Light Of Loreandril (50 page)

“The higher the class, the more focused they are on intelligence, wealth and things like mathematical skills rather than strength. They Minda especially. They are the short,
classic
Dwarves
that one would perhaps think of,” explained Jaidan, taking over from Gaular who had stormed off in a temper. “Minda create the designs for their underground building work. They plan and calculate everything right down to the most intricate details. Danin, on the other hand put those plans into action, like foremen, you could say. They are also the most skilled at carving and other embellishments.”

“And dwarves like Gaular?”

Jaidan almost laughed. “Well, they basically do the heavy work. Hence their size and strength.”

“Oh….” sniggered Nechan. “I guess that’s why he doesn’t like to talk about it!”

“I do not see why he should be embarrassed about it? They have each just evolved and honed different strengths and weaknesses,” joined Eilendan. “In these times, Dwarves like Gaular are of far more use. They can fight. And believe me, in battle they are unmatched in their strength and skill.”

“But why then ask the others?” Now Nechan was confused.

“Numbers!” Jaidan answered.

“Yes, numbers!” continued Eilendan. “Besides, Danin can fight. It’s just their stature can be a hindrance. Minda, however, have always proved to be very good strategists and that’s where they will prove useful.”

Now Nechan understood.

All of a sudden, Nechan felt a warm hand on his shoulder. He turned, finding himself confronted by Neornil, Nymril’s father again.

“Neornil! How fairs Nymril?” asked Jaidan, hugging the old elf.

“As well as can be expected. I am assuming you will be visiting her again later today?”

Eilendan nodded in response.

“If only she knew your dedication.” He then turned to Nechan. “Perhaps I could ask some more of your time?” He raised his bushy, white eyebrows at Eilendan and Jaidan, as if asking permission to borrow Nechan.

“Of course!” replied the young clansman.

“Good, good. Come, walk with me a while.”

They left Eilendan and Jaidan and began a slow amble back towards the council chambers.

“Did you want to ask me some more questions about the Aeonthel?”

Neornil motioned for him to be quiet, explaining all would become clear shortly. Upon reaching the council chambers Neornil showed the young clansman into a smaller room in the centre of the first tier, around which the spiral staircase wrapped itself. To Nechan’s surprise it was a small, circular library, filled with scrolls and parchments. An elderly elf sat at a desk in the centre.

“This is Ethonal, a High Council member.”

“Nechan, it is a pleasure!” The elf stood, somewhat rickety and unbalanced on his feet. He hobbled forward, using a willowy, spiralled cane for support, and grasped Nechan’s hand. “You must forgive me for not introducing myself sooner. Even old age reaches the best of elves!” He slowly returned to his seat.

“After our first talk, I reported to Ethonal.”

“But you said……”

“I know! I said not to discuss it with anyone. Ethonal however, can be trusted.”

Nechan nodded and took a deep breath.

“Come forward, young clansman,” requested Ethonal. “I would dearly love to see the Aeonthel you carry!”

Nechan fished it out from under his tunic and held it forward for the wrinkled elf to inspect. He did not take it off. For some reason it had become a part of him. To remove it felt as if he was cutting off a limb. The elf held it in his wizened hand, inspecting it, making an occasional, satisfied mumble.

“Good! Good!” he finally said, allowing Nechan to hide the silver orb once more.

The old elf began carefully thumbing through the ancient, yellowing parchments spread out on the desk. Finally he paused on one, squinting at it closely.

“Yes, you did right to inform me of this. As usual you have demonstrated your wisdom, Neornil.”

Neornil nodded, accepting the compliment, but allowed Ethonal to continue.

“Do you know to whom that Aeonthel belonged?”

“Yes sir! Gileadon, an Elven warrior!” replied Nechan, pleased he had remembered the details.

“Not just
any
Elven warrior
,
but
the
Elven Warrior!
When he was killed at the Great Battle of Andkhuin it was a great loss to all Elven kin,” explained Ethonal. “He was the first Aeon Elf, a welder of a great source of power. His Aeonthel was thought lost, perhaps fallen into dark hands!”

The wizened elf fell silent, pausing to collect his thoughts again.

“But why is it so important?”

“Our manuscripts say it too held a great power. It is of the same source from which the Aeonorgal was born.”

“Of course, this power could only be wielded by Gileadon. It was an integral part of him, as he was to it,” stated Neornil.

“But the manuscripts also proclaim that the holder of this Aeonthel holds the key to the spirit of Gileadon.”

“What do you mean?”

Neornil turned to Nechan. “As you may or may not know. When we die, we become one with the Earth again, entering the Spirit Realm. Much of Elvish magic is born from the spirits of our ancestors. They give us strength, wisdom, even protection.”

“You mean like the wall that surrounds Loreandril?”

“Yes, exactly,” confirmed Neornil. “The Aeon Eves were born with the ability to harness this power. Usually it will come from the spirits of great animals like dragons or eagles, but occasionally from ancestral spirits of Elves.”

“You see, if these manuscripts or prophecies, are correct, it may be possible to harness the power of Gileadon.”

“You mean, call him back from the dead?” Nechan was shocked and confused. This was all new to him and now his mind was reeling from all the information.

“No, dead spirits cannot be brought back to
live
again, but they can be summoned into this realm temporally, as with the ancestral wall.”

Ethonal took over. “Even with the Aeonorgal, there are some of us who believe we cannot win this battle. We are far outnumbered. But, if the Spirit of Gileadon can be resurrected, our strength will be doubled.”

In that moment Nechan felt obliged to hand the Aeonthel over and began removing it from around his neck. It seemed too powerful an object for him to keep. Nymril must have suspected something the moment she clapped eyes on it, but why had she not taken it from him?

“No…no….” Neornil stopped him.

“But I don’t think I want to look after it. Surely someone like
you
should?”

“It found its way to you for some reason.
You
are its chosen keeper.”

“You must keep it hidden. There are some elves that believe we have lost this battle already because we place too high a hope on such items as this and the Aeonorgal.” Neornil’s voice seemed oddly strained, almost verging on anxious. “Though we strive for a common aim, we do so by different means. It is feared there as some among us who would seek a truce with the enemy, which could in turn, mean handing such precious items over to them. That must not be allowed to happen.”

Nechan left with these confusing words and revelations swimming round his brain. He held his palm over his tunic, feeling the warm metal of the Aeonthel press against his skin. There was a tight knot of nerves and excitement growing in the pit of his stomach, almost making his toes curl and skin tingle. Nechan wished his brother could be with him to experience this. He felt like he was on the brink of something indescribably exhilarating.

The fortress of Damankhur was alive with activity. Preparations for war were nearing completion. Every man loyal to the Empire had been drafted, sent summons, effective immediately. Most of them, being just simple folk who worked on the land, required armour and weapons. The smelting fires had not stopped burning nor the armouries ceased casting and pounding, as if their lives depended on it.

The Rjukhan were also hard at work, in secret, within their darkened chambers. Using their black magic they had summoned forth a horde of dark beasts. The ground gave birth to a raging host of khalit, smaller, dog-like murzac and giant uzgen, as many of the foul beasts as time and the tainted ground beneath Damankhur would permit.

The fortress was brimming, near bursting, with an aggregate army of man and beast, created and born for the sole purpose of exterminating the Elves and any allies that stood in their way. The Rjukhan had planned for a slaughter not a battle.

The Rjukhan had seen the failure of the karzon, having watched their children’s lives extinguished on the shadow map. In the knowledge that Aeonorgal had not been captured they had set the near impossible task of dispatching their entire army within three days. With each passing day, the Spirit Star travelled closer to the Loreandril and the Elves.
If
their reunion was allowed to happen their enemy could prove a harder task to exterminate. Their only hope of sure victory was to launch their attack now, before the elves had chance to prepare and before the allies could congregate.

The cavalry was the first to leave the fortress, mounted upon black, armoured warhorses, nine thousand in number. The animals hardly looked like horses, with spikes decorating their armoured rumps and heads. These animals were bred for war, trained to the extent that they did not need blinkers. The men that rode them were just as hardened, riding in impenetrable formations, utilising deadly killing techniques, armed with long spears and scimitars.  

The foot troops, nearly twenty-three thousand in number, followed closely behind, organised into small battalions, divided by their skill and experience. The strategy was that the less experienced would be used first to test the water. Their loss would serve the greater good. Only once the strength and strategy of the allied armies had been discovered would the elite, Karvathan troops be sent forward.

Behind these ranks, at some distance, followed the host of unearthly beasts, too terrifying and deadly to march alongside the clansman and horses. Such black-hearted, killing machines found it hard to distinguish between enemy and ally, especially when they were both humanoid; they were all just meat to them. Only during battle when given precise orders by the karzon or Rjukhan could they be used effectively. Without a heavy-handed approach they could not be kept in check, seeking only to kill everything and anything in their path. They did not however, turn on each other. Something in the small brains prevented them, as if sensing their fellow black-beast was not the enemy. This was how the Rjukhan had intended them to be from birth.

The dark lords had finally unleashed its full wrath out into the Empire, nearly forty thousand bloodthirsty men and flesh-hungry beasts aching for war. The vast army filled the red, dusty plains of Davathon, moving like an undulating, shining black sea of swarming locusts.

Above the dark forces the skies turned jet black, spreading like ink as far as the eye could see, in all directions. The only light falling on the land was from the rays of the blood red moon.

Screams of fear filled the evening air in Loreandril. Before their eyes, the elves had witnessed the bloodshot moon rise high in the night sky, as the twinkling stars were blotted out by a jet-black veil. Elves of all ages had run from their homes to watch, many falling to their knees, distraught. It had begun. Such skies could only herald one thing: a great host was on its way. Now their fate was sealed.

The council was immediately summoned. Prompt decisions needed to be made. They had been given no choice except to show their hand. The Elves would be forced to march out to face this dark army that approached, with or without their allies. They would die fighting if needs be; there could be no more hiding.

Even hopes of the Aeonorgal returning to strengthen them seemed forlorn, a figment of their needy imaginations to hide the fact their end was perhaps nigh.

Messengers were sent out again to tell the allied forces to meet them on the battlefront; there would be no time to congregate and plan strategies first.

Nechan had not seen Loreandril in such a state. Even the leaf litter that covered the ground seemed to turn into dusty hues of grey as if in mourning. He had been left alone, while the others went to make some last minute preparations. Gaular had wanted to sharpen his weapons one last time, while Jaidan needed to add finishing touches to his new armour, having decided his usual thick, leather armour was not adequate to go to war in.

Eilendan had barely been seen for several days. The elf had spent much of his time at Nymril’s bedside who was growing weaker by the hour. Her body had begun slowly turning a cold shade of grey, as if the very lifeblood had been sucked from it. The rest of the time he had spent training in private, part of his mental preparation for war.

Nechan, left alone, could think of nothing to do except practice his own fighting and bow skills. He no longer felt petrified at the thought of going to war, having passed that stage days earlier. The fear had helped focus his mind, serving to hone his skills further. The clansman was now more alert, with sharper senses and a more precise aim.

Now, his only distraction was thoughts of his brother and family. He began to wonder how these events were affecting his small village, whether the people he knew and loved were caught up in this destructive cycle.
Would they be forced to fight on the other side, against the Elves? And where was his brother?
Part of him wished Cradon was at his side, ready to face this with him, but then he also hoped that he was far away, hidden in safety, distanced from everything.

“Cradon, wake up! Now is not the time to be sleeping!”

Cradon moaned, feeling the elf’s strong hands shaking him awake. He was on the brink of exhaustion, barely able to keep his eyes open. They had ridden continuously for the past day and a half, stopping only to allow the horses to eat and drink.