Read Online The Last Elf of Lanis by K. J. Hargan - Free Book Online
Authors: K. J. Hargan
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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
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
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