The Exile of Elindel

by Carol Browne

  “May I, Lorac, be so bold as to comment on your words?” He linked his hands together, his elbows on the table. “What you say is all very well, but Faine, you know, is spirit now and we are flesh and bone. My dear, what spirit may endure the flesh and bone cannot. You say we all must do our part. You speak of strength, but you are a wardain. To you, such things come easily. We, however, have no power, merely the strength of our sinews and limbs, and most of us are either too young or too old to boast of any prowess there. The fittest among us were chased away or murdered by the king. What kind of support do you expect? What use are we in the fight against evil?”

  “And we are forbidden to worship, you know,” another elf broke in. His eyes peered warily from under a mop of thick white hair. “If we are seen to be praising him, to be seen praising F-F-Faine, we have earned ourselves a speedy death.”

  “Can’t you worship him in your hearts?” asked Elgiva.

  “I think Elgiva has a point,” said Haldrin with a frown. “I believe we should listen to her.”

  “Old fool,” snorted a female elf from an adjoining table. “When have you ever believed, or trusted, even in the early times, when we were still free elves? What’s made you change your hide so quickly? Has one display of magic robbed you of your wits, or are you going senile?”

  Haldrin opened his mouth to speak, but Trystin intervened.

  “I wish you wouldn’t argue!”

  The depth of his feeling drew everyone’s gaze, and he seemed overcome by shyness. He leaned closer to Godwin, as if to draw courage from the nearness of his friend.

  “I love Lady Elgiva,” Trystin went on. “She healed my scar, and I trust her with my life. She wants to help us. Why won’t you listen?”

  “Help us, hah!” spat the white-haired elf. “Help us stir up Vieldrin’s wrath and put us in our graves. I want it known that I, Aldric, want no part of this.”

  Trystin glanced at Godwin. “It’s better to die once than die a little every day,” he ventured. “You, you’re elders, you’re wise, aren’t you? Can’t you see the wisdom in that? Lady Elgiva is good. I know. She hates the king, and so do we. So we should stand together.”

  “Look, lad,” said Lorac. “You fail to see the danger we are in. Yes, we know she possesses magic. We may even accept that it is good magic. But good or bad, is it strong enough? I think we already know the answer.”

  Trystin pouted. “You’re blind,” he muttered. “A chance of freedom tries to take your hand, and you turn your backs on it.”

  “Chance, aye,” said Lorac, “and chance isn’t good enough. What we need is certainty.”

  “Excuse me,” Godwin said, “but as to the strength of Elgiva’s magic, your king doesn’t doubt it as you do. He has tried to persuade her to be his ally.” He hesitated for a moment, his confidence clearly wavering as he looked around at the elders. “Look, I know I’m only a wilthkin, so all this is beyond me, but I know what I know. I know what I’ve seen. We’ve met your king, not once, but twice. And we’re alive to speak of it. That’s not Vieldrin’s way.”

  “What would a wilthkin know of his ‘way’?” Lorac said with a sneer. “He is a creature of caprice, yet there is method in it.”

  Godwin pretended to ignore this. He took a large swig of wine and pressed on. “Perhaps great magic isn’t required. Perhaps there’s other help to be had.” He paused and cleared his throat. “Haven’t you heard of the Lorestone?”

  Elgiva grabbed his sleeve in protest, but he shrugged her hand away. The elders merely stared at him.

  “The Lorestone,” Godwin persisted. “It’s a stone of great power to be used against evil, and legend has it Faine left it hidden . . . here.”

  “Legends?” said the female elf. “What use have we for legends?”

  “Well, we’re looking for it.”

  He made the three of them look ridiculous. The striving after the Lorestone consumed them, but in the eyes of these elders, they looked like lunatics chasing moonbeams.

  “Sit down and shut up,” Elgiva hissed at him, somewhat exasperated by his lack of discretion. “This isn’t helping our cause.”

  He didn’t listen.

  “Legend or not,” he said, “if Vieldrin gets the Lorestone first, then he’ll be invincible.”

  “He already is,” sniggered Lorac.

  A murmur of bitter laughter greeted Lorac’s words.

  “He believes it exists,” said Godwin, undaunted. “He’s searching for it now.”

  “Not now, I think,” said Lorac, with a yawn. “If he has any sense, he’ll be in bed, which is where we all should be.”

  “He mustn’t get his hands on the stone,” Godwin said. “You have to help us. You must help us, if you want your freedom. The time for action has come, and what’s more . . . ” He took another swig of wine. “We all know what it’s like to be a slave. It’s insupportable. And you, Lorac, you speak of danger, yet you haven’t the faintest idea what the real danger is.”

  “What is it, then?” asked Lorac, his head cocked. “Enlighten us, wilthkin, do.”

  “Well, I, er . . . ”

  Elgiva tugged once more on Godwin’s sleeve, and this time he sat down, and rather heavily, in her opinion. He folded his arms across his chest and glowered at the table. Around them, the elders muttered softly, and their eyes were wells of disdain.

  It was then that a tiny elf-child tottered towards them across the grass. In her long white shift of linen, she looked like a wraith that wanders the night, searching in vain for peace. She rubbed her eyes with her knuckles, and her soft voice stunned the darkness.

  “I wish Mamma would come home. Aunt Everil, where is Mamma?” She looked at the elf-woman, the phantasm of a nightmare glimmering in her dark eyes.

  Elgiva stood up and stepped towards her, and taking the child’s tiny hand in her own, she turned to face the eldership. “This is innocence,” she said. “A sight to gladden the Founder’s heart. Can you stand by and see it corrupted, trampled on, despised? Will you sacrifice her right to be free for the sake of your fears? The old should prepare the way for the young.”

  She stared at them while the elders shook their heads and muttered.

  Trystin sprang to his feet.

  “Let’s celebrate!” he shouted. “Let’s celebrate good magic and look to the future and freedom!”

  He raced across the grass to the huts. Curious but wary, the elders watched in silence. When he returned, he held a reed pipe, which he began to play.

  “Quiet, lad!” hissed Aldric. “We’ve made enough din for one night. Someone is bound to hear us.”

  “A curse on the spies!” cried Everil.

  The elders visibly jumped.

  “Why should we be quiet?” she went on. “What’s wrong with merry-making? Let the forest ring with laughter and song, and these sad, old trees will be proud again!”

  Haldrin nodded. “Indeed, we must honour the Founder,” he said. “We have not been true, I least of all. I was always the first to praise his name; now I am the most disloyal. My friends, we have sinned against our lore, our duty, our very natures. Our shame is great indeed.”

  The old elf straightened himself in his seat, as though restored to his former authority when he led the elves in their devotions. Now, instead of bitterness, he wore a look of zeal.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Godwin was unnerved by the elders’ sudden change in mood. A surge of energy had brought them all to life. They hastened to their dwellings to awaken their grandchildren, nephews, and nieces, to unearth their hidden pipes and lyres. They built up the fire to a roaring blaze and fetched more flagons of wine.

  The night was old by the time Elgiva sought him out. Godwin didn’t notice her standing at his side, so lost was he in his gloomy thoughts, and the sound of her voice made him start.

  “You look unhappy, my friend,” she said.

  He searched her features, gauging her mood. Her face was etched by fatigue. Her reserves of energy had all bee
n squandered, performing tricks to amuse the children.

  “They’re certainly in high feather,” said Godwin, inclining his head towards the elves. “But Vieldrin is still their master, and they are still his slaves. Nothing has changed, Elgiva.”

  “And that has made you unhappy?”

  He skirted round the question. “I fear for them in their madness, don’t you?”

  “Some of the elders welcome discovery.”

  “Really?”

  She ignored his cynical tone. “They believe even Vieldrin’s guards secretly hate their master, and with a little encouragement, they’d willingly change sides.”

  Godwin found this hard to accept. “I think we should be more cautious.”

  “Perhaps,” she said, “but it’s too late now. The elders are determined. I talked with them, and they told me things, things I’d rather not know. Remember I told you of Smirill? Vieldrin venerates his name and wants to follow in his footsteps. There are powers hidden in the earth, good and bad, and the bad are better undisturbed. But Vieldrin will disturb them, you can be sure of that. And he will bend them to his will.”

  Godwin had heard enough, but Elgiva hadn’t finished.

  “Many ages of knowledge and wisdom lie between us and Faine, but in his day, there was goodness and love. Now there is hatred and greed. Knowledge has corrupted our race, and our path has reached its conclusion in Vieldrin. He’s as lorewise as my great-uncle, and his personal power surpasses that of any wardain in the land, but worst of all, he has no conscience. Vieldrin doesn’t care. He’ll do whatever he wants to do, and he’ll do it because he can. If he frees the dark things in the Earth . . . ”

  “But the Lorestone, Elgiva—”

  “If the stone holds the key to Faine’s power and Vieldrin finds it, then we’re lost indeed,” she said. “What is my power against the might of the Lorestone combined with Vieldrin and the powers of darkness?”

  “But he doesn’t have the Lorestone. He hasn’t beaten us yet!” Godwin tried to subdue the note of hysteria in his voice. “We can’t give up now, no matter what the odds and what the elders say. Is it just conjecture? They’ve frightened you with gossip. They don’t know what Vieldrin’s up to any more than we do. And he’s flesh and blood, by Frigg! He can be destroyed, can’t he?”

  The arrival of Haldrin curtailed this discussion. He approached them with confidence, Trystin at his heels, and his voice calm and steady.

  “Now is the time we should make plans,” he said. “We have renewed our bond with Faine, and though we risk what little we have, we will help you all we can. Trystin says tomorrow, he will guide you to a place he knows where the stone may be hidden.

  “And while you search,” continued Haldrin, “the rest of us will stage a rebellion to occupy the guards. Word will be sent to the other slaves who live in Misterell. Let us hope they will join us. The guards won’t know which way to turn, but they are not all bad. Most of them serve Vieldrin out of fear that he will harm their kin. They may deal kindly with us.”

  At that moment, the music ceased and the revellers clapped and called for more, though their mad carousing had passed its peak. The night had grown cooler, and Haldrin suggested they all return to the fire, but as they were strolling across the clearing, Godwin’s worst fears came to pass.

  An ominous rustling among the trees made them all turn to face its source. A silence fell over the glade, and no one dared move. A band of elves strode out of the night, two of their fellows bearing torches. Their swords were drawn, and the firelight gleamed upon their leather armour.

  The elders stood and watched, slack-mouthed, as the warriors marched into the glade and sneered at those assembled. Godwin caught sight of the leader’s face, and his heart missed a beat. Too well, he remembered that twisted scar.

  The guards edged nearer with scowls on their faces and firelight on their swords, and as they did so, the elders retreated.

  “What’s going on?” demanded the elf who appeared to be in charge. He took a step forward, his fists on his hips and a deep frown on his brow. He had the look of someone kept reluctantly from his bed. Crossing him would be unwise. Clearly, he outranked the others, for they cringed when he spoke. “A rebels’ get together, eh? Making an infernal noise. Enough to wake the sun. And a wilthkin! This is serious, lads!”

  “Captain,” hissed the elf with the scar, “I’ll wager they’re worshipping Faine!”

  “Shut up, Snarkin, I know what’s afoot. If you hadn’t done such a rotten job, we wouldn’t be scouring the forest in the middle of the night. Spare me your bloody opinions.”

  Snarkin ducked, as though from a physical blow, and drew back.

  “Now then, I want the ringleaders. They’ll pay for this, and they’ll pay in blood. Sound the horn for assistance!” The captain strode forward menacingly. He searched every face for a sign of guilt, and then he turned back to glare at Snarkin. “Damn you, Snarkin, are you asleep? Sound the horn, I said!”

  Snarkin made haste to obey the command. The clarion blare made everyone jump, but Elgiva stepped calmly forwards.

  “Listen,” she said, “we want to help you—”

  The captain snorted with laughter. “Gah! Shut your noise, lest I use your guts to lubricate my sword. I’ll do the talking here.”

  Elgiva was undaunted. Clearly uplifted by the support of the elders, she held her ground, defiance sparkling in her eyes. “Threaten and bluster all you like. We will worship Faine no matter what.”

  “You have signed your own death warrant, my girl.” The captain snarled with relish.

  “And furthermore,” Elgiva went on, “I will rid this kingdom of Vieldrin.”

  The captain laughed and spun round to face his warriors. Their faces clenched with terror. “You hear that, do you, dogsbodies? Treasonous talk, that is! She wants to rid us of Vieldrin, but he’s a generous master. We don’t want rid of him, do we?”

  One of the warriors was about to reply to this, but his companion nudged him in the ribs.

  “Do we?” bawled the captain.

  “No, Captain,” said the warriors.

  The captain’s gaze whipped back to the elders, his mouth a smirk of cruelty. “Well, my lads, do you fancy some sport? We’ll take that one there for a start.” He pointed at Elgiva. “She seems to be their leader. Then the old codgers should give us some fun before reinforcements arrive. Snarkin!”

  “Captain?”

  “Take her, Snarkin. Alive, if you can.”

  “But Captain, she killed Rancill and Vendriel. She struck them both dead with a glance!”

  The captain spun round and slapped Snarkin. “Don’t question an order, milksop! Why can’t you do as you’re told?” He grabbed Snarkin’s collar and thrust him forward. “Now get her, worm. We’re wasting time. And mark me, cretin, I said alive. We must learn all the names of her fellow conspirators. But if she gives you any trouble, you have my permission to show no mercy.”

  Snarkin moved forward slowly and began to stalk Elgiva. “Now you, don’t you make no trouble.”

  Elgiva confronted him, clenching her fists, but then her soft lips parted and she cast her gaze back at her friends and looked at Godwin. In her eyes, he saw a horrified look, a look that said, “I have no strength.”

  Oh, Frigg, we’re done for!

  Godwin shook from head to foot, but he fought to gain control of his limbs and ran across the clearing. He halted between Elgiva and Snarkin, and looking into the elf’s scarred face, he raised his sword with a hand that trembled and said in a quavering voice, “Another step, and you die!”

  “Yah, wilthkin!” Snarkin spat upon the ground like a snake discharging venom. “Hey, Cadrinell, get over here and sort him out for me!”

  Another elf crept forward and stood at Snarkin’s side. The three antagonists faced each other, reluctant and uncertain. Even the tips of their swords were trembling.

  “What are you dithering for?” barked the captain. He folded his thick arms across his br
east and grimaced with impatience.

  Thoughts raced through Godwin’s mind. He saw himself fighting to defend the settlement. He saw his masters practising swordplay. But none of it helped him now. He didn’t know what to do. If only he had a longsword to swing at his attackers. Then he could have cut them down before they got too close. But all he had was this blunt-edged blade and a leaden body palsied by fear. And what if they both attacked at once? Would it be slashing or stabbing? What would Elric have done? Where was Cerdic when you needed him? Frigg! He couldn’t move a muscle. He was rooted to the spot like an idiot. Rooted to the spot and only half sober. The elders were old and weaponless. Elgiva had used up her strength. So much for their fanciful notions. Craven old fools! How in the name of all the gods had he ended up like this?

  Cadrinell made his move and thrust his sword at Godwin’s chest. Godwin parried the blow, amazed at his own reaction. The flat edge of his sword clashed with Cadrinell’s blade. Though his arm twisted, he managed to knock the weapon aside and deflect it from its target.

  Cadrinell struck again, and Godwin parried. Inexpertly handled, his sword glanced off the elf’s. Together, they stabbed and sliced, while Snarkin stood grinning, his own sword poised with its tip against Elgiva’s throat.

  Godwin’s heart pounded. Cadrinell’s elven agility gave him the edge; he may as well have had winged feet. The warriors jeered with encouragement.

  “Cadrinell, he’s tiring!”

  “You’ll soon finish him off!”

  They were right. Godwin’s strength was failing, he couldn’t clear his head, and he was retreating, inch by inch, towards the fire. Feet shuffled behind him as the elders moved out of his way. Trystin’s terrified pleas were ignored, and a child sobbed in the shadows. He heard these sounds from a distance, and they didn’t seem important; his only concern was to save himself and to keep Elgiva from harm, though an instinct for self-preservation begged him to flee and end his involvement with elven affairs.

  There were shouts in the forest, more warriors summoned by the blare of Snarkin’s horn. By the gods, he was going to die like this, pierced by the blade of this leering wretch far away from home. Why didn’t somebody help him? Why was he on his own?