Elfhunter

by C S Marks

  Eros blew a great snort through his wide nostrils. I believe we have convinced them to trust us…that we have submitted to their will.

  Agreed. They are becoming ever more lackadaisical. They have no idea what we’re capable of. What say we show them something today?

  Eros and Réalta had learned that it was they, not the handlers, who controlled their pace, and now they matched each other stride for stride. They stretched their forelegs before them, eating up the ground, and encouraged the horses that flanked them to do the same. The four handlers’ illusion was about to be shattered in mid-stride.

  Looks like this would be a good time to give these riders a thrill. Yes…any moment now…watch THIS!

  Eros stopped abruptly, flinging his head in the air and slamming his forelegs into the ground. This startled the two horses beside him so that they swerved away, unbalancing their riders just enough that the sudden hard tug from the long lines unseated both of them. The Elves hit the ground hard, still holding on. Stunned and shaken, they clung with grim tenacity to the lines, but could not hold Eros for long, as he was now practically running backward, dragging them over the stony grass.

  Let GO…of me…you…idiots!

  Eros whipped around and galloped as fast as he could to the south, the lines flailing loosely around his legs.

  Réalta had not been idle, either. When Eros stopped, both of Réalta’s handlers were distracted and dismayed, and sought to slow him down. He reacted by lashing his head as hard as he could to the right, jerking the one off balance, then leaping sideways, nearly colliding with the other, who now had a lap full of loose line and no control. Then, Réalta showed them all the speed with which he was gifted.

  Just try to keep up with me, you snails! Just TRY!

  The flankers had no chance, and the handler on the left was pulled from his mount so handily that he actually landed on his feet for a moment. But of course, he could not hold the speeding, leaping Réalta, who then found himself held by only one white-faced but determined Elf. The two of them raced along the wide valley, leaping over stones, Réalta like a streak of silver flame unfettered by a rider. He drew ahead of the Elf ’s mount, straining at the line until the handler needed most of his strength just to hang on.

  I believe it’s time we parted company…

  Réalta swerved to the left, and the line went slack as the Elf turned it loose. He would not have remained mounted otherwise. Réalta turned and went after Eros, catching him easily, for he had slowed to a trot.

  Eros lifted his head and gave a loud call toward the stables. Capellion heard it with some dread, for he was very intuitive and perceived Eros’ message clearly:

  You have been as kind as you could be, worthy Elf, but we hold the mastery. Our duty is plain, as was yours. Only one of us could succeed.

  Though Eros did not know where Rogond had gone, he would not stop until he had found him. At last he was free to go where he would. Réalta, who was having similar thoughts concerning Galador, was fussing over the troublesome halter with its dangling long lines. Soon they would deal with that problem and set about finding their masters.

  The grass is coming on, thought Eros. We’ll be just fine.

  Chapter 11: The Tale of Galador

  It took the better part of nine more days for the Company to see daylight again. Dwim’s instructions (complete with a hastily-drawn but reasonable map) had proven invaluable. The journey was not without its perils; Dwim had warned that the path they would now take was occasionally traveled by Ulcas as well, increasing the likelihood of an encounter. With that in mind, the Company proceeded with the greatest caution, thankful for the torch light that would at least prevent them from pitching forward into some abyss.

  Not even an enormous party of well-armed Ulcas could have dampened Rogond’s spirits. The Company rejoiced with him, as he had learned a great deal from the dwarves concerning the history of the woman he believed to have been his mother. As soon as he could manage it, Rogond intended to travel south to Cós-domhain to learn more from this dwarf named Farin, and perhaps fit a few more of the missing pieces into the mosaic of his personal history.

  Now, though, there were other pressing matters at hand. The road to Mountain-home still stretched before them, and it would take a while to get there. Then there was the question of how they would proceed after that. Rogond had no doubt that Gaelen, at any rate, would want to take the most direct path that would lead her back onto the trail of her enemy. What would lead her to that path was as yet unforeseen.

  Galador walked quietly behind Nelwyn, lost in thought. The mishap with the dwarves had unnerved him, as he had little doubt that Noli, the leader of the group from the Northern Mountains, would have ordered him killed had it not been for Rogond. The strife between the Elves of Eádros and the dwarves of Rûmm was bitter, and neither kindred had forgotten it.

  Galador now anticipated Rogond’s desire to travel to Cós-domhain, and he was concerned. He wouldn’t have admitted it, but he was reluctant to enter this greatest of all underground dwarf-realms. Because he was of the Eádram, he feared he might encounter the same dislike from the dwarves of Cós-domhain. Though neither they nor their ancestors had anything to do with the fall of Eádros, dwarves were likely to share enmity in defense of their own. When he had the opportunity he would speak to Rogond about it; perhaps his friend could reassure him.

  The other thought gnawing at the back of Galador’s mind was the growing fascination and friendship between Rogond and Gaelen. Surely, Rogond knew that binding himself to one of the Elàni was ill-advised, yet Galador knew the looks cast at Gaelen for what they were. He should never have let her minister to Rogond during his illness—her songs carried power that she probably didn’t even realize. If Galador was any judge, his friend’s heart was now completely and irretrievably lost to her.

  Gaelen, for her part, did not appear to reciprocate in the same manner, but she was fond of Rogond and obviously enjoyed his company. Galador worried that this friendship could escalate, knowing it could only end in tragedy for one or both of them. He was reluctant to speak with Rogond about it as yet, but knew the time would come soon. When it did, Galador would be forced to reveal a very old and painful part of his own past.

  One of the things Galador and Rogond had in common was the fact that neither knew very much about the history of the other. In Rogond’s case, this was because he knew almost nothing of it himself, whereas Galador had simply never elaborated much on his own lineage or what had happened to him in the last several-thousand-or-so years that he had been alive. Rogond had noticed that his friend often seemed distant and somewhat melancholy, and that he had only rarely joined in merrymaking until the advent of Nelwyn. Rogond was glad that Galador had found such a pleasing diversion, as he sensed that his friend had been a solitary wanderer for much of his life.

  It had not always been so.

  As he walked in silence beside Rogond, Galador’s thoughts could not help straying back to the lost realm of Eádros, the place of his birth. Because of his love for a mortal woman, he had been banished from that beautiful place—sent far away from his friends, his family, and his home. He had never opened his heart to anyone since. The pain of his loss had been so bitter that, until he had come upon Nelwyn that day by the river, he had thought never to love again.

  Now he saw his friend Rogond about to stray down the same path, but didn’t know how to dissuade him. He was reluctant to reveal this most intimate and heart-wrenching account of his past.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, recalling the security and splendor of the realm of Eádros, where he had once stood in high favor. His skill at arms, tempered by a gentle nature, had endeared him to the hearts of the King and the ruling council, and so he was often sent forth as emissary. His words were well chosen, and he was strong and swift. He had traveled to the other Elven-realms, and was sent also to help maintain relations with the various tribes of men.

  Galador glanced over at Rogond, who was no
w his closest friend. Because of his role as ambassador to the realms of men, he had come to know them. He appreciated them from the first—far better than did most of his kindred—viewing them with both compassion and admiration. They accomplished much in their short span of years. Beset constantly by enemies, they dealt with pestilence and the decline of their bodies with age, yet they sang, danced, and loved one another in joy. Always, death stalked them. Their time in the world was as a single firebrand that kindles, burns brightly for a brief time, then fades and dies in the grey twilight. They would never know the seemingly endless span of days that he and his kindred enjoyed, just as he could not know or understand their mortality—or the fate that awaited them after death.

  Galador had always known that Elves and men should not intermingle, but he also knew that awareness of what should be does not always govern the choice of one’s heart as to what will be. The growing attraction of Rogond for Gaelen had brought back memories that he would have preferred to keep buried deep within, though he had never been truly successful at escaping them. He would never tell Rogond all the details of this most distressing part of his history, but he intended to impart enough that his friend would take the warning and pull back from Gaelen before he had gone too far. If Rogond would not listen, Galador would talk to Gaelen herself. After that, the choice would be theirs, but at least they would be armed with the foreknowledge he had lacked.

  If Galador had been aware that his life would be shattered when he first cast eyes on the mortal woman named Gwynnyth, he would have set himself on a different path. But she had seemed so fair, and of such a pure and innocent nature, that he had been drawn into a hopeless, tragic, misguided bond resulting in naught but pain.

  In those days, the Elves of Eádros were not well-disposed toward any of the kindred of men, some of whom had stood in battle beside Lord Wrothgar. King Doniol of Eádros, in particular, mistrusted them. Yet Galador wondered…if the Elves had afforded more protection to the children of men, might they have resisted the influence of evil? They were set upon from all sides by the minions of Wrothgar—who could blame them for giving in? Galador had never really approved of the King’s attitude. It was all well and good to feel superior when Cuimir the Beautiful sat at your right hand. Cuimir, one of the original seven magic-users, was an ancient being whose enlightenment had graced Eádros from the beginning.

  At the heart of most of the great Elven-realms there was a magic-user, one of the mysterious Asari. Such folk have ever been rare. Twelve were sent into the world when it was formed, and they held great power over certain matters. Yet they could choose to follow either the Light or the Darkness. Those who chose the Light favored the Elf-realms, for the Elves have rarely if ever served the Darkness, and then unwittingly. It was the Asari who kept those realms well hidden; one could not gain entrance without their leave. Eádros, which was underground, was so well concealed that men who lived in the surrounding regions wondered if it even existed, speculating that the Elves simply appeared out of thin air.

  It was of the utmost importance that no outsiders were shown the way into the hidden realm, but this Galador did for the love of Gwynnyth. He remembered her impassioned plea, for she had wanted to see the wonders of the Elf-realm for herself. When she saw how secure and idyllic it was, she had then tried to persuade Galador to bring the remainder of her people, who were besieged by the enemy and had endured great suffering, into the hidden realm with her. They would live in peace as allies of the Elves.

  Galador was uncertain, but he was yet young and his love for Gwynnyth was very great. To reassure her he promised that, at the very least, her family would be admitted. This unfortunate promise was overheard by one of the King’s courtiers, who reported all that he had heard.

  Galador shivered, remembering King Doniol’s wrath. Guards had come, arresting him and dragging Gwynnyth off to a prison cell. Galador feared the worst—that Doniol might even have ordered Gwynnyth killed—until he stood before the throne to answer the charges against him.

  The King had, of course, not killed Gwynnyth, but he was both grieved and wrathful at the perceived betrayal. "I will give to thee a choice," he said to Galador. "Your woman may remain forever within the boundaries of Eádros, but she will be confined here, never to roam free again."

  "But she will not wish to abandon her people, and her freedom is precious," said Galador.

  Doniol’s voice was heavy with regret, but his eyes were hard. "If she refuses, then I have no choice but to banish you both from this realm. You will never be allowed to return."

  Galador thought of his beloved, knowing he had only one choice to make if he truly loved her. She cared for her family and would pine for them. "I cannot condemn her to a life of imprisonment—no matter how comfortable the prison," he said.

  "So be it. You know our laws, and what you have done is treason. Your choice is made, Galador, and you are hereby forbidden to ever set foot in the realm of Eádros."

  The Asarla of Eádros, Cuimir the Beautiful, was saddened. But he obeyed the King’s decree, closing the way to Galador, abandoning him to the dark and hostile world outside.

  Galador would never forget the finality of those words spoken in judgment of him so many years ago. Those words were like a sharp blade cutting him loose from everything comforting and familiar. He fought to distract his troubled mind from remembering the terrible events that came after, but he could not. Instead he dropped back, allowing Rogond to stride on ahead of him.Rogond paused and turned. "Are you all right?"

  Galador could not look his tall friend in the eye. He pretended to fuss with the lacing on one of his tall boots, muttering a reply. "I’m good…this lacing has come loose. I’ll catch you up."

  If Rogond had looked into his friend’s eyes, he would have seen the turmoil of emotion fighting to escape. He had seen it before, but not often. "Are you sure? Can I help?"

  "I don’t need help. Go on ahead…I would rather not delay. I’ll only be a moment."

  But the truth was that these memories had plagued Galador for over a thousand years. "A moment" would never be enough to really suppress them—even now he recalled the terrible day of his banishment, remembering how lost, how alone, and how helpless he had been.

  Once outside the Elf-realm, the lovers had gone to Gwynnyth’s folk, but found no welcome there. Gwynnyth’s people mistrusted and feared the Elves, and they had driven Galador out of their settlement, chasing him with stones and wooden spears. He still remembered his pain and shame. Gwynnyth went into exile with him, and they wandered together in the wild.

  Despite their uncertainty they were happy for a time, as their love sustained them, and in the spring Gwynnyth was with child. This brief, happy memory softened Galador’s face and brought light back into his eyes, but the light faded as he remembered what came next.

  Their happiness together came to an abrupt end when Gwynnyth was seven months into her childbearing, as autumn waned and winter drew near. She and Galador had prepared a place to spend the difficult months of cold and snow, and had laid by stores of food, for there would be little to be had.

  Galador had gone out gathering, leaving Gwynnyth in the relative safety of their shelter. She had ventured forth to walk among the trees in twilight and had been set upon by Ulcas, even as Galador returned over the ridge and beheld her. He drew his bow and killed or drove off the Ulcas, but not before they had grievously wounded his beloved. Galador rushed to her side and bore her back into their shelter, but even as he did so, he knew her wounds were grave. He tended her as best he could, but as darkness came she roused herself, knowing what her fate would be. Her eyes filled with tears as she beheld his beautiful, anxious face.

  "My love…sit here beside me, for I must leave you tonight."

  Galador refused to face the truth. "Do not say such things…do not even think them! Your wounds will heal—I have tended them well so that they won’t fester, but you must not think such black thoughts, for they will take your strength. As long
as you stay strong, you will prevail. Tomorrow I will make you a healing poultice…and some… maybe some strengthening tea?"

  Gwynnyth shook her head slowly, closing her eyes and shuddering with pain. "The wounds are poisoned," she muttered. "You have tended them as best you could, but…but they are beyond your power. Here, in this wild place, there is no help for me."

  Galador’s brows knitted together as he squeezed her hand…it was so cold, and he despaired. "Please, my love…don’t give in."

  "Listen to me, Galador, son of Galathar. Our child is dying in my womb…the poison in my blood is killing her. Please…I need you to be strong now, and take her from me while there is still a chance. Please, my brave one, take her while she still lives. I will not see the sun rise tomorrow, but she might."

  Galador’s eyes filled with grief and horror—he could never do such a thing. Sacrifice Gwynnyth to save the child? "You ask me to do the impossible," he whispered, and the anguish in her eyes pierced his heart and ripped it to pieces. He sat beside her, trying in vain to comfort and strengthen her, but he could not stop either her pain or her grief.

  After a while, her eyes fluttered open, but she could no longer shed tears. "Our baby is dead," she whispered. "She has taken the last of my strength."

  "Forgive me…I could not kill you with my own hands," said Galador, trying not to let her see the tears in his own eyes. "Forgive me…please?"

  "Mother and child will go together into the hereafter," she said, attempting a weak smile. "I understand. I’m so sorry to leave you alone…and I would ask…no, I would beg you to keep watch over my family, though they may not love you. They will need your protection, and they are all that will be left of me. Promise me?"