The Archer From Kipleth (Book 2) (29 page)

Chapter Eighteen

Fire in the Sky

Arnwylf clutched the rail of the massive wooden ship. Myama, the first mate, had told him to stare up at the huge, fluttering red sails, but it didn’t help the queasiness in his stomach. The sailors were constantly playing pranks. They brought Arnwylf a plate of greasy, half cooked fish, which made him vomit over the side.

“Ho,” called one of the sailors, a tall thin man wearing only a pair of swaddling, red shorts.

Arnwylf looked over. The Tall Sailor had organized seven other, ebony sailors to stand straight upright in the center of the main deck. They all swayed in the opposite direction of the pitching of the ship. Arnwylf was stupefied. How was it possible? The counter rocking of the sailors made him even more ill.

“Hey-aah!” Captain Zik yelled as he swung from a rope, slamming into the pranksters and scattering them.

“Get back to work!” Zik commanded. “You all have more important duties than tormenting this pale skinned boy.”

The sailors all slunk away to their chores.

“Kyrial is a harsh mistress, but the love of my life. How is she treating you?” Zik smiled with that wild smile of his.

“Kryial?” Arnwylf weakly croaked.

“My ship! Kyrial, my lady of the seas, beauty with red sails, lover of wood with the taste of salt, rocks me to sleep safely on the ocean. Oh, sweet one! Kyrial, ship of ships, my life, my soul is here with you moving on the face of the seas.”

Arnwylf had no response, and looked positively green.

“Still not found your sea legs?” Zik said with a hearty slap on Arnwylf’s back, which caused Arnwylf to let loose the spew he was holding back.

As Arnwylf leaned over the gunwale, he saw something move in the dark, green water below.

Zik pulled Arnwylf back up.

“We’ll take you back to your land at night,” Zik said with a sniff. “You wealdlanders are all too skittish these days. Not that I blame anybody with a garond army and the Lord of Lightning breathing down their necks.”

“Captain Zik,” Arnwylf humbly said, “do you believe in god?”

“God?” Zik said with a rueful rub of his lean, dark face. Zik was wiry and crazy, and Arnwylf instantly liked him. “Back in my country we have so many gods its hard not to believe in one.” Zik seriously looked up at the billowing red sails. He heard the torment in Arnwylf’s voice and wanted to be serious for the moment. But before Captain Zik could answer, a cry was heard from the stern lookout. Then all the crew cried out.

“Oten!” The calls rang out from the quarter deck to the fo’c’sle.

“Is it Vyreeoten?” Zik yelled.

“No!” Came the answer from a sailor high up in the rigging.

Arnwylf looked to where the crew all pointed. It was just off the thick gunwale on which Arnwylf had just leaned.

A large, long, fish, with rows of needle sharp teeth, exploded up out of the water. Zik pulled Arnwylf back right before he would have been decapitated by the huge, slithering, blue fish.

“Excuse me,” Zik said, then whipped out his cutlass and hacked at the long neck of the fish trying to wiggle aboard to eat anything it could get its grinning jaws around. Wide, blue fins with sharp spines flapped at the crew as they crowded around the gigantic sea monster. Pikes and swords made short work of the hungry ocean beast, and its carcass was fully dragged aboard.

Zik hacked off a piece and ate it raw. He smacked his lips.

“Quite good,” he pronounced. The hungry sailors set about happily carving up the ugly sea beast with hoots of delight at the impending dinner of fresh fish, even a monstrous fish.

“Where was I?” Zik said as he licked his fingers. “Oh yes! God. There are so many gods and religions back in my home. We have cities so large, they would astound you wealders. We have tall brick buildings. Roads that stretch right across the whole land. Why do I tell you this? In my land it is very easy to be caught up in someone else’s passion. And when they have any little control over you, like a weeping wife trying to stop one of her husbands from going off to sea, they never let it go.”

Zik paused and was serious for the moment. His attractive, ebony face was calm as he tried to see as far as he could out on the limitless horizon.

“I believe there is something there,” Zik said with out turning from his long stare. “You saw that huge fish come out of the water? You didn’t know it was there before? No? There are many things under the water that are not known to us. Do we say they are not there? Only a fool would say that. Think of it like this. You have a heart? Yes, you wealders are not that ignorant?”

“I know we have hearts,” Arnwylf defensively frowned.

“Have you ever seen your heart?” Zik asked with a mocking frown. “Do you know what shape it is? What color? How large or how small? But you know it is there.”

“Yes,” Arnwylf said. “Because of what it does for me.”

“We could always cut it out and prove that you have a heart,” Zik said with a mischievous smile, starting to pretend to draw his cutlass.

“No thank you,” Arnwylf laughed. “But what of evil? If god made everything, then certainly this powerful being made evil and all the evil spirits.”

“If I cut out your heart, what are you?” Zik asked.

“Dead.”

“Not, living but with no heart?” Zik smiled. “No. Did your parents allow you to become a man? Of course they did. Did your mother move your hands for you with everything you did in your life? No. She let you become independent and enjoy life. I believe there is something so much greater than us, and this mind, this power, knows the joy of learning and growing. And why deprive your children of this joy? But what if you abuse and corrupt this gift? Is this the Great Parent’s fault? No. Evil, to me, is simply the denial of joy. Evil and evil men are devoid of god’s love. We do not prosecute the parents if the child grows up to rob and kill. We do not blame the fire for depriving us of heat and light if we allow it to go out. No. Everyone is accountable as an individual, accountable for their own lives. And each of us must work to keep the fire of god’s love burning in our own hearts.”

Zik and Arnwylf spent a long moment staring out at the sea. Then, Arnwylf turned to Zik with a small smile.

“Thank you,” Arnwylf said slightly nodding his head.

“We will take you home when the night has fallen,” Zik said as he resumed his duties as captain. “You wealders have become frightened and hopeless because of the Lord of Lightning, and a frightened and hopeless man is very dangerous.”

Arnwylf spent the rest of the day helping the sailors on the ship with the red sails. There was always something that needed attention and Arnwylf was fascinated with the workings of the massive vessel.

After the sun set, and the two moons rose, the ship was brought as close to Harvestley as possible. Zik, Myama and five other sailors loaded Arnwylf into a long boat and rowed him towards the shore.

As they approached the gentle growl of the surf, a bright blue flame shot up in the night sky from somewhere deep in the heart of Wealdland and arced out over to the Far Grasslands.

The sailors began to nervously chatter to each other, but a quick shush from Zik brought back their resolve.

The long boat rocked up through the surf and slid up onto the sand. Zik and Arnwylf hopped out of the boat. Zik clasped Arnwylf’s hand.

“I hope to see you again someday,” Zik said with a smile bright enough to light up the darkest night.

“Thank you for everything,” Arnwylf said. Then Zik and his sailors all rowed their long boat out over the surf. Arnwylf stood in the water and watched his friends row back to their ship with the red sails. Then Arnwylf turned and began the climb up the steep cliffs of Harvestley, up to the growing human army ready to defend Byland.

The night passed uneventfully for Ronenth as he prepared a morning meal for Solienth and Nostacarr. New Rogar Li was quiet, empty and still. The noise of Halldora and her refugees following the wealdkin in their evacuation the previous day was now only an unsettling memory.

No argument in the world could make the old Master of the Library leave his pathetically empty library, and Solienth argued that he was the best one to protect the old man if any of the alleged monsters slithered out of the Weald. Of course Ronenth had to stay to watch both old men.

Ronenth dropped the plate of fried eggs he was carrying as a long, dark shadow wriggled past a large, covered window. As quietly as possible, Ronenth ran for his paricale. He quietly, quietly gathered up each of the silvery metal segments.

Then, Ronenth cautiously hurried to the small camp Solienth and Nostacarr had set up in the center of the library.

Ronenth froze as he found Nostacarr hunched over Solienth, who was sprawled on his back, clutching his chest.

“Help!” Nostacarr cried.

“Shush!” Ronenth whispered. “There’s something just outside the library.”

Solienth motioned Ronenth to come close.

“I haven’t long for this world, listen carefully,” the old general whispered. “You must take Nostacarr east.”

“I can not travel,” the Master of the Library whispered. “I will soon be following you. But I can help the young one escape, and maybe take some of these unnatural beasts along to death’s domain.”

“Good, good,” Solienth said. “Then listen to me, Ronenth. I must discuss some strategy with you. Then we will prepare a welcome for the vyreeoten.”

Solienth spent the rest of the day propped on a couch, whispering urgently to Ronenth. Nostacarr shuffled around the empty library setting clay pots. All day the sound of large creatures crawling through the streets of New Rogar Li made them pause in silence.

As night fell, a flash of blue lightning lit up the empty city.

“What was that?” Ronenth whispered.

But no one had an answer. The rest of the night was fearfully silent.

As night fell, Alrhett made her way to Caerlund’s camp. The chieftain of the Madrun Hills stood outside his tent, next to a fire, preparing to take his warriors over the rickety, hastily constructed bridges that spanned the Flume of Gawry with the first light of morning.

Caerlund happily welcomed the Queen of the Weald, and they shared a mug of ale.

“Any news of Arnwylf?” Caerlund quietly asked.

“My grandson is resourceful and clever,” Alrhett said with a sad smile.

“Aye, that he is,” Caerlund sighed. “I wish he was here to lead this fractious gang of human nations.”

Caerlund poured out the dregs of his mug with disgust, as he remembered the treachery of the Battle of the Eastern Meadowlands.

“I wish Kellabald was here,” Caerlund said. “How is it that we humans are so noble and yet so good at betrayal?”

“Perhaps,” Alrhett said with sorrow, “whatever the Great Parent gives in virtue, the Great Parent also balances with equal vice.”

A blue lightning bolt flashed across the southern sky.

Alrhett and Caerlund both stared in worry.

“That was headed to the Far Grasslands,” Alrhett said. “My daughter travels in the Far Grasslands with a strange garond.”

“It seems we all find ourselves on strange paths this night,” Caerlund worriedly said.

With morning’s light and Deifol Hroth’s demand that he enter the citadel, Stavolebe was frozen with fear. He looked over at the Archer and the elf who stared at him with cautious curiosity.

“You said, ‘But master-’,” the elf said as her hand inched back towards the hilt of the Moon Sword strapped to her back.

“Who were you talking to?” The Archer demanded as his hand rested on the hilt of his elvish sword, Bravilc.

Stavolebe dropped everything and ran for the mist surrounding Deifol Hroth’s citadel.

The Archer flipped his bow off his back and nocked a bronze tipped arrow, but Stavolebe immediately disappeared in the mist as if the foul miasma reached out to embrace him.

“After him!” The elf cried.

The Archer and the elf ran after Stavolebe, but soon found themselves lost in the blinding curtain of mist.

“We have to go back!” The Archer cried to the elf. The spindly arms of a supernaturally deformed garond grabbed a hold of Derragen’s arm. The Archer whipped out his sword and hacked the arms off the garond who squealed with pain. Derragen backed up in what he thought was a direct line. He could hear garonds gibbering to each other.

A short squat garond with bulging shoulders rushed him. All he could do was leap over the garond as it rolled out of sight.

“Iounelle!” Derragen cried.

The mist covered the sun overhead. All was a blanket of whiteness.

Then hands grasped him, arms pulled him back. The Archer swung his sword back over his head.

“Careful!” Iounelle cried.

The Archer suddenly saw the elf, Geleiden and Husvet dragging him back out of the mist. As they moved out of the polluted murk, the Archer saw a line of wolves facing the mist, their keen eyes staring into the enchanted fog, looking for any movement of attacking garonds. Derragen was relieved to see Conniker amongst the wolves.