The narrow path cut through the ancient trees in a wilderness neither really fully comprehended. Now, as darkness slowly overcame the light of day, Whitlock grew even more wary. The seriousness of the mission that drove them on made him reluctant to speak, but his silence fostered the cloud of gloom that hung over them as surely as the ancient curse they struggled against hung over their family.
The town of Essembra supposedly lay on this road, and he'd planned on their reaching it by nightfall.
'Did you hear that?' Melann asked softly.
'No,' he replied. Her voice broke through Whitlock's silent reverie. He'd heard nothing. Still, caution was always prudent.
'I thought I heard a voice,' Melann said, her voice still low. 'As though someone called out from far away.'
At that moment a deep, resonant voice came from among the trees. Both heard it this time. The man, if it was a man, spoke from what seemed a good distance off to their left. The words were clear but meaningless.
'I think that's Elvish,' Melann stated, halting her horse and looking off in the direction from which the voice had come. Whitlock pulled the reins on his own mount and looked back at her.
'Come along, Melann. We've got to get to town before nightfall.'
'But-' she began. She was interrupted by another deep voice calling through the trees, this time from the right side of the road. She could find no meaning in the words. Despite the distance from which they seemed to come, the voices were more like whispers than shouts.
'Melann, come along. We have no business in this wood after dark.'
'But what if he's in need? His voice seems so mournful-so sad.'
Whitlock sighed heavily, even forcefully. 'Melann, they call this the Vale of Lost Voices for a reason. People say these woods are filled with ghosts-elven ghosts.'
Instinctively, Melann spoke the Chauntean prayer of the dead, looking around the whole time. When she finished the two pressed their heels into the sides of their mounts, urging them onward to the north as the woods around them grew darker and darker with the fading sun.
Neither of them actually noticed just how much they sped their horses until they suddenly had to bring them to a stop. A single figure stood in the road. He fearlessly held his ground even in the face of the galloping horses. Neither his stance nor his expression changed as the two of them struggled to stop their mounts. Once their horses were under control, Melann and Whitlock gazed at the man before them.
Most certainly elven, his lithe form betrayed a deep-seated power. Finely crafted armor seemed to glide over his body and accentuate his features, each line in the armor playing off a similar line in his angular face and body. A sword and bow remained at his back. His eyes were as black as the night that was approaching far too quickly.
Whitlock reached for the hilt of his weapon, but the almost whispering voice of the elf stopped him cold.
Neither sibling could understand his speech, but they watched closely as he raised a graceful, muscular arm and pointed to the west, then again to the northwest. Whitlock followed the elf’s long, pointing finger and looked off into the woods but saw nothing. When Whitlock looked back at the elven warrior, he was gone.
'Did you see that?' Melann whispered as though she had no breath within her at all.
'No,' Whitlock lied to her and himself, grabbing the bridle of her horse and spurring it and his own to a gallop.
They hardly got more than a hundred yards down the road when a shadowy figured loomed ahead of them. Again they pulled on the reins of their mounts, bringing them to a halt in front of an elven warrior.
'What in the name of…' Whitlock didn't finish. Instead, wide-eyed, he stared at the figure.
It was the same warrior they had seen before.
'Wait,' the figure whispered, this time in a strangely accented but understandable version of Common. He held forth a stern hand.
'Melann, get back,' Whitlock warned.
She didn't heed her brother. 'Who are you?' she asked.
The elf did not respond.
'My name is Melann Brandish, and this is my brother, Whitlock,' she answered, motioning to her brother.
Whitlock looked at her incredulously. This was no time to hold a conversation, particularly with a ghost!
The features of the elven warrior were more clearly defined now-though Whitlock couldn't reason why. The elf carried a sword and a bow, but he kept the blade sheathed and the bow unstrung. His armor was silver, unlike any Whitlock had ever seen. The apparition's eyes were black like bottomless pits, drawing in light around him.
'Hear me,' the warrior said. When he spoke, Whitlock heard voices like his coming from all around them in the woods. 'We have buried our dead in these woods for a time longer than you can understand. Warriors fallen from centuries of conflict now lie here. We do not always rest quietly.'
Melann shook her head slightly, her mouth agape. Whitlock reached for the reins of her mount, to pull her back. Instead, much to his surprise, she bade her horse ahead a few steps.
'Why are you here?' she asked softly.
Whitlock was stunned by her courage, or carelessness,
'An evil known to us is once again stirring.''
Melann recoiled. 'What evil? What do you mean?'
Whitlock reached down to where his shield hung on his saddlebag and slowly strapped it to his arm. never taking his eyes off the elven spirit.
'I cannot speak of it.'
The warrior shifted his stance. Whitlock wondered if the elf was preparing for something. Perhaps, however, he was just particularly uncomfortable with what he was saying. It was difficult to tell.
'Does it have anything to do with us?' Melann asked the warrior.
'More than you know.'
'Melann, we can't trust him,' Whitlock whispered quickly. 'We should go.'
'There is arcane magic born of this wood,' the warrior said to Whitlock. 'The spirits of elves, ancient when humans first came to the Dales, walk here still. Dragons, elven magic, monstrous creatures, restless dead-the woods are mysterious and deadly.'
Was that supposed to be a threat?
Melann ignored Whitlock, her eyes never leaving the stranger.
'We are on a quest,' she told him. 'Our family has an ancient curse on it, and we think we know how to lift it.'
'Melann!' Whitlock spat. Her naivete might spell disaster for them. She was too damned trusting.
The warrior looked at Melann, as if expecting more. The black pits of his eyes widened, but he said nothing. The light breeze stilled, and the forest grew silent.
'The curse strikes down members of my family with no apparent pattern.' Only now did Melann's gaze leave the elf, for now it dropped to the ground, and she closed her eyes. 'Our…' her voice faltered, '… our mother and father lay dying in Archenbridge with a horrid disease. It's the only way we can help them.'
'What is the only way?' the warrior asked with an ancient, resonant voice.
'That's no business of yours,' Whitlock said, reaching slowly for his sword hilt.
'A wizard,' Melann explained, 'who's now long dead, cursed our family. We've learned that perhaps if we can find his magical staff, we can rid ourselves of the curse.'
The warrior paused for a moment, then pointed to the west and said, 'Kirthol Erdel”
'What?' Whitlock asked, his hand grasping the hilt of his weapon tightly. His eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward.
Melann answered, but she did not look back at her brother. 'That's an ancient elven name for the Thunder Peaks.'
The horses shifted nervously, stamping on the ground. Melann and Whitlock pulled back on their reins to keep control. The warrior didn't react.
