Stephens/The Stolen Moon of Londor
The White Shadow Saga:
The Stolen Moon of Londor
Book I of III
A.P. Stephens
Fanda Books
Dallas, TX
Copyright © 2009 by A.P. Stephens
Smashwords Edition
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is granted to a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts for review purposes.
All right reserved.
A.P. Stephens
For more information about the author and the world of Londor, please visit:
www.apstephens.com
Cover Illustration by: Peter Ortiz
For my wife: my muse and my love.
The Stolen Moon of Londor
Chapter One: A Troubled World
In the dawn of Londor's greatest tragedy, the elf-mercenary, Gildan, sat near his campfire--pondering the fate of the world. The summer night was bitter, yet calm in this mysterious time. Gildan was accompanied closely by two fellow elves, Faragen and Telsar, as they rested uncomfortably underneath a large oak tree before their soldiers of the Obinoth Kingdom. The elves took refuge from their travels at the edge of the Plains of Erogd, a place which was all too familiar to them.
Many other campfires laid a short distance behind Gildan and the two Obinoth officers as the mercenary granted the soldiers under his authority short respite after two strenuous days of marching back into the west. Soft songs and inaudible conversations hazed the night air.
Gildan looked over to the trunk of the tree where the famed wizard, Randor Miithra, rested peacefully, sitting propped up with his wide-brimmed hat of blue felt covering his face. His cloak lay motionless in the weak breeze from the vast fields. Gildan smiled slightly as he brushed his tall, green hair back, forever grateful to the wizard's role in the recent victory of the mercenary and the elves of Obinoth.
As Gildan led the remainder of his army towards the Obinoth Kingdom, his thoughts were consumed with many items of business--with no apparent answers thus far.
"Is there anything either of us can do for you, sir?" Telsar asked.
"No," Gildan replied, looking at Telsar, a sturdy young elf, who reminded Gildan of himself in his younger days. "Just try and rest. We will be on the move again shortly."
Telsar nodded and shifted his silver armor before leaning back on his elbows. "I hope Obinoth is safe. I have much to attend to once we are returned."
"As do I," said Gildan. "Though I will no longer be able to assist you or your king, my future days are now certain to be full of work from those wishing to solve this mystery."
"Indeed, sir."
Gildan laid back in the soft grass and looked into the heavens. The memories of the recent night of catastrophe charged to the forefront of his mind, and he embraced the details of his victory, once again.
* * *
Two nights ago, Gildan and his elf-knights drew up at the edge of a dark, wooded valley--once again on the heels of the Obinoth's ancient foes. The twin moons rode high in the clear night sky, casting muted double shadows beneath the trees. For forty miles the army had crossed the Plains of Erogd, a region once known for its placid rivers and lush fields. But now the beauty of this land was tainted, its rivers polluted with blood and its fields heaped with the bodies of the slain enemy. None of the Obinoth had ever traveled this far east, and now fatigue weighed heavier on them even more than their pierced and dented armor.
Gildan paced alone before the awaiting ranks, his finely crafted, short yellow cape billowing in the constant breeze. The cape was the only personal clothing effect he kept with him, leaving his usual wardrobe of extravagant jackets, pants, and boots behind. These were set aside for uniformity of Obinoth's black clothing and silver armor, not very pleasing to Gildan's taste. His green eyes scanned the valley below, seeking out his next move, as his fingers tapped the silver buckle on his precious leather belt.
Telsar and Faragen approached quietly and stood at attention.
"We await your command, Gildan," said Faragen.
Gildan turned, looking beyond them to the gathered troops, seeing the fading morale written on every face. "We need to end this tonight," he said at last. "Send a small squad of scouts to get the lay of the land. I do not know much about this place. Have them search out the Rhingar forces, but tread with caution--the scouts must not be seen."
"Yes, sir," replied Faragen.
"Report to me once the sweep is complete." Gildan paused. "Now I must speak with our advisor."
The two lieutenants saluted and returned to the ranks.
As Gildan strode to the boulder at the dark valley's edge, he looked uneasily up at the mountains that surrounded the small valley on three sides.
For centuries the Rhingar had attempted to overthrow their neighboring country, the Obinoth Kingdom, yet had never been successful. The Rhingar wished nothing more than to seize the Obinoth capitol, Handefel, and destroy it--for it was in Handefel that the founding fathers of the Rhingar Kingdom perished during the Dark War. For the past eighty years the Rhingar burdened the Obinoth, bent on vengeance for the spirits of their ancient heroes.
For months on end both armies waged war at the edges of the Obinoth Kingdom until, at last, the Obinoth drove their enemies outside its borders. Yet they pursued the Rhingar into the east with orders from their king to eliminate them--no matter the distance traveled. The Obinoth were determined more than ever to convey to the Rhingar that they would never yield to them.
There, standing alone upon one of the many boulders and puffing a long-stemmed pipe, was Randor Miithra, the eldest servant of the elven god, Ethindar. Randor, as he was simply called, was invested with all the magic and arcane wisdom of his famed order of wizards. He stood tall, shrouded in his deep-blue cloak, uncowed by the continuous battles and lack of rest. Though he had seen eight thousand winters, he looked like a human of thirty. His face was shadowed from the moonlight by his ever-present hat.
This campaign was not the first encounter for Gildan and Randor, befriending one another many decades ago. Gildan always welcomed the opportunity to fight alongside his oldest friend and closest confidant.
Gildan stepped up onto the boulder and held silent.
"I see you have finally sent scouts about the perimeter, my old friend."
"Indeed. You have tracked the Rhingar for me across Erogd, but I will let these elves survey this instance," Gildan replied. "But…what do you make of this, Randor?"
"That is a good question," the wizard replied. He slid his dark-tinted spectacles up his narrow nose and puffed again at his pipe. "Do you know where you find yourself?" Randor grinned slightly.
"No. I have traveled far and wide, but this place has no particular memory for me."
"Before you lies the Valley of Siln."
"Siln," whispered Gildan. "What can you tell me of this place?"
"A featureless, barren place, with neither inhabitants nor wildlife--unless you love the company of scorpions." Randor paused to savor the pipe's comforting taste. "Only one road leads into and out of the valley…" Gildan turned his head and looked at the wizard. "This lonesome road is the one that you and the Obinoth now control."
"Are you certain of this?"
"Although many years have passed since last I was here, I doubt anyone has altered this land."
Before the elf-mercenary could reply, Randor raised his hand and added, "I cannot be certain of their strategy here, but nevertheless, we must not falter now. You hold the advantage, Gildan, and you must keep it this time. I grow weary of all this cat-and-mouse."
"Trust me, Randor, when I say that I will hold true to my vow and see this to its end. The Rhingar are fools, and we shall slaughter every foul one of them. Besides, the gold I was paid is wearing thin to my terms of this job." Gildan scanned the forest, looking for some clue to evil's whereabouts. Even aided by the light of the two moons, his green eyes picked up nothing helpful. "They are unpredictable this night," the elf observed. "Not one campfire, nor a single piercing shriek. Yes, the Rhingar are behaving most strangely."
Randor nodded. "If there is anyone in this world I believe in, it is you, good elf. I believe you are capable."
Gildan turned away and stared at the valley below. "The day is not yet won."
"Right you are, my friend," Randor answered as he laid his hand on the mercenary's leather shoulder guard. "One step at a time."
Some time later the ten scouts from the north and ten from the south arrived and knelt before the large rock, removing their dark cloaks and revealing their silver armor, which shimmered in the moonglow. Gildan and Randor came down from the boulder together, and as soon as Gildan's feet touched the grass, his sternness returned. "Report."
"We found no trace of the Rhingar," one scout answered. "No other roads lead into the valley, and on the mountains the paths were impassable. We could observe no movement within the valley."
Gildan's youthful face darkened at the unwelcome news. "Fall back into formation," he commanded, exasperated. As his scouts retired, he clenched his fists. Dare we march into Siln blind? I dislike such uncertainty, he thought.
"What is your plan, then, Gildan?" Randor asked as he tamped a few more wisps of tobacco into his pipe.
"The key to this battle is the road," Gildan began. "If we secure that, our enemy will not escape us again. Two hundred and fifty will be sufficient to secure the road, and the rest will follow you and me into Siln." Gildan raised his tired eyes to the heavens. "We move by stealth, under moonlight. I believe that our position and numbers are still unknown to the Rhingar." He sighed.
"I sense fear within Siln," Randor said reassuringly. "The time has come for the assault."
"Right away." Gildan strode to the center of the front rank. "Ne lui len!" At the sound of these words, Telsar and Faragen came forth from the ranks and faced their respective companies. "Tenu mon-tros," shouted Gildan, and the Obinoth came to attention as one. Being that Gildan was well-traveled, he continued to speak in the Obinoth native tongue, relaying orders that would be given on the march and thereafter.
Randor inspected the battalion from where he stood, and was pleased. Praying silently for the elves' courage and composure to hold true, he watched the elf-mercenary shift his gaze across the ranks of soldiers and knew Gildan's speech held more.
"The darkness hides our enemy well," Gildan observed. "Are you ready for this, Randor?"
The wizard nodded. "You shall see powers of mine that you, nor any Obinoth has yet seen in this campaign. And even so, it shall be but a small taste of my true magical abilities."
Gildan looked at him, perplexed, knowing that Randor Miithra employed magic only in the gravest of circumstances. "Are you feeling well?" Gildan asked.
"Never better."
"Then why…?"
"Do not question it, my friend. The time has come for a different strategy on my part. There are others in the world who need my help. The Battle of Siln will be my conclusion with the Obinoth." He paused, letting Gildan absorb the gravity of his statement. "Take that however you like."
Randor looked to Gildan, who was obviously curious about where this was going. "I doubt that my full strength will be called upon, but what I have planned is wonderful, indeed. I advise you, however, not to place yourself in harm's way once the conjuring begins."
Gildan nodded and felt at ease. "Once this is over, Randor, we will both bask in the glory of victory. You above all have my greatest trust and undying aid. If you are ever in need of any ally, do not disregard my words."
Lowering his head to hide any emotion, Randor replied, "I pray the day does not come when I need the aid of those I am meant to protect." He placed an arm on Gildan's shoulder. "I do honor your pledge, and shall accept if necessary." Randor looked into the clear heavens and sighed. "After all, no one is invincible."
"And yet what you do is phenomenal," Gildan replied. "Your strength and wisdom have carried you through the ages. You have protected elves and the lesser for more than eight thousand years." Gildan brandished at last his beloved sword, Marghelor, from it sheath. The blade was double-edged and extraordinarily long, just over forty inches of devastating steel.
The wizard looked suddenly tired. "I am grateful for each new day I am given to assist the progression of this world. This is as it should be."
Behind the two leaders stood the battalion, armed and ready for the night's engagement. Randor was clearly done with speaking and uttered these last words: "Let us hasten into Siln."
"Orig-nah!" Gildan yelled proudly as he pointed his sword ahead, the blade gleaming slightly in the moonlight.
Randor extinguished his pipe and tucked it into his cloak as the Obinoth began to march in perfect form, with the wizard and their mercenary leader forging the way.
Telsar remained at the edge of the valley with two companies of soldiers to safeguard the path, ready to fend against the Rhingar if they meant to sneak past the Obinoth that marched into the valley. Telsar and his companions watched their brethren advance toward the inevitable conflict.
* * *
The entrance to the valley was a steep and fairly smooth decline, save the deep footprints of the Rhingar that scarred the earth. Almost without sound the elven troops progressed down into the beginnings of the valley.
At the base of the long path flowed a wide river. Fortunately for Randor and his followers, though, it was shallow and easily forded. No sign came of the Rhingar's whereabouts as the Obinoth emerged on the far bank. Randor felt the hearts of the elves falter, and he lovingly embraced their fear, knowing that fear drove the will of the strong. In all his years of service, Randor had seen this emotion elevate those in power many times. But in all this time, he had never experienced fear of his own. He often wondered if Ethindar voided this feeling from his existence.
Staring at the tall line of trees before him, Randor noticed that the forest felt suddenly very forbidding and that the trees appeared mutilated--something he had not seen before in this region. The trunks were gray and knotted and appeared weak and pithy. What magic has come into being within Siln? he wondered.
The narrow path into the dark forest forked in five directions just inside the canopy. All about the forest floor laid thorny vines, mounds of dirt covered in moss, and large piles of rotted trees entangled in wretchedness. Gildan knew that he must divide his army once again. Seeking no counsel, he spoke, "Min gaist-thos. Fui len nah." Acknowledging the command, Faragen took two-hundred and fifty more men from the corps--Gildan weighing this squadron heavier since they would not have the benefit of Randor's presence.
The wizard caught a movement to his left as the group of elves marched cautiously through the woods. The wind had grown warmer and stronger, as if warning its newest guests to retreat from the forest's brooding presence. Randor advanced through the crying gale and clenched his cloak tighter to his chest. The leafy canopy hung low over the paths, and he thought it odd to see them so long and already black even now, in midsummer.
Gildan scanned beneath the trees, hoping to glimpse some sign of the Rhingar, to hear some careless sound that might lead him to them. Columns of moonlight managing to break through the thick canopy were all around. All was quiet, and only the shallow breathing of the Obinoth could be heard. Each set of eyes looked around uneasily, anticipating the unseen Rhingar.
Wanting desperately, but foolishly, to scream and thus draw his enemies forth, Gildan sniffed the blustering wind for a scent but detected nothing. He looked to Randor, hoping that he knew the true way, but the wizard trod on ahead, apparently oblivious to the elf's silent plea for wisdom. Gildan caught up to Randor with four quick strides, clutching his sword tighter. The Rhingar were well known for their cunning ways of concealment, and after three years of hard work Gildan was not about to fall victim to their wiles now.
A long, eerie shriek rang through the forest, jolting every Obinoth soldier into full alert. Gildan glanced over his shoulder and observed the structure of his battalion.
As Gildan turned back to the path before him, the Rhingar sprang from the darkness on all sides, each armed with a dark blade, almost unseen in the moonlight. The Rhingar were built in similar fashion like the Obinoth, their complexions were as gray as the armor they wore. Unearthly cries of war erupted from every dark tongue as their yellowed eyes focused on vengeance. It reminded Gildan of the war's beginning, when the Rhingar flooded the borders of Obinoth and his excitement rose as the enemy raced ahead; in mere seconds the Rhingar would be within blade's range. Shouts from the Obinoth rang out, mostly commands to the various units to hold their tight formation together.
The fear was palpable among Gildan's army, and their swords shook like leaves of the forest as the screaming Rhingar advanced. The enemy trampled up bits of moss, which dislodged from the earth only to be caught up by the wind. Randor and Gildan moved apart, leaving enough space between them that they might fight without endangering each other. No sooner had they done so, a swarm of Rhingar made haste toward Gildan and encircled him. But suddenly Randor threw back his cloak, exposing his steady hands, his only weapons. Though he now felt numb with fatigue, he knew that the magic, once summoned, would flow regardless. Time was of the essence now, however, and only short-versed spells would be practical.
The Obinoth troops behind the two leaders were engaged in pitched battle, with the Rhingar so far unable to break their formation. Swords met, and the sparks from clashing steel flickered like falling stars through the heavens. The Obinoth were surrounded; no longer could Randor or Gildan see what was happening to the Obinoth army not too far away. Twenty foes rushed toward Gildan, and as the first sword stroke came, his senses triggered a parry. He didn't have the chance now to thank himself for his gifts. Raising his sword, he was ready for the next two Rhingar to reach him, and deflected every slash and thrust perfectly with over embellished style. All his energies channeled to the task at hand as the emotion of battle consumed him.
Randor, entrapped now, stretched out his left hand; it swayed gracefully before the Rhingar that challenged him. His enemies shifted slowly around him, pointing their sharp blades inward, yet hesitant, for the dark elves knew who Randor was and dared not attack in frivolous haste. Randor preferred not to use his magic this early on, nor did he wish to destroy the forest with spells of fire and luminosity, the most potent short spells he had at hand. The illumination spells would do minimal damage, blinding the Rhingar at best, but the fire would ignite the wood, and the winds would only spread its rage. No, he would hold the magic in reserve for as long as the Obinoth could withstand the enemy on their own.
Then, in the blink of an eye, four Rhingar charged Randor with swords aimed at his chest. With little effort, Randor sidestepped and ducked as one blade swiped the air mere inches above his head, whistling in the night air. Pivoting, he landed a back kick in the attacker's ribs, knocking the dark elf to the forest floor. The remaining three came within arm's reach, and Randor's hands moved with blinding speed, punching, grabbing, and ripping. Blood flowed from his staggering opponents, and within seconds the last one fell.
Gauging his position, he saw that the Rhingar had opted to attack Gildan, deeming him easier prey than the wizard. The Rhingar neither saw nor heard Randor coming, and when they finally detected his presence, it was far too late.
"Nara tihra!" he shouted, thrusting his arm forward, and a bright flash of green light shone throughout Gildan's encircling foes. Eight Rhingar were launched violently upward and away into the night, their mutilated bodies landing a dozen yards away. Gildan was now freed on one side, and Randor grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him outward. The two stayed close as Gildan regained his breath.
"What are you doing?" asked the elf.
"Strengthening your offensive," Randor replied. "The Obinoth need you."
Gildan looked up and saw that he and the wizard were free of immediate threat, though the Obinoth were slowly beginning to crumble. The once solid formation was now scattered, and guidance was lost. Their advantage was diminishing. Cries came from both armies, chilling the very spine of the world.
"Stand aside." Randor raised his arms. "I need you to protect this perimeter while I conjure a spell. Can you do this for me?"
"Consider it done," Gildan replied, bringing his sword up with a wicked smile.
The relentless battle raged on a mere hundred yards from them. If the Obinoth were to have victory, it must come soon. Randor suddenly saw a weak point in the Rhingar's attack. To the wizard's left, a large cluster of the enemy tarried, not helping to contain the Obinoth.
Sidestepping, Gildan took place beside the wizard and suddenly felt the air around him grow cold as the spell began.
"Nara eth sohn barad lei nus ten aoen," Randor murmured, clasping his hands together. Beams of red light blazed out from the cracks between his palms and fingers and shot high into the canopy of dark leaves. The bright color bathed Randor's face and reflected off his dark spectacles.
Blades of both Obinoth and Rhingar drowned in the blood of their antagonists as elves from both armies were shoved, stabbed, cleaved, and thrown. The smell of death thickened the night air all around them as all lives hung in the balance of war.
Though the spell was short in verse, the potency of this particular magic took time to establish. Unbeknownst to Gildan, the time to release the magic drew closer. He desired more than anything to rush to the aid the soldiers, for the mood that possessed him made him believe he could destroy the entire Rhingar horde by his hands alone. And yet, dangerous magic was afoot, and he dare not cross its intended path.
Randor's body was scorching, burning from within. His hands blazed with an unearthly fire. With a flick of the wrists, a blinding red light arced outward. A hundred shards of steel streaked from his palms through the night, piercing a hundred Rhingar as if their armor were paper. The reddish glow faded as the screams of the dying echoed through the forest.
"Charge, Gildan!" Randor cried as he charged away to the clash, no longer careful of where he trod. Randor had been silent for too long; now the battle would go to the bold.
As Gildan raised his blade and charged, Randor let out a vicious cry and drew back his hand to let fly with another spell. "Nara dhei-gen!" yelled the wizard, sending dozens of burning white rays toward his enemies. As the light coursed through the air, each Rhingar it touched fell convulsing on the blood and gore of the forest floor, purged of life. In this way Randor slaughtered the enemy, dozens at a time, eventually allowing the Obinoth to advance.
The spirit of the Obinoth grew strong once more as the Rhingar retreated into the darkness ahead. Cheers flowed from the mouths of the Obinoth as they marched over the mounds of fallen enemies. Randor knew that the fleeing dark elves hastened to rejoin the last of their kindred northward--the direction also of the detached company of Obinoth. With the forest around Gildan now cleared, the sounds of battle faded. He rallied his army so as not to lose their prey again in this mysterious valley. His sights still lay to the north, for their war was not yet completed.
"You honor me with your bravery!" Gildan proclaimed, to which the soldiers responded with a loud war cry, making him feel exultant. A tear of pure emotion trailed down his pale face, and raising his sword, he yelled, "Tu trose!"
"Tu trose!" the Obinoth returned in the universal cry that meant, "Elves, to the death!"
"Tu trose, indeed," added Randor with a nod. The wizard offered no other words of celebration, knowing that the reaction was premature, for the enemy still lived, and those many Obinoth of the detached companies were not yet victorious. "Come, my friends!" he shouted. "We are needed ahead!"
"Orig-nah!" commanded Gildan, and the Obinoth marched through the darkness in haste. Randor resumed his place leading the elves. Fate, he knew, ultimately claimed whatever it longed for, and at this moment no one knew what or whom it stalked.
* * *
The Rhingar escaped to the north at a fast pace, though they were beset with fatigue. Gildan and Randor commanded the pursuit, encountering obstacles of fallen trees and murky water every step of the trek. The moonlight was dimmer now as the Obinoth pressed through the heart of the forest.
Gildan paused and listened. In the distance, sounds of war cries and the clanging of swords urged his troops forth.
"We're close," Gildan whispered.
"Yes," replied Randor. "It will not be long now."
"Then let us charge with full speed."
"So be it," Randor said simply.
Gildan peered over his shoulder and extended his sword. Through the rare columns of moonlight, the Obinoth hastened into the unknown forest. Randor did not try to keep up--the battle belonged to the elves now--though he would remain close by to grant secondary aid if necessary. The wind stung the elves' eyes but did nothing to daunt their inspiration. Their ears rang with the sounds of battle as they raced toward a clash that they could not see very well. Their sight grew dimmer and darker as prayers sprang like fountains, all asking for light to grace the path ahead.
Randor softly uttered a spell, and to the Obinoth's surprise, a shimmering comet of silver light arced through the air above Gildan's head and beyond. Randor's unexpected aid struck the Obinoth with dismay, however, for they could see the battle as plain as day before them. Rhingar filled their sight, with no Obinoth soldier to be seen.
One last row of tall trees barred Gildan and his followers from the skirmish. Rushing through the forest, the elf-mercenary led them into the Rhingar's midst, and before the dark elves knew what was upon them, Obinoth blades struck, killing many. The Rhingar were bombarded, and the last remnants of discipline they possessed melted away. Gildan sought out his companions as he hacked down one enemy after another. All that he found, however, were more Rhingar to meet his sword, bejeweled with dark blood. Bodies of the enemy tumbled all around him.
Randor was left in solitude at the edge of his gracious light. Pausing in his advance, he crossed his arms and watched over his allies. To the wizard's satisfaction, the Obinoth pressed farther north, with not one of Gildan's soldiers falling to the dark swords. The Rhingar were soon surrounded, and the Obinoth companies were reunited.
Gildan smiled, prouder than ever to see his battalion together again. Free from danger for an instant, he shouted, "Tu trose!"
At long last, Randor sensed the battle drawing to its end, and he calmly approached as the final shrieks of agony from the enemy faded. The Rhingar were defeated at last. The elves of Obinoth were burdened no more, and celebration began at once. Randor took out his tobacco pipe and lit it with great satisfaction.
Gildan drew away from his army, and smiling toward Randor, said, "Come. Share in the victory."
"I am not one given to partake in such festivities. This night is yours to rejoice in, for it was you and the elves that brought victory."
Faragen came forth from the crowd and fell to one knee, lowering his head humbly, and the rest of the Obinoth followed suit--except Gildan who knew better from past adventures with Randor. "Your wisdom and strength will endure through the ages within our people's songs and stories, Great Servant."
"Rise, Lieutenant Faragen," Randor said, uncomfortable with any form of adoration. He placed his hands on the elf's shoulders and brought him to his feet. "Do not kneel before me, but rather give your thanks to Ethindar alone. I cannot bless you or your kind as he can. Praise Ethindar for the mana from the moons, giving your kindred and the rest of the world their strengths."
Faragen nodded and, turning, motioned for the army to rise. "What is your next command, Gildan?" Faragen asked.
"Search for the wounded first." He paused, and knew his next words would not be pleasant for the Obinoth to hear. "Then I want you to bury the slain in this forest. Collect all their personal items, for these shall be returned to their proper places in your kingdom."
"It shall be done."
Faragen took sole command of the army and led them southward, leaving Randor and Gildan behind.
"I will require an exact count of those alive," Gildan said.
"All in good time," replied Randor. As they strode into the thick of the forest, the magic light dimmed and then was no more.
"I have to admit that I can no longer remember the reason for this war's beginning," Gildan confided in Randor. "My memory has been altered by the constant change of conflicting feelings." He laughed quietly. "I almost forget how much gold the Obinoth king gave me, but I am not that far gone yet."
"The Rhingar may not be prepared to strike again soon," Randor said, "but I am sure another force will greet the Obinoth in the future."
"If I catch wind of an uprising, I may consider aiding the good people of Obinoth again--if the price is in my favor." He wiped his blade clean with a small white cloth and sheathed it.
Their pace slackened as they drew closer to the Obinoth, who were already at work over their fallen brave, using small spades and hatchets to dig beneath the forest floor.
A group of soldiers searched the forest for survivors, and when Faragen appeared from behind a great beech tree, his expression unclear, Gildan and Randor greeted the elf kindly.
"What tidings do you bring?" Gildan asked.
"Sixty-three have been returned to us, sir, only a few of them seriously afflicted. This raises the count of Obinoth within the forest to three-hundred and twelve."
"Thank you," replied Gildan, and Faragen saluted, proceeding with his duties.
Randor studied the heavens, deep in thought. "The dawn approaches. We must be away with the sun."
"Their labors here will be complete before then," Gildan assured him.
"Sixteen days shall it be before we see the border of the Obinoth kingdom. It will be a wondrous sight, Gildan."
"I can already smell the gold set aside for me."
* * *
The two were standing alongside the grave, which was six feet deep and stretched ninety feet in length. The slain elves were laid inside with great reverence. Swords and jewelry were removed and stored on the path leading out of the forest. Randor propped his back against a tree and looked into his tobacco pouch, noticing that it was almost empty. It would be five days before they reached a decent city.
Finished at last with the burial, the elves filled the grave with dirt and tamped and smoothed the earth. The sounds of labor ceased, and Gildan turned to the soldiers. Without uttering a word, the battalion came to attention and awaited command.
"Those bound to the possessions of the dead do so as we move out. We take the high pass and rest upon the Plains of Erogd tonight. At sunrise we make haste to Obinoth." Gildan's speech was drowned by a deafening cry of happiness from his elves. Raising his hand, he brought silence back to the forest. "I am honored to stand before you as your leader. You ennoble my existence." He smiled, looked to Randor, and turned back to his elves. "So, come. Let us march, my friends."
Gildan pointed to the west, and the army set off. Seventy elves remained behind and secured the belongings of the dead to their persons, each latching three or four swords to his belt and tucking jewelry into side pouches.
Only Gildan and Randor stood reflecting in the forest. Randor stood upright and dusted off his cloak. "Come ahead, my good elf," Randor said, beckoning.
* * *
Free at last of the darkened forest, Randor and Gildan followed the path under the shining heavens, listening to the sweet sound of the battalion's voices raised in cheer. The warriors had already crossed the river and were gathered with the company that had been left to guard the passage. With no reason now to remain vigilant, all were in the valley for celebration. The news of battle's end had been told, and praise was given to the two leaders as they approached the opposite bank. Swords were raised high into the night sky. Taking the lead, Randor directed Gildan to the water's edge. Gildan relaxed and let the soft breeze cool his sweaty face as he gazed blankly toward the high pass. Slowly his strength was returning to him.
Randor's eyes were drawn to the stilled water as he looked at the twin moons' reflection there. He took one step into the river; then something stopped him. A powerful sense of befuddlement filled him as he watched the moonlight on the ripples. Many ripples spilled over one another, distorting the once perfect mirroring of the moons as Randor watched in horror, feeling confused and yet powerless to find any resolution to this sudden, strange feeling. He tried to shift his sight, but a greater power locked his eyes to the celestial forms in the water. When the ripples ceased, only one moon's reflection remained.
"My vision falters," he whispered. And slowly he raised his head and stared at the sky, saying, "This must be a nightmare." But much though as he wanted it to be, it was not. Only one moon now shone down on Londor. "Gildan!" he gasped.
The elf broke free of his stupor and noticed Randor's weakened state. "What happened, Randor?" he asked in panic. Rushing to the wizard's side, he caught him just before he fell.
"Look into the heavens, I ask."
Gildan looked upward in confusion and soon saw the source of Randor's fright: the moon, Beldas, was gone. He blinked his eyes rapidly, trying to refocus, but when he looked again, he still saw the empty spot in the heavens. "But how…?" He looked to Randor. "Did you see what occurred?"
"I--I do not know," was his pain-filled response. "I watched it vanish in the water's reflection."
"Did magic cause this?" Gildan grew cold, and his fear began to creep into his soul. "Did it disintegrate? Did it fall into the Black Void?"
Randor did not reply, and the Obinoth around Gildan did not see what had occurred either to Randor or to the moon. Gildan lifted the wizard higher and placed his arm under Randor's, aiding him across the river. The elves, concerned for Randor, followed the two leaders across unbidden. Telsar and Faragen strode through the water and were at Gildan's side, aiding him to the best of their ability. As they reached the western bank of the river, Randor dropped in a swoon. His pipe broke free from his trembling lips, and his hat was caught away by the wind and skipped end-over-end across the river cobbles. Randor clasped his hand over his chest, feeling a sudden, growing pain, as Gildan hovered at his side and tried to keep him awake. The rest of the Obinoth, now aware of the moon's strange disappearance, looked about themselves in shock and began to wail in anguish at the world's unthinkable loss.
Gildan, sobbing now, knew not what to do. His body gave way to shivering, and his mind reeled with dizziness. No wizard, and least of all Randor, ever fell in sickness.
Gildan and the two lieutenants knelt around the motionless Randor, dumbfounded; the three elves could only exchange worried glances. Gildan removed the sweaty strands of hair from Randor's quickly paling face.
"Is he dead?" Telsar asked.
Gildan pressed his fingers to Randor's neck and felt about. "I do not feel the blood pulsing through his veins." For the first time in his life it became difficult for him to speak. "Let it be said that he passed after Beldas, leaving a void here on earth to match that left in heaven."
It was a tragedy beyond all knowing, for the elves depended utterly on the formation of the heavens. The moons, Beldas and Cadmor, were the source of all mana bestowed on the race. The balance, not only of the elves but also of the entire world, was controlled by these two celestial beings. And since Randor Miithra and the rest of his order were directly connected to Londor's spirit, the sudden misconfiguration of the moons would affect all their existence. All of Randor's strength, magic, and well-being lay solely with heaven's gracious mana. The idea of Londor's only source of power vanishing was unfathomable.
What could possibly do this? Gildan asked himself. What could subject the world to such ultimate downfall? Gildan staggered, grieving, to his feet. We are doomed for certain.
"What shall we do?" asked Faragen.
"We must turn to the Council now. Only they can help. Surely the Great Tree still houses their wisdom in spite of everything." Gildan turned back to Randor. "Help me carry him out of this accursed place." The two officers aided Gildan in lifting Randor up onto their shoulders. He lay heavy in their damp and shaking hands, but their will was strong.
The climb was slow and arduous, and now the only concerns were the moon and Randor, the flush of victory over the Rhingar already a distant memory. The steep road now lay behind them as they drew level with the high pass. "Careful," he ordered. "Make way…" The Obinoth kept their distance from the three bearers as they advanced to the front. "Right over there." A blanket from a nearby soldier was placed on the ground as Gildan let go of Randor's body.
Not willing to endure further torment, Gildan took leave of the others and approached the boulder where he and Randor had stood earlier that same night. The Obinoth army stayed at Randor's side, grieving.
What could have been done to prevent this? Gildan pondered. Could the Council not foresee this before it happened? He crossed his arms and paced aimlessly about, blocking out his surroundings as he continued to beat his soul with questions he could never answer. Telsar and Faragen approached unnoticed and stood at attention. Gildan glared over his shoulder and returned to his inner quandary.
"Do you want us to set camp here tonight, sir?" Telsar asked.
Gildan nodded slowly. "Try and get as much rest as possible, for we must be in haste for Obinoth. There is no doubt you and your soldiers are needed there. I have business someplace else--yet where is still not known to me. I have the feeling someone will need my help."
"Yes, sir," Telsar responded, quickly returning to the collection of the army.
"Do we take Randor to Obinoth or to Mudalfaen?" Faragen asked.
"Neither, my friend," Gildan answered. "There were some caverns to the west within Erogd. In three days time we will place his body in a cave and cover its entrance. Randor dearly loved Londor--so we shall give him the world as his tomb. He would have wanted it this way."
"As you wish," Faragen said.
Gildan returned his gaze to the troubled heavens and sighed. The wind changed direction and grew bitterly cold and the temperature plummeted. It was strange to feel this, especially in midst summer. "This is, indeed, Londor's greatest downfall," Gildan whispered.
Chapter Two: A Troubled City
Two miserable months had passed since the vanishing of the moon, Beldas, and with each new sunrise Londor fell ever closer to ruin. Not even the wisest could see the terrible ending of the world, nor even how much longer life would carry on. Though the races of men and dwarvenkind did not physically feel the oncoming downfall, the world around them was slipping away nonetheless. Wizards of all races lost most of their abilities, so that even the simplest of spells were all but impossible to conjure.
Both the Vinar elves, the most common elves in the world of Londor, and high elves felt the absence of mana and were forced to endure continuous pain and sadness day in and day out, and though the Council of Mudalfaen was painfully aware of the world's troubles, not even their collective wisdom could make a whit of difference for the many allies in their care. Shortly after the disappearance of Beldas, all communication among the Mudalfaen alliances ceased as every kingdom sealed off its borders and remained in a state of high alert at all times. Those who wandered the lands found themselves subject to arrest and persecution, particularly at night when the true chaos of weather and sorrow came. Everyone was now suspect in the moon's disappearance--the greatest tragedy in Londor's history. Every soldier, knight, and wizard labored days and nights on end to protect the world around them, and kings, queens, princelings, and high councils throughout the land made every effort to keep their citizens at home during this time of crisis, allowing no one to leave without strict approval.
The elven valley of Dunane saw the collapse soonest. Though the days still graced them with mostly pleasant weather, come nightfall, dark clouds swept in just after sunset. The gloomy formations hung low, accompanied by frigid winds and dense fog. On many nights, great storms beat down on the valley as thunder and lightning cracked overhead.
Dunane's capital, Norganas, was held prisoner to nature, and all hope lay out of reach. Each night was anticipated with dread.
In the city's chief observation tower, rising above the southern wall, two elf-knights stood watch on the top level. It was from this high structure of white stone that they kept watch over the vast forest to the south, as far as elven eyes could see. The two pulled their newly acquired cloaks closer to their bodies, huddling close together to keep warm, but it was of little good. Rain poured down in great sheets, and cracks of lightning lit the landscape as if it were day, and whenever the rain let up, dark fog enveloped the entire valley. The constant winds from the south, undeterred by the forest, howled through the city and swept over the Mondranos Mountains to the north and west.
A sudden blast of wind knifed through the narrow opening of the watchtower, stinging the two elves' pale faces.
"I swear, Captain Fenrahn, if this weather persists, it will be the end of me!" young Etrigos cried. He clenched his chattering teeth and gazed out at the bleak world around him. "I honestly cannot tell you how many nights it has been the same."
"Fourteen," Fenrahn replied mildly. "Fourteen straight, to be exact." He remained at the opening as Etrigos retreated to the center of the circular room and stationed himself by the hole in the wooden floor, where a ladder led down to the many levels below.
"We need furs for this climate."
"And where do you expect King Zelok to obtain these?" asked Fenrahn. "I can tell you we have none in storage."
"But these cloaks are useless!" Etrigos moaned.
"We'll all just have to make do."
"I'd much rather be inside, sitting next to a roaring fire alongside my brothers. I wager they are feasting as usual on this evil evening."
"Just as the rest of the valley feasts within the warmth of their homes."
"I envy them, Captain."
Fenrahn sighed but did not move from the observation portal. "Our duty will be done with the coming of the sun."
"Still, I do not understand why you, sir, are made to stand watch over the city--you rank above us all."
"I don't wish to be locked away in the palace, dealing with parchments and politics." Fenrahn turned and, with a tired smile, said, "I take this time to train my knights and pass along my teachings firsthand."
"When I am made Captain of the Order," Etrigos began with his head held high, "I will gladly stay inside the palace." He laughed, but Fenrahn was not amused. He cleared his throat. "Sorry, sir."
Fenrahn shook his head and returned his gaze to the forest. "You have much to learn."
Etrigos gathered his frozen courage and approached the window. The captain stood three inches taller than he, though both were of the same build and wore precisely the same attire: the brown jacket of the knights of Dunane, with brown trousers tucked into knee-high leather boots. Both elves wore their hair tied back in ponytails, Etrigos having silvery hair while Fenrahn's was that of gold. The cloaks were the newest addition to their wardrobe, so that nothing distinguished Fenrahn from the rest of his order save the silver tassel that hung on his chest, denoting his rank.
"I am surprised by this dangerous situation," Etrigos said, "that King Zelok has not authorized us to arm ourselves with swords or spears."
"I believe that our master remains of a mind with his ancestors. Our people have not known conflict for eighty years. After the Great War, that was the end of our struggles." Fenrahn considered himself blessed not to have experienced that dark time. "But rest assured, Etrigos, we have weaponry if the occasion calls for it."
Fenrahn closed his eyes and leaned against the stone wall. Above his head blazed one of the four torches mounted in the stones, lighting the room but dimly. The captain appreciated the warmth of the fire, and it relaxed him for the moment. "Mudalfaen has ensured our peace for the past eight decades." He paused. "I only wish some of our allies could share in Dunane's harmony. Many are still afflicted by petty skirmishes. Alas, those who once knew peace now share the same problems as those who knew it not. All of Mudalfaen's allies are falling victim to the same downfall. Peace has escaped us."
"I still hold on to faith," said Etrigos. "We shall be saved."
The young elf's spirit seemed to help Fenrahn keep what little hope he had left. "I can tell you this," Fenrahn replied. "When we received word of Randor Miithra's death, Dunane fell into great despair. Many say that if a Randor could not endure this unbalance, what hope do elves possess?"
"That was a tragic day, Captain. Though I never saw the Great Servant, I have heard the countless stories of his deeds and shall miss him nonetheless."
"So shall we all, my friend….His legend will carry on." Fenrahn drew in a deep breath of cold air.
It was clear to Etrigos that the captain was not well, and naturally, Etrigos felt concerned for his beloved officer.
"Are you hungry, sir?"
"No," replied Fenrahn softly. "I have lost my appetite, I am afraid. No longer can I enjoy the foods provided to us."
"Can I get you some wine, perhaps? Maybe that will help."
"No, Etrigos." He looked over to the worried elf and gave a faint smile. "If you need food or drink, please feel free to take a short leave."
"What of the watch?"
"What of it?"
"I fear to leave, in case something should happen…"
"I doubt anything will occur in your short absence." Fenrahn laughed quietly. "I even doubt anything will occur this night, or the next."
"We can never be too certain."
"Right you are, but those who travel under nightfall are quickly seized now. Every kingdom is overprotected. I believe we are safe in this high state of alert."
"I pray you are right."
"You were inquiring about food, were you not?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, off you go, then."
Etrigos saluted and said, "Right away, Captain." He was newly invested in knighthood and not yet comfortable with rest and respite. Fenrahn shook his head and gestured for the knight to leave.
"See you shortly."
Before Etrigos set off, some impulse turned his eyes to the ground before the forest. Slowly his view scrolled up the dirt path that connected Norganas to the forest. Up the hill his silver eyes traveled as the cold air stung him. As fate would have it, a bright blue flash of lightning banished the darkness. "Captain!" Etrigos yelped.
Fenrahn bolted upright. "What is it?"
"There are riders on the road, sir!"
"Impossible." Fenrahn did not accept what he heard. He thought the elements present played with the young knight's mind.
"No, sir! I saw two on horseback, just outside the forest!"
"One would have to be mad to ride in this weather." Fenrahn moved the shaking Etrigos from the window and stared into the darkness. "I see nothing."
"My eyes do not deceive me, Captain….At least, I hope they do not."
"Incoming?"
"Yes. They ride for the city."
"Only two, you say?"
"Thus far. But there could be hundreds out there--or even thousands in our forest."
"Do not let your mind run away, Etrigos."
"I cannot help it, sir."
"Were the riders of elvenkind?"
"They were concealed by cloaks…I could not see their faces." Etrigos pulled on Fenrahn's clothing in desperation. "We must inform the palace at once!"
"Not just yet," Fenrahn replied as he trained his eyes on the unlit path. "We could be imprisoned and stripped of rank if we give false alarm. I do not know about you, my friend, but I value my placing in Dunane."
"As do I, Captain."
"Then we must be patient."
"Patience is something I have yet to learn."
"Then let tonight be your lesson."
Another great flash of blue revealed the road once more, and now Fenrahn could see the two riders, paused on the path, their intentions unknown. "There, you see?" Etrigos breathed.
"Yes, Etrigos. Quite right you are." The captain turned away from the window and said softly, "Keep close watch on their actions."
Etrigos nodded and obeyed, leaving Fenrahn to debate with himself what to do. Only he and Etrigos knew of this potential threat. "From what I saw," Fenrahn began, "one was tall and slender and the other was shorter in stature…perhaps humans."
"I could not tell, honestly," Etrigos offered. All thought of nourishment was gone, and nothing could peel his eyes away from the ground below. The forest was a little more than a mile away from Norganas, up a steep hill. It put the riders too close to home for Etrigos's liking. In a chain of brief flashes of lightning, Etrigos noticed movement from one of the riders. "Captain, one has drawn a blade!"
Do they mean to attack us? Fenrahn asked himself. What purpose do they have for Dunane?
"What shall we do, sir?"
"We await their next movement."
* * *
The journey through the immense forest was not an easy task for the two riders. Their mission was all haste, and secrecy was of the essence in this, their fifth straight day of hard riding. As they had drawn ever nearer to Dunane from the southwest, nightfall became worse with each sunset. Clouds darker than the heavens loomed low, and rain beat down heavily on their cloaks. Both worried of being captured by the kingdoms they rode through. The cruel elements of nature held Dunane captive, making the valley's forest a nightmare for maneuvering. And not just the weather barred the way, but also many fallen trees and mighty boulders that lay as if scattered by some giant hand.
Neither rider had ventured into this elven realm before, and no real plan had been formulated for reaching their destination slower than they expected. Just when the lead horseman thought the worst was behind them, the paths grew more twisted than ever, making speed impossible. Trusting his rattled senses, the leader eventually headed up a steep and narrow road.
At last they were free of the dark and difficult forest; Norganas was in sight. A grand line of mountains rose high above the city and stretched beyond the horizon to the east and west. Few lights shone from the city, other than those in the many towers that rose high above the walls. Because they were unexpected, the two riders knew full well that by approaching the city they could send the elven military into action. Scanning the valley below, the leader could see only one path leading to Norganas, down one final hill. Perhaps there was a chance they could enter without detection.
The lead rider, the taller of the two, glanced over to his companion. The smaller rider looked up and nodded as he shook out his drenched cloak of blue. The leader pointed to the city ahead, as the wind howled at them and thunder banged overhead.
The leader thrust his hand down to his saddle and gripped the hilt of his sword. Drawing it, he held the blade before his face. The double-edged blade, though it had passed through many generations, showed no sign of its age. Just then, a long series of lightning flashes illuminated the land, its blue light reflecting off the blade and into the leader's eyes.
A frigid gust blasted the two weary travelers, cutting through their sodden cloaks and chilling them to the bone. Both sat as if frozen in their saddles, dreading to move toward the city but craving its shelter even more. As much as the leader desired to bear on into Norganas with full speed, he knew that the time was not right.
"I never even had the opportunity to say farewell to my family," Etrigos said as he paced the floor in anguish. Captain Fenrahn still had not given the command on their next action, and this only heightened Etrigos's anxiety. How he hated uncertainty. "Our city could fall tonight; we may not see another sunrise!"
"Calm down," Fenrahn said. "I will inform the palace of what we have seen."
"What would you ask of me, sir?"
"You know of the alarm horn in each tower?"
Etrigos nodded. "I have been told of them before. Never have I seen one, though."
"Yes," Fenrahn replied. "This is because we have stowed them away in ignorance. There hasn't been a need for them until now. The one we possess in this tower is on the floor below us."
"But where, sir?" Etrigos asked. "There are so many boxes and chests stored there."
"I do not know. Now, go in haste and find it, my young elf. I need this from you."
"Yes, Captain." Etrigos saluted and scurried down the ladder.
On the floor below, a single torch dimly lit the wooden crates and various-sized chests that lay stacked against the walls. In his haste, Etrigos missed the last rung and fell hard onto the wood floor. A cloud of dust rose up, and through his own coughing he heard Fenrahn call out, "Are you all right down there?"
"Yes," Etrigos replied. "All is well." Sitting up, he shifted to his knees and scanned the room with blurred vision. There was no clear choice where to begin. After studying the situation, he said to himself, I'll wager none of these chests have seen an elf's hand in a good while. Deciding on the nearest chest, he prayed that fortune was on his side. It was a small, red chest, completely caked by dust. A brass lock hung open in the latch. Removing it, he opened the lid and was met with the familiar scent of incense.
He wondered how the essence could hold its richness after all this time. The sweet smell reminded him of the wondrous festivals in the forest, feasts in the palace, and the warmer days of the valley. In this dreamlike moment he forgot all his troubles and let his soul sink deep into the past. Unbidden, the present situation crept through his dream, returning his thoughts to the chest before him. Staring back at his widened eyes were rich fabrics, smaller wooden boxes, and cloudy glass flasks filled with bluish liquid. The contents had no particular arrangement, and Etrigos saw nothing resembling a horn. Rummaging carefully through the chest so as not to break the flasks, he placed the stacks of cloth on the floor. The glass clanged softly together as he reached to the bottom of the chest.
There in the far corner, he saw an oblong shape wrapped in an old, dingy cloth. He grasped it without much thought, peeled back the cloth, and saw that it was indeed a bull's horn of red with a white mouthpiece. Smiling, Etrigos admired its beauty, then stood and tucked the horn into his belt.
"Etrigos? What say you?" Fenrahn's concerned voice called out.
"I have the horn, sir!" he answered triumphantly.
"Excellent work."
Etrigos began to climb the ladder, making sure his grip was stronger than before. It was not long before he was at Fenrahn's side once more by the window. He took the horn from his belt and presented it to the captain, who grasped the horn and inspected its condition. Though it had lain unused for many decades, it looked as if it had been crafted only yesterday.
Etrigos beamed. "This instrument has been preserved well. I hope its inner workings hold true as the outside has."
"As do I."
Fenrahn looked at the shiny horn one last time and handed it back to Etrigos. "Sound the alarm."
With a nod, the elf-knight approached the northern window. The palace lay sparsely lit, as if the majority within were sleeping. He hoped the horn's note would reach those inside, despite the wind and thunder. Slowly he raised it to his chapped lips as Fenrahn looked on. Turning back to the window, Etrigos took in a deep breath and sounded the horn.
A long, deep note poured forth from the watchtower, piercing the sounds of the gale. At once, more lamps and torches sprang alight throughout the palace. The alarm had been heard. Relieved, Etrigos lowered the horn.
"Well?" Fenrahn inquired. "What occurred?"
"Our call was received." Etrigos's heart pounded as he leaned on the wall to calm his nerves. He hugged the horn close to his body and sighed. "Thank Ethindar."
Download this book for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-31 show above.)