Chapter VI:
In Marin Quendom
Battle Sounds
Ere long the travelers came to a place where no trail or path remained. 'We have come to the uttermost end of the land of the Ohhari,' Ojun said. 'And here we must part ways, you to pass into the wild and we to return to our home. May the gods of heaven smile upon you. I am sorry that I can give you no better direction than to tell you that to the west lies the land of Olgrost and the Quendom of the Marin, where no man rules. If you pass through that land and follow the coast to the north you will come at last to Dalta City, which was once called by our ancestors Pendeltha, the city of gods. I cannot tell you the best course to take, nor can I tell you anything of the countries and the people of that land.'
'You have done much for us already,' Whately assured him, 'For that we are grateful; and we will never forget the hospitality of the Ohhari.'
Ojun lowered his eyes, 'Were it left to me I would welcome you to remain among us, but such was not the will of our elders.'
'I understand,' Whately said with a bow, 'May the gods shine upon your path.'
'I trust that they will,' Ojun said with a bow of his own. The two shook one another's hands and turned each to their own fates.
Nothing more is known of the fate of the Ohhari beyond this tale. It is said that still to this day, in some deep and wild place of that valley there remains a hidden realm of woodsmen; still, no doubt, looking to the stars. What will become of them, however, and whether they will ever return to Fhuhar in power only their prophets can tell.
Duri took the lead once more, though he warned Natham that beyond the forest of Olger he could not promise to lead them with any degree of confidence. The road became very difficult for the horses beyond this point, for there were no roads for them to follow and many steep places that they must climb. Whately considered sending them away, to meet their fate in the wild or to return to the Ohhari if they could. Natham, however, insisted upon bringing them and even bent his own great strength toward helping them through the wilderness. At last they came to the top of a very tall hill from which they could see league after league of gentle westward slopes before them. To their south they could see the mountains of Zoar, as Ojun called them, rising into great jagged spikes and towers of rock.
'We are getting close to the ancient Verder Kingdom of Kolohi,' Whately said as they began their descent. 'Here it is said the Elven lord Kolohi established his kingdom in days long past. Out of grief because of his wife's betrayal he lay himself to sleep in a great vault beneath the mountain. There he lies still, it is told, awaiting the renewal of all things.'
'You say 'Elven lord', Natham commented, 'That word I have heard only a few times.'
'The Elves,' Whately explained, are what they call 'gods' in Vestron. Malia herself, I apprehend, is no more than an elf, and the Merkata are what they call 'half-elves'. In this land, in Olgrost I mean, they call them not 'gods' at all. The old city of Dalta, of which Ojun spoke, was once their capitol. From there he challenged the might of the Quendom of Marin, and for many ages, kept their ambition in check. But no rivalry can be eternal. In the end, Dalta, the lord of the elves of that land, was slain in battle against the Ollitov, which is what the Marin call their highest commander. In time the city fell and the elves were slain or exiled. For this reason, the Marin entertain no illusion about the god-hood of the elves. Among the Vestri and the Merkata the immortals are rare enough that men take them to be more than what they are. In my own home they are called simply 'Wise Men', and in the eastern places of Weldera they are called 'Ancients'. But all of these speak of one and the same sort of creature. But of their origins, no man can tell, and their histories are so full of contradictions that it would be impossible to say anything about them without absurdity.'
'Then you have studied their histories?' Natham asked.
'Indeed,' replied Whately, 'But that was many years ago in places that I do not wish to remember.'
Another three weeks passed before any sign of human habitation passed before their eyes. The weather had been fair, and the air grew warmer as they descended into the west. After a few more days the land flattened out and they came across a ruined city, now barely to be discerned amid the trees and bushes that had grown upon it. Whately took it to be one of the old cities of the eastern elves of Kolohi. 'The stones, or at least what remains of them, are cut too well to have been done by mortals. There is no limit to the skill of the deathless.'
They passed through the sorrowful place in silence, coming at length to a small river over which a great stone bridge had once stood. The river was frozen still and the rubble from the bridge made a path on which they were able to lead their horses across. On their left hand they could see looming up tall above them one of the great stone pillars that mark the beginning of the mountains of Zoar. When scarcely they had reached the other side of the water, however, they were startled by a strange sound.
It was like a continuous roll of thunder, though very faint and intermixed with the sound of clanging metal. From where they stood a thin stream of silver smoke could be seen rising into the sky. It was impossible for them to tell from whence the smoke came and how many leagues lay between them and the its source.
For three days they pressed on, always trying to discover the cause of the noise. It would flare up each morning and make its raucous for several hours before abruptly coming to a halt. And each day the sound came from a different place, so that it was very difficult for even Duri to track. But on the fourth day they came to the edge of a small cliff overlooking a clearing. There the mystery of the rumble and smoking and clanging was solved.
In the clearing below they saw dozens of bodies sprawled out lifeless across the ground. There were several armed warriors yet standing, all in silver plated armor holding slender shields and long spears. But the travelers only looked at these for an instant, for it was the foe against which these soldiers were battling that possessed their attention. Towering over the soldiers was what appeared to their eyes to be a man of iron. Thick black smoke poured from his nostrils, he shook and rattled and clanged as he moved, each time sending a pillar of smoke from his head. In his right arm he bore a great spear, such as no mortal man could lift, stained with blood. In his other hand he carried a great mace with jagged spikes upon which still clung the dripping flesh of his victims. This iron giant lunged forward again, and thrust its spear forward. The spear pierced one of the soldiers through the stomach with incredible precision and speed. The soldier let out a scream and then fell to the ground in agony. The others rushed away and took up their defense several paces back. The iron soldier was slowly backing them against the cliff wall.
Whately looked desperately around, trying to think what to do. But he was a strategist, and there are some situations for which there are no strategies. He broke into a sweat and tugged at his hair, his face pale with horror. It was not fear that he felt, but compassion. His torment was in the fact that he could see no means of saving the men below. He knew not who they were or what their reasons were for battle, but he could not bear to watch them be ripped to shreds by this iron marvel.
While he was thus preoccupied, Natham leaped from the cliff, landing on the ground before the giant. Amidst a field strewn with shattered shields and mangled bodies he held aloft mighty Admunth, the shield of Vullcarin. The giant struck first with the mace, but the shield withstood it. Natham lost no time and grabbed the mace with his right arm and ripped it from the giant. The metal groaned, but the mace broke free and dropped to the ground with a thud. The spear came swift and sure, but Natham had already set his shield in place to bear the blow. The point was turned aside and went deep into the earth. Natham dropped the shield and leaped upon the giant.
The two mighty powers thus struggled for the field. Smoke poured from the giant's nostrils in mighty streams and the roar which he ever made grew louder and fiercer. He cast Natham away and made a lung at him with the spear. But Natham leaped aside and grabb
ed the spear with both of his hands, breaking it in two. The giant pulled back its fist as if to punch him, but Natham was too swift for him. He drew his sword and thrust it into the center of the giant's chest, piercing the armor. The sword broke and a dreadful scream rent the sky. The giant smoked and fumed and then flew into a blind rage, swinging its fists wherever it could. Natham knocked it to the ground and tore its limbs from its body until it was just a smoldering heap. Eventually the roaring ceased and the constant stream of smoke relented. By the time Whately made it down into the clearing, the giant was slain and the soldiers were searching for survivors amongst the fallen.
'Too many have fallen,' one of them said. 'And as yet we had not so much as the armor scratched.'
'Too precise they are,' said another. 'No mortal could hope those blows to escape.'
'Yet not too precise for all it appears,' said another as they directed their attention to their rescuer. Now that Natham was among them he was amazed at how slender they were. They were all wearing shirts and tunics of a deep blue color. They also wore black boots with silver buckles matching the silver plated armor that guarded their lives. On their heads they wore ornately carved helmets, each with a different pattern etched across the forehead. As the sunlight struck their helms they looked like so many kings, crowned with glittering light. At their lead walked one much taller than the others atop whose helm was set a blue plume of horse hair. This one Natham perceived to be their captain. When the captain spoke and when the helm was removed, then Natham understood their peculiarity completely. There before him stood, much to his surprise, a woman, and a woman of unsurpassed beauty. To his eyes, she was such that even the radiance of the Lady of the Merkata was made to fade into gray memory. Her eyes sparkled like green flames and her hair was as black as midnight.
Next Natham noticed that all of the soldiers, and not merely their captain, were women. Many of the dead, however, were men; these were armed with less splendid weaponry and with poorer armor than the women. There were only four soldiers remaining out of what appeared to originally have been more than a score. They approached Natham to offer their gratitude, but when they saw his face, and his terrible form they stopped in terror. The captain was undaunted, however, and turned toward her comrades in anger. 'Cowards arise!' she commanded. They obeyed at once, though none of them could bring themselves to look directly at the Monster.
'Much do we owe to you,' she said, bowing her head low before him. The others clumsily followed their captain. 'I am called Lyris,' she introduced herself. 'I am Marshall of the Eastern Wilderness, daughter of Lenrhi, whose sire was Ollitov. May the blessings of our Queen upon you rest; and in our land may you find welcome.'
'I am called Natham,' the monster answered.
'From what land do you hail? For to the west only hermits, rebels and brigands dwell, yet you are none of these I perceive.'
'We came through the forest of Olger from the land of Vestron,' he answered, 'I have lived there long, though we are not of that land or of its kindred.'
'Tell me what news you bring of that land then,' she said in a polite yet demanding voice.
'We do not bring news,' Whately interrupted as he drew nearer to them. All eyes turned to him. 'We bring only ourselves.'
'And thankfully you have come in time to be our help,' Lyris said, still politely, 'Yet I would be no Marshall if I did not ask questions of those who encroach upon our borders, heroes though they may be. I ask again, what news you bring of the land of Vestron and the Kingdom of Harz?'
Whately looked pale, but Natham answered calmly, 'The Kingdom of Harz is fallen, Lord Vullcarin has been dispossessed of the Mountain of Fire, which they call Fhuhar. The Merkata Clan of Rugna now has the dominion in that realm, though it will be long before it can be told whether they will be able to keep their newly gained lordship.'
'Strange tidings these are,' Lyris said with a troubled voice. 'Little we have heard from that realm of late. Is there no chance that you are mistaken?'
'None,' Natham said, though Whately shook his head, trying to silence him. 'I led the army of the Merkata through the Passes of Fire to Thasbond myself; and it was I that spared the life of Vullcarin, exiling him from that mountain forever.'
'That ye are not mere beggars or hermits is plain enough from the Golem that here in smoldering ruin lies. But now I perceive that ye are heroes, and not mere travelers. We would be greatly pleased if ye would follow us to our encampment. From there we may take further council in safety. But now we must tend to the dead.'
'Do you need help?' Natham said in a soft tone.
'That we would appreciate greatly,' Lyris answered. 'We must bury the soldiers with honor and set a marker upon their mound. The hirelings, however, we can burn with fire.'
It was well past nightfall when all their labors were finished. The soldiers, which were all women clad in the same silver mail as the survivors, were laid in rows one next to the other with their armor cleaned and polished, their spears at their right sides and swords upon their breasts. Their helms were set under their left arms and their slender shields were lain atop them almost as a blanket. All afternoon Lyris wandered the clearing with tears streaming from her eyes, gathering what leaves and flowers she could find upon the frozen ground. After a while she had enough to lay a small laurel crown upon each woman's brow. Their long hair was combed and laid upon their shoulders in braids, tied with strands of crimson string. Altogether there were fifteen fallen women, which Lyris called 'soldiers'. Around their bodies was built a small wall of uncut stones which was then filled with earth until the soldiers were completely buried. On the top of the mound was set a large stone upon which she carved the words, 'Rest, Brave Marin Dead'.
There were many more men laying dead in the clearing, which she referred to as 'hirelings'. These she had Natham pile into a mound and set on fire. When all their labors were ended they brought from their provisions some sort of soft bread and some spiced meat. This they heated on sticks and ate hot. Of all that they had they shared generously; they had much to spare, having lost the greater part of their number in the battle. Quite to Whately's horror, the soldiers unabashedly plundered the belongings of the 'hirelings', taking what seemed to be of value, burning or burying the rest. Lyris took from one, whom Natham took to be the leader of them, some silver amulet with a bright red gem in the center. This she put about her own neck and tucked the jewel beneath her shirt. The women took no notice of the travelers' amazement in this.
'I take it these men are not your countrymen?' Whately later asked.
'Indeed not,' Lyris scoffed. 'These are men. But the Marin are women only.'
'Truly women only?' Whately asked thoughtfully.
'Indeed, Marin Quendom admits no men.'
'Yet it is as you have said,' Whately pointed out, 'You are the grand-daughter of an Ollitov.'
Lyris nodded, 'Indeed, we have no men, but that means not that we have not the need for them. Whether for the increase of our Kingdom or for their strong arms in times of war, we must make what use of them as we may.'
They spoke very little that night. The women had unbound their hair and put dirt under their eyes, which Whately took to be some sign of mourning for their fallen companions. The skies were clear and bright that night and an unseasonable warm wind blew across the clearing, calming them and slowly lulling them all to sleep. Each of the women took turns keeping watch, though Natham slept not at all that night. Whenever one of them was awakened to keep watch they found him sitting there silently adoring the stars above. He seemed not to notice their rising and going to sleep. Lyris, when it was her turn to watch, drew nearer to him as if to speak, but when she saw how ardently he studied the heavens she thought better of it and left him undisturbed.
Of Marin Quendom
Olgrost begins in the east where Vestron ends; it has for its eastern border the dark woods of Olger and the Veste Mountains upon whose hills the trees of that forest grow. This great woodland is called the Forest of
Kolohi by the people of Dalta City, but is simply referred to as Eastwood by the Marin. This forest stretches almost from the northern edge of Olgrost to the Zoar mountains in the south, some one hundred and seventy leagues or so. From the habitations of the Ohhari to the end of the wood in the west and the beginning of Olgrost proper it is somewhere between seventy and one hundred leagues, depending of course, upon the route of travel. Due west from the passes of Veste, through which all travelers from Vestron must pass, lies the ruins of that once great city of Kolohi. Another sixty or seventy leagues to the west is Lake Pelil, upon whose northern shores was built Marin Fortress, from whence the Quendom of Marin is ruled. On the southern shores of that lake and beyond, stretching over a hundred leagues to the Sea of Kollun, is the land of Hilgram, where the men are said to be wild and treacherous. All that lies between Marin Fortress and the passes of Veste is claimed by Marin.
Marin occupies a place of power, almost at the very center of the land of Olgrost. It lies on the water, which gives it not only protection, but influence, since so many in that land depend upon it for life and sustenance. Due north of Marin Fortress is the Frozen Coast, where the ancient fables say Queen Wellin is imprisoned. But there are none who have verified the old accounts, nor are there any who have found the haunted tower in which she is said to be imprisoned.
A little to the north and some one hundred and fifteen leagues to the west from Marin lies the great city of the elves named for their Lord, Dalta, who was one of the six elf fathers.
The history of Marin begins more than two millenia ago, when the dread wars between Xanthur and the elves first began. Xanthur was revealed to be the Lord of the men of Lapulia in what the elves considered the millennial anniversary of their first coming. Immortal, he spent five hundred years ordering the continent of Dominas until his might was supreme and his army invincible. His first strike was against the Verder kingdom of Kolohi, which once occupied the western forests of Olgrost, the very forests in fact from which Natham and Whately had just emerged.
Xanthur accomplished his victory in this way: He seduced Queen Wellin, the wife of Kolohi, and by her influence rendered the whole kingdom helpless and weak. Through many fell lies she deceived both her husband and the kingdom's generals until they were wholly incapable of defending their realm. His army swept through the wooded realm with ease, the warriors of Kolohi being confused and disillusioned. His commander in that campaign was a dark and wicked man of Snakhil named Vantu. By his cruelty, the forests of Verder and the mighty cities of Kolohi lay in ruins by the end of three years. All the wealth and learning of a thousand years lay now in utter ruin. Kolohi's sons were slain, it is believed, and he himself disappeared from history. The elves say he sleeps in some deep vault, awaiting some fated hour at which he will return. It is more probable, though, that he perished during the wars of those days. His wife, being a traitor, was confined by Vantu in a high tower on the northern coast of Olgrost, where some say she dwells still. It was also in this era that the Harz Nobles invaded Vestron, though a connection between them and the lord of Lapulia has never been officially acknowledged or conclusively proven.
Vantu next turned his sword against Dalta, hoping to rid Dominas and Olgrost of elven lords forever. But his vice overtook his might and upon taking the eastern fortress of Lepani he captured and made a spectacle of Dalia, the daughter of the elf lord Dalta. Her betrothed, the mighty Thuruvis of Dadron, marched with five hundred warriors from Dalta City to meet Vantu in battle at Lepani. In the fields to the west of the fortress, Thuruvis' small band of elven warriors humiliated the northern arm of Xanthur's army, slaying nearly a third of Vantu's army in three days.
Thuruvis, mourning the loss of his beloved and finding revenge to be an insufficient reward for his labors, left those shores forever, swearing never to look upon the eastern lands again.
Left in chaos, the men of Olgrost battled for power. Wars washed the land in blood, kingdoms arose and fell, lords and generals slew one another for honor and for fame. Duels, daring deeds, horrid crimes and terrible battles raged in every quarter. Dalta confined himself to the western shores of the continent, unwilling to expend his might to quell the raging mortal factions. 'No longer shall the immortal bleed for the mortal,' he declared.
In the midst of this chaos there arose one of the most peculiar tribes that have ever lived in Tel Arie. The founder of this tribe was a half-elf named Marin. She was the daughter of Dalia, the princess of Dalta, and of Vantu, mightiest of Xanthur's devilish warriors. The blood of immortal royalty flowed through her veins and the strength of one of the bravest mortals was in her arms. When she was but seventeen years old she was deeply affected by the suffering of those women who were forced to live under the shadow and thunder of their husbands' ambitions. She personally witnessed the outrages of war when an army of brigands invaded the small northern village where she and her patron had taken refuge along with several other dispossessed families. The women of that village were captured by stupid brutes of the worst sort, forced into slavery, sold and divided. All this was for the sake of man's lust for power and conquest, she perceived. Men rose and fell as heroes, but women and children fell by the wayside as worthless chattel or as victims. What sympathy their plight inspired only served to further fuel the fires of war and hatred. Every crime inspired an equal crime as revenge. The outrage against her village was met with violence, and the barbaric invaders were slain with the swords of yet more barbarians. 'What brave men!' she scoffed, even in that hour.
Not only in war did she discover inequity and injustice. From their earliest days she noted a disparity between men and women, nay, even before their birth there was a distinction. Every mother and every father, every grandsire and matron alike pined and prayed for a strong son for their first-born. A daughter was at best accepted, but never hoped for. If a woman gave birth to seven or eight daughters she was suspected of witchcraft. On the other hand, to give birth to five or six strapping boys was an honor that only the favor of a god could explain.
From their earliest day, boys were tutored in letters and lordship while girls were trained in sewing and servitude. Young men were brought up to be brave and strong, seeking lordship over kingdoms and tribes, cities and nations; but if they could have none of these, at the very least they were lords over their women. Women, on the other hand, were brought up to be servants of their fathers first and later of their husbands. A noble and lordly woman might hope at the most to become the servant of some great warlord or some kingly noble, which is simply to say that a woman's highest achievement was to become the thrall of a still greater master.
The effects of these inequities extended even beyond old age and into death. For gray hair and wrinkled skin are a sign of maturity and wisdom to the man; to the woman they are signs of strain and ugliness. They both die, but only the man is remembered, first in the names of his children and later by historians and poets. The woman is often forgotten even before she is put in the grave. Ere the rising of the Marin Quendom there were some who could recall the names of their sires for nearly twenty generations. But no one could remember the name of his great grandmother.
Men had from birth to death every advantage and every honor; they were bred to be valiant and brave, wise and virtuous. Women were raised to be servants, submissive and simple.
Yet for all their brave deeds and noble thoughts, men could not find peace. War erupted again and again, each peace only fueling the fires of the next conflict. The horrors of that time killed many women, but it made those who survived strong. Of those survivors, Marin became chief, lending her strong arms and her half-elven wisdom to their plight. She trained women in the arts of war and proved herself to be her father's daughter in battle. Thus was born the Marin Tribe, the root and foundation of what would become the Quendom of Marin; a nation of women, led by and established by mothers and sisters, who were no longer content to watch their families and homes fall to pieces in the fire and ash of war. This was in the fifteen hun
dredth and forty-second year of our age.
The Marin tribe first made use of their strength to guard the northern villages from invaders and warlords, who often came to those lands when they needed to hire warriors or gather taxes for their wars. But no taxes returned to the men of the south from that region in the year the Marin tribe first appeared. Lord Ollitov, the greatest warrior in Olgrost in those days, rode north to make an end of this insurrection of 'bond-women'. He was bested in a duel against Vantu's daughter and sold his city and his freedom for his life. He was made her husband, and forever afterward, as the custom is in the Quendom, the Queen and King are named Marin and Ollitov. But Marin refused to take lordship over Ollitov's lands and people. She only demanded that whatsoever woman wished to leave her life of servitude behind and join her in the Tribe would be permitted to do so.
The Maiden Festival
There is an impracticality of a She-Tribe, certainly of a Quendom, that I am confident my readers have already considered. If the Marin Tribe consists of women only, and if later the Quendom itself admits no male citizens, how is the society maintained and propagated?
The solution to this problem arose very early in the history of Marin Quendom, even while Marin yet lived. Every autumn, just after the harvest, the Marin Tribe holds what is called 'The Maiden Festival', the revelries of which are famous throughout all the civilized and especially throughout the uncivilized world. It is spoken of with cheers in Titalo, indifference in Kollun, jeers in Lapulia, and disdain in Lakil. About the various contests, games, celebrations and feasts of the Maiden Festival, little needs to be said. Suffice it to say, the whole purpose of the Festival was to increase the population of Marin through the birth of daughters come springtime. The sons of Marin, however, were surrendered to the fathers as soon as they were weaned, and delivered to their doorsteps without pomp or ceremony. There was a famous case of a young man named Cedrinos who had no less than seven baby boys left on his doorstep in the space of ten days. He became quite famous in all the ale houses and back alleys of Olgrost, though much less famous with his wife, who became step-mother to all these hungry toddlers.
This is what is known as the Covenant of Marin: Those men who take part in the revelries of the Maiden Festival bequeath to the Marin Quendom all female offspring, a small price to pay they thought. But the males were returned to their fathers before they reached their third year.
When the Quendom had grown into the size of a nation, however, the laws and practices of the Marin Tribe were forced to acquiesce to the more 'natural' circumstances of husbands and wives, fathers and mothers. Men, however, were never accepted as citizens, with the one exception of the husband of Marin, Ollitov, whomever he might be.
Women of War
Though they were convinced that a nation commanded by women would serve mankind better than what had hitherto ruled over humanity, the realization of that ideal was not forthcoming. War and danger still beset them on every side, and whether they were more cool headed and less arrogant than their predecessors mattered very little. Marin was compelled to maintain almost constant war against her neighbors. Most of the time they fought in defense, but admittedly often for gain or for glory and sometimes simply for honor. In the end, their Quendom can stand amidst all the other kingdoms and dominions of the earth without it even being noted that they were in every generation ruled by women rather than men. The end result of their government, its powers, its needs and its abuses were very much the same in all things.
The might of the Marin Tribe became such that even the elves of Dalta City became wary of them. As early as the sixteen-hundred and seventh year of this age Marin found herself facing the deathless upon the battlefield. It was also at this time that the seeds of the fall of Dalta City, its lord and its heritage, were sown. Unable to defeat them alone, Lord Dalta made a league with the vicious and brutal men of Hilgram, who came against Marin from the south of Olgrost. The army of Marin was scattered, and the princess Elna was taken captive by Lord Dalta, who, in an act of utter thoughtlessness, gave her to the Master of the Hilgramun. It was in this battle that Marin was slain, and as Fate would have it, she was slain with the sword of her own grandfather, Dalta, father of her mother Dalia, whom Vantu had abused. Among her people, the heritage of Marin was well-known, but among the elves it was never acknowledged. Dalta himself thrust his blade through her armor without regard. She looked upon him with sorrowful eyes and then fell to the dust, cursing the name of her father with her last breath.
Many laments were written among the Marin Tribe about the fall of Marin and the dreadful suffering of their captive princess. Oaths were sworn, and the fall of Dalta City was prophesied.
The princess proved to have the blood of Vantu within her; she soon found an opportunity to escape and make her return to the Marin Tribe, where she was welcomed with great rejoicing.
The revenge of Marin came swiftly. Elna, taking the place and name of her slain mother, led her people to war within the decade. Eight years after they were driven from Pelil by Dalta and the wicked men of Hilgram, Marin returned and inflicted such devastation on the southern country that all claim on Lake Pelil was surrendered to her forever. The master of the Hilgramun was impaled upon a great spike which was raised above the city of Pelhugram. Thus the banner of Marin for the first time blew in the wind above the great lake of Olgrost, and beside it the city's former lord writhed in anguish, perishing ere the afternoon was full. The spike remained aloft until the body rotted from it and fell to the earth of its own decay. It was burned where it landed and a great mound of stones were laid atop it, marking forever the place where the enemy of Marin was punished.
This marks the beginning of the Marin Quendom. Before that it was called a tribe or a sect and many other things. But here for the first time the Lady of Marin accepted royal honors. A crown of silver was fashioned and set with five rubies that they had captured, among many other treasures, from the Hilgramun. She was crowned queen over all of the east and south of Olgrost in the thirty seventh year of the sixth century of the second millenium of this age. On the northern shores of the lake, Marin Fortress was built. It is from there that every queen and king of Marin has ruled.
By the end of a century, Marin ruled over every mortal soul in Olgrost, reducing Dalta to an oasis of fortresses, unassailable yet with no hope of expansion. All that remained outside her grasp was the city of Dalta, wherein the elves yet lived and the Zoar frontier city of Borzal, which was haunted by dwarves.
There were many wars between Dalta, Zoar, Borzal and Marin in those days and in the centuries that came to pass. No great progress was made, however, and all the best efforts of the rival kingdoms led only to the same stalemate they had achieved in their previous struggles. In the course of these wars, Marin Quendom finally avenged the death of their first Queen. Ollitov, the husband of the Marin who reigned in the middle of the fourth century of Marin's dominion, killed Dalta and drove the elves far away from Pelil. Hurting and devastated, the elves swore to avenge themselves upon Marin. But their oaths came to naught.
Nearly one hundred and fifty years later a man of bold words and rash deeds came to rule over the city of Lapulia, which lies far to the south along the western coasts of Dominas. This was that man who is called Czylost by historians, self-sworn enemy of the ancient elves and instigator of those horrible Race Wars that covered Tel Arie in blood.
In league with this dangerous man, Marin at last drove the dwarves from Borzal and purged them from the land of Olgrost. They escaped into their mountain strongholds, however, and to this day they haunt the wild places of Olgrost, vexing the marches of the Quendom and taxing travelers. Twelve years later, with Czylost's aid, Ollitov slew Dalta II and Marin at last demolished his city, ending at last the easternmost stronghold of the elves.
Now in full possession of Olgrost, Marin Quendom spent the next twenty-eight years building her strength. This new power was first unleashed in the continent of Illmaria against the elves of Luma. The a
ncient city of light and the Crystal Palace of Falruvis were burnt to the ground and left in smolders. The elves fled to Weldera and found refuge in the citadel of Dadron, whose walls were believed to be as immortal as their elven builders. After six years had passed, Czylost and Marin, through bribery and deceit, made an alliance with the country of Amlaman and lay siege to Dadron, surrounding it on every side with towers of war. Were it not for the many hidden waterways, which the mortal armies never fully discovered, Dadron would have been lost at once. But the city of Falruvis defiantly withstood their siege for over twenty years.
At last, when it seemed they could bear no more, the Nine Heroes of Noras appeared, Cheftan Galvahir wielding the Sword of Pelas, god of the Argent elves. With their aid, the elves broke the siege and drove their enemies through Amla Gap into the wilderness of Amlaman.
But only twenty-one years later, when Czylost was one hundred and twenty-five years of age, a final assault was made against the Holy City. So fierce and sudden was their onset, so cunningly executed was their plan, so numerous were their warriors, and so unexpected was the betrayal of the Elvenking that the city did not withstand the attack for more than two weeks. It was said that the Nine Heroes of the Noras were slain in that battle, for they came to the aid of their benefactors and fought to their very last breath for the city of Pelas.
Thus the Race Wars were over, and Czylost ended his hateful raging at last and lay his gray head to rest on the bed of the slain Falruvis. There he died, and it seemed that all passion and valor with him. The wind grew cold and long shadows seemed to spread throughout the land. Marin, finding the war more costly than it was beneficial, withdrew her soldiers little by little from Weldera. It had been Czylost's goal to make an end of all elves. He had seen the end of Dalta, of beautiful Luma, and Dadron last of all. Untouched, however, were the lands of Bralahi, whose secrets are to mortals unreachable. Czylost, therefore, died a failure by his own standards and a devil by all others, and the melancholy of his soul seemed to poison the whole region. The armies of Amlaman slipped quietly away from Falsis, taking little plunder from their ancient neighbors. The record of the war, or at least their own involvement in it, was nearly stricken from their histories. The armies of Lapulia remained in command of the citadel for a mere thirty years at the end of which they surrendered the dominion of Falsis and the city of Dadron to the Daevaron of east Falsis who rule it to this day.