The Last Elf of Lanis (12 page)

“We should do as she says,” the Archer said firmly to Caerlund.

“Very well,” Caerlund huffed.

Caerlund, the Archer and the elf ordered the murmuring human army out in front of the barrier and organized them into mobile groups of twenty foot soldiers with sword, club and spear, and five archers.

As the elf was trying to explain yet again how to counter the garond army a call was heard.

“Hermergh! Hermergh!”

All eyes went to the northern road where Hermergh could be seen in a full run, headed for the barrier.

“What news?!” Caerlund called

“Prepare yourselves! The great beasts come!” Hermergh cried before collapsing into the arms of a soldier, who bore him away.

The Archer looked to the northern ridge of the valley of Plymonley. All along the ridge, black shapes swarmed.

A tumult of anticipation shuddered through the human army.

“Make yourselves as strong as stone!” Caerlund bellowed, and the army quieted with determination.

Then they came over the ridge.

The garond army poured over the northern edge of the valley, several thousand against Caerlund’s several hundred. The garond soldiers gathered together in groups of thirty, running in formations resembling large animals, slithering back and forth across the valley as they approached.

Growing closer, a strange screeching could be heard. The garond commanders communicated to each other through blood curdling screams.

The humans began to worriedly murmur.

“As strong as stone!” Caerlund bellowed again.

As they neared, the Archer could see how the garonds moved so closely in unison. Some soldiers formed the head, two formed a leg, while the main part of the fighting group formed the body. It appeared as if fifty massive, black crocodiles were crawling towards the human army.

“Do not stand still!” The elf called to the army with an unnaturally loud voice. The human groups moved as best they could as the first garond ‘beasts’ attacked.

The humans were almost instantly overwhelmed.

“Back behind the barrier!” Someone called. And, the human army of Madrun retreated to behind the barrier. Many soldiers were caught by the garond beasts and ripped open as they turned in cowardice.

The Archer could see that the garond beast formation was directed by four garonds at the head, one exceptionally large garond as the ‘snout’, two at his shoulders to form the ‘cheeks’, and the commander right behind them.

The Archer nocked a black arrow of Yenolah.

A garond beast descended upon him.

The Archer pulled, released and the ‘head’ of a garond beast froze with the paralysis of death. Instantly, the rest of the garond beast stumbled on their
leader's
body and fell into disorganized troops.

“Shoot the head!” The Archer called to the human army.

Humans and garonds clashed with sword and spear, and the human toll was great. The beasts attacked, and withdrew, attacked and withdrew, probing for weak places in the now reformed line of humans behind the barrier.

The archers of Madrun were not bad, scoring hits and bringing down soldiers, but the Archer could see they hadn’t the skill to single out the heavily guarded leaders in the beast’s heads.

The Archer moved down the line, and the arrows of Yenolah found their marks in garond leaders. But then, the Archer reached back for an arrow and realized he had only two bronze arrows left. In all the excitement, he had forgotten to get more.

The elf whirled her moon sword as a dream. She was reliving the assault of Lanis Rhyl Landemiriam. A fierce snarl on her face, garonds were hewn down with the bright, silvery, crescent moon blade.

“I need more arrows!” The Archer called to her, knowing her quickness.

The elf stopped in her blood lust, to address the Archer, a look of revelation on her face. “No,” she said, a seeming madness shining in her eyes. “You need all the arrows.”

It was insanity. But, the Archer somehow knew she was right, and dreadfully nodded his head.

“When you reach back, there will be an arrow. This I promise you.” The elf said with tears of rage in her eyes.

“Then let us begin,” the Archer said without emotion.

The Archer saw a fallen pine in part of the barrier. He quickly put his hands on the sticky sap of the fallen tree.

The elf stepped away with supernatural speed, took a handful of arrows from another archer’s quiver, looked at the Archer, and said in elvish, “Rise up.”

And, rise up the Archer did. The speed and ferocity of his first five strikes seemed to stop all around him, human and garond. But, the Archer did not stop. Arrows flew from his bow like a flock of deadly sparrows. He stepped forward, undeniable. The garond beasts before him crumbled.

It seemed to the Archer as if time slowed. He saw the whole battlefield before him. His arm never stopped nocking, pulling and releasing arrows. The faces of surprise and horror of the garonds was satisfying.

And true to her word, the elf gathered arrows from the other archers and placed them in the Archer’s quiver, cutting garonds with her moon sword as she passed.

The Archer moved as if in fluid, he felt a kind of warm numbness. He estimated he had killed at least sixty garonds in the span of a moment. He could see fear rippling through their ranks as the beast formations collapsed and the garond army became disorganized.

The human army was still outnumbered five to one, but a great cry went up. “Bring all the arrows! Bring all the arrows!”

The Archer could see the other human archers rushing to bring their arrows to him. In the slow, dream like state, the Archer saw Old One Ear and allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction as he killed him. All around him the battle raged. Humans gathered heart as the Archer waded forward, unstoppable and a continuous blur of arrows. In the span of ten breaths the Archer estimated he had killed over a hundred garonds.

Several times he felt the arrows of Yenolah pass through his hands as the elf looked to particularly pluck those special arrows from dead garonds for the Archer to reuse.

And so, he increased his speed.

The Archer no longer had to pull an arrow from his quiver. He could feel the elf handing him the arrows. And, he could hear the singing of her blade on either side of him. The human army must have been running the arrows to her as she stayed close at his back.

The Archer could feel the wound on his arm throbbing, but it didn’t slow him. He increased his speed to spite the dull pain he felt.

All the beast formations failed and the garond army was now just a crush of soldiers trying to overwhelm the humans.

From the corner of his eye, the Archer saw Caerlund swinging a broad, double bladed, battle axe, mercilessly mowing down the garonds before him. The Archer inched towards Caerlund to support him.

All around him, he could feel the human army gathering courage and strength as if he was sending power directly to them. The garonds screeched to each other to try to regroup, but a panic had
begun
to take them.

The battle had barely begun and nearly a fourth of their army was dead, due mostly to what now appeared to the garonds as a God of War, the Archer.

The Archer felt as though he no longer needed to command his arm and hand. It felt as though they moved by themselves. He was just being who he was. The Archer smiled to himself to remember Rebburn’s words. He estimated he had killed well over three hundred garonds. And, the arrows never stopped coming, and he continued firing.

And then a strange, almost mischievous thought took him. The Archer increased his speed to see if the elf could keep up. He had seen her move with unnatural quickness, and now he played a deadly game. He could feel her fingers touch his sometimes as he reached back for an arrow. But, true to her word, there was always an arrow ready for him.

About four hundred, he thought to himself without emotion.

How much time had passed, he wondered. The Archer seemed to be up above his body observing the carnage. The garonds screamed at each other, fearing impending death. And, the Archer continued. In the time it takes to leisurely eat a meal, the Archer had killed over five hundred garonds. He looked at Caerlund from the corner of his eye. Caerlund, swinging his dreadful axe, glanced over in fearful awe at the Archer.

The Archer seemed to sense the beating heart in every soldier on the field, garond and human. He could feel the life pulsing in the grass beneath his feet. He was no longer shooting arrows, but something more. It was a connection to a pivotal moment in the world. Here in this moment, the human race would survive.

Then, the garonds broke.

With nearly half their army gone, all their leaders singled out for death, and no organization, the garond army began to turn to run. The human army took a terrible toll on the retreating garonds. The elf was at the front taking two, three cowardly garonds at a swipe with her silver sword.

Then, the Archer stopped shooting.

He sat on the field of conflict. All sound faded away. There was a loud ringing in his ears. He felt his own heart beat as loud as a parade drum. His head buzzed and ached. The sky, to him, grew black, as he laid back and closed his eyes.

Coming to, the Archer saw the elf kneeling over him, worriedly checking him for a wound. He smiled up at her.

“Are they gone?” He asked.

“There are no garonds in the Hills of Madrun today,” the elf said to him with fondness and awe in her eyes. “Don’t move,” she said, gently laying a hand on his chest. “We have a litter coming for you.” She paused, then said with wonder, “I never saw a human move faster than an elf.”

Caerlund looked over the elf’s shoulder down at the Archer, just huffed in amazement, and then turned to supervise the treating of the wounded and the collection of the dead.

The Archer was carried to Rebburn’s hut. The elf sat next to him all night as he plunged into a deep sleep.

The next day, the Archer woke sore and aching. He sat up to find the elf worriedly sitting by his side, as Rebburn clucked to a begging seagull.

“How do you feel?” The elf asked.

The Archer tried to rise,
and then
said, “Apparently I
cannot
move my arm.”

Rebburn laughed from a dark corner of her hut where she was finishing packing her potions and vials. “I’m surprised it didn’t fall off,” she said, patting the seagull on the head. She carefully examined the Archer’s arm, gently rubbed a salve on it, then she tenderly tied it up in a sling for him.

“Can you stand?” The elf asked. “Caerlund has just called a council.”

The Archer rose on unsteady feet. “Let’s go,” he said.

As he exited the hut, the Archer saw that the population of Plymonley had risen to several thousand
overnight
. Nearly the whole of the Madrun Hills was now here.

As the Archer approached the crowd, an awed hush fell over the people. The Archer looked around at the people of Madrun.

“Three cheers!” Caerlund bellowed.

And, the crowd erupted in joyous praise for their savior. The elf stood protectively on the Archer’s side to keep any from patting his sore bowing arm in thanks.

“Okay, okay, settle down,” Caerlund quieted the crowd. “There is much to do, and no time to do it. We must make for the village of Alfhich and the bridge there across the Holmwy River. And we must do it in an orderly fashion, if we are to cross the meadowlands safely before the real garond army shows up.” A murmur ran through the crowd.

“The messenger guild,” Caerlund continued, “through their secret ways have seen that what we saw yesterday was but a small portion of the full strength of the garond might.”

“And we shall defeat them again!” A voice called from the crowd, eliciting a joyful cheer.

“I hope so, I hope so,” Caerlund mumbled. “But if reports are correct, as I’m sure they are, we stand no chance if we remain here.”

“Let us stay and fight! We have the Archer and the elf!” A voice challenged from the crowd prompting a raucous agreement, and happy praise for the Archer and the elf.

“But,” the Archer spoke up, quieting the people, “I shall follow the one voice as Rebburn has advised, and I shall do as Caerlund, your chief commands.”

A solemn silence fell on the assembled as all eyes turned to their chieftain.

“Very well,” Caerlund gravely said. “We could stay and bravely fight, and be most certainly over run. A stupid plan. Or, we can keep our lives and join with the other tribes of Wealdland, to fight and win with greater numbers. A much more sensible idea.” Caerlund slapped his thigh. “We must begin movement immediately. Take what you can, and help your neighbors. We need a small contingent of fifty men or so to destroy the nine bridges along the Madronwy River so the garonds cannot flank us as we move northwest. Any so inclined, please come to me. Now. Off with you!”

And with that, the great evacuation of the Madrun Hills began.

“Come,” the Archer said to the elf, as they made their way up to Caerlund. “I will go with you,” the Archer said.