by C S Marks
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:
"My thanks for your aid in bringing me across the river. Your part in this has been played. Return now to your homes; care for your fallen kin and your families. I would suggest you not tarry long, as your people need you. My cousin and I wish you well."
Maleck shouldered his pack. "It’s not my intention to leave you, for I also would see my kinsmen avenged. Unvar is here to return with the boat."
Gaelen could see that he was determined, but in his eyes there was doubt. These were not adventurous folk, and they did not travel far from their own lands. It took great courage for Maleck even to consider this course. Gaelen shook her head and spoke gently, though her gaze was firm.
"You cannot go with us, Maleck. Your heart tells you so, brave heart though it is. You are a worthy man, and we respect you and your folk, but you simply cannot strive with us. You must aid your brother in returning with the boat—that is task enough. If I have still not convinced you, let me remind you of my friend Halrodin’s fate at the hands of our enemy. He was hacked to pieces with a dull blade, and left to die in great pain and despair. This is an enemy beyond you. Take your honor, and depart."
Reluctantly, Maleck saw the wisdom in her words. "Farewell then, Gaelen, daughter of the Greatwood. We are thankful to have known you and wish you success in your quest. Take care that the enemy you seek does not find you first, for I would rather meet you again."
Gaelen bowed and smiled at him before she sprang away, leaping and sprinting along the river bank, keeping one eye on Nelwyn and one eye at the water’s edge. Within moments, Maleck had difficulty spotting her, and then she was gone.
The air was as chill as the trail was cold. Nelwyn drew her cloak tighter as she gazed out at the dull grey river-water, now veiled with rain. The wind was coming up strong again from the northwest, and it rained or sleeted almost every day at this miserable time of year. She could just barely make out the form of Gaelen, who was carefully searching for signs on the other side of the river.
It had been nearly five days since their encounter with the slain fishermen and the escape of their enemy in the boat he had stolen. Nelwyn stood shivering on the riverbank, thinking of the coming storm, hoping that they would find signs of the boat being pulled from the water before the river rose high enough to wash them away. The enemy would undoubtedly cast the boat loose when he was finished with it, but even if he didn’t bring it ashore, he would have to come ashore himself. Then they would find the signs if there were any to find. They were not as familiar with this section of the river—it was narrower, but deep and turbulent. As they both looked downstream, they observed some respectable rapids in the distance.
The rapids both cheered and worried Nelwyn. Surely their enemy would come ashore rather than risk crossing the wild water. If so, had they missed the evidence? Or was the enemy lurking just ahead, lying in wait? They hadn’t exactly been vigilant about concealing themselves from view. At any rate, Nelwyn hoped that they would find something before they reached the rapids. She just hoped they would not find the enemy himself; they were not yet ready for such a confrontation. Nelwyn thought of Talrodin’s astonished expression and shuddered. She didn’t like being all alone by the river. At least it was getting warmer as she made her way south, and the cold wind would soon pass. For now, she was miserable.
The Elves had encountered only two others in the last four days, fishermen of a different clan from those up river. Both had been on the east bank. Gaelen had questioned them, but from her posture it was apparent that she had learned little or nothing from them.
Gaelen was wet and miserable herself. She felt her cousin’s gaze, straightened, and waved at her. They would both go to shelter for the night facing the same dreary prospect—no dry wood, only a few remnants of food, and no nice, warm cousin to share cloaks and the pleasure of complaining with.
If they didn’t find something soon, Nelwyn feared they both would lose heart, and she had no wish for that. But they were so far from home already! Grumbling to herself, she settled her back against some large stones that protected her from the wind. This was not much of a shelter, but it was better than nothing.
A few moments later, Nelwyn was startled by a cry from the east. Though it sounded rather like a large bird, she knew it was Gaelen— she must have found something. Nelwyn leaped to her feet, shaking off the cold, and peered into the rain. Gaelen was pointing down and across the river, gesturing for Nelwyn to investigate. Gaelen started down river herself, keeping a close watch on the far bank. The boat was there, about a quarter mile to the south.
There was no sound, scent, or sight of the enemy. Nelwyn could tell that he had left the boat in haste and was now making his way over land, for he had left plenty of sign for her to follow. This was encouraging, as it meant that he was probably not aware that anyone was tracking him. Either that, or he didn’t care.
Though the second possibility frightened her, the first cheered Nelwyn as she climbed into the boat, which had been secured with a short rope to a nearby stone. She examined the small craft for signs, and there were plenty, if not very enlightening. A few remnants of food stolen from the fishermen and a few drops of strange, dark blood were left behind, not quite washed away by the rain. The same foul smell was now evident, but it was very faint, indicating that the creature had been gone for a while.
As she stood up to signal to Gaelen, the rear of the boat moving unsteadily under her feet, Nelwyn heard a sound from the brush at the edge of the trees. She spun around in surprise to behold a tall, shadowy figure moving rapidly toward her. It startled her enough to throw her off balance and, with a cry, she fell into the water. The cold numbed her senses for a moment, long enough for the current to pull her away from the bank.
Gaelen gave a cry of alarm, grabbed a slender cord she carried across her shoulders, uncoiled it, pulled a rather unique arrow from her quiver, and tied the cord to it. As she did so, she spotted the tall figure leaping after Nelwyn, who was floundering along a steep and rocky bank grasping at whatever she could. The unknown figure could not reach her, and it soon disappeared amid the thick scrub along the riverbank.
Gaelen held her breath, waiting until Nelwyn had fetched up against a large stone and clung to it, struggling against the wild water. Seeing her chance, Gaelen drew back with all
the strength and skill she could muster, and sent her shot across the river.
The stout, multi-barbed shaft lodged firmly among the stones several feet above Nelwyn’s head. The cold had robbed her of her strength, and soon she would no longer be able to stay above water. She didn’t dare try to grab the cord—Gaelen would have to help her.
Observing a stout young spruce that hung out over the water, Gaelen acted quickly. Taking only her weapons and one small pack, she tied up her winter cloak, flexed her cold fingers, and leaped up into the branches, securing the cord around the trunk to make a life-line across the river. She climbed hand over hand, swaying in the ever-rising wind, her heels hooked over the line.
The cord was strong, but it stretched under Gaelen’s weight, lowering her toward the churning river. She gasped as the cold water soaked her back. It grabbed at her cloak, bow, and quiver and nearly tore her loose, but she hung on, grimacing, until she reached Nelwyn, who was by now exhausted. Gaelen grasped the back of her cousin’s sodden cloak, heaved it out of the water, and slung it across one of her shoulders. At that exact moment, Nelwyn lost her grip on the cold stone and was then held to the world only by the sturdy clasp of her cloak. Her eyes were closed, her teeth were chattering, and her strength was gone. She turned over, moaning, as Gaelen’s hand found hers and grasped it. The added weight of holding onto Nelwyn pulled Gaelen completely down into the water, and she didn’t know whether she could hang on.
She looked up to behold the mysterious figure standing directly over them atop the rocks. It appeared to be either an Elf or a tall, strong young man; she could not yet tell. He threw a rope down to the water, cast off his own cloak, and began to climb toward them.
When he reached them, Gaelen saw that he was, in fact, an Elf. His hair was long and dark, and his grey eyes were anxious. Grasping Gaelen’s wrist, he pulled her up and onto the rocks, along with Nelwyn, who was now unconscious. He removed Nelwyn’s cloak, which had taken on enough water to weigh as much as Nelwyn herself, and cast it up onto the stones. Then he lifted her and slung her over his shoulder, as Gaelen followed his example with her own sodden cloak.
Gaelen watched as he struggled back up to the top of the rocks, then she grasped the rope with icy hands and climbed slowly and painfully up to join him. She had secured the rope around both of the wet cloaks, for they would be needed and could not easily be replaced. She was not afraid of the newcomer; her instincts told her that he could be trusted, for his eyes held no evil in them.
When she reached the top, Gaelen was pleased to find Nelwyn wrapped in the stranger’s dry cloak. He had given her a draught from his flask, and her color was coming back. She would recover quickly once she was warm. The stranger waited for Gaelen, his anxiety and impatience obvious. "Follow me. I have a good shelter and a fire nearby."
"Wait! Who are you, and what is your business here?" asked Gaelen. In answer, the stranger rose to his feet, lifted Nelwyn, and began to walk away. Gaelen was weary, wet, and cold, and she didn’t like having her question ignored. It was her opinion that the stranger had most likely startled Nelwyn into the water in the first place; it was the only thing that made sense. Her blood rose as she got to her feet, nocked an arrow, and drew on him, calling in a low, chilly voice: "If I were you, O Nameless Elf, I wouldn’t turn my back to Gaelen, daughter of Tarfion. I would show her the courtesy and respect that are warranted."
"Even if you had just saved her life and the life of her friend?" replied the stranger with a bemused glance over his shoulder. When he saw that he looked down the shaft of an arrow, his amusement faded. Gaelen was obviously in no mood for it.
"Put that away. My name is Galador. I am not your enemy, for if I were I would not have pulled you both from the river. You are obviously cold and weary, and your wits have left you."
"If you were not an enemy and were in possession of YOUR wits, you would not have startled my cousin into the water in the first place, making it necessary for you to pull us from the river," muttered Gaelen. But she lowered her bow and followed him without another word.
It was truly dark, and the weather was positively wretched by the time they reached Galador’s promised shelter. It was a rare find—an unoccupied cave in the hillside with a smooth, dry floor. It only went back about twenty feet to a solid wall, but there was a small hole in the ceiling through which smoke from a dying fire was curling. There was another person in the cave, near the fire, wrapped up in a bundle of blankets. Three horses stood by outside, their tails turned to the wind, heads down. As soon as the three Elves entered, Galador spoke to Gaelen.
"Try to get the fire going again, will you?"
He lowered Nelwyn, who was by now reviving nicely, on the opposite side of the fire. He pulled two spare cloaks from a pack in the corner and tossed one to Gaelen, who busied herself with building the fire back up, glancing curiously at the prone figure on the floor nearby. It appeared to be a man, tall and strong, but presently either wounded or ill. She approached him, as Galador moved to join her.
"Who is he? A friend of yours?"
Galador observed the man with grave concern. "Yes, he is a very good friend, and he is very ill. I would help him, but I really don’t know what to do for him. I was hoping one of you would be able to heal him."
Gaelen sniffed. "You’d have better luck with the fishermen than with us, I’m afraid. But let Nelwyn take a look when she is recovered. She has some knowledge of healing arts."
The man stirred again, moaning and opening his eyes. He looked right through Gaelen as she placed a hand on his forehead. "He is burning with fever. I have heard my folk speak of this when they have dealings with men. They say that men die of this. How is it that he is ill?"
Galador shrugged. "I don’t know. He started getting weak about three days ago. He really isn’t himself now. I fear for him, but don’t know how to aid him." He looked helplessly at Gaelen. "Any suggestion would be welcomed..." She now understood why he had been in such a hurry to get back, and she would forgive his discourteous treatment of her. Besides, he had pulled them from the river. Her attention now focused on the man lying beside her.
"What is he called?"
"His name is Rogond. Neither he nor I know his heritage, other than as a man of the Tuathar, those of the lost northern realm."
"Tuathar?" Gaelen was intrigued. She had heard of these tall Northmen in stories, and she had even met a few of them when they found their way into the Greatwood. She knew them to be generally good and noble, but mysterious. She was now looking forward to learning more.
Both she and Galador turned at the sound of Nelwyn getting to her feet and moving to join them. She was still cold and weary, but her color had improved. If she rested she would be fine by morning. Gaelen told Nelwyn of all that had happened since the river, and of Galador’s wish that they could heal Rogond.
Nelwyn was not hopeful. "Alas! I have no power or knowledge to heal such a sickness. It is beyond my experience," she said.
Gaelen agreed. In the case of a simple wound, they could have been of aid. Even a festering wound, which the Elves thankfully did not suffer, they could have dealt with. But this was a real sickness, of the kind that sometimes devastated whole populations of men.
Nelwyn needed to rest; she was looking a bit wobbly as she tried to rise to her feet. Galador laid hold of her shoulders to steady her, assisting her back to her place by the fire. He sat with her while she rested and ate the food that he offered her.
Gaelen drew the blankets back from the shivering man, recoiling from the stench of sickness that surrounded him. "Ehyah!" she exclaimed, and shook her head. Sometimes it seemed that mortal men began dying the minute they were born. She gently probed the man’s neck, feeling large, hard lumps beneath his skin at the angle of his jaw. He was sweat-soaked and unshaven, and his face was pale, but she could see that he was a fine representative of his ancient line. He swallowed painfully, opening his eyes again—this time it seemed as though he actually perceived Gaelen for a momen
t. His brow furrowed and he moaned miserably, shaking with a sudden chill.
Warming up a basin of water, Gaelen gently cleaned the sweat and dirt from his face, speaking soothing words to him as his eyes wandered aimlessly, looking at nothing. They were a beautiful, calm grey, but right now they were red-rimmed and over-bright with fever. Gaelen tried to warm him with more blankets, but it seemed nothing could stop him from shaking.
As his fever burned higher he became delirious, speaking all manner of languages, including at least two rare Elven dialects. Gaelen was fascinated despite her concern. She tried to comfort him, and he would calm in response to her words. Then the chill would take him again, and he would rave incoherently until it passed.
Gaelen glanced over at Galador, who was still hoping that she would think of something to help his stricken friend. She didn’t blame him for being anxious. With each episode of chills and delirium,
Rogond grew weaker. Soon he would be too weak to fight off the sickness, and then he would be lost.
"I must calm you somehow...to help you ride out the storm of chills and madness. You are like a small ship at the mercy of very large waves. You need…you need an anchor. I will do all I can for you, Tuathan, for you are young, and you have a part to play yet. Now I must hold you to this world."
When the next hard chill came, she drew a deep breath and lay down beside him, steadying him with her hands and her voice. When the fever came on him and he raved at unseen enemies, Gaelen held him down while Nelwyn cooled his brow with clear water. They spoke soft words to him or shouted at him as needed. At times, it was more than a bit frightening.
Rogond was not seeing anything but his enemies, and they were terrifying. At such times he would twist and fight, grabbing Gaelen’s slender arms so tightly that she cried out in pain as he tried to push her away. Then Galador would step in, for he was stronger than Gaelen and could easily hold Rogond down. Gaelen would sing her songs, and the enemies would draw away, leaving only peaceful sleep behind them.
