Seventh Companion

ONE

Darkness descended all too soon over the forested valley where the elves were camped. Rain streaked down around them in torrential waves, giving no indication of letting up as it had been for several days. Two sentries stood watch around the camp, weariness mirrored in their tired eyes. Low setting tents constructed of canvas sheets supported with wood salvaged from the nearby woodland huddled close in the strong winds. The hazardous weather made extended travel nearly impossible, all the while setting the stage for a carefully executed ambush. The downpour masked all sound of approach as the Elves, camped in the Valley of Sildinar, worried more about the drab weather than being prepared for an attack.

The tension between elves and gnomes had been raging for nearly two years, each side throwing themselves carping on the other’s every move with little apparent reason. What little notion of harmony that existed was shattered when a group of Mwrellets, a reptilian, subhuman race in league with the gnomes, ruthlessly attacked two Tiefling settlements in the lower reaches of Eden’s Murk. Adamantly opposed to war, the Elven Senate refused to acquiesce a formal declaration of war. Both gnomes and elves regularly sent reconnaissance missions into the surrounding forests, though these expeditions were rarely attacked, as the Elves had the advantage of scouting their own territory and almost always found an easy escape route from hostile gnomes; both sides had mapped the territory a dozen times over. It seemed apparent that war was on the horizon, the open hostility and resentment, coupled with frequent skirmishes, raids, and deadly conflicts between elven farmers and gnome raiders eventually would weigh too heavily upon the senate, and they would be forced to act.

It was nearly dawn when the attack came, black shadows moved stealthily towards the small camp, surrounding and cutting off the sleeping Elves. Unsure of what they were witnessing, sentries cast nervous glances into the darkness, realizing all too late the seriousness of the situation. Instantly the gnomes were upon them, bent, gnarled figures leapt at the astonished Elves from the concealment of darkness. The first few Elves had not yet rubbed the sleep from their eyes when they were killed, the swift, cruel blades of the gnomes cutting them down as they woke. The sounds of battle rose into the air, bringing the remaining Elves awake with astonishing efficiency. Durin, the experienced Captain of the Border Squad of Elves, quickly drew his broadsword and charged into the midst of his attackers. Cries of anger and pain pierced the morning air as the scream of the wounded intensified.

Cutting into the ranks of the attacking gnomes, Durin shouted encouragement to his fellow soldiers; those few who remained from the fifty men camped the previous night. Lifting his fingers to his mouth, the Captain of the Elves let out a shrill whistle. Instantly, from within the Valley, a small bird lifted into the air in a flutter of beating wings and disappeared into the night. Only moments later, a thunderous blow to Durin’s heard sent him spiraling into the ground. A slow numbing feeling enveloped his body, and darkness crept into his vision, soon revealing only the blackness of unconsciencness.

"I'm telling you it can't be done," the young elf whispered hoarsely into his companion's ear. "Even if we could fight our way past the sentries, the odds of surviving two minutes in there are a million to one!" Kian was becoming impatient.

"We can't just let them have him Kian.