Sunset of Lantonne

by Jim Galford

  “What can you tell me about the city?” her father asked, sitting down in a padded chair. “Please. Sit and tell me everything.”

  Ilarra ignored him and moved to the next wall of the building, looking out the windows that faced the rear of the library, where she had been unable to see during her run from Asha. That was also where they tended to compost their refuse and thus was the last place she normally would have looked.

  Situated behind the library, a vast pit had been dug out, the trees removed and dragged away. The pit contained fifty or more elves and even several horses, standing still and staring straight ahead. As she watched, a man wearing the armor and crest of Lantonne looked up toward her, staring through her with cloudy white eyes. The man’s throat gaped, having been cut nearly ear to ear.

  Ilarra’s hands shook as she backed away from the window, hurriedly putting her cup on the nearest table. Turning, she nearly ran into her father, standing directly behind her.

  “You should have stayed ignorant,” he told her, moving to block her attempt to walk past him. “Our lord’s agents in Lantonne were to keep you there, so that you could take the blame for our actions. I had meant to protect you, Ilarra, but you force my hand. Dorralt wants you to either work with us or be brought back to him.”

  “Who are you?” demanded Ilarra. She backed up until she touched the wall.

  “Your father…at least what is left of him,” he answered. “Lord Dorralt gave us all a gift and now I understand what my part in his plans are. You’ll be brought back to Altis until he sorts out what to do with you.”

  Ilarra looked around, trying to find a way to escape. To reach the stairs, she had to go through her father. Going through the window avoided her father, but would likely kill her even before her father’s magic could finish the job.

  Her father reached for Ilarra, prompting immediate action. She cried out as she pulled a spell together, hurling a bolt of pure energy into his chest that threw him across the room, tumbling and crashing into the wardrobe there.

  As he landed, he rolled back onto his feet, not a scratch on him. “I had expected more fear and less fight in you,” he admitted, rubbing at his chest with one hand. “Could you survive the same attack, child?”

  Ilarra’s father gestured toward her, creating a bolt just like the one she had used. It crackled as she threw herself to the floor, narrowly avoiding being struck. Instead of hitting her, the energy ripped part of the wall away and let in a gust of damp wind as the wall fell away behind her.

  Praying the ground was soft enough to cushion her fall, Ilarra rolled into the opening in the wall before her father could attack again. She fell nearly fifteen feet, landing on her back in the mud with a splash. The impact knocked the wind from her lungs, but aside from dazing her, she felt relatively intact.

  Ilarra scrambled to her feet, trying to make herself run as she knew she had only a second or two before her father would get to the edge above her and begin casting. Looking up, she saw her father lean out of the gaping hole in the library, grinning like a madman.

  “Dorralt asked me to arrange to have all the adults serve,” he called down. “He never said what to do with the children. Tell me if you like my work. Our master was pleased.”

  Footsteps in the mud nearby made Ilarra spin. Coming from the nearest buildings in groups of three and four were children, both elven and wildling. They ranged from toddlers to near-adults, but every one of them bore grievous wounds, often a gaping knife-wound in their chests. In seconds, more than a dozen children and pups watched her with emotionless white eyes, cutting off any direction’s escape.

  Her father continued from above her. “They weren’t suitable for the war against Lantonne, but they are wonderful for demoralizing a foe. Once I had them turned, their parents often lay down weeping and let their own children rip them apart. The town fell in under an hour, thanks to the littlest zombies.”

  The small undead approached slowly, closing in a half-circle around Ilarra, trapping her against the wall of the library. They opened and closed their mouths as though anticipating a meal, some of the wolves even drooling and growling. They tightened their ranks, raising their arms to reach for her as they got closer.

  A distant howl shook the wall Ilarra had backed up against, then began to reverberate through the ground itself. The zombies did not stop or look away, but when she checked, her father was searching the sky for the source of the sound.

  No more than twenty feet out from Ilarra, the trees exploded away, throwing mud in all directions. Many of the child zombies fell in the shaking of the ground, though they continued crawling toward her, and the closest of those still standing were within a few steps of being able to grab at her.

  As the flying mud and debris settled, Nenophar knelt in the middle of the explosion, looking to Ilarra as though he had fallen out of the sky. He stood and marched toward her, flinging a half dozen zombies aside with a wave of his arm, throwing the flailing bodies almost fifty feet away.

  “Run!” he ordered her, turning his attention to her father, who had come down and was walking around the corner of the building. “Get into the woods. I’ll meet you before nightfall.”

  Ilarra did not even consider disobeying. She ran straight past Nenophar, heading toward the edge of the woods through the opening he had created among the child zombies. Her boots were heavy with water and her feet burned and felt as though they would fall off, but she ran as hard as she could, driven by fear of seeing her father try to kill her again.

  Looking over her shoulder, Ilarra watched as her father began throwing flames from his fingers, engulfing the area where Nenophar had stood. Without ceasing the stream of flame, he lifted his head and smiled grimly at her.

  In that one look, Ilarra saw something that shook her and nearly made her fall. In her father’s face, she saw the shadowed flicker of a hundred other people. Every one mirrored his expression, as if images of other men and women had been overlaid on his face.

  Ilarra stopped running and stared at her father, seeing the overlapping ghostly images were not limited to his face. Even the magic he used against Nenophar appeared to her as if a hundred different people were casting in unison, one atop another, compounding the magic’s power.

  The flames striking the ground near the library abruptly parted and Nenophar appeared in the blackened crater, holding up a hand to divide the magic around his body. Seeing that jarred Ilarra out of her surprise and she took off again, heading into the woods.

  She ran straight away from the village, barely even thinking about where she might be going or whether there might be any shelter there. The woods gradually closed in around her as she got farther from the areas the elves had long kept thinned for easier travel, then with the sunlight beginning to fade, she found that the trees had begun to thin again.

  Slowing her pace, Ilarra studied where she was and tried to figure out whether she had gotten herself completely lost. It took her a while, but she soon realized the area was familiar.

  Turning a little more westward, Ilarra continued away from Hyeth into the fields beyond the woods the elves had used for food. Crossing those, she continued through the dead brush that filled that section of the plains until the ground evened out and she only had the mud to slow her down.

  In the dimming light, she just barely spotted a thin column of smoke in the distance. She had no idea who might be so far from the village, but it held a potential for warmth she desperately needed as the air cooled for the night. Ilarra turned in that direction and trudged onward, stumbling as her feet became more numb with each minute.

  Ilarra finally could see the source of the smoke well after the sun had fallen behind the mountains and the temperature had begun dropping, making her wet clothing feel icy, despite the temperature not being terribly low. Long before, she had lost all feeling in her extremities, and she worried deep down whether she might lose her fingers or toes. Freezing to death in spring…that would be a fitting end.

 
Several miles out from the last trees of the woods Hyeth had been built into, a grouping of small tents ringed the thin stream of smoke that rose into the sky. Ilarra gave no thought to who might own them, her mind far too exhausted to think that through. All she knew or cared about was that someone there was alive and had a fire.

  Ilarra staggered into the flattened area around the tents, shivering uncontrollably as she made her way toward the only tent that had smoke rising from it. She dimly noticed there were bloodstains across the canvas walls of most of the tents, but a fire spoke of survivors from whatever had happened. She did not need to stay long, just long enough to dry out.

  Walking up to the tent’s flap, Ilarra stared at the simple animal drawings on the leather hides that made up the wall of the tent. She knew those, as any elven child from Hyeth would. The tent belonged to the barbarians that roamed the plains, preying on those weaker than themselves. They were the mortal enemies of Hyeth and the reason for protectors like Raeln. They were the creatures Ilarra had spent her life fearing…though now they seemed far less intimidating.

  Ilarra looked around, trying to find anywhere else she could go. In the dim light of the stars, nothing stood out beyond the tents. If she did not warm up here and dry her clothing, she believed she would die on the plains before morning. That may well have been exaggeration, but she was shaking and had no strength to go on.

  She took a slow breath and then stepped into the tent, feeling better instantly as heat washed over her from the fire in the middle. As she entered, someone at the far side of the small space sat up, drew a bow, and aimed an arrow at her chest.

  “Who are you, elf?” demanded the human woman.

  The woman was older than Ilarra and dried blood spotted her face. Old scars mingled with new cuts on her arms and even more wounds marred her leather pants. The woman was clearly used to a violent life, but her wounds told of recent troubles.

  “Ilarra of Hyeth,” she explained, raising her hands in a gesture of surrender. “I saw the smoke. I needed a fire and hoped you would share yours.”

  The woman kept the arrow aimed at Ilarra for a few more seconds, then laughed and lowered it. Motioning to the fire, she leaned back against a pile of animal hides. “Enjoy it until they come for us. I lit it to call the dark ones here so I can die warm and on my own choice of time. You are as welcome as any to die here with me.”

  Trembling, Ilarra sat down alongside the fire, letting its warmth slowly bring tingling needles of feeling back into her arms and legs.

  “You are far from your people, farmer,” the woman noted. She eyed Ilarra as if judging whether she could hold her own in a fight. “Even my people would not dress so for the nighttime in the colder months. Are you weak in the head or were you chased from your little elf houses by the dark ones?”

  “I was chased by the undead…the dark ones. I lost my cloak back in Hyeth somewhere,” explained Ilarra and the woman nodded in understanding. She did not really want to explain that she had been stuck with the one outfit since she had fled Lantonne during a dinner party. Somehow, that might not go over well.

  A distant howl made the barbarian woman look around nervously.

  “One of the mad manwolves searches for food. They may find us before the dark ones do. Whether that is better, I cannot say.”

  “Manwolves? Wildlings?”

  The woman nodded in agreement, motioning toward the pelts she leaned against. Many appeared to be wolf hides of the four-legged variety, but some of the newer-looking ones were far larger.

  “The manwolves no longer chase my people off of the farmers’ lands,” she told Ilarra. “They hunt us for food, now. Many of my kin are dead or have moved to better lands to keep from being a manwolf’s meal. I and my family were the last here, but the dark ones attacked each of the last few nights. Now, I will die beside a cowardly farmer…a sad fate. The spirits may not even recognize me for my shame. It is a just death for what we have failed to do.”

  “I am no farmer. I’m a wizard,” Ilarra told the woman, then cringed at the glare the woman shot her.

  “Bad omens from all sides. The dead eat the living, the manwolves go back to being wild and eat both the dead and the living, and now a farmer-wizard comes to see me into the next life. These are bad times for my people, farmer.”

  “What…if I may ask…did you fail to do that you think earned this fate?”

  The older woman grinned and nodded. “Our bards tell of a time when the land was safe and food plentiful. In those times, the animals that wrap themselves in black and white were gone from these lands. Now, your people brought them back. We must drive them off, or our spirits will never rest.”

  Ilarra’s eyes went back to the wolf pelts. Every one contained black and white fur.

  “You’re scared of wildlings that have black and white fur?” she demanded, realizing that the raids on Hyeth had always been especially rough on their wildlings. If these people were actually attacking to kill wildlings and not to take food or land, she had seriously misjudged the situation.

  “We do not fear them,” the woman corrected, wincing as she tried to move one of her legs. Ilarra saw that the wound there was more severe than she had initially thought and below a tourniquet, bis of bone poked out. “Our legends say that they are a bad omen and will bring the dark ones down on us. Our legends were true.”

  Another howl came from the other side of the tent, this time far closer.

  “Run away while you can, farmer,” the woman told Ilarra as she drew a knife and placed it at her side. She pulled a sword from the hides and put it opposite the knife and then dragged her bow closer. “I intend to die fighting, as my kin already have. If you remain here, you will fight as a true person to keep from dishonoring the spirits that watch for my last breath. I will not allow you to ruin my last moments with cowardice.

  “My people have always worshipped the spirit of the wolf…a funny thing now that the manwolves come to send me to the spirits. You and I will fight here and earn some glory among the spirits. If those spirits do not come for me because of your cowardice, I will find a way to come back for you.”

  Before Ilarra could reply, a soft rustle at the entrance to the tent drew her attention. As she watched, a tiny grey-furred hand reached into the light, pushing aside the heavy tent flap. Slowly, a small muzzle and dog-like face came into the edge of the light, staring at Ilarra with large eyes that did not focus at all.

  “The shame the spirits feel must be great,” the woman across from Ilarra said, sounding sad. “There will be no honor here today. We will both die as killers of children.”

  Behind the wildling pup, three more appeared, walking into the edge of the firelight from the darkness beyond. They stopped there, standing eerily still with even their tails hanging limply. None of them even breathed.

  Many soft footsteps outside caught Ilarra’s ear, and she turned, following the sound as it circled the tent. Soon, the last sounds stopped and she knew the entire tent was surrounded. The dead children would attack from all directions at once. Fear threatened to send Ilarra into tears, but she bit her lip until it bled and tried to be strong.

  The four wildling pups at the entrance bared their teeth and began walking into the tent. They advanced no more than two steps before the woman fired her bow, the arrow knocking the lead wildling off its feet and sending it tumbling away. The others walked around it, reaching for Ilarra as they came, while the fourth stood back up with the arrow still protruding from its chest, the wound dry.

  Tearing sounds came from everywhere as more children tore through the walls. A scream from the barbarian woman was cut short as a group of elven children leapt onto her, biting and clawing at her face, while she screamed and tried to keep them away from her flesh. All Ilarra could see was blood and the woman’s weapons flashing as she got in a swing or two.

  Surrounded, Ilarra stood up where she was, trying to decide what to do. She had magic on her side, but she doubted she could even cast a single spe
ll before the children took her down. The only thing that seemed to slow them was that she had made no fast movements. Each time she tried to take a step, the entire group would look at her with those horrifying vacant eyes, then quickly return to attacking the woman they held down if Ilarra held very still.

  Ilarra thought through her options while trying not to meet the gazes of the mindless creatures that looked like children. She knew some of them and sobs of grief kept shaking her body despite her efforts to remain still. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she watched Raeln’s nephew sitting near the barbarian woman, his little muzzle drenched in blood as he nibbled at a piece of fresh meat.

  She searched the recesses of her mind for any spell that might destroy the undead or simply get her out of there in one piece. The wet tearing noises nearby made keeping her thoughts straight all the more difficult. The screams had stopped, but the dead children continued their brutal attack.

  Finally, with the tiny zombies starting to scratch at her dress quizzically with their cracked and broken fingers and claws, Ilarra decided on a plan. She would drop a column of flame on the undead…and herself. She had no way to get herself out of the way, but the blast would kill her instantly, a mercy compared to dying like the barbarian woman. It would be swift and would take all of the children’s animated remains with her, sparing anyone else from the horror of seeing them like this.

  An ear-piercing animal cry shattered Ilarra’s concentration and made many of the zombies around her look for the source. Even those kneeling over the remains of the other woman lifted their blood-drenched heads, their bodies tensing to chase something down, Ilarra completely forgotten and ignored.

  From the darkness beyond the holes in the tent, fur and claws practically flew into the light as a wildling leapt into the horde of zombies. Ilarra soon realized that it was Asha, furiously tearing at the children with claws and fangs, throwing aside those that tried to get a grip on her.

  “Get outside,” roared Asha, hurling a small elven zombie into the fire. “He is waiting to get you out of here! Run!”