They draw near to the city of Minstead almost three weeks after their departure from Onylándun, though they know this not through sight of the former city but because they are intercepted by survivors from the siege. The landscape to the south of the city is rocky and rough, with foothills rising to unto the mountains both east and west, allowing only a rather narrow strip of land in the crevice at the feet of the two ranges to connect the plains to the south and the wide valley to the north, in which is cradled, at its heart, the great and ancient city of Minstead, built along the banks of the river Hûras. This terrain is also an ideal place for those who wish to remain hidden from sight, as there are ample places to shelter in the crevices of rock or the caverns of stone that pock-mark the sides of the mountains in great number. Here the survivors who fled the city have taken their refuge, and thus it would be impossible for the reinforcements from Onylándun to gauge their number were it even the full light of day without this light-suffocating darkness.
Those who fled from the city hail them at a distance, voices in the darkness, at first cautious and then welcoming as it becomes evident who and what is this great company marching from the south. Their commander, with two men at his side, introduces himself and asks to speak with the leaders of the company. As it happens, the person whom he first addresses is Rórlain, who walks at the vanguard with a torch in his hand.
“Greetings, friends,” cries the commander, “for that, I trust, is what you are. The sight of living men like ourselves cannot but be a consolation to us after what we have seen.”
“Aye, we are friends, for we come at the request of the messenger whom you sent,” replies Rórlain.
“Ah, praise the gods. Then I would address myself to your leaders. I am Commander Tûric Sýlfæn.”
“I am vice commander Rórlain Farâël. Give me a moment to call our commander and the councilor.”
When they have gathered—and sent word to the rest of the company to here seek rest and reprieve from their journey—the leaders sit upon the ground or upon what flat stones they can find, and they speak together. After introductions are shared, hæras Brýma says, “We have heard word from the messenger but would ask you nonetheless to share with us in greater detail what occurred in the attack upon your city and also how stands the situation now.”
“I will gladly share, though little of the news I have to share is glad,” responds Tûric. “We had little warning of the coming attack, or at least no warning that we knew how to interpret or understand. Before the assault a great cloud arose from the south, spreading rapidly like a smoke on the wind…only there was no wind. Rather, of its own power, or driven by some unearthly force, it spread and polluted the air until all was turned to darkness. This caused, and understandably so, some degree of panic and confusion in the city. Would that it had also somehow prepared us more effectively for what was soon to come. Do you know the nature of this darkness?”
“It has come to you all the way from Onylándun,” Rórlain explains, “for thence it takes its rise, and we are grieved to see that it has reached this far.”
“But what is its nature or substance, or the purpose for its existence?”
“Of the former we cannot say precisely, though I believe that the latter is evident to us all: darkness is the home of the creatures who now assail us, and in this darkness our whole land becomes the domain in which they may freely wreak the havoc that they intend. We do know, however, at what moment the blackness first began to spread. It was summoned forth by a terrible creature of blackest evil, one who wields power far greater than any mortal. It is he, we believe, who also led the attack against your city.”
“I know the creature of which you speak, for I have seen him with my own eyes, though only from a distance. He seems composed of living darkness itself, with wings like some great bat from the hidden caverns of the earth or rather some nightmare from the grimmest of imaginings. Any description I would give, however, cannot in truth even begin to adequately express his appearance. It seemed somehow elusive and deceptive, both terrifying and seductive.”
“The very same,” agrees Rórlain. “We too beheld him, and after we confronted him at the heart of Onylándun, he cast forth this darkness that now enfolds all of us, and he disappeared.”
“You said that you confronted him?” Tûric asks, incredulous. “How could you confront such a monster? None of my men could get within ten yards of him without being slain.”
“That is another story entirely,” Rórlain begins, “but we have not faced him in armed combat. The confrontation was of a different sort.”
“You see,” Brýma interjects, “the man with whom you speak is one about whom I am confident you have heard rumors. He is a light-bearer, and it was through the intervention of him and his companions that our own city was spared a fate similar to yours.”
“A light-bearer?” Tûric says. “We have heard of such, though the rumors said that he was in Ristfánd.”
“We were indeed in Ristfánd,” Rórlain explains, “but after the assault on the city in those days, the beginning of this terrible time of destruction, we traveled to Onylándun.”
“And where are your companions?”
“Two have accompanied me hence, though they bear not the light as do I. The other two, siblings born of the ancient and long-lived people of the Velási, have set out on a journey that is of more pressing importance even than our own. It is their light in which I have been given but a share, and it is to them that we look with hope for the future of our people.”
“The Velási? So they still live…”
“Aye, in their secret forest home, though they are near to all of us in a way deeper than proximity of the flesh.”
“How do you know this? Have you conversed with them?”
“I have indeed. Before our coming to Onylándun we crossed beyond the Stïeka Mára and entered the Velási Forest, there spending time with this old and venerable people.”
“What marvels are these of which you speak?” exclaims Tûric. “But much explanation is needed before I understand their import. Please, explain these matters to me that I may grasp their meaning.”
And so Rórlain does, with a few comments from Brýma and Sénfyr interjected at opportune moments. He traces his journey from his first meeting with Eldárien in the cavern of the eöten to the present day, dwelling particularly on anything that may be of assistance in illuminating the nature of the darkness that they now face and, even more importantly, the light that has touched them and which they seek to serve. When he has concluded, Tûric shakes his head slowly, not in disbelief but in amazement. It seems that the bizarre and frightful events of the previous days and weeks have made him more amenable to revelations of the unexpected, and in this case the revelations are both good and encouraging, counteracting what until now has been a long and ceaseless litany of ills.
“So you are saying that, in the very time when all of the hærási of our people are slain, a new king arises to take their place?” Tûric asks when he speaks at last.
“Were you to meet him in the flesh, you would speak differently,” Brýma says. “For one who steps with so willing a heart into the role that has been set before him, he also has no wish for power or for rule. That one can tell on the very first meeting. Yet it is also true that he goes forth, not to take up his kingship and to accept his crown, but to confront the darkness in its very abode and its origin, in the hopes that through this his people may be set free.”
“Aye, but when he returns…”
“It is more, I fear, a matter of if he returns,” Rórlain interjects. “We must be prepared for any outcome.”
“As you say…but if he returns, what then?” Tûric asks.
“His wish is only to see the people of Telmérion discover a new future, a future of freedom and of life. That is the inheritance that he gives to us, and I am committed to seeing it realized whether he returns from his journey or not,” Rórlain says, the enthusiasm and ardor in his voice only subtly veiled.
“You know that Wýgrec Stûnclad will stand against him,” remarks Tûric.
“We expected as much,” Brýma says. “But if the messenger with whom we spoke is any indication, he is a man with whom we would have as little dealings as possible.”
Running his hand through his hair, Tûric looks at each of them intently for a moment, his thoughts inscrutable, and then he says, “Many here would agree with you.”
“What do you mean?” Sénfyr asks.
“Wýgrec is a zealot, and if we have learned anything about zealots, it is that they cause almost as much harm in their pursuit of a goal as they bring good in attaining it.”
“Where is Wýgrec now?” Rórlain inquires. “I expected to meet him upon our arrival.”
Tûric shakes his head again, this time not in wonder but in frustration and disappointment. After this gesture, which seems an unconscious way of communicating what he does not feel either capable or allowed to voice in speech, he says, “He has taken a small company of men to attempt to infiltrate the city and free those who are imprisoned there.”
“He…what?” breathes Rórlain. “With how many men does he do this?”
“With three hundred,” Tûric replies. “He hopes to gain advantage through stealth rather than through arms. Such tactics have long worked in the battles fought and won during the years of the rebellion.”
“But these creatures of darkness—the eötenga—they are far different than living men,” Sénfyr says. “Surely you know this, having faced them yourself.”
“I sit here before you now, do I not?” is Tûric’s terse response.
“That you do,” says Brýma.
“But even if his plan is folly I would not willingly allow him to walk unprotected unto his death and the death of those under his command,” continues Rórlain. “How long ago did they depart for this covert operation?”
“Only this morning,” answers Tûric. “It has not yet been six hours since they left, though that is precisely how long it takes to get from here to the city.”
“So you can confirm that there are people who remain in the city, alive but taken captive?” Brýma inquires.
“Aye. That dark creature of whom you spoke made sure that we knew this fact,” answers Tûric. But then, more uncertainly, he adds, “unless of course it is a deception.”
“It well could be,” sighs Sénfyr.
At this moment Rórlain groans in anger, burying his head in his hands, and he is not alone in this emotion, though he is the only one to express it so openly. When he raises his head again, he says, “So we have two choices, do we not? We can mount an assault with all haste, in the hopes of rescuing those whom—we must trust—are still held captive in the city, and also of aiding and abetting the small company under the leadership of Wýgrec Stûnclad. That is one option. The other option is to bide our time and to seek another way to gain entrance into the city, and, as is our deepest hope, to retake it.”
“That is how I too see it,” Tûric says. “But what good would come of waiting? Are there any other truly viable options before us but direct assault with the numbers that we now have?”
“We sent messengers asking for aid to other settlements,” Brýma explains, “but there is little hope that any shall arrive within a time that would be helpful to us. At the most hopeful estimate it could be a month before anyone arrives in response to our request, and it could in fact be many more, if any aid comes at all. We ourselves departed immediately upon receiving your call for aid, and so at best the messengers that we sent have only just now arrived at their destinations.”
“But what of any other plans than direct assault?” Tûric asks.
“You know the city better than we do,” Rórlain says. “Is there any other way we might hope to rescue the prisoners?”
“I can in truth think of nothing, and this has been heavy upon my mind since we first fled from the city nearly six weeks past. Minstead is built on opposite banks of the river, with many bridges connecting the two sides. Considering the fact that we only have guesses as to where any captives may be held, the only feasible course to free them is to liberate the entire city.”
“And yet the city is now our enemy’s main stronghold,” concludes Rórlain grimly.
“Precisely…” Tûric sighs in agreement.
The men fall into silence now, each occupied with his own thoughts, inquiring in mind and heart after some solution to this problem or some path ahead that shows greater wisdom than they now see. “Tûric,” Rórlain begins, breaking the silence, “can you tell me about the defenses of the city? Is there anywhere that would give us easier access into the inner precincts of the city than the walls surrounding it?”
“You have been here before?”
“Aye, I have. I joined up with the rebellion for a time some years past. But I have since found a better path upon which to set my course.”
“You joined the rebellion indeed? That I did not know,” Tûric says, his face expressing surprise, though it is evident that this new fact also deepens his trust in Rórlain, for he now knows that this stranger from the south has stood on both sides of the rebellion, and of Wýgrec Stûnclad, and has learned much in this journey. Reigning in his surprise, Tûric then answers the question, “The walls, as you know, surround the entirety of the city, north and south, with a main gate on either side, through which runs the Finístra road. There are lesser gates aplenty, as well. But the larger gates shall surely be heavily guarded, and they have both reinforced doors and portcullises of hardest steel. Considering that the enemy appeared within the city itself, the city walls and defenses are also still in pristine condition.”
“But it is also true that the creatures that we fight do not have intelligence as we do,” Sénfyr says. “They may well be stationed at the gates, but this does not necessarily mean that they shall defend the city with the same reason and discernment as would men.”
“Let us hope that is true,” Tûric remarks, “though I suspect that they shall assail us immediately if we are even to draw close. Regardless, I agree with Rórlain that another way would be better. And,” he adds, coming at last to a realization, “I think that there may indeed be one.”
“What would that be?” asks Brýma, leaning forward anxiously.
“The river,” says Tûric. “At the edge of the river alone is there access to the city that relies not upon walls and gates.”
“Do we have boats to take us across, and in such great numbers?” inquires Sénfyr incredulously.
“No, we do not. But boats shall not be necessary. For, you see, along the river on both sides of the city are passageways little known or used. They are spillways built as a precaution against the occasion that the river may flood, to divert its water outside of the city.”
“That would be a feasible means of access to the city,” says Rórlain, “if their size is truly enough for a man. We could separate our troops into two companies and seek entrance into the city from both sides, east and west, simultaneously. I could lead one company and either Tûric or Sénfyr could lead the other.”
“Shall you be able to channel the light to both companies alike, Rórlain?” Sénfyr asks.
“I do not believe it will be a problem,” he answers. “In Onylándun I had to do so for the entire city alone, even for those whom I could not see. Indeed I was able to do so even at a distance, when I was in the citadel after the main conflict had concluded. My only concern is the strain that it shall place upon Eldárien and Elmáriyë…”
“Will it truly burden them even at this distance?” Brýma asks.
“The light that I bear does not belong to me. In truth it does not belong to them either. It belongs to no man. Rather, it holds us all alike, ungraspable and free. And yet it has marked them in a particular way and had been entrusted to them; it has been impressed upon their hearts and their flesh for our sake. What I find myself able to do is indebted entirely to what has been given to them.”
“Well, we can only hope that they shall find a way to cope with this strain or even learn to share this gift with you in another manner,” sighs Brýma. “For our plan has long been made and it is too late to retract it now.”
“And we have no intention of doing so,” Rórlain says. “I do not express doubt, but only compassion and concern. We shall all be stretched beyond our limits in the days that await us.”
“So it is decided, then?” asks Tûric.
“I believe so. I am only loath to lead our people so soon into battle once again,” Rórlain comments. “And yet for that purpose we have come.”
“And if we choose to wait, we may lose not only Wýgrec’s forces, but also any element of surprise that your arrival has granted us,” Tûric says.
“I agree. Let us then, without further ado, begin our preparations.”
† † †
In only a few short hours the two companies set out toward the city of Minstead, walking together for a while before following divergent courses through the darkness, one to the west and one to the east. Those who are not armed for battle remain behind, a great number of persons both of those who have come from Onylándun and especially of the many survivors who have escaped from Minstead in its fall. A thousand fighters both trained and untrained stay to guard them. It is difficult for Tilliána and Cirien to watch Rórlain depart, and so many men with him, and not to accompany them into battle. But they acknowledge that they would be meager help in such a situation and would have little capacity to defend either themselves or others. Yet what of the care of the injured and the consolation of the dying? These thoughts fill their minds as they watch the two companies disappear into the darkness and, in the last moment, they gather up what little supplies they can—bandages, medicine, and weapons for themselves—and run after the troops. As they draw near to them they lock hands for a moment and, nodding to one another, part ways: Cirien to the east, joining the group led by Tûric, and Tilliána to the west, joining that led by Rórlain and Sénfyr.
Thus they pass on through the dark, hoping that it provides secrecy for them as they draw near to Minstead, though this can be no more than an uncertain wish, since it is impossible to know whether the eötenga can see in the darkness as in light, or whether it is necessary for them to see at all for them to mark the location of their victims and to assail them. Or perhaps, after all, they can see only in darkness and it is light that blinds them. This uncertainty, along with countless others, threatens to stiffen their hearts in fear and hesitation; but at the same moment the thought of those trapped within the city stirs them on and enkindles courage within them. However, for many there also lingers a nagging sense of futility, the fear that the risk is not worth the outcome, and that they march with heroic resolve into a bloodbath at their own expense. For these persons it is only the nobility of spirit displayed by their leaders, and the presence of their comrades at their side, which keeps them moving forward from dark unto dark and death unto death, and, could they believe it, perhaps even unto light beyond the dark and life past the threat of death.
Night has long fallen when they come to the walls of the city, and the companies, under the direction of their commanders, navigate past them with a wide berth so as not to be seen. Trees dot the landscape roundabout, sometimes gathered into small copses or even larger groves, and they take advantage of these as best they can to conceal their passage. As they draw near to the river, becoming aware of this fact through the steady sound of running water, Rórlain glances back over his company for a moment and sees the face of Tilliána in the midst of the soldiers. Surprise and fear wash over him, and his heart recoils from allowing her to walk into the danger that awaits, although he understands fully her reasons. He draws her attention and gestures for her to come closer. When she has done so, he says to her, “I see that you have decided to accompany us into battle, and this grieves me greatly.”
“Cirien marches with the other company,” she replies quietly yet firmly, clearly uncomfortable with his explicit expression of concern, which she takes also, even if only in a small measure, as a rebuke. “After all that we have seen, we could not remain idle in the camp while men faced suffering and death. Even if we are endangered in the process, we wish to be at hand to assist in whatever way we may.”
“I do understand, Tilliána. I truly do,” remarks Rórlain wistfully. “I wish that I could command you to return to camp, yet not only is it too late now but I trust you would not listen to me even if I did.”
“That is true.”
“Then I propose another solution.”
“What is that?”
“Remain always near to me, that I may protect you.”
Tilliána blushes at these words and turns her head away, taking advantage of the darkness to hide this from Rórlain. Ever since the departure of Eldárien she has felt an increasing sense of fragility and vulnerability, as if, with the loss of his presence, she has lost both a protector and a friend. But this is exactly the truth. In losing him she has indeed lost precisely this, for he has been all of these things for her, and more. And she mourns for this loss deeply with nearly every waking moment, feeling it more keenly than she could have expected; and the depth of this mourning reveals to her the depth of the love that she has received from Eldárien and also the depth of love that has begun to blossom within her heart in return. With this thought the grief, however, only intensifies, for just as love had begun to sprout and grow within her it was exposed again to the bitter chill of absence and loss, perhaps to wither and to die. This is also why Rórlain’s words of care and protection now touch her so deeply and cause her cheeks to redden, for they meet her in the very place of her deep fragility, which has been gripping her heart and making it difficult to breathe even as she steps forth in courage to risk her life in order to be of assistance to her people.
“Tilliána, are you alright?” Rórlain asks when she does not respond to his previous words.
“Oh, yes…yes, I am,” she replies, looking at him again. “I assure you that I shall remain near to you as much as I can, though we shall both have our tasks to attend to.”
“Aye, that is true,” says Rórlain, “but let us do so together, if we can.”
“Rórlain,” she begins, her voice soft.
“What is it?”
“I am truly moved by the gesture, and I accept your offer gratefully. And yet if there are any wounded to whom I must attend—as assuredly there will be—know that I cannot remain at your side as you press forward in combat. And you too must command your men as best you can and with all of your attention.”
Rórlain shakes his head sadly. “In that you are right. Forgive me. As you can clearly see, I am divided. There are so many things at once that I would wish to do, and yet I cannot possibly do them all.”
“Worry not for me, then,” says Tilliána. “My life is in the hands of my Maker, and if I am to fall this night, then so it shall be. Whether I live or die, there are those whom I love who await me.”
“It is as you say,” Rórlain agrees tenderly. “I pray that I may find the same serenity in the face of death and loss.”
With this their conversation must come to an end, as the company arrives at the bank of the river, the stony earth crunching under their feet and the waters now loudly churning as they surge full and strong to the west. The company now moves in the opposite direction, eastward, toward the city whose walls and buildings loom before them as black shapes in the darkness. When they come to the base of the thick stone walls it is as Tûric has said; they find a narrow spillway about four feet in height and wide enough for three men to progress abreast. It is a poor means by which to get an army into a city, but knowing that there is no feasible option but this, they do not hesitate. Yet before entering the spillway, Sénfyr turns and speaks quietly to those nearest him, “Whatever awaits us within, let us stand strong in love for our people, the fallen and the living. It is for them we fight.” Requesting that these words be passed on throughout the entire company, he then enters the passage with warriors to his right and to his left.