As the men emerge from the crater, exhausted from the confrontation and their bodies shaking with weakness and fatigue, they look around. And to their dismay, they see destruction in the perimeter surrounding the explosion of dark energy that emanated from the Lord of Death. Whatever buildings had once stood on the surface of the ground directly above the cultic chamber have been completely decimated, and for a good thirty yards surrounding, the damage is severe. Climbing out through the rubble they hear voices—cries of anguish and cries of fear, cries of pleading calling out the names of those who are lost—and they fear the worst. Upon coming to the streets of the city, they are met by a crowd of persons who have gathered about the gaping wound in the earth, and they immediately learn that the same light that had enfolded the five men in the chamber had also enveloped the people in the houses and streets surrounding, saving them from the blast. Only those in the area directly above the chamber were not spared the full force of the explosion, and their deaths must have been instant.
Eldárien receives this news with a mixture of relief and regret. The light, called upon by his and Rórlain’s conscious will, had nonetheless spread to others whose location they did not know and had protected them as well. But such light had not prevented all destruction, nor all death, and—whether through the limits of their own power or through some other mysterious reason or circumstance—the explosion had been directed upward, and nothing in that direction had softened the blast.
But why had this happened at all, and what was its import? Not only do these questions plague the hearts of the men, but they also greet them in the numerous voices of citizens who crowd around them, their faces marked with panic or confusion and their words drowning one another out in the effort to be heard. It takes a moment before Brýma is able to silence the crowd enough that he can address them. “There was a mysterious power that slumbered beneath the city,” he says, “but it appears to have been exorcised. We will tend to your losses immediately, and I shall share more information with all of you soon.”
“Brýma, it was not—” Eldárien begins quietly, whispering in his ear. But Brýma turns and gives him a look that immediately silences him.
“Rûmdil, will you please hasten to the citadel and inform the members of the council of what you have witnessed?” says Brýma, turning away. And then, addressing the people again, “Are there any wounded that need immediate treatment?”
Before any answers can be given, however, the earth begins to groan and shake with such violence beneath their feet that they are hardly able to remain standing. As if in anguish the land cries out, and then from the center of the crater, a scar upon the flesh of Telmérion, black mist belches forth. The same blackness that had enfolded the five men in their confrontation with the Lord of Death now seeps from the center of the wound, spreading rapidly outward like poisonous fumes, wrapping itself around everything in its path, and piercing its every crevice, until all is immersed in darkness. Chaos ensues almost instantly as the citizens cry out in fear and confusion, uncertain of the dangers that the darkness might hold. Despite their best efforts, there is little that Brýma and the others can do to calm or temper this panic. In a matter of minutes the city is enveloped in darkness not unlike that of night, though more wicked and malicious, and without the subtle beauty that the night of the world always bears, and the mist rises up to blot out the very sky, until the sun itself is hardly more than an orb of subtlest presence in the midst of a black sheet overhead.
And then something even worse than the external darkness comes. Eldárien and Rórlain are the first to feel it, and they immediately know what it is, for long now have they been acquainted with the terror that is induced by the proximity of the creatures of darkness, the eötenga. From the same center from which the dark fog spread now emerges a horrendous creature not unlike the vrû’ádach, but much larger, with muscle rippling across its taut flesh. It climbs from a hole in the earth as if some insect tunneling from the depths of the soil back to the surface, and it lets out a roar that echoes across the city. As it takes a step forward, they see that the rippling of its muscles is due not only to its incredible strength, but to something else; for it appears almost that the skin boils and, in boiling, rips open to unleash what it bears within. From all over its body then lash out in every direction massive snakes, fangs bared and hungering for prey. The creature steps forward and calls out in the black language words of command, and these words receive response without the slightest delay, as eötenga in great number, and of all shapes and sizes, begin to crawl forth from the crater as spiders from their secret lairs. There are vrû’ádach not unlike those that they have encountered before—in the barrow of Séra Galáptes and in the siege of Ristfánd—though they have been “improved” by their master, with claws as long as daggers, able to pierce armor and to counteract a blade, and with spine-like growths upon their skin, on the torso and the upper arms and legs, which evidently serve as armor. In addition to these vrû’ádach, there are other eötenga as well, whose great variety and grotesqueness surpass description.
“And thus it begins…” breathes Eldárien, unconsciously stepping back and staggering upon his feet, as if struck with a blow to the chest. Taking a moment to reign in his fear and frustration, and the panic that he too feels, he turns to Brýma and Cirien and says, “Have everyone evacuate the lower city to the upper regions, and seal off all access between the two. I know not how or where they shall also appear, but this is clearly the locus point of their arrival. And set ablaze all the lights that you can! Torches and braziers and hearths alike. Light will be your best weapon against these beasts, but prepare also to fight them off with weapons of iron and steel.”
“Our torches give hardly any light, sir,” says a voice behind Brýma. They turn and lay their eyes upon a soldier of the guard, his face creased with despair, though a spark of courage shows still in his eyes. And his words are true: in his hand he holds a torch with flame licking from it in full blaze, but its light is all but devoured by the blackness that surrounds it.
“Oh, by all the gods…what are we to do?” cries Brýma in anguish.
“The very same as I said,” insists Eldárien. “There is no choice but this. The light is weak, but it shines nonetheless.” He pauses a moment and then opens his mouth to say something else, to ask for a company of guards to remain here and aid in the resistance, but there is no time. The beasts begin to spread from the crater, and he draws the lightbringer from its scabbard and steps forward to meet them. Rórlain is at his side, his axe already blazing with bluish light.
“We must be sparing,” Eldárien manages to say before they engage the enemy. “To expend the light too liberally will break our strength too soon. But we will do what we must to hold them off until the people of the city can take refuge and until a defense can be prepared.”
“Let us hope we last that long,” replies Rórlain, and then he sweeps forward, his axe blazing and leaving a trail of light lingering in the air where a vrû’ádach is felled in a single blow.
Without being asked, a company of soldiers does join the two men, though Eldárien can feel the fear gripping them like a poison threatening to paralyze them where they stand. And so, even while he wields his sword against the enemy, he calls out to his companions in words of guidance and encouragement, instructing them anew on the best way to fell the enemy, and trying to stir in them hope for successful resistance. But he knows the terror that the eötenga sow by their very presence, and he himself feels also the terrible weight of the black mist which seems to invade not only the air surrounding him but also the very recesses of his heart and his mind, seeking to crush them into impotence.
In order to protect the men who fight with him, Eldárien places himself in the path of the largest beast, whose flesh roils with snakes dancing left and right and preparing to strike as soon as it steps into proximity with the soldiers of the guard. And they do strike out against Eldárien with vicious speed, more in number than he is able to deflect with his blade. He severs many of them from the body of the beast, their heads falling to the ground and hissing as they dissolve into nothingness, but eventually he is forced to call forth a blaze of light from his upraised palm and to burn the rest of them in holy fire. Against this fire they recoil, shrieking in a sound that causes the eardrums to ache. But then they are silent.
Eldárien falters as he feels the strength leave him, and he leans for a moment upon his sword to regain his balance and composure. But despite the slaying of the snakes that emerged from its flesh, the eöten itself does not falter, but steps forward and seeks to engage Eldárien in combat. In an instant its upraised arms are intercepted by Rórlain, who leaps through the air and with a wide swipe removes both of its hands from its body. These too dissolve to nothing as soon as they touch the earth. Howling in anger, the eöten raises is head into the air and calls out. Without hesitating, Eldárien takes this opportunity and lunges forward, thrusting the lightbringer deep into the chest of the creature until he is certain that it has pierced its heart. But as it falls to its knees and then crumbles away as dust in the wind, Eldárien sees behind it more creatures of similar size and form climbing forth from the crater, all of them roaring in triumphant rage, their bodies fashioned to be weapons of both danger and terror by a malicious will and a mind that delights in twisted forms.
“We are going to be overrun, Eldárien,” Rórlain calls from a few feet behind him. “We must pull back and regroup!”
As the company does so, and to their relief, a volley of arrows rains down upon the eötenga, loosed most likely from the middle portion of the city the entrance to which lies perhaps eighty yards to the north.
“But the arrows will not be enough,” laments Rórlain. “Unless they strike the heart, they shall do no good.”
“If only we could…” Eldárien begins, but his voice dies in his throat.
For a moment, before the enemy engages them again, Rórlain catches Eldárien’s eyes and looks deeply into them. “Perhaps we can,” he says, and his voice is full of meaning, a thread of hope reaching out as if to weave its way through the very darkness and despair itself, and to forge a path.
With the next volley of arrows Rórlain extends his arms and closes his eyes, rapt in intense concentration. Immediately Eldárien feels power passing through him, surging through his heart and his flesh as it flows into Rórlain, and through Rórlain into the arrows that fall from the sky. In an instant their tips burst forth in blue flame like a shower of stars glowing pure and bright, and then plunging into the flesh of the beasts. On contact with the light the lesser of the creatures dissolve, defeated, even if the arrow that struck their bodies only grazed them.
Eldárien allows himself to be encouraged by this sight, even though he feels weakness grip him still more strongly. He hesitates for a moment, and yet, knowing now that this can be done, he cannot count the cost. With an act of the will he unleashes the light also into the blades of the soldiers of the guard who stand around him, and they burst forth in the same brilliance, meeting in combat the creatures that still emerge from the darkness as quickly as they are slain. Despite this, his heart grieves to see many of these men slain at the hands of the beasts, overcome by their sheer number and by the terror that they bring, overwhelming the heart and deadening the body even as it tries to resist.
† † †
Tilliána and Elmáriyë rush through the upper city, lighting lights and encouraging wavering spirits as the battle rages below. Evacuees from the lower city are aided in their flight to the citadel and its surrounding buildings, until there is no longer any room for more; and then the largest and most sturdy houses of the upper city are filled and barricaded. As far as possible the untrained men, recruited only recently and given weapons despite their lack of preparation, are allowed to stand guard over their families and friends, their wives and children, while the trained city guard stands outside in companies awaiting their summons to direct conflict, if they are not already together with Eldárien and Rórlain in the midst of the fray.
Cirien, for his part, gathers a small company of men and says to them, “Will you accompany me back into the midst of the fighting, not to engage the enemy directly, but to find what wounded we may of our own people, and to carry them to safety? It is more important to save the lives that are threatened than to destroy the might of our enemy. And that latter task lies not in your domain or in your capacity; it is entrusted to another.” Seeing their willingness, even touched and constrained by the fear that now, with the permeating mist of darkness, fills the entire city, Cirien leads the company back into the lower city. The barricade is shut firmly behind them, to be opened only when they return with the wounded in need of healing.
In addition to this company of rescue led by Cirien, another group of soldiers is led by the captain of the guard, a man by the name of Hínding. Sénfyr, the captain-vicar, also accompanies him. They come to the aid of those fighting with Eldárien and Rórlain to stymie the invasion of the eötenga, charging forward with swords and spears raised like a wave at sea crashing against the bulwark of the forces of darkness. But however strong this wave may be, the wave of the eötenga is greater, pouring forth without end from the center-point of darkness that lies in the crater where the Lord of Death had appeared.
In this conflict the courage of men is tested—sorely tested—against the fearless might of the impersonal creatures of darkness, mindless tools of destruction in the hands of forces that themselves refuse to appear before those whom they so willingly subject to slaughter. Even with the reinforcement given by the troops under command of Hínding, hardly more than a quarter of an hour passes before the guards of Onylándun are pushed back to the base of the stone wall upon which the upper city stands.
“We cannot hold them any longer!” Rórlain cries to Eldárien through the fray, his axe still blazing with light in his hand, though his ragged voice betrays the exhaustion that threatens to overtake him. “There are too many. If we remain here any longer, none of us will survive.”
Eldárien regretfully nods at the truth of these words, fearing what will happen to the rest of the city should the vanguard retreat. Will not the eötenga simply flood freely into the rest of the city? Perhaps indeed the vanguard is the only thing preventing them from emerging freely from every shadow in the city and working a slaughter like the one that occurred in Ristfánd. Eldárien indeed has the vivid sense that the only reality keeping the creatures of darkness from emerging at will is the light that stands against it, the light entrusted into the care of Rórlain and himself. And thus he fears what may result from the withdrawal of the light, however subtle this withdrawal may be. But then he remembers the voice of Hiliána and the tenderness of her presence, and the word of loving gift that had reverberated within him and had opened him anew to the mystery that lies beyond the eyes of flesh, shining into this world through her and the other Anaíon from the Origin of all. And this presence that has carried him through many places of darkness is rekindled within him even now, and he finds the trust to surrender anew to its light.
This allows Eldárien to accept Rórlain’s proposition in more than mere despair, but rather with a deep prayer of the heart that the light itself shall remain strong where his own strength and capacity falters. He and Rórlain then lead the company up the stone steps to the upper city—calling out for Hínding’s company to follow directly behind them—and the barricade is opened for a moment to allow them all to enter. It is shut again just as quickly to block out the eötenga, who are greeted with a dense rain of arrows blazing with light that Rórlain confers upon them.
“What else can we do?” Rórlain says, his voice constrained with anguish, when the gate closes behind them.
“I do not…I really do not know,” answers Eldárien, wiping the sweat that runs down his forehead with the back of his hand. “But we have discovered something that we did not before know to be possible. The light can be imbued upon the weapons of others. This itself is a great boon, even if alone it is not enough. Perhaps there is more also that we can discover than this.”
“Is there any way to stop the invasion itself?” Sénfyr asks, stepping close and joining the conversation. Near him stands Hínding, though the latter’s attention is wholly directed to his men, whom he addresses in words of encouragement.
“It would be necessary to find their leader and to break his power,” Rórlain answers. “But I have seen none who might be such.”
“If it is the one who calls himself the Lord of Death,” says Eldárien in a voice weak with anguish, “then I have little hope either of finding him or of defeating him. His power was far beyond anything I have encountered before, far beyond the strength of any man. I fear that it would crush all in its path in an instant. Why he did not crush us in our encounter with him, I know not…but I am certain it was not from lack of ability.”
“This ‘Lord’ you speak of,” Sénfyr says, “where was he and what happened to him?”
“He was hidden in the underbelly of the city, summoned here, I believe, by the members of the cult. He appeared for but a few moments in a circle of summoning, only to taunt us and to disappear—calling forth both the darkness that now envelops us as well as the beasts that now flood the city. The crater from which the creatures emerge is the same place where we encountered him.”
“Could you perhaps find him again in the same place?” Sénfyr asks. “I know it sounds foolish, but…if the beasts still emerge from the same place, could he not still be there giving them life and vigor?”
Eldárien and Rórlain think about this for a moment, and then the former says, “I doubt it. Proximity has little or no effect on the power wielded by such beings.”
“And yet there must be a reason that the eötenga emerge from there and from nowhere else,” interjects the latter. “I think there may be some truth to Sénfyr’s suggestion.”
“What truth do you imply?”
“I wish I knew…”
At this moment Hínding finishes speaking to his men and turns to the three, interrupting their converse. He says to Eldárien, “You are the one of whom all now speak? The one gifted with light and claiming to bear the blood and heritage of Séra Galáptes? If this is the case, can you not use your powers to discern the way to defeat our enemy, rather than relying upon your reason and thought alone?” Despite the intensity in both his words and his voice, his tone is not unkind.
Eldárien is taken aback at first by the directness of his question, but then he replies, “The gifts of the gods are not contrary to reason and to the truths discovered by human thought. And yet you are right in this: they go beyond it both in depth and in insight. Perhaps there is some hope in what you say.”
At this moment a deafening crash sounds not far away, as the eötenga begin to batter against the gates preventing them from entering the upper city.
“We have little time,” Rórlain says. “Is there any way that I can assist you, Eldárien?”
“I…I need to be alone for a moment, that I might concentrate and listen,” he replies. “Harness the light as you must. Give me only a few minutes. Whether I discover something or not, I shall return to you soon.” With this he turns away and shuts himself in a guardhouse nearby. He drops to his knees and places his head against the earth, covering his ears with the palms of his hands to block out as much external noise as he is able. In the darkness that surrounds him he does not at first realize that his eyes have remained open, and upon this realization he closes them, directing his gaze inward, beyond the flesh, as if reaching out to touch what cannot be touched, not now the light for which the heart longs but the darkness from which it recoils. A couple minutes pass and he feels nothing—as if he is grasping at air and wishing it were solid. But then he turns away from the darkness and back to the light, leaning into it with all of his spirit, a spirit weakened and exhausted. Show me, he pleads, show me where I must go to bring an end to this assault.
Now time seems to stop, and Eldárien feels suspended in expectation, a dense silence and darkness enfolding him, not now pervaded with terror and death but rather more akin to the darkness of the womb, awaiting the outpouring of light and life. And then image and awareness flow into his mind. Both together merge into one reality, a conviction in his heart abiding and deep. In image, he sees himself lifted up from the earth and carried, carried across mountains and valleys, across snow and stone, night and day, through darkness and fear and conflict, in hope and faith and longing, and to a citadel high upon majestic peaks, built upon the living rock of the mountains themselves as if an extension of the very life of Telmérion, breathing forth as a cradle for the civilization of man, and yet by man tended. In awareness, he comes instantly to understand the answer to his pleas: the assault of the creatures of darkness that now lay siege to Onylándun can only be stopped by defeating their onslaught in direct conflict here and now, and this is possible because, when slain with the power of the light, such creatures cannot return again to the earth until fashioned anew by their maker. And underneath this awareness is concealed another: it is not Eldárien’s place henceforth to lead the conflict against these legions of darkness, but rather to follow the path marked out to the very heart of the darkness, whence all else arises. Only there, in confrontation with the Lord of Darkness, can the power that fashions the eötenga be broken at its source.
And as his mind and heart make contact with this mystery, as they press through the path ahead of him—across these mountains and to this abode of darkness—Eldárien feels a sense of oppressive evil, of inexpressible wickedness and malice, and also a sense of impending danger, not only to the people of Telmérion but to his own person and to the one who stands at his side. He feels the confrontation as if walking into the heart of the ocean during a terrible storm, fighting the violent crashing of the waves that seeks ever to thrust him back toward shore. No, he cannot go back—back to safety, back to shore—for only by casting out into the deep, by plunging into the heart both of darkness and of light, can the darkness at last be broken and light prove victorious.
And then, just as swiftly as it has come, the vision ceases, and Eldárien’s consciousness returns to the guardhouse, where he kneels with his forehead to the floor, the sounds of fear and violence echoing through the walls that surround him. He rises to his feet, allowing the truth of the vision to abide within him—indeed to flow into him and to take up its abode in his heart—even as the constricting anguish of their current situation grasps him again with vehemence and threatens to choke his spirit. And the question immediately stirs within him, though he knows, in the lingering light of the vision, that it is a question that cannot and need not be answered: But what does this mean? Even when the path is shown its details remain hidden, and only in the living of each succeeding moment, hidden in mystery until that time, are the specific contours of the journey revealed. And human freedom finds itself set upon this path, at times to accept in obedience what can be no other way, and at times to reach out with creativity and hope, finding whatever means it discerns to be best and trusting in a providence and a sight greater than its own.
And precisely this is what faces Eldárien now, as he pushes open the door of the guardhouse and steps into the crowd of soldiers that stands at the ready before the wall separating the two segments of the city, the creatures of darkness battering against the gates and threatening to break them down. He hurries forward toward Rórlain and the other commanders in order to share with them what he has learned regarding the conflict that lies before him, and how these creatures shall be repelled, as little hope as there may seem to be that such a thing is possible.