The Last Elf of Lanis (2 page)

Arnwylf felt his own body’s weight pulling the spear from the stauer’s body and feared he might ruin the hunt. But he knew if he let go, he would be immediately trampled to death.

The moment seemed to stretch into infinity, the pungent smell of the animal, the cries of the other humans, the massive rocking of the beast
'
s rippling muscles, the mangy hair above the animal’s leg whipping at his face, the crunching of the autumn grass of the meadow, the light blue of the afternoon sky, the silence of the meadow’s birds, the mystery of the elf. Arnwylf tasted his own blood in his mouth and knew in a moment he could be dead.

From the corner of his eye, he could see the Archer, pulling tight on another flint arrow, looking for a chance to pierce the stauer.

The world felt warm and unreal to Arnwylf. Then, as if in a dream, he felt his father’s arms behind him. Kellabald was shouting and he could feel his father behind him pushing on the spear to which he clung.

As the stauer rocked and fought, Arnwylf could see his family and friends waving their hands in front of the animal to confuse it, and keep it from bolting. Arnwylf saw Haergill fall from the stauer’s back and almost laughed in delirium. Then Arnwylf felt the warmth and strength of his father as he pushed on the spear, and knew in that instant, to add his own strength to the spear working its way into the stauer’s heart.

Arnwylf could feel the warm, sticky blood of the stauer running over his hands. He was so hungry he wanted to let go and lick his fingers, but he knew to hold on, even though the spear was slippery.

Then the world seemed to stand still. Arnwylf could see the other human, with their mouths open, silent, expectant. Then he felt a shudder as the great beast was dying. The massive body of fur and hair began to topple to the ground.

Arnwylf felt his father pulling him away from the stauer. And as if from very far away, he heard his father shouting at him, “Let go! Let go!”

Arnwylf let his hands go slack, and for a moment he was a child of four in his village. His father was swinging him around in a merry circle with his massive hands. He felt the laughter and joy just bubbling out of him, and knew at this moment in time, he would never be happier.

Then, Arnwylf came to his senses as he tumbled to the grass with his father. He immediately looked up and saw the stauer right itself, fighting for that last moment of life. Then the great beast crashed to the meadow grass with a bouncing, resounding thud. The humans stopped and stared in astonishment. The stauer was dead.

The families of Bittel advanced on the stilled beast. Halldora helped Haergill to his feet. Kellabald inched towards the massive animal. The spear protruded, pointing to the sky as if imploring Kellth the god of the sun.

The Archer handed Kellabald a bronze knife. Kellabald nodded in thanks. Then
,
stepping to the dead stauer,
he
raised his hands in a prayer of thanks to the father of the gods, Eann,
and then
he plunged the knife into the animal’s flesh. The humans now crowded around Kellabald as he cut away strips of venison. The clan eagerly ate the raw meat having been starved by their
garond
captors for days.

Arnwylf felt a surge of momentary happiness. His family was free, and they had something to eat. But the meadowlands were dangerous and they needed to get to the safety of the Weald, the massive forest on the far side of the Eastern Meadowland. The Archer seemed on edge. Arnwylf saw him refuse a piece of meat offered by Wynnfrith, and then he pulled a bronze tipped arrow from his quiver and simply held it in his hands.

His father and Haergill argued about how much meat to cut from the stauer. Yulenth then spoke, and both Kellabald and Haergill nodded in agreement. The three humans plunged their hands deep into the animal and pulled out its dark, slick liver. The clan gathered around the piece of meat.

“We thank you, oh great Stauer of these meadowlands,” Yulenth spoke solemnly to the dead beast. “We thank Tareia goddess of the wood and ask for her safe guidance.” With these words the humans all reverently took a bite of the liver. When Arnwylf bit deep into the flesh, the bitter liver was satisfying and gave him a sense of being connected to all living things. He looked up and locked eyes with the elf standing behind the group in the tall grass. Her look of pain and disgust surprised him. Yet he sensed she felt what he felt, and was confused and surprised also. Then the elf seemed to hear something and darted away.

All of this happened in a split second, before Arnwylf could even swallow.

The Archer put the arrow he held to the string of his bow. Frea held the liver in her hands, but was frozen. The clan turned their eyes to see what she saw. A pack of meadow wolves inched into the clearing, their yellow eyes blazed with hunger.

The lead wolf was tall. His snout could have rested on any man’s shoulder without raising its head. It was grey and grizzled. The black wolf by its side was almost certainly the lead female of the pack. There were eight wolves including a young male that had a snow-white coat. The wolves stepped closer, their hunger a beacon in their eyes. The Archer pulled his arrow taught. Its tip sighted on a point centered dead between the lead wolf’s eyes.

Alrhett slowly raised her hands, her braided white hair swaying. “We are clan of the Wylfling and have need,” she spoke directly to the lead wolf. “And we respect these stauer are yours by right. Let us depart in peace.” Alrhett thought of the many treaties she had failed to negotiate among the crafty lords of Rogar Li, the capitol of the Weald. Would she be unable to make a truce with a simple animal? The lead wolf snarled.

“He says we may leave,” Alrhett said with relief.

With that the humans slowly retreated into the grass of the Meadowlands. As Arnwylf slowly backed away from the scene of the kill, he could hear the wolves snarling and tearing the stauer’s hide as they ripped the carcass to pieces.

Unknown to the human clan as they made their way east across the tall waving grass of the meadow, the young, white wolf broke away from the devouring of the stauer and turned to follow the elf following the humans.

Chapter Three

Rion Ta

Haergill limped through the pasture of the Meadowlands. The vast, level grasses had more shrubs as they traveled further east, and the passage was a little more difficult. Haergill held his thick, barrel chest. It hurt to breathe. He had probably broken a few ribs when he had fallen from the stauer.

And, the raw meat wasn’t sitting well in his stomach. He was used to cooked meat, but he felt good that his family had eaten. The tall, dark green rim of trees that started the edge of the Weald was visible now. The village, Rion Ta, would be right where the forest began. Humans ruled the wooded areas. The thick canopy of interlocking oaks and arching elms was a perfect environment for ingenious and clever humans.

Haergill thought of the night Varknifl and his henchmen found him hiding in Bittel. That rainy, summer night, he had killed them all not too far from where they had just passed. Perhaps he was treading over their very bones at this very instant. The thought put him in a foul mood.

Something gnawed at Haergill, and he had to reconcile his feelings. Haergill worked his way up the line of quickly moving humans with some difficulty. He saw Arnwylf smile at him as he passed him, and returned the smile. The boy was a good person and would
someday
be a fine, honorable man.

Haergill passed Kellabald and they shared a grim look. With difficulty Haergill made his way to the Archer’s side. The dark haired, dark eyed man turned slightly to notice him.

Haergill spoke boldly to the Archer, “Why didn’t you use one of those black arrows on the stauer? You could have killed it in one shot.”

The Archer turned his head slightly to pierce Haergill with a sharp look, but continued on in silence.

The anger of Haergill’s race, his people, welled up inside of him. He was the son of a warrior king, but he tried to control his violent feelings. He had seen almost his whole people wiped away by useless civil wars. The wars had weakened the Northern Kingdom of Man, making the attack of the organized and swift garonds too easy, too devastating.

Haergill could fe
el his hands moving of their own accord
and he reached out to grab the wool of the Archer’s dark green hood.  In a flashing instant, the Archer held a bronze knife to Haergill’s throat, as the whole party came to a halt.

The Archer and Haergill regarded each other in tense silence, both their eyes burning. Kellabald quietly stepped to the two, but was careful not to speak or make sudden movements, which would precipitate a fight.

Haergill spoke quietly but courageously, “We thank you for saving us from the garonds, but we are free humans, and will not be treated as slaves.”

The Archer spoke in slow, deliberate tones, “The black, metal arrows are only for the killing of garonds. It is an oath I made. And I hope you will feel no dishonor in this, to you or your clan.”

Haergill was surprised. It made perfect sense, and he was immediately sorry for his anger. He was at a loss for words.

Kellabald spoke gently, “We need to make the village on the edge of the Weald before Kellth carries the sun over the rim of the earth, and Nunee ascends to follow her husband into the night sky.” Both the Archer and Haergill relaxed, but Haergill quickly held his hand up for stillness. The humans were immediately motionless.

Haergill could hear a crashing sound in the meadow. The humans quickly huddled together for protection. From all sides a herd of doderns crashed through the grass. They were compact and strong. Their muscular bodies were covered by a hide that was thick and hard like armor. They were also covered with shaggy, light brown hair and each had an enormous horn protruding from its snout, with a smaller horn behind the larger. The doderns were frightened and running from some danger. They gave no notice to the group of humans crouched together for safety. Then, just as suddenly as the stampede began, it was over.

“We need to move faster,” The Archer spoke to the group. As one, they all rose and began walking rapidly for the looming edge of the Weald.

Haergill felt both satisfaction for having confronted the Archer, and shame for having caused the conflict. His family was defined by violence and war, and Haergill had his fill of blood and anger. Now his only concern was his lovely Halldora, and their radiant daughter Frea.

When he was a boy, he remembered his young father returning from battles with the people of the Green Hills of Reia to the West. His father would sometimes return badly wounded and the whole palace would resound with prayers to Oann, the Battle God, and creator of all things.

Priests and Mages would make pilgrimages to the great ice walls to the far north of the kingdom where Oann was thought to reside with all the other gods. They would beseech the heavenly powers to heal their gravely wounded king. Nobles and Lords would look knowingly at Haergill with the unspoken mandate that he would have to lead the kingdom if his father died.

When his father became too crippled to fight, Haergill was sent out as a teenager to lead the Kingdom of the North. He held the legendary sword, the Mattear Gram, a silvery, brightly shining length of special metal, unlike any other sword. It was light and unbreakable. The sword was reputed to have been forged by the elves of Lanis and had been handed down by at least ten generations of kings.

The sword felt uncomfortable and too light in Haergill’s hands when he first went to war against the tribes that lived along the shores of Ettonne, the Great Lake to the east. The sword moved quickly
,
and cut through bronze, wood and flesh
,
as though forged by Yonne the Lord of the Dead himself.

When the Ettonnes charged the front ranks of his warriors their eyes were very wide and their faces were slack. He felt detached and horrified. The world seemed to be submerged in liquid.

The Ettonnes had long, bronze spears and caught many of his warriors before they could get within striking distance. The toll of the dead was awful that day, and the great waste of human life sickened Haergill.

The battles raged for almost nine years with Haergill at their head, wars to the West, wars to the East, and wars to the South. So, when the Ettonnes no longer came to battle, and the squat, dark faced garonds arrived, moving in arranged, cascading ranks, Haergill’s people were too stressed and depleted to resist.

Within a year, the garonds had overrun the
Ettonnes
, the people of the Southern Wastelands, and the Kingdom of the North itself was almost crushed.

The remaining families gathered what they could, and fled to the southeast in hopes of reaching the Weald, or sought refuge from their enemies in the Green Hills of Reia to the west. The garonds pursued and killed the human
s wherever they could, until
human beings
were
nearly extinct in all the Northern Lands.

Haergill and his family found Kellabald and his clan in a small hamlet called Bittel, set inside an island of oaks and elms on the western edge of the Eastern Meadowlands. There, Haergill, Halldora and Frea lived happily for almost two years. It seemed the violent world outside passed them by unnoticed, until the day, a fortnight ago, when the garonds finally discovered their hidden village of Bittel.

There were too many garonds to even consider fighting. It was surprising they weren’t killed immediately. After destroying Bittel, as though searching for something, they left a detachment of three soldiers to escort the shackled humans to their citadel somewhere beyond the Weald and Byland, rumored to be a great city of dark blue stones in the Far Grasslands.

The garonds spoke a clicking guttural tongue, so no information could be gleaned from their captivity, but it was guessed they were part of a new plan to capture select humans for slave labor.

Their destination, the village Rion Ta, was in sight. The thatched roofs were visible, but something was wrong. There were no curls of smoke in the handful of chimneys. The Archer broke into a run with Kellabald close at his side. The others caught up to them to discover the village completely empty. The clan searched every house and barn, but no humans were to be found.

The group clothed themselves, ate handfuls of bread and dried meat that had been left on tables, and armed themselves with spears and bronze swords that were found as if dropped in fear.

“The garonds have been here,” Haergill snarled.

The Archer’s eyes blazed. “We need to get my other arrow from that elf.”

“They’ll be back,” Kellabald said quietly. “The village is still standing.”

The Archer gathered the clan in the main square of the village. “Everyone sit down here,” he said. The Archer laid out some vegetables on a cloth. “She must be hungry.”

“Put down this mutton, too,” Haergill offered.

“Elves don’t eat any kind of meat,” the Archer said. With that the Archer melted away into the shadows of the village.

He found a good spot on the low branch of a tree where he could see the whole group seated in a circle, apparently eating. The Archer nocked a flint tipped arrow, and drew it back. He let his field of vision expand, not focusing on any one spot. Any movement, however quick would be seen. The Archer slowed his breath, and his hand was as steady as stone. He could keep this position for nearly half a day.

The Archer didn’t hear any sound at all as the elf quickly, easily put her silver, crescent blade to his throat.

He heard her tinkling laughter. Her voice was like music. “Did you think to trap me?”

The Archer knew he had no time to waste. Without moving, he said, “you have to return my black arrow to me immediately. The horse garonds will be back any moment.”

Again, the elf laughed that tinkling laugh. “Are they half horse?”

“They’re the ones who scattered the doderns in the Meadowland.”

The elf considered for a moment. “You hate them almost as much as I do.”

“More,” The Archer said.

The elf reached into her shimmering, olive green tunic, and handed the black arrow to the Archer. “Where did you get these arrows? They are of elvish design.”

“I’ll tell you anything you like after the fight,” The Archer said in low, dangerous tones. He turned to see Haergill, his face pale white, standing amongst the sitting circle. The elf followed his gaze, and lowered her blade.

“Quickly,” she said.

In the square, all the clan was now on their feet. Kellabald was bellowing and pointing for the group to get to the safety of the enormous trees of the Weald at the edge of the village.

The elf and the Archer rose and ran towards the square. The rapid drumbeat of horse hooves could be heard intensifying in the distance. As the Archer and the elf reached the communal open space of the village, Kellabald, Haergill, and Yulenth joined them with spears and swords ready.

Haergill turned to see Arnwylf standing behind them. Kellabald shouted for him to go on to the trees, as the first garond horsemen broke through the thick, sheltering grass of the Eastern Meadowland.

The garonds clung to the naked backs of horses, shrieking, and swinging bronze clad wooden clubs. They were a terrifying sight to Haergill. No human ever rode on the back of a horse. It seemed as though they were malformed, unnatural monsters.

Haergill felt himself frozen with fear, and could see from the corner of his eye that Kellabald and Yulenth were similarly paralyzed with fright. But the Archer was calm and astoundingly fast. Haergill noticed how the Archer drew a black arrow from his quiver, nocked it, drew and fired with no waste of motion. He did this four times before Haergill could even draw breath. He turned to see four garond’s with arrows protruding from their faces, falling from their horses. Two more garonds continued with the initial charge.

Haergill saw the elf run past him as fast as a deer. She leapt and seemed to hang in the air, almost as if flying. Her silver blade was a whirling crescent moon that described a wide arc taking the heads of the two garonds before her, in one swipe. Spinning, she lightly landed as though she had no weight and then sprinted back to the clan.

The horse garonds halted. The rest of their group gathered in an organized line. There were at least thirty of them. And six of their number lay dead at their feet, killed in less than two breaths.

The lead garond, in the center of the line, the only one carrying a thick, oaken shield, shrieked a loud, vicious war cry. The entire line charged forward at the group. Haergill saw the Archer sight and release an arrow at the lead garond that flew directly to the center of its shield. The black metal tipped arrow went right through the oak and caught the lead garond at the throat, throwing him bodily backwards. With his shield pinned to his throat, he fell from his horse. The Archer was able to shoot one more garond dead as the line of horse garonds reached the clan.

The elf seemed to levitate with a jump and her blade cut through both a garond’s club and his skull. Yulenth cut at a garond, but only slashed at its arm.

With his spear, Kellabald caught a garond full in the
mid-section
and lifted him high off his horse. Haergill slashed at a garond and cut its leg clean off. It fell screaming to the dust of the village’s open square as it died in a sudden pool of its own blood.