Evermoore - The Ancients Way: Chapter 1

This is our creed,

Love and be loved,
Know and be known,
Give and receive,
Bless and be blessed,

Not to force, but to guide,
Not to dictate, but to rule,
Not to strike, but to care for,
Not as slaves, but as sons,

Make them as us,
Likened to our image,
Let them see our hand,
Make them higher than the others,

Never broken, never wrong,
This creed is the Law,
Let him who breaks it be cast from us,
Let him who keeps it be as us,


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The Passing of the Alth-Tuned


Timmelan was quite; it was always quite of late. It had been thirty years since a party had been held in the hilltop settlement; or even a festive get-together, for that matter. Under the shadow of the Roc Mountain it seemed a gloom fell upon the citizens of that little town, and boringness was the shade of color. Even the beauty of the Western Range, which was the land Hyrotha, and Timmelan, resided in could not affect the people. It was silent, quiet, and closed like a solemn graveyard. Of all cities in Hyrotha, it was the only where funeral homes were more prominent than inns, and the only where funerals were more important than birthdays. The people of Timmelan were odd.
That is not to say they were an unkindly bunch. To most they were friendly enough, if you knew what to say and do in that little town. They were dark haired and tall; generally inclined to be fat, though there was a minority of folks that held true to their body and stayed in good shape. Many of the inhabitants of the city, especially amongst the newest generation, were handsome and beautiful; until they turned forty years of age that is. Always without fail, on their fortieth birthday a change would come over them: skin would become clammy and swart; eyes would narrow and become harsh; warts and other marks became common on the body; and a wicked, permanent grin would slowly take over their lips. It was horrifying thing to see this change; to watch a beautiful woman turn into a nasty hag, or a handsome man fall into a decrepit and swarthy state. Foreigners would cringe at the sight of a changed Timmelan, and none could understand this natural phenomenon; but there was a trend to it. It seemed that all who lived in that little hilltop town had something in common – they were all gloomy and downcast in their younger years of life. No matter how happy or smiling a citizen of Timmelan was, it was given that they would speak of doom and darkness if you spoke to them. And, if you were a foreigner, there was no use in speaking to a Timmelan at all.
Timmelan was avoided like the plague by all foreigners, for it was a town hostile to them; the citizens a bane to their very existence. However, there were a few travelers who would dare the harsh glares of the city to journey in the lands about it, for it was a naturally beautiful place, with hills and valleys and wondrous views to be had. They tended to stay far away from the town; and when they did travel to the top of the hill, it was only for supplies or much needed rest.
These travelers who kept to themselves were called vagabonds by some, and ruffians by others, but most called them alth-tuned, the ice walkers, for they tended to travel far to the north to the glacier bays just off Nil-Niverthore Island where the Seal and Mire of Erthelon could be found. All ‘loyal’ citizens of the Western Ranges (and Timmelan more specifically) despised the alth-tuned; and few people would give them the time of day if they were standing next to a sundial. Even the king of those provinces, Alushed, proclaimed that ice walkers were not to be allowed room at inns, unless they paid thrice the normal price. Of course, this was ill received by most and tourism dropped to a crawl in places like Nun and Galedon, though the residents of those cities were actually very friendly. But in cities like Timmelan, where people took boringness and seclusion to new heights, laws such as this one were widely accepted. Of course, Timmelan was also the worst place in all of Hyndelom.
But not everyone in Timmelan was so dark and mean, for there was a very small minority that stayed friendly throughout their life. These people were a generally nice bunch, and their good deeds were often spread towards the alth-tuned with gifts and helping hands. Most Timmelans despised them, for they were always happy and laughing, and their faces ever had smiles. So much did the other Timmelans hate them that many were driven from the town, but still a few remained. Tuned-Egor, Walker Friends, they were called, and they were hated almost as much as the alth-tuned.
One of these tuned-egor was an old lady who lived in a wooden house below the hill on the far edge of the city; a happy, friendly woman with a bright smile and colorful wardrobe. She was a thorn to the Timmelans: always giving a ‘how-do-you-do’ or a ‘pleasant day’ to all who passed by; even daring to shake the hand of some she saw. It annoyed them, but they tolerated it, for her children were well respected. But now the tale is getting ahead of itself, so it must slow down.
Now, this little old lady was notorious for giving aid to a mysterious stranger that walked into town every Sunday; a deadly sin in the eyes of tedious Timmelans who would never dare do such a thing. The traveler, who went by the name of Guldethane, was a man of mystery and intrigue, little liked and little heeded by the people. A man who would travel around the land of Hyrotha for weeks, usually stopping at Timmelan to rest at the Red Rider Inn. No one could decipher why this man kept coming back to Timmelan, for they treated him as rudely as possible, even going as far as to throw a can of garbage at him one time. But he paid the three times price for a room, and that was enough for the innkeeper.
Of course, no one really cared if Guldethane stayed in Timmelan or not, but it had become almost a religion to be hostile towards these alth-tuned. Citizens would boo and jeer as he walked into town, always carrying that cumbersome bag of his. Some would even go as far as to throw rocks at him; but he kept walking with the same grim determination. And it was always the same thing during these visits: walk into town, buy one weeks supply of food, stop at the Red Rider Inn for a night, and then inquire about the Stonehouse family, a very prominent family in Timmelan. The most of it was okay for the Timmelans, but few were ever pleased that this troublemaker would ask questions concerning the Stonehouses. But when asked why he cared to know about them he would simply answer, ‘I have an old debt to repay,’ and then move on.
However, there was one person in Timmelan who seemed to get along quite well with Guldethane. Her name was Sally Girahan, and she was the old lady who lived in the wooden house outside the city limits.


Sally was one of those ‘queer’ people who seemed to be kind to everyone, no matter what race or country they were. She lived in a manner that most Timmelans saw as ungodly, for she was ever smiling and having fun at her lavish home. Parties were held frequently at her house, though none of the Timmelans were ever invited, save for her daughter, son-in-law, and grandson. The guests at those parties were always men from far lands, or elves from Mididel, or dwarves from countries unknown. Even an orc or two had been seen passing her way, and that really miffed the Timmelans.
But Sally was the kind of person who didn’t care what others thought, and when Guldethane came to town she always made it a priority to see him. Though, why she saw him, and why they always seemed to speak of strange things was beyond any of them, and they well enough steered clear when Sally came to town; ‘Well enough alone, well enough forgotten,’ would say Barker Meerdok, the resident Funeraler. That same Mr. Meerdok was a holder of many rumors about illicit affairs within the Girahan home, and Sally found herself on the receiving end of nasty stories circulating the pubs and nightstands; the younger people of Timmelan would even go so far as to shout at her whenever she went to market. An unkind lot, but she did not mind, for she cared little about Timmelan or its inhabitants, and even less about the bratty children that resided there.
But there was one boy unlike the rest; a boy who loved to follow her everywhere she went; and his name was Anril Stonehouse, her grandson.
Anril was one of those happy, smiling children that worried the citizens of Timmelan, much apart from the frowning, pouting babies of their own. From the time he could walk Anril would cling to his grandmother’s skirt and follow her from street to street as they searched for Guldethane. Of course, he never understood what the old man and his grandmother spoke of when they met, though he knew it was about him much of the time; but he did grow to like Guldethane, and soon he was a regular favorite of the boy. Never could the young lad understand why people hated the alth-tuned, for it was beyond his toddler mind to comprehend. However, he did know that he did not like it, and to counter the hostility of the Timmelans he would make a small pine cone present for Guldethane every Saturday evening, that way he could give it to him when the traveler walked into town on Sunday.
But Anril’s parents, the Stonehouses, were very unhappy that their son would meet Guldethane so often. For though Anril’s mother, Maire Stonehouse, was a descendant of the great adventurers from tales gone by; she had lost all her adventuring spirit. That is to say, she had become as the Timmelans, cold and harsh, and she was perhaps the most hostile towards Guldethane.
For years she watched in horror as her son would meet the ice walker, and ever she longed to end the commute between them. So she devised a way to keep Anril from the ice walker, and her plan was devious indeed. Every Saturday, as Anril was out picking pinecones for his usual present for Guldethane, Maire would brew a special drink from the herbs known as Slintherak, or sleep-willows. The drink would make Anril very sleepy, and she would give it to him the hour before he was put to bed for the night. The drink would cause him to sleep long and peacefully, and every Sunday he would wake in the afternoon, hours after his grandmother and Guldethane had met. He was always very sad, but being young could not conclude why he always slept late. For two years this went on, and Anril saw Guldethane only as he left town to whatever business he had in the wilderness.
Then one week, as summer was just coming around the bend and spring flowers were fading into green leaves, Anril’s mother became sick. Nothing terrible, but enough to keep her in bed for a few days; and this brought a swift change to Anril, for Maire was too weak to gather the roots and herbs for her brew on Saturday, and therefore Anril never received the dastardly drink.
On Sunday morning Anril awoke in surprise, for it was the first morning in over a year that he had been able to wake with the sun. Quickly he rose from bed and dashed off towards his grandmother’s home.


Now, Sally had long suspected her daughter of keeping her grandson from seeing Guldethane, but no proof had yet come to light. But when she saw it was no coincidence that Anril was awake the morning that his mother was sick, she decided to do something about it. So, one day as they sat together in the fireroom of her little wooden house, she pulled Anril close and spoke quietly, saying;
“My child, I want to ask you something, and I want you to tell me everything you can.” Her voice was sharp and strong, but just beginning to show the crackling quality that came with age.
Anril had nodded his head vigorously, for grandma always had presents waiting when he answered questions. However, there would be no presents this time, for his grandmother asked; “What happens on Saturday, before you go to bed? Do you brush your teeth and climb into bed as all boys do; or is there something else, another task that your mother has you perform.”
Anril thought a moment, rubbing his sandy hair with his tiny hand. “Mommy has me drink the good stuff,” he finally said.
“What is the good stuff?”
“I don’t know. Mommy says it will help me sleep and be really strong in the morning.”
Sally nodded and leaned close to Anril. “And does your mom ever give this good stuff to you on other nights?”
“No, she says it’s for the special day, when I go see Guldi.”
She needed no more proof, for she saw now the reason her grandson never woke in the morns of Sunday. She sat back in her rocking chair and stoked the fire that burned in her stone fireplace. The light danced around the room as she thought of a way to relieve her grandchild of the horrid practice his mother had taught him to be a part of.
Then the answer came to her, but she would need Guldethane’s help.


Another week came and went and Saturday was back again. Anril’s mother had recovered from her sickness and was back to keeping her son from the ice walker. Another brew of the good stuff was laid at Anril’s place and he drank it with the same obedience he had always shown. And with the same effects he fell into a slumber that would keep hold of him for many hours.
But when Sunday morning came about there was an odd disquiet in Timmelan. Guldethane did not come stomping into town as he did every week; the Road was empty. Contrary to popular belief, this put quite a damper on the mood of the Timmelans, for it was somewhat of a tradition to harass the ice walker as he came strolling into town; some were rather thrown off by his disappearance. In fact, and maybe even odder than Guldethane’s missing, was that Sally Girahan had taken up a boarder in her home, confounding the minds of Timmelans everywhere. Many speculated who the new boarder was, but few inquired too deeply since she was little liked; ‘Well enough alone, well enough forgotten,’ Meerdok would repeat to any who would listen; it was his favorite saying, and a favorite of all Timmelans. Let Sally have her border; they would not care; or so they thought. But had they inquired they would have been in for a pretty surprise. Guldethane had broken his habitual wandering of the Western Ranges and took a more permanent residence with Sally, as to be closer to the Stonehouse family he seemed so obsessed with.


Anril woke to another disappointing afternoon, as he did most every Sunday; gloomily he looked out his window to the high sun. Oh, how he longed to be at his grandmother’s side, walking about and searching for Guldethane. He sighed and got out of bed, but not before looking into town and seeing that his grandmother was outside on the far side of the market, dressed as she always was: blue wide-rimmed hat, long red dress, full length gloves, and here favorite brown handbag. Seeing her sparked a tad of life into him, and his young heart suddenly yearned to be around her.
He got dressed and sprinted out of the house as fast as his four year old legs would carry him. Passed Timmelans of all sorts he ran, some shouting for him to slow down. However, Anril was not one to listen to others, and he soon slid to a stop on the stones in front of Sally Girahan, out of breath and covered in dust.
“Slow down, Anril, you can’t be running everywhere in this weather. Button your coat, it’s too cold out here,” Sally said in the same scolding tone that she had use so many times. Most people thought she was angry when she spoke in that manner, but Anril knew she was only worried about him, and that was because she loved him.
“Aww, I hate buttoning my coat. What if I just pulled my hat down?” he squeaked.
“No, now hold still while I do it,” she told him as she began to button his coat. When she was finished Anril plopped to the dirt and looked at her with his lopsided, goofy smile.
“What are you doing today, grandma? You never stay outside when it’s chilly.”
“Well, I have been waiting for you,” she croaked. Sally was seventy-three years old and her voice was beginning to take a shallow, light tone that most all grandmothers have. She would say that she hated the change in her voice, and that it made her sound like an old hag, but Anril liked it, for it gave her a friendly quality that his four year old ears desired to hear.
“Does your mother know you are here?” she asked nervously.
“No, mama always sleeps real late on Sundays. She says that she doesn’t have to worry about stuff anymore, so she has more time.”
Sally breathed a sigh of relief and smiled. “Well come with me then. I think there is someone who wants to see you.” She started off down the long hill that Timmelan sat upon, walking at a brisk pace. At the foot of the hill sat a long valley of green and brown grass, and through its middle ran the Road, which would take travelers to Nun and beyond. Also at the base of the hill was the very eastern edge of the Cedar Woods, the great forest that covered the northwestern tip of Hyrotha. It was into the woods that Sally walked. Down a few paths, and twisting by a few turns, they finally came to the wide clearing in the woods where Sally Girahan made her home. “Hurry inside Anril, you’re going to like your surprise.”
Anril jumped up and darted through the front door before Sally said another word. He dropped his coat and boots and rushed through the house looking for the person grandma had spoken of. He found him in the fire room.
“Guldi!” he shouted as he saw the old man sitting in front of the fireplace.
“Anril, how are you boy?” Guldethane’s voice was old and hoarse, but a strong, deep undertone lined it with authority and power.
“Good! Grandma said you wanted to see me.”
Guldethane looked at him with piercing blue eyes that seemed to glow in the firelight. His worn face spread into a beaming smile that echoed in a warm embrace he placed on the young boy. “Oh, I only wished to give you a hug, and tell you something important: I am going to be staying here at your grandmother’s house; and I want you to come visit me as much as you can.”
“Why, Guldi?”
“Because, I have lots of stories to tell you, and your grandmother does too. There are many things a boy of your ancestry needs to know, and I am the man to give them to you; such is my lot in life. But I will leave that for later. Promise me you will visit as much as possible.”
Anril was puzzled, but he loved Guldethane as he would a grandfather, so he promised. “But first I must ask mama.”
“No! Your mother can not know I am here, Anril,” Guldethane jumped to his feet. Startled, Anril drew back, but Guldethane calmed himself and set little boy upon his lap. “Listen closely Anril, closer than anything you have ever listened to: your mother does not like me very much, for reasons I shall not speak of with you; and I think it would make her sad to see me here. I want you to keep my being here a secret from her, alright.”
“Okay!” Anril said excitedly. He was the kind of boy who loved to keep secrets, and suddenly he felt he had a big one to keep.
“Good, now run along, I think your grandmother is going to bake cookies tonight,” said Guldethane shooing him away.
Anril squealed in glee and jumped from Guldethane’s lap, and then he burst through the house and into the garden. The old man watched him run with a smile, so absorbed that he barely noticed Sally walk into the room.
“Is he the one?” she whispered to Guldethane.
“Yes, He will be pleased when Anril comes to age; but we knew so much already. I fear only that we are harming the boy by waiting to tell him.”
“So do I,” Sally replied, “but he would tell his mother or father eventually; as you know he will the secret you asked him to keep.”
“Yes, I know,” Guldethane sighed. “But, it will buy us time, and that is something more precious than the risk.” Then turning back to the desk he gathered a paper, picked up a quill and ink, and then set to writing out the many things he had yet to put. He was old, his time was short, and still there were many things to be done.


Anril waited only two days before running back to the wooden house on the outskirts of Timmelan. This time he was prepared, and his arms were filled to the brim with pinecones and leaves. He had decided to give Guldethane every pine present he had gathered over the years his mother had kept them apart. It was a comical sight to see the little four year old tottering through the woods with his arms packed in bark and tree. Thankfully, it was a warm day, and Sally had left her front door open to gather a good breeze; so Anril had little trouble getting into the house.
Waddling into the guest-room, Anril dropped all of his presents noisily on the floor and hugged Guldethane, who was sitting at the desk writing on a large piece of paper, as he had been doing every day that Anril visited him.
“What’cha doing?” Anril asked.
“Still writing that book for you, Anril,” Guldethane told the boy, for such was his answer every time Anril came to Sally’s home. Looking up from his work he frowned. “There are things that I will not be able to tell you before I am gone from this earth, and those things I must write in ink so that you may know them when I have passed on. It is hard work, but its end is more important than my convenience; and so I ask that you be patient as I write.”
Anril climbed his legs and sat on his lap, watching the feathered pen write in the short, crude letters of the Serngal language. He was still young, and youngsters did not learn their letters fully until they were the age of six in Timmelan. But Sally had been giving Anril some off the wall training, and he could read some words if he focused and sounded them out.
“To- Torn-a-mint of kine-gz,” he sounded as he read the title to the page Guldethane was writing upon. “What is a Torn mint of kine-gz, Guldi?”
“Tournament of Kings, Anril; it is a legend that you would not understand, yet; old, very old, older than me; so old that I do not remember it in full. You will hear of it many times if you ever journey east, for it is a great, though dark moment in our history. But for now, just know that it is a long story that Guldi must write in peace, so go find your grandmother; I believe she was in the parlor.”
Anril sighed and slid off his lap, then waddled-ran into the parlor where his grandmother was sitting, knitting a new sweater for him. Above her head were three mythril bells that rang softly in the slight breeze that had crept in from an open window.
“Aww, not another sweater, grandma; how come I never get toys, or funeral kits, like all the other boys?” Anril whined as he slid onto the blue couch that sat under the window.
“Because such things are for those that are going nowhere and getting there fast,” Sally scolded. “Now sit, I have a little story to tell you, and I think you will like this one.”
Anril dropped to his knees and propped his back against a small table, a gleeful look covering his face, for he loved his grandmother’s stories. Sally put away her sewing kit and began to rock in her wooden rocking chair. After a moment she started her tale.
“Let me see. Once, in a land not far away, but long ago, before we had countries like Hyrotha or Velreth, and when our land was much bigger, for it was combined with another land far to the west now, there was a man named Edhelian…” And for the rest of the night she and Anril sat in that room and she told him of legends of men that gave Anril chills and sent shivers up his back. When she had finished, Anril went home. And as he did every night after visiting his grandmother, he dreamt of the stories, for he had plenty of things to think about as his small head nodded into sleep.


Two years passed, and every couple of days Anril could be seen charging towards his grandmother’s house with arms full of pinecones. He would always leave the house a couple hours later with a smile that only pure happiness could bring.
During that time he began to change his speech, and unlike the other boys in Timmelan, Anril would usually spend his time reading scrolls that he brought out of his grandmother’s house. Soon his conversations were centered around adventures and fairy tales, and this alarmed the people of Timmelan, for such things were against their way of life. But, ever he would go into that wooden house, and every time he would come out with a different story to tell; some of which truly boiled the blood of the adults in town, for they were tales of elves, and elves were looked upon darkly in Timmelan. ‘Something must be done, or done something will be,’ said Meerdok; a change in pace for the old gabber, but it truly showed how worried the Timmelans were becoming for this little boy. Since Meerdok was worried, parents of other children became worried, and soon Anril was banned from speaking with the other children of Timmelan. Of course, this made his mother wonder, for she had believed her son to be a likeable and friendly boy. So, by bribery and deceit, she found that Guldethane was living at her mother’s home, and that over the years his grandmother had been feeding him all of the strange tales he told the other kids.
Livid as she was, Maire could do little to stop the growing boy, and though she warned him to stay away, Anril still ran to his grandmother’s as often as before, carrying his presents for Guldethane. His mother could only watch in anger as his little legs carried him from the house; a smile on his face.


As Anril grew and began to change, he began to notice a change in his friends also. While he would run and play in the fields surrounding their hilltop city, most of the boys would get together and play what they called ‘horses’, but is commonly known as chess. Anril never could join them in the game, for it required too much sitting and not enough doing, and he found himself alone much of the time, reenacting great battles and legendary stories in the green fields below the city. It was odd in the eyes of Timmelans, but he did not care.
In the fall of his sixth year, Anril went to school, and he found it a dreadful place. Kids were forced to wear stuffy uniforms and sit straight in their seats; though the other kids in his age group seemed rather pleased to act this way. Lunch was a piece of bread, and the water had a metallic flavor. But worst of all were the subjects. Of course, he actually liked the normal subjects, such as math and languages, but it was the other stuff, like Philosophy of the West, that he could not bear. During those odd classes he would be forced to listen to teachers speak about how there were no great adventures and how all the legends of other cultures were really just stories made up by the Ancients so that people could see their power in parables. Anril thought it the most horrid thing to hear, and sometimes would get in trouble because of his ability to recount tales of old to the class. More than once he found himself in an awful place called the Principles Office for telling ‘fairy tales’ to the other students.


Four more years passed and Anril began to grow into a handsome young boy. But still he would be seen walking towards the wooden house in the Cedar Woods, though there were no longer pine-cones in his hands.
Guldethane was now very old, and in the years of men he could no longer be reckoned. His face looked not like that of men and more like that of the jinn, for it sagged greatly and he had deep creases near his eyes and mouth. But still Anril loved to see him and hear the stories he would tell, and they would spend hours about the fire talking and listening to one another.
One day, the fifth of July to be certain, as the land reached what some called ‘the warm point’, when the temperature would be a comfortable seventy degrees, Anril again found his way into his grandmother’s home. His pinecone presents were now a thing of the past, for he was nearing the age of eleven, but he still had the goofy smile and pure heart that his younger self had born.
It was as any other day. The sun shone briefly between clouds above. Winds gusted across dusty stones in the city, and trees rustled softly in the great cedar woods to the north, sending a small chatter into Timmelan. But little could Anril know that today would be one of two important days in his young life, and this perhaps the greater of the two.


“Grandmother, are you home,” he called into the wooden house as he stepped through the green door. The smell of cedar and pine wafted gently to him and the sound of bells ringing in the wind sang out.
“I am in the kitchen, dear,” a warm old voice answered.
Anril removed his boots and trotted into the kitchen. Guldethane and grandma were sitting down to a decent meal; grandma had a large sack sitting beside her.
“Come on in dear, breakfast is waiting.” She motioned towards the bread and jam on the table.
“Thank you grandma," he said politely, and then noticed the old man beside her. “Hello Guldethane, what are you reading?” he asked, noticing the book that the old man had propped on the table.
“What? Oh, this is just a little something I put together,” he answered. His voice was slow and thin in his late years, but his deep baritone from his youth could still be heard, like a whisper, under it. “You remember that day I told you I was writing some things down for you, don’t you? Well, here it is.” He slid the book over to Anril, making sure the title stuck up towards his face.
“Talmudiath Eliodar, by Guldethane,” Anril said as he read the golden letters of its title. “What does it mean?”
Guldethane seemed shocked to hear Anril ask such a question. “What! Do you mean to say that you are not taught the ancient languages in your school! Bah, useless elementary, I say; what a waste!”
Anril shook his head and shrugged his shoulders; Guldethane had become increasingly odd in his manner in the last few years, but he still loved him as his own grandfather. “We learn some of the Romedun language, but nothing else. Our teachers say that the other languages are not really intelligent, but made by crude, unthinking peoples.”
“Those same unthinking people are the people who made their pathetic lives possible,” Guldethane remarked bitterly. “Bah, the world is going to Karfang in a handbasket, but I suppose you are not to blame for your ignorance. The writing, in gold and all as I decided to put it, is an ancient form of Latiun; not that anyone in Timmelan would be able to tell you.”
Sally coughed and gave Guldethane a queer look. “Well, almost no one,” he corrected. “But, luckily for you I decided to write it in Serngal, or else I would have wasted many years on a book you couldn’t understand. Go on, take a look in it.”
Anril opened the book and looked at the first page, an index of the chapters and sections. It was a hefty book, probably in paging near two thousand, and Anril knew it would take a long time to finish. “The Romedun and the War of the Fallen,” he read as he looked upon the first words.
“Yes, the first story in there. Took me the longest to write, for I had to go back into the east to find someone who still remembered the names back then; odd words and such. But it is complete, I think; though, perhaps it is a little scant on the Achorin before they fell; but I cannot be blamed for that; no one remembers that time, unless they are a few elves who still reside in the west. I suppose I should be happy enough that I got what I did, considering there are no men or dwarves still alive from that age.”
Anril smiled, but his eyes betrayed complete and utter confusion. Guldethane scoffed and huffed, taking the book back and setting it upright. It was bound in red leather and gold trimming, and on its back there was a single word – Logos.
“What is Logos?” asked Anril.
Guldethane’s eyes suddenly grew wide and he looked frantically to Sally. The old lady shook her head disapprovingly and mouthed the word ‘no’.
“It is nothing,” Guldethane finally answered, “just a little thing that you wouldn’t understand. Forget it.”
Anril watched the silent conversation between Guldethane and his grandmother with confusion, but merely smiled and took the book back, reading the various chapter headings. “The Tournament of Kings! I remember that. You were writing it the first day you told me of the book.”
“Yes, and thanks to you it took me twice as long to finish,” Guldethane huffed. “You must have created enough noise for three children during that year, but there it is, full and complete. You might want to read that first, but make sure you read it slowly. It may be the most important story in there, except for Eonen, for that tale deals mainly with the White Heroes; but read it all the same. It is good, if I do say so myself.”
Anril nodded and kept reading, “Nagoleth’ Ahethudnar, Khaleem, the Folds of Nithel in ancient days, the Elves and their contributions to society, the Irig, Yargor and the Rognarak, Eonen, the Dark Years, Given. What names! Are they all complete stories?”
“Most, but they are so much more than that,” Guldethane said firmly. “This is not a fairy tale book to put you to sleep, Anril; it is a history of this land. Not a full history, but it goes back pretty far in years, though the Early Days are pretty much none in it. The Thorn y Anore would be a better book for those days, but this should suit a youngster like yourself just fine. It’s the kind of book a boy like you needs to read.”
Anril flipped through the pages and stopped at the first chapter. It was titled ‘The Crossing of Eardon’. He began to read but was stopped by a gnarled hand pulling back the book.
“Not yet,” said Guldethane as he slid the book back into the folds of his cloak. “First, I have a story to tell you. Go sit in the fire room while I get something.”
Anril flew from his chair and raced to the fire room. Sally was already sitting in her usual spot in the wooden rocking chair. Anril took a spot on the blue rug close to the fireplace.
Heavy footsteps echoed in the hall and Guldethane presently hobbled in on his cane. No longer could he walk as his body was created to do, but still he refused to be limited to the rolling mini-chariots that people called wheelchairs, so he had made a cane from cedar wood; ‘sturdy and strong, like me,’ he would say. In his right hand was a cloak of blue color with ancient runes sewn into the sleeves and breast halves. He took a seat on the couch that lay near the door and dropped the cloak beside him.
“Now, before we start I have something I want you to have.” He picked up the cloak and handed it to Anril, who took it with glee. “It is an old piece of clothing that has been handed down for generations in my family; though, I can no longer remember who first wore it, it was so long ago. It will never wear out or fade, and whoever wears it will be warm in the coldest nights and cool during the hottest days. Without it I would have been frozen to death many nights that I wandered these ranges, but because of it I was warm even on the most frigid of dusks. But my days of ice-walking are over, and, I think it should go to someone who could use it.”
Anril slipped into the cloak, which fell in folds over his tiny body. It was cool, yet not too cool, and it felt light, even over his normal clothes.
“Thank you, Guldethane!”
The old man smiled and sank deeply into the heather couch. “Now, sit back and clear your mind, for I am about to tell you a tale that few have heard, and even fewer have remembered. I will tell you the Almer’tolian o Leonar, the Dark War of the East; as I recall it and the Romedun recorded it.”
Anril dropped back and laid his head on a small heather pillow. His eyes fixed on Guldethane, who was busy putting a pillow of his own behind his old back. When he was finished, the old man put his cane down between his knees and began his story.
“Once, long ago, before the Great Sundering and removal of the elves and irig from Evermoore, there was a land called Andaleeth. If you would read the Tournament of Kings you would find that Andaleeth once belonged to the Romedun…” And for the next five hours Guldethane filled the room with a powerful tale of the days before the Mages came to Evermoore; the time before the Second Darkness. He told of Agorthane, the Dark King of Men, and his foolish attempts at war and conquering. He spoke of the elves and their sorrow, and their final flight from Nithel to the Nameless Isle. And at last, as night fell outside he came to the Mages and their war with men and dwarves, and the evil that befell the world at their coming.
Anril was entranced by the story, barely noticing that his legs had fallen asleep under him. It seemed that visions of that age were shown to him as he listened, and he saw the great battle in Andaleeth, the bloody skirmishes that changed the world. He saw Faldorn, a warrior of the Romedun, tall and handsome, crying as the mountains fell into the divide and Nithel fell to nothing. He saw Agorthane, broken and defeated, lamenting as he hung in the dungeons of Vorthr, the Citadel of Dusk, the Mages stronghold. He saw the elves, sorrowful and gloomy, walking the pass of Shen Tath as they forsook the lands of men. Words escaped him, for such things could not be described, and when Guldethane ended his story it seemed that he had been ripped from a strange dream. “Wow,” was all he could whisper.
“Yes, wow indeed,” Guldethane replied. “That tale has passed from generation to generation in my family, and no greater tale have I heard from the lips of men in many years. But, as all tales of ancient men, it is sad, for it speaks of the coming of darkness in our land.”
Sally sighed and rocked slowly in her chair. “I hope you were paying attention, Anril, for that tale has never been written down, and it shall live only in your memory when I and Guldethane have passed from this earth.”
“I listened well, grandma. But, what happened to the Mages. I remember you told me of a time when Given fought one, but that is all I remember," Anril asked.
“Do not concern yourself with such things,” Guldethane said. “But do heed this story and remember it, for it will be my last tale to you. After this, I have no more.”
“What do you mean?” Anril asked, worry spreading across his young face.
“I am old, Anril, and I have lived beyond the years of men. Only by the grace of Him have I been allowed this span, and only so I could impart my knowledge to you,” Guldethane said wearily. “My eyes have grown dim in the last month, and my heart beats ever slower. My thoughts drift to that fair land beyond the chasm, and I am being drawn there by my spirit. No longer can I cling to life, and no longer need I do so. You are young, but you know as much as I can teach you. My purpose is complete.”
Anril was confused. “But, can’t you tell me one more tale; just one more?”
“No, he cannot,” Sally answered. Guldethane was breathing heavily now, and his eyes were closed.
“I believe you should go home, Anril,” he said with difficulty, lifting his drooping eyes. “There are things that children should not have to see.”
Anril protested, but eventually left the house. Later that night, as the sun set on the Western Range, Guldethane breathed his last, but not before giving a final wish to Sally. “Do not wait, Sally, for the boy is the one. He knows; He always has; he has your spirit. Give him the medallion when he comes of age, for it belongs to him; that I know. Such things should not be hidden from heroes.”
Then his heart failed and his spirit fled from the age old body. Sally wept, but his death was hidden from Anril for a time. Only when he was older, in his twelfth year did she tell him that Guldethane had passed from the earth. Until that time she told him that he had gone on his final journey, and that he would not come back.


The next few years passed by slowly for Anril. Without Guldethane all days seemed dreary and boring. His heart longed to sit in front of the fire and hear a tale of days past; but every time he passed the graveyard he was reminded that it would never be the same. Sally tried in vain to take Guldethane’s place, teaching and telling Anril of stories and legend, but she could not replace the old man and his gruff voice; her tales were good, but not told with the same authority and knowledge that Guldethane had possessed. Whenever Anril heard a fire crackle or an old man raise his voice in a shout, he was reminded of those many years when the alth-tuned and he sat long by the fires.
He still had Guldethane’s book, which he kept by him always and had read many times over. Every page and every stroke of the pen was logged away in his young mind, until he found himself repeating passages silently for no reason at all. Many times he tried to have it published and put forth for all to see, but no printer in Hyrotha would have the work of an alth-tuned, and every time he was denied. So it sat alone, given a place to itself on Anril’s shelf just above his bed, and at night it would be brought down and opened so he could relive the many tales. More than once he fell asleep with the book still open and lying on his lap, the pages turned as far as his mind would allow before drowsiness took him. It was treated with such care that it looked to be brand new; and when the cover had become worn from use and fading, Anril had gone out and had it re-bound with new silver lettering. Talmudiath Eliodar was its name, the Book of Evermoore, but Anril could only call it Guldethane’s Book, for it was his last thread of memory for that man. That, and the blue robe he wore.
As time went on, and his body grew, the robe began to form around him. Not once did he leave his house without the blue cloth in his hand or on his back, and so well did he keep it, that some began to think it was enchanted so as to never wear out. It wasn’t, of course, for Anril merely took the same great care of it as he showed the book; but a spell did seem to lay over it, for whenever Anril put it on, it seemed that he could hear Guldethane laughing in his rough voice. Sometimes Anril could be found sitting on the edge of the great hill, staring out into the east where all adventures came from, smiling and laughing to himself as he remembered Guldethane.


Four years passed from the time Anril first learned of Guldethane’s death. The pain was fading from his heart; though at times it seemed to get stronger and he would sob loudly in his room, away from the ears of others. These times always seemed to come when the wind blew strongly from the east, rippling across the wide fields that flowed below the hill. The wind would blow and his heart and mind would be taken back to his younger days, when seeing Guldethane was his chief joy. At times like these he would walk into the hills that lie north of Timmelan, always stopping at the foot of the Roc Mountains. There he would sit and look up, as if to see some comforting sign that would let him know all was right in the world. As he sat, he would listen to the howl of the wind, the rustle of the trees in the great Cedar Forest to the north, the crow of birds as they flew overhead, the chirp of insects in the grass; and his heart would long to go out, beyond the hills of Timmelan. To new places, he thought; to adventures and legends, just like Guldethane. But then the day would fade and the night press in, and Anril would walk back sadly to Timmelan, the little hilltop city.