Rides a Dread Legion: Book One of the Demonwar Saga by Raymond E. Feist

Author:Raymond E. Feist [Feist, Raymond E.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins e-books
Published: 2009-04-28T00:00:00+00:00

After three days of running, Gulamendis was now certain that if he never had to set foot in woodlands again, he would be content. He would return to the new city, to Home, gladly and never set foot beyond its walls should he be permitted. Whatever sense of wonder and magic he had first encountered was now gone, replaced by fatigued legs and sore feet. He kept up with his rustic cousin by pure act of will, and a tiny bit of magic he used when training demons—it dulled the pain.

His companion had been less than talkative. At night when they camped, the young elf—he had given his age as less than fifty years—had been content to sit by a fire, chewing on dried fruit and meat, and replied to Gulamendis’s questions with short, vague answers. The Demon Master didn’t know if Gorandis was especially adept at avoiding conversation or stupid. The second night, there was almost no conversation, and Gulamendis quickly fell into an exhausted sleep.

Throughout the following day they moved quickly and Gulamendis grew used to the grueling pace. He grudgingly conceded his distant kin possessed skills he had disdained until he attempted to duplicate them. Rustic they might be, but they were superb woodsmen, and, no doubt, hunters. Toward twilight he could feel the change around him.

It was something in the very air of this forest, he felt. That tug of emotions so alien yet so proper he first felt upon reaching this world, Home, that feeling grew stronger with every passing minute, as if they were nearing the source of that wonderful sense of place.

Then he entered the clearing and saw Elvandar.

Across the open meadow he could see a huge city of trees rising upward. Gigantic boles, dwarfing any oaks imagined, stood together. They were linked by gracefully arching bridges of branches, flat across the tops, on which elves could be seen crossing from bole to bole.

Gulamendis looked up and saw the trunks rise until they were lost in a sea of leaves and branches, foliage of deep green, made almost blue-black in the evening gloom, but still somehow alight with a soft glow of their own. Here and there Gulamendis could glimpse a tree with golden, silver, or even white foliage, sparkling with pale glimmers. A soft glow permeated the entire area, and Gulamendis dropped to his knees, wetness flowing down his cheeks as tears came unbidden. “I had no idea,” he whispered.

Gorandis stopped and turned to look at his companion. Whatever emotions played across the Taredhel’s face, it kept the Eledhel runner from chiding him. This was a moment of deep, personal feeling.

“The stars,” whispered Gulamendis. “You have so many.”

“Stars?” asked Gorandis.

He pointed. “The trees. We call those…we have seven of them, brought with us from this world ages ago. They are the Seven Stars. We are the Clan of the Seven Stars.”

Gorandis cocked his head to one side, as if trying to remember something. Then he said, “This is how Elvandar has always been.

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