The Last Elf of Lanis (10 page)

The elf settled into silence.

“Do you think,” the Archer asked, “the garonds are somehow being manipulated.”

“Deifol Hroth from the Far Grasslands,” the elf answered. “We believe he is possessed by Jofod Kagir, the one great evil, and he has twisted the garonds to his will.”

“Can they be saved?” The Archer asked.

“Hush,” the elf said. The Archer stopped in his tracks.

“Many feet,” the elf tilted her head for her sensitive ears to hear, “running towards us.”

The Archer quickly set the elf down. “Can you stand?” He asked her. She bravely nodded yes.

“Just stay behind me,” the Archer said as he grounded his stance and readied his bow.

From a bend down the river, following them, twenty heavily armed garonds burst into a run when they saw them. As they saw the Archer, they let out a fierce battle cry. The Archer calmly waited.

As they neared, their shrieks became high and shrill, meant to terrify and confuse their prey. The Archer smiled.

The first arrow of Yenolah struck the lead garond square between the eyes. The group of garonds stopped in their tracks.

“Come on!” The Archer defiantly yelled.

The garonds blood was roused and they charged with even more fury.

In quick secession, garonds fell to the black arrows, two, three, four, five dead. The Archer noticed among the garonds, near the back, was one with a bloodied and mangled ear, the one horse garond who got away the day before, demoted to foot soldier.

The Archer used the last two black arrows with deadly accuracy. The dozen garonds left had only a few paces to close, but the Archer killed three more before he had to draw his sword. Behind him he could hear the singing of the moon sword of Berand Torler as the elf drew it from her scabbard.

The remaining ten garonds spread out around the Archer. The cut, slash, thrust and parry of sword and club was loud and violent. The Archer sliced open two garonds before he realized the garonds were grouping towards his back and the elf. He linked his free arm in hers and quickly spun her around, and was able to hack a garond’s head from his shoulders as he did so. From behind, he heard the elf exclaim, “Do that again!”

The Archer whirled the elf, realizing she was using his strength to lift her sword high with deadly effect. Five garonds were left, with Old One Ear among their number.

“Turn me again!” The elf shouted. As the elf swung around, the Archer saw the neatly severed bodies of the garonds the moon sword had cut.

The momentary distraction was all it took for a garond to thrust his sword past the Archer’s guard. The garond’s sword cut a hot line along his upper arm.

There were only three garonds left, but the Archer couldn’t raise the elf to swing her, so he stepped around her, quickly killing two more. Only Old One Ear was left, and he quickly ran away as he realized he was once again alone.

The Archer raised his bow, but his cut arm winced with pain and he couldn’t get a shot off to catch Old One Ear.

“You let him get away again,” the elf panted.

“Keep your eyes and ears open as I get my black arrows.”

The elf collapsed in weariness. The Archer had to trot some distance along the river bank to retrieve all the seven of the arrows of Yenolah. He kept a sharp eye on the elf. She sprawled in the river’s sand, heavily panting.

As the Archer returned to the elf the wind began to pick up.

“Look!” The elf cried.

On the near horizon, the Archer could see a funnel of cloud and debris ripping tree and shrub from the earth, and headed right for them.

The Archer carefully picked the elf up, staring in disbelief.

The massive tornado seemed to be bearing right down on them, madly zigzagging back and forth.

The Archer realized, with the river at his back, he had no shelter whatsoever. It seemed to the Archer that the funnel of cloud and wind was veering to his right, and so began to trot to his left. The fury of wind then rushed right into the Bairn River sucking its water up high into the sky.

“Quick!” The elf cried, “We can cross the river!”.

The Archer rushed into the mud and vegetation of the empty Bairn with the elf cradled in his arms.

The mud sucked at his feet and the Archer became frightened. He turned to look at the looming water spout, and to his surprise, it stood completely still in the middle of the Bairn, holding the river back. The Archer slogged to the south bank of the Bairn and collapsed.

The elf and the Archer watched in wonder as the water funnel moved on south, out of the river, over land, safely past them.

“Someone,” the elf said, “is trying to help us.” The elf then fell into a deep sleep.

The Archer moved the elf to a safe spot high up on the south bank, and made a small camp for the night. Now that they were on the south side of the Bairn, they would be ahead of Frea’s captors and could move west directly headlong towards them. They would be sure to confront them tomorrow.

The Archer bandaged his wound, then looked for something he and the elf could eat. He thought about shooting a bird or a rabbit, but refrained, knowing he would offend the elf. Instead, he found more carrots, and some crunchy green stalks.

As night began to fall, the elf awoke as the Archer was roasting carrots again.

“Smells good,” the elf said. The Archer smiled, but his smile dropped as he saw the elf struggling.

“Well,” the elf said, “It seems I can’t move at all.”

The Archer grimly stared at the yellow flames of the small fire. Then, he stood, moved over to her, and carefully fed the elf a
s
though she were a child.

“You mentioned Jofod Kagir earlier,” the Archer said.

Between mouthfuls, the elf said, “I told you the end of the story first. I should have started at the beginning.”

The Archer sensed the elf was done eating, and settled in beside her to listen and keep her warm.

“The elves believe,” the elf said, “in a primal fire, unseen, and unquenchable in all things. And the fire in all things blends, rekindles and refreshes each other.

“The first fire was Wylkeho Daniei who sparked out of the great black void, and immediately burst into billions of other fires. He then created the physical world in a second creation out of a profound love for all other beings. Hence, all life must be respected as aspects of god.”

“A child of Wylkeho Daniei named Jofod Kagir wanted all the fires to return to the source and be at his command. Jofod Kagir fought his creator to a
standstill
such was his passion. The rebellious flame became jealous, angry and evil as he lost the great battle with his parent.”

“The creator of all light could not extinguish the spark of his son, nor banish him. So he colored his fire so other lights could distinguish between good light and bad light.”

“Jofod Kagir has the ability to take many forms and tries to force other sparks to join his flame so he will be greater than his creator. He believes if his flame is great enough, he can remake reality, and be the new parent of all things.”

The elf quieted, nodded, then fell into a deep sleep. The Archer was left staring into the dwindling flames of his campfire, considering the Parent of all things.

The third day tracking Frea dawned with a clear, cloudless blue sky. The Archer awoke and tried to rouse the elf. She was still in a deep comatose sleep and would not wake.

The Archer tied his hooded tunic into a sling and was preparing to lift the elf when an arrow whistled past his ear.

He crouched and dragged the elf behind a thick shrub.

Across the Bairn River, thirty or so garonds lined the north shore with bow and arrow. The Archer huffed to himself in surprise. The garonds had never used bow and arrow before, as far as he knew. They were adapting their fighting skills at a frightening pace.

The Archer peered over the shrub. The garonds were clumsy and awkward with their bows, and they were much too far across the river to be very effective. It looked as though their bows were simple oak, and about half their arrows were simply sharpened sticks. And, there was Old One Ear right in the middle, barking orders.

The Archer reflected how he had seen surviving cowards become leaders in the military field. He tested his wounded arm. Then, he smiled to himself.

The Archer stood and walked directly to the edge of the south bank, firing flint arrows with deadly accuracy from his yew bow. The garonds roared with anger and their agitated arrows flew wide. Once the Archer tilted his head to avoid a lucky shot. He avoided using his black arrows as he would have no way to retrieve them.

Three garonds, filled with ire waded into the river and were immediately swept
downstream
to drown. There were about ten left when the Archer ran out of flint arrows. He thought about the twelve bronze arrows he carried in his quiver, then decided.

The bronze arrows flew quick and deadly. When Old One Ear saw he was one of about four left, he ran for the safety of the foliage above the river bank. The Archer finished the last garonds with satisfaction. He now had only three bronze tipped arrows, and the seven black arrows of Yenolah. He worriedly bit his lip. He desperately needed more arrows.

Returning to the elf, the Archer looked at the arrows the garonds had shot at him and realized they were useless, weak, shattered from impact, and mostly crooked.

The Archer prepared to lift the elf into her sling when an axe was lightly laid across the back of his neck.

A gruff voice behind him said, “That was some fancy shooting, friend. Now slowly take your hands off the elf.”

The Archer carefully stood to find he was surrounded, by six
well-armed
humans. Their leader was short and burly. He moved to the elf and gently touched her face. He lightly slapped her. She didn’t move.

“What have you done to her?” The leader demanded of the Archer.

“It’s a long tale,” The Archer said. “But, she was hit by a bolt of lightning.”

The men shared a concerned look.

“Well,” the leader huffed. “You’re very lucky she isn’t dead. Or you would be at this very moment. I don’t know about the truth of lightning bolts, but we’ve seen many unnatural lights streaking in the skies hereabout.”

“She is my friend,” the Archer offered. “We are tracking a group of garonds on horses who have taken a young, red haired girl. The elf and I were working together to save her.”

The leader eyed the Archer suspiciously. “Garonds on horses, you say. We saw you kill the garonds along the river. Very fine bowmanship.” To his men he said, “Search him.”

While two men held the Archer, a third man searched him, finding nothing of interest. Then the man pulled the black arrows of Yenolah from the Archer’s quiver.

“Well, well,” the leader said. “This is definitely from an elvish forge. Tell me you didn’t steal these from this young lass.”

“Those arrows were given to me a long time ago,” the Archer said. “We mustn’t let the horse garonds pass by with the girl.”

“Hmmm,” the leader said. “If you’re such good friends with this elf, and on your way on this mission as you say, then you can tell me pointy ear’s name.” The leader stroked his red beard. “And I can tell you my fine friend, I do know her name as the elf folk have always been on good terms with Caerlund and the people of the Madrun Hills.” The short burly man shifted. “Aye, uh, Caerlund... that’s me.” Caerlund almost reached up to shake hands with the Archer, but caught himself. “So what’s this elf’s name, since she is such a great traveling companion of yours.”

The Archer opened his mouth, then closed it. He bowed his head. “I do not know her name. But everything I have told you is true!”

Caerlund squinched his face from side to side. “I want to believe you. I almost believe you.” Caerlund squinted up at the sun. “Yep. We’ll take the elf to the old woman at Plymonley. She’ll fix this little one up right, and then we’ll get to the truth, I reckon.”

With that, the men of the Madrun Hills made a litter to carry the elf. They tied the Archer’s hands tightly with thick rope. Then, Caerlund, his captive and his men, spent the rest of the day trudging through the hills of Madrun to the old woman at Plymonley. Along the way Caerlund plied the Archer with questions, and the Archer answered truthfully, telling all that had befallen him since first seeing the elf at Bittel.

The small road wound through pitched hills and rolling farmland. All along the way, secreted sentries were hailed. The Hills of Madrun were well guarded.

As night began to fall, a young man with a torch could be seen running towards them.

“Hail Caerlund, chief of the Madrun!” The young man called.

“Yes, yes, hail, hail, what is it?” Caerlund asked impatiently.

The young man respectfully removed his large woolen cap, “Rebburn says to tell you...” The young man gasped for breath.

Caerlund chuckled and let the young man compose himself.

“Rebburn, says, to tell you...” the young man took a deep breath, “Release the Archer, and bring the elf directly to her hut.”