Elantion. Valentina Massano
by necromancers. Do you know how the transformation takes place?”
“I’m not sure I want to know…”
“After they’re killed, a ritual snatches their souls, and their bodies twist into husks filled only with hatred and brutality.”
“By Dag! I shudder to think those things were once people.”
Clarice put down her daggers and neared the fire. “Let’s eat the hare now; otherwise you’ll char it.”
Having enjoyed their meal, they retired for the night.
Just before the break of dawn, Kaj felt something brush against his shoulder, and woke with a start, only to realize it was her.
“Get up! We’ve got to leave!”
“Dammit, do you mean to scare me to death?”
“If I wanted to kill you, you wouldn’t have noticed.”
The nalnir’s answer sent a chill down his spine. She didn’t even spare him a glance, as she was intent on putting out the fire and hiding the traces so that any other orcs that might be in the area couldn’t identify them. The cloak he habitually wore around his neck concealed most of his body, but he noticed she’d removed her gloves, and regarded her thin cold-beaten hands.
The fog was quite thick that day, but the deeper they ventured into the forest, the thinner the mists became, hanging high amidst the trees. The atmosphere was magnificent, if surreal. The Shadetrail Forest was still this green and lush (in complete contrast with the rest of the world) thanks to elven magic. By comparison, the Whitetrunk Forest was an expanse of bare and battered trees.
They moved forward at a brisk pace, and the forest seemed a samey blur to Kaj.
“Tell me, how do you elves recognize every tree in the forest? How do you always know where you are?”
Her response was not the one he wished to hear. “You humans don’t observe, and you don’t know how to listen to the forest. You’ll never be able to get a grasp. You’re too distracted,” she pontificated.
“Oh c’mon! Would it kill you to answer without the usual elven arrogance!?”
“If you don’t like my answers, then don’t ask questions.”
“Three centuries since the Reconciliation, and nothing’s changed,” he prodded her, annoyed. “I was just hoping to make the trip there more pleasant.”
“We have to walk, not talk. Fenan’s not far now. You can talk to whomever you like once we’re there.”
“You bet I will!”
They walked for a day and a half, most of the time in silence. During the afternoon of the second day, they arrived at the bridge to Fenan, a small and quiet elven village. It stood between two fierce streams, the White and Silver Creeks. Scads of refugees from beyond the Slumbering Peaks had found a home here. The streets (some cobblestone, others clay) were narrow, and the sticky mud of that time of year sullied boots, clothing and cloaks. The houses built by the refugees were mostly small, wooden, one-floor affairs with thatched rooves, while the older homes around the plaza were two stories tall and built using wood and stone. The tavern stood out from among them, along with the smithy’s furnace and forge and their attached residences. At the center of the square was situated a large well, near which stood a vegetable-laden table; a number of human women and female elves were cleaning the vegetables while chatting and having a laugh or two.
On one side of the square was located the building that housed the wounded and sick. It was a sanctuary dedicated to Luhreil, the god of water, and it was a circular structure built of wood and stone. The jutting roof was supported by slender columns, from whose sturdy iron rings sizeable lanterns were hanging. The sanctuary’s large door was made of solid wood, so old and run-down that it had lost its erstwhile shiny patina. Inside, the single nave housed beds and cots, and the handful of windows let in little light. The clouded panes of glass evoked a sense of isolation. Additionally, there were three small rooms and a nice stone fireplace that warmed the whole interior.
“Now go take care of your wounds,” said the elf hastily. “I have something to do.”
“The tavern’s on the other side of the square, if you need a room.”
But Kaj received no reply. He turned to face her, only to find she was gone.
When Kaj opened the sanctuary door, he found it fuller than ever before. There were many inside—too many. There had to have been some battle, with the wounded militiamen taking refuge here. He feared there might not be enough roots for everyone. He had to get to work. He went to the room that had been designated the kitchen and started making his healing brew.
Moments later, he heard the door slam. “So it’s true! You are back!”
He spun on his heels, to see Cilna run toward him and throw her arms around his neck. She was a young elf of Fenan; her family had lived there for many generations, a fact of which she was proud. She was frail, and not very tall, with long always-braided blonde hair and big brown eyes. Her open, friendly, and curious nature had often gotten her in trouble for some ill-spoken words, not to mention all the times she’d been too curious. Like everyone else in Fenan, she wore simple clothes, a linen tunic yellowed by time plus a blue woolen robe which the young woman protected by wearing a coverall.
“Cilna, be careful! These roots are precious!” The bowl had almost dropped from his grip.
“You found so many!” she exclaimed excitedly.
“Yes, and it wasn’t easy. Now let me continue, if you would. You can help me when the medicine’s ready to be distributed.”
Cilna nodded. “I’ll be there when you need me.”
After entrusting Cilna with the hot infusion he’d just finished concocting, Kaj busied himself preparing compresses for the wounds.
Then the young woman called out for him in desperation. “KAJ!”
He rushed over to her. Five ailing and wounded hunters were beginning, one by one, to tremble and squirm. Before long, they were all dead. Their wounds had been infected by the teeth and claws of lalks, demonic wolves whose packs numbered many across all of Elelreel. Cilna was motionless beside Kaj, staring at the hunters’ bodies.
“You didn’t think to check the wounds?” asked Kaj, in time.
Petrified, she stammered incomprehensibly, and moreover, in the heat of the moment she had dropped what little of the potion had remained.
“By all that’s holy!” he shouted, picking up the cauldron and ladle. “How thoughtless can you be? I risked my life for those roots, and then you go and waste them like this! The brew was supposed to be enough for tomorrow morning, too!” he cried. “Get out of here.”
Cilna ran away crying, and the door closed with a dull thud.
III
Snow-bearing clouds were gathering in the north, over the peaks of the Icemount. The frigid winds accompanied Clarice, who had left the village many hours ago to meet with an old friend. Her quick and confident strides belied her confusion; she was beginning to entertain the notion that perhaps this journey had not been entirely in vain. Perhaps she had found what she was looking for. She had bet it all on that human, flouting strict rules in the process, and as such she felt the weight of responsibility on her shoulders more than ever. Nearing the slopes of the Hallowed Heights, she slowed down to try to and catch sight of her friend. Soon enough, she spotted her approaching wearily.
“I’m sorry I made you travel so far,” said Clarice.
They greeted each other by gripping each other’s wrists, and didn’t waste any time with useless small talk. They repasted, and just before dark, they said their goodbyes before Clarice retraced her steps back.
When the nalnir returned, she visited the sanctuary to find Kaj crouching on the floor, sad and disconsolate.
“So many have died, and so many more