Dafydd Vision in Nagrad

Dafydd’s Vision

“Well nephew, how goes your trade?”

“Ahh, Keffendir supplies some of the finest stones and metals and Malen has a very healthy market”

“I told you, when the exodus slows, trade would increase.”

“That you did and we are positioned well to enjoy the fruits of our labour.”

“How goes your Navy?”

“Nearly complete, I have the final materials in your harbour uncle…What news from my mother?”

“She is well, though impatient to try out your Force.”

Dafydd is stood in the centre of a dark, cold room; the only light entering does so through a thin crack between 2 closed shutters, blocking the narrow window to his right. Along with light enters the occasional flurry of snow and the high pitched wail of a wind at gale force, driving against the walls, seeking out cracks through which to enter and take respite. The bare flagstones on which he stands are well fashioned and clean, and what furniture there is, is sparse and unrefined. To his left is a small iron bound wooden door; a heavy iron key protrudes from its hole. Where the snow has collected, it has frozen, producing white mosaics on the floor and walls, which catch what little light there is and reflect it in all colours of the rainbow. These small, ever changing reflections stand out more as Dafydd’s eyes adjust to the gloom.

Standing in the room with him are two tall, slender elves. Each is dressed in dark clothes, the colours of which are indistinct. Broadly, Dafydd gets the feel that one favours greys and the other blues and indigoes. The ‘Grey’ one is a little taller although he is much slighter of frame. He is effeminate in manner and action but appears older. His hair is long and white, streaked with grey, pale blue and violet. Pallid, waxy skin is drawn taught over high cheek bones, a hawk-like nose and a protruding forehead. His eyes are intense and shine brightly - sky blue - and have a humour in them like someone used to playing practical jokes. His mouth is twisted into a half smile, half smirk which displays neat stalactite-like upper teeth. The other, stockier, shorter and younger elf seems more masculine. He smells of the sea and has darker skin – albeit a shade or two paler than a normal elf’s. His hair is long, wavy and deep navy blue. Both are armed with long and short swords, although those of the younger elf are curved at the end. The ‘grey’ one wears a cuirass, with back-plate, attached to which is a Fauld and a Culet. Each piece of armour is dull metal, ornately inlaid with ivory and sapphires arranged in random patterns like the flurry of snow drifting in through the window. The other wears Brigandine of deep blue and green, weaved in a fluid pattern and studded with emeralds, sapphires, tourmaline and diamonds. The only lamé (strip of metal) visible is his Gorget which extends to protect his sternum, his clavicle and the front and back of his neck. The Gorget is rolled and patterned to represent a wave just before it breaks. He carries a Bassinet under his left arm, open at the face and bedecked with long flight-feathers of rare sea birds.

A trumpet note carries above the howl of the wind and drifts in through the ill-fitting shutter. Both elves stop talking, exchange worried glances and make for the window. The younger one reaches it first and flings it open allowing the elements to burst into the room, instantly filling it with a blizzard. Another note rings out and is followed by the shouts of many voices near and far.

“Were you followed, Magreb?”

“No uncle; let’s move to a closer tower – they cannot approach from windward.”

With that, both elves disappear through the door and Daffyd finds himself stood on a parapet looking out to sea. Behind him, a mountain rises up steeply, bare, broken and ash covered; its windward side is covered in deep snow layered on ancient thick ice sheets. As his eyes scan towards the leeward side, the snow recedes and the ice thins. The huge curtain wall stands above an almost sheer cliff – the final plunge of mountain to sea - at the foot of which massive, jagged rocks surge upward in an effort to rise above the constant pounding of the swell. Facing the sea, to his right, the parapet plunges down a slope towards an impressive harbour – wharfs, warehouses and covered markets dominate the scene. In the harbour many ships of all different shapes and sizes are moored but it is the vast galleons that are of most interest. Laden with good, they are also heavily armed with Trebuchet, Ballista, Mangonels and the like. To his left, the parapet climbs a short distance then follows the spur of the mountain – going forward, towards the sea, then switching back through 100˚ and riding down the other side of the spur out of sight.

The parapets are full of these darkly clad elves; armed to the teeth and with composite bows ready they stand in defiance. Dafydd follows their gaze back out to sea where he catches glimpses of burning ships and a fast approaching armada. The warships fly a flag he recognises –the silhouette of a warship with a full moon behind – Milai! As the ships approach, the first bombardment strikes the walls and ships in the harbour. Elves, walls, buildings and ships are smashed, crushed and pounded by the relentless bombardment. Dafydd sees Magreb spring from the parapet of the second wall, run for the nearest Wharf and jump aboard a small launch, timing his leap to perfection, landing squarely aboard the vessel, despite the huge swell. At that moment the ‘grey’ elf emerges from a hidden door in the cliff which opens onto the parapet. He is chanting quietly at first, eyes rolled completely back into his head, arms outstretched and feet apart. The chant quickens and gets louder before, suddenly, it stops. ‘Grey’s’ eyes return, fix out to sea and, bringing his hands together with straight arms, he points to the nearest enemy vessel. Ice springs forth from his hands and blasts the ship trying to land its marines close to the Wharf. The ship rocks and breaks off its attempt, risking a tack into wind which brings it dangerously close to the rocks. The elves on the parapets light their arrows and shoot them into the vessel which catches quickly.

The battle rages, neither side getting an upper hand. Then Dafydd becomes aware that one of the larger of Milai’s ships has positioned itself well, below and to his left. This ship has a reinforced hull, providing armour above and below the waterline. Ladders and grappling hooks are deployed whilst accurate ballista fire rakes the parapet. The troops on the ship move swiftly and gain a foothold on top the nearby parapet. Dafydd is struck by the first elf he sees. A good hand shorter than the dark elves around him, his clothes, armour and demeanour could not be in more contrast. Like the sun piercing the night, his bright burnished gold and silver armour flashes, his long flowing golden hair refuses to be contained by his open-faced helmet which displays a handsome, kindly face that emanates a mix of compassion and sorrow. His concentration is evident as he wields a bastard sword, as long as he is tall, in great arcs, cleaving his foe from the battlements.

The confrontation is inevitable. Standing close to ‘Grey’, Dafydd hears him chant once more as the ‘golden’ elf twists and pirouettes his way along the parapet, engaging where he has to, with the single purpose of this dual. Grey throws ice, cold, wind, hail and driving rain at his enemy but nothing deters his advance.

“We meet, Craciss,” ‘Golden’ shouts above the noise of battle and elements, “prepare to meet thy doom.”

In mid chant, Craciss (Grey) does not reply with words, his retort is far more deadly – hailstones the size of boulders shoots forth from his hands at blistering speed smashing into his foe. Slowed but not deterred, ‘Golden’ closes to range and whips his sword at Craciss’ throat. Like a viper he jabs, keeping Craciss from using dweomer and his sword free from entanglement. Joined by others of his kind, Golden presses his attack and ignores the belligerence of the dark elves around him.

“Get thee gone, foul abomination! My Uncle should have gutted you like he did your brother.”

“Ah, Astorin, isn’t it? Oh, how we enjoyed watching your uncle die; we used him for stud then took years to bleed him dry.”

The protagonists circle each other, swords drawn – feinting, dodging, leading, jabbing and exchanging ‘pleasantries’ – trying to find an opening.

Suddenly, it was over. Astorin bends his left leg as if to feint, pirouettes clockwise, extending his sword arm at the same time, and slices the blade’s razor sharp edge into Craciss’ unprotected neck, just above his cuirass. The sword completed its arc as if at had sliced thin air. There was a pause, filled only by Craciss’ gurgles, during which only his mouth moved - still recalling the signals sent from his brain a split second before. Then Craciss’ head rolls slowly from his shoulders and bounces down the parapet, whilst his torso slowly heaves to one side and plunges over the parapet to the sea below.

Dafydd finally recalls seeing Magreb stood helpless on the launch staring up at the combat, hands slowly moving from hips to face.