The Lord Of Lightning (Book 3) (17 page)

"But-"

"When the three are one," Sehen said carefully and with meaning, "the Dark Lord will fall. Have you not seen it in your dreams?"

"What does that-"

"I must be off," Sehen said, and the old, blind sage stepped back into the shadows of the meadows.

"Wait!" The Archer cried and followed, but Sehen was nowhere to be seen.

The Archer climbed back up on Hadley.

"How many ghosts will we meet tonight, horse?" The Archer asked Hadley as he spurred him on.

The Archer knew it wouldn't be long until he reached the  Bairn River. Far west, the Bairn River would be easy to ford on horseback. Once across, it would be simple to find the human encampment near the citadel, awaiting the attack on the Lord of Lightning.

The Eastern Meadowland was a black, ever moving, sea of grass in the darkness of night. Now in the middle of the meadowland, the horizon seemed deceptively sparse, as though the whole world was flat and featureless.

Shadows began to pace the Archer.

"What is that, horse?" The Archer said, more to himself. Hadley rolled his eyes in fear, nostrils flaring, the foam of exhaustion flecking the horse's mouth.

"These are no ghosts, Hadley," the Archer said as he finally was able to make out the form of the misshapen garonds running after the horse.

"Run, horse, run for both our lives!" The Archer cried.

Hadley stumbled and fell, throwing the Archer to the spring grasses of the meadowland. Hadley was up and off into the night, before the Archer had a chance to reach the roan stallion.

The Archer flipped his bow off his shoulder and shot once, twice, three times in a motion. All three, bronze arrows hit their marks. Three misshapen garonds, twisted by Deifol Hroth's evil magics, all grunted with the pain of being shot, but none fell or faltered. The Archer knew it would take more than a few arrows to drop these monsters.

Derragen drew Bravilc. He turned and kept turning as the monstrous garonds circled him.

Their eyes shone with evil and violence. Their fanged mouths worked, drooling, hungry for human flesh.

There were not three, but four of the garonds reshaped by Deifol Hroth's dark magics. One of the monstrosities appeared to be two melted into one, two halves of two heads welded together in a perpetual scream. Another was covering in arms. Derragen had seen this type before. The third was long torsoed, and had rows of small arms like a hideous insect. The fourth twisted garond seemed strangest of all. Its too long, limp arms hung dead on the ground, yet its mouth opened to reveal three, elongated jaws strangely knit together with row upon row of row of spiked fangs.  

The unnatural garonds circled around the Archer, hemming him in.

But before any of the malformed monsters could strike, yellow eyes began to shine out of the shadows.

The Lords of Bittel had arrived.

The Archer saw fifty or more wolves step out of the grasses of the meadowland. The twisted garonds barely had time to scream as the wolves were on them, rending, tearing, killing.

The violence of the wolves ripping the twisted garonds apart gripped the Archer with a rarely experienced fear. Streams of moonlight illuminated the ghastly scene with a sickening hue.

The Archer didn't recognize any of the wolves and wondered if he was next. The scene of carnage formed a circle around the Archer. He could not escape. Every way he turned, a spectacle of violence raged before his eyes.

Derragen held Bravilc high, ready for when the wolves would finally turn on him.

Soon, the twisted garonds were nothing more than a bloody mess, a darkly shining slick of blood reflecting the moonlight of both of Wealdland's moons.

The wolves looked up and tightly circled the Archer. They lowered their head sand stared intently with yellow eyes. Some of the wolves began low, guttural growls of hunger and rage.

"I am a friend of Conniker!" The Archer proclaimed hoping the wolves might understand. "I am a friend of the Brotherhood!"

The wolves began to close the circle.

"Do you now have animal speak/hear?" A voice asked from the shadows.

"Who's there?!" The Archer demanded.

Iounelle stepped from the shadows with her hand on Conniker's shaggy mane.

"One who loves you more than you know," the elf said.

Chapter Eight

The Distant Shores

Ronenth pulled his small sailboat onto the sands of the shores of the Far Grasslands. He was surprised at how narrow the beach was. The sand was flat and the surf shallow. The sky was heavily overcast and like all of that spring, threatening rain, but withholding the vital waters from the heavens.

The night was calm now. The light of the two moons dimly lit parts of the overcast sky with a weak, eerie glow. Ronenth could tell which was the Wanderer, by the steady, unnerving pace the dim illumination smoldered through the cloud cover.

The storm that had threatened to swamp Ronenth's little boat had winded down, until there was a simple breeze that moved his boat steadily across the New Sea.

Ronenth was glad that the large ship with the red sails that had crossed his path out on the open ocean had not seemed to notice him in his sailboat tossing on the passage to the New Sea that had been created by the destruction of Byland.

He had followed the ghostly image of Wynnfrith as commanded. He wasn't sure if she was still alive, or a spirit sent to guide him to Frea. The image had set Ronenth on edge, but he knew Wynnfrith would do him no harm, alive or dead. He sorrowfully wondered if he would find both Wynnfrith and Frea dead in the Far Grasslands, but he did not let himself dwell on that speculation.

Ronenth took a moment to think about Frea. When he first set eyes on her, in the middle of the Battle of the Eastern Meadowlands, he had fallen for her. But when he found out that she had a relationship with his only friend, Arnwylf, he knew in the depths of his soul, and against all his dearest hopes, that Frea was always meant for Arnwylf.

Ronenth felt sure in his heart of hearts that Frea was still alive. And, the Ice Fields of Eann, Father of the Gods, nor the Wastes of Yonne, Lord of the Dead, nor all the garonds in the world would stop him from finding her and bringing her home.

As Ronenth stepped out of the surf, onto the sand of the shore, he quickly pulled his paricale from his canvas pack.

Ronenth had seen garond patrols on the beach as he neared the shore, and they were sure to have seen him. He tossed his long, black hair out of his face and scanned the horizon in all directions.

From the south, Ronenth saw twenty garond soldiers sprinting towards him, but only from the south. Good, Ronenth thought to himself. Let's get this over with quickly.

Ronenth played out the paricale until it was evenly spread out before him.

The paricale was an elvish weapon given to Ronenth by Iounelle, the last elf of Lanis. The weapon was comprised of sixteen, silver, razor edged, tear drop shaped leaves of metal, fashioned together. Each segment was the size of two fists. Stretched to its length the paricale could behead an opponent ten paces away. The weapon was dangerous in the hands of the clumsy or unskilled. The whip like nature of the paricale meant that it could very easily kill the wielder if untrained. The best way to use the paricale was to keep it moving, with each of the razor sharp, connected leaves moving like a large chain, segment following segment.

Ronenth had turned out to be a natural with the paricale and had humiliated the great garond War General Ravensdred with the elvish weapon at the Battle of Byland.

Ronenth took a moment to remember Ravensdred from the destruction of his home city Glafemen. He was much younger. His father, Marenth, had given his life so that his wife and children could escape. But, they didn't get far. The garonds were too numerous for the people who had just lost a war to the Northern Kingdom of Man. Ronenth had seen his brothers, sister, and mother beaten to death right before his eyes by the garond army that came barely a year after the defeat by the army of Man. He was twelve summers old.

Ronenth remembered Ravensdred as a shadowy figure leading his army with vicious efficiency. The tall garond general was unmistakable among his troops. It was a miracle that the young boy had gotten away from the garond army. For many moonths, he thought he was the only glaf to survive the attack, until he met Yulenth and Solienth in the ruins of Glafemen.

Ronenth wondered if any of the approaching garonds had seen the paricale before. Garonds usually attacked head on, rushing their foes, using their superior strength against the human enemy.

Ronenth tossed his long, black hair back out his dark, brooding face, and lightly swung the paricale over his head. His dark eyes were keen and flashing. One of the twenty closing garonds stopped dead in his tracks.

That one has seen me before, Ronenth thought. Best to kill him first. But the garond who had stopped, turned and ran back the way he came.

No, Ronenth thought. He's going back to tell someone I've come, probably Ravensdred, who will come with too many troops.

Instead of waiting, Ronenth rushed forward to meet his opponents, hoping he had time to stop the fleeing garond.

The first two garonds were easily decapitated with the arc of the paricale. The elvish weapon was always moving in Ronenth's hands, large, metal leaf following large metal leaf like a train of clanking, grinding death, ever in motion.

But the remaining garond soldiers spread out around him.

They mean to hold me until reinforcements arrive, Ronenth thought to himself. This will never do.

Ronenth rushed one side of the enclosing circle, and as he hoped, the far side of soldiers closed in, bringing themselves too close.

Ronenth spun and whipped the paricale out behind him. He quickly cut three garond soldiers in half with its distinctive grinding, clanking sound.

Ronenth could see the fleeing garond getting smaller in the distance.

Keep them off balance, Ronenth thought to himself with a grimace. Let that one go. Focus on those around you.

He spun and let the paricale shoot out like a spear to impale a garond on his right. He pulled at the speared body to give himself momentum, as he wrenched the paricale from the dead garond. With the forward energy, Ronenth whipped the paricale out and killed three more garonds.

Their circle is ragged and they have no leader, Ronenth thought to himself. Let's see how easily they can be fooled.

Ronenth stumbled and let himself fall to his knees, the paricale clattering from his grasp.

Sure enough, the garonds charged the dark haired, glaf boy.

Ronenth grasped the paricale and twirled it up at the surprised garonds, as he rose to his feet, spinning it over his head. Ronenth slaughtered five garonds with his ruse, leaving only five left among the butchered bodies dead on the bloodied sand.

The remaining five garonds spread far out, screeching and barking at each other.

I cannot stay here, Ronenth thought to himself.

He whirled the paricale over his head in a lethal loop to give himself some distance from the garonds, and then walked away from the beach. 

Ronenth saw a stand of shrubs near the beach and headed for it, the five remaining garond paced him in a wide circle, neither attacking, nor fleeing.

Ronenth smiled to himself.

He rushed the garond nearest the shrubs, and had that garond pinned with nowhere to escape. But instead of killing the garond, Ronenth turned and caught, with a flash of the silver segments, the three behind him who had rushed to aid their fellow soldier.

Then Ronenth spun and caught the garond he had pinned, who had found his courage and charged. Ronenth played the paricale out, and the end segment embedded in the soldier's head. Ronenth took a moment to extract the end of the paricale and missed the opportunity, the last garond soldier ran for it, like the other garond.

Ronenth frowned. Two got away. He had to find Frea quickly now, reinforcements, if not the whole army would be on him in a matter of moments.

Ronenth gathered his paricale together, and cradling the elvish weapon, marched in a straight line inland, up over the short turf of the Far Grasslands.

Frea could hear the garond soldiers struggling down the narrow passage.

"Is there another way out of this cave?" Frea asked Dond.

Dond quietly shook his shaggy, garond head in fear.

Frea looked about the cave. It held deep, blinding shadows that could be used in ambush. Frea hefted the sword she and Wynnfrith had dug from the earth. The odd, black blade was light, but felt comfortable in her hands. She stepped to Wynnfrith who was standing peacefully still in the center of the cave, holding the dark stone, the Ar.

"We can hide," Frea said, pulling at Wynnfrith. "We can attack from the shadows."

"There is no need," Wynnfrith said with a smile that unnerved Frea.

"Garond soldiers are coming down the tunnel," Frea said again pulling at Wynnfrith. "Mudsang, their deranged religious leader is with them. There is no way out of the cave, except to fight."

"We will be unharmed," Wynnfrith said with certainty. "You may hide if you wish."

Frea wasn't sure what to do. The Ar had honed both her, and Wynnfrith's, instincts and intuition. If Wynnfrith, holding the Heart of the Earth said they would be unharmed, then she should trust her.

But fear was getting the better of Frea. They had never been cornered in the Far Grasslands. There was always the option of running, most humans could easily outrun any garond over long distances, but not here.

Frea stepped back into a shadow. The cave was deep and they could hide, but for how long?

"I'll take them one by one as they come down the passage," Frea said as she faded into a dark corner of the cave.

Dond stood stupidly staring at Wynnfrith.

The first garond soldier grunted his way out of the confining hole into the cave. The shadows of the lone candle Dond had lit played across the painted shapes of the horses, aurochs, and stauers that adorned the cave's walls.

The soldier garond took one step towards Wynnfrith, club raised. Then he stopped. His club dropped to the cave floor with a thud. He seemed to be listening to music. His eyes closed and his head tilted back.

Wynnfrith turned to smile over at Frea where she was hidden.

Two more garond soldiers pushed into the cave with the same results. Initially belligerent, they both dropped their weapons and stood stupefied, in a trance.

Frea could hear Mudsang huffing and exclaiming as he worked his way into the cave.

"Heathens! Unbelievers!" Mudsang called out as he straightened himself, adjusting his crown of upright, red painted feathers.

For a garond, Mudsang was lean, muscular, slightly taller in height, and he shaved the copious fur the average garond grew, giving him an oddly sleek body that he covered in fine oils. His carefully groomed appearance made him resemble a kind of hybrid between garond and human. On his torso were tattooed mystical signs and symbols.

He raised both his arms in an attitude of supplication to the great spirits. His snarling, simian face glowed in the meager radiance of the single candle lighting the immense cavern.

"Those who fight against the Great One, Deifol Hroth, will surely fail," Mudsang intoned with a polished, oratory flourish.

The three garond soldiers who had been in a trance suddenly opened their eyes, but remained still and waiting, clearly frightened and confused.

"What are you waiting for?" Mudsang shouted at the garond soldiers. "Pick up your weapons! Kill the infidels!"

The three garonds were like little children, innocent and afraid. They had been touched by the power of the Ar, while standing on sacred ground, and their souls, so blackened by the Dark One and his priest, had been washed clean. But fear remained. Fear was pervasive, and needed to be confronted moment by moment.

Wynnfrith understood.

She stepped forward and addressed the frightened garond soldiers.

"You may go," she softly said. "No harm will come to you."

The three garond soldiers looked back and forth between Mudsang and Wynnfrith.

"Those who waver in their faith will burn forever in the fires of the next life," Mudsang said with pious venom. "You cannot be with our great Lord, Deifol Hroth, and act against him. Those who fail in their faith will be destroyed in body and soul."

"I wonder," Wynnfrith calmly said, "if your pawns ever get tired of the disease of your words."

Mudsang almost shouted in anger, but controlled himself.

"Seize the human scum," Mudsang said to his soldiers.

One of the three garond soldiers turned and climbed back into the tunnel.

"He will die a most horrible death," Mudsang said of the departed garond soldier to the other two. "There is only one path to redemption, and that is through our Great Dark One. All other gods are false and will lead to destruction. Seize the human."

The two garond soldiers looked at each other, hoping the other would make a decision.

Mudsang picked up a fallen club and swung it hard at one of the hesitating garond soldiers. The soldier didn't make any move to avoid the blow, almost as if he were relieved to be unburdened from having to make a choice.

The slaughtered garond oozed blood onto the smooth white, stone surface of the cave.

Dond emerged from his hiding place.