Ravenshade

by C S Marks

  Gaelen was desperate. There had to be something she could do! She sat dry-eyed, her face flushed, her eyes almost feverishly bright, trying to think of any way to give Galador hope and delay him from his terrible duty.

  “Gaelen, are you certain his foot is just bruised? Could it be that there is something else wrong that you have not noticed?” asked Nelwyn, who was in a similar state of brain-wracking desperation.

  “Did you not see the huge stone that was wedged in his heel? We practically needed a mallet to remove it,” said Gaelen.

  “Yet the obvious difficulty is not always the only one,” said Nelwyn. “You taught me that…remember?”

  Gaelen did, indeed. Could it be that Nelwyn was right…that they had overlooked something? Réalta’s foot should be healing if it was only bruised. Perhaps something was preventing it. She leaped to her feet and vaulted down to where Galador was standing with Réalta, a gleaming blade in his hand. He set the blade to the side of Réalta’s jaw as Gaelen cried, “No, Galador! Do not take him yet! Let me look again…just one more time, I beg you!”

  Galador needed no urging to stay his hand. Taking Réalta’s life was one of the last deeds he wanted to perform. He didn’t understand the reason for Gaelen’s request, yet he saw no harm in it. She rushed to his side, startling Réalta, who tried to take a step back from her. “Hold him!” she said to Galador, who took Réalta’s headcollar and stroked his neck, calming him. Gaelen unwrapped the injured foot, taking notice of the pain as she pressed down once more upon the tough, rubbery heel. “Give me your blade, Galador,” she said. “I must make certain that all is as it seems. Your blade, if you please.”

  Galador was puzzled, but he knew better than to argue with her. She took the sharp blade and gave a quick slash to the cleft in Réalta’s heel. The horse squealed and pulled back. “Hold him,” she said, pressing down on either side of the slash she had made. There, in the center, she saw a whitish object…it looked like a very thick hair protruding from the soft tissue. She grasped it with her blunt, hard fingernails and jerked it free.

  Réalta threw his nose in the air and grunted as she took hold of it, but after she removed it, he lowered his head and breathed a sigh of relief. It was a cactus spine, nearly two inches long, curved, and as hard as a steel needle. It had lodged in Réalta’s foot not long after he had bruised it.

  Small wonder he was lame! Gaelen placed Réalta’s foot carefully on the sand, knowing that the dense, rubbery tissue would close up almost at once. He bore weight on it without discomfort, shaking his elegant head and nuzzling Galador, who was staring at him in amazement. Gaelen leaped to her feet, laughing as she showed Galador the cactus-spine, knowing that all would be well. Galador stared at her for a moment, and then began laughing along with her. “Does this mean that… that he will heal? I don’t have to leave him behind?”

  “Yes! Yes, it does! Oh, Galador, I’m so sorry. I will never stop looking beyond the obvious again! Please forgive me…if it hadn’t been for Nelwyn, we would have lost him for no good cause.”

  “You are not at fault. That was a most unexpected coincidence,” said Galador. “It is, however, refreshing to note that you can, at times, be wrong about something.”

  Réalta’s foot improved very quickly, and though the Elves needed to travel slowly for a few days, they did not have to leave him behind. Gaelen, who believed that Aontar had sent the rain to them in the desert when they had sung together so long ago, still believed it. They had been denied this time, so that in their desperation they would find the insight needed to heal Réalta. Gaelen would give thanks for that insight for many nights to come, and so would Galador.

  Azori’s group reached the oasis without incident. The water source, a deep spring that flowed into a pond at the surface, was surrounded by trees, shrubs, and even a little fine, blond grass. All the plants here had very deep roots, for there was water below the ground in such places. The grass, though tough and dry, was still welcome feed for the animals, who set to work grazing on it as soon as they had drunk enough water. The Company erected their shelters and awaited the arrival of the Elves, watching and listening to the southeast. There were signs that other travelers had passed through, but not in a long time. A few broken crockery pots lay by the well, coated with a thick layer of dust.

  “Where would such travelers have been going?” asked Estle. “I would describe this as the official middle of nowhere.”

  “They were traveling between Mumari and Fómor, most likely,” said Azori. “It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  “How far is Mumari from here?” asked El-morah, who was anxious to return home.

  “I would not go there,” said Fima. “Look here, at the map. The Chupa is in a near-direct line to the east of this very oasis. And there appears to be another oasis…here. It’s a long way—nearly four hundred miles by my reckoning—but the Chupa is within your grasp if you have enough water and provisions. Mumari is too far to the south.”

  El-morah’s weary eyes took on a new light. He was going home. “I have faced greater hardships than this,” he said. “By your leave, I will make my way home as soon as the Company is reunited.”

  “I’m not certain that is such a good idea,” said Rogond, who was fond of El-morah. “So many hardships can befall a lone traveler. If you go with us to the River Dessa, and follow its course as we intend, you will intersect with the Ravani Road. Then you will no doubt find companions to accompany you, with much less chance of getting lost.”

  El-morah considered. “There is wisdom in your words, and I am weary. Therefore, I will rest here and reflect on them before I decide. Yet I am anxious to return and see whether my home and my family are still waiting for me. If not…if the vision I held was true, then I will cut my own throat. Perhaps I shouldn’t be in such a hurry after all.”

  The first visitors to their encampment came not from the southeast, but from the northwest—five merchants, traveling between the lands south of Fómor and Mumari. They were weary, thirsty, and very glad to have located the oasis.

  “All the wells to the north have dried up,” they said in dismay as they examined Fima’s map. “We made for this place with only the barest of provisions. It’s a good thing we found it when we did.”

  The merchants actually hailed from Mumari, and were returning home after having traveled to Castalan and then to the markets at Fómor. “There are things bought and sold in that market that you cannot imagine,” they said. “It makes one wonder what other lands exist in Alterra. The Corsairs know something of them, but they may only be gained by water. And with Corsairs, it’s hard to tell the truth from a tall tale.”

  One of the men sighed and smiled wistfully. “I know there are lands far, far from here, where many wonders abound. It makes me wish to be young again, with no obligations, so that I could discover them for myself.”

  “Be careful what you wish for,” said El-morah. “To lose your obligations means the loss of your family. I would not want such a thing. I would give up all the wonders of the world to see my wife’s face again. You say that you travel to Mumari…might I accompany you? I know I can make the Chupa from there, even alone.”

  “Can you pay for the privilege?” asked one of the merchants with a gleam in his eye.

  “The Chupa?” said another. “I heard there was trouble there. Are you certain you want to go there?”

  El-morah’s face went pale and he looked away for a moment. “Yes,” he said at last. “I must go there. As for payment, I have skills that will serve you well if enemies threaten, but I do not have money or precious things. What is the harm in helping a fellow traveler in need? The Powers of Heaven will reward you for your charity.”

  “Then you may travel to Mumari with us,” said the first, eyeing the Company’s healthy dromadan with interest, “so long as you bring your own sustenance with you.”

  That evening, El-morah sat with Rogond, Hallagond and Azori. “I do hope the Elves return before I am forced to de
part,” he said. “But I must return home. And I know the merchants are expecting payment.”

  “Are you not concerned about the rumor of trouble in the Chupa?” asked Hallagond, who was concerned about it himself.

  “There is almost always trouble in the Chupa,” said El-morah. “I must go there, no matter what I am likely to find. I just hope I can bid farewell to the Elves first. I owe them a great debt.”

  “I am concerned that you are going off into the wilderness with five men about whom we know very little,” said Rogond. “What’s to prevent them from doing harm to you once you are away from here?”

  “Why, Rogond, you wound me to the heart!” said Azori, chuckling. “Are you implying that desert folk cannot be relied upon? Wherever would you have gained such a notion?” He drew a piece of hard, dry flatbread from his robes and began worrying it like a dog. As he chewed what small mouthful he had managed to rip free, he put their fears to rest. “Don’t worry. I intend to ensure that El-morah’s companions are well paid, and therefore they will guard him well.”

  Rogond, who sometimes managed to take worrying to the level of fine art, was still troubled. “But I ask again, what is to prevent them from abandoning El-morah—or worse—once they have their gold and are no longer under scrutiny?”

  At this, El-morah’s eyes darkened. “Now, my friend, you are being insulting,” he said. “First of all, I would prevent them. I’ll warrant they have never encountered anyone with my training. And, second, it is against their code.”

  “They are merchants, Rogond, not bandits,” said Hallagond. “In their world it would be most dishonorable to harm anyone who has paid for their services. They would be forever cursed. You need not worry.” He turned to El-morah. “Forgive my little brother. He has had a few bad experiences on his first trip through these hard lands. He is still learning.”

  Azori had given up trying to consume the stale flatbread, and now he laughed. “Yes, it’s a good thing your little brother didn’t run into our band of…ahhhh, free-spirited entrepreneurs…at the wrong time and place. His opinion might have been even more interesting.”

  “Indeed,” said Rogond. Then he rose and bowed to El-morah. “Please forgive my ignorance. I would never suggest that desert folk are in themselves untrustworthy. I have, however, become somewhat shy of strangers wherever they dwell. I meant no insult.”

  El-morah smiled and nodded in acceptance of the apology. Then he rose and went to see to other business.

  After he had gone, Hallagond turned to Rogond. “Was there another man here bearing a strong resemblance to Azori? I thought I heard that man offering to pay for El-morah’s passage.”

  “Oh, be quiet,” said Azori, scowling at Hallagond. “Can’t a man offer aid without ruining his reputation?”

  “In this case, no,” said Hallagond. “Fortunately, I am a man of forbearance, and know better than to spread the tale that Azori has gone soft in his old age.”

  “Yes, fortunate for you and your future children,” said Azori. “This reminds me…I need to find Estle and see if she needs anything, which is what you should be doing.” He paused, as though considering. “You suggest that I have gone soft, but you forget that my efforts, as always, are self-serving. It never hurts to have a man like El-morah in your debt.” He rose and went back to the shelter, where Estle was attempting to throw together something edible for their supper.

  At the same time, many miles away, the Elves were preparing to move on. Nelwyn and Galador approached Gaelen as she stood, eyes closed, sampling the south wind. “We are ready to depart, Gaelen,” said Galador, but Nelwyn held up her hand to silence him. Gaelen was very intent on the signs she was reading on the wind.

  “What is it?” asked Nelwyn. “Are we being pursued? I have noticed you testing the breeze every time it blows from behind us. What sign do you read?”

  Gaelen did not reply for a moment, as she was still trying to pick up the scent of her enemy, but for yet another time in many days, she could not. Is he gone? Not likely. Has he followed Azori? More likely. It made no sense. Always he had tracked Gaelen, and she had encouraged him in his efforts. Now, suddenly, he had followed Azori’s group. To what end?

  She sighed and gave up trying to detect Gorgon’s scent, for there was none to detect. What was he up to? She could not worry about it now, as they were facing another long night with no food and little water. The animals were faring better, for they had not yet endured short rations, but the Elves were beginning to feel the first effects of deprivation. Yet all Gaelen needed to lift her spirits was the sight of Réalta, who was now nearly sound in the sand, though his foot would need padding on rocks for some time.

  Gorgon had done what Lord Kotos had asked—he had followed his master in preference to his mortal enemy. Gelmyr’s words had aided him, for it was true that the Vixen would eventually seek to reunite with her beloved, and therefore Gorgon would not lose track of her. Yet even as the Elves were beginning to feel deprived of water, so, now, was Gorgon. He had kept within distant sight of the oasis, hiding among piles of stone, for many days. He wondered what Lord Kotos would have him do.

  Should he steal in by night to the tent of Fima, the dwarf, and try to reunite with Kotos? Should he bide his time and await some sign? Gorgon was reluctant to try to invade the oasis with so many eyes and ears keeping the watch. Yet now he was getting very thirsty, and when the wind blew out of the north the smell of the water tantalized him. Perhaps Orrion High-elven should go, just come striding up to the group saying, “I saw your campfires and thought I would stop in for a drink and a meal…I hope you don’t mind.”

  The absurdity of this thought amused him, and he laughed deep in his broad, cavernous chest. His throat was so dry that he made very little sound, and that decided him. He needed water, and tonight he would take it, come what may.

  As the sun made ready to set in another spectacular display of red and fuchsia, he prepared to exercise his considerable stealth to the limit of his ability. It was then that he saw a great, black bird moving on slow, deliberate wings toward the place where he was sheltering, carrying something large and apparently heavy in its talons. It’s a vulture—quite an unlovely creature, thought Gorgon, taking note of the dull, blackish-grey feathers and hideous, naked grey head.

  Lord Kotos had called it to the oasis, luring it with the promise of an entire rotting dromadan carcass for its very own. The vulture had gone into Fima’s tent, approaching him as he slept, until it was close enough to lower its horrid, misshapen head down to lay a feather-light touch upon Fima’s cheek. That was close enough for Lord Kotos, who flowed into the unwitting bird even as Fima’s eyes snapped open and he cried out in startled horror.

  “Agggh! Get away from me, you horrible, stinking nightmare! What, did you think me dead? Away with you!”

  The vulture, now under the command of the most powerful dark servant of the Shadowmancer, flapped and screamed as it blundered from the tent, grabbing a full water-skin on the way. Then it took off with some difficulty, lifting its heavy body into the air and heading toward the south, turning a few lazy circles before making off in earnest.

  Kotos then directed his host to search for the Elfhunter. If Gorgon had done as he had been told, he would not be far away. His reward—a fine, long drink—would undoubtedly be appreciated by now. Vultures have keen sight, and it was not long before Kotos spotted the familiar tall, massive figure preparing to go to the oasis in search of water. Soon, he thought with satisfaction, he would once again be in control of his destiny.

  The vulture approached Gorgon in a slow, descending spiral, taking advantage of the heated air currents rising from the sun-baked sand. At last it alighted, perching awkwardly upon a stone, having dropped the water-skin at Gorgon’s feet. It made no sound, but turned its tiny, ugly eyes toward the Elfhunter. They gleamed with bright, baleful intelligence.

  Gorgon picked up the water-skin, knowing it to be a gift from Lord Kotos, and drank with thankful abandon. Though he
was indeed a hardy creature and needed very little water to sustain him, Gorgon had been nearing his limit with respect to thirst.

  Hear me, Elfhunter, came a voice inside Gorgon’s head, startling him. Kotos had not been able to address him at a distance before, except from within the amulet or from a mirror wherein Gorgon could actually behold Kotos’ face. Gorgon wondered what the face of Lord Kotos actually looked like, as it almost certainly did not resemble the wise old man he had come to expect. The thought both tantalized him and frightened him a little.

  “It’s about time you showed up. What have you to say?” he growled back at the vulture, which shook its head and blinked.

  Where is my amulet? Show it to me.

  Gorgon reached inside his dark breastplate and drew forth the golden thing, then held it aloft for Kotos to view. Drop it, Elfhunter, and back away. I would rejoin my friend and reward his fidelity. Drop the amulet, and receive a great gift.

  The heavy amulet raised a small puff of dust as it landed in the sand. After Gorgon had backed away from it, the vulture approached, took it in its blunted grey beak, and promptly dropped it again. Kotos had left the dull-witted bird to wonder why it had placed itself so close to an enemy, holding onto a thing that could not be eaten. It gave a horrid, croaking call of alarm and blundered away from Gorgon—too late. The Elfhunter’s enormous right hand closed on its neck as Gorgon dropped to one knee, pinning the body of the struggling bird to the ground. This was no mean feat, as the vulture was fighting for its life and its wingspan was as broad as Gorgon was tall. It flapped and beat at its captor without effect.

  Gorgon loosened his grip on the vulture’s neck in an attempt to gain a better hold. The desperate creature then opened its beak and a stream of the foulest, most horrid material issued forth from it, just missing Gorgon, who was wise to the ways of carrion-birds.