by Carol Browne
“So, little rat, you thought to fool me, did you?” raged Vieldrin, anger reddening his cheeks. “Wilthkin!”
Godwin’s heart raced as the king’s cold gaze swivelled towards him.
“Tell me about the Lorestone.”
Vieldrin snapped his fingers and a servant ran forwards, bearing a jug of wine and a silver goblet. While the goblet was filled, emptied, and replenished, Vieldrin watched his prisoners closely. Then he kicked the servant aside with his foot. Godwin’s relief at not being made to answer the elf-king’s question was overshadowed by his fear of how his death and that of his friends would be meted out.
Vieldrin sat on the throne, smirking at his prisoners. “It may interest you to know that this is not the first time I have been dragged from my rest tonight. You three were not the only ones hatching a plot against me, so do not think yourselves privileged, though it may have been your example that set other fools on their suicidal course.”
He gulped down the wine and motioned for more. The servant scuttled towards him and filled his goblet.
“Apparently, they had some notion of killing me while I slept, but they were captured outside the hall. A small band of elders, easily dealt with. The ringleaders were brought to me so I could question them. You remember Haldrin, I suppose? I dealt him a lethal bolt, and the other rebel—I forgot to ask her name—she made such a fearful caterwauling that it was necessary for one of my lads to run her through with his sword. Well, we cannot have such a deplorable din in the middle of the night.”
Trystin sobbed. “Grandfather, Everil, no!”
Trystin’s anguish seemed to reach Godwin from a distance. He glanced at Elgiva. Her legs were folded beneath her and her head was bowed, as if in prayer. Her hands lay open on her lap, as though despair had taken their strength, and a drop of blood splashed onto her robe. She seemed beyond the touch of grief.
For Frigg’s sake, Elgiva, do something!
“The Lorestone, Elgiva. Where is it?”
Silence settled like a heavy fug, while everyone looked at Elgiva, but it was clear she had no intention of answering Vieldrin’s question.
“Do not play games with me! I know you have the stone.” Vieldrin reached inside his robe and drew out a piece of parchment, which he waved at his prisoners accusingly. “If you have this parchment, you also have the Lorestone. So tell me, where is it hidden?”
Godwin ventured to reply, but his throat felt like dust and his voice was a mere croak. “We thought you had it.”
“Damn you, worm. My lads heard you. What have you done with it? It is hidden somewhere, curse you!”
“Then you’d better look for it, hadn’t you?” Elgiva suggested.
“Death and destruction!” roared the king. He hurled his goblet across the hall, and everybody ducked. The vessel struck the wall with a clang, and the terrified servants scattered. “You will tell me where it is. Voluntarily or under torture. I will get the truth out of you. Guards! Take that wilthkin and the brat and tear them limb from limb if you have to. Just get me the Lorestone!”
Four guards stumbled forwards, clumsy in their haste to obey, and seized the hapless prisoners. Vieldrin strode up to Elgiva, grasped her by the elbows, and hauled her to her feet.
“As for you, little rat, we cannot allow you to stay alive, or our plans will be imperilled. But let it never be said that I did not give my foe a sporting chance.” Releasing her, he stepped back, his fists cocked on his hips and his mouth a curve of anticipation. “Come on, then, noble adversary. Work a spell against me!”
The assembled elves sucked in their breath, and the guards holding Godwin and Trystin froze in their tracks, as though unwilling to miss a contest of magic.
***
Swaying with fatigue and despair, Elgiva looked too weak to work a spell. Vieldrin smirked triumphantly, but conflicting emotions churned in his breast. He would have to kill her, wanted to kill her, but what about his plans? What about the progeny that would carry on his work? With dissention at home and the war going badly whenever he was absent, he was stretched too thin; he was alone against the world. He must have the Lorestone to guarantee his right to rule all Elvendom.
Confound you, Elgiva. I almost believed we could work together. But there are others with whom I can work. Oh, yes. I have only to set them free. These friends of mine, they would turn the blood to ice in your veins.
“Come now, dear heart,” he said. “Just one little spell, that is all I ask.” It was sad she would have to die, but she would not see reason. What made her persist in opposing him, when she knew she was beaten? Such foolishness surpassed him.
He wished he could explain his desire to reach out and touch her injured forehead, reach out and heal it with magic.
A twinge of alarm stung him when Elgiva’s eyes opened fully, revealing the ire brooding in their depths. Her finely arched brows drew together in a frown of contempt.
Anger churned in his breast, but he was as angry with himself as he was with her. She was his enemy. Was he losing his mind, allowing her to prise tender feelings from his heart so easily when no one else ever had? He would make her suffer for it. He cast his cloak aside with a deliberate flourish and planted himself before her importantly.
“Do not hope for a quick death,” he growled.
Elgiva’s attack took him by surprise. Magical fire blazed in his face, and he staggered backwards. Humiliation seethed in his breast, and he threw magic back at his adversary, a dense cloud of sparks whirling in her direction. Their light was dazzling, forcing the onlookers to shield their eyes. The sparks enveloped Elgiva like a swarm of maddened wasps. She tried to protect her face with her hands as the sparks spat out their magical venom. As the sparks gyred around her, the air thrummed and crackled with force.
The vortex of sparks was stretched apart by a barrier of force. It thrust them outwards as it expanded. The sparks glowed white-hot as they tried to burn a path through the shell of power, but Elgiva’s might enveloped them, and they burst like harmless bubbles.
Unable to accept that Elgiva’s magic had bested his, Vieldrin clenched his fists. At least now she looked exhausted and he could land a killing blow, but before he could make his move, she threw a volley of force at him. It spun around him, like a boiling thunderhead, and lashed at him with bolts of lightning.
Confused, maddened, Vieldrin fended off the shafts of power and fell back against the table. Rage, pure and feral, rose up from the depths of his being. A power surge of terrible strength exploded from his hand. He slashed at Elgiva’s storm cloud, sending chunks of it wheeling about the hall. Tables and benches were caught in the blast and hurled in all directions, and jugs of wine were smashed upon the floor. His anger receded somewhat, and laughter bubbled up in his throat at the sight of the assembled elves. They drew back with howls of fear, trying to dodge the flying plates and beakers. The tapestries flapped against the walls, the torches scattered sparks, and the great dogs scrabbled at the doors, desperate to escape.
Elgiva’s magic battled with Vieldrin’s. The tumult grew until it could grow no more, and then the hurricane of force exploded with an ear-splitting bang. In an instant, the magic exhausted itself, and everything caught up in it fell to the floor with a crash.
Vieldrin fought to appear unaffected by the contest, although he swayed a little where he stood. But his opponent suffered far more than he did. Elgiva had collapsed and lay gasping for air, her features slack and grey with effort.
“So that is the best you can do,” he said calmly. “The magic of a child. A great display, admittedly, but there was little substance to it. Now I shall complete my work.”
He turned, sat on the great oak throne, and glared down at his prey. Elgiva raised herself on her elbows.
“Rats should be poisoned,” said Vieldrin, “but they should suffer, too. Slow poison is my weapon of choice. An incurable sickness that finds no relief. A fatal fever that lingers on, making each minute an age of misery, wasting the body and torment
ing the mind. To go mad with thirst, yet fear to drink. To be tortured by slow incineration, and then to die in pain and despair. That is the way we deal with rats who invade our homes with their insolent cunning.”
He made a series of gestures before him, his hands slicing through the air like knives. A thread of darkness curled through the air and hovered around Elgiva before settling upon her.
“The spell is done and cannot be undone, except by magic greater than mine, which means that you will die, little rat, for no one in Elvendom can surpass me. Two days I give you to wait for death.”
Elgiva’s lips parted, but she said nothing. A look of resignation dimmed the light in her eyes. As she sank to the floor, the sigh she made sounded like relief.
***
Godwin’s legs had lost the ability to hold him upright. There seemed no reason for his heart to go on beating, and a darkness moved across his vision, but he grappled mentally with himself, refusing to let his senses forsake him. At his side, Trystin was sobbing, but there was nothing Godwin could say or do to bring him comfort.
“Hurl this trash out of the door. It has no further use,” cried Vieldrin, waving a hand at the destruction around them. “And get this accursed mess cleaned up!”
The elf-king turned on his heel and strode out of the hall. Some of the elves followed his example, while others began to clear away the debris.
The great oak doors were thrown open, and a cool night breeze flowed into the hall. Two servants lifted Elgiva and carried her from the hall, while a third elf lit their way with a torch. Godwin and Trystin were marched outside in their wake, and as the hall doors closed behind them, a cold darkness swooped down on them all.
Godwin blinked, trying to accustom his eyes to the dimness. Ahead of him, the servants carried his friend like a broken doll. Desperate to reach her, Godwin remembered what Haldrin had said about Vieldrin’s guards serving him only out of fear. He had to hope this was true, that these guards might take pity on him. He struggled to twist round so he could plead with them.
“Please,” he begged. “Let me say goodbye. A final farewell. I beseech you!”
The four guards looked at him in silence.
“I can hardly help her escape, can I? What would be the point?” He almost choked on the words.
“All right,” said one, “but just for a moment. No tricks, you understand? Hey, you two!” The elves ahead of them stopped and looked around. “Put her down for a minute. Let this one say his farewells.” He jabbed his finger at Godwin.
The guard loosed his hold on Godwin’s arm and pushed him forwards. The servants lowered Elgiva, stepped back, and folded their arms. As Godwin knelt beside her, he noticed the deep flush on her face and the sheen of sweat. Already, the fever was taking hold.
Was this the end of all their strivings?
“Elgiva,” he gasped. “My dear . . . ” He fought to hold back his tears.
She whispered something in a thin, hoarse voice, and he drew a little nearer.
“What is it? I can’t hear you.”
She stared at him, but her eyes were unfocused. “No sentimental nonsense. Not dead yet. Keep talking. They mustn’t hear. Listen . . . ”
Godwin fought to master himself, although it wrenched his heart. “Elgiva, you can’t. You mustn’t die!”
She licked her lips and struggled to speak. “Something I can do for you. My fault, all this. Make amends. Keep talking.”
He swallowed down a knot of anguish. “We must say farewell. But my hands are tied. I can’t even hold you.”
The guards began to shuffle their feet, and one of them cleared his throat in a manner that hinted at impatience. Godwin’s heart was thudding with panic, and somewhere behind him, he heard Trystin sob.
“I’ve found your sword,” Elgiva whispered. “I can summon it. Keep talking!”
Tears blurred Godwin’s vision. Yes, he ought to keep talking. All he wanted to do was weep, but she needed more time.
“Get on with it!” growled one of the guards.
“The sword comes to your aid,” she sighed. “Now, a goodbye kiss, Godwin. Take the magic, while I have some left . . . ”
Take the magic? He obeyed without hesitation, lowered his head, and kissed her mouth. Her lips were hot and dry. Almost at once, a wave of force surged into his body. It flared in his limbs like vitriol and was almost too much to bear. Tears of pain sprang from his eyes as magic, raw and powerful, shuddered through his flesh.
The ropes fell from his wrists.
Elgiva turned her head away, releasing him from the kiss. “Use it. Can’t last,” she said faintly.
Silver flashed in the air overhead, and something heavy fell into his hand. He closed his fingers around cold, hard metal.
Taranuil!
He wanted to laugh at the sudden conviction that he was ten feet tall.
“What’s going on?” shouted one of the guards.
Godwin spun around to face the elves. Nothing could stand in his way now, and he had never been so wide awake, never seen so clearly. There was nothing he couldn’t do.
The warriors gaped at the sight of the sword and then drew their own weapons with practised speed.
“Taranuil,” whispered Godwin.
The metal rang with power, and the might it contained merged with the magic in his veins, an ecstasy of avenging force.
The servants, unused to fighting, backed away in horror, but the guards strode forwards, their swords upraised.
Godwin’s strength was that of ten as he fought with his attackers. Two lay dying at his feet, and a third keeled over, spurting blood. The fourth guard ran at Trystin, but Godwin reached him first and struck the guard’s sword with a jarring crash that broke the other blade and left its owner helpless. The guard stepped back and fumbled for the dagger in his belt, but he was far too slow. Emboldened by magic, Godwin lashed out, slicing through flesh and bone, and the guard was dead before his body hit the ground.
Taranuil hummed with pleasure; its edge shone with a gleam of relish.
The servants had edged their way towards the margin of the clearing. When Godwin looked in their direction, they turned and ran for their lives. Godwin caught one by the arm and quickly slit his throat, but the other two made good their escape, and it would be folly to chase them.
He sprinted over to Trystin, who was kneeling on the grass. The elfling’s face was a mask of bewilderment, but when he saw his friend approach, his large eyes glowed with wonder. Godwin dragged him to his feet. With one swipe of his sword, he severed the ropes that bound Trystin’s hands. Trystin continued to stare at him.
“Now, let’s get out of here.” Godwin wiped his sword on the grass and slid it into his scabbard.
“Master Godwin, you—”
“Don’t be afraid. It’s only magic.” Godwin smiled at the admiration in his young friend’s eyes, and then he frowned at his own pomposity. “And it isn’t mine.”
Trystin shook with shock and exhaustion, but there was no time for sympathy. Surely someone in the hall had heard the clash of swords. They might be too scared to investigate, but they would soon find someone who wasn’t.
And the magic was fading. Godwin felt sick, as though he’d been spinning round and come to a sudden halt. His limbs were cold and heavy, and the sweat seemed to turn to ice on his brow. But he had to make one last effort and get his friends to safety. He grabbed Trystin’s shoulder and thrust him forwards.
“Damn you, get moving!” he rasped.
Trystin stumbled forwards on legs that seemed to be devoid of bone.
The flaming brand the servants had dropped still guttered in the grass. Stamping out the last of its fire, Godwin stooped to lift Elgiva, and his head reeled at the exertion.
“Leave me, fool. I’m dying,” she croaked.
“I still can’t hear you,” he said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Dawn had broken on the eastern horizon, but in the depths of the forest, the trees were wrapped in a
pearly mist and they guarded the dregs of darkness. The companions had stopped to rest, concealing themselves in a hawthorn thicket, and for a while they sat in silence, listening for sounds of pursuit.
Godwin was past exhaustion; his muscles ached after carrying Elgiva through the forest. She now lay motionless in his lap, dark shadows beneath her eyes and her face as pale as the mist. Trystin, sniffing back tears of despair, leaned his head on Godwin’s shoulder.
“What shall we do, Master Godwin?”
Godwin looked up and sighed. The sky was lightening; the tree-tops were limned with orange and pink, and the brightness hurt his eyes. “We’ll meet Grimalkin at the shrine. We’ll take the Lorestone to Elindel.” His eyes felt full of grit, and he scrubbed at them with the back of his hand. All he wanted to do was sleep. “But first, let’s lie low and rest awhile.”
“But what about Lady Elgiva?”
Godwin looked at the inert body stretched across his lap and struggled with a surge of panic. “If she dies, we must make sure the stone is in safe hands. Her uncle—”
Trystin sat up. “I don’t care about the stone! Curse the wretched thing!”
Putting his arm around Trystin’s shoulder, Godwin tried to be strong. “Calm yourself, lad. Elgiva would want us to finish the work she started, because if we don’t, it’s all been for nothing. Be reasonable, Trystin. No use getting angry. That won’t get us anywhere.”
Trystin pulled away and glowered at the ground. Godwin closed his eyes and forced himself to relax, but it wasn’t an easy matter with the nausea of expiring magic pulsing in his veins. Even though his body ached for sleep, he ought to stay alert. He wondered how long it would be before Vieldrin’s warriors found them. Misterell was vast and thickly wooded, but for those who knew it well, it would be no more difficult to search than an orchard.
Elgiva opened her eyes and stared at the trees above her, and her pale, cracked lips began to form words. Godwin inclined his head to listen.
“A spell once spoken cannot be broken. Cannot be broken. The web is woven.”
Godwin sighed. This was the end of their quest, and it had all come to nothing. He swallowed down a constriction in his throat before he spoke. “Elgiva, can you hear me? You used up all your strength on me, foolish little elf.”
