one thing. When you pass the Northern Frontiers, pay no heed to the
voices that will tempt you to cross into their territory. Reject them and journey
on.”
“What voices are these?”
“Voices that you may hear within yourself,” replied the king.
“Where do they come from?” Mernavel pressed, ever curious.
Elnarin gave him a look that seemed to say “It is not necessary for you to
know this” and added, “Go, son of the Shoreland.”
Mernavel bowed with a smile and set off westward. Elnarin watched his
slender form for a long while as it swiftly sped through gullies and hills. Only
when Mernavel had become a tiny speck flickering in the misty distance did the
king leave the clearing and return to the Great Mountain.
Meanwhile, Mernavel walked and walked. He needed no staff to push aside
the tall grass, nor food, nor water—for within him surged immeasurable reserves
of strength, gifted by the King of Light.
After a week of travel, he crossed a mighty mountain range that rose
abruptly somewhere in the north and wound its way across the entire southern
part of the land, at last resting by the sea. Along his path, he met few people.
Those who lived there, however, welcomed and hosted him. They were greatly
surprised to see such a noble guest clad in a modest cloak and brown clogs.
After some time, the prince reached the Abyssal Mountains. There, too, he
visited the people, even helping them in their work; then he walked on tirelessly.
After many weeks had passed, he stood on the hard ground of the north.
As Elnarin had said, he found no dwellings there, no people or beasts. Only
silence and solitude reigned. Driven by curiosity, he gazed further. He sought to
see with his eyes those Frontiers of which the Great King had spoken. And he
saw them: He saw a parched land, scarred with furrows, strewn with great
shapeless boulders, strangely twisted and menacing; he saw a forest that brought
to mind a swarm of stumps; trees stretched their withered arms skyward; leaves,
yellowed and damp, lay on the earth, forever frozen in the clutches of cold and
decay. These were the Frontiers. There … in their depths, beyond the black
mountain bastions, a grim crimson could already be glimpsed, peeking from
beyond the horizon and slowly spilling across the sky. This was accompanied by
a mysterious noise, like the sound one hears when lava oozes from a volcano’s
crater and gradually hardens. Mernavel felt as though the crimson glow hissed
loudly.
He watched and watched, and in his heart slowly grew an irresistible urge
to step into the Frontiers, to see what they concealed and why it was so dreadful
that even Elnarin would not speak of it. After a few moments, he swallowed
hard. A spark of fear gleamed in his eyes. He felt mysterious, powerful emotions
rising within him—mysterious because he had not known them before, powerful
because he could not quell them or bend them to his will. He stood rooted to the
spot, breathing ever more heavily. The longer he stared at that blood-red glow
stretched across the sky, the greater the weariness that overcame him. Fear
shattered the calm of his thoughts and crumbled that which, moments before,
had upheld the gentle purity of his spirit.
Mernavel trembled. For a being living in blissful oblivion amidst the
marvels of the Shoreland, a creature who felt eternal joy and who in his life had
seen only Elnarin, the King of Radiance, feelings such as fear and weariness
proved terrifying. Uneasiness and powerlessness chilled Mernavel to the core,
leaving him in a stupor, paralyzed. He did not know what to do; his gaze was
ensnared by the encroaching crimson glow. It seemed to swell before his eyes,
whispering to him.
“Whispers!” A voice suddenly rang out in his mind.
Mernavel mastered himself and tore his eyes from the gloomy expanse. But
the whispers only grew in strength. They assailed his will, urging him deeper
into the Frontiers. The young prince shielded his eyes with his hands and shook
his head. He waved a hand, hoping to repel the assault of the unseen enemy, but
forgot that the attack came from within. Swaying, he stumbled to the nearest
rock and froze. An ominous silence fell, so deep that Mernavel’s face, once
bright and alight with happiness, now dulled with shadow. Still, he would not
yield. As a thousand whispers clawed at his mind, he gathered all his strength
and cried, “Begone!”
“Begone!” the echo repeated, rushing deep into the Frontiers.
The voices receded, vanishing into the hidden places.
A grave silence fell. Mernavel remained alone—weak, weary, his face
drained of color. He collapsed to the ground, staring blankly at the sky. He did
not know that he lay within the territory of the Frontiers.
Suddenly a voice reached him. “Why do you lie there?”
Mernavel lifted his head but did not see anyone. He scanned with his
frightened eyes the trees and rocks that shaded him but saw only stillness and the
absence of any life. After a few moments, he fixed his gaze once more on the
sky. But the ominous premonition did not fade. When, however, nothing
disturbed the silence, Mernavel let out a sigh of relief. He had no strength left to
continue his struggle against the mysterious adversary.
“Stand up and look at me. I’m not dangerous.”
This time Mernavel did not even stir.
“Don’t be afraid,” the voice repeated. “I see you are weary … perhaps I can
help you. Why do you lie there? Has some ill befallen you?”
“Who are you?” Mernavel asked, his voice trembling.
“A friend,” the stranger replied. “I wish to help you. You’re my prince. I
recognize you by your majesty. I’m glad you have visited me. I dwell here alone,
surrounded only by the shadow of these ancient trees. Can one imagine anything
worse than this? No one has ever visited me; no one has offered me food. Look!
Do you see anything to eat here? Only dry stumps. Sometimes the sun burns so
fiercely that my skin shrivels and moans piteously. My prince, you don’t know
how glad I am that you’ve visited me! You must be a Faelir. I always dreamed of
seeing at least one, but I never suspected one would truly appear in these
inaccessible lands. I awaited a prince, and he has come to me! Surely my
companions will rejoice. They dwell not far from here. They will likely not
believe me when I tell them I have met the Prince of the Earth!”
“How do you know I’m a prince?” Mernavel cut him off sharply. “You
weren’t at the Last Spring. And how can you claim to dwell here when the
Frontiers are wild?”
In response came a soft gurgling, at first indistinct, then louder, finally
turning into an unimaginable sob.
With a gasp of effort, Mernavel heaved himself upright. Though it cost him
nearly all his strength, he managed to stand firm. He now seemed greatly
changed; his delicate, handsome face was obscured by sweat and dust, and the
youthful gleam was dimming in his eyes. Though the immortal Faelir retained
his majesty and solemnity, the burden of worries and sorrows already weighed
on him. Bent over, he gazed ahead, unaware of his appearance.
Then he saw the stranger. He was a small man, short, hunched, stout, with
darting eyes and a malicious smirk on his lips. He bore neither beard nor
mustache. His bald, gleaming head was covered by a small cap. Had the prince
looked on him when he spoke, he would have felt a stir of distrust, but now,
seeing only a small creature sobbing sonorously and wiping tears from his
cheeks, he was moved and asked with sorrow, “Why do you weep? I didn’t mean
to harm you. Forgive me, but I’ve never seen a creature such as you, and I felt
cautious.”
The small man nodded and tried to speak but was suddenly interrupted by a
cough.
“It will pass, it will pass once I calm myself …” He coughed again, and his
eyes, black and ominous, brimmed with tears. When the racking cough had
subsided, he continued, “Please don’t trouble yourself, my prince. I often weep,
even for the merest trifle.”
And he laughed loudly, but in that laughter could be heard unsettling notes.
Mernavel did not sense them; his only concern now was to find out with whom
he dealt. However, he was also growing suspicious—he did not fully trust the
stranger. Moments before, he had been assailed by something strange—whispers
—and to make matters worse, he had lost nearly all his strength, and now, out of
nowhere, some small creature had appeared. He had never seen such a being, yet
he knew every creature, even the smallest, hidden from human eyes in groves
and inaccessible lands. So he watched the small man, piercing him with his
watchful gaze, silent and feigning deep thought.
After a few moments, the stranger spoke. “Don’t worry, my prince. I’ll tell
you everything. I know Your Highness is disquieted—you’ve never seen one
such as me before—but don’t fret! I’ll tell you why I wasn’t at the Spring
Festival. I’ll tell you, but let Your Highness not hold it against me …”
“First tell me who you are,” Mernavel grumbled.
“At once! I will speak. For you are my prince, and to you, I will speak all.
Nothing will I hide, not a whit!”
He adjusted his little cap, smiled slyly, then went on: “I didn’t wish to do
anything, anything at all … I swear! Don’t let Your Highness be wroth with me
for it. I’m just a …” He made a soft clicking sound, pondering and scratching his
chin, and added in a surer tone, as if struck by a sudden thought, “A gnome! I’m
a gnome.”
“A gnome?” the prince exclaimed, surprised. “What new creature is that?
I’ve never heard of such. I’m Prince Faelir; I know the world and its inhabitants.
Do you think I believe you? I don’t trust you. I’m leaving. I’ve tarried here too
long.” The gnome bent over and began to cough. “Nay! Nay! Let not Your most
luminous Highness depart! Please”—he coughed again—“please … wait …
please, my prince, hear me to the end!” He paused for a moment, beginning to
sob. Unclear words came from his mouth, sounds completely strange to
Mernavel, full of wildness. The Faelir frowned. Even though he didn’t trust this
creature, his heart started to soften again. From deep inside him, quiet but clear
voices spoke up. Something began to change in Mernavel. He couldn’t tell if it
was for good or bad.
Finally, tired of the constant crying, he said, “Tell me everything, gnome.
Where are you really from? Why haven’t I heard of you? I can’t trust you. The
Frontiers are a rough, harsh, wild, and unwelcoming place. There, beyond those
hills, something lurks. I don’t know what it may be, but it stirs within me strange
feelings, unknown and new …”
The gnome stopped whimpering and sniffling for a moment. His eyes
gleamed darkly.
“Feelings unknown and strange?” he asked.
“Yes,” Mernavel replied curtly, looking at him closely. “Does that surprise
you?”
“Perhaps a little,” he muttered. “You see, my dear prince, you’ve found
yourself in a land that’s the beginning of a new power, and you’ve just seen it.”
“A power? What power?” the Faelir wondered. This conversation grew ever
more mysterious to him, but he didn’t stop it; his curiosity was too strong. To
hide his feelings, he pretended to be indifferent—his face shifting between stern
and mild but never showing his emotions.
“You are, prince, at the Frontiers, and—”
“Yes, I know,” Mernavel cut in. “It’s a barren land, haunted by some terror.
Is that all you wished to tell me?”
“Of course not,” the gnome grumbled, sniffling. “You’ve met a new might.”
“What might?” Mernavel asked, annoyed.
“A might,” the creature went on, undeterred, “that is stronger than that
which you served before, my prince.”
Mernavel frowned. “Do you speak of Elnarin?”
“Yes, I speak of Elnarin whom you serve. Do you want to know why I
wasn’t at the Last Spring feast? Why I and my companions dwell here away
from everyone like wild beasts? Aye, you want to know, my prince, and I’ll tell
you, for you are my prince. You’ll see the truth that your Great King Elnarin hid
from you. He hid it because He didn’t wish you to know it.”
Mernavel swallowed hard. A fire of emotion broke through his mask of
calm, causing a flush to rise to his cheeks. “What are you talking about?” he
stammered.
“My beloved prince,” the gnome began, tears in his eyes, “wasn’t it so that
He didn’t wish to reveal to you this secret? Was He truly so good, truly loved
you so much that He hid nothing, not even the smallest detail? Did He tell … or
not? Did He hide it? Did He say nothing? Tell me, my prince!”
“He said nothing,” Mernavel replied in a hollow voice. “He didn’t want to
say … I asked Him, but He was silent.” His gaze wandered through the forest;
he looked like someone who had just found out he had been tricked. The gnome
sighed softly.
“So you, too, are disappointed in Him.”
“What do you mean by that?” Mernavel asked in a trembling voice, looking
at him.
“Only that I myself have lost much. Elnarin didn’t want you to come here
because He was hiding something. He didn’t want you to discover a power that
could do much good. He barred the Frontiers from you Faelirs and forbade you
to enter them. Why? Why did He do this? What stood in the way of anyone
knowing this secret? Is it not a good thing? Is Elnarin Himself truly good?
Think, my prince. Let reason guide you. Forget other voices that might cloud
your mind.”
“What is this secret?” Mernavel grew impatient.
The gnome laughed heartily. “Don’t you want to find it out? My prince,
don’t be afraid. We were both hurt by the same person. That same person didn’t
trust us, was overly suspicious. That is what the Frontiers conceal—a power
stronger than Elnarin! Why wouldn’t He tell you about it? Why didn’t He allow
anyone to visit these lands? Don’t you think He had a reason for it? Of course!
He feared losing power. He knew that here in the outlands and beyond hide
beings more potent—a power so immense, it could destroy this world and then
create it anew. If you venture past those hills, you’ll see the might of evil. That’s
what Elnarin fears. That’s why He didn’t let me be at the Last Spring feast. We
didn’t want to serve Him, we yearned to live otherwise, but He exploded in
wrath and had us banished here. We have nothing good to eat, we live without
friends …”
Here his tone suddenly shifted. “But you, my prince, are our liege. We hope
you’ll aid us in casting off our chains, and together with us—you’ll lead us!—
you’ll overthrow the wicked Elnarin! You’ll conquer the Shoreland, and when
you set foot on the Great Mountain … you’ll reach Him. Do you hear? Him! We
will stand behind you, our ruler! And you will cast the tyrant from His throne!
You’ll cast Elnarin into the abyss, just as He cast us down. And you’ll take His
scepter … you’ll shatter it and take ours! And then you’ll become our great king!
You’ll reign forever—the Great Ruler of the World. Infinite, undefeated, allpowerful!
Don’t you desire that? There, beyond the hills, hides our entire horde.
We’ve never had a king, but now that you have become our ruler, we’ll grab our
weapons and follow you wherever you lead. Just nod and we’ll obey instantly.
As long as you agree to lead us.”
He paused for a moment to bolster his emphasis and resolve and make his
words sound stronger. He put his hands over his face and then continued, “I
behold wonders! Elnarin will never rise again. He will lie deep in the dark pit He
cast us into, even though we wrought Him no ill. And we will create new beauty.
A new world. You will lead us; you will be its lord, my prince. I know you crave
all this. Just say yes! Say yes and everything you command will be done
exactly.” He looked straight into the Faelir’s eyes, as if trying to see whether his
words had awoken the feelings he spoke of.
Mernavel had changed completely. He wasn’t the young prince who, just a
few weeks ago, had loved Elnarin and dreamed of being like Him, listening only
to Him. Something terrible was happening in his heart—like a thousand wild
specters had assailed it and were trying to eat away the last bit of fading good. A
thousand specters—a thousand whispers. A thousand thoughts, desires, a
thousand urgings—all rotten. It was as if shadowy figures—dark, scary, and ugly
—were wrapping around Mernavel’s pale, lost, and lonely form, whispering
words into his ear. The form didn’t fight back; it soaked up everything they
offered, trembling and craving more.
The gnome’s words sowed distrust in Mernavel’s heart, getting him ready to
accept what he had to offer. When trust died, unease appeared, and that unease
dug into his soul, ripping at the dying good. The young Faelir took in everything
the gnome said. He saw himself, just as the gnome did, striding through valleys
and plains, a million armies behind him, a million warriors on his right, a million
servants on his left. He watched, measured, judged—the Great Mountain was
close. He would be its master! He advanced! All fell beneath his feet, trees bent,
people bowed low. Forward! Forward! He conquered the world, seized the
Shoreland, cast down the Great King and the Earadrins from the mountain.
Filled with these visions, Mernavel closed his eyes.
The gnome gazed at the prince with strangely bright eyes that glowed red,
eyes that held unclear desires, their light falling on his pale face, making it
wilder and more somber. He now resembled a being much more terrifying than
when he had first started to converse with Mernavel. He clenched his fists and
said to the prince, who was utterly lost in dark thoughts, “I need your assent, my
prince. I must know that you wish to aid us. Has the vastness of my dreams truly
enraptured you? Don’t you think they are exciting, real, and may come true?
Don’t avert your gaze from them. Listen to these soft whispers! Do you sense
their power; do you hear them encouraging you? What do those desires whisper
to you? Whose warmth do you feel in your heart? See their alluring hue? Give
answer, so I may bow to you as the new king! Give answer!”
Mernavel looked up. A shadow of weariness, weakness visible in every
feature of his face, now marked the wise figure he had once been. His face paled
with each passing minute, as if those specters that had attacked him had
swallowed all trust, sucked out the beauty, and muffled the goodness. “I will do
as you have told me, gnome.”
In his last word, a note of contempt rang out. His face darkened; his eyes
seemed to glow ominously. He felt in charge—he wanted to give orders, to
watch servants bow down before his grim majesty, fall to the ground struck by
the fire of his words and not even dare to look at his face, full of gravity, anger,
cruelty, and harshness.
“So what do you want, gnome? Do you wish me to be your master? To lead
you to meet the Great King?”
The gnome replied in a humble, soft voice, which sounded sweetly
persuasive, “I dare not look upon your noble face, veiled in wisdom and fairness,
a hundredfold more wondrous than Elnarin’s wild face. My prince, here I am!
Your subject, servant, and eternal vassal.”
“Then tell me your name, vassal!” Mernavel said with force.
“My name is Morhog,”’ the gnome replied as humbly as he could.
“Speak, then. What do you want? Should I lead you into the world and then
to the Great Mountain? Show me your companions. Are they quiet? Let them
speak. Surely you’re not alone?”
The gnome cast his gaze on the ground. “I’m not, but neither I nor my
friends can leave the Frontiers until a certain obstacle, long blocking our path, is
removed. We are too weak to remove it. We need a king, who, with his mighty
hand, will destroy it and open the gates. We beg and believe that you will take
pity on us, Great One!”
“Tell me, what is this obstacle?” Mernavel asked seriously. “Is it so great
that you can’t remove it yourselves?”
“Oh yes! It’s too great. Only you, the rightful lord of the Earth and the
Great Mountain, can destroy it.”
“Then tell me where it is and I will remove it right away.”
“It lies in the world. We don’t know much about it, but we’ve heard it looks
like a flower. It has a secret power that has kept us for ages from leaving the
abyss by the edges.”
“And that’s all?” The prince seemed surprised. “A mere flower?”
The gnome cleared his throat quietly and replied, “You meant to say, my
prince, an extraordinary flower. How is it possible that such a small plant has
held us in fire for thousands of years? If we can’t overcome its power, that
means it is more than just a mere flower. It’s a tool full of might. And only you,
my lord, can conquer this might. You possess enough power to shatter the
centuries-old protection of the Earth.”
Mernavel squinted as if pondering the gnome’s words. His face grew hard
for a moment. But then a wild smile spread across his lips and illuminated his
face with a grim light. In the harsh silence that enveloped the whole area, he
stood—Mernavel, a prince with fire in his eyes and a storm in his heart.
“So where is this flower?” he asked. “Where do I need to go to destroy it?”
Morhog looked sad. “I thought …” he mumbled awkwardly, “I thought you
knew, my ruler.”
Mernavel frowned and got lost in thought. His face seemed shrouded in
mist; only slight twitches of his lips showed some inner feelings, a struggle with
a surge of memories. But a moment later the mist of thought cleared, his face
regained its former liveliness, and a smile played on his lips.
“Forgive me, my vassal … I forgot. I know where that flower is. I’ve just
recalled what I heard long ago in the Shoreland, and I can do everything my
subjects want.”
“I will wait, my lord,” the gnome offered eagerly. “I will wait until you
come back with that flower. And when you return, I will take it and carry it
there”—he pointed to a bastion of rocks sinking into the gloom, over which hung
a reddish glow—“so that all my comrades can see the thing that bound them for
so many years and wouldn’t let them out—so they can spit on it and throw it into
the fire. We are a folk who have faced endless misery. That’s why we thirst for
vengeance. Let the enemy see what those once thrown into a world of horror and
pain can achieve. And now go, great leader. We will await you humbly, and
when you bring the severed flower, we will fall before you and go wherever you
lead us, becoming your servants for all time. We will delight in obeying every
one of your commands; we will build you a fortress of glory on the ruins of
Elnarin’s kingdom. And you will live in it, robed in purple and black—a
fearsome king of the world, ruling wisely, and your reign will be inscribed in
golden letters in the history of the world!”
Mernavel, with the last of his strength, held back a smile and said sternly,
“Save your words for later, my vassal. Now I go for the Morning Dawn Flower.
The time for praise will yet come.”
But despite those words, he felt such a burst of joy that it was too hard to
control his pride. “Wait for me then, my vassal,” he added. “I will come soon.”
And he ran. Had anyone then strayed into those lands and stood high on the
rocks, they might have seen a wild shadow speeding through gorges and ravines.
As that shadow burst out from the rocks and ran on, cloaked in the moonlight, it
looked like a gaunt wraith, with sticky, tar-like bits clinging to it, glowing red at
the bottom—invisible specters whispering to him which way he should run and
filling his chest with a mysterious breath.
***
In a small glade, nestled between the towering peaks and girt by a ring of
ancient, colossal trees, bloomed the Morning Dawn Flower. The vast mountain
masses cast their long shadows on it, and the moon, peering into this hidden
place, sprinkled it with silver light. There was a deep silence, unbroken by even
the slightest rustle. This sight brought solace, easing the burdens of any weary
traveler who found it, giving them strength and preparing them for further
journeys.
The flower pulsed with a joyful glimmer. Unbound power surged in its
stalks, seeping from its golden petals and drifting like down in the air. It was this
power that stirred a mother’s tenderness in the stern and frigid mountain massifs,
turning chill to warmth. By its power, the encroaching shadows of the clearing
grew kind and soft. The trees, silvered by moonlight, hummed ancient songs,
gently swaying their leaves. All here sang of gladness, delighting the eye, living
in harmony like a great family.
Then something crept into the clearing, a blurred shape emerging from the
thickets. But, caught by the moon’s vigilant gaze, it withdrew into the gloom.
Suddenly, without so much as a glance around, a figure burst into the
clearing, reaching the flower in just a few leaps. It seized it with both hands and,
eyes aflame, tore it out of the earth, roots and all. A moment later the figure fled,
scourged by fear, running like one possessed. It leaped over chasms, slammed
against rocks, stumbled over withered branches, racing and racing, a bastion of
black stone looming ahead and a fiery red glow hissing far beyond. Then it
reached a ravine. Darkness swelled, and the muffled whistle of its breath
disturbed the quiet.
On and on it ran, climbing higher, until it glimpsed a path between two
mountain massifs—and there its longed-for goal. It leaped across a chasm and
fell with a clang on the black earth, groaning in pain, but rose and pressed on.
Dust began to sting its eyes, and gray motes swirled in the air. Gasping, battling
weariness, its lips parched, its eyes swollen and its vision fading, blood trickling
down its face, it hurtled forward. Suddenly its foot struck something hard. A
searing pain shot through it, and the figure fell once more onto the cold ground.
For a moment, its body was shrouded in ash-gray dust. When it cleared and
settled, a gaunt figure could be seen, hunched, groaning, panting heavily,
struggling to move on. But it could not; its leg was broken. Its hair was matted
with sweat, its face scarred with wounds; it wore ragged, torn clothes, and its leg
was unnaturally twisted and bleeding. All this intensified its ghastly appearance.
Nevertheless, it hobbled onward, propping itself up with a stick it found,
pushing aside thickets, cutting its hands on thorns—until it fell once more. From
then on, it would rise, then fall again, and when it unexpectedly slipped from a
high rock shelf, it began to crawl. With desperate movements, its hands pushed
aside bushes, grasping at anything it could, moaning softly … but its strength
ebbed away, its arms falling limply to the ground ever more often. Despair
twisted its face, madness blazed in its eyes—just a little further! At last,
exhausted, the figure collapsed. In its left hand it clutched the withered flower,
lying merely a few paces from where it had recently spoken with the gnome. A
guttural rattle tore from its throat; ash coated its lips; its eyes saw nothing,
blinded by the mysterious dust.
And this human wreck lay on that spectral earth as if already feeling the
breath of death on its cheeks. Terror swelled in Mernavel’s heart; a cold sweat
beaded his forehead. With his last remaining strength, he cried out, “Gnome!
Help me!”
Then a familiar voice reached him. “What do you want, my prince?”
“I’m here—I have it. I have the flower … but help me!”
There was a deep silence.
“Gnome! Obey your lord! Help me to my feet …”
Then a voice spoke, utterly unknown to him, a guttural, low, hoarse, and
terrifying voice that sent a shiver of dread through his body. “What do you want,
carrion?”
The prince swallowed. A look of horror appeared on his distorted face.
Blood began to pulse in his veins; the fire of fear flickered in his dull eyes.
“Morhog,” he choked, “is that you?”
In reply came a murderous cackle, joined by several others even deeper,
even more monstrous.
“Morhog … Morhog …” mimicked the first voice. “Are you surprised, my
poor prince? What has happened? Why do you look so … so … unlike yourself?
Oh! The poor dear fell and got bruised while traversing the mountains!”
“Poor dear! Poor dear!” jeered the other voices.
“The poor dear hurt himself,” Morhog continued. “Why? Why did he hurt
himself? Oh! He must surely have brought us something, but what? Look! What
does he hold in his hand? What does he grasp with his paws? It’s some little
flower! A little flower? Look! This thing kept us imprisoned for so many years!
Ha, ha! Such a thing … how amusing!”
His companions cackled again. They laughed and laughed, and Mernavel
trembled, because he did not know what was happening and waited only for an
opportune moment to speak. But the savage cruelty in the voices of these
unknown beings was so menacing that he preferred to remain still.
Perhaps it is only a trick of the gnome, he thought, a flicker of hope in his
heart, and quietly sighed.
Silence fell. The figures grew quiet. Mernavel froze, motionless. He had
already opened his mouth to speak, had already lifted his head slightly, when that
same grim voice interrupted him. “And what, dear princeling? Do you wish to
say something?”
Mernavel groaned faintly and whispered, “Morhog … I brought the flower.
Help me. Have you forgotten our conversation? I’m your king! I wish to save
you and all your people from the fire. We are to overthrow Elnarin. Help me, for
I grow weaker; you can’t know how this flight has exhausted me! Morhog, speak
but a single word!” He tried to give his voice a tone of sternness, because he saw
that he spoke not as a king, but weariness had weakened his will and pride. So he
pleaded, aware that something strange was happening around him. Though he
saw nothing, his ears, attuned to sound, his nose to scent, sensed a mysterious
change, and he trembled.
Another chuckle rang out, louder and more contemptuous this time. Fear
chilled Mernavel to the bone.
“My prince,” said the gnome; his voice held a more human tone than
moments before but was still filled with darkness, roughness, and savagery. “My
prince … you thought you would gain all, that you would seize power, that you
would be great? Fool, how easily you are deceived! You are a small pawn,
corrupted and rotten. A pawn that can be convinced it’s beautiful. Ha, ha!
Beautiful! One need only say it is beautiful and already it swells with pride,
believing that all, the entire world, will fall at its feet and bow down to it—the
whole world! Wonders untold! Have you heard such tales, companions? Listen,
fool! You helped us escape, us who hate Elnarin and who desired to claim your
world. So easily you befriended us. So readily you believed my word. You
thought you would rule forever in Elnarin’s stead! It makes me laugh, do you
hear? You have freed your worst enemies, betrayed your own king and your own
land. You have destroyed Earth’s sole protection. Now that you have plucked it
and brought it to us, your subjects”—here he laughed ironically—“the gates of
our stronghold have opened. At last! We can destroy what has not yet been
destroyed; we can drink the blood of your kin. Ha, ha! Where is your great
strength? Where is your power? Where is your greatness? This is not how you
imagined your future, is it? Will you answer me, my lord? Or perhaps you are
not a lord. Companions! Look! Could this carrion lying here be our king? Could
this already dead carcass lead us against Elnarin? Of course not! Let the vultures
devour him. He helped us; now let him die!”
“Let us spit on this carrion!” added the booming voices in unison,
thousands of voices.
“And now,” Morhog resumed, “we go forth into the world. Listen,
companions; a new domain awaits us!”
A terrible uproar answered him.
“A new domain,” he repeated hoarsely, “so let us burn it! Let it blaze! Let
us destroy all his kin, just as we have destroyed him! Forward! The flower lies
here beneath us, crushed. Our shadow pours forth from beyond the bastion. Let
the night come with us!”
“Night!” bellowed the voices.
And a deafening clamor erupted, the roar of a thousand wild voices mingled
with a savage whistling. Somewhere far off, the air was shaken by a mighty
rumble of something unknown that might have lurked in Morhog’s fortress. A
tremor ran through the earth, panic seized the mountains and trees, and a strange
grinding sound jarred the air, melting into the distance. Where the blue sky
stretched, a shadow began to unfurl, growing, swelling, devouring the light. The
sea of crimson hanging over the bastion of black rocks raged, and with a loud
hiss, it took on a grim, mysterious shape. The unleashed element of voices crept
out from beyond the bastion, blackening against the bright backdrop, and flung
itself toward the mountains in a retinue of smoke and vapor, shadowed by gray
manes and spitting darkness. And the voices, like a furious wind, took flight
through the mountain passes. They swept through the ravines with a dreadful
roar. A rumble of dread filled the mountains, echoed in the hollows, settled in the
caves. A malevolence hung over the Frontiers and turned its crushing gaze
toward the fertile lands of the world, sunlit, flourishing in silence, to shroud
them in a shadowy breath and drown them in a fiery abyss.
“Forward!” echoed the voices.
A dark tempest already loomed on the horizon, and gloom descended on all
the Frontiers.
Meanwhile, Mernavel lay on the ground, barely alive. He saw nothing; his
senses seemed deaf to those frenzied roars. He felt an uncanny pain in his heart.
Suddenly a sob escaped his chest, and spasms violently racked his body.
TWILIGHT OF A GREAT DAY
When the Morning Dawn Flower was plucked, a strange uneasiness fell on all
people across the lands. The sky, once bright, turned a pallid gray, and delicate
clouds twisted into angry, swirling masses. Creatures scurried to hide in their
dwellings. Some whispered in hushed tones, while others gazed on the
mysterious transformation of earth and sky. A foreboding premonition gripped
them all, gnawing at their minds, giving no peace.
From the north, a breath of darkness drew near. Murky clouds gathered over
forests and lakes. The people looked at the sky with fearful eyes, murmuring
among themselves.
Then a lightning bolt rent the sky. A thunderous roar echoed across the
entire world. Torrents of rain lashed down, scourging the earth mercilessly.
Those near their hearths did not suffer, but wanderers caught far from shelter felt
the drops burn their skin and tear their clothes. How long it lasted, no one could
say, for the downpour did not cease. Instead it gathered strength, savagely
beating on trees, lakes, meadows, and fields. A host of voices hung above the
world. People trembled in their homes, hearing cackling laughter outside. They
thought it merely the mighty wind whistling a tempestuous song. Then the
voices plummeted earthward.
A sinister silence fell. Somewhere far away, the storm rumbled its last, and
nearby, the rain was dwindling. The world was swallowed by a gray mist.
Then the people believed the worst had passed and the sun would soon
rekindle its light in the sky. But suddenly, one turned against another in anger.
Words of complaint ensued. A third cast a curse on a fourth. Quarrels erupted.
Discord divided families, and wrath set spouses against each other. Those who
resisted the unknown feelings watched the rest with dread, striving to chide
them. But where one spark of war was quelled, a hateful clamor would burst out
elsewhere.
Only a handful remained who did not yield to the mysterious whisperings.
They did all they could to prevent strife and division. But unseen shadows
reaped their harvest, assailing the people fiercely. Wrath ignited easily in heart
after heart, laying low creatures cowering in ditch, in ravine, in vale. A mortal, if
they willed it and possessed the strength, could repel these assaults and resist the
unseen enemy. But those who succumbed to the alluring visions cast before their
eyes by silent specters grew weak and susceptible to every stir of pride in their
hearts or surge of anger. That which they did not know captivated them and drew
them from the light.
RETURN OF THE PRINCE
Elnarin gazed down on the Frontiers with sorrow. He saw fire, death, and ruin.
And there, amidst the mountains, He found the body of Mernavel. He took him
from there and laid him on the grass near a small hillock. The dark creatures had
not yet reached that place, and a warm aura filled the air with unearthly softness,
breathing a measure of peace into the landscape.
When Mernavel awoke, he found himself in an utterly different place. He
cast his astonished gaze around him, and suddenly a wave of memories washed
over his mind. The realization of what he had done, what he had contributed to,
struck him with a terrible pang of pain, despite the joyful hues dancing before
his eyes. He wept piteously.
He was no longer the mighty king who had sought to cast Elnarin from His
throne. Shame burned his heart as he saw himself reflected in the mirror of
memory. He longed for punishment, that justice might be served; he yearned to
cast himself from the cliffs, he thirsted for judgment—yet he knew it would
change nothing. Or perhaps … perhaps he could fall before Elnarin and beg His
forgiveness.
The prince rose to his feet. He resolved to step from the carpet of grass, but
Elnarin appeared before him. His face was changed, as if that entire host of
malicious shadows had wounded Him most deeply. Mernavel fell before his king
and began to weep aloud. And in his weeping were laments and pleas and
promises. They wove together into one, stirring the air, moving the nearby trees;
they flowed in that unending confession toward Elnarin, who had been only
waiting for them.
“You have returned, son,” Elnarin said.
“Yes, my lord,” the prince mumbled. “I see what I have done … Forgive
me, I beg you! I was blind and deaf!”
“What has come to pass will remain. The curse of your deed has fallen
upon the world. But those who are my subjects will not heed the enemy. You
have returned, my child. Therefore I will accept you, and you will remain with
me until the end.”
Mernavel’s face brightened at these words.
“But remember,” said the King of Light, “you will not enter the Eternal
Nest until the last living soul has departed Earth. You will wait on the Shoreland.
When the end comes and the gates close, you will return to the Motherland.
Down below, the battle rages. I will send forth all the Earadrins and Faelirs to aid
the peoples of the world. You, however, will wait for those who will come here
and lead them across the Shoreland.”
The prince bowed with reverence and adoration.
So ended the First Eon.
ARGOLID
In the dawn of the elder days, when the winds still howled through the valleys
and ancient trees whispered legends of dread, a horde of enemies from the
Mysterious World came to the fields of glory, future, and hope. The clang of iron
echoed the hoarse cries, and drums beat a grim rhythm heralding the coming of a
destructive tempest. To the north, hostile armies massed on the horizon, dark as
storm clouds, shrouded by gray plumes of dust.
On the opposing side, nestled in the cool shadows of the mountains, lay
hidden the beautiful Earadrins. Their fiery tresses cascaded over their shoulders,
shielding skin as pure and gleaming as the still surface of water. They bore long
spears, and with graceful steps they trod on the lush grass. They spoke in hushed
tones lest any word be snatched by hostile scouts. Soon their leader appeared, a
slender youth with a captivating countenance. His name was Argolid. With a
wave of his hand, a dozen blue-eyed figures swiftly formed a battle array.
Argolid gave another sign and a countless host of Faelirs emerged from the
mountain’s shade. They began their march across the green plain to meet the foe.
Argolid donned a silver helm bearing the emblem of a lamb and raised his sword
of pure steel. The trees trembled and a golden cloud rose into the sky. The rustle
of gear, the breath of the mountains, the clang of arms—all these reached the
ears of the creatures of darkness, a league distant, and sharpened their hateful
vigilance. They coalesced into a black detachment and likewise began their
advance.
Argolid strode at the very forefront of his army, a song of praise on his lips,
the image of his lord in his thoughts. He saw the enemy’s wings spread before
him. He gripped the hilt of his sword and closed his eyes. Behind him, like a
sunlit afterglow, moved the warrior hosts, compact, stern, fearless. The moments
stretched on; the enemy’s clamor grew stronger; all the Faelirs and Earadrins
closed their eyes. Silence hung over them, and a shadowy storm crept forth …
Tales spun thereafter by bards recounted that a grayness enveloped all.
Radiant Argolid swirled amidst his foes, crushing and shattering. Wild creatures
fell thick beneath the bludgeons of the Earadrins. The grass of the plain caught
fire and a pillar of smoke rose skyward. But the impetus of the creatures from
the Mysterious World proved futile and ineffective—the army of Elnarin routed
them with such force that they were compelled to retreat. In the battle’s tumult,
Argolid pressed his assault on the black-clad Morhog. Amidst the smoke and the
din, both adversaries fought their first and final duel. Morhog parried blows,
attacking fiercely, roaring like a beast. Then Argolid struck Morhog, who stood
at the precipice. Madness flared in the demon’s eyes—he failed to parry the
blow; the sword shattered his ribs and cast him down into the flames.
The Great Battle of the Dawn of Days came to its end. Morhog was bound
in chains, meant to thwart his escape from the Mysterious World. Some of the
emissaries of darkness were cast into the abyss beyond the Frontiers, while
others sought refuge in the caves of the northern mountains.
After the battle, Elnarin banished the Faelirs from the Shoreland of His
mountain, for some among them had sided with the enemy. But He took pity on
them, declaring that they should establish their own kingdom on Earth and guard
it against further attacks from the shadows of the Frontiers.
The Faelirs raised a great fortress in the south, fashioned in the likeness of
Elnarin’s seat on the Great Mountain. They named it Emad Aran, meaning Pillar
and Bread or Hill of the Beginning, because it was in this place they yearned to
begin anew. So new times came.
WINTER YEARS
The dominion of the Faelirs was not to be long. Their new sovereign, Gorhan,
secretly conspired with the demons of the Frontiers, who slowly regained their
might after a great defeat. Together they forged a thing that would become the
world’s curse. Ancient scrolls of Emad Aran told that in the hundredth year of
the Second Eon, in forges hidden deep in the mountain slopes of the north, King
Gorhan fashioned a mysterious ore from the remnants of the Morning Dawn
Flower. It was named nurit. Many believed it was a creation born of love for the
people, but the terrifying consequences that followed unveiled the true intentions
and designs of Gorhan and the Frontiers’ creatures. Hope died in the hearts of
those who had believed that the woes which once befell the Earth under
Mernavel’s reign would never return.
A faction of the Faelirs pledged themselves to Gorhan, aiding him in his
dark schemes. The rest, witnessing their kin’s betrayal, gathered an army. Once
more the shadow of war loomed over the world.
Meanwhile, the servants of the Mysterious World began to raise colossal
fortresses in the north. Those who dwelt near these lands often saw amaranthine
glows kindling the horizon’s blue. And the strongholds grew and grew; the very
earth trembled with the clang of hammers in the mountains, the air hissed with
the breath of bellows and the heat of flames, and the sun’s light was ever more
dimmed by tar-like vapors.
Gorhan did not tarry. He resolved to stand atop the crags and cast the thing
he had created into the abyss, that it might dissolve and multiply. So, by night,
he slipped from his hidden lair, a shadow flitting toward the deepest chasm. He
cast a small bundle into its depths, then fled.
For days, silence fell. In the north, the incessant clamor ceased. For the first
time in an age, the chirp of birds echoed through the forests and valleys. But
soon after, a freezing cold wafted from the Frontiers. People barricaded their
homes; granaries were sealed and livestock secured. Courage faded in human
hearts. Then, from the abyssal depths of the world, a cruel voice boomed. Then
another roar, even mightier, shook the very earth.
Beneath the ground, hordes of strange beings had multiplied. They crawled
out from the great stone Gorhan had cast into the abyss, then, with a thunderous
roar, solidified and transformed into a sapphire ore that rooted itself into the very
bones of the Earth. From its core emerged wisps of blue dust. When they had
formed a cloud great enough, borne by a secret power, they ascended, seeking a
fissure, a way to escape the subterranean darkness and consume the world.
Nurit was a raw substance, a vessel for the malevolent spirits summoned by
Gorhan through a secret incantation. They held no true form, spoke no words,
and drank from the waters of deep Earth. They appeared as mist or vapor slowly
drifting through space, shifting into strange shapes and radiating cold. Their
purpose was to dwell within the sapphire stone shells; they could emerge only on
command. They proved to be a true curse upon the world, for they not only
stirred up snowy gales but also caused a lethargy to creep into the hearts of men.
When these spirits returned to the ore, they grew even more dangerous,
because they awakened unattainable dreams in people, urging them to seek out
the nurit. Their power reached far, touching every mind. Those who could resist
—endured; those who succumbed to the tempting visions and dreams—perished.
Travelers who followed the voice of delusion and ventured into the abyssal
wildlands of the north vanished without a trace or returned bearing nurit stones
from which they fashioned grandiose structures.
Soon the effects of the ore left their mark on the Earth. Strange diseases
appeared here and there; beasts fell, birds died, plants withered, dimmed by the
shadow of death, and trees bent low. But a worse pestilence plagued humankind.
Some were covered in black sores and forced to retreat into the dark recesses of
the mountains or wander into the desolate wastes. Others were assailed by a
strange cold that sucked the warmth from their hearts and devoured joyful
thoughts. Still others were plagued by dreams of fire and darkness. A fourth
group was haunted by pale specters, the embodiment of their own desires—these
clung to them ceaselessly, giving no respite, weaving illusions in their minds,
feeding their imaginations with deceptive dreams. To a fifth, death itself
appeared. A sixth group was attacked by beings called Balgaurs, some of the
nurit spirits taking the form of cloaked nomads. A seventh was consumed by
wrath or hatred. And many others were struck down by unknown illnesses for
which no remedy could be found in the world. Some cried out to Elnarin,
pleading for rescue and healing for the sick.
The King of Light returned to the world bound in frost, and on the very hill
where He had healed Mernavel of his wounds of soul and body, He crafted His
own substance. He took fragments of the Morning Dawn Flower that the
servants of shadow had not gathered, fashioned them into a small translucent
stone, and breathed His own spirit into it. He wrapped it in a delicate fabric and
entrusted it to the new leader of the Faelirs—Eurandar, known as Dan-Tor.
Eurandar, in turn, passed it on; others received the stone, gave it to still more, yet
kept their own, as if countless such treasures had sprung from a single source.
Soon those who craved healing became whole and kept the treasure Elnarin had
created for them.
Most of the people, led by the new Faelir chief Eurandar, gained the power
to stand ready for battle against the demons of the Frontiers.
At this time, winter raged across the world. Beasts and men alike, and lesser
creatures too, gazed in astonishment at this ominous entity clad in cold and
white, striding across mountain peaks, drenching all in crackling frost. Soon her
gaze encompassed both south and north. A cold smile illuminated her icy face.
Was there anything left that could withstand her? Was there anyone who could
escape her frosty might, her chill that shattered towers?
Then, on the horizon, in the foothills, a small champion appeared. But,
wondrously, he was not alone. Allies surrounded him, and behind them pressed
luminous beings. In the hollows of the landscape, the Faelirs crouched. And
further, beyond them, a radiance shone—it was Elnarin. The champion,
Eurandar, stood in silence, not even glancing at winter, who howled and howled,
summoning allies from the Frontiers, the Mysterious World, and the underworld.
The Great King stood at a distance, infusing His subjects with sweet solace. So
the armies of the world marched, a song of victory on their lips, trudging through
the snow, impervious to the biting cold, heedless of the wind that howled and
maligned. They marched like an iron wedge that must shatter a stone fortress;
they surged like a sea wave to meet the fire that spewed sparks, hurled plumes of
smoke, and reached the skies with its flames.
On the plain called Belmirel, the sons of Elnarin clashed with the
emissaries of the Mysterious World, winter, the Balgaurs, and the nurit spirits.
Who bore witness to that battle? Who could truly capture the immensity of two
ancient foes locked in such a combat? Perhaps a lone bard stood nearby and,
hearing the clamor that shook the very air, feeling the stirrings of inspiration in
his heart, seized a quill and, forgetting all else, began to carve words into the
very earth—words that would be forever etched into the memories of mortals,
forever hidden in their hearts:
O, dawn! O, radiance! You come in this hour!
There, the iron thunders roar! There, the warriors sing …
EARTHENMOUND
Many years after this battle, people rebuilt their settlements. Under their
watchful eyes, spires rose anew, their points sharp against the sky, and towers
were adorned with splendor echoing that of ages past. The Faelirs’ Emad Aran
spread its might.
Many years had passed since Eurandar, the great champion of the Winter
Battle, had departed from Emad Aran. One day he felt a profound need to raise a
new fortress, its foundations to be laid far in the wild reaches of the north. He
knew who had kindled this fervent desire in his heart, so he set forth with a
handful of his loyal subjects. Words of praise for the Great King came from his
lips, and his eyes gleamed with flames of joy and emotion. He walked then as a
common man, clothed in a modest tunic, girt with bast rope, appearing no
different from his humble companions.
When he reached the destination revealed by Elnarin, he commanded his
party to halt at the border for respite. He himself decided to survey the
surrounding lands. He ventured several miles ahead; having traversed the
prescribed distance, he stood on a small rise from which the entire region could
be observed. His heart beat with hope as he saw the fertile stretch of land
adorned with lush, verdant grasses, the whispering forest where peace itself
seemed to dwell, trees swaying briskly, willows embracing one another, oaks
like stern sentinels guarding the secrets of the wilderness, spruces tickled by
northern winds, pines fragrant with resin, all gilded by the sun’s radiance.
Filled with elation, Eurandar returned to the encampment. Within a few
short years he had founded Erandea on those very lands—the first realm of men.
Soon after, to the northwest, another kingdom was established, called Erin,
stretching from the sea coast to the jagged mountains known as the Chasm
Crags.
In time, new peoples emerged across the other lands of the north, ever
wilder tribes arriving from distant shores to these untamed wilds.
Meanwhile, in Emad Aran, a new ruler was chosen from among the Faelirs.
The throne of Emad Aran was not hereditary; a successor was elected by an
ancient custom, long forgotten by the living, and then a golden crown speckled
with seven stars was placed in his hands. Each new ruler was bound to offer it to
Elnarin—that is, to place it on a gilded plinth atop the citadel as a gesture of
humble obedience. But astonishment seized many hearts when the new king
defied this sacred rite and led everyone to his chamber, there to complete the
grand ceremony with a startling act—laying the crown on his own throne.
Since that day, a heavy silence prevailed in Emad Aran. The new ruler
began his reign, yet his intentions, his thoughts, and his rebellious gesture
remained a mystery. Doubts gnawed at the Faelirs. A grim wall of
misunderstanding and distrust arose between them and their king.
It was then that the shadows of the Frontiers stirred anew.
Though their forces had waned after the great defeat and long struggled to
reclaim their former might, they had never ceased their insidious machinations.
Nurit lay in earthly chasms and rifts, calling all kinds of beings with phrases
woven of dark allure. Many held the stones they had received as a gift from
Elnarin and so, strengthened by their light, resisted the whispers and visions of
the demons. But others reveled in the enticements the spirits of nurit conjured in
their minds and set out with fervent passion on quests for the precious ore. Many
people began to follow their voices; lured by delusions, they ventured into
unknown distances, wandered the rugged land of the north, their greedy eyes
seeking the coveted treasure. Over time, four entrances to the underworld
appeared in both the south and the north, opening paths to the dark depths where
lurked shadows, vile creatures, and nurit spirits. Tireless wanderers took what
they wanted and returned to the sunlit world above to live out their lives amidst
secret riches in savage bliss.
As time wore on, nurit mines began to emerge. The sharp ring of pickaxes,
the stinging reek of purple vapors, the crackle of fire kindled in the earth’s
gloomy depths, the rasping whisper of steel, the clatter of iron tools, shadows
creeping by night through the ravines and glimpsed only in the murky shimmer
of the moon’s watchful eye, and that piercing rumble pulsating from the deep
and that crimson glow often erupting from the openings beneath the earth … The
abysses of the world filled with a wild turmoil, with darkness and with throngs
of various grim human shapes. The new mines belched out deadly dust,
swallowing more daredevils into their fiery bowels.
The people of the south looked out with trepidation over the expanse once
green, now slowly consumed by swirling clouds of smoke.
The spirits of the nurit also bewitched some dignitaries of Emad Aran—
mainly the king’s companions and counsellors. They became akin to their ruler,
meeting secretly in the dungeons of the fortress to discuss their plans. By the
king’s command, they succeeded in creating a mine. Naturally, they ensured the
Faelirs knew nothing about it, as they sought to amass many blocks of precious
ore to build a fastness on the edge of the Snowy Mountains. The new Faelir king
wanted to fortify Emad Aran, to encircle it with an indestructible wall that would
sever it from the barbaric peoples of the north and the Frontiers.
In those days, near the Snowy Mountains, he erected a great tower—
Orthros. It rose a thousand feet high and stretched four hundred feet wide; from
afar it appeared like a conflagration, a black pillar blazing out from the murky
grayness. Crowned with a spire, shaded by a swarm of lesser towers, bastions,
walls, and castles, it loomed black and gloomy against the backdrop of the
mountains and the sky. The people trembled and gazed with fear at this proud
colossus reaching almost to the clouds.
The northern kingdoms sensed the threat. Seeing dark bastions rising from
the earth, brown vapors climbing skyward through mountain gaps, crevices, and
passes, and mysterious figures sometimes peering from behind the walls of the
Northern Frontiers, and hearing a guttural clang rising from below—harsh and
unbearable—they began gathering their forces, lit warning beacons, and posted
sentries along their northern borders.
For some time now, Eurandar, victor of the winter’s battle, had been
watching the darkening Northern Frontiers on the distant horizon with a glint of
suspicion in his eyes. The mysterious fires lighting up the gray sky, the wild
clamor rising especially on moonless nights, and the strange shadows crawling
along the rocky ridges near Erandea, visible to the guards—none of this escaped
his notice. Sometimes he would glance briefly northward and remain frozen in
vigilance; occasionally a smile would dawn on his lips, perhaps signaling a
blissful certainty that the world would face no danger, or contempt for the quiet
distance concealing the smoldering fury of those hateful beings. Yet those who
knew Eurandar through and through understood that this smile could be
prompted by entirely different feelings. Once, when peace reigned in the world
and no enemy could threaten the peoples of Elnarin, they had posed him a
peculiar question upon seeing him gaze toward the Northern Frontiers with that
mysterious smile.
“Most serene prince, do we not have peace? Has the flame of war been
extinguished, and will the winter approaching from the Frontiers not last long
due to its fragile power? We see you fear something, Lord. Reveal to us the
reason for your concerns. After all, we are to soothe your heart wounded by the
poison of unrest and to bridle the thoughts that kindle your impetuousness.”
Then Eurandar replied, “You ask if I need your help. Well, no, I do not. Do
I worry about the fate of the world? Well, no, I do not.”
“What, then, makes you often look north, as if expecting a storm of
enemies?” they pressed, greatly amazed and bewildered.
Another smile flashed across the king’s lips. “Well,” he began in an amused
tone, “I wait patiently until they”—he gestured north—“finally stir from their
dark lairs. Our peace is fleeting, brief. Soon new battles will blaze, and we must
be ready now! For we shall find no solace until the end of this world. Look!
Today the sun glows in a cloudless sky; tomorrow the torch of war will ignite in
the north, gray clouds will shroud the firmament, and the shadow of fear will fall
upon the people. Forget about today. The enemy comes soon. In his silence lurks
the roar of hunger, treacherous whispers, and a voice cursing us all. Any moment
now, the silence will shatter and a terrible clamor will rush toward us.” Here he
laughed, throwing everyone into confusion. “But,” he continued, “whenever I
gaze upon that silent distance where our enemies lurk, I feel like laughing. Don’t
hold it against me … for what’s wrong with penetrating an opponent’s
intentions? He can no longer surprise me with anything.”
So it was now. Even before the new king of the Faelirs was chosen, before
the sages of Emad Aran realized he was in truth an enemy of Elnarin, Eurandar
concentrated his forces in Erandea, sent scouts toward the northern borders, and
patiently awaited the enemy’s movement. Yet more than their silence, he was
troubled by the strange terror swelling in the south and the mysterious demeanor
of the Faelirs.
“I should turn my eyes in the opposite direction,” he said. “The blow may
come from the least expected quarter.”
Meanwhile, the king of Emad Aran raised ever grander, ever more
magnificent structures of nurit. Elated by his own accomplishments, he
presented further audacious plans for the use of this ore at one of the council
meetings. Those gathered listened with amazement to his remarkable
perorations. Some declared it the dictate of hidden genius. Others, however,
demanded he should swiftly bury the nurit deep in the earth. They recalled
ancient times, speaking of terrible illnesses that afflicted both humans and beasts
before the great winter, pleading, threatening, until at last, when all else failed,
they spoke of the King of Light. At those words, the ruler sprang from his
throne, as if racked by a tempest of rage, and fell to his knees. All were aghast.
The king’s flaming face gleamed menacingly in the shadow of the chamber; his
quivering, fevered lips whispered secret words. Then with a sudden jolt he was
on his feet, striding to the window. A murmur of discontent rippled through his
opponents, yet those who held him in favor quickly rebuked them with sharp
words—and arguments broke out. An unpleasant din filled the hall; the shadow
enveloping the Faelirs seemed to deepen, quelling the light that seeped in
through the window. Terror crouched at the entrance, its fangs bared, poised to
bite its prey; above, near the ceiling adorned with beautiful ornaments, invisible
shadows from the Mysterious World coiled and coalesced.
The Faelirs who had reproached the king, seeing their efforts were futile,
withdrew from the chamber. That very day, they were imprisoned in the
fortress’s abyss. The envoys of the Mysterious World rejoiced. The nurit mines,
meanwhile, grew and grew under the greedy eye of the king of Emad Aran.
It was then that the shadows of the Frontiers decided to exploit the disunity
in the land of the Faelirs and sent their spies to the south. For there, near the
Snowy Mountains in the fields of Eolion, a land of pristine expanses, glittering
with groves and oak woods, the king of Emad Aran was erecting the greatest
fortress—a stronghold meant to rise from the earth’s chasms and reach its spire
to the blue heights. Its foundations were laid on nurit rocks, deep in the
subterranean realm. The main shaft was set on them only after being intricately
crafted by the gnomes. After some time, the ominous tower stood tall, casting its
shadow over the sparkling lands around it. It was named Earthenmound. Terror
chilled the people, and animals fled in panic to safer lands.
The creatures of the Frontiers chose this fortress precisely because it was
the most majestic and magnificent. They believed that within its walls, they
would gather all their armies and arms before launching the final assault on the
dying Emad Aran. Although the Faelir ruler sought to reign alone and believed
he would wall himself off from the Frontiers, he failed to predict one thing—his
mind was already in the thrall of the creatures of darkness. The spies, content
with the building’s progress, lay hidden in the nearby mountains; they resolved
to wait until the fortress was complete before seizing it with a quiet assault.
Very strange times arrived. Mist often emerged from the Underworld, nurit
spirits roamed the mountains, and eerie sounds, like the beating of drums,
vibrated beneath the earth. Many fell into a deep sleep. Many simply vanished.
Mysterious glows flickered over Orthros and drifted across the sky.
Eurandar noticed the looming shadow of danger just in time. Heralds
brought him tidings of mysterious fortresses, of nurit mines, and of shadowy
figures lurking at the foot of the Snowy Mountains. They said that the ruler of
Emad Aran had fallen gravely ill, and the people, dismayed and left to fend for
themselves, lived in misery amidst the clamor of the Underworld’s labors,
cowering under the cruel eyes of mighty fortresses.
Soon the armies of the northern lands united into a single host. Resounding
horn blasts echoed from Erandea, Munanin, Erin, and Valantas. But the clamor
of the south suddenly died. Something akin to a fiery rumble lay lurking in the
maw of the underworld.
***
Elnarin arrived at the fortress of Emad Aran. Clad in a traveler’s garb, with a
wanderer’s staff in hand and a hood shrouding His face, He crossed the threshold
of the Great Gates. He ran His gaze across the empty corridors, halls, and
chambers. He sighed softly and walked into the shadows of the immense edifice.
He moved slowly forward, whispering something.
Suddenly He halted. A faint sound reached Him, so fragile, it nearly
vanished in the desolate stillness. The King of Light peered from behind the
nearest corner to His right—and there He saw a small child seated by the wall;
quiet sobs escaped its throat, and its eyes shone with tears. It did not notice the
stranger. Elnarin, without hesitation, approached the child and reached into His
breast pocket. A moment later He drew out a small stone, glowing with a golden
light.
The child noticed the stranger, wiped its eyes, and flushed. Astonished but
joyful, it glanced from the stone to Elnarin’s gentle face. Then the king took its
tiny hand; the child, shy at the gesture, hesitated but, encouraged by a nod,
grasped the glowing stone. Joy flickered in its eyes and began to shine through
glassy tears. A soft whisper of gratitude broke from its heart and flowed in a
gentle wave from its lips, which had until then been pressed tight with pain.
As the child darted deeper into the corridor, the king continued His journey.
The fortress of the Faelirs was empty and silent as a tomb. Cold emanated
from its massive walls, and shadows lay in abyssal halls and corridors. Before
Him, in the swirling distance, loomed the dark entrance to the dungeons. Elnarin
stepped slowly into that echoing abyss.
Soon, sighs and groans reached Him. He turned left at a branching of
tunnels, paused, slightly raised His hand, then moved on, His gaze fixed on the
walls. Darkness seemed to flee before His feet, pushed back by a delicate breeze,
retreating deeper into the tunnel, trembling at the sight of His figure cloaked in
light, behind whom flowed waves of unearthly radiance.
Not long afterwards, Elnarin reached the dungeons where the Faelirs were
imprisoned. Weariness etched their faces, but their eyes gleamed with unyielding
light. With joy, they greeted their lord, but barely had they left their cells when
He vanished from their sight. Bewildered but heartened, they made their way
toward the exit, and the gloom melted away before them as it glimpsed luminous
figures, light-footed, moving softly close behind, chanting a morning song
replete with melodic notes that shimmered in the air like wisps of silvery down.
***
There was an uproar in the underworld. The spies of the Northern Frontiers had
seized the Earthenmound, the most powerful stronghold of the king of Emad
Aran, raised in Eolion, and begun gathering hosts of allies in its impassable
depths. However, they did this in silence, so as not to arouse suspicion in the
cautious hearts of the northern rulers.
When they spotted some movement near Gardos—armor gleaming in the
mild aura of the day and great banners fluttering in the wind—they hid in the
chasms of the earth. The king of Emad Aran stood at the top of his fortress.
When he noticed the enemies and the great silhouette of Eurandar clad in shining
silver armor, he flared with anger and ordered his servants to prepare for battle.
But the envoys of the Frontiers, who could control his mind, defied this order.
They did not want any skirmishes—at least not now. The Faelir king, intoxicated
by the delusions that the spirits of nurit had woven in his mind, obeyed his
masters and returned to the capital, where he waited in concentration and anxiety
for further orders and secretly hoped that he would soon set out to face the
armies of the north and fight the battle he had long dreamed of.
Meanwhile, Eurandar waited for the enemy’s attack, expecting it to be
sudden and swift. But there was no indication that any hostile horde would come
from the south, especially since those lands had become desolate and barren, as
if a plague had wiped out all inhabitants. He gazed out with searching eyes
across the barren expanse, hoping to catch sight of even a single enemy banner
on the distant horizon. But the harder he strained to see, the thicker the mist
grew that lay along the far southern horizon. He resolved to wait three more days
at Gardos alongside his army.
Despite the shroud of uncertainty and chaos that had settled around him,
Eurandar did not fall prey to indecision but steeled himself against the rising tide
of doubt. He knew he might always fall if the enemy’s blow came from where he
least expected it. For this reason he never gave in to overconfidence, never
trusted that sense of certainty and satisfaction that victory over a foe leaves
burning in one’s soul. He looked deep within himself with careful vigilance,
checking any surge of reckless thoughts whenever he spotted a threat that
seemed harmless on the surface but proved dangerous beneath. His hope rested
in the stone he had received from Elnarin. The stone gave him strength, cleared
his mind, helped him endure life’s trials. But Elnarin Himself was his true
mainstay—the refuge he could lean on when exhaustion grew too heavy to bear,
the sanctuary where he could shelter from the hungry stares of the unbound
shadows from the Mysterious World, the wellspring that sustained him through
every hunger, the constant haven he clung to as his only refuge on life’s stormtossed
sea.
When three days had passed and no creature had appeared on the horizon,
Eurandar ordered a retreat. Thousands of troops hid between Gardos and the
Snowy Mountains. There, they were to wait for the enemy for another five days.
After five days of waiting, Eurandar returned to Erandea. However, he left
many watchers in the area of Gardos and the mountains.
Time passed, but nothing changed in the south. The watchers who, day by
day, gazed at the misty distance and the wastes could not shake the feeling that
in the south, where once the magnificent Emad Aran had flourished, now
remained no living soul. The barren land stretched beneath the sun, and the
heated air, unstirred by even the slightest breeze, caused nausea and dizziness.
Many a time the weary sentinels took refuge in the forest’s refreshing shade or
drank from the cold streams hidden in its depths.
Then the stunning news reached their ears—Eurandar had decided to
venture to the south, to Emad Aran, alone. At first they refused to believe it.
How could the king of Erandea, clad in the garb of a vagabond, truly traverse the
desolate lands of the south?
But when they saw their king resting on a stone at the edge of the wildwood
after a long and arduous journey, such was their awe that they barely contained
their surging tides of emotion. With gazes full of reverence, they watched their
king depart for the south.
Meanwhile, Eurandar, staff in hand, trod the pathless wastes. Sweat slicked
his face as the merciless sun blazed overhead and desolation spanned every side.
Silent hills, deep fissures, and withered trees watched him with suspicious eyes.
Why had he decided to venture alone to Emad Aran knowing that the
specters of the Frontiers had settled in the southern lands?
When the king of Erandea lay down one night exhausted from the toils of
the day, he fell into a strange dream. However, it was unlike any others he had
had before. A figure appeared before his eyes. At first its outline was indistinct,
its form shrouded in a gray mist, seeming to dissolve, to blur, losing its human
shape, but then suddenly, as if by a mere flick of the hand, it stilled the agitated
wisps around it and began to sharpen into clarity. From the exhalations emerged
a head, then massive shoulders, legs, and a torso. The figure became akin to a
gray shadow. Colors gradually infused its body, its face flushed, and its eyes
gleamed with a flicker of joy; he could see its lips moving slowly, speaking
words, and its entire body bearing the mark of Emad Aran.
But when Eurandar strained his gaze—for the figure began to remind him
of someone—a tempestuous misty coil suddenly enveloped it in shadow and it
vanished into the distance; only a vague outline remained, so faint that the
slightest gust might shatter it into a billowing sea of vapors. The king of Erandea
frowned, troubled, and decided to wait.
His heart beat with hope as a pale face slowly emerged from the grayness;
once more, sparks of eagerness flickered in its eyes. Eurandar beckoned it with
words of encouragement. And the figure took a step. It raised a hand in a gesture
of boundless joy; its kindled eyes, in which gleamed a frantic desire for life,
glittered like a lake’s mirror, gazing at some unknown point that Eurandar could
not see. Where was that point? The king of Erandea looked upward—and froze;
a dazzling light flashed into his face. He stepped back, seized by horror.
Bewildered and alarmed, he glanced at the figure. What had he seen? Nothing.
Where had it gone? After all, just a moment ago it had stood there, ready to
march, having taken its first step, so vibrant, so alive, and these clouds had no
power to engulf it. So Eurandar waited with a flicker of hope, not for an instant
taking his eyes off the blurred distance stretching out before him.
Every now and then, a human shape would appear not far from him,
straining desperately, writhing, struggling, and vanishing into the tendrils of
mist. A moment of silence and ominous anticipation followed. Eurandar
narrowed his eyes—indistinct outlines blackened somewhere in the distance. It
will come out! It will come out! The shadow cannot consume it!
The human shape seemed to battle against this gloomy fog, yearning for the
light shining above, crying out, begging for it, but another, this time the most
powerful, gray wave engulfed it and it was lost in the vapors. A grim silence fell.
Then a resonant voice rang out, reaching Eurandar from above like a gentle
whisper of the forest, and so soothed his weary heart, so cleansed his spirit of all
fears that a smile dawned on his lips, his eyes welled with tears, and his pale and
anxious face glowed like fire.
“Be calm.”
Eurandar, his heart trembling—for he feared the light above—lifted his
gaze. And there was Elnarin Himself, radiance pouring out behind Him,
outlining His form in purest gold. He was beautiful and magnificent, so filled
with love that all around Him shed its predatory appearance and the wisps of
smoke dispersed into the gray.
“This being is not lost,” Elnarin said. “It yet lives.”
“Not lost!” Eurandar whispered, a joyous tremor in his voice. “But where is
it, and why did that ominous mist consume it?”
“Have you not wondered who that figure was?” asked the King of Light.
He gestured downward. Eurandar, deeply perplexed, lowered his gaze. He
saw a white cloud, and his breath froze in his chest—the cloud was swelling.
Slowly, it began to rise, drifting to his feet. Halfway there, it had grown so vast
that a small unassuming wisp broke away from it, speeding upward as if
compelled by a secret spell of silence. Moments later, another wisp detached
from the cloud, then soared to follow the first. To Eurandar’s astonishment, more
cloudlets—a veritable swarm!—floated upward in a procession, like obedient
servants loyal to their master. Eventually the great cloud vanished, and in its
place, white tendrils foamed, swirling beneath his feet—silent, compact,
quivering like leaves swept by gusts of wind.
Then Elnarin’s voice resounded. “Arise and show your faces!”
The first wisp stepped from the line, then the second, the third, the fourth.
As Eurandar watched intently, seeing more clouds emerge from this white
multitude, those that had surfaced first took on human shapes. The king of
Erandea, greatly surprised, turned his gaze toward them, a gleam of awe in his
eyes. The first wisp transformed into a small person, a child with a serene face,
but bearing the expressive features of someone ancient, experienced, and wise.
The second, likewise. After a few moments, all the wisps looked at him with
eyes gleaming with joy, their faces radiant with youth, exuding such adoration
that a tear of emotion gleamed in Eurandar’s eye. The ruler of Erandea observed
them all with astonished eyes; what marvels were these? Clouds? People?
Understanding nothing, he shifted his gaze to Elnarin.
“Do not worry, Eurandar,” said the king. “These are your sons.”
Eurandar raised his eyebrows.
“These are the lands of the north and the south, which I entrust to your
care,” Elnarin continued. “The first, standing closest to you, is Erandea. You rule
over it. There is Erin and Munanin, and many others besides. You will be their
king; you will preserve them for me, let them grow, let them become mighty, let
them heed your words, which will become music to them. The shadow of nurit
and the Frontiers will threaten them, but I do not give them into your hands to be
enslaved by it. Be a father to them, a son, a brother. There, in the depths, the
figure you cared for has vanished—that is Emad Aran. The land that was to be
my envoy has begun to falter and fall into decline. The abyss of the Mysterious
World draws it in, those malignant vapors you see there. Go to its aid, for it
reached out its hands toward my light. It is too steeped in chaos to combat the
treacherous foe. You must hasten. Morhog has already seized the great fortress in
the south, built by the king of the Faelirs; in it he has gathered all his allies,
hidden his army and supplies. Emad Aran stands in flames. Go there alone in the
guise of a wanderer; tell its ruler you are a herald of the King of Light, that you
come for what belongs to Him, what He created and what He now wishes to
reclaim. Bid him to surrender the crown he usurped against my will to the new
successor. That successor comes from the common folk, from fertile, distant
lands where dwell people dear to my heart. He will sit on Emad Aran’s throne as
my servant. But he will become your subject, so that the Faelirs do not elevate
themselves above others. Then you will command the new king and the Faelirs
who remained faithful to me to depart for the north, for the fortress I have built.
Let the peoples of Emad Aran move to more fertile lands, to a country called
Nimelida, to the forest of Gardos. There they will build their homes, and you
will protect them as a shepherd. And now set out for the south at dawn on the
morrow, without bag or water, only with a staff and a cloak. When you reach
Emad Aran, you will find the man I will soon show you, and with him you will
go to the fortress to seize power from the arrogant and entrust it to the humble
servants. I will quench your thirst; I will guide you. No hostile weapon will harm
you; no spear will pierce your breast; behind you will march the hosts of the
Earadrins and Argolid. Trust in them.”
Eurandar fell to his knees, seized by dread. He, the ruler of Erandea, was to
be mightier than Emad Aran’s king—to wrest power from him?
“Lord! I cannot rule the entire eastern world!”
“You can,” Elnarin said. “I chose you.”
Eurandar, trembling, squinted his eyes. After a moment, he said softly,
“Please, Lord, seek someone more powerful who will do Your task as it should
be done. I am not strong or mighty. Without you, I will not endure.”
“I need no mighty one,” Elnarin declared with a smile. “I need the weak
and the frail. They will become my stars, which will illuminate the world. The
powerful I will deprive of strength and majesty, for they rule by their own will
and do not heed my inspiration. You are the least of them all, Eurandar, and so I
will make you my viceroy. Worry not; I will give you such strength that no
enemy banner will harm you. Your enemies will yield before you.”
Eurandar’s face brightened. After a few moments, he said with gratitude,
“Very well, my lord, I will do it.” And a new wave of power invigorated his soul.
“Go, Eurandar,” the king said gently. “The time has come.”
Then He vanished into light, and the entire expanse seemed to tremble.
Everything began to churn like a sea of murky clouds. Eurandar watched,
astonished, this tangled nothingness, which seemed enraged and agitated,
panting fiercely. Suddenly, however, he felt himself flying downward. A light
breeze lifted him on its fluffy wings and the vastness seemed to melt before his
eyes, fading into an all-pervading white, then unexpectedly burst apart. Before
the eyes of the king of Erandea appeared a face hidden in a cloud of steam,
young, fresh, regal, full of latent power. Eurandar knew it was the heir to the
throne of the Faelirs, that man of the people, a simple inhabitant of distant lands,
of whom Elnarin had spoken. All at once, a white light flashed. And Eurandar
found himself in his own chamber.
He blinked and looked out the window. It was already dawn. Without
waiting, he changed into a wanderer’s outfit.
The people gazed in awe at their sovereign as he walked through the city
streets, dressed in simple clothes that seemed to contrast with the dignity of his
station. His face glowed with radiant joy, bearing an expression of such genuine
simplicity and sincerity that adoration swelled in every heart that saw him.
That was how Eurandar departed from Erandea. The people’s eyes lingered
on him long after he’d passed. Even as he marched through the rustling verdure
beyond the gates, the city still hummed with elation. The Erandeans, in their
jubilation and wonder, offered their thanks to Elnarin for such a magnificent
king.
***
For two months Eurandar journeyed through the lands of the south. And though
weariness weighed on him, his thoughts were clear and calm. He walked over
sands, rocks, and hills clad in tawny blades of grass, dying in the stifling dust
haze. He sensed the end of his journey was near, for at night he saw stars in the
sky that gleamed only above Emad Aran.
Soon he reached that land where he was to meet the successor to the throne
of the Faelirs. He paused beside a row of tall pines and observed with curiosity a
figure bustling in the yard before a small wooden house. A soft rustling filled the
air as a gentle breeze crept across the ground, carrying from afar the echo of that
significant sound. The figure, bent over some glittering object, made a sweeping
motion—a sudden sharp clang pierced the air. Eurandar froze in an expectant
pose and a moment later he noticed a glint—something flashed blindingly,
something the man clasped in his hand. In the day’s glow shimmered a sword
blade, bright gleams sliding along its surface as if foretelling a long-awaited
change. The figure raised the weapon aloft, regarding it with a contented gaze
that seemed to say good-naturedly, “Work done!”, then laid it reverently on the
grass.
***
The king of Emad Aran sat heavy-hearted in his chamber. The anticipated battle
with Eurandar had never come to pass; the encroaching shadows of the Frontiers
had seized Earthenmound, his mightiest fortress. Worse still, the Faelirs he had
imprisoned in the dungeons had been freed—by whose hand, none knew. He
clenched his fists in powerless fury, pacing restlessly by the window.
All of Emad Aran, meanwhile, trembled with apprehension. The king’s
advisors gazed fearfully at the overcast sky, where strange shapes swirled across
the clouds—either swords or clenched fists, all aimed their way. What did they
signify? They puzzled over their meaning, sleepless through the night, struggling
to uncover the truth. Then, somewhere far off, a distant blaze erupted,
consuming a recently built tower. Ever-growing dread flared in their eyes.
And then came a greater tempest than any they could have expected. The
very gates of Emad Aran swung open of their own accord before two dignified
figures, who, heedless of the pike-bristling guards pressing around them, began
to stride calmly across the city’s courtyard, while all those gathered, the
multitude of townsfolk, busy with their daily affairs, moved aside as if
compelled by some secret power etched into their unyielding faces. When these
figures reached the palace, the gates leading to the summit of the citadel opened
by themselves, although they were barred from within and guarded by five
doorkeepers. Astonishment crept into the hearts of the people; they recoiled from
the newcomers, watching only as they climbed the stairs, heedless of the swarms
of guards, the threats of the bolder few, and even the fierce king himself, whose
name was feared more than fire. Having reached the citadel, the two strangers
took certain ancient fabrics and then went to the king’s chamber.
Outside and within the palace, a clamor arose. An ever-growing surging
throng poured into the corridors, flowing like frothing waves to the upper floors,
carried by gusts of astonishment mingled with curiosity. Suddenly its rush halted
—an incredible sight blocked its path. They saw their lord, enraged, roaring
ferociously. And then one of the figures, clad in a wanderer’s garb, raised his
staff. At that moment, the second figure, slenderer, taller, not as stout as the first
but young and brimming with youthful vigor, fell to one knee. Eurandar—for he
was indeed the one in the wanderer’s attire—seized the crown lying on the
throne of the king of Emad Aran and, with a solemn gesture, placed it on the
kneeling youth’s head. A moment later, his voice rang out.
“Behold the Lord of the South.”
Thrice uttered, the phrase echoed throughout the fortress, rousing even the
cold stones from their slumber. Then Eurandar added, “This is the king chosen
by Elnarin.”
And suddenly a joyous cry burst from the lips of those gathered. The people
felt free, as if iron shackles that had bound their legs had shattered like glass.
The scent of new faith caressed their nostrils, their faces expressing blissful
peace. Then, almost unwittingly, they shifted their gaze to the tyrant who knelt
by the throne, a grimace of rage twisting his face. Suddenly threats rained down.
It seemed as though the mob would seize the king and tear him to shreds. But
Eurandar rebuked them all with a single stern command. Silence fell and the
people came to their senses. Eurandar then banished the wicked lord of Emad
Aran, and from that day forth, he was never seen again.
The new king clothed himself in the royal garments taken from the citadel
and girded his waist with a sword—the very one he had forged in his own
courtyard. Delian, for such was the new king’s name, took his seat on the throne
and bade the crown be given to Eurandar. The people swayed with jubilation,
bearing him on their shoulders like a sacred relic, spilling out in abundant
streams from within the palace. Soon the courtyard teemed with courtiers.
Footsteps thudded everywhere and songs rose skyward; here a booming “Vivat”
echoed, there a bronze horn blared. High in the citadel, a young man paused and,
feeling a sudden burst of joy, began to ring the bell. And the sonorous, mighty,
and pure voice of the bell sent forth a cascade of tones into the world. Even as
the young man lay on the ground, panting and smiling and gazing up with tearful
eyes, the power-pulsing bell continued to sway in the air, its melody drifting
toward the heights of the north. And when the melody’s hue faded, yielding to
the mighty arm of silence, its echo soared aloft, darting forward, plunging into
forests, groves, and orchards to resound with joy in the skies, to echo for ages
until it is halted by the voice of the King of Light, who shall declare, “The end
has come.”
***
The strongholds of nurit newly raised by the proud ruler of Emad Aran, scattered
in the south and near the Snowy Mountains, had become the lairs of Morhog’s
servants. Shadows settled deep in the surrounding forests. An ominous and
deadly conflagration hung over the south; a restless gale howled through the
valleys, raging across the parched, barren fields where only stumps grew and
withered leaves rotted. Earthenmound—Morhog’s new fortress—blazed with a
thousand torches; the spirits of nurit dared to emerge from the abyssal depths of
the earth.
However, at the same time, a brighter spirit kindled in the hearts of people.
In the year 1000 of the Fourth Epoch, Second Eon, they departed from Emad
Aran, and Delian, led by Eurandar, guided them toward the wildlands of the
north. There, near Erilaenar, an untamed wilderness, they settled in the fortress
called Luangar, a place appointed to them by Elnarin. And Eurandar returned to
his kingdom, Erandea, now as the Steward of the North and overlord of all
nations. The last of the Faelirs served him faithfully. Delian sought his counsel in
matters of grave decisions. Eurandar, moreover, gifted him a golden harp—a
creation of Argolid—which granted him the power to tame beasts and teach
them human speech. The north, though previously wild and inaccessible, slowly
began to reveal its tender heart, hidden beneath a shell of savagery. A new era in
the world’s history dawned, bringing with it a fresh breath of rebirth and hope.
Chapter I
THE SEA SHADOW
The dark blue ribbon of the Emnur River swirled amidst the dormant hills and
vales of the Wildlands. As it flowed east, moistening the parched banks, it
carried with it a faintly outlined shape that after a while shone out of the
darkness—a ship.
It was too dark to tell if the ship was a large vessel returning to a nearby
port or an ordinary hulk plying the coastal waters of the Old Sea. One thing was
certain—the ship had a broken and tattered bowsprit and some damaged sails.
The masts stood in perfect order, motionless and alert, as if always ready to face
the cloudy ocean and its menacing waves. A little further off at the stern was an
aftercastle, small and squat, reminiscent of a crouching dwarf. Suddenly the
silence on deck was broken by a loud command.
“To the oars!” All the sleeping sailors left their berths and hammocks and
rushed below deck. Half the crew from the room beneath the forecastle grabbed
the oars and sat silently on the rowing benches. For a long time, deep silence
returned to the ship—only the steady breathing of the oarsmen could be heard.
The ship’s hull creaked and groaned, struggling to accelerate but finally
wringing out its last ounce of strength and gliding forward, driven by the soft
whispers of the sailors and the power of the oars. Hands worked; oars hit the
dark sapphire surface of the water. The wind, which had been mercilessly
whipping the river and the surrounding forests, unexpectedly calmed down. The
sailors, however, worked with grace and serenity, gently lifting the oars and
slowly plunging them back into the water. The work went on and on, but it was
not tedious or fruitless, for a small dot was already visible in front of the ship—
the pier to which it was heading.
With smiles on their faces, the sailors continued to struggle through the
shadowy waters of the silent river. Some began to sing songs, but they dared not
urge others to join in. They knew that silence was necessary while they worked.
With perseverance, they clutched the oars until they were told to stop.
Soon, much to their delight, they heard a familiar voice, full of sadness they
did not sense. “We’ve arrived!”
They slowly reduced their speed, relaxed their hands, and started to breathe
hard. After a few moments they put down their oars and patted each other on the
backs, happy to have reached their destination. On the upper deck, however, a
hustle and bustle started as the boatswain moved from mast to mast, herding
everyone into their cabins. He did this with typical pep, accidentally destroying
something with a blow of his powerful hand that fell with a tubular clatter. Then
he knocked over a deckhand—by accident, of course.
“All right, rats, go back to your hammocks at once. Now!”
***
As our story begins, the sailors have returned from a distant exploratory
expedition. Their objective was to find the most valuable resource on Earth,
called nurit, and to explore the Rocky Lowlands—dangerous, infamous waters
lying in the West Sea. There were stories of myriads of ships that had sailed
there and never returned. Adventurers who ventured there spoke of thousands of
shipwrecks floating among the rocks of the Rocky Lowlands. Until recently it
had been an unfathomable mystery, but after several expeditions, the danger of
these waters was discovered. It was the cyclical lowering of the sea level
between the rocks protruding from the water. As scholars had proved, this was
caused by the phases of the moon. As a result, the space between the closely
packed rocky islets decreased. A ship sailing under such conditions would get its
hull stuck on the rocky ridge that was expanding downward and would remain in
that position until the water level rose and a single wave pushed it into the abyss.
The ship mentioned in our story did not immediately venture into the Rocky
Lowlands. Only when the full moon came and the water level rose did the sailors
slowly navigate the lethal crevices. Along the way, they passed the scattered
remains of ships that had been destroyed by the treacherous conditions over
many years. Did they find the sought-after deposits of the precious resource
called nurit? They did, but their discovery brought them much misfortune.
The participants in this far-flung expedition to the Rocky Lowlands had no
doubt that they were venturing into a dangerous place. However, what they
encountered exceeded their greatest fears. They faced a mysterious force, far
more difficult to fight than any sea or land creature known from sailors’ tales.
This force followed them back to their homeland, including the Emnur River,
which was near the headquarters of the Sea Guild.
The expedition, which was not only aimed at exploring the Rocky
Lowlands but also finding the precious nurit ore, was a success. The resource
was found, and the sailors returned safely, but they brought a curse with them.
***
Twenty-two-year-old Enidor stood in the stern at the tiller. His right hand rested
on the hilt of his sword, as if expecting an attack from a hidden predator. His
anxious and fatigued face revealed his state of mind, expressing fear and
irritation, while his blue eyes showed deep sadness.
The young sailor knew that some nameless horror had been lurking nearby
for many weeks. Since they had set sail from the Rocky Lowlands with a few
barrels of precious nurit found among the menacing rocks, something
mysterious and invisible had come aboard the Nefelgar and struck fear into the
hearts of the brave crew.
The first eerie and disturbing sign of this presence was a change in the
weather. After four days of calm at sea, the sailors faced a violent storm and a
torrential downpour. However, the core peculiarity was the mysterious
phenomena that accompanied them. Pale and frightening faces appeared in the
churning sea, with the lightning-torn clouds arranged in strange shapes
reminiscent of multi-headed creatures. Amid the hiss of the wind blowing from
the north, dark voices full of pain and despair could be heard, sometimes so
clearly that the sailors lost their senses.
And then came the worst part—the storm subsided a little, but a strange
creature sailed toward them from the north, which was the direction of the
Rocky Lowlands. In the darkness of the night, no one could see anything, even
though dozens of oil lamps were burning together like a great torch. Everyone
looked overboard, desperately wondering what they were seeing, and remained
uncertain. The mysterious, nameless horror approached the ship, making low,
throaty noises from time to time. After a long wait, the sailors finally saw the
creature. To their eyes, it was the rickety outline of a shape ominously moving in
the darkness of the night. They could not tell if it was a sea serpent or perhaps a
stray cyclops or octopus. They just waited, staring anxiously into the restless
depths of the sea. The creature kept growing before their eyes until it finally
reached the ship itself. The entire crew froze. Someone whispered something
quietly, but everyone remained in a stupor as the mysterious, shadow-like
silhouette passed them, made soft murmuring sounds, and vanished into the
black bottom of the waves.
An all-pervading silence filled the air, and all the sailors had only one
question in their minds: What was it, that black, formless, barely visible shape?
Everyone was afraid, looking around from the forecastle, the stern, and
every possible angle, expecting that the creature might be hiding somewhere,
waiting for an opportune moment to attack. The higher-ranking sailors shouted
orders to track this “thing,” but the oarsmen cursed them to desist. They were
afraid that it was some sort of sea demon. The quartermaster took note of the
terrible phenomena and the unknown monstrous creature and asked the captain
to return to the Rocky Lowlands and abandon the precious nurit stones that they
had taken on board. The archers reacted with strange agitation to these requests,
accusing the others of being superstitious, unreasonably fearful, and childish.
Many in turn accused the captain of indecision.
A fierce quarrel soon broke out among the crew members, who had never
before acted against each other with such fervor and anger—or if they had, it
was rare. The quarrel led to an internal split that divided them into several
camps. Each camp had its own plan for how to proceed in the matter, sharing
with the others its assumptions about the inexplicable events.
This was how the appearance of the mysterious being in the Silent Waters
influenced them. No one thought to agree, and no one tried to stop the disturbing
outbursts of rage. Some sailors even refused to obey the captain, though there
was no reason not to. Sometimes they even mocked him. The rest, including
Enidor, who served as the expedition’s chronicler, boatswain Ledo, archer
Vedron, deckhand Muno, and first mate Snouty, stood by Captain Guadar’s side.
They too acted strangely and spoke harshly against the other sailors who wanted
to track down the sea demon at all costs. But, unlike them, they noticed that from
the moment the black creature disappeared from their sight, something strange
appeared in their thoughts: either a sudden anger that invaded them when
someone said something about these phenomena that had occurred during the
storm, or a dislike, even a strong antipathy, toward everyone. So they watched
their behavior with amazement, and even though they almost constantly attacked
the others and zealously defended the captain, they could not understand why
they felt so easily angered and why they were willing to almost be at each
other’s throats over such trivialities. They tried to control their anger somehow,
but their efforts were in vain. Fear, anxiety, and incomprehension remained in
their minds.
What had really happened aboard the Nefelgar? Why did the appearance of
the nameless creature cause such a stir and lead to discord?
Enidor asked himself these questions every day but could not find the
answers. Everything left him with a strange feeling of anxiety, especially the
behavior of the entire crew, including his own. How was it that he, a scholar,
hunter, tracker, consummate swordsman, and one of the bravest members of the
expedition, could no longer handle his temper but instead gave way to anxiety
and growing despair? After all, his courage had never left him, even at critical
moments. He was always on the lookout at the tiller, keeping a close eye on
approaching storms, and threw himself into various activities when the time was
right. He circled like an archangel among the masts, and his extraordinary brawn
allowed him to make efforts that even two strong sailors would not undertake.
While the ship painfully cracked in the rough sea, buffeted by strong gusts of
wind and battered by waves, and water poured on deck, making many tremble at
the thought of falling into the ocean’s abyss, he was the one with the nerve to
scold anyone who cowered in the corner in a fit of fear. Although he was only a
ship’s chronicler, performing the most menial services, he had often proved
himself with such bravery that the most daring men on board had burned with
shame.
But now he was the one feeling ashamed, as he did not know how to deal
with his own fear. As he recalled the stages of the journey back from the Rocky
Lowlands to the Emnur River, he sank deeper and deeper into sadness.
Enidor had already stopped thinking about the strange creature they had
encountered on the Silent Waters, which had caused confusion on board, and
instead shifted his thoughts to the Sea of Carnage. There, they had had more
trouble with the Sea Peoples than with unexplained phenomena, but that did not
mean they were not bothered by them.
One day, while he was taking notes in his cabin, he was struck by the
fleeting thought that the crew was at peace, and the mutinies and quarrels had
subsided. No sooner had he taken this for granted than he noticed the serene sky
suddenly darken into gray, jagged clouds, and somewhere in the distance, the
anxious cries of seagulls sounded as if announcing the arrival of some dark
horror. The young chronicler ran out onto the deck and leaned against the
bulwarks, gazing out into the darkening sea. Meanwhile, the sailors prepared to
row, while Captain Guadar stood near the mainmast, giving orders to the seamen
and the boatswain.
Then, both Enidor and the captain froze, gazing into the misty distance.
Before their eyes, a shadow of some kind, shapeless and dark, appeared. It
blackened like a bubbling broth, gliding through the water like a poisonous stain.
Surprisingly, it did not approach the ship; about two miles away it suddenly
turned and … vanished. This was enough to make the young chronicler and the
captain flee to the forecastle. And there they waited, fearing the worst. They
were certain the sailors would start another argument, but inexplicably everyone
remained calm and rowed in unison, as if they had not noticed the mysterious
creature at all.
The outburst of anger came at the most unexpected moment. It happened as
the Nefelgar sailed toward the island of Nuraldin, which was inhabited by
shepherds and nomads. The islanders welcomed them hospitably, providing food
and wine for the journey ahead. However, when the crew set out in their jollyboats,
these people began to behave strangely. Suddenly their faces changed;
gentleness gave way to malice, and anger blazed in their eyes, as if a demon had
entered them. After a while, a group of fierce Balgaurs leapt out of the coastal
forests, curved scimitars and bows in hands. The Balgaurs were the most
dangerous nomads of the east, considered half man, half beast, for their skin was
covered with poisonous thorns. Before the sailors had even realized what was
happening, wheezing arrows were flying toward them. Although no one was
injured, the crew immediately boarded their jolly-boats and headed back to the
ship. The Balgaurs did start to chase them on their black longships and
dromonds, but the pursuit ended in a brief exchange of shots from ballistae and
bows, after which they turned back.
But once again, the sailors on the Nefelgar were divided. Some accused
others of making the wrong decision by stopping on the island, while others
wanted to track down the monster nomads and some just wanted to sail home.
The disagreement even led to a fight, but fortunately only one man, the archer
Vedron, was injured. The captain reprimanded the sailors, causing them to
scatter. However, for a long time, a spark of mutiny and anger smoldered in their
minds.
Enidor, on the other hand, sank deeper and deeper into despair. At night he
was overcome by an inexplicable fear, while during the day the young sailor
gazed anxiously across the empty ocean, afraid of the strange creature. Worse
still were the various ghosts and phantoms that appeared on the waves and the
cold wind that seemed to whisper unintelligible, ominous words.
Enidor clearly felt that something awful was happening to him, but he could
do nothing about it. He had been toughened up by distant expeditions and the
wielding of various weapons, which he had proven more than once in sea battles
or skirmishes with pirates and slave traders. However, he could not fight the
demonic forces from another world that lurked in the distant seas and about
which he had heard in old sagas and legends. To fight the invisible creatures of
the Underworld or the Mysterious Land, who could take on different shapes, one
needed a weapon of the most powerful kind—a weapon that was not at all like a
sword or an enchanted amulet. A weapon called Eithua.
No one really knew what Eithua was, but according to legends many in the
world knew how to use this weapon and could perform amazing miracles with it.
They said that it was available to anyone who wished to obtain it and that one
should seek it out in the Realm of Spirits. They also spoke of the One who had
made it and who could give it to people, as no one could find or craft such a
weapon without the help of the King of Light. However, many said that this king
was somewhere far from the eastern lands, in inaccessible waters supposedly
covered with eternal ice.
Enidor sometimes sighed at the thought of this wondrous weapon as he
sailed back, but he had no idea how to find it. Despair consumed him more and
more, absorbing good and joyful thoughts. It resembled an untamed phantom
that haunted both during the light of day and the darkness of night. The young
chronicler sometimes wondered if it was not the work of that terrible sea demon
that had appeared in the Silent Waters. But what was it? Where did it come from,
and how could its dark power be fought? The chronicler could find no answers
to these questions.
Though the mysterious creature never reappeared, Enidor still felt its
ominous influence. And while the following days were sunny and faces no
longer appeared in the water, the calm was disturbed by other malevolent signs
and symbols in the sky and sea during both violent storms and calm seas. These
only made Enidor more and more anxious.
As the ship finally sailed into the Old Sea and the sailors felt the native
breeze on their faces, the young chronicler began to think increasingly about the
family he had left behind in his homeland of Valantas when he set sail for the
Rocky Lowlands. What if the beast found him there, in his family home on the
hill, and began to torment his father-in-law, his brother-in-law, and his beloved
wife? He shuddered at the thought.
He sought relief in the ship’s log, where he recorded the entire journey to
the Rocky Lowlands. He wrote down everything he knew about these
treacherous waters, the most important events of the expedition, and his own
experiences and adventures. He described the strange creature, the phenomena,
and the crew. He never thought of revealing any of this to anyone, as he was
afraid of the reactions of the sailors, which ranged from unison and friendly
cooperation to outbursts of rage, sometimes accompanied by fights and quarrels.
Therefore he made meticulous notes of the stages of his voyage, and when he
left his cabin, he hid his diary deep under the bed so that anyone who looked
there would mistake it for an ordinary book.
After a while, however, Enidor realized that writing in the ship’s log was
not helping him forget his unpleasant experiences and the strange creature. Soon
enough, strange, ominous nightmares began to haunt him during the long nights.
Once, in a sudden burst of anger and despair, he threw the diary into a corner of
the cabin. He already felt caught in a trap from which there was no escape. He
wandered the deck day and night, rarely talking to anyone and avoiding the other
sailors, who wondered why he had become such a hermit and no longer
practiced swordplay with them as before. Enidor had become distrustful of
everyone except Vedron (whom he considered his best friend), boatswain Ledo,
and Captain Guadar. He spurned everyone else and hid in his cabin on the
pretext of working on the expedition report. In fact, he lay on his bed for hours,
tormented by dark thoughts.
But that was not the worst of it. What the young sailor found most
intolerable was the company of a dark figure who usually appeared on deck at
night when he sat alone in the stern at the tiller during the night watch. When it
first appeared, he was overwhelmed by fear, almost panic. He was shaking all
over and began to stare at the strange human form, which looked more like a
phantom than a living person standing near the mainmast, quite close to the
gangway.
What could it be? He found no answer. Whatever it was, it never left him,
following his every step like a shadow. Enidor could barely contain his fear. He
saw that the figure always had its head down and stood still. Its face disappeared
in the darkness, as did the rest of its body, leaving only a dark silhouette and an
unpleasant chill. Enidor did not know what to do. The dark figure gave him no
peace and, worst of all, it came closer with every day that passed.
Finally, one evening during his watch, a thought suddenly came to him that
put him in a better mood and filled him with encouragement. What if he shared
his problems with the archer Vedron or the boatswain Ledo?
Vedron! I’ll go and tell him all about it, he thought excitedly. Vedron always
gives the impression of being a person who believes in various phantoms and
nightmares. Once he even mentioned that this creature also had a bad influence
on him.
Enidor ran out of the stern cabin and headed for the forecastle, where the
archer slept. He had not even managed to close the door before the mysterious
figure appeared again. Enidor stiffened and clenched his hands tightly on the
door handle. A choked cry came from his mouth. He wanted to run, but he could
not. His legs seemed to grow into the floor. The figure before him no longer
appeared as a distant shadow but as a distinct person, just like all the others, only
much more terrifying. It had dark eyes, bony cheeks, and a terrible coldness
about it. Enidor saw it only for a moment, as he lost consciousness in an instant.
Revived by the sailors, he recovered in his cabin, but the event had sunk so
deeply into his memory that he could not shake off the panic that gripped him
more and more. The consolations of his friends were of no avail. They thought
he had fainted due to a strange illness that had been plaguing him for many
weeks. Almost everyone assumed it was just exhaustion caused by the hardships
of the expedition. Enidor, weakened by the incident, did not have the courage to
tell anyone the truth. He looked ahead to the night with trepidation, not knowing
what would happen when the figure reappeared and not wanting to find out.
He began to seek comfort in family memories, spending hours thinking
about his wife’s calm, soothing voice, his brother-in-law’s constant flow of
jokes, and his father-in-law’s love of conversation. However, the sense of
solitude had taken a toll on him. Fear returned with redoubled force, and despair
suppressed even the strongest stirrings of joy. Enidor continued to resist, but
eventually he realized he could not fight the dark presence alone. He needed help
but did not know whom he could turn to or trust. Who could protect him from
this strange figure that had appeared, pale, gloomy, and frightening, right next to
him? He shuddered with fear and wonder, not sure what to do. After all, this
despair would eventually lead him to …
He sprang from his berth like a raging storm. For the rest of the day, he
scribbled madly in his journal just to keep his mind occupied and forget all the
bad things. Surprisingly, the dark figure did not appear that evening or during the
night. Enidor tried to push away all the questions that troubled him and focused
all his attention on his writing.
When the ship sailed at noon the next day into the Meanderland, a sort of
borderland between the Emnur River and the Old Sea, the young chronicler was
relieved to see the familiar Wildlands. He imagined his family and held their
memory close to his mind for a long time, repeating to himself that he would
soon cross the doorstep of the house on the hill. This thought kept his spirits up
and brought him a sense of refreshing joy.
Around three o’clock the following day, Enidor watched the brightening
sky with elation, gazing intently at the lands he had last seen three years ago. He
now felt at peace. His despair seemed to have faded, his fears diminished, and
the unbearable phantoms, ghosts and dark spirits that had once tormented him
were gone. He once again felt an unbroken eagerness to act and move forward.
He also spoke more willingly to the crew members, for they too had already
forgotten the terrible events of their return journey.
Soon Enidor felt strong enough to return to his old activities. He practiced
sword fighting with some of the sailors, kept his diary more carefully, analyzed
everything he wrote about the Rocky Lowlands, characterized the raw material
of nurit they had found there, and talked a lot with either the captain or his best
friend, Vedron. If Vedron was busy, he would go to Ledo, the cheerful and hearty
boatswain, with whom he sang popular sea shanties.
The expectation of returning home filled Enidor with so much contentment
that he dismissed all unfounded fears and looked confidently at the lands around
him. He began to throb with exuberance again, and daring thoughts swirled in
his head. The sailors noticed the change in the formerly quiet youth and were
soon seized by a similar eagerness. As they sang happy songs and walked around
with beaming faces, even the captain, who was still sad, eventually succumbed
to their mood. Everything was back to normal, just as it had been before the
voyage to the Rocky Lowlands.
Enidor, however, was almost crazy with excitement. He worked even
harder, assisting even the strongest ones with handling the precious goods they
had found, maintaining records, standing night watch with great pleasure, and
always bustling around the ship in the morning, whistling like a bird. Everyone
looked at him with admiration, amazed at how quickly he had recovered, and
wondered where he got so much strength with so little rest. They did not even
know what this hunter was capable of! In those moments, Enidor showed
himself to be one in the true sense of the word. From an early age, he had been
prepared for life in the Wilderness. Spending more time with his father in the
nearby forests than at home, he had learned to shoot with a bow at the age of ten
and wield a sword just two years later. He always hunted alone and often went
deep into the mountain backwoods. He had spent many nights sleeping under the
trees and feeding on the game he had hunted. Through his years of wandering,
he soon became second to none in sword fighting, and although he was not an
exceptional bowman, he never missed a shot while hunting. He could move as
quietly as a cat and was perfect at covering his tracks.
Over time, Enidor became so familiar with the area within a thirty-mile
radius that he began to keep a diary in which he described in detail every wild
bush and mountain barranca. He had a passion for science from an early age. At
home, he often flipped through thick volumes and weighty folios; even though
he could not yet read, he was clearly interested in the books themselves. His
father then took him to one of the village bards, who taught the young boy
writing, reading, the Letuelian language, which was commonly spoken by the
Old People of the eastern world, geography, and cartography.
Enidor was also interested in overseas expeditions and ships. When a
plague hit his homeland and the mines of pallard, the hardest metal in the land,
were abandoned, the inhabitants faced poverty and starvation. With the nearest
villages and towns too far away to provide food and farming not enough to
sustain the entire family, Enidor decided to travel to the Rocky Lowlands to aid
his ailing father-in-law, younger brother-in-law, and wife. A messenger from the
Sea Guild of Agramant came to the village searching for educated people who
could keep a ship’s log and record observations about obscure lands and waters.
The young hunter volunteered, feeling that he had the best chance to seize the
opportunity and obtain valuable stones. Since there were hardly any scholars in
the area except a few local bards, the representatives of the Sea Guild of
Agramant welcomed him with open arms. Before leaving, Enidor hunted a lot of
game and bought a cow for his family. Although they had a supply of precious
stones that would last for quite some time, the young hunter wanted to get more,
especially since an unusual opportunity had come his way—he was selected as a
crew member and allowed to participate in a sea expedition to the unknown.
If Southern Valantas had been more hospitable (Enidor lived in Northern
Valantas), he might have sought employment there. However, the land was ruled
by mysterious beings believed to be gods and led by the most powerful among
them, known as the Nameless. The young tracker preferred to keep his distance
from them. He knew little about them, since Southern Valantas was entirely
isolated from the other lands of the eastern world.
This was how a young hunter, a gifted chronicler, and a great swordsman
arrived at the ship of Nefelgar on the first day of March in the year 1319 of the
Fourth Epoch, Second Eon.
He now recalled these events with unimaginable fervor as he watched the
familiar lands from the deck of the Nefelgar. He could no longer wait to see the
port. He looked south, north, east, west and ground his teeth at the prospect of
the next three days that must pass before he could set foot on his beloved
homeland that he had nestled into before leaving on his expedition.
As he did so, Enidor gloated over the valuable stones he had obtained
during the voyage and envisioned his future life in his village of Mervan. So
many plans, so many ideas, so many visions were in this young man’s mind! He
trembled with excitement at the thought of returning home. There he would find
the peace he longed for. No despair, strange phenomena or gloomy phantoms
would haunt him. He quickly forgot about the mysterious creature of the Silent
Waters and all the misfortunes that had befallen him on his return voyage. Only
vague memories of unpleasant events remained, but he dispelled them with
remarkable ease and courage.
However, along with the desperate thoughts departed the desire for Eithua
—the extraordinary weapon against the evil forces of the Underworld that he had
begun to seek soon after the terrible events on the Silent Waters. He no longer
thought of it. The vision of returning home and the everyday activities on the
ship captured his attention entirely.
Vain courage and arrogance reawakened in him, and he felt strong and
confident. On numerous occasions, as he climbed high up on the yard, an
unexpected surge of self-satisfaction flooded him, causing him to threaten with
his fists the sky, the wild lands, and any mischievous creatures that would dare to
harm his family.
His friend Vedron took it with a grain of salt; he did not hide his displeasure
and sometimes chastised the bold tracker. Enidor often vowed to improve
himself, but he was never true to his word and went round the ship like a
peacock, sometimes even challenging someone to a duel. Of course, no one
doubted who would win, but the mere sight of the “performance” brought great
joy, and almost everyone crowded the deck to witness the clash of swords. Only
the captain’s appearance would disperse the sailors.
Meanwhile, Enidor continued to gambol around, avoiding thoughts of the
dark creature, the mysterious figure, and the ominous ghosts. He believed that he
had overcome his despair and resisted the influence of the demon that had
wreaked havoc on the ship.
One evening, he sat quietly in his cabin and began to organize his notes on
the raw material from the Rocky Lowlands. As time approached for his watch,
he eagerly threw his journal aside and made his way over to the forecastle,
where almost the entire crew was asleep. Hurriedly he muttered something to
them and ran out on deck. The ship was just approaching the Lonely Cape, but
with the wind so light and the river current so slow (they were on a plain where
the river barely moved), the sailors had to use oars. Upon the captain’s
command, they quickly abandoned their berths and hammocks and rushed below
deck.
The young chronicler sat in the stern at the tiller and watched with delight
as the plains passed before his eyes. The murmur of water caressed his ears, and
his eyes rejoiced at the beautiful sight of the land glittering in the silver light of
the moon. However, something strange happened. A fox lurking near the shore
sensed some unknown danger and quickly fled into the depths of a nearby grove.
A few garganeys instantly took flight, and the wind blew restlessly in a southerly
direction. Mysterious groans sounded nearby, soft and distant but swollen with
terror. Dark faces flashed across the river.
Enidor turned pale with fear, and a muffled cry escaped his throat as he
sensed an intense feeling of despair and rage emanating from someone close. He
heard the howling of the wind and saw several faces in the foaming water.
Although it lasted only a moment, it was enough to cause the tough and boastful
sailor to regress into a terrified little man. He forgot all about his strength and,
paralyzed with fear, clung to the starboard bulwark with his entire body. Enidor
could sense the same sinister presence they had encountered on the Silent Waters
drawing closer to him, and it appeared to be waiting … He swallowed nervously.
Will it kill me? Trying to shake off his fear, he gripped the hilt of his sword and
fingered the small knife strapped to his belt.
A sudden ironic question entered Enidor’s mind like a bolt of lightning,
completely disorienting him. Who am I trying to fight?
He felt surrounded by a monstrous ooze that seemed to envelop and
suffocate him from within. His whole body trembled and he struggled to breathe.
Eventually he decided to wait out the unexpected attack, convinced that the dark
creature was lurking just behind him, its sinister and hateful thoughts trailing
him like a cold breeze down his neck.
Meanwhile, Captain Guadar, who was positioned over the hatch near the
mainmast, was also trembling. He shouted to the sailors “We’ve arrived!” and,
ignoring the terrified chronicler, locked himself in his cabin.
After a few moments of intense waiting, Enidor found the courage to move
again. He sat back down at the tiller and surveyed the deck and the lands
surrounding the ship. Then he gulped. He saw no black shape lurking nearby, nor
the figure that had haunted him on the return journey. The knot in his chest
loosened, and with shaky steps he approached the starboard bulwark, leaned
against it with both hands, and let his thoughts drift back to the events of the
return voyage, his heart heavy with despair.
Chapter II
FALL OF THE FIGHTER
As Enidor gazed up at the dark sky, a meteor flashed across it and quickly
vanished. Far beyond the dark hills on the horizon, something flickered again
and again like an ominous fire. It could have been a thunderstorm, because the
strange lights resembled lightning, followed by a sound that resonated in the
stillness of the night akin to violent thunder. The eerie event disturbed the
tranquility of the night sky, even though it was hundreds of miles away, leaving
Enidor both curious and fearful.
The young sailor was not indifferent to the happenings around him.
Whenever he ceased thinking about his past experiences, he turned to Mother
Nature for comfort. But she did not help in the slightest, and he knew it, but
there was no one else he could turn to. The entire crew, including his best friend,
had already drifted off to sleep. The captain did not look his way when the dark
creature appeared on board. And as for his family … they were far, far away and
unable to comfort him in any way. The thought only deepened Enidor’s anguish
and despair. Who could he seek help from in such uncertain circumstances? He
was alone amidst the land that lay shrouded in the deep shadows of the night.
So he gazed upon the contorted branches of centuries-old trees at a
distance, the heather clumps fused into one and the cloudy sky resembling an
icon with blue stars gathered around a silver moon. He stared and stared, but no
comfort came to him. Instead the feeling of loneliness and fear intensified. After
a while, he caught a glimpse of a lightning bolt on the fog-laden horizon,
followed instantly by the distant rumble of an approaching thunderstorm. For
several long moments he was focused on the dark horizon line, silent and with
all his senses numbed. At first glance he appeared like an inanimate silhouette
observing something with apparent interest and rigid patience, yet almost
animated. But on closer inspection, it lacked a soul. Enidor stood motionless,
consumed by despair; if his comrades could have seen him, they would have
sworn he was a statue grown lifeless in the dark. Nonetheless, he was unaware of
his appearance. He was too preoccupied with the dark thoughts surrounding him.
He gazed at the distant storm, at the moon, at the water in the river, and though a
twinkle of interest mixed with trepidation sparked in his mind, it was snuffed out
like a candle by the specter of fear, which plagued him relentlessly. Untamed and
hostile nature proved to be of no use to him, as he realized that it only increased
his fear.
Weary from staring at the storm in the distance, Enidor lowered his gaze
and slumped in despair. For the first time in his life, he found himself caught in a
trap with no escape. No place could save him from the invisible beast that had
appeared on the deck moments ago, ready to consume him. Though the creature
had withdrawn for a while, Enidor knew it would return soon, and there was no
way he could defend himself against such an evil entity from another world. He
bitterly recollected his boasting about how he had defeated it on his own, how he
had flaunted his success around the ship with glowing eyes, how he had defied
all the powers of heaven and Earth. And in the end, he had failed miserably. The
dark creature had vanished for a while, but it could return twice as fierce.
I underestimated that thing and it got the better of me, Enidor thought
bitterly. Earlier, the monster showed up and then disappeared, and I knew it
would return to the ship soon. But this time it caught me off guard. It must be
lurking somewhere, waiting to strike again and devour me.
At this thought, Enidor trembled with fear, and his face grew even more
frightened. He looked up reflexively, hoping for some kind of help, but the night
sky only darkened further with the influx of black clouds, leaving him disgusted.
Enidor sighed—it was getting late in the evening, and darkness was
deepening. The flow of the Emnur River had slowed down, and the water
slithered soundlessly into the Wildlands. He was surprised at the sudden fatigue
he felt at this hour. He used to be able to sit at the tiller all night with short
breaks for half-sleep. Now even the sound of the alarm bell would not be enough
to wake him. The sword at his waist felt heavier than ever. He would take it with
him to keep watch at night, never fully confident that all was safe. Life had
taught him well to remain watchful and alert at all times. Yet the last encounter
had left him feeling deceived and defeated. He had let his guard down, and the
nameless monster from the Silent Waters had taken advantage of his
complacency.
Cunning beast, he thought with disgust, gazing at the tranquil river.
Suddenly he trembled as he realized that deep and mysterious silence had
engulfed the atmosphere. Nothing moved around him—no animals on the
riverbank, no rustling of bushes—it was just the emptiness of the wilderness and
the eerie silence that unnerved him to the core. Enidor scratched his chin and
surveyed the land. He now felt a strange aversion to it, it seemed completely
unfamiliar and unpleasant. Before, it had possessed an intangible beauty that
captured his attention. But now it flickered in the darkness of the night like the
spectral outline of some nightmarish unknown world. He sighed deeply and
gazed into the dark forecastle before eventually dozing off into a half-sleep.
He slumbered for an hour or two, but upon awakening, he did not feel any
better. He had the impression of dreaming something vague, as if far away, but
he could not remember anything about the dream. There were only fuzzy flashes
of unfamiliar places and situations that made no sense at all. Annoyed, he rubbed
his eyes and scanned his surroundings wearily. The darkness blended with the
bleak contours of the landscape, while the dim moonlight flickered in the sky
like an ominous phantom.
What’s going on here? he wondered in fear and amazement. He was
surprised that it took him so long to see anything at all. Previously, all he needed
to do was get up and everything would be visible in its full glory—a landscape
with detailed spots, a road leading to a visible destination, and a forest with
clearings. His sight never failed him.
Enidor shook his head in disgust, appalled by this unexpected sign of
weakness. Finally he sat down on the ground and leaned against the bulwarks,
deciding to wait. At least he had learned one lesson from his last adventure—to
be relentlessly vigilant. He was not certain when the creature would reappear on
board, but the mere knowledge that such a thing could happen aroused his innate
caution and compelled him to be a vigilant sentinel.
All right, but what happens when the bogeyman returns? Enidor bit his lip.
After all, he had no idea how to protect himself against a disembodied demon
from a mysterious world who could appear and disappear, attacking when least
anticipated. He cursed under his breath and clutched the hilt of his sword.
I haven’t been able to deal with this invisible monster yet. I’m too weak,
while he’s too powerful. He doesn’t attack from the outside but from within. I
only have a sword and a knife, while he has fear and anger. Whatever I do, I’ll
always lose, the young sailor thought bitterly, nervously tapping his thumb on
the boards.
Seek help! whispered a voice somewhere deep inside him.
Enidor furrowed his brow and pondered for a moment. Seek help?
Absolutely. But from whom? He had asked for help more than once.
Nobody can understand me, let alone help me, because they are as weak as
I am. Does Vedron have any advice for me? Or our captain, Guadar? Boatswain
Ledo, perhaps? They didn’t even know what had attacked them. The world? The
world is wild and cruel. What is left for me? A man has no chance against
something like this beast of the Silent Waters!
As he looked around, he desperately searched for a friendly smile or the
presence of another human being but saw only impenetrable and gloomy
darkness. What distressed him most at that moment was the horrible emptiness
of the deck, which appeared like a sinister passage leading straight into the abyss
of sadness and despair. He looked away in disgust, and when he was unable to
find a good point to rest his gaze on, he closed his eyes. Now all he could see
was darkness. He wanted so badly to get some assistance from someone, some
help that would permanently ward off the strange creature. He longed to escape
the emptiness that engulfed him from all directions …
He grabbed his head and moaned softly.
You are all alone. He heard a dark voice in his head.
Enidor grimaced even more, realizing he was indeed alone and trapped.
Even though he had family in Mervan, he knew he could not get there in time
before the dark creature attacked him again.
Panic began to rise within him, and desperate thoughts drained the last of
his strength. He felt helpless and apathetic.
I have to do something, he thought feverishly, but no good ideas came to
him.
Eithua! He suddenly heard in his head.
The young tracker twitched as if he had been struck dumb. After all, he had
been thinking about it for almost three months. He had first encountered the
word in some of Captain Guadar’s books and learned that it was a weapon more
powerful than any filth from the Mysterious Land or the Underworld. And he
suddenly realized that he had forgotten it for a while after he had found peace
from the phantoms and creatures that haunted him, and had come to the
conclusion that he did not need it. At that moment, he realized his own blindness
—but was it too late? Enidor pondered for a moment. It was true. He had been so
confident that he had completely disregarded the notion of Eithua. But did that
mean he could not resume his search? Now that he truly needed help, did he not
have the right to seek it again?
For a brief moment he was overwhelmed with doubt, but he quickly
overcame it. Yes, he could still search for it. But where to start? Where to take
those first few steps? The books he had read did not provide much information
on the subject. All they contained was the knowledge that Eithua possessed
extraordinary power and that the search should begin by looking within oneself.
At that time, Enidor did not truly understand the meaning of these words. In fact,
the only thought that kept him moving forward on his way back was the hope
that he might find something like Eithua—something that could destroy
anything, even the world’s most dangerous demons.
What good is it to know that Eithua exists and that you have a chance to
acquire it if you don’t even know where to look or how to start? Another voice
spoke unexpectedly. Enidor hesitated for a moment. It’s true, he admitted to
himself in surprise. But instead of comforting him, the voice plunged him deeper
into sadness.
Eithua is indeed a weapon, but only for those who know how to find it. And
you don’t know! added the voice.
Enidor hung his head, feeling as though his hope for salvation had been
taken away from him.
How much longer can I last like this? How can I face such desperation?
What’s the point of Eithua if it’s inaccessible and I will perish before I can even
find it? he exclaimed in his thoughts and wept softly.
At that moment, he opened his eyes and felt burning tears flowing down his
cheeks. He no longer wished to suppress the excruciating pain inside him. He
knew that death was the only thing waiting for him at the hands of this monster
that had tormented him for the past month.
But maybe … maybe there is another solution?
Enidor suddenly froze, surprised by this unexpected thought. Perhaps he
should put an end to this torture himself? All he had to do was look overboard.
The water in the river was deep enough. He could finally free himself from this
nightmare, escape the nameless creature! He was going to be defeated anyway,
and sooner or later this beast would take him before he could find Eithua. There
was nothing else to do. Better to die than to be devoured by a sea demon.
Although he had already made up his mind, he felt a sudden stab of fear,
and after a while an immense wave of sadness washed over him. He would never
see his father-in-law and brother-in-law again, nor his wife. An almost
unbearable pain swept over Enidor with such force that he felt as if his chest
would rip open at any moment. It did not, however, but instead it continued to
smolder, fueled by the vivid memories of his childhood. But every time the
young sailor tried to put thoughts of his family aside, the pain seemed to burst
into flames and wound him mercilessly. What was he going to do?
Just take the plunge and let it all go once and for all! A harsh and
emotionless voice from deep within suddenly boomed like a threatening
command and finally convinced him to act. It was an act he still quivered at,
since, being human, he feared death. However, his determination leaned toward
the logical reasoning and, despite his fears, he agreed to the solution.
After making the decision, Enidor felt all his fears depart from him.
Stunned by this sudden change, he looked overboard and, after a moment,
approached one of the barrels containing several lumps of the precious nurit. He
selected the heaviest one and quietly returned to his seat. He looked around
carefully, making sure no one was on board, and then sat astride the edge.
Focusing on the stone, he slowly closed his eyes and leaned over a bit. A few
seconds more and he would be in the frigid river! One second—his heart was
pounding like a drum—another second—his body inched downward …
He suddenly jolted as if something had stabbed him. What is happening?
He felt as though he was gripping the bulwarks against his will with no desire to
release them. He murmured something under his breath. He should let go and it
would all be over; he had nothing left to return to. All memories of his past life
had vanished. Instead of emotions, only indifference remained. If he had opened
his eyes at that moment, he would have seen the calm and still surface of the
water patiently waiting for him. However, he did not open his eyes.
He quickly made sure he had the stone in his other hand, and his fingers
slowly began to relax one by one. A last thought flickered through his mind: Let
go!
He let go.
As he fell gently downward, he felt a coldness touch his face; an unknown
feeling burned within him. Then, with incredible ease, he floated in the air.
Startled, he opened his eyes and froze. What is going on? To his amazement, he
saw the shimmering water beneath him, the ship’s hull beside him, the meadows
and groves of the river to his right, and something … above him? Something
holding his ankle and standing as if in the air. I’m hanging above the water! This
strange and difficult-to-accept fact left Enidor, the would-be suicide,
dumbfounded. He squinted his eyes and tried to inspect what was holding his
ankle, but he could see nothing. After a while he blinked, blinked again and
again …
Suddenly he was blinded by an unfamiliar dazzling light—not moonlight or
sunlight but a radiance more piercing than any he had ever seen. He waited a few
moments, disoriented. As the bright radiance faded, the mysterious phenomenon
shifted from a shapeless apparition to a humanoid figure. After a few more
seconds, Enidor perceived the figure as a real person. The being dissipated in the
luminous distance, short and slim but not entirely clear yet.
What is it? Enidor grew increasingly impatient. He could not get a good
look at the figure, and the fact that it grasped him by the ankle—and would not
release him—agitated him. What is it, and why is it grabbing me? The
uncertainty irritated him profoundly. He scrutinized the enigmatic figure,
squinting his eyes, twisting in different directions, and moving a bit to try to
coax a response out of the stranger. However, his efforts proved futile; the figure
hung in the air, immobile and silent, and its hand, which was clamped to
Enidor’s ankle, appeared frozen.
Fine, Enidor grumbled under his breath, deciding that he would break free
of the tight grasp and compel the mysterious figure to speak. Suddenly he
recognized that he was still clutching the nurit stone in his hands. Without delay,
the lump plummeted into the water with a deafening splash. Enidor wiped his
hands and warily regarded the figure floating in the air. He grasped his left knee
with his right hand, pulling himself up slightly. He waited a few moments, his
eyes fixed on the figure, then drew himself even higher and, in one swift motion,
grabbed the being’s wrist. Instantly he felt an unimaginable pain, as if he had
touched white-hot iron, and lost consciousness.
***
When he awoke, he was no longer suspended by the river but sitting on the deck
beside the barrels of nurit. The severe burning sensation in his hand intensified,
causing him to exert considerable willpower to suppress the urge to groan. He
took labored, painful breaths, and cold sweat trickled down his forehead, but
nothing brought him any relief. His hand still burned.
Desperate for relief, he pressed his hand against the icy floor of the ship,
but to no avail. Instead the pain further intensified, and after a few moments it
became so excruciating that the young sailor fainted again. He remained
unconscious for some time, lost in strange memories and senseless dreams.
Eventually he came to, and before him he saw a lithe, diminutive figure standing
a few paces away. The figure emitted a light that did not blind but illuminated
the dark surroundings like daylight. What stunned Enidor was that the figure was
a complete stranger who bore no resemblance to any of the crew members—not
Ledo, Vedron, or the captain. Its appearance reminded him of a being from
another world. Initially Enidor suspected that it might have been someone from
the hatch who had learned of his intentions and attempted to rescue him at the
last moment. However, this was not the case. In front of him stood a diminutive
man wearing a white tunic, pale hose, and elaborately decorated leather shoes.
An olive cloak was draped over his shoulders, and a lightly ornamented trefoilmotif
belt girded his waist. Fair hair flowed down, framing his serene face. After
a few moments, Enidor concluded that he was observing … a child.
This realization shocked him, particularly the fact that such a small being
had been capable of hoisting him into the air, keeping him aloft, and then placing
him, weak and nearly lifeless, on the deck. Perplexed and frightened, he
scratched the hand that had burnt so grievously earlier, keeping his gaze fixed on
the strange newcomer. All the while, he pondered his course of action—flee,
remain still, or hastily jump overboard and once more land in the river, as he had
intended? The latter appealed to him, particularly now that he lacked the desire
to engage in any activity whatsoever. He realized, however, that he lacked the
energy either to rise or to move. He brooded on this, and then, as if the figure
could sense his thoughts, it spoke in a soft, tranquil voice that eased the young
sailor’s anxiety and caused the agony in his arm to vanish. “What are you
planning to do?”
Enidor breathed a deep sigh of relief. The unbearable burning sensation had
gone, and a wave of calm surged through his entire body, imbuing him with
newfound strength. However, while attempting to answer the question, he found
his words tangled, his mouth as heavy as lead, and all his thoughts spiraled into a
chaotic whirlpool.
“In a few moments you will be able to speak,” the stranger stated with an
unusually mature tone. “Now you’re still dazed, so don’t try to do anything.
Only after you have recovered will you tell me everything.”
The child conveyed his words with a steady and resolute voice. His gentle
nature and compassionate expression remained unchanged, which only increased
Enidor’s astonishment. Whoever this goblin may be, it had saved his life,
rescuing him from the Emnur River’s current. Furthermore, he had infused
Enidor with a blissful peace that gradually revealed the fact of his dire decision
ever more distinctly and acutely.
After a moment, Enidor snorted, irritated that he had allowed himself such
thoughts. After all, what he had almost achieved would have been a passage into
eternity, an escape from the cycle of pain and fear, a release from the dark
presence of the demon following him. He would have finally obtained what he
yearned for: peace, not disappointment and bitterness. Yes, the peace he craved
more than anything else. It would be wonderful!
“Actually, it wouldn’t be.”
His moment of elation was abruptly interrupted by the child’s sudden
words. Enidor felt as if everything he had envisioned in his mind—carefree
serenity in death, the desire to achieve it—vanished instantly as though it had
never existed. The young sailor’s face twisted in pain and disappointment.
“Why did you save me?” he asked bitterly, turning to the mysterious being.
“Why should I go on living in this troubled world, surrounded by wild, invisible
beasts? I’m done with being a victim—enough is enough! I’m tired of being
hunted by demons like a wild animal and finding nothing but despair.”
“How much longer are you going to complain?” the newcomer interrupted.
“I’m not here to listen to your grievances.”
Enidor was stunned by the interruption. The boy standing before him was
still calm and serene, serious yet gentle. It was difficult for the sailor to reconcile
these peculiar qualities with the boy’s diminutive stature. The child was
different, like a being from beyond the Earth, and Enidor stared in silence,
unable to comprehend who he was dealing with. After a few moments, the lack
of conversation began to weigh on him, and he spoke up. “Who exactly are
you?”
The newcomer said nothing in response.
The young chronicler felt irritated. He wanted to say something unkind, but
he hesitated at the last moment. He decided to sit quietly, hoping that his unusual
companion would speak first and thus end these unbearable moments of silence.
However, even after a minute, the stranger did not speak—instead he stood like a
statue, still staring at Enidor. The young sailor cursed in his mind—and from that
moment on, he began to wonder what he could do to get rid of the intruder. The
stranger’s mere presence irritated him; his gentle gaze frightened him—it
seemed to pierce him and know every thought he had. Moreover, the stranger’s
words sounded unpleasant, overly serious, and caused him a strange anxiety. In
fact, Enidor did not want to be saved. He did not want to live any longer—he
would rather die than endure the attacks of the dark demon. He had been close to
the river when a nameless goblin had appeared unexpectedly and confounded his
plans. He felt a sudden surge of anger, and wanted to hit the intruder and throw
him overboard so that he would not interfere with his plans. He raised his head
violently, his eyes reflecting pure anger.
However, the moment he met the stranger’s gaze, all the fire of anger that
had filled him was suddenly extinguished, replaced by a feeling of shame.
Enidor swallowed and winced. He was taken aback by the look that managed to
extinguish the flame of rage within him. It was a look that subdued the monster
that roared in his soul, that eagerness and outburst of hatred. It wiped it away so
gently, so calmly, without the slightest effort, like a quiet word full of calm
confidence—the word of a child that erases into dust a crowd of malicious and
bloodthirsty people.
It was a look of love that astonished Enidor, making him freeze in silence
and confusion. He felt terrible, as if he had wanted to kill an innocent being who
had done him no wrong. Whoever it was, it had saved him from death in the
currents of the Emnur River and filled him with a sense of serenity.
Suddenly, he was overwhelmed with amazement—who exactly was this
being in front of him? Fear, disbelief, curiosity, and wonder were quickly
drowned out by a sudden torrent of pain—an incredible pain coming from
somewhere deep within him that made him forget all his questions. Enidor
groaned, but it was an inward groan, a soft groan that did not exist for the
surrounding nature, a mind-shattering groan that was only heard by that little
boy just a few steps away.
Yes, what he was about to do—what he did—was a crime. But for the
young sailor, the awareness of the gravity of his actions was already fading.
Enidor realized that at that moment, the only thing that mattered was the figure
standing before him. He recognized who it was without needing to ask or guess
—any inquiry was superfluous. When he met that particular gaze, he understood
who was standing before him, and the figure suddenly became as familiar as
ever. As his crying and pain disappeared, replaced by bliss, he decided to lift his
eyes and look at that face—to comfort it and seek its forgiveness. He lifted his
head and opened his eyes, only to see the Boy’s face adorned with a smile.
Enidor felt a sudden surge of joy. He did not know exactly what was
happening to him, but he decided to call it joy. For it was joy, but completely
different from anything he had experienced before. He felt as if everything that
had worried and depressed him up to that point, the whole pile of problems
associated with the return voyage and the appearance of the dark monster, had
been lifted from his shoulders.
Then the Boy spoke quietly.
“You probably have a lot to tell me, don’t you, Hope?”
Enidor raised his eyebrows in surprise. Hope? After a moment, however, he
understood—why should the One who knows everything not know his real
name? He smiled warmly in response.
“Indeed, Elnarin, there’s much I’d like to tell you, but I don’t know where
to begin. So much has happened!”
Enidor was overwhelmed with all the things he wanted to say to Him—
words and thoughts swirling in his head. He was unsure where to start—should
he thank Elnarin, ask about the creature that had tried to kill him, inquire about
Eithua, or ask where Elnarin came from, since many chronicles reported that He
resided in distant lands, perhaps on the eastern edge of the world or even
further?
“I’ve never left this land,” said Elnarin. “I’ve appeared on it from time to
time to remind people of what they’ve forgotten. Although the eastern edge of
the world is not my home, I live in a place close by, but to get there, you have to
climb the Great Mountain.”
Enidor nodded, but something was still bothering him, so he had to ask,
“May I know what the creature is that follows me and where it comes from?”
“Yes,” Elnarin replied. “It appeared to shake you up.”
Enidor frowned. “Shake us up?”
“I allowed it to bring you out of your lethargy. Did you know of its
existence before?”
Enidor replied quietly, “I knew that such a thing existed, but I thought it
was more of a creature far away in the Underworld or somewhere else, and I
didn’t suspect that it would attack ordinary people. After all, famous heroes have
fought it in the past, so I didn’t expect it to attack a normal person from a quiet
village like me. In fact, I never thought about forces outside of the Earth. I can
deal with sea monsters, but I couldn’t deal with that thing that appeared in the
Silent Waters. Every time it passed under our ship, something strange happened
in our minds.”
There was a silence for a while as Elnarin delayed answering. But when a
few seconds had passed, He spoke quietly. “This creature is stronger than man.
But man can learn to fight it.”
At these words, Enidor seemed to come to his senses—he rushed closer to
the Boy and fell to his knees. He begged, “I didn’t know how to fight it. I didn’t
know how to defend myself against it, and now that you are here, please teach
me. Protect me from this creature and don’t let it torment me again!”
Elnarin gave Enidor a calm look and ordered him to stand up. “Why are
you afraid, Hope? Do you think the beast will hurt you now?”
Enidor rose from his knees and sat down beside Elnarin, feeling much
calmer than before. Was he in danger, sitting next to such a powerful person?
After all, this beast was weaker; it was probably hiding somewhere and would
not come out until this beautiful and strong boy had left. Besides, it was He who
had said that the monster could be defeated. Enidor decided that from now on he
would not doubt victory, he would not be afraid of this sea demon, he would not
run away. Instead he would face it in order to win, to break it, and to become
stronger than it. Happy with his decision, he smiled and looked directly into
Elnarin’s face. However, he was disappointed, as it expressed dissatisfaction and
sadness.
Enidor asked in surprise, not hiding his embarrassment, “Did I do
something wrong? I’m no longer afraid. I’m ready to fight this creature, and I
know that I can defeat it!”
Elnarin shook his head and replied, “You will only lose that way.”
A look of sadness appeared on the young sailor’s face. “Why? If I believe in
winning, why should I lose? I’m already brave!”
“It’s not courage, it’s audacity,” Elnarin explained.
Enidor furrowed his brow, contemplating Elnarin’s words.
“Remember the courage you felt in your heart before your last encounter
with the creature and your suicide attempt,” the Boy continued. “Recall what
happened to it when that creature appeared. If you have a good memory, you’ll
learn the difference between audacity and true courage.”
He began to recall memories of his return journey. Suddenly, among the
images of past events, he saw his own figure, very different from how he was
now, filled with a strange frenzied feeling that made him roam all over the deck,
demonstrating his strength to everyone. But this vanity had quickly vanished as
he saw a shadow coming. The false bravado he had displayed before was merely
a façade for his fear, which had ultimately led to his defeat. As he pondered, he
glanced back at Elnarin and grasped why He had advised against relying on
recklessness to vanquish the creature. He was overwhelmed by confusion, yet he
managed to choke out the words, “Forgive me.”
Elnarin smiled and sat down on the floor, right in front of the young man.
“Will you tell me now?”
Murmuring uncomfortably and looking ashamed, Enidor replied, “It’s a
belief in one’s own strength—it’s vanity.”
The Boy nodded. “Exactly. Would you face a creature from the Underworld
with such confidence? Do you believe that bravado alone would ensure
victory?”
Enidor admitted, “No.”
“In that case, I advise you never to indulge in such feelings. They are
frivolous and fleeting, and true courage emanates from strength—great strength
that manifests itself in moments of extraordinary difficulty. Be brave when you
confront this monster, and don’t let bravado or apparent audacity cloud your
judgment when you’re alone and surrounded by people weaker than you. You
have learned not to fear what is familiar and easy to overcome. You have
become accustomed to all dangers. But your audacity had to be broken down so
that you could understand that you would never achieve anything with it. You
had to learn true courage and reject what was wrong.”
Enidor interjected unexpectedly, “So the appearance of this creature was
intentional!”
Elnarin smiled again, so benevolently that Enidor himself smiled despite his
fear and uncertainty. After a moment, he strained his ears to catch every word as
Elnarin spoke.
“Everything is intentional. There are no coincidences.”
Enidor remained frozen in silence, unable to utter a single word. He was
sitting like a mouse in front of a bear (as the saying went in his homeland),
oblivious to the reality around him, deaf to the agonizing pain that simmered
inside him. He waited for Elnarin’s next words, hoping they would dispel the
darkness that surrounded him.
“Hope,” Elnarin began in a low voice, “reading events is a task that can be
done if one knows how. That’s why I always tell my messengers to ask me for
my light if they want to recognize events. My light will show you both good and
bad things, and it will separate them so that the gap between them becomes as
wide as a chasm that you cannot cross. The things that affect you, cause you
pain, or perplex you will become understandable. The questions that torment
your soul will be answered. Therefore always ask for my light. It will make you
wise, for wisdom is the understanding of life. My light will enable you to see
through the darkness, to spot what’s threatening and dangerous. It will help you
make sense of all your toil, effort, and pain. It will make you understand what is
mysterious and unknown. Your battles with the forces of the universe will be
revealed in a new light. Then everything you have experienced will turn out to
be a deliberate move toward something.”
“But what was it all for? What was its purpose?” The young sailor exploded
unexpectedly.
Elnarin nodded to calm him down and resumed speaking. “To shake you
up.”
Enidor’s eyes widened in confusion. “I don’t understand. What does this
‘shaking up’ mean?”
The Boy did not reply but sat calmly in a crouch, radiating love with a
subtle yet potent energy that could crush the strongest man.
Enidor, on the other hand, stared at the ground, bewildered and anxious. He
decided to wait, hoping that Elnarin would break the painful silence and offer
some clarity. He felt powerless—if Elnarin refused to speak, what could he do?
So he remained silent, waiting humbly.
Several minutes ticked by as Enidor waited in vain for a response.
Frustrated by the senseless waiting and mindless gazing at the ship’s floor,
he finally burst out, “That’s enough!” Realizing his outburst was futile, he took a
deep breath, lifted his head to look at the Boy beside him, and tried another
tactic to win His favor.
“I tried to find a way to fight the demon, but I failed,” he confessed. “I tried
to fight it in other ways, to cope somehow, but to no avail. I don’t know anything
about myself, nor do I understand much of what happened on our journey. My
mind is small, and my strength was useless to me. Look, you’re right next to me,
yet you won’t reveal the answers to my questions. Don’t you see that I’m lost
and in need of help?” Enidor pleaded.
Silence.
“Why are you still silent?”
The Boy remained unresponsive.
“If you don’t want to tell me anything, at least speak a word. Just let me
know that I’m not lost.”
Silence.
“Fine,” Enidor muttered, resigned to his fate. “I give up.”
He fell silent for good, realizing that speaking would yield no answers. So
he sat there quietly, perhaps a little anxious and sad, but accepting his fate.
Then, suddenly, Elnarin spoke up.
“You have finally quieted down. Now you can hear my voice. I couldn’t
speak to you before because you were restless and your being was in turmoil.
Silence helps you mature and hear my voice.”
Enidor flushed at the admonition. He was already calm and collected! He
had chased away the anxiety and confusion. It was strange to see this fierytempered
man, ready to smash things if his demands were not met, now trying to
extinguish the embers burning in his heart to avoid giving vent to his wild ardor.
After a few moments he seemed to come to his senses and turned to Elnarin with
a question. However, the King guessed his thought first and asked, “Hope, are
you afraid?”
Enidor blushed. “Actually, I am feeling cowardly,” he admitted.
“You’re being too harsh on yourself. Tell me what is causing your fear.”
“It’s this demon that has tormented me for weeks and nearly took me to
kingdom come. I still shiver when I think of it, but I don’t know how to cope. It
was accompanied by other eerie beings, including a pale figure that attacked me
at the door of my cabin.”
Enidor lowered his gaze in embarrassment, still afraid despite Elnarin’s
proximity. The Boy blinked slowly.
“Have hope and reject this unnecessary fear. Do you doubt my words?”
Enidor shook his head violently. He could not doubt what Elnarin had said.
“I may be a coward, but from now on I will face my fears,” he declared.
At that moment, his face lit up. Elnarin smiled, seeing the change in the
young sailor, and announced, “Now you’re ready. I couldn’t share anything with
you while you were gripped by fear. What would you like to know now?”
Enidor replied firmly, “I want to know everything, but I don’t know where
to begin.”
“I thought so” Elnarin smiled. “I know what’s been troubling you. I’ll tell
you a story older than these trees and this river. However, few people know it,
and it hasn’t been spread among the common folk who can’t read or write. Do
you know anything about it?”
Enidor had gained considerable knowledge during his stay in Mervan
village with a bard named Firo and had heard about legends from the Ancient
Times. However, his knowledge was limited to certain figures, the names of
eras, and the most significant battles. He nodded in response to Elnarin’s
question.
“Do you know about nurit, Morhog, and other figures from the First Eon?”
Elnarin asked.
Enidor shook his head. “I only know a little about nurit, and I’ve never
heard of Morhog. From the First Eon, I only know about heroes like Argolid and
Eurandar.”
“Let me guide you and show you the old times. This story will only be an
introduction to the Great Legend, which every living being creates. Follow me
and you will leave your shell behind and go to the Forest of the Past, to the
Eternal Nest,” Elnarin said.
Chapter III
WHITE PEAK
The first thought that flashed through Enidor’s mind was that he hadn’t the
faintest idea what was going on. Where was Elnarin leading them? And how
were they supposed to leave the ship in the dead of night when all were asleep,
especially since Enidor had to be on watch to safeguard the crew from a possible
threat, albeit hidden and lurking but easily sensed? The gloomy silence, the faint
breeze, the shadows lingering in the sky, the abyss of the night from which came
occasional trembling sounds—all this sharpened his vigilance. Enidor often
spent nights on watch, straining his ears to discern distant echoes and a chaotic
tangle of other sounds, sifting them for any hint of suspicion. He could not leave
the Nefelgar unguarded. Not in such a slumbering calm. And now he had to
follow the Great King, leave the ship and venture to … a forest that was not even
there!
However, he decided to wait for further unfolding of events—could Elnarin
be untrustworthy? The young sailor shook off these gloomy, disquieting thoughts
and lengthened his stride, his eyes fixed on the king’s figure. He cast aside all
doubts, questions, took a breath and looked over the starboard bulwark.
They had just passed the mainmast. They had reached a place that just an
hour ago could have been a scene of death, pain, and despair. Now it had become
the beginning of a new life, already vibrant, already brimming with hope.
Enidor blushed at the thought that he might have ended his life here. But at
the same instant, he was glad—here, his heart had begun to beat anew. An hour
ago he had been languishing in darkness, now he reveled in life-giving light; an
hour ago he had been dying, now he was reborn. An hour ago he had been
choking in despair, now he was surrounded by peace and joy. He felt the tide of
happiness that swept over him with each passing moment, pulsing with the
rhythm of his own heart.
This fleeting delight caused Enidor to forget the horror of his surroundings.
Too captivated by the one who had freed him, who had shattered the bonds of
despair, he became oblivious to other matters—the ship, the crew, the
surroundings. He just stood by the starboard bulwarks, watching Elnarin with
rapt attention. For Elnarin seemed to remain utterly still—observing something.
After a few moments, the king closed His eyes, then turned to the young hunter.
“We will not go where you think. This place, unknown to you, is far from
here, though it will be within reach. The story you will hear will not be from me,
but from others.”
“Does this mean that you will leave me already?” Enidor flinched, as if
struck by a sudden, ominous premonition.
A smile blossomed on Elnarin’s lips.
“No,” He replied, “but I will not accompany you always. A time will come
when I will depart, and you will have much to do. You will hear no more than is
intended. This is only the beginning.”
Enidor furrowed his brow, and although he could not guess Elnarin’s
intentions, he began to ponder these words. At that moment, however, the king
commanded him to be quiet and told him to follow … but where to? Steeling
himself, the young sailor approached the bulwarks and intensely tracked
Elnarin’s every move. He missed no shift, no tremor, no change—yet before he
knew it, he saw Elnarin standing several meters above the bulwarks. His heart
leaped into his throat, a shiver piercing him to the bone.
Elnarin was in the air.
After a few moments, he heard the king’s calm voice: “Come with me,
Hope!”
Enidor swallowed and whispered something. But then, as if pulled by some
mysterious calling, he drew a sharp breath, gathered every ounce of his strength
—and surged upward. It lasted perhaps a second, perhaps a fraction of a second.
And to his delight, he found himself suspended high in the air—a good two
meters above the ship’s deck.
He had no idea what was happening to him. He saw only that his own body,
in that wondrous moment, had taken on an unearthly lightness. He marveled and
looked at his legs, arms, torso—they seemed the same. Perhaps … perhaps
slightly changed? He narrowed his eyes, strained his gaze, and scanned his form
with suspicion. Impossible … This was not his body, not his legs, not his arms,
not his torso. He felt astonishment but also a joyful disappointment. Driven by
instinct, he glanced down at the ship. And there, by the bulwarks, stood an
unmoving figure, as if forever frozen in cold solemnity and bound by a stern
command of silence—a figure hardened and deaf, poised to leap, immortalized
in the tarry gloom of the night. It seemed to absorb the icy chill that came with
the quiet breeze and gather it within itself; Enidor clearly felt the stiffness it
contained. And he saw that it was dead.
The young sailor tried to look more closely at this figure, but, fearing the
worst, he closed his eyes.
Just then, he heard a soft, gentle whisper coming from above.
“That is your body, Hope. You are beyond it.”
Enidor’s eyes snapped open, startled. For a fleeting moment, he forgot
Elnarin. But He was still there by his side, standing just a pace away, leaning
slightly, gazing downward with calm eyes.
“Look at yourself,” He added after a moment.
The young sailor sighed deeply. He cast a curious glance at his own
corporeal form and thought one thing—he wished never to return to it. He
wanted to remain here, to cast off the very thought of return, to linger in this
bliss. Down below, somber mortality awaited; up here, boundless infinity pulsed
with vibrant life. Here, joyously enticing vistas sang to him, countless visions
soared, and every marvel whispered. Down below, possibilities chilled, and the
gleam of plans and wondrous ideas dimmed. With a touch of regret, he looked at
Elnarin. The latter, however, only smiled and spoke softly.
“It is time to journey forth, Hope. You are beyond the borders—where no
eye nor ear may reach. Forget, for a moment, your mortal earthly shell. There,
something awaits that will prepare you for new trials and even greater perils. But
rejoice! Leave your worries below.”
Enidor turned his gaze from the disturbing sight of his lifeless corporeal
form. Though he knew he must eventually return to his body, that grim and
perplexing awareness was eclipsed by a new radiance—the yearning to follow
Elnarin, to see this unknown expanse where he now found himself, to hear tales
from ages long past, and above all, the desire to witness something
extraordinary, something that would surely await him on his path.
He cried out mightily. He felt an unleashed tempest of exhilaration swell
within him, pervading his very being.
“Forge ever onward and into the distance!” he called out, his voice echoing
the surge of power that coursed through him.
Elnarin turned His back on the young sailor, pondered for a moment, then
sprang aloft, light and nimble, with endearing grace. Enidor, dazzled by the
sight, also soared upward. He did not move his arms or legs; carried by a
delicate essence—a lightness that filled him—he neither held back nor rushed,
allowing it to lift him through the limpid expanse. He watched—and flowed. To
accelerate the pace he lifted both hands, swept them through the air, and thrust
them backward. Instantly a wave of some kind propelled him forward—a silent
yet mighty wave. Elated by this discovery, he laughed aloud, gathered
momentum, and, as if directing all his fervor to a single point, struck the soft air
with his palms. Once again a gurgling current tickled his back and urged him
with a pleasant whisper to swifter flight. Then Enidor noticed that Elnarin was
not floating as he did, but rather walked. He looked at Him with childlike
curiosity and began to imitate Him. After a few seconds, he no longer soared but
strode, taking wide, sweeping steps.
At one point, Enidor glanced down to see how high he had flown and was
greatly astonished. Below churned a mighty mass of white froth, the crests of its
waves glinting ominously. It resembled a silent abyss, in the depths of which a
slumbering, gurgling menace gasped—ready to flare up and roar deafeningly.
The young sailor felt an unpleasant shiver. The whole boiling, melting mass,
spewing tongues of vapors, seemed to hide a grim clamor within itself—it
convulsed, taking on dark forms, now glowing purple, now burning rust, baring
glistening fangs and chasing unseen victims with ravenous eyes. At one point it
recoiled and opened its maw, sucking in air, and spouted a shadow that for a
moment shrouded its entire shapeless form. Enidor felt fear—but he did not
move; his curiosity was stronger.
He watched with concentration, but the shadow below did not dissipate. As
if sustained by some secret spell, it thickened beneath his feet and blackened like
a storm cloud.
Where had the ship gone? It was only at that moment that Enidor realized
he was in some strange place. Not so long ago, he had been above the Nefelgar,
recognizing familiar lands. Now an unknown and mysterious expanse spread
around him, akin to a tumultuous sea.
Suddenly he froze. Something was stirring below; a rift appeared in the
shadow veiling the shapeless terror, and behind it something churned; something
rumbled, growing and growing. He tried to discern it, but a light mist obscured
his view. He shifted his gaze to the right and saw Elnarin’s gentle, calm face—
the same one that always warded off fear. The young hunter immediately felt
better; he exhaled. But despite his terror, which was intensifying with each
passing second, he longed to see what lay beyond that shadowy veil below, to
gaze once more on that strange, seething mass.
Then, in the silence, Elnarin’s voice rang out.
“We left the servant of the underworld behind.”
Enidor’s breath caught in his chest.
“Who is that?” He struggled to steady his trembling hands. “Could it be, by
any chance, a Leviathan—the very one I met on the Silent Waters?” He stepped
back in fright to observe the frothy abyss from as far away as possible.
Elnarin did not reply. He gestured downward, and only after a moment did
He say, “See.”
The curtain of shadow began to blur, fading, until it finally dissolved. Now
the young sailor could clearly see the entire expanse that spread out beneath his
feet. It was filled with exhalations and tarry fumes; masses of gray and tawny
streaks of vapor trembled, their foundations glowing red with smoldering
embers. In the very center of this swirling chasm lay a darkened, seething roil, a
hot place from which came a muffled, rasping snarl. Enidor instantly recognized
in it the outlines of a face, the embodiment of bitterness and hatred.
He quickly averted his gaze. He could no longer bear to look at the gurgling
beast. He turned to Elnarin and asked in a pained voice, “Is that the creature that
tormented me and almost killed me?”
Elnarin blinked and replied calmly, “This is Morhog that rules the
Mysterious World. If you were to cast yourself into the river today with a stone
of nurit, you would fall into this abyss. And from it you would find no way out.”
Enidor swallowed loudly. And although he was high above, close to
Elnarin, a dreadful thought froze him, giving him a glimpse of what might have
happened had he sunk into that terrible steamy infinity. He was frozen by the
image of agony and torment and the feelings that would have pierced his body,
torn it apart, and fiercely devoured every spark of warmth and stirring of hope.
He closed his eyes, unwilling to look at it anymore. But with his mind’s eye, he
still saw terrible whirlpools dragging him deeper into the smoking infernal
cauldron. Tongues of rage tore at his clothes, and some malice circled around,
cackling unbearably; the echo of a frantic orgy of smoke, fire, and shrieks rang
in his ears. The grim face of the lurking creature loomed amidst the swirling
masses of clouds, groaning pitifully, mocking him, tormenting him with its gaze.
Enidor jerked his head and soared upward. He eagerly seized on any good
thoughts, trying to grasp something that would dispel the gloomy apparition.
Suddenly someone pressed a hand to his forehead. Enidor stilled, and after a
moment he opened his eyes. Standing before him was his beloved Elnarin.
The young sailor felt a wave of profound relief. Breathing heavily, he gazed
at Elanrin’s gentle face. He felt nothing but a growing calm and a caressing bliss.
The terrifying images vanished as quickly as they had appeared, but Enidor had
to wait a few moments, to breathe, for their traces to be erased and not to linger
in his memory, ready to emerge at the least expected moment and appear
magnified.
“Don’t worry,” said Elnarin. “You are millions of millions of miles above
that maw. It will never reach you, for I hold you in my hands. What you
witnessed was but a foretaste of terror—merely the true reality of Morhog’s
realm transferred onto canvas. An image that frightens but remains an image, so
it does not reveal the full terrors of the Mysterious World with complete clarity.
You have seen a glimpse of it, not to be fearful but to be prepared for the next
stages of your journey.”
Enidor laughed softly. The feeling that he had just had, carrying with it the
memory of those terrible moments, had blurred and faded and no longer caused
any apprehension. Through the mists of oblivion, he saw only faint outlines of
some movement. They meant nothing to him, however, so he drew a breath and
turned to the Great King. “Lord! If that monster was down there, then where are
we?”
He looked around. He was surrounded by a vast space, somewhat tinged
with white below and directly before his eyes glowing yellow, turning slightly
higher into a subtle gilding. Around him, above, crowded tangled masses of
clouds.
“This is the White Peak,” Elnarin said. “See, you stand atop a hill.”
Enidor glanced down. Indeed, his feet were touching a brown, hard surface.
It stretched for a few meters behind him, while to his left and right, it plunged
with steep slopes into the abyss. He clearly saw its cone expanding downward,
narrowing upward—some dozen miles below him it was cut off in a darkening
line by the swollen clouds, thickening and drifting majestically.
Waves of white pressed against the White Peak, but its pointed summit
burst from their embrace and stood proudly against the captivating distance.
Enidor and Elnarin had been standing on it the whole time, but it had not been
visible before. Before, the monster’s maw had rattled below; now, pensive
clouds drifted there.
Enidor, however, could not grasp this immensity. He remained silent, which
was an expression of his awe and delight. After a while, he declared, “The
monster is gone!”
“Gone,” Elnarin said. “It lies deep within the Mysterious World, far, far
from here. You are on one of the greatest peaks. Morhog has been veiled by
clouds and is no longer in our thoughts.”
“What place is this, then?”
Elnarin looked around and declared, “This is one of the peaks of the Nest.”
“How good it is here!”
Enidor squinted his eyes and sighed blissfully. Below him, vast expanses;
above, immense clouds, a gentle zephyr, and a golden glow. The ominous abyss
had sunk into the unseen depths, and even the faint memory of it slowly faded
amidst these splendors, this fragrant aura and warm radiance. The young sailor
cared for nothing at that moment—he was lost in watching, in marveling at
constantly changing colors. And as his wonder at the surrounding infinity grew,
so too did his gratitude for Elnarin. For the first time in his life, he felt true
peace. For the three years he had spent on the ship, on a thousand seas, chasing
after Balgaurs, clashing with countless servants of the ocean, battling storms,
never releasing his sword, proving his bravery, pulling the crew from dark snares
and the maw of danger, quelling fear and igniting courage in others—all this had
left its mark upon him as a wanderer—a wanderer who could not soothe his
longing, nor ward off the growing fear caused by the evil creature—the
Leviathan, as he called it—now gasping in isolation far beneath the earth. Three
years! And now, in this wellspring of wonders, standing on an unconquerable
hill, he finally banished the last vestiges of despair and fear from his heart.
At the same time he felt that something had changed within him—he
noticed what had previously been imperceptible, hidden in shadow. He saw
himself—in a clear light. In a penetrating yet gentle light that allowed him a
deep insight into matters previously hidden, concealed from his eyes.
Enidor understood one thing. Something within him had transformed, and
after the events on the ship, he would no longer be the same brave warrior who,
just recently, would flare up every time he heard the enemy’s voice and who
would grow audacious, casting fiery glances when filled with a sense of energy
and strength.
However, he was not thinking of the immediate future now. He was too
engrossed in all that surrounded him—in these miracles, in the fact that he was
safe, that he had been rescued from the jaws of a sea demon, that Elnarin was by
his side, who had not let him die in the currents of the Emnur River. And the
very awareness of his transformation, of being torn from blindness, lingered
within him with such force that it intensified his joy, fueled the embers of desire,
and spread before his eyes a wealth of visions, dazzling in their scope, grandeur,
and truth.
A small smile played on the young mariner’s lips as he stood gazing into
the expanse.
“It’s so good here!” he repeated. “Elnarin! You could leave me here. I’ve
forgotten what worry and despair mean! Here, I guess, there’s surely no such
thing as hardship, evil thoughts, and everything that comes from the creatures of
the underworld.”
“That’s true.” The king’s beautiful face brightened. “But we cannot tarry
here longer. You must hear a tale and remember something you have forgotten.”
“What have I forgotten?” the young mariner exclaimed, startled. “Have I
overlooked something? I’ve made sure of everything!”
Elnarin calmed him with a wave of His hand. “You will see.”
Enidor, clearly displeased with his own memory, lowered his eyes. Though
a fierce eagerness for an answer gnawed at him, it no longer had the same power
as before.
Then Elnarin declared, “We move! It is time to hear the story of Emad
Aran.”
Enidor raised his head. “There? Up? And what do I see in the distance? Is it
an aurora? Or some glow?”
“That is the highest of this place’s peaks—the mountain called the Nest.
That is where we are heading.”
And Elnarin stepped forward on an invisible path.
Enidor did the same, his gaze fixed on their destination.
Chapter IV
A TALE FROM AGES PAST
The White Peak vanished into the distance—now a tiny speck on the horizon.
“What heights are these!” marveled Enidor, casting his gaze down, then
lifting his eyes toward their destination. “I could fall from here and fall for all
eternity.”
Indeed, it was a tremendous height. But this realm belonged to an altogether
different world, where all things took on unimaginable proportions, where
everything was far more beautiful, sweeter, severed from pain and evil.
And the Eternal Nest slowly emerged from the whiteness of the clouds. Its
summit was smooth, shaped like a dome and so vast that buildings could rest on
it, even a great city. Enidor measured its majestic silhouette with his eyes as it
swam in a sea of vapors, and, forgetting all he had left below—the ship, the
crew, the creatures of the Mysterious World, and all matters that had occupied
his mind—he drifted on the waves of the clouds’ silent melody, his breast lifted
by breaths of joy.
“Here I could dwell,” he whispered, lost in blissful reverie.
Then Elnarin turned to him and said, “We have arrived!”
Enidor froze, motionless, and his gaze swept over the summit of the Nest.
He was so close that he could almost feel the beauty emanating from it, pouring
into the vastness. As the clouds thinned and cascaded down in a white surge, a
piercing sight struck him—first he glimpsed a verdant expanse that unfolded
before him like a tapestry, then the forms of trees emerged, whispering softly,
and at last from the throng of bushes a mighty oak rose, clad in beautiful
raiment, gleaming majestically, set on the peak like an ancient sentinel. Beyond
the oak other trees loomed faintly, lesser, though, and humbler, with slender
boughs that brought to mind bundles of straw. Dense, pure grass engulfed all,
clinging to the bushes, weaving between the trees.
The young sailor could not take it all in; his eyes, thirsting for delightful
visions and sights, ceaselessly sought something on which they might focus, but
whatever they encountered, they instantly looked elsewhere, because another
marvel enticed them with its charm. The bushes rustled and his eyes shifted to
them; the oak shook its leafy mane and his eyes turned toward it, seeking to
capture that movement; here the grass sang, there a gentle wind plucked at the
strings of blades, yonder the leaves of trees spun some unknown legend,
somewhere far off, amidst the small bushes, tiny flowers nestled together—
everywhere something throbbed, pulsed, something glimmered, something
murmured and whispered.
Seeing the wonder in Enidor’s eyes, Elnarin said, “Hope, this is but a
glimpse of a more beautiful tapestry, now veiled from sight. You cannot see it
all, for that would be too much.”
“Only a glimpse,” murmured the wanderer dreamily. “And will we walk on
this fair grass?”
Elnarin smiled benevolently. “Of course. That is why we came here. There,
in that small grove, awaits a certain person who will tell you legends of ancient
days. This will be no common bard, but the Chanter of the Past—he who
witnessed it with his own eyes and lived through it. He was in the past, and he is
its guardian. He knows every event, every being, even the smallest blade of grass
nestled between tiny clumps. He has seen all its heroes, knows their names,
knows their deeds. Let us step into this yard and listen to his voice.”
Enidor, filled with sacred awe and reverence, swallowed and took a step
forward. Elnarin then slowly wandered toward the grove; the clouds vanished
from beneath His feet, as if driven away by the gentle command of a zephyr, and
the air became clearer. The young sailor hesitantly leapt over a small chasm that
had formed in the pale cloudlets clustering a meter beneath him, but as he stood
at the edge of the Eternal Nest, the deep abyss stretching millions of miles below
terrified him so deeply that he faltered and froze. After a moment, however, he
closed his eyes and took a few steps forward—something tickled his legs. He
opened his eyes and looked down—soft grass; waves of soft grass brushed
against his legs. He laughed aloud and let out a sigh of relief.
When he saw Elnarin waiting for him by the grove, he sprang up in a burst
of joy and, with a grace and swiftness that in the ordinary world would have
seemed unattainable, he drew near to the King of Light. He breathed easily. His
brow was bright, his eyes shone joyfully, and his face seemed aglow; his hair
floated in the air, and the zephyr ruffled it playfully.
“Can I stay here?”’ asked Enidor in bliss.
“You will return here yet, Hope,” replied Elnarin, “but not now. We have
much to do—you must fulfill a certain task before you may rest in this grove and
sing for me. Look! There awaits us the Chanter of the Past; he has been waiting
for a long time. We must meet him.”
Enidor encompassed with his delighted gaze a thicket of trees that
shimmered with cool shadow and, like an enchanted throng of people, moved
lightly whenever the zephyr slipped between their slender trunks.
And they delved into the shade of the grove.
With unhurried steps they walked on the soft earth. Enidor strove to watch
each step of his guide with keen attention, but he had not counted even seven
paces when they halted, and Elnarin raised His hand. Silence filled the small
forest—a silence so profound and pleasant that it took his breath away with
delight.
Suddenly, in the depths of the thicket, between two pines, a figure loomed
as a dark shape. Enidor strained his eyes and froze, motionless. The dark shape
began to grow and draw near. It became more distinct, and in the blink of an eye,
it emerged from the shadow. In that brief time the young sailor swiftly glimpsed
long bright hair, blue eyes shaded by bushy brows, a face that was gentle, though
imbued with the power of majesty, and mighty shoulders.
Elnarin sat by a tree, while the Chanter withdrew a little, and shadow veiled
his beautiful face, shrouded in the mist of contemplation. After a moment Enidor
also sat, sensing that a solemn moment was approaching—that soon this
messenger and lord of the past would speak with a voice of bronze. Only later
did he realize how greatly he was mistaken, for what reached his ears was not a
stern voice laden with gravity, mournful and sparkling with plaintive notes, but a
voice dignified and grand—a voice in which pulsed some unearthly sorrow, in
which burned the madness of love and longing for the lost treasure of his
forebears.
And the Chanter sang of ancient ages, of the Morning Dawn Flower, of
Mernavel who was lured into the Frontiers by a cunning gnome, of how an
avalanche of foes had crawled from behind black bastions and surged toward the
green streams of the world. He sang of how Argolid had led the Earadrins
against the hordes of shadows and ground them to dust upon the fields of glory,
of how evil had stretched its arms over the pristine land created by Elnarin to
flourish in the breath of joy and happiness. He sang of how the Faelirs had
crafted nurit, an ore that had become the seed of disease and misfortune, of the
Winter Years, of the battle against winter and shadows, of the renewed rise of the
Faelirs’ power.
And the bard sang: “Behold, the lord of the Faelirs rebelled against Elnarin
and began erecting fortresses of nurit. Chaos crept into Emad Aran, unrest shook
the forests, a gale howled in the sky, and folk trembled, seeking refuge from the
wrath of wild forces. Countless mines of nurit arose; shadows from the
Frontiers, drawn by the evil king’s voice, settled in the south and spread panic.
The terrible and menacing fortress of Earthenmound was built, which they
seized.” And the Chanter’s voice, full of suffering, drowned in sobs.
Enidor froze. He felt a rising tide of pain. Silence fell around him, and a
burning pain smoldering somewhere deep within him seemed to burst out with
biting sparks, as if waiting for memories that would kindle its flames.
Then the Chanter’s voice rang out again. First it flickered like a star in the
sky, uncertain and timid, then it gathered strength and began to pulse with a
blinding radiance. Everything seemed to squint before its bright and joyful glow;
then it burst into torrential flame. And it flowed through the air—a steady, calm,
immeasurable wave.
Thus the bard proclaimed with his voice the coming of the Man of Ages,
Eurandar, lord of Erandea, who set out against the scheming shadows hidden in
the depths of Earthenmound. His voice echoed in the air with some unknown
power. Enidor listened with emotion to its gentle yet strong timbre, absorbing
with his ears the elusive notes entwining in the grove’s shadows. Joyful
astonishment grew within him with each passing minute—he lost himself ever
more in those musical, resonant mists and listened to this tale brought on wings
of eloquence from lands of the past. The enticing sounds swirled further in that
ancient dance of bygone days—a dance of ancient visions, voices, memories,
hopes, and unfathomable feelings.
“Behold, Eurandar returned to Erandea.” The Chanter’s voice took on a
special tone, becoming hard, calm, low, and flowing in an unbroken stream from
his trembling lips. Some light notes danced on the edges of melody; tender
whispers brushed against its mane. The bard sang of Eurandar, who resolved to
journey south to cast the evil lord of the Faelirs from his throne. And he sang,
and he whispered, and he cried out, at times raising his hands, clasping them in
the air high above his head, then with a sweeping gesture reaching for his harp.
Inspiration guided his fingers, which caressed the strings with reverence and
tenderness.
When Eurandar arrived with Delian, Elnarin’s chosen one and future last
Lord of the Faelirs, at the capital of Emad Aran, a tear of emotion, shimmering
and noble, glimmered in the Chanter’s eye. Delian became the ruler of the south,
and the wicked king was banished from Emad Aran. Afterward the Faelirs
journeyed to Luangar. The south lay deserted and remained in the enemy’s grasp.
Suddenly the Chanter stilled and paused. A radiance illuminated his face.
From his lips burst a voice of hope, a voice of adoration. He began to intone the
Great Ending—and in it rang exaltation, joy, reverence for Elnarin, tones that
heralded spring. Spring! Of this the Chanter of the Past sang—of the spring of
new times, of its coming …
And then he fell silent.
Enidor raised his eyebrows in astonishment. Why had he stopped? He
gazed intently at the Chanter; the shadow of the grove fell on him, so the young
mariner could not discern what played on his face. He caught glimpses of
radiance, brief flashes of light that, for an instant, revealed a flared forehead and
wide-open lips, but it was only a fleeting vision. He strained his gaze, hoping to
see more, but the shadow swiftly deepened, and the bard’s entire figure was
swallowed by it. Enidor groaned in reproach.
Suddenly, however, something flickered again, only to vanish into the
darkness once more. But in that brief moment, the young sailor saw what he had
wanted—the Chanter’s face. Years later, he would recall that mysterious and
beautiful face. He never forgot the tranquility that dwelt in those eyes. He would
close his own and still see it—a face serene, joyful, quiet as the day awakening
to life after a long slumber, aware that it must tirelessly fulfill its role. After a
few moments, the shadow fled from the grove and silence fell. Enidor never saw
the Chanter again. Only Elnarin and he remained. He rose slowly from the
ground and sighed.
“Why did the Chanter not finish his song? Why did he depart?” he asked
with curiosity. He felt he must know this.
“He finished, Hope,” replied Elnarin.
The young sailor furrowed his brow. “How so? He just broke off suddenly.
Did it mean something? Could he not finish this tale? It’s … strange. I don’t
understand, Elnarin … this story … surely it has an ending?”
“Of course it does, Hope.”
“Then why didn’t he tell me all of it?”
Elnarin narrowed his eyes and looked gently at his troubled face. “But he
did tell it. He finished the entire tale. He merely stepped into the domain of the
future. Only the past and all that lies within it are in his power. When he began
to speak of spring, which already belongs to the future, he had to fall silent. For
he does not know the future and does not know what will come to pass. He told
you only what took place in days of old. There is yet the Chanter of the Future,
who speaks of the Future, knows its events. But you will not meet him now or in
this place. You were meant to hear the voice of ancient ages, and you have. That
alone is what is needed.”
“Is the Chanter of the Future here in the Nest?”
“He is,” replied Elnarin, “but he will not read from his book. The Book of
the Past, which is called Promythion, is here, in this grove, the grove of bygone
ages. But the Forest of the Future is known only to a few, and few indeed reach
its edge. It is perilous. You could not enter there without my presence.”
Enidor shivered. “Why? What lies hidden there? These dangers …”
Elnarin smiled gently.
“Hope … you wish to know things you cannot. Leave all to its own course.
Cast yourself into the whirl of events I hold in my hands, and let me carry you.
You will not go faster than you can. You will not outpace time, nor draw to you
that which is yet distant as swiftly as you might wish. Everything has its time.
You, let it flow, and be as a ship pushed by a gentle wind—the wind of events.
You will reach your destination at the proper moment.”
Enidor bowed his head in understanding.
“And now,” the king continued, “only one matter remains. Soon, Enidor,
you will return to your ship; your journey draws to a close. The singer has
fulfilled his duty; you have heard of matters of the past that few know. Only my
servants, who remember the might of Emad Aran, hidden in inaccessible places
of the world, know the events omitted from many of your chroniclers’ and bards’
books.”
The young sailor sighed sorrowfully.
“Are you ready, Hope? Time passes.”
“I will do what must be done, my lord,” Enidor replied firmly, though his
voice trembled, as if in awe of the majesty before him.
“Good. Then let us leave this grove,”’ said Elnarin. “This is the final stage.”
The king slowly and lightly wandered toward the edge of the summit of the
Eternal Nest; Enidor followed Him. With quiet emotion, he looked at the place
where the Chanter of the Past had sat. Many thoughts swirled in his head. With
astonishment, he followed the threads of a great history, finding traces of untold
mysteries, until at last—after only a few moments—he discerned the seed of
truth and heard the echo of ancient struggles.
What was the story recounted by that Chanter? Was it the wind frolicking in
the meadows? Was it a statue, merely a testament to deeds long past? Or was it
perhaps the very breath of memory, that healthy gust invigorating thoughts and
dispersing the mist of oblivion?
Not without reason did the singer tell me the history of the world in its
entirety! he thought. No one in the world knows too much about Eurandar; no
one knows too much about Earthenmound either … no one suspects it to be a
fortress of the forces of the Mysterious World. Today’s tales are much shortened
and lack many threads that are crucial. Is this good? No! This is the tactic of
deceit! Why, then, this legend for me? Why did he trouble himself? Was it for
me? So that I might see the past in its wholeness? What has it given me?
Then he sank into contemplation. A strange thought that flashed through his
mind made him reflect on what had been before, on his own past actions. He
remembered the sea voyage. He had set out for three years for distant seas to
find precious gems for his family, to experience something he would never
forget. Others had remained steadfast in their homes, by their fields, by their
beloved forests, but he had dared to venture far, to unknown heights, to
undiscovered lands, to wild adventures; he had dared … but was he compelled
by inevitable necessity, born of harsh living conditions and merciless fate, or
perhaps love for the family he had left alone for three long years? With sadness
he concluded it was neither.
He had set out from Mervan, his native village, but he had not done so from
the purest motives. True, he was attached to his family and loved his wife, but
between these affections had grown a fortress of most secret designs, raised by
the spell of hidden desires.
He had dreamed of nurit. A wild craving for adventure—and for acquiring
that ore—lay at the foundation of his desires. Was it not for this that he had
embarked on the sea voyage, for this that he had boarded the Nefelgar, for this
that he had conspired with sailors holding the same dreams? He had set out with
the thought that he would find something that would enrich his family, ensure
prosperity, and ward off the specter of poverty with an almighty gaze. He had
confided his thoughts to no one. He had believed that the ore, whose name rang
resonantly in many songs and chronicles, would bring happiness. He had read
much about it, even before he learned of the expedition to distant lands. He had
perused many books of the bard Firo, manuscripts and writings of ancient
chroniclers. He found numerous mentions of the evil effects of the substance, but
the pages of these works were mainly filled with good opinions, so he concluded
that nurit was not harmful in essence. He grew convinced of his own strength—a
powerful desire to acquire the unattainable consumed him.
When you boarded the ship, dear youth, said a voice in his thoughts, when
you stepped onto the gangplank with proud and lofty stride, full of visions
dazzling with the extravagance of madness, hungry for sensations and dangers
that you loved more than life, hungry for all that the space of empty dreams
offered you, what did you feel? Love? By no means! Joy? Only the shadow of
meager satisfaction. You will say that you don’t remember, or that it was too long
ago, for it was three years past. If you wish, I will remind you, my sea wanderer.
You did not think of your family, of your father-in-law, of your brother-in-law,
nor even of your wife; you did not think of providing for their wellbeing—no!
You reveled in your own thoughts, at the bottom of which lay nurit, that
legendary ore—the curse of the world. Intoxicated by the vision of the riches it
would bring you, you forgot all else; night shrouded your mind and heart.
The mysterious voice was absolute, undeniable, and unyielding. Enidor
could not flee, nor could he hide; he saw all with blinding clarity—the very
moment he had boarded the vessel of the Nefelgar; the instances he had
meticulously flicked through the pages of weighty tomes replete with
astonishing images, filled with words that seemed to weave visions both dreadful
and alluring. He saw that which had once seemed ordinary now emerging from
the mists, its ominous face unveiled. There was no more illusion. No more
darkness. Dawn had broken. Enidor, his intentions and deeds laid bare, fell to his
knees, then cried out in a mournful wail—a cry directed at the unseen judge.
“Judge me, implacable voice! I deserve punishment! I went seeking death.
For is not nurit death? Indeed it is!”
“I am not an executioner, Hope,” came the gentle voice of Elnarin.
Suddenly the young sailor seemed to awaken, to return to his senses. His
eyes were struck by the soft glow of the Nest. The turmoil of feelings and
thoughts brought by a horde of memories—all was consumed by the soothing
silence that heals all wounds.
The young sailor lifted his head, a tear trickling down his face.
“Nurit seduced me,” he whispered desperately. “I didn’t know it was a
deceitful ore … it would have been better … better if I had sunk beneath the
earth! I know you are not an executioner, Lord, but I feel unworthy to stand here.
An evil spirit lurks within nurit. Only the tale of the Chanter opened my eyes
…”
And he continued his laments, his sighs, groans, pains, and sobs for a very
long time.
“I am not an executioner, Hope,” the King of Light said quietly.
Like a persistent echo, these words etched themselves into the young
sailor’s thoughts. Enidor stretched out his hands and groaned bitterly.
“My lord! You are not an executioner. I know. But can I be forgiven? I
craved such things! Nurit! I cannot raise my eyes. I betrayed my beloved family!
What remains for me—flee to the wasteland? Punish me then, Lord, justly! I
cannot show myself to the light, for darkness surrounds me.”
And the king spoke a third time: “I am not an executioner, Hope.”
Silence fell. Enidor gazed in amazement at the grass, as if waiting for an
answer.
“Only the executioner demands justice,” his lips uttered unwittingly, as if a
hidden force within his heart had moved them with its breath. “Only the
executioner demands a death sentence; only the executioner is unfeeling about
the stirrings of pity. Only the executioner …”
His face suddenly changed—as if brightened, as if more alive, as if the
power of those words had left its mark on him. The outbreak of a mighty voice
throbbed in his throat; something within him broke and vanished; something
new rose in his heart.
“Only an executioner demands a death sentence,” the grass, the oak, and the
grove repeated after him. “Only an executioner.”
“Indeed!” cried the young mariner, his voice vibrant with hope. “Only an
executioner demands justice.”
Then he fell to his knees before his sovereign. Joy lit up his face, and a
blissful shiver coursed through his body.
“The night is over,” said Elnarin. “Look, do you not see that dawn already
breaks? Who remembers what happened yesterday or in the night? Who speaks
of it? That is already past. It was for this that I brought the bard here, so that you
might glimpse the outlines of history. Having seen them, you have learned the
true face of things that now vanish into the mist. There on Earth, you would not
be able to discern their true appearance, which is why I brought you to the
Eternal Nest. Thanks to the clear air, you see that which would be uncertain in
your homeland. Nurit, which you followed, proved to be your executioner. For
centuries it thwarted the lives of the southern folk, leading the Faelirs to their
demise. You have seen how Eurandar fought it … You will see things you have
never seen when you return to the world. What the evil Faelir ruler raised now
reaps its bloody harvest. Too many kings, too many people loved that ore. The
Earthenmound and the Frontiers have stirred and continue their work of
destruction. You were a servant of nurit; you followed the call of the spirits
hidden within it, so they came for you as their prey. But when you yearned for a
certain thing, I interceded for you. Now you are in my hands.”
“How good! My lord, never let me see nurit again! Now I see what it truly
is.”
“Many do not see,” Elnarin said. “The spirit of nurit is cunning. It has
caused countless diseases. All the abilities with which it endows people are
ruinous and, after a time, lead them to their deaths. You saw death. It befell you
on the vessel. Do you remember?”
Enidor was stunned. How could he forget! Suddenly his memory brought
forth a grim image of the strange pale figure that had sought to kill him during
the return voyage from the Rocky Lowlands. He recalled how it had circled him,
first at a distance, then closer and closer. At the memory of those events, a shiver
ran down his spine, and his eyes closed of their own accord, as if expecting the
ominous sight to dissolve into the mists of oblivion. As the grim apparitions
faded away, Enidor sighed softly.
“Death came for me,” he whispered with emotion, “but it didn’t claim me.”
“I didn’t let it,” Elnarin replied. “I had to shake you mightily to bring you
here. Without what you endured during your overseas journeys, you would not
have found your way to this place. To awaken a man from sleep, one must shake
him. Especially if it is a bad dream.”
Enidor nodded humbly. Then he impulsively asked, “And what of my
companions? The crew of the Nefelgar? Don’t they see the evil workings of
nurit? They too desired to acquire it. They dreamed of adventures … shared
dreams bound me to them. Indeed, we spoke together of what we would do when
we gained riches! There, in many chests, lies much of that accursed ore. What to
do with it? It can’t remain!”
“Leave it be.”
The young sailor furrowed his brow.
“Leave it be,” Elnarin repeated. “Leave this matter to me. You will not
concern yourself with it. I have entrusted you with another task. Now come—
very little time remains. And there is yet something else.”
Enidor said nothing more. The king gestured toward the edge of the Nest
and moved slowly in that direction. The young wanderer, led by some impulse,
followed Him. Not for a moment did the thought leave him that his stay in this
wondrous place was coming to an end. With sorrow and regret, he glanced at the
grasses, at the oak, at the small grove, at the flowers, sending them last yearning
gazes; words full of pain tore from his lips; shadow veiled his face. And
everything that lived there whispered joyously, rustled peacefully. Suddenly
Enidor felt a quiet relief. You will return here someday! they seemed to call. You
will be here again someday.
“Farewell, companions,” he murmured softly.
***
Enidor stood at the edge of the towering Great Mountain. A mysterious shudder
coursed through him once again.
Elnarin watched him, gentle and calm, but in His eyes flickered a certain
eagerness, a simmering intention, as if He was waiting for a convenient moment
to say something important. After a while, He turned to Enidor.
“Did you not ask something of me, Hope?”
Enidor regarded Him with astonishment. “No, Lord.”
The king fell silent, His thoughtful gaze sweeping across the vast expanse
before Him. Clouds drifted in that endless ocean, pushing ever ahead toward the
more distant reaches, grand and majestic, gliding silently, only to return to the
Eternal Nest one day.
Enidor looked at the King of Light.
“You asked nothing of me?” asked Elnarin again.
The young sailor grew troubled. “No, Lord. At least I don’t remember,” he
stammered awkwardly.
“I have something for you,” Elnarin declared softly.
Enidor’s eyes sparkled with joy. “For me?” he asked, bewildered.
“Yes. This is no trifle; it is a great gift. It will lend you strength on your
journey, helping you overcome any peril. Remember, though, the enemy will
seek to wrest it from you and destroy it, for it is a tool of immense power. The
servants of Earthenmound carry stones of nurit close to their hearts. You wanted
to cast yourself into the river’s abyss with one. It is well that did not happen—
well that the deadly stone vanished in the currents of Emnur. To you I give my
gift. It looks like a stone, resembles a diamond, but it is not; do not let your eyes
deceive you, for it is neither morion nor jadeite. This stone was not forged by the
hand of man. It comes from ancient times.”
He moved even closer to the mountain’s edge and said, “Look, Hope.”
Then, from within His raiment, He took out a small stone filled with light.
“Do you know what it is?”
Enidor shook his head.
“I named it Eithua. This word means strength.”
“Eithua,” the young sailor whispered feverishly. “Eithua, this power … I
yearned for it!”
And he wept aloud as a wave of memories washed over him. Had he not
sought this treasure? Had he not yearned for it amidst the tempest of the sea, in
the stillness of dawn, in the clamor of despair? When the depths of death, when
the sinister night had reached out for him, when he had felt weak and alone,
when he had seen dangers too great to face alone, he had begun his quest for this
thing. But had he found it?
I nearly died … died … and now I have received this gift. It’s a stone!
He spontaneously fell to his knees before Elnarin and cried out tearfully,
“Lord! I forgot it completely! I am as wavering as a log tossed by the ocean’s
tide. Sooner I would perish than stop seeking Eithua. So I said, and you heard!
So I said in my cabin; then I looked out the window and saw the vast sea. The
hum of the waves drowned my pain, dimming the embers of the memories of the
vile creature that plagued me. But I had hope; I … I longed for Eithua. And you
did not doubt me, even when I felt my strength renewed, when I felt so mighty
that I forgot all adversities. When desperate thoughts ceased to trouble me, I
regained my enthusiasm and believed in myself, dismissing the thought of
Eithua! But you saved me nonetheless from death in the river and brought me
here.”
Elnarin smiled.
“You called to me. So I came to you. Anyone who desires this gift will
receive it. Guard it as the apple of your eye, for it is the most precious gift I
could give you. The Earthenmound dwellers now seethe with rage. Indeed,
Balgaurs who come from nurit now lord it over even inhabited lands, though not
long ago they hid in mountains and dark hollows. This folk has grown perilous.
But worse still are the traitors. They reap a bloody harvest, aiding the creatures
of the Frontiers and the Earthenmound. You are now their enemy. Beware, for
they will cast themselves on you in great hosts. The shadows of the underworld
can assume many forms, for they have no true bodies, which makes them
exceedingly perilous. It is well that you do not fear, Hope, for terror is their ally.
I tell you this only so you may know how much has happened during this single
night, how much harm you have wrought to the realm of the underworld, how
much it has lost.”
“What has it lost, Lord?” Enidor asked with a gleam of disbelief in his eyes.
“Your heart.”
Enidor swallowed hard. “And what now?”
“Battle,” Elnarin replied. “Battle for the stone you have received, and battle
for those who will ask for this stone. The creatures of the Earthenmound fear
those who possess this item. Therefore they will sooner send forth entire hosts of
the underworld against them than occupy themselves with conquering the lands
that are the object of their possessive endeavors.”
“May I pass this stone to anyone?”
“You may. But you will not lose yours. Hide it close to your heart. There it
will remain forever. When someone wants to receive this thing, give it to them.
You may give a myriad of them, yet you will not lose your own treasure. It is
necessary that you do so, for then the ranks of our allies will grow. But you must
heed one thing. Not everyone will be ready to receive such a gift. Not everyone
will understand what it is. In such cases, I would advise you to hold back.”
Enidor narrowed his eyes. He felt calm in that moment. He had Eithua—
and nothing more would threaten him! Later he would discover how utterly
wrong he was.
He exhaled and asked, “What should I do when I return to the ship?”
“Go home.”
“And the crew?”
“Leave the crew to me.”
Enidor nodded. He saw his companions in his mind’s eye, those sea wolves
who would bid him farewell after three years of overseas voyages.
There will be a feast in the Badger’s Cave, he thought sadly, though he did
not know where this feeling came from.
He sighed softly. “Are they still under the influence of nurit?” he asked.
“Could I not speak with them?”
Elnarin looked at him sadly. “Their sleep is very deep. Try—see what
happens. I forbid you nothing. However, you may leave them to me and depart
from these lands. That is now your decision.”
The young sailor bit his lip.
“Do you worry, Hope?” the king asked him.
“A little.”
“Forget about it. We will meet again soon; then I will tell you what to do. I
will choose a leader who will guide you to certain places. But before that
happens, something else will occur. You must pass through the Thorn Gate.
Every passage requires blood. But that is enough for today. I cannot tell you
more. Return to Valantas. Everything will happen there. You will become
witness to great events. You will have to face the Dream and fight for the light.”
Enidor bowed. “Let it be so,” he whispered.
The awareness of a fate full of toil, fueled by fear, did not prove so
repellent, so off-putting after all. He felt something else—an unknown, frenzied
fervor. He did not know what it was, for he had never known this feeling before,
but the moment it flared, the conviction of the necessity of action gave it the
proportions of power.
He smiled and realized he could no longer remain still. With joyful
willingness, he looked at Elnarin and repeated the ultimate words, as if to
confirm their grandeur, as if to engrave them in the massif of timelessness, as if
to make them a testament to steadfastness and strength, so that their fire might
be sustained by the memory of the surrounding witnesses—witnesses of eternity
… so that the clouds and this space might become silent guardians of that
alliance—the alliance of the king and the vassal of Earth. “Le it be so.”
“Let it be so,” echoed softly the clouds and the breeze, and the grass, and
the oak, and the grove …
*
“Go down; return to your ship, Enidor,” Elnarin said, and those were His last
words. The young seafarer saw only a slight gentle smile that flickered across
His lips.
What happened then? Enidor remembered only that he turned his back on
the Nest, took a step, hung motionless in space, and closed his eyes. Pressing his
hand to his heart, he felt something hard—the stone of power; bliss illuminated
his face. Then he opened his eyes again—he saw a breach in the clouds a few
feet away from him.
Everything around seethed like boiling water; the rift in space began to
grow until it was larger than he was. A dark mist appeared within it. Enidor
swallowed, approached this trembling space—and froze. It spouted a tarry
exhalation, and a multitude of vibrating, disjointed sounds shimmered in the air.
Suddenly something flashed in this rift—a shape of some kind. The young
wanderer stepped even closer, gazing into it—and noticed the outline of a great
object. Driven by curiosity, he entered the breach. Impenetrable night surrounded
him. But the shape grew clearer; it pulsed with pallor, and its contours,
sharpened by moonlight, slowly emerged from the murk. No longer a faint
phantom—it was the ship called Nefelgar. Relieved that he would soon sit at the
tiller again, Enidor surrendered to the silence imposed by the stark emptiness,
aware that on the horizon, the sky had already flushed with the rose of dawn.
And he sailed silently downward, surrounded by the cold gazes of the stars,
heedless of the ominous clouds, measuring him with sleepy yet stern eyes,
looming in the night’s gloom.
Chapter V
THE TORCH
The deck of the Nefelgar was consumed by darkness, with only a flickering
torch burning in the forecastle, where four young sailors sat around it.
One of them grinned jauntily, another listened intently, the third lay
stretched out next to a torch stuck into an iron hoop, and the fourth kept a
watchful eye on their faces. The fourth sailor had a shadow of boldness
emblematic of a man who worships danger, which was evident in his brown
eyes. The flickering light of the torch briefly illuminated his face, exposing his
proud features that betrayed a hint of the hidden pain within. Suddenly he
stepped back and a shadow swallowed his figure, leaving only the faint outline
of a gigantic silhouette in the gloom.
“Quiet!” he growled abruptly.
The one who had been grinning muttered something quietly. The expression
of confidence and audacity vanished from his face. He mumbled a reprimand
indignantly under his breath and glared at his three companions as if he expected
them to attack him, even though he knew that his weak muscles and grandiose
speeches had no chance against these three almost giant-like figures in the
darkness of the forecastle. They boasted of their skills, which they had acquired
amidst hardships and dangers.
“Easier said than done,” snapped the chatty sailor, making a highly insulted
face. He was a rascal who loved to spout platitudes, reveling in their sublimity,
and spewed words in an unceasing stream, often belying seriousness. He did not
know how to fight with an ax, while the others excelled at it, and he could not
even perform sword spinning. Meanwhile the rest worked miracles whenever it
came to sword fighting—weapons seemed as light as feathers in their hands, and
the blows they dealt were like the strong blasts of a gale-force wind. So he
cowered when he saw his comrades in a battle dance, tugging at his forelock.
However, when the ship was hit by a storm and the masts creaked and jostled
frantically, battered by rain and hail, he—that conqueror of storms, the
unparalleled wielder of words—was in his element. Then a cocky smile flashed
on his lips, his forehead crinkled menacingly, his mouth was ready to release a
torrent of words. This man was second to none in keeping order during storms
and squalls, keeping his composure while others would have long lost their
heads. He strictly monitored all activities with a keen eye, observing even the
slightest movements and gestures made by the sailors. He moved swiftly in the
darkness of the storm, traversing the deck like a swarm of bees, his voice
echoing throughout the ship. He warned a deckhand when needed and brutally
struck careless archers with the side of his sword. He kept a watchful eye out,
suddenly appearing to issue powerfully worded chastisements. Meanwhile he
lurked in the darkness, surveying everything and everyone, and nothing escaped
his dispassionate attention. He scrutinized every error and rescued those in
precarious situations, leading many battles against the elements to victory. Anort
—or Boney his nickname— was the only one who knew how to watch over a
ship, demanding order with the harshness of his words and the intensity of his
gaze.
Anort held his words in great esteem, reveling in his power over the ship
during storms while bowing down to everyone during calm days. He poured out
meaningless words to quiet the nagging feeling of inferiority within him. While
revered for his prudence and courage in the face of danger, he was often taunted
by brash sailors. However, he would turn a deaf ear to all jokes and insults while
he circled the deck, casting haughty glances and searching for an opportunity to
bite back at someone, glare at them with venom, or unleash an avalanche of
words at the deckhand, who was the only one who showed him any respect.
Anort snorted, keeping his gaze on the sailor who had asked him to be
quiet, grumbling at him under his breath. “Why the long face, Ledo? Do you
need a game of dice with us?”
Ledo crossed his arms over his chest, remaining silent. The other two
sailors seemed to lose confidence after this, but Anort, who began to chuckle
quietly, inspired them and gave them courage.
Suddenly one of them spoke up. “Dice? Who’s talking about dice?”
“Excellent! Let’s play dice!” eagerly exclaimed the other.
Anort raised his head proudly and gave Ledo a haughty look. “What’s the
matter, boatswain? Isn’t the night’s silence conducive to your solitary
wanderings? Look at the expression on your face! Don’t tell me you saw Death!”
“May you never see it,” replied Ledo calmly, even though his silhouette
appeared shrunk and fearful in the darkness. “Play dice with them before you
play with Death.”
Boney suddenly straightened up, and a flash of anger crossed his face.
“Watch it!” He clenched his fist and barked with contempt, “Be careful …
Ledo!”
The boatswain snorted ironically in response. “Just play,” he muttered.
“We’ll see what comes of it.”
“Of course we’ll play,” growled Anort.
The other two sailors remained silent, knowing better than to mess with the
boatswain and accepting Anort’s behavior as natural. His constant cutting
remarks and sharp tongue irritated everyone, and anyone could get rid of him if
they wanted to, but the captain allowed him to take part in sea expeditions due to
his tenacity and courage. He often warned other sailors that, despite everything,
they were not allowed to touch a hair on his head. So Anort wandered around the
deck and gave vent to his imagination, spewing complaints, insults, and flattery.
However, no one paid the slightest attention, looking upon his impunity and
freedom with a wink and laughing whenever they returned from battle
intoxicated by their victory, and he flattered them with a docile expression on his
face. The boatswain knew that Anort’s behavior was a result of his inferiority
complex, but why did he always take it to the extreme?
“He’s a character straight out of the Land of Misfits,” Ledo used to say
whenever he noticed a change in Boney’s behavior.
Now, noticing the futility of his protests and starting arguments, Ledo kept
quiet and stood motionless in the shadows, pain still visible on his face, which
was probably the reason for his bad mood. He decided to get away from this
group as soon as possible. Fine, let them play their dice, he thought bitterly. He
had no desire to talk about anything.
“Let’s play, folks!” shouted Anort, rubbing his hands together.
His two companions sat close to the torch, which cast a glow on their faces.
The first one had an elongated, dusky, laughing face. His hawk nose, pointed
chin, and clenched lips gave him an expression of steadfastness and
stubbornness. Misty, sleepy eyes slowly roamed the room, his lips often parting
in a smile that inspired trust. However, there was something else about that face
—something mysterious. A certain aura was evident in his eyes, movements,
every step, every word, and every blink. It was a strange aura because it was
impenetrable. The boatswain had an overwhelming tendency to look at this face.
Then he would notice the mysterious light in the man’s eyes—a light that
heralded something sinister. The boatswain could not decipher what lay hidden
within this man, whom he had known for several years, with whom he had
shared many adventures on the oceans of the world and held so many
discussions. This sailor’s name was Porion and, although the boatswain was
friendly with him, he never shook off those strange premonitions he experienced
whenever he spotted him on deck in the morning.
The second sailor, nicknamed Bonecracker, had a completely different
disposition from his companion. Strong and square-built, with a thunderous
voice, he amazed everyone with his gentleness. Although he could crush iron
and lift horses, he was more sensitive to the beauty of the world than a poet.
When he roared, even the strongest trembled with fear. But when they realized
that, even in moments of great anger, gentleness weakened the fervor of his heart
and made him less threatening, they became less intimidated. Everyone
unanimously agreed that he was a great companion, and all enjoyed being
around him. Even Anort, who did not spare him abrasive words, was fond of
him, for Bonecracker was extremely submissive. Even the severest insults did
not hurt him, and a look of sublime indifference was on his face when he
endured Anort’s hail of words. Moreover, he never spoke back, and Anort found
this endearing.
*
As the silent and menacing Porion and gentle Bonecracker sat comfortably next
to the torch and Anort prepared the dice for the game, Ledo retreated to a dark
corner of the forecastle. The other sailors, immersed in sleep, heard no noise.
One half-open eye glistened in the haze of sleep, and a quiet snore disturbed the
silence. Near the entrance, the deckhand smacked his lips greedily, as if
dreaming of a feast worthy of a king. Not far from him, another sailor was
whistling a tune. The boatswain smiled grimly; this sound was familiar to
everyone. At this hour, as other sailors used to say, the sleeper was probably
walking through the forest or wilderness, which he always talked about after
waking up. Seeing the silhouette of a great fortress looming in the distance, he
imagined himself as its master and quickened his pace, breathed deeply, and
waved his arms carelessly, smiling at the roadside trees and bushes—the silent
witnesses of his journey.
“And once I reached that fortress,” he would recount over breakfast,
“everything suddenly melted away. Just like a speck of dust!” He would then
shake off crumbs of bread or pancakes from the tabletop, which danced in the air
and slowly fell to the floor. “And after the dream, there was nothing left for me
to enjoy.”
Afterwards he would talk about his plans for the future with such gusto that
more than a few tears would drip from his eyes. But whenever he looked away
from his companions, the mess hall would fill with muffled giggles.
The boatswain smiled at this memory, but unfortunately that smile was
short-lived. However, Anort, Bonecracker, and Porion were too engrossed in the
game to notice the anxiety shadowing his face. With wild joy, they threw the
dice one by one and played—played for everything. Uproarious laughter could
be heard again and again. It was Anort telling jokes, Bonecracker pouting, and
Porion sweeping the entire room with his eyes, repeating some rhymes.
“Throw, bold wolf …”. He guffawed, and Bonecracker choked with
laughter. Anort grimaced but spat fiercely, because he did not know how to retort
brilliantly.
“Let’s play!” sang Porion louder and louder, seeing Boney blushing and
boiling with indignation. “Tell me, soul so kind, tell me, soul so frail, are you
full of compassion, or do you wish me to fail!”
Anort slapped the dice on the floor. Bonecracker roared with laughter, and
Porion patted his chest, smacking his lips in vain satisfaction.
“Throw,” muttered Boney reluctantly, giving Bonecracker a cool stare.
“Come on!” growled the giant. “What are we playing for?”
“For your soul,” Anort snarled.
Bonecracker did not reply but held out his hand and threw the dice. He did
so with deadly seriousness, as if he held the fate of the world in his hands.
The boatswain hesitated to witness the amusement of his comrades.
However, he decided to tune in and listen to their peculiar conversation, hoping
it might ease his nagging pain.
“Alright, enough of this boasting!” growled Anort. “Let’s play; it will be
dawn soon, you fools. This time only speak of your wishes, not your dreams or
impressions … Understood, Bonecracker? About your fantasies!”
Porion whistled lightly. “Don’t bother, Anort,” he said. “We know the rules.
I played this game centuries ago. I recall those days when I sailed with
privateers. Every night we lit torches and played dice.”
“It’s my favorite game,” Bonecracker added. “I’ve been playing it ever
since I sailed the seas. Those dice give me hope, because once they instructed
me to do this instead of that—and I obeyed! And then I got what no one else
would have given me. Dice are a great game. I have faith in them.”
Porion smiled strangely. “So let’s play. Let the dice be the judge.”
And he handed Anort three small dice. With great care, Anort took them as
if they were his most precious treasure. But what was the game so adored by all
sailors on the Nefelgar? To play, all one needed to do was voice a wish and
throw three dice onto the ground. If all three dice landed with six dots, then it
was a sign that the wish would come true. However, missing by just one point
meant one could not rely on the favor of Fate, and they would have to make
another wish and try their luck again. Some people would throw the dice over
and over, but their wishes would not be granted by the capricious hands of Fate.
Disappointed, they would put the dice aside and wait for Fate to show them
mercy. After a day or two, they would try their luck once more, and to their
surprise, their wishes were granted. Joy surged in their hearts, and, grateful to the
blind ruler of life, they continued to play the dice with the knowledge that their
desires would be satisfied. Did the dice hold some power? No sailor on the
Nefelgar dared to ask themselves this question. Everyone believed in the dice,
for they trusted superstitions more than anything else. Conscience was not
important. Even if you asked Anort, Bonecracker, Ledo, or even Enidor what the
dice were made of, they would not know what to say. Only Porion knew the
truth, but he had no desire to reveal it.
However, when Bonecracker posed this strange question, Porion replied
dismissively, “Dice? Asking what they are made of? A very good question,
Bonecracker. I’m just asking you and Anort not to be afraid. Well, the material
used to make them was not gold, as you may have guessed, nor was it wood or
even obsidian, although I know it may resemble enamel. They are made of
Balgaur bones.”
Bonecracker raised his eyebrows in silent astonishment.
“I don’t believe it,” Anort growled. “This is balderdash! Who would make
dice out of Balgaur bones?”
Porion gave him a strange look and replied, “You don’t believe me, yet you
are under my command.”
“Under your command?” Anort exploded, red with rage. “Under your
command! A pox on you, Porion, for your audacity.” He spat contemptuously on
the ground. “I’m under your command—good joke!”
“I have more power than you realize, you fool,” Porion shot back.
Anort turned red with anger. “Enough!” he hissed. “How dare you!”
“You’re just a coward struggling against darkness,” said Porion. “A coward
with hopes of defeating Death …”
“No!” Anort protested. “I have a dream—to conquer Death! And I will play
with Fate to achieve it.”
“Play with me,” replied the sailor. “We shall see what Fate has in store for
us.”
Anort reluctantly glanced at him. “You go first. Roll,” he ordered.
Porion took the dice, and a mocking grin formed on his face as he spoke. “I
want Death to serve me.”
Silence descended. A sense of gloom shrouded Porion’s face, which now
looked strangely pale and stern, as if it were carved by an ancient sculptor into
the rock of the Earth, reminiscent of ancient rulers—tyrants who inspired terror
in their subjects.
“Is that all?” Anort asked in surprise. “Anything else, perhaps?”
Porion fixed him with a cold stare. Moments later, his voice sounded harsh
and commanding, as if it came from a different person.
“I wish for Death to be my ally, for darkness to guide me through the
universe’s wilds, for me to not fear the dawn and to walk fearlessly through the
wilderness, to never know fear and to achieve what I desire!”
Anort raised an eyebrow. “That was impressive,” he said dryly, “but go on
and roll the dice. Let’s see what is left of your grandiose speeches.”
Bonecracker was dumbfounded, but Porion remained calm, not reacting to
the jibe. He shook the dice, then threw them onto the floor. They immediately
leaned in to see the outcome in the dim torchlight. Bonecracker was squinting
while Anort was wriggling, gasping, and seeing nothing.
“How many?” Anort asked.
Bonecracker glanced at Porion.
He hesitated before answering. “Six each.” Rubbing his eyes, he repeated
more firmly, “Yes, sixes.”
Anort was annoyed, resisting the urge to betray his emotions on his face.
However, he did not hold back the trembling of his lips and the blush that was on
his cheeks. He waited for Porion to hand him the dice. Boatswain Ledo watched
the game intently from a hidden corner, not letting Porion out of his sight, his
face looking even more sinister and mysterious at that moment.
What a weird man, he thought, shifting his gaze to Anort so that he could
take in the whole scene. Let’s see what Boney can come up with. I bet he’s
incapable of anything worthwhile, and Fate will favor Porion instead.
Meanwhile, Anort did not entertain the notion of losing. He was a bossy
man, loathed any opposition, and expected Fate to grant him only victories. He
would take pride in his accomplishments, convinced that Fate would help him
attain what he desired. Did he genuinely believe in the existence of some guiding
force in life? Nobody knew. However, he was aware of it—a superstitious
consciousness that would emerge in times of difficulty when the threat of death
became all too real and immediate. Then he would turn to Fate and expect help.
And then what? If he emerged from the situation unscathed, he would forget
about Fate’s role. He regarded Fate as indifferent and arbitrary, acting according
to some imaginary law. He believed that it could be placated in dire situations
and then ignored afterward. In his youth, he had dismissed the legends of Elnarin
as foolish tales spun by timid bards.
Thus, he went through his life yearning only for one thing—power over
Death. He was terrified of it, fearful of ignorance of his own future. But most of
all, he was haunted by the thought that someday the ghostly phantom of Death
would find him. As he envisioned that dreadful moment, a surge of panic
coursed through his body and madness twisted his face.
That was why he was determined to escape and deceive Death at all costs.
That was why he had to win against Porion at the dice game.
“It’s your turn, Anort,” Bonecracker said.
Ledo kept a watchful eye on Porion, observing intently as the latter passed
the dice to Boney. Even though his face was in shadow, the sinister glint in his
eyes was unmistakable.
“Roll,” Porion muttered. “Let’s see who prevails.”
“We shall see,” Anort gasped.
“Speak,” Bonecracker whispered fearfully, as if anticipating something
ghastly. “Then it’s my turn.”
Boney scowled at him. Ignoring the loud snores of the deckhand and the
whistling of another sailor, he began to speak in hushed tones. His eyes glared,
reflecting the flickering torchlight. The boatswain listened, while Porion stroked
his beard thoughtfully.
“I wish to gain mastery over myself, to be so mighty that Death and all
dangers recoil in fear at my every word.”
He lowered his voice and reflected for a moment. Porion gazed intently into
his eyes, and Boney trembled while scanning the room, feeling a strange chill in
the air. Outside, darkness had gathered, and the torch’s flame flickered uneasily.
Inside the forecastle, Anort’s voice echoed in the enveloping darkness.
“I dream of building a magnificent ship made of nurit—a ship that would
carry only me and be so strong and lightweight that no ocean wave could sink it.
I desire an indestructible vessel that would obey my every command—a ship
that doesn’t even require a crew, a boatswain, a captain, or a deckhand—a ship
that would contain all the riches of the world, my own private oasis. A world
where sickness, death, and enemies are barred from entry. Let this ship be as
unbreakable as a mountain, grand and isolated, standing forever, so that no
power or beast from the underworld or sea demons we encounter on the Silent
Waters could threaten it!”
The boatswain trembled in fear, Bonecracker convulsed with terror, and
Porion stood courageously in his place, like a calm and proud statue inspiring
fear. Ledo noticed his composure and felt a sense of unease; the sailor’s eyes
appeared strange, but even stranger was his face—an expression of mockery
settled on it.
This man is weird! Ledo said to himself, letting his intuition pass judgment.
Shiver me timbers! I don’t know what’s going on, but this entire situation is
unsettling.
He surveyed the three sailors keenly, waiting for one of them to break the
silence. Then Bonecracker said to Anort, “Do you believe Fate will consider
such wishes?”
Anort, who loathed any opposition, replied, “Why wouldn’t it?”
“You are too audacious,” Bonecracker muttered placidly.
Porion chuckled. Anort and Bonecracker turned to him, assuming he would
respond promptly to their dialogue with a humorous remark. Yet he remained
silent, wearing a mysterious smile. It appeared as though he was keeping
something hidden under a veil of secrecy, the truth known solely to him.
“Let me put it this way”—Bonecracker spoke timidly—“and don’t take it
the wrong way, but your dreams … they may never come true. You demand that
your ship be eternal, and Fate and the world … will vanish into nothingness.”
He swallowed, terrified that Boney would become furious. But the man
only whispered bitterly, “Fate will unquestionably heed my call.”
“Fate is an impetus that leads to oblivion,” Porion suddenly interjected.
“Just like our world.”
“Nonsense,” growled Anort. “We are aware that Fate is everlasting and will
ensure my existence in my new realm.”
“You know nothing of the forces that guide our world,” grumbled Porion.
“You don’t know that there is a Power overseeing everything that moves here,
everything visible to you.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Everything! Even
the sea monster that troubled us during the ocean expedition, even … Fate!”
Bonecracker was petrified with fear. Anort knitted his brow, and an
expression of doubt materialized on his face.
“What sort of power is this?” he posed indifferently.
“This Power,” stated Porion, “which originated eons ago, was created
amidst the chaos of the Universe. Through this power our world came into
existence, but it didn’t decree good or evil, only Order—indestructible and
potent—to which everything was subject. However, people emerged who
deemed the Power wicked and opposed it. Then what happened?” He grinned
malevolently. “These people elected a certain Elnarin as their leader. You must
have heard of him?”
“Yes! Yes!” exclaimed Bonecracker. “But He was merely a fictional
character, existing solely in legends.”
“Exactly! He existed only in legends,” interrupted Porion, and a fervent
glint kindled in his eyes. “But why did He exist only in fables? It’s simple! In
order to attract huge masses of people, when these rebels crowned him their
king, they began to invent countless tales that transformed Elnarin into a ruler on
a par with the Power. Wondrous legends circulated regarding Elnarin—legends
so incredible that many believed them. However, they were fallacies, and still
are today. Don’t believe those tales! No one knows precisely what occurred
thousands of years ago, and it’s all the fault of those hypocritical rebels. They
forged a king for themselves! Furthermore, they formulated good and evil that
had never existed previously. These are mere empty notions. And upon creating
this division, they decreed that anyone who obeys the Power will perish, and
those who follow Elnarin will find themselves in His magnificent land. And
that’s how the concepts of good and evil continue to exist today, but only in the
minds of people who blindly believe in them. Power is more potent, for it
brought the world into being, and it will eventually bring about its destruction.
Power controls Fate; it also governs nothingness, as only it can ensure your
sustenance in nothingness and save you from death. Its eternity is unbreakable,
and it governs Order, which it intended to bestow on our world.”
Anort and Bonecracker listened carefully to this discourse. The boatswain
could only wheeze under his breath, and his eyes emitted a suspicious glare.
“So, does this Power rule over Fate?” Boney uttered in a low tone.
“Absolutely,” replied Porion. “You implore Fate to fulfill your aspirations,
but you must realize that it obeys the Power, and it’s the Power that will decide
the ultimate outcome of the game.”
Anger kindled in Anort’s gaze. “How do you know about this Power?” he
asked, a touch of suspicion discernible in his tone.
Bonecracker nodded his massive head. “Yes, tell us, Porion.”
Porion smacked his lips mysteriously. His face was almost entirely
obscured by shadow, the only discernible features being its pallid contours—
uneven lines that evoked anxiety. After a moment, noticing that his companions
were becoming impatient, he spoke in an amused tone.
“I learned about it from a certain Brotherhood of the North, a clandestine
order that roams the Earth. At the time, I was docking in the south, on the island
of Nuraldin, when I crossed paths with them on the seashore near an inn. They
were cloaked and hoods covered their heads. During that time, I served as a
skipper of a small ship named the Rose of the South and was preparing to
embark northward toward Erin. As a privateer, I was tasked with the
transportation of goods—I won’t say what kind of goods, though!—for an
acquaintance of mine. And then, on the eve of setting sail, I glimpsed three
peculiar figures on the shore. I was in the stern observing my crew’s activities
when I felt their gazes upon me. The thought crossed my mind that they were
likely port officials inspecting the cargo or an even worse bunch of people. I
realized they were staring, and I inspected my pocket to assure the presence of
my dagger—good for me! I approached them, anticipating no menacing
developments. Believe me, I hoped for the best. The mere presence of such
characters would unnerve most, but they didn’t intimidate me, for I was already
acquainted with hazards. Inquiringly, I asked my visitors, ‘What brings you,
gentlemen?’”
“And I still hoped for the best! They responded, ‘We come from afar.’”
“Upon hearing this, my anxiety was alleviated; I concealed my mirth,
striving to maintain an earnest veneer. Can you believe it? I achieved that feat!”
“‘And from which land do you hail?’, I inquired courteously.
“They gazed at one another. One approached me and asked, ‘Are you
curious about the Power?’”
“I raised my eyebrows, expressing amazement, yet sarcasm lurked behind
it.
“‘Are you, gentlemen, talking about the Power? Behold! My ship is a
power that can endure any storm. A hundred cyclopes strove to consume me at
sea, yet I eluded them. And these sails! Ah! That is power.’”
“I assumed that my response would discourage them and they would take
their leave. But no! One of them boomed with laughter unexpectedly and
replied, ‘You will suffice. We need brave young men like you. We shall reveal
the Power to you. It exceeds the potency of your ship, Death, and all the laws of
the world! I bet you yearn to encounter it!’”
“I must confess that I was beginning to feel intrigued. A power stronger
than Death? Not shabby! At that point in time, I didn’t believe in any fate or any
force that guided our world. Merely this exchange clarified my thoughts on any
forces beyond our realm.”
“‘We hail from the north. We are the Brotherhood of the North. We
assemble all those inclined to assist us in combating the Rigors, for they have
seized the minds of the public and wrought an unseemly divide. We seek the
chosen ones who will combat the Rebels and reinstate the Order.’”
“Initially I assumed they were idealists, so I listened to their lengthy
discourse with compassion and answered their queries with a condescending
demeanor. However, after some time, their words began to make sense to me.
Their power and conviction spoke to me, and I began to believe them. Yet a
glimmer of suspicion lingered amidst my amalgamated emotions, and I remained
uncertain that what they were stating was not insanity or a mere jest.”
“‘You will trust us,’ one remarked, ‘once you witness this.’”
“I was stilled. Believe me, fear assailed me at that instant when the hooded
figure behind me reached into his breast pocket. Then I scrutinized their faces
more closely. Until then, they hadn’t intimidated me. Swarthy, obscure features,
icy brown eyes, and hooked noses—that much I can recount. However, when the
rogue—rest assured, they were exceedingly tall and brawny—produced
something from his pocket, I don’t know what, their wild, exotic countenances
assumed an unprecedented expression to me, an expression of some kind of
barbarity or ferocity. Fortunately this was only a fleeting impression; then my
vision cleared and they reverted to plain personalities with swarthy visages,
brown eyes, and hooked noses. One of the miscreants retrieved a certain item
from his breast pocket that petrified me. Believe me, there are instances when
we are afraid of certain things that wind up being less harmful than ourselves.
This item turned out to be such a thing. Why, you wonder? Haha. It was the most
ordinary object imaginable. So what was this item, you ask? It was a stone—a
simple, ordinary stone.
“‘This is the stone of nurit,’ the rogue said.
“A sudden wave of elation gripped me. Nurit! My entire life, I had yearned
for nurit, the enchanted metal—the most robust metal on Earth, from which the
mightiest cities and fortresses of the world were built and which harbored covert
powers capable of transmuting human wishes into reality. Sensing my reaction,
he remarked sternly, ‘Remember that this stone confirms our words. Do you
know how nurit was created?’
“I shook my head, unaware of its origins. I had only ever heard about it in
legends and fantastical stories. But I had no inkling as to how this raw material
could have come into existence. I believed that it had always existed. So, here’s
how that day transformed my outlook on all aspects of our world.
“‘Nurit was fashioned by the Power even before the Rebels crowned
Elnarin as their king. It existed to propel progress and amplify Order. It was
intended to safeguard everyone and endow each with strength. When the Rebels
reneged from the Order and devised the Conscience, they resolved to destroy our
metal to banish the spirit that dwelled within it. They were aware it posed a
threat to them, and if they didn’t destroy it, their plan would fail. They declared
war on us, and we, servants of the Power, fought against them. We remember the
bloodshed caused by those wicked Rebels, and this memory fuels our desire for
revenge. Despite the Rebels’ success in destroying much of the nurit, we, the
Messengers of Power, salvaged what was left, and we hid in the southern part of
the eastern continent. There we discovered a rich deposit of the precious metal
and established a mine called Earthenmound. Encouraged by our success, we
continued mining to restore the Order and the Power’s reign. Newer and larger
deposits of nurit appeared before us, increasing our confidence and leading us to
make the decision to destroy the Rebels once and for all. However, the Power
instructed us to wait for the right moment; this moment is approaching slowly
but surely, Porion. A great battle is imminent, and for that reason we have
gathered a large amount of nurit. We travel across the world and distribute to
each Chosen One a stone that grants immense strength. Nurit not only makes
dreams come true and works miracles but also gives strength. Take the stone and
become a friend of the Power.’
“This is how our extraordinary conversation ended. I was too uplifted and
too overwhelmed to say anything or ask any questions. The three wanderers
uttered something while leaving and then moved on. For a long time, I stood
gazing at their outlines in the distance, wheezing like an overheated horse, even
though I hadn’t run even a meter. Their peculiar words rung in my head for so
long that even after I went on board, drank a bottle of rum, talked with the
boatswain, and drank another bottle of rum, I still had a sensation like they had
just left the speakers’ mouths a moment earlier. And I clutched the nurit stone
tightly in my hand. I changed completely. I saw the truth, and now, my
comrades, I share it with you. The Brotherhood of the North is still active. The
last time I encountered its members was a few years ago, when I was on the
Great Lake. I’m also waiting for the same moment that the Power has in mind.
I’ve become a zealous supporter of the Brotherhood. And this is what they told
me and what I’m telling you now—the Order that once collapsed through the
fault of the Rebels must be restored. It was they who created this idol—
Conscience! As for Elnarin— He is a figurehead, a puppet, a hero of legends and
fairy tales for children. Do you believe me now? Do you believe that there is the
Power that all of the world, sea demons, Fate, and events are subject to?”
A deafening silence greeted him. Bonecracker stared blankly at the
dwindling torch flame and Anort fidgeted with the dice in his hand, forgetting to
make a throw to determine if his desires would be granted by Fate. They were
greatly surprised. Did they believe Porion? His story made them feel uneasy. A
powerful chant echoed in their souls, its source unknown yet magnificent. Their
bodies were overcome with feverish elation, their eyes inflamed with fire. Porion
watched them intently, then snorted. “Have you lost your tongues?”
Suddenly Anort came out of his lethargy, his eyes sparking with derision, a
smile crossing his lips. Those sparks were recognizable to any sailor on the
Nefelgar, even in the dark of night.
“What? What were you saying, Porion?” he asked, feigning warmth.
“You ought to wake up Bonecracker,” muttered Porion grimly. “Looks like
he’s having too much fun listening to stories.”
“Hey, Bonecracker,” hissed Anort. “What’s the matter with you?”
Bonecracker remained unmoving until he received a punch in his stomach,
causing him to slowly open his eyes and whisper something inaudible. A strange
whiteness washed over his face, as though he had been sickly and without food
for days. Boney gazed at him with concern. “Bonecracker, what’s up with you?
Are you all right?”
The sailor murmured something unintelligible in response. Porion and
Anort gave each other a questioning look and shrugged.
“Let him be,” Porion said. “Maybe he’s just had enough. Nothing is more
tiring than listening to boring stories.” He laughed.
Anort gave him a stern look. “He appears different,” he said roughly.
“Something is amiss, but what? Is it because of the cold? Indeed, it is very chilly,
isn’t it?”
Porion muttered something in reply. Anort scanned the forecastle, his eyes
settling on a partially open door through which a soft swish of wind blew. The
piercing frost outside penetrated to the bone, carrying with it an eerie darkness
that seemed to deepen at the entrance. The silence on the ship was as profound
as that of an ancient tomb. An inexplicable sense of foreboding lingered in the
air, felt by all in the forecastle. Bonecracker, in particular, was seized by a
mysterious tremor.
The torch flame was slowly dying out. Anort fixed his gaze on it while
Ledo stared from his hiding place, first at the flame’s pale glow trembling and
rippling in the shadows of the forecastle, then at the darkness pressing in through
the half-open door. Fear crept into his heart, and the pain he felt grew
increasingly intense. He momentarily forgot where he was and why. When he
had recovered from the sudden numbness of his mind, he fluttered, clinging to
the cold wall as he covered his mouth with his hands.
Porion remained silent, eyes fixed on the flickering flame while Anort
grunted softly.
“The torch is going out … give me a flint and a firesteel. It’s awfully dark
in here.”
Porion gave him a hard stare. “It will go out anyway.”
“It will go out anyway!” Boney interjected in a squawking voice. “Like
that’s something! We won’t be sitting in the dark, I guess. It’s so dark that even
Bonecracker can feel it. Brr! And it’s cold! Just give me the flint and firesteel,
will you?”
“I can’t actually,” Porion said nonchalantly. “The darkness is already here.
Can’t you hear its voice? Soon it will consume the light. And you, dear Anort,
haven’t finished your game of dice. What are you waiting for? Roll! We must
find out if your wishes are to be regretted or not.” He twisted his lips into a
contemptuous grin.
Anort fixed him with a sharp gaze but refrained from retaliating. After a
few moments, he responded, “The game can wait but the torch can’t.”
“The night cannot wait either, so you must finish the game. Its voice is
calling you from beyond. Roll the dice,” Porion insisted.
Bonecracker groaned, glancing over at the torch. A shadow loomed over it,
gradually snuffing out the flame. The sight appeared to terrorize Bonecracker,
for every time he looked at it, he trembled with fear, his face flushed, and
incoherent moans escaped from his lips. Boney regarded him in amazement,
then leaned in and whispered into his ear, “What’s up with you? You act like
you’ve just seen a demon or a cyclops. After all, you and danger are as thick as
thieves, so why are you petrified by simple darkness? Say something! Come
on … what are you saying? I don’t get it! Look into my eyes—who am I? Anort?
Correct, but now tell me what’s scaring you so much.”
“Ease up on him,” Porion interjected. “You don’t grasp the gravity of our
situation. A grand scheme is under way, and I must ensure its success. Don’t
bother him. Can’t you see he’s talking to the darkness?”
Boney snorted. “What darkness? What the heck are you talking about?”
“You understand nothing, Anort, nothing at all.”
“What am I supposed to understand? Stop talking rubbish! It’s obvious that
something is wrong with him, and he’s clearly not feeling well. I can’t make out
anything from what he says. So just be quiet, for pity’s sake!”
With that, he approached Bonecracker, still holding the three dice tightly in
his hand. A fake smile crept across his face—an attempt to cheer up poor, ailing
Bonecracker. He cleared his throat and addressed him in a soothing, gentle voice
that resembled the creak of an old chair. “Calm yourself, Bonecracker. You’ve
been through worse; you’ve seen worse things. Do you remember the Silent
Waters near that cursed archipelago where we were ambushed by Balgaurs? Tell
me you remember.”
Bonecracker nodded, but the shadow of horror remained on his face.
“Good,” continued Anort. “And do you remember the sight of the massive
conflagration on the horizon as we left Ermergotrin? A conflagration is a
phenomenon that even the bravest sailors fear. But you weren’t afraid when it
came after us. You must remember that.”
“I do,” muttered Bonecracker.
“And what about the roar of the whale on the northern waters? That same
roar that caused many of us to go crazy? You fought on, even though that roar
made you lose control of your own body and mind. You must have been very
brave to resist it. Admit it,” he said, receiving a soft grunt in acknowledgment.
“So tell me, what do you see that is so dreadful? What is so terrifying that you
can’t stop shaking? Tell me! You’ve been in worse situations before, haven’t
you? What did you say? I can’t hear; speak louder and clearer. You’re mumbling.
Come on, man, speak up!”
But Bonecracker only muttered some words. Anort grew frustrated, and the
gentle smile vanished from his face.
“It’s your fault, Porion,” he snarled through gritted teeth. “Ever since you
told that story about the Brotherhood of the North, he’s been behaving oddly.
You’ve driven him mad, and I have no idea what’s wrong. Do something! You
just sit there and stare at me with no concern. The game is over for now. We
must help him!”
“Be quiet,” Porion muttered.
Boney opened his mouth to respond.
“Be quiet,” Porion repeated, “and listen to what he’s saying. Do you think I
did something to him? Just wait and see!”
Anort clenched his fists, restraining his anger. He leaned closer to
Bonecracker to hear him better. Bonecracker spoke a word softly, but it was too
faint for Anort to hear. “Speak louder!” he growled.
Driven by the threat, Bonecracker groaned in pain, and the word he
muttered froze Boney.
“Darkness!”
Anort furrowed his brow and turned toward Porion. “He’s sick! We must
act quickly. First let me use your flint, firesteel, and oil that I know you carry in
your pockets. If Bonecracker is afraid of the dark then we can’t let the torch go
out, the flame is getting weaker. What are you waiting for? Look at him; I’ve
never seen him like this before.” He stood up and approached the flickering
torch. “The flame is already dying,” he muttered with contempt. “I wish I had
that darn flint with me, then this wouldn’t be a problem.” He glanced over at
Porion, who remained motionless, eerily calm and serene.
“Can’t you at least help me move Bonecracker to his berth?” Boney lashed
out. “He’s sick. You don’t care about anything!” He muttered a few more curses,
then added in an even more forceful tone, “Give me your flint, firesteel, and oil.
I need to light this torch.”
Porion stood up and crossed his arms, his face hidden in the shadows.
“Can’t you see that you’re disturbing Bonecracker?” he said. “He’s not sick. He
is transforming. He’s falling asleep. And the torch must go out so that darkness
can reign in the forecastle. Your task is different, my dear Anort, your task is to
finish the game of dice. Otherwise the grand scheme will be lost.”
Anort furrowed his brow, worried. He did not know what to do.
Bonecracker’s behavior was strange, but Porion’s attitude was even more
perplexing. He pondered the situation, as he always did when confronted with a
problem.
Porion is crazy, he thought, and Bonecracker … is even more unsettling.
Something needs to be done. But what should I do? Shiver me timbers! I won’t
stand here foolishly staring at a dying torch. Bonecracker must be ill and needs
proper care. I can’t rely on Porion, because he’s out of his mind, talking crazy
things. It was the same when Enidor was plagued by something. He said even
more bizarre things. It’d be great if he was acting better now, but since I can’t
rely on him …
And then he had a sudden realization. It filled him with so much energy and
spirit that he burst out laughing uproariously in his mind while crossing his arms.
After a brief moment, he spoke up.
“I’m going to awaken the crew, Porion, since you won’t help me. They will
take care of him, especially Vedron. He knows a lot about illnesses. You’ve
spoken enough today about all those Powers and Orders and such. Well, don’t
stare at me like a statue then. Wake everyone up!”
He was on the verge of screaming, about to approach the nearest sailor and
poke him in the shoulder. He was going to shake the entire ship when Porion
suddenly raised his hand and hissed in a threatening tone, “Don’t do that. Can’t
you see they’re sleeping?”
“That’s precisely why I want to yell!” Anort snorted. “To wake them up!”
“Well, they won’t. The dream of darkness has engulfed them. Step back and
be quiet.”
A look of intense concentration appeared on Porion’s face. However, Anort
was annoyed by his words and retorted, “Porion, my patience is wearing thin!”
“The darkness is about to overpower the light. A grand scheme will be
accomplished,” Porion whispered like someone in a state of intoxication. “Then
everyone will be prisoners of the dark dream forever. Perish, flame of illusions!
Perish, deity of the Rebels!”
And suddenly he came up to Anort and stabbed him in the chest with his
finger. Ominous flames burned in Porion’s face, and his disheveled hair seemed
to ripple in the cold breeze. His lips turned blue, and his cheeks were as red as a
beetroot. It was not his face or eyes that frightened Boney. It was the terrifying
cold that emanated from him, a cold that penetrated to the bone, the cold of the
grave and the dead, the kind of cold that brings death. Anort froze and
swallowed. He felt so numb that he could not move from his seat.
“What are you doing?” he moaned. “Help! Enidor!”
Porion smiled dismissively. “Don’t resist the darkness, the grand scheme
will soon be accomplished. Even Enidor is a part of it. You call him in vain.
Don’t bother, Boney.” Porion shook his finger, which looked like that of a
withered corpse’s. “I say again, don’t bother.”
Boney whispered something to himself and shifted uneasily. Porion
continued mockingly.
“Enidor met with me often. Remember the day he collapsed? Remember his
strange illness? He suffered from all sorts of illusions. He was like a little sapling
that needed to be transplanted elsewhere because it was too weak to put down
roots and survive in the wilderness on its own. So he surrendered to a greater
power. Enidor was closer to darkness than you are. Poor Enidor! He fought
against its power for three years. He fought the shadow that haunted us on the
Silent Waters; he fought it even when it wasn’t there, don’t you remember,
Anort? And when he saw me at the door of his cabin, he fainted. Now he’s on
the brink of the ultimate darkness. You see, Anort, Enidor and all of you were
supposed to fall into this dream. That’s why you went to sea. I’ve had three years
to capture you, and I haven’t wasted any time during those three years. Are you
frightened, Anort? Why? Do I look so scary? Don’t be afraid. That sea demon,
as you called it, wasn’t dangerous at all, but you made it dangerous. The
darkness sent it to lead you to the edge of the dark dream. It’s here, very close.
Can you hear its whispers? Say yes, dear Anort, it will come soon.”
Boney let out a muffled groan. “Who are you, Porion?”
“I am …” Porion smirked maliciously. “I am a subject of darkness. Does
that scare you? You’ve seen scarier things! You’re shaking, Boney, but I can tell
you’re not cold. It’s necessary for you to lose your warmth; it’s necessary for
you to lose your life. Then you will become a servant of the night.”
“I don’t want to,” Anort howled, wanting to flee, but his legs refused to
obey him.
“You don’t want to?” pondered Porion. “How can you not want to when
you’ve longed for darkness all your life? Or did you not know that? Do you
think the darkness has been deaf to your prayers? I know your desires, I know
your pleas to Fate. Fate serves the darkness, and you have willingly subjected
yourself to it. Do you deny it? How can you contradict your own words, your
own wishes?”
“No! I’m not a bloody servant of darkness!” gasped Anort anxiously,
though a hint of anger and aggression seeped into his voice. “You’re lying!
You’re nothing but a liar!”
“I’m not lying,” Porion retorted harshly, and such iciness emanated from his
eyes that it froze Anort’s strength. He felt as if his body was gradually becoming
chilled, as if he was falling into a dark and endless abyss. He could not escape
this spell! His heart beat slower and slower; his blood congealed, his arms and
legs grew numb—the darkness was greedily absorbing the last remnants of
warmth out of him as it consumed his remaining life. He gazed with desperation
at the torch flame and froze. The flame was already so faint that its glow
illuminated only a small portion of the forecastle. Anort felt as though
everything around him—the sailors, berths, equipment, floor, walls, and ceiling
—had all dissolved into an impenetrable, unfathomable abyss. He was now in a
greater predicament than he had ever experienced in his life. He sensed, with
every fiber of his being enveloped in the flames of fear, that when this feeble
flame was extinguished, the darkness would devour him, along with the
forecastle and the slumbering sailors on the Nefelgar.
No, no. His will, his heart, his mind, and all his senses gathered strength
and cried out in desperation, pleading in a frenzy. They did not wish to perish!
But the chill intensified, encroaching upon his heart. Anort’s feet and hands were
numb. The dreadful cold gradually crept over his body, and a helpless dread
uttered its final moans, its last frenzied breaths of life, as it saw the shadow of
eternal night drawing nearer.
“Begone!” whispered Anort.
“I don’t lie.” Porion chuckled nonchalantly. “You chose your fate. I told you
that you were my subject, but you didn’t believe me. Now you will see that I was
right. The grand scheme is nearly complete. Bonecracker has nearly fallen
asleep. The rest will slowly and painlessly slip into the dream of darkness. The
torch will soon fade out, and you will no longer see the light of dawn.”
“I don’t want that. I want to see the light, always!”
Porion huffed in disdain. “Light? Is that what you desire so much? You
have served the darkness, how can you now beg for light? You have lived in the
shadows, and now you cry out for a little light? You won’t receive it. The
darkness is true to its word. I said I’m not lying. You must go through what I
went through after meeting the Brotherhood of the North. To become like me,
you must pass through the gate of death. You will no longer require the warmth
of your body. You have chosen the path of the night, so now the night summons
you. You have followed nurit, its creation, and you shall be rewarded. Behold,
the night is calling you. Let it embrace you into itself. You have rejected the
dawn your whole life, and thus the night has claimed you as its servant. Now
that the time has come, you cannot be an ally of the light. To be an ally of
darkness, you must detest the light. Something is changing inside you; it doesn’t
matter why. It’s too late for you to see the light anyway. Eternal darkness awaits
you.”
A cold smile formed on his lips.
“Do you feel fear? I felt it too,” he muttered bitterly. “You saw your last
dawn as children. But the world killed your joy. Do you remember everything,
Anort? Soon you will see your own memories reflected in an eternal mirror.
Look … soon this feeble flame will fade, and you and your companions will be
consumed by darkness. The Power will welcome you with delight. And Enidor
will already be waiting for you in the darkness. Believe me, Anort … he should
have been there long ago.”
Porion let out a relieved sigh. His pallid countenance became even more
gruesome, and his eyes still held a lifeless glint. After a moment he added in a
hushed voice, “Roll the dice, Anort. It’s necessary to complete the grand scheme
before you pass on to another life.”
“I don’t want any darkness!” Anort protested with all his remaining
strength, for his heart was beating slower and slower, and the penetrating cold
was gnawing at his bones.
“It’s too late,” replied Porion. “I’ll go to the door and open it so that
darkness may enter. I’ve waited for this moment for so long, and you shouldn’t
hesitate. There is nothing you can do. It is better to roll the dice. Fate may hear
you.”
A dark silence engulfed them, deeper than any other silence in the world.
The torch’s flame flickered in the grip of darkness, struggling like a swallow
caught by a hungry hawk. It cowered at the sight of the swollen shadows
strutting triumphantly around the forecastle, intoxicated by its impending
demise.
“You see, Anort”—Porion spoke slowly as he approached the door of the
cabin—“flame, fire, light, spark—they are the words of a fool, a fleeting
moment to be forgotten. To truly comprehend their brevity and weakness, you
must witness their slow death. I saw your life stretched out in the span of a
moment, as well as the lives of your comrades, the entire crew of the Nefelgar. I
beheld your desires, your thoughts, your actions. You wished for a ship of nurit,
for the gifts of darkness, and so you shall have them all according to your will.
No harm will come to you. When you stand on the other side of the river, on the
cold shore where there is no life, you will face the truth. You have lived as a
sailor of darkness, so you will become one there, on the other side of the river.
You will ferry our sailors on your ship. I will tell you no more, dear Anort, but I
am overjoyed that the grand scheme will soon be finished. I initiated it from the
moment I boarded the Nefelgar. For three years I sailed with you, leading you
into darkness, guiding you through countless oceans. I was silent and listened to
the voice of darkness. The darkness and the Power of which I spoke are one.” He
let out a mocking laugh and slowly walked toward the door. “And soon, the great
war that has raged for centuries shall come to a close. The Rebels shall perish
and pay the price for their truth. For I’m the messenger of Order, which is
mightier than their truth. Their truth holds little significance. My truth is virtue
and greatness. I could impart more knowledge to you, dear Anort, but I know
you don’t wish to hear it, for you are feeling something remarkable. That’s why
I’m going to refrain from lofty speeches and discourses. For I’m aware that
when you arrive on the other side of the river, where perpetual darkness holds
sway, where solitude and hopelessness reign supreme, you will see the apparition
of everything. You will learn what I don’t wish to disclose to you now, because I
desire that you enter the darkness unsuspecting, alone, forsaken, and tormented,
knowing that the dawn will never illuminate your sight. Look ahead! You can
barely see, I know … the shadow of death has obstructed your vision.”
Porion halted by one of the sailors, who gasped laboriously, seemingly
exhausted even in his slumber. Porion regarded his closed eyes, almost inflamed,
drenched in sweat and quivering. A venomous smile played across his face.
“He’s also crossing the river,” he stated. “Good old Vedron. An excellent
archer. I’ve known him for a long time. I understand what he yearned for, what
he pursued. How his life transmuted into worthlessness! He lived in darkness—
and he shall pass on in darkness. I still recollect his mother, the old cow, who bid
him farewell when we departed from Agramant on our campaign. I remember
the expression of longing and agony on her visage. You cannot fathom the fear I
experienced when I beheld her regal features. There was an indescribable
elegance on her countenance. Her eyes were veiled with a mist of passion, and
her lips murmured words of a sentiment that I neither comprehend nor empathize
with—and that I despise. She spoke with fervent emotion, and those words
persistently echo within me, filling me with revulsion. That woman was odd—
exceedingly peculiar. I scrutinized her with the diligence of an observer. But let
me recount what I witnessed as I stood by, tracking her movements as she bade
farewell to her son. I was vigilant and perceptive, striving to unravel her
enigma.”
He turned to look at Vedron’s countenance, which was adorned with the
shades of agony and the dwindling gleam of a dying torch. He sneered and
resumed speaking. However, Anort comprehended little of his words, for the
chill was already seeping into his heart. He simply gazed at Porion with a
blurred, frozen stare. And Porion spoke quietly, with disdain, glorying in his
superiority over all the sailors who were descending into the slumber of
darkness, passing to the other shore under his tutelage, and smiled victoriously,
paying no heed to the dwindling light, which glimmered serenely and
confidently, as if instilled with the assurance of eternity, smoldering amidst the
shadows of the forecastle.
“And so I beheld the woman, yet I couldn’t discern what was concealed
beneath her visage. Everyone was boarding at that time. Vedron stood near me. I
recall the grin on his youthful face. He was composed and cheerful, though he
concealed his sentiments. He masked them beneath a veneer of aloofness, which
I detected numerous times on our marvelous voyage, and he gazed upon his
mother. However, you see, he had already plunged into the obscurity of his
craving, the obscurity of the night that awaited his consumption. Had he stayed
with his mother, her enigmatic power would have thwarted the invasion of
darkness. For Vedron lacked the inner fortitude to safeguard himself from the
grip of darkness, thus he found himself aboard the ship where I commenced my
grand scheme. I sneered at the individuals who stood on the shore enveloped in
their own bliss, saving no tears of ardency. I scrutinized their figures for a long
time as they gradually retreated from the vessel, which, propelled by the wind,
was advancing toward its fate. Nonetheless, the woman’s visage still intimidated
me, and I finally understood why; there was great fortitude within her.
Nevertheless, this strength didn’t emanate from darkness, for then I would have
deemed her my sister—it stemmed from the light. I was consumed with great
apprehension, as I was unwilling for any of you to be excluded from my grand
scheme. I wanted all of you. Luckily, I swiftly dispelled my anxieties as we
caught the northern wind and promptly set course for the distant shores, the
coasts of the Old Island. I was already aware that Vedron was out of sight of his
mother, and she, engulfed in the radiance of the daylight, was incapable of doing
anything. She was my enemy. Her final gaze no longer unsettled me. It no longer
possessed its strength and began to fade into a shadow of oblivion, and let me
tell you, it alarmed me. It had both insight and a calm demeanor. I knew she had
seen something—something that can be read in every being. Fortunately, we
quickly moved away and all fears of the incident ceased to plague me, for before
us unfolded the majesty of the ocean, whose deep purple hue was unmatched in
grandeur. The night, its mantle already spreading in the distance, invisible to the
naked eye, added to the vastness that lay before us. This is the completion of the
grand scheme, Anort. Your time is almost over. Do you see how dark it is? Well,
my friend, I won’t say much more, for I know you are exhausted. The last
seconds can feel like an eternity, but don’t worry, they will pass in the end and
you will cross over to the other side.”
With those words, he moved away from the sleeping Vedron toward the
open door, letting in a cold and dense darkness that froze the walls of the
forecastle and caused steam to rise from the sleeping sailors’ mouths. Outside, a
whirlwind roared like a judge passing the final verdict. In this cold and dim
desolation, the light faded, dragging down with it the souls of the ship, all bound
to sleep.
Porion looked out of the door before he turned back to Anort and said, “The
night is thick.”
There was only silence as a man fought for his life.
“Enidor is preparing to jump already,” Porion said, paying no attention to
the muffled groans of Anort or the loud breathing of the sailors. “Look at him!
He stands like a statue, so proud yet so foolish. Soon he’ll find himself in the
dangerous currents of the Emnur River, with the nurit stone, which he served
like a dog, tied to his heart. Let him jump!”
Porion’s gaze raked across the ship, traversing every corner; it ventured into
the open hatch; it rested on the stern to embrace everything with its cold. The
birds perched on the masts and the crow’s nest took flight, sensing something
menacing in the atmosphere. Even they could feel Porion’s coldness as it
enveloped every inch of the vessel.
But when Porion glanced at Enidor and noticed that he was not moving at
all, and that his figure was cooling down in the same pose as a few seconds ago,
he was very surprised. He muttered something under his breath, however the
young tracker did not even flinch.
“What the hell?” Porion growled and looked back.
The light of the torch was already fading and only a few seconds were left.
Porion was aware of this and looked at the torch and at Enidor. But even though
the flame had shrunk to a tiny spark and was about to disappear into the
impenetrability of darkness, Enidor, instead of leaning over the port bulwark
stood still—motionless as a boulder. Astonishment shook Porion’s heart.
“What the hell is he doing?” he whispered angrily. “Jump! Let the water
swallow you.”
The young sailor stood motionless like a sculpted marble figure. Then
Porion noticed something unexpected that sent shivers down his spine and fear
flashing through his heart. In a fit of madness, he raced toward the torch, then
stood still for a moment, perhaps uttering some unintelligible words under his
breath, even though the wind howling outside and the foaming waters below
would not have understood. Clenching his teeth in rage, his face contorted with a
spasm of despair, leaving him feeling small and powerless in the enveloping
darkness. As the torch flickered and threatened to sputter out, Porion was struck
with amazement and ran for the door, completely disregarding the sailors, who
breathed more slowly, and Anort, who sensed something strange in his heart.
Upon reaching the exit, he looked out into the ominous night and was seized by
horror. Something tore at him, and he felt the compulsion to scream, but all that
escaped him was a muffled grunt. Despite trying to take refuge in the dwindling
darkness, Porion felt compelled to keep his eyes open and look ahead.
“The dawn is coming,” he murmured in a half whisper.
Indeed it was; however, it was the dawn of souls.
With a desperate sprint, he raced into the depths of the forecastle and stood
beside Anort, who held the dice in his hand.
“You were meant to roll the dice, you idiot, as soon as the torch burned
out,” he whispered with a tremor of fear. “Death was supposed to take those dice
from you! What is going on?”
The end had finally arrived, and Porion was paralyzed with fear. The time
for death had come, and he knew it.
“Disappear, you wretched torch of fools,” he growled, urging the flame to
die.
To his surprise, the flame did not go out; instead, a strange thing occurred.
It became still, compact, and silent, no longer flickering or spinning in the wind.
The stillness was overwhelming, as if a force more powerful than night and
darkness had commanded the momentum of time to cease.
Suddenly the small flame erupted into thick smoke that encircled the entire
torch. Moments later, a massive flame roared forth, scorching the interior of the
room with its fierce, crackling heat. The shadows cowered in the face of such
brightness, recoiling to the door. The light was too harsh and blinding for them
to stay near. There was a low, raspy hiss in the background. The darkness began
crawling out of the forecastle, assaulted by the rays of the powerful light. Porion
was breathless, shielding his eyes with his hands as he staggered out of the
cabin, overwhelmed by a sense of defeat. Soon he disappeared into the darkness
of the night.
Chapter VI
CHOIR OF SAILORS
Anort gasped in exhaustion as the frigid cold that had gripped his veins and
drained his warmth dissipated unexpectedly. The touch of light awoke his mind,
refreshing his senses. As he took a deep breath, he looked around the forecastle,
but his vision was weak and his eyes struggled to focus. Indistinct outlines
flickered before him, distorted by a hazy mist. The torch’s blazing light
resembled a feeble ball gyrating to an unknown rhythm. He blinked a few times,
but the image did not sharpen; instead it distorted further, resembling a collage
of shadows, silvery dots, and colored spots. These shapes converged and split
apart into a thousand different forms, swirling across the space before him,
blending with the swarm of shadows and illusions. Anort noticed that these
shapes were moving aimlessly in the space encircled by his gaze, but it felt as if
they were observing him too. One form glided to the front of the throbbing
cluster, revealing more distinct outlines. He tried to focus on it, but it was still
draped in the mist, and only faint features gave it a resemblance to a human
form. Meanwhile, the rest of the shapes pressed closely behind it. Anort heard
some distant murmurs, but he was powerless to act, unsure of what was
happening to him. He looked around, but nothing became clear; he listened, but
no sound reached his ears with any clarity. Was he experiencing something real,
the start of something terrible, or was it only a dream? Every thought he tried to
hold on to slipped away, and all memories vanished entirely. He remained in a
void, a tiny husk at the mercy of an unknown force.
*
The sailors crowded around him, looking into his eyes, touching him, walking
around him, and inspecting his surroundings. They glanced at the torch and
found that it was burning with an unimaginably large flame. They clambered
around their hammocks and berths, looking out from the forecastle, and muttered
in amazement. As the hustle and bustle outside rose in volume, it was slowly
waking up the rest of the crew.
The sailors had yet to cool down or shake off the ominous memories of
what they had seen. Fear still gripped them and they trembled with anxiety.
One thing was clear to them; they had all shared the same dream.
“I saw darkness that spoke incoherent words to me and led me to the river!”
exclaimed one sailor.
“Me too,” echoed another.
“That darkness brought me to the shore,” continued the first, “and
commanded me to go into the water. But, you see, fear overcame me and I
hesitated. Then it became quiet and I noticed some movement around me, so I
looked left and right. All around me everything was moving; the dead grass, the
pebbles by the water, debris that may have been a ship—everything seemed to be
in motion. I stared in amazement at the river before me, transfixed by its
strangeness. Do you understand what I’m saying? It was strange … but also
dead, and its icy water filled me with terror, leaving me gasping for breath. As I
watched, the river drew closer and I couldn’t comprehend what was happening.
What the hell? The darkness that surrounded me remained eerily silent, watching
me with its unseeing eyes. I gazed at the debris scattered nearby and realized that
it was already well behind me. I was stunned, and then I looked at the river.
Shiver me timbers! It was moving toward me! What does this devil want? Again
I looked at the debris and stones scattered on the bank and more fear gripped me.
I’m not a coward, but this time I panicked. I admit it. As I gazed at the river, it
seemed to move closer—its murky waters threatening to submerge me
completely. Then, to my horror, I noticed that my legs were moving me closer to
the water, seemingly of their own accord! I tried in vain to control them, but they
had other ideas. And amidst all this, the darkness continued to loom silently,
watching me with its strange eyes. Such a profound and overwhelming fear took
hold of me that I was convinced I would surely collapse! Suddenly the darkness
let out a terrible laugh. I was gripped with such terror that I fought to break away
from its invisible grasp, struggling like a fish trapped in a net, but to no avail. It
refused to release me. What the hell? As I was about to find myself submerged
in the water, I heard a loud voice booming ‘Begone!’ The voice had a sense of
calm authority that momentarily pushed my fear aside. The darkness hissed back
with a loud sound, and in an instant I returned to my place. The river, debris, and
the darkness all vanished, and I found myself back in the cabin staring at the
torch, now blazing like the sun. Phew! I’ve never had such a dreadful dream—
no, it was a nightmare—of that I’m absolutely certain. It wasn’t just a regular
dream; it felt like a horrifying reality.”
As he stamped his foot authoritatively, there were murmurs of agreement
among the sailors. They nodded and expressed their alarm.
“Snouty, you’re right!”
“I saw the river as well, but I didn’t want to go in the water,” chimed in a
tall sailor sporting a large shirt and a tricorn hat.
Then a young sailor wearing a doublet and clutching a bow spoke up, his
voice trembling with fatigue. “Snouty is talking about the same thing we’ve all
experienced. How is it possible that we all dreamed of the darkness at the same
time, telling us to go to the water? It must be some kind of sorcery!”
“Besides …” exclaimed a short sailor, so short that he only reached the
young sailor’s waist. “Besides, everyone can agree that the dream was genuine,
as if it was actually happening.”
“Exactly, exactly!” the others agreed enthusiastically.
“And,” continued the short sailor, “I assume everyone would concur that
the frost, which descended upon us from the river, was so real that our hands
began to freeze. I still feel that chill now—my hands were so frozen, and the
memory of that river still haunts me. I can still visualize it before my eyes and
feel the cold. I have to rub my hands vigorously, because they are still numb.
Can’t you feel it?”
Everyone started examining their hands in amazement. Some stated that
their fingers were numb, but the warmth of the burning torch had already
warmed them up, while others claimed that their hands were still cold and they
were trying to warm them. A great commotion ensued. Voices of disbelief
mingled with those convinced that something terrible had happened.
“I assure you, it wasn’t a dream,” Snouty reiterated passionately.
“It couldn’t have been,” remarked another. “We heard that voice Snouty
talked about. The voice that said ‘Begone!’, right?”
“And we were all on the banks of that strange river.”
“This is no dream. It’s something worse!”
“It’s impossible that we all dreamt about the same thing.”
“It can’t be a coincidence,” the young sailor said firmly, still with the bow
in his hand, “I’m telling you. Believe me, as an archer, the moment that darkness
started pulling me toward the river, I wanted to grab my bow and shoot at it. I’m
telling you, I would have done it if only I’d had it with me. But I didn’t have it. I
always keep it with me and never leave it anywhere. Even now, I have it.”
Snouty snickered and asked, “Do you think you could kill this darkness
with one shot, Vedron? It’s impossible!”
At Snouty’s sarcastic question, a new round of shouting began.
“It wasn’t a dream,” some repeatedly exclaimed.
“But there must be some explanation.” Only a few proposed such a
reasoning. “We can still find a way to explain this strange occurrence—it could
be a coincidence.”
Then an argument broke out, punctuated by anger and threats that were
thrown around. The angry sailors sought to explain their judgments and
questioned the dream’s supernatural character. Amidst mocking glances,
menacing chuckles, offensive words, shrieks, and hisses, rage burned like
flames. In the midst of such a tumultuous situation, Snouty’s voice boomed the
loudest, standing beside Vedron, the silent archer, leaning on his royal bow with
an expression of pain and dignity.
“I’m telling you, this dream was no ordinary phenomenon,” Snouty
declared.
“Better keep your mouth shut, you old geezer!” retorted the others.
But the majority stood up for Snouty with an almost heroic zeal. One could
tell from their furrowed brows and tense expressions that fire burned in their
hearts and was ready to explode. Things took a dangerous turn as they began to
push and shout, waving their arms wildly, threatening, “I’ll break your bones!”
“And I’ll make you smell my fists up close!”
Suddenly one of them made a move but was stopped by the last person they
expected—Ledo the boatswain.
“What in the blazes are you doing, you fools?” he asked, calm and
collected.
Silence fell over the group and they froze in a moment. Only the young
Okoros, one of the strongest sailors, muttered something under his breath. The
others knew well that the “ruler of the ship” demanded respect and submission,
and they knew better than to mess with him.
The boatswain wiped his forehead and crossed his arms over his chest, his
expression becoming even more menacing.
“What the hell is going on, you rabble? Speak up, Vedron. You’re the only
one among these idiots who seems to maintain a sense of seriousness.”
The words hung in the air as everyone held their breath. The boatswain is
talking about seriousness? The group had fallen into line, stupefied and docile in
the face of his authority.
Approaching the boatswain, Vedron whispered in his ear, “You don’t even
know what happened to us!”
In reply, Ledo murmured in a voice heavy with sorrow, “I wish you knew
what happened to me.”
Vedron took a step back, surprised by his response, realizing that there must
be something painful buried deep in the boatswain’s past. He was not the same
old jolly sailor anymore; he now looked older, quieter, and more serious. Before
he could say anything more, Ledo came out of his melancholy thoughts, grunting
softly, and said in a cold tone, “I don’t know what’s going on here, but you’ve all
seen Anort, haven’t you? He doesn’t look well, and you’re busy arguing.
Shouldn’t we try and help him? Hurry up and get the captain. We need a medic.
Hey, you lazy monkey”—he directed his stern gaze toward young Okoros
—“stop wasting your time and get moving. Anort looks like he’s seen Death—
and believe me, it might be true.”
He uttered the last sentence with such seriousness that it sunk in, so the
crew sprang into action, bustling around the cabin.
Ledo sat down beside the trembling Anort and assessed his condition with a
scrutinizing eye. His forehead furrowed with concern, giving his face an air of
profound sadness. He whispered some words of comfort to Anort, but the sailor
remained on his knees, shivering violently and wild-eyed, as if sensing an
impending storm. The boatswain placed a comforting hand on his shoulder and
whispered in his ear before standing up and looking at him with care and sorrow
in his eyes. Pensive for a moment, he sat back down and waved his hands in
front of Anort’s unfocused eyes. Seeing that a more severe expression did not
seem to stimulate Anort, the boatswain stood up and shook him gently, repeating
softly so that no one but him could hear the words, “Wake up. It’s me, boatswain
Ledo. It’s all over now. There’s no danger, no darkness.”
However, Anort remained unresponsive. His breathing was labored, his face
a picture of fear, his groans unintelligible.
Frustrated, the boatswain eventually shouted, “Medic! Where are you, you
old rogue? Scallywag! Call Tharol! Have him check out Anort.”
Scallywag, a rough-looking fellow with an air of menace about him,
stepped up, his insolence thick in his voice, and muttered under his breath before
asking bluntly, “What?”
“Call Tharol immediately! Anort doesn’t look good. I think it’s more than
just a disease. I don’t even know what to call this condition. It’s as if he’s
conversing with the dar—” The boatswain bit his tongue. His face reddened as
he held back his own confusion, and a fleeting smile disappeared as quickly as it
had appeared, replaced by a look of deep concern. “Well, just bring Tharol,” he
muttered softly.
Scallywag furrowed his brow and walked away without a word, his bulky
frame making a heavy sound as his footsteps retreated into the night, vanishing
into the shadows. The boatswain sighed in despair and gazed at Anort
compassionately.
Meanwhile, the sailors huddled together like a flock of frightened
partridges, lost and bewildered. Chaos reigned supreme, without anyone taking
charge of the situation. Scallywag did not return, and everyone crowded into the
cabin, some looking outside, others examining the torch with curiosity, while
some whispered among themselves. They appeared like a group of tradeswomen,
as the boatswain would certainly have called them if only he had been in the
mood. But he was with Anort, his eyes fixed on the ground, patiently waiting for
Tharol. His face wore an expression of helplessness, akin to a lost child, lost in a
dark reverie as he blocked out the chatter around him, contemplating everything.
Suddenly someone shouted, “Hey, shipmates, you’ve got to see who’s lying
here!” The sailors rushed over to the man, screaming with the interest and
boldness of some old housewives, shuffling around, muttering, and waving their
hands. One of them declared with a tone of expertise, “This is Bonecracker!”
A hushed murmur of amazement and fear permeated the crowd.
“Look at him,” Snouty added. “He’s kind of—”
“Sick,” Vedron interjected coldly.
Though somewhat offended, Snouty continued, “Sick or not, I think it’s
something worse. Blow me down! His eyes are wide open! And that face? It’s
turned blue and cold. Look at his trembling mouth. I’m telling you, something
has happened to him too. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about. I believe the
same thing that happened to Anort also happened to him … Please listen
carefully, and don’t shake your head and sway like those from Agramant when
they sing their crazy songs—don’t mumble! Sheesh! I know what happened to
them. They saw something that plagued us not so long ago, that thing we met on
the Silent Waters—the menacing shadow, the sea demon, Leviathan, or whatever
Enidor called it. It must have been a Leviathan, lurking around for far too long
and now wreaking havoc among us, striking poor Bonecracker and this mean …
I mean poor Anort. He didn’t just sail past our boat this time, he climbed aboard
—just like that!” Snouty exclaimed, demonstrating the maneuver with a strange
gesture that lacked any logic. “He squeezed himself into our cabin with the nerve
of a true scoundrel! Such scoundrels should be punished severely so they don’t
multiply. And he got our poor companions. I won’t change my mind, and you
must believe me. It was a Leviathan, I’m telling you. Who or what else could
have caused this?”
The sailors acknowledged that he had a point. Their faces were etched with
sadness as they gazed upon the comatose Bonecracker.
Suddenly another sailor piped up. He was short and stout, with eyes that
sparkled like little diamonds.
“I’m inclined to believe that their condition is similar to that of Enidor
during our return voyage. Remember how he was found unconscious at the
entrance to his cabin, pale and feverish, with a strange look on his face? Look at
them! They’re not asleep, but neither are they talking, and they seem to have lost
their minds. Just like Enidor acted.”
A murmur of amazement rippled through the sailors, and they began to
whisper among themselves. “Exactly!” another sailor agreed. “And Enidor was
just as pale.”
The chief cook, an older, portly gentleman with a pouty face so round that
the full moon could have taken him for a distant relative, interjected, “Snouty
was right about the essentials. This Leviathan has been stalking us, and it’ll
surely come back. We need to be cautious. But why is it stalking us? Where does
it come from? And where’s its lair? To that I have no answer. There’s nothing in
the books about demons like this. We don’t even know what it feeds on. Perhaps
there’s a way to appease it? Perhaps it wants something from us? Maybe we took
its precious treasure on the nurit islands and it’s burning with revenge, wanting
to devour us and drive us mad, just like it did to our comrades. I’m telling you,
we need to do what I said on the Silent Waters!”
“Maybe we should light a fire and become soothsayers?” Snouty asked
sarcastically.
“This isn’t soothsaying or any kind of witchcraft,” the cook replied, his
already chubby face growing even rounder, likely due to his agitation. “These
are old incantations well known to sailors. They have the power to chase away
bad luck, repel nightmares, and even fight sea demons. I have experience and
know much about these things. If you don’t trust me, that’s fine, but incantations
are the best way to fight sea demons. They are frightened by them, smell a rat,
and recognize our strength. Believe me, those Leviathans are not as smart as you
may think, they are quite stupid. All we need to do is make empty promises and
recite a few verses from old night songs and they’ll run a mile. Listen to your
cook, who knows a lot and has been telling you this for a long time. There’s no
other way. Yet you still choose to listen to Vedron and his cold, frightening
reason that doesn’t even entertain the idea of using incantations. ‘Incantations!
What nonsense! Whoever believes in witchery is a fool. They are just childish
games.’ That’s what your dear archer told you. But sometimes you should listen
to your cook, who understands complicated things. I’m telling you, it would be
wise to come to your senses and turn to me for guidance. It takes the unity of the
entire crew to practice conjure. How can I get anything done if you ignore my
advice? If you listen to Vedron, he will cause panic, and all our efforts and
intentions will be futile. You have your free will, but please understand that only
these incantations can save us. I’ve been pleading with you for months, but still
you don’t listen. As you wish! But I’m not going to change my mind.”
“Superstition,” Vedron retorted coolly, “it’s just stupid superstition, nothing
more.”
The cook’s gaze was so intense that it seemed he would hurl insults at
Vedron at any moment, however the archer’s self-confidence remained
unscathed. He showed no emotion on his face, maintaining the typical cold, stoic
expression of a warrior.
“We have a serious problem,” Vedron continued. “But we certainly won’t
solve it with … incantations.”
The cook was enraged, and his first instinct was to retaliate or even
challenge Vedron to a duel. However, he was silenced when Snouty’s voice
boomed through the forecastle.
“Incantations, wits, heart, liver or kidney—to hell with them! First Anort,
then Bonecracker … that’s a problem. But we can’t solve it with our fists, can
we?”
“I’d do anything to see flying fists,” the cook muttered sarcastically.
Snouty rebuked him with a stern look that did not match his usual clownish
expression. “One more word about incantations and someone will be thrown
overboard,” he threatened.
The cook trembled with fear. “Fine,” he muttered, barely suppressing his
anger. “Have it your way. But you will answer for everything.” He shot them a
hostile look and stepped aside, no longer bothering to hide his indignation.
Snouty’s face brightened. Once the cook was out of earshot, Vedron sneered.
“The incantations would only be useful if we were trying to chase that fool off
the ship.” He gestured toward the cook and laughed coldly.
Snouty fell silent, grunting. He turned to the rest of the crew and asked,
“What are we going to do about Anort? Since this was caused by a sea demon,
our efforts will be in vain. We need Tharol. But what if he can’t help? He
couldn’t even help Enidor, remember? He recovered on his own, got out of bed,
and marched to the stern. It wasn’t because of Tharol. This is something I can’t
wrap my head around. Are we supposed to rely on the mercy of capricious
Mother Nature? Shiver me timbers, I have no idea!”
“I wonder what Porion would say about that?” interjected one of the sailors.
“He’d say the same thing he said when he first met that Leviathan and when
Enidor was sick,” Snouty replied, regaining his sense of humor. “He’d say, ‘You
must know one thing, my dear sailors and conquerors. You must understand that
the night speaks to your hearts, and the shadow of the coming clouds heralds the
arrival of new times marked by the splendor of Order. You’ve been following the
voice of the night all along. It will call you soon!’ And other such follies and
idiocies that I’ve long since learned by heart. I always repeat them to myself
before going to sleep, imagining Porion and bidding him good night in my mind.
Haha! If only you knew what he said when our dear Enidor was ill. ‘He must
face the darkness. He must cross to the other side and join the Brotherhood of
the North. He must join those who for centuries have worked on the completion
of the grand scheme. Let him follow the call of another world.’ He’s a madman
or something. Porion would say idiotic things that a man could learn by heart
and repeat with fondness, almost worship!”
Several sailors burst out laughing, but Vedron interrupted sternly. “Stop
talking about Porion. He’s been restless lately, as if something’s gotten to him.
Something changed in the way he looked at me. He wasn’t the old, good Porion
anymore. But we shouldn’t waste time on unnecessary chatter. Let’s do
something because both Anort and Bonecracker look really bad.”
“Porion would say not to disturb them, they’re crossing to the other side,”
Snouty muttered, but the comment sparked more laughter from the crew. Vedron
scowled, annoyed that his grave concern was being laughed off.
Snouty noticed the slight embarrassment in Vedron’s eyes and the anger
lurking under his curls. He raised his hand and growled, “Keep your traps shut!”
The uproar fell silent, but someone shouted a question. “Where is Porion?
He was in the cabin when we went to bed.”
Snouty drilled the sailor with a menacing look and replied, “Who cares?
He’s probably wandering around the deck to avoid confusion.”
“Or playing dice,” someone else chimed in.
“Wait a minute! He was playing dice with Anort and Bonecracker while we
were sleeping,” interjected a towering sailor, who was as strong as Scallywag.
“How do you know that?” Snouty interrupted him. “We were asleep.”
“I heard their voices. Anort was babbling because something was wrong
with him, and Porion was laughing at him. That’s what happened. I’m not
lying!”
Vedron shrugged, and Snouty grimaced.
“Porion must be around here somewhere. Who knows, maybe he got the
disease too?” the towering sailor continued. The crew murmured in agreement.
“You’re right!”
“Let’s take a look around,” he shouted excitedly, already heading for the
exit. But before he could get far, Snouty caught his wrist.
“Easy, boy,” Snouty growled. “Forget about Porion. If he’s on deck, in the
stern, with the captain, in the mess, or in the hatch, it doesn’t matter. Let’s deal
with Bonecracker, because he’s not looking too good. The longer we stand here
talking aimlessly, the worse his condition gets. Shiver me timbers, this Tharol is
the laziest man I ever met! The sick cannot wait forever. Let him come here.”
His frustration grew, and he stamped his foot, coughing loudly. His eyes blazed
like flames.
Meanwhile, the sailors went around in circles, watching Bonecracker with
concern, whispering to each other and shaking their heads. They were still
thinking about the strange dream they had had that they could not forget. The
forecastle had become a place of unusual and mysterious events—events that
were momentous yet inexplicable. These had an impact on the crew’s mood and
facial expressions; they could not believe that they had all dreamed the same
dream. The darkness that spoke, the river that breathed with a coldness one
might feel standing at the entrance to an ancient tomb, and the voice that uttered
words of unknown power had left them in shock. They could not say for certain
whether what they had seen had a deep meaning. They stood there as if they
were unbelievers, like pilgrims lost on the road without a guide, uncertain and
confused. Despite Snouty entertaining them with his wit and circulating among
them with a beaming face, a wide smile on his lips and sparkling eyes, it seemed
that no sailor showed much interest in what he was doing. Snouty tried to hide
his own worries under a veneer of cordiality by cracking jokes, real sailor jokes
that would have made everyone laugh, but no one seemed to find them funny
now. He even went out of his way, nearly busting his butt to at least momentarily
see the spirit of apathy and the inability to smile lift off everyone. He wanted to
see everyone’s face light up with cheer and happiness, to see them all burst into
flames of eagerness, and for smiles to grace their faces.
He puffed with satisfaction and rubbed his hands together when he noticed
that a sailor’s mood had improved, but when he cast his eyes in another
direction, he saw a sad face and immediately lost his humor. He quickly shifted
his gaze to the cheerful sailor but froze when it was replaced with an expression
of sadness. In the end, Snouty gave up; he concluded that this apathetic crowd,
these lazy fools, this desultory crew would not be amused by the image of
monkeys preening their masters, nor even the best drollery of the seas. He had
been about to regale them with an anecdote about Porion and had even prepared
a few jokes, but prudence tightened its grip on his throat. The boatswain’s look,
stern and hard, was not the kindest, and it dampened his spirits. Snouty
swallowed, sighed, stepped back, and just stood motionless in the colorless
crowd. He wanted to make the most of his time, for Tharol had not yet arrived
with the captain. But to stand still and think about things that had nothing to do
with the sea and the ship, to listen to the soft hum of silence and to look at the
wavering flame of the torch from time to time, all of this seemed
incomprehensible to him. It was like a dream, like the strange illness of Anort
and Bonecracker and many other such events.
Snouty could not resist the inertia of the crew. As he could not revive them,
he gradually sank into thoughts of the past to find out what the dream was and
how to explain it, why the whole crew was dreaming about the same thing, and
what had happened to Anort and Bonecracker. Gradually, more questions arose,
and everything that had happened became even more mysterious. Doubts crept
in and shattered the foundation of the rules that he and the other sailors on the
Nefelgar had always believed in. He could not escape his thoughts, could not
ward off the questions that troubled his soul. He could not joke, rejoice, dance,
and jump to the rhythm of the sea’s melody and the rippling waves. It was as if
he was being held captive by invisible claws, forced to plunge into the silence
that begged for answers.
“Bloody hell! I don’t know what’s going on, but I can’t stand it anymore.
Our crew, once so cheerful, daring, and crazy, is now decaying into a state of
terrible apathy. It can’t be like this, but somehow I don’t have the strength to
fight it. I’m suffocating in this boredom. I hope Tharol and Guadar come soon,
because if we continue to stagnate lifelessly like this I think I’ll go insane. I
don’t need any more questions, any more thoughts. Ugh! These nonsensical
thoughts! I hate them. I’d rather not have a brain at all; I’d prefer to live like a
plant—but with humor, with joy. To enjoy the view of the sea, the waves, not rot
in immobility and apathy. Brr! Let it all go. I wish Porion would show up.
Maybe he could at least amuse this almost-dead crowd with his silly speeches
about darkness and other nonsense. Ah, let the medic come already!”
Snouty continued with his monologue for a long period of time, but I will
not quote him, because it would consume precious time and pages. His
impatience kept him talking, which was his passion, by the way. Snouty loved
the sea, but he also loved talking to himself. He would sit at the tiller in the
evenings and keep watch at night, admiring the sea as it shone in the glow of the
sunset, adorned with golden auroras at dawn and glowing blue during the day.
He liked whispering to the sea, believing that only the sea listened to him and
really understood him. He never told any of that to anyone, lest he appear
foolish. However, every night he would bid the sea good night and caress it with
loving glances. He would stretch out his arms to it, and it seemed to respond
with a deafening murmur. In this delirium, this lovesickness for the untamed
space, Snouty remained blissfully unaware of anything or anyone else. His
attention was focused entirely on the image of the frothy, marvelous sea bathed
in sunlight. He gazed at the cerulean depths adoringly, closed his eyes,
whispered, and breathed like a man consumed by fever. At the moment,
however, Snouty had to deal with something that did not interest him at all. But
in spite of his will, he thought about the dream, thought about Anort and
Bonecracker’s illness, and got lost in the investigations that all the strange
phenomena and events gave rise to. His monologue slowly faded and his
imagination was losing its power. Eventually he stopped talking and fell silent.
He still gasped softly, mumbled something, and glared at his companions with
displeasure. His soul could not regain its former tranquility.
Soon afterwards, the medic Tharol, accompanied by Captain Guadar, finally
arrived. The captain looked at the two patients and shook his head. Tharol
approached Anort and said in a commanding tone, “Look at me. Anort, can you
hear me?” Anort looked at him as if in a daze, and an indistinct whisper
occasionally slipped through his tightly clenched lips. Tharol clicked his tongue
and approached Bonecracker. He examined both crewmen for a quarter of an
hour and the blush on his face only grew more and more prominent. The sailors
looked sadly at him, then at Anort, then at Bonecracker, wondering what could
have happened to the two seadogs. When Tharol rose from his knees and shook
his head, groans of panic came from many mouths. The captain narrowed his
eyes as if to hide his fear, and the boatswain waited anxiously to hear what the
doctor had to say.
Tharol clicked his tongue again and muttered despondently, “I don’t know
what it can be. I’ve never seen anything like it in my long life, and believe me,
I’ve lived in our world for fifty years and seen a lot of things, both at sea and on
land. Ugh! I can’t wrap my head around it. What can I add? Their appearance
disturbs me greatly, their eyes are dimmed by a kind of mist. Although they are
moving and not in an agonized state, they can’t see or hear anyone. Their
breathing is calm, as if asleep, but their faces … their faces are contorted, as if in
pain or … ugh! What should I think about it? I don’t know how to deal with
what I see here. If at least I knew about this disease … I can’t treat what I don’t
know. How can someone be conscious and yet unable to connect with reality?
It’s unimaginable. To me, a healer, it’s strange.” He leaned over Bonecracker,
furrowed his brow, and began to examine him more, as if to confirm his words.
Then his face became even grimmer. He stood up and added earnestly, “It could
be exepulis or black ironhead, but I’m not sure.”
He fell silent and looked helplessly at the sailors. No one dared to speak. At
that moment, Snouty’s groan was heard. “Nothing can be done? Really
nothing?”
His words made Tharol falter, as if he had been insulted.
“Is there anything I can do?” Tharol exclaimed in indignation. “I don’t
know, but I will try. However, I promise nothing. I’m not a quack; I can only
cure the diseases I know. And this … well, this is something new to me.”
Ledo suddenly interjected. “You said that this might be some black iron
thing or some exe- whatever.” The others stared at him, waiting for him to
continue, but he remained silent as Tharol took the floor. His words sounded
insulting, unbearable, like the buzzing of a mosquito.
“I said that because I thought it was a possibility. I’m not entirely sure if
Anort and Bonecracker’s disease is really black ironhead or exepulis, but I
mentioned those names just like that. It’s possible that they have been afflicted
by one of those diseases. But the worst part is that I can’t find the cause of this
illness. Every disease has a cause, and this one seems to have sprung up out of
nowhere. No one knows its origin. They were playing dice and suddenly
something got them. Isn’t that extraordinary?”
Snouty said, “Maybe it’s the Leviathan’s fault? Maybe it snuck in here?”
“Do such creatures cause diseases?”
“Have you ever heard of Leviathans or read about them in any medical
books?”
“Tell us if you know anything about them!”
Tharol wilted under the barrage of questions. He tried to raise his voice to
answer one, but soon another interrupted, then a third, and by the time the fourth
person spoke up, a chorus of sailors had arisen. In the midst of this cacophony,
the medic squirmed and twisted in an attempt to answer one question and evade
the others. His face was slick with sweat, and he realized that there was no end
to this cleverly crafted torment.
“Shut your traps, shiver me timbers!”
Silence descended, and only the flicker of the flame of the torch could be
heard throughout the forecastle. The ship’s carpenter, who had shouted the
loudest, stepped away, intimidated by the ferocious grimace that erupted on
Tharol’s face. The former saddler, a sailor almost as skilled with a sword as
Enidor, lost his confidence and covered his face with his hand, pretending to
appear thoughtful to conceal his confusion. Meanwhile, the irascible medic
scanned the faces of everyone present, and upon seeing their grim expressions he
softened his demeanor and spoke in a gentler tone.
“I’m well aware that the causes of this condition are unusual in nature.
However, whether it was the Leviathan or something else, I can’t say without
further observation. At the moment, all I can tell is that these men bear a
remarkable similarity to Enidor, who was also unconscious initially but soon
regained consciousness. They appear to be awake but unable to interact with
their surroundings. It’s a peculiar condition, and I need more time to comprehend
it. And that will take time!” He shouted the last sentence, recognizing that
Snouty was being sarcastic. “I have to stay here and care for them. I don’t rule
out the possibility that the influence of the Leviathan has aggravated their
condition, but I can’t make a claim without verifiable facts. This beast has been
plaguing us for a long time. But as a medic and scholar, I base my conclusions
on solid evidence, not conjecture. However, one thing is certain—we must get
them out of here; they need to be transported on stretchers to the Badger’s Cave,
where they can rest. This cabin offers inadequate shelter. Let’s leave quietly and
quickly and I will take care of them. Get me some sturdy fellows—Scallywag
and Ledo. Make haste. I will also consult my books. Perhaps there is some
information in there about Leviathans. We shall see.”
After quickly exiting the forecastle, the medic left the rest of the crew, who
seemed lethargic and lazy, watching over the sick sailors for a while. Eventually
they were roused from their stupor by Tharol’s urgent voice from outside,
prompting them to do his bidding. Meanwhile, Captain Guadar followed the
medic outside to gain more insight into the strange illness.
The sailors began leaving the forecastle and soon only a lonely torch
remained. At that very moment, a barely audible but distinct voice cut through
from the other world. It would have been heard if someone had listened, but the
sailors were too busy streaming towards the exit and they heard nothing. A
whirlwind of muffed groans, whispers, conversations and shouts swirled around
the empty forecastle. And the voice wove its song in the forecastle. Initially it
wafted hesitantly through the air as though stymied by a heavy fog. Still, it
gained in strength, bolstered by the breath of eternity, and the thin thread of
sound heralding rebirth grew bolder. The flame of the torch began crackling and
teasing, like it was happily celebrating the arrival of a new day.
As the eastern light crept over the horizon, the darkness faded and shadows
scurried into the nooks and hollows. A vitality was born with the new day,
seeping into everything, and the ship gradually emerged from the darkness,
embracing dawn like a bridegroom greeted by his bride. She was serene and
peaceful, draped in immortality’s cloak, and everything stirred to life after a long
night’s slumber in darkness.
Chapter VII
THE BADGER’S CAVE
The Lonely Cape—a narrow strip of land protruding into the bed of the Emnur
River, adorned with lush greenery and overgrown with brush—rose from the
high shore of the Wildlands that stretched out to the Nefelgar’s starboard.
The Wildlands were truly wild in every sense of the word. Humans were
nowhere to be found, and even merchants, enticed by the wonders of the port of
Agramant a few miles away, avoided it as if it were cursed. They sought other,
safer ports of call, steering clear of this desolate land that seemed condemned to
eternal oblivion. However, other, bolder individuals, who knew no fear and who
saw opportunity rather than danger in such untamed places, have taken an
interest in the Wildlands.
Ten years earlier, Captain Guadar of the Nefelgar had navigated the vessel
to the Lonely Cape and descended into the rugged land of the surrounding river
plains, valleys, groves and hills to inspect the damage caused by a raging storm
spawned by the wrath of the skies near the seacoast. With dissatisfaction he
concluded that a stop in this unfriendly place would be necessary. The sailors
had descended the gangplank with uncertain steps, gazing in amazement at the
disheveled manes of trees that proudly stood a few meters away, at the fawncolored
hills clearly outlined in the bluish distance, at the groves that murmured
in reverie and were withered by whirlwinds, at the gnarled willows that lay
scattered on the ground, at the birds that flew overhead, and at the silent puffy
clouds that were pushed northward by the wind’s arm, as if fleeing this desolate
place. They quickly concluded that the Wildlands offered a better opportunity than
the grandeur of Agramant.
They had just transported a valuable cargo from the Southern Islands.
However, along the way they had also acquired many other valuable items that
they could not conceal from the customs officials at the port of Agramant, who
scrutinized every ship and cargo. So when they stopped at the Lonely Cape, just
a few miles from Agramant, a brilliant idea occurred to them: Perhaps
somewhere inland, behind the piles of hills and the towering silhouettes of trees,
they would discover a place to stash their acquisitions.
Why did they care so much about hiding these treasures? Why did they
sometimes toss and turn at night out of fear for the inheritance entrusted to them
by the secrets of the sea? Why did they hold on to their treasure with such
firmness and madness, even scowling at each other at times, despite the strong
bonds of friendship formed amidst the perilous waves and adverse conditions?
Because they longed to break free from the grip of Agramant’s power. The
steward of this port, with its plethora of ships, numerous docks in the north, and
several experienced captains, was a growing nuisance. The crew of the Nefelgar
dreamed of navigating the seas as free beings, without the burden of subjugation
on their shoulders, traveling along the route of their own aspirations, the
whispers of the sea and its mysteries. For they cherished the sea and its elegant
waves, adored sailing and collecting new treasures. They enjoyed living on the
edge and treasured the gentle light of dawn emerging from behind a veil of
shadows. They also appreciated the blazing glow of the sunset that illuminated
the ocean’s surface with shades of crimson. They loved their own desires, which
were replete with the sounds of the sea, the salty fragrance of seawater, the rustle
of precious stones, and the singing of seagulls that soared toward an unknown
destination along the vast highways of the sky. Therefore, they were determined
to obtain enough expensive jewels to buy back the Nefelgar and venture out into
the vastness of the seas and oceans. They wanted to explore new places, live a
life of danger, search for new lands, and conquer, conquer, conquer …
During their quest through the Wildlands to locate a place to conceal the
precious treasures that they had amassed on their ship, they stumbled upon the
Badger’s Cave—a cave concealed in a dense ravine. They then moved all the
riches they had acquired during their expedition to the cave and resolved to
return to Agramant with certain goods. The sailors decided to remain in the
service of the steward until they had amassed enough precious ore to obtain a
ship and prepare for an expedition into the unknown.
When they disclosed their intentions to Enidor, he called them “a bunch of
dreamers.” However, he accompanied them on the expedition to the Rocky
Lowlands, unaware that it was to be their final voyage. He’d been very surprised
when Guadar summoned him to his cabin for a secret discussion. It was then that
the young sailor learned of the grand plans of the crew of the Nefelgar and
bowed down in the shadow of the captain’s momentous and jubilant speech. The
captain appeared to burst with pride, and the words sprouting from his lips
reminded him of a golden seed. Enidor gazed in awe at Guadar, so deeply
immersed in his oration, and felt an irresistible urge to abandon his duty and be
swept away by the currents of fantasy ignited by the flame of the captain’s
words.
Enidor was willing to give up everything and remain aboard the Nefelgar
forever, but thoughts of his family—memories of his wife, father-in-law, and
brother-in-law—suddenly dispelled the cloud of fevered illusions. Feeling
depressed, he listened to Guadar and lamented that the wealth of grandeur,
wonder, subtlety, and brilliance emanating from his speech might not come to
fruition. He’d had to forget everything and return to the rhythm of everyday life.
He could only remember the taste of adventure, of sailing into the unknown, and
swallow the bitterness of his own fate.
Eventually he forgot the wonders and the grandeur of Captain Guadar’s
speech as they reached the Silent Waters, only to have an encounter with the
dark creature. As he stood at the stern of the ship, pierced by a shudder of fear,
the echo of the captain’s words became nothing more than a ghost that wailed
because it could not sing a new, wondrous song.
During the expedition to the Rocky Lowlands, which lasted precisely three
years, Guadar expressed regret at parting ways when they returned to Agramant.
He told Enidor about the Badger’s Cave, unfolding visions of the wealth that
filled it, riches that had accrued in the course of ten years. As he listened, the
young sailor introspected deeply—what did he see? He saw disbelief, fleeting
moments of curiosity, and intense waves of emotion. He noticed that certain
thoughts took on the physical form of specific sensations, which he felt in his
heart. At times he felt overwhelmed and tried to suppress these feelings by
pressing his hand to his chest. It was as if he was attempting to reject the flood of
distant memories that were on the cusp of being illusions. As he listened to
Guadar’s voice, he marveled at the grandeur of the Badger’s Cave and envisaged
it. For Enidor had a fondness for relying on his imagination, which served as his
haven from the hail of opposites, of enemies, and also from those closest to him.
It was a refuge from everything that encircled him tightly and bound him with
the fetters of rules. And there he felt secure. Sometimes he would drape himself
in his night cloak and sit at the tiller to dissolve in the rhythms of his thoughts, in
the melody of his imagination, embarking on waves of elation, striving to be, at
least for a few moments, in the unknown space of fantasy.
Guadar continued his discourse. “Our Badger’s Cave hides a prophecy of
future events. You will see this for yourself once you enter it. You see, my dear
tracker, we’re not what we appear to be. We desire what no one desires and seek
what no one seeks. Cramped prisons are not for us! Agramant is a cage in which
we lose the depth of our souls. Either we must spread our wings or perish—we
will remain nothing but remnants of great intentions, old shells that haven’t
reached fruition, that haven’t become flesh. We can’t live with shackles on our
limbs, dear chronicler. We long for the sea and its wonders. The purple depths
call us constantly. I can no longer bear to think about anything related to
Agramant. Let us sail away from this soulless machine.” He threatened the sky.
“Let us live! This is our last meeting with this port. In a few days, you will see
our cave and receive your payment. It’s unfortunate that you can’t stay with us,
that you have decided to go back to where you came from. I wish you the best of
luck; we will take nurit to Agramant, unload any supplies from the islands, and
then return here. These lands are quite wild. It surprises me that this mighty port
doesn’t realize that within its shadow inconspicuous ants are creating a new
world.”
Enidor listened tiredly, squinting his eyes; he could only catch a few words
coming out of the captain’s mouth. The young tracker looked into the depths of
his own imagination and moved away from the crew, immersing himself in lands
not bound by prohibitions.
As the crew of the Nefelgar contemplated their plans, Enidor paced back
and forth with fantastic visions fueling his mind. However, he eventually had to
abandon his life between two worlds—the life of dreams and the life on board
ship. The time of battle was approaching, with the ship already entering the
Emnur River and the wind announcing the arrival of the long-awaited sailors to
the Wildlands. Torn away from the clamor of seafaring life, the young tracker
had to seize the reins of duty and become its prisoner, not its master. Although
this transition initially pained him, as time passed he began to feel joy at the
prospect of returning home to his family, and he clung to this thought like to a
warming fire on a freezing night—he was coming home to his wife, his family.
The dark and cold thoughts had to retreat to the depths of his soul.
***
To bid farewell to Enidor, the sailors decided to hold a feast in the Badger’s
Cave, complete with tears, wine, and laughter. They were going to make all
preparations after descending to the Lonely Cape. The crew were in high spirits
and talkative as they retired to bed, oblivious to the fact that this momentous
night would change the trajectory of their future forever. They had all their plans
ready and already imagined themselves standing on the deck of Guadar’s newly
purchased ship, observing the sunset marking the close of the day. They felt as
though they were about to reach the rim of the Earth, encounter everything that
legends speak of, and believed that those tales were not just products of fantasy.
They were sure they would see mermaids dancing at the ends of the
undiscovered Rocky Lowlands, touch the high walls of the seas’ edge, and travel
over the grass pastures of the Last Ocean. They hung on to this hope, dreaming
of their journey and enjoying the cool evening air and the sea’s saltiness as they
crowded together on deck.
The sailors heard Guadar’s solemn voice proclaim, “We’re already masters
of freedom.”
The boatswain, Ledo, overwhelmed with excitement, shouted so loudly and
passionately that the water murmured in response and the ship resonated in
unison. He was eager to sail into the unknown, stating: “We’re sailing where not
even the legendary El-Khizan has sailed. Do you want to know what lies ahead?
Damn it! If we don’t set sail right away, if we don’t catch the wind right away, I
think I’m going to kick the bucket!”
The sailors erupted with laughter and embraced one another in joy and
affection, tears of happiness trickling down their faces. Their expressions were
flushed with the promise of the extraordinary adventure. In that moment, they
experienced wonder, emotion, and unity like never before. They sang sea
shanties confidently, looking toward the horizon, which embodied the promise of
a new life.
The boatswain exclaimed, intoxicated with joy, “Let time stop!”
***
That night, forgotten were their previous disagreements, shattered dreams and
enthusiastic aspirations. They had forgotten the vision they had shared in the
forecastle while Enidor stood guard in the stern, struggling with despair. They
fell asleep, united in their vision of the future—a new life that would take them
to unexplored waters. Even as they dreamed in peaceful silence, the sailors were
gripped by this mad excitement. They saw themselves striding across the ship,
carried away by the roar of the waves toward distant lands, the fiery glows of
which melted into each other on the border between reality and daydream.
Only Anort had different desires from them, and Bonecracker, who
considered him wise and therefore decided to follow the voice of his reason and
reject the dreams of the entire crew. Both thought that some of the wealth they
would gain would allow them to buy something other than a ship—something
they did not mention to anyone because they wanted to keep it discreet and not
expose themselves to ridicule.
Ledo did not share the crew’s excitement—he was struggling with
something invisible as he walked around dejectedly all evening, not talking to
anyone. No one knew what was going on in his soul, and it was a whirlwind of
all kinds of feelings, doubts, fears, anxieties and illusions that caused confusion
and great pain. What was this man experiencing? What was gnawing at his soul?
What power had changed the once-jolly boatswain so much? No one could
guess. Some power had thwarted all the sailors’ plans. Their whole world had been
turned upside down overnight.
Another question may come to mind—why did the sailors, feeling
resentment toward Guadar—agree that he was the one who had bought the ship
and they went on these expeditions into the unknown under his command? Why
did they dislike their captain so much and yet include him in their dreams?
Though they resented him for his cowardice, even when the threat was not
so great, they succumbed to the force of his temper and his lofty speeches, which
made them passionate. They succumbed to the charm of his words, which
became a wonderful melody as soon as they came into contact with harsh reality.
The captain knew how to tame the hearts of these sailors, knew how to drown
them in the depths of wonder that he spread with such poetic exuberance. He
knew how to reach their hearts and make them submissive. As a result, they still
obeyed him. Still, as it is well known that if a dog does not respect its master, it
may bite him some day.
What was smoldering in the souls of these treacherous sailors who focused
only on their own dreams? Certainly the promise of mutiny, of plans to
overthrow their leader and seize the goods that lay in the Badger’s Cave. But it
was a fragile promise, barely chirping at the bottom of their hearts. Now,
darkened by the shadow of their recent experiences and remembering the events
of last night and that mysterious dark dream, they dared not think of mutiny. All
this made them forget the thoughts they had been having for some time—instead
they concentrated on what they found most distasteful. They were overwhelmed
by emptiness and powerlessness.
Chapter VIII
MARVELS OF THE DAWN
Vedron’s face blurred in the shadows of the night. Although dawn was already
breaking over the mountains, the landscape was still shrouded in fog, and the
edges of the horizon were only slightly flushed. The sky was still gray, the stars
were visible, and the moon hung pale over the Wildlands. The world remained
asleep.
Not a single lamp was lit on the ship. Vedron clung to the starboard
bulwark, his eyes blinking in the darkness. The young archer listened to the
splashing of the waves, melting his soul and his body to the quiet but
mesmerizing song of nature. The ship creaked and groaned from time to time,
yet the silence of the dawn swept away all the broken tones and moans of
inanimate things.
He looked to the left, where he saw Enidor, the young sailor, standing in
silence, frozen in the same pose, staring out into the night. The archer furrowed
his brow, wondering why Enidor seemed so strange. Perhaps he had noticed
something that no one else had? Maybe some danger lurked hidden in the bushes
or on the Lonely Cape?
It’s probable, thought Vedron, that there is something there, where the
patches of darkness loom in the gray of dawn.
Vedron sighed, as if he felt a twinge of some memory in his heart. Then his
face contorted. Over and over again, the same voice echoed in his mind, robbing
him of his peace. It was the voice of the night that had given birth to a strange
and mysterious dream. Vedron stood and looked at the still-sleeping ship, sunk in
the fog of distant days. A greater pain clutched at his throat as if to tear out his
voice, and a greater impotence gripped his heart as if to stifle its vibrancy. He did
not even hear the sailors leave the forecastle one by one in a silent march, like
gravediggers carrying bodies and following each other into the darkness of the
grave. They were cold, majestic, and silent, spreading out across the deck like a
funeral procession. Their pale faces, devoid of any expression of life and
obscured by the shadow of the fleeing night, betrayed only desperate
helplessness.
Tharol soon appeared and cast a glance at the crowd and then at the sick as
they lay sprawled on the ground. Anort moved his mouth, gasped convulsively,
and rolled his eyes in all directions. In contrast, Bonecracker gritted his teeth and
tried to lift himself up, but the boatswain’s motherly arm pinned him gently to
the floor. The sailor struggled a bit with the enemy, whom he could not see, but
when he did not desist he lay down obediently and sometimes made strange
gestures. Everyone watched their behavior with pained expressions on their
faces. Then, the piercing voice of Bonecracker could be heard. “Begone. Don’t
torture me. I won’t go!”
At that, the sailor fainted again in a fit of desperate terror. He kept hitting
the deck with his hands, raised his head, wriggled like a snake, and for a moment
plunged into the silence of calm before repeating again, “Go away! I don’t want
to follow you!” There was a look of horror on his face and his eyes stared at
something, as if waiting for an answer. Then again, his piercing voice broke the
silence on the deck. The sailors looked on, pain and fear written across their
faces. “Leave me alone. I’m not following you! No! I don’t want to!”
“Who’s he talking to?” asked the bewildered Snouty.
“Perhaps he’s dreaming?” asked one of the sailors.
Boatswain Ledo looked questioningly at Tharol, who just shrugged and
grunted in response. “What do you want? Do I look like an omniscient sage? I’m
not going to tell you anything, because I know nothing. You should make
stretchers and move them both to a corner. When the day comes, we’ll take them
to the Badger’s Cave. Agreed? Don’t look at me like that! What have I done to
you? I’m a medic, not a sorcerer.”
The sailors listened to these words in silence. Meanwhile, the boatswain
clapped his hands and muttered grimly to Snouty, “Prepare some stretchers. We
need to move them.”
A murmur of nods went through the ship, and the sailors sprang into action.
Soon the silent crowd spread out across the ship. Vedron went to his
companions’ aid, trying to drown out the confusion caused by the inexplicable
events that had taken place in the forecastle on that night.
A strange unconsciousness of mind, absentmindedness, restlessness, and
pain swept over him, taking him to the bottom of a void. It was a void where
questions arose, doubts multiplied, and the heart’s warmth cooled. The dark
dream made him uneasy. Vedron felt as if a strange force had made him take a
more serious look at life and its phenomena. For the first time in a long time, he
realized that he had taken the wrong path and lost his inner strength during his
expeditions. The words his mother had spoken to him three years ago began to
invade his thoughts.
“Hold on to Elnarin; hold on to the light, my son,” he repeated angrily, for
these words irritated him, and he could not trust them. What else? ’Hold on to
the light’ … good joke. I don’t know how to accept this. Have I always been a
follower—
Contempt and resentment made him speechless. He gazed at the gray sky
hovering over the ship and muttered quietly. For the first time in a while, this
calm man, whose face had never been distorted by an attack of rage, who had
always hidden behind a mask of indifference, not allowing even a glimpse of
inner struggle to unravel its icy severity, now flared up with anger. He was
surprised when he noticed this, but it made little impression on him. He walked
here and there, ignoring the sailors, sullen as he was, and only occasionally
casting an anxious glance at the morning dawn that illuminated the sky.
“Stay with Elnarin,” he muttered angrily.
Suddenly some memories from the past flashed before his eyes, revealing
startling images.
He stood alone in front of a large ship that was about to set sail on the wide
waters of the world. The cool midnight breeze tossed its sails, the sound of
which, steady, stately, and fantastical, reached Vedron’s ears even though he was
quite far away. The crew was busy on deck, and small waves gently rocked the
hull. The ship was buzzing with life as it pointed its bow defiantly into the
immensity of the sea. Vedron gazed in awe at the vessel as if he wanted to keep
it to himself, as if he wanted to call out, “Wait for me!” He struggled with
himself for a few minutes. And only as the ship faded into the unknown distance,
as it sank into the lonely haze, into the blue of distant lands, seduced by the
enchantment of the smooth sea and the glow of the horizon, did Vedron feel a
deep regret and longing. It seemed to him that he had lost the opportunity for
which he had waited so long. He stood and watched for a long time as a small
spot remained suspended between the water and the sky. He could not take his
eyes off the magnificence in front of him. A terrible pain burned inside him, as if
someone had pressed a torch to his guts. Vedron felt weak and incapable of
doing anything, as if reality had cast a shadow on his dreams, which had
suddenly flared with fervor. He had wanted so much to sail the seas, but he had
missed his chance. He wanted adventures, but now that the ship had disappeared
into the distance, all his intentions were shaken to their foundations. He could no
longer retrieve the miracle that had melted into the gray.
When he returned home, just about two miles from the coast, he saw his
mother cooking dinner as usual. Dressed modestly and full of simplicity, she was
a slave to everyday life and a quiet servant to her son. Her gaze was worried as
she noticed the strange change on his face. Vedron did not realize it, but his
forehead and cheeks were marked with wrinkles, as if the brief moments he had
spent on the coast had aged him considerably. His dull face did not cool under
the guise of self-restraint but became a display of unusual emotions. Restless
movements introduced an atmosphere of tension.
His mother asked him what was wrong. He remembered the scene well and
the question perfectly. He mumbled something and made an involuntary gesture
combining both nonchalance and haughtiness. He grabbed a bowl of food and
began to eat, thinking it would soothe everything. But hunger was not the
servant of his heart. The pain became more and more visible in his eyes, which
wandered over the ceiling of the hut or peered through the windows,
passionately searching for something solid. But he found nothing but his
mother’s insistent gaze. Finally he succumbed to her scrutiny and interrogation,
exposing his soul like the prey of maternal love, revealing his tragic grandeur in
an outpouring of joyless effusions. He became the laughing stock of the house,
and all members of the family, who were immortalized in small paintings,
assessed him with their scrutinizing eyes, already seeming to pronounce a halfwhispered
sentence of disgrace. But the silence of this secret confession struck
only him. He revealed to his loving mother all he had experienced and all that
plagued him, all that his mind desired. He did not want to be imprisoned in a
cage of silence, nor did he want to grow old in the darkness of his own soul or
surrender to the pain and grief that surrounded him. After sharing his feelings, he
slumped in a chair like a prisoner who had given away a terrible secret. Tears
slipped from beneath his eyelids and, prompted by the sudden spasm of pain that
shook his body, ran down his cheeks. But his mother just smiled and put her arm
around him.
“You crave sensations,” she said calmly, “but you can’t see their triviality.
You yearn for miracles, yet you only see their shadows when they appear before
your eyes. Don’t focus on the great magnitude that is sunken in lethargy, or on
the seductive appearance of the Earth. It will swallow you before you know it.
You are a stranger on this narrow strip of the world. Don’t pursue its
enticements, or you will be disappointed.”
“So what am I supposed to do? I’m young!”
“Youth is the first word of time, my son. Be eternal, and then you will wield
power. Your dreams sound magnificent, but they lack depth. Anything that lacks
depth can’t be worth our efforts. You seek the grandeur of your desires; you stare
with insatiable eyes at the stillness of the sea at dusk, but it’s an illusory and
pointless silence. Listen to the silence of eternity; it will feed your soul, and you
will feel that your dreams have come true. The frivolousness of your desires is
because they’re a product of selfishness. They won’t bear fruit for anyone. But
the love of eternity will satisfy you and others. I’m telling you, find the voice of
Elnarin within you.”
Vedron abruptly came back to life, but it was only a brief awakening from
his misery, dragging him out of his hazy thoughts. Then he went back to the
confines of his own dissatisfied desires.
“How am I supposed to recognize this Elnarin? I can’t see him! He’s
nowhere to be found. Can He offer me something better than my beautiful
dreams? Is He someone who can bring me eternal happiness? Can He create
what I desire the most?”
“You rather mean delusion. He cannot make your dreams come true, for
they are only a luxury of your senses. Don’t look at them. Don’t you understand
that He comes from another world—from the Great Mountain where His palace
is? After all, you heard me when I told you the old stories. Your father saved
them for you so that you may see the truth that is fading away. Your father
wanted you to see what the past is. Do you know the history of our world? Do
you know that Elnarin never lived in our world but came from other lands? So
you can’t look at what attracts you in this world, because that is not Elnarin’s
focus. He protects you from damnation, for He advises you to not touch nurit,
otherwise you will be contaminated—and this is the truth. For those who are
contaminated become very sick, and there is no cure to help them.”
“How do I find Elnarin? Who is He to me? What’s the point of listening to
stories about Him if they belong to the past? I want to fulfill my desires. I want
to sail the sea. Why shouldn’t He fulfill my dreams?”
“Son, do you want Him to grant you a soap bubble that sparkles in the
brightness of the day, beautiful, delighting all the onlookers? It will burst,
because nothing that is empty can last for long. Look to the enduring glory. It
will lift your soul to the heights of happiness, satisfy your hunger and quench
your thirst. If the soap bubble has deceived you, my son, what shall I do with
you?”
“I don’t understand you. Why couldn’t things visible to the eye make me
happy? Why couldn’t they satisfy me, even if they lasted only a minute or two?
I’m a seeker of happiness, and I will not hesitate to do whatever is needed to
achieve it.”
“Even at the cost of eternity?”
“I don’t understand what eternity you’re talking about. If you mean the land
of Elnarin, I’m happy for you. How can we believe in these splendors that we
can’t see? I can’t wish for it, for it’s an illusion. Your Elnarin, Mother, and you,
father, who are no longer with us, is only a figment of the imagination. I can’t
see or find Him, so He exists in your memory only as a ghost, a ghost and
nothing more. I won’t be as naive as you. I desire what I’ve told you, and the
more I speak, the more certain, eternal, and magnificent my feelings become. I’ll
trust them. I’m not a gullible person. A soap bubble is more beautiful to me than
an eternity I can’t see. Show me your eternity and maybe I’ll consider your
stories, which I’ve known since childhood. But now I can’t accept what you
offer me, Mother. I just can’t. I must find my own happiness. I must pursue the
voice of my own desires. I must become what I want to be. I can’t live any other
way.”
“Even at the cost of eternity?” asked his mother again, but this time there
was a flash of stony impassivity and stern calm in her voice.
“Go to hell with your eternity!” shouted Vedron. “It’s always the same old
story. Show me this eternity of yours!”
“Shall I show you something you can’t acquire without seeking it? You are
young and foolish, my son. You see with mortal eyes, but there are also other
eyes you haven’t opened yet. They can reveal eternity to you. But not me. Ask
Elnarin for help, otherwise you will remain blind. Do you think someone will
stand before you and show you something you can’t touch with your finger or
hold with your gaze? Even if someone bends over backwards to explain it to
you, you’ll still see nothing, because you’re not looking with the eyes of the
soul. You want to see it because you don’t believe it; you will see it if you start
looking for it. You won’t see anything unless you want it. You called me naive.
You are naive, son. You are drawn to the little things scattered around you in
confusion, bewildered by their splendor. You don’t seek what is enduring. Ask
Elnarin—”
“I’ve never seen this Elnarin before and you want me to talk to Him? You
believe in something that either exists or doesn’t exist. I can’t go for broke.”
“Son, listen to me.”
“Enough. Why should I bother when it’s all about one thing?”
“Tell me that the consciousness of eternity flickers inside you. Admit it’s
true. You can hear the voice that justifies what I’m saying. Say that you can.
Swear that you hear that voice in the depths of your soul. Swear it on your
father’s grave!”
“And my mother’s,” he added indignantly, feeling bothered by her words.
“Swear!” she insisted, ignoring her son’s resentful tone.
Vedron involuntarily felt a tiny flicker of awareness inside his soul. He
focused all his insight on it and began to study it. But he saw what he feared.
One small voice in his soul admitted that his mother was right. The other,
however, was much louder and filled him with reassurance, sounding logical.
But Vedron did not want to concede that his mother was correct. A strange
feeling stopped him; a mysterious, unidentifiable emotion compelled him to do
something different. When his pride reached its climax, Vedron raised his chin
and said calmly, though not without a quaver, “No, I don’t hear the voice you
speak of.”
He said it too quickly and in such a manner that his mother looked at him
more intently. He felt uncomfortable under her scrutiny, as if he was standing in
the middle of the desert bare-chested, with the sun privy to his thoughts and
listening to his heartbeat, which had joined in on the lie. He lowered his eyes to
avoid her gaze because her watchful stare penetrated him to the core. He was
lying simply because he did not want to accept that his mother was right. He had
decided to end the conversation because he did not want to stay with her any
longer, subjected to her gaze that peered deep into his soul.
“It’s time to end this conversation, it’s leading us nowhere. I don’t believe
anything you say. I know what I want and I don’t need anything else. In a month,
a ship will depart from Agramant and, from what I’ve heard, it will travel to
some Rocky Lowlands. The sea is where I belong, and I don’t want to hear
anything more about Elnarin; I don’t believe He will be of any help to me.”
At that instant, his mother buried her face in her hands. Before Vedron
could react, a scream emerged from her chest. The young archer felt a sudden
sharp pain. He staggered and clung to his chair. He rubbed his eyes, swallowed
hard, and gazed with affection at his mother’s frail, worn-out figure, which
seemed to be gradually vanishing, racked by sobbing. Emotion gripped him by
the throat, causing him to kneel down and mutter a few words, which were no
more than fragments of speech.
“It’s alright …” Tears ran from his eyes, and their former darkness and
animosity now transformed into clarity. “Don’t worry, I’m too self-important,
you’re most likely right.”
He swallowed back his tears. His mother released herself from his embrace
and beamed back at him. The crying ceased, with the last tear falling from her
cheek. Vedron let a fleeting grin inch across his lips, and the tough,
unapproachable expression on his face once again softened into tenderness.
Nonetheless, Vedron was confused deep down. He had said something he
did not intend to, and it infuriated him. He did not want to say it, but the force of
his emotions overpowered his reason. He stood frozen in front of his mother,
feeling regretful. He would have probably stood there for a long time if his
mother had not left the room and returned. Stunned by his own weakness,
Vedron glanced in her direction and noticed a tiny light clutched in her hands.
She held it gently with a smile on her face, whispering something. Vedron did
not hear anything but watched her movements carefully. Suddenly she froze as if
struck by lightning, and the room fell silent. Then she turned suddenly toward
him, sending him a look full of pain. He quailed; the look opened the gates of his
soul and delved into its farthest depths, exposing secret feelings he had kept
hidden. He felt vulnerable, laid bare, and surrendered to the mercy of an
immeasurable force that stood there in the shadows with a strange light in its
hand.
She probably holds that precious stone she wanted to give me one day. This
thought was the only thing that crossed his mind during those seconds—seconds
of truth.
Vedron could not stay at home any longer. He lowered his head, marched
over to the door, and stepped outside, bent double, frightened, and disturbed,
casting absent-minded glances here and there. He did not even see that two
forces were clashing within him. Was he a passive participant? No. He tried to
remain passive, but these forces were pulling him into the confusion of their dark
struggle. The mind was attacking the soul. But the soul responded in a half
whisper, like one who loves and, not wanting to awaken the object of their love,
surrounds it with the ecstasy of their silence. The soul seemed to speak in a
different tone than reason.
Vedron clutched his head, threatened everything around him with his fist,
but the night answered him with a silence full of simplicity. And he struggled on
and on. Reason denied the existence of the land of Elnarin, refuted his mother’s
superstitions, assured him that the tales of Elnarin were the product of human
imagination, and encouraged him to cherish his dreams. Reason did not deny
their power but instead emphasized their importance, proclaiming that dreams
must exist because they are an indicator of humanity, and no one can condemn
the grandeur of a soap bubble.
Referring to the words of your wise mother, I’d like to add that the bubble is
beautiful on the outside because that is its nature. Why worry about the empty
inside when the eye can only see the gilded wonders on the surface? The
transience of the bubble is obvious, but wise are those who can tame it and use it
as intended. Respect your intentions and don’t look at the fools who trust in old
stories.
After a while, the debate of the spirit began—short, eternal, and
unchanging. Reason seemed to listen to it with disregard, and when it ended, it
spoke again. See? It tells you to kiss the gold that is actually decay.
“Who am I?” Vedron asked with desperation in his voice.
You are a being subject to logical laws, whispered his reason.
Vedron twitched violently. A strange thought came to him. At first it
emerged from the vapor of uncertainty like a vague phantom, but it quickly took
on colors and contours. Finally it flashed wildly. The archer looked at it
reluctantly, then flicked his hair from his forehead. He rose from his knees,
shook the dirt from his hose, and gazed mysteriously at the sky lit by the cold
starlight. He squinted his eyes, but then he felt that what he was about to do was
madness.
“This is the result of exhaustion … I can’t do it!”
But something told him to do it. Something like the murmur of a stream
breaking through a thicket of mountain rocks and rushing toward the destined
sea.
Was this worthy of a man who could not accept his mother’s platitudes? For
Vedron dismissed her speeches as empty rhetoric and an indulgence in fantasy.
He found himself reluctant to do it.
“Maybe I need to sleep and recover, and then I’ll continue with the plans.”
But he felt powerless. He realized that even if he fulfilled his dreams, even
if he immersed his body and soul in them, bitterness would remain at the bottom
of his heart. A bitterness born of that voice of the spirit—a voice that advocated
for his mother and seemed to confirm the truth of her assumptions with
relentless nods. That bitterness would bring him no joy, for it would be etched
into his soul and remain there until death.
Vedron was aware of this and could not escape this bitterness or hide from
it. Even if he fled to the edge of the seas and oceans, it would still be with him.
But reason had a different view, and Vedron found himself fighting between
the two, like a lone warrior in the shadow of two huge mountains, facing and
eyeing each other as if preparing for battle.
His body was shaken by strange chills, and his mind seemed to be
dimming.
Eventually, however, the young archer yielded to the suggestion of his soul.
Even though he resented the idea, felt like a madman when he raised his eyes to
the moon, called all the stars to witness, and whispered that it was only a
temporary irritation, he did it. He decided to do it, even though part of his being
still shuddered at this act of madness.
Were the words he was about to speak a manifestation of fever?
“Elnarin, if you are somewhere near, if you can hear me, come to me and
tell my bitterness, command the darkness of my soul—begone!”
At that moment, a terrible shame overcame him. He felt strange, as if he
had done something forbidden, as if he had crossed the threshold of the enemy
camp, stood in the midst of the glow of the bonfires, and felt the cold stares of
his opponents upon him. He shook and froze, not knowing what to do. Those
words had become a strange spell that bound his will, took the reins of his
emotions, calmed the storm of his heart, and tamed his runaway thoughts.
*
Begone! Vedron thought, as he recalled the dreadful dream that he’d had aboard
the Nefelgar: a dead, stone-strewn shore, a river shimmering coldly in the
distance, and that mysterious, soft voice chasing away the terrible darkness. I
asked for that word only. It was spoken that night!
*
An unknown emotion bubbled up in Vedron’s heart as soon as he had whispered
his “prayer”; whether it was fear, madness, or fever, he did not know. A moment
later, the young archer was running blindly through the forest surrounding his
home, choked by fear. From time to time, he looked back to see if anyone was
following him—if the One he had called was following him. He repeated to
himself that these were delusional premonitions, that they were unnecessary, that
he should forget all of this …
*
And that word, fulfilled that night in the forecastle, was alive. It became part of
reality, just like the trees on the riverbank huddled together in the darkness, still
sleeping. That word, so simple and ordinary, took on an incomprehensible
majesty—the majesty of an awakening man who accepts with mysterious
serenity the judgments of a new day suspended in the future.
A bleak smile dawned on Vedron’s lips. He reached the starboard side of the
ship and looked into the Emnur River. The memory suddenly vanished but left
an indelible mark on his soul. He stared dully at the rushing water, its cerulean
foam, listening to its throaty bubbling, saturating his senses with momentary
exhilaration. He tried to drown out the whisper of the word that flew toward him.
He did not want to hear it, but he could not doubt its existence.
Vedron could not believe that it could have been spoken by one and the
same Person. He could not embrace it with the arms of reason, for this
phenomenon shattered the foundations of his power. Was not reason the most
important link for Vedron? Was not it the object of worship and the blessing of
fate?
The archer grimaced even more.
If someone had not said “begone” in this dream, darkness would have
swept over me and my companions.
Then reason took over. Isn’t the dream a symptom of fever? Dreams should
not be taken too seriously, for they are a plaything of the imagination. Just blow
on them and you’ll see how they vanish like vapor. Do you think some imaginary
darkness could have done anything to you? Do you think that the cold water in
the river was real water that you could touch with your finger? And do you
believe that the voice that sounded was a real voice? Do you believe in this
dream? Shame on you!
Vedron was unmoved by the accusation. Despite the fervent speeches and
certainties of his reason, despite the assumptions that were typically correct,
despite the horde of logical rights, the archer could not ignore what was plainly
obvious. The dream, the river, the darkness—in short, everything that had
happened to him that night—could not be explained through logic alone, for it
was something beyond reason. Vedron struck his forehead against the bulwark
and then stood up, took a few steps, stumbled, and fell to the floor. Dazed, he
immediately got up and ran to the mast.
He knew he could no longer question anything.
“The dream had to be real! He said this word that night and once not far
from the sea. It’s Him, Mother!”
He cried like a child.
“He said this word: ‘Begone,’” he whispered, as if responding to the fog of
darkness gathering around him.
*
“Comrades! Help!”
This cry of desperation suddenly raised everyone to their feet. The deck
became a hive of activity. Vedron staggered toward his comrades and stood
frozen in place when he saw a body on the deck that appeared to be lifeless.
Snouty was standing beside it, holding his head in both hands, stamping his feet
and groaning. It was likely he who had uttered the heart-rending cry. But why
had Snouty become so helpless?
Vedron stood beside the boatswain, gazing at the lifeless body of his
faithful companion, the best he had ever had. For a moment his head spun, and
his legs buckled at the terrible sight, but he did not fall. Someone held him back,
and after regaining his balance, he breathed calmly, though his chest spasmed
wildly.
“Why were you in such a hurry, Enidor?” he whispered, unable to say more,
his gaze fixed on the corpse.
He was bewildered by something that he had long accepted as a logical
necessity. But at that very moment, this death became incomprehensible,
something to explore lest he be swept away by the current of ignorance and
hypocrisy. And there lay Enidor, quiet, calm, as if wrapped in the tenderness of
the afterlife.
Where is he now? Vedron wondered.
This man had walked, talked, fought, loved, conquered, but where was his
soul now? How did it feel there, beyond the threshold of the end? Was there a
paradise, the miracle described in countless stories, or a silent abyss? Vedron did
not have answers to these questions. But he felt something beyond the boundary
of life, something so faint and vague that it was barely discernible—perhaps a
spark of magnificence. And the young archer looked upon these things like a
newly enlightened person.
This time it was you, dear friend. I survived that night, yet I could have
found myself in the arms of death if not for a certain power that you didn’t know.
You were the best friend I ever had. Perhaps this dream will bring you peace.
They say that it brings serenity in prayer. I’ve heard this from certain people.
Were they wise? I don’t know, but they spoke like wise men. Perhaps this dream
will give you what you desire most. I wish you well. May Elnarin calm you on
the waves of eternity, for I know there is something out there. I just have to be
careful not to lose the moment—the decisive one. You see, I’m on the trail of
eternity, but I’m still plagued by uncertainty. I need the dawn!
It was a farewell to a great friend, a tribute to the majesty of his soul.
Vedron spoke and felt like a bard in this extraordinary moment. His heart was
not overwhelmed by the flame of pride; it bowed before the majesty of sleep and
the sign of death that does not announce nothingness. He stood and spoke his
words without moving his lips or blinking. And he knew that his companion,
lulled to sleep by the melody of eternity, was looking at him with silent eyes.
“Sleep well, Enidor,” Vedron said. His thoughts sank into waves of reverie
not about the virtues or vices of the deceased.
He gazed thoughtfully at his face and listened to the gentle hum of eternity.
Boatswain Ledo began to lament. Until then, he had knelt in silence.
“Enidor!” he shouted in a changed voice. “It’s time for revenge! What has
this Leviathan done to you? For pity’s sake! Speak up, for the judgment of the
sea must be carried out. This abomination must be judged! You say nothing, but
I see your pain and read your last will engraved on your cold lips. Be still, and I
will do what must be done. I will go and find the culprit. Your relentless gaze
encourages me to do the deed, and from no one I fear nothing but defeat. Your
blessing is enough for me!”
The sailors muttered in amazement, for this speech seemed like madness.
Boatswain Ledo seemed imbued with an evil charm, leaving the crew confused
and unsure of his meaning. But he did not even look at them, focused on some
unseen point, gazing into space as he gave vent to his exuberance, pouring out
threats of contempt and regret. He gestured with his fist toward the entirety of
space, taking sails, forecastle, and stars as witnesses of his outburst, and the
sailors listened, stunned by the tumultuous sound of his voice. They were greatly
impressed by this lonely silhouette, full of dignity, shaded by the cold glow of
dawn. But it lacked the light that knew how to dispel the darkness. So boatswain
Ledo stood alone and spoke, relying only on the courage and steadfastness of his
own will.
“Sailors,” he said to his stunned companions, “Enidor’s will demands
blood. Let’s capture the Leviathan. Not long ago it was Anort and Bonecracker,
and now Enidor? They are prisoners of a mysterious illness or madness. It is not
an ordinary thing and our great sailor lies dead. This creature has been taking its
toll on Enidor since we were on the Silent Waters. Revenge! Enidor would want
it. Let’s go. Snouty, Scallywag, Ragamuffin! Don’t you remember how Enidor
saved you on the Sea of Carnage when we fought the storm? He caught you,
Snouty. If not for him, you would have fallen out of the crow’s nest. And you,
Scallywag? The cracked mast would have tossed you into the abyss if Enidor
hadn’t held it back. And you, Ragamuffin? You fought a Balgaur. He would have
killed you if Enidor had not sliced through his belly with his sword. Do you
remember? You were so stunned, as if hit on the head with a stone.”
His fiery eyes scrutinized the assembled sailors, but they, intimidated by the
flashes of madness that brightened their dark glassiness, remained silent.
Boatswain Ledo did not give up.
“Are you alive, or are you dying already? I won’t leave him, I won’t go
anywhere. For Enidor’s will calls me, and I’ve made an oath witnessed by the
cold immensity of this river. We must fight the Leviathan. Aren’t we strong?
Don’t we have swords, backswords and bows? Together we can end this savage
rampage. Let this beast fall silent under the blows of our might; let it die in the
depths of the sea. It’s time to confront it—time to challenge it to a duel. The
Leviathan fought like a coward, attacking by surprise, but we’re noble, great,
and can work miracles. I beg you, don’t give in to doubt! Is there anything worse
than shiftless immobility? Do your best! If we come to die, let us die hard! We
will fulfill Enidor’s will or, at the very least, remain faithful to it. Move, my dear
fellows. Raise your heads and look to the east. A new day dawns—the end of the
darkness that called us to death in our dreams. Now we must make a choice.
How will we fight our enemy? Will we take up swords or surrender to the
darkness?”
“There is another way.”
The sailors listened as someone’s voice suddenly interrupted Ledo’s
passionate speech. They looked at each other, searching for the speaker.
Glancing at Vedron, they saw his closed eyes and silent demeanor. His face
lacked expression, as if he had drifted off into the shadows of dreams. The
sailors were spellbound, waiting for him to speak. But the moments dragged on
with no voice on the ship. Vedron seemed unaware of their expectant gaze. Was
he investigating something, investigating the truth behind his own words? Or
was he leaving the rest of his unuttered thought to the testimony of the stars,
deck, masts, and sails? Nobody could guess. A half smile flashed across his face,
leaving no trace on his stony features. Confused, stunned, and perplexed, they
watched the archer. Finally they decided to close their eyes just like he had done
and let his speech blossom in the silence of their souls. They did this in concert,
as if inspired by some magnificent force. Then they heard the boatswain whisper
in amazement, “Who are you? I’m asking you! Who are you?”
The sailors paid no attention, sunk in solemn anticipation. They waited for
Vedron to tell them how to fight the sea demon, knowing he was the one who
understood. He would take the raw material of words and forge them into the
steel of profound wisdom. He would subdue the transience of words, their wild
simplicity, and make them obedient to his thoughts, leaving only the splendor of
hope in his work.
Then they heard the voice they longed for.
“Swords, backswords, and sabers are of no avail when facing the creature
of darkness. It will repel the attack of the mad people.”
The sailors listened to these calm words and concentrated, forgetting the
groans of the boatswain.
“Dear Ledo, you can’t repay blood for blood. For both sides will be covered
with it, and only one will remain alive, feeling the aftertaste of bloody victory.
Are you a judge or a fighter? You are a sailor, my friend. Don’t be afraid of your
nature, which you think is strong, because you will be disappointed. Better that
the disappointment reach you now than when you’re dying in blood and hearing
the laughter of your opponent. Better to feel the bitterness of that laughter in the
calm of the sea than in a storm when the enemy greets you with contempt. Do
not trust the nobility of your purpose, revenge, or good deeds. To fight against
someone stronger is the madness of audacity; it will doom you. Be strong using
a different power. There is certainty of victory only when you have the heat of
the dawn within you, when you shine with light. The demon is a shadow. When
you want to shatter the night, you light a torch. This is the only way to win over
this enemy. How can you fight the darkness without a torch? Would brandishing
a sword or saber do it any harm? Would it cut its veins and sinews? You would
become the laughing stock of the shadows, and they would consume you as soon
as they saw that you lacked light.”
The sailors listened on in silence. They wanted to move, at least a little, to
give him his due, but the spell of the speech had bound their wills. They could
not speak, nor could they help the speaker with an eager shout or an exuberant
gesture. This speech was like a strong but blissful wave, carrying them to the
eternal truth and opening their eyes to the miracle of the dawn.
“Boatswain,” Vedron’s voice continued, “you’ve become a slave to your
own weakness. Don’t worry, it will be the ore from which you will forge a sword
of power. You seek peace, you seek liberation—and you will find them. But
don’t speak of revenge. Anger is the audacity of a fleeting reflex, it lasts only for
a while. Rise to your feet. The dream is over. Come and meet the new day!”
Again, there was Ledo’s poignant whisper filled with inexpressible passion,
sorrow, joy and delight. “Who are you? I can’t comprehend—an angel, a ghost
or a friend?”
“I’m a witness of a new day. Like you, I greet the dawn and see as the night
goes away.”
“Tell me, is there still hope? I lost it long ago.”
“Hope is a reflection of peace. Do you have peace within you?”
Silence again, followed by a soft groan. “I don’t, but how can I have it? I’m
weak.”
“Peace will soon come to you, dear friend.”
“But I’m weak!”
“Weakness is the beginning of great change. Power needs it like a man
needs water. You’re weak—that’s a good sign. Change is a great upheaval of
meaning; it’s a turning to another intention, to another goal, to which it is worth
devoting oneself. Don’t worry, boatswain. You’ll never experience the bitterness
of death again. You say you have met it? Tell me about it. I’ll listen to the
murmur of your stream. Where are you going, irresistible and humming stream?
You’ve almost withered on the sandy and scorching land.”
There was a heavy silence. The sailors understood neither the wording of
the conversation nor its purpose. They listened to these words, uttered in a
fleeting and mysterious manner, and were overwhelmed by their charm, which
seemed to be something eternal, looking into the depths of the soul, something
unchanging like the appearance of the sky and the sun. They thought that
Vedron, who spoke these words to the boatswain, must be dissolving in the
depths of a prophetic mist, speaking while immersed in a dream of ecstasy, with
a smile of firmness and knowledge on his lips. At the same time, they felt that
something new was germinating in their souls. Whether it was a new feeling or
the disappearance of old shackles, they did not know. They could not name it,
they could not define it, because they did not know the words that would
reliably, without harming the core of the phenomenon, be able to grasp its
delicacy and capture its flawless clarity in the image of thought.
They stood as still as stone, tainted by the weakness of their own will and
treacherous instincts, and tried to listen to the voice of the interlocutors. They
understood nothing, but just listening filled them with bliss. They felt that
despite everything, something was stirring deep within them. They felt it clearly,
although they could not name it. They stood like blind men before the healer’s
hut, listening to the murmur of the conversation, penetrating it with all their will,
absorbing its purity with their broken limbs, their nostrils flaring as if they could
somehow breathe it in, but it still remained beyond their grasp. For they had just
emerged from the dark cave, and everything overwhelmed them with its vastness
—the size of the world, the light of the day, and the lushness of the greenery. But
when the fullness of the evening came, their words would become like a murmur
of praise, the gleam of vanity would wither in their eyes—and they would
emerge pure as song.
The boatswain stammered, “When I was on the ship, there was a lot going
on.”
“Tell me about your fear.” Vedron’s voice interrupted.
“My fear? What was my fear? I’ll tell you, my friend, but don’t trust my
words too much, because they might be deceptive. You have intuition; it guides
you, and through it, you’ll understand my situation. I was afraid that night on the
forecastle, for the echoes of distant memories reached me. I was weak and tired,
even yesterday. But I had been devoured by that thing for much longer, even
several months. You probably know what the fear of the terrible afterlife is. You
probably know even more what its terrible presence is. I experienced it tonight.
See? I was afraid of death. I felt that it was near, that it would consume me
before I could speak to you, and I didn’t want to die alone in silence and
darkness.
“You know, I was never afraid of anything. When we sailed the seas, when
our lives hung in the balance because a cyclops or a conflagration or some other
nightmare and horror endangered us, I felt nothing. I was calm, and let me tell
you, I wouldn’t have felt any better lying in a room full of wonders, in a
comfortable bed, caressed by servants and fed only sweetmeats. Oh no! There on
the ship, as soon as the storm came upon us, everything in me began to boil. I
guess we, the crew of the Nefelgar, love danger. You know, Bonecracker used to
say that he loved it ‘when we threw ourselves into the storm with our Nefelgar.’
You know, we weren’t just bracing ourselves for the storm, it was us who
charged towards it.
“Death was probably circling around me like a ghost, trying to take
advantage of my moment of inattention and pull me down. But I didn’t care
about it at all. You know me very well. I’m Ledo the boatswain, and I didn’t care
about anything. To me, death was as inconsequential as one of my little fingers.
And as soon as the fight with the Balgaurs … you know what I’m talking about,
right? I felt alive! Despite the fact that I was aware that in such moments death
may have been edging nearer to me countless times, I remained indifferent. I
didn’t give a damn about it, like everyone else. I was as I should have been.
“But when the horror came on the Silent Waters, I shuddered. I can’t
explain it to this day. You know, all these tantrums, discord, arguments, and
brawls—it’s like living in an animal shed on a ship. Pigs picking on other pigs,
cattle fighting with chickens over a scrap of food, horses loudly protesting and
trying to kick each other. As long as they are getting what they want, they don’t
care. Pigs and nothing else. Even the goats join in with the commotion—yes, the
goats—acting crazy like foxes. These goats start headbutting each other and
snorting. At that time, in the middle of that chaotic animal shed where we were
hitting each other and quarreling, I couldn’t be a boatswain. I was afraid of
something. I kept asking myself, what am I afraid of? Then I realized that I was
afraid of this sea demon. But then I shook my head, because that answer didn’t
satisfy me and I decided to look for another one.
“An opportunity arose to find it and learn the truth. We were attacked by the
Balgaurs on the Sea of Carnage. I thought to myself that I would be calm, that I
would forget everything and concentrate on the fight, that I would be so tired
that nothing would bother me anymore, that this sword of mine would be
steaming with blood. They attacked us. I fought like a good old boatswain, but I
didn’t have any courage in my movements; instead of feeling good, I was afraid
of this fight. I was afraid I was going to die, especially when one of the Balgaurs
took a sword swipe at my chest. You know what I mean? Imagine that. I’m
standing and he’s standing; he delivers the blow and I quail—I quail because I’m
as helpless as that tree, at the mercy of the sky and the rain. Because it can be
struck by lightning or burned by fire. You know that, don’t you?
“Look at me. Look at Ledo the boatswain. He was about to strike and I was
just waiting for it—I was standing still, like a kid with no idea how to wield a
sword. What happened that I couldn’t defend myself? Damn it! Then,
unexpectedly, Scallywag parried his blow so skillfully that the Balgaur fell and
died, and I stood in my place, stunned. I had come terrifyingly close to death. It
already held me in its hands; it was about to devour me! But I was saved by
Scallywag. How did he get there? Why didn’t the strike reach me? I can’t
explain it. It’s something strange, as if something defended me—as if I was
under the protection of some unknown power. But I didn’t think of it that way at
the time. I was too frightened that I had narrowly avoided the worst.
“I began to think about what would happen if a similar situation arose.
What would happen if a new danger looked me in the face and laughed
contemptuously? I was devastated. After all, I had always been able to get
through countless perils. And now I was almost lost, and the thought of sudden
death began to steal into my heart. It was as if I was living with iron in my body,
like I was walking around the ship with my insides chewed up, causing me
excruciating pain. And there was nothing I could do about it. An absurd
helplessness!
“I cursed as much as I could. My mouth was bloody and my hands were
wet. More than once, the sword slipped out of my hands. And when the next
encounter with danger came—namely with a squall—I felt the iron in my body
cut deeper into my insides, causing an indescribable pain. I thought to myself,
It’s better to die than to endure such torment. But I decided to endure it. Maybe
it would pass; maybe it would weaken a little. Not at all! As we battled against
the elements, I quaked uncontrollably; I clung on to the mast, the bulwarks,
anything I could get my hands on, hoping to wait out those moments of terror.
Death seemed to lurk around every corner, and I feared it would take me at any
moment.
“Somehow I survived the storm, but the thought came to my mind that I
needed to do something. I knew I had to hide from death, even if it sounded
crazy. For the first time in a while, the inner turmoil ceased and I hoped my plan
would succeed. I found refuge in the forecastle and decided to stay there as long
as possible. Whenever another storm hit, I sat in the forecastle, aware that death
tends to emerge during these conditions. I’m tired of how it creeps around; I
didn’t want to lose, and I didn’t want to die. So I sat in the forecastle, trying to
be as quiet as a mouse, hoping it would keep me safe. I only came out during the
day for a brief time. Others mocked me and gave me odd looks, but I didn’t pay
them any mind. After all, they didn’t understand the fear that consumed me.
“As I sat in the forecastle one night, something happened that shook me to
my core. I was surprised my hair didn’t turn white. It hit me then; I couldn’t live
like this forever, hiding in that damn forecastle all the time. It wasn’t a fortress
or a tower, and I wasn’t fighting a regular army. Was I a sailor, or a cripple
resigned to a life spent in a cabin, only to eventually have death taunt me with
the words, ‘It’s time for us to go’?
“As a crippled old geezer, I glare at death with my steely gaze, realizing
that I have wasted my time, yet it still came for me anyway. I couldn’t bear to
live in constant fear, but the thought of being out of the forecastle gave me no
comfort, for the thought of the end worried me. That night I sat in the forecastle
unable to sleep. These unforgiving thoughts, feelings and fears kept me restless
and then came the darkest horror.”
Suddenly his voice stopped, and the sailors held their breath. In a moment
of intense silence, the speaker seemed to gather newfound inspiration before
continuing with his harrowing tale. The next words sounded like a whipcrack
echoing in the stillness. The boatswain, without any restraint, presented to
everyone successive images of his internal clashes, and he did so with a
relentless persistence that heeded no obstacles. The sailors dared not open their
eyes, lost in the magic of the moment.
“Then I felt as though I had been run over by some Balgaur machine. It was
an extremely unpleasant feeling, and I had never experienced such intense fear
before. It was like I was lost in a dream. I saw dark and foreboding images, but I
won’t say any more. The sheer darkness in the forecastle was so overwhelming
that I thought I was going insane. I won’t tell you what I’ve seen and what I have
heard, because you will be so panicked that you will not recover.
“You, my friend, understand what I’m speaking of. Some voice told me that
if the torch that illuminated our forecastle went out, I would perish alongside
someone else—maybe Anort or Bonecracker. Nevertheless, these words filled
me with the utmost sense of dread, and I could feel my strength failing with
every passing moment. I didn’t want to be swept up and consumed by this terror.
Every time I think back on it, my bones begin to creak painfully. Though I’m not
too old, it feels as though I aged a hundred years during that one night alone. As
my heart slowed and my eyes grew dim, I found myself praying; an act born of
desperation. I prayed, begged, cursed the sea, howled, roared, jerked and
screamed. I didn’t even know what gods I prayed to until I remembered a certain
figure called Elnarin. It was instantaneous; I begged for His salvation, even
though I didn’t know Him before then. It was as though fate had led me to Him,
and I had no choice but to call upon Him for aid. It’s strange, but in moments as
difficult as this, people can find themselves doing things they would never do in
normal circumstances—it’s our frailty.
“Suddenly, like the flicker when you add wood to a campfire, I witnessed a
flash of light. And then, to my great surprise, I suddenly felt better, as if the
weight of a thousand burdens had been lifted from my shoulders. My heart
began to beat with renewed strength, as befits a sailor’s heart. With that, the
darkness that had been suffocating the forecastle receded and light filled even its
darkest corners.
“I can’t express what happened to me in that moment. I can’t bear to talk
about my feelings and so on, as I have already shared much with you, my friend.
You know what it was. However, there is another detail that I also can’t share as
it’s too difficult to put into words. My story is now drawing to a close, and I’m
grateful to be alive and in one piece. Nevertheless, I will never forget that
moment and I am eternally grateful to whoever saved me from certain death.
“As for Elnarin, I don’t know what to make of Him, but I suspect that He
shatters everything that I thought to be true. I stood solid as a statue,
withstanding wind, sun, hail, and all other forms of mischief. But now I’m like a
statue without a head, arms, or legs, toppled by a powerful force beyond my
control. But enough of that story. My mind is filled with even more questions.”
Turning to his interlocutor, he asked, “Tell me, noble man, I don’t know who you
are, even though you’ve told me. Thanks to what I’ve experienced, I understand
more than I used to. However, I’m weak, broken, and imperfect. What should I
do?”
After some time, a simple answer was given.
“You’re talking about that incident—of how you almost died and how
Elnarin saved you. Is that not enough? Are you still acting like a stubborn child?
Moments ago you sought revenge, even though you survived such a harrowing
adventure. You wanted the blood of a sea demon who is now helpless. But you
didn’t think of Elnarin.”
“I was angry because I was desperate. Forgive me.”
“I’m not supposed to be a forgiver.”
“At least comfort me.”
“I do it all the time. Don’t you feel it? I’m merely a herald, but you should
seek your ruler.”
“Yes,” he replied quietly, letting out a groan, “I can see things more clearly
now. I wasn’t myself. What was I? Now that I realize that I didn’t know how to
live, I don’t know what to do with myself. Please help me.”
“I’ll help you.”
“I’ll never understand what I’m seeing now. How did this happen? Did you
see this demon? Did it do this to you? Tell me. I’m so shaken!”
“I am as I was before, or perhaps something inside of me has been broken.
It’s obvious. But you, my friend, you were a statue that has been knocked down
to rise back up, stronger and more beautiful.”
“But this Elnarin … did He really save me, or was it all just a dream? I
don’t know what is real and what is not. I’m very weak.”
“Weakness is the beginning of change,” Vedron repeated.
Meanwhile, the sailors were truly amazed, though at the same time
distracted and somewhat captivated by the surreal atmosphere. The longer the
boatswain talked, the more disbelief and confusion surged through them. What
was more, Vedron’s words also sounded strange, and the sailors struggled to
make sense of the conversation. What did Vedron mean by Elnarin and death?
Eventually boredom took hold, and the sailors involuntarily opened their eyes at
the same moment, much like a flock of birds that take flight in an instant.
As they did so, they caught sight of the changed boatswain; his face was
brighter and younger. It seemed to be lit up by the light of the dawn. His steely
eyes held more life and energy than ever before. In a word, he was different—
less weary and more talkative. His entire silhouette was framed by the golden
sun and stood out clearly against the backdrop of the dark woods. All of nature
from the river to the trees and hills seemed to derive strength from the brightness
of the new day.
Vedron stood next to the boatswain, wearing a smile on his lips and a look
of pure joy in his eyes. The crew of the Nefelgar looked at each other in
disbelief, silent and taken aback. Vedron said nothing, but simply gestured to the
floor with his head. Confused, the sailors looked down to see Enidor sitting on
the deck—a lively, dapper, and young sailor.
His eyes were turned toward Ledo, and he spoke with calmness and
assurance. “Weakness is the beginning of change.”
The sailors realized with astonishment that it was he who had been
conversing with the boatswain. They, the witnesses of an intimate and profound
conversation between two souls, fell silent.
Chapter IX
FLAME OF THE EAST
The darkness had not yet fully lifted from the Wildlands as the sailors carried
Anort and Bonecracker to the Badger’s Cave. Tharol led the group, with the
captain and the entire crew of the Nefelgar following on behind. He was not at
all offended when someone asked him what he was going to do; he did not snort
contemptuously when an inconvenient question came up, like “How do you
know it’s that disease?” or “Why couldn’t they stay on the ship? After all, these
lands are very wild.” To such ignorance, as he called it, he would respond with
either a pleasant growl or a very terse monostich, behind which lurked layers of
virulence—“Even a wise man doesn’t know the answers to such questions”—
followed by a cloudy face that resembled a bizarre grimace and created an
unpleasant impression. Everyone did what they could to keep at least two meters
away from this “erudite specialist.” Scallywag, who had spoken little and
sparingly because he did not want to “strain his tongue,” walked beside Tharol,
showing his displeasure when he noticed others distancing themselves and
feigning fear.
After crossing the swampy ravines, the sailors came to the Badger’s Cave
within twenty minutes. Guadar crouched down beside Tharol and Snouty to
survey their surroundings. The area was quiet and peaceful, with no signs of
lurking danger. The fiery aurora continued to emerge from behind the distant
mountain range, its glow resembling that of an ember near the horizon. A little
higher, where the stars were still visible, it turned orange, and even higher, where
the jagged clouds started, it glowed yellow like a flame. Through it all, the sun
remained invisible behind the mountains.
Captain Guadar crossed his arms over his chest, turning to Tharol. “Have
you planned everything properly?”
Tharol’s tone held a slight hint of offense as he replied, “Yes. They must be
here. I know what I’m doing. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be doing it.”
The captain peered at him but remained quiet.
The sailors slowly made their way toward the cave entrance, which was
hidden in a dense thicket of old alders. A small grove shaded the entrance to the
cave, and thick bushes crept into its interior, as if curious about the secrets that
lay within. Snouty led the way, acting as a guide. He pushed the bushes aside,
stepped on shepherd’s purse growing between the rocks, and mercilessly cut
down the willow and poplar branches standing in his way. The sailors followed
him, silent and thoughtful, gazing at their guide. Finally they reached the cave.
Snouty leaned against the cold wall of the massive rock that in turn was part
of a steep hill. Nothing obscured the entrance to the cave; even from a few paces
away, the sailors could see its dark, gaping maw, which exuded a cold, musty,
and foreboding feeling. Silence hung heavy in the air, as if time itself had passed
this place by, leaving no trace of change behind.
Snouty brushed his hand against the cold surface of the granite, the rough
texture bringing a sour smile to his lips that quickly dissipated under the weight
of painful memories. No one noticed the change except the trees, bushes, and
various plants—ferns, pimpinellas, herbs, and flowers. Without waiting for the
others, the tall sailor crawled into the cave, stooping to avoid hitting his head.
Meanwhile, the others waited at the edge of the grove, some standing several
feet away from the cave entrance.
After a short time, Snouty emerged from the cave, his face bright and
cheerful again, as if the darkness of the pit had filled him with newfound
courage. However, his contentment was met with a grim silence from the rest of
the sailors, who looked at him as though he were from another world.
Undeterred, Snouty nudged Ragamuffin, who was leaning against the trunk of a
pine tree, and muttered merrily, “Why are you so quiet?”
“Do you think anyone’s in the mood?”
The sailor looked his friend straight in the eyes. He could not accept his
indifference, not after all they had been through, all they had fought for. He just
could not. Where are those flames of eagerness that glowed just yesterday before
nightfall? Where did they go? I must awaken them, call them forth, make them
grow to the heavens, make them what they once were!
He patted Ragamuffin on the shoulder once more, whispering, “Haven’t
you forgotten something? I was in that cave! Our treasures are there. Do you
understand? They haven’t been touched by anyone else yet. And on the ship—”
“Don’t tell me about the ship!” interrupted Ragamuffin.
Undaunted, Snouty waved his hand dismissively and continued, “Listen to
me. Our treasures are there, do you understand? Our future is there. We’ve
worked so hard for it. They’re waiting for us. I want to kiss the ground where
they lie. We can bring all the rest of the things we’ve collected over the past
three years from the ship.”
Ragamuffin frowned at Snouty’s words. “What future are you talking
about?”
Snouty lost his confidence. “Our life—what we have created!”
“Don’t talk about it, just forget it.”
Snouty’s face reddened with anger. He furrowed his brow and hissed, “I
won’t forget!”
“Forget,” Ragamuffin repeated coldly. “Forget everything.”
“Why?”
Ragamuffin crossed his arms over his chest, a bitter expression crossing his
face. “Forget about it, for our lives are rubble. And what do you expect to find in
such rubble? Only shattered reflections of our desires. Everything has collapsed.
Do you understand? Nothing will be the same.”
“It has not collapsed,” Snouty whispered desperately.
“You can’t bring old ruins back to life, they are already useless. Look
closely and you will see. There is nothing left. Our future doesn’t exist. You
want to reverse the course of events by force, but it’s impossible. Don’t try in
vain. What do I need these treasures for? Why all these years of effort? So that
everything will fall apart anyway and never rise again. Forget it!”
“I just can’t.”
“Forget it! We will all turn into nothingness. I don’t know what will happen
next.”
Snouty left Ragamuffin, feeling tired and perplexed as all his persuasion
had been in vain. Even the treasures no longer lured him. After their chat, he fell
into a state of apathy.
As he entered the cave again, he walked slowly between its massive walls,
which seemed to glare at him with cold eyes. Then he set his eyes on the chests
filled with precious stones, their golden light reflected onto the dark rocks.
Necklaces hidden in the boxes caught his eye, their shine mirroring the glare of
the sun that peered in through the crevices. He then noticed the jade, diamonds,
ambers, blue nurit, purple sapphires, and flawless morions and the heat of
amethysts as they twinkled from the rubble of the earth. The green of the proud
emeralds and the glittering necklaces of carnelian and pyrite also captivated him.
Overwhelmed by the sight, he felt his legs buckle beneath him as his eyes
wandered around the cave. He spoke feverishly—“Please don’t deceive me with
your wonders”—although he could not resist the inexpressible joy of seeing such
amazing things. These wonders brought back memories of his lost dreams, plans,
and ambitions. Suddenly everything in Snouty’s rotten and aching heart was
alive again. He even began to believe, at that moment, that nothing was ever
truly lost. He allowed himself to surrender to this feeling and ran out of the cave
like a harbinger of hope. Unfortunately, he soon realized that he had deceived
himself and that nothing could be undone now.
***
The sailors were in shock as Enidor miraculously came back to life. Their faces
expressed their stupefaction as they saw him talking to the boatswain. They were
faced with another miracle. They did not say a word to their chronicler, watching
with apprehension as he rose from his knees, stretched his arms, and straightened
his back. Enidor’s face was serene, as if he had returned from some wonderful
journey. The sailors were speechless, unable to gather their thoughts. Only
Snouty, who was probably more awake than the others, blurted out a simple
“Greetings!” before falling silent, knowing that whatever he said would make no
sense anyway.
Enidor greeted them cheerfully, saying something like “How are you?” and
took a deep breath. However, intimidated by his straightforwardness and
calmness, the sailors trembled in a claw of silence. The gentleness in Enidor’s
eyes and his unusual expression gnawed at their hearts with a mixture of wonder
and disbelief. They did not ask him anything, for they had the feeling that he too
had met a sea demon. Enidor then approached the port bulwark and glanced at
the river and the amaranth flame of dawn crawling out from behind the
mountains. Finally he asked when they would come ashore, but he received no
response from the sailors. A heavy silence still prevailed; the boatswain gasped
softly and approached him with a slow step. He nodded to the Lonely Cape and
ordered the gangplank to be lowered. One of the sailors crawled, wobbling, to
the port side, and a moment later the gangplank touched the pier and Enidor and
Ledo stepped down, the sailors following them with frightened eyes.
The boatswain, on the other hand, was talking to Enidor about something—
what was it? They could not hear. The wind blowing from the north carried away
their whispers and stirred them with its swish. Ledo gestured, trembling all over,
sometimes shaking his head, sometimes frozen in stillness, awaiting Enidor’s
answer. When it came, he nodded eagerly. It was a dialogue between two souls:
one, calm, patient and dignified, listened to the voice of the other, powerful,
strong, and confident. But what were they talking about? The sailors could not
guess. And although they did not fully understand the conversation between
Enidor and the boatswain, which they listened to with their eyes closed, they
caught some significant words: “Elnarin,” “death,” “the sea demon.” Finally,
they sat in a circle near the hatch and began to discuss it. Their conclusion was
that everything that had happened that night was the work of a certain Elnarin.
Then the captain appeared with a medic at his side, and, seeing that the
sailors were doing nothing, he boomed an order for them to take care of the sick
Anort and Bonecracker. He had seen the strange revival of Enidor but said
nothing about it. The sailors only noticed that he had been watching the two
conversers on the Lonely Cape from the forecastle for a long time, and they
wondered what was going on in his mind.
They put the sick men on stretchers and headed for the cave without
speaking a word to each other. They only asked Tharol about Anort and
Bonecracker and did not discuss anything else as they walked solemnly and
contemplatively. After they had placed them in the dark depths of the cave, the
sailors dispersed like pilgrims exhausted from a long journey.
***
Meanwhile, Enidor entered the forecastle. After talking to the boatswain, he was
very interested in the fact that the torch emitted a powerful light that night.
However, no one accompanied him, as Ledo had already disappeared into the
hatch and the sailors were unloading and moving their cargo into the cave. With
unsteady steps, the young sailor went to the forecastle and immediately spotted
the torch, its large flame illuminating the surrounding area. A spark of curiosity
flickered in his eyes when he looked back and saw that the door was closed.
Now only the silent walls, the berths swaying lethargically, and the shadows
nestled in the corners could observe him.
The torch flame that Enidor was staring at could not be any ordinary fire. It
shimmered with otherworldly softness and was filled with vivid colors. Ordinary
fire shot up and hissed bitterly, incinerating everything in its path, but this? It
shot up like a fountain and hissed gently, but even though it reached the ceiling
and devoured it greedily, the flames did not destroy anything. The ceiling of the
forecastle remained untouched. At first Enidor knit his eyebrows together in
suspicion, but then it dawned on him and joy spread across his face. Flames
appeared to leap on the ceiling, and the wooden beams did not crackle or sizzle
in pitiful spasms or blacken. Instead they hung quietly, almost as if the fire was
not there at all. Suddenly Enidor’s eyes shimmered with mystery, and in a
moment an expression of firm determination settled on his face.
He stepped closer to the creeping flame and inhaled. He felt a pleasant
tickle in his nostrils—like the caress of the wind but more delightful. Excited, he
took another step forward. Perhaps he should use a simple stick or something to
test his theory? He sighed softly and moved closer, just a few centimeters away
from the flickering flame of the torch. He could not help but shout in admiration,
for he did not see the fire that raged madly, devouring the logs and twigs thrown
at it, crackling and hissing menacingly. Instead he saw orange flames accented
with pearly flashes and observed their dance, which resembled down floating in
the air. Before him he had a hot fire that did not burn—a fire so light that the
dance of its flames could only be compared to the slow swirl of ocean waves.
The flames were shooting up, soaring upward, stretching toward the sky in
splashes, appearing great and beautiful, but then they stopped and hung in the
air. Were they really hanging? No; they fell lightly and slowly, so much so that
the human eye could hardly register their subtle movement. They fell gracefully,
taking hours, days, and nights to do so. As they fell, it seemed as though only a
second passed. They floated happily and then they suddenly shot up again.
That was the fire, burning as if it was not even burning at all, radiating an
intangible yet strong warmth. Enidor moved even closer to the fire. There was
such a distance between him and the flames that if they were ordinary flames,
they would have burned him all over. Despite this, the vision that flashed
through his mind did not make him abandon the intention he had formed a few
moments earlier.
Enidor took a deep breath and advanced another two steps toward the
flames. What did he feel? One of the flames licked his face, a moment that
should have seen his face disappear in the embrace of the ravenous flames.
Surprisingly, he only blushed and became more beautiful. That little flame
seemed to have softened his features, changed by fear, and rejuvenated his stern
expression. Enidor wondered what this miracle was. The fire spread a warmth
that had the same power both near it and in the farthest corners of the forecastle.
Something like a cool stream of relief flowed through the young sailor’s soul,
and he felt so soothed by its cool breath that he even dared to dip his hand into
the flame. If anyone entered the forecastle now and saw this, they would feel a
shudder of horror. It was a terrifying and wonderful sight at the same time.
Enidor’s hand touched the flame, but it was not burning him.
“This is wonderful!” he exclaimed. “These flames don’t burn anything
because they’re not of this world.”
Then he dipped his other hand in, and then both of his hands melted in that
dancing sea of oranges, yellows, and pungent reds, only to emerge a moment
later completely unscathed and strong. They seemed somehow more alive and
healthier. Enidor smiled, still not quite understanding what the change meant.
His mood grew lighter, as if someone had taken a weight off his shoulders, and
he crossed his arms over his chest and burst into a mighty laugh, full of good
thoughts. It seemed as if the entire forecastle was filled with joy within
moments. The little shadows scattered in its corners trembled and groaned in
pain, while the light from the torch poured out in great streams, both fearless and
fleeting, elusive and blazing.
***
As Enidor emerged from the forecastle, he saw Ledo grinning at him. “Maybe
you should eat something?” the boatswain asked worriedly.
Enidor shook his head. “Take me to the Badger’s Cave,” he said, “and give
me some rum.”