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The right of Sean McKeown to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted. All rights reserved. No part of these documents may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical including photocopying, scanning and recording, for any purpose, without the express written consent of Sean McKeown.
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Trent couldn't quite seem to lose the feeling of impending doom that
had slowly but surely come over him in the last afternoon.
Hanging in the air, suspended miles above the Sarpadian landscape with
his two traveling companions, Trent would barely know that he was moving
if not for the wind whipping past his face. The dread whistling of the
wind in his ears was only a low moan now that they had slowed their
escape, matching something deeper within his own heart. Or at least he
thought it did; it might just have been the intense vertigo he was
feeling at the bone-jarring plummet he was expecting at any given second
for the last few hours.
He looked to his mistress, but as before her eyes were closed, a fine
sheen of sweat flowing from her face. And Grish had yet to awaken; the
Orcish Prince had passed out from fright hours ago. He grinned to
himself at the thought, the proof once again that he was the strongest
of the pair despite the Orc's unusually lofty mannerisms. To keep
himself busy, and feeling useful, he turned back to surveying the skies
ahead, trying not to think of the long plummet beneath him.
I'm just... swimming, he reminded himself.
'Cept that there be no water, an' I'm nae moving me arms an'
legs...
Finally, he got bored of the passing snowdrifts far below.
Unfortunately, his intense sense of impending doom hadn't lessened.
Feeling strangely prophetic at the moment, he inverted himself, staring
backwards between his stubby legs.
Something was following them. Something dark, ugly, and fast.
At the same time, Gwendolyn snapped to her senses. "I'll handle this,
Trent... watch out for yourselves down below," she told her companion.
No sooner had he heard her than he began to get a sickening, plummeting
feeling. Before long, she was just a speck in the sky to him and the
ground was growing ever nearer.
Trent pulled his Orcish companion close by, and waited to hit the
ground. Brighter than the sun, fire erupted above him. His worry grew,
as did his acceleration.
Luckily, the snowdrifts and Grish broke his fall. Unluckily for Grish,
there was no one to break his fall, and Trent's sudden impact didn't
help.
Luckily for Trent, Grish didn't wake up right away.
Gwendolyn sent Trent and Grish on their way down, to the terra firma of
Sarpadia's sparse woodlands below. As soon as the pair had begun to
fade from unaided sight, she halted, floating in midair to await the
dark beast. She called the mana of Pure and Illusion to her in force,
using the strength bought by the last few hours' meditation to generate
wards and to garner knowledge of the beast's nature and origin.
Gwendolyn spun her gossamer chains far about her, building a sphere of
power to focus her powers and keep the beast away. The creature
approached rapidly, and already Gwendolyn could pick up the wafting
scent of rotting, decaying life.
The Night Mare halted before the gossamer sphere, avoiding the realm of
Pure energy. Its dark eyes burned with inhuman intensity, staring
through the wards to search out Gwendolyn.
With a voice as harsh as breaking glass, it spoke.
"Sorceress! Your fate is met!" The mare began to
twitch, and with its jitters came wisps of flame upon its ebon flanks.
The Night Mare snorted smoke and flame, and with eyes like burning
embers the darkness of the horse spread across the air.
Gwendolyn stayed put, hovering as if she were standing on glass. She
sent light spells to the beast, rays of command and spells of purity to
dissipate the dense bundles of dark mana that fed the beast. The pure
spells splashed on its flank, bleaching the horse temporarily but
failing to blot out the power of darkness. The darkness quickly blotted
out her efforts, as if she had done nothing at all. The ray was
countered mysteriously by a distant will, but she did not press the
issue.
Gwendolyn tried the most potent White spell she could think of, the
spell springing to mind instantly without searching her mental grimoire.
The ancient duelists named it "Swords to Plowshares",
and by casting it she would be returning the beast to its homelands,
dissipating its mana back to the beast's controller. The spell quivered
on her fingers, a globule of Pure mana. She pitched it at the Night
Mare with telekinesis, and though the spell indeed found its mark, the
Night Mare remained.
"Your spells do nothing to me, sorceress!" the beast
cried. Its eyes and hooves burst alight with hellfire, and its ice-cold
eyes smoldered as it reared to charge. Gwendolyn ignored its shrieks,
instead strengthening her wards against its charge. The Night Mare
collided with cataclysmic force, sending out a trail of hellfire that
marked its passage through her spell fields. Its charge unabated,
Gwendolyn retreated, to attempt once again to wrest control of the
creature.
To build her strength while fleeing, she called through the nether void
for stones of power, gems that sparkled with the hues of mystical
energy. The Night Mare charged after her, its fury growing ever
stronger. It ran across the afternoon sky with hooves aflame, scarring
the clear skies as it passed through the last of her wards. The beast
unleashed a demonic howl, splitting her eardrums before she could
protect herself. Her world went silent, but her resolve grew as the
pain continued to sting her very brain, the throbbing giving her a crazy
idea.
Maybe even crazy enough to work.
Gwendolyn tried every incantation and enchantment she knew, trying to
gain control of the Night Mare. Grasps and binds and magicks galore,
countering the counterspells that were invoked from afar. The classic
battle of spell-versus-counterspell began, but being adept at the
trickery of such fights of interruption, she pulled out all the stops.
Gwendolyn 'fought dirty' as masters of Illusion liked to put it,
abusing hidden knowledge to strengthen her spells while sapping the
strength of her opponent. That the Necromancer who must be behind this
had such knowledge of the ways of Illusion was a testament to him, as
most shunned the 'passive' magics to strike harder and faster at their
opponents. With a raised eyebrow, she thought just what a lesson she
would teach this one.
She reacted to his counterspells with drains upon their
mana, leeching their strength and adding it to her
own. When he tried to respond again, she used the
mana against him, sinking his strength from him with
an equal amount of hers… strength she stole from him in the first place.
Before long, he was at desperate measures, while she still had a small
but respectable pool of mana available to her.
Drawing upon all the mana of the islands and
frostlands, she disrupted his desperate moves, turning the force of his
will with a wave of her hand and a bemused smile.
All the while, the Night Mare charged onward. She hurriedly threw a
wall of air between it and her, using the last of the
mana of illusion available to her. The
mana sucked dry, she began to fall as her spells of
Flight faded into nothingness. Her plan working thus far, except for
the problem with gravity she seemed to be developing, she cast
Armageddon and mauled her mana lines, destroying all
mana in the vicinity.
Gwendolyn laughed a hearty laugh as the wisps of smoke that were the
Night Mare brushed past her, quickly followed by a fit of coughing up
the foul smoke, and a hearty scream as she plummeted faster and faster
to the earth below.
She almost passed out as she continued to fall, sheer velocity ripping
the breath from her lungs as the wind whipped by. In a dreamlike state,
she saw herself touch the faintly glowing stones about her neck, pulling
their mana into her.
Her fall didn't stop. Cursing slowly within the confines of her skull,
Gwendolyn searched for the simple spell to halt her fall. She browsed
her mental grimoire, slowly turning the 'pages' until she found
something to do it. She channeled the mana, cast the simple spell, and
her mind all but exploded with sheer pain at the impact.
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEYYYYYYYYYOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWW!!!!
Her mind screamed, her lungs too weak to follow despite the basest impulse of all.
Her fall paused momentarily, she passed out from the pain, her back
broken in several places from the misfired spell.
Stupid, stupid... Jump instead of Flight! I deserve to die
for such a mistake, she thought moments before blacking out.
She didn't even have time to heal herself.
Grish had seen her falling moments before she hit the ground. "Trent,
follow me!" he called out to his companion, who was still trying to
dislodge himself from a rather large tree. Without another word or even
a backward glance, he took off in Gwendolyn's apparent direction.
Trent gave up on climbing down the cold, icy trunk of the pine tree and
just fell the last few feet to the dense-packed snow below, landing
among the bear's giant footprints. The troll looked about furtively,
then raced off after his orcish rival. After a mad dash through the
sparse, snowy woods he caught sight of Grish again, and slowed to a more
reasonable pace.
"Where she be?" Trent called out, a slight edge of panic to his voice.
One was best served travelling these areas with a wizard (or sorceress,
as it may be) than alone, especially when the Necromancer Gwendolyn was
searching for was searching for you in return. Hurriedly he sniffed the
air for clues, but her scent was not present.
"Mistress be around heah, somewheres. Keep your eyes an' ears on th'
lookout, but don' stop moving," the Orcish prince commanded. While he
may not take orders from Orcs, it seemed reasonable and Trent did it
anyway. Now side by side, the pair scanned their respective terrain for
any hint of Gwendolyn or her fall.
The geas called out to them, pulling them onward as
if they were mere puppets of flesh. They found their mistress floating
tenuously, less than a hand's span from the earth below.
"Don' jus' stand there... you fools... help me!" she croaked out to
Trent and Grish. Gwendolyn passed out, her eyes rolling to the back of
her head as she fell the last bit to the ground, her spell depleted of
its vital mana once again.
"We'd best start to move, before something finds us here," Trent said,
stepping into command. His 'seniority' for travel on wizards' journeys
was enough authority for Grish to accept the wisdom of that, especially
since he knew it to be common sense not to stay in wild terrain with a
wounded companion, especially wild terrain that was known to breed
especially large bears.
Buffoon, Grish thought. "Let's make up a litter,
so's we can carry her."
"The Elven lands be to our south an' west, we're almost there.
B'nightfall we should be safe in tha camps, if'n we hurry with tha
litter," Trent said, remembering Gwendolyn's maps. "If we follow th'
river south o' us to the west, we'll be at the main entrance to
Havenwood, Iliad's Pass."
Grish was already ripping down branches from the surrounding pines.
"Less talk, more carpentry, m' friend."
Trent glowered at the hunched Orc, and pulled his dagger loose from his
belt. He spent an instant contemplating correcting his mistress'
mistake, then turned and began to hew the branches and strip their bark.
An hour past nightfall, Trent and Grish stopped at a small clearing in
the forest. Putting their mistress down carefully, the pair rooted
through their packs for a late dinner. Trent left Gwendolyn in the
orc's care as he searched for firewood, going back into the denser brush
of the trail they had found through the desolate forest.
The troll hadn't wandered far before he began to sense that he was
being watched. As before, a general sense of unease was slowly growing
inside of him. Trent continued his collection, finding the occasional
fallen branch or large twig and bundling them up with his broad arms.
Walking over a rise in the terrain, Trent caught a glimpse of something
out of the corner of his eyes. Shifting warily with his burden, Trent
looked quickly around him but saw nothing at all. He turned around just
as rapidly, deciding to return to the camp and the relative safety of
Grish and Gwendolyn.
Staring him in the face was the point of an arrow, held in place by a
taut bow and a large, well-muscled Elf. "Drop the wood, troll, and keep
your hands where I can see them," the Elf said, his eyes narrowed to
small slits.
Trent did as he was told. Although his stony hide could probably
withstand an arrow's impact, he didn't want to test the theory with his
face. "I'm nae here on mischief, Elf," he said. "We be needing help,
our mistress be hurt. Our quest leads us tae Elvenhome, so that she can
ask a favor of the Elvish Lord."
The Elvish archer sneered with disgust, and notched his arrow back a
bit more. "A likely story. Take me to your camp, then, Troll."
Trent started back to the camp, the Elvish archer keeping behind him
with the bow at the ready. Trent kept his hands clasped behind his
back, expecting that the Elf would lead them to Havenwood after the
situation was cleared out. The pair continued through the forest, Trent
leading at a slow pace and winding through the trees as he followed the
path back to where he left Grish and Gwendolyn. Neither he nor the
Elvish archer spoke as Trent saw the clearing at last, and made a
beeline for the center of the grassy knolls.
After stepping into the clearing himself, the Elvish archer fired a
warning arrow to Trent's side as he hurried off. "Stop, Troll," the elf
commanded. "On your knees."
Trent did as he was told, and looked about the clearing for Gwendolyn
and the Orc. He heard a soft twang of a bowstring,
and felt a seething rush of pain from his right knee as he fell to the
forest's floor. Hamstrung, Trent could only curse foully at the Elf as
he rolled himself over to see what was going on. The archer was resting
on his bow, half a dozen of his companions melting out of the forest
before his eyes. Searching the new group, he saw Gwendolyn and her
litter on the shoulders of a pair of young Elves, and an unusually large
and muscular Elf carrying an equally large and muscular Orc that could
be none other than Grish in these parts. By his count, Grish had seven
or eight arrows sticking out of his arms and legs.
While Trent pitied the Orc for his position, he noted the kindness with
which the Elvish archers had treated him: their orders were to kill all
Orcs and Goblins on sight. Grish would live, which was breaking with a
tradition as ancient as the human Empires on Sarpadia.
One of the archers pulled a blindfold from the gear at his belt, and
walked over to Trent as he wailed and cursed all Elves. Trent tried to
kick the Elf with his good leg, but was soon deprived of a good leg in
return; the Elf sliced the tender muscles of the calf with a serrated
knife able to penetrate even his stony exterior. Blindfolded from
behind, Trent was clubbed repeatedly in the back of the head until he
finally feigned unconsciousness, the blows stinging painfully. The
blows started anew until at last Trent succumbed to the darkness. The
only sensation that remained to him was that of moving gently through
the forest, the whispers of the Elvish tongue soothing him like the
babbling of a brook.
Gwendolyn awoke to find herself in the care of an Elvish healer,
paralyzed from the waist down by her injuries. The matron soon noticed
that she was conscious at last, and came to attend to her. Gwendolyn
looked around the small ward realizing that the structure was built
around a living tree.
"Good morning, Lady Gwendolyn," the matron said warmly. "On behalf of
my lord, Eowendil Elven-King, I welcome you to Havenwood." The healer
smiled at Gwendolyn, showing perfect teeth to match her unblemished
features. "You have been in our care for two days now, healing from
your injuries."
"For that I thank you, Lady..."
"I am called 'Spring Blossom' in your tongue, Gwendolyn." Spring
Blossom sat down in a chair of sylvan make beside Gwendolyn's bed, and
folded her hands peacefully on her lap.
"I am in your debt, Spring Blossom. Might I ask about my treatment?
I, myself, am a healer."
Spring Blossom nodded with approval, perhaps surprised by the notion of
a human healer traveling with such companions as Gwendolyn was found
with. "But of course, Lady Gwendolyn. You have a connection to the
stream of life, the verdant magic your people call 'Order'?"
"A humble connection, Spring Blossom, as I am yet learning the art. My
skill seems to lean elsewhere, unfortunately, and I would be pleased to
learn further from one such as yourself," Gwendolyn answered, imagining
how haggard, how travel-worn she must look in
comparison to the Elvish healer, Neresidia. Gwendolyn soon dismissed
that human reaction, appealing to her enlightened
sensibilities.
"We began regenerating your damaged areas as soon as the warriors
carried you to this hospice on a crude litter, knitting together bones
and reinvigorating the surrounding tissues. To keep you unconscious, we
brewed a potion of tava root and administered it twice a day until this
morning. A spellcaster, Master Elendis, cast an enchantment of
regeneration upon you yesterday to speed your recovery, as Lord Eowendil
wishes to speak with you as soon as possible."
Gwendolyn tried to turn in her bed haphazardly, failing to move in
quite the same ways as she had grown accustomed to. Mildly frustrated,
not acknowledging the full ramifications of her continuing injury,
Gwendolyn gave up in her awkward attempt at sitting up. "How serious
were my injuries, my friend?"
Spring Blossom nodded, as if seeing for the first time the subtle touch
of green mana on Gwendolyn. "Several bones were
broken, and you had suffered much damage to your back. I am afraid it
is beyond even our talents to mend your legs, although we have knit the
bones of your spine back together. We cannot return to you the ability
to walk, milady."
Gwendolyn sighed impatiently, then checked her emotions once again. In
turn, Gwendolyn nodded her thanks. "Neresidia, could you please help me
to turn over?" Gwendolyn asked.
"But of course, Lady Gwendolyn. And it seems I'll have to keep my eyes
on you," Neresidia said, a conspiratorial wink to her fair Sylvan eyes.
Neresidia gently eased Gwendolyn onto her side, her touch as soft as any
mother's. Gwendolyn pulled herself flat, then closed her eyes, touching
the mana of the plains.
Silently, Gwendolyn created her own volley of healing spells, and after
several tries was able to re-forge the link between her spirit and her
body. Her use of the mana was shaky, probably from the doses of tava
extract, which did not empty itself from the system quite as fast as the
Elvish healers might think.
Neresidia was truly shocked when Gwendolyn started to stand up, to the
point where she could not bring herself to rise from her chair.
"Milady..." she said, words failing as her patient clearly did what was
in her reckoning truly impossible.
"Lady Gwendolyn Windsmore, Master of the Pure Arts, at your service,
Neresidia. I am a sorceress. Now, if you would be so kind as to take
me to see your King, I believe we have much to talk about."
The first thing that had surprised Gwendolyn on her trip across the
town in the treetops was the warmth of the place. After several weeks
of braving the wintery elements, Gwendolyn was more than happy to do
without furred cloaks or sorcery to stay warm; after adjusting to the
enchanted weather, she noticed with surprise just how large the network
among the trees was. At this level above the ground, she could see the
spans of rope bridges from tree to tree, house to house, all shaped out
of the living wood itself. The bridges and branches continued on as far
as she could see, blending into the distance with the ever-present fog.
Neresidia joined Gwendolyn at the balcony of the hospice, looking out
into the distance of the Elven city. "King Eowendil's Keep is at the
center of Havenwood, the hereditary home of the Elven ruler of Sarpadia.
'Tis an hour's journey among the treetops, nearly as much so if we leave
the treetops first."
"I plan to do neither," Gwendolyn said, dredging up from her mental
grimoire one of those rare spells used to cure drunkenness. Although
she had yet had cause to use it, as she kept the habits of master of the
Pure seriously, its usefulness was apparent for clearing the wooziness
the tava extract was having upon her control of the
mana. After a few seconds' meditation and
spellcasting, Gwendolyn spoke again. "With your permission, Neresidia,
we shall fly to the Keep of Lord Eowendil Elven-King under your
direction."
"Fly, milady Gwendolyn?" was her only reply. Obviously, the concept
was a novel one to her... none but users of the magic of Illusion,
children, and madmen, seriously contemplated flying from one place to
another.
"Yes, Neresidia. I happen to be quite good at it." Gwendolyn couldn't
decide if the look on Neresidia's face was of amusement or surprise, as
her fair Elvish features masked much of what she was used to looking
for. With a sudden pang of remembrance, Gwendolyn though just how like
her fair Elric Neresidia was... in fact, how all the Elves would remind
her of her true love. It was the first pang of regret she had felt in a
long time, she realized, and in its own way it felt good... as all true
emotions do.
Gwendolyn took a moment to reflect on the thought, and dredged up some
of her old feelings to resolve the brief pain. It had been so long that
she had repressed all of the old hurt at her abandonment, and she had
hardly noticed how time flew while the Quest was still so far from
completion. Nearer to her goals, she needed to purify her feelings once
more. For Elric.
She missed him terribly, every little thing about him that made him her
own. Their love was pure, untainted by greater need... her need now
must be the same as his, for though the ceremony of marriage had not
been performed, they had sworn the words in private more than once.
They were bonded for life, inextricably. The sadness is its own kind of
joy, knowing that the end of it all is growing nearer every minute. And
the sadness fueled her inner strength, giving her the power to face down
the Necromancer for the soul of her one true love.
"The idea is certainly a novel one to me," Neresidia admitted. "If you
weren't walking with a broken spine, I'd think you a fever-ravaged fool,
I admit. But one miracle begets another in these times of ours. Let us
fly, then, and I shall show you the way to the Elven-king's Keep."
Gwendolyn checked her mana lines, strong and fully
recovered from her spell of Armageddon. She laid the enchantment
heavily upon herself, and stepped behind Neresidia. Wrapping her arms
around the smaller woman's waist, she lifted them both with a thought
and headed out into the jumble of branches and ropes. Rising above the
level of habitation among the trees, she found that much less dodging
was necessary than she had first thought.
The two ladies headed towards the center of Havenwood in a manner most
unusual to the locale; indeed, to all of Sarpadia in these times. The
occasional townsfolk below gaped and stared, but none of the sharp-eyed
Elvish archers raised a bow to them. Within half an hour, they had set
down at one of the Elven fortresses surrounding the Keep, alerting the
soldiers within.
After explaining who she was, and who Neresidia was, Gwendolyn was
ushered inside by a pair of His Majesty's elite guardsmen. Neresidia
was dismissed by them, and Gwendolyn thanked her for all of her help
before disappearing into one of the hollowed tunnels that led to the
Inner Sanctum of Lord Eowendil, Elven-King of Havenwood and (for the
moment) Gwendolyn's best friend.
Gwendolyn waited patiently before the massive gilt doors to Lord
Eowendil's sanctum sanctorum, scrutinizing the fine details of the outer
antechambers the guardsmen had left her in. While the chambers were
more beautiful than many of the castles men erected for themselves, and
outmatched the most beautiful Dwarven stonework of Tolaria, it seemed a
little shabby by Elven standards. The paintings and tapestries on the
wall were a rich red, and worth much by any standards, but were not of
the intense scrutiny that one came to expect of the sylvan craftsmen.
Subtle and fine silverworks abounded, but lacked the flair of their
northern brethren.
Finally, the massive chamber doors split, and a herald announced her to
the King. "Lady Gwendolyn Windsmore of the Humans, Master of the Pure
Ways, Sorceress."
The interior of the chamber was much like what she had come to expect
from Elven artisans, the high vaulting ceilings and sloped walls in fact
were carved out of the massive living tree that was
the Keep of Clan Eondil, ancestral home of the King. It was worthy of
such high nobility, if not dynamic and original in comparison to other
Elven works. She crossed the chamber with a light levitation, her feet
scant inches above the rich pile of the red carpet to his throne. At
the foot of the stairs to his throne, she retook the ground and bowed to
the King, her stance that of a noble knight from Icatia's past as she
knelt before him. "My lord," she said, awaiting his approval.
"Lady Gwendolyn, I have been hoping to be able to speak with you since
you have arrived. Your manservants have been most helpful at providing
us with just cause to believe that you might be able to… help us," the
King said, looking down upon her from his throne.
Gwendolyn rose again, and met his eyes full-force. The King was a
beautiful man, even by Elvish standards, and she had expected no less
from such high breeding. Gwendolyn was startled by the resemblance
between him and her memories of Elric, a certain sharpness of jaw and
poise of the eyes that she had seen nowhere else was shared by both.
His fair green skin was unblemished, and his face was benevolent, as
expected of a fair ruler of his people. "I can, my Lord. With some
help, of course, I would make certain that such a fair place as your
Haven Woods could escape the blight of the lands around it."
"Then, my lovely sorceress, you are exactly what I have been hoping for
these last ten years." Lord Eowendil nodded, genuinely believing that
she might be the answer to his problems of encroachment by a dark,
sinister force he could not fight with mere arrows and swordsmen.
Magic-wielders were rarer than anything else in this part of the world
was, since the forces of chaos had overrun it.
"There is a necromancer," Gwendolyn said. "He controls the dark forces
that are baying at your very gates, is master of the flying abominations
that terrorize you. His citadel is nearby, but I cannot find it."
"We have knowledge as to how to find the root of this evil. His
stronghold is never in exactly the same place; it is an enchanted land,
like our own. But do you have any new knowledge to offer us?"
Gwendolyn shrunk a little, relieved that they could indeed help her
find the man who had taken her love from her. Every little fear that
had accumulated along her Quest shrank away, to be replaced with the
fear that she might not be able to beat the necromancer... that she
might not be enough to save her love from his dark tendrils. "No, your
grace, I have very little information to offer you. I have only myself
to aid you in this purpose; he has taken one that I hold dear away from
him, as an apprentice to his dark ways."
Lord Eowendil considered this for a moment, exuding a noble air as he
contemplated the situation. "We would be most grateful, milady
Windsmore. A great evil has been at the very gates of our lands in
recent months."
"Then we have an agreement, my Lord? Your information, in trade for my
services?"
"A fairer bargain has never been struck between our peoples, Lady
Windsmore. My soldiers will lead you to the stronghold of the
Necromancer at your convenience. Will you still be needing your
guides?"
Gwendolyn smiled radiantly, glad that he had brought up the subject of
her companions before she might have to embarrass him with such a query,
and relieved to hear that the party remained intact and in good care
while she was in the care of the Elvish healers. "Yes, milord, if they
are still willing to accompany me. How are they, if I might ask?"
"They are healing well from their wounds. There was a...
misunderstanding... between them and my boundary wardens, but all has
since been rectified. We believed them to have kidnapped you; in fact
we were not sure otherwise until you appeared here at my door as you
did. We have taken pains to accommodate them, although it breaks with
our traditions to allow any of their race within our enchanted realm."
Lord Eowendil nodded as he spoke, reassuring Gwendolyn that he had taken
no unnecessary action against her companions. "In fact, they are being
held not far from the palace. You can rejoin with them shortly, if that
is your wish."
"It is, my Lord," she answered. "They have been of great aid to me in
my journeys from afar, and have in their possession such materials that
I will need to face the Necromancer."
"Then you may visit them this afternoon, and plan your journey. I will
provide you with my royal cartographers and scouts, in your council."
"I must thank you, milord Eowendil, for your aid. Our bargain is
struck, we shall leave on the morrow if all is prepared," Gwendolyn
said, bowing once again before him. "If I might take my leave now,
milord?"
Eowendil Elven-King rose from his throne, and descended the dozen steps
to the chamber's floor. "But of course, Lady Windsmore. But of
course," he said. At the bottom of the stairs, he took Gwendolyn's hand
and kissed it lightly, returning her show of fealty to him in kind.
Seeing him in his full splendor, Gwendolyn again got a sense of
double-vision, seeing not only the king of Havenwood but her love, Elric
half-Elven.
"My lord," she said, freeing herself from his gentle embrace to float
backward towards the outer chambers once again. Beyond the doors, her
honor guard redoubled around her, to escort her to the outer fortress
where Trent and Grish were being cared for.
After descending through the living trunk of another massive tree,
spiraling down innumerable perfectly-formed steps, the guardsmen formed
up on either side of the doorway, one of them fumbling for the keys at
his waist. Gwendolyn held her sphere of light before her, floating like
a will o' th' wisps above her hand, waiting patiently
for the guardsman to open the door. Finally, he found the key and
unbolted the door, and his fellows pulled the reinforced doorway aside
so that she could enter.
Gwendolyn was annoyed that her companions were thrust in such a deep
corner of Havenwood, but that annoyance quickly faded when she saw both
Trent and Grish comfortably reclining in makeshift healers' beds.
"Vacation's over, boys," she said when they failed to respond to the
sudden light that she brought into the room with her. "Time to get back
to work, I'm afraid."
Both the troll and orc rolled over, surprise clearly painted on their
faces. "Gwen!" Trent cried out, relieved that at last his trial among
the Elves must be over. "I've nae been happier t' see a human in me
entire life..." he said ruefully.
Grish bowed awkwardly in his bed, obviously at the least uncomfortable
from his numerous wounds. "Milady Gwendolyn," he said undramatically.
"We'ah glad t'see you in good health 'gain, milady."
"And I am glad to be in good health again, my friends. The quest shall
begin anew in the morning, for the Elves have decided to help us find
the Ebon Stronghold of the Necromancer. In the meantime, I've been
neglecting you both... and we have much planning to do. Let me heal
your wounds for good, now."
Gwendolyn touched the Pure mana with new
determination, laying her hands upon her two guides and friends. She
was interrupted when an Elf entered the chambers with a large bundle of
rolled maps, a pair of rough-looking Elvish archers entering behind him
unarmed. "Milady Windsmore," the short, prudish-looking elf said
nervously.
"Come, come," she said. "We have need of you here, I'll be just a
minute with these two and we can get started."
"As you wish, milady Windsmore," he answered, still nervous to be in
such high presence informally.
"Call me Gwendolyn, I insist... we'll be spending much time together
tonight and I do so tire of the formalities. If you could have someone
send up for some food, I'm sure we can all use a good meal before we
settle down to plan the journey ahead of us."
"As you wish... Gwen," he said, turning to one of the guards at the
door. "A meal, for us all, soldier. If you would be so kind as to run
up and notify the cooks?" he told the guard, in the Elvish tongue.
Gwendolyn flushed angrily. "Gwendolyn, not Gwen... dammit!" she raged
for the hundredth time since bringing the Quest to Sarpadia.
Sean McKeown
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