by C S Marks
Noli glowered at Gaelen. "If you think you can beg my pardon, Elf, for such grievous wrongs, then think longer and harder. You cannot escape the misdeeds of your ancestors. I will teach you something of our way, as you have asked, and it is this: our memories are long and our pardon difficult to obtain. We do not forget the wrongs of the past, even as you do not. My trust you will never earn."
Then a new voice, deep and powerful and old as the mountain, rose again amid a somewhat uncomfortable silence. They turned to regard Grundin himself, who stood above them upon a ledge that flanked his private chamber, from which he could attend to the business of the Council if he so wished. He was magnificent. Gaelen beheld in his eyes the same regal bearing and wisdom she had seen in those of the High King and Lord Magra.
"Peace, Noli," said Grundin. "Though the Council understands the grudge you bear, we will not permit you to deny welcome to this Elf, who has herself done nothing to your folk, or to ours. Payment for the provisions was left, and this man is Dwarf-friend, and therefore entitled. She is his companion, and is a friend of Fima. You will not deny her the welcome of Cós-domhain." He turned to Gaelen. "Worthy Elf, your words are well chosen. Walk freely in my realm as did your folk of old." With that, he turned and left them, and there would be no disagreement, not even from the descendants of Rûmm.
The Company was now officially made welcome by Grundin’s folk, and Rogond drew Gaelen aside, whispering quietly in her ear. "Well spoken! Perhaps you are not of Aincor’s house after all."
But both Gaelen and Fima were still troubled. They had seen the enmity in the eyes of both Noli and Nimo, and knew that despite what Grundin had proclaimed, she was not welcome in the hearts of some of the folk of the Cavern-realm. Nor would she ever be.
The next few days passed pleasantly enough, as the Company enjoyed the hospitality of the dwarves, avoiding Noli and his folk as best they could. Fima renewed his bond with his family, and he insisted on introducing his friends to each and every one of them. Rogond was introduced to Farin down in the deep smithies where the forges burned hot and the hammers were rarely silent. This venerable dwarf greeted Rogond, embracing him as a long-lost cousin. "You have your mother’s eyes," he told Rogond to his delight, "but your father’s hair, I expect. Hers was a dark reddish hue. How well I remember it! And who is your friend?" He looked over at
Gaelen, who stood by.
Rogond introduced her, and they both sat upon the polished stone floor at Farin’s feet. "Please, Master Farin, they tell me that you know something of my family. This ring was taken from my mother’s hand as she lay dead, slain by Ulcas in the Verdant Mountains."
Farin cast his eyes downward, his expression both shocked and saddened. After a moment he met Rogond’s eyes again, and spoke in a soft voice. "Rosalin slain by Ulcas? That is ill news and hard to imagine. She would not have been easily taken." He wrapped his fingers in the long hair of his grey beard and tore a rather large bit of it off, then dropped it into the forge. It went up in a flash of flame as Farin spoke soft words unheard by any save himself. He turned to Rogond.
"You have heard the tale of how my life was saved?"
"Yes," Rogond replied, "but not yet from you. Glomin has told us of it." Gaelen reflected that she would have been better able to attend the telling of Glomin’s tale had she not been trussed and blindfolded on cold stone.
Rogond now tried to subdue the pleading in his voice, to little avail. "Please, I would learn all you can tell me. I basically know nothing of my family history. I…I do not even know my given name. Rogond is the name given me by the Elves."
Farin looked confused. "Rosalin had a son, she told me, of whom she was most proud. She said he was much like to his father in appearance and temperament, but never mentioned his name. He was in his twenties, living in the north. That would have been, let me see…about sixty years ago. You most certainly are not he."
Rogond nodded. "I am but one and fifty. I was a babe in arms when my mother’s people were killed." So, he had once had a brother, possibly yet living. Perhaps they even had met, as his brother would probably be unaware of him and so would not think to search for him. Yet there were so few of the descendants of Tuathas left, for so many were taken by the Plague. Rogond sighed. His brother had no doubt perished with them.
Gaelen observed the mix of emotions that played across Rogond’s face. "Don’t be discouraged," she said, placing a hand on his shoulder, "but hear the rest of what Farin can tell." She turned to the dwarf. "I would hear of it, also, if my presence does not disquiet either of you." Rogond gripped her hand tightly, and she patted his arm. He was so tense that he could hardly remain still. She turned to Farin. "You had best tell him all you can. He has waited long for enlightenment." Neither she nor Rogond moved or spoke until Farin had finished.
"Is there nothing more?" said Gaelen. "We have learned precious little other than what we already knew."
Farin shook his head. "I knew nothing of Rogond’s father, not even his name. I did know that Rosalin had a son who would be in his eighties if yet living—a son who resembled his father."
Rogond now knew that he had his mother’s eyes and probably his father’s hair. He knew the full tale of the rescue of Farin by his mother and of the gift of Farin’s ring to her, but there was so much left unlearned. Farin sensed his disappointment.
"I’m sorry, Rogond. I wish I could enlighten you further, but I have told you all that I remember. It seems your mother did mention the name of her beloved, presumably your father, but I cannot now recall it."
Rogond took a deep breath and faced Farin with brightness in his voice that he did not feel. "Never mind…you’ve been of great help. I never thought to learn even this much. I now know that I may yet have a brother, and now that I know my mother’s name it will be easier to learn whether he still lives."
"Just think," said Gaelen, attempting to cheer him, "you may even have met your brother unaware! Perhaps now you will find him. He will surely know much of your family history."
Rogond nodded, though he would not look Gaelen or Farin in the eye for a moment. The dwarf sensed that Rogond wanted to speak to Gaelen in private. Muttering something about the need to see to the forge, he rose and busied himself elsewhere, leaving Rogond and Gaelen alone.
Rogond turned to her, his eyes downcast. "I was wrong to expect more. I should be grateful for that which I have been given," he said. "Spoken as a man raised in the company of Elves, who have forever to learn the truths of their history," she replied, concern in her voice. "I know you are disappointed, but know that if I can, I will help you find your brother. Then you will surely learn the truths you seek. This has only been delayed a while. Take heart!"
She caressed his cheek with a hand that was soft save for the callused fingers that pulled her bow. Rogond cast his eyes downward. The anticipation of talking with Farin had built up an incredible tension within him, and now that it was over he felt empty and drained. Gaelen put her arms about him in a rather stiff embrace, as though she felt at a loss for words to comfort him.
Suddenly the dam of his feelings broke, and he gripped her tightly with both arms, holding her to him as though clinging to life. He squeezed his eyes shut and held her, riding the tide of his emotions until they calmed. He did not weep, but neither did he release his hold on her until the storm had passed. Then, he whispered to her as the hammers rang about them.
"Gaelen, my friend, my love, thank you for being here."
Belegund had finished an excellent meal and decided to leave the Great Hall to do a bit of exploring. He had been told of a wondrous cavern with a well-shaft in the center that led not to water, but to the great forges of the dwarven-smiths below. The red light from those forges was said to give the walls of the cavern an eerie glow, and if one concentrated upon them one could perceive the faces of his ancestors, and maybe even receive messages from them. Belegund doubted the veracity of this tale, thinking that perhaps too much wine had been involved in its making, but he w
anted to see for himself just the same.
The dwarves gave some direction, but told him the easiest way to find the red cavern was to be drawn by the distinctive smell of the great forges. He made his way along several long, dim corridors; these passageways were rarely used. His excitement grew as he approached a chamber lit from within by an eerie red light, reeking of the sulfurous, metallic vapors of the forges. He was tentative as he entered the chamber, but he found it to be all that was promised. The weird red light seemed to move across the rough walls, creating all sorts of shapes and shadows.
Yet it was the scent that most confused him, as he was not aware that the forges would smell so…odd. There was an undercurrent of foulness in the air, a corruption that was new to his senses. As he turned slowly, taking in the full view of the chamber, the source of the strange odor became apparent as he beheld a massive dark figure moving silently up behind him, holding a blade that flashed red in the dim light.
As Belegund was entering the cavern, Gaelen Taldin of the Greatwood was walking the dim passageways, trying to sort out the meaning of Rogond’s words. After hearing Farin’s tale they had parted, and Rogond had gone with Fima to the Great Hall to forget disappointment by indulging in food, drink, tales, and song. Gaelen smiled. Fima would sort him out. She had never before seen Rogond’s spirits dampened so, and Fima’s humor and good sense would be of great benefit. But Rogond’s final words in the chamber of Farin had troubled her.
"Gaelen, my friend, my love…"
Was he declaring love for her? She shook her head. Surely, he was simply overcome with emotion and meant only that she was a beloved friend. It was best not to read too much into it. But what would she do if it were not so, if he really was telling her that he loved her? He was vulnerable at that moment and was not on his guard—in her experience it was at such times that hidden feelings are revealed. She had felt much in his embrace; he clung to her as though he could not bear to be parted from her.
Gaelen was worried. Did he understand the nature of the mingling of the Elàni with the Aridani? And what of her own feelings? She had not allowed herself to open her heart to anyone save Farahin—her beloved Rain. She loved her friend Wellyn in a way, but she would never bind to him even if he wished it. She loved Nelwyn, certainly, but as one loves a blood relative and closest friend. She looked within herself. Could she ever love anyone the way she had loved Rain? Was she even capable?
She decided to let some time pass before being with Rogond again. Tomorrow she would observe the way he reacted to her. If she suspected that there was more to be told of this tale she would bide her time, waiting until he felt comfortable again, and then she would speak with him…perhaps.
She was so uncertain of her own feelings and of what her course should be that she did not at first notice the dark, unclean scent drifting upon the cool air of the passageway. She continued on until the scent grew stronger, and she heard a sound that startled her from her confused contemplation. The scent was distinctive, and she knew it at once. Gorgon was here! Here in Cós-domhain…but why? It didn’t make sense. He would have no way of knowing they were here, and he certainly would find no welcome. The rumor of heavy feet and the clash of steel blades came to her ears, and she ran toward the sound, approaching carefully as she drew nigh it.
Gorgon and Belegund battled in a large, dimly lit chamber. Belegund, whose strokes held more power even than Rogond’s, was fighting with all his skill, but he had been wounded several times already. Gorgon was in his element here in this dim red light and sulfurous air. He had a fine new shield, the surface of which was as dull black as the rest of his armor. Gaelen wondered where and how he had acquired it. He still wielded Gelmyr’s broadsword, and still carried Turantil at his side.
A cry from Belegund startled Gaelen into action, and she rushed forward, drawing her own blade. Her bow, quiver, and long knives she had laid under the pallet on which she slept, which was a pity, for they would have been of great use. She leaped in to defend Belegund, who was proving much more difficult to kill than Gorgon had anticipated. Gorgon had precious few dealings with the descendants of Tuathas, and, excepting Rogond, he had never experienced combat with any of them. Gorgon was confident now and was in fact rather enjoying his encounter with Belegund, who wore no armor.
When Gaelen appeared, Gorgon was distracted for a moment; this was not as he had planned. She ducked under his blade and slashed at him as he aimed a deadly blow at Belegund. The wound went deep, and Belegund’s blood was flowing in a crimson flood from his right shoulder. This sudden and severe loss of blood caused him to stumble and drop to his knees as much of his strength left him.
Gorgon was trying to subdue Gaelen; he could easily have killed her, or so he thought, but he was constrained by the knowledge that his mirror would be of no further use once she was dead.
Belegund rallied and struggled to his feet, wielding his blade with his left hand, trying to strike Gorgon’s unprotected face. Gaelen cried out as Gorgon swept his shield-arm toward her, releasing the heavy metal disc to strike her so hard that it knocked her off her feet. Then he aimed a second killing stroke at Belegund, whose strength was flowing away with the bright blood still sheeting down his right side. Belegund gave an agonized cry as the broadsword was buried halfway to the hilt in the center of his belly. He gripped Gorgon’s sword arm in a vain attempt to push himself away, and sagged to the ground.
Gorgon withdrew the sword as Gaelen stared, horrified, at the dying man. She called Belegund’s name, then cursed aloud in a terrible voice. She flew at Gorgon again, but with only her short sword it was difficult, as he was her equal in speed and held a much longer reach.
Why did he not kill her? He had missed several opportunities already. Perhaps Belegund had wearied him to the point that he was severely off his form. Then, as she darted in to try to bury her blade under his right arm, he suddenly dropped his sword and grabbed her by the throat, lifting her from the floor.
He squeezed his huge fingers tightly around her slender neck, gazing into her bright, bulging eyes. He had only to close his fist and she would be dead, her windpipe crushed. He could imagine the blood pouring from her mouth as he did so; it was a sight that he greatly desired to see. Gaelen could not breathe at all as she gazed into the eyes of her enemy. She struggled, swiping at him with her blade, but she could do little as he held her suspended. The harder she fought the tighter he gripped her until at last she went limp in his hand.
Her ears rang with a deafening roar, and her vision went dark. Gorgon knew he could crush her quickly, or choke the life from her slowly, or simply shake her like a rat and break her neck. He lowered her to the floor, but did not let go of her throat. A small trickle of blood flowed from the corner of her mouth, touching the topmost of his fingers. The warmth of it shocked him into the realization that he would kill her in seconds if he did not release her.
He struggled with his own feelings of hatred for Gaelen and her kind, which he weighed against the promise of the mirror. Sitting heavily upon the stone floor, he kept one eye on Belegund, who was now so weak that he could no longer move or speak, but could only watch in silence as the last of his life flowed away.
Gorgon drew Turantil, placing the gleaming tip of the blade near Gaelen’s pale face. It would be so easy to put out her eyes, as he had once vowed to do. He traced the upper lid of the left eye with the keen blade, drawing a fine line of blood. So easy…and so sweet!
Belegund closed his eyes, for he did not wish to see what would befall. Then, suddenly, Gorgon came to himself. What could he have been thinking? He released Gaelen abruptly, then shook her limp form and slapped her face to get her breathing again. She had a great deal of trouble, as he had done a fair job of flattening her windpipe, but she finally struggled back to lie unconscious, breath whistling but regular. Gorgon nodded in approval. She may have been undersized, but she was tenacious.
Now he went to sit beside Belegund, and, as the light slowly faded from his eyes, the Ran
ger heard all Gorgon would tell. He explained why he had not killed Gaelen and what his intentions were for the future. If he was lucky enough, perhaps he could even bring about the downfall of Mountain-home, or even Tal-sithian! Wrothgar had promised him an army should either opportunity arise.
Belegund listened to this talk with horrified fascination. Certainly it was madness. His pain was very great, and he squeezed his eyes closed against the tears of agony that welled in them. Gorgon seemed almost solicitous as he spoke to Belegund for the last time.
"I have nothing against you, Tuathan, and you proved to be a stimulating and worthy adversary. I will ease your passing now. You should have listened to the warnings you were given." With those words, he turned Belegund’s head almost tenderly before cutting his throat, killing him in a few seconds.
The She-elf was still unconscious, but her color was coming back and Gorgon had decided that she would live. He removed Belegund’s cloak and wrapped his body in it, then dragged it away and hid it among the rocks. He would return for it later. He came back for Gaelen, slung her over his shoulder like a sack, and carried her deep into little-used passageways where the dwarves seldom walked.
Thorndil, Galador, and Nelwyn had descended into the western valley, from which the mists that shrouded the Linnefionn could be seen in the distance. The horses had given no difficulty. Eros, in fact, remained close to Thorndil as though reluctant to interact in any way with Galador. The Elf had forgiven him—Eros’ devotion to Rogond was commendable, if occasionally bothersome— but for now Eros preferred the company of Thorndil, who very much resembled Rogond in appearance and manner of speech.
Nelwyn rode before them upon Gryffa, who was fine of limb and proud of bearing, his red mane blown back. He called to the horses of Tal-sithian that pastured in the outlying lands to the southeast. The Company would first proceed there, crossing the cold stream that flowed from the Iolari Pass, and leave the animals to run with those of Tal-sithian, continuing on foot.