by Candy Rae
“I don’t know,” Aranel answered with a worried frown.
* * * * *
They had returned their escapee to the body of his war party and were settling down for the night.
The messengers had already left for Nossequel and even as Aranel and Enelya settled down to rest they knew that word about what had happened would be on its way to King Huor at his castle at Taured.
To one side of the twin encampment sat the Vikingr, (that was what the out-world fighters called themselves), the other was occupied by elves. Elven warriors and shield partners were patrolling round the encampment and marching up and down the T’Quel in case of further trouble although as Isil had told Aranel, it was unlikely anything would happen so soon after a breach.
Off to one side were two rows of bodies. Eleven elves lay side-by-side, arms folded, dressed in their battlewear, weapons beside them, ready for the funeral pyres which they would begin building in the morning. Likewise, twenty-one out-world fighters lay in a row. They had been stripped of all but enough clothing to keep them decent. The elves were to help their recent enemies bury them, also in the morning.
Reinforcements were due at noon.
Aranel and Enelya were due on watch duty at night’s middle so they were supposed to be getting some rest. Neither was finding it easy to sleep, the excitements of the day were warring with the fighting tiredness and winning.
They were talking about the ‘Vikingr’ dead.
“They think they are in a place called Vallholl,” said Aranel. “Or Valhalla, I’m not exactly sure.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s the Hall of the Slain, they believe they’re around its environs, the hall where their dead go if they are slain on a field of battle. It’s run by the ‘Gods’.” Aranel was wearing her torc again and had been listening in on their conversations since they had got back. “Their accents are so thick it is difficult to make many of the words out.”
“Gods? There are no gods.” Enelya’s voice was derisory.
“Once we elves worshipped them too,” Aranel pointed out.
“And then we found out they weren’t real,” countered Enelya.
“Perhaps. They also seem to know about us. Their leader asked Prince Amras if they had reached Alfheim. The name is remarkably like Alfheimr don’t you think?”
Enelya had to agree. “So we’ve come up against them before?”
“Not precisely,” answered Aranel, “but I think there has been some interaction, in the past perhaps. What they are talking about is, I believe, something that happened in the far distant past. I don’t think any of those that are here have ever met one of our kind before.”
“But what about those graves we found? There was nothing about the ‘far, distant past about them.”
“No there wasn’t, was there?” pondered Aranel, slowly.
“Do you think that’s why they came through, to find the graves?”
Aranel shook her head although, it had to be admitted, she couldn’t explain away the coincidence. “I don’t think so. I think their appearance was as much a surprise to us as it was to them. More so, if anything. We know ‘things’ emerge from the T’Quel. I would suspect they do not. Wonder what King Huor will do with them.”
Enelya didn’t answer but glanced over to where Prince Amras was sitting, his back against a tree. He was staring at them.
“We’d better get some sleep before we get into trouble,” she cautioned. “Prince Amras has his eye on us. Oh blast, he’s coming over.”
Now the battle was over, it was time to recover and reflect. Prince Amras, as was his wont, began to move around the campfires, visiting the wounded and comforting the bereaved. He also always made a point of talking to those new to his command and especially those whose first battle it had been. It was one of the things that made him such a good commander. He sat down at the fire where Aranel and Enelya were sitting.
“Where did they come from?” asked Aranel of Amras, after the prince had settled himself.
The eyes of Prince Amras grew distant, worried. “From the other side.” His answer was vague and enigmatic.
“But where is the other side?” asked Aranel, unsatisfied. “There’s the T’Quel, here in the valley.”
“Indeed,” answered Amras, not volunteering any more information. Aranel thought he seemed wary and uncomfortable.
“But we can go round the edges of it, up the mountainside,” Aranel observed. “The Sky Elves, the Meneledhel, they tell us there is more forest to the north and then there are the Ice Wastes. These warriors that we fought, no elf has seen them there. So where have they come from?”
Aranel was pressing for the answer. She really wanted to know. “Father has never told me much about it,” she continued with a frown. “Why does what comes through only come through this way? Why not at the back or up the valley sides?”
“If you have not been told before, it is not my place to tell you now,” Amras answered. “Ask your father, Aranel. He will tell you what you need to know.”
“But he is not here,” she complained. “He is gone to King Huor, for conference.”
“He will return and you can ask him then. Lord Arovan always said you were the inquisitive one,” Prince Amras said, standing up. “You fought well, young Aranel. Lord Arovan will be proud of you when he hears. He always said you would make a fine warrior. You too Enelya, you shielded Aranel well. Now get some rest.”
Having bestowed the compliments and the order to sleep he left them, on his way to another campfire, one, he was thinking as he walked away, inhabited by elves that would not ask questions he did not wish to answer.
The T’Quel sat, sinister, dense, and silent. Its mists were calm and unmoving.
Aranel did her best to rest but her mind kept up its relentless thinking. She woke in time for her watch – weary, stiff and heavy-eyed.
* * * * *
The next morning the surviving Vikingr were taken to Nossequel where they were held under guard until word came from King Huor about where to take them. A few days later, the orders arrived and the Vikingr were escorted (under a guard bristling with weapons) to a fortified keep not far from King Huor’s palace where they were to be held, in ‘honourable captivity’ until it could be decided what was to be done with them.
Aranel didn’t think the out-worlders would be happy to be detained, however comfortable their quarters might be. From what she had managed to pick up from their conversations, these fighters were free-spirited sailors and explorers, and most definitely wouldn’t take kindly to being kept under lock and key.
* * * * *
The remainder of their time at the T’Quel was uneventful. Although its mist eddied and swirled on occasion, there was not even a faint purple tinge within it.
At season’s end, another Nosse took over from the one in which Aranel served and they prepared to leave Nossequel and return to their permanent quarters at Nossepresidium where the various Nosse units lived, trained and worked when not on active duty. Nossepresidium was a day and a half’s march from the castle that was the home of Aranel’s family and where she had grown up.
Aranel knew she was due some leave time and she intended to visit her stepmother and two little stepsisters there. Her father too, hopefully he would have returned from his visit to King Huor by then. She would ask him to explain more about the T’Quel.
Enelya also intended to visit her family in the east. Two months of freedom was not to be sniffed at. She missed her family.
* * * * *
CHAPTER 8
‘And it shall come to pass, that the day shall arrive when the Tathar shall diminish and the magic of the T’Quel fail. Then must the ten unite from whence they bide and renew the circle. The call shall go out. Warrior shall travel. Warrior shall gather. Warrior shall lead.’
(Saga of Enduin)
HUNTING TRIP
One of the things Aranel had realised early on in her training as a warrior, was all the polishing
and cleaning that it entailed.
“I hate all this,” she complained to Enelya as she rubbed vigorously at a tarnished spot on her shoulder armour.
“You’d prefer to stay out in the forest,” her shield partner said cheerfully, busily stitching at a tear in her tunic. “If you had wanted to do that you should have become a hunts-elf, not a warrior. It’s not that you’re not a good fighter you understand, I’m happy being your shield partner, don’t get me wrong but …”
“My father,” said Aranel by way of explanation.
Enelya understood. A daughter of Lord Arovan could not be a mere hunts-elf. He was a warrior and thus so must she; Aranel was more than a good warrior, every elf in the Nosse knew it. She had emerged from warrior training top of her year group in both ability and attitude. The Fourth Nosse had been delighted to welcome such a promising warrior into their midst and Enelya was proud to have been selected as her shield partner.
“I, I don’t really like killing unless I absolutely have to,” admitted Aranel, sotto voce.
Now, in Enelya’s opinion, Aranel’s father was difficult, taciturn, unbending, and little given to showing either emotion or affection for his daughter, or anyone else for that matter. Seldom had she seen him smile, even on the day when Aranel had been declared warrior and there was some mystery surrounding him. She thought back to her own young days, of memories of her own father and mother talking. What was it? Yes. Snatches of conversation, spoken in half-whispers, secrets she had not been meant, she was sure, to hear; he had gone away.
She wondered if Aranel knew anything about it. She had never said and Enelya had not liked to ask. It had been a long time ago, between the time when Aranel had been born and her mother had died, and the time when Lord Arovan had taken his second wife.
But she must wonder. She must know, or suspect something about it, or, Enelya stopped, remembering the questions Aranel had asked Amras after the battle, perhaps she doesn’t. Do I know her well enough to ask? No, decided Enelya. She’s too reserved, never talks about the days when she was young. Wonder what it was like to grow up the daughter of a Lord?
Enelya herself was of the Land Elves, the Ndoredhel and came from a humble family. They lived in a small village to the east known as Restna, set amongst the tallest trees of the Great Forest. It was as far away as could be imagined from the mountains to the north and the sea where King Huor of the Wood Elves, the Tauredhel, had his huge castle at the coast, a mighty edifice that stood sentinel against sea and storm.
Enelya had never been to King Huor’s palace. High King Calaelen’s palace, the home of the ruler of the Ndoredhel, was a strange palace; at least Enelya had thought so after her one and only visit. The complex consisted of numerous stone-built towers linked by a vast wall, with ramparts, bridges and wooden walkways. It had, it was said, and Enelya believed it, been built in very ancient times, even before the Elf Wars when elf had fought elf; a time of death and of innumerable battles, of valiant heroes, of kings and army commanders strong and weak.
Enelya had chosen, as was her right, to join the Nosse of King Huor of the Wood Elves rather than that of her own kingdom. As a youngling she had desired action and adventure above all else. At least a quarter of the Nosse of the Wood Elves came from out-kingdom.
Although the Wood Elves and the Mountain Elves had a close alliance, and were also on friendly terms with the Sky Elves, the Land Elves held themselves aloof, thinking they had no need of friendship or alliance, being so numerous. Land Elves held, within their psyche, a belief in their superiority over all others.
Enelya didn’t think she had ever met a Water Elf, so rarely did they visit the mainland.
She laughed at herself. Why was she troubling herself with the problem of alliance and friendship? She was only Aranel’s battle partner, pledged to defend Alfheimr.
Elf did not fight elf.
These days the Five Kingdoms were at peace.
* * * * *
Six days later, after this conversation, Aranel was back home in her father’s castle at Tanquelameir.
Enelya had gone home too.
Aranel found it a bit difficult adjusting to civilian life after her time spent with her Nosse, especially after the battle with the out-worlders. Elves had died during the fight, elf warriors she hardly knew after being a member of her Nosse for such a little time, but she grieved all the same.
Her father, when they talked, told her it was natural that she should.
“It would be unnatural if you did not,” he told her as they watched the starry night from the window of the high tower. This room was one of Lord Arovan’s favourite places and Aranel knew she could always find him there late, when everyone else had retired to their bedchambers.
It was the room, she had learned recently, where her father had spent a lot of time with his first beloved wife, Aranel’s mother, who had died when Aranel had been very young.
Lord Arovan never spoke much about her and Aranel had never asked, but now she felt she wanted to know. It was as if her recent experiences had somehow jolted her out of her non-interest when younger.
“What was my mother like?” she asked suddenly.
Lord Arovan’s slow gaze rested on his daughter for a while and he smiled.
“I knew this time would come someday,” he said.
“I never quite liked to ask before,” she admitted. “You’ve never volunteered much about her.”
“She was very beautiful and I loved her very much.”
“But what was she like?”
“Very much like you,” was his surprising answer.
“Is that why you never talked about her to me? Do I remind you of her too much?”
Lord Arovan sighed.
“No, it’s not that.”
“What then?” she pressed.
“They were difficult times and until now, now that you are older, you would probably not have understood.”
“Understood what?” Aranel asked, perplexed. “Mother died, I know that, the servants told me when I was very little, but they wouldn’t tell me any more. I suppose they thought it would upset me.”
“It was not that,” her father said. “They had orders not to discuss it with you.”
“Why?” demanded Aranel.
“Sit down, Aranel. If you’re old enough to ask, you’re old enough to hear about it.”
He paused to collect his thoughts. He was standing in front of the window, a tall, erect silhouette against the stars. Aranel sat down and prepared to listen.
“It is perhaps a good thing that you know at least something of what has been going on in recent years. If anything happens to me you will have to take the burden on to your own shoulders. You are very young though, and I hope the burden will not be yours for many a long day.”
A wide-eyed Aranel was listening hard. Her father’s words had sounded ominous and she began to feel frightened.
“Your mother did not die of a sickness,” he said, ignoring his daughter’s gasp of surprise, “she was killed. I have never discovered those who did it nor who ordered the kidnapping, though I have asked and searched high and low.”
“Why was she killed?”
“Because of who she was,” he replied enigmatically. “Good and evil are not clear-cut Aranel. There are people who talk sweet words but plan bad things.”
“Are you saying mother was evil?”
“No, she was goodness personified. She was talented, intelligent, and above all she loved me, and you, and ...”
“And?” prompted Aranel.
Lord Arovan looked at her; it was as if he was looking deep into her soul. Despite herself, Aranel shivered.
“You have a sister, an older sister. Your mother gave her life to save her.”
“I have a sister! Is she still alive? Where is she? Why don’t I remember her?” The words were tumbling from Aranel’s mouth.
“You were still in your swaddling clothes,” he answered.
“Is she alive?” Aranel repe
ated.
He nodded. “She is hidden from those who want her; to use her abilities.”
“Use her?”
“Yes. Your mother had a large amount of magical talent and the indications were that your older sister had this talent as well, potentially a very strong Whispering talent. Whisperers are, as you know, a very rare breed. Someone found out about it and gave orders to kidnap her. Your mother died saving her. I arrived too late. I decided then that your sister must be hidden.”
“Where?” Aranel demanded.
Lord Arovan shook his head. “It is safer that you don’t know, not yet.”
“These elves, the ones that killed mother, they’re still out there?”
“Yes, and they are still looking for her. A Whisperer is a very valuable asset; they are powerful and very rare. To have a Whisperer in your power, to train her, to make her do whatever you wish. I would do anything to protect my children but I am one elf, my estate is relatively small and I have a limited number of retainers. Who could I go to for protection for her? I did not know who was behind it. I could have gone to King Huor but something held me back. The court at Taured is a public one. I thought it best to keep her location my secret.”
Aranel understood. Whisperers could charm birds out of trees, could make an elf do things against his or her will. They were as rare as sidhe dust.
“I will find them and kill them,” she said in a fierce voice.
“You are a warrior,” he agreed, “as am I. We think the same way. Learn your craft well Aranel and then, when you are older, we shall go hunt them together you and I. Until then I will continue to search and to look for answers to these and other questions.”
“Answers as to why the T’Quel incursions are growing more frequent?” hazarded Aranel.
“Yes, among other questions that require answers. Now, it is late and you should seek your bed.”
It was a dismissal and Aranel rose from her chair.
“Yes Father,” she said and made for the door. As she opened the latch, she turned. “Can we talk more tomorrow?” she asked.
“I thought you were going out hunting?”