The Last Elf of Lanis

by Hargan, K. J.

  The elf was still comatose.

  In the late morning, the Archer finally awoke to the sound of stealthy footsteps in the crisp, dead autumn grass. He could see the tawny ears of two lionesses, above the grass, stalking towards him.

  Without hesitation, the Archer grabbed the elf by her hood with one hand, and he climbed the pine tree as quickly as he could. The nearest lioness bounded towards the tree with the sudden movement. Her massive claws gripped the tree, her green yellow eyes wide with ferocious hunger. The Archer moved up the pine tree with some difficulty due to the denseness of the small, bare, inner branches which cut at his hands and face. The lioness was right at his feet, a low guttural growl in her throat.

  With his free hand, the Archer gripped his bow, pulled an arrow from his quiver with the same hand, nocked the arrow, held it with his teeth, and released as the lioness leapt at him. The bronze arrow shot right down her throat into her heart. With her roar frozen on her face, she slowly fell through the pine branches of the tree, dead.

  The Archer climbed as high as he could, secured the elf in an elbow of the tree, and readied another arrow. But, the second lioness didn’t attempt the climb. She paced around the tree for a moment, sniffed at her dead companion, but was constantly looking in the distance for something her sensitive ears could hear. Eventually, she left her dead sister, and in a low stance, stalked away into the grass.

  Then from his fortunate height in the tree, the Archer saw what had frightened the lioness away, a squad of a dozen horse garonds in the meadow. From his vantage point, he could see them riding in a V formation, obviously carefully searching the foliage. They had probably found the carnage at Rion Ta and were looking for those responsible.

  The Archer carefully climbed down from the pine tree, his hands sticky with pine sap. Good, he thought to himself, my hands will be sure. And a quiet smile played across his dark, grim visage.

  The formation of horse garonds was moving away from the Archer at a rapid pace. He thought of the elf for a moment. But, he made his decision. He found a firm, even patch of earth and dug his feet in.

  “Hoy!” The Archer called at the top of his lungs. The band of riding garonds pulled to a halt. Looking over his shoulder, the lead garond, riding point, bellowed an order. The whole squad wheeled in formation, and the V of riders bore down on their prey.

  The Archer immediately realized he had a problem, and smiled to himself. He only had seven of the black arrows, and would have to use five flint arrows. The problem wasn’t in the composition of arrows, but in the spread of his field.

  The leader in the center was easy. A black arrow knocked him clean off his horse, but the formation was closing fast. The Archer shot two more arrows, sweeping back and forth, and horse garonds on either side of the lead horse fell dead.

  Closer still, the archer shot his last four black arrows, alternating swinging left and right at the garonds closest to him as the V bore down on him.

  Almost on top on him, surprised they hadn’t stopped or broken ranks, the Archer shot five flint arrows swinging wide, back and forth, to his left and to his right.

  The last arrow clipped the ear of the rider at the far left end of the formation, as the riderless horses harmlessly rushed past the Archer. The surviving garond turned his horse to glare at the Archer, and rather than attack, he spurred his horse away out onto the vast Eastern Meadowland.

  The Archer shook his head, and then proceeded to recover his black arrows, and as many of the flint arrows as were intact.

  The Archer stepped over the dead lioness. The flint arrow was too far down her throat to bother retrieving. He climbed the tree to find the elf awake and smiling.

  “You let one get away,” she mocked.

  “I know, I know,” he smiled back. “How are you feeling?”

  “I feel good,” the elf said. “But I can’t move my arms or legs.”

  The Archer carefully carried the elf down the pine tree, then holding her gently in his arms asked, “Now what?”

  “We continue tracking the girl,” the elf said as if it were completely obvious.

  The Archer shook his head, but knew arguing would be futile.

  Cradling the elf in one arm, tracking in the late morning light, the Archer quickly found the place where Frea and the garonds bedded down for the night. The Archer and the elf shared a frustrated, unspoken moment.

  The Archer realized he couldn’t continue with the elf in one arm, and so constructed a sling out of his hooded outer tunic to carry her on his back.

  Frea and her garond kidnapers were already a half a day ahead on horseback when the Archer and the elf started tracking them towards the Bairn River.

  Late in the day, the Archer and the elf came to the shore of the Bairn River and found the garond with the crushed skull.

  “What do you think?” The elf asked.

  “I think it is a good sign that Frea may still be alive.”

  “They are fighting over her.”

  “Which means she is not dead and merely meat to eat.”

  The elf gravely nodded.

  The horse’s tracks were easy to follow along the river’s sandy bank. The elf looked at the dark, closely cropped hairs on the Archer’s neck. There were a few white hairs among his thick, dark hair. A sign he was filled with worry and pain.

  “Tell me about the black arrows,” the elf said, hoping to draw the Archer into conversation.

  “The arrows of Yenolah?” The Archer huffed with a pleasant laugh. “You recognize them?”

  “No,” the elf said. “But they are definitely of elf design.”

  “Forged by Weylund, the greatest of all elf smiths, from a fallen star.”

  “Weylund was my grandfather!” The elf exclaimed.

  “I’m not surprised,” the Archer said. “There were so few elves in the last hundred years or so. You must all be related.”

  They both grew quiet, and the Archer knew he broached a difficult subject.

  “There were about five hundred.” The elf finally broke the silence. “All were slaughtered at Lanis Rhyl Landemiriam.”

  “How- Elves are great warriors. How could this be?”

  “Less than two hundred elves killed close to six thousand garonds that day. They just kept coming. Only I survived. My brother and I were outside the gates of the city to greet the garonds, who were our friends at the time. I was knocked unconscious early in the assault and hidden in the woods outside the city by my brother. When I awoke, I saw the last elves fall. My brother was among those last courageous few.”

  Both the Archer and the elf continued on in silence.

  After a long stillness, tracking the horse garonds who had taken Frea, the Archer told the elf the story of how he had discovered his family was slain by the garonds.

  “Let us rest for a moment,” the elf said. The day was getting late. “We both are driven by grief, but I fear neither of us will listen to reason. At least we can rest when we should.”

  The Archer grimly smiled and stared down at his feet. He set the elf down.

  The night was falling, and a cloud cover moved quickly across the darkening sky.

  “Something unnatural wishes to hide its doings,” the elf said, peering up at the thick skyward blanket.

  “Let us camp for the night,” the Archer said. “You’ll probably feel better and we can move much quicker. If Frea is still alive, the garonds still have far to go to find a passable break in the Bairn River.”

  The elf agreed, and the Archer set up a small campsite away from the openness of the river bank.

  The elf told the Archer where to find carrots growing wild in the earth beside the river, and they both had nicely roasted carrots for supper.

  “That sword of yours is unusual,” the Archer said between mouthfuls.

  “The moon sword of Berand Torler. It’s tens of thousands years old.”

  “How old are you?” The Archer asked squinting through the darkness.

  The elf laughed that
light, tinkling laugh. “How old would you guess I am?”

  “I would say... no more than twenty two years of age.”

  “I have seen over three hundred winters.”

  The Archer choked on his roast carrot, then laughed. “Three hundred...?”

  Their laughter quickly subsided. The elf stared into the flames of the small camp fire.

  “The moon sword was part of a sacred pact with humans, a part of the treaty which ended the elf human wars. It is forbidden to touch it. I thought no other elf would now object.”

  The Archer had no response to comfort the elf. After staring into the dwindling fire for a while, the Archer and the elf were soon both fast asleep.

  In the bright, cloudless morning, the Archer and the elf awoke and rose to track the garonds.

  “No clouds,” the elf mused.

  “Good day for tracking.” The Archer smiled. “How do you feel?”

  “I can move my hands and feet, but not my arms and legs.”

  “That’s good,” the Archer smiled. “You can carry me tomorrow.”

  Then, cheerfully, the Archer tied his hooded cloak into a sling as he had before, gently picked up the elf and slung her onto his back.

  The sandy shoal of the river bank was easy to track, and in the late afternoon they found the place where the kidnappers and victim had bedded down for their second night. There were three large indentations in the sand where the horses lay, and three smaller hollows indicating two garonds and a smaller body, Frea’s.

  Now the Archer strode as quickly as he could, measuring his strength, but confidant that the girl was alive.

  “Tell me of the elf folk,” the Archer called back to the elf. “These traces are plain, and I need a distraction to clear my mind.”

  The elf considered the fine shape of the Archer’s ear. It could almost be an elf ear, tapering high and thin. There were rumors that elf blood was mingled with human blood, but the elf gave these whispers no merit.

  “A tale of the elf folk,” the elf reflected. “Wylkeho Daniei created the earth as a special honor to the aspect of love, and so all creatures on the earth are here for joy. Wylkeho Daniei filled the earth with animals and beautiful gardens.

  “But the creator of all things was lonely and wanted conversation. So from his brightest flames, he created beings who walked on two legs, the elves, and they lived for three eons in a paradise of love and peace.”

  “An ancient elf lord named Brudejik met Jofod Kagir on a trek through the desert, and begged for his life as he had neither food nor water for a whole year.”

  “Jofod Kagir offered him either food, drink, or power over his brothers. In his delirium Brudejik chose power over his brothers.”

  “Whereupon, Wylkeho Daniei immediately appeared and asked Brudejik why his inner flame was so different.”

  “Brudejik lied to Wylkeho Daniei and said it was because he was so hungry and thirsty.”

  “Wylkeho Daniei offered a fruit growing in his hair to Brudejik, but he was frightened and refused. Wylkeho Daniei then offered a drink of water springing from his own hands, but again Brudejik was frightened and refused.”

  “Wylkeho Daniei then perceived that Brudejik was lying and had consorted with Jofod Kagir, and asked him what he had given him.”

  “Brudejik knew he couldn’t lie anymore to his god and told him the truth.”

  “Whereupon Wylkeho Daniei said to Brudejik, ‘you will have power over your brothers only because you have denied your inner light, and so you shall live a short life and die.’

  “And, as the great parent said these words, Brudejik fell to the earth and rose with a different countenance and became the first human. So, ashamed, Brudejik fled out of the gardens of earth to live amongst the wild animals and rocks of pain.”

  “After several eons, Wylkeho Daniei had pity on Brudejik and his children, and so created a race from the dust of the earth, and borrowed flame from the animals nearby. They were a dark faced and red haired race, created to guide the humans with wisdom born from nature. They were the garonds...”

  The elf settled into silence.

  “Do you think,” the Archer asked, “the garonds are somehow being manipulated.”

  “Deifol Hroth from the Far Grasslands,” the elf answered. “We believe he is possessed by Jofod Kagir, the one great evil, and he has twisted the garonds to his will.”

  “Can they be saved?” The Archer asked.

  “Hush,” the elf said. The Archer stopped in his tracks.

  “Many feet,” the elf tilted her head for her sensitive ears to hear, “running towards us.”

  The Archer quickly set the elf down. “Can you stand?” He asked her. She bravely nodded yes.

  “Just stay behind me,” the Archer said as he grounded his stance and readied his bow.

  From a bend down the river, following them, twenty heavily armed garonds burst into a run when they saw them. As they saw the Archer, they let out a fierce battle cry. The Archer calmly waited.

  As they neared, their shrieks became high and shrill, meant to terrify and confuse their prey. The Archer smiled.

  The first arrow of Yenolah struck the lead garond square between the eyes. The group of garonds stopped in their tracks.

  “Come on!” The Archer defiantly yelled.

  The garonds blood was roused and they charged with even more fury.

  In quick secession, garonds fell to the black arrows, two, three, four, five dead. The Archer noticed among the garonds, near the back, was one with a bloodied and mangled ear, the one horse garond who got away the day before, demoted to foot soldier.

  The Archer used the last two black arrows with deadly accuracy. The dozen garonds left had only a few paces to close, but the Archer killed three more before he had to draw his sword. Behind him he could hear the singing of the moon sword of Berand Torler as the elf drew it from her scabbard.

  The remaining ten garonds spread out around the Archer. The cut, slash, thrust and parry of sword and club was loud and violent. The Archer sliced open two garonds before he realized the garonds were grouping towards his back and the elf. He linked his free arm in hers and quickly spun her around, and was able to hack a garond’s head from his shoulders as he did so. From behind, he heard the elf exclaim, “Do that again!”

  The Archer whirled the elf, realizing she was using his strength to lift her sword high with deadly effect. Five garonds were left, with Old One Ear among their number.

  “Turn me again!” The elf shouted. As the elf swung around, the Archer saw the neatly severed bodies of the garonds the moon sword had cut.

  The momentary distraction was all it took for a garond to thrust his sword past the Archer’s guard. The garond’s sword cut a hot line along his upper arm.

  There were only three garonds left, but the Archer couldn’t raise the elf to swing her, so he stepped around her, quickly killing two more. Only Old One Ear was left, and he quickly ran away as he realized he was once again alone.

  The Archer raised his bow, but his cut arm winced with pain and he couldn’t get a shot off to catch Old One Ear.

  “You let him get away again,” the elf panted.

  “Keep your eyes and ears open as I get my black arrows.”

  The elf collapsed in weariness. The Archer had to trot some distance along the river bank to retrieve all the seven of the arrows of Yenolah. He kept a sharp eye on the elf. She sprawled in the river’s sand, heavily panting.

  As the Archer returned to the elf the wind began to pick up.

  “Look!” The elf cried.

  On the near horizon, the Archer could see a funnel of cloud and debris ripping tree and shrub from the earth, and headed right for them.

  The Archer carefully picked the elf up, staring in disbelief.

  The massive tornado seemed to be bearing right down on them, madly zigzagging back and forth.

  The Archer realized, with the river at his back, he had no shelter whatsoever. It seemed to the Archer that the
funnel of cloud and wind was veering to his right, and so began to trot to his left. The fury of wind then rushed right into the Bairn River sucking its water up high into the sky.

  “Quick!” The elf cried, “We can cross the river!”.

  The Archer rushed into the mud and vegetation of the empty Bairn with the elf cradled in his arms.

  The mud sucked at his feet and the Archer became frightened. He turned to look at the looming water spout, and to his surprise, it stood completely still in the middle of the Bairn, holding the river back. The Archer slogged to the south bank of the Bairn and collapsed.

  The elf and the Archer watched in wonder as the water funnel moved on south, out of the river, over land, safely past them.

  “Someone,” the elf said, “is trying to help us.” The elf then fell into a deep sleep.

  The Archer moved the elf to a safe spot high up on the south bank, and made a small camp for the night. Now that they were on the south side of the Bairn, they would be ahead of Frea’s captors and could move west directly headlong towards them. They would be sure to confront them tomorrow.

  The Archer bandaged his wound, then looked for something he and the elf could eat. He thought about shooting a bird or a rabbit, but refrained, knowing he would offend the elf. Instead, he found more carrots, and some crunchy green stalks.

  As night began to fall, the elf awoke as the Archer was roasting carrots again.

  “Smells good,” the elf said. The Archer smiled, but his smile dropped as he saw the elf struggling.

  “Well,” the elf said, “It seems I can’t move at all.”

  The Archer grimly stared at the yellow flames of the small fire. Then, he stood, moved over to her, and carefully fed the elf as though she were a child.

  “You mentioned Jofod Kagir earlier,” the Archer said.

  Between mouthfuls, the elf said, “I told you the end of the story first. I should have started at the beginning.”

  The Archer sensed the elf was done eating, and settled in beside her to listen and keep her warm.

  “The elves believe,” the elf said, “in a primal fire, unseen, and unquenchable in all things. And the fire in all things blends, rekindles and refreshes each other.