There was a hot flash of pain, and then her side went numb, and another pain somewhere else, but she wasn’t sure where, then came darkness.
After three days of running, Gulamendis was now certain that if he never had to set foot in woodlands again, he would be content. He would return to the new city, to Home, gladly and never set foot beyond its walls should he be permitted. Whatever sense of wonder and magic he had first encountered was now gone, replaced by fatigued legs and sore feet. He kept up with his rustic cousin by pure act of will, and a tiny bit of magic he used when training demons—it dulled the pain.
His companion had been less than talkative. At night when they camped, the young elf—he had given his age as less than fifty years—had been content to sit by a fire, chewing on dried fruit and meat, and replied to Gulamendis’s questions with short, vague answers. The Demon Master didn’t know if Gorandis was especially adept at avoiding conversation or stupid. The second night, there was almost no conversation, and Gulamendis quickly fell into an exhausted sleep.
Throughout the following day they moved quickly and Gulamendis grew used to the grueling pace. He grudgingly conceded his distant kin possessed skills he had disdained until he attempted to duplicate them. Rustic they might be, but they were superb woodsmen, and, no doubt, hunters. Toward twilight he could feel the change around him.
It was something in the very air of this forest, he felt. That tug of emotions so alien yet so proper he first felt upon reaching this world, Home, that feeling grew stronger with every passing minute, as if they were nearing the source of that wonderful sense of place.
Then he entered the clearing and saw Elvandar.
Across the open meadow he could see a huge city of trees rising upward. Gigantic boles, dwarfing any oaks imagined, stood together. They were linked by gracefully arching bridges of branches, flat across the tops, on which elves could be seen crossing from bole to bole.
Gulamendis looked up and saw the trunks rise until they were lost in a sea of leaves and branches, foliage of deep green, made almost blue-black in the evening gloom, but still somehow alight with a soft glow of their own. Here and there Gulamendis could glimpse a tree with golden, silver, or even white foliage, sparkling with pale glimmers. A soft glow permeated the entire area, and Gulamendis dropped to his knees, wetness flowing down his cheeks as tears came unbidden. “I had no idea,” he whispered.
Gorandis stopped and turned to look at his companion. Whatever emotions played across the Taredhel’s face, it kept the Eledhel runner from chiding him. This was a moment of deep, personal feeling.
“The stars,” whispered Gulamendis. “You have so many.”
“Stars?” asked Gorandis.
He pointed. “The trees. We call those…we have seven of them, brought with us from this world ages ago. They are the Seven Stars. We are the Clan of the Seven Stars.”
Gorandis cocked his head to one side, as if trying to remember something. Then he said, “This is how Elvandar has always been.”
What greeted the Demon Master was a thicket of massive trees, so many he couldn’t tell how far back into the deep forest they ran. He counted and there were a score within sight, and another behind. Moreover, he saw colors of leaves he had never seen before. The Seven Stars numbered four trees of copper bronze leaves, two of a vivid yellow, and one of silver. But here he saw blue leaves, deep green, red, orange, silver, and gold. And all were brilliant with lights that made the shimmering glow of the Seven Stars pale in comparison.
Pulling himself to his feet, the Demon Master said, “There are so many.”
Gorandis shrugged. “I don’t know how many, but there are a lot of them. We’ve had babies and needed room, so the Spellweavers have planted saplings, and the Master of the Green has urged them to grow quickly.” He motioned for Gulamendis to follow. “Come, see for yourself.”
Gulamendis towered over most of the elves he passed, being nearly seven feet in height. His clothes marked him as alien even if his look hadn’t. Nowhere did he see the vivid red color of hair to match his own or his brother’s. He saw dark red-brown, and many blond elves, but most had brown or dark brown hair, and their brows were less arched, and their features less finely drawn. To his eye, these were a plain people of unappealing aspect.
The rustic elf took him up a stairway carved out of the living wood of a massive tree, and along branches so wide their backs had been flattened to make boulevards. Upward they climbed, and deeper into the forest they traveled, until at last they reached a massive platform.
Then the Demon Master got an even bigger shock than when first seeing the heart of Elvandar.
Sitting around the edge of the platform were the assembled council of elves, the Spellweavers, the Eldar, and others, but the center was dominated by two thrones. The woman who sat in the highest of the two was regal in her bearing, though by Gulamendis’s standards her clothing was simple, lacking any of the delicate needlework and gems he took for granted among the Taredhel’s ladies. She wore a circlet of gold upon her brow, and her features were lovely, if soft by his people’s standards.
But it was the being sitting next to her that shocked the Demon Master. He sat on a slightly lower throne, but that he was her consort was undoubted. They held hands without thought, as couples long-together do. But he was so much more. For even wearing a simple russet-color tunic and leggings, without armor and arms, he was a warrior born, projecting power like no other being the Demon Master had encountered. In his bones and to the heart of his being he knew this creature: a Valheru.
“Welcome,” said the Queen. “We would know your name and from whence you come.”
Softly, without taking his eyes off of the man next to the queen, he said, “I am Gulamendis, My Lady. I am a Demon Master of the Clan of the Seven Stars. I come seeking the…” He stopped and looked around, feeling both drawn by these people and repulsed by them. There was something profoundly familiar about them, yet there was so much that he didn’t understand. Finally, he said, “I seek help.”
“How may we aid you?” asked the Elf Queen, but she glanced at her companion.
Taking a breath, Gulamendis said, “Our lore tells us we came from this place, in the days of madness, when the gods fought in the heavens above.” His eyes locked with those of the Queen’s companion. “We fled from this place, across a bridge to the stars, and we abided.”
A robed elf stood and said, “As did my people, Gulamendis. We were Lorekeepers, Eldar, and abided for centuries on another world before returning here.”
“Cousin,” said Gulamendis. “We were once Eldar, according to our lore. We took the name Clan of the Seven Stars and call ourselves Taredhel.”
The man sitting next to the Queen spoke. “You departed before the war’s end.”
Gulamendis nodded, fearful of speaking to the Valheru. Creatures of legend, they were the ultimate masters of the People, and to find one here was terrifying.
“I am Tomas, Warleader of Elvandar,” said the man, standing, and when he approached, Gulamendis could see there was something different in his manner. “I wear the mantle of one lost ages past, and I bear his memories, but I am more. I will tell you that tale at length, some other time, but for now this you must hear from me: you are a free people. That was said in the time of the Chaos Wars, and as it was true then, so it is true now. Abide and rest, and share with us your story, Gulamendis of the Taredhel, for you have found friends if you would have us so.”
Despite being nearly half a head taller than Tomas, Gulamendis felt small in his presence. He didn’t fully understand the meaning of his words, but found them reassuring. If this was, indeed, a Valheru, he claimed no dominion over these people, or the Taredhel.
Then a strange odor registered on the Demon Master’s senses. He had smelled its like while passing through the human town. It was a weed they burned and inhaled. He glanced at the throne and realized that standing in the shadow behind it was a small figure. An old dwarf with nearly white hair stepped
out of the shadows, fixing Gulamendis with a skeptical look and drew a long puff off his pipe.
The dwarf said, “About time you showed up, lad. We carried word of you here nearly a month back, and I was growing tired of waiting for you to get here.”
Tomas smiled and the Queen laughed, her green eyes merry, but the Demon Master was unsettled. They knew he was coming? How? Three weeks ago he was in a cage, as his brother bargained for his life.
Gulamendis hid his confusion and nodded. He couldn’t bring himself to smile at a dwarf. He turned to the Elf Queen and said, “My lady, I am bereft of wits and in need of rest and food. If we could speak tomorrow, I will give a better account of myself.”
“That is fine,” said Queen Aglaranna. She motioned for Gorandis and said, “Take him to rest and eat and we shall meet again tomorrow.” To Gulamendis she said, “Rest and be well, for we have ample time to discuss so many things.”
The Demon Master nodded, bowed, and allowed himself to be led away by his woodland guide. He wished what the Queen had said was true, for that would mean a clean escape from Andcardia and the way between the worlds closed off for good and all. But in the pit of his stomach he feared it would not be true, and that in quickly diminishing days, a danger of horrific proportion was coming to this idyllic place.
CHAPTER 12
SURVIVAL
All she knew was pain.
Something vague urged Sandreena to do something, but she couldn’t grasp what that might be. She could barely breathe, and muted pain would suddenly rise up to cut through her like a hot blade. In the distance, someone groaned.
A pain behind her eyes roused her, and she thought she felt hands behind her head, lifting it. They were strong but gentle. Water touched her lips.
Thirsty. Her throat was parched and her eyes felt as if sand had been packed behind the lids. She tried to open them, but found the effort more than she could manage. A voice softly said, “Ah, I think you’ll live.”
Again a firm but gentle hand lifted her head as water touched her lips. She drank deeply, and then the pain returned.
A groan escaped her lips as she again tried to open her eyes, and at last managed. Her vision swam and images went in and out of focus as she tried to see what the light and dark shapes before her were.
“Slowly,” said a soft, male voice.
Sandreena sipped as more water was put to her lips. It tasted metallic and she realized it was the flavor of dried blood, and from the sourness of her expression, most likely her own. She tried to move, and then the pain hit her.
She almost wept from it. There was no part of her that didn’t hurt, and worse than anything she could remember—and she had endured her fair share of wounds. She blinked, and felt a wet cloth across her face, gently wiping around her eyes.
Shapes and images began to resolve themselves and she saw she was in a dimly lit cave. The single flame, a floating wick of some fashion in a bowl of oil, gave yellowish highlights to an otherwise grey and black environment. She still could not make out the features of the figure hovering over her, for he had the single flame behind him.
Almost whispering, he said, “Maybe you’ll live.”
“What happened?” she tried to say, but the words were little more than a sigh.
“I’ll pretend I understand you,” he said, moving to where he had a cloth on the floor of the cave, next to the flame. She could see him, though the vision in her left eye was blurry. Closing it made it easier to see.
He looked ancient, yet there was an old ironwood quality to his touch that told her despite his age this man was still strong. His features were craggy, a sharp nose and deep-set eyes, under a heavy brow, a jutting jaw covered in a grey beard. There was nothing appealing about this old man, yet she could imagine when he was young he might have had a certain presence. Some women found that more appealing than a handsome face.
His hands worked quickly as he spoke. “Someone wanted you very dead.” He paused as he considered what to add to the bowl of water he had on the cloth before him. “You were stabbed several times, stripped naked, then thrown off the cliffs. They tossed some clothing after you.”
Sandreena could barely move. Her body was heavily bandaged, with what felt like lumpy cloth rags. She reeked of something alien, and she barely had the strength to speak. “Who…are you?”
“Me?” asked the old man, smiling. “I keep to myself. The people around here don’t like strangers.”
“So I…discovered,” she said, letting her head fall back and her eyes close. “I…”
“You need to rest,” he said. “I fished you out three days ago. Didn’t know if you’d make it.” With a chuckle, he said, “You are a mess, girl.”
As she felt herself drift off, she whispered, “You’re not the first to say that.”
Time passed as an alternating series of dreamless sleep and short periods of consciousness. Sandreena knew she had spoken to the man at least once, perhaps more often, but couldn’t remember anything said. She finally awoke with a clear head, though it still throbbed as she tried to sit up. She was under a pile of skins, seal or otter, or some other creatures’ pelts, on a pile of what could best be called filthy rags. For a pillow, her blood-stained tabard had been rolled up and put under her head. She realized she was nude, save for a mass of rags that served as bandages. She was hardly worried about modesty; besides, most of her was covered by the bandages. She ached terribly and did a quick inventory. She had at least a dozen cuts, several of them deep. She lifted one bandage on her leg, tied around and knotted, and saw a puckered purplish wound roughly sewn together. From the pain in her back she knew she had a deep cut there, and when she coughed, the pain almost caused her to pass out again.
She took a deep breath and it hurt. But rather than the raw, stabbing pain of a fresh wound, the pains she endured were the dull, constant ache of wounds healing. Not for the first time she wished she had had the gift for the majestic healing spells some of her and other orders could offer from truly blessed priests and monks. She could hurry healing along, if the wounds weren’t too bad, but she needed focus and strength, two commodities she lacked at the moment.
She was alone. She struggled to sit up even more, and putting a fur behind her back, to cushion her against the cave wall, was an exhausting task, but she managed. She was tired of lying on her back. And she wanted questions answered.
She dozed off, and when she opened her eyes again, the old man was sitting beside the fire, boiling water. He glanced over and grinned. “Crab!” he said with enthusiasm. “I thought you might be ready for something beside broth.”
She saw he had fashioned an interesting cook pot, using hard, tanned hides stretched over a wooden frame, making a large, shallow bowl. She had seen its like before, and had been surprised it didn’t go up in flames when put over the fire, but she had seen that as long as there was enough water in the container, and if the fire didn’t reach the wood itself, the water would steam and eventually boil, but the hides would only scorch, not burn.
Weakly, she asked, “Where did you get crab?”
He pointed out the cave mouth. “There’s a pool, at the base of the rocks, and when the tide is high, they swim in. Some good fish, too, when the tide is out, but I have to catch them by hand—it’s harder. With the crabs”—he made a dipping motion with his hand—“you just scoop them up from behind, and they can’t pinch.” He reached into a sack and plucked out a large one, dropping it in the steaming water. With a shrug, he said, “No butter,” then he started laughing as if this were a very funny joke. As thankful as Sandreena was to this man for her life, it was obvious he was a little mad.
“How did you find me?” she asked, her voice raspy.
Hearing her tone, he stopped overseeing the boiling water and scuttled to her side, and took up a water skin. “I left this here for you, but you didn’t find it.” He held up the water skin and she drank eagerly. The water was bitter with minerals and badly tanned leather flavors, but it quen
ched her thirst eventually.
He sat back, looking at the makeshift boiling pot for a moment, then said, “I was looking for crabs and found you on the rocks. Almost dead. I carried you back here.”
She narrowed her eyes slightly. He didn’t look strong enough to carry her, but she had learned early in life that appearances could be misleading. “The last thing I remember was killing an assassin, maybe two, and then someone coming up behind me.” She fell silent a moment, then said, “I got overconfident.”
The old man laughed, a harsh, barking sound. “That’s why I have no confidence at all! I’m a mouse! I hide in cracks and crevices, behind the walls, under the floor!”
“You’ve survived,” observed Sandreena as the old man used two sticks to pull the crabs out of the boiling water. He put one on another poorly tanned skin, perhaps a rabbit or hare, and picked up a rock. He smashed the crab’s shell repeatedly, until she could easily get at the steaming meat inside. He carried the makeshift platter to her, and put it on her lap.
“Yes, I’ve survived,” he said, with a note of bitterness in his voice. “I’ve survived,” he repeated.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Who am I?” he responded. He sat back as if considering a difficult question. “Those in the village call me the hermit, when they even admit I’m around.” He looked around, as if somehow he could see through the cave’s walls and was considering the larger surroundings outside. “I came from over the mountains, a long time ago.”
“How long?”
“A long time,” he said as if that were ample explanation.
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