“Why would the elves launch an attack on both the Ghazel and us? Why open two fronts?” Sir Elgar asked.
“It’s likely they don’t consider either the Ghazel or ourselves to be a serious threat,” Breckton told them. “Sources report the elven host is accompanied by scores of dragons who burn everything in their path. Other reports speak of equally disturbing capabilities, such as the ability to control the weather and call down lightning. There are stories of huge monsters that shake the earth, burrowing beasts, lights that blind, and a mist that… devours people.”
“Are these fairy stories you would have us believe, Breckton?” Murthas asked. “Giants, monsters, mists, and elves? Who were these scouts? Old wives?”
This brought chuckles from both Elgar and Gilbert and a smile from Rudolf.
“They were good men, Sir Murthas, and it does not befit you to speak ill of the courageous dead.”
“I grieve for the lives of the men who died,” King Armand said. “But seriously, Breckton, a mist that kills people? You make them out to be the sum of all nightmares, as if every tale of boogeyman, ghost, or wraith spills out of the wood across the Nidwalden. These are only elves, after all. You make them sound like invincible gods that-” They came with hardly a warning, thousands both beautiful and terrible; They came on brilliant white horses wearing shining gold and shimmering blue; They came with dragons and whirlwinds, and giants made of stone and earth; They came and nothing could stop them. They are coming still.
The voice issued from the doorway and all heads turned as into the great hall entered an old man. It was hard to say what caught Hadrian’s eyes first, as so much was startling. The man’s hair, which did not begin until well behind his balding forehead, was long enough to reach the back of his knees and was beyond gray, beyond white, appearing almost purple, like the edges of a rotting potato. His mouth lacked lips, his eyes were without brows, and his cheeks were shriveled. He wore a cascade of glittering purple, gold, and red-robes displayed with relish-flaunting it with dramatic sweeps of his arms as he walked using a tall staff. Brilliant blue eyes shifted restlessly around the room, never pausing for too long on any one person. His jaw, held taut in an openmouthed grin, showed a surprising full complement of teeth, his expression a silent laugh.
Behind him entered two equally shocking guards. They wore shimmering gold breastplates over top shirts of vertical red, purple, and yellow stripes with long cuffs and billowing sleeves. Matching pants plumed out, gathering just below the knee into long striped stockings. Across their chests, stretching from their shoulders, hung silver braids and tassels of honor. They wore gold helms with messenger wings that hid their faces. Each held unusual weapons, long halberds with ornately curved blades at both ends, which they held tight to their sides with one arm straight down and the other high across their chests.
The guards halted in perfect unison, snapping their heels in one audible clack. The old man continued forward, approaching Modina. He stopped before her, slamming the metal tip of his staff down on the stone floor.
“Forgive me, Your Eminence,” the old man announced in a loud voice, and followed with an elaborate bow, which allowed him the opportunity to further display the grandeur of his robes. “My apologies cannot begin to elevate the depth of my sadness at having failed to arrive at the appointed time, but alas, I was irrevocably detained. I do hope you can forgive a feeble old man.”
Modina stared at him, her expression blank. She said nothing.
The old man waited, shifting his weight, tilting his head from side to side.
Modina glanced at Nimbus.
“Patriarch Nilnev,” the chancellor addressed the old man. “If you will please take your seat.”
The Patriarch looked at Nimbus, then back to Modina. With a curious expression, he nodded, walked to the empty chair, clacking his staff with each step, and sat down.
“Patriarch Nilnev,” Breckton said. “Can you explain your interruption of King Armand’s comments?”
“I was quoting an ancient text: ‘ And lo the sylvan gods prey on Man. They that death does not visit and time does not mar. Firstborn fairy kings, undisputed lords, mankind cowers before thee. ’ ” He recited the words with reverence and paused before continuing, “The ancient writings speak clearly of the power of the elves. So much time has passed, so much dust covers the years, that man has forgotten the world as it was before the coming of our lord Novron. Before his sacred birth, the elves ruled all the land. Every fair place, every sunlit hill and green valley, lay under their dominion. They were firstborn, greatest of the inhabitants of Elan. We forgot because the miracle of Novron made such amnesia possible. Before his coming, the elves were invincible.”
“Forgive me, Your Holiness.” Sir Elgar spoke up, his voice like the growl of a bear. “But that’s a load of bull. Elves are as weak as women and dumber than cattle.”
“Have you crossed the Nidwalden, Sir Elgar? Have you seen a true member of the Erivan Empire? Or are you speaking of the mir?”
“What’s a mir?”
“A mir- or kaz in Calian-is one of those wretched, vile creatures that so often used to defile the streets of cities throughout Apeladorn. Those emaciated, loathsome perversions with pointed ears and slanted eyes who carry a muddied mix of human and elven blood are abominations. Mirs are remnants of a conquered people that have less in common with elves than you do with a goldfish. Elf and human cannot coexist. They are mortal enemies by divine providence. The mixing of their blood in a single body has produced a contemptible walking insult to both Maribor and Ferrol, and the gods’ wrath has fallen upon them. You should not presume to look at a mir and guess at the nature of an elf.”
“Okay, I get the point. Still, I’ve never come across any creature that draws breath who is immune from the sharpened tip of a sword,” Elgar said.
This produced pounding of fists on the table and grunts of agreement from the other knights-all except Breckton.
“The ancient text tells us that prior to the coming of Novron, no elf was ever killed by a man. Moreover, due to their long life, no human ever saw an elven corpse. This gave rise to the belief that they were immortal gods. ‘ Soft of foot, loud as thunder, terrible as lightning, greater than the stars, they come, they come, they come to conquer. ’ ”
“So if they were so great, how did Novron stop them?” Elgar challenged.
“He was the son of a god,” the Patriarch replied simply. “And”-he paused briefly, his grin widening to display even more teeth-“he had help in the form of the Rhelacan.”
“The divine sword?” Sir Breckton asked skeptically.
The Patriarch shook his head. “It was created by the gods, but the Rhelacan is not a sword; it is the Trumpet of Ferrol, the Call of Nations, the Syord duah Gylindora that Novron used to defeat the Erivan Nation. Many make the same mistake. In the Old Speech the word syord means horn, but that bit of information was lost when some sloppy translator thought it meant sword. The name Rhelacan is merely Old Speech for relic or artifact. So the Syord duah Gylindora, or Horn of Gylindora, became the sword that is a great relic, or the Rhelacan-the weapon that Novron used against the elves.”
“How can this… horn… defeat an army?” Sir Breckton asked.
“It was made by the hand of their god, Ferrol, and holds dominion over them. It gave Novron the power to defeat the elves.”
“And where might this marvelous trumpet be?” Cornelius DeLur spoke up. “I only ask because in our present circumstances, such a delightful treasure could prove to be quite useful.”
“Herein lies the great question. The Rhelacan has been lost for centuries. No one knows what became of the Horn of Gylindora. The best accounts place it in the ancient capital of Percepliquis, just before the city vanished.”
“Vanished?” Cornelius asked, leaning forward as far as his immense girth would allow.
“Yes,” the Patriarch said. “All accounts from that time report that the city was there one day and gone the next. Percepliquis was consumed, lost, it is said, in a single day.” The Patriarch closed his eyes and spoke in a musical tone: Novron’s home, seat of power White roads, walls, roofs, and towers Upon three hills, fair and tall Gone forever, fall the wall. Birthplace of our wondrous queen Mounted flags of blue and green Exquisite mansions, wondrous halls Goodbye forever, fall the wall. City of Percepliquis Ever sought, forever missed Pick and shovel, dig and haul Search forever, fall the wall. Gala halted, city’s doom Spring warmth chilled with dust and gloom Darkness sealed, blankets all Death upon them, fall the wall. Ancient stones upon the Lee Dusts of memories gone we see Once the center, once the all Lost forever, fall the wall.
