The Archer From Kipleth (Book 2) (5 page)

“I fully intend to,” Arnwylf said.

“But the same oracles say it will be the Archer from Kipleth,” Deifol Hroth smiled. “Still others say the elf will kill me, again and again. So many answers. They could all be true. They could all be wrong. What can I offer you?”

“Nothing,” Arnwylf said.

“What if I could bring him back from the dead,” he indicated Kellabald, who did not move or make any sign.

“That would undo all he lived for,” Arnwylf said.

“You mean,” Deifol Hroth laughed, “he lived to be betrayed and stabbed in the back?”

“He lived to unite the human race, and win against the garond army,” Arnwylf said in haughty defiance.

“Oh,” Deifol Hroth whispered, “he has done such a wonderful job of uniting the humans.” He laughed, “they are more divided than in any age!”

“Leave me,” Arnwylf dangerously growled.

“Think on my offer,” Deifol Hroth purred, coming very close. “We shall meet again in the ruins of Glafemen. There you will tell me your hearts desire, and I will fulfill it.”

“I said leave me!” Arnwylf bellowed as time returned to normal, and the blow Arnwylf intended for Deifol Hroth instead struck Husvet.

Husvet fell to the dust of the moor, then quickly rose to his feet.

“What did I do?” Husvet cried, hurt more emotionally than physically. Then he turned and stalked away.

“Arnwylf?” Geleiden asked.

“Lord Arnwylf! Lord Arnwylf!” A messenger cried, approaching at a run.

“What is it?” Arnwylf asked, looking to follow after Husvet and apologize.

“High Atheling Apghilis is at the edge of our camp, and desires to speak with you.”

“He dares...” Arnwylf snarled, and strode away to meet Apghilis.

A length beyond the edge of the camp, Apghilis stood with a dozen of his men, in battle dress, bows ready with arrows.

“Arnwylf,” Apghilis called. “Leave your wolves. My men will kill them before they can even get near.”

Arnwylf gestured for Conniker to stay, and then strode out into the space between.

“What do you want?” Arnwylf challenged.

“I want what you want,” Apghilis said, his fat, square head bobbing. “I want to finish off the garond army garrisoned in that ancient castle. Why don’t we work as allies?”

“I should consider the murderer of my father an ally?” Arnwylf snarled.

“That is not the truth,” Apghilis said, his large, fat body lumbering out into the open space, towards Arnwylf. “It was that garond general who killed your father. Ravensdred.”

“I saw you do it!” Arnwylf yelled.

“You are mistaken. The furor of battle, the excitement of war, you think you saw me strike your father, but it was the garond general who slew your father,” Apghilis orated more for his men, than Arnwylf.

“Liar!” Arnwylf bellowed.

“Arnwylf,” Apghilis grunted, “your father wanted me to fight along his side. He wanted me to be his successor. He wanted me to wield the Mattear Gram if ever he fell. He told me these things.”

Arnwylf and Apghilis were now close enough that Arnwylf charged the larger man and knocked him to the grass and scrub of the Northern Wastes. Arnwylf rained blows down on Apghilis’ fat head until the men on both sides pulled them apart. Apghilis’ nose ran with blood. Apghilis dabbed at the blood with arrogant surprise.

“You dare! You dare!” Apghilis cried in rage.

“I’ll show you what else I dare! Let go of me!” Arnwylf bellowed to his soldiers who held him back.

“Leave and never come back,” Geleiden called. “Do not think to flank us either. Our wolves are ever alert.”

With that, Apghilis and his men carefully withdrew, their archers walking backwards to face Arnwylf, his men and his wolves.

Arnwylf stalked back to the camp.

“You should have let me kill him,” Arnwylf growled at Geleiden.

“Then what chance would we have of gaining more recruits from his army,” Geleiden carefully said. “They defect daily. You would make him a martyr and a cause. Leave him to his own devices. He dare not attack us, and his own villainy will eventually be seen before all his men.”

“You are right. You are right,” Arnwylf said. “Where is Husvet? I must apologize to him at once.”

“I will bring him to your tent,” Geleiden said.

Arnwylf dejectedly sat on a stool by his tent entrance.

“That was foolish,” Conniker said.

Arnwylf turned in amazement to his white wolf companion.

“Did you speak?” Arnwylf whispered in astonishment.

“Finally you understand me,” Conniker said.

“My grandmother always said she could talk to animals, but I never believed her,” Arnwylf said with wonder.

“To show such weakness in front of your pack only causes confusion and spreads dissension,” Conniker said.

“That man was the man who killed my father,” Arnwylf answered.

“Then why did you not kill him?” Conniker asked.

“His archers would have killed you and the other wolves,” Arnwylf said with his eyes downcast.

“So you saved our lives by not killing him?” Conniker cocked his head. “And attacking him, with no intention of killing him, would this too have saved the lives of your wolf brothers and sisters?”

“No,” Arnwylf quietly said. “I let my feelings get the better of me.”

“Ah,” was all that Conniker said, his furry face solemn, his yellow eyes filled with sympathy.

“You wished to speak to me,” Husvet sullenly said, approaching.

“Husvet, my dear friend,” Arnwylf stood and threw his arms around the dark haired young man. “I apologize from the depths of my soul. It is difficult to explain, but that blow was not meant for you.”

“Who was it meant for then?” Husvet coldly said.

“Arnwylf! Arnwylf!” A camp guard cried.

“Why must everything happen all at once,” Arnwylf muttered to himself.

Two camp guards dragged a strangely dressed garond between them.

“We found this one sneaking by the camp,” the guard cried.

Arnwylf looked at the garond. It was not dressed in the military garb usually favored by the invading race. It was dressed in simple animal skins, and had several necklaces of bone and bead about its neck. The garond began to grunt and gibber in its language. It seemed to be pleading with excited gestures.

“Hold it still,” Arnwylf said to his guards. The human guards roughly grabbed the garond, and the garond held still in silent, apprehensive compliance. Arnwylf carefully opened the garond’s mouth to find round, natural teeth.

“You are not a warrior, are you?” Arnwylf said to the strange garond.

“Koo (grunt) wan baz (click) (grunt),” the garond slowly said, shaking his shaggy head.

“Hold him until we can find someone who speaks garond,” Arnwylf said. “Do not torture or abuse him. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” the guard saluted.

“Koo (grunt) wan baz (click) (grunt)!” The garond said again as it was hauled away.

“And tell the sentries to be extra cautious in the direction of Apghilis’ army! I do not want him sneaking up on us in the night!” Arnwylf called after the guards. “Will this day never end?” Arnwylf muttered to himself.

“You are under a lot of pressure,” Husvet observed.

“Yes. Yes,” Arnwylf said. “But not so much that I should be allowed to strike a friend and honorable companion. Do you accept my apology, Husvet?”

“Yes- but...” Husvet shifted. “Why did you do it?”

“Alarm! Alarm!” The cry from the sentries went up in the settling dusk. “The garonds! The castle!”

Arnwylf ran to the edge of the camp facing the ancient fortress. Garonds poured out of the old edifice, running as one furious gang.

“To arms! To arms!” Arnwylf cried.

Chapter Three

New Rogar Li

“My point,” intoned Summeninquis as he strolled with Alrhett, Queen of the Weald, “is that immigrants from Kipleth and Man should have less of an opportunity to build here in New Rogar Li. What of the wealdkin? Should they not have first say in permits to build homes?”

All about the Queen and the High Judge, construction banged and hummed with the song of saws. Even in the cold of winter, the building of New Rogar Li continued at an unyielding pace.

“By your logic,” Alrhett smiled, her long, white, braided hair swayed as they walked, “you and your people should have no place at all in Wealdland, being from the lands beyond the Far Grasslands. Perhaps you should relinquish your judgeship.”

“My people are true wealdkin as any,” Summeninquis sputtered. “Why my brother-”

“-Is a most courageous captain of wealdkin soldiers as any I have known. Your patriotism is never in doubt,” Alrhett softened her voice, “but, perhaps we should discuss your humanity and compassion.”

A snort from the woman following behind made both turn.

“Something amuses, Garmee Gamee?” Summeninquis said in deep threatening tones. His dark eyes sparkled in his long, creased, dusky face.

“Oh no, my Lord, High, Exalted Judge,” the young woman said with a practiced humility. “I swallowed a seedling and choked.” Garmee Gamee shook her bleached blonde hair in a way to show that she was earnest. Her heavy cosmetics made her eyes two shining cinders, and the open circle of her mouth made a black, endless tunnel. She was dressed in the manner of the young maids of the wealdkin, even though the tight wrinkles around her eyes betrayed she was a much older woman.

“How do the wealdkin of the Eaststand feel here in New Rogar Li?” Alrhett asked Garmee Gamee.

“It is a difficult adjustment,” Garmee Gamee said. “What with lowering ourselves to the customs and manners of the central wealdkin.”

Summeninquis laughed a scornful burst.

“’Lowering’?” Alrhett fixed her with a regal stare, and raised an eyebrow.

“I mean- I mean,” Garmee Gamee stammered, “the forms of language, there are ‘lower’ and ‘higher’ forms of speech, which we used in the Eaststand, and... such... so...” She trailed off, staring away and falsely shaking her hair.

“I see,” Alrhett dismissed. Then to Summeninquis, “in a fortnight, please convene a council of the Leaders of the Houses, to coincide with a gathering of the Lords of the Weald. I think the more voices that are heard, the more just will be our decisions.”

“I feel my leadership is of more use than the many prattlings of the mobs,” Summeninquis sniffed.

Alrhett stopped to take in the massive reconstruction all about her. Old Rogar Li had been a series of magnificent mansions lifted high into the air by huge, old trees over centuries of growth. Wooden walkways connected homes and villages in a canopy unlike any city anywhere else in Wealdland. Old Rogar Li was ancient and filled with beautiful tradition. Homes, adorned with curious carvings, nestled high in towering trees could be in the same family for several centuries of generations. Everywhere you went in Old Rogar Li was the soft rocking of the trees moving with the gentle breezes of the Weald.

After the great fire, set by garond archers with arrows of fire to drive the wealdkin from their homes, a full quarter of the dense forest of the Weald had burned along with every stick of Old Rogar Li.

New Rogar Li was a flat city, wide with open spaces, airy and solid, angular, with no shade to speak of, much less a single bending sapling. The new city was being built with precious lumber being cut from an already stressed forest. The Bairn River was visible in the distance to the south, with nary a tree to break the view. To the north, the tree line of the Weald receded with every new tree cut for the next home or shop of New Rogar Li. Old Rogar Li had been not only lifted into the air by trees, but also surrounded on all sides by lush and full, old tree growth. New Rogar Li was devoid of trees for many lengths, all around.

Everywhere was the refuse and debris of constant building. Every corner rang with the loud cacophony of men working. The wealdkin were eager to rebuild their city and rushed ahead with little thought of planning or design. New Rogar Li was not beautiful, but it was barely a year old. With vision, with guidance, it could be magnificent, but it would never resemble the glory of the old city, in tradition or design.

“As I approach my fifty fourth year of life,” Alrhett said, “I find the humans of the highest caliber care more for the safety and prosperity of the whole community, rather than the veneration and praise of themselves. My son by marriage, Kellabald, had no desire to lead an army, but he knew his service to his fellow man was more important than his very life.” Alrhett let this sink in. “Let us convene a combined council in a fortnight.”

Summeninquis stopped to stare into the distance. His black, short cropped hair shone in the late afternoon sun. His dark olive face was a stone.

“I will compel all who serve me,” Summeninquis haughtily said, then turned to go. He turned back to Garmee Gamee. “Shall we continue our discussions?”

“I wish to walk a bit with Alrhett,” Garmee Gamee said with wide open eyes, “if your High, Exalted, Honored Judgeship will allow it. So...”

Summeninquis snorted and stalked away.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Garmee Gamee turned to Alrhett. “He’s scary, isn’t he?”

“He is a man with many responsibilities,” Alrhett politely said.

“But you shamed him, and showed him how powerful you are,” Garmee Gamee said, her open mouth a lightless pit.

“I tried to remind him of his duties to the people,” Alrhett said with a smile.

“But, you are Queen, and your intellect and political prowess is formidable,” Garmee Gamee said batting her black rimmed eyes.

“Garmee Gamee,” Alrhett said with a tight mouth, turning and fixing her with a stare, “you have much to learn.”

Alrhett and Garmee Gamee arrived at the humble house that was Alrhett’s new royal residence. The house was small, painted green, and wood carvings of the great trees of old, carved by the master woodworkers of the Weald, adorned the sidings of the house. At the gate was Wynnfrith, Alrhett’s daughter. Wynnfrith was ashen faced and her eyes were rimmed with darkness. Wynnfrith had dark hair and the blue eyes of her mother, so her black hair made her pale face even whiter in appearance.

“How fare you, daughter?” Alrhett tenderly asked Wynnfrith, as she tenderly reached out to hold her shoulders.

“Well, well,” Wynnfrith mumbled on the verge of tears.

“Come inside daughter,” Alrhett said. “Let me ease your pains in any way I can.”

“I must see Frea,” Wynnfrith said with downcast eyes.

“Then return home right after” Alrhett said, her heart breaking. “We have many laws and decrees to review.”

“I care not for politics,” Wynnfrith sharply said.

“Wynnfrith,” Alrhett said, “you have an obligation to your people, to do their work, and know their needs.”

“And what of the people?” Wynnfrith snapped. “Will they return my husband, my love, my life... to me?” Wynnfrith sat down in the street, weeping.

“My daughter, my daughter,” the Queen of the Weald tenderly said, “I miss Kellabald, too... his quiet reassurance, his strength, his honesty... But please do not lose your life, my love. Please be fair to me, to your son, if not to the people.”

Wynnfrith looked up, and Alrhett covered her face with kisses as she helped her back up to her feet.

“Frea may have heard from Arnwylf,” Wynnfrith said, composing herself. “I must go see her.”

“I will go with you,” Garmee Gamee said.

“Let her be,” Alrhett tried to detach the parasite.

“I don’t mind, mother,” Wynnfrith said, and hurried away with Garmee Gamee close at her elbow.

“She means well,” Garmee Gamee said to Wynnfrith.

“I know,” Wynnfrith’s blue eyes searched the cold winter skies.

“But her position makes her ignorant of affairs of the heart. So...” Garmee Gamee simply said.

Wynnfrith nodded her head, not so much in agreement, but in hopes the creature attached to her would finally be silent.

“Oh, Alrhett, Great Queen of the Weald may be loved by her people,” Garmee Gamee went on, “but is she loved by the people who need her the most? Her daughter, who grieves. And her son, who fights far to the north. Politics make a person swell with self importance. Sometimes a great leader can not see the small people right at their feet. Sometimes great leaders lose all perspective of life and the real humans that are right next to them.”

“Please be quiet,” Wynnfrith simply said.

“I am your greatest supporter,” Garmee Gamee went on, “and I will fight right beside you in all things. Ah, here is the residence of Frea and Halldora, another great Queen, Queen of the Northern Kingdom of Man. Shall we go in?”

Halldora’s house was three times the size of Alrhett’s. It truly was a mansion. It’s block like shape held twenty bedrooms and several rooms for entertaining and dining. Although Halldora had no desire for such a large home, the migrants from the Kingdom of Man who had settled in New Rogar Li insisted on building the expansive home for her as a show of strength and influence. The palatial structure was notable for the massive front door painted a bright red and guilt in gold, the colors of the royal house of the Northern Kingdom of Man.

Wynnfrith and Garmee Gamee were admitted into the huge, new residence. They were led through a marble clad foyer, hung with expensive tapestries and appointed with white marble busts of the previous kings of Man, to a central courtyard where the clash of weapons could be heard.

In the gardened atrium, Frea, the red haired princess of Man, circled Ronenth, a young, dark haired, dark eyed Glaf.

Ronenth was the last of three Glafs, a race driven to the brink of extinction by the neighboring nation to the north, The Northern Kingdom of Man. But, it was the invading garond army that had finished off both capitols, Ethgeow of Man, and Glafemen of Glaf.

Ronenth had a look of perpetual sorrow always on his dark face, having seen his family and entire race slaughtered before his very eyes, at the age of twelve. Now at sixteen, and growing so much larger in stature and musculature, he seemed to be bursting with a pent up store of violence that needed to be released at the garond general, Ravensdred who had taken everything in his world from him.

“Let us break,” Ronenth said with exhalations of weariness.

“Then drop your weapon and yield,” Frea viciously said, and jabbed her sword at Ronenth, who brought his shield up with a mighty clang just in time to save his skull from being impaled.

Frea was now only four moonths from turning seventeen, yet she held the air and athleticism of an adult. She had been taken hostage by the garond General Ravensdred the previous year, and the terror of the experience had hardened her beyond her tender years.

Both Frea and Ronenth wore bronze chest protectors, wielded bronze, battle swords, and hefted wood and bronze shields. Frea rained down overhand slashes at Ronenth, any strike would have been lethal, but Ronenth deflected with expert skill.

“Hello!” Garmee Gamee chimed.

Ronenth turned his head at the greeting, and Frea swung a decapitating back hand slash at him. Ronenth leapt back with a hair’s breadth of safety.

“Now really!” Ronenth angrily said to Frea. “You could have killed me!”

“Never let your guard down!” Frea said with blood in her eye.

“Who is teaching whom?” Ronenth angrily said as he threw his weapons to the tiled floor with a clatter. Ronenth struggled with his chest protector and angrily stalked away into the corridors of the mansion.

“Ronenth,” Frea cried as she suddenly came to her senses. “I’m sorry! Come back!” Frea dejectedly sat on a stone bench.

“You’ve really hurt him,” Garmee Gamee said.

Frea turned to fix the woman with a regal glare.

“Frea,” Wynnfrith pled, kneeling, holding her skirts, “have you heard from Arnwylf?”

Frea was quiet, letting the violence in her subside. She gently touched Wynnfrith’s face. Then turned to look again at Garmee Gamee. “Whom did you say you were?” Frea asked with a suspicious squint.

“I’m Garmee Gamee,” she said with a practiced smile. “I’m great niece to Ganthebe, the king of the Eaststand. Well, he was a king once, but then... Oh, the history of Weald politics is very boring. So... Oh, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” Garmee Gamee curtsied with skill.

Frea tenderly turned to Wynnfrith. “I’ve had no word,” she said.

“Do you think he is alive?” Wynnfrith timidly asked.

“I think we would have heard great wailing all throughout Wealdland if the great, general boy, Arnwylf had died,” Frea coldly said.

“He’s hurt you,” Garmee Gamee plainly said to Frea.

Frea’s face betrayed her deep pain for only a moment, then a trained hardness returned to fix her features. “I welcome you, Garmee Gamee,” Frea said. “What do you want?”

Garmee Gamee looked blankly at Frea, sputtering, her mouth an open pitch hole. “I’m with her. So...” she finally got out pointing at Wynnfrith.