The Last Elf of Lanis (20 page)

“So there is a grand army of garonds in the south,” Haerreth said with a smile. “Good! Let us be at them and wipe them from our lands!” He bit a huge chunk of mutton and smiled with a full mouth.

“You do not understand,” Halldora respectfully said. “This is about more than armies and battle. Powers beyond our comprehension are at work here.”

“All I need to comprehend,” Haerreth pleasantly said, “is that garonds die when I ch
op their heads off.” The council
of men at the dinner heartily laughed at the joke.

“We need to see your father,” Wynnfrith suddenly said.

“And why is this?” Haerreth suspiciously said.

“My husband,” Wynnfrith, suddenly shy, said, “carries the Mattear Gram for Healfdene, your father, to carry into battle.”

“Grand,” Haerreth bellowed. “Where is your husband? Where is the famous sword?” All looked around as if expecting to see him jump out of the growing darkness.

“He is on the other side of the Holmwy,” Wynnfrith said. “We hope.”

“You hope,” Haerreth said with gentle skepticism. “Well, if he is in the Western Meadowlands, he will meet my father quickly. I can assure you of that.”

“There were men after him,” Halldora said. “Apghilis.”

“Ap- !” Haerreth spat out the chunk of mutton he had bitten off. “If that great snake is in the Western Meadowlands, I want his neck in my hands immediately!”

All was quiet as the elaborate bonfire burned for the outdoor banquet.

“So,” Haerreth said with a charming smile, “what are these great powers you speak of?”

Overhead, the great terror in the sky stopped all conversation, as the all the humans gathered at Tyny looked up at the night sky with fear.

“Great and evil plans are in motion,” Halldora grimly said, as the Wanderer, the second, smaller moon, moved at a rapid, frighteningly unnatural pace across the night sky.

“Yes,” Wynnfrith said to Haerreth. “I have seen his face, the Lord of Lightning. This is his doing, and he means to kill all life on earth with this.”

“We must stop him,” said Halldora. “We must find Kellabald and make sure he delivers the Mattear Gram. I think Haergill foresaw something, and had a way to stop this.”

Haerreth and all the men of Reia were speechless.

Chapter Thirteen

From Kenethley to Tyny

Arnwylf woke to find a seagull perched on the headboard above his head, curiously staring down at him. The seagull croaked and then flapped out of the room.

Arnwylf was in a soft bed with clean sheets. A light huff made Arnwylf look down to see Conniker curled up on the bed at his feet and sleepily smiling at him.

The room was painted white and clean. Morning sunlight streamed in through large windows. Chiffon curtains swirled with the smell of salty sea air.

Frea entered with a plate of fresh bread, and a cup of milk.

Arnwylf sat up with bruises and aches.

“We were worried you wouldn’t live,” Frea said as she dipped a piece of bread into the milk and then gently put it into Arnwylf’s mouth.

Although it was only bread soaked with a little milk, because of his weeks of starvation at the hands of the garonds since that first raid on Bittel, to Arnwylf, it was the most delicious thing in the world. He held back tears.

Frea softly touched his cheek with the back of her hand. She pulled close to Arnwylf. His body was lean and muscular from the seven days of hard labor and starvation among the garonds. His face was serious and handsome. She had washed his dirty, matted hair, as he lay comatose in the bed. She stayed by his side the whole night furiously praying for his recovery. He looked up with a little milk dribbling from his chin, and smiled. Her lips yearned for his.

Then Rebburn bustled into the room.

“Out, out,” she said to Frea. “Plenty of time for that later.” Then the old woman peered down at Arnwylf. “Only a boy, but the strength of an auroch,” she said shaking her head.

Caerlund led the Archer and the elf into the room.

“How fare you, son! Welcome to Kenethley! “ Caerlund bellowed.

“Caerlund!” Arnwylf weakly cried.

“Are you well enough to walk? We must travel north quickly,” Caerlund said stroking his beard.

“Of course he isn’t,” Rebburn scolded.

“I think I could ride on one of the horses,” Arnwylf said with effort.

“They were left on the other side of the Fallfont Gorge, remember?” The Archer solemnly said.

“I would like to see Kenethley,” Arnwylf said rising from his bed.

“Now, now,” Rebburn protested. But, Arnwylf was already out of the bed and standing. Frea and the Archer supported him on either side. Conniker, with his tail bandaged, leapt off the bed to join Arnwylf.

Rebburn shook her head and clucked. “Only a boy, but the strength of an auroch.”

Caerlund stepped close to Rebburn and said, “I wish you had gone north with the others as you were supposed to.”

“Then who would have looked after him,” Rebburn said, gently pulling a lock of Arnwylf’s hair.

The group left Rebburn in the room softly clucking to the seagull, and went down a circular staircase and out onto the streets of Kenethley.

Arnwylf had been washed and clothed with spare clothes left in the great evacuation of the Madrun Hills. The capitol city Kenethley, a city of thousands, was strangely empty and quiet. Stalls and goods were left, rummaged and scattered as the humans of the city had fled for their lives.

The buildings of Kenethley, every single building, house, market, and great hall, was cylindrical, painted white and topped with a round, billowing, gray roof.

“They look like mushrooms!” Arnwylf laughed.

Caerlund did a double take, then looked around and around at his city as though for the first time.

“Well bless my evening bread!” Caerlund exclaimed. “I’ve lived here my whole life, thirty seven years, and never saw that my city looks like a ponder of mushrooms.” Caerlund stroked his red beard in amazement.

The group erupted into pleasant laughter, while Conniker wagged his poor tail and nuzzled Arnwylf.

The Archer stepped to Caerlund and whispered in his ear.

“Arnwylf,” Caerlund said to him, “let me show you something.”

Arnwylf could see the Archer and the elf take Frea aside and they spoke to her in low, sympathetic tones. Arnwylf knew what they were telling her.

Caerlund tried to distract Arnwylf by showing him a sweet, green and red apple that only grew in the Madrun Hills.

Arnwylf watched as Frea fainted with grief to learn of the death of her father. Arnwylf, weak and in pain, quickly limped to her side, but the Archer already had caught her and was gently rousing her. All were awkwardly silent. Arnwylf reached out and took Frea’s hand.

“You will always have a family with us,” Arnwylf bravely said. Frea’s eyes were filled with both affection and immeasurable grief.

The group all stood in still respect for Haergill, the King of the Northern Kingdom of Man, but most importantly loving father to his daughter Frea.

Then Caerlund started with a sudden realization. “Ah!” He cried, “Have I something to show you!”

Caerlund led the group to a cluster of large mushroom shaped buildings all leaning together. Caerlund produced a key, and opened two huge, reinforced oak doors.

“This must be the castle,” Arnwylf said.

“Aye,” Caerlund said with a twinkle in his eye as he pushed the massive doors open. They walked into a beautiful courtyard, adorned with potted plants and soft chairs and lounges.

They then went into a foyer with a marble floor that shone like a placid lake in the afternoon sun. The castle of Kenethley was regal, but comfortable and simple.

They followed Caerlund through a succession of pleasant, adjoined rooms to a reinforced door, which Caerlund opened with another large key.

“I have been here many times,” the elf said with a smile.

“Since before my great grandfather, I reckon,” Caerlund said with a nod.

Inside, the group entered the treasury room of Kenethley. Brilliant gold cups and plates glowed. Silver scabbards and necklaces glimmered like moonlight. Emeralds and rubies, as big as a man’s fist, cut with elaborate designs, clustered together like bowls of fruit in ornate golden bowls.

Caerlund directed them to a large, oak chest. Yet another key opened it to reveal mounds of gold coins.

“Eh?” Caerlund proudly prodded.

Arnwylf put his hands into the trove of gold coins and let them fall through his fingers.

“Very pretty,” Arnwylf said. “What are they?”

Caerlund looked to the Archer as though he couldn’t believe what he had just heard.

“He doesn’t know what money is,” the Archer said to Caerlund with affectionate amusement.

Frea looked at Arnwylf with a new love because of his purity and innocence. The elf gently put her hand on Arnwylf’s shoulder.

“Money is pretty,” the elf said to Arnwylf, “but we, of the elfkin, discovered long ago that life and love are much more valuable. See, here are many elvish coins we no longer had any use for.” The elf handled a few beautifully designed coins with the portrait of a serious elf on one side, and a mythical bird in flight on the other to Arnwylf. “We gave them to the people of Madrun because we love them so.”

Caerlund beamed proudly. Then he shoved handfuls of gold into his pockets.

“Take some, take some,” he said. “I can’t carry the whole treasure, and we might need some money later on.”

The group heaped gold into their pockets, but Arnwylf took only a single, elvish gold piece because he liked the face of the stern looking elf on the coin.

Walking back out through the castle Caerlund stopped.

“Ah!” He cried and grabbed a padded footstool. “My old favorite. I can’t leave without you.” And he juggled the small, green velvet piece of furniture with the growing arm load of other objects he couldn’t leave without.

“What was that, last night, in the sky?” Frea asked the Archer.

“I do not know, but it was no accident,” he answered.

“It was Deifol Hroth,” the elf said. “He threatened to bring the second, smaller moon down to earth hundreds of years ago. The elfkin thought he was mad.”

“How can he do it? Who is he?” Frea asked. Then, Arnwylf told of all he had seen in the garond encampment.

“Once he was a man, as ordinary as any of you,” the elf said with concern. “He became a friend of the elves long before I was born. They say he was bright, and learned quickly elvish ways and secrets. He found power with those secrets and with his desire for more power became possessed when he found in a secret place an evil spirit, the blackest spirit of all, Jofod Kagir. He visited destruction on all the parts of the earth, not just here in Wealdland. He was directly responsible for the dark, ignorant Fourth Age, and the loss of learning and many technologies. He channels evil powers, old and dangerous. But how he moves great objects in the heavens, I do not know. This is something new. He realized in the Fourth Age he
cannot
control all things, as he wanted, and so now he lusts to exterminate all life on earth to spite the Great Spirit parent, Wylkeho Daniei.”

“But why does he need to come here to Wealdland to do these things?” Arnwylf asked. No one had an answer.

“The night before,” the elf said, “I dreamt he went to my city.”

“Lanis Rhyl Landemiriam!?” Caerlund said with a huff. “He
cannot
enter there. No one but the elf folk can do so.” Then Caerlund turned to Arnwylf and Frea, and like a parent telling a bedtime story said, “The walls are enchanted and recognize
whoever
stands without. They open and close, brick by brick, if you are a friend. But, become slippery and impassable if you are a foe!”

“We are not children” Arnwylf huffed.

“I have seen it with my own eyes!” Caerlund said defensively. “I am one of the few humans to ever be a guest in the elf city!”

The elf simply smiled and nodded to confirm the truth of Caerlund's statement.

“Perhaps,” the Archer said to the elf, “when we have seen these friends safely over the Holmwy Bridge we should come back and check on your city.”

“Of a certainty,” the elf gravely said.

As they left the castle of Kenethley, Caerlund dropped his ample armload of favorite treasures in surprise to find twenty horses standing and staring at them with innocent curiosity.

“My horse!” Arnwylf cried and limped up to stroke the neck of the tan horse with the black mane that he had ridden out of the garond encampment in Harvestley. The horse affectionately nuzzled Arnwylf in recognition.

“Now,” Arnwylf said, “we can quickly ride north.”

“Not getting me on one of those beasts,” Caerlund grumbled as he gathered up his precious items.

The Archer seemed troubled.

“What is on your mind?” The elf asked.

But, before he could answer, a seagull flopped in front of them with an angry insistent squawk. It began scolding the elf.

“What does it say?” The Archer asked.

“I
cannot
understand its tongue,” the elf said. “This is Rebburn’s seagull which comes from the other side of the world”.

“The other side of the world?” Arnwylf asked in surprise.

“Rebburn?” Frea said.

They all immediately realized what the seagull was trying to tell them. They dropped what they had in their arms, and ran for the tower where they had left Rebburn.

They found her in the room in which Arnwylf had awoken. She was crumpled on the floor, clutching her chest.

“Careful, careful,” Caerlund soothed as he helped her onto the bed.

“I’m going, son,” Rebburn said stroking Caerlund’s cheek. “I’ve clung onto this life much longer than I should have. It’s far past my time. Touch nothing but those few things you want to take with you as you leave Kenethley,” she said with great difficulty.

“I am bringing you with us, mother,” Caerlund bravely said, and bent to pick her up.

“You must go. Now. Know I love you. And most important of all, keep your eyes on that one,” she whispered and pointed at Arnwylf, “everything depends on him.” Then she quietly died.

“Mother! Mother!” Caerlund softly cried.

“We must go,” the Archer said. “Garonds will be here any moment. They may have followed the horses across the Madronwy River.”

“But my mother,” Caerlund protested.

“She has already made her funeral pyre,” the elf said. “As she strictly counseled, touch nothing. Let us go.”

As they started down for the horses, Arnwylf noticed small glass vials of amber liquid placed in every nook and cranny.

“Do you see-“ Arnwylf reached out to grab one.

“No,” the elf said, catching his hand with lightning speed.

They quickly tied what they could to the horses and mounted just as Conniker began loudly barking.

“They’re here,” the Archer said. The late morning sun was glinting off the Mere Lanis, as twenty horse garonds rode into the city. Arnwylf slapped his horse, and he, Frea, the Archer, the elf, Caerlund and his guards clinging to their horses, rode out of Kenethley at a full gallop.