by K. J. Hargan
“Besides,” Baalenruud said, “your parents were pathetic. They never could have stood against me. They only killed me with a trick.”
“Enough!” Iounelle cried and whipped the Moon Sword of Berand Torler out of its scabbard. “You die in the name of Galehthaire and Veranelle! And I hope this life is your last!”
Baalenruud scurried through the bush, shimmering and shuddering, transforming back into a snake.
Iounelle slashed at her, missing, losing her in the mist.
“You must be faster than that,” Baalenruud hissed from the shadows. “And you must be much more skilled,” Baalenruud’s voice seemed to come from four different directions.
Iounelle turned, sword ready, not allowing Baalenruud to strike from behind. The elf kicked at the small fire she had made, kicking the embers to life. She slashed at a bush, hacking a branch away.
“You are a length away from me, leethchel (elfling),” Baalenruud hissed from several shadows.
“I was not striking at you,” Iounelle said as she quickly picked up the severed branch and thrust it into embers of her dying fire. The dry branch blazed to life with flame. “Now let’s see where you’re hiding,” Iounelle said through clenched teeth as she raised the improvised torch to light every shadow.
Baalenruud raised and hissed in his black adder form. Iounelle hacked at the snake, which leapt like a bolt of lightning.
Iounelle spun, and raised her sword to discover the adder curled over the Lhalíi.
“Now it is your turn to suffer,” Baalenruud hissed. The Lhalíi warmed to life, as Baalenruud coiled around the glowing crystal. The light was different this time. It seemed to bore into Iounelle’s mind. She was paralyzed, as her sword slipped from her hand. She fell to her knees as the Lhalíi began to flood her mind with information. Her face was blank, and she was unable to scream from the overwhelming pain of the smothering power of the crystal. Iounelle fell prone to the snow and dirt, as the Lhalíi deluged her mind.
Baalenruud slithered near, fangs dripping venom.
In the mist, Derragen was paralyzed with panic. He could hear Iounelle speaking loudly and in anger, but every time he thought he had closed on her location, he found he was still completely lost.
I am letting too many thoughts and fears overflow my mind, he thought to himself. How many times did Sehen tell me to still the waters of my mind?
Derragen closed his eyes. He breathed. He fought the urge to open his eyes and run in some, any direction.
What did he hear? Still the sound of men and garonds fighting. The wind. Nothing more.
What did he taste? Cold and snow.
What did he feel? Cold.
What did he smell? There it was! Imperceptible. Iounelle’s camp fire, burning the tart bark of the World Tree, Mildarilg. His heart leapt. He almost opened his eyes and ran in the direction of the faint whiff of smoke.
No. He said to himself. This mist feeds on fear and panic. It turns and diverts you. With his eyes still closed, Derragen, the Archer from Kipleth, stumbled in the direction of the slender ribbon of smoke he could barely detect.
When the scent of smoke was quite strong, he opened his eyes and saw the brilliant beacon of the Lhalíi. The Archer sprinted to the clearing as Baalenruud poised for a lethal strike on Iounelle’s comatose body.
“Viper!” Derragen shouted, and he drew Bravilc with a flash of light reflected from the blazing crystal.
“Ahhhhgh!” Baalenrrud cried and recoiled. “That sword! The shining sword!” She cried.
“You can speak!” Derragen said as he swung at the adder.
Baalenruud violently transformed in her human shape with spasms of pain. “Keep that blade away from me!”
“I’ll kill you if you’ve harmed her!” Derragen cried, raising the sword to skewer Baalenruud.
The aesir involuntarily brought his hand up to his left eye and fled crying in terror.
Derragen made sure the creature was gone, then fled to Iounelle’s side. She was alive, but still comatose. “Awake,” he said lightly slapping the elf, “oh, awake, my love.”
The Archer realized it was the Lhalíi which held the elf in its thrall.
He rose and stepped towards it, but the light enveloped him.
The Archer felt as though he was in a hallway of pulsing light. Ripples of sound played along his skin. He thought of the awful sound when the Wanderer, the second moon, was moved out of its orbit. This was similar but less strained, more flowing. Shapes of color moved in flowing clouds across his hands. He wasn’t sure exactly where he was.
Then.
The Archer was in an unfamiliar room. The walls were covered with intricate tapestries. The floors were exquisite marble. Three men with strange cloth wound around their heads held Iounelle. She was badly beaten and bleeding. The corpses of men, the elf had probably slain were scattered through out the room. A bloody sword lay nearby. It was Bravilc, the sword he held in his hand.
How is this possible? The Archer thought to himself.
Then across the room, a man with a bushy beard stepped towards Iounelle and raised a small, curious piece of metal to her head. He laughed. The bearded man’s finger gripped a lever on the metal device. The Archer wasn’t sure of what was happening. He wasn’t even sure if what he was seeing was real. But he knew in the depths of his soul that he was about to witness the murder of his beloved elf. Without thinking, in one fluid motion, Derragen sheathed the sword in his hand, flipped his bow off his shoulder, and nocked an Arrow of Yenolah. Before the bearded man could manipulate the metal tube, the arrow punctured his skull. He jerked back and the metal device exploded, harmlessly, with a bang. The men holding Iounelle dropped her in shock.
She looked up. “Derragen, my love! Come through!” She cried.
The Archer stepped back in involuntary shock, and as he did so, the light fled from him instantly and he was once again in the dark of night next to his prone elf, his bow in his hand. The Lhalíi’s light began to fade and Iounelle stirred to life, moaning.
“What happened?” Iounelle asked.
“I chased away the snake, and then...” Derragen was at a loss for words.
“Take me back to camp,” Iounelle weakly said.
The Archer helped the elf to her feet, just as the sound of human fighting garond became very loud. They both turned to see two garonds slashing at two humans, who stumbled through the bushes in retreat.
Derragen charged, whirling Bravilc, cutting the head clean from one garond, while one of the human soldiers turned and ran his sword through the other garond.
The soldiers looked up. The Archer was surprised to see Maginalius, the brother of Summeninquis, bravely holding up Haerreth of Reia, who was bleeding heavily from a mortal wound.
Chapter Five
The Great Lake of Ettonne
“To arms! To arms!” Arnwylf cried as garonds poured out of the ancient castle. But, instead of engaging the human army waiting in the wastes, the garonds ran to the east in a tight group, almost a thousand strong.
“Geleiden! Get our men up!” Arnwylf shouted to his captain. “Husvet! Make sure our rear is protected from an attack by Apghilis!” Both captains saluted and ran off to carry out their orders.
Conniker sprinted next to Arnwylf. “Shall I run ahead of you?” The white wolf asked.
“No stay close,” Arnwylf said. “There are too many.”
Arnwylf and fifty or so humans closed on the garonds. Suddenly, about a hundred turned to fight, while the main body of garonds continued running for the east.
Arnwylf and his men attacked with ferocity, and since they had the advantage of momentum, the garonds didn’t last long. However, the main body of garonds gained a slight advantage of distance.
Geleiden caught up to Arnwylf with the rest of the army.
“Don’t let them escape!” Arnwylf yelled, and the human army gave chase.
It had been an extremely dry winter in the north. The parched wastes were mostly dead heather and sh
ort scrub. And, as the garonds ran for their lives, a great dust was kicked up. The setting sun behind them illuminated the dust and made the fleeing garonds appear as brown ghosts, disappearing into the fury of the clouds of debris they kicked up.
Arnwylf looked back, but the rising dust made it impossible to tell if Apghilis and his army was following from behind.
The Brotherhood caught up, and organized themselves around Arnwylf, alternating man and wolf. There were forty two warriors bonded to wolves. But Husvet and another bonded warrior stayed at the back of the main group.
Another hundred garonds turned to fight, while the main body continued in their flight.
Arnwylf slashed his sword into two garonds at a time. Conniker worked beautifully with his brother, ripping throats and arms from garonds on Arnwylf’s undefended side. When one turned right, the other turned left. The boy and the wolf moved in an undeniable, lethal combination. The garond soldiers who faced him actually screamed in terror when they realized they were contending with the blonde, boy warrior.
The main body of fleeing garonds approached the river Gorenne, which ran north of the ruins of Ethgeow, into the Bight of Man. The garonds slogged into the shallow and muddy river, which was extremely low from the lack of normal winter rains.
Yet another hundred garonds stopped on the far banks of the river to engage the humans who were continually gaining on the fleeing garonds.
The garonds would have had the advantage with the humans having to slog up the banks of the dry river, but, with a command from Arnwylf, the forty wolves easily bounded up the river banks, tearing the garonds limb from limb. With the ferocity of the wolf attack, the human army was able to safely make their way up the riverbank to engage the remnant left to slow the chase.
The main body of fleeing garonds had lost about a third of their numbers as they reached the ruins of Ethgeow.
Arnwylf called his army to a halt. He had only lost ten or more soldiers out of his three hundred, and no wolves.
“Why do we halt?” Geleiden asked. “We are slaughtering them!”
“They have the advantage in the ruins,” Arnwylf darkly said. “They know the castle they have destroyed. They have the advantage of high ground, and they out number us two to one. This was Ravensdred’s strategy all along, to make for the ruins of Ethgeow. If he can survive here, with his starving army, he will most likely then break for the ruins of Glafemen, where again he will have a slight advantage.”
Arnwylf angrily paced back and forth and cursed himself for a fool, for allowing Ravensdred’s simple stratagem to work.
“He will whittle down both our armies so he can make the safety of the Far Grasslands,” Geleiden said, catching his breath from the exhaustion of the chase.
“He will have to cross the Bairn River. A smart move, since at this time of year it will be choked with ice and easy to cross,” Arnwylf said. “He hopes to travel down the coast of the Great Lake of Ettonne, that is now certain. He will be able to travel quickly over flat terrain, with very little human resistance.”
“He will not make it,” Geleiden said through clenched teeth, as he stared up at the burned the ruins Ethgeow, the devastated capitol of his once proud nation.
Arnwylf stopped his pacing and looked darkly at Geleiden.
“No, he will not,” Arnwylf said with a vicious, reassuring smile.
In the black remains of Ethgeow, Ravensdred snarled. “Why is he not attacking?” His garond forces were almost ready, hiding in all the places of advantage.
“That damn boy is smarter than I gambled.” The garond general turned to a captain and clouted him sharply. “Count our soldiers. I want a full accounting of our forces and readiness.”
The garond captain grunted in compliance, and scurried away rubbing his bruised head.
“Wait,” Ravensdred called. “First bring me three trustworthy, healthy soldiers.” The captain bowed twice and scuttled away.
Ravensdred turned to glare down on the frustrating human army which refused to fall into his trap.
Arnwylf warmed his hands on the small camp fire he had started. Geleiden hovered nearby. Two small portions of stew were brought to the young men by a soldier.
“Thank you,” Arnwylf said, as the soldier excused himself.
“They’re exposed up there,” Geleiden said. “They don’t have the defenses of the ancient castle. Ethgeow is just a ruin.”
“You don’t think its a trap?” Arnwylf said between mouthfuls.
“No, I’m certain it’s a trap,” Geleiden said. “But how do you counter a trap? Flank him? Sneak in at the dead of night?”
“He will be expecting all of those options,” Arnwylf said. “We must then do the unexpected.”
“Come quick!” Husvet said as he ran up, with Maldon, his black wolf at his heels.
Arnwylf and Geleiden dropped their bowls and briskly followed Husvet to the rear of the camp. Only a short distance away, the fires of Apghilis’ army could plainly be seen.
“They have followed us,” Husvet said with exhausted breaths.
“They’ve made camp,” Geleiden said worriedly shaking his dirty, curly, blonde hair.
“Send an emissary,” Arnwylf said to Husvet. “I want to talk to Apghilis immediately.”
Husvet spoke quietly to a nearby soldier who immediately trotted out towards Apghilis’ camp.
Arnwylf, Geleiden and Husvet quietly waited, with their wolves bristling by their sides.
The soldier immediately returned.
“They will not talk,” the soldier said breathlessly.
“They will not talk?” Geleiden said with surprise.
“Under no circumstances,” the soldier said. “I was told to return or I would be killed instantly, even as an emissary.”
“I will go,” Husvet said. “Maldon, stay,” Husvet said to his black wolf brother.
“Find out if he will attack our rear,” Arnwylf said, “or if he will join us in attacking in the morning.”
Husvet nodded, turned and trotted out towards Apghilis’ camp.
Arnwylf and Geleiden stood shivering in the cold of the falling night. The darkening sky was clear, and the stars were brilliant. The Great Lake of Ettonne was an ebony, flat expanse to the far east. The sweeping body of water was a placid table of blackness, with no visible far shore, punctuated with slowly drifting icebergs.
The finest salmon were caught in the Great Lake of Ettonne. Fisherman returned with boats bursting, heavy with large, silvery, tasty fish. With the garond invasion, most fishing towns had been abandoned to repulse the incursions of the garond armies.
“Well,” Geleiden muttered to himself, “Husvet’s taking a little longer than the emissary.”
“Perhaps he found someone to reason with,” Arnwylf said with a frown. “Let us hope he’s still safe.”
The wind picked up and began to blow a soft, chilled wind from off the massive lake. Several of the wolves in Arnwylf’s camp howled to locate Conniker, Maldon, and Lanner, Geleiden’s wolf. Arnwylf shushed the wolves, so they wouldn’t respond.
A shadow moved in the distance. Husvet walked slowly back to Arnwylf and Geleiden.
“They will not talk,” Husvet said.
“That’s bad news,” Geleiden said.
“I think they mean to attack our flank when we attack the garonds” Husvet said.
Nunee, the mother moon began to rise across the blackness of Ettonne in the east. The reflection of her light was a soft yellow, fragmented rippling across the infinite darkness of the lake. The Wanderer, the second moon would be rising right behind her.
“So you spoke my words exactly?” Arnwylf asked Husvet.
“Yes,” Husvet answered with puzzlement. “Word for word.”
“So they should believe we mean to attack in the morning,” Arnwylf said with a mischievous gleam in his eyes.
“It stands to reason,“ Geleiden said with a growing smile.
“They were pitching tents, and getting ready for sleep
,” Husvet said with a grin as he understood Arnwylf’s intention.
“It will be a bright night,” Geleiden said with something almost like a vicious glee, as his gaze wandered up to the Mother Moon.
“When the Wanderer crests Nunee,” Arnwylf said, suddenly serious with a shaded face, “that is when we attack. Let every soldier know. We must prepare quietly and silently, so as to not alert our foes before and behind us. Also, I need to discuss a plan with you two. But first, let us quietly spread the word.”
The three young men then surreptitiously returned to their camp, fanning out in three directions to move throughout the camp, readying their army.
Ravensdred wasn’t about to sleep. Sleep meant the enemy could take you unawares. His army was exhausted from the run to Ethgeow. But, they were exposed in the ruins, out in the open. When the humans attacked in the morning, they would have to run again, perhaps all day.
Ravensdred rose to inspect the sentries. The huge blackened stones of Ethgeow were so familiar to him. Once beautiful turrets, flying arches, and winding stone walls, all was now charred rubble. Melted mortar and shattered stone cast a black pall where the mighty city had once stood.
He had really enjoyed setting this human city on fire. The Northern Kingdom of Man was the pinnacle of human endeavor in Wealdland, like a bull stauer, the strongest of armies, a warrior culture. And, he had thrown them down and laid them to waste. He personally killed several athelings, the kingdom’s ranked lords, with his bare hands. The castle burned with a ferocity matched only by the sins of the Kingdom of Man.
It had been a happy, high point for the garond army. Every human feared garonds after Ethgeow. And, his armies moved with impunity throughout Wealdland.
If a human saw a garond a decade ago, they would have slain him, or worse, tried to communicate, patronizing with gestures of friendship and arrogant pity. Now when a human saw a garond, they ran, in the other direction, very fast. And it was Ethgeow that was the turning point.