Prologue: Divine Revelation

A pale glint trembled in the gloom of the mist-beaten wood of Anulandë as if metal-ware had been revealed by the pale radiance of the crescent moon. But nothing could be seen. Nothing moved among the tussocks and the battered oaks. Disparate murmurs and rustles arose from the tree-realm and pried into the far more arcane whispers of some eerie nocturnal conventicles. A neigh and a whinny followed two loud and restless stamping hoof-beats. Two glaring crimson eyes pierced the darkness and searched, searched eagerly through the dull banks of mist.

An old man clad in a long white vest arose from the deep darkness and, soundless, approached the eyes. He passed by as swift as the wind but as silent as the whiff of sleep. His pale and callous hand clenched a low sable staff but in the other he held a small shape tightly, which could not be discerned beneath the layer of cloths it was embedded in. The crimson eyes approached from the shadows beneath the oaks revealing a steed and a rider upon him. The sheen of his mail shimmered at every step and he turned here and there sniffing the humid nocturnal air. The white figure now stood before him and greeted him with great respect:

“Hail Lord.” The rider did not reply.

“The elders have requested me to show thee a token that was found not more than a fortnight ago on the Temple of the Moon” said the white figure, now kneeling before the rider.

“Then show it to me, herald of the Druids. Thy order is loyal to me but I do not trust the whispers of the night: speak not so loud! I have come alone, no watch is set upon the forest and the Moon will soon shine again ere the western clouds hover above us”. The tone was grave and solemn: no fear was hidden in these words.

“Aye, what you say is just. Should we retire to the deeper and darker groves of the forest, where none shall hearken our words?” said the Druid, now clinging to his staff as if the burden was growing heavier in his hold.

“Indeed, it would be safer. I fear that this token must be kept secret from unwise ears and distorted minds. Yet I shall leave my steed bridled here, the rumours of the night are troubling him and it could endanger our secrecy”.

The rider dismounted and gently took the reins of the horse. He tied them to a low and strong branch and caressed his noble steed. The red eyes slowly faltered and the horse, as if enchanted, fell asleep. The druid grinned and directed the rider deeper into the forest.

Darkness was towering below the boughs of the oaks and the stars could no longer be seen. Here and there pale silver patches of moonlight brightened the undergrowth of mossy weeds and low shrubs beneath the trees. There was no real path to be discerned for seldom did any living soul penetrate so deep in the woods.

They came to a broad glade; a drowsy torrent trickled beneath the mossy root carpet that clothed the humid ground. The moonlight shone through the canopies and revealed two large boulders. They bore the traits of countless rainstorms; mossy rivulets carved deep into their granite limbs.

The old druid halted and laid the burden he bore amid the cracks of the left boulder and a wood fragment on the opposite one.

He looked to the skies, as if trying to decipher the deep cosmic truth that was hidden within. The stars were glimmering in the cerulean vastness as the seven great constellations gilded the astral mosaic. A shade of regret and uncertainty brooded on his stern countenance; was he concealing a truth that should not have been revealed?

The sombre rider approached at a slower and far more regal pace. He laid his scabbard and sword on the wet grass and removed his silver tiara. A hidden murmur leapt from his lips and stirred the will of the inert druid.

“Hu laya, kelsa antu caelestiae, eianna elumë?” said the Druid.

Everything stood in breathless halt: the spirits of the night had been awoken. The wind stirred the boughs of the attentive trees; rustles and footsteps haunted the dark alcoves of the great forest. The skies were approaching and falling on this hidden sanctuary: the unknown frontier between Tara and the skies. The bolts of the transcendental gates had been gently unfastened as the two figures became aware of the dense and pervasive air around them.

“Elaya, aque felam trelle atarië. Yuva gerantas Teya” remarked the Rider. His voice was melodious and solemn; he appeared to be of greater knowledge than one could ever fathom.

“This is true. Fate weaves all; men cannot counter the will of the stars, nor can our Order. We are not meant to stir the anger of the creator as you are not meant to take the final decision concerning it, sire.” The eyes of the Druid were like the northern and western stars, ever watchful and intensely keen. His limbs were strong and ethereal: age could not consume vigour in the chosen order.

He continued: “We had received signs of its coming. The skies were strange, as if Tara had moved. The stars were towering in the East and the West was void and ominous. Burning lamps were rushing above us and flickering out. It appeared as if Hyall’s armies were scattering their golden arrows upon the fortunes of men.” With a sense of regret and discomfort he pointed to the skies and looked towards the Cane of Rostra and the stars around its system.

The Lord gazed thoughtfully at the Druid, reading through the words, seeking for some knowledge that had been hidden from him. His body slanted and his mauve drapes coiled all around him, the embroidery glinted in the gentle moonlight and he sat down on the sward. He plucked three leaves of grass, of unequal length and presented them to the Druid.

“My friend, what are we, if not the consequences of our own choices? Isn’t fate a corollary of our actions, regardless of whether they are for good or for bad? You come here and tell me that I do not have the power to settle this and determine the outcome of what has been granted us by the providence of who dwells in the other world. Do you not know that a leaf of grass bears the burden of morning dew even if it has not chosen to receive such gift from above? Then why should we men be different, then why should we men expose our fears when it comes to face our own doubts, prejudices and limits? We were given this burden because it has a purpose, in so far as you were bestowed the privilege to divulge it. Do you not see that we cannot hide it, that we cannot neglect it because of our own lack of judgement and common sense? What are we if we do not know how to handle what comes to us through the will of powers that we dare not imagine?” A great fire was burning within the Lord’s heart; a wind of passion was blowing from the hidden lands of the deep and obscure soul. He was preaching as if the words that came through him were not his own; as a device that functions under someone’s supervision. Nay, it was heartfelt hope and gratitude that stirred his heart.

He was Lord of little Killenny, an insignificant realm in the global and diverse lattice of the lands of Elfadas. A small and proud realm, renowned for its stonework alone. Lord Talis of the house of Gemshorn, for that was his royal name, had witnessed too many battles and too much suffering for men and all races to bear. Honour and ideals had subsided to the rising waves of a gladiatorial upsurge of rivalries. Realms were groping at each other’s throats in the desperate attempt of throttling the ideals of freedom ere the Great Prophecy had finished with the world.

All men knew of this great prophecy was that hundreds of years before, when the wars were just a distant echo rising from the east, the oracle of Hun-Galach, the hermitary on the isle of Cafarne, had spoken these words:

“Hiana, tel hue aiala yuna, kia hen, unaha, ‘thyril ke larga jevoo kruha.”1

Eschatological fears had propelled a substantial fear among the rulers of the Earth, who sought to ravage and destroy their enemies ere the chime of Doom. For the prophecy had been interpreted in the wrong way, which is a common case nowadays through the folly of men. It did not speak of doom, for the few that knew the dialect of Cafarne would have gladly noticed the absence of the word gehan and of its kin. It spoke of something that had not been fully revealed; that perhaps did not have to be revealed, despite the tragedies that were to be the natural outcome.

These thoughts, when taken into consideration, could have relieved the Earth of much of its troubles, had its people been open-minded to find another solution rather than open war.

Yet the chances were low and hope could do little.

Lord Talis never approached the object the Druid had carried, nor did he ever look towards it. Its power and importance in the fortunes of Men was too great, and deep inside he thanked the One God for this great trial he was being given. The Druid, with great interest, had remained silent throughout the speech and the thoughts of his counterpart. It was only after a while, when conversation had died out, that he decided to unravel the rest. He sat down on the ground, legs crossed, and beckoned the Lord who was still musing solemnly.

“I shall tell you, Lord, that the Order wants this to be hidden. None shall know of it until the One God will want it to meet its fate. It is far too dangerous and pointless to expose it to the hatred and the fears of our world. Yet who shall keep it, and under what conditions, I say?” said the Druid. His eyes were dark and thoughtful, and his stern brow was heavy beneath the burden of such mixed thoughts.

Lord Talis crossed the glade, seemingly ignoring the Druid, as if summoned by a power greater than his own free will. His steps were heavy and slow, hid head was tilted and a grimace of doubt appeared on his sombre features. He looked to the skies where the bright moon had been engulfed by banks of feline mist and the stars glimmered sadly in the distance. Then he turned around and found the Druid staring at him, his eyes unyielding and intrusive.

“I tell you, Athala, that we cannot hide it for long. Someone must have witnessed its coming; the shamans in the East and the Wiccans in the North must have prophesised it and, as you told me, this took place a fortnight ago or so” Lord Talis sighed and said “The hunt has begun”.

The Druid looked down regretfully and realized that this was true and unavoidable. If the object in question was indeed the subject of the prophecy than it could not escape the unjustified fears of most Men. “What do you propose then, Lord, if we can do little do protect it in our own lands? What shall we do it, we cannot cast it away nor can we do exile it to some remote corner of our known world” said the Druid.

“Indeed that is true” remarked the Lord, “but there is one solution: let’s trust the myths of our ancestors, for the truth and wisdom within them are invaluable. Let’s bequeath it to the good will and honesty of the Guardian of the Sacred Grove, Hialu, the centaur-Lord. He will know what to do with it, if indeed he does exist”. A memory of the past came back to him, when the world did not belong to men, when countless races had their abode in our world itself, ere the power of Men’s lust rose to the apogee of hatred. The centaurs, according to legend, dwelled in a Sacred Grove in the East, beyond the Great Lake. Very wise they were and their skills in mysticism and alchemy were greater than any other creature. Yet they had died out and a few had possibly survived to the great onslaught, fleeing beyond the frontiers of the known world, neglecting their culture and turning wild. They had all relapsed to a primeval atavism, save two, Hialu and his sister, Ge-Hiale. But they were a race of legend and few believed they had ever existed.

The same doubt came to the eyes of the Druid who replied sarcastically: “Oh very well, then, we can bid the sand-dwarves to accompany us and safeguard us, and why not, two chimeras for hunchback riding”. He meant no offence, he simply could not believe that such a High Lord could believe in such things.

Yet Talis went on: “I speak of no fairydom, they do exist and breathe and walk below this same sky. We have to find them, for they alone can help us”.

The Druid stirred from his idleness and stood up. He walked towards the boulders and ignoring the mysterious object, he took the wooden shaft and brought it before Lord Talis.

“So, if this your will and desire, we shall see whether the runes will favour our choices. Yet beware, Talis, the runes are of greater power than you can ever imagine. Do not take them for an ancestral superstition or a meaningless custom.” A shade of regret emerged in the wise features of the Druid and he continued: “Too often have these eyes seen our sacredness profaned, too often has the world rejected our ancestry. Our world is rising, and yet it is falling, I reckon. We rely on illusions and forget where the true foundations lie. So do not take my practices and those of my kin lightly, it is for the greater good alone”.

Lord Talis nodded but did not reply, he knew this very well. He himself had battled to preserve the customs, the traditions and the beliefs of the past generations. His thoughts were interrupted as the Druid began questioning the spirits and demanding them counsel in such an important matter.

Athala took the wooden shaft and produced a chisel from his pouch. He then cleared his throat and sang softly in a gentle voice:

Spirits of the night, hearken my request:

Chisel the runes of truth upon the shaft,

For us mortals to realize the quest

And the will of the God’s craft.

He fell into a trance and repeated continuously through a voice that was not his own “Iruna he Jaava, kyara levaa”2. His hand in a ceremonial spasm carved and scratched upon the wooden shaft, pronouncing the runes when they were completed, with precise rhythmic cadencies. Lord Talis, stood there, waiting for the outcome of the ritual, feeling as if he was taking a step that could not be withdrawn. Destiny was being decided there, but not only his own, but that of the entire human race and all the hidden races of legends.

The Druid awoke from his trance, breathing heavily and moving spasmodically. The power of the trance had been great, his eyes were bulging, his features hardened and a grimace of pain appeared on his visage. He took the shaft and looked at it carefully as if wanting to read through the runes and decipher some hidden message.

When he was satisfied he showed it to Lord Talis and revealed what the spirits had told him.

“The spirits know who will have to claim him and you might be right, my Lord, for Hialu is a master of life. If that is the true meaning of the runes.” He looked once more upon the shaft, contemplating the arcane truth it secluded within its bosom. Runes were like a minstrel’s lay, you could decipher them at your own will; it all rested on the pressure that fate exerted upon the wits of their wielders. Yet one could assume that a Druid of the Willow Order, the Highest Order, would know how to handle the veracity they sifted.

Lord Talis, much relieved by the outcome of the druidical practice, walked towards the object and hesitated on whether to uncover it to the eyes of night. A scarlet hue throbbed beneath the linen drapes that concealed it and a silver halo rose in the background, dripping from the ivory branches of the oaks. Enchantment was in the air, but of a great power, too great a power to belong to Tara herself.

He turned around, unexpectedly, gazing at the Druid who had been observing him for a while.

“I am no man, Athala, if what you’ve brought me, me, humble among Kings, is not an artefact, a relic of the One God.” He caressed his brow, from which pearls of nervous sweat were hanging.

“And I am no Druid, my friend, if this coming will not alter the course of history. It comes at a crucial act of our drama, an epilogue of what things were. Yet,” he added enigmatically “the dawn of something new. The scarlet light you were looking at is the loss of hope, death and something else which I cannot reveal. But then, your brow softened, no longer did tears spurt from your eyes nor did hope forsake your mind: the silver glow is a promise that will be held as long as events will take their own course.”

Lord Talis listened on, harking the rustling leaves and the whisper of the breeze – dawn was only a few hours away. He looked on to the hidden object struggling with an inner desire to quench his natural curiosity, but resilience held on fast. He pondered over those few last words, that token of hope and felt new confidence grow within. The Druid read the new feelings that were arising merrily in the mind of his Lord, and felt inclined to face the ultimate riddle: what now?

He considered the events that had come to pass and the chances that the “object” in question could venture safely towards the accomplishment of the goal that had brought it to Tara. The quest for Hialu, if that had been approved by the High Council of the Moon-Wardens, would take countless days – no one truly knew where he resided. Definitely in the East, if the legends were true, but it would have been an individual’s quest, or that of a small party at the most.

Secrecy was fundamental for an eventual outcome on the fortunes of the world.

Lord Talis looked gravely in the eyes of the Druid, as if conveying the burden of his feelings through streams of thought. Their two different personalities coalesced in that moment, amalgamating the fears and hopes of two of the highest representatives in the social hierarchy.

It was a solemn strip of time, an ageless confrontation between the human’s earthly power and the brooding strength of fate. They had been bestowed with something that could turn the world upside down, shake the foundations of the most impregnable dogma’s and institutions: ravage the certainties that for centuries had resisted the onslaught of a hidden truth.

Lord Talis spoke aloud, heedless of the attentive spirits of the night: “Then you shall keep it, Athala. I cannot risk condemning it to an untimely end, it will be safer among the Druids. Inform me on the deliberations of the council and let them know where I stand. I shall return to Killenny and acknowledge my closest servants with the urgency of the matter. A rumour of an approaching army has reached me yesterday evening, probably coming from the Hukso Empire in the South. I cannot leave my land defenceless, you can understand.”

The Druid smiled and answered: “Then do so my Lord, we shall meet in a fortnight on Ravenshill and proceed to consider an ultimate plan of action. May the blessings of the One God go with you. Do not forget that he loves you if he has bestowed you with this great honour”.

“I am aware of that, and shall thank him every moment of my life, if I can play even the humblest part in the world’s fate” was the Lord’s reply.

The Druid thought over those last few words and then began walking

1 “One day, when the skies will look strange, the child, chosen by He, of the stars (will come) and the Lords (of Earth) will bow”

2 “Bring him to safety, to Master of life”