Paul Thompson - Destiny

“Come,” Gilthas said, holding out a hand. “Let us take a stroll in the twilight.”

She tried to laugh, but there was more exasperation than amusement in the sound. “Do you have a death wish?”

“Do you want to live forever?”

Her breath caught as if a hand had squeezed her heart. The teasing tone sounded so like the Gilthas of old, utterly at odds with the emaciated figure before her, but the irony of his condition.

He recognized the direction of her thoughts. The pain on her face was reflected briefly in his eyes, but his hand didn’t waver. Kerian took it. sword at her hip, bow and quiver of arrows slung across her back, she walked at his side with bemused pride. She could only marvel at the indomitable will that burned inside him.

A gate in the barricade had been fashioned under a soaring trilithon. Casks filled the gap between the upright stones. Hamaramis was there with his lieutenants When the old general heard the Speaker intended to leave camp with only the Lioness as his escort, he protested vigorously.

Gilthas wasted no breath in discussion; he merely waited for the general’s exclamations to run down.

“The Speaker will do as he will,” Kerian told Hamaramis. “I’ll try to bring him back alive.”

Those nearby spread the word. While the casks were being rolled away, scores of elves crowded the rough wall, anxious to see their sovereign challenge the valley’s ghosts.

As the royal pair passed through the trilithon, a fit of coughing staggered Gilthas. Kerian supported him with one arm. He tried to pull away, protesting she could hardly use bow or sword while holding him up.

Her grip tightened. “Don’t worry. If it comes to that, I’ll drop you like a hot rock.”

With a nearly soundless chuckle, he straightened. They started across the open ground between the camp and the stunted forest. Gilthas glanced back.

“I’m evolving a theory about this place,” he said. “I think—”

“Long live Gilthas Pathfinder!” cried a voice from the camp.

“Long live the Speaker of the Sun and Stars!” added another, and for a time the Silent Vale echoed with a chorus of elf voices.

When the tumult died, Kerian asked Gilthas about his theory. He squeezed her arm and shook his head. His eyes, words struck like a knife, fixed on the camp, were bright with unshed tears. “Not just now,” he said, voice roughened by emotion.

He lifted an arm, acknowledging his people’s cheers. He and Kerian continued their slow walk.

The thickets ahead were touched by the failing light. When the two elves were halfway to the line of gnarled trees, a creature dashed between a pair of stunted oaks. The Speaker halted, and Kerian unslung her bow.

“Not unless I say so,” he said quietly.

A grimace twisted her lips but she nodded.

Something stood by one of the trees. Speaker and consort continued their advance watched by dark eyes. The eyes were close-set and low to the ground.

“Don’t be afraid,” Gilthas said. “We mean you no harm.”

For her part, Kerian meant plenty of harm, but she kept the broadhead pointed at the ground. Abruptly Gilthas crossed in front of her. She made a sound of protest, but he gestured sharply for silence. She edged to her left, seeking a clear line of fire. He gave no sign of noticing her movement. All his attention was focused on the staring eyes and the shadowy shape behind them.

“Can we help you?” he asked, keeping his voice low and calm.

More eyes appeared around the first pair. They were of various sizes and heights. Each pair appeared suddenly and silently—first they weren’t there, then they were. Gilthas introduced himself simply, by name only, perhaps not wishing to frighten the evanescent creatures before him with his full title. He told them the elves had come to live peacefully in the valley and asked what the creatures wanted.

While he talked, Kerian realized something odd was happening. Her legs began to feel heavy, as though dragged down by invisible weights. She was having trouble moving. Each step was more difficult than the last. Her fingers holding the arrow went numb. Breathing was becoming a chore. She could think of no reason for it but malign magic, and she tried to warn Gilthas, but he didn’t hear her gasped words. More and more figures were materializing in the misty twilight around them. The shadowy silhouettes were becoming more distinct, resolving themselves into elves dressed in white shifts. All were barefoot, with long, tangled hair, and all were a head shorter than she. Their faces were indistinct, blurred like reflections in water disturbed by tipples. She could get no clear impression of their appearance.

“We were driven from our homelands by invaders,” Gilthas was saying. “This valley is our last refuge.”

You cannot stay. This is no place for such as you.

The whispery voice teased Kerian’s ears, and Gilthas’s startled reaction showed that he’d heard it too. Coolness played on Kerian’s arm. One of the translucent elves had touched her. She wanted to pull away, but her muscles seemed to have turned to wood. None of the creatures was near enough to touch Gilthas, and he droned on and on as though negotiating with Sahim-Khan’s unctuous minions. More ghosts touched Kerian, their small hands cold as mountain snow.

Gilthas said, “Perhaps we can help you. Why do you haunt this valley? What makes your souls so restless?”

We are forgotten. We are the lost. But we live. We live!

With that, the ghosts changed abruptly. From pallid specters, they became more corporeal. White shifts and pale skin darkened. The ghosts were feral creatures, covered by fur, no longer resembling elves at all. The chill, feather-light fingers were claws, and they raked over Kerian’s arms, drawing blood.

Dragging in as large a breath as she could manage, Kerian expelled it in one great heave: “Trap!”

He turned. Shock bloomed on his face. “Let her go! In the name of the Speaker of the Sun and Stars, let her go!” he cried. Astonishingly, the creatures obeyed. They fell back. Gilthas went to his dazed wife, and this time it was he who offered support.

Speaker? You are Speaker?

“I am!”

Blood of the Goldeneye!

Regaining command of her limbs, Kerian grasped her husband’s arm. “They’re not elves, they’re monsters!” she said wildly. “We have to go back!”

The specters went with them as they fled. The creatures didn’t follow, but vanished from one spot and reappeared again a few yards farther on.

Kerian ran faster, her grip on Gilthas’s wrist painfully tight. The first stars were winking into view overhead. The will-o’-the-wisps could appear at any time, but they were most obvious just as the stars began to shine. Despite his best efforts, Gilthas was falling behind, and Kerian’s attempt to drag him along only threw him off balance.

“Let me go,” he insisted. “I can run!”

She released him but told him to run faster.

They were only halfway to the camp when she jerked him to a halt. “Don’t move!” she hissed, pointing.

High above, a score of lights bobbed and swooped. Crimson, gold, sapphire, vivid green—they descended swiftly and converged on the two elves.

“What do we do?” Gilthas demanded.

“Stand still.”

“What of the ghosts?”

Kerian dared move enough to look over one shoulder. The ghosts had halted. The expression on each twisted, beastly face was dreadful. Grimacing with hate, the ghosts bared long, gray teeth and made tearing gestures with their claws. They advanced no farther and, as the lights descended, shrank from them as thoroughly as the living elves did. The ghosts seemed terrified of the will-o’-the-wisps.