by Carol Browne
The creature laughed derisively. “I am Death, and I have come for you.”
It began to radiate a sickly green light, enveloping itself in a caul of brilliance that pulsated with force. The light grew in size until the trees behind it were bathed in its angry glare. It reached for Elgiva, like a foul stench creeping along a breeze, and she was helpless. The creature’s power throbbed in the darkness.
Within the taut coils of her fear, her instincts screamed at her to run, but her limbs had turned to stone.
Siriol, Siriol, help me . . . help . . .
With a shriek of glee, the creature increased the throb of its power. Elgiva’s mind was suddenly invaded by an inexplicable force. She became divorced from herself and watched from a great distance, waiting for the horror to unfold.
Something broke inside her. A dam burst open, and a flood of defiance surged to her assistance. “You’re not Death. No one dies like this! In the name of Lord Faine, whoever you are, you have no right. I’m defenceless. Stop this!”
Her hooded opponent merely intensified the probing of its power, renewing its attack on the barriers of her mind, and behind its virulence, there was a thrill of laughter.
How dare you!
She had to master her fear, find the strength to resist. Her enemy’s power was narcotic, lulling her into a trance, but part of her mind was feverishly active, gathering might of its own. An inner resource she couldn’t name was pleading for recognition.
She forced herself to concentrate. She must expel this being from her mind.
It seemed they were revolving round each other, like autumn leaves caught in a gale, though they both stood motionless, rooted to the earth. Within Elgiva’s breast was an unfamiliar feeling, a burgeoning heat. It expanded in desperation and then flared with boundless joy, as if it were nearing some long-wished-for focus. It filled her with strength . . . but how it seared! Like scratching an open wound.
Stop it, please . . . stop it.
The creature probed her with its power all the more, but as it breached the privacy of her mind, it revealed something of its own.
Elgiva recoiled, alarmed at the discovery that this being was a wardain. But who?
She strengthened her will and kept the creature at bay, but its power still battered at the threshold of her mind. Self-defence required so much effort she felt as if the blood was boiling in her veins. Her mental anguish scaled upwards, becoming physical pain.
Why are you doing this to me?
She couldn’t stand this any longer. She prepared herself to die.
Suddenly, there were shouts in the distance, from what seemed like a hundred leagues away. Someone called her name. Someone she knew: the voice of a friend. With a mighty effort, she strove to gain her freedom, and a great light flashed in her brain.
Then she was herself again, on her hands and knees, with the shock of the cold grass on her skin and the world canting madly around her. She was free, but engulfed by fire and soaked with sweat. Her robe clung to her skin like a membrane, and her scorched lungs heaved for air.
She managed to lift her head. Through a throbbing red mist she saw her attacker, standing calmly on the rock, his concentration either broken or willingly curtailed. His cloak was wrapped around him, and a sheen of spent magic shivered along his form.
“Excellent,” he whispered. His voice had changed completely, its edge of malice gone. “I’m sorry about the theatrics, but that was an entertaining battle. I think we shall meet again.”
As she watched through the tears that stung her eyes, his flesh seemed to grow transparent. Gradually, he faded like mist and then, in a moment, was gone.
Her limbs folded beneath her, and she fell face down in the dew. Between her ragged gasps, she vaguely heard someone running in her direction. She was gently rolled onto her back, and relief flooded her mind, for in the first light of dawn, she recognised Godwin.
“Elgiva, by Frigg! Who was that? What happened?”
Elgiva couldn’t respond.
“Are you all right? Elgiva?”
“I’m sick,” she croaked. “I feel . . . so sick.”
He cradled her in his arms; it was a good feeling.
“Who was that?” persisted Godwin. “What did he do to you?”
“Hold me . . . hold . . . ”
She floated on a sea of nausea and clung to Godwin as her only anchor until the heat within her gradually dwindled and the world decelerated around her. As the dizziness passed, it left her with a feeling of violation. Moreover, some change had occurred at the very core of her being. Some inexpressible wrath or madness hungered for release. She didn’t understand it, but whatever it was, it scared her. She pressed herself closer to Godwin, desperate for warmth and strength.
“Greyflanks woke me,” he explained. “He seemed concerned. Stood there staring at the cave mouth, but wouldn’t go out. I knew you were in danger anyway, even before I realised you weren’t there.”
“The wretched enchantment,” she gasped. “It links us.”
He ignored this. “Elgiva, are you hurt?”
“Oh, no, not hurt,” she said shakily. “It wasn’t that kind of fight. It was . . . it was all in the mind.” She took a deep breath to compose herself. “He was looking for something. Something in me. He was thinking ‘easy prey,’ but I wasn’t.” She paused and slowly shook her head. “I defended myself, but I don’t understand. Perhaps it was Siriol. I just don’t know.”
“Who was he, Elgiva?”
“He was a wardain, Godwin. Very powerful, too. I thought . . . I thought he would turn me to ashes. I felt him holding back. It was almost as though he was testing me.”
“Why?” asked Godwin, frowning. “Forgive me. I don’t even understand how you can fight someone in your mind. Why was he testing you?”
“I’ve no idea,” she said.
“How did you defend yourself?”
“I don’t know that, either. Somehow, I just did. All of my strength fought half of his, but somehow, I defied him. Was it the amulet?” She pulled away from him. She sat up and combed the hair from her face with a hand that trembled badly, aware of the need to regain some composure. “He was holding back. Was he waiting for me to weaken or just prolonging the sport? I was done for, I know that, but then you shouted and broke his concentration. Godwin, if you hadn’t . . . ”
Overcome by exhaustion and fear, she needed his support again. He held her in a tight embrace, and they sat in silence for a time. All around them, the darkness was lifting and birdsong announced the dawn.
“Come back to the cave,” he advised her at length.
She nodded weakly and allowed him to help her to her feet.
“We must continue our search for the wolves tomorrow, and you’ll need some rest before we go.”
She gazed into his honest blue eyes. “Godwin, no, you must go home. That wardain said we’d meet again. If he returns . . . ”
“How can I leave you when your life is in danger? If you still insist on finding Greyflanks’s family, I’m going to make sure you do. Then you’re coming straight back to Othere’s with me if I have to carry you, kicking and screaming, every inch of the way.”
“Look at me, Godwin. I can’t go back to Othere’s. I’m an elf!”
“But Siriol . . . ”
“I don’t know . . . if Siriol still works or not.” She covered her face, unable to hold back the fresh tears.
He faltered for a moment, and then he hugged her again. There was a hitch in his voice when he spoke. “I’ll find a way.”
CHAPTER TEN
Having said farewell to Joskin, Godwin, Elgiva, and Greyflanks continued on their way. They had travelled two leagues before noon but saw no sign of wolves, and the birds Elgiva questioned offered little in the way of help.
“Your family must have moved,” surmised Godwin while Elgiva translated his words. “They could be looking for better hunting. Perhaps they’re looking for you.”
He felt like an idiot, ta
lking to a wolf, but knew better than to say so.
Late afternoon saw them dragging their feet along a narrow valley, where a thin stream bubbled over stones and rocks. They were brought to a halt by the faint cry of a wolf in the distance. Greyflanks stiffened and lifted a front paw tentatively, as though preparing to follow the sound. He threw back his head and howled his response. They waited for an answer but were to be disappointed.
“He says it’s Blacktail, his uncle,” explained Elgiva. “He’s a long way off, and it doesn’t seem likely he heard Greyflanks call back.”
The wolf pawed at the sparse grass, and then his wet nose scented the air. With a wag of his tail, he spun to face his companions, a growl rumbling deep in his throat.
“He’s going to try a bit of hunting,” said Elgiva.
Greyflanks streaked off down the valley, while Godwin sighed at his retreating form. “Might as well make camp.”
“Why not,” said Elgiva. “We’ve walked enough for today.”
Together, they clambered out of the valley and searched for a sheltered spot. They were in an area where scything winds had levelled the shrubs and twisted the trees. A group of large boulders stood in a heap, like a family of stones in the wilderness, and they set up camp beside them.
It was nearly dark by the time they had gathered enough wood to make a fire. Greyflanks returned soon after. He had caught and eaten an elderly goat, but he spared Elgiva the details, and while his friends ate their own meagre supper, he told them all about Blacktail.
Blacktail was an elder of the pack, and a veteran of many battles. He had only one eye, and his snout was badly scarred. His restless spirit made him often absent, wandering and exploring. Greyflanks guessed the old wolf had been off on one of his expeditions when they heard his call, and he might be as lost as they were.
Night darkened the sky by degrees as the travellers sat huddled before their fire, each of them thinking of the home they had left or lost.
***
Elgiva stared into the fire. Clearly, the elation Greyflanks had felt at hearing Blacktail was fading and even a stomach full of goat was no compensation for the loss of his pack. There was nothing she could do for him but hope they would find his family very soon.
The meeting with the wolf’s family wouldn’t solve any of her problems, however. What was she to do with her life, once their quest was over? Could she live with the wolves? Living life as a nomad was unthinkable. It might be fine for Bellic and Blacktail, but it held no appeal for her. Yet, what else lay in store for a nar-wardain like herself, banished forever from her people’s lands?
Had Thallinore discovered the plot against him? Did he regret the expulsion of the person who had managed to thwart it? No, that was unlikely. And even if he had, recalling her from exile would make him look foolish in the eyes of his subjects. Thallinore was too proud to admit he had made a mistake. And after all, why should he bother? She was no one of any importance, when all was said and done. He had always despised her anyway, and was probably glad to have her off his hands.
She thought then of Eldreda, the old crone who had been Elgiva’s guardian. She was overseer of the king’s household and had taught Elgiva her domestic duties. Drunk more often than not, she answered every question and rewarded every mistake with a swipe of the cane she always carried. She had repeatedly told Elgiva to be grateful, for the king had given her a status far in excess of her merits.
When Eldreda had disappeared, no one ventured an explanation for it, and Elgiva wouldn’t have dared ask for one, even if she had cared. No doubt the cruel hag had fallen down a well one night after a bout with the wine.
As for herself, Elgiva had accepted that her origins were somehow shameful. Even Bellic had evaded her questions on the subject. Either he didn’t know, or he couldn’t bear the truth. Perhaps her parents were criminals and she was the last in a long line of traitors. The irony was her treason had been warranted.
Now, added to all of her unresolved questions about the past and her fears for the future was a new and undeserved terror: a powerful wardain had chosen her for his sport. But why?
Tears were very close. She lay on her side and curled herself into a tight ball of anguish.
***
Godwin glanced down at his friend. Firelight gleamed on the silken hair that fell across her cheek, obscuring her delicate features. Her slender form looked frail and childlike in her tattered gown. She looked like a beggar’s daughter, or some lorn and hapless infant abandoned to the mercy of the world. He wished he had a blanket to protect her from the night.
Her vulnerability hurt him, so he looked away and studied the campfire. Despite his fatigue, he was wide awake. He was restless and edgy, poised between his past and his future, like a man who has abandoned one and can’t find the other. The mental fug that had cocooned him for some time shifted and relaxed its hold. Unwelcome thoughts now drifted to the surface of his awareness. He hugged his knees and shivered, but it wasn’t the chill of darkness that filled his veins with ice. Rather, it was the burden of the guilt he carried.
Why hadn’t he returned to his wife? The question stung him like a dart of self-loathing. She must surely believe him dead or enslaved. And his dear little daughters, what were they thinking? He wondered if he would ever find his way back home.
Home . . .
A picture of Elric flashed before his mind. What had become of the lad? Othere had survived, but the fate of his master’s son was a mystery. And what of Redwald, Kern, and Cerdic? What of the countless others, childhood friends and fellow serfs? How he longed for news of them, for some assurance the security of home was the same as it had always been.
He gritted his teeth to stifle his frustration. His sword lay beside him, glinting in the grass, and he touched it with his fingertips, as though it were his only anchor in an ocean of anxiety.
Home . . .
Where he was merely a serf, a man of little consequence, the lowest of the low. Where he wasn’t even allowed to wield the sword that was his birthright. Hadn’t he earned one brief taste of freedom after all those years of service?
He looked down at Elgiva, now safe in the arms of sleep. That strange night outside Joskin’s cave, when he found her lying on the ground, he’d seen a glow in the depths of her dark eyes, like the luminous gaze of some fierce, wild creature. Had he merely imagined it? Had it been a trick of the light? It was yet one more weird happening to exacerbate his confusion. And why was he still following her? He shouldn’t be here. He was only getting himself more lost and more involved in things he didn’t understand. He had no idea how to be with his family and protect Elgiva at the same time. His heart ached with the misery of his impossible dilemma.
I’ll find a way. His words returned to him now, and they mocked him.
The enchantment tightened its grip so suddenly that all Godwin could do was relax into contentment with a soft sigh, his tormented thoughts sinking back down into darkness.
***
The following day, they travelled on, but they never heard Blacktail again. Despite the advent of spring, winter refused to leave without a fight and scattered frost and rain in equal measure.
Godwin became resigned to the fact that hunger and cold were his constant companions, but he had chosen them of his own volition, so he forced his sore feet onwards and kept his complaints to himself.
That night, they made camp under an ancient elm. Lord of a desolate kingdom, it stood alone on a wind-scoured plain of thin and scrubby grass. In the distance lay a nebulous shape, a large, dark blur of forest.
They had eaten the last of their rations but drew comfort from the blazing fire. They had gathered wood throughout the day, determined not to suffer a cold and cheerless night.
Even so, Godwin’s mind was elsewhere. It had wandered over the mirthless miles to the mead hall of Lord Othere. There, men would be drinking and laughing, and joints of meat would be dripping juice onto the silver platters, ignored by a rabble already too full to
move. His mouth watered at the image.
For a while, Elgiva and Godwin talked, until weariness and the warmth of the fire compelled them both to sleep.
***
Elgiva woke up suddenly, instinct warning her danger was near. She listened for a moment and then struggled to her knees. Her movement disturbed her companion.
“What’s the matter?” Godwin muttered drowsily.
He levered himself up onto his elbows, clearly surprised to see Elgiva on her hands and knees, listening to the night, like a terrified animal.
“Quiet!” she hissed.
She picked up some of their surplus wood and threw it onto the fire.
For a moment, the crunch of grass that sounded in the dark could have been nothing more than the sighing of the wind, but it soon became apparent that something slow and ponderous was drawing towards their camp, was about to breach the firelight that strained against the night.
“What’s that noise?” gasped Godwin. “And where’s . . . By Frigg!” He sprang to his feet in alarm.
Elgiva joined him as the shape of the intruder shambled into their midst. It lumbered out of the shadows, a materialised horror, bear-like and monstrous. Halting, it scented the air then raised its bulk on stout, hind legs. Cords of drool hung, sparkling, from its jaws.
“What on Earth?” cried Godwin.
Elgiva swallowed hard. “A shendkin . . . Faine, no!” The words tore her throat, and her blood turned to ice.
Since childhood, she’d been warned of these eldritch beings. The obscene experiments of a long-dead wardain gave them life, Bellic had told her, but she’d always suspected that such tales were inventions, designed to make naughty elf-children behave. Now the truth stood before her, clothed in flesh and all too real to dismiss.
The shendkin swivelled his large brown eyes in her direction and fastened his gaze upon her with carnivorous glee.
Godwin was on his hands and knees, scrabbling for his sword.
Despite her fear and revulsion, Elgiva stood firm, refusing to flee. One thing at least she remembered from Bellic’s interminable lessons: an elven incantation against evil magic, which he had made her learn by rote. There was power in the words, he had said. Now, silently, she thanked him.
