by C S Marks
“Let’s just relax and enjoy the rest of this warm afternoon,” he suggested, reaching up to remove her head-covering and visor. As always, she started back from his hand—Gaelen did not like having her head touched. “Easy, now…I just want to see your pretty face,” he said, gently lifting the visor from her eyes, which were still clouded by an odd, silvery film, almost like mirrors. The healers had said this would lift and fade away, but it was rather eerie at the moment.
Soon Rogond had drained his flask of mead and eaten all of his dried venison and fruit. The warm sun made him sleepy, and he stretched out on the carpet of moss with Gaelen beside him. We are quite safe here, so close to the Elven-hold. The woods are crawling with hunter-scouts. A wee nap won’t hurt… Soon, he was snoring softly.
Gaelen, who was still healing and, therefore, would actually sleep at times, preferred a quieter resting-place. She made her way carefully to a nice, comfortable spot some twenty feet away, where the rustling leaves would mask the regular, deep rumble emanating from her beloved Aridan. There she drifted, her eyes open but unseeing, as her thoughts strayed into the realm of dreams.
At first all was fair and pleasant, and her visions gladdened her heart. She walked alone in the stony forests above Mountain-home, hearkening to the sound of the wild waters cascading from tall peaks, breathing in the rich scent of pines and spruces as the sky gave way to a field of brilliant stars. Gaelen had not seen the stars save in her dreams for a long time, and they took her breath for a moment, but as she continued to gaze at them her vision blurred and her head swam. She could not take her eyes from the wheeling stars that turned with dizzying speed above her, until her vision went dark and she fell from the pinnacle of rock upon which she had been standing.
She came to herself almost at once, but she was now in a place she had never been before, even in dreams. Still, it looked familiar. No…wait! I have seen it…in fact I stood in this very spot before, though it had looked very different in the Stone of Léir. It was the Battle-plain surrounding the Dark Fortress in the northern waste, where Lord Wrothgar had been defeated long ago. When last she had seen it, this landscape had been filled with countless warriors of two great armies, engaged in a deadly struggle. In the center of all, Wrothgar himself strove with the High King Ri-Elathan—Gaelen’s beloved life-mate, whom she called “Rain.” Wrothgar had ultimately defeated him, burning him slowly to death in a nightmare of black flame, and the sight of it had horrified Gaelen almost beyond return.
She saw no fearsome Flame Lord now. Only one warrior did she see, lying alone upon the desolate, rocky plain. She ran to his side even as he lay dead before her, longing to contact him one last time, to tell him that he had not failed. Rain…Rain, Wrothgar was defeated that day, though you did not live to see it. But as she knelt beside him, suffering the heat of his ruined body long enough to turn his face to hers, she beheld a sight that froze her blood and nearly stopped her heart.
Ri-Elathan’s eyes were closed, not open as she had seen them in the Stone. What remained of his once-handsome face broke into a familiar twisted, evil smile, and a cold voice rang in her horrified mind: I am not yet vanquished, Gaelen Taldin, my sworn enemy. I will come for you and everything you love. Be ready, for this time I will stand before an army greater than any you have seen. When the time comes I will deal with you, and you will be alone...utterly alone! I will take your spirit with me into the Darkness, and there will be no returning from it.
Malicious laughter assaulted her then as she tried to move away, tried to protect herself from what she knew must follow. He would open his eyes now, and she would not be able to bear it. She had to break free of him! As though sensing her desire, Gorgon gripped Gaelen’s arms with Rain’s hands, the heat still strong enough to burn her as she cried in pain and terror.
Look at me, Elf, for I would speak my piece. Your beloved has failed. The Black Flame grows again, and nothing the Elves can do will stand against it. I have escaped their pathetic attempts to destroy me, and will gather strength. When I have done so, I will come first for you! If you still abide in the Greatwood, I will sweep through as a great fire that withers all before it. None shall withstand my wrath. I will kill every Elf I encounter, even as I am searching for you. Their deaths—their pain—will be on your hands.
Gaelen longed to defy him, to speak of his defeat, but she could not. Her vision would not give way, and she was powerless. Ri-Elathan’s eyelids opened, and she cried in revulsion as Gorgon stared at her, his cold, pale grey eyes filled with malice.
Now her right arm was free, for Gorgon held her, and he had no left hand. She wrenched her other arm from his iron grip, crying again, as her vision blurred and swirled and changed. Now she stood upon the plateau in the Barrens, where she and the Elves of the Greatwood had met and defeated Gorgon’s army. The dead lay scattered around her—but not Gorgon. She had failed. The monster still lived, and he was gathering strength. When he was ready he would come for them all!
She turned and ran headlong, for she knew that she could not prevail, not in this place. Gorgon’s horrid, oily laughter stung her ears as she fled in the dark, trying to escape her fate. Her eyes burned with tears of pain and revulsion as she careened into an unknown destiny, wishing only to escape the lingering sight of her beloved Rain’s ruined face twisting into that of her mortal enemy. She ran as a terrified, blind deer through the Greatwood, and when she finally exhausted herself and fell senseless beneath the black canopy, no light would reach her sightless eyes.
When she awakened she would remember nothing for a time, not even her own name, until at last she heard the voice of Rogond. It drew her from her bewilderment, and she called out to him, clinging as a drowning person clings to the last rope in the world.
Rogond had awakened to find that Gaelen had gone. At first he wondered whether she was trying to sneak up on him again, but a brief examination of the area told otherwise. He found her water-flask beneath a nearby tree; evidently she had curled up there, probably for a nap. She had risen and wandered into the forest—her tracks indicated an aimless, but not panicked, course. Sleepwalking, maybe? She almost never sleeps, and even when she does, she seems half-awake. This makes no sense…
He continued to track her, though even when sleepwalking she was light-footed and difficult to follow. Now the signs became obvious—she had been startled by something and was running, almost blundering, through the forest. He found signs that she had torn her clothing in the brush…she was running headlong and blind, but there was nothing chasing her. I don’t understand. What is she running from? Here was blood. Now he could panic.
“Gaelen? Gaelen! Gaehhh-lehhhhn!” He tried to keep the terror out of his voice as he called to her. He followed her tracks, still calling, until at last he heard her voice in the distance.
“Thaylon…Thaylon…I’m here…”
He came upon her at last, drawn to her desperate cry as she answered from the far reaches of the glimmering shadows. He ran to her as she reached for him, enfolding her in his arms, nearly overcome with relief that he had found her alive and whole. She did not weep, but simply clung to him, her eyes closed, breathing in his scent, reveling in the feel of his arms and the deep, soothing sound of his voice.
Gaelen realized that she could never face the trials ahead without him, though she had once thought to do so. Gorgon had prevailed, and she would not be free of him until he lay dead before her. Her heart would never survive without Rogond now—she knew it.
She remained still and silent for a few moments, her thoughts turning swiftly in her mind as she tried to make sense of them, but in the end, she simply listened to her heart. Now is the time. He’s ready…and I’m ready, too. “Thaylon, I know not what fate awaits us, but if you are still willing to share it, I will bind my heart to yours. It loves you, and will bind to no other yet living. You have my answer.”
Rogond held her to him as though he would ever remain in her embrace, her declaration of love still ringing beautifully
in his ears. He was afraid to release her lest she relent, or this fulfillment of his greatest hope prove to be but a vision no less real than the one that had driven her to this place, and to this moment.
Gaelen Taldin, daughter of the Greatwood, returned his embrace, trembling as the terrible visions she had beheld faded from her mind. Though they still pained her, she could not see her wrists, the skin reddened and blistered as though they had been burned.
As the weeks wore on, Rogond noticed a few small things, indications that Gaelen’s vision was beginning to come back. The healing was so gradual that she probably didn’t notice it herself. The healers had examined her, declaring that she would probably be sound enough to travel within the fortnight. Rogond was glad not only for her sake, but also for his—he was about to undertake a great journey.
He had declared his intention to begin the search for his brother, and Gaelen, naturally, had offered to go with him. His friend Thorndil, who had survived Gorgon’s defeat in the Barrens, had put forward a plan. It seemed a fair assumption that, should Rogond’s brother have survived the Great Plague, those few Rangers who still roamed the northern wilderness would know most of him. If Thorndil inquired of as many as could be found, he might gain enlightenment. He would then send word to the Greatwood, so that Rogond could follow whatever trail was revealed.
Gaelen liked Thorndil, and she was concerned for him, for she knew he was an old man, and he had been wounded in the Barrens. She had asked Rogond about it as they lay together upon the riverbank. “You have sent Thorndil to the north, to inquire of your folk…I trust his wounds are healed?” she said.
“They were healed before he left. You should not worry so about him; he is as tough as thick leather and as hard as iron.”
“When last I saw him in the heat of battle, the iron appeared a bit rusty,” she countered. Rogond had to agree, for Thorndil had taken a few minor yet painful wounds, and his pain showed in his movement, which had no doubt seemed stiff and a bit ungraceful to Gaelen. She did not realize the extent of what he had endured in his life, nor did she comprehend the nature of ageing. Time had sat somewhat heavily upon Thorndil in recent years.
“He’s getting old, Gaelen. There’s not much we can do to stop the decline of our bodies with time. He has taken many hurts, some of which will always trouble him.” Rogond knew that she understood this—some of her own old wounds bothered her on occasion, and would do so until the end of her life.
“Tell me of the Fate of Men, Thaylon. Do you face the same fate as Thorndil? Will you decline with time?”
“You know I will…I must,” he said. “But not for a long while. I’m not rusted yet.” He took her in his arms and tried to quell her restive thoughts, stroking her tangled, windblown hair with a large, strong hand. She’s holding something back. There’s something she wants to tell me…I hope I will want to hear it. He decided not to ask her about it, having learned that she would tell him in her own good time, and not a moment before.
“Now you should rest,” he said. “I won’t go looking for my brother without you, and you cannot go until you are healed. Let’s speak no more of age and rusty joints and the burden of time.” Despite his assurances, it took her a long while to settle down. He could feel the tension in her body, the energy in her beating heart. She was like a coiled spring, senses attuned to every sound, and would not relax. He took her left ear in one of his massive hands, stroking it gently until she gave in, stretched like a cat, and closed her eyes at last.
Gorgon Elfhunter celebrated the return of Gaelen’s eyesight more fervently than anyone. He nearly wept with relief as the terrible white light faded slowly from his tortured awareness and he began to perceive with his own eyes once more. Though his chamber was so black he could barely make out the very faint outline of his own right hand, his pain finally diminished. He closed his eyes, and found only comforting darkness. Her sight is coming back, and mine with it, he thought. May I never behold that terrible Light again! Now, at last, I can rest.
Gorgon’s pain had been assuaged, though it would never leave him completely. He was still connected to her, and the connection would not be broken until one of them lay dead before the feet of the other. Still, he rejoiced, because that very connection would one day mean her doom. I will be able to find her, no matter where she runs to.
He chuckled with malicious pleasure, though it pained and wearied him, and the chuckle soon gave way to a growl. He would never stop hating her...not should the stars go out and never shine again, and the mountains crumble into dust at the world’s ending. But such black thoughts would not serve him now. First he would satisfy his thirst, and then he would rest and heal himself, retreating into his usual state of torpor. His mind, normally filled with the violence of his plans and emotions, would sink down into welcome sleep. She will not sense me then—not unless she takes hold of the mirror. Surely she isn’t that foolish. He would sleep, and let her forget about him for a while. When he had healed, he would go forth again and exact his vengeance.
You have unwittingly allowed me to see into a world wherein I have never been welcome, no matter my desire. For the time being, that world is yours…enjoy it while you may. He lowered his scarred face to a pool of clear, cold water that had collected in his new sanctuary.
Well…maybe just one last fantasy.Let it never be said that I don’t think often of you, you barren, wretched she-dog! His mind, so long fettered by pain and doubt, ran wild as he imagined what he would do to her.
On the first new moon of autumn, Rogond met with Thorndil and a Ranger named Turan near the gentle river Eros, the wide stream flowing into the Ambros south of the Northern Mountains.
Turan was one of a very few men who stood as tall as Rogond, but he was older—much older. Like Thorndil, he had lived through the horror of the Plague years. He sat on a flat river-stone, puffing slowly on a carved wooden pipe that had seen many, many years of service, as the Company gathered to hear what he could tell. He turned his flinty gaze to Rogond, who sat nearest.
“First, my friend, let me tell you that I do not know whether your brother still lives. Neither do I know for certain that he does not, and that’s good news. So many of our folk perished during the Plague that your brother would no doubt have been among them, but we were far away beneath the Eastern Hills when the sickness came. At any rate, the first son of Rosalin was named Hallagond, which means ‘tall stone,’ though I don’t recall him being quite as tall as you are.”
“His name is much like yours,” said Gaelen.
“A coincidence,” said Rogond. The Elves named me ‘treasure-stone’ because they found me among the rocks. “I don’t know what name my mother gave me.”
Turan nodded. “It’s an interesting coincidence that your names are so similar. You are much alike in appearance, with the same grey eyes and dark hair. He bore a scar across the back of his right hand from an Ulca-blade. His voice was not as deep, but was…rougher, somehow. You say you were raised by Elves, and it is evident in your manner of speech. Hallagond grew up in Dûn Bennas, among men.”
“Hallagond,” said Rogond, savoring the sound of his brother’s name.
“When he matured he came to the northlands seeking adventure,” said Turan. “He traveled with us, gaining renown as a skilled fighter. He showed great perception and intelligence, and we came to look up to him, for he was a natural leader. We took to wandering the region just to the north of where we are now sitting, convinced that the Dark Powers were trying to establish a new stronghold there. Hallagond befriended the Northern Mountain dwarves, often coming to their aid.
When the rumor of the Plague reached us, Hallagond wanted to return to Dûn Bennas to aid his family, but we convinced him that such an effort would prove futile. By the time we became aware of it in the northlands the Plague had already swept through that great city, killing nearly everyone in it, including the King. It was said that the pyres of the dead sent up smoke that could be seen all the way from heaven.” Turan
paused for a moment, his gaze distant, his eyes pained. Lightning flashed in the western sky, and the thunder grew louder as the storm drew nearer. Shaken from his private thoughts, he continued.
“The dwarves convinced us to retreat to the Eastern Hills, and to shelter belowground so that we might survive, for the pestilence had spread like a wildfire. I would expect Rosalin left Dûn Bennas in a vain effort to escape it, and it’s a good thing you were found and fostered by the Elves. If your mother had not been set upon, and you had remained with her, there is little doubt that you would have died. It was not a good death, the Plague…”
Here he paused again, his brows drawing together above haunted eyes. Rogond knew Turan had lost friends, and perhaps family, in that dreaded scourge. Few living men were untouched by it. “At any rate,” he continued, puffing once more upon his pipe, “the Rangers who fled to the Eastern Hills survived, for the Plague spread to the north and west. But the people of the southlands suffered great loss. Many settlements perished down to the last man. Hallagond and I longed to give aid to them, but we knew that to travel there would mean near-certain death, and it was necessary that at least a few of us remain to carry on the line. The blood of the Tuathar survives…barely.”
“After two years had passed since the last rumors of the pestilence reached us, we decided to venture west again to see what could be salvaged. It was a grim journey. We looked to the dead as we could, burning the untended bodies, despairing as we found so few alive. Hallagond and I were separated; he and a group of Rangers supposedly became involved in some nastiness with a group of brigands, but none returned. I later learned that all save Hallagond had vanished, and I was somewhat surprised to hear that he had then fled back to the Eastern Hills. I have neither seen nor heard anything of him since. That was, let me see…perhaps five and forty years ago?”
Turan drew a long draught on his pipe, as though lost in thought. “We did not understand why he had gone from us, but we have received no word of him. We could not imagine what business he would have in the Eastern Hills, which are largely uninhabited, though dwarves have spoken of delving there. As I have said, we don’t even know for certain that he still lives. What other course would have kept him from his duties here? We all wonder what became of his companions.”