by C S Marks
When Lord Ivar heard of the incident, he wasted no time in doubting the King’s explanation. It was obvious to him what had happened—Varni had gone back to say farewell to Miradyth, the King’s guard had found him, and he had been slain. His son, a good-natured, happy soul, would never have harmed anyone, much less taken his own life. Ivar sent emissaries to Eádros, demanding that the King hand over those responsible for his son’s death at once. Doniol, of course, refused.”
Fima’s brow furrowed as the depths of his eyes filled with profound sorrow. He told his horrified listeners of the escalation of untruths, bad feelings, and prideful indignation that resulted in the conflict known as the War of Betrayal. This conflict lasted for only a few months’ time, but it was so heated, and the two forces were so well-matched and knew all paths of invasion so well, that both realms were threatened.
Cuimir, the Asarla, tried to make peace, but the hearts of both Lords were hardened and darkened. He could not shine light upon them. Arad was killed in the first battle as he attempted to lead the charge upon the Dwarves of Rûmm. Finally, when it appeared that the Dwarves were on the verge of overtaking the Realm of Eádros, and when it seemed that, at the same time, the Elves would break down the last defenses of the City of Rûmm, Doniol and Ivar decided to destroy all the beauty they had made, rather than allow it to fall into the hands of their former friends. No Dwarf would freely roam the Halls of Light; no Elf would enjoy the beauty of the Deep-delving.
“Cuimir tried desperately to stay the hand and sway the mind of Doniol, but he could not,” said Fima. “The halls and caverns were brought down, and as many of the people as could be saved were thrown from their homes into the wild and hostile world.” Fima shook his head. “They were not many.
“Cuimir, it is said, would not leave Eádros, for he was so mired in despair that he fell with it. He had tried to teach his people the nature of true beauty, and yet it had eluded them despite his efforts. He had unwittingly led them astray, for true beauty lies not in things, in graceful form, in comely image, or even in spoken word. It lies instead deep within the souls of those who love. Varni’s heart was really the only beautiful thing in all of this, and it turned to ugliness in the end. Neither Doniol, nor Ivar, nor Cuimir survived.”
There were tears in the eyes of many who listened to Fima’s tale. The idea of an Asarla so disheartened, and two such fabulous realms and so many people being lost because of pride, greed, and misunderstanding was inconceivable to many of them.
Fima was not yet finished. After collecting himself for a moment, he looked over at Galador. “The evil that began in that time still lives within many of the Elves and Dwarves of Alterra, even uncounted generations later. Enmity is slow to die in the hearts of both races. I have learned to love the Elves, and most of them have come to hold respect for me, but even I mistrusted them in the beginning. Sometimes I wonder whether we can ever regain what was lost.”
Galador rose to his feet and bowed. “I would submit, Lore-master, that what was lost was never truly held. If our peoples had truly been friends, they would not have allowed these events to turn them to such a terrible course. Real friendship can only be made between individuals, and not between peoples. Know that I apologize to you for any part that my people played, for you are my friend, and I will trust you unto my death.”
He bowed again, and Fima returned the gesture, saying, “If more of the Elves of Eádros had been of your mind, Galador, then the glory of both realms might yet remain. You would have given heart to Cuimir. Alas, it can never be.”
Fima took his leave, but the crowd seemed reluctant to disperse, for their hearts had been torn by the tale. These matters would be thought of and debated for a long time to come. Slowly, the courtyard emptied until only the Company remained. There was still one question in Gaelen’s mind—what had become of Miradyth? She supposed that question would forever remain unanswered. At last she sighed, rose to her feet, and took her leave, pausing for a moment and inclining her head respectfully toward the place where Fima had been.
It was a good thing that Kotos possessed such unrivaled powers of persuasion; otherwise, the Forces of Darkness might have met their defeat right then and there. In the person of Olan, he had gone back to the Citadel to procure some important items, including a very strong soap, scented oil, a stiff-bristled brush, and a wooden pail. He also took food and drinking water, a warm blanket, and a flagon of wine. He made one more stop at the apothecary to purchase herbs that would reduce fever. Then he made his way with all due haste back to Gorgon’s lair, having been gone for nearly three days. Kotos smiled when he beheld the expression of relief on Gorgon’s face.
“About time you got back here,” growled the Elfhunter. “The man is not faring so well. I have kept him alive, but not by much.” He indicated El-morah, who had taken a fever and now lay shivering in a dark corner, clinging as hard as he could to life. Kotos examined him with concern, shaking his head and clucking softly with Olan’s tongue.
El-morah still shivered in misery, wandering from one feverish vision to the next, moaning and biting his lip to keep from crying out. It was fortunate that Gorgon had been ladling water down his throat for several days now, or the chills and hard sweats would have finished him. As it was, he could only ride through the bouts of fever and try to hold on to his strength. When the voice of Lord Kotos came to him, and Olan’s hands placed herbs under his tongue, he did not resist. The herbs took effect almost at once, calming him and easing the fever, sending him into a realm where he would feel no pain. Kotos sent forth the vision of a handsome, golden-haired figure, telling El-morah not to despair—that everything would turn out all right in the end.
Kotos surveyed his charge with satisfaction. “He’ll live, I think.” He turned back to Gorgon and looked him hard in the eye. “You and I must agree to a task now, one that you will most certainly not enjoy. Yet you must submit to it, Elfhunter, for your disguise is not yet complete. Come with me.” Olan did not possess the commanding tone of voice that would motivate Gorgon, who just stood staring at him for a moment. “No arguments!” said Kotos as Gorgon glowered down at him. “Do as I bid, and do not waste time in debate, or we will both be undone. Your transformation is nearly complete, yet this task remains. Come with me now!”
Gorgon made a deep thrumming sound in his broad chest, as he sometimes did when he was thinking things over. At last he sniffed and tossed his long, golden hair back before following Olan to the underground water-source. Olan filled his wooden pail with water, took the bristle brush in one hand, and approached Gorgon, who did not understand what he was about.
“Exactly what do you intend to do with that?” he asked, actually taking a small step back from Olan before he could stop himself. There was a sort of wicked, bemused determination in Olan’s eyes that he did not care for at all.
“You must be cleansed, Elfhunter,” came the reply. “Nay, you must be scrubbed to within an inch of your life. I can alter your appearance, but your scent I cannot change except through diligence and a lot of soapy water. Do you want that She-elf to catch a whiff of you? From what you have told me, she uses scent like a hound and she will know you at once. That is one risk I am not willing to take. Now be silent, and endure what must be done.”
Gorgon stared at Olan in disbelief. His flesh had never truly been clean in his life. “Take off the amulet, and do not fear,” said Kotos. “My host will see only what I want him to see, and will remember none of it. Take off the amulet, and then take off whatever else you are wearing and stand before me as the Lord of Darkness made you.”
The next hour was memorable for both Gorgon and Kotos. Mercifully, Olan would remember nothing of it afterward. Gorgon was scrubbed until his thick, leathery hide actually pained him, and the smell that arose from the deep crevices of his flesh was indescribable. He lost count of the number of times he felt the urge to throttle the life from Olan, as he stood with his teeth bared and his pale eyes narrowed into an expression of venomo
us fury. He snarled and growled and fretted and fumed, yet Kotos took no notice—the water in the pail turned blackish-brown, was refilled, and turned black again eight times before all was ended. At last Gorgon’s dark, corded limbs gleamed as Olan rubbed them with oil that had been scented with sage and orange peels.
Kotos admired his handiwork with approval, but he cautioned Gorgon that he would need to wait until Olan’s senses recovered to know whether all traces of foulness had been extinguished. “Tomorrow we’ll see,” he said. “Now take your amulet, and accept my congratulations. I know this has not been easy for you, yet it is only the first of many new experiences in store.” Kotos sighed. “I still must teach you how to behave. No Elf ever snarled like that. And you will need to learn to use a knife and fork, I fear.”
“I bloody well know how to use a knife,” growled Gorgon, eyeing Olan’s slender frame. “In fact, I’m thinking about using one right now.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Kotos muttered, shaking Olan’s head. Considering the enormity of what still lay before him, Kotos told himself that he should not dwell on such matters. Neither he nor Gorgon could afford to be discouraged.
In the morning, Olan approached Gorgon and, to his displeasure, inspected him up and down. “Well,” Kotos said at last, “I must say that your scent has improved beyond measure since yesterday.” He wrinkled Olan’s nose a bit. “Yet it seems I have forgotten one very important task. Sit down— my host is not as tall as I would wish.”
Gorgon shook his head, looking sidelong at Olan. This could not mean anything good. There followed a very short but heated argument ending in threats, followed by a grudging cooperation. Kotos was not in a patient mood. Olan stood before Gorgon, who was now seated on a stone, and drew forth a dull-bladed knife. “Open your mouth,” he commanded, and then set to work. Soon Gorgon’s clean, scented body would no longer be betrayed by his foul breath.
The next few hours were spent scrubbing Gorgon’s dark armor, using the same stiff-bristled brush, together with sand and water. Gorgon actually aided in this, as he was far stronger than Olan, and it was necessary to remove all trace of scent. Tomorrow they would leave for the City, taking El-morah with them. They would keep their captive in a state of helpless confusion and delirium, for it was essential to the plan. As they packed up and prepared to depart, Olan paused. “I have forgotten…one more task!”
This elicited a look of dismay from Gorgon. “What now?” he snarled, baring gleaming teeth the color of old ivory. “Will you now seek to remove all foulness from my droppings? Surely the Elves would expect nothing less.” This last comment apparently amused him and he chuckled to himself.
Kotos was not amused in the least. “Any sort of crude, sarcastic remark like that will mar your respectable illusion. I had best never hear any such words from you once we are in the presence of the City-folk. The task that remains is to give you a name…you cannot exactly introduce yourself as Gorgon Elfhunter, can you?”
Gorgon was chastened. “I understand,” he said. “You’re right…I must have a name, and learn it so that it will become familiar enough that I will answer to it. What name will you give me?”
“Let me think on it, for it is important. You never know what high-and-mighty folk you will be introduced to before all is ended. Let me think on it.”
Four souls left the sanctuary that day, and three approached the City two days later, though only the tall Elf and the man that he carried in his strong arms could be seen. The third presence lurked within the mind of the Elf, who had been named Orrion, after his long, golden hair.
Chapter 7
THE HEALING OF EL-MORAH
As Gorgon Elfhunter, now known as Orrion, made his way toward Dûn Arian, he received a thorough introduction to his new life history by Lord Kotos, who dwelled within him. Kotos found Gorgon’s real history interesting enough—in fact, Gorgon was possibly the most unique and complex being he had yet inhabited.
Although he had lived for ages in Alterra, Gorgon’s mind was still uncluttered, surprisingly so in Kotos’ opinion. Yet since the day he had been released from Wrothgar’s keeping, Gorgon had led a solitary life. He would go belowground for years at a time, nursing his hatred of the Elves, lapsing into an almost deathlike state. If he had not, his very active mind would have tormented him. Gorgon could be very patient when called for. He would emerge only when the desire to bring suffering to the Elves became too great for him to ignore.
Orrion appeared to be one of the most impressive-looking beings Kotos had seen in a long time. He was enormous, both tall and strong, and very well made. So long as Gorgon wore the amulet, he would appear as a finely-chiseled yet massive Elf, most likely Èolarin, with long, golden hair and beautiful grey eyes. Even his armor was transformed—under the influence of the amulet it, too, was golden—yet the dents and scrapes were still there. The armor had to appear to have seen battle, and it did, but it was also beautiful, with engravings and wrought images that might have been fashioned by Dardis himself
Kotos gave Orrion the illusion of a left hand, but he would not be able to grasp anything with it. Should anyone wonder about it, you can explain that you lost the use of it in battle long ago. You defended the realm of Tal-elathas beside Ri-Aldamar, but were been taken from the fight, bewildered by dragon-fire and wounded many times before you finally slipped into a deathlike trance. They left you for dead, thrown on the pile of bodies that had been left to rot.
“Why did they not take my armor?” asked Gorgon.
Ulcas do not care for beautiful things, and they do not like Elven-made objects, recoiling at the very touch of them. You know that! Elves cannot help but place some of their own abilities in the objects that they take great care to make…Ulcas cannot bear it.
When he looked directly at himself, Gorgon saw the familiar dull black, pock-marked armor covering his scarred flesh. Yet his reflected image was so different, and he smiled every time he beheld it. This pleased Kotos, for Elves often smiled at their own reflections…how vain they were!
Kotos knew all about transformations. When he was young, and still a being of Light, he had appeared Elven himself. He had been tall and strong, like Shandor, his closest friend. Yet where Shandor was all silver and blue, Kotos was dark, with glossy blue-black hair and eyes the color of dark grey storm clouds. His limbs had been tawny, like polished maple. He had been beautiful upon a time. Now he had no form, although he could appear in the amulet as a vision of a wise old man, or a noble Elf, or a black, terrible demon if he wished. It was this last that came closest to his nature.
With Kotos as his ally, Gorgon was the most powerful dark agent in Alterra save for Lord Wrothgar. The Elves would never guess his identity, for he neither looked nor sounded nor smelled as he had before. And when they looked into his eyes, they would behold the gaze of the Deceiver, and would never see into the heart of the Elfhunter. Kotos reassured Gorgon over and over, as they traveled the long miles, that even Gaelen Taldin would not know him. Yet Gorgon was uncertain. “She has looked into my soul…she has seen me with no cloak of flesh upon my spirit. How can she not know me?”
You must rely on my judgment. She will see my spirit, not yours, and I will deceive her. She is only a Sylvan Elf, unenlightened and undoubtedly ignorant of worldly affairs. From what you have told me, she will never have beheld one such as myself. She will have no defense against me. Have no fear!
“She is a vixen, and she is wary,” said Gorgon. “It worries me that you discount her so. Make no mistake—this Sylvan Elf is the most formidable of our enemies. Do not discount her!”
Perhaps, if she is so formidable, we should arrange to eliminate her. I’m certain the opportunity will arise. Then you can lay your fears to rest.
“I will eliminate her,” growled Gorgon, “but it must be at a time of my choosing, and in a manner of my design. She will not go quietly to an easy death! I would rather risk discovery than deny myself the pleasure of tormenting her. Do you understand?”
> At this, Kotos laughed. I do, my friend Gorgon, or, should I say, Orrion! Obviously your desire for vengeance outweighs your fear. Do remember that when she looks into your eyes, won’t you? If you cringe back from her, even a little, she will never trust you. Such is the case with any of them! Remember, you have nothing to hide. You are a being of Light. This statement amused both Kotos and Orrion, who laughed in a malicious way that belied his apparent beauty.
“All right,” said Gorgon. “What of the rest of my history? I had been left for dead…”
Yes, that’s right, said Kotos. When you emerged from your deathlike trance, you lost all memory of your past. You wandered northward, into the frozen lands beyond Tal-elathas, traveling by day, huddling against the cold by night. At last you fell victim to a storm of ice, and lay frozen for many, many years. The great Third Battle came and passed, and still you slept in your prison of ice, until an upheaval of a distant fire-mountain released you.
Your memory began to return, but only in part, and you wandered into the lands around the Fell-ruin, where you saw many terrible things. You have since traveled over the Northern Mountains, and south through the Darkmere, bearing disturbing news. Wrothgar was acquiring forces the like of which Alterra has not seen since the last Uprising, and they were massing in the Fell-ruins to the north.
This news was particularly disturbing to the Elves, who have not rebuilt their numbers since the Third Uprising. The same could be said of men, who had been devastated by pestilence. Alterra is not prepared to repel a full-scale assault by the forces of Darkness—you have been trying to warn everyone.