by C S Marks
Regrettably, Talishani Ali died in the night, to the sorrow of all. He had been a fine man. Though he could only speak in a rasping whisper, he told his attendants that he had been wrong about Hallagond, and that without Visili’s efforts the battle might have been lost. When Hallagond was told of this he sorrowed most deeply, and did not speak to anyone until the following day.
Lord Salastor had declared that a ceremony would be held for the fallen. They would be laid to rest at the base of the wall that had saved the City, and a great stone memorial would be erected there to honor them. But Hallagond insisted that Ali’s body be burned, for it was his belief that men of honor are released by fire, and not buried in the ground. Hallagond himself lit the pyre on which his friend had been laid, and the people sang songs of valor as the flames rose high into the night.
Now was the time for rest and healing of body and spirit. The City would never be the same again; one cannot face the reality of such evil and not be altered by it. The Company took comfort in being together. Fima was especially solicitous of his wounded friends, and helped them whenever possible. He marveled at the story of Hallagond and the slaying of Lokai.
Estle cared for Hallagond, changing the dressings on his burned arm twice daily. He tried not to show how much this pained him—mostly without success—and his arm would be forever scarred, but he didn’t mind. The beautiful designs upon it, marred beyond hope, were reminders of Al-Amand, and he would never be forsaken again. This time he had faced the fire; he had passed the test.
He found Rogond sitting with Gaelen upon a late afternoon not long afterward, as they rested together and looked out over the sea. The rains had moved on, and the sky was clearing as he sat beside them.
“Well, my brother,” he began, “I suppose now I shall remain here. Will you stay beside me, and fight for the City if the need ever arises again?”
Rogond smiled at him. “I will for the moment,” he said, “but I don’t know where my fate will turn.”
Hallagond drew a deep breath. “I owe you a great debt, and I’m sorry for my early treatment of you. It seems that Al-Amand did not wish to give in so easily, and I don’t know whether he ever would have were it not for your little hunter-scout. Her words were well chosen upon a time. Because you are both very special to me, I think you should be the first to learn of my betrothal.”
“That is fine news,” said Rogond.
“I would have my little brother standing beside me, if he will agree,” said Hallagond.
“Truly?” said Gaelen, lifting her head. “And what does Azori think of this idea?”
“Azori will stand with Estle, and release her to me,” said Hallagond. “I’m not sure he entirely approves of anyone being wedded to his sister, but he said I’m probably the one person he wouldn’t feel compelled to kill.”
“Well, that’s something at least,” said Rogond. “Of course, I will agree. The two sons of Diomar should stand together on this happy occasion.”
“They will ever stand together,” said Hallagond, reaching out with his one good hand to clasp Rogond’s one good hand in friendship.
So, will you two brothers kiss each other now? Should I avert my eyes?” said Gaelen, who knew full well that Hallagond was uncomfortable with such displays of sentiment, and therefore could not resist teasing him. “And I would caution you both against this annoying habit everyone seems to have adopted. I am not little. Not a little Wood-elf, nor a little hunter-scout, nor a little anything! I am an Elf of the line of Tarfion and Gloranel, and I am over a thousand years old, so stop calling me ‘little!’”
“My apologies,” said Hallagond. “You’re right, Gaelen. You may be undersized, but you are not little. Never again will I call you so.”
Chapter 26: THE COMPANY IS REUNITED
Nearly a month had passed since the Scourge had been routed, and the people of Dûn Arian were already hard at work renewing their homes and their hearts. The carcasses of the enemy had been gathered and piled up for burning; the fires lasted three days, sending columns of smoke into the air that could be seen for miles. Visili commented that they could probably even be seen by what was left of the Scourge.
He had been quite mortified upon learning that he had shot and nearly killed Gaelen, and had apologized to her at once. “I did not know you,” he said. “I very nearly committed a great wrong by mischance, and I am truly sorry. I hope you will forgive me.”
Gaelen shrugged. “I’m just thankful it wasn’t a head shot,” she said. “You did not know differently; there’s nothing to amend. I suppose it was not the best idea disguising myself, but as I managed to claim more than twenty foes I suppose it was worth a little pain.”
Rogond lifted his eyebrows at this. Gaelen had suffered more than a little pain as a result of Visili’s arrow; had his shot been only a bit more powerful it would certainly have killed her. It had broken at least one of her ribs and bruised her left lung as well as the overlying muscle.
Her bruises were fading and could now barely be seen, except across the left side of her back where the arrow had struck her; this would take some time even for Gaelen to heal. Rogond had been very thoroughly battered himself when Lokai had flung him across the courtyard, and now his bruises were in a very ugly state of greenish-black. Gaelen tended him each day, gently massaging the muscles of his right arm to aid him in maintaining his strength, for he could not move it due to the shattering of his shoulder. He was looking forward to many more weeks of this gentle treatment.
Azori had fared well once “Fima’s dragon-cure” had banished the venom from his body, and he was now amusing himself by teasing Hallagond incessantly about the perils of being wedded to his sister. If she ever complained of unhappiness, Azori would have no choice but to kill the one responsible. He shot menacing, fierce looks at Hallagond whenever possible, but they were false.
Estle was in on the joke briefly; one evening at feast she had remarked that she thought she might be unhappy. Azori drew a deep sigh, rose to his feet, and addressed Hallagond. “It would seem that my sister is unhappy. Regrettably, I must now take you outside so that I may kill you without disturbing the feast of these other folk. Come along quietly, now.” Hallagond rose and followed Azori outside, after rolling his eyes at the ceiling.
Inside the hall the feast resumed, until a terrible cry was heard from Hallagond. A few moments later, Azori reappeared, wiping imaginary blood from his blade. He sat down at the table, looking around at the horrified expressions on the faces of the citizens. “What?” he asked innocently, and resumed eating.
“Azori,” said Estle, “did you kill Hallagond?”
“Naturally,” said Azori through a mouthful of pastry.
“Oh, dear. Now I suppose I shall need to look for someone else to marry, since we have been planning a large ceremony, and all. I wonder if any of these fine gentlemen would be interested?”
There were nine other men at the long table, but, save for Rogond, they all seemed suddenly to be needed elsewhere.
Nelwyn and Galador had recovered quickly from their weariness, and they aided greatly in the restoration of the Citadel, as did Fima. “It would be a great honor to have a dwarvish craftsman design the memorial,” said Lord Salastor, and Fima accepted the task with proper solemnity. He also aided in the restoration of the materials to the Great Library, which was now where he spent much of his time. Gaelen had saved the page that she had torn from the volume of dragon-lore, and one afternoon she came into the Library to find a rather chilly reception awaiting her as the scholars clustered protectively before the doorway to the inner archives. She recognized the little easterner with the olive-green robes, and approached him, bowing respectfully, holding out the parchment so that he could take it from her.
“This is battle-weary, and not in the same condition as when I acquired it, but I return it now. Please know that it may have saved the lives as well as the lore of the City. I admit and regret my earlier discourtesy, but I truly had no other choice. I b
ow humbly before you all, and ask your pardon.” She bowed somewhat stiffly due to the hurts she had taken, as the scholar took the battered parchment from her. He took notice of the sweat and blood that marred it now, and wondered.
“This should not be returned to its place, where it may not see the light of day,” said Fima. “It should be set apart as a reminder that, although all writings are worth preserving, there are times when some are worth sacrificing. I will set to work crafting a vessel for it at once.” To this, no one would argue. They did agree that the page should be copied, however, so that the volume could be restored.
Gaelen felt a little better after returning the parchment, but she was still melancholy. She missed Finan; the fallen horses had been gathered and burned, but separate from the enemy. Gaelen had not witnessed this, nor did she care to. She felt as though a part of herself had been torn away, and would be so for a long time to come. Bint Raed had cheerfully returned Siva to her, and Gaelen was glad of it, but it was not the same. She did not allow herself to grieve openly for Finan until one day when she was tending to Rogond; she looked down at the silver brooch on her cloak and suddenly gave a heart-wrenching moan, looking around helplessly before bursting into tears. Rogond was alarmed until he realized what had come over her; she clung to him until her grief was spent.
Everyone now looked forward to the marriage of Estle and Hallagond. Lord Salastor had arranged for all in the City to rest from their labors on the day of the ceremony, and there would be a great feast in honor of the event. Everyone in the Company had some part to play in the preparations; Bint Raed had worked day and night to weave a beautiful silver and grey fabric for Estle’s gown, and there was enough to make a sash for Hallagond. Nelwyn had gone out into the forest gathering flowers and vines to make garlands, for it was springtime in the City and there were plenty to be had. Gaelen had gone with her, but she was not adept at such things, and left the making of the garlands to Nelwyn.
Rogond and Azori would play important parts in the ceremony, as would Gaelen, who had been asked to sing. Nelwyn and Galador would bear the ceremonial garland that would entwine Hallagond and Estle. Lord Salastor himself would preside, but the words would be read by Maji, the Minister of Omens.
It seemed that Fima had no part to play, and he was feeling rather left out. He and Hallagond sat with Visili one evening, sharing a flask of wine, when Fima asked about it. “Why have I not been given a task in preparing for this great day? Surely there is some service I may provide, some contribution that I can make?”
Hallagond clapped Fima on the shoulder. “My stout and learned friend, you already made the greatest contribution when you saved Azori’s life. Estle would have been devastated had her brother been lost, and were it not for you he certainly would have been. Rest assured that your contribution was of the utmost importance.”
“It’s not the same thing, and you know it,” growled the dwarf, refusing to be placated. “Surely there is something else that I may do?”
Hallagond shrugged. “Planning the ceremony is not my task,” he said. “Ask Estle.”
“Hmmmph,” said Fima, pouring himself more wine. “I suppose I had better ask her, but if she cannot come up with something I will simply have to think of it myself.”
Fima did so, and for the next several days he could not be found in any of his usual haunts. Finally he emerged, looking somewhat careworn as though he had been working very intently at something. He called Estle and Hallagond together, telling them that he had prepared a small contribution to the ceremony. “I once possessed such skills,” he said, “but I am no longer practiced. I hope these are worthy, and are to your liking.” With a flourish, he revealed two beautiful golden rings; they were very nearly perfect, and he had engraved them himself.
“You once said that the sound of Elven-tongues was unwelcome, Hallagond. I hope that is no longer true.” He proceeded to read the engraving, which was in High-elven. Then he translated. Estle’s ring read: I give my heart to Estle, and shall never forsake her. Hallagond’s ring, though larger, was identical except for the inscription: I give my heart to Hallagond, who shall never again be forsaken. Fima shuffled his feet, complaining that the words had barely fit on Estle’s ring, but he had managed it.
“These are beautiful, and very, very special,” said Hallagond. “We will treasure them always. You are quite the romantic, aren’t you?”
“Well, actually, I had some help from Rogond,” said Fima, blushing furiously. “Now there is a romantic!”
“So, how did he end up giving his heart to Gaelen?” asked Estle. “She is about as romantic as a plate of hard cheese.” Hallagond laughed along with her, but both he and Fima knew differently. They had seen the tender side of Gaelen Taldin, and knew the truth of it.
The day of the ceremony drew near, and the spirits of the people were lightened. The weather was unusually fine, as if the whole world was looking with favor upon the union of Hallagond and Estle.
On the day before the ceremony, Gaelen had gone out into the forest to escape the last of the preparations. She had little use for such things, and was secretly thankful that she and Rogond had bound to each other in secret. Their union would never be recorded anywhere but in their hearts.
She had been in a dark mood for some reason, troubled by a feeling of uneasiness—a vague tingling in her fingertips—as though something needed her attention…an enemy approaching, or someone in need. This confused her, for she had expected to be happy on this day when two of her friends prepared to celebrate their greatest joy. Tomorrow she would stand beside them and lift her voice in tribute to their love…it was a great honor in her mind. Why, then, was her heart so empty?
She sat heavily upon the mossy ground, trying to take solace in the fresh, green smell of late spring in this strange-yet-familiar woodland, lying back and looking up at the impossibly tall canopy. She felt herself drifting away into a waking dream…no, she could not allow it! She had to remain vigilant. But her heart was so weary.
The vague tingling in her fingertips became a sharp burning as icy water filled her veins and she began to tremble. Something had happened! She jerked upright and leaped to her feet. Rogond…where is Rogond? He is dying, and in pain…something terrible has befallen him!
She flew back to the City, rushing headlong into Rogond’s chamber, but he was not there. She ran to the market, and to the Hall of Council. By the time she got there, she was screaming his name.
The Council was not in session, but Lord Salastor heard her cries and came forth to aid her. He found her still calling for Rogond in a panicked voice, looking around as if wondering where to look next.
“Gaelen! What has so dismayed you?”
“I must find Rogond at once! Something has happened. Do you know where I may find him?” She was nearly breathless by now.
Salastor did not know, but Galador and Fima had heard her cries and ran now into the Hall.
“Gaelen, Rogond is fine. We just left him...he is down in the armory,” said Galador.
“Fine. Then I shall go there.” Without another word to any of them, she turned and made her way to the armory as swiftly as she could manage. She found Rogond tending to his blades, and ran to him at once, tears of relief starting in her eyes. He was whole; no ill had befallen him. Yet as he held her, confused and frightened by her sudden, panicked appearance, her eyes grew wide again. Who, then, if not Rogond?
“Where is your brother?” she cried, tears now spilling from her eyes. She looked around in alarm, as though seeing and hearing things that were not there. Then, she wailed piteously and wrenched away from him. “Gorgon is here…Oh, no…Hallagond…he has been taken!” Without waiting for Rogond to react she ran from the chamber, moving so swiftly and unerringly through the winding paths of the City that he had no hope of catching her quickly. At last she came upon a sight that would haunt her until her dying day.
It was hanging at the end of a blind alleyway, just visible in the waning light of late af
ternoon. The smell of blood and offal and the buzzing of flies announced it long before she beheld it; the body of a tall man, pegged to the wall and suspended with cords tied beneath both arms. Hallagond…was this how Gorgon would announce his return? The familiar foul reek still lingered after him, and Gaelen knew his handiwork, for she had seen it before. One thought filled her horrified mind. She had called this monster to herself, and now he was here!
Gaelen did not rush up to the body, for she dreaded what she would see, yet she had to be certain of its identity. The slow dripping of blood upon the stone floor was the only sound to be heard, other than her shallow, terrified breathing and the hammering of her heart. The body was all but unrecognizable, yet the eyes were intact and open; death had not been long upon them.
With an almost overwhelming sense of relief, she realized that the eyes were not Hallagond’s, for although they were grey, they were not the same. This man was older…much older. Still, she knew these eyes. Who, then, has paid this terrible price? She could not yet bear to ask him.
There was no clothing or ornament upon the body, nothing to identify it other than a few remaining tangled locks of long, greying hair. But then, Gaelen noticed a small, blood-soaked bundle laid at the feet of the corpse. She reached down to take it with shaking hands. Rogond, by now, had come up from behind her and was staring at the scene in horror. Galador and Fima were right behind him.
“Stay back,” Gaelen warned, opening the bundle. She stared at the contents for a few moments, and uttered a cry as she recognized the object inside. There was also a parchment, with a message written in a hand that she had seen before. The blood used in the writing was not man’s blood; it was darker, yet it smelled vaguely Elven.
Gaelen dropped the bundle to the floor, fury rising in her face as she now turned her attention to the dead eyes of the man hanging before her. She looked hard into them, and read the unspeakable pain of this tormented soul’s last hours, the force of it causing her to cry out as though in pain herself. She heard Gorgon’s hated voice inside her head: The time has come for us to dance. Thou hast called me to thee, and now I have come. I call thee out to face thy destiny.
