The Lord Of Lightning (Book 3) (31 page)

The edge of the top of the tower disappeared into the billowing mists.

Then, the Archer saw licks of flame from the edge of the top of the tower as it came into view.

The Archer quickly let fly another arrow and it perfectly arced into the top of the citadel. "Keep them coming as fast as you can," the Archer said to his steward.

The Archer shot burning arrow after burning arrow. The top of the citadel now raged with fire. The Archer climbed back into the basket, leaned over the side and waved his arm. "Bring us down!" He called to those below. The Archer watched as Josr carefully backed up with the rope still in her maw. The balloon slowly descended.

As the basket neared the ground, the Archer and the arrow steward leapt out. "Get everyone back to the safety of the troops," the Archer commanded. "The citadel of Deifol Hroth burns. If the Dark Lord is in there, he will soon be coming out."

Josr let go of the rope, and the balloon sailed away into the sky.

The Archer turned to the Kaprk-Uusshu. "You may leave now friends, or stay and fight. I urge you to give the wolves a wide leeway. We do not need allies fighting each other." The Archer almost turned, but then he turned back. "The garonds will be coming up the river over yonder. You have an advantage in the water. Perhaps you could meet the garond boats as they come up the river."

Grisn nodded, and the two Kaprk-Uusshu trotted away to the north.

In the citadel, Yulenth of Glafemen found that the whole structure of the edifice had changed, but with enough trial and error, he located the central tower. He had climbed but one level when he met two, unchanged garond soldiers rapidly descending. Yulenth smelled smoke.

The first garond swung a club at Yulenth. The glaf side stepped and let the garond throw himself down the steps with the momentum of his swing.

The second garond had just got his sword out, but the old glaf was quick. Yulenth, who already had his sword out, was able to slide his sword under the garond's sword as he brought the blade up for a thrust, right into the garond's guts.

Yulenth withdrew his sword and backhanded in one motion, and caught the first garond as it rose behind him. The two soldiers were dead. Yulenth continued up the tower. He was going to get the Lhalíi, if the Dark One was in his chamber, or not.

As the Archer and the other men briskly strode to rejoin the troops, an old man and a young boy approached.

"Len! Faw!" The Archer exclaimed.

"We have what you asked for," Len said.

Faw held up a bundle of cloth. He slowly unwrapped it and revealed an Arrow of Yenolah.

"You found the arrow I spent in the Madrun Hills, at Fallfont Gorge!" The Archer cried.

"You sent us to look for the arrow you shot to save Arnwylf when he escaped the great garond encampment, over a year ago," Faw said swelling with pride. "It was among the stones of the Madronwy River.

"The arrow I used to shoot the arrow of Ravensdred out of the air," the Archer said with wonder as he turned the weathered shaft in his hands. "Where is Annen? I wish to thank her, also."

Len and Faw were silent. "Annen was lost to a garond patrol," Len finally said.

"I am sorry," the Archer quietly said. "I hope to put this arrow to good use in her honor."

The Archer hugged Len and Faw, and then led them back to the human army.

As the Archer and his friends neared the human army, Faw spotted a man running from the south, along the edge of the mist.

"They're coming! They're coming!" The runner cried.

"Hermergh, of the messenger guild," the Archer exclaimed as the man got close enough to recognize.

"The garond boats are coming up the River Syrenf!" Hermergh cried.

"Spread the word quickly," the Archer said to the men around him.

But before they could disperse, the arrow steward cried, "Look!" And he pointed back in the direction of the citadel.

The mists of Syrenf were dissipating. The citadel, now clear for all to see, was fully engulfed in flames. The corrupted, black elvish bricks burned with a fury, as though they welcomed the release.

The bright morning sun illuminated the burning citadel like a black candle. A cheer began to go up from the throats of the men, but the moment of victory caught in their throats as they saw, no longer hidden by the mists generated by the slain monster, Lah'ugh'gloth, just over a thousand, mutated, magic-twisted  garonds.

Chapter Sixteen

The Plains of Syrenf

Staring, shocked, frozen for a moment, the whole human army saw the seeming ocean of magic-twisted garonds surrounding the citadel, concealing mists swirling away to oblivion. The changed garonds were pale, had no hair, and, like the shimmering reflections on a noxious sea, a sickening shine glowed from their skin in the rising light of the new morning.

The human army rushed to take up any sword, spear and shield that was not already in hand. The grotesque garonds stood dumbly in the places where they were chained. Even the monstrosities that had broken their chains stupidly squatted with immobility, black, evil eyes of every description staring vacantly, silently awaiting the command from their Dark Lord.

Arnwylf rushed to the line facing the citadel.

"Do not attack them, until they move to attack us!" Arnwylf cried. "There is no sense in losing men with the main body of the garond army coming up the river. Frea, can I count on you to keep your men steadfast and resolute?"

Frea looked around at the warriors of Man, and silently nodded, transfixed herself by the weirdly transformed garonds, quietly awaiting their orders..

"If the garond army cannot go through us, they will try to go around us, so that Ravensdred can reach his master," Arnwylf reiterated. "You and your warriors of Man are our only hope of preventing this. Do you understand?"

"I understand," Frea said, tearing herself away from the horrifying spectacle.

"But sound the alarm at once when the Dark Lord comes out of the citadel," Arnwylf said. "Do you understand?"

"I understand, my love," Frea said and then pulled Arnwylf close for a passionate kiss. Their lips met not as boy and girl, but with the fire of man and woman, a promise to fight and win, to create a life together once the last fight was decided, and the dead were buried.

Arnwylf ran down and joined the bulk of the human army, forty thousand men, hiding as best they could, waiting along the banks of the Syrenf River. The winding river was quiet, and the water flowed clear and steady without ripple or rapid. The banks of the Syrenf River were narrow, and few reeds grew along the margin. There were some skinny, malnourished trees, but very little cover. It would be very easy for the garond soldiers to get up on the land once their boats landed.

Arnwylf turned to Stralain.

"Today we stand on the edge of the abyss. Some will stand, or all will fall," Arnwylf said to the Captain of the Weald, who gravely nodded. "Did you find what I asked for?" Arnwylf asked Stralain.

"Ah," said Stralain remembering. He pulled a simple dagger from his belt. "Plain iron, no wood or leather, as you requested."

"Perfect," Arnwylf said inspecting the dagger. Without another word, Arnwylf tucked the dagger into his belt. "Halldora is ready up stream?"

"All is as you have directed," Stralain said. "Derragen should be amongst his Kipleth archers now."

"Then we wait," Arnwylf said as he stared downstream.

Arnwylf looked to his flank. Close by, the citadel roared with flames. Arnwylf silently hoped that Yulenth had got out before the fire spread. Still there was no sign of Deifol Hroth. "He isn't in there," Arnwylf said.

"Pardon?" Stralain asked.

"He would have come out by now," Arnwylf said staring at the conflagration raging in the citadel.

"Unless He can withstand fire," Stralain said, "and merely waits for Ravensdred."

Arnwylf didn't reply. He didn't like the notion. The Evil One had to have some weaknesses, some limits to His power, if not, all of Yulenth's plans would be in vain.

The morning sun, climbing higher, was full and warm. It was a spring day on the cusp of summer. The air was full of life and growth. Birds chirped merrily, insects buzzed and hummed. There was no other sound.

Arnwylf looked up. In the cloudless sky, the Wanderer, the second, smaller moon began one of its many transits. It was a pale, white splotch against the cerulean blue of the heavens. The Wanderer would soon be at its zenith.

Arnwylf sucked in his breath.

"He comes when the Wanderer is highest," Arnwylf desperately said to Stralain. "He needs the Wanderer to be directly overhead. This is the same as the last two times, when he moved the Wanderer when he was in the elvish city, and then at the Battle of Byland. Tell your men. This is why Ravensdred is pacing himself as he comes up the river."

"Are you sure?" Stralain asked.

"I am as certain as I have ever been," Arnwylf said. "Send word to Husvet and Geleiden, have the wolves attack the twisted garonds just before the Wanderer reaches its highest point in the sky. We can undercut his attack."

Stralain whispered to Hermergh of the Messenger Guild, who was standing by for such a necessity. Hermergh rushed away. Then, Stralain turned to Arnwylf, "The Wanderer is very close to reaching its zenith now."

Arnwylf didn't answer, but stared at the water of the river. Something was wrong. The ripples were flowing upstream.

Ravensdred sat in his long boat stoically upright, unmoving, his face an unreadable mask. Ravensdred knew strategy was not one of his strengths. He had relied on his Master for all such intellectual responsibilities. Ravensdred's tactic had always been to surge straight ahead and crush his opponent. Complicated maneuvers had so many more chances of going wrong. Ravensdred tried to not shift uncomfortably on the plank on which he sat in his long boat. It wouldn't do for his troops to see an uncertainty etched on his face.

The vyreeoten swam past the halted long boats, their long, skinny arms tucked against their writhing bodies. Ravensdred sneered. He hated the sea serpents and as soon as the battle was under way he promised to himself to 'accidentally' kill a few to slake his thirst to end some of the huge, vile water worms.

That's it, Ravensdred thought to himself with a vicious sneer, concentrate on killing.

Ravensdred looked around front and back. The river was choked with his long boats. The garond boats rocked with the power of the vyreeoten passing on either side. The River Syrenf was average in width, slow and sluggish, shallow.

Much shallower than I anticipated, Ravensdred worried to himself. He had hoped to get up a little speed with the long boats, to help them beach on the banks. It would be harder in shallower water. No matter, Ravensdred thought to himself, if the vyreeoten behave as they have been commanded, all will be well.

The garond general looked up. The Wanderer was close to its zenith. He had to arrive at the citadel as the second moon was at its highest point in the late morning.

Ravensdred moved his feet and felt the Ulokem Swogger carefully stowed in the bottom of his long boat. He loved his weapon, and he felt a kind of disgusting excitement to meet the dark haired boy and his elvish weapon on the field of battle.

The last of the vyreeoten moved past the long boats.

Ravensdred had two swords wrapped in cloth balanced on his knees. The garond General laughed a little sneering laugh to himself. He remembered how the Sun Sword, also called the Singing Sword and the Mattear Gram, had screamed in his mind when he obtained it after the Battle of the Eastern Meadowlands.

Ravensdred lifted his cloth bundle, and with a length of rope lashed his burden to his massive back. Then, he carefully picked up the hilt of the Ulokem Swogger's black scimitar, and the black horn chained to the other far end. The delicious feeling of impending violence began to squirm low in his stomach.

"Soon, my love," the Ulokem Swogger said to Ravensdred with words that only he could hear. "Blood, and pain, and crushing destruction will be our great feast, a delightful delirium unmatched by anything you have ever felt before in your life."

"An (grunt)!" Ravensdred excitedly bellowed, and five hundred thousand garond soldiers splashed their oars into the water to resume the invasion.

Ronenth squatted with the silver segments of his paricale splayed out on either side of his lap. The large leaves of each segment never needed polishing or sharpening. The other soldiers gave the black haired, glaf boy, with the dark countenance, a wide berth.  Ronenth waited with the line of soldiers facing the southern flank of the human army. With the magic changed garonds to the west, the river to their east, it made sense that the main body of garonds would come from the south, as the massive garond army would use several leagues of the river to disembark. It was vitally important that the main part of the garond army not get around the human army. If the humans were encircled, it would all be over.

Ronenth pondered Frea's words. He would look for a woman with similar qualities as Frea's. Ronenth shook his head. What was it about Frea that he loved? Her courage, of course. Her determination. She was going to stop the Dark Lord any way she could, and help the man she loved to do it, as well. Ronenth smiled. Envy edged at his heart, but his love for Arnwylf wouldn't let jealousy settle on his glaf soul. Frea had a confidence borne out of adversity. She had faced awful, nightmarish things and come through stronger, regal, powerful. Who did Ronenth know that was like that? Frea was a princess. But, it wasn't the royal title, but how took the mantle of authority reluctantly, and didn't abuse it. For all their squabbling, Frea was loved and respected by her people.

Ronenth thought of his people, the glafs. They were gone. There was only himself and Yulenth. He remembered when the garonds came. The city of Glafemen fell quickly to the garond army, since the glafs had just finished a debilitating war with the Northern Kingdom of Man barely a moonth earlier.

Ronenth remembered fleeing with his mother, brother and sisters. They had died days later when garond patrols sought any glafs that had fled the destruction. He hid amongst trees and bushes until the garonds were satisfied every glaf was dead. Those days were nothing but screaming terror and bloody horror. Ronenth wondered how he had ever survived with his sanity, let alone his skin.

The garonds will pay me a debt, Ronenth thought, specially the general, Ravensdred. He has much to account for. Ronenth gripped the hand holds on the inside of the silver leaves until his hands were numb.

Derragen, the Archer from Kipleth, scanned his arraigned archers. The garonds were going to get a good surprise when they came up the river, he thought to himself.

The Archer peered out at the horizon, surely his elf would come to be with him. Her smile, though infrequent, burned in the memory of his heart like a bonfire.

Then, the things the Green Man had said troubled Derragen. He would have to make a difficult decision.

Derragen allowed himself to remember the teachings of his mentor, Sehen the blind Sage. Whenever he felt emotions clouding the skills he had acquired, a quick review of Sehen's instructions calmed and centered him.

"Nothing is ever lost for good," Sehen had said. The Archer reached back to his quiver to feel the fletching of the last Arrow of Yenolah. He, Derragen, had been lost and found again in the arms of the elf. The Archer could feel his emotions rising again, and strained to remember his lessons.

Instead Derragen thought of meeting Sehen on the Eastern Meadowlands a few days earlier. Was that a ghost? Derragen thought of Sehen's last words to him.

"Your target is where you want it to be, and you must trust your arrow to find it," the ghostly Sehen had said.

A strange calmness came over the Archer.

Halldora hugged her daughter Frea. Frea was to command the Athelings of Man. The warriors had an almost inbred instinct to follow the mark of royalty. And Frea played upon that.

"Athelings of Man!" Frea commanded her warriors, raising her black sword high. The Athelings and warriors of Man gathered around Frea.

"Our race has endured much treachery and cowardice," Frea called out to the sea of grim faces. "I have had enough of the divisiveness of our nation! Today we strive together with the rest of the human race, or we all die separately. No more arrogance! No more selfishness! Today let us regain our honor and valor!" Frea handed her black sword to her mother. Then Frea ripped her skirt up to the middle of her left thigh. She tied back the skirt with the ends of the hem to show the brand of the Sun Sword on her thigh, her mark of royal birth. Frea stood defiantly, legs slightly apart. Her brand seemed to glow with a challenging power.

Frea could see a fierce determination begin to ripple among the soldiers of Man as they beheld the mark of the highest seat of Man. Frea took her sword back from Halldora. "By this mark of the Mattear Gram! For Ethgeow! For Man! For all of humanity!" Frea cried raising her black sword high.

"For Ethgeow! For Man! For all humanity!" The Athelings yelled with honorable wrath, raising their swords in fealty.

"Be careful daughter," Halldora said amidst the avowals of honor and courage, and left Frea for her post up stream.

Frea turned to the warriors of Man. "No garond passes to the Dark Lord!"

The warriors and Athelings of Man filled the sky with their war cries. "No garond passes to the Dark Lord!"

"Husvet! Geleiden!" Hermergh cried as he approached the far perimeter with the wolves. "Arnwylf says to attack the twisted garonds now!"