The Archer From Kipleth (Book 2) (22 page)

Halldora rushed back to the body of King Healfdene. She pulled and tugged at the corpse, until she got it out of the tunnel of ice and rock.

She quickly cut two mall, straight pines, and lashed the king’s body on top. Then, as fast as she could, with the sun now low, she dragged Healfdene south, back along the shore of Lake Hapaun.

All the rest of the day Halldora kept an eye on the woods for Apghilis, and another eye on the lake. Her ice sword melted away to nothing.

As the sun was setting, Halldora, exhausted and dirtied, reached the boat that she and Healfdene had used to cross the lake.

She pushed her dead friend into the boat, and then worked the boat out onto the water.

Halldora carefully, quietly paddled back to Gillalliath as the sun set over the gentle, rolling green hills of Reia in the west. In the east, the billowing black clouds of the winter storm towered behind her. The water turned a darkening purple as the sun disappeared. He lake was quiet and silent, holding vile secrets it reluctantly kept to itself. Every splash of her paddle set Halldora’s teeth on edge. Any noise or ripple of the water might attract the vyreeoten lurking deep in the watery depths. 

At the dock, Halldora was met by astonished and heart broken reians. Halldora quickly told her story, and the cast off of Gillalliath prepared their king for his last rites.

Healfdene’s funeral boat was set alight, and pushed out onto the respectfully placid waters of the lake.

“The son left in the morning, and the father in the evening,” Halldora reverently said. “May they meet among the stars of heaven.”

Halldora asked after Hetwing, Myanne and Hanarry, but they still had not returned in their quest to retrieve the warriors of Reia from Eoric. Halldora thought of the girl who was a Son of Yenolah, and the laughing, golden haired boy who was a Child of Lanis, and she hoped they would try to get along as they helped Hetwing.

Halldora gathered the infirm, the elderly and the orphaned in the Great Hall of the King. The ragged remains of the city gathered together around the red haired queen.

“Many of you know me,” Halldora said, standing on a table as the humble of Reia gathered around her.

“I am the queen of your hated enemy, the Northern Kingdom of Man. But did we not fight together against the garonds at the Battle of the Eastern Meadowlands? Did we not die together, and prevail together?”

The hall was silent and respectful.

“Then listen to me with all your will,” Halldora continued, “we must flee this place at once. We are not safe here. There are hundreds of vyreeoten to the north and they will soon be upon you. Come with me. Trust me. Let me give my life for you. I will lead you to the safety and shelter of New Rogar Li.”

“But should we not flee to the west and find Eoric?” An elderly man asked.

“Trust me as though I was your king,” Halldora said. “The vyreeoten I saw on the Ice Fields of Eann were moving to the west. God help Hetwing and Eoric, but if we go to them, we would never reach the safety of the warriors of Reia in time. We would surely go to our deaths.”

The great hall was silent.

“What are we waiting for?” A feisty, elderly lady said. “Let us follow the Queen of Man.”

Chapter Twelve

The Voice in the Dark

The snow howled through the streets of New Rogar Li, and piled on the street corners like mounds of down pillows. The Archer limped along next to the elf. The poison had been drawn from the wound, so he was in no serious danger.  The elf knew there would be no arguing with him. He would follow her into the jaws of death.

The streets were empty, every wealdkin snuggled into their warm houses for the night. The furious wind whipped the snow sideways, cutting at any exposed skin. This part of Wealdland had never experienced a snow hurricane, and the furious wind that shook every wall was frightening.

The Archer and the elf pushed on through the blinding snow to the soldiers left in the remnant of Arnwylf’s camp at the north of the city. They would have had to blindly search for  the camp, but all they had to do was follow the howling of the wolves.

As they came upon the camp, the elf stopped for a moment and turned to the Archer.

“There’s something wrong.” The elf said. “The wolves are not howling as they usually do. They are warning... warning...” The elf couldn’t find the words to describe what she was hearing. Then, the Archer gripped the elf and pointed.

“Look!” The Archer said, pointing south. The elf turned to see Conniker, the white wolf bounding towards them, coming from the direction of the library. But rather than stopping, the wolf ran past them, into the dark wall of trees of the Weald.

“Conniker!” The elf called. “Lead us to Arnwylf!” The Archer could hear Conniker bark as he sprang past them and into the darkness of the ancient forest.

“He heard us,” the elf cried. “He knows Arnwylf is in trouble. Hurry!”

The Archer limped after the elf as best he could. As they left the camp, the Archer noticed that the wolves didn’t follow, but instead stood gazing into the dark of the Weald with manes abristle.

The wailing madness of the snow hurricane let up a little as they ran as best they could between the towering trees of the Weald. The trees were black with the wetness of the snow and mostly bare of leaves. But the top branches of the forest were heavy with snow and obliterated the night sky. A crescent moon shown a little light through the bower of tangled, heavy white overhead.

Here and there, the green of the holly, the ivy and the evergreen showed the world was sleeping and not dead, and waited to awake in the spring.

“Conniker!” The elf yelled, but no reply came.

“Conniker!” The Archer bellowed, but the only sound was the moaning of the storm dusting the tops of the trees high up above. “We’ve lost him,” the Archer said with frustration. Then he softened for a moment. “Iounelle,” he said, “that kiss we shared at the home of Alrhett...”  

“We were under the influence of magical powers beyond our control,” the elf brusquely said. Then, she stopped and leaned against a tree, hoping the Archer wouldn’t see her heart breaking in the shadows of the night.

The elf suddenly recoiled from the tree she was touching.

“There’s something here,” she whispered.

The Archer cracked a flint against a stone, and lit a small hand torch he always carried in his belt pouch. The Archer let the torch breathe, then lifted the flame to reveal the tree that had disturbed the elf.

Words in old script were carved into the tree.

“What is it?” The elf asked.

The Archer read the words:

Bonasine Family

Hanaree 52 summers

Lathalee 54 summers

Ronell 12 summers

Mathclan 26 summers who gave his life at the Battle of the Eastern Meadowlands.

The last was freshly carved.

The Archer lifted his torch and saw that every tree in sight was so carved.

“This is the cemetery of the wealdkin,” the Archer said with reverence. “They bury all of their family members under a certain tree. Then their body’s nutrients are then taken up into the tree,  and then they all become one in the spreading branches.”

The Archer stumbled on dug up earth. He moved his torch to see a gruesome old foot, decomposing, leg bone still attached, partially eaten.

The Archer nearly slid down into an unearthed grave. He passed his torch and saw the desecrated, gnawed corpse that had been uncovered. It was an older man who appeared to have died from a severe head wound. The corpse’s decomposing skin was green and jellied from decay. It’s large, sickening eyes pled to be reburied. There were large bite marks on the corpse’s torso. The bite marks were from some animal larger than a wolf or bear.

The Archer lifted his torch higher and saw that several more graves had also been violated, the unearthed bodies sprawled and all had been partially consumed.

“Could the wolves have done this?” The Archer asked with disgusted wonder.

“This is not the work of anything natural,” the elf said with a shiver. “Let us leave here,” she said with an uncharacteristic nervousness.

“The wolf’s tracks go through here,” the Archer said, following a fresh spoor in the snow.

They followed as quickly as they could over the tangle of the huge trees.

“What were the wolves in the camp saying?” The Archer asked.

“They were howling- They were saying ‘bad things’,” the elf quietly said.

The Archer and the elf pushed as far as they could, as fast as they could, on, on into the center of the old, old woods.

The elf’s sharp ears heard the hissing of Baalenruud and pushed the Archer aside as the massive black snake coiled in the cathedral darkness of the forest.

“Go back,” Baalenruud lisped.

The Archer and the elf quickly drew their swords.

The black arrow shaped head of Baalenruud softly moved from side to side in the shadows.

“I sorry for biting you,” Baalenruud whispered to the Archer. “I was trying to get the leeth. And you can hardly blame me, can you?” Baalenruud’s huge yellow eyes stared without blinking, the irises infinite slits of blackness.

“Where is the boy?” The Archer demanded.

“Oh, he’s gone” Baalenruud said, her black coils turning in the darkness. He was so much larger now. When the elf had seen her at the citadel she was the size of a normal black adder. Now the aesir, in his battle body as a  snake, was the size of a dodern.

“What have you done with him?” The elf circled the aesir.

“I do nothing,” Baalenruud indignantly said. “He goes on. He’s gone.”

“Then let us pass,” the Archer said raising his sword.

“I save your life,” Baalenruud said. “Go no further. He is here.”

“Who is here?” The elf said with rising dread.

“You know why the elves never come to the Weald,” Baalenruud hissed. “Not all trees are trees. You have gone the wrong way. Even the wealdkin go around this part. But you were drawn here, weren’t you, leethchel? You were told as a little one. The trees that once lived-”

“-form a black ring,” the elf finished Baalenruud’s sentence. “There in the dark comes the black thing. From far, far away, without any light, nothing can stop it from bringing the night. Stay out of the Weald. Stay out of the Weald.”

“You remember the old lesson,” Baalenruud hissed. Then Baalenruud held very still, then winced as if he had been reproached by an invisible master. “I go. You go. Live.” The huge black snake twisted away into the obsidian night.

The elf moved quickly to the Archer and gripped his arm. She held her finger to her lips. The Archer shook his head in confusion, but stayed quiet.

The elf held still listening, turning her head to find the sound. Quietly, she drew the Archer on. Into the shadows of the Weald, the Archer and the elf followed the growing sound of a man whispering.

The sound of the storm overhead was completely muffled by the dense snow cradled in the tangled branches of the tree tops.

The elf motioned for the Archer to put out his torch. He quickly snuffed the flame in the icy snow packed beneath their feet.

The Archer caught the elf.

“What did he mean, ‘the trees are not trees’?” The Archer whispered.

“Long ago there were other... things,” the elf whispered. “They looked just like trees. You would have walked right past them, thinking they were trees. But they moved and spoke.” The elf checked to see if they were still alone.

“There was a legend among my people that a group of the Not Trees got lost. Some tell the legend... they were led astray... on purpose. The lost group of Not Trees died, entangled in each other’s arms. But, the circle of Not Trees retained power. Great power. And this power was corrupted. The circle of Not Trees became very, very dangerous.”

The elf checked once again to see if they were still alone. “Elves were told to never go into the Weald. The Weald is only the remaining portion of a much, much larger forest. This part of the forest remained to hide the ring of darkness created by the lost tree things. Rumor has it that an elf will be drawn directly to the ring. Elves who went into the Weald never came out.”

“You shouldn’t have come here,” the Archer whispered. “Let us return to New Rogar Li at once.”

The elf sharply turned as though she heard something, but the Archer heard nothing.

The elf rose and quickly stalked through the woods. The Archer desperately limped after her, trying to stop her.

The elf stopped with her back to a massive, black oak. She roughly pulled the Archer next to her, into the shadow of the monolithic tree.

The elf motioned for the Archer to look behind the oak on the right side. She moved to the left side.

From the edge of the ebony winter oak, the elf saw a small halo of glowing, blue, unnatural light.

A man without arms stood before a tangle of black branches that formed a portal, his empty sleeves gently turning in the slight breeze. The branches were part of several trees with human characteristics, wooden faces twisted in countenances of painful, horrific death; feminine arms writhing in desperate last moments; empty, dark eye sockets whose last sight was of an infinitely evil blackness.

The elf pulled back. The Archer joined her.

“It’s Deifol Hroth,” the elf whispered as quietly as she could.

“What’s he doing?” The Archer asked.

The elf just shook her head.

The Archer pulled an Arrow of Yenolah. The elf’s look of firm agreement cemented their understanding.

“I could not hit him in Lanis,” the Archer whispered. “He moved too fast.”

“Then I must distract him,” the elf desperately whispered, knowing the suicidal danger of her mission. They started to move, but then the elf pulled the Archer back.

The elf passionately kissed the Archer.

“There was no magic in that,” the elf said.

“Maybe not for you,” the Archer said with a smile, that quickly faded as they then moved in opposite directions to attempt their grave assault.

The Archer could see the wizard with no arms standing before the dark circle of branches. The air in the circle shimmered. Deifol Hroth was muttering, saying something. The Archer could barely catch what the Lord of All Evil Magic incanted.

“...poagnah floqurrahhinne,” Deifol Hroth was focused on the portal. “Thillinaa Mahanaa Eegreth Ininifvir... aillngrah poagnah POAGNAH!” He said with rising volume.

Shoot now, the Archer told himself. Shoot now!

The Archer watched in rapt horror as the air in the middle of the circle of branches seemed to ripple, darken, and shine as though it were a vertical pool of water.

“Thillinaa,’ Deifol Hroth said with affection. “Come through.”

“You know I canth not,” a sweet, dangerous voice said in the dark. “You havth not killed enough. The rip isth too small.”

Then the Archer saw the form of a beautiful woman reflected in the space, as though her image were reflected on the other side of the strange vertical pool of water.

“You musth kill more,” the voice in the dark sweetly lisped.

“Do not think to command me,” Deifol Hroth indignantly said. “I am first among the fallen. I am greater than you.”

“But you canth not topple yourth master without me,” the voice in the dark smiled.

“No,” Deifol Hroth admitted.

The elf was astonished at the vision. She wondered why the Archer hadn’t shot while the Dark Lord was so engaged.

Then the elf looked closer at the reflection of the beautiful human woman in the portal. Iounelle seemed to be pulled to the dark pool. Behind the reflection, in the deep darkness, she could see two enormous eyes struggling to peer through the portal, like a lion trying to spot a mouse hidden inside a knot hole. 

The elf caught her breath. The creature had to be as big as a castle, or even larger. Its snout was severely scarred from an old fight. In the darkness, through the portal, Iounelle could see wyrm like forms squirming at the titanic beast’s feet, its children.

Iounelle could feel the beast’s eyes boring into her. The creature was from far, far away. Its eyes pulled her to the portal. She had to go to her.

“Lahn (yes),” the voice lisped. “Kalkót oren. (Come to me)”