The White Shadow Saga: The Stolen Moon of Londor (5 page)

At last they were free of the dark and
difficult forest; Norganas was in sight. A grand line of mountains
rose high above the city and stretched beyond the horizon to the
east and west. Few lights shone from the city, other than those in
the many towers that rose high above the walls. Because they were
unexpected, the two riders knew full well that by approaching the
city they could send the elven military into action. Scanning the
valley below, the leader could see only one path leading to
Norganas, down one final hill. Perhaps there was a chance they
could enter without detection.

The lead rider, the taller of the two,
glanced over to his companion. The smaller rider looked up and
nodded as he shook out his drenched cloak of blue. The leader
pointed to the city ahead, as the wind howled at them and thunder
banged overhead.

The leader thrust his hand down to his saddle
and gripped the hilt of his sword. Drawing it, he held the blade
before his face. The double-edged blade, though it had passed
through many generations, showed no sign of its age. Just then, a
long series of lightning flashes illuminated the land, its blue
light reflecting off the blade and into the leader's eyes.

A frigid gust blasted the two weary
travelers, cutting through their sodden cloaks and chilling them to
the bone. Both sat as if frozen in their saddles, dreading to move
toward the city but craving its shelter even more. As much as the
leader desired to bear on into Norganas with full speed, he knew
that the time was not right.

"I never even had the opportunity to say
farewell to my family," Etrigos said as he paced the floor in
anguish. Captain Fenrahn still had not given the command on their
next action, and this only heightened Etrigos's anxiety. How he
hated uncertainty. "Our city could fall tonight; we may not see
another sunrise!"

"Calm down," Fenrahn said. "I will inform the
palace of what we have seen."

"What would you ask of me, sir?"

"You know of the alarm horn in each
tower?"

Etrigos nodded. "I have been told of them
before. Never have I seen one, though."

"Yes," Fenrahn replied. "This is because we
have stowed them away in ignorance. There hasn't been a need for
them until now. The one we possess in this tower is on the floor
below us."

"But where, sir?" Etrigos asked. "There are
so many boxes and chests stored there."

"I do not know. Now, go in haste and find it,
my young elf. I need this from you."

"Yes, Captain." Etrigos saluted and scurried
down the ladder.

On the floor below, a single torch dimly lit
the wooden crates and various-sized chests that lay stacked against
the walls. In his haste, Etrigos missed the last rung and fell hard
onto the wood floor. A cloud of dust rose up, and through his own
coughing he heard Fenrahn call out, "Are you all right down
there?"

"Yes," Etrigos replied. "All is well."
Sitting up, he shifted to his knees and scanned the room with
blurred vision. There was no clear choice where to begin. After
studying the situation, he said to himself,
I'll wager none of these chests have seen an
elf's hand in a good while
. Deciding
on the nearest chest, he prayed that fortune was on his side. It
was a small, red chest, completely caked by dust. A brass lock hung
open in the latch. Removing it, he opened the lid and was met with
the familiar scent of incense.

He wondered how the essence could hold its
richness after all this time. The sweet smell reminded him of the
wondrous festivals in the forest, feasts in the palace, and the
warmer days of the valley. In this dreamlike moment he forgot all
his troubles and let his soul sink deep into the past. Unbidden,
the present situation crept through his dream, returning his
thoughts to the chest before him. Staring back at his widened eyes
were rich fabrics, smaller wooden boxes, and cloudy glass flasks
filled with bluish liquid. The contents had no particular
arrangement, and Etrigos saw nothing resembling a horn. Rummaging
carefully through the chest so as not to break the flasks, he
placed the stacks of cloth on the floor. The glass clanged softly
together as he reached to the bottom of the chest.

There in the far corner, he saw an oblong
shape wrapped in an old, dingy cloth. He grasped it without much
thought, peeled back the cloth, and saw that it was indeed a bull's
horn of red with a white mouthpiece. Smiling, Etrigos admired its
beauty, then stood and tucked the horn into his belt.

"Etrigos? What say you?" Fenrahn's concerned
voice called out.

"I have the horn, sir!" he answered
triumphantly.

"Excellent work."

Etrigos began to climb the ladder, making
sure his grip was stronger than before. It was not long before he
was at Fenrahn's side once more by the window. He took the horn
from his belt and presented it to the captain, who grasped the horn
and inspected its condition. Though it had lain unused for many
decades, it looked as if it had been crafted only yesterday.

Etrigos beamed. "This instrument has been
preserved well. I hope its inner workings hold true as the outside
has."

"As do I."

Fenrahn looked at the shiny horn one last
time and handed it back to Etrigos. "Sound the alarm."

With a nod, the elf-knight approached the
northern window. The palace lay sparsely lit, as if the majority
within were sleeping. He hoped the horn's note would reach those
inside, despite the wind and thunder. Slowly he raised it to his
chapped lips as Fenrahn looked on. Turning back to the window,
Etrigos took in a deep breath and sounded the horn.

A long, deep note poured forth from the
watchtower, piercing the sounds of the gale. At once, more lamps
and torches sprang alight throughout the palace. The alarm had been
heard. Relieved, Etrigos lowered the horn.

"Well?" Fenrahn inquired. "What
occurred?"

"Our call was received." Etrigos's heart
pounded as he leaned on the wall to calm his nerves. He hugged the
horn close to his body and sighed. "Thank Ethindar."

Fenrahn looked closely to the path below and
noticed that the riders were gone, but then he caught the barest
glimpse of them as they rode into the city. "And so they come," he
spoke.

"How many?"

"Just the two."

"I pray the army is on its way."

"I assure you," Fenrahn replied confidently,
"the enemy will not get far inside the city." 

* * *

The lead rider lifted the sagging hood of his
cloak. There seemed to be no break in the storm; it would remain on
them until they took refuge in the city. The palace was their
objective, but access would no doubt prove difficult. He looked
over his shoulder to his companion. But as he glanced into the
forest, a loud noise came from Norganas, spurring him to new haste.
Without warning or thought, he thrust his sword forward. Digging
his boot heels into his horse's side, he surged ahead and barreled
down the path, his companion scrambling to catch up.

The wind hit them, driving rain into their
eyes, as they raced across uneven ground strewn with puddles and
stones. Drawing closer to the ungated, arched entryway to Norganas,
they could see that it was unmanned. The leader scanned the city
walls and the surrounding area for any who might wish to obstruct
them, for he expected to be greeted, especially now that a horn had
been sounded.

At last down the hill, they now charged
through a broad pool of gray water. The leader leaned forward and
urged his steed ahead. Through the stinging rain they saw a red
stone street just beyond the entrance. The leader smiled, his cloak
flailing wildly behind him, its hem tattered by the relentless
winds.

Passing through the gate, the two were
sheltered from the rain for a moment, then met it once more as
their horses galloped ahead on the cobblestones. They were now on
the main road of Norganas. The street was lined with long, low
houses of red and brown. Multistoried buildings rose on each corner
of the intersections they passed. The leader glanced around for
signs of life, but only the two riders moved in the city. Every
home and merchant shop remained unlit as the palace came into view
in the distance. Only there could the riders see any signs of
habitation. The leader prayed that the lights in the palace towers
were not of his doing, for at the palace there would be
soldiers--hundreds of them. He and his companion would soon be
heavily outnumbered by the Dunane, who no doubt anticipated a
massive attack on their kingdom. Little did the Dunane know that on
this night only two came into their presence.

A large bend in the road veered away from the
palace, but the leader had no choice but to remain on the road, for
fear of becoming lost once again. The structures of Norganas began
to thin out as they pressed on until they found themselves in the
deserted marketplace. Hundreds of wooden carts, covered by thick
canvas, filled the open space and crammed every alleyway. Not one
sound pierced Norganas now save the staccato of galloping
hooves.

The way ahead was the leader's main concern,
and the potential threat of elven assailants. An attack was
inevitable; the only question was when. Surely the elves of Dunane
would come to defend their city. Perhaps, though, the alarm was
unknown to the citizens, since their way of life had been
unthreatened for so long.

The riders had to reach the palace before
they could be intercepted. Soon they passed through the
marketplace, and the road curved back toward the palace, much to
the leader's relief. As they again saw the mighty towers, the road
steepened.

From behind, another deep note of the horn
bellowed out, this time with greater urgency. The riders ignored
the elves' signals and rode on; the palace was almost in reach.
They spied the grand entrance as the road leveled off. A pair of
red doors twenty feet high appeared to be the only way inside. No
decorations adorned the dark stones of the palace; not one banner
hung from the turrets. The doors were plain in craft, without trim,
each having but a single silver ring to serve as a handle.

Coming to the palace doors, the two reined
in. Slowly the leader dismounted, his heavy boots splashing in the
water. He grasped his sword and held it before him, praying that
the doors would not burst open with a host of armed elves to greet
him. His companion could still flee, but for him, at least, a safe
exit was not to be had. The leader wanted to charge the doors and
fling them open, for the incessant downpour was driving him
mad.

His frightened companion looked around for
the elves, but still the city remained quiet. To the pair's left
was a stable connected to the palace; it stood open and dark. The
mounted rider then dismissed his surroundings and turned his focus
back to his friend, who was reaching for one of the silver rings at
the doors. Biting down on his lower lip, the leader hoped for the
best. Surely, he thought, the Dunane would lock the doors to their
palace, but nevertheless, he had to take the chance. He regretted
now that they had not taken time to make a secondary plan.
Originally, the two were to arrive in daylight, but the nightly
appearance of storms had delayed them until now. If the doors were
locked, he would be at a loss, with no ally within fifty miles of
Dunane.

Gently he pulled the ring, but the door would
not budge. With a stronger grip, he tugged again--but still the
door did not move. He released the ring back to its resting place
with a clank.

He had resheathed his blade and grabbed the
reins once more, when his companion pointed to the stable. Entering
the gloomy structure, they were relieved finally to find respite
from the storm. The still-mounted rider strayed to the left while
the leader searched in the opposite direction. On the stable's
plain wooden walls hung the many tools of the blacksmith's trade:
various hammers, rods, tongs, and hooks. The ground was covered
with brown straw. Keeping out the wind and rain was a roof of clay
tiles, supported by wooden posts spaced some ten feet apart. Both
men looked around for any discarded food or bottles of drink but
found nothing.

At last the leader found a small fire pit in
the stable's floor. Leaving his horse's side, he approached the
long and twirling wisp of smoke that rose from the embers. As he
came closer, he welcomed the warmth. Kneeling beside the coals, he
warmed his numbed hands. He took in a deep breath and closed his
heavy eyelids for a moment. The need for food, rest, and warmth had
made him all but delirious. Opening his eyes, he realized there was
a bucket beside the fire. A smile swept across his face as he
grasped it and drank a portion of the cooled liquid. It wasn't
much, but it filled a bit of the void in his belly. "At least some
fortune is on our side," he whispered, and he pulled back his hood
and shook the thick blond hair that lay matted against his
forehead. "Lorn, come and join me, will you?" He looked over to
find his friend still struggling to free his frozen feet from the
stirrups. "What's the matter, old friend?"

"I cannot get down," he mumbled. "I could use
some help, Seth."

Seth rose with the bucket, laughing
quietly.  "Is my horse unsuited for you?"

"Indeed it is," the smaller rider answered.
"I am a dwarf, after all. I don't see why you couldn't have allowed
me to use my pony."

"A pony would not have been suited for this
type of journey. This is a matter of speed, not comfort."

"What are we doing here anyway? Why do we
seek these elves in the midst of a storm?" Lorn scratched his
forehead, admitting, "I cannot exactly remember what you told me.
My memory has been acting strange lately."

"I bear a letter to the King of Dunane." Seth
looked to the street for any sign of threat as he handed the bucket
to Lorn and began to work the dwarf's boots free. "The rest of the
water is yours if you want it."