Light Of Loreandril (53 page)

Nymril’s body sank back into the bed, and the Aeonorgal lost its radiance and rolled off. Theonil caught it before it toppled over the edge.

Neornil was the first to touch Nymril. He held her hand tightly again, stroking her innocent face, carefully brushing the golden strands of hair back. The etchings on her skin still glowed slightly, glinting in the candle light like tiny hot embers. She was already becoming a healthier shade of pink, the soft lips turning ruby once more. Life was returning to Nymril, and suddenly she breathed in deeply, her chest nearly lifting off the bed. She sank back down into the soft mattress and took a few, short nervous breaths.

Her mind was blank. Although her eyes were still closed, all she could see was whiteness. There was a new energy running through her body, almost tingling as it went. A smile spread across her face as she took another deep breath. Tears began to glisten in her father’s eyes. He clutched her hand tightly and kneeling over her whispered her name.

“Father? It cannot be!” A single, silvery tear ran down the side of her face, becoming lost in her hair.

“Yes, Nymril, I’m here.”

It all started flooding back to her: the last few events she could remember, covered by a murky memory of choking. Breaking out of her daze, the elf sat bolt upright with her eyes still closed, as her hands groped her neck feeling for the brace. “Is it gone?” she whispered.

“Yes, my daughter, it is gone.” Her father sat on the bed next to her and kissed her forehead, sensing the residual fea. It was enough to make her cry, and she fell into her father’s arms like a small child after a nightmare. Still sobbing, she finally opened her eyes and looked into Neornil’s kind, familiar face.

“How?”

“The Aeonorgal was returned to us!”

She trembled at the joyous realisation it had not all been in vain. “What of my friends?”

“Always thinking of those around you!” He smiled at his daughter, and she sat huddled in his arms, pulling him close for reassurance.

“We are all fine. Including the two young clansmen!” Eilendan came towards the bed, the group of Elders parting to allow him through.

From behind her father she recognised the voice, and as if doubting what she heard, looked up at her father, who nodded.

“Eilendan?” she whispered nervously, peering around Neornil. To her relief it was not a dream. There he stood, dressed in his white and silver armour. Tears in both their eyes, they hugged, breaking only to take another look at one another again.

“I thought I had lost you!” he cried, stroking her soft hair, taking in the warm smell of her skin.

“I’m sure you have a lot to do with my being here!”

“I only delivered you to your father. I was not the one who returned the Aeonorgal, and that was what healed you.”

“It broke the neck brace?”

Eilendan nodded, and showed her a fragment lying on the rush floor. The Aeonorgal had not completely destroyed its evil. Its powerful black magic was still potent enough to burn into the floor. Small holes were left where the fragments once lay, some still visibly smouldering. Nymril shuddered at the thought of it pressed against her skin.

“I am sorry to push you, Nymril.” The voice of Theonil interrupted the happy reunion. “War is at our doorstep. Are you strong enough to fight?”

Neornil was infuriated at the question. “How can you ask that now, at this moment? She has barely opened her eyes!”

“Forgive me, Neornil, I know she is your only daughter, but you of all Elves know what strength lies within her.”

“Yes! A strength that has been fighting for survival!”

“Father……please.” The gentle, light voice of Nymril soothed the anger in the air. “Father, he is right.”

With some help from Eilendan, she now sat on the edge of the bed, her feeble frame barely looking like it had the strength to sit up, let alone stand and fight.

Neornil turned to her and sat on the bed beside his daughter. “I have only just got you back! I can not bear the thought of sending you to war and stand the chance of losing you again.” He placed a loving, pleading hand against her cheek.

“I can already feel my strength returning. I feel stronger with every minute that passes. Besides, I can not and will not stay here while those dearest to me go to war.” She looked at Eilendan.

“Nymril……” implored Neornil, holding her hands against the warm metal of his armoured chest.

“Nymril, I think he is right,” Eilendan joined in.

“No! You need me to fight. We all know what evil they will bring with them. I have spent so long trapped in nightmares about the black beasts they conjure.” Nymril looked past them all, as if staring into some distant vision. “We must fight the darkness with light, and to do that you need what lies within me.”

She pulled her hands out of her father’s grip, and used them to help push herself up. Her head swirled for a moment, her knees nearly buckling, but she steadied herself, shaking off the help Eilendan and Neornil tried to offer. Slowly, she took a few small steps, crinkling her toes on the soft, rush flooring, taking pleasure in the sensation against her soles. It had felt like an eternity since she last walked. She turned around, walking back towards the bed, determined to prove her strength was growing stronger with each step.

“I would be grateful if someone could fetch my armour and weapons,” she announced politely. Nymril was not going to take no for an answer. “Father, perhaps you could update me on our defensive and attack strategies. I need to be prepared.”

Her father shrugged his shoulders, sighing in response, knowing it was futile to argue with her. His daughter had always been headstrong and wilful. Besides, in his heart, he knew that Elvendon needed her power if they were to stand a chance of survival.

Eilendan nodded, taking a step towards her. “If you are sure?”

“I am!” she replied.

He smiled, pleased to have Nymril back, apparently recovered from her ordeal. Eilendan sprinted down the stairs and out of the hospital to fetch her things as requested, almost bumping into Jaidan and the others. He pushed passed them, mumbling something about having no time to stop and talk. They followed him, hoping to get some answers.

“Well, what happened?” asked Jaidan.

“How is Nymril?” continued Gaular.

“Did it work?” begged Nechan.

“Yes! Perhaps too well!” Eilendan replied, still going at a fast pace, quickly reaching the abode of Neornil where her items had been taken.

“What do you mean?” Jaidan pulled his elbow, stopping the elf as he began looking through several chests and drawers.

“I mean, she is preparing to go to war with us.”

Jaidan let go of his arm, struggling to make sense of his friend’s words. Eilendan found what he was hunting for, handing things to the others to carry.

“How can that be? She has been on her deathbed for so long,” continued Jaidan, shaking his head in disbelief.

Eilendan picked up the last few items to take to Nymril and finally paused. “I understand how you feel, Jaidan. Your thoughts are the same as mine, but she is determined.”  He pushed passed Jaidan, leaving him standing, stunned with disbelief.

By the time they returned, Nymril had already made her way downstairs, despite the requests of the Lor’nata. Her hands shaking, she accepted help to dress in her armour, and taking her sword and shield, holding her head high, walked slowly from the Lor’natali. There were gasps of astonishment as the crowd parted, allowing her to pass. Eilendan stayed close by her side, ready to offer her an arm if her strength failed.

Upon reaching the central arena, Nymril decided to address the troops to encourage them that her miraculous healing was a sign of the strength and power that the Elves still had. They might be weaker in numbers but they had Earth Magic fighting for them. She was accompanied onto the platform by the other two Aeon Elves.

“Who are they?” Nechan and Cradon both asked.

“On the left, is Githean, and the elf on the right is Ninithel. They are both Aeon Elves, like Nymril,” replied Eilendan, without taking his eyes off the stage.

“Are they as powerful as Nymril?” Gaular enquired, remembering how her Dragon Spirit had defeated the uzgen.

“They have their own powers, but perhaps not the strength of the Dragon. Githean holds the spirit of the Eagle, and Ninithel, that of the Griffin.”

“I didn’t think Griffins existed?” Nechan remarked.

“They do in the Spirit Realm.”

Nymril’s address came to a rousing halt and the sound of loud chanting filled the air of Loreandril again. It was time for the army to move out.

The three Aeon Elves led the way, followed closely behind by the Aeonate guards, Eilendan at their head. They now protected the Aeonorgal, carried upon a tall standard, with a beautifully carved, enclosed bowl on top, shaped like the branches of a young tree. Its light shone brightly across the land, piercing the darkness all around them. It was a sign of defiance against the dark forces. Next the cavalry followed, and then the Elvish and Dwarven archers. Finally, they were followed by the foot soldiers, the different kin marching side by side.

Cradon and Nechan marched alongside the archers. They barely spoke, thoughts of battle consuming their minds. They could hardly believe they had fled home to escape the drafting into the Imperial army, and now they had willing joined the opposition. It was strange how fate had led them both to this point.

As they marched through the lands, the allied numbers gradually increased  to nearly four thousand.  Brathunders and  other ally  clansman joined  them, called by the light of the Spirit Star. Together, they marched for a day and a half to the  Plains of Andkhuin, the place where the final battle would be fought.

The battlefield was silent.
Even the air seemed heavy with foreboding.
The Elves, Dwarves and Clansmen stood in formation,
shoulder to shoulder,
united in a common cause once more. Their faces were stern as each mentally
ready  
themselves to greet their enemy
head on.

Nymril, Githean and Ninithel had
each taken up their individual strategic positions
and now stood with their own squadrons of Aeonate guards who would die to protect them. Eilendan stood beside Jaidan and Gaular on the frontline, leading the rest of the Aeonates and foot soldier
s.
 

Behind them, on a small,
grassy
hill, the Elders and some of the Minda Dwarves waited, preparing their strategy. From
here the wide expanse of the battlefield could be beheld, and they in turn were visible to the ranks below.
They would signal attack moves using
the previously agreed
coloured flags, made visible by the light of the Aeonorgal.

Above them, upon a higher hill, the archers
prepared
, Nechan and Cradon
in tow
.
From this high vantage point t
heir long bows
of delicate golden wood could easily
fire far beyond the reaches of their own lines, making the enemy easy targets for
multiple
volleys
before the armies clashed in close quarter combat
.

In the distance,
somewhere
in the darkness, the
imposing, monotonous p
ound of
boots
and drums,
with the occasional whine of a bugle
,
was unmistakeable drawing closer
. It was not long before
allied ranks
could feel the
boot-compacted
ground vibrating beneath their feet.
As if for reassurance, soldiers flexed their grip around weapon handles, some murmuring quiet prayers, whilst th
e cavalry horses whinnied
anxiously
, sensing the black horde approaching.
At last,
under the crimson rays of the bloodshot moon,
fiery
glints of weapons, shields and armour
came into view
.

It seemed an eternity of waiting, but soon, even in the cold gloom, the army could be seen snaking onto the Plains of Andkhuin. With black standards flying high in the breeze, and the slow monoton
e
beats of drums, the enemy
filled into
every inch of space, creating a vast sea of scales, armour, talons and weapons.
Their ranks stretched back seemingly endless, a writhing, living beast, moving in calculating union.
 

The enemy signalled their halt with a long, loud bellow of a horn, followed by a clamour of yells, howls and stamping feet.
An imposing silence fell abruptly; the enemy new they had made an imposing entrance, yet, the allies still stood, shoulder to shoulder with faces of stony resolution.
. High abov
e thunder bellowed, nature's own drum roll reverberating around the plain.

Perhaps hoping for a quick victory, a
small convoy
of three
, carrying the treaty from their Dark Lords, cantered into the centre of the
no-man's land
, waiting for allied representatives. Eilendan, Nymril, Nilean and Theonil
took their time riding forward,
accompanied by three cavalry elves;
they were not going to be seen eager to treaty
.

“Our Lords wish to seek a
n accord
with the Elves and
their fellow A
llies!” the first messenger called out across the void that remained between the light and dark foes.
The envoy was stood
precariously in his stirrups, the black feathers of his helm flouncing as his mount scraped at the mud restlessly
 

Nymril immediately recognised the
steely-faced
soldier seated on
the adjacent
jet-black horse; Govan.
Unconsciously, her fingers found their way to the bare nape of her neck, a sudden chill reminding her of their passed dealings and her metal brace she had been forced to endure.
 

“Are your Lords so weak that they can not approach their enemies themselves? Do they fear the Elves and their Allies so much?” returned Theonil.