Analindë (The Chronicles of Lóresse) (6 page)

The Humans finally stopped searching for her and camped for the night one hour’s journey up the track she’d been following. Unfortunately, now they were between her and the path to Mirëdell. As she lay in the hollow of the tree, Analindë wondered which direction to take next. Was there a path around them? Or was she going to have to forge a new trail? Maybe she should double back and head toward Mirëtasarë, but if she did, she’d lose more than a day’s worth of travel. As she attempted to remember the terrain in this area from her childhood romps—in order to search out a way to slip around the Human campsite—the image of a cave popped into her mind.

She couldn’t remember ever playing in such a cave, but the mental image felt familiar and safe. Like a place she’d visited often. It was a place that spoke to her of protection and refuge. Large enough to take shelter in, with multiple exits for an easy escape. The feeling of the cave whispered unintelligible words to her, of grand things and possibilities that were a little too vague or incomprehensible to make out.

It was probably a trap.

The warm, welcoming cave plucked at the corners of her mind promising safety. She felt herself being lulled into complacency, when with barely a moment’s notice, she felt a nearby surge of power fly up into the sky and then hurtle toward the earth, it hit the ground with the force of a metal-smith’s hammer forging a new sword. The strike slammed into the area where she had left the trail with a large enough span to clip her shield by a little. Her shield wobbled and heaved and it held, but just barely. The wizard was trying to kill her!

Firmly grounded in magesight, Analindë watched another surge of power fly into the air, this one slammed down to the right of her hiding spot. Her shield would never hold, if it directly hit her, she’d be dead! . . . For a brief moment Analindë considered running, but realized that was probably the wizard’s intent. Either to kill her or flush her out. With nowhere to run, she’d need to change her shields.
What was strong enough
. . .
What was strong enough?

She tensed as another surge powered into the sky. This one smacked into the earth further over to her right. She watched in panic as the energies in the damaged sections of her shield swirled together with the aftershock of the hit, becoming muddied. Where there had been organization and patterns, constant flow and circulation, there now lay a disorganized pooling mess. It was the wrongness that drew her eye. She hadn’t noticed any of the beauty until the patterns had been destroyed and flattened. She recognized the loss first, and briefly wondered what that said about her.

Turning her mind away from that thought, she focused on the task at hand. What was strong enough to keep her from being flattened? . . . Granite. It would have to be granite. Another strike came slamming down to earth to her right. She jumped, flustered at how close it had been, then turned her focus back to the task at hand. Could she do it?

Analindë drew upon her reserves of power to build a massive layer of shielding beneath the others, like granite. Solid granite. Smooth and as strong as any elven fortress she’d ever seen. Strong enough to withstand hundreds-of-thousands of years. She spun power out from herself like she never had before, thickening the weave and forming the strands with brute force. She tweaked the last strands in place and admired the beauty of the pattern as the shield hardened. She felt a bit fatalistic as she sat back, waiting for the inevitable to come. She was a realist even with all the hopefulness she had buried deep down inside. She knew she had no idea what she was doing. She knew that years from now, if she survived, she’d look back at the strong shield she’d just constructed and recognize the inept fumblings of a new student attempting spells of grandeur without the skill to see them fully executed. But what more could she do? She would not run. She could run no further. She’d either live or die. She looked over the massive, thick shield one more time, smoothing out the flow of Energy and spinning out a second more supportive layer to add tensile strength to the mix.

She felt the now familiar surge of power and looked to her shielding. Then switched out of magesight to the darkness of the hollow of the log. She couldn’t watch, not with hordes of butterflies surging through her stomach making her feel ill. She felt the strike come directly toward her. Her heart raced and she shivered involuntarily. It seemed to take forever, but the surge eventually struck her shield, then slid around her as if she wasn’t there.

Stunned, she sat frozen in the darkness, hyper alert, and swamped in disbelief.

It worked! The shield had held!

Thank the stars. She slid into magesight to study the shield. Had it been damaged?

Will he notice? The thought came immediately to mind and she froze again. Would he try the same spot or move on to another?

She sat tensely as long seconds ticked by. At last she felt another surge. Her heart raced as the strike slammed down to her left. She relaxed ever so slightly. A long while later she felt another strike—a fair distance from where she hid—and relaxed the rest of the way. Her shields had held and would hold again. She was safe, for now.

The wizard continued to doggedly search for her, and the night stretched on. Analindë attempted to ignore the strikes by focusing on plans to put some distance between herself and the Humans by morning. Unfortunately, none of her plans were any good. If things continued as they had, it wouldn’t be long until she was caught anyway. So maybe plans didn’t matter. She sighed in frustration as another THWACK came down, this one on the far side of the trail. Again, thoughts of the mountain cave slipped into her mind until she could think of nothing else.

Fine.

She gave in.

She was desperate and tired. And there was no other safe haven nearby where she could sleep. Now the question remained, where could she find this cave?

The image of a broken trail slid into her mind, she flinched, startled by the immediacy of thought. Her breath hitched and her heart raced slightly as she envisioned the trail unfolding before her view. It cut through the woods in a northerly direction from where she hid. Bypassing the Human encampment by a large distance, which set her at ease. The more distance she could put between the Humans and herself without adding too much length to her journey, the happier she’d be. It was all she could do to not think about where the mental image had come from. Instead she focused on the possibility of escape and of plotting her course on the mental image of a map. If Mirëdell was northwest from where she hid, and the cave was north, then by circumventing the path that the Humans were following, she’d actually gain a half day when she cut back over to the main trail. She smiled.

The cave was still probably a trap, but the fact remained that she needed to get away, to be out of the area by sunrise at the latest. If it was a trap, she’d deal with it later. By remaining alert to her surroundings and tracking the spark in the void, she’d make sure to maintain a suitable distance from the Humans. With this new plan in mind, she settled back to wait until the Human wizard had given up for the night. Then she’d make her move.

The Fourth Chapter

Earlier that Afternoon

T
he deer track Arandur and
his companions were following widened. He stepped to the side so Thalion and Sintriel could pass him. He’d take the sweeper position for the next leg of their trek. Not surprisingly, they hadn’t spoken much this morning. They, each of them, had been lost in thought. It had been about three hundred years since the last time scouts had been sent to spy—at least that he knew of—and it weighed heavily on his soul.

Substantiated rumors of treason had reached the Court of the High Lady, and within days small groups had been sent to watch, document, and report back. His group’s assignment was particularly difficult and came with great risk, especially since his team was well known throughout the realm. It was going to be difficult masking who they were. It was hard to pretend to be something else. For people who could see through their illusionary masks the panic would be immediate. It was what people did with that panic that would decide their fates. Arandur reviewed options for their infiltration and glanced over at Sintriel intending to ask her if it would be wiser to have her pretend some other avocation. Her skills with blade and as a scout were too well known.

He caught sight of her just in time to see her steps falter and her face fill with alarm before becoming shuttered as her usual stoic mask slammed down. He sensed her withdrawal even as she shifted into battle mode. She’d clamped down on any energies emanating from herself so as to mask her presence from enemies.

Arandur reacted instinctively, dropping into a half-crouch. Sending his senses out, he searched the area around their small party, seeking hostile energies. He wasn’t sure how Sintriel knew what she did, he only knew that his life had been spared many times from following her lead.

He felt nothing unusual in the forest around them and increased the range he searched. He breathed in deeply; the air smelled clean and clear with a hint of rich earth overlaid with pine. The forest was relatively quiet as birds chirped, leaves rustled, and small game scampered around in the trees. Everything seemed to be in place. He watched Sintriel turn to face him, but she looked through him instead of at him, out to the east. He crouched further and pressed his hands into the earth, rich cool soil met his touch. The connection amplified and increased his range; he sent it flying off into the direction she watched, searching, seeking.

He glanced up at Thalion. He wore a blank stare indicating he’d reached out to the scout station for any reports of new activity in the area. Arandur found sentries on guard and other scouts on their way either to or from the scout station, but nothing out of place.

He swept his senses around them once again in a wide radius and sensed nothing unusual. He pulled the bit of Energy back into himself and slowly stood up. Sintriel still stared off to the east, her face blank, her body completely motionless except for her hands which methodically roved her body checking that daggers, knives, blades, and other implements of death were still tucked in place and ready for use. Whatever she was feeling had rattled her. Deeply.

“Nothing has been reported.” Thalion’s voice broke the stillness surrounding them and then Sintriel blinked, looking at instead of through him. A cold prickle ran up Arandur’s spine; her news was not good.

“Report that there is trouble to the east.” She glanced at Thalion before swinging her gaze to the south.

“But not within two days travel of this place,” Arandur added.

“Tell them,” she frowned, and rubbed two fingers between her brows, smoothing out the furrows that had formed there. She swung her gaze from the east back to the south as if following something that neither he nor Thalion could see. “Tell them it originated–” her face flushed, turning red, and sweat formed on her forehead. She swung back to the east. “Report only that there is trouble in the east. That is all.”

Color began to fade from her face. Sintriel pulled a water sack from her pack and sat down to meditate. Recognizing the pattern from several times before, he knew she’d be ready to travel again in a few moments. Arandur nodded his consent for the message to be sent and watched as his friend closed his eyes.

Arandur was surprised by the action, and he knelt once more to sweep the area, checking for danger. Thalion rarely closed his eyes when he sent, only when he wanted to be absolutely certain he was being as clear and concise with who he was sending to and what he said. Sintriel’s warning was disturbing, particularly when coupled with their assignment.

The immediate area was clear, so he directed all his attention to the east. Nothing abnormal. And to the south. Nothing abnormal, again.

Thalion had finished his sending and now sat rooting through his pack a few paces from Sintriel. She showed no hint of finishing soon, so Arandur shifted from his crouch to a sitting position and leaned back, using his pack to keep him upright.

A moment later Thalion removed something from his pack. He placed a fine metal chain around his neck and tucked the rest of it down his shirt. His fingers slipped to the side and unmistakable blue and silver flashed briefly in the late afternoon light. An Anguillan shielding amulet.

The amulet was powerful, gave protection to the wearer, and was practically impervious to offensive spells. The secret to its make had been guarded closely and then lost. Just as other knowledge had been lost. The Lost Generation. That is what his generation would be known for, not because they’d lost anything, but that they’d finally realized how much had been lost and now faced the reckoning of what it was going to cost them. Arandur didn’t know why he was surprised to catch sight of the rare necklace. Of course Thalion would have such a charm. It had probably been passed down through Thalion’s family for the past fourteen thousand years.

Arandur glanced at Sintriel; she was still meditating, so he let his thoughts drift. He had assembled this scouting expedition with care, by picking friends he’d closely worked with over the past several decades. They were the most elite of all the scouts and excellent warriors in their own right. But each had his own talent. Thalion was a farspeaker, Sintriel could not be bested by any sword, and Arandur could track anything that moved. Dressed in the attire of scouts, their clothing blended in with the browns and greens of the coming fall. Loose enough to move, but not enough to catch on branches as they threaded their way through the trees, their clothing was cut to perfection and woven with the best of spells to repel the rain and cold.

“It took me longer to ground than usual. I apologize for the wait.” Startled by Sintriel’s voice, Arandur looked up to find that Sintriel and Thalion had picked up their packs and were waiting for him.

“No need to apologize.” He rose gracefully to his feet and asked, “How serious is it?”

“I’m not sure. Dangerous, yes. But I can’t place it.” She looked shaken so Arandur kept his face as still as possible. He didn’t want to disturb her further by showing his shock. “I’ve never felt anything like it. I–” Her lips pressed together tightly. “It–” she stopped again. “There is trouble in the east.” Her face cleared and he knew she’d say no more.

“Let us continue.” Thalion and Sintriel nodded their assent and they traveled down the path—in silence—at the ground-eating lope that all scouts acquired at one point or another.

Sintriel’s silence about the trouble in the east didn’t bother him. She’d always been thus, as was her family. They followed a code of sorts. Giving warning only when no warning had been given before, speaking only of what they knew with surety, and never revealing all. Some inherited strain of premonition was probably carried in the genetics of her family. They were always fully armed and ready when the elves went to battle, had stockpiled food the years prior to a drought, and were regularly found right when you needed them the most.

Arandur covertly watched Sintriel as they traveled. She repeatedly looked off to the east and rechecked her knives. Whatever had happened, or was about to happen, it was not good.

The small group was only a quarter day’s journey from their scout outpost when The Bell began to ring. Shocked, they stumbled to a halt. It’s plaintive sound reached out, calling for their aid, pulled at their cores, compelling them to listen. Arandur craned his head around to look at Sintriel. A blank mask had descended across her features. She revealed nothing.

Surprise and fear flitted across Thalion’s face before he murmured, “I thought never to hear one ring.”

“Quickly Thalion, tell us what you can.”

Thalion signaled that he’d already reached out, his face relaxed as eyes drifted shut in concentration. “There’s a lot of chatter; it’s difficult to make out.”

“The bells of warning,” Arandur muttered before pivoting to face the sound. He dropped down into a crouch and immediately sent a seeking spell out into the east.

Arandur kept an eye on Thalion’s face as he worked. His friend’s expression slowly changed from a neutral blank of concentration to reddening horror, the farspeaker’s jaw dropped in shock, before he spit out, “The Mages of Lindënolwë have been attacked, five are dead.” Arandur’s heart turned to lead as he looked out into the east. “One yet lives, we know not whom. We have been betrayed by one of our own, three humans roam the mountains.”

Having reached the limit of his abilities, Arandur reluctantly drew his seeking spell back into himself. He’d stretched as far as he could but had not even come close to reaching Lindënolwë. Disappointment and sorrow rushed through him as he stared blankly at hands that clutched the ground before him. When had he reached for the ground? He couldn’t remember. He brushed loose soil from his hands as he stood.

“But how could they have gotten through the wards?” Sintriel wondered. Her hands moved in a blur, checking and rechecking, then stilled, control reestablished. It was her last nervous habit, and a dangerous one. He’d watched her try to control it for years. Arandur guessed it wouldn’t be much longer before she mastered the compulsion. Which was good. It wasn’t wise to give away the location of one’s weapons.

“More importantly, how did they find the path that led there,
or
even see the village once they’d arrived?” said Thalion.

“Traitors,” said Arandur.

Thalion and Sintriel blanched, having momentarily forgotten.

“Back to the station. I believe our orders will be changing. Thalion, send word of our return.” Thalion nodded as the three turned and swiftly dashed back the way they had come.

The scout station was in turmoil. Elves ran in all directions, faces grim. The bell was still tolling. Its deep tone rolled through them, vibrating the air in their lungs each time it sounded. Long moments would pass of semi-silence while the faintest of harmonics from the bell finally hummed their way to stillness, at which point the multi-layered gong would sound again. It was unnerving.

It seemed that every scout was on the move. They would all be deployed this day, to watch every bit of land that they were able to watch, and then would report back the movements that they saw. They would look for patterns, watch for irregular movements, and notate possible collaborators that betrayed themselves by those movements. Go-bags were always held at the ready, but much was to be done before each set out. Hence the harried, nervous energy permeating the station. The tolling bell did not help. Instead, it simply added a layer of urgency to all that needed to be done.