igenlode: The pirate sloop 'Horizon' from "Treasures of the Indies" (Default)
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I tracked down the rest of the Mirhap-gheal story, which as I had remembered was present in a spiral-bound green desk-diary. "Mirhap-gheal", as I had remembered, does indeed translate into the Fighting Fantasy-style title of "Elves of Eagles Cleft". And the narrative does in fact continue beyond the scene previously quoted, which is the entry under the date November 26 -- the next page allows you to bend the bars with your bare hands if your Stamina score is 19 or over (highly unlikely, by what I remember of the Fighting Fantasy gaming system!), or else watch Hirrhin being carried off by the guards due to your failure to understand how the 'magic' sword in your possession is supposed to work ;-p


From what I can see, the story is really much more of what would nowadays be called an interactive novel than a combat-oriented 'gamebook'. I was trying to tell an actual story rather than allow the reader to fight his way through an occupied fortress, and starting to push the limits of the format; a lot of the entries, like the one quoted above, have no 'choose your own adventure' prompt at the end but just lead on to a new entry telling the next part of the story, with the division made for reasons of length or dramatic tension.

And folded in with the diary, oddly enough, were not one but two versions of the 'elaborate introduction', quite different from one another. The first is the one I remember starting to write on holiday, complete with calculations in one corner converting distances in leagues to days' travel in miles, and experimentations with different spellings for my 'elven' names. ("Mirhrap-gheal" is the final version given here and used in the text — mostly — but the extra 'h' would be dropped in the subsequent clean copy.)
But I evidently abandoned my first attempt and began a completely new introduction that summarised some of the previous material in flashback... with the heading on the back of the final page of the previous attempt!



Background


Version (i)


Winter is finally coming to an end. On your walk here to answer the summons of Lord Marhras you noticed the stiff white shoots of the first spring bells beginning to drop their heads, and the bare earth left uncovered by the melting snow is already sprouting green. Within Lord Marhras's study, however, no concessions have been made to the seasons. The exotic flowers blooming on either side of the table behind which the elven lord is seated seem caught in an enchantment of eternal summer, and the room is warm despite the time of year and the absence of any fire.

Marhras is slight even for an elf, but you don't let this mislead you — although you have never before seen him face-to-face, you know that he rules his city with a rod of iron. Seated behind his desk, apparently on this air, he glances up as you come in and gestures you to seat yourself likewise. You smile, recognising a ploy often used to discomfit human visitors. However, you spent your childhood and early youth in the largely-elven town under Marhras' government, and domestic enchantments fail to surprise or scare you; without even glancing around for a chair you seat yourself confidently on nothingness, and feel the air cushion to support you as his magic takes effect. It is the elf who looks discomfited.

"Thrush?" he asks curtly. You nod in response to your name and there is a long silence during which you fiddle with your sword-hilt and try not to appear too conscious that he is studying you.

"I suppose you are wondering why I summoned you to me?"

You acquiesce, tense now, which is what he wanted. He stands up, gesturing for you to remain seated, and links his hands comfortably behind his back. "I must explain that I have a nephew, my sister's son, who was sent to me for fostering some time ago, as he showed a talent in the use of magic greater than that normal in one of his age. He has now developed his talent to the limit of his current abilities, and his mother wishes him to rejoin her in the fortress to which both my sister were recently promoted as joint commanders of the guard." He pauses. "I believe the fortress in question is known to you humans as 'Eagles' Crag'. Its true name is Mirhrap-gheal."

You cannot help but gasp. The fabulous elven fortress in the far east, Mirhrap-gheal, known to humans — he had it slightly wrong — as 'Eagles' Cleft', is almost as legendary as the Golden City. Moreover, it lies on the very edge of the Barrens, a thousand leagues away.

Lord Marhras has been watching you, and one winged eyebrow lifts as he registers your reaction. "Not a journey to be undertaken by a lone and inexperienced traveller, of whatever race, as I am sure you will agree. When we received the message, I at once began to review all our young hunters and warriors in my mind, in quest of a suitable companion for young Hirrhin. However, none of them are ideal. For example, my own young daughter shows a lamentable lack of discretion—"

You run over the list in your mind as he names them, young male and female elves whom you had admired so much as a child when they wielded spells and bright steel in Marhras' service. But today, from a more adult and objective viewpoint, with nearly ten years' experience behind you—

"Oh, I see," you break in. "You wish to ask me to judge between them as an objective outsider—" You stop because you realise why the Lord is glaring at you.

Most elves are suspicious of other races to the point of xenophobia, the more so the higher in rank (hence Marhras's attempts to disconcert you) and avoid physical contact even with each other where possible, and in particular with members of other races. Elven protocol forbids not only touching another, but also interrupting a superior, and for a human such as yourself to interrupt Marhras might well be interpreted as an insult.

Before you can retrieve your mistake the elven Lord is speaking again, slowly as if to a child, his high cheekbones flushed in anger and his slanting brows almost meeting as he frowns at you.

"Having heard that the young human Thrush had just returned to the town after several years' absence, and being acquainted with this same human's reputation—" you grin "—I had thought that you might make a suitable guide and mentor for my inexperienced nephew on his journey. However, I begin to suspect that I was mistaken in choosing you in preference to one of my own race; a human remains a barbarian, even when brought up among elves!"

You gulp. It seems that by elven standards you have committed a serious social solecism, and you had no desire to anger a potential patron, particularly not one so powerful as the Lord who governs your home town. You apologise immediately and profusely. Fortunately Marhras appears willing to be mollified, and it is not long before you venture to bring up the question of payment.

The elf looks at you very sharply. "You accept, then?" You indicate your acquiescence in the elven fashion, with a shrug and a polite silence. "Subject to your nephew's approval, of course," you add diplomatically.

Surprisingly, you see that he is smiling. "It was from Hirrhin that I first heard your name mentioned." He turns towards the door and calls in elven "Hirrhin, come and meet Thrush."

The door opens and a nondescript young elf enters. You study your prospective companion of a thousand leagues carefully — he is much taller than his forceful, whipcord uncle, almost of a height with yourself. His one distinctive feature is his hair, of a colour not unusual in elves, a fairness almost silvery-pale, but extremely short, barely reaching the back of his neck or covering his ears.

Elves never cut their hair if they can help it. The normal length of their hair increases with age — Marhras wears his in a long braid, indicating high rank, which reaches down to his belt — and it is a sign of dishonour to have it shorn off. Hirrhin's looks distinctly singed and, noticing burn marks on the skin of his hands, you deduce that he has recently suffered a humiliating magical accident during his studies which could well account for his eagerness to set off into the uninhabited wilds with only a non-elven companion.

Meanwhile the young elf is observing you with equal curiosity, marking, no doubt, your well-worn sword hilt in its battered leather sheath, your loose and comfortable clothes, and the scarred hide of your supple hunting boots — you arrived at the Lord's house just as you were when you received his summons without waiting to change into your best. Your eyes meet, and you both smile, a little embarrassed.

Lord Marhras lays a hand on his nephew's arm. "Will this human do?" he asks him in their own language, and more that you cannot follow — your knowledge of Elven is rather rusty. The younger elf listens quietly, looking down at his uncle with a slight smile, and shrugs agreement. The he turns to you. "I have never walked far, and I am not accustomed to rough living," he says, speaking carefully in the human tongue, "but I will try to learn."

You have your doubts about this youthful companion — conveniently forgetting that he was probably born in the time of your great-grandfather, considering elven lifetimes — but the thought of the journey to Eagles' Cleft (and being paid for it) is too much for your adventurous spirit to resist.

"That's settled, then." "Then that is agreed," you say together, and laugh.

And that is almost all. All that is left is the delicate question of payment. Lord Marhras is a shrewd bargainer, but the price eventually argued out seems to you generous beyond your wildest dreams, and you certainly make no demur when the Lord adds to this the gift of an enchanted sword of the highest quality to replace your own sturdy but clumsy weapon!

"You understand, of course," Marhras says casually, writing out the contract, after having handed over the sealed bags and slender sheathed blade, "that both the gold and the powers of the sword have been enchanted so that they cannot be used until the terms of the contract have been fulfilled?"

You peer over his shoulder, but find that you cannot read the flowing elven script. "What exactly are these terms?" you ask suspiciously.

The elf pauses in his writing to quote an earlier passage: '...that the human, Thrush, brings my nephew Hirrhin safe in body and mind to the gates of Mirhrap-gheal...'

You consider this. It sounds fair enough, but another aspect suddenly strikes you forcibly. "And how am I supposed to get him there without the use of money or sword?"

Mahras smiles. "A warrior of your abilities should find a sword of this quality sufficient without the use of the additional powers contained within the blade. As for the gold—"

He hands you a smaller bag without the magical seals, taking care as he does so, you notice, not to touch you.

"This should be enough for many months," he says, as you take the pen and sign your name at the foot of the completed contract, "if you travel on foot and live cheaply. If there is anything over when you reach your destination, you may keep it. And now you will be anxious to leave in order to complete your journey before the onset of winter."

He is indicating the door through which Hirrhin has already left the room, but before you leave you finally manage to put the question which has been bothering you for the last half-hour: "My Lord... from your point of view, wouldn't a transportation spell be cheaper, easier and safer? I don't understand why you are doing this...."


And since the draft breaks off at that point, the author evidently couldn't think of a justification either! Or maybe I simply realised that I'd started my story at a point much too far back in the characters' history; at any rate, the next draft, which is virtually identical to the one eventually copied into the main manuscript, jumps ahead by several months and restarts the narrative under a fresh heading at the gates of Mirhrap-gheal.

Background


Version (ii)


The fruit on the little wild apples tree is ripening as you walk up the track on a sunny, blustery day almost at the end of your long journey. The first white spring-bells were only just pushing through the snow when the elf Marhras hired you as companion and bodyguard to his young nephew and pupil Hirrhin. Since then you and Hirrhin have crossed the breadth of the known lands on foot together, travelling a thousand leagues from a small town on the far western coast to a half-legendary elven fortress in the eastern wilderness. It has been an experience, you think, one to tell your grandchildren but not one to repeat.

Thinking back over the journey, you can see why Marhras hesitated to send his young relative on the journey unaccompanied; there were many occasions where the two of you won through where the elf alone would have been overwhelmed, the human providing ten years' adventuring experience and well honed survival instincts, Marhras' pupil providing spectacular magic where necessary. Your travels have been hazardous — but you have survived, and now approach journey's end lean and confident, good companions and fast friends.

"Thrush! Thrush?"

You are so absorbed in your thoughts of the past months that you have not noticed Hirrhin calling your name. He comes closer and lays a tentative hand on your arm — among elves unnecessary physical contact is considered intimate and embarrassing, and you have had difficulty persuading him that to humans it is not offensive. His touch is hesitant.

"Thrush."

You jump, startled out of your thoughts, and instinctively tense, your hand going to the hilt of your new sword, part of the payment you received for undertaking this journey. A moment later, you realise who is speaking to you and relax rather shame-facedly. Hirrhin is in a state of high excitement, his normally pale face flushed and his eyes sparkling. It is infectious.

"What is it?" you ask eagerly.

Instead of answering, he turns and mutely points ahead up the hillside where the westerly sun is just sinking to touch the ridge. In its last rays something gleams high up on the mountain. Straining to see, you make out soaring towers and graceful bridges within walls of honey-coloured stone. Your heart starts to beat faster. High in the unexplored Barrens, there is only one place it can be.

"Eagles' Cleft!" you gasp, as Hirrhin breathes reverently "Mirhap-gheal!" [sic]

Mirhap-gheal — Eagles' Cleft: two different names given by two different races to the same place. Half-legendary fortress of the elves few humans ever see. Your destination.

The sun drops behind the ridge, drawing one last flash as brilliant as diamond from a window somewhere in the fortress, and you feel suddenly colder. The wind blows with renewed strength. Hirrhin shivers. "Let's make camp now," he proposes.

You camp a few yards off the track in the best spot you can find, a little hollow amongst the stunted trees, not far from the stream that runs down the valley. It offers pitifully little shelter, but at least there is plenty of brushwood. Hirrhin lights a fire, and reckless for once, uses up most of your remaining food in making a stew — you hope to eat and reprovision at Eagles' Cleft.

When the stew-pot is simmering over the fire you squat down — elbows on knees, chin on fists — to warm yourselves at its heat. Hirrhin stares into the flames, smiling slightly — no doubt thinking of his mother, whom he has not seen since he was first fostered as a pupil to Marhras in order to develop his magical talents. Since then, the two sisters of Marhras have been promoted to joint commanders of the guard at Eagles' Cleft — a great honour, but now that Hirrhin is to rejoin his mother it has necessitated this epic journey of yours.

You strongly suspect that in fact it has not been necessary, that the distance could have been covered in a fraction of the time by elven enchantment and magic, and that Hirrhin has been sent this way merely in order to gain practical experience in the use of magic. Despite your grumbles, however, you do not resent this as it has given you a chance which few humans ever receive — that of seeing Mirhrap-gheal.

Crouched beside the camp-fire, you watch your companion across the flickering flames. As usual, Hirrhin is fiddling with the knotted band of cloth that holds back his pale, silvery-fair hair. In many ways he is a typical elf. His eyes are a startling jewel-blue and all his features have that delicate, tilted appearance known, appropriately, in humans as 'elfin'. The fingers struggling with his fine unruly locks are long and fineboned, betraying his lack of what elves call derisively 'the brute strength of the thickset races'. It is true that you never see a fat elf; it is also true that you rarely see a muscular one.

Hirrhin finished tying back his hair and leans over to stir the stew, but the breeze in the hollow still whips the ends in his face. You smile, knowing that although it irritates him immensely he will never agree to cut it. Elves' hair is never cut, and increases in overall length as they grow older — Hirrhin's, only shoulder-length, betrays his youth. Cutting the hair is linked with dishonour and is carried out only on elven slaves and prisoners. Equally, he is forbidden to braid or otherwise restrain it, as this is a sign of high rank among elves.

Though he is loyal to his own customs, Hirrhin has nevertheless shed a number of elven prejudices during your travels, among them a fear and distrust of human amounting to xenophobia — born and brought up in a frontier town ruled by the elven Lord Marhras and predominantly inhabited by the slighter race, you are only too aware of this attitude among elves. You were when, on one of your brief visits home, Marhras chose you, the human Thrush, rather than one of his own warriors, to carry out this mission — and relieved to find his young nephew relatively open-minded; Hirrhin's new attitude towards humans was reinforced by chance conversation with adventurous — or foolhardy — elves who had abandoned elven territory to sell their swords and spells in human lands. Now your trust is mutual and unquestioning.

"Wake up, Thrush!" Hirrhin flicks a bit of twig at you, startling you out of your thoughts. "The stew's ready!" You eat hungrily from the steaming pot, near the fire for warmth.

"What are you going to do when we part, Thrush?" the elf asks. "Look for some worthy cause to serve?"

You dip a crust of hard journey-bread in the pot to soften it. "Make my way home, taking the jobs that pay best, I suppose. The binding spell that Lord Marhras set on my fee will be lifted when I leave you at the gate, so I will be able to use the gold, and the magic power of the sword, as well. I don't care much whom I serve if the pay is right."

Hirrhin sighs, shaking his silver-fair head. "I cannot understand how you can fight without a cause to give meaning to your battles."

You grin as you begin the old half-friendly argument, the idealistic young elf against the hard-bitten human mercenary with ten years' tough experience. The result is, as always, inconclusive — the argument does not last long tonight, for you are both determined to make an early start. While washing up in the little stream you catch yourself glancing over your shoulder up the darkened hillside towards the hidden fortress more than once, before joining Hirrhin, curled catlike in the hollow beside the glowing embers.


Page 1


The mountainside is steeper than you expected, and despite an early start and a meagre breakfast, it is nearly noon before you clamber over the last rise and finally approach the great fortress, perched on its mountain crag like a watchful bird of prey. Your hearts pounding, only partly from the exertion of your long scramble, you pause for breath under the towering walls of honey-coloured stone, admiring the ancient elven masons who jointed the blocks so skilfully that the fortress appears to have been hewn out of the living rock.

Almost before you have regained your breath, Hirrhin leads off eagerly along the narrow path at the foot of the wall towards the great front gate. You follow rather more cautiously, unable to forget the steep slope on your right where the crag falls away into sheer precipices, but the elf pauses to wait for you when he reaches the great double doors which are standing slightly ajar in the autumn sunshine.

He speaks formally. "My friend, you have fulfilled the terms of your contract, and the binding spell has lifted. The money is yours to use — you have earned every gold piece of it. Take your reward, and may you travel home in safety."

Unexpectedly he throws his upbringing to the wind and runs forward to embrace you before slipping through the open door and disappearing from sight. Left alone, high on the mountainside, you hesitate only a few seconds before following him; your formal duties as a bodyguard are over, but friendship prompts you to watch him safety to his new home.



Alas, as we know from the
later extract
, things do not go well for Hirrhin :-(
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