Elfhunter (6 page)

"You’re so confident that you can handle this enemy
yourselves. Tell me, Gaelen, have you ever seen real battle? Or is
your experience limited to ambushing stray Ulcas in the forest? Do
you not understand that my wish to delay you is grounded in the
desire to help you?"

Nelwyn’s eyes widened—these were bold questions.
Gaelen stood before them, her face calm. She did not immediately
answer Galador, but set her pack down and unlaced the front of her
shirt. Pulling it aside, she displayed a jagged scar that ran
diagonally from her collarbone on her left shoulder.

"This was made by a blade forged by an evil hand.
Ambushing Ulcas is sometimes a dangerous business. Our people have
been fighting and dying for untold years trying to safeguard the
Great Forest, yet it grows ever more perilous. None of us can be
sure of returning home. In the north it is only safe to travel
because of our vigilance and skill. Ask Nelwyn to show you the
marks of
her
encounters. Our skills and experience are at
least as valuable in dealing with an enemy that hides and strikes
the unwary as those of one who has cut down his enemies in open
battle."

Nelwyn remembered the origin of the mark on Gaelen’s
shoulder. She had come as close to dying as was possible before the
healers had pulled her back. The wound still pained her at times,
and it was not her only mark. Nelwyn, too, bore evidence of the
perils they had faced. True, neither had seen the sort of warfare
Galador was referring to, but they had certainly seen their share
of battle.

Galador was abashed. "I meant no disrespect," he
said, staring at Gaelen’s shoulder. Only a dark blade would leave
such a mark, and he knew what it had cost her. "And you’re right.
Open warfare would not prepare you for this enemy. I wonder,
though, how you will fare when you finally encounter it. Have you
any thought as to what sort of creature it is?"

Gaelen nodded in acknowledgment of his apology. "The
signs left near the boat are confusing. There were traces of some
sort of strange blood left behind. I tried to identify it, but it
is outside my experience. I only know that it is not the blood of
Ulca, or man, or Elf. It is…something else, but whether from the
creature or some unknown victim, I cannot say." She lifted her
light pack from the ground after re-lacing her shirt front, then
slung her bow over her shoulder and turned to Nelwyn.

"Are you ready to depart?"

Nelwyn looked at Galador, who had by now lost all
hope that she would stay but was still imploring her with his eyes.
Nelwyn had made her intentions clear, and she did not waver. "Yes,
I’m ready. Have you made your farewells to the Aridan?"

"No. I would rather not disturb him, as he is
resting. Galador can say our farewells to him when he awakens and
can explain why it was necessary to leave him. He will be all right
with time and care; what he needs most is rest."

She said farewell to Galador and headed out toward
the river without waiting for her cousin. Galador waited until she
was out of sight, and turned then to Nelwyn.

"Since you feel you must leave, I bid you farewell, O
Daughter of the Greatwood. May your steps be swift and your aim be
true. May you both escape the fate that I fear awaits you...I would
look upon you again."

Her expression encouraged him, and he took her in a
stiff, somewhat awkward embrace. Then, with a last "Farewell," he
turned and strode back to the cave so that he would not have to
watch her go.

Rogond awoke in misery some hours later, his head
pounding and his entire body wrung out and sore. He sat up slowly,
groaned, reached for his water-skin, and took a long draught from
it. The cool water felt good going down, but it did little to ease
his discomfort. His friend Galador was stoking the fire. Rogond
noticed that the Elf seemed tense; his movements were mechanical,
not fluid and relaxed as they normally were. He started to ask
Galador about it, but his head swam, and he suddenly felt ill
enough to lie down again. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply
until his head cleared. He opened his eyes again, at first focusing
on Galador.

Then Rogond noticed that Gaelen and Nelwyn were
nowhere in evidence, nor was their gear. He turned onto his side,
trying to ignore the ache in his muscles and the vague tingling in
his hands and feet, which went quite nicely with the ringing in his
ears.

"Where is Gaelen?" he asked, knowing the answer
already.

"She and Nelwyn have gone. You don’t know the story
of how they came to be by the river, and I fear it may distress
you," replied Galador, pulling back his long, dark hair to keep it
out of the fire as he leaned over to tend the coals.

Rogond propped himself up on one elbow. "So tell me,
then. I’m already distressed that she is gone, without even a
farewell." He was pale, still unshaven, and he trembled as he
attempted to remain upright. Galador crossed to sit beside him,
bade him lie back down, and told him all he knew of the Elves’
tale. Gaelen had not left much out; Galador was able to paint a
vivid picture for Rogond, who was dismayed and troubled by what he
heard.

There was something disturbingly familiar about the
story. As a child, Rogond had been fostered by a group of Elves who
frequented the lower elevations of the Verdant Mountains. One
memorable, tragic summer, four of them had died badly by an unknown
hand. They had been set upon, tortured, disfigured, and left to be
found by their horrified kinsmen. There had been the same strange
odor and the same difficulty in tracking. Oh, it had been easy
enough for a while, then the sign would fade and disappear
altogether, as though the marauder had sprouted wings and flown
from their grasp.

There had been other killings, other victims found,
but only the Elves had been so tormented. No one in Rogond’s foster
family could make sense of it; they only knew that this enemy was a
creature of hate. What if Gaelen and Nelwyn approached it armed
only with their slender bows and fine arrows? What if the creature,
in its cunning manner, caught them unawares? Rogond asked three
questions, and received three answers.

"Do you care for them?"

"Yes, of course," Galador replied. "Do you trust
me?"

"Yes."

"How soon can we be ready to ride?"

Galador considered. "Let’s wait until tomorrow
morning. You will have a hard time staying mounted unless you rest
for today at least." Rogond took another long drink, curled up
before the fire, and tried to will his pain to go away. Whether
successful or not, he would be following Gaelen in the morning.

At dawn, Rogond roused himself (he had not slept
well), washed and dressed, shaved off his scruffy beard, and
presented himself to his companion, who was readying the horses and
packs. Galador looked at him in approval.

"You still resemble a walking carcass, but the
shaving has helped. How do you feel?"

"Like a walking carcass. But if I don’t tax myself I
should be all right. I’m anxious to be riding again."

One of the horses, the strong dun, nickered softly at
Rogond. Galador chuckled. "It seems that Eros is eager to be away,
as well.

Let’s hope for a gentle ride."

Rogond’s horse had a streak of mischief in him that
was occasionally inconvenient, but he stood patiently as Rogond
mounted with some difficulty. The horse sensed that Rogond was not
himself and bore him with care. Eros was a fine animal, one of a
noble, hardy race prized in northern lands. He was thick-coated and
proud of bearing, stronger than he was swift, but tireless and
steady. The other two horses were Galador’s own Réalta, a
silver-white grey, more refined and swifter but less powerful than
Eros, and Cronan, a sturdy chestnut pack-horse.

Following Nelwyn and Gaelen proved to be more
difficult than Galador had foreseen. For one thing, the She-elves
were not mounted and could therefore pass obstacles that horsemen
would have to ride around. They could negotiate narrow paths, wend
their way through tangled undergrowth, and climb sheer, rocky
inclines where the horses could not go. For another, they were
swift, hardy, and unencumbered by a comrade whose strength and
endurance were in doubt. Galador didn’t really hold much hope of
catching them so long as Rogond was with him, but neither would he
risk leaving his closest friend behind. He had observed that men
were occasionally quite sensitive about the relative frailty of
their bodies. It didn’t help matters that many Elves weren’t shy
about reminding them; though most tried to be kind, they were often
seen as patronizing. The last thing Galador wanted was to hurt his
friend’s dignity.

Rogond had managed to mount his horse with some help
from Galador, but he could not make speed. He was still very weak,
and Galador feared he would fall if pressed too hard. It fell to
Galador to dismount and follow what signs there were; even after
all this time there was more evidence of the passing of the enemy
than of the two Wood-elves. Rogond trailed behind, keeping a
watchful eye for any who would approach.

As the afternoon waned, Rogond suddenly swayed in the
saddle as a wave of dizziness took him. He leaned over the horse’s
neck, clutching at the thick, black mane, fighting the darkness
that clouded his sight as a deafening roar filled his ears. Perhaps
this had not been such a wise idea, but there was no turning back
now. Galador sensed his distress and was soon at his side, his face
disquieted.

"Are you fit to continue? If not, we can rest for a
while." He shook his head. "You look truly ill, my friend. It makes
no sense to drain your strength in this pursuit. Let’s make camp
and continue tomorrow."

Rogond considered for a moment. Though he struggled
against it, his body probably wasn’t strong enough to continue. Yet
to rest now would mean losing the She-elves, perhaps forever. They
would need his aid—he was certain of it. He bit his lip, the pain
bringing his thoughts back to clarity and his vision into focus. He
knew that Galador would stop rather than risk his friend’s return
to health. Rogond would just have to convince him.

"I feel my strength coming back…I’ll be fine to ride
yet awhile. We dare not wait, Galador. You know it."

"Yes, they have gained ground on us since this
morning, and I fear they will not rest or delay their pursuit,"
said Galador. "Our only hope lies in the enemy. If it reaches the
river and decides to cross, they will lose the sign, for they
cannot follow across the river on foot. For that they will need a
boat…or horses."

He looked up at Rogond, whose face brightened at the
prospect. If Gaelen or Nelwyn needed to cross the icy-cold river,
they would have to wait until the horses arrived. From then on, all
would travel together. The thought cheered both Rogond and Galador,
and they continued their slow progress to the south and east,
toward the River Ambros.

The twilight came on just as Gaelen and Nelwyn
reached the western bank. They had passed through these lands
before, carrying messages to and from the Elven-realm of
Tal-sithian, which stood upon an island in the center of the great
lake known as the

Linnefionn. The river had widened out south of the
rapids and was now steady and calm. They knew that it would soon
begin its slow meandering through wide, green meadows that would
give way again to woodlands. Then it would grow much broader as it
received the waters of the River Artan.

Gaelen crept quietly through the scrub that flanked
the river course, tracking their enemy right up to the water’s
edge. Incredibly, it appeared that the creature had waded into the
cold water. Though she and Nelwyn searched both up and down the
bank for some distance, there was no sign that it had ever come out
again. That meant it had crossed the river under its own power, but
how?

The brief look at its silhouette had suggested armor
to Gaelen, and swimming would have been difficult. She had found no
cast-off armor. Had it tried to make the crossing and failed? That
was unlikely. It was probably safely on the other side of the river
by now. What other strange powers did it possess? One thing was
certain—something had drawn it to the eastern shore, because if
that had been the original intent it would not have landed on the
west bank in the first place. Gaelen feared for whatever (or
whoever) had attracted it. If it was the promise of another victim,
she knew that Elvish blood would be spilled before dawn. She had
felt some of the malevolence of her enemy like a surge of ice water
in her veins, once when she locked eyes with Halrodin, again when
she beheld the creature going away down the river, and once again
when she touched her fingers to the strange blood in the boat.

She was aroused from this dreadful thought by Nelwyn,
who had found no sign of the enemy. So, the creature must have
crossed. They could not follow it without a boat. They had been
thwarted.

Nelwyn, ever the optimist, tried to salvage Gaelen’s
hopes. "Perhaps a boat will come down river, and we may ask whoever
is guiding it to help us cross."

Gaelen looked over at her friend with a rather sour,
sarcastic expression.

"Yes, Nelwyn, that will happen. But not before some
great bird swoops down from the mountains, lifts us up, and carries
us across. At any rate, I am tired, hungry, and discouraged. I need
to lie back, listen to the river, and pretend that I am free of
this terrible task and may go where I will. Perhaps the river will
bring news."

At this, Gaelen dropped to her knees among the soft
reeds before lying on her back, eyes raised toward the stars. She
tried to clear her mind and fill it with the soothing song of the
river, but she could not escape the feeling of dread that had come
over her. As she looked toward the rising of Eádri, the evening
star, and at the three bright stars in the belt of Fiana the
Huntress, she was unaware that, at the same time, an Elf named
Gelmyr was enjoying his last sight of those same stars from what he
believed to be a secure resting place. And as Gelmyr met his doom
at the hands of Gorgon Elfhunter, both Gaelen and Nelwyn shivered
in the moonlight, suddenly overwhelmed with uneasiness and a
profound sense of loss. It was as though the light of the stars had
dimmed, and they would never be truly happy again.