The Archer From Kipleth (Book 2) (23 page)

“Who are you talking to-?” Deifol Hroth said turning. “Come out!”

“Leeth (elf),” the voice in the dark whispered. “Iosilli sortadr. Kal’a! (I am hungry. Come!)”

“Come out of there, elf,” Deifol Hroth growled.

“I am coming,” Iounelle said with tears streaming down her cheeks, the Moon Sword of Berand Torler glimmering in the dark. “I am coming to kill you.”

“She has the Allmen!” The voice in the dark cried in warning.

“She has only half of the Allmen,” Deifol Hroth said with anger as he advanced on the elf. “You should be dead, little elf. You should have died with your kin when I took your city. You are dead, little elf, only you won’t accept the fact that you are already dead.” Deifol Hroth’s eyes were wide with an eerie, impending violence. His face a slack mask of murder.

“I will return to the Water of Life when Dâniei Wylkeho wills it,” Iounelle said with rising fury, “and not when some vile wizard without arms says I must.” With that Iounelle tensed and took a vicious swipe at the Dark Lord of Magic.

But Deifol Hroth was quick and moved out of the arc of the blade with supernatural speed.

“Shoot now!” Iounelle cried. “Shoot now, Derragen!”

Deifol Hroth looked at the elf with puzzlement, then snapped his head back with a blur as an Arrow of Yenolah embedded itself in a tree trunk where the Dark Lord’s head should have been. The Dark Lord looked at the arrow and sneered.

“Killth them. I am go,” the voice in the dark lisped. The vertically reflected pool dissolved into thin air.

“No, wait!” Deifol Hroth cried. Then he turned on the elf with eyes afire with anger. “You have disrupted my affairs for the last time!”

From behind, with a war cry, the Archer leapt, slashing overhand with Bravilc, at Deifol Hroth.

The Dark Lord of All Evil Magic spun, kicking his foot up in the air at a breathtaking speed. Bravilc flew out of the Archer’s hand and embedded itself in a tree trunk.

The Archer reached back for an arrow and gripped his bow, but Deifol Hroth threw up his leg again and kicked the Archer so hard that he flew back and thudded against a thick tree. The Archer shook his head trying to desperately keep from passing out.

The elf thrust with the Moon Sword, but Deifol Hroth moved so quickly to a spot ten paces away, it was only a blur of motion.

The elf slowly advanced, her sword out before her.

“I have no time for this,” Deifol Hroth growled. Then he opened his mouth wide.

Iounelle was unsure of what he was doing, but she rushed him while swinging her sword.

A blinding light flashed from the Dark Lord’s mouth. Iounelle ducked just as a bolt of crackling energy lanced over her head.

“Derragen!” Iounelle cried.

The Archer stumbled to his feet. Deifol Hroth turned to face him.

The Archer rolled out of the way just as a lightning bolt cracked out of Deifol Hroth’s mouth and scorched the earth where he had just lain, slapping down like a chain of pure power and light.

Iounelle slashed again at the dark wizard, but once again he moved to a spot ten paces away in a startling blur.

Deifol Hroth opened his mouth even wider. His armless body shook, and his face corrupted, and seemed like a corpse. His gaping wide mouth unleashed a bright, sustained lightning bolt. The lightning continued to pour from his mouth as if he himself couldn’t control it.

The lightning bolt whipped about, exploding wherever it touched down.

Iounelle leapt, dodged and turned, just out of the reach of the crackling snake of white hot power.

Deifol Hroth shook more violently, his mouth stretched impossibly wide, his face a rotting mask of green decomposition. The lightning bolt streamed out of his mouth and whipped his head around with violence.

Iounelle reached the Archer and pulled him to his feet. Together they vaulted away just as the lightning hit the tree the Archer was leaning on. The wood of the tree fiercely exploded. Iounelle turned the Archer and shielded him from the deadly rain of flying debris. 

She screamed in pain as a large splinter of wood slashed her arm.

The lightning stopped.

Deifol Hroth advanced.

He stepped near them with disgust, his face slowly recovering a healthy hue.

“Iofi herralhrod naskreim (I will now destroy you),” Deifol Hroth said in elvish, without any emotion.

“Tákk- Tákkeg (please)” Iounelle said as she huddled next to the Archer who was breathing heavily in pain.

Deifol Hroth stood over the Archer and the elf.

Iounelle looked up through the snow laden trees and could see the crescent moon in the winter night sky. In that instant, she felt a connection.

“Hínn! (No!)” She cried as Deifol Hroth opened wide his mouth. The elf swung the Moon Sword, vertically, in an arc in front of her and the Archer. A pulse of yellow energy emanated from the sword as Deifol Hroth’s lightning crackled from his mouth.

The lightning cracked and sparked to no effect against the protecting globe of soft yellow energy that enveloped the elf and the Archer.

Iounelle squeezed her eyes tight. She could hear Deifol Hroth scream in rage. There was a gust of wind, then all was silent. When she opened her eyes, he was gone. She was alone with Derragen. The orb of protecting energy dissipated.

“How did you- What was that?” The Archer weakly said.

“I don’t know,” Iounelle said. “But it saved our lives.”

A soft crunching sound made them struggle to their feet, ready for battle. But, the gentle, yellow eyes of Lanner, the grey wolf peered at them from out of the night’s shadows.

“Thank the Great Wolf, I found you,” Lanner said in wolfish.

“Can you lead us away from here?” Iounelle said, understanding the speech of animals.

“As quick as you can,” Lanner said. “Did you see Conniker or Arnwylf?”

“No,” Iounelle said.

“Then they are lost,” Lanner huffed. Then the grey wolf turned in horror. “Look!” He barked.

The Archer and the elf turned to see black wriggling forms crawling from the portal of the black ring of dead trees.

“Bad things,” Lanner growled.

“Coooome to meeeee,” a red vyreeoten lisped.

“I will kill you, unnatural thing,” Lanner growled, baring his teeth and lowering his head.

There were now twenty or more vyreeoten squirming among the black winter trees.

“Yoooou are sssso littttle,” the red vyreeoten hissed.

“But I am many,” Lanner said. The elf turned to see thirty wolves advance out of the dark.

“We have to destroy that door,” the Archer said.

“Light your torch,” the elf said.

The wolves and vyreeoten growled and hissed at each other, looking for an opening.

The Archer relit his small hand torch with a quick, deft motion. The elf took it from him.

“Let me get my Arrow of Yenolah, and Bravilc,” the Archer said circling around to free the embedded weapons.

“Do you have them?” The elf asked over her shoulder, watching the vyreeoten closest to her.

The red vyreeoten raised up and screamed at the elf, then lunged at her.

The elf was quick and dodged the strike. She thrust the torch at the black ring of twisted trees. The trees, with their tortured, vaguely human forms, immediately burst into flames as if they desperately wanted to be released from the evil magic that bound them.

The vyreeoten all screamed and crawled towards the portal.

“Now,” the elf cried and ran with the Archer. The wolves bounded through the forest with them.

The woods were dark and black. The Archer felt faint and spent, but ran as fast as his wounded leg would allow. The Elf held her bleeding arm, but ran on, following Lanner as he led them through the ancient forest.

The barking and crying of a wolf in the dark told the elf that the vyreeoten were on their heels and closing in for the kill. There were about thirty wolves, but no telling how many vyreeoten. And, the repellent beasts were large, the size of a horse. It would take two wolves for every one of the vyreeoten.

The Archer pulled the elf to a stop. A garond stood before them.

The Archer lifted Bravilc.

“Koo (grunt) ban waz (grunt),” the garond said holding up its hands.

The wolves snarled at the garond.

“He says he needs help,” the elf said to the Archer, catching his arm to prevent him from striking the strange garond.

“When did you learn garondish?” The Archer asked.

“I- I don’t know,” the elf said in astonishment.

“They’re all around us now,” Lanner said to the elf in wolfish. “We shouldn’t have stopped.”

The elf looked at the garond. It was different. Its long hair was platted with shells and bones. Its teeth weren’t filed. It looked positively gentle.

“Koo (grunt) baz gar (grunt),” the elf said to the garond. “Gar (grunt) baz koo (grunt).”

The garond seemed immediately pleased to be understood. Then the garond looked around in surprise to see the writhing forms of the vyreeoten coiling in the shadows of the forest, their long, spindly arms clawing the frozen loam of the Weald. They were ready to charge.

He wolves pulled into a protective circle around the elf, the Archer and the garond.

“Uh huh huh huh,” the garond began to immediately chant. “Huh HUH huh, uhn, huh uhh.”

The vyreeoten stared and began to sway to the chanting.

The garond produced a small rattle from a leather pouch and kept time with the rattle.

The wolves all sat down.

“No,” Iounelle said. “The wolves mustn’t listen. Help me, Derragen.”

The Archer and the elf bodily dragged the wolves one by one out of the circle of swaying, charmed vyreeoten, who never even noticed the elf and the Archer. Once outside of the circle, the wolves regained their senses.

After they were done, the Archer turned to the elf.

“How do we get the garond out?” The Archer asked, looking over at the shaman, who looked back with a worried face. But, the garond bravely never let up his chant.

“I’ll try,” the elf said and went back into the circle of swaying vyreeoten, back to the garond shaman. When the elf got to the shaman’s side, the garond held his hand to his mouth to indicate silence.

Then, the garond grabbed the elf’s hand and placed it over the rattle. Iounelle could feel something flow out of her, into the rattle. It felt like energy, life force, magic, flowed from her to the rattle. The garond was suddenly relieved.

The garond set the rattle on the frozen earth, and as he let go of it, the sound continued to emanate from the rattle on its own. The rhythm of the rattle pulsed through the earth. The elf could feel it surging up into her body.

Carefully watching the mesmerized vyreeoten, the elf and the garond quietly slipped out of the circle of charmed beasts.

“Sog (grunt) an kud (grunt),” the garond said with heavy, relieved breaths.

“Kud (grunt),” the elf agreed.

“What did he say?” The Archer asked.

“We need to get out of the Weald,” the elf said. “Fast.”

Chapter Thirteen

The Eye of the Storm

Arnwylf stepped out from the edge of the Weald clutching his two bundles to his chest. The snow hurricane was fierce and the snow whipped at his face like a thousand tiny knives. Ahead lay a flat meadow, covered deep in snow, and beyond, the black outline of the ruins of Glafemen.

The snow was only up to his knees, but it was getting deeper by the moment. His every step was a difficult push forward.

Arnwylf slogged his way out onto the meadow, determined to reach the meager shelter the ruins of Glafemen might afford.

Over the screaming of the wind, Arnwylf heard the barking of Conniker. Arnwylf turned to see his white wolf brother bounding towards him in the rising snow.

“Where are you going?” The white wolf cried. “Come back with me, to safety.”

“Go back to New Rogar Li, Conniker,” Arnwylf cried to his wolf brother. “I am lost. I am lost to all men.”

“You will never be lost to me,” Conniker barked. “Ever will you be my brother. Always will I love you.”

“Go back!” Arnwylf yelled. “I will slay you if you follow me further.”

Conniker stopped mere paces from Arnwylf.

“Then slay me,” the white wolf said. “For life will not be worth living without my brother.’

“Can you not understand?” Arnwylf wept, falling to his knees. “I do not want you here. No. I can not slay you, you are right. But I beg you to leave. If you love me, as I love you, let me face what I must face. Alone.”

The white wolf stared at Arnwylf. The wind and snow whipped the wolf’s ears. His yellow eyes were filled with sadness. His wolf heart was breaking. But, he knew to respect his brother’s wishes. Sadly, the white wolf turned and slowly trotted back to the sheltering trees at the edge of the Weald.

After the wolf was gone, Arnwylf turned and pushed his way back to the ruins of Glafemen. The snow hurricane became even fiercer. The wind pushed Arnwylf sideways. The snow caked up on the side of his face. Just a little further and he’d make the burnt, black stones of Glafemen.

Arnwylf couldn’t feel his fingers. All the world was covered with snow and blank white, except for the ruins.

Arnwylf couldn’t feel below his knees, but he struggled on through the snow until he finally reached the blackened ruins.

Within the cold, blasted stones of Glafemen, the specter of Kellabald waited for Arnwylf.

“Hello, father,” Arnwylf said.

The specter of Kellabald of Bittel was silent and unmoving.

“What have you to tell me?” Arnwylf bitterly asked.

Arnwylf moved out of the fury of the storm, into what little shelter the melted stones of Glafemen could offer. The image of Kellabald followed.

“What rebukes have you to scorn me with?” Arnwylf asked.

Kellabald was a visage of sad, pitying love, but he remained silent.

“Can you not condemn your son for being a thief, at least,” Arnwylf cried to the ghost.

“Or, are you just an image in my mind?” Arnwylf whispered. “Can I bring you back?”

Kellabald looked away.

“Can I!?” Arnwylf cried.

“Oh, father I miss you,” Arnwylf wept. “I would give everything to have you back. I would risk everything.”

Kellabald slightly turned, as if to go.

“Please, father, please,” Arnwylf begged. “Tell me what to do.”

Kellabald’s face was filled with love and concern, but still the specter was silent.

Arnwylf slowly unwrapped the Mattear Gram. The Singing sword was dull in the clouded light of the storming day, and silent of any voice or song, as if it breathlessly waited. Arnwylf turned the sword over in his hands. It was long and light in weight. The long metal tube that extended beyond the pommel made the sword strange. He set down the sword.

Arnwylf unwrapped the Lhalíi. The oblong crystal was the size of a newborn. It was also dull and fogged amidst the darkness of the heavily clouded day. The Sun Shard was cold and lifeless to the touch. It appeared to be no more than a large piece of glass, intricately cut, with a long circular hole down the middle.

The furious snow hurricane abated as the eye of the storm approached. The wind was gentle and the snow fell in large, soft flakes.

“I refuse to accept what is,” Arnwylf coldly said and looked up at his father’s ghost. “I embrace what can be.”

Kellabald turned and vanished.

Arnwylf slide the Lhalíi onto the metal tube on the end of the Mattear Gram.

There was an overwhelmingly bright flash of white light.

I’m dead, Arnwylf thought, until he regained his sight.

Arnwylf no longer felt cold.

The Lhalíi and the Mattear Gram slowly glowed. Arnwylf felt a connection to everything. He could feel the massive burnt stones of Glafemen. He could feel the frozen earth. He could feel the seeds asleep in the cold, cold ground. He could feel the trees in the Weald, across the meadow, swaying in the relenting wind of the eye of the storm. He could feel small animals asleep for the winter in their warrens, desperately clinging to life, hoping to wake to a new, revived, thriving world in the spring.

And, Arnwylf felt powerful. He felt as though he could know anything, and he could reach out and touch any of the animals, plants or stones he felt. He could change their lives. He could shape anything in any way he wanted.

He also felt unprotected and naked.

Then Arnwylf noticed something very strange.

The snow all about him held still, suspended in the air.

He waved his arm though the snowflakes, gathering a handful.

“It is beautiful, is it not?” Deifol Hroth affectionately said from behind Arnwylf.

Arnwylf sharply turned. He held the Mattear Gram defensively out before him. The Lhalíi clung to the Mattear Gram, and did not slip off.

“There is no need for that,” Deifol Hroth smiled. “I mean you no harm.”

Arnwylf was breathing rapidly as he gripped the Mattear Gram.

“Look at how clever you are,” Deifol Hroth gently said. “It was so obvious. Right under everyone’s nose. The crystal goes on the end of the sword. But it took a boy of courage and intellect to see what we all now realize.”

“Stay back,” Arnwylf breathed.

“Arnwylf,” Deifol Hroth smiled. “I am your one, and only true friend. Can you not see that? We are alike. There is no one else like you and I. Have you never felt how different you are from every other ordinary, dull human? I will help you. Whatever you desire. Whatever you wish. That is what you can accomplish now. Do you see? You hold the means right in your hands.”

Arnwylf shook his head in fear, unable to speak.

“Behold,” Deifol Hroth said with friendliness. And, his empty right sleeve began to move and softly shake. Like a snake unfolding, growing, writhing, Deifol Hroth regrew His right arm. He flexed His right hand as though it had been asleep.

“Anything can be restored,” Deifol Hroth gently said looking at His restored right hand, “if you have the power and the will. Anything.”

Arnwylf lowered the Mattear Gram.

“Perhaps there are things that should not be restored,” Arnwylf challenged.

Deifol Hroth laughed.

“Don’t tell me,” Deifol Hroth merrily said, “you believe in some mythical being that lives in the sky and runs our lives? You strike me as much, much too intelligent to believe in such lies.”

“How do you explain these powers?” Arnwylf disputed. “You just regrew your arm, was that not a higher force?”

“I did not say there are not powers,” Deifol Hroth said with a pleasant smile. “But they reside within us, here on the earth, not with some imagined god above us.”

Deifol Hroth sat on a stone.

“We have the capacity for great things,” Deifol Hroth softly said, examining his regrown hand. “We only need to find the courage to shape reality as we desire it.”

“I don’t know if there is a Great Parent watching over us,” Arnwylf bravely said with growing insecurity.

“Prove it,” Deifol Hroth said. “Prove to me there is a Great Parent watching over you. Give me absolute, irrefutable proof and I will be your servant. I will lay down and die, if you desire it, if you can but give me one solid piece of evidence that a Great Parent exists.”

Arnwylf had no answer.

“If there is a Great Parent,” Deifol Hroth went on, “don’t you think this great power would show itself, to be acknowledged and honored? It asks worship of us and hides? What kind of behavior is that for the Almighty? Does a loving parent hide from his children, refuse to speak, refuse to directly teach? I think not,” Deifol Hroth sniffed. “And what of evil? If your Great Parent created all things, then he also created evil. Does that make sense? Where is this insane god who created the black evil we see all around us? Where is this god when thousands of people are killed, by the sword, or worse, by indifferent nature?”

Arnwylf looked down in confusion.

“But I am here,” Deifol Hroth smiled. “I am real and willing to help you. When you realize there is no next life, and no imaginary punishment, then you may do anything you wish. Anything. You are not constrained by lies of punishments in some made up next world. You do not have to obey rules and laws. You may take what you want. You may behave howsoever you desire. You may take your revenge however you like.”

Deifol Hroth coldly looked at Arnwylf.

“When you finally realize how free you are,” Deifol Hroth said, “you will see, you can even kill me if you so desire.”

“Who are you?” Arnwylf asked.

“I am Deifol Hroth,” the Dark One smiled.

“No,” Arnwylf said. “Who are you really?”

“Would it make you trust me more to see my real self?” Deifol Hroth dangerously asked.

“Yes,” Arnwylf quietly said.

“Very well,” Deifol Hroth said, then held very still. Arnwylf thought Deifol Hroth was testing him and was about to speak, but then the Dark Lord slumped back on the rock on which He sat. 

A brilliant shining being pulled itself away from Deifol Hroth’s body, but kept a hold of His body by keeping its left hand in Deifol Hroth’s newly restored right hand. The body of Deifol Hroth began to instantly rot at an astounding rate.

“Behold,” the shining entity said. “I am Jofod Kagir. The Spirit of Light, the Son of the Morning, the Brightest Star.”

“You are a spirit that lives in his body?” Arnwylf asked in horror.

“I am power incarnate,” the beautifully blinding being said. “I can live in you, if you desire. I can make you powerful. I can give you the power to do anything.”

“You want my body?” Arnwylf gasped.

“You could withstand my presence,” Jofod Kagir, shimmering, said.

“And you know this how?” Arnwylf asked, a sudden realization dawning on him. “It’s because of when I was hit by that lightning bolt. That was you. You tried to kill me, and you couldn’t.”

“So intelligent” the being of light said, still holding tightly to the putrid corpse of Deifol Hroth. “We will shake the very foundations of creation together. Can you not sense how magnificent we shall be together? Surely, you must feel how well we will work as one.”

“I don’t know,” Arnwylf stammered. “I don’t know if I can.”

The being of shining light eased itself back into the rapidly decaying body of Deifol Hroth. The material body was instantly revitalized. Deifol Hroth stood and stretched His neck as though His body was an ill fitting suit of flesh.

“Take my hand,” Deifol Hroth extended his regrown arm. “I want to show you something.”

Arnwylf hesitated.

“I won’t force myself upon you” Deifol Hroth reassured.

Arnwylf raised his hand.

Deifol Hroth quickly snatched it.

“Hmm. You see,” Deifol Hroth smiled. “I couldn’t take your body by force, even if I wanted.”

“Did you just try- ?” Arnwylf muttered in terror.

Deifol Hroth laughed as He tightly gripped Arnwylf’s hand.

“Do you blame me for at least trying?” Deifol Hroth merrily said with a laugh and let go of Arnwylf’s hand.

Deifol Hroth gently took the Mattear Gram with the Lhalíi attached from Arnwylf. Arnwylf had no desire to fight him. He felt too weary and confused.

“Now put your hand on mine,” Deifol Hroth said. Arnwylf placed his hand over the regrown hand that gripped the Mattear Gram and the Lhalíi.

Then Deifol Hroth and Arnwylf began to rise up into the air.

“This view will give you a new perspective,” Deifol Hroth said with affection.

As they began to lift above the ruins of Glafemen, Arnwylf could see Conniker break from the trees at the edge of the Weald. The white wolf had waited for him. Conniker barked and leapt up at the flying figures.

“Come down!” Conniker barked at Arnwylf, but soon they were too high to hear the white wolf’s pleas anymore.

Arnwylf was astounded to be flying.

It was amazing. It felt exhilarating.  As they rose he could see the great banks of the snow hurricane, billowing like a great cresting wave of smoke.