The Last Elf of Lanis

by Hargan, K. J.

  Kellabald led them to the creek that ran through Bittel.

  “Here,” said Kellabald with outstretched hand, “is the mother of all lands. Water. And see,” he pointed to small fish darting in the shallows, “are the silver travelers.”

  “As long, as far as distant lands” Apghilis said contemplating the winding stream.

  “Pick me up, I’m not in your hands,” Feeblerod said as he scooped a handful of water and let it trickle through his fingers.

  “But the mother,” Kellabald said limping along the edge of the creek, “winds around our friend.”

  “A tree,” Feeblerod shrieked, “by the stream!”

  “Yes,” Kellabald said with a quiet look to Wynnfrith.

  “But there are still twenty, thirty trees by this water,” Feeblerod said with girlish exasperation.

  “The answer,” said Kellabald, “is clever. Because the first riddle and the second together tells us which tree, but the third riddle tells us where the sword is hidden.” And then Kellabald recited the third riddle.

  “I build the castle, 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.”

  “Explain,” Apghilis said excitedly scratching his round belly.

  Kellabald stopped by the stream, then pointed. “A leaning friend, from the first riddle.” Across the stream, an enormous oak leaned across the water.

  “Cut it down at once!” Apghilis ordered.

  “Wait!” Kellabald said. “You have completely neglected the third riddle.”

  “It’s sand,” Halldora said. “I always knew it was sand.”

  All stared down at the sandy bank under the water which wound around the large oak leaning over the stream. It seemed to sparkle like effervescent gold in the midday sun. No one moved.

  Then, Kellabald tenderly stepped into the water. He gingerly put his hands into the sandy shoal, stirring clouds of silt in the water. The air was still, no breeze disturbed Bittel. All seemed to hold their breath. The quiet, red and tan leaves of the oak overhead softly rocked in anticipation. Kellabald seemed to have a hold of something.

  Then, Kellabald lifted the Mattear Gram from the sparkling water. The sun was like shafts of brilliant gold, beaming through the trees as he held it aloft, with diamond droplets of water dripping from the sword.

  It had no scabbard, so the naked blade reflected the sunlight like a hundred brilliant mirrors as Kellabald held it high in wonder.

  The hilt was gold and seemed to be cradling a dark wooden core on one side. It also had a strange, long, metal tube that protruded from the end of the hilt. The blade was long, light in thickness and an average width from edge to edge. It was made of a light, silvery metal not seen in any other sword in human hands. Along the flat of the blade was a gold pattern, a sun, near the hilt, some elvish writing, and a flag or banner that seemed to curl and twist all the way to the tip of the sword.

  Kellabald turned the Mattear Gram in his hands. The other side showed a gold pattern of a crescent moon, with more elvish writing, and a similar banner winding up the length of the blade. The sword seemed to sing or speak to him as he moved it.

  Kellabald was so filled with wonder that he hardly noticed Apghilis splashing into the water, until Apghilis wrested the sword from his hands.

  Apghilis held the sword high in victory. “I have it!” He crowed. Feeblerod clapped his hands and minced a little dance of joy around Wynnfrith.

  As Apghilis held the sword, the earth began to shake in disapproval. The earthquake fiercely splashed the water of the stream, and was so violent, all had to cling to something to keep from falling to the ground. The trees of Bittel shook with anger.

  Apghilis fell to all fours in the water, but then regained his footing as the earthquake abated.

  Slogging out of the water, Apghilis said, “We have no time. Come. We must do this at once.”

  All followed Apghilis as he strode to the great fire at the center of the village.

  There, he thrust the sword into the edge of the fire to heat the blade.

  “You gave us your promise you would free us once you had the sword,” Kellabald firmly said.

  “Maybe. If you swear allegiance to me, once I become the new king of the Northern Kingdom of Man.”

  “That will never happen,” Halldora said without thinking.

  “Will you not become my queen?” Apghilis said with a dangerous meaning, then checked to see how the blade was heating.

  “You gave a promise as an atheling,” Kellabald said.

  “You’re ruining this moment,” Apghilis dismissed. “Keep him silent.” Two of the garonds roughly grabbed Kellabald.

  “All rulers of the Northern Kingdom of Man wear the mark of birth,” Apghilis pronounced. Then he pulled the blade from the fire and it was white hot, the gold of the blade shone like the sun.

  Apghilis stripped away his trousers to reveal his naked legs.

  “I now take the mark and all the honor which it holds,” Apghilis said. Then to Kellabald he said, “The kings of old sacrificed humans to celebrate their ascension. You will do.”

  Then, Apghilis laid the white hot blade to his thigh. His flesh sizzled. Greasy smoke rose from the brand. He bellowed in pain.

  Kellabald struggled with his garond captors and shrugged himself free.

  Blind from agony, Apghilis handed the sword to Feeblerod, but the blade seemed to leap from Feeblerod’s hands into Kellabald’s.

  Kellabald quickly turned and cut the head clean off from one of the garonds who was holding him.

  All were paralyzed by the suddenness of the action.

  “Get him!” Apghilis yelled in pain. The four remaining garonds drew their swords and rushed Kellabald, while Feeblerod drew a long, slim blade and gyrated behind the garonds, pretending to fight.

  Kellabald could feel the blade singing to him in low, sweet, reassuring tones. He was no great swordsman, but every movement was perfect with this blade. He turned, with no effort, and in one fluid motion blocked the thrust of two garonds swords.

  It seemed as though time were standing still. Apghilis was crumbled into his pain, and Feeblerod was no threat. Kellabald could see and discern the position and shift of weight of all four garonds. In slow motion he could see that they worked together to make openings for each other. It would be impossible to counter this many garonds, impossible if he did not hold the Mattear Gram.

  Kellabald swung the sword underhanded at a blurring speed to cut the arms of the third garond. He continued the arc and cut right through the whole body of the fourth garond with no effort.

  Kellabald’s body and arms were weary and weak from the torture the day before, but the sword seemed to revitalize him and give him an unnatural strength.

  The first two garonds were already attacking again. Kellabald could feel them, rather than see them. He turned his body, continuing the same arc. The blade was still low, and it told him to cut at the feet of the first two garonds. But, the garonds were quick, the first one leapt over the blade. The second one was not so quick. The Mattear Gram, slicing upwards, cut the second garond’s leg clean away, through the thigh.

  The third garond, his arms bleeding, valiantly tried to turn half way and thrust with the momentum. But Kellabald and the sword saw this move and they parried, whirling the garond’s blade around and around, until the Mattear Gram cut his head off with a fiendish, hooking slice.

  The last garond standing backed away into a defensive posture. Kellabald moved forward with lightning speed, simply extending his arm straight ahead. The poor garond had no time to react. The sword went straight into its face.

  Kellabald withdrew the sword, then quickly dispatched the garond with the severed leg. The deaths of five garonds had taken but two moments.

  He turned to Feeblerod who shrieked, panted hard, and fell to the dirt of Bittel pleading for his life.

  Apghilis,
curled in pain, said, “The sword. Give it to me. It is mine by right.”

  Kellabald stood over the atheling. He raised the blade. “You have no honor and barely a right to the life I will now spare you.” Then, Kellabald lowered the sword.

  “Go to your garond masters, traitor,” Kellabald said. Then to Wynnfrith he said, “We must flee to Alfhich as fast as our legs with allow.”

  With that, Kellabald, with the Mattear Gram wrapped in cloth and strapped to his back, and Wynnfrith and Halldora, with as many supplies as they could carry, fled Bittel for Alfhich.

  All that afternoon they marched westward as quickly as they could. Towards the early evening, Halldora exclaimed and pointed back the way they had come.

  In the far distance, two figures could be seen following them. It was unmistakably Apghilis limping along, leaning heavily on Feeblerod.

  As night fell, Alfhich came into sight, a patchwork town of wooden houses with steep roofs, raised on stilts, connected by wooden ramps, cluttered together on the shore of the Holmwy River. Some of the houses had collapsed from the earthquake that afternoon. Several docks stretched out into the Holmwy, dotted by hundreds of fishing boats. The strong salty smell of the Mere Lanis drifted ashore.

  As they entered Alfhich, they could see the fishing town was jammed with refugees from all over Wealdland. Halldora pulled a scarf over her flame red hair. And, the three of them headed straight for the bridge of Alfhich.

  The bridge was a long, narrow series of spans that were held up by seven, piers which each nestled a small village. The Holmwy River was the widest river Wynnfrith had ever seen. Muddy and swift, it was three times as wide as the Bairn, and it seemed to blend right into the ocean it was flowing into.

  At the entrance to the bridge a large crowd of people milled. Some sold wares or fish, some looked for lost loved ones, and some tried to convince others a boat ride across the Holmwy was easier and cheaper.

  As Kellabald, Wynnfrith and Halldora pushed through the crowd, someone pulled the scarf from Halldora’s head and her flame red hair danced on the ocean breezes.

  “Halldora!” Someone in the crowd called. Her name was called again and again. Someone mentioned a reward, some gave thanks and others cursed her as the crowd pushed in.

  “Take the sword to Healfdene of Reia as Haergill wished,” Wynnfrith urgently whispered to Kellabald. “I will stay with Halldora.”

  And before Kellabald could answer, the crowd pushed him aside to swarm around Halldora as Wynnfrith angrily yelled and pushed the crowd back.

  Kellabald and Wynnfrith locked eyes across the crowd.

  “Go!” She yelled at him, and pointed at something at the far side of the crowd.

  Kellabald followed her indication and saw Apghilis and Feeblerod talking to ten armed men. The armed men pushed into the crowd and seized Wynnfrith and Halldora.

  There were too many, and too many innocents. With the special blade in his possession, Kellabald could have slain the whole town of Alfhich, but he was not a man who would ever murder.

  He knew she was right. Kellabald said a prayer of protection for his wife and friend. He knew he had no choice but to cross the Holmwy Bridge and deliver the Mattear Gram to Healfdene of the Green Hills of Reia by himself.

  Chapter Eleven

  Kellabald

  Kellabald struggled his way onto the Holmwy Bridge with the growing crowd behind him. Someone yelled something about collecting a toll or fee to cross the bridge, but too many people pushed their way forward with the confusion. Kellabald simply let the crowd carry him onward.

  The bridge could only accommodate four abreast, and it creaked ominously with the hundreds of pilgrims fleeing to the west.

  The Holmwy River was brown and insistently rippling. At least a hundred small fishing boats, crammed with passengers, also made for the western shore. No boats traveled east.

  Night was falling and lanterns could be seen flaring to life with light on the boats and along the bridge.

  At the first pier many of the people on the bridge crowded around the hot food merchants, ale houses and lodgings, so Kellabald decided to move on without trying to find something to eat. He was not alone as the bridge continued to crowd with people walking through the night to reach the Western Meadowlands and the safety of the green hills of Reia beyond the Flume of Rith.

  As Kellabald continued on to the second pier he realized that he had no money, nor anything to barter for food. He decided it would be best to keep moving anyway, in case Apghilis and his men were right on his heels.

  The second pier was much like the first pier, houses, merchants and inns teetered on the edges of a large wooden platform, which held up the continuing span of the Holmwy Bridge.

  As Kellabald passed the third pier, crowded as the first two, he noticed in the Holmwy River, a large fishing boat lined with soldiers who dipped their oars in unison. The soldier laden boat was making quick time for the distant shore. He thought he saw Apghilis amongst the boat’s crew and struggled through the crowd on the bridge with more determination.

  Kellabald pushed his way onto the fourth and middle pier. He was half way across the river. This platform was three times the size of the first three and was the size of a small town. The massive vertical logs which held up the center pier creaked and slowly swayed with the hundreds of people crowding its wooden planks. The Holmwy River below darkly pushed against the fourth pier with an insistent foamy wake.

  Kellabald was lost and unsure of the direction to the next span of the bridge.

  “Kellabald! Kellabald!” Someone called. He didn’t recognize the voice, so Kellabald roughly pushed through the crowd. Then, a bony, wizened hand clutched Kellabald’s cloak and pulled him to a stop. Kellabald tuned to find an old man with flowing white hair, and a kind face wrapped in a dark cloak.

  “Kellabald? It is you, isn’t it?” He said.

  Kellabald looked around worriedly to see if any had heard his name mentioned aloud. Then he pulled the old man to the side.

  “Who are you?” Kellabald asked.

  “I stopped in Bittel many years ago. You fed me rabbit and parsnips. So delicious. I never forgot.” The old man smacked his lips.

  “I don’t remember-“ Kellabald stammered.

  “Oh, it would have been,” The old man squinted into the depths of time, “before your soon to be wife and her mother came to your village from the Weald. Yes. It was soon after you had fled the priests of Eann in Gillalliath. So you would have just settled Bittel.” The old man smiled with satisfaction for having remembered.

  “I, I think I remember. But that was over twenty years ago.” Kellabald stared in wonder, but then looked around again in worry. “I’m sorry I have no time to reminisce with you. I am in a hurry. A great hurry.”

  “Oh, I suppose,” The old man said. “But, I must repay you for that meal. Such kindness is rare in this age. Have you any money?”

  “No,” Kellabald answered. “In fact I have nothing.”

  “Nothing,” the old man smiled eyeing the sword wrapped in folds of cloth and trapped to Kellabald’s back. “Very well, we must do this the old way. Then we can continue across the bridge.”

  The old man pulled Kellabald to a hot food vendor. He pointed to two meat pies. The vendor held out his hand and the old man made a pretense of counting out gold coins. The vendor behaved as if he had been paid, and the old man handed a warm meat pie to Kellabald. A watching child nearby started to protest until the old man hissed at him and sent him running, crying.

  Kellabald bit into the meat pie and it was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted, having not eaten properly for many days. “How did you do that?” Kellabald asked between mouthfuls.

  “He simply saw what he wanted to see,” the old man replied. “He will be no poorer for it. Our presence will make him far richer than if he had actually collected the money he thought he saw.”

  “You are a mage,” Kellabald reverently said.

  “If you like,” t
he Mage’s eyes sparkled.

  They continued on, making their way to the fifth pier as night deepened.

  “Magic is fading, almost gone,” the Mage said. “Magic is connected to what it touches. Objects. Ways of using objects.” Again the Mage eyed the swaddled object strapped to Kellabald’s back. “Some people will do unbelievably despicable things to obtain objects of power. Others will hold onto objects of magic for no good reason other than that they possess it, and want no other to have it.” The Mage spat into the water.

  As they traveled on to the sixth pier, a gangly young man of the messenger guild pushed past them.

  “We’re almost across,” the Mage said to Kellabald. “You’ve been awfully silent.” Kellabald only nodded his head. He was unsure about this old man.

  “I met a man,” the Mage continued as they made their way across the bridge in the darkness of night, “A man, who may be the great father of all new magic.”

  “New magic?” Kellabald watched the Mage carefully.

  “Old magic,” the Mage said, turning a finger in his ear, “was all a part of using your spirit to understand and manipulate the smallest of parts of the all that is. If you could understand a thing to its elemental core and become one with it, then you could tell it what to do. It would seem surprising and supernatural to you.”

  “And this new magic?” Kellabald focused on crossing the bridge.

  “Oh,” the Mage frowned, “it’s all about thinking. Thinking. Thinking. Thinking. Understanding in a new way. But being outside of the thing. From the outside he bends a thing to his will with his mind, and not his spirit, this new mage.”

  They walked on in silence towards the last pier.

  “He’s a pleasant enough youngster,” the Mage choked back a laugh, “but he gets lost in the woods too often.”

  The last pier was no different than the last six, but there were fewer people as more of the pilgrims had stopped for the night along the way.

  As they came to where the bridge touched the western shore, they saw a contingent of fifty or more soldiers stopping and searching those who stepped off the bridge to the dry land. The soldiers argued with the youth of the messenger guild. The soldiers demanded to see the message he carried, but the argument was to no avail. No one would dare to cross the guild in an open public place. The messenger went on his way, his message safe.