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sister murdered.
    Invisible in the trees, exhausted and terrified, she watched the garonds try to assault the walls of her city. But, the walls held. The secret entrance that only opened for the correctly spoken words remained hidden. The walls of the now empty city became slippery in defense. There was no scaling them.
    Two nights later, she slipped into Lanis Rhyl Landemiriam and armed herself with the moon sword of Berand Torler, the warrior who had defended the elves in the Human Wars three thousand years earlier. She knew it was sacrilege to touch the sacred blade, but this was a new war. This was a new war to be fought only by her, the last elf.
     
    Alrhett held Halldora as she cradled her dying husband. She looked up to see the elf quietly whispering a prayer. She could feel Halldora’s slim body shuddering with her sobbing.
    Alrhett noticed the white wolf’s agitation. Alrhett rose as Kellabald moved close to Haergill to hear his dying words. She carefully stepped to the white wolf. Alrhett had animal speak/hear. The young wolf had something important to say, but no one to tell it to.
    Alrhett moved slowly. The animal had helped the clan in their fight against the garonds, but it was still a dangerous, wild animal. The wolf kept saying, he’s gone, he’s gone. Alrhett spoke respectfully to the young wolf and asked its name.
    The white wolf said that its name was Conniker, and that he was worried about the boy. Alrhett asked Conniker what he meant, and as she spoke the words in animal speak/hear she suddenly realized Arnwylf wasn’t standing with the group.
    “Where is he?!” She said loudly. “Where’s Arnwylf?”
    The group looked up, and looked in all directions.
    “Arnwylf!” Kellabald bellowed. There was no answer.
    Alrhett felt the world closing in on her like a warm, suffocating blanket. Arnwylf didn’t know that he was her grandson. They had kept the knowledge secret to protect him.
    Now Alrhett began to feel panic. Both of the children were gone. She remembered holding Arnwylf as a helpless child. Holding his hand when he was a toddler splashing in the stream that ran beside Bittel. She remembered the joy she felt when Frea and her family came to the village. It was if she had suddenly been given a beautiful, red haired granddaughter. She remembered the unstoppable grief when Arnwylf’s younger brother had died of the pox. She could not endure that grief again.
    Alrhett moved close to the group huddled around Haergill. The white wolf pressed close to her, trying to take some of her growing grief from her. They had to save Arnwylf and Frea.
     
    The Archer was surprised to find he was trembling. The loss of his village flooded in on his mind. It was only three years ago. He was returning in triumph from a minor battle in his homeland, in the mountains of Kipleth. As his army marched over the crest that led into their valley, to his village Pelych, what they thought were cheery chimney fires proved to be huts and halls aflame.
    The whole army ran down to the village, but all that remained were the bodies of the slain, old men and women, mothers and children. No one was sparred. No one knew at the time that this was the work of the garonds. While the Archer and his army were away at war with the Kingdom of Man, the garonds had struck. And then they fled south, back across Byland. This was one of the first attacks into the heart of Wealdland.
    The Archer had fought and won with sword and spear for Healfdene, the king of the western Green Hills of Reia, allied against Apghilis, a power hungry atheling from the Northern Kingdom of men. The Archer’s whole family, his whole village , was gone.
    The Archer wandered the mountains of Kipleth for two years.
    His rage, anger, and sorrow had become a weight, which hung over his head like a great, black cloud.
    The Archer knew what would become of Arnwylf. There was goodness in the boy, and now it would all be pressed out of his soul. The boy would become the