Wanderer

8 - Valthalion

Earendil

“But soon there is going to be no time to act! It’s folly to wait around and let them come to us. I say we fight!”

 The speaker, a man with dark eyes and an even darker scowl, thumps back down into his chair with a satisfied smile. There’s one everywhere you go, the brazen overconfident. Erenion’s hosted enough councils to know not to take them too seriously. He accepts the comment and looks out over the room.

 Can he see anything through the fatigue? If he could, he’d be seeing a huge, high ceilinged room with a three hundred-foot-long table holding 150 dignitaries in royal attire.

Erenion clears his throat, four seats away from me, and motions to Alaytar. Good choice. Alaytar stands up, a small scroll in one hand, and begins to speak.

 “At this stage in the proceedings, it would be hasty and rash to decide what to do without looking at our resources. I have been asked, on behalf on the head of the Remnant Reserve Army, to read his report to you today.

There are currently six thousand male elves in reserve and five hundred shieldmaidens in reserve. This has drastically dropped from the census taken just before the last assault. This census recorded nearly two thousand shield maidens and just short of nine thousand male elves.”

The head of the active military rises. “In the Militant Remnant, we currently have ten thousand elves in various bases outside the Dark Land and six hundred elves in a small fortress inside the Dark Land.”

Erenion had better make sure any assault or defense he launches because there won’t be resources for another.

Then the head of the elves in the Dark Land explains next the details of the Dark One’s threat. “He is preparing an army at least twenty thousand strong. Our spies have also reported a reserve of another forty thousand strong…”

 “Are there any explanations for this army?” Erenion asks. “We’ve had no terms of treaty,” the captain answers. “There is no explanation for this monstrous army.”

“How close are they? What threat do they currently pose?”

“Majesty, they are currently inside the Black Gate with no threat to anyone but themselves and the garrison of Elves stationed inside the gate. However, if they were released and allowed – or sent – to attack, we would be vastly outnumbered.”

 When the king poses no further questions, the elf sits down with a respectful bow.

 “You have heard the facts. Do you agree when I say this is real and pressing threat?” Erenion asks.

 The entire room rises as one, except for me, Alaytar and Jade and I.

 Erenion waves them all down, ignoring their requests to speak, and motions Jade to stand up and give her thoughts. Though a faint blush rises to her face with the knowledge of so many eyes upon her, she seems composed and her voice is steady. All the levity she displayed yesterday is very much forgotten.

“This army is a threat.” she says in a clear tone that rings throughout the vast hall. “There’s no question about that. The question is about to whom this army is a threat, and where. Right here, now, this instant, in this city, however, this army is not an immediate, pressing threat. But we can’t forget about them because the truth is – the facts tell us- that we can’t attack them directly and have hope of victory. There is another way, although I do not know of it.”

 Jade is greeted with silent respect. I know she has earned my respect, for one.

Erenion nods. “You speak great wisdom. I completely agree with you. Can anyone add anything to this, or perhaps refute it?”

Alaytar doesn’t deign to rise, to ask permission to speak. “I don’t think we are addressing the question here. Yes, so there is an army, it’s real, and because it’s an army, it probably is a threat – remind me of the definition of an army? – and what-the-hell-are-we-going-to-do-about-it is a relevant question, but why this army is even assembled is a better question yet. Does anyone else agree? We need answers.”

I admire Alaytar for addressing his daughter’s question and also for taking her seriously. And he’s right. We’ve all guessed at the answer but it’s never been answered.

A new voice breaks in.“You want answers, do you?”

All heads whip around to stare at the speaker, and in an instant the guards to the king have drawn their swords.

How did no one see him enter? The doors to the conference room were closed, all six feet of them. The door wardens look as confused as we are.

 Oh Valar, Valthalion.

‘Valiant strength’ was his name as an elf. I remember him as a proud, stiff young male with obviously superior intelligence and fierce electric blue eyes. We’d all held him in highest esteem for his military prowess, and girls practically threw themselves at him. He’d been arrogant before he was thought to have been lost several years ago, distanced himself from everyone and looked down on the general populace.

Around that time came rumors of a lesser Dark One, one named the, who mocked the Free Peoples by wearing bleached white clothing. No one had ever seen this apprentice, but it’s obvious now they are one and the same because Valthalion is dressed in immaculate white silk, holding a bag to his chest that stains his tunic. His cloak is stamped with the insignia of the Dark One, a single lidless eye with a black pupil.

 “We all long for answers, Valthalion.” Erenion says gravely, and his gaze never wavers. He’s not just talking of the answer Alaytar demanded. A murmur rises, barely perceptible at first. Voiced by a hundred and fifty voices, it takes shape into traitor.

Valthalion smiles thinly and returns Erenion’s stare. “Wonder on, then! Because I have a different answer for you.” He presses his hands to the dark stain on his tunic from the sack, and flings from it in Erenion’s direction a severed elven head.

 The eyes are closed, thankfully, but I catch a flash of gold woven through the dark hair as the head spins across the table.

Jade presses her slim fingers to her lips, and the room erupts into horrified cries of outrage.

Valthalion smirks at the horror he’s instilled and looks at the blood spattered onto the table. The head splatters the table and some of the nobles as it revolves in the air, bouncing and rolling to a stop before Erenion.

He doesn’t flinch, to his credit.

“Answer me this,” he says in answer. “When your retribution comes, will you cry for mercy, and will I be around or willing to give it to you?”

Erenion sounds sad but composed. “Valiant strength is no longer your name. I name you ‘Sauron', the Abhorred."

 “My army serves the bidding of my master, and his wishes are law. You know what he seeks. If, by this very day next year, the Dark One does not hold the Light Above All Others in his very palm, the city will burn and you with it. And then we shall see who is making threats and who is crying for mercy.”

 He laughs.

“Abhorrence is power. Hatred is power. I embrace my name, and I embrace my power. Look and behold!” He points at the head.

“That is my power. I will return in a year, Erenion, He-Who-Walks-Alone, and it is your answer that must be the right one.”

The elf sweeps his gaze across the room, stalks the length of the room, and passes right through the locked door with no apparent effort.

The room sits in silence. A minute passes. The pool of blood on the table before Erenion widens. The door wardens shift uneasily.

Erenion breaks the silence at last. First he voices the appropriate if not highly obscene word that’s on all of our minds. Then he dismisses us for the day.