The Archer From Kipleth (Book 2) (8 page)

The Archer turned away from the elf and felt ashamed. She took his arm and turned him back. She lightly touched his cheek, sensing his conflict. “In my language,” she said, “’grieve’ is the same word as ‘release’.”

The Archer suddenly felt a warm sensation of certainty. “Let us not stray too far into this mist. I feel only a few short steps into this mist could forever separate us from the camp.”

“We’ll keep the camp fires in sight,” the elf said. “But the ritual of my people must be done in private, with a witness. But first I must get something.” The elf turned to rummage through her pack. Stavolebe hovered nearby.

“Hallo,” the tattered man said. “Almost time to sleep?”

“Please find a Son of Yenolah to bed with,” the Archer dismissed. “Tell them I ordered it. They will not refuse.”

“What is that!?” Stavolebe said, his eyes growing wide. He pointed at the crystalline object peeking out from the bundle the elf held.

“None of your business,” the Archer said, and stepped in front of Stavolebe.

“It is the Lhalíi,” the elf honestly answered.

“Is it an object of power?” Stavolebe said with greedy eyes, as he stepped around the Archer. “Does it have magical power?”

The elf unwrapped the object for Stavolebe to see. “It holds information. But, it also is active. It’s hard to explain. It is very old, perhaps older than the first elves. I do not know how to use it, but it is said, it reaches out to the prepared mind. My teachers insinuated it was alive. It is too powerful to be left unattended.”

“I will watch it for you!” Stavolebe said with a burst of naked desire.

Carefully watching Stavolebe, the elf rewrapped the Lhalíi with silent disgust, and cradled it like a newborn infant.

“It’s time for you to sleep,” the Archer said with a clear intention of menace, as he laid a hand on Stavolebe’s chest.

“I-I,” Stavolebe stammered. “I will go now.” Then, he turned and scurried away without looking back.

“I do not trust that one,” the Archer solemnly said.

“Nor I,” the elf agreed.

Then, the Archer felt faint, and he almost fell to the ground.

“What is it?” The elf asked.

“Nothing, nothing,” the Archer said, but he knew he felt some unusual emanation from the swaddled object in the elf’s arms.

“We can wait for another night,” the elf said with concern.

“Nonsense,” the Archer said, recovering. “It was just a moment of... dizziness... all this rushing about.” Then he smiled and shook his head. “You see, I’m fine. Let’s go.”

The elf led the way into the thicket around the camp. The shrubs and scrub trees were tall and thick in the northern part of the Madrun Hills. The trees were sparse, and the ground was uneven. In the dark of night it was easy to twist an ankle.

Just a few paces into the darkness and mist seemed like walking off into another country. The Archer turned to see the dwindling fires of his battalion’s camp. But the black bushes and bare winter trees felt like mountains against the obscured sky. The Wanderer had already completed one track across the night’s heavens. The mother moon shone brilliant overhead, but seemed to give no light here where the mist was thick and suffocating.

“This is far enough,” the Archer said with concern.

“Just a little further,” the elf said.

The Archer felt the darkness of the night closing in on him, but he followed the elf, until, looking back, the dying fires of the camp were but a dull glow. The mist felt dry instead of wet, as a natural mist should feel. It almost felt like the thick, putrid breath of some foul creature.

“This should do,” the elf said. She pulled from her belt pouch a piece of bark from the World Tree. She started a small fire, and when it was sufficiently ablaze, tossed in a piece of bark from Mildarilg. She hummed and closed her eyes, and let the small fire die down.

Then, the sound of men fighting and cursing in the heat of battle wafted towards them from the opposite direction of the camp.

“Did you hear that?” The Archer said.

“Hear what?” The elf said with surprise.

“Your ears are better than mine,” the Archer said. “It was the sound of men in battle, coming from that direction,” he said pointing off into the darkness. The Archer and the elf held still, but the only sound was their own breathe, heavy against the encroaching mist.

“I think we should go back,” the Archer said.

“Are you afraid?” The elf said, her face a beautiful glow in the faint moonlight obscured by the mist. Her eyes were dark and alluring, and her mouth open slightly. He had a sudden urge to kiss her, that he had to fight.

“No,” the Archer said, enchanted.

“I will use the common language for you, as witness,” the elf said. Her elegant hands slowly waved back and forth over the small fire, dancing back and forth through the smoke of the flame in a ritual never seen before by any human. “My heart is as black as the night, who has seen my pain,” she solemnly said. “I give my sadness to the stars, who hear my cries. I tell my loss to the earth, who feels my tears upon her breast. The sun has hid his face, for he has tasted my sorrow. I have been given the flowers of death, and I do not deny their beauty. I shall miss my loved ones all the rest of my days, and I leave a remembrance upon my flesh, that they be not forgotten.” Then, Iounelle stepped back and pulled up her left sleeve. “Here are the marks of sorrow,” she said pointing to the slight, elegant scars of two black chevrons tattooed high on her forearm.

“This is Galehthaire Fearlessduty Wendralorn, my father, who gave his life for me.”

She pointed to the next mark. “This is Veranelle Beautifulcourage Wendralorn, my mother, who was by his side.”

Iounelle Treelaughter Wendralorn paused in grief, as her tears quietly choked her. Then she again found her voice. She pulled a slender dagger, and with two quick motions, cut a fresh chevron below the other two scars. Then she reached down and grabbed a handful of ashes from the small fire. She tenderly rubbed the ashes into the wound with sadness. “This is Albehthaire Shiningsword Wendralorn, my brother, who also died to save my life.” Then she collapsed in tears, holding her arm. She let her tears flow freely and she sobbed into the Archer’s tunic.

The Archer knelt beside her and held her, both silently letting their tears flow.

After Nunee moved nearly to the eastern horizon, the Archer and the elf rose. The Archer tried to bandage her arm, but she would not let him. “It must heal as it will,” she said.

After the elf dried her tears, she held the Archer’s face in both her hands, and the gesture inviting to speak his grief was unmistakable.

“Her name was Yslyne,” he said, his eyes filled with far away memories, “which means beautiful, black mountain, in the older tongue of Kipleth. Her eyes were as black as this night, and her hair was like the feathers of a raven. She was my life. Everything. Her smile was tender and sad as though she somehow knew how her life would end too soon.”

The elf gently laid her hands on the Archer’s shoulders, and stared intently into his eyes.

“The girl was Tafflann, which means beloved,” the Archer said through silent tears. “And she was a hellion. And, I was no help, as I laughed at every mischief she got into. The boy-”

The Archer’s sorrow choked him to silence. The elf patiently waited for him to recover. The Archer rubbed his face as though he could make the pain go away. Then, he looked up.

“The boy,” the Archer said, “was Theffwyn. He was only five when they came. Only five- He barely knew anything of life. I- I can never purge the sight of finding their bodies, hacked, partially eaten. We should have known then, no human would stoop so low. But, we thought it was soldiers from the Northern Kingdom of Man... The destruction was so complete.” The Archer’ voice turned cold and distant. “All our villages... All our wives, children, the elderly. There was no reason to go on living... the nation of Kipleth was broken...”

The two sat in the silent anguish of the night, holding each other.

Then, the sounds of battle resounded once more through the mist.

“Surely you heard that,” the Archer said springing to his feet.

“I heard nothing!” The elf cried. “There is some unclean magic in this mist.”

“There!” The Archer cried. “Human soldier against garond!” The Archer was so upset, he drew Bravilc and charged forward. He had only run ten paces or more when he realized he was  separated from the elf.

“Derragen!” The elf screamed. But, the Archer was lost to the mist.

On the ground, swaddled in cloth, the Lhalíi began to glow. The elf turned just as it burst with light from the hundreds of facets of its crystalline shape. The elf held her hands up to shield her eyes from the glare. She slowly paced toward the Lhalíi, hoping to wrap it up, but then she turned.

“Derragen!” She cried. “Can you see this light!?” There was no answer.

“Nitr? (Sister?)” A familiar voice said in elvish.

Iounelle turned in horror to see her dead brother, much younger, standing before her, as though he had somehow stepped out of the light of the Lhalíi. He looked only as young as a ten year old boy. His frame was slight and thin. He had a mop of blonde hair, from which his slender pointed ears jutted. He was as frightened as Iounelle to find himself suddenly in some strange, unnamable place.

“Albehthaire?” Iounelle said with whispered shock and wonder.

“Nanrúlee veljathal omen hótamvee, (They are telling me to return)” Albehthaire said.

“Hvók lee’a? (Who is?)” Iounelle asked.

“Ornl nathei’au, (My teachers),” Albehthaire said. “Naslee thas gádmlreth. (You’re so much older)”

“Kol’a! (Wait!)” Iounelle screamed. “Hvid garondanau kali, anrlee roel! Savihínva vinti groth! (When the garonds come, it’s a trap! Don’t leave the city!)” But Albehthaire had already faded back into the light.

But, then two figures stumbled forward out of the light. They were both older elves, one male, one female, both with white hair. Iounelle recognized them immediately.

“Mádrbrodr Wylkeho Weylunne? Mádrnitr Wylkeho Silfiette? (Great Uncle Weylunne? Great Aunt Silfliette?)” Iounelle said in astonishment.

“Hvók leenas? (Who are you?)” Weylunne asked.

“Anrlee omen, narsknee nathr wylkeho, (It’s me, your great niece)” Iounelle said. “Oslee Iounelle. (I am Iounelle)”

“Sae nasleehrod lorgam, (But you are an adult now)” Silfliette said. “Orl frasnhrod narsknee laef! (We just saved your life!)”

“-rykk aesir! Ioll méla! Nasor sifnplot anrúkk Lhalíi’anon! (-from the aesir! I remember! You drove it away with the  Lhalíi!)” Iounelle said. “Kal’a’adir! Leethan pael leen   eyapon! (Come through! All the elves have been killed!)”

“Slanchel, (Little One)” Silfliette said with a wise, sad smile. “Ovith ghatr lee’a hvekk bena verelln, ghatr leedádr hvekk verellifastr. (If that is what has happened, then that is what must happen)” Then Silfliette and Weylunne turned back into the light, and disappeared.

“Hínn, hínn, (No, no)” Iounelle moaned, “savihínnva vinta omen ohth. (don’t leave me alone)”

Then, another elf stepped out of the light. He was regal and sure, but seemed as surprised as Iounelle by the potency of the Lhalíi. He was tall for an elf, and powerfully built. He was clad in armor, and moved with a sense of martial sureness.

“Hvók leenas? (Who are you?)” Iounelle said through her tears.

“Iolla plánrfeeth gnefi’el naskreim’eh, (I might as well ask you)” the magnificent elf said in an older dialect, “thal naskreima bawath ornlel krenndeth. (since you bear my sword)”

“Berand Torler?” Iounelle said with a frightened whisper, recognizing him from drawings depicting him in elvish books she had read as a child.

“Ghatra lee’el ornla reimeh, (That is my name)” he said. “Savahvusth- Savahvadlth naskreima benath ornlel krenndeth? (How- Why do you have my sword?)”

“Anrúkk lee rosum te’te’te’i’au’fa árna’au narsknee vintnohl Lanisrykk, (It is many thousands of years after your departure from Lanis)” she solemnly answered. “Oslee leethan goastr. (I am the last elf)”

“Toh, (Ah)” Berand Torler calmly said. “Anrúkkdádrth lee’el mánde’ena trédth. Oslee’el thoegrnth. (Then it is in the right hands. I am relieved).” Then the legendary elf turned and walked back into the light.

The light of the Lhalíi began to fade and Iounelle fell to her knees in exhaustion. “Derragen!” She cried in anguish. But there was no answer.

The elf turned as she heard a rustling in a nearby bush. It was always best to be on guard for the ever present hungry animal.

“Ornl leeth slan, (My little elf)” a voice hissed in elvish.

“Who’s there?” Iounelle said.

“Oslee finre gâdmlr, (I am an old friend)” a black viper lisped as it crawled from the brush.

“Baalenruud...” Iounelle said in horror.

“Narskneeyr visreima... (At your service...)” the snake smiled. Then, the large black snake curled in cascading coils. “Gloena’a narsoll. Iofi hínva setri naskreim nauk, (Calm yourself. I will not cause you harm)” the snake said.

“Stop speaking my tongue, Baalenruud,” Iounelle angrily said, rising to her feet.

“Ioll pegra ghen sanrfee sèrda naskreim faena lanisyr, (I thought it would make you feel at home)” Baalenruud hissed.