The Last Elf of Lanis

by Hargan, K. J.

  “What does it say?” The Archer asked.

  “I cannot understand its tongue,” the elf said. “This is Rebburn’s seagull which comes from the other side of the world”.

  “The other side of the world?” Arnwylf asked in surprise.

  “Rebburn?” Frea said.

  They all immediately realized what the seagull was trying to tell them. They dropped what they had in their arms, and ran for the tower where they had left Rebburn.

  They found her in the room in which Arnwylf had awoken. She was crumpled on the floor, clutching her chest.

  “Careful, careful,” Caerlund soothed as he helped her onto the bed.

  “I’m going, son,” Rebburn said stroking Caerlund’s cheek. “I’ve clung onto this life much longer than I should have. It’s far past my time. Touch nothing but those few things you want to take with you as you leave Kenethley,” she said with great difficulty.

  “I am bringing you with us, mother,” Caerlund bravely said, and bent to pick her up.

  “You must go. Now. Know I love you. And most important of all, keep your eyes on that one,” she whispered and pointed at Arnwylf, “everything depends on him.” Then she quietly died.

  “Mother! Mother!” Caerlund softly cried.

  “We must go,” the Archer said. “Garonds will be here any moment. They may have followed the horses across the Madronwy River.”

  “But my mother,” Caerlund protested.

  “She has already made her funeral pyre,” the elf said. “As she strictly counseled, touch nothing. Let us go.”

  As they started down for the horses, Arnwylf noticed small glass vials of amber liquid placed in every nook and cranny.

  “Do you see-“ Arnwylf reached out to grab one.

  “No,” the elf said, catching his hand with lightning speed.

  They quickly tied what they could to the horses and mounted just as Conniker began loudly barking.

  “They’re here,” the Archer said. The late morning sun was glinting off the Mere Lanis, as twenty horse garonds rode into the city. Arnwylf slapped his horse, and he, Frea, the Archer, the elf, Caerlund and his guards clinging to their horses, rode out of Kenethley at a full gallop.

  Behind them, the city exploded in a billowing fireball.

  Caerlund laughed at the top of his lungs. “Funeral pyre, indeed,” he shouted, then, “mad old woman,” wiping the streaming tears from his eyes.

  Not all the horse garonds were caught in the great consummation of Kenethley. Five escaped and came riding after, quickly gaining ground.

  The Archer had refilled his quiver in Kenethley, and leaned back on his horse and pulled his bow. He shot and his arrow went high over the horse garonds heads.

  The Archer and the elf exchanged a bemused glance.

  The Archer nocked another arrow, and with a bit more caution, killed one of the horse garonds behind them.

  As they got closer, they made easier targets, and the Archer was able to kill two more.

  One of the horse garonds pulled in close to grab Frea, but Caerlund spurred his horse on and smashed the garond over the head with his favorite footstool. The garond fell dead as the footstool splintered.

  “Gaaaah!” Caerlund cried. “You monsters will pay for that!”

  The elf drew the moon sword of Berand Torler, leapt from her horse, onto the back of the last horse garond, cut his head off, then leapt in a curving, graceful arc back onto her own horse. The Archer looked over, and the two of them shared a moment of dark laughter.

  “They’re not done with us!” Arnwylf cried, in the lead, pointing. In the distance, far to their right, kicking up trails of dust, more horse garonds were bearing down on them from their flank.

  But, the twenty or more horse garonds didn’t charge them directly from the side. They pulled up and came in behind them.

  They were more than half way to Plymonley and the center of the Madrun Hills.

  The horse garonds behind them drew their swords and spurred their horses forward. Then, the Archer had an idea.

  He wasn’t really controlling his horse. He was simply holding on and letting the horse follow Arnwylf’s horse. He carefully turned himself around, with the horse bumping and rocking over the uneven ground, until he was sitting backwards on his horse.

  The Archer looked over, and he and the elf shared a grim smile. The horse garonds were very close, their sharp swords gleaming as the Archer nocked his first arrow. The Archer thought he saw a glimmer of recognition in their widening eyes as he pulled the first arrow. He let himself get used to the rocking sensation of the horse at full gallop. Then, he released and easily killed the closest garond, who tumbled off his horse with a Kenethley arrow in his chest.

  The Archer kept shooting without missing. This new cluster of horse garonds was quickly reduced to half their number. The Archer killed two more as they topped the ridge into the Plymonley valley. His arm was remembering the great slaughter the day before and aching with pain. He shot two more as the horse garonds pulled in close. The Archer felt his arm go numb with paralysis. The elf looked over with concern. The Archer just shrugged with helplessness.

  There were six horse garonds and they came in close on all sides. Caerlund was full of anger and sorrow, and whirled his battle-axe with fury. The blade sliced a garond and then there were five.

  As they rode into the Plymonley valley, they could see the wreckage of the small town. But there was also a new army of several hundred garonds who angrily inspected the large heaps of burning garond bodies from the previous battle. Ravensdred was also there.

  An ear splitting scream went up as the garond army saw the riders approaching.

  Arnwylf directed his horse to take their group out and around the army, who were mostly on foot. But there were sixty or more horse garonds, Ravensdred among their number. He organized his horse garonds and they charged after Arnwylf and his band of riders.

  As they passed Pylmonley, they dodged a barrage of ineffectual garond arrows.

  The Archer easily caught one right out of the air. They were still bad, he thought, but they were getting better. Their arrows were straighter, more refined, and their bows stronger with more pull, a worrying development.

  Two of Caerlund’s men fell to the horse garonds right at their sides. They topped the ridge and were out of the valley of Plymonley, and halfway through the Madrun Hills as Caerlund and his men who were left dispatched the last horse garonds who were right up close to them. But now, they had sixty more gaining on them, led by Ravensdred.

  It was almost midday.

  “Look!” The elf called, pointing. Far off to the east, great brown clouds began to billow up on the horizon. Then, the elf urged her horse to pull even with Arnwylf and his horse.

  “We have to run faster!” The elf called to Arnwylf’s horse. “They will slaughter us all!”

  Arnwylf’s horse seemed to understand, put his head down and thundered his hooves even faster. The whole band of horses quickened their pace.

  Ravensdred and his platoon of horse garonds began to fall back. He roared and kicked his horse, and they surged forward.

  For about an hour the chase continued, with neither side giving ground. The Archer recovered now and then to pick off a garond, but his arm was in great pain.

  At midday, the group rounded the source of the Madronwy River and had only about an hour to reach Alfhich. They were closer to safety, but Ravensdred and his cavalry would not be deterred.

  The elf could see that Conniker was having difficulty keeping up with the brutal pace of the horses.

  “Find a place to hide!” She yelled to him. “Then track us down in the north!”

  With that, the white wolf nodded his head in understanding, and peeled off to the west. Three horse garonds veered off to follow him.

  After about another hour with neither side gaining an advantage, they dropped into the flat, southern plain that led to Alfhich. The cluster of buildings of the fishing town could clearly be seen
. But even more astonishing was the great gathering of humans around Alfhich, also visible from a far distance.

  A vicious bellow went up from Ravensdred, and he spurred his own horse to a speed that would surely kill it.

  The Archer saw Ravensdred ready his bow. With barely the strength to lift his arm, the Archer nocked an arrow, turned around on his horse, and shot Ravensdred in the shoulder before the garond leader could shoot.

  Then the Archer nocked an arrow of Yenolah. He would never be able to recover it. But, this was a special occasion, and a rare opportunity he thought. Perhaps this is what the arrows were meant for.

  The Archer carefully sighted and let fly the black, lethal arrow.

  Ravensdred’s eyes went wide. He pulled his sword and swiped at the arrow as it headed directly for his head. The black arrowhead shattered along with Ravensdred’s sword, the shrapnel flying into his eyes. He fell from his horse, clutching his face. His guards pulled up to help him.

  The whole garond horse platoon came to a halt next to their fallen leader. They dare not attack Alfhich being outnumbered a hundred to one by the humans. The garonds helped Ravensdred onto his horse, then the whole company turned and rode away.

  Arnwylf led his band into the outskirts of Alfhich. The crush of refugees was amazing.

  “Move aside!” Caerlund cried. “We need to cross the bridge immediately!”

  “The bridge is fallen!” Someone from the crowd said.

  Burnt pieces of the Holmwy Bridge were visible, forlorn, ruined and black protruding from the flowing light brown of the Holmwy River.

  “We need to find a person named Kellabald, Wynnfrith, or Halldora!” Caerlund yelled to the crowd.

  “Halldora!?” Another in the crowd returned. “Our Queen and her black haired friend have gone north to Tyny!”

  “Tyny is a quick journey on these horses,” the elf said. “Can you continue?” She asked Arnwylf’s horse.

  The tan horse snorted and tossed its head. They pulled away from the swelling crowd around the town of Alfhich.

  As they traveled north, along the eastern shore of the Holmwy River, the stream of people also traveling to Tyny grew.

  “Look!” The Archer said and pointed off to the east.

  The elf turned and saw that the brown cloud on the horizon was towering up to the upper reaches of the sky with wispy strands like a light brown mane.

  They arrived at Tyny shortly after midday, in the late afternoon. Arnwylf thanked his horse for being so strong and gallant. After asking only a few times, they were directed to where Wynnfrith and Halldora were given lodgings by Haerreth.

  Wynnfrith exited her tent and stopped in her tracks as she saw Arnwylf. Halldora ran, crying into the arms of her daughter, Frea.

  Wynnfrith couldn’t believe the change in her son. Arnwylf didn’t know what to do. His mother seemed so strange, shocked. Wynnfrith slowly approached her son. He was thin, and seemed to be taller, more muscular, even though it had only been seven days when last she laid eyes on him. There was a new seriousness on his face that broke her heart.

  “I found her,” he said to his mother. “As I said I would.”

  Wynnfrith began to tear up. Her little boy was gone. There was no trace of the child, the baby. She hadn’t even said a proper good bye to the infant she loved so. Here was a man. A man shaped like her little son, tall, strange and beautiful.

  Arnwylf opened his arms to his mother. She let herself fall into his lanky arms, and her tears flowed. Thank god he’s alive, she thought. She wanted to tell him of all her great love, but no words would come.

  Arnwylf noticed Halldora and Frea quietly talking together, holding each other and weeping. He knew they were talking of the death of Haergill, and a part of him knew that, later, he would hate the garonds even more. But for now, he felt the warm embrace of his mother and let the worries fall away.

  “Where is father?” Arnwylf asked Wynnfrith.

  “He is somewhere on the other side of the river,” Wynnfrith said with sorrow. Then, all briefly told of their adventures since parting.

  “We must cross the Tyny Bridge at once,” the Archer said. “If the Mattear Gram has fallen into Apghilis’ hands, all may be lost.”

  “No one is permitted to cross,” Halldora said. “The soldiers of Reia have closed the bridge.”

  “They will let me cross,” the Archer said.

  “Let us go then,” the elf said.

  “I do not think they will not let you cross, as well,” the Archer patted her shoulder. The elf smiled.

  The Archer strode to the Tyny Bridge. The soldiers instantly recognized him and stood aside. But, they barred the way to the elf.

  The elf backed up several paces. The Archer, looking back, had an idea what she was going to do. They locked eyes, and both laughed a smile. The Archer continued crossing the bridge. The elf walked back a few paces, then quickly turned and began to run. She was a blur. She bounded over the heads of the guards, and they didn’t even see her. She was a gentle, late autumn breeze to them. She came to stop right in front of the Archer so the guards couldn’t see her walking in front of him. The Archer had to hold his cheeks to keep from bursting out with laughter.

  And, together in the late afternoon sun, the Archer and the elf crossed the Tyny Bridge over the Holmwy River to the Western Meadowland.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Rogar Li

  Yulenth woke with the morning rays. Alrhett was still sound asleep behind him in the bowels of the sheltering, hollow oak. The morning sun was warm and drying. Yulenth stretched with aches and grunts.

  Yulenth thought about the strangeness of the last night, the fight at Rion Ta, the kidnapping of Frea, how he had saved the elf from the prison of purple lightning, how they had been tracking their grandson Arnwylf through the Weald with the white wolf, and how the wolf had left them alone in the raining night to chase some shadowy monster.

  He pulled himself out of the oak and gently shook his wife.

  “Time to go,” he softly said.

  Alrhett’s eyes fluttered open as if she were dreaming of their soft, safe bed in Bittel. But then the past day's events flooded in on her and she looked around like a cornered animal.

  “It’s all right,” Yulenth said with a smile, and helped her out of the hollow of the oak.

  “Did Conniker return?” She asked with a yawn. Yulenth scanned the nearby trees and bushes.

  “No sign of him,” he said.

  “I guess we should find the Bairn River and follow it east to the Three Bridges. We’re bound to find the boy along the way,” Alrhett said stretching.

  “Right,” Yulenth said, turning, surveying the leafless Weald sprawling out in all directions. “The morning sun is there. That is the east. Hmmmm,” Yulenth bobbed his head up and down. “I don’t know where we are. I guess we just go south until we reach the Bairn River.”

  “Sounds sensible,” Alrhett agreed.

  The two of them, Yulenth, swinging his sword at brambles that blocked the way, and Alrhett, using her spear as a staff, made their way south.

  A chilly, late autumn wind whispered through the bare, black branches. The massive oaks of the Weald had all dropped their leaves. They crunched underfoot, and obscured paths through the forest. The pines, so thick two men holding hands couldn’t reach around them, were still dark green, but their bark was silvery, flaking and dry.

  “Not much rain all year,” Yulenth said, taking in the old growth forest. “But we got soaked last night.”

  As they crunched through dark orange bracken, dead for the old year, Alrhett said, “Do you know what the word ‘Weald’ means?”

  “It’s a derived from an old word, isn’t it?” Yulenth said.

  “It means ‘wild’,” Alrhett said, leaning on her spear as she picked through the tangled, dry brush.

  “Wild! Describes it perfectly,” Yulenth laughed. “But I wonder why the whole, from Reia, to the Northern Kingdom, down to the Madrun Hills is called Wealdland
?”

  “Probably,” Alrhett said, “because the Weald is the first place you come to once you’ve crossed Byland.”

  “But the first place you come to is Harvestley, and that’s flat, open farmland,” Yulenth huffed.

  “Well,” Alrhett said, “It was once thick forest like this. But humans cut down all the trees to grow crops. So it was part of the Weald.”

  “I wish we were in flat, open farmland right now,” Yulenth said scratching his head. “Because I think we’re lost. We should have reached the river by now.” Yulenth peered up at the late morning sun, shaded by the snaking tangles of branches of towering, leafless oaks and elms. “Do you have any idea where we are? This is your home,” Yulenth said.

  “The paths through the Weald are numerous. And, I haven’t been in this forest for over fifteen years,” Alrhett said.

  They heard the footsteps of another traveler crunching through the late autumn leaves.

  “Back here,” Yulenth said concealing himself and Alrhett behind the trunk of a large oak.

  They saw an old man, dressed in a dark cloak picking his way through the canopy of tangled trees. Yulenth was immediately relieved.

  “Hallo there!” He cried to the old man. The hooded traveler made as to gesture defensively, but halted when he saw that it was two fellow humans.

  “Yes?” He answered.

  Yulenth and Alrhett made their way to him. “We seem to be lost. We’re trying to find the river,” Yulenth said to the man with flowing white hair, and kind eyes.

  “Lost, eh?” The mage said. “A man as intelligent as you are?”

  “What are you talking about?” Yulenth said. “Do I know you?”

  “Who can say?” The mage answered. “But look around. What do you feel? Can you feel the trees talking to you?”

  “Feel-?” Yulenth snorted. “I lost the direction of the morning sun. I thought that was east, so that should be south,” he said pointing.

  “What troubles you?” The mage said to Alrhett, who started at his words.

  “How did you-?”