The Archer From Kipleth (Book 2)

by K. J. Hargan

  “It’s still your move,” Deifol Hroth said with a mild voice, as he approached.

  Stavolebe was momentarily thrown into a panic. The sight of the chained human terrified him. But then, he remembered the game.

  Deifol Hroth softly stepped over to the marble playing table, with playing pieces set in mid game. It was a Jaefa Smiota game board inset with blue and green marble.

  Stavolebe had been brushing up on the game as much as he could. He even went to old Nostacarr, the master of the now decimated library of Old Rogar Li. Stavolebe looked up at the Lord of All Evil.

  Deifol Hroth looked as though He could have been no older than twenty five, even though it was rumored He was over nine hundred summers old. He was a human, once. He had sandy blonde hair, and was actually quite attractive. He was lean and a little above average in height. But, the emanation of evil pervasive from His person was like a smell which had no description. It made one nauseous at first, but eventually the feeling, or smell of intense evil could be tolerated very well.

  He also had no arms. His sleeves flapped empty on either side of his body.

  The thought of the most dangerous being in the world being so disfigured and helpless filled Stavolebe with a cold fear, too many things were moving beyond his control, too much of the great powers moved out of his sphere of influence. He felt insignificant and weak.

  But power could be obtained. Magic could be learned and controlled, that much Lord Stavolebe of the Weald knew. And he wanted it. He wanted it like a man dying of thirst dreams of a cool drink of water.

  Stavolebe gazed down at the board. He was losing. The Dark Lord had picked off all of his villagers like a cat toying with a mouse. He had lost both warriors, and now had only his lady and his counselors to protect his prince.

  He knew to always keep a counselor on the same section with the prince. This insured his prince would not be taken outright. His lady and other counselor huddled around his prince. He had to strike out. He had to make an offensive move. This cowering would never do. How could the Lord of Lightning ever trust him with the hidden secrets if he never showed courage and decisiveness?

  Stavolebe moved his lady out and around to flank Deifol Hroth’s untouched wall of warriors and villagers.

  Deifol Hroth softly laughed.

  “Did I move wrongly, Lord?” Stavolebe asked.

  “No, no,” the Dark One smiled. “I was waiting for you to decide you were a man. And, that day has come. Well done.”

  Stavolebe was filled with joy and fear. Would being strong be seen as rebellion?

  “I think I need to move my warrior around to speak to your lady,” Deifol Hroth murmured.

  Stavolebe was suddenly paralyzed with terror. Did he dare to touch the playing piece? The Great Lord of All Evil hadn’t asked him to do it. Would he be showing the Lord of Lightning His own weakness in being unable to move a single playing piece on a game board?

  Stavolebe looked up in fear. “Should I-?” He swallowed the last words in fear.

  “Should you what?” Deifol Hroth politely asked, his eyes two pits of merciless violence.

  Stavolebe blinked. He turned to indicate the board. And as he did, he saw the warrior piece moving on its own. Stavolebe gasped at the horrible implication. Here was the most dangerous thing in the world, seemingly helpless without his arms, who could move objects without touching them.

  Stavolebe fell to his knees, his hands clasped out in front in an attitude of cowardly begging.

  “Get up,” Deifol Hroth contemptuously said.

  Stavolebe weakly rose to his feet. His very soul was drained and beaten. He might as well be one of the transparent blue, murdered ghosts with tortured, twisted faces, slowly turning in the corners of the room.

  “Tell me all you’ve seen,” The Dark Lord commanded.

  “I went down to their camp, as instructed,” Stavolebe said with a growing fever, “there I found the Archer and the elf. I won their confidence.”

  Deifol Hroth softly snorted, and Stavolebe froze.

  “Go on,” Deifol Hroth said.

  “The elf has the moon sword, as you supposed,” Stavolebe weakly went on, “they also now have a crystal object the elf called the Lhalíi.”

  “Very good,” the Evil One said. “All is proceeding as I’ve foreseen. Getting the moon sword will be the most difficult.”

  “The elf is a most ferocious fighter, I’m told,” Stavolebe said.

  “And yet,” Deifol Hroth gently smiled, “I have seen that she will give it to you of her own free will.”

  “How will that occur?” Stavolebe asked, then caught himself for being so stupid as to question the Lord of All Evil.

  Deifol Hroth gently laughed. “I don’t know,” He said, “that is hidden from me.”

  “But at least you already have the sun sword,” Stavolebe said trying to win favor.

  Suddenly Deifol Hroth was very still. “No,” he said, “I just lost it. That damn fool, Ravensdred.”

  Stavolebe was careful not to criticize the Dark Lord’s other underlings. The Lord of Lightning was not swayed at all by politics.

  “Go down,” Deifol Hroth commanded, “and watch your charges carefully. You are not my only pair of eyes amongst the humans, but you are my most useful.”

  “Oh, you mean Apghilis, don’t you, Lord?” Stavolebe was feeling happy, having been praised.

  “Apghilis?” Deifol Hroth sneered. “That fool had better stay far from me. No I have other spies. It’s best that you not know whom, nor fraternize with any you suspect of working for me. Simply stay-”

  Deifol Hroth suddenly froze as though He was peering into time. His gaze was placid and focused.

  “My dear Arnwylf,” Deifol Hroth said to an empty wall.

  Stavolebe looked about, but he and the Lord of Lightning were alone with the chained human, who most certainly was not the reputed Lord Arnwylf of Bittel.

  “I am right here,” Deifol Hroth said in response to an unheard challenge. “I am right where you will give me the Mattear Gram, and your hand.”

  The Dark Lord seemed to be seeing into time, into future events. Stavolebe held his breath as the air in the chamber became thick. Even with no ceiling, no roof on the topmost chamber, stars twinkling overhead in the black heavens, Stavolebe was suffocating.

  “I will,” Deifol Hroth said to empty space. “I will.” Then He turned to look at Stavolebe as though He had just entered the room.

  “Pardon the interruption,” Deifol Hroth said with a smile as He gathered himself.

  Stavolebe could only shake his head in fear.

  “Do you have any questions?” Deifol Hroth said with a slight tilt of His head. Stavolebe could only shake his head.

  “If I were in your shoes” Deifol Hroth said with a moment of honesty, “I would wonder... what does the Great Lord of All Evil fear.”

  Stavolebe’s mouth dropped open. It was something he had often wondered. In that instant he wondered if Deifol Hroth could read minds, or if He was just incredibly astute at reading human behavior after nearly a millennium of life.

  “I will tell you what the Dark Lord of Magic fears,” Deifol Hroth said leaning in close and speaking softly. “I fear the aberrant, insignificant, random action that can unravel a century of planning and effort. Any fool can learn to see through time. Farsight is simple, but not written in stone. Everything can change with one fool individual’s unforeseen actions. A termite who bites just once, in the wrong place and the wrong time, can topple the mightiest of oaks. I fear the stupid, blundering chance that I can never prophesy, nor plan against.”

  Deifol Hroth turned to look out of one of the eight small windows of the tower room. He seemed to be seething with anger. Stavolebe was certain his life would end in the next instant.

  “All of this life and struggle,” The Dark Lord mused, “so easy to end. I’ve killed tens of thousands. Personally. With my own hands. But... why? Why do I do it?”

  Deifol Hroth turned to fix S
tavolebe with a defiant stare, expecting an answer.

  “I don’t know...” Stavolebe was able to squeak.

  “You’ve killed,” Deifol Hroth said. “What did you feel in the moment you ended Lord Argotine’s life?”

  Stavolebe could only stare at the Dark Lord, pleading with his eyes, his hands involuntarily raised in self defense.

  “You want power,” Deifol Hroth hissed. “And yet you refuse to understand. Do you believe that the living have a soul?”

  Stavolebe dumbly nodded.

  “Rightly so” Deifol Hroth said. “And when that soul leaves its mortal body, the fabric of all that is made, this reality, is disturbed. The more unfortunate the death, the more violent, the greater the disturbance, the greater the tear in that fabric.” Deifol Hroth stopped to see if Stavolebe understood. Satisfied, He continued, “More and more violent deaths, all in one instant, and...”

  “You can tear all that is real apart,” Stavolebe said in horror.

  “Yes,” Deifol Hroth hissed. A look of pure anger and hatred crossed the Dark Lord’s face. “Our Parent, Our Creator treats us like little puppets, little sheep, playthings for amusement. We are set in motion with every day, every moment predicted. The contempt the Creator feels for us is infinite,” Deifol Hroth said with a snarling hiss. A rage played across His face. “I will not be anyone’s plaything. I will tear down this stage. I will burn this facade! Playtime is over!”

  A chilling silence filled the tower room. The night was cold and merciless. Curls of furious mist tangled up from the field below.

  “Draw your weapon,” Deifol Hroth said, and Stavolebe immediately obeyed.

  Deifol Hroth turned, and the frozen souls floating in the corners of the room coalesced in front of him.

  “Slay that one,” Deifol Hroth said to Stavolebe, indicating the human chained to the wall. “And open yourself, listen, feel, see the infinite shudder as reality is torn asunder at the instant of your act of murder.”

  Without hesitation, Stavolebe turned and plunged his sword into the poor chained man. In the same instant, the frozen souls screamed off into the next life.

  Stavolebe felt a rush of power. He felt the will to determine his own destiny. He felt the power of the almighty.

  “Yes,” the Dark Lord breathed. “Now you understand. You felt it. You can now finally be my vessel.”

  “What do the magical objects do? The ones you seek?” Stavolebe blurted out in a moment of strength. Then, he was immediately frightened by his own boldness.

  Deifol Hroth turned and slightly smiled at the impudence.

  “They work together,” Deifol Hroth said softly. “You will understand absolutely, clearly, when the time comes. Do not question until that moment arrives.”

  Overhead in the night sky, the second moon, the Wanderer crested the edge of the tower room.

  Deifol Hroth suddenly seemed enchanted, happy.

  “Look,” He said to Stavolebe. “What do you see?”

  “The Wanderer,” Stavolebe carefully said.

  “No,” the Dark Lord said. “She is my child. I brought her here. I gave birth to her. I pulled her out from the celestial spheres and placed her there.” He stopped to remember. “I gave my arm to bring my child to you.”

  “And the Archer took your other arm,” Stavolebe said in sympathy.

  Deifol Hroth turned to fix Stavolebe with a stare which spoke volumes about His feelings of hatred for the Archer. And Stavolebe knew he had better not continue his line of thought.

  “What do you think of my child?” Deifol Hroth said, again gazing up at the rogue moon.

  Stavolebe looked up at the moving, glowing moon. It moved too fast. It seemed unstable, dangerous. It’s path across the night sky was crooked, deadly. And then Stavolebe understood.

  “You are going to bring it down, down to earth,” Stavolebe said, his throat catching.

  “Yes,” Deifol Hroth hissed.

  “You will kill so many,” Stavolebe said, his breath accelerating.

  “Yes,” Deifol Hroth hissed.

  “You will kill everyone. You will destroy the earth,” Stavolebe tried, but failed to swallow.

  “YES,” Deifol Hroth hissed. “And how does that make you feel?”

  Stavolebe gazed up at the Wanderer. It had a certain, deformed beauty. It was thrilling, sensual.

  “I want the power it can give,” Stavolebe said with a heavy breath.

  Deifol Hroth tipped back His head and laughed a long, loud, vicious laugh.

  “You will have more power than you ever dreamed of, little human,” the Dark Lord crowed. “You may even rival me.”

  “I intend to,” Stavolebe deliriously whispered to himself.

  “However,” Deifol Hroth said, suddenly serious. “Your education is woefully incomplete.”

  “Teach me!” Stavolebe exclaimed.

  “So eager,” Deifol Hroth shook his head. “So eager.”

  Deifol Hroth turned and stared at a skull, still red from its brutal death, and it rose from its shadow in the corner. The skull hovered right in front of Deifol Hroth. “Take it,” He said to Stavolebe.

  Stavolebe gently reached out and grasped the bloody skull.

  “Do you understand the nature of good and evil, Lord Stavolebe?” Deifol Hroth asked.

  Stavolebe was about to reply gallantly, but then he caught himself in light of all the revelations of the last few moments. Then, he shook his head.

  “Good, good,” Deifol Hroth sneered. “An open mind, is a teachable mind.”

  The Dark Lord stepped very close to Stavolebe to stare closely at his face.

  “Did you ever visit the city of the elves?” Deifol Hroth quietly said. “Before its destruction,” he said with a smile.

  “No, no,” Stavolebe stammered.

  “The crystal object you saw,” Deifol Hroth said, “the Lhalíi had a temple in the old city. Four sloping sides meeting at one point at the top.”

  “A pyramid.”

  “Yes. No. The angles, the lines curved too much. But that is unimportant. Inside were eight chambers, all oriented around the central chamber that housed the Sun Shard. Each chamber was on a different level, positioned around the Lhalíi on the eight paths of wisdom. Do you know of the eight paths?”

  “No...” Stavolebe said, becoming inexplicably frightened.

  “No matter,” Deifol Hroth smiled. “The lowest point would put you in a chamber directly underneath the crystal. You would spiral around the Lhalíi, in each chamber, asking a question, contemplating answers, until you arrived at the last chamber, directly above the Vananth Indelune, as the ancients called the Lhalíi. You were supposed to understand every nuance, every shade of gray, every rationale, good or evil. But when I came out of the temple, I laughed in Morinnthe’s face.” The Lord of All Evil smiled at the memory. “He didn’t like that, not on his wedding day.”

  “Why did you laugh?” Stavolebe carefully asked.

  “Because of the question I asked of the Lhalíi,” Deifol Hroth said.

  Stavolebe wracked his brain. What question could the Lord of All Darkness ask? What knowledge did He lack? Why would He laugh at the answer He received?

  “I didn’t ask anything,” Deifol Hroth said. “I didn’t need to know anything. I laughed because those fool elves couldn’t see, that no matter what you learned, no matter how you saw a question, from any of the myriad possibilities, you always went into, and out of the temple in the middle. The exact, gray, boring, useless middle. The middle! All life is gray. Completely worthless! No matter what you do, no matter what you create, all will erode, fall to decay with time. The greatest kings have erected the most amazing castles. You would stare in disbelief at the structures I’ve seen, Stavolebe. And every one has fallen, been crushed, collapsed, and been picked clean by predecessors like the scavengers that scour a rotting corpse left to decompose in the woods. Every effort and idea, every emotion and relationship is swept away, meaningless dust in the empty winds of time!”


  Stavolebe was about to speak, but then caught himself, because he was still confused.

  “I destroyed the Lhalíi temple out of pure contempt,” Deifol Hroth said. “I didn’t use a single brick for my citadel, that’s how much I despised their... methods.”

  “But you used the bricks of the walls,” Stavolebe said, hoping for more knowledge. “And the bricks of the towers.”

  “These bricks,” The Dark One said stroking the black bricks of the chamber, which undulated and vibrated a bone rattling, deep growl at His touch. “These bricks are alive... in a fashion... like an insect. They are an extension of the mind they surround. I thought the walls would fall with the death of the last elf, and was surprised when they didn’t. When I heard of the final elf, the girl, still alive, I was not surprised. Her life kept the bricks coherent. They have no intelligence or reasoning, but are filled with response to the correct stimulus.”

  And then Deifol Hroth turned to pierce Stavolebe with a stare.

  “Which brings us,” The Lord of Lightning said, “to your pitiful education. How does the skull feel in your hand?”

  Stavolebe had forgotten he was still holding the skull of a human murdered not less than a day ago.

  “It feels cold” Stavolebe softly said.

  “You must understand stimulus and response” Deifol Hroth said. “You must understand the ‘gray’ in everything. Listen to pain speak in words too loud to be heard. You must feel the fabric of all that is, and, impossible as it seems, understand how it can be undone.”

  The skull in Stavolebe’s hands began to move and vibrate. Deifol Hroth tipped His head back and closed his eyes.

  “Don’t fight it,” the Dark One said.

  Stavolebe could feel every brick in the citadel shaking. The skull in his hands shook so violently he had to hold on with all his might. His body buzzed like a black, nervous insect. He couldn’t feel the skull in his hands, although he knew he was still holding it. All the world went white.

  Then.

  Stavolebe was a young child. But he knew it wasn’t his childhood. It must be, he thought, I am in the body of some, strange young child. He stood up. His sister was staring at him and screaming. He had been hit on the head by a heavy object. Blackness dripped in front of his eyes like a curtain. He reached up his hand to his forehead and brought back a handful of blood. The terror was too much to comprehend.