The Twins

by Gary Alan Wassner

  Elion and the young boy traveled for two days and two nights unmolested. The woods were dense and quiet, as they encountered nothing more than a few small tree mandalins, as well as some scattered ferrins and foxes. Nothing hampered their progress. On the third day only after many hours passed, Elion allowed himself the luxury of a short rest during the daylight hours. The terrain was more open now than before, and although he and his precious companion were never fully exposed, he felt more insecure than when hidden by the trees.

  Concealing himself and the boy behind a large boulder, taking advantage of the shadows cast by bright sun, he again provided sustenance to his prostrate associate. Downing a bit of invigorating fluid himself, he moved on with renewed determination.

  He was making good time, and by late afternoon he began to scout for a safe haven wherein they could spend the night. As he traveled deeper into the southern lands, getting closer and closer to his home, he was also leaving the safety of the north where the preponderance of the Lalas still remained, and until he reached the northernmost outskirts of Lormarion, the Crest of the Dawn, he would be particularly imperiled.

  Elion knew that he would have to cross the Plain of the Wolves under the cover of darkness, risking exposure to the nocturnal threats, rather than in broad daylight where the keen sighted animals would be upon him in an instant. His superlative skills would aid him in his navigation during the dark of night, and there would be no moon tomorrow eve to illuminate his small party. He had good fortune to thank for that. Timing would be everything, and he would have to move quickly once out in the open. He knew that would not be an easy task while dragging the boy behind him, and he hoped upon hope that the wind would be still and that the breezes would not carry his scent into the dens of the wolves.

  Once across the plain, he’d find safety upon the Crest. If he timed it right, the rising sun would obscure anything that moved on the ridge, and then the final approach to Lormarion would be an easy one. The Crest of the Dawn was so natural a wonder that no magic could have made it a more perfect defense for the Elves. From the heights of the city, one could see anything that approached during the morning hours, or almost anytime during the day, in fact. But should anyone be observing from the north, the breaking of dawn upon the Crest concealed anything that moved, bathing the hill in bright sunlight and veiling all activity.

  This phenomenon had served the Elves well. During the Troll wars twenty-eight tiels ago, the armies that amassed in the plain to lay siege upon the city were devastated by the Elfin warriors. Under the cover of the rising sun, the greatly outnumbered forces left the city and seemingly appeared like magic before the unprepared invaders, suddenly becoming visible to them only after it was too late. Frightened and disorganized, the startled Trolls ran amok, trampling their own forces in their frenzied and scattered retreat, easy prey for the skilled archers on the Crest. The slaughter was historic and no invader had attempted a southern approach since. Elion took heart in that memory. He need only carry the boy across the plains and he would be home, and this he intended to attempt two hours before dawn, for he reckoned that it should take him no longer than that to cross if he was able to do so unhindered.

  After walking a bit further, he discovered a shallow gully ringed by short but thick perridon trees which were well past their fruit bearing age. He feared not that they would attract any hungry prey of the flying type or other, being no longer desirable as sources of nourishment. Here, he and the young boy could rest in relative safety until just before daybreak. He was only a short distance from the edge of the woods, but he could not risk sleeping past the appointed hour.

  He made himself a strong mixture of ground Lalas leaf and spring water, basking in the invigorating feeling that overtook his entire body and mind upon drinking it, whereupon he sat down only to rest his weary legs and gaze upon the countenance of his companion.

  Hope flooded him once more as he contemplated the approaching sunrise. Soon he would be home. Soon he could begin the painstaking process of preparation. If his family did not already know of the danger that was imminent, he would so advise them. Together, they would find a way of reviving his companion, and thus they would take the first steps toward halting the approaching darkness. Elion was confident. The world would be young again and his people would live in peace and safety once more. The trees would flourish and new Lalas would be born. The Evil One would be turned back, his minions vanquished. Just looking upon the calm face of the young man under his protection invoked such feelings. Yes, Elion was confident and soon he would be home.

  The valiant Elf focused his eyes upon the eastern sky. As soon as the moon faded from sight just above the horizon, he knew that he had only approximately two and one half hours of darkness left before sunrise. Swiftly securing the hood of his cloak to his belt so that he could pull the boy behind him, leaving his hands free, he began the final journey to the wood’s edge.

  The air was still and the sky was dark as pitch. Luck was with them. Breaking free of the final line of trees, Elion with Davmiran in tow, stepped onto the grassy edge of the plain. Swiftly crossing the perimeter, he began to pick up speed until he was jogging across the smooth grass, carefully choosing his path so as not to jar the boy following behind. He deftly sidestepped the rocks and small gullies without breaking his stride, counting on his agility and keen sight to prevent any serious harm from coming to his companion. One false step and they could both be in sincere danger. Darting from left to right, Elion proceeded at a fast clip.

  Although he could not see it yet, he knew that the Crest of the Dawn was fast approaching, as he had already been on the plain for about an hour. Half the distance was already crossed and nature had been kind to them so far. The wind was barely detectable and he sensed no evidence of a single wolf. The eastern sky was beginning to brighten somewhat, and Elion was tiring now, the previous night’s vigilance, lack of sleep and sheer physical exertion finally taking its toll on his body and mind.

  He pushed himself forward, finding his second breath, knowing that the home stretch was soon to be underfoot. As he kept going, nimbly evading the pitfalls that would trip up any ordinary Elf, he thought he could make out the approaching ridge, marking the beginning of the Crest of the Dawn. As Elion ran with renewed determination toward his home and safety, the sun inched its way over the far skyline. The rays of light streaked out, illuminating him only slightly, as a subtle wind began to blow from behind.

  With only a few hundred yards left to navigate before he reached the safety of the hill, his worst nightmare materialized before his very eyes. Darting to the left to avoid the specter before him, he saw another great, dark shadow fast approaching. Zigzagging across the remaining yardage, Elion sought desperately to outflank the gathering pack of wolves. He stopped only for an instance to hoist the boy on his back, hoping to increase his ability to maneuver without causing him harm. That moment of interruption proved to be his downfall. The circle was closed and Elion no longer had an open path to the Crest. Whichever direction he looked, he now saw the looming shape of a great wolf.

  Laying the boy down and straddling his prone body protectively, Elion pulled his longbow from its sheath. Quickly notching an arrow, he pulled the bowstring taught. Hoping to be able to down the wolf directly in his path and dash for the Crest as the sun came up, he aimed and let loose his first arrow. The massive wolf collapsed in a heap, the shaft having penetrated through its large left eye. Elion hoisted the lad on his back once again and sprinted for the opening he just created by dispensing the wolf, but he was too late. Two others sprang from the shadows, obstructing his path. Not willing to relinquish hope, he drew his dagger from his belt with his right hand, all the while holding tightly on to the boy with his left, awkwardly reaching back to do so. The imbalance became too great and both he and Davmiran tumbled to the ground.

  Within a moment’s time, the wolves were upon them and Elion threw himself over the boy to shield him, with his dagger still in his hand. He las
hed out in all directions, frenziedly striking home time and again, drawing blood he could now clearly see glistening in the light of the sun suspended in the eastern sky. His strength was ebbing quickly now and his vision was obscured by the blood and gore all around him. He could not determine how many wolves had gone down in the melee, but he knew that whatever the numbers, they were not nearly enough. They kept coming at him, becoming more daring as he weakened.

  This is no way for it to end, he thought sadly. I have come so close, so close.

  The wolves seemed to back off for a moment, perhaps to gather for a final and deadly attack, when Elion saw what he thought was an Elfin arrow rip through the neck of the raging wolf before him. Another and another, as if in a dream, the wolves went down, howling and spurting blood from massive wounds.

  Elion lay over the boy by now, his dagger still clutched limply in his right hand, blood obscuring his vision and fatigue impeding his thoughts. He fought to remain cognizant, his last vision was of a charging Elf with wild white hair flying all about his wrinkled and tanned face, an undulating scream coming from his wide open mouth, piercing the now startled wolves repeatedly with his sharpened Elfin sword, his blood rage out of control.

  “Father?” Elion queried as he lost consciousness. “Is it you? Is it really you?”

  Sheltering his eldest son from any additional onslaught, Treestar, King of the Southern Elves, observed warily as his small band of armed warriors dispatched the remaining animals. The First must have been watching out for him or he never would have happened to be atop the Crest of the Dawn this morning. Something warned him, a feeling of concern came over him last evening, compelling him to arise before the sun and post a lookout on the hill. Strangely though, the concern was apprehensive, brimming with expectation and not simply with fear. And sure enough, his instincts were correct. Just as the morning light broke over the city, Treestar witnessed a gathering of the wolves at the base of the ridge. He then saw a glinting light, as if some man-made object were reflecting the rays in warning. That light turned out to be Elion’s small dagger, thrusting back and forth, side to side, in his chaotic effort to protect himself and his young charge from the overwhelming enemy. Rising to the call, unaware at the time whom he would be aiding, Treestar rallied his small band and attacked.

  Once he was able to discern exactly who was in danger, he was overcome with rage like nothing he had ever felt before. Perhaps it was because he missed his son so much after all this time. Perhaps it was simply because he loved Elion so dearly and the thought of losing him was too much to bear. Whatever the reason, nothing was going to stop the Elfin Lord from his goal of rescuing his issue and bringing him back safely to Lormarion, to the comfort and security of Seramour, to the warmth and shelter of his home.

  When he was satisfied that the peril was over, he called upon his men to lift the unconscious Elfin youth carefully and to carry him to the Crest, cursorily examining him to make certain that he had suffered no life threatening injuries during the fray. Confident that he would survive, overjoyed at his son’s return, Treestar likewise had his warriors tenderly transport the young boy who had been laying, unseeing and motionless, beneath the shelter of his son’s slim body. Treestar happened to glance upon the countenance of the lad and he noticed the half-open blue eyes, the sightless gaze, and he was taken aback by the serenity it evoked in him, even amidst the overwhelming carnage of the battlefield. Hurriedly, he urged his men onward to the protection of the Crest of the Dawn, to the shelter of the now steady sun, and forth to the protected heights of Seramour.

  Once the small group reached the peak of the small rise, they knew that they were completely safe from further attack should the wolves even attempt to mount a new assault. The Elfin company along with their human friend would be invisible to all below, and any party attempting to reach them from the plain would be easy prey for those watching from above. This was not the way Treestar had envisioned he would be reunited with Elion, but at least his son was safe and alive. He hoped that his bruises were not serious, but he would leave that determination up to his wife and to the other healers as soon as he could place Elion in their care. His companion seemed unharmed, though dirty and spattered with blood as well, and so strangely quiet and serene despite the mayhem that surrounded him, not appearing to be ill or uncomfortable or in pain.

  Treestar wondered what disease or spell could be keeping the young man from awakening. He also pondered the origin of the youth, surprised that Elion would lead any stranger not of his own race into the safety of Lormarion. Times were changing, and the Elves were more careful than before, more wary of strangers not of their own kind, unlike the open days of the past when all wayfarers and voyagers were welcome in Lormarion. His son would never risk even the remotest chance of causing harm to his nation and family. Therefore, Treestar thought, he must have a reason for bringing the lad here, and in time he would find it out. Right now, his priority and utmost concern was to get the two of them to shelter and warmth, have their wounds dressed and their health examined and allow them some rest and nourishment.

  Once over the highest point of the Crest, a pathway became clear and distinct before the small and weary party. Following it, they shortly arrived at the base of a giant Noban tree, the tallest and broadest trees of the southern reaches. Although not sentient like the Lalas, they were noble in their own right and magnificent to gaze upon. The branches of a full-grown Noban did not begin until thirty feet of trunk rose up straight and tall from the ground. Then, the broad, heavy arms of the trees twisted and wove their growth together to form a mesh of dense and protective platforms upon which the Elves constructed their living quarters. In order to ascend to the heights of even the lowest branches, an elaborate system of pulleys and platforms was devised, and during a normal day one could see them rising and falling continuously, bringing the people and goods of Seramour up and down with ease and comfort.

  The forest of Lormarion was large and spread out, but the tops of the Nobans intertwined, making it possible to travel entirely from one end of the city to the other without ever touching the ground. The bark of the Noban tree was dark brown and sleek, not textured and porous like many other forms of vegetation. It was not vulnerable to fire as most wooden things were, due to its ability to secrete a quenching sap in response to heat, as well as to its incredible density. An axe barely left a mark on the trunk of a full-grown Noban even after repeated strikes, and it was almost impossible to drive a spike into its side even with the largest of war hammers.

  Thus, the Elves built their homes in the heights of the branches, protected from most everything for centuries. Lormarion flourished and the city of Seramour grew in wealth and size while the Elves prospered. They were a hard-working and good people; honest, true and just. Talk of the unmatched beauty of the city circulated throughout the land, raising the tree city of Seramour to the heights of legend.

  The Elves of the south kept to themselves though, and they rarely took part in the conflicts the humans were so frequently involved in. Treestar, the King of the Southern Elves, feared now that their isolation may be coming to an end. His scouts returned with warnings of unrest and illness smothering the southern regions. The evil was spreading, and he was not of a mind to hide in the treetops until it reached even the heights of Seramour.

  Treestar was a brave and wise Elf, and he recognized when to be prudent and when it was prudent to be aggressive. He was anxious to hear from Elion regarding the situation in the rest of the world that he visited these past years. He needed to know if the rumors were spreading northward as well and if it was true that the Lalas were dying. He needed to think and plan, and his son would be his right hand during this process. Treestar was overjoyed at his return, although he never envisioned that this would be the manner in which they would meet once again.

  When Elion first left his home many years ago, the Plain of the Wolves was not as dangerous as it now was. The Elves did not molest the dens of the wolves, and the bi
g animals, likewise, allowed small parties to traverse their lands unhindered. No Elf ever wore a cape of wolf fur and no wolf supped on an Elfin lad or lass. Times were certainly changing and not for the better, Treestar thought regretfully. But Elion, his first born, was home once again and he was no longer without a son to confide in. The strange young man whom he brought with him radiated a compelling sense of hope, and Treestar recognized the auspicious nature of this encounter. Elion would have much to tell upon his revival and Treestar was anxious to hear it all.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Concordia was a wealthy land. Lying as far to the west as it did, it suffered rarely from the petty, tribal wars and human conflicts that plagued the more populated regions of the south and the east. Even further to the west lay the kingdom of the Alpen Elves of the Ice Kingdom of Eleutheria, a strange and solitary race as different in attitude and lifestyle from humankind as from their southern and northern Elfin brethren. Their lands were frozen over all of the year long, and they built their buildings out of the ice which never melted. They learned to live and thrive amidst some of the coldest territories on the planet. They harnessed the sun, using the reflective powers of the massive sheets of frozen water, and learned how to establish a green paradise in a frozen wasteland. It was a rare occurrence to receive a visit from one of them, as they were so reluctant to open their culture to the influence of any other.

  Few ventured into the far hills west of Concordia, not out of fear, but out of an understanding that they would not be welcome. It was not belligerence that made the Elves so apprehensive about contact with humans, but fear that their culture would be changed if they let the outside world in. They guarded their privacy religiously, and very few really knew much about them.