The Path Shrouded in Mist and Shadow by Meisiluosi

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Chapter 1

A note on the names: We know that the names given in the legendarium are elven variations of the original names. I decided to let these people address each other in their own language:
Ylpang = Ulfang
Bör = Bór
Yldar = Uldor

Warning: I've allowed my inner philologist/culturologist/anthropologist to run a bit wild.

The wind from the West was sweeping through the plain. Chilly though it was, it was almost pleasant compared to the vicious bite of the howling winds that usually came from the North. It was winter still, but spring was already fast approaching, and the grasslands were like matted brass, wave upon wave of yellowish mass, rustling, sighing, stretching into the horizon.

A small gathering of men could be seen amid the ceaseless undulations, sombre and firm like a rocky island in the middle of a perturbed sea. Their horses grazed not far from them, and above their heads two large eagles circled in the sky.

They were two bands of four, all slant-eyed, with sharp, angular features, and all armed with short, stout bows and long, curved sabres. But apart from those few common traits, they were unalike in visage and in manner. Their clothes were perhaps the most obvious contrast between them. The men in one of the groups – all tall, sun-tanned and dark haired – looked like herders; they were dressed in practical woollen clothes and their boots, caps and overcoats were made of sheepskins. The other four men were clad mainly in leather and in wolf fur and it was easy to tell they came from one of the hunting tribes of the Northern Stretches. On average, they were shorter, stouter and of lighter skin than those from the other company, and their hair was brownish black with a distinct reddish gleam to it.

The occasion was apparently formal and of importance. Four ceremonial banners were erected around the gathering: a black banner to the North, green to the West, red to the South and a blue banner in the East. Within that impromptu meeting hall, in the centre of a protective circle formed by their men, two chieftains were sitting on round cushions on the ground, facing each other. The leader of the huntsmen was a sinewy man in his late fifties, with bright eyes that showed great wisdom and greater cunning. His face, while not comely, was intriguing: the crooked nose, the broad cheekbones and full lips were only slightly softened by his neatly trimmed beard and the long, auburn braids that framed his face. Yet there was something composed, dignified and almost appealing about his oddly discordant features. Even though he bore no insignia or ornaments and was dressed in the same style as the other hunters, one could easily tell from the aura of solemn authority which surrounded him that he was a leader among his people.

The man who led the herdsmen was noticeably younger, approaching his fortieth year. His black hair was tied into a topknot and secured with a hair stick carved from bone. He was a pleasant-looking man, with warm dark eyes, elegant features and a regal bearing. He, too, had a beard, short and already laced with some premature streaks of silver.

Between the two men was spread a square mat made of coloured straws woven into intricate geometric patterns. On it was a low table made of red wood, engraved with delicate floral ornaments that contrasted sharply with the angular designs on the mat. It looked strangely out of place amidst the rustling grass, curved blades, leather, and sheepskins.

On it there was a game board with two sets of stones - light grey and dark purple - a teapot and a wine jug, both sitting comfortably on ceramic warmers, and two small cups. It was clear from the arrangement of the stones on the board as well as from the men's focused expressions that they were in the middle of a game.

The older man moved one of the light grey stones on the desk. The younger one frowned, but then his brow smoothed and he looked at his opponent with a knowing smile. "You play a weasel's game, as usual, Ylpang." With that, he moved one of his own stones and took a sip of warmed wine from his cup.
Ylpang chuckled and a good-natured glint lit his eyes. "That is because I'm playing against a fox. That was a wicked move if I ever saw one." He sighed and overlooked the game board. They had reached a decisive point. The next few moves would decide the outcome of the game. "Let us leave the game here, Bör, son of Baazhyr," he announced rather than requested, and took a sip of roastcorn tea.

Ylpang was notorious for never finishing games. He played cautiously, leaving as many possibilities open as he could – at that he excelled. Once it became obvious he would have to choose and either lose or win, he lost interest in the game. He liked having a range of choices and hated ultimatums. Flexibility and caution were the key to survival. The life on the Northern Stretches had taught him that.

Bör shook his head, but there was no reprimand in his voice when he said, "Very well then. Stick to the weasel's game in Khush if that is what you prefer. But there might come a day when you will find yourself cornered and forced to make difficult choices."

Ylpang took another sip of tea. "We are no longer speaking about the game, I take it," he said.

A strong gust of wind hit them, ruffling the fur on the men's cloaks and violently yanking the ceremonial banners.

The smiles faded off the two men's faces and silence settled between them, profound and heavy, woven of many thin strands of all kinds of sounds: the wheezing of the wind, rustling of the grass, the patient, wordless presence of their men and flapping of their heavy cloaks, the occasional snort from their horses, the ringing of the chimes on the horses' reigns. Were it not for the two chieftains and all that needed to be said between them, it would hardly feel like a silence at all.

Then the piercing wail of an eagle descended from the overwhelming blue depths of the sky, and the silence was finally broken.

"Emissaries of the Beguiler came early this year," Bör said. "They took our horses. They said the next time they might be taking our wives. Shadows are creeping from the North. We've been sighting strange creatures venturing further down south."

"Indeed." Ylpang sighed and refilled his cup. "The tidings you bring surprise me little. It is the same all over the Plains. The Dark One sends more and more emissaries to take more and more horses, crops and goods from us. We no longer hunt wolves; the wolves are hunting us. And no ordinary wolves are they. Horrible things haunt Northern Stretches by night. Game is scarce. Woods in the south, I've heard, are overrun with giant spiders and worse; hideous worms and poisonous insects have been infesting the grasslands. There are foul rains that drain the land of all colour even in the spring..."

Ylpang fell silent. None of this was new but the past few years had been much worse than the years before. And it seemed that behind every marauding orc troupe, every human-hunting wolf, and every dark cloud thick with poisonous rain, there was a single sinister purpose. The Beguiler had firmly set his gregarious eye on the Plains. Even speaking about it made both men suddenly feel as if their naked and unprotected souls were exposed to an unspeakable, indescribable evil, alien and otherworldly and yet horribly familiar.

"He's building a second Iron Fortress," Bör finally said after a long, heavy pause. "Building it in our hearts."

The older man did not reply, though he acknowledged Bör's words with a slow, deliberate nod.

Bör sighed and met Ylpang's weary look. "When last they came, I objected and tried to protect our livestock against those Iron Fortress thieves. Their leader laughed in my face and said I should go and look for some greener pastures then – if I dared. He hacked the head off of my best dog, just to get his point across. Next time it might be any of our wives or children."

Ylpang's tired eyes took on a sharp glint. "And what are you aiming at, Baazhyrim*)?"

"Let us listen and be obedient this once!" He clenched his fist against his knee. "Let us leave for greener pastures."

Ylpang laughed. It was a bitter, knowing chuckle of an old cunning fox laughing at the misplaced bravado of a rash cub. The younger of the chieftains did not miss this overtone and was was not pleased to hear it. "What is there to laugh about, Ylpang?" he hissed.

"There is purpose behind everything the old Beguiler does or has his lackeys do," Ylpang replied. "More often than not, he aims to take down two hares with one arrow. Where would you look for those pastures, pray tell?"

"The West! Don't you remember the stories from happier days, when the twilight-folk**) still dwelt in this land?" Bör's enthusiasm was both invigorating and heart-breaking. "To the West, over the mountains is where we must go. There is no future for us here but that of slaves and thralls."

Ylpang did not laugh this time. "What if I tell you," he said, "that the evergreen realm the twilight people spoke about is far beyond the vast sea? That the tall, flame-eyed lords from those stories are cursed and themselves beguiled? That they are fighting a war that cannot be won? That there might be no greener pastures for us save the ones the Beguiler allots us?"

"Then I would have to ask where you've heard all this," Bör replied.

Ylpang hesitated for a moment but then motioned towards a lean young man with a comely face and honey-colored eyes – his eldest son and chief advisor. "Yldar. Bring forth the map."

Yldar went to his father's mare and reached into one of the saddlebags, producing a rolled piece of soft leather. He gave it to his father who, in turn, handed it over to Bör.

One of Bör's men promptly stepped forward and removed the game board and the stones. As Bör unrolled the map on the table, an image of unknown lands stretched out before his eyes. He had seen and read maps before, but those were maps of much smaller regions, familiar areas between the mountain ranges and the southern woods.

The older man put his finger on a spot in the middle of a large, seemingly empty area enclosed by mountain ridges from three sides. "We should be somewhere here right now." He made a circle with his hand around a large area west of the Blue Mountains. "These are the realms of the flame-eyed ones." His finger moved towards a range of high hills. On the map it looked like a belly of a swimming otter. "This...is an intriguing place."

For a moment, Bör all but forgot about any misgivings he might have about the possible source of Ylpang's information. "Why?" He asked, frowning.

Ylpang's eyes lit up with an unusually youthful, almost mischievous glint. "Have you ever had a really bad itch on your back, precisely on that one spot you cannot reach? You barely manage to brush against it with your fingers and it never does the trick; it only makes it worse. In the end you end up stumbling all over the place, grinding and rubbing your back against anything capable of withstanding such treatment – but it still doesn't do the trick."

Bör snorted and nodded: "Once I almost stabbed myself in the back with a pitchfork."

Ylpang chuckled and continued, the spark in his eyes brightening with what seemed a genuine childish satisfaction: "Were this a map of the old Beguilers's back, then this..." Ylpang tapped his bony index finger on the belly of the otter. "This would be precisely that spot. And it itches like a swarm of mosquitoes."

There was a moment of silence as Ylpang studied Bör's face while Bör pored over the map, the corners of his mouth curling upwards in a small, cautious smile that complemented the satisfied gleam of Ylpang's eyes. The idea that the Beguiler actually could have itches he couldn't scratch was both amusing and deeply satisfying.

"It is called Khiimring or something like that," the old man added. "But Yldar has always been better at remembering that sort of thing. And unlike me, he can pronounce those odd names right. Come forth, Yldar, my son. Tell Baazhyrim what the twilight-man has told us."

Bör turned towards Ylpang's firstborn, who was only a few years his junior. He was smooth-faced, pleasant looking and must have taken after his mother, for he looked nothing like Ylpang. He was tall and lanky, and perhaps the only thing that betrayed the presence of Ylpang's blood in him were his bright eyes and full lips.

He bowed slightly and approached the two chieftains, kneeling down by the table. Then he began to explain: "There are many great warriors among the flame-eyed lords and they are ever vigilant. For a long time they held Iron Fortress in a siege." Bör gasped visibly. The Beguiler? The Dark One? Besieged? In the stories they'd heard, there had been accounts of great battles, heroic deeds, long wars or years of relative peace, but no mention of a siege.

Yldar smiled almost apologetically, before he continued: "It's been broken already. Not long ago. But the twilight-man told us it had lasted for many mortal spans."

Bör had some trouble taking it all in. He tipped his cup and gulped down all the wine in it, then refilled it and swigged it again. Then he asked for a wineskin and took several mouthfuls, caring little that the wine in it was icy cold. Bör was a proud, brave man, yet even at his most daring moments he'd conceived of the Beguiler as only something that could be run away from. That he might be directly confronted seemed beyond wildest hope. But even as his mind and reason protested wildly such foolishness, his heart was already embracing it, clinging to the idea with the fervor and desperation of one whose very existence depends on not letting go.

Yldar watched him with a wide grin. "Save some of that wine for later, good chieftain. There's more to tell yet. As my father said, this is the Hill of Himring," he said, pointing at the spot on the map. When spoken by Yldar, without the heavy accent, the word hummed and rolled and thundered like a distant storm. It sounded alien, angry, powerful and yet not unpleasant. "That is where one of the mightiest warlords has fortified himself. Most of the surrounding lands are held by his five brothers, though much was lost when the siege was broken."

Yldar suddenly paused and looked around. "Why don't we all sit down and share some wine? It is a long tale." He gave both chieftains a half questioning, half pleading look. Bör and Ylpang both nodded and gestured for their men to fetch more wine and sit down.

Once everybody was generally comfortably seated and holding a cup of warmed wine, Yldar resumed the tale. He was a gifted storyteller, and as the hours passed he wove strands and threads of stories both tragic and heroic, elevating and devastating, hopeful and bleak, into a tapestry that presented in vibrant shapes and colors a history that spanned across many lifetimes and beyond the limits of the world as these men had known it. Parts of the story were familiar, and they mirrored some ancient stories of their own – but the story itself and the immensity of the world it described were new to them.

Yldar spoke of mighty gods and spirits, of immortal warriors from the West, once the kin of the twilight-folk, though now very unlike them; he spoke of darkness that drove the flame-eyed ones out of the Evergreen realms and over the sea in pursuit of the Beguiler; he painted vivid images of their mighty weapons, their regal halls and their searing hatred for the Dark One. He hinted at dark secrets and past transgressions and the shadow of a curse. He spoke of the siege of Iron Fortress and of the long years of peace west of the Blue Mountains. He spoke of the sudden flame that broke the siege and ended that peace.

And then he told a marvellous tale of a flame-eyed king, who alone rode forth, challenged the Dark One, and made him bleed.

Everyone seemed to grow a couple of inches taller upon hearing Yldar's vivid account. Some of them had heard it before but it didn't affect them any less. After generations of bending under the immense weight of the Beguiler's shadow they finally felt like they perhaps could straighten their backs. Even if there was no promise of victory, the mere idea that the Dark One could be and had been challenged set their weary hearts ablaze with new vigor and new hope.
The only one whose fire seemed to diminish as the tale concluded was Ylpang. The mischievous glint in his eyes was gone.

"The siege was broken. And the valiant rider," he said, slowly, wearily and thoughtfully, "died a grisly death. I can't help but wonder whether that is not the point of the story and its true message to us."

"It was a glorious death, father," Yldar protested, his tone gentle but resolute. "Grisly death is what awaits us here."

"Death is never glorious, Yldar," was Ylpang's equally resolute reply, and his eyes darkened for a moment, as if a shadow of some painful memory passed over them. "Death is death."

"Indeed," Bör nodded. "And if we don't do anything soon, it will become a frequent visitor in our camps and villages." To Bör's surprise, Ylpang didn't protest. "If we don't do anything soon enough, worse things will befall us and the departed in our ancestors' halls will mourn the living."

Ylpang stood up and wrapped his cloak tight about him. "I need to stretch my legs a bit. Will you join me, Baazhyrim?"

Bör rose and without a word followed Ylpang away from the meeting place, beyond the invisible line demarcated by the banners.

"There, towards that knoll. I'd like to have a better view of the plains," Ylpang said, pointing towards a low hillock rising slightly above the surrounding ocean of rustling grass. The two men set in that direction, silent and thoughtful. The eagles patrolling high above their heads wailed and started to fly in wider circles.
Bör followed a step behind Ylpang, and every now and then he turned his head and looked over his shoulder. Yldar was watching them, anxious, for he knew a decision would be reached within a matter of hours that would determine their futures for generations to come.

"Your son seems quite eager to cross the mountains," Bör said.

"He is young," came Ylpang's snappy reply. "He will learn his lesson eventually."

The rest of the journey passed in uneasy silence and Bör thanked the Heavens that it was a fairly short walk.

As they ascended the low hill, the wind ceased a bit and it started to change direction. Ylpang sighed. "Ai, the West wind never prevails long."

Bör didn't say anything. He wrapped his cloak tighter around him. Violent undulation on the grasslands in the distance, rushing towards them like a flood wave in early spring, warned them both of the incoming North wind. When it arrived, it was so strong and so furious it almost threw them off their feet. It always came suddenly and armed with thousands of tiny barbs. Beguiler's whip they called it, and Stealer of breath.

"It's coming back with a vengeance," Ylpang said, raising his voice to outshout the howling wind. "This one was born amidst the Ruins of Old Hell***), I tell you!"

Bör merely nodded and harrumphed, blinking away the tears the wind had provoked. There were days when the North wind was generally tolerable, but this day was not one of them.

A sudden commotion among their men caught their attention. They turned their eyes only to see the green banner flying away, torn off by a violent gust of wind. Yldar was just mounting his horse to go after it but it was a futile attempt from the start. He rode swiftly but was no match for the Stealer of breath. After a short chase, he gave up.

They observed Yldar as he turned his horse and rode back. "We should rename it 'Stealer of Banners'," Bör remarked, and Ylpang smirked.

It took several moments of heavy silence before Bör finally decided the time for casual conversation and awkward silences had passed. "We have to leave these lands, Ylpang; you know that," he said. "What is it that you want to tell me that you have brought me here, away from the ears of others?"

Ylpang sighed and when he looked at the younger chieftain, he suddenly appeared years older and very tired. "I know we have to leave, Baazhyrim. We are left with no other choice. That is what bothers me." He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "We are pieces in a game of Khush. This must be the first time in my life I'd rather be ignorant of my circumstances."

"What exactly are you getting at, Ylpang?" Bör asked. "What has the twilight-man told you?"

The older man laughed and shook his head. "Twilight-man, my arse."

At Bör's questioning look and raised eyebrow, he heaved another sigh and began to explain: "I have indeed been approached by someone who looked much like a twilight-man. But he reeked of Iron Fortress and deceit. He told me much, hinted at even more and seemed genuinely pleased when I asked all the right questions. He also drew me the map you saw."

"What do you mean he reeked of Iron Fortress?"

"The Beguiler has many servants. Willing and unwilling, aware and unaware. This one was willing and aware, though; I could tell that much. And I almost think he wanted me to know what he really was, even though he came in the guise of a twilight-man. Who knows. He might have been a true Twilight man once."

"I'm not sure I understand," Bör said. "Why would the Beguiler do that?"

"His eyes are ever after the Dispossessed one, his fortress upon the Khiimring hill, and his brothers. They are his most bitter enemies, yet their past is dark and the curse lies heaviest on them - that is a weakness he can and will exploit. The Dark One won't take the Dispossessed lightly – not again. Cursed he might be, but he is one of the strongest links in the chain of the flame-eyed people's defense. When the Dark One broke the siege, he won an important battle but it didn't really rid him of his problem. He wants to break the chain as well, by planting a knife in the back of his perhaps most vigilant enemy. I assume that is to be our part in the game." Ylpang sighed and looked at Bör. "And he wanted me to gather all that. Indirect as it is, it still is an ultimatum, Baazhyrim."

The younger chieftain gave the other man a long, questioning look. "You are not considering it, are you?" he asked, a note of alarm and disbelief in his voice.

"What choices do we have?" The tired, broken look in Ylpang's eyes and the heaviness of his tone as he uttered those words filled Bör with a vague sense of dread and foreboding. Abandoning all decorum, he grabbed Ylpang by his shoulders and gave him a shake as if to wake him up. "Do not speak such foolishness! The Beguiler is the name we gave to the Dark One generations ago for a reason. Do not let yourself be fooled. There are always choices."

For the briefest moment, Ylpang's eyes flashed with fury at Bör's indiscretion but it was gone in a heartbeat. He smiled and tapped Bör's shoulder. "You've grown up, Baazhyrim. And now you've grown some fangs." He overlooked the plain. The sun was low, its warm light slowly mellowing into a coppery tint. "There is truth and wisdom in what you say, though our choices are going to be difficult to say the least."

Yldar's tale had been long and it was now apparent that they would have to set camp for the night. Their men were already busy raising tents and building a fire.

"These plains have been my home for so long." Ylpang said. "It pains me to think of leaving them."

"It's not easy for me either. It's not easy for any of us. I was born on these plains, Ylpang." Bör replied. "But I want my grandchildren to be born anywhere but here."

"And once we cross the mountains...what then?" Ylpang asked. "Don't think the Shadow won't follow us there."

Bör sighed and replied, "Let us worry about that once we cross the mountains."

Ylpang took a small flask out of his sleeve and uncorked it. "Well," he took a swig and offered the flask to Bör, who accepted it with a slight nod and a smile, "let us drink to that."

When the chieftains came back, the camp had already been set and the fire lit. Yldar was the first one to spring to his feet. "Father. Chieftain Bör." His bright eyes, eager and hungry for answers, darted from one man to another. When Bör gave him a nod and a reassuring smile, he lit up like a lantern.

Before he could say anything, his father spoke: "Bring some more liquor and tea. And some of that dry meat and wheat bread." He looked at the flagstaff that had born the green ceremonial banner and frowned. Past the bare staff, far away in the West, the range of the Blue Mountains hemmed the horizon. His heart was heavier than he would like to admit when he said, "Let us celebrate tonight. The counsel has been held and the chieftains have decided. Whatever awaits us west of the Blue Mountains, it holds more hope for us than any future here. Ylpang, son of Barang, and Bör, son of Baazhyr, are of one mind, and their mind has turned westward. This summer will be the last one we are going to spend on the plains, and it shall be spent in preparation for the long journey that lies ahead of us."

The men let out a triumphant cry and that outburst contained everything: old frustrations and new hopes, old fears and newfound courage and a bold challenge to everything that the Dark One represented. Ylpang and Bör laughed and cheered with them – and yet, when they looked at the bare flagpole, swaying mockingly and almost obscenely in the wind, their laughter lost some of its mirth.

"Look, father. That is our camp over there." Yldar pointed towards a bunch of yurts in the distance. "I must have lost track of time; I didn't expect to see it in two more watches."

Ylpang smiled. "Of course. Your mind is crossing the mountains already." There was only the slightest hint of reproach in his tone, but it didn't escape Yldar's notice.

"Are you angry at me, Father? Am I too eager?"

"You are too eager, yes," Ylpang said. "But I am not angry, son. How could I be? In my heart of hearts, I envy you and Bör that fire."

"I have noticed you do not quite share it, Father," Yldar acknowledged, and glanced at Ylpang. "There is more to it than mere unwillingness to leave the plains, isn't there..."

"Indeed." The chieftain nodded. "Unlike you and Bör, I wasn't born here. I still remember the long march that brought our people to this land. Such journeys are dangerous and tend to cost much strength and many lives."

Yldar shook his head. "I don't think that's it, Father. I know you well enough and I recognize that tone. You use it whenever you are coaxing mother with half-truths or white lies. 'My back is fine, Börte, I'm just a little tired. Don't worry about that, Börte, it's just a scratch. For a woman your age, you still look very youthful, Börte'. Mother doesn't fall for it, so why would I?"

"She doesn't?"

"No. But I'm sure she appreciates the sentiment behind it," Yldar replied with a grin. Then he grew serious. "If you do not want to tell me, Father, then don't. But whatever it is, I hope Bör you have told."

They rode for a while in silence and then Ylpang ordered the two men that were with them to go ahead, spread the word, and have someone prepare a good meal and a hot bath. Once they were gone, he turned to Yldar, who was already watching him intently and waiting for him to speak up. "Baazhyrim indeed knows. And so should you." He gave a short pause. The eager spark in his son's eyes had been a great encouragement to him and he hated the idea of that precious light diminishing. But then he decided that innocence was a luxury his chief advisor could not afford.

"Much is uncertain and the path ahead is shrouded in mist and shadow. But there are a couple of things of which I am quite sure. Beyond Blue Mountains awaits a future that might be less bleak and more meaningful than the future here, for the future here is a territory lost to us; the Beguiler has seen to that. But west of Blue Mountains also happens to be where the Beguiler wants us to go."

Upon hearing these words, Yldar frowned, thinking them over. And then his eyes and mouth widened as he was struck with several realizations at once.
That spark in his eyes flickered and went out, drowned in a pool of worry and doubt.

When father and son – the chieftain and his most trusted advisor – finally reached the camp, broad smiles, joyful faces and cheerful greetings welcomed them home.

It would be difficult indeed to tell at that moment which of the two hearts was heavier.

 

 

Chapter End Notes

*) Baazhyr's; son of Baazhyr - by the way, these people, while in many key aspects patriarchal, are (I've decided) matrilineal. So, Baazhyr would be the name of Bör's mom.
**) Elves. Mostly the Avari, and an occasional Sinda, perhaps...
***) Utumno. I am basically an animist and so are these guys (except they, unlike me, are actual practitioners of the faith) :-) The Earth and its spirits speak to them (or at least to the chanters and healers among them) and of course, there are scars and memories that no amount of the Valar stomping about will erase. If the Earth remembers, these guys know as well.

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