Elfhunter (7 page)

In their own encampment, Galador and Rogond sat
huddled together against the dark chill. Rogond was exhausted.
Galador knew that when his friend was healthy he was as hard and
tough as iron, but this sickness had really laid him low. He was
shivering miserably, trying to sleep, as Galador kept watch. Eros
was standing nearby, looking at them both rather intently with his
large, liquid brown eyes. "What are you looking at? Go on and graze
with your companions," said Galador, indicating the other two
horses. Eros ignored Galador, approaching until he stood right
beside Rogond, then reached down and nuzzled the top of his head.
Galador was about to wave him off when Eros sank to his knees,
lying carefully down behind Rogond, who took advantage of the
opportunity, resting back against the warm body of the animal. He
stopped shivering almost at once, and Galador smiled before turning
to regard Réalta.

"Now take a lesson in faithfulness! I have
underestimated the depth of your character, Eros. If you will
permit me, I, too, will share in your warmth." So saying, he joined
Rogond and was soon warm and reasonably content. He maintained his
watchfulness, though the horses would probably alert him if any
evil creature came near. As the stars wheeled above him he grew
uneasy, hearing what sounded like faint, distant cries, but he told
himself that it was only the wind. He prayed that Nelwyn would be
kept safe, and that he would soon find her again.

The river wove with lazy abandon among open meadows
that were now the brown of winter. The nearby trees were both tall
and strong, and would provide a refuge for the lone Elf who stood
on the banks of the Ambros, surveying the landscape with
satisfaction. His name was Gelmyr, and he had been journeying from
the Linnefionn for only a short while. It was always pleasant
there, even in winter, for the Elven-realm of Tal-sithian was
evergreen and beautiful.

Gelmyr was in no particular hurry to reach the
mountain-realm of Monadh-talam. In fact, he had diverted west, for
he so loved the Great River. He would linger awhile before
continuing north and then eastward, for he would need to cross the
tall mountains known as the Monadh-hin. In winter, this would be
difficult. The people of Tal-sithian had offered to send emissaries
to accompany him, as they could certainly find business in
Monadh-talam, and traveling alone in these times was unsafe. Gelmyr
had declined the offer of an escort; he was a skilled and fearless
warrior, had often traveled alone, and felt there was little left
in Alterra to thwart him compared with what he had already
endured.

Gelmyr was descended from the mighty, and he was
counted mighty himself. He was of great age, having fought many
times beneath the banner of the High King Ri-Elathan beside his
friend Magra, who was one of the most renowned warriors of Alterra.
Gelmyr was traveling to Mountain-home in the hope of reuniting with
Magra, and he expected little difficulty on the journey. He was
unlikely to encounter real danger until he crossed the mountains.
For now, he enjoyed the shelter of trees and the soothing sound of
the river as he prepared to rest and partake of food and drink. He
did not realize that watchful eyes were upon him as dusk turned to
deep twilight, and the first stars appeared.

Gelmyr made no fire, as he needed none. The weather
had gentled down such that a winter cloak was more than adequate,
and the ground was reasonably dry. All the same, he decided to
climb a tree where he could pass the night in safety, relaxing and
gazing at the ever-brightening winter stars.

Gorgon Elfhunter wasn’t usually so lucky when he
passed through the area between the mountains and the lake. At
times he felt that, despite the misery of his life, he was blessed.
Had not Gelmyr happened along just when he was needed? It was not
typical of their kind to travel alone, yet here he was—perfect
prey. Not a Wood-elf, either. Oh, no indeed! This was a powerful,
seasoned warrior from the look of him. He had no doubt seen battle
aplenty, but he would have little defense now. All the same, Gorgon
would need to be cautious. The memory of the terror of the Wood-Elf
in the forest, the one who had tried to defend his companion, was
fading from Gorgon’s mind. He needed a new victim to sustain him
until he reached the mountains. Then he would go to ground for a
while.

He waited until Gelmyr had relaxed in his tall
sanctuary, gazing at the glittering stars, which promised to be so
bright. All Elves were united in their love of starlight; they took
great comfort in it and tried always to view the stars by night.
Gorgon did not share Gelmyr’s affection for them. He fitted a
large, blunt-tipped arrow to his powerful bow, for he meant to
cripple Gelmyr, not to kill him as yet. With his pale, sharp eyes,
Gorgon located his intended target—the base of Gelmyr’s spine was
clearly visible as he lay half-reclining against a limb, eyes cast
upward.

Gelmyr was just thinking of the cold, rushing waters
of the Mountain-realm, and how pleasant it would be to see his
friend Magra, when a violent blow struck him, knocking his relaxed
body clear of its support so that he fell awkwardly to the ground,
dazed and in pain. He gasped and tried to clear his head—what had
happened? He felt a dull agony in the middle of his back and sharp,
stabbing pains filling his shoulders, chest, and arms. Below his
waist he felt nothing.

As soon as his head cleared he drew his blade, trying
to listen for his enemy through the sound of his own labored
breathing. His eyes were wide and filled with pain and confusion as
he searched in all directions, moaning as he tried to turn over.
When his legs would not answer, he knew his back was broken. He
also knew that he would soon be dead even if his enemy never
appeared, as he was now helpless and alone in the wild. No one
would look for him, and some enemy or wild thing would surely take
him. At least if the one who had felled him came near, he would be
ready.

He gritted his teeth and waited, sword in hand,
breath whistling in his throat. He could hear slow, cautious
footsteps approaching and could smell an unpleasant odor on the
wind. He first beheld his enemy— immense, dark, menacing, armored
and helmeted, a curved sword in hand. Gelmyr’s eyes fixed on
Gorgon’s—those strangely pale, cold eyes filled with malicious
pleasure at the sight of his seemingly helpless foe.

Gelmyr waited, hoping the monster would draw near
enough to strike, but Gorgon was not so easily lured close. He knew
he had time, and he intended to take it. Gelmyr tried to remain
still and silent, but a sudden wave of pain came over him, and he
shuddered and groaned through clenched teeth. Gorgon smiled, though
Gelmyr could not see his dark face well enough to perceive it.

"Put the sword aside, for it will not avail you, O
Already Dead," he growled in an almost amiable tone.

Gelmyr snarled in answer. "Come but closer, and we
shall see!" Then, in his own tongue, he said: "You are craven to
cripple and then attack. You dared not challenge me until first
rendering me helpless, but I am not so helpless as you think. It
will take a greater warrior than you to defeat Gelmyr of the
Èolar!" He spat at Gorgon, who actually chuckled in his deep, oily
voice.

"You think I do not understand your tongue? I speak
it as well as you do, Èolo!"

Gelmyr was both astonished and horrified, but did not
completely lose his wits. As Gorgon approached him, he suddenly
lashed out with his blade, thinking to strike the legs of his foe,
but Gorgon leaped back and met the blade with his own. Trying to
rise, Gelmyr propped himself on his elbow, frustrated and in pain,
as Gorgon sought to disarm him. Their blades rang as they clashed
together, for both were Elven-made. Each stroke was an agony of
effort for Gelmyr, but still he fought, lashing out like an eagle
cornered in a cage. At last, however, his strength waned, and
Gorgon struck his sword-arm, disarming him and bringing fresh blood
onto the grass.

Gelmyr now had only his long knife, which he pointed
at Gorgon with a trembling left hand. Chest heaving, eyes
desperate, he had dragged himself painfully backward until he came
up against a tangle of roots at the base of the tree he had
sheltered in and could go no further. Gorgon laughed at Gelmyr’s
desperation, but he still didn’t like the look of the knife.
Picking up a length of fallen limb from the ground, he swung hard
at Gelmyr’s left hand, connected with a satisfactory "crack", and
knocked the knife free. Casually, he went to retrieve it knowing
that his victim was not going anywhere.

Pain and hopelessness had blunted Gelmyr’s senses; he
was barely conscious by the time Gorgon returned to him. Gorgon
shook his head and went to work, binding Gelmyr’s wrists together
(he had broken the left one with his disarming stroke). Throwing a
rope over a low-hanging limb, he hoisted Gelmyr so that his feet
dangled inches from the ground. Then he waited patiently for his
prey to revive. Gelmyr would have done better to have died then,
but he did not, for he was made of harder material than most. He
came to with the rising of the moon, a great golden orb that hung
low in the eastern sky. Soon the land would be nearly as bright as
in twilight, which to the eyes of an Elf is as daylight to a
man.

"I will not kill you, Elf, until you hear my tale.
Then, if your response pleases me, I will kill you quickly. If not,
I will leave you here to beg for death," said Gorgon.

Gelmyr knew that he had seen his last sunrise,
whatever happened. He fought back the pain and stared stoically
into the eyes of his enemy. Then he spoke, still defiant, still
proud.

"Do as you will, you cannot break my spirit. I do not
know of what vile race you were spawned, but know this: my kindred
will avenge my death, and they will not be merciful."

Gorgon genuinely laughed at this, a horrible sound
filled not with mirth, but with malice. "What vile race, indeed!
You truly cannot know, cannot conceive. But you SHALL know ‘ere
death takes you. Then much may your pride avail you, Warrior-elf!
As for your kin, I fervently hope they do seek vengeance, for that
will bring them to me, and they shall suffer the same fate."

Gorgon brought his face close to Gelmyr’s, so that
Gelmyr nearly swooned from his foul breath and terrible
disfigurement. Every inch of him was covered with a web of raised,
tangled scars. Only his eyes appeared untouched. They were pale
grey, clear, and bright with hostility. He spoke softly to Gelmyr,
watching the Elf ’s expression change—from defiance to a sort of
horror tinged with pity—as he heard Gorgon’s tale.

By the time Gorgon had nearly finished his story, he
had worked himself into a state of fury. He began striking Gelmyr
with his curved blade, bringing blood but not death, as his victim
writhed in pain and terror. Gorgon threw down the blade and stood
panting and angry, consumed with hate. Grabbing Gelmyr’s jaw he
lifted the Elf ’s head so that their eyes met for the last time.
Then, with his other hand, he removed his own helmet. Gelmyr might
have cried out in horror had he the strength. With his last sight
he beheld the true face of his enemy, and he knew then that the
creature before him was terrible indeed.

Gorgon killed Gelmyr with a single stroke to the side
of his neck, releasing a flood of bright blood and draining the
life from him in a few moments. He had promised to do so if Gelmyr
heard his tale, and the reaction to it had been more than
fulfilling. Gorgon would leave the body where it was, after
stripping it of weapons and provisions. Then he would continue west
to one of his many underground resting places and lie low for a
while. This had been a most uplifting encounter, better than he had
hoped for. It cheered him that this was undoubtedly an important
Elf, one who would be missed and mourned by many. The Èolar were
already all but extinct, and Gorgon had just brought them one step
closer. For now, his blood-lust was sated and he could rest.

He had some fine new weapons to add to his stores,
and he had become especially fond of the sword he had taken from
the Darkmere. He held it up in the moonlight, the blade of Turantil
glittering through the blood of its victim. Gorgon wiped it on the
brown grass before sheathing it again, gathered his stolen
provisions, and headed toward the mountains. He paused before
Gelmyr’s body and gazed into his now-sightless eyes.

"Gelmyr.
Gel-meeer
," Gorgon muttered with
disdainful sneer. "Your pride has always been your undoing,
Èolo--how fortunate for you that I have taken it from you." He
laughed and spat on the ground at Gelmyr’s feet. It was always best
when, at the end, their pride left them. With some difficulty he
replaced his helmet and then disappeared into the night.

Gaelen and Nelwyn were still lingering near the river
bank when Galador found them on the following afternoon. He had
left Rogond with Eros and galloped straight toward the river,
intending to follow its course until he found them. Réalta ran with
his tail in the air, for the slow going of yesterday was not to his
liking, and he stretched himself and ran with enthusiasm. Galador
reveled in the sound of his mount’s swift feet on the grass and the
wind in his long hair as he sat tall and proud, cloak unfurled
behind him. He was alive, his friend was healing, and Nelwyn was
waiting. At least, so he hoped.

Rogond had agreed to remain behind because he knew
that catching Gaelen quickly was his best hope of ever seeing her
again. He was stronger this morning, but still was not up to riding
very far or very fast. Réalta was the swiftest, and when he was in
full flight Eros could not keep up with him. Rogond patted the
dun’s shaggy neck and was rewarded with a nuzzle at his hip.