chapters 11-14

Chapter Eleven
Torn

The deer nibbled at the grass, pleased to have found this small tussock so soon after the ravages of winter. He raised his head, stopping in mid-bite, sensing that something was not right. After standing stock still for several moments, he decided it was nothing and returned to his feeding. Seeing a clump of flowers, he delightedly moved over, abandoning the tuft of grass.
********
Waelwulf slowly, silently drew an arrow from its place in his quiver and fitted it to his longbow. No sound interrupted the sylvan silence about the glade but for the deer contentedly filling his belly. The elf inhaled as he drew back on the arrow, and sighted for a long moment down the ramrod-straight shaft of the deadly missile. He exhaled as he released, and then stood up, confident in his abilities. The deer hit the ground, Waelwulf's arrow planted firmly in its heart. He strode over to retrieve his arrow.
"I am sorry, Brother Deer, but my family must eat tonight as yours must," he said in a pleasant and clear voice as he wiped the arrow clean of blood and slung the deer over his shoulder. He whistled a merry tune as he traversed the northern fringe of the Duimleach Woods, looking forward to the thought of a warm fire and the sweet smell of deerflesh roasting over it.

En guruthan, de nisdeneth,
Mi derthonin tesenadon,
Ond Avalon ur tarion
Gi curucmi, do thismarun
Fas dinet mar guruthan
Fas dinet mar guruthan.

Waelwulf was a pure elf, one of the few who still walked Avalon. As with all Pure elves, he was skilled in woodcraft. But his real skill lay in his mastery of weapons.
He owned a blacksmith shop in Duimgard, simple but enough for his trade. The metalworker's trade had given him strength unusual for an elf that his slim arms hid. It was here that he trained for many hours a day, teaching himself the use of every weapon that he knew of. He was deadly with a bow, crossbow or long, and could shoot the wings off a butterfly from fifty paces. His favored weapon was two longswords, one in either hand, and, being ambidextrous he wielded them well. His other favorite weapon was the orlege. This particular weapon, like the dire flail, had taken him much practice and many a painful wound, but he had emerged as a flawless master of the orlege, even with one in both hands and striking at the same time. The wall of his shop was covered in his weapons, and many there were. Many a time a curious child would come running in and breathlessly ask Waelwulf what this weapon would be, or that one.
He never tired of them: Down near the ground was a short spear and long spear, then right above that was his longbow, right next to the crossbow. Nearby was a box of clips for the crossbow. A ranseur stood upright in the corner with a halberd leaning on it. Most impressive were the swords. He had nine of them, two fencing rapiers, two scimitars, two orleges, and two longswords. In addition, he had a massive greatsword, its blade four feet long. Off to the side were his dire flail and warhammer.
He liked it best when Tiana came in. Her face seemed to light the smallish room more than the blazing fire he kept to aid him in his craft. He had courted her for many months now, and had grown up with her for eighty-three years if a week, but she always brought him new strength and courage in her quick smile and sure hands.
As he turned the tiny village of Duimgard, his whistling trailed off and his throat suddenly became dry with dread.
Smoke was rising in the distance, just above the place where Duimgard was situated, or rather, Waelwulf realized with a painfully throbbing heart, where it probably wasn't anymore. He dropped the deer and ran faster than he ever had.
He stumbled over hedges, was tripped by branches in his wild haste to return to his home. He slipped in mud, but got up every time and doggedly pursued his goal.
When he finally reached Duimgard, he stopped in horror, a lump rising in his throat.
The homes lay in ruins, still smoking from the aftermath of the blazing inferno. Bodies lay on the ground, bleeding and torn. He averted his eyes as he stepped over them, but could not mistake their faces looking up at him in despair and pleading. Here was old Nirtalen, the weaverwoman. This one was Unferthal, the carpenter. He stopped near the body of young Thergard, the village imp, who had obviously taken Waelwulf's rapier in a crude and futile attempt to defend himself from… Waelwulf's train of thought ceased. Although many of the inhabitants were old, age meant little to a pure elf, and they were all trained with one weapon or another. Who, or what, could have killed them so brutally, so efficiently?
He struggled to keep back sobs as he stumbled through the increasingly thick masses of corpses. His father, mother, two sisters, and three brothers were all there, but only their bodies. Their spirits were departed, gone from this earth. He could stand it no longer, kneeling, he retched again and again. After a long moment he rose again and staggered for refuge in his blacksmith's shop. The structure was burned, though not as badly as the others, and there was still some semblance of a roof. The door was hanging on one hinge, swinging awkwardly in the breeze.
As he approached, a paralyzing fear gripped him. Where was Tiana? Had she been killed? Carried off? He entered the small workshop.
"TIANA!" he shouted, a primal cry of grief and rage, trying to deny what his own eyes had seen. "Tiana," he whispered, kneeling down beside the body of his love, her auburn hair splayed across her bloodstained face. Standing, he noticed the longsword laying a handsbreadth from her pale hand. He smiled grimly beneath his tears. Obviously she had not gone out without a fight. On his anvil was a parchment. He snatched it up and devoured the contents.

To Waelwulf, of the Pure Elves of Duimgard-
It is good that you should know the name of the one who shall kill you.
You may call me Duimshan, which as you know means elfbane.
And a bane to elves I shall be. I, and my army.
You need to know no more, except this challenge.
Come to me, pitiful son of flesh. I shall kill you, and all the pure elves, and then Avalon.
You cannot stop me. I will be waiting, roaming the Barrens.
If you think you are strong enough to face me, I am waiting for you.

Waelwulf crinkled the parchment, his blood boiling in unspoken rage. Finally a wave of sorrow overcame him, and he crumpled to the floor in a deep sleep.
********
He awoke in the still-smoking shop many hours later. From his tearstained cheeks he knew that he had cried throughout his sleep, but he shed no tears now. Now, his rational being was shut somewhere deep within the recesses of his mind.
He was no longer Waelwulf, the Pure elf who had been brought up on the edges of the forest of magic, the Duimleach. No longer the blacksmith of Duimgard, wooing Tiana.
A separate consciousness entered him. Now he was someone, or something, else entirely.
He bared his teeth, and reached for the twin orlege strapped across each other on the wall.
The Wolf was hunting now.

Chapter Twelve
Wolf Hunter
Waelwulf stared across the barren landscape, considering his options. Having retrieved the deer he had killed earlier, along with his bow, the cold and calculating mind of the Wolf carefully decided his strategy. Obviously, he must kill this 'Duimshan', whoever or whatever it was. But even his cold determination could not deny the apparent difficulty of this. Unless Duimshan was bluffing, he had a whole army about him, and that was too much for even Waelwulf to handle all at once. No, he decided, he would adopt a guerrilla strategy, destroying his enemy's army one by one.
Now he smiled bleakly as he espied smoke over the hills. Now he had a plan, and a direction. Obviously this Duimshan was leading him to them, but Waelwulf did not mind.
They might be expecting him, but they could never be ready for him.
He set off at a run over the scrubby dunes.
********
Norg the orc was in a good mood. As the leader of a small group in the army of Duimshan, he had managed to plunder a greatsword from the elf village they had just burned. He admired it now, stroking the blade with an oiled cloth, marveling at how the firelight danced along the length of the blade.
"Mirboog!" he shouted angrily, "Where be dinner?"
The smallish orc called Mirboog stood up from where he crouched, hunched over a makeshift pot of a helmet that contained dinner. The contents of the rancid stew were repulsive, and the smell more repulsive still. "It be comin', chief," he said sulkily, "The vegetibbles be takin' a while."
Norg stood up, knocking aside the greatsword to let it fall in the dust at his feet. He did not even notice. "Show yer respecks for me!" he shouted, spittle flying from his mouth as he lurched towards Mirboog.
The rest of the patrol cleared away in a hurry. They had seen what an angry Norg could and would do.
"An' yous calls these vegetibbles?" he roared, "These be weeds!"
Mirboog looked away in a pout. The 'vegetibbles' had taken a long time to find and harvest. "Ain't no reason to be insultin' the stew. I did me best, theres ain't nuthin' ter eat out here!"
Norg hesitated, torn between the pleasure of humiliating or killing the smaller orc and losing his only real cook. "Garr, get outer here!" he shouted, turning the orc around and shoving him between his shoulder blades, "Git doin' some guard duty!"
Mirboog staggered for several moments on his path out of the small camp then stopped himself, looked back resentfully, then stumbled out in the dark.
********
Waelwulf came at a dead run over the boulder next to the sentry, dropping right behind the unsuspecting sentry. Hearing the slight noise, the orc turned around.
"Hey, you ain't…" he began, but the vengeful elf deftly turned aside the spear, leaving the hapless orc open for the kill. The fine blades of the orlege whipped up in a blinding circle, cutting the sentry from hip to the opposite shoulder on either side.
********
Mirboog had been muttering curses and promises of revenge when he happened to look up towards where the sentry was. As he watched, a cloaked figure appeared from nowhere, parried the sentry's futile attack, and killed him. It had all happened in little more time than it took to blink an eye. Mirboog froze, crouching close to the earth. If he called for help, someone else would take all the credit--and the plunder. But if he attacked now… the mysterious figure apparently did not notice him yet.
He quickly advanced towards the figure.
********
Waelwulf had been just pulling on the sentry's cloak when a point of steel lightly touched the area between his shoulder blades, colder than ice.
"Mak agt muvter!"
Waelwulf instantly recognized the orcish speak. Surrender or die. He smiled colder still than the point of the spear. Neither of these options fit into his plans, as the orc would soon find out.
Mirboog could not tell what happened next. The elf exploded into motion, sweeping the dead orc sentry's cloak up as a smokescreen. Mirboog, realizing with a sinking feeling he was quickly losing his advantage, stabbed blindly into the billowing cloth. He hit nothing.
But something hit him.
And it hurt a lot.
********
Waelwulf cleaned his blades, then took the cloak from the dead orc. Garbed as an orc, and hunched over a little, they would never see it coming.
********
Norg was not surprised to see the sentry. The smell of the stew was already permeating the area.
"Fryk, bu gar vot," he said.
Waelwulf understood. He walked over to the upside down helmet over the fire. "Maftr ci gtras!" he replied. This disgusting.
It was the voice that warned Norg. It was not an orcish voice. He strained his puny brain to recognize it. "Fryk?" he asked, bending closer and squinting through the firelight.
Waelwulf stood up, shedding the cloak from his tall figure in a single fluid movement. Norg gasped and reached for his greatsword.
Waelwulf's eyes narrowed. He recognized the orc's sword. "That's my sword, you know," he said without emotion.
Norg stood still, hoping that the elf would not notice the orc behind him. In his anxiety, his eyes flickered behind the elf. Waelwulf noticed the movement and realized what was happening. He crouched low, swinging one blade over his head to deflect an overhead blow. The other blade was placed on the right to block a blow from that direction. His left orlege flicked out, the rear blade giving his left flank protection as the point of the fore blade hungrily dove for the stunned orc's chest.
Norg was decidedly worried now. The last thing he wanted to do was face this merciless warrior. "Dyir!" he growled, telling his soldiers to attack. There was some muttering from them. The elf spoke again.
"That is my sword," he said in perfect orcish, "and I want it back."
Norg was confused. "Nag watcha?..."
"I know this because I am from the village you burned." Waelwulf still spoke without emotion, but Norg suspected his time in this life was fast concluding.
The elf brought his blades out in two meshing circles of steel that revolved in front of him. One blade flickered out, lancing towards Norg's left flank. He jabbed awkwardly, deflecting the blade. It was only a feint, though, as Norg realized when the second blade came in fast and low towards his leg. Norg hopskipped back a pace, narrowly dodging the fine edge.
Waelwulf came forward quickly, catching the orc off balance. He spun his staff-swords in another complicated maneuver, tapping the flats of his blades against the orc's sword, forcing it through a series of complex parries and thrusts. Norg growled. The orc knew that the elf was mocking him, but what could he do?
Norg suddenly bulled forward, bringing his greatsword up and over his head, a move that he knew the elf would never have the strength to block. He highly expected the elf to be unable to dodge quickly enough, as his feet were slightly off balance from the orc's drive forward.
Norg grinned as the blade descended in the immobile elf. Surely nothing now could prevent him from cleaving the elf in two.

Waelwulf was feeling rather disgusted by this orc. Although he was reasonably skilled(by orc standards), he was nothing to an elf. As Waelwulf expected, he tried a blow of brute strength. But he knew how to counter this kind of attack. He spun his swords rapidly, angling the blades so that they would glance off the orc's sword. With blurring speed they deflected off, slowing the greatsword's arc a small degree upon each impact. Crunch time. Last chance for survival. He threw all his strength into one final overhead cross block.
Suddenly Norg felt eight tiny vibrations travel through his sword, jarring his hands. He was surprised a moment later by a sharp clang--and then his sword stopped, the downward arc halted by the elf's orleges.
Norg stared stupidly at the locked blades. "But..." he stammered, trying to sort the situation out.
Waelwulf slid his cross block forward, driving the greatsword farther up. He stepped into the block, bending his left leg so far back that his face gazed up towards the sky, then snapped out his right leg. He connected solidly with the orc's chin. His head jerked back with a sickening crunch. Waelwulf winced. Ouch.
The orc's eyes rolled back farther then the elf had ever seen, until Waelwulf could only see his whites, or rather, because it was an orc, the yellows. He slowly toppled over. Waelwulf ignored him. Stepping over the body, he surveyed the scene. The orcs had scattered. That was just fine as far as he was concerned. He had a long night ahead.

Chapter Thirteen

Terns swooped and wheeled over the sandy beachline, examining the body resting in the surf. At first glance, he was dead. He lay there, completely immobile. It would not be strange if he was dead, considering what he had gone through
One of the shorebirds, impatient for a meal, landed for a closer inspection. He shuffled awkwardly to the prone figure, pecking it.
Nothing.
He squawked happily. Craning his neck, he bit into the shoulder and pulled.
An arm jerked spasmodically, belting the tern across the face. He stumbled backwards. Turning, he hopskipped down the beach, wildly flapping his wings to join the circling shorebirds.

He felt the cool sand against his cheek, water filtering through with the surf. A burning pain rushed through his arm. He was sure it was broken.
He?
Who was he?
He strained his mind to recall something—anything. All he could remember was this beach. He tried harder, saying words in his mind in an attempt to trigger recall.
Still nothing.
He nearly panicked. Perhaps he had no past. Perhaps he was thrown here on the cruel whim a thoughtless god, spawned from nothingness.
He tried to push himself up, but the instant he put weight on his right arm, pain exploded in his head. Concussion followed immediately.
He awakened with a burning pain in his arm. Gingerly, he pushed himself into a sitting position. A wave crashed into him, and he collapsed. The receding wave pulled at his body. He could not resist it. His broken arm flopped about, tossed by the arms of the sea, and waves of nausea flooded him. He retched, but nothing came. His belly was as empty as the beach. The next wave drove over his body, pulling him closer. Come, the ocean seemed to say. You are mine. I claim you as my own. You have strayed into my domain, and now you are mine.
No!
The reply came from some well deep within his soul, an instinctive cry of denial. He stretched out his left hand and dug his fingers into the sand. He pulled himself forward, agonizingly slowly. The next wave swept upon him, pulling his hand away from the sand. A scream of pain and fear ripped from his cracked lips. The wave released him, hurling his body to the sand. He stretched his left arm a second time, clawing a hole in the beach. His fingers scraped against a spur of stone. Nearly swooning with the pain, he forced his right arm out and wrapped his fingers around the node. Just in time. The wave swelled underneath him, bearing him swiftly upward on liquid wings. He screamed again as his elbow bent backwards. The wave cartwheeled him over, but he maintained his death grip on the stone. The moment his body thudded against the sand, he blacked out.
Consciousness returned to him shortly before the sun disappeared over the waves. The tide had gone out, but still his fingers grasped the jut of stone. Slowly, his fingers unpeeled from it. He pushed himself up. His legs quivered, and he fell. He tried again his legs would not support him.
It was an hour later when he found the strength to stand. Darkness had long since fallen, and a shining moon cast rays of silver light about the beach. He rose to his feet, sinking into the mud. Stumbling down the beach, he ignored the pebbles and shells that sliced his feet like a field of knives. He knew he would not have strength to resist when the tide came back. Survival required he get above the beachline before the water returned.
He left behind a trail of blood.

The sun dawned over the mountains the next day, gazing at the pitiful rag-clad figure lying just above the beachline. Waves lapped against the shore, washing away the stains of blood. A breeze skipped and played with the surf, then danced fluidly across the sand, ruffling the light brown hair. He stirred as if waking from a dream and rolled over. As he did so, his right arm cruched beneath him. His eyes flahsed open and he yelped and rolled over again.
Fwump!
A mistake, in retrospect. He rolled off the grassy knoll he had (inadvertently, as well as literally,) stumbled upon the previous night. Emitting a second yell he stumbled out of a clump of gooseberry bushes, cursing like a sailor. He had discovered this thorny clump just before-and in a similar manner to-the knoll.
There was one good thing about “discovering” the gooseberry bush, he reflected while nursing his broken arm. Breakfast. He plucked a greenish-purple fruit and bit down on it. Sweetness flooded his mouth like a wildfire, contrasting severely with the seawater. He grimaced, then plucked another and another, and then whole handfuls, gorging his appetite.

Ten minutes later he decided it was time to leave the beach and find a village--a city--anyone who could help him. He rose to his feet unsteadily and began hobbling down the beach. He had scarcely taken his third step when his feet broke open. Fresh wounds began to bleed. He quickly sat on the cool sand. Apparently he was not ready to leave. An idea struck him, and he crawled on his hands or knees to one of the many tide pools dotting the landscape, and lowered his feet into the brine. He inhaled sharply as the salt stung his wounds. Deciding it could hardly hamper healing, he dunked his broken arm into the water too. He sat there for hours, the seawater seeping into his wounds and healing them. When dusk fell, he crawled back to his knoll, this time being careful not to step on the goosebierry clump.
The next morning proceeded much as the previous one. After a meager meal, he crawled to a tidepool and soaked his feet and arm for most of the day. By the time the sun was replaced by a moon casting silver arrows to illuminate the sand, he was asleep.
On the third day, while he was sitting by the tidepool, an idea struck him. The gooseberry bush was nearly depleted, amd he had forced himself to ration the remaining fruit. He was stranded. He had not the strength to search for more food. Looking down at the undulating water, on impulse he reached into it and grasped a small shell latched onto the rock. At first glance it appeared to be a small nub of protruding rock. He knew better. he did not know exactly what it was, but something inside him knew it was food, if not terribly appetizing. Detaching the shellfish, he smashed it against a rock. Scooping up the flesh, he gnawed on it. The tough flesh was rubbery, and he could have chewed on it for days. He swallowed, and the meat slowly made its way down his throat. He reached for another, and the cycle continued.
Now with his belly fuller than it had been in days, he sat at the edge of the tidepool. His feet felt good, better than new. He retracted his legs, dripping with saltwater, and took a quick jog across the beach. The pounding of the surf filled his ears, and a sharp sea breeze blew across his ears, whistling softly. He inhaled deeply and shivered happily. It was good to be alive, even if this was the fourth day he could remember. His feet were well on the road to recovery, and his arm wasn't doing so badly either. As he walked back, he noticed a strange thing. The beach, usually full of life, was deserted. No birds cried, no crabs scuttled across the sand. Suddenly, the water began receding. Slowly at first, so slowly he didn't notice, it accelerated. The waves rushed faster and faster. A roaring flew at him, seeming to be a physical substance. Strange, he thought. But he dismissed it from his mind and sat down again, legs dangling in the tidepool. Nonchalantly, he cracked a shellfish and digested the contents. He tossed the shell towards the ocean, then winced at the results. He was obviously right-handed. Despite his enjoyment, something nagged at the back of his mind. There was something...wrong about this. It didn't feel right. He scoured his memory, trying to find some clue to this phenomenon. It was a...a...red tide. The words sprang to his mind. A rumbling sounded in the distance. He wracked his brain. Something about... A lead ball dropped in his stomach, and his mouth grew dry with fear. He stumbled into a standing position, and ran. The rumbling grew louder. He knew what it was. The word came to as clear as a bell.
Tsunami.

Chapter 14

His feet were not ready for this. He knew this, but could not help it. A shadow fell on the beach, slowly creeping up. Running faster, he began picking his way through the foothills. He turned his head while running, and saw a gigantic wave bearing down on him. He ran on, but he knew he couldn't escape that massive wall of water. Spying a sheet of bark, he grabbed it and looked back, still running. The tsunami, he estimated, was three hundred yards off. Numbers counted down like a timer in his head, gauging the remaining distance. Twenty nine hundred yards, twenty eight... Still he ran, eyes darting from side to side, picking his location carefully. Seeing a cliff ahead, he he turned to his left and ran a diagonal course. This move would cost him valuable seconds, but it was better than being jellied onto the rockface. And speaking of seconds... He took a hurried glance over his shoulder. Twenty five seconds, twenty four, twenty three... On he ran, adjusting his course from time to time according to his plan. Fifteen, fourteen... He was an infinitesimal speck against the ocean, his mind told him, it was foolish and useless to resist. Eight, seven... He checked the terrain one final time, the turned and firmly planted himself directly in the path of the raging torrent. Five, four... The juggernaut crashed on, swallowing trees, dunes, shrubs, stones, everything in its path was swept into the behemoth. Three, two... No turning back now. One-
He leapt into the wave on his sheet of bark. Spray pelted his face, and he felt himself falling upside-down. He twisted in midair and landed. The makeshift boat rocked underneath him, and he spread his knees out to stabilize. Wiping his eyes, he looked ahead. The landscape rushed by at a tremendous rate, shadowed by a curling wave--which he was riding. He blinked in astonishment. Twenty feet in front of him, the earth was as dry as a bone. But five feet closer to him, the ground was being flooded. Looking up, he noted with some satisfaction that the wave was getting smaller--a double edged blade when he considered that, at the speed he was going, there was still a good chance of being smashed against a dune. The wave continued to shrink in height, but showed little sign of stopping. His elevation decreased also, his bark sled vibrating from scrapes on the terrain. The wave descended, , falling in front of him, enveloping him in a tube of water. No! his mind shouted. Surely he had not come this far to perish! He could feel the sea mocking him. Grinding his teeth, he concentrated his full being on navigating the ever more treacherous course. Internally, however, he began to despair. He was giving his all, but for nothing.
It was not enough.
a strangled half-cry, half-sob escaped him. His makeshift sled bumped alarmingly along. The wave was collapsing on itself, and it still had enough strength to kill or permanently maim him. He bowed his head, still sobbing. The wave was nearly washing over his shoulders when he felt something grasp his hand. From the texture he could tell it was not merely seaweed or a stray branch, but a hand of flesh and blood. Power seemed to flow from that grip, filling him with hope and strength. The mysterious arm pulled, implacable and unstoppable, bringing him to his feet. He stood up, shaking and wobbling as the wave washed over him.
His sigh of relief was premature, for suddenly his sled dug into the sand, catapulting him into the air. His legs pedaled through the air, on impact they began crumpling beneath him. He straightened on the run, stopping himself in a spray of sand. Tipping forward, he plowed a furrow in the sand as he faceplanted.
He was absolutely still for a moment, his heart beating wildly. What was left of the wave washed over him, from his toes to his head. Adrenaline rushed through his body. He leapt into the air, pumping his good arm.
"Yes!" he shouted, the sound breaking the unnatural silence. He rubbed his throat, just noticing he had not spoken aloud in... well, who knows how long. At least four days.
The next morning, life returned to the beach. Albatri again scavenged and pried meat from shellfish. Crabs emerged from their hiding places, leaving minute impressions in the damp sand as they trotted sideways. One individual, however, was missing. He was leaving now, in search of other people. Bare feet padded softly against the sand, muffled by the pounding of the waves. Bound for the mountains, he left this part of his life behind.
Behind him, foam splashed over the footprints. The waves slowly erased the remaining traces of blood.
All trace that he had ever been there was gone.

Chapter Fifteen
Dark Dreams

Wind howled around him as he struggled up the slope, beleaguered by the fitful gusts. Cradling his arm against his chest, he sheltered under a boulder to catch his breath. His arm was not healed by any means, but three days soaking in salt water had certainly helped. Deciding it was time to move on, he stepped out into the elements. Shielding his eyes, he took a quick glance towards the peak. It was not a particularly high mountain, and he was most of the way up. When he reached the summit, he would look around. If he reached the summit, he grimly thought as the wind buffeted him from side to side.
Hours later he had clambered to the top. Looking around, he gasped at the panorama. Behind him stretched the beach, extending into his right and left peripheral vision. Spread before him was a vast u-shaped chain of mountains. His mountain was at the bottom of the U. Nestled inside the rim of mountains was