Emissary of the Mark

(Elfhelm’s adventures in the land of Rhûn)

by Soledad

Disclaimer: see Introduction, because in this story it’s rather long.

Author’s notes: Time: about four years before the Ring War

The ceremony of releasing a shieldmaiden from her oath is my own creation and has been originally written for my original fantasy epos, but I find it fits well into the Ardaverse. I only had to alter the purpose of the sword a bit.

Beta read by Borys, thanks.

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Chapter Ten – Helôic

It was several hours later – time being measured in Nimwarkinh by a clever, Dwarf-made clock driven by the steadily dripping water of an underground stream that trickled down from the upper levels to the Lesser Hall – when Ragnar the Smith made his way to the ancient priestess to ask for Imogen’s release from the bond of the shieldmaidens. He had sent a message by one of the frightened slave girls to announce his visit, although he knew the norna would grant him an audience anyway. Theirs was a relationship of carefully maintained balance and both were mindful to keep it that way.

Deep in the heart of the mountains, not even under the roots of Falûn but under Grenaar, roughly three or four miles afar from Ragnar’s Halls dwelt Tanfana, the norna, the timeless tutor of all shieldmaidens. The caverns of her dwellings reached far under the northern outskirts of Grenaar; beyond them only the few deep halls of the Dwarves still alive under Nimwarkinh could be found, but those were beyond the reach of all living Men.

The Meeting Chamber – the only one where outsiders, especially men, were allowed – was a cavernous room. Its arched ceiling was held up by natural dripstone pillars shaped by the trickling water during countless Ages. The walls of the cave, too, were smoothed by the relentless work of water, resulting in the most fantastic formations. Neither Man nor Dwarf had ever laid hand upon these stones, and yet the mortal eye was tempted to find familiar shapes in them: a candle, a draped curtain, the likeness of animals and monsters.

The norna sat in the middle of the otherwise empty cave, next to the small fire dancing in a stone ring. She was a stockily built woman of middle height, wearing a heavy robe of coarse blue wool, the sweeping sleeves of which revealed a tight-sleeved undergown of a somewhat darker blue underneath. It was girdled with an unadorned leather belt, the bronze buckle of which bore the likeness of a bear’s head. Her blue veil covered her shoulders and her ample bosom, and it was pulled deeply into her face, shadowing her features beyond recognition.

She sat cross-legged on a heavy bearskin, leaning back against a slab of natural stone that could be perceived, by a considerable stretch of imagination, as resembling a resting bear. Across her knees a thick oakwood staff lay, covered by ancient runes, in some places faded illegible. Its upper end was shaped like the head of a dragon, with a multifaceted white jewel in the dragon’s open maw.

Strange tales coursed around the norna, making everyone shiver with fear when they had to deal with her, rare though such cases were. Some said that her true name was Ursla; that her mother had conceived her from a bear, and that she, too, would mate with bears from time to time. Others said that she had lived in these caves for many lifetimes of Men, practicing her dark sorcery; that she had never been truly young but neither would she get any older, regardless of the passing of time. They said that whenever a new chieftain was chosen, he had to come down to the norna’s caves and mate with her; this was supposed to be the initiation of the new warlord, the mysterious bear test.

Imogen did not know whether to believe all these rumours or not. She did not dare to ask her father, as Ragnar Jarl was quick to anger when asked unwanted questions. As the chieftain’s daughter, though, she knew at least that much: the bear-test had nothing to do with the norna. Nothing at all.

To kill a bear with one’s bare hands was a great and dangerous deed – only who had done it could be considered fit for leadership – but not impossible. Neither did it require any kind of magic. Several of Ragnar’s sons had already done the deed, although Ingolf was not yet among those.

Still, Imogen often asked herself if her father’s authority as the chief warlord extended over Tanfana’s caves or the norna was a rival in the power struggle for the leadership over Nimwarkinh.

Ragnar Jarl himself knew all too well how much power the norna held over his people’s hearts. The peoples of Rhûn had long forgotten the true meaning of the symbols of their faith during the long, bitter struggle against the Orc-hordes of Mordor and against their own unforgiving lands. They had become a rustic people, plagued by horrible superstitions. Only the norna was still in possession of the old knowledge and, to a much lesser extent, the handful of Druids who still lived in their small coven, hidden under the roots of Skâgen.

As the Dark Lord of Mordor glared with disdain at the sacred stone rings from where once the stars had been watched and where the great annual feasts had once been held, the Druids did not risk visiting those places often. But they still had some knowledge, and that was the reason why Ragnar Jarl had chosen the head of their coven as his chancellor. He no longer could use the rune staffs himself, although he could still read the runes themselves with some effort. Most of his jarls couldn’t even do that.

He needed allies against Tanfana’s vast ancient wisdom. For the throne of the chief warlord was a fairly new position; that of the norna, however, was older than Nimwarkinh itself and was said to have originated from the farthest shores of West, beyond the Great Sea. The warlord had no doubt that Tanfana could have him and his entire clan killed, merely through her influence and the terror she could awaken in anyone, without even appearing before the Gathering. He had to tread carefully not to raise her ire against himself.

Therefore he decided to allow her daughter to discuss the conditions of her release with the norna; she knew the old crone best. He would only speak if asked a question – or if Imogen needed his support, which was unlikely but not impossible to happen.

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Imogen entered and bowed deeply in the norna’s direction; and although Tanfana had not looked up, nor did she give any sign that she would have taken notice of her visitors, Imogen knew that she had seen their arrival and her gesture.

“Greetings, Eldest,” the shieldmaiden murmured with downcast eyes and knelt before her tutor. “I have come in a matter of importance and trust.”

The norna laid her staff aside and rested her large, white hands on her knees. She seemed timeless and unmovable like a rock. She always did.

“I know why you are here,” she said in her deep, hollow voice. “Ingmar Karason has already sought me out.”

Imogen could not help shivering as her glance fell upon those broad, strong hands. As always, she expected to see a bear’s claws on the end of the thick fingers; but as always, all she could see were flat, square white fingernails, the one or other even broken.

Then she gave her father a sharp look. “Is this how you silence him?” she asked accusingly.

Ragnar Jarl shrugged. “I was too slow, it seems. I should have acted at once. I trusted him; that was a mistake I shall not make again.”

“Ingmar Karason was driven by his concern over Nimwarkinh’s fate,” the norna cut in. “He does not desire my company out of habit,” her deep, hollow chuckle made even the warlord shiver; but she became grave again soon enough. “None of this truly matters, though. You are here – that means you have come to a decision. I assume you have chosen to give the maiden to her foreign suitor and want me to release her from her oath.”

“We have,” replied the Lord of Nimwarkinh. “Will you do it?”

Tanfana nodded slowly. “Yea, I will. I could not prevent it anyway; the laws of Nimwarkinh demand it, and as long as I live here, I am bound by those laws. But I would do it anyway. ‘Tis better for the maiden to leave this place ere the others would spot the death mark of the dry sickness upon her face.”

Imogen stared at the norna in abject horror. “How could you know?” she whispered. “I never told anyone…”

“Child,” said the norna gently. “Do you think me as blind as the others are? You have been marked by death for two years; without the draughts I have been giving you would already be dead by now.”

“Why would you care?” asked Imogen, stunned. Shieldmaidens were always treated equally; privileges had no place in their bond.

“Because you have been my best pupil since Zephyr left and I wanted to give you a little more time to win renown,” answered the norna. “I wished upon you to commit great deeds and to gain an honourable death in battle. Now that you are leaving us, you shall leave a breach in our shield-wall that shan’t be easily repaired. ‘Tis always hard to release a shieldmaiden from her oath; I was loath to hand Topaz over to Ingmar and Ingmar knows that and that is why he fears me. But I loathe even more to release you. For there has never been a sword like your among us, save for that of Zephyr.”

“I shall not betray my oath, Eldest, even if you do release me,” promised Imogen, her throat so tight she could barely breathe. “I asked my lord-to-be and he agreed to let me keep my sword; and whenever he rides out to fight the foul creatures of the Black Lands, I shall ride on his side.”

“You are one of the very few who were born with a true warrior’s heart,” said the norna. “Therefore I cannot release you from your battle oath. I can release you from the bonds of our sisterhood, if needs must be; but whenever the fires of war are lit, the battle oath will burst in flame in your heart, too, and your hand will reach for the sword.”

Imogen bowed her head. “So be it. I chose the sword freely; and freely did I give my oath. Freely shall I renew it now, in the parting hour, before the Lord of Nimwarkinh and before you. For even if the bonds of our sisterhood are about to fall off me, my sword will never rest as long as the people of Nimwarkinh may need it. This oath I, Imogen Ragnarsdaughter, swear solemnly.”

“And I have heard your oath and the Lord of Nimwarkinh has witnessed it,” replied the norna formally. “Therefore, in the hour of need, I am willing to release you from your bond, for the good of us all. Follow me to the Chamber of the Honoured Dead.”

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The Chamber! Imogen’s heart was hammering wildly upon crossing the high and broad stone threshold. This was the most sacred place for the sisterhood and its source of strength: the place where the shieldmaidens were initiated, their oaths accepted; where they were rewarded or punished, according to their deeds – and where they were laid to their final rest.

Only that neither Beryl nor Topaz would ever be part of that. For the good of their people, both had been – or would be – torn them both from this unique bond between the living and the dead.

Hundreds of white stonework urns stood in their arched little niches carved into the sheer, grey rock wall. They were all exactly the same, to the tiniest detail: small, rotund little vessels with a rounded foot and a lid with a gemstone on the top – the same jewel their owner had been named after. In the front of the urn, written in old runes, stood the shieldmaiden’s given name and that of her clan and tribe – if one could read them.

The narrow wall opposite the entrance was covered by a mosaic that reached from the floor to the ceiling. It showed a golden shield with two arrows crossed on it, and a great sword with a golden hilt before an argent background. The image of a hand holding a burning torch had been engraved into the blade, right under the hilt. The blade itself appeared to be of back steel.

In front of the mosaic lay a huge, hollowed-out slab of white stone; not quite marble but looking almost like it. Upon it stood a lamp wrought of some untarnished white metal that appeared to be silver but was much more precious. It was shaped like a lily flower, and on the tips of its seven petals seven broad, pointy yellow flames fluttered.

Nay, it was not the golden Seven-Flame, the sacred fire that had fallen from the skies in the times before Man’s remembrance and had been kept by the druids in the hallowed stone ring of Shalihtirlir. That flame had been lost when the world changed; some said it had been extinguished when the Star-isle of Westernesse had drowned. Others said that it had been snatched away by the first Dark Lord, infested with his evil and used to feed the great Forges of Utumno. Whatever the truth might be, it was lost for the people of Rhûn forever.

This here was merely a reminder, a faint echo and a longing memory of what once had been. Nonetheless, not even the Lord of Nimwarkinh could suppress a shiver as he was descending the seven flat, broad steps that led from the heavy stone door to the inside of the Chamber – the only man allowed to do so.

Imogen, carrying on her arm the armour of the shieldmaidens that she would never put on again, followed him with a bowed head. Tanfana came last; and as she closed the door, seven young women appeared as if out of thin air and wordlessly surrounded the altar. They were clad in heavy, dark blue robes, girdled with gold, silver, copper, bronze, iron or zinc, according to the degree of their initiation or their knowledge. Their faces were hidden behind semi-transparent veils. They were the Guardians of the Fire, the adepts of the norna – some said one of them would take over her place one day.

Whether that was true or not, no-one could tell.

Until then, however, they had to study the ancient lore and go through dangerous tests. They had been chosen by the portents, based on the time of their birth and, more importantly, by its circumstances. Once the lot had fallen upon a girl, she was given into the custody of the norna at the age of seven and was considered dead by her family.

Some would indeed die, proving too weak for the task before them. Others proved worthy and spent their entire lives down here. These seven had survived for many years by now.

Imogen knew them all, though she had never exchanged a word with any of them. She did not even know their names; but perhaps they did not even have names anymore. Or perhaps they had been re-named after the star whose image adorned the buckles of their girdles.

Their lives were spent here, in this very chamber. They witnessed every ceremony and recorded everything in their heavy, leather-bound books hidden in places known to them alone. They were the living memory of the Chamber.

Imogen’s tears were falling as she laid her armour and weapons down in the middle of the Navel. A round plate of white marble was the Navel, about three feet in diameter, embedded in the grey stone floor of the Chamber and encircled by a broad frame of black onyx. Here, in the middle of this circle every shieldmaiden had stood when she was initiated and given her first armour, sword and shield; when she spoke her oath and when she accepted reward or punishment. Here her body was laid out before taken to the funeral pyre – an honour granted to no other Khimmer woman.

This was the last time Imogen would touch this sacred place. And though she was heading towards a better future than anyone, even a shieldmaiden could have hoped for in Nimwarkinh, it was in bitter tears that she took her leave from the mysteries of the sisterhood. Here alone could a Khimmer woman be equal to the male warriors, limited though that might be.

There, they were privileged above any other woman in Rhûn. No man, save the Lord of Nimwarkinh, was allowed to come here; and even he only on urgent family business. Like now.

And Imogen was crying openly as her eyes swept along the endless rows of stone urns. Those urns held the memory of shieldmaidens of old who all had performed great deeds in their short lives, winning never-fading honour for themselves, so that their names would be always remembered. Shieldmaidens with whom she had lived in a mystic bond all her life, trying to prove herself worthy to their company.

Now, however, she would be removed from this bond, due to the illness ravaging her body and for the good of her people. The stone urn bearing her name since her initiation would be smashed, as Topaz’s had been when they had handed her over to Ingmar to become his wife. Imogen could still hear the shriek of the shattered stone and buried her face in her hands.

One of the Guardians, the one girdled with gold, now left the circle and went to the Wall with noiseless, gliding steps. She removed the urn bearing Imogen’s name, placing it quietly next to the armour and the weapons in the Navel.

The one girdled with silver brought a large hammer and offered it to the norna wordlessly. Imogen fell to the cold marble, pressing both hands to her ears; she did not want to hear the sounds of destruction.

“Rise, child,” said the norna, her face deep and distant as if coming through a thick layer of earth and rock. “We shall keep your place in the Wall, for you have not broken your oath. You shall leave the sisterhood, that is true; but even if you shall never rest here, among your sisters, this empty vessel shall remain here forever – to remind them of Beryl, who was peerless among their rows. No-one shall bear that name again; for the name Beryl has become one with you, child, and your memory shall not fade from the Chamber, as long as one of us is alive.”

Imogen rose to her knees and looked at Tanfana in awe. The norna nodded slowly.

“You all feared me, and it was good so, for you needed to learn and to obey. Many shieldmaidens would break the rules, would fear not keep them in their reins. You, however, just like Zephyr, lived for the fight and the honour alone. You have sacrificed everything, even your pride, to improve your skills. Zephyr achieved more, as she is older and more experienced, but I know you would have grown beyond even her skills, were you not forced to leave. ‘Tis a shame, it truly is. But sometimes we have to give up that which is dearest to our hearts to protect something even more precious. You will be missed. Your strength and your sword will be sorely missed.”

“At least I can keep wielding a sword,” replied Imogen quietly. “The tradition of the shieldmaidens of the East is still alive in the Riddermark. Perchance I can still improve my skills some more before the illness weakens me too much.”

The norna nodded. “You can and you will; I know that. We have read the portents, and the portents say that your going to the Mark to be reunited with your northern sisters is a changing point in history. We have known for a very long time that this hour will come when times seem darker and more dangerous than ever before. Many generations have waited and hoped – and been disappointed. Yet now the day foretold has come; and you will receive a new sword to fulfil your destiny. One that is better and more glorious than your old one, no matter how many great deeds you might have done with it.”

She gave the Guardian with the golden girdle a sign. The young woman walked around the altar three times, murmuring something in a language too ancient for them to know; then she stopped, reached out with a pale hand and turned the heavy upper plate to the side.

Underneath was a long, narrow slot, and in that slot, upon a red velvet cushion, lay a sword.

It was a longsword like those the Sea-kings of Westernesse had once made – and before them their masters, the Elves, if was said – but the long, narrow blade, albeit forged of steel, gleamed blue-black in the seven flames of the altar lamp. The silver hilt bore the stamp of Dwarven masters of old; older than the great Dwarf cities of the First Age. The golden wire wrapped around it served as adornment and as the means to make the wielder’s grip steady on it. The pommel was a multi-faceted white diamond of the size of a dove’s egg. Between the hilt and the blood channel, the image of a hand holding a burning torch was engraved into the blade.

“This is Helôic,” said the norna, “the sword of ancient legends, forged by Dwarven smiths for the kings of old, the ones who had ruled Eriador in the times before the return of the Sea-Kings. The very sword over which the warrior princesses of Rhovanion, Freya the Fire-haired and Alrun the Brave, quarrelled bitterly – and even fought to the death. Freya won… but was banned from her father’s court, and she came here and brought the sisterhood of the shieldmaidens to the East. She was bitter about how she and her sisters were treated by the Khimmer warriors and ordered Helôic to be hidden, until a shieldmaiden of the East, one worthy to wield a sword like this, is given the chance to be reunited with her northern sisters.”

Imogen listened to the tale in awe. Of course, she knew that Freya had been the first shieldmaiden in Rhûn – everyone knew that. But the tale behind it, the horrible deed and the enchanted sword, was something she had never heard of before; and she looked at the sword with a mix of longing and dread.

“No-one has wielded it for more than two thousand years,” continued the norna, “for a powerful enchantment had been laid upon it: if unworthy hands touch it, that touch would carry a sudden death. I believe you are worthy to wield Helôic, but the ultimate choice is yours. No mortal man or woman can foretell how the powers slumbering in the sword would judge; should you prove unworthy, after all, they would burn you to ashes.”

“’Tis a risk I am willing to take,” replied Imogen in a low, steady voice. “Should the sword reject me, that will be a good death. Should it find me worthy, however, I can still perform great deeds that will make my name unforgettable.”

“Take the sword, then, if that is your choice,” said Tanfana said.

Imogen obeyed. The ancient weapon proved surprisingly lightweight, at least compared with the clumsier Khimmer broadswords, but it had an excellent balance. As if it had been made to be wielded by a woman; which, considering its history, it probably had.  Imogen lifted it carefully with both hands, holding it with outstretched arms, so that the lowered point of the black blade would point straight at the middle of the Nave.

In that very moment it seemed as if the sword had come alive in her hand. The hilt grow warn very quickly. Startled, Imogen tried to release it, but she found that she could not. Her fingers seemed to wrap themselves around the hilt on their own volition and would not obey her will. The waves of throbbing heat that clearly came from the heart of the glowing pommel stone ran along the blade and along her entire body.

The heat was followed by a prickling feeling that started in her fingers and her palms, grew stronger and ran through her every nerve like lightning, from the top of her head down to her toes. Every single hair upon her head was tense like a bowstring and crackled with the awakening of the great, ancient powers, worked into the cold metal by Dwarven magic in the Elder Days; powers that seemed to test her; to test if the hand disturbing their millennia-old slumber was a worthy one.

Light spilled over the long blade; its edges glowed in a cold, pale blue fire. This strange, otherworldly light mirrored palely upon Imogen’s deathly white face, upon her wide, seemingly lifeless eyes. Ragnar Jarl was seized by the helpless rage of terror. He wanted to run to his daughter, to tear that cursed magic weapon from her hands, but he was held back by a slim hand resting on his heavy arm.

A bright eye looked at him calmly through the obscuring veil and a soft voice said, “Worry not. All is as it should be.”

At the same moment Helôic’s light began to dim and soon was gone. Imogen’s fingers relaxed around the hilt, and she looked at her mentor in awe, for she could see something no shieldmaiden had ever seen before: Tanfana was smiling.

“Good,” said the norna. “You have passed the test. You are from now on the rightful bearer of Helôic. Wield her with honour, as you have wielded all your weapons; and should you see the need to pass it on, be careful whom you choose as your heir. Helôic’s powers would fade forever, should you entrust it into a man’s hand, even if that man should be your own son. It has also been prophesized that they would be gone when the sword comes to its third owner, for it has been determined by its forging that they would only ever serve three mistresses. Those three, however, would be able to slay enemies no other weapon could kill.”

“I will be careful,” promised Imogen, and the norna nodded.

“Go now in peace, Beryl, most valiant of the shieldmaidens of the East. May the powers of Helôic protect you and our blessings go with you on all your paths.”

The shieldmaidens of the East had no farewell rituals – save those for the dead before funeral. The norna merely nodded at Imogen and returned to her private chambers, without as much as a backward glance.

The Guardians bowed and melded with the shadows, as if they had never been there. The one with the golden girdle put back Imogen’s urn into its niche in the Wall and turned the altar plate back into position. Then she brought a sword-belt and a scabbard for Helôic and, kneeling before Imogen, girdled it around her waist ere she would disappear, too.

Imogen carefully shoved Helôic into the scabbard; it was a perfect fit. Blade and hilt were dull and cold again, as if nothing had happened. She knelt and kissed the cold marble of the Navel one last time. Then she rose and climbed the wide, flat stone steps leading to the door, never to return as a woman alive.

~TBC~