The Last Elf of Lanis


by


K. J. Hargan


SMASHWORDS EDITION


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PUBLISHED BY:
K. J. Hargan on Smashwords

The Last Elf of Lanis
Copyright 2010 by K. J. Hargan

All right reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark
owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The
publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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Cover illustration by Damian Hawes. Copyright Kurt J. Hargan. Used with permission.

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The author would like to thank Annette and Roy for their support and love, and Zack who enjoyed this work, as it was written chapter by chapter and read to him by his mother Koral, who I thank as sister, editor, and most ardent fan.

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The Last Elf of Lanis


Chapter One

Bittel

Iounelle Treelaughter Wendralorn Awaruaine knelt to check the signs in the dry autumn grass. Nearby, the bodies of five garonds lay dead.
Treelaughter was her elvish lifename. Wendralorn was her family name. And, Awaruaine was the name given by the priests at her birth, a secret name, only to be told to her betrothed on her first night of marriage. Now that name was irrelevant. There were no other elves to be her husband.
The garonds were part of a larger platoon she had been tracking for several weeks. They were headed westward from the Holmwy River. These five had doubled back. It didn’t matter why to the elf. She would have killed them in any case.
Iounelle plucked a handful of the meadow grass and wiped the garond blood from her long, silver, crescent shaped sword. It resembled the moon in its last phase. Along the inner edge ran old elvish runes in a dialect of elvish so ancient the words made little sense to her. She could pick out the words ‘glory’ and ‘key’, but the phrasing was too old to be readily understood.
The elf looked up at the cold, blue sky. The memory of the slaughter of the last elves in all of Wealdland constantly played before her eyes. She clutched her breast with the heartbreak. When the garonds, their age old friends, suddenly attacked, she had been knocked unconscious by her brother, and hidden in the trees near the walls of the ancient city of the elves, called Lanis Rhyl Landemiriam.
When she awoke, the last four elves were fighting against thousands of garonds. Her brother was in the group. From her hiding place, she saw his desperate eyes flash to her to flee. She felt the numbing shock of horror as the garonds, like angry black ants, overwhelmed her brother and the other elves. She often thought she should have died with them then, a year ago. But, she ran and hid in the trees, crying for days after.
Over the days since the attack, she quietly killed as many of the invading, vile garonds as she could, secretly ranging all across the Lanis peninsula, into the Madrun Hills, and across the Eastern Meadowland.
The elf rose. The trail led to a small, neglected village called Bittel.

The small stand of trees was cool, and the green and yellow leaves of the massive elms swayed and danced with the sweet breezes of the last days of autumn. The Archer from Kipleth drew back on his long, yew bow. The arrow he had nocked had a black metal, strangely barbed head. 
The Archer swung his bow around to a group of people on the ground. From his vantage point in the elm, the Archer had an unobstructed target range of the whole, open meadow and the trail that ran along the edge of the tree line.
A permanent sorrow was etched on the Archer’s face, reflected in his dark brown eyes.
There was no cover from this point. Anyone on the ground would have been helpless before him. He had only to point and release.
On the ground, three garonds had three human families in shackles. The garonds were a squat, dark, muscular and vicious race, sporting long, dark, red hair. They had wide mouths with sharp teeth, small upturned noses and ape like faces.
All three of the garond soldiers had thick leather armor with copper plates on shoulders, thighs, and chest. None of these precautions would protect the soldiers from the Archer.
The Archer sighted the foremost garond and pulled his arrow tight to his right cheek. The image of his slaughtered wife and children was always foremost in his mind, but his wife’s face was becoming distant, a memory harder to recall. His fingers trembled.
Silent, as a leaf falling, a shape dropped to the branch just in the Archer’s line of sight. A small, hooded figure dressed in forest green crouched on the outstretched arm of an elm.
The Archer watched as the hooded figure drew a crescent shaped, silver sword. The Archer instantly knew the shape crouching on the branch before him was an elf. His hand wavered for an imperceptible instant.
The elf tensed, ready to leap down to the garonds below. In a moment, the elf would be fighting for its life, and it would be a close match. Garonds were quick and well organized, strong and merciless. The Archer had never seen an elf fight, but he made up his mind.
The Archer checked his target and released the arrow. It flew silent and true, a sharp, feathered bolt, and pinned the cloak of the elf to the branch on which it crouched.
The elf whirled around to pierce the Archer with sea green eyes. The elf was a young woman, but a bonfire of hatred blazed in her stare. The Archer locked eyes with the elf, and lifted a single finger to his lips to be silent.
The elf instantly knew the Archer could have killed her then and there, and reluctantly nodded with understanding.
The Archer nocked another of his unique black arrows.
On the ground, a blonde, human boy had fallen to the dry, autumn grass. One of the garonds snarled loud and dangerous. It lifted its blackened, oak club for the death stroke.
As in a dream, a polished arrow sprouted from the neck of the garond. Dark blood squirted from the wound. The other two garonds roared in anger.
The elf watched in astonishment as the Archer renocked, and fired twice more in a perfect blur. It seemed as if the arrows sprang from the other two garonds like evil, fletched flowers grown mad in some deadly spring.
The middle garond clutched the arrow imbedded in his right eye. The third garond could only bring his hands up to the arrow protruding from his opened mouth before it crumpled to its death.
All three garonds fell to the ground in pools of inky blood as the humans clutched each other in happy astonishment.
The elf turned to fix the Archer with a look of satisfied blood lust. Then, she ripped the arrow from her tunic, and leapt from the tree. The elf disappeared into the woods with the speed of a startled deer.
The Archer paused for any other movement in the woods, and then slowly climbed from the elm tree. Then, he walked carefully to the tree that the elf had fled. There was no sign of his black arrow, or the elf.
Carefully, the Archer walked through the edge of the woods to where the humans were freeing themselves of the shackles of the garonds.
A tall, blonde man with dark brown eyes turned to the Archer, and his face broke into a broad smile. “Like the sun breaking through the clouds, our savior!” He exclaimed.
The Archer ignored him and strode to the first garond, and pulled the black arrow from its neck.
“I am Kellabald, these are the people of Bittel,” the blonde man quietly said.
The Archer briefly took in Kellabald, his dark haired wife, and their blonde son, the boy who was nearly killed. There was also an elderly couple, and a red haired man, with a woman and their girl. The red haired man seemed vaguely familiar.
The Archer stepped to the second garond and with effort, pulled at the thick, barbed arrow buried in its eye socket.
The two human children now clutched their mothers and whimpered in happy sobs. The Archer acknowledged their relief. For an instant, the pain of a bereaved parent played across his face. Then, the black cloud, which perpetually shadowed the Archer’s face, covered his countenance again.
Kellabald stepped up to the second garond and held its head to help the Archer extract the arrow.
“They are nasty things, these garonds, like rabid animals. You made short work of them, though,” Kellabald humbly said.
As the arrow came free, the Archer examined Kellabald for a moment. “You had best get your clan to safety fast. The mounted patrols will be here soon.”
“Mounted...?’ Kellabald stared at the Archer.
“They ride on the backs of horses,” the Archer plainly said.
Kellabald stopped as if the Archer had told a joke, and then realized the seriousness of the situation. “They ride on the backs...”
“... Of horses. They are relentless and unmerciful,” the Archer said as he scanned the trees.
Kellabald seemed to understand, and an air of gratefulness settled on him. “You have our undying thanks, friend. But where is your elf companion? We should thank her, too.”
The Archer stopped before the third garond. “You saw her?”
Kellabald shifted nervously. “Was she... Did I not...?” his voice broke in embarrassment.
“She has my arrow,” was all the Archer said. Then, he pulled the arrow from the third garond’s mouth with a sucking, popping sound.
“There’s a village, Rion Ta, across the Eastern Meadowland, at the edge of the Weald. We would be honored if you would escort us,” Kellabald asked, hope quietly shining in his averted brown eyes.
“The women and children should know that we must travel quickly,” was all the Archer said. With that, he strode away through the brown, dry grass.
Kellabald gathered his clan as they scuttled after the determined strides of the Archer from Kipleth.
From the edge of the woods, from the unfolding green, as if emerging from nature itself, Iounelle, the elf, stood and looked after the fleeing humans. The elf paused to examine the destruction of the garonds, crumpled black shapes of evil, given their due by the dark eyed, dark haired Archer. The human stirred a strange feeling in her breast. In her hand, she turned the unusual, black arrow that had pinned her cloak to the tree. Then, with the hint of a smile, the elf quietly followed the trekking humans through the crisp, autumn grass.


Chapter Two

The Stauer

Arnwylf tried to ignore the burning in his legs, and would not cry. His father, Kellabald walked with his mother, Wynnfrith, just behind the Archer. His mother’s long black hair swayed in the gentle breeze. She looked back at Arnwylf with sea green eyes.
Arnwylf had his father’s blonde hair, but while Arnwylf’s hair was long and gentle, his father’s was a ragged mop. Arnwylf had his mother’s green eyes.
The dry, tall grass sometimes cut at his face. He was lean and tall for almost fifteen summers. He was frightened and starving, but he would not cry.
The garonds had been terrifying, worse than any nightmare. He knew he was going to die. They smelled like spoiled meat. Their faces were always twisted with rage. But, Arnwylf sensed there was something not right about the garonds, as if they were compelled by something even worse.
Arnwylf stumbled, and old Yulenth caught him. They quickly continued stalking through the tall grass of the Eastern Meadowland. Yulenth had short, messy white hair, a white beard, and light grey eyes. Alrhett marched beside her husband, Yulenth. She was Arnwylf’s grandmother, her long white hair platted into a single braid. She had hazel eyes, which twinkled with secret wisdom. Yulenth and Alrhett were like second parents to Arnwylf, and he felt safe with them following just behind.
Arnwylf thought back to the moment when the Archer had emerged from the woods. His dark face made Arnwylf worry that he was another garond. But then his quiet calm put everyone instantly at ease.
Arnwylf caught the glimpse of a shadow moving quickly through the grass. He almost cried out, fearing an animal. He knew lions stalked these grassy meadows. But, the shadow was so fleeting, he wondered if he had imagined it.
The red haired family followed behind Yulenth and Alrhett. The father, Haergill, was quiet like the Archer, and his fire red beard was braided into two braids. Haergill’s wife, Halldora, and their daughter Frea, were kind but quiet, as if they were holding back a tremendous sorrow. Their curling ginger hair was softly caressed by the light breezes of the meadow.
They had come from the Northern Kingdom of Man, where the garonds had driven every single human from the land. Kellabald had gladly welcomed them into their village. And, Arnwylf was glad to have someone his own age in the village, even if she was a girl.
Arnwylf flinched as he caught a strong musk smell. The Archer stopped the group and gestured for the band of humans to crouch down. As he stopped to hide, Arnwylf knew the pungent smell was a stauer, a massively large deer. The stauer was so large that a human, bowing his head, could walk underneath a mature male.
Stauers were dangerous. Their impressive antlers could kill several men in one slashing arc of its head. A herd of stauer was to be avoided at all costs. But, a single animal could be hunted and killed. The humans were desperately hungry. The garonds had starved the humans while they searched their village for days. They were looking for something, but no one knew what they sought. And, they could not tell, as no human understood the garond tongue.
Arnwylf could see his father arguing with the Archer in urgent whispers.
They had no weapons for hunting. Haergill had picked up one of the hated garond’s clubs. And except for the Archer’s arrows, the humans were empty handed.
Kellabald and the Archer reached an agreement. The Archer and Kellabald quietly retreated along the way they had come. After a brief discussion with Haergill, the group retreated back to a dead tree the humans had passed in the meadow.
Arnwylf knew what would come next, and set to breaking off the largest branch he could. All the others, men and women broke off large branches from the dead tree. Where the branches broke away, sharp, wooden spear points formed.
Frea had trouble with the branch she had chosen, and Haergill, her father, and Yulenth stopped to help her. Her branch split with an amazingly loud crack. The group froze in silence. The stauer might have heard them and bolted. Any number of humans would be no match for a charging stauer. The humans paused, listening intently.
Arnwylf saw the shadow again darting through the grass and swiveled to face it. The humans turned in the direction Arnwylf stared, but saw nothing. The Archer moved quietly to Arnwylf’s side.
“You saw her?” His dark eyes bore into Arnwylf. Arnwylf could only nod his head in assent. The Archer terrified him.
“Stay near me,” the Archer added. Arnwylf closely followed the Archer as the humans moved back along the path they had followed through the meadow. Kellabald and Wynnfrith shared a worried look.
Back to where they had stopped, the smell of the stauer was overpowering, musky, pungent, like the smell of the village when the rains came and everything was wet, like the smell of his younger brother when he was first born. Arnwylf stopped for a moment to remember his brother who had died so young of the pox.
The Archer motioned for the group to gather close.
“You,” he pointed to Haergill, “go that way. Me and you,” he indicated Kellabald, “we’ll go this way.”
“What do I do?” Arnwylf surprised himself with the question.
“You stay and protect the women,” the Archer dismissively said.
“Thank you for saving us, sir,” Wynnfrith spoke up. “But we have been hunting stauer for generations.” With that, the whole group, men and women, moved out to encircle the stauer.
The Archer smiled, and then caught Arnwylf. “If you see that shadow again,. shout out, regardless of the hunt.” Arnwylf regarded the Archer, trying to be as strong and as terrifying as he could. He sensed the Archer’s amusement as the clan split up for the hunt.
The humans moved out into a quiet circle. To one side Wynnfrith led Haergill, followed by Halldora, then Yulenth. On the other side, Kellabald led Alrhett, then Arnwylf, and Frea. The Archer caught Arnwylf and then the circle wasn’t a perfect alteration of man and woman.
“If you see that elf...” the Archer said to Arnwylf. He and the Archer held back from the circle. The Archer nocked a flint tipped arrow. Arnwylf noted the excellent shape of the flint stone bound to the arrow shaft. The feathers of the arrow appeared to be from a sparrow, delicate and perfect. Arnwylf wondered where the large, black arrows were, and why hadn’t the Archer nocked one of those.
Arnwylf could smell the pungent aroma of the stauer again. The sharp scent was strong. He lifted his head slightly and saw through the thick, yellow and green grass, the huge antler rack of the stauer bobbing as the beast cropped the grass. He could hear the ripping and munching of the massive beast as it swung its massive head back and forth, tearing at the meadow’s grasses.
The humans had formed a perfect circle around the stauer, not trying to be too quiet. The trick was keeping it from being startled and running. Its tremendous weight, easily equal to ten men, once set in motion, would be unstoppable. The alteration of man and woman would mean that the men could move in on the animal as the women tried to contain it.
The stauer smelled the humans and lifted its massive head with a reverberating snort. The animal was a huge male. Its coat was a reddish bay with black stripes. Around the top of its massive legs and around its throat was shaggy, dark brown hair. Its deer-like muzzle was wet with saliva, and it munched as it looked around at the enclosing humans. Its antler rack was big enough to cup four men at once. Its neck was thick and massive, the power behind the dangerous sweep of its antlers.
Kellabald, Haergill and Yulenth moved closer to the beast as it shook its head in annoyance. Arnwylf instinctively moved forward, but the Archer caught him by his filthy rags. The Archer’s eyes were two stars of burning fire. Arnwylf scanned the grass for the shadow he had seen before.
All the humans stood erect now. The stauer angrily snorted again. And, instead of charging or bolting, the huge animal lumbered in a tight defensive circle, finding itself surrounded. This is what the starving, desperate humans wanted. The animal had to remain stationary to be brought down.
The birds in the meadow suddenly stopped chirping and calling. The only sound was the stauer turning and grunting at the sudden sight of these humans all around it.
Kellabald moved dangerously close to the beast. Throwing a spear or broken branch at the immense beast might be somewhat effective, but the thick hide and layers of muscle would protect the beast from barely being penetrated. The spear would have to be worked into the body to bring it down, to feed the anguished, starving families.
Kellabald looked over at his son standing so resolute with his tree branch spear, and his mind wandered back to his own youth in Gillalliath, the capitol of the green hills of Reia. His father was a noble, and so he was admitted to the higher households, structures made of carved, dark wood, the eaves trimmed with gold lettering from an ancient tongue. He started to turn over the events of his father’s trial in his mind, and then he caught himself, and focused on the task at hand.
The stauer shivered and grunted loudly. Its instinct now was to stand and demolish the puny creatures before it. It angrily tore large divots of earth with its thrashing front hooves, while dangerously nodding its head.
Arnwylf sneaked a look at the Archer. He seemed to stare at a fixed point in the grass, away from, but near the stauer. His bow and arrow were as still as ice, unmoving, but ready. Then, he pulled his arrow tight.
It all happened so quickly and simultaneously Arnwylf wasn’t sure if it wasn’t a dream even until his days as an old man.
The Archer was looking at where the shadow was, not to where it had moved. Arnwylf saw the shadow move impossibly, quickly through the tall grass. For an instant, he saw her. Her clothing was a shimmering cloak, which he could only describe as olive green, but seemed to reflect the tans and browns of the grass, blending perfectly. The elf moved behind the stauer and seemed to lock eyes with Arnwylf. Then the elf slapped the massive beast’s hindquarters, startling it into a charge. 
Arnwylf pulled at the Archer’s sleeve, and was pointing at the elf, as the stauer reared up, more than twenty feet into the air. Before the stauer could bolt, Wynnfrith drove her sharpened branch into the animal’s hind leg. The stauer wheeled, turning its massive weight to crush Alrhett.
Without hesitation, with astounding speed, the Archer pivoted, and in an amazing shot, hit the stauer right in the eye. Instead of crushing Alrhett, the stauer flinched away from the pain of the arrow.
At this opportunity, Kellabald drove his spear into the stauer’s front leg, and as he clung to the thrashing, angry beast, drove the sharp branch deep into the animal’s limb. The stauer stumbled for a moment.
Haergill swung the garond club at the stauer’s massive head as its great reach of antlers swept in front of the humans. Instead of hitting the beast, Haergill spun, and was caught by the antlers, and thrown up high onto the back of the animal with a thud.
Yulenth rushed forward and drove his spear into the animal’s body, but the hit was low and ineffectual. The stauer was now mad, frothing, and bucking, with Haergill desperately clinging to its back.
As one, the humans all raised their hands and shouted to distract the massive beast. Its huge antlers swept back and forth trying to crush the puny, starving humans that encircled it.
Kellabald leapt upon the branch stuck in the stauer’s hind leg and pushed the sharp, wooden branch deeper. The stauer bellowed a shocking, ear splitting cry of pain, and almost went down. If it had lain down, the hunt would have been over, but this animal had spirit. And, it caught its legs under itself and stood upright.
Haergill, atop the stauer tried to position himself for a blow to the animal’s head with his garond club. But, the heaving and stamping of the stauer kept him off balance.
The Archer held Arnwylf, “Do you see her? Do you?”
Arnwylf contemptuously tore himself from the Archer’s grip and moved towards the stauer.
Yulenth had taken Alrhett’s spear and tried again for the body of the rampaging beast.
Arnwylf cautiously advanced on the stauer. The beast powerfully turned in short circles, and with its remaining eye tried to see and trample the humans. The group jumped and maneuvered to stay out of the sight line of the furious beast.
Surprisingly, Halldora rushed the beast and drove her spear into the spot right behind the front leg, but the animal shrugged violently and threw her to the ground. Frea leapt forward and dragged her mother away from the continuous, terrible striking of the stauer’s front hooves. Atop the stauer, Haergill had lost his club and hung onto the animal’s mane for dear life.
Arnwylf saw that Halldora’s spear was in the right place and leapt forward to grip it. He tried to force it into the animal’s heart. But, Arnwylf found himself suddenly thrown back and forth by the stauer’s mad battering. It’s front and rear legs were wounded and instead of bolting, which might have saved its life, its instinct now was to stand and fight.
Arnwylf felt his own body’s weight pulling the spear from the stauer’s body and feared he might ruin the hunt. But he knew if he let go, he would be immediately trampled to death.
The moment seemed to stretch into infinity, the pungent smell of the animal, the cries of the other humans, the massive rocking of the beast's rippling muscles, the mangy hair above the animal’s leg whipping at his face, the crunching of the autumn grass of the meadow, the light blue of the afternoon sky, the silence of the meadow’s birds, the mystery of the elf. Arnwylf tasted his own blood in his mouth and knew in a moment he could be dead.
From the corner of his eye, he could see the Archer, pulling tight on another flint arrow, looking for a chance to pierce the stauer.
The world felt warm and unreal to Arnwylf. Then, as if in a dream, he felt his father’s arms behind him. Kellabald was shouting and he could feel his father behind him pushing on the spear to which he clung.
As the stauer rocked and fought, Arnwylf could see his family and friends waving their hands in front of the animal to confuse it, and keep it from bolting. Arnwylf saw Haergill fall from the stauer’s back and almost laughed in delirium. Then Arnwylf felt the warmth and strength of his father as he pushed on the spear, and knew in that instant, to add his own strength to the spear working its way into the stauer’s heart.
Arnwylf could feel the warm, sticky blood of the stauer running over his hands. He was so hungry he wanted to let go and lick his fingers, but he knew to hold on, even though the spear was slippery.
Then the world seemed to stand still. Arnwylf could see the other human, with their mouths open, silent, expectant. Then he felt a shudder as the great beast was dying. The massive body of fur and hair began to topple to the ground.
Arnwylf felt his father pulling him away from the stauer. And as if from very far away, he heard his father shouting at him, “Let go! Let go!”
Arnwylf let his hands go slack, and for a moment he was a child of four in his village. His father was swinging him around in a merry circle with his massive hands. He felt the laughter and joy just bubbling out of him, and knew at this moment in time, he would never be happier.
Then, Arnwylf came to his senses as he tumbled to the grass with his father. He immediately looked up and saw the stauer right itself, fighting for that last moment of life. Then the great beast crashed to the meadow grass with a bouncing, resounding thud. The humans stopped and stared in astonishment. The stauer was dead.
The families of Bittel advanced on the stilled beast. Halldora helped Haergill to his feet. Kellabald inched towards the massive animal. The spear protruded, pointing to the sky as if imploring Kellth the god of the sun.
The Archer handed Kellabald a bronze knife. Kellabald nodded in thanks. Then, stepping to the dead stauer, he raised his hands in a prayer of thanks to the father of the gods, Eann, and then he plunged the knife into the animal’s flesh. The humans now crowded around Kellabald as he cut away strips of venison. The clan eagerly ate the raw meat having been starved by their garond captors for days.
Arnwylf felt a surge of momentary happiness. His family was free, and they had something to eat. But the meadowlands were dangerous and they needed to get to the safety of the Weald, the massive forest on the far side of the Eastern Meadowland. The Archer seemed on edge. Arnwylf saw him refuse a piece of meat offered by Wynnfrith, and then he pulled a bronze tipped arrow from his quiver and simply held it in his hands.
His father and Haergill argued about how much meat to cut from the stauer. Yulenth then spoke, and both Kellabald and Haergill nodded in agreement. The three humans plunged their hands deep into the animal and pulled out its dark, slick liver. The clan gathered around the piece of meat.
“We thank you, oh great Stauer of these meadowlands,” Yulenth spoke solemnly to the dead beast. “We thank Tareia goddess of the wood and ask for her safe guidance.” With these words the humans all reverently took a bite of the liver. When Arnwylf bit deep into the flesh, the bitter liver was satisfying and gave him a sense of being connected to all living things. He looked up and locked eyes with the elf standing behind the group in the tall grass. Her look of pain and disgust surprised him. Yet he sensed she felt what he felt, and was confused and surprised also. Then the elf seemed to hear something and darted away.
All of this happened in a split second, before Arnwylf could even swallow.
The Archer put the arrow he held to the string of his bow. Frea held the liver in her hands, but was frozen. The clan turned their eyes to see what she saw. A pack of meadow wolves inched into the clearing, their yellow eyes blazed with hunger.
The lead wolf was tall. His snout could have rested on any man’s shoulder without raising its head. It was grey and grizzled. The black wolf by its side was almost certainly the lead female of the pack. There were eight wolves including a young male that had a snow-white coat. The wolves stepped closer, their hunger a beacon in their eyes. The Archer pulled his arrow taught. Its tip sighted on a point centered dead between the lead wolf’s eyes.
Alrhett slowly raised her hands, her braided white hair swaying. “We are clan of the Wylfling and have need,” she spoke directly to the lead wolf. “And we respect these stauer are yours by right. Let us depart in peace.” Alrhett thought of the many treaties she had failed to negotiate among the crafty lords of Rogar Li, the capitol of the Weald. Would she be unable to make a truce with a simple animal? The lead wolf snarled.
“He says we may leave,” Alrhett said with relief.
With that the humans slowly retreated into the grass of the Meadowlands. As Arnwylf slowly backed away from the scene of the kill, he could hear the wolves snarling and tearing the stauer’s hide as they ripped the carcass to pieces.
Unknown to the human clan as they made their way east across the tall waving grass of the meadow, the young, white wolf broke away from the devouring of the stauer and turned to follow the elf following the humans.


Chapter Three

Rion Ta

Haergill limped through the pasture of the Meadowlands. The vast, level grasses had more shrubs as they traveled further east, and the passage was a little more difficult. Haergill held his thick, barrel chest. It hurt to breathe. He had probably broken a few ribs when he had fallen from the stauer.
And, the raw meat wasn’t sitting well in his stomach. He was used to cooked meat, but he felt good that his family had eaten. The tall, dark green rim of trees that started the edge of the Weald was visible now. The village, Rion Ta, would be right where the forest began. Humans ruled the wooded areas. The thick canopy of interlocking oaks and arching elms was a perfect environment for ingenious and clever humans.
Haergill thought of the night Varknifl and his henchmen found him hiding in Bittel. That rainy, summer night, he had killed them all not too far from where they had just passed. Perhaps he was treading over their very bones at this very instant. The thought put him in a foul mood.
Something gnawed at Haergill, and he had to reconcile his feelings. Haergill worked his way up the line of quickly moving humans with some difficulty. He saw Arnwylf smile at him as he passed him, and returned the smile. The boy was a good person and would someday be a fine, honorable man.
Haergill passed Kellabald and they shared a grim look. With difficulty Haergill made his way to the Archer’s side. The dark haired, dark eyed man turned slightly to notice him.
Haergill spoke boldly to the Archer, “Why didn’t you use one of those black arrows on the stauer? You could have killed it in one shot.”
The Archer turned his head slightly to pierce Haergill with a sharp look, but continued on in silence.
The anger of Haergill’s race, his people, welled up inside of him. He was the son of a warrior king, but he tried to control his violent feelings. He had seen almost his whole people wiped away by useless civil wars. The wars had weakened the Northern Kingdom of Man, making the attack of the organized and swift garonds too easy, too devastating.
Haergill could feel his hands moving of their own accord and he reached out to grab the wool of the Archer’s dark green hood.  In a flashing instant, the Archer held a bronze knife to Haergill’s throat, as the whole party came to a halt.
The Archer and Haergill regarded each other in tense silence, both their eyes burning. Kellabald quietly stepped to the two, but was careful not to speak or make sudden movements, which would precipitate a fight.
Haergill spoke quietly but courageously, “We thank you for saving us from the garonds, but we are free humans, and will not be treated as slaves.”
The Archer spoke in slow, deliberate tones, “The black, metal arrows are only for the killing of garonds. It is an oath I made. And I hope you will feel no dishonor in this, to you or your clan.”
Haergill was surprised. It made perfect sense, and he was immediately sorry for his anger. He was at a loss for words.
Kellabald spoke gently, “We need to make the village on the edge of the Weald before Kellth carries the sun over the rim of the earth, and Nunee ascends to follow her husband into the night sky.” Both the Archer and Haergill relaxed, but Haergill quickly held his hand up for stillness. The humans were immediately motionless.
Haergill could hear a crashing sound in the meadow. The humans quickly huddled together for protection. From all sides a herd of doderns crashed through the grass. They were compact and strong. Their muscular bodies were covered by a hide that was thick and hard like armor. They were also covered with shaggy, light brown hair and each had an enormous horn protruding from its snout, with a smaller horn behind the larger. The doderns were frightened and running from some danger. They gave no notice to the group of humans crouched together for safety. Then, just as suddenly as the stampede began, it was over.
“We need to move faster,” The Archer spoke to the group. As one, they all rose and began walking rapidly for the looming edge of the Weald.
Haergill felt both satisfaction for having confronted the Archer, and shame for having caused the conflict. His family was defined by violence and war, and Haergill had his fill of blood and anger. Now his only concern was his lovely Halldora, and their radiant daughter Frea.
When he was a boy, he remembered his young father returning from battles with the people of the Green Hills of Reia to the West. His father would sometimes return badly wounded and the whole palace would resound with prayers to Oann, the Battle God, and creator of all things.
Priests and Mages would make pilgrimages to the great ice walls to the far north of the kingdom where Oann was thought to reside with all the other gods. They would beseech the heavenly powers to heal their gravely wounded king. Nobles and Lords would look knowingly at Haergill with the unspoken mandate that he would have to lead the kingdom if his father died.
When his father became too crippled to fight, Haergill was sent out as a teenager to lead the Kingdom of the North. He held the legendary sword, the Mattear Gram, a silvery, brightly shining length of special metal, unlike any other sword. It was light and unbreakable. The sword was reputed to have been forged by the elves of Lanis and had been handed down by at least ten generations of kings.
The sword felt uncomfortable and too light in Haergill’s hands when he first went to war against the tribes that lived along the shores of Ettonne, the Great Lake to the east. The sword moved quickly, and cut through bronze, wood and flesh, as though forged by Yonne the Lord of the Dead himself.
When the Ettonnes charged the front ranks of his warriors their eyes were very wide and their faces were slack. He felt detached and horrified. The world seemed to be submerged in liquid.
The Ettonnes had long, bronze spears and caught many of his warriors before they could get within striking distance. The toll of the dead was awful that day, and the great waste of human life sickened Haergill.
The battles raged for almost nine years with Haergill at their head, wars to the West, wars to the East, and wars to the South. So, when the Ettonnes no longer came to battle, and the squat, dark faced garonds arrived, moving in arranged, cascading ranks, Haergill’s people were too stressed and depleted to resist.
Within a year, the garonds had overrun the Ettonnes, the people of the Southern Wastelands, and the Kingdom of the North itself was almost crushed.
The remaining families gathered what they could, and fled to the southeast in hopes of reaching the Weald, or sought refuge from their enemies in the Green Hills of Reia to the west. The garonds pursued and killed the humans wherever they could, until human beings were nearly extinct in all the Northern Lands.
Haergill and his family found Kellabald and his clan in a small hamlet called Bittel, set inside an island of oaks and elms on the western edge of the Eastern Meadowlands. There, Haergill, Halldora and Frea lived happily for almost two years. It seemed the violent world outside passed them by unnoticed, until the day, a fortnight ago, when the garonds finally discovered their hidden village of Bittel.
There were too many garonds to even consider fighting. It was surprising they weren’t killed immediately. After destroying Bittel, as though searching for something, they left a detachment of three soldiers to escort the shackled humans to their citadel somewhere beyond the Weald and Byland, rumored to be a great city of dark blue stones in the Far Grasslands.
The garonds spoke a clicking guttural tongue, so no information could be gleaned from their captivity, but it was guessed they were part of a new plan to capture select humans for slave labor.
Their destination, the village Rion Ta, was in sight. The thatched roofs were visible, but something was wrong. There were no curls of smoke in the handful of chimneys. The Archer broke into a run with Kellabald close at his side. The others caught up to them to discover the village completely empty. The clan searched every house and barn, but no humans were to be found.
The group clothed themselves, ate handfuls of bread and dried meat that had been left on tables, and armed themselves with spears and bronze swords that were found as if dropped in fear.
“The garonds have been here,” Haergill snarled.
The Archer’s eyes blazed. “We need to get my other arrow from that elf.”
“They’ll be back,” Kellabald said quietly. “The village is still standing.”
The Archer gathered the clan in the main square of the village. “Everyone sit down here,” he said. The Archer laid out some vegetables on a cloth. “She must be hungry.”
“Put down this mutton, too,” Haergill offered.
“Elves don’t eat any kind of meat,” the Archer said. With that the Archer melted away into the shadows of the village.
He found a good spot on the low branch of a tree where he could see the whole group seated in a circle, apparently eating. The Archer nocked a flint tipped arrow, and drew it back. He let his field of vision expand, not focusing on any one spot. Any movement, however quick would be seen. The Archer slowed his breath, and his hand was as steady as stone. He could keep this position for nearly half a day.
The Archer didn’t hear any sound at all as the elf quickly, easily put her silver, crescent blade to his throat.
He heard her tinkling laughter. Her voice was like music. “Did you think to trap me?”
The Archer knew he had no time to waste. Without moving, he said, “you have to return my black arrow to me immediately. The horse garonds will be back any moment.”
Again, the elf laughed that tinkling laugh. “Are they half horse?”
“They’re the ones who scattered the doderns in the Meadowland.”
The elf considered for a moment. “You hate them almost as much as I do.”
“More,” The Archer said.
The elf reached into her shimmering, olive green tunic, and handed the black arrow to the Archer. “Where did you get these arrows? They are of elvish design.”
“I’ll tell you anything you like after the fight,” The Archer said in low, dangerous tones. He turned to see Haergill, his face pale white, standing amongst the sitting circle. The elf followed his gaze, and lowered her blade.
“Quickly,” she said.
In the square, all the clan was now on their feet. Kellabald was bellowing and pointing for the group to get to the safety of the enormous trees of the Weald at the edge of the village.
The elf and the Archer rose and ran towards the square. The rapid drumbeat of horse hooves could be heard intensifying in the distance. As the Archer and the elf reached the communal open space of the village, Kellabald, Haergill, and Yulenth joined them with spears and swords ready.
Haergill turned to see Arnwylf standing behind them. Kellabald shouted for him to go on to the trees, as the first garond horsemen broke through the thick, sheltering grass of the Eastern Meadowland.
The garonds clung to the naked backs of horses, shrieking, and swinging bronze clad wooden clubs. They were a terrifying sight to Haergill. No human ever rode on the back of a horse. It seemed as though they were malformed, unnatural monsters.
Haergill felt himself frozen with fear, and could see from the corner of his eye that Kellabald and Yulenth were similarly paralyzed with fright. But the Archer was calm and astoundingly fast. Haergill noticed how the Archer drew a black arrow from his quiver, nocked it, drew and fired with no waste of motion. He did this four times before Haergill could even draw breath. He turned to see four garond’s with arrows protruding from their faces, falling from their horses. Two more garonds continued with the initial charge.
Haergill saw the elf run past him as fast as a deer. She leapt and seemed to hang in the air, almost as if flying. Her silver blade was a whirling crescent moon that described a wide arc taking the heads of the two garonds before her, in one swipe. Spinning, she lightly landed as though she had no weight and then sprinted back to the clan.
The horse garonds halted. The rest of their group gathered in an organized line. There were at least thirty of them. And six of their number lay dead at their feet, killed in less than two breaths.
The lead garond, in the center of the line, the only one carrying a thick, oaken shield, shrieked a loud, vicious war cry. The entire line charged forward at the group. Haergill saw the Archer sight and release an arrow at the lead garond that flew directly to the center of its shield. The black metal tipped arrow went right through the oak and caught the lead garond at the throat, throwing him bodily backwards. With his shield pinned to his throat, he fell from his horse. The Archer was able to shoot one more garond dead as the line of horse garonds reached the clan.
The elf seemed to levitate with a jump and her blade cut through both a garond’s club and his skull. Yulenth cut at a garond, but only slashed at its arm.
With his spear, Kellabald caught a garond full in the mid-section and lifted him high off his horse. Haergill slashed at a garond and cut its leg clean off. It fell screaming to the dust of the village’s open square as it died in a sudden pool of its own blood.
As the broken line of horse garonds passed, two bore down on Arnwylf standing twenty paces behind the clan. Arnwylf held his sword high in defense. As the garonds swung their clubs at him, like a bolt of lightning shot from the edge of the grass, the white wolf bounded high and caught one of the garonds at the throat. The wolf landed hard, and shook and rent the garond to its death in the dirt. The second garond pulled up, and turned to take another swing at Arnwylf. But, as he drew his club up high for the stroke, a black arrow sprouted from his forehead.
Twelve garonds lay dead.
“To us!” Kellabald called to his son, and Arnwylf sprinted to the safety of the circle of besieged humans and the elf.
“I’ve used all seven of the black arrows,” The Archer shouted to the elf.
“Then you’d better be a sharper shot,” the elf shouted back.
The horse garonds were excited, angry, and disorganized. Their leader was dead and their prey was more dangerous than they had reckoned. But there were still twenty or more of them. A garond whooped a war cry and they began to ride in a circle around the group until the whole clan was surrounded.
The humans and the elf pulled together in a tight defensive group. Although the white wolf ran snapping at the legs of the horses, the deadly circle of horse garonds tightened their trap on the desperate humans.
Haergill was surprised to hear Kellabald quietly but firmly directing the small band. Kellabald waved his spear high to ward off any garond who got too close, and seemed to know when a horse garond would move in close for a strike.
“Arnwylf, on your right. Yulenth coming in fast. Elf, behind him. Haergill, on the left.” The garonds were unable to strike effectively with Kellabald’s leadership. Haergill felt a burning of pride to have him as a friend these past few years. He had known Kellabald as only a fisher, a hunter, a father, the leader of a village, and here, he was a natural general. He wished he had known Kellabald when Haergill was the king of the Northern Kingdom. The other generals and lords had bickered and fought with themselves so much it was the undoing of their whole race.
Kellabald caught a garond by the throat with his spear as it was swinging its club at Arnwylf. Kellabald dragged his punctured garond back into the rider behind it. Yulenth slashed into the surprised, second garond, nearly cutting him in two. But then the garond behind him caught Yulenth a glancing blow that nearly killed him. The Archer shot that garond squarely in the eye with a flint arrow. The circle of garonds pulled back, but not before Haergill cut deeply into a horse. The horse squealed and bolted for the grass.
“Cut the horses when you can!” Kellabald shouted.
“I need my black arrows,” the Archer growled to the elf.
“Let’s see if we can move towards those two bodies over there,” the elf said.
“Kellabald,” the Archer called.
“I heard you,” he said.
The clan slowly inched the circle closer to the two garonds killed by the Archer at the start of the attack.
The garonds were more cautious and vicious. Arnwylf was clubbed on his shoulder and hurt badly.
Almost as if in response, the white wolf tore into the leg of that horse, pulling that rider to the dirt, dragging the screaming garond away from the thundering circle, to die in a furious storm of slashing wolf fangs.
Kellabald speared another rider, and Haergill cut the hands of a garond clean off as he swung his club at Yulenth.
The group was close to the bodies pierced with the special, black arrows. The elf sprinted out between the horses. She reached the bodies and plucked an arrow from one body, but struggled with the second. A garond peeled off from the group to kill her. The Archer sighted on him and shot him with a flint arrow in the head through the ear. The flint arrows didn’t penetrate deep and unstoppable like the black arrows, but with the right target, they were lethal.
The clan moved quickly to the elf and the Archer helped her extract the second arrow.
As soon as the Archer had his two black arrows, two more garonds lay dead in the dirt.
A mere handful of garonds now circled the group, but Arnwylf and Yulenth had been hurt. It seemed a standoff, with the garonds unable to strike effectively and the clan surrounded.
The horses were frothing at the mouth and Haergill could feel an alarming weariness in his arms. If they could drive off the last few, just kill a few, they might make for the safety of the trees.
The garonds evilly stared at the humans, unwilling to move in too close now. A garond spread his arms in pain as a launched spear pierced his body. The whole group turned in amazement to find Wynnfrith had thrown a spear from a good distance to kill the garond. Alrhett, Halldora and Frea brandishing spears they had found, stood with her.
“Go back!” Haergill bellowed. But the garonds had seen them and four broke away from the group to attack. The remaining garonds took the opportunity to close in tight on the group. It proved to be a fatal mistake for them.
The elf leap above Yulenth and, over his head, cut a garond from his horse. Kellabald lost his spear as he impaled another garond. And, Yulenth followed behind the elf and cut that garond’s head clean from its shoulders. The white wolf also pulled another garond from its horse.
Haergill broke through the deadly circle to sprint after the garonds headed for the women.
Haergill could see the four horse garonds bearing down on Alrhett, Halldora and Frea who held their spears out defensively, enclosing unarmed Wynnfrith. One garond swept Frea’s spear aside, and the garond behind him pulled Frea up onto his horse in one motion.
In mid sprint, Haergill turned towards the garond who had Frea, but then turned back as he saw the other two garonds riding together to attack Halldora. The Archer followed behind Haergill, and pulled an arrow from a garond corpse on the run. He sighted and shot dead the garond raising its club to strike Halldora. The other garond flinched away defensively, and turned to strike Wynnfrith.
Haergill leapt as high as he could, putting all of his fear of the horse garonds aside. He cut the garond at the shoulder and as it swung its club. Its arm came away from its body, saving Wynnfrith from a certain death stroke.
But, the first garond wheeled around, and caught Haergill hard on the head with his club, knocking him to the dirt.
There on the ground, with blood pouring from his nose, Haergill saw the four remaining garonds, with Frea captive, pull together and make for the safety of the tall grass of the meadowland. Haergill futilely stretched out his hand in pain to clasp his captive daughter to him. The garonds almost made the meadow, but Haergill saw the Archer extract a black arrow and shoot one more dead.
“They have Frea; we have to go after them!” Haergill heard Alrhett cry. The world was silent, and he watched the trees at the edge of the Weald quietly sway. Birds began to tenderly sing again in merciful strains. Haergill felt Halldora cradling his head, but his body was cold and numb. Haergill turned his head to see the clan gathering to watch him die.


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. 
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, straining 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.


Chapter Five

The Bairn River

The hard, cold rain soaked Arnwylf’s slate blue, wool shirt as he ran through the brush along the edge of the Weald. The tan leather trousers he had also found at Rion Ta were sturdy, and protected his legs from thorns and slashing branches of low shrubs.
It was dark now, and he kept tripping on brush, roots and the uneven, tall grass. He could see the moon rising in the East through gathering, black clouds, and he knew that if he kept it on his right hand, he would continue south and reach the Bairn River.
He didn’t know exactly how he would cross the Bairn, and at night, too. But he knew the garonds with Frea would cross further west and then travel back towards their camps near Byland.
Every human in Wealdland knew that untold garond armies were massing there. They were rumored to be crossing the Flume of Gawry on rope bridges, one by one. It was only a matter of time until they marched straight for the men of Reia.
The men who dwelt in the Weald were another matter. They kept to themselves, safely nestled in their mazes of ancient trees.
Any garond who met effective resistance regrouped south in Byland. So, Arnwylf knew the garonds who had Frea must be heading there.
If she was harmed in any way, Arnwylf thought to himself... No, best not to consider it. They will pay, he thought. And then, black thoughts swirled in his head.
Arnwylf paused to catch his breath. Hunger was creeping up on him, and the relentless rain was finally chilling his bones. Lightning flashed far away.
But, he would not stop. He roused himself. He would find Frea and kill the garonds who took her. Thunder rolled across the hills.
In the deepening darkness, Arnwylf stumbled upon a campsite. It seemed a puzzle to him. He quickly whirled around, in case someone was creeping up from behind. But, there was no one there. The scrubby meadow on the edge of the Weald was empty and silent.
Arnwylf stopped to carefully examine the simple camp site. Someone had stopped for the night. A leather awning was pitched against the rain. A small fire had been started, but was only recently out. Utensils and other tools were scattered. There had been a struggle. Someone had fled his attackers and they had pursued.
They could be the garonds who had Frea. Perhaps they had come across this poor ranger and attacked him. There were no corpses, no blood, no Frea. So she might still be alive.
Arnwylf saw how the brush was crushed and broken in one direction. This was the direction of the fight. Tracking in the rain was difficult, and at night nearly impossible. Arnwylf looked for the signs of broken bushes and trampled foliage. The signs seemed to tell of several attackers against the ranger, moving quickly. The attack was wild and fierce, branches and shrubs crushed.
And then, it seemed the ranger broke into a run with his attackers in hot pursuit. Arnwylf almost lost the traces, but it was clear the parties had veered onto a distinct path that could only lead to the river.
Arnwylf had been running for several hours now and didn’t know if he had the strength to join in a fight. He was hungrier and colder with each passing moment.
Then, Arnwylf heard the rushing sound, faint, but obvious. It had to be the Bairn. He had never seen it before, but he had been to the Holmway River with his father and knew that incessant whistling sound of a river grown fat with rain. Perhaps the fighters had fallen into the river, or turned aside. No matter, his course was clear. If there were garonds, Arnwylf would deal with them.
As Arnwylf neared the river, he began to hear snarls and taunts. He knew it must be them. Wearily, he approached.
The ground was soggy and pools of water gathered along the grassy banks of the Bairn. Arnwylf made his way to an embankment. Below him, in a marshy spot along the river’s edge, three garonds encircled a figure in the water. The garonds stayed to the drier, high ground, swinging their clubs and barking insults. With the moon’s light diffuse through the storm clouds, the combatants were silhouettes poised for battle. The Bairn behind them glowed with the eerie light of wild rapids.
In his delirium, Arnwylf thought the surrounded man, up to his waist in the tributary, was Frea. He thought he saw her red hair, her pale, frightened face. His mind burned white hot with rage. These must be the three who took her, he thought.
With a blood curdling screech Arnwylf leapt forward.
As he leapt, a lightning bolt struck Arnwylf. His body hovered with the light. The energy seemed to pull him up and out towards the combatants. The whole world was illuminated. The leather wrapped hilt of the bronze sword gripped in his hand burned. Arnwylf felt at peace. He could see the upturned faces of the garonds staring up at him in horror. And, he could see clearly now, who he thought was Frea, was a man standing in the water, looking up in awe. All in a split second, Arnwylf landed before the garonds, smoking, and smelling of burnt ozone. He crouched, staring.
As Arnwylf rose, he looked directly at the garonds with eyes glowing with hate. Thunder rolled out in a deafening roar. Arnwylf said, raising his sword, “Prepare to burn in the hell created for your kind.”
The garonds, who were slack jawed at this apparition, screamed like little children, dropped their clubs, and ran away as fast as their squat, little legs could carry them, tripping and falling in the water, crying and shrieking.
Arnwylf staggered forward to the astonished man in the water.
Arnwylf held out a shaky hand. “Happy to rescue you, sir.” And then he collapsed into his arms.
The ranger helped Arnwylf back to his camp, despite Arnwylf’s delirious protestations that he must cross the river immediately.
The ranger introduced himself. “My name is Caerlund. I am an oresmith from the hills of Madrun. You saved my life you odd, young man. We can cross the river tomorrow. We must cross during daylight.”
With that, Arnwylf allowed Caerlund to dry him, feed him, and in an instant Arnwylf was asleep under the leather awning raised against the intensifying rain of the night.

With the cold gray dawn, Arnwylf awoke to the smell of frying fish. It was a scent wafting down from heaven. Caerlund bent over the camp fire. He turned to Arnwylf.
“We’d best move as quickly as possible,” Caerlund said. “Those nasty things may return with friends once they reckon you’re not the Lord of Lightning.”
“Lord of-," Arnwylf stumbled to his feet. “Frea! Who are you?”
“You remember nothing of last night.”
Arnwylf stared at the soaked ground trying to remember where he was and how he gotten here. Then he shook his matted blonde hair.
“No? My name is Caerlund. You saved me last night. You appeared in a bolt of lightning. Nifty trick. Got to teach me that. Reckon the nasties thought you were their boss, the Lord of Lightning.” Caerlund scrutinized Arnwylf for a moment. “Hmmm, in the dark, you might pass for what he’s reported to look like. Haven’t seen him meself. Hope I never do. Supposed to be a right nasty feller. Fish?”
Arnwylf stumbled forward and ate greedy handfuls of fried fish from the copper pan. Then he stopped.
“I’m grateful for your help,” he said.
“Hmmph. You were sent by Hapaun to first save me, then to help me cross the Bairn, I thinks.” Caerlund winked at Arnwylf, and Arnwylf felt instantly at ease with this oresmith. “My people’s legends tell of a lad arriving in a lightning bolt. Scupper me if ever I thought my old eyeballs would ever really see it.”
Caerlund was a short man, broad of shoulder, brawny, strong arms, brownish red hair, intense blue eyes, and with a reddish, brown beard. When he smiled, which was often, it seemed his wide mouth would split his head in two. His laugh was always a brief, loud guffaw.
Caerlund was all business and bustle as he packed his camp gear away into his large leather pack. The speed with which he moved was astonishing.
“Well then,” he said brandishing a bronze axe, “we have us a river to ford.”
Caerlund and Arnwylf retraced their steps from the previous night and found themselves on the banks of the Bairn. The rain had stopped, but the river was deeper and wilder than ever.
Caerlund immediately set his axe to work on a birch growing nearby, and had it cut down and sectioned into four logs in no time. Arnwylf helped him lash them together with bark from the tree. And, they had a passable raft before the sun had fully risen, its rays bursting through the dispersing storm clouds.
“What’s so urgent on the other side, Arnwylf?” Caerlund carefully asked.
“A... friend, she’s been taken, I have to...” Arnwylf didn’t know exactly how to explain himself.
“You’ll find her. I know,” Caerlund softly said. “After all, you’re the true Lord of Lightning, I reckon.” With that Caerlund pushed the raft into the water.
The makeshift boat was unsteady and Caerlund and Arnwylf clung tight. With one hand Caerlund tried to guide the craft with a pole cut from one of the branches of the birch tree.
Arnwylf felt the strength and power of the river insistently pushing. Then Arnwylf saw a triangular fin rip through the surface. Arnwylf clutched Caerlund and pointed.
“What the- Marowdowr! There are no Marowdowr in the Bairn!” Caerlund exclaimed in fear. Then, two triangular fins broke the surface at the same time.
“There are two!” Arnwylf cried.
Caerlund desperately worked the birch pole, trying to guide their unsteady raft. Then, like an explosion, the triangular face of the marowdowr burst out of the water. Its face was white, its crown dark blue, its eyes black and dead, and its mouth full of jagged, triangular teeth. As its huge mouth clamped down on the splintering birch raft, its dead, black eyes rolled back into an eerie white.
An instant after the first struck, the second attacked on the other side. The small craft rocked and buckled.
“We’re done for!” Caerlund shouted. Then, “Look!” 
Three, light brown, crescent shaped fins broke the rushing surface, then four more.
“Merebroder! Praise Eann!” Caerlund bellowed.
The merebroder were smooth, long, tan brown, with snouts that wore a perpetual smile. They deftly slammed into the marowdowr, in twos and threes. The merebroder attack on the marowdowr was quick and devastating, and the effect was immediate as the vicious water beasts rolled over in the water in pain, then rapidly wriggled away, swimming downstream.
Arnwylf and Caerlund laughed in astonished relief. The merebroder lifted their smooth heads out of the water to stare with dark eyes at the desperate men.
As if they knew just what the men so desperately desired, gently, the merebroder pushed their bodies against the raft, guiding it to the opposite side, breath spraying from the hole in the tops of their heads.
Caerlund and Arnwylf quickly waded ashore. Sopping wet, Caerlund shook his head. “Marowdowr in the Bairn! They’re beasts of the sea!” Caerlund then turned back to the merebroder swimming together in a joyful group.
“Thank you!” He called.
“Thank you,” Arnwylf spoke respectfully to their slowly swimming rescuers. As if in response, a smaller, younger merebroder leapt clear out of the water in a thrilling arc. Arnwylf was filled with wonder.
“I ne’er saw Marowdowr in the river afore, only out at sea. Must be the bones and whatnot the garonds have been throwing into the water these days,” Caerlund mused. “Hmmph. But the Lake of Ettonne doesn’t join with the sea. Something’s wrong there. Never mind.” Caerlund scratched his beard. “I seen Merebroder in rivers afore. Thank Eann, they came just in time.” Then Caerlund looked sideways at Arnwylf as if he was the cause of both their fortune and misfortune. Arnwylf looked down in embarrassment.
After climbing the bank, Caerlund faced Arnwylf.
“I head east, and to home, Arnwylf. Come with me. Your friend is lost.” Caerlund said putting his other hand on Arnwylf’s shoulder.
“No.” Arnwylf said. “She is alive and I will find her. Thank you, Caerlund. I hope we meet again in better times. May your family be safe, and your world be happy.”
“And yours, I reckon.”
After a long handshake, Arnwylf and Caerlund went their separate ways.
Arnwylf headed south and west looking for any busily traveled trails Frea’s captors might use. But, before the morning was over, a large company of heavily armed garonds captured Arnwylf.

Frea felt the rocking of the horse under her stomach. The grass of the Meadowland whipped at her face. The garond held her tight. She had seen her father crumble to the ground and hoped he wasn’t seriously hurt.
The world flashed by in a blur. She knew she was far away from her family before the seriousness of her situation began to sink in. A rain began and the horses continued at a gallop. They rode over the flat rolling hills of the Eastern Meadowland, which were rich greens and tan yellows. The tall, dry, summer grasses were no problem for the horses and it felt like flying. Sometimes birds or nesting animals burst from their hiding places as the horses sprinted past.
The garonds were frightened and angry. She could hear them snap at each other in their guttural tongue, and surprisingly, she could almost tell what they were saying. Frea remembered the first time she had seen a garond. It was in her home castle of Ethgeow. She was only eight years old, and the shackled garond was paraded to the center throne room for all to see. Its clothes were simple woven fibers, unlike the leather and bronze armor all garonds now wore. The creature fell to its knees and pled in its grunting tongue. The lords and the ladies of the court of Haergill, dressed in fine reds and golds of the realm, laughed and taunted the poor thing.
It seemed to Frea, at the time, that the garond long ago kept saying “Please”, as though its people were in great danger.
Frea remembered Apghilis, an atheling, or lord of the court, a beefy man with a fat, square head, and small, cruel eyes, slapping the garond to the grey flagstones of the throne room. Her grandmother led her away as Varknifl and the other vassals of Apghilis pounced on the creature and began to viciously beat it.
As she left, she caught her father’s eye. Haergill sat as though he was entrapped in his royal robes. His battle crown seemed to be shackling his head. He sat completely still as the garond cried in pain. His eyes darted to Frea, and as she left, she saw the sad, painfully disgust with which her father’s station had ensnared him.
Night was falling and they had covered a great distance. Frea began to realize the garonds who had kidnapped her had not killed her right away for some reason, but she couldn’t fathom why.
The darkness of the night enveloped them. The dark storm clouds blotted the light of both moons, and all was black and shadows. The rain intensified. Lightning flashed behind them and the garond’s horses abruptly halted in fear. Thunder rolled across the meadows.
The garonds loudly grunted at each other in their language, then turned their horses to the left, riding hard to the south. Frea knew they were headed for the river.
Frea felt sick and her stomach hurt. The horse was slick, and she knew she might be killed if she fell from the horse at full gallop. Under the purple, woolen frock she had found at Rion Ta, she wore a small dagger. Its sheath dug into her side. The garonds hadn’t taken the time to search her, so she kept the small blade hidden for the right time.
The rain pelted them like small, incessant stones. Lightning flashed again far away. The garonds pulled their horses to a halt. Frea was unceremoniously dumped from the horse. The three garonds pulled on the manes of their horses so that the horses would lie down on the wet grass. Then the garonds themselves plopped down on the soaked grass. The garond who stole Frea clutched a handful of her red hair in his meaty hand. Thunder grumbled from far off.
The garonds grunted to each other. Frea identified the three by their facial characteristics. There was Boil, named for an enormous boil on his nose; Drool, because he always did; and Eyebrow, who had one massive, bushy eyebrow. Frea was surprised to find she was beginning to understand their tongue more and more. Boil complained that he was hungry and they should eat Frea immediately. Eyebrow, the one who had a death grip on her hair, and who seemed to be the leader, mentioned something about bringing all red haired humans to the master. Whereupon Drool cursed, and called his fellow garonds unpleasant names. Eyebrow threatened Drool and then they all settled down.
The four of them sat in the pouring rain next to their unhappily shifting horses. A lone, pine tree nearby offered some cover, but the garonds were too thoughtless to use it.
Frea pulled at her captor and pointed at the tree. Drool and Boil stared at Frea then the tree. Eyebrow clouted Frea, and she stayed still.
“Idiot.” She said in garond tongue. Eyebrow looked up, thought, it couldn’t have been Frea, and then he looked over at Drool.
“You are the idiot,” Eyebrow said to Drool.
“What is it you say?!” Drool half rose.
“Sit down,” Boil said. And the garonds miserably lay down in the battering rain.
Frea was freezing, but also very tired. So much had happened this day, the garonds leading them from Bittel in shackles, then freedom by the Archer, hunting the stauer, empty Rion Ta, the elf, the attack, her kidnapping.
As she drifted on the edges of sleep, Frea thought of her grandmother. She never knew her real name, only the name she had called her in childhood, Miri. Her grandmother had a stern, strong face, a close set of white and grey curls.
Frea remembered finding her mother and an atheling whose face she couldn’t discern in a dark corridor of Ethgeow at night. Bad dreams had driven sleep from her eyes. The Atheling held her mother tightly insisting Haergill would never return from his latest war campaign. Her mother, Halldora, did not answer the atheling, but her eyes were all aflame. The atheling raised his hand to strike her mother.
“Dare you risk a most gruesome death upon your lord’s return?” Miri’s voice rang out like a clarion in the stone corridors.
The atheling did not turn, but released Halldora as though she were a stinging nettle, and strode down the corridor covering his face. Torches were brought and servants gathered. Halldora insisted there was no bother.
Miri found Frea silently weeping in a dark corner.
“You saw?” She said. Frea nodded her head. “And you were afraid for your mother?” Again Frea nodded.
“And there was nothing a small girl like you could do.” Miri gathered her granddaughter in her strong arms. Frea felt instantly safe. “There will come a day, dear daughter of my daughter, when you will have strength to fight, and it may seem strange, but your greatest move against your enemy will be to not fight.”
Frea drifted to sleep with happy memories of the once mighty Ethgeow, grey stone spires, long curling flags of a golden sun on a rich, red field, streaming from turrets, athelings parading in bronze armor, ladies bedecked with white and yellow jewels moving gracefully, a happy prosperous people.
Frea remembered how her father had often asked her to sing for him, and although she was but a child, and made up the tune and words, the music seemed to erase the care and worry from her father’s face like magic. Weeping, Frea fell asleep.

In the cold, wet morning the garonds silently mounted their horses, eyes shiftily watching for enemies. They rode like mad men to the Bairn River, a hungry and grumbling Boil constantly staring over at Frea.
Near the river were flocks of black and white birds that rose into the air with a mournful call of “pee-teeee”. Boil and Drool chased after them, but caught none. Frea thought they were idiotically comedic, but dare not laugh.
When they reached the banks of the Bairn, the river was swollen and wild from the night’s rain. Eyebrow threw Frea from his horse, and then the garonds dismounted and howled with rage. Frea dared not run.
“We must ride west at least another day on empty stomachs!” Boil bellowed at Eyebrow.
“Be silent, fool!” Eyebrow bellowed back, with a death grip on Frea’s hair.
Drool circled around to stand by Boil. “She’s not much meat. She won’t be missed.”
Eyebrow murderously growled at this insubordination.
Frea stared out at the white rapids of the Bairn. Without thinking, a song rose out of her. She sang of home, and family, happiness and peace. The garonds stood completely still as if bewitched. The song was mournful, but hopeful and the music in Frea was powerful and enchanting. The refrain ended with, “Peace and love at home.”
“Peace and love at home” Frea spoke again in garond.
The silence was palpable.
Tears welled in Drool’s eyes. Eyebrow stood completely still as if trying to understand the emotions stirring in his heart. But, with a rising scream, Boil lunged at Frea with his bronze clad club. Eyebrow swung around, and with his own club, crushed Boil’s skull with a one, wide stroke. Drool and Eyebrow regarded each other.
“Well?” Eyebrow snarled at Drool.
Frea felt the dagger underneath her purple woolen dress. She could draw and kill Eyebrow with a single slash. But then could she stop Drool? Frea seemed to hear her grandmother speak as though she was standing right behind her. “Your greatest move against your enemy will be to not fight.” Frea dropped her hand from her secret dagger.
“He was an idiot,” Drool spat on the corpse of Boil. “We should ride west along the river.” Drool nervously eyed Eyebrow’s massive, tensing shoulders, and then looked down at Boil’s body.
Drool quietly snarled sideways at Eyebrow and mounted his horse. They left the garond’s body on the sandy shore of the Bairn River. The three of them rode on looking for a place to ford the wild and rushing Bairn, as Boil’s riderless horse followed after.


Chapter Six

Rescue and Search

At Rion Ta, Halldora keened over Haergill’s body in the softly falling rain as the evening closed in. Kellabald and Yulenth gathered the garond bodies in a pile to burn for when the rain stopped.
The Archer, the elf, Wynnfrith and Alrhett carefully helped Halldora carry Haergill’s body into a hut in the village. Inside Halldora, Wynnfrith and Alrhett keened in earnest.
Respectful, the others stepped outside into the pouring rain. Rion Ta was a collection of five small huts and a small sized Great Hall only forty paces long, all clustered around the open communal square. The night’s darkness became oppressive with the increasing rain. The large, towering elms and oaks at the edge of the village were black and the forest was deep. All was silence except for the drum beat of the rain on the mud.
“Perhaps we should more carefully search the village for anything else useful,” Yulenth offered.
“A good idea,” Kellabald said with sadness.
“Should we burn the village?” Yulenth wondered. “To keep the garonds from using it as a garrison?”
“No,” Kellabald said solemnly. “Any of Rion Ta who survives must have their homes to return to.”
A grim silence of understanding settled on the group.
“We should find something for the white one to eat, so he stays agreeable,” Yulenth said eyeing Conniker, who sat blinking in the rain.
“Wolves can eat bread and other fruit of the land,” The elf said. She turned towards the Great Hall. “Many think they only-“
Suddenly, a brilliant flash of light enveloped the group.
The immediate boom of thunder knocked them to the ground.
Kellabald looked up to see the lightning bolt had hit the elf. In a purple glow, the elf was held suspended above their heads in a sphere of crackling light, sparking as the heavy rain hit the globe of lightning.
“What-!?” Yulenth yelled.
Wynnfrith, Halldora and Alrhett ran from the funeral hut out into the rain.
Hovering above the group, the elf arched her back in pain, her arms spread, head tipped up to the black rain clouds.
The Archer rose and rushed to the ball of light, which held the elf. Yulenth tackled the Archer.
“No!” Yulenth cried, “no one touch it. I have seen men burnt to death by lightning.”
“We must help her!” Wynnfrith said.
“How do we get her out of that thing if it will kill us!?” Kellabald yelled.
The Archer nocked a flint tipped arrow. His arrow flew to the edge of the ball of light and exploded into flaming ash.
“Use a black arrow!” Yulenth said. The Archer hesitated. “For pity’s sake!”
The Archer nocked a black arrow and shot at the same spot, away from the elf. Again there was an explosion of flame, but the black arrowhead fell to the ground glowing red hot. The sphere of electricity slightly dimmed.
Inside the sphere, the elf felt the whole world go white. She knew she might die. She felt the flames of her ancestor’s spirits nearby. She knew she was being held by the Lord of the garonds, held to stop the progress of this group. She wanted to tell them to run. They needed to leave Rion Ta immediately. The pain was all encompassing. All the world was a blinding white.
Outside the cage of crackling power, the group gathered in frustrated urgency.
“What do we do?” Alrhett cried.
“Wait, wait.” Yulenth held his hand to his mouth, his mind working furiously. “The power must go to the earth... as it always does. This has not, through accident or design, this lightning has not moved to the earth. So it needs a clear path.”
Yulenth walked around the elf and her prison, his eyes blazing, his mind worked feverishly.
“Ah!” Yulenth called. “A spear!”
Kellabald moved forward with the spear he held.
“Wait!” Cried Yulenth. As Kellabald’s spear came close to the sphere of power, a finger of light licked out to Kellabald’s spear slamming him back. Wynnfrith ran to his side. He was shaken, but unharmed.
“No, no...” Yulenth puzzled. “He who holds the spear will be killed. Who will hold the spear?” Yulenth turned in a tight circle, furiously thinking. “Ah! The earth will hold it!”
Yulenth leapt to Kellabald’s spear. He held it straight skyward, but a good distance from the ball of lightning encasing the paralyzed elf. “Everyone back!” Yulenth called. With the spear firmly on the ground, he let go and the spear toppled towards the orb of purple electricity.
As the falling spear touched the prison of energy, a pop of light and blast of sound slammed the group to the mud of Rion Ta. The elf fell to the earth in pain, but alive.
The Archer rushed to her side. The others crowded around in concern.
“We must flee. He has garond troops on the way,” she said, then fainted. Kellabald looked around at his wife and the others, and then turned to the Archer.
“So we must go our separate ways sooner than I had hoped,” Kellabald said to him.
The Archer nodded in agreement. Cradling the elf, he reached for and pocketed the black arrowhead at his feet.
Lightning flashed again from far across the Meadowlands, followed by the grumble of thunder.
The night grew dark again, both of earth’s moons hidden by the black rain clouds.
“How is she?” Wynnfrith asked.
“The elf is alive, but unconscious,” The Archer said examining the strange creature comatose in his arms.
“Should she be moved?” Alrhett asked.
“We have no choice,” The Archer said rising, holding the stricken elf. “You know the way back to your village,” the Archer said to Kellabald. “And you have the white wolf to guide you to Arnwylf,” he said to Yulenth.
“Then we should build my husband’s funeral pyre back at Bittel,” Halldora mournfully said. “He would have liked it, anyway.”
With haste, a litter was fashioned for Kellabald to drag Haergill’s body.
“May all the good things of life guide you,” Kellabald said to those gathered. They all clasped hands.
Then, the three groups went on their separate quests.
The Archer carried the fatigued elf like a child in his arms, tracking the garonds who had taken Frea.
Kellabald pulled the litter bearing Haergill’s body accompanied by Wynnfrith and Halldora, on their way back to Bittel to retrieve the Mattear Gram.
And, Alrhett and Yulenth led by Conniker, the white wolf, went south to track Arnwylf.

The elf slept in the Archer’s arms. She seemed to have no weight at all. Following the tracks of the horses across the grasses of the Meadowland in the rain proved harder than the Archer had supposed. Several times he had to stop and retrace his steps. The elf was limp and breathing hard as he cradled her.
Carrying the elf reminded the Archer of his two children back in his village, Pelych, in the mountains of Kipleth. He had a daughter of eight and a son of six. Both dark haired and dark eyed like he and his wife. They were noisy and mischievous. Once, his daughter had caught the local cat and chased her brother through the village with the bewildered beast hissing and clawing. A baker dropped his armful of milled wheat as they rushed past. The baker followed after bellowing, only to trip and fall into a set of pottery left to dry for the kiln. The resulting chaos spread from merchant to family to villager. It seemed the whole village erupted into merry madness that day.
The Archer had to stop and fell to his knees weeping.
He held his sobs for waking the elf. After a moment he rose to continue his tracking. But, he had lost the trail again and back tracked through the tall summer grass. The rain intensified. The elf felt hot and feverish. The Archer thought it best to find a dry place and pick up the trail in the morning.
The river would be swollen with the night’s rain, and the garonds would have to continue west, making them easier to catch.
A solitary, squat pine tree spread its sheltering arms in the middle of the green and brown plain. The Archer slogged his way to the tree and found a dry space underneath to set down the elf. Her cloak immediately dried. Her head was hot and feverish, and her complexion very pale. The Archer gently set the elf in a bed of dry, pine needles, and then quietly sat next to her.
Staring out at the sheets of rain, the Archer thought of the lonely times after the destruction of Pelych. The men of Kipleth all wandered aimlessly after their return from war and the discovery of their loss. All bonds of civility had been broken. There were Kipleth villages still standing in the North, but the men of the South were all too broken hearted to be other than the faded ghosts of their former selves, wandering to and fro in the mountains.
In such a dark time, the Archer had come across a former lieutenant who also had lost all when they were away fighting the men of the Northern Kingdom. His name was Segerlan, a brave and valiant man who had lost wife, child, and parents. Segerlan had cut his wrists and was bleeding to death. As the Archer held him, his look was of great peacefulness.
“I go to them...” was all Segerlan said as he breathed his last. The Archer burned his body and staring into the flames considered following his friend into the darkness of death.
For two weeks more the Archer wandered the highest mountains of the Kipleth black stone, staring down into rocky chasms. On the fifteenth day, he came upon a group of five garonds laughing and grunting to each other as they camped in a rocky mountain pass. From the shadows, he saw that they carried weapons which were unmistakably from his very home in Pelych, and one garond even wore a cloak which he had given to his wife. He had never seen garonds fitted for battle before. Now he knew who had slaughtered his family and all the people of the village.
The rage that came over him was like a great swirling fire. With his bare hands he tore the armed garonds asunder. Then and there he vowed to extinguish the life of every garond upon the earth.
The very next night he met the blind man who gave him the black arrows. Later he learned how to shoot them.
After that, every day was a repayment of the massacre of his people. He lost count after killing over two hundred garond soldiers.
The Archer faded to fitful sleep, silently weeping and thinking of the smile of his wife. Not more than an arrow’s shot from the Archer and the elf, Frea and her captors bedded down in the grasses of the meadow with their horses in the night’s rain.

Alrhett and Yulenth trotted after the white wolf, Conniker. He moved quickly, and the old bones of Alrhett and Yulenth had trouble keeping up.
Alrhett needed to rest and called Conniker back to them several times. The white wolf circled impatiently with his nose to the ground, as Alrhett and Yulenth sat on the moss and stumps at the edge of the Weald to catch their breath. The rain was hard and cold.
Conniker licked Alrhett’s face, sniffling and woofing.
“That’s all right,” she said to the wolf. “You’re doing a fine job.”
“What? What did it say?” Yulenth asked.
“He thinks he may have lost the scent. Many others have recently tracked through here, he says.”
“Great,” Yulenth said slinking into his cloak. “Perhaps we should just make for Rogar Li and ask for help.”
Alrhett was quiet and thoughtful. “No. We cannot go there,” was all she said.
“Well, the boy is not going to get across the Bairn on his own. Perhaps he’ll cross over one of the Three Bridges of Rogar Li. Perhaps we should head for the Three Bridges.”
“No,” Alrhett said solemnly, “We cannot ask hospitality of the wealdkin.”
A long, strange, whining growl out of the dark stopped Yulenth’s protest. The hair stood up on Conniker’s back.
“What was THAT?” Yulenth whispered.
“What do you see?” She said to Conniker who seemed to be fixated on a point in the dark.
“Garonds?” Yulenth whispered with wide, frightened eyes.
“He doesn’t know,” Alrhett whispered. “He keeps saying, ‘bad thing’”.
“Perhaps we’d best move into the trees,” Yulenth whispered.
“I think that’s where it is,” Alrhett said in a low voice.
Alrhett and Yulenth slowly rose staring intently at the dark sentinels of trees at the edge of the Weald forest. Conniker sidled in front of them lowly growling. A black shape moved amongst the trees.
“Hush,” Alrhett breathed to Conniker.
Then, to their right, three garond soldiers, weaponless and noisily clicking and snapping to each other, burst through the underbrush. They were frightened and out of breath. They stopped to bellow at each other, nearly coming to blows. Then they froze.
A long, dark, undulating shape moved just within the blackness of the shadows behind the trees.
Alrhett and Yulenth cowered in the tall grass watching as the three garonds screamed as long black arms reached out and began to rend them.
Conniker’s eyes blazed, and his growl was fierce. “Silence, wolf,” Alrhett commanded.
All was quiet. The garonds were dead, and a quiet crunching sound could be heard through the hard falling rain.
Alrhett reached out and grabbed a good handful of Conniker’s bristling mane. Then, the crunching stopped, and the long, huge, slithering dark shape was moving once again amongst the trees.
With a howl, Conniker violently pulled away from Alrhett and launched himself directly at the large, dark creature.
Alrhett and Yulenth were paralyzed as a vicious battle began with the white wolf and the black thing. They could only see the bright yellow eyes, and white fangs of the dark beast as Conniker courageously attacked it. Their rending, biting and howls were awful. They moved farther and farther into the forest. Then all was silence.
“Conniker?” Alrhett called. “Conniker!”
There was no sound, no movement.
“We’d best move on, and quickly,” Yulenth said, pulling Alrhett to her feet. “We should find a place to hide far from here. Some place to weather this rain until morning. Then we can head directly for the river and look for the boy. I’m certain we’ll find him alive and weary. Perhaps we can recruit some wealdkin to help us in our search.”
Alrhett was shaken and silent. Yulenth gently pulled Alrhett along the edge of the Weald.
They found an expansive, sheltering hollow in a large oak. Yulenth helped his wife in. And then, Yulenth, with his sword on his lap, fell to sleep sitting in front of Alrhett.

Kellabald dragged the litter bearing Haergill’s body as quickly as he could over the fields of the Eastern Meadowland. The open grassy plain was no place to spend the night, too many hungry predators roamed freely. And after encountering the horse riding garonds, Kellabald felt a new unease with the vulnerable openness of the grasses swaying in the hard rain. The dark, storm clouds covered the light from Nunee and the Wanderer, earth’s two moons. It helped to move under the darkness the storm provided.
Halldora and Wynnfrith trudged behind Kellabald and his burden. They each shouldered a rope tied to either end of the makeshift bier to help Kellabald move as quickly as he could.
Wynnfrith looked up to see Haergill’s ghost crouching before her, and she stumbled, falling to the turf. The party stopped.
“He’s there!” Wynnfrith hissed.
“Who’s where?” Kellabald said as he set down the litter and walked to his wife’s side.
“Haergill!”
Kellabald and Halldora peered into the empty darkness.
“What do you see?” Kellabald honestly asked, knowing full well the reliable power of his wife’s visions.
“It is Haergill, but it is not,” Wynnfrith exclaimed.
“His spirit?!” Halldora breathed.
“I believe it is so,” Wynnfrith quietly said. “He wears dark clothing, a stealthy cloak, and crouches with his spear.”
The hairs stood up on Kellabald’s neck for he understood instantly.
“We must drag the litter quickly off the path. I was following the trail we made to Rion Ta in hopes of getting some meat if it remained on the stauer carcass. Now I see Haergill warns us of my folly,” he said.
The three pulled the bier many paces south of their directly westward trek.
“Down, and silent. As Haergill has shown us.” Kellabald whispered.
An instant after the three crouched down in the grass, a phalanx of thirty horse garonds crashed across the meadow in a wedge formation. Every sleeping and secret animal fled before them. The horse garonds were swift and quickly out of sight.
“We must quicken our pace,” Kellabald said as he shouldered Haergill’s funeral bier. The three carried the body as fast as they could, apprehensively glancing back now and then.
The rain continued on into the deepening gloom of the evening. It was close to the middle of the night when Kellabald spotted the tips of the dead stauer’s antlers towering above the grass.
They set down Haergill’s body and drew the swords and daggers they had found at Rion Ta. As they neared the clearing, Kellabald stopped dead in his tracks.
“I see him now!” He breathed in a horrified whisper.
“What do you see?!” Halldora hushed.
“He stands in great battle armor, brandishing his sword with shield aloft. He blocks the way. We may not pass.”
“Let us wait a moment,” Wynnfrith said.
The three settled into the grass of the meadow at the edge of the clearing. The wolves had eaten nearly half the giant animal. It was then that Kellabald noticed the groups of long slashes on the dead beast's haunches. No wolf made such a mark. At the moment Wynnfrith gripped his arm in fear, he saw what she saw. Five meadow lions, yellow eyes sparkling, waited on the other side of the clearing for fresh meat to inspect the dead stauer.
Slowly and as quietly as possible the three crept back to Haergill’s body and continued on to Bittel.
Walking all night, they finally reached their former home. They cautiously approached the village of three modest huts hidden amongst an island of trees, but all was deserted and silent.
All their possessions had been broken and strewn about. A great search had taken place.
It had stopped raining and the morning sun began to break on the weary, hungry, tired three.
“Perhaps they found it.” Kellabald moaned.
“I do not believe so.” Halldora said introspectively. “He hid the sword well. I do not believe it would be so easily uncovered.”
“Then, let us give your husband his honorable funeral and then search for ourselves,” Wynnfrith said to Halldora.
The three found dry wood and built a pedestal for Haergill. Some of his royal robes were found, and they dressed him in red and gold. Then they lit the fire.
As Haergill went to his ancestors, Wynnfrith and Kellabald held Halldora, who quietly shook with tears.
After a time Halldora spoke. “They always recited three riddles to each other. Haergill asked me to never question, but I understood the riddles held the key to the hiding place of the Mattear Gram.”

“I shelter you from rain and sun,
Warm you when the cold days come,
With arms outstretched, old and grooved,
A leaning friend, I can’t be moved.

To the silver traveler I have no end,
I’m the mother winding round your friend,
As long, as far, as distant lands,
Pick me up; I’m not in your hands.

I build the castle, and then tear it down,
I count the minutes without a frown,
I’m found by the score under land and sea
And what you seek is under me.”

All three stared into the dying flames. Then they all saw him at once.
“Do you-?”
“It’s him!”
“My husband!”
Haergill was dressed as a simple villager of Bittel. His specter was peaceful and content. He raised his arm and gestured. He seemed to speak and point. But no sound could be heard.
“The Mattear Gram! Show us the sword!” Kellabald shouted.
But the ghost faded.
“Yes,” said a deep, snide voice coming from behind a three. “Show us the sword.”
Kellabald, Wynnfrith, and Halldora turned to find they were at the mercy of a high atheling of the Northern Kingdom of Man, Apghilis.


Chapter Seven

Arnwylf

“Thank you, Caerlund. I hope we meet again in better times. May your family be safe, and your world be happy,” Arnwylf said.
“And yours, I reckon,” Caerlund returned. They clasped hands in a good, long handshake. Then went their separate ways.
Arnwylf strode forward with purpose. Although he had never been on the south side of the Bairn River, he knew he was in Harvestley, a sprawling, interconnected farmland dotted with small villages. Arnwylf also knew a main road called the Westernway Road ran through Harvestley from the Flume of Gawry all the way to the bridge over the Holmwy River at the town of Alfhich. The Westernway was well south of his home Bittel, which was why they rarely had visitors. And, also why the garond armies moving into Wealdland for the past two years had missed their little hamlet.
The leaves on the trees were yellow and red with autumn past, and winter was on the way. Fields marked off by hedge and stone walls were fallow and unkempt. The first village Arnwylf encountered was empty, and one of the small thatched roof houses had been burnt to the ground. Pens for chickens and pigs were empty. Arnwylf strode through the desolate village, headed for the Westernway Road.
He knew the garonds patrolled and used the Westernway Road extensively. If he were to find the garonds who had taken Frea, he would find them there.
Crossing a field, Arnwylf came upon the lonely remains of what he supposed was once a cow. It was stripped of all flesh, only a day or so ago. Its bones were cracked to suck out the marrow inside. It was a mess of sad, bloody destruction. The cow had been obliterated. A slick, dark, blood stain ringed the feast site. A few, small, tufts of hair from the cow clumped together in the empty field. It had been eaten raw, by many garonds at once, and it probably only took a few moments to do. All that was left were bits of bone and hair. Arnwylf drew his sword, and continued south with his blade ready.
It was late in the afternoon, and Arnwylf had passed through five empty villages. Although the sun was bright through the swiftly moving, high cumulus clouds, a cold, fall breeze drifted through the overgrown hedges and lawns. There was no overt destruction except for animal pens ripped open, and the occasional hut burned to the ground.
Arnwylf heard them before he saw them. A rhythmic grunting and clap and clop of armor faintly resounded over the flat farmland of Harvestley. Arnwylf readied himself behind a thick, dark green, thorny hedge. He had never fought before the skirmish at Rion Ta, and a sudden chill of fear made his body tremble. Steeling himself, Arnwylf peered over the hedge to see a column of thirty armed garonds marching in quick step with a group of fifteen or so humans, in shackles, stumbling in the middle of the platoon of garonds.
Without thinking Arnwylf leapt out onto the road with a scream, brandishing his sword high. The company before him stopped. Arnwylf stared at the garonds, the scream dying on his lips. The garonds gaped at Arnwylf in awe. Arnwylf stared back at the garonds.
Then with a roar the entire company of thirty garonds left their human captives, charging Arnwylf. The enormity of his situation dawned on Arnwylf. He began stepping backwards, then turned and ran away as fast as he could. Looking back he could see these garonds had something new for garond troops, swords. They ran together in ordered ranks, a wall of squat, muscular fury.
Arnwylf saw a village nearby. The garonds were fast and gaining. Arnwylf turned around a large communal hall with the garond platoon hot on his heels.
He turned around the next corner of the hall, knowing running out into an open field would be the end of him.
He seemed to be gaining some ground back and turned the corner of the great hall again. At this point Arnwylf saw the last of the garonds in front of him and noticed something unusual. The garonds, although fast, because of their squat muscular body build, had trouble turning the corner of the structure. They stumbled into each other, losing their footing. They were so clumsy as they rounded the corner, Arnwylf almost caught up to the last garond in the platoon. At the next corner the garonds in front of Arnwylf actually crashed into each other into a pile. Arnwylf had to stop to keep from running into them. At that same moment the garonds behind Arnwylf came tumbling onto him in a heap.
It was a miracle Arnwylf wasn’t stabbed or run through by a garond sword. Four of the garonds held his arms and legs as he struggled and fought to free himself. They dragged him back to the group of shackled humans.
An unfettered human said to him. “Stop struggling, or they’ll just kill you and eat you right now.” Arnwylf calmed down with these sensible words.
The unshackled human was in his early twenties, thin, bent over and had a large pointed nose. He had a nervous manner, a sickly smile, and his hands seemed to never rest. He quickly put bronze shackles on Arnwylf’s ankles and wrists.
“Stay calm. Calm. I am Ratskenner. Do what I say and they won’t harm you,” he whispered.
Arnwylf was stunned and helpless.
The platoon resumed its quick step march with Arnwylf as their newest captive. The whole day was moving relentlessly east. Arnwylf surveyed the captive humans. Frea was not in their number. But, he recognized the terrified, hopeless expressions which he and his family felt just yesterday morning, that is, until the Archer appeared.
The road became wider and more level, and although other roads and paths branched off, it was clear that this must be the Westernway Road.
No speaking was allowed by the garonds, and there was no stopping for food or water. There was definitely some urgency, but Arnwylf couldn’t fathom what it could be.
He thought about how frightened and lost he felt just yesterday morning. He and his family had been captives of the garonds in his home village of Bittel for two weeks. The garonds had ripped their village apart, apparently searching for something specific. But it remained unfound.
The fight at Rion Ta had changed Arnwylf. He knew that it was possible to fight back against the garonds. But now, too late, he knew it took some strategy and cooperation. Perhaps he could persuade some of the humans chained with him to fight back, if only he had a moment to talk to them and rouse their spirits.
The platoon had marched the whole day. It was getting dark, and clouds were moving in fast from the east. In a field next to yet another emptied village, the platoon stopped for the night.
The garonds flopped down where they were standing, and Ratskenner coaxed the humans to lie down in the straw of the field.
The night passed without rain, but the cloud cover was thick. The stars, Nunee the moon, and her companion moon, the Wanderer, were never visible the whole night. Arnwylf hoped to speak to some of his fellow humans, but quickly fell to sleep, exhausted.

The next morning, the garonds roused early and began gnawing pieces of raw meat they had concealed in leather pouches tied to their belts. No food was provided for the humans.
Arnwylf noticed that the field they had slept in still had stray grains of wheat scattered here and there. He began scooping handfuls of the grain together and handed the mouthfuls of raw wheat to the humans he felt were the most in danger, elderly prisoners and young children.
Ratskenner, who had been crouching near the garonds, took notice of Arnwylf feeding the humans.
“Hey! You! Stop that!” Ratskenner called to Arnwylf. Arnwylf looked defiantly at Ratskenner. The human keeper was becoming disgusting to Arnwylf.
A garond with a deep scar across his forehead stood and shambled over to Arnwylf. He roughly slapped Arnwylf’s hands open to see the few wheat grains he held. The garond sneered and stared hard at Arnwylf. Arnwylf was calm. Deepscar quickly raised his hand to strike Arnwylf. Arnwylf didn’t blink, didn’t flinch. Deepscar then kicked the old woman Arnwylf was feeding. The garond sneered and laughed an evil, grunting laugh as he rejoined his companions, cuffing another garond to steal his bloody portion of meat. A small fight ensued and was quickly put down.
Arnwylf decided then and there, when he was freed, Deepscar would be the first garond to be killed.
The old woman nudged Arnwylf. “Don’t worry about him. Thank you for the food.” She looked up at Arnwylf. “I am Annen.”
The whole company was roused, and the platoon of garonds and their human captives were quick marched eastward on the Westernway Road.
The farther east they traveled in Harvestley, the more houses and hamlets were burned to the ground. The folk of Harvestley must have been a simple, merry folk, judging by the rolling, patchwork of fields, and the great halls where they gathered to celebrate the changing of the seasons. Now all that was left was an empty scar upon a once productive and beautiful land. Arnwylf noticed many stumps where mighty oak and elm trees once had spread their shady arms for the pastoral people of Harvestley.
Ratskenner moved close to Arnwylf so he could talk to him in a low voice and not arouse the ire of the garond soldiers.
“You shouldn’t feed these failures. Their fate is to be worked to death. Food is wasted on them.” Ratskenner then laughed a wheezing laugh with a wide, thin, toothy grin.
Arnwylf had no desire to speak to Ratskenner.
“I’m in charge because I am special.” Ratskenner continued. “I am the best human you will ever find. All like me. Every one of these women, even the old ones, wants me.” He laughed his toothy laugh and did a little hopping dance as he marched. “I’m from Madrun, did you know?”
“Do you know a man named Caerlund?” Arnwylf asked.
“Oh, he’s a good friend of mine, tall man, very strong. Great leader, just like me.”
Arnwylf instantly knew he was lying for Caerlund may have been a great leader, well known in Madrun, but he was a short, stocky man.
Arnwylf was a gentle person, but had a rising desire to hit Ratskenner in the mouth as hard as he could just to shut him up.
“You’re like me, right?” Ratskenner went on. “We’re strong. But you’re too young. You could learn a lot from me.”
Arnwylf marched staring straight ahead, hoping Ratskenner would just leave. Arnwylf thought about how much he had experienced in the last seven days. He felt as if he were a different person.
A young brown haired boy, about seven years old, marching next to Arnwylf, stumbled. Arnwylf reached out and caught him. The boy fainted, and Arnwylf held him up under his arm.
“Drop him.” Ratskenner hissed. “Drop him now!”
Arnwylf lightly slapped the boy to rouse him, but he was still unconscious.
Deepscar noticed what was happening, and maneuvered to come marching even with Arnwylf. He barked at Arnwylf, but Arnwylf ignored him.
Deepscar bellowed a loud snapping bark. The whole company came to a halt. Deepscar drew his sword and barked a command at Arnwylf.
“Drop him!” Ratskenner hissed again.
Arnwylf stared Deepscar straight in the eye. The whole garond platoon began to get excited, goading Deepscar to kill Arnwylf there in the Westernway Road, in the midday sun.
Then, like a miracle, a strong vortex of wind blew hard across the fields from the west. The garonds became frightened and ran for cover. The humans cowered. Arnwylf stood still, sure in his own mind.
The cone of wind ripped through fences and tossed branches in the air, spitting water, headed straight for the company. Then, as if it was intended for him, the tornado diminished as it approached Arnwylf, becoming more and more gentle, until a soft breeze kissed his face and a light shower of water fell on him and the boy, who awoke.
The garonds began to argue amongst themselves, peering sideways and pointing at Arnwylf.
The company was reorganized and the march continued. Deepscar kept well away from Arnwylf, but snarled at him, showing his sharpened teeth.
Late in the day, as clouds became thick in the sky, the company came over a slight ridge to a shallow valley where a great encampment was found. However, the massive gathering place was mostly empty.
A garond from the encampment ran up to the company, grunting and snapping. The company then moved to the edge of the encampment to bed down for the night.
As the humans lay down, the young, brown haired boy touched Arnwylf on the shoulder. “I’m Faw. Thank you,” he said, then tiredly closed his eyes, and lay down.
The whole company was weary from the grueling day’s march and sleep came quickly to all, except Arnwylf who stared up at the cloudy night sky, wondering when he would again see the stars and moons.

The next morning, Arnwylf’s third day of captivity, the company was roused, the garonds ate, refreshed themselves, and the human captives were given nothing, neither food nor water.
Then, the whole company began a quick march north along a road widened to accommodate the garond armies. Houses, villages, fields were cleared in a wide swath to allow thousands of garonds to march due north against the Weald, one of the last strongholds of humanity in all of Wealdland. The wealdkin were protected by the far reaching, dense canopy of trees that comprised the Weald. The only other place where humans were safe was far west in the green hills of Reia. The Flume of Rith protected them.
About midday, a too thin, middle aged man in front of Arnwylf began to limp noticeable. Arnwylf moved close to the man to hold his arm and give him some support. They both watched carefully for Ratskenner or Deepscar.
“I thank you. My name is Len.” The thin man whispered to Arnwylf, as they continued northward.
After several more hours of relentless marching, a rim of trees was visible in the distance. Wounded garonds lined the side of the road, and what appeared to be leaders grunted orders and pointed further down the way.
The company was then forced into a run, and the wall of trees loomed close. More and more garond troops were gathered in the road. Their broken swords and battle scarred armor were evidence of a fierce battle Arnwylf and the company was headed right towards.
As they entered the forest, there was confusion, and hundreds of troops. The company was allowed to rest for a moment as Deepscar received instructions from a higher ranked garond.
The company was goaded to their feet and even the garond soldiers were complaining in their tongue as they continued North through the forest.
Arnwylf heard the bellowing and screams of the conflict before he could see it. The road began sloping quickly downhill. The Bairn River was suddenly in view, and three great wooden bridges spanned the wide and tumultuous river.
As the company came to a halt, Arnwylf could see human archers on the northern side of the river in ordered ranks. They protected the groups of thirty or more humans at the center of each of the three bridges. The garonds had no archers of their own on the southern side of the Bairn, but many, many more soldiers than the humans.
Garond soldiers, swords high, rushed onto the bridge and slashed at the humans. But they were repulsed again and again on all three bridges.
On the south side of the river, garond soldiers massed. It was clear they were preparing to rush the bridges, and that would spell the end for the wealdkin.
Arnwylf and his human captives were put to work moving heavy carts filled with arms and supplies.
“Move! Put your backs into it!” Ratskenner screamed at the starving, weary humans.
“We’ve had nothing to eat for two days. Still yourself.” Arnwylf said to Ratskenner.
“What!? What did you say!?” Ratskenner pushed his long sharp nose up to Arnwylf’s face. “I could have you killed and eaten right this very moment!”
“If I were not in these chains I would shut you up this very moment,” Arnwylf said.
Ratskenner stared at Arnwylf, disbelieving his defiance. After a moment passed with neither speaking, Arnwylf turned his back in disgust to lift the cart he was being forced to drag.
Ratskenner whipped Arnwylf across his back. As Arnwylf turned, the sharp nosed cretin hit him again. In rage, Arnwylf lunged at his human keeper, who leapt back, but Arnwylf’s chains held him in check. Ratskenner raised his fist, shaking with rage, but he dared not come close to Arnwylf, who was ready to kill him.
Ratskenner backed up, with his terrified eyes on Arnwylf. He then picked up a branch lying by the road and began to whip the weak and hungry humans. But he stayed well away from Arnwylf, whose dangerous gaze never left him.
Down by the Three Bridges of Rogar Li, a great screaming and yelling was heard. The garond armies were charging the bridges. Their numbers swelled and the garond soldiers were unstoppable, no matter how many were killed by sword, spear or arrow.
On the far banks, at the end of the center bridge, a white haired man bellowed something to the garonds. They seemed to pause in their surge. Then all three bridges seemed to magically burst into flames. The garonds on the bridges tried to fight their way back as the fire intensified, but there was such a crowd of soldiers on all three bridges, it became impossible. Garonds on the bridges began jumping into the Bairn River. They were quickly drowned and swept downstream, as no garond knew how to swim, or eaten by malevolent fish.
All became panic. Garonds ran back and forth. The army was in complete disarray. The three huge, beautifully carved bridges were infernos that quickly collapsed into the Bairn. On the far banks, the humans cheered.
They began to pepper the garonds with arrows, and the garond army had to retreat to the safety of the trees on the southern bank.
But, the garonds were quick to reorganize. Leaders barked orders, and the whole army was turned back to the main encampment in Harvestley.
It was a slow, painful march, with humans forced to carry heavy burdens and drag loaded carts.
As night fell, clouds covered the night sky once again, and again no rain fell. The garond encampment was busy dressing the wounded and regrouping. The humans gathered together for warmth. Arnwylf stared up at the boiling night clouds, planning his escape.

On the morning of Arnwylf’s fourth day of captivity, a garond came around and argued with Deepscar, then looked over his captive humans, picking out the strongest and healthiest. Of course, Arnwylf was chosen, and his shackles were unlocked. He was then reshackled with a new group of men and led away. Deepscar and Ratskenner also came with the platoon of garond soldiers and captives.
The new group headed east right through the garond army encampment towards the Flume of Gawry. The humans in this new company were healthier and stronger, so the marching was quicker. By midday, the road was flat and definitely sloping downhill. After a couple of hours of marching, Arnwylf could smell the ocean. He had accompanied his father to the fishing town Alfhich once, and the thing he remembered most was the pervasive smell of fish and salt water.
There were no fields or villages now, just flat, rolling land with close cropped grass. Grazing animals must have once moved through this area regularly. Arnwylf realized they were in Byland, the entrance to Wealdland from the rest of the world. Arnwylf felt farther from Bittel and his family than he had ever been his entire life.
A roaring sound could be heard on the breeze. Soon, more garonds came into sight, and more soldiers marching west to the encampment. The roaring sound was louder and louder.
The furious sound was the Flume of Gawry. The company was stopped. All the human men flopped to the ground to rest, but Arnwylf remained standing to understand his surroundings.
They stood right on the steep precipice of a narrow channel of water rushing for two miles from north to south. The water in the flume was white, frothy, and moving extremely fast. Garond soldiers were carefully moving over the thirty yard wide flume by rope bridges. The garonds were ungraceful and frightened, so they moved very slowly on the ropes spanning the wild water.
Deepscar unshackled a human at random, dragged him to the edge of the flume and threw him in. Garond soldiers crowded the edge of the flume, laughing as the human was quickly swept away to die as the flume crashed down on the shores of the Bight of Lanis.
The company was roused and marched south along the flume. In only an hour, in the late afternoon, they came to the spout of the flume.
More than a waterfall, the flume was a massive jet of water roaring high up, out of a white chalk cliff in a downward, arcing, white cascade into the ocean below. Next to the flume, Arnwylf noticed curious structures constructed of large wooden beams meant for lifting heavy weights up the white cliffs, from the ocean shore below. And, as he wondered at the massive crane, the beams and levers began to move.
Arnwylf and his fellow humans were whipped into place by Deepscar. They grasped thick ropes and pulled, as a large wooden crate lifted off the shore below. The heavy object was wet and poured water. As the crate lifted above the cliff’s edge, Arnwylf could see within it was a large marowdowr lying on its back.
An earthquake began to roll and rumble under their feet. The earthquake vibrated right through Arnwylf’s bones, a deep resonating rumble. All the rocks and hills shook. All the humans looked at each other in a paralytic shock, helpless, fearful. Earthquakes were rare and supposed to be an expression of dissatisfaction of the gods. The whole world seemed unsteady to Arnwylf. He clutched the thick ropes not to support the huge crate, but to keep his own feet. He could feel the organs in his very body vibrating with the shaking.
The towering wooden structure trembled and shook. The great crate swayed back and forth with the shaking of the earth. Most garonds fell to their knees in terrified prayer, and some fled the great wooden crane in fear it would fall. Deepscar compelled the humans to stay at their ropes, and kept the crate from dropping. Timbers creaked and the towers of the wooden machine strained, but they held. 
The shaking stopped. Then, there was a great stillness. Human and garond alike looked at each other unsure if they were still alive.
When fears were finally calmed, the lifting of the great fish resumed.
Arnwylf was surprised to see that garonds caught marowdowr, and mistakenly supposed they ate them. The crate was swung onto the cliff and released from the crane.
The humans were forced to grab braces around the crate and lift it. The marowdowr, as large as four men, slowly opened its mouth full of jagged teeth.
“It’s alive!” Someone screamed, and the humans dropped the crate. The immense fish squirmed in its wooden cage.
“Pick it up! Pick it up!” Ratskenner screamed at the men. Arnwylf and about thirty men lifted the heavy crate and were forced to quick march along the flume northward.
Arnwylf was near the beast’s head and his fear and fatigue were quickly overcome by fascination. The marowdowr had black, black eyes. Its triangular head had a mouth so wide, it could swallow a full grown man whole. Its teeth were triangular and irregular, as if it had a mouthful of knives. The monstrous fish had been unaffected by the earthquake and complacently lay on its back. The marowdowr wheezed, needing water desperately. Humans bearing buckets of water doused the beast often.
After about an hour of back breaking marching northwards, a large lake was seen, the Great Lake of Ettonne. It was light blue and swollen. Scores of white islands seemed to bob and drift in the water. As they moved closer, Arnwylf could see that the islands were actually large pieces of ice drifting in the placid water of the expansive lake.
The crate was marched right to the shore. Several other empty crates stood nearby. With directions, the humans turned the crate over so the marowdowr was upright. It suddenly thrashed to life. It’s body bucking wildly in the crate. Men were directed to open the wooden cage, and as soon as a crack was opened the marowdowr thrust through, shattering the crate, flopping towards the lake.
The garonds cheered and laughed in ugly grunts as the massive monster slowly swam out on to the quiet body of water.
Then, brown shapes popped up like corks. Merebroder gasped for breath, appearing like magic. The garonds screamed in anger as the merebroder methodically attacked the sluggish marowdowr. The garonds threw rocks and spears at the merebroder, who quickly dipped below the surface.
The marowdowr Arnwylf and the men had carried to the lake turned belly up, dead from the sudden merebroder attack in the cold, light blue water of the Great Lake of Ettonne.
A horse garond rode up to the company. He snapped and grunted at Deepscar. Deepscar bellowed and the whole company stood to march back west to the main encampment.
Deepscar was in a foul mood the whole way, whipping indiscriminately, and Arnwylf especially.
Night was falling as they returned. Arnwylf was rejoined with the other humans he had been captive with before. He saw Annen, Faw and Len, and they seemed to be grateful that he was once more with them. Again clouds obscured the night sky. Arnwylf fell quickly to sleep, dreaming of marowdowr and merebroder fighting in the sea.

Morning broke on Arnwylf’s fifth day in garond captivity. The garond encampment roused with the break of dawn, but the humans were left to themselves.
Faw awoke, looked at Arnwylf and said, “We were worried we would never see you again.”
Arnwylf smiled. “We were sent to the Flume of Gawry to carry marowdowr from the Mere Lanis to the Great Lake of Ettonne.”
“Marowdowr!” Faw exclaimed.
“Yes. But it was killed by merebroder who seemed to spring from the very water itself,” Arnwylf said. “Now I understand my friend Caerlund when he was surprised to see marowdowr in the Bairn River.”
“It’s true,” old Annen said. “The garonds are putting the evil fish in the rivers and lakes to kill humans.”
“You know Caerlund?” Len scrutinized Arnwylf.
“I met him several days ago. We crossed the Bairn together.” Then Arnwylf told the story of how he had met Caerlund and what befell them together.
“Well,” said Len, “He is our chieftain. We are of the Madrun, most of us.”
At this Ratskenner approached. “Quiet you,” was all he said.
Arnwylf motioned to Ratskenner to come close. Ratskenner came as close as he felt safe.
“Listen to me carefully,” Arnwylf said staring hard at Ratskenner. “See how we are all chained together?” Arnwylf indicated the mass of human prisoners. “One of us will grab a hold of you, any moment, and we will pass you down to me, and I will break your neck.” The group of humans seemed to regain their spirit and grumbled together. Terror played across Ratskenner’s face.
“Or,” Arnwylf continued, “you can find us food and water, and we may yet remember you are human and not garond.” Ratskenner stood gasping for breath, realizing the truth of Arnwylf’s words, and then scrabbled away.
Len shook his head. “He was like a son to me.”
“Him?!” Arnwylf said with surprise.
“He was of the Madrun Hills. His family was all thieves and murderers who met justice. I took him in as a boy, raised him as my own. But he betrayed us to the garond army for his station over us. They say he speaks garond. It may be he has lost his humanity,” Len said as he sank into his rueful sadness.
They were not put to work in the morning, so Arnwylf stood up above his squatting human companion prisoners to more fully understand the garond encampment. He saw that they were held on the western edge of the encampment that filled the shallow valley and grew larger every moment. Garonds arrived from the west bringing spoils, more humans, metal goods to be forged into weapons, animals to be consumed and wood timbers for their machines of war. From the east more garond soldiers arrived by the hour. Arnwylf estimated at the moment, there were over one hundred thousand garond troops.
In the late afternoon, Ratskenner clambered up to the group of humans. In a cloak, he concealed several loaves of bread.
“See?” Ratskenner clicked, “You see? I provide for my humans. I take care of you.” Ratskenner looked for approval from Arnwylf, but Arnwylf would not return his gaze. The bread was carefully and secretly divided, and furtively eaten.
Ratskenner came close to Arnwylf. “Our great leader arrives in Wealdland today to claim it as his own.”
“Who’s that?” Arnwylf asked with resentment
“The Lord of Lightning, Deifol Hroth.”
Arnwylf sat up at the name.
“He is immortal and has the very forces of nature at his command,” Ratskenner went on. “Now that he comes to Wealdland from his bluestone citadel in the Far Grasslands, humanity is through. He also comes with his great war general, Ravensdred. All must be prepared for their arrival.”
As Ratskenner said this, a great company from the west arrived, in a hurry, and with many wounded and dead garond soldiers. Ratskenner scurried away to learn where this battered company came from.
Annen leaned close to Arnwylf. “We may be sacrificed in a great feast tonight. It makes sense as to why they have kept us this long.”
“Then we must escape before that happens,” Arnwylf said evenly. Arnwylf looked down at his fetters. They were locked, and the only key to all their chains was held by Deepscar.
Ratskenner scrambled back to Arnwylf. “There was a great defeat. An archer who, aided by an elf, slew many.” Ratskenner scuttled away to help the wounded garonds.
Arnwylf was happy in his heart because he knew it was the Archer who had saved him at Bittel, and the elf who had fought by his side at Rion Ta.
The rest of the day was chaos, getting the camp in readiness for their great leader, and tending to the defeated army arriving from the west.
In the early evening a great company of nearly a hundred horse garonds arrived. Arnwylf caught his breath. A red haired girl riding with a garond was unmistakably Frea. He saw her taken to the center of the encampment and noted the large ornate tent to which she was taken.
Arnwylf watched the horse garonds carefully and realized that the herd of horses simply followed a lead horse that was thoroughly trained. The horse garonds dismounted and brought their horses to the edge of the encampment. The humans were pushed back from their nesting place to allow the horses to bed in their straw. And, a simple rope corral was set up to keep the horses from wandering. A plan formed in Arnwylf’s mind.
The evening’s clouds began to gather. A large and colorfully dressed group of garonds arrived from the east.
Ratskenner scurried up. All he said was, “Great Warlord Ravensdred is here!” Then he hurried away to see the spectacle of his arrival. The procession paraded to the great tent at the center. From his vantage point Arnwylf could see a large garond, larger than the rest, astride a massive war horse. He thought, this must be the war general, Ravensdred.  But, he wore no armor, only a fine silk tunic. The warlord and his retinue entered the large tent to which he had seen Frea taken. The rest of the encampment busied their selves with looking presentable if inspected.
The garonds began to bed down and it was clear that the Lord of Lightning would come the next day, and so the feast would wait. After the horses, the humans were brought buckets of fresh water, which they drank suspiciously. 
“This is to make our meat more tender,” old Annen said with a frown. Arnwylf realized that she was probably right, then began to chuckle at the grim absurdity. The hushed laugh spread to the rest of the humans, then quietly died out.
“Listen,” Arnwylf said. “I have a plan. Pass this along so we are all in agreement.” Arnwylf explained his escape plan to the rest of the human prisoners before they all restlessly fell to sleep under another heavily clouded night sky.

Morning broke on Arnwylf’s sixth day in garond captivity with a bright and blue sky. The humans were set to work feeding, watering, and grooming the horses. Arnwylf took the opportunity to carefully study the lead horse, a young, tan stallion with a black mane. The horse seemed to study Arnwylf as well. Its large, dark brown eyes were filled with intelligence. Arnwylf reached out his hand to the horse and it nuzzled him. He felt even more secure in his plan.
Throughout the day, all activity was spent polishing and organizing armor, weapons and kit. In the center of the camp a large area was cleared and set with piles of wood with stakes in the middle for roasting something.
Amongst the humans was nervousness, an eagerness for Arnwylf to give the word. But, Arnwylf knew they would have to wait for the cover of darkness to succeed. He only hoped he could put his plan into action before the feast began. He also needed Ratskenner to unwittingly play his part and he had been missing the whole day.
The nearby horses seemed on edge, and several times they had to be calmed. It seemed they sensed some wild, dangerous animal nearby.
In the late afternoon, from the east, more colorful emissaries, and garond war captains arrived decked in black and silver, ornate armor.
As night began to fall, it was clear the feast and reception for Deifol Hroth was to begin.
Arnwylf began to despair until Ratskenner skittered up to the chained humans to gloat.
“The Great One is coming! They say he is but moments away! Enjoy your last moments of life!” Ratskenner crowed.
“Do you think,” Arnwylf interrupted, “they will be pleased with you to find their great feast of human meat is spoiled and diseased?” Arnwylf turned to point at Annen who, on cue, fell to the dirt coughing and spitting.
Ratskenner pushed closer to inspect her. Arnwylf had carefully splattered Annen’s face with mud to mimic the pox, and her convulsions convinced Ratskenner. She was so good, in fact, with wheezing and coughing that Arnwylf considered for a moment that she might actually be sick.
“Imagine if we all become diseased. Right before the feast,” Arnwylf warned.
“No!” Ratskenner cried with fear.
“Best to separate her from the healthy stock,” Arnwylf said with a frown, disdainfully indicating Annen, who slyly winked at him.
In a lather, Ratskenner hurried away to find Deepscar.
Arnwylf turned to his fellow humans. “Be ready, be resolute, and be unmerciful,” he said to them.
The usual clouds boiled over the night sky, again obscuring moons and stars. The garonds began chanting and calling to each other in raucous lays to proclaim their prowess over other platoons in the encampment. All was excitement and an energetic frenzy filled the whole army.
Deepscar arrived, dressed with black and silver feathers platted into his hair, wearing his best battle armor, and furious. Ratskenner trailed behind him, indicating in mime and disclaiming in grunts the severe trouble.
Fumbling for his key, Deepscar pushed his way towards Annen, who had positioned herself in the middle of the human prisoners. Arnwylf gave a quick low whistle and forty angry, desperate humans piled on top of Deepscar and Ratskenner who was right on his heels. Arnwylf delivered the hard blows to the back of the head to both Deepscar and Ratskenner.
All were quickly unfettered, but held their bonds on, unlocked, to give the appearance of still in chains. Arnwylf turned to Len, “Do not let anyone leave until I have returned.”
“We will wait even if the devil himself arrives,” Len said with a firm gratitude.
Arnwylf put on Ratskenner’s mantle and shuffled as best he could in Ratskenner’s scurrying way. Just as he supposed, the garonds were too involved in preparations for the reception of their leader, and probably saw all humans as one indistinguishable type anyway.
Arnwylf was more than half way to the large, ornate tent in which he knew Frea was a captive, when, with the overwhelming beating of deeply reverberating drums and bloodcurdling screams of praise, the Lord of Lightning arrived.
The whole encampment held its breath.
An oppressive air settled over the army, as if a great, grand evil was in their presence, as if pain and torment in an intangible form had drifted into their ranks, as if their leader was in their midst. The muscular and violent garonds dropped their heads and gnashed their teeth, being spurred to mayhem, but held in check by the greater fear of their master.
The largest in their ranks clawed empty space as if killing in their imaginations. No one spoke above a whisper, but the quiet snarls were horrible vows of murder and destruction.
They worked their jaws and teeth as if devouring the very flesh of their enemies.
Arnwylf could feel the palpable danger like a weight on his chest. First, he felt his presence, then he turned to see their Commander and Lord, Deifol Hroth.
The garond soldiers pushed forward to be near him in massing crowds, but no soldier dare approach him closer than ten paces for fear of the destruction of their immortal souls.
Deifol Hroth was some distance from Arnwylf, and all he could make out was that the Feared One was, lean and slightly above average in height, wearing plain clothing of sky blue, and appeared to be an attractive, human youth in his early twenties, with sandy blonde hair. The seeming beauty of this young man struck Arnwylf, until he realized with a disquiet horror, that Deifol Hroth was rumored to be over nine hundred years old.
Arnwylf was suddenly unnaturally cold and his every instinct was to flee as quickly as possible. Looking at him, Arnwylf wanted to vomit, not in disgust, but because of the physical emanations of evil vibrating from the regal young man.
Garond leaders rose from their knees and began welcoming gestures, when suddenly, Deifol Hroth held up his hand. All paused. The Great One seemed to stand perfectly still as if hearing or seeing something beyond the boundaries of normal senses.
The next thing happened so quickly and suddenly Arnwylf doubted the reality of it. It seemed as if Deifol Hroth began a gesture, his hand moved slightly, then an intense, blinding flash of light burst from him.
All fell to the ground blind and terrified, except Arnwylf who saw the bolt of lightning continue, up from his hand and arcing out into the sky. In a moment it was all over. Screams of terror and pain began in a slow crescendo and then rose to an overwhelming orchestra of chaos.
Deifol Hroth, alone, walked quietly out of the camp, westward.
Arnwylf picked up a sword cast to ground by a terrified garond, and ran for the large tent. He made his way through the bedlam, and ripped open the embroidered front flap.
Inside were tapestries, silks, plush pillows, tables laid with fruit, and cured meat. In the center of the opulence, Frea, dressed in red gossamer and brocaded purple cotton, stood quietly contemplating a small dagger. When she saw Arnwylf, she was stunned and disbelieving, and the dagger slipped from her fingers.
They rushed to each other and clasped one another as if they would never let go. Frea kissed Arnwylf’s dirty and rough cheek again and again.
“We must go quicker than the wind,” Arnwylf said. Without question, tears flowing down her cheeks, desperately clutching his hand, Frea ran from the tent with Arnwylf.
The garond encampment was recovering from the spectacle, and Arnwylf knew their lives were in great danger. Running as fast as they could, Arnwylf and Frea made their way through the army of blinded and snarling garonds.
“Now! Now!” Arnwylf shouted as they ran towards the group of frantic human prisoners. Len leapt to his feet and grabbed the tan yellow lead horse with the black mane, and held it for Arnwylf. The humans clambered onto the horses and held on as best as they could.
Arnwylf and Frea mounted the lead horse and the whole human and horse company made their escape into the dark countryside, with a shadowed, animal following in the falling darkness.
As the last riderless horses followed the herd, Deepscar rose and fuming, leapt upon a horse. Ratskenner, also awaking, knowing his life would now be worthless, also jumped onto the back of a horse.
Arnwylf found the lead horse easy to control. He simply held handfuls of the horse’s mane, and when he pulled to the left or right, the horse followed his directions. After what seemed like a long time, far from the encampment, Arnwylf pulled on his horse’s mane to stop and confer with Len as to their intended direction. As his horse halted, Arnwylf turned to see if all the humans had made it out of the garond encampment, or if any had fallen from their mounts.
In the dark, overcast night, in the crush of milling horses, as Arnwylf called for Len, Deepscar roughly pulled Arnwylf from his horse. As they tumbled to the ground, Arnwylf’s sword went clattering from his hand over the flat stones on which they landed.
Deepscar rained heavy blows on Arnwylf’s face as he tried to escape his grasp. They rolled around on the gray rock, Deepscar pummeling, and Arnwylf deflecting. Arnwylf had never been taught how to fight, and the best he could do was deflect Deepscar’s thrashing. Deepscar began alternating cracking Arnwylf in the face and punishing blows to his body. Deepscar tried to rise to his feet. Arnwylf was reminded of the stauer hunt and knew that if he let go it would be the end of him, and so, clung tightly to Deepscar.
All around, the humans sat on their horses in frozen terror.
“Do something!” Frea cried, then got down from her horse.
She picked up a large stone and hit Deepscar soundly in the back of the head. He roared in pain and wheeled quickly with a backhand fist that knocked Frea unconscious.
Arnwylf, battered and bloodied, saw his sword was only a few feet away and struggled to reach it. Deepscar, on top of Arnwylf, saw what he was doing, and clamped both of his great paws around Arnwylf’s throat. Choking, turning red, Arnwylf rocked and struggled closer to the sword. He felt the world going black. 
Then, as if by magic, the sword was in his hand. Without hesitation, Arnwylf drew the sword’s edge down across Deepscar’s neck. As Deepscar let go of Arnwylf to grab his own, freshly cut throat, Arnwylf thrust the sword back up and hard into Deepscar.
Deepscar jerked with paralysis, his ugly face a grimace of pain. He pulled the sword, still in his body, away from Arnwylf’s hands. He stood, snarling. Arnwylf wearily rose to his feet. Deepscar began to curse Arnwylf in garond, both his hands still on the sword’s hilt. He swayed, trying to pull the sword from his body. But, Arnwylf stepped forward, clasped Deepscar’s hands and thrusting, turned the blade.
Deepscar’s face went slack, and he fell to the flat, gray stones dead.
Arnwylf saw Faw, off of his horse, worriedly staring at him. Arnwylf raised his hand to reassure the young boy, and stumbled to Frea’s side. She was awake, and trying to tell him something. She was telling him to turn around.
Spent and battered, Arnwylf turned to see Ratskenner pull the sword from Deepscar’s corpse.
Ratskenner advanced on Arnwylf.
“You nearly ruined everything,” he sneered, that sick smile playing across his face. “But I will return with your head and the princess, and become a great hero.”
An evil light shined in Ratskenner’s eyes as he raised the sword to Arnwylf. Then, a loud, low, deep growling froze Ratskenner. Behind him yellow eyes glowed in the dark. Ratskenner tried to turn with the sword, but it was too late. Conniker bound forward, sinking his teeth into Ratskenner’s spine. Ratskenner let out a loud, shrill shriek. Then, Conniker violently shook him until Ratskenner was dead.
The humans mumbled sounds of despair and fear as the white wolf stumbled up to Arnwylf. But, the great beast began to lick his smiling face.
“Thank you,” Arnwylf said to Conniker, stroking his head. Arnwylf noticed Conniker’s tattered coat, healing gashes and badly damaged tail.
“You’ve been in quite a scrap, haven’t you, brother? But we need to get going. They are sure to be tracking us, and we are not yet in safe hands.”
Arnwylf tried to stand, but he was clearly too hurt. Frea steadied him. Len jumped from his horse to help.
“Perhaps I should take the lead horse,” Len offered. “We are in my lands now, and I can guide us to Scatterstone, a place of easy shallows across the Burnie River.”
“Yes, the pass between the Burnie and the Bairn will be heavily guarded,” Frea said. “Help me get him onto your horse, and you take the lead horse.”
As soon as Arnwylf was situated behind Frea, and Len had mounted the lead horse, a sound of a tracking party could be heard in the far distance.
“We must fly as swift as a Kipleth arrow,” Len called to the company. “Hold tight and pray to your gods!”
With that, Len spurred his horse and the whole company exploded into the dark of the night as fast as their horses could gallop.
All that black, heavily clouded night, Arnwylf clung to Frea as she rode her horse. The tracking party of garonds, also clearly on horseback were always within earshot, their hunting horns blaring.

Near dawn, the company ran down into a shallow ravine into Scatterstone. Here the Burnie River was very wide and easy to cross. The pleasant and clear water of the Burnie laughed and rippled as it played over the many smooth stones in the vast river bed. Steam rose from the softly flowing water in the dawn light. The horses bent their weary heads to drink.
“Only a sip,” Len hissed to the company. “We still have a day’s ride until we cross the Madronwy River, and reach the safety of Kenethley.” To himself Len whispered, “May it still be standing and well-armed.”
Arnwylf really felt the great beating he had received from Deepscar all the next day of relentless riding. His face and kidneys ached mightily. Once he wiped his running nose to find his hand covered with blood. He clung to Frea and could feel her strength as she rode the war horse. He smiled to himself.
“I saved her,” he said quietly to himself.
The countryside was mostly lightly wooded, rolling hills. About midday day, as they topped a ridge, they could see the garond trackers several miles behind them. It was no small platoon, it seemed the whole army was on their heels. 
The white wolf stayed near Arnwylf and Frea the whole way. Conniker seemed to look up at Arnwylf with concern. Arnwylf looked down and weakly smiled to reassure his friend, but his head was hot with fever.
All that day it seemed as though their trackers were closing in on them, even though they never stopped for food, water or to rest the horses.
As the sun began to set, Len pulled close to Frea and Arnwylf. “We’re near the Madronwy River. There are several secret bridges. Fallfont Gorge is the closest. We’ll have to leave the horses. But, the gorge is steep, and if we fell the bridge, they won’t be able to follow us.”
The company galloped through forests of evergreen Yew and leafless Alder, black and ready for the winter.
As night began to fall, no clouds gathered. The light from both Nunee, the mother moon, and the Wanderer, her companion moon, was full and bright. In the dusk, they traveled through rockier terrain, climbing, always climbing.
In the moonlight, they came to a steep cliff with a thin rushing river, the Madronwy, far below.
“It’s close, now,” Len called to the company. The band of horses trotted along a trail beside the lethal gorge. Up ahead, a precarious rope and wood bridge spanned the jagged abyss, reflecting moonlight.
“Dismount,” Len cried. As soon as the humans were all off their horses they ran for the bridge. Frea and Len supported Arnwylf, who tried his best to keep up. His legs were weak and unsteady.
 Behind them, they could hear the cries and shouts of the garond tracking party.
The humans skittered over the bridge in single file. Sentries on the other side helped them off the bridge as quickly as possible. Frea lead Arnwylf across the swaying bridge last.
Len stood at the far side of the bridge with a sentry. The sentry held a sword aloft to cut the supports as soon as they were across.
Conniker led Frea, who held her arms around Arnwylf, helping him to the other side. A garond arrow whistled past her and hit the sentry square in the chest.
Behind her garonds, bellowing in rage, began to cross the bridge. The garond leader, Ravensdred was in front.
“Leave the bridge! There’s no time to fell it!” Len shouted and they ran into the darkness of the Hills of Madrun with the garond army hot on their trail. Garond arrows angrily whirled all around them.
Frea, Arnwylf, and Len stumbled up to a ridge in the moonlight, when Ravensdred got a good sight on Arnwylf.
Ravensdred nocked a huge, deadly arrow and let fly. The arrow was targeted perfectly, dead center on Arnwylf’s heart. “You’ve gone far enough!” He bellowed.
Then, above in the night sky, the great, horrific terror began.


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 should.”
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 he 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.”
“Those arrows were given to me a long time ago,” the Archer said. “We mustn’t let the horse garonds pass by with the girl.”
“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 human. 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 Archer 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.


Chapter Nine

Frea

Once upon a time there was a young girl with flame red hair, named Frea. She had been taken from her parents by a cruel and ugly race called the garonds.
Garonds were squat, bow legged creatures, with long, dark, red hair, and ape-like features. Their arms and chests were thick, wide and muscular. Their viciousness was legendary.
No human understood the speech of the garond race. But this young girl, through some gift from the higher powers, was beginning to comprehend their tongue.
The young girl had come to understand that all garonds had been commanded by their great and terrible master to gather all red haired humans to him. There was some great and powerful object that their master sought, and it was said that their master saw, through his great and awesome powers, that a red haired human could uncover it.
In the captivity of three garonds, the leader slew one of the other garonds in a quarrel over whether or not they should eat the young girl.
The two remaining garonds traveled along the banks of the river Bairn in hopes of finding a place to cross over to their great camp in the south of Wealdland.
The travel was slow and filled with bickering between the two remaining garonds. The garond who drooled all the time also wanted to eat the young girl. But the garond with one large eyebrow protected her out of duty to his master. 
Night fell, and they bedded down for the night, with their horses, on the sandy bank of the Bairn River.
“Be quiet,” the garond who held the young girl snarled.
The young girl thought of her grandmother, Miri, who had been her constant comfort back in her childhood home, the castle of the Northern Kingdom of Man. For, the young girl was actually a princess and heir to the throne.
That night the young girl dreamt of her grandmother. She dreamt that they were walking in spring fields of bluebells, simple meadow roses and clover buzzing with unmindful bees.
They walked for many paces and then her grandmother turned to her. And in her dream she said to the young girl, “When you have need, sing my name.” And then the young girl awoke, staring at the blackness of the early dawn.

In the early morning, Eyebrow decided the river was shallow enough for the horses to swim across. Once again the two garonds fell to arguing, but Eyebrow turned his horse, with the young girl astride, into the rapid waters of the Bairn. Drool screamed in rage and goaded his horse into the river as well.
In the middle of the river, the two garonds swung their clubs at each other, as their horses swam for their lives in the swiftly moving water. The young girl bravely clutched the horse’s mane as the dangerous water swirled all about her.
The third riderless horse screamed as a great, evil fish tore out its throat. The water of the river turned a bright red with the horse’s blood.
In the midst of this tumult, the two garonds continued to stupidly battle.
Miraculously, the two remaining horses made the southern bank of the Bairn River sopping wet and exhausted. Eyebrow and Drool dropped from their horses and weakly continued their battle. Clubbing and knocking each other with unwavering fury. Drool got a lucky swing in and knocked Eyebrow to his knees.
Drool then turned to Frea, the young girl, an evil hunger flashing on his face.
The young girl knew it was time. She opened her mouth and began to sing her grandmother’s name. But the note became a scream, which became a wind that buffeted the drooling garond.
The great moving wind began to take shape with leaves and debris. The young girl could see it was the shape of her grandmother, but three times her normal size.
The great shape of wind raised the choking garond off his feet. His hands gripped at a windy nothing, which held him by the throat. His legs frantically kicked at empty air.
Then, Drool was violently splashed down into the Bairn River, and held as he drowned with much thrashing and a fury of bubbles.
Then, the shape of wind raised the drowned garond from the river and dashed him against a tree growing on the river’s bank. The drooling garond was dead.
The wind moved on, down the river.
“Wait!” The young girl cried. But, it was too late, the shape of wind, turning into a rapidly increasing vortex, was gone. Eyebrow, rising from the shallows, roughly grabbed the young girl and threw her across his horse. He mounted too, and they traveled all day east along the southern banks of the Bairn River, with a riderless horse following.
At nightfall, they bedded down in the sand of the southern riverbank with neither speaking to the other.
“Stay silent,” Eyebrow snarled in garond at the young girl.
That night, the young girl dreamt she was alone, out on the Eastern Meadowlands with a wounded stauer. She called and called for her family and friends, but no one answered. The dangerous beast circled her and would not leave.

Early the next morning, the garond and the young girl rode east all day along the southern bank of the Bairn River.
In the early afternoon they saw thirty or more garonds riddled with arrows on the northern side of the river. The young girl thought of the Archer who had saved her and her family at Bittel.
Later in the day, the young girl saw a white wolf running with a pack of doderns. She thought of the white wolf that had joined their fight at Rion Ta. She dare not think of the young blonde haired boy of her village for fear of what might have befallen him.
Late in the afternoon, the garond and the young girl rode close to a swarming garond battlement. They could just see the three bridges that spanned the Bairn River and led to the great Weald city of Rogar Li.
The young girl was brought to an ornate tent set in the middle of the garond soldiers. She could hear the horrible battle being fought to win the three bridges by the garonds.
Eyebrow was dismissed and the young girl was left to wait alone in the plush tent.
The warm afternoon sun made the tent hot and insufferable. The watery smell of the river was overwhelming.
Demons and goblins danced just outside the tent making shapes on the cloth wall.
A large animal dressed in silk entered the tent. He magically turned into a large garond.
“What are you saying?” He said. 
The young girl knew she had but one chance to escape.
“I speak human,” the large garond said. “I can understand your words.”
A spell came over the young girl so that the large garond could hear her inmost thoughts.
“Stop speaking at once!” The large garond bellowed.
Frea was silent.
He was fierce and a murderous fire burned in his eye. He inspected Frea closely. “I know what you’re doing.” He smiled. “I have seen this before in humans. Your race is clever but weak, and you retreat into fantasies. You’re telling yourself some kind of story to make these unhappy events more sensible to your fragile mind.” The large garond laughed a low, dangerous laugh.
Frea felt the dagger hidden under her dress.
“I am Ravensdred. I command the garond armies for Deifol Hroth.” He was a full head taller than any garond or man Frea had seen. His shoulders were bulky and restless. Yet, he wore no armor or sword, only silks and fine linen in dark blues and scarlet.
“Do you know where the sword is?” He asked Frea. She felt the hand of fate gripping her throat.
“No, no,” he said. “Stay here with me now. You have the red hair of the Northern Kingdom. And you reacted when I asked about the sword. What sword? Which sword? You will feign stupidity. Yes. It’s all in your eyes. You have seen the Mattear Gram.”
Frea felt panic enclosing her. Ravensdred took Frea’s hand. It was like a massive paw. It was as if some huge bear had stumbled out of the Weald and someone had dressed him in silk and fine linen, and taught him to talk. Ravensdred slowly pulled Frea close.
“You have seen the Mattear Gram?” He asked again.
Frea was compelled to nod her head in assent.
“Good,” he said. “Where is it?”
Frea simply lifted up the hem of her dress, pulled the dagger, and stabbed at Ravensdred’s throat.
But, for all his size, Ravensdred was quick, frighteningly quick.
He grasped Frea’s hand and slowly pulled the dagger away from her. He let her fall to the ground.
“I like you,” Ravensdred snarled at her. “I like you quite a bit.” His lustful smile revealed large, sharply filed teeth. “You will tell me all I wish to know… sooner than you think.”
He threw the dagger to his feet, in front of Frea. “Take it. You may find some use for this sewing pin, if fate weaves a hopeless garment for you. Return to your story.”
With a hearty, cruel laugh Ravensdred strode from the tent.

Once upon time there was a young girl who was held captive by a large and evil garond named Ravensdred.
She was far from her parents and deep in the land held by the garond armies. She could hear the shouts and crashes of sword on shield as human and garond fought for the Three Bridges of Rogar Li.
Then, all was silent. She could hear a human shouting something about no choice. No choice, the young girl thought.
Then the air was filled with smoke. The young girl stepped to the edge of the tent opening. Down by the river, she could see the three bridges burning in a swirling inferno.
The young girl waited for the garond named Ravensdred to return, since his attempt to take the bridges had failed, but he did not.
A small meal was brought to her. She ate very little of it. Then, she fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

The next day, all was confusion. Their great warlord had left in the night without explanation. The assault on the Weald had failed with the burning of the bridges.
The young girl could hear the lower ranking leaders arguing among themselves. Should they stay here on the southern banks of the Bairn or return to the great encampment?
About mid-day, an earthquake shook the whole earth. The garonds screamed in superstitious fear. Some mighty power was unhappy with developments in the Wealdland, and it showed its disapproval.
The young girl was undisturbed the rest of the day, as no garond dared to enter the tent of Ravensdred without leave. She was left to herself to treasure her memories of happier times and distant loved ones and friends. She thought particularly of a blonde haired boy with a serious face and green eyes.

The next day, the garond army broke camp. Eyebrow, the garond who had captured her at Rion Ta, arrived to escort her, with the rest of the army back to the main garond encampment.
Eyebrow was strangely polite and careful with the young girl, as if some order had been given to ensure her safety.
They joined other horse garonds who trotted south to Harvestley at a leisurely pace.
About midday, the remnants of a garond army joined the main army. They were devastated, with many wounded.
Eyebrow told the young girl that they were defeated in the Madrun Hills by an elf and an archer with unfathomable power.
The young girl was happy in her heart since she knew it was her friends who had defeated the garond army in Madrun.
The whole contingent of garond soldiers stopped to treat the wounded and regroup.
In the late afternoon Eyebrow came to the young girl and said, “Our great general Ravensdred is escorting the Lord of Lightning, Deifol Hroth, triumphantly into Wealdland tonight. I have been ordered to quickly return with you, so you will be ready to be presented by Ravensdred to our lord.”
With that the young girl was seated with Eyebrow on his horse, and with a large platoon of horse garonds, they rode as fast as they could for the great camp in the south.
As evening began to fall, the young girl and the platoon came to the expansive garond encampment in Harvestley.
The young girl was taken by Eyebrow to the center of the camp, where Ravensdred’s large ornate tent had been reset. Inside were all the pillows and fine linen that had been her jail on the southern bank of the Bairn River. Guards were posted at the tent’s opening, and she was brought food that she despairingly picked at.
She could hear the business of the garond army all around her. She began to lose all hope now that she was at the very heart of the garond army.
When night arrived, so did a noisy retinue with Ravensdred, who came right to his tent to greet the young girl. He seemed worried and tired. He had obviously been riding back and forth many miles. And seeing to his master’s needs was no inconsequential matter. He was in a foul mood and short tempered.
“Come out of your little fantasy right now,” he snapped while gnawing on a leg of mutton.
Frea quietly turned to face Ravensdred. “I am here,” she said.
“Are you ready to tell me about the sword?” He growled.
“No,” was all Frea said.
“No? Not, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. What sword? Why whatever do you mean?’” Ravensdred was visibly turning red with fury.
“You may try to kill me if you wish,” Frea simply said.
“Do you still have your hat pin,” he snarled.
Frea lifted up the hem of her dress to draw the dagger from its sheath strapped to her leg.
Ravensdred froze. Then, he bounded forward, roughly slapped the dagger out of Frea’s hand, and pulled up her dress.
“What is this!” Ravensdred bellowed pointing to a patterned scar on Frea’s leg.
“It is the mark of my birth.”
“I know what it is!” He shouted. Ravensdred dropped Frea, strode a step away, then he turned to study her with keen eyes. “You are the daughter of the king of the Northern Kingdom of Man, you are heir to the throne.” Ravensdred tipped his head back to fill the tent with loud, raucous, evil laughter. “Here I thought I would be punished for failing to deliver the Three Bridges of Rogar Li, but I have a greater prize than that.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Frea defiantly said.
“Oh please, my lady,” Ravensdred dipped a muscular, mocking bow. “I know that the royal line of the Northern Kingdom of Man are all branded with the blade of the Mattear Gram to mark their birth.” Ravensdred triumphantly plopped down onto a pile of cushions. “You should tell me about the sword,” Ravensdred slyly said. “Because you won’t like my master’s methods much. No, not at all.” He chuckled to himself.
Frea was silent.
“Very well,” Ravensdred said with a sure, leering grin. “As you wish. I need to inspect the troops. You can dine without me. But you will share my tent tonight.” Ravensdred pierced her with a knowing stare, then rose, bowed with an elaborate flourish, and left the tent laughing to himself with a newfound, evil delight.

Once upon a time there was a young girl who was trapped in the midst of the garond army. Exhausted, she fell into a light, fitful sleep in the general garond’s tent. The young girl woke with a start to find a skinny, large toothed young man leaning over her with a disturbing expression on his face.
“I am Ratskenner,” the unshaven young man said. His breath smelled of corpse flesh and rotting vegetables.
The young girl leapt to her feet. The young man, with the skittering movement of a rodent, circled her, his hands splayed out to calm her.
“Please be quiet. The guards have orders to kill you instantly if you so much as even speak,” he lied. His small glassy eyes ran up and down her body with lustful hunger.
“You are to be my queen. I am to be the king of all remaining humans. I will save you, and you will be grateful to me all the rest of your life.” He said, lightly stepping closer with short mincing steps.
“What is your name?” He asked.
“You told me if I was to speak, I would be instantly killed,” the young girl said with a smile of defiance. 
“Yes,” the gangly young man said. “But you can speak with my permission.” He frowned with disdain. “Tell me your name. Where do you come from? Who are your kin?”
The young girl said, “Surely these trifling details are not important to the great king of all humans.” 
The young man shot out skinny arms with an animal like quickness and roughly grabbed the young girl, pulling her close to his pointy nose.
“Don’t amuse yourself at my expense,” Ratskenner said, gripping Frea’s arms tight. “I can beat you to death here and now with no consequence to my safety. I am too, too valuable to these conquerors. They need me. Not you. I can do what I please with you. Howsoever I please.” He said the last with a dry kiss of scabby lips on her trembling, pale cheek.
The sound of guards snapping to attention caused Ratskenner to release Frea and scurry out, under a side wall of the tent.
Ravensdred entered, tired and annoyed. He grunted at Frea, flopped himself onto a pile of pillows and was immediately heavily snoring in a deep sleep.

Once upon a time there was a young girl who sat shivering, wide awake staring into the hopeless night, in the tent of the garond general, in the middle of the garond army.

The young girl awoke in the morning to find Ravensdred violently chewing and devouring his breakfast.
“I have no time for you today,” he said pointing a bloody, half chewed leg of lamb. “My master will be here soon. I must make sure all preparations are in order for his arrival.”
With that the general of the garonds rose from his breakfast and swept from the tent.
Some fruits were brought to the young girl, but she ate nothing. Outside she heard the garond guard’s gossip about a wolf that was circling the camp. It was white and had already killed two garond sentries. There was a good reward for its pelt.
About midday, the disgusting, young man slipped under a wall into the tent. He danced around the young girl who stood when she saw him.
“You have been promised to me when they are done with you,” he snickered.
The young girl was silent.
The unpleasant young man ran his dirty, busy, long fingers over the bowls of fruit and cured meats set out on gold trimmed tables.
“You desire me, don’t you?” The young man drew near to the young girl.
The young girl felt for the dagger hidden under her dress.
The young man leapt for the young girl. She twisted away and knelt to pull the dagger from its sheath. Ratskenner grabbed Frea roughly and spun her to find Frea’s dagger at his throat.
They both were still for moment. Then Ratskenner began to laugh a dry, wheezing laugh. “Why do you not kill me?” He snickered. With a rapid strike, he slapped the dagger from Frea’s hand. “Better you should hold that blade to your own throat, considering what is coming for you. Shall I tell you? All humans will be killed. There will be none left. Ravensdred may force himself on you. I care not. Then, you will be given to me for my pleasure and to rebirth the human race.”
Ratskenner held Frea close. His long bony fingers dug into her arms. She wanted to scream, to sing, like at the river. She opened her mouth and started.
But, Ratskenner was too quick, he grasped her throat in both hands, and Frea’s scream died on her lips. 
Frea felt the whole world fading to black. Ratskenner’s face was twisted with rage and lust. Just as Frea was about to lose consciousness, a garond guard entered the tent. He barked an order at Ratskenner, who quickly released Frea and scurried out under a wall of the tent.
Frea fell to the carpets laid out in the tent, gasping for breath. The garond guard threw a dress of expensive red gossamer and brocaded purple cotton at her, and ordered her to put it on.

Once upon a time there was a young girl who passed the day with great fear and worry. The sounds of soldiers preparing for the arrival of their leader were loud and incessant. Horns loudly announced leaders arriving in the camp, but not yet the Lord of Lightning.
In the early evening, the evil young man once again scrambled under the wall into the tent. He cautiously circled the young girl who held the dagger out at him in a defensive stance.
Anger and viciousness played across his toothy mouth.
“All your family is dead,” Ratskenner said. “They were soon captured after the fight at Rion Ta. The man with the red hair, the man with the yellow hair, the old man and woman, the woman with the black hair, the woman with the red hair, and the boy with yellow hair. They were all caught and killed. The archer and the elf were caught later in the Madrun Hills and killed there.”
“You lie!” The young girl cried.
“You have no one left,” the young man said. “You can willingly give yourself to me, and I will provide for and protect you, or you can take your own life. It is why the general has left you the dagger.”
“Get out!” The young girl cried.
The garond guard heard the young girl’s cries and checked the tent. He barked at the young man, and Ratskenner scuttled under a wall of the tent. Night began to fall. A loud commotion could be heard in the camp. The Lord of Lightning was arriving. 

Once upon a time there was a young girl who was desperate.
Frea contemplated the dagger in her hand. It would have to be quick.

Once upon a time there was a young girl with no hope.
Frea thought of her father and mother. She thought of Bittel and Arnwylf. She thought of her grandmother. And Frea knew she had no choice.

Once upon a time there was...
Frea barely noticed the brilliant flash of light in the camp. She barely registered the screams and cries of the blinded garonds. She didn’t even flinch with the resounding boom of the lightning. All she saw was the blade with which she was going to take her own life.

Once upon a time there was...
And then Arnwylf burst into the tent. The dagger slipped from Frea’s hand. She felt numb. She seemed to not even move her feet. She was in his arms holding him as though she would never let him go. She kissed his beautiful, dirty cheek.
“We must go quicker than the wind,” Arnwylf said.
They ran from the tent. Garond soldiers writhed on the ground, grasping their eyes in pain, staggering and screaming.
They ran through the camp, to a group of filthy, starved humans who cast the chains from their wrists the moment they saw Arnwylf.
“Now! Now!” Arnwylf shouted. Arnwylf put Frea on a horse, got on as well, and then the whole band of horses, with human riders, escaped into the night.
Frea saw the white wolf running beside the herd of horses and a great joy leapt into her heart. Ratskenner had been lying about everything. Her loved ones were safe.
After riding for what seemed a long time, Arnwylf pulled his horse to a halt and all of horses stopped.
“Len!” Arnwylf called to confer with his friend, but a garond with an ugly scar across his fore head dragged Arnwylf from the horse. Arnwylf drew his sword and the garond slapped it from his hands.
Frea could not believe what she was seeing. Where had this garond come from? He beat Arnwylf savagely. She got down from the horse.
“Do something!” She cried. The humans were stunned and broken. She picked up a large stone and hit the garond as hard as she could. The garond roared in pain and quickly turned to knock Frea unconscious.
She was only out for a moment. She came to looking up at the stars. She could hear the struggle between the garond and Arnwylf. She saw a young boy reach out, pick up the sword and put it in Arnwylf’s hand. Arnwylf drew the sword down, and quickly slashed the garond’s throat. The garond let go of Arnwylf, who quickly thrust the sword back up into the garond’s body.
The garond stood and tried to pull the sword from his body, but Arnwylf gripped the sword’s hilt, and twisted and thrust it deeper into the garond, who died with dark blood bubbling on its sneering lips.
Frea saw Ratskenner behind Arnwylf and called, “Lookout behind you!”
Ratskenner pulled the sword from the garond and advanced on Arnwylf. Frea didn’t know what to do. Then she felt an animal’s mane under her hand.
Ratskenner was saying something to Arnwylf, boasting.
Frea looked down at the white wolf. “Save him,” she urgently whispered to the beast. The white wolf seemed to instantly understand. Growling, the wolf bounded forward and caught Ratskenner by his back bone. Ratskenner shrieked high and shrill. The wolf shook and shook until Ratskenner was dead.
The humans worriedly mumbled until they saw the white wolf affectionately lick Arnwylf’s face, who assured the animal with words of praise.
Frea helped Arnwylf who could barely stand because he was so badly beaten by the garond.
It was agreed that an older human would take the lead horse and they would make for Scatterstone, a shallow part of the Burnie River.
Frea clutched the mane of her horse and felt Arnwylf weakly holding her waist from behind.
The horns and shouts of a tracking party of garonds could be heard gaining on them all that dark night.

Once upon a time-

No, Frea thought, I must stay here and now, for him. Frea was frightened and cold, but her only thought was to get Arnwylf to safety. The night was dark, heavy clouds obscured the light of the moons and stars. Frea could feel the horse under her, its coarse hair, smooth rippling muscles, moving to her commands. She could smell the trees as they rode past, pine, oak, and elm. Frea could hear the thundering of all the horse’s hooves. Every shadow was only what it was. No demons lurked in the dark. The real monsters were the hunting party behind them. Frea felt a new, strange strength in her arms and legs, as though she could do anything as they rode all that shrouded night.

Near dawn, they rode down into shallows of Scatterstone. Silver water laughed over smooth stones. Tall, dark pine trees enclosed the open, shallow river. The horses drank heavily the sweet water of the Burnie. The older human cautioned the riders that they still had a day’s ride to cross the Madronwy river into the safety of the Madrun Hills.
They continued riding. Frea could feel Arnwylf weakly clinging to her. She looked down at his hands. They were stained with blood. From himself or the garond he fought, she could not tell, but she hoped he could just hold on until they reached the Madronwy.
As the sun rose, the countryside became easy riding with open, rolling meadows, dotted with only a few trees.
About midday, as they crested a ridge, someone exclaimed, and Frea looked back to see hundreds upon hundreds of garond riders in black armor only a few miles behind them. If they catch us, she thought, they will show no mercy.
All that day, the hunting party seemed to be closing.
The white wolf ran beside Frea’s horse. It seemed to be watching Arnwylf as carefully as a brother. The white wolf looked at Frea.
“We will get him to safety,” she told the wolf. And, it seemed the wolf understood and grimly focused on keeping up with the horses.
As the sun began to sink in the west, the older human who was leading the band of horses pulled up next to Frea. He told her they were going to cross a secret bridge, which they could destroy once across, then the garonds would not be able to follow.
In the dusk, they climbed up through steep terrain. The horses huffed and slobbered from exhaustion.
The night was clear and all the stars and the two moons shone with brilliance.
As they came to a sheer gorge, the order was given to dismount. Up ahead a gangly rope bridge could be seen. From the sound of the hunting party, they seemed to be right on their heels.
The humans clambered across the rope bridge in single file. The white wolf crossed in front of Frea who helped Arnwylf at the end of the line. Arnwylf was fading in and out of consciousness, and bleeding from his nose. Frea pulled at him with all her might.
“Come on!” She yelled at him. He roused and they made it off the bridge, but the garonds were already crossing, with Ravensdred in the lead.
An arrow struck a sentry in front of her, but Frea kept pulling at Arnwylf to help him get away from the bridge.
The older human helped Frea with Arnwylf. They stumbled to the top of a ridge. Frea could see a platoon of armed humans rushing towards her.
Two arrows seemed to shatter in the air just above her.
“You’ve gone far enough!” Frea heard Ravensdred bellow.
“Aye, I think you’ve gone JUST far enough,” a human answered as a battle cry.
The armed humans descended on the garonds with a burning fury.
But all stopped as a shuddering enveloped the night. Great waves of energy pulsed, painfully washing over everyone. A terrible sound began, a thousand screams, emanating from the night sky.
Up above, The Wanderer moved in its orbit. The smaller moon quickly moved at a terrifyingly acute angle from its quiet, slow orbit against the back drop of the stars. A thousand invisible shrieks emanated from the sky, with the energy pummeling the companion moon. Something, someone was moving the Wanderer, and the whole earth was now in danger.
The spectacle froze all for a moment. Then, a short, red haired man screamed at the garonds, “Get them!”
The armed humans seemed possessed, fighting with a strength that drove the garonds back to the bridge. Ravensdred knowing what was soon to happen, began quickly back across, throwing his own soldiers out of his way, to fall to their deaths in the gorge below.
The red haired man hacked at one of the ropes of the bridge and it severed with the mighty cut. On the bridge, Ravensdred, clutching the rope of the bridge, pulled himself up onto the other side. With another towering strike, the red haired human severed the other rope, and the secret bridge of Fallfont gorge fell into the Madronwy River with several screaming garonds.
The Archer and the elf found Frea and Arnwylf, and there was a happy moment, until they saw how bad Arnwylf fared.
“We must take him immediately to Kenethley,” the elf said inspecting Arnwylf. “Otherwise, he is lost.”


Chapter Ten

The Mattear Gram

“Yes,” Apghilis said stepping from behind a tree. “Show us the sword.”
Kellabald whirled his spear around to the large man. Apghilis raised his hands in a mocking gesture of defense.
The village of Bittel was silent and cold in the morning after the night’s rain. And Haergill’s funeral pyre dwindled to a thin tower of smoke.
“Fellow human, I mean you no harm,” Apghilis said. He was large, fat and muscular. His hands were massive, and his head was shaven and square with fatness. He had a grey patch of a beard on his chin, and his mouth cut a perpetually wide, sarcastically curling smile. His eyes were small and black, like a pig’s eyes, and he seemed to be always squinting to hide the direction of his gaze. He wore the red and gold of an Atheling of the Northern Kingdom of Man, a metal breastplate, and metal shoulder guards. A large bronze sword swung from his belt.
His smile creased the smooth skin of his whole face as he stepped cautiously towards Kellabald.
“Apghilis,” Halldora breathed from behind Kellabald.
“My Lady,” Apghilis flourished a deep bow. “We thought you and your husband, the king, were dead. And your daughter?”
“She was-“ Halldora stumbled with grief and caution.
“She was last in Rion Ta,” Wynnfrith interrupted, sensing something wrong.
A fat, bald man peered from behind Apghilis.
“My Lady,” the fat man said in a nasal tone.
“Feeblerod,” Halldora returned in polite fear.
Feeblerod was average height, very fat, bald, and had a long crooked nose that bent way over to the right. He also had a large red birth mark splashed on the side of his face. A facile smile played across his arrogant, pursing lips as he dipped his head, his black eyes dangerously staring from beneath his neatly trimmed eyebrows.
“You say you’ve found the sword? The Mattear Gram?” Feeblerod said with a feminine shake of his head.
“No,” Kellabald answered.
“Who were you calling to you?” Feeblerod asked.
“We, we thought we saw his ghost...” Kellabald stammered.
“And did you?” Apghilis drew closer.
“A grieving mind may see many things,” Wynnfrith said, seeming to read the souls of these two strange warriors.
“This was his funeral pyre,” Kellabald honestly said.
“Then the sword must be here,” Apghilis said with a greasy leer.
“He left-“ Kellabald began.
“He left no visible sign,” Wynnfrith cut him off.
Kellabald could feel Wynnfrith’s determined eyes on the back of his head. He knew she sensed something was wrong. So, Kellabald lowered his spear, but tightened his grip, ready.
“We do not know the location of the Mattear Gram,” Kellabald said, watching the Atheling and his vassal with a closer vigilance, holding his breath.
“Well,” said the massive, warrior lord, shifting his bulk. “Then, we must search together.” Apghilis calmly turned, and motioned Feeblerod to follow him.
Wynnfrith gripped Kellabald’s arm.
On the other side, Halldora hissed in Kellabald’s ear, “Do not trust them.”
“We’d best go through all the rubble of your village,” Apghilis said without looking back at Kellabald. “Perhaps there will be some clue as to the sword’s whereabouts.”
Feeblerod turned to look at Halldora. “Haergill did have the Mattear Gram when he fled Ethgeow?” Feeblerod put a contemptuous emphasis on ‘fled’.
Halldora knew it best to be honest with these two. “Yes,” she said. “But I do not know where he hid it.”
“Did your daughter?” Feeblerod said looking with an uncomfortable length of time at Wynnfrith.
“She is not here to ask,” Wynnfrith defiantly said. 
Feeblerod laughed a vicious little laugh to himself, and his gaze lustfully followed after Wynnfrith.
The whole of the rest of the day was spent sorting through the debris of the village. Some food was left as garonds only ate meat. With some grains, vegetables and flour Wynnfrith was able to make enough of a meal to satisfy all.
As evening set in, the five humans sat around a modest fire.
“We will have to dig up the floors of the houses,” Apghilis said.
“I do not think Haergill hid the sword under any of the houses,” Kellabald said with firmness.
“Were you here every moment of the day?” Feeblerod craftily said. “Were you privy to his every action behind closed doors? We most definitely will need to dig up the foundation of every house, and demolish the houses as well.”
“What?” Wynnfrith said with tempered anger.
“Are we to find the famous Mattear Gram and unite the human race against the garonds? Or are your houses more precious?” Apghilis said with a grunt as he rose from the fireside. He turned around and began to urinate.
“Please do that outside the village,” Kellabald said with angry disgust.
“Why?” Apghilis said finishing. “To honor the ruins of this insignificant animal pen? You should see the ruins of mighty Ethgeow. Now there is something to cry over. Yet, I do not shed a tear for that once mighty city. When we have driven the garonds from Wealdland, I will build a city ten times as magnificent.”
All were silent with tension.
“I will sleep the night in Haergill’s former home. Any care for the warmth of my carcass?” Apghilis pointed the last question at Halldora.
“We three will fare the night in my husband’s house,” Wynnfrith said with quiet, angry strength. “Only we three.”
Apghilis laughed a deep, repulsive laugh. Then shambled off to Haergill and Halldora’s house. Puffing, Feeblerod flabbed after him, and threw a last longing look at Wynnfrith.
Kellabald, Wynnfrith, and Halldora stared into the fire.
Then Kellabald rose. “We need sleep. Best to take turns with one of us always awake. I fear we camp with serpents tonight.”
“You know not how truly you have spoken,” Halldora said. With that, they wearily rose and went to Kellabald and Wynnfrith’s house. The three made themselves as comfortable as they could. 
“I will watch first,” Wynnfrith said.
Kellabald turned to Halldora. “I am truly sorry for your loss of Haergill. He was a good man. If I did not think so, I would never have allowed him to stay in Bittel. Whether he was a king once or not, he was a good father, and I’m sure a good husband.”
“He was my king,” Halldora said. “We never meant to deceive you. We thought if we kept our royalty secret, it would protect you and your family.”
“We all have secrets,” Wynnfrith said to Halldora with a comforting assurance. “And your family was never a burden here in Bittel. But, I think it best we keep our conversation as simple as we can. There may be unwanted ears to hear our words.”
“You don’t know the great depth of your wisdom,” Halldora said. “Watch those two with the attention a mouse gives to a hungry hawk.”
Kellabald grunted with assenting understanding. Soon Halldora and Kellabald were fast asleep with Wynnfrith keeping the first watch over that uneasy, cloud filled night.

The next day, Apghilis directed Kellabald and Feeblerod as they dismantled the three, modest houses of Bittel. Kellabald removed roofs and beams with care, with every intention of rebuilding his village. Feeblerod heartlessly kicked down beams and supports to hurry the work along. Apghilis, of course, didn’t lift a finger in actual work, but instead was constantly lecturing Kellabald and Feeblerod in what was to be taken down and how urgent their mission was.
At midday, a strong wind momentarily whistled through the stand of trees, which encircled Bittel.
“That is a sign to take a break,” Wynnfrith said, bringing bread and hot porridge to the men. Halldora said nothing, but seemed to be listening for something, perhaps singing, far away.
“Maybe the sword is not here,” Wynnfrith ventured.
“He would have hidden it where he could quickly lay his hands on it,” Apghilis said, spitting pieces of bread, the crags on his face were like weathered stone.
“Leave men’s work to men,” Feeblerod said leering at Wynnfrith, his egg-like head bobbing as though he were telling a joke. Feeblerod had a scruffy, dark goatee, which looked as though his mouth were always unwashed.
Wynnfrith shot Kellabald a disapproving look.
“Everything in Bittel has been demolished,” Kellabald said clearing his throat. “Surely you don’t mean to dig up the foundations?”
Apghilis squatted in his fatness. His face, when he was thinking, had a pursing frown as though he were just about to vomit. “You don’t understand the importance of the Mattear Gram,” he said. “It’s more than just a pretty sword. It’s a unifying symbol of all humanity. Only the rightful king of all men can carry it at the head of an army.”
“The rightful king of all men is dead,” Halldora snapped, her red hair appeared to be aflame in the sunlight shafting through the trees.
“Then there must be another” Feeblerod said standing. Then he began a silly dance, rolling his obese body from side to side, kicking out his legs, and flapping his arms. It was clear the dance was meant to draw out laughter, but no one laughed. Feeblerod watched his audience with sharp eyes.
Kellabald stood, and Feeblerod stopped his dance.
“If we are to dig up the foundations, let us be to it,” Kellabald sighed. “An extra pair of hands will be welcome in this work,” Kellabald said to Apghilis.
Apghilis nodded, his exceptionally large ears lay perfectly flat against his square, fat head. “The women should help with the digging, as you have said.”
Kellabald was aghast. “I meant you should help. My wife and her friend will do no such labor.”
Apghilis shook his head, the large, bloated ridge above his eyebrows quivered. “As you say, but this means more work for you.” Apghilis leaned heavily against a pile of housing beams as though he owned them.
Kellabald began digging the foundations of the house, which were once Haergill and Halldora’s. Feeblerod complained of a pain in his back, and so Kellabald did almost all of the digging. In the early evening, the digging shifted over to Yulenth and Alrhett’s foundation with no discovery.
As night fell, Apghilis lit two torches, and brought them over to the foundations of Kellabald and Wynnfrith’s house.
“We have no need to dig here,” Kellabald said.
“No?” Apghilis pursed his thick, cruel lips.
“Haergill could not have hidden the sword here without my knowledge.”
“No, certainly if you were at home,” Feeblerod sneered. “But, he might have had help when you were away,” the last he insinuated at Wynnfrith.
“You can eat by yourselves,” Wynnfrith said, throwing several loaves of bread to the ground at Apghilis and Feeblerod. “I have had enough of your company.”
Kellabald, Wynnfrith, and Halldora ate at a small campfire, while Apghilis and Feeblerod ate apart at another. Apghilis sat with his back to the other campfire, while Feeblerod constantly looked over to gauge the mood of Wynnfrith and her company.
Tents were made of linens, as the houses had been pulled down. A watch was set again, with Halldora staying awake first. Kellabald was drifting off to sleep, the day’s labors throbbing in his hands, when he suddenly sat upright.
“What is it?!” Wynnfrith hissed to keep quiet.
“The riddles!” Kellabald whispered. “I know where the sword is!”
Outside the tent, a sudden sound of twigs cracking made all freeze.
“Say nothing more.” Halldora urgently whispered. “Our lives are now in even greater danger.”
With that, Kellabald and Wynnfrith fell to a fitful sleep, with Halldora keeping the first watch.

The next morning, Kellabald woke with a start. He had not been woken for his turn at the night watch. He looked over to see Wynnfrith sound asleep. But, Halldora was not in the tent. Kellabald quickly rose to pull on his trousers and buckle on his belt. He hissed at Wynnfrith, who awoke in a sleepy daze.
“Did you take your turn with the night watch?” Kellabald whispered to Wynnfrith.
Wynnfrith’s eyes popped open. “Where is Halldora?!” Wynnfrith jumped up and pulled on her dress over her undergarments. Kellabald drew his sword and Wynnfrith grabbed her spear. Slowly and with caution, they exited the tent.
Feeblerod sat like a child, lolling on a stump. He grinned at Kellabald and Wynnfrith. “Good morning,” he said with an infantile mushiness.
“Where is Halldora?” Wynnfrith demanded.
“No morning greeting for me?” Feeblerod pouted.
“Where has he taken her?” Kellabald drew near with his sword.
“They have gone for a stroll on the meadow,” Feeblerod said with feigned compassion, “to talk of old times.”
“If he has harmed her...” Kellabald trailed off as Apghilis and Halldora strolled into the center of Bittel from the meadowlands. Apghilis’ face was slack, and he walked with his hands behind his back. Halldora clasped her hands in front and had a haunted, hunted look.
Wynnfrith ran to her side without concern for her safety.
“Has he harmed you?” Wynnfrith said stroking Halldora’s hair.
“No,” she said, “no.”
Wynnfrith then led Halldora away.
“Where were you? What have you done?” Kellabald demanded of Apghilis.
Apghilis’ face was contemptuously slack, and without answering, he turned and shuffled away to sit by his and Feeblerod’s campfire.
Kellabald watched Feeblerod lean into Apghilis to mutter in secrecy. Kellabald then edged away to join Wynnfrith and Halldora.
At their camp fire, Wynnfrith stroked Halldora’s face, but Halldora remained silent. Kellabald gathered together what food he could find to make something for them to eat.
All the rest of the morning, the two groups remained apart, watching each other.
Later in the morning Halldora began to cry.
“What is it?” Kellabald sympathetically asked.
“I told him of the riddles,” Halldora sobbed. “He threatened awful things to you and Wynnfrith. I told him the first two riddles. I withheld the third. I told him there were only two No matter how he pressed, threatened or coaxed, I insisted there were only two.”
“It’s okay,” Wynnfrith held Halldora. “We should have been there for you.”
“But he knows,” Halldora said through sobs. “Feeblerod heard Kellabald last night. He knows that you know where the sword is,” she said to Kellabald.
“If he was certain I knew, they would have attacked me by now,” Kellabald said standing with determination.
“Sit down,” Wynnfrith firmly said. “There are three of us, and they must have supposed Halldora and I can fight. So we are safe for now. Let us eat and gather our strength.”
Kellabald immediately grasped the wisdom of Wynnfrith’s words. He kissed her on the top of her head, and sat next to her, but with a vantage so he could watch Apghilis and Feeblerod. They ate and waited.
About midday, Feeblerod began screaming. Kellabald, Wynnfrith and Halldora grabbed their weapons and rushed towards the screams.
At the edge of Bittel three garond soldiers stood before Apghilis who confronted them with his drawn sword.
Before Kellabald could reach his side, Apghilis began swinging his sword over his head and bellowed at the garonds. The garonds soldiers weakly swung their clubs, and then ran off into the high grass of the eastern meadowland.
As Kellabald reached Apghilis, who was breathing hard, Apghilis turned to him and said, “We have no time, they’ll be back with reinforcements.”
Kellabald stared hard at Apghilis. “I have never seen garond soldiers turn and run without a fight.”
“He saved us!” Feeblerod whined. “What more proof do you need of his good faith?”
Kellabald backed away from Apghilis and Feeblerod. He could feel Wynnfrith and Halldora with their spears at his side.
Apghilis stared hard at Kellabald, then broke into a deep laugh from his gut. Apghilis raised his hand and cuffed Feeblerod hard to the ground. “I told you he was more intelligent than he appears.” Apghilis then turned and called out to the high grass where the garonds had disappeared.
From the edge of the meadowland twenty five garonds swaggered into Bittel.
Kellabald, Wynnfrith and Halldora backed up in horror.
Feeblerod began gesturing and grunting to the garonds while Apghilis looked on in contempt.
Feeblerod turned to Kellabald. “Put aside your weapons or they will kill you,” he said.
“You traitors!” Halldora screamed. 
Apghilis raised his hand in disgust, as the garonds advanced.
Kellabald readied his stance, but then Apghilis called sharply to the garonds and they stopped in their tracks.
The leader of the garonds approached Apghilis and made gestures of obedience.
Apghilis turned to Kellabald and said, “Well?”
Kellabald turned to Wynnfrith. “There are too many,” he said with despair. Kellabald, Wynnfrith and Halldora surrendered their weapons.
The rest of the day was spent torturing Kellabald, who would not talk.
As evening fell, a garond messenger on horseback arrived, and all but three garonds left Bittel in a hurry.
Apghilis had Kellabald released, to eat and to be seen to by his wife.
As Wynnfrith dressed her husband’s wounds, Feeblerod squatted next to them. “Why continue to hide the sword? We will find it, and your life will have been wasted. I can save you. Tell me where the Mattear Gram is hidden. I have saved many lives! I am on your side.” When there was no response Feeblerod rose with a repugnant huff and carried his obesity away.
“What shall I do, wife?” Kellabald said with pleading eyes to Wynnfrith.
“I have no sight for this. I only know we survive to see our son,” she said.
That night they slept little under the cloud filled night sky.

In the late morning, Apghilis woke Kellabald with a kick. With an imperious gesture he had the garonds remove the shackles from Kellabald, Wynnfrith and Halldora.
Food was brought to Kellabald and the women. They ate while watching Apghilis secretly conferring with Feeblerod throughout the morning. Two more garonds had joined the others in the night, so now there were five. The garonds snarled and restlessly waited for their human captain to order them to violence.
The sun was breaking through the clouds and filling the village with light and warmth.
After what seemed a long morning, Apghilis and Feeblerod rose, and with the garonds close behind, approached Kellabald, Wynnfrith and Halldora.
“All this time Haergill was hiding here,” Apghilis said with a belch. “Did an atheling named Varknifl ever call here in Bittel? No? He was like a son to me. I sent him to find the coward king, and he was never heard of again.” Apghilis turned, and with a dismissive flip of his hand had the garonds drag Kellabald and the women over to the large fire set up in the center of Bittel.
“There will be no more delay,” Apghilis said, and sat on a pile of clothing as though it was his by right.
“Throw the dark haired one into the fire,” Apghilis proclaimed to Feeblerod. A look of lecherous disappointment briefly passed Feeblerod’s face, and then he turned to grunt to the garonds, who then roughly grabbed Wynnfrith and pulled her towards the fire.
“Wait!” Kellabald cried. “I don’t know where the sword is. But I think I know.”
“Do you or don’t you?”
“Don’t tell them,” Wynnfrith bravely cried.
“Our lives are more precious than some piece of metal,” Kellabald said. “There are three riddles.”
“Three!?” Apghilis shot a venomous glance at Halldora, who looked down in the bright afternoon sun.
“I want your promise,” Kellabald said. “As an atheling of the Northern Kingdom of Man, that you will free us when you have the sword.”
“Yes, yes,” Apghilis said disdainfully.
Kellabald rose and, turning, took in all of Bittel.
“The first riddle,” he said, “seems easy. But it is deceptive.” The pain of the torture from the day before ached in Kellabald’s bones. Kellabald recited the first riddle.

“I shelter you from rain and sun,
Warm you when the cold days come,
With arms outstretched, old and grooved,
A leaning friend, I can’t be moved.”

“Yes,” said Apghilis, “a house.”
“No,” said Kellabald, “a tree.”
“Of course! I knew it all along!” Feeblerod cried. “It’s buried under a tree!”
But the sudden enormity of his statement made him freeze in his quivering fatness, for Bittel had almost a hundred trees.
“But which one,” Apghilis derisively said.
Feeblerod dumbly stared at the numerous trees surrounding Bittel, and was silent.
“The second riddle tells us which tree,” Kellabald said. Then he recited the second riddle.

“To the silver traveler I have no end,
I’m the mother winding round your friend,
As long, as far, as distant lands,
Pick me up, I’m not in your hands.”

“It means nothing!” Feeblerod cried.
Kellabald snorted. “To you it means nothing.” Kellabald turned and walked, and the whole company rose and followed him.
Kellabald led them to the creek that ran through Bittel.
“Here,” said Kellabald with outstretched hand, “is the mother of all lands. Water. And see,” he pointed to small fish darting in the shallows, “are the silver travelers.”
“As long, as far as distant lands” Apghilis said contemplating the winding stream.
“Pick me up, I’m not in your hands,” Feeblerod said as he scooped a handful of water and let it trickle through his fingers.
“But the mother,” Kellabald said limping along the edge of the creek, “winds around our friend.”
“A tree,” Feeblerod shrieked, “by the stream!”
“Yes,” Kellabald said with a quiet look to Wynnfrith. 
“But there are still twenty, thirty trees by this water,” Feeblerod said with girlish exasperation.
“The answer,” said Kellabald, “is clever. Because the first riddle and the second together tells us which tree, but the third riddle tells us where the sword is hidden.” And then Kellabald recited the third riddle.

“I build the castle, then tear it down,
I count the minutes without a frown,
I’m found by the score under land and sea
And what you seek is under me.”

“Explain,” Apghilis said excitedly scratching his round belly.
Kellabald stopped by the stream, then pointed. “A leaning friend, from the first riddle.” Across the stream, an enormous oak leaned across the water.
“Cut it down at once!” Apghilis ordered.
“Wait!” Kellabald said. “You have completely neglected the third riddle.”
“It’s sand,” Halldora said. “I always knew it was sand.”
All stared down at the sandy bank under the water which wound around the large oak leaning over the stream. It seemed to sparkle like effervescent gold in the midday sun. No one moved.
Then, Kellabald tenderly stepped into the water. He gingerly put his hands into the sandy shoal, stirring clouds of silt in the water. The air was still, no breeze disturbed Bittel. All seemed to hold their breath. The quiet, red and tan leaves of the oak overhead softly rocked in anticipation. Kellabald seemed to have a hold of something.
Then, Kellabald lifted the Mattear Gram from the sparkling water. The sun was like shafts of brilliant gold, beaming through the trees as he held it aloft, with diamond droplets of water dripping from the sword. 
It had no scabbard, so the naked blade reflected the sunlight like a hundred brilliant mirrors as Kellabald held it high in wonder.
The hilt was gold and seemed to be cradling a dark wooden core on one side. It also had a strange, long, metal tube that protruded from the end of the hilt. The blade was long, light in thickness and an average width from edge to edge. It was made of a light, silvery metal not seen in any other sword in human hands. Along the flat of the blade was a gold pattern, a sun, near the hilt, some elvish writing, and a flag or banner that seemed to curl and twist all the way to the tip of the sword. 
Kellabald turned the Mattear Gram in his hands. The other side showed a gold pattern of a crescent moon, with more elvish writing, and a similar banner winding up the length of the blade. The sword seemed to sing or speak to him as he moved it.
Kellabald was so filled with wonder that he hardly noticed Apghilis splashing into the water, until Apghilis wrested the sword from his hands.
Apghilis held the sword high in victory. “I have it!” He crowed. Feeblerod clapped his hands and minced a little dance of joy around Wynnfrith.
As Apghilis held the sword, the earth began to shake in disapproval. The earthquake fiercely splashed the water of the stream, and was so violent, all had to cling to something to keep from falling to the ground. The trees of Bittel shook with anger.
Apghilis fell to all fours in the water, but then regained his footing as the earthquake abated.
Slogging out of the water, Apghilis said, “We have no time. Come. We must do this at once.”
All followed Apghilis as he strode to the great fire at the center of the village.
There, he thrust the sword into the edge of the fire to heat the blade.
“You gave us your promise you would free us once you had the sword,” Kellabald firmly said.
“Maybe. If you swear allegiance to me, once I become the new king of the Northern Kingdom of Man.”
“That will never happen,” Halldora said without thinking.
“Will you not become my queen?” Apghilis said with a dangerous meaning, then checked to see how the blade was heating.
“You gave a promise as an atheling,” Kellabald said.
“You’re ruining this moment,” Apghilis dismissed. “Keep him silent.” Two of the garonds roughly grabbed Kellabald.
“All rulers of the Northern Kingdom of Man wear the mark of birth,” Apghilis pronounced. Then he pulled the blade from the fire and it was white hot, the gold of the blade shone like the sun.
Apghilis stripped away his trousers to reveal his naked legs.
“I now take the mark and all the honor which it holds,” Apghilis said. Then to Kellabald he said, “The kings of old sacrificed humans to celebrate their ascension. You will do.”
Then, Apghilis laid the white hot blade to his thigh. His flesh sizzled. Greasy smoke rose from the brand. He bellowed in pain.
Kellabald struggled with his garond captors and shrugged himself free.
Blind from agony, Apghilis handed the sword to Feeblerod, but the blade seemed to leap from Feeblerod’s hands into Kellabald’s.
Kellabald quickly turned and cut the head clean off from one of the garonds who was holding him.
All were paralyzed by the suddenness of the action.
“Get him!” Apghilis yelled in pain. The four remaining garonds drew their swords and rushed Kellabald, while Feeblerod drew a long, slim blade and gyrated behind the garonds, pretending to fight.
Kellabald could feel the blade singing to him in low, sweet, reassuring tones. He was no great swordsman, but every movement was perfect with this blade. He turned, with no effort, and in one fluid motion blocked the thrust of two garonds swords.
It seemed as though time were standing still. Apghilis was crumbled into his pain, and Feeblerod was no threat. Kellabald could see and discern the position and shift of weight of all four garonds. In slow motion he could see that they worked together to make openings for each other. It would be impossible to counter this many garonds, impossible if he did not hold the Mattear Gram.
Kellabald swung the sword underhanded at a blurring speed to cut the arms of the third garond. He continued the arc and cut right through the whole body of the fourth garond with no effort.
Kellabald’s body and arms were weary and weak from the torture the day before, but the sword seemed to revitalize him and give him an unnatural strength.
The first two garonds were already attacking again. Kellabald could feel them, rather than see them. He turned his body, continuing the same arc. The blade was still low, and it told him to cut at the feet of the first two garonds. But, the garonds were quick, the first one leapt over the blade. The second one was not so quick. The Mattear Gram, slicing upwards, cut the second garond’s leg clean away, through the thigh.
The third garond, his arms bleeding, valiantly tried to turn half way and thrust with the momentum. But Kellabald and the sword saw this move and they parried, whirling the garond’s blade around and around, until the Mattear Gram cut his head off with a fiendish, hooking slice.
The last garond standing backed away into a defensive posture. Kellabald moved forward with lightning speed, simply extending his arm straight ahead. The poor garond had no time to react. The sword went straight into its face.
Kellabald withdrew the sword, then quickly dispatched the garond with the severed leg. The deaths of five garonds had taken but two moments.
He turned to Feeblerod who shrieked, panted hard, and fell to the dirt of Bittel pleading for his life.
Apghilis, curled in pain, said, “The sword. Give it to me. It is mine by right.”
Kellabald stood over the atheling. He raised the blade. “You have no honor and barely a right to the life I will now spare you.” Then, Kellabald lowered the sword.
“Go to your garond masters, traitor,” Kellabald said. Then to Wynnfrith he said, “We must flee to Alfhich as fast as our legs with allow.”
With that, Kellabald, with the Mattear Gram wrapped in cloth and strapped to his back, and Wynnfrith and Halldora, with as many supplies as they could carry, fled Bittel for Alfhich.
All that afternoon they marched westward as quickly as they could. Towards the early evening, Halldora exclaimed and pointed back the way they had come.
In the far distance, two figures could be seen following them. It was unmistakably Apghilis limping along, leaning heavily on Feeblerod.
As night fell, Alfhich came into sight, a patchwork town of wooden houses with steep roofs, raised on stilts, connected by wooden ramps, cluttered together on the shore of the Holmwy River. Some of the houses had collapsed from the earthquake that afternoon. Several docks stretched out into the Holmwy, dotted by hundreds of fishing boats. The strong salty smell of the Mere Lanis drifted ashore.
As they entered Alfhich, they could see the fishing town was jammed with refugees from all over Wealdland. Halldora pulled a scarf over her flame red hair. And, the three of them headed straight for the bridge of Alfhich.
The bridge was a long, narrow series of spans that were held up by seven, piers which each nestled a small village. The Holmwy River was the widest river Wynnfrith had ever seen. Muddy and swift, it was three times as wide as the Bairn, and it seemed to blend right into the ocean it was flowing into.
At the entrance to the bridge a large crowd of people milled. Some sold wares or fish, some looked for lost loved ones, and some tried to convince others a boat ride across the Holmwy was easier and cheaper.
As Kellabald, Wynnfrith and Halldora pushed through the crowd, someone pulled the scarf from Halldora’s head and her flame red hair danced on the ocean breezes.
“Halldora!” Someone in the crowd called. Her name was called again and again. Someone mentioned a reward, some gave thanks and others cursed her as the crowd pushed in.
“Take the sword to Healfdene of Reia as Haergill wished,” Wynnfrith urgently whispered to Kellabald. “I will stay with Halldora.”
And before Kellabald could answer, the crowd pushed him aside to swarm around Halldora as Wynnfrith angrily yelled and pushed the crowd back.
Kellabald and Wynnfrith locked eyes across the crowd.
“Go!” She yelled at him, and pointed at something at the far side of the crowd.
Kellabald followed her indication and saw Apghilis and Feeblerod talking to ten armed men. The armed men pushed into the crowd and seized Wynnfrith and Halldora.
There were too many, and too many innocents. With the special blade in his possession, Kellabald could have slain the whole town of Alfhich, but he was not a man who would ever murder.
He knew she was right. Kellabald said a prayer of protection for his wife and friend. He knew he had no choice but to cross the Holmwy Bridge and deliver the Mattear Gram to Healfdene of the Green Hills of Reia by himself.


Chapter Eleven

Kellabald

Kellabald struggled his way onto the Holmwy Bridge with the growing crowd behind him. Someone yelled something about collecting a toll or fee to cross the bridge, but too many people pushed their way forward with the confusion. Kellabald simply let the crowd carry him onward.
The bridge could only accommodate four abreast, and it creaked ominously with the hundreds of pilgrims fleeing to the west.
The Holmwy River was brown and insistently rippling. At least a hundred small fishing boats, crammed with passengers, also made for the western shore. No boats traveled east.
Night was falling and lanterns could be seen flaring to life with light on the boats and along the bridge.
At the first pier many of the people on the bridge crowded around the hot food merchants, ale houses and lodgings, so Kellabald decided to move on without trying to find something to eat. He was not alone as the bridge continued to crowd with people walking through the night to reach the Western Meadowlands and the safety of the green hills of Reia beyond the Flume of Rith.
As Kellabald continued on to the second pier he realized that he had no money, nor anything to barter for food. He decided it would be best to keep moving anyway, in case Apghilis and his men were right on his heels.
The second pier was much like the first pier, houses, merchants and inns teetered on the edges of a large wooden platform, which held up the continuing span of the Holmwy Bridge.
As Kellabald passed the third pier, crowded as the first two, he noticed in the Holmwy River, a large fishing boat lined with soldiers who dipped their oars in unison. The soldier laden boat was making quick time for the distant shore. He thought he saw Apghilis amongst the boat’s crew and struggled through the crowd on the bridge with more determination.
Kellabald pushed his way onto the fourth and middle pier. He was half way across the river. This platform was three times the size of the first three and was the size of a small town. The massive vertical logs which held up the center pier creaked and slowly swayed with the hundreds of people crowding its wooden planks. The Holmwy River below darkly pushed against the fourth pier with an insistent foamy wake.
Kellabald was lost and unsure of the direction to the next span of the bridge.
“Kellabald! Kellabald!” Someone called. He didn’t recognize the voice, so Kellabald roughly pushed through the crowd. Then, a bony, wizened hand clutched Kellabald’s cloak and pulled him to a stop. Kellabald tuned to find an old man with flowing white hair, and a kind face wrapped in a dark cloak.
“Kellabald? It is you, isn’t it?” He said.
Kellabald looked around worriedly to see if any had heard his name mentioned aloud. Then he pulled the old man to the side.
“Who are you?” Kellabald asked.
“I stopped in Bittel many years ago. You fed me rabbit and parsnips. So delicious. I never forgot.” The old man smacked his lips.
“I don’t remember-“ Kellabald stammered.
“Oh, it would have been,” The old man squinted into the depths of time, “before your soon to be wife and her mother came to your village from the Weald. Yes. It was soon after you had fled the priests of Eann in Gillalliath. So you would have just settled Bittel.” The old man smiled with satisfaction for having remembered.
“I, I think I remember. But that was over twenty years ago.” Kellabald stared in wonder, but then looked around again in worry. “I’m sorry I have no time to reminisce with you. I am in a hurry. A great hurry.”
“Oh, I suppose,” The old man said. “But, I must repay you for that meal. Such kindness is rare in this age. Have you any money?”
“No,” Kellabald answered. “In fact I have nothing.”
“Nothing,” the old man smiled eyeing the sword wrapped in folds of cloth and trapped to Kellabald’s back. “Very well, we must do this the old way. Then we can continue across the bridge.”
The old man pulled Kellabald to a hot food vendor. He pointed to two meat pies. The vendor held out his hand and the old man made a pretense of counting out gold coins. The vendor behaved as if he had been paid, and the old man handed a warm meat pie to Kellabald. A watching child nearby started to protest until the old man hissed at him and sent him running, crying.
Kellabald bit into the meat pie and it was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted, having not eaten properly for many days. “How did you do that?” Kellabald asked between mouthfuls.
“He simply saw what he wanted to see,” the old man replied. “He will be no poorer for it. Our presence will make him far richer than if he had actually collected the money he thought he saw.”
“You are a mage,” Kellabald reverently said.
“If you like,” the Mage’s eyes sparkled.
They continued on, making their way to the fifth pier as night deepened.
“Magic is fading, almost gone,” the Mage said. “Magic is connected to what it touches. Objects. Ways of using objects.” Again the Mage eyed the swaddled object strapped to Kellabald’s back. “Some people will do unbelievably despicable things to obtain objects of power. Others will hold onto objects of magic for no good reason other than that they possess it, and want no other to have it.” The Mage spat into the water.
As they traveled on to the sixth pier, a gangly young man of the messenger guild pushed past them.
“We’re almost across,” the Mage said to Kellabald. “You’ve been awfully silent.” Kellabald only nodded his head. He was unsure about this old man.
“I met a man,” the Mage continued as they made their way across the bridge in the darkness of night, “A man, who may be the great father of all new magic.”
“New magic?” Kellabald watched the Mage carefully.
“Old magic,” the Mage said, turning a finger in his ear, “was all a part of using your spirit to understand and manipulate the smallest of parts of the all that is. If you could understand a thing to its elemental core and become one with it, then you could tell it what to do. It would seem surprising and supernatural to you.”
“And this new magic?” Kellabald focused on crossing the bridge.
“Oh,” the Mage frowned, “it’s all about thinking. Thinking. Thinking. Thinking. Understanding in a new way. But being outside of the thing. From the outside he bends a thing to his will with his mind, and not his spirit, this new mage.”
They walked on in silence towards the last pier.
“He’s a pleasant enough youngster,” the Mage choked back a laugh, “but he gets lost in the woods too often.”
The last pier was no different than the last six, but there were fewer people as more of the pilgrims had stopped for the night along the way.
As they came to where the bridge touched the western shore, they saw a contingent of fifty or more soldiers stopping and searching those who stepped off the bridge to the dry land. The soldiers argued with the youth of the messenger guild. The soldiers demanded to see the message he carried, but the argument was to no avail. No one would dare to cross the guild in an open public place. The messenger went on his way, his message safe.
Kellabald hesitated. He saw Apghilis behind the platoon of soldiers, bored, imperiously sitting on a cask.
The Mage firmly grabbed Kellabald’s cloak and pulled him forward to the checkpoint. Kellabald kept his head down, and pulled at the Mage to no effect, for he was much stronger than his years belied.
Kellabald felt for the Mattear Gram. He could fight his way. Then he felt the Mage’s hand on his.
“Why not go quietly,” the Mage said.
Kellabald was filled with despair.
The soldier huffed as the Mage and Kellabald reached the front of the line.
“Yes mother,” the soldier said to the Mage, “where are you and your daughter going?”
Kellabald opened his mouth in surprise and almost spoke.
“We travel to Rith and safety beyond,” the Mage said in an old woman’s voice.
“Let us see your possessions,” the soldier gruffly said.
“As you can see,” the Mage continued, “we have fled with only our lives and the clothes on our backs.”
“Have you seen a yellow haired fellow with a large, shining sword on the bridge?” The soldier asked in boredom.
“No, can’t say I have,” the Mage winked at Kellabald.
“On your way,” the soldier said with a yawn.
The Mage and Kellabald quickly walked away from the checkpoint, and out onto the Western Meadowlands. Off the well-beaten paths, the Mage made a small campfire by simply snapping his fingers over a pile of gathered wood.
“You’d best sleep the rest of the night,” The Mage said to Kellabald. “We’re not safe yet.”
As Kellabald was fading to sleep, a sound in the tall grass made him start awake. The Mage stared into the fire.
“Do not be afraid,” the Mage said. “He just wants to get a good look at you.”
“Who does?” Kellabald sat up.
A massive hog, tusks gleaming, bristles of his back majestically erect, carefully stepped into the clearing of their campsite.
“Kellabald, the Great Boar of the Western Meadowlands,” The Mage introduced. “Great boar, Kellabald,” the Mage mumbled.
The huge, beautiful beast grunted.
“Hmm, yes,” The Mage answered the Great Boar. “He wants to see it.”
Kellabald was about to object, but then realized it would be useless. He unwrapped the Mattear Gram and held it to sparkle in the firelight. The Great Boar grunted, then knelt in fealty. Then, the massive beast turned and trotted off into the darkness.
The Mage curled up to sleep. “You should be filled with pride,” he laughed softly, “you’re an honorary pig now.” And then the Mage was fast asleep. Kellabald soon followed him into slumber on that dark, cloud filled night.

The next morning, Kellabald woke with a start to find the Mage holding the Mattear Gram in his hands, turning it, staring at it wistfully.
“There are so few objects of power left on this earth,” the Mage slowly said.
Kellabald held out his hand to take the sword, but the Mage did not hand it over.
“There were so many in ages past. Some were destroyed. Some were merged into objects like this one. It’s good that some of the darker objects of power have been eradicated. Some powerful objects are neither good nor evil. Like this one.” The Mage hefted the sword. “It focuses the spirit, strengthens it. Did you feel it speaking to you when you killed the garonds in Bittel?”
Kellabald was not surprised. He knew now that the Mage was more than a human. “It was more like singing,” Kellabald answered. Kellabald was filled with an ominous sense of responsibility and felt his own inadequacy. “Would you like to keep the sword?” Kellabald offered.
The Mage laughed. “I now know the Mattear Gram is in the wisest of all hands in Wealdland.” The Mage handed the sword to Kellabald. As Kellabald took the sword, it lightly cut the Mage, and he looked as though life was surging out of him.
Kellabald exclaimed and rushed to the Mage’s side. But, there was no cut to be seen on either of his arms. The Mage simply, weakly smiled. “We must go,” he said, rising with effort. 
After traveling west for most of the morning, a line of soldiers could be seen in the distance.
“We must travel north,” the Mage said with alarm.
“Make us appear as mother and daughter again,” Kellabald desperately said.
“I can do no more magic,” The Mage feebly said with a sickly smile.
All that afternoon they turned and traveled quickly north, with the Mage fading and speaking in almost a delirium.
“We must make for the Kipleth town of Pelych. We will find safety there,” the Mage coughed.
“I have lived many lives,” the Mage ranted from between cracking lips. “Sometimes I have lived many lives at the same time.” He laughed a dry laugh. “I have seen many methods and tools rise and fall. Did you know in a far gone age, every man rode upon a horse? Now there is but one man who can do so.”
“Only garonds ride horses,” Kellabald said, trying to keep the Mage’s spirits up.
“Heh, if you only knew,” the Mage cackled. “Garonds once only used clubs, now they use both arrow and sword. Once a thing is seen, another learns it. It is all part of the new magic, which will take you far into the age after the next. That is if all learning is not lost in the next age.”
In the late afternoon, the dark hills of Kipleth could be seen.
“They are close behind us,” the Mage croaked. “Leave me. You must go faster.”
“I will not,” Kellabald said lifting the Mage under one arm.
“I can see through time now,” the Mage weakly said. “She will give her life to save the one she loves. But her life will not be lost. The next age is a dark and ignorant one. But, she will find new love on the other side of the world as the sixth age closes. Did you know the world is round like an apple? Then in the last age, her love expands to the all of all that is. She will take all evil and all good, and take it to the center of life.”
Then, the Mage was silent as Kellabald and the Mage limped into the empty, spoiled town of Pelych as night was falling. A clap of thunder rolled across the meadowlands from the south.
“Hello!” Kellabald called. “We need help!”
Behind him Apghilis answered, “I am here to help you.” Apghilis’ soldiers crowded around Kellabald and the Mage. “Be careful,” Apghilis said. “The sword makes him very dangerous.”
The Mage, with his last ounce of strength, pulled away from Kellabald and threw himself at Apghilis. The Mage weakly clutched at him, stared and seemed to see some great mistake Apghilis had made. Then, he laughed in Apghilis’ face. “You fool!” The Mage laughed. Two of the soldiers drove their swords into the Mage, killing him.
“No!” Kellabald cried, wielding the Mattear Gram. There were about twenty of Apghilis’ soldiers and Kellabald turned to face them as they carefully closed into a tight circle around him.
“Put down your weapons!” A voice in the darkness cried as a hundred bows were drawn in the shadows of Pelych by the army of Kipleth.
“This is none of the business of the men of Kipleth!” Apghilis cried to the arriving army.
“No human shall lightly shed another human’s blood on Kipleth soil, Apghilis of the Northern Kingdom,” the Kipleth captain said. “And anything you do in Kipleth will assuredly be my personal business.”
“Then let us take him out of your lands,” Apghilis said.
“I ask for your mercy, and you can see they have already shed the blood of my friend,” Kellabald cried.
“I do not know which of you to believe. But, all armies are massing at the Holmwy River,” the captain declared. “Your fates shall be decided there by those who know you. Until such time any violence will be met with instant death. You,” he indicated Kellabald, “you may safely spend the night with our army. But do not think you are out of the hands of judgment. If you are a thief or a murderer, you will meet justice, but not here on the sacred lands of Kipleth.”
“Fair enough,” Apghilis said. “He has stolen that sword from me. I shall prove it tomorrow and also claim your allegiance. Until the morrow.”
With that Apghilis and his men set a camp a space apart from the Kipleth army.
The captain helped Kellabald bury the Mage. He was so thin and weightless, Kellabald thought. It was almost like they were only burying his clothes.
The Kipleth captain then found Kellabald a place to sleep for the night with his men. Before he fell to sleep, Kellabald noticed the young man from the messenger guild he saw on the bridge also camping in the midst of the grim, heavily armed men of Kipleth.

The next morning, after a quick breakfast, the army, Apghilis and his soldiers, and Kellabald all marched east. The young man from the messenger guild ran at a loping gait, gathering speed, west, towards the green hills of Reia.
The whole company marched across the dry, Autumnal grasses of the Western Meadowland. Kellabald stayed near the captain, who was kind, but quiet.
About midday, Apghilis limped his way close to Kellabald and the captain.
“What day is it?” Apghilis asked the captain.
Without turning his head the captain said, “I believe it is Mid-Autumn, atheling Apghilis.”
“Yes, Mid-Autumn,” Apghilis said with a small smile. Then he turned to Kellabald and said, “Why not give me the Mattear Gram now? It will not go well for you at Tyny when we meet my armies of the Northern Kingdom of Man.”
“We will go first to Rhyd Bawr,” the captain of Kipleth said with no emotion.
“Oh,” Apghilis said. “I have men in Rhyd Bawr as well.” Then he turned to march with his own soldiers.
The captain watched Apghilis leave, and said to Kellabald, “As much as I detest Apghilis, I am inclined to believe him. Many of my men, although they have fought him in mortal combat, respect him for his leadership. All our old rivalries mean nothing, when many nations are without a leader.”
The army stopped to eat and drink in the middle of the Eastern Meadowland. The captain of Kipleth, apart with Kellabald, asked him, “Your name is Kellabald, yes?”
“Yes, as I have told you,” Kellabald honestly answered.
“You have not stolen this sword from Apghilis or any other man?” He asked
“It was hidden by Haergill, king of the Northern Kingdom, in my village, where he lived for two years,” Kellabald said.
“I know the Mattear Gram,” the captain said. “I have fought in battle against Haergill and this sword. The men of Kipleth and the Northern Kingdom were once great enemies. Now we are all uneasy allies against the garonds. Or, so it is hoped.”
Kellabald looked down, for he knew what was coming next.
“You are a Wylfling, of Reia?”
Kellabald nodded.
“Can you tell me, please,” the captain asked with dark eyes, “how a king of the Skylds, Haergill, king of the Northern Kingdom of Man, entrusted his most treasured possession into the hands of a man of the Wylfling tribe, his bitterest of enemies?”
Kellabald had no answer.
“And you say,” the captain continued, “that this king of the Skyld tribe wanted you to deliver this most valued sword into the hands of a king of the Wylfling?” The captain’s voice rose slightly.
“I think,” Kellabald said, his voice cracking, “that Haergill wanted all humans to unite to fight the garonds who are our real enemy.”
“I believe that,” the captain plainly said. “I have a message from the guild which says to protect you at all costs. The message was from our general long thought to have died, so I do not know the truth of the message. Unfortunately, your words have the ring of a thief and a liar. I do not know if I can protect you from my own men if they see falsehood in your words.”
With that, the captain rose and rallied the men to begin their march to Rhyd Bawr.
Along the way, Apghilis’ men began marching chants to lighten their spirits. And, the men of Kipleth joined in. All the chants ended with the call, “All Hail Apghilis!” Trouble played upon Kellabald’s heart as he caught the dark looks the men of Kipleth were giving him. And he thought he saw Apghilis’ soldiers mixing among the soldiers of Kipleth, talking furtively in whispers, which ended with venomous looks in Kellabald’s direction.
Night began to fall as the company approached Rhyd Bawr, a village that sat between the forks where the Holmwy River split. The forks were easy to cross. Rhyd Bawr was aptly named, as the village was surrounded by birch and maple trees, with leaves that had all turned blood red for the autumn. There were only a few houses, and a great hall, but many soldiers from all over Wealdland had made camp there.
The army of Kipleth met and greeted many old friends and acquaintances. And, a large contingent of soldiers from the Northern Kingdom of Man greeted Apghilis with a hero’s welcome. It was true, the armies of both Wylfling and Skyld seemed to enjoy an uneasy truce in Rhyd Bawr.
Apghilis quieted them as they gathered around him.
“Great men of the Northern Kingdom, I welcome you and return your love!” A great cheer went up. “Wylfling men I respect and honor you as great warriors with whom we must join against the garond menace.” Another hearty cheer went up with the combined voices of the two armies.
Apghilis raised his hands and said, “But, more wondrous, I bring you the Mattear Gram!”
All was silent.
“Where is it?” A voice called from the crowd. Then began a chant of “Show it!” Apghilis silenced the great throng of soldiers.
“It lies in the hands of a thief and a traitor!” Apghilis cried, turning to point at Kellabald who had the sword wrapped in cloth.
The men pressed close to him.
“I was given the sword by your king!” Kellabald cried, “To unite the armies of man! And besides, he has consorted with the garonds! He is the real traitor!” Kellabald pointed at Apghilis.
All was dangerously silent.
“If I am a traitor,” Apghilis began, “then let any man confirm his charge.”
A murmur ran though the thousand soldiers. But, no man accused Apghilis, nor supported Kellabald.
“If I am the rightful king of the Northern Kingdom,” Apghilis said, his voice rising, “and of all the human armies, then let there be a sign in the heavens!”
And as he said it, the Wanderer, the second moon in the bright night sky, moved quickly out of its place with an overpowering wave of energy, pulsing, screeching, terrifying. The waves of power from the unnatural event painfully pounded all who gazed up at the horrific sight.
The soldiers at Rhyd Bawr fell to the earth in fear. Apghilis, himself, fell to his knees, terrified, overwhelmed, by an event, of which he seemed to suspiciously have foreknowledge .
Kellabald knew they would kill him now. In the confusion, he turned and ran from the village as fast as he could. He could hear in the dark of the night, a great cry go up. The whole army was on his heels.
Kellabald saw the fork in the Holmwy River and stayed on the eastern side where there were fewer soldiers. His only hope now was to somehow find Healfdene of Reia and beg for his protection.
His heart pounding, a thousand men on his heels, Kellabald ran alone through the deep, black, evil night.


Chapter Twelve

Wynnfrith and Halldora

Wynnfrith and Halldora sat in a dark, windowless room in a remote house in Alfhich. Apghilis, Feeblerod, and several soldiers stomped in.
“Bring her,” Apghilis ordered, and two of his men dragged Halldora away. Apghilis stared down at Wynnfrith with contempt, then left with the other soldiers. Wynnfrith was left alone with Feeblerod.
Feeblerod smiled, a thin lipped, closed mouth grin. His long crooked nose swayed back and forth as he eyed Wynnfrith up and down.
“We will become very close friends,” he said in a low, husky whisper. He moved his obese body with gyrations in a slow dance around Wynnfrith.
Wynnfrith moved up to her knees, ready to fight him if she had to. Feeblerod held out his hands in defense, possibly to grab her.
“Careful,” he said, “careful,” as his bald head glistened with sweat. The room was made of wooden planks, like almost every structure in Alfhich. But this room had no windows, no candles or lamps, or furniture. And, with the darkness of night, all Wynnfrith could see was the unnatural glow of Feeblerod’s face as he circled her.
In the next room, she could hear Apghilis and Halldora loudly exchanging angry words. If he killed her, Wynnfrith thought, there would be no stopping this monster.
His fat hands, with thick stubby fingers, clawed the air as though he were readying to clutch her.
“You must realize,” he said to her in a low voice, “I can make your life very easy, or I can make your life very difficult. Apghilis is our leader, but he entrusts everything to me. I run everything. I will rebuild all of Wealdland when this war is done. All humans will thank me for their lives. And you will thank me for the great pleasure I will give you as you scream in ecstasy.”
Wynnfrith wanted to burst into tears, but another part of her wanted to rip his fat head off.
Feeblerod circled closer and closer. He seemed to want to get behind her, but Wynnfrith kept him and his ugly hands in front of her, where she could fight him.
Then, the door burst open, and light from the hallway filled the room. Apghilis had his soldiers throw Halldora in with Wynnfrith.
“We have no time for amusements,” Apghilis said to Feeblerod. They left the women alone, the door slamming and locking.
Halldora was taken from Wynnfrith by Apghilis and brought to an adjacent room, a small bedroom. Four of his armed guards crowded in behind him. The large men towered over Halldora.
“Where are Kellabald and the Mattear Gram?” Apghilis demanded.
“I do not know,” Halldora said defiantly.
“But you know where he is taking it.”
“As do you.”
“He is taking the symbol of our nation to our great enemy, Healfdene of Reia,” Apghilis said with disgust.
“Haergill felt he was the only one worthy to unite all humans against the garond army. It was his dying request to Kellabald. And, knowing Kellabald, he will accomplish what he sets out to do,” Halldora said with strength. 
“Where will he meet Healfdene?” Apghilis dangerously breathed.
“I do not know,” Halldora said.
“How much money did he have,” Apghilis demanded.
“You know we have none,” Halldora said.
“Where is he!” Apghilis angrily shouted.
“I do not know!” Halldora shouted back.
Apghilis raised his fist.
“Once again you raise your hand to strike your queen. But, you do not demand my hand in marriage this time?”
“You do not have your mother to protect you,” Apghilis venomously said.
“You will find that the daughter of Nanmund of Fjindel will laugh at your blows,” Halldora said referring to herself with fire in her eyes.
“Draw your swords,” Apghilis ordered his men.
“You order,” Halldora quickly said, “valiant soldiers of the Northern Kingdom of Man, who have sworn oaths of protection to the crown, and family of the crown, to draw their swords, against their sacred vows, against their queen?” Halldora softly directed the last to the armed men.
Two of the soldiers drew their swords, but two did not, their eyes averted in shame. Apghilis huffed with loathing.
“No matter,” he said. “We know you have no money for a boat, so he must cross the river by the bridge. We can easily get to the other side of the Holmwy River first, and meet him as he steps onto the western shore. Take her back to Feeblerod.”
Then Apghilis said to the two soldiers who did not draw their swords, “You may find employment elsewhere, perhaps among the filth of Alfhich.”

It was then that Apghilis retuned Halldora to the room where Feeblerod was about to attack Wynnfrith.
Halldora and Wynnfrith were left alone in the dark. Halldora could sense Wynnfrith’s terror, and she held her friend until she stopped shivering.
“We must get away from here,” Halldora said with an angry resolve.
Beyond the door were the hurried and muffled voices of men planning and departing.
Then, after a long quiet, Feeblerod entered. “How are you, my dears,” he said with false sympathy.
“Hungry,” Halldora dismissively said. “We’ve had nothing to eat all day. You might find us better company if we were fed.”
“And perhaps more compliant” Feeblerod said with a crooked smile crawling up one side of his face. His egg shaped head nodded from side to side, then he turned and quickly left.
“He is the key to this prison,” Halldora ominously said. “Listen,” she said to Wynnfrith holding her face in her hands. “You must pretend to accept his affections so we can overpower him.”
“I do not think he has affections in mind,” Wynnfrith said with a pale face, “but something more awful.”
“In any case,” Halldora said, trying to steel Wynnfrith, “we must get out of here, and we will only do it if we are smarter and stronger than our jailer.”
Wynnfrith bravely nodded.
Halldora rose and began looking around their improvised prison. It was clearly an empty storage room. It had a low ceiling, no windows and only the one door. Halldora pushed on the walls. The wooden planks creaked and complained.
“Help me,” Halldora said to Wynnfrith, “there may be a weak spot because of the earthquake.”
Wynnfrith rose and the two of them pushed at the walls carefully, looking for places where the wooden structure was stressed.
“Here!” Wynnfrith hissed. Halldora joined her, and the two of them pushed against the wall. It swayed and creaked loudly. Some of the supporting beams on the outside had come loose.
Halldora eagerly pulled at a plank that slightly pulled loose. Wynnfrith got her hands into the crack as well, and they both pried it out with a loud crack. They froze and stared at each other, but there was no sound from the door.
“I don’t think there’s a guard outside,” Halldora said. “Maybe we can get through this wall before Feeblerod gets back.” Beyond the missing plank in the wall they could see the wooden houses and ramps of Alfhich and freedom.
They quickly pulled at another plank, as the whole room creaked with the effort. The second wood plank came loose with less noise.
But, then the heavy footsteps of Feeblerod could be heard as he approached. Halldora handed a plank to Wynnfrith. They both held the pieces of wood like clubs and knew what they had to do.
The door unlocked and Feeblerod entered with a bundle wrapped in a blanket. He was messily eating a piece of cured pork, the grease running down his several chins.
“Here my friend,” Wynnfrith seductively said, as Halldora positioned herself behind him.
But, Feeblerod instantly noticed the hole in the wall, and dropped the bundle.
“Well, I see the mice have been at the walls,” he said reaching for his sword.
But, before he could get it out, Halldora hit him as hard as she could with her plank. Wynnfrith followed Halldora and cracked him on the head as well.
Feeblerod let out a girlie grunt, spread his arms and used his weight to knock both women to the floor. He tried to draw his sword again, but Halldora jumped up, grabbed his arm and began to turn him. Wynnfrith saw what she was doing, leapt up, and helped.
His own enormous weight kept him from regaining his footing, or drawing his sword as Halldora and Wynnfrith spun the obese wretch.
“Into the wall,” Halldora cried to Wynnfrith and they guided the great, fat villain into one of the wooden walls of the room. He crashed into it with a resounding thud, and the whole room shook with the impact. 
Halldora and Wynnfrith waited like warriors.
“Next time,” Halldora panted, “into the crack.”
“Don’t let him draw his sword,” Wynnfrith breathed.
Feeblerod was trying to do just that, as he struggled to his knees. Halldora grabbed his arm, but Feeblerod was able to punch Halldora. She fell to the floor. Feeblerod pulled back to hit her again, but Wynnfrith leapt on him and dug her fingers into his left eye.
With a high pitched scream, Feeblerod threw Wynnfrith off, and stood. Halldora jumped up and began to spin him again.
But Feeblerod fought her, trying once again to draw his sword. Wynnfrith got a hold of him, and they spun him again, his folds of fat gyrating with the speed.
“Now!” Halldora cried, and they both slammed him into the hole they had made by prying the two, loose planks out of the wall.
All three of them went crashing through the wooden wall, as planks exploded out onto the streets of Alfhich.
Down, the three of them fell, past the wooden walkways, onto a mud soaked street with a tremendous splash.
Halldora pulled Wynnfrith to her feet. Feeblerod was face down in the water, but began to sputter to life. Several startled soldiers who were loitering outside the house rushed down the wooden walkways to the muddy street.
Halldora saw one of the soldiers who refused to draw his sword on her.
“Defend your queen!” She cried.
The soldier stumbled then quickly drew his sword.
“Touch not our queen!” He cried to the other soldiers. His companion joined him, and a melee began amongst the soldiers who were descending to the muddy street below.
Halldora pulled Wynnfrith away from the mud, but Feeblerod grabbed a hold of Wynnfrith’s frock. Halldora kicked him in the face, and he let go with a bloody moan.
They rushed up into the town that was jammed with people. A crowd was beginning to gather to watch the soldiers fight. Halldora quickly hid her hair and face, as the two women concealed themselves amongst the meandering throng.
They tried to make for the bridge over the Holmwy River. But, fifty soldiers, who allowed no passage at all to the angry mob, blocked the bridge.
Halldora pulled Wynnfrith through the town, as an alarm went up. Soldiers were running through every street, stopping every citizen. There was no way out of Alfhich.
“Under there,” Wynnfrith whispered to Halldora, and the two women carefully climbed under a house raised on stilts. They were able to hide themselves completely among the rats and other insects swarming under the house.
They huddled together, and fell into a restless sleep in each other’s arms, as the search went on the rest of that cloudy, black night.

In the morning, Halldora woke to Wynnfrith gently shaking her.
“Wake,” Wynnfrith whispered with alarm. Halldora roused herself to find the tide was rising with the morning sun. They would have to get out from under the house or drown.
They carefully crept along the timbers and climbed out from under the house. But, they need not have been so careful as Alfhich had become choked with refugees from the Madrun Hills who had streamed into the town all night. And, more were arriving by the moment. They caught pieces of conversations, of an Archer and an elf who won a battle, then their hearts were glad, but also of a larger garond army on the way, then they shared in the crowd’s quiet, growing, pervasive fear.
The bridge over the Holmwy was completely barricaded by Feeblerod’s soldiers who would let no one pass. Every boat in the harbor had left for the opposite shore. Soldiers were stationed on the edges of the town and few were allowed to leave. Alfhich was bursting at the seams.
Halldora and Wynnfrith moved anonymously in the burgeoning crowd, until Halldora came face to face with the soldier who had saved them. He was stunned and motionless. A large gash along his face was bandaged.
“Your highness, I’ve found you,” he said in hushed tones. “Follow me quickly.”
Wynnfrith and Halldora shared a look. “We have no way of escaping Alfhich,” Wynnfrith said.
“And we need allies,” Halldora agreed. “But what if he leads us back to Feeblerod?”
“He has already risked his life,” Wynnfrith reasoned, “Do we have any other recourse?”
Halldora grimly nodded, and they followed the soldier to a small house jammed into a clutter of wooden houses on stilts.
Inside the small house was crowded with as many people as it could hold, soldiers and citizens, families and children.
As they entered, the soldier reverently said, “Our Queen.”
Everyone in the house solemnly stood. Halldora was overcome.
“Please sit,” she said. Food was brought, and a humble meal was shared, with many in the house recalling fond times in Ethgeow under Haergill’s rule.
“I am Gerdsun, my Queen,” the soldier humbly introduced himself. “I served under your husband, the king, in many campaigns. His nobility and graciousness were always an inspiration to me and many others.”
“I thank you, Gerdsun,” Halldora gently said. “You truly are noble and brave.”
“Why did you leave the kingdom?” An elderly woman nearby asked.
“Haergill felt the garond army was too strong, and the Northern Kingdom too weak,” Halldora plainly said. “He also knew that his life was being deliberately targeted.”
“By Apghilis and his scum!” A sad faced man burst out, then apologized.
“Truly,” Halldora continued. “Haergill the king did not want any more of the kingdom to die on his account. He felt it best to live simply as a common man. And, I supported him, and I came to love and respect our ordinary life. For a time we were happy. But, I know now we left our responsibilities, and maybe that was selfish of us.”
The room was quiet with understanding and affection.
“What is your command now, my Queen?” Gerdsun humbly asked.
“We must join my friend’s husband in his quest. He may be stranded on the Holmwy Bridge, or he may have crossed. In any case we must find him and aid him,” Halldora quietly said with an understanding look to Wynnfrith whose eyes were filled with gratitude.
“It’s best to wait for nightfall, then,” Gerdsun said. “I and those with us will storm the bridge and safely see you across.” His eyes were filled with fire.
The rest of the day was spent resting, eating and readying for the struggle to come as night fell.
Before the sun set, the house emptied, with Wynnfrith and Halldora encircled by at least a hundred citizens and soldiers of the Northern Kingdom. They pushed their way slowly through the crowded wooden streets of Alfhich.
The allies of the Northern Kingdom grew in numbers and were beginning to get boisterous. As the great mass of people shouldered their way towards the great bridge over the Holmwy River, the henchmen of Apghilis recognized many in the crowd and began to shout commands to retreat. Wynnfrith could see Feeblerod on the bridge, behind the soldiers, bawling commands like a fat emperor.
The crowd pressed closer to the soldiers.
“Back! Back!” The soldiers of Apghilis cried.
“Traitors!” Gerdsun bellowed and the crowd aggressively pushed forward.
“Hold them back!” Feeblerod shrieked from his place of safety.
The Holmwy Bridge beyond was deserted and no lights were lit in the dusk. It looked as if the soldiers had cleared everyone off the bridge in the search for Kellabald.
“For the Kingdom of Man!” Halldora cried as she pulled down her hood, revealing her flame red hair in the glow of the sunset.
A great cry went up as swords were drawn on all sides. Soldiers all around had little room to strike as the crush of people pushed this way and that.
“Back! Back!” Feeblerod screamed, and he and his soldiers retreated to the bridge with the great mass of people behind them.
Halldora and Wynnfrith pushed forward with Gerdsun in front of them acting as a wedge, cutting his way this way and that through Apghilis’ soldiers.
“Get the Queen through,” Gerdsun bellowed to his fellow rebel soldiers, and swords danced furiously all around Halldora and Wynnfrith.
Gerdsun grabbed Halldora by the arm and pulled her through the back of the traitor soldier’s line. Halldora clutched Wynnfrith by the arm and pulled her through as well.
“Run! Run!” Gerdsun yelled as a sword struck him through the body.
Halldora was momentarily stunned, but then turned and pulled Wynnfrith down the wooden bridge towards the first pier.
Behind them they could hear the great clash and screams of battle. All was black and the water below was a deadly, drowning, dark black.
“He’s behind us!” Wynnfrith cried to Halldora, who turned to see the fat, bouncing mass of Feeblerod, with sword drawn, huffing after them.
They made for the second pier as the wind began to angrily whisper. Feeblerod, for all his obesity, was gaining on them.
The sun was just touching the horizon as they reached the third pier. Both women were out of breath, but they ran on, with Feeblerod’s dangerous, murderous puffing close on their backs.
The fourth and center pier was a maze of houses and warehouse, and the women were soon lost.
Wide eyed and filled with horror, they slowly turned corners and ran down alleys to try to find the way to the fifth pier.
They heard Feeblerod creaking down a ramp and held as still as they could.
“There you are,” he heavily breathed with destruction in his voice.
Halldora and Wynnfrith ran.
But, they turned a corner and found themselves in the wide open center of the fourth pier. The way across was clearly in view, but Feeblerod stepped from behind a stack of crates and blocked the way.
“We must fight him!” Halldora cried to Wynnfrith.
“How can we?” Wynnfrith said, out of breath and filled with despair.
Feeblerod danced close with his long, feminine blade making curling swipes in the last rays of the setting sun.
Halldora pushed Wynnfrith and hoped to draw Feeblerod away, but she immediately saw that all he wanted was Wynnfrith.
Halldora turned and running leapt on Feeblerod’s back. He shrugged her off.
Halldora landed with a heavy thud. On her back she saw Feeblerod raise his sword and drive it viciously at her. She rolled at the last second, and it strongly pinned her dress to the wooden planks of the pier. Feeblerod struggled for a moment to pull his sword free, but when he saw how it disabled Halldora he smiled and turned to Wynnfrith.
Wynnfrith was tired and had no more fight left in her as Feeblerod stood over her with a cruel smile spreading over his face.
Wynnfrith tried to stand and hit him, but he easily knocked her down hard.
I will fight him to the end, she thought. But then the farsight began.
“No! No, not now!” She screamed, for when the visions came, she was paralyzed and helpless.
Feeblerod heartlessly laughed and kneeled down to cover her with his fatness. He began to pull at his trousers.
Wynnfrith felt the farsight come over her and her body stiffened.
Get up, she said to herself. Stop the vision and get up.
“Don’t you touch her!” Halldora screamed, with tears flowing down her face in anger and disgust, as she pulled at the sword pinning her dress to the pier.
But Wynnfrith was deep in the farsight. She rose in the vision, high up into the sky. She could see the bridge and the river. 
It was as if she were a seagull flying high above the land. She could see the stand of trees that must be Bittel. She could see all the Eastern Meadowland.
And then she traveled south to Harvestley, and there she saw something she could hardly believe. A great army of garonds, more than any could ever imagine, hundreds of thousands.
And they were all dancing and celebrating. A great feast for their dreaded leader was being prepared. And then she almost vomited, for she knew they were going to roast alive and eat several hundred humans.
And then, she saw her son.
Wynnfrith almost came out of the vision with the shock of seeing Arnwylf. She struggled with Feeblerod who was trying to tear her clothes off.
In the vision he was moving amongst the garonds, but then someone else was there.
It was He.
The Evil One.
He was a beautiful young man, with sandy blonde hair. And then Wynnfrith smiled for she knew what to do.
In her mind she called to him.
Look at me! Look! Here! I see you, great and terrible one! You are not so powerful!
I see you.
Then Wynnfrith could feel in her mind as he took notice. His anger and evil was overwhelming, like an immense, growing black cloud, death and sorrow multiplied into the infinite.
And he was furious that she would dare to taunt him.
Wynnfrith saw him make only the slightest of gestures, and a blinding bolt of power leapt from his hand.
She flew with the lightning bolt over the skies of Wealdland. The lightning bolt was headed right for Alfhich, right for the fourth pier. He was going to kill her.
At the last moment, with all the strength left her, Wynnfrith pushed up on Feeblerod and rolled out from under him as the lightning bolt struck.
Feeblerod convulsed as the bolt hit him. His fat body bucked with spasms as it cooked. He rose slightly off the wooden planks of the pier as the fat began to melt off his disgusting body. A silent scream froze on his face as he burned and burned. His fat hands blackened and charred with the white hot fire.
Feeblerod sizzled and smelled of burning meat.
Then the consumed carcass fell to the floor with a crispy thud, and broke into scorched black, flaky chunks, and seared black bones.
Wynnfrith ran to Halldora and helped her pull out the sword that held her pinned to the wooden platform.
“We must flee,” Halldora said, looking at the fire quickly spreading over the pier.
They ran for the span, which led to the fifth pier and the far shore, but it collapsed into the river in flames.
They ran back to the span, which led back to the eastern side. They could see many people, some still fighting on the other side of a wall of flame. They were caught on the fourth pier as it burned with a ravenous fury, and encircled by fire all around.
“No,” Halldora said. She clutched Wynnfrith’s arm and walked towards the wall of flames.
“I will not be denied!” Halldora screamed at the flames.
As she stepped forward, with her words, a wind began, a wind that resembled the shape of the mother of the queen, and the shape cleared the flames for Halldora and Wynnfrith to walk through.
On the other side, all had ceased struggle to stare in wonder.
A soldier kneeled, then another. Then all the citizens of the Northern Kingdom slowly knelt.
“Your Queen,” the gravely wounded Gerdsun said.
“We had best all get quickly off this bridge,” Halldora said. And, a rapid, but orderly evacuation of the bridge commenced with all staring in wonder at their queen who commanded the very claws of flame.
On the shore, they watched as the bridge burned from end to end and fell into the river.
“There’s no crossing here now,” Gerdsun said by Halldora’s side.
Gerdsun fell from his wounds.
“You will not die, brave soldier,” Halldora said. “I command it.”
Gerdsun smiled as his deadly wounds were quickly seen to.
“How can we cross this river, now?” Halldora said in despair.
“Tyny,” Wynnfrith said. “We must go north to Tyny. There is a bridge there.”
So, they left with all who would follow, to begin the journey north. And follow they did. All the residents of Alfhich, refugees from Madrun and all the Wealdland began the trek north along the eastern shores of the Holmwy River to Tyny.
They walked all through the night.
At midnight, word was sent to Halldora.
Halldora and Wynnfrith approached the litter bearing Gerdsun.
“I am so sorry I cannot follow your command, my queen,” Gerdsun weakly said.
“Then go to be with Haergill and stand with honor among the heroes of the Northern Kingdom of Man in the halls of Oann,” Halldora said holding his hand.
Gerdsun tried to kiss Halldora’s hand in respect, but his life left him. And, he died with a smile of honor on his face.
A bier was made and the hero Gerdsun was cremated and sent to his ancestors with righteousness.
Out of courtesy, all travel was halted for the night.

The next morning the great and growing migration north continued. The journey took all day, and as night was falling Halldora and Wynnfrith arrived at the small village of Tyny to find it already overflowing with humans. The surrounding camps numbered in the thousands.
The men of Reia held the bridge. They would let no man cross over to the Western Meadowlands and the green hills beyond the Flume of Rith.
As night began to fall, Halldora and Wynnfrith were granted dinner at the camp of Haerreth, the son of Healfdene, the king of Reia.
Haerreth was a young man in his late twenties, blonde haired, ginger bearded, and full of fire. The banquet was set outside, with tables and chairs and many courses of food arraigned around a large bonfire. He was surrounded by his war generals dressed in splendid armor, and his younger sister sat at his right hand.
“So there is a grand army of garonds in the south,” Haerreth said with a smile. “Good! Let us be at them and wipe them from our lands!” He bit a huge chunk of mutton and smiled with a full mouth.
“You do not understand,” Halldora respectfully said. “This is about more than armies and battle. Powers beyond our comprehension are at work here.”
“All I need to comprehend,” Haerreth pleasantly said, “is that garonds die when I chop their heads off.” The council of men at the dinner heartily laughed at the joke.
“We need to see your father,” Wynnfrith suddenly said.
“And why is this?” Haerreth suspiciously said.
“My husband,” Wynnfrith, suddenly shy, said, “carries the Mattear Gram for Healfdene, your father, to carry into battle.”
“Grand,” Haerreth bellowed. “Where is your husband? Where is the famous sword?” All looked around as if expecting to see him jump out of the growing darkness.
“He is on the other side of the Holmwy,” Wynnfrith said. “We hope.”
“You hope,” Haerreth said with gentle skepticism. “Well, if he is in the Western Meadowlands, he will meet my father quickly. I can assure you of that.”
“There were men after him,” Halldora said. “Apghilis.”
“Ap- !” Haerreth spat out the chunk of mutton he had bitten off. “If that great snake is in the Western Meadowlands, I want his neck in my hands immediately!”
All was quiet as the elaborate bonfire burned for the outdoor banquet.
“So,” Haerreth said with a charming smile, “what are these great powers you speak of?”
Overhead, the great terror in the sky stopped all conversation, as the all the humans gathered at Tyny looked up at the night sky with fear.
“Great and evil plans are in motion,” Halldora grimly said, as the Wanderer, the second, smaller moon, moved at a rapid, frighteningly unnatural pace across the night sky.
“Yes,” Wynnfrith said to Haerreth. “I have seen his face, the Lord of Lightning. This is his doing, and he means to kill all life on earth with this.”
“We must stop him,” said Halldora. “We must find Kellabald and make sure he delivers the Mattear Gram. I think Haergill foresaw something, and had a way to stop this.”
Haerreth and all the men of Reia were speechless.


Chapter Thirteen

From Kenethley to Tyny

Arnwylf woke to find a seagull perched on the headboard above his head, curiously staring down at him. The seagull croaked and then flapped out of the room.
Arnwylf was in a soft bed with clean sheets. A light huff made Arnwylf look down to see Conniker curled up on the bed at his feet and sleepily smiling at him.
The room was painted white and clean. Morning sunlight streamed in through large windows. Chiffon curtains swirled with the smell of salty sea air.
Frea entered with a plate of fresh bread, and a cup of milk.
Arnwylf sat up with bruises and aches.
“We were worried you wouldn’t live,” Frea said as she dipped a piece of bread into the milk and then gently put it into Arnwylf’s mouth.
Although it was only bread soaked with a little milk, because of his weeks of starvation at the hands of the garonds since that first raid on Bittel, to Arnwylf, it was the most delicious thing in the world. He held back tears. 
Frea softly touched his cheek with the back of her hand. She pulled close to Arnwylf. His body was lean and muscular from the seven days of hard labor and starvation among the garonds. His face was serious and handsome. She had washed his dirty, matted hair, as he lay comatose in the bed. She stayed by his side the whole night furiously praying for his recovery. He looked up with a little milk dribbling from his chin, and smiled. Her lips yearned for his.
Then Rebburn bustled into the room.
“Out, out,” she said to Frea. “Plenty of time for that later.” Then the old woman peered down at Arnwylf. “Only a boy, but the strength of an auroch,” she said shaking her head.
Caerlund led the Archer and the elf into the room. 
“How fare you, son! Welcome to Kenethley! “ Caerlund bellowed.
“Caerlund!” Arnwylf weakly cried.
“Are you well enough to walk? We must travel north quickly,” Caerlund said stroking his beard.
“Of course he isn’t,” Rebburn scolded.
“I think I could ride on one of the horses,” Arnwylf said with effort.
“They were left on the other side of the Fallfont Gorge, remember?” The Archer solemnly said.
“I would like to see Kenethley,” Arnwylf said rising from his bed.
“Now, now,” Rebburn protested. But, Arnwylf was already out of the bed and standing. Frea and the Archer supported him on either side. Conniker, with his tail bandaged, leapt off the bed to join Arnwylf.
Rebburn shook her head and clucked. “Only a boy, but the strength of an auroch.”
Caerlund stepped close to Rebburn and said, “I wish you had gone north with the others as you were supposed to.”
“Then who would have looked after him,” Rebburn said, gently pulling a lock of Arnwylf’s hair.
The group left Rebburn in the room softly clucking to the seagull, and went down a circular staircase and out onto the streets of Kenethley.
Arnwylf had been washed and clothed with spare clothes left in the great evacuation of the Madrun Hills. The capitol city Kenethley, a city of thousands, was strangely empty and quiet. Stalls and goods were left, rummaged and scattered as the humans of the city had fled for their lives.
The buildings of Kenethley, every single building, house, market, and great hall, was cylindrical, painted white and topped with a round, billowing, gray roof.
“They look like mushrooms!” Arnwylf laughed.
Caerlund did a double take, then looked around and around at his city as though for the first time.
“Well bless my evening bread!” Caerlund exclaimed. “I’ve lived here my whole life, thirty seven years, and never saw that my city looks like a ponder of mushrooms.” Caerlund stroked his red beard in amazement.
The group erupted into pleasant laughter, while Conniker wagged his poor tail and nuzzled Arnwylf.
The Archer stepped to Caerlund and whispered in his ear.
“Arnwylf,” Caerlund said to him, “let me show you something.”
Arnwylf could see the Archer and the elf take Frea aside and they spoke to her in low, sympathetic tones. Arnwylf knew what they were telling her.
Caerlund tried to distract Arnwylf by showing him a sweet, green and red apple that only grew in the Madrun Hills.
Arnwylf watched as Frea fainted with grief to learn of the death of her father. Arnwylf, weak and in pain, quickly limped to her side, but the Archer already had caught her and was gently rousing her. All were awkwardly silent. Arnwylf reached out and took Frea’s hand.
“You will always have a family with us,” Arnwylf bravely said. Frea’s eyes were filled with both affection and immeasurable grief.
The group all stood in still respect for Haergill, the King of the Northern Kingdom of Man, but most importantly loving father to his daughter Frea.
Then Caerlund started with a sudden realization. “Ah!” He cried, “Have I something to show you!”
Caerlund led the group to a cluster of large mushroom shaped buildings all leaning together. Caerlund produced a key, and opened two huge, reinforced oak doors.
“This must be the castle,” Arnwylf said.
“Aye,” Caerlund said with a twinkle in his eye as he pushed the massive doors open. They walked into a beautiful courtyard, adorned with potted plants and soft chairs and lounges.
They then went into a foyer with a marble floor that shone like a placid lake in the afternoon sun. The castle of Kenethley was regal, but comfortable and simple.
They followed Caerlund through a succession of pleasant, adjoined rooms to a reinforced door, which Caerlund opened with another large key.
“I have been here many times,” the elf said with a smile.
“Since before my great grandfather, I reckon,” Caerlund said with a nod.
Inside, the group entered the treasury room of Kenethley. Brilliant gold cups and plates glowed. Silver scabbards and necklaces glimmered like moonlight. Emeralds and rubies, as big as a man’s fist, cut with elaborate designs, clustered together like bowls of fruit in ornate golden bowls.
Caerlund directed them to a large, oak chest. Yet another key opened it to reveal mounds of gold coins.
“Eh?” Caerlund proudly prodded.
Arnwylf put his hands into the trove of gold coins and let them fall through his fingers.
“Very pretty,” Arnwylf said. “What are they?”
Caerlund looked to the Archer as though he couldn’t believe what he had just heard.
“He doesn’t know what money is,” the Archer said to Caerlund with affectionate amusement.
Frea looked at Arnwylf with a new love because of his purity and innocence. The elf gently put her hand on Arnwylf’s shoulder.
“Money is pretty,” the elf said to Arnwylf, “but we, of the elfkin, discovered long ago that life and love are much more valuable. See, here are many elvish coins we no longer had any use for.” The elf handled a few beautifully designed coins with the portrait of a serious elf on one side, and a mythical bird in flight on the other to Arnwylf. “We gave them to the people of Madrun because we love them so.”
Caerlund beamed proudly. Then he shoved handfuls of gold into his pockets.
“Take some, take some,” he said. “I can’t carry the whole treasure, and we might need some money later on.”
The group heaped gold into their pockets, but Arnwylf took only a single, elvish gold piece because he liked the face of the stern looking elf on the coin.
Walking back out through the castle Caerlund stopped.
“Ah!” He cried and grabbed a padded footstool. “My old favorite. I can’t leave without you.” And he juggled the small, green velvet piece of furniture with the growing arm load of other objects he couldn’t leave without.
“What was that, last night, in the sky?” Frea asked the Archer.
“I do not know, but it was no accident,” he answered.
“It was Deifol Hroth,” the elf said. “He threatened to bring the second, smaller moon down to earth hundreds of years ago. The elfkin thought he was mad.”
“How can he do it? Who is he?” Frea asked. Then, Arnwylf told of all he had seen in the garond encampment.
“Once he was a man, as ordinary as any of you,” the elf said with concern. “He became a friend of the elves long before I was born. They say he was bright, and learned quickly elvish ways and secrets. He found power with those secrets and with his desire for more power became possessed when he found in a secret place an evil spirit, the blackest spirit of all, Jofod Kagir. He visited destruction on all the parts of the earth, not just here in Wealdland. He was directly responsible for the dark, ignorant Fourth Age, and the loss of learning and many technologies. He channels evil powers, old and dangerous. But how he moves great objects in the heavens, I do not know. This is something new. He realized in the Fourth Age he cannot control all things, as he wanted, and so now he lusts to exterminate all life on earth to spite the Great Spirit parent, Wylkeho Daniei.”
“But why does he need to come here to Wealdland to do these things?” Arnwylf asked. No one had an answer.
“The night before,” the elf said, “I dreamt he went to my city.”
“Lanis Rhyl Landemiriam!?” Caerlund said with a huff. “He cannot enter there. No one but the elf folk can do so.” Then Caerlund turned to Arnwylf and Frea, and like a parent telling a bedtime story said, “The walls are enchanted and recognize whoever stands without. They open and close, brick by brick, if you are a friend. But, become slippery and impassable if you are a foe!”
“We are not children” Arnwylf huffed.
“I have seen it with my own eyes!” Caerlund said defensively. “I am one of the few humans to ever be a guest in the elf city!”
The elf simply smiled and nodded to confirm the truth of Caerlund's statement.
“Perhaps,” the Archer said to the elf, “when we have seen these friends safely over the Holmwy Bridge we should come back and check on your city.”
“Of a certainty,” the elf gravely said.
As they left the castle of Kenethley, Caerlund dropped his ample armload of favorite treasures in surprise to find twenty horses standing and staring at them with innocent curiosity.
“My horse!” Arnwylf cried and limped up to stroke the neck of the tan horse with the black mane that he had ridden out of the garond encampment in Harvestley. The horse affectionately nuzzled Arnwylf in recognition.
“Now,” Arnwylf said, “we can quickly ride north.”
“Not getting me on one of those beasts,” Caerlund grumbled as he gathered up his precious items.
The Archer seemed troubled.
“What is on your mind?” The elf asked.
But, before he could answer, a seagull flopped in front of them with an angry insistent squawk. It began scolding the elf.
“What does it say?” The Archer asked.
“I cannot understand its tongue,” the elf said. “This is Rebburn’s seagull which comes from the other side of the world”.
“The other side of the world?” Arnwylf asked in surprise.
“Rebburn?” Frea said.
They all immediately realized what the seagull was trying to tell them. They dropped what they had in their arms, and ran for the tower where they had left Rebburn.
They found her in the room in which Arnwylf had awoken. She was crumpled on the floor, clutching her chest.
“Careful, careful,” Caerlund soothed as he helped her onto the bed.
“I’m going, son,” Rebburn said stroking Caerlund’s cheek. “I’ve clung onto this life much longer than I should have. It’s far past my time. Touch nothing but those few things you want to take with you as you leave Kenethley,” she said with great difficulty.
“I am bringing you with us, mother,” Caerlund bravely said, and bent to pick her up.
“You must go. Now. Know I love you. And most important of all, keep your eyes on that one,” she whispered and pointed at Arnwylf, “everything depends on him.” Then she quietly died.
“Mother! Mother!” Caerlund softly cried.
“We must go,” the Archer said. “Garonds will be here any moment. They may have followed the horses across the Madronwy River.”
“But my mother,” Caerlund protested.
“She has already made her funeral pyre,” the elf said. “As she strictly counseled, touch nothing. Let us go.”
As they started down for the horses, Arnwylf noticed small glass vials of amber liquid placed in every nook and cranny.
“Do you see-“ Arnwylf reached out to grab one.
“No,” the elf said, catching his hand with lightning speed.
They quickly tied what they could to the horses and mounted just as Conniker began loudly barking.
“They’re here,” the Archer said. The late morning sun was glinting off the Mere Lanis, as twenty horse garonds rode into the city. Arnwylf slapped his horse, and he, Frea, the Archer, the elf, Caerlund and his guards clinging to their horses, rode out of Kenethley at a full gallop.
Behind them, the city exploded in a billowing fireball.
Caerlund laughed at the top of his lungs. “Funeral pyre, indeed,” he shouted, then, “mad old woman,” wiping the streaming tears from his eyes.
Not all the horse garonds were caught in the great consummation of Kenethley. Five escaped and came riding after, quickly gaining ground.
The Archer had refilled his quiver in Kenethley, and leaned back on his horse and pulled his bow. He shot and his arrow went high over the horse garonds heads.
The Archer and the elf exchanged a bemused glance.
The Archer nocked another arrow, and with a bit more caution, killed one of the horse garonds behind them.
As they got closer, they made easier targets, and the Archer was able to kill two more.
One of the horse garonds pulled in close to grab Frea, but Caerlund spurred his horse on and smashed the garond over the head with his favorite footstool. The garond fell dead as the footstool splintered.
“Gaaaah!” Caerlund cried. “You monsters will pay for that!”
The elf drew the moon sword of Berand Torler, leapt from her horse, onto the back of the last horse garond, cut his head off, then leapt in a curving, graceful arc back onto her own horse. The Archer looked over, and the two of them shared a moment of dark laughter.
“They’re not done with us!” Arnwylf cried, in the lead, pointing. In the distance, far to their right, kicking up trails of dust, more horse garonds were bearing down on them from their flank.
But, the twenty or more horse garonds didn’t charge them directly from the side. They pulled up and came in behind them.
They were more than half way to Plymonley and the center of the Madrun Hills.
The horse garonds behind them drew their swords and spurred their horses forward. Then, the Archer had an idea.
He wasn’t really controlling his horse. He was simply holding on and letting the horse follow Arnwylf’s horse. He carefully turned himself around, with the horse bumping and rocking over the uneven ground, until he was sitting backwards on his horse.
The Archer looked over, and he and the elf shared a grim smile. The horse garonds were very close, their sharp swords gleaming as the Archer nocked his first arrow. The Archer thought he saw a glimmer of recognition in their widening eyes as he pulled the first arrow. He let himself get used to the rocking sensation of the horse at full gallop. Then, he released and easily killed the closest garond, who tumbled off his horse with a Kenethley arrow in his chest.
The Archer kept shooting without missing. This new cluster of horse garonds was quickly reduced to half their number. The Archer killed two more as they topped the ridge into the Plymonley valley. His arm was remembering the great slaughter the day before and aching with pain. He shot two more as the horse garonds pulled in close. The Archer felt his arm go numb with paralysis. The elf looked over with concern. The Archer just shrugged with helplessness.
There were six horse garonds and they came in close on all sides. Caerlund was full of anger and sorrow, and whirled his battle-axe with fury. The blade sliced a garond and then there were five.
As they rode into the Plymonley valley, they could see the wreckage of the small town. But there was also a new army of several hundred garonds who angrily inspected the large heaps of burning garond bodies from the previous battle. Ravensdred was also there.
An ear splitting scream went up as the garond army saw the riders approaching.
Arnwylf directed his horse to take their group out and around the army, who were mostly on foot. But there were sixty or more horse garonds, Ravensdred among their number. He organized his horse garonds and they charged after Arnwylf and his band of riders.
As they passed Pylmonley, they dodged a barrage of ineffectual garond arrows.
The Archer easily caught one right out of the air. They were still bad, he thought, but they were getting better. Their arrows were straighter, more refined, and their bows stronger with more pull, a worrying development.
Two of Caerlund’s men fell to the horse garonds right at their sides. They topped the ridge and were out of the valley of Plymonley, and halfway through the Madrun Hills as Caerlund and his men who were left dispatched the last horse garonds who were right up close to them. But now, they had sixty more gaining on them, led by Ravensdred.
It was almost midday.
“Look!” The elf called, pointing. Far off to the east, great brown clouds began to billow up on the horizon. Then, the elf urged her horse to pull even with Arnwylf and his horse.
“We have to run faster!” The elf called to Arnwylf’s horse. “They will slaughter us all!”
Arnwylf’s horse seemed to understand, put his head down and thundered his hooves even faster. The whole band of horses quickened their pace.
Ravensdred and his platoon of horse garonds began to fall back. He roared and kicked his horse, and they surged forward.
For about an hour the chase continued, with neither side giving ground. The Archer recovered now and then to pick off a garond, but his arm was in great pain.
At midday, the group rounded the source of the Madronwy River and had only about an hour to reach Alfhich. They were closer to safety, but Ravensdred and his cavalry would not be deterred.
The elf could see that Conniker was having difficulty keeping up with the brutal pace of the horses.
“Find a place to hide!” She yelled to him. “Then track us down in the north!”
With that, the white wolf nodded his head in understanding, and peeled off to the west. Three horse garonds veered off to follow him.
After about another hour with neither side gaining an advantage, they dropped into the flat, southern plain that led to Alfhich. The cluster of buildings of the fishing town could clearly be seen. But even more astonishing was the great gathering of humans around Alfhich, also visible from a far distance.
A vicious bellow went up from Ravensdred, and he spurred his own horse to a speed that would surely kill it.
The Archer saw Ravensdred ready his bow. With barely the strength to lift his arm, the Archer nocked an arrow, turned around on his horse, and shot Ravensdred in the shoulder before the garond leader could shoot.
Then the Archer nocked an arrow of Yenolah. He would never be able to recover it. But, this was a special occasion, and a rare opportunity he thought. Perhaps this is what the arrows were meant for. 
The Archer carefully sighted and let fly the black, lethal arrow.
Ravensdred’s eyes went wide. He pulled his sword and swiped at the arrow as it headed directly for his head. The black arrowhead shattered along with Ravensdred’s sword, the shrapnel flying into his eyes. He fell from his horse, clutching his face. His guards pulled up to help him.
The whole garond horse platoon came to a halt next to their fallen leader. They dare not attack Alfhich being outnumbered a hundred to one by the humans. The garonds helped Ravensdred onto his horse, then the whole company turned and rode away.
Arnwylf led his band into the outskirts of Alfhich. The crush of refugees was amazing.
“Move aside!” Caerlund cried. “We need to cross the bridge immediately!”
“The bridge is fallen!” Someone from the crowd said.
Burnt pieces of the Holmwy Bridge were visible, forlorn, ruined and black protruding from the flowing light brown of the Holmwy River.
“We need to find a person named Kellabald, Wynnfrith, or Halldora!” Caerlund yelled to the crowd.
“Halldora!?” Another in the crowd returned. “Our Queen and her black haired friend have gone north to Tyny!”
“Tyny is a quick journey on these horses,” the elf said. “Can you continue?” She asked Arnwylf’s horse.
The tan horse snorted and tossed its head. They pulled away from the swelling crowd around the town of Alfhich.
As they traveled north, along the eastern shore of the Holmwy River, the stream of people also traveling to Tyny grew.
“Look!” The Archer said and pointed off to the east.
The elf turned and saw that the brown cloud on the horizon was towering up to the upper reaches of the sky with wispy strands like a light brown mane.
They arrived at Tyny shortly after midday, in the late afternoon. Arnwylf thanked his horse for being so strong and gallant. After asking only a few times, they were directed to where Wynnfrith and Halldora were given lodgings by Haerreth.
Wynnfrith exited her tent and stopped in her tracks as she saw Arnwylf. Halldora ran, crying into the arms of her daughter, Frea.
Wynnfrith couldn’t believe the change in her son. Arnwylf didn’t know what to do. His mother seemed so strange, shocked. Wynnfrith slowly approached her son. He was thin, and seemed to be taller, more muscular, even though it had only been seven days when last she laid eyes on him. There was a new seriousness on his face that broke her heart.
“I found her,” he said to his mother. “As I said I would.”
Wynnfrith began to tear up. Her little boy was gone. There was no trace of the child, the baby. She hadn’t even said a proper good bye to the infant she loved so. Here was a man. A man shaped like her little son, tall, strange and beautiful.
Arnwylf opened his arms to his mother. She let herself fall into his lanky arms, and her tears flowed. Thank god he’s alive, she thought. She wanted to tell him of all her great love, but no words would come.
Arnwylf noticed Halldora and Frea quietly talking together, holding each other and weeping. He knew they were talking of the death of Haergill, and a part of him knew that, later, he would hate the garonds even more. But for now, he felt the warm embrace of his mother and let the worries fall away.
“Where is father?” Arnwylf asked Wynnfrith.
“He is somewhere on the other side of the river,” Wynnfrith said with sorrow. Then, all briefly told of their adventures since parting.
“We must cross the Tyny Bridge at once,” the Archer said. “If the Mattear Gram has fallen into Apghilis’ hands, all may be lost.”
“No one is permitted to cross,” Halldora said. “The soldiers of Reia have closed the bridge.”
“They will let me cross,” the Archer said. 
“Let us go then,” the elf said.
“I do not think they will not let you cross, as well,” the Archer patted her shoulder. The elf smiled.
The Archer strode to the Tyny Bridge. The soldiers instantly recognized him and stood aside. But, they barred the way to the elf. 
The elf backed up several paces. The Archer, looking back, had an idea what she was going to do. They locked eyes, and both laughed a smile. The Archer continued crossing the bridge. The elf walked back a few paces, then quickly turned and began to run. She was a blur. She bounded over the heads of the guards, and they didn’t even see her. She was a gentle, late autumn breeze to them. She came to stop right in front of the Archer so the guards couldn’t see her walking in front of him. The Archer had to hold his cheeks to keep from bursting out with laughter.
And, together in the late afternoon sun, the Archer and the elf crossed the Tyny Bridge over the Holmwy River to the Western Meadowland.


Chapter Fourteen

Rogar Li

Yulenth woke with the morning rays. Alrhett was still sound asleep behind him in the bowels of the sheltering, hollow oak. The morning sun was warm and drying. Yulenth stretched with aches and grunts.
Yulenth thought about the strangeness of the last night, the fight at Rion Ta, the kidnapping of Frea, how he had saved the elf from the prison of purple lightning, how they had been tracking their grandson Arnwylf through the Weald with the white wolf, and how the wolf had left them alone in the raining night to chase some shadowy monster.
He pulled himself out of the oak and gently shook his wife.
“Time to go,” he softly said.
Alrhett’s eyes fluttered open as if she were dreaming of their soft, safe bed in Bittel. But then the past day's events flooded in on her and she looked around like a cornered animal.
“It’s all right,” Yulenth said with a smile, and helped her out of the hollow of the oak.
“Did Conniker return?” She asked with a yawn. Yulenth scanned the nearby trees and bushes.
“No sign of him,” he said.
“I guess we should find the Bairn River and follow it east to the Three Bridges. We’re bound to find the boy along the way,” Alrhett said stretching.
“Right,” Yulenth said, turning, surveying the leafless Weald sprawling out in all directions. “The morning sun is there. That is the east. Hmmmm,” Yulenth bobbed his head up and down. “I don’t know where we are. I guess we just go south until we reach the Bairn River.”
“Sounds sensible,” Alrhett agreed.
The two of them, Yulenth, swinging his sword at brambles that blocked the way, and Alrhett, using her spear as a staff, made their way south.
A chilly, late autumn wind whispered through the bare, black branches. The massive oaks of the Weald had all dropped their leaves. They crunched underfoot, and obscured paths through the forest. The pines, so thick two men holding hands couldn’t reach around them, were still dark green, but their bark was silvery, flaking and dry.
“Not much rain all year,” Yulenth said, taking in the old growth forest. “But we got soaked last night.”
As they crunched through dark orange bracken, dead for the old year, Alrhett said, “Do you know what the word ‘Weald’ means?”
“It’s a derived from an old word, isn’t it?” Yulenth said.
“It means ‘wild’,” Alrhett said, leaning on her spear as she picked through the tangled, dry brush.
“Wild! Describes it perfectly,” Yulenth laughed. “But I wonder why the whole, from Reia, to the Northern Kingdom, down to the Madrun Hills is called Wealdland?”
  “Probably,” Alrhett said, “because the Weald is the first place you come to once you’ve crossed Byland.”
“But the first place you come to is Harvestley, and that’s flat, open farmland,” Yulenth huffed.
“Well,” Alrhett said, “It was once thick forest like this. But humans cut down all the trees to grow crops. So it was part of the Weald.”
“I wish we were in flat, open farmland right now,” Yulenth said scratching his head. “Because I think we’re lost. We should have reached the river by now.” Yulenth peered up at the late morning sun, shaded by the snaking tangles of branches of towering, leafless oaks and elms.  “Do you have any idea where we are? This is your home,” Yulenth said.
“The paths through the Weald are numerous. And, I haven’t been in this forest for over fifteen years,” Alrhett said.
They heard the footsteps of another traveler crunching through the late autumn leaves.
“Back here,” Yulenth said concealing himself and Alrhett behind the trunk of a large oak. 
They saw an old man, dressed in a dark cloak picking his way through the canopy of tangled trees. Yulenth was immediately relieved.
“Hallo there!” He cried to the old man. The hooded traveler made as to gesture defensively, but halted when he saw that it was two fellow humans.
“Yes?” He answered.
Yulenth and Alrhett made their way to him. “We seem to be lost. We’re trying to find the river,” Yulenth said to the man with flowing white hair, and kind eyes.
“Lost, eh?” The mage said. “A man as intelligent as you are?”
“What are you talking about?” Yulenth said. “Do I know you?”
“Who can say?” The mage answered. “But look around. What do you feel? Can you feel the trees talking to you?”
“Feel-?” Yulenth snorted. “I lost the direction of the morning sun. I thought that was east, so that should be south,” he said pointing.
“What troubles you?” The mage said to Alrhett, who started at his words.
“How did you-?”
“It’s plainly in your spirit,” the mage’s eyes twinkled. “Aren’t you happy to be home?”
But before Alrhett could answer, Yulenth exclaimed.
“The trees!” He cried. “They all have moss on one side. The shadier side. That must be north! To go south, we simply follow the trees!”
“Amazing,” the mage said shaking his head, “how his mind takes everything apart. But that’s why you love him.” He said to Alrhett. “You’ve always loved him. Even long ago when he came to the court as an emissary from Glaf.”
“How did you know that!?” Alrhett cried.
“I’m old. I remember it,” he said.
“This way!” Yulenth exclaimed. “I know this is the way to the river!”
“Well,” said the Mage, “I’m going west. May haps we’ll see each other again,” the mage said to Yulenth, but not Alrhett.
“Be strong,” he said to her. “Your people need your strength, now more than ever.”
Then, the mage continued away on a different path, as Yulenth pulled a wondering Alrhett in the new direction he had found.
As mid-day approached, Yulenth and Alrhett came upon an opening of brittle, dead bracken. As they made their way across the small meadow, nine startled crows burst up into the sky.
“What was that all about?” Yulenth mused to himself.
“They were saying something about-“ Alrhett stopped in mid-sentence as they came upon the fresh corpse of a dead man.
His body was sprawled, cut several times and oozing fresh blood. The dead man was elegantly dressed in the clothing of a noble of the court of the Weald.
“I know him,” Alrhett said in horror.
“Here,” Yulenth said, quickly handing Alrhett his sword. “Let’s see if there is any life left in him.” Yulenth bent down to see if he could save the poor man.
“It’s Argotine, a Lord of the Court,” Alrhett whispered.
A loud crunching behind them made Alrhett jump. An armed noble with several guards quickly approached.
“Stavolebe,” Alrhett breathed, recognizing the approaching noble dressed in the blue and green silks according to his rank.
“Hold!” The noble cried. He looked down at the corpse, then at the sword in Alrhett’s hand. “So,” Stavolebe said with a strange, happy disgust. “Our queen has returned to us to kill the Lords of the Court.”
“No,” Alrhett stammered.
“Take them,” Stavolebe imperiously said. The guards advanced and wrenched the sword and spear from her. Then, the guards bound Alrhett and Yulenth’s hands, and marched them off to Rogar Li to stand trial.
On the march, Stavolebe took the opportunity to torment Alrhett.
“The old man died less than a year after you left,” he sneered at her. “You needn’t have fled, after all.”
Alrhett looked straight ahead, and would not give him the satisfaction of an answer.
“Was your daughter with you?” Stavolebe probed. “Did we leave her back there alone in the Weald? Garonds are venturing into the forests now. Imagine that. Shall I send one of my guards back to fetch her? Is that what you wish?”
“I wish you’d shut your fly trap,” Yulenth mumbled.
Stavolebe eyed Yulenth with a cruel desire.
“Ah, yes. The Glaf ambassador,” the noble of the Weald said eyeing Yulenth.
“Your country no longer exists to give you immunity.” With that Stavolebe struck old Yulenth hard in the stomach.
“Stop that at once!” Alrhett cried. The guards instinctively came to a fearful halt and Stavolebe almost made to kneel before Alrhett, but caught himself and sneered.
“You have no more authority, Queen of the Weald,” He laughed a little laugh to himself. “And your foul murder of the Lord Argotine will seal your fate forever.”
Stavolebe aggressively waved at the guards and they resumed their march to Rogar Li in silence.
As they tramped through the Weald, Yulenth saw hidden archers in treetops, and sentries, well-disguised, even among the red and brown falling, autumn leaves. With its dark, labyrinthine timbers and hidden pathways, any garond that forayed into the Weald would surely be dead in a matter of moments. It was no wonder the wealdkin had yet to be attacked by Deifol Hroth’s armies.
Late in the day, the city of Rogar Li seemed to burst into view from its cover of the titanic elms and ancient oaks that enfolded it. Blending in with the most towering pines of all of Wealdland, Rogar Li was a terraced, wooden castle made right out of the forest. The houses and great halls in Rogar Li were planted over young trees when they were first built, and as the trees grew, they lifted the structures into the air with the strength of the tree, and the family. Walkways and ramps were built between the houses, so the lowest of structures interconnected to the loftiest, the high royal throne rooms, swaying at the treetops.
Alrhett and Yulenth were taken to a jail on the ground level, and held for the night, to meet the Great Judge of the Weald in the morning. 
Word had spread through Rogar Li of Alrhett’s arrival, and the curious, the angry and the hopeful milled outside the jail all night.
Alrhett and Yulenth silently held each other tight throughout that long and gloomy night.

The next sunny and cold morning, Yulenth woke to find Alrhett softly whispering to three little sparrows perched on the windowsill of their jail cell. The sparrows listened intently, hopped and twitched with excitement, then in a blink, they were gone, flying out into the Weald.
“What was that all about?” Yulenth sleepily asked.
“In the winter the squirrel must search everywhere to survive,” Alrhett said with a worried sigh.
“Oh,” Yulenth groaned, “your Weald adages drive me to distraction.”
A guard brought them a meager meal. And, in the late morning they were escorted through Rogar Li to the Great Judge’s chamber.
“Has anyone claimed the throne?” Yulenth asked one of the guards, as they ascended stairways and ramps to the higher parts of the city.
“We’re not supposed to talk to you,” the guard sullenly answered.
“No, all is in turmoil,” the other guard quickly answered. “Did you slay Lord Argotine?” He asked Alrhett with large, hurt eyes.
“No,” she gently said to the guard, “and I do not ask you to blindly believe me.”
“I thought you innocent the moment I heard the accusation,” the guard said with an angry pout.
Throngs of people lined the walkways to see Alrhett and murmur amongst themselves. Alrhett held her head high.
“Are the Lords of the Court still elected by the people?” Yulenth asked the sympathetic guard.
“Yes, but there is awful strife between the Lords,” the guard said. “All claim the throne and Summeninquis, the Great Judge, has taken advantage of this strife to gather power unto himself.”
“Well,” Yulenth said to both guards, “isn’t it interesting that Lord Stavolebe just happened to be there when Lord Argotine was killed. Tell me, were they in competition with each other for political power here in Rogar Li?”
“Many of the people have deduced this already,” the sullen guard said. “We need only for our Queen to prove her innocence, and tell us of her reasons for fleeing the capitol. Then, the people of the Weald will rise up with her.”
The guards shared an embarrassed look, then said nothing else the long ascent to the trial chamber.
The chamber of the Great Judge of the Weald was a long, wooden hall, with a high ceiling. The whole room gently swayed with the stronger winds that blew through the trees. There was room along the sides of the hall for galleries of citizens to watch proceedings, and they were packed to capacity.
The High Judge Summeninquis sat at a high bench flanked by three judges on each side.
“There’s that miserable judge who came to us from beyond the Far Grasslands,” Yulenth grumbled. “I can’t believe he’s still in power. What right does he have to pass judgment on the people of the Weald? And who are all these new judges? Why they look as though they could be his family!”
“Quiet,” one of the guards whispered. “Those are his family. All from his far away homeland, and all now important judges.”
“How do the people of the Weald stand for this!?” Yulenth angrily muttered.
“Not very well,” Alrhett said with satisfaction, surveying the galleries of citizens who waved and smiled at her with desperate affection.
“They still can pass the death warrant upon you,” the other guard whispered. “Be very, very careful.”
“Court is in session!” A bailiff cried, and the crush of spectators silenced.
“You stand accused of the foul murder of Lord Argotine, abandoning your throne for nefarious purposes, conspiring to kill all the Lords of the Courts, and thereby destroying the whole government, peace and life of the people of the Weald, Alrhett, former Queen,” Judge Summeninquis intoned with a weighty, deep voice. “How do you plead?”
Alrhett rose to her feet and looked the judge square in the eye.
“I am not guilty,” she said with regal dignity. The citizens in attendance nearly broke into applause, but Judge Summeninquis banged his gavel.
“Silence,” he said. “Yulenth, former ambassador of Glaf, and still a Glaf citizen, and so not bound by Weald law, there are no charges against you. If you will testify against Alrhett and reveal her guilt, you may go free this very instant.”
Yulenth cleared his throat. “I suppose,” he said, “you’d best keep me in jail, since I can tell you, with the honesty of a man of Glaf, and you know we are honor bound to tell the truth no matter how unpleasant, that this woman before you is innocent.” The crush of spectators exclaimed so strongly that the judge quickly called for the trial to be postponed until the next day.
“Your honor!” Alrhett cried. “I ask that I be allowed to move about Rogar Li without restriction since I will not leave the city, so eager am I to prove my innocence.’
“Yes, yes,” Summeninquis said as he, and the other judges made a hasty exit from the courtroom, with the whole gallery about to explode.
“Alrhett! Alrhett!” The people cheered and carried her and Yulenth out of the courtroom. Alrhett begged the crowd to set her down.
“Let us go about our everyday lives,” she said to the throng. “We are earnest to tell Our whole story, and for you to hear it. But, let there be no commotion, nor unrest. The people of the Weald have always prided themselves upon their intelligence and learning, so let us not behave as animals, even in troubled times.”
With that, the potentially unruly mob dispersed with glad slaps on the back for their returned queen, and angry glances in the direction of the Great Judge’s court.
The guards who had escorted Alrhett and Yulenth to the trial hall were also assigned to protect them, and keep them within the city limits.
Alrhett was allowed to return to her royal palace with Yulenth. It was dusty and unkempt. Much of the furniture and art objects had gone missing. But, it still had a bed and some chairs and tables.
“Seems rather expansive” Yulenth said, “specially empty like this.”
“I’d trade it all for my own bed with you in Bittel,” Alrhett said hugging Yulenth tight. “Listen,” she said gazing deep into his eyes, “if anything happens to me, flee for your life. They will not spare you for a moment without my protection.”
“Hmmph,” Yulenth said holding her tighter. “They’ll have to get through me first, so there’s no worry about that.” And then he kissed her. “And besides, you got those two to look after you,” Yulenth motioned to the two guards, who loyally stayed close to their every footstep. “I think they could fend off a pack of crazed doderns.”
“What are your names?” Alrhett asked the tall, youthful guards.
“I am Matclew, and this is my brother, Drepaw,” Matclew said with a deep bow, his dark brown hair flopping forward.
“Brothers,” Yulenth said with musing approval.
“Our home is your home,” Alrhett said to them. “Matclew,” she said, “go out and invite as many who will come, to eat their dinners here. We have nothing to offer. But We would like to tell the people of Our journeys, if they wish to hear of them.”
“Yes, My Queen,” Matclew said with another bow, and quickly left to spread the invitation.
Right away, the citizens of the Weald began to arrive at the royal palace with arms loaded with bread, fish, cured meats, nuts, fresh vegetables and pots of stew.
Alrhett respectfully took a small bit of every dish or food offered her, while Yulenth sat, happy in a corner, gorging himself on the continually growing pile of food brought to him. Alrhett stood to address the crowded room.
“My dear fellow wealdkin,” Alrhett began, “I have so missed you and my home.”
Yulenth was not astonished to see how easily her mantle of authority fell once again onto her shoulders. She seemed to grow an inch, stand straighter, and gave an air of security and strength that he had not seen in over a decade.
An elderly man in tattered clothes shuffled in with the crowd. He seemed nervous and quietly agitated. His eyes were restless and always downcast. Matclew and Drepaw watched him carefully. Assassinations were all too common among the political vipers of Rogar Li.
“I must start,” she continued, “with the terrible civil war of the Weald, which as you know, lasted ten years, took half our population, and strained forever our relations with the wealdkin of the Eaststand. Many of you were children, or too young to fight, but I’m certain you remember the terror and destruction. The civil war ended with a peace agreement between aged Ergester, the High Lord of the Eaststand and my husband, Bosruss, who, you were all told, lasted long enough to sign the peace agreement, before he succumbed to the injuries he sustained in the war. This was not true. My husband, your king was murdered and his signature forged.”
A shocked murmur rippled through the crowd. Alrhett waited for this to sink in.
“I do not suppose he was assassinated,” she went on, “for I was there when Ergester and his foul killers took my husband's life. He insisted on my daughter’s hand in marriage to consolidate his power. As you know she was barely nineteen years of age, against his more than eighty. I had to flee my friends. I had no choice. I found a small, hidden village in the Eastern Meadowlands. We have lived there in safe, happy seclusion for over sixteen years with my second husband, Yulenth.”
The elderly, tattered man, who still had a powerful frame, stood, tears streaming down his face. Matclew and Drepaw tensed ready to tackle him if he leapt forward. “I was one of the murderers who took your husband’s life,” he said. “My soul has been in torment ever since. I am glad to have life, only for this moment, to confirm your words, Great Queen.” With that, he stepped to a window, and threw himself out to his death, on the forest floor far below.
The shock of the wealdkin was replaced only a moment later by chattering and gossip.
“What of your daughter Wynnfrith?” A lord with an angry, red face asked, trying to quiet the murmuring throng.
“She married a sober, young man in my hidden village,” Alrhett answered. “They have a boy, fifteen years of age.”
Another shocked murmur ran through the crowd.
“An heir! An heir to the throne!” The crush of people muttered to each other in happy astonishment.
“But,” Alrhett held up her hand, “he is lost somewhere, possibly here in the Weald. He seeks a young woman stolen by the garonds.”
“We must find the heir! Find him!” A cry went up.
A gangly young man stood, and the crowd quieted in respect.
“I will use all the resources of the Messenger Guild to find him,” he said.
“I humbly thank you and the Guild, Hermergh,” Alrhett said.
The crush of people took turns thanking and greeting their Queen, then hurried out to spread the word.
Yulenth shook his head. His wife was so powerful, yet she was no tyrant, nor a despot. He loved her all the more.
The room refilled with another crowd, and Alrhett told her story all over. She did this four more times until guards from the High Court forbade her speaking anymore to the citizens of the Weald. But, the damage to the politics of the High Court was already done. Alrhett had spoken to her people, and the suicide of the assassin sealed her words as truth.
Matclew and Drepaw cleared the last well-wishers and bowing lords, and then positioned themselves at the only two entrances to the royal palace. That night Alrhett and Yulenth slept soundly for the first time in many nights.

The next morning, Alrhett and Yulenth woke to a great alarm. The city was abuzz with the news of a garond army massing on the south bank of the Bairn River. They were attempting to take the Three Bridges of Rogar Li. Every citizen was given arms and rushed out to defend the ancient bridges.
Yulenth readied himself to go, as well.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Alrhett asked.
“If they take the bridges, your trial and all of Rogar Li will be irrelevant,” Yulenth said with a huff.
“Then I will come with you,” Alrhett said.
“You are not to leave the city,” Yulenth said, looking over at her nervously shifting guards.
“If I do not go out,” she said loudly for the benefit of Matclew and Drepaw, “with the wealdkin, to fight for the Three Bridges, then I most assuredly will be abandoning my city.”
Matclew smiled at her logic, and the four of them rushed out and down, with the host of fearful citizens who were emptying the city, down to meet the garond army at the Three Bridges of Rogar Li on the southern side of the Bairn River.
Hundreds of humans from the capitol of the Weald rushed down through the towering trees to the open place where the River Bairn boiled in rapid turmoil. The sight was frightening.
Thousands of garonds swarmed on the south bank, bristling with spears and swords, black clad and bellowing war cries, their human slaves bringing weapons and supplies to the front lines. The late afternoon sun beat down on the vicious struggle playing out on all three bridges.
The Three Bridges of Rogar Li were old, erected in a bygone age when men had more skill and knowledge. They gracefully arced over the white, angry water and were covered in ornate, swirling designs, of gods and animals at play. The bridges were wide. Ten men could easily walk abreast, and this made holding even just one bridge vital.
Yulenth approached a captain of the Weald army.
“It looks bad,” Yulenth said. “If they take but one bridge, their numbers will spill onto our shore until they have all three.”
“If that happens,” the captain said, “then all the Weald is lost.”
Human archers on the northern shore peppered the garonds with arrows and supported the troops hacking at the heavily armored garonds trying to push their way across. 
As human or garond fell from the bridges into the water, evil fish, churning the river below, tore their bodies to pieces.
“Marowdowr!” Yulenth exclaimed.
On the south side, the garonds had no bow and arrows, but they did have a few machines which would launch large stones over the river into the human ranks, crushing with blood curdling screams.
“We have to destroy the bridges,” Yulenth called to the captain over the din of battle.
“My Queen?” The captain asked Alrhett.
“Yulenth is right,” she said. “It is better to destroy our beautiful bridges than lose all our lives.”
“But how can we do it?!” The captain yelled as another large missile struck close by. “If we destroy one they surely will focus all their efforts on the remaining bridges and take them. As they try to take all three, we have kept them at bay.”
Yulenth gnawed on his knuckle. His brain worked furiously.
“Have you any oil?” Yulenth shouted to the captain as an idea struck him. 
“Yes,” the captain said. “Mostly rendered oil, for lanterns-“
“Perfect!” Yulenth cried.
Then with hasty instructions, he and the captain gathered several men to spill as many barrels of oil as they could on their sides of all three bridges.
The oil made it very difficult for the humans to hold their places on the bridge. But, the brave and stalwart soldiers did their best.
The garonds felt the weariness of the humans and the growing strength of their numbers, and they pulled back to their side of the river to make a final rush. All was momentarily quiet.
“Now is our chance,” Yulenth whispered to himself. He turned to a battery of archers, and hissed, “On my signal, and only on my signal. All three bridges must burn together at the same time or all is lost.”
Yulenth made his way down to the middle bridge and yelled across to the garond warriors preparing for a massive onslaught that would almost certainly take all three of the Bridges of Rogar Li.
“We have had enough of your murders and violence!” Yulenth cried to the garonds on the other side. “This is our land and we will keep it! You vile beasts go back!” Yulenth raised his fist, and then aggressively dropped it. “Now!”
At his command, hundreds of arrows wrapped in oil soaked, flaming cloth struck all three bridges. The fire was immediate and explosive as the bridges were very dry.
The garonds rushed forward to try to put out the fire, but it was too late. The Three Bridges of Rogar Li burned like a harvest bonfire.
On one side the humans cheered, on the other, the garonds bellowed and snarled in rage.
The captain slapped Yulenth on the back. “Who would have thought of burning arrows,” the captain said in wonder. “Such a mind you have.”
“Yes,” said Yulenth. “But, now everyone will do it. Maybe not such a great idea for just anyone to employ. What I’d really like is to get a look at those stone throwing devices over there.”
“I’ll send the Messenger Guild to fetch you one,” the captain laughed, then turned to organize his archers to shoot as many garonds as tarried at the river’s south shore.
“The judge sends for you,” Matclew apologetically said to Alrhett. And, the four of them walked back to Rogar Li.
At the Great Hall of the Judges, Alrhett and Yulenth were ushered in. The hall was empty of spectators. The seven judges scowled down at the accused.
“Bring in Lord Stavolebe,” Judge Summeninquis intoned.
Stavolebe, flourished into the hall as though he were an actor playing an important part.
“Tell your account, Lord Stavolebe,” the Judge instructed.
Stavolebe cleared his throat, then spoke with an affected accent, “We found her with a sword and spear, standing over the freshly killed body of Lord Argotine, with whom you may recall, she had many ferocious disagreements.”
“Only the facts,” Summeninquis gravely said.
“Well,” Stavolebe said. “That is all. Except. The Glaf was robbing the body when we arrived.”
“A lie!” Yulenth cried.
“Silence!” Summeninquis somberly shifted. “You may be the hero of the moment, but I am not so sure the people of the Weald will be so enamored with you once they realize how difficult their lives will be without the bridges to cross the Bairn.”
“And what lives would those be left?!” Yulenth said in genuine astonishment. “Have you seen the humans the garonds have spared? Maybe some left for slave labor, possibly those who conspire with them-“
“I will not tolerate this!” Summeninquis boomed.
The hall was quiet, except for a whispering breeze that carried the smell of the burning bridges.
“Have you any defense?” The judge asked Alrhett.
“None that will satisfy you,” Alrhett said with dignity. “I am innocent. Lord Stavolebe has actually spoken the truth. But, I, nor Yulenth, did no violence to Lord Argotine.”
Outside, the murmur and rattling of the great doors could be heard as the people of Rogar Li tried to get in. Judge Summeninquis appeared agitated. His plan to try and sentence Alrhett and Yulenth in secret had been discovered. Now great loud knocks came on the door, and the sound of an angry mob could be heard from without.
“Court is adjourned until tomorrow!” Summeninquis banged his gavel as the doors burst open.
“I tried to hold them back, your honor!” Matclew cried with a satirical smile, as the judge and his cronies scurried out of the hall.
Alrhett and Yulenth were escorted by the crush of adoring citizens to the royal palace, which now was stuffed with humble furnishings, which the people of Rogar Li had brought to their Queen’s home.
“We may not have the people to protect us at all times,” Alrhett said to Yulenth. 
“Let us trust them,” he said holding her. “Now let us rest until tomorrow.”
Late that night, Alrhett woke with a start. She shook Yulenth who was loudly snoring in a deep sleep.
“Someone is in here,” she whispered. 
Yulenth shook himself awake.
“Matclew!” Alrhett whispered. Yulenth carefully rose from their bed. He peered into the gathered shadows of the cloud filled night.
“Hallo?” Yulenth quietly said as, suddenly, a cloaked figure leapt on him.
“Matclew!” Alrhett cried.
Yulenth held the cloaked man’s arm. A blade dully gleamed in his hand.
“Matclew!” Alrhett screamed, as Yulenth struggled with the assassin. Then, Yulenth smartly stomped on the intruder’s feet, causing him to cringe in pain.
Matclew and Drepaw burst into the room with lanterns and swords drawn. The assassin pushed Yulenth away and leapt out a window.
They rushed to the window to see him leaping from tree to tree, until he was out of sight.
“Are either of you hurt?!” Matclew said.
“No, thank god,” Yulenth wearily answered.
“I think it best if one of us stays here in the room,” Matclew said closing the window.
“I’ll guard the main door and seal up the other,” Drepaw said.
Matclew settled down on the wooden floor with his drawn sword by his side, despite Alrhett’s protests that he at least sleep on some pillows. Then, they all drifted off to a light, troubled sleep.

The next morning, word of the assassination attempt had spread among the people of Rogar Li, and angry, protective citizens loitered outside the palace with swords and spears.
Yulenth woke to find Alrhett softly whispering to a sparrow that excitedly twitched and hopped up and down on the window sill.
“I just don’t believe it,” he heard her say. “Well, tell them to keep looking.” The sparrow flew away in the blink of an eye.
“Marshaling the troops,” Yulenth said with a playful smile.
“Yes, I am, as a matter of fact,” Alrhett said with a mischievous smile, which left Yulenth puzzled.
“Matclew!” Alrhett called.
Matclew entered from the outer room, where he spent the morning after waking.
“Yes, My Queen,” he answered.
“Go tell the court I am ready,” she said. “And please ask the citizens of the Weald to be polite and well behaved. We cannot give those who conspire against me any cause.”
Matclew nodded and excused himself.
The morning dragged on without Matclew’s return. “Maybe we should just go up there,” Yulenth said to Alrhett. She thought for a moment, then nodded in agreement.
As they left with Drepaw faithfully by their side, a cluster of armed citizens attended them. Alrhett stopped them.
“Good people of the Weald,” she said. “We do not want to antagonize the court. Please go to your homes. We will be safe, in the plain light of day.”
The armed group muttered, but left for their homes. Alrhett, Yulenth and Drepaw continued on to the High Court. Yulenth suddenly became alarmingly aware of the lack of citizens going on about their daily business on the ramps and flattened branches of Rogar Li.
“Where is everybody?” He asked. No one had an answer.
At the doors of the High Court, Drepaw gained admittance to the court. After a few moments Drepaw returned.
“Please come with me,” he said to Alrhett. “You must remain out here,” he said to Yulenth.
“The nerve,” he huffed. Alrhett and Drepaw entered the massive carved wood doors.
Yulenth waited alone, without even guards posted outside the court. It seemed he was waiting for an eternity. He began to feel very uncomfortable. It was unnaturally quiet, and he thought of the assassination attempt the previous night.
“Hello,” the Mage said, suddenly at his elbow.
“Gaaah!” Yulenth jumped. “You’ll make a fellow’s heart burst, sneaking up like that!”
“I did no sneaking,” the Mage plainly said. “Listen to me most urgently, Yulenth. Your life, and your wife’s life, at this very instant, is in great danger.”
“Don’t I know it,” Yulenth muttered. “Where is everybody, anyway?”
“They’ve all been confined to their homes, so that the conspirators may work unhindered,” the Mage answered.
“Well then, I better get in there,” Yulenth proclaimed. “Help me with these doors.”
“Never mind the doors,” the Mage said with urgency. “Mind these,” he said pointing to a group of five masked men advancing with drawn swords.
Inside the court, Alrhett noticed Matclew standing, red faced and ashamed as though he had just been reprimanded. He looked side long at Alrhett as if to warn her, but remained fearfully silent.
Summeninquis and his six judges sat with arrogant authority at their high bench.
“You were not summoned to this court,” Summeninquis said with a deep, sneering voice.
“Yes,” Alrhett said. “And, I apologize for my brashness, but I am eager to clear my name.”
“The name, Alrhett, Queen of the Weald,” Summeninquis said, “is synonymous with ‘traitor’. Why if I want one of my brethren to know that I feel he has cheated me at cards I call him an “Alrhett”. If I want a merchant in the food stalls to know he has shorted me in my agreed upon purchase, I call him an “Alrhett”. If I see a mother woefully neglecting her child, unto the child’s endangerment, and I must remove that child from that mother’s care, unless that child dies due to her neglect, I call her an “Alrhett”!” Summeninquis rose in his anger. “You come when we call you. You stay if we do not. You are less than a citizen of the Weald, and you are fortunate to have the very life we allow you at this very instant!”
The silence after Summeninquis berating was deafening.
Alrhett regally rose. She looked the Great Judge of the Weald directly in the eye. Her face was pale with anger, and for a woman who had seen over fifty summers, she suddenly appeared as youthful and as beautiful as an avenging angel. Light seemed to stream from her very body.
“My name,” she said, “was given to me by my grandfather, then King of the Weald, and it means in the older tongue, ‘Great Strength’. I am a daughter of an age old line of Kings who stretch back to the times when elves numbered more than men, and honor was more precious than gold. I have not betrayed my name, my family, my title, or my people. I have, however, fled when outnumbered by evil, conspiring men, to protect my only child. I defy any parent to do differently! I grieved for my people and this beautiful land to leave them in the hands of arrogant, loathsome, wicked men like you. I have returned, and your days of power are over. And know this, Summeninquis, Great Judge of the Weald, Alrhett, Queen of the Weald, will NOT be spoken to with disrespect!”
With her last words, the very earth trembled with rage. The massive trees and the court violently swayed with the earthquake. From outside the court doors, a brilliant, blinding light flashed as they splintered into pieces. Yulenth and the Mage rushed through the debris with five armed, masked men behind them.
“Alert! Alert!” Yulenth cried. “Assassins after the Queen!”
Matclew and Drepaw drew their swords, and they were magnificent. They slashed, cut and parried, and quickly, amongst the wreckage of the Great Hall, five assassins lay dead in pools of their own blood. Matclew ripped the masks off their faces.
“Lord Faronrall, Lord Habannage!” Matclew exclaimed.
“Lords!” Drepaw exclaimed. “Every one of them.”
Summeninquis and his cronies crawled from their high bench and scurried out a secret door.
“We must make for the safety of your palace, My Queen,” Matclew cried.
“You will never make it alive,” the Mage breathed. “There are even more conspirators then these along the way.”
“What do you suggest?” Yulenth asked the Mage.
“There is a small house I know of nearby,” the Mage said with urgency. “We can hide there until, under the cloak of night, we can steal back into the royal palace. I shall try to marshal as many sympathetic men as I can.”
“Lead on,” Alrhett commanded.
The Mage led Alrhett, Yulenth, Matclew and Drepaw out and through the trees.
The damage to the city from the earthquake was astonishing. Some of the more towering trees had collapsed. Houses, halls and markets hung shattered between the broken limbs and ramps of Rogar Li. The citizens of the capitol were actually fortunate to have been confined to their homes, so the loss of life was less than it might have been. But the stillness of the city was eerie. The cries of those trapped or pinned echoed through the swaying trees.
“Here,” the Mage said, leading the group into a humble house carved into the knot of a rotund pine. “Do not answer the door under any circumstances. Wait until nightfall. I may not be able to return for you, so go when you feel you can.”
As soon as the Mage left, Yulenth could see through a crack in the curtains of the only window, fifty or more masked men charging up to the Great Judges Hall with swords drawn.
“It is as he has said,” Yulenth exhaled. “There are too many of them searching for you,” he said to Alrhett. Matclew and Drepaw took turns watching out the window, waiting for the night to fall.
All the rest of the day, the sounds of rescue, and the search for Alrhett resounded through the imprisoned city.
As night fell, restlessness settled on the fugitives.
“We will be safe behind the fortified doors of the palace,” Matclew said.
“It’s only a matter of time before they find us here,” Yulenth agreed. They searched the small house and found three winter cloaks, two black, and one bright blue.
“You take the blue one,” Yulenth said pulling it around Alrhett shoulders. “So we will be able to find you if we are separated.” Then he pulled the hood over her head.
“You two take the others,” Drepaw said, and Yulenth and Matclew pulled on the hooded cloaks.
“Quickly and silently,” Matclew said as he cracked the door open. Outside it was still and gloomy.
Matclew hid his drawn sword underneath his cloak, while Drepaw could not draw his for fear of revealing himself.
They stole out of the house onto the ruined runways of Rogar Li. It was dismayingly quiet, not even the night birds sang or rustled in the branches.
They made their way down a level. They had two more to descend, and a long stretch to arrive at the palace and safety. Alrhett thought she heard something and pulled at Matclew’s cloak. They all halted in fear. The limbs of the trees of the city swayed in the night breezes. The sky was covered with clouds, the city was so unsettlingly still. Very few lights burned in the windows of homes. The whole city seemed to be terrified and powerless.
“There she is!” a murderous voice boomed through the trees.
A roar of some seventy or more armed men went up. Alrhett, Yulenth, Matclew, and Drepaw ran for their lives.
“Watch her! There she goes!” The vicious cries rang through the still city, afraid to aid their queen.
“Quickly! This way!” Matclew cried.
Down broken ramps in the dark they fled. It seemed the men were on all sides of them. Drepaw pulled Yulenth down a ramp separating them from Alrhett and Matclew.
“No! No! That way!” Yulenth cried. But ten men were already on their heels. Up a ramp, Yulenth and Drepaw ran. Yulenth looked over the side and could see the black cloak of Matclew and the blue cloak of Alrhett fleeing down another way.
Yulenth leapt over a railing onto another causeway. Overhead, he heard Drepaw exclaim, then the clash of sword on sword rang out as Drepaw was overwhelmed and slain.
Alone, Yulenth ran through the blackened city, the fall wind whipping through the bare, snaking branches. 
“Get her!” A chorus of men yelled.
Yulenth looked over a bridge to see a group of killers surrounding the blue cloak on a wooden span below. Then, swords plunged in, again and again, blood splashed.
“NOOOO!” Yulenth cried in horror.
The Mage pulled at Yulenth.
“I can get you out “ The Mage cried, “but you must follow quickly!”
The old man was fast for his appearing age, and Yulenth had trouble keeping up as they ran down the levels of the city, masked killers running, searching for him in the inky blackness.
Yulenth’s mind raced in the darkness of the night. He was alone now. His wife was dead, foully assassinated. 


Chapter Fifteen

Yulenth

The night was black and blinding. There was no light from the evening heavens. Yulenth tried as best as he could to keep up with the old man, as he led him deeper into the tangled growth of the Weald, north away from Rogar Li.
Then, Yulenth had a thought. He had seen the assassins attacking a figure in a blue cloak, but he had not seen Alrhett’s face. She might have switched cloaks with Matclew. It was possible.
“Stop!” Yulenth cried, but the Mage kept running through the trees. Out of breath, Yulenth fell to the loam and moss of the forest floor, gasping.
Yulenth looked up to see the Mage disappearing into the cover of the massive oaks. Behind him, he could hear the shouts of men, and saw the glow of their torches. In horror, Yulenth rose and stumbled in the direction he saw the Mage disappear.
The branches caught at his face and clothes, they looked like ebony snakes curling all throughout the coal black woods. Yulenth tripped with every step. The Mage had led him directly into the most undeveloped, uninhabited part of the Weald. Yulenth stopped. He had no idea where he was. He was completely and utterly lost. He knew approximately the direction the men who wanted him dead were coming from. So he ran, through the darkened bramble, directly away from them.
“Where are you?” Yulenth hissed as loud as he thought safe. No answer came back. The Weald was silent, no owl hooted, nor insect buzzed, not even the night birds sang. It was pitch black, and quiet as a tomb. It was a killer’s night.
Yulenth thought he saw movement. He ran towards it. It was the Mage. Yulenth kept him in his sight, as they ran on further into the heart of the Weald.
“Wait! Wait!” Yulenth called to the Mage, who stopped for him. Yulenth, panting for breath, made his way to the Mage.
“I have to go back, she might be alive,” Yulenth cried.
“She most certainly is,” the Mage said.
Yulenth was puzzled. “Then lead me back.”
“I don’t know the way back,” the Mage simply said. “I know the way away. That’s easy.”
“They want to kill her!” Yulenth yelled at the Mage.
“On the contrary, my friend,” the Mage softly said. “It is your life they want.” Yulenth stared at the Mage in confusion. The Mage went on, “you see. They cannot kill her without causing a great revolt, unless she is found guilty in the High Court. Then, they most certainly will execute her. But, you are a witness to Lord Stavolebe’s murderous behavior, and so very dangerous to them. And you can keep her from being found guilty.”
“I don’t care if they try to kill me!” Yulenth cried. “I need to be there for her.”
“I disagree,” the Mage said. “You will be killed as quickly as you can set foot in Rogar Li, and without consequence to them, for you are not a citizen of the Weald, and so unprotected by their laws, unfair, I know. But then, what use will you be to anybody. No. You have things you must do elsewhere.”
“Who are you?” Yulenth suspiciously asked.
“I’m a Mage,” he answered honestly. “The last one. Magic is going from the world. For good. It’s returning to the Parent of us all. The beneficial magic will silently fade. The malevolent magic will not go so quietly, I’m afraid. The real question is whether life on this world can survive the transition.”
“I don’t believe in magic,” Yulenth said with a sniff.
“I know,” the Mage said. “Your mind is a marvel to me. What you do, how you see through a thing by turning it around and around until you understand every little thing, it is a kind of magic. A new magic. You don’t know it my friend, but you are going to change the whole world. It’s a privilege to meet you. In a sad kind of way. The last of me. The first of you.”
Yulenth looked around nervously thinking he heard the pursuing men, ignoring the ramblings of the old man.
“Did you know,” the Mage continued, “your magic will go, too. Something new will begin at the end of the seventh age. It’s like when something becomes so small it’s the largest thing in the universe.”
“What’s a universe?” Yulenth asked. “You talk in riddles.”
“Ha” the Mage said. “I suppose it’s written too deeply in my nature. Well, I must leave you. I must help a man cross a bridge, and then I am going to die.”
“Are you mad?” Yulenth asked.
“Of course,” the Mage laughed as if it was obvious. “I bid you farewell, Yulenth of Glaf. And, I hope your new world is better than my old one.”
Yulenth leaped back, as hundreds upon hundreds of insects began to swarm around the Mage. Then, night birds swept in and grabbed him as well. They all beat their wings with great effort. The Mage levitated in the air.
“Wait!” Yulenth cried. “Show me the way out!”
From his cloud, the Mage pointed. Billows of pollen swirled under the Mage lifting him higher. Then, three great cranes, with red crowns, swooped down, clutched his shoulders, and the Mage rapidly flew away over the towering treetops of the Weald.
Yulenth was bewildered. And, he was completely lost and alone. He knew that he was far from Rogar Li, far into the heart of the Weald. He knew there were men looking for him, looking to kill him.
The best thing, he thought, would be to find a safe place to sleep and then try to find his way back in the morning.
Yulenth pulled himself up onto the shoulders of a spreading oak, making his way as high up as he could.
“Let’s hope there’s no climbing beasties in these parts,” he muttered to himself as he quickly drifted off to sleep.

The early morning birds woke Yulenth from a deep sleep, just as Orth, the sun god, stretched his fingers across the clearing sky. Yulenth suddenly got the idea that if he climbed high enough, he might see Rogar Li.
He stretched his arms and legs with much cracking and risked climbing up to the swaying branches near the top. But, it was useless. The canopy of trees was too dense, even with many of them bare already, waiting for winter.
Ah, Yulenth thought, there was no rain last night. I should be able to follow my own tracks back.
Climbing down, Yulenth was surprised to find he couldn’t even find his own tracks leading up to the tree in which he spent the night. It was as if someone had brushed the forest floor clean in the darkness of the evening.
“He did it,” Yulenth mumbled to himself, meaning the Mage, who he thought had probably somehow swept clean all traces from the floor of the woods in the night to protect Yulenth.
“Okay, then,” Yulenth said to himself. He had determined, the day before, that moss seemed to grow on the northern side of the trees because it got less light, so he would simply go south back to Rogar Li. To his amazement and consternation he found no moss growing on any side of any of the trees in the dense tangle of interlocking trunks towering all around him.
“Right, then,” he said. “Sun rises in the east. I face the sun.” And he did. “Then south is on my right hand. Right.”
Then with assurance, Yulenth began picking his way through the Weald following the direction of his ‘right hand’.
After quite a while of tripping through the Weald, punctuated by the occasional screech from some distant wild animal, Yulenth decided he was very, very lost.
He sat down to rest for a moment, when he thought he heard the lowing of an auroch. It can’t be, he thought. Aurochs don’t go into the Weald, not even by mistake. Yulenth rose and carefully followed the contented mooing.
Auroch were large, brownish red cattle. Their massive horns, male and female, sprouted from their heads like spears. Aurochs were almost as large as stauers, but the male auroch was much more dangerous, being so territorial and confrontational.
Yulenth carefully found his way through the trees to a small clearing where a single, small house sat. Flowers, and a vegetable garden surrounded it. Two, fat and happy female aurochs were astoundingly tethered, and even more amazingly being milked by an old man.
A startled auroch can kill at will, so Yulenth walked very carefully towards the old man, circling around so as not to surprise him.
“Hello?” Yulenth quietly said.
The old man didn’t hear him and went on milking the aurochs.
“Hello?” Yulenth said a little louder and a little closer.
“Gaah!” The old man fell back in fear, his tin bucket of milk spilling. Yulenth braced for the fury of the aurochs, but they calmly stood and waited. The old man looked up.
“Yulenth?” He said.
Yulenth could not believe his eyes. “Solienth?” Yulenth said in wonder. It was a moment captured in glass. Neither believing the other was real, both thinking they were the last of the Glafs.
Then Solienth rose and laughing and crying threw his arms around Yulenth who was laughing and crying as well.
“I thought I was-“Solienth said and then was overcome with emotion.
“Me, too” Yulenth was barely able to get the words out.
They held each other and stared in wonder.
“Solienth, the last of the Glafs,” Solienth said to himself, “meet Yulenth, the last of the Glafs.” And then they both erupted into raucous laughter and danced a little dance together.
After they calmed down, Solienth invited Yulenth into his humble home for bread and a surprise.
“How do you make them stay so still?” Yulenth asked, looking out the window at the two aurochs.
“They’re happy,” was all Solienth said, and then he laid a cloth wrapped object on the table. “Open it,” Solienth prodded.
Yulenth unwrapped the object and found a strange, light orange cube. Yulenth poked it. It had the consistency of well cooked meat, but was cool and smelled different. It smelled nice, pungent, and almost sour. Solienth took a knife and cut a piece off. He offered it to Yulenth who looked at the piece of something in horror.
“What?” Solienth said sarcastically. “Am I going to poison you and become the only heir to the great Glaf Empire.”
Yulenth sniffed at the strange material in his hand. Solienth sighed in disappointment, reached over, broke the material in two, and popped his piece into his mouth. He ate his portion slowly and with delight.
Yulenth carefully put the weird material into his mouth. It was firm like wax. The taste was a bit like sour milk, but as he chewed the flavor became intensely pleasurable.
“It’s delicious!” Yulenth said in wonder.
“I make it from the milk of the aurochs,” Solienth said. “I call it cheese.”
“More!” Yulenth begged, as laughing, Solienth cut him another piece to go with his bread.
“Have you been out to the ruins?” Solienth said, suddenly somber.
“I haven’t been to Glafemen for over seventeen summers,” Yulenth said. “I wasn’t there for the siege. I’d like to keep it standing and unspoiled in my memories.”
“That’s it,” Solienth said rising with finality, “We must go there at once. We can make it before nightfall.”
“I must return to Rogar Li,” Yulenth said. “My wife is in great danger.”
“You’re married,” Solienth asked with mild surprise.
“Yes,” Yulenth said with embarrassment. “I married... Alrhett, the queen of the Weald.”
Solienth stared at Yulenth for a moment as if he wasn’t telling the truth, and then broke into gales of laughter.
“Really?” Solienth couldn’t stop laughing. Yulenth nodded. “Oh,” Solienth said, “that town is full of political vipers. She’ll be just fine, if she’s their queen.” Solienth stood, his back aching from his age. Then he looked at Yulenth with kind eyes. “Let’s go to Glafemen,” he said.
Yulenth thought of how the Mage had said Alrhett would be safe. The Mage was a strange and tricky person, but honest as far as Yulenth could see. Then, a feeling came over Yulenth, a feeling he couldn’t describe even until his last days. He could only describe it as magic. He knew for a certainty that Alrhett would not only survive, but he would see her sooner rather than later if he followed his old friend to Glafemen.
“All right,” Yulenth said rising with confidence, “let us go to Glafemen.”
The rest of the morning, Yulenth helped Solienth pack a few things, and at midday, both armed with spears, leading the two aurochs, they set out for the ruins of Glafemen to the north of the Weald.
Late in the afternoon, they came to a break in the trees, and meadowland rolled out as far at the eye could see.
“Very well, Weffie and Bekkie, you’re on your own,” Solienth said untying his two aurochs. The massive beasts stared at Solienth with big, dark, loving eyes.
“Come on,” Solienth said to Yulenth. “They’ll get distracted and forget all about me in an instant.”
They marched northward with the two domesticated aurochs faithfully trailing behind. As the sky began to darken, they saw the blackened and ruined spires of Glafemen on the horizon. Yulenth was frozen for a moment with emotion. Solienth put his arm around Yulenth’s shoulders.
“We’d best get there before nightfall,” Solienth gently said. “It’s not good to be out in the open like this for the night.”
They reached the ruins of Glafemen as a glow still lingered in the cloud filled sky. The encroaching night made the burnt and toppled spires of Glafemen look black as coal. All was eerily silent. There was a light breeze playing across the grass that had grown up all around the ruins. Herds of aurochs could be seen grazing all across the gentle plain that sloped away from the capitol of the Glafs. Yulenth’s throat tightened with emotion. His people were gone. The line of Glafs would die out with Solienth and him. They, neither one, had children. He considered Arnwylf his grandson, but his line was really from another. The ash of the great fires that had destroyed the city had solidified with age and rain into hard, black sediment. It was getting cold with the setting of the sun.
The sound of stones tumbling under foot made both Yulenth and Solienth whip their spears around to find a dark haired, dark eyed boy of about fifteen pointing his own spear in their direction.
“Get out of my city!” The boy cried with danger and pain in his voice.
“This is my city!” Yulenth cried back with pain and rage, advancing on the boy.
“Now, now,” Solienth tried to calm them. “Let’s be sensible.”
“I am Ronenth, the last of the Glafs,” the boy cried with building fury. “And I will defend my city to the death!”
“I am Yulenth, the last of the Glafs!” Yulenth cried advancing on the boy, filled with rage and tears streaming down his face. “Get out of my city or I will annihilate you!”
Both the boy and Yulenth were dangerously close.
“Will you two shut up!” Solienth slapped Yulenth, and pulled the spear out of the boy’s hands. The three of them regarded each other in the growing darkness of the night.
It seemed an eternity they stared at each other’s faces in painful wonder.
“I thought I was the last,” the boy said, choked with tears. And then the three embraced, crying.
After they had all calmed down, Solienth started a small fire and began to feed the boy, Ronenth, who seemed to have an insatiable appetite. Yulenth looked at the boy’s face in astonishment.
“You know,” he said to Solienth, “He looks just like you at that age.”
“I was thinking the same thing! But, that he looked like you!” Solienth laughed a hearty laugh. “Tell us, Ronenth, of your family and travels.”
“My family,” Ronenth began, “was of a low station. We saw the garonds swarm into our lands before we could get into the city. My mother took me and my brothers away right before the siege. We saw the garonds kill many, many Glafs. My mother and brothers later died of disease or starvation.”
The three stared quietly into the campfire.
“You may have been low of station,” Yulenth said, “but now you stand to inherit all of Glaf, Ronenth.”
Then, the three all told the stories of their lives up to the moment they met.
“There are so many things we must teach you,” Solienth said with a sigh. “Did either of your parents teach you to read or write?”
“I do not know,” Ronenth said, “I do not know what that is.”
Yulenth and Solienth shared a warm look.
“Writing,” Yulenth said, “is the great tradition of the Glafs. We are known all throughout Wealdland as the best writers and readers.” Then Yulenth was quiet. “There once was an impressive library here,” Yulenth said staring up at the blackened remains of his city.
“Let us get some sleep,” Solienth said, “and tomorrow school begins.”
“I am too excited to sleep,” Ronenth said with wonder. “I want school to start now.”
Yulenth scratched a symbol in the ash. “This,” he said, “is the letter for justice.”
Ronenth stared at it. And as Yulenth and Solienth made themselves comfortable for the night and fell quickly to sleep, Ronenth, mesmerized, stayed up late tracing the symbol over and over.

In the morning, Yulenth woke to find Solienth still snoring, but Ronenth was gone.
“Solienth,” Yulenth roused his friend. “Solienth!”
“Hmm?” Solienth opened his tired, old eyes.
“The boy is gone!”
Yulenth and Solienth quickly rose. Solienth rummaged through his gear.
“Ronenth!” Yulenth cried.
“Nothing’s missing,” Solienth said. “He didn’t rob us.”
“Ronenth!” Yulenth cried again, stumbling over burnt rocks, frantically trying to find the boy.
“Here I am!” Ronenth cried. His arms were full of packages and bolts of cloth.
“Look!” Solienth cried. “Glaf cloth!”
“I have tried to save everything of my people that I could,” Ronenth said with pride. Yulenth and Solienth looked through the meager treasures of a once great civilization now rescued by a dark eyed boy.
“And look!” Ronenth held up a leather bound book and flopped it open. “Writing!”
Yulenth scanned the book, then smiled and handed it to Solienth.
“Does it tell of the great adventures of the Glafs?” Ronenth asked.
“It’s a merchant’s list of inventory,” Solienth said with a sad, pained smile.
“Well,” Ronenth said with defensive pride, “we shall have to write all the books over again.”
“Look at this,” Yulenth said to Solienth running his hand over a stream of beautiful, pale blue cloth.
“It’s the color of our flag,” Solienth wistfully said.
“It’s the color of the Great Lake of Ettonne,” Ronenth said touching the cloth with reverence.
“It is why the men of the Northern Kingdom of Man mistakenly called us Ettonnes,” Yulenth ruefully said. “This color.”
Solienth looked out over the great grass plain spreading out before the ruins of Glafemen. It was dotted with herds of aurochs, horses, and a few doderns contentedly grazing.
“Over there,” Solienth gestured, “were hundreds of houses. Over there, a great market. Over there...” Solienth trailed off. Weffie and Bekkie shuffled up to Solienth, their udders full and leaking. Solienth sadly patted Weffie’s muzzle, then noticed some other wild, aurochs curiously grazing closer.
“Here I am,” Solienth said rising, reaching his hands out to the herd of calmly grazing animals, “the great general of cows.” Then he flopped down, put his face in his hands and wept.
Ronenth moved to comfort him, but Yulenth knew his old friend and gently diverted the boy from antagonizing the old general with sympathy.
The rest of the morning Yulenth taught Ronenth writing and reading. The dark haired boy was so eager to learn that Yulenth could barely teach him fast enough.
About midday, Solienth approached.
“I apologize for my selfishness,” Solienth said to Yulenth and Ronenth.
“It’s all right,” Ronenth said, but Yulenth caught him by his shoulder.
“Learn the ways of your people,” he whispered to the dark eyed boy. “So,” Yulenth squared off to Solienth, “you wish us to accept an apology for your self-pity, is that it?”
“I don’t need you to accept anything,” Solienth gruffly responded.
“Who do you think you are?” Yulenth challenged.
“I am who I am,” Solienth said with a sneer.
“Well, then,” Yulenth said with a huff.
“Well, then,” Solienth proudly said.
And then, they fell into each other’s arms laughing.
“I don’t understand,” Ronenth said scratching his head.
“A Glaf is strong,” Solienth said. “And can endure pain and abuse.”
“But, most of all” Yulenth said with a twinkle in his eye, “a Glaf must be able to laugh at himself, or he is no Glaf.”
Yulenth threw his arm around Solienth’s shoulders and gave him a hug.
“I was thinking,” Solienth said.
“Another Glaf curse” Yulenth butted in, “always thinking.”
“I was thinking,” Solienth continued, “about that battle at Rion Ta. With the garonds on the horses?”
“Yes,” Yulenth was guessing his thoughts. “The old stories tell of human warriors riding horses to battle.”
“We should be able to do that,” Solienth sniffed with pride.
“And even better than the garonds,” Yulenth also sniffed. “All the histories wrote that great armies of humans once rode upon horses. Why have we given up this very sensible practice?”
The three looked out at the field filled with grazing aurochs, doderns, and horses. Then Yulenth noticed something in the far distance, a column of soldiers.
“Look,” he said pointing.
“Are they man or garond?” Solienth squinted.
“We will defend our capitol to the death!” Ronenth puffed.
“Let’s just see,” Yulenth slowly said. “Yes, yes, they are men. Looks like they fly the colors of the Northern Kingdom, the golden sun on a field of red.”
“Shall we fight them?” Ronenth excitedly asked.
“Let’s talk first,” Solienth said. “But you, Ronenth, stay up in the ruins and fly if fighting starts. No objections.”
Ronenth grumbled, but did as Solienth said. Solienth and Yulenth then calmly waited, loosely holding their spears as the twenty or more soldiers of the Northern Kingdom of Man approached.
A captain hailed them. Solienth waved back.
“Close enough,” Yulenth called. “What do you want?”
“All armies are gathering at Tyny to fight the garonds!” The captain called back.
“You see before you, the last of the Glafs,” Yulenth called. “We may join you, but honestly, I feel no allegiance to you or your cause.”
The captain grimly paused.
“I respect your decision,” the captain called. “All men are needed. But, we will not compel you.” The captain turned to go, then stopped and turned back. “I know it is not for me to apologize for the great wrong done to your people by my people. But please accept the apology only I can personally extend. It was wrong to fight our brothers of the Skyld tribe. All know that now.”
“Yes,” Yulenth called back, “very convenient to say you’re sorry now that we’re all almost gone. Good luck with your battle.” Yulenth then waved the captain away with a dismissive gesture. “Off with you.”
The captain paused, and it seemed as if he were deciding if he should take offense. But then, he seemed to remember the Glaf way, shook his head, and continued marching south, with his men, across the grassy plain.
Solienth looked over at Yulenth as if he was impressed by his bravado. Then they both laughed together. Ronenth scurried down from his perch and pushed the older men, playing and laughing.
The rest of the day Yulenth taught Ronenth at a blistering pace, the young man seemed to be so thirsty for knowledge.
Solienth walked down onto the meadow and, with a rope, tried futilely to catch a horse. Yulenth and Ronenth took breaks occasionally to laugh at Solienth’s clumsy attempts.
Night fell, and Solienth tested Ronenth, as Yulenth prepared the evening meal. 
Solienth stopped testing and helped Yulenth.
“That boy is frightening,” Solienth said in a whisper.
“Yes,” Yulenth said. “And now, he is all that is left of Glaf. We must protect him with our very lives.”
“As if he was our son,” Solienth agreed.
The rest of the evening was spent with Yulenth and Solienth telling humorous and heroic stories of Glaf to the utterly rapt audience of Ronenth, until they all fell into a happy and deep sleep.

The next morning, Solienth was the schoolmaster. He taught Ronenth more advanced ideas of economics, trade and government. 
Yulenth took the rope and wandered out onto the plain.
“I can do no worse,” he said to himself. Yulenth made no overt attempt to rope a horse, but instead studied each animal carefully with scrutiny.
Late in the morning, Yulenth was surprised to turn and see a white horse with a black mane studying him with intelligence burning in its dark eyes. He pretended to ignore the young stallion and walked away. The horse curiously followed him.
Watching from the corner of his eye, Yulenth picked a clump of tasty grass and offered it to a nearby dodern. The massive animal shuffled away as Yulenth drew near. The horse followed Yulenth trying to see what he was doing.
Yulenth wandered away, keeping one eye on the white horse with the black mane. Yulenth pretended to be bored and offered the clump of sweet grass to an auroch who sniffed at it, but was too nervous to take it. The auroch bobbed its head, wanting the clump of grass Yulenth offered. The white horse crowded closer as if to push the auroch off.
Yulenth started to wander away again, but the white horse pushed Yulenth’s shoulder with his muzzle. Yulenth turned to survey the animal.
“What do you want?” Yulenth slyly asked. Then, he held out the grass for the horse as he stealthily put the rope around the horse’s neck.
“Now we’ll see,” Yulenth nervously muttered to himself. He gently pulled on the rope to lead the white horse to a deep green clump of grass and the horse complied.
“I’ll be bitten by bugs,” Yulenth exclaimed to himself, and patted the horse’s neck. “You need a name, friend.”
The white horse looked at Yulenth with happy eyes.
“Gladsir” Yulenth said, and the horse gleefully tossed his head. “You like that, eh. Okay, Gladsir, let’s see if you like this.”
Yulenth positioned himself carefully, and then hefted himself onto the horse’s back.
About midday, at the ruins, Solienth was explaining to Ronenth the need for nations to build avenues of trade for friendly relations, when Yulenth wildly galloped up on Gladsir.
“Hallo, citizens of Glaf!” Yulenth yelled, then whooped and wheeled the happy, prancing horse out onto the field.
“I’ll never hear the end of this,” Solienth sighed.
Ronenth looked up at Solienth with eager, pleading eyes.
“We might as well join him,” Solienth sighed again.
Ronenth let out a whoop and ran to join Yulenth, to see if he could catch a horse of his own.
In the field, Yulenth seemed as one with Gladsir. Ronenth ran back and forth, roughly trying to grab a horse, while Solienth walked up to the red mare he had been chasing all the day before. And, the silly animal simply let him hop up on her back.
“Hmmph,” Solienth grunted to the mare. “Not so coy today, are you?”
Ronenth was out of breath, and it seemed a tan foal wanted to be caught, but couldn’t trust itself. Then, Ronenth heard Solienth shouting something.
He looked up in the direction Solienth was pointing. Yulenth pulled Gladsir to a halt.
On the far edge of the meadow, a platoon of twenty horse garonds charged.
Solienth turned his mare and rode as fast as he could back to the ruins for the spears that had been left behind. Yulenth wheeled Gladsir. Ronenth was caught in the storm of animals beginning to stampede.
“Help!” Ronenth cried.
Yulenth urged Gladsir and the noble animal sprang forward towards Ronenth. Yulenth held out his hand and swung the boy up onto the horse behind him. Then, they sprinted for the ruins.
Solienth looked back, he could see the horse garonds were nearly on Yulenth and Ronenth astride Gladsir. He had no time to reach their spears. He wheeled the red mare and rode back as fast as he could.
The horse garonds were slavering and angry. They swung their clubs and swords in circles over their heads, eager for a chance to kill.
As Solienth rode back, several aurochs turned and charged before him. Solienth suddenly got an idea. He rode back and forth, keeping himself directly behind the stampeding, beasts with their vicious horns.
And just as he hoped, as he guided the beasts into the horse garonds, the aurochs bent their heads and with their long, deadly horns gored the horses and their garond riders.
“Use the aurochs!” Solienth bellowed to Yulenth who had several horse garonds surrounding him.
But, Yulenth saw what had just happened and was ahead of him. He turned Gladsir and slapped a passing bull auroch on the haunch, and the huge animal speared two garonds as it thrashed its mighty head.
Gladsir was magnificent. It was as if he was born to herd aurochs. The horse and Yulenth turned aurochs into the garonds again and again, and the garonds had no defense.
In moments, every garond was dead or mortally wounded.
Yulenth rode up to the ruins.
“Get off and hand me two spears,” Yulenth said to Ronenth.
After he had done as instructed, Ronenth tried to get back on Gladsir.
“You wait here,” Yulenth said to Ronenth, and then galloped away before he could protest.
Yulenth handed a spear to Solienth, and the two of them rode back and forth in the meadow to finish any garond still alive.
All the rest of the afternoon, Yulenth and Solienth spent dragging the garonds and gored horses into a pile and burned them. Ronenth watched from the ruins of Glafemen, holding his body, shaking.
Finally, the mess was cleaned up, and the Glafs prepared dinner in the closing dusk.
“They were tracking those soldiers of the Northern Kingdom,” Solienth said.
“Should we go to Tyny?” Yulenth asked Solienth.
“We probably shouldn’t stay here,” he answered. “And, if a big battle is coming, no place in Wealdland will be safe.”
“I need to be with my wife,” Yulenth said.
“What of the boy?” Solienth mused.
“Look,” Ronenth said, pointing out at the animals of the meadow.
Yulenth and Solienth looked out to see every animal of the meadow flat on the grass, theirs heads down in fear.
“What does it mean?” Ronenth asked.
Yulenth and Solienth had no answer. Then, from the night sky, a screeching came in awful waves. As they looked up, the Wanderer moved quickly in an unnatural way across the heavens.
“What in Yonne’s name is that!” Solienth cried.
“Into the ruins!” Yulenth cried.
The three huddled in fear watching the horrible spectacle from behind huge, blackened granite stones, as Deifol Hroth, from some distant place in the south, moved the Wanderer out of its orbit.



Chapter Sixteen

The Weald

“Switch cloaks with me!” Matclew said. “They’ve seen you in the blue cloak. Maybe I can draw them away.”
Alrhett and Matclew quickly traded cloaks.
“That ramp leads up to the royal palace,” Matclew said, pointing. “There are some stalwart supporters, defying the curfew, waiting for you. Wait until I have drawn them off, before you go.”
“Do not fight them,” Alrhett said. “Just run as fast as you can.”
Matclew nodded and then sprinted away.
“Get her!” A chorus of men cried.
Alrhett turned to see Matclew, in the blue cloak, surrounded by assassins. Their swords plunged into his body again and again.
Alrhett wanted to scream, but her throat was paralyzed with fear. It felt as though her feet wouldn’t move. Then, somehow, she could sense that she was running, but she felt completely numb. Her sense of sound was cushioned and muted. But, her sense of sight and smell became almost too acute.
Down a ramp, she could smell every animal or perfume, which had moved along the path. Every shadow was in sharp definition. She could see the gates of the palace, and several citizens huddled by the entrance.
“Open the doors! Open the doors!” She screamed.
The men rose as if completely befuddled. Then they scrambled to action and opened the massive oak doors. Alrhett could feel the vibrations of the assassins speeding down the wooden ramp right behind her. The men in front of her drew their swords and set themselves.
Alrhett ran through the entrance and could hear, immediately behind her, the clash of sword on sword, the shouts and curses of men fighting and dying. It seemed an eternity as Alrhett waited just inside the gate. Then, a soldier she knew, splattered with blood entered.
“They are all dead, my queen,” he said with exhaustion.
“Bring all the bodies in quickly, and bar the door,” Alrhett said.
Once her instructions were accomplished, messengers were sent to sympathetic households. As they went, the people of Rogar Li seemed to regain their courage, and awoke. Lights were lit, and the citizens began to gather outside the royal palace with riotous murmurs.
Matclew and Drepaw’s bodies were also brought in, with several other assassins they had slain in their attempt to make it to the palace. The outrage of the populace was growing. The assassins were unmasked and Alrhett allowed the citizens to enter and name them, as they filed past.
“Lord Nasinne and two of his vassals!”
“Lord Pidenco, his brother and two of their guards!”
And, many other high officials of Rogar Li were identified as base usurpers who had resorted to murder to further their aims.
An elderly woman entered and fell to her knees. “They should not be lying with these!” She cried.
“Who is this?” Alrhett asked.
“She is the mother of Drepaw and Matclew,” a soldier told her.
“Oh, my dear!” Alrhett exclaimed and ran to her side. She held the woman’s face and cried with her. “Please forgive me! Your sons have shown the greatest of love, not only for me, but for all of Rogar Li and the Weald!”
All were silent with respect.
“These two angels,” Alrhett stroked the hair of Matclew and Drepaw, “gave their very lives for the idea of the just rule of law here in the capitol. Honor their names as you would the great kings of old. Remove their bodies. Clean them, and set them aside, for We have dishonored them by allowing them to lie here with these vermin. If every man or woman would be willing to give all they have, as these two, unto their own lives, to see the safety and stability of our government, our peace, and the happiness of every child here in the Weald, then we would have a heaven here on earth.”
Alrhett sat and cried with Matclew and Drepaw’s mother as their bodies were removed with respect to be cleaned and dressed for their deserved honors.
“Tell me your name,” Alrhett asked.
“I am Meybonne,” she said. “And these,” she indicated two pale faced woman behind her, “were their wives, Prensy, and Kindoll.”
Alrhett felt the blood drain from her face as she beheld the two beautiful, young women who had just lost their noble husbands. Alrhett rose.
“We have been remiss,” she said. “We have left Our country and Our station to save my own life and the lives of my daughter and grandchild. We see now, Our life belongs to you, the people. We will not abandon you, even though my husband and grandson are missing. We will no longer be ruled by fear. I will carry only courage in my heart, and I will give it all to you, the people of the Weald.”
With that, Alrhett fainted. She was carried inside to her bedroom, as the outrage and anger of the people grew.

Alrhett slept all through the night and woke with the first rays of the morning sun. For a forgetful moment she was happy. Then she sat straight upright as the previous night’s infamy rushed into her mind.
“Has there been word of my husband, Yulenth!?” She cried to a guard standing silently in her room.
“He has not been... found,” the guard said, then he excused himself from the room.
Meybonne, Prensy, and Kindoll quietly entered, and helped Alrhett bathe and dress.
“I can never repay what your sons, your husbands, have given me,” Alrhett said to the women.
“You can, by ridding our land of the vipers that run it,” Prensy said.
“It is why they chose to do what they did,” Kindoll added.
“The court has already called for you,” Meybonne said.
“Good,” Alrhett said with determination. “I will begin repaying my debt immediately. Prensy, I need for you to ask the Master of the Library to join us at the court this morning.”
Prensy curtsied and left on her errand.
As Alrhett made her way to the court, a grim phalanx of armed citizens of over a hundred surrounded her on all sides. And she made no effort or speech to calm or control them.
The crowd had grown by three times as they reached the court. All was ominously quiet. Alrhett was admitted, and no attempt was made to keep the citizens, who were silent and fiery eyed, from filling the spectator's stands.
The judges quietly filed into the court room and took their seats at the raised bench.
The Lords of Rogar Li arrived and rudely pushed their way into the better seats in the galleries on either side of the great wooden hall. Some waved at Alrhett with friendliness while others glared with icy stares.
“Order, order,” Summeninquis solemnly intoned as he slowly banged his gavel. “This court is in session. We are here to try former queen Alrhett for the murder of Lord Argotine.”
The great hall was as silent as a tomb.
“Although our previous sessions were fraught with emotionality,” the judge continued, “we will see justice done here, without prejudice or sympathy.”
The judge’s backhanded apology received another chilly silence.
“Very well,” he said. “We will continue with the presentation of evidence. Hmmm. The Glaf isn’t present. Did he not wish to attend?”
“My husband, Yulenth of Glaf, is missing,” was all that Alrhett said.
“I’m very sorry,” Summeninquis said without emotion. “But we must continue without him. His brief and unspecific testimony was entered into the record anyway. Now, if there is no further inquiry-“
“I have several witnesses I wish to examine,” Alrhett interrupted.
“But, I thought,” Summeninquis stammered. “I thought we-“
Summeninquis took in the deadly, frozen faces glaring at him in the galleries.
“Of course,” he backpedaled, “every line of evidence must be followed. Please proceed. But know,” he paused for effect, “that all charges and testimony will be challenged.”
“Thank you,” Alrhett said. “May I please call the Master of the Library.”
A puzzled buzz ran through the crowd.
A bent over, elderly man with large, white, bushy eyebrows entered weakly clutching Prensy’s arm.
He was led to a chair placed in the center of the hall, facing the judges.
Alrhett rose and walked to him.
“You are the Master of the Library?” Alrhett asked in officious tones.
“Of course you know it’s me, my dear Alrhett,” the Master of the Library said with affection. “Why I haven’t seen you pouring over stories of the heroics of the elder Kings for some time. Where have you been?”
“Please,” Alrhett said with kindness. “We are in court. State your name for the court, please.”
“Oh,” the Master said suddenly straightening up in his chair. Then with a wink he said, “sorry, my queen.” Then he cleared his throat and with a very serious face said, “I am Nostacarr, Master of the Library of the great city Rogar Li, capitol of the Blessed Weald.”
The crushing crowd pleasantly murmured at his patriotism.
“As Master of the Library, Nostacarr, you are responsible for the recording of history, not only of the Weald, but also Wealdland in general?” Alrhett probed.
“Yes, yes,” Nostacarr said. “All history. Why did you know the king of the Madrun Hills was here just over seven days ago? He was begging for help and protection from the Weald. You see, it seems-“
“Please just answer the questions as they are put to you, Master,” Alrhett kindly said to stop the old man from rambling.
“Hmm? Oh. Of course. Sorry,” Nostacarr said, then smiled.
“In that history, Nostacarr, has the royalty or even the Lords of the Weald ever, and I repeat ever, resorted to black magic?”
“Black magic, hmm,” Nostacarr thought. “There have been some accusations which were later discredited.”
“Actual proven instances, please,” Alrhett urged.
“No,” the Master of the Library searched his great intellect. “As, a matter of record, I can state under oath, that there has been no instance of magic used by any wealdkin for centuries.”
“But there is magic in use today?” Alrhett continued.
“Magic?” Nostacarr seemed to perk up. “Oh yes. There’s that unspeakable fellow the messenger guild has been following around.”
“Deifol Hroth?”
“Yes, him,” Nostacarr rubbed his tired old legs. “And the elves...”
“The elves,” Alrhett seemed to hit on a thread she wanted. “Tell us of the elves.”
“Well,” the old man said, “as we know, they are all gone, killed by that miserable garond army. But they definitely used magic on a daily basis.”
“For evil?” Alrhett asked.
“Evil?!” The old man chortled. “An elf could do no evil magic if you held a sword to its throat. It’s not in their nature. Tied too closely to the earth. Black magic is unnatural, unearthly. That’s right.”
“What are some of the good, or earthly magical things you know, for certain, in your records, that the elves could do?” Alrhett examined.
“Well,” Nostacarr rubbed his grizzled face, “we know that they move exceedingly fast. Sometimes faster than the human eye can follow. Don’t know rightly if that’s magic, could just be that they’re fast,” he chuckled. “They have eyesight and hearing better than any human, again that might be a simple physical attribute. I don’t see-“
“Please think,” Alrhett urged.
“Oh, oh,” the old man perked up. “They talk to animals as plain as you or I talk to one another. That must be magical.”
“Animal speak/hear?”
“That’s what it’s called,” Nostacarr said with pleasure. “They have the ability-“
Suddenly, an out of breath young man broke into the courtroom, “The guild, the messenger guild!” He cried.
The whole court was astir.
A lanky, dust covered young man strode into the court.
“If it pleases the court,” the young man bowed, “all the Lords are here, so...”
“If it is urgent news,” Summeninquis boomed, “then out with it.”
“There was a great battle in the Madrun Hills,” the messenger said. “Thousands upon thousands of garonds attacked the town of Plymonley, where every Madronite had gathered. It was certain doom for these humans.”
“And we denied help to their king!” A voice cried from the gallery.
“But,” the messenger held up his hand. “A great victory for Madrun. An archer from Kipleth performed a miracle and slew a great number of the garonds. The garond army returned in defeat to their camp in Harvestley.”
A murmur of panic and worry rippled through the crowd.
“There’s more,” the messenger said, “There’s more!” The crowd quieted. “The general of the garond army, Ravensdred, offers a treaty of peace to the Weald, and a promise to not attack or molest her people, if they but refrain from aiding or interfering with his dispute with the armies of Reia and her allies.”
“Impossible!” A voice cried out.
“We must join Reia!” Another citizen cried.
“No! The Weald for the Weald!” Another voice yelled. Then all was tumult as Summeninquis banged his gavel.
“We rest for today!” Summeninquis hollered above the confusion. “We will continue tomorrow!” And then, the judges filed out of the courtroom.
Ushered safely back to the palace, Alrhett was surrounded on all sides by Lords who now took her side, and begged for, or against, joining the armies at Tyny. Finally she could stand no more and had the room cleared, except for Meybonne, Prensy, and Kindoll.
“Does every session of court end in such confusion?” Alrhett asked Meybonne.
“It seems in these days, confusion is normality,” Meybonne sadly said.
“Stralain, the captain of the army wishes to speak to you,” Prensy said from the front door.
“Present him,” Alrhett said.
Stralain, the captain who led the forces at the siege of the Three Bridges of Rogar Li entered and swept in with a respectful bow. He was tall and muscular. And he led with a daring courage, making him much beloved by the wealdkin. “My queen,” he said, “I have found no trace of Yulenth, I am sad to report.”
“Thank you,” was all that Alrhett quietly said.
“My queen,” Stralain carefully continued with a twinkle in his eye, “if you command the army, we will obey.”
“The bravery and loyalty of the armies of the Weald are beyond measure,” Alrhett kindly said. The captain bowed low and excused himself.
“More and more,” Meybonne softly said, “the wealdkin look to you for leadership.”
“I cannot lead them,” Alrhett said, “until I have completely cleared my name, and wriggled free of the grasp of that judge.” The women agreed with their silence. 
The rest of the day was spent admitting Lords, captains, and officials who all tried to win political favor with Alrhett. By the end of the day, she was exhausted, although the capitol still hummed with the frightful news of the looming war.
Late that night Meybonne woke with the sound of Alrhett’s voice. She heard her say, “Good, good, make sure every one of them attends.”
Meybonne entered the chamber to find Alrhett alone, standing in her room.
“Yes?” Alrhett asked.
“I heard voices,” Meybonne said.
“All is well,” Alrhett said. “Return to sleep.” 
Meybonne returned to her cot just outside the queen’s chamber, and stared up into the darkness, filled with questions, fearing her queen was losing her sanity.

In the morning, Alrhett was filled with nervous energy. Her new friends noticed and they knew she was worried about her trial. The morning languished into the afternoon without the judges calling for court to begin. 
“They are calling for a general gathering,” Kindoll entering said.
“What about my trial?” Alrhett asked.
“There has been no call for the trial to resume,” she answered.
The women went together to a large open area at the very bottom of the city. This was where the messenger guild usually delivered news that would be of general interest to every citizen of Rogar Li. The spacious area was surrounded on all sides by massive trees, the very supports of the city. It was dark, as little sunlight got through the houses and halls in the treetops overhead. In the common area, here on the ground, the poor set up humble shops along the edges of the square.
When Alrhett and her friends arrived, the darkened square was already choked with the citizens of Rogar Li. Alrhett recognized Summeninquis and his judges in a reserved space, and every other Lord and official was in attendance.
“This is why court is not in session,” Meybonne said.
“It must be grave news,” Prensy agreed.
A lanky, young man of the messenger guild stood up on a platform so he could be heard and seen by the throng. The mass of people quieted.
“As you all know,” the messenger began, “we have been watching carefully the movements of the garond army in Wealdland.”
“Spying, he means” Kindoll whispered, and was quickly hushed.
“We have reported on the slaughter last year, in Lanis of the elf population, to their very extinction. We have reported on the ruin of both Glafemen and Ethgeow. Just yesterday, the Madronites fended off an advance by the garond army, but all her people have left the Madrun Hills for the western lands. And, you may have heard that an army of all nations of humans is being gathered at Tyny to make war on the garond army being led by a garond called Ravensdred.”
“Dark times,” Alrhett breathed to herself.
“Haerreth, son of Healfdene, king of the Green Hills of Reia, respectfully asks the armies and people of the Weald to join him, and all the humans left in Wealdland, to fight the garond menace.”
A long silence followed.
“A formal request,” Alrhett worriedly whispered to Meybonne, who just shook her head.
“The Weald for the Weald!” A voice cried.
And then a pandemonium of dissent went up on all sides.
The messenger raised his hands to try to quiet the people of Rogar Li, and finally they respected his gesture.
“There is some last, other news from the messenger guild,” the young man said. “Our sources tell us that the garond force in Harvestley has doubled in size the last two days. And that, Deifol Hroth will arrive in Wealdland tonight, to lead his army.”
The news stunned the audience. The people quietly left for their homes with an ominous, worrisome gloom hanging over all the inhabitants of the city.
A soldier respectfully approached Alrhett. “Great Judge Summeninquis wishes to reconvene immediately,” he said.
“Good, tell him I will attend directly,” Alrhett told him.
Once again the great hall of the judges was full of spectators, but a quiet dread hung over the people with the recent, fearful news.
“Court is in session.” Summeninquis banged his gavel. “Do you wish,” he asked Alrhett, “to continue examining the Master of the Library?”
“If it pleases the court,” she answered.
The Master of the Library was seated and Alrhett rose to continue questioning him.
“Nostacarr,” Alrhett said, “we were discussing animal speak/hear.”
“Ah, yes,” the old man scratched his ear. “Animal speak/hear is known to have been a trait of the elves. The elfish people could converse with any animal as easily as you or I speak to one another.”
“Do any humans possess this ability?” She asked.
“There is no record of it,” he answered.
“If an elf and a human were to have a child, might that child have that ability?” Alrhett asked.
“I suppose,” Nostacarr mused.
“Would this be considered a black, or evil magic?” Alrhett asked.
“Oh heavens no!” Nostacarr smiled. “It would be a blessing.”
“Is there any record of an elf and a human becoming husband and wife?” Alrhett asked leaning forward.
“Ah!” Nostacarr’s eyes sparkled. “Now we come to my area of expertise. Yes. In the three hundredth and forty second year of the fourth age, immediately following the Great Elf Human War, Garrethent, the two hundredth and fifty sixth King of the Weald took to wife Whinnappalle, a princess of Lanis. This name and location suggests she was an elf. Many scholars have disputed this. However, the record does not clearly say she was not.”
Then the enormity of the line of questioning dawned on the clever old man.
“You are saying,” Nostacarr, the Master of the Library said, “that Whinnappalle WAS an elf and you possess, through your royal heritage, the power of animal speak/hear.”
The great hall was shocked into silence.
“I wish to call my eye witnesses,” Alrhett cried to Summeninquis.
Then she turned to old Nostacarr. “Thank you,” she quietly said with a smile and a pat on his bony shoulder.
“Open the doors!” Alrhett cried. And on cue, Prensy and Kindoll heaved open the massive doors of the great hall.
In flapped eight, black crows, which then settled, wings beating, all about the witness chair.
“Where is the ninth?” Alrhett asked. “Are you out there?” Alrhett boomed to the open doors. A ninth crow, with embarrassment, hopped into the chamber, squawked apologies and settled with his brethren.
“You were witness to the slaying of the man in the meadow, is that correct?” Alrhett asked the crows, who began all loudly croaking at once.
“Please, please,” Alrhett held up her hands. “One at a time.”
The nine crows then croaked a single caw, one after another to the astonishment of the gathered audience.
“Please speak up if you saw me doing any violence to that man,” Alrhett instructed the black feathered witnesses. The crows continually preened and fidgeted, but none cawed.
“Do you see,” Alrhett swept her hand over the crowd, “here in this room, the one who slew that man, whom we called Lord Argotine?”
The crows began to excitedly caw and croak, flapping and bowing.
“Go to him,” she said. The nine crows flew up with fury and flapped around Lord Stavolebe, who slunk into his seat.
“It was self-defense!” Stavolebe cried swatting at the crows.
“Thank you, no further questions,” Alrhett called to the crows. The large black birds circled the court room, and then sailed out the great doors.
“I wish to examine Lord Stavolebe!” Alrhett cried to Summeninquis.
Stavolebe sat in the witness chair.
“You just said,” Alrhett pressed, “or insinuated, that you killed Lord Argotine in self-defense.”
Stavolebe squirmed and said nothing.
“In your first testimony,” Alrhett continued, “you never said that I slew Argotine, but that you discovered me with a sword in my hand, which was true, was it not?”
“I did not lie,” Stavolebe sunk lower in the witness chair.
“And the robbery,” she went on, “was merely a supposition on your part.”
“Yes,” Stavolebe squeaked.
“I have other witnesses,” Alrhett turned to the judge. “A pack of timber wolves saw what happened. However, they will not come into the city. We must go to them. But,” Alrhett paused to look squarely at Stavolebe, whose sweat was running down his silk blouse, “I cannot be responsible for the wolves behavior if they see Lord Stavolebe, for they abhor murder above all else, and may tear him to pieces.”
“He drew first!” Stavolebe screamed. “He drew his sword, and I defended myself!”
“With ten of your guards nearby,” Alrhett smiled. “Perhaps he drew first, because he saw your treachery in luring him out to the woods to be slaughtered. Perhaps some of your guards will testify against you to save their own necks.”
Stavolebe began to cry into his hands. “I never meant to slay him,” Stavolebe lied.
“Your honor,” Alrhett said, “I ask the charges against me be dismissed.”
The court was filled with tension. The sound of the grinding of teeth was almost audible. Summeninquis’ eyes rubbed around the room at the pale, angry faces.
“Charges dismissed,” Summeninquis banged his gavel.
The galleries exploded with joy. The lords and soldiers lifted Alrhett onto their shoulders, as the people cheered. In the tumult, Summeninquis and his cronies once again saw that it was prudent to make an exit, before the crowd turned on them.
“My people,” Alrhett said, “my friends, my kin, if you will have me, I will be your queen once more.” The shouts of approval were deafening. The whole city erupted in a great festival of happiness and joy.
Meybonne caught Alrhett by the shoulder. “Did you really have some wolves out in the Weald to testify for you?”
“Lord Stavolebe believed it,” Alrhett said with a wink.
Feasting, drinking and music rang throughout the towers of Rogar Li, all the rest of the day.
As night fell, a great flash of lightning caught everyone off guard and stilled the festivities.
“What was that?” Meybonne said in fear.
“I think,” Alrhett solemnly said, “the Lord of Lightning has entered Wealdland. Tell the people of the capitol we will have a great, proper feast tomorrow. Tonight I wish to speak to every captain of the army, individually.”
The rest of the night, Alrhett, at the palace, interviewed captains as to their readiness and strength.

The next morning, Rogar Li was readied for an official celebration. Garlands of autumnal flowers and bows of evergreens were hung throughout the city. At the palace, furniture, easily identifiable as royal, suddenly turned up at the front door in the morning.
“Has Lord Stavolebe been found?” Alrhett asked Meybonne.
“All his house is missing,” she replied, “every vassal and servant.”
“We will not let his escape ruin this day,” Alrhett said. The air was filled with the smell of baking. The harvest had been brought in only a month earlier, so savory and sweet breads of all types were readied.
In the late afternoon, a messenger of the guild was admitted. “They have burned the bridge across the Holmwy River at Alfhich,” was all he said.
“Who did? Why?” Alrhett asked.
“It is not known,” the messenger replied. “But, all the people of Alfhich and refugees on the eastern side of the Holmwy are now traveling north to cross at Tyny. But, even there is trouble, for the men of Reia control the bridge and will let no one cross to the west.”
“Why would they do that?” Meybonne asked in wonder.
“The general of Reia, Haerreth, has all his troops crossing from the west to the Eastern Meadowlands,” the messenger replied.
“He means to compel all to fight, if they want to or not,” Alrhett said with a frown.
On the messenger’s heels another appeared. “Great Queen of the Weald,” he said, “Deifol Hroth is in Wealdland and it is believed he is headed for Lanis and the elvish city, Lanis Rhyl Landemiriam. The messenger who was following him was badly burned and died of his injuries moments after he relayed his report.”
“Thank you,” Alrhett said, dismissing the messengers. “I must see all the captains of the military again at once,” Alrhett said to Prensy, who curtsied and then hurried out.
About mid-day, the festivities began in the capitol, with music and dancing. High above, in the palace, Alrhett met with Stralain, and thirty military captains.
“Our choice is clear,” she told them. “We cannot sit by, thinking we are safe and well here in the Weald. The question is, do we pursue Deifol Hroth in Lanis, do we join Haerreth in Tyny, or do we wait to surprise the garond army from behind in the Eastern Meadowland. I am not inclined towards the latter venture, as I believe, from reports, that the garond army is strong enough to fight a flanking army with ease. I think the human armies stand the best chance, united in their strength. Haerreth of Reia may be eager for battle, but I do not think he is so wrong in his course.”
Alrhett paused, then continued, “Also, I do not believe this Ravensdred for one instant, so his offer of peace should be rejected outright, as the lie it most assuredly is.”
The captains each gave their opinions, but no consensus was reached. Alrhett thanked them all, then she prepared to attend the feast.
The ramps and wooden walkways of Rogar Li were jammed with merry, colorfully dressed citizens happy to have their queen once more among them.
The dancing, music, and contests of strength and skill continued into the evening, when Alrhett was to be symbolically recrowned.
As the night darkened, Summeninquis, with a sour face, officiated over the coronation. As he held her crown aloft, the smaller moon moved out of its orbit with a terrifying noise. All the citizens of Rogar Li screamed and fled to their houses. The armies were organized and sentries alerted for any imminent attack. All was quiet the rest of the night.

In the early, dark part of dawn, a soldier pounded at the doors of the palace.
“Come at once!” He cried.
Alrhett and her friends gathered themselves and followed. The soldier led them down to the Bairn River, where in the still bright moonlight of Nunee, the mother moon, near the burnt ruins of the Three Bridges, they could see many hundreds of garonds busily moving about in the darkness of the southern shore. Their cauldrons of fire and weapons of war were being moved about in silence.
“What are they doing?” Alrhett asked Stralain.
“We’re not sure,” he said. “We don’t think they have boats. They can’t swim. They can’t possibly be trying to build a bridge.”
Alrhett turned to the trees at the edge of the Weald. “Hello?” She called. “Is anybody there? I need some help.”
Two, dark brown, night birds swept down from the trees to land on her outstretched hand.
“Please go across the river and tell me what you see,” she told them. “No detail is unimportant.”
The dark birds both nodded their heads and winged away into the night. The stillness of the evening was unnerving. The garonds busied themselves with a quietness that was fearful.
The two birds swept back to Alrhett loudly chirping.
“Are you sure?” She asked. “Thank you, tell all your friends immediately,” she said to the birds. Then she turned to the captain, and said with urgency, “Stralain, everyone must flee Rogar Li at once.”
“But why?” The captain asked.
Before she could answer, hundreds upon hundreds of flaming arrows spurted across the still black, dawn sky, from the southern shore, into the dry, dry trees of the Weald.


Chapter Seventeen

From the Weald to Tyny

The flames swept into the trees of the forest with a supernatural fury. All that Alrhett, the captain, and the soldiers on the north bank could do was run for the city.
“Alarm! Alarm!” A soldier cried. Sentries, who banged on metal gongs, sending the klaxon throughout the city, answered his call.
“Evacuate!” The call went up. The sleepy citizens of Rogar Li were perplexed, rubbing their eyes with waking queries. But the billows of smoke flying in from the south shocked everyone into action.
“To the west!” Alrhett cried. “Leave all possessions! Make sure you have all your children and elderly! Flee with only your lives!”
Alrhett ran for the Great Library with the Stralain close on her heels. She banged on the great, ornate doors of the library.
No answer came.
“Break it down,” she ordered the captain and his soldiers. They put their shoulders into it, and knocked the door down on their second try. Alrhett ran to the back chamber where the Nostacarr was sound asleep amidst the tumult. Alrhett shook the Master of the Library awake.
“What, what?” He sputtered.
“Take two books each,” she ordered the Stralain and the soldiers. “Whatever he wants, but only two books each. Then leave immediately. Do not tarry!”
Alrhett ran from the library to the palace as fast as she could. She met Meybonne, Prensy, and Kindoll at the front gates.
“Are there any others inside?” Alrhett cried.
“No,” Meybonne answered.
“Come with me,” Alrhett led the women down to the library where the soldiers, in defiance of her orders, were holding armfuls of books.
“Grab two books only,” she cried to the women, who quickly clutched the nearest books. “Now, out! Out of the city!” Alrhett said as she pushed the Master of the Library out onto the ramps of the city. The city was emptying at a good pace. The citizens of Rogar Li trotted as fast as they could in an orderly way.
Alrhett moved with the great crush of people as the smoke thickened in massive brown billows. “Don’t push!” She cried. The flames could be seen moving quickly in the tops of the distant trees.
“Keep moving west!” Alrhett ordered. “But don’t go down to the river, the garonds will be waiting there with archers.”
“The garonds have archers now?” A citizen moaned.
“Keep moving!” Alrhett said. “Parents watch your children.”
As the people moved farther away from the city it became easier to move quickly through the forest.
“Look!” A citizen cried.
Alrhett looked back to see massive houses and halls falling in flames. Rogar Li was destroyed.
“Don’t look back again!” Alrhett ordered. “The flames may catch us yet.” The thousands of people were organized on the run by the army, and a count was made.
“I cannot be absolutely certain,” Stralain reported to Alrhett as they trotted to the west. “But it seems all the citizens of Rogar Li have been accounted for.”
“If no souls were lost,” Alrhett mused, “then it will have been a miracle.”
“But, we have very little food,” the captain frowned, “and no one was able to open the armory before the fire reached the city.”
“It seems,” Alrhett said with soberness, “that we will join Haerreth in Tyny after all.” The Weald was dry and the fire raged all morning long. The fire was ever on the people’s backs, and the smoke poured through the woods. Frightened animals bolted every which way in the tangles of the timberland.
“Will it never stop?” Meybonne said with fear.
“The Weald has needed rain for many years,” Prensy said as they jogged for their lives.
“And the snow is late,” Kindoll said with worry.
“We will be safe if we can just reach the Eastern Meadowland,” Alrhett reassured.
Alrhett motioned Stralain near. “Have all able soldiers carry children or the elderly,” Alrhett said. “We may move quicker.” The captain saluted and jogged away to spread the order.
The great fire seemed to be spreading north faster than to the west, so the smoke began to diminish. The dawn was breaking through the hazy trees. The people had soot smeared faces, and were weary and terrified. Children were too stunned to cry, as soldiers, their arms painfully aching, heroically carried the little ones.
Moving farther west, Alrhett saw Nostacarr, the old Master of the Library being carried on the captain’s back. Alrhett winked and smiled at him to keep his spirits up. He stared back with a blank, disbelieving face.
At Rion Ta, the small town at the edge of the Weald, four garonds miserably sat in the town square. They all had arms and were in a nasty mood, spoiling for a fight.
The garond facing east rose with a satisfied smile. His companions roared with delight for they knew he had spotted a human coming out of the Weald.
Then, from the Weald, came all the humans who lived in the forest. The garonds stood in dumbfounded shock as the fifty humans became a hundred, and in an instant became several hundred. The garonds started to turn to run, but it was too late. Thirty, boiling angry wealdkin soldiers descended before the garonds could get beyond the edge of Rion Ta. They were soon hacked to pieces.
“Wait! Wait!” Alrhett called. But the garonds were already slaughtered. “It would have been good,” Alrhett said, “to have gathered what information they held.” The captain of the army glared at the over eager soldiers.
“Rion Ta” Alrhett said. “It has been barely seven days since I was last here. Captain, organize the people. Make sure no one was left behind. Feed the children with what we have.”
The captain saluted, and ordered his men. Alrhett looked out across the meadowland. It was only half a day to Tyny, but the wealdkin would be exposed out in the open fields. And, they were poorly armed. Behind them, the Weald was a billowing tower of brown smoke.
“Rogar Li and the kingdom of the Weald is gone,” Meybonne said as she sat in the dust of Rion Ta. Her daughters comforted her.
Alrhett looked all around at the thousands of people of Rogar Li and its neighboring towns, huddled together, covered in soot. Despair began to settle on the wealdkin. The tears and cries began to run through the people like a wild fire.
Alrhett rose in fury. “Stop it!” She boomed. “Stop your tears immediately!”
A calm fell on the citizens as they turned their tear stained, dirty faces to their queen.
“We are brokenhearted to have lost Rogar Li,” she said plainly, looking out into the sea of eyes. “But, do you think that city stood, majestically, where it stood, a thousand years ago? Somebody thought, here, here I will build.”
Alrhett paused to gather herself.
“We will never let go of that spirit, the spirit of the first of the wealdkin. They said ‘build’, and we will, by all the gods above, we will build again.” The people looked up, and their faces were all beautiful like little children.
“It will not be the Rogar Li that we knew,” Alrhett said, standing tall and proud like a lioness. “But, we will return and build a Rogar Li to rival the old city. It will have all the beauty of the former city, but all the promise of the future.”
The citizens of the Weald were all crying, not out of despair, but crying for the hope they held onto with all their might.
“Let us go to Tyny,” Alrhett plainly said, and then she turned to walk west. The people rose and followed her.

In western Tyny, about mid-day, Kellabald huddled in fear. He moved among the great crowd of soldiers making their way across the bridge, over to the Eastern Meadowland. He carried the Mattear Gram wrapped in a cloth. He had been able to evade the men of Kipleth, and Apghilis and his army in the mists of the night. 
He mingled in with the hundreds of soldiers milling, ready to cross over the Holmwy River. It would only be a matter of time before he was discovered. The soldiers were mostly the men of Reia, but there were very many from the Northern Kingdom of Man. He wasn’t sure what would happen if he simply asked someone to lead him to Healfdene, the king. Would they take the sword? Could anyone be trusted? Kellabald was hungry and tired, and didn’t know what to do.
The strange sign in the sky troubled him. How could Apghilis have known that the smaller moon would move out of its path in the night sky? Unless, he was consorting with whomever had done this terrible thing. The event was all the talk of the soldiers. Many said it was the work of the great Lord of Lightning, Deifol Hroth. Kellabald’s heart was very troubled. He had seen Apghilis working with the garonds at Bittel. It must be true. How else could he have known? Had Apghilis sold his very soul to this devil incarnate? For what? Power?
“Watch where you’re walking friend.”
Kellabald caught himself as he nearly stepped into a soldier’s campfire. The soldier caught Kellabald as he tripped.
“Ha, ha,” a soldier with a large black mustache said. “You’re worried about your little woman at home, aren’t you, friend?”
Kellabald simply nodded his head.
“Where’s your platoon? Who are your men?” He asked.
“I am originally from Reia,” Kellabald truthfully answered.
“Oh,” the soldier said pulling at his mustache. “No wonder you’re lost. These are all men of Man,” the soldier said using the short name.
“I am Forgrebbe,” he said extending his hand. “I’m really of no tribe. My family lives out in the Middle Wastes.”
“I am Kellabald,” he said, accepting his handshake.
“Eat,” Forgrebbe said. “You look hungry. A hungry soldier is a lousy soldier,” he laughed.
Kellabald ate a small plate of a stew made with some waterfowl. It was delicious.
“You have a sword,” Forgrebbe said, trying to take a peek at Kellabald’s bundle.
“It’s nothing,” Kellabald said clutching it to his chest.
“You should let me sharpen it,” Forgrebbe said. “A dull sword may lose you your life.”
A great noise went up as hundreds of men of Kipleth arrived.
“The archers of Kipleth,” Forgrebbe frowned. “The combined army thinks that they will be the great difference in the coming battle.”
“You do not think so?”
“If the garond army is a large as they whisper,” Forgrebbe said stretching, “we will have to kill fifty garonds each. Hmmph. Well, I’d best check with my commanders. Watch my camp for me, will you Kellabald?”
Kellabald nodded. He felt some measure of safety with Forgrebbe. He would ask him about the king of Reia, and how he could find him, when he returned. The soldiers of Kipleth kept pouring into western Tyny until they outnumbered any other army. There seemed to be a buzz amongst the soldiers, but Kellabald was too nervous to leave the little camp to find out what was the news. He feared, greatly, the news would be about him and the Mattear Gram.
“Healfdene is here!” A soldier cried. Kellabald’s head snapped up as a murmur went through the whole garrison.
In the middle of the camp, a platoon of brightly armored soldiers marched, flying the flag of the Green Hills of Reia, a white wolf on a field of bright green. In their midst a robust, older man with a red and white beard, dressed in golden armor, a head taller, happily marched towards the bridge over the Holmwy.
“Healfdene. Healfdene!” Kellabald cried, but the mass of soldiers shouted and pressed him on all sides. The parade was past and over the bridge in a matter of moments.
Kellabald looked all about for Forgrebbe. He didn’t like leaving his new friend’s camp unattended, but he had to catch Healfdene and give him the sword.
“Did you see him?” Forgrebbe called as he approached.
“I must speak to him at once!” Kellabald said. “Thank you for your hospitality, but I must leave.”
Forgrebbe whipped out his sword and held it before Kellabald. “You are not leaving for anywhere,” Forgrebbe said.
Kellabald was puzzled for a moment, but then he saw Apghilis and a platoon of men following behind Forgrebbe. Kellabald felt the Mattear Gram leap from the cloth, and into his hand.
“Run”, he heard it clearly say. Kellabald parried Forgrebbe’s sword with a mighty blow, and then Kellabald turned to run.
“The Mattear Gram!” A soldier who recognized the sword exclaimed.
Kellabald ran through the camp towards the bridge. He would not strike any soldier. It would be murder. The men clutched at him on all sides.
A large group of archers from Kipleth gathered at the foot of the bridge, ready to cross. Kellabald ran right into their midst. The Kipleth men grabbed Kellabald and held him tight. They tried to wrest the sword from his hand, but it was if the sword was part of him, and they could not.
Apghilis strode up. “Somebody run him through,” he said.
A soldier of the Kingdom of Man drew his sword, which was a mistake as the Kipleth men also drew their swords in response. All Apghilis’ men drew their swords, but they were surrounded by hundreds of soldiers from Kipleth with swords at the ready.
“He is a thief, kill him!” Apghilis commanded.
“Sheath your swords!” A dark voice cried behind Kellabald. The Archer and the elf stood beside him.
“Take your hands off of that man, and beg his forgiveness,” the Archer said. Then, the Archer grasped Kellabald’s hand in friendship. “I ask your forgiveness, my friend Kellabald,” he said, “as I am sure the men who once followed me into battle will, as well.” The men of Kipleth were stunned.
“Our general lives!” A soldier cried.
All slowly bowed, or offered their weapons to the Archer, who quietly acknowledged their fealty with a raised hand. 
Apghilis looked around at the multitude of awe struck Kipleth soldiers. “I will take my case to Healfdene,” the cowardly Apghilis huffed, and pushed his way onto the bridge to cross the Holmwy.
“I am so, so happy to see you, alive and well,” the Archer said to Kellabald with a warm smile. 
“You once commanded all these men?” Kellabald asked the Archer, looking around at the hundreds of soldiers who looked at the Archer with adoration, wonder and tears in their eyes.
“Men of Kipleth,” the Archer said, “will you help me avenge the destruction of our land?”
The answering roar was deafening.

As dusk was falling, the people of the Weald began to arrive at Tyny. The meadowland was full of wealdkin, hungry and covered in soot, walking out of the tall grass like dusky ghosts. A huge brown cloud covered half the sky on the horizon behind them. The day was dark with the massive amount of ash overhead. The setting sun and streaming clouds in the west were all blood red.
Alrhett, at the head of the nation of the Weald, carrying a small child, approached an armed sentry at the outskirts of the military camps gathering in eastern Tyny.
“I am Alrhett, queen of the Weald,” she wearily said to the sentry. “Please direct me to whoever is in charge.”
The sentry, mouth agape, suddenly saluted, and said, “Follow me, please, your Highness.”
As the wealdkin streamed into Tyny, they were met with compassion and food. The story of the great fire spread throughout the camps of soldiers.
Alrhett was brought to the center of Tyny, two humble houses, which had become the center of the gathering human army. Alrhett and her army captain were presented to Healfdene and Haerreth.
“Your Majesty,” Alrhett extended a hand.
“Alrhett,” Healfdene said with a big grin. “It has been much too long. Look how your hair has turned white.” And, then he affectionately hugged her.
“And look,” Alrhett said, “how large and handsome your son, the prince has become.” Haerreth actually blushed a deep red to match his ginger beard. Then he laughed a soft laugh.
“Where is your sister?” Alrhett asked.
Hetwing, a shy young woman, with light brown hair waved from a doorway of one of the houses.
“The Weald was set afire?” Healfdene said with wonder, shaking his head.
“All you knew of the Weald kingdom is lost,” Alrhett quietly said. “All we own now is our lives.”
“That is the most important thing,” Healfdene said with compassion. “Come and eat and drink. There are some here I think you should meet.”
Healfdene led Alrhett to one of the small houses and Wynnfrith, Halldora, Arnwylf and Frea emerged. They fell into each other’s arms with kisses, tears and laughter.
“We never knew the king and queen of the Northern Kingdom of Man lived among us,” Wynnfrith said stroking Halldora’s hair.
“We never knew the queen and princess of the Weald were our hosts,” Halldora said with a grin.
Then Halldora took Wynnfrith by the arm and whispered to her.
“What if our children should marry?” Halldora giggled to Wynnfrith.
“The princess of the Kingdom of Man married to the prince of the Weald,” Wynnfrith quietly laughed. “Why their nation would comprise the whole east of Wealdland.” Then Wynnfrith was quiet. “I remember little of my father before he was assassinated. He was always in court, or fighting the Eaststand. I never wanted this life for my poor, beautiful son,” she whispered to Halldora.
“I also thought,” Halldora quietly said with sudden soberness, “that my little girl would be spared the vicious intrigue of royal politics.”
“Oh, let me hold them,” Alrhett said with a happy pain as she grabbed Arnwylf and Frea, each in an arm, and hugged them as tight as she could.
“Don’t you ever run off like that again,” Alrhett said to Arnwylf kissing his face, and staring into his eyes. Arnwylf averted his eyes in embarrassment.
“Come into the house and eat,” Haerreth invited Alrhett.
“I must make sure all my people are safe and comfortable first,” Alrhett said with a matronly smile.
Healfdene smiled to hear this. “Learn son, how your people should ever be foremost in your thoughts. Learn from a great queen.”
“I will help you,” Haerreth said with eagerness. “No wealdkin shall want tonight.”
“Come meet our people,” Alrhett said as she took Arnwylf’s hand. They wandered out among the refugees who were being welcomed and fed by the soldiers already camped in the Eastern Meadowland.
The wealdkin were grateful and thankful as Alrhett moved among them. And, as Alrhett made sure all were safe, she introduced Arnwylf and showed him off like a proud grandmother should. The people of the Weald were over the moon to meet the new prince, and they adored him. Arnwylf was astonished at the praise and admiration, and more than a little annoyed.
“Why are they so strange,” Arnwylf unhappily whispered to Alrhett.
“You give them hope,” she whispered back. She turned to look deep into his eyes and smiled.
“Arnwylf,” Alrhett said, “I never wanted you to know, and hoped you’d live a simple, honest life. But you are descended of royalty, and now unfortunately, your life no longer belongs to only you. Your life belongs primarily to the citizens of the Weald.” Arnwylf frowned, but kept his thoughts to himself.
After a tour of the camp, after the last of the wealdkin straggled in from the Eastern Meadowland, Alrhett and Arnwylf returned to Tyny as night was falling. 
In the small town, the high officials and captains met to hear the words of a mud splattered young man of the messenger guild.
“The garond army is on the march,” he said. “They move as a great black mass south of the Bairn River. They kill and devour everything in their path.”
“How many of them are there?” Haerreth asked.
“We count them at more than two hundred thousand.”
A worried murmur rippled through the men.
“We currently number less than fifty thousand,” Healfdene grimly said.
“There are hundreds of garonds on horses,” the young man went on. “And they have many machines of wood which can hurl large stones great distances.”
“We felt the brunt of those,” the captain of the Weald said with a nod.
“And,” the messenger paused, “they have hundreds of archers.”
“What!?” A captain yelled in surprise.
“They don’t use bow and arrow!”
“Then the flaming arrows of the Weald were true!”
“Quiet,” Healfdene held up his hands. “Quiet! Let him finish!” All worriedly quieted to hear the rest of the report.
“We estimate that the army will be in the Eastern Meadowland in two days,” the messenger darkly said. “That is all.”
“All right,” Healfdene said. “We don’t know if they’ll attack immediately, but we have an idea of how soon we may have to go to war. Organize and prepare all your troops. The rest of the armies on the other side of the Holmwy should be here by tomorrow midday. As soon as the last of the soldiers are across, we will evacuate all children and those too elderly to fight. That evacuation may happen as the battle rages, so let every human be resolute in their duties.”
A soldier trotted up to Healfdene and whispered in his ear. Healfdene walked over to Alrhett. “Bring your family,” he said and led them away.
They all followed the soldier to the foot of the bridge over the Holmwy River. A group of soldiers surrounded the Archer, the elf and Kellabald.
Wynnfrith ran to her husband and threw her arms around his neck. She kissed and kissed him. Arnwylf hugged his father and tried not to cry.
“I have something for you,” Kellabald said to Healfdene.
“So I understand,” the king of Reia said. “This way.” Healfdene led the group into one of the small houses of Tyny. Inside, Kellabald unwrapped the sword and held it out for Healfdene.
“The Mattear Gram,” Kellabald said, offering the brilliant sword.
“Amazing,” Healfdene said, but made no movement to touch the sword.
“Take it, father,” Haerreth said with joy. But, the old king restrained his son.
“Rest tonight, brave Kellabald,” Healfdene softly said. “A great meeting of all the leaders of the nations will be held tomorrow. Would you please offer the sword then?”
“Ah ha!” Haerreth laughed. “Then all captains and royalty will see the sword of leadership offered properly.”
“Your exuberance,” Healfdene sighed, “will be the end of you, son.” Then, Haerreth looked down in his red faced embarrassment.
“You are of Reia, are you not?” Healfdene asked Kellabald.
“Yes, your majesty,” Kellabald replied with respect.
“You were of the house of Konedene?”
“Yes, your majesty, how did you know?”
“I should hope I’m not so old I wouldn’t recognize a nephew,” the old king smiled. Then Haerreth looked at his cousin with bright eyes.
“I renounced my name and family long ago,” Kellabald quietly said.
“Yes,” Healfdene mused. “It was that business with the Cult of Hapaun.”
“Yes, I-“
“You will be happy to know, when their dark sacrifices were found in the light of day, I arrested and tried all of them for murder,” Healfdene said searching Kellabald for a reaction, “even your father.”
Kellabald was silent with shame.
“Let us leave the past in the past,” Healfdene said as he put a sympathetic hand on Kellabald’s shoulder.
“Tonight, use this house, eat and rest, friends,” Healfdene said, and with a pleasant smile, left with his son.
The rest of the night was quiet happiness as the residents of Bittel, the Archer, and the elf ate and told the stories of what had befallen them since their separation.
“All we lack are Haergill and Yulenth,” Kellabald softly said as they sat around the fire.
“My husband would be happy to see his wishes fulfilled,” Halldora said with misty eyes. Wynnfrith held her tight.
“He was a great king,” Kellabald said. “But more importantly, simply a good man.”
“But what of Yulenth?” Wynnfrith asked.
“I know not if he is alive or dead,” Alrhett said holding back her tears.
“It’s something,” Kellabald said, “How we all were drawn to Bittel. And how we all have played parts, were drawn apart, and now we are, almost all of us, together again.”
“The Water of Life,” the elf plainly said.
“What is that?” Frea asked.
“The elves don’t believe in coincidence,” the elf sleepily said. “Life is like water. It separates. It is diverted. But it always comes back together again.”
“The Water of Life,” Arnwylf said staring into the dying fire.


Chapter Eighteen

The War Council

Arnwylf woke with the fog of the early morning. He left his sleeping family and friends to explore a part of the Eastern Meadowland he had never seen before. Frea silently crept out of the house and joined Arnwylf. Neither spoke a word. They picked their way through the soldier’s camps, down towards the shore of the Holmwy River.
Frea quietly put her hand into his, and he didn’t pull away. She felt as if she could sense every part of Arnwylf walking next to her. Without looking, she could almost feel his face and the new, perpetual scowl he now wore. She closed her eyes, and she could feel his hair softly moving with the light, morning breeze. She thought she could even feel his heart beating. His fingers were cold and calloused. She felt his new strength with every movement of his body. Frea felt closer to Arnwylf than ever before, as they walked towards the river. 
They picked their way through the soldiers of various nations, some asleep at their camp fires, all others watching to the east with weary eyes for signs of the garond army. A dull frost covered every piece of metal or leather. The soldiers all looked like they were already ghosts of themselves.
At the river, the trees were now all bare, blackened twigs reaching in every direction. Mounds of leaves smoldered in the early morning. Arnwylf and Frea sat down next to the river, which was swirling with plates of thin, transparent ice.
Arnwylf threw a leaf into the water and watched it spin down the stream like a helpless boat against a relentless tide.
Frea smiled. She remembered this game, and threw a leaf in as well, watching it float downstream. They looked at each other, and for a moment the children returned.
They each grabbed a sturdy leaf.
“Ready?” Arnwylf said, and Frea nodded her head.
They both threw their leaves into the softly gurgling, wide Holmwy River. The leaf boats raced each other in the current.
Arnwylf and Frea jumped up to watch their leaf boats race.
“Come on, Come on!” Arnwylf cheered.
“Beat him, you can do it!” Frea laughed.
Frea gently put her hand on Arnwylf’s arm to steady herself on the river’s bank. The leaf boats twirled out of sight. They both looked out at the rippling brown and gray of the Holmwy.
Arnwylf turned to Frea. They were very close together. 
She stared into his wide, green eyes. Arnwylf stared back into the pale, pale blue of Frea’s eyes and wondered what it would be like to kiss her. He felt himself drawn to her, as though he had no control. Somehow, deep within him, Arnwylf knew he and Frea were always meant for each other. He could feel her trembling, either from the cold, or his nearness. He could feel the warmth of her body and slowly pulled her closer to him.
She was trembling under the soft clasp of his hands on her arms. She could feel his breath on her lips. She could feel his strong, lanky body close to hers. She slowly closed her eyes.
Then, a sudden sound in the trees made them recoil.
“What was that?” Frea whispered.
“Stay behind me,” Arnwylf said looking for a branch big enough to wield as a club.
Then, from the brush Conniker crawled, whimpering.
“Oh, my brother!” Arnwylf cried, running to him.
“He looks half dead,” Frea said. 
Arnwylf gave the dirty, mangy wolf a great hug, and Conniker grunted with pleasure, licking Arnwylf’s face.
“Come on,” Arnwylf said, and he gently pulled the white wolf along by its matted mane. The soldiers who spied the limping wolf with the boy all sprang up, but Arnwylf stopped them with an up raised hand.
“He is my brother,” Arnwylf reassured. They brought Conniker to the house in Tyny and gave him leftover meat and milk. The wolf slowly and humbly ate with grateful, yellow eyes. Wynnfrith rebandaged Conniker’s tail. Alrhett spoke with the wolf, and then she told Arnwylf the tale of his adventures since he left Alrhett and Yulenth to battle the great black beast in the Weald. All stared in amazement at the courage and strength of the white wolf. Oblivious to his heroism, Conniker happily licked Arnwylf’s hand, and then rolled on his back to have his belly scratched.
The rest of the morning was spent preparing and organizing as more and more soldiers streamed over the Holmwy Bridge.

At midday, Healfdene called a great council. Every king, queen, general and captain gathered before a quickly erected platform. Thousands gathered in an orderly crush in the humble village of Tyny.
Haerreth calmed the worried chatter of the crowd. “Great human leaders,” he began, “now is the time to unite and bring the strength of our tribes together.”
“Why do you run this meeting?” A captain from the Northern Kingdom of Man yelled. “Your lands have not been decimated as ours have!”
“The Kingdom of Man has been no ally to any tribe here!” A madronite accused.
“Reia has sat safely behind the Flume of Rith and now they propose to take the leadership for all humans!?”
“We must not fight amongst ourselves!” A wealdkin captain bellowed.
“Now the Weald speaks up!” The captain of Man pointed. “You’re as bad as these cowards from Reia!”
“You’re one to speak, after driving your own brothers, the Glafs to extinction!”
“The business of the Skylds is the business of the Skylds, and the affair of no other tribe!”
The gathering degenerated into a contest of shouting and red faced accusations of blame.
“Silence! Silence!” Kellabald futilely called from behind Haerreth. Kellabald could think of no other recourse than to reveal the Mattear Gram. He carefully unwrapped the sword, and as he held the blade aloft, it caught the afternoon sun and burst into a brilliant, blinding beacon. The force of the light was humbling to all present.
“Will you all just be quiet and listen!” Kellabald boomed to the stunned group. It was so still you could hear a stauer call from far away.
“I was given this sword, the Mattear Gram by Haergill,” Kellabald said, shaking. “I did not know at the time he was the King of the Northern Kingdom of Man. When he lived in my village, he was simply my friend. He instructed me, with his final words, to bring this sword to Healfdene, to unite the tribes of humanity against the garond threat.” No other person spoke.
Healfdene slowly climbed onto the platform, and stood before Kellabald.
“King Healfdene,” Kellabald humbly said, “the Mattear Gram.” But, Healfdene made no motion to take the sword. He turned instead to the throng.
“I understand,” King Healfdene said, “King Haergill’s intention. I humbly wish, no, I humbly beg that we will find it in our hearts to fight as one.” The faces before Healfdene were confused.
“The Mattear Gram,” Healfdene went on, “is a battle sword, an ensign of victory, and should be carried against the enemy by a leader willing and able to fight. I am not that man.” Healfdene let a murmur run through the gathering. “I humbly request that you give the sword, noble Kellabald, to my son Haerreth, may he wield it with honor and virtue.”
“No! No! No!” Apghilis burst from the crowd and made his way to the platform. “Lies upon lies! I cannot stand by and let this infamy pass, even though it means my very life!”
“What do you mean?!” A captain from the Northern Kingdom of Man cried.
“I was with Haergill in his last moments,” Apghilis loudly said. “And he instructed me to carry the sword and lead the human armies. And, I can prove it!” A shock and tumult ran through the conference.
“Prove it!” The captain cried. A chant went up, “Prove it! Prove it!”
“As the higher ranking citizens of the Kingdom know,” Apghilis said climbing up onto the platform, “our rulers carry a mark of birth, as opposed to a birthmark.” Apghilis pulled out a knife and cut at his trousers.
“That mark is made,” Apghilis said showing his branded thigh, “by the sword of the ruler, the Mattear Gram. Haergill himself branded this mark upon me.” Apghilis turned so all could see the mark burned into the flesh of his thigh.
“And here,” cried Halldora from the crowd, “is where your deceit is revealed!” Halldora, Wynnfrith, Arnwylf and Frea pushed their way to the platform.
“Keep them quiet,” Apghilis commanded, but there were too many from other tribes for Halldora to be stilled.
Halldora climbed onto the platform, and pulled Frea up as well. “Yes, the lineage and rightful rule of the Northern Kingdom of Man,” Halldora called to the gathering, “is marked by a brand from the sword of the kings.” Halldora looked tenderly at Frea. “You will be safe here, my love,” Halldora said to Frea.
But Frea was completely unafraid. After all she had recently been through, she felt a kind of boldness surge through her blood. She pulled her dress up her thigh, just enough so that her brand could be seen.
“Many of you were there,” Halldora continued addressing the crowd, “when Haergill put the royal mark upon his daughter, Frea.”
“But he decided,” Apghilis interrupted, “that the kingdom needed a strong man to lead, not a little girl.”
“You branded yourself with the wrong side of the sword!” Halldora cried. “See the brand on Frea?! She is branded with the sun emblem. In your haste, you branded yourself with the moon emblem on the other side of the blade!”
Kellabald remembered the Mage clutching Apghilis and calling him a fool. He must have somehow seen the brand under the bandage, Kellabald thought.
“It’s true!” A captain yelled.
In plain view, Frea’s flesh was marked with the sun symbol unmistakably from the Mattear Gram, and Apghilis sported the moon symbol from the opposite side of the sword.
“Apghilis is a liar!” Another shouted.
Apghilis was white faced when confronted by the truth. But, he turned and snatched the Mattear Gram out of Kellabald’s hands.
“Look out!” Caerlund roared. 
Apghilis swung the sword in a wide arc. Haerreth snarled and leapt at Apghilis. Had he been wielding any other sword, Haerreth would have had him. But, Apghilis cut and the sword brutally sliced Haerreth under both arms.
Kellabald grabbed Apghilis from behind in a tight embrace so that several soldiers could wrest the sword from his hands.
The sword slipped out of Apghilis’ hands, and as several soldiers clutched for the sword, it seemed to leap directly into Kellabald’s grip. Kellabald pointed the Mattear Gram at Apghilis and he surrendered.
Healfdene followed his son into one of the houses of Tyny to watch him being bandaged.
“He will heal,” a physician said, “but he will not be able to fight for many months.”
“I’m sorry, father,” Haerreth, said.
“My eager son,” Healfdene said affectionately patting his head. Kellabald and the others were admitted into the house.
“How is Haerreth?” Halldora asked.
“He cannot lead the human army,” Healfdene grimly said. “Now I must find someone whom all will follow.” Healfdene shook his head, knowing that the task would now be impossible.
“Apghilis has fled with a platoon loyal to him,” Caerlund said entering.
“Please take the sword,” Kellabald said to Healfdene.
“The war sword seems to like being in your hands,” the Archer darkly mused.
“It is not a sword of war,” the elf said with a small smile, “it is a symbol of peace. Behold.” The elf removed her crescent sword from its scabbard. She lightly took the Mattear Gram from Kellabald. The elf pressed firmly on the handle of the Sun Sword and the wooden center popped out. Then, she clicked the Moon Sword into the handle of the Sun Sword to make one unique fighting blade. The guard of the Moon Sword even fit neatly into a ridge in the guard of the Mattear Gram. “This was the peace pact made by Berand Torler,” The elf stopped as a deep vibration shook the whole company.
“He’s here!” Wynnfrith screamed.
Everyone in the room could feel the oppressive evil of the Lord of Lightning. They could feel his covetous eyes staring down at the Moon Sword joined to the Sun Sword. The waves of energy were exactly the same as when the Wanderer moon was moved out of its orbit.
The elf quickly tore the swords apart. As they clattered to the floor, the presence of Deifol Hroth dissipated.
“Please never do that again,” Arnwylf said, catching his breath.
“This is what he wants,” the elf said with growing horror. “The pieces were created long ago, fashioned with every magical device then known. Melded together, they comprised the mightiest, the last and only eldritch forces on the face of the earth.” The elf sat in growing realization.
“The Sun Sword,” she went on, “also known as the Mattear Gram, was forged at the time of the elf human wars in the fourth age by Berand Torler, and given to a human king whose name is lost in the maze of time. Berand Torler crafted the Moon Sword to fit together with the Sun Sword to symbolize the need for human and elf to always fight side by side against Jofod Kagir.” The elf stared into space. “There is a third piece,” she said turning with quiet urgency, “still in Lanis Rhyl Landemiriam.”
“Our most pressing concern,” Healfdene said with soberness, “is facing the garond army. Nothing else will matter if they prevail.”
“You must lead,” Kellabald said picking up the Mattear Gram and offering it to the King of Reia.
“I am too old and filled with pains” Healfdene said. “I wouldn’t last the first moments of the battle. We need a man in the prime of his life, someone like you.”
Healfdene realized the correctness of his words as they escaped his lips. All looked on Kellabald with new eyes as he held the Mattear Gram.
“It does seem to like being in your hands,” Caerlund said. “And as the father who has raised such a fine boy, I know you must be filled with just as much strength and virtue.”
“I agree,” the Archer added.
“No, no, no,” Wynnfrith said protectively standing before her husband with outstretched arms. “Find yourselves some other sacrificial lamb. My husband is no war general.”
“I saw him lead with greatness at Rion Ta,” the elf simply said. “We were outnumbered three to one.”
“The garond army out numbers the human army ten to one,” Wynnfrith said with exasperation. “And we had an elf with a moon sword and an archer with special arrows.”
“All those will be there for him again,” the Archer said. “I, and my men of Kipleth will follow, if you lead,” the Archer said to Kellabald.
“You have the allegiance of Madrun,” Caerlund said.
“And the Weald,” Alrhett added.
“No, no, mother,” Wynnfrith pleaded.
“Daughter,” Alrhett said, “these matters go far beyond our personal wants. Forces and needs much larger than our simple lives now guide our destinies. We owe it to all the humans out there, to fight and be noble and brave.”
Wynnfrith couldn’t answer, for she knew her mother was right.
“But the sword really belongs to Frea,” Arnwylf said, and then caught himself, feeling he had misspoken.
“That is true, son,” Healfdene said. “And that is how we may convince the captains of the Northern Kingdom of Man, who seem ready to leave the field at once.”
“We’d best resolve this with haste,” Caerlund said. “Let me speak first,” he added to Healfdene. “I am of the Wylfling tribe, but the soldiers of Man may listen more easily to me, as they have never gone to war against a madronite.”
Healfdene nodded at this wisdom, and the group left Haerreth in the house with his wounds. As they exited, Healfdene pulled Arnwylf aside. “You know, great nephew, the white wolf is the totem of Reia. You can see it emblazoned on our flag, and here you have one as a pet.”
“He is my brother,” Arnwylf said with boldness, then worried that he spoke too plainly to a king. Healfdene laughed and affectionately patted Arnwylf on the back.

Back at the gathering, the crowd was angry and restless, but the shouting and accusations were subdued with the revelation of Apghilis’ treachery.
Caerlund, Healfdene, the Archer, the elf, Alrhett and Kellabald, bearing the Mattear Gram, climbed onto the platform. Caerlund held up his hands to quiet the host of humans. “I am Caerlund,” he began, “Chief of the Madrun Hills, Brother to Lanis, Storm Master, Ore Author, and of the Wylfling Tribe. Does any man dispute this?”
This was the traditional madronite greeting, and statement of rank. And, the throng was respectfully quiet in response.
“I do not claim the Mattear Gram or leadership over these combined armies. It may be that tomorrow, none of this chest beating will matter anyhow,” he continued. The faces of the soldiers were grim and gray.
“I have a few things I’d like to say,” Caerlund went on, “with your permission.”
“Speak, Caerlund!” A madronite captain shouted in the traditional manner of encouragement.
“I have seen a pattern,” Caerlund said speaking with force and nobility, “which, dear god, I wish I had seen earlier.” Caerlund paused to look over the visage of the assembled men and women. “Man has struggled against man,” he said, “to the ruin of all the Wealdland.” He paused to suppress the sorrow welling up in his breast. Then, he faced it with courage. “Has it not occurred to anyone,” he bellowed, “how coincidentally fortunate all these human against human wars have been for our great mutual enemy, Deifol Hroth?!”
A silent, horrific realization dawned on the gathered.
“My father,” Caerlund went on, “was assassinated. Many of our lords were killed. I feigned the death of my mother to protect her. You of the Madrun kept my confidence that the seer Rebburn was actually your queen.”
Caerlund went on with strength. “The Weald civil war against the Eaststand. The Northern Kingdom of Man, the strongest among us, fighting two wars to the west and the south against Reia and the Glafs. How very, very fortunate for our wise enemy to weaken us by setting us against each other. Who can stop the garond army now? We have done their job for them!”
The surprised and saddened faces of the crowd were heart breaking.
“And now,” Caerlund shouted, “we squabble over who will hold a sword!?” Caerlund stopped to fight back his tears of anger. “Are we human?” He thundered. “Or are we beasts of the meadowland?”
No person spoke, so great was the shame felt by all.
“I know one among us,” Caerlund said, “who has nobly struggled against lies and fought and won when the odds against him were overpowering. I speak of Kellabald, noble and true.”
An astonished murmur of assent ran through the throng.
“But, this sword belongs to the heir of the Kingdom of Man,” Kellabald said with his voice breaking, and he bowed to present the sword to Frea.
“Gentle Kellabald,” Frea said with a quiet voice which carried throughout the whole host, “friend of my father, leader of my village, I can think of no other man here more worthy to lead the combined armies of humanity.” As she spoke Haergill’s ghost in resplendent battle armor, golden shoulder guards, a battle helmet with an iron crown of spikes, a silvery waistcoat of chain mail, stood between Frea and Kellabald. The visage lovingly put one hand on Frea’s head, and the other, brotherly, on Kellabald’s shoulder. Then the ghost was gone.
“King Haergill!!!” The men of the Northern Kingdom of Man shouted as one.
Then, on the platform, Caerlund knelt to Kellabald offering his battle-axe. As he did, all the madronite soldiers knelt, as well. Then, Alrhett knelt, and all the captains and soldiers of the Weald knelt, too. The Archer offered his bow and knelt to Kellabald, and all the archers and soldiers of Kipleth followed their general.
Healfdene got down on one, old tired knee to recognize Kellabald, and all the men of Reia knelt as well.
“Will the men of the Kingdom of Man be shamed by the very counsel of their dead king!?” A captain of the Kingdom of Man shouted. Then, slowly, the captains and soldiers of the Kingdom of Man bent the knee to Kellabald. 
Lastly, the elf knelt to Kellabald, so there was not one in that great mass who did not kneel in allegiance to him.
Kellabald was frightened and overcome. He could not speak, but then he found his voice. “Please, please,” was all he could say. He looked down at the Mattear Gram in his hands.
“Let us fight,” Kellabald said, “not as some group of nations who desire to fight together. What is my hand, my shoulder, and my arm by itself? One part cannot work and lift and fight back without the other parts. What is one man by himself without the strength of other men? We do not need to join together to fight the garonds. We are already joined together by our common humanity. For Humanity!”
“For Humanity!” The combined armies shouted as one.
“I do not want to do this,” Kellabald bellowed, “Let no man say I aspired to this calling. But we must have a leader, and I will never shrink from my duties. Let every man vote now to fight with me to crush the garond army, and wipe their vile presence from Wealdland forever by saying ‘Aye’!”
“Aye!” Resounded with power from every throat in a deafening roar. Then the assembled broke for their camps. Kellabald asked all the leaders to meet and discuss strategy.

As the evening approached Kellabald went with the highest of the captains and the kings and queens of the nations to survey the Eastern Meadowland, which would serve as the battle for humanity’s right to exist. Wynnfrith, Halldora, Frea and Arnwylf went with them.
In the distance, the lights of fires could be seen as the garond army gathered and prepared for war. The dark shapes were numerous and constantly busy.
“How long will it take for them to cross the meadowland?” Kellabald asked a captain.
The captain rubbed his face. “If they start to inch their forces out into the meadow,” the captain said, “they could be on us without any warning.”
“Then we must stake as much ground towards them as we can,” Kellabald said, “without beginning the conflict.” The group walked south, watching the dark shapes on the horizon move with evil purpose.
“From my son’s account of his journeys in Harvestley,” Kellabald said, “our best strategy is to try to get the main body of the force moving from the north to the south. If we can get them turning on themselves, even with a force a tenth of theirs, they will fall on themselves and become easy prey.”
“If,” was all Caerlund said with a grim smile.
“I do not think we can succeed by facing them head on, Kellabald said. “From what I understand of the battle of Plymonley, they move in strange groupings. We need to break those groups as the Archer did, and get them moving, somehow...” Kellabald trailed off.
“We need more men,” the Archer said. “Has every region and nation been accounted for?”
“There was a report this afternoon,” Kellabald said, “from a platoon looking for more men in the north, that there were Glafs still in Glafemen.”
“What?!” Alrhett said, catching Kellabald by the arm. “You have not told me this. Was Yulenth among them?”
“I didn’t want you to hope above hope,” Kellabald said apologetically. “The soldier from the Kingdom of Man said he saw two men, and a boy. They wouldn’t let him approach, so he couldn’t tell their true numbers. He thought there might be hundreds still hidden in the ruins of Glafemen.”
“We must send for them at once,” Alrhett exclaimed.
“A hundred men might make the difference,” a captain worriedly said.
“If the garonds attack tomorrow,” Kellabald mused, “then none of it will matter. How can we get a messenger there quick enough? Not even the messenger guild can travel that fast.”
“I can travel faster than the messenger guild,” Arnwylf said.
“Son,” Wynnfrith softly said.
“If there are men who can help” Arnwylf continued, “then they should be called. If Yulenth is among them,” Arnwylf turned to Alrhett, “he would never forgive us for not asking him to join us.”
“No, he wouldn’t” Alrhett said. “It will be very dangerous to ride alone to Glafemen.”
“I have faced down the whole garond army in Harvestley,” Arnwylf said with pride.
“He has, you know,” Caerlund said with a frowning smile.
“I must see you as a man,” Kellabald said with a mixture of pride and sadness, “and command you to go to Glafemen and bring what soldiers will fight with us.”
Wynnfrith clasped Arnwylf to her breast and held him tight. Her tears made it impossible for her to speak in protest.

At Tyny, as darkness fell, Arnwylf prepared his horse for the long ride through the night to Glafemen. Frea came to say goodbye. She stood before him, unable to speak.
“I’ve been thinking my horse must have a name,” Arnwylf said. Frea was choked with emotion and couldn’t answer him.
“I thought you might have a good idea,” Arnwylf said, moving close to her. In the reflected light from the campfires, her hair glowed red and gold, radiating from her face like the golden sun emblem of her nation. There is no woman more beautiful on the face of the earth, Arnwylf thought.
Frea gazed at Arnwylf. He was tall and lean, dressed in protective leathers, a sword buckled to his side. He looked like a boy playing soldier. She wanted to hold him and never let him go. A fear that she would never see him again played across her heart.
Conniker quietly licked his fangs and softly growled, eager to go.
Arnwylf held out his hand. Frea took it. Arnwylf pulled her close. He let his lips move close, and softly press to hers. He felt such joy. Frea wished that she would die in this instant, knowing she would never be more happy, frightened, or sad. Arnwylf held the kiss. It was as if his whole soul was flowing out to her. Frea felt his grip slightly tighten. She wanted him to never let her go. Then, the weight of his task fell on his shoulders, and Arnwylf pulled away.
“Boldson,” Frea said.
“What?” Arnwylf asked.
“Your horse’s name,” Frea said with tears in her eyes. “His name should be Boldson.”
Arnwylf smiled wide. “I like it.”
Wynnfrith and Kellabald, who had been politely keeping back in the shadows, approached.
“Do not fight any garond,” Kellabald said. “Ride to Glafemen straight and true.”
“Come back to me,” was all Wynnfrith could manage before she was choked again with tears, and then kissed and kissed Arnwylf’s face. 
“And me, too,” Frea whispered.
Arnwylf got up on Boldson. He wheeled the horse around. Conniker barked and urgently leapt to and fro. “I will be back with help for the battle,” Arnwylf said with valor.
Then, with fierce determination, Arnwylf, astride his warhorse Boldson, with his brother, the white wolf Conniker running at his side, sped into the black, black night.



Chapter Nineteen

The Ruins of Glafemen and Tyny

As Arnwylf rode through the tall grass of the Eastern Meadowland, the night was lit by the rising full moon, Nunee, but the Wanderer was smaller than ever before, farther away, moving on a new, strange path.
Conniker was keeping up nicely with his horse. It wasn’t long before he saw the western edge of the Weald on the horizon. Arnwylf turned Boldson northeast to follow the edge of the Weald to Glafemen.
Conniker began to yip. Arnwylf turned to see three horse garonds in close pursuit behind him.
He knew better than to stop or turn. If they could catch up to him, their horses would be that much more tired. Plus he had an advantage with his white wolf.
“Over there!” Arnwylf called to Conniker. The wolf nodded and faded into the tall grass. The garonds were quickly closing. They roared, trying to unnerve their prey. Arnwylf smiled a grim smile.
Two of the horse garonds pulled even with Arnwylf.
“Now!” Arnwylf shouted. Conniker leapt out of the grass and pulled the garond on Arnwylf’s right off his horse by its throat. Arnwylf used the surprise to back hand the garond on his left with his sword, and killed it.
The last garond was more cautious. It pulled up on Arnwylf’s right, watching for the wolf. Arnwylf gripped his sword in his left hand, and held onto Boldson’s mane with his right. His sword always felt more comfortable in his left hand.
The garond swiveled on his horse and pulled close to strike. Arnwylf quickly flipped his sword to his right hand and jabbed the garond right in the middle of its body. It stared at him, then slowly pulled away from the sword. The third garond fell dead to the swaying grasses of the meadow.
“Conniker!” Arnwylf yelled into the night behind him. He saw the white wolf bounding through the grass. “Come on, boy!” Arnwylf encouraged as they sprinted northeast.
The dark rim of trees of the Weald flowed past as Arnwylf pushed on to Glafemen. The stars were brilliant in the cold, late autumn night. Arnwylf could smell the freshness of the grasses of the meadowland as his horse galloped on. Sometimes, nesting birds burst up in the darkness, startled.
Except for the brief chatter of an angry bird, the night was silent. Arnwylf could hear the rhythmic panting of Conniker. He looked down at his wolf brother and smiled a crooked smile to see his muzzle wet with garond blood.
Arnwylf listened to the soft, snorting breath of Boldson as he pushed on to their destination. The horse was starting to get sweaty, and it was getting difficult to stay on stop of the horse’s back. Arnwylf hoped he would find Yulenth among the Glafs. He hadn’t even known his grandfather was a Glaf. So much of his heritage had been kept from him. He was a prince of the Weald. He didn’t like that thought. He felt completely unsuited for such a title, but his grandmother had been so proud to introduce him to the wealdkin.
Arnwylf realized his mind was wandering, and he forced himself to stay focused on the horizon before him. He was not going to be caught off guard by any horse garond patrols.

As morning dawned in Tyny, Kellabald asked the elf, the Archer, Caerlund and Healfdene to discuss battle tactics. They walked to the edge of the human encampment. Kellabald was happy to see his troops setting up farther and farther out into the meadowland. They could also see the garond army staking their claim to the battlefield.
“At the risk of being impolite,” Caerlund said, “we should have all the Kipleth archers right up front to break up those animal fighting formations.”
“I understand your enthusiasm,” the Archer said, “but we faced a fraction of the garond army at Plymonley, we most certainly will be facing hundreds of horse garonds.”
“What are the advantages of archers?” Kellabald honestly asked.
“Distance,” was all the Archer said.
“Do you think you could hit any of those garonds out there?” Kellabald said pointing to the garonds on the eastern edge of the battlefield.
The Archer nocked, pulled, and let fly a bronze arrow. It wasn’t even close.
“How do the archers of Kipleth usually fight?” Kellabald asked.
“We stand back and support the infantry,” the Archer said, “until we have to become infantry ourselves.”
“That makes sense,” Kellabald said. “What if the archers all shot straight up, so that the arrows came down in a group?”
“That could be very effective,” the Archer said. “I will make sure we have all the arrows possible.”
“What of the garond archers I have heard of?” Healfdene asked.
“They are pathetic,” the Archer replied.
“I am more concerned with the horse garonds,” Kellabald mused.
“Perhaps,” the elf spoke up, “the garonds don’t know that the Weald soldiers are here. If we could somehow convince them that they will be flanked, they might hold back some of their force.”
“A good idea,” Kellabald said. “So we keep our archers behind our infantry, and rain arrows down on them. How do we stop the horse garonds? We saw at Rion Ta how they charge in a line, and then circle once they’ve cut down their enemy's numbers.”
“We have to stop that initial charge,” Caerlund said. The group looked out over at the enemy forces, their minds racing.
“How do you stop horses?” Healfdene asked.
“Spears?” The elf offered.
“But the riders will just ride around the spearmen,” Healfdene said.
Kellabald seemed to jump out of his skin as an idea struck him. “Perhaps not!” He exclaimed. “But what do we have as a natural advantage? If the garonds see the spears, they will simply avoid them! Yes! How many trees can we immediately fell?” Kellabald began quickly striding back to the camp, his outstretched hands running over the tall grass of the field.

Arnwylf could see the dawn breaking over the blackened ruins of Glafemen. It must have once been a massive palace. Before him stretched a closely cropped meadow filled with long horned aurochs, shaggy doderns, muscled horses, and a few majestic stauers. The grazing animals became excited as they saw the white wolf trotting next to Arnwylf astride Boldson, and scattered before them.
Three men on horses rode down from the ruins towards Arnwylf. The one in the lead was an angry, dark haired boy shouting threats. Arnwylf wondered if he should draw his sword, but then he made out Yulenth on one of the horses.
“Yulenth!” Arnwylf cried.
The dark haired boy pulled his horse up short and looked back at his companions.
“Arnwylf!” Yulenth cried and spurred his horse on to meet him. 
Conniker began to excitedly bark. “Don’t you recognize Yulenth?” Arnwylf said to Conniker who immediately became calm, and vigorously wagged his tail.
“The white wolf found you after all!” Yulenth cried as he rode closer. Yulenth pulled up to Arnwylf and leaned across to hug him. They both fell from their horses laughing. “This is my grandson, Arnwylf,” Yulenth said with a broad smile. “This is Ronenth and Solienth.”
“A pleasure to meet you,” Arnwylf respectfully said.
“And you,” Solienth returned, but Ronenth just scowled.
“Look,” Arnwylf said marveling, “you have ropes on your horses.”
“My invention,” Yulenth said, proudly handling the rope halters on the Glaf horses.
“I want one right away,” Arnwylf laughed.
“You have to earn one,” Ronenth huffed.
“He can have one,” Yulenth said leading Arnwylf to the ruins. “Let’s get you something to eat. And, we’d best hide that wolf, or he might start a dangerous stampede.”
Arnwylf told Yulenth and the Glafs all that had befallen him since the fight at Rion Ta. “If there are any Glafs left to fight,” Arnwylf said as he shoveled in stew, “we need to make for Tyny immediately.”
“You see before you,” Yulenth said standing, “all that remains of Glaf.” Yulenth was filled with emotion and had to walk away to compose himself.
Arnwylf didn’t know what to say.
“Let them fight their own fights,” Ronenth said with a dark countenance, then rose and walked in the other direction into the ruins.
After an uncomfortable silence, Arnwylf rose. “I must return at once,” he said.
“Let me counsel with them,” Solienth whispered to Arnwylf as he laid a friendly hand on his shoulder. “Stay. We may yet return to Tyny with you.”

In the early afternoon, Kellabald asked all the leaders of the nations to walk to the southernmost edge of the human army in the Eastern Meadowlands. “How is the plan proceeding?” Kellabald asked Healfdene.
“Very well,” the King of Reia responded. “It’s a good idea.”
“And your men are being cautious?” Kellabald inquired.
“You’ve heard the expression, ‘sneaky as a man from Reia’?” Healfdene answered. “The Rangers of Reia are required to live a year on their own, in the wild, before they attain their rank.”
“Do not forget, I am from Reia, my king,” Kellabald said with a smile. “And the arrows for the archers?” Kellabald asked the Archer from Kipleth.
“Every arrow, made by a human, in all of Wealdland, will be at your disposal,” the Archer said.
“Good,” Kellabald said. “Tell them, when the battle begins, do not wait for a command. Shoot and do not stop.”
“It will be done,” the Archer said.
“Do you think the garonds will use burning arrows against us?” Alrhett asked.
“The wind is not in their favor,” Kellabald said. “It will remain easterly for many weeks, this time of year. If they start a fire among these grasses, it will be to their own destruction. No. I think their leader is wiser than that.”
“What of the possibility of their army flanking us?” Caerlund mumbled.
“Their numbers are great enough,” Kellabald darkly said. “We can only hope that Hermergh and his guild are convincing in their mission.” The group came upon the skeletal remains of a massive stauer. “Is this- ?” Kellabald exclaimed, and then he turned to survey the land. “This is the very stauer our clan brought down after you saved us in Bittel.” Kellabald said to the Archer.
“I believe it is,” the Archer said, looking about to fix the location in his memory.
“He was beautiful,” the elf said. “I had hoped he would live. If he had charged any of you, he would have gained his freedom.”
“Yes,” Kellabald said, his mind turning. Then, he told the story of how they killed the stauer.
“We must work together as effectively,” Healfdene said.
“If we can,” Kellabald said, “this strategy may work. We must stretch our soldiers to the safest possible edges of the battlefield. And, we must try to encircle the garond force to keep them from beginning any kind of forward drive.”
“All the nations must work as closely as your family,” Caerlund added.
“If we can stretch our arms wide enough, we may be able to get these garonds running in a circle as you plan. Otherwise...” Caerlund trailed off.
“Tell the story of the stauer hunt to your captains and have them spread it to every soldier,” Kellabald said. The group stared quietly to the east and the black movements of impending war. 

At midday, Arnwylf sat brooding, trying to decide if he should ride back to Tyny. Ronenth plopped down next to Arnwylf to closely inspect him.
“You don’t look very strong,” Ronenth rudely said with a sniff.
“I’m stronger than you,” Arnwylf said without looking at Ronenth.
“I don’t think so,” Ronenth said with a sneer. He jumped up and lifted a large rock. “See!” He shouted then let the rock fall with a thud.
Arnwylf sniffed, rose and walked to the rock. He easily lifted it over his head. Arnwylf then picked up a small rock and threw it as far as he could.
“Ha!” Ronenth mocked, and picked up a small stone and threw it just short of Arnwylf’s stone. “What really matters are spears,” Ronenth said, and ran to get Yulenth and Solienth’s spears.
“Stand even,” Ronenth said, “no cheating.” Then Ronenth threw his spear with tremendous force. It sailed out into the meadow and surprised several grazing animals.
Arnwylf set himself and threw his spear. It landed just short of Ronenth’s spear.
“Ha ha!” Ronenth crowed.
“You won’t be fighting garonds with spears,” Arnwylf cried. “You have to face them with swords, as I have done.”
“I’ve killed plenty,” Ronenth yelled.
Arnwylf drew his sword.
“Hey! Hey!” Yulenth cried, running down to the boys. “If you must duel, use tree branches.” Yulenth lead the boys to the woodpile used to fuel their camp fire. “Pick your weapon,” he said. The boys each picked a sturdy branch. “No clubbing,” Yulenth sternly said. “You’re not garonds.”
Arnwylf and Ronenth walked away to a clear space while Yulenth and Solienth watched. The boys knew the older men were watching so their mock swordplay was polite and fair, but soon turned vigorous. Before they knew it, both boys were laughing and leaping about in play, rather than a serious contest of skill.
“It was only a matter of time,” Solienth said.
“For what?” Yulenth asked.
“That they remembered they are still boys,” Solienth said with a sad smile.

At midday, a single garond approached the human camp at Tyny with a white flag of peace. “You come now,” the garond said with difficulty to the surprised soldier. “Leader talk.” The garond pointed out to the center of the Eastern Meadowland destined to become a vicious battlefield.
There in the midst of the tall grasses, Ravensdred and a single garond soldier waited.
The human soldier quickly ran back to the village of Tyny to relay the message. In one of the houses in the village of Tyny, the leaders met.
“It’s a trap,” Alrhett said. “They offered peace to the Weald and then attacked.”
“Might be a good chance to catch that big leader with a carefully placed arrow,” Caerlund said with a smile.
The Archer smiled back.
“The tradition of talks before a battle,” a captain of Man said, “is honorable and age old.”
“What do you expect them to tell us?” Kellabald asked. “That they will fight fair? That they will spare our women and children if we capitulate? I have nothing to say to the commander of the garonds. And, he has nothing I wish to hear.”
“Then let me go,” the captain of the Northern Kingdom of Man said.
“I will let you do no such thing,” Kellabald said. “Now let us discuss the terrain and where we gain an advantage.”
“I must make sure my troops are all properly armed,” the captain said and excused himself.
“You know,” Caerlund said, “he’s going out there.”
Kellabald angrily rose. “My need for captains is too great to spare even a foolhardy one.” Kellabald rose to follow the captain, and the company followed him. Outside, Kellabald could see the disobedient captain jogging through the camp, towards the open meadow. 
“Captain!” Kellabald bellowed. “Come back!”
But the captain and a loyal soldier were out onto the meadow before he could reach them. They walked out to Ravensdred and his single garond with their hands raised high in peace. When the captain reached Ravensdred they appeared to be talking and gesturing. The fool, Kellabald thought.
And then, to no one’s surprise, five hidden garonds sprang from the grass and slashed at the captain and his soldier. They could only watch in horror at the slaughter.
The Archer nocked one of the arrows of Yenolah. “I may be able to get that big one,” he said, pulling his bow tight, and closing one eye.
“Don’t waste your arrow,” Kellabald said in frustration. “We need every weapon at our disposal for the battle when it comes.” With that, Kellabald led his generals back to the village with the two small houses.

In the late afternoon, the Archer asked the elf to walk along the edge of the battlefield with him.
“Tell me of the black arrows,” the elf said. “Hold nothing back.”
“The star was Yeno,” the Archer said as they slowly walked through the trampled grass, “it fell to earth hundreds of years ago, somewhere far beyond Byland, past the Far Grasslands. The heart of Yeno was a lump of black metal found in a large crater where the star landed. Many tried to forge the heart of Yeno, but it was too stubborn. Finally someone brought the heart of Yeno to Weylund, the elvish oresmith, in Lanis. He knew that the fires were not hot enough to work the metal. They say Weylund spent four days making his forge fire hotter and hotter. On the night of the fourth day, Daniei Wylkeho came to him in a dream and showed him the seven arrows he was to fashion. On the fifth day, the heart of Yeno was melted and he forged the arrows as he was shown in the dream. On the night of the fifth day, as the arrows still cooled, the Great Parent came to him in a dream and told him to keep the arrows secret, until a blind human would come to him and ask specifically for them.”
“A blind human?” The elf exclaimed. “It must have been the blind seer, Sehen.”
“The very same,” the Archer said. “He gave the arrows to me and taught me to shoot in a new way.”
“I would love to learn those lessons,” the elf said.
“If we survive this battle,” the Archer said with a smile, “I will teach you. Sehen said the arrows were for a special purpose. He said he didn’t know what that purpose was, but I would eventually discover it.” They walked together in silence for a moment.
“What did you say to me in Plymonley?” The Archer asked.
“It was elvish,” the elf said. “I said ‘rise up’. But,” she struggled for words, “it means so much more. Elvish words have so many meanings. I have known elves to debate a four word conversation for days,” she laughed.
“But what did you mean?” The Archer asked.
“I meant many things,” the elf answered. “I meant for you to be more than who you are. I meant for you to be courageous in the face of impending disaster. I meant for you to touch the Great Flame. I meant for you to know I would always be beside you.” The elf felt embarrassment. The Archer could sense her discomfort and waited for her to gather herself. She looked at the dark melancholy face of the Archer and felt a new emotion stirring in her. His smile was kind and patient.
The elf wondered to herself, could an elf love a human? She so wanted him to take her in his arms. She wanted to feel the warmth of his body against hers. She reached her hand up to stroke the Archer’s face with the back of her hand. A deep sorrowfulness passed over his countenance, and he pulled away.
“You’re still thinking of your wife, aren’t you?” She asked.
He so wanted to reach out to the elf. He wanted to stroke her hair. His lips burned for hers. He wanted to return her love. But, his wife’s smile played before his eyes and he was confused and broken hearted.
“Can elves also read minds?” The Archer asked with a tortured sadness.
“No,” she answered. “But, we have hearts like any human, and they can be broken as well.” Then, she had to leave him because of the torment in her heart, and she didn’t want him to see her cry.
“Wait!” He cried, but she was gone.

In the late afternoon, at the ruins of Glafemen, Ronenth showed Arnwylf the rolls of amazing fabric woven by the Glafs.
“This material would make a good flag,” Arnwylf said running his hands over the cloth.
“It would,” Ronenth said, and then an idea burned in his eyes. Chuckling, he scampered away.
Watching the boys, Yulenth and Solienth prepared a meal. “Look at how happy they are,” Solienth said.
“If the garonds win,” Yulenth said with a stern face, “there will be no safe place in Wealdland for any human.”
“Then we must join the army of humans, no matter the outcome,” Solienth said with a troubled sigh. They continued the meal preparations in angry silence. Then, Yulenth slammed a cooking fork onto the ground.
“We are Glafs!” Yulenth growled. “There must be something we can do.”
“We are only three,” Solienth angrily said to the stew he was preparing.
“Do you remember what the soldiers of the Northern Kingdom of Man used to say about us?” Yulenth said.
“A well-armed Glaf is worth ten soldiers of any other army,” Solienth said.
“Because we fought in an intelligent way,” Yulenth said.
“Once, I had a fourth of my army wait in a valley,” Solienth said with a smile. “When the Man army went after them, the rest came down on their flank like thunder from the gods.” They continued cooking in silence, remembering past glories.
“They only eventually won because of their numbers,” Yulenth mused.
“Give me that army at Tyny and I would win!” Solienth crowed.
“A bit too late to make a claim,” Yulenth softly said.
“Yes,” Solienth said. “But not too late to die with honor, to die with soldiers in battle, as I should have years ago.” The old men watched the young boys play with the beautiful Glaf cloth.
Ronenth pulled out a good length of the pale blue material. “This is the color of the Glaf flag,” Ronenth said with pride.
Arnwylf ran up to Yulenth. “May I borrow a spear?” He asked. Yulenth smiled and nodded.
“Here,” Arnwylf called, “let’s cut off a piece and make the Glaf flag.”
“I have something I want to write on it,” Ronenth said as Arnwylf tied the cloth to the spear.

In the Eastern Meadowland Ravensdred was furious. Night was falling, and his ruse to gain the Mattear Gram had failed. Humans were proving to be more intelligent and tenacious than he had supposed. He viciously pulled the bandage from his shoulder. That Archer will pay, he thought. Then, he touched the wounds on his face where the black arrow shattered and nearly blinded him. Everything in his sight made him angry because of his frustration. His master would tolerate failure only so long.
Ravensdred shuddered when he thought of the Lord of Lightning. He seemed to be a human, but every garond saw the spirit in the shell of flesh. The human form was merely a mask. He was god.
He was more than danger, or pain. He could send your soul to eternal torment, if disobeyed.
Ravensdred thought the religious blather was only for the average, thickheaded garond. But his master had real power, and no such thing as mercy dwelt in his heart.
Ravensdred strode among his battle weapons. The wooden structures for throwing large stones would be complete this night. His soldiers were anxious to go to battle. His troops were well trained and expertly skilled. Only the archers were a disappointment. With a few more days practice, they could be formidable. But with the battle looming, they were pathetic. Ravensdred considered taking their bows and crooked arrows away, and having them fight as a garond should, with a club and on foot.
“Lord Ravensdred!” A captain called as he ran up to the war general. The garond captain prostrated himself in the respectful manner, but Ravensdred had no patience for formalities.
“What is it?” He demanded as he viciously kicked the captain.
“Voices,” the captain said, rising, holding his ribs. “There are voices again in the trees!”
“Show me,” Ravensdred snarled. The garond captain, limping, quickly led the war general through Rion Ta to the edge of the Weald.
“Listen,” the captain whispered. Deep in the woods a human voice echoed.
“Bring those men around this way,” Hermergh’s voice rang. “Keep them out of sight.” 
“They mean to attack from behind,” the captain conspiratorially said.
“It’s a trick,” Ravensdred said with contempt.
“What if it is not?” The captain asked.
Ravensdred loudly growled and clouted the garond captain with a deadly wallop. The garond captain fell, oozing blood.
Ravensdred snarled at the weakness and walked back to inspire his troops. His huge hands worked as he walked. He wanted humans to be dying under his sword. He wanted to see their blood flowing, spreading across, and filling the meadowland. His mind was a black nest of hornets.

As the darkness of night spread over the ruins of Glafemen, Yulenth, and Solienth, sitting comfortably by their little camp fire, watched Arnwylf and Ronenth playing, waving their new Glaf flag back and forth, as Conniker nipped at their heels. A towering bank of winter clouds marched across the night sky.
“Did he tell you what his horse’s name is?” Solienth asked Yulenth.
“Boldson,” Yulenth quietly said.
“No, Ronenth,” Solienth said with a smile. “He has named his horse, Quickly.” The old men smiled, staring at the fire.
“Your horse is the only one without a name,” Yulenth gently said.
“Sweetfoot,” Solienth said with a tinge of embarrassment. They both chuckled, staring at the fire.
“I have to go,” Yulenth said. “For my Alrhett.”
“I know,” Solienth mumbled.
“The boys won’t stay here,” Yulenth added. “They’ll follow me.”
“I know,” Solienth sighed.
“They may have already fought the battle,” Yulenth said.
“They may have,” Solienth lightly said. Solienth rose, and wrapped a blanket around Yulenth. “Winter is on the way,” he said. “We were so arrogant,” Solienth said staring out at the dark meadow filled with sleeping animals. “We thought we owned the world. We thought we were invincible.”
“My wife lives,” Yulenth said, standing. “I thought her dead. I thought that I was the last Glaf. And, then I met you, then the boy!” Yulenth was becoming agitated. The boys stopped their play to quietly approach the men.
“I must fight for her,” Yulenth loudly said. “I must fight for them,” Yulenth said pointing at the boys who drew near with silent, innocent faces.
“Should we follow a doomed path for some kind of honor?” Solienth bellowed at Yulenth.
“Should we weep in our sorrow,” Yulenth shouted back, throwing off the blanket, “as you did when you thought yourself the general of cattle?!”
Solienth stared at Yulenth with an idea, an idea so huge it struck him momentarily dumb.
“What?” Yulenth asked. “What?!” he said shaking his friend.
“Get our horses!” Solienth cried. “And hope it’s not too late! Bring that flag!” Solienth urgently said to Ronenth.
“I meant to ask,” Arnwylf excitedly asked as they mounted their horses, “what is that large word you have written on the flag?”
“Justice,” Ronenth said, with fire in his dark eyes.


Chapter Twenty

The Eastern Meadowland

Snow began to softly fall in the faint glow just before dawn. Human soldiers huddled against the blinding fog of the cold morning. The first garond soldiers slowly lumbered towards them through the light snow like pitch black monsters set against a rising field of white.
Kellabald had not slept that night, and sprang to his feet with the clanging of hammers on metal pots, the alarm system he had set up for the whole army. All around him, soldiers were in frantic motion.
“Wait, wait!” Kellabald bellowed to his troops. “Wait for the horse garonds!” Kellabald grabbed a captain. “The first garonds are only to test our defenses,” Kellabald said to the captain. “Do not let our all our soldiers rush to the front lines.”
The Archer rushed to Kellabald. “The bowmen of Kipleth are assembling,” the Archer yelled, “we only need a few more moments!”
“Tell them to wait for the sound of the screaming!” Kellabald ordered. He then ran to the front lines to fight and direct his forces.
Near the middle of the Eastern Meadowland, humans and garonds were engaged in individual skirmishes. The garonds were holding back their main force, when the armored formations would surge forward.
“Tell them to fall back!” Kellabald shouted.
“Fall back! Fall back!” The cry went up. The human troops fell back, the preliminary garond soldiers did not press their advantage. They waited for the sound of thunder.
And the thunder came. Hundreds upon hundreds of horse garonds surged forward. The growing sound was terrifying, and the garonds cried their awful war cries as they hammered towards the human army.
Then, the horses began to scream. Large wooden spikes were hidden among the tall grasses of the meadowland, and the riders ran their mounts at them at full gallop. The horses were cruelly impaled again and again. The spikes were set in unordered groups, so there was no riding around them. The human soldiers fell back and let the horse garonds destroy their own ranks.
The garond foot soldiers were momentarily confused, but the main mass of the garond army came up behind them.
“Now!” The Archer commanded his men. “Fire and never stop!” The archers of Kipleth tilted their bows at an angle towards the field, and cascading ranks of arrows began to fall on the garond army from directly overhead.
Hundreds of garond foot soldiers went down under the torrent of arrows, and the horse garonds, completely without armor were helplessly slaughtered. Nearly two thirds of the horse garonds were gone in the opening movements of the war.
The Archer walked among his men of Kipleth adjusting their angles of fire as he keenly surveyed the battlefield with his sharp eyes. He could see the looks of lethal satisfaction on the faces of his archers as they let fly deadly arrows again and again.
Out on the field of death, garond soldiers pushed through and engaged the human army. Kellabald was at the front with his soldiers, fighting face to face with the vicious invading warriors. Kellabald could also tell that Ravensdred was keeping back a portion of his army for the attack he expected on his rear flank from the Weald. His ruse with Hermergh had worked.
Kellabald could see towering wooden structures being moved forward, from behind the enemy lines. These were the machines he had heard about. Now we will see their intent, Kellabald thought, as he thrust his sword through a garond soldier.
“Stay spread out!” Kellabald cried to his troops. He saw the closest, wooden structure shudder and a massive stone came flying from it. It sailed high over the soldiers and into the ranks of the archers. Then the other towers began to fling huge stones as well. The heavy stones came in at an angle skipping across the meadow killing five or six archers as it landed.
Kellabald fought his way back to the Archer. “There is no way to defend your archers from those things!” He cried. “Take them far around the south of the battle and begin again on their left flank.”
“The towers may not be able to reposition quickly,” the Archer said in understanding. The Archer called several of his captains to himself as the colossal stones continued to take a toll on the men of Kipleth. “At a run,” he cried, “as fast as you can, take your men out and around the enemies left flank!”
The captains understood and obeyed. The archers and their arrow stewards sprinted away and to the south.
As the Archer watched his men move out, a growing fury and desire for revenge against the tower slings grew in his heart. His mind raced. How can I get close enough to destroy them and take them out of the battle, he wondered.
Kellabald could see beyond the front line of fighting, the garond formations coming. “To me! To me!” He cried to his army. “The garond animals are near!” He cried to the men. “I have no battle cry to give you, but that of the names for which you fight! Fight! Give your lives for those you most wish to save! Arnwylf! Wynnfrith!” And Kellabald ran forward with every soldier crying the name of a loved one with righteous fury. “For Arnwylf! For Wynnfriiiiith!” Kellabald screamed as he charged the garond formations.
The wrath of the human attack momentarily stopped the garond’s forward momentum. But, fighting as one, the animal formations used by the most skilled of the garonds pushed through the line.
The morning sun rose a dark red on the blood soaked Eastern Meadowland.
As he bravely faced the more skilled and dangerous garonds, the Mattear Gram began to speak to Kellabald. “Here, strike here,” it said in a voice only he could hear. A strange calmness came over Kellabald as the Mattear Gram guided his hand. Every lethal, garond animal formation fell behind him. The garonds seeing Kellabald with the sun sword began to focus their numbers on him.
But Kellabald was untouchable. With his trousers soaked with garond blood, standing over garond corpses piled three deep, he moved like an angel of death.
Kellabald could see Caerlund leading his men nearby, looking at him with an awed sideways glance. Kellabald thought, this must be how the Archer said he felt at the battle of the Madrun Hills. He saw every enemy before they moved towards him. He saw their planned attacks and defenses. As if he had been slipped out of time, Kellabald cut with an eerie precision, killing garond after garond without effort.
“Pace yourself,” the Mattear Gram said to Kellabald in a voice that sounded just like the voice of the Mage. “We will be here all day.” And then Kellabald understood what happened to the Mage when the Mattear Gram cut him, and he had no wound or scar. His essence had flowed into the sword. The sun sword was a whirlpool of magical energy, drawing the power into itself. This is why Deifol Hroth must never touch the sword, Kellabald thought as he fought on.
The Archer had an idea and he caught an arrow steward before he moved with the rest of the men of Kipleth. “It may mean our certain deaths,” the Archer said to the steward after he had explained his idea.
“Let them try to take my body,” the steward said, “They have already taken my heart.”
Then, the Archer knew he had chosen the right man for the job. As they readied the Archer’s plan, the Archer saw the elf run past him. “Elf!” He cried, because she had not yet told him her name.
“Come!” The Archer cried to his arrow steward, and they ran after the elf to the front lines of the battle.
The elf threw herself at the front line of garonds with a heart broken rage. Her moon sword whirled back and forth cutting down garonds over and over.
A swarm of garonds came at the Archer and he couldn’t reach the elf, as she pushed into the garond ranks, alone. She’s going to kill herself, the Archer thought, and began to release a deadly flock of arrows to get near to her. “Elf!” He cried. “Elf, wait!”
He could tell by a momentary turn of her head that her sensitive ears had heard him, but she fought forward pretending to not hear the Archer’s plea. The elf hacked at the attacking garonds with abandon. Her moon sword was a blur of razor death. But, there were simply too many garonds to move forward safely, and the sheer numbers began to close around her.
“Wait!” The Archer screamed as he and his arrow steward fought to reach her.
“We can get to her, sir,” the arrow steward said courageously hacking his way towards the elf.
“I need you!” The Archer shouted at the elf. “Don’t throw your life away.” The Archer shot again and again in hopes of moving closer to her. He didn’t know what else to say to bring her back. “Please,” he said with all his heart.
The elf stopped in the middle of the battlefield and turned to look at the Archer. The garonds saw she had dropped her guard and rushed her.
“No!” The Archer cried and ran to her, with his steward by his side. “For Lanis!” He cried. “Fight for Lanis!”
The elf seemed to awaken from a nightmare just as a gang of garonds muscled to her, swords and clubs ready to strike. The elf pivoted, and with an underhanded swing, cut five garonds in half.
“I need you to help me destroy those towers,” the Archer said, reaching the elf. “If you want to squander your life, at least do it attempting something noble.”
The Archer’s words seemed to land with some weight on the elf. “Follow me,” she said and turned to cut a swath through the garonds to the closet tower.
The elf, the Archer, and his arrow steward were enclosed on all sides by the garonds as they fought towards the wooden mechanism.
“We’re close enough!” The Archer shouted.
“Give me just two moments!” The arrow steward cried.
“You can have one!” The Archer grimly said.
After quick preparations, the arrow steward swiftly handed the Archer a flaming arrow. In the blink of an eye, the Archer sheathed his sword, took the arrow, and fired. The flaming arrow landed just in the middle of the great sling, high enough to be out of reach of panicking garonds, who futilely clawed at the spreading fire.
At the front lines Caerlund saw one of the wooden catapults going up in flames, and spotted the Archer and his companions in the thick of the garond army. They wouldn’t last long enough to get to a second one. “After them!” Caerlund bellowed, and his men pushed the line towards the Archer and the elf.
Kellabald stepped back from the front line of the war to survey the struggle. As he did, a volley of arrows rained down from the garonds left flank. Kellabald smiled to himself. But not for long, because he could see the troops held back for a rear flanking maneuver coming forward to the front.
Kellabald turned to a captain. “Now is our chance,” he said. “Take a good third of the army and run around on their right flank. They will be pulling troops to their left. We may be able to encircle them.”
“They still outnumber us at least three to one,” the captain said.
“Did you think we’d last this long?” Kellabald sternly said to his captain, who humbly shook his head.
“Be ready to try to move the garond troops to the south on my command,” Kellabald said to the captain, who hurried away to obey his orders.
On the field, the wooden slings proved easy to turn, much to the dismay of the Kipleth archers, now far on the garond army’s left.
However, Caerlund and a group of thirty soldiers had fought their way to the Archer and the elf. “Time to burn another one!” Caerlund shouted with glee. It turned out to be harder than they expected, as the garonds knew what they were doing, and furiously fought to protect their giant slings.
“The only reason we’re alive is because of her,” Caerlund said to the Archer, indicating the elf, who was unstoppable.
“You’re right,” he yelled back, and then the Archer fought his way to the elf’s side.
“Guide us to the tower,” the Archer shouted to the elf. The elf nodded her head without turning to look at the Archer.
“Follow the elf,” The Archer cried to the rapidly dwindling group of men. They then positioned themselves in a wedge formation, allowing the elf to push forward to the next tower. In moments, another wooden catapult was in flames.
A cheer went up from the human army.
Kellabald saw the Archer and his group in the very midst of the garond army, and the Mattear Gram spoke to him. “The sun sword fights the strongest next to the moon sword,” it said in a voice only he could hear.
“Follow me!” Kellabald bellowed to his men, and fought his way towards the elf.
A great roar went up and all eyes turned to see the garonds now fighting the flanking army on their right, as arrows continued to fall on their left flank.
“Can we encircle them?” Kellabald cried to a captain.
“We’ve stretched our army as far as it will go!” He answered. “They still outnumber us, and if they break through at any point, it will be a disaster.”
Kellabald fought his way towards the elf, Caerlund, and the Archer as the last of their men fell. And true to its word, the Matter Gram, the sun sword, was magnificent side by side with the moon sword of Berand Torler. It seemed as if the swords themselves began to dance in rhythm with no garond soldier able to withstand the onslaught.
“Now!” Kellabald cried. “Now!” Fully half the human army was dead. But, with more than two thirds of their soldiers killed, and nearly all the horse garonds slaughtered, the garond numbers were still far superior. The human warriors tried their best to get the garond soldiers moving from north to south in a circular pattern. But, the garonds held firm.
Ravensdred finally joined the battle. With very little armor, and a long, wide sword, he laid human soldier after human soldier flat on the field of battle. His arc was swift and powerful. His bulging arms exerted a broad, lethal cut with his heavy sword. No human warrior could stand before the massacre of his two handed arc.
“We can’t contain them!” A captain cried to Kellabald who could see Ravensdred fighting his way towards him.
On the rooftop of one of the houses at Tyny, Wynnfrith, Halldora, Frea and Alrhett watched the battle. They could see the thin line of the human army trying to reach out and around the massive bulk of the garond army.
“They can’t get them to turn,” Alrhett said with despair.
“What is that?” Frea said staring at a cloud of dust rising up from the north into the midday sun.
From the north, far out across the plain of the Eastern Meadowland, Yulenth, Solienth, Arnwylf and Ronenth drove over six hundred angry aurochs and doderns towards the garond army. The thundering of the angry beasts grew and grew to a deafening roar. The human army to the north quickly moved out of the way as the long, deadly horns of the aurochs plowed into the garond army.
“They have to keep moving!” Alrhett cried.
“You can ride a horse?” Alrhett said to Frea.
“I have ridden one,” she answered.
“You have to take me out there!” Alrhett cried. They all understood. The women climbed down from the rooftop and ran towards the battlefield looking for a riderless horse.
Out on the field, Conniker nipped at the heels of the aurochs to keep them moving, but the weary, angry beasts gored the garonds and then began to stumble back and forth.
“Go! Go!” Arnwylf cried at the aurochs as they crashed into the screaming garond soldiers.
“Keep them moving!” Yulenth cried.
“I’m trying,” Ronenth yelled back.
“Be good,” Arnwylf said to Boldson with a pat, and then he leapt from his horse, onto the back of an Auroch. He kicked and kicked the bull and the great beast charged forward. Arnwylf held onto the mane of the muscular animal with all his might. The herd of beasts began to move south through the garond army, goring and crushing as they went.
Another rousing cheer went up from the human army; as yet another catapult went up in flames.
The furious aurochs continued to toss their heads and spear the garonds with their long, sharp horns. The doderns among the aurochs ran straight over any garond not impaled by an auroch.
“Move them! Move them!” Kellabald shouted at his army. “Get the garonds moving south!”
The stampede lost all its power right in the middle of the battlefield. Frea and Alrhett bravely rode right into the middle of the battle. “Follow me for the way out!” Alrhett cried to the aurochs.
The aurochs and doderns snorted approval and the stampede resumed with the vicious beasts tearing their way south, following Frea and Alrhett on horseback.
Arnwylf found he was unable to get off the bull auroch he was riding. He dodged garond swords and clubs again and again. “Help!” He cried.
Out in the middle of the battlefield, the elf turned her head. “This way,” she cried to the Archer.
“But, the next sling is over there,” the Archer shouted back above the roar of the battle.
But, the elf had turned around and began to fight. Kellabald turned with the elf and the Mattear Gram sung a song of death. “Why are we going this way?” Kellabald cried to the elf.
The elf just pointed, and Kellabald looked up to see his son stranded on the back of an auroch, with the garond army raging on all sides. A growl started in Kellabald’s throat as he hacked his way towards his son. The stampede kicked up dust and caused great confusion. The auroch with Arnwylf turned to join the stampede.
Kellabald roared as he slashed forward, but the Mattear Gram was stopped with a clang against Ravensdred’s sword. “Get Arnwylf!” Kellabald cried to the elf as he circled the garond war general.
The aurochs continued moving through the garond ranks, the smell of the slaughtered horses keeping them from the human side of the battle.
The elf pulled Arnwylf down from the auroch he was sitting on. They fought garonds back to back amid the maelstrom of the stampeding long horned beasts.
The horse Frea was riding was slick with sweat and blood and she slipped off.
“Frea!” Alrhett cried as her granddaughter fell amongst the rampaging aurochs.
Ronenth saw her red hair and guided Quickly, his horse, to Frea. Reaching down he pulled her onto his horse. With a laugh he gave her a kiss on the cheek, then urged the animals on, spearing garonds left and right.
Alrhett leaned forward to grip the mane of the horse she was on, it was as panicked as the animals all around her.
“Calm down!” Alrhett called to the horse, but the war was too frightening for the poor horse and it continued on, fearful.
Yulenth saw his wife and pushed Gladsir, his horse, to her. “Alrhett!” Yulenth called. Gladsir was brave and charged towards the horse carrying Alrhett. Yulenth reached over and pulled her onto his horse. “I’ll get you back to Tyny,” Yulenth said to her.
“No!” Alrhett said. “We have to lead the aurochs around the garond army.
“Very well, then,” Yulenth said with understanding, and urged Gladsir forward.
“This way!” Alrhett shouted to the aurochs, which lifted their heads and charged after them.
“Turn them! Turn them!” Caerlund bellowed to his troops. The human troops followed behind the stampede tiredly hacking at the garonds.
And then, the garonds began to run.
They began to run from north to south, but the aurochs had already looped up behind the garond army and headed north.
From their vantage point on the rooftop at Tyny, Wynnfrith and Halldora could see the whole garond army, encircled by human and auroch, moving like a dangerous whirlpool. And, just as Arnwylf had predicted, the garond soldiers began to trip and fall on each other, as they did when they first chased him at Harvestley. Their short, bow legs made it difficult for them to run in anything but a straight line. Their fighting became nothing more than defense, which made them easy prey for the much smaller numbers of the human army who were filled with a surge of hope and vigor.
In the middle of that vortex of destruction, Ravensdred circled Kellabald. “Give me the sword,” Ravensdred snarled, “and I will let you live.”
“Come and take it,” Kellabald said through clenched teeth.
The Archer made his way to the elf and Arnwylf, and the three of them fought as a triangle, back to back to back.
Caerlund axed his way to the men following the stampede. “Close the circle!” Caerlund bellowed to his men, and the human army pressed the garond army tighter and tighter.
Ronenth, with Frea riding behind him, urged Quickly on to catch up with Solienth, and Yulenth with Alrhett, as they led the aurochs back up to the meadowlands of the north.
“Let them go!” Solienth shouted. “We have the garond army where we want them.”
“And we don’t want any more humans gored than need be,” Yulenth answered.
“Right,” Solienth said. “Let’s get back to the fight!” And the three Glafs wheeled their horses back to the war raging in the Eastern Meadowlands, as the blood splattered wave of aurochs, frothing at the mouth, headed back to the north.
Ravensdred swung a deadly, overhead strike at Kellabald, who parried with the Mattear Gram. Any other sword would have shattered, but the sun sword held. Kellabald shook with the horrible force of the blow. 
His knees were weak, but Kellabald thrust with the Mattear Gram. Ravensdred had uncanny skills and averted the thrust with his massive, broad sword.
Ravensdred brought his hilt up and clouted Kellabald in the chin. The world went white for a moment, but Kellabald staggered back to get his bearings.
Ravensdred took the opening for another vicious overhand strike.
The Mattear Gram softly spoke to Kellabald. “Move,” the sword said to Kellabald in his head. Kellabald held up his sword and the killing stroke glanced away as he stepped lightly to the correct side. Ravensdred buried his sword deep into the ground of the battlefield.
Kellabald felt the sun sword moving him. He stepped back, and thrust forward at Ravensdred’s heart.
But, the wily garond had the reflexes of a snake, and shifted his body. What would have been a strike right to his heart, was instead a brutal slice across the top of his bare upper arm.
Ravensdred roared in pain. He thrust his whole, heavy body up at Kellabald and knocked him off his feet.
Kellabald climbed up to his feet as Ravensdred swung a wide, flat arcing slash at him. The sun sword whipped up and blocked with a resounding ring.
Ravensdred tried a shuffle step, with a skillful feint and a back handed, swaying slice. Kellabald easily evaded and parried. Ravensdred snorted in angry frustration. He couldn’t beat the Mattear Gram with brute force or his best expertise.
Ravensdred roared and five foot soldiers left their individual battles to help him. A sixth garond carelessly turned and was skewered for his trouble.
Like the moment in Bittel when he first held the sun sword, Kellabald felt time slow down. He saw the five garonds and Ravensdred all attacking as though they were suspended in water. “These first,” the Mattear Gram said to him.
Ravensdred caught his breath as Kellabald moved with an unnatural speed, killing two garonds the moment they were within the sword’s reach.
Kellabald was surprised to see Apghilis fighting on the field nearby, moving near him. He felt glad for the support, even if it was Apghilis. “Over here!” Kellabald called to Apghilis. Then, he concentrated on the three garonds before him, and Ravensdred still trying to get an opening with his sword.
Kellabald felt the Mattear Gram moving in his hand like a metal bird, flying back and forth to deflect and counter. “Beware! Beware!” The Mattear Gram shouted in Kellabald’s mind, but he didn’t understand the warning amid all the confusion of the battle with the four garonds attacking.
Arnwylf could just see Kellabald across the field of battle. His father was surrounded by garonds, and facing the huge war general as well. Then, Arnwylf saw Apghilis run his sword into Kellabald’s back.
Ravensdred quickly grabbed the Mattear Gram out of Kellabald’s grip.
The Archer saw the betrayal, thrust his sword into the garond who faced him, then swung his bow around and nocked an arrow of Yenolah.
Ravensdred raised his own sword to finish Kellabald, as a vicious black arrow pierced his upraised arm.
Arnwylf was paralyzed, then his feet moved forward. He ran to his father hacking garonds with a will. “Father!” He cried.
The elf saw what had happened and rushed in front of Arnwylf, the moon sword sung with fury, carving a path for him.
Ravensdred, clutching his punctured arm, ran with the Mattear Gram, snarling for foot soldiers to cover his flight. He was soon lost in a mass of garond soldiers.
Arnwylf looked for Apghilis, but the treacherous vermin had fled the meadow, too.
The garond army was broken, and divided into three groups which retreated from the blood drenched Eastern Meadowland to the south, into the Weald, and to the north with their gravely wounded leader clutching his ill-gotten prize.
Arnwylf held his mortally wounded father. “Help!” He cried. “Somebody help me!”
The Archer and the elf reached his side, and the three of them quickly carried Kellabald from the field of battle.


Chapter Twenty One

Celebrations and Funerals

Kellabald felt himself being carried. He gazed up at the azure blue sky of the late afternoon. The snow and clouds had cleared into a cold day, ready for winter. He could feel the blood oozing out of his body. He felt the blackness crowding in on his consciousness. He thought, let me see this, let me stay to see only this.
Crows scuttled across the sky. It would be a good day for them. The rocking of being carried off the battlefield sent Kellabald to sleep.
He woke with a start in the house in Tyny with physicians working quickly over his body. He was on his back, on a table. The worried voices sounded muffled. He turned his head and saw Arnwylf holding Wynnfrith, staring at him with large eyes, filled with fear.
Oh my loved ones, was all he thought before he slipped into unconsciousness again.

Out on the late afternoon battlefield, the last of the garonds fled for their lives. The human army wearily leaned on their swords. The battle for the Eastern Meadowland was over and the human army was victorious. But, no voice was yet raised in joyous sounds of triumph.
Women and children began to enter the meadow, looking for husbands, brothers and sons. Some were met with painful strains of happy relief. Other’s calls went unanswered.
Caerlund met up with Haerreth, who still had both arms bandaged from his serious wounding by Apghilis the day before.
“Has the Mattear Gram been retrieved?” Haerreth asked.
“It was last seen in the hands of the garond war general,” Caerlund said. “The garond forces were split. Some went north and some went south. The garonds heading south were split again by the Bairn River. It’s believed the ones that got around the river have headed for their base in Harvestley.”
“Have the garonds who ended up on the north side of the Bairn continued east?” Haerreth asked, as captains of the human army gathered.
“It is feared they have fled into the Weald,” a captain reported.
“They must not be allowed to build a base in our sacred wood,” a captain of the Weald said with anger.
“No garond will be allowed to remain anywhere in Wealdland,” Caerlund said with a snort, and the captains all added serious grunts of agreement.
“But the sun sword...” Haerreth said.
“It is more than just a sword,” Caerlund said with a reverent nod. “All know that now. Did you see Kellabald with that sword?”
“He moved just as Haergill in his finest days,” a captain from the Northern Kingdom of Man said with a wistful frown. “Before we began to fight nation to nation,” he finished with his eyes turned down in shame.
“Well, we are now united,” Haerreth said trying to lift spirits. “And we will remain that way.”
“Our enemy has made us strong,” Caerlund gravely agreed. “But we must retrieve that sword. It must not fall into the hands of the Lord of Lightning. I have seen channels of power associated with that sword. We must pray that the garond leader fled north, for that separation prevents him from putting the Mattear Gram into the clutches of Deifol Hroth.”
“We must immediately organize armies to pursue the broken factions of the garond army,” Haerreth said. “Every human army should include men from all nations.”
“A good idea,” Caerlund said. “Let us go to Tyny to see how our war general fares.” Caerlund, Haerreth, and the captains turned to stride towards Tyny.

Ronenth, with Frea, riding Ronenth’s horse, Quickly, pulled into Tyny. They dismounted and ran to Halldora who was holding Wynnfrith, who was racked with sobs.
“Where is Arnwylf?!” Frea cried.
“He is in with his father,” Halldora said. “Arnwylf is unharmed, but Kellabald may not live.”
“I could not watch,” Wynnfrith said, between sobs, as Halldora held her tighter.
Frea broke into sobs and pushed her face into Ronenth’s shoulder. Ronenth put his arm around her and held her.
Yulenth with Alrhett rode up, with Solienth riding behind. As soon as they stopped, Solienth fell from his horse, his leg soaked with blood. Yulenth and Alrhett leapt from Gladsir.
“You are seriously wounded,” Yulenth cried, pressing both hands on the wound. “Bring physicians!”
“Leave them for younger men,” Solienth said.
“Save your breath for insulting me later,” Yulenth said with a brave smile. Solienth laughed a weak laugh.
Alrhett fled to find a physician.
In the house in Tyny, the Archer and the elf flanked Arnwylf as he watched the physicians trying to save his father’s life.
“Perhaps we should step outside,” The Archer said to Arnwylf.
“As long as my father draws breath,” Arnwylf flatly said, “I will be by his side.”
“Then we will be beside you,” the elf said.
The Archer pulled the elf to a far corner of the house. “About our conversation before the battle,” the Archer struggled for words. “It’s not that I don’t have certain feelings for you...”
“What are you talking about?” The elf said with a blank face.
“I thought...” the Archer stammered.
“The broken heart of one elf matters little now,” the elf said without emotion. “The whole of Wealdland, if not the entire earth, may soon be destroyed.”
The Archer saw that there was no guile in the elf, and he solemnly nodded. “Just know,” the Archer added, “where you go, I go.”
“That is your decision,” the elf said with tears welling in the corners of her eyes. Then, she turned to stand next to Arnwylf to comfort him. The Archer also approached, but stayed back a step.
The physician turned to Arnwylf. “We have stopped the bleeding,” the physician said. “Now it is in the hands of Oann.” Then the physicians left to care for other wounded soldiers.

As night fell, funeral pyres lit up the meadowland. Brave human soldiers were given their honorable due as their families prayed and wept. And, mounds of dead garond soldiers burned in long leaping tongues of flame reaching up to the stars in the sky. Nunee shone bright and full. The Wanderer was smaller and farther than ever before, moving in its new, erratic path.
Joyous voices began to sing. Those left alive pledged new family bonds to those left without father or brother. The singing began to catch from family to family, as the human voices rang across the meadowland, solemnly grateful for those spared, and mournfully respecting those who gave their lives.

In the tent of Healfdene, the leaders of the human nations gathered. Healfdene and Haerreth of Reia hosted the Archer from Kipleth, Halldora of the Northern Kingdom of Man, Yulenth of Glaf, Alrhett of the Weald, Caerlund of the Madrun Hills, and the last elf of Lanis. Many captains and lords of the nations filled the tent.
“Tomorrow will be a day of hope for the Wealdland,” Healfdene said.
“Our enemy has sought to destroy us,” Halldora agreed, “by setting us against each other.”
“We have before us,” Alrhett said, “an unprecedented opportunity to forge alliances, stronger than ever before, between our nations.”
“First let us have a moment of silence for those who gave their lives this day,” Healfdene said. The assembled quietly contemplated the soldiers who gave their all on the field of battle.
Healfdene raised a goblet. “May their sacrifices be honored by us,” Healfdene reverently said, “by living lives of virtue, honesty, and integrity.”
“And may their children,” Haerreth quickly added, “be regarded as our very own children, without reservation.”
“Without reservation,” the group promised with upraised cups. Then they all drank a solemn promise.
“If there are still grievances,” Healfdene said, “then let them be spoken now, so that our pacts will be made without doubt or hesitation.”
The tent was silent.
“I know of one grievance to be addressed,” Halldora said clearing her throat. “The Kingdom of Man has done the worst against the Kingdom of the Glafs. Is there any here who dispute it?”
The tent felt the weight of shame.
“The wars against the Glafs, whom we called the Ettonnes, was unjust, and led almost to their extinction,” Halldora said.
“Now, Halldora...” Yulenth began to protest.
But she held up her hand. “Yulenth,” Halldora said, “I may have lived for two years as your friend, but today I am the Queen of the Northern Kingdom of Man. I ask that you respond as the King of the Glafs, now king by right of birth.”
“Very well,” Yulenth said. “Then let me say, I do harbor ill will to the citizens of Man. Let us be honest. Very well. There are only three of us left, for what? An insult over whose capitol was more beautiful? A dispute over the boundary of a plowed field? Cross words exchanged between two strangers on a darkened street? I know not what was the impetus of our war, but we lost. I ask no reward or repayment. What is done is done. I do this as an example to all. Let your disputes fall as fruit grown rotten on the branch. Let them lie on the ground where they belong, and join the dust of the earth. Perhaps then new seeds of life and forgiveness can grow from this. Perhaps you will think how your people may be swept from the earth if you relentlessly pursue war. As one of the three Glafs left, I say, we take partial responsibility for the war with our neighbor to the north. I cannot say were the situation reversed I would be happy or sad. How can I know such an awful thing? I see more and more the shame the whole kingdom of Man feels. I know not how to forgive a whole people. But somehow I must try.”
All were moved by Yulenth’s words.
“Ask of me, Yulenth of Glaf,” Halldora said, “whatever you desire, I will grant it, even unto the whole of the kingdom.”
“Whatever I desire?” Yulenth quietly said. “What I desire? I desire to be back in Bittel with the gentle summer sunshine falling through the oak trees. I desire the good companionship of my wife and her friends, and my adopted grandson, still a child, proudly showing me the first fish he ever caught. Can you bring those days back to me? This is my greatest desire.”
“Give him the whole kingdom,” A captain of Man said, holding back tears.
“Would that I could give you those days again,” Halldora said. “I grant you all of the Northern Kingdom of Man you desire, but I fear your Glaf pride will keep you from taking any single thing,” she said with an emotional smile. “I can promise you, Yulenth, my friend of Bittel, we will try to bring back those days of peace and happiness. I promise this with all my heart.”
All in the tent were quiet, wishing for the days of peace gone by.
“Now let us swear truce and cooperation,” Healfdene said. “I think all the leaders of the nations should keep their stations and powers, but I hope we will all be eager to move as one when confronting the garond presence still left in our land.”
“There are rumors that we have seen but a portion of the army which still waits beyond Byland,” the Archer softly said. “But I swear, that my bow will not rest, nor my sword slumber, until every last one of those vermin is expelled from my sacred home.”
“And, I!” A captain shouted. “And, I!” The whole tent resounded.
“Well then,” Healfdene said with a sad happiness. “We need to organize what is left of our army, and discover where our enemy is and what strength remains with their numbers.”
“Getting that sword back ought to be first priority, I reckon,” Caerlund humbly said.
“I agree,” the elf added before Healfdene had time to protest.
“Then the forces sent out to find and deal with the garonds left in our home land,” Haerreth said, “should do so with finding the Mattear Gram foremost in their thoughts.”
“Let it be so,” Healfdene said, and the conference was concluded.

In the dark of night, in the house in Tyny, Kellabald woke to candlelight and the fearful faces of his wife and son.
“Husband!” Wynnfrith exclaimed.
“Wynnfrith,” Kellabald weakly said. “Son,” he said to Arnwylf, who was so choked with tears he couldn’t speak.
“Are the garonds driven from the eastern meadowland?” Kellabald softly asked.
“Your leadership has saved us all,” Wynnfrith said with a kiss.
“The sword!” Kellabald said and tried to rise, his bandages seeping blood.
“Rest, Kellabald,” Wynnfrith eased him down onto the bed. “The garond leader has the sun sword, but he won’t get far. His army is in tatters.”
“I will get the sword back for you,” Arnwylf said to his dying father, with determination in his eyes.
“My son,” Kellabald. “You have had to become an adult too soon. I apologize.”
“You have nothing to apologize for,” Arnwylf said through his tears.
“There are so many things I would tell you,” Kellabald said.
“You will live a long time to tell me all the things of your heart,” Arnwylf bravely said.
“My eyes grow darker with every passing moment,” Kellabald said holding Arnwylf’s hand. “Let us be honest with every word, for I fear I have few left to give you.” Kellabald shifted on the bed so he could look more directly at Arnwylf.
“First and most importantly,” Kellabald said to Arnwylf, “do not regret or spurn your responsibilities. They are the threads which sew your life together.”
“Father,” Arnwylf pleaded. But, Kellabald patted his hand and went on.
“I had many friends in Alfhich when I was a young man and you were but an infant. I would sometimes stay with them, and worry your poor mother. One day, Yulenth said to me, ‘Why do you steal such precious moments from yourself?’ I didn’t know what he was talking about. But the very next day, some of the lads from Alfhich came to take me fishing out on the Mere of Lanis. I would have been gone for days. Yulenth’s words were in my mind and I declined to go with them. The very next day, you caught your first fish, by yourself, in the stream that runs through Bittel. If I had gone with my friends I would have missed that. I would have missed seeing how proud you were in that moment. I would have missed you trying to wrestle that enormous fish from the water, the laughter and merriment when you brought it to your mother. I tell you son, that fish was the most delicious fish I ever ate. Know your responsibilities, son, and honor them. They are the threads that hold your life together.” Kellabald gently lay back on the bed.
Arnwylf buried his face in the bed, holding back his sobs with all his might.
“Wynnfrith,” Kellabald said, holding out his hand.
“Here I am, husband,” Wynnfrith said moving close, taking his hand.
“When I first saw you,” Kellabald smiled, “sixteen years old, brought by your fugitive mother to my little settlement, I knew I would fight the whole world for you. And I have.” They both softly cried on each other’s shoulders.
“Now wife,” Kellabald said, “I must go on before you.”
“No,” Wynnfrith said. “I will not let you go.”
“I am afraid, dear one,” he said, “you will not be able to prevent me.”
“Then I will follow you,” she said.
“Did you not hear anything I said to your son?” Kellabald gently said. “Those words were not only for him. You will have many things to do to help heal our land.” Kellabald coughed a little, and Wynnfrith held his shoulders as he caught his breath.
“Rest now,” Wynnfrith said. “We can talk tomorrow.”
“Clever woman,” Kellabald said. “If only you could trick me into waiting until tomorrow.”
Wynnfrith ran her fingers through Kellabald’s mop of blonde hair, and stared into his soft brown eyes. “Husband,” was all she could say before her tears caught her voice.
“Listen,” Kellabald said, “we have never spoken much of it, but between my lineage of Reia and your direct line to the throne of the Weald, our son unites two nations. You have heavy worries ahead of you. I just wish I could be there to help you.”
“You will be!” Wynnfrith cried. Kellabald patted Wynnfrith’s hand.
“You will be confronted with political vipers,” Kellabald said. “We are all congenial brothers now, in happy victory, but the day after, all will seek your power, and you will be set upon on all sides.” Kellabald rose slightly to look more directly at Wynnfrith.
“When I discovered the nature of my father’s religion,” Kellabald said, “sacrificing children to the monster of Lake Hapaun, I knew I could no longer be his son. I couldn’t stand before the lords of Reia and lie for my father, nor could I tell the truth. You may face such awful decisions. I now know if I had to, I could have condemned my father. I would have told the truth. You may one day have to tell a truth you do not want to tell. In that moment, feel my strength standing beside you. Be fair and be honest, like our greatest leaders. Know that I love you and will be with you in spirit always.”
“My love will be with you, and you alone for all time and all ages,” Wynnfrith said through her sobs.
“My father,” was all Arnwylf could say.
“Let your light, be my last light,” Kellabald said staring at the faces of his wife and son. And, then he died.
Wynnfrith and Arnwylf cried by the body of Kellabald long into the night.
At last, the Archer and the elf entered. “We should take him to Bittel, for his funeral,” the elf quietly said.
“Let him rest there in his home,” the Archer added.
Wynnfrith could only nod her head.
Arnwylf fled into the cold night of the meadowland to cry his bitter tears alone, on the field where his father’s life was taken.


Chapter Twenty Two

Partings and Plans

The small stand of trees was dry and black, and the empty branches of the massive elms swayed and danced with the gusting breezes of the approaching winter. The Archer tamped down the earth of Kellabald’s burial mound. The people of Reia did not burn their dead. The earth was fresh and dry. Next to a large oak, Kellabald’s grave would lay in the summer shade of Bittel.
Wynnfrith sat nearby on the edge of the meadowland, staring out at the dry, dead grasses. She watched Ronenth slowly walking with Frea near the place where they were freed by the Archer’s arrows.
Arnwylf sat under a tree by himself. He would not speak with anyone. Conniker curled at his feet, sulking, too.
Halldora came and sat next to Wynnfrith. They put their arms around each other. Both had lost their husbands, fathers to their children.
Nearby, Yulenth and Alrhett sat with Solienth whose wound was expected to heal.
The elf stood next to the Archer. She touched his shoulder and pointed. “There,” she said, “that was the tree in which you pinned my cloak with your arrow. Look there is still a hole, here.”
“And I was in the one just beyond,” the Archer said pointing. They smiled to each other.
Alrhett rose.
“Come everybody,” she said. The group gathered by Kellabald’s grave.
“I will begin,” Alrhett said. “He was a good son by marriage. I knew right away he was the one for my daughter. He was an honest and true man. I loved him as if he were my son.”
“When I came here,” Yulenth said, “he welcomed me without hesitation, even though it became apparent I knew Alrhett from her former life as Queen of the Weald. He wasn’t impressed by titles or ranks. He saw into your soul and knew who you were. I think it’s why the Mattear Gram rested so easily in his hands.”
“He was like a second father to me,” was all Frea could say before she was overcome by emotion.
“He was a good friend, and a person my husband instantly trusted,” Halldora said. “That meant a lot to me, coming from Ethgeow with its intrigue and assassinations. We came here for protection and it was freely given. I will never forget that.”
“His leadership was truly inspiring,” the Archer said. “I don’t think any other man could have united the human armies in battle. We lost a great man at the Battle of the Eastern Meadowlands.”
“I liked him,” was all the elf said, but all understood this was indeed very high praise from an elf.
Bittel was quiet. The only sound was the whispering of the wind through the bare trees.
A rustling in the grass made all eyes turn.
“There is someone here who wishes to pay his respects,” the elf said.
An enormous boar stepped out of the grass, and snorted.
“You have come a long way, friend,” Alrhett said.
The Great Boar of the Western Meadowland knelt and bowed his head at Kellabald’s grave. Conniker and the Boar exchanged a look. Then, the boar turned and disappeared back into the meadow.
The wind whispered its song of coming winter, snow and cold. The group stood shivering, staring down at the mound of earth.
“I miss my husband,” Wynnfrith said. “I know this new feeling will now be with me always. I wish I could recreate his whole life, every smile, and every funny thing he said, in words for you somehow. He was strong, and brave, and simple. Strangers felt at ease around him for his trustworthiness.” Then, Wynnfrith was choked with her own tears and could not continue.
All waited patiently for Arnwylf to lastly speak. Finally he cleared his throat.
“I will avenge my father,” Arnwylf said with dark eyes. “I will retrieve the sword. I will kill Apghilis, Ravensdred, and Deifol Hroth, and sorry will be any man or garond who stands in my way.”
The wind calmed at these angry words. No one had any thoughts of comfort or appeasement for Arnwylf.
With that silence, Arnwylf rose, he kissed his mother, whistled for Conniker, mounted Boldson, and rode north with his white wolf loping by his side.
Frea collapsed into sobs, as Ronenth softly stroked her hair.
“You didn’t try to stop him,” Halldora gently said to Wynnfrith.
“Perhaps I want what he wants,” she coldly said, then buried her face in Halldora’s shoulder with sobs.
“I will go with him!” Ronenth announced and started for his horse named Quickly.
“You will do no such thing!” Solienth exclaimed as he grabbed Ronenth by his tunic. Solienth began to topple, being unsteady because of the wound to his leg. Yulenth caught him.
“He needs to do what he needs to do, alone,” Yulenth soberly said as the Glafs supported each other.
“But-“ Ronenth began.
“Are you a Glaf?” Solienth snapped.
“Of course,” he answered.
“Have you learned nothing from us?” Yulenth sharply said. Then Ronenth was quiet because he knew they were right.
“Will no one stop him!” Frea cried, and crumpled to the earth of Bittel.
“Hush, daughter,” Halldora said stooping to hug Frea. “All the human armies will look after him. He will return to us. Won’t he?” Halldora looked to Wynnfrith, who stared back blankly with uncertainty.
“We need to go to the Weald,” Yulenth said. “If there are garonds in the woods, they must be driven out immediately.”
“I agree,” Alrhett quietly said.
“And there is Rogar Li to rebuild,” Solienth said with encouragement. “Why, my old cottage in the Weald is probably in shambles.”
“You will not stay to rebuild Bittel?” Halldora softly asked Wynnfrith.
“There is too much pain for me here now,” Wynnfrith said with tears. “I will go with my mother to the Weald.”
“Then I will go with you,” Halldora said with a smile. “It will build strong bonds between the Weald and the Northern Kingdom of Man if they seek their queen among the wealdkin.”
The group stood silently as the afternoon brightly brought a little warmth.
“We’d best go while the sun shines,” Yulenth said.
Then, they said their good-byes. Yulenth, and Alrhett mounted Gladsir. Solienth mounted Sweetfoot with Wynnfrith and Halldora. Ronenth and Frea mounted Quickly and then they rode east, leaving the Archer and the elf standing alone in Bittel.
The Archer and the elf stood silently looking out across the Eastern Meadowland. Then, the elf turned.
“Someone is coming,” she said. The elf drew her moon sword. The Archer nocked an arrow of Yenolah.
“Hello!?” A familiar voice called. Caerlund came crashing through the grass, followed by a full platoon of fifty soldiers. “I hoped to find you still here. Was that young Arnwylf I saw riding north, alone?”
“Yes,” the Archer answered.
“Well,” Caerlund said, a little perplexed, and then gathered himself. “I hoped to find our young elf.” Then Caerlund was unsure if he should continue. “Is this his grave?”” he quietly asked.
“This is the final resting place of Kellabald,” the elf simply said.
Caerlund removed his helmet, and knelt. And, all his soldiers did the same. “He was a great man,” Caerlund reverently said. Then, he rose, and turned to the elf. “We’ve word from the Messenger Guild that this Deifol Hroth fellow is trying to get into Lanis Rhyl Landemiriam. I thought you should know. And, I thought you might want to help.”
The elf’s face momentarily turned red. “Help?” She said. “Help? I will scatter his ashes upon the five corners of Wealdland if he enters my sacred city.”
All were momentarily stunned by this rare outburst of emotion from the elf.
“I will be by your side,” the Archer said. “I now believe the arrows of Yenolah were made specifically for him.” 
“You only have four left,” the elf said.
“And one still needs a new shaft,” he replied with a frown.
“Oh, no,” the elf suddenly said.
“What?” The Archer asked.
“I know how the Lord of Lightning moved the Wanderer. He did it with an elvish device.”
“That must mean he has already, somehow, found a way into your city,” Caerlund urgently said. “We must march all day and night to Lanis Rhyl Landemiriam, and stop him. If he crashes that moon down onto the earth, we are all done for, I reckon.” Caerlund exhaled an urgent, exasperated sigh.
The elf turned to the Archer with a smile. “I suppose if we are to fight together we should know each other’s names,” she said with a laugh. “My full name in elvish is Iounelle Treelaughter Wendralorn. My family name being Wendralorn, Treelaughter is my lifename, but you should call me Iounelle.” 
“That’s quite a beautiful name,” the Archer said. Then, the Archer leaned forward to tell the elf his name.
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Here ends:

The Last Elf of Lanis


The Wealdland Stories continue in:

The Archer From Kipleth


And concludes in:

The Lord of Lightning


Apocrypha:

Legends of Haergill and Conniker’s Tale.


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Kurt J. Hargan is a native of Eagle River, Alaska, but now calls Los Angeles, California his home. 

The sequel to The Last Elf of Lanis: The Archer From Kipleth is available now.

K. J. Hargan is also the author of several books of acclaimed poetry: A Winter's Journey Through England and Wales; Below; Songs of the Angels; Winter Roads and Summer Horses; Wind or Water; Dream Leaves; Difficult Times; and Heavens and Deserts. 


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On twitter:

 KJHargan


Blog:

www.thelastelfoflanis.blogspot.com

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