Legends of Belariath
Barador
Nirlein and the Mage Trial
The crisp snap of a dry twig, the crunch of grass beneath a heavily booted foot echoing within the wintry woods… these things betray the presence of the otherwise silent, ominous form of a hooded and cloaked man. A labyrinth of twisted, leaf-bare tree skeletons adds to the barren blanket of snow encasing the world in frosted monotony that impedes the journey of the robed man. Despite his determined pace, the aging, dark sorcerer was forced to pause, resting a hand upon the gnarled limb of a low-branching tree. After a moment’s respite, he began again, his progress slowing, betraying his weariness as he searched the landscape before him where no lights lingered. It was determination that guided his steps, deeper into the macabre forest, a man with a purpose. It was when arriving at a dell, that he finally took a last bend in his trek and began reciting the forbidden scrolls of forgotten ages.
The long, cold journey had begun weeks ago, winding its way around and under the Melmnoth Mountains. A journey that had almost cost him two limbs, an eye and had left him sapped away the tenacious energy at its inception and left him weary. As the milky moon rose beyond the distant horizon, he knew that his journey had reached its penultimate trek. The savage finally reached a shallow cave with ashen grey, earthy walls that instilled a claustrophobia while the roots of the old trees could be seen arching indolently from the ground like slumbering pythons. There he sat upon a fallen log, hands on his knees, resting a while as he began to focus his conscious mind into the ritual that he had traveled here to perform. To assist in this task, he familiarized himself with his surroundings, taking in the dead sights and sounds of the night still locked in the slumbering embrace of winter. When he turned his eyes skyward, the skeletal fingers of frost-bereft branches canopied the heavens, seeming to cradle the half moon’s ivory glory raining down on the cold and lifeless earth. He would wait, he thought. Yes, he must wait; wait until the time had come. He had waited many moons for this specific, vital night. He could afford to wait a little longer, until the time was just right.
Huddled and crouched there, the Tribesman waited for what seemed like an eternity, until the moon had almost set over the distant snow-capped peaks and had left no more than a faint silvery glow. The moon of Aghoushin Eve had set and he knew the time was upon him. Rising, he brushed out his robes before setting about to draw a wide circle in the ashes that lay on the cave floor with a branch retrieved from his trek. Whispering the words that would purify the sacred ground, rendering it neutral in alignment for the purpose he had traveled here. Standing in the middle of the circle he pulled two ordinary looking stones from his traveling pouch and began to rub them together. Lips quivering, he began the chant of the appropriate spell. The words spilled over each other like water in a brook, a foreign tongue of forgotten dark ages when shadow enveloped the lands and seized the very hearts of men and elves only to silence them with dread. At first, he may have seemed like a madman chanting nonsense there in the cave, crazed by old demons awakened by his presence.
Yet his incomprehensible mumbling continued; a shamanic chant of the forbidden scrolls that had all but lost their meaning in the New Age. The stones in his hands rubbed with a faint crackling rhythm, showering the ground at his feet with a faint spark now and then. Far from the world of the living, the savage continued his solitary ceremony of the dark arts until the dark, gloomy, despondent dell within the cave stilled and even the air seemed to die. Then, at that very moment of Aghoushin, it all began.
In that moment, his chanting died away. For uncounted hours… days… the Tribesman had devoted his study to this ceremony. Long had he accumulated the knowledge of the mystical causeways and fed his courage in order to overcome fear and to continue. Yet now that the time had come, when he knew he must go on, he felt his mind seize with fear and uncertainty. Shutting his eyes with a great deal of effort he struggled to proceed with his chanting, rubbing the stones of Gaarmin desperately, showering their flickering sparks on the dust at his feet. He felt a shiver run up his spine, for the air in the dismal, lost cave began to stir. Whispers of a malevolent tone crawled along the dusty cave floor like metallic spiders, more and more seeming to crawl up and down the trees as well as the roots on the ground, swallowing everything in a mounting horror.
The sorcerer could not keep his eyes closed any longer. He could feel it in his very bones that in this dark, distant place he was no longer alone. His chant became increasingly erratic, his voice breaking, stuttering. A mist began to form in the cave, like smoke wafting from his pipe, drifting and swirling in the air until it grew thicker and more translucent until finally it took the ghostly shape of a woman. When the chant was completed, his trembling fingers dropped the stones and looked at the ghost of Nirlein standing before him, floating, robed and crowned just like the days of her reign. The man fell to his knees and clasped his hands before his face and begged, pleaded to be heard.
The spirit of Nirlein laughed with an eerie, shrill voice and swept up around the savage as if to lift him into the air before receding, descending and falling once more in a restless cadence. “How dare you break my Long Sleep, fool? I am Queen Nirlein of the Gaarmin Tribe, The Queen of the Undead Spirits, the Lady of the Lost Souls! I, who could smite you to amuse myself, How dare you summon me here at this time of Aghoushin?” Her banshee’s voice demanded. The shaman listened attentive, yet terrifyingly inert and silent, knowing very well that it would serve no good purpose to anger the spirit and incur her wrath. “My lady Nirlein,” his voice quaked when he spoke, his head remaining bowed. “For long I have devoted myself to the study of Aghoushin tradition. For long I have yearned to be one with the spirits. I would bow to your dominion of the spiritual world, entreating your acceptance and the honor to be a humble disciple of your knowledge.”
Nirlein laughed out hearing the plea and raised her arms in the air. The wide smoky sleeves of her flowing dress fell to her elbows and in each hand a sword of spirit mist sprung that she clashed above her head, so loud it was that the very walls of the murky cave shook and loosened earth fell. “You do not decide when you may worship me, fool. I decide when you will bow before my feet, I alone. For I am Nirlein and all bow before me!” The arms came down, the identical bastard swords spat a slew of spirit fire at the shaman’s feet, invoking him to jump back and fall from his feet only to scramble upright and back once more. “Amuse me with your puny skill. Show me what you have learnt and perhaps then I will spare your life for summoning me from my Long Sleep!” the Queen of Undead Spirits dictated.
The sorcerer knelt almost as swiftly as he had risen from his fall, bowing to Nirlein mumbling apologies in profusion. She kicked him away, commanding again, her impatience growing in accord to the spitfire of the blazing swords. “Show me!” she screamed. Wiping the sweat from his forehead, the savage began to chant in a low voice and proceeded to close his eyes. As the chant grew he opened his mouth and from his gut came a spill of dark, foul ghouls, shrieking spirits and lost souls, rushing and charging out towards Nirlein. Each was struck by the fiery azure swords, falling in pieces to the ground and disintegrated except the last one, which was deflected upwards with the hilt of her bejeweled sword, impaled in the back before being slammed down. The spirits burst into dust, leaving only a glowing, ephemeral powder behind.
She brought the blazing blades above her head and took a step forward, her supple, svelte form still stunning in spirit form, a reminder of her former, glorious self. “Come now, surely you can do better? Amuse me with some more of your sorcery!” She was taunting him, challenging him and he knew it. Again he closed his eyes and centered his thoughts, chanting another powerful spell to call on the foul spirits of the underworld and the forgotten realms to come to his aid. He yelled the last verse of his spell and threw his right hand towards her, his boldness growing in the face of her taunts. A crackle resounded, echoing in the cave before a burst of brilliant light exploded from his outstretched hand and a whip sprung from his fist that swung in a wide arc and ripped through the air towards Nirlein’s arm. The smoky whip wrapped around her wrist and was yanked back causing her to drop one of her swords which fell to ashes the moment the spirit essence touched the earth. The whip vanished just as quickly as it had appeared, though its departure was not nearly so extravagant.
This time Nirlein did not laugh. She glared at the savage with fiery orbs of her gaze, chilling his heart and instilling the cold, creeping fingers of fear in his soul. “Well, well, so the fool has paid some mind to his study.” She turned aside yet her face remained facing him before lifting the remaining sword, the fingers of her free hand curling to motion to him to come again. This time his cold gaze remained on her face and he began another chant. His voice grew stronger with each word and verse, his mind focused on the task at hand. When the last forlorn verse was sung, the shaman's spirit leapt up in the air, leaving his body to fall down lifelessly on the ashes, and sprang towards the Lady of Lament with a screaming battle cry.
His hands clutched the hilt of his spirit sword loosely, swinging it with might and fury down at her head which she parried easily, locking the hilts together to gain the leverage necessary to push him back. Again the shaman leapt at her, slicing through the air to aim the sword at her flank, which she parried single-handedly, using his own momentum to throw him off balance. Stumbling, bending one knee he then snapped his right leg out, swinging it at her in an arc that she dodged by she leaping into the air like an agile leopard. Jumping up after her like a roaring lion, he wielded his spirit blade with both hands in his astral-incarnation, bringing the swords to clash in midair, smoky bodies weightless in the air, spinning horizontally as the blades crashed again and again. The duel began to take its toll on the sorcerer, threatening him with the weakness of his own mortality. If he did not return to his body soon he would be lost to the gates of hell. Up and up their spirits soared, clashing the swords with crackles of lightning and thundering blasts, locked in battle of wits and focus, somersaulting and twisting until both the swords burst into shards and vaporized into the blazing blue coals of spirit fire.
The shaman's spirit fell to the ground and returned to his prone body which slipped into the dark embrace of unconsciousness. He did not know how long he lay there, for he was not awakened until the Lady’s ephemeral fingers brushed against his cheek. She was kneeling by his side, leaning over his face and whispering words of wizardry in a tongue that he did not comprehend. “Rise up and stand proud,” she whispered. “Do not despair, for you have done better than you think.” His limbs felt like lead when he got up, looking to the imposing Spirit Queen. He was taller than she by at least a foot, yet still her presence overwhelmed all around her. Such was the lingering glory of the Queen of Gaarmin, glowing even in spirit form and making radiant all in her presence. He stepped closer and knelt at her feet, bowing his head in respect and worship. Holding two feathers of a dove in her hands, the Lady Nirlein placed them in his flowing ivory hair to become material once they left her smoky hands. “You are forgiven for summoning me to this place and have earned the Dove's Devotion. It will aid you in your shamanic magic’s when you are in need it most.”