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

“They siege the garond general Ravensdred, I’m certain you remember that bloodthirsty garond general...”

Derragen was quietly shocked to hear Caerlund use such strong language.

“The remnants of the garond army in the north,” Caerlund went on, “have discovered a castle from another age, unbound from the Great Ice Fields of Eann, which thaws at a surprising pace. Although outnumbered three to one, Arnwylf and his human army put such fear into Ravensdred’s garonds, they refuse to move from the ruins of the ancient fortress.”

“The boy,” Caerlund’s voice caught, “the boy is consumed with hatred and pain...”

The three stared into the small cooking fire, remembering the frightened boy rescued from Bittel just over a year ago.

“Well,” the Archer finally said, “our Arnwylf is doing a fine job of keeping Ravensdred from rejoining his master, Deifol Hroth, here in Lanis.”

“I don’t know,” the elf mused. “Deifol Hroth is so powerful. I don’t know... Something inside tells me He is arraigning things, like the player of a game, getting His pieces in just the right positions for a winning move.”

“I hear they are building a new citadel for the Dark Lord, here in Wealdland, near the Burnie river” Caerlund mused.

“Just off the River Syrenf,” the Archer nodded. “We have also discovered some garonds leaving the garrison of the city with bricks in their packs, elvish bricks.”

All were respectfully silent for the elf.

“Have you seen the city?” Caerlund gently asked.

“We can’t get close enough,” the Archer said. “It’s only over that rise, and then another ridge.”

The young soldiers of the camp began to clean up their mess equipment.

“There’s one other thing,” Caerlund said picking his teeth. “A red sail has been seen daily in the Bight of Lanis.”

“A ship?” The Archer exclaimed. “But the garonds still have access to Wealdland through Byland.”

“The garonds no longer hold Byland, Thank Eann,” Caerlund grunted.

“The garonds do not sail,” the elf said. “When I was very young, corsairs from the south would sail to Lanis for trade. I recall their sails were red.”

“Pirates?” Caerlund said with a frown.

“Though coarse men, they were not plunderers as I remember, but it has been centuries,” Iounelle said. “I was but a child”

Derragen and Caerlund smiled to each other to think of the elf as a child at a hundred years old.

The elf suddenly shot to her feet.

“Alarm! Alarm!” She cried in a voice that was unnaturally loud.

Derragen could feel a rumbling as if the earth were quaking. “It’s the whole garond army,” he whispered to himself in horror. “To arms! To arms!” He cried. “The first patrol was a feint!”

The rumbling became a thundering, as several thousand garonds, half on horseback, charged the main road out of Lanis, dragging the slaughtered bodies of the poor sentries, Akden and Nolebe.

“Get our horses!” The Archer commanded.

Several Sons of Yenolah knew precisely what to do. Instead attempting to mount their horses, they drove them into the oncoming garond army. The human defenders took a terrible toll on the charging garond regiment, as the human archers were well trained. Garond foot soldiers and horses alike were peppered with volley after volley of expertly aimed arrows. With the stampede of the countering horses, the garond rush came to a bloody, confusing halt. The garond horses reared and turned, crushing several of their own soldiers.

“Attack!” The elf cried. And the Sons of Yenolah, and the Children of Lanis surged forward with an emotional ferocity that initially pushed the garond army back, even though the garonds outnumbered the humans three to one.

“With me!” Caerlund cried to his madronite warriors. And they ran around the crush of garond soldiers to block their flank and attack from the rear.

The Sons of Yenolah skewered garond after garond with deadly accuracy, focusing on the garonds on horseback. Once their arrows were spent, the grim faced humans came on with sword and spear with a bloody fierceness.

The Children of Lanis worked as a well-orchestrated team, centered near the elf. Fighting side by side, the Children of Lanis made sure no garond would face a single human.

“Iounelle!” Derragen called to the elf, as an anomaly caught his eye.

But the elf caught site of something else and seemed transfixed.

She leapt into the air, high, high, and touched down lightly on the haunches of a horse. No sooner had she a footing on the horse’s flank, then she leapt to another horse, unmindful of any garond still on horseback. Their swipes at her were always a moment too late.

“It’s him!” The Archer shouted. “It’s Deifol Hroth!”

But the elf was headed away, to the front of the garond army, which was trying desperately to break through to flee down the road.

The elf landed in front of a garond captain who brandished an elvish sword to deadly effect. The crush of human and garond backed away from Iounelle, aware of her deadly prowess.

“That is my brother’s sword,” Iounelle said between clenched teeth, tears of rage streaming down her face.

The garond captain roared with sharp teeth bared in response.

Iounelle rushed the garond captain’s horse, and with the strength of pain and sorrow, threw the horse bodily to the ground.

The garond captain was well trained and rolled to his feet, his stolen elvish sword whipping in circles, ready to fight.

Iounelle paced around the garond captain, unmindful of the battle raging all about them. The elf drew the sacred Moon Sword of Berand Torler and held the blade deathly still. Then, the elf paused. “These blades should never cross,” she said, and she sheathed the Moon Sword.

The garond captain let loose an evil laugh and charged.

Iounelle, flattened herself to the ground and then sprung up to catch the garond captain’s sword arm. Another garond rushed her from behind to aid his leader. The elf braced herself against the flailing captain, and kicked back, high and hard with both feet, and broke the neck of the garond behind her.

“Let it go,” Iounelle said to the captain, who simply snarled and viciously pawed at the elf.

Iounelle whirled the captain high over her hip, wrenched, and tore his arm clean from his body. The captain spattered its troops with the blood gushing from his shoulder. He clawed at his mortal wound, only to collapse, dead. Iounelle slowly wrenched her brother’s sword from the garond hand, still desperately gripping the hilt, as the shocked garond soldiers looked on in terror.

“There, there!” The Archer called to Caerlund. The Chieftain of the Madrun Hills turned to see the direction the Archer pointed. Amidst the crush of garonds still on horseback. Caerlund could make out a human figure, in a swaddling cloak, one armed, the remaining arm clutching some valuable, well-wrapped bundle.

“Get me close enough for a clean shot,” Derragen cried to Caerlund above the deafening din of human and garond clashing to the death. Then, the Archer nocked a curiously shaped, black-metaled Arrow of Yenolah.

“I’ll have you breathing down his neck,” Caerlund huffed as his battle-axe cut the head clean from a charging garond. “To me!” He cried and all the warrior madronites hacked and slashed their way to their leader.

“This way!” Caerlund cried and the platoon of soldiers, ringing the Archer, whose face was grim and determined, his bow and arrow held low, ready, pushed towards the Dark Lord of All Evil Magic.

Caerlund was short and compact, but full of strength and life. His short ginger hair stuck out in all directions from underneath his poorly fitting battle helmet. His double-headed battle-axe cut down garond soldiers three at a time, like a harvester easily reaping a field. He stopped to scratch his brown, red beard, and then calmly swung his battle-axe into the main body of the garond army, where the Lord of Evil was protected by hundreds upon hundreds of deadly garond soldiers.

“Iounelle!” A Child of Lanis called. “We need help!”

The elf heard the sound and knew what it was. The clanking, growling, grinding, clashing could only be a paricale. The paricale was a weapon only employed by elves. There was only one left as far as Iounelle knew. Once the honored possession of Berand Torler, her brother had also trained with the strange weapon. But it was far too dangerous to be in any garond hand.

She fought her way towards the sound, and found a cleared area where a garond held sway on the battlefield with the bizarre weapon.

The paricale was a metal whip made of sixteen teardrop shaped sections, each the size of two human fists. Each of the sixteen sections was razor sharp and fashioned with curious, curling, elvish design. A handgrip inside each section allowed the garond to whip the segmented weapon around in a wide diameter, viciously slashing any human close enough to be hit.

“Put it down!” Iounelle cried, hoping the garond would understand.

The garond only gnashed its teeth and whirled the paricale around and around at Iounelle. The elf tumbled and leapt, expertly avoiding every lash of the deadly instrument.

“It is too dangerous!” She cried again. “It will kill you!”

“No, you!” The garond grunted in broken wealdish, huffing with the tremendous effort it took to keep the device in motion.

“I warned you,” Iounelle said. Then, she dodged and feinted as the garond tried to catch her with the line of metal edges.

Iounelle ducked and reversed her steps. The garond curled the paricale up high to try to catch her before she moved out of his way. But the garond hadn’t realized it had drawn the chain of razored sections up into a loop behind itself. The whipping loop came up fast behind the garond and neatly sliced its head clean off.

Iounelle quickly gathered up the paricale and handed it to a Child of Lanis. “Do not use it,” she said. “Quickly hide it, and then rejoin the battle.”

The young soldier stole away with the strange weapon to do as she was told.

Iounelle looked around to find the Archer, but realized she was on the far side of the crush of garond soldiers trying to break free of the melee. The elf knew she needed to be by the Archer’s side.

“Where is Derragen?” She cried to her soldiers.

“He fights with Caerlund and the Madronites,” a human soldier said amid the battle. “They say he goes to kill the Dark Lord.”

“Tákkeg Daniei,” the elf whispered to herself. “Gather as many as you can to follow me!” The elf cried and turned, with the Moon Sword in one hand, and her brother’s sword in the other, to slash her way towards the Archer.

As Caerlund fought closer to the crush of garond soldiers on horseback, he could see most were of high rank and definitely protecting a smaller figure on horseback, swaddled in a black, blood spattered cloak. It had to be a human. It had to be Him.

“There He is!” Caerlund bellowed. But the fighting became more a pushing match as the soldiers on both sides crowded in.

“This will never do!” Caerlund cried and let go of his battle-axe. He quickly pulled a short sword and began impaling the garonds closest to him. All of the madronite solders saw and followed their leader’s example. Short swords were drawn and employed with lethal ferocity.

The garond soldier favored the club, since their added strength gave them an edge with the weapon. But with no room to swing, the garonds began to get stabbed and slashed at a startling rate.

The Archer saw the cloaked figure spurring his horse, desperately trying to get out of the crush of garond horse soldiers. He definitely had but one arm, which savagely clutched a wrapped, prized possession close to his body.

The Archer let his thoughts and emotions go. He regulated his breathing. All sound seemed to fade from his ears. He pulled his bowstring tight. He needed the cloaked figure to be still for but a moment. The vanes of the Arrow of Yenolah brushed against his cheek. He let his spirit go out to his target. He was one with his target. The arrow was not even necessary. He let the jostling of the battle all around move him like gentle waters in a lake. In that imperceptible instant he was connected to his target like no other connection in the world. He need not even think about releasing the arrow. It would fly when the moment was perfect. The arrow zipped from the bowstring.

For an instant Derragen felt a wave of nauseating evil as he caught a taste of being connected to the Dark Lord.

Then, the Archer caught his breath. The Arrow of Yenolah was perfect. It would catch Deifol Hroth squarely in the head. The Archer steeled his eyes so he wouldn’t blink and miss the moment of impact.

Then, with movement too fast to be natural, the cloaked figure dropped his bundle and raised his arm to deflect the arrow.

At contact, the arrow exploded with a ball of light, fire and concussion. The frightened horses surged forward breaking their impasse.

“Impossible,” the Archer whispered to himself.

Now the great crush of garonds had an opening, and the garond horses fled from the arena of battle, up the snow-covered road. Every garond soldier knew their master had fled and ran as fast as they could after the growing mob of fleeing garond soldiers.

“Let them go! Let them go!” Derragen commanded.