by V K Majzlik
Silently, he pulled back the heavy curtains of the sleeping chamber, and slipped through into the light of Loreandril, leaving his slumbering friends. Jaidan could not help stopping for a second to breathe in the sweet, familiar aroma. So much had happened in so short a time, yet this place seemed to remain unchanged, even timeless.
Looking around, he saw smiling, welcoming faces, nodding their heads in respect before carrying on with their business. Loreandril was a hive of activity. The Elves were preparing to move again. The encroachment of the enemy had renewed the fear of discovery and the Elves felt unsafe, even surrounded in their ancestral mists.
Jaidan stopped a young female elf, carrying several wicker baskets, to ask for directions to the place of healing, the Lor’natali. She offered to take him there herself, as if she sensed the urgency of the clansman’s wishes. Making sure Jaidan followed closely, the girl guided him through the hubbub of Loreandril until they reached a two-tiered marquee.
The Lor’natali was draped in heavy, white fabric which seemed to radiate cleanliness. Two Aeonate guards stood with their long-handled scimitars crossed protectively over the entrance. Immediately they stood to attention, recognising Jaidan and parted the weapons, allowing him to pass.
The smell hit him immediately a delicate healing perfume of herbs and flowers mixed with a sterile cleanliness. Inhaling deeply, he felt a renewed tingle of life flood his limbs, and his mind sharpened as the bleary heaviness of his journey washed away. He passed low beds either side, mostly empty, working his way down the aisles and up to the second floor.
Eventually, on the upper tier, he found Nymril. She was surrounded by healers, Lor’nata, and elders, each wearing a grave expression. He parted the thin, voile curtains and stepped into the small chamber.
There was a heavy air of silence as they looked upon the feeble body of Nymril, her skin ghostly pale, and her chest barely showing the signs of breathing. By her side an Elder kneeled, holding her hand, gently caressing the long thin fingers, whispering elvish words under his breath. He did not need an introduction, Jaidan knew immediately that this was Nymril’s father, Neornil. They had met only once before, when he had first been summoned. On the other side of the bed, hidden in the shadows at the back, Jaidan caught sight of Eilendan. Their eyes met.
Eilendan took Jaidan back outside the chamber. The clansman was relieved to see his friend’s bandages had been changed, although he had blatantly not slept since their return. Shaking his head, he explained that the elders and healers, despite all their great wisdom, had not found a way to remove the iron brace with its vicious grip around her throat. It was sapping her lifeblood and spirit. The once silvery etchings that adorned her skin were now a dark decaying grey, as if the black magic were infecting her body.
Eilendan seemed to falter, his strength suddenly drained by the emotion and exhaustion of the past few weeks. Jaidan took his arm, guiding him to a seat.
“You’re exhausted, Eilendan. Why have you not slept yet?”
“I could not leave her side,” he replied, shaking his head. Jaidan caught a shimmer of teardrops forming in his crystal blue eyes, but Eilendan somehow still found the strength to fight back the raw emotions that were welling up.
“You are no good to anyone in this state. We need a leader.”
“But…….” Eilendan motioned towards the chamber in which Nymril lay.
Jaidan squeezed his friend’s shoulder. “I will stay with her. I promise to send word if there is any change.”
“The council will convene soon. I need to be there….”
“Friend, I will find you myself. Go, sleep!”
A look of relief seemed to pass across the elf’s drawn face, as if he had been released from a great burden. He nodded to Jaidan and quietly took his leave but not before taking one last look at her lifeless body, and the face which still held such immense beauty.
Once he was sure that Eilendan had left the Lor’natali, Jaidan ventured back into the healing chamber where Nymril lay. Her bed was still surrounded by a throng of anxious elves.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked a Lor’nata as she slipped past carrying a tray of dried leaves, ready to be crushed into the steaming bowls of boiled water around Nymril’s bed. She barely acknowledged his presence, too busy preparing the leaves to answer.
“There is nothing anyone can do.”
Jaidan turned to look at the owner of the voice. Neornil came to stand beside him. Even though Jaidan pulled himself up to stand tall, he was still short in comparison to this Elder. Neornil, although old at nearly three thousand clansman years, was still strong and bore a charismatic grace. White hair braided in traditional plaits framed a handsome, yet ageing face that seemed to carry the woe and wisdom of centuries past.
“Only by the touch of the Aeonorgal can my daughter be saved.” The old elf sighed, his eyes closed as if in prayer. “Only by the power of her earth spirit can her body be set free.”
Jaidan’s heart sank like a stone. He knew that the Aeonorgal could be anywhere by now. Who knew what fate had overtaken it and its two bearers?
“Has Eilendan discussed our mission and the Aeonorgal with the council?”
Neornil nodded. “He has briefly outlined recent events that befell your travels. The council, however, will convene in two hours to discuss the details further. Your presence and that of your other comrades will be required.”
With nothing more to say, Nymril’s father returned to his place of prayer, kneeling beside his daughter’s bed. Jaidan stayed a little longer, but, unable to cope with the feeling of helplessness, was compelled to leave. In a daze, hardly noticing the myriad of elves bustling about their business, he wandered back towards his companions.
Chapter 42 – Council of Elders
The two hours of waiting for their summons quickly passed, aided by plenty of food and drink. The comrades were pleased to replenish their bodies from the ravages of their journey and imprisonment.
Jaidan briefed a nervous Nechan about council procedures. It was obvious that he would be asked questions about finding the Aeonorgal and Tavor. Even Jaidan and Gaular were anxious, aware of their failure to return the Spirit Star; worse still, the fact that they now had no clues to its fate.
Finally, an hour later than expected, an Aeonate guard appeared to escort the comrades to the council chambers.
Jaidan was growing concerned. Eilendan had yet to make an appearance. The guard, however, assured him that his friend would be present.
As they followed the elf through the streets, Nechan found it hard to keep pace, constantly distracted by everything surrounding him. The stories his dear friend Barnon used to tell him barely did Loreandril and the Elves justice. He had certainly underestimated their ingenuity. Nechan could not help but notice that the Elves appeared to be packing up their belongings with many tents in the process of being deconstructed.
He tugged on Jaidan’s sleeve. “What’s happening? Why are they taking everything down?”
“Remember, Loreandril is the city that moves. They are preparing to do just that.”
“But why? Are we not safe here? I thought the mists protected us?”
“When we broke the boundaries we were followed, this you are aware of. The Elders must fear the enemy has been alerted to their position,” explained Jaidan. “They have not survived these past centuries by taking chances or leaving it to fate. It is better to move now than risk discovery. The mists can only hold back an attack for so long. Even magic has its limits.”
Nechan did not ask any further questions. There was a dread in Jaidan’s voice, and his face suddenly appeared weather-beaten and drawn at the thought of the danger that threatened their borders. It was clear from the tumultuous activity surrounding him that the Elves felt the same. The enemy was on the horizon, their attack pending.
The council chambers were the largest marquees, located in the centre of Loreandril. All the dwellings and tents radiated from this central point. It
was a two-tiered, circular building with a delicate wooden frame that was elegantly carved with flowers and leaves that wound their way up and down the poles.
The lower tier was open, with draped voile of silver and white hung elegantly from the poles, twelve in total serving to provide the outer walls. Unlike other tents, this had a floor woven from golden reeds. Their perfume filled the air with the fresh aroma of spring water.
All around small circles of elves of all ages congregated, sat cross-legged as if in deep study, conversing intensely. Only one or two of the students looked up, noticing the presence of the strange kin.
In the centre of the lower tier a spiral staircase wound its way upward. The Aeonate guard motioned for the comrades to ascend. He was not allowed to follow. Only those invited by the council could enter the chamber.
Jaidan went first, followed by a subdued Gaular, with an anxious Nechan bringing up the rear. Even with Jaidan’s preparation he was not sure what to expect. He studied the staircase, placing his foot tentatively. At first glance it did not look load-bearing, made only of flimsy wicker, yet amazingly, it held firm. Watching Gaular reach the top and disappear, Nechan knew he had no choice but to follow.
The upper council chamber was warm and dark. As Nechan’s eyes began to adjust, he noticed the familiar globe lanterns hanging around the circular room. Rather than the downstairs level, this chamber was enclosed with heavy, bronze velvet that hung in large folds and sways down the walls. The same golden rush matting as the lower tier covered the floor.
In the centre stood a circular wooden table, engraved with twisting vines and Elvish runes. Nechan immediately recognised the symbols as being similar to those on the maps Barnon had given him.
An unusual, carved, spherical cage, inlaid with silver and gold stars, stood empty in the middle of the table. It was only small, perhaps the right size to hold the Spirit Star. Nechan imagined the council meetings of the past being conducted under the radiant light of the Spirit Star and felt saddened that it was no longer in its rightful place. A subdued understanding fell on him as he realised the Spirit Star’s importance to the Elves.
Tall, graceful elves were seated on elegantly carved, high-backed chairs around the table. They were clothed in simple, light-coloured robes of varying hues that seemed to shimmer and glisten in the light of the glow-worms. These elves were the council Elders.
Nechan instantly felt the probing eyes of the Elders boring into him. He did not know where to look. To his relief he found the familiar face of Eilendan, also seated at the table with the Elders, dressed in clean, light grey robes, that emphasised his strong, lean figure. He was also grateful to see Nilean standing towards the back, behind the council, still dressed in his decorative armour. The elf acknowledged him with a discrete nod.
“Shillhon, Nechan of the Hundlinger clan. Please be seated.” The voice was deep and melodic, its calm friendliness welcoming to all that heard it.
Nechan quickly took his seat next to Gaular and Jaidan.
The air was filled with a heavy electric sense of anticipation. The fine hairs on the back of Nechan’s neck prickled and his arms became covered in goose pimples as the Elders stood, their eyes closed to begin their soulful lament. The Chamber was filled by the mesmerising melody, the notes of their ancient song rising and falling in unison. Once their opening ceremony was completed, the Elders sat once more, their hands folded, placed neatly on the table before them.
“What’s happening?” whispered Nechan into Jaidan’s ear.
He turned, placing a finger over his lips signalling the need for silence.
“Shillhon, fellow kin.” An Elder stood, clothed in long, silver robes, and held his hands up welcoming the comrades. “My name is Theonil.”
The elf bowed low before introducing the rest of the council members, eight in total. In turn they each stood and bowed their heads respectfully to their guests.
“We are honoured to have you in our presence. The council has , agreed that we will conduct our proceedings today in the common tongue,” continued Theonil, acting as chairperson for the council proceedings.
There was an apprehensive lump in Nechan’s throat, and his chest felt tight. His mind was dizzy with the fuzz of confusion. He knew he was in the presence of great wisdom and authority, and yet, for some reason they honoured him! Jaidan and Gaular stood to bow their heads, thanking the council. Awkwardly, Nechan followed suit.
“The council has convened on this eve to discuss recent events.”
There was a quiet murmur of agreement and unrest amongst the elders.
Theonil held up his left hand, silencing them, and continued. “We are joined by brave kin, who have risked life and limb at the bidding of this council: Eilendan, Captain of the Aeonates, Jaidan of the Brathunder Clan and Gaular, fellow Dun Dwarf. We are also honoured by the presence of Nechan, son of the Hundlinger Clan. I would now ask Eilendan to speak for the comrades.”
Theonil sat down as Eilendan took the floor. The elf looked different. His face was drawn, clearly still tired from their trials. Even his eyes seemed to have lost their vibrant glow.
Eilendan thoroughly covered every step of their journey, much of which Nechan had not been apart of or heard about. The council sat in silence as they heard the story unfold, beginning with the arduous task of finding and retrieving the Aeonorgal, finishing with the fearsome attacks that followed from the enemy that led to the initial loss of the Aeonorgal. His narrative was clear and concise, meaning the Elders did not need to ask any questions.
As Eilendan explained Nechan’s involvement the young clansman felt his cheeks flush scarlet with embarrassment and humility as the Elders turned to look at him. He squirmed in his seat following the elders’ murmured response to Tavor’s betrayal.
Nechan’s thoughts turned to his brother. Although his ordeal had been terrifying, now it was over he was starting to dwell on thoughts of Cradon. He could not hide the guilt that swamped him. Cradon was somewhere out there. His stomach began to churn at the thought his brother may be dead, drowning out Eilendan’s words. He tried to reassure himself, that as a twin he would know his brother’s fate, yet there was a growing sense of unease. He knew something was not right.
The Elders had heard all they needed. It was clear the companions had been followed to Loreandril, but they did not place blame at their feet. They accepted that there was little else they could have done. The council members had already decided that Loreandril would move again and preparations were underway.
The only aspect of Eilendan’s narrative that was questioned was the escape of Gomel and Cradon. It was conceivable that these two would head straight for Ghornathia, but the real question was whether they would make safely. With the Aeonorgal in their possession the enemy would be drawn to them.
The only course of action was to send a messenger to their allies. Without further hesitation their most trusted fighter and a willing volunteer, Nilean, was sent out into the wilderness to Ghornathia.
Night was drawing in yet Gomel could hardly tell as he peered through the blinding, white wall of snow. They were trapped in another harsh, driving blizzard that was slowing their progress. There was no shelter in these barren mountains. Although cliffs and gullies surrounded them, the wind successfully whipped round, infiltrating every nook and cranny, piling snow in every niche. At least the snow would hide any tracks the pair had left.
Gomel allowed himself only a few hours rest each day, knowing that with every second lost Cradon drew nearer to death. Over the past five days Cradon had become more ill, progressively speaking less and sleeping more as the wound began to puss and weep. It smelt foul, like the flesh was starting to rot off his back, yet he worryingly felt no pain.
Cradon eventually lost consciousness two days earlier. The fever burned through his body even though the gnome did his best to keep the wound clean, washing and dressing it as best he could. The infection was already in the boy’s blood and time was running out.
De
spite having the horses and makeshift sledge, their going was still very slow. The snowstorms and howling gales were persistent. It was as if an invisible force was trying to prevent them moving deeper into the mountains. With two steps forward they seemed to slide one step back, but he did not give up hope. The gnome knew they were less than a day away from Ghornathia.
Chapter 43 – Moving Loreandril
The comrades were given no opportunity to speak to Eilendan; he left the chambers quickly to be by Nymril’s bedside. He was determined not to sleep, even though he was clearly exhausted, his face drawn and grey.
As Nechan went to leave, he felt a warm hand on his shoulder pulling him back. Surprised, he turned and was greeted by the earnest face of Neornil, his white hair falling forward as he leaned down to speak to the boy. Nechan tried to take a step back, feeling uncomfortably dwarfed in the stranger’s shadow. Sensing the boy’s wariness Neornil quickly removed his hand and bowed his head.
“My apologies for startling you, Nechan. My name is Neornil. I am Nymril’s father.”
Immediately Nechan smiled, trusting the elf. He went to shake the elf’s hand, but then remembered that was not their custom and so bowed instead.
“Forgive me, sir. I did not know….”
Neornil interrupted, waving his hand. “No apologies necessary, although they are appreciated. Your politeness is well taught, one would think you were a friend of Elves!” his voice was light-hearted, warm and friendly, putting Nechan at ease.
“Perhaps you would permit me to walk with you for a short while?”