The Archer From Kipleth (Book 2) (26 page)

Angry shouts brought Yulenth out of his vision.

The Garond Mother quickly wrapped the Ar in a piece of leather and pressed it into Wynnfrith’s hands.

Garond soldiers roughly pulled Yulenth, the other humans and the Garond Mother out of the tent.

The small valley was teeming with vicious garond soldiers. In their midst, menacingly illuminated by torches, the garond with the crown of upright, red painted feathers approached.

“Infidels and humans,” the garond leader said with disgust in garondish. “The Great Dark Lord indeed watches over us.”

Yulenth, the other humans, and all the other gentle garonds were dragged away into the condemning night, amid the howls and screeches of triumph of the evil garond faithful who served Deifol Hroth.

Chapter Fifteen

Eleven Days Past Midwinter

The eight humans rowed their long boat over the choppy, dawning waters. Merebroder happily breached with exhalations of spray, as a family, weaving the surface of the sea. The Bight of Lanis was quickly turning from a black to a dull green. The storm was gone and the sun was rising on a beautiful, crisp day.

“There he is!” The burly, tubby, Bosun called out.

The Captain swung around to follow the keen eyes of his Bosun.

“I see him! Hard a port!” The Captain commanded.

The men on the port side begin rowing backwards, while the men on the right side put their backs into their oars. The long boat veered sharply to the left.

“Hook!” The Captain ordered as he stroked his wildly groomed beard. The Captain stood up in the long boat. His frame was wiry and lean, but the rocking of the boat didn’t bother him at all. The Captain moved with the shifting of the long boat as if he had been born on a ship.

The Bosun, chief of all the various equipment on the ship, readied a long pole with a hook. He held the hooked pole in one hand, and wiped the sweat from his bald head with the other hand.

“Try to get him in one, Bosun,” the Captain admonished.

“Won’t matter if he’s already drowned,” the Bosun said with half a frown.

The long pole hovered over the floating boy, snagged him, and pulled him in.

Arnwylf came to just as he was roughly pulled on board the long boat and thrown to the floorboards.

Arnwylf raised his head. The swarthy men leapt back in fear.

“It’s the Lord of Lightning!” A muscular sailor shrieked.

“I told you I saw him fall from the sky!” Another sailor whimpered.

The Captain whipped out his cutlass and pointed the broad blade in Arnwylf’s face.

“Are you the Lord of Lightning?” The Captain demanded.

“My name is Arnwylf,” Arnwylf weakly said. “I’m from Bittel.”

“Well, Arnwylf Bittel,” the Captain said scabbarding his cutlass, “do you mind telling me how you came to be out in the middle of the ocean?”

Arnwylf sat up and got a good look at the seamen all around him. They had much darker skin than the average human of Wealdland. They had larger lips and beautiful, dark, almond shaped eyes.

“Are- Are you garonds?” Arnwylf sputtered.

The crew burst out in raucous laughter.

“It’s what every one of you pale skin wealders says when you see a true human,” the Bosun proudly guffawed.

“I am Captain Zik Mkichaa,” the Captain said holding out his hand, and smiling a wild and infectious grin.

“I think I’ve drunk a lot of sea water,” Arnwylf said as he gripped Zik’s hand.

“You’ll puke it out shortly,” the Bosun said as he slapped Arnwylf on the back. “I am Myama. It means ‘beautiful one’.”

“It really means ‘so ugly I will puke sea water’,” a sailor called.

Right on cue, Arnwylf turned and vomited over the side of the long boat.

All the crew, except for Myama, were floored with laughter.

“Enough fun, you women,” Zik bellowed, “make for the ship, double time!”

Without complaint, the sailors leaned on their oars and the long boat was soon skimming towards a large ship with red sails.

Apghilis, the highest atheling, or lord, of the Northern Kingdom of Man sat with disgust amongst the commoners of Wealdland.

He had joined a huge mass of humans traveling south to join the army in Byland.

Every human but the reians were headed to Byland.

“Off to the slaughter,” Apghilis said to himself with revulsion.

Pieces of bread were being handed out to every human in the large mob. Apghilis took his piece of bread and simply held it in his lifeless hand.

He had ascended the heights. He had been so close to assuming the kingship of the Northern Kingdom of Man. The boy had undone everything.

He was glad he had killed his father, Kellabald. Apghilis smiled half a smile to himself, and pursed his lips. He hated Kellabald. He would have made him an atheling. He would have showered him with honors. But the stupid reian made up his mind to follow the stupid last request of a coward king, Haergill. He hated Haergill. He wished he could have been the one to put out the light of his life.

But there was still the boy, Arnwylf. He had the Mattear Gram, the sword of power and rank. If he could get the sword from him. Somehow. Then the people would follow him. They would have to. He would unite Wealdland and destroy Deifol Hroth and his garonds. He would reign for a thousand years as a god. Any who dared to face him would be crushed like a garden snail.

Apghilis’ throat hurt.

“Say, aren’t you Apghilis?”

Apghilis stirred from his reverie, and slowly rotated his fat, block like head.

“Hmnt?”

“Aren’t you Apghilis of Man?” Said a filthy, thin man, with a sickening grin on his face.

“He is my brother,” Apghilis lied. “If you have any quarrel with him, take it up with him, not me.”

“Apghilis was a great leader,” the filthy, thin man smiled. “I wish we had him leading the army. We would most certainly win.”

“Yes,” Apghilis said into his chest, frowning. “I wish that also.”

The winter air was filled with the smoke of many little camp fires. Birds far away on the edge of the Weald could be heard chirping loud, sharp, staccato notes. Wisps of fog curled off the blackened remains of the trees to the north, making it look as if they were once again on fire.

“Are you going to eat your piece of bread?” The filthy, thin man smiled.

Apghilis closed his large, hammy fist over the crust of bread and glared at the man.

The filthy, thin man muttered apologies and scuttled away.

But there was still the boy, Apghilis thought to himself. The boy had beaten him soundly on the field of battle, had humiliated him. A silent snarl crawled up one side of Apghilis’ face. He would love to kill the boy. A sword in the back like his father? No. Both his massive hands around the boy’s throat. His face turning red, then blue. Maybe he would cry and silently mouth his father’s name.

Apghilis shifted his large, fat body around at the pleasure of the gruesome thought.

He smiled to himself and cheerfully ate his crust of bread.

Alrhett was one of the last of the wealdkin to cross over the makeshift bridges of lashed boats that stretched across the Bairn river. Four lines of twenty boats, each securely tied together, rocked against bucking waters.

She carried precious keepsakes and a few baked goods in a large wicker basket. The cakes Garmee Gamee’s had baked for Arnwylf were balanced on top. She thought of eating one once she had crossed the river, but decided it would be better to wait until her grandson was once again home and safe. If he was ever to be found. No, she thought to herself, banish these bleak thoughts.

It was hard climbing from boat to boat, but halfway across, Alrhett got the hang of it.

With almost all the citizens of New Rogar Li across, the soldiers began making round trips, carrying over supplies and weapons.

Stralain, the first captain of the Weald army, organized a system whereby the first and third rows were for traversing from north to south, and the second and fourth rows for traversing the opposite direction. With the system in place, they had a constant stream of the hardier men and women moving goods and weapons over to the south bank of the Bairn River.

On the south bank of the Bairn River, Alrhett stopped two young ladies.

“Kindoll! Prensy!” Alrhett cried. “I haven’t seen you in moonths. How have you fared?”

“We have been well, My Queen,” Kindoll curtsied.

“It is good to see you, My Queen,” Prensy curtsied.

“The matters of the court have been too much for me,” Alrhett said. “I have neglected those who have helped and been kind to me.” Alrhett looked into the faces of the two young women whose husbands gave their lives to protect her.

“Every day I am grateful for the sacrifice and protection your husbands gave to me in a dire time of need. Drepaw and Matclew are ever in my thoughts. But what of your mother by marriage, Meybonne? Where is she?”

Kindoll and Prensy lowered their eyes.

“She barely lasted two moonths after the death of her sons,” Kindoll quietly said.

“And I was never told?” Alrhett said with polite anger. Then, Alrhett gathered herself. “I have need of good, honest wealdkin such as yourselves.” Alrhett took an ornate bracelet from her wrist and gave it to Kindoll. “See here, this is the signet of the crown, a house borne in the arms of an oak. This makes you both Ladies of the Court, and the equal to any Lord. I need you to go south into Harvestley as quickly as you can and organize the wealdkin there. The elderly, infant, and infirm keep furthest to the west. Send those who can fight to Byland in the east, and those who are strong but unable to fight must be behind the warriors, for support. Can you do this for me?”

Kindoll and Prensy both curtsied.

“It will be done, My Queen,” Kindoll said. And, the two young Ladies of the Court hurried south to carry out their queen’s wishes.

Alrhett looked back out on the swollen Bairn River with the four, long, precarious chains of boats and the soldiers creeping along the makeshift bridges. She felt a desperation even more hopeless than when the humans defended Wealdland at the Battle of the Eastern Meadowland.

Halldora wearily led the elderly, infirm and orphaned of Reia along the road on the northern banks of the Bairn River. The motley group of humans would soon reach New Rogar Li late in the day. The few remaining humans of Alfhich had joined them. Their numbers swelled as they trudged eastward. Stray humans from all over Wealdland continued to join the trek to New Rogar Li. Word had gotten out. It seemed every human in Wealdland was now headed east, every human except the people of Reia. Halldora frowned to herself. She had failed miserably. She had gone to Reia to enlist the warriors of the Green Hills, and instead she had witnessed their king killed, and their great city deserted in fear.

Halldora wiped the mud from her cheek. Trudging through the  banks of melting snow was just disheartening. She hoped her daughter, Frea, was safe. She wanted to sit and have a good cry, but the swelling throng of humans looked to her for guidance, and she would be strong for them, if not for herself.

Halldora thought about the events of the morning, the strange, frightening garonds the Archer and the elf had killed, how the elf had acted so strangely, suddenly shoving through the growing mob of humans, searching for someone.

The Archer had warned her that New Rogar Li was evacuating and she pushed her slow parade of humans as fast as she could.

Someone shouted, and the roofs of New Rogar Li could be seen in the fading light of the winter day. The long line of refugees picked up their pace, hopes of welcoming hearths in the city foremost in their minds.

The city was eerily silent. The mud filled streets of the sprawling new town were caked with numerous tracks of the inhabitants who had fled the city with haste.

“Hello!?” Halldora cried out. There was no answer, but the soft, cold wind.

The mass of people who followed her began to fill up the main street.

“They’ve already left,” an elderly woman said.

“Then we follow them,” Halldora said with determination. “South, everyone. South to the river!”

The quiet shuffling of the refugees echoed off the walls of the houses and halls of New Rogar Li. No one spoke, their hopes dashed and nearly gone.

The sun had nearly set when Halldora arrived at the north bank of the Bairn River, leading hundreds of humans.

The soldiers of the Weald were nearly finished transporting the last of their food and weapons across their makeshift bridge.

Halldora saw a person who she thought was Alrhett on the far bank, waving at her.

The wealdkin grumbled a bit, but were resigned to helping the new multitude of stragglers from all over Wealdland cross the Bairn River.

With the traffic on all four makeshift bridges now flowing to the south, the crush of people were soon almost completely carried safely across.

Halldora had waited until the last, helping the weakest make their way onto the chain of lashed boats. She could see Alrhett, understanding, but impatient to greet her on the other side.

The last of the refugees made their way onto the rocking lines of boats. Relieved, Halldora climbed onto a boat and began climbing over the gunwales of the lashed boats. It was tiring climbing over the edges of the bumping boats, climbing over fittings and rigging to climb over the far gunwale into the next boat.

Halfway across, the men in the farthest east line of boats began shouting. Halldora looked from the north bank to the  south bank, expecting to see garonds attacking, breaking from the trees. Then she realized they were pointing down into the water.

Three long, dark shapes swam just underneath the water, wriggling, undulating like huge, rotund serpents. The shadows moved quickly, powerfully against the current.