Free The Last Elf of Lanis by K. J. Hargan

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