For a moment the Prince Exile stood over the still form of his opponent, panting deeply, his blade and shield held in readiness as if he had not realized that he was victorious, that the contest was at last over. The crowd had remained silent but with the drum roll announcing contest’s end, the cheers and cries rang out across the stadium. True, the Lowborn had supported the defeated Stranger but they loved the Prince Exile too and what a contest they had just witnessed..
Authien raised his sword in salute to the cheering crowd. He cried out.
“Elrurith the Valiant! Elrurith the Valiant!”
The crowd took up the cry and it carried across the stadium. The Surlord smiled slightly. Yes, Authien would make a good teoir curadh – he understood the crowd, the people. Command was about people and the Surlord had plans for this Elfling. He nodded to Cirda. In her booming voice she quietened the crowd.
“Honour has been satisfied, our ancient rite has been observed and a teoir curadh stands before us!”
Again the masses cheered.
“Approach Authien of Isaldur. Claim your rights and privileges as teoir curadh”.
The young Isaldurian approached the High Diadem and bowed deeply to the assembled Highborn. The Surlord rose from his chair. The crowd quietened once more as he began to speak.
“Authien, son of Vvieine, Elfling of Isaldur. Elrurith grants you its favour. Tonight you eat at my table as you shall as long as I reign and as long as you serve this city loyally and faithfully”.
The Prince Exile’s young features hardened a little at the mention of his mother’s name. What Exile would ever want to hear that name uttered and yet the ancient forms had to be followed, the teoir curadh’s lineage, however darkened by pain and rejection, had to be uttered. Despite the ill-fated words Authien bowed again.
“You do me great honour my Lord. I am not of this city yet Elrurith the Valiant has taken me into her bosom, put sword in hand and gave me privilege and position. This boon I shall repay, in blood and if necessary with my life!”
Again the crowd cheered at the young Elf’s words and the assembled Highborn nodded their heads in mute acknowledgement, some evaluating the Elfling, perhaps seeing him truly for the first time as to what he really was, a potential rival or ally in the future, a developing threat to their own position.
The Surlord’s attention shifted towards the Stranger. Gingerly she had regained her footing, her hand running across her chest-plate where Authien’s blow had taken her. She set about looking for her sword and dagger on the sands, largely ignored by the masses that now heaped their adoration on the Prince Exile. Her star had burned bright this day but like all things it had been eclipsed. The Surlord caught Cirda’s eye and nodded towards the Stranger. His captain’s face wrinkled slightly as if she had swallowed some bitter medicine. What was happening with her today he wondered, usually Cirda was so taciturn and solid. The worried expression still etched across her feature, the captain addressed the Sands once more.
“Maiden of Elrurith, approach the Diadem. Your Surlord would have words with you”
The Elfling hesitated slightly her head shifting left and right as if looking for some route of escape. Finding none the young warrior shrugged resignedly and approached the High Diadem, taking her place beside Authien. The Surlord stood once more as he addressed her.
“You fought well today stranger, Elrurith is well protected with younglings such as you to guard her walls. Remove you helm and proclaim your name and House. Elrurith honours you”
The Stranger bowed deeply at his words but did not move to remove her helm. Nor did she offer any words in return to his. The silence lengthened as all around the stadium waited expectantly. Soon whisperings among the crowd could be heard – who would dare to keep their face hidden and speak no words in the presence of their Surlord? Authien began to stare at his defeated opponent, a worried expression on his face.
The silence continued to lengthen and still there was no sign of movement from the Stranger. The Surlord felt the anger rise in his chest. He was by nature, thoughtful and calm but for a youngling to so publicly show him disrespect could not be countenanced. He glanced, bristling, at Cirda. No word of command was necessary. His captain closed her eyes briefly, as if in pain, before she spoke.
“Stranger, do you have no honour? You cover your face to your liege lord. He has honoured you with his voice yet you do not return it. What discourtesy is this?”
The young warrior showed no sign that she had heard Cirda’s words save to glance at Authien. The Prince Exile, looking deeply troubled, spoke, his voice faltering.
“My lord…..my lord, I believe my opponent does not wish to dishonour you. I believe she has taken a vow of silence and covers her face so that she might honour the gods with her performance in the contest. To reveal her name and House would be to take honour from the gods!”
“An admirable ambition!” Cirda interjected, speaking out of turn. She had begun to sweat. The Surlord spared her the briefest of glances and returned his attention to the maiden upon the Sands.
“Yes admirable Elfling……but I am no longer young and my patience grows less and less with each passing year. Your Surlord has given you a command Elfling. Remove your helm and speak your name. I would know you!”
The Stranger’s shoulders slumped slightly under her armour. Both Authien and Cirda looked deeply pained. What plot or trickery was this? Who was this girl who defied him?
Finally the maiden removed her helm and bowed deeply once more to her Surlord.
“You…….”
Around him the assembled Highborn and First Servants gasped. The maid looked up at him, her face all too familiar. She smiled slightly though her eyes held no warmth, though perhaps a small measure of fear.
“Forgive me my discourtesy father. I am Cuhullin, of House Buiuthiun”
Across the stadium the crowd began to chatter excitedly. The Surlord leaned forward to rest his hands on the railings of the High Diadem. How could she have done this? How could she have defied him so publicly? A helplessness burned deep within him, oh to be a father of daughters! He closed his eyes for a moment, searching for his enaid, his centre. He must discard the tine of deep emotion now. Many eyes were upon him, not all friendly. This would have to be dealt with later, in private, away from all eyes, both High and Low.
He continued to stare at his daughter Cuhullin. She was trembling slightly under her armour. Her eyes held no tears but nor were they completely dry. Beside her Authien was speaking softly to her but she ignored him. Her eyes never left her father. Despite everything he could not help but feel proud. She had fought well today. Reluctantly he tore his eyes away from his only child and turned his back on her. He motioned to Cirda.
“Escort her to the Sur. I will have words with her in my private quarters”.
The captain held her closed first to her chest in acknowledgement.
“Your will my lor……..”
Her Surlord had already turned away from her. Ignoring the chattering Highborn the Surlord left the High Diadem with his bodyguards, lost in his own thoughts.
On the Sands below, Cuhullin, Daughter of Hormith, Surlord of Elrurith the Valiant, felt the first tears fall unto her cheeks.
Owain
He was returning home.
Owain ap Ghyedd, Yarl of the Cadaern and Penteulu of Rhydderch, High-King of Ystwryth, sighed. He was not so young anymore that the crisp air of early spring did not chill his bones but he reflected he was not too old to allow such discomfort to show to his warriors.
For a Dwarf of such station and rank his retinue was a modest affair. With him there were only three other people ahorse, two of them his sons. With them came a guard of ten warriors, hand-picked from his Teulu. These ten marched on their own two feet that was generally the Dwarven way. He did not feel any embarrassment at riding a horse while his men marched. He was in truth an old man now and glad of the comfort. Anyways he told himself, he had spent enough Cycles afoot, serving in
the fyrds and warbands of his youth.
The journey from Syndryn, the City of the Cthul had been long and difficult, the mountain roads and paths still stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the birth of spring. He had been gone from Ystwryth and its High-King since the previous autumn, just after the Month of Slaughter, an entire winter of self-imposed exile among the Cthul. Still it could not be helped, he had needed aid and their was little to be found in Ystwryth. Now, with spring and the melting of the passes, he was free to return to his city, his wife and his youngest son. His heart was heavy however. He wondered what mischief Manawydan had been up to since his departure?
The path to the Southern Wards accompanied the small river Odwyanin that ran from the north. The Odwyanin was a young river that was born in the High-Mountains of Ullwydellan and passed through the Ystwrythian plateau to issue out between the twin fortresses of the Southern Wards. From there it carried on southwards, small and fast, to Syndryn and beyond. They would soon be at the falls where the river trickled down from the Wards and then finally home.
The mountains of the Dwarven Highlands were beautiful this time of year. Some said that the Highlands of the Nuerryth, the Dwarven homeland, was the roof of the world, though stories and legends spoke of even greater mountain ranges in the far northlands where the Sakhm’Yvar dwelled. Whatever the truth, the mountains of the Nuerryth, had been home and protection to the Goshaen races since the time of Roald Overking, the first Brethwalda, and would ever be so. Without the mountains, the Dwarven Nations, both Highlander and Lowlander, would not be what they were. The mountains were where they dug mines, raised cities and fortresses and smelted iron for tools and weapons, where they delved deep for gold, silver and precious stones and wrought the world’s finest armour and weapons. The legends spoke of how Tuirill, in defiance of the All-Father, had wrought the first Dwarf from the fire of tine and the stone of ithir. The fire that lived in their enaid made the Dwarves susceptible to greed and violence but the tine also made them hospitable and passionate. The stone made them stubborn and intractable and yet ithir also made them resilient and strong. Thus was the glory and doom of the Dwarven races. Prone to war amongst one another, for the nations of the Highlands and Lowlands had never really known peace, and yet to be masters of building and smiting among all the races of the world except maybe closely followed by the Ninmuirian Elves.
The High-King, sick with grief and a nameless fear, had ordered him to stay, to not leave his side in these dark times. Owain, who had served him all his adult life and for the past ten years as Penteulu, had defied his order and departed Ystwryth by the Southern Wards. Rhydderch had threatened him with death for the betrayal. In front of the assembled Yarls of the Cadaern, Rhuddlan and Dolwyddelan, the three tribes of Ystwryth, he had sworn that his Penteulu would see death before he would see Syndryn. Both men knew however, that the High-King would not make good on his word. All knew of Owain’s loyalty to Rhydderch since those first few years as a young warrior of the fyrd, then War-Chief of the Dragonshields and finally as Penteulu, commander of the High-King’s bodyguard, the Teulu. Throughout those years Owain had served Rhydderch faithfully and he prayed to the All-Mother and All-Father that he might continue to do so.
As Penteulu he was one of Rhydderch’s closest advisors, loved and respected by the man who had raised him high, above Cheryl, Yarl or Thane. His house had risen with him and his three sons would hold lands, title and position long after he left this world to enter the embrace of the All-Mother. His years as Penteulu should have been happy if busy ones. The wars each spring and summer against the Walwyn and Bodrochwyn, had restored Ystwrythian power over those tribes in many centuries. To the north the great Dwarven cities of Llanllyr and Creuddyn warred against one another once again, as they had done intermittingly, since their foundation millennia before. This had given Ystwryth and its three peoples, united under one High-King, a free-hand to restore its long-lost hegemony over the other Highland nations. Throughout the Neurryth, both among the Highlander and Lowlander, Dwarves spoke of the rise of Ystwryth once more with its great and wise king Rhydderch and his faithful Penteulu Owain. The warbands and fyrds of the Cadaern, Rhuddlan and Dolwyddelan were united once more and even Syndryn, the city of the Cthul, which had held dominion over the Neurryth for some four hundred years, looked northwards warily and spend much gold on warriors and spears….
At heart of his nation’s resurgence all was not well however.
He and Manawydan would never call each other friends but Owain had done his best, despite his dislike of the prince, to keep peace with the younger son of the man he served. He had known Manawydan since the prince was a boy and while Dwarven belief held that all children were innocent until the evils and temptations of adulthood were thrust upon them, he looked into that child’s soul, and only saw darkness. From when he was only a child, the people of Ystwryth and the High-King’s Neudd spoke of how young Manawydan was filled too much with the fire and desire of tine. Among the children of the nobility he was unrivalled in strength and martial skill being only fourteen years when he took up armour and warhammer to follow his father and older brother into war against the Walwyn. By the age of twenty he had been initiated into the Blackshields, the oldest and most respected of the Cadaern’s warbands, and soon rose to become their Warchief. A great warrior to be sure and yet all of the fyrd knew of his cruelty to the enemy – the hundreds, if not thousands who had perished when he had burnt Bodrochwyn villages without mercy, the women he had taken without consent when they were brought before him, their fathers, brothers, and husbands slain in battle. Many of the Ystwrythians spoke in admiration of him – was it not Manawydan who led them to victory time after time and finally subdued the Bodrochwyn and forced their Thane to marry his daughter to him. Yet others spoke of his cruelties and his crimes against the innocent. Over the years Owain had heard these battlefield tales and was sure the High-King knew of them too. Yet his uneasiness was allayed somewhat by the fact that Manawydan was a second son. On his father’s death, the All-Father will it a distant day hence, it would be Manawydan’s older brother, Marcdudd, who, with the other eldest sons of the Cadaern, would travel into the High-Mountains of Ullwydellan, on Dragonquest, with the hope of the High-Kingship. However much Manawydan might lust after power he could never be High-King and Owain slept more soundly at nights knowing this….
All that had changed three years ago when Marcdudd had died suddenly and Owain’s world has turned on it’s head. All his fears were realized. Now Manawydan was only two heartbeats, that of Dwarf and Dragon, away from the High-Kingship.
Eddwyn was what had brought him to Syndryn though none knew save himself, not even his sons. He needed the boy back in Ystwryth if he were ever to face Manawydan. On Marcdudd’s death he had sworn that Manawydan would never be High-King. Owain knew in his heart that the man would bring ruin to the kingdom and he would never allow that. He loved Rhydderch and would serve him until the embrace of the All-Mother but he would not see his son on the throne. A wave of sadness passed through Owain as he thought of the High-King. Marcdudd’s death had taken his king so hard. In the three years since he had declined in body and mind, fading away before the court’s eyes. Marcdudd’s death had been ill enough but it was the son’s funeral rites that had caused the High-King such misery, and some said, driven him to the edge of madness and despair…
The road they travelled on had been built during the Wars of Unification, begun by the Third Brethwalda of Goshaen, Breteuil Bloodshield and continued on by his successors Talylln Stoneking and Hywdrc Stonefist. Those High-Kings had bound the Highlands together in the wake of the Dark Ages of Goshaen and had built great roads through the mountains to ensure the swift movement of their warbands. Few knew of the cost in lives such an undertaking had taken for most of those lives had been Skald slaves, reviled by the Dwarven peoples and worked to death in thraldom, vengeance for centuries of misery they had inflicted on the Neurryth. Since those times and the collapse of the Ystwr
ythian hegemony much later, the mountain roads had fallen into disrepair and ruin.
This road twisted through the valleys below the mountainside and where the stone proved unavoidable it had been hewn and cut along its face, so that the road might continue onwards. In places landslides had fallen down upon the road, cutting it off, but in time they had been cleared and the road survived. Every league along its course was marked with a Waystone, etched in the Cthul ruins, marking a traveller’s progress. Over the centuries many these Waystones had disappeared, some stolen, others destroyed by landslides or perhaps, by the eternal rainfall and wind of the passing centuries. Enough remained however, for one to mark their progress. As they passed one, Owain bent down in his saddle to read its runes. He knew this particular Waystone well, having passed it a hundred times in his lifetime, yet he wanted the pleasure of seeing it once more, deciphering its ancient symbols. Five leagues to the Southern Ward, then home!
Marcdudd’s death was what had brought him to Syndryn. He glanced to his left. Beside him rode Eddwyn. The boy had changed little since his exile from Ystwryth. Perhaps a little taller and a little wiser and more sure of himself after three years living among the Cthul. He rode with Owain’s two sons, Aedin and Llan, the three of them in deep discussion. Over the winter the three boys had become friends. Owain laughed a little to himself. He called them boys and yet all three were men fully grown. He was an old man now, the ithir in his bones and flesh growing softer and weaker as the days passed while the tine of their ambitions and hopes flourished with youthful purpose ever brighter. Eddwyn stood taller than his two sons, he stood taller than most in Ystwryth or Syndryn, a peculiarity among the Dwarves. If one did not see his face one might mistake him for a human but his features were typically Dwarven, deep and angular stretched over dark brown skin. His eyes looked older and wiser than for one of his few years, perhaps due to the power the Cthul had discovered in him, perhaps due to the parents he had lost, one to the fires and one to the mountain and a sister he had been forced to abandon. He had been away from the city and his sister nearly three years but if he had any feelings on the matter he hid them well as he chatted with Aedin and Llan. That was good, the boy need to be strong in the days ahead. Who knew what awaited them in Ystwryth?