The Last Elf of Lanis (4 page)

Wynnfrith felt a drop of rain on her arm. The world seemed to stop, as her husband, Kellabald, moved close to Haergill, who was so pale and quiet. The entire world was motion and hurry, but to Wynnfrith it became a perfect stillness.

She saw Yulenth, filled with sadness, unaware of the great power inside him, a justice.

She saw Halldora holding her man, holding back the world, living in dreams and hope. Her strength was the great and difficult choices she would make some day.

She saw the Archer, standing, so still, so hidden. Within him she saw a determination unlike any other.

She saw her mother Alrhett with the white wolf nuzzling her. Her mother who always had a story to tell, but her stories always remained unfinished, as though she kept back dangerous things to protect her daughter, and then her grandson.

Alrhett had taught her the game. She called it farsight.

“What do you see?” Alrhett would ask. Wynnfrith would tell her, and it would come to pass. “But tell no one. Ever.”

Wynnfrith kept this promise to her mother.

The farsight made her tremble and a silence would come over her. She could feel it coming. It was coming now. But, this was different.

Wynnfrith saw the elf turn to stare at her. It was as if she knew what was happening. The elf was so different, so rare, a gemstone unlike any other, a sadness.

Wynnfrith saw Haergill, a great man dying, a lost chance, but a new chance for a great rebirth in his hands. He had a gift, a great gift, and he gave it freely, along with his life.

Wynnfrith looked for her son, Arnwylf, but he was not with them. He was a great man growing inside a young boy. Her love for him knew no bounds.

Wynnfrith saw her man, Kellabald bending over Haergill. Kellabald was quiet strength, an oak tree to lean against, a pleasant meal, security, and sanity.

Haergill whispered to Kellabald, “I was once the King of the Northern Kingdom of Man. I hid the sword, the Mattear Gram, in your village of Bittel. It must be recovered and taken to Healfdene of Reia to unite all humans, or we are all lost...”

Haergill’s last breath left him.

Then the farsight came to Wynnfrith.

Her head tipped back and her eyes looked wide at the dark gray, evening sky. Her whole body tensed.

It was white and blinding. This was stronger and more urgent than anything she had ever felt before.

Wynnfrith felt her spirit move up out of her body. She flew high above the earth. Down below the whole world unrolled like a map. But it roiled and bulged. Other worlds, other lives, other times layered over her vision.

The rain began, and it was hard.

Wynnfrith felt her mind expand, families grew and died by the thousands before her. Cities were built and leveled. Trees grew from tiny seedlings and fell with old age in a blink. It was all a whirlwind of time and life. Wynnfrith wanted to scream, but knew she had to hold fast or the vision would take her sanity entirely.

A great rumbling reverberated all around her, a low, deep, straining sound of all time and all lives.

She tried to focus in on her family, those she loved. The past ripped by her. Then she saw glimpses of their futures.

She saw Kellabald leading a massive army, stoic, magnificent.

She saw Arnwylf, as a young man, dangerous, lean, muscular, filled with sadness and power, and the whole world depended on him. Arnwylf stood as the earth split apart. Lightning flashed.

She saw Haergill’s monument in a rebuilt Ethgeow, a new and brilliant city, but then there was not. Then, there was a great light and fire from the sky. Then, the whole earth was burnt. She knew this was an uncertainty, a probability.

She saw the elf again and again, as though she could not die. Or, had the elf died and become something more, a flame? And then she saw herself visiting a magnificent city of color and spires, drowning. And, there was something shining, a piece of the sun, so important.

She saw her mother, Alrhett, and all living things knelt at her feet. She stood among the garonds and was unharmed. She carried something small and dark in one hand, the most important thing. The whole world wanted it. But, then she made a fatal mistake, trusted a viper.

She saw the Archer. Was flying as a bird? He moved too quickly. His arrows were stars falling to the earth, moving through the rich tapestry of time unfolding before her. His arrows landed in far, strange, foreign places. His dark, black soul cried to be healed, but the Great Spirit had a need of him, his healing would come much too late. Was his life sacrificed? She could not tell.

She saw Halldora moving across the great ice fields of the north. There was a scaly sea beast turning in the water. Halldora spread her arms and would not be denied. Then, there was someone with an open mouth someone who would kill her, or was it Alrhett?

She saw Yulenth and he was happy and laughing. Surprisingly, he rode a beast, and he was laughing. There were two more, and justice was written upon them.

Wynnfrith saw herself and she was frightened. She saw herself struggling, fighting not only for herself, but also for all humanity. She faced muscular monsters and did battle. She was closed in dark, suffocating places, hidden away. Her fear was overwhelming.

In defense she moved away from the vision, but it only expanded. She saw the Eastern Meadowland filled with blood. She saw water moving in great, towering walls. She saw all living things in a great, last battle. She saw a strange device, of many parts, harnessing eternal powers.

And then, she saw... him.

The Dark Lord.

He was all evil. He was an
all-encompassing
mass. A large human-like body growing and billowing like a cloud of flesh, arms and legs extending. He was the Devourer. He would take all the living. He would take all time and all breath. He would take the great and far light, and cast it into darkness. He lived in a bluestone citadel. It was he who held the garonds in a thrall of unnatural fear, and commanded their every destruction. He was older than time itself. He was also the shape of a man, and he was not. He seemed young and slight. She could not see his shining face. He was dressed simply in white, and an effulgent light seemed to envelope his handsome form. He would fail. He would win. All things hinged on him.

And then... he turned... to look directly at Wynnfrith.

Wynnfrith screamed and tore herself out of the vision. Alrhett rushed to her daughter’s aid in the pouring rain.

“We must go to retrieve the Mattear Gram,” Wynnfrith said in low, heaving breaths. “All things depend upon it.”

“What are we to do!?” Yulenth said. “Do we pursue the garonds with Frea? Or do we go back to Bittel which is almost certainly now overrun with garonds?!”

“The girl won’t last long with the garonds,” the Archer ominously intoned. The heavy rain was chilling the group.

“We must go after Arnwylf as well!” Yulenth insisted. “They’re just children!”

Halldora stood. “We cannot build my husband’s funeral pyre here. I will take him back to Bittel and find the Mattear Gram.”

“Do you think to go alone? What of your daughter?” Kellabald gently said. Thunder rolled across the far meadows.

Halldora suddenly sat in the mud. “I don’t know!” She cried.

“We can split into three groups,” The Archer said. “Some of us will go to find the boy, some to find the girl, and some will retrieve the sword.”

“The white wolf says he can track Arnwylf,” Alrhett said. “He’s very urgent to find him.”

“He keeps calling him ‘his brother’ actually. You have animal speak/hear?” The elf asked Alrhett.

“Yes.”

“You must have some elvish blood in you. I will help track the garonds who have the girl,” the elf said. “They will undoubtedly lead us to more garonds.”

“I will come with you,” the Archer added.

The elf and the Archer shared a grim smile.

Kellabald laid a reassuring hand on Halldora’s shoulder. “Do you know where he hid it?” He asked.

“Only he and Frea knew where it was. But he would often speak in riddles to her to remind her of
its
location,” Halldora said. “I remember the riddles.”

“We can find it then,” Wynnfrith said.

“Don’t you want to find your son?!” asked Alrhett.

“You and Yulenth will look for him,” Wynnfrith said. “Halldora, Kellabald and I will find the sword. The Archer and the elf will bring Frea back alive.”

“How do you know?” Alrhett sadly asked her daughter.

“I have seen it,” Wynnfrith said.

Chapter Five

The Bairn River

The hard, cold rain soaked Arnwylf’s slate blue, wool shirt as he ran through the brush along the edge of the Weald. The tan leather trousers he had also found at Rion Ta were sturdy, and protected his legs from thorns and slashing branches of low shrubs.

It was dark now, and he kept tripping on brush, roots and the uneven, tall grass. He could see the moon rising in the East through gathering, black clouds, and
he
knew
that
if he kept it on his right hand, he would continue south and reach the Bairn River.

He didn’t know exactly how he would cross the Bairn, and at night, too. But he knew the garonds with Frea would cross further west and then travel back towards their camps near Byland.

Every human in Wealdland knew that untold garond armies were massing there. They were rumored to be crossing the Flume of Gawry on rope bridges, one by one. It was only a matter of time until they marched straight for the men of Reia.

The men who dwelt i
n the Weald were another matter. T
hey kept to themselves, safely nestled in their mazes of ancient trees.

Any garond who met effective resistance regrouped south in Byland. So, Arnwylf knew the garonds who had Frea must be heading there.

If she was harmed in any way, Arnwylf thought to himself... No, best not to consider it. They will pay, he thought. And then, black thoughts swirled in his head.

Arnwylf paused to catch his breath. Hunger was creeping up on him, and the relentless rain was finally chilling his bones. Lightning flashed far away.

But, he would not stop. He roused himself. He would find Frea and kill the garonds who took her. Thunder rolled across the hills.

In the deepening darkness, Arnwylf stumbled upon a campsite. It seemed a puzzle to him. He quickly whirled around, in case someone was creeping up from behind. But, there was no one there. The scrubby meadow on the edge of the Weald was empty and silent.

Arnwylf stopped to carefully examine the simple camp site. Someone had stopped for the night. A leather awning was pitched against the rain. A small fire had been started, but was only recently out. Utensils and other tools were scattered. There had been a struggle. Someone had fled his attackers and they had pursued.

They could be the garonds who had Frea. Perhaps they had come across this poor ranger and attacked him. There were no corpses, no blood, no Frea. So she might still be alive.

Arnwylf saw how the brush was crushed and broken in one direction. This was the direction of the fight. Tracking in the rain was difficult, and at night nearly impossible. Arnwylf looked for the signs of broken bushes and trampled foliage. The signs seemed to tell of several attackers against the ranger, moving quickly. The attack was wild and fierce, branches and shrubs crushed.

And then, it seemed the ranger broke into a run with his attackers in hot pursuit. Arnwylf almost lost the traces, but it was clear the parties had veered onto a distinct path that could only lead to the river.

Arnwylf had been running for several hours now and didn’t know if he had the strength to join in a fight. He was hungrier and colder with each passing moment.

Then, Arnwylf heard the rushing sound, faint, but obvious. It had to be the Bairn. He had never seen it before, but he had been to the Holmway River with his father and knew that incessant whistling sound of a river grown fat with rain. Perhaps the fighters had fallen into the river, or turned aside. No matter, his course was clear. If there were garonds, Arnwylf would deal with them.

As Arnwylf neared the river, he began to hear snarls and taunts. He knew it must be them. Wearily, he approached.

The ground was soggy and pools of water gathered along the grassy banks of the Bairn. Arnwylf made his way to an embankment. Below him, in a marshy spot along the river’s edge, three garonds encircled a figure in the water. The garonds stayed to the drier, high ground, swinging their clubs and barking insults. With the moon’s light diffuse through the storm clouds, the combatants were silhouettes poised for battle. The Bairn behind them glowed with the eerie light of wild rapids.

In his delirium, Arnwylf thought the surrounded man, up to his waist in the tributary, was Frea. He thought he saw her red hair, her pale, frightened face. His mind burned white hot with rage. These must be the three who took her, he thought.

With a blood curdling screech Arnwylf leapt forward.

As he leapt, a lightning bolt struck Arnwylf. His body hovered with the light. The energy seemed to pull him up and out towards the combatants. The whole world was illuminated. The leather wrapped hilt of the bronze sword gripped in his hand burned. Arnwylf felt at peace. He could see the upturned faces of the garonds staring up at him in horror. And, he could see clearly now, who he thought was Frea, was a man standing in the water, looking up in awe. All in a split second, Arnwylf landed before the garonds, smoking, and smelling of burnt ozone. He crouched, staring.

As Arnwylf rose, he looked directly at the garonds with eyes glowing with hate. Thunder rolled out in a deafening roar. Arnwylf said, raising his sword, “Prepare to burn in the hell created for your kind.”

The garonds, who were slack jawed at this apparition, screamed like little children, dropped their clubs, and ran away as fast as their squat, little legs could carry them, tripping and falling in the water, crying and shrieking.

Arnwylf staggered forward to the astonished man in the water.

Arnwylf held out a shaky hand. “Happy to rescue you, sir.” And then he collapsed into his arms.

The ranger helped Arnwylf back to his camp, despite Arnwylf’s delirious protestations that he must cross the river immediately.

The ranger introduced himself. “My name is Caerlund. I am an oresmith from the hills of Madrun. You saved my life you odd, young man. We can cross the river tomorrow. We must cross during daylight.”

With that, Arnwylf allowed Caerlund to dry him, feed him, and in an instant Arnwylf was asleep under the leather awning raised against the intensifying rain of the night.

With the cold gray dawn, Arnwylf awoke to the smell of frying fish. It was a scent wafting down from heaven. Caerlund bent over the camp fire. He turned to Arnwylf.

“We’d best move as
quickly
as possible,” Caerlund said. “Those nasty things may return with friends once they reckon you’re not the Lord of Lightning.”

“Lord of-
,"
Arnwylf stumbled to his feet. “Frea! Who are you?”

“You remember nothing of last night.”

Arnwylf stared at the soaked ground trying to remember where he was and how he gotten here. Then he shook his matted blonde hair.

“No? My name is Caerlund. You saved me last night. You appeared in a bolt of lightning. Nifty trick. Got to teach me that. Reckon the nasties thought you were their boss, the Lord of Lightning.” Caerlund scrutinized Arnwylf for a moment. “Hmmm, in the dark, you might pass for what he’s reported to look like. Haven’t seen him meself. Hope I never do. Supposed to be a right nasty feller. Fish?”

Arnwylf stumbled forward and ate greedy handfuls of fried fish from the copper pan. Then he stopped.

“I’m grateful for your help,” he said.

“Hmmph. You were sent by Hapaun to first save me, then to help me cross the Bairn, I thinks.” Caerlund winked at Arnwylf, and Arnwylf felt instantly at ease with this oresmith. “My people’s legends tell of a lad arriving in a lightning bolt. Scupper me if ever I thought my old eyeballs would ever really see it.”

Caerlund was a short man, broad of shoulder, brawny, strong arms, brownish red hair, intense blue eyes, and with a reddish, brown beard. When he smiled, which was often, it seemed his wide mouth would split his head in two. His laugh was always a brief, loud guffaw.

Caerlund was all business and bustle as he packed his camp gear away into his large leather pack. The speed with which he moved was astonishing.

“Well then,” he said brandishing a bronze axe, “we have us a river to ford.”

Caerlund and Arnwylf retraced their steps from the previous night and found themselves on the banks of the Bairn. The rain had stopped, but the river was deeper and
wilder
than ever.

Caerlund immediately set his axe to work on a birch growing nearby, and had it cut down and sectioned into four logs in no time. Arnwylf helped him lash them together with bark from the tree. And, they had a passable raft before the sun had fully risen, its rays bursting through the dispersing storm clouds.

“What’s so urgent on the other side, Arnwylf?” Caerlund carefully asked.

“A... friend, she’s been taken, I have to...” Arnwylf didn’t know exactly how to explain himself.

“You’ll find her. I know,” Caerlund softly said. “After all, you’re the true Lord of Lightning, I reckon.” With that Caerlund pushed the raft into the water.

The makeshift boat was unsteady and Caerlund and Arnwylf clung tight. With one hand Caerlund tried to guide the craft with a pole cut from one of the branches of the birch tree.

Arnwylf felt the strength and power of the river insistently pushing. Then Arnwylf saw a triangular fin rip through the surface. Arnwylf clutched Caerlund and pointed.

“What the- Marowdowr! There are no Marowdowr in the Bairn!” Caerlund exclaimed in fear. Then, two triangular fins broke the surface at the same time.

“
There are
two!” Arnwylf cried.

Caerlund desperately worked the birch pole, trying to guide their unsteady raft. Then, like an explosion, the triangular face of the marowdowr burst out of the water. Its face was white, its crown dark blue, its eyes black and dead,
and its
mouth full of jagged, triangular teeth. As its huge mouth clamped down on the splintering birch raft, its dead, black eyes rolled back into an eerie white.

An instant after the first struck, the second attacked on the other side. The small craft rocked and buckled.

“We’re done for!” Caerlund shouted. Then, “Look!”

Three, light brown, crescent shaped fins broke the rushing surface, then four more.

“Merebroder! Praise Eann!” Caerlund bellowed.

The merebroder were smooth, long, tan brown, with snouts that wore a perpetual smile. They deftly slammed into the marowdowr, in twos and threes. The merebroder attack on the marowdowr was quick and devastating, and the effect was immediate as the vicious water beasts rolled over in the water in pain, then rapidly wriggled away, swimming downstream.

Arnwylf and Caerlund laughed in astonished relief. The merebroder lifted their smooth heads out of the water to stare with dark eyes at the desperate men.

As if they knew just what the men so desperately desired, gently, the merebroder pushed their bodies against the raft, guiding it to the opposite side, breath spraying from the hole in the tops of their heads.

Caerlund and Arnwylf quickly waded ashore. Sopping wet, Caerlund shook his head. “Marowdowr in the Bairn! They’re beasts of the sea!” Caerlund then turned back to the merebroder swimming together in a joyful group.

“Thank you!” He called.

“Thank you,” Arnwylf spoke respectfully to their slowly swimming rescuers. As if in response, a smaller, younger merebroder leapt clear out of the water in a thrilling arc. Arnwylf was filled with wonder.

“I ne’er saw Marowdowr in the river afore, only out at sea. Must be the bones and whatnot the garonds have been throwing into the water these days,” Caerlund mused. “Hmmph. But the Lake of Ettonne doesn’t join with the sea. Something’s wrong there. Never mind.” Caerlund scratched his beard. “I seen Merebroder in rivers afore. Thank Eann, they came just in time.” Then Caerlund looked sideways at Arnwylf as if he was the cause of both their fortune and misfortune. Arnwylf looked down in embarrassment.

After climbing the bank, Caerlund faced Arnwylf.

“I head east, and to home, Arnwylf. Come with me. Your friend is lost.” Caerlund said putting his other hand on Arnwylf’s shoulder.

“No.” Arnwylf said. “She is alive and I will find her. Thank you, Caerlund. I hope we meet again in better times. May your family be safe, and your world be happy.”

“And yours, I reckon.”

After a long handshake, Arnwylf and Caerlund went their separate ways.

Arnwylf headed south and west looking for any busily traveled trails Frea’s captors might use. But, before the morning was over, a large company of heavily armed garonds captured Arnwylf.

Frea felt the rocking of the horse under her stomach. The grass of the Meadowland whipped at her face. The garond held her tight. She had seen her father crumble to the ground and hoped he wasn’t seriously hurt.

The world flashed by in a blur. She knew she was far away from her family before the seriousness of her situation began to sink in. A rain began and the horses continued at a gallop. They rode over the flat rolling hills of the Eastern Meadowland, which were rich greens and tan yellows. The tall, dry, summer grasses were no problem for the horses and it felt like flying. Sometimes birds or nesting animals burst from their hiding places as the horses sprinted past.