Taking a circuitous route to the hill's peak above the forest, he strolled about and observed the lands lit by the moon in the distance. To the southeast he saw five orbs of light on the horizon, sitting on a cliff. "The Oracle," he whispered, as if hardly daring to speak its name. Gildan was curious about Randor's comment that this Oracle was unsafe after sunset. He wanted some answers. Slowly he refocused on Randor's position and awaited the time to approach.
There at the hill's center stood Randor with his head tilted back, remaining perfectly still. Hair whipping violently under his hat in the gusting winds, he murmured a soft spell to bolster his fading senses.
Though Gildan tried to listen to the faint words, he was outwitted by the wind. At last, Randor inhaled deeply and turned his sight to Gildan. The mercenary gazed curiously at the orbs of light.
"Join me, will you?" said Randor. "Your company is much needed. There are items of business you need to know."
Chapter Five: Ill News
"I see you gaze to the next leg of our journey," said Randor.
"Yes," Gildan answered. "Trouble, if you ask me."
"This is our only choice."
"I cannot help but have a grave feeling about this, Randor. It is an unshakable emotion. A great shadow lingers in my soul about this Oracle."
"When we stand before him tomorrow, your doubts will diminish."
"But can he truly aid us?"
"I honestly cannot tell you," Randor replied. "I have known him for three thousand years, and never has his wisdom failed me. This particular journey to his halls might prove different this time."
Gildan tamed his billowing cape and rested his hands at his side. "Will you be returning soon?"
"I will be among the gathering shortly hereafter. There are still pressing affairs within the winds, and I must attend to them….Obligations from my master beckon me here."
"Do tidings grow worse each day?"
"Long is the trail of voices in the air. The pleas have never been this great."
"What do they pray for?"
"Kings from many realms believe that the gods have stricken the world of its balance; they ask for the return of Beldas. They are confused why it is gone. Many blame themselves, thinking their leadership was flawed. They see…" He paused. "They clearly see the suffering of their people--without magic and ill beyond reach of any medicine. Wars rage this very moment, and kingdoms ask for my assistance." He shook his head, saddened to know he could not save those in need. "My soul aches and is torn in every direction across Londor. I cannot preserve all."
Gildan heard the despair in the wizard's voice and watched him slump in fatigue. It was a condition he had never seen in his old friend. "You are only one servant, Randor, and cannot be everywhere at once. Do what you can, and give your greatest effort. You exceed all my standards, and I admire you for that."
Randor nodded. "I know, Gildan. This world is in peril and needs my strength. If I could make one prayer to Ethindar, I would ask for an abundance of Randors to protect the planet. Alas, though, I am one of three who remain. I am thankful to be on this quest with you, Gildan."
"Aye, my good wizard, aye. We can find our way through the darkest of days. The sights we have seen are things few shall ever encounter." Gildan smiled as he dreamed of his grand future, imagining great wealth and many victories in battle. He never doubted that his legendary deeds would always be remembered. Looking to Randor, he knew that their friendship was important to them both. The elf-mercenary would follow him to the ends of the world and well beyond, even to the fiery depths of the underworld. Randor was the only person Gildan would sacrifice his life for--the clearest indication of just how dear the wizard was to him. Both had fought together many times, and this journey would be no different. Indeed, it was Randor who, over a hundred years ago, had once aided Gildan in obtaining the Dragonslayer sword, Marghelor, from the wicked clutches of Lord Zen-Forlak; the memories of that dark journey still made Gildan shiver to this day.
"Return to us soon," the elf said. "We need rest for the long road ahead." He patted Randor's shoulder and turned to descend the hill.
"Do not tell the others about the concerns of the outside world. I need the company's concentration here in this moment and task. The cares of Londor are mine alone to worry about."
"Our bond is strong, and I will never do anything to ruin that."
"Many thanks, young elf-warrior." Randor resumed his focus and loosed his soul to the winds for the last summons of the night. Though he would not be able to receive the entire collection of prayers, he would endure as many as possible. "I will return promptly," he said. Gildan was already on his way to the camp. He needed rest, and the morning would come soon enough.
In the firelight, the company was in deep conversation, guessing at details of the quest. All had their doubts about the next day's agenda. "What do we know about this prophet whom we are forced to meet?" Arnanor said, shaking his head. "Magic should not dominate our path. I have never concurred with such nonsense!"
"Yet we cannot afford to overlook any help we may find," Seth replied.
Malander simply laughed to himself, finding the argument amusing.
Talk ceased as Gildan strode into the firelight. Arnanor could not conceal his curiosity about the meeting on the hill, and indeed, all but Malander eagerly awaited Gildan's report. The mercenary lifted his sword off the cloth on the ground and began cleaning the blade, making eye contact with no one.
"Tell me your account," Arnanor demanded.
"Of which do you speak? I have many stories of interest."
"This one, in which you spend time away from my presence."
"I merely went to assess Randor's condition," he replied plainly. "A bit weary, but overall he is well." He went back to polishing his blade.
"What news do you bring?"
"None."
"You spoke not a word to him?"
"Randor was deep within a trance. Who am I to break into his divine reverie?"
"Who are you?" Arnanor began, trying to hold back a derisive laugh. "Why, you are the great Gildan Gundagrin, master of the sword, and the most renowned mercenary in the entire world!"
Gildan laughed and took no offense. "Indeed, I am all these things and more, but I have never been one to provoke allied wizards. If you want answers, then I suggest you take your questions to Randor."
"In time I will," Arnanor proclaimed confidently as he pointed his finger at Gildan.
"What were you discussing on my return?"
"We were at odds about this Oracle friend of Randor's," Seth replied.
"Ah, yes, the Oracle," Gildan whispered.
"What can you say about this?" Seth asked, hoping to calm the battle of words. "No two here seem to have the same idea."
"I say nothing," Gildan replied sharply.
"You must say something!" said the angered prince.
"Your raised voice gains you nothing," Gildan retorted calmly, growing tired of Arnanor's intemperance.
Muron, uneasy at the darkened forest around him, kept constant watch over his shoulder. No one but Geil noticed the prince's glances. Though Muron's sense of hearing had decreased somewhat in the two months since the moon Beldas's vanishing, he could not dismiss the foreign noises that seemed close by. He held his eyes open as long as he could without blinking, so as not to miss anything.
"Geil?" he whispered.
"Yes?"
"Do you…hear that?"
"I do not detect any strange sounds, my lord. I would suppose that those you hear are the natural sounds of this forest."
"I can clearly distinguish something odd afoot."
"What are you talking about?" Arnanor asked, thinking his brother foolish.
"Unfriendly sounds."
"Can you be more descriptive?" Gildan asked.
"Wait," Seth whispered. "I, too, can hear something."
"And I," Lorn added. "Faint…but it is there."
"Wolves?" Seth asked Lorn.
&
nbsp; Lorn nodded. "Perhaps so."
A long, eerie howl rang out over the woods, followed by what sounded like a creaking and rustling of distant trees. Gildan and Arnanor were quick to their feet; the mercenary already held his drawn sword. Arnanor stretched out his empty hand, and Geil fetched the prince's sword from where it leaned against the log. The elf-prince held his blade high in readiness. Lorn clung close to Seth, and Muron respectfully took cover behind his guardian. Malander's eyes shifted wildly, as if a welter of preposterous ideas tumbled through his wretched mind. Arnanor turned about slowly with his blade pointed outward.
"That is a sound not familiar to this region," Gildan stated. "I think a small investigation is in order."
"Yes," Arnanor agreed.
"Someone needs to tell Randor," Lorn said meekly. "He would know what to do." Though he was surrounded by a group of armed companions, it brought him no comfort. More howls erupted all around them, growing in volume. Lorn moaned and buried his face in his hands, saying, "I cannot contend with this."
"We can handle this without Randor," Gildan said.
"Brother, what shall we do?" Muron asked from behind Geil, who shielded the prince from the unseen threat. The knight, scanning the trees for a possible clue, dared not relax his guard. The sounds were all too familiar to Geil, but not wishing to alarm the others, he remained silent and performed his primary function.
"Marghelor and I are eager to spill blood," Gildan proclaimed, holding his blade proudly before him. "Let evil come."
Malander finally came around and stood in grim anticipation, his sword still sheathed but his fingers resting on the pommel. Weeks had passed since he had a reason to use his weapon in combat. This was an opportunity he longed for, for it allowed him to forget his sorrows and fill the great void in his soul, to quench the burning fury deep inside him, which nothing in the world seemed able to extinguish.
Muron felt the sheath at his waist and realized that his sword was missing. Looking to his steed in horror, he saw his blade, still latched to the saddle. "My sword…," he gasped. "I must retrieve it."
"No, you will not," Arnanor replied boldly. Frantic, Muron leaned over and tugged on his brother's shoulder. "You heard me correctly, Muron."
"But why?"
"This is not your place. It is my duty, ultimately, to look after you. I will not lose you to something as trivial as this." Arnanor stepped closer to Geil.
"Your orders, my lord?"
"Remain here with Muron for the time being. Do not stray unless I order it. The remainder of the company and I leave for the surrounding forest."
"As you wish, sire. I await your next command."
"Come," Gildan said, gesturing to Seth and Malander. "You two will accompany the prince and me. Lorn, you will stay behind, if that's what you fancy." Lorn nodded his head and made it clear to the mercenary that he did not want to fight. Gildan strode away, leading Malander and Arnanor into the dark forest. Before Seth was able to attach himself to the group, the dwarf's shaking hands stopped him.
"What am I to do?" Lorn asked.
Seth looked down at the frightened dwarf and said, "Just remain calm until we get back. You will be much safer here than you would be with the four of us. Stay by the fire with the Northern elves."
Lorn looked up at Seth with eyes glazed over by panic. It tore at Seth that he must leave his friend behind, but he had no choice, for the other three were already heading away, and he could not remain any longer.
"Highbinder," Gildan's voice called out with urgency. "Quicken your pace at once."
Striding into the darkness, Seth soon found his cohorts, treading softly through the thick brush. Branches yielded to the pressure of their footfalls with a muffled snap as they moved in the blackness, swords at the ready.
The only sounds they heard now were their stealthy footfalls and the faint chirr of crickets. Soon the trees thinned out as they approached a clearing on rising ground.
"That hill," Arnanor said. "I would risk gaining it."
"You read my mind," Gildan said. "It will give us a brief advantage over the forest." In brighter moonlight again, he turned to those behind him and motioned them ahead.
Seth nodded and took in a deep breath, quickening his pace as they started up the hill through ankle-high grass. In the pale moonlight he could see the grand sweep of forest stretching for miles, with a line of mountains against the distant horizon.
The wind picked up as they gained the hilltop, where Gildan stood in front of his companions, staring into the sky. He could vaguely see Randor on the only other hill in the area, with a mile of dark forest lying between them. It appeared that the wizard did not hear the howls--or chose not to acknowledge them.
"Do we stop here?" Seth asked.
"For a moment, yes," Gildan replied, "though we cannot linger too long."
"Shouldn't we return for torches?" Seth inquired. "That would give us a greater advantage."
"We haven't the time," said Gildan.
Hearing a faint sound to his left, Seth whipped around. "Did you hear that?"
"Let us continue," Gildan ordered. He decided to keep an eastward heading, knowing that Randor was to their south and would soon disappear from their sight. Gildan took a last look at his mentor as he led the way once more down the hill, toward the forbidding forest, but after only a few steps, he stopped in mid stride, saying, "Hold fast." The sound he had heard was far closer now, though no one had yet seen its source. "Reveal yourself and you may survive!" Gildan growled.
"Survive?" said Arnanor. "I strike to destroy!"
From out of the dark brush, a massive form leaped high, soaring through the air and slamming hard to the ground, where it dug its sharp claws into the earth. The company retreated a few steps and gazed in horrified fascination at the seven-foot creature standing before them: a werewolf. The eyes of the beast, burning like bright red embers, were focused intently on the small group. A pair of long and twisted horns grew before its ears, dull in the light, yet menacing. It opened its great, slavering maw, showing long fangs. The werewolf raised its bulging, muscled arms, covered by tangled white fur. Though the monster was outnumbered, its sheer size and power made it a formidable adversary nonetheless. Moreover, Gildan and Arnanor were not fooled by its lone presence, knowing that its kind traveled in clans.
"Never have I seen such a beast!" Seth gasped, almost losing his grip on his sword. "My years of training now lie useless!"
"Foolishness," Gildan replied, displeased at the knight's lack of confidence.
"We are surrounded," Malander informed his companions. But with a quick glance in all directions, Gildan found this information to be merely a figment of the grim man's disordered imagination. Undoubtedly, though, they would be surrounded soon enough, making victory harder to obtain.
The company's enemy stood inert, each muscle tense, ready to strike. Keeping its eyes on its newfound prey, it opened its fists, and ten long, curved claws splayed out from its long, slender fingers. Rearing back, the werewolf howled deeply, then unleashed a demonic laugh. Squinting its eyes, it spoke. "Unarm yourselves, mortals!" This beast appeared to be a more advanced breed, for not all werewolves could speak. "Flee not, for I will only rip you apart more slowly if you do."
"Who are you?" Arnanor asked. Strangely, he felt as though he had seen this creature before. The prince's memory was failing him. He had seen many werewolves before in his land, during the decades of war between the Northern Kingdom and the werewolf legions. They were a fearsome adversary, to be sure, but many evil foes had fallen victim to Arnanor's blade, and whoever this beast was, he would not yield to it or any other. Yet Arnanor did find it strange that the attacks on his kingdom by the werewolves had lessened in the past year--in fact, no recent accounts were recorded at all.
"I am Yindraken, Lord of the Mazazuken Clan!" the beast declared with great gravity. Arnanor knew that this clan had been exalted above all its kindred, and that all wolf-kind feared them.
"I know
all too well of you, foul creature!" Arnanor shouted, barely able to contain his hatred. Knowing that the Mazazuken were inclined to a boreal climate, he was baffled to find his enemy here. The prince was proud that his people had kept the Mazazuken at bay for thousands of years, though he did feel sadness at the number of lives sacrificed to ensure the kingdom's freedom. Years of suppressed images and memories long buried in his young mind now broke open like a new wound. "Fate has brought you to me this night," he proclaimed. You and your clan shall fall!"
Yindraken the werewolf laughed in derision as he stepped forward from the partial shadow and loomed closer to Gildan. Seth retreated and stumbled behind Malander. "The Mazazuken will never fall!" he proclaimed.
"By my hand I will see it done!" said the prince. "I am Arnanor, heir to the throne of the Northern Kingdom!"
"You…" Yindraken hissed. "You should not have told me this. Now I will take special care to kill you myself. My brothers will no longer fall victim to your demonic elves." Yindraken sprang for Arnanor's throat, his fangs bared. Gildan, who stood between the prince and the beast, ducked quickly as the beast soared overhead. Arnanor began his retreat and parried each of the werewolf's powerful attacks, which came furiously and without a pause. As precise as Arnanor was with his sword, he was not able to wound the beast.
As the lust for battle flowed through them both like a raging river, the world around them was shut out. But it was to Yindraken's disadvantage that he disregarded the other three of Arnanor's company, for Gildan, Malander, and Seth quietly surrounded the beast. Arnanor swung the great sword, slash after slash, as he fought for his life, drawing away to the edge of the hill's flat peak. Meanwhile, his three companions sidestepped to maintain a constant encirclement. Seth, covering the area behind Arnanor, felt his footing slip on the incline and fell backward.
Yindraken showed great skill in unarmed combat, for as Arnanor well knew, the use of swords, spears, or any other weaponry was considered beneath the Mazazuken. With blinding speed he spun around and unleashed a viciously clawed kick. Slip-stepping to his left, the prince swung his blade downward onto the wolf's thigh. But no harm came to Yindraken, and suddenly a powerful forward kick struck Arnanor in the pit of the stomach. The elf-prince's armor provided scant cushioning, and the blow knocked the breath from him. Curling around the kick, Arnanor was launched backward into the night and went tumbling violently down the back of the hill.
The White Shadow Saga: The Stolen Moon of Londor Page 9