The Last Elf of Lanis (8 page)

“Or,” Arnwylf continued, “you can find us food and water, and we may yet remember you are human and not garond.” Ratskenner stood gasping for breath, realizing the truth of Arnwylf’s words,
and then
scrabbled away.

Len shook his head. “He was like a son to me.”

“Him?!” Arnwylf said with surprise.

“He was of the Madrun Hills. His
family was
all thieves and murderers who met justice. I took him in as a boy, raised him as my own. But he betrayed us to the garond army for his station over us. They say he speaks garond. It may be he has lost his humanity,” Len said as he sank into his rueful sadness.

They were not put to work in the morning, so Arnwylf stood up above his squatting human companion prisoners to more fully understand the garond encampment. He saw that they were held on the western edge of the encampment that filled the shallow valley and grew larger every moment. Garonds arrived from the west bringing spoils, more humans, metal goods to be forged into weapons, animals to be
consumed
and wood timbers for their machines of war. From the east more garond soldiers arrived by the hour. Arnwylf estimated at the moment, there were over one hundred thousand garond troops.

In the late afternoon, Ratskenner clambered up to the group of humans. In a cloak, he concealed several loaves of bread.

“See?” Ratskenner clicked, “You see? I provide for my humans. I take care of you.” Ratskenner looked for approval from Arnwylf, but Arnwylf would not return his gaze. The bread was carefully and secretly divided, and furtively eaten.

Ratskenner came close to Arnwylf. “Our great leader arrives in Wealdland today to claim it as his own.”

“Who’s that?” Arnwylf asked with resentment

“The Lord of Lightning, Deifol Hroth.”

Arnwylf sat up at the name.

“He is immortal and has the very forces of nature at his command,” Ratskenner went on. “Now that he comes to Wealdland from his bluestone citadel in the Far Grasslands, humanity is through. He also comes with his great war general, Ravensdred. All must be prepared for their arrival.”

As Ratskenner said this, a great company from the west arrived, in a hurry, and with many wounded and dead garond soldiers. Ratskenner scurried away to learn where this battered company came from.

Annen leaned close to Arnwylf. “We may be sacrificed in a great feast tonight. It makes sense as to why they have kept us this long.”

“Then we must escape before that happens,” Arnwylf said evenly. Arnwylf looked down at his fetters. They were locked, and the only key to all their chains was held by Deepscar.

Ratskenner scrambled back to Arnwylf. “There was a great defeat. An archer who, aided by an elf, slew many.” Ratskenner scuttled away to help the wounded garonds.

Arnwylf was happy in his heart because he knew it was the Archer who had saved him at Bittel, and the elf who had fought by his side at Rion Ta.

The rest of the day was chaos, getting the camp in readiness for their great leader, and tending to the defeated army arriving from the west.

In the early evening a great company of nearly a hundred horse garonds arrived. Arnwylf caught his breath. A red haired girl riding with a garond was unmistakably Frea. He saw her taken to the center of the encampment and noted the large ornate tent to which she was taken.

Arnwylf watched the horse garonds carefully and realized that the herd of horses simply followed a lead horse that was thoroughly trained. The horse garonds dismounted and brought their horses to the edge of the encampment. The humans were pushed back from their nesting place to allow the horses to bed in their straw. And, a simple rope corral was set up to keep the horses from wandering. A plan formed in Arnwylf’s mind.

The evening’s clouds began to gather. A large and colorfully dressed group of garonds arrived from the east.

Ratskenner scurried up. All he said was, “Great Warlord Ravensdred is here!” Then he hurried away to see the spectacle of his arrival. The procession paraded to the great tent at the center. From his vantage point Arnwylf could see a large garond, larger than the rest, astride a massive war horse. He thought, this must be the war general, Ravensdred.  But, he wore no armor, only a fine silk tunic. The warlord and his retinue entered the large tent to which he had seen Frea taken. The re
st of the encampment busied their
selves
with looking presentable if inspected.

The garonds began to bed down and it was clear that the Lord of Lightning would come the next day, and so the feast would wait. After the horses, the humans were brought buckets of fresh water, which they drank suspiciously.

“This is to make our meat more tender,” old Annen said with a frown. Arnwylf realized that she was probably right, then began to chuckle at the grim absurdity. The hushed laugh spread to the rest of the humans, then quietly died out.

“Listen,” Arnwylf said. “I have a plan. Pass this along so we are all in agreement.” Arnwylf explained his escape plan to the rest of the human prisoners before they all restlessly fell to sleep under another heavily clouded night sky.

Morning broke on Arnwylf’s sixth day in garond captivity with a bright and blue sky. The humans were set to work feeding, watering, and grooming the horses. Arnwylf took the opportunity to carefully study the lead horse, a young, tan stallion with a black mane. The horse seemed to study Arnwylf as well. Its large, dark brown eyes were filled with intelligence. Arnwylf reached out his hand to the horse and it nuzzled him. He felt even more secure in his plan.

Throughout the day, all activity was spent polishing and organizing armor, weapons and kit. In the center of the camp a large area was cleared and set with piles of wood with stakes in the middle for roasting something.

Amongst the humans was
nervousness
, an eagerness for Arnwylf to give the word. But, Arnwylf knew they would have to wait for the cover of darkness to succeed. He only hoped he could put his plan into action before the feast began. He also needed Ratskenner to unwittingly play his part and he had been missing the whole day.

The nearby horses seemed on edge, and several times they had to be calmed. It seemed they sensed some wild, dangerous animal nearby.

In the late afternoon, from the east, more colorful emissaries, and garond war captains arrived decked in black and silver, ornate armor.

As night began to fall, it was clear the feast and reception for Deifol Hroth was to begin.

Arnwylf began to despair until Ratskenner skittered up to the chained humans to gloat.

“The Great One is coming! They say he is but moments away! Enjoy your last moments of life!” Ratskenner crowed.

“Do you think,” Arnwylf interrupted, “they will be pleased with you to find their great feast of human meat is spoiled and diseased?” Arnwylf turned to point at Annen who, on cue, fell to the dirt coughing and spitting.

Ratskenner pushed closer to inspect her. Arnwylf had carefully splattered Annen’s face with mud to mimic the pox, and her convulsions convinced Ratskenner. She was so good, in fact, with wheezing and coughing that Arnwylf considered for a moment that she might actually be sick.

“Imagine if we all become diseased. Right before the feast,” Arnwylf warned.

“No!” Ratskenner cried with fear.

“Best to separate her from the healthy stock,” Arnwylf said with a frown, disdainfully indicating Annen, who slyly winked at him.

In a lather, Ratskenner hurried away to find Deepscar.

Arnwylf turned to his fellow humans. “Be ready, be resolute, and be unmerciful,” he said to them.

The usual clouds boiled over the night sky, again obscuring moons and stars. The garonds began chanting and calling to each other in raucous lays to proclaim their prowess over other platoons in the encampment. All was excitement and an energetic frenzy filled the whole army.

Deepscar arrived, dressed with black and silver feathers platted into his hair, wearing his best battle armor, and furious. Ratskenner trailed behind him, indicating in mime and disclaiming in grunts the severe trouble.

Fumbling for his key, Deepscar pushed his way towards Annen, who had positioned herself in the middle of the human prisoners. Arnwylf gave a quick low whistle and forty angry, desperate humans piled on top of Deepscar and Ratskenner who was right on his heels. Arnwylf delivered the hard blows to the back of the head to both Deepscar and Ratskenner.

All were quickly unfettered, but held their bonds on, unlocked, to give the appearance of still in chains. Arnwylf turned to Len, “Do not let anyone leave until I have returned.”

“We will wait even if the devil himself arrives,” Len said with a firm gratitude.

Arnwylf put on Ratskenner’s mantle and shuffled as best he could in Ratskenner’s scurrying way. Just as he supposed, the garonds were too involved in preparations for the reception of their leader, and probably saw all humans as one indistinguishable type anyway.

Arnwylf was more than half way to the large, ornate tent in which he knew Frea was a captive, when, with the overwhelming beating of deeply reverberating drums and bloodcurdling screams of praise, the Lord of Lightning arrived.

The whole encampment held its breath.

An oppressive air settled over the army, as if a great, grand evil was in their presence, as if pain and torment in an intangible form had drifted into their ranks, as if their leader was in their midst. The muscular and violent garonds dropped their heads and gnashed their teeth, being spurred to mayhem, but held in check by the greater fear of their master.

The largest in their ranks clawed empty space as if killing in their imaginations. No one spoke above a whisper, but the quiet snarls were horrible vows of murder and destruction.

They worked their jaws and teeth as if devouring the very flesh of their enemies.

Arnwylf could feel the palpable danger like a weight on his chest. First, he felt his presence, then he turned to see their Commander and Lord, Deifol Hroth.

The garond soldiers pushed forward to be near him in massing crowds, but no soldier dare approach him closer than ten paces for fear of the destruction of their immortal souls.

Deifol Hroth was some distance from Arnwylf, and all he could make out was that the Feared One was, lean and slightly above average in height, wearing plain clothing of sky blue, and appeared to be an attractive, human youth in his early twenties, with sandy blonde hair. The seeming beauty of this young man struck Arnwylf, until he realized with a disquiet horror, that Deifol Hroth was rumored to be over nine hundred years old.

Arnwylf was suddenly unnaturally cold and his every instinct was to flee as quickly as possible. Looking at him, Arnwylf wanted to vomit, not in disgust, but because of the physical emanations of evil vibrating from the regal young man.

Garond leaders rose from their knees and began welcoming gestures, when suddenly, Deifol Hroth held up his hand. All paused. The Great One seemed to stand perfectly still as if hearing or seeing something beyond the boundaries of normal senses.

The next thing happened so quickly and suddenly Arnwylf doubted the reality of it. It seemed as if Deifol Hroth began a gesture, his hand moved slightly, then an intense, blinding flash of light burst from him.

All fell to the ground blind and terrified, except Arnwylf who saw the bolt of lightning continue, up from his hand and arcing out into the sky. In a moment it was all over. Screams of terror and pain began in a slow crescendo and then rose to an overwhelming orchestra of chaos.

Deifol Hroth, alone, walked quietly out of the camp, westward.

Arnwylf picked up a sword cast to ground by a terrified garond, and ran for the large tent. He made his way through the bedlam, and ripped open the embroidered front flap.

Inside were tapestries, silks, plush pillows, tables laid with fruit, and cured meat. In the center of the opulence, Frea, dressed in red gossamer and brocaded purple cotton, stood quietly contemplating a small dagger. When she saw Arnwylf, she was stunned and disbelieving, and the dagger slipped from her fingers.

They rushed to each other and clasped one another as if they would never let go. Frea kissed Arnwylf’s dirty and rough cheek again and again.

“We must go quicker than the wind,” Arnwylf said. Without question, tears flowing down her cheeks, desperately clutching his hand, Frea ran from the tent with Arnwylf.

The garond encampment was recovering from the spectacle, and Arnwylf knew their lives were in great danger. Running as fast as they could, Arnwylf and Frea made their way through the army of blinded and snarling garonds.

“Now! Now!” Arnwylf shouted as they ran towards the group of frantic human prisoners. Len leapt to his feet and grabbed the tan yellow lead horse with the black mane, and held it for Arnwylf. The humans clambered onto the horses and held on as best as they could.

Arnwylf and Frea mounted the lead horse and the whole human and horse company made their escape into the dark countryside, with a shadowed, animal following in the falling darkness.

As the last riderless horses followed the herd, Deepscar rose and fuming, leapt upon a horse. Ratskenner, also awaking, knowing his life would now be worthless, also jumped onto the back of a horse.