by K. J. Hargan
Chapter Eight
The Archer and the Elf
The Archer slept so deeply, he missed the garonds with Frea, only a hundred yards away, when they left in the morning. He hadn’t slept for five days.
Before he freed the families at Bittel, he had been fighting garonds in the small village of Tyny. For three days the garond platoons had tried to take the village with its bridge across the Holmwy River. There was only one family that lived in Tyny, but men from Kipleth and far Reia were camped there to hold the bridge. If and when the garonds took Tyny, or Alfhich further to the south, their armies would pour into the western Meadowlands, and the end would come soon for Reia, and then there would be no human left alive in all of Wealdland.
The garonds disbursed on the fourth day and the Archer had been tracking them when he found hidden Bittel. He knew he couldn’t take Kellabald and his clan southwestward to Alfhich or anyway near the eastern side of the Holmwy, as it was swarming with garond patrols. He thought it best to make for what he thought was the safety of the Weald.
The elf was still comatose.
In the late morning, the Archer finally awoke to the sound of stealthy footsteps in the crisp, dead autumn grass. He could see the tawny ears of two lionesses, above the grass, stalking towards him.
Without hesitation, the Archer grabbed the elf by her hood with one hand, and he climbed the pine tree as quickly as he could. The nearest lioness bounded towards the tree with the sudden movement. Her massive claws gripped the tree, her green yellow eyes wide with ferocious hunger. The Archer moved up the pine tree with some difficulty due to the denseness of the small, bare, inner branches which cut at his hands and face. The lioness was right at his feet, a low guttural growl in her throat.
With his free hand, the Archer gripped his bow, pulled an arrow from his quiver with the same hand, nocked the arrow, held it with his teeth, and released as the lioness leapt at him. The bronze arrow shot right down her throat into her heart. With her roar frozen on her face, she slowly fell through the pine branches of the tree, dead.
The Archer climbed as high as he could, secured the elf in an elbow of the tree, and readied another arrow. But, the second lioness didn’t attempt the climb. She paced around the tree for a moment, sniffed at her dead companion, but was constantly looking in the distance for something her sensitive ears could hear. Eventually, she left her dead sister, and in a low stance, stalked away into the grass.
Then from his fortunate height in the tree, the Archer saw what had frightened the lioness away, a squad of a dozen horse garonds in the meadow. From his vantage point, he could see them riding in a V formation, obviously carefully searching the foliage. They had probably found the carnage at Rion Ta and were looking for those responsible.
The Archer carefully climbed down from the pine tree, his hands sticky with pine sap. Good, he thought to himself, my hands will be sure. And a quiet smile played across his dark, grim visage.
The formation of horse garonds was moving away from the Archer at a rapid pace. He thought of the elf for a moment. But, he made his decision. He found a firm, even patch of earth and dug his feet in.
“Hoy!” The Archer called at the top of his lungs. The band of riding garonds pulled to a halt. Looking over his shoulder, the lead garond, riding point, bellowed an order. The whole squad wheeled in formation, and the V of riders bore down on their prey.
The Archer immediately realized he had a problem, and smiled to himself. He only had seven of the black arrows, and would have to use five flint arrows. The problem wasn’t in the composition of arrows, but in the spread of his field.
The leader in the center was easy. A black arrow knocked him clean off his horse, but the formation was closing fast. The Archer shot two more arrows, sweeping back and forth, and horse garonds on either side of the lead horse fell dead.
Closer still, the archer shot his last four black arrows, alternating swinging left and right at the garonds closest to him as the V bore down on him.
Almost on top on him, surprised they hadn’t stopped or broken ranks, the Archer shot five flint arrows swinging wide, back and forth, to his left and to his right.
The last arrow clipped the ear of the rider at the far left end of the formation, as the riderless horses harmlessly rushed past the Archer. The surviving garond turned his horse to glare at the Archer, and rather than attack, he spurred his horse away out onto the vast Eastern Meadowland.
The Archer shook his head, and then proceeded to recover his black arrows, and as many of the flint arrows as were intact.
The Archer stepped over the dead lioness. The flint arrow was too far down her throat to bother retrieving. He climbed the tree to find the elf awake and smiling.
“You let one get away,” she mocked.
“I know, I know,” he smiled back. “How are you feeling?”
“I feel good,” the elf said. “But I can’t move my arms or legs.”
The Archer carefully carried the elf down the pine tree, then holding her gently in his arms asked, “Now what?”
“We continue tracking the girl,” the elf said as if it were completely obvious.
The Archer shook his head, but knew arguing would be futile.
Cradling the elf in one arm, tracking in the late morning light, the Archer quickly found the place where Frea and the garonds bedded down for the night. The Archer and the elf shared a frustrated, unspoken moment.
The Archer realized he couldn’t continue with the elf in one arm, and so constructed a sling out of his hooded outer tunic to carry her on his back.
Frea and her garond kidnapers were already a half a day ahead on horseback when the Archer and the elf started tracking them towards the Bairn River.
Late in the day, the Archer and the elf came to the shore of the Bairn River and found the garond with the crushed skull.
“What do you think?” The elf asked.
“I think it is a good sign that Frea may still be alive.”
“They are fighting over her.”
“Which means she is not dead and merely meat to eat.”
The elf gravely nodded.
The horse’s tracks were easy to follow along the river’s sandy bank. The elf looked at the dark, closely cropped hairs on the Archer’s neck. There were a few white hairs among his thick, dark hair. A sign he was filled with worry and pain.
“Tell me about the black arrows,” the elf said, hoping to draw the Archer into conversation.
“The arrows of Yenolah?” The Archer huffed with a pleasant laugh. “You recognize them?”
“No,” the elf said. “But they are definitely of elf design.”
“Forged by Weylund, the greatest of all elf smiths, from a fallen star.”
“Weylund was my grandfather!” The elf exclaimed.
“I’m not surprised,” the Archer said. “There were so few elves in the last hundred years or so. You must all be related.”
They both grew quiet, and the Archer knew he broached a difficult subject.
“There were about five hundred.” The elf finally broke the silence. “All were slaughtered at Lanis Rhyl Landemiriam.”
“How- Elves are great warriors. How could this be?”
“Less than two hundred elves killed close to six thousand garonds that day. They just kept coming. Only I survived. My brother and I were outside the gates of the city to greet the garonds, who were our friends at the time. I was knocked unconscious early in the assault and hidden in the woods outside the city by my brother. When I awoke, I saw the last elves fall. My brother was among those last courageous few.”
Both the Archer and the elf continued on in silence.
After a long stillness, tracking the horse garonds who had taken Frea, the Archer told the elf the story of how he had discovered his family was slain by the garonds.
“Let us rest for a moment,” the elf said. The day was getting late. “We both are driven by grief, but I fear neither of us will listen to reason. At least we can rest when we shoul
d.”
The Archer grimly smiled and stared down at his feet. He set the elf down.
The night was falling, and a cloud cover moved quickly across the darkening sky.
“Something unnatural wishes to hide its doings,” the elf said, peering up at the thick skyward blanket.
“Let us camp for the night,” the Archer said. “You’ll probably feel better and we can move much quicker. If Frea is still alive, the garonds still have far to go to find a passable break in the Bairn River.”
The elf agreed, and the Archer set up a small campsite away from the openness of the river bank.
The elf told the Archer where to find carrots growing wild in the earth beside the river, and they both had nicely roasted carrots for supper.
“That sword of yours is unusual,” the Archer said between mouthfuls.
“The moon sword of Berand Torler. It’s tens of thousands years old.”
“How old are you?” The Archer asked squinting through the darkness.
The elf laughed that light, tinkling laugh. “How old would you guess I am?”
“I would say... no more than twenty two years of age.”
“I have seen over three hundred winters.”
The Archer choked on his roast carrot, then laughed. “Three hundred...?”
Their laughter quickly subsided. The elf stared into the flames of the small camp fire.
“The moon sword was part of a sacred pact with humans, a part of the treaty which ended the elf human wars. It is forbidden to touch it. I thought no other elf would now object.”
The Archer had no response to comfort the elf. After staring into the dwindling fire for a while, the Archer and the elf were soon both fast asleep.
In the bright, cloudless morning, the Archer and the elf awoke and rose to track the garonds.
“No clouds,” the elf mused.
“Good day for tracking.” The Archer smiled. “How do you feel?”
“I can move my hands and feet, but not my arms and legs.”
“That’s good,” the Archer smiled. “You can carry me tomorrow.”
Then, cheerfully, the Archer tied his hooded cloak into a sling as he had before, gently picked up the elf and slung her onto his back.
The sandy shoal of the river bank was easy to track, and in the late afternoon they found the place where the kidnappers and victim had bedded down for their second night. There were three large indentations in the sand where the horses lay, and three smaller hollows indicating two garonds and a smaller body, Frea’s.
Now the Archer strode as quickly as he could, measuring his strength, but confidant that the girl was alive.
“Tell me of the elf folk,” the Archer called back to the elf. “These traces are plain, and I need a distraction to clear my mind.”
The elf considered the fine shape of the Archer’s ear. It could almost be an elf ear, tapering high and thin. There were rumors that elf blood was mingled with human blood, but the elf gave these whispers no merit.
“A tale of the elf folk,” the elf reflected. “Wylkeho Daniei created the earth as a special honor to the aspect of love, and so all creatures on the earth are here for joy. Wylkeho Daniei filled the earth with animals and beautiful gardens.
“But the creator of all things was lonely and wanted conversation. So from his brightest flames, he created beings who walked on two legs, the elves, and they lived for three eons in a paradise of love and peace.”
“An ancient elf lord named Brudejik met Jofod Kagir on a trek through the desert, and begged for his life as he had neither food nor water for a whole year.”
“Jofod Kagir offered him either food, drink, or power over his brothers. In his delirium Brudejik chose power over his brothers.”
“Whereupon, Wylkeho Daniei immediately appeared and asked Brudejik why his inner flame was so different.”
“Brudejik lied to Wylkeho Daniei and said it was because he was so hungry and thirsty.”
“Wylkeho Daniei offered a fruit growing in his hair to Brudejik, but he was frightened and refused. Wylkeho Daniei then offered a drink of water springing from his own hands, but again Brudejik was frightened and refused.”
“Wylkeho Daniei then perceived that Brudejik was lying and had consorted with Jofod Kagir, and asked him what he had given him.”
“Brudejik knew he couldn’t lie anymore to his god and told him the truth.”
“Whereupon Wylkeho Daniei said to Brudejik, ‘you will have power over your brothers only because you have denied your inner light, and so you shall live a short life and die.’
“And, as the great parent said these words, Brudejik fell to the earth and rose with a different countenance and became the first human. So, ashamed, Brudejik fled out of the gardens of earth to live amongst the wild animals and rocks of pain.”
“After several eons, Wylkeho Daniei had pity on Brudejik and his children, and so created a race from the dust of the earth, and borrowed flame from the animals nearby. They were a dark faced and red haired race, created to guide the humans with wisdom born from nature. They were the garonds...”
The elf settled into silence.
“Do you think,” the Archer asked, “the garonds are somehow being manipulated.”
“Deifol Hroth from the Far Grasslands,” the elf answered. “We believe he is possessed by Jofod Kagir, the one great evil, and he has twisted the garonds to his will.”
“Can they be saved?” The Archer asked.
“Hush,” the elf said. The Archer stopped in his tracks.
“Many feet,” the elf tilted her head for her sensitive ears to hear, “running towards us.”
The Archer quickly set the elf down. “Can you stand?” He asked her. She bravely nodded yes.
“Just stay behind me,” the Archer said as he grounded his stance and readied his bow.
From a bend down the river, following them, twenty heavily armed garonds burst into a run when they saw them. As they saw the Archer, they let out a fierce battle cry. The Archer calmly waited.
As they neared, their shrieks became high and shrill, meant to terrify and confuse their prey. The Archer smiled.
The first arrow of Yenolah struck the lead garond square between the eyes. The group of garonds stopped in their tracks.
“Come on!” The Archer defiantly yelled.
The garonds blood was roused and they charged with even more fury.
In quick secession, garonds fell to the black arrows, two, three, four, five dead. The Archer noticed among the garonds, near the back, was one with a bloodied and mangled ear, the one horse garond who got away the day before, demoted to foot soldier.
The Archer used the last two black arrows with deadly accuracy. The dozen garonds left had only a few paces to close, but the Archer killed three more before he had to draw his sword. Behind him he could hear the singing of the moon sword of Berand Torler as the elf drew it from her scabbard.
The remaining ten garonds spread out around the Archer. The cut, slash, thrust and parry of sword and club was loud and violent. The Archer sliced open two garonds before he realized the garonds were grouping towards his back and the elf. He linked his free arm in hers and quickly spun her around, and was able to hack a garond’s head from his shoulders as he did so. From behind, he heard the elf exclaim, “Do that again!”
The Archer whirled the elf, realizing she was using his strength to lift her sword high with deadly effect. Five garonds were left, with Old One Ear among their number.
“Turn me again!” The elf shouted. As the elf swung around, the Archer saw the neatly severed bodies of the garonds the moon sword had cut.
The momentary distraction was all it took for a garond to thrust his sword past the Archer’s guard. The garond’s sword cut a hot line along his upper arm.
There were only three garonds left, but the Archer couldn’t raise the elf to swing her, so he stepped around her, quickly killing two more. Only Old One Ear was left, and he quickly ran away as he realized h
e was once again alone.
The Archer raised his bow, but his cut arm winced with pain and he couldn’t get a shot off to catch Old One Ear.
“You let him get away again,” the elf panted.
“Keep your eyes and ears open as I get my black arrows.”
The elf collapsed in weariness. The Archer had to trot some distance along the river bank to retrieve all the seven of the arrows of Yenolah. He kept a sharp eye on the elf. She sprawled in the river’s sand, heavily panting.
As the Archer returned to the elf the wind began to pick up.
“Look!” The elf cried.
On the near horizon, the Archer could see a funnel of cloud and debris ripping tree and shrub from the earth, and headed right for them.
The Archer carefully picked the elf up, staring in disbelief.
The massive tornado seemed to be bearing right down on them, madly zigzagging back and forth.
The Archer realized, with the river at his back, he had no shelter whatsoever. It seemed to the Archer that the funnel of cloud and wind was veering to his right, and so began to trot to his left. The fury of wind then rushed right into the Bairn River sucking its water up high into the sky.
“Quick!” The elf cried, “We can cross the river!”.
The Archer rushed into the mud and vegetation of the empty Bairn with the elf cradled in his arms.
The mud sucked at his feet and the Archer became frightened. He turned to look at the looming water spout, and to his surprise, it stood completely still in the middle of the Bairn, holding the river back. The Archer slogged to the south bank of the Bairn and collapsed.
The elf and the Archer watched in wonder as the water funnel moved on south, out of the river, over land, safely past them.
“Someone,” the elf said, “is trying to help us.” The elf then fell into a deep sleep.
The Archer moved the elf to a safe spot high up on the south bank, and made a small camp for the night. Now that they were on the south side of the Bairn, they would be ahead of Frea’s captors and could move west directly headlong towards them. They would be sure to confront them tomorrow.
The Archer bandaged his wound, then looked for something he and the elf could eat. He thought about shooting a bird or a rabbit, but refrained, knowing he would offend the elf. Instead, he found more carrots, and some crunchy green stalks.
As night began to fall, the elf awoke as the Archer was roasting carrots again.
“Smells good,” the elf said. The Archer smiled, but his smile dropped as he saw the elf struggling.
“Well,” the elf said, “It seems I can’t move at all.”
The Archer grimly stared at the yellow flames of the small fire. Then, he stood, moved over to her, and carefully fed the elf as though she were a child.
“You mentioned Jofod Kagir earlier,” the Archer said.
Between mouthfuls, the elf said, “I told you the end of the story first. I should have started at the beginning.”
The Archer sensed the elf was done eating, and settled in beside her to listen and keep her warm.
“The elves believe,” the elf said, “in a primal fire, unseen, and unquenchable in all things. And the fire in all things blends, rekindles and refreshes each other.
“The first fire was Wylkeho Daniei who sparked out of the great black void, and immediately burst into billions of other fires. He then created the physical world in a second creation out of a profound love for all other beings. Hence, all life must be respected as aspects of god.”
“A child of Wylkeho Daniei named Jofod Kagir wanted all the fires to return to the source and be at his command. Jofod Kagir fought his creator to a standstill such was his passion. The rebellious flame became jealous, angry and evil as he lost the great battle with his parent.”
“The creator of all light could not extinguish the spark of his son, nor banish him. So he colored his fire so other lights could distinguish between good light and bad light.”
“Jofod Kagir has the ability to take many forms and tries to force other sparks to join his flame so he will be greater than his creator. He believes if his flame is great enough, he can remake reality, and be the new parent of all things.”
The elf quieted, nodded, then fell into a deep sleep. The Archer was left staring into the dwindling flames of his campfire, considering the Parent of all things.
The third day tracking Frea dawned with a clear, cloudless blue sky. The Archer awoke and tried to rouse the elf. She was still in a deep comatose sleep and would not wake.
The Archer tied his hooded tunic into a sling and was preparing to lift the elf when an arrow whistled past his ear.
He crouched and dragged the elf behind a thick shrub.
Across the Bairn River, thirty or so garonds lined the north shore with bow and arrow. The Archer huffed to himself in surprise. The garonds had never used bow and arrow before, as far as he knew. They were adapting their fighting skills at a frightening pace.
The Archer peered over the shrub. The garonds were clumsy and awkward with their bows, and they were much too far across the river to be very effective. It looked as though their bows were simple oak, and about half their arrows were simply sharpened sticks. And, there was Old One Ear right in the middle, barking orders.
The Archer reflected how he had seen surviving cowards become leaders in the military field. He tested his wounded arm. Then, he smiled to himself.
The Archer stood and walked directly to the edge of the south bank, firing flint arrows with deadly accuracy from his yew bow. The garonds roared with anger and their agitated arrows flew wide. Once the Archer tilted his head to avoid a lucky shot. He avoided using his black arrows as he would have no way to retrieve them.
Three garonds, filled with ire waded into the river and were immediately swept downstream to drown. There were about ten left when the Archer ran out of flint arrows. He thought about the twelve bronze arrows he carried in his quiver, then decided.
The bronze arrows flew quick and deadly. When Old One Ear saw he was one of about four left, he ran for the safety of the foliage above the river bank. The Archer finished the last garonds with satisfaction. He now had only three bronze tipped arrows, and the seven black arrows of Yenolah. He worriedly bit his lip. He desperately needed more arrows.
Returning to the elf, the Archer looked at the arrows the garonds had shot at him and realized they were useless, weak, shattered from impact, and mostly crooked.
The Archer prepared to lift the elf into her sling when an axe was lightly laid across the back of his neck.
A gruff voice behind him said, “That was some fancy shooting, friend. Now slowly take your hands off the elf.”
The Archer carefully stood to find he was surrounded, by six well-armed humans. Their leader was short and burly. He moved to the elf and gently touched her face. He lightly slapped her. She didn’t move.
“What have you done to her?” The leader demanded of the Archer.
“It’s a long tale,” The Archer said. “But, she was hit by a bolt of lightning.”
The men shared a concerned look.
“Well,” the leader huffed. “You’re very lucky she isn’t dead. Or you would be at this very moment. I don’t know about the truth of lightning bolts, but we’ve seen many unnatural lights streaking in the skies hereabout.”
“She is my friend,” the Archer offered. “We are tracking a group of garonds on horses who have taken a young, red haired girl. The elf and I were working together to save her.”
The leader eyed the Archer suspiciously. “Garonds on horses, you say. We saw you kill the garonds along the river. Very fine bowmanship.” To his men he said, “Search him.”
While two men held the Archer, a third man searched him, finding nothing of interest. Then the man pulled the black arrows of Yenolah from the Archer’s quiver.
“Well, well,” the leader said. “This is definitely from an elvish forge. Tell me you didn’t steal these from this young lass.”
“Hmmm,” the leader said. “If you’re such good friends with this elf, and on your way on this mission as you say, then you can tell me pointy ear’s name.” The leader stroked his red beard. “And I can tell you my fine friend, I do know her name as the elf folk have always been on good terms with Caerlund and the people of the Madrun Hills.” The short burly man shifted. “Aye, uh, Caerlund... that’s me.” Caerlund almost reached up to shake hands with the Archer, but caught himself. “So what’s this elf’s name, since she is such a great traveling companion of yours.”
The Archer opened his mouth, then closed it. He bowed his head. “I do not know her name. But everything I have told you is true!”
Caerlund squinched his face from side to side. “I want to believe you. I almost believe you.” Caerlund squinted up at the sun. “Yep. We’ll take the elf to the old woman at Plymonley. She’ll fix this little one up right, and then we’ll get to the truth, I reckon.”
With that, the men of the Madrun Hills made a litter to carry the elf. They tied the Archer’s hands tightly with thick rope. Then, Caerlund, his captive and his men, spent the rest of the day trudging through the hills of Madrun to the old woman at Plymonley. Along the way Caerlund plied the Archer with questions, and the Archer answered truthfully, telling all that had befallen him since first seeing the elf at Bittel.
The small road wound through pitched hills and rolling farmland. All along the way, secreted sentries were hailed. The Hills of Madrun were well guarded.
As night began to fall, a young man with a torch could be seen running towards them.
“Hail Caerlund, chief of the Madrun!” The young man called.
“Yes, yes, hail, hail, what is it?” Caerlund asked impatiently.
The young man respectfully removed his large woolen cap, “Rebburn says to tell you...” The young man gasped for breath.
Caerlund chuckled and let the young man compose himself.
“Rebburn, says, to tell you...” the young man took a deep breath, “Release the Archer, and bring the elf directly to her hut.”
Caerlund looked at the Archer with amazement. Then he said as he untied him, “I don’t know why I’m still astounded at the powers of the old woman. Well, we better get to Plymonley double quick, I reckon. Will you go back after this girl you were to save?” Caerlund asked the Archer
He thought deeply. “They are well past us now. But I must try to find her.”
“Oh,” the young man with the large woolen cap spoke to the Archer, “you are to be told to not worry. Come along! I’m hungry and want to get back before supper.”
Caerlund looked sideways at the Archer. “Best always to do what the old woman advises.” He said.
An unusual assuredness suddenly settled over the Archer, and he said, “Then, let us not make this young man of the Messenger Guild miss his supper.” With that, the group marched quick as they possibly could to Plymonley.
As night settled, the group topped a ridge which led into a flat bowl shaped valley with farms stretching out in wedges which all converged on a busy, light filled village, Plymonley, the heart of the Madrun Hills.
The Archer and his companions were led to a simple hut at the very center of the village. A short, wizened, white haired old woman was impatiently waiting for the group.
“Here, here,” she said directing the men with the litter to bring the elf into her hut.
“Hail, Rebburn,” Caerlund greeted her. Rebburn stopped to briefly touch forehead to forehead with Caerlund. And then the Archer heard Caerlund say under his breath to her, “my mother.”
Turning away from Caerlund, Rebburn called to the group, “go get something to eat, all of you.”
The Archer began to follow the old woman into her hut, but she stopped and faced him.
“And do you think you will do her any good, fainting of hunger?” Rebburn challenged the Archer.
With a humbled red face, the Archer shook his head “no”, and turned to follow the men of Madrun to the Great Hall nearby.
Inside the Great Hall of Plymonley all was bright with cheerful candles and lanterns, and the smell of roast chicken and peppered vegetables filled the air.
The Archer sat next to the young man with the large woolen cap.
“I’m Hermergh, a messenger,” he said to the Archer as he stuffed his mouth with enormous quantities of food. Hermergh spoke no more and seemed to be in a kind of measured frenzy as he ate as much as three men.
The Archer had a leg of chicken, then excused himself. He left the Great Hall and went directly to Rebburn’s hut. The Archer politely knocked at the doorless entrance.
“Yes, yes,” Rebburn invited him in. Inside Rebburn’s hut were glass and clay bottles of every description, containers holding dried herbs, viscous colorful liquids, and colored salts.
The elf was being held to sit up on a simple cot, and a young girl was trying to help Rebburn force a thick, green liquid down the elf’s throat. The elf coughed and convulsed. The Archer gently nudged the girl, and Rebburn’s look told her to let the Archer take her place.
The Archer gently held the elf’s head as Rebburn administered the elixir. The elf, still comatose, visibly relaxed at the Archer’s touch, and in her sleeping state, took long, deep draughts of the potion. After three large gulps, Rebburn nodded to the Archer, and he carefully reclined the elf on the cot.
“Now we wait until morning,” Rebburn said. “Go find some place to sleep,” the sweet, old woman said to the Archer. As he hesitated, Rebburn added, “I’ve seen this many times. The elves go into a great, deep sleep to quickly heal their wounds. It’s just a matter of helping them back into the waking world.” Rebburn softy patted the Archer’s cheek, then turned to tend to her apothecary.
The Archer stepped out into the cold, late autumn night. The sky was overcast and all the evening lights of the sky were hidden. The Archer sat next to Rebburn’s hut thinking about how the elf said the clouds were hiding something unnatural. He rested his head against his arms propped on his knees and was soon in a deep sleep.
The fourth day dawned bright and clear, and the Archer woke as someone gently kicked his thigh. He woke indignantly to find the elf staring down at him.
“Sleeping in the streets, are we?” She said.
The Archer leapt to his feet to embrace her, then gently pulled back lest he hurt her. “How- how do you feel?” He asked.
“As though I could pay back a thousand garonds for breakfast,” she laughed. They laughed together.
“Let’s get something to eat first,” the Archer said pulling the elf towards the Great Hall. Then, he stopped. “Oh, they cook animals in there.” He said.
“I will hold my nose to enjoy your company,” the elf smiled. The Archer smiled back.
In the Great Hall, many were breakfasting, and impossibly, Hermergh was eating a breakfast that could have fed four men. Another wiry young man sat next to him and ate as much.
The Archer ordered cooked vegetables out of respect for the elf, and they ate and spoke of the events of the last three days. The elf laughed as the Archer told how Old One Ear got away yet a third time.
“He goes first, if you see him again,” the elf laughed. Then the elf turned serious. “What of the young, red haired girl?”
“Frea?” The Archer chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “Rebburn assured me she is safe.”
“Then she is safe,” the elf said. “That old woman is well known and respected. Why, she is one of only a handful of humans who have ever been inside the empty city.”
“The empty city?” The Archer asked.
“Lanis Rhyl Landemiriam,” the elf said, mournfully looking down at her plate.
“Everyone fed?” Caerlund called, poking his head in a doorway to the great hall. “Let’s go, then.”
All in the great hall filed out to the village’s main
square, where all the people of Plymonley gathered. Caerlund stood on a tree stump to quiet the crowd.
“All here?” He called. “Good. We just got word,” Caerlund said indicating a wiry young man who brotherly stood next to Hermergh. “We just got word that the garonds have burned the Three Bridges of Rion Ta.”
An astonished and concerned murmur ran through the crowd.
“Why would they do that?” A voice called from the crowd.
“Yes,” another voice called. “They were trying to take the Three Bridges to invade the Weald.”
“It matters not who burned the bridges,” Caerlund said, “but, that the bridges are burned. This means of course that they have no choice but to bypass the Bairn River to continue their conquest of all human places in Wealdland.” Then Caerlund seemed weary. “And that of course means they must go through the Madrun Hills on their way to take Alfhich and its bridge so they can assault the Green Hills of Reia and then the Weald.”
“Perhaps they will pass us by,” a voice called from the crowd.
“Do any of you think the garonds will not assault all of Madrun and take Kenethley? Are any so wise to think that they will leave some humans in peace as they destroy all others?”
The crowd was grimly quiet.
“We must marshal our armies here to protect all of the people of the Madrun Hills. An attack is imminent. We also have word,” Caerlund swallowed, “through our excellent messenger guild,” nodded to Hermergh and his brother, “that all garonds in the Meadowlands are marching towards this village.”
At this, the crowd erupted into a loud cacophony of fear and exclamation. Some crying, “We must fight!” Others cried, “We must flee the Hills of Madrun!”
“Quiet! Quiet! QUIET!” Caerlund bellowed. “What says the Oracle of Plymonley?” All eyes turned to Rebburn at the back of the crowd.
Rebburn grew silent as all waited for her pronouncement. She closed her eyes and seemed to be seeing into some distant future.
“We are safe already,” she said. “Our salvation has already come to us.” Her eyes popped open to stare at the Archer and the elf. All eyes searched them. “But only,” she sternly held a finger aloft, “only if we act as one.” The entire crowd turned to Caerlund.
“And I suppose,” Caerlund said with a weary sigh. “I must be the voice for all people who wish to act as one.”
“Of course,” Rebburn said as though it were ridiculously obvious. She then turned, without waiting for discussion and returned to her hut.
“Well then,” Caerlund said, the enormity of the situation heavy on his shoulders, “we must ask the messenger guild to travel to all villages, farms and towns of the Madrun Hills to gather all the people here as quickly as possible.” A solemn silence fell on the crowd. “We few here must meet whatever garond army arrives and then escort all the people of Madrun to Reia through Alfhich.”
There was no discussion or dissent. All knew it had to be done, no matter how frightening, no matter the sheer impossible difficulty of the defense of the evacuation of Madrun seemed to loom.
“All right,” Hermergh said with a simple voice. “We’re off.” Hermergh looked with determination at his brother, who nodded. Without another word, they trotted away, one north, one south, with a loose, gangly lope.
The Archer watched Hermergh leave, and was amazed to see him gather a constant speed, and was quickly far off into the distance. The crowd dispersed to ready themselves for the impending invasion.
The Archer and the elf walked through the village to help as much as they could. All eyes shined on them with an uncomfortable hopefulness.
About mid-day, a tremendous earthquake rumbled through the village, toppling several houses and the great hall. Because all were busy, no one was seriously injured, and the debris was used to construct a barrier on the north side of the village.
All the rest of the day, people streamed into Plymonley. The messenger guild was effectively using its network of heralds to reach every human in the Madrun Hills.
As night fell, some feasted, and greeted long absent friends and family. But there was no cheerfulness, as all readied for war.
Just outside Rebburn’s hut the Archer and the elf settled down for the night. Rebburn came out to give the elf another draught of the thick green drink, which she drank with pleasure and gratitude.
“Thank you,” the Archer said to Rebburn. “Your healing skills are formidable.”
“Hmmph,” Rebburn grunted. Then she roughly pulled at the Archer’s bandaged arm.
“Want to get us all killed?” She breathed at him in disgust. She expertly applied a salve to the Archer’s wound and carefully rebandaged it.
“Thank you,” the Archer said with a smile. His wound instantly felt better. Then he asked Rebburn, “Why did you put such hopes upon us? Was it to unite and assure the people? What can I- what can we do to make any difference?”
Rebburn smiled on one side of her mouth and shook her head. “Just be who you are, dear one. Just be who you are.” A knowing light twinkled in her eye.
With that she scuttled back into her hut and returned to packing bottles and potions that she would let no other person touch.
As the elf and Archer sat looking up at yet another cloud filled night, the Archer said, “No stars or moons again.”
“I remember,” the elf sleepily said, “when there was only one moon in the night sky.”
“What?” The Archer yawned with amusement.
“Yes,” she answered. “Many do not remember. I was but a child when the Wanderer first joined Nunee in the night sky. There was great worry and fear at first, and many dire predictions. But as time went on, after hundreds of years, the great fear was replaced by acceptance. Perhaps, we should have kept one eye on that errant moon.”
Then they both fell fitfully to sleep, sitting with their backs to Rebburn’s hut.
The fifth day since the Archer and the elf began tracking Frea dawned bright, sunny, and cold. The residents of Madrun had been streaming into Plymonley all night, and now the small village was a bustling garrison with all the men who could bear arms gathering at the northern barrier.
Caerlund supervised and organized his men, and asked the Archer to stand by his side and give advice.
The Archer was knowledgeable in military matters and set the men in ordered lines along the barricade. In the late morning, the elf came out to join Caerlund and the Archer.
“This is no good,” the elf shook her head.
“I’ve been in many military campaigns,” the Archer smiled with a touch of warranted arrogance.
“But, have you ever fought a garond army? Yes, you’ve fought troops and patrols, but never their full force,” the elf gravely said.
“And you have,” the Archer said with empathy and apology.
“What shall we do? Help us,” Caerlund pled.
“First,” said the elf. “You must station your men in front of the wall. They must be organized into small groups that can move fast. The garonds attack as animals.”
Caerlund and the Archer shared a puzzled look.
“Yes, fighting as fierce as animals,” Caerlund said.
“No,” the elf struggled to explain.
“Won’t they come at us in a line of frontal assault, a crashing wave on the beaches of our defenses?” The Archer asked.
“No,” said the elf. “That is how men fight,” she was having some difficulty conveying her thoughts. “The garonds move in groups, and so should you. Sometimes the groups join together to make larger animals, but...” She spread her hands in frustration.
“We should do as she says,” the Archer said firmly to Caerlund.
“Very well,” Caerlund huffed.
Caerlund, the Archer and the elf ordered the murmuring human army out in front of the barrier and organized them into mobile groups of twenty foot soldiers with sword, club and spear, and five archers.
As the elf was trying to explain yet again how to counter the garond
army a call was heard.
“Hermergh! Hermergh!”
All eyes went to the northern road where Hermergh could be seen in a full run, headed for the barrier.
“What news?!” Caerlund called
“Prepare yourselves! The great beasts come!” Hermergh cried before collapsing into the arms of a soldier, who bore him away.
The Archer looked to the northern ridge of the valley of Plymonley. All along the ridge, black shapes swarmed.
A tumult of anticipation shuddered through the human army.
“Make yourselves as strong as stone!” Caerlund bellowed, and the army quieted with determination.
Then they came over the ridge.
The garond army poured over the northern edge of the valley, several thousand against Caerlund’s several hundred. The garond soldiers gathered together in groups of thirty, running in formations resembling large animals, slithering back and forth across the valley as they approached.
Growing closer, a strange screeching could be heard. The garond commanders communicated to each other through blood curdling screams.
The humans began to worriedly murmur.
“As strong as stone!” Caerlund bellowed again.
As they neared, the Archer could see how the garonds moved so closely in unison. Some soldiers formed the head, two formed a leg, while the main part of the fighting group formed the body. It appeared as if fifty massive, black crocodiles were crawling towards the human army.
“Do not stand still!” The elf called to the army with an unnaturally loud voice. The human groups moved as best they could as the first garond ‘beasts’ attacked.
The humans were almost instantly overwhelmed.
“Back behind the barrier!” Someone called. And, the human army of Madrun retreated to behind the barrier. Many soldiers were caught by the garond beasts and ripped open as they turned in cowardice.
The Archer could see that the garond beast formation was directed by four garonds at the head, one exceptionally large garond as the ‘snout’, two at his shoulders to form the ‘cheeks’, and the commander right behind them.
The Archer nocked a black arrow of Yenolah.
A garond beast descended upon him.
The Archer pulled, released and the ‘head’ of a garond beast froze with the paralysis of death. Instantly, the rest of the garond beast stumbled on their leader's body and fell into disorganized troops.
“Shoot the head!” The Archer called to the human army.
Humans and garonds clashed with sword and spear, and the human toll was great. The beasts attacked, and withdrew, attacked and withdrew, probing for weak places in the now reformed line of humans behind the barrier.
The archers of Madrun were not bad, scoring hits and bringing down soldiers, but the Archer could see they hadn’t the skill to single out the heavily guarded leaders in the beast’s heads.
The Archer moved down the line, and the arrows of Yenolah found their marks in garond leaders. But then, the Archer reached back for an arrow and realized he had only two bronze arrows left. In all the excitement, he had forgotten to get more.
The elf whirled her moon sword as a dream. She was reliving the assault of Lanis Rhyl Landemiriam. A fierce snarl on her face, garonds were hewn down with the bright, silvery, crescent moon blade.
“I need more arrows!” The Archer called to her, knowing her quickness.
The elf stopped in her blood lust, to address the Archer, a look of revelation on her face. “No,” she said, a seeming madness shining in her eyes. “You need all the arrows.”
It was insanity. But, the Archer somehow knew she was right, and dreadfully nodded his head.
“When you reach back, there will be an arrow. This I promise you.” The elf said with tears of rage in her eyes.
“Then let us begin,” the Archer said without emotion.
The Archer saw a fallen pine in part of the barrier. He quickly put his hands on the sticky sap of the fallen tree.
The elf stepped away with supernatural speed, took a handful of arrows from another archer’s quiver, looked at the Archer, and said in elvish, “Rise up.”
And, rise up the Archer did. The speed and ferocity of his first five strikes seemed to stop all around him, human and garond. But, the Archer did not stop. Arrows flew from his bow like a flock of deadly sparrows. He stepped forward, undeniable. The garond beasts before him crumbled.
It seemed to the Archer as if time slowed. He saw the whole battlefield before him. His arm never stopped nocking, pulling and releasing arrows. The faces of surprise and horror of the garonds was satisfying.
And true to her word, the elf gathered arrows from the other archers and placed them in the Archer’s quiver, cutting garonds with her moon sword as she passed.
The Archer moved as if in fluid, he felt a kind of warm numbness. He estimated he had killed at least sixty garonds in the span of a moment. He could see fear rippling through their ranks as the beast formations collapsed and the garond army became disorganized.
The human army was still outnumbered five to one, but a great cry went up. “Bring all the arrows! Bring all the arrows!”
The Archer could see the other human archers rushing to bring their arrows to him. In the slow, dream like state, the Archer saw Old One Ear and allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction as he killed him. All around him the battle raged. Humans gathered heart as the Archer waded forward, unstoppable and a continuous blur of arrows. In the span of ten breaths the Archer estimated he had killed over a hundred garonds.
Several times he felt the arrows of Yenolah pass through his hands as the elf looked to particularly pluck those special arrows from dead garonds for the Archer to reuse.
And so, he increased his speed.
The Archer no longer had to pull an arrow from his quiver. He could feel the elf handing him the arrows. And, he could hear the singing of her blade on either side of him. The human army must have been running the arrows to her as she stayed close at his back.
The Archer could feel the wound on his arm throbbing, but it didn’t slow him. He increased his speed to spite the dull pain he felt.
All the beast formations failed and the garond army was now just a crush of soldiers trying to overwhelm the humans.
From the corner of his eye, the Archer saw Caerlund swinging a broad, double bladed, battle axe, mercilessly mowing down the garonds before him. The Archer inched towards Caerlund to support him.
All around him, he could feel the human army gathering courage and strength as if he was sending power directly to them. The garonds screeched to each other to try to regroup, but a panic had begun to take them.
The battle had barely begun and nearly a fourth of their army was dead, due mostly to what now appeared to the garonds as a God of War, the Archer.
The Archer felt as though he no longer needed to command his arm and hand. It felt as though they moved by themselves. He was just being who he was. The Archer smiled to himself to remember Rebburn’s words. He estimated he had killed well over three hundred garonds. And, the arrows never stopped coming, and he continued firing.
And then a strange, almost mischievous thought took him. The Archer increased his speed to see if the elf could keep up. He had seen her move with unnatural quickness, and now he played a deadly game. He could feel her fingers touch his sometimes as he reached back for an arrow. But, true to her word, there was always an arrow ready for him.
About four hundred, he thought to himself without emotion.
How much time had passed, he wondered. The Archer seemed to be up above his body observing the carnage. The garonds screamed at each other, fearing impending death. And, the Archer continued. In the time it takes to leisurely eat a meal, the Archer had killed over five hundred garonds. He looked at Caerlund from the corner of his eye. Caerlund, swinging his dreadful axe, glanced over in fearful awe at the Archer.
The Archer seemed to sense the beating heart in every soldier on the field, garond and hu
man. He could feel the life pulsing in the grass beneath his feet. He was no longer shooting arrows, but something more. It was a connection to a pivotal moment in the world. Here in this moment, the human race would survive.
Then, the garonds broke.
With nearly half their army gone, all their leaders singled out for death, and no organization, the garond army began to turn to run. The human army took a terrible toll on the retreating garonds. The elf was at the front taking two, three cowardly garonds at a swipe with her silver sword.
Then, the Archer stopped shooting.
He sat on the field of conflict. All sound faded away. There was a loud ringing in his ears. He felt his own heart beat as loud as a parade drum. His head buzzed and ached. The sky, to him, grew black, as he laid back and closed his eyes.
Coming to, the Archer saw the elf kneeling over him, worriedly checking him for a wound. He smiled up at her.
“Are they gone?” He asked.
“There are no garonds in the Hills of Madrun today,” the elf said to him with fondness and awe in her eyes. “Don’t move,” she said, gently laying a hand on his chest. “We have a litter coming for you.” She paused, then said with wonder, “I never saw a human move faster than an elf.”
Caerlund looked over the elf’s shoulder down at the Archer, just huffed in amazement, and then turned to supervise the treating of the wounded and the collection of the dead.
The Archer was carried to Rebburn’s hut. The elf sat next to him all night as he plunged into a deep sleep.
The next day, the Archer woke sore and aching. He sat up to find the elf worriedly sitting by his side, as Rebburn clucked to a begging seagull.
“How do you feel?” The elf asked.
The Archer tried to rise, and then said, “Apparently I cannot move my arm.”
Rebburn laughed from a dark corner of her hut where she was finishing packing her potions and vials. “I’m surprised it didn’t fall off,” she said, patting the seagull on the head. She carefully examined the Archer’s arm, gently rubbed a salve on it, then she tenderly tied it up in a sling for him.
“Can you stand?” The elf asked. “Caerlund has just called a council.”
The Archer rose on unsteady feet. “Let’s go,” he said.
As he exited the hut, the Archer saw that the population of Plymonley had risen to several thousand overnight. Nearly the whole of the Madrun Hills was now here.
As the Archer approached the crowd, an awed hush fell over the people. The Archer looked around at the people of Madrun.
“Three cheers!” Caerlund bellowed.
And, the crowd erupted in joyous praise for their savior. The elf stood protectively on the Archer’s side to keep any from patting his sore bowing arm in thanks.
“Okay, okay, settle down,” Caerlund quieted the crowd. “There is much to do, and no time to do it. We must make for the village of Alfhich and the bridge there across the Holmwy River. And we must do it in an orderly fashion, if we are to cross the meadowlands safely before the real garond army shows up.” A murmur ran through the crowd.
“The messenger guild,” Caerlund continued, “through their secret ways have seen that what we saw yesterday was but a small portion of the full strength of the garond might.”
“And we shall defeat them again!” A voice called from the crowd, eliciting a joyful cheer.
“I hope so, I hope so,” Caerlund mumbled. “But if reports are correct, as I’m sure they are, we stand no chance if we remain here.”
“Let us stay and fight! We have the Archer and the elf!” A voice challenged from the crowd prompting a raucous agreement, and happy praise for the Archer and the elf.
“But,” the Archer spoke up, quieting the people, “I shall follow the one voice as Rebburn has advised, and I shall do as Caerlund, your chief commands.”
A solemn silence fell on the assembled as all eyes turned to their chieftain.
“Very well,” Caerlund gravely said. “We could stay and bravely fight, and be most certainly over run. A stupid plan. Or, we can keep our lives and join with the other tribes of Wealdland, to fight and win with greater numbers. A much more sensible idea.” Caerlund slapped his thigh. “We must begin movement immediately. Take what you can, and help your neighbors. We need a small contingent of fifty men or so to destroy the nine bridges along the Madronwy River so the garonds cannot flank us as we move northwest. Any so inclined, please come to me. Now. Off with you!”
And with that, the great evacuation of the Madrun Hills began.
“Come,” the Archer said to the elf, as they made their way up to Caerlund. “I will go with you,” the Archer said.
“And, I, as well,” the elf said.
Caerlund looked them over. “You cannot raise your arm, my friend. Best you go with the people. The elf can come if she wishes.”
“Harrumph,” Rebburn said from behind Caerlund. “Think you’re so smart.” Then, she toddled off.
Caerlund looked sheepish. “You can both come if you like,” he said to the Archer, “we leave at midday.”
The rest of the day was all bustle and movement. The black arrows were all found and returned to the Archer with thanks. The Archer found a member of the messenger guild and sent him on his way with a message.
Then, at midday, Caerlund, the Archer, the elf and fifty soldiers made for the northernmost bridge on the Madronwy River.
The rest of the day was long marching. It was difficult for the Archer. But, the elf made him lean on her, and he was able to keep up.
The first two bridges were easy to fell, but the terrain along the Madronwy grew rocky and the travel was slow.
Three more bridges were destroyed as night began to fall.
“Best to stop for the night,” Caerlund ordered, and the platoon made camp.
As evening meal was begun, a blast of lighting tore across the sky from east to west. A deafening bang of thunder followed. The men muttered to themselves in fear.
“I recognize that weapon,” the elf grimly said to the Archer. Clouds rolled in to hide the night sky.
In the middle of the night, as all but the sentries slept, the elf jolted awake. The Archer, sleeping nearby, woke.
“What is it?” He groggily asked her.
“Some evil whose fire is almost as hot as the sun’s has just passed by,” she said in a cold sweat.
“Was it Deifol Hroth?” The Archer joked, then fell back to sleep.
The rest of the night the elf stared, wide awake, at the boil of clouds overhead.
The seventh day since the Archer and the elf began to track Frea dawned with the clouds being pulled back like a curtain.
The company roused themselves, breakfasted and continued on their trek.
Caerlund strode beside the Archer. “How are you today?” He asked.
“I can move my arm,” the Archer said. “And, walking is no trouble.”
“We’ve four more bridges to drop. Then, as night falls, we can make for Kenethley, and spend the night there. Have you ever been to Kenethley?” Caerlund asked.
“No, I haven’t,” said the Archer.
“It is a beautiful city,” the elf simply said.
“There,” Caerlund puffed up with pride, “the approval of the elf folk.”
With that, they continued trekking through the rocky terrain that bounded the Madronwy River.
By midday, two bridges had been cut down, with two left.
Caerlund stopped the company to rest and hold council. “The Fallfont Gorge is the hardest to reach. We’ll go further south to fell the Singing Bridge, stop the night in Kenethley, and take care of Fallfont in the morning on our way back.”
All was agreed and they got up to continue. But, an angry, chattering seagull stood in their path.
“Do you think,” a soldier joked to the Archer, “your arm is well enough to shoot that bird?”
As they laughed, a soldier drew his sword to take a swipe at the seagull.
“Wait!” The Ar
cher cried. “Do you recall the bird in Rebburn’s home?” The Archer asked the elf. “Is this not the same one?”
“I do not understand him. I can’t speak this bird’s dialect. Rebburn said her seagull was from the other side of the world.” The elf said studying the remonstrating bird. “But it does resemble the same seagull.
“What is it trying to say to us?” Caerlund puzzled.
All stupidly stared at the scolding bird.
“When does Rebburn usually speak up?” The Archer asked.
“When I’ve made an incorrect decision,” Caerlund sighed.
“Then we must go directly to the bridge over Fallfont Gorge,” the elf said. “Someone’s life depends on it.”
As soon as the elf finished, the bird seemed satisfied, nodded its head, and flew away.
Caerlund was flabbergasted. “I never question the old woman,” he huffed. “Off to Fallfont, then,” he said shaking his head.
The rest of the day was difficult hiking along steep ledges. But, no rest was taken, for all seemed to feel a strange, new urgency.
As night began to fall, Caerlund said, “Just over this ridge.”
For a change, the sky was clear, and the moons and stars shone with mad brilliance. Ragged, filthy, thin humans began to desperately top the ridge.
“What, what?” Caerlund stammered.
“Garonds! Garonds!” A woman cried as she neared.
Caerlund and his company ran towards the ridge.
As the Archer topped the ridge, he saw several garonds pursuing a band of tattered humans. He saw a large garond on the bridge pull a bow.
He turned his head to see what the large garond was sighting at, and further up the ridge he saw Arnwylf and Frea.
Barely able to lift his arm, the Archer set his bow, and nocked an arrow of Yenolah.
The large garond shot his arrow straight at Arnwylf.
The Archer, his arm pulsing with pain, shot without thinking.
There in the moonlight, the black arrow of Yenolah shot the garond’s arrow right out of the air.
The arrow of Yenolah clattered into the gorge far below.
“You’ve gone far enough!” The large garond bellowed.
“Aye,” Caerlund bellowed back. “I think you’ve gone just far enough!” And, Caerlund’s men descended with amazing, blood thirsty fury on the few garonds who had crossed the bridge.
But, before they engaged, all were frozen in their tracks, staring up, as a throbbing, terrifying, deep sound vibrated in pounding waves into the night sky overhead.