Elfhunter (20 page)

After Capellion had explained the situation, Ri-Aruin
came down to the stables to see for himself. He agreed that Eros
and Réalta needed exercise and fresh air, but he did not want them
turned out to run loose, for he knew as well as Capellion that they
would soon be gone. "The strangers left them in our care," said he,
"and we cannot lose them. It is not in the manner of the Woodland
to fail in such safekeeping when asked."

"I am keeping them, but I am not keeping them well,"
said Capellion. "They will not stand for it much longer, and they
are worthy animals. It pains me to see them decline. Are they not
better off running free than to be so put upon? When their masters
return, they will hold us to blame if their mounts have wasted from
grief." Ri-Aruin considered the words of his trusted servant. "They
will blame us the more if we have lost their mounts, and my son
must not know that they are here. Allow me to send him on an errand
to the west, to see to our interests there. The horses may then be
used and ridden over the wide lands. That should cheer them. Will
that satisfy you?"

Capellion bowed before the King, his right hand on
his breast in a gesture of submission. Though this was not his
preferred course, it was better than the present one, and he knew
better than to press Ri-Aruin’s generosity too much. "Thank you, my
lord. Hopefully, the chance to exercise and feel the air will turn
them around, though they will still need to be confined. You will
inform me when Wellyn has departed?"

Ri-Aruin agreed to inform Capellion, and then left
the stables. Wellyn set forth a few days later, and Eros and Réalta
could then be ridden and exercised by the Wood-elves. Four of the
best horse handlers were assigned this task, as Capellion still did
not trust either of the horses, especially the wily Eros, not to
slip their bonds and escape. He decided that perhaps it might not
be safe to ride them as yet, so long lines were attached to the
halters, and two handlers were mounted, one on each side, galloping
either Eros or Réalta between them. They did this twice daily, and
Eros’ heart was gladdened, for he was beginning to wonder if he
would ever see the sun and the grass again. He and Réalta bided
their time, being as cooperative as lambs.

Spring was coming on in the wide lands, and though
winter still held dominion it had lost most of its power. The four
Elven handlers mounted up, took hold of the long lines securing
Eros and Réalta, and went forth in the late morning. They
anticipated no difficulty, as the weather was fine, and they were
now well acquainted with their charges. Six horses ran over the
plain as one, heads and tails high. The Elves were enjoying
themselves as well, bent over the necks of their mounts, long hair
flowing, long lines grasped firmly, enjoying the illusion of
control.

Eros blew a great snort through his wide nostrils.
I believe we have convinced them to trust us…that we have
submitted to their will.

Agreed. They are becoming ever more lackadaisical.
They have no idea what we’re capable of. What say we show them
something today?

Eros and Réalta had learned that it was they, not the
handlers, who controlled their pace, and now they matched each
other stride for stride. They stretched their forelegs before them,
eating up the ground, and encouraged the horses that flanked them
to do the same. The four handlers’ illusion was about to be
shattered in mid-stride.

Looks like this would be a good time to give these
riders a thrill. Yes…any moment now…watch THIS!

Eros stopped abruptly, flinging his head in the air
and slamming his forelegs into the ground. This startled the two
horses beside him so that they swerved away, unbalancing their
riders just enough that the sudden hard tug from the long lines
unseated both of them. The Elves hit the ground hard, still holding
on. Stunned and shaken, they clung with grim tenacity to the lines,
but could not hold Eros for long, as he was now practically running
backward, dragging them over the stony grass.

Let GO…of me…you…idiots!

Eros whipped around and galloped as fast as he could
to the south, the lines flailing loosely around his legs.

Réalta had not been idle, either. When Eros stopped,
both of Réalta’s handlers were distracted and dismayed, and sought
to slow him down. He reacted by lashing his head as hard as he
could to the right, jerking the one off balance, then leaping
sideways, nearly colliding with the other, who now had a lap full
of loose line and no control. Then, Réalta showed them all the
speed with which he was gifted.

Just try to keep up with me, you snails! Just
TRY!

The flankers had no chance, and the handler on the
left was pulled from his mount so handily that he actually landed
on his feet for a moment. But of course, he could not hold the
speeding, leaping Réalta, who then found himself held by only one
white-faced but determined Elf. The two of them raced along the
wide valley, leaping over stones, Réalta like a streak of silver
flame unfettered by a rider. He drew ahead of the Elf ’s mount,
straining at the line until the handler needed most of his strength
just to hang on.

I believe it’s time we parted company…

Réalta swerved to the left, and the line went slack
as the Elf turned it loose. He would not have remained mounted
otherwise. Réalta turned and went after Eros, catching him easily,
for he had slowed to a trot.

Eros lifted his head and gave a loud call toward the
stables. Capellion heard it with some dread, for he was very
intuitive and perceived Eros’ message clearly:

You have been as kind as you could be, worthy Elf,
but we hold the mastery. Our duty is plain, as was yours. Only one
of us could succeed.

Though Eros did not know where Rogond had gone, he
would not stop until he had found him. At last he was free to go
where he would. Réalta, who was having similar thoughts concerning
Galador, was fussing over the troublesome halter with its dangling
long lines. Soon they would deal with that problem and set about
finding their masters.

The grass is coming on,
thought Eros.
We’ll
be just fine.

It took the better part of nine more days for the
Company to see daylight again. Dwim’s instructions (complete with a
hastily-drawn but reasonable map) had proven invaluable. The
journey was not without its perils; Dwim had warned that the path
they would now take was occasionally traveled by Ulcas as well,
increasing the likelihood of an encounter. With that in mind, the
Company proceeded with the greatest caution, thankful for the torch
light that would at least prevent them from pitching forward into
some abyss.

Not even an enormous party of well-armed Ulcas could
have dampened Rogond’s spirits. The Company rejoiced with him, as
he had learned a great deal from the dwarves concerning the history
of the woman he believed to have been his mother. As soon as he
could manage it, Rogond intended to travel south to Cós-domhain to
learn more from this dwarf named Farin, and perhaps fit a few more
of the missing pieces into the mosaic of his personal history.

Now, though, there were other pressing matters at
hand. The road to Mountain-home still stretched before them, and it
would take a while to get there. Then there was the question of how
they would proceed after that. Rogond had no doubt that Gaelen, at
any rate, would want to take the most direct path that would lead
her back onto the trail of her enemy. What would lead her to that
path was as yet unforeseen.

Galador walked quietly behind Nelwyn, lost in
thought. The mishap with the dwarves had unnerved him, as he had
little doubt that Noli, the leader of the group from the Northern
Mountains, would have ordered him killed had it not been for
Rogond. The strife between the Elves of Eádros and the dwarves of
Rûmm was bitter, and neither kindred had forgotten it.

Galador now anticipated Rogond’s desire to travel to
Cós-domhain, and he was concerned. He wouldn’t have admitted it,
but he was reluctant to enter this greatest of all underground
dwarf-realms. Because he was of the Eádram, he feared he might
encounter the same dislike from the dwarves of Cós-domhain. Though
neither they nor their ancestors had anything to do with the fall
of Eádros, dwarves were likely to share enmity in defense of their
own. When he had the opportunity he would speak to Rogond about it;
perhaps his friend could reassure him.

The other thought gnawing at the back of Galador’s
mind was the growing fascination and friendship between Rogond and
Gaelen. Surely, Rogond knew that binding himself to one of the
Elàni was ill-advised, yet Galador knew the looks cast at Gaelen
for what they were. He should never have let her minister to Rogond
during his illness—her songs carried power that she probably didn’t
even realize. If Galador was any judge, his friend’s heart was now
completely and irretrievably lost to her.

Gaelen, for her part, did not appear to reciprocate
in the same manner, but she was fond of Rogond and obviously
enjoyed his company. Galador worried that this friendship could
escalate, knowing it could only end in tragedy for one or both of
them. He was reluctant to speak with Rogond about it as yet, but
knew the time would come soon. When it did, Galador would be forced
to reveal a very old and painful part of his own past.

One of the things Galador and Rogond had in common
was the fact that neither knew very much about the history of the
other. In Rogond’s case, this was because he knew almost nothing of
it himself, whereas Galador had simply never elaborated much on his
own lineage or what had happened to him in the last
several-thousand-or-so years that he had been alive. Rogond had
noticed that his friend often seemed distant and somewhat
melancholy, and that he had only rarely joined in merrymaking until
the advent of Nelwyn. Rogond was glad that Galador had found such a
pleasing diversion, as he sensed that his friend had been a
solitary wanderer for much of his life.

It had not always been so.

As he walked in silence beside Rogond, Galador’s
thoughts could not help straying back to the lost realm of Eádros,
the place of his birth. Because of his love for a mortal woman, he
had been banished from that beautiful place—sent far away from his
friends, his family, and his home. He had never opened his heart to
anyone since. The pain of his loss had been so bitter that, until
he had come upon Nelwyn that day by the river, he had thought never
to love again.

Now he saw his friend Rogond about to stray down the
same path, but didn’t know how to dissuade him. He was reluctant to
reveal this most intimate and heart-wrenching account of his
past.

He closed his eyes for a moment, recalling the
security and splendor of the realm of Eádros, where he had once
stood in high favor. His skill at arms, tempered by a gentle
nature, had endeared him to the hearts of the King and the ruling
council, and so he was often sent forth as emissary. His words were
well chosen, and he was strong and swift. He had traveled to the
other Elven-realms, and was sent also to help maintain relations
with the various tribes of men.

Galador glanced over at Rogond, who was now his
closest friend. Because of his role as ambassador to the realms of
men, he had come to know them. He appreciated them from the
first—far better than did most of his kindred—viewing them with
both compassion and admiration. They accomplished much in their
short span of years. Beset constantly by enemies, they dealt with
pestilence and the decline of their bodies with age, yet they sang,
danced, and loved one another in joy. Always, death stalked them.
Their time in the world was as a single firebrand that kindles,
burns brightly for a brief time, then fades and dies in the grey
twilight. They would never know the seemingly endless span of days
that he and his kindred enjoyed, just as he could not know or
understand their mortality—or the fate that awaited them after
death.

Galador had always known that Elves and men should
not intermingle, but he also knew that awareness of what
should
be does not always govern the choice of one’s heart
as to what
will
be. The growing attraction of Rogond for
Gaelen had brought back memories that he would have preferred to
keep buried deep within, though he had never been truly successful
at escaping them. He would never tell Rogond all the details of
this most distressing part of his history, but he intended to
impart enough that his friend would take the warning and pull back
from Gaelen before he had gone too far. If Rogond would not listen,
Galador would talk to Gaelen herself. After that, the choice would
be theirs, but at least they would be armed with the foreknowledge
he had lacked.

If Galador had been aware that his life would be
shattered when he first cast eyes on the mortal woman named
Gwynnyth, he would have set himself on a different path. But she
had seemed so fair, and of such a pure and innocent nature, that he
had been drawn into a hopeless, tragic, misguided bond resulting in
naught but pain.

In those days, the Elves of Eádros were not
well-disposed toward any of the kindred of men, some of whom had
stood in battle beside Lord Wrothgar. King Doniol of Eádros, in
particular, mistrusted them. Yet Galador wondered…if the Elves had
afforded more protection to the children of men, might they have
resisted the influence of evil? They were set upon from all sides
by the minions of Wrothgar—who could blame them for giving in?
Galador had never really approved of the King’s attitude. It was
all well and good to feel superior when Cuimir the Beautiful sat at
your right hand. Cuimir, one of the original seven magic-users, was
an ancient being whose enlightenment had graced Eádros from the
beginning.