by K. J. Hargan
Deifol Hroth's back was to the Archer. He had a clear shot. He aimed for the back of Lord of Lightning's head, and released.
The instant his fingers let go of the bowstring, Deifol Hroth turned to stare directly at the Archer.
Derragen was shocked to find all of time standing still. Water splashing up on the shore was frozen as foamy diamonds suspended in the air. A snarl of rage was rigid on Grisn's paralyzed face. The shaggy, wet hair of the rampaging Kaprk-Uusshu was stiff with the suspension of time.
In a blur, Deifol Hroth moved up to stand directly in front of the Archer. The Arrow of Yenolah was still released from the bow, but hanging in the air. Derragen couldn't move.
Deifol Hroth held up his hand, palm flat to the arrowhead. The Evil One closed his eyes, and slightly bowed his head in great concentration. An orange light glowed from Deifol Hroth's palm. Derragen could feel a sudden intense heat on his paralyzed cheek. Deifol Hroth let time barely crawl forward.
Slowly, the Arrow of Yenolah inched on, melting, burning, the metal arrowhead white hot, incinerating as it floated towards the Dark Lord's palm, until there was nothing left but falling ash and smoke.
The Archer was fascinated to see the Great Evil One so close. He appeared to be a handsome, young human in his late twenties, with sandy blonde hair. Deifol Hroth opened his sea green eyes, and calmly looked up into the Archer's eyes.
The Great Darkness smiled.
The Archer couldn't move. Time was still held tightly at the command of the Dark One, but no such restrictions applied to the Lord of Lightning.
The Archer looked out of the corner of his eye to his left. Josr still lay very still on the beach. The Archer looked out of the corner of his eye to his right, able to slightly move his head. Grisn slowly rolled in the surf. The great beast, like his sister, was also very still.
"It will give me great pleasure to finally be rid of you," Deifol Hroth breathed with a sweet voice of confidence.
The Dark One raised both hands high to the clouded sky. With his eyes locked on the Archer, only two paces away, lightning bolts arced from his hands up to the clouds.
The Archer could feel the heat and energy of the lightning bolts as they played about the hands and shoulders of Deifol Hroth. He's taking his time to enjoy this, the Archer thought. The brilliant light hurt Derragen's eyes.
Deifol Hroth began to move his hands, arcing blinding energy, towards the Archer. Behind the Dark Lord, the Old Man plunged his metal fishing pike down into Deifol Hroth's shoulder. The Old Man, obviously not bound by the suspension of time, thrust the pike with such force, it came out of Deifol Hroth's abdomen and struck the sand.
The Archer fell to the beach, as time resumed its normal pace. He looked up.
The Lord of Lightning shook as the energy of the sky coursed through his body. His mouth was agape as he shook with pain. So, the lord of Lightning can be surprised, the Archer noted. The Old Man rushed to the Derragen and pulled him to his feet.
"Get the sword!" The Archer cried to the Old Man, who turned and scrambled for Bravilc.
Deifol Hroth grimaced and began pulling the metal fishing pike out, through his abdomen. All the while, lightning arced around his body. The sand under his feet began to melt to a sickening, blackened, puddled glass.
Deifol Hroth breathed heavily for a moment as he concentrated. The wound from the fishing pike, completely bloodless, began to close and instantly heal.
The Old Man pressed Bravilc, the elvish sword, into the Archer's hands. The Archer felt weak and unsteady. Deifol Hroth locked eyes with the Archer. The Archer bellowed a war cry and ran at the Lord of Lightning.
But, Deifol Hroth was a blur, moving past the Archer, a whip of wind, to where the Lhalíi lay on the sand.
Deifol Hroth had the Lhalíi cradled in one arm. He sneered. Then he burst upward with a blink of the eye, his evil form quickly disappearing in the heavens, flying to the southwest.
The Archer dropped Bravilc and ran to Josr. The mighty beast groaned at his touch.
"She's alive," the Archer breathed in thanks. Then he stumbled to where Grisn was beached. The massive Kaprk-Uusshu also stirred at his touch. "The brother lives, too."
The Archer gripped the Old Man. "I have my life, thanks to you," the Archer said. "But I must catch him."
The Archer began to hobble in the direction the Lord of Lightning flew.
"You're welcome," the Old Man said. "And, can you fly as well?"
The Archer turned and stared at the Old Man.
"I have to stop him! He has the crystal!" The Archer cried in terrified frustration.
"I did not know you well enough," the Old Man said with slight shame. "And so I hid my Hadley from you." Then he whistled long and loud.
From the high brush above the shore, a beautiful, roan stallion, with a brushy, roached mane, snorted and emerged from hiding. The horse trotted to the Old Man and received affection. As the stallion nuzzled the Old Man, the Archer could see the horse was clearly a battle steed that had seen better days.
"Hadley is old, but swift, take him," the Old Man said with sadness in his voice, as he patted the roan's muzzle.
"I will return him," the Archer said, sheathing Bravilc, and gathering up his bow and quiver. "I promise your horse will be returned to you. See to the great beasts. They will not harm you. Feed them fish, if you catch any."
The Old Man waved farewell, as the Archer leapt on the roan stallion and spurred him on.
Night closed fast as the Archer urged the stallion on, south, across the Eastern Meadowland. Hadley seemed to sense the Archer's determination and galloped with all his might.
Off to his left, the Archer could see on the horizon, a dark line of trees that was the northern edge of the Weald.
He rode Hadley in a straight line across the flat Eastern Meadowlands straight towards the River Syrenf and the citadel of Deifol Hroth.
The mother moon, Nunee rose. Soon behind her, the Wanderer, the second moon rose to trace its erratic path disturbed by the Lord of Lightning over a year ago.
The Archer thought he saw a line of human troops in the distance. But how can that be, the Archer thought. Every human in Wealdland is either hiding in Reia or amassed near the citadel. As he neared, the Archer saw that the troops were a transparent blue. He looked back and saw a line of garond ghosts gaining on him.
Hadley's eyes were wide and the animal whinnied in fear. The Archer reached down and patted the roan's neck.
"They have already left this world," the Archer said, "they will not harm us."
The Archer rode with the garond ghosts until they clashed with the human ghosts. Hadley plunged through the battle of specters with a high scream. But, the Archer and the horse rode on unharmed.
The Archer looked back to see the battling ghosts vanishing with the swirling mists of night. "The ghosts of the fallen of the Battle of the Eastern Meadowlands," the Archer said to himself.
More than halfway across the Eastern Meadowland, Hadley suddenly stumbled to a halt.
"What is it?" The Archer asked the horse. "Another apparition?"
The horse threw its head in answer.
"Who's there!" The Archer challenged.
"Did you bring me a goat to roast," a voice called from the shadows.
"Sehen!" The Archer cried and leapt from Hadley's back.
The blind sage stepped from the shadows to embrace Derragen.
"Are you real?" The Archer said with tears in his eyes. "Or just another specter?" The Archer gripped Sehen, still unsure if he was a specter, or flesh and blood.
"Nearly a ghost," the sage said, with a twinkle in his eye.
"But I have used the last Arrow of Yenolah!" The Archer cried. "All is lost!"
"Really?" Sehen said patting Hadley's neck. "After all I have taught you?"
"There may be hope," the Archer said controlling himself.
"There is always hope," Sehen said with a small smile. "Now, I have to teach you the last lesson."
"But-"
"Bow out, arrow nocked!" Sehen snapped.
As if by instinct, rather than choice, the Archer quickly flipped his bow off his shoulder and quickly nocked an arrow.
"Good," Sehen said. "What will you shoot at?"
"Deifol Hroth," the Archer said without thinking.
"Good," Sehen said. "Where is he?"
The Archer dropped his bow and arrow. "Far away," the Archer despondently said, "probably in his citadel by now."
"No!" Sehen snapped, twirling his staff up to knock the Archer's bow back up to shooting position. "Your target is where you want it to be, and you must trust your arrow to find it."
"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.