The Nomad

by Simon Hawke

  “And so it came to pass that the noble Alaron, last of the long and honored line of elven kings, was cursed by the evil Rajaat, who feared the power of the elves and sought to sow disunity among them,” said the chieftain. The tribe listened silently, many nodding to themselves as he spoke. “With his defiler magic, Rajaat cast a spell upon the noble Alaron, so that he could sire no sons, and so the royal line would die out with him. And the evil that he wrought upon our people is with us to this day, may his name live long in infamy.”

  “May his name live long in infamy,” the people of the tribe echoed in grave chorus.

  “Rajaat then sowed discord among the tribes, using bribery, deceit, and magic, and in time, he succeeded in driving the tribes apart into many warring factions. Only the noble Alaron continued to resist him, but he was unable to bring the tribes together once again. And so the kingdom fell.”

  “And so the kingdom fell,” the tribe repeated as one.

  “Then the noble Alaron was forced to flee, pursued by Rajaat’s evil minions,” the chieftain continued. “They caught up to him and the remnants of his tribe at a place known as the Lake of Golden Dreams, and it was there the dream died for our people. A mighty battle followed, and all the tribe was slain. Mortally wounded, the noble Alaron alone escaped into the forests of the Ringing Mountains, and it was there he fell down in despair and waited for death to come and claim him. He had done his utmost, and he had failed, but he had not bowed down before the foe. May his courage be remembered.”

  “May his courage be remembered,” Mira said along with the other members of the tribe.

  “And it came to pass that as he lay, dying, a wandering pyreen came upon him and stopped to bring him peace and ease his final moments. My visions have not revealed her name to me, but they revealed how the noble Alaron, with his last breath, gave her his sword, the mighty Galdra, enchanted blade of elven kings. With his last breath he asked one final boon of her. ‘Take this, my sword, the symbol of my once-proud people,’ he said to her. ‘Keep it safe, so that it should never fall into the hands of the defilers, for the blade would shatter if they tried to use it. I was cursed never to have a son,’ he said, ‘and a proud tradition dies with me. The elves are now a beaten people. Take Galdra and keep it safe. My life is but the blink of an eye to a pyreen such as you. Perhaps, someday, you will succeed where I have failed, and find an elf worthy of this blade. If not, then hide it from the defilers. I can at least deny them this.’

  “And with those words, he died. And so the kingdom of the elves died with him.”

  “And so the kingdom of the elves died with him,” echoed the tribe with sadness.

  “And our people became decadent, and the tribes scattered far and wide, most to live as nomads in the desert, raiding and stealing from both humans and each other, forsaking their honor, while others went to reside within the cities of the humans, where they engaged in commerce with them and mixed their blood with theirs and forgot the glory of their once-proud race. And yet, a tiny spark of hope remained, nurtured in the hearts of all our people. That faintly glowing spark became known as the legend of the Crown of Elves, passed on throughout the generations, even though, to most, it was no more than a myth, a story told by elven bards around the campfires to while away the lonely desert nights and bring a few moments of solace in the squalid elven quarters of the cities, where our people lived in poverty and degradation. And thus we all recall the legend “

  “And thus we all recall the legend,” Mira said, among with all the others, who watched their chieftain with rapt fascination as he spoke, his face illuminated by the flickering flames.

  “There shall come a day. The legends says,” the chieftain continued, “when a chieftain’s seventh son shall fall and rise again, and from his rise, a new life shall begin. From this new life will spring new hope for all our people, and it shall be the Crown of Elves, by which a great, good ruler will be crowned, one who shall bring back the elven forest homeland. The Crown shall reunite the people, and a new dawn shall bring the greening of the world. So it is said, so shall it be.”

  “So it is said, so shall it be,” the people chanted.

  “And so we gather ’round the fire tonight, as we do on each and every night, to reaffirm our purpose,” said the chieftain. “From the day I fell and struck my head upon a rock in weapons training with my father, chieftain of the Moon Runners, I began to have my visions. I fell and rose again, and from this rise, a new life had begun for me. A new life where I saw visions that would guide my people to the new dawn that was promised. I knew, from that day forth, that it was my fate to seek and find the Crown of Elves, which can only be the legendary Galdra, sword of Alaron and symbol of our people. And I knew, because my visions told me so, that I would one day become chieftain of our tribe and that I, Kether, a chieftain’s seventh son, would lead my people on a quest to find the pyreen who held in trust the fabled sword of Alaron.

  “We have come far upon that quest,” Kether continued, “and now I sense that we are near its end. We have put aside all other concerns and rivalries and passions, we have devoted ourselves to the spiritual purity of the Path of Preserver, and we have embraced the Druid Way, to purge ourselves of violent emotions, petty prides, and selfish motivations. To find the peace-bringer who shall bring the Crown to us, we must first find peace within ourselves, to make us worthy. Each day, we must reaffirm our purpose and pursue it with new zeal. We must bear reverence within our hearts for every living thing, and for our dying world, so that it may one day live again. To this noble end, we dedicate ourselves.”

  “To this noble end, we dedicate ourselves,” the people said, their eyes shining in the firelight.

  Kether looked around and saw the way they were all watching him, expectantly. Mira wondered what it must be like to be chieftain and know that everyone in the tribe depended on the wisdom of your leadership. It must be a heavy burden, she thought, but Kether was wise and strong, and he bore it well. He uncrossed his legs and stood, tall and proud, looking around at his people. His long, silvery hair was tied back with a thong and hung down to the middle of his back. His face, sharp-featured, with the high, prominent cheekbones of his people, was striking and handsome. He was young still, and had not yet chosen a wife. Mira was one of several eligible young females in the small tribe, and she wondered if he might one day consider her. She would be proud to bear him strong sons, one of whom might someday take over the leadership of the tribe.

  “We have come far, my people,” Kether said. “We gather tonight on the slopes of the Ringing Mountains, not far from where the noble Alaron fell all those many years ago. I know that you have all suffered many hardships on this journey, but I sense that it is almost at an end. Somewhere, here in the majestic Ringing Mountains, it is said that the mystical villichi sisterhood maintain their convent. They are long-lived, and they follow the true Path of the Preserver and the Druid Way. If anyone would know where the Crown of Elves is to be found, then surely, it is they.

  “Tomorrow, we shall rest, and gather food for the continuation of our journey, and then the next day, we shall head south, toward the higher elevations, where we shall seek the home of the villichi and lay our petition before them. Have faith, my people, and be strong. What we do, we do not only for ourselves, but for all the generations yet to come. Sleep well tonight, and when you dream, dream of a new dawn for our people, and for our benighted world. I wish you peaceful slumbers.”

  Slowly, the tribe dispersed to their tents, but Mira lingered for a while by the fire, staring thoughtfully into the flickering flames. She wondered, as she often did, what the future held in store for her. She was young, not yet sixteen summers, small and delicate for one of her race, with long, silvery hair, sharp features, and light-gray eyes. Each year, throughout her childhood, she had asked her mother, Garda, when she would grow tall like the others of her tribe, and each year her mother had laughed and said that soon she would start shooting up like a desert broom plant aft
er a monsoon. But in recent years, her mother had stopped laughing when she asked that question, and soon Mira realized that she would never grow any taller than she was now. She would remain slight and unattractive, a runt among her people, and doubtless it was foolish of her to think of being chosen, by anyone, much less by Kether. And if she were not chosen by someone of her tribe, then who else was there?

  Her mother was already asleep when she returned to their tent, but though she tried to move quietly, she still woke her when she came in.

  “Mira?”

  “Yes, Mother. Forgive me, I did not mean to wake you.”

  “Where have you been?”

  “Sitting by the fire and thinking.”

  “You spend much time alone these days, with just your thoughts for company,” her mother said with a sigh. “I know it has been hard for you, my child. Ever since your father went away, I have tried to raise you by myself as best I could, but I know you have been lonely for having been denied a father’s love. Forgive me.”

  “It is not your fault, Mother.”

  Garda sighed once more as she lay upon her bedroll. “Yes, it is,” she said. “Perhaps I should have known better. Your father was not of our tribe, and I knew when I met him that he would not remain with us. He was much like Kether: he, too, was driven to wander, searching for meaning in his life. He never told me he would stay, and I never asked him to. Our time together was brief, but at least I shall always have you to remind me of the love we shared.”

  “Do you think that he may ever return?” asked Mira.

  “I used to ask myself that question all the time,” her mother said. “And now?” For a moment, her mother remained silent. Then, in a soft voice, she said, “And now, I no longer ask it. Go to sleep, Daughter.”

  Mira remained silent for a long time afterward but when her mother’s steady breathing told her that she was asleep, she quietly got up again and went outside. Sleep eluded her. Somehow, she felt restless, and she did not know why. She walked out to the edge of the cliff near which they had camped and stared out at the desert to the west, illuminated in the light of the twin moons. In the distance, she saw the smoking mountain, and at its foot, she saw the moonlight reflecting off the Lake of Golden Dreams. It was there that Alaron had fought his final battle, and it was somewhere nearby that he had died.

  It did not look very far away, not for an elf. Though she was small, she was still a Moon Runner, and she thought that she could reach the lake in a matter of mere hours. She knew she should not leave the camp, for they were in unknown territory, but she felt a pull that drew her toward the distant lake. It was a site important to the history of her people. How could she not see it close at hand? And its water looked so welcoming… it had been a long rime since she had bathed. Moistening her lips, Mira gave a quick glance over her shoulder. The camp was quiet, and the fire was dying down. She turned and headed toward the ancient trail that led down from the slopes. And then she began to run.

  * * *

  They met by the Lake of Golden Dreams, on the opposite shore from the mining village of Malda, within sight of the smoking mountain. It was night, and the twin moons, Ral and Guthay, were both full, illuminating the foothills with a silvery glow. It was a warm summer night, and moonlight danced on the placid surface of the lake, making the water sparkle.

  She was of the Moon Runners, a nomadic tribe that roamed the Hinterlands and had journeyed far to reach the Ringing Mountains. He was a young halfling, and his name was Ogar. He was the seventh son of his tribal chieftain, born of his seventh wife, and taller than most of the people of his tribe, with the muscular frame, chiseled features, black mane, and the stormy, dark eyes of his warrior father.

  He had traveled from the high country down to the lake to fulfill his Ritual of Promise, which marked his passage from adolescence to adulthood. He was to take a mountain cat alone, with just his spear, defeat an enemy in single combat, and bring back a trophy of the contest, then take his vows to the twin moons and sing his Song of Promise. The mountain cat he had already slain, and feasted on its flesh. And the enemy that he had chosen was one befitting the son of a warrior chief. He would slay a human. He had come to the lake shore to look across at the rough mining town of Makla and scout the best approach, and that was when he saw her, alone, bathing in the lake.

  He had crept up softly, close to the shore, where she had left her clothes, and watched quietly from cover as she washed her hair in the moonlit waters of the lake. He had never seen a female elf before, and he was struck by her loveliness as the water glistened on her sleek, curvaceous body. She was not as tall as he might have expected, though she stood at least head taller than him, and he could not tear his eyes away from her. He crouched there by the shore, leaning on his spear, watching as she washed herself.

  There was something marvelously languid, graceful, and compelling in her movements She hummed to herself softly as the water trickled off her body and lent her flesh a glittering smoothness in the early light of dawn. And then a twig snapped, and she froze, staring toward the shore with alarm.

  Ogar had been so fascinated by her that he had never heard them approach. Neither had she. They had moved with stealth, until a clumsy footstep at the last moment had given them away. And then they rushed her.

  It was a small hunting party of humans from the mining village across the lake.” There were four of them, and they came charging out into the water, splashing and yelling, two from either side, cutting off all escape. She could have turned and swum straight out into the lake, but either she was paralyzed with shock and fear, thought Ogar, or else she did not know how to swim. She cried out as they closed and seized her, manhandling her roughly, and from their actions and the expressions on their faces, there was no need to wonder what they intended.

  Ogar leapt up from concealment and ran out into the water, holding his spear before him. The four humans were so intent on gratifying their baser instincts and they were making so much noise that they did not hear him approaching, not even when he came splashing through the water toward them. He ran one of them through with his spear and, as the man screamed and died, the others suddenly realized that they were being attacked and turned to face him. As one man turned, Ogar struck him hard in the face with the butt end of his spear, then brought the point down in a vicious, slashing motion across the face of another. The man cried out and lifted his hands to his face as blood flowed freely from the deep gash that Ogar had opened up from his right temple to his left cheekbone, slashing right through the man’s right eye.

  Without pausing, Ogar plunged his spear into the stomach of the third man and twisted. The man screamed, and instinctively grabbed at the spear’s shaft. As Ogar tried to jerk it free, the fourth man drew his obsidian blade, and then the halfling felt the second man, recovering from his initial blow, grab him from behind. He released the spear and slithered down out of the man’s grasp, but he had lost his spear in the process, and now was left with only his dagger. As he dropped into the water, slipping out of the human’s grasp, he reached behind him quickly and seized the man’s ankles, giving a hard jerk. The man fell back into the water, and as Ogar came up with a curse, the fourth man lunged at him with his sword.

  Ogar twisted aside, but the blade still struck his shoulder, opening a deep and painful cut. Drawing his dagger, Ogar slashed at the fourth man, but missed, and then quickly ducked as the sword came swinging back in a powerful stroke that would have easily decapitated him had it struck. Moving in under the sweeping blade, he stabbed upward and plunged his dagger into the man’s stomach, ripping sideways. The man screamed horribly, clutching at his stomach and trying to hold his guts in.

  But as he staggered and fell into the water, Ogar felt an incandescent pain, the remaining human had stabbed him from behind. He spasmed and lunged forward, turning around to meet the threat, but he lost his footing as he staggered, the pain washing through him, and as he fell, he saw the human raising his dagger for the killing stroke.
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  Then the man grunted and stiffened suddenly as the tip of Ogar’s spear burst forth out of his chest. His eyes grew wide and began to glaze as blood spurted from his mouth, and then he fell forward into the water, revealing the naked elf girl standing behind him, with Ogar’s spear clutched in her hands. Then Ogar’s vision blurred and he lost consciousness.

  He awoke much later, with the sun already high in the sky. He was lying on the ground by the lake shore, though he did not remember coming back out of the water. He was surprised to be alive. And then he saw the elf girl.

  She had gotten dressed and bandaged his wound with strips torn from her clothing. When she crouched to look at him, her gaze was curious and frank. He thought she had the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen. She crouched over him, looking down, and he gazed up at her with awe. Slowly, he stretched out his hand to touch her, because he wanted to feel her skin, which seemed almost translucent, but he hesitated when he realized what he was doing, and his hand froze in the act.

  She reached out her hand and lightly touched his fingertips, caressing, then brought up her other hand and clasped his own in both of hers. She smiled, and slowly pulled his hand toward her. She guided it to touch the smoothness of her cheek, and he marveled at the way she felt. And then she brought it down to touch her breast, all the while gazing deeply into his eyes.

  They were two strangers, people of different tribes and different races, who could not even understand one another’s language, natural enemies who were, perhaps, too young or too caught up in the magic of the moment to care about prejudice or hatred. Neither of them truly understood what it was that had drawn them together, but from the first moment that their eyes met, something happened, a spark ignited, a bond was forged, and they were no longer a halfling and an elf, but merely two people, a male and a female, each of whom responded to something in the other that mirrored their souls.