Elfhunter (11 page)

The Company straggled onto the bank, tearing the
wretched things loose from their flesh and grimacing. Gaelen was
unsteady on her feet, as was Galador, for they had each taken
several envenomed bites. Nelwyn had been bitten once, on the back
of her right hand, for her clothing covered most of the rest of
her. Rogond vaulted from his horse and ran to aid them.

"Stay away from…from the water," said Gaelen as she
sagged down onto the pebbly shore. The creatures were still there,
lashing and writhing, frustrated at having been denied their prey.
They turned upon those that had been wounded by Gaelen’s blade; it
was all they would get this day. A few attempted to wriggle out of
the water, but decided differently, and at last they retreated.

"I have never heard of them to come so far north,"
said Nelwyn sadly. "This is ill news!" Indeed, it was. It was
fortunate that Gaelen and Galador had taken only a few poisoned
bites, for even Elves may be killed if enough venom is given
them.

"It’s terrible news," Gaelen agreed, breathing hard
and trying to remain alert. "They have finally made their way here
from Tûr Dorcha. Next they’ll be swimming right into the
Elven-hold."

Rogond was aghast. "What
are
those things? I
have never seen them before."

"Then you’ve never been near Tûr Dorcha," said
Nelwyn, trying to pry the last of the vile creatures from Galador’s
arm. "They attack anything that moves, but they can only attach to
bare skin. The hair on the legs of horses will foil them, as will
clothing. But when they entangle their victims and mire them in the
thick slime they produce…well, you saw what happened."

Rogond took one look at Gaelen, whose pale face was
turning a little green. "Are they…poisonous?"

Nelwyn nodded. "Once a victim has been subdued by the
venom, and most likely drowned in the slime, the creatures work
their way inside by rasping and tearing away the flesh, or they
enter through the orifices of the body, consuming it from the
inside out. It’s one of the worst fates imaginable!" She recalled
the hairless, bloated body of an Ulca that she and Gaelen had once
found floating in the Darkmere. Gaelen had actually shot an arrow
into it, believing it was still alive, before they both realized
that it was only moving because it was filled with Úlfar. Nelwyn
shuddered at the memory.

"But…why did you fear for me, and not
yourselves?"

Nelwyn paused, turning from Galador long enough to
look Rogond in the eye. "A single bite from an Úlfa would have
killed you," she said. "Even if very little of the venom entered,
you would die raving with fever, because the bite would fester
beyond healing. Even the greatest healers have found no remedy for
an Úlfa bite—not in a mortal man."

"Thank heaven for the horses’ hairy legs, then," said
Rogond. He looked over at Galador and Gaelen. "Will they be all
right?"

"Hopefully they’ll be able to throw off the effects
of the venom in a day or two," said Nelwyn. "Galador has taken more
bites, but Gaelen is a lot smaller. They’ll both need watching, and
neither will be able to ride unaided." She examined the fading red
mark on her own hand with disgust, but didn’t seem concerned about
it.

While Galador rested, Nelwyn and Rogond cleaned the
slime from him as best they could. Regrettably, his hair had been
sullied; some of the foul substance had dried there, and there
would be no remedy other than cutting it off. He would need new
clothing and, of course, he would despair at the loss of any of his
beautiful long hair, of which he was quite vain.

In the morning they took stock of their situation,
and though things could have been much worse, they were far from
ideal. The going would be slow now, with only two of them in full
possession of their wits. Nelwyn estimated about fifty miles and at
least three or four more days at their current pace. Both Galador
and Gaelen were insensible. Galador rode behind Nelwyn, his head
resting on her shoulder. Twice he had slid to the ground before
Nelwyn could grab him. Gaelen had finally felt the full effects of
the venom, and she rode in front of Rogond, her head thrown back
against his neck. She occasionally moaned and muttered fitfully as
though in dark dreams. That night the chill took both of them, and
they shook uncontrollably as Rogond and Nelwyn tried in vain to
warm them. But in the morning they were much improved. Neither was
in the best spirits—heads pounding, wits still muddled and bodies
aching from the chill of the night. Yet they rode unaided, and by
the time they approached the Elven-hold three days later, they were
more alert and needed little assistance.

They were sighted first by two scouts, friends of
Gaelen and Nelwyn, whom they recognized at once. They called to one
another in the bird-voices used by hunter-scouts, and in a few
moments they appeared: two Wood-elves, one male, one female, both
with long, chestnut-brown hair and nearly identical light brown
eyes. As they wondered at the newcomers, Nelwyn requested that they
return and tell the King of their impending arrival. With one
backward, slightly mistrustful glance at Rogond, they disappeared
in the direction of the Elven-hold.

The King’s emissaries met the Company as they drew
within sight of the hidden gates. Rogond marveled at how cleverly
the Wood-elves had concealed themselves; he stood on the doorstep
of one of the great realms, yet if he did not know better he would
have taken little notice. Ri-Aruin had improved upon the work done
by his father, and although much of the fortress was below ground
there were hilltop gardens, courtyards, and battlements that were
concealed by the natural features surrounding them. The grassy
hills that lay to the west of the fortress were wide and open.
Rogond could hear horses and the sound of flowing waters.

The source of the Forest River, known as the
Dominglas, was formed by the union of two cold springs to the
north, and it flowed beside the underground realm.

In general, the reception was a warm one, for all had
feared for Gaelen and Nelwyn and rejoiced that they still lived. To
the newcomers they extended every possible courtesy, escorting them
deep below ground, removing the horses to the capable care of those
in the stables.

They were allowed to wash, rest, and dress in fresh
clothing that was provided for them. There would be a feast tonight
in their honor, but first Ri-Aruin had summoned Gaelen and Nelwyn,
as he wanted to hear their news in private.

They stood before him, lean and somewhat travel-weary
but still bright-eyed and clear of thought, and told him of all
that had passed. He had been especially shocked and dismayed at the
sorry fate of Gelmyr, who had been his honored guest on several
occasions.

He sensed that Gaelen kept something back from her
tale at first—she was reluctant to tell Ri-Aruin that she could
read the eyes of the dead. She did not wish to recount the terrible
tale she had read in the eyes of Gelmyr, but the King needed to
know everything of this enemy, and she relented. Not even Nelwyn
had been privy to all of it, and when the tale was finished, she
and Ri-Aruin looked at Gaelen with new respect.

When they came to the point at which the trail had
been lost, Gaelen hung her head. It still pained her that she had
failed. But Ri- Aruin, though he sometimes found her exasperating,
was fond of her and bade her not be troubled.

"It is more important," said he, "that you have
returned through this peril to tell the tale. We all rejoice that
you are found— let that satisfy you."

But Gaelen said, in a small but clear voice, "I would
rejoice with you, my King, yet Nelwyn and I still must face the
memory of the sight of our friends and the bereavement of their
families. I hear your words, but I do not feel them in my heart."
Ri-Aruin was grieved, knowing that the desire to pursue and slay
this creature would never entirely disappear from her, and that she
would be with her people only for a short while.

There was a feast that night in celebration, for two
thought lost had returned. Both Nelwyn and Gaelen would sit at the
King’s table, an honor they had each received only once before, and
on separate occasions. Of course, one did not decline the
invitation of Ri-Aruin, but Gaelen and Nelwyn would sooner have sat
in less prominent positions among their friends and kin. Rogond and
Galador were invited, of course, and were received as honored
guests, though not at the King’s table. Galador, who was of
High-elven heritage, was treated with great respect, as was Rogond,
for the people of the Greatwood had met and interacted with Rangers
before and considered them to be allies.

Galador looked reasonably well, though in the end
they had needed to trim off some of his hair in spite of his
protests. A bit of rest, good food, and hot water had done wonders
for Rogond, and he looked every inch the noble man of Tuathas. Clad
in Elven-made garments of grey and white, clean-shaven, combed, and
polished, he was so comely that Gaelen barely recognized him. He
was hale and strong, for he had come to full vigor in the prime of
young manhood. His dark hair was held back from his face by a
circlet of silver, and his grey eyes were bright. Yet the tale of
fifteen years in the wild could not be entirely erased from his
face; sun, wind, and worry had left their marks on him. Still,
sitting beside Galador, he could easily have been taken for an
Elf-lord.

Nelwyn was attired in raiment of soft green, her
golden hair set loose and flowing about her shoulders. She also
wore a circlet on her brow, but it was of gold. Her cloak was of a
warm, darker green, and she wore a brooch fashioned in the image of
golden leaves, a gift from the King. She appeared as a morning in
the green of spring, bringing to mind the freshness of new growth
and the return of the sun, as she sat between her cousin and the
King’s son, Wellyn, who was recently returned from a foray in the
lands to the east. He sat at the right hand of his father. Many
remarked on Nelwyn’s beauty; it seemed that she glowed with golden
light.

Gaelen, by contrast, appeared more as a brooding
storm cloud.

She was dressed more for traveling than for
celebrating, in plain, soft leather of very dark grey-brown, booted
and cloaked. As ever, she wore little ornament. Her chestnut hair
was cropped and wild, as though windblown. It was always so, no
matter how she tried to tame it.

Her one concession to the occasion was a brooch that
now fastened her dark red cloak at her shoulder. It was of silver,
shaped as a running horse, with an eye of adamant. Ri-Aruin had
given her this token, and she wore it to please him. She wore no
other ornament, as weapons were not permitted at the King’s table,
but as he gazed at her, Rogond felt that she needed none. The
brilliance and depth of Gaelen’s hazel-green eyes would have
overshadowed all the songs and beautiful words of the Èolar and all
the bright gems and precious metals of the Rûmhar, in his
opinion.

Rogond did not yet fully understand this wild
Elfling—so childlike in some ways, and so sophisticated and worldly
in others. Gaelen was wise, yet foolish, with a heart both loving
and ferocious. He knew that a part of his heart was lost to her
from the first time she sang to him in his need, that he would
never be able to tell her so, and that she would never be his. That
piece of his heart was gone nevertheless. He would settle for being
her guardian and her friend when needed, for as long as she would
have him, and this was reflected in his face. He could not stop
gazing at her.

Several of the Elves, including Ri-Aruin, took notice
of Rogond’s attention to Gaelen, and they were troubled by it.
Galador perceived their reaction, and grabbed Rogond’s arm to gain
his attention, speaking in a hissing whisper:

"Rogond! Do not gaze at her thus. Some of these folk
may be her kin, and they are not looking on you with favor just
now."

Rogond dropped his eyes, but then his gaze was drawn
to Ri- Aruin, who sat tall and proud, in robes jeweled and
embroidered, looking down at him with a rather stern expression.
Even darker was the expression upon the young face of Wellyn, the
King’s son and heir. Rogond bowed his head in respect, as he did
not wish to offend his hosts, and he looked no more upon
Gaelen.

She, in fact, would have preferred his quiet company
to the feasting and merrymaking. The music, no matter how pleasing,
did not comfort her, and she did not sing in spite of the entreaty
of many, including the King. The table of the house of Talrodin and
Halrodin held two empty places, plates that were unfilled, goblets
that held no wine. Nelwyn also took note of this with sadness, and
it was as though a cloud had passed over her face and dimmed her
light as a grey rain in the fullness of spring.

Deep under the Great Mountains, the creature Gorgon
stirred and fretted, locked in a dark dream. He did not often truly
sleep, as his dreams were seldom comforting, but an inexplicable
weariness had come over him, and now the price would have to be
paid. The dream had begun pleasantly enough, with visions of the
Elf, Gelmyr, crying out in pain and horror as he died. But as
Gorgon stood before the now-lifeless body, Gelmyr lifted his head,
and life appeared in his dead eyes once again. He shook his head
slowly, an expression of pitying amusement on his battered face.
Gorgon could neither move, nor speak.

"The circle is tightening around you, and the fire
draws near," said Gelmyr quite clearly, though his bloodied lips
did not move. "Your killing will end and it will be as though you
had never been, abomination of Wrothgar! And when the Elàni learn
of you, they will pity you. They may even deem it worth a song,
which they will sing as they pass to the Eternal Realm, where you
cannot follow. You will not be counted as strong, but pathetic and
miserable, the victim of your own mindless rage. And they will
never fear you again." He swayed gently in the wind as he hung
before Gorgon, who still could not move, though he could now
speak.