by C S Marks
As for Gaelen, foundling descendent of the Fire-heart, Galador could never repay the debt he owed her. What had Magra meant when he had spoken of her heart’s desire that could never be attained? Nelwyn would not tell him, but Magra had intimated that it was something Rogond should be made aware of. Tomorrow Galador would seek to learn the truth of this from Magra, or perhaps from Ordath. Nelwyn had said that Gaelen would never give herself to another of Elven-kind. Did this mean her heart was given already? If so, how sad that her desire was unattainable, but how fortunate that his own was not.
Oh, Happy Elf of Eádros! Galador exulted, closing his thoughts of Gaelen and submitting once more to the loving attentions of her gentler cousin, of whose origins in the Greatwood there was absolutely no doubt.
Rogond found Magra in the armory the next morning. He seemed quite genial as he approached. "Ah! There you are, Aridan…now I shall not have to go in search of you. Come and have a look at this." He held out Rogond’s spear, which had been restored with a new blackened steel point. The shaft, finely balanced so that it rested lightly in his hand, would fly straight and true. "What do you think?
Is it to your liking?"
Rogond’s expression left no doubt that it was very much to his liking. He bowed courteously, and then raised his eyes to meet Magra’s.
"This weapon has never been tended with such skill. My thanks are insufficient," he said, and meant it.
Magra favored him with a good-natured smile. "You restored Elethorn to us, and helped bring the news of Gelmyr and this creature, Gorgon. It is we who are in your debt. Besides, Gaelen and Nelwyn should not be the only ones with fine weapons. You will need your spear, Aridan, before all is ended."
He turned and lifted Gorgon’s shield, which they had brought with them slung across Galador’s back. Magra shuddered as he touched it. "If the armor is of the same material, it is no wonder that your spearhead was turned." He handed the shield to Rogond, who had not as yet examined it closely. The weight of it was daunting. No weapon that he knew of in Alterra would penetrate it. There were many dents, each no doubt a reminder of some desperate and ineffective fight for an Elven life. Rogond suddenly felt ill, and he lowered the shield to the ground.
Magra looked at him with concern. "I don’t blame you, Rogond. I had the same feeling and would sooner not handle anything that has been touched by this creature. Gaelen said that you held it off for several minutes in single combat. That’s an impressive feat, for any creature that could bear that shield must be mighty indeed."
Rogond smiled. "He slung it around as a leaf in the wind. Its weight burdened him not at all. It is a good thing Gaelen is as quick as she is, or neither of us would have been favored with her company last night." He searched uncomfortably for the right words to say to Magra, but the Elf saved him the trouble.
"Rogond, I must apologize for last night. Gaelen had told me that she wanted you to be her companion, but somehow when she was sitting at my right hand I simply forgot myself. We have known each other for quite a long time, and I do enjoy her company. At any rate, I had no right to force such a choice upon her. It is obvious that she is very fond of you. You definitely have her respect, and that’s not easily earned." He inclined his head in a gesture of esteem.
Rogond was taken aback, as he had expected to be the one apologizing. Before he could stop himself, he asked a rather bold question of Magra—one that caused him to raise both eyebrows in mild surprise.
"Forgive me, but what does a great Elf-lord see in a simple Wood- elf such as Gaelen? I know that she is considered worthy in her way, but surely there are countless others more worthy to consort with one such as you. Please don’t be offended…I’m merely curious, and intend no disrespect."
Magra took a deep breath, as though formulating his reply. "Gaelen and I do not ‘consort’, Tuathan. We might be considered friends, and I enjoy her company, but there are things I know of her that would preclude my consorting with her. And as for being a simple Wood-elf, you should know by now that Gaelen is anything but simple, and her worth is not for the folk of Mountain-home to judge. I am not offended by the question, as it has been asked by many here. But I would caution you against getting too deeply involved with her. I will speak no more of this matter."
Then, his eyes grew wide for a moment as though he had just remembered something. "I was to give a message to you from Lore- master Fima, should I encounter you. He asks that you meet with him this morning in his underground chamber. You know it, of course?"
Rogond nodded. "I shall go now; I have a few words for him as well. Thank you again for this." He indicated the spear, which he placed carefully among the others in the armory. He would have no need of it while in the Sanctuary.
Magra turned to leave, but Rogond delayed him with a last question.
"I don’t suppose you are willing to tell me why you caution me against involvement with Gaelen?"
Magra turned back for a moment and replied, "No, I am uncomfortable revealing such matters. If you wish to learn more, inquire of Ordath if you cannot ask Gaelen directly. I don’t know how Gaelen would react to such an inquiry." Before Rogond could reply, Magra had gone.
Rogond found Fima sitting amid the clutter of his underground study. Rogond looked around, bemused. This place hadn’t changed a bit since his last visit over a decade ago. His friend was poring over a manuscript, muttering to himself, and had not heard Rogond until he shouted, "Go and Take the Elf, INDEED!" whereupon Fima was very nearly startled to death. Rogond slumped down in the only man- sized chair in the room, opposite Fima, who was looking daggers at him and smiling at the same time. They both chuckled good-naturedly like the true friends they were.
"Ah, Rogond, you are still as willing to be manipulated as ever. It was good for Magra. Somebody has to remind him occasionally that he breathes the same air as the rest of us. And I noticed that your friend didn’t even ask his leave! Some were still speaking of it this morning. How very marvelous!"
Rogond gave him a wry look, as Fima continued. "At any rate, I have no time to discuss the humbling of Magra by a Wood-elf. I have something important and remarkable to share with you, a gift that will stand you in good stead. I have been thinking about your enemy and the fact that you may need to pursue him below ground or in the dark of night. This will aid you, but I warn you that it is a powerful gift and dangerous if mishandled."
He drew forth a glass phial containing a small mass of what looked like soft, white metal suspended in a clear amber fluid. "The phial contains oil, and this material must be kept inside until needed. To use it, you will need a tiny bit of water. I have arranged a small demonstration." He indicated a clay saucer in which a tiny shaving of the metal was lying. "Shield your eyes," he cautioned, as he took a drop of water, applying it to the edge of the saucer so that it ran down onto the metal.
The result was immediate and startling. Rogond flinched as a tiny explosion, accompanied by blinding white light, forced him back a few paces. It was incredible. The reaction lasted for several seconds. When it had faded, Rogond gaped at Fima, speechless.
"What dwarvish devilry was that? What is it called? How did you get it? What would happen if you did that to a larger quantity?"
Fima raised his hand. "We call it maglos. As to how I acquired it, that is mine to know. It is very rare…difficult to mine and refine to this form. As to what would happen if you added a larger quantity, you had best not find out, unless in imminent danger from your enemy. Then, may you have the good sense to gain some distance from it quickly!"
"Maglos," muttered Rogond. The name meant "mighty light". True enough! Fima handed him the phial.
"The oil prevents moisture from accidentally contacting the maglos. That would be a catastrophe. When you need it, simply shave a bit off and add water. You have seen the result. The light will serve you well against this enemy. If he looks directly into it he will be blinded for several minutes, if I am any judge. It’s definitely something he will not expect."
Rogond bowed before Fima. "Immeasurable thanks, my dear friend. This will be a difficult road, and you have given us a weapon that will allow us to walk with less fear in the dark."
Fima returned the bow, but his face was grim. "Yes, Rogond, walk with less fear, but with fear nevertheless. I have my own thoughts concerning the nature of your enemy, and if I am right, he has abilities as yet unseen. Beware! I did not go to all the trouble of teaching you our tongue so that you could take the knowledge to an early death." Rogond was intrigued. "Will you not share your insights with me? I would hear them, for you are wise beyond any here save Lady
Ordath herself. Please, favor me with your speculation."
Fima nodded and then spent nearly an hour explaining his view concerning the nature of Gorgon and the reasoning behind it. When he had finished, Rogond thanked him and took his leave. Though Fima’s hypothesis was horrific, it was unassailably logical. As Rogond made his way back up the long stair, the phial of maglos tucked safely away, he reflected that Fima’s theory definitely made sense. It actually made very good sense.
Chapter 15: Dark Heart
Gorgon had fled into the cool, dark haven beneath the mountain, nursing wounds to his body, his mind, and his pride. He had never been thus routed in all the long years since he had been turned loose upon the world. He was among the mightiest of all the misbegotten children of Darkness, and the labor of producing him had begun long ago.
Wrothgar had decided to fashion the perfect evil warrior—an invincible creature of such stature and might that none could stand against it. Ultimately, he succeeded, having learned from the horrible failures that had come before. The result was Gorgon, and Wrothgar was at first pleased with his success. But when he learned that Gorgon would not be controlled and served no master but himself, Wrothgar had set him loose to cause as much suffering as he could manage, to the satisfaction of both. Wrothgar was perhaps the only being in Alterra who hated the Elves even more than Gorgon did.
This "invincible warrior" had been thwarted by two Wood-elves, a man, and a third Elf of unknown origin. Though he not anticipated this third Elf, Gorgon still could not believe that such a pathetic force had defeated him. The arrows of the accursed Wood-elves had damaged him, especially the last that had lodged beneath his right arm. He had pulled it out immediately, but it had gone deep. The other that still pained him had gone under the left arm. The point had come free of the shaft and remained deep within his flesh. His head was still pounding from the searing blast of light that had nearly blinded him. He cursed himself for his carelessness. Why had he not made certain that he struck the lookout with enough force to kill her outright?
And what of the others? They knew Gorgon’s weakness now; the accursed She-elf had discovered it. It would be no good attacking in daylight from now on. He had lost his shield, as well. One thing was certain—the next shield would have no mirrored surface that could be turned upon him. The mirrored shield had allowed Gorgon to delight in the fact that his victims could see their own desperate, doomed faces reflected in it as he vanquished them.
For the first time in untold centuries, Gorgon despaired. He knew that these Elves would not rest until they had hunted him down, and in the meantime they no doubt intended to warn all who would hear of him, betraying his weakness. Deep within his flesh, the Elven arrow-point burned him. Would he now carry that reminder forever? He cursed the one who had given it to him, knowing it was she whose relentless pursuit he had sensed from the beginning. How could he have let this happen?
You let it happen because you were careless. It is your destiny to be defeated by these foes. Gorgon jumped, startled by the voice to his immediate left. Gelmyr was sitting beside him, as he often did these days, glowing vaguely blue in the darkness. He wasn’t looking too hale, but considering the length of time he had been dead, he was managing admirably. I warned you of this, you know. You didn’t listen because of your pride. Up until the last, it blinded you to the truth. You said once that you had taken my pride and that it had been my undoing. That was true, but your own pride will bring about your downfall as well. After all, he added with a knowing smile, it comes from the same source.
Gorgon closed his eyes, trying to will Gelmyr to go and leave him alone with his pain. He growled at the empty chamber in which he was lying.
"Wretched Èolo, you are wrong. This is but a minor inconvenience. I will slay them all when next we meet. And do not dare to compare yourself to me."
Gelmyr truly laughed then, as he did more and more frequently as time passed.
Why not? It is apt in some ways. But I will not compare myself to you again, for you are weakening day by day, and soon the fire will take you. And while it is true that I no longer count myself among the living, at least I did not have to die awash in pity, as you will, and at least I fell before a once-mighty foe, not whimpering before an undersized She-elf.
This last enraged Gorgon so much that he turned and swung hard with his right arm at the apparition beside him, releasing a bolt of pain through his entire right side. He groaned and clenched his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain of the wound and the scornful laughter that rose, fell, and faded away. When he opened his eyes again, Gelmyr was gone.
Gorgon lay, breathing painfully, humiliated in his defeat. He thought of trying to rest again and closed his eyes. He had removed his armor, and the blood that had flowed from his wounds might draw enemies, but he was too discouraged right now to concern himself with such things. Not even his ever-present rage and resentment would sustain him. He curled up on his left side, drawing his legs close to his belly. His breath came in shallow gasps as he tried to sleep. He would heal if he found his strength, and sleep would help.
As he drifted off, he thought he heard a deep, sonorous voice beckoning him. It was a familiar voice, though he had not heard it for time out of mind. He roused himself, waiting for the voice to come again. When it did, he realized that he was feeling the voice rather than hearing it. After a moment of silence, Gorgon spoke softly into the dark.
"Are these the words of the Dark Master, whose voice I have not heard in so long?"
Gorgon waited in the dark, and soon the reply came.
Yes, it is I. Thou hast done well in thy task, Gorgon Elfhunter, until now. I have heard thy desperate call and have come to aid thee. Do not fear Me, for I am thy friend. For much time have I watched over thee, rejoicing in the accomplishment of thy purpose, yet discontented, for there is so much more that could be done if thou would accept My help. Now, in the depths of thy despair I sense that thou art ready. Heal thyself Elfhunter, and come to Me. Thou wilt find Me in Tûr Dorcha. My strength is not as yet restored, but I have strength enough to aid thee in thy purpose. Come thou, then, and receive My blessing and aid. Thou art as a son to Me. Return to thy place at My side.
Gorgon spoke quietly in the darkness. "Yea, Lord Wrothgar, it has been so long since I have been aware of Thee. Yet I wonder… why have I heard not from Thee in all this time? What force has drawn Thee here now?"
The force of thy destiny draws Me hither. As I have spoken to thee in the pit of thy despair, thou art ready at last. Come to Me and accomplish thy purpose. I will give to thee a gift that will vanquish thy foes, and they and their kind shall weep long ‘ere thy purpose is fulfilled. Come to Me and nourish again thy hatred. Remember thy name and recall what thou art!
At these words, the familiar rage welled again in Gorgon, and he answered Wrothgar with words of his own. "Yea, Lord, I will. I will not promise to submit to Thy bidding, even as I could not before, but I will hear Thy council."
Let it be so. Heal thyself, and come to Me as soon as thy strength is recovered. I will await thee.
Gorgon waited for a moment, but the voice of Wrothgar came no more. Gorgon truly slept then, as the pain of his wounds seemed to grow less. The Black Flame had called him and offered to aid him in the defeat of his enemies. Gorgon hated and feared Wrothgar, and with reason aplenty, but he also revered h
is power and purpose. His pride had welled in him once again, and he would not let fear stay him in slaying the Elves and wreaking his vengeance. Now he would will himself into a long, deep sleep, as his body healed itself. When he regained his strength he would turn aside from his intended path and make his way back the way he had come, toward Tûr Dorcha in the south of the Darkmere.
Lady Ordath, daughter of Shandor the Asarla and Liathwyn of the Èolar, understood the ways of many races and possessed unique insights into the hearts of Elves and men. She had known of rare unions between the Elàni and the Aridani, and so it was to her that Rogond finally decided to go for counsel. The innuendoes given by Magra concerning Gaelen could only be explained by Ordath, who apparently understood the nature of them. Ordath herself had stated that Rogond’s desire for Gaelen was "ill-fated". All such unions were considered to be ill-fated. Why, then, had Ordath been compelled to point this out to him? It was time to make matters plain.
Mountain-home was indeed a wondrous realm. Sheltered and hidden by the surrounding mountain peaks it should have been clouded, cold and grey, but it was not so, for magic had shaped it, and the Lady now kept it. Her influence could be seen in the open-air courtyards, tall trees, and foliage reminiscent of a carefully-tended garden. This contrasted with the Sanctuary itself—a massive white granite structure rising from amidst the green.
Lord Shandor had designed this monument to learning, and, like its founder, it was stark and cold. Yet he had made it strong and enduring to remind all who beheld it of the power of knowledge.
