by GJ Kelly
When Tyrane called a halt for a rest break, a few foragers were sent out to hunt for rabbits and hares. Gawain considered joining them when he saw that Allazar was still sat astride his horse, completely engrossed in his work and blissfully unaware of the goings on around him. Elayeen too remained in the saddle, slowly scanning the horizons. Easing Gwyn alongside her horse so that his left leg brushed against her right, he asked simply:
“What do you see, here on the plains?”
“Nothing dark.” Eldengaze replied.
“Then in the absence of darkness and in such open spaces, neither the Word nor the Deed requires the Sight, so give me back my lady.”
“The enemy have Graken.”
“True. But we also have eyes.”
Elayeen’s head swung slowly around, and her gaze was withering. “I alone shall decide when the Word and the Deed require me not.”
This time, Gawain did look away, the force of Eldengaze had become too much even for him to bear. With a sigh and a shudder, he eased Gwyn back and swung her around and away from his beloved. He was about to give his horse free range, to go hunting rabbit, when he caught sight of the wizard Arramin standing alone by his horse at the rear of the column, and on impulse, he dismounted and strode down the track, Gwyn following. Every bruise and muscle still ached, but walking seemed to ease Gawain’s stiffness a little.
Arramin looked startled when he looked up from his book to find Gawain standing before him.
“My lord? May I be of some service?”
Gawain paused a moment, suddenly doubtful, but he shook off the lingering chill of the Eldengaze and nodded. “I’m told, wizard, you are an historian of no small repute in Callodon.”
Arramin bowed slightly. “I have spent most of my life in study, my lord, and later in teaching. Though I regret to say, my studies were of necessity confined to the lowland kingdoms where I was permitted to travel and given access to their libraries.”
“Can you tell me anything about the Eldenelves?”
“Eldenelves? They are long faded into myth, my lord, though it is true, speaking as an historian I can say that all myths and legends contain grains of truth here and there. But alas, the footprints in the sand of their passing are long since faded, my lord.”
“Then you know nothing of them?”
The old wizard smiled, closed his book, and tucked it under his arm. “I did not say that, my lord. Only that the Eldenelves have left few traces a scholar might rely upon as, how shall we say, authentic. Mostly what is known comes to us in the form of myths and tales and snatches of old songs, from which we may deduce little, but speculate much. Is it important, my lord?”
Again, Gawain hesitated. “The First of Raheen has told me that the creatures we have encountered, dark wizard-made, are an ancient evil, and that they may have been familiar to the people of elder times who defeated them. He seemed to suggest that the Eldenelves may have had some knowledge of how to defeat them.”
“Ah, I understand. To know your enemy is strength, and the enemy of your enemy is a friend. Well then, the Eldenelves of yore. You must understand, my lord, that there is very little academic basis for such descriptions as I may impart beyond scholarly consensus, which itself is based upon little more than informed conjecture.”
“Of course. Anything is more than I know now.”
“Well then. In elder times, the kindred races of Man were of course divided by geography and philosophy to a much greater extent than they are today,” Arramin seemed to straighten a little, comfortable in his familiar role as scholar and teacher. “But even so, and in spite of the many conflicts and wars which in elder times gave shape to the world we know today, wizards and Eldenelves moved through the world, collecting and disseminating knowledge and wisdom, bringing the light of reason to the dark places where before only superstition and ignorance held sway.
“I am aware, my lord, of the low opinion in which wizards are held today, but it was not always so, and the elder days I describe were those before all were betrayed by Morloch. But I do not wish to digress. The Eldenelves and wizards who roamed the lands some of which we still recognise today did so for many reasons, I am sure, not the very least of which was their ability with the mystic arts, arts not shared by humans and their cousins the dwarves.
“Those arts, my lord, could have been used to conquer these lands, as Morloch himself intended then and now, but instead, perhaps recognising the nature of the forces at their command and the natural world which is responsible for them, Eldenelves used their abilities in the furtherance of reason and the removal of nonsense from the world of men. Wizards, of course, were bound by the great Codex Maginarum, the Book of Zaine.
“The Eldenelves were bound so closely with the natural world around them in their forest homes they were said to be servants of Nature herself. And as all wise men know, my lord, Nature herself is dread, and far, far removed from the romantic notions of bards and poets.”
Gawain, now standing beside the old wizard, cast a brief glance towards the head of the column, but riders blocked his view of Elayeen.
“There is at first inspection a shocking indifference to the fate of creatures in the world of Nature, my lord, and indeed there are many among the enlightened who of course pooh-pooh the notion of Nature as an entity in and of itself, declaring that nature simply is, and comprises everything not made by the kindred.
“Certainly this may be true, and my opinion inclines towards it. However, anyone with any knowledge of that which we call ‘nature’ will understand that death is a very necessary part of life. Predator and prey, tooth and claw, eat and be eaten, and no one individual immune from the reality that is life in nature’s realm.
“While men would admire the beauty of a dove upon a bough, and write verse after verse of poetry about the bird, and then recoil in horror, tearful eyes streaming as that self-same dove is ripped from the bough by a wildcat, the Eldenelves would simply observe the event, utterly indifferent to the fate of the dove.
“Now of course, my lord, in the world of nature, the wildcat must also live, and the dove is food not simply for its feline assassin but perhaps also a litter of mewling kittens, some of which may live to maturity, and some of which may not. Yet, as the world turns, there will always be doves, and there will always be wildcats, for as long as the balance of nature remains. This too the Eldenelves knew. They also knew that the greatest threat to that balance, in the pans of which lay the lives of all creatures of nature’s making, is the kindred races themselves.
“Thus it was said, to be pinned in the gaze of an elf was to be held in the scrutiny of Nature’s gaze, to be judged according to the threat one represented to the great balance.”
“In truth?”
Arramin smiled. “Who can tell what the truth really is? Certainly there is a balance in nature, between all things, light and dark, life and death… should doves become too prosperous, then the food they consume will dwindle, and their numbers fall in the resulting famine. Likewise the wildcat; too many wildcats, too few doves to feed them. Feast and famine, until balance is restored. It is only the kindred races of Man who possess the ability to destroy that balance beyond nature’s ability to restore.
“This is not to say that the Eldenelves championed the cause of Nature, they were not a weapon of some great entity sent out into the world of men and dwarves to judge those people for clearing forests for fields of wheat or digging ore from the ground. It is to say only that among their mystic abilities was a peculiar vision which to men seemed to judge them thus.”
“But what was this vision, and how was it lost?”
Arramin stroked his threadbare beard, thoughtfully. “In the opinion of elder magi the sight of the Eldenelves was perfectly natural and quite necessary considering the realm in which they dwelled. Much of the land was dense forest, dark and gloomy. How useful then, to develop a peculiar vision which revealed the inner light of all things, including themselves, around them. Gifted as they were
, and many of their descendants still are, with mystic abilities, perhaps they themselves created it, the better to hunt in their forest realm. Let us not forget, the Eldenelves too were creatures of nature’s making, and in common with all such, must eat to survive and thrive.”
“It seems we are readying to move off again,” Gawain announced, watching riders mount and pedestrians return water skins to the wagons, Tyrane signalling his men to stand to. “I should like to hear more, wizard, if you will continue while we ride?”
“Of course, my lord, I am at your service.”
Gawain mounted, and waited for the wizard with his comical stick still slung over his rounded shoulders, to climb into the saddle and settle himself. Finally, with the column travelling north once more, Arramin continued his lecture.
“In truth though, we do not know the real origin of the sight peculiar to the Eldenelves. As to its loss, we may only speculate that as the world took on its present mantle, it was no longer necessary. Forests gave way to fields of wheat, corn, and barley, here in the east as well as the west. With Morloch bound behind the Teeth, the great conflict over, the kindred races no longer had need of their grand alliance, and in the enduring peace that followed, went their separate ways.
“You must remember we are speaking of a time shrouded in the mists of myth. Certainly after Morloch was bound the world was a very different place than it had been before.”
“Yet they also saw the world as we do.” Gawain muttered, and though it wasn’t a question, Arramin took it to be so.
“Oh yes, my lord. They were said to be able to call their strange sight at will. If I recall correctly, there are at least, let me see, one, two… three tales in the Book of Erragenesis, a rather large collection of folk tales common to the libraries of Callodon, Juria, and of course in the D’ith Hallencloister, which are perhaps relevant to the subject at hand. Let me see…” Arramin squinted towards the heavens, mumbling names and places.
“Ah, yes, the allegorical tale of Hurgo the Halfhanded is perhaps the most apposite. I shan’t bore you with the tale my lord, it concerns a mythical figure, Hurgo, a farm-boy, pressed into service by a cruel war-lord to serve as a soldier for an unjust battle against a neighbouring fiefdom. During the battle, the unfortunate young man loses half his left hand to a farm-boy likewise pressed into service in the opposing force. Hurgo kills his opponent, and is horrified both by the deed and by the battle. However, he discovers he has a certain skill at fighting, and rapidly his prowess and esteem as a warrior grows.
“Hurgo determines to learn what martial skills he can in order to depose the cruel and barbaric war-lord who had pressed him into service and made of him a reaper of men rather than of the crops of his former station. When finally he succeeds, destroying the war-lord in a mighty battle, he is of course lauded and showered with honours, and made lord of the now somewhat sizeable domain his hated predecessor had acquired by conquest.
“Determined to maintain peace with his neighbours, Hurgo at first ignores the clamouring around him; suckwits, soothsayers and sundry sycophants proclaiming The Halfhanded the ‘chosen one’ of some false prophecy who will lead his people to dominion over all. However, he eventually succumbs, his favourite wife being primarily responsible for his failed resolve, and builds an army to invade and conquer his neighbours’ lands.
“The lesson in the myth of course lies in the corruption of Hurgo from innocent and unwilling to noble and strong, then weak and finally corrupt, ending by becoming the very thing he set out to destroy. He is finally brought to his senses too late, when during the final battle he is confronted by a line of Eldenelves who, unbeknownst to Hurgo, are allies to those whose land he is attempting to invade.
“In the myth, the Eldenelves advance, appearing at first as little more than rather splendid warriors marching towards Hurgo’s lines. But the men become concerned when their salvos of arrows have no effect upon the advance. The Eldenelves march into Hurgo’s lines, and with the strength of their strange sight, chill the soldiers to such an extent they are paralysed, and cut down.
“At the end, a nameless Eldenelf strides towards Hurgo, sword in hand, and pauses, looking at him sadly and saying ‘Your light fades, like a candle guttering in the breezes of that great choir of voices you have silenced, who even now sing for your end.’” Arramin sighed, and drew in breath before continuing.
“Too late, Hurgo realises he has become the mirror image of the cruel war-lord he had despised so much. In a final fit of rage, perhaps against the world and the forces that had created him, he raises his sword and is about to give vent to his mighty battle-cry when the Eldenelf simply pins him with his gaze, rooting him to the spot, and kills him.”
“By the Teeth,” Gawain muttered, eyeing the wizard. “Was their sight so powerful, then?”
Arramin shrugged. “Who can say? It is a myth my lord, a tale perhaps based on some historical event or admixture of events, but intended to convey a simple message to the listener. Few documents survive from that time and those that do are sealed and preserved deep within the library of the Hallencloister. There are enough references in such tales and songs to give credence to the old belief that yes, the Eldenelves were possessed of a sight which men found so uncomfortable as to be ‘pinned’ by it, as an insect to a board, for study.”
“Then it is perhaps as well they chose not to conquer the world of men, such an enemy would be dread.”
“Dread indeed, my lord. Dread indeed.”
oOo
28. Voices
Lunchtime arrived, with Allazar still engrossed in his work. The wizard was convinced that he’d made an error in one of his earlier iterations of the cipher, and had been forced to begin a large part of the work again. Eldengaze maintained her watch, accepting a hunk of salt pork wrapped in unleavened flat-bread given to her by one of the four ladies in the group, and Gawain, having nothing to do, decided to practice his aim from horseback. He left the group while he ranged wide to the east of the road but was careful to remain within sight of Tyrane and his men.
After he’d bagged three hares and checked that the rest of the group were still resting on the road west of him, he unsaddled Gwyn, and with a profound apology for his lack of duty to her the previous day, set to with the curry-comb. His shoulders ached and there was fresh blood on his right elbow where the grazes had opened when he’d flung his arrows, and in truth it’d taken considerably more than three throws to bag the hares which would be his contribution to the evening pot.
His knees too were a mess in spite of the salve that Healer Turlock had applied. But in Raheen he would’ve been expected to grin and bear it, and so here on the plains of Callodon that is what he did, though bearing the pains was considerably easier than grinning. He had, he decided, very little to smile about. Gwyn moved a little, ripped another great wad of grass from the ground and munched while Gawain brushed.
It would be so easy, he thought, casting a glimpse towards the throng of people and horses on the rise that marked the ridge and its road, so easy just to saddle Gwyn and slip away. Turn his back on all of them, leave the lowlanders to fend for themselves. After all, how much more could he be expected to do? He’d barely had time to draw breath in the last year.
He’d rid the lowlands of Ramoths, exposed Morloch’s evil, smashed the great lens beneath the Teeth and in so doing destroyed Morloch’s vast reserves of aquamire. He’d discovered the armies in the north, alerted the lowlands to the enemy’s presence, instigated the first Great Council of Kings within living memory, and shown those kings and their councillors the face of the enemy. He’d shown them the armies already south of the Teeth, and shown them the thousands smashing away at the north face of the mountains forcing a breach for the coming invasion.
He’d bloodied Morloch’s nose at Ferdan, literally as well as figuratively, and after a dash across the plains he’d released the ancient power hidden in Raheen and smashed Morloch’s thousands to oblivion. Morloch was bound again beyond the Tee
th, and all that remained of the dark wizard’s plans for the invasion and destruction of the southlands was the small force north of the farak gorin. And that, Gawain knew, was a problem only the lowlanders could deal with. He was but one man, and he was tired, and he ached and he hurt, on the inside as well as the outside.
He suddenly felt a wave of kinship with the mythical farm-boy Hurgo; an ordinary youth ripped from the life he knew and robbed of the future he’d expected, pummelled by forces beyond his control, shaped and moulded like Lady Merrin’s dough into a form and figure far removed from any he might have imagined for himself. Then baked hard in the furnace of cruel fortune before being destroyed and forgotten, the way the infant Travak might slam one of Merrin’s gingerbread figures on the kitchen table and gurgle with laughter at the pieces scattering before him.
Gawain sighed, stooping to heave Gwyn’s saddle over his aching shoulders while the great Raheen charger ambled towards a ribbon of a stream, ripping more clumps of grass along the way. Another glance westward showed the group gathering again, making ready to move off, and a rider heading his way. At the stream, Gawain lowered the saddle back to the ground, bruised back protesting painfully, and waited, arms folded and eyeing the approaching rider while Gwyn drank.
“My lord,” a guardsman announced, slowing from a gentle canter, “Captain’s compliments, my lord, the column is moving on.”
“Thank you. Please tell Captain Tyrane I’ll catch up with you all in a while. I have a duty to my horse.” On a sudden impulse, Gawain stooped to recover the brace of hares from his saddle and handed them to a slightly surprised guardsman. “And please give these to the quartermaster with my compliments.”
