by V K Majzlik
“Well, of course! I mean…..Yes!” Nechan stuttered, surprised that the elf was asking his permission. He looked over at Jaidan and Gaular who nodded their approval before they left. They knew Nechan was in safe hands.
The two began walking slowly up the gentle hill, the elf’s footsteps completely silent despite the leaf litter covering the ground. After a few more words of politeness between the two of them, Neornil stopped in his tracks, pulling Nechan to one side.
“I hope you do not mind me asking but I could not help notice something in the council chambers. Something you were wearing.”
Nechan stopped, slightly confused.
The elderly elf took a step towards the boy and pointed at his chest. “I believe you wear something of great value around your neck.”
The young clansman paused for a moment, but suddenly became aware of the sphere of warm metal against his skin. It was the strange trinket Barnon had given him. With all that had happened he had complete forgotten about its existence.
“You mean this!” He started to pull the chain around his neck, lifting the orb from under his shirt.
Neornil promptly stopped him. “Not here.” The elf’s eyes darted to either side as he leaned in closer. “I advise you do not show it to anyone. It will cause many people to ask questions about it, and may perhaps bring some unwanted attention.”
“But why? It’s Elvish isn’t it?”
Neornil nodded. “It is not its origin that will be in question, but how it came to be in your possession. That is the Aeonthel of Gileadon, once a revered Elven warrior.”
“I remember! Nymril told me. She said he died in the Last Battle at Andkhuin. But, why does that matter?”
“There are very few of these in the world. Only people trusted by the council carry them, and usually only Aeon Elves. But clearly this came into your possession by hands of a different kin.”
Nechan nodded nervously.
“A clansman, like you?”
The boy nodded again, feeling his palms start to sweat.
“Not a Brathunder then?”
“I…….” Nechan paused for a moment, searching his memory of Barnon. “I have always assumed he was of my clan, but how would I know the difference?”
Neornil’s tone returned to its light-hearted, warmness and he stood back from Nechan, continuing to walk up the hill.
“Do not be worried. I am sure it is just the folly of an old elf, but it has given me much to ponder.”
“He did say it had been handed down the generations………if that helps?”
“This truly is a riddle. Only the closest clansmen, a Brathunder, or friend of the Elves would have ever received such a sacred gift. But then, I forget how much time has changed the outside world,” he sighed.
They walked in silence for a short while until finally Nechan realised they were in familiar surroundings and he was close to their sleeping chambers. All around them tents were at different states of being taken down, with Elves of all ages rushing around carrying various things. Although at first glance it appeared a chaotic mess it was clearly well ordered, elves working together, knowing their part as if this were a daily routine.
“Ahhh, do you think you can find your way back from here?”
Nechan nodded.
“Good, I must go and see how my daughter fares.”
“Is there not some kind of Elvish magic that can heal her?”
Neornil shook his head, casting his eyes downwards. “Unfortunately her fate depends solely on the Aeonorgal.” He turned to leave. “Remember, keep it hidden. While I believe it is an omen of good fortune, not all may see it that way.”
Nechan thanked him, assuring the elf he would follow his advice and then continued to rejoin Gaular and Jaidan.
When he arrived back Nechan was surprised to see several young elves starting to take their tent apart. Most of the curtain walls had been removed and carefully rolled up. A worker noticed the boy and with a wide grin, greeted him.
“Shillhon! My name is Esil.” The young elf bowed low.
Nechan smiled back. There was an instant connection. The elf was young, looking the same age as Nechan. His light blue eyes sparkled with youth and eagerness. He was as tall as Nechan, but his limbs were leaner and his frame not as heavy set.
“Please forgive our intrusion. We were asked to help take down this tent.”
“Where are my friends?” Nechan asked, looking at the chaos.
The elf motioned to the side, behind a collection of poles and materials. Jaidan and Gaular were seated at a small table and it was quite clear that the dwarf was not happy, most likely irritated because he had nowhere to sleep or eat. Jaidan was pleased to see the boy’s safe return, but could not help asking about what the old elf wanted. Nechan just brushed off the question, claiming it was merely a friendly introduction as he was Nymril’s father. Nechan watched the busy workers, still bemused by the seemingly organised confusion.
“You are more than welcome to take refuge at one of the Loth’commia.” Esil paused from his work as if reading the comrades’ thoughts. “Forgive me…….I mean Communal Place in your tongue.”
“Will we get food there?” grumbled Gaular, his mood unchanging.
“Yes, yes!” assured Esil, smiling, “During the time of preparation several places are kept until the last moment. They provide a place for people to rest and eat in between work. My friend, Nolin, will take you there if you wish.”
“Thank you! That would be very helpful,” Jaidan nodded.
“Well, why didn’t you mention this before. A dwarf needs sustenance you know!”
“Yes, it sorely affects their mood!” joked Jaidan, scratching his head uncomfortably due to his friend’s rudeness.
“Umm, perhaps I can stay?”
Jaidan turned to look at Nechan. “Are you sure? Are you not hungry or tired?”
Nechan shook his head. “To be honest my mind is far too active at the moment to sleep. Besides…….I could do with the distraction…..Take my mind off things.”
“You are more than welcome to stay and help us……It will be time for us to rest shortly ourselves.” Esil beckoned the young clansman over to join them.
Once Jaidan was assured that Nechan was content to be left, he and Gaular were led off to the Loth’commia. He sensed something was troubling Nechan but decided he would ask him later when perhaps it was not so raw.
Nechan proved to be a hard worker, following the guidance of the young elves. Surprisingly it was not strenuous work. The silver poles and fabric were far lighter than they looked and seemed to shrink down in size. After less than an hour the tent was nothing but a small pile of poles and rolled up material, around which Esil tied a fine, strong rope. Once completed, they headed towards the nearest Communal abode.
“Come with me! I am sure you must have questions about Loreandril and Elves!” Esil sprinted away, still full of energy, with Nechan struggling to keep up behind him.
The Communal Place was a large, open-walled tent, with a huge white roof, stretched out to provide shelter to many small groups of elves. Female elves were passing out food and drink, tending to the workers, ensuring they were rested and comfortable. There were no beds, but instead large mounds of golden leaves in which elves were lying back, some sleeping, other whispering amongst themselves.
Esil found a vacant spot for him and Nechan to rest. Almost immediately a female elf brought two jugs of clear liquid and a basket of honey coloured, warm flatbread.
Nechan looked at it suspiciously. Both had an unusual smell and look.
“This is Sriva…….a mixture of honey, spring water and elderflower,” explained Esil, taking a long drink from his clay jug.
Nechan smelt the liquid again and dipped his finger in to taste it. The drop of liquid made the tip of his tongue tingle pleasantly. He took a sip and felt the sweet warmth spread through his mouth and down his throat. Nechan had never tasted anything so fresh and reviving before and happily took a longe
r draught.
“And…..this is what we call Bavif.” Esil handed Nechan a small square of the flatbread. “I believe it is similar to your bread, except with honey and ground almonds.”
Nechan bit into a corner of the flat bread. The outside was satisfyingly crunchy, but the creamy inside melted instantly in his mouth releasing a sumptuous blend of flavours. Quickly, he devoured the rest, hardly pausing to take a breath, much to Esil’s amusement. Anyone would think the clansman had not eaten for months.
“Do you know where we will be moving to?” mumbled Nechan through another mouthful of bread.
“Loreandril? Well, we travel until the elders tell us when to stop. They find their guidance through the ancestors.”
“You mean the ghosts in the mists?”
Esil’s face turned white. “We do not mention the Unnamed,” he whispered, looking over his shoulder.
“But I thought they protected you?”
“The Unnamed do protect us, but only at their wish. We can summon them, yes, but not command. Even Elvish magic is not strong enough to control the spirit world.”
“That’s why we had to be so careful passing through?”
Esil nodded. “Only friends of Loreandril can pass through unscathed and only if accompanied by an elf. But even then, if you set a foot wrong, go where they do not want you, the Unnamed take you back to the spirit realm with them.”
“Is that what happened to the soldiers that followed us?”
Esil nodded nervously again, picking at the crumbs in the basket at his feet.
“So……tell me about your home?” asked Esil, breaking the awkward silence, changing the subject. “I have never ventured out into outside world.”
Nechan was more than happy to tell Esil about his family and farm, and all about the green valley he lived in. He even began to tell him about his brother, Cradon, until he became choked with emotion. The memories began to overwhelm him and he was forced to stop. Esil waited patiently until Nechan had composed himself once more.
“So….can I ask how old you are?” queried Nechan, not wanting to sound rude.
Esil laughed. “I had heard clansmen think all Elves are ancient! I never believed it until now!” He laughed merrily again. It sounded like the tinkle of raindrops falling on pots and pans.
“Why is it so funny?” frowned Nechan. “That’s what our stories tell us. I believed that there were no Elvish children, yet clearly they are. I thought Elves lived forever.” Speaking these words out loud, looking around him at the wide range of ages, he felt foolish.
“I like you, friend! You make me laugh!” Esil chuckled again, taking another drink. “I am happy to explain our ways to you. I can understand the misconceptions clansmen have, after all we have not been in each other’s company for several generations now.”
Esil explained that Elvish years were different from clansmen years, and that they grew older in a different way. Elves begin life in much the same fashion, growing quickly in the first ten years of life, as a normal clansman would. However, once they reach this age, the process begins to slow. Although Esil appeared to be of similar age to Nechan he was actually the equivalent of forty clansman years.
“So an elf who looks the same age as my father, about fifty, must be really old? Centuries?”
“Yes, probably about one and a half thousand clansman years.”
“But that must mean the ones that look like grandparents are ancient?” Nechan was amazed.
“Yes, four or five thousand years…….I can see how the myth that we are eternal has come about!” mused Esil. “But I can assure you, elves do die. Everything has a beginning and an end.”
Nechan yawned unexpectedly as a wave of tiredness hit him.
“We should sleep. It will be a long day tomorrow. We have much distance to travel.”
Nechan lay back into the mound of golden leaves, which seemed to wrap themselves around him like a blanket. They were soft, cushioning his weary limbs. His eyes now closed, Nechan breathed in deep, inhaling the sweet, musty odour of a forest floor, calming his racing mind. It only took a few moments for the boy to fall asleep.
Nechan could not gauge how many hours had passed since falling into a deep, dreamless asleep. Loreandril seemed timeless. He felt himself being gently rocked awake and slowly opened his eyes, blinking in the orange glow, greeted by the friendly face of Esil.
“I hope you are well rested now, my friend.” Esil offered Nechan a strong hand, pulling him easily to his feet.
Yawning widely, the boy stretched, feeling refreshed. The Communal abode had been dismantled and the only evidence was the mound of golden leaves upon which they had rested.
“Is it time?” yawned Nechan.
“Yes. Come……you can help me, if you wish.”
The elf ambled off quickly, with a sprightly skip in his step. Dozily, still waking up, Nechan followed.
“Come, meet my family!”
A small family group greeted Esil with warm embraces, relieved he had returned. They spoke amongst each other in Elvish, occasionally glancing at Nechan who stood awkwardly, playing with his fingers like a small child.
“Nechan, please…” Esil motioned him closer. “My mother, Eriola, and father, Rheonil.”
The two elves respectfully stooped low in homage, their silver hair falling gracefully about their shoulders. Rheonil was tall, dwarfing Nechan and Esil. He wore clean, shimmering white and bronze armour with a silver star emblem on the breast plate and shoulders. Eriola was shorter, although still equal to Nechan, dressed in an slim, pale green gown, that reached up under her chin and right down to her wrists and the floor. An intricate belt of golden flowers hung around her delicate waist, emphasising her lean, willowy frame.
She took his hand, her eyes sparkling. “Shillhon, Nechan. Goth loru thorsi ni…….. Your name and deeds preceed you.” Again, she bowed her head in respect.
Nechan was speechless, overwhelmed by the honour. He turned scarlet, almost radiating heat from his crimson cheeks. She laughed, smiling at him, as she held a cool, gentle palm to his flushed cheek, pleasantly amused by his reaction.
“And these are my two siblings, Rheonas, my brother, and Ethiola my sister.” Esil picked up his little sister, bouncing her in his arms. She could only have been about eight, her braided fair hair and bright blue eyes instantly reminding Nechan of his sister, Danula. She giggled shyly, burying herself in Esil’s neck, as Nechan offered to shake her hand. Rheonas was slightly older and bolder. He bowed smartly, a large, toothy smile brimming across his dirt-smudged face.
“My family and I would very much like it if you were to travel with us. Of course, I understand if you would prefer to find your comrades.”
Nechan paused, contemplating what he would rather do. Part of him wanted to rejoin Jaidan and Gaular, perhaps to find out how Nymril was, but then he was enjoying Esil’s company. He could almost hear Barnon’s voice echoing in the back of his mind, reminding him how rare it was to have an opportunity to walk with Elves. Nechan quickly decided that he could not miss this opportunity; there was so much more to learn about this kin. Perhaps Esil would even teach him one or two Elvish words? Nechan gladly accepted the offer.
Horns began blasting three long notes that rang clearly throughout Loreandril. As if synchronised, all the elves picked up their belongings, and the caravan that was Loreandril began its journey.
Nechan and Esil carried the tent, walking one behind the other, the silver poles resting on either shoulder like a stretcher. Rheonil and Rheonas carried other belonging, baskets and sacks on their backs, while the mother, Eriola, walked before them, carrying Ethiola and a lantern to guide their way forward.
Nechan closed his eyes, listening to the spine tingling melodies that began to rise from all sides. And so, without knowing their destination, the occupants of Loreandril began their march to new lands under the protective cover of the ancestral mists.
Chapter 44 – Ghornathia
The cold, grey cl
iff face stretched imposingly above Gomel with pounding wind and driving snow still pummelling them, wave after wave. It had been a relief to see the striking trio of the mountainous peaks that marked the entrance to Ghornathia.
The gnome had battled his way onwards, dragging the horses behind him, tugging on their reins as they fought to turn back down the mountain. Their coats were matted rugs of mud and frosty snow, their tails and manes stiff with ice crystals. Gomel’s gristly beard was specked with white flakes, the air so cold that the warmth of his skin did not melt them.
The entrance to Ghornathia, the Gnome Kingdom could only be opened from the inside and only if the correct password were given. Gomel had quickly found the small cleft in the bare cliff face, hidden well between several large boulders used to create a small passage wide enough for only Gnomes to pass through. Even then, it was so well hidden that you would have to known exactly where to look: two very discrete runes scratched into the underside of a flat piece of shale carefully placed at the foot of the cliff.
Gomel had wriggled his way down the passage, his oversized belly making it a tight fit, until he reached the Horn of Ghothos. Taking a deep breath, Gomel blew one short blast, followed by two long, which was the password.
Although the sound could not be heard on the surface, Gomel knew that the Gate sentries would hear the horn’s deep, resonating bellow. They would quickly check their visitor, peering through well-concealed peep-holes, some way up the cliff face. Gomel quickly squeezed back down the passage to check on Cradon and wait for the gates to open.
Cradon was deathly white. He had been unconscious now for three days and was cold and clammy with the fever that raged through his blood. Gently, Gomel wiped his brow with a small cloth, then rubbed water onto the boy’s chapped lips, as he had done countless times in an attempt to keep him hydrated. Cradon did not stir and Gomel could now hear his shallow breathing was laboured.
What was taking them so long? What was only a few minutes seemed like an eternity. He stood in the heavy, white silence of the snowstorm waiting impatiently for the hidden gates of Ghothos, the east entrance of Ghornathia, to open.