Elfhunter

by C S Marks

  "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.

  In their own encampment, Galador and Rogond sat huddled together against the dark chill. Rogond was exhausted. Galador knew that when his friend was healthy he was as hard and tough as iron, but this sickness had really laid him low. He was shivering miserably, trying to sleep, as Galador kept watch. Eros was standing nearby, looking at them both rather intently with his large, liquid brown eyes. "What are you looking at? Go on and graze with your companions," said Galador, indicating the other two horses. Eros ignored Galador, approaching until he stood right beside Rogond, then reached down and nuzzled the top of his head. Galador was about to wave him off when Eros sank to his knees, lying carefully down behind Rogond, who took advantage of the opportunity, resting back against the warm body of the animal. He stopped shivering almost at once, and Galador smiled before turning to regard Réalta.

  "Now take a lesson in faithfulness! I have underestimated the depth of your character, Eros. If you will permit me, I, too, will share in your warmth." So saying, he joined Rogond and was soon warm and reasonably content. He maintained his watchfulness, though the horses would probably alert him if any evil creature came near. As the stars wheeled above him he grew uneasy, hearing what sounded like faint, distant cries, but he told himself that it was only the wind. He prayed that Nelwyn would be kept safe, and that he would soon find her again.

  Chapter 4: The Fate of Gelmyr

  The river wove with lazy abandon among open meadows that were now the brown of winter. The nearby trees were both tall and strong, and would provide a refuge for the lone Elf who stood on the banks of the Ambros, surveying the landscape with satisfaction. His name was Gelmyr, and he had been journeying from the Linnefionn for only a short while. It was always pleasant there, even in winter, for the Elven-realm of Tal-sithian was evergreen and beautiful.

  Gelmyr was in no particular hurry to reach the mountain-realm of Monadh-talam. In fact, he had diverted west, for he so loved the Great River. He would linger awhile before continuing north and then eastward, for he would need to cross the tall mountains known as the Monadh-hin. In winter, this would be difficult. The people of Tal-sithian had offered to send emissaries to accompany him, as they could certainly find business in Monadh-talam, and traveling alone in these times was unsafe. Gelmyr had declined the offer of an escort; he was a skilled and fearless warrior, had often traveled alone, and felt there was little left in Alterra to thwart him compared with what he had already endured.

  Gelmyr was descended from the mighty, and he was counted mighty himself. He was of great age, having fought many times beneath the banner of the High King Ri-Elathan beside his friend Magra, who was one of the most renowned warriors of Alterra. Gelmyr was traveling to Mountain-home in the hope of reuniting with Magra, and he expected little difficulty on the journey. He was unlikely to encounter real danger until he crossed the mountains. For now, he enjoyed the shelter of trees and the soothing sound of the river as he prepared to rest and partake of food and drink. He did not realize that watchful eyes were upon him as dusk turned to deep twilight, and the first stars appeared.

  Gelmyr made no fire, as he needed none. The weather had gentled down such that a winter cloak was more than adequate, and the ground was reasonably dry. All the same, he decided to climb a tree where he could pass the night in safety, relaxing and gazing at the ever-brightening winter stars.

  Gorgon Elfhunter wasn’t usually so lucky when he passed through the area between the mountains and the
lake. At times he felt that, despite the misery of his life, he was blessed. Had not Gelmyr happened along just when he was needed? It was not typical of their kind to travel alone, yet here he was—perfect prey. Not a Wood-elf, either. Oh, no indeed! This was a powerful, seasoned warrior from the look of him. He had no doubt seen battle aplenty, but he would have little defense now. All the same, Gorgon would need to be cautious. The memory of the terror of the Wood-Elf in the forest, the one who had tried to defend his companion, was fading from Gorgon’s mind. He needed a new victim to sustain him until he reached the mountains. Then he would go to ground for a while.

  He waited until Gelmyr had relaxed in his tall sanctuary, gazing at the glittering stars, which promised to be so bright. All Elves were united in their love of starlight; they took great comfort in it and tried always to view the stars by night. Gorgon did not share Gelmyr’s affection for them. He fitted a large, blunt-tipped arrow to his powerful bow, for he meant to cripple Gelmyr, not to kill him as yet. With his pale, sharp eyes, Gorgon located his intended target—the base of Gelmyr’s spine was clearly visible as he lay half-reclining against a limb, eyes cast upward.

  Gelmyr was just thinking of the cold, rushing waters of the Mountain-realm, and how pleasant it would be to see his friend Magra, when a violent blow struck him, knocking his relaxed body clear of its support so that he fell awkwardly to the ground, dazed and in pain. He gasped and tried to clear his head—what had happened? He felt a dull agony in the middle of his back and sharp, stabbing pains filling his shoulders, chest, and arms. Below his waist he felt nothing.

  As soon as his head cleared he drew his blade, trying to listen for his enemy through the sound of his own labored breathing. His eyes were wide and filled with pain and confusion as he searched in all directions, moaning as he tried to turn over. When his legs would not answer, he knew his back was broken. He also knew that he would soon be dead even if his enemy never appeared, as he was now helpless and alone in the wild. No one would look for him, and some enemy or wild thing would surely take him. At least if the one who had felled him came near, he would be ready.

  He gritted his teeth and waited, sword in hand, breath whistling in his throat. He could hear slow, cautious footsteps approaching and could smell an unpleasant odor on the wind. He first beheld his enemy— immense, dark, menacing, armored and helmeted, a curved sword in hand. Gelmyr’s eyes fixed on Gorgon’s—those strangely pale, cold eyes filled with malicious pleasure at the sight of his seemingly helpless foe.

  Gelmyr waited, hoping the monster would draw near enough to strike, but Gorgon was not so easily lured close. He knew he had time, and he intended to take it. Gelmyr tried to remain still and silent, but a sudden wave of pain came over him, and he shuddered and groaned through clenched teeth. Gorgon smiled, though Gelmyr could not see his dark face well enough to perceive it.

  "Put the sword aside, for it will not avail you, O Already Dead," he growled in an almost amiable tone.

  Gelmyr snarled in answer. "Come but closer, and we shall see!" Then, in his own tongue, he said: "You are craven to cripple and then attack. You dared not challenge me until first rendering me helpless, but I am not so helpless as you think. It will take a greater warrior than you to defeat Gelmyr of the Èolar!" He spat at Gorgon, who actually chuckled in his deep, oily voice.

  "You think I do not understand your tongue? I speak it as well as you do, Èolo!"

  Gelmyr was both astonished and horrified, but did not completely lose his wits. As Gorgon approached him, he suddenly lashed out with his blade, thinking to strike the legs of his foe, but Gorgon leaped back and met the blade with his own. Trying to rise, Gelmyr propped himself on his elbow, frustrated and in pain, as Gorgon sought to disarm him. Their blades rang as they clashed together, for both were Elven-made. Each stroke was an agony of effort for Gelmyr, but still he fought, lashing out like an eagle cornered in a cage. At last, however, his strength waned, and Gorgon struck his sword-arm, disarming him and bringing fresh blood onto the grass.

  Gelmyr now had only his long knife, which he pointed at Gorgon with a trembling left hand. Chest heaving, eyes desperate, he had dragged himself painfully backward until he came up against a tangle of roots at the base of the tree he had sheltered in and could go no further. Gorgon laughed at Gelmyr’s desperation, but he still didn’t like the look of the knife. Picking up a length of fallen limb from the ground, he swung hard at Gelmyr’s left hand, connected with a satisfactory "crack", and knocked the knife free. Casually, he went to retrieve it knowing that his victim was not going anywhere.

  Pain and hopelessness had blunted Gelmyr’s senses; he was barely conscious by the time Gorgon returned to him. Gorgon shook his head and went to work, binding Gelmyr’s wrists together (he had broken the left one with his disarming stroke). Throwing a rope over a low-hanging limb, he hoisted Gelmyr so that his feet dangled inches from the ground. Then he waited patiently for his prey to revive. Gelmyr would have done better to have died then, but he did not, for he was made of harder material than most. He came to with the rising of the moon, a great golden orb that hung low in the eastern sky. Soon the land would be nearly as bright as in twilight, which to the eyes of an Elf is as daylight to a man.

  "I will not kill you, Elf, until you hear my tale. Then, if your response pleases me, I will kill you quickly. If not, I will leave you here to beg for death," said Gorgon.

  Gelmyr knew that he had seen his last sunrise, whatever happened. He fought back the pain and stared stoically into the eyes of his enemy. Then he spoke, still defiant, still proud.

  "Do as you will, you cannot break my spirit. I do not know of what vile race you were spawned, but know this: my kindred will avenge my death, and they will not be merciful."

  Gorgon genuinely laughed at this, a horrible sound filled not with mirth, but with malice. "What vile race, indeed! You truly cannot know, cannot conceive. But you SHALL know ‘ere death takes you. Then much may your pride avail you, Warrior-elf! As for your kin, I fervently hope they do seek vengeance, for that will bring them to me, and they shall suffer the same fate."

  Gorgon brought his face close to Gelmyr’s, so that Gelmyr nearly swooned from his foul breath and terrible disfigurement. Every inch of him was covered with a web of raised, tangled scars. Only his eyes appeared untouched. They were pale grey, clear, and bright with hostility. He spoke softly to Gelmyr, watching the Elf ’s expression change—from defiance to a sort of horror tinged with pity—as he heard Gorgon’s tale.

  By the time Gorgon had nearly finished his story, he had worked himself into a state of fury. He began striking Gelmyr with his curved blade, bringing blood but not death, as his victim writhed in pain and terror. Gorgon threw down the blade and stood panting and angry, consumed with hate. Grabbing Gelmyr’s jaw he lifted the Elf ’s head so that their eyes met for the last time. Then, with his other hand, he removed his own helmet. Gelmyr might have cried out in horror had he the strength. With his last sight he beheld the true face of his enemy, and he knew then that the creature before him was terrible indeed.

  Gorgon killed Gelmyr with a single stroke to the side of his neck, releasing a flood of bright blood and draining the life from him in a few moments. He had promised to do so if Gelmyr heard his tale, and the reaction to it had been more than fulfilling. Gorgon would leave the body where it was, after stripping it of weapons and provisions. Then he would continue west to one of his many underground resting places and lie low for a while. This had been a most uplifting encounter, better than he had hoped for. It cheered him that this was undoubtedly an important Elf, one who would be missed and mourned by many. The Èolar were already all but extinct, and Gorgon had just brought them one step closer. For now, his blood-lust was sated and he could rest.

  He had some fine new weapons to add to his stores, and he had become especially fond of the sword he had taken from the Darkmere. He held it up in the moonlight, the blade of Turantil glittering through the blood of its victim. Gorgon wiped it on t
he brown grass before sheathing it again, gathered his stolen provisions, and headed toward the mountains. He paused before Gelmyr’s body and gazed into his now-sightless eyes.

  "Gelmyr. Gel-meeer," Gorgon muttered with disdainful sneer. "Your pride has always been your undoing, Èolo--how fortunate for you that I have taken it from you." He laughed and spat on the ground at Gelmyr’s feet. It was always best when, at the end, their pride left them. With some difficulty he replaced his helmet and then disappeared into the night.

  Chapter 5: The Trail is Lost

  Gaelen and Nelwyn were still lingering near the river bank when Galador found them on the following afternoon. He had left Rogond with Eros and galloped straight toward the river, intending to follow its course until he found them. Réalta ran with his tail in the air, for the slow going of yesterday was not to his liking, and he stretched himself and ran with enthusiasm. Galador reveled in the sound of his mount’s swift feet on the grass and the wind in his long hair as he sat tall and proud, cloak unfurled behind him. He was alive, his friend was healing, and Nelwyn was waiting. At least, so he hoped.

  Rogond had agreed to remain behind because he knew that catching Gaelen quickly was his best hope of ever seeing her again. He was stronger this morning, but still was not up to riding very far or very fast. Réalta was the swiftest, and when he was in full flight Eros could not keep up with him. Rogond patted the dun’s shaggy neck and was rewarded with a nuzzle at his hip.

  "Never mind, Eros, you have proven your usefulness on countless occasions. The efficient may prevail where the swift falter."