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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