It was in the 457th year of the reign of Yarchian, High King of Harad, called The Renewer, that Bardan, Lord of Darkness, unleashed his forces against the Kindred. The Great War of Anuru had begun. Over the course of a lifetime of men, vast tracts of heaven and earth were laid waste; the empires of Esud and the kingdoms of Harad were sundered and torn. Only the Lagudi, and the Shadelven of the Fourth House, managed to avoid destruction, remaining safe in their underground abodes. And at the end, even both of these joined in the struggle, and their homes were laid bare, and ruin befell them also.
Thirty-nine years after the onset of the Great War, the Haradi won a brief respite from desolation when one of their mightiest champions, Fineleor Orkarel, led an inferior force into a trap set by Gryshgranax, a revenant demon of immense power, one of the mightiest of the Minions of Dark. Although Orkarel and his lover, Anja Antaïssin, Captain of Archers, were slain in personal combat with Gryshgranax, they destroyed their foe, and purchased the escape of their army with their lives. Without the demonic spirit driving them, Bardan’s dark horde failed in its assault on the Elven capital of Astrapratum, and was destroyed utterly. The Haradi won a breathing space of forty years in exchange for the loss of two of their finest warriors.
♦
List, my children, and you shall hear of the final battle of Fineleor;
How he stood ‘twixt home and the damning flame, and earned his house an eternal name;
How he lived in the love of a lady bold, and vanquished our deadliest foes of old;
How he marshalled our legions, and led them well; and how, in defending our land, he fell.
Viz how the summer in wrath he rode; how he, like a titan, the world bestrode;
How, when he harked to the war-horn’s cry, sallied he forth, for to win, and die.
See how his swordsmen to banners came at the sound of his ancient and noble name;
To hold in defence of their fathers’ land, and preserve it from war and the foe’s black hand.
When the fires of Bardan besmirched the hills, and the blood of our brothers befouled the rills;
When the smoke of the forests, all burning bright, strangled the air of the torch-lit night;
When the maids of the mountains their loss bewailed, the High King of Harad his captains hailed,
And the first to answer the call to war was the dauntless Orkarel Fineleor.
Thus the commission from Yarchian, the King: “Haste to the passes, like hawk a-wing;
“Gather thy yeomen; with glaive in hand, shalt thou bar the destroyer from our fair land.
“None but the swiftest may take thy train, for a long march in traverse would be in vain.
“And take of mine archers a hundred score, and my blessing as well, as ye ride to war.”
But these words fell like stones upon Fineleor; for the first time in life was he wracked by fear.
Not by his errand, which liked him well; not by the foemen, the spawn of hell;
Not by the haste which he needs must show; nor by the prospect of hard-struck blow;
Nay, the will of the King was his tremor’s cause – for Anja, the Captain of Archers was.
Anja Antaïssin, of gilded mane; Anja, the daughter of moon and rain;
Anja, the maiden of banded bow, laid many a foeman of Harad low.
All Starmeadow named her a feral child, who walked in the garb of a warrior wild,
And Anja, the maiden of mountain dell, was beloved by Fineleor Orkarel.
Stark silence surrounded the General’s camp; the Lamps lit the verdure with dew-shine damp;
No stallion tosses its wild-maned head; no warrior lingers and loafs a-bed;
No neighing answers the morn-cock’s call; no glaive-point glistens a-top the wall;
No sentry surveys the river’s shore – for the Elves with Orkarel are gone to war.
By Lodan’s light to the north they rode, and bright was the shoe-spark on cobbled road.
Silver the helm gleamed, piercing the night; bright shone the spears, and the swords shone bright.
Trackless their steeds through the darkness ran, bearing the flower of kin and clan,
And Orkarel, the greatest of this great kin, rode knee-side with Anja Antaïssin.
As the Mother’s Lantern arose in fire, Orkarel reined his steed in ire;
The foam-flecked stallions had run their last, with many a stirrup and bridle brast.
The blood-smoke of battle lay on the wind; their fair, helpless homeland lay close behind.
With clan-lords behind, and the foe before, they abandoned their mounts, and they marched to war.
And now his beloved stood in his stead; Anja gathered her bowmen and ran ahead,
While the warriors Orkarel rallied all, and spake unto them this commander’s call:
“Freemen of Harad! The hour is dark; our numbers are few, and our foe is stark;
“Our estate is unpleasant, but hist that ye stand at the doors of your home, and the walls of your land.
“Be ye borne up with mem’ries of glade and of wold, and the courage and skill of your sires of old;
“Aim with their eyes, and your shafts will tell; strike with their hearts, and in hand-strokes fell.
“Stand for the King and his towers tall; stand for the stones of your city’s wall;
“Stand for the lives of each Elf-lass and lad – stand for the future of fair Harad!
“Bear up to battle with courage fast – break thy shields, but let not thine hearts be brast;
“Stand for thy mates, and thy children dear – if we live out this day, may they outlive fear –
“Stand for thy pride; for thine honour, stand, and for brother that marches at thy right hand;
“Stand for that duty we owe to ourselves – and the lives and the loves of thy brother Elves!”
At this, his myrmidons raised a cheer, and their thund’rous salute heartened Fineleor.
A frenzy of stamping shakes the ground; with clamours of “Vic’try!” the hills resound;
Then Orkarel raised an imperious wave, and each warrior shouldered his shield and glaive,
And they faced to the mountains that stood before, and they readied their spirits, and marched to war.
Anja Antaïssin stumbled in fear as the vanguard, afire, attacked her rear;
The bolts of the enemy spattered around, where the bodies of Elf-archers littered the ground
Three times her own force she had feared for to see – but the force they confronted was vast as the sea.
And more than mere monsters and mockeries of Man; tall giants of fire there strode in the van;
Fell serpents and spiders in venom arose, and great creatures of mountain-might marched with her foes;
Dark beings of hell, wreathed in smoke and in flame, and foul aberrations of Deepdark there came;
There demons of fire sought souls as their prize, and the wings of the ancient wyrms darkened the skies.
And straight at the head of this earth-staining horde, the death-demon Gryshgranax marched as their lord.
In beholding the breadth of this sea of foes, the heart of the Elves in Antaïssin arose,
And she summoned her second, where none could hear, and she took him aside, and bespoke her fear:
“Take thou mine archers, and flee to the plains; horse thou my bowmen, be harsh with the reins,
“For this foe is too mighty to face in the hills – we need walls, and our wizards, and all of our skills!
“Ride thou unto Orkarel; this counsel give: ‘Flee thou, my love – take thy swordsmen, and live!
“ ‘Live for the life that we once might have had; live for the glory and love of Harad!’”
“But what of thy fate, mistress – why wilt thou stay? Cast not thy life’s love so needless away!
“Flee with us now!” the old warrior said. “Thou canst not serve Harad if thou liest dead!”
“Hark to my orders,” she answered, and smiled. “Thou needest not fear for a wench of the wild.
“But leave me thy quivers, and I shall be glad; and Gryshgranax shall rue each step in Harad.”
So they left her their quivers, and spare bowstrings too; and begging her blessing, all southwards they flew.
As the horde shuddered on, vast and dark as the seas, she concealed her shafts ‘mongst the leaves of the trees.
Then she watched where Gryshgranax marched, flaming in wrath, and she chose a tall tree that stood nigh by his path;
There in verdure, she waited; and waiting, she laughed as she took the fell beast at the point of her shaft.
As the Lantern-light sparkled on leaf and on stream, the Horde of the Dark gave a terrible scream;
And they broke from the hold of their dark master’s sight, and they fell on the trees, and they set them alight.
But each beast fell silent, and waited in fear; for a bellow of pain had sprung up from the rear;
‘Twas Gryshgranax that let out that hideous cry – with the grey shaft of Anja stuck fast in his eye!
And thus the long fight of Antaïssin began, as from tree-hide to tree-hide, all silent, she ran;
Her shafts whistled brightly in Harad that day, and amongst the dark army, they made dreadful play.
None there were who descried as she hunted her foe – as she giants, and monsters, and demons laid low.
All that day she ran with them, and slew as she ran – until Fineleor Orkarel ruined her plan.
As a mountain-stream chilled by the ice-field’s breath, Elder Fineleor Orkarel marched to his death.
The long valley gleamed as the Lantern went down, and shone from his helm like the light from a crown.
Uncovered, his shield shone red in the gloom, and his helmet-plumes waved in defiance of doom;
His stout heart afire with passion and hate, he walked with his iron eye fixed on his fate.
At the narrowest span of the valley he stayed, where the cliffs of the mountains both side were arrayed,
And he bid him farewell to the lands of his birth, and he planted his banner there, fast in the earth.
Soft he whispered a prayer to the lord of the skies, and bethought him of Antaïssin’s emerald eyes;
Then he faced to the dust-clouds and smoke that arose, and he stood in the path of his onrushing foes.
The sun had descended behind the grey spires when the Dark Horde approached in a welter of fires;
Loud ran the slavering wolves in the van, and behind walked the ruins of Elf, Dwarf and Man.
The thunder of giant-strides echoed like death, and the drakes scorched the trees with the fire of their breath;
But the worst of the minions of darkness that came, was the death-demon Gryshgranax, wreathed in black flame.
“Bow thee down, fool of Harad!” His shout rent the air; felled the birds from the skies; stripped the tree branches bare;
“Bow thee down – beg my mercy – I may let thee live; though my Master grants death, life is my gift to give!”
“Save thy mercy, thou monster,” quoth the Elf-Lord in wrath; “it is Fineleor Orkarel that stands in thy path!”
“None shall leave it alive who dares enter my land; flee and save thee! I hold thy death here in my hand!”
“What knowest thou of death?” the great fire-demon smiled; “I died long before thy grandsire was a child!
“For eons have I walked in death’s dark mantle furled; I come now to bring death unto thee and thy world!”
“Then bring it!” quoth Orkarel, “Yea, bring it in sooth! I have fought thy fell kind since the days of my youth.
“And I swear, on my grandsire, that thou shalt not pass! Come and fight me, ‘till one of us dies on the grass!”
At the Elf’s final word, Gryshgranax raised his sword, and advanced to the narrows, where stood the Elf Lord;
But he hissed as in anger, and stopped in his track, and grasped at the shaft standing out from his back.
Then from the high cliffs came a clear Elven call, as Anja, the bowmaid, descended the wall,
As light as a leaf-fall was she in her stride, and she smiled as she took her place by her love’s side.
“Fair maiden! I dreamt not to see thee again, for when thou returned not, my heart broke in pain.”
“Fair master, my own heart could never abide, a fortune more meet than to fall at thy side.”
With the Dark Horde upon them, in twilight they stood, and mounded the slain ‘neath the deep northern wood;
Orkarel and demon gave swift strokes, and hard; and Anja his minions piled up on the sward.
No word had come back of the two heroes’ fate when the Dark Horde of Bardan struck Starmeadow’s Gate;
And they broke on that gate with a low, darkling groan, as a wave breaks on meeting unyielding stone.
For the force that had driven them there from afar, no longer impelled them to perish in war;
In the far northern pass, stilled in death on the wold, lay the dark shape of Gryshgranax, flameless and cold.
And nearby, where his vast pyre smoked on the grass, lay Anja and Orkarel, guards of the pass.
The Flame-Pass we call it, to honour their loss, and ‘tis marked with a stone-cairn, covered in moss.
At the north end we gathered a mountain of bones; at the south lie our finest, asleep ‘neath the stones.
Their last sleep entwined, ‘neath the emerald sod; Orkarel, Antaïssin, the best of Harad.
United in death, there they lie, hand-in-hand; the lovers, the heroes, who saved our fair land.
♦♦♦
Gwen’s Notes
Elves! What have they got against brevity? Keep it short, for the love of the Holy Mother! The rest of us don’t live for a thousand years!
Fourteenth Rune: The King of Winter
♦
(from the Tarinas Valtakirjas)
With the cloak of Rune about him
And the granite rod upon him,
Eldukaris faced the mountains,
And he boldly them ascended.
Mounted high the trail before him;
Twixt the clouds, and close to heaven;
Stones and rock falls thundered near him;
Whistling winter’s wind assailed him
Cold the air, and cold the trail was,
Cold his hands and heart within him;
But the Dwarf’s warm cloak was soothing,
And the Rod, his shield ‘gainst snow-fall.
Where the whistling wind blew fiercest
And snow and ice lay heavy,
And the land was black and barren,
There the mountain trail expired;
At a sheer drop in the ice-cliff,
Nigh a thousand fathoms open,
Straight as axe-stroke, giant-cloven,
Lay a vast and shining canyon.
As he strained his eyes, descrying,
Lo’, the clouds were sudden parted,
And a shaft of sunlight breached them,
Blazing like the spear of heaven.
There, across the blazing canyon
Cold and white as frost-rime fleeting,
Stood a gleaming frozen fortress:
Isholm, siege of King of Winter.
Eldukaris stood at cliff-face,
And the vasty canyon pondered;
For he had not claws to climb it,
Neither hawk-wings to traverse it;
Nay, no rope or cable had he,
Nor a pick to aid his walking.
Naught he had but wine-skin bulging,
Taken from Rune’s warming kitchen;
Naught he had but granite Scepter,
Given Rune by King of Winter.
Of that Scepter he bethought him;
Brought it forth, and raised it sharply;
And the snowflakes flurried ‘round him,
And the whistling wind attended.
“Winter’s Breath,” cried Eldukaris,
“Come thou forth, do thou obey me;
Bring thy snow and ice-blast hither;
/> Bear my weight on storm-wings mighty!
And the storm obeyed his wishes,
For this was the Scepter’s power;
Thus the frost-clouds gathered ‘neath him;
Thus the ice-wind came and bore him.
Thus the clouds were as a chariot,
And he rose up from the cliff-face,
Riding like a lord of thunder;
Flying o’er the deeping canyon.
Ever nearer to the fortress
Of the fearsome King of Winter;
Ever nearer to his treasure
Fair wood-maid, Csæleyan.
Fast he flew on frigid wind-wings,
And the ice-blast froze his marrow;
By the cold, his hair was whitened,
And his eyes, in frost-blue blazoned.
At the castle’s gate, he faltered,
For the ice-wind broke and shattered;
Here the Scepter was not potent;
Here the Winter-King was strongest.
With the dwarf-cloak gathered ‘round him,
And the granite Scepter hidden,
Eldukaris faced the door-beams,
And he hammered hard upon them.
Not a sound from frozen wasteland;
Nor a sound from Isholm answered,
And he nigh despaired of entry,
When at last the doors were opened.
White and fell the greeting visage;
Blæst was he, the Ice-King’s door-ward.
Tall and white, a giant of winter,
Cold his heart, and cold his answers.
“Who art thou, and wherefore come thee?”
Blæst inquired of Eldukaris,
“Speak thy name and speak thy purpose,
Speak them swiftly, lest I slay thee!”
Thus did Eldukaris answer;
“I am Eldu of the waters,
And I come to seek thy master,
For I would have discourse with him;
Yea, I have a boon to ask him,
And I bring a gift to give him.”
Blæst the Door-Ward roared with laughter,
“Son of Esu, thou art witless!
Seek you favours? Know, my master,
Wishes naught but death to strangers.
Take my counsel; hie thee onward;
Tempt thou fortune on the Mountain,
Taste the cold embrace of storm-blast
Lest thou taste my master’s anger.”
Eldukaris frowned in answer;
He had spoken fair and truly,
And the answer Blæst had given
Vexed his warrior’s spirit sorely.
Yet his mother’s calm was in him;
Peaceful patience of the oceans;
So he held his temper hidden,
And this answer Blæst was given:
“Say unto thy mighty master,
I am Eldu of the Waters,
And I come to barter with him
For a prize that he has taken.
Fair wood-maid, Csæleyan,
Whom he took whilst forest-dancing;
I have sworn to bring her safely
Back to those who love her dearly.
Tell thou this unto thy master:
Eldu craven and coward names him!
If these charges he would answer,
Here I stand; I here await him.”
At this challenge, Blæst stood raging,
And a moment passed in silence;
Then the palace rang with thunder,
And the ice of Isholm shivered.
Cold the air in palace wavered;
Colder still it grew, and shivered;
Colder yet, and in the ice-blast
Stood the form of King of Winter.
“Cast thy gage, thou puling wave-kin,”
Quoth the winter-demon, sneering.
“I am Mælgorm, King of Winter;
I am winter’s master reigning.
Naught may live upon the mountains;
Naught may thrive in snow-fall season,
But my will permits their living,
And my eye is e’er upon them.
Thus I watched while you climbed hither;
Thus I watched you clutch and falter;
Thus I saw you slay my servant,
And I saw you take my Scepter.
Now you come to beg my favour?
Now you come to trade and barter?
Know this, fool; I brook no challenge,
From a vain and petty mortal.”
“Speak’st thou so?” laughed Eldukaris,
“Think’st thou not I know thy weakness?
Here I hold thy granite scepter,
Taken from thy puling servant.
Rune the Dwarf betrayed his hosting,
Thus I took this bauble from him.
Right of conquest makes it answer
When I call unto its power.
Yet for Powers it is different;
Right to wield the Ars Arcanum
Follows not from brutal battle,
But from gift of willing spirit.
Thus thy scepter is my weregild;
Paid in blood by law of Powers
If thou by force should’st take it,
Never more its powers will answer.”
“True and true,” quoth Mælgorm, seething.
“Is this then the gift thou bringest me?
Thinkst thou I wouldst barter closely
For a benison I crafted?”
“What I bring,” said Eldukaris,
“Is a test of might and power.
Should’st thou win, take thou thy scepter,
As the willing gift of Eldu.
Take my flesh and heart’s-blood with it,
To make free withal, as suits thee.”
“And if thou should’st win thy vict’ry?”
Asked the cunning King of Winter,
“What must then I cede thee, mortal?
What great gift wouldst thou take with thee,
Climbing down my mighty mountain?”
“Thy great treasure,” laughed the Sea-Child.
“If I win, I take thy captive;
Fair and frail Csæleyan,
Daughter of the laughing woodlands,
Sister of the Forest-Maidens.
You shall yield her in her freedom,
And forsake to claim her after,
‘Till the Veróldbrast shall claim us
And all perisheth in fire.”
“I accept,” said Mælgorm, laughing.
“I am mighty as the mountains;
Strong as stone, with thews of iron,
No mere mortal may outmatch me.
Choose thy trial, thou foolish child;
Choose thy trial, and watch me win it.”
“Here it is,” said Eldukaris;
And brought forth his sea-stone gleaming.
“Thus my trial,” quoth Eldukaris,
“Thus my test of strength and cunning.
This grey stone comes from the waters
From my mother’s bosom gleaming.
I shall place it on the flagstones
And return it to her bosom;
And the one who takes and lifts it,
He shall win fair Csæleyan.”
“Done and done,” laughed Mælgorm, howling
At the folly of this mortal.
Eldukaris nodded briefly,
With a smile scarcely hidden.
Stone he placed in a depression
On the flagstones, worn and hollow;
Then he fetched his bulging wine-flask;
And he filled the hole with water.
With a smile broad and beaming,
Eldu stretched his hand before him;
Plunged it wrist-deep in the water,
Held the stone forth, wet and gleaming.
“Now, essay,” said he to Mælgorm,
And replaced the stone before him.
But the Ice-King stood unmoving
Grinding fangs, in rage abounding.
Yet at last he faltered forward;
Reached toward the shining water;
But his hand stopped short of touching,
For the water froze before him.
So it is with King of Winter;
Water lives not in or near him,
For his touch is ice incarnate;
And that frigid ice denied him.
“Now decide,” quoth Eldukaris,
“Now decide, thou King of Winter.
Wilt thou free fair Csæleyan?
Let us leave in peace unhindered?
Stone I lifted fair before thee;
And thou failed my test entire.
Wilt thou keep thy word and pay me?
Or foreswear, and so betray me?”
Mælgorm ground his teeth in anger
Like the stones grind in the mountains;
And he spoke in rumbling anger;
And the walls of Isholm quivered.
“Take thy chit, and flee my fury;
Come thou ne’er again against me.
If henceforth I e’er should see thee,
I shall rend thy heart’s-flesh from thee.”
Then in fury, he departed
In a cloud of ice and snow-blast;
Eldukaris stood and waited,
And in waiting, felt a changing:
Warmth there came unto the Isholm;
Flower-scent, and tree-scent lingered,
Then in green and glory gleaming,
Csæleyan stood before him.
Forest-green her hair and raiment;
Forest-green her lovely visage,
And the green light of the woodlands
Softly glimmered ‘round about her.
None of this saw Eldukaris;
For his heart was lost in wonder;
Green the eyes that looked upon him;
And his heart sprang forth in answer.
Naught she said, but smiled softly;
And the ice-floor ‘round them crumbled
Leaves of trees the ice-walls shattered;
Bush and branch the flagstones sundered.
Scent of flowers intermingled
And of oak-leaves bright and blooming
And the green of forest gleaming
In the eyes of wood-maid weeping.
Naught said he; but Eldukaris
Stepped unto the Forest Maiden
Placed his hands upon her shoulders;
In her deeping eyes he foundered.
Bright the wood-scent rose around them,
And the walls of Isholm vanished;
In the arms of Csæleyan –
Prize of conquest and of passion,
Whom he ne’er would leave thereafter –
Eldukaris quit the mountains.
♦♦♦
Gwen’s Notes
I’ve never used to be certain whether I should believe this one or not. I mean...a tricky human? Really? Most humans I’ve met have been about as tricky as the stuff I scrape off my boot after escaping a castle’s dungeon by way of the midden.
But then I remembered how the story ended, and that sort of drove it home for me. Stay with me here. Eldukaris falls in love with Csæleyan, and they wed and have children and live happily ever after. And she’s a tree, right? Basically, that’s what a ‘Wood-Maiden’ is, isn’t it? She’s not one of the Kindred, she’s one of the fey folk. She lives in the forest...and she’s green. And her kids are nymphs and pixies and dryads and what-not.
That’s the clincher, isn’t it? The story has to be true. Because if there’s one thing that I’ve learned about humans, it’s that they’ll mate with anything.
Fifteenth Rune: The Jewels of Harad
♦
(from The Ballads of the Bjerglands, by Skald Ian McLaren)
These are the jewels of Elvehelm
The glory and pride of the Elven realm.
Seven the jewels of fair Harad
Created by mortal and minion and god
Seven the baubles, that latterly grace
The dark of the vaults in that comely place
Seven the trinkets held by the wise
Beneath the tree-shaded, star-filled skies.
Eldest the cup that the Delver made
To give to the Mother of light and shade
Ruby the lips that touched the brim
As she clove to a mortal’s immortal whim
So fill it with water and drink it down,
And your soul will exalt, and you’ll wear a crown.
The crown that you’ll wear is the fairest thing
Unto which the princesses of Harad cling;
A diadem shining of brightest gold
That bolstered the beauty of queens of old
A diamond of blood at its heart-core shines
And it answers its wearers least designs;
The crown graces not Ælyndarka’s brow
But rests with her brother ‘neath bone-yard’s bough.
Brightest the blade that broke alone
When it met the fist of unyielding stone;
Cold was the fire and flame it bore
When the fell fallen brother marched to war
The haft is the sceptre in royal hands
of the emerald-eyed lady of Elven lands
The shards of the Stoneweeper mark the grave
Of the brother who fell, and his sister saved.
Bright and unbroken Blind Vengeance hides
And its master’s hand-strokes unerringly guides;
Bitter the edge of that ancient blade
That those who envied great Tior made
Darkness the wielder’s vision dims
As it lops off heads and it lops off limbs.
Cold lies the hilt of the ancient rod
That flayed the fabric of fair Harad
Broken the flail that served the throne,
As the White Lord harried both flesh and bone
His daughter’s black hand brought the tyrant low
And the shard of his rod lies entombed below.
Mighty the diadem Tior wore
As he followed his wisdom and searched for lore
Bright Laurastralis, of gleaming gold
Graced the brows and the reigns of the kings of old
But none since the flower of Yarchian’s reign
Laurastralis has dared to put on again
And it waits beneath Starmeadow’s towers fair
For a High King to rise and the realm repair.
Greatest of all is the Rod of Kings
The flower of Harad’s ancient things
Fair Tior forged it, and then he fell;
Foul Xiardath took it, and used it well;
The White Wyrm held it while Biardath reigned;
But Jawartan the Sceptre of Kings regained,
And gave it to Yarchian, who ruled with pride,
Until at the hands of the Queen he died.
The rod fell in darkness ‘neath wyrm-wrought skies
And in darkness in Harad, still it lies.
These are the jewels of Elvehelm
The glory and pride of the Elven realm
Seven the treasures of Elves of old;
And thus is my tale in fullness told.
♦♦♦
Gwen’s Notes
So I read this one, and I’m thinking, Hey – an elfy poem, and it rhymes, and it’s short! Hurrah!
Then I noticed that a human wrote it. Talk about a case of premature expostulation. At least this McLaren fellow spends his time writing songs and instead of hanging about the garden leering at the flora.