by Candy Rae
“So what have you got?” he asked. She smiled and Bob rightly assumed that it was not just the meal that was making her smile; she had found some hints in the book about what they would have to do next.
“These two poems are to do with the past,” Kirsty began. “If I remember right the first one, the Dunfermline one, is about the Maid Of Norway.”
Bob looked perplexed. History of the world in which he was presently living, wasn’t his forte.
“She was the granddaughter of King Alexander the Third of the Scots,” Kirsty explained. “She drowned coming to Scotland to become queen, at least she had been declared queen but hadn’t been crowned yet. Her death led to the Wars of Independence, you know, Robert the Bruce?”
Bob shook his head.
“The Battle of Bannockburn?”
Bob shook his head again.
“Never mind,” said Kirsty. “The second poem is the one we’re after.” She switched on her laptop and busied herself connecting it to the flat’s wi-fi. “Now, as I said, I think the location of the gate here at Rannoch has to be related with the past. The poems are just an indication. It’s a long shot admittedly, but my instinct says I’m right.” She began typing. “Rannoch – historical sites, we’ll try that.”
“I’m asking for information of historical sites in or around Kinloch Rannoch,” she explained. “Mum told me a story once about the day she met Father.”
“They met out on a walk,” said Bob who had shared many confidences with Marian Douglas over the years. “Your mother likes to walk.”
“That’s right. Mum used to have a timeshare here, she came every year with her parents and when they died she used to come on her own.”
“If they met whilst she was out for a walk, the place is likely not to be too far away.”
“Precisely. Now let’s see what we’ve got.”
The first few websites Kirsty accessed didn’t tell her much, so she continued to trawl, but much to her frustration, she was getting nowhere. It was as if her mind, jam-packed full with the events of the day, was refusing to work.
“Try the maps,” Bob suggested.
“Okay.” Kirsty’s fingers flew over the keyboard.
“There’s not a lot here,” she sighed as she perused the map on the screen.
“It can’t be too far away,” he comforted. “Marian was walking, remember?”
It was only when Kirsty had made a list of all the nearby names on the map and entered them into the search engine one by one that she managed to access the information.
“Found it! Must be. It’s not far either so we can go and take a look. It’s called ‘Seamar na Stainge’, which is Gaelic for Chamber of the Ditch. It’s at Innerhadden; it is a stone circle and is supposed to be Pictish. About a mile and a half south-east of the village.” She frowned. “Maybe it is even older than Pictish, a prehistoric burial mound, Bronze Age. It is certainly built on top of a prehistoric burial mound and possibly associated with the Druids. There are others but this seems the most likely.”
“Definitely sounds promising,” agreed Bob. “Well done. We can take a look in the morning.” He looked out of the window, where the rain was now streaming down hard. He couldn’t see the loch. He most definitely did not want to go looking for strange old stone circles in the wet and the dark, especially in the dark. Enemies could creep up on you unseen when it was dark.
Before Kirsty retired for the night to the bedroom at the back of the flat, she insisted Bob tell her about the gates.
“The Gates? In Old Elfish the word is Ando,” he began. “They are the means by which one can journey from this world into mine and vice versa. They are of ancient make. They are also little travelled.”
“But Lord Arovan, my father, he used them, didn’t he? And you came through one. How do I use them?”
“Your ring, your ruby ring is one of three, that much I know and can tell you. The three are linked, through magic. Don’t ask me how the magic works; I don’t understand it very well myself. The wearers of each of the three rings in the trio are linked. Lord Arovan told me that, if the time came, your ring would make contact with its sister ring in Alfheimr, or perhaps it is the other way round, I mis-remember exactly and you will then be able to pass through the gate and join with its bearer.”
“Okay,” said Kirsty. “I think I can cope with that, but these gates, these Ando, how do they work? What happens when you pass through?”
Bob then began on a long and complicated description about what had happened to him when he had passed through. So engrossed was he in his story that he didn’t notice when Kirsty began to yawn and nod off. By the time his story had wound to a close, Kirsty was sound asleep.
He picked her up and carried her through to the bedroom. There, he removed her shoes before covering her up and leaving her to her slumbers.
Boudica curled up at her feet and prepared for guard duty.
* * * * *
They set out after breakfast the next morning (Bob had got up early and gone down to the shop for provisions).
Kirsty was dressed in jeans, a tee shirt with a picture of a wolf on it, and a blue leather jacket, which was an old favourite of hers. On her feet she wore her best trainers. They were not the most suitable footwear for tramping around muddy fields but they were all she had. On her back was her knapsack, containing some cans of juice, some packets of crisps, and cheese and egg sandwiches, the notebook, and after Bob had insisted she take it, the dagger left for her by her father. Bob was similarly dressed although he had boots on his feet and wore a nondescript brown windcheater. Boudica, of course wore nothing except for her collar. Bob was carrying a long, thin, canvas shoulder bag such as those worn by gamekeepers and the like to hold their shotguns and rifles.
He locked the apartment door and the three of them walked along the corridor and descended the steep stairs to ground level. Boudica found it far easier going down than going up.
“Keep your eyes and ears open both of you,” instructed Bob as they began to walk along the road to the village.
“Of course,” Boudica answered. Kirsty didn’t say anything. She still felt tired, even after eight solid hours sleep. She had dreamt too, horrible dreams, more like nightmares really; of her mother lying chained inside a damp, dark, underground cell with water running down its walls.
“Where to now?” asked Bob when they reached the village. “You know how bad I am at reading maps.” Kirsty did. Bob’s sense of ill direction was legendary. She and her mother had used to laugh about it. Once again Kirsty tried to force her worries about her mother to the back of her mind. Worrying wouldn’t help anyone, as her mum had often told her.
“Over the bridge, up the road, then it veers left. The stones will be on the left.”
They tramped on. Although the day before had been a mixture of sunshine and overcast, with a fair sprinkling of rain and showers, today was bright and dry (so far) although it was breezy.
Boudica ranged ahead. She gambolled around, just like a normal dog, sniffing at bushes and hunting for elusive traces of rabbit holes. If Kirsty hadn’t known better she would have thought she was a normal dog. They met a couple out for a walk with their own dog and Boudica greeted the stranger in normal doggy fashion, wagging her tail and sniffing.
She appeared quite unconcerned and Kirsty drew in a lungful of clear highland air with relief. There was obviously nothing dangerous out here. The Morityaro were somewhere else. Bob had been right; they must be at the Dunfermline gate. Although she was glad they were not here, she was also a little sad. The Morityaro had her mother and now all trace of her would be, quite literally, ‘out of this world’ or soon would be.
Never had a saying been so true.
“Just up here,” cried Kirsty as they topped a small rise in the road and she spied what could be the stones they were looking for. “I can see what must be the stones. I know the Internet site said they were in pretty bad condition, almost destroyed, but this must be it. Parts of the ori
ginal circle do remain, and it’s in the right place.” She made to climb over the fence.
“Kirsty, wait!” said Bob, slowing to a halt. “Let’s just make sure.”
“Sure of what?” asked Kirsty who was setting a foot on the lower strut.
“Sure there is nothing out there,” he said, “and I need a quick word with you first.”
Reluctantly, Kirsty came back.
“What?”
“You need to know a few things,” he said.
“More?” she asked, surprised. “You told me this is the gate to this Alfheimr place, where the Morityaro have probably taken my mum. I have to go.”
“Is your ring reacting at all?” he asked. “It should be if we have reached the right spot.”
Kirsty looked down at her hand.
“It’s glinting.”
“That’s good. We must be close. Is it tugging towards the ruins?”
“No. Should it be?”
Bob took a deep breath.
“This is the ruby jewel, one of three, remember,” he explained patiently.
“I know that. You told me that,” she snapped.
“To get back to Alfheimr it has to be linked to its partner, the sapphire. You need to focus on your ring and tell it to make contact with the sapphire.”
“What? Talk to a ring?”
“It’s no ordinary ring. Just do it Kirsty.”
If Bob had been a religious man he would have been praying to his god, but he was an elf. All he could do was hope that Wielder Zanner’s magical trigger had activated when Kirsty had placed the torc round her throat and it had had time to blossom.
Kirsty sat down on the roadside and began staring at the ring.
Find the sapphire, she told it, find your partner.
The ring burst into a mass of sparkling lights, they seemed to jump up from her hand. They hovered in the air in front of her face.
Find, she commanded.
With a snap they coalesced into a ball of light. The ball circled Kirsty’s head once then sped off behind her, over the fence and up to where the ruins were. There, they hovered before exploding with a pop.
“Well,” said Kirsty. “That was quite something!” She looked at Bob. “Did it work?”
“Yes,” he replied with relief. “I knew you could do it.”
“What now?” she asked.
“We wait. Your ring will tell us when it is time to go, that and the mist.”
“I’ll go up and wait,” said Boudica. “I’ll bark when I sense something.”
“It could take hours, even days,” Bob warned. “Lord Arovan might take some time to get to the T’Quel.”
Kirsty turned a surprised face in Bob’s direction. “I’m going to meet my father?” she cried.
* * * * *
CHAPTER 7
‘And in this mist at all adventures go.’
(Comedy of Errors)
(William Shakespeare (1564-1616))
ARANEL
Aranel and her shield partner Enelya marched with a rank of other elven soldiers of the Fourth Nosse from their headquarter barracks at Nossepresidium to the fortified keep at Nossequel.
The T’Quel was an expanse of magical, foggy mist. The thrum of power could be felt by elves with no magical ability at all – a feeling of unimaginable power ever ready to be unleashed. It was ancient, sinister, dense and silent, emitting a feeling neither of evil nor of good. It just was. It was located in the vale between two of the highest mountain peaks to the north of Alfheimr, the ancestral home of the Elves. The area occupied by the pale grey mist was about eight dragon-lengths wide and about two dragon-lengths high and lay at the southern edge of a high-sided valley.
Few had passed through the mist that was the T’Quel and fewer still had returned, and of those who had, none had told of what had happened on the other side. The Wise Ones had asked of them the questions but had received no answers. It was as if their memories had been wiped clean of the days, seasons or years they had been absent. They didn’t have a tarna.
These days the area around the T’Quel was both frightening and dangerous. Sometimes ‘things’ came through the mists and into the Elf lands. For the most part these ‘things’ were inanimate objects, bits of trees and grasses. Less often the ‘things’ were alive. Strange, peculiar creatures would explode out from within its swirling depths. Some were large, some were small; some were friendly and some were not. Not a few were very dangerous indeed.
They had one characteristic in common; they didn’t belong.
Warriors of the Elf King Huor, Royal Overlord of the Wood Elves, the Tauredhel, patrolled the T’Quel constantly.
In days gone by, these warrior elves had done nothing but watch during their duty season. Occasionally, as they waited, bored for something to happen, the mist would roil then change from its uniform grey to purple. This happened when a ‘thing’ might be attempting to come through. When the purple mist cleared, the ‘thing’ might be glimpsed for a moment before the mist would become purple again. It would envelop the ‘thing’ then dissipate. When the air cleared, the ‘thing’ would be gone and the mist once more returned to its uniform, static grey.
If the foreign ‘thing’ was large and alive, the elf warriors needed only to contain it, to keep it within that indefinable boundary so that it could be drawn back into the T’Quel and away out of sight, if not out of mind.
And so, tradition told them, it had been since the beginning of time. The elves patrolled the area around the T’Quel. This was all that had been required of them.
Until recent years – until, that is, the T’Quel had begun to change.
Nowadays, when the purple mist appeared it was thicker and denser. The elf warriors had to use an increasing amount of effort to contain the ‘things’. More than once an elf warrior had been caught by the mist and had disappeared.
It was also happening more often and the incursion time was lasting longer.
One infamous day, two years previously, no less than thirty huge, vicious reptilian creatures had rocketed through. Half the patrol had lost their lives or had been injured as they had tried to contain them with every ounce of strength they possessed. The commander of the elf patrol had been forced to call in reinforcements to bring the emergency under control.
More had died during the days that followed. Some of the reptiles had broken through the lines and escaped into the countryside. They had had to be hunted down and killed.
In the seasons since that fateful time, there had been many other ‘incidents’. Two had been of reptiles (though thankfully not the giants of the first incursion). Another day had brought with it a large stampede of a herd of unicorns without horns that had galloped off into the surrounding area. They had been moving too fast for the elves to stop them. Once they had been rounded up, they were found to be gentle creatures and many were now grazing in a large grassy area south of the garrison keep at Nossequel and elsewhere. Some elves were beginning to tame and make friends with them. If these hornless unicorns could be ridden, many believed they might become a viable alternative to the free-spirited unicorns native to Alfheimr. Unicorns were very choosy about whom they would permit on their backs.
Only last month, a small group of black cats had emerged. Although small, smaller than the striped native felines, they had, true to their species, evaded all attempts to catch them and had melted away like so many shadows into the nearby forest.
A permanent guard of warriors stationed at the T’Quel was necessary. It was the only way to keep the lands safe.
* * * * *
With understandable caution the patrol marched up through the woods from Nossequel and towards the mountain valley that was the home of the T’Quel, arrows at the ready, hands on sword hilts.
Aranel Cuthalion, daughter of the Elf Lord Arovan, was marching with them. This was her first patrol at the T’Quel and she was nervous, nervous but eager to show that she was worthy of being classed as a warrior.
She
was wearing her uniform of close-fitting tunic, breeches, and half-calf soft boots. A thick felt cap covered her silver hair, a cap that came up to a point in the middle. She was also wearing the standard leather armour; they all wore it, back plates and breastplates with arm and leg guards. The armour was lightweight and supple, its strength coming from the metal studs embedded in a regular pattern giving it a swirly effect. The cap too was strengthened with studded metal figures-of-eight.
Both leather and cloth were dyed in irregular patterns of greens, browns and greys, camouflage gear, the better to be unseen, especially amongst the trees, which were large and plentiful in the area.
Of course, the Magic Wielders could make an elf appear invisible to non-magical folk, but Wielders were few and far between these days, almost as rare as the Whisperers.
Once there had been many Magic Wielders and Magic Whisperers but the Elf Wars, all those generations ago, had been so hard fought and bitter that all but a scant handful possessing the magic had been killed. Even now, their descendants were few and far between. Aranel had met a Wielder once but a Whisperer never, although rumour had it that her father had been a friend of the most famous present day Whisperer of them all, one Afneil of Sillulion.
Aranel had only recently been awarded the accolade of warrior. The youngsters who, with work and dedication, might become warriors were chosen at a young age by the weapons teachers and trained for years to reach the required standard. This summer she had been allocated to her warrior band, her Nosse, the one hundred and sixty or so elves with whom she would eat, sleep, live, and fight until such time as she left the Nosse for whatever reason – transfer, death, old age or marriage.
Being a warrior was a lifework, a calling. Warriors were respected and honoured in Alfheimr, in all five of the Elf Kingdoms.
* * * * *
Aranel was of the Kingdom of the Wood Elves, the Tauredhel, as were most of the others in her Nosse. It was warriors of the Tauredhel who patrolled the area of the T’Quel. The Tauredhel were closely allied with the Orodedhel, the Mountain Elves. The warriors of the Orodedhel kept a close eye on the mountain slopes in which the T’Quel sat. The valley was essentially ‘n’ shaped with the T’Quel in the middle.