Morwath in Malek

Malenwe struggled onto all fours and then into a crouch. Her head was buzzing from the blow which felled her where she stood. She remembered the force of the strike but could not recall what caused it or what happened immediately before. She looked around and the sense of horror came crashing back. It was a scene of carnage, the dead and dying were everywhere. She stood slowly, the pain from her head threatening to fell her again, she winced. What now? She must find her family. Morwath would help…no he was missing. She thought she recalled him falling…Oh, the pain. Would her family offer much assistance? She knew that her father was almost at a loss and that her opinion counted for little compared to that of her brother, now that her mother was gone. No, things would be left to her now. She had clearly been overlooked by the enemy – that was his mistake. Morwath’s possessions - the Druid had spoken just enough to prick Malenwe’s curiosity - were clearly all that the Demon required. Why take the half-elf? He was clearly a power on the Prime but that did not stop the slaughter, so why keep him alive? Regardless, he had gone; would she ever see him again? Tears welled in her eyes and she was surprised by her reaction. So many had fallen today and yet she wept for one. Perhaps her feelings had run deeper than she had thought possible.

She channelled her energies elsewhere; galvanising what little strength she had, Malenwe moved carefully through the destruction. Suddenly she came across the rent and torn carcass of Walorin. He had been stripped naked and discarded amongst the carbonised plant life. She knelt by his side and prayed to Freya. She asked for Walorin’s swift passage to Asguard, his safe traverse of the Bifrost Bridge to enter the hallowed world and the hunting grounds oft spoken of by the priests. Her heart wondered whether it would have to bear doing the same beside Morwath’s open grave. Eventually she stood erect once more and tore herself away from Walorin’s carcass. No time to commit it to the sky through burning and no time to inter his body so that the woodland would benefit from it. She had to keep moving.

As she passed through the battlefield she bent to hear dying elves’ last words or assist the living, healing those she could. The enemy had left as suddenly as it had arrived. Many, like her, unfortunate enough to be in the path were yet fortunate enough to be brushed aside rather than destroyed. To Malenwe’s surprise, the numbers of living far outstripped the numbers of the dead. Heartened, she rallied those she could and formulated a plan on the move: they would go to the heart of the forest, find her father and persuade him to enter the war against both the Demon and Malor.

She knew the path well and managed to move swiftly building up her followers as she went. As they neared the heart of the forest the trees were in competition for light and grew taller and taller. The elves helped the trees: they shaped them and ensured each had its own place, rooted deeply in the forest and stretching tall to the canopy high above; they too had crafted living spaces in and between the trees. These spaces were invisible to human eye but were as clear as a bright star on a dark night to the elves. The flowers too were well tended, gathering in beautiful clumps of like colour, creating a rainbow of hues across the forest floor.

All was well; there was no sign of the enemy – they did not care about the elves, they merely wanted Morwath’s artefacts. Did he not say as much to Walorin? But what were Malor’s motives? Why did he not send a force to retrieve the artefacts of power? If Morwath’s story had been the truth, he had travelled to the very heart of the Oriental’s evil realm and not been found, yet the Demon knew about Morwath and acted on that knowledge very quickly.

Here we are, she thought, at my father’s house. She entered and paused a moment. Her passage here had been observed but no-one came out to meet her. There was no joy at her return, at the return of many of their folk. She had wondered why she had not been greeted in the customary fashion but had put it down to the elves’ need to keep a low profile. But here was different. Why had her father not been waiting at the entrance like he had so many times before? Panic set in. She tore her way up the stairs which wound around the inside of a giant poplar.

The first room she came to, she recalled, was the public face of her fore-fathers’ dominion. It was modest in size but beautifully decorated with superb carvings of all manner of sylvan tribes which once inhabited this forest. At her father’s desk, which adorned the centre of the room, was a young elf who immediately stood and bowed in greeting.

“Estoin,” Melenwe recognised the boy, “where is my Father?”

“My Lady,” the young elf started, visibly shaken by her presence and stammered, “he has marched north to meet with Malor.” Estoin was typically dressed in forest greens and was lightly armoured: short and long swords, a composite bow and a mithril hauberk, which marked him as one high born.

“What? Meet in battle you mean?” She was confused: stunned by her father’s absence and even more alarmed by the possibility of her father’s treachery.

“No my Lady, meet in parley. He wishes to align with the Oriental Lord to ensure his Kingdom survives the Demon’s attention.” Estoin knew he was to be the bearer of bad news. He had prepared himself for this encounter for days but somehow had been shocked by her reaction.

“Fool! The Demon does not want our land!”

Even to Estorin her reaction was obvious and her words true but he needed to say something, “My Lady, your brother is convinced that this is the right thing to do.”

“Of course he is; he has not seen the truth and is beguiled by Malor’s promises.” Her rebuke was more forceful than she had intended; she was addressing her father, not a youth that had the misfortune to be born highly enough to carry the King’s messages but had been young enough to be useless in battle. “I was once so fooled by someone I trusted” she whispered to herself, “never again!” Continuing in a more audible voice, Malenwe asserted, “No it is not the Demon who desires Efforendil, it is Malor.”

It did not seem to take Malenwe long to assimilate the news, derive a plan and communicate it with sufficient conviction to persuade a large number of her folk to travel north after her father. Morwath’s vision ends as two companies of elven warriors, with Malenwe at their head, leave the once well inhabited forest grove, home of the Efforendil Sylvan Elves, to head north. They are armed, experienced and appear to expect combat. Crucially, Morwath believes that they have the necessary conviction to challenge even their own folk.