The Archer From Kipleth (Book 2) (4 page)

“And what nation do you originally hail from?” Arnwylf asked.

“We were of the Kingdom of Man,” the soldier replied. “You can ask Geleiden, though he was but a boy, he knew of us, and can vouch for our loyalty.”

“But you have left the loyalty of Apghilis,” Arnwylf said. “How do I not know you will do the same to me?”

The soldier looked down with worried humility.

“Why did you join Apghilis in the first place?” Arnwylf asked. “Why did you not come here first?”

“We are of the Northern Kingdom of Man,” the soldier said, “and are a proud race. Most of the soldiers of Man do not like how you move across our land with impunity. We now know it was foolishness, and that Apghilis is a liar.”

“And how many do not see their foolishness and do believe Apghilis?” Arnwylf asked.

The soldiers muttered to each other. Then their leader stepped forward.

“We feel as though you ask us to betray our brothers,” the soldier carefully said.

“What is your name?” Arnwylf asked.

“I am  Cargent,” the soldier said. “I was once an atheling of the Kingdom of Man. And so, I have a right to leadership.”

“Well, Cargent,” Arnwylf coldly said, “You may fight with us, if you believe it is the right thing to do. But you have no right to lead here in this army. If you desert us as you have deserted Apghilis, expect no future mercy.” Arnwylf paused, and looked to see his father sternly staring at him. “I am glad you now know Apghilis is a liar,” Arnwylf gently said. “I welcome you with open arms. May you help us free all of Wealdland with honor.”

The soldiers all dropped to one knee and swore fealty to Arnwylf.

“See that they are fed and made to feel comfortable with the troops,” Arnwylf said to Husvet.

Then, Arnwylf turned to Geleiden. “Discreetly see if any more information may be gleaned from these men. I do not want spies in our midst.”

Geleiden saluted and stalked away.

Then a muttering arose from the whole army as a lanky member of the Messenger Guild arrived with a bursting leather satchel.

“Hermergh!” Arnwylf cried with pleasure to the arriving courier.

“Lord Arnwylf,” Hermergh said, and bowed. Arnwylf bit his lip.

“I have many missives for many soldiers,” Hermergh continued, “And one specially for the general.” With that, Hermergh handed a sealed envelope to Arnwylf, and then began dispersing other letters to the troops.

Arnwylf took the letter into his tent. It was from Frea.

“My love,” she wrote, “I miss you every day. I long to see your beautiful face, and yearn to hear your voice. Please take a day or more to visit here in New Rogar Li. I miss you so. Ronenth sees to my every need, but I fear that he longs for what he cannot have, my love, which I freely give to you. Yours eternally, Frea.”

Arnwylf smiled a wry smile, then took up pen and paper.

“Frea,” he wrote, “the battle to reclaim the Mattear Gram continues, and I will never abandon the quest to retrieve it. Let Ronenth know he has a right to pursue his dream, as does every human of Wealdland. Arnwylf.”

Arnwylf sealed the letter. Then he thought better of sending it, and held the letter to a flame.

“Better to say nothing, than hurtful words,” Arnwylf said to himself.

Then, Arnwylf put down his quill, and from amongst his belongings, he pulled out a strand of woven fibers Frea had made for him when they were still children in Bittel, their home village. His mind went back to the day when, with sunlight haloing her flame red hair, she had carefully put the strand into his hands. 

Frea was a beautiful girl. Her nose was straight, angular and small, her face lightly freckled. Her skin was fair and pale like the finest alabaster. Her cheekbones were high and finely swept up to her eyes. The line of her neck was graceful and athletic. Her chin and jaw were firm, but not too masculine. Her eyes were a fine, sky blue. Her lips were a pink, the color of the simple, five petaled roses that grew in long, spiky vines in Bittel in the summer. Her hair was flame red, and lightly curled. She never cut or styled it, so her long hair whipped around her gorgeous head like a nimbus of fire. Her fingers were long and thin. And although she bit her fingernails, her hands were always graceful and poised.

Arnwylf put his face in his hands with the painful memory of the girl he loved.

“Arnwylf,” Husvet called from without. “Your meal.”

“Bring it in, please,” Arnwylf said.

Husvet, followed by Conniker, brought into the tent a humble portion of stew and bread. “There is more, if you want it,” Husvet said.

“No more or less than any soldier in this army,” Arnwylf said, taking the meal and giving half the bread to his wolf.

Husvet smiled. “There is still this matter of the new wolf.”

“If they truly wish to join the Brotherhood,” Arnwylf said between mouthfuls, “they will have patience. Please sit,” Arnwylf said to Husvet.

Husvet found a wooden box on which to sit.

“Have you eaten?” Arnwylf asked, offering to share his meal.

“I have,” Husvet said holding up his hand, but even if he was starving he wouldn’t have taken anything.

“Tell me,” Arnwylf said, “what is your opinion of the divisions that still remain amongst the humans of Wealdland?”

“Well,” Husvet scratched his dark hair, “all humans feel a need to belong to the land and nation of their birth. But with the shattering of all nations recently, new factions and alliances are springing up in all the parts of Wealdland.”

“Like the Sons of Yenolah, and the Children of Lanis?” Arnwylf asked.

“Precisely,” Husvet said. “It is as if they have, dissatisfied with their lineage, created new nations.”

“Like the Brotherhood?” Arnwylf asked.

“Ah, that is different,” Husvet continued. “We are a clan of unique warriors, but not a nation. I still consider myself of Kipleth, and of the Wylfling tribe.”

“The men of Kipleth fought alongside both the men of Reia, and the soldiers of the Kingdom of Man in their wars against each other, did they not?”

“I was too young to participate in any of those wars,” Husvet said. “Unfortunately, because Kipleth lies between Reia and the Kingdom of Man, our people were often drawn into conflicts that profited them nothing.”

Arnwylf wiped the last vestiges of the stew from his plate with his bread, leaving Conniker to eagerly lick what was left. “Let us prove this new bond,” he said, and rose to leave his tent.

As Arnwylf and Husvet strode through the camp with their wolves by their sides, other warriors with bonded wolves rose and joined them, until there were forty warriors striding next to their wolves.

Arnwylf came to a clearing and gestured. The warriors and their wolves formed a ring, alternating man and wolf.

“Bring them in,” Arnwylf commanded. A thin man entered the circle with a greasy looking, sickly thin, timber wolf.

“What are your names?” Arnwylf demanded.

“I am Bowlard and this is my wolf, Gertus,” the thin man responded. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

Arnwylf held up his hand for silence. “Only speak when you are spoken to,” he said. “This is a solemn rite.”

Bowlard nodded his head in understanding.

“When human is bonded to wolf,” Arnwylf proclaimed, “it is for life. It is for death.”

The faces of the encircled warriors were serious and reverent.

“When human is bonded to wolf,” Arnwylf continued, “it is a sacred and an unbreakable bond. Human and wolf become one. Are you ready, Bowlard?”

“I am ready,” Bowlard said.

“Are you ready, Gertus?” Arnwylf asked the wolf, who seemed overwhelmed and nervous.

“She’s ready,” Bowlard answered.

Arnwylf frowned in disapproval. “Let us get this done with. Bowlard, we need to see you fight as one with your wolf. Do not strike any mortal blows, and none will be struck upon you. You and your wolf must fight as one. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” the thin man nervously answered.

“Begin,” Arnwylf said, and pointed to several warriors in the circle. Three warriors advanced with their wolves by their side.

Bowlard deflected the blows of the proving warriors, but Gertus simply cowered by his side.

“Stop,” Arnwylf commanded, and let his frustration subside. “Bowlard, you and your wolf must fight as one. Does she understand this?”

“She will,” Bowlard said with a pathetic smile. Then he rapped his wolf on the head and kicked her. “Pay attention,” he said to her.

Every wolf in the circle bristled.

“Bowlard,” Arnwylf quickly said, “you may not be admitted to the Brotherhood. No Wolf Warrior would ever abuse their wolf companion as you have just done.”

“But, I- I-” Bowlard stammered.

“It is best for you to leave,” Arnwylf said. “Go to the people of the Weald, or to Reia. I cannot assure your safety among the wolves of our army because of your actions just now. The wolf will stay with us, until she has some understanding of the life we offer. But you must go. Now.”

Bowlard held his hands up, pleading. But he quickly realized, the severity of Arnwylf’s words as he saw the cold, angry stares of the wolves all about him. Bowlard quickly fled the circle. 

The other wolves gathered around Gertus, sniffing. And, Gertus did what all good wolves would do, she rolled on her back and urinated in an act of complete submission.

Arnwylf strode away from the circle with Conniker by his side. Husvet and Geleiden followed him.

“Why do you waste my time like this?” Arnwylf angrily said to Geleiden.

“I apologize” Geleiden said. “It won’t happen again.”

The camp stirred with the arrival of a messenger, who immediately sought out Arnwylf.

“Great Arnwylf,” the messenger said. “I bear a message from High Atheling Apghilis.”

Arnwylf froze in his tracks. And, then he turned to the messenger, his eyes ablaze.

“What message dare he send to me?” Arnwylf coldly said.

“He wishes to march his troops to the ruins of Ethgeow to pay his respects to the dead of his wasted capitol.”

“Am I correct,” Arnwylf slowly said, “in understanding that your sovereign, the traitor who slew my father, wishes to march his army behind my troops, flanking me between themselves and the garonds?”

“I do not- I do not-” the messenger stammered.

“It is better from him to prepare to do battle with my army than even suggest such a foolish notion,” Arnwylf paused, then said. “Tell your master my response is that he can go to hell.”

The messenger was dumbstruck, bowed his head several times, and then scurried away.

“Apghilis’ additional troops could make us enough of an army to storm the castle,” Geleiden carefully said.

Arnwylf turned to look at his friend in angry wonder. “Whom have you been serving this past year?” Arnwylf said with a pale face.

“You, you-” Geleiden stuttered, knowing he had gone too far. “I beg your forgiveness. I shouldn’t have spoken thusly.”

Arnwylf turned to confront Husvet, but a shocking revelation took hold of him. All about him, every person in the camp stood still. Water pouring from a ladle was stopped in mid motion. A wolf leaping high at his brother’s command was suspended in the air. The fingers of flame from a fire froze in an impossible moment of suspense.

“My dear Arnwylf,” a voice from the very depths of evil spoke.

Arnwylf turned to see Deifol Hroth standing in his camp, a short distance away. He was as he remembered him from his first meeting in Harvestley, a tall attractive, blonde haired young man wearing a sky blue tunic, but both of his sleeves hung empty and lifeless. And like the previous time, the emanations of evil were so overpowering, it made him nauseous.

“How-?” Arnwylf stammered.

“Take Apghilis’ offer,” the soft voice of pure evil purred. “Then you may slaughter him at your convenience. It is best to keep your enemies close.”

“I have honor,” Arnwylf said, “unlike you.”

“Honor, righteousness, truth,” Deifol Hroth said slowly walking closer, “these are words. And, words are nothing but emptiness. Join with me and know real power. I can give you weapons, you merely wave your finger, and your enemies will burn as twigs in a bonfire.”

“Do not listen to him,” Kellabald said, appearing.

“Do not worry, Father,” Arnwylf said with the foolhardy braveness of a young man, “he has nothing to say to me that I care to hear.”

“No?” Deifol Hroth whispered as he neared. “These two,” he nodded his head at Husvet and Geleiden on either hand, “one of these two will betray you. I can tell you which one it will be.”

“I do not believe you,” Arnwylf said.

“If you join with me” the Dark Lord of Magic cooed, “you can live forever, have any woman you desire, take the riches of the earth for your own, and possess any kingdom.”

“I desire to live my life as an honest, honorable man, like my father,” Arnwylf said.

Kellabald smiled triumphantly.

“The oracles say it is you, Arnwylf who will destroy me,” Deifol Hroth said.