Light Of Loreandril (8 page)

“We’ll take care of each other wont we, Danfur?”

The horse’s ears pricked and twitched as he listened to the familiar whisper.

His father had done a good job, and somehow all the supplies had been strapped to the horses. There was just about room for the boys to sit in their saddles.

In the stable next door, Cradon was checking over Hindfel, his horse. He was a fiery chestnut, similar in spirit to his owner. Although he stood a hand shorter than Danfur, he was far more highly-strung and lively, and took a heavy, understanding hand to control him. Danfur was more good-natured, and with Nechan’s encouragement, would allow anyone to ride him. People had always marvelled at how well the horses matched the twins differing temperaments.

“You’ll have to take care of these horses on your journey, you will end up depending on them more than you realise now!” Jesfor quietly opened the stable gates, allowing the boys to lead the horses out into the yard. “They are both good horses!” He patted Danfur on the rump. “Take care not to ride them into the ground though. Keep them watered and well fed! And I would strongly advise you picket them close to your camp both during the night and day. There are thieves and wild animals out there waiting to take advantage of an unprotected horse.”

“Yes, father, we know what to do!” Cradon moaned at his father’s fussing. It was not as though they had never been out in the wilderness before; their father had introduced them to hunting at an early age.

Taking a deep breath, Nechan mounted Danfur, as his brother gave their mother one last kiss goodbye. She promised to say farewell to Danula for them. They had not wanted to wake her, fearing it would make an already difficult goodbye even harder.

Under the cover of darkness, the twins set off, leaving their parents waving them goodbye on the doorstep. The night air was silent, too early even for the dawn songbirds. Their horses’ hooves seemed to echo more loudly than usual on the cobbled yard, so they were grateful when they started to cross the backfields.

Nechan looked back for one last glance at his parents and their home. He could only just see them silhouetted in the small, kitchen doorway. In that moment it dawned on him that they had actually left. There was no turning back now. Nechan could not help but worry about what the soldiers would do when they discovered they were not there. Their father had promised his sons that the family would not be punished, but somehow, Nechan felt that this was unlikely; he prayed it would not be too severe.

Danfur and Hindfel were already setting a good pace, quickly cutting across the dew-laden fields towards the back lane, as the boys followed their father’s instructions. Both horses seemed to sense the nervousness of their riders as they trotted along in the darkness.  

By the time the sun had started to rise above the valley hills, they had travelled some distance down the lane. After several miles they came across a narrow, shady track which headed into the woods to the east. Fearful that they were being followed, conscious of every noise they made, they quickly made the decision to turn down the track.

It was not until they had travelled far away from the main lane that they finally decided to stop. Both boys were struggling with the fact they had left home. They needed a chance to steady their racing heads and hearts. Finding a small clearing, the air already warming in the early sunlight, they dismounted, removing waterskins and packs of food from their saddlebags. Cradon collapsed on the soft grass, while Nechan carefully laid the maps out before them, careful not to damage the delicate parchment.

He studied them intently, and after a few moments stated confidently,  “This must be roughly where we are…….and this is Ath’Garnoc……..”

“Wait, how do you know? What’s this language?” Cradon queried, peering at the strange pen scratching that was an unfamiliar ancient text.

“Barnon told me yesterday!”

“Oh, Barnon told you! So it must be right then!” mocked Cradon. “So, which direction should we go in? Did he tell you that as well?”

“Not exactly. He suggested somewhere here.” Nechan pointed to a seemingly blank area of the map.

  “Okay…..but there is nothing there!” Cradon smirked sarcastically.

Starting to get frustrated with his brother’s ignorance, Nechan hastily rolled up the maps and said decisively, ”We’re going east.”

Cradon paused for a moment, taken aback by his brother’s words. “But, what’s there? Why east?” Cradon cried, disconcerted by his brother’s sudden uncharacteristic impulsiveness.

“I don’t know what’s there! All I know is that it is far away from anywhere that the Empire might send troops!” Nechan cried in frustration, flapping his hands as he led Hindfel over to Cradon. He mounted Danfur, and without waiting for his brother, began to trot off  again down the shady, wooded track.

Grumbling and cursing, Cradon scrambled into his saddle and spurred Hindfel into a light-footed canter to catch up his brother.

Nymril had left the camp at a fair pace, her white war-horse, Sonda, refreshed after the night’s rest. The rest of the group struggled to pack up the camp, douse the fire, and catch up with her, each of them confused at her sudden recovery and needing an explanation to the events back at the gorge.

Eilendan was the first to catch up with Nymril. “So, you have joined the land of the living? You worried me, worried us all,” he said. His words were followed by complete silence from Nymril. She sat tall on Sonda, dressed in her armour, as if nothing had happened to her. The only sign was the facial bruise.

“Were you aware? Do you know what happened in the gorge?”

“No……..I just remember being engulfed in whiteness. But please, you don’t need to worry, it shouldn’t happen again.” Her voice was calm, but did not put the companions at ease.

“How do you know it will not happen again? Can you guarantee it?” Jaidan asked as he drew level with them. He manoeuvred his horse in front of her, blocking her path, and forcing her to give him her attention.

She stared at him, her irritation clearly visible.

“He’s right. I want answers. Why did it happen?” Gaular was his usual rude self, made even worse by his poor night sleep due to the tree roots and stones that had littered the ground. “Can you not control your power?” he demanded, his berry-coloured eyes glaring at her.

Gomel had faired no better and was still struggling to ride his horse comfortably with his short legs. He also was in a foul mood. “More importantly, I want to know if we are going to have to carry your half-dead body around again. You jeopardised us all!”

This was the last straw. Nymril drew her long, thin sword from its scabbard with a resonating ring. In one fluid movement, she sprang from her horse, kicking Gomel from his unsteady seat. Standing over the gnome, she held the tip of her blade to his throat. Enraged by the attack on his friend, Gaular’s first impulse was to raise his war hammer, but he found his arm restrained by Eilendan.

“I dare you to say that to my face, gnome!” Nimril hissed, leaning over him. Her silver hair fell forwards, the sunlight shining through it, surrounding her face like a glistening halo. Beads of sweat formed on Gomel’s forehead, running in rivulets down his balding, liver-spotted head. He had suddenly lost his tongue.

“You should pray my blade is there to defend you next time you need it!” Nimril remarked, tilting the sword and letting the morning sunlight glint across its razor edge. Gomel shook his head nervously, his deep brown eyes staring widely, barely daring to breathe, as the blade’s tip pressed deeper into the cleft of his throat. He stared intensely at the elegant, skilfully crafted blade, and the Elven script that adorned it.

All at once the shadow lifted from her. She eased her grip on the blade, pulling it away from his neck, and rested the tip in the dust next to his ear. Nymril took a deep breath, composing herself. Everyone, especially Gomel, let out a sigh of relief when she finally sheathed her sword. Turning towards the rest of the group who had not dared to move, she demanded severely, “Does anyone else wish to question my ability?”

Speechless, Jaidan and Gaular shook their heads. Only Eilendan discretely smiled to himself. Before him stood the Nymril he remembered from centuries back.

Striding past them, Nymril briskly mounted her horse.  Sonda had stood patiently during the commotion, barely twitching his ears at the raised voices. She gently nudged her mount into action and rode off, leaving the group behind her. Too ashamed to look at her comrades, Nymril was shaking with adrenaline as she left. Part of her felt appalled at her actions, but the rest of her knew that if the others did not believe in her, the mission would fail. She would find some way of apologising to Gomel later.

The group rode in silence for some hours, travelling through the dark Karakhul Woods, weaving between the densely growing pines and thick undergrowth. Each horse came close to tripping many a time, as they tried to avoid fallen branches and protruding roots. The comrades pressed on as fast as the horses would allow, believing their enemy could not be far behind. It was realistic to assume that news of the ambush had already reached the ears of the Rjukhan. Unfortunately, they were blindly unaware how close to danger they really were.

By early evening the stench of the Kethnor Marshes was unmistakable, though not yet overwhelming. They could tell they were still several miles away from the edge of the Karakhul Woods. As the light dimmed, the weary travellers found a small, sheltered clearing, more sparse and open than the last, with younger, greener pines and more grass than thistle bushes covering the floor. Here, they halted for the night, still under the relative security and shelter of the woods, out of sight from prying eyes.

The horses were tired and panting with dehydration, having been pushed to their limits. With no stream or brook available, Jaidan allowed the horses to take a draught from his waterskin. After the saddles and packs were removed, the horses were allowed to stray away from the camp in search of succulent grass and leaves. With their provisions running low, Jaidan, taking Khar, volunteered to hunt food for the evening meal. He left the others to set up camp and light a small, discrete fire.

Quietly, congregated around the fire, the group whispered amongst themselves. Gaular was meticulously sharpening an axe blade with a whetstone. Its monotonous scraping filled the camp, setting everyone’s teeth on edge.

“Must you do that?” Gomel complained, sucking on his teeth. Wrapped tightly in his woollen blanket, he was sitting almost on top of the campfire, trying to warm his stubby fingers and toes.

“Which do you think will do more damage?” Gaular responded drily. “A sharp or a blunt weapon?”

Gomel just grunted in response, and rubbed his cold, bulbous nose.

Snap! Crack! The sound of branches and twigs being broken alerted the comrades.  Gaular froze, but the ring of whetstone on metal still lingered in the air. Something was approaching. The group fell silent, their ears straining to listen. The horses were quietly snuffling and scraping the ground to their left. They knew Jaidan had gone to scout ahead, towards the marshes. This new noise was behind them.

From above they were greeted by the sound of huge, beating wings. With little warning, a gigantic beast, as tall as the surrounding trees, came crashing through the canopy. It landed on the fire, extinguishing it instantly.

The comrades narrowly avoided being crushed, but were knocked in different directions, stunned by the sudden ambush. There was a scramble for weapons. Towering above them, the horned beast let out an ear-wrenching roar as its fangs dripped with venomous saliva. Its black, spiny mane quivered as it bellowed.

None of the companions had ever seen such a hideous monster. Yelling a challenge, Eilendan leaped forwards, his sword ringing as it sliced through the air. The elf aimed high on the uzgen’s scaly back leg, but missed as the beast turned. It caught Eilendan off guard, and with a glancing, effortless blow of its forearm, sent the elf up into the air, and crashing into the trunk of a tree.

Gaular, circling his big war hammer above his head, charged from the other side, spitting with vengeful rage. The heavy-set dwarf managed to land one blow against the beast’s haunch, but its thick, leathery hide was barely left with a scratch. In fury, the uzgen spun around, its whipping tail crashing through young saplings and bushes. It quickly swept Gaular off his feet. He fell flat on his face, turning to look at the cloven feet that clawed the earth.

Gomel also ran at the uzgen, attacking him from behind. Running up the monster’s tail, he jumped nimbly onto its spiny back. The gnome climbed as high as he could, out of reach of the uzgen’s clawing arms, pummelling its neck and head with an axe. After many mighty hits, the gnome successfully hacked off part of a black, curled horn that protruded from the uzgen’s forehead. With oily blood spraying from the wound, and frothing at the mouth with rage, the uzgen raked at his head with its short forearms, desperately trying to dislodge the gnome.

Seeing the distracted uzgen, Nymril sprinted across the camp, ducking under the scaly arms. She snatched up the saddlebag, removing the Aeonorgal. Again, light surged from the orb, blinding everything in the clearing. It pierced the night’s sky like a beacon. This time in complete control of her power, Nymril uttered words last used nearly two hundred years earlier. “
Lleorentho aeonis dragonora tereso!”
 

As she flung back her grey travel cloak, light seemed to emanate and engulf her body. Her delicate, rigid frame was raised by an unseen force, her arms outstretched and head falling backwards. Silver sparks and lines began to cover the skin of her bare arms and neck. Her eyes glazed white, staring upwards at the night sky, as the power surged through her.

The uzgen turned quickly, angered and caught off-guard by the white light. The demon paused, bewildered for a moment, taking a tentative step backwards. The white spirit -dragon rose from Nymril’s body, rapidly filling the clearing. It let out a defiant roar, as white fire and smoke flared from its nostrils. In response, the uzgen answered the cry, charging headfirst towards the dragon. The sudden change in direction knocked Gomel off the beast’s back.