by K. J. Hargan
Chapter Four
Haergill’s Secret
Kellabald felt helpless and angry. He saw Halldora holding Haergill’s head as he lay dying. He turned to see Arnwylf turning red, his hands clenching and unclenching.
“They have Frea!” Arnwylf said in a quiet, pained, urgent voice.
Kellabald saw the Archer was solemn and respectful. Wynnfrith and Alrhett quietly huddled next to Halldora in sympathy. The elf seemed to be whispering a prayer in her strange song-like language. Yulenth held his arms withdrawing into his pain.
Almost thirty garond lay slaughtered around them, and all Kellabald could think was that he had failed. He had failed those who depended on him, his family, his clan, his friend.
Kellabald saw Haergill lifting his hand to him. He moved in close to hear Haergill’s final words.
Arnwylf felt as though his face was on fire. This new feeling welling up inside him was insurmountable. He saw only Frea’s face. Frea, with flame red hair. Frea, quiet and polite. Frea, who one day, silently sat next to him by the small stream which ran through Bittel, watched as he threw oak leaves into the silver water, watched as the small, leafy boats wafted away on the shimmering water, illuminated by shafts of golden, spring sunlight peeking through the leaves of the towering oak tree overhead.
Arnwylf felt as though his throat was closing with pain.
The garonds would kill Frea. They might work her until she was dead, or worse. They were known to eat human flesh. Arnwylf felt as though he had to scream, yell, cry out to shake the world. He felt a powerful emotion building in his body. No power on earth could stop him from saving Frea. Heaven and hell would be no match for his anger. And, may the gods have mercy on any garond in his way.
His tearing eyes burned with rage. He knew what he had to, must do.
Arnwylf edged away from the group huddled around Haergill. Without thinking, he found himself running through the grass, directed, unstoppable. He knew garonds never crossed rivers without bridges. He knew the area, the Eastern Meadowlands, the rivers, the roads and trails. He knew the garonds would travel far west around the Bairn River to reach their troops on the other side. He could cross the Bairn, he must cross the Bairn, and stop them before they reached their armies to the south.
Haergill could feel the darkness encroaching. The sky was filling with clouds, heavy, black, rain clouds. The weather had been strange the last few years, too much rain, or not enough. And the lakes had been filling to their utmost levels. It was as if Oann was reshaping the earth for a new people, for a new age.
Haergill tasted the blood pouring from his nose. He knew he didn’t have long to live. He wanted to press his daughter to his chest and tell her all would be well. Then he remembered that the garonds had taken her.
A sense of urgency roused him. He motioned for Kellabald to come near. He had so much to tell and only moments to tell it.
His sweet Halldora held him, looking down with such concern, but not crying, his brave woman. She was his strength when he had none. She was his sanity, always his sanity, when the wars between the humans had been their worst. The wars between the humans! Such stupidity! Such waste! Wynnfrith and Alrhett held Halldora as though they were sisters. The family of Bittel was a good family.
But there was something so urgent, the secret that Kellabald had to know.
The elf felt the flame of life ebbing from the red haired, male human. She had only known this family of humans half a day, but she could see the brilliant light shining in them, and knew they were good. She felt a particular pain for the red haired woman who was clearly the dying human’s mate. She would be cut in half. Maybe the humans didn’t understand, but as an elf, she knew that mates become one flame. And, the loss of one is indescribable and continuing pain to the other, until they are reunited again in eternity.
The elf whispered a prayer to Wylkeho Daniei to guide this human’s flame back to the source of all unseen fire.
She felt a strange attraction to this human family. The elf had only followed them knowing they would attract more garonds for her to kill.
She felt a sudden pang of guilt. The bright life refrained from killing. But she had such a thirst for vengeance in her. It could not be stopped. She knew if she continued down this path, her flame would change and she would no longer be welcome among her rejoined ancestors.
But the vision of the last fifty elves being slaughtered by the garond army danced before her eyes. She shut her eyes tight to make the image go away. But it was there, her family, her race, standing outside the walls of Lanis Rhyl Landemiriam welcoming the approaching garond armies.
Although they lived mostly in the Far Grasslands, the garonds were always welcomed as shamans who were even closer to the earth than her blessed race.
Their attack was a complete surprise. The elders of the now depleted city of the elves met their garond brothers with open arms and a grand reception. Iounelle knew something was wrong immediately. The garonds were dressed so strangely, armored. The swift, surprise attack was a complete shock. Iounelle’s brother, Albehthaire hit her hard on the back of the head, and must have concealed her in a thicket. . Nearly half the elves fell immediately with the onslaught. When she came to, the garond dead were in huge mounds, and the last of the elves, young and old, male and female, who had all come out of the city to aid their kin, were fighting for their lives. That last moment, seeing her brother look to her, his eyes flashing a plea for her to flee, her overwhelming horror as the garonds swarmed over him, still played before her mind’s eye. She fled in fear, and cried in shame for not dying honorably by her brother’s side. She was the only survivor, every elf killed, both her brother and sister murdered.
Invisible in the trees, exhausted and terrified, she watched the garonds try to assault the walls of her city. But, the walls held. The secret entrance that only opened for the correctly spoken words remained hidden. The walls of the now empty city became slippery in defense. There was no scaling them.
Two nights later, she slipped into Lanis Rhyl Landemiriam and armed herself with the moon sword of Berand Torler, the warrior who had defended the elves in the Human Wars three thousand years earlier. She knew it was sacrilege to touch the sacred blade, but this was a new war. This was a new war to be fought only by her, the last elf.
Alrhett held Halldora as she cradled her dying husband. She looked up to see the elf quietly whispering a prayer. She could feel Halldora’s slim body shuddering with her sobbing.
Alrhett noticed the white wolf’s agitation. Alrhett rose as Kellabald moved close to Haergill to hear his dying words. She carefully stepped to the white wolf. Alrhett had animal speak/hear. The young wolf had something important to say, but no one to tell it to.
Alrhett moved slowly. The animal had helped the clan in their fight against the garonds, but it was still a dangerous, wild animal. The wolf kept saying, he’s gone, he’s gone. Alrhett spoke respectfully to the young wolf and asked its name.
The white wolf said that its name was Conniker, and that he was worried about the boy. Alrhett asked Conniker what he meant, and as she spoke the words in animal speak/hear she suddenly realized Arnwylf wasn’t standing with the group.
“Where is he?!” She said loudly. “Where’s Arnwylf?”
The group looked up, and looked in all directions.
“Arnwylf!” Kellabald bellowed. There was no answer.
Alrhett felt the world closing in on her like a warm, suffocating blanket. Arnwylf didn’t know that he was her grandson. They had kept the knowledge secret to protect him.
Now Alrhett began to feel panic. Both of the children were gone. She remembered holding Arnwylf as a helpless child. Holding his hand when he was a toddler splashing in the stream that ran beside Bittel. She remembered the joy she felt when Frea and her family came to the village. It was if she had suddenly been given a beautiful, red haired granddaughter. She remembered the unstoppable grief when Arnwylf’s younger brother had died of the pox. She could not endure that grief again. <
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Alrhett moved close to the group huddled around Haergill. The white wolf pressed close to her, trying to take some of her growing grief from her. They had to save Arnwylf and Frea.
The Archer was surprised to find he was trembling. The loss of his village flooded in on his mind. It was only three years ago. He was returning in triumph from a minor battle in his homeland, in the mountains of Kipleth. As his army marched over the crest that led into their valley, to his village Pelych, what they thought were cheery chimney fires proved to be huts and halls aflame.
The whole army ran down to the village, but all that remained were the bodies of the slain, old men and women, mothers and children. No one was sparred. No one knew at the time that this was the work of the garonds. While the Archer and his army were away at war with the Kingdom of Man, the garonds had struck. And then they fled south, back across Byland. This was one of the first attacks into the heart of Wealdland.
The Archer had fought and won with sword and spear for Healfdene, the king of the western Green Hills of Reia, allied against Apghilis, a power hungry atheling from the Northern Kingdom of men. The Archer’s whole family, his whole village, was gone.
The Archer wandered the mountains of Kipleth for two years.
His rage, anger, and sorrow had become a weight, which hung over his head like a great, black cloud.
The Archer knew what would become of Arnwylf. There was goodness in the boy, and now it would all be pressed out of his soul. The boy would become the same as him. He could not let that happen.
Halldora held her husband and could not stop crying. She had seen him gallantly lead armies to war time and again, and she had never cried. She had seen him brought home, wounded, near to death, and she had never cried. Something at the very core of her soul knew this was different.
She was the daughter of Nanmund of Fjindel, a high atheling, a lord of the province of the Northern Kingdom of Man. Halldora had never let her noble birth and marriage to the throne let her become a disdainful person. Although proud of her own strength and that of her husband and daughter, she had always been fascinated and joyful in the accomplishments of others.
Her beautiful and handsome husband filled her with a warm peacefulness. His strength flowed into her and made her a queen admired and respected. The birth of their radiant daughter only made their happiness more complete.
Halldora stared into the fading light of Haergill’s eyes. Her Frea had been taken by the horse garonds. Her world was crumbling around her. Now the sobs came out of her vocally with each breath, as though every breath was pain itself.
Kellabald leaned in close to Haergill. Halldora tried her best to quiet herself so Kellabald could hear her beloved’s last words. The whole world was falling to pieces and Halldora could not stop crying.
Yulenth was filled with despair. He was the sole survivor of his people, the Glafs. His people had warred with the Northern Kingdom for centuries, and now they were all gone but him. He stared down at Haergill of the Northern Kingdom, from a race that had caused his people so much misery, but felt no happiness at his passing.
Yulenth had been wary of this red haired family when they had first asked to live in Bittel. He knew who Haergill was. But, Kellabald welcomed them with open arms, so Yulenth had welcomed them, too. He had not regretted it. Surprisingly, Haergill proved to be a humble man willing to work for the good of all in the village.
Yulenth remembered how, earlier, he had found the Bittel, a lost man wandering the earth, hungry and broken hearted, not unlike Haergill and his family, who would arrive a year later on the day he was to marry his great friend Alrhett from the Weald, who had lost her husband, who became his wife.
His age tired him, and he felt only loss and pain.
Yulenth thought back to the last time he had felt happiness. He was in his early thirties, nearly half his life ago, and a herder of aurochs, the large horned cattle roaming the high wasteland, plains of long grasses and heather. His home was in the city of Glafemen, now a burnt and crumbled ruin. The Glafs also fished in the Great Lake of Ettonne, Northern men knowing them by this name. There had been no happier race when not at war.
The Glafs had commerce and friendly relations with the good people of the Weald to the South. As a boy, Yulenth would often travel with his father to trade cured beef and dried fish for carved wooden chairs and tables made in curious and artful designs by the men of the Weald. No Glaf would venture too far into the forests of the Weald, for the woods seemed close and labyrinthine to men who preferred the wide-open spaces of the Northern Wastelands and the Great Lake.
It seemed so perfect for Yulenth to marry Alrhett. They were close in age, in their older years. And, her husband had died long ago in the human civil wars, so they happily looked after each other.
Time seemed a long ribbon of happiness punctuated by heart wrenching loss to Yulenth. He tried to hold tightly to the happy moments he could remember, but despair always seemed to be the end.
Wynnfrith felt a drop of rain on her arm. The world seemed to stop, as her husband, Kellabald, moved close to Haergill, who was so pale and quiet. The entire world was motion and hurry, but to Wynnfrith it became a perfect stillness.
She saw Yulenth, filled with sadness, unaware of the great power inside him, a justice.
She saw Halldora holding her man, holding back the world, living in dreams and hope. Her strength was the great and difficult choices she would make some day.
She saw the Archer, standing, so still, so hidden. Within him she saw a determination unlike any other.
She saw her mother Alrhett with the white wolf nuzzling her. Her mother who always had a story to tell, but her stories always remained unfinished, as though she kept back dangerous things to protect her daughter, and then her grandson.
Alrhett had taught her the game. She called it farsight.
“What do you see?” Alrhett would ask. Wynnfrith would tell her, and it would come to pass. “But tell no one. Ever.”
Wynnfrith kept this promise to her mother.
The farsight made her tremble and a silence would come over her. She could feel it coming. It was coming now. But, this was different.
Wynnfrith saw the elf turn to stare at her. It was as if she knew what was happening. The elf was so different, so rare, a gemstone unlike any other, a sadness.
Wynnfrith saw Haergill, a great man dying, a lost chance, but a new chance for a great rebirth in his hands. He had a gift, a great gift, and he gave it freely, along with his life.
Wynnfrith looked for her son, Arnwylf, but he was not with them. He was a great man growing inside a young boy. Her love for him knew no bounds.
Wynnfrith saw her man, Kellabald bending over Haergill. Kellabald was quiet strength, an oak tree to lean against, a pleasant meal, security, and sanity.
Haergill whispered to Kellabald, “I was once the King of the Northern Kingdom of Man. I hid the sword, the Mattear Gram, in your village of Bittel. It must be recovered and taken to Healfdene of Reia to unite all humans, or we are all lost...”
Haergill’s last breath left him.
Then the farsight came to Wynnfrith.
Her head tipped back and her eyes looked wide at the dark gray, evening sky. Her whole body tensed.
It was white and blinding. This was stronger and more urgent than anything she had ever felt before.
Wynnfrith felt her spirit move up out of her body. She flew high above the earth. Down below the whole world unrolled like a map. But it roiled and bulged. Other worlds, other lives, other times layered over her vision.
The rain began, and it was hard.
Wynnfrith felt her mind expand, families grew and died by the thousands before her. Cities were built and leveled. Trees grew from tiny seedlings and fell with old age in a blink. It was all a whirlwind of time and life. Wynnfrith wanted to scream, but knew she had to hold fast or the vision would take her sanity entirely.
A great rumbling reverberated all around her, a low, deep, strai
ning sound of all time and all lives.
She tried to focus in on her family, those she loved. The past ripped by her. Then she saw glimpses of their futures.
She saw Kellabald leading a massive army, stoic, magnificent.
She saw Arnwylf, as a young man, dangerous, lean, muscular, filled with sadness and power, and the whole world depended on him. Arnwylf stood as the earth split apart. Lightning flashed.
She saw Haergill’s monument in a rebuilt Ethgeow, a new and brilliant city, but then there was not. Then, there was a great light and fire from the sky. Then, the whole earth was burnt. She knew this was an uncertainty, a probability.
She saw the elf again and again, as though she could not die. Or, had the elf died and become something more, a flame? And then she saw herself visiting a magnificent city of color and spires, drowning. And, there was something shining, a piece of the sun, so important.
She saw her mother, Alrhett, and all living things knelt at her feet. She stood among the garonds and was unharmed. She carried something small and dark in one hand, the most important thing. The whole world wanted it. But, then she made a fatal mistake, trusted a viper.
She saw the Archer. Was flying as a bird? He moved too quickly. His arrows were stars falling to the earth, moving through the rich tapestry of time unfolding before her. His arrows landed in far, strange, foreign places. His dark, black soul cried to be healed, but the Great Spirit had a need of him, his healing would come much too late. Was his life sacrificed? She could not tell.
She saw Halldora moving across the great ice fields of the north. There was a scaly sea beast turning in the water. Halldora spread her arms and would not be denied. Then, there was someone with an open mouth someone who would kill her, or was it Alrhett?
She saw Yulenth and he was happy and laughing. Surprisingly, he rode a beast, and he was laughing. There were two more, and justice was written upon them.
Wynnfrith saw herself and she was frightened. She saw herself struggling, fighting not only for herself, but also for all humanity. She faced muscular monsters and did battle. She was closed in dark, suffocating places, hidden away. Her fear was overwhelming.
In defense she moved away from the vision, but it only expanded. She saw the Eastern Meadowland filled with blood. She saw water moving in great, towering walls. She saw all living things in a great, last battle. She saw a strange device, of many parts, harnessing eternal powers.
And then, she saw... him.
The Dark Lord.
He was all evil. He was an all-encompassing mass. A large human-like body growing and billowing like a cloud of flesh, arms and legs extending. He was the Devourer. He would take all the living. He would take all time and all breath. He would take the great and far light, and cast it into darkness. He lived in a bluestone citadel. It was he who held the garonds in a thrall of unnatural fear, and commanded their every destruction. He was older than time itself. He was also the shape of a man, and he was not. He seemed young and slight. She could not see his shining face. He was dressed simply in white, and an effulgent light seemed to envelope his handsome form. He would fail. He would win. All things hinged on him.
And then... he turned... to look directly at Wynnfrith.
Wynnfrith screamed and tore herself out of the vision. Alrhett rushed to her daughter’s aid in the pouring rain.
“We must go to retrieve the Mattear Gram,” Wynnfrith said in low, heaving breaths. “All things depend upon it.”
“What are we to do!?” Yulenth said. “Do we pursue the garonds with Frea? Or do we go back to Bittel which is almost certainly now overrun with garonds?!”
“The girl won’t last long with the garonds,” the Archer ominously intoned. The heavy rain was chilling the group.
“We must go after Arnwylf as well!” Yulenth insisted. “They’re just children!”
Halldora stood. “We cannot build my husband’s funeral pyre here. I will take him back to Bittel and find the Mattear Gram.”
“Do you think to go alone? What of your daughter?” Kellabald gently said. Thunder rolled across the far meadows.
Halldora suddenly sat in the mud. “I don’t know!” She cried.
“We can split into three groups,” The Archer said. “Some of us will go to find the boy, some to find the girl, and some will retrieve the sword.”
“The white wolf says he can track Arnwylf,” Alrhett said. “He’s very urgent to find him.”
“He keeps calling him ‘his brother’ actually. You have animal speak/hear?” The elf asked Alrhett.
“Yes.”
“You must have some elvish blood in you. I will help track the garonds who have the girl,” the elf said. “They will undoubtedly lead us to more garonds.”
“I will come with you,” the Archer added.
The elf and the Archer shared a grim smile.
Kellabald laid a reassuring hand on Halldora’s shoulder. “Do you know where he hid it?” He asked.
“Only he and Frea knew where it was. But he would often speak in riddles to her to remind her of its location,” Halldora said. “I remember the riddles.”
“We can find it then,” Wynnfrith said.
“Don’t you want to find your son?!” asked Alrhett.
“You and Yulenth will look for him,” Wynnfrith said. “Halldora, Kellabald and I will find the sword. The Archer and the elf will bring Frea back alive.”
“How do you know?” Alrhett sadly asked her daughter.
“I have seen it,” Wynnfrith said.