The Southern Library

The elven lord Kyranduíl rode on his white stallion at a brisk trot up the winding forest trail. The trees that encroached on the dirt path were huge, soaring pines that set an air of ancient grandeur and magnificence. Their prickly branches cast broken, dancing filaments of light and shadows on the ground below. Away from the path one could see for only a short distance, for the massive, monolithic pines grew closer together, while thorns and other thick green foliage thrived in the open areas. But the path was clear and Kyranduíl swept onward, four elven guards accompanying him, riding their white stallions or mares in a square around him. They were dressed in strong gold plate armor and silver cloaks tumbled from their shoulders. Each wore an elven-crafted longsword at his or her hip and carried a long, beautifully made spear.

The elven lord was adorned much the same as his guards, except his armor was less for functionality and more for formality. He wore a silver cloak and a jewel-encrusted sword hung ready at his side. A thin, gilded silver diadem, showing his rank and importance, rested on his head, the point coming down to rest on his forehead.

The only sound they made was the occasional chlinks from their armor or weapons, the muted thlumphs of the horses' hooves on the soft dirt path, and the stallions' casual snorts.

All in all, the four elves struck a grand and imposing sight, rivaling even the nobility and elegance of the ancient forest.

They were traveling to the South Kingdom of Rynvalia to negotiate a treaty between Kyranduíl's realm of the North Kingdom of Kryduith. They had only recently crossed the border into Rynvalia and were making their way towards the capital city of Brathvynâ to meet with the lord of the kingdom, Raedynth. Kyranduíl estimated they would be there within the next five or six hours.

They were passing through tighter confines of the forest where the trees clustered together and the shadows ate away the light when the attack came. It was unexpected; no forewarning noise or movement. It just happened.

Three arrows came arching out of the trees, hissing viciously as they came. Two of them hit their targets, the first killing one of Kyranduíl's guards instantly. The elf crumpled from his saddle and hit the ground with a dull, sickening thump. The second arrow buried its wicked warhead into another guard's arm and the third missed narrowly.

“Spears!” Kyranduíl bellowed, turning his horse's head so that he faced the direction the attack had come from. “Elkriyth, to me!”

Elkriyth was the guard who had been struck, but not fatally wounded, by the second arrow. The elven guard guided his horse to stand next to his lord's. He was grimacing in pain. He would not remove the arrow yet for it would cause the wound to begin bleeding and the elves had no supplies—nor time—to bind it.

“Give me your spear,” Kyranduíl commanded. Elkriyth, knowing that his wounded arm was badly damaged, reluctantly handed away his spear. While they had been talking, Kyranduíl's remaining two guards had moved in front of the elf lord, spears held ready as the guards' eyes tried to pierce the thick foliage.

But another small arrow storm came from the left side of the trail this time, slaying Elkriyth and another of the elves. One of the arrows narrowly missed the elf lord, instead striking his mount's hind hock. Startled, the stallion instinctively tried to rear and turn to face the new threat, but the injured leg gave way and he collapsed, neighing frantically as blood gushed from the wound. Kyranduíl vaulted free of the injured horse and landed lightly on his feet, pulling out his sword as he did so. His remaining guard, Orenheith, dismounted.

“Take the reins, my lord,” he shouted. “Make all due haste to Brathvynâ!”

“No, Orenheith!”Kyranduíl replied. “There is no time and I cannot leave you.”

“Yes!” Orenheith cried. “Go! Escape to the forest! These are not elf warriors, otherwise we would all be dead already. Flee!”

Two more arrows flew out of the woods and struck Orenheith. With a final agonized cry, the loyal elf collapsed. Stricken with grief, Kyranduíl mounted Orenheith's stallion and rode away as quick as he could. Whoever the attackers were, they had wanted the elf lord alive—otherwise, Kyranduíl knew he would not be alive. But who they were, he had no idea. Most likely they were just petty robbers, lying it wait to attack innocent travelers and steal anything of value.

Kyranduíl soon lost his pursuers, but he had also lost his way. He knew he could find his way back to the path eventually, but he did not know if his unseen enemies were still lurking there. He halted the stallion bitterly. He was in unfamiliar territory and was unsure of what to do. I must keep going and hope that a haven is not far, he thought.

He kept riding slowly through the old forest for a few minutes before he found it. It was a building built between and in the trees of the forest. It was crafted from pine wood and was amazingly ornate. It matched the wild lines and curves of nature and Kyranduíl guessed it had been created by elves. No other being in the Four Kingdoms could craft a place out of pure nature such as this. Oak and maple trees stood around the large, fancy double doors and along the front wall. Ivy grew up along the walls, adding an air of mystique and ancient wonder to the place that made it fit perfectly in with the rest of the forest.

“Hello?” the elf lord called out, wondering what this place could be, or why it was so hidden. There was no reply, the only noise being the faint birdsong drifting through the pines. He dismounted slowly and tied the stallion's reins to a nearby low pine branch. Letting his hands drop to the hilt of his sword, Kyranduíl advanced silently towards the large double doors set in the elven building. The faint breeze ruffled his cloak and sent up small showers of old, rotting oak and maple leaves as he disturbed them. Looking down, Kyranduíl realized the leaves buried a stone walkway, cut carefully from a light gray stone to create smooth, even tiles.

He halted at the door and paused warily. Then, taking in a deep breath, the elven lord shoved the right door open, his fist tightening on the grip of his sword, ready at any given moment to pull it forth. No voice rang out in a challenge or alarm and Kyranduíl slipped inside, slowly closing the large door behind him when he realized there was no one within. His hand relaxed on his sword hilt and he advanced farther into the room.

Inside it was even clearer that the building was the work of the elves. The ceiling was far, far above his head, and Gothic-style windows curving in the arched ceiling let in bright, untainted sunlight. The floors and walls were made of polished light brown wood, the grain of which swooped and swirled in enchanting patterns. Pillars built into the walls were living, thriving oak trees, straighter than any tree the elf lord had seen before. Tangled vines covered in delicate purple or white flowers coated the tree trunks, thinning out as they crept further upwards. A thin brook twisted through the wood floor, the pristine water warbling and gurgling happily.

Between the massive tree pillars were shelves. Row upon row, hundreds upon hundreds of shelves. Shelves covered with books. Hundreds of thousands of books.

A small sigh of amazement escaped Kyranduíl's throat. He had seen dozens, if not hundreds, of elven cities and palaces and buildings. But nothing could compare to the hidden elven library that he was seeing now.

Kyranduíl walked slowly forward, turning in circles, trying to take it all in at once. This was a place where man and wild nature connected perfectly, merging together seamlessly. Where there was no separation between man and wilderness.

The elven lord stepped swiftly to the nearest wall and pulled a book off the shelf. The cover was made of a smooth rusty-red leather with gold-leaf bindings and patterns. The title was written in ancient elvish runes.

“The Aerling's Rise and Fall,” he read softly to himself. “Aerling… Aerling… hmm.” The name was unfamiliar to him. He opened it. The book was written in the same fanciful elvish script. He replaced the book on its shelf and selected another one, titled The Descendants of the Aerling. The elven lord put the book away and moved farther down the shelf. He found a book called The History of the South Kingdom of Rynvalia. He found similar books on the history of the other three Kingdoms, but when he began to read, he realized that, at whatever period this book was written in, it predated any of the ancient history books he had ever read.

How old is this place? He found himself repeatedly wondering. And why is it kept secret?

Kyranduíl spent hours searching through the massive, one-roomed library. He read many of the shorter books and delved briefly into the longer ones. It was late evening and the light was fading when he pulled down another book, bound in black leather. It had no title, but, curious, the elven lord opened it to the first page. As he began to read, a thin, folded slip of ancient parchment paper fell out. He picked it up and read:

Frathíth, he read, the storms arise in the Rynvalia Kingdom.

Kyranduíl realized it was a letter.

The hordes of the Qazatrahg are almost upon us. They are too strong. We, in Rynvalia, cannot resist them. But the key to their defeat is here, in what I shall write. In truth, they are too powerful to fully defeat, but we may imprison them. Gather together the last eight realms. If you do not stand together, there is no hope and the Qazatrahg will overrun all of the Nine Kingdoms. So read my words closely, for I have struggled for many decades to recover this crucial information.

His shock growing, Kyranduíl kept reading. He had heard of the Qazatrahg before—they were cunning beasts of nightmare, said to have been created by the very force of evil. But they were a myth, a legend. Something created by mothers to scare their children into obedience. Another thing he noted was the fact that the writer had said the Nine Kingdoms. There were four elven kingdoms, at least nowadays—North, South, East, and West.

As he kept reading, a realization hit Kyranduíl. If this library contained more knowledge and history as this journal did, it was understandable why it had been kept hidden. Powerful information was stored in the books and if it were to be misused or discovered by the wrong people, disaster could strike—particularly if somebody read the journal and decided it might be fun to unleash the Qazatrahg on the world. Swiftly, Kyranduíl closed the book, put the letter back in it, and put it in its place on the shelf. Taking one last look at the silent library which seemed now a grim, foreboding place, he fled the room, closing the door securely behind him. His—or rather, Orenheith's—stallion was still tied to the tree. Sensing his master's alarm, the pure-white horse pawed the ground anxiously with one hoof, impatient to go.

Kyranduíl mounted hastily and took up the reins, clucking to the stallion.

“We must make haste,” he said, partially to himself, partially to the horse. “It is growing dark and fell things live in the South after dark. We must find Brathvynâ and tell Lord Raedynth of this place. Perhaps he will have good council.”

Despite his words, it was late the next morning when he finally came to the elven capital.

He was greeted at the gates of Brathvynâ with surprised looks from the elven guards on station there.

“Lord Kyranduíl!” one of them exclaimed as he rode up briskly. “You were due yesterday. Is all well? Where are your escorts?”

“At ease, my friend,” Kyranduíl said wearily. “We were ambushed in the woods. Our attackers, whoever they might have been, did not aim to kill me—only my guards. I escaped, but was lost in the forest.” He hung his head in grief but then held it aloft again with a determined air. “Now, send word to Lord Raedynth of my arrival. I have important news that he must hear.”

“Yes, my lord,” the guard said, bowing briefly. The elves opened the gilded gates and Kyranduíl trotted forwards on the white stallion.

Twenty minutes later, Kyranduíl was dismounting in the large courtyard of Palace Brathvynâ, armed elven guards hurrying out to greet him. One took his stallion and gave him to a stableboy.

“Come, my lord,” one of the elves said, bowing deeply. He wore the typical gold plate armor of the elves, with a red cloak. “Lord Raedynth awaits. After we shall escort you to your suite of rooms where you may freshen up and rest.”

“Thank you…” Kyranduíl let his sentence hang expectantly.

“Corporal, sir,” the elf said, “Corporal Traethdal.”

“Thank you, corporal.”

Traethdal gave another short bow, then led the armed elves inside the palace alongside Kyranduíl.

“May we speak in private?” Kyranduíl asked Raedynth after proper greetings and niceties were exchanged. Raedynth glanced at Traethdal, then nodded briskly.

“Come, then, we shall speak in my rooms. No one shall hear what transpires betwixt us,” the elven lord confirmed. Raedynth, a tall, graceful figure, even for an elf, rose from his throne and led Kyranduíl through the palace and up into one of the larger towers. Traethdal and five guards accompanied them but stayed outside the room to let the two elven lords speak privately.

“What delayed you?” Raedynth asked once they were seated comfortably in the lavishly furnished chambers.

“My guards and I were ambushed, perhaps five hours away in the wood,” Kyranduíl began. Raedynth leaned back in his chair expectantly and waited for Kyranduíl to continue.

“We never saw them. They shot with arrows, but they were not elven arrows, nor shot by an elf.”

Raedynth's tense body relaxed slightly.

“Within minutes, bad though their aim might be, my guards were taken down. I escaped and fled into the woods.” Kyranduíl leaned forward. “And this is what I would speak with you about—and why it is private.”

Raedynth tilted his head to one side in a question.

“I found a library amid the woods. It was unoccupied, but not yet ravaged by time or weather. There were many, many books. More than I have ever seen in any one library, elf or otherwise. Much of the information was old, holding secrets that have long since been lost to the minds of either men or elves or any beast that walks this earth.”

“A secret library, you say?” Raedynth asked, frowning thoughtfully. “For sure, that was not what I had in mind when you said you wished to talk in private.”

“Yes,” Kyranduíl said earnestly. “A journal, it spoke of the Qazatrahg—” He broke off as Raedynth stood abruptly, knocking his chair over as he did so. The elf lord of the South glowered down at the lord of the North.

“Is something the matter?” Kyranduíl asked, rising halfway from his seat. Raedynth looked at him coldly.

“Traethdal!” bellowed Raedynth. Instantly, the corporal and his five men burst into the room, weapons held at the ready. Raedynth pointed at Kyranduíl. “Take this elf and lock him in the dungeons. He has found the library. He knows too much.”