The Last Elf of Lanis

by Hargan, K. J.

  It was He.

  The Evil One.

  He was a beautiful young man, with sandy blonde hair. And then Wynnfrith smiled for she knew what to do.

  In her mind she called to him.

  Look at me! Look! Here! I see you, great and terrible one! You are not so powerful!

  I see you.

  Then Wynnfrith could feel in her mind as he took notice. His anger and evil was overwhelming, like an immense, growing black cloud, death and sorrow multiplied into the infinite.

  And he was furious that she would dare to taunt him.

  Wynnfrith saw him make only the slightest of gestures, and a blinding bolt of power leapt from his hand.

  She flew with the lightning bolt over the skies of Wealdland. The lightning bolt was headed right for Alfhich, right for the fourth pier. He was going to kill her.

  At the last moment, with all the strength left her, Wynnfrith pushed up on Feeblerod and rolled out from under him as the lightning bolt struck.

  Feeblerod convulsed as the bolt hit him. His fat body bucked with spasms as it cooked. He rose slightly off the wooden planks of the pier as the fat began to melt off his disgusting body. A silent scream froze on his face as he burned and burned. His fat hands blackened and charred with the white hot fire.

  Feeblerod sizzled and smelled of burning meat.

  Then the consumed carcass fell to the floor with a crispy thud, and broke into scorched black, flaky chunks, and seared black bones.

  Wynnfrith ran to Halldora and helped her pull out the sword that held her pinned to the wooden platform.

  “We must flee,” Halldora said, looking at the fire quickly spreading over the pier.

  They ran for the span, which led to the fifth pier and the far shore, but it collapsed into the river in flames.

  They ran back to the span, which led back to the eastern side. They could see many people, some still fighting on the other side of a wall of flame. They were caught on the fourth pier as it burned with a ravenous fury, and encircled by fire all around.

  “No,” Halldora said. She clutched Wynnfrith’s arm and walked towards the wall of flames.

  “I will not be denied!” Halldora screamed at the flames.

  As she stepped forward, with her words, a wind began, a wind that resembled the shape of the mother of the queen, and the shape cleared the flames for Halldora and Wynnfrith to walk through.

  On the other side, all had ceased struggle to stare in wonder.

  A soldier kneeled, then another. Then all the citizens of the Northern Kingdom slowly knelt.

  “Your Queen,” the gravely wounded Gerdsun said.

  “We had best all get quickly off this bridge,” Halldora said. And, a rapid, but orderly evacuation of the bridge commenced with all staring in wonder at their queen who commanded the very claws of flame.

  On the shore, they watched as the bridge burned from end to end and fell into the river.

  “There’s no crossing here now,” Gerdsun said by Halldora’s side.

  Gerdsun fell from his wounds.

  “You will not die, brave soldier,” Halldora said. “I command it.”

  Gerdsun smiled as his deadly wounds were quickly seen to.

  “How can we cross this river, now?” Halldora said in despair.

  “Tyny,” Wynnfrith said. “We must go north to Tyny. There is a bridge there.”

  So, they left with all who would follow, to begin the journey north. And follow they did. All the residents of Alfhich, refugees from Madrun and all the Wealdland began the trek north along the eastern shores of the Holmwy River to Tyny.

  They walked all through the night.

  At midnight, word was sent to Halldora.

  Halldora and Wynnfrith approached the litter bearing Gerdsun.

  “I am so sorry I cannot follow your command, my queen,” Gerdsun weakly said.

  “Then go to be with Haergill and stand with honor among the heroes of the Northern Kingdom of Man in the halls of Oann,” Halldora said holding his hand.

  Gerdsun tried to kiss Halldora’s hand in respect, but his life left him. And, he died with a smile of honor on his face.

  A bier was made and the hero Gerdsun was cremated and sent to his ancestors with righteousness.

  Out of courtesy, all travel was halted for the night.

  The next morning the great and growing migration north continued. The journey took all day, and as night was falling Halldora and Wynnfrith arrived at the small village of Tyny to find it already overflowing with humans. The surrounding camps numbered in the thousands.

  The men of Reia held the bridge. They would let no man cross over to the Western Meadowlands and the green hills beyond the Flume of Rith.

  As night began to fall, Halldora and Wynnfrith were granted dinner at the camp of Haerreth, the son of Healfdene, the king of Reia.

  Haerreth was a young man in his late twenties, blonde haired, ginger bearded, and full of fire. The banquet was set outside, with tables and chairs and many courses of food arraigned around a large bonfire. He was surrounded by his war generals dressed in splendid armor, and his younger sister sat at his right hand.

  “So there is a grand army of garonds in the south,” Haerreth said with a smile. “Good! Let us be at them and wipe them from our lands!” He bit a huge chunk of mutton and smiled with a full mouth.

  “You do not understand,” Halldora respectfully said. “This is about more than armies and battle. Powers beyond our comprehension are at work here.”

  “All I need to comprehend,” Haerreth pleasantly said, “is that garonds die when I chop their heads off.” The council of men at the dinner heartily laughed at the joke.

  “We need to see your father,” Wynnfrith suddenly said.

  “And why is this?” Haerreth suspiciously said.

  “My husband,” Wynnfrith, suddenly shy, said, “carries the Mattear Gram for Healfdene, your father, to carry into battle.”

  “Grand,” Haerreth bellowed. “Where is your husband? Where is the famous sword?” All looked around as if expecting to see him jump out of the growing darkness.

  “He is on the other side of the Holmwy,” Wynnfrith said. “We hope.”

  “You hope,” Haerreth said with gentle skepticism. “Well, if he is in the Western Meadowlands, he will meet my father quickly. I can assure you of that.”

  “There were men after him,” Halldora said. “Apghilis.”

  “Ap- !” Haerreth spat out the chunk of mutton he had bitten off. “If that great snake is in the Western Meadowlands, I want his neck in my hands immediately!”

  All was quiet as the elaborate bonfire burned for the outdoor banquet.

  “So,” Haerreth said with a charming smile, “what are these great powers you speak of?”

  Overhead, the great terror in the sky stopped all conversation, as the all the humans gathered at Tyny looked up at the night sky with fear.

  “Great and evil plans are in motion,” Halldora grimly said, as the Wanderer, the second, smaller moon, moved at a rapid, frighteningly unnatural pace across the night sky.

  “Yes,” Wynnfrith said to Haerreth. “I have seen his face, the Lord of Lightning. This is his doing, and he means to kill all life on earth with this.”

  “We must stop him,” said Halldora. “We must find Kellabald and make sure he delivers the Mattear Gram. I think Haergill foresaw something, and had a way to stop this.”

  Haerreth and all the men of Reia were speechless.

  Chapter Thirteen

  From Kenethley to Tyny

  Arnwylf woke to find a seagull perched on the headboard above his head, curiously staring down at him. The seagull croaked and then flapped out of the room.

  Arnwylf was in a soft bed with clean sheets. A light huff made Arnwylf look down to see Conniker curled up on the bed at his feet and sleepily smiling at him.

  The room was painted white and clean. Morning sunlight streamed in through large windows. Chiffon curtains swirled with the smell of salty s
ea air.

  Frea entered with a plate of fresh bread, and a cup of milk.

  Arnwylf sat up with bruises and aches.

  “We were worried you wouldn’t live,” Frea said as she dipped a piece of bread into the milk and then gently put it into Arnwylf’s mouth.

  Although it was only bread soaked with a little milk, because of his weeks of starvation at the hands of the garonds since that first raid on Bittel, to Arnwylf, it was the most delicious thing in the world. He held back tears.

  Frea softly touched his cheek with the back of her hand. She pulled close to Arnwylf. His body was lean and muscular from the seven days of hard labor and starvation among the garonds. His face was serious and handsome. She had washed his dirty, matted hair, as he lay comatose in the bed. She stayed by his side the whole night furiously praying for his recovery. He looked up with a little milk dribbling from his chin, and smiled. Her lips yearned for his.

  Then Rebburn bustled into the room.

  “Out, out,” she said to Frea. “Plenty of time for that later.” Then the old woman peered down at Arnwylf. “Only a boy, but the strength of an auroch,” she said shaking her head.

  Caerlund led the Archer and the elf into the room.

  “How fare you, son! Welcome to Kenethley! “ Caerlund bellowed.

  “Caerlund!” Arnwylf weakly cried.

  “Are you well enough to walk? We must travel north quickly,” Caerlund said stroking his beard.

  “Of course he isn’t,” Rebburn scolded.

  “I think I could ride on one of the horses,” Arnwylf said with effort.

  “They were left on the other side of the Fallfont Gorge, remember?” The Archer solemnly said.

  “I would like to see Kenethley,” Arnwylf said rising from his bed.

  “Now, now,” Rebburn protested. But, Arnwylf was already out of the bed and standing. Frea and the Archer supported him on either side. Conniker, with his tail bandaged, leapt off the bed to join Arnwylf.

  Rebburn shook her head and clucked. “Only a boy, but the strength of an auroch.”

  Caerlund stepped close to Rebburn and said, “I wish you had gone north with the others as you were supposed to.”

  “Then who would have looked after him,” Rebburn said, gently pulling a lock of Arnwylf’s hair.

  The group left Rebburn in the room softly clucking to the seagull, and went down a circular staircase and out onto the streets of Kenethley.

  Arnwylf had been washed and clothed with spare clothes left in the great evacuation of the Madrun Hills. The capitol city Kenethley, a city of thousands, was strangely empty and quiet. Stalls and goods were left, rummaged and scattered as the humans of the city had fled for their lives.

  The buildings of Kenethley, every single building, house, market, and great hall, was cylindrical, painted white and topped with a round, billowing, gray roof.

  “They look like mushrooms!” Arnwylf laughed.

  Caerlund did a double take, then looked around and around at his city as though for the first time.

  “Well bless my evening bread!” Caerlund exclaimed. “I’ve lived here my whole life, thirty seven years, and never saw that my city looks like a ponder of mushrooms.” Caerlund stroked his red beard in amazement.

  The group erupted into pleasant laughter, while Conniker wagged his poor tail and nuzzled Arnwylf.

  The Archer stepped to Caerlund and whispered in his ear.

  “Arnwylf,” Caerlund said to him, “let me show you something.”

  Arnwylf could see the Archer and the elf take Frea aside and they spoke to her in low, sympathetic tones. Arnwylf knew what they were telling her.

  Caerlund tried to distract Arnwylf by showing him a sweet, green and red apple that only grew in the Madrun Hills.

  Arnwylf watched as Frea fainted with grief to learn of the death of her father. Arnwylf, weak and in pain, quickly limped to her side, but the Archer already had caught her and was gently rousing her. All were awkwardly silent. Arnwylf reached out and took Frea’s hand.

  “You will always have a family with us,” Arnwylf bravely said. Frea’s eyes were filled with both affection and immeasurable grief.

  The group all stood in still respect for Haergill, the King of the Northern Kingdom of Man, but most importantly loving father to his daughter Frea.

  Then Caerlund started with a sudden realization. “Ah!” He cried, “Have I something to show you!”

  Caerlund led the group to a cluster of large mushroom shaped buildings all leaning together. Caerlund produced a key, and opened two huge, reinforced oak doors.

  “This must be the castle,” Arnwylf said.

  “Aye,” Caerlund said with a twinkle in his eye as he pushed the massive doors open. They walked into a beautiful courtyard, adorned with potted plants and soft chairs and lounges.

  They then went into a foyer with a marble floor that shone like a placid lake in the afternoon sun. The castle of Kenethley was regal, but comfortable and simple.

  They followed Caerlund through a succession of pleasant, adjoined rooms to a reinforced door, which Caerlund opened with another large key.

  “I have been here many times,” the elf said with a smile.

  “Since before my great grandfather, I reckon,” Caerlund said with a nod.

  Inside, the group entered the treasury room of Kenethley. Brilliant gold cups and plates glowed. Silver scabbards and necklaces glimmered like moonlight. Emeralds and rubies, as big as a man’s fist, cut with elaborate designs, clustered together like bowls of fruit in ornate golden bowls.

  Caerlund directed them to a large, oak chest. Yet another key opened it to reveal mounds of gold coins.

  “Eh?” Caerlund proudly prodded.

  Arnwylf put his hands into the trove of gold coins and let them fall through his fingers.

  “Very pretty,” Arnwylf said. “What are they?”

  Caerlund looked to the Archer as though he couldn’t believe what he had just heard.

  “He doesn’t know what money is,” the Archer said to Caerlund with affectionate amusement.

  Frea looked at Arnwylf with a new love because of his purity and innocence. The elf gently put her hand on Arnwylf’s shoulder.

  “Money is pretty,” the elf said to Arnwylf, “but we, of the elfkin, discovered long ago that life and love are much more valuable. See, here are many elvish coins we no longer had any use for.” The elf handled a few beautifully designed coins with the portrait of a serious elf on one side, and a mythical bird in flight on the other to Arnwylf. “We gave them to the people of Madrun because we love them so.”

  Caerlund beamed proudly. Then he shoved handfuls of gold into his pockets.

  “Take some, take some,” he said. “I can’t carry the whole treasure, and we might need some money later on.”

  The group heaped gold into their pockets, but Arnwylf took only a single, elvish gold piece because he liked the face of the stern looking elf on the coin.

  Walking back out through the castle Caerlund stopped.

  “Ah!” He cried and grabbed a padded footstool. “My old favorite. I can’t leave without you.” And he juggled the small, green velvet piece of furniture with the growing arm load of other objects he couldn’t leave without.

  “What was that, last night, in the sky?” Frea asked the Archer.

  “I do not know, but it was no accident,” he answered.

  “It was Deifol Hroth,” the elf said. “He threatened to bring the second, smaller moon down to earth hundreds of years ago. The elfkin thought he was mad.”

  “How can he do it? Who is he?” Frea asked. Then, Arnwylf told of all he had seen in the garond encampment.

  “Once he was a man, as ordinary as any of you,” the elf said with concern. “He became a friend of the elves long before I was born. They say he was bright, and learned quickly elvish ways and secrets. He found power with those secrets and with his desire for more power became possessed when he found in a secret place an evil spirit, the blackes
t spirit of all, Jofod Kagir. He visited destruction on all the parts of the earth, not just here in Wealdland. He was directly responsible for the dark, ignorant Fourth Age, and the loss of learning and many technologies. He channels evil powers, old and dangerous. But how he moves great objects in the heavens, I do not know. This is something new. He realized in the Fourth Age he cannot control all things, as he wanted, and so now he lusts to exterminate all life on earth to spite the Great Spirit parent, Wylkeho Daniei.”

  “But why does he need to come here to Wealdland to do these things?” Arnwylf asked. No one had an answer.

  “The night before,” the elf said, “I dreamt he went to my city.”

  “Lanis Rhyl Landemiriam!?” Caerlund said with a huff. “He cannot enter there. No one but the elf folk can do so.” Then Caerlund turned to Arnwylf and Frea, and like a parent telling a bedtime story said, “The walls are enchanted and recognize whoever stands without. They open and close, brick by brick, if you are a friend. But, become slippery and impassable if you are a foe!”

  “We are not children” Arnwylf huffed.

  “I have seen it with my own eyes!” Caerlund said defensively. “I am one of the few humans to ever be a guest in the elf city!”

  The elf simply smiled and nodded to confirm the truth of Caerlund's statement.

  “Perhaps,” the Archer said to the elf, “when we have seen these friends safely over the Holmwy Bridge we should come back and check on your city.”

  “Of a certainty,” the elf gravely said.

  As they left the castle of Kenethley, Caerlund dropped his ample armload of favorite treasures in surprise to find twenty horses standing and staring at them with innocent curiosity.

  “My horse!” Arnwylf cried and limped up to stroke the neck of the tan horse with the black mane that he had ridden out of the garond encampment in Harvestley. The horse affectionately nuzzled Arnwylf in recognition.

  “Now,” Arnwylf said, “we can quickly ride north.”

  “Not getting me on one of those beasts,” Caerlund grumbled as he gathered up his precious items.

  The Archer seemed troubled.

  “What is on your mind?” The elf asked.

  But, before he could answer, a seagull flopped in front of them with an angry insistent squawk. It began scolding the elf.