Light Of Loreandril (4 page)

The last great battle of Andkhuin had nearly wiped out the Elves, and the capture of the Aeonorgal
had served to hasten their demise. The Aeonorgal,
or Spirit Star
in common tongue, formed the
magical link between the Elves and the Earth Spirits, overcoming the boundary between realms of existence. Without this, their light was extinguished, and with it, all White Magic was weakened. Even the lesser magic practised by the few remaining, scattered clansmen, Dwarves and Gnomes fell into distant memory. The eldest Lor’Aeon Elves, who understood and wielded a deeper magic, retained their full strength, but only three of these elders survived.

For nearly two hundred years the Elven kin had licked their wounds, hiding in fear, their magic weakened beyond belief, frightened to use what little power remained. The Dwarves and Gnomes also hid themselves until the clansmen of the Empire all but forgot their existence. They also neglected the ways of old, no longer inspired to learn about the Earth Spirits and power they too could possess. The Elvish ways passed into memory, then folklore, until finally they were distant figments of people’s imaginations, with only faint recognition in bards’ ancient songs.

Only in the minds of the Rjukhan, the overlords of the Empire, did the Elves remain fresh like recent memories, burning as hot coals. They were old enough to remember the threat that White Magic and the Earth Spirits held over their dark reign.

Secretly, keeping it in shadow, the Rjukhan concealed the Aeonorgal, almost lost in their hidden places, where no eyes fell upon it and no one asked questions, discretely moving it from place to place. In their minds, White Magic and Elves were dead, obliterated from existence, but they knew it would be folly to forget them. For now, only their dark magic and devilish conjurations ruled.

In recent years, the feeling in Loreandril had started to change. The Elves had grown restless with hiding. They longed to live a free life, to roam the lands that were once theirs, and to release all mankind from the grip of this malignant, oppressive force. Witnessing from afar, the Elves had watched silently and helplessly as the Empire cast its shadow across the land, its hold reaching ever further. The deep powers of the Elders sensed their sacred artefact was still intact, untainted by the evil hands that held it. Apparently, even over the past centuries and their knowledge of dark magic, the Rjukhan had been unable to unlock the secrets hidden within the Spirit Star.

The Elves tentatively began to send out spies into the Empire, seeking news of enemy movements, but more importantly clues to the whereabouts of the Aeonorgal. Few returned with any news, until one fateful day a messenger brought tidings of the Aeonorgal. The Rjukhan, as predicted by the Elders, were not resting on their laurels. They had clearly not forgotten the Elves nor had they underestimated the power of the Aeonorgal.

The Elders knew that if they were going to strike they would have to ambush the Empire fast and unexpectedly, but this would only be possible if the power of the Aeonorgal was released, reforming their bonds with the Spirit Realm, the source of their magic. The Council began putting together a plan, one that relied upon the secrets discovered by their spies but that also required the help and strengths of many kin. With their numbers and allies now stronger than ever, they knew the time had come. The Elders chose their representatives wisely.

When Nymril received her summons she had not been taken by surprise. Her father, Neornil, who sat on the Council of the Elders, had forewarned her of the plans that were about to be set in motion; after all, she was one of the last surviving Aeon Elves.

Although young in Elvish terms, being only the equivalent of four hundred and sixty clansman years, she had still fought in the last Great Battle, proving herself to be of strong mind and body. However, her true strength lay dormant inside her: her Earth Spirit.

As her father handed her the scroll of beige, smooth parchment bearing the Council’s golden seal, she watched his hands shake. Nymril did not need to break the wax, reading her father’s expression of torment was more than enough. There was also a sparkle of pride in his deep blue eyes. She was his only child and now she had become one of the few on whom so much rested.

The second to receive his summons was Eilendan, a warrior elf of the highest calibre. He was tall and strong, with long, muscular, lean limbs. For centuries he had carried the rank of captain of the Aeonate Guards, but their numbers still struggled to regain their strength since the tremendous losses at Andkhuin.

Eilendan was over six hundred clansmen years old, yet his face bore no signs of the strain or woes of combat, it bore a look of wisdom, reflected by his air of nobility and courage. The council were aware of the familiarity between Eilendan and Nymril, knowing he had been assigned to protect the young, inexperienced Aeon elf during the last Great Battle. However, no one knew of the unspoken affections they held for each other. They had not even discussed it between themselves; this era was not the right time to dwell on such emotions.

The Elders, knowing it was vital to include their allies in their daring plan, requested that each kin send a representative to travel and fight with honour alongside the two elves. The Dwarves and Gnomes had also begun to sense a change in the air and knew it was time to take a stand against the Empire that held the lands in its corrupt, menacing talons.

The first to arrive was Gaular, a young, dark-skinned, Dun Dwarf of stout build, far taller than normal Minda Dwarves. Though he had never seen battle, he was strong from the years of heaving ore and boulders up to the surface from the deep mines below.

Like all Dwarves, he had a fondness for war hammers and axes, and never went a day without practising his skills or tending to the sharpness of his axe head, knowing that some day it would save his life. Well practised with his heavy, two-handed war hammer of hardened steel, he was a defiant force to be reckoned with on the battlefield. Gaular had been a willing volunteer, honoured to be a part of actions that would change the face of the Empire.

A gnome, also summoned by the Elders, accompanied the dwarf. Gomel was very short in stature, but also stout and strong, despite his diminutive size. He was balding, a common trait amongst male gnomes. It served to accentuate the size of his drooping cauliflower ears and red, bulbous nose.

Regardless of his stature and age, being nearly one thousand clansman years, relatively old for a gnome, he was nominated by his people to fulfil the Elvish wishes. Initially he had tried to decline the request, but eventually pride and ego got the better of him and he succumbed to his King’s wishes. Besides, he knew it would give him chance to fight again. After so many years of hiding underground, merely digging tunnels, his axes had nearly gone rusty. Gomel yearned for a bit of hewing and hacking at Imperial soldiers.

The last to be summoned, and with some discontent among the Elven Council, was Jaidan, a descendant of the scattered clan of Brathu
Ü
nders. Unlike other clans, such as the Hundlingers, they had not surrendered to the Empire, and for this their people were forcibly scattered throughout the land, unable to make settlements, forbidden to trade in cities. They were the Empire’s outcasts, living only in small numbers, or even solitude, in the deserts and harsh mountains, places no other men dared venture, let alone dwell.

It had taken many scouts to locate Jaidan, but as soon as word reached him he came, happy to be allowed back into the company of the Elves once more. Like all Brathu
Ü
nders, there was an air of earthy magic about him. The Elves welcomed men like him, although not often during the past two hundred years, for fear of being discovered by their enemy.

He was tall, almost elf-like in build, but with straggly, brown hair, a dark, scruffy beard and deep-set, brown eyes. Although this man was young, being only thirty-three, he had a weather-beaten appearance and his eyes seemed to hold several lifetimes of hardship and sorrow. The clothes he wore, especially the tattered green cloak draped around his shoulders, bore the signs of the harsh wilderness he had endured over the years.

He brought with him his feathered friend, Khar, a proud, white-crested hawk, who acted as Jaidan’s eyes above the clouds. They understood each other so well, that it gave Jaidan an uncanny second sight.  The clansman was well-practised in archery, with keen eyesight, able to see for miles across a desert or plain. He was also accomplished at throwing knives, and always carried with him an iron shortsword for the close-quartered combat.

And so, this motley group of allies had been thrown together, perhaps by the wisdom of the Elders or maybe by fate, but that no longer mattered. The moment they set foot outside the safety of Loreandril’s borders, they revealed themselves to the enemy. Forced to trust each others’ skills, they rode on their ambitious quest to return the Aeonorgal, and unleash the purity and might of the Elves spirit power onto the dark Empire. Not since the battle of Andkhuin had these kin travelled and fought side by side.

The five travellers had ridden predominantly under the cover of darkness to avoid the eyes of enemy spies. After many weeks of hard riding, they found themselves in the Valley of Kanash, a desolate, arid place, full of tumbleweed and spiky gorse bushes. There was barely enough vegetation for the horses, only sparse sprouts of leathery grass.

Water was even more elusive. Any morning drops of dew were quickly sizzled up as the rising sun burned down upon the desert. Jaidan’s skills from a lifetime in the wilderness became more vital to their survival with each passing day. Nerves were frayed and tempers taut.

Their long journey had given the group time to grow accustomed to one another, becoming aware of their companions’ foibles and irritating habits, but also learning to trust in each other’s skills. Information from the Elvish spies had led them to this dreary place, but so far, there was no sign of what they were searching for. If they had not picked up the tracks of the Imperial troops two days earlier, they would have been tempted or even forced to turn back.

“Please, we must stop. My legs are chaffing, my back hurts, and I can barely stomach the smell of this beast any more!” The gnome kicked his stumpy legs frantically, trying to get the horse beneath him to go faster. The animal just ignored him, continuing to snap at stray strands of dry grass.

Gomel had not stopped complaining since they started. He was inexperienced at riding, his short legs not even designed to wrap around his horse. In fact, he was altogether unaccustomed to travelling further than a few miles, and even then, this was underground in the vast network of tunnels dug by his kin. The gnome had not ventured out of his kingdom, Ghornathia, since the last Great Battle, and now, to hide his nerves, he had taken to complaining about everything. There were entire generations of gnomes that had never seen the sun. Gomel was older and had lived to tell the tales of life before the Great Battle. Even so, he had forgotten how vast the outside world was and how high the sky looked.

The group groaned as the gnome began his usual, daily rant. They would have tried to accommodate him with a smaller horse, one more suitable for his diminutive stature, but speed was a necessity. A small pony would have struggled to keep up with the pace of the large, long-legged, Elven horses. Before leaving Loreandril, the Elves had crafted a special saddle with extra short stirrups for his stumpy legs, and a safety strap to wrap round his waist when riding at high speed. Still, understandably so, he was very uneasy and completely unacquainted with being so high off the ground.

“Stop your incessant whinging! All of us are suffering enough without you making our heads hurt.” Gaular was a typical Dun Dwarf. He had the classic short temper and was very vocal with it.

He too was struggling, but with the heat rather than the riding, his shaved head taking the brunt of the burning sun. The largest of all the travellers, he was used to living high up in the snow-capped mountains, quarrying deep mines, not traipsing through the hot desert. The clothes the dwarf wore did not help matters. His thick, leather cuirass was far from suitable in the desert climate.

Of the comrades, Jaidan was the most comfortable in the arid wilderness. His years of wandering the outlands had trained his body and honed skills for all circumstances and weather, but even the Brathunder was showing the wearing signs of the heat. His sweaty, straggly hair stuck to his forehand and the back of his neck and his beard was turning a sandy red from all the fine dust blowing about.

“Nymril, why don’t we all rest awhile?” Eilendan reined his horse to a stop, turning to look at the flagging Nymril. “We have not stopped for a day and half. It will not do any good if we catch up with them and die during our first ambush.”

Reluctantly, Nymril nodded in agreement.  

“Jaidan, send up Khar so she can check the lay of the land for us.”

Gently, Jaidan stroked his bird under her downy chin, while looking into her yellow- rimmed, beady eyes, conveying a silent message. Khar, understanding, gracefully flapped her brown speckled wings, and flew off effortlessly into the sky. The group watched her soar higher and higher, disappearing quickly into the distance, then coaxed their thirsty horses forward, knowing they must press on until Khar reappeared.

After only a short while, Khar returned, circling high above them. She darted down as Jaidan held out his gloved hand, landing on it in a flutter of white and tan feathers. Barely pausing to acknowledge the others present, the bird began tearing at the limp hare pinned down by her yellow talons, prising stringy flesh from its skinny body. She stopped briefly and looked at Jaidan, cocking her head to one side.

“There is a cutting in the cliff about two hundred yards away,” Jaidan reported. “We should be safe there, at least for a short time.” He clicked his horse forward, leading the others.