She crept back a little and hid under a bush, thinking hard.
She thrust her hands into her pockets and encountered something, something small and hard.
The energy stone that Aranel had given her! She took it out and looked at it. It was supposed to be magical. Bob had said she had magic within her. What had happened to her at the Rannoch gate? Had that been her or the T’Quel?
Memories stirred - murmuring - a male voice - strange words - alien - strangely soothing. More memories - she was a teenager - sleeping in her bed - whispering - a cat - a black cat - a black talking cat. It was as if her mind had woken up. Bob was right. She could wield magic.
I wonder if I can use magic to rescue Aranel, she thought. I certainly can’t get her away from these two Morityaro with only this. She looked with distaste at the knife. It wasn’t the sort of knife she was used to, the type that you took out of a kitchen drawer. This was long, sharp, and dangerous, a killing, hunting, dismembering knife, and she hadn’t much of a clue about how to use it. She couldn’t throw it; that was for sure. Memories of inglorious failures at games of Rounders immediately sprang to mind, but perhaps she could use the magic within her in some way with the help of the energy stone. Problem was, the knife would have to hit its mark and there would be no second chances.
She could hear the Morityaro’s fists continuing to connect with her sister’s body. She had better be quick. Problem was, she didn’t know how to start. What was it Aranel had said? That magic came from within, yes that was it, but how to find out how to consciously get the magic out?
A faint aroma of lavender permeated the air and Kirsty’s head came up. With the scent came a memory, more memories – a memory of a dream that she couldn’t recall remembering before.
“Good morning,” said the cat and yawned, a huge yawn, exposing a mouth full of sharp, white teeth.
“What’s for breakfast?” the cat asked. “I’m very fond of fish. Lemon sole is my favourite, without bones if you please.”
It was as if a spark had exploded in her mind and all at once Kirsty knew how she was going to use the stone to rescue her sister.
She concentrated hard on the stone she was holding in the palm of her hand, willing it to do her bidding. It began to glow. She touched the stone with the tip of the knife blade. The knife jumped in her hand and, in her surprise, she almost lost it.
Leave my hand and fly over to the Morityaro who is holding my sister Aranel and impale yourself in his head, she willed the knife.
There was not a moment to lose. These black Morityaro people might kill Aranel. Kirsty was positive her sister wouldn’t tell them anything despite what they did to her. She’ll die first. I won’t let it happen. She stood up, held the knife pointing directly at the figure holding Aranel and threw it. It hovered in the air above her for a heartbeat then flew, as fast as lightning, towards him. She swayed on her feet. It was as if all the energy in her body had disappeared.
The other Morityaro, hearing her moving, turned and barked out a warning but it was too late. A blink of an eye later and the Morityaro holding Aranel fell to the ground, the knife embedded in the middle of his forehead. Released, Aranel dropped to the ground and was lunging for one of her own knives lying on top of the leaves beside her. She whirled, and as Kirsty burst out of the cover of the trees and began to run towards them she saw Aranel take up a fighting stance and face the other Morityaro, the one who had been doing the torturing.
Aranel only had a knife and her ex-captor had a long, curved sword in one hand and a poniard in his other.
The two combatants began circling, each poised and ready for his or her opening.
Perhaps if Aranel had not been hurt, she might have been able to hold him off but Kirsty could see that her sister was limping as she circled. The Morityaro began to edge closer, out of range of Aranel’s knife but within lunging range of his own sword.
On legs that wobbled with weakness Kirsty ran so fast she thought her lungs would burst. She would never have thought she could cover the ground so fast. Running had never been one of her strong points.
The Morityaro lunged but Aranel evaded his thrust. She limped away, but she was tiring. The second time he lunged she managed to evade the sword blade again but she tripped and fell to the ground holding her knife in front of her in a last ditch attempt to stop the inevitable.
Kirsty kept staggering forward. The Morityaro seemed to have forgotten her, or he was concentrating so hard on finishing Aranel he didn’t notice her approach.
He leant over Aranel sword raised for the killing strike but instead, staggered. Kirsty had reached them and managed to kick his legs with such force that he overbalanced.
Aranel struggled to her feet and retreated, calling for Kirsty to get behind her.
The Morityaro was very angry now and stood looking at them from under his hood.
“So, there are two of you,” he said. “No matter. It will just take a little longer.”
Keeping an eye on the two girls he called out a word in a tongue Kirsty could not understand despite wearing the torc. Aranel did however, and her eyes dilated with fear as she realised what it meant.
The Morityaro was calling for help.
“Silly of me to think there must only be a few,” Aranel said as she prepared to meet her doom.
Kirsty wasn’t thinking of anything remotely coherent at all. She felt physically exhausted and mentally drained all at once.
This is the end, she thought.
* * * * *
Three more Morityaro appeared out of the trees from the direction of the bridge.
They began to advance towards the girls, two of them angling round behind them to cut off any escape.
Kirsty put her arm round Aranel.
“Urieline has the messages and the book,” she whispered in Aranel’s ear.
Aranel’s face cleared a little and she gave a minute nod.
“They’ll take them to Rohir,” Kirsty continued.
Aranel gave another minute nod. Rohir would know what to do. He would find the Tathar and do his best to put everything right. What the two of them had accomplished had not been in vain.
Their eyes met in a sisterly look of affection and mutual respect. “I’m glad you’re with me,” she whispered to Kirsty. Kirsty managed a small smile.
“Now,” shouted the Morityaro who had been kicked by Kirsty and the four dark assassins began moving in.
Kirsty closed her eyes. She didn’t want to watch the Morityaro as he killed her.
Aranel looked up at the sky and stifled a gasp.
Four shapes were hurtling down from above. One of them was belching fire.
Dragons!
* * * * *
The four Morityaro also saw them but it was too late for them to get away.
“Down,” cried Aranel and dragged her to the ground, pulling her cloak over Kirsty’s body.
Huddling together on the forest floor the two listened to what was happening around them; listened and hoped that the dragons were putting the Morityaro to flight.
They could hear shouts and cries of fear and anger, the grunts of fighting, and the occasional swish of blades.
Over it all were the roars of the dragons and the belch and crackle of flames. Kirsty found herself gagging as she recognised the sickening stench of burning flesh.
They aren’t trying to scare them off, the terrified Kirsty was thinking, they are killing them! Killing the Morityaro in such a sickening way! At the same time she was hoping that their dragon rescuers wouldn’t mistake her and Aranel for more Morityaro. Although not a religious person, she found herself praying.
At last it grew silent and Kirsty began to relax. When the only thing she could hear was heavy breathing, and the sickening stench began to grow less prominent, she decided they had best make a move.
She informed Aranel of her intentions by the expedient method of poking her in the ribs.
“Ouch,” hissed Aranel. “Not so hard if you ple
ase. I’m bruised all over.”
Kirsty raised her head slightly, opened her eyes, and found she was staring straight into the huge face of a dragon.
The dragon stepped back and Kirsty raised herself a little higher so that she could see it properly.
He, she assumed it was a he although she didn’t know for certain, was black, black as the blackest night. He had two huge, glittering, red pools that were his eyes and his head was covered in scales. His ears were short and what looked like little tufts of membrane covered them at the front. His large mouth was closed, a fact for which Kirsty was very grateful and he was staring at her.
Kirsty remained as still as she could. She didn’t want to breathe; she didn’t want to blink, just in case this marvellous creature disappeared.
The dragon blinked and a rumbling noise emerged although he didn’t open his mouth.
Aranel began to move and tried to struggle into a sitting position. She managed it with Kirsty’s help. Kirsty was shocked at her first close look at her sister’s face. It was bruised and bleeding, and she appeared to be finding it difficult to open her eyes, the skin was so swollen. Aranel needed medical attention, and quickly.
Turning to the dragon, and hoping he could understand what she was saying, she opened her mouth. The dragon forestalled her.
“We will leave herr-re soon for Ndorr-renisgiathatch,” he said, nodding his gigantic head. “Go strr-rip the bodies of these Morr-rityarr-ro of weapons and anything else of value.”
Kirsty nodded and laid Aranel down on the ground as gently as she could.
“She’s hurt,” she told him.
“I know,” he answered in his rumbling voice, “but you will not take long. Look for anything that might tell us wherr-re they werr-re frr-rom and who is employing them to do these things. Yourr-r companion is hurr-rt but herr-r injurr-ries are not perr-rilous to her life. I sense no bleeding inside herr-r. We are fast flyerr-rs. The journey to Ndorr-renisgiathatch will not take long.”
The reluctant Kirsty approached the first body. It was badly burned. She tried not to look at the dead Morityaro’s blackened face as she searched but found nothing worth taking. It was the same with the next two. However, the third was not so badly burned, at least his clothing was mostly intact and she spent some little time searching through his remains. She found a strange looking glove in one of his inner pockets but not much else. By the time she stood to indicate that she was finished, she had in her possession one glove, two soot-encrusted daggers and four swords, one of them bent.
“That’s it,” she informed the dragon.
Then, walking back to check on Aranel, she asked the question fast becoming the most prominent in her mind. “How did you know we were here?”
“The unicorr-rns sent worr-rd that you werr-re trr-ravelling this way. We did not know the exact rr-route you would take but we knew that you would have to use the brr-ridge to crr-ross the gorr-rge. We found the Morr-rityarr-ro watching and hid frr-rom them. We saw the Morr-rityarr-ro leave the brr-ridge and rr-run herr-re and realised that therr-re was trr-rouble. The rr-rest you know.”
“The unicorns?”
“They arr-re alrr-ready on their way to Ndorr-renisgiathatch.”
Kirsty was wondering just how the unicorns were being taken ‘on their way’ to this place with the unpronounceable name. Had the unicorns climbed on to their transport’s back or were they suffering the indignity of being grasped by dragon talons and flown, legs flailing, hanging uncomfortably underneath? She began to worry about how the dragons intended to carry her.
“How?” she began, “how do we …?”
“If you can carr-rrr-ry yourr-r companion overr-r to my side and help herr-r on to my back?” the great black dragon asked.
She could do that, and Aranel wasn’t unconscious, just hurting. She half-carried her sister over to him and Aranel, realising what was wanted, managed with Kirsty’s help, to pull herself aboard.
“Now you,” he instructed. “Sit behind herr-r and hold herr-r tight.”
Kirsty was now feeling more than a little excited. She was about to ride a dragon!
* * * * *
CHAPTER 17
‘A doubtful friend is worse than a certain enemy. Let a man be one thing or the other, and we then know how to meet him.’
(Aesop’s Fables)
LORD AROVAN
Kirsty and Aranel’s father, Lord Arovan, had recovered more or less from his wounds. He was no longer suffering from the debilitating fever and was beginning to eat, and more importantly, to think coherently.
“We should go after her,” he fretted to Rohir as the two elves sat round their cooking pot one evening, a few days after Aranel and Urieline had left.
Rohir looked over to the cave entrance where the two karl-elves, Quisil and Fideln, sat, ostensibly on guard but really taking advantage of the cool evening air. No one had sighted any gryphwens for days and Urien and his unicorns, patrolling the vicinity, had reported that no elf had they seen, black-robed or otherwise.
“Can you trust them?” Rohir asked. He had been wondering how it was that these two karl-elves had miraculously managed to find Lord Arovan in the chaos of the attack and get him to safety under the very noses and wings of the attackers.
“Before the attack, I felt, no, knew that I could trust all of my karl-elves with my life,” answered Arovan. “Now, I’m not so sure. The castle was taken by surprise so completely. Someone must have noticed something.”
Rohir nodded slowly.
“These two though, they stuck with you, got you out,” he said, tentatively trying to find the words to say out loud what his inner senses were telling him. Perhaps he was wrong.
“That’s true. It’s not that I don’t trust them Rohir, I want to but …”
“I know. So what do you plan to do?”
“I’m going to send them home,” answered Lord Arovan in a decisive voice, very like the Arovan before the attack on Tanquelameir. “They can lie low. They can also say that they weren’t at the castle when it was attacked, if any elf asks.”
“Let us hope that they do not,” commented Rohir, greatly relieved to hear that the two karl-elves would be leaving them.
“I will tell them that I will send word when I need them, that I will be building up my Karl again in the near future. They should go on foot, through the forest. You and I, we shall impose on Urien and one of his to convey us to the castle. The other two, with his permission, could perhaps lay a false trail, away from both our routes.”
“The two karl-elves, they could, perhaps, keep an eye open for any likely looking elf that might be suitable to join your Karl?” suggested Rohir. “It would give meaning to their exile from your side.”
“That is what I will tell them,” agreed Arovan with a pleased smile. “And you, my old friend, will escort me to Taured, to King Huor. He will be pleasantly surprised when I appear when he has probably thought me dead these past days.”
“Let us hope so,” muttered Rohir, partly to himself.
Lord Arovan did not hear, or pretended that he did not.
* * * * *
King Huor welcomed Lord Arovan with outstretched arms and much joy.
“I feared for you,” he said. “When I heard …”
“Prince Amras?”
“Yes, he sent word by unicorn.”
“Do you know who was behind it?”
King Huor shook his head. “No, not yet. I sent some of my own elves east to Tanquelameir and beyond to try to find out but the reports are consistently sparse in both content and frequency. No elf seems to know anything and those who attacked left very little in the way of evidence.”
“Morityaro,” insisted Lord Arovan. “They were Morityaro.”
“Indeed, I don’t think there is much dubiety about the fact that they were the ones who attacked and that they were riding gryphwens.”
“They left nothing behind at all?”
“I am afraid that is so. They took their dead w
ith them when they left. There were none there for my elves to search when they arrived.”
“Only my own,” said Lord Arovan in a voice sad and curiously devoid of tears. He was beyond crying.
King Huor gave him a quick look.
“Too many,” he agreed with a sombre grimace. “My elves performed the funerary rites of course.”
“Any sign of my wife and stepdaughters?” Lord Arovan asked.
“None,” replied the king. “They did not find their bodies. I believe that when the tower collapsed they were in it and are lying there, under the rubble. I am sending in some stonework-elves to start clearing. If they are there they will be found.”
“My thanks,” said Lord Arovan.
“So what will you do now?” asked King Huor.
“Return to Tanquelameir,” Lord Arovan answered. “I must start putting it back together again.”
“Please retain my work-elves until you have no more need of them.”
Lord Arovan bowed low.
“My thanks again,” he said. “Have you heard anything of my daughter, Lady Aranel?”
King Huor frowned. “I thought she was at the castle when it was attacked. I assumed …”
Lord Arovan shook his head. “No, she went out hunting that morning.”
“And you have not found her?”
“I have not.”
“Perhaps the gryphwens hunted her down and killed her?” suggested King Huor, shaking his head in sorrow. “I had heard that this was the case and a number of bodies were found around the castle environs. I am sorry Arovan. She was a Warrior with much promise. Prince Amras spoke highly of her.”
“Perhaps they did kill her,” Lord Arovan answered evasively, “She must be dead. If she was alive she would have come forward.”
“If you need any to help look for her, my karl-elves and my hunts-elves are at your disposal. Now, I have need of your counsel, if you feel you are able.”
“I can try my Liege.”
“The reports from the various commanders at the T’Quel have been disquieting. Have you any ideas about how we can deal with the situation? I know of your interest in the subject. You have been through the mists have you not, and returned safely?”