The Archer From Kipleth (Book 2) (19 page)

“Hanarry,” Halldora said. “Help them.”

The curly blonde boy dismounted and took the burden of the elderly man from the king. Healfdene immediately turned to go back the way from which he had come.

“Father! What are you doing!?” Hetwing cried. “Where is everybody?”

“His wife is still back at their home,” Healfdene wearily said.

“This young woman will help you,” Halldora said indicating Myanne, who dismounted to help.

“They left the old and the orphans,” Healfdene said.

“Who did?” Hetwing asked.

“Your uncle, Eoric,” the king huffed. “He has persuaded every living soul in the Green Hills of Reia to flee to the western shores. There, they hope to avoid the coming war with the garonds and the Dark Lord.”

“This is madness” Halldora said. “They have left a well positioned city wide open.”

“With ice clogging the lake,” the king said with a frown, “the city is wide open for attack. The flume is easily crossed, even if the bridges are destroyed. We have no walls or battlements. An invading garond army would simply march right into our streets. Here we are.”

Healfdene led the party into a home where an elderly woman lay in her bed. Myanne gently hefted the elderly woman onto her shoulders.

They all trudged up through the city. The ascent was quick. They rode in the self moving boats across lochs, and were lifted up on platforms powered by the unmanned water wheels. They easily wound their way higher and higher, to the largest Great Hall on the shores of the lake, the Throne Room of Reia.

Inside the Great Hall of the King of Reia, Healfdene had created a camp for refugees, the forgotten and left behind.

“Not the finest courtiers I have ever seen,” Healfdene said with a laugh, “but certainly the most welcome.” The elderly, infirm, and orphaned crowded around the king as he entered to show their gratitude and praise.

“Your two young warriors,” Healfdene said to Halldora, “can assist with the evening meal. It’s quite a chore.” Myanne and Hanarry bowed to King Healfdene and Queen Halldora and went to help with the preparations for the evening meal.

Halldora took a moment to take in the Great Hall of the King. The tall timbers of the hall were ten times the height of an average man, and the apex of the hall was lost in darkness above the brass braziers hung much lower to light the vast room. The long, expansive hall held twenty long tables ringed with beautifully constructed chairs, filled with every refugee of Reia. At the far end of the hall was a raised platform with two thrones of carved stone for king and queen. All along the support timbers were leather and brass ornaments mostly depicting equestrians in various forms of sport or battle.

“Why, these are for horses,” Halldora said.

“It is in our lore,” the king smiled, “that the ancestors of the reians were once great masters of horses. But the skill was lost, just as it was lost to all humans in Wealdland, and only recovered just recently.” The king cheerfully said. “It is something,” Healfdene mused, “how easily we humans can lose a technique, a talent. And then, it takes centuries to regain it.”

“You have heard the descriptions of the ancient fortress uncovered in the north?” Halldora asked.

“Exactly my point,” Healfdene said. “The ancient fortress proves that many ages ago, perhaps before the elf human wars, we humans were united in one kingdom. We were happy and prosperous. And our skills were much more advanced than they are today.”

“Father,” Hetwing frowned, “we have much more urgent business. Uncle Eoric must be compelled to return with our people.”

“Not to worry,” Healfdene said. “When my son, Haerreth returns, they will follow him with the love and courage that he shares with all the citizens of Reia.”

Halldora and Hetwing looked down in despair. Hetwing’s tears flowed freely. “Oh, father,” was all she could say.

Halldora couldn’t speak, and so she led the king out to the horses. Halldora lifted up a portion of the tarpaulin covering Haerreth’s face.

Healfdene sat straight down in shocked grief. He slowly held his head in his hands. “My son. My son,” he muttered.

Halldora and Hetwing helped King Healfdene back into the great hall as the evening meal commenced.

Inside, after the evening meal was done, Hetwing covered her  father with a wool blanket, as he sat motionless upon his throne, wrapped in his grief. He bent over, and his shoulders hunched, but the burly King of Reia still held a regal air about his person. Healfdene looked up at Halldora, who sat at the end of the nearest table, a great place of honor.

“Once we went fishing on the lake,” Healfdene said. “He caught the most enormous, silvery salmon ever seen. The fish was half the weight of a man, and just as long. His servant was cleaning the fish by the side of the launch and the dead fish slipped back down into the water. We could just see it, in not quite shallow water, laying on the black bottom of the lake. Haerreth held the launch steady and with his gaff, and fearsome determination,  it took all afternoon,” Healfdene tearfully smiled, “he snagged the fish and brought it back up. The servant wasn’t punished, although he was a fool. Haerreth was just happy to have his prize fish once again. It was almost as if he had caught it a second time, and he bragged the story to everyone who sat near the fires of the great hall.”

“He always had a wonderful smile and laugh,” Halldora respectfully said.

“But he was always too rash,” the king frowned.

“King Healfdene,” Halldora said. “I grieve with you for your son. But, I must put before you an urgent request. The garond army is reforming in the Far Grasslands. Ravensdred is assumed to be back among them, preparing an invasion through Byland. We hold the land bridge... just barely. If the soldiers of Reia strengthen those already there, we may be able to hold that narrow strip of land and avert a crippling invasion.”

“I must see to my son’s funeral,” was all the heart broken king said, then he wandered off to help with clearing the evening meal.

“You can persuade him,” Hetwing said to Halldora. “Stay with him. He will come to his senses once he is done grieving. I must go to the west and bring our people back, whether Uncle Eoric likes it or not.”

“Take Myanne and Hanarry with you,” Halldora said. “I will be safe here.”

The rest of the night was spent seeing to the comfort of the castoff of Reia, making sure they all had beds and blankets.

In the morning, Halldora and Healfdene said goodbye to Hetwing, Myanne and Hanarry as they rode off to find Eoric and the people of Reia hiding in the west.

“They will be fine,” Halldora firmly said, “as long as the Son of Yenolah doesn’t kill the Child of Lanis first.”

Halldora took Healfdene’s arm. “Let me help you with your preparations,” she softly said.

“I would like that,” King Healfdene muttered.

The elderly who were able, and remembered the old ways, cleaned and dressed Healfdene and put him in a launch on the lake. Healfdene and Halldora tethered the burial launch to their rowboat and set out for the eastern shore of the lake. The morning sun turned the lake into a blaze of silver. The light of the rising sun was welcome and warm for a winter’s day. The birds were silent, almost as if they respected the funerary procession moving across the lake. Healfdene and Halldora paddled between the towering, sapphire blue icebergs crowding the south end of the huge lake, their sorrowful burden in tow. 

At the eastern shore, Healfdene splashed over the side of their rowboat and pulled it up on the sand. Halldora got out and helped the king pull his son’s burial launch up onto the beach as well.

Halldora looked out across the lake. The Great Hall of the King was a warm, shining tan on the distant shore. Half the city could be seen with its rectangular roof tops and ever turning water wheels cascading down to the Mere of Lanis.

“We used to bury our dead in stone halls called tuehs,” Healfdene said, and with a sweep of his hand showed Halldora the ruined and emptied cairns that once housed the honored dead of Reia on the southeastern shore of the lake. The stone sepulchers mirrored the city of the living on the opposite shore, in shape and construction.

“Animals got in,” Healfdene scratched his beard, “must have been big animals. They’d eat the bodies. So this is how we do it now. There is supposed to be a creature in the lake that is large and unnatural. Kellabald’s father led a cult that fed children to the monster. You may have noticed his hall burnt to the ground. Kellabald himself testified against his father. I have never seen the reported leviathan of the lake,” Healfdene said with a scowl.

Healfdene leaned into the burial launch and caressed his son’s face. “I wish I remembered the old prayers, boy,” he affectionately said, touching the covered head of his dead son. “I know you will have a fine time in the next life. And that those whom you meet will be lucky, and greatly privileged to have you in their company.”

Healfdene set the burial launch on fire, and he and Halldora pushed it out onto the lake. Haerreth’s funeral pyre blazed out over the rising sun of the lake, mixing the black of the smoke and the red of the fire against the silver of the water and the rays of gold of the morning light.

A light breeze whispered a prayer of sadness and grace, and softly moved Healfdene and Halldora’s hair as if to sympathize and comfort.

Halldora noticed that the air of Reia was sweet and clear. Probably because this land has been untouched by the war with the garonds, she thought to herself.

Halldora put an arm around Healfdene as he openly wept.

After he had a good cry, Healfdene looked at Halldora. “Reia will help you,” he said.

”Who would have thought,” Healfdene said with a little laugh as he wiped his tired eyes, “that the Queen of the accursed Northern Kingdom of Man would be the one to console the crusty old King of the Green Hills of Reia?”

“Certainly not I,” said Apghilis behind them.

Halldora whipped around to see the vile atheling as he slowly drew his sword.

“Who-?” Healfdene began.

“It is Apghilis, the traitor who slew Kellabald,” Halldora cried, drawing her own sword.

Healfdene drew his sword, too. “I don’t remember you,” the king said. “But I certainly remember your wretched acts.”

Apghilis struck with an overhand cut, but Healfdene easily parried his sword with a resounding clash.

Apghilis circled. “They’re over here!” He cried. Two dirty henchmen raised there heads over a far rise. “Hurry!” Apghilis cried.

“Best to run, rather than fight,” Healfdene whispered.

“Ready? Go!” Halldora yelled, and the old king and the widowed queen ran for their lives north along the eastern shore.

Apghilis, clanking in his shabby armor, was fat and quickly out of breath.

“Get them!” Apghilis bellowed to his filthy minions.

Halldora held Healfdene’s arm. Although the King of Reia was old, he was still spry, and only stumbled occasionally on driftwood and stones embedded in the sand.

“What is that?!” Halldora said as a movement on the lake drew her gaze.

Horrified, Healfdene pulled Halldora to a halt.

Out on the lake, a long, dark, serpentine body twisted in the cold water with sickly splashes. Then another body twisted next to it. Two, huge writhing creatures roiled on the surface, slithering between the blue white mountains of ice floating in the lake.

“Keep running,” Halldora said looking back at Apghilis and his two murderers who were gaining on them.

On the wide, silver swathe of the Lake of Hapaun, the sea beasts kept pace with the old man and woman fleeing for their lives up the rocky shore. The water creatures leisurely corkscrewed alongside in the water, waiting for their chance to strike.

Chapter Ten

The Storm

The few fishermen left to fish Lake Ettonne began to row for shore. They glanced up at the strands of white clouds whipping like frothy dragons along the length of the pale blue, winter sky. A storm was coming. The wind blew cold and shivering from the east, always a sign of a bad gale. The icy water of Lake Ettonne would get choppy and the huge icebergs would rock, flip and crunch into each other with violence.

Along the shore a black adder wriggled among the stones of the shore. A fisherman threw a shoe at the venomous reptile. But, Baalenruud ignored the human. She felt the whirling vortex and it pulled her along like a swiftly moving stream. His mind was blank, only the hunger mattered. She had to feed. She could have changed to her diminutive human-like form, but Baalenruud knew that her strange communication body would have attracted unwanted attention. He knew he could slither towards New Rogar Li, in his pathetic battle body, just as fast as his other body could run.

The rising wind whipped the drying snow down the dirt streets of the town, filling in the frozen ruts.

The Archer and the elf led Arnwylf and his soldiers back into New Rogar Li. The wealdkin, with sheepish faces, quietly welcomed the slighted troops back into their city, pulling individuals into houses, making them guests of their midday meals as the storm began to clatter through the city, the wind pushing in gentle, then increasing in its rocking insistence.

Arnwylf ruefully smiled to himself. How quickly the mind of a mob can change, he thought to himself. Arnwylf patted Conniker’s mane, as the wolf affectionately trotted alongside. It was decided that all the other wolves would wait at the mostly deserted camp on the edge of the Weald.

They stopped once again at the huge edifice of the library. But the elf stopped them. She tilted her head, her sensitive ears picking up an alarming sound her human companions couldn’t detect.

Iounelle led the Archer and Arnwylf around the side of the huge edifice to a plaza in the back. A terraced garden spread out towards the north, towards a line of trees that was the edge of the Weald.

Solienth and Nostacarr met them, holding up their hands to caution them to stop

Arnwylf caught his breath.

In an open square of the garden, Ronenth practiced with the paricale.

“He should not-,” the elf began.

But Solienth, with a knowing smile, held up his hand and pointed to the dark haired teenager whirling the strange, elvish weapon.

Iounelle gasped.

Ronenth was a natural. He turned the sixteen, razor sharp segments like a child’s toy. He rotated the chain of killer pieces around his body in a circle with a clanking, grinding sound. Then he let the circle out into an undulating line. 

The elf tried to push past Solienth, but then she stopped in astonishment, as she watched Ronenth easily bring the speeding line back in, gathering each segment into a defensive, interlocked pattern, like a shield. 

Ronenth spun with the shield then let it play out in a lethal, cracking arc.

“That’s enough for now,” Solienth called to Ronenth.

“You work the paricale just as my brother once did,” Iounelle said as she happily approached Ronenth. “You’ve had the weapon only a day? Very impressive.” Ronenth sullenly mumbled a thanks.

“We found an old description of fighting techniques,” Nostacarr said. “The boy knew just what to do.”

“You’re really good,” Arnwylf said with a smile for his old friend.

But Ronenth glared at Arnwylf with jealous eyes, gathered the paricale, and darkly strode into the library.

“What did I say?” Arnwylf honestly asked.

“It’s the girl,” Solienth frowned.

“Frea?” Arnwylf said in amazement, and then he shook his head.

“Master of the library,” the elf said, “I want to continue our discussion about the Lhalíi.”

“Of course,” the elderly man smiled.

A messenger puffed round the side of the building. “Solienth!” He called. “Solienth! Yulenth needs you, over at his experimentation yard.”

“What is it? What’s happened?” The old general asked.

“Best to see for yourself,” the messenger huffed.

“Nostacarr, will you mind my white wolf?” Arnwylf asked the old librarian. “He will be very good.”

Nostacarr snapped his fingers, and Conniker followed him into the library like a happy puppy.

The messenger led Solienth, the Archer, the elf, and Arnwylf away from the gardens of the Library.

“It’s magic,” the messenger said as he quickly strode through the streets of New Rogar Li. “He’s turned dirt into stone. He bakes mud until it becomes as good as granite. He says he can build new houses with these things he calls ‘bricks’. But he’s playing with the natural order of things, if you ask me. It’s magic. And now his meddling has unloosed a strange wonder that frightens even him.”

They arrived at a yard on the edge of town with a high wooden fence, and were allowed in by a guard at the gate.

Inside the yard, Yulenth had several versions of the garond’s catapult half constructed. One large contraption looked like three catapults cobbled into one machine.

At the far end of the yard, a large kiln belched smoke. Yulenth and another man carefully pulled a rack of blackened blocks from the fire.

“Let them cool over there,” Yulenth said to his helper. Then he greeted his old friends. “Welcome to my play pen,” Yulenth smiled.

“What’s the emergency?” Solienth gruffly asked. “You scared the wits out of me.”

“Save your fear,” Yulenth gravely said, and then he led his guests to a gate at the back of the yard.

“There is no magic in what I do. I observe. I understand. I prove. I can explain everything I do. But this,” Yulenth said as he stepped through the back gate to the wild field behind his yard, ”this defies explanation.” 

Out in the field behind Yulenth’s laboratory, snow softly fell up.

“How- how- “ the Archer stammered as he held out his hand. Snow crusted up onto the underside of his outstretched palm.

The snow seemed to generate close to the ground, out of thin air, and fell up.

“This is not natural,” Solienth breathed, then he turned to his Yulenth. “What have you done?”

“I didn’t do it!” Yulenth protested.

“It’s magic,” Arnwylf soberly said.

“I was afraid of this,” the elf quietly added.

“What do you mean?” The Archer asked.

“Arnwylf,” the elf asked, “do you have the Mattear Gram with you?”

“No,” he said, “Frea took it.”

“What’s wrong?” The Archer asked with exasperation.

“The Mattear Gram, the Moon Sword of Berand Torler, and the Lhalíi are the three most powerful, magical objects in existence,” the elf said with worry. “They were never meant to be so near each other, not unless they were safely stored in protective temples designed to shield and direct their powers. They are all now in close proximity with no conduit to channel their energies. There will be... consequences.”

Then just as mysteriously as it had begun, the upwards falling snow stopped.

“You have the Moon Sword,” Yulenth reasoned, “Arnwylf brought the Mattear Gram into town yesterday, and what’s this other thing?”

“I have it here,” the elf said patting her pack.

“I remember when you put the Moon Sword and the Sun Sword together in Tyny,” Yulenth said. “It created a surge of energy so powerful, it drew the attention of... Him.”

“The three are too close to each other,” the elf said with growing alarm. “We must put some distance between them.”

Another messenger burst into Yulenth’s yard. “There you are!” The messenger said to Yulenth. “Queen Alrhett, your wife, needs you at once!”

Yulenth and the rest rushed out of his experimentation yard and to the house of Alrhett, Queen of the Weald.

Out on the street Arnwylf pulled at the elf. “I am going to Frea,” he said. “She knows who has the Mattear Gram.” Arnwylf split off from the group and turned down a side street.

Yulenth, Solienth, the Archer and the elf ran on. 

As they passed a nobleman’s house, an ear shattering blast sounded from the gaudy, pretentious doorway.

“What was that?” The Archer shouted as the clarion blared again.

Servants, the mistress of the house, guests and children stumbled from the flamboyant noble’s house holding their ears.

“Who owns this home?” The elf asked Yulenth.

“This is the home of Lord Desprege,” Yulenth answered.

“He has a wyrm horn,” the elf said with concern.

“How do you know that?” The Archer asked.

The elf thought for a moment. “I don’t know how I know,” she said, disturbed by her own answer.

The elf made her way into the mansion. The horn sounded again and the walls of the lavish home shook. They all held their ears in pain.

“Where are you?” The elf called. “Who has the horn?”

“Up here,” a voice weakly called. The elf and the Archer made their way up the stairs to the second level.

A frightened servant pointed to a large doorway leading to a sitting room.

In the richly appointed room they found a balding, roundly fat, short, middle aged man, severely stressed, splayed atop a pile of cushions.

“Get out,” the elf said.

“It’s never done anything like this before,” Lord Desprege sniveled, his bald head beaded with sweat. The elf helped the squat lord off of the pile of cushions.

“You should never have kept it,” the elf said. “You’ve needlessly endangered yourself and all in this house.” The elf cast the cushions aside to reveal a large, long fang, fashioned with intricate, swirling gold embellishments into a trumpet.

“Use Bravilc,” the elf said to the Archer. “Destroy it.”

“No!” Lord Desprege whined, pulling at the Archer.

“It’s only use is for calling wyrms,” the elf snapped. “And you should thank the Great Parent that there are none left! Derragen!?”

The Archer shrugged off Lord Desprege, and drew the elvish sword, Bravilc. The long, narrow blade lightly glowed and vibrated. “It’s alive,” the Archer said in wonder as he gazed at Bravilc.

“Strike the horn before it sounds again!” The elf cried.

The Archer swung Bravilc down on the wyrm horn just as it began another blast. The horn exploded with noise and debris. All were violently thrown to the floor with the force of the discharge.

All the furniture and windows in the richly appointed room was shattered. Dust and smoke filled the room.

The Archer rose shaking his head, his ears ringing. Lord Desprege wept over the shattered bits of his illicit horn, his fat, round face shaking with his tears.

“Alrhett!” Yulenth suddenly said, and bolted from the house. Solienth, the Archer and the elf were right on his heels.

Out on the street, the wind picked up. It pushed with real force, and pulled at clothing. Snow lashed sideways through the town. The snowflakes, sped by the storm, stung against the skin. Every corner and window began to howl with the rising storm.

At the house of Halldora, Frea admitted Arnwylf through the gold and red door.

“Where is the sword?” Arnwylf demanded.

“The athelings of Man have it,” Frea said with offense. “It is their right to-”

“Never mind that,” Arnwylf said. “All are in great danger. We must bring the Mattear Gram to the elf at once.”

“Arnwylf,” Frea said. “I want to apologize... for before.”

“It’s all right,” Arnwylf tenderly said. “I shouldn’t have been so touchy.” Arnwylf stopped to gather his thoughts.

“When you were taken at Rion Ta, I thought the world had come to an end,” Arnwylf said. “I would have sieged Yonne, the Lord of the Dead, to save you.”

Frea smiled and drew close to Arnwylf.

“When I saw you in the garond camp at Harvestley,” Frea softly said, “I thought I had died and joined you in heaven. And when we shared that morning in Tyny... It was one of the best moments of my life.”

Arnwylf and Frea drew closer. Frea’s body was warm against Arnwylf’s shivering frame. She leaned her body into his and it felt natural and good to Arnwylf. Arnwylf put his long, lean arms around Frea’s trembling shoulders.

“You said you had to get the Mattear Gram. We’re all in great danger,” Garmee Gamee said from behind the two teenagers.

Arnwylf sighed. “She’s right,” he said. “Who has the sword?”

Yulenth, Solienth, the Archer and the elf burst into the home of Alrhett. Wynnfrith met them in the foyer and led them back to Alrhett’s bedroom.

Alrhett, pale, met them at the door.

“This morning I couldn’t talk to animals,” Alrhett said. “Then this.”

Alrhett pointed into her bedroom where the royal crown of the Weald lay on her bed. The crown was made of interlocking loops of gold and silver, and adorned with diamonds and rubies, with a large emerald in the center. It jumped and jittered on the bed as though it were alive.