Elfhunter

by C S Marks

  Gorgon jerked awake, breathing hard, a mixture of fury and fear on his dark, twisted face. He shook his head to clear his thoughts and erase all traces of the voice of Gelmyr, but he remained troubled for a long time after. Gorgon’s dreams, though dark, had always been easily shaken off, but this dream had been different. He stormed about in the blackness of his stronghold, crying aloud in a terrible voice, attempting to subdue the feeling that this had been not a dream, but a prophecy. Who was pursuing him? He had felt it as he lingered on the banks of the river, before heading to the mountains. No, this could not be a prophecy. He would not allow it. He would not be prevented from his course of hatred, and he would not be pitied!

  If he was vigilant, none could prevail against him. The Elves were too scattered—they clustered in their few remaining settlements like sheep in paddocks and would not unite against him. He would continue to take advantage of their foolish wanderings, but now he would be wary, at least for a time. If he detected any pursuers, and they drew too near, he would leave them such a vision of horror and death that they would think twice about continuing. The Èolo was wrong, and he was only a dream, after all. Gorgon muttered a dark battle-chant, repeating it over and over as though to ward off the prophecy of Gelmyr, until at last he grew weary and drew back within himself.

  After many hours of revelry the King finally rose and left the Great Hall, signaling the official end of the feast. Although any were free to remain if they wished, they were also free to leave. Gaelen breathed a sigh of relief as she rose and turned to depart, her dark red cloak unfurled behind her, moving swiftly toward the main passageway. She was waylaid by Wellyn standing tall and elegant before her, clad all in white and silver, his raven-dark hair beautifully plaited, his blue-grey eyes intent.

  He had just returned from a rather stressful foray into the east, where he and his companions had battled with two of the many groups of Anori-men that seemed to constantly harass the border- lands to the northeast. As such he was in need of merriment, and was not yet ready to retire. Gaelen was not unhappy to see him, as they had been good friends since a rather apocalyptic incident when Wellyn was seven years of age. Gaelen was far older than he, and she had shown him then what a true friend she could be. On the rare occasion that he found her, for they were rarely both in the same place at the same time, Wellyn often confided in Gaelen and sought her counsel, for he trusted her.

  Now he faced her, eyes full of concern. "You were not celebrating with us in your heart tonight, Gaelen. Your people are overjoyed that you are found, and yet you are not content. What troubles you?"

  Gaelen looked over at Rogond and Galador, who were still seated at their table, surrounded by those who wanted to hear more of their tale. They had been required to give only the barest account of it at the feast, as Ri-Aruin had seen how weary the full disclosure had made them. Rogond, in particular, was fending off a group of very curious Wood-elves, who wanted to know all about him. They were polite, but persistent, and they had him surrounded. Gaelen sighed, knowing that she would have to go and rescue him.

  Turning back to Wellyn, she replied, "It is a long tale…one for which I haven’t the strength tonight. I am retiring to the forest to rest in the trees near the river, where the sun may warm my dreams. Perhaps I will give you a full accounting when I return."

  But Wellyn was not deceived, for he knew her well, and could sense that she meant to leave the Greatwood with little rest. She was being driven by something, and though he did not yet understand it, he knew that it was greater than simple desire for revenge against the killer of Halrodin. As she would not make eye contact, he knelt down before her, forcing her to look at him. He read her thoughts in her eyes and was disquieted.

  "You cannot put me aside so easily," he said. "You would be long gone before I heard any of your tale. You carry a heavy doom upon you, and it worries me, for I would have you remain safely here. Your friend Wellyn would share this doom with you. Please… come with me now and tell what has befallen, that I may aid you."

  As usual, Gaelen found Wellyn difficult to resist, especially as he knelt before her, beseeching her. This was not lost on the courtiers of the King, and Gaelen reflected that, in a way, Wellyn had done her a favor. Ri-Aruin had never approved of her friendship with him, and permission to travel to Mountain-home was now almost assured. Though she intended to do so in any case, it was always easier with the King’s sanction than without it, as she had no wish to openly defy him. Now Ri-Aruin would probably pack her provisions for her.

  The King would certainly not have his son on one knee pleading with a feral, disheveled Sylvan hunter-scout, who, while eminently useful and occasionally charming, was not an appropriate consort for the Prince of the Greatwood. As Gaelen appraised the expressions on those of the King’s court who remained, she supposed that Ri- Aruin was probably being told about it already.

  "I’m truly sorry to disappoint you, my friend," said Gaelen, and she meant it, "but I must go now and look to the Aridan. Otherwise, our people are so curious that they will be questioning him and pestering him until he falls over from exhaustion." So saying, she swept around Wellyn, close enough for the edge of her cloak to brush against his astonished face. He was unaccustomed to being dismissed in this manner, especially by Gaelen, and he rose and turned to regard her as she rounded on the group of Elves surrounding Rogond, parting the crowd as a stiff wind parts the tall grass. Rogond smiled at her with relief, rising to his feet and moving toward the corridor. She placed herself before the inquisitive Wood-elves, who turned back from the amiable yet fierce Gaelen Storm-cloud, temporary protector of Rogond the Aridan.

  As Wellyn of the house of Ri-Aruin watched her turn and sweep down the corridor behind Rogond, his emotions were mixed. He was concerned that Gaelen really had called some dreadful doom upon herself. He was disappointed that she would not share this with him, and disquieted that she felt she could dismiss him in order to see to the comforts of a mortal man. And deep in his heart, he was resentful of Rogond, because he would probably hear what tales Gaelen had to tell this day—tales for which he, Wellyn, would have to wait, if indeed they would be heard by him at all. Thoroughly out of the mood for merrymaking, he turned on his heel and strode toward his own chambers, the beginnings of this resentment smoldering as a tiny spark that may, in time and under the right conditions, give rise to sudden flame.

  Rogond had returned to the sumptuous chamber that had been prepared for him, gone directly to his bed, and fallen back upon it in a deep slumber. The wine brought dreamless, pleasant sleep, and his face was contented and peaceful as he lay stretched out before Gaelen, who regarded him with ever-increasing fascination. Cautiously, she approached him, tracing one index finger along the angle of his jaw, noting the already-emerging bristles of his beard. The feel of it was most peculiar. Not only that, but he often made strange sounds as he slept, a sort of deep rumbling that was occasionally quite loud. It was a wonder that he did not attract the attention of his enemies! Elves made no such sounds; in fact, they rarely slept unless healing or wearied by grief.

  Wellyn need not have worried; no one for would be treated to any tales from Gaelen this day. She did not intend to tell Rogond of her plan to leave the Greatwood—she and Nelwyn had agreed that it was best if Rogond and Galador were allowed to continue on whatever path they had taken before their meeting. Though they were hardy and skillful travelers, they were perceived as potentially burdensome, as Gaelen and Nelwyn had their own ideas about the best route over the mountains and were accustomed to traveling at their own pace. Rogond would bog down in the deep snows over the high mountain passes, and he was more vulnerable to the elements than the Elves.

  That was their perception, but if they had known more of Rogond’s people, they would have known that he was of a tough and hardy breed. Unless troubled by illness, he was at least their equal in withstanding the hardships of the mountains in winter. True, he could not step as lightly as they and would sink in the deep snow, but s
o also would Galador—High-elves had not the Wood-elves’ gift of walking trackless over the snow.

  There existed devices used by the men of the north, made of curved wood and leather that strapped to the feet, allowing them to walk as lightly as the Cúinar. Rogond’s had been left behind during their travels, but he knew the craft of their making and could easily construct a new pair. But even wearing them, he could not travel with the swiftness of the light-footed Wood-elves. Again, neither could Galador.

  It was with some misgiving that Gaelen considered her decision to leave Rogond behind, for she liked him and wished to learn more of him. She knew that her cousin was also fond of Galador, who (in her mind) was less likely to burden their going than Rogond. Gaelen could not deny that both had been very useful in their recent travels and were worthy companions for the most part, but she certainly did not wish for Rogond to accompany her (as he almost certainly would) out of a sense of duty, obligation, and the desire to protect her. She and Nelwyn would make their own way as they always had.

  Though the task before them was daunting, they would see it done. Gaelen would find this murderer of Elves, and when she found him she would make certain he would never kill again. She looked for the last time that morning upon Rogond, and then she turned and went out into the dawn to take rest beside the river, where the late winter sun did eventually warm her dreams.

  Gaelen and Nelwyn were summoned to the King’s chambers that afternoon and were not surprised when he dismissed his attendants. "I wished to speak with you both in private," said he, "for I believe you have a request to make of me, and I would hear it before deciding whether others should know of it." Gaelen supposed that he was referring to Wellyn. She glanced over at Nelwyn, who bowed and stepped forward.

  "We desire to travel to Mountain-home to speak with Lord Magra of the death of Gelmyr," she said. "They were great friends, and we fear that he will not learn of this unless we tell him. I would guess that he awaits Gelmyr’s arrival even now. We would also warn the people of Mountain-home about this creature, for they may not know of him."

  Ri-Aruin considered for a moment. "You plan to cross the mountains? The weather is immoderate at this time of year. Have you thoroughly prepared for this?"

  Of course, he knew the answer already. They had probably thought of nothing else since their decision had been made, and they did know how to cross the mountains in winter—they had done it before. There was merit in telling Magra as soon as possible; though it would grieve him, at least he would know of his friend’s fate. Still, the King was reluctant to sanction their request, as it would be more prudent to wait until spring. But the terrible violence that had taken Gelmyr had already grieved the Elves of the Greatwood, and Nelwyn was right—the people of Mountain-home had to be warned. Perhaps Magra would take up the quest to hunt and kill the creature, a task Ri-Aruin thought might be beyond Gaelen and Nelwyn alone.

  The King wrestled with his conscience as he weighed the alternatives. If he sanctioned their request, providing them with supplies and sending them on their way with no word to anyone, he would be aiding them in a very risky endeavor from which they might not return. Even if they surmounted the crossing of the Monadh-hin and gained entry into Mountain-home, Ri-Aruin sensed that this path of vengeance might well claim their lives. He also knew that his son, Wellyn, who was close in friendship with Gaelen, might attempt some foolish action to protect her, and then he would be pulled down with them.

  Ri-Aruin knew better than to refuse the request outright, as Gaelen and Nelwyn were determined and would almost certainly defy him. They would then have to secure their own supplies, destroying all hope of secrecy. He could not risk Wellyn’s discovering their plan.

  If Ri-Aruin encouraged them to wait for the weather to moderate, it would give him time to ensure that his son was far away on some errand and unable to accompany them when they finally did set out. But there was still the risk that they would grow tired of waiting and set out anyway, at a time of their own choosing. Ri-Aruin sighed. The best course was to grant their request, protecting their secrecy so they might proceed alone as they wished.

  And what of their companions, the Ranger and the High-elf ? They were hardy and steadfast, and would probably be of some help, but Ri-Aruin did not approve of Rogond’s apparent fascination for Gaelen—it was obvious that he was traveling down a forbidden road. Ri-Aruin, though sympathetic, was inflexible concerning the union of the Elàni with those of mortal race. Galador was apparently in close comradeship with Rogond, and probably would not separate from him. And so it would have to be Gaelen and Nelwyn alone.

  The King raised his eyes and regarded the two hunter-scouts standing calmly before him, reflecting that he was probably sending them to their deaths. They were worthy among his folk, and he would not have wished this, but he had made his choice. He told them that they were sanctioned to travel immediately to the Sanctuary, and that he would make sure they had provisions for the journey, but that all must be kept in secrecy.

  "My heart is heavy that I must send you onto so perilous a road, but as you seem determined to follow it, I will aid you," he said.

  He saw their faces brighten as they drew themselves up and squared their shoulders, ready to face any challenge. This simple gesture grieved him even more, as he felt they could not imagine what lay ahead. He shook his head slowly, his glossy black hair gleaming beneath his crown of silver. "Please do not have me regret this decision. Promise me that you will return when you can, as you are needed here."

  In answer, they both bowed. Gaelen approached and knelt before the throne, taking the right hand of the King and pressing it to her forehead in a gesture of respectful obedience. Then she rose and, followed by Nelwyn, turned and left the council chamber as Ri-Aruin watched them in silence, wondering whether he regretted his decision already.

  Chapter 8: The Path to Mountain-home Begins

  Galador shook his handsome head in frustration as he tried for the third time to secure his long hair back from his face. It had always been his custom to plait each side, parting it back from his ears, so that it never strayed before his eyes. Now it had been trimmed in such a way that plaiting it was difficult if not impossible, and parts of it were too short even to tie back behind his neck, which was what he normally did with the rest of it. There were several unruly strands that now insisted on hanging forward in his face; it was almost as though they were protesting their years of captivity and were intentionally making themselves as inconvenient as possible. There was nothing for Galador to do but put up with them until they grew long enough again.

  Gaelen had playfully suggested a solution as she drew her long knife, nipping off a small bit of her own hair and grinning at him, eliciting a smile that did not reach his eyes.

  Gaelen’s hair was something of a mystery to all except Nelwyn; even Rogond had asked her about it. Elves usually did not cut their hair, and he had not yet seen such a shaggy, windblown look among the Elàni, who were inclined to be so vain of their long, silken tresses that cutting them short was unimaginable to most. They were often even named for their hair and identified by it. An Elf with cropped hair was the equivalent of a clean-shaven dwarf.

  When Rogond had questioned Gaelen about it, she responded good-naturedly that there were aspects of her character that would simply have to remain a mystery. She did reveal that she had not always cropped her hair, not until she was about twenty years of age, but that it would remain her custom until her death. She leveled her gaze at him.

  "Why do you ask, Tuathan? Does my appearance distress you?" He smiled and shook his head. "No, it does not distress me. I only ask because I have never seen such hair on an Elf before. But I must also admit that it doesn’t surprise me, Gaelen, as I sense there are many ways in which you are unique among your folk. I expect that you have an eminently sensible reason for the manner in which you wear your hair."

  Gaelen nodded—she did, indeed. She remembered a terrible day…the day she witnessed her fir
st death in battle. It was her dearest childhood friend, a delightful young male named Aran. They had done nearly everything together, and were as close as two friends could be. Aran had been nearly decapitated when a large Ulca had grabbed him from behind by his long hair, wrenched his head back, and cut his throat before he could blink. Gaelen closed her eyes, remembering his blood drenching her as she leaped forward to try to wrest him from the Ulca; she had spent her arrows and was now fighting hand-to-hand with the others of her group. The Ulca’s head had at last been cloven by the heavy blade of her beloved uncle Tarmagil, who later met his death in battle during the Third Uprising.

  Gaelen’s mother, Gloranel, had found her daughter still holding her friend’s body and crying as though her heart would break. From that day forward, Gaelen’s hair was cropped short. She would listen to none of the admonitions of her kinsfolk and had never paid attention to any since. She saw no need to explain her choice to anyone.

  Rogond, relaxing in his pleasantly warm, comfortable chamber, was mildly amused by Galador’s attempts to govern his unruly hair. "Give it up, my friend," he chuckled. "You will just have to look like a vagabond until it grows back." Then he added, "It could be worse. At least you don’t have to scrape your face with a blade every morning." This was true, and Galador was thankful for it. He looked over at Rogond, who had already grown enough hair since the day before to darken the lower half of his face. Giving up his hopeless task, Galador moved to sit beside his friend.

  "Have you learned of their intentions?" he asked Rogond, referring to Gaelen and Nelwyn.