The Last Elf of Lanis (17 page)

“You’re ruining this moment,” Apghilis dismissed. “Keep him silent.” Two of the garonds roughly grabbed Kellabald.

“All rulers of the Northern Kingdom of Man wear the mark of birth,” Apghilis pronounced. Then he pulled the blade from the fire and it was white hot, the gold of the blade shone like the sun.

Apghilis stripped away his trousers to reveal his naked legs.

“I now take the mark and all the honor which it holds,” Apghilis said. Then to Kellabald he said, “The kings of old sacrificed humans to celebrate their ascension. You will do.”

Then, Apghilis laid the white hot blade to his thigh. His flesh sizzled. Greasy smoke rose from the brand. He bellowed in pain.

Kellabald struggled with his garond captors and shrugged himself free.

Blind from agony, Apghilis handed the sword to Feeblerod, but the blade seemed to leap from Feeblerod’s hands into Kellabald’s.

Kellabald quickly turned and cut the head clean off from one of the garonds who was holding him.

All were paralyzed by the suddenness of the action.

“Get him!” Apghilis yelled in pain. The four remaining garonds drew their swords and rushed Kellabald, while Feeblerod drew a long, slim blade and gyrated behind the garonds, pretending to fight.

Kellabald could feel the blade singing to him in low, sweet, reassuring tones. He was no great swordsman, but every movement was perfect with this blade. He turned, with no effort, and in one fluid motion blocked the thrust of two garonds swords.

It seemed as though time were standing still. Apghilis was crumbled into his pain, and Feeblerod was no threat. Kellabald could see and discern the position and shift of weight of all four garonds. In slow motion he could see that they worked together to make openings for each other. It would be impossible to counter this many garonds, impossible if he did not hold the Mattear Gram.

Kellabald swung the sword underhanded at a blurring speed to cut the arms of the third garond. He continued the arc and cut right through the whole body of the fourth garond with no effort.

Kellabald’s body and arms were weary and weak from the torture the day before, but the sword seemed to revitalize him and give him an unnatural strength.

The first two garonds were already attacking again. Kellabald could feel them, rather than see them. He turned his body, continuing the same arc. The blade was still low, and it told him to cut at the feet of the first two garonds. But, the garonds were quick, the first one leapt over the blade. The second one was not so quick. The Mattear Gram, slicing upwards, cut the second garond’s leg clean away, through the thigh.

The third garond, his arms bleeding, valiantly tried to turn half way and thrust with the momentum. But Kellabald and the sword saw this move and they parried, whirling the garond’s blade around and around, until the Mattear Gram cut his head off with a fiendish, hooking slice.

The last garond standing backed away into a defensive posture. Kellabald moved forward with lightning speed, simply extending his arm straight ahead. The poor garond had no time to react. The sword went straight into its face.

Kellabald withdrew the sword, then quickly dispatched the garond with the severed leg. The deaths of five garonds had taken but two moments.

He turned to Feeblerod who shrieked, panted hard, and fell to the dirt of Bittel pleading for his life.

Apghilis, curled in pain, said, “The sword. Give it to me. It is mine by right.”

Kellabald stood over the atheling. He raised the blade. “You have no honor and barely a right to the life I will now spare you.” Then, Kellabald lowered the sword.

“Go to your garond masters, traitor,” Kellabald said. Then to Wynnfrith he said, “We must flee to Alfhich as fast as our legs with allow.”

With that, Kellabald, with the Mattear Gram wrapped in cloth and strapped to his back, and Wynnfrith and Halldora, with as many supplies as they could carry, fled Bittel for Alfhich.

All that afternoon they marched westward as quickly as they could. Towards the early evening, Halldora exclaimed and pointed back the way they had come.

In the far distance, two figures could be seen following them. It was unmistakably Apghilis limping along, leaning heavily on Feeblerod.

As night fell, Alfhich came into sight, a patchwork town of wooden houses with steep roofs, raised on stilts, connected by wooden ramps, cluttered together on the shore of the Holmwy River. Some of the houses had collapsed from the earthquake that afternoon. Several docks stretched out into the Holmwy, dotted by hundreds of fishing boats. The strong salty smell of the Mere Lanis drifted ashore.

As they entered Alfhich, they could see the fishing town was jammed with refugees from all over Wealdland. Halldora pulled a scarf over her flame red hair. And, the three of them headed straight for the bridge of Alfhich.

The bridge was a long, narrow series of spans that were held up by seven, piers which each nestled a small village. The Holmwy River was the widest river Wynnfrith had ever seen. Muddy and swift, it was three times as wide as the Bairn, and it seemed to blend right into the ocean it was flowing into.

At the entrance to the bridge a large crowd of people milled. Some sold wares or fish, some looked for lost loved ones, and some tried to convince others a boat ride across the Holmwy was easier and cheaper.

As Kellabald, Wynnfrith and Halldora pushed through the crowd, someone pulled the scarf from Halldora’s head and her flame red hair danced on the ocean breezes.

“Halldora!” Someone in the crowd called. Her name was called again and again. Someone mentioned a reward, some gave thanks and others cursed her as the crowd pushed in.

“Take the sword to Healfdene of Reia as Haergill wished,” Wynnfrith urgently whispered to Kellabald. “I will stay with Halldora.”

And before Kellabald could answer, the crowd pushed him aside to swarm around Halldora as Wynnfrith angrily yelled and pushed the crowd back.

Kellabald and Wynnfrith locked eyes across the crowd.

“Go!” She yelled at him, and pointed at something at the far side of the crowd.

Kellabald followed her indication and saw Apghilis and Feeblerod talking to ten armed men. The armed men pushed into the crowd and seized Wynnfrith and Halldora.

There were too many, and too many innocents. With the special blade in his possession, Kellabald could have slain the whole town of Alfhich, but he was not a man who would ever murder.

He knew she was right. Kellabald said a prayer of protection for his wife and friend. He knew he had no choice but to cross the Holmwy Bridge and deliver the Mattear Gram to Healfdene of the Green Hills of Reia by himself.

Chapter Eleven

Kellabald

Kellabald struggled his way onto the Holmwy Bridge with the growing crowd behind him. Someone yelled something about collecting a toll or fee to cross the bridge, but too many people pushed their way forward with the confusion. Kellabald simply let the crowd carry him onward.

The bridge could only accommodate four abreast, and it creaked ominously with the hundreds of pilgrims fleeing to the west.

The Holmwy River was brown and insistently rippling. At least a hundred small fishing boats, crammed with passengers, also made for the western shore. No boats traveled east.

Night was falling and lanterns could be seen flaring to life with light on the boats and along the bridge.

At the first pier many of the people on the bridge crowded around the hot food merchants, ale houses and lodgings, so Kellabald decided to move on without trying to find something to eat. He was not alone as the bridge continued to crowd with people walking through the night to reach the Western Meadowlands and the safety of the green hills of Reia beyond the Flume of Rith.

As Kellabald continued on to the second pier he realized that he had no money, nor anything to barter for food. He decided it would be best to keep moving anyway, in case Apghilis and his men were right on his heels.

The second pier was much like the first pier, houses, merchants and inns teetered on the edges of a large wooden platform, which held up the continuing span of the Holmwy Bridge.

As Kellabald passed the third pier, crowded as the first two, he noticed in the Holmwy River, a large fishing boat lined with soldiers who dipped their oars in unison. The soldier laden boat was making quick time for the distant shore. He thought he saw Apghilis amongst the boat’s crew and struggled through the crowd on the bridge with more determination.

Kellabald pushed his way onto the fourth and middle pier. He was half way across the river. This platform was three times the size of the first three and was the size of a small town. The massive vertical logs which held up the center pier creaked and slowly swayed with the hundreds of people crowding its wooden planks. The Holmwy River below darkly pushed against the fourth pier with an insistent foamy wake.

Kellabald was lost and unsure of the direction to the next span of the bridge.

“Kellabald! Kellabald!” Someone called. He didn’t recognize the voice, so Kellabald roughly pushed through the crowd. Then, a bony, wizened hand clutched Kellabald’s cloak and pulled him to a stop. Kellabald tuned to find an old man with flowing white hair, and a kind face wrapped in a dark cloak.

“Kellabald? It is you, isn’t it?” He said.

Kellabald looked around worriedly to see if any had heard his name mentioned aloud. Then he pulled the old man to the side.

“Who are you?” Kellabald asked.

“I stopped in Bittel many years ago. You fed me rabbit and parsnips. So delicious. I never forgot.” The old man smacked his lips.

“I don’t remember-“ Kellabald stammered.

“Oh, it would have been,” The old man squinted into the depths of time, “before your soon to be wife and her mother came to your village from the Weald. Yes. It was soon after you had fled the priests of Eann in Gillalliath. So you would have just settled Bittel.” The old man smiled with satisfaction for having remembered.

“I, I think I remember. But that was over twenty years ago.” Kellabald stared in wonder, but then looked around again in worry. “I’m sorry I have no time to reminisce with you. I am in a hurry. A great hurry.”

“Oh, I suppose,” The old man said. “But, I must repay you for that meal. Such kindness is rare in this age. Have you any money?”

“No,” Kellabald answered. “In fact I have nothing.”

“Nothing,” the old man smiled eyeing the sword wrapped in folds of cloth and trapped to Kellabald’s back. “Very well, we must do this the old way. Then we can continue across the bridge.”

The old man pulled Kellabald to a hot food vendor. He pointed to two meat pies. The vendor held out his hand and the old man made a pretense of counting out gold coins. The vendor behaved as if he had been paid, and the old man handed a warm meat pie to Kellabald. A watching child nearby started to protest until the old man hissed at him and sent him running, crying.

Kellabald bit into the meat pie and it was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted, having not eaten properly for many days. “How did you do that?” Kellabald asked between mouthfuls.

“He simply saw what he wanted to see,” the old man replied. “He will be no poorer for it. Our presence will make him far richer than if he had actually collected the money he thought he saw.”

“You are a mage,” Kellabald reverently said.

“If you like,” the Mage’s eyes sparkled.

They continued on, making their way to the fifth pier as night deepened.

“Magic is fading, almost gone,” the Mage said. “Magic is connected to what it touches. Objects. Ways of using objects.” Again the Mage eyed the swaddled object strapped to Kellabald’s back. “Some people will do unbelievably despicable things to obtain objects of power. Others will hold onto objects of magic for no good reason other than that they possess it, and want no other to have it.” The Mage spat into the water.

As they traveled on to the sixth pier, a gangly young man of the messenger guild pushed past them.

“We’re almost across,” the Mage said to Kellabald. “You’ve been awfully silent.” Kellabald only nodded his head. He was unsure about this old man.

“I met a man,” the Mage continued as they made their way across the bridge in the darkness of night, “A man, who may be the great father of all new magic.”

“New magic?” Kellabald watched the Mage carefully.

“Old magic,” the Mage said, turning a finger in his ear, “was all a part of using your spirit to understand and manipulate the smallest of parts of the all that is. If you could understand a thing to
its
elemental core and become one with it, then you could tell it what to do. It would seem surprising and supernatural to you.”

“And this new magic?” Kellabald focused on crossing the bridge.

“Oh,” the Mage frowned, “it’s all about thinking. Thinking. Thinking. Thinking. Understanding in a new way. But being outside of the thing. From the outside he bends a thing to his will with his mind, and not his spirit, this new mage.”

They walked on in silence towards the last pier.

“He’s a pleasant enough youngster,” the Mage choked back a laugh, “but he gets lost in the woods too often.”

The last pier was no different than the last six, but there were fewer people as more of the pilgrims had stopped for the night along the way.

As they came to where the bridge touched the western shore, they saw a contingent of fifty or more soldiers stopping and searching those who stepped off the bridge to the dry land. The soldiers argued with the youth of the messenger guild. The soldiers demanded to see the message he carried, but the argument was to no avail. No one would dare to cross the guild in an open public place. The messenger went on his way, his message safe.

Kellabald hesitated. He saw Apghilis behind the platoon of soldiers, bored, imperiously sitting on a cask.

The Mage firmly grabbed Kellabald’s cloak and pulled him forward to the checkpoint. Kellabald kept his head down, and pulled at the Mage to no effect, for he was much stronger than his years belied.

Kellabald felt for the Mattear Gram. He could fight his way. Then he felt the Mage’s hand on his.

“Why not go quietly,” the Mage said.

Kellabald was filled with despair.

The soldier huffed as the Mage and Kellabald reached the front of the line.

“Yes mother,” the soldier said to the Mage, “where are you and your daughter going?”

Kellabald opened his mouth in surprise and almost spoke.

“We travel to Rith and safety beyond,” the Mage said in an old woman’s voice.

“Let us see your possessions,” the soldier gruffly said.

“As you can see,” the Mage continued, “we have fled with only our lives and the clothes on our backs.”

“Have you seen a yellow haired fellow with a large, shining sword on the bridge?” The soldier asked in boredom.

“No, can’t say I have,” the Mage winked at Kellabald.

“On your way,” the soldier said with a yawn.

The Mage and Kellabald quickly walked away from the checkpoint, and out onto the Western Meadowlands. Off the well-beaten paths, the Mage made a small campfire by simply snapping his fingers over a pile of gathered wood.

“You’d best sleep the rest of the night,” The Mage said to Kellabald. “We’re not safe yet.”

As Kellabald was fading to sleep, a sound in the tall grass made him start awake. The Mage stared into the fire.

“Do not be afraid,” the Mage said. “He just wants to get a good look at you.”

“Who does?” Kellabald sat up.

A massive hog, tusks gleaming, bristles of his back majestically erect, carefully stepped into the clearing of their campsite.

“Kellabald, the Great Boar of the Western Meadowlands,” The Mage introduced. “Great boar, Kellabald,” the Mage mumbled.

The huge, beautiful beast grunted.

“Hmm, yes,” The Mage answered the Great Boar. “He wants to see it.”

Kellabald was about to object, but then realized it would be useless. He unwrapped the Mattear Gram and held it to sparkle in the firelight. The Great
Boar grunted, then knelt
in fealty. Then, the massive beast turned and trotted off into the darkness.

The Mage curled up to sleep. “You should be filled with pride,” he laughed softly, “you’re an honorary pig now.” And then the Mage was fast asleep. Kellabald soon followed him into slumber on that dark, cloud filled night.

The next morning, Kellabald woke with a start to find the Mage holding the Mattear Gram in his hands, turning it, staring at it wistfully.

“There are so few objects of power left on this earth,” the Mage slowly said.

Kellabald held out his hand to take the sword, but the Mage did not hand it over.

“There were so many in ages past. Some were destroyed. Some were merged into objects like this one. It’s good that some of the darker objects of power have been eradicated. Some powerful objects are neither good nor evil. Like this one.” The Mage hefted the sword. “It focuses the spirit, strengthens it. Did you feel it speaking to you when you killed the garonds in Bittel?”

Kellabald was not surprised. He knew now that the Mage was more than a human. “It was more like singing,” Kellabald answered. Kellabald was filled with an ominous sense of responsibility and felt his own inadequacy. “Would you like to keep the sword?” Kellabald offered.

The Mage laughed. “I now know the Mattear Gram is in the wisest of all hands in Wealdland.” The Mage handed the sword to Kellabald. As Kellabald took the sword, it lightly cut the Mage, and he looked as though life was surging out of him.

Kellabald exclaimed and rushed to the Mage’s side. But, there was no cut to be seen on either of his arms. The Mage simply, weakly smiled. “We must go,” he said, rising with effort.

After traveling west for most of the morning, a line of soldiers could be seen in the distance.

“We must travel north,” the Mage said with alarm.

“Make us appear as mother and daughter again,” Kellabald desperately said.

“I can do no more magic,” The Mage feebly said with a sickly smile.

All that afternoon they turned and traveled quickly north, with the Mage fading and speaking in almost a delirium.

“We must make for the Kipleth town of Pelych. We will find safety there,” the Mage coughed.

“I have lived many lives,” the Mage ranted from between cracking lips. “Sometimes I have lived many lives at the same time.” He laughed a dry laugh. “I have seen many methods and tools rise and fall. Did you know in a far gone age, every man rode upon a horse? Now there is but one man who can do so.”

“Only garonds ride horses,” Kellabald said, trying to keep the Mage’s spirits up.

“Heh, if you only knew,” the Mage cackled. “Garonds once only used clubs, now they use both arrow and sword. Once a thing is seen, another learns it. It is all part of the new magic, which will take you far into the age after the next. That is if all learning is not lost in the next age.”

In the late afternoon, the dark hills of Kipleth could be seen.

“They are close behind us,” the Mage croaked. “Leave me. You must go faster.”

“I will not,” Kellabald said lifting the Mage under one arm.

“I can see through time now,” the Mage weakly said. “She will give her life to save the one she loves. But her life will not be lost. The next age is a dark and ignorant one. But, she will find new love on the other side of the world as the sixth age closes. Did you know the world is round like an apple? Then in the last age, her love expands to the all of all that is. She will take all evil and all good, and take it to the center of life.”

Then, the Mage was silent as Kellabald and the Mage limped into the empty, spoiled town of Pelych as night was falling. A clap of thunder rolled across the meadowlands from the south.