by K. J. Hargan
“Pirates?” Caerlund said with a frown.
“Though coarse men, they were not plunderers as I remember, but it has been centuries,” Iounelle said. “I was but a child”
Derragen and Caerlund smiled to each other to think of the elf as a child at a hundred years old.
The elf suddenly shot to her feet.
“Alarm! Alarm!” She cried in a voice that was unnaturally loud.
Derragen could feel a rumbling as if the earth were quaking. “It’s the whole garond army,” he whispered to himself in horror. “To arms! To arms!” He cried. “The first patrol was a feint!”
The rumbling became a thundering, as several thousand garonds, half on horseback, charged the main road out of Lanis, dragging the slaughtered bodies of the poor sentries, Akden and Nolebe.
“Get our horses!” The Archer commanded.
Several Sons of Yenolah knew precisely what to do. Instead attempting to mount their horses, they drove them into the oncoming garond army. The human defenders took a terrible toll on the charging garond regiment, as the human archers were well trained. Garond foot soldiers and horses alike were peppered with volley after volley of expertly aimed arrows. With the stampede of the countering horses, the garond rush came to a bloody, confusing halt. The garond horses reared and turned, crushing several of their own soldiers.
“Attack!” The elf cried. And the Sons of Yenolah, and the Children of Lanis surged forward with an emotional ferocity that initially pushed the garond army back, even though the garonds outnumbered the humans three to one.
“With me!” Caerlund cried to his madronite warriors. And they ran around the crush of garond soldiers to block their flank and attack from the rear.
The Sons of Yenolah skewered garond after garond with deadly accuracy, focusing on the garonds on horseback. Once their arrows were spent, the grim faced humans came on with sword and spear with a bloody fierceness.
The Children of Lanis worked as a well-orchestrated team, centered near the elf. Fighting side by side, the Children of Lanis made sure no garond would face a single human.
“Iounelle!” Derragen called to the elf, as an anomaly caught his eye.
But the elf caught site of something else and seemed transfixed.
She leapt into the air, high, high, and touched down lightly on the haunches of a horse. No sooner had she a footing on the horse’s flank, then she leapt to another horse, unmindful of any garond still on horseback. Their swipes at her were always a moment too late.
“It’s him!” The Archer shouted. “It’s Deifol Hroth!”
But the elf was headed away, to the front of the garond army, which was trying desperately to break through to flee down the road.
The elf landed in front of a garond captain who brandished an elvish sword to deadly effect. The crush of human and garond backed away from Iounelle, aware of her deadly prowess.
“That is my brother’s sword,” Iounelle said between clenched teeth, tears of rage streaming down her face.
The garond captain roared with sharp teeth bared in response.
Iounelle rushed the garond captain’s horse, and with the strength of pain and sorrow, threw the horse bodily to the ground.
The garond captain was well trained and rolled to his feet, his stolen elvish sword whipping in circles, ready to fight.
Iounelle paced around the garond captain, unmindful of the battle raging all about them. The elf drew the sacred Moon Sword of Berand Torler and held the blade deathly still. Then, the elf paused. “These blades should never cross,” she said, and she sheathed the Moon Sword.
The garond captain let loose an evil laugh and charged.
Iounelle, flattened herself to the ground and then sprung up to catch the garond captain’s sword arm. Another garond rushed her from behind to aid his leader. The elf braced herself against the flailing captain, and kicked back, high and hard with both feet, and broke the neck of the garond behind her.
“Let it go,” Iounelle said to the captain, who simply snarled and viciously pawed at the elf.
Iounelle whirled the captain high over her hip, wrenched, and tore his arm clean from his body. The captain spattered its troops with the blood gushing from his shoulder. He clawed at his mortal wound, only to collapse, dead. Iounelle slowly wrenched her brother’s sword from the garond hand, still desperately gripping the hilt, as the shocked garond soldiers looked on in terror.
“There, there!” The Archer called to Caerlund. The Chieftain of the Madrun Hills turned to see the direction the Archer pointed. Amidst the crush of garonds still on horseback. Caerlund could make out a human figure, in a swaddling cloak, one armed, the remaining arm clutching some valuable, well-wrapped bundle.
“Get me close enough for a clean shot,” Derragen cried to Caerlund above the deafening din of human and garond clashing to the death. Then, the Archer nocked a curiously shaped, black-metaled Arrow of Yenolah.
“I’ll have you breathing down his neck,” Caerlund huffed as his battle-axe cut the head clean from a charging garond. “To me!” He cried and all the warrior madronites hacked and slashed their way to their leader.
“This way!” Caerlund cried and the platoon of soldiers, ringing the Archer, whose face was grim and determined, his bow and arrow held low, ready, pushed towards the Dark Lord of All Evil Magic.
Caerlund was short and compact, but full of strength and life. His short ginger hair stuck out in all directions from underneath his poorly fitting battle helmet. His double-headed battle-axe cut down garond soldiers three at a time, like a harvester easily reaping a field. He stopped to scratch his brown, red beard, and then calmly swung his battle-axe into the main body of the garond army, where the Lord of Evil was protected by hundreds upon hundreds of deadly garond soldiers.
“Iounelle!” A Child of Lanis called. “We need help!”
The elf heard the sound and knew what it was. The clanking, growling, grinding, clashing could only be a paricale. The paricale was a weapon only employed by elves. There was only one left as far as Iounelle knew. Once the honored possession of Berand Torler, her brother had also trained with the strange weapon. But it was far too dangerous to be in any garond hand.
She fought her way towards the sound, and found a cleared area where a garond held sway on the battlefield with the bizarre weapon.
The paricale was a metal whip made of sixteen teardrop shaped sections, each the size of two human fists. Each of the sixteen sections was razor sharp and fashioned with curious, curling, elvish design. A handgrip inside each section allowed the garond to whip the segmented weapon around in a wide diameter, viciously slashing any human close enough to be hit.
“Put it down!” Iounelle cried, hoping the garond would understand.
The garond only gnashed its teeth and whirled the paricale around and around at Iounelle. The elf tumbled and leapt, expertly avoiding every lash of the deadly instrument.
“It is too dangerous!” She cried again. “It will kill you!”
“No, you!” The garond grunted in broken wealdish, huffing with the tremendous effort it took to keep the device in motion.
“I warned you,” Iounelle said. Then, she dodged and feinted as the garond tried to catch her with the line of metal edges.
Iounelle ducked and reversed her steps. The garond curled the paricale up high to try to catch her before she moved out of his way. But the garond hadn’t realized it had drawn the chain of razored sections up into a loop behind itself. The whipping loop came up fast behind the garond and neatly sliced its head clean off.
Iounelle quickly gathered up the paricale and handed it to a Child of Lanis. “Do not use it,” she said. “Quickly hide it, and then rejoin the battle.”
The young soldier stole away with the strange weapon to do as she was told.
Iounelle looked around to find the Archer, but realized she was on the far side of the crush of garond soldiers trying to break free of the melee. The elf knew she needed to be by the Archer’s side.
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��Where is Derragen?” She cried to her soldiers.
“He fights with Caerlund and the Madronites,” a human soldier said amid the battle. “They say he goes to kill the Dark Lord.”
“Tákkeg Daniei,” the elf whispered to herself. “Gather as many as you can to follow me!” The elf cried and turned, with the Moon Sword in one hand, and her brother’s sword in the other, to slash her way towards the Archer.
As Caerlund fought closer to the crush of garond soldiers on horseback, he could see most were of high rank and definitely protecting a smaller figure on horseback, swaddled in a black, blood spattered cloak. It had to be a human. It had to be Him.
“There He is!” Caerlund bellowed. But the fighting became more a pushing match as the soldiers on both sides crowded in.
“This will never do!” Caerlund cried and let go of his battle-axe. He quickly pulled a short sword and began impaling the garonds closest to him. All of the madronite solders saw and followed their leader’s example. Short swords were drawn and employed with lethal ferocity.
The garond soldier favored the club, since their added strength gave them an edge with the weapon. But with no room to swing, the garonds began to get stabbed and slashed at a startling rate.
The Archer saw the cloaked figure spurring his horse, desperately trying to get out of the crush of garond horse soldiers. He definitely had but one arm, which savagely clutched a wrapped, prized possession close to his body.
The Archer let his thoughts and emotions go. He regulated his breathing. All sound seemed to fade from his ears. He pulled his bowstring tight. He needed the cloaked figure to be still for but a moment. The vanes of the Arrow of Yenolah brushed against his cheek. He let his spirit go out to his target. He was one with his target. The arrow was not even necessary. He let the jostling of the battle all around move him like gentle waters in a lake. In that imperceptible instant he was connected to his target like no other connection in the world. He need not even think about releasing the arrow. It would fly when the moment was perfect. The arrow zipped from the bowstring.
For an instant Derragen felt a wave of nauseating evil as he caught a taste of being connected to the Dark Lord.
Then, the Archer caught his breath. The Arrow of Yenolah was perfect. It would catch Deifol Hroth squarely in the head. The Archer steeled his eyes so he wouldn’t blink and miss the moment of impact.
Then, with movement too fast to be natural, the cloaked figure dropped his bundle and raised his arm to deflect the arrow.
At contact, the arrow exploded with a ball of light, fire and concussion. The frightened horses surged forward breaking their impasse.
“Impossible,” the Archer whispered to himself.
Now the great crush of garonds had an opening, and the garond horses fled from the arena of battle, up the snow-covered road. Every garond soldier knew their master had fled and ran as fast as they could after the growing mob of fleeing garond soldiers.
“Let them go! Let them go!” Derragen commanded.
The elf sprinted to the Archer who watched the retreating army in amazement.
“I had Him. I had Him.” Derragen breathed.
“What happened?” She asked.
“He knew. He knew the arrow was there,” the Archer said. “He has only one arm as has been rumored. Perhaps now He has none.”
“What?”
“He used his arm to deflect the perfect shot, and the arrow... the Arrow of Yenolah... it... exploded.”
“I know how He lost his first arm,” the elf said unwrapping the bundle that the Lord of All Evil had been forced to drop. “Behold, the Lhalíi.” Nestled in her arms was an oblong crystal object, the size of a newborn infant. Its many facets caught the winter light. Within the center of the object of mystery was a hole, like a tunnel, that went, lengthwise, right through the middle. “He must have used this to move the Wanderer, the second moon, and it burnt His arm off,” the elf mused with satisfaction.
The facets of light seemed to dance into the Archer’s mind. He couldn’t take his eyes off of it. But, then the elf broke the spell by wrapping it up once again.
“Thank the Creator it is now in our hands,” the elf sighed. “Let us tend to the wounded.”
“Yes, of course,” the Archer said coming to his senses.
About fifty humans had been killed, and many more were seriously injured. The number of garond dead was in the hundreds. Although the humans had fought fiercely, it was clear, if the garonds had stood their ground, they would have won.
“Over here please,” a Child of Lanis called to the elf. On the ground she found young Valdey mortally wounded and breathing his last breaths. His radiant young face was ghastly pale, and he struggled for air. Each body-shaking rasp sounded like a man drowning.
“Are there any elvish swords for me?” He weakly asked with a smile, as blood poured from the vicious wound on his chest. Another Child of Lanis held a bandage on the gash with all her might in a desperate attempt to save Valdey.
“Would you like the paricale?” Iounelle softly asked, trying to hold her emotions back to keep from frightening the boy in his last moments.
“Oh, yes,” Valdey said. “It’s so beautiful.” And then his last breath escaped him. Valdey was no more than a boy, destroyed before he really ever got to live his life, by the ravages of war. Iounelle softly put her hand on Valdey’s head, and closed her eyes in prayer
Trembling, the elf rose in a quiet fury. The death and destruction caused by Deifol Hroth filled her with pain and rage. Not only had he killed every other elf in the world, but now He planned the same for humanity. Her hatred for Deifol Hroth, and sorrow for the slain young human were overwhelming.
“We must stop this thing, this monster,” she said to Derragen, as her eyes filled with tears for the dead.
The Archer enfolded the elf to his chest to comfort her.
“Don’t cry, mistress,” a Child of Lanis said. “Now we can take back your city.”
The elf looked up at the Archer with shock. Then she tore herself from his arms.
“Wait,” Derragen said. “Wait, there may be traps.”
But Iounelle had already leapt onto the back of a horse. She urgently whispered into the beast’s ear. And then, the horse sprang to life.
“My horse,” Derragen cried. His horse was quickly brought and he leapt up to bolt after the elf. Caerlund and every other able-bodied soldier quickly mounted and gave chase.
The horse galloped at full speed across the crusty snow of the rolling hills of Lanis. The elf rode with complete abandon, whispering, speaking, and then shouting commands in elvish to the horse under her. The horse understood every word she said and galloped at full speed.
The Archer rode as fast as his horse would allow him. The black, empty branches of winter whipped at him. Tears streamed down his face, fearing, knowing what his beloved elf would find. What if she saw her city completely razed? Would she harm herself? How deep was her grief and despair? The Archer urged and spurred his horse on, but the animal had to slow occasionally for the terrain. He could hear his troops behind him, the Children of Lanis crying Iounelle’s name, fearing for her, as well.
The Archer looked down to see blood flowing down his left hand. He was wounded, but he didn’t care. The wound couldn’t be too grave if he could still ride. All that mattered was the safety of Iounelle, the elf, the center of his heart, his love.
He galloped past emptied garond outposts, barricades that had kept the human troops from recapturing the city. Every garond had left with Deifol Hroth. Lanis was truly abandoned.
The Archer rounded a stand of trees, and suddenly pulled on his reigns, bringing his horse to a sliding stop.
The elf stood next to her horse, blankly staring.
The Archer then realized he was already in the city. He hadn’t realized he had passed where the walls should have stood, a full length back. The walls were gone. Every brick taken.
The Archer dismounted and stood next to the elf. H
e stared in disbelief.
Lanis Rhyl Landemiriam was more than devastated. Every building and edifice had been dismantled for their precious elvish bricks. Snow covered the skeletal shells of every razed structure. The cascading mansion of the Houses of the Princes was more than gutted, only the foundations stood. The stream that once laughed through the city center, Rhyliette Tel, was barely a trickle.
The great World Tree, Mildarilg, was now but a blackened stump. Filth and foam floated in the sacred pool, Welm.
There was no trace at all of the magnificent towers. Bawn Hae, the tallest tower ever to be built, was now only a memory.
Everywhere there was debris and fire pits. The garonds had burned everything they could to keep warm during the winter. Filth and garbage was strewn throughout the city. Mounds of animal bones, stripped clean and gnawed, heaped in vile piles near every abandoned fire pit. All the city was mud, banks of dirty snow and ice.
The spherical Temple of the Moon, which had housed the Moon Sword of Berand Torler was shattered, the bricks too intricate to be used, the garonds had merely destroyed it. The small, intricate bricks were scattered in rude patterns of destruction.
The Archer gently put his hand on the elf’s shoulder, but still she didn’t move. The elf didn’t cry.
The following human troops arrived with a clatter. All were stunned to silence by the utter ruin of the great city of the elves. The Children of Lanis held back their tears, watching their mistress, respectfully waiting for her release of grief. Their eyes were filled with sorrow too deep to tell.
Then a sound of whimpering made all turn.
Caerlund, Warrior Chieftain of the Madrun Hills fell to this knees and shed tears like a child.
“This is only my third time to the city,” he cried. “But oh, for this third time. I was only a boy when I came on the spring festival Indew Geaio. It was as if I was living a dream, so magnificent and enchanted...”
“I remember you,” Iounelle numbly said with a blank face.
“The second time was when I was named Chieftain,” Caerlund cried. “They decked out the city just for me. Oh it was glorious... But this third time, Oh Eann, take it away, take it away from me...” And Caerlund collapsed in tears. His men respectfully knelt next to him and solemnly placed their hands on his back in a gesture of a warrior’s sympathy.