The Archer From Kipleth (Book 2)

by K. J. Hargan

  “Look!” A sharp eyed Child of Lanis cried, pointing down the trail.

  “Garonds,” Iounelle breathed. “They’re attacking humans.”

  Barely a speck on the horizon, the dark, violent shapes of garonds contorted as they attacked a cluster of humans they had surrounded. The humans didn’t have long to live.

  “Archers!” Derragen cried. “At a sprint!”

  Five of the best archers of the Sons of Yenolah, and five of the best archers of the Children of Lanis ran at an all out pace behind the Archer from Kipleth.

  As the Archer neared, he saw an old man, an old woman, and a young child fighting a good defensive fight with sword and spear. But there were at least twenty garonds, and they were becoming more vicious in their attacks.

  “Pick a target!” Derragen commanded. “Each will have to kill two.” The Archer nocked a bronze arrow. Then he whistled loud and long. The garond’s heads popped up with the whistle, and a great murderous growl went out from the platoon of garonds.

  Half the garonds left the easy fight against the three humans, and turned to run directly at the sprinting line of archers.

  Derragen knew almost precisely the maximum distance of his slim, yellow yew bow. At a run, he needed to compensate for the uneven ground, and the hammering of his heart.

  “Deep breaths!” The Archer cried to his phalanx of the sharpest archers.

  “Ready!” Derragen cried. “Fire”

  Eleven arrows darted from the line of running humans. Eleven garonds fell dead on the brown dried, winter grasses of the Eastern Meadowland.

  The garonds attacking the three humans roared and left off their attack. They turned and charged the greater threat.

  Without breaking stride, Derragen cried, “Once again, just like before! Deep breaths!”

  The charging garonds spread out perfectly, making them ten easy targets.

  “Fire!” Derragen cried. Eleven arrows zipped through the air. But one garond was hit with two arrows. Two of Derragen’s archers had sited on the same garond, leaving one last garond who was closing much too fast.

  Derragen quickly reached back to his quiver. He instinctively pulled an Arrow of Yenolah and nocked it. He hesitated for a moment. He didn’t want to use his precious arrow, but the garond was nearly on top of him. Derragen released and the thick, black Arrow of Yenolah flashed straight through the barking garond, who fell stone dead at the Archer’s feet.

  The line of archers began to cheer with their success.

  But Derragen would have none of it. He stalked forward searching for the Arrow of Yenolah which had passed completely through the garond. He jogged forward scanning the crisp, frosted grass.

  The three humans who were initially being attacked trotted up to the Archer.

  “Thank you, thank you!” An old man said. “You certainly saved our lives. I am Len.”

  “And you are Annen,” the Archer said indicating the older woman. “And you must be Faw,” the Archer said to the young boy.

  “But how did you know?” Annen said in wonder.

  “The story of how you saved Arnwylf in Harvestley is well known to me and my elf companion,” Derragen said.

  “You are the Archer from Kipleth!” Faw exclaimed.

  “I am,” Derragen said. “But if you will excuse me, I must find my special arrow.”

  “The black arrows!” Annen said.

  “Yes,” the Archer replied.

  Annen, Len and Faw, and the hand picked archers spread out looking for the spent Arrow of Yenolah. The elf and the rest of the soldiers caught up.

  “I’ve lost an Arrow of Yenolah,” the Archer said to the elf with a frown.

  “That means you’ve only the one left,” the elf grimly said.

  “Here it is!” Faw cried with joy, holding aloft the large black arrow of curious design.

  “Praise Eann,” the Archer said.

  ”Rather praise the sharp eyes of a bold child,” the elf murmured to the Archer.

  “Thank you so much,” The Archer said to Faw. “Are you headed to New Rogar Li? You can come with us.”

  “We are going back to the Madrun Hills to scour our home of the garond scum,” Len said with bravery.

  “I will send a soldier with you,” the Archer said. “Alyngen!” The Archer called, and a thin, young archer with dark hair and blue eyes jumped to attention. “Alyngen, you will accompany Len, Annen and Faw. See that no harm comes to them. Whatsoever.”

  Alyngen snapped a smart salute.

  “I have a special request of you,” the Archer said to Faw. Then Derragen bent low and whispered in the boy’s ear. “Do you understand?” The Archer asked, and Faw eagerly nodded his head.

  “Fair you well,” Derragen said. “Alyngen is my best soldier. He is more than any match for any garond.” Alyngen smiled a sharp smile at the chance to see more action. Then, the four said goodbye and traveled west.

  The march to new Rogar Li was resumed and many other humans traveling to and from the great city were encountered.

  The houses and halls of New Rogar Li stood out against the early evening sky. A platoon of soldiers hailed the Archer’s column.

  “Are you come to join us?” A soldier asked.

  “We are always ready to help,” the Archer answered.

  “No,” the soldier said. “I mean to camp with General Arnwylf, to spite the citizens of New Rogar Li.”

  “Spite?” The elf questioned.

  “Go into the city,” the soldier said. “You will understand.”

  The platoon went on their way to the north, as Derragen and Iounelle led their soldiers into New Rogar Li.

  The reception from the wealdkin could not have been colder if it was blizzarding.

  “What has happened?” The Archer wondered aloud. Then to a passing citizen Derragen asked, “Can you please direct me to the house of Queen Alrhett?”

  The citizen rudely pointed down the street and then went on his way without saying a word. The Archer and the elf shared a worried look, then continued searching for the home of the Queen of the Weald.

  The Archer was astounded by the sullen angry stares of the wealdkin.

  “Halt!” He called to the troops. “Uncover the bodies.”

  “Do you think that wise?” The elf asked.

  “Let the wealdkin see the sacrifice up close,” the Archer said. “Slow march!” The Archer commanded. And the troops began a funerary, slow march to the humble house of the Queen.

  The wealdkin saw the bodies of Haerreth and Maginalius, along with the other recovered soldiers. The gasps of wonder and sadness grew in intensity. Maginalius was of Summeninquis’ family, immigrants from lands far beyond the Far Grasslands. But, Maginalius was very much loved by the wealdkin, and he had repaid their love with the cost of his very life. Some citizens began to openly weep and wail.

  As the Archer arrived at the green door to Alrhett’s house, the crush of citizens was overwhelming.

  “I understand,” the Archer said loudly, “that Arnwylf and his soldiers do not feel welcome among the people they have protected.” The citizens cast their eyes down. “Shame,” the Archer said. “Shame,” he said again. Then turned to enter Alrhett’s house.

  Inside, Alrhett held an improvised conference with Summeninquis and twenty or more Lords of the Weald.

  “He can not be allowed to camp outside the city,” Summeninquis said. “It puts him in an adversarial position.”

  “Where would you have my grandson go?” Alrhett said. “To the Eaststand? Will the people of Ferndale house our very own soldiers? And what of those who actually have houses and families here in New Rogar Li?”

  “We can not simply bow down to him,” A Lord with a fat face said.

  “I would kiss his feet for driving Ravensdred from Wealdland,” the Archer said. The arrival of the Archer and the elf put a murmur through the political gathering.

  “Lord Summeninquis,” the Archer quietly said. “I regret to inform you, the body of your broth
er lies without.”

  The exclamations drove the honored conference from their seats and out the door.

  Outside, the mob of citizens choked the streets.

  “Oh,” Summeninquis gasped as he beheld the body of his slain brother, and Haerreth, the heir of Reia. “Healfdene will blame us for this.” All were shocked by his insensitivity. From this tragedy, all he thought of, was his politics.

  “Bring them inside,” Alrhett said, and the slain soldiers were brought into Alrhett’s home.

  “Will no one entreat Arnwylf and his men to return?” A city elder cried.

  The Lords of the Weald looked around at each other.

  “He will listen to me,” the elf said.

  “Someone needs to tell Hetwing her brother is dead,” Alrhett said with pain. “She is at the residence of Halldora.”

  “We will come with you,” Derragen softly said. “Then we will bring Arnwylf home.”

  “I would like to stop at the library,” Alrhett said. “I need Yulenth.”

  Then, Alrhett, the Archer and the elf walked to the library.

  Inside the library, Yulenth and Solienth received the sad news of the deaths of Haerreth and Maginalius with silent grief.

  “Come with me, husband,” Alrhett said. “I must tell Hetwing, if the gossip has not already reached her.” Yulenth quietly nodded his head. Then, Alrhett and Yulenth left for the mansion of Halldora.

  “Nostacarr,” the elf gently touched the shoulder of the elderly man, his long white hair spilling all over his writing desk.

  “Erm?” The Master of the Library started awake.

  “What do you know of the Lhalíi?”

  “The Lhalíi..?” The old man scratched his balding head. “That was the Sun Shard... of the elves. Yes. Very powerful. Supposed to be the fruit which turned old Brudejik into the first human.”

  “How can it be safely stored?”

  “Something like that...” the old man nodded, “should only be kept with an elf...”

  Iounelle frowned.

  “Tell me...” Nostacarr’s face creased a smile with lovely wrinkles. “An elf lives one year to our thirteen... Yes?”

  “Thirteen and a half,” Iounelle corrected. “But I heard it said in my city that elves were living longer because there were fewer of us.”

  “Erm, yes,” Nostacarr scratched a note with his quill pen. “I would love to have an elvish dictionary once again,” the old man said with a twinkle in his eye.

  “All the books of Lanis Rhyl Landemiriam are destroyed.”

  “No,” Nostacarr was truly horrified, and sadly shook his head.

  “’Lanis’ means home,” Iounelle said to comfort the Master of the Library, and Nostacarr quickly wrote it down.

  “’Rhyl’ means river. And ‘Landemiriam’ means ‘just over Miriam’.”

  “So, Lanis Rhyl Landemiriam,” the elderly man smiled with intelligence, “means ‘Home just past the River Miriam’.”

  “That is how we knew it,” Iounelle said, smiling, holding back her tears.

  “But there are no other elves, but you,” Ronenth said looking up from a book.

  “Just as there are only three Glafs,” Iounelle tenderly said.

  “I see,” Ronenth said and bowed his head, pretending to read, hiding his tears.

  Iounelle gazed at Ronenth, then made a decision.

  “I have something for you,” Iounelle said to the young, dark haired Glaf.

  “What?” Ronenth asked.

  The elf pulled open her large pack. The paricale spilled out with laughing metal clanks.

  “This is a paricale,” Iounelle said.

  “An elvish weapon,” Nostacarr brightened. “I read all about it. I know of its use and handling. Read all the books.”

  “I understand,” Iounelle said to Ronenth, “you are very clever with weapons. Be very, very, very carefully with this one. Go slow. It could easily kill you. Two days ago, I saw a garond cut his own head off trying to use this.”

  “I will be careful,” Ronenth said with wonder as he cautiously hefted the shining silver segments of the paricale.

  “Should you give him that?” The Archer asked over Iounelle’s shoulder.

  “I will be very careful,” Ronenth said defensively.

  “I feel it belongs with him,” the elf said to the Archer. “I can’t say why. I have never felt this way before. But I know it is right.”

  “Let us hurry over to Halldora’s home to support Alrhett and comfort Hetwing,” the Archer said.

  “I’ll come with you,” Ronenth said as he stored the paricale under his desk.

  Out in the streets of New Rogar Li, the wealdkin overcompensated in their generosity with the Sons of Yenolah and the Children of Lanis to ease the guilt of disrespecting Arnwylf and his soldiers.

  At the home of Halldora, Garmee Gamee solemnly answered the door. Hetwing’s wails echoed through the lavish mansion.

  “She already knows,” Iounelle frowned.

  “Is Frea in?” Ronenth asked.

  “She doesn’t want to speak to you,” Garmee Gamee said imperiously.

  “I just want to apologize,” Ronenth humbly said.

  “I’ll tell her,” Garmee Gamee said without moving.

  “We’re here to see Hetwing,” the Archer said.

  “She’s not seeing anyone,” Garmee Gamee said with a curl of her lip.

  “Move aside,” the elf said flatly, and Garmee Gamee turned white with fear. Iounelle gently pushed Garmee Gamee to one side as she, Derragen and Ronenth entered.

  Alrhett and Yulenth were waiting for them, and solemnly led them to the sitting room.

  In the luxurious sitting room, Halldora and Wynnfrith sat on either side of Hetwing. The fragile, orange haired girl sobbed uncontrollably into her hands.

  “Haerreth was a great man,” the elf gently said to Hetwing. “Wealdland is so much poorer without his courage, his life, his laughter.”

  Hetwing stopped crying. The elf had said just the right thing, and Hetwing rose and hugged Iounelle tight.

  “We must return my brother to his father,” Hetwing meekly said.

  “I will go with you,” Halldora said. “I tried to keep him from attacking the citadel. I should have tried harder.”

  “No one could keep Haerreth from doing anything once he put his mind to it,” Hetwing said with a smile through her tears.

  Frea entered with a tray of cups and an urn of tea. She glared at Ronenth. “What is he doing here?” She said through gritted teeth.

  “Don’t be mad at him,” Garmee Gamee said. “Now you can apologize to him.”

  “What!?” Frea nearly shouted, the tea cups clattered on the tray. Frea restrained herself for Hetwing.

  “I didn’t-” Ronenth turned to Garmee Gamee with a scowl.

  “I have nothing to apologize for,” Frea said holding back her fury.

  “Frea,” Ronenth tenderly began, but then he just shook his head, and quietly left.

  “Ronenth, don’t go,” Hetwing whispered, but it was too late.

  “I’m sorry to leave so suddenly,” Derragen said to Hetwing, “but we wanted to try to implore Arnwylf to come back to the city before nightfall. We’ll return shortly to attend Haerreth’s vigil.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Garmee Gamee said. “I have some food I’ve prepared to take to Arnwylf. It may soften his heart.” Garmee Gamee scurried to get her packages.

  Frea huffed derisively and strode from the sitting room.

  Garmee Gamee led the Archer and the elf north to the edge of the Weald. She was uncharacteristically quiet, and seemed afraid of Iounelle.

  As they left the edge of town, they passed through the bustling lumber yard. A burly man hailed them. “Where you headed Garmee?”

  “I’m seeing Arnwylf, uncle,” Garmee Gamee chirped.

  “Well don’t let him leave,” her uncle grinned. “Those wolves of his keep the black creatures away.”

  “Black creatures?” The e
lf asked.

  “They come and snatch a man whole. Crunch, crunch, crunch. But they don’t like the wolves. No one’s heard a single one creeping around the Weald since the wolves have shown up.”

  “Oh, uncle, you fool,” Garmee Gamee said dismissively.

  Beyond the lumber yard, Derragen soon saw soldiers lounging and playing games of chance.

  “Where may we find Arnwylf?” Derragen asked a soldier who snapped to attention when he saw the Archer.

  “General!” The soldier exclaimed. “I’m of Kipleth! What an honor to meet you, sir!”

  “Yes,” Derragen smiled. “Please lead us to Arnwylf.”

  The soldier smartly turned and marched to the center of camp, where twenty wolves scrapped and play fought. Every wolf stopped and bristled when they saw the strangers.

  “Hello,” Iounelle cheerfully said to the wolves. Every wolf got down on its belly and crawled to the elf whimpering like a pack of puppies. The elf scratched their ears and laughed while they whined and groveled. Every wolf brother was astonished, but no human spoke.

  “Archer! Elf!” Arnwylf cried. And ever by Arnwylf’s side, Conniker, the alpha white wolf, leapt and bodily fell on Iounelle. The other wolves backed away respecting Conniker’s status as leader. Iounelle and Conniker happily wrestled, as every human in the camp watched with mouths agape.

  “Arnwylf,” Derragen said, “come back to the city.”

  “The wealdkin all but threw us out,” Arnwylf shouted. “After we drove Ravensdred and his garonds from Wealdland. And I got the Mattear Gram back!”

  “I want to hear all about it,” Derragen fatherly smiled. “Let’s hear all your stories... back in the city. The wealdkin are sorry. Haerreth and Maginalius, the valiant brother of Summeninquis, were killed last night. Every citizen has seen the horrors and sacrifice of our soldiers. Don’t punish them.” Derragen warmly threw an arm around Arnwylf’s shoulders. “I would consider your father one of my true friends, and I feel compelled to treat you as my son. And so I must give you the unwanted advice a father must give his son,” the Archer broadly grinned. “Come back an accept their apologies.”