Light Of Loreandril (40 page)

Out of breath, the healer looked at Gomel nervously, waiting for further instructions.

“He has a large wound across his back.” Gomel gently rolled Cradon onto his side. “I am sure it’s infected and he has a high fever.”

The healer looked at his fellow gnomes and then back at the boy. Gomel was already undressing the wound, releasing the putrid stench of decay. Unable to forget the healing oath he had made, the healer began to help Gomel, carefully pulling back the strips of bloody fabric. The others reeled as the smell hit them, holding up their hands to cover their noses. Finally they succumbed and fetched the various things they would need for the healing process to commence.  

Gomel sat out of the way, still watching their every move, ensuring the boy was tended to appropriately. He would have been wracked with guilt, except exhaustion was beginning to cloud his mind. His body, now warming up, was reminding Gomel of the pounding it had recently been subjected to. Every part of him was now aching or bruised.

The healers stripped Cradon of his wet, dirty clothes, and dressed him in the largest clean gown they could find. Lying him on his front, they washed the wound, cutting out as much of the dead flesh as they could, cleaning out the rancid puss. Once satisfied, they doused it in a ground mush of pungent, brown healing mud, accompanied by a small handful of squirming, yellow maggots. They finished by wrapping the wound tightly in sterile strips of white gauze and bandages.

“There is nothing more we can do for him,” the first healer explained. “It is just a case of waiting to see whether the fever will break.”

Gomel sighed heavily, rubbing his tired, red eyes.

“Can we tend to you?” The healer held out some cloths and a cool bowl of clear liquid. “The wound on your head may become infected if it is not cleaned properly.”

Gomel touched his tender scalp with his fingertips. He had forgotten about his own injuries, being too preoccupied with taking care of Cradon. Gratefully, he allowed the healer to begin gently cleaning his deep scrape, while two nurses helped him slip out of his heavy, wet clothes and into fresh garments.

“Now, perhaps you would like to get some rest. I am sure you wish to stay with your travelling companion,” urged one of the healers, pulling back the bed sheet.

“No! I cannot rest until I have spoken to the King.” Gomel stood up, slightly refreshed, and began heading out the door, picking up his saddlebags. He paused mid-step and turned. “Please send word if his situation changes…..he has become dear to me…….And……. I believe the King will wish to speak to him as a matter of urgency.”

The healer nodded and Gomel disappeared out into the city, leaving Cradon in their capable hands.

Gomel made his way through the city, climbing up towards the palace. Everywhere he went the people turned to watch him, whispering. Gomel was well known throughout the Kingdom and word had quickly spread that he had returned with a clansman.

Gomel did not managed to reach the palace before being accosted by armed guards sent by the King. They demanded Gomel be clapped in irons and escorted immediately into the presence of the King and council to explain his actions. Too tired to explain himself, Gomel did not put up a fight, allowing the guards to bolt the restraints around his ankles and wrists. Only when they tried to relieve him of his saddlebags did he threaten to cut their throats, claiming the King would execute them if anything befell the contents of the bags. They allowed him to keep hold of his belongings, realising it would make their life easier.

There was no fanfare to welcome Gomel. With guards holding either side, the gnome was escorted up the wide spiral staircase. He had climbed these stairs many times before but never under the heavy, shameful cloud of arrest. However, he was confident it would not last long.

The King’s court was the biggest, grandest feat of the gnomes, a true sign of their decadence, wealth and skill. Its high vaulted ceiling, supported by extravagantly chiselled columns, was lit by a multitude of flaming, gilt torches on tall, heavy sconces. Massive, decorative chandeliers of gold and green crystals dangled down, glinting in the light of the flames, dappling the floors and walls with a reflected rainbow of colour. Even the stone floor was paved in rare, white marble, streaked and flecked with grey and blue. There was nothing dainty about this room, everything was bold and angular, just as the Gnomes liked it.

The guards pushed Gomel forward roughly, trying to force him to stumble onto his knees, but he maintained his feet, wanting to kneel of his own accord. With a deep trill of trumpets, the doors at the far end opened and Gorthel, King of the Gnomes, entered with his entourage close on his heels.

He was dressed in a dark, crimson robe, lined and trimmed with back fur. Beneath this he wore a silver cuirass, inlaid with jewels of all colours. Around his balding, speckled head was a small band of silver with a single perfect diamond set in the front.

The King was relatively young, having only been on the throne thirty-six years since his father died, but his beard was showing the strain of ruling in these dark times, flecked with grey and white wiry streaks.

The whole court kneeled, including Gomel, bowing their heads respectfully as the King took his seat on the bronze throne, embellished with emeralds and rubies. He waved his hand, the sign for his court to stand once more.

A guard kicked Gomel, shoving him forward towards the king. Struggling in his restraints, Gomel waddled forward, the saddlebag still slung over his shoulder. Gorthel just stared at his subject in silence and then sighed long and heavily, shaking his head.

“Remove his restraints, that was not what I ordered.” Gorthel’s voice was deep and slow, commanding unarguable obedience.

Immediately, the guards unshackled Gomel, and at the King’s instruction left the chamber. Gomel rubbed his wrists, grateful that the cold, heavy iron braces were no longer clapped around them.

“Oh, Gomel. What has become of you? Bringing a clansman into my Kingdom, our only place of secrecy and refuge.”

Gomel hung his head, waiting for the right moment to speak.

“When I requested you to go on this mission for the Elves, I sent you in good faith to be my ambassador. But now you return, not with Elves but a clansman and clearly your mission has not been completed as I have received no message from the Loreandril to summon our kin to war upon the Empire.” He sighed again, mulling over his words. “I hope my once loyal subject has a reasonable explanation.”

There was a heavy silence, filled with anticipation, hanging in the air. The court stewards were hushed, waiting for Gomel’s reply. The gnome bowed his head once more, respectfully taking the King’s leave to speak.

“My King, I am still your loyal, honoured servant. I can assure you I have my reasons to be here and for bringing a stranger into your Kingdom.”

“You admit that this was wrong? Are you prepared to vouch for him, to succumb to your own execution if he reveals himself as our enemy?”

“Yes, my Lord. Yes!” Gomel spoke with conviction in his words, much to the King’s satisfaction.

“I would welcome your explanation,” nodded the King.

“Perhaps the King would permit me to show him the contents of my bag first? I believe this will quench all doubts.”

Gorthel stroked his long beard thoughtfully and then motioned for a steward to bring the bag that Gomel was offering. The steward first checked through the bag, ensuring there was nothing that could endanger the King. His eyes suddenly widened and he took a surprised step backwards as he unwrapped the Aeonorgal, its pure white light glinting in the warm darkness of the leather bag. He bowed and promptly handed the saddlebag to the King.

Slowly, Gorthel eased out the Aeonorgal, still wrapped in its silver embroidered cloth. With bated breath, he slipped the cloth off the silver, shining orb, revealing its full glory to the court. The attendants gasped as its light radiated, bouncing off the walls and chandeliers. Gorthel stared into the memorising sphere, captivated by its swirling mysteries.

Finally, he broke his gaze and looked at Gomel, almost speechless.

“Forgive me. I should not have doubted your loyalty, Gomel. You have always served me faithfully.” The King clutched the Spirit Star tightly to his chest, knowing how valuable it was. “But pray tell me, why have you returned here and not Loreandril? What of your comrades?”

Gomel cast his eyes to the marble floor, a lump developing in his throat.

 “Of one of them you know, the boy, Cradon. Of the others, I do not know. My last glimpse was as the enemy captured them during an ambush. The boy and I escaped with the Aeonorgal.” Gomel looked up now, not at the King, but the Spirit Star. “I knew our only hope was to return here, my King.”

“I see the despair and hear the guilt in your voice, Gomel. Your judgement was wise. Though your companions may have been lost, it was not in vain. To risk the fate of the Aeonorgal to attempt rescue would have been foolish.”

“Thank you, my King. Your words bring me comfort.”

“And of the boy? What is your request?”

“Cradon was injured as we returned here, my Lord. I……We owe it to him to see he is returned to his homelands once healed of his wounds.”

“And if he does return home, can we trust that he will not divulge our secrets?”

Gomel nodded. “He is loyal, not to the Empire, but to the cause. He too has suffered great loss at the hands of our enemy. His brother was amongst those who were taken.”

“I understand. I also respect your judgement, old friend. You have always been a sound advisor over the years to me and to my father before me.”

The King stood and automatically all those present in the chamber fell to their knees. Placing the Spirit Star on the cushion of his throne he took several steps towards Gomel and offered him a ring-encrusted hand. Gomel kissed it and then allowed himself be pulled up onto his feet. The King clutched his shoulders and embraced him.

“Dear friend, you are more than a loyal subject; you are our saviour!”

The old gnome was greatly surprised at the King’s emotional response and unusual physical contact. “Your words are too kind,” he stuttered.

“And you are too humble!” Gorthel laughed, looking into Gomel’s eyes again. “I would be honoured if you join me for a private dinner so we can talk more, but first I suggest you get some rest. I am sure your family will also be waiting to see you.”

“Yes, my Lord, thank you!” Gomel was stunned. He may have offered council to the King before, being wise in his old age, but he had never before been asked to dine in the King’s private quarters.

Taking the King’s leave, Gomel left the chamber, leaving the Aeonorgal in the safety of the King’s court. He gave no thought to what would be required next, his only thought was to see his beloved family and sleep in a warm, soft bed.

The King sat motionlessly on his grand throne alone in the chamber, having requested his entourage leave. He needed privacy and time to contemplate the sudden events that had been thrust upon him. The original plan was that the Aeonorgal would be taken straight back to the Elves. Only they had the strength and magic to hide such a sacred, mystical item from the dark overlords.

His father had often told him of times of old. He was too young to remember the golden ages of peace and tranquillity before the years of battling against the uprising, rebelling force.

Magic had never really had a place in their kingdom. Gnomes had no use for it. They were happy in their skilfully carved caverns and gracefully winding tunnels hidden underground. Gnomes barely even had a need for the outside world. But now, Gorthel was faced with the thought of war brewing at the foot of his mountain and all because of the glowing sphere that now lay in his hands. The young King studied the swirling mists with a growing, cold sense of dread creeping into his bones. The Gnomes did not have the strength to hold back the dark armies if they came looking for this stolen item.

He cursed under his breath, knowing that he had agreed to their part in the Elves quest, but without thinking of the possible consequences. It was immediately clear to him that the Aeonorgal would have to be returned to the Elves as soon as possible, but with winter starting to take its icy grip there was little hope of making it there safely. Besides, he had no way of telling where the Elves would actually be. In recent years they had become increasingly difficult to find.

He would have to summon the council and a decision would be made as quickly as possible. The lives of his subjects were now at stake.

It was such a pleasure finally to be standing in front of the familiar aubergine wooden door. Gomel tentatively held the polished, brass knob, wanting to savour the moment. No sounds came from inside, but there was a flicker of candle and fire-light shining through a small gap in the heavy, velvet curtains of the small round window. Although part of him just wanted to collapse into a warm soft bed, with clean, white linen sheets, the rest of him yearned deeply to embrace his children and kiss his beloved wife.

Slowly, he turned the handle and pushed the door open.

“Ompi!” shouted familiar voices from inside. “It’s Ompi!”

There was a stampede of footsteps and the door was flung wide. Before him stood the beaming, wide-eyed faces of Gambil and Thombil, his two grandsons. Gambil, the younger of the two, still only in his tweens, flung his arms around his grandfather’s round, ample stomach, hugging him so tightly Gomel could barely breath. Gomel rubbed his short fuzzy black hair affectionately as he held out his other arm to embrace Thombil.

Behind them stood their father, Drombil, clad in his usual attire of dark brown breeches held up by emerald green suspenders over a dark green tunic, covered by a beige waistcoat. He looked briefly at his father, a small smile ran across his face as he saw the happiness of his children, but then he turned away, not wanting to meet his father’s eyes.