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,” Wynnfr
ith 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.”
The Last Elf of Lanis Page 14
