When all the able-bodied fighters have been gathered in the city of Onylándun, they stand four-thousand in number. Fifteen-hundred of these are trained warriors, guardsmen, and soldiers, and the rest are simply townsfolk who have volunteered to lend their arm to the cause. Brýma refuses to draft any of the men of his city unwillingly into the force that shall march toward Minstead, but neither does he refuse those who offer their assistance. And the extent of the freely offered support, from both men and women, is far more than he had expected. And in truth without this aid there would be little hope of any sort of victory against the enemy, however meager. But after having witnessed the assault of their own city and the horrors of the creatures that seek to destroy their people, many are stirred to resist—some by remaining at home to guard and protect their families and their city, and others to march forth for the deliverance of Minstead and for the direct conflict with the full might of the enemy, even if this proves to be little more than a diversion to save other settlements from a similar fate.
Rórlain tremulously but with trusting surrender accepts second command over the army, with Sénfyr—following the death of Hínding—now raised to the status of commander. Brýma himself dons a mail hauberk and iron breastplate, with matching greaves and vambraces, and a thick-bladed sword passed down through many generations of the leaders of the clan of Onylándis. Thus outfitted he joins the army, as do four other members of the council. Jatíldë takes Brýma’s place as the prime custodian of the city and the clan in his absence. Gathering outside the city gates on the early morning two days after the departure of Eldárien and Elmáriyë, the host is massive and intimidating to behold—though to themselves, of course, encouraging—with armor glinting in the torchlight as far as the eye can see, a great mass of men and women emerging from the darkness. They know not whether the eötenga can see in the darkness as in daylight, or even if they see at all in the ordinary manner, but for those who behold the army now the darkness seems almost to be in this case a boon, an aid to the secrecy of their march and an advantage in their approach to the city of Minstead, a wave at sea rising up and crashing against the shore without warning in the depths of night. This, at least, is their hope.
Along with the men and women who march for war are five-hundred others, mainly women though there are also a number of elderly men, who accompany them to tend to their needs and to support them in whatever manner they may. Among these are Cirien and Tilliána, for whom the possibility of remaining in Onylándun is not even a consideration. Though they have nothing to offer in terms of military strength or acumen, they both wish to be where the conflict lies, that they may aid those who stand forefront against the darkness. Whether it shall be cooking meals, helping erect and dismantle the camp, tending to the wounded, or offering counsel and presence, it is here alone that they wish to be. And they are also unwilling to allow Rórlain to press forward alone without their support and their companionship, for they know that the burden he now carries is great.
When all have gathered and are prepared to depart, Sénfyr speaks. He addresses the troops in a loud voice, reaching whom he may, while others pass on his words to those too distant to hear him. “A long road lies ahead of us, and our destination shall be more dangerous and more arduous than the road to arrive there. But we march in courage and in compassion, to save and to protect the people of our land, both in Onylándis and beyond. Much shall be asked of us in the coming days, but I am confident that we shall rise to the occasion, as we have once already. So prepare yourselves. Much need have we of haste, and we shall march hard. Let your legs be tireless and your arms be strong, and let your heart not fail, come what may—for we are Telméri, and our spirit shall not be broken.”
After these words the great company sets out, and they follow the plains and foothills to the west and then to the northwest, as its leaders guide all steps toward a narrow pass that cuts through a branch of the Téldrens and which shall spare a large number of days, perhaps even an entire week, from their journey. For the three companions who have journeyed from Ristfánd, the experience of traveling in such a large group of people is a jarring change, as the sobriety of the days and the silent intimacy of the nights is replaced by numerous sounds, whether the dull pounding of thousands of footsteps and the breath of many human beings, a cadence resounding on and on as the long hours of marching wear on, or whether the sounds of hushed conversation at night, and snoring, and campfires crackling to fight away the darkness and the bitter chill.
Fortunately, they pass through the mountains without incident and find the land sloping downward on the other side, and a wide expanse opening out before them—more felt than seen—which shall take many further days to cross. But only across it, far to the north, lies their goal, one both desired and feared: the city of Minstead, cradled in a wide basin of land between rugged peaks, center of the clan of Mineäs and for yearns now a heart of intense strife and conflict. But the nature of this conflict has now drastically changed, and what was once a fight between Empire and rebellion has now become the struggle of humanity for life and survival against the beasts of darkness and death who would rob them of it.
“I feel their fear,” Rórlain remarks one day to Cirien as the company stops to make camp. “They have witnessed incredible horror already in the heart of their own city, once a bastion of such safety and security. And yet within only a matter of weeks they march forth toward another city, foreign and unknown, and in order to face what for all indications shall be a yet greater force of evil. The fear of death hangs heavy in the air, and rightly so. I myself fear that many shall fall before the end…if not all.”
Nodding as he listens and receives these words, Cirien replies, “A painful path has befallen us, that is certain. Our people face a trial they have not known for ages, and for all that we would wish to spare them of it, all that we can do, rather, is join them in it, and guide them as best we can along the journey that lies before them.”
“And in the conflict be a shield to protect them and a sword to sharpen them,” adds Rórlain, “a sword imbued with light, which seems to be our only advantage—and one that seems so small and meager—against our enemy.”
“Do you have any hesitations about the path that we have chosen?” Cirien asks.
“About the assault on Minstead?”
“I suppose so, yes,” says Cirien. “The journey that Eldárien and Elmáriyë take is not one subject to choice, as it seems to have been chosen for them. But before us lies a conflict uncertain both in nature and in outcome. Do you believe that we have chosen wisely?”
“I do not know. But we have chosen, and we have chosen together. All for it now is to follow this course through to its end or until something else is revealed to us.”
“For my part I believe that we have chosen wisely.”
“Truly?” Rórlain looks at Cirien inquisitively, surprised at the firmness of his words.
“Yes, truly,” Cirien replies. “The decision that the council has made is one born of courage, of the willingness to stand directly against the evil rather than to flee from it or to compromise with it. How easy it would have been for them to choose instead to look after their own interests, to build up safeguards to protect themselves and their own, hoping to last through these dark days.”
“But that would have been folly, for unless the darkness is stopped it shall only continue to spread.”
“Assuredly. But they could have done so nonetheless. And if the journey of our two friends brings any small hope of deliverance, they could have used this to their advantage and refrained from risking further loss for their people and their clan.”
“But ever since our arrival in Onylándun,” says Rórlain, “their response has been on the large one of generosity and trust.”
“Yes. And I shall never cease to marvel at that fact. For I find it quite astonishing, as well as consoling.” With these words Cirien’s eyes sparkle and he appears to smile even though only a slight change comes to the curve of his lips or his brows.
“I have not given as much attention to it as it deserves,” admits Rórlain. “In fact, I realize that I took it too much for granted. But you are right: there is great hope in the people of Onylándun.” Then he pauses and lowers his eyes in grief, concluding, “Yet that realization only makes me want more desperately to save them from the pain that awaits them…”
† † †
Their march continues as the mountains fall away behind them, though they remain constant far to their right—to the east—whence lies the Teldren Range silhouetted in the darkness. They move deeper with every passing day into the heart of the Plains of Perélis, a vast expanse of land that extends over a great portion of the western regions of Telmérion, from the Finístra Range far in the north to the Mídfeld Stretch in the south, through which they have just passed (an offshoot of the Teldren Mountains as they extend southwest toward the dual peninsulas of Fénris and Golárion). Little of these plains is visible to the eye since all is bathed in perpetual night; but they are able to glean impressions of a wide land that is largely flat, though punctuated often with undulating hills or shelves of stone and earth on which grow hearty grasses and other plants. The trees are sparse and yet large and ancient, and when the company passes by them the sense of their massive size is tangible, something both intimidating and consoling in its own way.
The company must also cross numerous streams of water, most hardly wider than a few feet though some are veritable rivers weaving their way through the landscape. The more shallow beds of water are frozen solid, while the others conceal water still flowing hidden underneath twelve to sixteen inches of ice. When the host stops near one of these larger streams, a good number of the men take the opportunity to break through the ice enough to draw forth water in buckets or flasks and to replenish the supply of the travelers. But only a few days into their trek across the plains the weather turns, and a cold and biting wind sweeps unhindered across the land. Light flurries of snow accompany them intermittently for the larger part of two days, and yet this never intensifies into anything more intense, though they suspect it shall do so further to the east or to the south if is not broken up in crossing the Teldren Mountains.
As they continue northward, accompanying the people of Onylándun across the plains toward the conflict that awaits them, two conversations in particular impress upon the companions both the valor and the fear of their people. One is a conversation that Rórlain has with a young man who volunteered to take up arms with his compatriots and the other is a conversation shared by Tilliána and an elderly woman accompanying the caravan, a conversation to which Cirien is witness.
The first occurs several hours after the company has set up camp and while most sleep, recuperating their energy for the next day’s journey. Rórlain walks the perimeter of the camp with a slow stride, lost in thought, having just awoken from a dream-filled slumber and finding it impossible to sink back into sleep. He comes upon the young man, set for the first night-watch of the southwest perimeter of the camp, standing unmoving in the darkness, his arms crossed upon his breast and clasping his cloak tight around his body.
“How goes the watch?” Rórlain asks as he draws near, that he might not to startle the young man. Coming closer he sees more clearly the features of the youth, and the person he assumed was a man of perhaps his early or mid twenties appears instead to be a teenager.
“Oh, captain Farâël, is that you? Why come you to the watch?” the man asks in response, the discomfort at speaking directly to a superior officer evident in his voice.
“Be at ease,” Rórlain says kindly, stepping to the man’s side. “What is your name?”
“I am called Ílthis, sir, Ílthis son of Mendélion…though my father died in the assault on Onylándun.”
“I am sorry to hear of your loss, Ílthis, son of Mendélion. You have my condolences and my prayers for your father,” says Rórlain. “Too many have fallen already at the hands of these forces of darkness.”
“Aye,” Ílthis sighs, unconsciously lowering his head in grief. But only a moment later he raises it again and risks a glance at Rórlain, saying, “Yet that is why we march, is it not? We must put a stop to this madness before any more innocent lives are lost.”
“That is exactly the purpose of our march and our striving,” answers Rórlain. “Did you join the fighting company for this reason?”
“Yes, Sir Farâël. For that and none other.”
“Please, call me Rórlain.”
“Rórlain…? Ah, very well.”
“I am impressed with your courage, Ílthis, and grateful for it. You are young and yet you step willingly into a place of great danger out of love for your people.”
“If a young man shall not be courageous, why should one expect an older man to be?” Ílthis asks, though it is clear the question is rhetorical.
“The boy is the seed of the man,” remarks Rórlain. “More life does a young man have to lose in death than a man who has already passed many years in this world. And thus perhaps more courage is required for him to stand face to face with death. Nonetheless you speak true, and more wisely than many twice your age. If only men would recognize that even their adult manhood is still in the process of growing, and still malleable to being touched and transformed, then more would be ready to answer the call of love as you have done. For even in old age can be found the boldness of youth and a readiness to respond with vigor and integrity to what issues to us a call and invitation. And thus we mature, and this maturation in large part consists in a rediscovery of the wonder, the newness, and the radical readiness of youth.”
“Perhaps,” the young soldier comments, “but I look forward to being a man.”
“A man you are already, Ílthis. It is courage and integrity that make you a man, and standing on the side of right and good and innocence. From this all other maturation shall flow.”
“You are…you are right,” responds Ílthis. “I just do not feel ready to be a man. In truth, I feel younger than I have in a long time, like a crying babe before the shadows of the darkness, alone in his cradle.”
“Many of us, I suspect, feel likewise,” says Rórlain kindly. “Great are the matters in which we have become involved, and this very fact cannot but make one feel small. Yet are we not always taken up into mysteries beyond ourselves, whether we feel it so or not? And not all of these mysteries are either fearful or dark. There is yet light greater and purer, broader and more glorious than the darkness, and in this too a man can participate, and this too can issue a call unto his heart. Only in knowing this can one discover true strength greater than the measure of man though alive within man.”
Ílthis does not immediately respond to these words, but it is evident that he is reflecting upon them in the silence. When at last he speaks he does not respond directly to Rórlain’s words, though the latter knows that he has listened to them deeply. Speaking, Ílthis’ voice is strained, “Ma…she is still in Onylándun. I wanted to stay and protect her, to grieve with her the loss of Ta, but I knew I could not do so. I knew I had to march with the company.”
“A great sacrifice you have made.”
“There was no other way.”
“But you made it nonetheless,” says Rórlain. “May you behold the fruit of this sacrifice and look again upon your mother’s face and upon the faces of the many people whom you shall know and love throughout your life, after these days of darkness have passed.”
“You really think there is hope for such a thing?” Ílthis asks, turning now to face Rórlain directly, the intensity of his question harnessing the fullness of his attention.
Rórlain responds simply, “There is always hope, Ílthis. Never cease to believe that love is greater than hatred and light stronger than darkness.”
† † †
The second conversation occurs a few days after the first, as the company walks together across the plains in the darkness of midday. Tilliána finds herself in the midst of a group of women, young and old alike, and she cannot help overhearing the conversation that unfolds as they walk. It is a long one, for a few of the women are quite loquacious; yet it is not the length of their speech that pains Tilliána, but the content and substance of their words and of the dispositions from which they spring. They speak of the promise and the rumor of the scarred king, and though Tilliána can tolerate their disagreement and dismissal—after all it is such a rare and unexpected fact that the king of promise has truly arisen from the shadows of history—she is hurt deeply through their disrespect and vulgarity. They not only dismiss the very idea of the prophecy and its meaning, but they curse the faith that would look to gods for the fulfillment of their promises. But shy and quiet as she is, she finds it difficult to voice her concerns. Quite a few minutes pass before she manages work up enough courage to say something, and yet even as she opens her mouth to speak, another woman near her, the oldest of the group, speaks instead.
“I have had enough of your crude and dismissive language, dear ladies,” the woman says. The age shows in her voice, which is cracked and crinkled with time, and this causes her interlocutors to smirk.
“Ladies? Why in all the wide world would you think to call us ladies?” one of the more boisterous women retorts.
“You do not wish to be ladies, nor to be known as such? Considering your actions, I suppose it was wrong of me to address you as such.”
“Do you have something more that you wish to say, or do you simply want to insult us?” replies another woman.
“It is not my intention to insult any of you,” says the first woman. “But whether you use language well or poorly, it must be pointed out that what you say goes against both the intelligence of the mind and the memory and hope of our people. You call these prophecies of a ‘promised king’ a silly tale fitting only for the youngest of children, and you scoff at the fact that one has arisen among us who claims to be this king, and who bears both the semblance and the power to back up his claim. The least you can do is speak your unwillingness to believe with the reserve fitting to the seriousness of the matter, rather than making a joke of a reality that our people hold so precious and so dear.”
“Do you mean to say that you believe in these so-called prophecies?” asks the woman who has been at the forefront of the mockery. “And you believe that such power has truly arisen among us?”
Shaking her head sorrowfully, the elderly woman, after a moment either to collect her thoughts or to make sure that her words are received in the silence that is their due (Tilliána suspects that it is the latter), says, “Whether such power has arisen among us is plain for all to see. We beheld its lights blazing in the streets and houses of our own city. And as for the prophecies, long have they been a consolation and a hope to me. I have believed in the promises since I was a young child, and the hope—and indeed the conviction—of their truth has not lessened with me as I have grown and advanced in years. Rather, the surety in my heart has only deepened. And I know that I am not alone in this hope and this longing. At first I believed in the scarred king because the whole world was bathed in beauty and wonder, because all things were a marvel, and my heart knew that a promised king who would unify and ennoble our people would be the greatest marvel of all. And yet as I grew older I came to believe in the scarred king because the world was marked by suffering and pain, by loss and sorrow. I knew that if ever there was to be a king who would lead the people of Telmérion unto healing and life, it would be one who was scarred, who bore the marks of suffering and of love in his own flesh.”
Both the passion and the mysterious logic in these words leave the other women for a few moments fumbling for an answer. Eventually they do what so often happens in such situations: they turn away from the woman who has spoken and resolve henceforth to ignore her, returning to the same manner of speech that had incited her to intervene in the first place. But she has spoken, and, for Tilliána, that is enough.
When the company stops at the end of the day, Tilliána approaches the woman and, reaching out to grasp her hand, says, “I wanted to introduce myself and to say ‘thank you’ for your words earlier. I desired to speak myself but was struggling to muster the courage to do so.”
“I know, my dear. That is why I spoke,” replies the woman simply. “Such blindness and disrespect thrives when others witness it and yet choose to remain silent. But then again, each one of us has our own journey, do we not? Perhaps my words meant nothing to those women, nor were they meant to. It is not I nor anything I say that can open their eyes and hearts to see the light of which they so dismissively spoke. But each of those women is at the heart of the narrative of their own story, and the lines written into that story may well lead, even many years from now, precisely to the reality which now they can hardly imagine.” The woman falls silent and her gaze becomes distant with the depth of memory and longing so proper to, and so beautiful in, the elderly. “Anyway, darling, by what name are you called?”
Tilliána laughs softly and replies, “Darling is as good a name as any, or perhaps even the best by a large margin. But I am called Tilliána Valésa, a widow from Ristfánd. What is your name?”
“So you know the pain of which I speak, do you? That explains much. My name is Elándra Místrë.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Elándra.”
“Likewise.”
“You speak of my pain,” Tilliána continues hesitantly, “but those women surely know pain too, do they not? Even if they had little taste of it before now, how can they remain so lighthearted after all that has happened in their own city?”
“Lighthearted?” Elándra asks, raising her eyebrows. “No, I do not think that they are lighthearted. Quite the opposite, rather. They are coping with pain and loss in their own way, even if what they are doing is yet hurting them still further. It is the heavy heart that cries out in cynical mockery, that scoffs and belittles, that makes jokes at others’ expense. Such is the very opposite of true humor and authentic lightness of heart. Only the heart that looks through the darkness and pain and finds hope for light beyond it can be a heart that is light. I remember vividly a lesson I was taught by one of my teachers when I was but a child. It had a profound impact on me and clearly has remained with me ever since. This man, now long deceased, was an expert in the old language, so marvelous and yet so much forgotten. Or at least I believe it is marvelous. But that may be because in it alone have I read pages of deepest beauty. We simply do not write like that anymore, having forgotten so many beautiful and painful parts of our history. Would you like to hear what he told me?”
“I most certainly would,” replies Tilliána, wonder in her eyes at the beauty of Elándra who as she speaks seems to light up with some secret lamp of the spirit hidden deep within her.
“Very well then,” says Elándra, “though now it will not seem like much since I have prefaced it so. For it is really quite simple. He explained to me how two words in the ancient language have the same root, and were perhaps originally the same word, but came over time to have different meanings. One is the word ‘illo,’ and the other is the word ‘allo.’ Now illo means light—as in the light that shines and that we see with our eyes: a singing sunrise or a sparkling sunset, a mellow midday or a melodious morning.” She pauses for a moment to savor her own alliterations and to chuckle softly at them, and then she continues, “Of course, illo also refers metaphorically to the invisible light, the light of goodness that stands over and against the darkness of evil. We know much about that nowadays, don’t we? And now you see, too, why what our friends were saying earlier was so unfortunate. We would all be dead right now were it not for the light! Anyway, let me return to the lesson. The other word, allo, means light in another sense: light in reference to weight, the opposite of heaviness, like a floating feather or a whistling wind or a humble heart. Of course, that last one is metaphorical. But that is precisely the point: we pass from the visible to the invisible almost instantaneously and without thought. It is just the way that we were made. And so it is fitting that illo and allo refer to the same thing, or to aspects of the same thing: to the light that makes us light, and to the lightness that allows us to be docile and receptive to the light.”
In response to this all that Tilliána can do is smile and express her gratitude, for the woman’s words, in a way both subtle and unexpected, have touched a dark and heavy place somewhere deep within her, and have helped in some measure to ease it and bring it a touch of lightness.