The Archer From Kipleth (Book 2) (12 page)

“Then he has made it back to the Far Grasslands,” Arnwylf bitterly said as they walked to the shore of Ettonne.

“He may have fallen through the ice and drowned,” Geleiden wryly mused.

“That crafty devil?” Arnwylf said as they came upon the bodies of twenty two wolves laid out near where the swelling waters of the Great Lake of Ettonne swallowed what was once a pebbled shore. The twenty remaining wolves nuzzled and sniffed the dead bodies. There were two humans also laid out among the dead.

Arnwylf and Geleiden carefully entered the sacred circle to carefully stroke and smell their fallen comrades, just as the living wolves were doing.

Arnwylf put his nose on Maldon’s mane and breathed in deeply. The musky smell of the dead wolf was heartbreaking. But he held his breath, wanting to remember his friend, his brother, always.

The sun set in the west. Conniker let out a long, solo howl. It was a clear note filled with anguish, mourning, love and hope. Then the other wolves joined in as darkness fell. The humans of the brotherhood also howled to wish their brothers a good hunt in the next life. Husvet doubled over in pain, weeping with out reservation. Arnwylf put his hand on Husvet’s head, a conflagration of angry revenge burned in Arnwylf’s heart.

Then the howling stopped.

“What is it?” Arnwylf asked.

All the wolves stared intently out to the inky depths of the lake, their back hairs furiously bristling. The humans all stood to get a better look.

Out in the ebony fathoms, not far from the shore, a long reptilian body coiled and turned in the water. Long and black, the scaly body slowly twisted in the lapping, frigid lake. Then the strange water beast sank into the hidden, jet deep without a splash.

“What was that?” Geleiden asked in horror, but no one could answer him.

Chapter Six

The Citadel

“Haerreth!” The blonde haired captain from Reia cried for his lost general. “Where are you!?” The night and the mist had so obscured his vision, he could barely make out the end of his own sword in the vile curls of enchanted murk. He constantly stumbled, and kept his free hand out in front of him, although that hand also disappeared into the miasma of the mist. All was a wall of white and the winter night’s shadows.

“Haerreth!” He called again.

Something shifted just beyond the visible. Garond clubs swung down on him. He parried and deflected. The garonds moved quickly in and out of the mist. The captain fell over a woody shrub, and struggled to his feet, wildly swinging his sword.

“Men of Reia!” The captain called out, his voice breaking. The garonds came again and the captain was able to skewer one. But the remaining garonds attacked more fiercely pushing him back and back, until his left hand touched a brick wall.

The captain was shocked. He turned to look at the deep black bricks of the wall behind him. And then, the hand touching the bricks began to burn.

He tried to pulled his hand away but it stuck fast to the infinitely black bricks. The captain screamed in pain. The garonds all around him swung their clubs, pushing and slamming him against the black wall. Everywhere he came in contact with the wall of the citadel, he stuck fast and burned.

A death stroke finished the captain. The garonds grunted to each other in satisfaction as the captain was pulled away from the black, black bricks, pulling away with a sickening, cracking sound, and the reek of burnt flesh.

The garonds moved off looking for more prey. They knew better than to ever touch the bricks stolen from the elvish capital. The bricks were effused with magic, the last magic, and so the most powerful of magics in all of Wealdland.

The citadel was a sprawling edifice. Black openings yawned all along it’s outer wall. There were no doors, nor a need for them. There was no formal structure or orderliness to the layout. The stone rooms and halls were a labyrinth intentionally meant to entice, mislead and entrap. It spread out in a crooked oval, with a massive tower at the center.

The garonds had to carefully learn the paths through the citadel, because the mist was pervasive. There was blindness and concealed beasts behind every corner.

It was rumored among the garonds that their Dark Master had brought in fantastical, hungry animals from the far reaches of the end of the world, and vile beasts unleashed from the pits of hell.

One monster in particular was responsible for the enchanted mist. It lived in the lowest pits, and was vile to behold and lethal to approach. The garonds only whispered of its existence.

Another beast was said to be held hostage. How such a titanic creature could be held against its will was a mystery. But any garond who dared to venture into this beast’s stable was instantly crushed under its cruel, tremendous hooves. It was said to be the hybrid offspring of the extinct wyrm race, and it spoke in frightening, low, guttural monosyllabic snarls.

No garond ever strayed from the learned paths through the citadel, for the darkness and the mist was unforgiving and brutal. Anyone lost was lost forever.

There were also some garonds the other garonds avoided. Usually they were chained to whatever nook in which they were hidden. They had been changed and mutated by the Evil Lord of Magic.

Some said it was a great honor to be so changed, to have extra arms, distended jaws, gnarled, massive hands, or muscular, twisted backs. Most just avoided these transformed garonds as they would not speak, only kill and eat.

The citadel had hidden depths, but no garonds dare go there. Moans and groans of pain and torment regularly wafted up from that dank blackness.

Deifol Hroth would sometimes be seen emerging from the cavernous archways which led to the depths, and He would always have a smile on His face and be pleasant for the rest of the day.

The central feature of the citadel was a tower. At the tower’s base were massive stones, cut and dragged from far away lands to support the weight of the black tower.

Some garonds said the circle of stones were so large they would still be standing when the days of the earth were ended.

Inside the tower were ten levels, each to serve the whim and pleasure of the Dark Lord. Since Deifol Hroth never ate nor drank, there were no kitchens. There was a level in the tower that was completely filled with books of every type. It was said that the Great Dark Master had raided the libraries of Ethgeow, Glafemen, and Rogar Li as the cities burned. This was plausible to any garond, as it was well known that fire could not harm the Evil One in the slightest. Why, He played with lightning bolts as if they were children’s toys. The power of the Evil Lord of Magic was that of an angry god.

At the top most level of the tower was a chamber with no roof, open to the sky. There were eight very small windows in each of the eight walls.

There were no chairs, as the Dark One never sat, only tables filled with maps, books, and other curious objects of magical power. Skulls, broken bones, and the captured souls of the damned floating in agony littered every darkened corner. One living human was chained to a wall.

Stavolebe entered through the only, heavy oaken door in the whole citadel.

“M- Master?” He timidly whispered.

Deifol Hroth stood over the chained human, intently staring at him as though he interrogated the poor captive with his mind.

“Stavolebe,” the Dark one pleasantly said, turning. “Did you have any trouble getting in this time?”

“No, no trouble,” Stavolebe stammered. Then he caught his breath when he saw the human chained to the wall. He was a middle aged man, thin from hunger, unshaven and dirty. Stavolebe didn’t recognize the man, he most certainly wasn’t a wealdkin. But, Stavolebe knew better than to ask questions of the Lord of Magic. He had seen humans fried to a cinder, on the spot, for daring to ask even the most inconsequential of questions. Deifol Hroth was to be obeyed, nothing more.

“It’s still your move,” Deifol Hroth said with a mild voice, as he approached.

Stavolebe was momentarily thrown into a panic. The sight of the chained human terrified him. But then, he remembered the game.

Deifol Hroth softly stepped over to the marble playing table, with playing pieces set in mid game. It was a Jaefa Smiota game board inset with blue and green marble.

Stavolebe had been brushing up on the game as much as he could. He even went to old Nostacarr, the master of the now decimated library of Old Rogar Li. Stavolebe looked up at the Lord of All Evil.

Deifol Hroth looked as though He could have been no older than twenty five, even though it was rumored He was over nine hundred summers old. He was a human, once. He had sandy blonde hair, and was actually quite attractive. He was lean and a little above average in height. But, the emanation of evil pervasive from His person was like a smell which had no description. It made one nauseous at first, but eventually the feeling, or smell of intense evil could be tolerated very well.

He also had no arms. His sleeves flapped empty on either side of his body.

The thought of the most dangerous being in the world being so disfigured and helpless filled Stavolebe with a cold fear, too many things were moving beyond his control, too much of the great powers moved out of his sphere of influence. He felt insignificant and weak.

But power could be obtained. Magic could be learned and controlled, that much Lord Stavolebe of the Weald knew. And he wanted it. He wanted it like a man dying of thirst dreams of a cool drink of water.

Stavolebe gazed down at the board. He was losing. The Dark Lord had picked off all of his villagers like a cat toying with a mouse. He had lost both warriors, and now had only his lady and his counselors to protect his prince.

He knew to always keep a counselor on the same section with the prince. This insured his prince would not be taken outright. His lady and other counselor huddled around his prince. He had to strike out. He had to make an offensive move. This cowering would never do. How could the Lord of Lightning ever trust him with the hidden secrets if he never showed courage and decisiveness?

Stavolebe moved his lady out and around to flank Deifol Hroth’s untouched wall of warriors and villagers.

Deifol Hroth softly laughed.

“Did I move wrongly, Lord?” Stavolebe asked.

“No, no,” the Dark One smiled. “I was waiting for you to decide you were a man. And, that day has come. Well done.”

Stavolebe was filled with joy and fear. Would being strong be seen as rebellion?

“I think I need to move my warrior around to speak to your lady,” Deifol Hroth murmured.

Stavolebe was suddenly paralyzed with terror. Did he dare to touch the playing piece? The Great Lord of All Evil hadn’t asked him to do it. Would he be showing the Lord of Lightning His own weakness in being unable to move a single playing piece on a game board?

Stavolebe looked up in fear. “Should I-?” He swallowed the last words in fear.

“Should you what?” Deifol Hroth politely asked, his eyes two pits of merciless violence.

Stavolebe blinked. He turned to indicate the board. And as he did, he saw the warrior piece moving on its own. Stavolebe gasped at the horrible implication. Here was the most dangerous thing in the world, seemingly helpless without his arms, who could move objects without touching them.

Stavolebe fell to his knees, his hands clasped out in front in an attitude of cowardly begging.

“Get up,” Deifol Hroth contemptuously said.

Stavolebe weakly rose to his feet. His very soul was drained and beaten. He might as well be one of the transparent blue, murdered ghosts with tortured, twisted faces, slowly turning in the corners of the room.

“Tell me all you’ve seen,” The Dark Lord commanded.

“I went down to their camp, as instructed,” Stavolebe said with a growing fever, “there I found the Archer and the elf. I won their confidence.”

Deifol Hroth softly snorted, and Stavolebe froze.

“Go on,” Deifol Hroth said.

“The elf has the moon sword, as you supposed,” Stavolebe weakly went on, “they also now have a crystal object the elf called the Lhalíi.”

“Very good,” the Evil One said. “All is proceeding as I’ve foreseen. Getting the moon sword will be the most difficult.”

“The elf is a most ferocious fighter, I’m told,” Stavolebe said.

“And yet,” Deifol Hroth gently smiled, “I have seen that she will give it to you of her own free will.”

“How will that occur?” Stavolebe asked, then caught himself for being so stupid as to question the Lord of All Evil.

Deifol Hroth gently laughed. “I don’t know,” He said, “that is hidden from me.”

“But at least you already have the sun sword,” Stavolebe said trying to win favor.

Suddenly Deifol Hroth was very still. “No,” he said, “I just lost it. That damn fool, Ravensdred.”

Stavolebe was careful not to criticize the Dark Lord’s other underlings. The Lord of Lightning was not swayed at all by politics.

“Go down,” Deifol Hroth commanded, “and watch your charges carefully. You are not my only pair of eyes amongst the humans, but you are my most useful.”

“Oh, you mean Apghilis, don’t you, Lord?” Stavolebe was feeling happy, having been praised.

“Apghilis?” Deifol Hroth sneered. “That fool had better stay far from me. No I have other spies. It’s best that you not know whom, nor fraternize with any you suspect of working for me. Simply stay-”

Deifol Hroth suddenly froze as though He was peering into time. His gaze was placid and focused.

“My dear Arnwylf,” Deifol Hroth said to an empty wall.

Stavolebe looked about, but he and the Lord of Lightning were alone with the chained human, who most certainly was not the reputed Lord Arnwylf of Bittel.

“I am right here,” Deifol Hroth said in response to an unheard challenge. “I am right where you will give me the Mattear Gram, and your hand.”

The Dark Lord seemed to be seeing into time, into future events. Stavolebe held his breath as the air in the chamber became thick. Even with no ceiling, no roof on the topmost chamber, stars twinkling overhead in the black heavens, Stavolebe was suffocating.

“I will,” Deifol Hroth said to empty space. “I will.” Then He turned to look at Stavolebe as though He had just entered the room.

“Pardon the interruption,” Deifol Hroth said with a smile as He gathered himself.

Stavolebe could only shake his head in fear.

“Do you have any questions?” Deifol Hroth said with a slight tilt of His head. Stavolebe could only shake his head.

“If I were in your shoes” Deifol Hroth said with a moment of honesty, “I would wonder... what does the Great Lord of All Evil fear.”

Stavolebe’s mouth dropped open. It was something he had often wondered. In that instant he wondered if Deifol Hroth could read minds, or if He was just incredibly astute at reading human behavior after nearly a millennium of life.

“I will tell you what the Dark Lord of Magic fears,” Deifol Hroth said leaning in close and speaking softly. “I fear the aberrant, insignificant, random action that can unravel a century of planning and effort. Any fool can learn to see through time. Farsight is simple, but not written in stone. Everything can change with one fool individual’s unforeseen actions. A termite who bites just once, in the wrong place and the wrong time, can topple the mightiest of oaks. I fear the stupid, blundering chance that I can never prophesy, nor plan against.”