by C S Marks
Never before had Lord Kotos undertaken such a difficult journey. This vast wasteland was new in his experience, though he was certainly familiar with the great northern expanses of ice and bitter wind. This was different, and although Kotos no longer suffered physical discomfort, his host would suffer greatly before all was ended. If El-morah failed to reach Gorgon Elfhunter, the plan would be delayed. That would not please Wrothgar, who expected Kotos to put things into motion at once, and was not known for patience.
It was fortunate for Kotos that he no longer felt empathy for his hosts, or he would have been compelled to release them as their pain and trial became too much to bear. El-morah could be driven far beyond that point, for he was a much stronger man than most. He possessed the heart of a true warrior, and such men know what it is to serve a higher calling at the expense of their own needs. He was also utterly devoted to family, and Kotos knew that this could be turned to his advantage. Kotos had, at first, completely suppressed his host’s thoughts and feelings, and had taken total possession of him. But this was wearisome, for such strong men are not easily overtaken.
After many days and a journey of many miles, Kotos allowed his host to come to himself for brief periods, now calling him by his true name—El-morah. First, he employed a talent that he had developed over thousands of years of manipulating the minds and hearts of others. He implanted in El-morah a false memory, fostering in him the notion that his family had been taken, and that only by reaching his destination could they be saved. El-morah did not know what that destination was, but Kotos did, and so it did not matter.
When El-morah doubted or questioned their course, Kotos would speak to him, appearing as a voice inside his head. The voice could soothe, encourage, or command as needed. El-morah wondered about his sanity, but he could do little to stop the voice, and it was so compelling that he could not resist. After all, it came from within himself, along with the ever-present “memory” of Mohani and the children being cruelly taken to an equally cruel fate if he did not intervene.
Kotos had amused himself by searching El-morah’s real memories. It seemed he had once lived in the lands to the south and east of the Stone Desert, where he had become one of only a few hand-picked men—an assassin, or shadow-man. Kotos learned that he had run afoul of his lord, and had been forced from the realm just ahead of another assassin’s blade.
El-morah had crossed the Stone Desert, vowing to make a new life for himself elsewhere. When he met Mohani, his choice became clear—she was his reward for showing strength of heart and turning from his violent life. For many years now, he had devoted his entire being to her and to their children, and planned to live out his days in the peaceful role of a merchant, serving his guests and reveling in the relative simplicity of his life. But he always kept one eye open, afraid that his past would catch up with him. Kotos had exploited that fear with ease. This is a man both true-hearted and valiant; he will serve well, for his devotion to his family makes him gullible. A good thing, for the journey will tax us both.
El-morah and Kotos had been fortunate with respect to certain parts of the journey. The Mountains of Dread, for example, had not shown their fury, but only rumbled a little. The sands had trembled, disquieting the dromadin, but little else.
Kotos was not dismayed, for he actually understood fire-mountains. In fact, he had made a study of them. He had learned to read the signs surrounding them and to predict their various eruptions. This talent had once served him well; he had turned an entire tribe of men to the service of Wrothgar by promising to quell their imminent demise. Only Kotos had known that the plumes of steam and ash belching forth from the mountain would not lead to an eruption of fire, and the men thus believed they owed him their lives.
The Salt was another matter, for it was long, hard, and unfamiliar. The heat and lack of water took their toll; one of the dromadin went blind with thirst and wandered off. Kotos did not notice until it was nearly out of sight, and he had to send El-morah to retrieve the provisions it carried. It had died by the time they reached it, lying forlorn on the hard-packed crust with its neck outstretched, eyes glazed and desperate. Both El-morah and Kotos were dismayed, for they could ill afford any extra effort. Kotos instructed El-morah to kill any beast henceforth that showed signs of weakness, so long as its burden could be carried by those remaining.
Their next real trial had come when crossing the plain between the Salt and the western Fire-mountains. The wind picked up to a killing speed, and the travelers almost did not reach the shelter of rocks in time. The driven sands were frightening to hear, sounding like a sinister, lethal version of rushing water, overlaid by the howl of the wind. The dromadin were well-protected, flattening themselves with their tails to the wind, eyes and nostrils closed. They required only one or two large stones each. El-morah sheltered between them, trembling with fear until the storm abated.
When they crossed the Fire-mountains, the ever-present storms came. El-morah had never seen their like before. What in the name of heaven had set the sky on fire? What terrible place was this? Ominous forks of lightning snaked in brilliant nets across the red sky, raking the summits of the tall hills as the rumbling thunder filled his ears. By now he was utterly weary, and in the grip of terrible thirst, yet he could not deny the terrifying beauty of the flashing, flickering lights. It was as if there were cracks in the fabric of heaven, and he could see through them into hell.
He stood mesmerized until he heard the urging of his inner voice. Take shelter until the storm passes, or hell is where we both will be. You must look to your safety. Remember that the fate of your loved ones depends on you. You must take shelter at once!
El-morah could not deny such a command, for he had not the will, and he knew nothing of survival in the Fire-mountains. He had lost another dromadan, and he led the remaining three to shelter beneath an overhang of rock, falling once more into the realm where no thought was his own. There was still a long and difficult road before him.
Weeks later, the last of the dromadin lay down upon the sand and released its final breath. Kotos had not been mindful of them for some time. He was so close to his quarry now that he could sense Gorgon Elfhunter; he was less than a day’s journey away. The Plains of Thirst had nearly put an end to El-morah and, despite all entreaties from Kotos, he fell now, not far from the body of his animal. The water had run out two days ago.
Get up…you have nearly completed your task. You cannot give up now. Get up and struggle on, for your loved ones are lost without you to save them. El-morah stirred and moaned, but his strength had run out. Kotos’ voice abruptly changed to a thundering command. I will not be denied! Get up, you pathetic weakling! You cannot stop now, not when you are so close. It is your purpose in life to carry me hence. Now, get up and fulfill that purpose! But one cannot summon strength that is not there, and El-morah had passed from the realm of awareness. He would not live long now.
For a moment, Lord Kotos was unsure of what to do. He knew that the Elfhunter was very near; he could sense it. Yet his vessel could not take him there. His terrible cry of frustration could be heard only in the mind of El-morah, who was beyond caring. With a final snarl of distaste at the mortal weakness of his host, Kotos left him, flowing back into the golden amulet, there to await his next stroke of good fortune. Once inside the comfortable and familiar environs of the amulet, his confidence returned. The ravens will come—they always came to the dying—and then I will persuade one to carry the amulet to the dark lair where Gorgon awaits. It’s only a matter of time.
Enough time had passed since Gorgon’s invasion that the City had calmed, though the people had not relaxed their vigilance. Lord Salastor had decreed that the increased watchfulness of the City Guard would continue until it was certain that the Elfhunter no longer presented a threat. When Gaelen heard this, she smiled, knowing that no guard would confront Gorgon if he did not wish it. Her vigilance was far more important, and everyone in the Company knew it. She spent time each day atop the G
reat Wall, casting her thoughts like a net into the vast lands beyond, questing for her enemy.
Gorgon heard her thoughts, and he drew deeper into himself, for he would not reveal his whereabouts to her. He was not yet ready to face her, and in truth, his greatest dread was that he might not ever be ready, even with Wrothgar’s aid. Gaelen had stolen what little courage he had on the edge of the Void. Now he emitted a low, throaty growl that seemed to fill the silent darkness of his lair as he caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of one eye. He dreaded what would surely come: the sight of his long-vanquished foe, Gelmyr High-elven, his blue, glowing flesh rotting from his bones. No doubt the wretched dead Èolo would be wearing the same insufferable smile he always wore.
Gorgon closed his eyes, waiting for Gelmyr’s hated voice, but instead he heard the harsh croak of a raven. He turned his fearsome face toward the dim light filtering into his sanctuary and observed a large, black bird fluffing its feathers and bobbing its head. In its sharp beak there was a heavy golden chain bearing some sort of golden ornament. Even in the dim light, its brilliance shone forth.
Gorgon rejoiced. Here was the golden amulet, by which he would know that his anticipated benefactor had arrived. As if in response to some inaudible command, the raven abruptly hurled the golden thing toward Gorgon, who deflected it with the stump of his left hand in a blur of motion. It fell at his feet, raising a large puff of dust. The raven looked now at Gorgon as if for the first time, gave a croaking call of alarm, and fled.
Gorgon stared at the golden thing in the dust. He was wary, yet intrigued, and he knew that his fortunes were about to change for the better. Gelmyr had not come to torment him since Wrothgar’s promise had been made. Has the wretch somehow been banished?
Then he remembered that Gelmyr only appeared only during times of self-doubt. With the Shadowmancer’s promise, there would be no need to doubt himself…none at all.
Gaelen lifted her head into the wind and scented the air blowing in from the east. An east wind did not bode well, at least not in the Greatwood. East winds brought bad storms…they were unnatural. There is something afoot…I can feel it. She shook her hair from her eyes, peered out into the gathering twilight, and opened her thoughts.
Many miles away, Lord Kotos was making his first long-awaited contact with Gorgon Elfhunter, and he sensed Gaelen’s quest. She means to gain knowledge of Gorgon so that she can defeat him—that must not be allowed to happen! Kotos sent forth a cloud of bewilderment, foiling her efforts and concealing Gorgon from her. But though she gained no direct knowledge, Gaelen knew that her instincts were true. She did not receive such feelings from any other source, and one day she would sense him before he could guard himself. “Then we shall see, Dark Horror. Then we shall see,” she muttered, knowing there was no use in questing further, for he had closed his thoughts to her.
Chapter 5
THE SEDUCTION OF GORGON ELFHUNTER
Rogond lay on his back in the dusty courtyard, sweat stinging his eyes, and struggled for breath. His friend Azori chuckled in a way that suggested more mischief than mirth, his black eyes gleaming, his crooked smile partly hidden by his mustache. “When are you going to learn that sweat is never your friend?” he said, extending his hand to pull Rogond to his feet. “It blinds you, and makes your weapon difficult to hold and control. You need to re-work the grip of your sword, and wear a band of linen around your forehead, like this.” He pulled his dark turban aside to show his own sweat-soaked headband. “Remember, my friend, you are not an Elf! You actually sweat like the rest of us.”
Rogond smiled back at him. It was difficult to dislike Azori, even if one had just been humiliated in a combat exercise. Besides, he at least appeared to be making an effort to be helpful. “Of course, you’re right. You must show me how to improve my blade. How is it lacking?”
“It got slippery. I saw you trying to control it, and you could not hold it steady. You need to re-cover it with sharkskin, like mine. See?” Azori held his blade out so that Rogond could examine it. The grip was of pebbly, dark leather with a grainy texture. It almost felt like hardened sand in his hand. “The skin of sharks and rays is especially suited to this application. Every Corsair’s child knows it. That oiled leather you have chosen will not do at all!”
Rogond swung Azori’s blade, noting the control afforded by the grip. “This will take some getting used to, for there are times when I want the blade to slip freely, yet it does feel marvelous. I will look to my own weapons right away, and Galador’s as well.”
“Galador actually sweats?” said Azori in a disbelieving tone. “Surely you are mistaken!”
“Oh, he does indeed. He was in a fair lather by the time Hallagond had finished off the dragon, as were we all.”
“Lathered, was I?” Galador was approaching and had overheard. “Are you certain it wasn’t cast-off from the many surrounding unwashed, uncouth men? That was my recollection of it. I almost felt I needed to shield my eyes from the sweat flying off of Azori alone!”
“Of course, my friend, whatever makes you feel better,” said Rogond. He turned to Azori. “I know a sweating Elf when I see one.”
Galador drew himself up tall, fixing them both with his most imperious look. “Elves,” he said slowly, “do not lather!”
“Of course they don’t,” said Rogond. “Is there any urgency to your errand, or are you just meaning to be sociable this morning?”
“Just being sociable. I arrived just in time, it seems.” Galador examined the fingers of his right hand as though they were undeniably fascinating.
“All right,” said Azori. “It’s obvious that you want someone to ask this question, so I will oblige. In time for what?”
“In time to avenge the humiliation of my closest friend, if you are willing,” said Galador. “I need exercise, and you are in need of a challenge. Defend yourself, if you will!”
He drew his own blade, smiled at Azori, and raised both eyebrows, goading him just a little.
Azori’s face drew into a broad grin. “A challenge, eh! If you have any to suggest, let me know!” He raised his own blade, crossing it over Galador’s, and bowed slightly. But when Galador returned the bow, which was meant to show respect for one’s opponent, Azori took full advantage, striking before Galador was prepared, temporarily unbalancing him. Azori was weary from his prior conflict, but he was still in good form and he knew how to press his advantage.
It is conventional in a non-lethal sword fight for the combatants to test one another for a few moments, assessing abilities and weaknesses before flying into a full-scale conflict. This gives them time to flex and warm their limbs, and to gradually bring heart, blood, and breath to their peak. This convention, it seemed, was lost on Azori. Galador was hard put to recover, and he was quickly winded, for he had expected a more gradual escalation of effort. Regrettably, at least from Azori’s point of view, Fima arrived and interrupted the conflict before the outcome could be known.
“Stop this, both of you, and listen!” he said. “Lord Salastor wants to see Rogond and Galador. We shouldn’t keep him waiting. You can play your games another day.”
Galador did not trust Azori after his previous breach of etiquette, and they continued sparring for a few moments. “Aren’t you going to quit?” asked Azori, who was weary and glad the conflict would end. Galador, even winded, was a formidable opponent. “Lord Salastor has called you to stand before him. I’m sure Fima is right in that you should not delay.”
“May I trust you to not strike me unaware?” said Galador, who had lost some of his good humor at the start of the fight.
“This fight ends when I say it does,” replied Azori with a wicked smile. “And I will say so if you wish it! Just give the word.” The conflict had slowed, but it had not ended, and blades were still clashing.
“Fine,” replied Galador between breaths. “The word is given, but only because I am called away. We shall continue the challenge upon another time, and things may go differently n
ow that I am wise to your tricks.” He lowered his blade, and Azori did the same.
“My fine friend,” said Azori, who managed to chuckle even though he was weary and out of breath, “you’ll find that I still have many, many tricks of which you are unaware. And I notice that you’re sweating now. Try to deny it!”
Galador did not acknowledge this last, his expression indicating that it was obviously untrue, and therefore beneath his dignity to respond. He bowed once more to Azori, but this time kept his gaze firmly fixed on him. “Until another day,” he said.
Galador followed Rogond and Fima out of the courtyard. He had not sensed anxiety in the people of the City. He was attuned to such things, and he had felt no foreboding. Why, then, had Salastor called this council? He asked Rogond about it.
That question was answered as they reached the massive doorway to Salastor’s private council-chambers. “Actually, I asked Salastor if he would counsel with us,” said Rogond. “I expected he would summon me sometime today. Let’s see if he’s ready to receive us.” He struck the heavy cast iron bell hanging beside the doorway, and it rang with a very deep, resonant tone.
A door-warden appeared almost immediately, bowing before his distinguished visitors. “Welcome, honored guests,” he said. “Lord Salastor is expecting you, Rogond. Are your friends here to accompany you, or do they have separate business this day?”
“No, they’re coming with me,” said Rogond, and the three of them were ushered in. Lord Salastor of Dûn Arian stood and bowed, directed them to comfortable chairs at the council table, and waited to hear what Rogond had to say.
Gorgon’s curiosity had definitely gotten the better of him. He knelt on the dusty floor of his lair, staring at the beautiful golden amulet. This must be the token announcing the Messenger of Wrothgar. But, who is the Messenger? Is it the raven?