Light Of Loreandril (39 page)

Nechan was more than happy to tell Esil about his family and farm, and all about the green valley he lived in. He even began to tell him about his brother, Cradon, until he became choked with emotion. The memories began to overwhelm him and he was forced to stop. Esil waited patiently until Nechan had composed himself once more.

“So….can I ask how old you are?” queried Nechan, not wanting to sound rude.

Esil laughed. “I had heard clansmen think all Elves are ancient! I never believed it until now!” He laughed merrily again. It sounded like the tinkle of raindrops falling on pots and pans.

“Why is it so funny?” frowned Nechan. “That’s what our stories tell us. I believed that there were no Elvish children, yet clearly they are. I thought Elves lived forever.” Speaking these words out loud, looking around him at the wide range of ages, he felt foolish.

“I like you, friend! You make me laugh!” Esil chuckled again, taking another drink. “I am happy to explain our ways to you. I can understand the misconceptions clansmen have, after all we have not been in each other’s company for several generations now.”

Esil explained that Elvish years were different from clansmen years, and that they grew older in a different way. Elves begin life in much the same fashion, growing quickly in the first ten years of life, as a normal clansman would. However, once they reach this age, the process begins to slow. Although Esil appeared to be of similar age to Nechan he was actually the equivalent of forty clansman years.

“So an elf who looks the same age as my father, about fifty, must be really old? Centuries?”

“Yes, probably about one and a half thousand clansman years.”

“But that must mean the ones that look like grandparents are ancient?” Nechan was amazed.

“Yes, four or five thousand years…….I can see how the myth that we are eternal has come about!” mused Esil. “But I can assure you, elves do die. Everything has a beginning and an end.”

Nechan yawned unexpectedly as a wave of tiredness hit him.

“We should sleep. It will be a long day tomorrow. We have much distance to travel.”

Nechan lay back into the mound of golden leaves, which seemed to wrap themselves around him like a blanket. They were soft, cushioning his weary limbs. His eyes now closed, Nechan breathed in deep, inhaling the sweet, musty odour of a forest floor, calming his racing mind. It only took a few moments for the boy to fall asleep.

Nechan could not gauge how many hours had passed since falling into a deep, dreamless asleep.  Loreandril seemed timeless. He felt himself being gently rocked awake and slowly opened his eyes, blinking in the orange glow, greeted by the friendly face of Esil.

“I hope you are well rested now, my friend.” Esil offered Nechan a strong hand, pulling him easily to his feet.

Yawning widely, the boy stretched, feeling refreshed. The Communal abode had  been dismantled and the only evidence was the mound of golden leaves upon which they had rested.

“Is it time?” yawned Nechan.

“Yes. Come……you can help me, if you wish.”

The elf ambled off quickly, with a sprightly skip in his step. Dozily, still waking up, Nechan followed.

“Come, meet my family!”

A small family group greeted Esil with warm embraces, relieved he had returned. They spoke amongst each other in Elvish, occasionally glancing at Nechan who stood awkwardly, playing with his fingers like a small child.

“Nechan, please…” Esil motioned him closer. “My mother, Eriola, and father, Rheonil.”

The two elves respectfully stooped low in homage, their silver hair falling gracefully about their shoulders. Rheonil was tall, dwarfing Nechan and Esil. He wore clean, shimmering white and bronze armour with a silver star emblem on the breast plate and shoulders. Eriola was shorter, although still equal to Nechan, dressed in an slim, pale green gown, that reached up under her chin and right down to her wrists and the floor. An intricate belt of golden flowers hung around her delicate waist, emphasising her lean, willowy frame.

She took his hand, her eyes sparkling. “
Shillhon,
Nechan.
Goth loru thorsi ni……..
Your name and deeds preceed you.” Again, she bowed her head in respect.

Nechan was speechless, overwhelmed by the honour. He turned scarlet, almost radiating heat from his crimson cheeks. She laughed, smiling at him, as she held a cool, gentle palm to his flushed cheek, pleasantly amused by his reaction.

“And these are my two siblings, Rheonas, my brother, and Ethiola my sister.” Esil picked up his little sister, bouncing her in his arms. She could only have been about eight, her braided fair hair and bright blue eyes instantly reminding Nechan of his sister, Danula. She giggled shyly, burying herself in Esil’s neck, as Nechan offered to shake her hand. Rheonas was slightly older and bolder. He bowed smartly, a large, toothy smile brimming across his dirt-smudged face.

“My family and I would very much like it if you were to travel with us.  Of course, I understand if you would prefer to find your comrades.”

Nechan paused, contemplating what he would rather do. Part of him wanted to rejoin Jaidan and Gaular, perhaps to find out how Nymril was, but then he was enjoying Esil’s company. He could almost hear Barnon’s voice echoing in the back of his mind, reminding him how rare it was to have an opportunity to walk with Elves. Nechan quickly decided that he could not miss this opportunity; there was so much more to learn about this kin. Perhaps Esil would even teach him one or two Elvish words? Nechan gladly accepted the offer.

Horns began blasting three long notes that rang clearly throughout Loreandril. As if synchronised, all the elves picked up their belongings, and the caravan that was Loreandril began its journey.

Nechan and Esil carried the tent, walking one behind the other, the silver poles resting on either shoulder like a stretcher. Rheonil and Rheonas carried other belonging, baskets and sacks on their backs, while the mother, Eriola, walked before them, carrying Ethiola and a lantern to guide their way forward.

Nechan closed his eyes, listening to the spine tingling melodies that began to rise from all sides. And so, without knowing their destination, the occupants of Loreandril began their march to new lands under the protective cover of the ancestral mists.

The cold, grey cliff face stretched imposingly above Gomel with pounding wind and driving snow still pummelling them, wave after wave. It had been a relief to see the striking trio of the mountainous peaks that marked the entrance to Ghornathia.

The gnome had battled his way onwards, dragging the horses behind him, tugging on their reins as they fought to turn back down the mountain. Their coats were matted rugs of mud and frosty snow, their tails and manes stiff with ice crystals. Gomel’s gristly beard was specked with white flakes, the air so cold that the warmth of his skin did not melt them.

The entrance to Ghornathia, the Gnome Kingdom could only be opened from the inside and only if the correct password were given. Gomel had quickly found the small cleft in the bare cliff face, hidden well between several large boulders used to create a small passage wide enough for only Gnomes to pass through. Even then, it was so well hidden that you would have to known exactly where to look: two very discrete runes scratched into the underside of a flat piece of shale carefully placed at the foot of the cliff.

Gomel had wriggled his way down the passage, his oversized belly making it a tight fit, until he reached the Horn of Ghothos. Taking a deep breath, Gomel blew one short blast, followed by two long, which was the password.

Although the sound could not be heard on the surface, Gomel knew that the Gate sentries would hear the horn’s deep, resonating bellow. They would quickly check their visitor, peering through well-concealed peep-holes, some way up the cliff face. Gomel quickly squeezed back down the passage to check on Cradon and wait for the gates to open.

Cradon was deathly white. He had been unconscious now for three days and was cold and clammy with the fever that raged through his blood. Gently, Gomel wiped his brow with a small cloth, then rubbed water onto the boy’s chapped lips, as he had done countless times in an attempt to keep him hydrated. Cradon did not stir and Gomel could now hear his shallow breathing was laboured.

What was taking them so long?
What was only a few minutes seemed like an eternity. He stood in the heavy, white silence of the snowstorm waiting impatiently for the hidden gates of Ghothos, the east entrance of Ghornathia, to open.

Finally there came a cracking and a rumbling, loud enough to be heard over the storm. A crack spread up the rock face as the gates began to open. Two shadowy figures appeared from the gloom. Gomel shouted, waving his arms wildly, beckoning them to come. Reluctantly the two figures approached, shielding their faces against the stinging snow.

“Gomel! We barely recognised you! We were not expecting you back so soon!” shouted the sentry above the howling gale.

“I have no time to explain. Help me with the boy!” Gomel’s words were almost lost in the blizzard, but somehow the two gnomes understood him. Together, the two of them dragged the sledge and body through the gateway as Gomel led the two horses. At first the animals were reluctant, especially Sonda, but they soon relented, realising the unknown, warm darkness was better than the biting blizzard.

The gates closed behind them with a heavy thud that echoed down the black passage. At first Gomel could only see blankness, as if he was still stuck in the whiteout. He blinked, waiting for his eyes to adjust.

It was quiet now they were out of the relentless wind. Gomel inhaled the familiar musty smell of home, feeling his fingers and toes starting to thaw. His eyes slowly adjusted to the apparent darkness, and the passage and fellow gnomes began to take shape. With his fingertips he touched the perfectly smooth, flat wall, the sensation filling him with relief that he had made it. He turned to thank the two guards who were stooped over Cradon’s body.

“We need to take him to the healers immediately,” he begged, kneeling down beside the stretcher.

One of the guards looked at him, and then back at the boy again, pulling down the hood that partially hid Cradon’s face.

“It would be breaking regulations. We must take him back outside.”

“What?” Gomel could hardly believe what he was hearing.

The two guards stood sharply, placing their hands on their sword hilts.

“You know that no other kin has stepped foot in these mountains for centuries, not even Elves. Not in these dangerous times!”

Gomel, felt the rage bubbling inside him. “I have struggled up these mountains, trying to keep this boy alive. I will happily explain my actions and his presence before the council and the King,” Gomel spat through clenched teeth, specks of spit dousing his beard.

The guards exchanged looks. They could tell Gomel was not going to be persuaded. Something about his determined expression convinced them he was in earnest. Besides, the clansman was unconscious, perhaps close to death, so there could be no harm in easing his last few hours. Having finally persuaded themselves, they carried the stretcher down the long passage while Gomel led the horses behind them, closely watching their every move. The corridor was lit with flaming torches on the smooth walls. Their shadowy silhouettes danced as they marched down the narrow passage, deeper into the mountain core.

Finally they reached the internal door to the kingdom. Rather than the grey stone of the walls, this door was carved from a heavy, dark wood, inlaid with bold, metallic runes. The thrill and relief of being home and the thought of seeing his family once again sent a race of tingles down Gomel’s spine.

Two more sentries standing on guard by the central door greeted Gomel and his escorts with a simultaneous hail and salute. They banged the heavy ornate metallic knocker on the door, signalling for the heavy bolt on the other side to be lifted. With a rumbling shudder, the doors swung open to reveal Ghornathia, Gomel’s home.

It was a vast underground kingdom, which stretched far beneath the extensive Lopthian Mountain chain. Over the centuries the Gnomes had dug a multitude of tunnels, halls and chambers, reaching up into the towering peaks and down into the deep roots of the earth. There were four entrances to the outside world, each hidden in the typical Gnomic way. Most corridors and chambers did not have windows onto the outside world, but were instead lit by torches and elaborate candelabras and lanterns of mineral stones and gems.

Ghornathia was self-contained, housing the entire race. The Gnomes rarely needed to surface, having found ways to provide everything they needed to survive underground. Only at the call of the Elves had they reluctantly ventured back into the outside world.

“Hurry, we can not waste any more time.” Gomel ordered the soldiers carry Cradon as quickly as possible to the infirmary.

He beckoned for two more guards to take Danfur and Sonda to the stables, first removing the saddlebags and their precious cargo. The guards nervously took the reins of the animals, unaccustomed to such large beasts. They stomped their hooves and snorted, sensing the guards’ fear, hesitant to leave their rider. Whinnying and tossing their manes angrily, the whites of their eyes glaring, they were eventually led off with the help of more soldiers. Gomel knew that they would somehow find a way of housing the poor animals, even though the largest animals kept were small versions of cattle.

Clutching the saddlebags, Gomel hurried to reach the infirmary, the way through the winding maze of tunnels ingrained into his memory. Thankfully the guards had already arrived but the healers were doing nothing except stare at the injured clansman. Many of them, especially the young ones, had not seen a clansman before and they all knew the rules about strange kin in the kingdom without the King’s permission.

“What are you standing around for? Help him!” yelled Gomel, his temper rising. He dropped the saddlebags and began heaving Cradon’s limp body onto the low-lying bed. After watching him struggle for a few moments one of the healers felt obliged to help. Together, but with considerable effort, they shifted Cradon sideways. The bed was far too small for the boy, but it would have to do.