by C S Marks
“What, exactly, are those things?” asked El-morah with an expression of barely concealed distaste. He did not favor eating any creature with more than four legs.
“Delicious is what they are,” said Gaelen. “And we can also dine on sweet cattails. I found heaps of those as well.” She produced a healthy pile of cleaned, white roots. They were sweet, crunchy, and full of moisture. Gaelen liked to eat them raw.
Fima had already gone for his cook-pot and had set some water on to boil. Gaelen then took charge of cooking the crayfish, popping their heads off just before tossing them into the boiling water. Soon a little pile of black-eyed heads stared at all of them in accusation.
Gaelen poured off the water, leaving the crayfish to steam in the pot. They had turned bright red, to the wonder of El-morah. “And how, exactly, do you eat them?” he asked.
Gaelen demonstrated by laying several crayfish upon the grass to cool. She then peeled the slick, hard shell from the tail of one and offered it to El-morah. He just stared at her.
“Just eat the tail, like this,” said Rogond, peeling a crayfish of his own. He bit off the meat and chewed slowly with an expression of sublime pleasure.
El-morah then took the crayfish from Gaelen and followed Rogond’s example. His eyes lit up when he tasted the sweet, tender meat. “These are…good!” he said, as though surprised.
Gaelen, meanwhile, had separated out the females, noting that several were full of roe—an unparalleled delicacy among pond-fare. She pulled off the tough carapaces and extracted the bright orange roe with care. Soon, all four travelers were quite satisfied.
“That was a fine meal,” said El-morah. “My compliments to your cuisine, though I am still not certain that it rivals Mohani’s cakes.”
“Well, Gaelen may not bake cakes, but she certainly knows how to feed herself in the wild,” said Fima. “I’m glad to have a Wood-elf as a traveling companion, especially a hunter-scout. I haven’t been hungry since I left Tal-sithian.”
“Yes, you have,” said Gaelen. “Still, I thank you for your kind words. El-morah, I bow to Mohani’s cakes. Yet my crayfish were tasty enough in a pinch…so to speak.”
At last, El-morah said farewell to his friends. “I do not expect that we shall see each other again,” he said, his voice somber. “I wish you well in your quest. Make certain that you strike at least one blow to Orrion from me, won’t you?”
He bowed low, touching his forehead with a flourish, and spoke to them in Elvish. When translated, the phrase said: “May the big tree intentionally confuse you.”
All three of his friends, who spoke fluent Elvish, stared at him for a moment. “What’s that?” asked Gaelen.
“I…I don’t know, I have always had difficulty with Elven-tongues,” said El-morah. “I meant to say, “May the Way of the Woodland guide you.”
“Ah. Well, that’s pretty much what I heard,” said Gaelen.
“Farewell,” said Rogond. “May your journey homeward be swift and sure. Please give our best to your family. Be certain you tell your children that your actions saved all three of our lives. We are forever in your debt.”
“If it were not for Gaelen, I might never have returned home,” said El-morah. “There is no debt between us. Farewell.”
He turned from them and made his way back toward the southland and his beloved, wayward oasis.
Kotos caught up with Gorgon at last, having instructed his Ulcas to keep their distance. “About time you got back here,” Gorgon grumbled. “You leave me alone, following a group of witless Elves, and expect me to do nothing about it? I don’t know how much longer I could have resisted temptation.”
The raven sat placidly upon a stone and preened, seeming unconcerned. His mate had fallen behind and had since gone back to her familiar range, as he was obviously not behaving in normal fashion and she no longer claimed him. That was just as well. The summer brought storms in late afternoon that sometimes blew up out of nothing and, as the raven looked skyward, it appeared that the weather was about to turn nasty. The air was still, the sky was an ugly, dark grey with a sort of greenish tint, and approaching thunder could be heard.
Gorgon wanted to converse with Kotos, so he drew forth the amulet and laid it at the raven’s feet. At the directive of its master, the bird picked up the golden thing and held it in its dagger-like beak. Gorgon then beheld the familiar visage of Lord Kotos, appearing as the old man, reflected in the crystal.
“So, you thought of giving in to temptation, did you? How fortunate for both of us that you did not. I regretted having to leave you, Elfhunter, knowing that you could not hunt Elves for the time being. Take comfort in the notion that you will have more than you can dream of when we are victorious.”
“What did you learn on your flight?” said Gorgon.
“In a few moments we will be assailed if we do not find shelter. First I’ll find a place to wait out the storm, and I will tell my tale to you then. Follow the raven.”
The dark bird lifted from its perch and flew north for a short distance, still carrying the amulet. Kotos spotted a small alcove cut into the side of a knoll that would make a fine shelter, and he ordered the raven down. Gorgon was right behind him.
They shared the alcove just in time—the wind picked up to a frightening intensity, roaring through the trees, whipping them to and fro. The sky darkened further and the lightning snaked down, punctuated by loud cracks of thunder. The rain came, and then the hail. Gorgon chuckled as he sat in his sanctuary. He was thinking of the Elves, who were most likely not weathering the storm in such comfortable surroundings. The Vixen was mounted, and therefore almost certainly out in the open.
“Enjoy the hail on your proud head,” he said, settling back into the comforting shadows.
Gaelen, Rogond, and Fima had not escaped the storm, but they had taken advantage of the rolling terrain, finding the lee of an outcropping of rock and huddling there with the horses. When the rain and hail came down, the animals dropped their heads low and flattened their ears, relying on their thick manes and tough backs to resist the weather. The two-legged members of the Company sheltered beneath the horses, and would have emerged nearly dry had the wind not blown so hard. As it was, Gaelen felt no hail on her proud head. Faladinn, for once, was glad of his burden, as his packs shielded him from the worst of it. They did make him less streamlined, however. Had he been in the open, the wind might have blown him off his feet.
Rogond sighed. This would become a familiar pattern throughout the summer in the northlands, and they would have to get used to it.
Gaelen seemed to share his thoughts. “It would be worse if we were in the forest…the trees that cannot withstand the wind become deadly, falling in unpredictable ways upon the heads of travelers. No hunter-scout of the Greatwood rests easily during such storms. Here, in more open country, the chief peril is lightning, but so long as we keep close to the earth, away from trees and high places, a strike is unlikely.”
She wondered about her distant guardians, the Elves of Tal-sithian, who had lived for so long under the protection of the Lady. Their experience with northern summer weather might therefore be limited.
“Look on the bright side—at least it’s rain, and not sand!” Fima declared. He, among all in the Company, held the lowest opinion of the desert. The farther north they traveled, the more at home he would be.
The storm passed quickly, as was typical. No damage had been done to any of the travelers, but the same could not be said for some of the trees. They were in summer leaf already, and those that were tall with large crowns had caught a lot of wind. They had lost limbs, or even been blown over. Fima shook his head. “An example of the maxim that bigger is not always better,” he said.
Gaelen thought of Gorgon at once. “If he is an evil tree, then I shall be grass,” she whispered. “A storm is coming to us both, but I will weather, whereas he will fall.” That said, she settled back into the journey, knowing that the real storm would come at the end of it.
As Gaelen and company made their way north along the river, Nelwyn and Galador were making steady progress toward the High Pass, the way over the Monadh-hin.
“This certainly looks different from the last time I saw it,” said Galador. “Of course, that was in the dead of winter.”
“Have you ever seen it, I wonder?” asked Nelwyn. “We did not manage to cross it the last time. We were trapped by a snow-slide and were forced to go beneath the mountains, remember?”
Galador did, though the memory seemed to belong to someone else, in another time and place. It was so long ago, before Nelwyn’s love had flowered—he had been reborn on that day. Yet now, he sat tall upon his mount, lifting his head and scanning the path ahead. “Nelwyn, look…the horses are alerted to something. We had better conceal ourselves until we have learned the nature of it.”
Nelwyn agreed, as both Gryffa and Réalta were lifting their feet high, ears pricked, obviously at attention. Then the sound of horses drifted to them on the west wind. “Evil creatures do not ride horses,” said Nelwyn.
“Evil men do,” said Galador. “Given the present situation, considering Wrothgar’s intention to surround and attack Mountain-home, I still believe we should hide ourselves until we know the lay of things.”
Nelwyn saw the sense in this, and so they hid among the rocks. The sound of feet upon stony ground drew nearer, until the first banners were seen, followed by the most welcome sight of all—Elves of the Greatwood Realm. Friends and kin to Gaelen and Nelwyn, they were led by Wellyn, son of Ri-Aruin.
Wellyn sat tall and proud upon his fine, grey mare, looking every inch the future king. He raised his hand and called the column to a halt. The only dust came from the feet of the horses, and Galador marveled at his woodland cousins, who were the most light-footed of all Elves. It was a large column, only a part of which could be seen at present, yet he had heard only the sound of the horses approaching. In fact, there were nearly a thousand Wood-elves marching to Mountain-home.
Nelwyn knew how to properly announce herself, and she did so, calling out in a hunter-scout code that Wellyn recognized at once. Though he did not answer, he spoke to his standard-bearer, who dipped his banner down twice, giving Nelwyn permission to approach.
“Come on,” she said to Galador. Then they trotted out to meet the Elves of the Greatwood.
The Wood-elves made camp in the mountains that night. Wellyn was overjoyed to see Nelwyn again, but he sorrowed that Gaelen was not with her.
“She thought that perhaps you and I might be meeting, and she sent a gift,” said Nelwyn. “She also asked me to remind you that she does not believe in premonitions, and that she fully expects to see you again one day.” She looked around at the impressive collection of well-armed Wood-elves. “I do not see Ri-Aruin…has he remained in the Greatwood?”
“Yes. He placed me in command of this venture,” said Wellyn. “Apparently, he sees it as a test of his son’s ability to replace him as Ruler of the Realm. He thinks it will make a king of me.” He sighed. “I have never been interested in ruling the Greatwood, but this is an important task—I suppose I should feel pride that my father would have sufficient faith to charge me with it.”
Nelwyn had always liked Wellyn, and he looked very young in that moment. Then the moment passed, and the future King returned.
“Now you must finish your tale,” he said. “You intend to rendezvous with Gaelen after you acquire reinforcements in the Greatwood?”
“Yes, that was our plan,” said Nelwyn, “though it looks as if most of the fighters are marching to Mountain-home. Will there be aid still to be had in the Elven-hold?”
Wellyn laughed. “How many will you need? There will be at least a hundred who will go with you. And you will no doubt be pleased to learn that the sons of Talrodin march with me, and I will release them to accompany you. They will no doubt want to help with the downfall of Gorgon Elfhunter, that their father might be avenged.”
Nelwyn was pleased to hear that news. “Have they seen battle?” she asked. “They are still young.”
“War has not come yet to the Greatwood, though darkness spreads up the river from the Darkmere,” said Wellyn.
Nelwyn then told him of the Currgas, who had been driven from the river into Tal-sithian.
“Yes, we knew they had been set upon,” said Wellyn. “We found several dead along the riverbank.” His eyes grew sad at the memory; few things are more disheartening than the sight of a dead Currga. “Please, Nelwyn, tell me all of your adventures. I will provision you and send you forth tomorrow or perhaps the day after, together with the sons of Talrodin. There is no darkness at our backs that I am aware of; you should have a clear journey home.”
Home!
What a wonderful, wonderful word. Nelwyn’s heart yearned for it, and she did not want to waste any time in getting there. Yet Wellyn was most insistent that she tell her tale, and when she looked into his winsome blue-grey eyes, so eager for news, she knew that she could not disappoint him. No matter. They would make up the time later. At least now Nelwyn knew that she would not encounter opposition, at least not on this side of the Elven-hold.
Two days later, Nelwyn said farewell to the Woodland Elves and set off once again on her westward journey with Galador and the sons of Talrodin. She had given Gaelen’s gift to Wellyn, but he had tucked it away without opening it. Nelwyn did not know what it was, nor would she ever learn.
As promised, Kotos made his report to Lord Wrothgar on the night of each full moon. This was the third such report. Both good and bad tidings would be shared, for although there had been no serious disruption of the plan as yet, three of Wrothgar’s most valuable assassins had been found slain, and Kotos could not account for the other two. El-morah had concealed the bodies, but they had not been missed by Gorgon, whose keen senses had picked up their scent.
“I smell…death nearby, the death of men,” he said, pausing and scenting the breeze. He looked into the amulet. Though it was dark, he could still hear the voice of Kotos in his mind. “Do you think we should investigate?”
Yes, of course, said Kotos. I want to know of anyone you detect, whether living, dying, or dead.
Gorgon located the three assassins where El-morah had hidden them. After a very thorough investigation, Gorgon gave his assessment of them. “There is no Elf-stench on or about them,” he said. “And there are tracks leading here…man-tracks. It would seem that a single man killed all three of them, and from the signs, that man was not of the Company. They did welcome him into their encampment, however. They feasted on crayfish and cattails.” Gorgon favored Kotos with a superior smile, for he was proud of his tracking abilities.
Kotos dismissed him. Yes, yes…very good. So this man was a friend. That explains why the Company was not alarmed into breaking the Stone. They must have thought Wrothgar’s three assassins were ordinary brigands who somehow managed to slip past the Elven guards.
“That is not so difficult,” said Gorgon, who had learned that he could slip past them himself.
So you keep saying, said Kotos, yet these men were as skilled as any Elf, and so are you. Most would not be so adept. He was puzzled as to the identity of the strange man, this unknown friend to the Company. Kotos did not like to include many “unknowns” in any report to Lord Wrothgar.
That report was made a little easier by the upcoming attack on Mountain-home, as the Shadowmancer’s energies were divided in at least two different directions. His displeasure at the loss of his assassins was expected, yet it was tempered by the news that the Company was still keeping their northward course. Nothing had disrupted the plan.
When they have hidden the Stone, we will secure it for Thee, my Lord, said Kotos. Though I do not know where they are taking it as yet.
Keep to thy pa
th then, most faithful Deceiver, and bring Me what I desire, said Wrothgar. Find also My two remaining men, and keep them from assailing the Company until the time is right. They will be able to aid thee, for they are skilled. Farewell.
The cold, dark image of the Shadowmancer faded from Kotos’ awareness. By directive of the Highest Dark Power, he was now saddled with locating and controlling the two brigands, and that displeased him, though it could have been worse. Men, though sometimes unpredictable, were easy to control.
In the end, it would not be necessary for Kotos to deal with Wrothgar’s men, for they had underestimated the skills of the Elves of Tal-sithian. After hearing nothing from their three associates, curiosity had gotten the better of them, and they had crept toward the Company by night. The Corsair called the sutherling to a halt, whispering to him in the dark. “There is an Elf in yonder tree…do you see it?”
At first the sutherling did not perceive, but at last he, too, saw the Elf keeping watch in a tall tree not far from where the men now lay in concealment.
“I don’t reckon he has seen us,” said the Corsair. “We should move on.”
“Not so fast, my friend,” said the sutherling with a wicked look. “I cannot pass up this chance, and we dare not risk being seen. I will fell him easily.” He drew his curved bow on the watcher and took careful aim, holding his breath. Yet he never had the chance to draw another, as his arms flew forward, the arrow flying wild. He stiffened, eyes bulging in surprise, and fell with a feathered shaft protruding from between his shoulder blades.
A second shaft—grey-feathered, Elven-made—drove into the soil at the other man’s elbow, its implied message clear: Leave at once and never return!
The Corsair got slowly to his feet, backing away from his dead companion, holding both hands in the air to show that he held no weapon. He now assumed that the three other assassins had faced the same fate, and he decided without further debate to abandon his task and return to Fómor by any means required. No reward would be enough to convince him, and he was not sufficiently afraid of the Shadowmancer’s wrath.