Elfhunter (3 page)

Gorgon Elfhunter rested in the rocky scrub along the
river bank, shaded by the long, windswept branches of an ancient
willow, still basking in the satisfaction of his recent ‘kill’. The
suffering of Elves was about the only thing in the world that
brought him pleasure—that, and the bizarre habit of inflicting
scars upon his own flesh with his own blades. He settled back,
unconcerned, confident in his ability not only to remain concealed,
but to evade pursuit. After all, he had always made certain that
those few who saw him clearly did not live to tell of him, hence he
preferred to strike the Elves down as they traveled alone or in
pairs.

He was as cunning as they, but larger and stronger,
and his heart was filled with hatred of them and lust for their
blood. He could point to every single one of his battle-scars with
pride, knowing that the ones who wounded him had been far beyond
healing when he had finished with them. It pleased him especially
to see the look of horror on their faces when he revealed his true
nature at the moment of their deaths.

He drew forth the short-sword he had taken from the
Wood- elf, the foolish one who had been so concerned with trying to
pull his dead companion from the fire, examining it in the dappled
light. “Turantil. Tooo-rran-teeeel,” he purred, reading the Elvish
runes engraved in the pommel. The name meant “Scourge of the
North”. He chuckled, remembering the pathetic struggle its owner
had put forth. “Not much of a scourge, were you? Well, no matter.
You will certainly have the chance now, my pretty, pretty blade.”
He replaced the sword in its beautiful scabbard, thrumming deep in
his broad chest like an enormous cat. Soon, he would rest.

He had lurked in the world long enough to have heard
some of the stories about him—tales of his marauding came mostly
from men, and even the Ulcas knew of him and feared him. Gorgon had
no love for them either, and usually killed any he encountered as a
matter of convenience. Ulcas were beneath his contempt—stupid,
mindless creatures with little will of their own.

Gorgon spent much of his empty life in solitude deep
under mountains, for such was his place of comfort, resting and
planning his next foray. Sometimes, when pickings were lean, he
would lapse into a state of torpor, usually while clutching a
weapon or other reminder of a long-dead enemy. He stopped killing
only long enough for people to doubt his existence, as he dreamed
of the deaths of a thousand Elves. Then he would awaken, travel to
his next killing-ground, and the tales would come alive again.

He had discovered the pleasure of carving his own
flesh long ago—first cutting away his right ear and then his left,
bit by bit. Now hardly an inch of his filthy, greyish flesh was
left unmarred. His nose was a flat lump of misshapen cartilage with
wide nostrils, his pale eyes gleamed from folds of scarred flesh.
He felt no pain that he could not endure, and he knew no fear
except that his life would end and he could kill no more. That was
a thought he could not accept so long as Elves walked, sang their
songs, and breathed of the free air.

Eventually, the creature would have to come out of
the river. Gaelen reasoned that he would not go far, for he was
clearly visible as long as he traveled by water. She had guessed
that he would not spend long in the open if he could help it.
Because they did not know on which side of the river their enemy
would disembark, the Elves knew that they must track along both
riverbanks for signs of the boat. If their enemy came ashore, they
would know.

The first difficulty would be in getting one of them
across the river, for although they both swam well, the swift water
was far too cold. They decided to seek out the rest of the
fishermen, tell them of the fate of their kin, and ask their help.
First, they returned to the fallen ones and tended to them. They
wrapped the bodies respectfully in their cloaks, laid them side by
side, and covered them with dead winter leaves to hide them from
unfriendly eyes. Then they went looking for the settlement.

They found it easily enough—several small, thatched
earthen dwellings along the riverbank. They looked crude, but warm
and comfortable. Gentle fires glowed from within, and a large rack
of drying fish had been suspended over a bed of smoldering coals
outside. There were boats, nets in various stages of mending, and
other signs that a hardy people dwelt and thrived there.

Fisher-people were found along most of the flowing
waters of Alterra. Some were men, while others were smaller,
web-footed, secretive creatures known as Currgas. This was a
settlement of men—honest, hard-working, and generally harmless.
They would be wondering why their slain kinsmen had not returned,
as it was raining again, and the wind promised a bad storm by
nightfall.

It would probably not do for Gaelen and Nelwyn to
appear from out of nowhere, for Elves would undoubtedly seem
strange to these folk. It would be safer and wiser to approach
cautiously, one at a time. Gaelen, who wasn’t as tall as Nelwyn,
wrapped her cloak about her, stooped over like an old woman with
her hood hiding her face, and limped slowly toward the warm bed of
coals. She leaned upon a walking-stick of yew wood that she had
fashioned from a downed limb and stood near the fire, apparently
trembling with cold, making herself as small as possible to the
eye. Nelwyn stood hidden nearby, an arrow fitted to her bow. She
would give Gaelen time to escape if things went amiss.

The strange, huddled figure drew the attention of the
fishermen at once, and several of them came out of their dwellings,
approaching with some reluctance. One called to Gaelen in the
common-tongue:

"Old woman! Who are you, and what is your business
here?"

Gaelen answered, for she knew the language that was
used by most of the men of Alterra. "I should think, with such
weather, that my intention to warm myself would be obvious. I mean
no harm to you or your folk. However, I bear news that you will not
find pleasing, and I must now ask if I may speak to you without
fear."

The fishermen considered for a moment. They were very
wary of Gaelen now. They didn’t like the sound of bad news coming,
and they sensed that she was not as she appeared. She could not
disguise the Elven ring and clarity of her voice, even through the
wind and the rain.

"No old woman ever had a voice like that. Perhaps she
means to harm us, as she is not what she seems," said one.

Another replied, "If she had meant to harm us, would
she have appeared so openly and without a weapon in hand? We could
so easily kill her. What news does she bring, and why bring it, if
her intent is to harm us?"

"Weapons can be hidden," said a stout, bearded man
who appeared to command respect from the others. He straightened
and raised his bow, fitting an arrow to the string. (Nelwyn drew on
him silently.) He called out: "Show yourself, for you are not as
you seem. Then we shall decide your fate."

In reply, they heard Gaelen’s soft, clear voice
singing in the Elven-tongue. A mournful song, more beautiful than
any they had ever heard, rose above the sound of the rain. The
archer lowered his weapon, transfixed. The men stood astonished as
Gaelen rose to her full height and, still singing, cast back her
hood, revealing the light of her eyes. Though still grieving for
her friends and weary with traveling, she radiated strength and
purity of purpose. The fishermen had, of course, heard songs and
tales of the Elàni, but they had never before known them or been
among them. The song filled their hearts with both sadness and
longing, so that they wished for it never to end, but knew if it
did not, the sorrow in the song would consume them. When Gaelen
stopped singing and held out both of her empty hands to show that
she held no weapon, they remained as though frozen in a kind of
fearful trance.

It was then that Nelwyn appeared at the edge of the
trees, bow in hand, hood thrown back. She called to them: "Will you
hear our tale? Choose now, or we will be gone."

The sight of Nelwyn, who was undoubtedly the most
beautiful creature the fishermen had ever beheld, broke them from
their trance. They knew then that they were in the presence of
Elves, and they bowed in respect and reverence.

"Most fair bearers of ill news, please come and be
warm and dry, and we shall hear your tale," said the archer,
indicating the largest dwelling.

Inside there was warmth, light, and shelter from the
wind. Several young children huddled together on the far side of a
great wooden table set with small oil-lamps. The Elves were invited
to sit there with the men-folk of the clan. As they removed their
wet cloaks and hung them near the fire, the men and women marveled
at their fine leather garments and elegant weapons.

The Elves wore little of ornamental design, for they
were dressed as hunter-scouts of the Greatwood, presently in winter
colors. Their cloaks were grey-brown lined with warm, soft fur of
mottled brown and white that would conceal the wearer among winter
trees or snow- covered rocks. They wore tall, soft-soled boots of
worn, oiled leather. Gaelen’s were brown, Nelwyn’s a dull
green.

Though their clothing was plain, their weapons had
been made by Elven craftsmen and were of the finest quality. The
blades were engraved with runes and images of warriors and
huntsmen. The sheaths that held them were of worn, dark leather
clad with traceries of silver. The fishermen had never seen their
like, nor ever would again.

The bearded archer, named Maleck, seemed to be in
charge of the others. He instructed the women to bring food and
drink, but the Elves did not partake. "Our tale must first be told,
for two of your folk are lost, and you will need to care for them.
We will aid you in this," said Nelwyn.

With great sorrow the fishermen received the news of
their fallen kinsmen and the theft of their boat, for these were
men beloved of many. The Elves sat in silence, eyes downcast, as
their gentle hosts wept for those lost. At last Maleck asked where
his kinsmen could be found, and Gaelen answered him.

"We will show you where they are lying. We tended to
them as we could, but we are tracking the one who killed them, and
we have come here in part to ask for your aid."

"Take us there," growled Maleck. One of the fallen
was the husband of his younger sister, and Maleck wanted to know
all he could learn.

The fishermen bore the bodies back to their
settlement intending to bury them beside their kin. Then they
returned to the larger dwelling, inviting their guests once again
to share food and drink. This time the Elves accepted with thanks,
for they had not eaten a proper meal in days.

The men sat around the large wooden table, their
faces grey and somber. "What sort of enemy killed our kinsmen, who
were no threat?" asked Maleck, at once bitter and incredulous.

"We do not know," said Nelwyn sadly. She then told
the tale of the discovery of the two Elvish brothers and of the
savage nature of the attack upon them. "They were friends of ours,
and we must pursue their killer. For this, we need your aid."

"What would you ask of us?"

"Only safe passage for one of us to the east bank of
the river as soon as light dawns tomorrow," answered Nelwyn.

"And perhaps some provisions so that we may continue
on our journey," put in Gaelen. "We will repay you, if you wish,
with songs and tales tonight, so that your minds may rest from
grief for a little while."

"No payment is necessary," Maleck replied. "You may
take anything we can provide. Even so, I would listen to your tales
and especially to your song. But please...less sorrowful than the
last, for we are sorrowful enough."

Outside, a gale lashed at the small, sturdy dwelling.
Two of the children whimpered with fear of the wind and icy rain,
edging closer to Nelwyn, who spoke words of comfort in her soft,
gentle voice.

Gaelen smiled. "You shall have your song. And it will
be a song of hope…perhaps your fallen companions are still near
enough to hear it as they journey to the Eternal Realm."

Maleck didn’t entirely take her meaning, for it was
his belief that his people were released to the river they loved
upon their deaths, and that their voices could always be heard amid
the flowing waters. Yet he nodded in respect as Gaelen began to
sing.

When dawn came, the grey light chased away the last
of the rain. Inside the warm and comfortable dwelling, the two
Elves prepared to depart after a long but not unpleasant night.
Gaelen and Nelwyn had comforted the people, especially the children
sitting in their laps and at their feet, with tales and songs.
Sorrows were forgotten for a time, and hearts were lightened.

Maleck was now determined to accompany them, but
Gaelen and Nelwyn knew they could not afford his company. They
thanked the people for the bread, honey, dried fish, and clear
water, and set out for the river with Maleck and his brother,
Unvar, who would ferry Gaelen across.

When they reached the boat, Gaelen, Maleck, and Unvar
climbed in. Nelwyn lifted her eyebrows at Maleck, but said nothing.
She would remain on the western bank to track along it, always
keeping Gaelen in sight if possible. The river was swollen from the
last night’s rain, thus the boat might not be brought ashore until
it had gone down river for a considerable way. Nelwyn would need to
run swiftly. She stretched and warmed her limbs in preparation for
the chase, eager to be away. She didn’t much care for the idea of
being separated from Gaelen, but she saw no other way to avoid
missing their enemy. She only hoped Gaelen would dissuade Maleck
without hurting his pride.

As it turned out, it wasn’t so difficult. Unvar put
the boat ashore about a mile down river. Gaelen could see Nelwyn
running along the bank, keeping up with little effort. She gathered
up her light provisions and turned to the two brothers: