“Because it is elven?” asked Adacon, alarmed by the sight of the figure who strode toward them.
“Because Enoa has few peoples that would care to harbor man and gnome in peace—and you seem to have lost all your weapons to the sea,” interrupted a booming voice, accented, deep and gravelly. Surprised, Adacon and Remtall looked to the stranger from whom the words had come. “We are pleased to welcome you to our fertile home, distant travelers.”
“Indeed as much as we are pleased to be on dry land for a spell,” Remtall eagerly greeted the tall elf. Adacon stood speechless; as customary of Arkenshyr he offered his hand to be shaken. The elf took and shook Adacon’s hand, and Adacon used the moment to study the elf’s foreign appearance: he had leaf-color stained skin—Adacon realized with a start—as if his skin was meant to blend with the foliage. The elf wore little clothes: a thin russet tunic hung loosely, falling as low as mid-thigh. To Adacon’s shock the elf was barefoot. His hair was raven black, like the whole of his irises, and his face was deeply carved from a slim symmetrical nose that ran its length equal to a scar along his cheek. His eyebrows were thin but long, and they curved a sharp point near their middle. Adacon looked to the elves ears, searching for the characteristic points as he’d seen in books: to his surprise the ears were barely pointed. Exaggerations, Adacon thought—though his ears were distinctly drawn back and away from the head, giving the illusion of a point.
“Forgive him—he was a slave, and has never seen an elf in his life, as you might have guessed,” Remtall said, covering for Adacon’s rudeness in having stared so long at the elf.
“Adacon, I presume,” the elf said.
“Yes! How do you know my—”
“And Remtall Olter'Fane, fair captain of the gnomen fleet,” the elf said, interrupting Adacon. Remtall and the elf embraced in a strong hug.
“We are greatly appreciative for your welcome here, though we’ve lost any offerings of gratitude to the Kalm, as you may already surmise,” Remtall said. He gripped up his flask and took a celebratory drink.
“Forget excessive pleasantries, as Krem the Vapour has enlightened the elves of Carbal Run to your task and purpose. And know that we, the jungle elves of Carbal, embark astride the task of sustaining your errand,” the elf replied. “I am Iirevale of Tuhrn Falls, son of Tuhrn.”
“Glad to meet you, Iirevale,” piped Adacon, finally breaking his paralysis. Just then, from behind Iirevale, strode forth a young elven woman, carrying yellow-white fruit. Once again Adacon stood dumbfounded—this time more so than before; he could not believe the beauty of the elven woman: her raven hair hung long, streaked of silver light, about her supple frame; glimmering bits of gold sparkled on her skin, faintly reacting with dew-streaked rays of the sun—but even bits of gold sparkled in her eyes, he thought, as he pored at her through hanging particles of starry mist. She was as loosely dressed as the male elf, yet her body was pronouncedly different: Adacon stared at her strange curves, running from her muscled thigh to where they climbed the arch of her lower back; her shaped chest drew him from there, and led him to her serene face, more elegant than any Adacon had ever seen. Her nose was like the man-elf’s, a smaller version thereof, more slender, rolling down to stop before pink lips.
“A bit unrefined, this boy—pardon him,” Remtall chuckled, noting Adacon’s odd manner of staring at the elven woman’s body. “Was a slave of Grelion’s, my dear—forgive his wandering eyes.” The elven woman stood next to Iirevale and returned Adacon’s crippled gaze.
“Welcome to Carbal Run, freed slave of the west,” the woman placidly greeted Adacon with an accent like Iirevale’s, but more refined, nurturing.
“And…” Adacon tried to respond, slipping off momentarily before regaining his composure, “and you too, sweet lady.” Adacon struggled to recall the courtesies Remtall had taught him to use in the company of women.
“You will find your stay here enjoyable I hope, though it is much different than your home country,” the elvish woman said. “I am Calan of Tuhrn Falls.” Adacon extended his hand as he had with Iirevale; Calan shook it, but Iirevale laughed, and Remtall burst out as well, looking up for a moment from his flask.
“Have I done something?”
“No,” Iirevale replied. “It is just in the difference of customs we find humor.”
“What do you mean?” Adacon replied nervously, distracted by a sweet fragrance that rolled from Calan, or perhaps the fruit she carried, some mixture of dew and sugar.
“Carbal elves embrace in meeting, while men of your country are formal and shake hands,” Iirevale explained.
“Elves hug, Adacon,” Remtall filled in. Suddenly, seemingly unprovoked, Remtall fell over; his small frame collapsed hard onto the grass. The elves watched in bewilderment; Adacon cringed. “Pay me no mind, it’s just the liquor,” the gnome immediately reassured. All of them laughed, and suddenly Calan promptly hugged Adacon to put him at ease, as he appeared tense, as if he had done something egregious by shaking hands. As she touched him, her warmth flowed through him, and he was made to feel as water; wobbliness momentarily overtook him, and he thought he might follow Remtall to the earth, but as quickly as the warmth came, it disappeared, and she released her embrace.
“Though we wish to keep your presence and honor it with greetings and celebration, your task does not allow it—the Feral Brood march south from the North Country, and already at the border is war,” Iirevale grimly proclaimed.
“War, already? And here?” roared Remtall, reinvigorated, bouncing up from the ground where he had been lying with his flask.
“Sadly; it is Enoa’s greatest city, Erol Drunne, that the Feral Brood ravages this dark hour,” Iirevale said. “None dare enter that fair city—not before the front is pushed back, and the Enoan road made passable once more.”
“But how goes it at the border then?” Remtall railed.
“As you know, our jungles stretch many miles north, and cover hills and mountains alike. Where the great Teeth Cliffs meet the border of our country, a great army of Feral Brood has forsaken our peaceful land. Even across the ocean in your homeland, Vesleathren’s forces march down through the Angelyn pass, once again, as they did nigh a century ago,” Iirevale said. “This time, I’m afraid Vesleathren has managed war on both sides of Darkin.”
“What about our friends? Have you heard news of anyone coming across the Kalm besides us?” Adacon asked.
“I am afraid not, young human. The great Vapour, known to you as Krem, sent word that we should be expecting you and your friend—no others were mentioned.”
“Was Krem here?” Adacon asked, brimming with hope of more information about his magical friend.
“No. A message he sent us through the tongues of the birds of Carbal,” Iirevale replied, and Adacon’s worry over his missing friends renewed.
“How goes the front then?” Remtall demanded, impatient with the elf.
“It is not good, friend Remtall,” Iirevale solemnly proclaimed. “We were unprepared for a war; we have lived in peace too many springs—even the corrosion of Grelion had not darkened our fair country, so far from his oppression are we. Very last of our concerns here has been Vesleathren, whom we thought to be long dead. The Feral came upon us without warning, and sacked our northernmost city Therenglade. From there they took south the Enoan Route, our greatest road, which runs the entire length of Enoa. Since the invasion several days ago, they have hastily advanced. Twice we tried to waylay them, but were forced to retreat.”
“To try and waylay them without Remtall Olter'Fane, high captain of the gnomen Fleet?—there was your mistake; but no more! Let’s be on to them! To the front!” roared Remtall with a fiery passion, and he drank again from his flask with restored thirst.
“The Feral Brood is heavily armored, heavily armed, magically veined. We have not numbers to counter them: even as free men of our country unite with elves, and dwarves of the eastern ranges, we may not stand up to this great force,” Iirevale foreboded.
�
��And what then? What are your plans, pitiable elf? Will you flee to the South? To the beaches of the Persh Wale, so that you may fly from worldly sorrow? We march north—for it is the only task left us,” Remtall fired, and suddenly, several nearby elves came to take notice of the hostile gnome.
“It was our intent, Remtall, to do just that. The beaches of the Persh would provide a haven—but as I said, Krem has contacted us and asked a favor. Be it that we owe him more than is repayable, we honor his demand. It is our task to find safe passage for you to the near front, the Wall of Dinbell, past the great Dwarven city of Oreine. It is there where Enoa’s greatest convergence of hope shall form into an army against evil—the last chance to slow the invasion.”
“Iirevale—when do you leave?” Calan suddenly spoke up.
“Morrow morn, dear sister.”
“Who will go?” she asked, looking to Adacon distractedly. Adacon looked back vacantly; though he was enamored of her, the grim news of war had shadowed his heart.
“All who muster the courage to do so,” Iirevale answered.
“Then I will go, and help in the ways I can,” she replied.
“I cannot stop you, nor can I change your mind—but know that the road is perilous, the destination more so.”
“I understand,” she answered.
“Good. See that our guests are given warm food, and rest. I believe this friend would like some elven ale, so that his vile drop of the West can be discarded…” Iirevale said, finally drawing a smile again. Remtall winked in agreeance. “Be comforted friends; you have in Carbal Post found one more night of rest, before marching north, through all veils of safety. . .”
“I would prefer to leave now—but I suppose a rest would do us well—restock the nerves,” Remtall decided reluctantly.
“Iirevale…” Adacon spoke up as Iirevale departed.
“Yes?”
“We lost all our weapons and armor at sea. What will—”
“Your new weapons and armor shall be ready for you in the morning. Now follow Calan and feast. Enjoy the comfort of safety while you may.” At that moment Iirevale left toward a corner of the small village where two houses twined together into a giant trunk. Calan led Remtall and Adacon toward the floor of tubular house that ran high into the trees.
“We will have a delicious meal—have either of you tasted elven food before?” asked Calan.
“I’ve had more than elven food!” Remtall exploded, thoroughly embarrassing Adacon.
“Excuse him, he is drunk—too much at times,” Adacon said, trying to excuse the gnome’s belligerence without offending him.
“He’s right, excuse my tongue fair dryad. It’s been a trying journey, and I long for your elven drop.”
They followed Calan into the leaf-fringed houses; inside Adacon took a moment to look around: It seemed everything in and around the house was built of living plants—some small and round, some ropy and vine-like, and some very strong, flat and broad. Small tables made of yellow wood centered the room, low to the ground, and intricate sculptures and engravings lined the walls: the carvings appeared to be of weapons, armor, elven symbols, and flora. Small birds and small furry beasts inhabited the house; they went about their business unobtrusively. Soon Calan led Remtall and Adacon to the foot of a vertical hall. Looking up through the mist-clumped air, Adacon could see no summit to the ladder that ran interminably canopy-ward. They stood encased in broad leathery leaves, dressed with dew, preparing to embark up the sky tunnel: Calan climbed first, and fast, showing deft familiarity; Adacon followed, smooth in his own right; Remtall climbed last, clumsily. Sweet greenery ensconced them as they beat up past floor after floor, witnesses to a deluge of colors and mist.
Before long they arrived at a small platform that had an outcrop, and the three took a short rest before continuing higher. Adacon peered out from the ledge, over broad leaves, and already he guessed that they were a hundred yards up. A shudder traced from his spine through to his fingers, and he stepped back.
“Beautiful!” he exclaimed in between gasps for air. Remtall didn’t bother to say anything; he panted meekly, concealing the effort it took him to catch his breath.
“Look there, in the distance: the Pouring Fountain of Granwyn,” Calan pointed out. Adacon strained his eyes, peering deep into the distance; his eyes glanced over the encampment, then farther into the jungle, unable to catch sight of a fountain. Finally he saw a bubbling stream near where Calan had pointed, and Adacon stuck out his finger at it.
“Is that it?” he asked.
“No, here,” Calan responded, and she touched his hand and guided the tip of his finger to the fountain which lay hidden between two small groves amidst tall shoots of grass. Adacon felt a rush of sensation when her hand had grasped his. He beheld the Fountain of Granwyn: a starward plume of water reflected bluish-gold sparkles in its stream, glittering determinedly, dancing somehow clear against the shrouding mists that clouded the air.
“It’s beautiful!” Adacon exclaimed, and suddenly he realized he was grasping her hand firmly, only to be embarrassed and pull it sharply away.
“Yes it is. I hope you will eventually have the chance to see the whole of our land, as there are a great many wonders to marvel at,” Calan smiled, and she led them back to their climb, but not before looking to Remtall, still heaving for air.
“Shall we wait a little longer?” she asked.
“Pah! Never mind a gnome’s wind—nor his stamina as it concerns upward thrusting; on elf, on!” Remtall barked, and finally they were all climbing up again, higher toward a nestled room, safe in the canopy of the Carbal Jungle.
IX: THE ENOAN ROAD
Remtall was the last to reach the summit atop the vertical hall. He came into a leafy room with several beds carved right out of the walls, which were actually the interior of the tree’s trunk. There were several small stools and a table, along with a stove already burning with fire, a pot atop it in one corner. The shiny droplets of mist were still in the air, but inside the room were less than outside, and Remtall could see more clearly. Adacon and Calan were already fast at work preparing some kind of elven feast that Remtall had smelled for the last leg of his climb.
“Smells like a fine supper coming, what are you making?” Remtall blurted out, trying to catch his breath without appearing winded.
“It’s Miew meat, stewed with many different fruits and vegetables found here in the jungle,” Calan explained.
“What is Miew?” asked Adacon, as he helped Calan withdraw utensils from a nearby wooden chest.
“A galloping rover of Carbal Jungle, an animal much like wild deer in Arkenshyr,” she explained.
“It doesn’t concern me what kind of meat it is, just as long as it’s meat all the same. Now where to the elven ale?” Remtall said.
“Ravenous, aren’t you?” joked Calan. “There.” She pointed to a wooden keg in another corner of the capacious room.
“Think I’ll fix a drop for myself—either of you two interested?” Remtall asked, able to breathe without trouble once more.
“No thanks,” Adacon responded, and Calan simply shook her head.
They continued making the meal, with Adacon repeatedly asking what to help with as she went about it. All the while Remtall sat drinking his ale, where he had found a spot on a balcony ledge, extending out from the trunk-room’s exterior, high amidst the jungle canopy. On the balcony outcrop Remtall lit his pipe, and far down below the Carbal Post seemed alive with lights and movement, shimmering hazily through the mist droplets.
“Wonder where that Yarnhoot has got off to…” Remtall said to himself, glancing back inside the room to see how the meal was coming along; he saw Adacon and Calan laughing merrily.
“Be falling in love soon enough, I expect,” Remtall chuckled to himself. “Course that’ll bring the boy his share of lessons.” The gnome sat ponderously and continued to drink his ale, puffing on his pipe when the mood for it struck him. The smell of Miew meat grew stronger, and s
oon the delicious scent was calling Remtall back inside, but not before Wester unexpectedly appeared, followed by Yarnhoot. The two birds surprised Remtall, and he nearly spilled his mug of ale. Gracefully the birds affixed themselves to the carved wooden branch that served as a guardrail for the balcony, and Yarnhoot chirped.
“Good to see you too, friend,” Remtall smiled. “And you, Wester.” Remtall stroked their feathers graciously. “What’s this?” Remtall saw a scroll in Yarnhoot’s left talon. “For me?” He picked up the crunched paper and unrolled it.
“I’ll be damned, another letter from Krem,” Remtall exclaimed, and had Adacon heard the commotion he might have come running out to read it as well, but Calan drew his attention from the noises of the world.
‘Dear Travelers,
The Feral War has begun, and our crusade against Grelion’s slavery is stayed, as this greater evil now attempts once more to sack the whole of Darkin. I battle at the front, at the Wall of Dinbell, and the great armored centipedes of war known as Gazaran breach our lines. We hold their dark force at bay this day, but I cannot descry tomorrow’s fortunes, not even with all my powers of Vapoury. Iirevale will guide you both, as far as he might, to meet me here at the wall. Also, Remtall—I have asked Yarnhoot and Wester to perform a task for me, I hope you won’t mind.
Sincerely,
~Solun Hermit
P.S. I have sent a summoning stone. Use it once you are upon the road. An old friend of mine will bring you aid.’
“A summoning stone?” Remtall gasped. Just then Yarnhoot opened his beak, and inside was a tiny green and red marble. It was not bigger than a pebble, but the colors inside the glassy sphere swirled about, mixing then dispersing as if alive.
“Remtall, come on, it’s time to eat!” Adacon called. Yarnhoot sung merrily and bowed his head to his gnomen master, and after Remtall showed approval with a nod, both condors took flight, off to perform Krem’s errand. Remtall returned to the elven room carved from the jungle ceiling, feeling saddened at having had the company of his condor friends for such a short time. Adacon and Calan laid out huge wooden bowls filled with Miew stew, elven bread, and a light honey-fruit tea native to Carbal.
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