So it was that in the twelfth month of the Sundering from their homeland, the last of the elven city-ships came in sight of the land that the humans called Rhoderica. Seven vessels, each the size of ten human galleons crowded in to the shelter of Helant Bay as the sun dipped low in the summer sky. The first to lay anchor was The Swan. Ulfur the Swift, last surviving son of King Maginus stared out from the prow, taking in the wide expanse of lush land, hardly able to believe that their journey was at an end. It grieved him that his father, who had lead them in their desperate flight across the Bridal Sea now lay dying in his cabin. Ulfur mouthed a silent prayer to the Lady that she might spare him long enough to see his people set foot on the land they had sought for so long.
In his eagerness to reach the shore Ulfur leapt into the landing boat as it was still being lowered. The little craft hit the waves with a splash and a fine spray of seawater covered him and his landing party. Ulfur shrugged off the droplets and smiled; it felt good to be in action again and the sense of freedom he felt on leaving the ship, which had been his home for the best part of a year, threatened to overwhelm him. He took up an oar in his good left hand and leant his back to the work of pulling the tiny craft to shore; his withered right arm strapped tightly across his chest, useless since the touch of dark magic. The little rowing boat was soon close enough to the shingled beach for the prince to leap over the side and wade to shore. Six soldiers of the Royal Guard plunged into the waves after their future king, the last elf carrying a carefully wrapped bundle the length of an oar.
As he strode from the water the sudden firmness of dry land was almost too much for Ulfur to bear and he sank to his knees, his good hand clutching at the red and brown shingle as he offered a prayer to his gods. He gave thanks to Nemaris the sea god for the leniency He had shown to the remains of the fleet bobbing off shore; he asked the soldier god Blaine to watch over the brothers he had lost at sea, and to offer the shelter of his twilight world to the three ships that did not survive the voyage. Lastly, Ulfur made his thumb and forefinger in to an L, the sign of The Lady, the earth-mother goddess, and held his left hand over his heart. He had been preparing words for three days since the farseers sighted land. His father had been awake long enough that morning to approve his efforts and he thought of him now as he recited the prayer.
‘Lady,’ he prayed, ‘in your holy wisdom, free us of our sins. Let not the horrors of our homeland touch us here. Deliver us from that which tore our folk asunder and in your generous benevolence bring us at last to peace.’
‘Thanks-be-to the Goddess,’ replied the Royal Guards. They bowed respectfully in front of their future King and then pulled him gently to his feet.
The carefully wrapped parcel was brought forward and waterproof cloth stripped away to reveal the Royal Standard. Ulfur turned to face the fleet as a sudden gust of wind unfurled the white cloth, revealing the embroidered golden sigils of a fist closed around a sun. The sight of the banner sent the prince’s mind racing back the gleaming towers of Summeric, the ancient seat of the elven royals, where last the banner had flown on dry land. Tears came to Ulfur’s eyes, but he would not allow himself to weep for stone and mortar. His father’s people were safe with him, and that was all that mattered. His only regret was the loss of the gifts of the Lady. The precious artefacts had been sacrificed to hold back the enemy as they fled from Ancientica. Ulfur wondered whether their power had been enough to halt the poison that infected their homeland. Looking at his feet, planted firmly on alien soil, he realised that they might never know the fate of Ancientica and a deep sorrow and sense of longing began to eat at his soul. It was with a mixture of regret and relief that Ulfur addressed his father’s people.
‘I claim this place in the name of my father King Maginus, on behalf of the elves and with the blessing of Nemaris who has spared us from his wrath. I name this place The Summerlands, for here at last shall begin a new reign of warmth and prosperity for our people. Long live the Elves!’
His voice carried loud and strong to the fleet and the people that Ulfur would ultimately rule roared back their approval. Their flight was over. The elves had come to Rhoderica.