by RG Long
When his feet finally touched the sandy bottom of the shore, Ealrin let out a sigh of relief. The threat of death by drowning was over. He continued to push Holve on the floating debris until it began to drag along the bottom of the shore as well. He then picked up his friend as best he could and drug him to shore.
He ensured that Holve was still breathing and went back to where the piece of the White Wind was stuck in the sand. He retrieved the large sail, and broke free what pieces of wood he could and brought them back to land.
Crude shelter was better than none.
Further up the shore were trees. They would do for adding shelter from the wind that now bit into Ealrin's flesh. For now they would give them protection from being seen from the sea. Ealrin didn't know whether or not the goblins would make their way to this stretch of beach.
As Ealrin set up a lean-to of fallen branches and broken pieces of the ship against the trunk of two trees growing close to one another, he wondered what would cause the goblins to raid. He knew, from somewhere in the back of his mind, that goblins were evil creatures, driven to violence by the influence of the dark magic that had created them thousands of years ago. They craved violence as others crave water and food. They had always had to fight. And if no enemy had presented itself to them, they would fight among their own tribes and cities.
Ealrin paused. How could he remember the nature of a goblin, but couldn't recall the nature of himself? He knew a few things from instinct, but nothing that would reveal who he was, or where he had come from. As he surveyed his handiwork, he wondered if, when the sun brought light to the beach, he would recognize the area they now camped at.
Holve stirred inside of the lean-to.
"Ugh. Blasted goblins," said a very weary sounding Holve.
Ealrin had laid him on his back on top of his own jacket. Thankfully, neither had lost their weapon to the sea. Both weapons now lay next to Holve.
Holve raised himself onto his elbow, but immediately clutched his head.
"Gah. My head. I haven't been out like that for a long time," Holve looked up at Ealrin.
"Who are you?" he asked.
The suns! If Holve had lost his memory too, what in the world were they to do?
A small smile quickly formed on the man's face.
Ealrin made to kick him.
"Don't do that!" he said half angry, half relieved he was alive and alright.
"Ha. Can't have both of us clueless. But, I would venture to ask if you know where we are?" Holve asked as he lay back down. He shut his eyes hard in an apparent attempt to ease the throbbing that must be going on inside his skull.
"Land," replied Ealrin simply and truthfully. That was all he knew. They were no longer floating at sea, but were now on some beach in either Thoran or The Southern Republic. Ealrin wasn't sure which.
"Well, that's a start," said Holve. "We can explore a bit when the sun comes up."
"You mean when your head stops throbbing," replied Ealrin.
Holve let out a mirthless laugh, and then a slight moan. He was obviously in pain.
"Roland..." began Ealrin. Holve cut him off.
"Roland died as he would have wished: bravely and in battle. He never saw himself living past being useful in a fight. He was a good friend and I'm sad to have lost him, but he died a warrior. He wouldn't have wanted anything less."
Still, thought Ealrin, he was gone.
Along with the entire crew of the White Wind. Captain Felicia Stormchaser, Urt, the dwarves, the elves, all of them.
Drowned in the sea or speared by a goblin sword or arrow.
The thought sickened Ealrin.
He had only recollection of the last few weeks, and already they bore more pain than he thought he could handle.
He lay down and tried to sleep, but was overwhelmed by sorrow and hunger and thirst.
16: Wisym of Talgel
Wisym looked around her. Some of the elven warriors still rushed to put out fires. Others searched the forest floor for goblin attackers. Still others were chasing after those who had fled the battle into the morning. Occasionally the sound of a wounded one meeting its end would rise over the scrambling of feet on the forest floor. Typically, when an elf walked there would be no sound, save for the air that was disrupted from its resting place. Today was not a day for stealth, however. Today was a day of battle. Today was a day for recovering from a goblin raid.
Today was a day of mourning.
A few of her fellow commanders stood around her as she kneeled at her fallen general's side. A goblin arrow in the heart had struck him. The cursed thing had punched through his armor, thick and elegant as it was. The poison was claiming his life quickly.
Galebre had walked the continent of Ruyn for twenty generations. He was the finest general the forest elves ever had. And he was taking his last few breaths here at the end of this senseless attack.
Wisym held his hand, knowing that he was too far gone for healing. The poison on this arrow was the strongest she had ever encountered.
Galebre's eyes were fluttering as he attempted to remain conscious. He blinked twice, as if struggling to focus, and then stared hard at Wisym.
"You fought well today, Wisym. The forest elves are safer thanks to you," his voice was barely more than a whisper. His chest heaved up and down with nearly every word as he struggled to breathe.
"Save your strength," Wisym replied. She didn't know what else to say. She knew he was dying. She knew these would be his last words. But she was never good at knowing what to do at the deathbed. So few times had she ever needed to come to this terrible moment for a fellow elf. Blessed with an unusually long life, to see an elf die in battle was much more common than old age. The latter was celebrated as the elf returning to the earth. An elf that died in war was mourned as missing the years they were meant to live. Fate had stolen from them. Fate was now taking away Galebre, the greatest elven general of the last five hundred years. His wounds were too grievous for healing.
Her one hundred years were not enough to make her a seasoned warrior, or an astute leader, or given her the ability to know what to say in the darkest of circumstances like these. So she did what she knew she could.
She held his hand.
“The goblins didn’t attack without purpose. Something is wrong, Wisym. Find out...”
A fit of coughing interrupted his sentence. Wisym held his hand as he struggled for breath. She could hardly conceal her tears from her fellow commanders, who looked down with heavy faces. A scream from a goblin nearby took their gaze for a moment. One had been found alive underneath his comrades. He was not a threat anymore. The elf that had found him withdrew her spear from its chest. She looked over towards the group who surrounded the general at the gates of the city of Talgel. Its beautiful white stone walls and tall spiral towers, however, could not mask the ugliness of battle. The white stones were stained with the black blood of goblins and the bright red of elves.
“Wisym. Wisym.” Galebre’s green eyes were fixed on the female elf’s blue ones. She could see the intensity in his eyes, the same eyes that surveyed countless battlefields, and led the proud elves of Ruyn into battle again and again. Those eyes were slowly losing their light.
“I name you General. Lead them well...”
And with that, Galebre gave his last breath. His eyes still stared at Wisym, but she knew that they no longer saw. She reached up and closed his eyes with her fingers, then placed her fist on her chest, an elven salute of respect. She laid one of his hands on his own chest and finally relinquished her grasp on his other hand.
The other elves around mimicked her salute as she stood, finally taking her eyes off of her defeated leader and letting his last words soak into her mind.
She was now the general of the elves.
***
WISYM WALKED THE PERIMETER of the city with her four fellow commanders.
No. Not fellow commanders. Her commanders. She was now the general of the combined elven fighting force. She
had to both push the thought from her mind, because it meant reliving the death of her general and the closest thing to a father she’d ever known, and to retain the notion because it was pivotal to her next steps.
Though requests for aid had been sent to Ingur and Breyland, neither had been answered. Not only had there been no news from either city, the messengers had not returned at all. Breyland was further away, so she supposed that it was possible the elf who rode on horseback was just delayed. The rider sent to the elven sister city of Ingur, however, could have ridden there and back again twice since leaving.
Surely the elves of their neighbor city would answer their plea for aid?
Unless, of course, they needed aid themselves.
Having swept the battlefield and made sure that there was no longer the threat of a second goblin attack, Wisym made up her mind. She would lead a march to Ingur to find out what had happened to the messenger and the fate of the city. Talgel could not be left undefended, however.
Splitting the elven troops was risky. There have always been so few.
Elves live much longer lives than humans, though similar in span to that of dwarves. To procreate quickly would mean an unstable population. It would mean using far too many of the forest's natural resources and bending it to submit to their wishes, rather than trying to live harmoniously with the woods.
The elves of the woods had always had such a high regard for the forest that they would never ask of it more than they could give back.
And so there have always been a smaller number of elves than of men.
She would split the army. Four hundred would march with her to Ingur and six hundred would stay behind. If Ingur was attacked, but unharmed, she could hope that they could spare enough warriors to bolster her own in case of a second attack. Talgel was easily the most heavily fortified city and would be the natural place Ingur residents would flee in troubled times.
If there was time to flee.
Her head spun.
As a commander she had never truly carried the weight of leading the entire elven army, only her detachment of soldiers. Is this what Galebre had to have done with every decision he made? Galebre.
Wisym shook her head to clear it, and turned to her four commanders.
“Egon, Gonaeli. Stay here and ensure that Talgel is safe. Search the woods for any remaining goblins. Burn what bodies you find. We can’t have them spawning in our forest and blighting the woods with their presence. Celdor, Finwe, you’ll accompany me with your detachments to Ingur. I fear for our sister. We will make haste to her to ensure her safety, and return with additional troops and the residents of Ingur in case of additional goblin invasions. I fear this will not be an isolated attack, and that more will follow. Egon and Gonaeli, prepare the city for refugees.”
“Yes, Sister,” came the reply from her four commanders. They saluted her and departed from her in order to follow her commands.
The feeling was odd to her. She had commanded one hundred before. Now she was to be in charge of one thousand. Though she felt in her heart that she was right in her decision, parts of her still second-guessed what was to come.
She needed to consult one last person.
“Ithrel,” she said as she watched the four elves depart. “I need you to come with me.”
Ithrel was her shield maiden, a companion closer than a sister. Together they had fought in many battles, and survived because of their great bond of friendship and trust.
Ithrel was taller than Wisym. In fact the two were as opposite as night and day. Wisym had long flowing blonde hair while Ithrel’s was short and brown. Wisym’s eyes were blue and wide, while Ithrel’s were small and green. Wisym could recite poems and ballads from memory, and tell grand stories to friends and strangers alike. Ithrel talked little. In fact Wisym wasn’t sure if any other elf, other than herself, had heard her speak more than a few sentences in their entire lifetime.
But both were bonded to Galebre. Ithrel and Wisym were both his adopted children, having none of his own. Their parents had perished when they were quite young, only twenty. In elf years, that age was still considered childlike. Galebre took them in, and raised them the only way he knew: as warriors. And yet the elf had been kind and loving. Surely Ithrel would hurt for the old elf’s passing as much as she.
Indeed, for the first time since the sounds of battle had diminished throughout the forest, Wisym looked into the eyes of her sister.
They were reddened and bloodshot. A single tear fell from her face.
Wisym took her by the hands.
“We must be strong, Ithrel. Galebre would desire us to be strong.”
Ithrel shook her head to agree. She took back one of her hands and wiped another tear away.
“Come with me, Ithrel. We must beg the Elder’s blessing.”
***
EVERY ELVISH CITY HOUSED at least one elder. An elder was an elf who managed to outlive all others from his or her generation. The elder of Talgel was approaching his 900th year. Miranthil sat up in his chair in the ancient elven hall of elders. The chamber was made with the same white stones as the rest of Talgel and its walls reached higher than most others in the city. The top was opened, so that the stars of the night may be plainly seen. The hall was circular with black tiles as its floor. Several stone chairs lined with furs and pillows stood in a semicircle around the edge of a great raised platform.
Only one was filled, however.
His eyes were closed, whether in meditation or sleep, Wisym wasn’t sure. His long white hair reached the floor, and blended in with his white robes. Only one purple tree, the symbol of the elves of Talgel, was woven into his garment in its center. Wisym would have been able to see it had his beard not blocked her view. A small wooden wreath crowned his head: the symbol of an elder of the city. His head rested against the back of his chair, and his mouth hung slightly open.
After walking to the middle of the chamber, atop the platform, she bowed to one knee. Ithrel mimicked her movements.
“Elder Miranthil,” she spoke in a voice that she hoped would either wake him from his slumber, or arise him from his meditations.
The elder made a grunting noise. Wisym looked up in time to see him open his eyes. He blinked several times, and then smiled at Wisym.
Wisym stood to attention and spoke loudly, so that his ancient ears might hear her plea.
“Elder, we have been attacked by goblins. The army of Talgel has defeated them, but we are too few in number now to repel any additional attack. Galebre has fallen, and named me general. We requested aid from Breyland and Ingur, but our pleas for help have gone unanswered. I seek to take soldiers to our sister city to see how it fares.”
Wisym held her breath, hoping the old elf had not only heard her, but understood as well.
Of course, the elder of an elven city was not the leader of the city. The elven elders who resided in the capital of the Southern Republic delegated that task to others. Elves who were of younger age and spirit, and could handle the daily tasks of running such a large community were given those tasks by the Head Elders.
To achieve such an age and become an elder of the city meant one’s task was simply to meditate and gaze into the future of the elves. Those who had lived so many years had time to study the ancient art of reading the stars for signs and predict things to come.
Though it was not mandatory, it was customary to ask for the elder’s blessing before embarking on any significant venture, whether an auspicious building project, or the great hunt of a wild animal. To not receive such a blessing would be considered an ill omen, and many would cancel plans laid down for months if it did not carry the elder’s blessing. The blessing normally was a simple yes or no. The slightest nod of the head would be considered a verdict. Every plan of significance was brought before the elders
Such as marching an army to an unknown fate.
Miranthil blinked several times. Then, with great effort and a wheezing voice that sounded as old as he looked, he s
poke.
“Wisym. Adopted daughter of Galebre. I see great sorrow for you. Go, if you deem it wise. But know that you will never again see Talgel.”
And with that Miranthil sighed deeply, closed his eyes, and reclined his head back upon his chair.
17: The Shores of the South
Exhaustion must have taken its toll at some point during the night. Though Ealrin had tossed and turned trying not to think about how hungry and how thirsty he was, he now opened his eyes to face the bright light of the morning suns rising.
His dreams had been filled with the howl of goblins, and the scream of friends. It's certainly had not been a restful night. Though his muscles and joints again protested, he rose to walk down the beach a little to stretch himself. Holve was still sound asleep, and Ealrin knew he needed his rest if he was to recover.
The sunlight reflected off the white sands of the beach, and Ealrin had to squint, though it was morning, to see properly. There were no other signs of debris from the wreckage of the White Wind, other than what remain lodged in the sand a few paces from the edge of the shore. Ealrin wondered what port or city would now bear the wrath of the raiding goblins. There didn't seem to be any nearby. Ealrin couldn't see any goblin ships on the horizon.
Slowly Holve walked up beside him. His step was uneven and he covered his eyes with his hand to avoid the bright sun. He wasn't fully well, and if Ealrin's own hunger was any indication of his, he must be starving and in need of water.
"Well," he said. "I've seen enough to know that we aren't in Thoran. At least not close to it. Most of their coastline is high cliff face. These are certainly the beaches of the Southern Republic."
Of course they didn't end up where they had intended to, thought Ealrin. That would've made their journey too easy. And so far fate had decided that nothing would be easy for Ealrin.
