Light Of Loreandril (3 page)

Closing his eyes, he remembered the coldness, the pain of feeling an evil, malicious presence inside his mind.

Cradon was his usual jovial self, and although concerned for his twin, he was determined not to show it. Nechan sighed to himself, almost in disbelief, at his brother’s apparent lack of concern, but then, that was Cradon, what did he expect? Life to Cradon was just one big joke, an adventure worth living to it full,
why worry?
Nechan sometimes marvelled at how different they both were.

Slowly, he made his way downstairs into the lively, buzzing inn, and took a stool next to his father and brother. The rest of the night passed in a blur, Nechan sat as if only a shadow, listening to the laughter and banter around him. The day’s events had exhausted him, both mentally and physically. It was all he could to sit and sip his ale. Thankfully, nothing further was said, people only looked, pointed, and talked among themselves.

The next morning was yet another early start. None of them wanted to remain in the city. They had already escaped one encounter with the authorities, and Jesfor was grateful to be leaving Ath’Garnoc with both his sons in one piece. They had made very little money, but they were still just about able to stock up on winter supplies and some seed for the next growing season. The Glamrind family would somehow make do for another season.

Slowly and uneasily Nechan clambered into the cart next to his brother and father and they started through the city streets to the gate. He felt sapped of all energy and the cold to the bone and his usual tanned, healthy complexion was still a pasty grey.

The streets were quiet, with most people still asleep in bed. Only a few stores showed signs of life, as eager traders began setting up their goods. To their relief, the family passed unchallenged through the city gates, although under the scrutinising eyes of the heavily-armed tower guards. It was not until they had travelled nearly a mile from Ath’Garnoc that Jesfor finally felt it safe to put away the twin’s birth papers.

Although nothing was said, it was silently agreed that the events of the market should not and would not be retold back at the farmstead or village. Such dark events were nearly unknown in the quiet valley of Feolin. It would only cause unrest among the villagers and unnecessary worry, for the village was usually isolated from the harsh realities of the Empire.

The next few weeks passed uneventfully, but Nechan, although fully recovered, did not forget his experience. Upon their return to the farm, their mother, Rheordan, could immediately tell something had happened to her son. She was deeply concerned at the state of Nechan, smothering him with constant hugs, as she wiped his feverish brow.

At night, Nechan could hear her arguing with his father, demanding to know what happened, and
constantly asking about the safety of the boys and the family in such dark, dangerous times. He would only hear snippets of their hushed, angry words.

“I know something happened…..Tell me….I trusted you to take care of my boys……”

 Jesfor never broke his silence and neither did the boys. It soon became evident that none of the men were going to utter a word about the events at Ath’Garnoc and she was finally forced to leave it alone, brooding on it.

It took Nechan just over a week to recover, the deep-seated coldness being hard to shake, but eventually he regained the strength to begin working on the farm again. The only thing that remained with him was the sweet stench of the karzon. It lingered, stuck in his nostrils, even emanating from his skin where he had been touched. Try as he might, Nechan could not rid himself of it. Sometimes, it would be so strong that he could not eat, sickened by the smell.

The village was buzzing with preparation for the pending festivities. The women seemed to have been preparing food endlessly and the children had been making and hanging decorations for days. Although turning eighteen meant one was entering manhood, the celebrations were more designed to help the family say goodbye to their sons, hiding the resentful sorrow they really felt.

“Cradon! Nechan! Come! The Elders will not wait!” The deep voice of their father hollered from the cart waiting outside the farmhouse. The twins were dragging their feet, taking their time to get ready, neither wanting to hurry to the evening’s festivities.

The rest of the Glamrind Family was waiting impatiently, a dark cloud hanging over their heads. Even Rheordan, an elegant, graceful woman, had struggled to force herself to put on her best dress. Really, all she wanted to do was spend the evening at home, cherishing the last few moments she would have with her sons. In the back of the cart sat their younger sister, Danula, the only family member who was too young to understand and be upset. She was excited, wearing her new dress made by her mother, with her flaxen hair tied elaborately in bows and plaits.

The twins finally appeared in the courtyard, Nechan still pulling on his jacket as they clambered into the back of the cart. Cradon grabbed his sister, making her laugh as he flung her into his lap. They were all trying to put on brave face for Danula. With a crack of the whip the carthorse eased himself into action and slowly began his plod down the dusty lane.

By the time they reached Feolin, the celebrations had already started. Music and laughter filled the clear, night sky. The main village square was festooned with decorations, and torches flickered in the growing darkness. Only the other late arrivals could be seen ushering their youngsters into the village hall. It was the oldest construction in Feolin, built from strong, redwood timber, its columns and rafters elegantly carved with woodland creatures and scenery.

As the family entered the hall, all eyes fell on them and there was a momentary, sympathetic silence. Quickly, an Elder broke into a round of applause, his wife joining him with a jangle of a tambourine, until the entire village followed suit. Cradon and Nechan felt exceptionally awkward as old men came and shook their hands, patting them hard on their backs, while mothers hugged and kissed them. There was also the odd story of mischief about the boys, mostly about Cradon, but thankfully none embarrassing enough for him to blush too much.

Putting on brave, smiling faces, the family took their seats of honour alongside the village elders at the head table. The tables were laden with large plates of venison, goose and pork, all accompanied by freshly grown vegetables just as juicy and sweet as the meat. The wine and the ale were still flowing when they reached the dessert course of piping hot fruit pies. All present, children and adults alike, thoroughly enjoyed the feast laid before them, with not a scrap going to waste.

After the meal there was dancing, followed by more drinking, eating and story telling. Young children sat cross-legged around Barnon, the village bard, who, although he had been telling the same stories for the past seventy-six years, was still able to captivate a crowd. His tales were always exuberantly animated, his arms flailing, his cane hacking away at imaginary foes, as he portrayed wondrous stories of Elves, Dwarves and magic from battles and times long forgotten.

Nechan loved Barnon’s tales. The pair had become close friends, with Nechan often confiding in him. He was like a fathomless well of knowledge, drawing on his years of experience and ancient tales and myths handed down by his forefathers. Leaning back against the thick wooden beam, ale in one hand, Nechan fell into a dream world of magic, Barnon’s words intermingled with his distant thoughts.

Nechan had always tended to take things far too seriously, losing himself in the mythical realm of magic and folklore, but since the events at the market he had become more easily lost in thought. He often found himself pondering even more than usual on the ancient magic. Most children stopped believing in these stories by the time they entered their teens, but not Nechan.

“Hey, Nechan! Come dance!” his brother hollered from the middle of a gaggle of female admirers. He seemed to have quickly forgotten what they were really celebrating and was busying himself as usual with the village girls.

Nechan just waved a hand at him, dismissing his suggestion. His attention was turned to his mother and father, who were deep in conversation with two other parents. It was obvious to Nechan what they were talking about. Everyone in the village knew that Davin, their newly recruited son, had been reported dead, apparently killed during a riot in Ath’Yarzon. Nechan tried not to think about it, remembering how they had all played together when they were younger.

He could not watch any more, it made him think about his future too much, so he decided to get a breath of fresh air, taking a mug of ale and a plate of food with him.

It was chilly outside, with the first signs of a frost making the ground crunch under foot. Nechan made his way round the side of the hall, seeking to get away from the prying eyes of friends and well wishers. In the moonlit gloom he leaned against the wall, taking a deep breath before swilling down some more ale.

He coughed and spluttered with surprise as he heard shuffling by his side.

“Who’s there?” he whispered, peering into the darkness. He took a step forward and found the source of the noise. It was Cadin, a homeless old man. He was slumped against the wall, staring into the darkness, slowly rocking back and forth, cradling himself.

Cadin was homeless more by choice than anything else. Many villagers had tried to offer him help, but he preferred to keep himself to himself. No one had ever heard him speak, so no one knew why he had chosen such a life.

“Cadin!” Nechan took a step forward.

The old man flinched.

“It’s alright.” Nechan took a step back and Cadin appeared to relax slightly. “There’s plenty of food inside. Would you like to get some? You’re welcome to come in.”

The old man did not respond.

“Here, have this.” Nechan quickly took several steps, crouching down beside the beggar to offer him his plate of food. Cadin screamed wildly, pushing the boy away, with a look of absolute terror in his eyes. Try as he might, Nechan could not calm him down. He did not understand what had made him over-react. He kept his distance, as the old man began tearing at his clothes, beating himself around the head in distress. The commotion was immediately heard, even above the music and several village men, including Jesfor, came running out, believing someone was being attacked by a wild animal.

“What did you do to him?” Jesfor grabbed Nechan by the arm, pulling him to one side. The rest of the men continued to try to calm Cadin, but he could take no more and ran off howling, into the darkness.

“I didn’t touch him, I promise.”

By now the rest of the villagers had come out to look.

“I just ….tried to give him food….that’s all,” stammered Nechan, utterly confused.

“Don’t worry. We all know Cadin!” reassured an elder.

“He’s always been strange, ever since he first showed up in Feolin.”

With nothing left to see, the villagers made their way back into the hall. The effects of the interruption lingered, however,  and the festivities quickly fizzled out. With a strange air of unease, the village hall gradually emptied, as people politely took their leave.

The Glamrind parents and children thanked each council elder and remaining guest before bundling their family into the cart. Not a word was said on the slow ride home. All thoughts were preoccupied by the looming future. Any day soon the boys would receive their summons to join the Imperial Army. The only sound on the journey was the slow clip clop of the horse’s hooves and the gentle slumber of Danula in her mother’s arms.

Later that night, with everyone else in bed, both parents were wide-awake. Cradon had fallen to sleep straight away, exhausted from all the merry-making he had participated in. Nechan however, overheard his parents’ whispered plans.

The horses galloped wildly, nostrils flaring and tails flowing, with clots of mud being churned up by their hooves as they weaved through the tall pines and undergrowth. They were running for their lives, almost uncontrollable by their riders who were hanging on in desperation.

After nearly two days of solid riding, they were all close to exhaustion. Two days earlier, panic had taken them, and the group had fled in fear, clutching their stolen item. These five riders, a strange mixture of kin, the likes of whom had not been seen for centuries, had pursuers close on their heels, a foe that seemed to show no sign of stopping, pushing them harder, faster and deeper into the dark woods of Karakhul.

Nymril’s long, silvery hair streamed out behind her, the braids flapping against her back and forehead. The leather reins were beginning to burn into the palms of her long-fingered hands, as Sonda, her elegant, nimble horse galloped through the dark woods.

The elf looked to the comrade riding beside her, hoping to find some reassurance. She could see his sword was still drawn but now down at his side, prepared for any ambush that might lie ahead. His horse was flecked with the white foam of sweat, its nostrils flaring as it carried its rider faithfully.

Despite the frenzied speed of their riding, Eilendan still sensed Nymril’s gaze and turned. As if reading her mind, he gave her a knowing smile and nod, his encouragement that everything would be all right. She turned her attention once more to the growing darkness before them and felt herself ease a little, the tension in her shoulders dropping slightly. Eilendan had everything under control. They would make it back safely, returning their sacred artefact to its rightful sanctuary.

Their journey had begun three months earlier. The five strangers were summoned to the heart of Loreandril,
the hidden Elvendon, which had been kept secret from the Dark Overlords only by the cunning and wisdom of the Elves. It was not a like a true city. It did not have foundations set in the deep earths of time, or walls and roofs of stone and slate. Instead, the heart of Elvendon was a hidden treasure, a caravan of nomadic Elves, forced to leave their fair lands and travel through the outer territories, always in hiding, never stopping, their survival hanging by a thread. The Elders dared only use their magic to shroud themselves in mists, hiding them from the evil, all-seeing eyes of their enemies.