The Realm Of The Elves: Fantasy Novel

By Alfred Bekker

The Realm Of The Elves: Fantasy Novel

 

First volume of the Elves trilogy

 

The Elves once set out from their ancient homeland of Athranor to find a new home on the shores of Fulfilled Hope. After an endless sea voyage through the timeless Sea of Mists, they reach the Land Between. Elf King Keandir must defeat the Fearbringer, a creature that threatens to destroy the elves. But as it soon turns out, the Middle Land is a continent full of dangers - and Keandir must confront them and found a new Elven kingdom...

 

The Elves Trilogy by Alfred Bekker consists of the volumes THE REALM OF THE ELVES, THE KINGS OF THE ELVES and THE WAR OF THE ELVES.

 

Alfred Bekker is a well-known author of fantasy novels, thrillers and books for young people. In addition to his major book successes, he has written numerous novels for suspense series such as Ren Dhark, Jerry Cotton, Cotton Reloaded, Kommissar X, John Sinclair, and Jessica Bannister. He has also published under the names Neal Chadwick, Henry Rohmer, Conny Walden, and Janet Farell.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alfred Bekker
• Release date: Jan 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215850879

Alfred Bekker

Alfred Bekker wurde am 27.9.1964 in Borghorst (heute Steinfurt) geboren und wuchs in den münsterländischen Gemeinden Ladbergen und Lengerich auf. 1984 machte er Abitur, leistete danach Zivildienst auf der Pflegestation eines Altenheims und studierte an der Universität Osnabrück für das Lehramt an Grund- und Hauptschulen. Insgesamt 13 Jahre war er danach im Schuldienst tätig, bevor er sich ausschließlich der Schriftstellerei widmete. Schon als Student veröffentlichte Bekker zahlreiche Romane und Kurzgeschichten. Er war Mitautor zugkräftiger Romanserien wie Kommissar X, Jerry Cotton, Rhen Dhark, Bad Earth und Sternenfaust und schrieb eine Reihe von Kriminalromanen. Angeregt durch seine Tätigkeit als Lehrer wandte er sich schließlich auch dem Kinder- und Jugendbuch zu, wo er Buchserien wie 'Tatort Mittelalter', 'Da Vincis Fälle', 'Elbenkinder' und 'Die wilden Orks' entwickelte. Seine Fantasy-Romane um 'Das Reich der Elben', die 'DrachenErde-Saga' und die 'Gorian'-Trilogie machten ihn einem großen Publikum bekannt. Darüber hinaus schreibt er weiterhin Krimis und gemeinsam mit seiner Frau unter dem Pseudonym Conny Walden historische Romane. Einige Gruselromane für Teenager verfasste er unter dem Namen John Devlin. Für Krimis verwendete er auch das Pseudonym Neal Chadwick. Seine Romane erschienen u.a. bei Blanvalet, BVK, Goldmann, Lyx, Schneiderbuch, Arena, dtv, Ueberreuter und Bastei Lübbe und wurden in zahlreiche Sprachen übersetzt.

Book preview

First book

The Island of the Eyeless Seer

Proud and long-lived as the gods, the people of the Elves were as their ships reached the shores of the intermediate land, which in those days was still free from the pestilence of the coarse human race.

The chronicler of Elbenhaven

––––––––

At that time there was an island, offshore from that part of the intermediate land that would later be called Elbiana. This island was known by various names: Island of Misty Spirits was one of them, but it was also called Naranduin, which in the Elder Language of High Elbiana means Land of Undead Souls, but in the Younger Language means something like "Island of Hidden Terrors. Ancient creatures, forgotten by time itself, lived there in gloomy caves.

The dark magic of a long-gone age ruled the rugged isle, holding nameless horrors for those careless enough to anchor their ships at the mist-shrouded foothills.

When an eon ago the Elven fleet under King Keandir reached this island, that inhospitable place became the site of decision and the origin of a curse ...

The Older Book of Keandir

Chapter 1:

The fog coast

Land ho!

The lookout's call resounded through the billowing gray of the fog. They looked like amorphous, many-armed monsters. Sometimes the fog was so thick that the individual ships of the elven fleet could only be seen as dark shadows, even at close range.

King Keandir straightened his figure. His right hand grasped the amber handle of the narrow-bladed sword he carried at his side. His skin was of a distinguished pallor, and his narrow, gaunt face seemed chiseled, showing an expression of both sternness and seriousness. Traces of deep concern for his people had been etched on this face since Keandir had taken over the kingship from his father, and the first gray streaks were mixed into the shoulder-length black hair. Pointed ears poked through this smooth hair - ears that were as delicate and sensitive as the other senses of the elf.

He listened to the sounds of the foreign land.

Where did this sudden discomfort he felt come from? Was it because he felt something unfamiliar about how land sounded, how it smelled, and what it was like to stand on solid ground instead of the swaying planks of an Elven ship? Or did his fine senses perceive something that his soul wanted to ignore, lest he be robbed of the hope he had just regained? Something threatening, something evil, which revealed itself to him only as a dark presentiment.

He tried to suppress his fear, for which there was no visible reason. He wanted to trust that fate meant well with the elves after all. In any case, the appearance of the rocky coast was a reason for hope.

Of course, Keandir was aware that the foreign shore that had suddenly appeared before them out of nowhere could not be the shores of Fulfilled Hope. But that did not matter at the moment. Apart from the uneasiness that simply could not be suppressed, Keandir felt deep relief at having encountered land again at all. The fear of having led his people into a landless ocean of fog and thus to their doom had already caused him sleepless nights. But now there was reason to hope again.

Even if this coast was only part of a lonely islet, there was at least the possibility of replenishing supplies and making urgently needed repairs to the ships. Perhaps there was also a seaworthy population with whom one could make contact.

For an eternity, the fleet of the elves had bobbed through this foggy sea. During the days, one could barely glimpse the position of the sun, and at night, one could see neither the moon nor the stars. A heavy, musty odor had risen from the water, as if rotting undead were secreting their foul-smelling pestilential breath beneath the dark broth apparently shunned by the shoals of fish, and no wind blew to break up the fog and billow the sails that hung limply from the yards. So the crew had been forced to resort to the oars.

Keandir stepped closer to the railing. His gaze searched the gray fog for signs that would confirm the lookout's call. And indeed, something dark loomed far ahead of them, the shadow of a mountain range perhaps.

The lookout repeated his call - and then the cawing of a seagull came from nowhere. A little later, the bird emerged and circled as a gray shadow high above the masts of the ship.

Thank the Nameless Gods! groaned a broad-shouldered but otherwise very gaunt Elven warrior. There must actually be land nearby! He joined Keandir at the railing. A sign of good fortune and hope, my king! He wore a dark leather doublet and had his slender sword girded on his back. He had lost his right eye in battle; a felt patch covered the empty socket.

Keandir nodded and turned briefly to the one-eyed man. You are right, Prince Sandrilas. It has been a long time since we last had solid ground under our feet.

But this coast, Sandrilas murmured, it does not belong to the shores of Fulfilled Hope.

Keandir smiled mildly. You have always been a pessimist, Prince Sandrilas.

No, a realist. Probably not even the celestials know where we are, for so long the stars have been hidden by the fog. Yes, we've lost all orientation, and I honestly don't know how we're going to reach our original destination anymore.

No faith in the power of fate, Sandrilas?

I prefer to trust in my own strength and knowledge.

The Sea of Fog has taught us that sometimes both are not enough. Keandir pointed into the distance with his outstretched arm. Let's hope we come across the coast of a continent there that we can follow - and not just a lonely island that the Nameless Gods threw into the sea in anger.

The contours of the land emerging from the fog became clearer and clearer. Rugged mountain massifs rose in the immediate vicinity of the coastline. The cries of unknown bird species, together with other, unidentifiable animal voices, formed an eerie chorus.

Keandir turned to another elven warrior. Merandil! Give the horn signal! We will go ashore on this shore!

Yes, my king! returned the tall Merandil, whose hair spilling from under his helmet was as white as his skin. He reached for the horn he wore at his belt to give the royal signal to the other ships. Several thousand of the slender, long-drawn sailors were out there in the misty sea, on a seemingly endless search for the shores of Fulfilled Hope. No one would have objected to a stop on land to break up the monotony of this journey.

Merandil blew the horn, and his signal was relayed by the horn blowers of the other ships. Within moments, the sound of the instruments dispelled the oppressive silence that had prevailed until then.

Keandir heard footsteps behind him. No one on the Elvish ships was still below deck or inside the ornate superstructures. The discovery of this shore snapped them all out of the paralyzing lethargy that had spread among them like a contagious disease. Murmurs of voices filled the deck of the flagship, which had been given the name Tharnawn. In the Elder tongue, this was a little-used word for hope, and during their voyage so far, Keandir had cursed this name often enough, for hope had been the first thing the Elves had lost since they had lost all orientation in the Sargasso Sea; since then, the utterance of this name seemed like sheer irony.

But at that moment, all that was almost forgotten. Keandir took a deep breath. Not even the foul smell of the dark water could really bother him anymore.

Kean! a voice whispered to him from behind, distinctly different from all the others despite the general commotion on deck. There was only one person whom King Keandir was allowed to call by that particular name - Ruwen, his beloved wife.

She stepped next to him and looked at him. Her fair skin was flawless, her face as finely cut and even as no sculptor could have created it. The open hair fell far over her narrow shoulders.

Keandir felt her gaze fixed on him. She seemed to have barely an eye for the land emerging ever more clearly from the mist. I have something to tell you, Kean.

Their eyes met, and Keandir noticed a special intimacy with which she looked at him. Tears glistened in her eyes. Keandir put his arms around her and she leaned against him.

So speak, he asked her tenderly. Normally, an elvish king would address his consort in the polite form; mutual respect demanded this. But since Ruwen had also chosen a more intimate form of address, he answered her in the same way. The glistening of her tears, the transfigured expression of her face, and the peculiar tone her voice had assumed, told Keandir that her soul was seeking a very intimate connection with him, a great closeness, although not a word had yet been spoken about the matter itself. How often had Ruwen looked to him for comfort against the gloom by which she - like many others of her people - was tormented.

Keandir felt similarly, but he found that it was incompatible with the duties of a king to indulge in this melancholy, and he therefore tried to suppress it as best he could. Besides, there were many elves who were far worse off. For the melancholy that they all felt to a greater or lesser extent was nothing compared to the weariness of life, that almost incurable disease that was becoming more and more widespread on the ships of the fleet and to which so many elves had already fallen victim over time ...

Just now I was with the healer Nathranwen, Ruwen said, her voice taking on a delicate vibrating sound that particularly touched the king.

He replied, Nor can it cure the gloom that has afflicted us all since we became prisoners of this windless sea of mist.

This is nothing more than a gloomy mood and not a real disease like the pernicious weariness of life, Ruwen admonished him. Then a gentle smile flitted across her lips, and she said, The news Nathranwen had for me-and for you, too-will surely dispel your gloom, though.

Keandir looked at her. What news are you talking about?

Kean, I'm pregnant. We're expecting a baby.

Pregnancies and births were rare among the long-lived elves and were therefore interpreted as signs of special happiness. So Keandir understood that it was tears of joy and not of melancholy that he saw in the eyes of his beloved Ruwen. He pressed her against him, moved. For a moment he was unable to say anything.

It's a symbol of our love, she whispered.

It is also a symbol of hope for a happy future for all elves, he said. I still can hardly believe it ...

Closely embraced, they stood at the railing of the Tharnawn, and never had the name of his flagship seemed more fitting to King Keandir than at that moment. Fate does indeed seem kind to the Elves again, he said. It cannot be a coincidence that after the long voyage through the Sea of Mists, we should come upon land at the very moment that the healer Nathranwen is discovering your pregnancy.

A sign of good fortune, Ruwen whispered.

Hopefully not just for us, but for all the Elven people.

The personal fate of the Elven King is inextricably intertwined with that of his people, Ruwen said. I am aware that this land before us cannot be the shores of the Fulfilled Hope, and that we are far from reaching our true destination. But perhaps our destiny does not lie there. Perhaps it lies here. Kean, could that be possible?

I don't know, he muttered.

On the other hand, he had to admit that the pregnancy of the Elven queen was a clear indication of fate. At least, he was sure that the wise among the elves would interpret this event that way. Moreover, the king knew how much a large part of his people longed to finally be able to finish the journey.

Are we really allowed to sail past a good land to continue an uncertain journey? asked Ruwen. Many of us now doubt that the Shores of Fulfilled Hope even exist.

King Keandir did not want to answer at that moment. He tenderly stroked his beloved Ruwen's hair and said, Let's wait and see what awaits us on land. Perhaps it is only a lonely rock jutting out of the sea.

Ruwen smiled. Her eyes shone. I will have to prevent you from further burdening the delicate soul of our unborn child with pessimism, beloved Kean!

Like this?

Her features took on an expression of feigned anger.

Yes! she said firmly, and before he could say anything else back, she closed his mouth with a kiss. Both Merandil and the one-eyed Prince Sandrilas looked discreetly to the side.

The gull still fluttered around the flagship's masts. Something fell from the sky and hit Merandil's brass-colored helmet. The bird's excretion smeared over the noble ornaments.

The new land seems to welcome you in a special way, dear Merandil! groaned the one-eyed Prince Sandrilas in a burst of mirth.

––––––––

The first ships reached the foreign coast. There were shallow anchorages everywhere in front of narrow sandy beaches followed by rugged rocky slopes.

Several of the ships gathered in a bay, while the many others anchored in the sea. Dinghies were lowered into the water. King Keandir stood at the stern of one of these launches and kept looking back at the Tharnawn, where Ruwen stood at the rail watching him. He would have liked to stay with her, but a king of the elves was expected to go ahead when the ships anchored off unknown coasts. Keandir knew very well that his authority would begin to crumble the moment he sent others ahead. And when it came to the Crown Council later on, whether it was better to continue the voyage or to settle in this unknown land, his word had to carry weight with the council members if he wanted to influence their decision.

Keandir, with a group of twenty loyal Elven warriors - including Prince Sandrilas and the hornblower Merandil - were among the first to go ashore. They jumped out of the boats and pulled them onto the sandy beach.

A rugged rock face rose only about a hundred paces from the water. And what was revealed to the elves there almost took their breath away.

A relief, apparently carved into the rock ages ago, loomed before them. It showed in unusual artistic perfection winged ape-like creatures armed with spears and tridents. They wore nothing on their bodies but their fur, and their faces were dominated by powerful tusks.

The grimacing gaze of all these figures carved into the stone seemed to be directed directly at the arrivals. The unmistakable traces that wind and weather had left in the relief over the ages did not change this impression. A shudder seized Keandir at the sight of these legacies of unknown stonemasons.

We are obviously not the first to enter this land, noted Merandil, who by now had cleaned his helmet of the seagull's welcome with seawater.

The bird had followed them and circled over their heads again, prompting Prince Sandrilas to make a pointed remark. You seem to have gained a loyal following, my dear Merandil. Or, in the end, is it only the boastful gleam of your helmet that makes you a particularly attractive target?

The gull suddenly let out a cry and changed its flight path, while at the same time a shadow shot out of a dark crevice that gaped in the rock at least a hundred men high. The beat of leathery dark wings was accompanied by a hiss.

The winged creature, which appeared as if from nowhere, looked like a spitting image of the stone monkeys. It was larger than a full-grown man and so fast that the seagull had no chance to escape. Its paws, armed with razor-sharp claws, grabbed the bird. A final squawking cry echoed off the rocks before the winged monkey returned with its prey to the darkness of that crevice.

Your silent imprecations with which you regard the bird must have been heard, dear Merandil, said Sandrilas mockingly. The gods seem well disposed toward you.

Apparently this land is home to unusual creatures, Merandil observed somberly. He seemed to have completely lost his sense of humor. He turned to Keandir. We should be careful, my king.

Keandir seemed as if he were absent. His fine senses were highly concentrated. He thought he heard voices from far away. A murmur and a murmur, but he could not distinguish individual words. He did not want to believe that the murmuring came from the primitive ape creatures that apparently lived among the cliffs. But something was there. The uneasiness he had already felt on board his flagship came back, and more strongly than before. Even the thought of Ruwen's pregnancy could not dampen this dark sensation this time.

My king?, Merandil's voice penetrated the Elven ruler's consciousness, and a jolt went through Keandir's body. He had lost contact with the voices. No matter how hard he strained and once again concentrated his senses, the murmurs had fallen silent.

As soon as all ships are anchored, the Crown Council shall be convened, he determined. Arrange this, Prince Sandrilas. It will be hours before that happens. I want to look around with a small group of warriors. You will stay here on the beach.

I would like to accompany you, replied the one-eyed prince.

Certainly. But I need you here. Set up camp and see that two smaller ships are sent out to explore the coast. We need to know if this land is part of a larger mainland or just an island.

Prince Sandrilas bowed his head. It shall be as you say, my king. But I advise you to watch out for these winged creatures. Perhaps they do not only hunt seagulls.

The king's hand tightened around the amber-studded hilt of the sword. I know how to defend myself.

Sandrilas pointed to the stone relief. Whatever people may have created this work of art of terror, we now know that these winged creatures really exist. Unfortunately, we do not know what became of the artists, but these images carved in stone tell enough, my king. Enough to warn us.

Four warriors were chosen by King Keandir to accompany him. Branagorn, a young Elven warrior who had gone ashore with the king and his retinue, was one of them. Another bore the name Malagond. He was considered the best archer in the whole fleet. Keandir also took with him two veteran Elven warriors, the brothers Moronuir and Karandil, who had been tested in countless battles.

You don't take the signs of danger seriously enough, Sandrilas complained with a sullen look.

Keandir, however, replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. The art of easy living is to perceive not only the signs of coming calamity, but also those of future happiness, dear prince. And with that, he glanced back for the umpteenth time to the Tharnawn, at whose rail Ruwen stood waiting for him. No thought of possible danger, no melancholy or even the disease of weariness of life, which afflicted the people of the elves more and more often, could take away this special elation from him.

Soon I'll be back, Ruwen! he murmured, certain that his beloved's fine senses would perceive the softly spoken words, if only as a hunch, a murmur of a familiar soul.

A rapturous smile completely dissolved the hardness of his features for a moment.

––––––––

Ruwen stood at the railing of the Tharnawn and looked out to the beach, which was hidden in the thick fog. She felt that Keandir was in her thoughts. Her senses heard the breath of his voice.

Kean! she muttered.

The Tharnawn, the royal flagship, had anchored in the bay with several others. But from the mainland in front of her, Ruwen could only see the craggy rocks that rose out of the fog. The view of the beach was blocked by dense gray clouds, and so she could not discover her beloved Keandir.

But he spoke to her at that moment, and although she did not hear the words with her ears, she knew that it was a message full of love and affection that he conveyed to her.

A smile flitted across her delicate face. She stroked back her ebony-black hair. But suddenly she stopped. She listened. Stared intently into the distance and searched the rocks of the coast with her eyes.

Kean, don't go! she said so loudly that one of the elven warriors turned to her.

The voice of Keandir she heard was covered by a chorus of spiteful murmurs.

What troubles you, Ruwen? asked a female voice near them. It was Nathranwen, the healer. You look completely distraught. Yet you would have every reason to rejoice.

So do I.

And what about the king?

He's as excited as I am.

Then you should enjoy your happiness. For it is not only your happiness, but the happiness of all the people of the Elves; the birth of a royal child will fill all with new hope and strength.

Ruwen gestured toward the coast. I thought I heard something. Something menacing, evil, lurking about my beloved Keandir.

Do you still hear it?

Ruwen shook his head. No.

Dark hunches and fine senses are both a blessing and a curse of our people, Ruwen. In this case, perhaps you should simply trust that fate really does mean very well with you at the moment. Often enough, it is the evil hunches themselves that cause their own fulfillment in the first place.

You think?

Yes.

Then I will hope you are right.

Chapter 2:

Winged beasts

King Keandir's group set off. For a moment he felt as if the voice of his beloved Ruwen was trying to warn him of something. He listened, but all he heard was the murmur of those creatures who lived on this coast.

The Elf King and his four companions walked a short distance along the narrow beach. It consisted of coarse sand and became increasingly stony in the direction of the cliffs. Then they discovered a path that led up into the mountains. Higher and higher it went. The vegetation was sparse and barren. Colorless thorn bushes had clung to the rock faces with their roots, and a few hardy grasses grew here and there. The smell of the mosses that covered some of the boulders was reminiscent of a tomb for the dead. Otherwise, bare rock predominated.

The path rose rapidly and then led through a crevice-like gorge that looked as if an overconfident giant had tried to split the mountain with a gigantic battle axe. At the end of this gorge, another very steep climb began. Over a narrow grade, the group continued on its way until it finally reached a high plateau.

Keandir stepped to the edge of the plateau and looked out over the sea. But there was nothing to be seen of the thousand-plus Elvish ships that were heading for the headlands. An impenetrable gray veil of dense mist hung over the water as far as the eye could see.

This is no ordinary fog we've run into, Keandir opined.

You suspect sorcery behind this? asked Malagond the Archer, as astonished as he was startled.

Yes, some evil form of magic it must be, Branagorn growled.

Malagond, carrying his bow on his back, said, Then this land must be the center of this evil magic.

Let's hope not, Keandir muttered.

The rustling thud of sharp leather wings sent them spinning. Malagond instinctively reached for his bow, and with a lightning-quick movement he drew an arrow from the quiver and put it to the string.

A winged monkey threw himself from a rocky ledge and swooped down in a gliding flight. In each of its two paws it held a spear, and one of them it hurled at the king.

Keandir deftly dodged to the side, and the spear missed him by a hair's breadth. The metal tip hit the rocky ground with a clang.

The attacker was unable to hurl the second spear, for Malagond's arrow pierced his body. With a shrieking scream, the winged fiend plunged into the depths.

But he was not the only attacker. Within moments, a dozen or so of these creatures emerged from their caves, holes and crevices. They were all naked except for their fur, but armed with spears and tridents, as depicted on the rock relief. They threw themselves down from the higher rock plateaus and ledges and hunted like birds of prey.

Malagond's bow sent arrow after arrow toward the winged beasts. Three of them met their end within a few heartbeats. Their eerie death cries were lost in the vastness of the sea of mist.

Malagond was not able to hit a fourth attacker in time. His trident pierced the elf's chest in the next instant, then a spear drove through Malagond's neck. One of the winged ones grabbed the archer with its clawed paws, dragged him away, tore him over the cliff, and let him go. The thudding sound of Malagond's body hitting the ground was not heard until several blinks later, so low did he fall. Even the advanced healing arts of the elves would not be able to help him.

Meanwhile, Keandir and Branagorn fought for their lives with swords in hand. At their side were the brothers Moronuir and Karandil, who had already served as bodyguards for King Keandir's father. Both wielded their slender blades, forged from elven steel, with great skill and deadly precision.

But the superiority was too great. Step by step, the group had to retreat until their backs were against a sheer cliff, while more and more winged men landed on the plateau to attack them. A spear drove into Moronuir's side. He sank to his knees, and Keandir himself now stood in front of his bodyguard. He lashed out with his magically hardened blade. Trollslayer was the name given to the weapon with the amber-studded handle. But it also caused death and destruction among the winged creatures of this cursed coast. Heads rolled, their faces frozen in grimacing hatred.

The winged attackers finally backed away from the king's furious courage. A spear, thrown by one of the creatures, chased close to Keandir's head and into Moronuir's chest. Mortally wounded, he sank to the ground.

Then Karandil stormed towards the superior force in a rage. Foolhardy, he lashed out. The screams of the winged ones resounded so shrilly over the battlefield that it was hardly bearable for the fine elvish senses. Three spears struck the elven warrior almost at the same time. Staggering, he stood there, his gaze already fixed.

Branagorn still prevented another attacker from tearing open the throat of the already death-stricken Karandil with his razor-sharp claws. But of the four Elven warriors who had followed their king into the mountains, only one was still alive.

Branagorn and Keandir stood side by side. The rugged rock was directly behind them and at least prevented them from being attacked from behind as well.

The noise of battle had to be heard down on the beach as well. The clang of weapons, the shrill screech of winged monkeys, the shrill screams of the dying. Even for a sense of hearing far less refined than that of the elves, the battle could not be missed, even from this distance. Prince Sandrilas was surely already rushing to their aid with a band of elven warriors. But whether this help would arrive in time was questionable.

The winged ones cowered at a safe distance, snarling and slavering. Their losses were high, but this blood toll only strengthened their fierce determination. They would kill at any cost the ivory-bleached alien warriors who had washed up on the shore of this rugged coast. Some of them picked up spears and tridents from the ground or pulled them from the lifeless bodies of the fallen Elven warriors.

Keandir's thoughts at that moment were with his beloved Ruwen and the unborn life she carried beneath her heart. So hopeful had everything looked just a short time ago, and now the Elven King was facing his end. Ruwen, I am sorry that I will not return! he murmured. Perhaps she would hear his words as distant murmurs of a kindred soul. Perhaps she would sense that his last thoughts had been for her and the unborn child.

Hissing sounds announced that it was only a matter of moments before the winged beasts would attack again. Some scraped the rock with the claws of their feet, tormenting the sensitive elf senses with the shrill screeching that ensued.

Branagorn groaned involuntarily. I wonder what has planted this hatred against us in their corrupted hearts, the young elven warrior growled uncomprehendingly.

In any case, they obviously don't want to give up until we, too, lie motionless in the dust. Keandir grasped his sword Trollslayer with both hands.

Like dark shadows, another dozen winged monkeys approached. Each of them held several spears or tridents in their claws. Gliding gently, they headed for the rocky plateau and landed. Their voices formed a shrill chorus. Apparently they communicated in an extremely simple, barbaric language. Finally they formed up. The tips of the spears and tridents pointed at the two elves.

A bugle call sounded in the distance. It had to be Sandrilas and his warriors, but they would not make the climb fast enough to stand by their king.

The winged ones suddenly intoned a deep, rumbling chant and formed an ever-tightening semicircle around their two victims.

Let us defend ourselves as best we can, Branagorn, said Keandir, grim determination written on his features.

Branagorn laughed hoarsely. What else can we do, since our backs are against the wall?

Keandir took a step forward. He let the blade fly through the air so fast that it was surrounded by a bluish glow. The attackers stumbled and took half a step back.

You see, Branagorn? cried Keandir. At least we still have one ally on our side. Namely, the fear that the course of the battle so far has inspired in the ugly creatures.

But this fear will not be a battle-deciding trump card, my king, Branagorn muttered gloomily.

In the next moment, one of the winged ones let out a barbaric scream, which was the signal for the entire horde to attack. With incredible fury, they fell upon the two Elven warriors. Dozens of spearheads stabbed at Keandir and Branagorn, but the sharp Elven swords simply sliced through the wooden shafts - and often enough, the arm whose hand was wielding them. Screams rang out, and death again reaped rich harvest after only a few moments. Greenish slimy blood splattered as Keandir wielded his troll slayer.

But the superior force was too great. The two elves defended themselves with the fury of despair; of their blades cutting through the air, one could hardly see more than the bluish pile of light, so quickly were they wielded, and they sang a buzzing death song as they did so.

The space that remained for the two defenders, however, became narrower and narrower. Their backs and shoulders pressed against the slippery cold rock, partly overgrown with foul-smelling moss - and it suddenly gave way!

Keandir staggered and thought he was going to fall. After a few steps, however, he regained his balance. With Trollslayer in both hands, he stood there, while his slanted eyes narrowed. For a brief moment, his face lost its hard features, as if carved in stone, and showed an expression of boundless amazement.

Branagorn was no different. At first, the young elven warrior stood stunned, his slender, slightly curved sword already raised for the next blow.

They had both penetrated the rock wall as if it were nothing!

The light of the dull, misty day shimmered from outside through the rock, which had magically become transparent. For Keandir and Branagorn, it had apparently given up its solidity - for the winged monkeys, however, it still represented an insurmountable obstacle. Through the transparent rock, they could be seen raging and pointlessly pounding the stone wall with their weapons. They simply could not believe that their prey, which they thought was safe, their opponents, who were already doomed to die, were suddenly no longer within their reach.

The transparency of the rock diminished within a few heartbeats. Soon the view outside became milky and blurred until nothing could be seen of the raging beasts with their wildly flapping leather wings and barbaric tusks.

Where are we? groaned Keandir in confusion.

I just hope it's not the magic of evil that's here, Branagorn said skeptically.

Keandir shrugged his shoulders. I shall not care what kind of witchcraft is operative here. It saved our lives, Branagorn. We should always remember that.

Certainly, my king.

It had also become dark when the rock had solidified again. Complete darkness surrounded the two elves. Even their hyper-sensitive eyes no longer had enough brightness to recognize anything. Keandir touched his hand to the cold rock wall, which was again completely solid and impenetrable. It was hard to believe that only a few moments ago this stone had yielded to the pressure of a graceful elven body.

Suddenly, Keandir and Branagorn heard footsteps from the dark depths behind them. Footsteps in absolute darkness.

The two elves held their breath.

The footsteps approached before they finally stopped.

Who is there? asked Keandir. But the being in the darkness did not answer. Only its breath could be heard, and the smell of unimaginable age spread out. A smell that had nothing to do with decay or decaying. The breathing became more violent and turned into a rattle that vibrated and hissed.

Speak, creature of darkness! cried Keandir, putting into his voice all the determination and authority of which he was still capable. I am King Keandir, ruler of the elves! Now tell me who you are!

Again he received no answer. Instead, a flame suddenly flared up. Then another. Within moments, half a dozen torches, mounted in metal brackets on the walls, ignited. Shadows danced across the rock and over the pale faces of the elves.

A massive figure, supported by two thick walking sticks, stood hunched before the two elves. The misshapen, misshapen body was covered by a coarse robe of gray cloth. The most frightening thing was the angular, irregularly shaped head with the equally deformed face. The mouth was open and completely toothless. Above it flaunted a broad, bulbous nose. But there, where the eyes should have been, was nothing.

Nothing at all!

Not even caves.

The skin stretched over the skull. The forehead began already at the level of the cheekbones.

The eyeless man took a step closer. With his gnarled, six-fingered hands, he grasped the two walking sticks. The one on the right was made of a light-colored wood that suddenly seemed to glow from within for a brief moment. Carvings covered the entire staff. Faces that were reminiscent of death masks. On top of the staff was enthroned the figure of a winged creature that bore great resemblance to a monkey. The figure was made of pure gold.

The second staff resembled the first in size and shape, except that it was made of dark ebony. Countless tiny figures were carved into it. Ghostly totems with distorted faces. On the top of this staff was a skull, but no larger than an elvish fist.

I myself do not need the light - but it is more comfortable for you that way, King Keandir. The Elf King noticed that although the eyeless man spoke, his mouth did not move. Keandir was not sure if he was actually hearing his counterpart's words with his ears or if a spirit voice was speaking directly to his soul. The eyeless man raised the skull staff slightly, whereupon three more torches ignited. One of them was stuck in an iron ring on the rock wall barely a step and a half away from the king. Keandir noticed that no heat was coming from the flames. They were obviously dealing with magic. It was all just a magical illusion.

Witchcraft is the only way to gain some respect from the winged beasts that lurk out there, said the Eyeless One, and again his voice resounded only in the minds of the two elves. I've lived here so long - I know how to keep them at bay by now. It's not hard to learn, either.

Keandir glanced quickly at Branagorn and saw from his expression that he also heard the voice. Then he looked again at the eyeless man. As repulsive as his appearance might be, he sounded quite trustworthy. Who are you? asked the Elf King.

It's been a long time since I've been called by a name. I don't know if I can get used to it again. It's been a long time at all since anyone strayed into this cave to have a conversation with me. Longer than an eon. The earth and sky have changed shape since then, and none of the species that populated the earth back then still exist. I am the only one left from that distant age. Therefore, it is of no importance what name I bore at that time. Just call me the Eyeless Seer.

A seer are you?

Yes, short-lived brother of death.

Our people are generally considered to be very long-lived.

"To me you are like mayflies, hardly worth