Vast caverns of stone spread in all directions far beneath the earth, their only illumination the veins of precious ore that weave through the darker rock like blood vessels through the body, bringing not life but light. And yet here light is life, and darkness is death. For ever since the Empire began to exile the dangerous, the unwanted, the criminal—whether literal or political—into these expansive underground caverns, now a prison whose width and depth is unknown, existence has been for many a struggle against encroaching death. If light is a rare thing, since wood for torches is almost impossible to come by, even more rare is all that constitutes a healthy diet. For here fruits and vegetables do not grow, and the shipments from “above”—as it is now called by all here in the “underworld,” or simply said, “below”—are far less than the inhabitants would need. Beasts live in the belly of the earth, that is true, and some are easy enough to trap or to hunt—rats and wraithclaws and even bats—but there are also legends and rumors of creatures deeper within that, were they to be disturbed, would bring an end to this struggle for life in a quick if not painless death.
And yet so it happened that the beasts slumbering deep under the earth were stirred awake by the presence of man, and a war began between the exiled members of humanity and the creatures of darkness. At first the representatives and office-holders of the Vælírian Empire knew nothing of this, for they took little interest in the affairs of those imprisoned in the depths through their policy of “purging.” And if these exiles were slain by a power not their own, then all the better; if these underground caverns proved to be not only prison but executioner, how favorable an outcome. For as high and as steep as are the shafts of narrow stone that connect the overworld and the underworld, it always remains possible—even if a slim possibility—that those below will find some means of escape, and, in escape, find courage to kindle the fires of revolution and resistance. But such fires, to all appearances, have been utterly quenched, and the conflict of man and beast rages almost like a blazing inferno. As many heroes as arose to fight the darkness, and as many times as the beasts were cast down, they rose up again, as if immortal, born anew from the darkness as from some malicious seed.
But heroes did arise. Men and women of valor and strength, of integrity and fidelity, unwilling to allow their brethren to die, even in such a place as this. And yet in the hearts of many also burned a flame of vengeance and of spite, mingled deeply with more noble aspirations. And through the very act by which the Empire sought to prevent rebellion it in truth stirred it into flame. It provided the crucible in which its enemies were forged into a force strong enough to supplant it. Eventually the Imperial officers learned of the creatures of darkness—whom old legends called ötûnr and vornknost, though they originated in the land of Telmérion far to the east, where they were called eötenga and vrû’ádach—and they sought some way to harness these powers to their side, in fear of suffering the destruction they might bring were they to find access to the overworld. Too late was this discovery to prevent rebellion, though not too late, perhaps, to crush it.
For access was at last gained through a secret shaft through which the slightest glimmer of the long-lost sky shone, and to which a path was built by many hands, allowing those exiled by the Empire to escape again into the light of day. And beholding this light once again after many years, burning in its brilliance and yet deeply desired, the rebellion began in earnest like a flame that, struggling to kindle, at last finds the air and the space it needs to spread and to set all around it ablaze. And thus at the same moment that the Empire learns how to find the vrû’ádach that still live in the land of Telmérion, and to join with them in warfare against a rebellious nation on distant shores, does rebellion spark on their own soil and among their own people. Perhaps this, after so many years of successful conquest and rule, shall be the downfall of the Vælírian Empire and the birth of a new order.
† † †
Elmáriyë awakes with a start and sits up in bed, the vivid images of the dream swimming before her interior vision, overwhelming and yet also elusive, like sand slipping through a sieve. No, this was no ordinary dream. It was a form of bearing, a participation in events that only recently began to unfold in the land of Vælíria far across the sea. How she knows this she cannot explain even to herself, but she simply knows and cannot bring herself to doubt it. What she has seen is true, and the conflict now blazing in the land of Vælíria is just as visceral and just as real as that now playing out in their own land, crippled as it is in the two-pincered grip of Empire and eötenga.
She swings her legs off the bed and places her feet against the cold stone floor, feeling it through her thick yet worn socks, while she reaches toward a chair that sits not far away and lifts her outer garment in her hands. With a sigh she pulls it over her head and ties it at the front before standing and looking about the room. It is dim, lit only by the embers of a dying fire and by the subtle pre-dawn light that filters in through a large window looking out over the city below.
Her mind and heart are preoccupied with the impressions left by the dream, and though the images from it fade, a deeper awareness remains. Yes, she feels vividly that it was unlike any dream that she has had before, not a play of images or events before the slumbering imagination but an inflow of knowledge from a source outside of herself. But why was this presented to her now, and why to her and not another? Reflecting on this, she realizes that, granted that the knowledge communicated to her is true, it answers certain questions and reveals certain facts that are deeply intertwined with the events in which the people of Telmérion are now immersed. This of course was obvious on first glance, but Elmáriyë was so overcome with the newness of the impressions that only upon reflection does she understand the significance of what has been given to her.
She kneels and places her forehead against the floor, praying until the sun shines full into the room, turning darkness into light. Then she finishes dressing and steps into the hallway, seeking out the room of Eldárien. In her experience he has always risen early in the morning, so she expects him to already be awake, perhaps even to have been so for hours. And she is proven right when he almost immediately answers her gentle knock on his door.
“Good morning, sister,” he says, looking at her with a gentle smile, though she can also read the lines of pain and compassion that mark his face.
“Good morning…brother,” she replies, adding softly, “It is finally beginning to feel natural to call you this. And it brings joy to my heart.”
“And to mine as well,” agrees Eldárien, and then, with a glimmer in his eyes, he asks, “Is there something on your heart, or something that you need?”
“There is indeed something on my heart. You see, I had a dream last night…but it was unusual. It was less like a dream and more like a ‘seeing,’ or rather a ‘knowing.’”
“Why don’t you come in, and we can talk about it?” he says.
She nods silently and follows him into his chambers, where she takes the chair that is offered to her, while he sits opposite her, on the edge of the bed.
“I dreamed,” she begins, “of events occurring in the Vælírian Empire. I would have doubted them were they not both so unexpected and so viscerally presented to me. What do you know of the recent happenings across the sea to the west?”
“Almost nothing, I am afraid,” replies Eldárien. “There has always been a great deal of censorship in what the officers of the Empire allow to cross the waters and to reach us. It seems that is always the case with such unjust rule—though only in recent times have I found the conviction and courage to call it that—that such leaders seek to know and control much in the lives of their subjects, and yet conceal their own intentions and activity.”
“Even on the smallest level that seems to me to be abuse of authority in every case,” says Elmáriyë. “And I fear that many think of the Creator in a similar manner: as a Master who keeps his distance, hiding his face and his heart, and yet controls and demands everything in the hearts and lives of his creatures. When there is no love and no communion, can it appear as anything but an excessive demand, made with the force of will and the power of might?”
Eldárien nods sadly to this, but then, looking up into Elmáriyë’s eyes, he smiles again, gently and yet firmly, and says, “But when there is love, a bond of mutual belonging, all flows in freedom, for from freedom it is born.”
“If only our society, and the society of all humankind, would know such a truth,” sighs Elmáriyë. “And yet in this case we belong to the Empire, but it does not belong to us. And what I have seen this night disturbs me even more. For I beheld recent, or even current, events in the land of Vælíria. It appears that those who prove a danger to their society—whether a true danger such as criminals, or only those who disagree with the given policy—are being exiled into a vast series of underground caverns. These have been put to use as a massive prison for the undesirables.”
“A prison?” Eldárien asks. “How can people make a living beneath the earth? It sounds more to me that such a fate would be not prison but execution.”
“According to what I beheld, many do in fact perish. But those who survive have become hardy and strong, and they have also risen up in rebellion—and freedom they have found at last.”
“Freedom?”
“Yes,” says Elmáriyë. “For not all the tunnels and chambers had been explored. Not even a small portion of them. Eventually those below found access again to the light of day.”
“So you are saying that there is a rebellion occurring at the heart of the Vælírian Empire?” asks Eldárien. “How do you know this is not of the past or of the future?”
Elmáriyë reflects on this question for a few moments and then replies, “I suppose that I do not know. It seemed ‘present’ to me, but that is one of the things that could be my own interpretation. I wish there was a way to confirm it.”
“There may be a way. We just need to discover it,” Eldárien says.
“Another thing needs to be said, however, about what I saw,” continues Elmáriyë. “It seems to answer some questions that we have had, and you most of all. I hope that somehow it may also give us light for the path going forward, though I know not yet precisely how.”
“And what is that?”
“In the lowest depths of the caverns creatures of darkness were awakened, and they waged war against the inhabitants of the prison. It was this that spurred them on anew to seek for a way of escape. And yet the Empire too learned of these creatures, and—”
“And the plan was first conceived to join with them in order to quell the rebellion here in Telmérion,” Eldárien concludes for her.
“Exactly.”
“I understand how they could trace the eötenga back to our land, for from here they originated. In fact I did not know that their presence had spread anywhere beyond our continent. However, I still do not understand how they thought that such creatures would be amenable to dialogue and cooperation. Was anything revealed to you in that regard?”
“I am afraid not,” replies Elmáriyë with a shrug of her shoulders.
After this Eldárien lowers his head, leaning his chin against the palm of his hand, and he thinks of the import of Elmáriyë’s dream. She too leans in, bringing her head nearer to his as if such proximity will aid them both in thinking, though in fact she is drawn by the implicit desire simply to be closer to him. At last, after many moments have passed, Eldárien raises his head and says, “I do not yet understand the meaning of what was revealed to you, at least insofar as it summons us to action. If it is true that the events you beheld are currently unfolding, then we may take hope that Telmérion does not stand against the corrupt state of the Empire alone. But what it means for our own journey, I cannot say. Even the presence of the creatures of darkness on other continents, and in the earth beneath the very heart of the Empire…I do not know what this means.” He sighs and runs his hand absentmindedly over the deep scars on his left cheek, and then he adds, “To be honest, if anything, it causes me to feel more overwhelmed. For if I am called upon to exorcise these creatures and to free our people from their oppression, how am I to do so if they also reside in other lands?”
“I understand that feeling, and I feel it myself,” Elmáriyë says. “And yet…and yet will it truly make a difference either way? For if you are called to confront the darkness in its very origin, to break the power of the one who has first fashioned these beasts, then it should not matter how many of them there are or how widespread is their presence in this world.”
Eldárien shakes his head doubtfully. “Perhaps you are right. But I cannot help sensing that the more of these horrors that have been given shape, the more of the wickedness and evil that there shall be to break. For it is of this that they have been made.”
“I think that the weight of human guilt and evil, and the darkness in this world, remains regardless of whether it is fashioned into eötenga or not,” Elmáriyë says, hesitantly following this train of thought. “And for that no human gift alone can atone. If I recall correctly, Sílion was very clear about this truth. Yours is another, lesser role, a small share in a greater work which most properly and in its full expression belongs to Another.”
Eldárien nods. “You are right. Sílion said that I was tasked with removing these forms of darkness from the grasp of the one who fashions them into the shapes of our enemies. No more and no less. And yet that itself is so far beyond me, both in thought and in action, that I can only walk forward in trust… And it feels that I walk from darkness into darkness.”
“Is it not true that all of us can only walk in trust? It is the nature of our life within this world,” says Elmáriyë. “The future always remains dark, for we know not what it holds. But we do know the most important thing of all: for we have the promise that after every darkness, however deep and prolonged it may be, enduring light awaits, undimmed and unbreakable.”
† † †
“Yes, the vrû’ádach appeared directly in the city with the coming of the night. Normal methods of resisting siege, therefore, are useless against them,” Rórlain says as he and Eldárien sit in council with hæras Brýma. At this moment he is questioning them concerning the assault on Ristfánd in hopes of aiding and abetting the preparation for a coming attack upon Onylándun. Only three days have passed since the “sacrifice” of the cult members in the heat of dragon-fire, and these days have been a flurry of activity. “I myself stood in wait upon the battlements, prepared to defend against a siege from without—by the forces of the Empire—only to spend the time of fighting leading a company of men through the streets of the city there to combat the creatures of darkness. They will not fight like a normal army, but rather seek only to kill, indiscriminately, man and woman, young and old. It matters not to them. They come only to destroy.”
“If this is the case, then how can I possibly protect my people?” Brýma asks, lines of worry marking his features, lines that have been deepening over the previous days and now crease his expression almost to a grimace. “Is evacuation and flight the only answer? Is there another alternative, and one that would not expose them to danger upon the road?”
“If the attack is aimed at the city, then flight is a viable option,” answers Eldárien. “Those who flee may yet have a chance to escape the notice of the vrû’ádach, whose gaze would be fixed upon the city. The only other option is for all the civilians to lock themselves in their houses and to bathe them in light, with brightly burning hearths, lamps, and torches. Brilliant natural light is the only reliable resistance that an ordinary, untrained person can offer against these creatures. While it does not harm them, it can keep them from appearing within the houses themselves, for to do this they need shadow and darkness. But this too raises the question of barricading the doors and keeping the creatures outside. Our best option would be to have all trained fighters scour the streets and seek to put a stop to the raging of the vrû’ádach, while those unable to fight directly take refuge inside. So it was in Ristfánd.”
“That is true,” Rórlain adds, “however they are vicious fighters. And since the events at the black castle in the heart of the Yjind Mountains—and the unleashing of whatever beasts of darkness there arose from the depths of the earth—we know not what other forms of eötenga we may encounter. I fear that our strength of arms will be far from enough.”
“That is my fear,” says Brýma. “For even a single dragon has been able to wreak havoc among my people and has eluded all our efforts at resistance. I fear that flight is the only viable option I see before me, unless it be relying upon the light that you wield.”
Eldárien and Rórlain share a meaningful glance for a moment, and then Eldárien, turning to Brýma, says, “The light indeed has the power to dispel many of these creatures at once, but I fear that—due to the simple limits of our presence and our strength—it shall not be enough to defend an entire city.”
“The limits of your strength?”
“Aye. Channeling the light takes a great toll upon the wielder, and after only a short time—depending upon the intensity of the light which he calls forth—he finds himself spent. In the most complete circumstances, he will find himself waking up in bed hours or even days later.”
“Or perhaps worse,” Rórlain comments quietly.
“What then do you recommend?” asks Brýma.
“It is difficult not knowing the time of their arrival nor their number. We have only vague knowledge deduced from the words of the cult leader, and Cirien and Rûmdil are still looking into the matter,” Eldárien says. “My spontaneous suggestion would be that you send all the civilians west to safety in another city. However, I fear that eyes are directed upon us that would see such an action and utilize it against us. That would, I suspect, lead to an even greater massacre—in the open with very little protection either from light or from walls—than would trying to resist the assault within the city itself.”
“You really believe that we are being watched?”
“Considering the nature of our enemy, I think it almost certain.” After a deep sigh, Eldárien continues, “All of this reveals to me more vividly how necessary is the task entrusted to me, and how pressing is the need to set upon it as soon as possible. For the vrû’ádach come, and our resistance against them is frail and faltering. The only way to stop them for good is to cut off their power at the source. And this I must do. Yet I know not where to go to discover the origin of their power, even if its nature I can in some way guess.”
“So there is no hope?” asks Brýma.
“There never was much hope, at least not immediately visible to the eyes or held in the resources of our own hearts.”
“Then we stay and give what resistance we can?” Brýma offers, the regret and despair evident in his voice.
“I suggest so,” says Rórlain, and Eldárien nods as well. “And we should give unto all, citizens and warriors alike, weapon and flame and light. The vrû’ádach are slain by piercing of the heart or removal of the head, and thus they fight no longer, at least for a time. If their general is with them, it is probable that with his slaying they shall cease to fight altogether. He is distinguished from the rest both by size and by the fact that he alone can give voice to thought in speech. Practically speaking, slaying the general may be our only hope to bring their attack to a conclusion. The problem is, however, that he may command them from a distance.”
“Enough…” Brýma sighs, and then, more forcefully, “Enough! I have heard enough! In all that you say I hear but one thing: it is impossible. There is little to no hope, but we have no choice but to resist anyway. Fine…then that is what we shall do.”
“I shall do all in my power—we shall do all in our power—to aid you in this resistance,” says Eldárien. “I wish that I could give you more assurance, but all that I can do is stand by your side in the struggle.”
“Yes, yes…and I am sorry for my outburst,” Brýma responds, making an effort to calm himself. “I know that you are doing all that you can. Only it does not seem to be enough…not nearly enough.”
“It is not enough,” says Rórlain, “but it is all that we have.”
Eldárien ventures further words, even though Brýma seems to have reached his limit. “If we can withstand the attack of these creatures, we will have an opportunity to make another plan, which shall certainly include increasing our forces and our defenses against those who assail us. In the meantime, we shall do all that we can, within our limited time and resources, to prepare to resist this oncoming assault. It need not be the end, but a beginning—a beginning of fruitful resistance to the forces of darkness.”
“It is very difficult to believe that such could be the case,” Brýma remarks.
“And yet so we must believe if we are to act at all,” replies Eldárien. “And there are grounds for such belief, as slim and as weak as they may appear. It is my plan to direct my attention to the strongest and most threatening of the creatures—the dragon and any of the greater eötenga—and hopefully thus to locate their general, or another leader, if others they have. In the meantime, Rórlain shall head up the defense of the city from the bulk of their forces. This we have already discussed.”
To this Brýma only nods silently, clearly feeling uneasy and out of his depth, willingly having delegated the leadership of his forces and the defense of his city into the capable hands of these two men. If such delegation would be a sign of weakness in another man, in Brýma it appears only to be strength and courage, the rare courage of seeing and accepting one’s limitations and embracing the aid of others where one falls short. Being the sole surviving hæras of the people of Telmérion, many would expect him to exert his power still more forcefully, or at least to insist upon his station. Instead he has graciously welcomed the aid of these travelers from the east, and he has made his heart and his city an open and hospitable place for the one who stands revealed before him as the promised king. And Eldárien, for his part, does not let his gratitude and humble awe go unnoticed; for rare is the man, in all ages of history, who is willing to yield the authority which he has long wielded into the hands of another who comes to supplant him. But it is an unspoken understanding between them that Eldárien does not come to supplant; he does not in fact come to rule at all. He comes to protect and to save. The kingship entrusted to him is something that he has accepted, but he wears it as a gift that is not his own, something that belongs to another, and of which he is only a steward. And if Eldárien is so vividly aware of his own role of stewardship, how can Brýma not recognize that his role has also always been one appropriate to a steward? That, at least, is the way that Brýma sees it, and he is not even aware himself of the degree to which this disposition is a mysterious fruit fashioned within him by invisible grace throughout his life, both in its most intimate and hidden movements as well as in the unfolding external events of his life’s journey.
“I want to say,” Brýma remarks at last, after a long moment of silence, “that you have the making of a true king. There is something in you that is not in myself. You speak with a trait more than courage and deeper than confidence, something that I can only term hope, born of faith. And thus I shall try to hope too, in my small measure, that this beautiful flame that flickers within you shall not be snuffed out by the chill winds that come upon us, or be engulfed in the anguishing darkness that grows day by day, threatening to swallow up our people in endless night.”