Editing Baldir BW XXXIV

“He is dead!” cried a female sylvan elf, her regal head plunged into embracing hands. Her gold and silver crown, which was woven into her platinum hair, shimmered with each small movement. 

Baldir was looking at three figures who stood in the centre of a circular, windowless room.  The ceiling was a beautifully painted dome, which gave the viewer the impression that they looked out onto a twilight sky.  Four tapestries hung from the circular wall, each lit by a lantern suspended from the ceiling.  The wall hangings each depicted a shape – a pentagram, a square, a circle and a triangle – covered with silver embroidery.  The floor’s unremarkable, smooth flagstone surface, was occasionally punctuated by small, black, slightly-raised squares. On the squares was a sigil of a type that meant nothing to the cleric. 

“I know my Lady,” replied a thick-set dwarf who stood to her right.

“Our deepest condolences,” echoed a gnome who stood slightly further back and to her left.

The dwarf was nearly as broad as he was tall.  Flaming red hair, barely contained within loosely held plaits, surrounded his wide, flat face at every angle.  Robed in sable, that was tied at the neck with a platinum chain, his huge chest was otherwise covered with a tough-looking leather tunic, dyed green.  A dark-crimson kilt covered his decency, falling just below his knee, where it met high, hard, fur-lined, leather boots.  His eyes regarded the elf compassionately, from under enormous eyebrows.  He extended a hand to touch her sleeve gently and said soothingly, “He was a great man, a credit to your people.  He will not go unavenged, my Lady.”
This final sentence seemed to spark something in the elf.  “No he will not!” she affirmed, “I will avenge him, Yarl.” Her unfocussed, bloodshot eyes, peered over neatly trimmed fingernails, as if she accused the air in front of her of the murder of her folk.  Slowly moving forward before turning to face her companions, her long green, fur-lined cloak flowed in unison with her silvery, shimmering locks.  As the cloak settled, catching the lantern light, Baldir saw the image of a female elf archer, which was traced in precious metals woven into the rich material.  

“My Lady, we understand that you must be distraught, but perhaps we should think more on your proposal; now might not be the best time,” counselled the gnome.  Dressed completely in fine, silken robes of gold and silver, he was a contrast to the dourer dwarf.   Well-cut, silver hair was confined under a simple platinum band; all his clothing was soft, supple and comfortable-looking.  Older than the dwarf in appearance, he looked as if he had seen much loss.  Grey eyes, down-cast, his depth of emotion did not allow him to look at the elf in case he was no longer able to hold back the flood of tears that threatened to break forth.  

“No, my friend, no,” the Lady spoke quietly at first, as if summoning some inner fortitude, “I have decided, the Sylvan elves of Efferedil will march to the aid of our Vikriain cousins.”  Her confidence grew as if the words gave her strength, “The murder of Gildorian, my own kin, will not go unpunished!”   

“As you wish, Lady Sorien,” joined the dwarf, “although you will not be surprised if I too counsel against such a move; if for no other reason than we do not yet know their power.”

“That is true, my friend, but we need to act,” the elf gathered her composure, “I want to destroy those foul beasts before they infect the Prime.”

The gnome looked at the dwarf, with a raised eyebrow, before asking the obvious, “Do you know what took Gildorian’s life?”

The elf looked troubled, as if she had let out a closely guarded secret, “I…” she began, not knowing what to say.

“My Lady, you are among friends; if you know something, we might be able to offer some assistance?” said the gnome, helpfully.

“Yes, you are right Yagrik, it is time the Second Born knew of what has happened to us,” replied Sorien carefully.  “Before his disappearance, Lastar told us of his belief that Fringol, Gelmir’s wayward brother, had turned to darkness. He had joined with an entity from the lower plains – perhaps the same foul creature that took Aerandir from Numenorea.  Once the Sylvan elves called her Meghan - she was indeed beautiful,” Sorien swallowed hard, as if recalling a painful time in her life, “It was easy to see why the great half-elf King was bewitched.  In the other-elf language I believe she is known as Ulgar, Queen of the Drow, Servant of Hel, Reaper of Souls.”  Sorien had the undivided attention of her companions, “Ulgar destroyed Aerandir, and offered his soul to her Deity and the battle of Malor was nearly lost. You’ll recall the loss of Nenye; anyway, Lastar suspected that the same fate might await Fringol.”

The dwarf and the gnome exchanged telling looks, before the dwarf said, “As you know, Lastar discovered that there were at least four places where the Astral Plane touched the Prime; you were the first to discover one such place in your woodland realm, and he suspected that there would be somewhere similar in Everinstar.”

“Yes,” continued Yagrik, “Lastar feared that use of such Gates by our enemies may prove disastrous…”

“Which is why you moved the Efferendil Gate here, into your underground realm,” interrupted the elf.

“Precisely,” said the dwarf, “but...”

It was Yagrik’s turn to interrupt, “But we did not possess the same knowledge as the Everinstar families and barely contained the great power of the Gate.”

“Yes,” Yarl continued, “we have noticed that the Gate ‘spills over’.”

Sorien looked puzzled, “Spills over?” she asked, “What do you mean?”

“Well,” picked up the gnome, “it has shown us events in time and space across the Prime and the Outer Planes, most of which we do not understand.”

“And?” asked the female sylvan queen, “What have you seen?”

“Well,” the dwarf said, regretting it instantly and shuffling his feet, hoping the gnome would answer the question, “we can see the points at which the other Gates intersect the Prime and, occasionally, we see events at those locations, although we have not always understood what we saw.”

“So you saw the coming of the Drow?” demanded Sorien, “And you did not feel like telling me?”

“It is not quite that simple, my Lady,” the gnome appealed, “we saw history…that is, we saw Aerandir taken by Meghan to a Glade, not dissimilar to the one in Efferendil, and into a large oak…”

“The truth is, Sorien,” the dwarf continued, not taking his eyes from the stone floor, “we also saw the arrival of the dark elves in the same glade; I’m so sorry.”

“That is why you said you knew of Gildorian’s death!  You saw it!” screamed the elf.

“We did my Lady,” said the gnome, who also took to closely examining the flagstones.

“Then you have to help!  You owe us that much.  I want to send a force to Everinstar immediately.  I was going to ask that I use the Gate to achieve this; now I demand it!”

“Of course, but would it not be more prudent to wait?” offered the dwarf.

Not unexpectedly the answer was bunt, “No! If the Gate were at Efferendil, I would have gone by now.”

Then, perhaps unwisely, Yagrik chipped in, “If the Gate were at Efferendil, the Drow would have found you too.”

By the way Yarl flinched, Baldir thought the gnome had sealed his fate, but, surprisingly, the elf was calm, “You are right Yagrik, as was Lastar – to be cautious that is.”  She thought for a moment, pacing backwards and forwards in front of the diminutive figures, occasionally exchanging looks with them, as if she was sizing them for a new cloak.  “What else have you seen that should cause me to be concerned?” she asked eventually, as if her conclusion rested on this information.

“Little we can decipher, my Lady,” answered the gnome, “Although we have begun to piece together which images relate to which Gate.”

“Was Lastar correct?” asked the elf who had begun to pace again.

“Yes, we think so.” Replied Yagrik, “We have managed to separate the images and contain them within rooms that surround the Gate.  They correlate to Lastar’s deductions.”
The dwarf jumped in, probably not wishing for the conversation to be diverted to the technicalities of Lastar’s deductions, “The images from the Glade are the clearest and seem to be linked strongly to the seasons; for example, it was last winter when the Drow linked with Demogorgan’s forces at Alon to take Gildorian’s life.”

“And what have you seen of the other points of intersection?”

“Well, very little that makes sense where Yarlug or the Efferendil are concerned,” began the gnome, “The images from Maedus tell us that the dwarves have begun a great work to reconstruct the Minas and that the late King Maedus’ Crown may have been returned to the halls of Rodrus.  Images from the other place are dominated by the demise of Lastar.  It appears that the Arch Mage was denied passage to many divine halls, and echoes of the Gods permeate the periphery of the Gate.  Most troubling are those that come from the dark God Anubis…”    

“Such as?” asked the elf distractedly, still pacing.

“Well,” began the gnome, “the most recent was of a black shape looming out of a grey swirling, dust-ridden wind.  As the shape became more distinct, it was obviously humanoid, though clearly…” he hesitated momentarily as if not wishing to say more in case it confirmed his thinking, “undead.”

The dwarf added, “It was a wraith – something so horrifying that we have never dared to think of it.”

“Go on…” demanded Sorien; even Baldir could see they were hiding something more.

“The wraith wore a mithril coat under a torn, dark-green tabard,” picked up Yarl, before adding auspiciously, “on which was embroidered a young, white tree.”

“Aerandir!” cried Sorien.

“Yes,” agreed the gnome without excitement, “except a voice called it Ezollach and told it to go to Olga, where it would find its prey.”