The Sylvanus Page 14

  Reaching the pump, Faunion opened the recluse as Legolas began to pump, watching as the water slowly gained momentum and the liquid began to flow down the pipes that had been skilfully engineered, straight into the heart of the village where the Silvans gathered it in pales and began to wet the ground, the foliage and trees surrounding the settlement. It was not, it seemed, the first time they had done this, for they were well-organised.

  After ten minutes of furious pumping, Faunion took over as Legolas watched the water, ensuring the pipes were adequately aligned. His arms burned with fatigue, but it was not enough to stop his errant mind from returning to the strange events of the day before. It had harrowed him but somehow, on a deeper level, he was actually more at peace than he had been when they had first arrived.

  'Do not be afraid…' Narosén had said.

  And although he had been, it was not the sheer terror he had felt the day before when he had first sensed the Sentinel. His mind seemed to be assimilating his 'condition,' albeit it had yet to fathom what, exactly, that condition entailed.

  On and on they worked, until Faunion's urgent shout resounded through the glade, snapping Legolas back to the present.

  "Legolas! The flames approach, the wind is changing!"

  "Legolas looked around him, his nose already prickling uncomfortably with the smoke that was now saturating the air around them. It was true, the situation was turning urgent and an idea occurred to him.

  "Faunion, continue pumping while I go to the hall. I will return in ten minutes!" he shouted. Faunion simply nodded and Legolas was away, sprinting parallel to the water pipes until he was inside the glade.

  At the doors of the Hall stood Lorthil and Legolas ran straight to him.

  "Lorthil - what else can we do? The flames are approaching, what are your priorities?"

  "Our people are still out there, but the smoke is so dense in there I dare not risk sending a rescue party."

  "What is their route?" he asked. "From where do they emerge? Is there a path?"

  "Yes - there, do you see it? gestured the leader, his eyes now watering as the smoke became denser and the noise had them shouting in order to be heard.

  "I will do what I can. Can you send someone to relieve my companion at the pump?"

  "Yes, but child - do not go - you do not know the way…" pleaded the leader, his eyes wide and round.

  "I must try," he said urgently, his hand resting on the leader's sleeve, "if the flames become visible to you, lead your people to the north-east - we will find you," he said firmly, before nodding, and dashing into the smoky haze until he was lost from sight. Lorthil watched after him with respect, for he himself had never been a warrior; he did, however, merit himself with the skill of recognising one. That did not douse his rising anxiety though, for nothing could happen to this one, not now when they had only just found him.

  He ducked then, back into the village hall to watch over his people. Narosén had found him, he corrected himself and then smiled inwardly. Perhaps now, the Silvan people would regain the position they once held within the forest realm - one of equality and respect.

  Smoke burned his eyes, and tears left streaks down his now dusty grey face. Wiping at his eyes in irritation, he continued to track through the dense foliage and trees, his ears straining to pick up the slightest hint of civilians seeking refuge. The good news was that he had not yet encountered the flames, but the smoke was becoming a serious hinderance.

  Further inside the forest, all was black and grey, but a hint of blue caught his eye and soon enough three elves loomed before him, coughing and spluttering. Legolas ran towards them, his eyes searching them for wounds.

  "Are you alright?" he asked urgently.

  "Yes, but there are many more behind. The flames advance and they will soon be unable to find the path," informed one elf as he supported his companion.

  "Alright - keep straight, due west. There is but twenty minutes to go - do not stop!" he shouted as he walked away, promptly disappearing into the dense smoke. Should the foresters lose their way, they may be pushed into hostile land and would be as good as dead. He guessed the patrol would be off to his left for an unnatural heat emanated from that part of the forest. His brothers were in the thick of it, but they would be too caught up in dousing the flames to ensure the safe passage of any foresters unlucky enough to have been caught in the fire.

  He met several more elves, some of them with minor burns and all had said the same. There were more ahead, he must hurry!

  Covering his nose and mouth with the hood of his cloak, he pushed forward, eyes streaming and lungs heaving. He could hear the crackle and hiss of burning wood now - he was close to the origin and sure enough he soon heard shouting and screaming.

  "Here, over here!" he shouted, making sure he did not move his back from the position from which he had emerged, else he too would loose his sense of orientation.

  Elves flocked towards him, their hands reaching out before them, for visibility was now so poor they could barely see past their own, outstretched arms.

  "Please, you must help, there are children in the boughs, up there - we sent them up for protection but the wind has changed…"

  Hands grappled desperately with his tunic, the fraught face of the elves imploring him to do something. "Our foresters are trying to reach them but one has fallen …. you must hurry!"

  Pointing to the path, Legolas spoke urgently. "Stay straight, join hands and cover your faces - go!"

  They filed past him in single file, their hands brushing over his arm in a final call for aid for the ones that were still behind them, imploring him to do what they could not.

  Coughing harshly, Legolas pushed through the curtain of smoke until a large tree loomed before him. At its base four elves shouted and signalled, their arms aloft. Jogging up to them, Legolas listened to their shouts and pleas.

  "He cannot reach them!" shouted one desperately. "The children have taken refuge where we cannot reach!" he screamed, panic now beginning to take him.

  "Show me where!" shouted Legolas, shaking him by the shoulders. "Where are they!" he yelled.

  But the elf was lost and it was another who answered. "There, see," he pointed. They have moved so far away from the trunk, the branch is too thin to take our weight, it will break and the children are too frightened to move - Valar, what…."

  Legolas rid himself of his cloak and pack, laying his weapons atop it, before running towards the trunk and scampering up until his hand latched onto the first branch and he swung himself up. Higher he moved, calling out for the children as he moved.

  Half way up the tree now, he heard the answering screams. Children - young children, and Legolas' heart thumped hard. He could see them now, cowering in the middle of a thin branch that was already bending under their weight, the two little ones joined in a desperate embrace, short, chubby fingers grappling with the fabric of their bright tunics, frozen in fear.

  He had no rope and even if he had, he doubted the children would let go of each other to catch hold of it. The deep ache of futility assailed him then, as he began to realise they could not be saved.

  Battling with tears, he placed his palm softly on the rough bark of the central trunk, desperate to steady the overwhelming sense of pity that had taken him.

  'Wrap them with the love of the forest, comfort them in death…Kementari…' he whispered shakily through the emotion, his tears flowing freely now. But as his eyes focussed once more on the embraced children, his eyes began to fail him once more, and again, he could see nothing but blue and green, with tinges of purple. He saw, once more, the pulse of brilliant blue sap as it pumped through the trunk and the branches, into each and every twig. He saw the brightness of the children's souls, those that would soon be extinguished even before they had come into their own. He watched in fascination as the liquid life of the tree pulsed once, twice, and then of a sudden the branch which was too weak to hold him seemed to become fatter, wider, stronger, the light within the br
own skin becoming so powerful it almost blinded him.

  He reached out to touch it in fascination, watching as it sparkled on contact with his skin and he wondered.

  Gingerly, he stepped down on the branch, feeling it strong and steady, and although he did not understand it at the time, he knew he would not fall; that he could place his weight on it and that he would not fall.

  And so it was, that Legolas moved slowly along the branch, crouching before the two children that remained firmly clasped in each other's arms, their eyes scrunched shut. If he called to them now they would not heed him, for they were paralysed with fear, and if he touched them they could lose their balance and fall. He must be quick, he concluded, and not give them time to react.

  With startling speed, legolas reached out with both hands and grabbed the children by the collar of their tunics, pulling them back towards the thick, central trunk. They spared a startled look at their saviour, before reaching for the bark but Legolas could not allow it, for they would not let go and so he bid them cling to him, one to his chest and the other to his back.

  He had been quick and it had been enough, and they wrapped their short legs around his chest and back, their arms locking around him tightly.

  "Hold on," he shouted. "Don't let go - you will not fall, I promise," he said, with a confidence he did not feel.

  As he carefully climbed back down, between coughs and the frightened whimpers of the children, colour began to return to his eyes, and with it, the stinging pain that made them stream, inhaling the thick smoke and resisting the urge to hack violently. They needed to get away from here now, even if that meant turning away from the path to the village - the children would not resist these conditions for much longer.

  When they finally touched the ground, there was no one left waiting for them. They would have been left for dead, he realised, and so, with the children still firmly clasped to his body, he began to move away, to where the smoke was not so dense and if he was lucky, he would find water, for that was the only thing that would save the young ones.

  Women sobbed quietly and the men sat stunned, for they had lost two children, and the Western Patrol had lost a warrior. There were many wounded, and now, their village hall had become a healing hall, where cots had been hastily constructed for them, and their three healers worked incessantly, mixing potions for burns and brewing teas to ease the damage done by the smoke.

  Lorthil and Narosén sat together with Tirion, and Lainion sat a little further away together with the troop. They were silent and pensive, but none more than Lainion, who's strange face was pinched and pale, a perpetual frown wrinkling his forehead.

  "Perhaps he escaped the flames, Lainion. Perhaps he lost his way and is waiting for the smoke to dissipate…"

  Lainion turned to Angion, his face drawn, his despair written plainly on the thin, strong planes of his face.

  "Nay, Angion. No one could have escaped that. Take a look at these people - they were incapacitated by the smoke, and Legolas has been in there much longer. No one could have escaped that…"

  It was Faunion, the Silvan archer, who spoke then, soft and wistful. "But he is not any one… we have seen strange things with him. If anyone could, perhaps…" he trailed off, as if his own inner musings prevented him from speaking any longer.

  No one answered, they simply sat, their eyes turned inwards, to the beautiful child, the skilled warrior, the joyful soul that had reached them all, and that had been lost in the forests. Tirion could not fathom the loss and Lainion, Lainion sat and he stared, and dispaired. How would he tell Handir, what would he say to the king? should he even tell him? It was too much, it surely could not be.

  Soft crying could be heard in the distance and then the soft footfalls of Lorthil and Narosén as they approached the sitting patrol.

  "May we join you, brothers?"

  Tirion simply nodded as the two accommodated themselves.

  "I believe," began Lorthil softly, "that the fire was intentional. It is not the first time the enemy has set our crops alight. Last time it happened the weather had been stable and no more came of it save for the loss of a bean patch. How nature has conspired against us this time, for the winds changed and has taken so much with it," he whispered, his eyes bright with unshed emotion.

  However, Tirion's voice when he spoke, was louder, a little curt. "Why were those young children out in the fields? Surely you could see the potential danger?"

  Lorthil frowned and looked to the ground before answering. "Children often accompany their elders into the fields. Thus they learn and become productive members of our society. Should we cease to take them, what a great victory for the enemy that would be, do you not think?"

  "And an even greater one to have claimed their lives," stressed the captain.

  "You do not understand," said Narosén from the other side. "You are not Silvan. It is our way, one which sustains out society so that this land may prosper, so that you Sindar can feast at your kingly tables…"

  Tirion's nostrils flared at the acetic words. "Not all the Sindar are as you imagine them to be, Spirit Herder," he said shortly, looking away then, a clear message to the Silvan mystic that he did not wish to speak on the subject any longer.

  Narosén let out a long breath, before raking his own long hand through his dark locks. "I am sorry. This is not the time for petty argument."

  Tirion turned back to the Silvan, nodding his agreement before turning away again, but he stopped halfway, for the Spirit Herder was speaking again, albeit softly, as if to himself.

  "He may not be lost, Captain. I cannot be sure, but there is a song on the breeze, a song of guidance…

  One full cycle of the sun and still, Tirion sat alone, away from Lainion and the warriors and the Avari understood him well. The Sinda was proud to a fault and did not want to be in anyone's company whilst he mourned the loss of their novice, for with every passing moment, mourn he did - Lainion knew him better than most.

  Lainion however, had yet to believe that Legolas had perished. It was absurd, incomprehensible, after all they had been through. They were on the brink of carrying out their plan, one which would restore a strong and powerful king upon the thrown, curb the growing Sindar domination so that they may strive for a better, freer nation. He did not want to think about the boy himself though, for to do so would undo him, and he could not let that happen, not when he was lieutenant of a patrol.

  So absorbed was the Avari in his own inner turmoil, that he visibly flinched when Faunion abruptly rose from the ground, standing taught, as tight as his bow string, as his head tilted upwards. But Lainion had no time to wonder, for the early afternoon silence was suddenly shattered by a cry from a distant guard. The lone call echoed around the glade, long and melancholy, and their hearts froze - Someone approached…

  Seconds later, frantic bird call exploded around them. Eagles, owls, finches and crows became an orchestra of nature, blending now with the Silvan villagers who stood and mimicked their woodland neighbours; it was not the enemy that approached but something benevolent, for surely this was nothing if not a hail, in the purest of silvan fashion.

  Those inside the village hall walked outside, their faces lifted to the trees in awe, for they had not heard this sound for many many years, not since darkness had begun to encroach upon their forest. It was a union of silvan foresters and birds, elves and animals singing together in harmony, as if they understood one another perfectly. It was beautiful and they smiled as they came to stand beside those that were already outside.

  Placing one booted foot before the other, slow and tentative at first, Lainion inched forward, his body leaning from one side to the other, as if the movement would help him to discover the identity of what approached.

  And then it was silent once more, so quiet it was not natural and the warriors and villagers were left standing amidst the echo of their ancient melody.

  From the mist of the trees, an outline became visible, a form slowly defining itself. A warrior
, a warrior carrying something and although his face could not yet be seen, Lainion was already bounding forwards, one word flying from his lips, a hoarse cry of utter relief.

  "Legolas!"

  An overwhelming sense of gratefulness infused him and he smiled as he ran. The Valar be praised, not dead, not dead! he rejoiced.

  "Hwindo!" shouted the warriors. "Hwindohtar!"

  The villagers moved forward more cautiously until two women broke free and ran towards the slowly approaching figure, their lithe figures rapidly overtaking the others as they shouted the names of their children, their arms held out before them. It was enough for the spell to be broken and they all rushed forward.

  Lainion had skidded to a halt and now looked on in awe, his leather skirts still fanning around his knees.

  The children had been wrapped in wet clothes, their faces almost completely covered, their eyes red-rimmed but sparkling with life - they lived and the women shrieked as they pulled the children away, desperately clawing at the cloth that held them to the warrior's body, pressing them to their chests and shouting praises to the heavens as they ran back to the healing halls, not once looking back.

  Legolas, now relieved of his two charges, slowly sank to his knees and bowed his head in utter exhaustion.

  Tirion stepped forward, his face the very picture of shock and disbelief.

  "How? How did you survive that?" he asked slowly.

  Legolas lifted his gaze, his eyes red and puffy, his face almost completely black. He opened his mouth to answer, but all that came out was a painful sounding rasp that rapidly turned into a fit of dry coughing that sent him to his hands and knees.

  A healer was soon by his side, but little could she do out here and so she gestured for the warriors to bring him in, hurrying after them as they supported the barely standing warrior.

  Soon, Legolas sat upon a freshly made pallet on the ground. His weapons had already been removed and carefully stored in a corner. The straps of his quiver and knives soon accompanied them and now, as Lainion, Tirion and Faunion sat at a cautious distance, the healer began to unlace his outer protection. Legolas made to help her but she stopped him.