“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 es
cape 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.
Arnwylf found the lead horse easy to control. He simply held handfuls of the horse’s mane, and when he pulled to the left or right, the horse followed his directions. After what seemed like a long time, far from the encampment, Arnwylf pulled on his horse’s mane to stop and confer with Len as to their intended direction. As his horse halted, Arnwylf turned to see if all the humans had made it out of the garond encampment, or if any had fallen from their mounts.
In the dark, overcast night, in the crush of milling horses, as Arnwylf called for Len, Deepscar roughly pulled Arnwylf from his horse. As they tumbled to the ground, Arnwylf’s sword went clattering from his hand over the flat stones on which they landed.
Deepscar rained heavy blows on Arnwylf’s face as he tried to escape his grasp. They rolled around on the gray rock, Deepscar pummeling, and Arnwylf deflecting. Arnwylf had never been taught how to fight, and the best he could do was deflect Deepscar’s thrashing. Deepscar began alternating cracking Arnwylf in the face and punishing blows to his body. Deepscar tried to rise to his feet. Arnwylf was reminded of the stauer hunt and knew that if he let go it would be the end of him, and so, clung tightly to Deepscar.
All around, the humans sat on their horses in frozen terror.
“Do something!” Frea cried, then got down from her horse.
She picked up a large stone and hit Deepscar soundly in the back of the head. He roared in pain and wheeled quickly with a backhand fist that knocked Frea unconscious.
Arnwylf, battered and bloodied, saw his sword was only a few feet away and struggled to reach it. Deepscar, on top of Arnwylf, saw what he was doing, and clamped both of his great paws around Arnwylf’s throat. Choking, turning red, Arnwylf rocked and struggled closer to the sword. He felt the world going black.
Then, as if by magic, the sword was in his hand. Without hesitation, Arnwylf drew the sword’s edge down across Deepscar’s neck. As Deepscar let go of Arnwylf to grab his own, freshly cut throat, Arnwylf thrust the sword back up and hard into Deepscar.
Deepscar jerked with paralysis, his ugly face a grimace of pain. He pulled the sword, still in his body, away from Arnwylf’s hands. He stood, snarling. Arnwylf wearily rose to his feet. Deepscar began to curse Arnwylf in garond, both his hands still on the sword’s hilt. He swayed, trying to pull the sword from his body. But, Arnwylf stepped forward, clasped Deepscar’s hands and thrusting, turned the blade.
Deepscar’s face went slack, and he fell to the flat, gray stones dead.
Arnwylf saw Faw, off of his horse, worriedly staring at him. Arnwylf raised his hand to reassure the young boy, and stumbled to Frea’s side. She was awake, and trying to tell him something. She was telling him to turn around.
Spent and battered, Arnwylf turned to see Ratskenner pull the sword from Deepscar’s corpse.
Ratskenner advanced on Arnwylf.
“You nearly ruined everything,” he sneered, that sick smile playing across his face. “But I will return with your head and the princess, and become a great hero.”
An evil light shined in Ratskenner’s eyes as he raised the sword to Arnwylf. Then, a loud, low, deep growling froze Ratskenner. Behind him yellow eyes glowed in the dark. Ratskenner tried to turn with the sword, but it was too late. Conniker bound forward, sinking his teeth into Ratskenner’s spine. Ratskenner let out a loud, shrill shriek. Then, Conniker violently shook him until Ratskenner was dead.
The humans mumbled sounds of despair and fear as the white wolf stumbled up to Arnwylf. But, the great beast began to lick his smiling face.
“Thank you,” Arnwylf said to Conniker, stroking his head. Arnwylf noticed Conniker’s tattered coat, healing gashes and badly damaged tail.
“You’ve been in quite a scrap, haven’t you, brother? But we need to get going. They are sure to be tracking us, and we are not yet in safe hands.”
Arnwylf tried to stand, but he was clearly too hurt. Frea steadied him. Len jumped from his horse to help.
“Perhaps I should take the lead horse,” Len offered. “We are in my lands now, and I can guide us to Scatterstone, a place of easy shallows across the Burnie River.”
“Yes, the pass between the Burnie and the Bairn will be heavily guarded,” Frea said. “Help me get him onto your horse, and you take the lead horse.”
As soon as Arnwylf was situated behind Frea, and Len had mounted the lead horse, a sound of a tracking party could be heard in the far distance.
“We must fly as swift as a Kipleth arrow,” Len called to the company. “Hold tight and pray to your gods!”
With that, Len spurred his horse and the whole company exploded into the dark of the night as fast as their horses could gallop.
All that black, heavily clouded night, Arnwylf clung to Frea as she rode her horse. The tracking party of garonds, also clearly on horseback were always within earshot, their hunting horns blaring.
Near dawn, the company ran down into a shallow ravine into Scatterstone. Here the Burnie River was very wide and easy to cross. The pleasant and clear water of the Burnie laughed and rippled as it played over the many smooth stones in the vast river bed. Steam rose from the softly flowing water in the dawn light. The horses bent their weary heads to drink.
“Only a sip,” Len hissed to the company. “We still have a day’s ride until we cross the Madronwy River, and reach the safety of Kenethley.” To himself Len whispered, “May it still be standing and well-armed.”
Arnwylf really felt the great beating he had received from Deepscar all the next day of relentless riding. His face and kidneys ached mightily. Once he wiped his running nose to find his hand covered with blood. He clung to Frea and could feel her strength as she rode the war horse. He smiled to himself.
“I saved her,” he said quietly to himself.
The countryside was mostly lightly wooded, rolling hills. About midday day, as they topped a ridge, they could see the garond trackers several miles behind them. It was no small platoon, it seemed the whole army was on their heels.
The white wolf stayed near Arnwylf and Frea the whole way. Conniker seemed to look up at Arnwylf with concern. Arnwylf looked down and weakly smiled to reassure his friend, but his head was hot with fever.
All that day it seemed as though their trackers were closing in on them, even though they never stopped for food, water or to rest the horses.
As the sun began to set, Len pulled close to Frea and Arnwylf. “We’re near the Madronwy River. There are several secret bridges. Fallfont Gorge is the closest. We’ll have to leave the horses. But, the gorge is steep, and if we fell the bridge, they won’t be able to follow us.”
The company galloped through forests of evergreen Yew and leafless Alder, black and ready for the winter.
As night began to fall, no clouds gathered. The light from both Nunee, the mother moon, and the Wanderer, her companion moon, was full and bright. In the dusk, they traveled through rockier terrain, climbing, always climbing.
In the moonlight, they came to a steep cliff with a thin rushing river, the Madronwy, far below.
“It’s close, now,” Len called to the company. The band of horses trotted along a trail beside the lethal gorge. Up ahead, a precarious rope and wood bridge spanned the jagged abyss, reflecting moonlight.
“Dismount,” Len cried. As soon as the humans were all off their horses they ran for the bridge. Frea and Len supported Arnwylf, who tried his best to keep up. His legs were weak and unsteady.
Behind them, they could hear the cries and shouts of the garond tracking party.
The humans skittered over the bridge in single file. Sentries on the other side helped them off the bridge as quickly as possible. Frea lead Arnwylf across the swaying bridge last.
Len stood at t
he far side of the bridge with a sentry. The sentry held a sword aloft to cut the supports as soon as they were across.
Conniker led Frea, who held her arms around Arnwylf, helping him to the other side. A garond arrow whistled past her and hit the sentry square in the chest.
Behind her garonds, bellowing in rage, began to cross the bridge. The garond leader, Ravensdred was in front.
“Leave the bridge! There’s no time to fell it!” Len shouted and they ran into the darkness of the Hills of Madrun with the garond army hot on their trail. Garond arrows angrily whirled all around them.
Frea, Arnwylf, and Len stumbled up to a ridge in the moonlight, when Ravensdred got a good sight on Arnwylf.
Ravensdred nocked a huge, deadly arrow and let fly. The arrow was targeted perfectly, dead center on Arnwylf’s heart. “You’ve gone far enough!” He bellowed.
Then, above in the night sky, the great, horrific terror began.
Chapter Eight
The Archer and the Elf
The Archer slept so deeply, he missed the garonds with Frea, only a hundred yards away, when they left in the morning. He hadn’t slept for five days.
Before he freed the families at Bittel, he had been fighting garonds in the small village of Tyny. For three days the garond platoons had tried to take the village with its bridge across the Holmwy River. There was only one family that lived in Tyny, but men from Kipleth and far Reia were camped there to hold the bridge. If and when the garonds took Tyny, or Alfhich further to the south, their armies would pour into the western Meadowlands, and the end would come soon for Reia, and then there would be no human left alive in all of Wealdland.
The garonds disbursed on the fourth day and the Archer had been tracking them when he found hidden Bittel. He knew he couldn’t take Kellabald and his clan southwestward to Alfhich or anyway near the eastern side of the Holmwy, as it was swarming with garond patrols. He thought it best to make for what he thought was the safety of the Weald.
The Last Elf of Lanis Page 9