Stephens/The Stolen Moon of Londor
The White Shadow Saga:
The Stolen Moon of Londor
Book I of III
A.P. Stephens
Fanda Books
Dallas, TX
Copyright © 2009 by A.P. Stephens
Smashwords Edition
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A.P. Stephens
For more information about the author and the world of Londor, please visit:
www.apstephens.com
Cover Illustration by: Peter Ortiz
For my wife: my muse and my love.
The Stolen Moonof Londor
Chapter One: A Troubled World
In the dawn of Londor's greatest tragedy, the elf-mercenary, Gildan, sat near his campfire--pondering the fate of the world. The summer night was bitter, yet calm in this mysterious time. Gildan was accompanied closely by two fellow elves, Faragen and Telsar, as they rested uncomfortably underneath a large oak tree before their soldiers of the Obinoth Kingdom. The elves took refuge from their travels at the edge of the Plains of Erogd, a place which was all too familiar to them.
Many other campfires laid a short distance behind Gildan and the two Obinoth officers as the mercenary granted the soldiers under his authority short respite after two strenuous days of marching back into the west. Soft songs and inaudible conversations hazed the night air.
Gildan looked over to the trunk of the tree where the famed wizard, Randor Miithra, rested peacefully, sitting propped up with his wide-brimmed hat of blue felt covering his face. His cloak lay motionless in the weak breeze from the vast fields. Gildan smiled slightly as he brushed his tall, green hair back, forever grateful to the wizard's role in the recent victory of the mercenary and the elves of Obinoth.
As Gildan led the remainder of his army towards the Obinoth Kingdom, his thoughts were consumed with many items of business--with no apparent answers thus far.
"Is there anything either of us can do for you, sir?" Telsar asked.
"No," Gildan replied, looking at Telsar, a sturdy young elf, who reminded Gildan of himself in his younger days. "Just try and rest. We will be on the move again shortly."
Telsar nodded and shifted his silver armor before leaning back on his elbows. "I hope Obinoth is safe. I have much to attend to once we are returned."
"As do I," said Gildan. "Though I will no longer be able to assist you or your king, my future days are now certain to be full of work from those wishing to solve this mystery."
"Indeed, sir."
Gildan laid back in the soft grass and looked into the heavens. The memories of the recent night of catastrophe charged to the forefront of his mind, and he embraced the details of his victory, once again.
* * *
Two nights ago, Gildan and his elf-knights drew up at the edge of a dark, wooded valley--once again on the heels of the Obinoth's ancient foes. The twin moons rode high in the clear night sky, casting muted double shadows beneath the trees. For forty miles the army had crossed the Plains of Erogd, a region once known for its placid rivers and lush fields. But now the beauty of this land was tainted, its rivers polluted with blood and its fields heaped with the bodies of the slain enemy. None of the Obinoth had ever traveled this far east, and now fatigue weighed heavier on them even more than their pierced and dented armor.
Gildan paced alone before the awaiting ranks, his finely crafted, short yellow cape billowing in the constant breeze. The cape was the only personal clothing effect he kept with him, leaving his usual wardrobe of extravagant jackets, pants, and boots behind. These were set aside for uniformity of Obinoth's black clothing and silver armor, not very pleasing to Gildan's taste. His green eyes scanned the valley below, seeking out his next move, as his fingers tapped the silver buckle on his precious leather belt.
Telsar and Faragen approached quietly and stood at attention.
"We await your command, Gildan," said Faragen.
Gildan turned, looking beyond them to the gathered troops, seeing the fading morale written on every face. "We need to end this tonight," he said at last. "Send a small squad of scouts to get the lay of the land. I do not know much about this place. Have them search out the Rhingar forces, but tread with caution--the scouts must not be seen."
"Yes, sir," replied Faragen.
"Report to me once the sweep is complete." Gildan paused. "Now I must speak with our advisor."
The two lieutenants saluted and returned to the ranks.
As Gildan strode to the boulder at the dark valley's edge, he looked uneasily up at the mountains that surrounded the small valley on three sides.
For centuries the Rhingar had attempted to overthrow their neighboring country, the Obinoth Kingdom, yet had never been successful. The Rhingar wished nothing more than to seize the Obinoth capitol, Handefel, and destroy it--for it was in Handefel that the founding fathers of the Rhingar Kingdom perished during the Dark War. For the past eighty years the Rhingar burdened the Obinoth, bent on vengeance for the spirits of their ancient heroes.
For months on end both armies waged war at the edges of the Obinoth Kingdom until, at last, the Obinoth drove their enemies outside its borders. Yet they pursued the Rhingar into the east with orders from their king to eliminate them--no matter the distance traveled. The Obinoth were determined more than ever to convey to the Rhingar that they would never yield to them.
There, standing alone upon one of the many boulders and puffing a long-stemmed pipe, was Randor Miithra, the eldest servant of the elven god, Ethindar. Randor, as he was simply called, was invested with all the magic and arcane wisdom of his famed order of wizards. He stood tall, shrouded in his deep-blue cloak, uncowed by the continuous battles and lack of rest. Though he had seen eight thousand winters, he looked like a human of thirty. His face was shadowed from the moonlight by his ever-present hat.
This campaign was not the first encounter for Gildan and Randor, befriending one another many decades ago. Gildan always welcomed the opportunity to fight alongside his oldest friend and closest confidant.
Gildan stepped up onto the boulder and held silent.
"I see you have finally sent scouts about the perimeter, my old friend."
"Indeed. You have tracked the Rhingar for me across Erogd, but I will let these elves survey this instance," Gildan replied. "But…what do you make of this, Randor?"
"That is a good question," the wizard replied. He slid his dark-tinted spectacles up his narrow nose and puffed again at his pipe. "Do you know where you find yourself?" Randor grinned slightly.
"No. I have traveled far and wide, but this place has no particular memory for me."
"Before you lies the Valley of Siln."
"Siln," whispered Gildan. "What can you tell me of this place?"
"A featureless, barren place, with neither inhabitants nor wildlife--unless you love the company of scorpions." Randor paused to savor the pipe's comforting taste. "Only one road leads into and out of the valley…" Gildan turned his head and looked at the wizard. "This lonesome road is the one that you and the Obinoth now control."
"Are you certain of this?"
"Although many years have passed since last I was here, I doubt anyone has altered this land."
Before the elf-mercenary could reply, Randor raised his hand and added, "I cannot be certain of their strategy here, but nevertheless, we must not
falter now. You hold the advantage, Gildan, and you must keep it this time. I grow weary of all this cat-and-mouse."
"Trust me, Randor, when I say that I will hold true to my vow and see this to its end. The Rhingar are fools, and we shall slaughter every foul one of them. Besides, the gold I was paid is wearing thin to my terms of this job." Gildan scanned the forest, looking for some clue to evil's whereabouts. Even aided by the light of the two moons, his green eyes picked up nothing helpful. "They are unpredictable this night," the elf observed. "Not one campfire, nor a single piercing shriek. Yes, the Rhingar are behaving most strangely."
Randor nodded. "If there is anyone in this world I believe in, it is you, good elf. I believe you are capable."
Gildan turned away and stared at the valley below. "The day is not yet won."
"Right you are, my friend," Randor answered as he laid his hand on the mercenary's leather shoulder guard. "One step at a time."
Some time later the ten scouts from the north and ten from the south arrived and knelt before the large rock, removing their dark cloaks and revealing their silver armor, which shimmered in the moonglow. Gildan and Randor came down from the boulder together, and as soon as Gildan's feet touched the grass, his sternness returned. "Report."
"We found no trace of the Rhingar," one scout answered. "No other roads lead into the valley, and on the mountains the paths were impassable. We could observe no movement within the valley."
Gildan's youthful face darkened at the unwelcome news. "Fall back into formation," he commanded, exasperated. As his scouts retired, he clenched his fists. Dare we march into Siln blind? I dislike such uncertainty, he thought.
"What is your plan, then, Gildan?" Randor asked as he tamped a few more wisps of tobacco into his pipe.
"The key to this battle is the road," Gildan began. "If we secure that, our enemy will not escape us again. Two hundred and fifty will be sufficient to secure the road, and the rest will follow you and me into Siln." Gildan raised his tired eyes to the heavens. "We move by stealth, under moonlight. I believe that our position and numbers are still unknown to the Rhingar." He sighed.
"I sense fear within Siln," Randor said reassuringly. "The time has come for the assault."
"Right away." Gildan strode to the center of the front rank. "Ne lui len!" At the sound of these words, Telsar and Faragen came forth from the ranks and faced their respective companies. "Tenu mon-tros," shouted Gildan, and the Obinoth came to attention as one. Being that Gildan was well-traveled, he continued to speak in the Obinoth native tongue, relaying orders that would be given on the march and thereafter.
Randor inspected the battalion from where he stood, and was pleased. Praying silently for the elves' courage and composure to hold true, he watched the elf-mercenary shift his gaze across the ranks of soldiers and knew Gildan's speech held more.
"The darkness hides our enemy well," Gildan observed. "Are you ready for this, Randor?"
The wizard nodded. "You shall see powers of mine that you, nor any Obinoth has yet seen in this campaign. And even so, it shall be but a small taste of my true magical abilities."
Gildan looked at him, perplexed, knowing that Randor Miithra employed magic only in the gravest of circumstances. "Are you feeling well?" Gildan asked.
"Never better."
"Then why…?"
"Do not question it, my friend. The time has come for a different strategy on my part. There are others in the world who need my help. The Battle of Siln will be my conclusion with the Obinoth." He paused, letting Gildan absorb the gravity of his statement. "Take that however you like."
Randor looked to Gildan, who was obviously curious about where this was going. "I doubt that my full strength will be called upon, but what I have planned is wonderful, indeed. I advise you, however, not to place yourself in harm's way once the conjuring begins."
Gildan nodded and felt at ease. "Once this is over, Randor, we will both bask in the glory of victory. You above all have my greatest trust and undying aid. If you are ever in need of any ally, do not disregard my words."
Lowering his head to hide any emotion, Randor replied, "I pray the day does not come when I need the aid of those I am meant to protect." He placed an arm on Gildan's shoulder. "I do honor your pledge, and shall accept if necessary." Randor looked into the clear heavens and sighed. "After all, no one is invincible."
"And yet what you do is phenomenal," Gildan replied. "Your strength and wisdom have carried you through the ages. You have protected elves and the lesser for more than eight thousand years." Gildan brandished at last his beloved sword, Marghelor, from it sheath. The blade was double-edged and extraordinarily long, just over forty inches of devastating steel.
The wizard looked suddenly tired. "I am grateful for each new day I am given to assist the progression of this world. This is as it should be."
Behind the two leaders stood the battalion, armed and ready for the night's engagement. Randor was clearly done with speaking and uttered these last words: "Let us hasten into Siln."
"Orig-nah!" Gildan yelled proudly as he pointed his sword ahead, the blade gleaming slightly in the moonlight.
Randor extinguished his pipe and tucked it into his cloak as the Obinoth began to march in perfect form, with the wizard and their mercenary leader forging the way.
Telsar remained at the edge of the valley with two companies of soldiers to safeguard the path, ready to fend against the Rhingar if they meant to sneak past the Obinoth that marched into the valley. Telsar and his companions watched their brethren advance toward the inevitable conflict.
* * *
The entrance to the valley was a steep and fairly smooth decline, save the deep footprints of the Rhingar that scarred the earth. Almost without sound the elven troops progressed down into the beginnings of the valley.
At the base of the long path flowed a wide river. Fortunately for Randor and his followers, though, it was shallow and easily forded. No sign came of the Rhingar's whereabouts as the Obinoth emerged on the far bank. Randor felt the hearts of the elves falter, and he lovingly embraced their fear, knowing that fear drove the will of the strong. In all his years of service, Randor had seen this emotion elevate those in power many times. But in all this time, he had never experienced fear of his own. He often wondered if Ethindar voided this feeling from his existence.
Staring at the tall line of trees before him, Randor noticed that the forest felt suddenly very forbidding and that the trees appeared mutilated--something he had not seen before in this region. The trunks were gray and knotted and appeared weak and pithy. What magic has come into being within Siln? he wondered.
The narrow path into the dark forest forked in five directions just inside the canopy. All about the forest floor laid thorny vines, mounds of dirt covered in moss, and large piles of rotted trees entangled in wretchedness. Gildan knew that he must divide his army once again. Seeking no counsel, he spoke, "Min gaist-thos. Fui len nah." Acknowledging the command, Faragen took two-hundred and fifty more men from the corps--Gildan weighing this squadron heavier since they would not have the benefit of Randor's presence.
The wizard caught a movement to his left as the group of elves marched cautiously through the woods. The wind had grown warmer and stronger, as if warning its newest guests to retreat from the forest's brooding presence. Randor advanced through the crying gale and clenched his cloak tighter to his chest. The leafy canopy hung low over the paths, and he thought it odd to see them so long and already black even now, in midsummer.
Gildan scanned beneath the trees, hoping to glimpse some sign of the Rhingar, to hear some careless sound that might lead him to them. Columns of moonlight managing to break through the thick canopy were all around. All was quiet, and only the shallow breathing of the Obinoth could be heard. Each set of eyes looked around uneasily, anticipating the unseen Rhingar.
Wanting desperately, but foolishly, to scream and thus draw his enemies forth, Gildan sniffed the blustering wind for a scent but dete
cted nothing. He looked to Randor, hoping that he knew the true way, but the wizard trod on ahead, apparently oblivious to the elf's silent plea for wisdom. Gildan caught up to Randor with four quick strides, clutching his sword tighter. The Rhingar were well known for their cunning ways of concealment, and after three years of hard work Gildan was not about to fall victim to their wiles now.
A long, eerie shriek rang through the forest, jolting every Obinoth soldier into full alert. Gildan glanced over his shoulder and observed the structure of his battalion.
As Gildan turned back to the path before him, the Rhingar sprang from the darkness on all sides, each armed with a dark blade, almost unseen in the moonlight. The Rhingar were built in similar fashion like the Obinoth, their complexions were as gray as the armor they wore. Unearthly cries of war erupted from every dark tongue as their yellowed eyes focused on vengeance. It reminded Gildan of the war's beginning, when the Rhingar flooded the borders of Obinoth and his excitement rose as the enemy raced ahead; in mere seconds the Rhingar would be within blade's range. Shouts from the Obinoth rang out, mostly commands to the various units to hold their tight formation together.
The fear was palpable among Gildan's army, and their swords shook like leaves of the forest as the screaming Rhingar advanced. The enemy trampled up bits of moss, which dislodged from the earth only to be caught up by the wind. Randor and Gildan moved apart, leaving enough space between them that they might fight without endangering each other. No sooner had they done so, a swarm of Rhingar made haste toward Gildan and encircled him. But suddenly Randor threw back his cloak, exposing his steady hands, his only weapons. Though he now felt numb with fatigue, he knew that the magic, once summoned, would flow regardless. Time was of the essence now, however, and only short-versed spells would be practical.
The White Shadow Saga: The Stolen Moon of Londor Page 1