The Exile of Elindel

by Carol Browne

  As Godwin continued to back away, panic flooded his brain and an image, unbidden, sprang into his mind: a hill with a crown of purple flowers and words that made no sense. Yet, one word floated uppermost on a sea of desperation. He couldn’t resist the need to speak this word.

  Under his breath, he gasped, “Taranuil.”

  Like a startled animal torn from sleep, the sword tensed in his hand. Its edge took on an eldritch gleam, as though fresh from the forge. Still edging backwards, he drew the blade across the pad of his thumb. He could see its lethal trenchancy, yet the blade was blunt to the touch. How could this be?

  Godwin’s enemy moved in for the kill, and as he sprang forward, Godwin prepared to meet a painful death. He raised his sword, convinced it would be his last act on the earth. His legs were too leaden for flight. He had no choice but to die, and die well.

  To his utter disbelief, he was pulled forwards. His sword denied his cowardice, urged him into battle, and his veins were flooded with confidence. With impossible ease, he parried the blow that should have struck his head. Cadrinell didn’t have time to strike back. Godwin slashed at him, from left to right and upwards.

  Cries of horror escaped from the elves as Cadrinell’s head was severed from his neck. It rolled several yards and came to a halt, wearing a look of surprise. The headless body fell backward on the ground.

  Godwin was even more surprised, yet he had no time to wonder. He turned to face Snarkin.

  Perhaps watching the fight had put Snarkin off guard. Whatever the reason, as he now raised his sword to threaten Elgiva, he clearly didn’t realise she had edged farther away from him. Seizing the opportunity, Godwin sprang at him, raising his sword, and Snarkin clumsily parried the blow. Deep down, Godwin was glad of this. He didn’t want Snarkin to die without the chance of defending himself. With Taranuil in his hand, Godwin was invincible.

  Snarkin swung at Godwin again. This time, the edge of Godwin’s sword clashed with Snarkin’s blade. The latter broke in two, and Snarkin stepped back in ashen-faced horror. The warriors gasped in unison, while their captain swore with rage.

  Godwin could show no mercy, for they who persecute evil shall prosper. He lunged at Snarkin with all his strength and impaled him on his sword. Snarkin sagged against him, his face a grimace of pain. Godwin pulled the sword from his guts and watched him sink to the ground, excited and sickened by what he had done.

  The warriors gaped at each other, and the captain fought to rally them, but none volunteered to take Snarkin’s place. The elders clamoured, inspired by Godwin’s triumph, but the blare of a horn and loud voices sounded in the forest.

  The captain flashed a cruel grin, as the underwood burst open and a party of armed elves sprang into the glade. Emboldened by the reinforcements, the warriors brandished their weapons.

  Panic seized the eldership, and they snatched up the children and scattered. Tables and benches were overturned in the hope of foiling pursuit. The torches were extinguished and dirt kicked onto the fire. In his frenzy to get away, Haldrin collided with Godwin.

  “Too many to fight now,” he shouted. “Flee!”

  Godwin spun around. Darkness occluded his vision. Objects hurled by the fleeing elves were flying through the air, and dim shapes ran past him, left and right. Eager to help the elders, the dogs milled about, snarling at the warriors and snapping at their heels. Godwin couldn’t make sense of it all.

  Grimalkin charged into the glade and galloped round in a rage. She kicked at everyone, regardless of who they were, and whinnied, “Bastards! Bastards!”

  Godwin looked round for Elgiva, his pulse pounding in his throat, and was relieved to find her beside the fire. She was standing like a statue, staring at the embers. He ran to her side, grabbed her hand, and dragged her across the clearing. She neither complied, nor resisted.

  They passed Grimalkin as they fled, and he whacked her on the rump, urging her to gallop out of reach of danger. The thought that he could have told her to run didn’t register in his mind.

  They ran for a while, and then Godwin stopped to clean his sword on the grass. The weapon was smeared with gore, and the sight of it made his stomach clench.

  There was madness in the forest, cries of panic and promised violence echoing in the night. Soon, the sun would rise again, and hiding places would be few. The rebels couldn’t run forever.

  Without warning, Godwin and Elgiva stumbled into a dell. Its sloping sides were covered with ferns, its edge disguised by willows. Sliding and slithering down the bank, they came to a halt at the bottom. Their nostrils were assailed by the stench of rot, but despite the murkiness and filth, they were well-hidden. Motionless and hand in hand, they crouched in the stagnant water, trying not to breathe too loudly.

  After a while, the sounds of pursuit passed them by.

  “So, that’s that,” said Elgiva. She dropped his hand, and Godwin could sense her anger mounting. “Our allies have scattered in panic. The whole of Misterell knows we’re here and we’ve lost our companions. Why did you drag me away like that? I ran away like a frightened mouse. They’ll think my magic’s all show and no substance!”

  Godwin couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Well, isn’t it?” he countered. He had more than earned the right to give a frank response. “How can you say such a thing, Elgiva? After I saved your life. You used up your strength on magic tricks. Showing off again, by Frigg!”

  “How dare you!” she cried. “I could have put the fear of Faine into all of them!”

  “Perhaps one of us did just that!” he snapped.

  Only a whisper of moonlight penetrated the dell, so he couldn’t see her face clearly enough to gauge her mood. They sat a few moments in silence, and then Elgiva drew a deep breath and ran her fingers through her hair. She leaned against Godwin’s shoulder.

  “I’m sorry, Godwin. You did well. You were very brave. I didn’t know you were such a warrior.”

  “I’m not,” he said, “but what else could I do? The elders were scared, and you couldn’t help me.”

  “You didn’t need my help.”

  Something strange about her tone made Godwin look at her. “No, Elgiva, but . . . ” He searched the dark blur of her face. A feeling of secret amusement seemed to cross the space between them, and his senses reeled with a sudden horror. “You mean you could have?” He gripped her by the shoulders and angrily pushed her away. “By Frigg, you just stood there and watched!”

  “Forgive me,” she said softly. She pulled herself towards him and knotted her hands in his tunic so he couldn’t thrust her away. “There was a reason. At first, it’s true, I’d exhausted my powers, but while you fought with Cadrinell, my strength returned. I decided not to intervene, because, my friend, you doubt yourself and it’s destroying you. I know how it feels to doubt your own power. Now you know how much courage you have. Do you think I’d have just stood by and watched, had you been in any real danger? Can you really believe that of me?” She paused and withdrew her hands. “And now I know, when magic fails me, I need have no fear with you at my side. You made a vow to protect me, and you have honoured that vow. Better than I have honoured your friendship.”

  Silence stretched between them. Godwin felt torn by conflicting emotions, not knowing if he should be angry at Elgiva or ashamed to have doubted her. Either way, he promised himself he would understand elves or die in the attempt.

  “I suppose I should thank you for giving me faith in myself,” he said.

  She shrugged. “I’m only returning a favour.”

  Was that all it meant to her? “But Elgiva, there’s one thing you don’t understand. You see, it wasn’t me. I couldn’t have done what I did without the help of . . . ”

  “Of what?”

  He faltered, expecting only derision for what he had to disclose. “Of . . . ” How could he say it? He didn’t understand or believe what had happened in the glade. He looked away and lowered his voice. “Without the help of my sword.”

  Elgiva laugh
ed at this, but it was laughter devoid of malice. Even so, it made him sigh. To his surprise, she put her arms around his neck and hugged him.

  “Poor Godwin, I am cruel, aren’t I? Wilthkin say such funny things, but silly elves should learn respect. Please, don’t be offended. It wasn’t you I was laughing at.”

  She yawned and snuggled up to him, succumbing to her fatigue.

  “What were you laughing at?” he asked.

  “I sensed it,” she said. “In fact, I’ve always known. Why are you so shy about it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. You own a magic sword.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Godwin judged it safe to leave Elgiva where she slept for a while and venture out to find their companions. It had rained during the night, and the morning air was fresh with the smell of flowers and wet earth.

  He cast a glance back at the dell and then walked a short way across the grass. A path ahead snaked between the trees. It was little more than a ribbon of earth, but he felt a strange compulsion to set his foot upon it and follow it to its end.

  He walked for a while on the beaten track until a nagging doubt made him falter. Perhaps he ought to return to the dell. What if Elgiva awoke in his absence? She wouldn’t know where he was.

  A noise from beyond the trees to his right made him stop and listen. It was the sound of water, a fresh, tinkling murmur that called to his thirst. He left the path and hurried towards it, wading through the bushes, and as he approached it, the sound deepened, hinted at refreshment.

  The shrubs drew back, and he found himself in a tree-ringed glade. Across the glade, a waterfall cascaded down a shallow escarpment. The waterfall, a torrent of silver, plunged into a pool, and the overspill formed a bubbling stream, which seemed to dance across the glade and vanish into the forest. Reeds cooled their feet in the shimmering pool and on either side of the waterfall, the rock face was covered with flowers and shrubs.

  Hastening forward, he knelt by the pool and drank the clear water in grateful gulps. The beauty and calm of his surroundings gave him a feeling of optimism, of hope. He tried to pinpoint the source of this feeling, but it slipped away from him.

  There was movement behind him. He spun around, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Grimalkin approached the pool and lowered her head to drink.

  Godwin relaxed. “Oh, by Frigg . . . it’s you! Must you sneak up on people like that? Where’ve you been, you old nag?”

  “If you’re interested, Brit, I’ve found Trystin. Look, here comes the little whingebag now.”

  The elfling skipped towards them, grinning. He halted at the edge of the pool.

  “Master Godwin, you found it, then?”

  “Found what?” demanded Godwin.

  “The place the wise man spoke of. Faine’s Lynn—the heart of Misterell. Come on, Master Godwin. Let’s climb up here and start our search!” cried Trystin, and he scurried towards the escarpment.

  In hardly any time at all, the elfling had reached the top of the rock face.

  Godwin glowered at him. Damn your agility.Then he shrugged off his irritation and moved towards the cliff. “Trystin, it’s too steep! I don’t think I can climb it.”

  “Plenty of footholds, Master Godwin!”

  Godwin shook his head and began his ascent. The cliff was as sheer as the side of a barn, and the rocks were slick with spray; nevertheless, he managed to scramble halfway up before his strength deserted him.

  “Trystin!” he cried between ragged breaths, “What is the point of climbing up here?”

  “Point or not, I should make less noise,” Grimalkin whinnied from below. “The whole of ruddy Misterell will know what you’re about.”

  Godwin twisted around to hurl an insult at the pony, but his foot slipped and he began to slide. He scrambled to find a purchase, his muscles taut with strain, but he slithered downwards through the plants into the path of the waterfall.

  Then he lost his footing completely and braced himself for the inevitable.

  The impact stunned him for a moment. Trying to regain his feet, he found himself pummelled by gallons of water, and the breath was pounded from his lungs. He lost all knowledge of who he was or what he was trying to do. Blinded by water, he crawled on all fours, knowing only that he needed air.

  All at once, the pressure ceased and left him gasping in a cool, moist shade with red specks flashing before his eyes. Beneath him, his fingers clutched soaking wet soil.

  Gradually, his dizziness faded. He was astonished to find himself kneeling behind the waterfall in a tiny chamber of solid rock several yards in diameter. Though straight, the walls of the chamber looked as if they had been gouged from the rock by some incredible heat. In places, the surface of the stone ran like solidified wax.

  He hauled himself to his feet. The waterfall fell like a silvery curtain, concealing the outside world from his gaze. In his confusion, it seemed impenetrable.

  But he wasn’t alone for long. Trystin, wearing a look of concern, squeezed his way past the waterfall and hurried to his side.

  “Are you all right, Master Godwin?” Runnels of water ran down the elfling’s face.

  “Yes, yes. No harm done.” Godwin drew a deep breath to compose himself. “We’d better continue our search.”

  “No, wait!” Trystin cried. He studied the walls of the chamber, as though he were searching for veins of gold. Then, with a grin of delight, he turned towards Godwin. “Don’t you think this would be a very good hiding place, Master Godwin? Somewhere safe and secret?”

  Godwin cocked an eyebrow at this. “Be reasonable, lad. These walls are solid. You couldn’t hide anything here.”

  Trystin gazed round with an expression of wonder. “But the walls, Master Godwin, they don’t look right.”

  Godwin walked to the end of the chamber and explored the cold stone with his fingers. “Well, no, they’re odd, but they’re still solid rock. If anything lies behind these walls, there’s no way we’d ever find it.”

  Trystin grabbed his arm. “But it must be here,” he protested. “It wouldn’t be out in the open for anybody to find!”

  “How do you know?” asked Godwin. He pulled himself free from the elfling’s grasp. “Look, Trystin, lad, we can’t walk through stone, and I can’t see a door. Can you? We’ll have to search elsewhere.”

  Trystin, however, was adamant. “No, Master Godwin. Where’s Lady Elgiva? She’ll know what to do. Perhaps we need magic to get through this stone.”

  “We’re wasting our time.”

  But the young elf refused to leave the chamber. “Faine loved this place.”

  “No doubt.”

  Godwin turned to walk away, but Trystin barred his path.

  “I can feel his love, Master Godwin,” he insisted. “I can feel it here.”

  The strange and wistful gleam in the elfling’s eyes made Godwin hesitate. With a groan of exasperation, he unsheathed his sword. He suspected that, once awakened, his sword could penetrate anything.

  “All right, I give in,” he said. “If it’s magic we need, then there’s magic in this.”

  “Yes, yes, I saw!” said Trystin.

  “If this won’t do it, will you be satisfied?”

  Trystin nodded and grinned.

  Godwin brought the blade to his lips and whispered, “Taranuil.”

  Convinced his blade would be unharmed, Godwin didn’t hesitate. He walked towards the back wall of the chamber and stabbed at the rock with all of his strength.

  As steel and stone made contact, an explosion of light and a blast of air knocked Godwin and Trystin off their feet. Taranuil sang like a bell and sent shivers up Godwin’s arm until he was forced to drop it. Cries of terror thronged in his throat, but the force of the blast had left him mute. Both he and Trystin shielded their eyes as the brilliance raged about them, and the rush of air sucked the breath from their lungs.

  When it was over, a cold, damp peace filled the granite chamber. Go
dwin got to his feet and stood, catching his breath. The waterfall sounded unnaturally loud, but louder still was the pounding of his heart.

  In the wall of stone ahead of them, a tall, arched doorway had appeared. Beyond this lay another chamber, bathed in a ghostly light. Trystin stood up and grasped Godwin’s arm, and they looked at each other, open-mouthed. Godwin saw his own amazement echoed in the elfling’s eyes.

  Godwin summoned what courage he could and approached the threshold. Trystin followed close behind, his fingers fastened on Godwin’s tunic.

  The chamber was perfectly round with a sunken floor, and the walls were of polished stone. After a brief inspection, Godwin managed to extricate himself from Trystin’s grasp. Half expecting it to sting him again with its power, Godwin retrieved his sword, but the blade was cold and inert, mere metal. He and the elfling shared a look of caution and then, brandishing Taranuil, Godwin returned to the doorway.

  Trystin tiptoed behind him, as though he feared to awaken whatever nameless horror might be lurking in the cavern. Three stone steps beyond the doorway led them down to the sunken floor. There they stood and looked about, waiting for their eyes to grow accustomed to the dimness. The smell of cold stone and damp earth made them shiver in their sodden clothes.

  Though the chamber walls were sheer and round, the ceiling was made of dark, wet earth, enmeshed with writhing tree roots and, here and there, a few fine cracks that let in strings of sunlight. The only feature in the cavern was a pedestal made of polished stone. Godwin and Trystin stepped softly towards it.

  On the pedestal was an oaken casket, bound with bands of iron. They looked at the casket, and then at each other, and then at the casket again. Finally, Godwin straightened himself, transferred his sword to his other hand, and slowly lifted the casket’s lid. He and Trystin sucked in their breath.

  A smooth, round opal, as large as an apple, lay nestled on a bed of white silk, and beneath its milky surface were suggestions of blue, green, yellow, and red. A ray of sunlight pierced the globe, lit up the casket, and bounced off again, spangling the walls with muted reflections. The light flashed and winked on Godwin’s sword, as though they shared some arcane communion.