by C S Marks
"I won’t hear of it," said Galador. "My lady, please accept the offer of dry passage." He bowed before Nelwyn, gesturing toward Réalta.
Nelwyn’s ears reddened and she shook her head, a shy smile on her face. Galador then did something quite uncharacteristically foolish; he waded into the shallows and promptly sat down, his eyes widening as the icy water washed over him to the waist.
"Ahhh…refreshing!" he said, while trying to keep his teeth from chattering. "Now, since I am already wet, does it not make sense for me to wade, and for you to ride?"
Gaelen and Nelwyn looked at each other. Gaelen rolled her eyes and chuckled, gesturing toward Réalta as Galador had done. "Well, go on, my lady, you heard him! Hopefully the horse has more sense than he does."
They were nearly half-way across when Nelwyn first noticed the disturbance in the water. It was difficult to see because of the swift flow, but when she looked harder she beheld a roiling mass that was moving against the current. Gaelen was picking her way carefully, trying not to allow the water to wash over the tops of her boots, when she heard a cry of alarm from Nelwyn.
"AIYAH! Úlfar are coming! Gaelen, Galador, get out of the water, quickly! Gaelen…Úlfar are coming!"
Galador and Rogond looked at one another. They had not heard of such things, yet Nelwyn was terrified. She put her hand down to hoist Galador up, crying with fear. Gaelen had drawn her blades, shouting up at Rogond:
"Whatever you do, do not place any part of yourself in the water! One bite from these, and you are dead! We are much harder for them to kill…stay on your horse!"
The roiling mass was upon them even as Galador tried to swing aboard Réalta. He could not do so, both because of the water pulling at his legs and the unsteadiness of his mount, who was now surrounded by a writhing tangle of what appeared to be very slimy snakes. They were pinkish-grey and eyeless, with sharp teeth encased in a sucker-like mouth surrounded by long, fleshy feelers. They turned the water around them into a mire of slime, and the horses struggled against their tangling flesh and the thick, gluey morass in which they now found themselves.
Gaelen yelled fiercely as she swung her blades. The slime made piercing or cutting the Úlfar more difficult, still the water was bloodied about her.
"Keep the horses on their feet, no matter what!" she cried, drawing her bow and sending a swift arrow into the mass of Úlfar, which scattered temporarily.
"Galador!" cried Nelwyn as she saw the tall Elf fall to his knees, now up to his chest in the thick, unspeakable mire. It was like jelly; though the cold current tore at it, still it clung to the legs of the horses and to poor Galador, who went under quickly.
Gaelen and Nelwyn leaped to his aid, still shouting at Rogond to stay aboard Eros. The powerful horse was heavier and steadier than Réalta, but he was alarmed at the tangle of Úlfar and threw his head in the air, snorting, as Rogond tried to calm him and make his way shoreward. He looked back, horrified, as he saw Gaelen and Nelwyn pull Galador to his feet. There were at least four of the vile things attached to Gaelen’s bare arms and twice that number upon Galador’s neck, arms, and chest. Nelwyn threw Galador’s arm around Réalta’s neck and urged the horse from the water as Gaelen struggled after her. She had stopped trying to kill the Úlfar, for they were too many.
The Company straggled onto the bank, tearing the wretched things loose from their flesh and grimacing. Gaelen was unsteady on her feet, as was Galador, for they had each taken several envenomed bites. Nelwyn had been bitten once, on the back of her right hand, for her clothing covered most of the rest of her. Rogond vaulted from his horse and ran to aid them.
"Stay away from…from the water," said Gaelen as she sagged down onto the pebbly shore. The creatures were still there, lashing and writhing, frustrated at having been denied their prey. They turned upon those that had been wounded by Gaelen’s blade; it was all they would get this day. A few attempted to wriggle out of the water, but decided differently, and at last they retreated.
"I have never heard of them to come so far north," said Nelwyn sadly. "This is ill news!" Indeed, it was. It was fortunate that Gaelen and Galador had taken only a few poisoned bites, for even Elves may be killed if enough venom is given them.
"It’s terrible news," Gaelen agreed, breathing hard and trying to remain alert. "They have finally made their way here from Tûr Dorcha. Next they’ll be swimming right into the Elven-hold."
Rogond was aghast. "What are those things? I have never seen them before."
"Then you’ve never been near Tûr Dorcha," said Nelwyn, trying to pry the last of the vile creatures from Galador’s arm. "They attack anything that moves, but they can only attach to bare skin. The hair on the legs of horses will foil them, as will clothing. But when they entangle their victims and mire them in the thick slime they produce…well, you saw what happened."
Rogond took one look at Gaelen, whose pale face was turning a little green. "Are they…poisonous?"
Nelwyn nodded. "Once a victim has been subdued by the venom, and most likely drowned in the slime, the creatures work their way inside by rasping and tearing away the flesh, or they enter through the orifices of the body, consuming it from the inside out. It’s one of the worst fates imaginable!" She recalled the hairless, bloated body of an Ulca that she and Gaelen had once found floating in the Darkmere. Gaelen had actually shot an arrow into it, believing it was still alive, before they both realized that it was only moving because it was filled with Úlfar. Nelwyn shuddered at the memory.
"But…why did you fear for me, and not yourselves?"
Nelwyn paused, turning from Galador long enough to look Rogond in the eye. "A single bite from an Úlfa would have killed you," she said. "Even if very little of the venom entered, you would die raving with fever, because the bite would fester beyond healing. Even the greatest healers have found no remedy for an Úlfa bite—not in a mortal man."
"Thank heaven for the horses’ hairy legs, then," said Rogond. He looked over at Galador and Gaelen. "Will they be all right?"
"Hopefully they’ll be able to throw off the effects of the venom in a day or two," said Nelwyn. "Galador has taken more bites, but Gaelen is a lot smaller. They’ll both need watching, and neither will be able to ride unaided." She examined the fading red mark on her own hand with disgust, but didn’t seem concerned about it.
While Galador rested, Nelwyn and Rogond cleaned the slime from him as best they could. Regrettably, his hair had been sullied; some of the foul substance had dried there, and there would be no remedy other than cutting it off. He would need new clothing and, of course, he would despair at the loss of any of his beautiful long hair, of which he was quite vain.
In the morning they took stock of their situation, and though things could have been much worse, they were far from ideal. The going would be slow now, with only two of them in full possession of their wits. Nelwyn estimated about fifty miles and at least three or four more days at their current pace. Both Galador and Gaelen were insensible. Galador rode behind Nelwyn, his head resting on her shoulder. Twice he had slid to the ground before Nelwyn could grab him. Gaelen had finally felt the full effects of the venom, and she rode in front of Rogond, her head thrown back against his neck. She occasionally moaned and muttered fitfully as though in dark dreams. That night the chill took both of them, and they shook uncontrollably as Rogond and Nelwyn tried in vain to warm them. But in the morning they were much improved. Neither was in the best spirits—heads pounding, wits still muddled and bodies aching from the chill of the night. Yet they rode unaided, and by the time they approached the Elven-hold three days later, they were more alert and needed little assistance.
They were sighted first by two scouts, friends of Gaelen and Nelwyn, whom they recognized at once. They called to one another in the bird-voices used by hunter-scouts, and in a few moments they appeared: two Wood-elves, one male, one female, both with long, chestnut-brown hair and nearly identical light brown eyes. As they wondered at the newcomers, Nelwyn requested tha
t they return and tell the King of their impending arrival. With one backward, slightly mistrustful glance at Rogond, they disappeared in the direction of the Elven-hold.
The King’s emissaries met the Company as they drew within sight of the hidden gates. Rogond marveled at how cleverly the Wood-elves had concealed themselves; he stood on the doorstep of one of the great realms, yet if he did not know better he would have taken little notice. Ri-Aruin had improved upon the work done by his father, and although much of the fortress was below ground there were hilltop gardens, courtyards, and battlements that were concealed by the natural features surrounding them. The grassy hills that lay to the west of the fortress were wide and open. Rogond could hear horses and the sound of flowing waters.
The source of the Forest River, known as the Dominglas, was formed by the union of two cold springs to the north, and it flowed beside the underground realm.
In general, the reception was a warm one, for all had feared for Gaelen and Nelwyn and rejoiced that they still lived. To the newcomers they extended every possible courtesy, escorting them deep below ground, removing the horses to the capable care of those in the stables.
They were allowed to wash, rest, and dress in fresh clothing that was provided for them. There would be a feast tonight in their honor, but first Ri-Aruin had summoned Gaelen and Nelwyn, as he wanted to hear their news in private.
They stood before him, lean and somewhat travel-weary but still bright-eyed and clear of thought, and told him of all that had passed. He had been especially shocked and dismayed at the sorry fate of Gelmyr, who had been his honored guest on several occasions.
He sensed that Gaelen kept something back from her tale at first—she was reluctant to tell Ri-Aruin that she could read the eyes of the dead. She did not wish to recount the terrible tale she had read in the eyes of Gelmyr, but the King needed to know everything of this enemy, and she relented. Not even Nelwyn had been privy to all of it, and when the tale was finished, she and Ri-Aruin looked at Gaelen with new respect.
When they came to the point at which the trail had been lost, Gaelen hung her head. It still pained her that she had failed. But Ri- Aruin, though he sometimes found her exasperating, was fond of her and bade her not be troubled.
"It is more important," said he, "that you have returned through this peril to tell the tale. We all rejoice that you are found— let that satisfy you."
But Gaelen said, in a small but clear voice, "I would rejoice with you, my King, yet Nelwyn and I still must face the memory of the sight of our friends and the bereavement of their families. I hear your words, but I do not feel them in my heart." Ri-Aruin was grieved, knowing that the desire to pursue and slay this creature would never entirely disappear from her, and that she would be with her people only for a short while.
Chapter 7: In the Halls of the King
There was a feast that night in celebration, for two thought lost had returned. Both Nelwyn and Gaelen would sit at the King’s table, an honor they had each received only once before, and on separate occasions. Of course, one did not decline the invitation of Ri-Aruin, but Gaelen and Nelwyn would sooner have sat in less prominent positions among their friends and kin. Rogond and Galador were invited, of course, and were received as honored guests, though not at the King’s table. Galador, who was of High-elven heritage, was treated with great respect, as was Rogond, for the people of the Greatwood had met and interacted with Rangers before and considered them to be allies.
Galador looked reasonably well, though in the end they had needed to trim off some of his hair in spite of his protests. A bit of rest, good food, and hot water had done wonders for Rogond, and he looked every inch the noble man of Tuathas. Clad in Elven-made garments of grey and white, clean-shaven, combed, and polished, he was so comely that Gaelen barely recognized him. He was hale and strong, for he had come to full vigor in the prime of young manhood. His dark hair was held back from his face by a circlet of silver, and his grey eyes were bright. Yet the tale of fifteen years in the wild could not be entirely erased from his face; sun, wind, and worry had left their marks on him. Still, sitting beside Galador, he could easily have been taken for an Elf-lord.
Nelwyn was attired in raiment of soft green, her golden hair set loose and flowing about her shoulders. She also wore a circlet on her brow, but it was of gold. Her cloak was of a warm, darker green, and she wore a brooch fashioned in the image of golden leaves, a gift from the King. She appeared as a morning in the green of spring, bringing to mind the freshness of new growth and the return of the sun, as she sat between her cousin and the King’s son, Wellyn, who was recently returned from a foray in the lands to the east. He sat at the right hand of his father. Many remarked on Nelwyn’s beauty; it seemed that she glowed with golden light.
Gaelen, by contrast, appeared more as a brooding storm cloud.
She was dressed more for traveling than for celebrating, in plain, soft leather of very dark grey-brown, booted and cloaked. As ever, she wore little ornament. Her chestnut hair was cropped and wild, as though windblown. It was always so, no matter how she tried to tame it.
Her one concession to the occasion was a brooch that now fastened her dark red cloak at her shoulder. It was of silver, shaped as a running horse, with an eye of adamant. Ri-Aruin had given her this token, and she wore it to please him. She wore no other ornament, as weapons were not permitted at the King’s table, but as he gazed at her, Rogond felt that she needed none. The brilliance and depth of Gaelen’s hazel-green eyes would have overshadowed all the songs and beautiful words of the Èolar and all the bright gems and precious metals of the Rûmhar, in his opinion.
Rogond did not yet fully understand this wild Elfling—so childlike in some ways, and so sophisticated and worldly in others. Gaelen was wise, yet foolish, with a heart both loving and ferocious. He knew that a part of his heart was lost to her from the first time she sang to him in his need, that he would never be able to tell her so, and that she would never be his. That piece of his heart was gone nevertheless. He would settle for being her guardian and her friend when needed, for as long as she would have him, and this was reflected in his face. He could not stop gazing at her.
Several of the Elves, including Ri-Aruin, took notice of Rogond’s attention to Gaelen, and they were troubled by it. Galador perceived their reaction, and grabbed Rogond’s arm to gain his attention, speaking in a hissing whisper:
"Rogond! Do not gaze at her thus. Some of these folk may be her kin, and they are not looking on you with favor just now."
Rogond dropped his eyes, but then his gaze was drawn to Ri- Aruin, who sat tall and proud, in robes jeweled and embroidered, looking down at him with a rather stern expression. Even darker was the expression upon the young face of Wellyn, the King’s son and heir. Rogond bowed his head in respect, as he did not wish to offend his hosts, and he looked no more upon Gaelen.
She, in fact, would have preferred his quiet company to the feasting and merrymaking. The music, no matter how pleasing, did not comfort her, and she did not sing in spite of the entreaty of many, including the King. The table of the house of Talrodin and Halrodin held two empty places, plates that were unfilled, goblets that held no wine. Nelwyn also took note of this with sadness, and it was as though a cloud had passed over her face and dimmed her light as a grey rain in the fullness of spring.
Deep under the Great Mountains, the creature Gorgon stirred and fretted, locked in a dark dream. He did not often truly sleep, as his dreams were seldom comforting, but an inexplicable weariness had come over him, and now the price would have to be paid. The dream had begun pleasantly enough, with visions of the Elf, Gelmyr, crying out in pain and horror as he died. But as Gorgon stood before the now-lifeless body, Gelmyr lifted his head, and life appeared in his dead eyes once again. He shook his head slowly, an expression of pitying amusement on his battered face. Gorgon could neither move, nor speak.
"The circle is tightening around you, and the fire draws near," said Gelmyr quite clearly,
though his bloodied lips did not move. "Your killing will end and it will be as though you had never been, abomination of Wrothgar! And when the Elàni learn of you, they will pity you. They may even deem it worth a song, which they will sing as they pass to the Eternal Realm, where you cannot follow. You will not be counted as strong, but pathetic and miserable, the victim of your own mindless rage. And they will never fear you again." He swayed gently in the wind as he hung before Gorgon, who still could not move, though he could now speak.
"You’re wrong! I will endure forever. I am timeless and I am to be feared. My sword will take uncounted numbers of your kind until none remain, and they and their folk will shed tears uncountable! You are wrong!"
Gelmyr smiled and replied, "You know you have been pursued. It is only the beginning. There are those who know of you and are now driven to destroy you. No one will mourn your passing, but they will weep for the wretchedness of you. You cannot escape this fate, no matter how much you hate them and yourself."
Suddenly, Gorgon’s limbs became free and he took a violent swipe at Gelmyr, his mighty arm passing harmlessly through the apparition as if through smoke. Gelmyr faded from his sight like a mist, but his voice lingered for a moment. "Farewell, Gorgon, who once named himself ‘Elfhunter’. You are the hunted now. Brood well in your lair while you can."