The Last Elf of Lanis

by Hargan, K. J.

  “The first fire was Wylkeho Daniei who sparked out of the great black void, and immediately burst into billions of other fires. He then created the physical world in a second creation out of a profound love for all other beings. Hence, all life must be respected as aspects of god.”

  “A child of Wylkeho Daniei named Jofod Kagir wanted all the fires to return to the source and be at his command. Jofod Kagir fought his creator to a standstill such was his passion. The rebellious flame became jealous, angry and evil as he lost the great battle with his parent.”

  “The creator of all light could not extinguish the spark of his son, nor banish him. So he colored his fire so other lights could distinguish between good light and bad light.”

  “Jofod Kagir has the ability to take many forms and tries to force other sparks to join his flame so he will be greater than his creator. He believes if his flame is great enough, he can remake reality, and be the new parent of all things.”

  The elf quieted, nodded, then fell into a deep sleep. The Archer was left staring into the dwindling flames of his campfire, considering the Parent of all things.

  The third day tracking Frea dawned with a clear, cloudless blue sky. The Archer awoke and tried to rouse the elf. She was still in a deep comatose sleep and would not wake.

  The Archer tied his hooded tunic into a sling and was preparing to lift the elf when an arrow whistled past his ear.

  He crouched and dragged the elf behind a thick shrub.

  Across the Bairn River, thirty or so garonds lined the north shore with bow and arrow. The Archer huffed to himself in surprise. The garonds had never used bow and arrow before, as far as he knew. They were adapting their fighting skills at a frightening pace.

  The Archer peered over the shrub. The garonds were clumsy and awkward with their bows, and they were much too far across the river to be very effective. It looked as though their bows were simple oak, and about half their arrows were simply sharpened sticks. And, there was Old One Ear right in the middle, barking orders.

  The Archer reflected how he had seen surviving cowards become leaders in the military field. He tested his wounded arm. Then, he smiled to himself.

  The Archer stood and walked directly to the edge of the south bank, firing flint arrows with deadly accuracy from his yew bow. The garonds roared with anger and their agitated arrows flew wide. Once the Archer tilted his head to avoid a lucky shot. He avoided using his black arrows as he would have no way to retrieve them.

  Three garonds, filled with ire waded into the river and were immediately swept downstream to drown. There were about ten left when the Archer ran out of flint arrows. He thought about the twelve bronze arrows he carried in his quiver, then decided.

  The bronze arrows flew quick and deadly. When Old One Ear saw he was one of about four left, he ran for the safety of the foliage above the river bank. The Archer finished the last garonds with satisfaction. He now had only three bronze tipped arrows, and the seven black arrows of Yenolah. He worriedly bit his lip. He desperately needed more arrows.

  Returning to the elf, the Archer looked at the arrows the garonds had shot at him and realized they were useless, weak, shattered from impact, and mostly crooked.

  The Archer prepared to lift the elf into her sling when an axe was lightly laid across the back of his neck.

  A gruff voice behind him said, “That was some fancy shooting, friend. Now slowly take your hands off the elf.”

  The Archer carefully stood to find he was surrounded, by six well-armed humans. Their leader was short and burly. He moved to the elf and gently touched her face. He lightly slapped her. She didn’t move.

  “What have you done to her?” The leader demanded of the Archer.

  “It’s a long tale,” The Archer said. “But, she was hit by a bolt of lightning.”

  The men shared a concerned look.

  “Well,” the leader huffed. “You’re very lucky she isn’t dead. Or you would be at this very moment. I don’t know about the truth of lightning bolts, but we’ve seen many unnatural lights streaking in the skies hereabout.”

  “She is my friend,” the Archer offered. “We are tracking a group of garonds on horses who have taken a young, red haired girl. The elf and I were working together to save her.”

  The leader eyed the Archer suspiciously. “Garonds on horses, you say. We saw you kill the garonds along the river. Very fine bowmanship.” To his men he said, “Search him.”

  While two men held the Archer, a third man searched him, finding nothing of interest. Then the man pulled the black arrows of Yenolah from the Archer’s quiver.

  “Well, well,” the leader said. “This is definitely from an elvish forge. Tell me you didn’t steal these from this young lass.”

  “Those arrows were given to me a long time ago,” the Archer said. “We mustn’t let the horse garonds pass by with the girl.”

  “Hmmm,” the leader said. “If you’re such good friends with this elf, and on your way on this mission as you say, then you can tell me pointy ear’s name.” The leader stroked his red beard. “And I can tell you my fine friend, I do know her name as the elf folk have always been on good terms with Caerlund and the people of the Madrun Hills.” The short burly man shifted. “Aye, uh, Caerlund... that’s me.” Caerlund almost reached up to shake hands with the Archer, but caught himself. “So what’s this elf’s name, since she is such a great traveling companion of yours.”

  The Archer opened his mouth, then closed it. He bowed his head. “I do not know her name. But everything I have told you is true!”

  Caerlund squinched his face from side to side. “I want to believe you. I almost believe you.” Caerlund squinted up at the sun. “Yep. We’ll take the elf to the old woman at Plymonley. She’ll fix this little one up right, and then we’ll get to the truth, I reckon.”

  With that, the men of the Madrun Hills made a litter to carry the elf. They tied the Archer’s hands tightly with thick rope. Then, Caerlund, his captive and his men, spent the rest of the day trudging through the hills of Madrun to the old woman at Plymonley. Along the way Caerlund plied the Archer with questions, and the Archer answered truthfully, telling all that had befallen him since first seeing the elf at Bittel.

  The small road wound through pitched hills and rolling farmland. All along the way, secreted sentries were hailed. The Hills of Madrun were well guarded.

  As night began to fall, a young man with a torch could be seen running towards them.

  “Hail Caerlund, chief of the Madrun!” The young man called.

  “Yes, yes, hail, hail, what is it?” Caerlund asked impatiently.

  The young man respectfully removed his large woolen cap, “Rebburn says to tell you...” The young man gasped for breath.

  Caerlund chuckled and let the young man compose himself.

  “Rebburn, says, to tell you...” the young man took a deep breath, “Release the Archer, and bring the elf directly to her hut.”

  Caerlund looked at the Archer with amazement. Then he said as he untied him, “I don’t know why I’m still astounded at the powers of the old woman. Well, we better get to Plymonley double quick, I reckon. Will you go back after this girl you were to save?” Caerlund asked the Archer

  He thought deeply. “They are well past us now. But I must try to find her.”

  “Oh,” the young man with the large woolen cap spoke to the Archer, “you are to be told to not worry. Come along! I’m hungry and want to get back before supper.”

  Caerlund looked sideways at the Archer. “Best always to do what the old woman advises.” He said.

  An unusual assuredness suddenly settled over the Archer, and he said, “Then, let us not make this young man of the Messenger Guild miss his supper.” With that, the group marched quick as they possibly could to Plymonley.

  As night settled, the group topped a ridge which led into a flat bowl shaped valley with farms stretching out in wedges which all converged on a busy, light filled village, Plymonley, the heart
of the Madrun Hills.

  The Archer and his companions were led to a simple hut at the very center of the village. A short, wizened, white haired old woman was impatiently waiting for the group.

  “Here, here,” she said directing the men with the litter to bring the elf into her hut.

  “Hail, Rebburn,” Caerlund greeted her. Rebburn stopped to briefly touch forehead to forehead with Caerlund. And then the Archer heard Caerlund say under his breath to her, “my mother.”

  Turning away from Caerlund, Rebburn called to the group, “go get something to eat, all of you.”

  The Archer began to follow the old woman into her hut, but she stopped and faced him.

  “And do you think you will do her any good, fainting of hunger?” Rebburn challenged the Archer.

  With a humbled red face, the Archer shook his head “no”, and turned to follow the men of Madrun to the Great Hall nearby.

  Inside the Great Hall of Plymonley all was bright with cheerful candles and lanterns, and the smell of roast chicken and peppered vegetables filled the air.

  The Archer sat next to the young man with the large woolen cap.

  “I’m Hermergh, a messenger,” he said to the Archer as he stuffed his mouth with enormous quantities of food. Hermergh spoke no more and seemed to be in a kind of measured frenzy as he ate as much as three men.

  The Archer had a leg of chicken, then excused himself. He left the Great Hall and went directly to Rebburn’s hut. The Archer politely knocked at the doorless entrance.

  “Yes, yes,” Rebburn invited him in. Inside Rebburn’s hut were glass and clay bottles of every description, containers holding dried herbs, viscous colorful liquids, and colored salts.

  The elf was being held to sit up on a simple cot, and a young girl was trying to help Rebburn force a thick, green liquid down the elf’s throat. The elf coughed and convulsed. The Archer gently nudged the girl, and Rebburn’s look told her to let the Archer take her place.

  The Archer gently held the elf’s head as Rebburn administered the elixir. The elf, still comatose, visibly relaxed at the Archer’s touch, and in her sleeping state, took long, deep draughts of the potion. After three large gulps, Rebburn nodded to the Archer, and he carefully reclined the elf on the cot.

  “Now we wait until morning,” Rebburn said. “Go find some place to sleep,” the sweet, old woman said to the Archer. As he hesitated, Rebburn added, “I’ve seen this many times. The elves go into a great, deep sleep to quickly heal their wounds. It’s just a matter of helping them back into the waking world.” Rebburn softy patted the Archer’s cheek, then turned to tend to her apothecary.

  The Archer stepped out into the cold, late autumn night. The sky was overcast and all the evening lights of the sky were hidden. The Archer sat next to Rebburn’s hut thinking about how the elf said the clouds were hiding something unnatural. He rested his head against his arms propped on his knees and was soon in a deep sleep.

  The fourth day dawned bright and clear, and the Archer woke as someone gently kicked his thigh. He woke indignantly to find the elf staring down at him.

  “Sleeping in the streets, are we?” She said.

  The Archer leapt to his feet to embrace her, then gently pulled back lest he hurt her. “How- how do you feel?” He asked.

  “As though I could pay back a thousand garonds for breakfast,” she laughed. They laughed together.

  “Let’s get something to eat first,” the Archer said pulling the elf towards the Great Hall. Then, he stopped. “Oh, they cook animals in there.” He said.

  “I will hold my nose to enjoy your company,” the elf smiled. The Archer smiled back.

  In the Great Hall, many were breakfasting, and impossibly, Hermergh was eating a breakfast that could have fed four men. Another wiry young man sat next to him and ate as much.

  The Archer ordered cooked vegetables out of respect for the elf, and they ate and spoke of the events of the last three days. The elf laughed as the Archer told how Old One Ear got away yet a third time.

  “He goes first, if you see him again,” the elf laughed. Then the elf turned serious. “What of the young, red haired girl?”

  “Frea?” The Archer chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “Rebburn assured me she is safe.”

  “Then she is safe,” the elf said. “That old woman is well known and respected. Why, she is one of only a handful of humans who have ever been inside the empty city.”

  “The empty city?” The Archer asked.

  “Lanis Rhyl Landemiriam,” the elf said, mournfully looking down at her plate.

  “Everyone fed?” Caerlund called, poking his head in a doorway to the great hall. “Let’s go, then.”

  All in the great hall filed out to the village’s main square, where all the people of Plymonley gathered. Caerlund stood on a tree stump to quiet the crowd.

  “All here?” He called. “Good. We just got word,” Caerlund said indicating a wiry young man who brotherly stood next to Hermergh. “We just got word that the garonds have burned the Three Bridges of Rion Ta.”

  An astonished and concerned murmur ran through the crowd.

  “Why would they do that?” A voice called from the crowd.

  “Yes,” another voice called. “They were trying to take the Three Bridges to invade the Weald.”

  “It matters not who burned the bridges,” Caerlund said, “but, that the bridges are burned. This means of course that they have no choice but to bypass the Bairn River to continue their conquest of all human places in Wealdland.” Then Caerlund seemed weary. “And that of course means they must go through the Madrun Hills on their way to take Alfhich and its bridge so they can assault the Green Hills of Reia and then the Weald.”

  “Perhaps they will pass us by,” a voice called from the crowd.

  “Do any of you think the garonds will not assault all of Madrun and take Kenethley? Are any so wise to think that they will leave some humans in peace as they destroy all others?”

  The crowd was grimly quiet.

  “We must marshal our armies here to protect all of the people of the Madrun Hills. An attack is imminent. We also have word,” Caerlund swallowed, “through our excellent messenger guild,” nodded to Hermergh and his brother, “that all garonds in the Meadowlands are marching towards this village.”

  At this, the crowd erupted into a loud cacophony of fear and exclamation. Some crying, “We must fight!” Others cried, “We must flee the Hills of Madrun!”

  “Quiet! Quiet! QUIET!” Caerlund bellowed. “What says the Oracle of Plymonley?” All eyes turned to Rebburn at the back of the crowd.

  Rebburn grew silent as all waited for her pronouncement. She closed her eyes and seemed to be seeing into some distant future.

  “We are safe already,” she said. “Our salvation has already come to us.” Her eyes popped open to stare at the Archer and the elf. All eyes searched them. “But only,” she sternly held a finger aloft, “only if we act as one.” The entire crowd turned to Caerlund.

  “And I suppose,” Caerlund said with a weary sigh. “I must be the voice for all people who wish to act as one.”

  “Of course,” Rebburn said as though it were ridiculously obvious. She then turned, without waiting for discussion and returned to her hut.

  “Well then,” Caerlund said, the enormity of the situation heavy on his shoulders, “we must ask the messenger guild to travel to all villages, farms and towns of the Madrun Hills to gather all the people here as quickly as possible.” A solemn silence fell on the crowd. “We few here must meet whatever garond army arrives and then escort all the people of Madrun to Reia through Alfhich.”

  There was no discussion or dissent. All knew it had to be done, no matter how frightening, no matter the sheer impossible difficulty of the defense of the evacuation of Madrun seemed to loom.

  “All right,” Hermergh said with a simple voice. “We’re off.” Hermergh looked with determination at his brother, who nodded. Without another word, they trotted away, on
e north, one south, with a loose, gangly lope.

  The Archer watched Hermergh leave, and was amazed to see him gather a constant speed, and was quickly far off into the distance. The crowd dispersed to ready themselves for the impending invasion.

  The Archer and the elf walked through the village to help as much as they could. All eyes shined on them with an uncomfortable hopefulness.

  About mid-day, a tremendous earthquake rumbled through the village, toppling several houses and the great hall. Because all were busy, no one was seriously injured, and the debris was used to construct a barrier on the north side of the village.

  All the rest of the day, people streamed into Plymonley. The messenger guild was effectively using its network of heralds to reach every human in the Madrun Hills.

  As night fell, some feasted, and greeted long absent friends and family. But there was no cheerfulness, as all readied for war.

  Just outside Rebburn’s hut the Archer and the elf settled down for the night. Rebburn came out to give the elf another draught of the thick green drink, which she drank with pleasure and gratitude.

  “Thank you,” the Archer said to Rebburn. “Your healing skills are formidable.”

  “Hmmph,” Rebburn grunted. Then she roughly pulled at the Archer’s bandaged arm.

  “Want to get us all killed?” She breathed at him in disgust. She expertly applied a salve to the Archer’s wound and carefully rebandaged it.

  “Thank you,” the Archer said with a smile. His wound instantly felt better. Then he asked Rebburn, “Why did you put such hopes upon us? Was it to unite and assure the people? What can I- what can we do to make any difference?”

  Rebburn smiled on one side of her mouth and shook her head. “Just be who you are, dear one. Just be who you are.” A knowing light twinkled in her eye.

  With that she scuttled back into her hut and returned to packing bottles and potions that she would let no other person touch.

  As the elf and Archer sat looking up at yet another cloud filled night, the Archer said, “No stars or moons again.”