The Lord Of Lightning (Book 3) (35 page)

He was close. Arnwylf could see a group of garonds surrounding the Lord of Lightning, less than a quarter of a league away. Arnwylf was close enough to see a garond kneel and present the fused Sun and Moon swords. He already had the swords! He had all the pieces! Arnwylf fought desperately, hacking and chopping his way towards the Evil One.

Derragen, the Archer from Kipleth, let loose the last of his arrows. He had but the Arrow of Yenolah left in his quiver.

"Swords!" Derragen cried to his men. The archers let their last arrows go, then unsheathed their swords and charged the melee of garond fighting human.

The Archer paused for a moment. A chill ran up his spine. His hairs stood on end as it seemed that Sehen, the blind Sage stood before him.

"Your target is where you want it to be, and you must trust your arrow to find it," the blind sage said, then vanished with the vision.

The Archer strode forward. He pulled the Arrow of Yenolah from his quiver and nocked it to his bow string. He walked as though in a dream. The garonds and humans raged in bloody conflict all about him, yet no one touched him. He seemed to not even be on the field of battle.

The Archer's mind was quiet, empty and clear as he drew the Arrow of Yenolah tight to his cheek. Still slowly, calmly, walking forward, he felt as though all sound had drained out of the furious carnage violently raging on all sides.

The Archer stopped. This was the place. Here.

Sighting on nothing, no target before him, the Dark Lord nowhere near, the Archer from Kipleth released.

Deifol Hroth motioned with his finger for Klad to stab the fused Sun and Moon swords into the ground. Klad rose and jammed the swords into the sod of the Plain of Syrenf. Those listening thought they heard a deep groan from the earth.

Deifol Hroth stepped to the swords. The strange metal tube extended from the hilt of the Sun Sword, the Singing Sword, the Mattear Gram, pointing at the sky as if imploring great powers.

The Lord of All Evil Magic slipped the elvish crystal, the ancient Vananth Indelune, the Lhalíi, onto the metal tube of the Mattear Gram.

A flash of light and a whoosh of air, faster than sound, a deafening moment, flew through all the plain in a hemispherical halo that flew out to the horizon in all directions. Then an earsplitting boom rattled every combatant on the Plain of Syrenf. All paused in fear, for only a instant, then resumed their life and death struggles, the servants of the Dark One more energized, feeling victory near, the humans more desperately for the same reason.

The elf, only twenty paces away, sword high for a strike,  suddenly clutched her head and collapsed.

"It's in my mind!" The elf screamed in pain as she fell and writhed on the grass of Syrenf.

Arnwylf was only a few paces behind the elf as she fell. He saw Deifol Hroth place the Ar on the short length of metal of the Mattear Gram that protruded from the top of the Lhalíi. All the objects of arcane power were finally assembled.

A flash of raw, white fire burst from the Heaven's Key with such vicious ferocity that Klad and all the garonds within ten paces of the Lord of Lightning were instantly vaporized to black ashes.

Arnwylf felt the heat of the energy on his face. It was too late. Deifol Hroth laid his hand on the machine and a massive spear of light exploded from the combined device, lancing up from the center into the cerulean blue of the sky, and hit the Wanderer, the second moon.

"He's done it," Arnwylf whispered in horror to himself, looking up.

The halo of energy enveloping the small moon shone with an incredible intensity in the bright, afternoon sky. A sickening booming, a screech of tearing, a wail of unnatural terror rained down from the obscenity in the heavens as the Wanderer began to inch towards the earth.

Then, time stopped.

Arnwylf looked about. Every combatant, locked in their mortal struggles, was frozen. Flickers of flame from the burning citadel in the east were frozen like tongues of red and white quartz. Every garond, monster, wolf, and human engaged in a battle for life and death was still in the empty quiet of suspended time.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Deifol Hroth said to Arnwylf as he casually walked away from the machine. The energy still throbbed out from the combined objects. The power pulsed slow and insisted upwards, like a tower of undulating, blue and white water flowing up into the sky.

"Stop what you're doing," Arnwylf whispered to Deifol Hroth. "You'll kill everyone."

The Lord of Lightning laughed a pleasant, amused laugh. "Why else am I doing all this? But I will tell you, I will stop all of this," he swept his arm to indicate the paralyzed mass of fighting warriors and creatures, "if you give me your body, free and without reservation."

"You are lying," Arnwylf said. "You will not stop this. This is everything you have worked for... for centuries."

"Since time began," Deifol Hroth corrected with a wide smile. "I win. Everything. Everything will have to be scrapped. Destroyed. I, you, all of it, will have to be remade. Then, I won't have to be who I am, was. You, too, can be someone, something else. Anything you want."

"You're doing this because you don't like who you chose to be," Arnwylf asked with disbelief.

"I had no choice in who I was cast to play!" Deifol Hroth angrily yelled.

"Everyone, every day has the choice to decide what direction their life will go," Arnwylf calmly said.

"You are wrong," Deifol Hroth said holding back his anger. "And now you are dead." The Lord of Evil spread wide his hands and lightning fingered down from the sky, hitting Arnwylf. Branches of energy arced from the massive pulse that was pulling down the Wanderer.

Arnwylf balled his fists. The energy coursed through his body. His teeth clenched involuntarily. His body shook. But he did not die. He raised his head.

"You'll have to do better than that," Arnwylf said, recovering, gasping for breath.

"Very well," Deifol Hroth sneered.

The Evil One moved away from the Heaven's Key, and strode towards Arnwylf. The great, pulsing tower of energy continued to flow up the length of the sky to the Wanderer, pulling it closer with every heart beat. The colossal tower of energy streaming upwards, in slow motion, looked like blue and white honey pouring into the sky.

As Deifol Hroth slowly walked towards Arnwylf, frozen soldiers, garonds, and monsters were violently thrown from his path like weightless statues by the invisible force of the Evil One's will.

Arnwylf waited. He thought for a moment of the bull nyati he had killed in Zik's land. He knew if he turned in any direction, he would be dead. He had to let the Dark Lord of All Evil Magic come to him. Then Arnwylf cleared his thoughts. He knew to keep his mind blank, like the teachings of the Ballad of Sehen.

"Sehen?" Deifol Hroth said with contempt. "That old fool was so easy to kill."

Arnwylf almost replied to the lie, but kept his mind clear. He had to let the Devourer come to him. Do not turn, give nothing away, Arnwylf thought to himself.

"Give what away?" Deifol Hroth said with a small laugh as he neared.

Arnwylf readied his sword. He was only ten paces away.

Deifol Hroth raised his hand, and Arnwylf's sword began to glow white with heat. Arnwylf had to drop the sword as it fell sizzling to the turf of Syrenf. Arnwylf never took his eyes off of Deifol Hroth.

"I so wish I could explain where I come from," Deifol Hroth said with something akin to sympathy. "I so wish I could explain what it means to be abandoned for centuries, and then to find power, real power. And then to discover a purpose, a direction, a justification for all that has befallen me. But your small mind couldn't comprehend anything that I could tell you. Pity. I rather liked you."

Deifol Hroth raised his hand again, and Arnwylf felt a blow to his chest harder than anything he had ever experienced in his short life. Arnwylf was knocked off his feet, back several paces. He turned and saw the elf very close, sprawled  on the turf, frozen in time, clutching her head in pain.

Deifol Hroth still several paces away, swung a back hand at Arnwylf. Although not physically touching him, Arnwylf felt the force of the blow as it whipped his head back, nearly shattering his jaw. Blood began to flow from Arnwylf's mouth and nose.

Arnwylf tried to rise, crawled away from the elf. Once again Deifol Hroth kicked at seemingly empty air, and Arnwylf felt the crush of impact against his ribs, breaking several. He's going to kill me and the plan will be for naught, Arnwylf thought in panic.

"Yes," Deifol Hroth said. "I am going to kill you, and your plan will be for naught. What was your pathetic plan? I find very little amusement in this world. And, I would love to know the plan wrought by the great Yulenth of Glafemen. Yes," Deifol Hroth said as he followed Arnwylf, who tried to crawl away. "I know of Yulenth's plan, but the wily old glaf kept the details in his thoughts carefully hidden from me."

Arnwylf knew he had to fight back somehow. But, he didn't know what to do. Frustrated, Arnwylf turned to sit facing Deifol Hroth, and he raised his fists and shouted in righteous anger. A lightning bolt fingered down from the clear blue sky and hit the Dark lord of All Evil. Deifol Hroth shook as the energy coursed through his body. He appeared surprised after the brief spear of lightning abated.

"You hurt me," Deifol Hroth whispered in astonished, amused anger. "I have not been injured for centuries." A bonfire of cruel, retaliatory, violence blazed in the Dark Lord's eyes.

Deifol Hroth strode towards Arnwylf with a quickening pace, his feet lifting off the earth. Pulling his fist back, he came close, and struck and struck at Arnwylf. Arnwylf raised his hands and deflected the blocks as exploding sparks and sizzling cracks of energy spit from between their fists and hands.

Arnwylf was surprised to find he could defect the Dark One's blows for only a moment. Arnwylf rained his own blows down on the Evil One, who sneered and pushed the energy cracking strikes aside.

Arnwylf pushed the Dark Lord with a purpose, guiding the onslaught in a certain direction, keeping his mind blank.

Deifol Hroth fought back, the flashes of energy between them growing in intensity.

Arnwylf could feel that he was getting the worst of the struggle. His arms ached with intense pain. He smelled smoke and knew that he was probably burning from the inside. Several of his fingers were broken. He was certain that one arm was fractured. And, the Lord of Lightning barely looked winded. He only looked more and more angry.

Deifol Hroth threw a flurry of punches that flashed with blinding energy. Arnwylf's body shook with the punishment. He couldn't stand. He was back to crawling. I am close, Arnwylf thought.

"Close to what?" Deifol Hroth asked, gasping for breath.

Arnwylf continued to crawl away from the Evil One. Deifol Hroth wearily followed.

"Close to the right place," Arnwylf said, beaten, near to death.

"And what would the right-" But Deifol Hroth never finished his sentence. He turned slightly to discover, behind him, the Archer, with the Arrow of Yenolah already leaving his bowstring, frozen in the air.

"This is the right place!" Arnwylf cried and, pulling the iron dagger from his belt, jammed it into Deifol Hroth's foot, pinning him, grounding him to the earth.

The Dark Lord didn't even have time to scream as time snapped back, and the Arrow of Yenolah went into his head with a sickening, sudden sound.

The Archer stepped back in amazement to suddenly find the Lord of Lightning in front of him with the Arrow of Yenolah well into its mark. The whole battlefield seemed to pause as Deifol Hroth shook with anger, as energy coursed through his body. Great ribbons of power arced from the tower of energy pulling the Wanderer down over to the Dark Lord, who reached up and began to pull the Arrow of Yenolah out of the back of his head!

Arnwylf forced his weight onto the iron dagger that pinned Deifol Hroth to the ground.

The Archer pulled his elvish sword, Bravilc, and slashed at the Dark Lord. Bravilc shone bright as the sun and trailed a burning flame. Deifol Hroth deflected the blows with blinding bursts of energy thrown out with his free hand.

A look of hideous pain and true, twisted evil played across the visage of the Lord of Lightning. All of the misery and torture in which he delighted was revealed in the fearsome, monstrous, carnal gurning of his features as he continued to pull the Arrow of Yenolah out of his head.

"No, no," Arnwylf moaned in fear.

The elf stood, and through a fog of pain said, "The Ar is activated with the act of giving." With a supreme will, she staggered to the assembled objects of magic, thrust her hand into the fire and took the Yarta, the Heart of the Earth, the Ar off the top of the Heaven's Key. Her hand was not burned in the slightest. Then, with a speed that made her form seem a blur, she ran to Deifol Hroth and put the Ar into his free hand.

The entire tower of energy blasting up at the Wanderer suddenly arced over to Deifol Hroth, who screamed in pain and fear. His body began to burn black and violently shake.

The Archer grabbed Arnwylf and the elf, and ran.