by K. J. Hargan
More men wandered over to watch the beams being set with wooden pegs and lashed ropes. A large piece of canvas was spread out on the turf of the Syrenf Plain.
Two huge wooden wheels were set on either side of the large, box-like structure.
A wide basket that had been waiting in preparation was brought from the encampment and lashed to the large piece of canvas.
"Help me," the lead assistant called to several men, who walked over and helped him hold an opening of the canvas over the fire the kindler had started. The canvas began to billow and puff up. The men exclaimed to each other as the balloon with the basket beneath began to billow up like an enormous mushroom.
The arrow steward arrived. "Do you remember me?" The steward asked the Archer.
"You were my steward at the Battle of the Eastern Meadowlands," Derragen said with a smile. "It is an honor to have you be my arrow steward once again."
The canvas balloon strained at the ropes tied to the axle and wheel mechanism. It was a staggering spectacle never before seen in all of Wealdland. The basket underneath swayed back and forth with unnerving vigor.
"We'd best hurry," the lead assistant said, "before they start taking target practice at this thing."
"If it is punctured by an arrow, will it fall?" The Archer asked with chagrin.
"Most probably," The lead assistant answered with a frown.
"You do not have to go up with me," Derragen said to the arrow steward.
"Try to stop me," the arrow steward said with a brave smile.
The two men climbed into the large reed basket. The kindler handed the arrow steward a brazier hot with red coals. The ballooning canvas creaked with the hot air inside trying to escape. The reed basket crackled with every jarring motion.
Several men held a rope, wound around the axle, connecting the two wooden wheels. Six men let the rope out and the basket, with the balloon slowly rose.
The Archer looked about in amazement. The ground was slowly receding. Before them, the wall of mist hid Deifol Hroth's citadel.
A sudden snap below jerked the basket. The Archer heard men yelling below, and looked over the edge to see the men who had been holding the rope sitting on the ground as though they had fallen, a broken rope in their hands.
But, Grisn had leapt forward and jammed his massive curling horns under the wooden wheel, keeping the rope from playing out and sending the Archer and his arrow steward out into the heavens. The Kaprk-Uusshu bleated in pain, forcing its huge rack against the wooden wheel. Grisn pawed at the turf of Syrenf to keep his horns tight against the only thing keeping the Archer and his arrow steward anchored.
Then, the Archer saw Josr leap forward and take the broken rope in her mouth. She dug in her heels and held the rope.
"We almost just floated free," the Archer said with restrained horror to the arrow steward.
"Don't tell me anything," the steward said without emotion. The poor man was frozen with fear and looking only at the floor of the basket.
The basket and balloon began to slowly rise again.
"Get my arrows ready," the Archer said to the steward. "It will take your mind off the height."
The steward set about preparing several arrows to be set alight. He checked the brazier. And as the Archer had said, his fear began to leave him. His hands were steady and his face calm as he made his preparations.
The Archer peered out at the wall of white mist. He thought that he saw the top of the citadel. Yulenth had told him that the uppermost level had no roof, so the Lord of Lightning could leave and arrive by flying. The Archer thought of the Evil One flying out of the top of the citadel as they ascended, and had to still a little shiver.
The morning sun, behind them, just cleared the low horizon in the east. The tops of the trees far way shone with gold. The day was clear and warm. It felt almost like a summer day. The bright morning sun reflected on the unnatural mist with a blinding glare and made sighting the tower of the citadel difficult. The Archer shaded his eyes with his hand.
"There! I see it!" The Archer cried. "Arrow!"
The arrow steward handed the Archer an arrow already aflame. The Archer carefully set the arrow on his bow string. The vile mists swirled. The edge of the top of the citadel came into view through a clearing.
The wind began to pick up and the balloon shifted to the north. Without hesitation, the Archer hooked a leg around a rope and leaned out of the basket. The Archer hung suspended out in the open air.
This must be what it feels like to fly, he thought to himself.
The Archer let the burning arrow sing from his bow. It arced slowly, a burning, falling star, and landed perfectly in the circle of the top of the tower of the citadel.
For a moment the Archer remembered with astonishment the farsight vision Wynnfrith had spoken of, the vision she had in Rion Ta, just after Frea was captured. She told the Archer that she had seen him flying and raining arrows down like stars. The Archer allowed the astonishment of the thought to leave his consciousness, and he focused on the task at hand.
"Another!" The Archer commanded. The arrow steward expertly handed Derragen another burning arrow.
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 th
e 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 po
int 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.