by Ronald Long
As Ealrin set up a lean to of fallen branches and broken pieces of ship against the trunk of two trees growing close to one another, he wondered what would cause the goblins to raid. He knew, from somewhere in the back of his mind, that goblins were evil creatures, driven to violence by the influence of the dark magic that had created them thousands of years ago. They craved violence as others crave water and food. They had always had to fight. And if no enemy had presented itself to them, they would fight amongst their own tribes and cities.
While completing the wooden frame he would then lay the sail over, he stood. How could he remember the nature of a goblin, but couldn't recall the nature of himself? He seemed to know a few things from instinct, but nothing that would reveal who he was or where he had come from. As he surveyed his handiwork, he wondered if, when the sun brought light to the beach, he would recognize the area they now camped at.
Holve stirred inside of the lean to.
"Ugh. Blasted goblins," said a very weary sounding Holve.
Ealrin had laid him on his back on top of his own jacket in the lean to. Thankfully neither had lost their weapon to the sea. Holve's spear had floated with them the whole time they had been adrift at sea and Ealrin's sword he was able to rest next to Holve on the floating debris. Both weapons now lay next to Holve.
Holve raised himself onto his elbow, but immediately clutched his head.
"Gah. My head. I haven't been out like that for a long time," Holve looked up at Ealrin.
"Who are you?" he asked.
The suns! If Holve had lost his memory to what in the world were they to do?
A small smile quickly formed on the man's face.
Ealrin made to kick him.
"Don't do that!" he said half angry, half relieved he was alive and ok.
"Ha. Can't have both us clueless. But, I would venture to ask if you know where we are?" Holve asked as he lay back down. Apparently his head ached worse than he let on. He shut his eyes hard in an apparent attempt to ease the throbbing that must be going on inside his skull.
"Land," replied Ealrin simply and truthfully. That was all he knew. They were no longer floating at sea, but were now on some beach in either Thoran or The Southern Republic. Earlin wasn't sure which.
"Well that's a start," said Holve. "We can explore a bit when the sun comes up."
"You mean when your head stops throbbing," replied Ealrin.
Holve let out a mirthless laugh, and then a slight moan. He was obviously in pain.
"Roland..." began Ealrin. He was cut off by Holve.
"Roland died as he would have wished: bravely and in battle. He never saw himself living past being useful in a fight. He was a good friend and I'm sad to have lost him, but he died a warrior. He wouldn't have wanted anything less."
Still, thought Ealrin, he was gone.
Along with the entire crew of the White Wind. Captain Felicia Stormchaser, Urt, the dwarves, the elves, all of them.
Drowned in the sea or speared by a goblin sword or arrow.
The thought sickened Ealrin.
He had only recollection of the last few weeks and already they bore more pain than he thought he could handle.
He lay down and tried to sleep, but instead was overwhelmed by sorrow and hunger and thirst.
Chapter 16:
Wisym of Talgel
Wisym looked around her. There were fires being put out by her fellow warriors. Others were searching the forest floor for goblins that had survived the attack and were hiding among the scattered dead. Some were chasing after those who had fled the battle into the morning. Occasionally the sound a of wounded one meeting its end would rise over the scrambling of feet on the forest floor. Typically when an elf walked there would be no sound, save for the air that was disrupted from its resting place. Today was not a day for stealth, however. Today was a day of battle. Today was a day for recovering from a goblin raid.
Today was a day of mourning.
A few of her fellow commanders stood around her as she kneeled at her fallen general's side. He had been struck by a goblin arrow in the heart. The cursed thing had punched through his armor, thick and elegant as it was. The poison was claiming his life quickly.
Galebre had walked the continent of Ruyn for twenty generations. He was the finest general the forest elves ever had. And he was taking his last few breaths here at the end of this senseless attack.
Wisym held his hand, knowing that he was too far gone for healing. The poison on this arrow was the strongest she had ever encountered.
Galebre's eyes were fluttering as he attempted to stay conscience. He blinked twice, as if struggling to focus, and then stared hard at Wisym.
"You fought well today, Wisym. The forest elves are safer thanks to you," his voice was barely more than a whisper. His chest heaved up and down with nearly ever word as he struggled to breathe.
"Save your strength," Wisym replied. She didn't know what else to say. She knew he was dying. She knew these would be his last words. But she was never good at knowing what to do at the deathbed. So few times had she ever needed to come to this terrible moment for a fellow elf. Blessed with unusually long life, to see an elf die in battle was much more common than old age. The latter was celebrated as the elf returning to the earth. An elf that died in war was mourned as missing the years they were meant to live. Fate had stolen from them. Fate was now taking away Gaelbre, the greatest elven general of the last five hundred years. His wounds were too grievous for healing.
Her one hundred years were not enough to make her a seasoned warrior, or an astute leader, or given her the ability to know what to say in the darkest of circumstances like these. So she did what she knew she could.
She held his hand.
“The goblins didn’t attack without purpose. Something is wrong, Wisym. Find out...”
A fit of coughing interrupted his sentence. Wisym held his hand as he struggled for breath. She could hardly conceal her tears from her fellow commanders, who looked down with heavy faces. A scream from a goblin nearby took their gaze for a moment. One had been found alive underneath his comrades. He was not a threat anymore. The elf that had found him withdrew her spear from its chest. She looked over towards the group who surrounded the general at the gates of the city of Talgel. Even its beautiful white stonewalls and tall spiral towers could not mask the ugliness of battle. The white stones were stained with the black blood of goblins and the bright red of elves.
“Wisym. Wisym.”
Gaelbre’s green eyes were fixed on the female elf’s blue ones. She could see the intensity in his eyes, the same eyes that surveyed countless battlefields and led the proud elves of Ruyn into battle again and again. Those eyes were slowly losing their light.
“I name you General. Lead them well…”
And with that, Gaelbre gave his last breath. His eyes still starred at Wisym, but she knew that they no longer saw. She reached up and closed his eyes with her fingers, then placed her fist on her chest, an elven salute of respect. She laid one of his hands on his own chest and finally relinquished her grasp on his other hand.
The other elves around mimicked her salute as she stood, finally taking her eyes off of her defeated leader and letting his last words soak into her mind.
She was now the general of the elves.
***
Wisym walked the perimeter of the city of Talgel with her four fellow commanders.
No. Not fellow commanders. Her commanders. She was now the general of the combined elven fighting force. She had to both push the thought from her mind, because it meant reliving the death of her general and the closest thing to a father she’d ever known, and to retain the notion because it was pitival to her next steps.
Though requests for aid had been sent to Ingur and Breyland, neither had been answered. Not only had there been no news from either city, the messengers had not returned at all. Breyland was further away, so she supposed that it was possible the elf who rode on horseback was just delayed. The
rider sent to the elven sister city of Ingur, however, could have ridden there and back again twice sent leaving.
Surely the elves of their neighbor city would answer their plea for aid?
Unless, of course, they needed aid themselves.
Having swept the battlefield and made sure that there was no longer the threat of a second goblin attack, Wisym made up her mind. She would lead a march to Ingur to find out what had happened to the messenger and the fate of the city. Talgel could not be left undefended, however.
Splitting the elven troops was risky. There have always been so few.
Elves live much longer lives than humans, though similar in span to that of dwarves. To procreate quickly would mean an unstable population. It would using far too many of the natural resources and bending the forest to submit to their wishes, rather than trying to live harmoniously with the woods.
The elves of the woods had always such a high regard for the forest that they would never ask of it more than they could give back.
And so there have always been a smaller number of elves than of men.
She would split the army. Four hundred would march with her to Ingur and six hundred would stay behind. If Ingur was attacked but unharmed, she could hope that they could spare enough warriors to bolster her own in case of a second attack. Talgel was easily the more heavily fortified city and would be the natural place Ingur residents would flee in troubled times.
If there was time to flee.
Her head spun.
Even as a commander she had never truly carried the weight of leading the entire elven army, only her detachment of soldiers. Is this what Gaelbre had to have done with every decision he made?
Gaelbre.
Wisym shook her head to clear it and turned to her four commanders.
“Egon, Gonaeli. Stay here and ensure that Talgel is safe. Search the woods for any remaining goblins. Burn what bodies you find. We can’t have them spawning in our forest and blighting the woods with their presence. Celdor, Finwe, you’ll accompany me with your detachments to Ingur. I fear for our sister. We will make haste to her to ensure her safety and return with additional troops and the residents of Ingur in case of additional goblin attacks. I fear this will not be an isolated attack and that more will follow. Egon and Gonaeli, prepare the city for refugees.”
“Yes Sister,” came the reply from her four commanders. They saluted her and departed from her in order to prepare to follow her orders.
The feeling was odd to her. She had commanded one hundred before. Now she was to be in charge of one thousand. Thought she felt in her heart that she was right in her decision, parts of her still second-guessed what was to come.
Shee needed to consult one last person.
“Ithrel,” she said as she watched the four elves depart. “I need you to come with me.”
Ithrel was her shield maiden, a companion closer than a sister. Together they had fought in many battles and survived because of their great bond of friendship and trust.
Ithrel was taller than Wisym. In fact the two were as opposite as night and day. Wisym had long flowing blonde hair while Ithrel’s was short and brown. Wisym’s eyes were blue and wide, while Ithrel’s were small and green. Wisym could recite poems and ballads from memory and tell grand stories to friends and strangers alike. Ithrel talked little. In fact Wisym wasn’t sure if any other elf, other than herself, had heard her speak more than a few sentences in their entire life times.
But both were bonded to Gaelbre. Ithrel and Wisym were both his adopted children, having none of his own. Both of their parents had perished when they were quite young, only twenty. In elf years, that age was still considered childlike. Gaelbre took them in and raised them the only way he knew: as warriors. And yet the elf was kind and loving. Surely Ithrel would hurt for the old elf’s passing as much as she.
Indeed, for the first time since the sounds of battle had diminished throughout the forest, Wisym looked into the eyes of her sister.
They were reddened and bloodshot. A single tear fell from her face.
Wisym took her by the hands.
“We must be strong, Ithrel. Gaelbre would desire us to be strong.”
Ithrel shook her head to agree. She took back one of her hands and wiped another tear away.
“Come with my, Ithrel. We must beg the Elder’s blessing.”
***
Every elvish city housed at least one elder. An elder was an elf would have managed to outlive all others from his or her generation. The elder of Talgel was approach his 900th year. Miranthil sat upon his chair in the ancient elven hall of elders. The chamber was made with the same white stones as the rest of the city and its walls reached higher than most others in the city. The top was opened, so that the stars of the night may be plainly seen. The hall was circular with black tiles as its floor. Several stone chairs lined with furs and pillow stood in a semicircle around the edge of a great raised platform.
Only one was filled, however.
His eyes were closed, whether in meditation or sleep, Wisym wasn’t sure. The long white hair he had reached the floor and blended in with his white robes. Only one purple tree, the symbol of the elves of Talgel, would be woven into his garment at its center. Wisym would have been able to see it had his beard not blocked her view. A small wooden wreath crowned his head: the symbol of an elder of the city. His head rested against the back of his chair and his mouth hung slightly open.
After walking to the middle of the chamber, atop the platform, she bowed to one knee. Ithrel mimicked her movements.
“Elder Miranthil,” she spoke in a voice that she hoped would either wake him from his slumber or arose him from his meditations.
The elder made a grunting noise. Wisym looked up in time to see him open his eyes. He blinked several times and then smiled at Wisym.
Wisym stood to attention and spoke loudly so that his ancient ears might hear her plea.
“Elder, we have been attacked by goblins. The army of Talgel has defeated them, but we are too few in number now to repel any additional attack. Gaelbre has fallen and named me general. We requested aid from Breyland and Ingur but our pleas for help have gone unanswered. I seek to take some soldiers to Ingur to see how our sister city fares.”
Wisym held her breath, hoping the old elf had not only heard her, but understood as well.
Of course, the elder of an elven city was not the leader of the city. The elven elders who resided in the capital of the Southern Republic delegated that task to others. Elves who were younger in age and spirit and could handle the daily tasks of running such a large community were given those tasks by the Head Elders.
To achieve such an age and become an elder of the city meant one’s task was simply to meditate and gaze into the future of the elves, for some who had lived so many years had time to study the ancient art of reading the stars for signs and predict things to come.
Though it was not mandatory, it was customary to ask for the elder’s blessing before embarking on any significant venture, whether an auspicious building project or great hunt of a wild animal. To not receive such a blessing would be considered an ill omen and many would cancel plans laid down for months if it did not carry the elder’s blessing. The blessing normally was a simple yes or no. Even the slightest nod of the head would be considered a verdict. Every plan of significance was brought before the elders
Such as marching an army to an unknown fate.
Miranthil blinked several times. Then, with great effort and a wheezing voice that sounded as old as he looked, he spoke.
“Wisym. Adopted daughter of Gaelbre. I see great sorrow for you. Go, if you deem it wise. But know that you will never again see Talgel.”
And with that Miranthil sighed deeply, closed his eyes, and reclined his head back upon his chair.
Chapter 17:
Weyfield’s Plight
Exhaustion must have taken its toll at some point during the night. Even though Ealrin had tossed and turned trying not
to think about how hungry and how thirsty he was, he now opened his eyes to face the bright light of the morning suns rising.
His dreams had been filled with the howls of goblins and the screams of friends. It's certainly had not been a restful night. Though his muscles and joints again protested, he rose to walk down the beach a little to stretch himself. Holve was still sound asleep and Ealrin knew he needed his rest if he was to recover.
The sun light reflected off the white sands of the beach and Ealrin had to squint, even though it was morning, to see properly. There was no other signs of debris from the wreckage of the white wind other than what remain lodged in the sand a few paces from the edge of the shore. Ealrin wondered what port or city would now bear the wrath of the rating goblins. It didn't seem to be any that were nearby. Ealrin couldn't see any goblin ships on the horizon.
Slowly Holve walked up beside him. His step was uneven and he covered his eyes with his hand to avoid the bright sun. He wasn't fully well, and if Ealrin's own hunger was any indication of his, he surely was starving and needing water.
"Well," he said. "I've seen enough to know that we aren't in Thoran. At least not close to it. Most of their coastline is high cliff faces. These are certainly the beaches of the Southern Republic."
Of course they didn't end up where they had intended to, thought Ealrin. That would've made their journey too easy. And so far fate had decided that nothing would be easy for Ealrin.
"Fortunately," Holve continued, "most of the cities of the Southern Republic have a port of some kind. If we head north that would also put us closer to Thoran. What do you think Ealrin?"
The decision didn't seem like a difficult one, however Ealrin knew that their first priority was to find water. Without it, neither of them would be able to make a journey of any kind.
"I think we ought to head north," he replied. "But not before we find some water."