“Let me quote the
In case Glanthon didn’t follow him fully, Favaronas added, “The exact location of Nemith-Otham is not known today, but I suspect—I fear!—Inath-Wakenti was once the Pit of Nemith-Otham.”
Glanthon was amazed. If Favaronas was correct, beneath the surface of the valley lay the greatest concentration of magical force in the world, the captive souls of one hundred dragons, and the nomads’ fearful respect of the place was entirely justified.
One dragon, just one, the formidable green dragon Beryl, had destroyed an army comprising thousands of elves. Even in death she had murdered elves. Plummeting from the sky, she had crushed the city of Qualinost so badly that the land collapsed and the White-Rage River rushed in. Nearly all the survivors of the battle drowned. The Speaker’s own mother, Queen Mother Laurana, had been killed, and the site remained flooded to this day, as far as anyone knew. The dragon’s rotting corpse was still at the bottom of the lake, giving it the well-deserved name
Glanthon was a survivor of that battle. Hardly a month went by that he didn’t relive in dreams the horror and gallantry he’d witnessed. Knowing well the havoc one green dragon had wreaked, he could scarcely comprehend the destruction a hundred creatures could do.
Seeing his stricken face, Favaronas reminded him It was only a theory, and it didn’t explain the ruins, the disappearing antelope the Lioness had seen, or the strange ghost that had passed Glanthon and Favaronas in the tunnel. The only hard facts the archivist had wrung from the scrolls thus far was that Someone, in sizable numbers, had occupied the valley, and they had a connection to the valiant, doomed Balif. The titles of the other seven cylinders were as cryptic as that of the first. He had puzzled them out as “Counting of the Tribe.”
“Halfway Order of the Breeding,” “Raising of the Pillars,” and “Sleeping of the First One.”
He thought it odd the labels of two of the eight randomly chosen cylinders mentioned “halfway”. Judging from the way the word was used, he felt it referred to a group of people, not a location.
“Whatever it means,” he said, “I confess I am glad to be out of that peculiar valley for good.”
Glanthon shook his head. “It may not be for good. The Speaker hopes the valley will be our new homeland.” Ignoring Favaronas’s shocked expression, the warrior added that he thought the valley, with its hidden entrance, abundance of water, and tunnel system, would make a fine haven for them.
“We must simply solve its various mysteries,” he finished stoutly.
Favaronas said, “The humans may be right about the place.
There may be mysteries there we should not disturb.”
“What about our people? Not only the thousands languishing in that filthy camp outside Khuri-Khan, but the hundreds of thousands who bear the yoke of foreign conquerors? Do we forget them and take the easy path to everlasting exile?”
Favaronas had no answer. Glanthon was a dedicated warrior. He found virtue in hardship and nobility in war. How could an archivist at least twice his age tell the proud soldier that his ideals were wrong?
He couldn’t. Instead, he silently vowed to continue his study of the cylinders. There had to be a way to get at the interior text, if any.
The westward ride progressed without incident. As dusk fell, the warriors camped just below the summit of a broad, gravelly hill. They’d come across no signs of nomads. The desert west of the mountains seemed as devoid of people as the Vale of Silence had been.
They had plenty of water from the valley, but rations were growing short. Only pine nuts and berries had been found during their foraging trips in the valley. Tis sterility caused much comment among the elves. Many were former herdsmen or farmers, and a few had been gardeners in the great city of Qualinost. In elven lands a gardener was no menial laborer, but an artist comparable to a sculptor, poet, or painter. They could come up with no obvious reason for the valley’s lack of game and edible plants. No two-legged hunters prowled its paths; it contained plenty of water; its climate was mild. The soil was sandy and poor in many places, not to mention having that odd color, but nearer the highlands there should be better minerals in the earth. Common sense dictated the valley should be teeming with life. Why, then, was it so silent and empty?
