The Last Elf of Lanis

by K. J. Hargan

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, h
e 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.