The Archer From Kipleth (Book 2) (18 page)

“Nostacarr,” the elf gently touched the shoulder of the elderly man, his long white hair spilling all over his writing desk.

“Erm?” The Master of the Library started awake.

“What do you know of the Lhalíi?”

“The Lhalíi..?” The old man scratched his balding head. “That was the Sun Shard... of the elves. Yes. Very powerful. Supposed to be the fruit which turned old Brudejik into the first human.”

“How can it be safely stored?”

“Something like that...” the old man nodded, “should only be kept with an elf...”

Iounelle frowned.

“Tell me...” Nostacarr’s face creased a smile with lovely wrinkles. “An elf lives one year to our thirteen... Yes?”

“Thirteen and a half,” Iounelle corrected. “But I heard it said in my city that elves were living longer because there were fewer of us.”

“Erm, yes,” Nostacarr scratched a note with his quill pen. “I would love to have an elvish dictionary once again,” the old man said with a twinkle in his eye.

“All the books of Lanis Rhyl Landemiriam are destroyed.”

“No,” Nostacarr was truly horrified, and sadly shook his head.

“’Lanis’ means home,” Iounelle said to comfort the Master of the Library, and Nostacarr quickly wrote it down.

“’Rhyl’ means river. And ‘Landemiriam’ means ‘just over Miriam’.”

“So, Lanis Rhyl Landemiriam,” the elderly man smiled with intelligence, “means ‘Home just past the River Miriam’.”

“That is how we knew it,” Iounelle said, smiling, holding back her tears.

“But there are no other elves, but you,” Ronenth said looking up from a book.

“Just as there are only three Glafs,” Iounelle tenderly said.

“I see,” Ronenth said and bowed his head, pretending to read, hiding his tears.

Iounelle gazed at Ronenth, then made a decision.

“I have something for you,” Iounelle said to the young, dark haired Glaf.

“What?” Ronenth asked.

The elf pulled open her large pack. The paricale spilled out with laughing metal clanks.

“This is a paricale,” Iounelle said.

“An elvish weapon,” Nostacarr brightened. “I read all about it. I know of its use and handling. Read all the books.”

“I understand,” Iounelle said to Ronenth, “you are very clever with weapons. Be very, very, very carefully with this one. Go slow. It could easily kill you. Two days ago, I saw a garond cut his own head off trying to use this.”

“I will be careful,” Ronenth said with wonder as he cautiously hefted the shining silver segments of the paricale.

“Should you give him that?” The Archer asked over Iounelle’s shoulder.

“I will be very careful,” Ronenth said defensively.

“I feel it belongs with him,” the elf said to the Archer. “I can’t say why. I have never felt this way before. But I know it is right.”

“Let us hurry over to Halldora’s home to support Alrhett and comfort Hetwing,” the Archer said.

“I’ll come with you,” Ronenth said as he stored the paricale under his desk.

Out in the streets of New Rogar Li, the wealdkin overcompensated in their generosity with the Sons of Yenolah and the Children of Lanis to ease the guilt of disrespecting Arnwylf and his soldiers.

At the home of Halldora, Garmee Gamee solemnly answered the door. Hetwing’s wails echoed through the lavish mansion.

“She already knows,” Iounelle frowned.

“Is Frea in?” Ronenth asked.

“She doesn’t want to speak to you,” Garmee Gamee said imperiously.

“I just want to apologize,” Ronenth humbly said.

“I’ll tell her,” Garmee Gamee said without moving.

“We’re here to see Hetwing,” the Archer said.

“She’s not seeing anyone,” Garmee Gamee said with a curl of her lip.

“Move aside,” the elf said flatly, and Garmee Gamee turned white with fear. Iounelle gently pushed Garmee Gamee to one side as she, Derragen and Ronenth entered.

Alrhett and Yulenth were waiting for them, and solemnly led them to the sitting room.

In the luxurious sitting room, Halldora and Wynnfrith sat on either side of Hetwing. The fragile, orange haired girl sobbed uncontrollably into her hands.

“Haerreth was a great man,” the elf gently said to Hetwing. “Wealdland is so much poorer without his courage, his life, his laughter.”

Hetwing stopped crying. The elf had said just the right thing, and Hetwing rose and hugged Iounelle tight.

“We must return my brother to his father,” Hetwing meekly said.

“I will go with you,” Halldora said. “I tried to keep him from attacking the citadel. I should have tried harder.”

“No one could keep Haerreth from doing anything once he put his mind to it,” Hetwing said with a smile through her tears.

Frea entered with a tray of cups and an urn of tea. She glared at Ronenth. “What is he doing here?” She said through gritted teeth.

“Don’t be mad at him,” Garmee Gamee said. “Now you can apologize to him.”

“What!?” Frea nearly shouted, the tea cups clattered on the tray. Frea restrained herself for Hetwing.

“I didn’t-” Ronenth turned to Garmee Gamee with a scowl.

“I have nothing to apologize for,” Frea said holding back her fury.

“Frea,” Ronenth tenderly began, but then he just shook his head, and quietly left.

“Ronenth, don’t go,” Hetwing whispered, but it was too late.

“I’m sorry to leave so suddenly,” Derragen said to Hetwing, “but we wanted to try to implore Arnwylf to come back to the city before nightfall. We’ll return shortly to attend Haerreth’s vigil.”

“I’ll come with you,” Garmee Gamee said. “I have some food I’ve prepared to take to Arnwylf. It may soften his heart.” Garmee Gamee scurried to get her packages.

Frea huffed derisively and strode from the sitting room.

Garmee Gamee led the Archer and the elf north to the edge of the Weald. She was uncharacteristically quiet, and seemed  afraid of Iounelle.

As they left the edge of town, they passed through the bustling lumber yard. A burly man hailed them. “Where you headed Garmee?”

“I’m seeing Arnwylf, uncle,” Garmee Gamee chirped.

“Well don’t let him leave,” her uncle grinned. “Those wolves of his keep the black creatures away.”

“Black creatures?” The elf asked.

“They come and snatch a man whole. Crunch, crunch, crunch. But they don’t like the wolves. No one’s heard a single one creeping around the Weald since the wolves have shown up.”

“Oh, uncle, you fool,” Garmee Gamee said dismissively.

Beyond the lumber yard, Derragen soon saw soldiers lounging and playing games of chance.

“Where may we find Arnwylf?” Derragen asked a soldier who snapped to attention when he saw the Archer.

“General!” The soldier exclaimed. “I’m of Kipleth! What an honor to meet you, sir!”

“Yes,” Derragen smiled. “Please lead us to Arnwylf.”

The soldier smartly turned and marched to the center of camp, where twenty wolves scrapped and play fought. Every wolf stopped and bristled when they saw the strangers.

“Hello,” Iounelle cheerfully said to the wolves. Every wolf got down on its belly and crawled to the elf whimpering like a pack of puppies. The elf scratched their ears and laughed while they whined and groveled. Every wolf brother was astonished, but no human spoke.

“Archer! Elf!” Arnwylf cried. And ever by Arnwylf’s side, Conniker, the alpha white wolf, leapt and bodily fell on Iounelle. The other wolves backed away respecting Conniker’s status as leader. Iounelle and Conniker happily wrestled, as every human in the camp watched with mouths agape.

“Arnwylf,” Derragen said, “come back to the city.”

“The wealdkin all but threw us out,” Arnwylf shouted. “After we drove Ravensdred and his garonds from Wealdland. And I got the Mattear Gram back!”

“I want to hear all about it,” Derragen fatherly smiled. “Let’s hear all your stories... back in the city. The wealdkin are sorry. Haerreth and Maginalius, the valiant brother of Summeninquis, were killed last night. Every citizen has seen the horrors and sacrifice of our soldiers. Don’t punish them.” Derragen warmly threw an arm around Arnwylf’s shoulders. “I would consider your father one of my true friends, and I feel compelled to treat you as my son. And so I must give you the unwanted advice a father must give his son,” the Archer broadly grinned. “Come back an accept their apologies.”

Arnwylf dropped his head and shyly smiled. He respected Derragen and trusted him with his life.

“I will,” Arnwylf said with a humble smile.

The soldiers who heard cheered and prepared to break camp to return to the city.

“But the wolves...” Arnwylf said.

“Will behave themselves,” the elf strongly said. “Or they can stay here with a few of their human brothers if they must.”

Husvet held his skinny wolf. “But who will make the wealdkin behave?”

Iounelle approached the skinny wolf and huffed and growled to it, and it huffed and whined back.

“You have a lovely wolf there,” the elf said to Husvet.

“I haven’t named her yet,” Husvet shyly said.

“Her name is Farren,” the elf said as a matter of fact.

Husvet was stunned.

“Elves speak to animals,” Arnwylf said to his captain.

“Arnwylf,” Frea said moving from between some soldiers. “I  followed. Arnwylf...”

“Did you bring my sword?” Arnwylf coldly said.

“The athelings of Man saw it, and I could no longer keep possession of the Mattear Gram.”

“Now that is wonderful,” Arnwylf sneered. “I spent a year getting the Singing Sword from that beast, Ravensdred, and now I must win it all over again from the beasts of the Northern Kingdom of Man.”

“I’m sorry,” Frea quietly said. “I was angry at Ronenth, I didn’t mean, I never meant-” Then Frea, weeping, fled back to the city through the gathering dusk.

“Frea!” Arnwylf painfully cried. “Wait!” But she was gone.

“Forget about her,” Garmee Gamee said. “She and Ronenth are just having a lover’s fight. Plus, she’s too full of royal airs to make a man happy.” Garmee Gamee reached to affectionately stroke Arnwylf’s arm.

“Shut up, Garmee Gamee” Arnwylf flatly said brushing her away. “Let us go back to New Rogar Li, to mourn the dead, and repair what harm we’ve done to the living.”

Chapter Nine

Gillalliath

All night candles were burned, ringing the bodies of Maginalius, Haerreth and the other recovered soldiers. Hetwing wept the whole night.

In the morning, Maginalius’ people took his body from Halldora’s home to prepare the body for its last rites, in the tradition of their people.

Summeninquis stroked his brother’s hair as his people packed Maginalius’ corpse with salts and chalk.

“We will wrap him in cloth and his body will be preserved until the gods come to take him to their world,” Summeninquis solemnly said.

As the dusky people carried the bound warrior from Halldora’s home, Summeninquis leaned in close to Halldora.

“I have always loved you,” the Great Judge said without emotion. “Together, in marriage, we could unite the Weald and the Kingdom of Man,” Summeninquis said with his foul breath covering Halldora.

“Wynnfrith has told me you have proclaimed your eternal love for her,” Halldora said. “Over your noble brother’s body, you try to further your own political power. Get out of my home, you pig.” Halldora’s eyes were filled with regal fire. The Archer and the elf sensing difficulty, rose to flank Halldora.

Summeninquis muttered to himself and crept out to the street.

“That one needs justice,” the elf said with a steady gaze.

“Never mind him,” Halldora said. “Haerreth must be returned to his father and his home at once. If you will allow me,” Halldora tenderly said to Hetwing, “I will accompany you to Gillalliath, your home. King Healfdene will see for himself my sorrow at your brother’s death.”

“Thank you,” Hetwing meekly said.

Haerreth’s body was bound with cloth soaked in resins to prepare it for travel.

“You must have an escort,” the Archer said.

“But all the garonds have been driven from our land,” Halldora replied. “Arnwylf defeated the garonds in the north. And you defeated the garonds in the south.”

“There are still those at the Dark Lord’s castle,” Iounelle said. “And you must pass near it on the Westernway Road. I will have one of my finest warriors of the Children of Lanis go to protect you.”

“And I will send the bravest of the Sons of Yenolah to go as well,” Derragen said, not to be out done.

The Archer and the elf each called forth a soldier. Derragen presented a scowling young woman. “This is Myanne, my finest archer.”

“She is a Son of Yenolah?” Hetwing innocently asked.

“I am the equal of any man,” Myanne said frowning through her short cut, dark brown hair.

The elf presented a golden, curly haired young man who always seemed to have a laugh on his face. “This is Hanarry,” the elf said. “His tracking skills are unmatched.” The Dark haired girl and the curly haired boy regarded each other with disdainful, side long glances.

“Please make sure I’m behind you when you draw your bow,” Hanarry laughed to the girl called a Son of Yenolah. Myanne tensed and seemed about to pounce on the merry lad, but the Archer took a hold of her arm.

“We’ll have five swift horses ready,” Derragen said to Halldora. “Four for the living, and one for the dead.”

A commotion in the foyer made all turn. At the door was Hermergh of the Messenger Guild.

“Queen Halldora!” Hermergh exclaimed when he saw her. “Summeninquis will not see me, and Queen Alrhett has been in conference with the Lords of the Court all day.”

“What is your concern?” Halldora asked.

“I have just returned from Byland,” Hermergh said catching his breath. “Caerlund begs for reinforcements. A garond army is massing, the likes of which we have never seen. They mean to invade any day.”

“It seems my errand to Reia must now take on a more urgent meaning,” Halldora said to the Archer. “We will leave at once and request the soldiers of the Green Hills of Reia from King Healfdene.”

“If the garonds take Byland again,” the elf grimly said, “they will be able to protect the citadel, and open supply lines.”

“I will speak to Arnwylf immediately,” the Archer said. “We can send our combined forces to strengthen the troops already holding Byland. Hermergh, come with me.”

Then, the Archer and the elf left with the Chieftain of the Messenger Guild.

In Halldora’s stable, they tied  Haerreth’s body to a swift horse. Then, Halldora, Hetwing, Myanne, and Hanarry mounted fresh horses, and they all rode furiously to the west.

The Westernway Road was south of the Bairn River, so they traveled on a road to the north of the dangerously, partly frozen torrent of the Bairn.

As they crossed the hills that were the source of the Bairn, they picked up the Westernway Road, not far from the fishing town of Alfhich. The horses shied and foamed at the mouth, glancing ever to the south.

“That must be where the citadel of Deif-” Hanarry began.

“Don’t even say his name!” Myanne shouted. And the party glanced nervously at the mountain of mist to the south as they hurried to the west.

Halldora noticed that Myanne and Hanarry constantly vied to be in the lead of their riding party, and she shook her head with a reserved frown.

The people of Alfhich were very happy to see Halldora, Queen of the Northern Kingdom of Man. But Halldora remembered how she and Wynnfrith were nearly violated and killed by Apghilis’ henchman, Feeblerod, in the fishing town, just over a year ago.

The Holmwy River was swollen and sluggish with ice. The Holmwy Bridge, that was once a series of connected, city-like piers, was still to be rebuilt. The first two piers on the southeastern shore still stood, but the charred stumps of the middle three piers were only blackened, jagged spears sticking up out of the ice.

“Is there someone who will take us across?” Halldora asked a captain of a fishing vessel.

“Aye,” the fishing captain said. “It’s dangerous. Most folks go up to Tyny if they want to go east. We’ll have to sail south until we can get around the ice, but I’ll take you.”

The horses were loaded onto the large fishing boat, and twenty sailors poled through the ice, until they reached the open water of the Mere Lanis.

“I can’t take you all the way round to Gillalliath,” the captain drawled to Halldora. “The reians don’t allow any ships near their harbors. There’s red sails been seen in the Mere, and all thinks it bodes ill.”

The fishing vessel quickly reached the northwestern shore of the Holmwy River, and the sailors pushed the ship through the ice until they reached the city piers that still stood on the lonely western shore. The horses were unloaded and the captain handsomely paid.

“May Oann speed you,” the captain chewed. “Come see me when you wants to go back. I’ll stay here a fortnight or so.”

Halldora, Hetwing, Myanne, and Hanarry mounted their horses and rode west on the Westernway Road through the southern end of the Eastern Meadowland. They could see the rocky shore of the Mere Lanis and the wide expanse of ocean shone like gold with the setting sun.

The Westernway Road was flat and even from centuries of use. It was broad, and baked hard dirt. But, this day, the road was desolate. They met not a soul going east or west.

A herd of grazing doderns, shaggy, one horned, muscular beasts, startled and thundered off through the crisp yellow winter grasses to the north of the Eastern Meadowland.

“In the direction of those beasts,” Myanne called to Halldora, “lies my home, Kipleth.” The black mountains of Kipleth could be seen, faraway, a jagged line of snow topped darkness on the northern horizon.

“You are the only girl among the Sons of Yenolah, are you not?” Halldora called over the pounding of their horse’s hooves.

“I am not a girl,” Myanne sharply said. Then remembering respect added, “My Queen.”

Halldora smiled. Myanne could not be older than nineteen. She thought of her own daughter, Frea, only sixteen years old, so desperate to grow up, and be counted as an adult. Why do the young wish to rush to be old, Halldora thought to herself, there is plenty of time for the sorrow and hardships of the adult years.

Halldora looked over at Hetwing. The girl was only fifteen, and she had just lost her brother. Hetwing’s face was a blank. Halldora’s heart broke for her.

Then Hetwing sat up in her saddle.

“The bridges of Rith!” She cried.

A speck in the distance, the Three Bridges of the Flume of Rith could be seen in the fading light.

“We will make Gillalliath before night fall,” Hanarry said with a laugh. “Praise Daniei Wylkeho.”

“Praise rather these excellent horses,” Myanne haughtily countered. Hanarry frowned at her, and urged his horse ahead of Myanne’s.

To the north, Halldora could see the Lake of Hapaun, choked with towering blue mountains of ice calved from the Great Ice Fields of Eann in the far north. As they neared the Bridges of Rith, Halldora saw that they resembled in close detail the Three Bridges of Rogar Li which Yulenth had burned to save the city from invasion by Ravensdred’s garond army, a year before. The bridges were wide, beautifully decorated with ancient carvings, and elegantly spanned the chasm of the flume with a sweeping curve.

“The bridges over the Bairn River must have been built by reians,” Halldora said to Hetwing. “They are exactly the same.”

“The lore is that all of Wealdland was once a single kingdom,” Hetwing said, “ages before the elf human wars.”

Halldora shook her head. Queen of the mighty kingdom of Man, and she still had many things to see and learn. She then began to feel apprehension. The Green Hills of Reia had always been the mortal enemies of the Northern Kingdom of Man. The kiplethites, the glafs and occasionally, the wealdkin were drawn into their generations old wars. But it had always been Man against Reia. Halldora had become a good friend to King Healfdene, but she wondered how the queen of their greatest enemy would be received amongst the people of Reia.

“Where are the guards?” Hetwing wondered aloud. “There are always guards keeping the Three Bridges of Rith.”

As their horses thundered over the middle, elaborately carved, unmanned bridge, Halldora looked down to see the flume bursting with ice. The Flume of Rith was a narrow gorge carved from a north to south erosion caused by the over spill from Lake Hapaun to the nearby ocean.  Below them, huge chunks of ice whisked down the flume in a frigid, watery, lethal conveyor of slush. At it’s end, to the south, the jet of the flume sprayed down onto the shores of the Mere Lanis, great chunks of ice exploding onto the rocks of the shoreline below.

As they crested the ancient, enormous bridge, Halldora saw the magnificent city for the first time. They stopped at the height of the carved bridge to take in Gillalliath.

The city curved in an enormous crescent from the shore of Lake Hapaun down to the shore of the Mere Lanis. All was constructed of old, hewn timbers, ornately carved and gilded with brass. Every house, shop, and hall was an interlocking, rectangular shape, creating the appearance of mighty steps leading down to the ocean. Every eave and lintel was decorated with lacquered, light tan colored pine, carved in the shape of animals, snakes, wolves, auroch and boar.

Amongst the houses and shops were eight, large, triangular halls. The largest was at the top of the city, nearest the lake. Each hall was raised by two crossing, massive timbers. The fourth Great Hall was burnt decades ago, and only the charred remains of the front cross beams remained.

Snow encrusted every roof, gutter and shingle. The setting sun lit every brass decoration and snow pile aglow.

Among the houses and halls, hundreds of water wheels turned, harnessing the energy of the water escaping the Lake of Hapaun. The water wheels moved boats and skiffs across narrow lochs and small harbors interlocked in cascading levels down through the city. The boats and skiffs were apparently tied to chains which moved in regular courses through the lochs, powered by the water wheels.

Halldora was reminded of intricate clocks she had seen, carved and constructed by the old woodworkers amongst the wealdkin. The whole city was alive with regulated movement.

Down at the ocean was a titanic harbor, at which, seven huge, gray ships were moored. The ships appeared to have been at their moorings for centuries. The lines running from the ships were crusted with age. The ships were of a curious, intricate design and didn’t fit in with the style of the rest of the city. The ships were large, so massive that the reians had built villages on board and lived on the ships as though they were floating towns. 

An eighth slip was empty where a sister ship had once moored, left, and never returned.

The whole city was empty. There appeared to be not a soul in sight.

“There!” Hetwing cried and spurred her horse on. Halldora followed Hetwing’s gaze and saw what her sharp eyes had spotted. A man carrying another man. Halldora, Myanne and Hanarry urged their horses after Hetwing.

They clattered through the cobbled streets. The clangor of their horse’s hooves echoed throughout the deserted city.

“Father!” Hetwing cried, dangerously leaping from her horse.

Halldora pulled up to see Hetwing helping her father, King Healfdene of Reia, with an elderly man on his back.