by C S Marks
She had clung to Galador one night in Mountain-home, crying in fear. It had taken him some time to quiet her, and in fact she would not be satisfied until she had found Gaelen and Rogond, who were, of course, perfectly safe. But Gaelen had looked into the eyes of her cousin with alarm. Though Nelwyn would not reveal all of the nature of her dark foresight, enough became known to make Gaelen uneasy for several days. Nelwyn had already told Galador that she would not consider any betrothal until their journey’s end, when they would be once again in the Greatwood and could be at peace.
Now she shivered in his embrace, not so much with chill as with disquiet. He responded by enfolding her in his arms, drawing her golden head to his chest. Once again she felt safe and warm. Nelwyn knew that Galador would not go beneath the mountains; he had seen quite enough of them. Of the four of them, he had been the most ill at ease traversing the darkness beneath the Monadh-hin. She sensed that some horror of the deep darkness had assailed him on a time, for he would suffer neither himself nor Nelwyn to go there again. Thus she had agreed to go with him to Tal-sithian, there to await the arrival of Rogond and Gaelen. Fima would remain in Cós-domhain through the next winter, as he had not seen his kin in quite a span of years. What course Thorndil and Belegund would take was unknown.
Nelwyn was not happy being separated from Gaelen, and she had tried to talk Galador into going under the mountains, but he really was not comfortable with the idea of entering the dwarf realm, though he liked Fima well enough. "I would sooner go over the mountains than ever go under them again. I know Fima is quite open-minded, but many dwarves still considered Elves to be their bitter enemies— especially Elves like me. I don’t know what sort of welcome I would have in the deeps of Cós-domhain."
Nelwyn had asked Gaelen about her choice to remain beside Rogond, even though it meant walking willingly into Cós-domhain. Gaelen had thought for a moment before answering. "I know he does not need my protection, as he is far more adept in dwarf-realms than I, but I sense he has placed great store by the information he expects to get from this dwarf, Farin. I fear it may not be all that he hopes for, and if he is disappointed I want to be there beside him. He seems vulnerable when it comes to the discovery of his history. He stayed by my side when I faced difficulty in Mountain-home—I now wish to do the same for him. Besides, I truly enjoy his company. Are you certain that you will not come with us? Fima has told me that this dwarf-realm is something to see."
Nelwyn shook her head. "I would go with you, Gaelen, but I must stay with Galador, and he will not go under the mountain. Since you will not come with me to Tal-sithian, we must wait for you there."
Gaelen laughed. "A fine waiting-place it will be in late spring! I cannot feel too sorry for your waiting. I shall be glad to see those lands again."
Nelwyn agreed. "Yes, but I shall be the more glad to see you again. There is an evil that stalks us, and though it does not yet draw near, it will. I’m certain of it."
At this, Gaelen grew somber. She knew that Nelwyn had held some sort of premonition, and it frightened her. The realization of how formidable Gorgon really was— that he had nearly succeeded in killing them all—had unnerved her, yet she was now more determined than ever to bring him down. She reached out to Nelwyn and embraced her, trying to convey a confidence she did not truly feel. She hadn’t really been separated from her cousin in a long reckoning. "It will be all right, Nelwyn. I shall come to Tal-sithian as quickly as I may. And you must take care in the mountain crossing, as it may be dangerous enough. In the meantime let us enjoy our time together. It will be many days ‘ere we reach the mountain gate, then we shall say farewell for a while."
Now Gaelen sat by the fire that she had built, gazing into the depths of the flames. Her mind was far away as Rogond sat beside her; she did not appear to take notice of him at first. He wondered whether she was casting her thoughts toward her beloved Ri-Elathan; her eyes were full of longing that Rogond could see through the reflected firelight. In truth, she was lost in a memory of another time, when she had cast her thoughts to one in need of them.
It happened in the forest as she had settled for the night in a clearing, when the stars were so bright that the sight of them gladdened and inspired her spirit into song. It was so with all the Cúinar, to whom the stars are beloved.
It had been three long years since Rain had left her. As she sang on that night, she could see him standing alone on a hilltop overlooking the choked, poisonous ruin that was the battle-plain, and he had lifted his eyes to the heavens in despair. He had not seen the stars clearly for time interminable, and his heart was sick and weary. Her song somehow reached him, and as he gazed heavenward he closed his eyes, and her visions filled his mind with an indigo field of silver lights so bright that he gasped in surprise and delight. Here, at last, were his beloved stars, millions of brilliant jewels that filled his spirit with joy. He saw her as well, bright eyes raised skyward, clear voice ringing, singing a beautiful song of hope and love…and of longing. The wonderful vision could not last, but it was such a gift that when it faded he did not despair, but treasured the memory of it until the end. It was his last clear sight of the stars, and the moment did not come again; though she often tried to call to him, he could not hear.
Now Gaelen was startled from her memory by the arrival of Belegund and Thorndil, who were preparing to settle by the fire for the night, as it was turning chill. Thorndil commented that they really were unused to the luxury of such a well-rested journey while in the wild, as the Elves, who needed no sleep, would keep the watch. They sat side-by-side, wrapped in their cloaks, hard men who had faced perils without number. Rogond asked Gaelen if she would sing for the three of them, as his friends had not yet been favored with her song. Gaelen obliged, and the sound that came from her was so beautiful and sad that the hearts of the Tuathar were torn by it, making Rogond wonder still whether she called out to the one who waited for her.
Had Gorgon heard that song in the depths of the Darkmere, he would have been filled with loathing. The song of Elves, no matter how fair, was to him abhorrent, for it served to remind him of the rejection of his existence by his mother’s people and of his lonely life full of hatred. He neither loved nor appreciated the beauty of anything Elven. The pain he felt as he raised new scars upon his own flesh was at times the only thing that made him know he was even alive. Yet alive he was, and now he was filled with hopeful anticipation, as he drew ever nearer to Tûr Dorcha and the Realm of the Shadowmancer.
Chapter 18: The Pale Tower
The next several days passed quickly and proved enjoyable as the weather had turned fine and warm, and the Company was in no hurry to reach their destination. Though they did not tarry, they set a relaxed pace.
Nelwyn and Gaelen were both fascinated by Fima, who never seemed to run out of surprises. Neither of them had ever allowed more than a minimal acquaintance with any of Fima’s race before, and they now regretted it, as it appeared that at least some dwarves were truly worth knowing. Fima, who was much more enlightened concerning Elves, was gladdened at this change in attitude. He taught Nelwyn a little of the dwarf-tongue and shared with her his people’s conception of the beginning of the world. Gaelen would hear all that Fima knew of the history of the Èolar. She also wanted to hear more tales of the fabled northern realm of Tuathas, and she became rather close in friendship with old Thorndil, who shared a wealth of such tales with her.
When they were not sharing tales, they were practicing their skill at arms. Nelwyn’s artistry with a bow was amazing. Her green eyes narrowed in concentration as she placed shaft after shaft exactly where she wished to. It was as though she merely had to look to a target, and the shaft appeared there. Galador and Rogond sparred with Thorndil and Belegund, their long swords ringing, as Gaelen sharpened her short sword and long daggers, humming softly to herself and enjoying the sight of them. Belegund was the most powerful, and Thorndil the most efficient and accurate. Rogond, the youngest of the three Tuathar, was the quickes
t and most graceful on his feet, for he had been well trained by the Elves who raised him. His swordplay was impressive, but even more so was his skill with the spear, which he could hurl with a precision nearly as great as Nelwyn’s arrows. Such abilities were rare even among Elves. Galador was Rogond’s equal when it came to the sword. In addition he was nearly as adept with the bow as Nelwyn, and his shots were far more powerful.
On one such day, Fima sat beside Gaelen, watching these displays with admiration. "Little Wood-elf, I notice you are not vying with your companions, yet I know that you must have some skill. What is your strength at arms?"
Gaelen turned to him and smiled. It was amusing being called "little" by one whose head did not reach her shoulders. "Bring your axe, Master Dwarf, and you shall know."
Fima was delighted at the prospect and grabbed his axe. Gaelen then led him to a small clearing nearby, where an old tree-stump stood about as high as Fima’s head. They stopped about fifteen yards from it, and Gaelen held up her hand. "Cast your weapon, Child of Fior, and then watch and learn."
"Hmmm…" said Fima, as he sized up the target. Then he drew back, axe in hand, and let it fly swift and sure. It turned gracefully over thrice before coming to rest, quivering, in the exact center of the stump. Gaelen clapped with delight, patting Fima on the shoulder. "Well thrown! That was a beautiful thing to behold. Now see where my skills lie." She drew a long dagger quick as thinking, leaped in the air and turned about, landing catlike, bright eyes focused on the axe. She let the dagger fly, striking the stump in the same fissure made by Fima. She dropped and somersaulted, throwing a second blade to again strike the fissure upon the opposite side of the axe. Fima’s weapon wavered and sagged, and Gaelen rolled and caught it as it dropped to the ground. Then, she tossed it to Fima in a blur of motion. "Defend yourself!" she cried, drawing her short sword and leaping upon him before he could blink.
The next few seconds were alarming for Fima, as Gaelen’s short sword met his axe time and again; it was all he could do to fend her off. He forgot that she was a Sylvan rustic; here was a whirlwind of sinew and steel. At last he lay winded upon the ground, her blade held harmlessly at his throat for the sixth time. She drew back and smiled at him, her face flushed, eyes full of excitement. Drawing a deep breath, she sheathed her blade then held out her hand to help him to his feet.
"That was amazing! I thought you preferred the bow," said Fima, catching his breath.
"I do prefer it, Master Fima, but I cannot vie with either Nelwyn or Galador in tests of archery. The blade is my second choice, as I do not possess great power, so I must make up for it in speed and accuracy. What do you think? Are my skills satisfactory?"
Fima eyed her ruefully, brushing the leaves and dead grass from his jacket. "I would not want to be your enemy, Gaelen of the Greatwood. Now let us return; this exercise has made me feel slow, old, and very mortal, not to mention hungry and thirsty!" At this he chuckled, then laughed heartily as they made their way back to the encampment.
Rogond met up with them, still somewhat winded and sweating from his contest with Belgund. Fima drew him aside. "I have now concluded that our Gaelen is much too quick for the likes of you, Rogond. Watch her, my friend, or I will steal her from you. She obviously finds me fascinating!"
Rogond looked sidelong at him. "Of that I have no doubt, Fima. Yet many things in this world might be described as fascinating. I will leave it to you to think of them."
Fima laughed again and clapped Rogond on the elbow. "Fair enough. I still think she is too quick for you. Alas that she was not born a dwarf; it is the only thing that would truly improve her, though she would no doubt still cut her hair."
Rogond smiled. "No doubt—and she would probably shave her beard as well!" At this, Fima shuddered, being unable to imagine such a thing.
Fima went in search of food and drink as Rogond took stock of his own condition. He was sweating in the heat of mid-day, and was in need of a good soaking. There was a deep pool of cool water nearby that would be perfect for such an application. After all, it certainly would not do to be unclean in such company. His clothing he could wash as well; the sun would dry it quickly.
He eased himself into the soothing, green depths, ducking under so that his long hair was thoroughly wetted. Removing his clothing, he scrubbed it beneath the water, and then tossed it upon the bank. He swam beneath the surface, reveling in the feel of the water as it traveled across his skin. After warming and stretching his limbs with slow, powerful strokes, he came up at the edge of a reed bed, and was surprised to see Gaelen entering the water from the opposite side. She was unclothed, her soft skin flawless save for the scars that she bore. She lowered herself gracefully into the water, then disappeared beneath the surface, raising hardly a ripple.
Rogond held his breath, not knowing what her reaction would be to his presence, as she surfaced again. As though she had suddenly become aware of him, her head turned and she met his gaze. Her expression was calm as she swam toward him, but Rogond flushed and dropped his eyes. Then she was right in front of him, standing waist-deep among the reeds, her left arm across her breasts. She tossed the wet hair from her eyes, her expression quizzical, as if standing before him unclothed was the most natural thing in the world.
"Are you all right? You look distressed. Does my presence here disquiet you? If so, then I will permit you your privacy."
Rogond still would not look directly at her, as he feared she would read his thoughts in his eyes. Her skin was like fine alabaster, and the light of her eyes smote him to the heart. He felt such an incredible longing for her in that moment that it was nearly unbearable. He wanted to declare his feelings right there and take her in his arms upon the warm, soft grass. He wanted to feel her soft skin next to his own and become one with her until they were both spent. No, he had best not look directly at her just now. He muttered some words that she could not understand, then turned from her and waded through the tall reeds, paying little heed to the black sediment that now coated his legs from the knees downward. He only wanted to escape his predicament, but in his haste he had forgotten about his clothing, which was lying in a wet heap quite some distance away.
Gaelen knew that he was distressed, though she was uncertain of the cause. She called to him: "Rogond! I am going now, so that you may enjoy your time undisturbed. I merely wished to cool myself, and have done so." She had no idea that Rogond would be so easily mortified; he had always seemed self-confident and secure. Ah, well, there was surely an explanation. She called to him again. "I will meet you back at the encampment, where we may eat and drink in a little while. Will that suit you?"
Rogond called back to her. "Yes, of course. I won’t be long— wait for me and I will eat and drink with you." But what he really thought was that it did not suit him. What would have suited him at that moment, he could not reveal to her. And he wondered whether he ever would have the courage to do so.
Gorgon first beheld the pale vision of Tûr Dorcha, stark and full of foreboding, as it stood shrouded in a sickly grey vapor. All around was desolation—a terrible, fetid bog surrounded it where no tree or leaf would grow. Yet he did not fear the Tower, as his coming was anticipated. His pride sustained him as he approached it, standing unafraid before the gates. He called out to the guards that drew their crossbows on him from atop the outer wall: "Lay aside your weapons and tell your master that Gorgon Elfhunter has come."
The guards looked upon him with puzzlement and not without awe; they had not beheld him before, this massive figure that could withstand so easily the evil energies radiating from the Tower. If an ordinary foe, such as Elf or man, came nigh to this place, he would be sickened and weakened merely from drawing breath. His vision would be clouded by a thick mist of confusion and despair, and he would either turn aside or die. An enemy that could approach so boldly was formidable indeed.
The massive gates opened, and a small retinue of well-armed Ulcas appeared, approaching Gorgon as he looked down at them with disdain. Gor
gon held nothing but contempt for them. He had once respected his own mighty sire, but he had been exceptional. Gorgon despised ordinary Ulcas for their weakness, their inability to travel well in daylight, and their distorted, twisted bodies. In truth, were it not for his armor, which effectively blocked the sunlight from much of his flesh, he would have experienced some of the same difficulty, for he did not love the sun. His pale eyes were still quite vulnerable, as the accursed She-elf had noticed.
Well, there was surely a remedy for that! When she and her companions were all dead there would be no need to worry. He snarled at the Ulcas.
"Lay down your weapons!" he thundered at them, and they took several steps back from him as he drew Gelmyr’s blade. The Elvish steel glinted in the misty twilight.
They retreated farther, snarling and arguing among themselves in their foul tongue. Gorgon laughed. "I am expected, you pathetic descendants of worms. One of you direct me to the Lord Wrothgar, for he is waiting. Otherwise I shall exercise my blade on your scrawny necks." He swept the head from the nearest guard without even looking at it.
The others took his point immediately, and began to flee toward the Tower and its great black doors. The doors opened as they reached it, but, rather than providing sanctuary, a burst of fire came forth, felling them as they shrieked and rolled upon the ground to no avail. Gorgon drew back a little, though he was untouched. The flames gentled down, and now burned softly, hanging inexplicably in the air before him. They went from golden to black, with peculiar green flickers edging and tipping them, as the deep, malevolent voice of Lord Wrothgar invaded Gorgon’s mind.
