War of the Eli'ouds

 WAR AGAIN

(The Coming of the Eli’oud)

In the years before the Great War, there was a man named Udva’dare, a Bedouin rug maker, in the land of Harad. Even among his own Nasilian people, Udva’dare was considered by many to be a willful man, who defiantly made up his own rules. His belligerent nature often got him in trouble with his second cousin, the Shadol Ada’mul, who was the tribal ruler over all the Nasilian people. The Shadol desired to drive his camels and people further into the Southlands of Harad, because of the rumors of the imminent war between the east and west, but the rug maker said he was being unwise. Udva’dare went against the Shadol’s word and took a band of followers northward, and then entered into the western lands as immigrants.

On their journey, they came across a small group of elven travelers and waylaid them upon the road. Wanting only food and coin, his companions aggressed and accidentally killed two elves before they themselves were killed. Amid that chaos, Udva’dare raped an elven maiden who hid behind a wagon. After the deed, other elves fell upon the Nasilian men and captured them. The six ruffians were tried, and to avert a war with the newly allied race of Men, the maiden’s father made her wed the man, Udva’dare.

“This foolish appeasement for the sake of war would have better been silenced with the death of this man!” Nelwyn’s youngest brother shouted to their father.

“Nay brother, hush. Father, I shall do as you bid. Enough blood has been shed, and it seems we shall all witness more before the doom to come is over.” Nelwyn conceded her fate over that of a larger plan.

Nelwyn tried her best to put aside Udva’s assault on her, for the sake of peace, but she could only recall the brutal experience over and again. From their first encounter, then in due time she gave birth to twins and instantly fell in love with her two sons.

Udva’dare then said to his new bride, “Seeing you smile at them, now you know what I felt when I first beheld you, my love.”

Nelwyn replied coldly, “Nothing I feel in seeing them is like the day you raped me. I accept them as a gift for enduring your torture and pray the Vala to bless them for who they are; not you.” After that, Nelwyn never lay with Udva’ as a husband, willingly.

She named her twin boys: Symo’ (Sunshade), and Nu’len (Moon friend); yet their father gave them his name: Symo’dare, and Nu’lendare; (dare means to embellish). They were of two houses, elves, and men; but their origin was forged from the brutality of lust. The twins themselves grew to be nothing alike as Symo’ favored his mother, and Nu’len favored his father’s bitter demeanor most. Symo’dare grew up seeking only to know the ways of the elven kind, as his brother followed the ways of men, desiring to be adventurous and bold unto himself even among his peers. A contention grew between the twin brothers as their parents grew further apart, but for her son’s sake and stability, Nelwyn sought contentment. Yet ever did she see the growing arrogance and lust welling up in Nu’len, and how he dealt with those about him. He desired only the praise of his father and nothing from her. Sadly, in the fullness of time Udva’dare came to understand, too late, what his passions had brought forth, and he began to turn a bitter face toward his own son. But Nu’len blamed his mother because of his father’s turning away, and he became all the more unruly with her.

As the years passed, the rug maker, Udva’dare’s time among the elves became constrained by many disagreements and his unwillingness to learn or share. In time Udva’ took his family from among the elves of Greenwood to settle among the hilltops of the Blue Mountains. Weeks later his two sons gazed out upon the world, Nu’len said, “Come now brother, let us leave this place and return to our father’s homeland among the Haradrim in the east.”

But Symo’ looked to the west, “No, brother, for we are so very near the Havens from which so many are departing this world, soon this Great War that has begun shall be ended, and the people will be leaderless in need of purpose.”

Nu’len shook his head, “Such foolishness has always been your mind’s distraction, brother. Maybe the teaching they need is of - a more personal nature.” He said this smiling back at his mother.

Symo’ felt himself becoming upset, “Nay brother, for I know the inner workings of your mind all too well, and these people are broken enough already, and more so when this war finds its conclusion.”

Nu’lendare laughed, “Shall we bed them as we like or dutifully wait for the years to pass before the concept enters their feeble thoughts in waiting – to be taught, that is.”

Symodare stood tall, “Neither, for they belong unto themselves for the age of Men has come and that Dark Lord’s ending shall soon pass as well.”

His brother smirked, “You see as well as I do brother, his influence on Men is only as one uses a tool for their advancement. Dark lords or not, Men are men, as you say, and they have always belonged unto themselves. Darkness is their nature even without a lord.” With that Nu’len struck Symo with his fists, and then drew his father’s blade and fell upon him.

With a cold expression, Symo’dare threw his brother off and they both stood face to face, “Shall you slay me, that every part of yourself that you have come to hate so much? I could never kill you brother, even with this contention between us. Stay or go as you like, but I for one shall not abide with this continually.” With that Symo’dare embraced his mother Nelwyn, for she was unwilling to depart from her ailing husband, fragile upon his dying bed. She knew in her heart that it was with deep regret that her son sought out the lowlands, for he could no longer reside with his brother Nu’lendare in the Blue Mountains.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

   After the Great Departure of the Faye Folk, from their western gray Havens, a remnant protested against leaving and watched the last fleet of Swan-carved ships sail away into the sun. Of those Watchers, three became the realm’s longest-lived Kings. With the passing of the fourth, a Nephilim Lord, named Koral, came his son Eli’Gadreel to wear the Mitharian Crown.

   One day, horrid news reached the fifth King’s ear that many in the distant village of Sinjar had been mysteriously murdered during the night. A party had been sent out from King Eli’Gadreel to investigate what had transpired, but the party had failed to return to his Lordship in the tower of Varlendur. By now Gadreel had become more than suspicious that a foul hand was at work. Arming himself and two companies of his finest men they ventured forth to Sinjar, so the King could see for himself what evil was afoot. The tent village at the base of Mount Sinjarus was burnt to the ground and indeed all those in the cave dwellings as well. They had been slaughtered and lay dead for many days already in decay, still laying where they fell upon the ground with their throats cut. No exceptions were made men, women, and children were dead with no pity shown. Then King Gadreel saw for himself that his own men were among the bodies, and he became all the more enraged at the atrocity!

   “Sire, none live but us in this encampment of death,” said a soldier.

   Looking up at the cliffside with squinted eyes, Gadreel said, “It is whispered there are tunnels and caverns in the depths of the mountain's belly, go seek them out, and Lieutenant Minfalus destroy all those who lie in wait. With blades drawn, and by your King's orders shall you uphold your oaths this day, share that with your men.” From there Gadreel began heading up the worn steps alone. Moments later the King’s men surpassed him as squads poured into every opening and indeed into each discovered tunnel. Piled bodies blocked each of the passageways the deeper they went in until once again the Mitharian Guard had assembled at the base of the stone-carved city.

   Gadreel ordered the men to line the bodies of the dead where the tent village had once stood, “Count them all, and then incinerate their remains.”

When the last of the unexplored tunnels was being cleared of the bodies that had previously blocked their advance, they suddenly unleashed Wild men who burst forth from every opening. The horde came rushing like a great torrent of flood waters down upon those below. In the labor of their grave duty, a sudden attack fell upon the King and his men, even as the shades of night fastly approached. Vicious men did the swift work of cutting down any they met! It was King Gadreel who retreated with only two squads of his men trailing behind. Near the tents of Slavath, they gave a warning to its people to alarm the Shadol and be called to arms! Falling back to the Mitharian keep the bells rang everyone to the defense of the city!

   From that sudden retreat, none were being followed, to the bewilderment of the Slavathian villagers; yet the bells of Mithar still rang out! On the fourth day, the bells fell silent when another horror struck at daybreak. The watches upon their high walls spied the raging fires and plumes of smoke as Slavath was engulfed in ruined tents, leaving her people and livestock chard! No spokesman ever came forth, or banners waved, and no message of any kind was declared; only the terrorized threat that more was to come.

   Now, about the southern part of the twin cities there ran Mithar’s unfinished second, outer wall. Begun many years before by the dwarven masons but never completed, it stood to protect only half of the lower farmlands, or pin them in.

On the dawn of the fifth day, what proved to be the only messenger stood before The Hideous Dwarven-Wall, and shouted, “This day shall the fallen King see his last breath taken for –“ An arrow pierced through his eye and silenced any worthwhile message he might have delivered. Moments later, to the left and right, and as far down afield as one could see a great multitude came rushing upon them! Those behind the Hideous wall were filled with panic as flying arrows set their fields aflame.

   Earlier, King Gadreel had sent word for the Pagan Lord of Lindol’s, Mayor Ishmak to send reinforcements. His only reply came in the form of a dirty-faced street boy, “Sire, the Goblins have breached the northern wall.” The boy then fell over dead, revealing a dagger in his side.

   Gadreel was overheard, bemoaning, “The world ends in fear this day.” Then came the thunderous pounding of a battering ram against the closed brass doors of the Sibling’s Gate. Moments later it began to rain decapitated heads of the Sinjarian dead! From among the masses beyond the gate, a lone voice was heard shouting, “You betrayed our fathers, then left us for dead, eat now the fruit of those planted seeds!” Bewildering words only the King seemed to have understood, for he went pale.

   “No, sire!” Minfalus shouted as he ran for Gadreel.

But his blade was too quick in slicing his own throat before his men, even as the gates burst open for the hordes that rushed in. It was within that very hour that Mithvalon fell, both its upper and lower portions ceased to be the grand city on the Bay it once was. After those raiding forces had secured the tower of Varlendur, the Wildmen saved some of the younger generations from slaughter, and then – strangely, halted their monstrous deeds. Those children who crouched in submission knew their lives hung upon any whispered word of displeasure.

   From that throng of brutish men there stepped forward a nearly naked foe dressed in tattoos, “Hear now you defeated whelps; those who brought you to this very end no longer draw breath, for the city lays in ruins and the streets run red with their blood. From henceforth your only purpose is to serve as thralls or lie with these bleeding dead. It makes no difference to me which you chose.”

   No one questioned or breathed a word in defiance. The speaker smiled, “I am Me’geth’dare, the grandson of Nu’lendare, the brother of Symo’dare – ah, so you know that name, I see. Good! We are the Eli’ouds, sons of the Nephilim lords, a bastard race of whom you called Founders. Now, now you may be at ease from all your fears of not knowing who rules over you. For the Bastard son is king now!” With that his barbarous troops triumphally chanted his name, stomping their feet, pounding fear into the hearts of those frightened captives.

   At that moment the eldest of them, a thin boy about twenty years of age stood up, and the army hushed, “If only you would have –“

   “Would have what? Declared who we were beforehand, and we could all be one happy family? Oh, how childish is your outlook on the world boy! You have all grown worse than the ones who fathered you, arrogant even among yourselves. You are not the anointed elite, to the exclusion of all others in the world, that your parents pretend themselves to be. Those who really are seeking the truth and wisdom are not as beneath you as you think. Look at the Lindolian Pagans, they are far better people than your pretentious, meaningless words, so freely spouted, would have them be. You deserved to be wiped away for being the mindless ant-drones who have festered this long. But do not fear, change is here, to lovingly wake you up from that tedious slumber, with its cruel reward you brought upon yourselves with this end.”

   The boy bravely asked, “What end is this, that we should be grateful to have awakened to?”

   “THAT, that right there! That is what I mean!” The tattooed man shook his head looking around, then added, “Boy, what makes you think you even have another breath to waste in questioning me? What makes you more special than others?” Me’geth’dare’s eyes squinted.

   “I am nothing if not better than you, for we have never slaughtered –“

   “Nev - Never slaughtered? Outrageous! Most interesting. With every deceitful word that slithered off your wagging tongues, you have all done nothing but slaughter someone else’s ability to have any independent thought of their own. You wholeheartedly embraced and willfully accepted the twisted lies, spoon-fed you as the truth, without ever once blinking to ask for proof. Ha, yes, you have slaughtered everyone’s potential lives when they followed you into this despot Tower! Even the very name Varlendur is but a sick joke played upon the unsuspecting, for that dungeon is far from being a tower of ‘Friends’. The very ones you condemned as prophets, theirs should have been your own questioning voice, asking if what you were told was the truth or not. How dare you have such a superior, self-righteousness presence about you boy, when it was you who brought this end upon yourselves. Too asleep in your own drunken stupidity to understand that blindly following horrifically deceitful men led you to this end.”

   Drawing a breath, the bitter tattooed man let a slow smile creep onto his face, “What is the name they call you boy?”

   “Sethman.”

   “Sethman - I will allow you to continue drawing breath until you do not. Every blink you have could very well be your last. Today I give you a new name boy, I shall give you the opportunity not to be the dirt under my feet, but at the whisp of a second thought you will be like these bleeding at your feet. Ba’nal (Second Chance); that is your new name.” Me’geth nodded to another tattooed man who stood beside him, who then put cuffs on the boy and handed it long chain over to his leader. Me’geth nodded to another soldier, and the remaining children were rounded up in chains and led off.

   “Where are you taking them?”

   “Again, with the arrogance of thinking, you can question me. Come.” Me’geth led the chained boy away to Varlendur.

   Climbing up the body-littered steps to the opened doors of the realm’s seat of power, the captive witnessed for himself the cruelty of the invading forces. The lavished hall of the Gray Tower, which Ba’nal-Sethman had never seen the inside of before, was in utter disarray. The mural of the Great Departure’s Last Elven Swan-Ship was scared with hacked marks, and its ax was left in the swan’s head. Splattered with blood and smeared handprints from the Lords and Ladies who had failed to escape the slaughter. They still laid where they had bled out upon the floor amid the ravished furnishings tossed about. The leashed boy was led to step over these with disregard for who they had been. Helplessly, Ba’nal was pulled along as Me’geth headed for the downward staircase. The darkened well was lit by the infrequent placing of hung torches. The pitch-black flickered back against the last torch, which Me’geth claimed. From deeper inside the void a broken, faint voice barely called up, “Brother?”

   Me’geth’dare answered back, “I am here.”

   

   Then the amber light revealed the pungent smell to be that of forgotten prison cells. It became apparent that the Priests of the loving religion fostered none for the creatures who were left to waste away in the dank dungeons below the King’s meeting hall above. Several ghastly figures crowded the small cells. They were too beleaguered to speak as the two visitors passed them by. Without comment, Me’geth’dare headed for the other set of downward stairs. As the stench of the darkness grew, the boy choked back wanting to vomit, holding his nose and mouth, but his captor pulled on the chain all the more, “Come now and learn the truth for yourself.”

   “Here, brother, I am the last alive among the feeding rats.” The blinding torch light validated the claim as the two visitors saw the scattering of rodents, except the most starved who lingered upon the dead body still chained to the wall. “Me’geth!” The whimpering was heartbreaking to the wide-eyed boy in seeing the thin, ragged prisoner crying for himself.

   His savior withdrew a dagger and picked the rusted, locked door open, then did the same in removing his brother’s cuffs. “Ba’lim!” They embraced as the boy began vomiting on a rat-infested body. Moments later one prisoner was aiding the other to his feet, heading for freedom.

   As they struggled to emerge from the dungeons below, back into the brilliant light of the throne room, Me’geth demanded, “Now you understand my words boy?”

   “Yes, yes I do. The Apostates were correct about everything.”

   Ba’lim’dare began choking, but the noise strangely sounded like laughter, “Only now do you see who was truly blind.” The emaciated man’s eyes were tightly shut. He had the appearance of a walking skeleton thinly draped with skin. His bony legs and arms had multiple bite marks. He was bald, with dark sunken eyes. In the light of day, Balim’dare looked frighteningly close to death.

Me’geth held back the overwhelming urge to weep, “What a handsome fellow this one was in stealing all the ladies from me. Balim, you are not done for yet my brother.”

   “Free air to breath, you gave me that brother, before I died.” Looking up at three soldiers who came near at the sound of their voices.

   “Water!” Me’geth’dare demanded one of the bottles off their belts. Then offering it to the freed prisoner, “You are not gone yet, fool.”

   “No, I am not done yet,” Balim’dare felt the boy’s hand helping him to drink from the flask. “But Me’geth, you must know this boy is blameless.”

   The leader’s eyes looked into those of his chained captive, “They will brand him an Apostate, then he will really understand.” Me’geth’dare sighed, “Brother, I love you.”

   The frail figure whispered, “I know, and I love you – brother.”

   The three men carefully place their Captain’s brother on a cape and carried him on his oversized bed out into the light of the city below.

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