Wynnfrith looked up to see Haergill’s ghost crouching before her, and she stumbled, falling to the turf. The party stopped.
“He’s there!” Wynnfrith hissed.
“Who’s where?” Kellabald said as he set down the litter and walked to his wife’s side.
“Haergill!”
Kellabald and Halldora peered into the empty darkness.
“What do you see?” Kellabald honestly asked, knowing full well the reliable power of his wife’s visions.
“It is Haergill, but it is not,” Wynnfrith exclaimed.
“His spirit?!” Halldora breathed.
“I believe it is so,” Wynnfrith quietly said. “He wears dark clothing, a stealthy cloak, and crouches with his spear.”
The hairs stood up on Kellabald’s neck for he understood instantly.
“We must drag the litter quickly off the path. I was following the trail we made to Rion Ta in hopes of getting some meat if it remained on the stauer carcass. Now I see Haergill warns us of my folly,” he said.
The three pulled the bier many paces south of their directly westward trek.
“Down, and silent. As Haergill has shown us.” Kellabald whispered.
An instant after the three crouched down in the grass, a phalanx of thirty horse garonds crashed across the meadow in a wedge formation. Every sleeping and secret animal fled before them. The horse garonds were swift and quickly out of sight.
“We must quicken our pace,” Kellabald said as he shouldered Haergill’s funeral bier. The three carried the body as fast as they could, apprehensively glancing back now and then.
The rain continued on into the deepening gloom of the evening. It was close to the middle of the night when Kellabald spotted the tips of the dead stauer’s antlers towering above the grass.
They set down Haergill’s body and drew the swords and daggers they had found at Rion Ta. As they neared the clearing, Kellabald stopped dead in his tracks.
“I see him now!” He breathed in a horrified whisper.
“What do you see?!” Halldora hushed.
“He stands in great battle armor, brandishing his sword with shield aloft. He blocks the way. We may not pass.”
“Let us wait a moment,” Wynnfrith said.
The three settled into the grass of the meadow at the edge of the clearing. The wolves had eaten nearly half the giant animal. It was then that Kellabald noticed the groups of long slashes on the dead beast's haunches. No wolf made such a mark. At the moment Wynnfrith gripped his arm in fear, he saw what she saw. Five meadow lions, yellow eyes sparkling, waited on the other side of the clearing for fresh meat to inspect the dead stauer.
Slowly and as quietly as possible the three crept back to Haergill’s body and continued on to Bittel.
Walking all night, they finally reached their former home. They cautiously approached the village of three modest huts hidden amongst an island of trees, but all was deserted and silent.
All their possessions had been broken and strewn about. A great search had taken place.
It had stopped raining and the morning sun began to break on the weary, hungry, tired three.
“Perhaps they found it.” Kellabald moaned.
“I do not believe so.” Halldora said introspectively. “He hid the sword well. I do not believe it would be so easily uncovered.”
“Then, let us give your husband his honorable funeral and then search for ourselves,” Wynnfrith said to Halldora.
The three found dry wood and built a pedestal for Haergill. Some of his royal robes were found, and they dressed him in red and gold. Then they lit the fire.
As Haergill went to his ancestors, Wynnfrith and Kellabald held Halldora, who quietly shook with tears.
After a time Halldora spoke. “They always recited three riddles to each other. Haergill asked me to never question, but I understood the riddles held the key to the hiding place of the Mattear Gram.”
“I shelter you from rain and sun,
Warm you when the cold days come,
With arms outstretched, old and grooved,
A leaning friend, I can’t be moved.
To the silver traveler I have no end,
I’m the mother winding round your friend,
As long, as far, as distant lands,
Pick me up; I’m not in your hands.
I build the castle, and then tear it down,
I count the minutes without a frown,
I’m found by the score under land and sea
And what you seek is under me.”
All three stared into the dying flames. Then they all saw him at once.
“Do you-?”
“It’s him!”
“My husband!”
Haergill was dressed as a simple villager of Bittel. His specter was peaceful and content. He raised his arm and gestured. He seemed to speak and point. But no sound could be heard.
“The Mattear Gram! Show us the sword!” Kellabald shouted.
But the ghost faded.
“Yes,” said a deep, snide voice coming from behind a three. “Show us the sword.”
Kellabald, Wynnfrith, and Halldora turned to find they were at the mercy of a high atheling of the Northern Kingdom of Man, Apghilis.
Chapter Seven
Arnwylf
“Thank you, Caerlund. I hope we meet again in better times. May your family be safe, and your world be happy,” Arnwylf said.
“And yours, I reckon,” Caerlund returned. They clasped hands in a good, long handshake. Then went their separate ways.
Arnwylf strode forward with purpose. Although he had never been on the south side of the Bairn River, he knew he was in Harvestley, a sprawling, interconnected farmland dotted with small villages. Arnwylf also knew a main road called the Westernway Road ran through Harvestley from the Flume of Gawry all the way to the bridge over the Holmwy River at the town of Alfhich. The Westernway was well south of his home Bittel, which was why they rarely had visitors. And, also why the garond armies moving into Wealdland for the past two years had missed their little hamlet.
The leaves on the trees were yellow and red with autumn past, and winter was on the way. Fields marked off by hedge and stone walls were fallow and unkempt. The first village Arnwylf encountered was empty, and one of the small thatched roof houses had been burnt to the ground. Pens for chickens and pigs were empty. Arnwylf strode through the desolate village, headed for the Westernway Road.
He knew the garonds patrolled and used the Westernway Road extensively. If he were to find the garonds who had taken Frea, he would find them there.
Crossing a field, Arnwylf came upon the lonely remains of what he supposed was once a cow. It was stripped of all flesh, only a day or so ago. Its bones were cracked to suck out the marrow inside. It was a mess of sad, bloody destruction. The cow had been obliterated. A slick, dark, blood stain ringed the feast site. A few, small, tufts of hair from the cow clumped together in the empty field. It had been eaten raw, by many garonds at once, and it probably only took a few moments to do. All that was left were bits of bone and hair. Arnwylf drew his sword, and continued south with his blade ready.
It was late in the afternoon, and Arnwylf had passed through five empty villages. Although the sun was bright through the swiftly moving, high cumulus clouds, a cold, fall breeze drifted through the overgrown hedges and lawns. There was no overt destruction except for animal pens ripped open, and the occasional hut burned to the ground.
Arnwylf heard them before he saw them. A rhythmic grunting and clap and clop of armor faintly resounded over the flat farmland of Harvestley. Arnwylf readied himself behind a thick, dark green, thorny hedge. He had never fought before the skirmish at Rion Ta, and a sudden chill of fear made his body tremble. Steeling himself, Arnwylf peered over the hedge to see a column of thirty armed garonds marching in quick step with a group of fifteen or so humans, in shackles, stumbling in the middle of the platoon of garonds.
Without thinking Arnwylf leapt out onto the r
oad with a scream, brandishing his sword high. The company before him stopped. Arnwylf stared at the garonds, the scream dying on his lips. The garonds gaped at Arnwylf in awe. Arnwylf stared back at the garonds.
Then with a roar the entire company of thirty garonds left their human captives, charging Arnwylf. The enormity of his situation dawned on Arnwylf. He began stepping backwards, then turned and ran away as fast as he could. Looking back he could see these garonds had something new for garond troops, swords. They ran together in ordered ranks, a wall of squat, muscular fury.
Arnwylf saw a village nearby. The garonds were fast and gaining. Arnwylf turned around a large communal hall with the garond platoon hot on his heels.
He turned around the next corner of the hall, knowing running out into an open field would be the end of him.
He seemed to be gaining some ground back and turned the corner of the great hall again. At this point Arnwylf saw the last of the garonds in front of him and noticed something unusual. The garonds, although fast, because of their squat muscular body build, had trouble turning the corner of the structure. They stumbled into each other, losing their footing. They were so clumsy as they rounded the corner, Arnwylf almost caught up to the last garond in the platoon. At the next corner the garonds in front of Arnwylf actually crashed into each other into a pile. Arnwylf had to stop to keep from running into them. At that same moment the garonds behind Arnwylf came tumbling onto him in a heap.
It was a miracle Arnwylf wasn’t stabbed or run through by a garond sword. Four of the garonds held his arms and legs as he struggled and fought to free himself. They dragged him back to the group of shackled humans.
An unfettered human said to him. “Stop struggling, or they’ll just kill you and eat you right now.” Arnwylf calmed down with these sensible words.
The unshackled human was in his early twenties, thin, bent over and had a large pointed nose. He had a nervous manner, a sickly smile, and his hands seemed to never rest. He quickly put bronze shackles on Arnwylf’s ankles and wrists.
“Stay calm. Calm. I am Ratskenner. Do what I say and they won’t harm you,” he whispered.
Arnwylf was stunned and helpless.
The platoon resumed its quick step march with Arnwylf as their newest captive. The whole day was moving relentlessly east. Arnwylf surveyed the captive humans. Frea was not in their number. But, he recognized the terrified, hopeless expressions which he and his family felt just yesterday morning, that is, until the Archer appeared.
The road became wider and more level, and although other roads and paths branched off, it was clear that this must be the Westernway Road.
No speaking was allowed by the garonds, and there was no stopping for food or water. There was definitely some urgency, but Arnwylf couldn’t fathom what it could be.
He thought about how frightened and lost he felt just yesterday morning. He and his family had been captives of the garonds in his home village of Bittel for two weeks. The garonds had ripped their village apart, apparently searching for something specific. But it remained unfound.
The fight at Rion Ta had changed Arnwylf. He knew that it was possible to fight back against the garonds. But now, too late, he knew it took some strategy and cooperation. Perhaps he could persuade some of the humans chained with him to fight back, if only he had a moment to talk to them and rouse their spirits.
The platoon had marched the whole day. It was getting dark, and clouds were moving in fast from the east. In a field next to yet another emptied village, the platoon stopped for the night.
The garonds flopped down where they were standing, and Ratskenner coaxed the humans to lie down in the straw of the field.
The night passed without rain, but the cloud cover was thick. The stars, Nunee the moon, and her companion moon, the Wanderer, were never visible the whole night. Arnwylf hoped to speak to some of his fellow humans, but quickly fell to sleep, exhausted.
The next morning, the garonds roused early and began gnawing pieces of raw meat they had concealed in leather pouches tied to their belts. No food was provided for the humans.
Arnwylf noticed that the field they had slept in still had stray grains of wheat scattered here and there. He began scooping handfuls of the grain together and handed the mouthfuls of raw wheat to the humans he felt were the most in danger, elderly prisoners and young children.
Ratskenner, who had been crouching near the garonds, took notice of Arnwylf feeding the humans.
“Hey! You! Stop that!” Ratskenner called to Arnwylf. Arnwylf looked defiantly at Ratskenner. The human keeper was becoming disgusting to Arnwylf.
A garond with a deep scar across his forehead stood and shambled over to Arnwylf. He roughly slapped Arnwylf’s hands open to see the few wheat grains he held. The garond sneered and stared hard at Arnwylf. Arnwylf was calm. Deepscar quickly raised his hand to strike Arnwylf. Arnwylf didn’t blink, didn’t flinch. Deepscar then kicked the old woman Arnwylf was feeding. The garond sneered and laughed an evil, grunting laugh as he rejoined his companions, cuffing another garond to steal his bloody portion of meat. A small fight ensued and was quickly put down.
Arnwylf decided then and there, when he was freed, Deepscar would be the first garond to be killed.
The old woman nudged Arnwylf. “Don’t worry about him. Thank you for the food.” She looked up at Arnwylf. “I am Annen.”
The whole company was roused, and the platoon of garonds and their human captives were quick marched eastward on the Westernway Road.
The farther east they traveled in Harvestley, the more houses and hamlets were burned to the ground. The folk of Harvestley must have been a simple, merry folk, judging by the rolling, patchwork of fields, and the great halls where they gathered to celebrate the changing of the seasons. Now all that was left was an empty scar upon a once productive and beautiful land. Arnwylf noticed many stumps where mighty oak and elm trees once had spread their shady arms for the pastoral people of Harvestley.
Ratskenner moved close to Arnwylf so he could talk to him in a low voice and not arouse the ire of the garond soldiers.
“You shouldn’t feed these failures. Their fate is to be worked to death. Food is wasted on them.” Ratskenner then laughed a wheezing laugh with a wide, thin, toothy grin.
Arnwylf had no desire to speak to Ratskenner.
“I’m in charge because I am special.” Ratskenner continued. “I am the best human you will ever find. All like me. Every one of these women, even the old ones, wants me.” He laughed his toothy laugh and did a little hopping dance as he marched. “I’m from Madrun, did you know?”
“Do you know a man named Caerlund?” Arnwylf asked.
“Oh, he’s a good friend of mine, tall man, very strong. Great leader, just like me.”
Arnwylf instantly knew he was lying for Caerlund may have been a great leader, well known in Madrun, but he was a short, stocky man.
Arnwylf was a gentle person, but had a rising desire to hit Ratskenner in the mouth as hard as he could just to shut him up.
“You’re like me, right?” Ratskenner went on. “We’re strong. But you’re too young. You could learn a lot from me.”
Arnwylf marched staring straight ahead, hoping Ratskenner would just leave. Arnwylf thought about how much he had experienced in the last seven days. He felt as if he were a different person.
A young brown haired boy, about seven years old, marching next to Arnwylf, stumbled. Arnwylf reached out and caught him. The boy fainted, and Arnwylf held him up under his arm.
“Drop him.” Ratskenner hissed. “Drop him now!”
Arnwylf lightly slapped the boy to rouse him, but he was still unconscious.
Deepscar noticed what was happening, and maneuvered to come marching even with Arnwylf. He barked at Arnwylf, but Arnwylf ignored him.
Deepscar bellowed a loud snapping bark. The whole company came to a halt. Deepscar drew his sword and barked a command at Arnwylf.
“Drop him!” Ratskenner hissed again.
<
br /> Arnwylf stared Deepscar straight in the eye. The whole garond platoon began to get excited, goading Deepscar to kill Arnwylf there in the Westernway Road, in the midday sun.
Then, like a miracle, a strong vortex of wind blew hard across the fields from the west. The garonds became frightened and ran for cover. The humans cowered. Arnwylf stood still, sure in his own mind.
The cone of wind ripped through fences and tossed branches in the air, spitting water, headed straight for the company. Then, as if it was intended for him, the tornado diminished as it approached Arnwylf, becoming more and more gentle, until a soft breeze kissed his face and a light shower of water fell on him and the boy, who awoke.
The garonds began to argue amongst themselves, peering sideways and pointing at Arnwylf.
The company was reorganized and the march continued. Deepscar kept well away from Arnwylf, but snarled at him, showing his sharpened teeth.
Late in the day, as clouds became thick in the sky, the company came over a slight ridge to a shallow valley where a great encampment was found. However, the massive gathering place was mostly empty.
A garond from the encampment ran up to the company, grunting and snapping. The company then moved to the edge of the encampment to bed down for the night.
As the humans lay down, the young, brown haired boy touched Arnwylf on the shoulder. “I’m Faw. Thank you,” he said, then tiredly closed his eyes, and lay down.
The whole company was weary from the grueling day’s march and sleep came quickly to all, except Arnwylf who stared up at the cloudy night sky, wondering when he would again see the stars and moons.
The next morning, Arnwylf’s third day of captivity, the company was roused, the garonds ate, refreshed themselves, and the human captives were given nothing, neither food nor water.
Then, the whole company began a quick march north along a road widened to accommodate the garond armies. Houses, villages, fields were cleared in a wide swath to allow thousands of garonds to march due north against the Weald, one of the last strongholds of humanity in all of Wealdland. The wealdkin were protected by the far reaching, dense canopy of trees that comprised the Weald. The only other place where humans were safe was far west in the green hills of Reia. The Flume of Rith protected them.
The Last Elf of Lanis Page 7