The Archer From Kipleth (Book 2) (3 page)

The elf sprinted to the Archer who watched the retreating army in amazement.

“I had Him. I had Him.” Derragen breathed.

“What happened?” She asked.

“He knew. He knew the arrow was there,” the Archer said. “He has only one arm as has been rumored. Perhaps now He has none.”

“What?”

“He used his arm to deflect the perfect shot, and the arrow... the Arrow of Yenolah... it... exploded.”

“I know how He lost his first arm,” the elf said unwrapping the bundle that the Lord of All Evil had been forced to drop. “Behold, the Lhalíi.” Nestled in her arms was an oblong crystal object, the size of a newborn infant. Its many facets caught the winter light. Within the center of the object of mystery was a hole, like a tunnel, that went, lengthwise, right through the middle. “He must have used this to move the Wanderer, the second moon, and it burnt His arm off,” the elf mused with satisfaction.

The facets of light seemed to dance into the Archer’s mind. He couldn’t take his eyes off of it. But, then the elf broke the spell by wrapping it up once again.

“Thank the Creator it is now in our hands,” the elf sighed. “Let us tend to the wounded.”

“Yes, of course,” the Archer said coming to his senses.

About fifty humans had been killed, and many more were seriously injured. The number of garond dead was in the hundreds. Although the humans had fought fiercely, it was clear, if the garonds had stood their ground, they would have won.

“Over here please,” a Child of Lanis called to the elf. On the ground she found young Valdey mortally wounded and breathing his last breaths. His radiant young face was ghastly pale, and he struggled for air. Each body-shaking rasp sounded like a man drowning.

“Are there any elvish swords for me?” He weakly asked with a smile, as blood poured from the vicious wound on his chest. Another Child of Lanis held a bandage on the gash with all her might in a desperate attempt to save Valdey.

“Would you like the paricale?” Iounelle softly asked, trying to hold her emotions back to keep from frightening the boy in his last moments.

“Oh, yes,” Valdey said. “It’s so beautiful.” And then his last breath escaped him. Valdey was no more than a boy, destroyed before he really ever got to live his life, by the ravages of war. Iounelle softly put her hand on Valdey’s head, and closed her eyes in prayer

Trembling, the elf rose in a quiet fury. The death and destruction caused by Deifol Hroth filled her with pain and rage. Not only had he killed every other elf in the world, but now He planned the same for humanity. Her hatred for Deifol Hroth, and sorrow for the slain young human were overwhelming.

“We must stop this thing, this monster,” she said to Derragen, as her eyes filled with tears for the dead.

The Archer enfolded the elf to his chest to comfort her.

“Don’t cry, mistress,” a Child of Lanis said. “Now we can take back your city.”

The elf looked up at the Archer with shock. Then she tore herself from his arms.

“Wait,” Derragen said. “Wait, there may be traps.”

But Iounelle had already leapt onto the back of a horse. She urgently whispered into the beast’s ear. And then, the horse sprang to life.

“My horse,” Derragen cried. His horse was quickly brought and he leapt up to bolt after the elf. Caerlund and every other able-bodied soldier quickly mounted and gave chase.

The horse galloped at full speed across the crusty snow of the rolling hills of Lanis. The elf rode with complete abandon, whispering, speaking, and then shouting commands in elvish to the horse under her. The horse understood every word she said and galloped at full speed.

The Archer rode as fast as his horse would allow him. The black, empty branches of winter whipped at him. Tears streamed down his face, fearing, knowing what his beloved elf would find. What if she saw her city completely razed? Would she harm herself? How deep was her grief and despair? The Archer urged and spurred his horse on, but the animal had to slow occasionally for the terrain. He could hear his troops behind him, the Children of Lanis crying Iounelle’s name, fearing for her, as well.

The Archer looked down to see blood flowing down his left hand. He was wounded, but he didn’t care. The wound couldn’t be too grave if he could still ride. All that mattered was the safety of Iounelle, the elf, the center of his heart, his love.

He galloped past emptied garond outposts, barricades that had kept the human troops from recapturing the city. Every garond had left with Deifol Hroth. Lanis was truly abandoned.

The Archer rounded a stand of trees, and suddenly pulled on his reigns, bringing his horse to a sliding stop.

The elf stood next to her horse, blankly staring.

The Archer then realized he was already in the city. He hadn’t realized he had passed where the walls should have stood, a full length back. The walls were gone. Every brick taken.

The Archer dismounted and stood next to the elf. He stared in disbelief.

Lanis Rhyl Landemiriam was more than devastated. Every building and edifice had been dismantled for their precious elvish bricks. Snow covered the skeletal shells of every razed structure. The cascading mansion of the Houses of the Princes was more than gutted, only the foundations stood. The stream that once laughed through the city center, Rhyliette Tel, was barely a trickle.

The great World Tree, Mildarilg, was now but a blackened stump. Filth and foam floated in the sacred pool, Welm.

There was no trace at all of the magnificent towers. Bawn Hae, the tallest tower ever to be built, was now only a memory.

Everywhere there was debris and fire pits. The garonds had burned everything they could to keep warm during the winter. Filth and garbage was strewn throughout the city. Mounds of animal bones, stripped clean and gnawed, heaped in vile piles near every abandoned fire pit. All the city was mud, banks of dirty snow and ice.

The spherical Temple of the Moon, which had housed the Moon Sword of Berand Torler was shattered, the bricks too intricate to be used, the garonds had merely destroyed it. The small, intricate bricks were scattered in rude patterns of destruction.

The Archer gently put his hand on the elf’s shoulder, but still she didn’t move. The elf didn’t cry.

The following human troops arrived with a clatter. All were stunned to silence by the utter ruin of the great city of the elves. The Children of Lanis held back their tears, watching their mistress, respectfully waiting for her release of grief. Their eyes were filled with sorrow too deep to tell.

Then a sound of whimpering made all turn.

Caerlund, Warrior Chieftain of the Madrun Hills fell to this knees and shed tears like a child.

“This is only my third time to the city,” he cried. “But oh, for this third time. I was only a boy when I came on the spring festival Indew Geaio. It was as if I was living a dream, so magnificent and enchanted...”

“I remember you,” Iounelle numbly said with a blank face.

“The second time was when I was named Chieftain,” Caerlund cried. “They decked out the city just for me. Oh it was glorious... But this third time, Oh Eann, take it away, take it away from me...” And Caerlund collapsed in tears. His men respectfully knelt next to him and solemnly placed their hands on his back in a gesture of a warrior’s sympathy.

The Archer looked to his beloved elf for any reaction, but still she did not cry.

“I wanted you to see the view from Bawn Hae,” was all she said.

The Children of Lanis solemnly picked their way through the remains of the city. The Sons of Yenolah grimly huddled near the Archer and the elf.

A Child of Lanis brought a scratched and chipped, circular piece of marble to the elf. It was inset with blue and green marble.

“Is this a gaming board for Jaefa Smiota?” He respectfully, quietly asked.

“Yes,” Iounelle said. “The colors are for the houses of Morinnthe and his betrothed Falrenne.”

The soldier cradled the marble slab marked with lines like a spider’s web as if it were a newborn. The Children of Lanis began to bring all manner of debris to Iounelle to know its name and nature, and then, walked away treasuring their sad mementos with pain and love.

The elf gently led the Archer to the foundation of a house near the House of the Princes.

“This was my home,” the elf said staring down at the blackened, angular remains setting out the edges where the walls once stood.

The Archer and the elf quietly stood like mournful statues, and both imagined the house restored and the two of them living happily as husband and wife. But then the smothering, complete destruction all around brought them back to their senses.

Iounelle looked up in puzzlement.

“The sea,” the elf said.

“I’m sorry, what?” The Archer gently asked.

“I don’t remember the sea being so close,” the elf said in numb confusion.

The Archer turned to see the muddy shore of the Mere Lanis lapping at the exposed foundation line of what was once the city wall.

It was only then that the elf let loose the tears she held back from the shock of seeing the complete ruin of her beloved city. The Archer softly took the elf in his arms and let her cry.

The elf still clutched her brother’s sword. When she composed herself, she slowly extended the hilt to Derragen, the Archer From Kipleth.

“I-I,” the Archer stammered, knowing how great the honor and responsibility the elf proffered.

“It is my brother’s sword,” the elf whispered. “It is called  Bravilc. It was once my father’s. It is light and exceptionally sturdy. I stole it once to practice with it,” she said with a smile. “It is a truly wonderful sword. May it preserve your life, and guide you in righteousness.”

The Archer was so touched he couldn’t speak.

He took the sword, and managed to say, “Thank you.” Then a steely resolve took hold of him, and he held the sword high. “To me! To me Children of Lanis, Sons of Yenolah, madronites, any who can call themselves a good human! To me!”

The armies assembled around the Archer and the elf.

“This destruction and dishonor is too great to ever be undone,” the Archer said. “But I will not stand on the earth of Wealdland and allow this to go unanswered! I will not rest until justice for this race, and this great city is done! I will not sleep while so great an evil can do so horrible a deed under the very sun that we all enjoy! There will be no cave, nor dark dwelling that can shelter this fiend! I will stop this Deifol Hroth and all who do His villainous deeds! Who is with me?!”

The resounding answer from the men and women rang across the obliteration of Lanis Rhyl Landemiriam.

“They say,” Caerlund said with a reddening face, “that the Dark Lord of Magic seeks to build a new citadel here in Wealdland with the very bricks of this great city. I say we throw down his tower, and drag the monster out by his heels!”

“Aye, sir!” Derragen cried.

“Aye!” All cried.

The soldiers all quickly packed their horses and mounted with a determined scramble.

Iounelle strode to the stump of Mildarilg, the world tree, and pulled off as much bark as was left. Then she stood and turned. She gazed across the waste of her city, her home.

“Iounelle?” The Archer gently called from his horse.

“There is no turning back now,” the elf grimly said. “There is nothing for me to return to.” And then, the last elf mounted her horse and left Lanis.

Chapter Two

The Ancient Fortress

Ravensdred sneered. His mouth revealed a row of massive filed teeth. He was surrounded by fools and weaklings. His huge garond paws gripped the ancient granite of the fortress he had found freed from centuries of ice. The fortress was from another age, built undoubtedly by men. Their execrable carvings were everywhere, carvings of men in battle dress, carvings of men with large weapons, proudly posing, holding up the heads of their enemies, which looked suspiciously like the heads of elves. The troops loved that. But the carvings of the heroic men from another age added to Ravensdred’s perpetual rage.

The age-old castle was long and expansive. The blocks of granite were much larger than any stone masonry he had ever seen. But time and the ice had chipped and severely worn away every corner and edge. Water dripped and streamed through every hallway with the melting ice. For winter, it was unseasonably warm in the North, even though every day was overcast and gray.

All the stones of the castle were pitted and crumbling. The ice had pushed the massive blocks, so the whole castle looked out of balance, teetering, huge as it was. Old, strange writing was carved onto every ceremonial balustrade. Ravensdred could read the language of the humans, and some elvish. But, these block-like runes were too alien to even guess at their meaning. The fortress was still half covered in the retreating Ice Fields of Eann, thought by humans to be the home of the gods. Here I am, Ravensdred thought, hiding like a rabbit in the home of the gods of men, hiding from a boy.

Ravensdred turned to look out to the grassy wastes to the south. The line of human soldiers stretched to the east and the west. The garrisoned garond army was three times the size of this remnant of the human army. Yet, they could not move from this ancient stronghold because of the boy. The boy had become legendary. Ravensdred knew the power of legends. If a garond, human or elf believes a thing, whether true or lie, then it is so.

The boy stood alone with his great white wolf out on the moor. Several garond arrows twanged out at the boy, but the arrows were well short of their target. Garond captains barked at their soldiers for wasting their arrows on the clever human boy who stood just out of reach of the best garond archers.

His own human soldiers gestured, and begged the boy to return to the safety of their line, some lengths back. The boy raised his arms.

“Raaaaaavensdred!” He called. It so irritated the Great Garond General. It so irritated him that the boy used his name. No garond dare address him without the utmost honors and ranks, anything less would result in the most instantaneous and messy dismemberment. No human would speak his name in his presence, for they would be torn apart simply on principle.

Yet, here was this boy. This boy that actually, if he admitted it, made him a little afraid. The boy could not be beaten on the field of battle. Ravensdred admired his ferocity and prowess, but he still wanted to sink his fangs into the boys still beating heart ripped from his blood soaked torso.

“Come and face me, great Ravensdred!” The boy’s voice carried on the wind. “I’ll send my wolf back! Observe!” The boy spoke briefly to the wolf, and patted its thick, dirty white mane. The beast trotted back to the line of anxious human soldiers. The boy was all alone amongst the scrub and brush just outside the rotting gates of the ancient edifice, from which, a small river rushed, fed by all the streams of melt water running right through the castle.

Then insult of insults, the boy, raised his arms and turned his back.

The growl that rose in Ravensdred’s throat made his closest captains back away in fear.

Suddenly a group of five garonds broke from the ancient fortress, and rushed at the boy, bellowing murderous rage.

“You fools!” Ravensdred cried in garond. “Come back at once!”

The garonds watching from the battlements cheered the brave garonds attacking the boy with his back turned to them.

Just as the attacking garonds reached the boy, three wolves hidden in the brush pounced on the shocked garonds. Three garonds went down immediately to the teeth of the wolves. The other two rushed the boy. The human boy, tall and lean, with dirty, matted, long blonde hair, drew his sword and decapitated a garond with a single movement. The second garond had a chance to strike, but the boy simply moved to his right and brought his sword up in one fluid motion into the poor garond. The boy pulled on his sword and the second garond ripped open from groin to sternum in a splash of blood.

The garonds on the battlements were shocked to silence.

Out on the field, the white wolf sprinted back to his master. The other wolves cowered in obedience to the higher rank of the white wolf, happily squirming like infant whelps, in a show of submission.

The boy lifted the head of the garond he had decapitated, smelled it, and then threw it to the ground in disgust.

“This meat is spoiled!” He said and called the wolves off of their mauling of the other garond carcasses. Then the boy arrogantly strolled back to his line of cheering humans.

“Oh, how I want to kill him,” Ravensdred whispered to himself. But he couldn’t help but admire the boy. He had three new wolves crawl to their hiding places and wait for his command. That was some kind of leadership. If only my own troops would be so disciplined, Ravensdred angrily thought to himself. But they were stupid. Garonds were vicious and strong, but not too bright. And, their general knew it.

Ravensdred wearily stomped back to the room specially dressed for him. He was an anomaly amongst garonds. He was far more intelligent. He spoke the common language of the Weald. Nary a garond could accomplish this simple feat. He was stronger than any garond or human. The garond race was short, squat and muscular, but Ravensdred was born taller and more upright than any other garond. He stood taller than most humans. And his senses were more refined.

While the average garond loved to gnaw on raw bones like an animal, Ravensdred preferred prepared meals, fine clothing, art and handiwork. The Great Master had seen his potential immediately. Ravensdred still felt honored that the Lord of Lightning saw his strengths and developed them.

Ravensdred sneered at all the mumbo jumbo that kept the garond race in the thrall of Deifol Hroth, but he had seen the mage cast lightning bolts about as if they were stalks of grass. The Dark Lord had real power, and Ravensdred respected that.

In his room, Ravensdred angrily slammed shut the large, decaying oak door. His defeat at the Battle of the Eastern Meadowlands ever played before his eyes. With a garond army five times the size of the hastily collected human army, he had lost. He had been routed. Tricked. His soldiers had panicked and his mighty, beautiful army had been spilt into three groups.

But, there was one concession. He had obtained the Sun Sword, the sword his master so greatly desired. The Mattear Gram was Deifol Hroth’s only request, and he could put the sword into the hands of his master, and beg for forgiveness, if only he could but reach Him.

Ravensdred carefully unwrapped the Mattear Gram. The sword was magnificent, made of a light, silvery metal, emblazoned with gold, a sun etched on one side, a moon on the other, a long curious metal tube extended out from the hilt. The sword was made by elves as part of the peace pact at the end of the elf human wars, ages ago. Perhaps the men who built this castle freed from the ice knew and used this sword.

Then the sword began to scream in his mind again. He could never gaze upon the weapon long before the screaming started. Like a blinding, painful buzzing, intensifying to a excruciating wail, the sword would not let him wield its power. Wincing, Ravensdred rewrapped the sword to quiet the noise in his mind.

He felt down to the scar on his upper arm where the black Arrow of Yenolah had prevented him from the killing stroke upon the human War General, Kellabald.

The last moments of the battle played before his eyes. The human Apghilis had stabbed Kellabald in the back. The treachery ruined his victorious moment. Then, he raised his sword for the kill. Then, the arrow sprouted from his arm with such great pain. His only course of action was to take the prized Mattear Gram and flee north with a portion of his broken army.

Ravensdred opened a small wooden box. He took out the lump of black metal within which had been the arrowhead of the Arrow of Yenolah. He had tried to work the metal, bend it to his will. All his best metal smiths could do was ruin the design of the arrowhead. He plopped the black lump back into its box in disgust.

He felt like tearing something apart. Back in Garondia he had ripped animals like stauers and doderns limb from limb, not only for food, but for pleasure. Once he had killed a lioness, dangerous but pleasing. His fame from that feat had been what had caught the ears of his Dark Master.

His men were starving and disheartened, and grumbling insurrection. He would have to do something decisive and soon.

Arnwylf strolled back through the scrubby wastes, back towards the human army with four wolves at his heels. He was taller than most other men, even though he had just passed his seventeenth year, a week ago, two days after mid winter. He had long, matted blonde hair. His shoulders were wide, but his body was lean, his arms and legs long. His fingers were long and graceful, and had war not gripped Wealdland, he most certainly would have been a master artisan of some kind. He always had a look of pained sorrow on his face, and his green eyes constantly sought some comfort that he knew would never come. His thin lips were set in a perpetual frown of determination.

“That was foolish,” Kellabald, his father, said.

“It demoralizes the garonds, and it felt good,” was Arnwylf’s reply.

Back at the line of human warriors, Husvet and Geleiden, Arnwylf’s captains, watched him return to their ranks.

“He’s talking to himself again,” Geleiden said.

“He’s talking to his father,” Husvet said with some reverence.

“What’s the difference?” Geleiden said with chagrin.

“A leader can not appear to be willful and inconstant,” the specter of Kellabald said to Arnwylf as they strode back to the waiting human army.

“I ask no man to follow me, nor do I ask to be their leader,” Arnwylf said to the image of his slain father. Arnwylf whistled and the three, new wolves sprinted to nuzzle their human brothers. The white wolf, Conniker, never left Arnwylf’s side.

“I’m hungry,” Arnwylf said to Husvet, his first captain, as he made his way to the human troops. Husvet was only in his early twenties, had the dark hair and dark eyes of a warrior from Kipleth, and a large black wolf stood by his side.

“I’ll have the cook make something for you immediately,” Husvet said with an admiring smile, then whispered an order to a nearby soldier.

“Will you test the new wolf now?” Asked Geleiden, who was also young and had the flame red hair and beard of a warrior from the Northern Kingdom of Man. Geleiden was the other of his top captains, and was bonded to a grey wolf.

“Can I not have a moment to catch my breath?” Arnwylf smiled with slight annoyance.

“Of course, my Lord,” Geleiden said with an apologetic smile.

“And do not call me ‘your Lord’,” Arnwylf growled, turning on Geleiden. “I am no person’s ‘Lord’.”

“But you are a direct heir to the throne of the Weald, and second in line for the throne of Reia,” Geleiden said.

“I have no wish to rule any human,” Arnwylf said. “And I am not second in line to the throne of Reia. I am third. Please do not disrespect my cousin Hetwing in such a manner.” Then, Arnwylf abruptly turned and left the company of his captains, to entered his tent. Conniker the white wolf positioned himself at the entrance, and all knew better than to provoke the white wolf.

The spirit of his father was already waiting for him in his sparsely furnished tent.

“Why do you scorn their allegiance?” Kellabald asked.

“I do not scorn anything,” Arnwylf hotly answered. “For an allegiance is not a thing, nor is a kingship, nor is a lineage, nor a nation. All these factions and groupings have set human against human over and over, from the beginning of time.” Arnwylf stared down at the ground, feeling guilty for having spoken so rashly to his father, even if it was only his imagination. “When human can accept any other human, in this world, regardless of their lineage, their tribe, or the color of their hair, we will have a true Ailliaden here on earth.”

The ghost of Kellabald smiled, pleased, then faded.

Outside the tent Conniker growled low and menacing. Arnwylf knew it meant someone wanted to speak with him. Arnwylf strode to the entrance of his tent. As he exited, he patted Conniker to calm him.

Outside Arnwylf’s tent, Geleiden waited with several men.

“Lord Arnwylf-” Geleiden started than caught himself. “Arnwylf, these men wish to join us.”

Arnwylf looked up to see twelve bedraggled warriors huddled together, fearful expectation in their eyes.

“Where do you come from?” Arnwylf asked.

Their leader stepped forward, bowed, and then said, “we were with the army gathering in Apghilis camp.”

“He has men to lead?” Arnwylf said derisively.

“In the Northern wastes, just to the east of the mountains of Kipleth,” the soldier said.