by C S Marks
There did not seem to be any others lurking to take him, so Hallagond bent over the man he had knocked senseless, judging that it would be some time before he awakened. I’ll just relieve him of any valuables for my trouble, he thought, just before his head suddenly swam and his vision blurred. Mother of Mayhem! I hadn’t realized I was this drunk… He called out to one of his companions just before his eyes rolled back and he fell to the ground in a dead faint. When they found him, they thought he had been killed.
“No, he’s still breathing,” said a broadly-made man named Azori, who was the closest thing Hallagond had to a friend. He shook his head, sniffing at Hallagond as he examined him. “He’s out cold, but unhurt—obviously got the better of these two. Ah, well, too much weed and wine will do that to a man. Take him back inside, but feed these reprobates to the vultures. I don’t know why they attacked Al-amand, but it’s always better to be cautious. They who make trouble once will make trouble again.”
Hallagond lay unresponsive and unseeing, but in his mind he regarded the visions before him with curiosity. Surely he was dreaming, or having some sort of drunken hallucination...certainly not his first. But this was more vivid, and somehow more real, than any drunken vision of his experience.
A very tall young man, dark-haired and grey-eyed, stood before him, his gaze reproachful. Beside the tall man stood Hallagond’s father, Diomar, looking on him with dismay. Diomar shook his head. See what you have become…you have squandered the blood of Tuathas, and now you languish in the pit of your own despair. You could have been as worthy as any of our line, yet you deny your heritage. If you cannot climb from the pit, then you may as well have died, Forsaken One. Your mother weeps from shame, for she loves you. Your brother likewise searches for you that you may be redeemed. I know you will try to thwart him—I blame myself for the curse of your stubbornness. Take warning! Your path leads only to despair. Turn from it, or be dead to those who love you.
Hallagond’s heart and his gaze grew hard, and he tried to answer his father, but he could make no sound. The vision shifted, but not before Hallagond looked intently at the man he supposed must be his brother. He could see it in the man’s eyes…grey eyes, like his own eyes and his father’s. Well, what of it? He needed no one, he answered to no purpose any longer. Diomar faded from sight, a look of immeasurable sadness on his grim face.
Now Hallagond saw other strange sights shifting and changing before him. He saw a small but beautiful city, with spires of gleaming silver, poised on the sea with its back to the desert. He had never seen the like of it before. He saw a She-elf, dressed as one of the Ravani, save for a cloak that seemed to be woven of living flame.
Then he beheld a vision that truly frightened him—a huge warrior clad all in black armor, radiating power and malevolence. It turned to him, and he heard a voice from beneath the black helmet, chuckling in an ill-natured way. Stand not in my path, it said in the Elven-tongue, pulling off the helmet in one smooth, elegant motion to reveal pale, malevolent eyes. Hallagond tried to turn away, but he could not. The hair was long, and silken gold...Elven hair. What sort of abomination was this?
Hallagond then looked behind the creature to behold an army clad all in red and black. The monster laughed, throwing its head back and raising its arms. In one hand it held the severed head of Hallagond’s brother which opened its dull, dead eyes and, to Hallagond’s ever-growing horror, spoke to him: I have found you at last, but too late. You ran from your destiny, when you could have turned the tide. Look now, on that which you have wrought.
Hallagond heard the dying screams of his company of Rangers. The Silver City in his vision was burning, and the people were screaming—he had failed them as well. He could not bear it, not another moment, or he would scream himself. This he did, coming to his senses at last, soaked with sweat, crying out in horror and grief. As the vision faded from his inmost sight, he shuddered and wrapped his arms around his knees, closing his eyes against the torment until it cleared like smoke that is blown away. The next voice he heard was Azori’s. “You aren’t just drunk…you’re fevered. Here, this will put you right.” Azori offered him a full goblet of wine laced with bitter herbs, and he drained it without a breath, then fell back into a deep sleep. His consciousness had already decided that he would not remember this dreaded prophecy; it had already faded into the realm of forgotten dreams.
Far to the north, Rogond, brother of Hallagond, was deeply involved in his own dreams. At first they were dark and frustrating; there was water, but he could not reach it, and there was food, but he could not take hold of it. He was lost in the vastness of a dark and barren waste, and he could hear his friends calling to him. They were in desperate need of food and water, and they cried for aid, yet he could neither find them nor aid them.
He wandered this way and that, chasing the elusive water that always seemed to disappear when he drew near enough. He told himself that he should ignore the sight of this phantom water. It was not real, and he only wasted precious time and strength pursuing it, but he could not help himself. This time there will be water, he told himself, over and over, only to be disappointed. His thirst was nearly unbearable. This time there will be water…this time…
He heard his beloved Gaelen laughing, and he tasted water on his tongue. Though it was gritty and impure, he had never tasted anything so sweet. “There IS water, Rogond! Open your eyes and see!” Gaelen laughed again, and he smiled. She held a half-full water-skin before his grimy, sweat-streaked face. “Have all you desire, my love. There is enough that we may all drink our fill, and more besides!”
“What miracle is this?” he stammered, looking around and squinting into the rising sun.
Gaelen was elated. “Drink, bold warrior, and make ready, for we travel to the east. There is shelter there, and water aplenty, yet we would not have found it without Finan. Come!”
She had returned just before sunrise, charged with hope and energy, running lightly back to her friends with the news that water and shelter had been found. “We will be able to replenish our supplies and our strength,” she said. “Though there is little to eat, at least we’ll have water and shade.”
That was enough motivation for the Company. They packed up, following Gaelen’s lead, and after a journey of nearly six miles they came to an interesting formation in the rocky landscape. Though there were no tall rocks that could be seen from the road, there was a small canyon sinking down into the earth, perhaps twenty feet deep and two hundred feet long. In the bottom of it there was water—brown, gritty water to be sure, but plenty of it. It was wonderfully cool. There would always be shade here, and the Company could take rest.
Finan stood placidly, calling to Gaelen as she approached with her friends.
“He found it, not I,” she told them. “I just had to listen. These are his lands, after all.”
Finan would prove to be a very worthwhile investment. They all learned to watch him, for he knew which sights and sounds were of consequence, and which were not. He would display an uncanny talent for finding water.
Fima’s good humor returned with cool shade and the slaking of his thirst. “I was wrong about that animal,” he declared. “He is worth every bit of ten gold pieces.” At this, Gaelen and Nelwyn stared at him, as Rogond chuckled and shook his head. Fima gasped. “Eight, I meant eight gold pieces! Yes, eight. How could I have forgotten, of course it was only eight. Only a fool would have given ten! Yes, he is certainly worth eight. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Galador stood with Rogond, a knowing smile on his face. “He is even worth ten, my good dwarf. In fact, I would have given all the gold in Alterra for this water, and so would you.”
The Company rested in the canyon for two days. There was plenty of water, and once it was strained through tightly-woven silk it tasted fine enough. There was even a little grass—dry to be sure—but to the horses it was most welcome, for they had been maintaining on very little feed for some time. Réalta, in particular, was beginning to show it;
the faint outline of his ribs was always visible.
Finan seemed to know that he had proven his worth in the eyes of the Company. He amused everyone by dropping at the edge of the water-hole and sinking down onto his side, wallowing contentedly and rolling over so that both sides were equally muddy. Then he rose as Gaelen went to fetch him, shaking his bony frame and sending wet muck flying in all directions, covering her with brown globs and flecks. Gaelen shook the mud from her hair and approached Finan, bidding him stand knee-deep in the water while she massaged his lame leg carefully. She found the wet silt around the water-hole perfect for applying as a poultice, and Finan was obviously improving under her careful attention.
Nelwyn knew that Gaelen’s touch with lame animals bordered on the miraculous, but neither she nor Gaelen could say whether Finan would ever be sound again. It didn’t matter. Sound or not, Finan was one of the Company now.
Gaelen made sure to spend time with Siva, and she asked Rogond if she should scout the way back and try to find the Ravani Road again. “It cannot be too far behind us. If I take plenty of water for myself and Siva, I will surely encounter it in a day or two. We will then know how far we must travel to return to our course. What say you?”
“I say we should not separate in these hostile lands,” said Rogond, packing up his gear. “I would advise that we not break the Company apart. If you encounter trouble there will be no one to aid you, and we will wait in vain for your return. Better we should all go back together.” Even as he spoke, he wondered how difficult it would be to find the road again. How had they been waylaid in the first place? He had thought he was paying careful attention, and remembered no diversion. He sighed. “It may be farther than you think, Gaelen. Let’s speak no more of it.”
Gaelen turned from Rogond, her attention drawn to Finan. He stood alone at the south end of the water-hole with his head erect, ears pricked forward as though listening intently to something. He gave a low chortle and took a step forward, his body quivering.
Just then Galador, who was keeping the watch, called down to them. “There is something in the distance, Rogond. It appears to be a caravan…I counted many animals and men among them. Come up and have a look.”
Rogond did so, thankful for Thorndil’s glass. His friend had given it ‘ere the Company departed Dûn Bennas. Take it, so that I may have yet another reason to find you and retrieve it one day. You will have greater need of it than I. Rogond smiled as he thought of Thorndil, hoping that he was well. He raised the glass and focused it on the tiny dark specks that had appeared to the south. It was somewhat humbling to be in the presence of sharp-eyed Galador.
Gaelen stood beside him, shading her eyes with her hand. “You may have seen them, Galador,” she said, “but Finan heard them first. I would imagine no one thinks me foolish for wanting him now!”
As the caravan drew nearer, it became clear that they were heading for the canyon where the Company was now sheltering. Rogond looked hard at the strangers through the glass and saw nothing threatening; they seemed relaxed and in good spirits, the harness-bells of their beasts announcing their approach. He could hear the men singing, the one in the back keeping time by clapping his hands.
As the only man among the Company, Rogond was elected to greet the caravan. He stood tall upon a rock with his right hand raised in a gesture of welcome. The man in the front of the caravan raised his right arm in return, and called out to Rogond in a strange tongue.
“Hail, worthy travelers,” replied Rogond. “May your journey be without hardship, and increase your wealth. My name is Rogond. I come from the far northern lands, and I do not understand your speech, yet I see that you are not an enemy. My comrades and I welcome you to the water, and we hope to gain enlightenment from you.”
The man halted his dromadan, bidding it to kneel so that he could dismount. There were twenty of them in the caravan, nine of which were ridden, the rest laden with various goods. Their harness was colorful, clean, and in good repair.
The leader smiled, showing brown-stained teeth, and returned Rogond’s bow. Then he spoke in heavily accented Aridani. “Hail, man of the northlands. May you find sweet water whenever you thirst. How many are you, and what brings you to our beautiful desert?”
“We are but six, and we have come searching for one of our family who is lost,” Rogond replied. “We have been waylaid from the Ravani Road, and were hoping you could redirect us and set our feet back upon the right path.”
At this the man laughed. “Ah! Well, it is easy to understand how that could happen, after all, the Ravani Road is only the most well-traveled in all these lands, and is wider than a brace of dromadin. And how, my friend, did you lose the road?”
“I honestly do not know,” Rogond replied, smiling with good-natured humility. “Somehow we found ourselves lost and without water, until we discovered this place. It’s well that we did, for we would no doubt have kept to the lesser road, and our journey would have ended badly.”
“Indeed,” said the man, “but you did find the water, which proves that you have some ability in our hard but wonderful land. Ah…but my manners are lacking! Forgive me. I am known as Hamir, son of Hamidir.” He bowed again, dropping his hood back to reveal a white silken head-wrap beneath it. Rogond returned the bow, taking notice of the other eight men, who had dismounted and turned the beasts loose so that they could make their way down to the water-hole.
“We shall speak at length when we are fed and rested,” said Hamir. “This is a fine place to spend time, so long as no enemies approach. But, where are your companions?”
“They have been instructed to remain in hiding until I call them,” said Rogond. “We were not certain of your intentions, and I fear you may yet find them somewhat, ahh…somewhat different from the folk you normally encounter here. I assure you that they will harm none of you so long as your intentions are honorable.”
Hamir laughed again and clapped Rogond on the shoulder. “As if encountering a lone northman isn’t strange enough! We shall look forward to some fine stories tonight. My companions are of my family—five are my sons, two are my brothers, and one is the son of my sister. We shall make merry and have a fine feast with our new friends, and you shall tell us of your people and your lands. When all are rested, we will lead you back to the Ravani Road.”
After Hamir and his fellows watered their beasts and made camp, Rogond asked if he might summon the rest of the Company. Hamir called his kinsmen together. They were travel-worn, but they were reasonably clean and courteous, inclining their heads to Rogond as he bowed before them. They sat cross-legged upon small mats of felted dromadan wool.
“Please, my new friends, give welcome to our Company,” said Rogond, summoning the Elves and Fima to stand at his side.
“What strange folk are these?” they asked, looking especially upon the She-elves and Fima. The Elves all wore their hoods, concealing their elegant ears, but the light in their eyes and in their faces could not be hidden. Fima, with his very short, stout frame and long, white beard, was likewise strange to them, but they were quickly put at ease by his open, good-humored expression. Fima knew a friend when he saw one.
The Elves, on the other hand, inspired awe rather than fellowship. They seemed distant and unapproachable to Hamir and his kin, who had not beheld the light of an Elven face before. Dona stood as ever beside Galador, clutching his arm, her face mostly hidden by her hooded cloak. She would not look at the men, which was just as well; they would no doubt have frightened her. There was no light in her face, and the men dismissed her, for she did not inspire the same awe.
As Rogond made introductions, Gaelen and Nelwyn stood with their chins lifted, weapons slung at their backs and their belts, their bright eyes looking directly into those of the sutherlings, to whom they seemed proud and immodest. Neither Gaelen’s bare arms and shoulders nor her short mop of windblown hair would have been tolerated among females of Hamir’s tribe. Their women went about their daily lives covered from head to foot
, and their hair was never cut, as it was a gift from heaven and the mark of their womanhood. A woman’s husband was the only one allowed to touch it, apart from the other women of her immediate family. The men shook their heads—they were not quite sure what to make of Gaelen and Nelwyn.
“I see that you travel with women-folk, Northman…at least, I think the little one is a woman,” said the elder of Hamir’s two brothers. “You must have great patience as well as boldness. At least it explains how you lost your way. Women-folk are forever talking, and they must have distracted you.” The men all laughed at this; apparently females in these lands were not so independent as in the Greatwood Realm. Their scorn toward Gaelen was obvious.
She flushed, staring hard at the one who had spoken. Fima muttered under his breath, still smiling. “Take no offense, little Wood-elf. They have different ways from your own, and I’m sure he meant nothing by it.”
Gaelen did not smile back. Different and strange ways indeed, for in the Greatwood we do not insult strangers, especially when they are bristling with weapons, no matter their gender.
She flexed the fingers of her right hand, suppressing the urge to send a shaft into the sand a hair’s breadth from the man’s naked toes. She would not suffer scorn when she had done nothing to earn it. Hamir seemed a friendly, helpful man, at least on first meeting, but she was not so sure about the others.
They talked among themselves, looking sidelong at her, occasionally chuckling and shaking their heads in evident disdain. Though she did not comprehend any of their speech, Gaelen took their meaning. She responded by smiling and bowing, speaking the Sylvan tongue, which she knew they would not understand.