The Archer From Kipleth (Book 2)

by K. J. Hargan

  “We are of the Northern Kingdom of Man,” the soldier said, “and are a proud race. Most of the soldiers of Man do not like how you move across our land with impunity. We now know it was foolishness, and that Apghilis is a liar.”

  “And how many do not see their foolishness and do believe Apghilis?” Arnwylf asked.

  The soldiers muttered to each other. Then their leader stepped forward.

  “We feel as though you ask us to betray our brothers,” the soldier carefully said.

  “What is your name?” Arnwylf asked.

  “I am Cargent,” the soldier said. “I was once an atheling of the Kingdom of Man. And so, I have a right to leadership.”

  “Well, Cargent,” Arnwylf coldly said, “You may fight with us, if you believe it is the right thing to do. But you have no right to lead here in this army. If you desert us as you have deserted Apghilis, expect no future mercy.” Arnwylf paused, and looked to see his father sternly staring at him. “I am glad you now know Apghilis is a liar,” Arnwylf gently said. “I welcome you with open arms. May you help us free all of Wealdland with honor.”

  The soldiers all dropped to one knee and swore fealty to Arnwylf.

  “See that they are fed and made to feel comfortable with the troops,” Arnwylf said to Husvet.

  Then, Arnwylf turned to Geleiden. “Discreetly see if any more information may be gleaned from these men. I do not want spies in our midst.”

  Geleiden saluted and stalked away.

  Then a muttering arose from the whole army as a lanky member of the Messenger Guild arrived with a bursting leather satchel.

  “Hermergh!” Arnwylf cried with pleasure to the arriving courier.

  “Lord Arnwylf,” Hermergh said, and bowed. Arnwylf bit his lip.

  “I have many missives for many soldiers,” Hermergh continued, “And one specially for the general.” With that, Hermergh handed a sealed envelope to Arnwylf, and then began dispersing other letters to the troops.

  Arnwylf took the letter into his tent. It was from Frea.

  “My love,” she wrote, “I miss you every day. I long to see your beautiful face, and yearn to hear your voice. Please take a day or more to visit here in New Rogar Li. I miss you so. Ronenth sees to my every need, but I fear that he longs for what he cannot have, my love, which I freely give to you. Yours eternally, Frea.”

  Arnwylf smiled a wry smile, then took up pen and paper.

  “Frea,” he wrote, “the battle to reclaim the Mattear Gram continues, and I will never abandon the quest to retrieve it. Let Ronenth know he has a right to pursue his dream, as does every human of Wealdland. Arnwylf.”

  Arnwylf sealed the letter. Then he thought better of sending it, and held the letter to a flame.

  “Better to say nothing, than hurtful words,” Arnwylf said to himself.

  Then, Arnwylf put down his quill, and from amongst his belongings, he pulled out a strand of woven fibers Frea had made for him when they were still children in Bittel, their home village. His mind went back to the day when, with sunlight haloing her flame red hair, she had carefully put the strand into his hands.

  Frea was a beautiful girl. Her nose was straight, angular and small, her face lightly freckled. Her skin was fair and pale like the finest alabaster. Her cheekbones were high and finely swept up to her eyes. The line of her neck was graceful and athletic. Her chin and jaw were firm, but not too masculine. Her eyes were a fine, sky blue. Her lips were a pink, the color of the simple, five petaled roses that grew in long, spiky vines in Bittel in the summer. Her hair was flame red, and lightly curled. She never cut or styled it, so her long hair whipped around her gorgeous head like a nimbus of fire. Her fingers were long and thin. And although she bit her fingernails, her hands were always graceful and poised.

  Arnwylf put his face in his hands with the painful memory of the girl he loved.

  “Arnwylf,” Husvet called from without. “Your meal.”

  “Bring it in, please,” Arnwylf said.

  Husvet, followed by Conniker, brought into the tent a humble portion of stew and bread. “There is more, if you want it,” Husvet said.

  “No more or less than any soldier in this army,” Arnwylf said, taking the meal and giving half the bread to his wolf.

  Husvet smiled. “There is still this matter of the new wolf.”

  “If they truly wish to join the Brotherhood,” Arnwylf said between mouthfuls, “they will have patience. Please sit,” Arnwylf said to Husvet.

  Husvet found a wooden box on which to sit.

  “Have you eaten?” Arnwylf asked, offering to share his meal.

  “I have,” Husvet said holding up his hand, but even if he was starving he wouldn’t have taken anything.

  “Tell me,” Arnwylf said, “what is your opinion of the divisions that still remain amongst the humans of Wealdland?”

  “Well,” Husvet scratched his dark hair, “all humans feel a need to belong to the land and nation of their birth. But with the shattering of all nations recently, new factions and alliances are springing up in all the parts of Wealdland.”

  “Like the Sons of Yenolah, and the Children of Lanis?” Arnwylf asked.

  “Precisely,” Husvet said. “It is as if they have, dissatisfied with their lineage, created new nations.”

  “Like the Brotherhood?” Arnwylf asked.

  “Ah, that is different,” Husvet continued. “We are a clan of unique warriors, but not a nation. I still consider myself of Kipleth, and of the Wylfling tribe.”

  “The men of Kipleth fought alongside both the men of Reia, and the soldiers of the Kingdom of Man in their wars against each other, did they not?”

  “I was too young to participate in any of those wars,” Husvet said. “Unfortunately, because Kipleth lies between Reia and the Kingdom of Man, our people were often drawn into conflicts that profited them nothing.”

  Arnwylf wiped the last vestiges of the stew from his plate with his bread, leaving Conniker to eagerly lick what was left. “Let us prove this new bond,” he said, and rose to leave his tent.

  As Arnwylf and Husvet strode through the camp with their wolves by their sides, other warriors with bonded wolves rose and joined them, until there were forty warriors striding next to their wolves.

  Arnwylf came to a clearing and gestured. The warriors and their wolves formed a ring, alternating man and wolf.

  “Bring them in,” Arnwylf commanded. A thin man entered the circle with a greasy looking, sickly thin, timber wolf.

  “What are your names?” Arnwylf demanded.

  “I am Bowlard and this is my wolf, Gertus,” the thin man responded. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

  Arnwylf held up his hand for silence. “Only speak when you are spoken to,” he said. “This is a solemn rite.”

  Bowlard nodded his head in understanding.

  “When human is bonded to wolf,” Arnwylf proclaimed, “it is for life. It is for death.”

  The faces of the encircled warriors were serious and reverent.

  “When human is bonded to wolf,” Arnwylf continued, “it is a sacred and an unbreakable bond. Human and wolf become one. Are you ready, Bowlard?”

  “I am ready,” Bowlard said.

  “Are you ready, Gertus?” Arnwylf asked the wolf, who seemed overwhelmed and nervous.

  “She’s ready,” Bowlard answered.

  Arnwylf frowned in disapproval. “Let us get this done with. Bowlard, we need to see you fight as one with your wolf. Do not strike any mortal blows, and none will be struck upon you. You and your wolf must fight as one. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” the thin man nervously answered.

  “Begin,” Arnwylf said, and pointed to several warriors in the circle. Three warriors advanced with their wolves by their side.

  Bowlard deflected the blows of the proving warriors, but Gertus simply cowered by his side.

  “Stop,” Arnwylf commanded, and let his frustration subside. “Bowlard, you and your wolf must fight as one. Does she un
derstand this?”

  “She will,” Bowlard said with a pathetic smile. Then he rapped his wolf on the head and kicked her. “Pay attention,” he said to her.

  Every wolf in the circle bristled.

  “Bowlard,” Arnwylf quickly said, “you may not be admitted to the Brotherhood. No Wolf Warrior would ever abuse their wolf companion as you have just done.”

  “But, I- I-” Bowlard stammered.

  “It is best for you to leave,” Arnwylf said. “Go to the people of the Weald, or to Reia. I cannot assure your safety among the wolves of our army because of your actions just now. The wolf will stay with us, until she has some understanding of the life we offer. But you must go. Now.”

  Bowlard held his hands up, pleading. But he quickly realized, the severity of Arnwylf’s words as he saw the cold, angry stares of the wolves all about him. Bowlard quickly fled the circle.

  The other wolves gathered around Gertus, sniffing. And, Gertus did what all good wolves would do, she rolled on her back and urinated in an act of complete submission.

  Arnwylf strode away from the circle with Conniker by his side. Husvet and Geleiden followed him.

  “Why do you waste my time like this?” Arnwylf angrily said to Geleiden.

  “I apologize” Geleiden said. “It won’t happen again.”

  The camp stirred with the arrival of a messenger, who immediately sought out Arnwylf.

  “Great Arnwylf,” the messenger said. “I bear a message from High Atheling Apghilis.”

  Arnwylf froze in his tracks. And, then he turned to the messenger, his eyes ablaze.

  “What message dare he send to me?” Arnwylf coldly said.

  “He wishes to march his troops to the ruins of Ethgeow to pay his respects to the dead of his wasted capitol.”

  “Am I correct,” Arnwylf slowly said, “in understanding that your sovereign, the traitor who slew my father, wishes to march his army behind my troops, flanking me between themselves and the garonds?”

  “I do not- I do not-” the messenger stammered.

  “It is better from him to prepare to do battle with my army than even suggest such a foolish notion,” Arnwylf paused, then said. “Tell your master my response is that he can go to hell.”

  The messenger was dumbstruck, bowed his head several times, and then scurried away.

  “Apghilis’ additional troops could make us enough of an army to storm the castle,” Geleiden carefully said.

  Arnwylf turned to look at his friend in angry wonder. “Whom have you been serving this past year?” Arnwylf said with a pale face.

  “You, you-” Geleiden stuttered, knowing he had gone too far. “I beg your forgiveness. I shouldn’t have spoken thusly.”

  Arnwylf turned to confront Husvet, but a shocking revelation took hold of him. All about him, every person in the camp stood still. Water pouring from a ladle was stopped in mid motion. A wolf leaping high at his brother’s command was suspended in the air. The fingers of flame from a fire froze in an impossible moment of suspense.

  “My dear Arnwylf,” a voice from the very depths of evil spoke.

  Arnwylf turned to see Deifol Hroth standing in his camp, a short distance away. He was as he remembered him from his first meeting in Harvestley, a tall attractive, blonde haired young man wearing a sky blue tunic, but both of his sleeves hung empty and lifeless. And like the previous time, the emanations of evil were so overpowering, it made him nauseous.

  “How-?” Arnwylf stammered.

  “Take Apghilis’ offer,” the soft voice of pure evil purred. “Then you may slaughter him at your convenience. It is best to keep your enemies close.”

  “I have honor,” Arnwylf said, “unlike you.”

  “Honor, righteousness, truth,” Deifol Hroth said slowly walking closer, “these are words. And, words are nothing but emptiness. Join with me and know real power. I can give you weapons, you merely wave your finger, and your enemies will burn as twigs in a bonfire.”

  “Do not listen to him,” Kellabald said, appearing.

  “Do not worry, Father,” Arnwylf said with the foolhardy braveness of a young man, “he has nothing to say to me that I care to hear.”

  “No?” Deifol Hroth whispered as he neared. “These two,” he nodded his head at Husvet and Geleiden on either hand, “one of these two will betray you. I can tell you which one it will be.”

  “I do not believe you,” Arnwylf said.

  “If you join with me” the Dark Lord of Magic cooed, “you can live forever, have any woman you desire, take the riches of the earth for your own, and possess any kingdom.”

  “I desire to live my life as an honest, honorable man, like my father,” Arnwylf said.

  Kellabald smiled triumphantly.

  “The oracles say it is you, Arnwylf who will destroy me,” Deifol Hroth said.

  “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 an
d 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?”