by C S Marks
“There is the reason,” cried Nelwyn, who scouted ahead. “The doorway is there!” She pointed to a blessed patch of greyish light. It was the dim light of early morning, and snow was still falling. Yet there was a sound that Nelwyn had not heard upon entering the mountain, and that was the sound of rushing water. “More melting ice, I expect,” she said, turning to Galador.
“Who cares?” gasped Fima, whose breath had given out long ago and who could barely keep up with her. “Just get me out of this mountain, and then I can die happy.” When they emerged, the landscape had changed. Much of the snow and ice had already faded from the lower elevations, though snow still fell from the sky. The inner heat of the mountain and the release of Duinar had worked together to free Mount Ëthas from its cold shell.
Duinar set his burden down so that he could take in his surroundings. He had not viewed the outside world in five hundred years. To the surprise and relief of his friends, Rogond stirred, opening his eyes as he fought to draw a decent breath, gasping and wheezing.
Fima was at his side at once. “You’re alive, my friend!” he said. “Easy, now…try to clear your lungs as best you can. Breathe easy, that’s it.”
Rogond rolled with difficulty onto his side, grasping his shoulder in pain. Fima had staunched the bleeding, but the wound burned and throbbed. Rogond tried to groan, but no sound came forth. His throat, like his eyes and his lungs, had been burned by the poisonous vapor.
The stones rumbled beneath their feet, and Duinar was nearly bowled over. “This is going to be a bad one,” he shouted. “Keep alert, and watch for stones falling upon your heads.”
This proved to be wise advice, as the mountain shook chunks of stone, earth, and melting ice from itself, and the Company barely avoided some of them.
“We must get away from this mountain,” yelled Galador. “The next tremors will finish us! Let’s make our way down, back the way we came. At least we know there is a path there.” He held Gaelen’s body close to his breast to avoid jarring her as best he could, and started back down the path with his friends not far behind. Rogond could not yet stand—in fact, he could not even sit on his own—but hardy Duinar bore him without hesitation. Still, it was slow going.
Nelwyn, as usual, led the group down the mountain-path, but she called the others to halt, turning her very distressed face back toward them.
“We’re trapped! We’ll never make it now,” she yelled over the din of crashing stones and rushing waters. They had been blocked by a veritable torrent that roared down from the mountain, bringing debris, mud, and ice with it. This path was closed to them.
“Master, what should we do?” asked Fima. Duinar set Rogond down and wrung his hands, trying to think of something. He had run out of wisdom for the moment.
“There is the answer!” cried Galador, whose voice had rarely been so hopeful and jubilant. He pointed across the torrent and the Company beheld four sets of pricked ears and four pairs of dark, intelligent eyes looking back at them.
“Eros!” cried Fima, causing Nelwyn to turn and smile at him. Fima never called any of the horses by name. “Umm…I mean…the horses are there!” he said, remembering that calling a horse by name was tantamount to admitting he actually cared for the beasts.
“May the heavens love him for his disobedience,” muttered Galador. “Eros! Come on, my brave one, come on and aid your friends. You can do it!”
Eros rose majestically on his hind legs, snorted, and plunged across the raging watercourse. It was a difficult task, but Eros was large and strong, and he managed. Toran was right behind him. Réalta, who was more finely made, was nearly swept away. Faladinn knew better, and stood placidly where he was.
There was no time for happy reunions. The ice-melt worsened with each passing moment. If they waited too long, the horses would have an impossible task in returning, for they would carry riders, and the icy torrent would be too swift and deep.
“We must secure Gaelen and Rogond, or they will be lost. We won’t be able to hold them,” said Galador.
Rogond was hoisted aboard Eros, and he grasped the dark mane with feeble hands as Galador lashed him to the horse’s neck. Then he instructed Duinar to ride behind. “Eros is the only one stout enough to carry both of you. Now, get on over, Eros. Don’t fear…we are right behind you!” He slapped Eros on the hindquarters, sending him across.
Eros grunted and strained with the effort, nearly knocked off his legs, carefully placing each foot to avoid falling, as that would have meant the death of Rogond. He heaved himself up on the opposite bank, which was becoming increasingly steep and treacherous as the racing waters tore into the path.
Nelwyn, Fima, Galador, and Gaelen were left as their chance of escape ticked away. “All right, Toran, now show us what you’re made of,” said Nelwyn, fairly leaping onto his strong grey back. “Give Gaelen to me,” she cried, reaching out to Galador, who placed Gaelen in front of her.
“Here…let me secure her as I did Rogond,” said Galador, taking the broken length of rope from Réalta’s head-collar and lashing it quickly around Toran’s neck. “Réalta can only bear me. He barely made it across without a rider. Toran must carry Fima, too.”
“What?” Fima cried. “Me, ride on that beast’s hindquarters? He’ll pitch me off for certain.”
“No…he won’t,” said a voice they had thought never to hear again. Gaelen’s eyes were closed, but it was she who had spoken.
“If Gaelen has such faith in him, can you not, Fima?” asked Nelwyn, who was on the edge of tears.
Fima, who had no answer for that, allowed Galador to set him behind Nelwyn. “If I can just make it across, I can die happy,” he muttered.
Toran leaped into the foam, bracing his strong legs against the ever-increasing force of the waters, squealing at the impact of stray limbs and debris, using every ounce of power he possessed. Gaelen smiled through her pain, managing to stroke his neck with her nerveless right hand. Toran’s ears were flattened, his nostrils wrinkled against the water, his head lowered as he strained and lunged, every muscle and sinew in his fine-sculptured form standing forth. At last he gathered himself for a mighty leap, and scrambled onto the bank with Eros.
The roar of the water had muffled the cries of alarm from Nelwyn, Galador, and Fima as the final effort broke the dwarf’s hold and he slid off the back of Toran’s rump. Yet now, as the great horse emerged, Fima clung with grim tenacity to his long tail. Though waterlogged and nearly frightened to death, he was unhurt.
Gaelen had fallen again into darkness, reflecting that her beloved Finan would not have been able to do what Toran had just done. Sometimes, bigger was better.
“Come on, Galador!” Nelwyn screamed as Réalta plunged into the freezing waters. Réalta was not about to fall, not when he carried the mighty Galador! Nelwyn looked up the mountainside, and her heart nearly stopped. “Galador! Hurry as fast as you can! Réalta, pull for your life!”
The flood had broken free above them, and they had perhaps ten seconds to get out of the way. “Come on, Fima,” called Nelwyn, struggling to pull Fima up behind her again. Réalta grunted with effort and gained the bank just in time to run the race of his life, charging down the path out of the way, following Toran as the flood claimed the ground on which they had all been standing.
They had escaped for the moment, but the mountains would not relent. Plumes of vapor and black ash shot from the summits of several surrounding peaks, as well as from Mount Ëthas, as another tremor seemed to shake the world loose. Nelwyn saw trees falling and sagging above and below her, and she was terrified. The terrible, hot magma would come next.
“We’ll never make it,” muttered Fima from behind her. The horses milled about and screamed in terror.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” growled Duinar, leaping off of Eros’ back. He flared with blue-white light, and there was fury in his face as he strode across the rocks to climb onto a very large stone. He had taken more than his fill of Lord Kotos. He stood facing the mount
ain, raised both his arms toward it, and uttered a single, deafening word.
“ENOUGH!”
The sound of Duinar’s voice was so full of power and authority that everyone who heard it closed their eyes and winced. No one dared move for a moment. At last, Galador opened one eye. Could it be that the tremors were quieting down? They were, in fact! No more would be heard from the mountains other than a few distant rumbles and quakes. Galador looked over at Duinar, who was staring at his own hands in wonder, as if he did not believe he had succeeded. He felt Galador’s gaze upon him and turned toward the Company with an expression of delight.
“Ha! That should do it,” he said. Then he looked away. Galador knew that he was thinking of the cataclysm of 6740. Duinar had not borne witness to the ultimate destruction of his realm, as he had been frozen deep underground during his vain attempt to prevent it. Although some in the Company had expressed an interest in exploring Tallasiar, Galador was now glad that they had not, as the telling of that tale would have broken Duinar’s heart.
He approached Duinar and spoke to him, for there was a question that he would ask.
“Master…forgive my asking such an indelicate question, but how is it that you quelled this uprising of the fire-mountains, yet you could not prevail when you tried…when you tried to save your people?”
Duinar’s eyes remained downcast for a moment and he drew a long, deep sigh. “Perhaps it is because this upheaval was due in part to the influence of a dark Asarla, and that I could deal with. I always suspected that I held more power than Kotos, though it is not written in the books of lore.
“Well, we can certainly remedy that,” said Fima, who had overheard.
“As to the first tragedy, I failed to realize that neither man nor Elf nor Asarla can match the raw power of nature. The land we are standing on is believed to have been made during just such an upheaval, way back during the Time of Mystery. Tuathas and her beautiful mountains would not be here at all if not for such violent birth. The forces of nature do not care what cities have been built, or what people thrive, or what man believes he rules what lands. And I should have known better…I did prevent Mount Ëthas from erupting, but I failed to account for her sisters. One of them did most of the damage, as it appears.”
He turned to Fima and Galador, and they were pleased to see that his good humor had returned. “One thing is certain,” he said. “These experiences have just about cured me of my unnatural fascination with fire-mountains.”
“They have certainly cured me of whatever small interest I might ever have had in them,” said Nelwyn. “We have delayed long enough. We must tend to our friends and take them from this terrible place. Winter is coming, and we must make it to the Greatwood Realm before the weather sets in.”
“Yes, we must do those things,” said Duinar. “First allow me to see to Gaelen and Rogond. Gaelen in particular will not live long if she is pressed too hard by the journey. A little more time at rest won’t hurt.”
Gaelen was laid upon the ground before Duinar, and he ministered to her as best he could. “The funny thing about Elves,” he said, “is that, although they can heal from nearly anything, they have the tendency to be subjected to the most shocking damage. These injuries would have killed a man thrice her size.” He moved his hands over her body and limbs, speaking incantations and bathing her with light. It seemed that her pain was eased, and she opened her eyes.
“You…you are Duinar!” she whispered, managing a faint smile. “Welcome back.” Then she closed her eyes and rested.
Fima was most impressed. “I had no idea you had such healing powers,” he said. “It would seem that they rival those of Lady Ordath.”
“I am the only Asarla who chose to live among mortals,” said Duinar. “Which of us would have greater need of healing skills than I?” Then he shook his head. “The power I possess is not so much in healing, but in soothing and comforting. Sometimes, if you can just quiet a damaged body by comforting it, it will heal on its own.”
Duinar moved next to Rogond, placing both hands on his broad chest, flooding his ravaged lungs with light. “This will take time, my friend,” he said. “Yet you will regain your strength as your breathing improves. Your shoulder will heal, but you must not be taxed until you are stronger.” He looked into Rogond’s eyes and smiled. “You are Tuathan?”
Rogond nodded. “I am the son of Diomar, of the line of Allydar. My mother was Rosalin, who traced back to Syrus, the mariner,” he said in a croaking voice. Duinar was delighted.
Fima told Duinar of the realms of Dûn Bennas and Dûn Arian. “Your people did not forget their enlightenment, Master,” he said. “Those cities were built on learning, and the people thrive in the light of knowledge. The legacy of your teachings lives on in them.”
Nelwyn had wrapped Gaelen in Brinneal’s warm cloak, and was now tending the horses. They were unhurt, though they had lost some of their condition due to the very austere food supply in the region, and had suffered quite a few cuts and tears from the thorn-trees.
“However did you survive, my friends?” Nelwyn wondered, stroking Eros’ shaggy neck. As if in answer, Faladinn approached one of the scraggly bramble-shrubs, worked his very adroit upper lip in between the sharp thorns, and delicately pulled the leathery leaves off one by one. They were tough, but satisfying. It was the resourceful Faladinn who had demonstrated this skill for the others. Without him, they would have starved.
It was slow going back through the bramble-forest, and without Gaelen to catch squirrel-rats it was nothing but roots and shriveled berries to eat. Yet they still had a path to follow, and Nelwyn had a little of her dragon-fire left, so they were warm, at least.
Rogond held Gaelen by the fire, both covered by the blue-grey cloak, as Duinar and Fima examined Gaelen’s fire-cloak in sorrow. It had tarnished in the poisonous fumes of the mountain, and it was unlikely ever to shine with the same brilliance.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Nelwyn. “I do not suppose we shall need it again.”
By the time they approached the encampment of the Elves of the Greatwood and Tal-sithian, Rogond’s lot had improved enough to ride with Fima unassisted. Gaelen still could not ride, but Duinar carried her, striding along beside Toran, who worried about her and could not resist occasionally reaching aside to nuzzle her.
“You’re quite the devoted gentleman, aren’t you?” said Duinar, as he resumed the tale he had been telling Gaelen.
“Why do you tell your tales to a sleeping Elf?” asked Fima. “Why not tell the wide-awake Dwarvish lore-master instead?”
Duinar and Galador both laughed at him. “Fima, how long have you lived among Elves?” said Galador. “You should know that we may appear to be sleeping, but we hear every word you say.”
“You…you do?” said Fima, with an expression of abject horror. Then he turned back to Nelwyn and winked.
“And have you been saying things near to sleeping Elves that should not be heard?” asked Duinar with a low chuckle.
“Look!” cried Nelwyn. “There is the encampment! And there…there is Gryffa!” She urged Toran forward and rode toward the sight of distant campfires.
The Company had left the bramble-forest behind, and soon they were surrounded by their friends and allies. Galador asked about the possibility of attack by Wrothgar’s Ulcas.
“What Ulcas? Our Woodland cousins haven’t caught a whiff of them in over a fortnight,” said the Elves with a smile. “We expected they had given up waiting, and would not risk attacking now that there are so many of us. They have no courage in them. Besides, if you had absolutely no hair at all, would you wish to wait around through the onset of a northern winter?”
The Elves told the tale of the clandestine activities of one Eros, who had managed to free all the horses but Gryffa on one dark and rainy night. “A good thing, too,” they said, “for not only did they survive, but they found you and aided you. In this case, we’re glad that our attempts at detaining them were not successful.�
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The Elves of the Greatwood were very distressed to learn of the deaths of Arlan and Fynn, and of the loss of Turantil. Though Talrodin’s line had ended, it would not be forgotten.
Everyone bowed in reverence to Duinar, who had been thought lost. A great treasure had been restored to the World that Is. Duinar, who was fundamentally a humble soul, accepted their admiration gracefully.
“My thanks for your heartfelt appreciation, but I expect we had best be moving on southward now,” he said. “The cold and snows of winter are beyond my influence. For that, you would need my sisters!”
The point was taken, and the Elves made their way back toward the Woodland, eventually emerging from the dark and depressing lands near the Monadh-ainnas to the grasslands, and then back into the forest. By the time they arrived there, winter was well underway.
Ri-Aruin was astonished at the arrival of Duinar. It was the first time an Asarla had set foot in his kingdom, so far as he was aware. He bowed and offered his crown to his impressive guest, but Duinar bade him rise. “This realm is yours, O Woodland King, even as it has always been. And although it has not seen the enlightenment of the Asari, still it is enlightened. While I am here, I am at your command.”
All were made welcome. Gaelen and Rogond were taken to a warm chamber where they could rest in comfort, and they healed quickly. Gaelen spent much time in reflection, for she knew that she did not need to guard her thoughts from anyone—not ever again.
Fima had come to her side on one cold, rainy afternoon and had placed the mirror in her hand. “When the Creature died, it went dark,” he said. “I felt it, even through my jerkin. It can do no harm now.”
Gaelen had nodded, her eyes filled with tears. Gorgon’s death had affected her in ways she did not yet understand. Though she had felt joy and freedom as his dark spirit faded, she also felt, for the moment, as though a part of her had faded with him. She had grown accustomed to his presence, and she felt an inexplicable sense of loss. Gaelen’s tears, though shed more in relief than from grief, were the only tears to be shed in Gorgon’s memory.