The Archer From Kipleth (Book 2) (27 page)

Halldora knew, instantly, what they were.

“Vyreeoten,” Halldora gasped in horror. “Get out of the boats!” Halldora cried. “Get to either shore, whichever is quickest! Just get off the water! Now!”

The humans began scrambling for the south shore. Halldora saw it would be best for her to go back to the north shore, with at least thirty men in front of her. She desperately clawed her way over boat after boat, as the increasing shouts and cries of terror filled her ears.

She was two boats away from making it back to the northern shore when she felt the water spray her back. The surge of the beast rising, violently out of the water pitched the boat she was in hard to its side. Halldora went down to the floorboards of the small boat. She heard the shrieks of a man being rent to death as she raised her head.

A horse headed vyreeoten coiled out of the water and had shattered the lashed line of boats. The vyreeoten was chewing a man it had snatched from the makeshift bridge. He was the man who was just before her. If she hadn’t turned back, she would have been in the vyreeoten’s jaws.

Halldora overcame her shock and clambered over the last two boats, back to the rocks and pebbles of the northern shore.

Halldora watched in horror as the long, sinewy arms of the vyreeoten pulled at the legs and arms of the man in its bloody mouth.

Halldora looked around. She was the only one who climbed back to the northern shore. She was alone. All the other humans had fought their way to the southern shore.

Halldora knew the vyreeoten could easily snake their way onto dry land, but she watched in numbness as the other two vyreeoten smashed the other lines of boats, making it impossible for her to cross the Bairn River here.

Halldora roused herself and ran as fast as she could to the west.

Ravensdred woke with a snarl and whipped his way out of the modest leather tent he had been assigned.

A guard outside his tent gibbered in garondish that he was to  immediately meet with the council of generals.

Council of Generals.

Council of Idiots was more like it, Ravensdred thought as he stretched his massive body. The guard was insistent, so Ravensdred backhanded him hard enough to leave him unconscious.

Ravensdred picked up his club. Club. It was a huge, oak tree branch, only slightly shaped to accommodate his expansive claws. The club felt good in his hands as he leisurely strode towards the tall, ornate tents which were once his, the tents that housed the Council of Generals.

Ravensdred looked out on the army of garonds massed on the furthest western edge of the Far Grasslands. Much of the army spilled onto Byland. There were three times the number of garonds as he had at the Battle of the Eastern Meadowland. There had been a great push to recruit and train every garond that could be found.

If I had this army, Ravensdred thought to himself, the Battle of the Eastern Meadowland would have turned out much, much differently.

It was estimated that they had close to a million garonds. Their best guess was that there was barely two hundred thousand humans left to defend Byland.

The reians, numbering possibly in the hundreds of thousands, had chosen to flee to the western most shore of their land.

Wise, Ravensdred thought to himself, considering the slaughter to come. They only needed the order from the Dark Lord of All Evil Magic.

Ravensdred smirked to himself. He knew Deifol Hroth. He knew what darkness truly dwelt in his heart.

We serve him out of fear, masked as love, Ravensdred thought as he approached the stern faced garond generals dressed in their black and silver armor.

The center most garond general began to berate Ravensdred for his lateness.

“I will not be schooled,” Ravensdred muttered to himself as he hefted the heavy tree branch club off his shoulder.

“I am Ravensdred!” He bellowed as he swung the club with all his might.

Ravensdred was twice the size of any garond, and stood a head taller than most humans, who were, on the average taller than any garond. Ravensdred was in the prime of his years, there was not an ounce of fat on his muscle ripped body. Ravensdred’s arms were the size of most humans' legs, his shoulders wide enough for a human to comfortably stand on either side of his enormous head.

The monolith of a club splattered the first three garonds in a shower of dark blood and pulverized tissue.

The other two garond generals stared in shock, and so had no time to defend themselves.

Ravensdred dropped his club and simply reached out for the head of the next garond general. A laughing sneer played across his face as he crushed the general’s skull beneath his closing right claw.

The last general had the sense to try to draw his sword. But, he only got it halfway out of his scabbard as Ravensdred snatched his throat with his left paw. The last garond general continued to futilely try to draw his sword as Ravensdred put his right hand on the general’s shoulder. Then with a quick rip, the last garond general’s head came off like a flower bulb.

Blood spattered, Ravensdred turned to face the rest of the garond army’s captains and warriors.

The faces of the army were shock, then vicious delight and happiness, as the garond army shrieked their approval of the return of their bloody War General, Ravensdred.

Chapter Sixteen

The Archer From Kipleth

The Archer and the elf rode hard to the west all day. They rode on the trail that followed the northern banks of the Bairn River. The Westernway Road would have been easier and smoother. But that road was south of the Bairn, and impossible to get to unless you had a boat that could carry a horse.

To their right, and to the north, the Eastern Meadowland stretched out flat in a wide expanse of snow and dead grasses. The backs of grazing animals could be seen in the distance, scratching through the thin crust of snow for the fodder needed to help them survive until spring. It was said on a night with no moonlight, the ghosts of human soldiers and garond warriors played out the bloody battle fought here in the vast meadow only a year ago.

As they came over a rise, the elf stood up on her horse to get a better look at the trail ahead. The Archer caught his breath. He hated when she did that. A fall from this speed would break her neck. The elf balanced easily on the horse’s rocking back.

“There’s a great mass of humans ahead!” The elf shouted over to the Archer. Derragen grimly nodded. He didn’t expect trouble from humans. He hoped it was the warriors of Reia come to aid the human defense of Byland.

“I see Halldora!” The elf said as she shaded her keen eyes.

Hope swelled even greater in the Archer’s breast until they rode close enough to see the sad congregation of refugees numbering in the hundreds.

The Archer and the elf stopped before Halldora.

“Sogi’an!” The elf called as she leapt from her horse, and landed light as a feather.

“Greetings,” Halldora said, “from the left behind and outcast of Reia.”

“Then the soldiers of Reia will not help us?” The Archer asked.

Halldora simply shook her head.

“Where do you lead these people?” The elf asked.

“To New Rogar Li,” Halldora replied.

“You’d best move quickly,” the Archer said. “They mean to evacuate the whole city, to the south, to Harvestley.”

“If only we had crossed the Bairn where it was passable,” Halldora frowned.

“Do not spend any time tracing back your steps,” the Archer said. “Besides, your path would lead you once again close to the citadel of Deifol Hroth.”

“Where was it?” Halldora asked with fear.

“Do you remember a valley filled with unnatural mists that never cleared?” The elf asked.

“Yes,” Halldora said. “Not too far from Alfhich, between the Burnie and Madronwy rivers.”

“Near the Syrenf River, His citadel lies hidden in those mists,” the Archer said. “Count yourself fortunate you were not attacked.”

The elf froze as if she had seen a ghost. She then began pushing into the crowd of humans.

“Iounelle!” The Archer cried. “What is it? What do you seek?”

The elf paused searching the faces of the throng.

“I thought I saw Apghilis,” the elf whispered to the Archer. Then the elf approached Halldora. “It’s best to push as fast as you can to New Rogar Li.” Then, the elf whispered to Halldora, ”be wary of those who travel too close behind.”

Halldora nodded and raised her hand to continue the march, but a shrieking stopped her.

The murmurs of horror ran through the crowd like wild fire.

“Those are garonds,” the Archer said.

The Archer and the elf quickly mounted their horses. Halldora ran behind them to see if she could help.

From the south, dripping wet from having somehow swam across the Bairn River, three monstrous garonds loped towards the mass of refugees.

Halldora was horrified to see that the garonds were misshapen into weird forms.

The elf, standing on her galloping horse’s back, drew the Moon Sword of Berand Torler.

“Síod,” the elf whispered to herself. “Be careful,” she called over to the Archer. “These garonds are deformed by black magic.”

The Archer and the elf dismounted and sent their horses back for safety. They shifted their feet in the earth, readying their stances for battle.

One of the garonds appeared to have two torsos, one connected on top of the other, that swiveled wildly in the middle.

The middle garond had five arms sprouting from all around its mid section, three in the front, two in the back.

The last garond had unnaturally long legs. This garond also had what appeared to be large bird talons instead of hands.

All three swung metal maces, more refined and deadlier than the usual wooden club of the garond.

The Archer peppered the garond with the long legs three times in the face, with bronze arrows. The creature was still able to spring a long distance before it fell dead at the Archer’s feet. Its weird, dying talons clutched at the Archer, as it bubbled black blood.

The garond with five arms, each holding a club, spun at the elf, a barrage of lethal strokes. The elf whirled the Moon Sword, slicing off arm after arm as they rotated towards her. The many armed garond stood, helpless bleeding from five gushing stumps.

The elf turned just in time to see the double torsoed garond tower over her, it’s club poised for an overhand death smash. The creature shrieked and shrugged with the start of the strike, but suddenly froze as an arrow jutted out from between its eyes. The Archer had shot it in the back of the head.

The garond with the articulated torso sputtered and gurgled, still trying to kill. The elf jumped, spinning, and cut the creature exactly between the connected torsos with one slice. The top and bottom halves kicked and clutched with awful dying spasms.

The Archer and the elf looked at each other. They walked back to get their horses, being held by Halldora.

“Make for New Rogar Li, as fast as you can,” the Archer said between heavy breaths.

Halldora didn’t need any other convincing.

“To New Rogar Li!” She bellowed and the march resumed double time behind her.

The Archer looked to the elf.

“We can cross the Bairn, just a short ride to the east,” he said.

“Are you asking me if I want to go?” The elf calmly said. “Are you suggesting we will find more of these evil things and worse?”

The Archer slowly nodded.

“Since the death of all my people,” the elf quietly said, “I have devoted myself to vengeance. Now I see my fight is more than that. I have more skill and strength than any human. I must use what I am to fight the darkness. I must be a beacon in the night. This monstrous evil will not continue, not while I still draw breath.”

The Archer smiled, his love for the last elf of Lanis was never greater in this moment. He mounted his horse. She leapt up on hers.

They were about to spur their horses on when a shouting from behind stopped them.

“Wait! Wait!” Stavolebe cried riding furiously up to the elf and the Archer. “Wait for me. I am ever by your side.”

“So it seems,” the Archer said with unveiled disgust.

The three urged their horses on and rode hotly to the west.

After crossing the Bairn River where it was shallow enough and riding as far south as the edge of the mist, the Archer, the elf, and Stavolebe made a camp for the night.

“What is our plan?” Stavolebe nervously asked.

“We can not find our way in by ourselves,” the Archer said. “So we must capture someone going in or out, who can lead us.”

“Preferably not a monster,” the elf added.

“So we catch someone coming out...” Stavolebe said with a twitch.

“Or going in,” the Archer flatly said.

“We mustn’t sleep here,” Stavolebe said wiping the sweat from his brow.

“True,” the elf said. “We haven’t slept in two days,” she said to the Archer. “You get some sleep and I will stay awake.”

“Perhaps Stavolebe can tell us a story of his adventures to keep us all awake,” the Archer said with a condescending smile.

“Story? I have no stories,” Stavolebe stammered. “I’ve lived a very ordinary life.”

“That’s not what I have heard,” the elf knowingly said. Then the elf shifted uncomfortably holding her arm.

“What is it?” The Archer asked, kneeling close to her.

The elf pulled up her sleeve to reveal the wound she had received when she had fought Deifol Hroth in the Weald.

“This should have healed by now,” the elf said.

“Elves heal faster than humans?” The Archer asked.

“And we don’t get infections,” Iounelle said poking at the red, angry place where several large wooden splinters had pierced her arm. Pus dribbled from several lacerations.

The Archer plunged his hunting knife into their small campfire. “Hold still,” the Archer said. With his heated hunting knife, he carefully dug out three massive splinters. “Did I get them all?” He asked.

“I- I think so,” the elf said feeling her arm with obvious pain. The elf seemed about to faint, but then roused herself. “Someone was going to tell a story,” she said, trying to ignore the discomfort as the Archer rebandaged her arm.

“You wanted to know how I learned to shoot from Sehen?” The Archer invited.

“You knew Sehen, the blind sage?” Stavolebe ignorantly gushed.

“Quiet,” the elf admonished Stavolebe. She gave the Archer her full attention.

“It was after I had discovered that it was the garonds who had committed the slaughter in Kipleth. I was lost and suicidal, wandering the black mountains of Kipleth.”

The Archer looked down into the black chasms of the mountains of Kipleth. It would be so easy to simply step out into the air, and let his body fall and break on the jagged rocks below.

He had come home from a year long military campaign supporting the Kingdom of Man against Reia, to find every women and child of Kipleth slaughtered.

The Nation of Kipleth was shattered. Many soldiers quickly killed themselves. Others, like the Archer, wandered the black mountains, lost in their grief.

Derragen, the Archer from Kipleth, once the commander of the formidable Kipleth forces, only found out the day before that the Kipleth massacre was perpetuated by the garonds, who up until that point were not known as an invading military force.

He had found three garond soldiers around a camp fire in the mountains of Kipleth. One of the garonds wore his wife’s blood spattered cloak. He tore the garond to pieces with his bare hands.

But still, his grief continued. He had lost his wife, his five year old daughter and his four year old son. No elderly of Kipleth was spared either. He had also lost his father and mother. All he loved was gone.

The precipice only took one step.

“A long way down,” a spry, old voice said behind Derragen.

The Archer turned to see an old blind man.

“How would you know that, my friend?” Derragen asked through his tears.

“The length of the drop is determined by the time it takes the despairing to jump,” the blind one softly said.

“Who are you?” Derragen demanded.

“I would be your friend,” the old man said.

“No matter, it won’t be a very long friendship,” Derragen quietly, grimly said.

“Pity,” the blind man said and turned to stumble down the mountain path. “I thought you would have had the courtesy, at least, of helping me find my way down this treacherous mountain.” The old, blind man stumbled and fell flat on his face.

Instinctively Derragen quickly stepped to the old man and helped him up.

“Why thank you,” the blind man said. “Now off you go. Over the edge.” And then he began stumbling on his way.

“I will see you to a safer portion of the trail,” Derragen sighed. “But that is all.”

“Oh, lucky me,” the old, blind one mocked.

After climbing down half the trail, Derragen began to suspect the old, blind man knew the trail better than he, as the old man caught the Archer every third step when he himself faltered. But, the old man never again stumbled.

“I’m afraid we will have to camp for the night,” the old blind man said. “The rest of the trail is too long and night has fallen. Do you have any food?”

“No,” Derragen answered.

“Give me your bow,” the blind man said.

“How do you know I have a bow?” Derragen asked.

“Have I not brushed up against it often enough when I have had to catch you from falling?” The blind man said with half a smile. “The bow.” The blind man clapped his hands.

Derragen was so distraught with his life, he didn’t care if an old, blind man wasted every single one of his arrows. Derragen handed his bow and quiver full of bronze tipped arrows to the old man.

In a blur, the blind man gripped the bow, nocked an arrow and fired up into the darkened mountainside. It all happened so quickly, Derragen was about to laugh, but he stopped short when a mountain goat rolled dead to his feet, with an arrow sticking out of its throat.

“Roast mountain goat for dinner,” the old man said handing the bow and quiver back. “I haven’t had roast mountain goat in several weeks. Hard to get a fire started. Set myself on fire too often,” the old man said, rubbing his hands with hunger.