The Archer From Kipleth (Book 2) (11 page)

Apghilis tried to strike Arnwylf, but his face was turning red, he struggled for breath, and then he desperately clutched at Arnwylf’s strangling hands.

“No!” Husvet cried and tore Arnwylf off of Apghilis. “Do not give them a martyr!”

Arnwylf violently pushed Husvet away, and, staggering, faced Apghilis, who wearily stumbled to his feet, feeling his neck.

“Get out of my sight” Arnwylf said to Apghilis, and then turned to easily push his way back to his men.

Geleiden made his way to Arnwylf. “The garonds have a great lead, now.”

Arnwylf turned violently to face Husvet, who stopped to stare at Arnwylf with courageous shame. Arnwylf’s face was red with anger, but then he threw his arms around his captain. “Thank the gods you live,” he said to Husvet who still cradled his dead wolf.

“We have to be after them right away,” Arnwylf said wiping the dust and blood from his face.

“We will not leave our brothers,” Conniker, the white wolf, now at Arnwylf’s side, said.

Arnwylf turned to stare down at Conniker, then gently put his hand on Maldon’s head.

“Make litters from the tents, to bear the slain wolves, so we may later mourn them properly,” Arnwylf commanded as he strode away. “Let us bury our human dead quickly so we may be after that garond scum.”

Arnwylf turned to face the numbed and confused army of Apghilis.

“Join us or leave us be, but do not hinder us,” he boldly called to the shamed warriors of Apghilis.

Ravensdred’s chest ached. The strike from the boy was surprisingly powerful. He fingered the deep mark on his bronze chest plate where the sword would have impaled him.

He only had about four hundred garonds left. It would be one on one, even odds, the next time they met. That is, if the other human army didn’t finish the boy off first.

Ravensdred looked back. He could see a column of dust on the western horizon. They were after him. Ravensdred snarled and clouted a nearby garond out of simple frustration.

Arnwylf trotted after the garonds. His army ran with him, no complaints. Husvet ran by Arnwylf’s side, holding one end of a litter that bore his dead wolf, Maldon. Geleiden held the other end of the litter, with his wolf brother, Lanner, trotting by his side.

“They won’t stop at the ruins of Glafemen,” Geleiden breathlessly said. “I think they’ll again pull that trick of sacrificing a platoon to keep the main body ahead of us.”

“Then we mustn’t let that slow us,” was all Arnwylf said, with a blank look of determination, never breaking stride.

The sun rose in the east, over the Great Lake of Ettonne. The beacon of light was a mute, orange glow warming through the clouds hanging over the expansive lake. Ettonne was so vast, its eastern shore was not visible from any point on the western shore in Wealdland. Even on Byland, the land bridge linking Wealdland to the rest of the world, the eastern shore was never visible.

In the water, white islands floated south. Gigantic pieces of ice calved from the ice fields of Eann to the north. There were more and more icebergs with every phase of the moon. It was said if you watched the Ice Fields of Eann from the western shore of the lake, you could see massive pieces of ice splashing into the water at an unceasing rate.

All the white islands of ice drifted south to the northern shore of Byland. There were so many icebergs pushing against Byland, it doubled its width, making great trouble for the human sentries trying to keep the invading garonds out of Wealdland.

All along Ettonne the rising water of the lake devoured what was once a rocky shore line. The pristine, flooding water lapped away at the dirt of the hills running down to the water’s edge.

Lake Ettonne turned a beautiful, clear sky blue as the morning sun rose, and the suns rays were like spears of light lancing the banks of clouds high in the east. The sun and clouds were magnificently reflected in the enormous mirror of the lake.

“Find out if any of Apghilis’ men have joined us,” Arnwylf said to Geleiden as he took his turn running with Maldon’s death litter.

Geleiden was gone only a short time and returned wearing an expression of wonderment.

“Well?” Arnwylf asked.

“All of them,” Geleiden said with shock.

“All of them...?” Arnwylf asked in amazement.

“Apghilis has fled, alone, for his life,” Geleiden said, “his men believed you, and want to fight for you.”

Arnwylf turned to look at Husvet with kindness. “We didn’t give them a martyr,” Arnwylf said.

Husvet just smiled a sad, pained smile, and slightly nodded.

“Next time he won’t be so fortunate,” Arnwylf said. Then he turned to Geleiden.

“Tell the men who once followed Apghilis if they wish to fight with me, they must come out front, here with me. They are fresh, unlike my men who have been fighting garonds all day.”

Geleiden nodded and trotted back to the main body of pursuing humans.

Ravensdred looked back. The humans were gaining again. His stupid soldiers all had short, bow legs. They were starved, and fought a vicious battle in the ruins of Ethgeow. They would have to fight again at Glafemen.

They crossed two rivers, Nettle and Ryp, which fed into the Bight of Man. Both were bone dry, so Ravensdred decided it best not to waste any soldiers in a delaying tactic which would gain him no advantage.

As Arnwylf ran, a soldier, once of Apghilis army ran beside him and took his end of Maldon’s death litter. Another soldier tried to take Husvet’s end, but he wouldn’t let him.

Arnwylf held his hand up so there would be no confrontation. Then, two soldiers, once of Apghilis, put their hands under Husvet’s, to ease the weight, but still allow him to carry his dead brother wolf. Husvet slightly bowed his head as tears streamed down his face.

The ruins of Glafemen loomed in the afternoon sun. Ravensdred remembered burning this city. It was the first large human city he had put to the torch. It was too easy as the Northern Kingdom of Man, their northern neighbor, had nearly pushed the race of Glafs to extinction in a civil war cleverly devised by his master to cause the humans of Wealdland to decimate their own ranks before the garond army even began the most overtly destructive part of their invasion.  

The Glafs were clever and even with a small army were difficult to defeat. Had they been at their full strength, they would have beaten the garond invasion. After the razing of Glafemen, Ravensdred made a serious study of tactics and stratagem. He frowned to himself. With all his studies, he still had been out foxed time and again by human generals.

Ravensdred smiled to himself. When he attacked Glafemen, the athelings of Man and the Lords of the Weald knew what was happening, but neither nation, to the north and to the south, came to the aid of their human neighbor.

The siege of Glafemen was the first overt attack of the garond invasion. The decimation of Kipleth had been secret, and Ravensdred had detested the necessary creeping about. 

He remembered the faces of the women and children, slaughtered and consumed by his army. What a glorious day that was. He wished he had more Glafs to kill, but they were all now extinct.

Glafemen was a black lump of melted stones, atop a gentle sloping, grassy rise. This ruin would provide little cover. The pasture all around Glafemen was dotted with Aurochs, doderns, and horses.

Perhaps he could capture a horse to escape to the Far Grasslands, Ravensdred thought. But the horse would be wild and unpredictable. It might send him directly into the human ranks, better to scatter them, or try to drive them at the humans.

Ravensdred barked an order at a captain. The command was relayed, and several garonds peeled off to try to make use of the pasture grazers.

Ravensdred could feel the exhaustion in his legs. He knew his army would be in even worse shape than he was. The coming fight at Glafemen would be awful, if not total. The human army behind him had gathered in numbers. The battle with Apghilis had not turned out how he had hoped. Instead of lowering Arnwylf’s number of soldiers even further, it had increased them.

Ravensdred knew what he had to do. He barked at a soldier carrying the wrapped sword. If nothing else, he had to get the Mattear Gram to his master.

Arnwylf remembered this land. He had come to Glafemen last autumn to find recruits for the Battle of the Eastern Meadowlands. He found only three Glafs. The last of their race, Yulenth, his grandfather by marriage; Solienth, once a general of the Glaf army; and Ronenth, a young, dark haired boy almost his age, with whom he became the closest of friends. Arnwylf allowed himself a moment to wonder what Ronenth was doing in the New Rogar Li, but then focused his mind back on capturing Ravensdred and the Mattear Gram.

The garonds reached the black, blasted stones of Glafemen with great fatigue.

“PAN (grunt)!” Ravensdred ordered, and the garond army wearily stopped and turned. Then he allowed himself to drift to the back of main crush of his army. He had to time this just right.

“Watch for the big one,” Arnwylf said to Conniker. “Don’t let him get away.” Conniker yipped in assent.

As the human army charged through the pasture, they set down the twenty litters carrying the dead wolves and rushed the garond army.

The battle was brutal and quick. The garonds didn’t have the strength to resist.

Conniker bolted away from the crush of battle. “I see him!” The white wolf cried.

Arnwylf sprinted after his wolf brother. On the edge of Glafemen, Ravensdred had abandoned his troops and was fleeing with a sword swaddled in cloth.

“Ravensdred!” Arnwylf cried.

Ravensdred turned and drew a sword, throwing the wrapped sword to the earth. Conniker leapt at the garond, but he was quick and kicked the tired wolf hard. Conniker fell with a yelp.

Arnwylf came at Ravensdred hard, slashing and striking. But soon both were very tired, circling each other. A few garonds ran past. The battle was nearly over, and the garonds had lost.

Arnwylf swung his sword, but Ravensdred quickly cut forward, slicing across Arnwylf’s face. Arnwylf doubled over in pain, but before Ravensdred could deliver a killing stroke, Conniker leapt up and tore at his arm.

Ravensdred pulled the white wolf off his arm just in time to see the whole human army bearing down on him. He turned and ran with all his might.

Geleiden and Husvet rushed up to help Arnwylf.

“It’s just a little cut” Arnwylf said as he touched the cut running from between his eyes down across his nose down to his right cheek. Arnwylf scurried to the bundle Ravensdred had dropped. He tore it open. It was the Mattear Gram.

Arnwylf held the magnificent sword up to the sunlight and a thousand diamond bursts of light reflected off its blade. Then Arnwylf came to his senses.

Arnwylf turned to see Geleiden’s Lanner and two other wolves chasing after the five last garonds, Ravensdred in their number.

“Call your wolves back!” Arnwylf commanded. “I don’t want to lose another, single wolf.”

Geleiden whistled high and loud, and Lanner and the other two wolves stopped and ran back.

Arnwylf turned to see Husvet, openly weeping and cradling his dead wolf, Maldon.

“Send the bonded soldiers back for their brothers,” Arnwylf said. “We have several hundred humans to catch those five garonds.”

Then, Arnwylf was frozen by a familiar voice.

“My dear Arnwylf,” Deifol Hroth said.

Arnwylf looked about. He couldn’t tell where the voice was coming from.

‘Arnwylf?” Geleiden said as he stopped short. Some of the human soldiers had already started after the last garonds, but now they stopped, wondering what was the problem.

“Where are you?” Arnwylf shouted.

“I am right here,” the voice of pure evil said. “I am right where you will give me the Mattear Gram, and your hand.”

“Come and get them!” Arnwylf shouting, turning with the sun sword flashing in his grip.

Arnwylf turned in circles, violently hacking at the air with the Mattear Gram, ready for the Lord of Lightning.

“Come and get me!” Arnwylf cried.

“I will,” Deifol Hroth said. “I will.”

Then Arnwylf collapsed.

Arnwylf came to as the sun was setting. He was still tightly clutching the Mattear Gram.

The human army had made camp. There were aurochs to slaughter and cook, and the soldiers were in good spirits.

Geleiden jumped to his feet as Arnwylf stirred.

“Where is Husvet?” Arnwylf asked.

“He is with the brotherhood,” Geleiden softly said. “When the sun goes down, we will mourn in the tradition of wolves.”

“Where is Conniker?”

“Also with the wolves.”

“We must be with them,” Arnwylf said as he got unsteadily to his feet. “Did they catch Ravensdred?”

“No,” Geleiden said. “The men who followed him lost the last garonds on the ice flows that crush the southern shore of the Great Lake of Ettonne.”