The Last Elf of Lanis (3 page)

As the broken line of horse garonds passed, two bore down on Arnwylf standing twenty paces behind the clan. Arnwylf held his sword high in defense. As the garonds swung their clubs at him, like a bolt of lightning shot from the edge of the grass, the white wolf bounded high and caught one of the garonds at the throat. The wolf landed hard, and shook and rent the garond to its death in the dirt. The second garond pulled up, and turned to take another swing at Arnwylf. But, as he drew his club up high for the stroke, a black arrow sprouted from his forehead.

Twelve garonds lay dead.

“To us!” Kellabald called to his son, and Arnwylf sprinted to the safety of the circle of besieged humans and the elf.

“I’ve used all seven of the black arrows,” The Archer shouted to the elf.

“Then you’d better be a sharper shot,” the elf shouted back.

The horse garonds were excited, angry, and disorganized. Their leader was dead and their prey was more dangerous than they had reckoned. But there were still twenty or more of them. A garond whooped a war cry and they began to ride in a circle around the group until the whole clan was surrounded.

The humans and the elf pulled together in a tight defensive group. Although the white wolf ran snapping at the legs of the horses, the deadly circle of horse garonds tightened their trap on the desperate humans.

Haergill was surprised to hear Kellabald quietly but firmly directing the small band. Kellabald waved his spear high to ward off any garond who got too close, and seemed to know when a horse garond would move in close for a strike.

“Arnwylf, on your right. Yulenth coming in fast. Elf, behind him. Haergill, on the left.” The garonds were unable to strike effectively with Kellabald’s leadership. Haergill felt a burning of pride to have him as a friend these past few years. He had known Kellabald as only a fisher, a hunter, a father, the leader of a village, and here, he was a natural general. He wished he had known Kellabald when Haergill was the king of the Northern Kingdom. The other generals and lords had bickered and fought with themselves so much it was the undoing of their whole race.

Kellabald caught a garond by the throat with his spear as it was swinging its club at Arnwylf. Kellabald dragged his punctured garond back into the rider behind it. Yulenth slashed into the surprised, second garond, nearly cutting him in two. But then the garond behind him caught Yulenth a glancing blow that nearly killed him. The Archer shot that garond squarely in the eye with a flint arrow. The circle of garonds pulled back, but not before Haergill cut deeply into a horse. The horse squealed and bolted for the grass.

“Cut the horses when you can!” Kellabald shouted.

“I need my black arrows,” the Archer growled to the elf.

“Let’s see if we can move towards those two bodies over there,” the elf said.

“Kellabald,” the Archer called.

“I heard you,” he said.

The clan slowly inched the circle closer to the two garonds killed by the Archer at the start of the attack.

The garonds were more cautious and vicious. Arnwylf was clubbed on his shoulder and hurt badly.

Almost as if in response, the white wolf tore into the leg of that horse, pulling that rider to the dirt, dragging the screaming garond away from the thundering circle, to die in a furious storm of slashing wolf fangs.

Kellabald speared another rider, and Haergill cut the hands of a garond clean off as he swung his club at Yulenth.

The group was close to the bodies pierced with the special, black arrows. The elf sprinted out between the horses. She reached the bodies and plucked an arrow from one body, but struggled with the second. A garond peeled off from the group to kill her. The Archer sighted on him and shot him with a flint arrow in the head through the ear. The flint arrows didn’t penetrate deep and unstoppable like the black arrows, but with the right target, they were lethal.

The clan moved quickly to the elf and the Archer helped her extract the second arrow.

As soon as the Archer had his two black arrows, two more garonds lay dead in the dirt.

A mere handful of garonds now circled the group, but Arnwylf and Yulenth had been hurt. It seemed a
standoff
, with the garonds unable to strike effectively and the clan surrounded.

The horses were frothing at the mouth and Haergill could feel an alarming weariness in his arms. If they could drive off the last few, just kill a few, they might make for the safety of the trees.

The garonds evilly stared at the humans, unwilling to move in too close now. A garond spread his arms in pain as a launched spear pierced his body. The whole group turned in amazement to find Wynnfrith had thrown a spear from a good distance to kill the garond. Alrhett, Halldora and Frea brandishing spears they had found, stood with her.

“Go back!” Haergill bellowed. But the garonds had seen them and four broke away from the group to attack. The remaining garonds took the opportunity to close in tight on the group. It proved to be a fatal mistake for them.

The elf leap above Yulenth and, over his head, cut a garond from his horse. Kellabald lost his spear as he impaled another garond. And, Yulenth followed behind the elf and cut that garond’s head clean from its shoulders. The white wolf also pulled another garond from its horse.

Haergill broke through the deadly circle to sprint after the garonds headed for the women.

Haergill could see the four horse garonds bearing down on Alrhett, Halldora and Frea who held their spears out defensively, enclosing unarmed Wynnfrith. One garond swept Frea’s spear aside, and the garond behind him pulled Frea up onto his horse in one motion.

In mid sprint, Haergill turned towards the garond who had Frea, but then turned back as he saw the other two garonds riding together to attack Halldora. The Archer followed behind Haergill, and pulled an arrow from a garond corpse on the run. He sighted and shot dead the garond raising its club to strike Halldora. The other garond flinched away defensively, and turned to strike Wynnfrith.

Haergill leapt as high as he could, putting all of his fear of the horse garonds aside. He cut the garond at the shoulder and as it swung its club. Its arm came away from its body, saving Wynnfrith from a certain death stroke.

But, the first garond wheeled around, and caught Haergill hard on the head with his club, knocking him to the dirt.

There on the ground, with blood pouring from his nose, Haergill saw the four remaining garonds, with Frea captive, pull together and make for the safety of the tall grass of the meadowland. Haergill futilely stretched out his hand in pain to clasp his captive daughter to him. The garonds almost made the meadow, but Haergill saw the Archer extract a black arrow and shoot one more dead.

“They have
Frea;
we have to go after them!” Haergill heard Alrhett cry. The world was silent, and he watched the trees at the edge of the Weald quietly sway. Birds began to tenderly sing again in merciful strains. Haergill felt Halldora cradling his head, but his body was cold and numb. Haergill turned his head to see the clan gathering to watch him die.

Chapter Four

Haergill’s Secret

Kellabald felt helpless and angry. He saw Halldora holding Haergill’s head as he lay dying. He turned to see Arnwylf turning red, his hands clenching and unclenching.

“They have Frea!” Arnwylf said in a quiet, pained, urgent voice.

Kellabald saw the Archer was solemn and respectful. Wynnfrith and
Alrhett
quietly huddled next to Halldora in sympathy. The elf seemed to be whispering a prayer in her strange song-like language. Yulenth held his arms withdrawing into his pain.

Almost thirty garond lay slaughtered around them, and all Kellabald could think was that he had failed. He had failed those who depended on him, his family, his clan, his friend.

Kellabald saw Haergill lifting his hand to him. He moved in close to hear Haergill’s final words.

Arnwylf felt as though his face was on fire. This new feeling welling up inside him was insurmountable. He saw only Frea’s face. Frea, with flame red hair. Frea, quiet and polite. Frea, who one day, silently sat next to him by the small stream which ran through Bittel, watched as he threw oak leaves into the silver water, watched as the small, leafy boats wafted away on the shimmering water, illuminated by shafts of golden, spring sunlight peeking through the leaves of the towering oak tree overhead.

Arnwylf felt as though his throat was closing with pain.

The garonds would kill Frea. They might work her until she was dead, or worse. They were known to eat human flesh. Arnwylf felt as though he had to scream, yell, cry out to shake the world. He felt a powerful emotion building in his body. No power on earth could stop him from saving Frea. Heaven and hell would be no match for his anger. And, may the gods have mercy on any garond in his way.

His tearing eyes burned with rage. He knew what he had to, must do.

Arnwylf edged away from the group huddled around Haergill. Without thinking, he found himself running through the grass, directed, unstoppable. He knew garonds never crossed rivers without bridges. He knew the area, the Eastern Meadowlands, the rivers, the roads and trails. He knew the garonds would travel far west around the Bairn River to reach their troops on the other side. He could cross the Bairn, he must cross the Bairn, and stop them before they reached their armies to the south.

Haergill could feel the darkness encroaching. The sky was filling with clouds, heavy, black, rain clouds. The weather had been strange the last few years, too much rain, or not enough. And the lakes had been filling to their utmost levels. It was as if Oann was reshaping the earth for a new people, for a new age.

Haergill tasted the blood pouring from his nose. He knew he didn’t have long to live. He wanted to press his daughter to his chest and tell her all would be well. Then he remembered that the garonds had taken her.

A sense of urgency roused him. He motioned for Kellabald to come near. He had so much to tell and only moments to tell it.

His sweet Halldora held him, looking down with such concern, but not crying, his brave woman. She was his strength when he had none. She was his sanity, always his sanity, when the wars between the humans had been their worst. The wars between the humans! Such stupidity! Such waste! Wynnfrith and Alrhett held Halldora as though they were sisters. The family of Bittel was a good family.

But there was something so urgent, the secret that Kellabald had to know.

The elf felt the flame of life ebbing from the red haired, male human. She had only known this family of humans half a day, but she could see the brilliant light shining in them, and knew they were good. She felt a particular pain for the red haired woman who was clearly the dying human’s mate. She would be cut in half. Maybe the humans didn’t understand, but as an elf, she knew that mates become one flame. And, the loss of one is indescribable and continuing pain to the other, until they are reunited again in eternity.

The elf whispered a prayer to Wylkeho Daniei to guide this human’s flame back to the source of all unseen fire.

She felt a strange attraction to this human family. The elf had only followed them knowing they would attract more garonds for her to kill.

She felt a sudden pang of guilt. The bright life refrained from killing. But she had such a thirst for vengeance in her. It could not be stopped. She knew if she continued down this path, her flame would change and she would no longer be welcome among her rejoined ancestors.

But the vision of the last fifty elves being slaughtered by the garond army danced before her eyes. She shut her eyes tight to make the image go away. But it was there, her family, her race, standing outside the walls of Lanis Rhyl Landemiriam welcoming the approaching garond armies.

Although they lived mostly in the Far Grasslands, the garonds were always welcomed as shamans who were even closer to the earth than her blessed race.

Their attack was a complete surprise. The elders of the now depleted city of the elves met their garond brothers with open arms and a grand reception. Iounelle knew something was wrong immediately. The garonds were dressed so strangely, armored. The swift, surprise attack was a complete shock. Iounelle’s brother, Albehthaire hit her hard on the back of the head, and must have concealed her in a thicket. . Nearly half the elves fell immediately with the onslaught. When she came to, the garond dead were in huge mounds, and the last of the elves, young and old, male and female, who had all come out of the city to aid their kin, were fighting for their lives. That last moment, seeing her brother look to her, his eyes flashing a plea for her to flee, her overwhelming horror as the garonds swarmed over him, still played before her mind’s eye. She fled in fear, and cried in shame for not dying honorably by her brother’s side. She was the only survivor, every elf killed, both her brother and sister murdered.

Invisible in the trees, exhausted and terrified, she watched the garonds try to assault the walls of her city. But, the walls held. The secret entrance that only opened for the correctly spoken words remained hidden. The walls of the now empty city became slippery in defense. There was no scaling them.

Two nights later, she slipped into Lanis Rhyl Landemiriam and armed herself with the moon sword of Berand Torler, the warrior who had defended the elves in the Human Wars three thousand years earlier. She knew it was sacrilege to touch the sacred blade, but this was a new war. This was a new war to be fought only by her, the last elf.

Alrhett held Halldora as she cradled her dying husband. She looked up to see the elf quietly whispering a prayer. She could feel Halldora’s slim body shuddering with her sobbing.

Alrhett noticed the white wolf’s agitation. Alrhett rose as Kellabald moved close to Haergill to hear his dying words. She carefully stepped to the white wolf. Alrhett had animal speak/hear. The young wolf had something important to say, but no one to tell it to.

Alrhett moved slowly. The animal had helped the clan in their fight against the garonds, but it was still a dangerous, wild animal. The wolf kept saying, he’s gone, he’s gone. Alrhett spoke respectfully to the young wolf and asked its name.

The white wolf said that its name was Conniker, and that he was worried about the boy. Alrhett asked Conniker what he meant, and as she spoke the words in animal speak/hear she suddenly realized Arnwylf wasn’t standing with the group.

“Where is he?!” She said loudly. “Where’s Arnwylf?”

The group looked up, and looked in all directions.

“Arnwylf!” Kellabald bellowed. There was no answer.

Alrhett felt the world closing in on her like a warm, suffocating blanket. Arnwylf didn’t know that he was her grandson. They had kept the knowledge secret to protect him.

Now Alrhett began to feel panic. Both of the children were gone. She remembered holding Arnwylf as a helpless child. Holding his hand when he was a toddler splashing in the stream that ran beside Bittel. She remembered the joy she felt when Frea and her family came to the village. It was if she had suddenly been given a beautiful, red haired granddaughter. She remembered the unstoppable grief when Arnwylf’s younger brother had died of the pox. She could not endure that grief again.

Alrhett moved close to the group huddled around Haergill. The white wolf pressed close to her, trying to take some of her growing grief from her. They had to save Arnwylf and Frea.

The Archer was surprised to find he was trembling. The loss of his village flooded in on his mind. It was only three years ago. He was returning in triumph from a minor battle in his homeland, in the mountains of Kipleth. As his army marched over the crest that led into their valley, to his village Pelych, what they thought were cheery chimney fires proved to be huts and halls aflame.

The whole army ran down to the village, but all that remained were the bodies of the slain, old men and women, mothers and children. No one was sparred. No one knew at the time that this was the work of the garonds. While the Archer and his army were away at war with the Kingdom of Man, the garonds had struck. And then they fled south, back across Byland. This was one of the first attacks into the heart of Wealdland.

The Archer had fought and won with sword and spear for Healfdene, the king of the western Green Hills of Reia, allied against Apghilis, a power hungry atheling from the Northern Kingdom of men. The Archer’s whole family, his whole village
,
was gone.

The Archer wandered the mountains of Kipleth for two years.

His rage, anger, and sorrow had become a weight, which hung over his head like a great, black cloud.

The Archer knew what would become of Arnwylf. There was goodness in the boy, and now it would all be pressed out of his soul. The boy would become the same as him. He could not let that happen.

Halldora held her husband and could not stop crying. She had seen him gallantly lead armies to war time and again, and she had never cried. She had seen him brought home, wounded, near to death, and she had never cried. Something at the very core of her soul knew this was different.

She was the daughter of Nanmund of Fjindel, a high atheling, a lord of the province of the Northern Kingdom of Man. Halldora had never let her noble birth and marriage to the throne let her become a disdainful person. Although proud of her own strength and that of her husband and daughter, she had always been fascinated and joyful in the accomplishments of others.

Her beautiful and handsome husband filled her with a warm peacefulness. His strength flowed into her and made her a queen admired and respected. The birth of their radiant daughter only made their happiness more complete.

Halldora stared into the fading light of Haergill’s eyes. Her Frea had been taken by the horse garonds. Her world was crumbling around her. Now the sobs came out of her vocally with each breath, as though every breath was pain itself.

Kellabald leaned in close to Haergill. Halldora tried her best to quiet herself so Kellabald could hear her beloved’s last words. The whole world was falling to pieces and Halldora could not stop crying.

Yulenth was filled with despair. He was the sole survivor of his people, the Glafs. His people had warred with the Northern Kingdom for centuries, and now they were all gone but him. He stared down at Haergill of the Northern Kingdom, from a race that had caused his people so much misery, but felt no happiness at his passing.

Yulenth had been wary of this red haired family when they had first asked to live in Bittel. He knew who Haergill was. But, Kellabald welcomed them with open arms, so Yulenth had welcomed them, too. He had not regretted it. Surprisingly, Haergill proved to be a humble man willing to work for the good of all in the village.

Yulenth remembered how, earlier, he had found the Bittel, a lost man wandering the earth, hungry and broken hearted, not unlike Haergill and his family, who would arrive a year later on the day he was to marry his great friend Alrhett from the Weald, who had lost her husband, who became his wife.

His age tired him, and he felt only loss and pain.

Yulenth thought back to the last time he had felt happiness. He was in his early thirties, nearly half his life ago, and a herder of aurochs, the large horned cattle roaming the high wasteland, plains of long grasses and heather. His home was in the city of Glafemen, now a burnt and crumbled ruin. The Glafs also fished in the Great Lake of Ettonne, Northern men knowing them by this name. There had been no happier race when not at war.

The Glafs had commerce and friendly relations with the good people of the Weald to the South. As a boy, Yulenth would often travel with his father to trade cured beef and dried fish for carved wooden chairs and tables made in curious and artful designs by the men of the Weald. No Glaf would venture too far into the forests of the Weald, for the woods seemed close and labyrinthine to men who preferred the wide-open spaces of the Northern Wastelands and the Great Lake.

It seemed so perfect for Yulenth to marry Alrhett. They were close in age, in their older years. And, her husband had died long ago in the human civil wars, so they happily looked after each other.

Time seemed a long ribbon of happiness punctuated by heart wrenching loss to Yulenth. He tried to hold tightly to the happy moments he could remember, but despair always seemed to be the end.