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Tales of a Dark Continent (Part 2)
By Morthoron
Published: October 2, 2005
Updated: October 2, 2005
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CHAPTER VI: A Strange Meeting with the Dark Elves
 
With care not to disturb the lolling guard at the entrance to the slave pen, I torturously inched my way towards the fence of the former horse corral, gritting my teeth from the pain in my still-throbbing forehead. Leaning at last against a fencepost for cover, I stared long into the blackness while following the cadence of the nightbirds' song beyond the scope of the sentry fires. There were eight sentry posts set roughly like compass points around the outer edges of the camp, as well as other posts set near the horse enclosures and the guard at the prisoner's compound close-by to where I sat. Each post had a small campfire and a single mercenary-guard, most of whom were lazily drowsing by this time of night. There was a changing of the guard at regular intervals throughout the night, and those mercenaries not on duty lay asleep in their tents.

 

At first I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me, but I was certain I caught a glimpse of a shadow within the shadows, creeping ominously towards the southwest sentry post; yet no benighted vision was this, for the spectral shape loomed large over the dozing guard and overcame him in complete silence.  My line of vision trailed to the southern and southeastern posts, and the same deadly apparitions fell upon the sentries there. The camp was under attack! But I had no intention of crying out; what did I care if these traitorous mercenaries found their deaths at the hands of other thieves? I would most likely be trading the yoke of one slavemaster for another in any case; so I merely watched, marveling at the stealthiness and precision of the invaders. 
 
The shadow-hunters then stalked inside the camp, and overpowered the witless guards by the horse corrals. I found it strange that the horses -- whose flightiness at night is well known to anyone acquainted with the beasts -- barely stirred, neither snorting in fear nor nervously bolting to the farside of the corral. I then perceived two crouching forms heading sinuously through the gloom to the pen where I lay. Illumined now by the sentry fire, I saw they were cloaked in black, but their footfalls were soundless and their attack so quick and lethal, the nodding sentry did not even lift his head when they fell upon him. Standing over the slumped form of the guard, the two shrouded figures stopped and looked in my direction. I was laying behind a fencepost in pitch blackness, far beyond the light of the small fire, but I somehow knew they were aware of me. I raised my hands to show that I was bound and nodded to them, and, to my surprise, one of them bowed in aknowledgement before they both slipped back into the darkness.
 
Before dawn, the invaders had taken the entire camp. Those mercenaries who had not been killed had been roused from their tents and taken prisoner. Two of the invaders, perhaps the pair I had watched earlier that night, came among we slaves and quietly freed us. As one of our liberators cut my bonds, I saw plainly that this was no man, for by his sea-gray eyes, tall stature and leaf-shaped ears, there was no doubt he was off the Elvish race! I bowed in approximation to what I had seen previously, and the Dark Elf smiled and bowed in return. In trying to thank the Elf, I attempted to speak to him in the Rus language, thinking he was perhaps familiar with the speech of his neighbors. In return I received a frown of contempt.
 
"We speakest not the vulgar tongue of that beggardly tribe!" the Dark Elf said with disdain. "Know thee not the common speech once spoken widely in mortal lands, or has it fallen from favor with Men of the Southrons?"
 
I bowed again in embarrassment, cursing myself for a simpleton. Certainly the Dark Elves would know Common Speech, a language used in diplomacy and trade for centuries. The Dark Elf's wording was antiquated and heavily accented perhaps, as if he rarely had use of such speech over the years, but his delivery was flawless nonetheless. "Pray forgive this, thy humble servant," I answered, using the same archaic dialect, "I merely wished to offer thanks and praise in manner perhaps familiar to thee of such noble race."
 
The Dark Elf nodded and replied, "I see now where thy intentions lie, and I thank thee for making the effort. But pray continue in a tongue more suitable for converse, and let not my gruffness cause any ill-will between us. Long has it been since I have had speech with one of the mortal race."
 
Falling to one knee, I said, "Thou hast redeemed me from bondage most cruel. Naught have I to offer in just payment for this deed, save to surrender my life unto thee in servitude; till death take me, or thou judgest fit to release me. Prithee, take then this vow of service in token of a life's debt! And may a thousand blessings be upon thee and thy kin!"
 
The Dark Elf smiled warmly, then chuckled at my overly-grand gesture. "An offer most gracious well deserves a reply in like manner!"  he said with delight and helped me to my feet. "Therefore, I release thee from thy vow, and gladly; though I tell thee now it is not the wont of my kindred to take one of mortal race into servitude, or slavery, which we deplore." He smirked, then said, "In any case, thou wouldst serve for but a brief, fleeting season in the long lives of the Sidhe!"
 
The Dark Elf, named Findegal, and I became friends, and we talked for quite awhile, he seemingly as interested in my story as I was his. It seems Findegal was a member of an Elvish raiding party that had struck south from the woodland realm of the Sidhe in search of horses, and had come upon our camp a few days earlier. Having watched our movements for some time, the Dark Elves deemed we had purchased our herd fairly, and so they would not interfere with our passage back down the Trade Route. That all drastically changed, however, when they beheld the traitorous coup of Marfach-Suil and his mercenaries, and the murder or enslavement of the rest of the caravan. The Dark Elves, despising treachery in all its forms, felt honor-bound to right this injustice; therefore, the Sidhe were merciless in their attack, killing all the sentries without pity when they took the camp, and then imprisoning the rest. Findegal went on to tell me that Marfach-Suil and the surviving mercenaries were to soon to be judged by the Sidhe Lord himself, and they would all most likely be executed.
 
I walked then with Findegal, who took me to the spot where his kindred held the mercenaries prisoner. As we drew near the gathering of Dark Elves, one in particular caught my attention: tallest he was of these tall folk, and seemingly older, if one can say such a thing of immortals; his hair was as black as a raven's wing, plaited and braided and crowned with a filet of silver; but even from a distance his eyes were his most haunting feature, for they were deep gray as storm clouds -- wells of timeless wisdom softened by sadness -- yet keen and piercing as a bird of prey as he watched our approach. I asked Findegal who this striking Elf was, but I was already sure of the answer.
 
"Many a name hath he gone by in his long life," Findegal replied, "for he was born in starlit Cuifhiainan, which was Elvenhome of old, before the sun and moon were set in the sky: the dwarves name him Draighean, which is Blackthorn, for they have felt his heavy sting; to the Rus he is Scail an Bhais, the Shadow of Death, or worse; among the fierce drakes of the mountains, who both fear and respect him, he is called Morthoron, which is Black Eagle in the Western tongue; this title we use as well, but his name among us is MorThoiriol, the Great Eagle of the East, and Lord of the Sidhe."
 
MorThoiriol gazed at me intently as I was brought before him. Findegal introduced me as 'Greagoir, Scribe of the South Sea Islands', and I bowed most humbly before the Sidhe Lord. MorThoiriol nodded in return, with a slight smile on his lips, as if I amused him with my awkward manner. But he turned from me then and glared at Marfach-Suil and the other prisoners, who sat bound and sullen on the grass. "Tell me, Greagoir of the Islands," the Sidhe Lord asked, "What wouldst a mortal Man such as thee deem as a just sentence for these traitorous dogs, who hath come among thee as vile betrayers, enslaving thy folk and causing wanton murder?"
 
Looking over at Marfach-Suil, who glared malevolently at me with his horrid amber eyes, I was inclined to say, 'Give them all a bath and a good scrubbing, for that would surely kill them,' but I knew that would be highly inappropriate. Considering the Sidhe Lord's question for a moment, I finally answered, "My Lord, it is with certainty I would adjudge that these accursed men deserve an immediate and violent death; but such a sentence, rendered in haste and in the heat of anger, would be justice ill-served." I pondered briefly, then concluded, "Therefore, if in truth thou hast given me the right to judge their fates, it would be my verdict that they should remain bound and taken henceforth back southward to my island home, there to answer for their crimes before the widows and children of the men they so ruthlessly slaughtered. Let those that survive the dead exact their vengeance; only then shall justice be truly served!"
 
MorThoiriolar gazed at me with a newfound respect, and nodded approvingly. "So be it!" he commanded to his vassals, "we shall let this verdict stand." The Sidhe Lord smiled upon me with satisfaction and said, "Greagoir of the Islands, thou hast shown a wisdom far beyond thy meager count of years. Great indeed must be the mortal-folk of thine island if a mere scribe can acquit himself so shrewdly as a judge!"
 
Findegal leaned over to Lord Thoiriol and spoke quietly to him in the speech of the Elves, but all the while the Sidhe Lord's sharp glance remained on me. When Findegal had finished, MorThoiriol spoke: "Scribe, thou art a wonder of the Eastern World! Not only dost thou mete out sage justice, but in addition, my cousin Findegal informs me that thou hast heaped blessings on our House, and offered in fair speech service unto my kindred. Let it not be said that such courtesy, especially from one of the mortal race, should go unrewarded by the Lord of the Sidhe. Thus, a favor I shall grant thee, thou hast only to name it."
 
Overwhelmed by such an offer, I bowed so low that I nearly stumbled forward. Regaining my composure, I replied, "Gracious Lord, naught would I ask of thee of my own accord, but since thou hast granted me this boon, I crave only to visit the land of the Sidhe and record the history of thy noble race." I grinned sheepishly and added, "For truth to tell, my only reason for journeying north with this caravan was to seek for thy realm on my own. I see now that this course would have been folly, and I beg thy forgiveness for such impertinence."
 
Then MorThoiriol laughed aloud, the sound of which was so melodious and uplifting that it could melt the stony heart of a Hill-Troll. "Truth....and courtesy from from the lips of Man?" the Sidhe Lord cried in mock-disbelief. "Stop, stop, Greagoir, I beg of thee! In the space of a few moments thou art threatening to topple a wall of mistrust between Elves and Men that has taken long ages to build!" Placing a hand on my shoulder, the Sidhe Lord said, "If that truly is what thou wishest, Scribe of the Islands, then we shall grant it most willingly!"
 
CHAPTER VII: In the Land of the Sidhe
 
Freed from the pitiless grip of the cruel mercenaries, the grateful survivors of the caravan offered unto the Dark Elves their entire herd of horses in repayment for saving their lives, but MorThoiriol would accept only a tithing as just compensation for his kin's efforts; whereon he chose thirty magnificent stallions from among the herd, and then he said to the men: "Great shall be the suffering of the widows and the children of the dead, yet thine own toil and pain on this long journey northward was equally trying; therefore, keep the balance of this herd and take what portion of the profit thou deemest fair, and divide the remaining shares among the families of those who shall not be returning home. For those who gave their lives for this doomed enterprise deserve no less than those that survived."
 
The members of the caravan, hearing the wisdom and charity of the Sidhe Lord's words, promised to fulfill  his wishes upon their return home (and so they did, quite faithfully!). With preparations finally completed, the caravan and its great herd wound its way south towards the Trade Route with tearful cries of farewell and thanks as they passed us. As for me, I stood alongside Findegal, watching the long train of wagons amble across the plains. As the last wain drifted past, I saw, yoked and shackled with irons, Marfach-Suil and his haggard mercenaries straggling behind in a dispirited line. The former caravan-master glared angrily at me and spat, and then roared in his guttural tongue that he would kill me if ever we met again. I merely smiled and thumbed my nose at him, which caused Marfach to explode into a long tirade of curses that continued until the caravan at last faded to a distant speck along the horizon.
 
With the caravan out of sight, the Dark Elves, too, made ready for their journey north. I remember little of that great riding, as the Dark Elves effortlessly guided their herd northward; for it was a strange phenomena among the Elves that time itself seemed to blur, and the Elves and their magnificent beasts seemingly never tired or required rest. I do recall the great plains giving ground to woodlands, first in scattered stands of trees, then eventually surrendering to forest altogether; but how many nights it took us to reach this place, I cannot tell.. A few of the Dark Elves left the group then to guide the herd on a separate path to guarded pastures beyond the great woods, for we had come at last to the shadowy realm of the Sidhe.
 
A forest primeval, vast as Rhovanion, but older still, stretched before us as far as the eye could see. Great stands of trees bristled nearly to the hoary head of the Orocarni Mountains in the west, cascading in profusion downwards in spiny ridges to mask treacherous chasms and hidden vales pocking the mountain's feet below, and then marching in seemingly endless procession for endless leagues to the east. I felt honored that the Sidhe had not seen fit to blindfold me, for they were ever secretive of their land; but it mattered little, for the path they led me on was bewildering and the air was thick with their enchantments.
 
We passed through dark glades lined with blackthorn, juniper, hemlock and towering fir, with the sun barely winking from above; along the edges of deep crevasses and gulleys where tormented, near-leafless trees stretched their wizened limbs upward from the abyss, grasping desperately for a share of elusive sunlight; over misty moors carpeted with gorse, ivy and foxglove; and plunged into sudden valleys where the trees were strange and black and whispered malevolently, and I rode in great fear.  If it were not for the Orocarnis looming ever to my left, I would be utterly lost; as it was I had no idea how far north we had traveled, or how many days we journeyed. But for all its twists and turns, the trail led ever upward and the air grew thinner and the mountains grew ominously closer.
 
Ever and anon we were greeted by Elvish sentries at strategic points along the trail. So cleverly were they concealed that I'm sure the saying 'coming out of the woodwork' was coined in their honor. Passing the last of these guards, our path led eventually to a great bluff where stood a copse of ancient mountain oak, trees hallowed by the Sidhe. Venerable were their massive boles, hoary and burled and moss-covered, and their great heavy limbs seemed to carry the weight of the burning blue sky that hung above them. As if in reverence, we dismounted and passed through their midst on foot, leading our horses behind us. At the far end of the sacred grove we were greeted by a sheer drop-off and a wide glen below. Lush and deep was this mountain valley, yet shrouded around its circumference by a canopy of trees so dense, that it was virtually invisible to the eye, unless one were right on top of it (or had nearly fallen in, as I did).
 
"I bid thee welcome to the Vale of the House of the Great Eagle of the East," Findegal said to me in a near whisper, "the longhome of the kin of Mor-Thoir-Iolar. "Many glens and dales such as this lay hidden along the mountainside, each belonging to a different House of the Sidhe."
 
I nodded absent-mindedly to Findegal's greeting, for at the moment I was more concerned for my own well-being; specifically, how could I, or my horse for that matter, possibly climb down such a steep incline? To my surprise, the Dark Elves mounted their steeds, and without hesitation took the plunge off the cliff. Gasping, I gazed over the lip of the cliff, and to my bedevilment saw that they were riding along a stone ledge that wound downwards along edge of the canyon. So cunningly was this road devised, that it blended completely with the rock face of the chasm, and only at just the right angle could one see that it was there at all! I don't know whether this was merely a trick of the eye, or some spell conjured by the Sidhe, but this illusion made my head swoon with dizzyness, and I made the descent with my eyes closed, praying my horse had more sense than I (which, fortunately, he did).
 
Having safely reached the floor of the vale, I gave a great sigh of relief, and was at last able to take stock of my surroundings. The Elvish maids I happened to pass were stunningly beautiful, so much so that I found myself blushing whenever one came near. Findegal, who acted as my guide amongst the Sidhe, found my discomfort very amusing; but with a smile he explained that Elvish females, at least those who were without children, were expected to take their turns on sentry duty, and even join the males in battle if dire need required it. He also stated that Elvish children were taught the use of the bow and knives at an early age, for such was the sad state of the world that even children were victims of war. But for all that, I noticed that the Elves doted on their children, and I learned quickly that the the extended family or clan was the single-most important aspect of Elvish life.
 
These large families of Dark Elves were part of greater Kindreds, or Houses, ruled by a patriarch or lord, and these Houses lived within the confines of their separate valley enclaves for most of the year. But winters in the north were cruel so hard by the mountains, and though the sorcery of the Sidhe was great, they could not control the whims of the weather; yet even so, they held, by some hidden grace, the will to maintain the green fertility of their hidden vales for seasons longer than the world outside their domain. Thus, for only a short while every year, the Sidhe must remove to the mountain fastness of the Orocarnis to take up their abode.
 
For the Sidhe had delved a great mansion deep in the hidden recesses of the mountains as a winter retreat, and which they maintained for use in times of grave peril as well. Unlike their Dwarvish neighbors to the south, who spent the majority of their lives underground, the Elves did so only out of necessity, not caring to spend any great length of time sundered from the sun. But Findegal said the Elves made these caverns habitable by growing such greenery that could tolerate limited sunlight, and adorning the bleak rock with colorful tapestries; and everywhere was the rich glow of polished wood to warm the drabness of their winter manse. But the Sidhe constructed no buildings of stone or wood, save perhaps for cellars to store meat and other foodstuffs, or the smithies where they forged their steel; preferring instead to dwell amongst the crowns of the tall, silvery-white birches that filled their valleys.
 
Thus, they built wondrous homes upon ardans or flets, wide stands mounted high up in the great boughs of the trees, inaccessible from the ground except by retractable stairs or ladders. In addition, sturdy bridges of rope and plank were slung from tree to tree, so that the Elves could traverse from one end of the valley to the other without ever once setting foot on the ground. Marvelous were the structures they wove atop these ardans -- the antechambers, living quarters, communal dining areas, and meeting halls -- more intricate than great bird's nests, interlacing the boughs, branches and leaves of the living birch into walls and ceilings that were proof against the foulest weather. For the Dark Elves would suffer no thriving tree to be cut down nor leafy branch hewn, only harvesting the wood of fallen timber as an act of remembrance for dear, departed friends.
 
As night fell, Findegal introduced me to Baird-Riordan, the great Seanchai of the Sidhe. He was both bard and chronicler of the Dark Elves, committing to memory all the ages of history of his kindred. For the Sidhe, unlike their western cousins, had never felt the necessity to devise a written language; they had knowledge of the Cirth runes of the Dwarves, but did not feel compelled to use them; moreso since they despised the Dwarves. Riordan had the same ancient depth to his gray eyes as MorThoiriol, and I discovered that he, like the Sidhe Lord, had passed from Cuifhiainan over the Orocarni Mountains in the earliest days of Middle-earth. Findegal bade me farewell then, leaving me in the good keeping of Riordan, for the Seanchai would be the one to illuminate the noble and savage tale of the Sidhe.
 
I spoke with Riordan long into the night, gathering valuable insights on Sidhe society. The more I listened, the more I came to understand there was a paradoxical nature within the character of the Sidhe. This was a culture of extremes: never forgetting an act of courtesy, never forgiving a slight; reverant of tree and horse, yet taking the scalps of their fallen foes; highly moral, with a hatred of injustice and treachery, yet inclined to cattle and horse thievery; fair of speech and deed, but brutal in the prosecution of war; and loving of their children, yet ever feuding with their neighbors. At first I considered this strange duality to be a symptom of their immortality, for their acuity of sight and hearing, as well as their physical prowess, were heightened far beyond the strengths of mortal Men; could it not be then that their emotions, too, were subject to extremes? That in them the flame of eternal youth burned so brightly, that it ever kindled their passions and drove them to excess?
 
But as Riordan related the long tale of the Sidhe, it became more apparent that great sorrow and tragedy drove the Dark Elves to such extravagant means of expression. They had been sundered from their kin, cruelly driven from the lands of their birth, and fenced in by their enemies. Ever on the defensive and ever mindful of deceit, they beheld through the slow turning of ages the ebb and flow of the Dark Lords' corruptive influence on the East, and the tides of war that ever surged against their borders. The realm of the Sidhe is like unto an ancient island, evergreen and enchanted, wherein lies the last living memory of the Elder Days in the East; but this lonely isle has been cast adrift in a turbulent sea of change, wherein short-lived empires founder and new ones rise and build their brief ramparts on the crumbling foundations of the old.
 
CHAPTER VIII:  Of Cuifhiainan and the Sundering of the Elves
 
Greagoir frowned sadly and laid his chin upon his chest. "I grow weary, Tatya, so weary," the scribe mumbled to his apprentice. "I have given you a reprieve, but now it is time for you to take up the story. Fetch me my pipe and light it, if you would."
 
Tatya shrugged in defeat. The apprentice retrieved the master's pipe -- an intricately carved affair made of briarwood -- with a bowl shaped into the likeness of a fierce dragon, whose trailing, scaled tail was the long pipe-stem. Greagoir claimed it was made in a village called Bree, by Hobbits, or Halflings, or some other such race Tatya was quite sure he would never see in his lifetime. Carefully packing the bowl, Tatya wished that pipeweed had never been discovered. It seemed that some trade mission to the West had brought the plant back to Marannan-astair many years ago. Finding that the weed, called Nicotiana, proved easy to cultivate in the moist, warm soil of the island, the merchants and Ship-lords, ever seeking a means to expand commerce, began to exploit the addictive properties of the weed, and exported it in great bulk to the khanates and petty-princedoms along the Gold Coast, where its effects were highly prized. Now there was hardly anywhere on the island where one could go without seeing the plant either being grown. harvested or cured.
 
Tatya lit the pipe hastily, dreading the taste of the stuff, and quickly handed it to his master, who began puffing away quite merrily. It was the one great vice Greagoir still clung to stubbornly in his old age, and the gray beard about his mouth and his moustache were stained a permanent yellow from the smoke (another reason to avoid the foul weed, Tatya thought). Seemingly lost in reminiscences, the master clenched the mouthpiece thoughtfully between his teeth, allowing languid whisps of smoke to trail aimlessly about his head, like the shapes of faded spirits seeking audience with a necromancer.
 
"Read for me of Cuifhiainan, Tatya," Greagoir said absently, "from the notes of my dialogue with the great Baird-Riordan, Seanchai of the Sidhe. My only wish is that I had the text of the story written by the Elves of the West, so as to compare the two. But I am old now, and very tired; and it has been many years since I heard the tale..so many years..."
 
Tatya had hoped that his master would doze off then, but, sadly, that was not the case. So the disgruntled apprentice picked up the volume of notes, written in Greagoir's bold scrawl, and began his recitation:
 
There was the faintest mumur of wind on water rippling, gently whispering in their ears, and they stirred. Opening their eyes they beheld the fiery stars -- countless in their glittering -- kindling the twilight canopy that lay overhead, and they were aware. Thus were the Firstborn roused from timeless sleep along the starlit mere of Cuifhiainan, the Water of Awakening, when the world was young. And in aftertimes it has been said the gaze of the Elves were thence ever lifted skyward, for they hallowed the starlight, their first sight in the waking world; but the sound of water, of sea-breeze on the waves, stirs a wistful yearning in their hearts, calling to them as if from a dream.
 
The Elves rose from the shadows of the Great Sleep of Ardan, rubbing their eyes as those newly-wakened from a brief rest, and their eyes thirstily drank in all that they might see. Curiousity grew apace with the Elves' newborn thirst for knowledge, and they set about to explore their darkling world, so wondrous and beautiful. Language they devised, the first speech of Middle-earth, and the Elves delighted in giving names to each new thing they encountered, whether the birds of the air, or the animals of the forest, or the plants and trees. Many things that slumbered still in the Great Sleep were wakened at that time by the sound of Elvish laughter, and the Firstborn taught speech to those things that had the capacity to learn from them. And the tranquil morning of Cuifhiainan was filled with a stirring and a great flowering, and everywhere there was abundance and peace beneath the starry skies of evernight.
 
And so the Elves flourished in their solitude, content for a long age, and grew strong of stature and mind along the twilit mere; and they danced and sang upon the white sands of its shore, or wandered deep into dark forests in search of new life, or scaled the lofty peaks to the east, or merely sat rapt in silent reverie by tranquil ponds splashed by effervescent falls; and Cuifhiainan proved to be all things joyful and marvellous to them. And yet their joy proved even greater, for in the noontide of their bliss were born the first children of the Elder race; and the Elves rejoiced in the giving of life, for they now had cherished offspring to share with them the wonders of the infancy of their race.
 
But such is the sad tale of Middle-earth that peace and happiness may last a day, or a season, or even an age, but naught can last forever within the bounds of Ardan; and so it was with the bliss of Cuifhiainan. The one they name Morgadh the Corrupter, Dark Enemy of the World and its most ancient Evil, heard at last from his spies of the waking of the Elves and their blessed contenment along the twilit mere. Long had Morgadh sought for the Elves, wishing to ensnare them with his deceits, or destroy them if he must, before the Bailard, the Lord Protectors of Ardan, discovered their existence.
 
For Morgadh was once a kindred spirit of the Bailard before the shaping of Ardan, The World That Is, but his jealousy and will to dominate all things in Ardan caused the Bailard to expel him from their order and banish him from Bailleaniar, the Blessed Realm of the West. Morgadh hated the Bailard for this, and ever did he attempt to mar the things of beauty the Bailard created or hallowed; and he hated the Elves, whom the Bailard waited for with great anticipation, for the Elves were to be firstborn and greatest of the peoples of Middle-earth, imbued with the spirit of Aeru, The One, the creator of all things; and though the Bailard were great, they were merely vassals of Aeru, governing Ardan in his stead, and ever did they obediently seek to fulfill his designs.
 
Morgadh then set a watch about Cuifhiainan, and he sent forth grim shadows to haunt the hills above the mere, and grisly, fanged beasts he loosed in the forests; and these sinister shades and warped things waylayed unsuspecting Elves, and devoured or enslaved them -- taking them whither no one shall ever know. The Elves were disheartened and dismayed, for a nameless fear stalked them in the darkness, and they dared not venture far from the safety of their kindred. Many there were of the Elves who sang no more, for sorrow choked their voices, and Cuifhiainan was ever diminished at the loss of their songs; yet other Elves arose in anger, for in the blaze of their youth they were undaunted by these nightstalkers. Fearlessly they went out to hunt these vile beasts, and sentries were set against the hills to guard against the encroachments of the enemy; but such efforts proved of little avail, for the minions of Morgadh swarmed into the hinterlands. Still there were those Elves who labored unceasingly against the onslaught, whether their cause was hopeless or not; and some became overproud of their achievements, and loved too much the land of their birth. A time would come when these fiercely independent Elves would make rash decisions, blinded by their pride, to their own ruin and the sorrow of many.
 
It was in that time of despair and turmoil the Elves first heard the great horn of Araugh resounding over hill and hollow. Some of the Elves feared this was the dire trumpeting of yet another shadow-hunter sent to prey on them; but many believed this was not so, for the mighty clarion call uplifted their spirits, and seemed to lighten the darkness which enshrouded them. And the bravest of the Elves, as if summoned by the call, went forth to seek the source of the heavy horn blasts. To the Elves' wonderment, they beheld that it was Araugh the Hunter, newcome from the Blessed Realm unto the eastern lands of Ardan. The noble Huntsman of the Bailard shone spectrally in the starlight, all in bejewelled mail a'glittering, and he rode astride Naihaer Gan Athair, the father of all horses, whose hooves sparked with golden light as he pounded across the stony fields.
 
Araugh felt boundless joy in having at last discovered the Elves, and he came among them as a shepherd who had long sought for his lost flock. Many seasons did he tarry on the shores of Cuifhiainan with the Elves, sharing what knowledge was useful to them. But even though there was much gladness in their meeting, and with the long seasons he spent among the Elves, Araugh's heart remained troubled. The dreaded creatures of Morgadh had all fled from Araugh's wrathful countenance, and the bliss of the Elves returned for a time while Cuifhiainan was under his guardianship -- that much was was true; but well Araugh knew the shadows would lengthen and the terror return once he passed into the West. Therefore, he deemed  it wise to seek council with his Bailard brethren, and devise a means to assure the long-term peace and safety of the Elves. With this in mind, Araugh bade farewell to the Elves -- if but for a short time -- and astride mighty Naihaer, he flew with winged speed into the West and to the Undying Lands, crossing the Shadowy Sea as if it were but a middling stream.
 
At Araugh's urging, a great council of the Bailard was called, and they were summoned from the depths of the sea, and from the limitless sky, and from the very roots of Ardan itself, to discuss the plight of the Elves. And the Bailard met in the Ring of Doom, the circle of fate wherein all matters of the greatest import are ajudged by the Bailard. In the furthermost west it lies, nigh on the dark shores of heaven itself, where earth at last meets the horizon. Within the Ring Araugh spoke for the Elves, recalling their dire peril and of the ever-growing menace of Morgadh, who would soon enslave and destroy the Elves if left unchecked. So impassioned was Araugh's plea on the Elves' behalf that many of the council were moved to tears. Thus stirred to pity for the Firstborn -- moreso because they greatly desired to see them -- the Bailard deigned that the Elves should be brought to Bailleaniar; therein to dwell under the protection of the Bailard, and to share with them the eternal bliss of the Blessed Realm. 
 
But Tulcathas the Strong, Araugh's brother, declared that the Bailard should go further to restrain Morgadh. Too long had that ancient corrupter arrogantly flaunted his evil will while the Bailard sat idly by, safe beyond the cares of Ardan. Now was it time for them to reclaim their own; therefore, Tulcathas demanded the Bailard should make war upon Morgadh immediately. For this course of action the hot-tempered Araugh was of like-mind, as were others on the council; and so it was that the Bailard and their vassals girded for war. The onset of their invasion was swift, and Morgadh's forces were consumed as if by fire, for the Bailard's wrath was great. To the northern wastes of Ardan the Bailard and their hosts marched, unto the very walls of Uthuamhano, Morgadh's great fortress of fear, there to lay siege and draw out the Evil One. But Morgadh, who had been caught off guard by the Bailard's initial attack, would not surrender without a furious effort. Thus from the hidden pits and lairs of Uthuamhano were vomitted forth Morgadh's vast reserves, and in their train were many Baolruaigs, warrior-demons of terror corrupted to Morgadh's service before Ardan's forming.
 
No news came to Cuifhiainan of the great and terrible war, save for the horrible tumults that rocked the earth, and the reek of war that blighted the skies to the north and swallowed the stars with ghastly smokes. But though the Elves knew naught of the wrathful war, neither Morgadh nor his servants ever forgot that it was fought on the Elves' behalf. For Morgadh was assailed on all sides by the divine might of the Bailard, and his ramparts and towers were rent asunder, and his legions destroyed or fled; and at the last Tulcathas the Strong did drag the cowering Morgadh out of Uthuamhano by the scruff of the neck, and threw him on his face before the Lords of the West. There Morgadh was forced to humble himself, and ignobly sue for mercy at the feet of the victorious Bailard; but the very source of all evil in Middle-earth was shown no pity, and he was bound in enchanted irons and taken captive back to Bailleaniar. For a long age of Ardan Morgadh was held prisoner in the Undying Lands; but though there was peace for a time, the Bailard had not laid bare all the hidden vaults and subterranean lairs of Uthuamhano, 'ere they razed it to the ground; and many of Morgadh's minions, including his greatest lieutenants, escaped the wreck and eluded capture.
 
Then did Araugh the Hunter return to Cuifhiainan, summoning the Elves to join him on the journey back to Bailleaniar. But whether through fear of the unknown or love of their homeland, most of the Elves were loathe to leave the starlit mere; therefore Araugh chose three of the Firstborn, Ingui, Fionnui and Ealui, each the chieftain of a large Elvish House, and took them to bear witness to the splendor of the Blessed Realm. When the three at last rejoined their kindreds they proclaimed that Bailleaniar was all that Araugh said it would be, and more; and it was through their earnest testimonials and prompting that a greater part of their Houses chose to leave. Yet such was the doubt that remained among the Elves that many were still undecided about leaving, and some refused the summons altogether. Such a one was Ingloir, a chieftain among the Firstborn.
 
Ingloir it was who first set out to trap the beasts and spies of Morgadh in the times before Araugh came amongst the Elves. Many of the Elves claimed that Ingloir had no fear in him (and many more said that was not necessarily a good thing), but he had grown powerful and his House was great amongst the Elves. In earlier days Ingloir had been a favorite of Araugh, having been one of the first Elves to greet the Bailard when first he came to Cuifhianian, and he went often with Araugh on hunts in the deepest of the ancient forests. Much he learned from the Huntsman of the Bailard in the ways of tracking and of combat, and some say too much, for Ingloir envied Araugh's bright spear and his great sword and his shining shield and helm. In secret, Ingloir and his kinsmen learned the art of weaponscraft, mining the ore from the mountains to the East, and great store of razor-sharp spears and long bows and lofty helms they hoarded away. Now, secure in his House's strength and trusting in his own wisdom and valor, Ingloir spoke openly against the summons.
 
"Why should we, the people of the Firstborn, seek for the far country of the Bailard, and surrender without a fight these lands so many of our own have died to keep?" Ingloir demanded. "Behold! We no longer have Morgadh to harrass us, for the Bailard have imprisoned their own, which is as it should be! As for the Bailard, who among you wishes to be allotted a mean strip of land in Bailleanar, and come and go only by the leave of the Lords of the West? However kindly their intentions seem, I choose not that yoke; moreso since it is said that perhaps the Bailard plan to deliver up our land to the Aftercomers -- a sickly race of usurpers -- who, it is told, shall rise as soon as we depart! No, I shall not answer the summons; here in starlight I awoke, and here I shall stay till the darkness of death take me!"
 
And many of the Elves were swayed by Ingloir's proud and rebellious words, for they had not yet heard of this mortal race that was to come and rule in their stead, and great was the clamor and anger amongst them. But when Araugh heard of these rumors, he was saddened and wrathful, for in these lies he heard the deceits of Morgadh still at work, though he was a prisoner of the Bailard. Yet in no way would Araugh seek to dissuade those Elves who chose to stay, deeming that forceful denials and attempts to cajole them would cause further mischief. But Araugh did have stern words for the scornful and misguided Ingloir, reminding the Elf of their longstanding friendship and alliance, and Ingloir did repent of his wrongful accusations against the Bailard. But though he no longer spoke openly against the summons, Ingloir's heart was still set, and he stubbornly refused to follow Araugh into the West.
 
Bitter was the parting when at last Araugh guided the kindreds of Ingui, Fionnui and Ealui from Cuifhiainan, for some that departed wished to stay, and others who remained yearned to leave. So distressing was this sundering that the greater part of the Elves of Ealui's clan tarried overlong, and had to wait for vassals of Araugh to return and guide them forward once again. Even in the House of Ingloir there was dissension, for the chieftain's own son, Ilrin, spoke often in favor of answering the summons during the councils of his father; for the kin of Fionnui were dear to Ilrin, and he wished not to be parted from them. At last in anger Ingloir upbraided Ilrin, deeming that his son wished to supplant him in the favor and stewardship of his kindred, and he demanded Ilrin's loyalty.
 
Saddened by such mistrust, and for such a hateful rebuke, Ilrin replied, "Father, I cannot give thee more than that which thou already have in full measure."
 
But Ingloir's heart had grown hard with pride, and his son's desire to depart into the West with Fionnui's folk he took as a personal affront. "Proofs I will have!" Ingloir charged of his son. "For it is clear that thou wishest to draw off the greater strength of our Kindred and lead them hence to Bailleaniar!"
 
Ilrin knelt before his father, and replied, "What proofs dost thou seek? How can a son prove his love and fealty to his father? Thou hast only to name it."
 
"I will hear an oath taken, Ilrin," Ingloir said coldly, "a vow to the stars in the heavens that thou shalt neither lead any of our folk from Cuifhiainan into the West, nor shalt thou depart alone from this place in search of the kin of Fionnui."
 
Bitterly did Ilrin rue making such a vow, and bitter were the fruits of his decision; but for the love of his father, Ilrin bowed to his will. Yet ever after Ilrin may have loved his father, but his respect for Ingloir cooled. Ilrin was a wise leader of Elves, and he was a seer when the mood struck him on a sudden, and he knew much that was hidden. Through foreknowledge, Ilrin perceived that the realm of Cuifhiainan would not last, and though Morgadh may be captive, many of his vassals were not, and they would seek out this place and destroy it if they could. But nothing could Ilrin do for the seeming madness that had overtaken his father, nor could he stave off the inevitable doom he foresaw. And so it was in the end that Ilrin broke his vow to save his people; but he led them to the east and not to the west.
 
CHAPTER IX: The Death March of the Dark Elves
 
When the last straggling remnants of the three Kindreds of Elves had finally departed on the path set by Araugh, an age of peace came once again to Cuifhiainan. Although this peace brought the Elves freedom from fear -- for Morgadh still was a hostage in Bailleaniar, and his minions were scattered -- it did not bring tranquility to the hearts of the Firstborn. The Waters of Awakening were still pure and calm, and the same stars shone eternally bright and sparked to glittering the white sands of Cuifhiainan's shore, but the joy of the Elves was shrouded in melancholy as the long shadows of loved ones forever departed cast a pall along the twilit mere. Yet ever and anon Elves returned, having forsaken the long western march, and great were the celebrations for these prodigal sons and daughters; and for a little while the veil of tears was lifted.
 
For many years wayward Elves would find their way home again, either singly or in small groups, tired and bewildered from their long trips abroad. Recounting their journey, they spoke of wandering across endless plains, passing through a vast forest, and fording a great river; but a range of mist-shrouded peaks nearly as massive as the Orruacarnai Mountains blocked their westward advance. And they said that some of the kindred of Ealui had given up the march altogether, neither moving forward nor returning to Cuifhiainan, choosing instead to live along the great river. But these tales of tribulation became more ominous as the years advanced, and fewer and fewer Elves returned, until finally none came back at all. And the last few who managed to flee the darkness spoke of nameless terrors returning to the plains, and grim shades stalking them nigh up to the marches of Cuifhiainan itself.  
 
For as was told, the Bailard did not rout out all the secret lairs of Uthuamhano when they sacked Morgadh's labyrinthine northern fortress; many great evils escaped that should have been destroyed or imprisoned along with their master. Of these the greatest of all was he that is unnamed by the Sidhe, for his name is a curse that no words can define, nor voice should utter; but in the common speech he is called Sauron, the first lieutenant of Morgadh, and privy to all the Dark Lord's most evil machinations. And if in those days he was any less evil than Morgadh, then it was only by degree, as he had yet to assume his master's overlordship. But the Sidhe account he who is both nameless and accursed as their bitterest enemy: a thief, an assassin, the slayer of innocents, and corruption incarnate.
 
Now Sauron was at first dismayed by the Bailard's wrath, and the utter defeat of Morgadh. He cravenly hid while his master was chained and dragged off to Bailleaniar, and for a long while he remained in the shadows, unwillingly to come forth for fear of the Bailard's swift retribution. But Sauron learned a valuable lesson then, one that he would exploit often in ages to come: the Bailard may be mighty and fearsome in their wrath, but their anger cools all too quickly, and they eventually surrender everything they have conquered, neglecting that which they sought to protect. So it was that Sauron, perceiving the Bailard had once again forsaken Middle-earth, took up the mantle of his master and began to reorder Morgadh's shattered empire. Angabhann, once merely an outpost of Uthuamhano, Sauron enlarged and heavily fortified, imbuing the very stone with his sorcerous malice; and as the Captain of Angabhann, he did summon all of Morgadh's scattered forces unto him. The denizens of the deep places and the shadows of  corruption swarmed to Sauron like malevolent moths to a dark flame, filling Angabhann with such dread that the former terrors of Uthuamhano soon paled in comparison.
 
Then did Sauron stretch the first, furtive tendrils of his evil grasp about the unsuspecting peoples of Ardan, and horrid beasts and Orc began to multiply like flies and returned to their old haunts. But Ingloir was now Lord of Cuifhiainan, master of a large and thriving Elvish population, and great strength of weapons had he amassed in the long peace of Morgadh's captivity. Easily Ingloir repelled Angabhann's first incursions, which were but calculating feints, as Sauron was merely biding his time, awaiting the return of his master.
 
For the age of Morgadh's imprisonment was drawing to a close, but of his escape and the evils he wrought in Bailleaniar, little is known save rumor. But it is said that when Morgadh at last set foot again in Middle-earth, Sauron sent forth a great host against Cuifhiainan, deeming that the Elves of the starlit mere were beyond the aid of the Bailard or their kindred in the west of Middle-earth. From thence onward, Cuifhiainan was assailed on all sides by the might of Morgadh, and Sauron himself conducted the siege. For the Waters of Awakening were a symbol of goodness in the world, and of the might of the Bailard, who strove against the Evil Powers to protect the Firstborn who dwelt upon its shores; and neither Sauron, nor Morgadh his master, would suffer such a token of their defeat and humiliation to be left inviolate.
 
Thus Sauron bore down on Cuifhiainan with all his malevolence, but Ingloir and his people were valiant, and they defended their birthplace with unmatched ferocity. Ilrin, Lord Ingloir's son, knew well that such resistance was futile, and that the destruction of Cuifhiainan was drawing nigh. But Ilrin's council was of little avail in that time of peril, for Ingloir would not forsake the lands he now lorded over, having become arrogant and overconfident of his strength; and he held Ilrin to his vow that none should leave Cuifhiainan, even to the last of their kindred.
 
Ingloir then chastised his son, and bade him return to battle, saying, "Unsheathe thy sword, gentle son, in hopes that the clash of cold steel shall relieve thee of thy timidity. Get thee gone and seek out our enemies, lest ye be branded craven and our House mocked!"
 
But Ilrin was no coward; on the contrary, he was esteemed greatly among the Elves for his valor and feats of arms. Yet bravery in battle is mere vainglory when wisdom is abandoned for foolhardiness: Cuifhiainan was invested by an implacable foe and there would be no relief, for Araugh was gone and he had taken the greatest strength of the Elves with him into the West. In despair, Ilrin refuted his father's bidding, and in secret he sought for hidden paths that led up to the Orruacarnai Mountains, harboring hopes that, at the end of all things, some of his kindred might still be saved.
 
But some say Morgadh grew impatient of the siege, for war was brewing in the west, and he was in need of all his forces to quell this new invasion. Thus Sauron withdrew his Orcs, ever the fodder of the Dark Lord's legions, and instead unleashed an army of nightmares: Baolruaigs there were, and with them their vassals, the Scathantine, ancient fire demons; Scanraithes and Grims, the shadow-walkers of old, drifted disembodied and ghoulish in the wreak; and were-beasts, twisted creatures fed Elvish flesh by the hand of Sauron himself, howled and shrieked in rabid fury. So horrific was the onslaught that the Elvish defenses were thrown back with great loss, and everywhere Elves ran this way and that in fear and confusion. But still the center of the Elvish line held, for there stood Lord Ingloir with his son, Ilrin, and others of his household at this side. But Ingloir beheld the collapse of his army, consumed by fire and shadow, and he perceived his own folly at last.
 
"Without purpose, save for blind ambition and pride, have I ensnared the lives of my kin!" Ingloir shouted to Ilrin; but as one without hope, he added, "Yet let it not be said that my death should prove purposeless as well!"
 
And Ingloir commanded that Ilrin should muster what Elves he could, and set up a second line of defense farther to the east; meanwhile, Ingloir would take a picked force to attack Sauron's fiery legions directly, and thus provide a screen for Ilrin's movements. Ilrin gazed into his father's eyes and saw that death was written in them, for Ingloir was fey and beyond reasoning; therefore, Ilrin bade a tearfull farewell to Ingloir, knowing well that this was their final parting within the circles of the world. As Ilrin prepared for his withdrawal, he watched Ingloir rush headlong with his sortee against the enemy lines, a small but shining group of Elves silhouetted against innumerable foes. There was an audible concussion as the Elves hit the enemy's line, and a great spout of flame; and though the legions of Sauron reeled from the sudden assault, Ingloir and his band were slowly engulfed and soon disappeared beneath the crush of many Baolruaigs. Thus ended Ingloir, the first and last Lord of Cuifhiainan -- the proud master thus mastered by pride.
 
Then Ilrin did indeed order a retreat towards the east, and gathered what Elves he could to him, both hale or wounded; yet he had no intention of fighting for a lost cause. Guiding his kindred along the secret paths he had prepared, Ilrin came upon the place where the women and children lay hid, and he bade them move out ahead of the warriors, so that they might be protected more easily. Ilrin and the remaining members of his household made up the rearguard as the Elvish procession began its painfully slow march towards the Orruacarnai Mountains, which were several leagues from the mere of Cuifhiainan. Behind them they could hear the bellows of victory and the guttural laughter and cursing of the victorious as Sauron's hosts flooded the blessed plain and tramped across the white sands. But to the misfortune of the Elves, their retreat had been espied from far-off, and even now they were being chased.
 
But the long train of Elves could not be made to go any faster, for there were many battle-wounded and very young children among them, but Ilrin would suffer none to be left behind; thus, the hunters Sauron had sent against the retreating Elves advanced upon them very rapidly. Within a league of the mountains, Sauron's forces at last caught up with them, and Ilrin and the rearguard were forced to turn and fight their foe. Six times did the rearguard turn and meet the enemy advance, and six times did they drive them back; yet each time with greater losses among the Elves than the one previous, for Sauron's minions were far more numerous and had the scent of blood in their noses. Yet when the rearguard turned a seventh time, the women and children had already began to scramble up the mountainside; and Ilrin would give no more ground. Many of the wounded Elves refused to make the climb, preferring to stand by Ilrin as best they may in hopes of defending the pass so that their loved ones might escape.
 
And the noble stand of the Firstborn along the slopes of the Orruacarnais is renowned among the Sidhe, although it is recounted with great sadness. There fell Faolar and his brother Faolin, ripped to pieces by were-wolves; and Curumair the Fisher, burned alive by Scathantine demons; Fiannur, Forgrinn and Eolard the Wise slew a towering Baolruaig, the leader of the raiding party, but they were themselves slain, crushed beneath the toppling beast's massive weight. At the last, Ilrin had less than three-hundred of his exhausted kindred surrounding him, and of his household, only Riordan the Bard and Amhran the Minstrel were still standing; but there were none among them who were unscathed or did not suffer some grievous wound.
 
Undaunted, the Elves dug in atop a wide, rocky tor with their spears bristling outward in every direction. Encircling the slopes below them lay such great heaps of their fallen foes, that it seemed the hill they stood on was formed of piled corpses. There the Elves awaited the final massed charge of Sauron's army, holding little hope now that their wives, sons and daughters would escape the massacre; and even less hope did they keep for themselves, surrounded as they were by the ravenous army of Sauron.
 
But even in his darkest dreams Sauron could never fathom or portend an event of such magnitude that it would steal ultimate victory from him at the very moment it lay within his grasp; yet such a thing occurred. On a sudden, even as the triumphal army of Sauron clamored for the final, fatal charge, a silvery light bathed the skies along the western horizon. As the sheen mounted, it grew brighter than any star in the heavens; and in that desperate hour came the first rising of the full moon, whose luminous face was radiant white, with dark, argent eyes that followed the thralls of Morgadh no matter where they hid. And Sauron's army was thrown into disarray, and they shrieked and ran about gibbering in fear, believing the Lords of the West were come in their divine wrath to destroy them once and for all. Still cowering and covering their faces, they retreated back to Cuifhiainan, and the relative safety of Sauron's main force, leaving Ilrin and the Elves alone and astounded atop their forsaken tor.
 
Rejoicing, Ilrin deemed the rising of the moon was indeed a sign of the might of the Bailard, and an omen of good fortune for the Elves. But as he gazed down upon the vale of Cuifhiainan from his promontory rock, the smile faded from his lips. For in the spectral moonlight he beheld in horror the utter destruction of the land of the Firstborn: the forests were all ablaze or trampled; the once white sands of the twilight mere were covered in blood and the filth of the enemy, who in their thousands were now there encamped; and the Waters of Awakening were black and defiled, with the swollen bodies of the dead floating along its shores, for Sauron had commanded that all the corpses of the Elves should be thrown into the hallowed waters. Ilrin bowed his head and turned from the rape of Cuifhiainan, never to look back again.
 
Although the threat of attack was lessened, still Ilrin could not count on the fickle nature of the army of Sauron; therefore he bade the Elves start immediately the arduous climb up the mountains. Thus began the second trial of the death-march of the Dark Elves: the treacherous ascent of the Orruacarnais. With little food and no real certainty of success, Ilrin gravely took the lead and guided the remnants of the Elves of Cuifhiainan up the unforgiving slopes. The wounded and dying were carried or dragged by those who could still manage to stand, and infants and small children were cradled tightly by their worried mothers for fear of slipping off the precipices; for the western walls of the great Red Range were sheer, with few footholds, and ice and snow covering the upper third of its looming shoulders for most of the year. As they slowly picked their way upward, the wind began to shriek and assail them from every direction, and the cold was bitterly cruel. Many of the wounded Elves did not survive the first few days of the climb, and there was much lamentation in the high places of the mountains.
 
As they reached near two-thirds of the Orruacarnai's height, a great storm came howling down from the mountain's hoary pinnacles, a blizzard the Elves contend was conjured by the dark sorcery of Sauron, who in his malice still wished to thwart the Elves' escape. Blinded by the snow, the Elves could neither move upward nor retreat, for the drifts were heavy and the ice was treacherous. Ilrin fell into despair, cursing his father's vow which had led his kindred to such a horrid place. Soon, he feared, the children and the rest of the wounded would die from exposure, trapped there on the merciless peaks. But it came into Ilrin's thoughts that behind the angry, black clouds the innumerable stars still shone, and the newly-risen moon hung somewhere beyond the virulent storm; and Ilrin said a silent prayer to Araugh, the ancient protector of the Elves, and of old a friend to both he and his father. In answer, Ilrin believed he heard the mighty horn of the hunter resounding from the cliffs above, but in truth it was the call of a great eagle, whose shadow the Elf could descry gliding effortlessly amid the storm.
 
Ilrin took heart, and carefully climbed to spot where the winged raptor soared. To Ilrin's surprise, he found a massive stone ledge, and atop the ledge a deep cavern. Giving thanks to the Huntsman of the Bailard, Ilrin returned to his kindred and guided them back to the cave. There the Elves took shelter and nursed the wounded and found warmth for their children. Eventually the blizzard subsided, and the Elves with the keenest sight could discern from their lofty perch the armies of Sauron moving northward away from the desolation of Cuifhiainan. But there was no returning now to the vale of the twilit mere: long ages would pass before the land recovered from its defilement, and even then it would remain a wasteland; and the Waters of Awakening were poisoned with death, soon to be choked with foul weeds and mired with black mud -- a fen of nightmarish delirium.
 
The eagle returned again by the clear light of the waxing moon, leading the Elves ever upward by the safest mountain paths; but still the climb was dangerous and the air was thin, and one misstep spelled doom for the unwary. At last, through great toil and hardship, Ilrin and the Elves reached the summit of the Orruacarnais, the highest peaks of the East. The mighty eagle of the Bailard hovered above them in the high airs of Middle-earth, gliding in slow circles for a time, his massive wings spreading some thirty fathoms across. Assured that his mission was complete, the eagle left the elves then with a piercing, triumphant cry, and sped off as a shooting star into the west.
 
In gratitude, Ilrin paid homage to the most noble of the birds of Ardan, and there in the loftiest aerie of the world he gave himself a new name, Thoir Iolar, which signifies Eagle of the East; but his thankful kindred proclaimed him their Lord and Sovereign, and ever after called him MorThoiriol, for he was the greatest among them. And it is said that as the Elves began their descent on the farside of the Orruacarnais, the sun in all its glory kindled the eastern skies in a blaze of red and gold and orange; and the Elves beheld with wonder and joy the majestic forests and verdant vales of their new realm at the dawning of the first full day of Ardan.
 
CHAPTER X: Of Dwarves and Drakes
 
It could have been that the Greagoir was pleased, or perhaps he was merely tired, but the master offered only a relatively few amendments to the tale while the apprentice recited (relatively few, that is, fifty rather than a hundred edits); then he fell asleep. Tatya stoked the slowly dying embers of the fire, then threw another log on to rid himself of the pre-dawn chill. Covering himself in a sheepskin, he curled up by the hearth and began to nod. The master would soon be awakened by the sun on his face, and then demand to be taken outside for his 'morning constitutional' (if anything, the master was regular). Greagoir was still robust for his age and walked briskly with the aid of an ominous-looking black staff, supposedly a gift from a wizard named Pallando (although Tatya was never quite sure if he was serious); but on excessively rainy or cold days he was near lame (with a mood to match the foul weather), and got about haltingly with a pronounced limp in his step. As sleep finally overtook Tatya he wished he had accompanied his master on some of his high adventures, for the apprentice secretly yearned to set out and explore that wondrous world that could be only seen now through Greagoir's blind eyes; unfortunately, that was no longer possible.
 
Later that morning, while Tatya was doing his chores (as an indentured apprentice, he not only was assistant scrivener, but chopped wood, milked goats, made cheese and tended the garden), Greagoir, who was humming contentedly (there wasn't a cloud in the sky), called his apprentice in from pulling weeds from around the turnips. "Tatya, let that damnable garden be," the master said with a mock-scowl, "I despise turnips anyway!"
 
Greagoir tapped his staff in front of him, and carefully made his way to a weather-beaten wooden chair that sat in rickety neglect on the front stoop. Finding his seat with an arduous grunt, the master exclaimed, "Tatya, the tale of the Dark Elves was a tonic for my tired, old bones! Forget your chores and let us continue where we left off last night."
 
Tatya grinned with relief and ran to fetch his quill and parchment, and also the book of the Dark Elves laying on the master's bed. He might dislike recitation, but it was a sight better than being stabbed by thorny weeds and being eaten alive by blueflies. Besides, it was a beautiful day to do nothing, and transcribing the master's works out in the bright sunshine really wasn't work at all. Tatya took a seat on the stoop, but before beginning he propped his master's feet up on a stool (the master tended to doze more quickly while reclining). With his nefarious preparations complete, the apprentice took up the book and read:
 
Many seasons of peaceful obscurity passed for the Elves of the Sidhe in their mountain fastness. Perhaps it was that Sauron believed he had destroyed the Elves of Cuifhiainan on the frozen peaks of the Orruacarnais, or it may have been the remoteness of their location, hidden as they were in the impassable wilds of the northeast; whatever the case, the Sidhe were gratefully forgotten, thriving and secretly laying the foundations for a mighty enclave in the forested vales of the great Red Range. In that time their realm extended to the unpopulated high-plains of Hildorien where they herded the wild scions of Naihaer Gan Athair, the immortal stallion of Araugh the Hunter, and a remarkable bond of friendship grew between the Elves and the horses.
 
When those Elves who were but infants during the flight from Cuifhiainan had grown to full stature, the Sidhe first noted with disdain the arrival of the stunted folk, the Dwarves, or the Khazad as they called themselves, who began delving their vast mansions in the central regions of the Orruacarnais. The Elves did not begrudge the Dwarves their dank and dreary halls, for the Sidhe made no claim on the region of the mountains where the Dwarves had chosen to live. Nevertheless, the Elves were mistrusting of these dark, secretive folk, with their strange tales of Mahal the Maker, a Bailard who is said to have formed the fathers of Dwarves from clay and spittle, and moreso since, like Morgadh's evil minions, the Dwarves lived underground. Yet for all their misgivings the Elves did not harry or harrass the Dwarves, preferring to watch and ware instead. The Dwarves, for their part, cared little for the doings of the Sidhe, for they hated the trees and the forests, and they didn't much care for the tall and sorcerous-seeming Elves either. So an uneasy peace ensued, with neither race having anything whatsoever to do with the other.
 
But while the Elves and Dwarves clung stubbornly to a creed of blessed segregation, others there were who disturbed their splendid indifference. Of Men, little was known, for they tended to avoid the forbidding mountains, choosing to travel across the wide expanses of the Hildorien plains to the south of the Orruacarnais. In large tribes or clans they came, heading ever westward; but little could Men recall of their origins, for a darkness clouded their memories. But the Elves treated Men more kindly than they did the Dwarves, for the Firstborn and the Aftercomers were much alike, and Men were not yet as faithless as they eventually would become.
 
And the Dark Elves took pity on the tribes of Men they chanced to meet, huddled and starving and fearful of the night. The Elves fed and clothed these wandering bands, and taught them what speech the sickly race could understand. But these first Men were ever driven by a yearning to continue on westward, which suited the Elves fine, as they had no wish for competing kingdoms rising along their borders; therefore, the Elves treated these bands of wayward Men hospitably, but they continued to point them southwestward, to Altan dul Anoir, the great mountain pass the Elves had discovered in earlier explorations.
 
So it was that Men continued to pass from the East in endless migrations, in search of what, they knew not; but they made no permanent homes along the foreboding Orruacarnais. Out of the West, however, there came a terrible swarm of invaders that settled in the mountains, and caused much woe among Elves and Dwarves alike. For the West of Middle-earth was in a constant state of warfare, fed, no doubt, by the continuous influx of Men from the East; and ever did Morgadh assail the sundered Elves of the West in his quest for complete domination. But such were the fortunes of war that Morgadh's legions would sometimes be utterly routed, and his creatures driven far and wide.
 
It was in this long age of upheaval that the Dragons first descended like a plague on the Orruacarnais. Of the dragons, there were three orders, each a lethal variant in Morgadh's ongoing and vile breeding schemes: the oldest and most numerous of the dragon clans were the Drochanail Nathrach, the Worms, flightless serpents of great size and cunning; next, the Dragunaerog Colg-Draiochts, or Cold-drakes, of all the orders the darkest bane of the mountains, were winged serpents with poisonous venom; and last, the Draguntine Morgoradh, massive bat-winged Fire-drakes, the greatest but by far the least numerous of the dragons, whose progeny came to brood in the Orruacarnais only after Morgadh's final and utter defeat.
 
For many centuries the peril grew unabated, as the threat lay yet undiscovered; for the dragons chose to make their lairs on the western slopes of the mountains, where, after the rape of Cuifhiainan, the Elves never ventured again. So too, the dragons were still embroiled in the wars of Morgadh, and must ever answer the summons of the Dark Lord when need pressed him; therefore, the dragon clans had little interest in the lands east of the mountains, and it was not in their lazy nature to tax themselves overmuch with such a daunting flight above the towering spires of the Orruacarnais. But the Dwarves, whose great gates faced to the west, first felt the brunt of the dragon's fierce envy. For dragons have a voracious lust for gold, greedily hoarding all they can amass or steal; and since they neither mine nor seek to make an honest living, theft is their primary method for acquiring wealth. Thus the dragons, having heard rumor of the treasuries of the Eastern Dwarves, scaled up and down the mountainside, plundering many of the lesser manses of the minor Houses of Dwarves, and driving off or devouring the inhabitants.
 
But the dragons were repelled at the great iron gates of the Dwarvish halls of the Mountain King, whose greed for gold was no less than the dragons, and who was in no mood to lightly surrender his hoard into the hands of these roguish scavengers. Although the Blacklock Dwarves of the East eventually proved themselves to be lesser sons of greater sires in ages to come, they were still a formidable force in ancient times, and with their war-axes and heat-impervious masks, they stubbornly stood their ground. The DwarvenKing was prideful, and was loathe to ask for aid, but the love for his gold soon overcame the love of his dignity. With the situation becoming more dire every day, the DwarvenKing at last decided to send an embassy to the Dark Elves. The DwarvenKing's mansion was vast, stretching all the way through to the further side of the mountain; thus the Dwarvish embassy essayed out from secret gates on the eastern slopes of the Orruacarnais, and headed north to the hidden vales of the Sidhe.
 
The Dark Elves wondered greatly at seeing a troop of Dwarves marching in great haste towards their forest realm. The Elvish marchwardens were none too gentle in their questioning of these intruders, but little could the Elves understand of the Dwarves' guttural tongue, for the stunted folk were gruff in both speech and manner. But the Sidhe Lord was of kinder disposition in those days, and he commanded his border guards to allow them entrance into his domain, fearing that only the gravest news would send the Dwarves hence on any errand.
 
And MorThoiriol rode out to meet them, thereby lessening the bitterness the Dwarves felt for their rough handling by the marchwardens. The Sidhe Lord had the Firstborn's gift of speech, and after slow and careful discussion with the Dwarves, he amazed them all by readily speaking in Khuzdul, which is the unlovely tongue of the Dwarves. Now, MorThoiriol had never seen nor heard of a dragun 'ere that moment, but by the Dwarves' animated descriptions and the fear in their voices, he knew the threat to be real and the Dwarves' imminent destruction a certainty. Realizing how easily these draguns had overcome the war-like Dwarves, the Sidhe Lord also shrewdly surmised that if he did not aid the Dwarves in their time of need, what then would stop these draguns from coming over the mountain and routing out all the woodland settlements of the Elves?
 
Having come to this conclusion, the Sidhe Lord answered the Dwarves, "The enemies of my enemy I account as allies, and perhaps friends, if that should be thy choosing. Tell the DwarvenKing that the Sidhe Lord offers strength of arms to aid the Dwarrow-folk in ridding the mountains of these vile creatures of Morgadh."
 
The Dwarves looked at each other in surprise, unnerved by the unexpected generosity and noble bearing of the Elvish Prince, and they bowed so low as to sweep their beards to the ground. The leader of the embassy replied, "Honor bestowed brings honor in return! For your ready aid and gracious manner, noble Elf-lord, we Dwarrow-folk pledge bonds of eternal friendship to you and your kin."
 
Lord Thoiriol smiled and nodded in recognition, but with foresight answered thus: "Ever shall we accept a bond of fraternity, friend-Dwarf, but speak not an immortal vow lest ye plan to live as long as the Sidhe!"
 
MorThoiriol called forth a great riding of the Sidhe, and they passed southward to the eastern gates of the DwarvenKing's halls. Loathe at first were the Elves to follow the Dwarves down into their underground manse, but many of the Elves were pleasantly surprised upon entering the Dwarrow: instead of dank caverns, they beheld a light and airy space with very high ceilings, and smooth walls, with buttresses and columns richly carved. The DwarvenKing came to meet the Sidhe Lord with great pomp and flattery and the giving of gifts, but after the customary prerequisites of noble welcome had been dispensed with, a great debate ensued between the two sovereigns regarding the proper prosecution of the war. It was MorThoiriol's considered opinion that the fight must be taken to the dragons: that the beasts should be hunted in their lairs, and their broods found and destroyed; the DwarvenKing, however, preferred combat of a more defensive nature, with his fortifications buttressed by the archers of the Elves, for at this early period in their history the Dwarves were not adept with the bow. But MorThoiriol wanted no part in a protracted siege that might prove ruinous, and would certainly keep the Dark Elves too long from home.
 
In the end, the DwarvenKing acquiesced somewhat to MorThoiriol's battle plans, lest his kin brand him a coward; MorThoriol, meanwhile, proposed a more limited engagement, with further offensives to commence based on the success of the first attack. The Dark Elves marched out of the Dwarves' western gate, and blackened the sky with great volleys of arrows. Such was their skill that they aimed exclusively for the dragon's most vulnerable regions, their eyes, mouths, and the soft areas on either side of their breastplates underneath their forearms. In those Elder Days, the dragons were not of full stature, as the serpents of Morgadh required long ages to reach full maturity; nor had they yet accrued the impenetrable horny scale on their underbellies, and thus the stunned dragons reeled from the stinging salvos. Many dropped wounded along the bloody slopes of the mountains, where they were met by the fell axes of the Dwarves, who hewed them where they laid. The Cold-drakes were dismayed to find their ancient enemies, the Elves, pouring forth from the mountains in such great numbers, for they had only previously come upon scattered Avari, the solitary Elves, this far east; but being creatures of cunning, the Cold-drakes had enough sensibility to realize they had been outmanuevered, and quickly flew to inaccessible peaks far out of bow range.
 
The Worms were unable to duplicate the Cold-drakes' aerial retreat, and neither could they escape with speed, so they stubbornly advanced with demonic ferocity upon the Elves and Dwarves, who retreated before the dragons' withering attack. Twas there, before the very gates of the DwarvenKing, a great Worm named Baolrunga met MorThoiriol, the Sidhe Lord, in single combat. Thinking he could overawe the Dark Elf with his sheer size, Baolrunga rose to his full height in the manner of a great snake about to strike, but MorThoiriol was undaunted by such a tactic of fear. The Sidhe Lord staved off Baolrunga's initial lunge with his shield, although it was shivered in two from the brutal impact; yet as the haughty Worm reared for a second strike, MorThoiriol buried his spear between a chink in the great serpent's scales. Baolrunga bellowed in pain and inchoate fury, lunging and snapping at the Sidhe Lord like a rabid dog, but the deep wound in his belly left him unable to rise again. Fearlessly, MorThoiriol leaped atop the prone dragon's head, and with all his might drove his spear into the unarmored muscle between Baolrunga's neck and the base of his skull, killing the exposed beast instantly. The Elves and Dwarves, taking heart from the Sidhe Lord's masterful display, chased the remaining Worms and slew them mercilessly wherever they slithered. Soon the carcasses of dragons great and small were strewn up and down the mountainside.
 

But such a great victory had unseen costs, for the clannish dragons are vengeful creatures, never forgiving and never forgetting. And although the Elves and Dwarves continued to hunt out the lairs of the beasts along the length and breadth of the north and central Orocarnis, the Cold Drakes removed further to the south, beyond the realms of the two kindreds; and some flew back to Anghabann with the news of a great host of Elves in the East. Hearing of this stunning defeat, the immense Fire-drakes bitterly cursed this Black Eagle, this Morthoron, as they assumed he was called in the Elvish tongue of the West, and made vows to the eternal darkness that they would avenge their fallen kin. But worst of all, the rumors came to Sauron himself, who gloated over the tidings in the undying malice of his black thought. He would be patient in planning the Dark Elves' destruction. He would bide his time; for such an immortal evil has time in endless measure.



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